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The instances of distinguished men, or of notable women, who have

broken through convention in order to find a fitting mate, are

very numerous. A few of these instances may, perhaps, represent

what is usually called a Platonic union. But the evidence is

always doubtful. The world is not possessed of abundant charity,

nor does human experience lead one to believe that intimate

relations between a man and a woman are com
atible with Platonic


Perhaps no case is more puzzling than that which is found in the

life-history of Charles Reade and Laura Seymour.

Charles Reade belongs to that brilliant group of English writers

and artists which included Dickens, Bulwer-Lytton, Wilkie Collins,

Tom Taylor, George Eliot, Swinburne, Sir Walter Besant, Maclise,

and Goldwin Smith. In my opinion, he ranks next to Dickens in

originality and power. His books are little read to-day; yet he

gave to the English stage the comedy "Masks and Faces," which is

now as much a classic as Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer" or

Sheridan's "School for Scandal." His power as a novelist was

marvelous. Who can forget the madhouse episodes in Hard Cash, or

the great trial scene in Griffith Gaunt, or that wonderful

picture, in The Cloister and the Hearth, of Germany and Rome at

the end of the Middle Ages? Here genius has touched the dead past

and made it glow again with an intense reality.

He was the son of a country gentleman, the lord of a manor which

had been held by his family before the Wars of the Boses. His

ancestors had been noted for their services in warfare, in

Parliament, and upon the bench. Reade, therefore, was in feeling

very much of an aristocrat. Sometimes he pushed his ancestral

pride to a whimsical excess, very much as did his own creation,

Squire Raby, in Put Yourself in His Place.

At the same time he might very well have been called a Tory

democrat. His grandfather had married the daughter of a village

blacksmith, and Reade was quite as proud of this as he was of the

fact that another ancestor had been lord chief justice of England.

From the sturdy strain which came to him from the blacksmith he,

perhaps, derived that sledge-hammer power with which he wrote many

of his most famous chapters, and which he used in newspaper

controversies with his critics. From his legal ancestors there may

have come to him the love of litigation, which kept him often in

hot water. From those who had figured in the life of royal courts,

he inherited a romantic nature, a love of art, and a very delicate

perception of the niceties of cultivated usage. Such was Charles

Reade--keen observer, scholar, Bohemian--a man who could be both

rough and tender, and whose boisterous ways never concealed his

warm heart.

Reade's school-days were Spartan in their severity. A teacher with

the appropriate name of Slatter set him hard tasks and caned him

unmercifully for every shortcoming. A weaker nature would have

been crushed. Reade's was toughened, and he learned to resist pain

and to resent wrong, so that hatred of injustice has been called

his dominating trait.

In preparing himself for college he was singularly fortunate in

his tutors. One of them was Samuel Wilberforce, afterward Bishop

of Oxford, nicknamed, from his suavity of manner, "Soapy Sam"; and

afterward, when Reade was studying law, his instructor was Samuel

Warren, the author of that once famous novel, Ten Thousand a Year,

and the creator of "Tittlebat Titmouse."

For his college at Oxford, Reade selected one of the most

beautiful and ancient--Magdalen--which he entered, securing what

is known as a demyship. Reade won his demyship by an extraordinary

accident. Always an original youth, his reading was varied and

valuable; but in his studies he had never tried to be minutely

accurate in small matters. At that time every candidate was

supposed to be able to repeat, by heart, the "Thirty-Nine

Articles." Reade had no taste for memorizing; and out of the whole

thirty-nine he had learned but three. His general examination was

good, though not brilliant. When he came to be questioned orally,

the examiner, by a chance that would not occur once in a million

times, asked the candidate to repeat these very articles. Reade

rattled them off with the greatest glibness, and produced so

favorable an impression that he was let go without any further


It must be added that his English essay was original, and this

also helped him; but had it not been for the other great piece of

luck he would, in Oxford phrase, have been "completely gulfed." As

it was, however, he was placed as highly as the young men who were

afterward known as Cardinal Newman and Sir Robert Lowe (Lord


At the age of twenty-one, Reade obtained a fellowship, which

entitled him to an income so long as he remained unmarried. It is

necessary to consider the significance of this when we look at his

subsequent career. The fellowship at Magdalen was worth, at the

outset, about twelve hundred dollars annually, and it gave him

possession of a suite of rooms free of any charge. He likewise

secured a Vinerian fellowship in law, to which was attached an

income of four hundred dollars. As time went on, the value of the

first fellowship increased until it was worth twenty-five hundred

dollars. Therefore, as with many Oxford men of his time, Charles

Reade, who had no other fortune, was placed in this position--if he

refrained from marrying, he had a home and a moderate income for

life, without any duties whatsoever. If he married, he must give

up his income and his comfortable apartments, and go out into the

world and struggle for existence.

