Hayward was arrogant, overbearing, loud, insistent, full of strange
oaths and often unpardonably coarse; "our dominant friend,"
Kinglake called him; "odious" is the epithet I have heard commonly
bestowed upon him by less affectionate acquaintances. Kinglake was
reserved, shy, reticent, with the high breeding, grand manner,
quiet urbanity, grata protervitas, of a waning epoch; restraint,
concentration, tact of omission, dictating alike his silence and
his speech; his well-weighed words "crystallizing into epigrams as
they touched the air." {26} When Hayward's last illness came upon
him in 1884, Kinglake nursed him tenderly; spending the morning in
his friend's lodgings at 8, St. James's Street, the house which
Byron occupied in his early London days; and bringing on the latest
bulletin to the club. The patient rambled towards the end; "we
ought to be getting ready to catch the train that we may go to my
sister's at Lyme." Kinglake quieted his sick friend by an assurance
that the servants, whom he would not wish to hurry, were packing.
"On no account hurry the servants, but still let us be off.
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