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A General Survey of Modern History 


History in London 



. U 


. 22 


. 23 

Bollinger . 


Freeman . . . ' 

. 27 

Gardiner . . . ' 

. 37 


. 46 

Creighton . 


John Richard Green . 


Grant Allen 


Taine .... 


The Study of History in Universities 

. 80 

History for Boys 

. 95 



Napoleon ........ 99 

Joan of Arc .... 


Catherina Sforza 


Mary Queen op Scots and Knox 


Philip II of Spain 


Elizabethan Sailors . 


The Sidneys .... 


Ralegh . . 


DiGBY ..... 


Madame de Krudenbr . 






Pabthia 126 

Sicily ...... 


A Page of Byzantine History 


Mahomet ...... 


Saracens ...... 


Gierke: Mediaeval Theories 


The Mediaeval Jew .... 


St. Ignatius Loyola .... 


Portugal ...... 


Austria-Hungary .... 

. 151 

The Eenaissance .... 


Winchester .... 


The Georges .... 


Cardinal Wolsey's Hat 


An Aspect of the Eighteenth Century 


The Queen's Reign : a Survey 


Armenia ..... 


. 194 





Teutonic Heathendom . . . . .221 

Tradition and its Conditions 

. 242 

Beowulf ..... 

. 253 


. 254 

A Finnish Epic .... 

. 256 

The Kalevipoeg : Hero of Esthonia 

. 260 

GfsLi THE Outlaw 

. 262 



Some Words on Allegory in England 
Daniel Defoe .... 
Irish Influence on English Literature 
Meinhold ..... 
Turgueniev .... 



Swinburne ....... 

Kipling ........ 

The Real Emerson ...... 

Fairy Tales and Fairies . . . . . 

Miss Pamela Colman Smith's Drawings : a Personal 
Impression ....... 



John Ruskin 

Thoughts on Democracy 



The Grimms 


Richard Shute 
c. l. dodgson 
Gleeson White 









A Note on Omar 373 

Quatrains from Omar . 

. 379 

Lines after Omar 

. 384 

The two Tent-makers . 

. 385 

To Camoens 

. 386 

By the Graveside op James Sime 

. 386 

An Impression 

. 387 

Afternoon, Early November . 

. 388 

Ambleteuse : from an Album . 

. 388 

Ambleteuse .... 

. 389 

The Road to Ambleteuse 

. 389 

Ambleteuse looking Seaward 

. 390 

New Year, 1894 . 

. 391 

Weary Wood 

. 391 

Fragment . . . 

. 392 

At a Certain Auction in 1897 

. 393 

Regnante Carolo 

. 393 


. 394 




The Ballad of Sir Ogie ..... 395 

Ballad op Sigmund ...... 40O 

Icelandic Ballad-refrains ..... 407 

Icelandic Couplets and Ditties .... 408 

From the French, Thirteenth Century . . . 410 
From Gerald of Bornello: The Dawn-Song . .411 

From Giovanni Guidiccioni ..... 412 

From the * Romance del Marinero ' : Ballad of the 

Sailor-Lad and the Devil .... 413 

From Ronsard ....... 418 

From Verlaine : ' Le Ciel est par-dessus le toit ' . 414 

From Maeterlinck's ' Douze Chansons ' : The Last Words 414 

From Maeterlinck : The Pilgrim of Love . . . 415 

From A. Angellier : The Rose-Tree .... 416 

From Camille Mauclair's 'Sonatines d'Automne' . 416 

From the French of Paul Fort .... 417 

A Ballad of the Sea : a Song from the French of 

Paul Fort ....... 417 

From the Irish: The Queer Man .... 419 

The Dead Mother : from a Danish Ballad gathered 

BY E. T. Kristensen ..... 421 

INDEX 423 


Frederick York Powell, cet. 36 . . . Frontispiece 

From an oil painting by H. M. Paget. 

Facsimile of Signatures, . . . To face page 163 

Designs for Alphabet, by F. York Powel „ „ 367 

From Alphabets, by E. F. Strange, pp. 222-3. 

Facsimile of Handwriting . . . ,, ,, 414 

Verse translation from Verlaine. 


[This list includes a large number of Powell's signed or initialled 
reviews. Of his unsigned reviews it only names those that are reprinted 
partly or wholly in the present volumes. An asterisk * is affixed to writings 
of which he was part-author, a dagger f to articles, addresses, verses, 
Ac, from which reprints or extracts are made in these volumes, if. G.~ 
Manchester Guardian. P. M. 0.=^ Poll Mall Gazette.'] 


