The brotherhood of letters

A^r

V

id

THE BROTHERHOOD

OF

LETTERS.

THE BROTHERHOOD

LETTERS.

BY

J. ROGERS REES,

AUTHOR OF

' THE DIVERSIONS OF A BOOKWORM," " THE PLEASURES OF A

BOOKWORM," ETC.

^^ Ak, did you once see Shelley plain.
And did he stop and speak to you ?
And did you speak to hijn again ?
Ho7v strange it seems ^ ami new /"

Robert Browning.

NEW YORK •
LOCKWOOD & COOMBES, 275, FIFTH AVENUE.

/

im^

MY DEAR AND VALUED FRIEND,

HOBART CLARK,

I SEND THIS LITTLE VOLUME ACROSS THE
ATLANTIC.

The unspoken lies neare?- the heart than any uttered
word.

292839

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2007 with funding from

IVIicrosoft Corporation

http://www.archive.org/details/brotherhoodofletOOreesrich

CONTENTS.

I. IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF THE

READER I

II. TOWARDS THE INFINITE . . 26

III. MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES 47

IV. SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

THE DEBATABLE LAND BE-
TWEEN 96

V. SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY . . 158

VI. WITH AN OLD LION . . .179

VII. BEHIND THE SCENES . . . 189

VIII. NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE 222

IX. CAMPING OUT . . . . 231

X. A PASSING GLIMPSE . . .235

XI. A GIANT IN THE PATH . . 239

XII. "found again IN THE HEART

OF A FRIEND". . . .244

XIII. SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME 25 1

XIV. BY THK RIVER-SIDE . . . 261

I.

IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF
THE READER.

" It is the nature of the soul to appropriate all
things. . . , J conquer and incorporate them in
my ozun conscious domain. His virtue^ — is not
that mine ? His wit, — if it canjiot be made mine,
it is not wity — Emerson : *' Compensation."

" My respiration rose ; I felt a rapid fire colour-
ing my face. . . . I zuas Eticharisfor Telemachus,
and Erminia for Tancred ; however, during this
perfect transfor7nation, I did not yet think that I
myself was anything, for anyone. The ivhole had
no connection with myself ; I sought for nothi^tg
aroiuid me ; I luas them, I saw only the objects
which existed for them ; it was a drea7n, without
being awakened'"' — Madame Roland's descrip-
tion of her first reading of Telemachus and
Tasso.

The gods need never trouble them-
selves to bestow a greater gift upon
a favourite child than a powerful
and healthy imagination. I use

I

'u/; ^iMAGlIs(ATlbN DEMANDED OF

the word ** healthy " as a quaHfier,
knowing right well, with every stu-
dent of literary biography, that an
untamed imagination, running riot
and causing its possessor to in-
dulge in all kinds of freaks, mental
and otherwise, is often a curse. Let
there, however, but be mixed with it
in its original bestowment a spice of
pure and honest reasonableness — a
wee grain of the power to look at
everyday facts as they are — and the
future of the chosen child of the
gods is assured.* Without this ** wee
grain" on board ship the unmanaged
sails will prove but playthings for
wildest winds, and the craft be
thrown on all kinds of perilous
rocks ; but with it its course will be
pursued with ease and harmony ;
still rapid, but safe.

* One is tempted to parody the axiom of the
elder Shandy, and to say: "An ounce of judg-
ment, in its proper place, is worth a ton of
fancy, running wild."

THE READER. 3

To read literary biography rightly
and with fullest enjoyment, a man
should certainly possess this healthy
imagination. Were I a phrase-coiner,
I would say that in his case it should
attain its fullest development as an
inquisitive-realistic-imagination ; and
for fear of being thought a heaper-up
of unnecessary words, I will go a
little further with these words of
mine, which threaten to hang about in
plenty j ust here. A writer of biography
occasionally works as an artist ; he has
carefully gone through the materials
at hand and formed for himself the
picture he desires his readers to see.
This he generally gives, and no one
can blame him ; for his natural bias
has been (we will suppose) honestly
followed, and his best is the result.
Not so, however, always. Another
writer of biography or autobiography
will run in the cart-rut he finds in
front of him ; he has no theory, no

I — 2

4 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

ideal ; he goes along with the simple
intent to get to the end, spreading
out as he goes all his available
facts ; and when he has finished
he mentally says to his readers :
** There, you have all that can
be known of the subject." Well
and good ; we find no fault with
such a recorder. Every fact is valu-
able in the life of a great man, as
Boswell no doubt thought, and as
Rousseau certainly did think. But
as the feast-giver does not consider
his own tastes only, so the writer is
not the only interested party ; his
readers come in for consideration.
One says as he cons the production :
*' This incident I like. It is just
what should have been related of
such a man ; it throws floods of
light in upon his personality. Ad-
mirable work !" But another turns
up his nose, and exclaims : '* What
humbug to be sure ! The subject of

THE READER. 5

this book was a hero ; why should
I have thrust upon my notice par-
ticulars of where he walked with his
wife, and what he said to his gar-
dener ?" Here, then, hes the trouble;
we as writers go wrong with some
classes of readers, and we as readers
run afoul of certain biographers. And
painters and art -critics with their
*' schools " tread the same thorny
path. Yet, after all, what a miser-
able world this would be but for
these differences, and these wise
veilings by Providence of the pure
and central truth ! for

" Absolute truth revealed, would serve to blind
The soul's bright eye, and sear with tongues of

flame
The sinews of the mind."

Each individual's predilections
make his light the light, his truth
the truth.

Bearing in mind, then, these varia-
tions of human taste and judgment,

6 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

we see how valuable a gift to a reader,
especially of biography, is the inquisi-
tive-realistic-imagination to which we
have referred. Inquisitive the reader
must be, otherwise he will be satisfied
with any writer's estimate of a great
man. But he rather wishes to know
all the kinds of opinions shared by
the hero of his mood ; no incident is
too trifling for him to feel an interest
in it; no conversation too vapid if but
the man took a part therein. Realistic
he must needs also be ; for after he
has discovered all about his hero he
involuntarily commences the sifting
process, and fastens on to certain
occurrences or words to be dwelt
upon at length with a more fervent
interest than others : his reahsm
pounces upon what his subject
said or did on matters which have
an especial interest for him, and
which are peculiarly suited to his
considerations ; and, like the bee

THE READER. 7

upon the flower, having settled upon
it, he occupies his position till all the
honey he cares for has been extracted.
I should, perhaps, rather say that his
realism focusses his powers of atten-
tion upon the attractive spot ; and
then, like the tiny portion of rock
covered by the limpet, it is for the
nonce his world to the entire ex-
clusion of all else. His fast-sticking
realization of the matter, narrowing
though it prove for the time, is power-
ful and effective ; and above all things
it serves his purpose. But it is his
imagination which breathes the breath
of life upon what of the fruits of his
inquisitiveness his realism has settled
upon and made its own ; and then,
lo ! the thing lives, and is (to him at
all events) supremely satisfying.

This threefold gift, then — inquisi-
tive-realistic-imagination — has in it
the elements of happiness ; breadth
certainly should be its concomitant.

8 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

It enables a reader to pick definitely
and decidedly for himself out of varied
stores ; and it seals the choice by
clothing what has been selected in
garments which for him have sym-
metry, and in colours which to his
eyes are beautiful.

" You say you're fair, you know ;
'Tis our fancy makes you so."

The following pages are written for
those who find enjoyment in musing
and brooding, and repeating their
lives through memory.* Imagination
is certainly necessary to any enjoy-
ment of them. *' Truth is one and
poor, like the cruse of Elijah's widow.
Imagination is the bold face that
multiplies its oil."

And it is possible for a man of
imagination to make a very heaven

* *' Come, I will tell you a way how you may
live your time over again. Do but recollect, and
review what you have seen already, and the work
is done." — Marcus Aurelius,

THE READER, 9

for himself out of very trifling ele-
ments. His fancy, warmed by a
sensitive and passionate heart, can
clothe the most everyday occurrences
with a golden garb.* Realities may
be coarse, and in some cases ugly
and heavy and oppressive, and there
may be Httle that is truly sweet and
beautiful in many lives. But we
have our dreams ! '* We are ill at
ease whilst we remain glued to earth,
hobbling along on our two feet which
drag us wretchedly here and there in
the place which impounds us. We

* In a recent after-dinner speech, Mr. George
Augustus Sstla, in replying for Literature, said he
once knew a very worthy old citizen of Edinburgh
who settled his quarterly accounts with unfailing
punctuality, but always deducted 15 per cent., on
the ground that he had been intimate with Sir
Walter Scott. Continuing, Mr. Sala confessed
that his own claim to return thanks for Literature
was that he had been on intimate terms with, in-
deed the disciple and, after a manner, the pupil
of two great men of letters of the last genera-
tion — Charles Dickens and William Makepeace
Thackeray. It was simply through his connection
with those giants of literature that he had the
honour to respond to the toast.

lO IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

need to live in another world, to
hover in the wide-air kingdom, to
build palaces in the clouds, to see
them rise and crumble, to follow in
a hazy distance the whims of their
moving architecture and the turns of
their golden volutes. In this fantas-
tic world, again, all must be pleasant
and beautiful, the heart and senses
must enjoy it, objects must be smiling
or picturesque, sentiments delicate or
lofty ; no crudity, incongruity, bru-
tality, savageness, must come to sully
with its excess the modulated har-
mony of this ideal perfection."* In
a life of dreams spent among the
notable literary men of the past, we
claim that it is possible to know an
enjoyment neither coarse nor vulgar,
but eminently restful, and conducive
to mental health.

It appears to us that Alfred Austin
succeeded in laying his hand on the

* Taine.

THE READER. n

hem of Truth's garment when he de-
clared that *' whatever the beloved
Children of the Muse may fondly
think, the world cares very little for
poetry, however much interest it may
show in certain poets.* It is, never-
theless, interested in poets the inci-
dents of whose lives resemble those
of a first-rate novel, or whose bio-
graphy can be made to resemble a
prose romance."t

And what poetry can equal that of
a possible life ? ** If, invisible our-
selves, we could follow a single human
being through a single day of his life,
and know all his secret thoughts and

* A pretentious lady once said, at a notable
gathering, that she had " never read Shakespeare's
works herself, but had always entertained the
highest opinion of him as a man.''''

t The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table in one
of his many moods says : " I know the man I
would have — a quick-witted, out-spoken, incisive
fellow . . . who cares for nobody, except for the
virtue there is in what he says ; delights in taking
off big wigs and professional gowns, and in the
disembalming and unbandaging of all literary
mummies."

12 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

hopes and anxieties, his prayers and
tears and good resolves, his pas-
sionate dehghts and struggles against
temptation — all that excites and all
that soothes the heart of man — we
should have poetry enough to fill a
volume. Nay, set the imagination
free, like another bottle-imp, and bid
it lift for you the roofs of the city,
street by street, and after a single
night's observation you may sit down
and write poetry and romance for the
rest of your life."* The merest in-
cident tinged with unusual colour, or
exhibiting other than ordinary fulfil-
ment, is sufficient to furnish an ex-
cellent foundation ; and the castle
built thereon towers into the clouds
which hide exalted regions from the
gaze of the multitude. And what a
life we live in it ! All that is prosaic
and commonplace is lost in the
shadowy distance. Ours is the life

'^ Longfellow.

THE READER. 13

on the hill, and we see not the valley
below, where the patient bondman
toils like a beast of burden : we asso-
ciate with heroes, nay, with gods —
and of our own making. We see the
tree-tops waving in the wind, and
hear the merry birds singing under
their green roofs ; and we choose to
forget for the time that at their
roots there are swine feeding upon
acorns.

Given, for instance — and to cease
with figures of speech — the fact that
two notable men, with refined tastes
in common, spent a certain evening
together, discoursing on subjects
of mutual interest, and what scope
we have for conjecture as to how
their hidden souls leaped out to
meet each other!* The freed ima-
gination lingers over such a meeting

* "I have seen Emerson," writes George Eliot
to a friend with all the jubilant recollection of a
genuine red-letter day — '* 1 have seen Emerson —
the first man I have ever seen."

14 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

for days and seasons. We live again,
for ourselves, the hours they thus
lived, or should have lived, during
that interview ; we hear again the
words they spoke, or should have
spoken ; and these help to make for
us a life, nay, a world, sacred and
personal and secluded. And what if
such interviews, of which we write,
were not all our fond fancy would
have them be ! They are enough for
us as we make them, and we are content.
One other point, not wholly insig-
nificant : to enjoy with anything like
thoroughness the " Interviews " be-
tween the notable personages whose
names will be found scattered along
the following pages, our readers must
bring with them something of the
hero-worship felt by Thackeray when
he said : ** I should like to have been
Shakespeare's shoe-black, just to have
lived in his house, just to have wor-
shipped him, to have run on his

THE READER, 15

errands, and seen that sweet, serene
face."* Surely such a love as this
was, in itself, a liberal education.

It does not matter how much
superior to the worshipper the hero
may be : the man who worships can-
not fail to feel himself, in a certain
sense, of kin to the object of his
adoration. The mere act of worship
has in itself an uplifting and refining
influence of no mean extent-i* In
this higher life we repeat, in however
crooked a fashion, the lives of the
great whose sayings and doings we
ponder over. The glimpses left to us

* Thackeray also liked to find indications of
this spirit of hero-worship in others. " One day
he was walking along Wych Street, a kind of
slum-thoroughfare leading to Drury Lane, when
he passed a group of dirty little street-arabs. One
little female tatterdemalion looked up at him as he
passed, and then called out to her younger brother,
* Hi, Archie! d'you know who him is? He's
Becky Sharp.'"

+ We draw the line, however, at conduct similar
to that of the Duchess of Marlborough, who, alter
Congreve's death, is said to have preserved his
memory by inviting to her table, as a constant
guest, an automaton model of him in ivory.

i6 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

in the recordings of their friends
are as so many gaps in the hedge
through which we peer in upon the
paths they trod.* Through imagi-
native sympathy we become imme-
diate participators in the dramas
in which they acted. Our interest
in the matter is thus as highly
strung and intense as that of any
artist in his creations — as intense,
for instance, as that once shown
by Thackeray, the story of which
will bear repetition as illustrative of
our meaning. It is related that one
day while The Newcomes was in course
of publication, Lowell, who was then
in London, met Thackeray on the
street. *' The novelist was serious in
manner, and his looks and voice told

* " The authors truly remembered and loved are
men in the best sense of the term ; the human,
the individual, informs and stamps their books with
an image or an effluence not born of will or mere
ingenuity, but emanating from the soul ; and this
is the quality that endears and perpetuates their
fame." — Tuckerman.

THE READER. 17

of weariness and affliction. He saw
the kindly inquiry in the poet's eyes,
and said : * Come into Evans's, and
I'll tell you all about it. I have killed
the Colonel P"^ So they walked in and
took a table in a remote corner ; and
then Thackeray, drawing the fresh
manuscript from his breast-pocket,

* Walter Herries Pollock tells us an anecdote of
Anthony Trollope which is curious and character-
istic. "He was by no means," says Pollock,
"given to talking of his own accord about his own
works, past and present ; indeed, I do not re-
member to have ever heard him do so except on
this occasion, when he was writing The Last
Chronicle of Barset, and he took an opportunity
of observing that there was an end of Mrs. Proudie.
Being asked why, he replied that he had been
writing in the Club, and that round the fire-
place in the room there was gathered a group of
young clergymen. They were talking about The
Last Chronicle, and it was impossible for him to
avoid hearing what they said. They spoke of the
work in high praise, but they all agreed as to one
point — that Mrs. Proudie was becoming an in-
tolerable nuisance. * What did you do ?' we asked.
* Well,' he replied, * I hesitated a good deal what
to do. But I finally made up my mind, and went
up to them and explained that I couldn't help
hearing what they were saying, and I added : " I'm
very much obliged to you. I am Anthony Trol-
lope, and I'll go home at once and kill Mrs.
Proudie." * And he did.

i8 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

read through that exquisitely touch-
ing chapter which records the death
of Colonel Newcome. When he came
to the final Adsum, the tears which
had been swelling his lids for some
time trickled down his face, and the
last word was almost an inarticu-
late sob."*

* In some recently-published reminiscences of
Thackeray, Mr. C. P. Cranch relates his having
met him in London in 1855. *' At an adjourn-
ment after dinner to the ' Cider Cellar ' — a very
plainly-furnished but comfortable parlour on the
first-floor — Thackeray said to the company : ' By
the way, have you seen the last number of 77ie
Newcomes T

** The company said they had not.

" 'Then,' said Thackeray, ' I should very much
like to read you some of it. It is just out.' We
all, of course, says Mr. Cranch, expressed an
eager pleasure in this opportunity of hearing him
read anything from his own books. Whereupon
he summoned a waiter, and said :

" ' Here, waiter — here's a shilling — I want you
to go out and buy for me the last number of J he
Newcomes.^

*' It was soon brought ; and Thackeray began to
read, and read for an hour, I should think, in his
quiet, half-plaintive voice, some of the closing
scenes in his novel. We were all deeply interested.
I think the last page he read described the death-
bed of Colonel Newcome. ... I have recorded
this meeting exactly as it occurred, as there has
been another version published, not quite correct."

THE READER. 19

And yet another instance, perhaps
not so well known, of this finer sym-
pathy, this absolute surrender of self
to what is unseen, but none the less
thoroughly realized. '* One day Mrs.
Henry Siddons, a neighbour and in-
timate of Lord Jeffrey, who often
entered his library unannounced,
opened the door very gently to see if
he were there, and saw enough at a
glance to convince her that the visit
was ill-timed. The hard critic of the
Edinburgh Review was sitting in his
chair with his head on the table in
deep grief. As Mrs. Siddons was
retiring, in the hope that her entrance
had been unnoticed, Jeffrey raised
his head and kindly beckoned her
back. Perceiving that his cheek was
flushed, and his eyes suffused with
tears, she begged permission to with-
draw. When he found that she was
intending to leave him, he rose from

2 — 2

20 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

his chair, took her by both hands,
and led her to a seat.

'' ' Don't go, my dear friend ; I
shall be right again in another
minute.'

" * I had no idea you had had any
bad news, or cause for grief, or I
would not have come. Is anyone
dead ?'

*' ' Yes, indeed. I'm a great goose
to have given way so, but I could
not help it. You'll be sorry to hear
that little Nelly— Boz's Httle Nelly-
is dead.' "

Trifles like these often possess a
distinct value of their own ; and,
after all, " it is only by the light of
the tittle-tattle of tradition that we
can stroll along Fleet Street with
Dr. Johnson to the Mitre Tavern, or
to the Kit-Cat to meet Burke, and
Gibbon, and Goldsmith ; spend half
an hour with Cowper in his work-
shop ; or walk down the High

THE READER, 21

Street of Edinburgh with Professor
Wilson to his class-room, * with a
book under his arm and a week's
beard on his chin.' "

Surely the gist of the whole matter
of which we write is admirably ex-
pressed in the words of Victor
Cousin : " If beauty, absent and
dreamed of, does not affect you as
much as, and more than, present
beauty, you may have a thousand
other gifts — that of imagination has
been refused you."

Landor once said that most things
were real to him except realities ;
and this we can well understand from
several incidents in his life — all not-
able interviews, by the way, and with
literary men too. One such will
suffice for the present. When
troubles hung thickly around him on
account of his foolish conduct in the
matter of the Bath scandal ; when
his personal property had been all

22 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

sold and his real estate transferred to
his eldest son, and he was being
hurried off to the Continent by his
friends, he '' arrived suddenly at Mr.
Forster's house, where Dickens and
some others were at dinner. Dickens
left the table to see him, expecting
naturally to find him broken and
cast down. But the old man's
thoughts were far away ; he seemed
as though no ugly or infuriating
realities had any existence for him,
and sat talking in his most genial
vein, principally about Latin Poetry .''"^
** I would not blot him out, in his
tender gallantry, as he sat upon his
bed at Forster's that night," said one
of his friends, *' for a million wild
mistakes at eighty- four years of age.'*
If there really is but a thin par-
tition between great wit and madness,
then is one to be often pardoned for
an unjust estimate of a great man.

* Colvin's Landor.

THE READER. 23

Take, for instance, the first appear-
ance of Jonathan Swift on the
scene where afterwards he was to
be the moving spirit. We are in-
troduced to him at the famous
coffee-house in Covent Garden kept
by Button, and frequented by the
gentlemen who were termed ** the
wits." These wits, one of them
tells us, had for several successive
days observed in the coffee-house a
strange clergyman, who seemed
utterly unacquainted with any of
them, and whose custom it was to
lay his hat down on a table, and
*' walk backward and forward at a
good pace for half an hour, or an
hour, without speaking to any mortal,
or seeming in the least to attend to
anything that was going forward
there. He then used to take up his
hat, pay his money at the bar, and
walk away without opening his lips."
The onlookers, as may be supposed,

24 IMAGINATION DEMANDED OF

were greatly fluttered by the ap-
parition ; for, '* having observed his
singular behaviour for some time,
they concluded him to be out of
his senses, and the name that he
went by among them was that of
* The Mad Parson.' " One evening,
as Mr. Addison and the rest of
the wits were observing this strange
character, they saw him cast his
eyes several times on *'a gentleman
in boots, who seemed to be just
come out of the country ;" and at
last, *' in a very abrupt manner, with-
out any previous salute " — for Swift
even then did not fashion himself to
the formalities — '^ asked him if he re-
membered any good weather in the
world." The gentleman in boots,
after staring a little at the oddity of
the question, answered that he "re-
membered a great deal." ** That is
more than I can say," rejoined the
questioner. '* I never remember any

THE READER. 25

that was not too hot or too cold, too
wet or too dry. But, however God
Almighty contrives it, at the end of
the year it is all very well."* The
spectators of this scene, who had
quitted their seats to get nearer the
interlocutors, were, we are told, more
than ever confirmed in their opinion
of the strange parson's madness.

* Literature and its Professors^ by Thomas
Puriiell.

II.

TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

" The ancient Aryans felt from the beginning,
ay, it may be, more in the beginfiing than after-
wards, the presence of a Beyond, of an Infinite^ of
a Divine^ or whatever else we may call it now ; and
they tried to grasp and comprehe^id it, as we all do,
by giving to it name after name. . . . They for-
sook the bright Devas, not because they believed or
desired less, but because they believed and desired
more than the bright Devas. There was a new
conception working in their mind ; and the cries
of despair were but the harbingers of a new
birth.'' — Max Muller : "On the Origin and
Growth of Religion as illustrated by the Religions
of India."

^^ Mystical, more than magical, is that Com-
muning of Soul with Soul, both looking heaven-
ward: here properly Soul first speaks with Soul." —
Carlyle : " Sartor Resartus."

This age of ours is certainly one
of mental unrest. Everyone has
views and aspirations of his own

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 27

on all subjects, from the earth-
worm to the over-soul. Doubt of
some kind or other generally runs
in harness with these views and
aspirations, or rather, usually pre-
cedes them. It is sometimes of
a low and frivolous character, pre-
tentious and boasting, blowing a
trumpet to indicate its existence.
The doubter says to himself in
foolish pride : *' The greatest men of
the age are unbelievers, and I will
be one, for I, too, am superior
to the common herd." Alas, poor
fool ! Why not drive a thoroughly
logical conclusion, and say : ** The
greatest singers of the day, Tenny-
son, Browning, and two or three
others, fasten their boots with tagged
laces, and so do I ; therefore I, too,
am a great singer."

But to the man of tender, yet
strong, nature, whose desire to get
nearer his God is the hunger and

28 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

thirst of his life, and who, in his
struggle to that end, has to cast
aside some of the accumulated ideas
of centuries on minor points ; who,
whilst floundering in mental uncer-
tainty, still keeps his heart pure and
turned to the white light of God's
presence in the soul ; who, whilst
surrounded by slighting looks and
pitying shoulder-shrugs, can sit tran-
quilly by his own hearthstone and
croon to himself such an intense
throb as Newman's '' Lead, Kindly
Light " — to such an one God's smile
goes out, and the strong heart-grip of
the noblest men now living on this
dear earth of ours.

I wish to write no deification of
doubt : rather would I sing of the
quiet lanes where restful trust wan-
ders content — where heaven's sun-
shine falls through the green leaves
overhead, and the song of the soaring
lark is heard. But the manly utter-

TOWARDS THE INFINITE, 29

ances of Max Miiller, in his Hibbert
Lectures, ring again and again in our
ears, teaching us not only lessons of
sympathy and brotherliness, but also
of reliance on some of the ways of
the soul. " Now I know perfectly
well," he said in one of those notable
discourses, delivered in the Chapter
House of Westminster Abbey, ''that
what I have said just now will be
misunderstood, will possibly be mis-
interpreted. I know I shall be ac-
cused of having defended and glorified
atheism, and of having represented it
as the last and highest point which
man can reach in an evolution of
religious thought. Let it be so ! If
there are but a few here present who
understand what I mean by honest
atheism, and who know how it differs
from vulgar atheism — ay, from dis-
honest theism, I shall feel satisfied ;
for I know that to understand that
distinction will often help us in the

30 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

hour of our sorest need. It will
teach us that, while the old leaves —
the leaves of a bright and happy
spring — are falling, and all seems
wintry, frozen, and dead, within and
around us there is, and there must
be, a new spring in store for every
warm and honest heart. It will
teach us that honest doubt is the
deepest spring of honest faith ; and
that he only who has lost can find."

In this connection we cannot, of
course, fail to remember the memor-
able occasion of Emerson's visit to
Carlyle at Craigenputtock, when they
went out together on the brown hills,
and sat down and talked of the im-
mortality of the soul. '* I came,"
wrote Emerson some time after-
wards, ''from Glasgow to Dumfries,
and being intent on delivering a
letter which I had brought from
Rome, inquired for Craigenputtock.
It was a farm in Nithsdale, in the

TOWARDS THE INFINITE, 31

parish of Dunscore, sixteen miles
distant. No public coach passed
near it, so I took a private carriage
from the inn. I found the house
amid desolate heathery hills, where
the lonely scholar nourished his
mighty heart. Carlyle was a man
from his youth, an author who did
not need to hide from his readers,
and as absolute a man of the world,
unknown and exiled on that hill-
farm, as if holding in his own terms
what is best in London. He was
tall and gaunt, with a cliff-like brow,
self-possessed, and holding his extra-
ordinary powers of conversation in
easy command ; clinging to his
northern accent with evident relish ;
full of lively anecdote, and with a
streaming humour which floated
everything he looked upon. . . . Few
were the objects, and lonely the man
— ' not a person to speak to within
sixteen miles except the minister of

52 TOWARDS THE INFINITE,

Dunscore ' — so that books inevitably
made his topics. . . . We went out
to walk over the long hills, and
looked at Criffel, then without his
cap, and down into Wordsworth's
country. There we sat down and
talked of the immortality of the soul.''

