Some one who knew him well wrote truly of him after he
died:
"He tossed off the cup of life without fear of it containing any
poison, but like many wilful men he was deficient in will-power."
The first time I ever saw Harry Cust was in Grosvenor Square,
where he had come to see my sister Laura. A few weeks later I
found her making a sachet, which was an unusual occupation for
her, and she told me it was for "Mr. Cust," who was going to
Australia for his health.
He remained abroad for over a year and, on the night of the
Jubilee, 1887, he walked into our house where we were having
supper. He had just returned from Australia, and was terribly
upset to hear that Laura was dead.
Harry Cust had an untiring enthusiasm for life. At Eton he had
been captain of the school and he was a scholar of Trinity. He had
as fine a memory as Professor Churton Collins or my husband and an
unplumbed sea of knowledge, quoting with equal ease both poetry
and prose. He edited the Pall Mall Gazette brilliantly for several
years. With his youth, brains and looks, he might have done
anything in life; but he was fatally self-indulgent and success
with my sex damaged his public career. He was a fastidious critic
and a faithful friend, fearless, reckless and unforgettable.
He wrote one poem, which appeared anonymously in the Oxford Book
of English Verse:
Not unto us, O Lord,
Not unto us the rapture of the day,
The peace of night, or love's divine surprise,
High heart, high speech, high deeds 'mid
honouring eyes;
For at Thy word
All these are taken away.
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