The Prosperous Tradesman (1890–1895)

Abstract

Grant Allen in his prosperous years—in his last decade, that is to say; from 1890 onward—was a familiar figure in all the haunts of literary and scientific London: a neat, slightly built man in his forties, with a long, keen, bony, Scotch face, whitening sandy hair, a reddish-grey goatee beard and pale blue eyes. The gossiping journalist Douglas Sladen said that Allen reminded him of the gaunt, red-bearded figures one sees on French tapestries of the fifteenth century, as he had the same spare figure and the same habit of arching his back.¹ Another described him at this time as “all sugar, and seems to be a pleasant and gentle person; tall and thin, with plenty of grey or whitish hair and a pointed beard; light eyes, with a boyish look in them, a small and mincing mouth, and a nose that seems to have grown much longer than was at first intended, arched, thin, and pliant, giving him a somewhat foxy look…. He has a lot to say, and says it well; is more tolerant of contradiction than most …must have done a lot of various work in his time.”² His manner was normally quiet, gentle, and confiding. Informal social occasions drew out the best in him, and then his conversation could be animated, energetic and, at times, acerbic and paradoxical. While he spoke, he constantly twirled the pocket lens which he kept in readiness for the examination of some flower or insect. Frank Harris noted his “air of clean alertness and vivacity,” and thought that his constant walking exercise and moderate habits compensated for his physical ailments.³