There was the further temptation that the possession of his

fellowship did not even necessitate his living at Oxford. He might

spend his time in London, or even outside of England, knowing that

his chambers at Magdalen were kept in order for him, as a resting-

place to which he might return whenever he chose.

Reade remained a while at Oxford, studying books and men--

especially the latter. He was a great favorite with the

undergraduates, though less so with the dons. He loved the boat-

races on the river; he was a prodigious cricket-player, and one of

the best bowlers of his time. He utterly refused to put on any of

the academic dignity which his associates affected. He wore loud

clothes. His flaring scarfs were viewed as being almost

scandalous, very much as Longfellow's parti-colored waistcoats

were regarded when he first came to Harvard as a professor.

Charles Reade pushed originality to eccentricity. He had a passion

for violins, and ran himself into debt because he bought so many

and such good ones. Once, when visiting his father's house at

Ipsden, he shocked the punctilious old gentleman by dancing on the

dining-table to the accompaniment of a fiddle, which he scraped

delightedly. Dancing, indeed, was another of his diversions, and,

in spite of the fact that he was a fellow of Magdalen and a D.C.L.

of Oxford, he was always ready to caper and to display the new


In the course of time, he went up to London; and at once plunged

into the seething tide of the metropolis. He made friends far and

wide, and in every class and station--among authors and

politicians, bishops and bargees, artists and musicians. Charles

Reade learned much from all of them, and all of them were fond of


But it was the theater that interested him most. Nothing else

seemed to him quite so fine as to be a successful writer for the

stage. He viewed the drama with all the reverence of an ancient

Greek. On his tombstone he caused himself to be described as

"Dramatist, novelist, journalist."

"Dramatist" he put first of all, even after long experience had

shown him that his greatest power lay in writing novels. But in

this early period he still hoped for fame upon the stage.

It was not a fortunate moment for dramatic writers. Plays were

bought outright by the managers, who were afraid to risk any

considerable sum, and were very shy about risking anything at all.

The system had not yet been established according to which an

author receives a share of the money taken at the box-office.

Consequently, Reade had little or no financial success. He adapted

several pieces from the French, for which he was paid a few bank-

notes. "Masks and Faces" got a hearing, and drew large audiences,

but Reade had sold it for a paltry sum; and he shared the honors

of its authorship with Tom Taylor, who was then much better known.

Such was the situation. Reade was personally liked, but his plays

were almost all rejected. He lived somewhat extravagantly and ran

into debt, though not very deeply. He had a play entitled

"Christie Johnstone," which he believed to be a great one, though

no manager would venture to produce it. Reade, brooding, grew thin

and melancholy. Finally, he decided that he would go to a leading

actress at one of the principal theaters and try to interest her

in his rejected play. The actress he had in mind was Laura

Seymour, then appearing at the Haymarket under the management of

Buckstone; and this visit proved to be the turning-point in

Reade's whole life.

Laura Seymour was the daughter of a surgeon at Bath--a man in

large practise and with a good income, every penny of which he

spent. His family lived in lavish style; but one morning, after he

had sat up all night playing cards, his little daughter found him

in the dining-room, stone dead. After his funeral it appeared that

he had left no provision for his family. A friend of his--a Jewish

gentleman of Portuguese extraction--showed much kindness to the

children, settling their affairs and leaving them with some money

in the bank; but, of course, something must be done.

The two daughters removed to London, and at a very early age Laura

had made for herself a place in the dramatic world, taking small

parts at first, but rising so rapidly that in her fifteenth year

she was cast for the part of Juliet. As an actress she led a life

of strange vicissitudes. At one time she would be pinched by

poverty, and at another time she would be well supplied with

money, which slipped through her fingers like water. She was a

true Bohemian, a happy-go-lucky type of the actors of her time.