This *'talk" must be to us solely of
our own liking and formation, based
upon what we can glean of the views
of these two friends ; for what else on
this point is given us by Emerson is
vague and suggestive only. '* It was
not Carlyle's fault," he continues,
** that we talked on that topic, for
he had the natural disinclination of
every nimble spirit to bruise itself
against walls, and did not like to
place himself where no steps can be
taken. But he was honest and true,
and cognisant of the subtle links that
bind ages together, and saw how
every event affects all the future.
* Christ died on the tree : that built

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 33

Dunscore kirk yonder : that brought
you and me together. Time has only
a relative existence. ' "

What a subject is thus opened up
for speculation ! I remember as a
youth reading and re-reading the
account of this meeting, and piecing
together in my mind the lines which
possibly might have been taken by
the talkers. All the charm of that
early endeavour '* to force by con-
jecture a passage into other people's
thoughts " recurs to me as I w^rite
the simple words which still have
the old-time, mystical music about
them : " There we sat down and talked
of the immortaliiy of the soulJ"^

* Carlyle referred with enthusiasm to this meet-
ing, and of their "quiet night of clear, fine talk."
He spoke lovingly of the day " when that supernal
vision, Waldo Emerson, dawned on him."

It is currently reported that Carlyle liked to re-
member that other evening, in London, on which
Tennyson and he sat in solemn silence smoking
for hours. "Man Alfred," said Carlyle, as he
bade his visitor good-night, "we have ha'en a
graund nicht ; come back again soon !"

3

34 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

Years afterwards, when Emerson
again visited Carlyle, it is said that
they sat by themselves a goodly por-
tion of the evening, in the dark, talk-
ing only of God and immortality, as
if anxious to discover whether their
philosophy had thrown any clearer
light on the all-absorbing topics dis-
cussed by them on the Scotch
hills.*

At Kirkcaldy, long before this,
Carlyle had made, or strengthened,
an acquaintance with Edward Irving,
like himself an Annandale man,
like himself a student of divinity,
and, once more, like himself, a teacher
in a Kirkcaldy school. '' By resi-
dents in Kirkcaldy," says Dix, *'I

* ' * I must tell you a story Miss Bremer got
from Emerson. Carlyle was very angry with him
for not believing in a devil, and to convert him
took him amongst all the horrors of London — the
gin-shops, etc. — and finally to the House of Com-
mons, plying him at every turn with the question,
* Do you believe in a devil noo ?' " — George Eliot
to Sara Hennell^ 3rd Nov., 1 851.

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 35

have heard the two described as
often seen walking on the sea-beach
in earnest conversation, and no
doubt the doctrines of the Church,
which both were preparing to enter,
formed frequently a main portion of
their talk, to which it would not be
surprising if Carlyle contributed the
sceptical, and Irving the believing,
portion. It is curious that both
these men should afterwards have
made so very peculiar a figure in
London, as stormy denouncers (each
in his own fashion) of the estab-
lished present, and prophets of a
better future."*

* What Carlyle wrote as an epitaph on Irving
came forth hot and earnest, and direct from his
heart. " He referred to his short life (forty-two
years only) — of his thorough truth, of his youth
maturing in the Scotch solitudes — and, after abiding
for a time in the cold northern city, of his being
cast into this blazing Babylon, where he was at
first smothered with caresses, and then denounced
by the fickle, veering idolaters who crawled at his
feet. Yet not a fact could be urged against him,
except that his opinions differed from theirs. So
they cast him down into the satanic pit, amongst

3—2

36 TOWARDS THE INFINITE,

As I look out just now from my
study window upon the stars, steel-
blue above the downs, my thoughts
are carried away to another meet-
ing (or, rather, break-up of a meet-
ing), at which Carlyle took his part.
I know right well that these stories
of the Chelsea Sage are common pro-
perty with all readers ; but they suit
my mood and purpose, and I use
them accordingly, though not to fill
the pages of this little volume v^ith
padding.* Soon after the publica-

the refuse of their kind, and went on worshipping
another image — some coarse Belial whom they
had themselves manufactured, and transfigured
into a god."

* There seems to me nothing in our literature
more full of genuine human feeling, unparaded as
it is, than the following, extracted from Carlyle's
Life of John Sterling. The man Carlyle^ at his
best, is in it. *' But now," he says, *' autumn ap-
proaching, Sterling had to quit clubs for matters
of sadder consideration. A new removal, what
we call • his third peregrinity,' had to be decided
on ; and it was resolved that Rome should be the
goal of it, the journey to be done in company with
Calvert, whom, also, the Italian climate might be
made to serve instead of Madeira. One of the

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 37

tion of Heroes and Hero-Worship,
Carlyle and Leigh Hunt were to-
gether at a small party, and a con-
versation was started between these
two concerning the heroism of man.
** Leigh Hunt had said something
about the islands of the blest, or El
Dorado, or the Millennium, and was
flowing on his bright and hopeful

liveliest recollections I have, connected with the
A7ionymous Club [a little club, established by John
Sterling, where monthly, over a frugal dinner, a
small select company of persons, to whom it was
pleasant to talk, used to meet, having Tennyson as
one of the number, and James Spedding for secre-
tary], is that of once escorting Sterling, after a
certain meeting there, which I had seen only to-
wards the end, and now remember nothing of,
except that, on breaking up, he proved to be en-
cumbered with a carpet-bag, and could not at
once find a cab for Knightsbridge. Some little
bantering hereupon, during the instants of embargo.
But we carried his carpet-bag, slinging it on my
stick, two or three of us alternately, through dusty
vacant streets, under the gaslight and the stars,
towards the surest cab-stand, still jesting, or pre-
tending to jest, he and we, not in the mirthfulest
manner, and had (I suppose) our own feelings
about the poor pilgrim, who was to go on the
morrow, and had hurried to meet us in this way,
as the last thing before leaving England."

38 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

way, when Carlyle dropped some
heavy tree-trunk across Hunt's plea-
sant stream, and banked it up with
philosophical doubts and objections
at every interval of the speaker's
joyous progress. But the unmiti-
gated Hunt never ceased his over-
flowing anticipations, nor the satur-
nine Carlyle his infinite demurs to
these finite flourishings. The lis-
teners laughed and applauded by
turns, and had now fairly pitted
them against each other as the
philosopher of hopefulness and of
the unhopeful. The contest con-
tinued with all that ready wit and
philosophy, that mixture of plea-
santry and profundity, that exten-
sive knowledge of books and char-
acter, with their ready application in
argument or illustration, and that
perfect ease and good-nature which
distinguished both of these men.
The opponents were so well matched

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 39

that it was quite clear the contest
would never come to an end. But
the night was far advanced, and the
party broke up. They all sallied
forth, and, leaving the close room,
the candles and the arguments be-
hind them, suddenly found them-
selves in presence of a most brilliant
star-lit night. They all looked up.
* Now,' thought Hunt, * Carlyle's
done for ! He can have no answer
to that !'

'* * There !' shouted Hunt; 'look up
there — look at that glorious harmony,
that sings with infinite voices an
eternal song of hope in the soul of
man.'

** Carlyle looked up. They all re-
mained silent to hear what he would
say. They began to think he was
silenced at last ; he was a mortal
man. But out of that silence came
a few low-toned words, in a broad
Scotch accent. And who on earth

40 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

could have anticipated what the voice
said ?

"'Eh, it's a sad sight!'

** Hunt sat down on a stone step.
They all laughed, then looked very
thoughtful. Had the finite measured
itself with infinity, instead of surren-
dering itself up to the influence ?
Again they laughed, then bade each
other good-night, and betook them-
selves homewards with slow and
serious pace/'*

How different to all this were the
conversations on the same all-absorb-
ing topics which took place between
Baxter and Sir Matthew Hale, of

* Home's A/'e7i/ Spirit of the Age.

What a right lovable and kindly spirit had
Leigh Hunt I After a dinner at the house of
Barry Cornwall, at which Kinglake and Haw-
thorne, amongst others, were present, when the
gentlemen rose to join the ladies in the drawing-
room, *' the two dear old poets, Leigh Hunt and
Barry Cornwall, mounted the stairs with their
arms round each other in a very tender and loving
way. Hawthorne often referred to this scene as
one he would not have missed for a great deal."

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 41

which the former tells us : '* The
conference which I had frequently
with him, mostly about the immor-
tahty of the soul and other philo-
sophical and foundation points, was
so edifying that his very questions
and objections did help me to more
light than other men's solutions."

Mr. F.W. H. Myers, in an extremely
interesting article on George Eliot,
tells of how he once walked with her
at Cambridge, in the Fellows' garden
of Trinity, on an evening of rainy
May, when '' she, stirred somewhat
beyond her wont, and taking as her
text the three words which have
been used so often as the inspiring
trumpet-calls of men — the words
God, Immortality, Duty — pronounced
with terrible earnestness how incon-
ceivable was the first, how unbeliev-
able the second, and yet how peremp-
tory and absolute the third. Never,
perhaps," he continues, **have sterner

42 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

accents affirmed the sovereignty of
impersonal and unrecompensing law.
I listened, and night fell ; her grave,
majestic countenance turned toward
me like a sibyl's in the gloom ; it
was as though she withdrew from
my grasp one by one the two scrolls
of promise, and left me the third
scroll only, awful with inevitable
fates. And when we stood at length
and parted, amid that columnar
circuit of the forest trees, beneath
the last twilight of starless skies, I
seemed to be gazing, like Titus at
Jerusalem, on vacant seats and
empty halls — on a sanctuary with
no presence to hallow it, and heaven
left lonely of a God."

To many noble-hearted men and
women, even nowadays, nothing is
left but their duty. Through some
defect in their soul's sight they
fail to see the ultimate of the busy
speculation with which this nine-

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 43

teenth century is rife — nay, they
scarce see even its true tendency.
Its way is so devious ; and the maze
through which it subtly gUdes is so
overgrown and difficult of penetra-
tion, that it is a matter of no wonder
that a shrewd conjecture is often
made to take the place of definite
knowledge. But work is definite
and always near at hand — something
upon which energy can be legiti-
mately expended, and from which
results can be calculated with pre-
cision. And the truth remains ever
fresh, that '* to forget yourself in some
worthy purpose outside of yourself
is the secret of a rich and happy
life." Many a man, wrapped round
with the coils of black doubt, can,
equally with him who lives in the
sunshine of faith, set his seal to the
truth of what has been written of
the glory of true work earnestly per-
formed. I say true work earnestly per-

44 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

formed, having in my mind the saying
of Emerson : '' God will not have
His work made manifest by cowards.
A man is relieved and gay when he
has put his heart into his work and
done his best ; but what he has said
or done otherwise shall give him no
peace. It is a deliverance which
does not deliver. In the attempt
his genius deserts him ; no muse
befriends ; no invention, no hope."

I should like to have seen the
grim visage of Carlyle, and the play
upon the features of William Black
the novelist, at that interview when
the Chelsea Sage put the posing
question to his younger brother of
the pen who, by the way, has given us
such charming stories : *' But when
are ye going to do some wark ?'**

* Mr. Carlyle's severest critic, and a critic of his
own school, was an old parish roadman at Eccle-
fechan.

"Been a long time in this neighbourhood?"
once asked an American traveller on the outlook
for a sight of the sage.

TOWARDS THE INFINITE. 45

In these days of raving about
genius and its prescriptive rights of
vagabondage and irresponsibility, it
is refreshing to read the definite
statements made about work, even
though the sentiment be common-
place and has found a home in every

" Been here a' ma days, sir."

*' Then you'll know the Carlyles ?"

*' Weel that ! A ken the whole o' them. There
was, let me see," he said, leaning on his shovel
and pondering, " there was Jock ; he was a kind o'
throughither sort o' chap, a doctor, but no a bad
fellow, Jock — he's deid, mon."

**And there was Thomas," said the inquirer
eagerly.

" Oh, ay, of coorse, there's Tam — a useless,
munestruck chap that writes in London. There's
naething in Tam ; but, mon, there's Jamie, owre
in the Newlands — there's a chap for ye ; he's the
mon o' the family. Jamie tak's maire swine into
Ecclefechan market than any ither farmer in the
parish."

This is all very much like the story of the
Scottish driver of pigs, who, hearing it declared that
he was a greater man than the Duke of Wellington,
scratched his thick head, and with a satisfied ex-
pression said : " Aweel, Wellington was a great
mon, and verra smart in his own way ; but I doot
— I doot, if /le could ha' driven seven hundred
pigs frae Edinboro to Lonnon — and not lose one
— as /ha' done."

46 TOWARDS THE INFINITE.

teacher's exhortation. There is a
genuine ring about such as the fol-
lowing: ''Work every hour, paid or
unpaid ; see only that you work, and
you cannot escape your reward.
Whether your work be fine or coarse,
planting corn or writing epics, so
only it be honest work, done to your
own approbation, it shall earn a re-
ward to the senses as well as to the
thought. No matter how often de-
feated, you are born to victory. The
reward of a thing well done is to
have done it."

:v^x^:iEk ^ V>kfl8ry^

III.

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

" We had experience of a blissful state.
In which our powers of thought stood sepa^-ate^
Each in its oivn high freedom held apart.
Yet both close folded in one loving heart ;
So that we seemed, without conceit, to be
Both one, and two, in our identity ^

MiLNES.

" Genius without sympathetic recognition is like
a ki^idledflre without flue or draught ; it smoulders
miserably away instead of leaping, sparkling, and
giving cheer r — Bayard Taylor.

" Gaze thou in the face of thy brother, in those
eyes where plays the lambent fire of kindness . . .
feel how thy own so quiet soul is straightway in-
voluntarily kindled with the like, and ye blaze and
reverberate on each other, till it is all one limitless
confluent flame . . . and then say what miraculous
virtue goes out of man into man.'' — Carlyle.

Nothing tends more to lay a man's
soul bare than to have a sympathetic
listener or two. The world's cold

48 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

criticism is all forgotten in the pre-
sence of friendly hearts and answer-
ing eyes. These conditions are
often found by the world's workers
in select clubs,* where man meets
man without formality or restraint
of any kind ; where he expects to
find, and generally does find, in his
brother something admirable and
charming.t And " if they are men

* To attempt to exhaust the subject of clubs in
a little book like the present would, it need hardly
be said, prove something akin to gathering the
hills together to stow in a barn. Volumes might
be written in this direction, and yet much would
be left unrecorded. To start even with the picture
of an evening at the Globe with Kit Marlowe
(alas, poor Kit ! — " Christopher Marlowe, slain
by a serving-man in a drunken brawl, aged twenty-
nine ") and Shakespeare, Cowley and Green, Ned
Alleyn, George Peele, Nash, and the rest of the
merry crew, all in a storm of inspiration and drink,
would open up untold chapters in the literary
history of England.

t And this, notwithstanding Charlotte Bronte's
opinion on the matter. " All coteries," she
says in one of her letters, " whether they be
literary, scientific, political, or religious, must, it
seems to me, have a tendency to change truth into
affectation. When people belong to a clique, they
must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk,
think, and live for that clique — a harassing and
narrowing necessity."

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 49

with noble powers and qualities, let
me tell you that, next to youthful
love and family affections, there is
no human sentiment better than that
which unites the societies of mutual
admiration. And what would litera-
ture or art be without such associa-
tions ? Who can tell what we owe
to the Mutual Admiration Society
of which Shakespeare and Ben Jon-
son, and Beaumont and Fletcher
were members ? Or to that of which
Addison and Steele formed the centre,
and which gave us the Spectator ? Or
to that where Johnson and Goldsmith,
and Burke and Reynolds, and Beau-
clerk and Boswell, most admiring
among all admirers, met together?*

* "W^ho has not heard of the famous lobster
suppers of Pope, and the witty re-unions at Tom's
Coffee House, where ruffled and rapiered gallants
met to discuss liquor and literature, chat and
claret? or, who has not longed to make one of
such a party as that described, or rather referred
to, by the sprightly Lady Mary Wortley Montague,
who, with chosen associates,

** 'When the cares of the day are all pass'd

Sit down with champagne and a chicken at last ;*

4

50 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

Was there any great harm in the
fact that the Irvings and Pauld-

and to what was far better, — * the feast of reason
and the flow of soul.' These * long-ago' affairs
have had their Boswells to chronicle them ; and
so graphic are some of the reports of these
symposia, that we seem, whilst perusing them, to
* live over each scene.' In imagination we jostle
against flower-brocaded coats and embroidered
vests ; our modern legs get entangled in the
voluminous folds of the ample fardingales and
hoops, and high heels startle us with their grotesque
proportions.

' * The times have changed ; the days of the
blue-stocking clique are remembered as among the
things that were. Hannah More, Mrs. Delaney,
Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Piozzi, and Madame D'Arblay
no longer sit sipping their souchong, and listening
to the oracular and ponderous sentences of Doctor
Johnson, or indulging in sprightly sentimentalisms,
or flippant nothings. Will's coftee-house is no
longer open to the Steeles, the Addisons, and the rest
of the town wits. Tom's exists, but is a lawyer's
dining-house. Ranelagh, with its variegated
leafy arcades, and brilliantly-lighted bowers, is no
more ; and all who gossiped so delightfully, or
talked so learnedly, a few years ago, have passed
away, leaving legacies of wit, wisdom and folly to
their descendants, who, in the cockney haunts of
Rosherville and Cremorne, make up for the almost
forsaken glories of Vauxhall — that latest remnant
of old-fashioned gaiety.

"The times have greatly changed. Club-houses
have knocked the old coffee-houses into nothing-
ness ; and literary coteries are broken up — such
literary coteries, we mean, as the days to which
reference has been made could boast of." — Dix's
Lions Living and Dead,

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 51

ing wrote in company? or any un-
pardonable cabal in the literary
union of Verplanck and Bryant and
Sands, and as many more as they
chose to associate with them ?

** The poor creature does not
know what he is talking about when
he abuses this noblest of institutions.
Let him inspect its mysteries through
the knot-hole he has secured, but
not use that orifice as a medium for
his popgun. Such a society is the
crown of a literary metropolis ; if a
town has not material for it, and
spirit and good feeling enough to
organize it, it is a mere caravansary,
fit for a man of genius to lodge in,
but not to live in. Foolish people
hate and dread and envy such an
association of men of varied powers
and influence, because it is lofty,
serene, impregnable, and, by the
necessity of the case, exclusive.
Wise ones are prouder of the title

4—2

52 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

M.S.M.A., than of all their other
honours put together."*

And no small portion of the record
of what is best in literature is also a
history of cliques, in which the workers
helped each other by mutual criticism
as well as by mutual admiration. In
the very nature of events, one strong
or beautiful soul must needs, by
virtue of its magnetism, draw to it-
self others of similar character.

What notable gatherings and con-
ferences it is possible to construct
imaginatively when we have as a
basis for our operations the names
of the contributors to the first
number of the Edinburgh Review,
together with some odd particulars,
now tolerably well known, of how
the famous quarterly was started
and pushed out on its early way
among men ! And what a chant of

* Oliver Wendell Holmes.— 77^^ Autocrat of the
Breakfast Table,

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 53

the wealth of intellect these names
sing for themselves ! Here they are :
Francis (afterwards Lord) Jeffrey;
Henry Brougham, subsequently Lord
Brougham ; Alexander Hamilton,
sometime Professor of Sanscrit in
the East India College at Haileybury ;
Francis Horner, known to the read-
ing public through his memoirs
edited by his brother ; Sydney Smith,
'* the witty parson," with his untied
tongue ; John Macfarlan, the serious,
studious, and retired lover of German
and metaphysics; Dr. John Thomson,
who occupied some years afterwards
the chair of pathology in the College
of Edinburgh ; Dr. Thomas Brown ;
and John Murray, afterwards Lord
Murray, a judge.

Of these in 1802 (the date of the
publication of the first number of
the Edinburgh), Smith was thirty-
one years of age ; Jeffrey, thirty ;

54 MUTUAL.ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

Brown, twenty- four ; Horner, twenty-
four ; and Brougham, twenty-three.

These are the men with whom we
live again the Hfe they spent during
the few months surrounding the
issue of the first number of their
Review, concerning which it has been
said : " The effect was electrical.
... It is impossible for those who
did not live at the time, and in the
heart of the scene, to feel, or almost
to understand, the impression made
by the new luminary, or the anxieties
with which its motions were ob-
served. It was an entire and instant
change of everything that the public
had been accustomed to in that sort
of composition. The old periodical
opiates were extinguished at once.'*

WilHs once said, in the course of
conversation with G. W. Curtis, that
people always read with avidity two
things — stories of themselves and
of other people. The story of the

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 55

inception and early existence of the
Edinburgh Review, however often re-
peated, is certainly one to be read
with interest by all students of
literary history. The plain facts are
to be stated in few words. One
stormy night in March, 1802, a group
of friends met together in Jeffrey's
study (a room on the third story of a
house in Buccleuch Place, Edinburgh,
and called by courtesy his " study,'*
the furnishing of which had been
completed at a cost of £y i8s.) to
consider their positions in life and
the means of bettering them. What
a goodly company gathered there
around their host ! and what a storm
of laughter must have drowned the
storm without as one suggestion
after another fell from the lips of
Jeffrey, or Brougham, or Sydney
Smith, or Horner with the ten com-
mandments, as Smith used to say,
all written in the lines of his face

56 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

as legibly as they were on the
tables of stone ! Smith's story is
(and it has been told also by Jeffrey
and Brougham) : '* I proposed that
we should set up a Review, and this
was acceded to with acclamation. I
was appointed editor, and remained
long enough in Edinburgh to edit the
first number of the Edinburgh Re-
view.** The question arose as to a
motto for the new publication.
Smith suggested (and what else could
be expected from such a man ?) that
they should take ** Tenui Musam
meditamur avend '' ('* We cultivate
literature on a little oatmeal"), but
this was immediately ruled out of
court, and for one of the best pos-
sible reasons ; it was by far too
near the truth to be blazed abroad
from the house-tops. There was a
copy of Publius Syrus lying on the
table, and Horner, taking it up and
turning over the leaves, accidentally

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. S7

hit on the words which still occupy
their position on the old buff and
blue : *' Judex damnatur cum nocens
absolvttur /" Subsequently Constable
was chosen as publisher, and the
papers in the first three numbers
were supplied him without remunera-
tion. But the projectors of the Re-
view knew right well the man with
whom they had to deal. Lord
Cockburn's estimate of him, in his
Memorials of his Time, is certainly a
pleasant picture. '' Constable," he
writes, '* had hardly set up for him-
self when he reached the summit of
his business. He rushed out and
took, possession of the open field, as
if he had been aware from the first of
the existence of the latent spirits
which a skilful conjuror might call
from the depths of the population to
the service of hterature. Abandoning
the old timid and grudging system,
he stood out as the general patron

58 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

and payer of all promising publi-
cations, and confounded, not merely
his rivals in trade, but his very
authors, by his unheard-of prices.
Ten, even twenty, guineas a sheet
for a review, ^2,000 or 3^3,000 for a
single poem, and 3^1,000 each for two
philosophical dissertations,* drew
authors from dens where they would
otherwise have starved, and made
Edinburgh a literary mart, famous
with strangers and the pride of its
own citizens."

Another picture, however, presents
itself as companion to the meeting
in Jeffrey's study, when the idea of
such a publication was started. It
is that of the writers skulking round
back lanes to throw possible watchers
off the scent before slipping quietly
into **the dingy room off Wilkinson's
printing-office, in Craig's Close,"

* By Stewart and Playfair — prefixed to a sup-
plement of the Encyclopcedia Britannica.

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES, 59

where they read over the proofs of
their own articles, and sat in judg-
ment on the few manuscripts offered
by strangers. Sydney Smith gives
us a peep at one of these meetings,
where he and Brougham sat together
over a glass of whisky to take the
conceit out of some sapient author.
" Once I remember," he says, ** how
we got hold of a Httle vegetarian,
who had put out a silly little book ;
and how Brougham and I sat one
night over our review of that book,
looking whether there was a chink or
crevice through which we could filter
one more drop of verjuice." Such a
confession is really magnificent in its
artlessness.

Although many incidents are on
record having to do, in some measure,
with the Review and its writers,
much remains unwritten. But over
what we actually have, as reliable
information, our imagination broods,

6o MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

creating for us interviews and con-
versations which ought to have
taken place, thus enabling us, each
for himself, to grasp the romance
which surrounds such an epoch in
English literature.

Then there was that notable group
which at one time gathered at the
English lakes, and of which Words-
worth was the centre. *' Here that
strange being, Thomas de Quincey,
came and lived, purposely to be near
the poet. Coleridge* was always at
call ; and loving and gentle Charles
Lamb came at times, sadly missing
the town, and almost afraid of the
mountains. Here Dr. Arnold, of

* Landor was displeased with Coleridge alto-
gether when he met him in London in 1832,
although the philosopher donned a new suit of
clothes for the occasion, and made many pretty
speeches to his visitor. Landor's dislike was
based upon two especial points : Coleridge would
talk about no one and nothing but himself, and
he would not pay the slightest attention to Landor's
enthusiastic mention of Southey.

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 6i

Rugby, came often from Fox How,
his own house in the neighbourhood ;
hither Harriet Maftineau walked over
from Ambleside, with some new theory
of the universe to expound ; and here
poor Hartley Coleridge passed the
happiest hours of his unfortunate
life." And not far distant lived
Southey in his magnificent library
looking out on the everlasting hills."^
But we must by no means forget
John Wilson, genial " Christopher
North," certainly one of the most
remarkable of the Lakists — ** stu-
dent, Bohemian, bookworm, sports-
man, professor ; the kindliest, merriest,
and most entertaining of com-
panions;" author of the Nodes Am^
brosiancB.

* It was into this room that Southey one day-
enticed Shelley under the delusion that he had a
treat for him ; and after locking the door dosed
hiin with his verses until the would-be listener fell
asleep under the table. He assured Shelley that
his Madoc was equal to the Odyssey,

62 MUTUAL'ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

** In these same Nodes we have
descriptions of some of those nights
when, as Carlyle would have said,
* there was much good talk.' And
Wilson was mainly the talker. The
chief characteristics of his discourse
were prodigality of humour and
infinite variety. His imagination, too,
ran riot, and his wit sparkled ever
and anon with a radiance all its own.

" His memory was prodigious, and
in his conversation he taxed it for
anecdotes and illustrations drawn
from the four quarters of the globe,
and from the most remote and un-
usual stores of literary hoarding.
His mind was many-sided as well
as keen, and he kept all his faculties
in full play, not excepting his sym-
pathies, which were as broad as the
world of men.

