ABSTRACT
THE Bridges had moved in the spring of 1870 from their rooms in Gower Street to 56, Russell Square; an old house which had belonged to Judge Talfourd, and with literary associations to endear it to them; Wordsworth had visited there, and Southey, and from it Miss Mitford had written some of her letters. Professor and Mrs. Beesly were living at University College Hall close by; Frederic Harrison had married in 1870, and was in London, so that the Brotherhood was again united and the friends were associated in work and counsel. In these early years of their marriage, John Bridges and his wife went out much into the literary society of the day. Bridges’ conversation was brilliant; “ he was one of the handful of men I have known, probably not more than two or three all told, whose table talk was worth recording,” says Professor Leonard Hobhouse. This power of conversation, and his wife's grace and charm made them welcome guests; their house soon became a gathering place for those interested in literary or social questions, and Bridges was the kindest of hosts. “ The note of his conversation,” says Professor Hobhouse, “ was not wit, though it was often humorous, and never heavy. It was not dogmatic, though it was vigorously assertive. It was not controversial, though it was often argumentative. Its peculiar quality was its union of broad and tolerant humanity with seriousness of purpose and unity of aim. Beginning where it might, a conversation with him would range over a vast series of topics. He would scour history, ancient and modern, for analogies. He would quote Greek or Latin, German or French, Italian, Spanish or English indifferently for illustrations. The talk would touch at one moment on science, at another on philosophy, at a third on a contemporary labour problem, and at a fourth on a poem or novel, and yet it was never desultory. All this knowledge was organized into a whole, and was ready for use. The synthesis of thought was no unmeaning phrase to him. It was alive in his mind, and appeared in his conversation. I have heard it said that he gave us ‘ the cream of Comte ’. I think the phrase was just. His mind seemed for ever ranging, with generous width of vision, over the whole movement of humanity. He saw it not only as a whole, but as an orderly whole. He moved in thought along lines of growth reaching back to far antiquity, and leading on to the future. He saw all honest human endeavour, work of the scientific man, work of the statesman, work of the peasant, tenderness of the mother, all social effort, small or great, prosaic or romantic, as feeding the one great stream of energy, forwarding one comprehensive purpose. Put in the abstract, all this sounds bald enough, but he felt it in the concrete, and made others feel it. The pettiness of life dropped out of view; its vexations and disappointments, particularly the frustration of high public hopes, assumed their due proportions. There was a sense of enlargement, such as one experiences in gaining from a hill top, a wide view over a diversified and populous country rich in historical associations, or in reviving memories of a long day's journey through lands beautiful in landscape and great in story.
