It was eight months before I so much as gave a thought to cricket again, but I’m bound to say that even if it had been blazing summer from October to March I’d still have been too busy. You can’t conduct a passionate affair with Lola Montez, in which you fall foul of Otto Bismarck – which is what I was doing that autumn – and still have much time for recreation. Besides, this was the season when my fame was at its zenith, what with my visit to the Palace for the Kabul medal; in consequence I was in demand everywhere, and Elspeth, in her eagerness for the limelight, saw to it that I never had a moment’s peace – balls and parties and receptions, and d---l a minute for serious raking. It was splendid, of course, to be the lion of the hour, but confounded exhausting.

      But little enough happened to the point of my story, except that the stout Don Solomon Haslam played an increasingly lively part in our doings that winter. That was an odd fish, decidedly. Nobody, not even his old Eton chums, seemed to know much about him except that he was some kind of nabob, with connections in Leadenhall Street, but he was well received in Society, where his money and manners paid for all. And he seemed to be right in the know wherever he went – at the embassies, the smart houses, the sporting set, even at the political dinners; he was friendly with Haddington and Stanley at one end of the scale, and with such rascals as Deaf Jim Burke and Brougham at t’other. One night he would be dining with Aberdeen,⁵ and the next at Rosherville Gardens or the Cider Cellars, and he had a quiet gift of being first with the word from all quarters: if you wanted to know what was behind the toll riots, or the tale of Peel’s velveteens, ask Solomon; he had the latest joke about Alice Lowe, or Nelson’s Column, could tell you beforehand about the new race cup for Ascot, and had songs from the Bohemian Girl played in his drawing-room months before the opera was seen in London.⁶ It wasn’t that he was a gossip or couch-whisperer, either; whatever way the talk turned, he just knew the answers.

      He ought to have been detestable, but strangely enough he wasn’t, for he didn’t push or show off. His entertainment was lavish, in his house on Brook Street, where he gave a Chinese Party that was said to have cost twenty thou., and was the talk for weeks, and his appearance was what the ladies called Romantic – I’ve told you about the earring, enough said – but with it all he managed to appear modest and unaffected. He could charm, I’ll say that for him, for he had the true gift of flattery, which is to show the keenest possible interest – and, of course, he had money to burn.

      I didn’t mind him much, myself; he went out of his way to be pleasant to me, and once I had satisfied myself that his enthusiasm for Elspeth wasn’t likely to go the length, I tolerated him. She was ready to flirt with anything in breeches – and more than flirt, I suspected, but there were horny captains I was far leerier of than the Don. That b-----d Watney, for one, and the lecherous snob Ranelagh, and I fancy young Conyngham was itching after her, too. But Solomon had no name as a rake; didn’t even keep a mistress, apparently, and did no damage round Windmill Street or any of my haunts, leastways. Another odd thing: he didn’t touch liquor, in any form.

      Oddest of all, though, was the way that my father-in-law took to him. From time to time during that winter old Morrison came south from his lair in Paisley to inflict himself on us and carp about expense, and it was during one of these visits that we had Solomon to dine. Morrison took one look at the fashionable cut of his coat and Newgate knockers,^fn1 sniffed, and muttered about ‘anither scented gommeril wi’ mair money than sense’, but before that dinner was through Solomon had him eating out of his palm.

      Old Morrison had started off on one of his usual happy harangues about the state of the nation, so that for the first course we had cockaleekie soup, halibut with oyster sauce, and the income tax, removed with minced chicken patties, lamb cutlets, and the Mines Act, followed by a second course of venison in burgundy, fricassee of beef, and the Chartists, with grape ices, bilberry tart, and Ireland for dessert. Then the ladies (Elspeth and my father’s mistress, Judy, whom Elspeth had a great fancy for, G-d knows why) withdrew, and over the port we had the miners’ strike and the General Ruin of the Country.

      Fine stuff, all of it, and my guv’nor went to sleep in his chair while Morrison held forth on the iniquity of those scoundrelly colliers who objected to having their infants dragging tubs naked through the seams for a mere fifteen hours a day.

      ‘It’s the infernal Royal Commission,’ cries he. ‘Makin’ mischief – aye, an’ it’ll spread, mark me. If bairns below the age o’ ten year is no’ tae work underground, how long will it be afore they’re prohibitin’ their employment in factories, will ye tell me? D--n that whippersnapper Ashley! “Eddicate them,” says he, the eejit! I’d eddicate them, would I no’! An’ then there’s the Factory Act – that’ll be the next thing.’

      ‘The amendment can’t pass for another two years,’ says Solomon quietly, and Morrison glowered at him.

      ‘How d’ye ken that?’

      ‘It’s obvious, surely. We have the Mines Act, which is all the country can digest for the moment. But the shorter hours will come – probably within two years, certainly within three. Mr Horne’s report will see to that.’

      His easy certainty impressed Morrison, who wasn’t used to being lectured on business; however, the mention of Horne’s name set him off again – I gathered this worthy was to publish a paper on child employment, which would inevitably lead to bankruptcies all round for deserving employers like my father-in-law, with free beer and holidays for the paupers, a workers’ rebellion, and invasion by the French.

      ‘Not quite so much, perhaps,’ smiles Solomon. ‘But his report will raise a storm, that’s certain. I’ve seen some of it.’

      ‘Ye’ve seen it?’ cries Morrison. ‘But it’s no’ oot till the New Year!’ He glowered a moment. ‘Ye’re gey far ben,^fn2 sir.’ He took an anxious gulp