" Can we wonder that those who
crowded the table where he sat
lingered on till the daylight drove

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 63

them from the board ? or that no
man who had had him for a boon
companion could ever be satisfied
with another ? Can we wonder that
the students who crowded his lecture-
room after he became a professor
thought every other lecturer common-
place and dull ? Not that he gave
them more information than others
— perhaps he did not give them as
much ; but he excited and inspired
them. He quickened their minds,
and wakened their dormant faculties.
Some of the white-heat of his own
enthusiasm he communicated to their
colder natures, and they enjoyed the
unusual warmth."*

* It was this power of inspiring and quickening
that was so noticeable in Emerson's public utter-
ances. James Russell Lowell says : *' Emerson
awakened us, saved us from the body of this
death. It is the sound of the trumpet that the
young soul longs for, careless what breath may fill
it. Sidney heard it in the ballad of Chevy Chase^
and we in Emerson. Nor did it blow retreat, but
called to us with assurance of victory. Did they
say he was disconnected ? So were the stars, that
seemed larger to our eyes, still keen with that ex-

64 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

''Wilson and De Quincey had been
at Oxford together without acquaint-
ance at the time. Wilson left college
and settled at Elleray, by Lake Win-
dermere, happy in a vigorous health
and a fortune of thirty thousand
pounds ; but happier some years
later in the loss of the fortune ; for
it was that loss which brought his

citement, as we walked homeward with prouder
stride over the creaking snow. And were t/iey not
knit together by a higher logic than our mere senses
could master ? Were we enthusiasts ? I hope and
believe we were, and am thankful to the man who
made us worth something for once in our lives.
If asked what was left ? what we carried home ?
we should not have been careful for an answer.
It would have been enough if we had said that
something beautiful had passed that way. Or we
might have asked in return what one brought
away from a symphony of Beethoven ? Enough
that he had set that ferment of wholesome dis-
content at work in us. There is one, at least, of
those old hearers — so many of whom are now in
the fruition of that intellectual beauty of which
Emerson gave them both the desire and the fore-
taste — who will always love to repeat :

" * C/ie in la mente w' i fitta^ ed or tn^ accuora
La cara e biiona iffwiagine paterna
Di voiy quando nel viondo ad ora ad ora
M' insegnavaste co7?ie V uo7ji s'eterna* "

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 65

energies into full play. From 1809
Wilson, the tall, vigorous athlete,
with health in every movement of
his body and his mind, a man who
could jump twelve yards in three
jumps with a heavy stone in each
hand, became companion in rambles
with De Quincey, who was of under
height and slender of frame, with a
mind morbidly sensitive, not made
the healthier by use of opium.
The friendship between Thomas de
Quincey and John Wilson was life-
long. Each loved the poets, each
had his own touch of the sacred fire,
and the likeness in essentials was
accompanied with the complete un-
likeness in accidents of character that
fills one friend's life with ever-fresh
matter of study and enjoyment for
the other, and so doubles the ex-
perience of each."*

In the winter of 1814-15 De

* Henry Morley.

5

66 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

Quincey was with his friend Wilson
in Edinburgh, where his silver stream
of talk charmed all who heard it.
*' His voice," said one who met him
then, "was extraordinary; it came
as if from dreamland ; but it was
the most musical and impressive of
voices. Seeing he was always good-
natured and social, he could take
part in any sort of tattle ; but his
musical cadences were not in keep-
ing with such work, and in a few
minutes (not without some strictly
logical sequence) he could escape at
will from beeves to butterflies, and
thence to the soul's immortality, to
Plato and Kant and Schelling and
Fichte ; would recount profound
mysteries from his own experiences
— visions that had come over him in
his loneliest walks among the moun-
tains. And whatever the subject
might be, every one of his sentences
was woven into the most logical

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES, 67

texture, and uttered in a tone of
sustained melody."

In his Personal Recollections of
Thomas de Quincey, John Ritchie
Findlay refers in an interesting man-
ner to a certain particular, in which
the subject of his little volume un-
deniably resembled Coleridge. ** He
(De Quincey) had dined with me,"
writes Mr. Findlay, *' at George
Square ; he preferred an early hour,
and our small party had sat down to
dinner at five or six o'clock. The
two or three guests, all equally fasci-
nated and delighted with his talk —
only my uncle (Mr. John Ritchie,
proprietor of the Scotsman; Mr.
Russel being its editor), Russel and
Burton probably — had left us one by
one; my uncle for the country, where
he was staying, I inhabiting alone
his house in town ; Burton uncere-
moniously enough when he thought
fit to go ; and at last Russel, about

5—2

68 MUTUAL- ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

eleven o'clock, he having his w^ork at
the Scotsman office for next morning's
paper, as I had also. After fully an
hour more had slipped aw^ay, I was
obliged to tell De Quincey that I
too must go. Then came elegant
apologies, undoubtedly sincere, and
we left together, my desire being to
see him safe home to his lodgings in
Lothian Street. No ; he would ac-
company me through the silent mid-
night streets that fine summer even-
ing. So we walked backwards and
forwards for probably another hour
between the High Street (where the
office of the Scotsman then was) and
Lothian Street, till at last the inevit-
able * good-night ' was spoken. I got
to my post to find my work for the
night all but finished by Mr. Russel,
who immensely enjoyed the * fix ' in
which he had left me, and was much
surprised at my having, by any device
or exercise of moral courage, got out

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 69

of it. As De Quincey said of Cole-
ridge, that the first difficulty was to
get him to begin to talk, and the
second to get him to stop, so of De
Quincey, the first difficult}^ was to
induce him to visit you, and the
second to reconcile him to leaving."

Here to the region of the lake-poets
came the young Emerson, on his first
visit to England. " On the 28th
August, 1833," he says, '* I went to
Rydal Mount to pay my respects to
Mr. Wordsworth.* His daughters

* When Wordsworth first went to reside in the
district, it was a matter of necessity with him that
the rule of his household should be " plain living
and high thinking." What friends came to see
him were always welcome to the bread and cheese
of his table ; if they needed more or better — well,
there was the village inn not far distant. Even
when his finances improved, the honest plainness
of his mode of living was apparent to all. We
are indebted to a communication by Mr. Jonathan
Bouchier to Notes and Queries for the following
story, which, in addition to being extremely
amusing in itself, illustrates the point to which we
have just referred :

**When Scott was staying with his friend and
brother-poet Wordsworth, the frugal fare — at least
in the article of liquor — at the bard of Rydal's

70 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

called in their father, a plain, elderly,
white-haired man, not prepossessing,
and disfigured by green goggles. He
sat down, and talked with great
simplicity. ... I inquired if he had
read Carlyle's critical articles and
translations. He said he thought
him sometimes insane. He pro-
ceeded to abuse Goethe's Wilhelm
Meister heartily. He had never
gone farther than the first part ;
so disgusted was he that he threw
the book across the room. I de-
precated his wrath, and said what
I could for the better parts of the
book, and he courteously promised

table did not quite suit Scott's less simple palate.
He used, accordingly, to pay a visit to a neigh-
bouring * public,' and have a quiet glass, ' unbe-
known,' as Mrs. Gamp would say, to Wordsworth.
One day the two poets were walking out together,
and they happened to pass the house, when
the landlady was standing at the door. Directly
she caught sight of Scott she exclaimed, to his
horror, * Weel, Mr. Scott, have ye come for your
morning dram ?' thereby letting the cat out of the
bag, and covering Scott with confusion."

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 71

to look at it again. Carlyle, he
said, wrote most obscurely. He was
clever and deep, but he defied the
sympathies of everybody. Even Mr.
Coleridge wrote more clearly, though
he had always wished Coleridge
would write more to be understood.
He led me out into his garden, and
showed me the gravel walk in which
thousands of his lines were com-
posed. His eyes are very much in-
flamed. This is no loss except for
reading, because he never wTites
prose, and of poetry he carries even
hundreds of lines in his head before
writing them. He had just returned
from a visit to Staffa, and within
three days he had made three
sonnets on Fingal's Cave, and was
composing a fourth when he was
called in to see me. He said : * If
you are interested in my verses,
perhaps you will like to hear these
lines.' I gladly assented, and he re-

72 MUTUAL.ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

collected himself for a few moments,
and then stood forth and repeated
one after the other the three entire
sonnets with great animation. I
fancied the second and third more
beautiful than his poems are wont to
be. The third is addressed to the
flowers, which, he said, especially
the ox-eye daisy, are very abundant
on the top of the rock ; the second
alludes to the name of the cave,
which is * Cave of Music ;' the first
to the circumstance of its being
visited by the promiscuous company
of the steam-boat.

** This recitation was so unlocked
for and surprising — he, the old
Wordsworth, standing apart, and
reciting to me in a garden-walk, like
a school-boy declaiming — that I at
first was near to laugh ; but recol-
lecting myself that I had come thus
far to see a poet, and he was chant-
ing poems to me, I saw that he was

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES, 73

right and I was wrong, and gladly
gave myself up to hear. I told him
how much the few printed extracts
had quickened the desire to possess
his unpublished poems. He replied
he never was in haste to publish,
partly because he corrected a good
deal, and every alteration is ungra-
ciously received after printing; but
what he had written would be printed
whether he lived or died. I said
Tintern Abbey appeared to be the
favourite poem with the public, but
more contemplative readers preferred
the first books of the Excursion and
the Sonnets. He said, * Yes, they
are better.' He preferred such of
his poems as touched the affections
to any others; for whatever is di-
dactic — what theories of society, and
so on — might perish quickly, but
whatever combined a truth with an
affection was KTrj/jua e? aec — good to-
day and good for ever. He cited

74 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

the sonnet, On the feelings of a high-
minded Spaniard, which he preferred
to any other (I so understood him),
and the Two Voices; and quoted,
with evident pleasure, the verses
addressed To the Skylark,''

It is remarkable in how many
recorded interviews with the Rydal
bard we find mention of his starting
off with the recitation of his own
verses ; and it is curious to observe
how differently the fact impresses
his various hearers — some receiving
the utterance reverently, others, and
these mostly brother poets, turning
restive under it as an infliction.

However one may admire Words-
worth, his egotism occasionally rubs
up very roughly against our sensi-
bilities. He told Lamb one day in
the course of conversation that he
considered Shakespeare greatly over-
rated.

" There is," said he, '* an immen-

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 75

sity of trick in all Shakespeare wrote,
and people are taken by it. Now, if
/ had a mind I could write exactly
like Shakespeare."

** Yes," stuttered Lamb in reply,
*' it is only the mind that is want-
ing."

He once asked Mrs. Alaric Watts
what she thought the finest elegiac
composition in the English language,
and when she timidly suggested
Lycidas, he replied :

** You are not far wrong. It may,
I think, be affirmed that Milton's
Lycidas and my Laodamia are twin
immortals."

How very different was Lamb's
expressed estimate of himself! Call-
ing on Wordsworth one day he
said:

** Mr. Wordsworth, allow me to
introduce to you my only admirer."

It was also a great pity that
Wordsworth was so very full of

76 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

'* shop " on all occasions. If he had
been a little more niggardly in pour-
ing out his productions before his
visitors, it would have been better
for his reputation. ** Enough is as
good as a feast." Dumas knew the
happy mean, and although such a
charming story-teller saw when to
draw the rein. One evening at a
party his hostess so wearied him with
requests to exhibit his powers in this
direction that at last, unable to en-
dure it longer, he quietly said :

*' Everyone to his trade, madam.
The gentleman who entered your
drawing-room just before me is a
distinguished artillery officer. Let
him bring a cannon here and fire
it, then I will tell one of my little
stories."

I wonder what Byron really did
think of Coleridge when, on the very
first occasion of their meeting, he
treated the noble bard to one of his

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 77

interminable monologues wherein he
ascended into the seventh heaven
upon the wings of theology and
metaphysics ! *

During his visit to England,
Emerson called on Coleridge at
Highgate, and they touched on
theological amongst other subjects.
I have no doubt his experience during
the interview was very similar to
Lamb's. One day Coleridge was
regretting that Lamb had never
heard him preach, whereupon Lamb
retorted by saying that he had never
heard him do anything else.

To Hazlitt, however, Coleridge's
words were a revelation. In his
essay on My first Acquaintance with
Poets, speaking of his early meeting
with Coleridge, he says :

* When Leigh Hunt, who was rather disgusted
with Coleridge for his conduct on this occasion,
related the story to Lamb, Lamb excused his
friend by saying : ** Oh, it was only his fun :
there's an immense deal of quiet humour about
Coleridge !"

78 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

" As we passed along between Wem
and Shrewsbury ... a sound was
in my ears as of a siren's song; I
was stunned, startled with it as from
deep sleep, but I had no notion
that I should ever be able to express
my admiration to others in motley
imagery or quaint allusion till the
light of his genius shone into my
soul like the sun's ray glittering in
the puddles of the road. I was at
that time dumb, inarticulate, help-
less, like a worm by the wayside,
crushed, bleeding, lifeless ; but now,
bursting the deadly bands that bound
them,

*' * With Styx nine times round them/

my ideas float on winged words, and
as they expand their plumes, catch
the golden hght of other years. My
soul has indeed remained in its
original bondage, dark, obscure, with
longings infinite and unsatisfied; my
heart, shut up in the prison-house

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 79

of this rude clay, has never found,
nor will it ever find, a heart to speak
to ;* but that my understanding also •
did not remain dumb and brutish, or
at length found a language to express
itself, I owe to Coleridge.

** It was in January of 1798 that I
rose one morning before daylight to
walk ten miles in the mud to hear
this celebrated person preach. Never,

* A rather comical commentary on these ex-
pressions is afforded by Hazlitt's conduct, later in
life, in the matter of the heroine of the Lider
Ainoris (Sarah W^alker, the daughter of a lodging-
house keeper), for whom he conceived an extra-
vagant and altogether unreasonable passion which
completely subdued his intellect. " He was, for a
time," says Barry Cornwall, " unable to think or
talk of anything else. He abandoned criticism
and books as idle matters ; and fatigued every
person whom he met by expressions of his love,
of her deceit, and of his own vehement disap-
pointment. This was when he lived in Southamp-
ton Buildings, Holborn. Upon one occasion I
know that he told the story of his attachment to
five different persons in the same day, and at each
time entered into minute details. ' I am a

cursed fool,' said he to me. * I saw J going

into Weill's Coffee-house yesterday morning ; he
spoke to me. I followed him into the house ;
and whilst he lunched, I told him the whole story.

So MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

the longest day I have to Hve, shall I
have such another w^alk as this cold,
raw, comfortless one in the winter.
. . . When I got there, the organ
was playing the looth Psalm, and
when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose
and gave out his text, * And He went
up into the mountain to pray. Him-
self, ALONE.' .... And for myself,"
I could not have been more delighted
if I had heard the music of the
spheres. Poetry and philosophy

Then,' (said he) *I wandered into Regent's

Park, where I met one of M 's sons. I walked

with him some time, and on his using some civil
expression, by God ! sir, I told him the whole
story.' [Here he mentioned another instance,
which I forget.] *Well, sir' (he went on), *I
then went and called on Haydon ; but he was
out. There was only his man, Salmon, there ;
but, by God ! I could not help myself. It all
came out — the whole cursed story ! Afterwards
I went to look at some lodgings at Pimlico. The
landlady at one place, after some explanations as
to rent, etc., said to me very kindly, " I am afraid
you are not well, sir?" *' No, ma'am," said I,
*• I am not well ;" and on inquiring further, the
devil take me if I did not let out the whole story,
from beginning to end !' "

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 8i

had met together. Truth and
genius had embraced under the
eye and with the sanction of re-
ligion. This was even beyond my
hopes. I returned home well satis-
fied. The sun that was still labour-
ing pale and wan through the sky,
obscured by thick mists, seemed an
emblem of the good cause ; and the
cold dank drops of dew, that hung
half melted on the beard of the
thistle, had something genial and
refreshing in them ; for there was
a spirit of hope and youth in all
nature, that turned everything into
good. The face of nature had not
then the brand of Jus Divinum
on it :

" *Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.'

" On the Tuesday following, the
half-inspired speaker came. I was
called down into the room where
he was, and went — half hoping,

6

82 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

half afraid. He received me very
graciously, and I listened for a long
time without uttering a word. I
did not suffer in his opinion by my
silence. * For those two hours,' he
afterwards was pleased to say, *he
was conversing with William Hazlitt's
forehead/ "*

Then there was that notable group
which once gathered around the
Atlantic Monthly! Longfellowf and

* Madame de Stael, when once asked for her
estimate of Coleridge, said : *' He is great in
monologue, but he has no idea of dialogue."

f On the publication of Longfellow's Hiawatha^
the Boston Daily Traveller issued an adverse
criticism of it, in which appeared the following :
** His poem does not awaken one sympathetic
throb ; it does not teach a single truth ; and
rendered into prose, Hiawatha would be a mass
of the most childish nonsense that ever dropped
from human pen. In verse it contains nothing so
precious as the golden time which would be lost
in the reading of it."

Hereupon Messrs. Ticknor and Fields (Long-
fellow's publishers) wrote to the Traveller, with-
drawing their advertisements, and asking to have
the paper stopped ; which had for a response the
publication, in its completeness, of the missive,
together with a sweet little commentary directly

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. S^

Emerson ; Whittier and Whipple ;
Holmes and Lowell, and Agassiz —
" all the beaux esprits of the Atlantic
Monthly, in a word ; with an appro-
priate Corypheus in the person of
Mr. James T. Fields, himself a ripe
scholar, a poet of no mean order,
and a ' funny fellow ' to boot ; for

charging the publishers with endeavouring to use
all sorts of undue influence, etc.

" This," says F. H. Underwood, in his Bio-
graphical Sketch of Longfellow, " created no small
stir ; and as the poem at the same time was at-
tacked on other grounds, the newspapers, from the
Atlantic to the Mississippi, were soon engaged in
a general controversy. Through all this storm
Longfellow remained calm, paying no attention to
assailants or defenders. It is said that Fields one
day hurried off to Cambridge in a state of great
excitement, that morning's mail having brought
an unusually large batch of attacks and parodies,
some of the charges being, he considered, of a
seriously damaging character. * My dear Mr.
Longfellow,' he exclaimed, bursting into the poet^s
study, * these atrocious libels must be stopped.'
Longfellow glanced over the papers without com-
ment. Handing them back, he quietly asked,

* By the way, Fields, how is Hiawatha selling ?*

* Wonderfully !' replied the excited publisher ;

* none of your books has ever had such a sale.'
*Then,' said the poet calmly, '^ I think we had
better let these people go on advertising it.""^

6-2

84 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

he possessed a rich collection of
New England witticisms and Yankee
drolleries."* ** Lowell and Holmes
were the wits par excellence, though
Judge Hoar did not fall far behind.
Emerson sat always with a seraphic
smile upon his face, and Longfellow
thoroughly enjoyed every good sally,
though not adding to the mirth-
making himself."t

"Emerson was a member of the
Saturday Club from the first — in
reality before it existed as an em-
pirical fact, and when it was only a
platonic idea. The Club seems to
have shaped itself around him as a
nucleus of crystallization, two or
three friends of his having first
formed the habit of meeting him at
dinner at ' Parker's,' the * Will's
Coffee-house ' of Boston. This little
group gathered others to itself and
grew into a club, as Rome grew

* G. A. Sala. f H. T. Griswold.

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES, 85

into a city, almost without knowing
how. During its first decade the
Saturday Club brought together, as
members or as visitors, many distin-
guished persons. At one end of the
table sat Longfellow, florid, quiet,
benignant, soft-voiced — a most agree-
able rather than a brilliant talker,
but a man upon whom it was always
pleasant to look — whose silence was
better than many another man's con-
versation. At the other end of the
table sat Agassiz, robust, sanguine,
animated, full of talk, boy-like in his
laughter. The stranger who should
have asked who were the men ranged
along the sides of the table would
have heard in answer the names of
Hawthorne,"^ Motley, Dana, Lowell,

* " It was only in the company of intimate per-
sonal friends, from whom all restraint was removed,
that Hawthorne ever indulged in his natural buoy-
ancy of spirits. Among them he occasionally
condescended to uproarious fun. But he was like
Dr. Johnson, who, when indulging in a scene of
wild hilarity, suddenly exclaimed to his friends,

86 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

Whipple ; Peirce, the distinguished
mathematician; Judge Hoar, eminent
at the Bar and in the Cabinet ; Dwight,
the leading musical critic of Boston
for a whole generation ; Sumner, the
academic champion of freedom ;
Andrew, ' the great War Governor '
of Massachusetts ; Dr. Howe, the
philanthropist ; William Hunt, the
painter, with others not unworthy
of such company. And with these,
generally near the Longfellow end of
the table, sat Emerson, talking in
low tones and carefully measured
utterances to his neighbour, or Hsten-
ing, and recording any stray word
worth remembering on his mental
phonograph. Emerson was a very
regular attendant at the meeting of
the Saturday Club, and continued to

as Beau Brummel approached, * Let us be
grave ; here comes a fool !' If there was the
slightest suspicion of the presence of a fool in the
company, Hawthorne always wore his armour."

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES, 87

dine at its table until within a year
or two of his death."

This is Oliver Wendell Holmes'
account, which he concludes by
saying : " Unfortunately the Club
had no Boswell, and its golden hours
passed unrecorded."* And so we
are driven back upon our old habit
of availing ourselves of (to use the
Autocrat's own words) ''that blessed
clairvoyance which sees into things
without opening them — that glorious
license, which, having shut the door
and driven the reporter from its
keyhole, calls upon Truth, majestic

* Once the Club dinner was given at Porter's
hotel, " about a mile due north of the college in
Cambridge ;" and it was on this occasion that
Longfellow, having just read Holmes' new truth
that authors were like cats, sure to purr when
stroked the right way of the fur, replied to some
particular attention on the part of the Autocrat by-
saying, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, ** I purr,
I purr 1" And then when the company broke up,
and went out into the darkness, they found that
during the evening a foot or more of snow had
fallen ; so with arms linked, and the younger
members singing Dr. Palmer's chorus Puttyruitiy
they tramped back to Cambridge.

88 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

virgin ! to get off from her pedestal
and drop her academic poses, and
take a festive garland, and the vacant
place on the medius lectus — that
carnival-shower of questions and
repHes and comments, large axioms
bowled over the mahogany like
bomb-shells from professional mor-
tars, and explosive wit dropping its
trains of many-coloured fire, and the
mischief rain of bon-bons pelting
everybody that shows himself."

But when a man undertakes to paint
his friends* portraits, he, too, must
be content to sit for his own ; so
the Holmes omitted by Holmes is
thus drawn by Dr. Appleton, who
met him at the same brilliant gather-
ing : ** Dr. Holmes was highly talka-
tive and agreeable ; he converses
very much like the Autocrat of the
Breakfast Table — wittily, and in a
literary way, but perhaps with too
great an infusion of physiological and

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 89

medical metaphor. He is a little
deaf, and has a mouth like the beak
of a bird ; indeed, he is, with his
small body and quick movements,
very like a bird in his general
aspect."

Occasionally, especially when in
the presence of brilliant talkers and
around the festive board, one is apt
to over-shoot the mark, and to utter
things which are afterwards severely
reckoned up as " better unsaid."
Mark Twain seems to have made a
mistake of this kind at the banquet
given to the contributors to the
Atlantic Monthly, in celebration of
Whittier's seventieth birthday. The
irrepressible author of The Jumping
Frog, was introduced by W. D.
Howells as one ** who has, perhaps,
done more kindness to our race,
lifted from it more crushing care,
rescued it from more gloom, and
banished from it more wretchedness.

90 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES,

than all the professional philan-
thropists that have lived ; a humourist
who never makes you blush to have
enjoyed his joke ; whose generous
wit has no bad meaning in it ; whose
fun is never at the cost of anything
honestly high or good, but comes from
the soundest of hearts and the clearest
of heads."

Imagine the astonishment of the
refined and cultivated assembly when,
immediately following this, Mark
Twain arose, and, as CM. Barrows*
relates, gave an account of the
unseemly behaviour of the three
honoured poets — Longfellow, Emer-
son, and Holmes — in the log-cabin of
a California miner, about fifteen
years before the date of his speech.
As Clemens represented the case, he
himself, having reached this cabin at
nightfall, sought its hospitality, and
was very reluctantly admitted by the

* Acts and Attecdotes of Authors,

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 91

occupant, who informed him that
the three New England gentlemen
just named had spent the previous
night with him, that they were much
the worse for liquor, passed many
hours in card-playing and drinking
and quoting poetry, drew revolvers
and bowie-knives upon each other,
and, on departing, carried off the
miner's only pair of boots.

The joke was not very well received,
and Mr. Clemens wrote a note of
apology, in which he intimated, in
palliation of the case, that God made
him a fool, and he was simply acting
out his nature.

In this connection might be men-
tioned a dinner which took place at
the Parker House, Boston, during
Dickens' 1868 tour in the United
States, at which, amongst others,
'' David Copperfield," '' Hyperion,"
'*Hosea Biglow," the *' Autocrat,"
and the '* Bad Boy " were present.

92 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

One who lived through it to tell the
tale says : " We had no set speeches
at the table, for we had voted elo-
quence a bore before we sat down
. . . We had a great good time . . .
Dickens was in his best mood . . .
And we all declared, when we bade
him good night, that none of us had
ever enjoyed a festival more."

There are extremes, after all — the
ridiculous and the sublime — which do
not meet, as extremes sometimes do,
in this mutual - admiration matter.
Thoreau once said : " The stars and
I belong to a mutual-admiration
society;" and he undoubtedly felt
there was some hidden and supreme
wisdom in what he was saying. The
ridiculous was of a certainty present
when Madame de Stael and another
famous author met by special invita-
tion at a French country house, and
each brought a handsomely bound

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 93

book of her own to present to the
other. Both were profuse in their
flattery, both declared the other's
work would have a priceless value, to
be preserved by them with infinite
care. When they had made their
gushing adieus and departed, the
amused hostess found the respective
volumes carelessly left on table and
sofa. What a subject for the scathing
satire of some contemporary wit !
At the time (long ago now, thank
Heaven !) of the '* You scratch my
back, and Til scratch yours " (was it
log-roUing ?), which was carried on
in an extremely ridiculous manner
between Hayley and Anna Seward,
some rhymester penned this sweet
dialogue between the interesting
parties :

** * Tuneful poet ! Britain's glory,

Mr. Hayley, that is you '

* Ma'am, you carry all before you,

Trust me, Lichfield Swan, you do '

94 MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES.

** * Ode, didactick, epick, sonnet,

Mr. Hayley, you're divine '

* Ma'am, I'll take my oath upon it.
You alone are all the Nine !' "

The cure of such flattery and hum-
bug is sometimes brought about in a
rather decided, if harsh, manner.
Occasionally a man is found gifted
with an unenviable desire to tell
the truth at all times, in season
and out ; and the awakening is gene-
rally brought about by his means. I
wonder what degree of positive hatred
Sterne felt towards Garrick after the
following delightful little conversa-
tion between them ! Sterne used his
wife very ill. One day he was talking
to Garrick in a fine sentimental
manner in praise of conjugal love and
fidelity.

" The husband," said Sterne, '' who
behaves unkindly to his wife deserves
to have his house burned over his
head."

MUTUAL-ADMIRATION SOCIETIES. 95

Garrick's rejoinder was simply:
" If you think so, I hope jo^r house

is insured."

** For it must needs be that offences

come ; but woe to that man by whom

the offence cometh !"

IV.

SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY;

AND THE DEBATABLE LAND

BETWEEN.

** But when an eager listener^ stealing behind
Irving and Halleck at an evening party ^ found

them talking of shoe-leather ! and a by-eathless

devotee of Thackeray, sitting opposite to hi??i at the
di7iner-table^ saw those Delphian lips unclosed only
to utter the words, * Another potato, if you please /*
— they had revelations which might cast a dreadful
suspicion over the nature of the whole tribe of
authors.

^^ I would not have the reader imagine that the
members of the Echo Club are represented by either of
these extremes. They are authors^ of different ages
and very unequal places in public estimation. It
would never occur to them to seat thei7iselves on self-
constructed pyraf?tids, and speak as if The Ages were
listeniftg ; yet, like their brethren of all lands and
all times, the staple of their talk is literature.^^ —
Bayard Taylor.