From all accounts, she was never very beautiful; but she had an

instinct for strange, yet effective, costumes, which attracted

much attention. She has been described as "a fluttering, buoyant,

gorgeous little butterfly." Many were drawn to her. She was

careless of what she did, and her name was not untouched with

scandal. But she lived through it all, and emerged a clever,

sympathetic woman of wide experience, both on the stage and off


One of her admirers--an elderly gentleman named Seymour--came to

her one day when she was in much need of money, and told her that

he had just deposited a thousand pounds to her credit at the bank.

Having said this, he left the room precipitately. It was the

beginning of a sort of courtship; and after a while she married

him. Her feeling toward him was one of gratitude. There was no

sentiment about it; but she made him a good wife, and gave no

further cause for gossip.

Such was the woman whom Charles Reade now approached with the

request that she would let him read to her a portion of his play.

He had seen her act, and he honestly believed her to be a dramatic

genius of the first order. Few others shared this belief; but she

was generally thought of as a competent, though by no means

brilliant, actress. Reade admired her extremely, so that at the

very thought of speaking with her his emotions almost choked him.

In answer to a note, she sent word that he might call at her

house. He was at this time (1849) in his thirty-eighth year. The

lady was a little older, and had lost something of her youthful

charm; yet, when Reade was ushered into her drawing-room, she

seemed to him the most graceful and accomplished woman whom he had

ever met.

She took his measure, or she thought she took it, at a glance.

Here was one of those would-be playwrights who live only to

torment managers and actresses. His face was thin, from which she

inferred that he was probably half starved. His bashfulness led

her to suppose that he was an inexperienced youth. Little did she

imagine that he was the son of a landed proprietor, a fellow of

one of Oxford's noblest colleges, and one with friends far higher

in the world than herself. Though she thought so little of him,

and quite expected to be bored, she settled herself in a soft

armchair to listen. The unsuccessful playwright read to her a

scene or two from his still unfinished drama. She heard him

patiently, noting the cultivated accent of his voice, which proved

to her that he was at least a gentleman. When he had finished, she


"Yes, that's good! The plot is excellent." Then she laughed a sort

of stage laugh, and remarked lightly: "Why don't you turn it into

a novel?"

Reade was stung to the quick. Nothing that she could have said

would have hurt him more. Novels he despised; and here was this

woman, the queen of the English stage, as he regarded her,

laughing at his drama and telling him to make a novel of it. He

rose and bowed.

"I am trespassing on your time," he said; and, after barely

touching the fingers of her outstretched hand, he left the room


The woman knew men very well, though she scarcely knew Charles

Reade. Something in his melancholy and something in his manner

stirred her heart. It was not a heart that responded to emotions

readily, but it was a very good-natured heart. Her explanation of

Reade's appearance led her to think that he was very poor. If she

had not much tact, she had an abundant store of sympathy; and so

she sat down and wrote a very blundering but kindly letter, in

which she enclosed a five-pound note.

Reade subsequently described his feelings on receiving this letter

with its bank-note. He said:

"I, who had been vice-president of Magdalen--I, who flattered

myself I was coming to the fore as a dramatist--to have a five-

pound note flung at my head, like a ticket for soup to a pauper,

or a bone to a dog, and by an actress, too! Yet she said my

reading was admirable; and, after all, there is much virtue in a

five-pound note. Anyhow, it showed the writer had a good heart."

The more he thought of her and of the incident, the more comforted

he was. He called on her the next day without making an

appointment; and when she received him, he had the five-pound note

fluttering in his hand.

She started to speak, but he interrupted her.

"No," he said, "that is not what I wanted from you. I wanted

sympathy, and you have unintentionally supplied it."

Then this man, whom she had regarded as half starved, presented

her with an enormous bunch of hothouse grapes, and the two sat

down and ate them together, thus beginning a friendship which

ended only with Laura Seymour's death.

Oddly enough, Mrs. Seymour's suggestion that Reade should make a

story of his play was a suggestion which he actually followed. It

was to her guidance and sympathy that the world owes the great

novels which he afterward composed. If he succeeded on the stage

at all, it was not merely in "Masks and Faces," but in his

powerful dramatization of Zola's novel, L'Assommoir, under the

title "Drink," in which the late Charles Warner thrilled and

horrified great audiences all over the English-speaking world. Had

Reade never known Laura Seymour, he might never have written so

strong a drama.

The mystery of Reade's relations with this woman can never be

definitely cleared up. Her husband, Mr. Seymour, died not long

after she and Reade became acquainted. Then Reade and several

friends, both men and women, took a house together; and Laura

Seymour, now a clever manager and amiable hostess, looked after

all the practical affairs of the establishment. One by one, the

others fell away, through death or by removal, until at last these

two were left alone. Then Reade, unable to give up the

companionship which meant so much to him, vowed that she must

still remain and care for him. He leased a house in Sloane Street,

which he has himself described in his novel A Terrible Temptation.

