Marryat with his abundant spirits, his faculty for story-telling, and his sufficient command of money, would naturally fall on his feet in this rather gypsy world. He spoke French fluently, and his wife, as the daughter of an English consul in Russia, would be at home in continental society. Once more it must be confessed that the details are wanting. Mrs. Ross Church says, that “to this hour” (she wrote in 1872) “many anecdotes are related of him by the older residents at Brussels.” Sadly few of them seem to have been collected, for Mrs. Ross Church can only muster two--neither, it must be confessed, very brilliant nor very honourable. According to the first, Marryat was asked to dinner to meet a company of celebrities and friends of his own, in hopes that he would talk. He held his tongue, and when asked whether he had been silent because he was bored, answered, “Why did you imagine I was going to let out any of my jokes for those fellows to put in their next books? No, that is not _my_ plan. When I find myself in such company as _that_, I open my ears and hold my tongue, glean all I can, and give them nothing in return.” The story needs a good deal of explaining before the point of it becomes obvious; and unluckily the circumstances, which could alone explain it, are wanting. The fun, if there was any, was supplied (we must suppose) by the character of the person it was said to--and who was he? The other story contains a repartee--an awful repartee--a thing to be put in a collection of witticisms with the comment that “so and so smiled, but never forgave the jest.” It is about the bridge of somebody’s nose, and is not greatly inferior to the recorded jokes of Douglas Jerrold.
There is little to be gleaned out of such reminiscences as these, which hardly reach the dignity of “dead nettles”: neither do we gather much from a surviving letter to Mr. Osmond de Beauvoir Priaulx about a debt of frs. 1250, owed to Marryat by R----, a hopeless debt. “I consider that if I have no better chance of heaven than of R----’s 1250 francs, I am in a bad way. Both he and Z---- are evidently a couple of rogues. The only chance of obtaining the money from R---- is by telling him that I am coming to Paris as soon as I can, and that I shall expose him by publishing the whole affair, his letters, &c.; and, moreover that you _strongly suspect_ that it is my intention, independent of exposure, to _break every bone in his body_ on my arrival. He holds himself as a gentleman, being the son of some post-captain, and will not like that message, and may perhaps pay the money rather than incur the risk.” Here obviously was a very pretty quarrel; but who was R----, and had he a case, and who was Mr. Osmond de Beauvoir Priaulx, and did any assault follow? Who knows? and indeed who cares? The rest of the letter is full of scandal about capital letters and dashes. The sight of it only make one remember how much entirely unimportant trash contrives to survive in this world.