The hunger of a great and self-
sufficing mind for the charms of re-

SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY. 97

tirement is sometimes pathetic in the
extreme. We do not refer here to
that romantic longing of poetic boy-
hood, such as we find expressed
by Kirke White in one of his
sonnets :

" Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days :
And by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain torrent's distant noise.
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys ;
But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ;
And when with time shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave."

This is all, without doubt, very
pretty and extremely touching ; but
is it healthy ? Although Keats was
mawkish after a manner, his criticism
of life was sometimes remarkably
true, if not very severe. ** The imagi-
nation of a boy," he writes in his
preface to Endymion, ** is healthy,

7

98 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY; AND

and the mature imagination of a man
is healthy ; but there is a space of life
between in which the soul is in a
ferment, the character undecided,
the way of life uncertain, the ambi-
tion thick-sighted : thence proceeds
mawkishness and all the thousand
bitters/'

The reaHty which dogs the foot-
steps of excessive and too far-reach-
ing fancy is sometimes as utterly
cruel and ridiculous as that we
find pictured in a certain Sequel
to Rogers' little poem, The Wish,
which, in a frolicsome moment, some
sportive brain caused to dance into
existence,* and which is so complete
in its way that we are constrained to
give it here :

THE WISH. {By /Rogers.)
" Mine be a cot beside a hill,

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ;
A willowy brook that turns the mill
With many a fall shall linger there.

* See Athenmim^ April 14, 1888.

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN, 99

" The swallow oft beneath the thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch

And share my meals, a welcome guest.

** Around the ivied porch shall stray

Each fragrant flower that sips the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

" The village church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given.
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven."

THE WISH ENJOYED. {The Seguel.)

" So damp my cot beside the hill

The bees have ceased to soothe my ear ;
The willowy brook that turns the mill
Is turned to please the miller near.

* * The swallow housed beneath the thatch
Bedaubs my window from her nest ;
Instead of pilgrims at my latch,

Beggars and thieves disturb my rest.

** From out the ivy at my door

Earwigs and snails are always crawling ;
Lucy now spins and sings no more.

Because the hungry brats are squalling.

** To village church with priestly pride
In vain the pointing spire is given ;
Lucy with Wesley for her guide
Has found a shorter road to heaven."

The shallow sentiment of seclusion
is very different to the knowledge on
the part of great thinkers of the ab-

7—2

100 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

solute worth of solitude and rest as
aids to their life-work. There is
nothing, for instance, of " life's
young dream " about the utterances
of Carlyle on this subject, which we
find in his correspondence with
Emerson. " Pain and poverty," he
writes, *'are not wholesome; but
praise and flattery along with them
are poison. God deliver us from
that ; it carries madness in the very
breath of it ! On the whole, I say
to myself, what thing is there so good
as rest ?" And again : *' The velo-
city of all things, of the very word
you hear on the streets, is at railway
rate ; joy itself is unenjoyable, to be
avoided like pain ; there is no wish
one has so pressing as for quiet. Ah
me ! I often swear I will be buried
at least in free breezy Scotland, out
of this insane hubbub, where Fate
tethers me in life." " Solitude," he
continues in another letter, ** is what

THE DEBATABLE LAND Bi:TWE'E-N,. idi "

I long and pray for. In the babble
of men my own soul goes all to
babble. . . . My trust in Heaven
is, I shall yet get away ' to some
cottage by the seashore;' far enough
from all the mad and mad-making
things that dance round me here,
which I shall then look on only as
a theatrical phantasmagory, with an
eye only to the meaning that lies
hidden in it." *' A thinker, I take it,
in the long-run " (Carlyle again to
Emerson) '* finds that essentially he
must ever be and continue alone —
alone : 'silent, rest over him the stars,
and under him the graves !' The
clatter of the world, be it a friendly,
be it a hostile world, shall not inter-
meddle with him much."

And yet a man of genius, with
sensitive and passionate heart and
powerful imagination (and the pos-
session of these gifts is one of the
hall-marks of genius), cannot find

ifii .SatslTU^E AND SOCIETY ; AND

rest in solitude if he be divorced
thereby from his work. The value of
solitude to him is that of conditions :
unfavourable interruptions are pre-
vented, and his brain-throb goes on
healthily and with immediate satis-
faction to himself and ultimate satis-
faction to the world — if he have it for
an audience as a man of superior
parts should.

I know of no more charming pic-
ture than that of the quiet life of
Hawthorne at the Old Manse in
Concord, where restful days hemmed
him round, and where solitude gave
him ample opportunities for literary
work. And when a chance friend
came to break in upon his seclusion,
what a friend that would be ! Emer-
son* or Thoreau, or, to use Haw-

* **Mr. Emerson delights in him," said Mrs.
Hawthorne ; "he talks to him all the time, and
Mr. Hawthorne looks answers. He seems to
fascinate Emerson. Whenever he comes to see him
he takes him away, so that no one may interrupt
him in his close and dead -set attack upon his ear."

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN, 103

thorne's own words, ''it might be
that Ellery Channing came up the
avenue to join me in a fishing excur-
sion on the river. Strange and happy
times were those, when we cast aside
all irksome forms and strait-laced
habitudes, and delivered ourselves up
to the free air, to live like the Indians
or any less conventional race during
one bright semicircle of the sun."*

* A true disciple of Emerson, or rather, perhaps,
a sharer of some of his thoughts, Hawthorne
saw with him that many a so-called calamity
** commonly operates revolutions in our way of
life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth
which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted
occupation, or a household, or style of living, and
allows the formation of new ones more friendly to
the growth of character . . . permits or constrains
the formation of new acquaintances, and the re-
ception of new influences that prove of the first
importance to the next years ; and the man or
woman who would have remained a sunny garden
flower, with no room for its roots and too much
sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls
and the neglect of the gardener, is made the
banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to
wide neighbourhoods of men." And seeing this,
he thus wrote with reference to his appointment as
Surveyor of the Port of Salem ; *' I took it in
good part, at the hands of Providence, that I was

I04 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

J. T. Fields, in his Yesterdays with
Authors, gives a very interesting
account of a conversation with Haw-
thorne, which certainly cannot fail

thrown into a position so little akin to my past
habits, and set myself seriously to gather whatever
profit was at hand. After my fellowship of toil
and impracticable schemes with the dreamy
brethren at Brook Farm; after living for three
years within the subtle influence of an intellect
like Emerson's ; after those wild, free days on the
Assabeth, indulging fantastic speculations, beside
our fire of fallen boughs, with Ellery Channing ;
after talking with Thoreau about pine-trees and
Indian relics, in his hermitage at Walden ; after
growing fastidious by sympathy with the classic
refinement of Hillard's culture ; after becoming
imbued with poetic sentiment at Longfellow's
hearth-stone, it was time, at length, that I should
exercise other functions of my nature, and nourish
myself with food for which I had hitherto had
little appetite. Even the old inspector was de-
sirable, as a change of diet, to a man who had
known Alcott. I looked upon it as an evidence,
in some measure, of a system naturally well
balanced, and lacking no essential part of a
thorough organization, that with such associates
to remember, I could mingle at once with men of
altogether different qualities, and never murmur
at the change."

And it was Mrs. Hawthorne's perception of the
truth underlying the statement that *' the changes
which break up at short intervals the prosperity of

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 105

to interest all who delight to know
of the personality of the author of
The Scarlet Letter. '* As the sunset
deepened and we sat together,"
writes Fields, *' Hawthorne began to
talk in an autobiographical vein, and
gave us the story of his early life.
... He said at an early age he
accompanied his mother and sister
to the township in Maine which his
grandfather had purchased. That,
he continued, was the happiest period
of his life, and it lasted through
several years, when he was sent to
school in Salem. * I lived in Maine,'
he said, ' like a bird of the air, so per-
fect was the freedom I enjoyed. But

men are advertisements of a nature whose law is
growth," which prompted her, when her husband
brought her the news of his discharge from the
Custom House, to exclaim : " Oh, then you can now
write your book." Hawthorne had been bemoan-
ing himself, for some time back, at not having
leisure to write down a story that had long been
weighing on his mind — the story which ultimately
took shape as The Scarlet Letter,

io6 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

it was there I first got my cursed
habits of solitude.'* During the
moonlight nights of winter he would
skate until midnight all alone upon
Sebago Lake, with the deep shadows
of the icy hills on either hand. When
he found himself far away from his
home, and weary with the exertion
of skating, he would sometimes take

* " The self-contained purpose of Hawthorne, "
writes Higginson in one of his Short Studies of
American Authors, *' the large resources, the
waiting power — these seem to the imagination to
imply an ample basis of physical life ; and certainly
his stately and noble port is inseparable, in my
memory, from these characteristics. Vivid as this
impression is, I yet saw him but twice, and never
spoke to him. I first met him on a summer morn-
ing, in Concord, as he was walking along the road
near the Old Manse, with his wife by his side, and
a noble-looking baby-boy in a little waggon which
the father was pushing. I remember him as tall,
firm, and strong in bearing ; . . . when I passed,
Hawthorne lifted upon me his great gray eyes,
with a look too keen to seem indifferent, too shy
to be sympathetic — and that was all. . . . Again,
I met Hawthorne at one of the sessions of a short-
lived literary club ; and I recall the imperturbable
dignity and patience with which he sat through a
vexatious discussion, whose details seemed as much
dwarfed by his presence as if he had been a statue
of Olympian Zeus."

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN, 107

refuge in a log-cabin, where half a
tree would be burning on the broad
hearth. He would sit in the ample
chimney, and look at the stars
through the great aperture up
which the flames went roaring.
*Ah,' he said, 'how well I recall the
summer-days also, when, with my
gun, I roamed at will through the
woods of Maine. How sad middle-
life looks to people of erratic tem-
peraments ! Everything is beautiful
in youth, for all things are allowed to
it then.' "

Francis Jeffrey's love of the seclu-
sion of his home was intense, especi-
ally in his later years. Whatever
successes attended him in public life,
immediately the excitement was at
an end his heart turned to his *' old
familiar friends," his quiet house and
his literary occupations. And so in
like manner with Washington Irving.
In one of his letters he writes :

io8 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

** Amidst all the splendours of
London and Paris, I find my imagi-
nation refuses to take fire, and my
heart still yearns after dear little
Sunnyside."

And in another :

** I long to be back once more at
dear little Sunnyside, while I have
yet strength and good spirits to
enjoy the simple pleasures of the
country, and to rally a happy family
group once more around me. I
grudge every year of absence that
rolls by. To-morrow I shall be
sixty-two years old. The evening
of life is fast drawing over me ; still
I hope to get back among my friends
while there is a little sunshine left."

Sometimes congenial friends in-
vade the solitude, and the heart
grows light. And what conversa-
tions, forsooth, take place ! Think
of the right joyous times when Ben
Jonson and Drayton used to visit

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 109

a certain William Shakespeare at
Stratford-on-Avon, and were hospit-
ably entertained by the writer of
plays. And if it be true that Shake-
speare's death was the result of a too
convivial reception given by him to
these two friends — well, we regret
heartily that no record of the bright
sayings that must have leaped from
lip to ear on that occasion has been
preserved. We refuse to think that
their talk even in their cups was as
the talk of other men.*

The anonymous author of a seven-
teenth century poem, A Preparative

* Shakespeare and Ben Jonson seem to have
been well matched in controversy. In his Worthies
of Engla7id^ Fuller says : * ' Many were the wit-
combats between him (Shakespeare) and Ben
Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great
galleon and an English man-of-war ; Master
Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in
learning ; solid, but slow, in his performances.
Shakespeare, like the English man-of-war, lesser
in bulk, but higher in sailing, could turn with all
tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds
by the quickness of his wit and invention."

no SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

to Studie; or the Virtue of Sack, begins
it thus :

** Fetch me Ben Jonson's Scull and fil't with sack
Rich as the same he drank, when the whole

I packe i,.H„ ^-•'•^

Of jolly Sisters pleg'd and did agree
It was no sinne to be as druk as hee ;"

and Herrick writes :

"Ah, Ben!
Say how or when

Shall we thy guests
Meet at those lyric feasts

Made at the Sun,
The Dog, the Triple Tun ?

Where we such clusters had]
As made us nobly wild, not mad ;

And yet each verse of thine
Outdid the meal, outdid the frolic wine."

But 'tis to the Mermaid Tavern, where
Shakespeare and Raleigh and the re-
markable men of their day met to
" exercise their wit," that all who
love the poets delight to turn. Keats
queried in song :

*• Souls of Poets'dead and gone,
What Elysium^have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern.
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?"

THE DEB A TABLE LAND BET WEEN. 1 1 1

But long before Keats no other than
Master Francis Beaumont had writ-
ten to Jonson :

** What things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,
As if that everyone from whence they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolved to live a fool the rest
Of hisdulllife."

It has been said that Jonson wrote
best when " in his cups ;"* and we
are half inclined to fancy that some
trifle of truth lurks in the statement.
Here are his own confessions : ** Upon
the 20th of May, the king (Heaven
reward him !) sent me £iiOO. At that
time I often went to the Devil Tavern ;
and before I had spent £^o of it,
wrote my A Ichymist. I laid the plot
of my Volpone, and wrote most of it
after a present of ten dozen of Palm-
sack from my good Lord T ."

And again : **The first speech in my

* He was so immoderately fond of canary that
his friends used to call him the Canary-Bird.

112 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Cattilina, spoken by Scylla's ghost,
was writ after I had parted with my
friend at the Devil Tavern : I had
drunk well that night, and had brave
notions. There is one scene in that
play which I think flat. I resolve to
drink no more water in my wine."
Was the wine the only source of his
inspiration ? or was it not rather
aided by the brilliant companionship
of the frequenters of the tavern who,
coming thither, considered them-
selves *' sealed of the tribe of Ben"?
And who would not if he could
have listened to the notable conver-
sations which took place at Haw-
thornden in January, 1619, betwixt
Ben Jonson and William Drum-
mond ?* What has been written
concerning the revelation of cha-
racter which must have been dis-

* *'Then will I dress once more thy faded bower,
W^here Jonson sat in Drummond's classic
shad e. " — Colliits.

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN, 1 1 3

played at this time by both of the
talkers is interesting in its way, and
on no account whatever to be cast
Hghtly aside. Drummond was un-
doubtedly eager to hear, and full of
talk about poets, who, like himself,
were writers of sonnets, madrigals,
and courtly compliments : Jonson,
arrogant and boasting, yet withal of
a warm heart and a kindly disposi-
tion, leaned more towards gay and
high-born personages, for whom his
Court Masques were written. And
what entertainment fit for the gods
there must have been in their allusions
to, and estimates of, such men as
Raleigh, Sidney, Bacon, Selden,
Fletcher, Beaumont, Spenser, and,
above all, Shakespeare, concerning
whom Jonson wrote : " I loved the
man, and do honour his memory (on
this side idolatry) as much as any !"

The learning, judgment, love of
anecdote, extensive acquaintance

8

114 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

with poets, statesmen, and eminent
characters brought into display in
these talks must have rendered them
enjoyable beyond compare. And
before the blazing fire at Hawthorn-
den, no doubt Jonson related to his
host all the particulars of the convi-
vial reception afforded to Drayton
and himself by Shakespeare at his
Stratford home just three years be-
fore.

It is ever to be lamented that
Jonson's account of his journey to
Scotland should have been destroyed
in the fire which consumed a great
quantity of his papers (probably in
1629), and that from Drummond
we have to take all that we can know
about their quiet evenings. Not that
we believe Drummond to have been
insincere ; but what a " labour of
love " it would be to compare the
records of the same conversations
from the pens of the two talkers !

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 115

Gifford says that at these times
Jonson " wore his heart upon his
sleeve for daws to peck at it." Per-
haps we should find, were Jonson's
account get-at-able, that Drummond
also did the same ; and no interview
between literary friends is worth a
spider's egg unless it be accompanied
by this wearing of the exposed heart.
The evil all comes out in the sub-
sequent injudicious tittle-tattle by
either of the parties.*

Pope, in one of his conversations
with Spence, told him that Cowley's
death was brought about in the fol-
lowing manner : His friend, Dean
Sprat, was with him on a visit, and
" they had been together to see a
neighbour of Cowley's, who, accord-
ing to the fashion of those times,
made them too welcome. They did
not set out for their walk home till it

* See JVoUs of Be^i Jonson^ s Conversations with
Williafn Drummond of Ilawthornden, issued by
the Shakespeare Society, 1842.

8—2

Ii6 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

was late ; and they had drunk so deep
that they lay in the fields all night,
which proceeding gave Cowley the
fever that carried him off." And this
was the Cowley who revelled in his re-
tirement from the busy scenes of the
world ; who had foregone all public
employments to follow the inclina-
tions of his own mind, ''which in
the greatest throng of his former
business had still called upon him
and represented to him the true de-
lights of solitary studies, of tem-
perate pleasures, and of a moderate
revenue, below the malice and
flatteries of fortune." All students
of literature know his poem. The
Wish :

*' Well, then, I now do plainly see

This busy world and I shall ne'er agree ;
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy.

And they methinks deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the stings.
The crowd and buzz and murmurings

Of this great hive, the city.

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 117

" Ah ! yet ere I descend to th' grave,
May I a small house and large garden have,
And a few friends, and many books."

Well, he had his wish so far ; and
his death came about, not through
his *' many books," but through his
" few friends."

Alas! Burns' ''few friends" had
to do with his end too. The tale is
thus recorded by Chambers : ''Early
in the month of January, when his
health was in the course of improve-
ment, Burns tarried to a late hour at
a jovial party in the Globe Tavern.
Before returning home, he unluckily
remained for some time in the open
air, and, overpowered by the effects
of the liquor he had drunk, fell
asleep." A fatal chill resulted, and
when he reached his house the seeds
of rheumatic fever had already taken
possession of him.

Perhaps one of the best stories
about Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd,

Ii8 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

is that related by Lockhart. The
Shepherd was invited by Walter
Scott to dinner, and he accordingly
came dressed precisely as an ordi-
nary herdsman attending cattle to
the market. Mrs. Scott, at that
time being in a delicate state of
health, was reclining on a sofa. The
Shepherd, after being presented and
making his best bow, forthwith took
possession of another sofa placed
opposite hers, and immediately
stretched himself thereupon at all
his length, giving afterwards as his
reason, whilst relating the occur-
rence, that he thought he could not
do wrong in copying the lady of the
house. His dirty shoes and greasy
hands smeared the chintz ; but his
ignorance was the hedge which
fenced in his bliss, and he saw
nothing wrong in it. He dined
heartily and drank freely. He jested,
sang, and told stories. Soon the

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 119

wine operated, and threw back the
flood-gates of his vulgarity. From
'' Mr. Scott " he got to '' Sherra,"
from "Sherra" to *' Scott," from
'' Scott '' to '' Walter," from '' Walter"
to *' Wattie," and finished by calhng
Mrs. Scott '' Charlotte," which "fairly
convulsed the whole party."

But with it all the Ettrick Shep-
herd had a good heart at bottom,
and his natural feelings found play
and proper exercise in his inter-
course with men of his own position
in life.* His whole soul went out
towards his brother in verse, the
unfortunate Tannahill, who com-
mitted suicide, by drowning, in his

* " Hogg, talking of him as the man, not the
poet, was out of his element in society. ... At
home, within his family circle, the Ettrick Shep-
herd was a different being ; he had the feelings of
the husband, the father, and the Christian, and
was, besides, without measure, benevolent and
hospitable — full of those charities which commend
themselves to the heart." — Angling Reminis-
cences of the Rivers and Lochs of Scotland, by
T. D. Stoddart.

120 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

thirty-sixth year, having fallen into a
state of mental derangement result-
ing from habitual morbid despon-
dency. *' Farewell," said Tannahill,
as he grasped his hand a little while
before his death; **we shall never
meet again !"

Many remarkable meetings must
have taken place at one time at the
Southampton Coffee-house in Chan-
cery Lane ; for here Barry Cornwall,
Martin Burney, Mudford (editor of
the Courier), Hazlitt, Charles Wells
(author of Joseph and his Brethren),^
and Mouncey, among others, used to
congregate. There certainly must

* The interest in Wells* work has lately been
revived by Swinburne, who describes it as "per-
fect in grace and power, tender and exquisite in
choice of language, full of a noble and masculine
delicacy in feeling and purpose." He attributes
the neglect into which it had fallen " to the imbe-
cile caprice of hazard and opinion." *' Notwith-
standing," he adds, "the truth remains, that the
author oi Joseph and his Brethren will some day
have to be acknowledged among the memorable
men of the second period in our poetry."

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 121

have been a tolerably free-and-easy
style about these gatherings ; for we
find that the members of the circle
were fond of making bets and laying
wagers on any subject which arose
for question, as, for instance, whether
Dr. Johnson's Dictionary was ori-
ginally published in quarto or folio.
George Kirkpatrick once lost a bet
he had entered into, that Congreve's
play of The Mourning Bride was
Shakespeare's. He paid in punch.

" Wells, Mouncey, and myself,"
relates Hazlitt, *'were all that re-
mained one evening. We had sat
together several hours without being
tired of one another's company. The
conversation turned on the Beauties
of Charles the Second's Court at
Windsor, and from thence to Count
Grammont, their gallant and gay
historian. . . . Wells then spoke of
Lucius Apuleius and his Golden Ass.
. . . The night waned, but our glasses

122 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

brightened, enriched with pearls of
Grecian story. Our cup-bearer slept
in a corner of the room, like another
Endymion, in the pale ray of a half-
extinguished lamp. . . . Mouncey sat
with his hat on, and with a hectic
flush on his face, while any hope re-
mained ; but as soon as we rose to
go, he darted out of the room as
quick as lightning, determined not to
be the last that went."

'* It was at the Southampton that
Hazlitt, Cruikshank, and Hone used
to meet, and discuss the subjects for
Hone's next squib. I believe that
Hazlitt is answerable for some of the
outlines of these, and for suggesting
to Cruikshank what he thought was
the salient point for illustration. The
story goes that he was once trying
to make himself understood to Cruik-
shank, when the latter got up, and,
dipping his finger in his ale-glass,
traced something in beer on the

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 123

table. * Is that what you mean, sir V
he asked, and Hazlitt assented."^

Cruikshank's name is also found
associated with those of the staff of
Punch, who used to meet at the
Crown, near Drury Lane Theatre,
one of the London literary resorts.
** These individuals," says the author
of Lions : Living and Dead, describ-
ing some of the frequenters, *' are
Punch's crack men. The tall one
rejoices in the sobriquet of Michael
Angelo Titmarsh, and is the well-
known author of J eames's Yellow -Plush
Papers ; he is also a clever draughts-
man, as witness his designs to his
Vanity Fair, and the little * bits '
with his artistic mark to them (a
pair of spectacles) in Punch — it is
Mr. W. M. Thackeray. The other
party is the still more celebrated (?)
author of Mrs. Caudle's Curtain

* Memoirs of Wm, Hazlitt^ by his grandson,
W. Carew-Hazlitt.

124 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Lectures — Mr. Douglas Jerrold. . . .
That tall, stout personage, with the
short curly hair, red round face,
Jewish nose, and burly form, is Mark
Lemon. He is the editor oi Punch, . . .
The spare, dark gentleman talking
to him is John Leech, who generally
furnishes the large caricature in each
number, and who is the main prop
of Punch's pictorial portion."*

•"The year 1864 came, and found our ad-
mirable artist still at work as vigorously as ever ;
not robust, not rugged, but in seeming good health
and spirits, and fit to live and work for years. To
Punchy for that year, he had contributed eighty
pictures, when, on the 5th of November, appeared
a very amusing cut : An Irishman, dreadfully mal-
treated in a street fight, is taken charge of by his
wife, while a capitally indicated group of the
victor and his friends is seen in the distance, with
two little Irish boys nearer. * Terence, ye great
ummadawn,' says the wife of his bussum to
the vanquished hero, * what do yer git into this
Thrubble fur ?' Says the hero in response : ' D'ye
call it Thrubble, now? Why, it's Enjyement.'
It is as good a thing as ever Leech did — as good
a cut as ever was in Punch, When he laid his
pencil down beside this drawing, it was never to
take it up again ; and six days before the appear-
ance of the paper in which the cut was published,
he had passed away."

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 125

At the literary breakfasts of
Samuel Rogers,* as also at those
of Monckton Milnes, one was always
certain of meeting people worth
listening to. The diary of Thomas
Moore is full of such entries as these :
" May 20th, 1828. — Breakfasted with
Rogers." *' 22nd. — Breakfasted at
Rogers' ; Luttrell and Lady Sarah
Lyttleton the party. . . . After break-
fast Sydney Smith came in. . . . Smith
spoke of Cooper, the American writer,
whom he had been lately visiting."
**23rd. — Rogers having told me he
was to meet Scott this morning at
breakfast with Chantrey, went there
early. Found Scott sitting to Chan-
trey, with Rogers, Coke of Norfolk,
and Allan Cunningham assisting."
''June ist. — Breakfasted with Rogers,
the Wordsworths and Luttrell."

* "To love literature and to excel in poetical
composition were," says Dr. Mackay, referring
to Rogers in his Memorials of a Literary Life,
" unfailing passports to his regard."

126 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Lady Morgan, who also frequented
Rogers' breakfasts, is remembered
for her hatred of Macaulay, whom
she sometimes met there. The sole
reason for her dislike was, one may
suppose, that two of a trade never
agree ; for both were brilliant talkers
— Lady Morgan, in fact, has usually
been considered a rare gossip. It
was at one of these morning parties,
when Hookham Frere was present,
that Coleridge talked for three hours
without intermission about poetry ;
" and so admirably," says Rogers,
** that I wish every word he uttered
had been written down."

It is said that Milnes' literary
breakfasts, although not so sumpt-
uous as those of Rogers, were per-
fect in their way, and far more
sociable and agreeable to those
who preferred quiet conversation to
crowds. Macaulay and Thackeray
were frequent attendants ; and it

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 127

need hardly be added that, with the
marvellous powers of memory of the
one, and the caustic wit of the other,
these two in themselves were com-
pany sufficient, and their conversa-
tion more than ordinary mortals are
usually favoured with.

Years ago, when Tennyson spent
a good deal of his time in London, a
little knot of literary friends had a
standing engagement to dine together
once a month ; and the parties were
almost the ideal of unconventional
friendliness. Among the number
were Carlyle, Cunningham, Mill,
Thackeray, Forster, Sterling, Landor,
and Macready. *' Here," says Hattie
Tyng Griswold in her Home-Life of
Great Authors, "the conversation was
of the best, Carlyle always coming
out strong, and all the rest content
to Hsten. However, Carlyle, unlike
many great conversers, never mo-
nopolized the conversation. It was

128 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

always dialogue and not monologue
with him in any mixed company,
though he would discourse at length
to one or two visitors.