Early England up to the Norman Conquest. With four 
maps. (In Epochs of English History, edited by Bishop Creighton.) 
Longmans. 8vo. Fourteenth impression, 1902. 


*Sturlunga Saga, including the Islendinga Saga of 
Lawman Sturla Thordsson, and other works. Edited, with 
Prolegomena, Appendices, Tables, Indices, and Notes, by Dr. Gud- 
brand Vigfusson. Two vols. Clar. Press. 8vo. 

Powell's share is noted in the preface. See too App. A to our vol. i. 

^ 1881 

*An Icelandic Prose Reader, with Notes, Grammar, and 
Glossary, by Dr. Gudbrand Vigfusson and F. York Powell, M.A. 
Clar. Press. 8vo. 

Icelandic Literature and History and Language. {Encycl. Brit., 
vol. xii.) 


Old Stories from British History. {English History Reading 
Books.) Longmans. 8vo. Third and enlarged edition, 1885 ; new 
impression, 1903. 


♦Corpus Poeticum Boreale : the Poetry of the Old 
Northern Tongue from the earliest times to the thir- 
teenth CENTURY. Edited, classified, and translated, with In- 
troduction, Excursus, and Notes, by Gudbrand Vigfusson, M.A., and 
F. York Powell, M.A. Two vols. Clar. Press. 8vo. 

Specially signed by F. Y. P. or denoted as his are Introduction, 
§ 19, t ' The Translation, its Purport and Design ' (largely quoted in our 
vol. i, pp. 58-62) and ' A Note on Ballad Poetry,' Corpus, vol. i, pp. 503-7. 

A Few Notes on Sir Tristrem. {Englische Studien, vol. vi.) Henninger. 
Heilbronn. 8vo. 

♦Preface to Part I of the Subject Catalogue of the Oorford Union 
Society [C. Oman and F. Y. P.]. Oxford. 


Notes on Death and Liffe. {Englische Studien, vol. vii.) Henninger. 
Heilbronn. 8vo. 



History of England for the use of Middle Forms of 
Schools. Part I. From the Earliest Times to the Death of Henry VII. 
Rivingtons. 8vo. 

The work was transferred to Longmans, Green, & Co., on the cessa- 
tion of Kivingtons. Revised edition, 1898. The phrase ' for the use of 
Middle Forms of Schools ' was dropped out of the title in impressions 
later than 1899. New impression, 1902. Parts II and III, completing 
the Histoiy, were written by Prof. T. F. Tout. The three parts were 
also issued in one vol. 


♦Grimm Centenary : Sigfred-Arminius and other Papers. 
By Gudbrand Vigfusson, M.A., Isl., and F. York Powell, M.A., Brit. 
Clar. Press. 8vo. 

Contributions by F. Y. P. : VI. f The Ballad of Sir Ogie : VII. 
Traces of Old Law in the Eddie Lays : also f Epilogue in Oxford. 

Review of Michell's Histoty of the Scottish Expedition to Norway in 
1612. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. i, July.) 

Review of J. Parker's Early History of Oaford. {Acad., May 19, 


A Brief Statement of the Case for the Proposed Final School of 
Modem Language and Literature. Oxford. 

English History by Contemporary Writers [edited by 
F. Y. P.]. 

Eight volumes by various writers, with the same short introductory 
note, prefixed by the Editor to each. Extracts from the Chronicles, 
State Papers, and Memoirs of each Period, with Tables, Maps, Illustra- 
tions, &c. Nutt. 16°. 

Review of The Forty-sixth Annual Report of the Deputy-Keeper of the 
Public Records. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol, ii, Oct.) 


Review of The Tenth Report of the Histoncal MSS. Commissio7i 
Appendix. Part IV. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. iii, Jan.) 

Review of John Rhys's On the Origin and Groicth of Religion as 
illustrated by Celtic Heathendom. [Hibbert Lectures, 1886.] {Eng. 
Hist. Rev., vol. iii, July.) 

t Brief Memoir of Richard Shute, prefixed to R. Shute's Essay, 
On the History of the Process by which the Aristotelian Writings arrived 
at their present fonn. Clar. Press. 8vo. 

Sketches from British History for Standard IV. Long- 
mans. 8vo. 