It is the chapter wherein Reade also draws his own portrait in the

character of Francis Bolfe:

The room was rather long, low, and nondescript; scarlet flock

paper; curtains and sofas, green Utrecht velvet; woodwork and

pillars, white and gold; two windows looking on the street; at the

other end folding-doors, with scarcely any woodwork, all plate

glass, but partly hidden by heavy curtains of the same color and

material as the others.

At last a bell rang; the maid came in and invited Lady Bassett to

follow her. She opened the glass folding-doors and took them into

a small conservatory, walled like a grotto, with ferns sprouting

out of rocky fissures, and spars sparkling, water dripping. Then

she opened two more glass folding-doors, and ushered them into an

empty room, the like of which Lady Bassett had never seen; it was

large in itself, and multiplied tenfold by great mirrors from

floor to ceiling, with no frames but a narrow oak beading;

opposite her, on entering, was a bay window, all plate glass, the

central panes of which opened, like doors, upon a pretty little

garden that glowed with color, and was backed by fine trees

belonging to the nation; for this garden ran up to the wall of

Hyde Park.

The numerous and large mirrors all down to the ground laid hold of

the garden and the flowers, and by double and treble reflection

filled the room with delightful nooks of verdure and color.

Here are the words in which Reade describes himself as he looked

when between fifty and sixty years of age:

He looked neither like a poet nor a drudge, but a great fat

country farmer. He was rather tall, very portly, smallish head,

commonplace features, mild brown eye not very bright, short beard,

and wore a suit of tweed all one color.

Such was the house and such was the man over both of which Laura

Seymour held sway until her death in 1879. What must be thought of

their relations? She herself once said to Mr. John Coleman:

"As for our positions--his and mine--we are partners, nothing

more. He has his bank-account, and I have mine. He is master of

his fellowship and his rooms at Oxford, and I am mistress of this

house, but not his mistress! Oh, dear, no!"

At another time, long after Mr. Seymour's death, she said to an

intimate friend:

"I hope Mr. Reade will never ask me to marry him, for I should

certainly refuse the offer."

There was no reason why he should not have made this offer,

because his Oxford fellowship ceased to be important to him after

he had won fame as a novelist. Publishers paid him large sums for

everything he wrote. His debts were all paid off, and his income

was assured. Yet he never spoke of marriage, and he always

introduced his friend as "the lady who keeps my house for me."

As such, he invited his friends to meet her, and as such, she even

accompanied him to Oxford. There was no concealment, and

apparently there was nothing to conceal. Their manner toward each

other was that of congenial friends. Mrs. Seymour, in fact, might

well have been described as "a good fellow." Sometimes she

referred to him as "the doctor," and sometimes by the nickname

"Charlie." He, on his side, often spoke of her by her last name as

"Seymour," precisely as if she had been a man. One of his

relatives rather acutely remarked about her that she was not a

woman of sentiment at all, but had a genius for friendship; and

that she probably could not have really loved any man at all.

This is, perhaps, the explanation of their intimacy. If so, it is

a very remarkable instance of Platonic friendship. It is certain

that, after she met Reade, Mrs. Seymour never cared for any other

man. It is no less certain that he never cared for any other

woman. When she died, five years before his death, his life became

a burden to him. It was then that he used to speak of her as "my

lost darling" and "my dove." He directed that they should be

buried side by side in Willesden churchyard. Over the monument

which commemorates them both, he caused to be inscribed, in

addition to an epitaph for himself, the following tribute to his

friend. One should read it and accept the touching words as

answering every question that may be asked:

Here lies the great heart of Laura Seymour, a brilliant artist, a

humble Christian, a charitable woman, a loving daughter, sister,

and friend, who lived for others from her childhood. Tenderly

pitiful to all God's creatures--even to some that are frequently

destroyed or neglected--she wiped away the tears from many faces,

helping the poor with her savings and the sorrowful with her

earnest pity. When the eye saw her it blessed her, for her face

was sunshine, her voice was melody, and her heart was sympathy.

This grave was made for her and for himself by Charles Reade,

whose wise counselor, loyal ally, and bosom friend she was for

twenty-four years, and who mourns her all his days.