** Tennyson, like many men of
letters, loves to talk about his own
work, and is very fond of reading his
poems to his friends. This is, of
course, very delightful to those friends,
if the reading be not too pro-
longed, although he is said to chant
in rather a disagreeable manner.
He is a great egotist, and does not
like to listen to other people when
they talk about themselves. We are
told that Charles Sumner once paid
him a visit, and bored him very
much by a long talk upon American
affairs, in which Tennyson took no
interest. When Sumner finally made
a sufficient pause, Tennyson changed
the subject by inquiring if his visitor
had ever read The Princess, Sumner
replied that it was one of his favourite

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 1 29

poems, whereupon Tennyson handed
him the book, and asked him to
read. Sumner began, but was soon
stopped by Tennyson, who wished to
show him how a passage should be
read. He went on reading aloud in
his high nasal voice, until Sumner
grew very weary, but did not dare to
move, for fear of being thought un-
appreciative. On and on read the
poet, page after page, never making
a moment's pause, or giving Sumner
any chance to escape, until he had
read the whole poem. It is said that
Sumner never dared pay him another
visit. Being a decided egotist him-
self, it was painfully hard for the dis-
tinguished American to subordinate
himself for so long a time, and his
friends amused themselves very much
at the idea."

One of the most interesting pic-
tures at the Dante Rossetti Exhibi-
tion held in London after the poet-

9

I30 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

painters death, was a sketch of
Tennyson reading Maud, which is
now in the possession of Robert
Browning. This Httle picture was
reproduced in the issue for December,
1883, of Harper's Magazine; and in
a charming gossipy article accom-
panying it, Mrs. Thackeray Ritchie
says :

'* Maud grew out of a remark of
Sir John Simeon's, to whom Tenny-
son had read the Hues,

* O that 'twere possible
After long grief and pain,'

which Hues were, so to speak, the
heart of Maud, Sir John said that it
seemed to him as if something were
wanting to explain the story of this
poem, and so by degrees it all grew.
One little story was told me on the
authority of Mr. Henry Sidgwick,
who was perhaps present on that

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 131

occasion. Mr. Tennyson was read-
ing the poem to a silent company
assembled in the twilight, and when
he got to the birds in the high hall
garden calhng * Maud, Maud, Maud,'
he stopped short, and asked an
authoress, who happened to be
present, what birds these were. The
authoress, much alarmed, and feeling
that she must speak, and that the
eyes of the whole company were
upon her, faltered out, ' Nightingales,
sir.' * Pooh,' said Tennyson, *what
a cockney you are ! Nightingales
don't say '' Maud." Rooks do, or
something like it. ** Caw, caw, caw,
caw, caw."' Then he went on read-
ing.

** Reading, is it ? One can hardly
describe it. It is a sort of mystical
incantation, a chant in which every
note rises and falls and reverberates
again. As we sit around the twilight
room at Farringford, with its great

9—2

132 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY; AND

oriel-window looking to the garden,
across fields of hyacinth and self-
sowed daffodils toward the sea,
where the waves wash against the
rocks, we seem carried by a tide not
unHke the ocean's sound ; it fills the
room, it ebbs and flows away; and
when we leave, it is with a strange
music in our ears, feehng that we
have for the first time, perhaps,
heard what we may have read a
hundred times before."*

* " In addition to the Sundays * at home,'" says
J. W. Cross in his Life of George Eliot, " the
Priory doors were open to a small circle of very
intimate friends on other days of the week. Of
evening entertainments there were few, I think,
after 1870. I remember some charming little
dinners — never exceeding six persons ; and one
notable evening when the Poet Laureate read
aloud Maud, The Northern Farmer, and parts of
other poems. It was very interesting on this occa-
sion to see the two most widely known representa-
tives of contemporary English literature sitting
side by side."

We find a genuine touch of hero-worship in the
following short account, by Mrs. Gilchrist, of a
visit from Tennyson. *' I was sitting," she says,
" under the yew-tree yesterday, when Fanny [the
maidservant] came to me and put a card into my

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 133

*' The House of the Seven Gables was
finished yesterday ! Mr. Hawthorne
read me the close last evening !'*
Who could be pitied for sharing the
enthusiasm which prompted Mrs.
Hawthorne to pen this announce-
ment ? '* How you will enjoy the
book !" she continues — *' its depth of
wisdom, its high tone, the flowers of
Paradise scattered over all the dark
places, the sweet wallflower scent of
Phoebe's character, the wonderful
pathos and charm of old Uncle

hand. And whose name do you think was on
that card ? If I were talking instead of writing,
I should make you guess and keep you in suspense
a long while ; but that is no use in a letter, be-
cause you can peep forward. It was ' Mr. Alfred
Tennyson.' He looks older than I expected, be-
cause, of course, the portraits one was early familiar
with have stood still in one's mind as the image to
be associated with that great name. But he is, to
my thinking, far nobler-looking now — every inch
a king ; features are massive, eyes very grave and
penetrating, hair long, still very dark, and, though
getting thin, falls in such a way as to give a pecu-
liar beauty to the mystic head." — An7z^ Gilchrist,
by H. H. Gilchrist.

134 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Venner. I only wish you could have
heard the poet sing his own song, as
I did ; but yet the book needs no
adventitious aid — it makes its own
music, for I read it all over again to
myself yesterday, except the three
last chapters."

Hannah More relates that when
on a visit to the Garricks in 1776,
David Garrick read aloud to Mrs.
Garrick and herself her (Hannah's)
last poem. '' After dinner," she says,
'' Garrick read Sir Eldred with all
his pathos and all his graces. I think
I was never so ashamed in my life ;
but he read it so superbly that I
cried like a child. Only think what
a ridiculous thing — to cry at the
reading of one's own poetry."

But sympathetic listeners are not
always to be obtained, even for pro-
ductions of undoubted genius. ** A
touching incident connected with

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 1 35

the manuscript of Paul and Virginia
is recorded by L. Aime Martin.
Madame Necker invited St. Pierre
to bring his new story into her salon,
and read it, before publication, to a
company of distinguished and en-
lightened auditors. She promised
that the judges she would convene
to hear him were among those she
esteemed the most worthy. Monsieur
Necker himself, as a distinguished
favour, would be at home on the
occasion. Buffon, the Abbd Galiani,
Monsieur and Madame Germain,
were among the tribunal when St.
Pierre appeared and sat down, the
manuscript of Paul and Virginia open
before him. At first he was heard
in profound silence ; he went on>
and the attention grew languid, the
august assembly began to whisper,
to yawn, and then to listen no longer.
Monsieur de Buffon pulled out his
watch and called for his horses ; those

136 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

sitting near the door noiselessly-
slipped out ; one of the company
was seen in profound slumber ; some
of the ladies wept, but Monsieur
Necker jeered at them, and they,
ashamed of their tears, dared not
confess how interested they had
been. When the reading was finished,
not one word of praise followed it.
Madame Necker criticised the con-
versations in the book, and spoke of
the tedious and commonplace action
in the story. A shower of iced
water seemed to fall on poor St.
Pierre, who retired from the room in
a state of overwhelming depression.
He felt as if a sentence of death had
been pronounced on his story, and
that Paul and Virginia was unworthy
to appear before the public eye."

The sequel, however, is more
pleasing. ^' But a man of genius —
the painter, Joseph Vernet, who had
not been present at the reading at

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 1 37

Madame Necker's — dropped in one
morning on St. Pierre in his garret,
and revived his almost sinking cour-
age. * Perhaps monsieur will read
his new story to his friend Vernet ?'
So the author took up his manuscript,
which since the fatal day had been
cast aside, and began to read. As
Vernet listened the charm fell
upon him, and at every page he
uttered an exclamation of dehght.
Soon he ceased to praise ; he only
wept. When St. Pierre reached that
part of the book which Madame
Necker had found so much fault
with, the author proposed to omit
that portion of the narrative ; but
Vernet would not consent to omit
anything. When the book was
finished, Vernet threw his arms
about St. Pierre, and told him he
had produced a chef d'ceuvre. ' My
friend,' exclaimed Vernet, * you are a
great painter, and I dare to promise

138 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

you a great reputation !' Fifty
editions, the year Paul and Virginia
was published, attested the wise
judgment of Joseph Vernet/'*

We all know Longfellow's transla-
tion of The Blind Girl of Castel Cuille,
with its musical refrain,

"The roads should blossom, the roads should
bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home ;"

and now, referring as we are to the
reading of their own works by famous
writers, we remember the charming
account given by Louisa Stuart Cos-
tello, in her Beam and the Pyrenees,
of a visit to Jasmin, the author of
the poem, '^ who is to the south of
France what Burns is to the south
of Scotland, the representative of the
heart of the people — one of those
happy bards who are born with their
mouths full of birds."

'' At the entrance of the Prome-
nade du Gravier," says Miss Cos-

* James T. Fields — Underbrush.

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 139

tello, ** is a row of small houses —
some cafes, others shops, the indica-
tion of which is a painted cloth
placed across the way, with the
owner's name in bright gold letters,
in the manner of the arcades in the
streets, and their announcements.
One of the most glaring of these was,
we observed, a bright blue flag, bor-
dered with gold, on which, in large
gold letters, appeared the name of
'Jasmin, Coiffeur.' We entered, and
were welcomed by a smiling, dark-
eyed woman, who informed us that
her husband was busy at that mo-
ment dressing a customer's hair, but
he was desirous to receive us, and
begged we would walk into his par-
lour at the back of the shop.

* * ^ ^ ^

'* She exhibited to us a laurel
crown of gold, of delicate workman-
ship, sent from the city of Clemence
Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet, who

I40 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

will probably one day take his place
in the capitouL Next came a golden
cup, with an inscription in his honour,
given by the citizens of Auch ; a gold
watch, chain and seals, sent by the
King, Louis Philippe ; an emerald
ring, worn and presented by the
lamented Duke of Orleans ; a pearl
pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on
the poet's visit to Paris, accompanied
by his son, received him in the words
he puts into the mouth of Henri
Quatre :

* ' * Brabes Gaseous I
A moun a?nou per bous aoti dibes creyre ;
Benes ! benes I ey plazl de bous beyre :
Aproucha bous /'

a fine service of linen, the offering of
the town of Pau, after its citizens
had given fetes in his honour and
loaded him with caresses and praises;
and nicknacks and jewels of all de-
scriptions offered to him by lady-
ambassadresses and great lords,
Enghsh ' misses ' and * miladis,' and

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 141

French and foreigners of all nations
who did or who did not understand
Gascon.

'' All this, though startling, was
not convincing. Jasmin, the barber,
might only be a fashion, a furore, a
caprice, after all ; and it was evident
that he knew how to get up a scene
well. When we had become nearly
tired of looking over these tributes to
his genius, the door opened, and the
poet himself appeared. His manner
was free and unembarrassed, well-
bred and lively ; he received our
compliments naturally, and like one
accustomed to homage ; said he was
ill, and unfortunately too hoarse to
read anything to us, or should have
been delighted to do so. He spoke
with a broad Gascon accent, and
very rapidly and eloquently; ran over
the story of his successes, told us that
his grandfather had been a beggar,
and all his family very poor ; that he

142 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

was now as rich as he wished to be ;
his son placed in a good position at
Nantes ; then showed us his son's
picture, and spoke of his disposition,
to which his brisk Httle wife added
that, though no fool, he had not his
father's genius, to which truth Jasmin
assented as a matter of course. I
told him of having seen mention
made of him in an English review^
which he said had been sent him by
Lord Durham, who had paid him a
visit ; and I then spoke of Me cal
mouri as known to me. This was
enough to make him forget his
hoarseness and every other evil ; it
would never do for me to imagine
that that little song was his best
composition ; it was merely his first ;
he must try to read to me a little of
L'Abuglo — a few verses of Frongou-
neto, * You will be charmed,' said
he ; ' but if I were well, and you
would give me the pleasure of your

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BETWEEN. 143

company for some time, if you were
not merely running through Agen, I
would kill you with weeping — I
would make you die with distress for
my poor Margarido — my pretty
Frongouneto !'

'' He caught up two copies of his
book from a pile lying on the table,
and, making us sit close to him, he
pointed out the French translation
on one side, which he told us to
follow while he read in Gascon. He
began in a rich, soft voice, and as he
advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on
hearing the player-king recite the
disasters of Hecuba was but a type
of ours, to find ourselves carried
away by the spell of his enthusiasm.
His eyes swam in tears ; he became
pale and red, he trembled, he re-
covered himself; his face was now
joyous, now exulting, gay, jocose ; in
fact, he was twenty actors in one ; he
rang the changes from Rachel to

144 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY; AND

Bouff6 ; and he finished by delighting
us, besides beguiling us of our tears
and overwhelming us with astonish-
ment.

*' He would have been a treasure
on the stage, for he is still, though
his first youth is passed, remarkably
good-looking and striking ; with black
sparkling eyes of intense expression ;
a fine ruddy complexion ; a counten-
ance of wondrous mobility ; a good
figure, and action full of fire and
grace; he has handsome hands,
which he uses with infinite effect ;
and, on the whole, he is the best
actor of the kind I ever saw. I could
now quite understand what a trouba-
dour or jongleur might be, and I look
upon Jasmin as a revived specimen
of that extinct race. Such as he is
might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of
Avignon, the friend of Coeur de Lion,
who lamented the death of the hero
in such moving strains; such might

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 145

have been Bernard de Ventadour,
who sang the praises of Queen
EHnore's beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel
of Blaye, on his own Garonne ;
such the wild Vidal ; certain it is,
that none of these troubadours of old
could more move, by their singing or
reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all
their long-smothered fire and tra-
ditional magic seems re-illumined.

^* We found we had stayed hours
instead of minutes with the poet ;
but he would not hear of any apology
— only regretted that his voice was
so out of tune in consequence of a
violent cold, under which he was
really labouring, and hoped to see us
again. He told us our countrywomen
of Pau had laden him with kindness
and attention, and spoke with such
enthusiasm of the beauty of certain
' misses,' that I feared his little wife
would feel somewhat piqued ; but, on
the contrary, she stood by smiling

10

146 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

and happy, and enjoying the stories
of his triumphs. I remarked that he
had restored the poetry of the trou-
badours ; asked him if he knew their
songs ; and said he was worthy to
stand at their head. * I am indeed a
troubadour,' said he with energy;
' but I am far beyond them all ; they
were but beginners ; they never com-
posed a poem like my Frongouneto !
there are no poets in France now —
there cannot be ; the language does
not admit of it ; where is the fire,
the spirit, the expression, the tender-
ness, the force of the Gascon?
French is but the ladder to reach
the first floor of Gascon — how can
you get up to a height except by
a ladder?"

By a not unnatural transition
our attention is carried from this
poetic hair-dresser to the baker of
Nismes. '' In Nismes,'' writes Hans
Christian Andersen, in his Story of

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN, 1 47

my Life, " lives the baker Reboul,
who writes the most delightful poems;
whoever knows him not for this,
knows him probably from Lamar-
tine's Travels to the East I found the
house, went into the bakehouse, and
addressed myself to a man in his shirt-
sleeves, who was just putting bread
into the oven ; it was Reboul himself ;
a noble countenance, expressing a
manly character, greeted me. When
I mentioned my name, he was polite
enough to say that he knew it from
the Revue de Paris, and requested me
to visit him in the afternoon, for he
should then be able to receive me
better. When I came again, I found
him in an almost elegant little room,
which was adorned with pictures,
statues, and books, the latter not
only of French literature, but also
translations of the Greek classics. A
picture on the wall represented his
most celebrated poem, The Dying

10 — 2

148 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Child. From Marmier's Chansons dii
Nord, he knew that I had treated the
same subject, and I told him that it
had its origin in my schooldays. If
I had seen him in the morning as
the industrious baker, now he was
altogether the poet ; he spoke in an
animated way of the literature of his
country, and expressed his wish to
see the North, the scenery and intel-
lect of which seemed to interest him.
With great esteem I took leave of a
man to whom the Muses have granted
no small share of endowment, but
who, however, has common-sense
enough, despite the homage which is
paid him, to continue at his honest
employment, and prefers to be the
remarkable baker at Nismes, instead
of losing himself in Paris, after a
short homage, among hundreds of
poets."

We are wondering just here,
whether it was indeed the essentially

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BETWEEN. 1 49

critical attitude of Dr. Johnson's
mind which caused him, on hearing
one of his papers in the Rambler r^d^dy
to shake his head and mumble '' Too
wordy;" and at another time, when
his tragedy of Irene was being read,
to leave the company, giving as his
reason for so doing : *' Sir, I thought
it had been better." But who ever
does complete anything according
to his own elevated standard ? And
how often when men praise most
and speak loudest of the merits of
this achievement and the other, the
author is conscious of the defects of
his work in a measure which will
never be understood by any other !
The reason lies in the fact that there

"Dwells within the soul of every artist
More than all his efforts can express ;
And he knows the best remains unuttered ;
Sighing at what we call his success.

" Vainly he may strive ; he may not tell us
All the sacred mystery of the skies,
Vainly he may strive ; the deepest beauty
Cannot be unveiled to mortal eyes.

150 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

" And the more devoutly that he listens,
And the holier message that is sent,
Still the more his soul must struggle vainly,
Bowed beneath a noble discontent."*

In his Autobiography f Gibbon gives
us an interesting glimpse of Voltaire
at Lausanne. The historian was,
at the time of which he writes, a
youth of twenty, and was busy com-
pleting his education.

'* Before I was recalled from
Switzerland,'' he says, " I had the
satisfaction of seeing the most extra-
ordinary man of the age — a poet, an
historian, a philosopher, who has
filled thirty quartos of prose and
verse with his various productions,
often excellent, and always entertain-
ing. Need I add the name of
Voltaire ? After forfeiting, by his
own misconduct, the friendship of
the first of kings, he retired, at the
?^ge of sixty, with a plentiful fortune,

■* Miss Procter's Unexpressed.

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 1 5 1

to a free and beautiful country,
and resided two winters (1757 and
1758) in the town and neighbour-
hood of Lausanne. My desire of
beholding Voltaire, whom I then
rated above his real magnitude, was
easily gratified. He received me
with civility as an English youth,
but I cannot boast of any peculiar
notice or distinction — Virgilium vidi
tantum,

" The ode which he composed on
his first arrival on the banks of the
Leman Lake, O Maison d'Aristippe!
O Jar din d' Epicure, etc., had been
imparted as a secret to the gentle-
man by whom I was introduced. He
allowed me to read it twice ; I knew
it by heart ; and as my discretion
was not equal to my memory, the
author was soon displeased by the
circulation of a copy. In writing
this trivial anecdote, I wished to
observe whether my memory was

152 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY; AND

impaired, and I have the comfort of
finding that every Hne of the poem
is still engraved in fresh and indelible
characters. The highest gratifica-
tion which I derived from Voltaire's
residence at Lausanne was the un-
common circumstance of hearing a
great poet declaim his own produc-
tions on the stage. He had formed
a company of ladies and gentlemen,
some of whom were not destitute of
talents. A decent theatre was framed
at Monrepos, a country house at the
end of a suburb ; dresses and scenes
were provided at the expense of the
actors ; and the author directed the
rehearsals with the zeal and attention
of paternal love. In two successive
winters his tragedies of Zaire, A hire,
Zulime, and his sentimental comedy
of the Enfant Prodigue, were played
at the theatre of Monrepos. Vol-
taire represented the characters best
adapted to his years — Lusignan,

THE DEB A TA BLE LA ND BET WEEN. 153

Alvarez, Benassar, Euphemon. His
declamation was fashioned to the
pomp and cadence of the old stage,
and he expressed the enthusiasm of
poetry rather than the feelings of
nature. My ardour, which soon be-
came conspicuous, seldom failed of
procuring me a ticket. The habits of
pleasure fortified my taste for the
French theatre, and that taste has,
perhaps, abated my idolatry for the
gigantic genius of Shakespeare, which
is inculcated from our infancy as the
first duty of an EngHshman. The
wit and philosophy of Voltaire, his
table and theatre, refined, in a visible
degree, the manners of Lausanne ;
and, however addicted to study, I
enjoyed my share of the amusements
of society. After the representation
of Monrepos, I sometimes supped
with the actors."

Referring to the composition of
The Chimes, Dickens once said to

154 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Lady Blessington : *'A11 my affections
and passions got twined and knotted
up in it, and I became as haggard as
a murderer long before I wrote * the
end.' " He had undergone, he said,
** as much sorrow and agitation " in
the writing **as if the thing were
real," and when the last page was
written had indulged ''in what women
call a good cry." But when it was
all finished, and lay before him in
definite characters, nothing would do
but that he should leave Italy to
read it to the choice friends he
loved, and whose approbation he so
thoroughly enjoyed. Accordingly,
Genoa was left behind, and London
reached in little more than three
weeks; and two days after his arrival
he was *' reading his little book to
the choice spirits aforesaid, all as-
sembled for the purpose at Forster's
house. There they are," says Frank
T. Marzials, in his charming mono-

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN. 155

graph on Dickens ; *' they Hve for us
still in Maclise's drawing, though
Time has plied his scythe among
them so effectually during the forty-
two years since flown, that each has
passed into the silent land. There
they sit — Carlyle,* not the shaggy
Scotch terrier with the melancholy
eyes that we were wont to see in his
later days, but close-shaven and alert ;
and swift -witted Douglas Jerrold ;
and Laman Blanchard, whose name
goes darkling in the literature of the
last generation ; and Forster himself,
journalist and author of many books;
and the painters Dyce, Maclise, and
Stanfield ; and Byron's friend and
school companion, the clergyman

* Carlyle said of Dickens' public reading :
'* Dickens does it capitally, such as il is; acts
better than any Macready in the world ; a whole
tragic, comic, heroic, theatre visible, performing
under one hat^ and keeping us laughing — in a
sorry way, some of us thought — the whole night.
He is a good creature, too, and makes fifty or
sixty pounds by each of these readings."

156 SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY ; AND

Harness, who, like Dyce, pays to the
story the tribute of his tears."

We are tempted to indulge in yet
another picture of a private reading
at which Carlyle was present. " Leigh
Hunt had invited a few friends with
ourselves," says Mrs. Cowden Clarke
in her interesting Recollections of
Writers, '* to hear him read his
newly- written play of A Legend of
Florence; and Thomas Carlyle was
among these friends. The hushed
room, its genial low light — for a
single well-shaded lamp close by the
reader formed the sole point of
illumination — the scarcely-seen faces
around, all bent in fixed attention
upon the perusing figure, the breath-
less presence of so many eager lis-
teners, all remains indelibly stationed
in the memory, never to be effaced or
weakened. It was not surpassed in
interest — though strangely contrasted
in dazzle and tumult — when the play

THE DEBATABLE LAND BETWEEN 157

was brought out at Covent Garden
Theatre, and Leigh Hunt was called
on to the stage at its conclusion to
receive the homage of a public who
had long known him through his de-
lightful writings, and now caught at
this opportunity to let him feel and
see and hear their admiration of
those past works, as well as of his
present poetical play."

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

** Patchwork may be of two distinct kinds. We
may have beautiful and artistic patchwork^ made
up of brocades^ silksj satijts^ fine needlework^ a7td
artistic tapestry; or we inay have coarse and
tru?npery patchwork composed of tawdry and vulgar
prints or bits of flaunting handkerchiefs, "

* * Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
At Christmas-tide such ivondrous things did show^
That through one window men beheld the springs
And through another saw the stwtmer glozu,
And through a third the fruited vines a- row,
While stilly tinheard, but in its ivonted way.
Piped the drear wi^id of that December day.''
William Morris : " The Earthly Paradise."

What evenings in Arcadia those
Wednesdays of Lamb's must have
been when Wordsworth, Southey,
Leigh Hunt, Barry Cornwall, Hazlitt,
Coleridge, Talfourd, and such men

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 159

of culture and imagination gathered
round their host ! But the ''gentle
Elia " has been so deservedly written
about of late, and every incident in
his blameless life has been so read
and re-read and dwelt upon lovingly,
that aught that could be related to
serve our purpose would be but a re-
cooking of some tender morsel. The
writings of those who were on terms
of friendship with him abound with
such scraps as the following :

*' December 5th, 1826. — Spent the
evening at Lamb's. When I went in,
they (Charles and his sister) were
alone, playing at cards together ;"
and *' Friday, July 13th. — Spent the
evening at Leigh Hunt's, with the
Lambs, Atherstone, Mrs. Shelley, and
the Gliddons. Lamb talked admir-
ably about Dryden and some of the
older poets, in particular of Dave-
nant's Gondibert,'' etc., etc.^

* P. G. Patmore.

i6o SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

Of Lamb's '' At homes," Percy
Fitzgerald writes : ''To these nights
at his house — to the Httle rooms,
hung round with engravings after
Hogarth, and Poussin, Raphael, and
Titian — every guest looked back with
a fond longing. Milton hung on the
wall, and from Milton he would read
noble passages, actually weeping as
he read."

Hazlitt first made Lamb's ac-
quaintance at Godwin's house, where
he found Coleridge, Godwin, and
Holcroft in a heated controversy as
to whether it was better to have man
as he was, or as he is to be. '' Give
me man," suggested Lamb, ** as he is
not to be." It is interesting to know
that the last time Hazlitt (who at
one time was ambitious to succeed
as an artist) took his brush in hand,
it was to paint the portrait of Lamb
dressed as a Venetian Senator. '* The
picture represents Lamb as he was

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. i6i

about thirty, and it is by far the
most pleasing and characteristic re-
semblance we possess of him as a
comparatively young man. The cos-
tume was the painter's whim, and
must be said to detract from the
whole."*

I don't think Lamb could have
forgiven the painter this Venetian-
Senator draping of his staid person,
for he seems to have taken a sardonic
pleasure in misbehaving himself in
Hazlitt's company whenever the
slightest opportunity offered itself.
Even at Hazlitt's wedding he was en-
gaged in some mischief; and it must
have been mischief of a kind to please
the maker mightily, for in a letter to
Southey, nearly eight years after the
event, he thus refers to it : ''I was at
Hazlitt's marriage, and had like to
have been turned out several times

* Memoirs of William Hazlitt^ by W. Carew
Hazlitt.

II

i62 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

during the ceremony. Anything awful
makes me laugh."

In his Letters, Conversations, and
Recollections of Coleridge, Allsop says :
" The first night I ever spent with
Lamb was after a day with Coleridge,
when we returned by the same stage ;
and from something I had said or
done of an unusual kind, I was asked
to pass the night with him and his
sister. Thus commenced an intimacy
which never knew an hour's inter-
ruption to the day of his death.

*' Lamb asked me what I thought
of Coleridge. I spoke as I thought.
' You should have seen him twenty
years ago,' said he with one of his
sweet smiles ; * when he was with
me at the Cat and Salutation in
Newgate Market. Those were days
(or nights), but they were marked
with a white stone. Such were his
extraordinary powers, that when it
was time for him to go and be

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 163

married, the landlord entreated his
stay, and offered him free quarters if
he would only talk.' "

Lamb never ceased thinking and
talking of these ''Old Salutation"
nights with their ''egg-flip and Oro-
nooko." There Coleridge and he used
to sup occasionally, and remain long
after they had " heard the chimes at
midnight." "There they discoursed
of Bowles, who was the god of Cole-
ridge's poetical idolatry, and of Burns
and Cowper, who, of recent poets,
in that season of comparative barren-
ness had made the deepest impression
on Lamb. There Coleridge talked
of ' Fate, free-will, fore-knowledge
absolute,' to one who desired ' to
find no end ' of the golden maze ;
and there he recited his early poems
with that deep sweetness of intona-
tion which sunk into the heart of
his hearer. To these meetings
Lamb was accustomed at all periods

II — 2

i64 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

of his life to revert, as the season
when his finer intellects were
quickened into action. Shortly after
they had terminated, with Coleridge's
departure from London, he thus re-
called them in one of his letters :
' When I read in your little volume
the effusion you call The Sigh, I
think I hear you again. I imagine
to myself the little smoky room at
the Cat and Salutation, where we sat
together through the winter nights
beguiling the cares of life with poetry.'
This was early in 1796 ; and in 1818,
when dedicating his works, then first
collected, to his earliest friend, he
thus spoke of the same meetings :
* Some of the sonnets, which shall be
carelessly turned over by the general
reader, may happily awaken in you
remembrances which I should be
sorry to doubt are totally extinct —
the *' memory of summer days and of
delightful years," even so far back as

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 165

those old suppers at our old inn —
when life was fresh, and topics ex-
haustless, and you first kindled in
me, if not the power, yet the love of
poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.'
And so he talked of these unforgotten
hours in that short interval during
which death divided them."*

In his essay Of Persons one would
wish to have seen, Hazlitt says that it
was Lamb who suggested the subject
at one of his pleasant evenings among
friends.