Note on The Cliff of the Dead among Teutons. {Acad., Oct.) 
Syllabus for the Home Study of Dante. Third ed., 1891. Alden : 


A Northern Legend of the English Conquest. {Eng. Hist. Rev., 
vol. iv, Jan.) 


"t-Gudbrand Vigfiisson. (Acad., vol. xxxv, Feb. 25.) 

Review of Aldis Wriglit's edition of The Metrical Chronicle of 
Bobert of Gloucester. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. iv, April.) 

Reviews of J. W. Ebsworth's edition of The Roxburghe Ballads, 
parts xvi-xix. [Acad., April 18 and Aug. 28.) 

Review of A. Nutt's Studies of the Legends of the Holy Grail. {Acad., 
Aug. 14.) 

Syllabus for the Home Study of Shakespeare. Oxford. 


tReview of D. MacRitchie's Fians, Fairies, and Picts. {M. G., 
Jan. 12.) 

Review of C. F. Keary's Catalogue of English Coins in the British 
Museum {Anglo-Saxon Coins, vol. i). {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. v, Jan.) 

Review of Fencing, Boxing, Wrestling [by various authors] in The 
Badminton Library. {Oxf, Mag., March 5.) 

tTeutonic Heathendom. {In Religious Systems of the World. Swan 
Sonnenschein & Co.) 

A Lecture in South Place Institute. Eighth ed., 1905 (revised in 
one of the intervening editions.) 

Review of Toulmin Smith's and Paul Meyer's ed. of Les Contes de 
Bozon. {Acad., June 21.) 

Scottish History by Contemporary Writers [edited by F. Y. P.]. 
A series of four vols, by various writers, with editorial note, as in 
the companion series supra, English History by Contemporary Writers. 
Nutt. 16°. 

Prefatory Note to The Book of Los, by William Blake (1795). {The 
Century Guild Hobby Horse, No. 19, July.) 

Also Text of the poem, printed for first time by F. Y. P. See Memoir, 
vol. i, p. 133. 


Review of J. Rhys's and J. G. Evans's edition of The Text of the 
Bruts, from the Red Book of Hergest. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. vi, Jan.) 

tReview of L. A. Burd's edition of Machiavelli's II Principe. 
{Nat. Obs., Sept. 11.) 


Review of C. F. Keary's The Vikings in Western Christendom, 789- 
888. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. vii, Jan.) 

tReview of Villari's Life and Times of Machiavelli. {Nat. Obs., 
Feb. 6.) 

t The Late Professor Freeman : Impressions and Reminiscences by 
one of his Pupils. {St. James's Gaz., March 18.) 

t A Recollection of Professor Freeman. {Speaker, March 26.) 

Review of W. Foerster's and Johann Trost's edition of Wistasse le 
Maine. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. vii, July.) 

•tCauseries du Vendredi : No. VI. The Real Emerson. {The Spirit 
Lamp, vol. ii, No. 1, Oct. 2.) 



Review of F. Liebermann's Ueber ostenglische Geschichtsquellen des 
12., 13., 14. Jahtiiunderts, hesonde^'s den falschen Ingulf. {Eng. Hist. 
Rev., vol. viii, Jan.) 

Review of L. 0. Pike's edition of the Year Boohs of the Reign oj 
Edward III. Year XV. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. viii, Jan.) 

Review of F. Liebermann's Edition of Quadripartitus, ein englisches 
Rechtsbuch von 1114, nachgemesen und so tveit bisher ungedruckt. {Eng. 
Hist. Rev., vol. viii, April.) 

Review of Stopford Brooke's History of Early English Literature to 
the Accession of King Alfred. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. viii, Oct.) 

Review of Paul Meyer's VHistoire de Guillaume le Marechal, Comte 
de Striguil, et de Pembroke, Regent d^Angleterre de 1216 a 1219. Tome I. 
{Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. viii, Oct.) 

English History to the Death of John. {Special Courses Magazine of 
the National Home Reading Union, Dec. 1893— Jan. 1894.) 

Nine articles, reprinted in the same Magazine, Dec. 1897 to June 
1898, and again by the N. H. R. U. as Supplementary Course, No. 5. 

English History from the Death of John. (Ibid., Oct.— Nov. 1894.) 
Nine articles, reprinted ibid., Oct. — Nov. 1898, and again as Supple- 
mentary Course, No. 6. 