** On the question being started,
Ayrton said, * I suppose the two
first persons you would choose to see
would be the two greatest names in
English literature. Sir Isaac Newton
and Mr. Locke ?' In this Ayrton, as
usual, reckoned without his host.
Everyone burst out laughing at the
expression of Lamb's face, in which
impatience was restrained by courtesy.

* Talfourd's Letters of Charles Lamb.

1 66 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY,

' Yes, the greatest names,' he stam-
mered out hastily, ' but they were not
persons — not persons.' — ^ Not per-
sons ?' said Ayrton, looking wise and
foolish at the same time, afraid his
triumph might be premature. 'That is,'
rejoined Lamb, ' not characters, you
know. By Mr. Locke and Sir Isaac
Newton, you mean the Essay on the
Human Understanding and the Prin-
cipia, which we have to this day.
Beyond their contents there is nothing
personally interesting in the men.
But what we want to see anyone
bodily for, is when there is something
pecuHar, striking in the individuals,
more than we can learn from their
writings, and yet are curious to know.
I dare say Locke and Newton were
very like Kneller's portraits of them.
But who could paint Shakespeare ?'
— ' Ay,' retorted Ayrton, ' there it is ;
then, I suppose, you would prefer seeing
him and Milton instead !' — * No,' said

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 167

Lamb, 'neither. I have seen so much
of Shakespeare on the stage and on
bookstalls, in frontispieces and on
mantelpieces, that I am quite tired
of the everlasting repetition ; and as
to Milton's face, the impressions that
have come down to us of it I do not
like; it is too starched and puri-
tanical ; and I should be afraid of
losing some of the manna of his
poetry in the leaven of his coun-
tenance and the precisian's band and
gown.' — ' I shall guess no more,'
said Ayrton. ' Who is it, then, you
would like to see '* in his habit as he
lived," if you had your choice of the
whole range of English literature ?'
Lamb then named Sir Thomas
Browne and Fulke Greville, the
friend of Sir Philip Sidney, as the
two worthies whom he should feel
the greatest pleasure to encounter on
the floor of his apartment in their
nightgowns and slippers, and to ex-

i68 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

change friendly greeting with them.
At this Ayrton laughed outright, and
conceived Lamb was jesting with
him ; but as no one followed his
example, he thought there might be
something in it, and waited for an
explanation in a state of whimsical
suspense. Lamb then went on as
follows : ' The reason why I pitch
upon these two authors is, that their
writings are riddles, and they them-
selves the most mysterious of person-
ages. They resemble the soothsayers
of old, who dealt in dark hints and
doubtful oracles ; and I should like
to ask them the meaning of what
no mortal but themselves, I should
suppose, can fathom. There is Dr.
Johnson : I have no curiosity, no
strange uncertainty about him ; he
and Boswell together have pretty
well let me into the secret of what
passed through his mind. He and
other writers like him are sufficiently

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY, 169

explicit : my friends whose repose
I should be tempted to disturb (were
it in my power) are implicit, inex-
tricable, inscrutable.'

:fc sfc 5fc :ic H«

** Some one then inquired of Lamb
if we could not see from the window
the Temple walk in which Chaucer
used to take his exercise ; and on his
name being put to the vote, I was
pleased to find that there was a
general sensation in his favour in
all but Ayrton, who said something
about the ruggedness of the metre,
and even objected to the quaintness
of the orthography. I was vexed at
this superficial gloss, pertinaciously
reducing everything to its own trite
level, and asked * if he did not think
it would be worth while to scan the
eye that had first greeted the Muse
in that dim twilight and early dawn
of English literature ; to see the head
round which the visions of fancy

170 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY,

must have played like gleams of
inspiration or sudden glory ; to
watch those lips that ' lisped in
numbers, for the numbers came ' — as
by a miracle, or as if the dumb should
speak. . . .

*' His interview with Petrarch is
fraught with interest. Yet I would
rather have seen Chaucer in company
with the author of the Decameron, and
have heard them exchange their best
stories together — the Squire's Tale
against The Story of the Falcon, the
Wife of Bath's Prologue against the
A dventures of Friar A Ibert, How fine
to see the high mysterious brow
which learning then wore, relieved
by the gay, familiar tone of men of
the world, and by the courtesies of
genius ! Surely, the thoughts and
feelings which passed through the
minds of these great revivers of
learning, these Cadmuses who sowed
the teeth of letters, must have

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 171

stamped an expression on their fea-
tures as different from the moderns
as their books, and well worth the
perusal. . . . Lamb put it to me if I
should like to see Spenser as well as
Chaucer, and I answered, without
hesitation, ' No ; for that his beau-
ties were ideal, visionary, not palp-
able or personal, and therefore con-
nected with less curiosity about the
man. His poetry was the essence
of romance, a very halo round the
bright orb of fancy, and the bringing
in the individual might dissolve the
charm. No tones of voice could
come up to the meUifluous cadence
of his verse ; no form but of a winged
angel could vie with the airy shapes ,
he has described. He was (to my
apprehension) rather a 'creature of
the element, that lived in the rain-
bow and played in the pHghted
clouds,' than an ordinary mortal.
Or if he did appear, I should wish it

172 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

to be as a mere vision, like one of
his own pageants, and that he should
pass by unquestioned like a dream or
sound —

" * T^af was Arion crown'd !

So went he playing on the wat'ry plain.'

** We were now at a stand for a
short time, when Fielding was men-
tioned as a candidate ; only one,
however, seconded the proposition.
* Richardson ?' — ' By all means, but
only to look at him through the glass
door of his back shop, hard at work
upon one of his novels (the most ex-
traordinary contrast that ever was
presented between an author and his
works) ; not to let him come behind
his counter, lest he should want you
to turn customer, or to go upstairs
with him, lest he should offer to read
the first manuscript of Sir Charles
Grandison, which was originally
written in eight-and-twenty volumes
octavo, or get out the letters of his

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 173

female correspondents, to prove that

Joseph Andrews was low.

*' Of all persons near our own time,
Garrick's name was received with the
greatest enthusiasm. . . .

" We were interrupted in the hey-
day and mid-career of this fanciful
speculation by a grumbler in the
corner, who declared it was a shame
to make all this rout about a mere
player and farce-writer, to the neglect
and exclusion of the fine old drama-
tists, the contemporaries and rivals
of Shakespeare. Lamb said he had
anticipated this objection when he
had named the author of Mustapha
and Alaham; and, out of caprice,
insisted upon keeping him to repre-
sent the set in preference to the wdld,
hair-brained enthusiast, Kit Marlowe ;
to the sexton of St. Ann's, Webster,
with his melancholy yew-trees and
death's-heads ; to Decker, who was

174 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY.

but a garrulous proser ; to the volu-
minous Heywood ; and even to
Beaumont and Fletcher, whom we
might offend by complimenting the
wrong author on their joint produc-
tions. . . . Ben Jonson divided our
suffrages pretty equally. Some were
afraid he would begin to traduce
Shakespeare, who was not present
to defend himself. ... At length,
his romantic visit to Drummond of
Hawthornden* was mentioned, and
turned the scale in his favour.
•5f * ^ ^ -x-

*' By this time it should seem that
some rumour of our whimsical de-
liberation had got wind, and had
disturbed the irritabile genus in their
shadowy abodes, for we received
messages from several candidates
that we had just been thinking of.
Gray declined our invitation, though
he had not yet been asked ; Gay
offered to come and bring in his

* See p. 112.

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY, 175

hand the Duchess of Bolton, the
original Polly; Steele and Addison
left their cards as Captain Sentry*
and Sir Roger de Coverley; Swift
came in and sat down without speak-
ing a word, and quitted the room as
abruptly ;f Otway and Chatterton
were seen lingering on the opposite
side of the Styx, but could not muster
enough between them to pay Charon
his fare ; Thomson fell asleep in the
boat, and was rowed back again ;
and Burns sent a low fellow, one
John Barleycorn, an old companion
of his, who had conducted him to
the other world, to say that he had
during his lifetime been drawn out
of his retirement as a show, only to
be made an exciseman of, and that
he would rather remain where he
was. He desired, however, to shake
hands by his representative — the

* A member of the Spectator Club.
t See p. 23.

\

176 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY,

hand, thus held out, was in a burning
fever, and shook prodigiously.

" The morning broke with that
dim, dubious light by which Giotto,
Cimabue, and Ghirlandaio must have
seen to paint their earliest works ;
and we parted to meet again and
renew similar topics at night, the
next night, and the night after that,
till that night overspread Europe
which saw no dawn. The same
event, in truth, broke up our little
congress that broke up the great one.
But that was to meet again : our
deliberations have never been re-
sumed."*

Leigh l:l\ini's An Earth upon Heaven
seems to have been suggested by this
charming essay of Hazlitt's. ** Some-
body, a little while ago," Hunt begins,

* This paper was written about 1820, but the
event which it purports to describe occurred many
years before.

SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY. 177

** wrote an excellent article in the New
Monthly Magazine on Persons one would
wish to have known (sic). He should
write another on * Persons one could
wish to have dined with.' There is
Rabelais, and Horace, and the Mer-
maid roisterers, and Charles Cotton,
and Andrew Marvell, and Sir Richard
Steele, cum multis aliis ; and for the
colloquial, if not for the festive part,
Swift, and Pope, and Dr. Johnson,
and Burke, and Home Tooke. What
a pity one cannot dine with them all
round ! People are accused of having
earthly notions of heaven. As it is
difficult to have any other, we may
be pardoned for thinking that we
could spend a very pretty thousand
years in dining and getting acquainted
with all the good fellows on record ;
and having got used to them, we
think we could go very well on, and
be content to wait some other thou-
sands for a higher beatitude. Oh, to

12

178 SOCIAL AND IMAGINARY,

wear out one of the celestial lives of
a triple century's duration, and ex-
quisitely to grow old, in reciprocating
dinners and teas with the immortals
of old books ! Will Fielding ' leave
his card ' in the next world ? Will
Berkeley (an angel in a wig and lawn
sleeves) come to ask how Utopia gets
on ? Will Shakespeare (for the greater
the man, the more the good-nature
might be expected) know by intuition
that one of his readers (knocked up
with bliss) is dying to see him at the
Angel and Turk's Head, and come
lounging with his hands in his
doublet-pockets accordingly ?'*

VI.
WITH AN OLD LION.

" And that deep-mouthed Beotian Savage Landor
Has taken for a swan rogue Sout hey* s gander.*^

Byron.

" It was a dream, ah ! what is not a dream i*"

Landor.

Whilst at Como, Landor received
a visit from Southey ; and this visit
must have been highly gratifying to
both if what Landor put into
Southey's mouth in the Imaginary
Conversations was in any way near
the truth. " Well do I remember,"
he makes Southey say, "our long
conversation in the silent and soli-
tary church of Sant' Aboudis (surely
the coolest spot in Italy), and how

12 — 2

i8o WITH AN OLD LION.

often I turned my head toward the
open door, fearing lest some pious
passer-by, or some more distant one
in the wood above, pursuing the
pathway that leads to the tower of
Luitprand, should hear the roof echo
with your laughter at the stories you
had collected about the brotherhood
and sisterhood of the place."

The hastiness of Landor's temper
was known to his friends as well
as to himself. Crabb Robinson
speaks of him as a '^ leonine "
man, with a fierceness of tone well
suited to his name, his decisions
being confident, and on all subjects,
whether of taste or Hfe, unqualified,
each standing for itself, not caring
whether it was in harmony with what
had gone before or would follow from
the same oracular lips.* Robinson

* Landor's conduct in this direction was cer-
ifiinly a brilliant commentary on the words of
Emerson : "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin
of little minds, adored by little statesmen and

WITH AN OLD LION. i8i

adds : '' He was conscious of his
own infirmity of temper, and told
me he saw few persons, because he
could not bear contradictions." And
yet between this

** Deep-mouthed Beotian Savage Laiidor "

and the *' Gentle Elia " sympathy of
a kind existed. Whilst in London,

philosophers and divines. With consistency a
great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as
well concern himself with his shadow on the
wall. Speak what you think now in hard words,
and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in
hard words again, though it contradict everything
you said to-day."

On the 15th of May, 1833, Emerson dined with
Landor, and thus records his experience : *' I
found him noble and courteous, living in a cloud
of pictures at his Villa Gherardesca, a fine house
commanding a beautiful landscape. I had in-
ferred from his books, or magnified from some
anecdotes, an impression of Achillean wrath — an
untamable petulance. I do not know whether the
imputation were just or not, but certainly on this
May day his courtesy veiled that haughty mind,
and he was the most patient and gentle of hosis.
He . . . talked of Wordsworth, Byron, Mas-
singer, Beaumont and Fletcher. To be sure, he
is decided in his opinions, likes to surprise, and is
well content to impress, if possible, his English
whim upon the immutable past."

1 82 WITH AN OLD LION.

Landor was taken by Robinson to
see Charles Lamb, and was delighted
with him and his sister. It is said
that tipsy or sober, for a few years
before his death, Lamb was continu-
ally repeating Landor's Rose Aylmer ;
and all admirers of these two famous
men must remember the tenderness
of the verses addressed by Landor
to Mary Lamb on the death of her
brother :

*' Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile !
Again shall Elia's smile
Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more.
What is it we deplore ?

"He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and
years.

Far worthier things than tears.
The love of friends without a single foe :
Unequalled lot below !

*' His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ;
For these dost thou repine ?
He may have left the lowly walks of men ;
Left them he has ; what then ?

" Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wise ?
Tho' the warm day is over, yet they seek
Upon the lofty peak

WITH AN OLD LION. 183

** Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows
O'er death's perennial snows.
Behold him ! from the region of the blest
He speaks : he bids thee rest."

The decidedness of Landor both in
his Hkes and dislikes affords us excuse
for referring to two or three other of
his interviews. At Bonn one day he
met Schlegel, and the next the poet
Arndt. Of Schlegel he writes to
Crabb Robinson : '* He resembles
a little pot-bellied pony tricked out
with stars, buckles, and ribbons,
looking askance, from his ring and
halter in the market, for an apple
from one, a morsel of bread from
another, a fig of ginger from a
third, and a pat from everybody :"
His interview with Arndt, however,
*' settled the bile this coxcomb of the
bazaar had excited." '' In one of
the very last pieces of verse Landor
wrote," says Sidney Colvin, *' I find
him recalling with pleasure how he
and Arndt had talked together in

i84 WITH AN OLD LION.

Latin thirty years before in the poet's
orchard ; how they had chanced to
hear a song of Arndt's own sung by
the people in the town below ; and
how nimbly the old poet had run and
picked up an apple to give his guest,
who had kept the pips and planted
them in his garden at Fiesole."

In a recent article in the New
York Nation, we find some interest-
ing particulars of Landor, and from
these we extract the following :

'* His wife lived in a villa at or near
Fiesole for some time, and it was
there that, after an absence of thirty
years, Landor suddenly rejoined her
without a word of notice. He had
left her in a fit of caprice, and when
he returned as capriciously, he was
outraged and indignant to find that
no niche in the family circle had been
left vacant for him. He had taught
his family to do without him, and
had left them for thirty years to

WITH AN OLD LION. 185

practise their lesson, and then was
bitterly disappointed when he found
how well they had learnt that lesson.
Late one night he appeared in
Florence, at the lodgings of his
faithful friends, the Robert Brown-
ings, in a towering rage, and vitu-
perating, no doubt, as only he could
vituperate, against the whole female
sex, and that arch-villain, his wife, in
particular. He would never go back
to her — never ! Indeed, it was the
only possible decision to make. He
was at no time an easy man to live
with, and after that little absence
of thirty years, Mrs. Landor may be
forgiven if she did not receive him
with open arms. But she cannot be
forgiven for the long bill which she
sent after him, in which every lemon
that had been made into lemonade
for him during his brief stay was
entered and charged for; and it must
be remembered that the villa itself,

i86 WITH AN OLD LION.

with its garden and all its lemon-
trees, had been paid for out of
Landor's money. Some of the
Florentine courts of justice still,
perhaps, possess records of the suits
brought against Florentine citizens
by this impracticable Englishman.
The last time he appeared, whether
as prosecutor or defendant, in the
Syndic's court, he stooped to hoist
up a heavy bag which he had brought
with him, and which he placed on
the table before him, coolly observ-
ing that, as he knew every man in
Florence had his price, here was
money to secure judgment on his
side. The court, feeling itself this
time outraged beyond endurance,
pronounced sentence of banishment
against him, and he left Florence
never to return. Before he was
exiled, Landor had lived in rooms
above those occupied by his friends
the Brownings. They used to send

WITH AN OLD LION. 187

his dinner up to him every day, and,
to a man of his vehement tempera-
ment, dinner was a very important
event. He would stand watch in
hand when the hour was approach-
ing, and if the dinner was a moment
behind time, he would seize the dish
and hurl its contents out of the
window. Mr. Browning's son, who
was then very young, well remembers
seeing a leg of mutton pass the
window of his father's room on one
of these occasions. An expensive
and troublesome inmate, no doubt ;
but what good times the three poets must
have had in those long evenings when
dinner was forgotten, and there was
nothing left to do but talk I How
they must have enjoyed each other's
scholarship !"

I like to think of the pleasure
afforded the old lion in his last years
by two apparent trifles — the society
of a young American lady. Miss

i88 WITH AN OLD LION.

Kate Field, to whom he taught
Latin ; and the visit of Swinburne,
one of his most ardent admirers,
who made a pilgrimage to Florence
on purpose to see the old man's face
before he died.

VII.
BEHIND THE SCENES.

" To say that this taste of ours is a petty taste^
the taste of valets, is simply to inveigh against one
of the instincts of otir nature, the instinct which —
to quote the words of Moore — ' leads us to contem-
plate with pleasure a great mind in its undress f
. . . and, perhaps, I may add, to inveigh against one
of the strongest charms of history and biography,
against the charm without which all history and
all biography are little more than ' an old
almanack' "—Charles Pebody.

Occasionally a poem or work of
prose has been the result of some
stray hint dropped at a meeting of
friends ; in other cases, again, the
central idea has been the subject of
great talk and much beating out
before it assumed the importance

190 BEHIND THE SCENES.

necessary to prompt its extension
into a work of art.

"The account Wordsworth gives
of the origin of the Ancient Mariner
is that in the autumn of 1797 he,
with his sister and Coleridge, started
from Alfoxden to visit Linton and
the Valley of Stones, and their
united funds being very small, they
agreed to defray the expenses of the
tour by writing a poem, to be sent to
the New Monthly Magazine, Accord-
ingly, as they proceeded along the
Quantock Hills, by Watchet, the
poem of the Ancient Mariner was
planned. It was founded, as Mr.
Coleridge said, on a dream narrated
by a friend of his. Much the
greater part of the story was Cole-
ridge's invention, but parts were sug-
gested by Wordsworth ; for example,
that some crime was to be committed
which should bring upon the ' old
navigator,' as Coleridge delighted to

BEHIND THE SCENES. 191

call him, the spectral persecution, as
a consequence of that crime and his
own wanderings."

The origin of Longfellow's Evan-
geline is thus described in the
Atlantic Monthly : — '' Hawthorne,
dining one day with Longfellow,
brought with him a friend from
Salem. After dinner this friend
said, *I have been trying to per-
suade Hawthorne to write a story
based upon a legend of Acadie,
and still current there ; the legend
of a girl who, in the dispersion
of the Acadians, was separated from
her lover, and passed her life in
waiting and seeking for him, and
only found him dying in a hospital,
when both were old.' Longfellow
wondered that this legend did not
strike the fancy of Hawthorne, and
said to him, ' If you really have
made up your mind not to use it for
a story, will you give it to me for

-192 BEHIND THE SCENES.

a poem ?' To this he assented, and
promised not to treat it in prose till
Longfellow had seen what he could
do with it in verse." What Long-
fellow did *' do with it in verse ''
is known tolerably well to the world
now. In November, 1847, ^^^s. Haw-
thorne wrote to a friend : " Have
you seen the most exquisite of
reviews upon Evangeline — very short,
but containing all ? Evangeline is
certainly the highest production of
Mr. Longfellow."

Burns had a companion whilst
composing Scots wha hae wi Wallace
hied; but he owed nothing to him
of the kind of debt of either Long-
fellow or Coleridge. He was in-
debted to him, however, for his
silence and non-interruption. No
one can tell the story better than
Carlyle ; and so we use what he
relates of the matter : ** Why should
we speak," he says, '' of Scots wha hae

BEHIND THE SCENES, 193

wV Wallace bled, since all know of it
from the king to the meanest of his
subjects ? This dithyrambic was
composed on horseback ; in riding
in the middle of tempests, over
the wildest Galloway moor, in com-
pany with a Mr. Syme, who, observ-
ing the poet's looks, forbore to speak
— judiciously enough ; for a man
composing Bruce' s Address might be
unsafe to trifle with. Doubtless this
stern hymn was singing itself, as he
formed it, through the soul of Burns;
but to the external ear, it should be
sung with the throat of the whirl-
wind. So long as there is warm
blood in the heart of Scotchman or
man, it will move in fierce thrills
under this war-ode ; the best, we
believe, that was ever written by any
pen."

Mrs. Hemans relates a conversa-
tion she had with Wordsworth in
which reference was made to this

13

194 BEHIND THE SCENES.

poem. '* How much was I amused
yesterday," she says, ** by a sudden
burst of indignation in Mr. Words-
worth ! We were sitting on a bank
overlooking Rydal Water, and speak-
ing of Burns. I said, * Mr. Words-
worth, do you not think his war-ode,
Scots wha hue, has been a good
deal overrated, especially by Mr.
Carlyle, who calls it the noblest
lyric in the language ?' * I am de-
lighted to hear you ask that ques-
tion,' was his reply. * Overrated ! —
trash — stuff — miserable inanity !
without a thought !. without an
image !' etc., etc. Then he recited
the piece in a tone of unutterable
scorn, and concluded with a da capo
of 'Wretched stuff!'"

We have a delightful peep into the
inner life of a great writer in George
EUot's own account of how she came
to write fiction. '' One night," she
says, '* G. " (Mr. Lewes) ** went to

BEHIND THE SCENES. 195

town on purpose to leave me a quiet
evening for writing it " (the portion
of Amos Barton in which Milly's
death occurs). '* I wrote the chapter
from the news brought by the shep-
herd to Mrs. Hackit, to the moment
when Amos is dragged from the bed-
side, and I read it to G. when he
came home. We both cried over it,
and then he came up to me and
kissed me, saying, ' I think your
pathos is better than your fun.' "

Hobbes and Bacon were, it ap-
pears, excellent friends, and of great
service to each other. Aubrey, in
his Lives of Eminent Persons, referring
to Hobbes, says that Bacon *' was
wont to have him walk with him in
his delicate groves, when he did
meditate ; and when a notion darted
into his lordship's mind, Mr. Hobbes
was presently to write it down, and
his lordship was wont to say that he
did it better than anyone else about

13—2

196 BEHIND THE SCENES.

him ; for that many times, when he
read their notes, he scarce under-
stood what they writ, because they
understood it not clearly them-
selves.'*

This method of work was alto-
gether out of Goldsmith's line. One
day a literary friend was expatiating
to him on the advantages of employ-
ing an amanuensis, and thus saving
time and the trouble of writing.

** How do you manage it ?" in-
quired Goldsmith.

** Why, I walk about the room and
dictate to a clever man, who puts
down very correctly all that I tell
him, so that I have nothing to do
more than just to look over the
manuscript and then send it to
press."

Goldsmith was delighted at the
idea, and asked his friend to send
his amanuensis the next morning.
The scribe accordingly waited upon

BEHIND THE SCENES. 197

the doctor, and with pens, ink, and
paper placed in order before him,
waited to catch the oracle. Gold-
smith paced the room with great
solemnity several times ; but after
racking his brain to no purpose, he
put his hand into his pocket, and,
presenting the amanuensis with a
guinea, said :

'* It won't do, my friend ; I find
that my head and hand must go
together."

We have so very few genuine peeps
behind the scenes upon authors at
work, that what Hans Christian
Andersen tells us of the elder Dumas
cannot fail to prove of interest. He
generally found him in bed, even long
after mid-day ; for it was his custom
to have pen, ink and paper in his
bedroom, where he wrote his dramas.
** On entering his apartment," says
Andersen, '* I found him thus one
day. He nodded kindly to me, and

198 BEHIND THE SCENES.

said, * Sit down a minute. I have
just now a visit from my Muse ; she
will be going directly.' He wrote on,
and after a brief silence shouted

* Vivat /' sprang out of bed, and said,

* The third act is finished !' "

Sir Joshua Reynolds one day en-
tered Goldsmith's room unnoticed,
and found him seated at his desk,
with his pen in his hand and with
his paper before him ; '' but he had
turned away from The Traveller, and
with uplifted hand was looking to-
wards a corner of the room, where a
little dog sat with difficulty on his
haunches, with imploring eyes. Rey-
nolds looked over the poet's shoulder
and read a couplet whose ink was
still wet :

" * By sports like these are all their cares beguiled ;
The sports of children satisfy the child. ' "

'' Surely, my friend," says the genial
Country Parson, *' you will never
again read that couplet, so simply

BEHIND THE SCENES] 199

and felicitously expressed, without
remembering the circumstances in
which it was written. Who should
know better than Goldsmith what
simple pleasures ' satisfy the child ' ?"
The letters of George Eliot to her
friends, which have been given to the
world in her Life by Mr. Cross, show
us what a beautifully suitable home-
life hers was. '* We are dehghting
ourselves," she says in one of them,
*' with Ruskin's third volume, which
contains some of the finest writing
I have read for a long time (among
recent books). I read it aloud for an
hour or so after dinner ; then we
jump to the old dramatists, when
Mr. Lewes reads to me as long as
his voice will hold out, and after this
we wind up the evening with Rymer
Jones's Animal Kingdom, by which I
get a confused knowledge of bran-
chiae and such things — perhaps, on
the whole, a little preferable to total

200 BEHIND THE SCENES.

ignorance. These are our nodes —
without cence for the present — occa-
sionally diversified by very dramatic
singing of Figaro, etc.*'

Sometimes a meeting of the kind
of which we write is instructive, as
indicating the interest taken by an
old sage in a young, aspiring in-
dividual. Although, in numerous
cases, a man is able to trace the
great and abiding influences which
swoop down upon his life and
overpower it for good, to the printed
pages of some virile author, yet we
often find in actual life that the
influence of man on man, more
especially of man on youth, is incal-
culable. Now and then, even a stray
thought, uttered in a nonchalant
manner, has immense power over
the future years of the listener.*

* We need hardly say that, in spite of the truth
contained in it, we do not altogether agree with
Douglas Jerrold's saying that nothing is so bene-

BEHIND THE SCENES. 201

It is said that Whittier, the
American poet, still dwells upon the
singular pleasure he got out of the
first sight of his poems printed in
the ** Poet's Corner " of the county
newspaper which belonged to Wil-
liam Lloyd Garrison. That Garri-
son also found pleasure in them is
evident from the following, for which
we are indebted to Whittier's bio-
grapher, Francis H. Underwood :

'' One day, when he was hoeing in
the corn-field in the summer of 1826,
word came that a carriage had driven
up to the house, and that the visitor
had inquired for one John Greenleaf
Whittier. The youth hastened to-
wards the house in great astonishment,
and entered the back-door because
he was not presentable, having on
neither coat, waistcoat, nor shoes —

ficial to a young author as the advice of a man
whose judgment stands continually at freezing
point.

202 BEHIND THE SCENES.

only a shirt, pantaloons, and straw-
hat. Who could have driven out to
see him ? After being shod and
apparelled, his heart still in a flutter,
he appeared before the stranger, who
proved to be Garrison. The good
sister Mary, it appeared, had re-
vealed the secret of the authorship
of the poems, and the generous
young editor had come from New-
buryport on a friendly visit. We
can imagine how the praise affected
the poet ; for the manner and tones
of Garrison were always hearty, and
often very tender, and conveyed
an impression of absolute sincerity.
His position as editor gave weight
also to his words. To be sure, the
Free Press was a local newspaper,
and in one sense obscure ; but it
was conducted with ability and
conscience, and it reached the best
readers in the county. For a young
man who had never left his father's

BEHIND THE SCENES. 203

farm this was a recognition unex-
pected and overwhelming. It was a
ghmpse of fame.

*' The father was called in, and the
prospects of the son discussed — the
father remonstrating against ' put-
ting notions in his son's head.' With
warm words Garrison set forth the
capabilities which the early verses
indicated, and urged that the youth
be sent to some public institution for
such a training as his talents de-
manded. This clear and intelligent
counsel made a deep impression,
although at first the obstacles seemed
insuperable. The father had not the
money for the purpose ; the farm did
not produce more than enough for
the necessary expenses of the family.
But the son pondered upon the
matter, and determined to make
every effort to secure a higher and
more complete education. A way
was opened for him that very year —

204 BEHIND THE SCENES.

not by charity or loan, but by the
labour of his own hands. A young
man, who worked for the elder
Whittier on the farm in summer,
used to make ladies' shoes and
slippers during the winter. Seeing
the desire of young Whittier to earn
money for his schooling, he offered
to instruct him in the * mystery.'
The youth eagerly accepted the offer,
and during the following season he
earned enough to pay for a suit of
clothes and for his board and tuition
for six months.''

Whilst in Edinburgh Burns was
invited to the house of Dr. Adam
Ferguson to meet some celebrated
men of letters and science. In one
of the rooms he found a picture of a
dead soldier in the snow, with his
widow and child on one side, and his
dog on the other. He was so touched
by this picture that he wept. Beneath
the print were some lines, and, turn-

BEHIND THE SCENES. 205

ing to the company, he asked whose
they were. No one seemed to know ;
but at last a lame boy of sixteen said
they were by Langhorne, and men-
tioned the poem from which they
were taken. Burns, fixing a look of
half-serious interest on the youth,
said: ''You'll be a man yet, sir!"
The boy was Walter Scott, and he
always remembered the incident with
pleasure.

In the spring of 1787 Burns and
Professor Stewart sometimes went
out walking in the morning on the
Braid Hills which overlook Edin-
burgh. The Professor, speaking of
the poet, says that on these occasions
*' he charmed me still more by his
private conversation than he had
ever done in company." Once when
they were admiring the distant pro-
spect, Burns told his companion
'* that the sight of so many smoking
cottages gave a pleasure to his mind

2o6 BEHIND THE SCENES.

which none could understand who
had not witnessed, like himself, the
happiness and the worth they con-
tained."*

Of a surety, as Mr. Strachey says
in his Introduction to the Mermaid
edition of Beaumont and Fletcher, '* in

* Ruskin writes of the Savoyard peasants, in an
altogether different mood, inhis Alodern Painters.
** Is it not," he queries, "strange to reflect, that
hardly an evening passes in London or Paris, but
one of those cottages is painted for the better
amusement of the fair and idle, and shaded with
pasteboard pines by the scene-shifter ; and that
good and kind people — poetically minded — delight
themselves in imagining the happy life led by
peasants who dwell by Alpine fountains, and kneel
to crosses upon peaks of rock ? that nightly we
lay down our gold, to fashion forth simulacra of
peasants, in gay ribands and white bodices, singing
sweet songs, and bowing gracefully to the pictur-
esque crosses? And all the while the veritable
peasants are kneeling songlessly, to veritable
crosses, in another temper than the kind and fair
audiences deem of, and assuredly with another
kind of answer than is got out of the opera
catastrophe."

" All testifies that (to the Savoyard peasant) the
world is labour and vanity ; that for him neither
flowers bloom, nor birds sing, nor fountains glisten ;
and that his soul hardly differs from the gray cloud
that coils and dies upon his hills, except in having
no fold of it touched by the sunbeams. "

BEHIND THE SCENES. 207

the whole range of English literature,
search it from Chaucer till to-day,
there is no figure more fascinating or
more worthy of attention than * the
mysterious double personality ' of
Beaumont and Fletcher."

Of the life that Beaumont and
Fletcher led in London while work-
ing together we know nothing that is
positive, and so our imagination has
free scope to give them what meet-
ings we may in the shape of confer-
ences of friendly aid, by suggestion
or by absolute work. Speculation,
however rife, will never be able to
say, whilst pointing its finger at their
plays, that this thought or that ex-
pression came from the one or the
other ; and so we are content to
leave it.

Referring to their friendship with
another notable writer of plays,
Dryden, in his Essay of Dramatic
Poetry y says : *' Beaumont especially

2o8 BEHIND THE SCENES.

being so accurate a judge of plays,
Ben Jonson, while he lived, sub-
mitted all his writings to his censure,
and, 'tis thought, used his judgment
in correcting, if not in contriving, all
his plots. What value he had for
him appears by the verses he wrote
to him, and therefore I need speak
no further of it." How deep the
truth lies in this statement it is diffi-
cult to determine nowadays ;* and
we are all too busy just at present
endeavouring to prove that Bacon
was Shakespeare and Shakespeare
nobody, to bother about such a
minor matter as that of Beaumont
instructing Ben Jonson what to put
into his plays, and how to put it.
We are not, however, too busy to

* "Nor is it possible for me to go into the in-
teresting facts which seem to show that it was
through a common friendship with Ben Jonson,
perhaps through a kindred admiration for the
poet's masterpiece, Volpone, to which play both
contributed commendatory verses, that the com-
rade poets first became acquainted." — J. St. Loe
Strachey,

BEHIND THE SCENES. 209

remember that *' rare Ben " once
shouted '' Boo " to a goose !

There is less mystery about the
literary partnership of Addison and
Steele. The story of their work in
the periodicals in which, as Mr.
Morley says, the people of England
learned to read, is now embedded in
our literature. When Steele, on the
completion of the last paper of the
seventh volume of the Spectator, made
mention of those who had assisted
him in keeping up the spirit of his
*' long and approved performance," he
gave an especial place to Addison,
" the gentleman of whose assistance
I formerly boasted in the preface and
concluding leaf of my Tatlers,'" '* I
am, indeed," continued Steele, *' much
more proud of his long -continued
friendship than I should be of the
fame of being thought the author of
any writings which he himself is
capable of producing. I remember

14

210 BEHIND THE SCENES.

when I finished The Tender Husband
I told him there was nothing I so
ardently wished as that we might
sometime or other publish a work
written by us both, which should bear
the name of The Monument, in memory
of our friendship."

What more enduring monument
to their friendship could possibly
have been erected than the seven
volumes of the Spectator ?

The tale of the literary partnership
of Mr. Walter Besant and the late
James Rice has been told by the
former in his preface to the library
edition of Ready-Money Mortihoy. It
appears that Mr. Besant went to
the office of Once-a-Week to secure
remuneration for an article of his
which had appeared in its pages, as
well as to obtain some kind of an
explanation of a number of exasperat-
ing mistakes which had found their
way into it as it stood in print. Mr.

BEHIND THE SCENES, 211

Besant says he found the editor
** a friendly and pleasant creature,
anxious to set himself right " with
him. This *' friendly and pleasant
creature " was James Rice, who
ultimately joined energies with Mr.
Besant ; and, as a result, we have
that brilliant series of novels with
which their names will be lovingly
associated for many a year to come.

The story of the authorship of The
Gilded Age, the joint production of
Charles Dudley Warner and '* Mark
Twain," is thus related : The two
men were one day strolling together
in the garden of which Warner has
written so pleasantly in My Summer
in a Garden, when Clemens suggested
that they should jointly write a bur-
lesque of the popular American novel.
It was agreed upon, and the work
commenced at once; but after four
chapters had been written, they de-
cided that the subject would not

14 — 2

212 BEHIND THE SCENES.

admit of such extended treatment,
and proposed to make the work a
regular story, each writing a chapter
alternately, until it was finished.

A hand that has promptly followed
a teeming brain, and done good work
in literature, can, it need hardly be
said, do further good work in the
same cause by helping to lift up a
struggling brother of the pen to his
proper standing-place in the republic
of letters. And yet how many have
had to bury their good-nature and
smother their brotherly feeling at the
recollection of the efforts of this kind
which have been wasted in the past !
In literature, alas ! the old story of
the ugly duckling is reversed ; instead
of the much-abused duckling turning
out to be the proverbial swan, the
would-be swan generally proves to be
a little fool of a duck, and a poor
thing at that. Of course, there are
exceptions, and now and then one

BEHIND THE SCENES. 213

actually does find that the writer who
starts in a heavy, elephantine manner
has, after all, genius of a kind at
bottom, and ultimately does work of
which the world is genuinely proud ;
but far oftener our attention is drawn
to a showy dashing character, spark-
ling with affected Bohemianism, and
of doubtful morals, loose collar, glib
tongue, and self-assumed genius, who
soon gets wiped off the literary record
as a failure and a fraud. Too often,
the fixed star proves to be but a
'* farthing rush-light."

If a successful literary man does
seriously wish to turn from his course
and live a life of self-sacrifice, let him
be advertised as of a friendly dis-
position and wiUing to teach others
the secret of success in letters. Let
him distribute broadcast scraps of
his autobiography, bristling with tales
(they needn't be too true !) of the
monetary reward of literary produc-

214 BEHIND THE SCENES.

tions — novels, poems (poems especi-
ally !), theological treatises (certainly!),
heart-confessions, etc., etc. — and his
life-work will make rapid descent
upon him. He may build barns
round about his great estate, window-
blinded after the style of lawyers*
offices and banks, one blind marked
"Poems Religious," another ** Poems
Sentimental," and so on ; and the
manuscripts which shall flood in upon
him for his ** considerate perusal,"
''confidential advice," ''friendly help
in publishing," and " brotherly sym-
pathy and tears," shall so fill his
barns that, unless his years have
promise of being unduly prolonged
to seventy times three-score and ten,
he had better insure the premises, set
fire to the whole concern, and then,
like the foolish man in the Scriptures,
arise and build on a more ambitious
scale. He should have estimates sent
him from manufacturing stationers

BEHIND THE SCENES. 215

for the wholesale supply of all kinds
of necessary material. Talk about a
life of self-denial ! that of the veriest
pillar-poser of ascetic ages would fade
into foolishness and bye-wordism
compared with his !

Beware, then, O sane reader, of
ever encouraging a man in scribbling !
Flee rather for peace to the uncanny
wilds of the land of She. Many a
dabbler in unholy mysteries hath
before now raised a throng of devils
about him that would not be dis-
pelled, but, hanging on to the last,
have even danced upon the unfortu-
nate meddler's corpse.

Yet instances of timely assistance
stand out now and then, clean-cut
and definite, and laugh to scorn
the theories which tend to make
a man hesitate before giving his
assistance to the multiplying of
books, of which there is, verily, no
end.

21 6 BEHIND THE SCENES.

" I received one morning," said
Dr. Johnson, whilst speaking of the
Vicar of Wakefield, '' a message from
poor Goldsmith, that he was in great
distress, and, as it was not in his
power to come to me, begging that I
would come to him as soon as possible.
I sent him a guinea, and promised to
come directly. I accordingly went
as soon as I was drest, and found
that his landlady had arrested him
for his rent, at which he was in
a violent passion. I perceived that
he had already changed my guinea,
and had got a bottle of Madeira and
a glass before him. I put the cork
into the bottle, desired he would be
calm, and began to talk to him of the
means by which he might be extri-
cated. He then told me that he had
a novel ready for the press, which he
produced to me. I looked into it,
and saw its merit ; told the landlady
I should soon return, and, having

BEHIND THE SCENES. 217

gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty
pounds."

Later on, when in comparatively
easy circumstances, Goldsmith used
to give dinners to Johnson, Percy,
Reynolds, Bickerstaff, and other
friends of note, and supper-parties
to young folks of both sexes. Black-
stone, whose chambers were imme-
diately below Goldsmith's, was at
that time studiously occupied on his
Commentaries, and used to complain
of the racket made by his " revelling
neighbour."

We all know the story of the first
meeting of Thackeray and ** Currer
Bell," and the annoyance experienced
by the lady at the premature an-
nouncement that she wasn't a man
after all. W. D. Howells has told to
an interviewer the following story,
which forms a curious parallel, but
only inasmuch as it has to do with

2l8 BEHIND THE SCENES.

another discovery of female person-
ality under manly disguise: ** My first
meeting with Miss Murfree (author
of The Prophet of the Great Smoky
Mountains) was," he said, ** very droll.
She had been writing for the A tlantic
Monthly a couple of years. One day
Osgood dropped in at my library.
' Craddock's in town,' said he ; * he
will dine with me to-night. Can't
you join us at dinner?' I told Osgood
I had an engagement for that night,
but would surely put in an appear-
ance, if only for a few minutes. You
see, it had never occurred to any of
us that * Craddock ' was not a man,
and I had often given free rein to my
fancy in imagining how he would look
and act. After Osgood left me he
hunted up Aldrich, and told him
about it, and Aldrich said nothing
but death would prevent him being
present, for if there was one man in
the world he wanted to see it was

BEHIND THE SCENES. 219

Craddock. Then Osgood told Law-
rence Barrett about it, and Barrett
promised to be there too. It so hap-
pened that I was the first of the men
to arrive, I saw two strange ladies
in the drawing-room, but no Crad-
dock. Osgood enjoyed my disap-
pointment a moment, and then he
said : ' Mr. Howells, let me present
you to Miss M. N. Murfree, whom
we all know as Charles Egbert Crad-
dock.' The other lady was Miss
Murfree's sister. Of course, I was
greatly surprised, and they all laughed
heartily at my confusion. There was
more laughter when Aldrich came
in, and then we waited to see how
Barrett would take it. I think he
was the most nonplussed man I ever
saw ; he could do nothing for a few
moments but grin — yes, actually grin !
Think of it ! that model of elegance
and dignity grinning ! But he did it,
and he stammered and hesitated so

220 BEHIND THE SCENES.

when he attempted to speak, that the
entire party roared until their sides
ached."

Dickens, in the Memoir prefixed to
Adelaide Procter's Legends and Lyrics ^
relates the following incident :

*' Happening one day to dine with
an old and dear friend, distinguished
in literature as * Barry Cornwall,' I
took with me an early proof of the
Christmas number of Household
Words, entitled The Seven Poor Tra-
vellers, and remarked, as I laid it on
the drawing-room table, that it con-
tained a very pretty poem, written
by a certain Miss Berwick. Next
day brought me a disclosure that I
had so spoken of the poem to the
mother of the writer, in the writer's
presence ; that I had no such corre-
spondent in existence as Miss Ber-
wick ; and that the name had been
assumed by Barry Cornwall's daugh-
ter. Miss Adelaide Anne Procter !"

BEHIND THE SCENES. 221

The secret of the authorship of the
Waverley Novels was well kept by
Scott for some time. Procter re-
lates the following instance to show
the power of self-command pos-
sessed by Scott. It occurred at a
breakfast in Haydon's studio.
*' Charles Lamb and Hazlitt and
various other people were there, and
the conversation turned on the
vraisemblance of certain dramatis per-
soncB in a modern book. Sir Walter's
opinion was asked. ' Well,' replied
he, * they are as true as the per-
sonages in Waverley and Guy Man-
nering are, I think.' This was long
before he had confessed that he was
the author of the Scotch novels, and
when much curiosity was alive on
the subject. I looked very steadily
into his face as he spoke, but it did
not betray any consciousness or sup-
pressed humour. His command of
countenance was perfect."

VIII.

NOT THROUGH INTELLECT
ALONE.

** So let me sing of names remembered^

Because they^ living noty can ne'er be dead.'"'
William Morris: " The Earthly Paradise. "

Some remarkable interviews took
place between Goethe and Schiller.
When they first made each other's
personal acquaintance, Schiller was
not altogether favourably impressed
by Goethe, whose flow of brilliant
talk of Italy, travelling, art, and a
thousand - and - one other subjects
rather oppressed the younger poet.
And besides, Schiller's views on
some of these topics were out of

NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE. 223

sympathy with Goethe's, and yet he
knew not how to contradict him.
Of this interview Schiller writes to
Korner in 1788 : *' At last I can tell
you about Goethe, and satisfy your
curiosity. . . . On the whole, I must
say that my great idea of him is not
lessened by this personal acquaint-
ance ; but I doubt whether we shall
ever become intimate. Much that to
me is of great interest he has already
lived through; he is, less in years
than in experience and self-culture,
so far beyond me, that we can never
meet on the way ; his whole being is
originally different from mine, his
world is not my world, our concep-
tions are radically different. Time
will show."

And time did show, and drew
these two men together by great
bonds of friendship — so great, that
when news of Schiller's death came
to the Goethe household, no one had

224 NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE.

heart stout enough to tell it to the
master. He, however, suspected
something, and said :

*' Ah, I see ; Schiller must be very
ill."

After a night, in which he was
heard weeping bitterly, he arose and
said to a friend :

" Is it not true that Schiller was
very ill yesterday ?"

For reply he had nothing but
sobs.

'' He is dead !" murmured Goethe.

'* You have said it," was the sob-
bing answer.

'' Dead !" repeated Goethe. '' He
is dead /" and he covered his face
with his hands.

Subsequently he confessed to a
friend that he felt as if half his exist-
ence had been ruthlessly torn from
him. His diary at the time was left
a blank, the white pages intimating
the vacancy of his life.

NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE. 225

Years afterwards, whilst on a visit
with Eckermann to the pleasant little
arbour at Jena, where he and his
dead friend used to sit and talk, he
said :

" Here it was that Schiller dwelt.
In this arbour, upon these benches,
which are now almost broken, we
have often passed the hours ; at this
old stone table we have often ex-
changed many good and great words.
He was then in the thirties, I in the
forties ; both were full of high aspira-
tions, and, indeed, it was something
to speak about. Everything passes
away ; I am no more what I was ;
but the old earth remains, and air,
water, and land are still the same."

'' No two men," said Carlyle,
speaking of Goethe and Schiller,
**both of exalted genius, could be
possessed of more different sorts of
excellence. . . . The English reader
may form some approximate esti-

15

226 NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE.

mate of the contrast by figuring an
interview between Shakespeare and
Milton. How gifted ; how diverse
in their gifts ! The mind of the one
plays calmly, in its capricious and
inimitable graces, over all the pro-
vinces of human interest ; the other
concentrates powers as vast, but far
less various, on a few subjects. The
one is catholic ; the other sectarian.
Goethe is endowed with an all-com-
prehending spirit ; skilled, as if by
personal experience, in all the modes
of human passion and opinion ; there-
fore tolerant of all, peaceful, collected,
fighting for no class of men or ideas.
Schiller is earnest, devoted ; struggling
with a thousand mighty projects of
improvement ; feeling more intensely
as he feels more narrowly ; rejecting
vehemently, choosing vehemently ;
at war with the one half of things, in
love with the other half ; hence dis-
satisfied, impetuous, without internal

NOT THRO UGH INTELLECT A LONE. 227

rest, and scarcely conceiving the pos-
sibility of such a state."

For lovers of books I can think
of no more pleasing interview than
that w^hich took place between
Petrarch and Richard de Bury.
Petrarch was not only a poet ; he
was a lover of books, and in his way
a great collector. De Bury's book-
loving and book-collecting propen-
sities were very pronounced, as we
all know. What common ground,
then, for conversation ! How De
Bury's eyes must have glistened, and
his heart warmed, as Petrarch ex-
hibited his precious manuscripts one
after the other ! Petrarch, by the
way, was too good-natured by far;
his books were always at the service
of his friends, and, although some
were returned in due course, others
got astray in a mysterious fashion.
A magnificent manuscript of Cicero's
De Gloria was even pawned by

15—2

228 NOT THRO UGH INTELLECT A LONE.

one who had borrowed it of the
poet.

But ^tis to the friendship which
existed between Petrarch and Boc-
caccio that we turn our broadest
human sympathies. Francis Hueffer,
in an article entitled A Literary
Friendship of the Fourteenth Century^
gives us a pleasing account of how
the inner life of the one was bound
to that of the other. They seem
both to have had an early experience
of failure in things worldly, which
really has not been phenomenal with
men of genius through the ages.
Petrarch was the son of a notary,
and Boccaccio of a merchant ; and
they were both brought up to the
fathers' callings. But neither of
them showed taste or talent for the
practical pursuits of life. Boccaccio's
master sent back his idle clerk in
despair after six years' apprentice-
ship, and an equal term spent by

NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE, 229

Petrarch in the study of the law was
counted by him as an utter and irre-
trievable loss of time.

Their friendship, when it came
about later in their lives, had nothing
hollow and mocking about it. The
power and purse of each were at the
command of the other to use as he
would. For our present purpose,
however, we must pass the years by
until they bring us to the messenger
Boccaccio, visiting Petrarch with
complimentary offers from Florence
of a chair in the University. '' Boc-
caccio remained with Petrarch,"
says Mr. Hueffer, ''for some time,
and the account he has given of his
visit conveys a pleasant idea of the
genial, unceremonious intercourse of
the two friends. Even for such a
guest Petrarch would not interrupt
his studies, and Boccaccio himself
began at once to copy the most im-
portant works of his friend, the pos-

230 NOT THROUGH INTELLECT ALONE.

session of which had been the goal
of his wishes for a long time. But
after their work, in the evenings, the
two friends used to meet in a little
orchard, beautiful with the blossoms
of spring, and communicate to each
other the ideas nearest and dearest
to their hearts."

jgae sft^eftg

IX.

CAMPING OUT.

"... thi fires of vagabondage which smoulder
beneath fp.e surface of most men^s conventionalisms —
which mo'intain and river and winds had liberated
and fanmd. . . . Deep in our hearts we hide
the diminished fiame^ and brood above it with
memories tf forest and mere,'^ — J. Chapman
Woods.

Whittie^i gives us an attractive
picture in his poem, The Tent on thc
Beach, of three Hterary friends, who

*' When he£ts as of a tropic clime

Burned ill our inland valleys through,
* « * * «

Pitched their white tents where sea-winds
blew.

' They rested there, escaped awhile
From carei that wear the life away,
To eat the lous of the Nile

And drink he poppies of Cathay —

232 CAMPING OUT.

To fling their loads of custom down,
Like diift-weed on the sand-slopes iDrown,
And in the sea-waves drown the restless pack
Of duties, claims, and needs that barked upon their
track."

These three friends, Whittier, Fields,
and Bayard Taylor, have quite a
Bohemian time of it, hearing

" The bells of morn and night
Swing, miles away, their silver speecli."

Our readers — at least, the few of
them who know not Whittier — must
go to the poem for the stories; just
here the Quaker-poet shall give us
only the portraits of the *' com-
panions three " :

" One,* with his beard scarce sihered, bore
A rea.Iy credence in his looks,
A lettered magnate, lording o'er

An ever-widening realm of >ooks.
In him brain-currents, near aai far,
Converged as in a Leyden jar;
The old. dead authors thronged hm round about,
And Elzevir's gray ghosts from leathern graves
looked out.

" Pleasant it was to roam about

The lettered world as hertad done,

* J. T. I

CAMPING OUT. 233

And see the lords of song without

Their singing robes and garlands on :
With Wordsworth paddle Rydal mere,
Taste rugged Elliott's home-brewed beer,
And with the ears of Rogers at fourscore,
Hear Garrick's buskined tread and Walpole's wit
once more."

Whittier draws his own picture :

" And one there was a dreamer born,

Who, with a mission to fulfil.

Had left the Muses' haunts to turn

The crank of an opinion mill,
Making his rustic reed of song
A weapon in the war with wrong,
Yoking his fancy to the breaking plough
That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring
and grow.

" For while he wrought with strenuous will
The work his hands had found to do.
He heard the fitful music still

Of winds that out of dreamland blew.
The din about him could not drown
What the strange voices whispered down ;
Along his task-field weird processions swept,
The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped.

" The common air was thick with dreams —
He told them to the toiling crowd ;
Such music as the woods and streams
Sang in his ear he sang aloud."

Bayard Taylor was the

" One whose Arab face was tanned
By tropic sun and boreal frost.
So travelled there was scarce a land
Or people left him to exhaust,

234 CAMPING OUT.

In idling mood had from him hurled
The poor squeezed orange of the world,
And in the tent-shade, as beneath a palm,
Smoked, cross-legged like a Turk, in Oriental
calm.

" The very waves that washed the sand

Below him he had seen before

Whitening the Scandinavian strand

And sultry Mauritanian shore.
From ice-rimmed isles, from summer seas,
Palm -fringed, they bore him messages ;
He heard the plaintive Nubian songs again.
And mule-bells tinkling down the mountain-paths
of Spain."

'^imL^tm^^^^^mm^

im :s^

X.

A PASSING GLIMPSE.

** I yield the palm to no man's love I but others
loved thee fir St. ^''

I WONDER what particular associa-
tions were present in the mind of
Hawthorne, as he strolled about
London with his friend Bennock in
search of Johnson's old haunts !
Were the worthy doctor's pompous
phrases coursing through his mind ?*
or did he recollect the fact that one

* "A fine day," said Sir Joshua Reynolds to
Dr.- Johnson.

" Sir," he answered, ** it seems propitious, but
the atmosphere is humid and the skies are nebu-
lous."

Any recorded conversations with Johnson always
make me think of the interesting question of the
languid young lady who wished to ring the tea-

236 A PASSING GLIMPSE.

night in particular Savage and
Johnson walked round and about St.
James's Square for want of a lodging,
and were not at all depressed at
their situation, but, in high spirits
and brimful of patriotism, traversed
the square for several hours ? Only
a few years after this homeless night,
and Johnson stood, a literary Colos-
sus, on the enduring pedestal of fame,
and Savage, a murderer and a pro-
fligate, ended his miserable career in
Bristol gaol.

But Boswell, as leader of all writers
on Johnson, has done his work so

bell. " If I agitate the communicator," she asked,
"will the domestic appear ?"

The following is certainly an excellent imitation
of the style of the worthy doctor :

" What is a window ?" asked an earnest seeker
after knowledge.

" A window, sir," replied Johnson, ** is an orifice
cut out of an edifice for the introduction of illu-
mination."

** Thank you; will you be good enough to snuff
the candle?"

" Sir, you ought rather to say, deprive that
luminary of its superfluous eminence."

A PASSING GLIMPSE. 237

thoroughly that it were folly for us
to repeat here any of the well-known
stories of the great man which have
become embedded in our literature.
And, besides, an oak-tree is out of
place in the tiny beds of a close-cut
lawn. Dwarf plants should be there,
with an occasional rose-bush, making
bright bits of colour, and filling the
air with sweet scents. Let the big
tree flourish in some neighbouring
field, where it has room to throw out
its mighty roots and branches !

Shelley certainly is not one of our
oak-trees of literature ; but, thanks
to the present revival of interest in
him, both as a man and a poet,
his personality has become so pro-
nounced that we all know him —
some will perhaps have it, even
better than he knew himself — and
so we linger here but for a moment
to bestow on him a passing look of
sad farewell. In spirit we bend

238 A PASSING GLIMPSE.

our heads with Byron, Hunt, and
Trelawny* over the body of the dead
poet, lying on the Tuscan coast,
about to be reduced to ashes. '* A
furnace was provided, of iron bars
and strong sheet-iron, with fuel,
and frankincense, wine, salt and
oil, the accompaniments of a Grecian
cremation : the volume of Keats was
burned along with the body. It was
a glorious day, and a splendid pros-
pect — the cruel and calm sea before,
the Apennines behind. A curlew
wheeled close to the pyre, screaming,
and would not be driven away ; the
flame arose golden and towering."
And so we pass on, with chastened
soul and sad heart, leaving Hunt
and Byron behind. The world has
been robbed of a dreamer !

* " To hear Trelawny speak of Shelley," said
Swinburne, " is beautiful and touching ; at that
name his voice (usually that of an old sea-king, as
he is) always changes and softens unconsciously.
•There,' he said to me, 'was the very best of
men, and he was treated as the very worst.' "

»:^i?i^^^;?|^€-

XI.
A GIANT IN THE PATH.

* ' In the centre of all, a7id object of all, stands
the Human Being, towards whose heroic and
spiritual evolution poems a7id everything directly
or indirectly tend,'''' — Walt Whitman.

The grim persistency of Carlyle —
the dogged determination which
enabled him to overcome obstacles
which would have taken the life out
of most men, appears to have been
in a measure characteristic of the
Carlyle family. In his Reminiscences,
of Carlyle^ Mr. A. J. Symington tells
the following story, which w^ill speak
for itself :

*' While walking in Rotten Row,
he (Carlyle) told me hov^ his brother

240 A GIANT IN THE PATH.

John, who had been twenty years in
Italy, as physician to the Duke of
Buccleuchjhad amassed an enormous
amount of Dante material towards
executing a prose translation. For
long he had unsuccessfully urged his
brother to set about it ; but, urge
and progue as he would, he could
not get him to begin. So he resolved
on trying quite another plan, and
bethought him of the man who was
driving pigs to Killarney, and who
told his friend to hush and speak low,
for the pigs thought he wanted them
to go the other way. This story he
told with great animation, standing
still the while, and acting it inimit-
ably, saying, after he had finished :
' That is how I got John to begin his
translation, and thus it came about.
One day said I : ** John, man, if I
were in your shoes, I would get quit
of that Dante business, which hangs
about your neck like a dead albatross.

A GIANT IN THE PATH. 241

Cast it away from you, and give up
all thought of ever translating Dante.
If you had been a young man, you
might have looked forward to over-
taking it ; but now you are too old.
Read and enjoy yourself, and bother
your head no more about Dante." '

*' The steel struck fire," said
Carlyle, ** as was intended. John
exclaimed : ' Me too old I I'm nothing
of the kind !' And, so, forthwith, he
set to work, and produced one of
the very best translations of Dante
to be found anywhere."

When Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen
visited Turgenieff in Paris some
years ago, they fell talking of Carlyle.
Turgenieff related that once he visited
the Chelsea sage, and found him
loud in his denunciation of democ-
racy, and very unreserved in his
expression of sympathy with Russia
and her Emperor.

** This grand moving of great

16

242 A GIANT IN THE PATH.

masses swayed by one powerful hand,
brings/* he said, *' uniformity and
purpose into history. In a country
like Great Britain, it was wearisome
to see how every petty individual
could thrust forth his head, like a
frog out of its swamp, and croak
away at his contemptible sentiment
as long as anybody had a mind to
listen to him. Such a state of things
could only result in confusion and
disorder."

Turgenieff told Carlyle in reply
that he should only ask him to go to
Russia and spend a month or two in
one of the interior governments, just
long enough to observe with his own
eyes the effect of this much-admired
despotism. Then, he thought, he
would need no word of his to convince
him.

One day Carlyle met Browning,
and wished to say something pleasant
about The Ring and the Book; but

A GIANT IN THE PATH. 243

somehow he got sadly mixed, with
the result that what he did say was
not entirely a compHment. ** It is a
wonderful book," he said ; *' one of
the most wonderful poems ever
written. I re-read it all through —
all made out of an Old Bailey story,
that might have been told in ten
lines, and only wants forgetting."

16 — 2

XII.

"FOUND AGAIN IN THE
HEART OF A FRIEND."

" Perhaps the best of a song heard ^ or of any and
all true love^ or life's fai?'est episodes, or sailor s\
soldiers trying scenes on la?td or sea, is the floating
resume of them, or any of thefn, long afterwards,
looking at the actualities away back past, with all
their practical excitations gone. How the soul
loves to hover over such reminiscences /" — Walt
Whitman.

Most of us know that charming
little poem of Longfellow's — The
A rrow and the Song :

" I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth I knew not where ;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

" I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where ;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song ?

''IN THE HEART OF A FRIEND.'' 245

*' Long, long afterwards, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke ;
And the song from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend."

What pleasure a man like Words-
worth must have reaped when he
found any of his poetry embedded in
the memory of a friend !

Perhaps one of the most interest-
ing instances of finding one's words
in an unlooked-for quarter is the
following :

*' John Howard Payne, the author
of Home, Sweet Home, was a warm
personal friend of John Ross, who
will be remembered as the celebrated
chief of the Cherokees. At the time
the Cherokees were removed from
their homes in Georgia to their
present possessions west of the
Mississippi River, Payne was spend-
ing a few weeks in Georgia with
Ross, who was occupying a miserable
cabin, having been forcibly ejected
from his former home. A number

246 ''FOUND AGAIN IN

of the prominent Cherokees were
in prison, and that portion of Georgia
in which the tribe was located was
scoured by armed squads of the
Georgia miHtia, who had orders to
arrest all who refused to leave the
country. While Ross and Payne
were seated before the fire in the
hut, the door was suddenly burst
open and six or eight militiamen
sprang into the room. The soldiers
lost no time in taking their prisoners
away. Ross was permitted to ride
his own horse, while Payne was
mounted on one led by a soldier.
As the little party left the hovel, rain
began falling, and continued until
every man was drenched thoroughly.
The journey lasted all night. Towards
midnight, Payne's escort, in order to
keep himself awake, began humming
Home, Sweet Home, when Payne re-
marked :

" ' Little did I expect to hear that

THE HEART OF A FRIEND r 247

song under such circumstances, and
at such a time. Do you know the
author V

'' ' No,' said the soldier. ' Do
you ?"

" ' Yes,' answered Payne ; ' I com-
posed it.'*

" ' The devil you did ! You can
tell that to some fellows, but not
to me. Look here; you made that
song, you say. If you did — and I
know you didn't — you can say it all
without stopping. It has something
in it about pleasures and palaces.
Now, pitch in, and reel it off; and
if you can't, I'll bounce you from
your horse, and lead you instead of it.'

" The threat was answered by

* " Payne declared that he had heard the tune
of Home^ Sweet Home from the lips of a Sicilian
peasant girl, who sang it artlessly as she sold some
sort of Italian wares, and touched his fine ear by
the purity of her voice. It is pleasant to think he
did not crib it from an old opera, but had a certain
proprietorship in the air, as well as the words, of
the most popular song extant."

248 ' * FO UND A GA IN IN

Payne, who repeated the song in
a slow, subdued tone, and then sang
it, making the old woods ring with
the tender melody and pathos of the
words. It touched the heart of the
rough soldier, who was not only cap-
tivated but convinced, and who said
the composer of such a song should
never go to prison if he could help it.
And when the party reached Mil-
ledgeville, they were, after a pre-
liminary examination, discharged,
much to their surprise. Payne in-
sisted it was because the leader of
the squad had been under the mag-
netic influence of Ross's conversa-
tion, and Ross insisted that they had
been saved from insult and imprison-
ment by the power of Home, Sweet
Home, sung as only those who feel
can sing it. The friendship existing
between Ross and Payne endured
until the grave closed over the mortal
remains of the latter."

THE HEART OF A FRIEND." 249

" On my return home from Paris/'
writes Hans Christian Andersen, in
his Story of My Life, *' I went along
the Rhine ; I knew that in one of the
Rhine towns the poet FreiHgrath
Hved. The picturesque in his poems
pleased me very much, and I wished
to become acquainted with him. I
stopped in some towns on the Rhine,
and inquired after him ; in St. Goars
I was shown the house where he
lived. He was sitting at his writing-
table, and seemed annoyed at being
disturbed by a stranger. I told not
my name, but only that I could not
pass by St. Goars without paying
my respects to the poet FreiHgrath.
' That is very kind of you,' said he,
in a cold tone, and asked who I
was. When I replied : ' We both
have one and the same friend,
Chamisso,' he sprang up in an
ecstasy of joy. * Andersen !' he ex-
claimed ; 'it is!' He flung himself

250 ''IN THE HEART OF A FRIEND.''

on my neck, and his honest eyes
beamed, ' Now stay for some days
here,' said he. I told him that I
could stay only two hours, as I was
in company with countrymen who
were waiting for me. ' You have
many friends in little St. Goars,' said
he. * I have, a short time since, read
out to a great circle your novel of
O. F. One of these friends, how-
ever, I must fetch here, and you
must also see my wife. Ay, know
you not yet that you have had some
share in our marriage ?' And now
he told how my novel of Only a
Fiddler had brought them into a
correspondence by letter, and, eventu-
ally, into an acquaintance, which
ended in their becoming a married
couple. He called her, told her my
name, and I was considered as an
old friend."

XIII.

SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER
CAME.

*'^ And it passed over our heads on to the hatv-
thorn-bushes in the field across the brook.'''

In a list of interviews which should
have taken place I certainly would
include one between Tennyson and
Landor. The invitation of the latter,
which we cannot find was ever ac-
cepted, runs thus :

" I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have, too, a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There's a stock of it within.
And as sure as I'm a rhymer.
Half a butt of Rudesheimer.
Come ; among the sons of men is none
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson."

252 SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME,

Tennyson and Hawthorne should
also have enjoyed each other's spoken
word. It was a matter of regret
afterwards to both that one oppor-
tunity, at least, of so doing was
permitted to slip by. Hawthorne
thus mentions it : '* While I was
among the Dutch painters (at the
Manchester Exhibition of 1857),

accosted me. He told me

that the * Poet Laureate * (as he
called him) was in the Exhibition
rooms, and, as I expressed great
interest, was kind enough to go in
quest of him ; not for the purpose
of introduction, however, for he was
not acquainted with Tennyson. Soon

Mr. returned, and said he had

found the Poet Laureate, and going
into the saloon of the Old Masters,
we saw him there, in company with
Mr. Woolner. . . . Gazing at him
with all my eyes, I liked him well,
and rejoiced more in him than in all

SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME. 253

the wonders of the Exhibition. . . .
I would gladly have seen more of
this one poet of our day, but forbore
to follow him ; for I must own that it
seemed mean to be dogging him
through the saloons, or even to look
at him, since it was to be done
stealthily, if at all."

In his Yesterdays with Authors, J.
T. Fields refers to this same incident.
*' It was," he says, '' during one of his
rambles with Alexander Ireland
through the Manchester Exhibition
rooms that Hawthorne saw Tenny-
son wandering about. I have always
thought it unfortunate that these two
men of genius could not have been
introduced on that occasion. Haw-
thorne was too shy to seek an intro-
duction, and Tennyson was not aware
that the American author was present.
Hawthorne records in his journal that
he gazed at Tennyson with all his
eyes, * and rejoiced more in him than

254 SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME.

in all the other wonders of the Ex-
hibition.' When I afterwards told
Tennyson that the author whose
Twice-told Tales he happened to be
then reading at Farringford had met
him at Manchester, but did not make
himself known, the Laureate said in
his frank and hearty manner : ' Why
didn't he come up and let me shake
hands with him? I am sure I should
have been glad to meet a man like
Hawthorne anywhere.' "

When Samuel Rogers, the poet,
was a young man in his father's
bank, his spirit of hero-worship sug-
gested a visit to Dr. Johnson ; but,
on reaching his house in Bolt Court,
his courage forsook him as he was
about to lift the knocker.

In still more modern times I would
that Robert Buchanan had found
his way to Chelsea, and lifted the
knocker of a certain house wherein
dwelt Dante Gabriel Rossetti. We

SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME. 255

all know of the literary quarrel be-
tween these two authors, and the
tender verses Buchanan subsequently
penned to the poet-painter, followed
by that other lament after death had
closed his eyes.

What a meeting Hawthorne, with
the delicate kindliness of his nature,
has conjured up for us at the close of
his notice of Delia Bacon, whose
enthusiastic mind got disarranged
over her efforts to dethrone Shake-
speare in favour of Bacon, and who
ultimately became hopelessly insane !
'^ And when, not many months after
the outward failure of her life-long
object," he writes, '^she passed into
the better world, I know not why we
should hesitate to believe that the
immortal poet may have met her on
the threshold and led her in, re-
assuring her with friendly and com-
fortable words, and thanking her
(yet with a smile of gentle humour

256 SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME.

in his eyes at the thought of certain
mistaken speculations) for having
interpreted him to mankind so
well."*

* In a letter to Mary Cowden Clarke, con-
gratulating her on the completion of her Con-
cordance to Shakespeare^ Douglas Jerrold writes :
*' On your first arrival in Paradise you mu^t expect
a kiss from Shakespeare — even though your hus-
band should happen to be there." Some little
time after, in a brilliant article in Punch, on " The
Shakespeare Night " at Covent Garden Theatre,
which took place the 7th December, 1847, the
same delightful author, after describing the festive
happiness of the affair, proceeds : "At a few
minutes to seven, and quite unexpectedly, William
Shakespeare, with his wife, the late Anne Hatha-
way, drove up to the private box door, drawn by
Pegasus, for that night only appearing in harness.
. . . Shakespeare was received — and afterwards
lighted to his box — by his editors, Charles Knight
and Payne Collier, upon both of whom the poet
smiled benignly ; and saying some pleasant, com-
mendable words to each, received from their hands
their two editions of his immortality. And then
from a corner Mrs. Cowden Clarke, timidly, and
all one big blush, presented a play-bill, with some
Hesperian fruit (of her own gathering). Shake-
speare knew the lady at once ; and taking her
two hands, and looking a Shakespearian look into
her now pale face, said in tones of unimaginable
depth and sweetness, * But where is your book,
Mistress Mary Clarke ? Where is your Concord-
ance T And, again pressing her hands, with a
smile of sun-lighted Apollo, he said, * I pray you let

SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME. 257

Leigh Hunt liked to sum up in his
mind the famous authors who, with
hand clasped in hand, completed the
chain of genius for generations. It
was a subject which charmed him as
if he had been a witness to the pass-
ing of the mantle of Elijah on to the
shoulders of Elisha, or heard the
dread secrets which, of old, Archdruid
after Archdruid whispered to his
chosen successor.

*' It is a curious and pleasant
thing," says Hunt, ''to consider that
a link of personal acquaintance can
be traced from the authors of our
own times to those of Shakespeare,
and to Shakespeare himself. Ovid,

me take it home with me.' And Mrs. Clarke,
having no words, dropped the profoundest 'Yes,'
with knocking knees. * A very fair and cordial
gentlewoman, Anne,' said Shakespeare, aside to
his wife ; but Anne merely observed that ' It was
just like him ; he was always seeing something
fair where nobody else saw anything. The woman
— odds her life ! — was well enough.' And Shake-
speare smiled again."

17

258 SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME,

in recording his intimacy with Pro-
pertius and Horace, regrets that he
had only seen Virgil {First, Lib. iv.,
V. 51). But still he thinks the sight
of him worth remembering. And
Pope, when a child, prevailed on
some friends to take him to a coffee-
house which Dryden frequented,
merely to look at him, which he did
with great satisfaction. Now, such
of us as have shaken hands with a
living poet might be able to reckon
up a series of connecting shakes, to
the very hand that wrote of Hamlet,
and of Falstaff, and of Desdemona.

*' With some living poets, it is
certain. There is Thomas Moore,
for instance, who knew Sheridan.
Sheridan knew Johnson, who was
the friend of Savage, who knew
Steele, who knew Pope. Pope was
intimate with Congreve, and Con-
greve with Dryden. Dryden is said
to have visited Milton. Milton is

SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME. 259

said to have known Davenant, and
to have been saved by him from the
revenge of the restored court, in re-
turn for having saved Davenant from
the revenge of the Commonwealth.
But if the Hnk between Dryden and
Milton, and Milton and Davenant, is
somewhat apocryphal, or rather de-
pendent on tradition (for Richardson
the painter tells us the story from
Pope, who had it from Betterton the
actor^ one of Davenant's company),
it may be carried at once from
Dryden to Davenant, with whom he
was unquestionably intimate. Dave-
nant then knew Hobbes, who knew
Bacon, who knew Ben Jonson, who
was intimate with Beaumont and
Fletcher, Chapman, Donne, Drayton.
Camden, Seldon, Clarendon, Sidney,
Raleigh, and perhaps all the great
men of Elizabeth's and James's time,
the greatest of them all undoubtedl\\
Thus have we a hnk of ^ beamy

17 — 2

26o SUNSHINE WHICH NEVER CAME.

hands * from our own times up to
Shakespeare.

'* In this friendly genealogy we
have omitted the numerous side-
branches or common friendships. It
may be mentioned, however, in order
not to omit Spenser, that Davenant
resided some time in the family of
Lord Brooke, the friend of Sir Phillip
Sidney. Spenser's intimacy with
Sidney is mentioned by himself in
a letter, still extant, to Gabriel
Harvey."

XIV.
BY THE RIVER-SIDE.

" // is nothing strange that men who throw their
Jiies for trout should dream of it."" — W. C. Prime.

Who would not have gone a-fishing
with dear old Izaak Walton and his
friends, and been one in the quaint
and pleasing conversations which
took place between them ! But as
that has been denied us, we can still
be with them in spirit as they whip
the streams and talk.

** Venator. On my word, master,
this is a gallant trout. What shall we
do with him ?

" PiscATOR. Marry, e'en eat him
to supper. We'll go to my hostess.

262 BY THE RIVER-SIDE.

from whence we came. She told me
as I was going out of door that my
brother Peter, a good angler and a
cheerful companion, had sent word
he would lodge there to-night, and
bring a friend with him. My hostess
has two beds, and I know you and I
may have the best. We'll rejoice
with my brother Peter and his friend,
tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a
catch, or find some harmless sport to
content us, and pass away a little
time without offence to either God
or man.

" Venator. A match, good master.
Let*s go to that house, for the linen
looks white, and smells of lavender,
and I long to lie in a pair of sheets
that smell so. Let's be going, good
master, for I am hungry again with
fishing."

Before they return, however, Pis-
cator catches another logger-headed
chub, which he hangs on a willow

BY THE RIVER-SIDE. 263

twig, and then indulges in the follow-
ing observations, which are remark-
able for their charming simplicity,
and (to use Sir Walter Scott's ex-
pression) for their '* Arcadian lan-
guage " : ** Let's be going. But turn
out of the way a little, good scholar,
towards yonder high hedge. We'll
sit whilst this shower falls so gently
upon the teeming earth, and gives a
sweeter smell to the lovely flowers
that adorn the verdant meadows.
Look ! under that broad beech-^tree,
I sat down when I was last this way
a-fishing, and the birds in the adjoin-
ing grove seemed to have a friendly
contention with an echo, whose dead
voice seemed to live in a hollow cave
near to the brow of that primrose-
hill : there I sat viewing the silver
streams glide silently towards their
centre, the tempestuous sea ; yet
sometimes opposed by rugged roots,
and pebble-stones^ which broke their

264 BY THE RIVER -SIDE.

waves, and turned them into foam ;
and sometimes viewing the harmless
lambs, some leaping securely in the
cool shade, whilst others sported
themselves in the cheerful sun ; and
others were craving comfort from
the swollen udders of their bleating
dams. As I thus sat, these and other
sights had so fully possessed my soul
that I thought, as the poet has
happily expressed it,

*' * I was for that time lifted above earth ;

And possest joys not promis'd in my birth.'

"As I left this place and entered
into the next field, a second pleasure
entertained me. 'Twas a handsome
milkmaid, that had cast away all
care, and sung like a nightingale.
Her voice was good, and the ditty
fitted for it. 'Twas that smooth song
that was made by Kit Marlowe, now
at least fifty years ago, and the milk-
maid's mother sung an answer to it,
which was made by SirWalter Raleigh

BY THE RIVERSIDE. 265

in his younger days. They were old-
fashioned poetry, but choicely good.
I think much better than that now
in fashion in this critical age. Look
yonder, on my word, yonder they be
a-milking again. I will give her the
chub, and persuade them to sing
those two songs for us."

This dialogue then takes place
between Piscator and the milk-
woman :

'' Piscator. God speed, good
woman ! I have been a-fishing, and
am going to Bleak Hall to my bed ;
and having caught more fish than
will sup myself and friend, will bestow
this upon you and your daughter, for
I use to sell none.

'' MiLKWOMAN. Marry, God requite
you, sir ! and we'll eat it cheerfully ;
and if you come this way a-fishing
two months hence, a grace of God
I'll give you a sillabub of new verjuice
in a new-made haycock, and my

266 BY THE RIVER-SIDE.

Maudlin shall sing you one of her
best ballads, for she and I both love
all anglers, they be such honest, civil,
quiet men. In the meantime, will
you drink a draught of red cow's
milk. You shall have it freely ?

'' PiscATOR. No, I thank you ; but
I pray do us a courtesy that shall
stand you and your daughter in
nothing, and we will think ourselves
still something in your debt ; it is
but to sing us a song, that was sung
by you and your daughter when I
last passed over this meadow, about
eight or nine days since.

'' MiLKWOMAN. What song was it,
I pray ? Was it ' Come, shepherds,
deck your heads,' or ' As at noon
Dulcina rested,' or ' PhiHda flouts
me'?

" PiscATOR. No, it is none of
these; it is a song that your daughter
sung the first part, and you sung the
answer to it.

BY THE RIVERSIDE. 267

'' MiLKWOMAN. Oh, I know it
now ! I learned the first part in
my golden age, when I was about
the age of my daughter ; and the
latter part, which indeed fits me
best, but two or three years ago,
when the cares of the world began
to take hold of me ; but you shall,
God willing, hear them both. Come,
MaudHn, sing the first part to the
gentlemen with a merry heart, and I'll
sing the second when you have done."

And so the milkmaid sings, and is
answered by a song from her mother.
Piscator thanks them, but Venator
appears to have expressed his grati-
tude in a more affectionate manner
than his sedate companion approved
of, for his master observes: ** Scholar,
let Maudlin alone; do not offer to
spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes
my hostess to call us to supper.
How, now ? Is my brother Peter
come?"

268 BY THE RIVERSIDE.

'' Hostess. Yes; and a friend with
him. They are both glad to hear
you are in these parts, and long to
see you ; and are hungry, and long
to be at supper/'

Piscator and Venator then meet
** brother Peter," who introduces
them to Coridon, '* an honest coun-
tryman, a most downright, witty,
merry companion, that met me here
purposely to eat a trout, and to be
pleasant."

They sup of the trout which
Piscator had caught, with such other
meat as the house afforded, moist-
ening their cheer with '' some of the
best barley wine, the good liquor that
our good, honest forefathers did use
to drink of, which preserved their
health, and made them live so long,
and to do so many good deeds.'*

They then agree to sing several
songs and catches, which Venator
says '* shall give some addition of

BY THE RIVERSIDE. 269

mirth to the company, for we will be
merry;'* upon which Piscator ob-
serves, '* 'Tis a match, my masters ;
let's even say grace, and turn to the
fire, drink the other cup to wet our
whistles, and so sing away all sad
thoughts. Come on, my masters ;
who begins ? I think it's best to
draw cuts, and avoid contention."
The lot accordingly falls to Coridon,
who begins, for *' he hates conten-
tion." The song is much admired by
Piscator, who exclaims, '* Well sung,
Coridon ; this song was sung with
mettle, and was choicely fitted to
the occasion ; I shall love you for it
as long as I know you. I would you
were a brother of the angle ; for a
companion that is cheerful, and free
from swearing and scurrilous dis-
course, is worth gold. I love such
mirth as does not make friends
ashamed to look upon one another
next morning ; nor men (that cannot

270 BY THE RIVERSIDE,

well bear it) to repent the money
they spend when they be warmed
with drink. And take this for a rule,
you may pick out such times and
such companies that you may make
yourselves merrier for a little than
a great deal of money ; for 'tis the
company and not the charge makes
the feast. And such a companion
you prove ; I thank you for it. But
I will not compliment you out of the
debt that I owe you, and, therefore,
I will begin my song, and wish it
may be as well liked."

Piscator is also rewarded for his
song by the applause of his com-
panions : and, after the following
dialogue, they separate for the night -

** CoRiDON. Well sung, brother !
you have paid your debt in good
coin. We anglers are all beholden
to the good man that made this song.
Come, hostess, give us more ale, and
let's drink to him. And now let's

BY THE RIVERSIDE. 271

everyone go to bed, that we may
rise early ; but first let's pay our
reckoning, for I will have nothing
to hinder me in the morning, for my
purpose is to prevent the sun-rising.

" Peter. A match ! I know,
brother, you and your scholar will
lie together ; but where shall we
meet to-morrow night ? for my
friend Coridon and I will go up
the water towards Ware.

'* PiscATOR. And my scholar and
I will go down towards Waltham.

'* Coridon. Then let's meet here,
for here are fresh sheets that smell
of lavender ; and I am sure that we
cannot expect better meat, or better
usage, in any place.

'* Peter. 'Tis a match. Good-
night to everybody !"

F.liiot Stock, 62, Paternoster Kow, London.

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