*The First Nine Books of the Danish History op Saxo 
Grammaticus, translated by Oliver Elton. With some Considera- 
tions ON Saxo's Sources, Historical Methods, and Folklore, 
by F. York Powell, M.A., F.S.A. Nutt. 8vo. 

Issued by the Folklore Society as their extra publication for 1893. 
The sections of the Introduction numbered 7 (Folklore Index, with 
eleven sub- headings) ; 8, Saxo's Materials and Methods ; and 9, Saxo's 
Mythology, are by F. Y. P. : also Aftermath of Notes, many notes to the 
text, note after Appendix II on Saxo's Hamlet ; Appendix III, Genealogy 
of Saxo ; and Appendix IV, Last News of Starcad. 

Dedicated * To the Memory of Gudbrand Vigfusson '. 

+0n the Oxford Vote in Favour of a Final English School. {Journ. 
of Educ, Jan.) 

Saga-Growth. {Folklore, vol. v, June.) 

Review of A. Lang's Cock Lane and Common Sense. {Acad., July 28.) 

tReview of J. K. Laughton's State Papers relating to the Defeat of 
the Spanish Armada. {M. G., Oct. 9.) 

tReview of W. F. Kirby's The Hero of Esthonia. {M. G., Jan. 22.) 
The Decline of the Roman Power : Britain under the English i 

The Danish Invasion : Domesday Book. {Social England, vol. i.) 

tReview of F. Harrison's TJie Meaning of History. {M. G., April 23.) 
tinaugural Address at Oxford. {Acad., vol. xlvii, May 11 : from 

Oxford Chronicle.) 
tA Lecture by Letter to the Boys of St. Clare. {St. Clare, July.) 


Some Words on Allegoryin England. 

In Privately Printed Opuscula Issued To Members Of The Sette Of 
Odd Volumes, no. xxxviii. Allegory in England. Verses precede, vere 
dicunt sapienies, &c., signed B[ernard] Q[uaritch]. Dated 'London, Sept. 
25, 1895.' 


tReview of Dean Stephens's Life and Letters of E. A. Freeman. 
{Pall Mall Gaz., Jan. 30.) 

Review of G. Wyndham's edition of North's Plutarch. {Acad., 
Feb. 1.) 

Address at University Extension College, Reading, March 7. 
(Report in Berkshire Chronicle, March 14.) 

Review of Paul Meyer's VHisioire de Gtiillatime le Marechal, vol. ii. 
{Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. xi, April.) 

tReview of J. B. Bury's edition of Gibbon's Decline and Fall. {M. G., 

Review of Kuno Meyer's edition of The Voyage of Bran, Son of 
Fehal, to the Land of the Living. {Folklore, vol. vii, June.) 

tWilhelm Meinhold. {Pageant.) 

Review of H. A. Grueber's and C. F. Keary's Catalogue of English 
Coins in the British Museum {Anglo-Saxon Coins, vol. ii). {Eng. 
Hist. Rev., vol. xi, Oct.) 

The Tale op Thrond of Gate, commonly called F^reyinga 
Saga : Englished by F. York Powell, Regius Professor [&c.] . . . Nutt. 
8vo. Vol. ii of The Northern Library. Contains 1 Ballad of Sig- 
mund, translated : and full tintroduction, pp. xl. 

Dedication : * To Henry Geoi^e Liddell and Henry Stone.' Motto on 
title-page, : Such are the golden Hopes of iron Days.' 

•j-Quatrains from Omar. {Pageant.) Quatrains i-xxiv. See 1901. 
The ilficole des Chartes and English Records. {Trans. Royal Hist. 

Soc, vol. xi.) 

1- Review of Baring-Gould's Life of Napoleon. {M. G., Jan. 1.) 
+Review of J. Murray's Autobiographies of Gibbon and Lord 

Sheflfield's Life and Letters of Gibbon. {M. G., Jan. 14.) 
tReview of G. Schlumberger's V Epopee Byzantine. {M. G., Feb. 15.) 
tReview of Ameer Syed All's Short History of the Saracens. {M. G., 

Feb. 15.) 

Review of W. P. Ker's Epic and Romance. {Acad., March 20.) 
tReview of I. Abrahams's The Mediaeval Jew. {M. G., April 16.) 
tReview of Martin A. S. Hume's Sir Walter Ralegh. {M. G., 

Sept. 14.) 

Review of A. Nutt's The Celtic Doctrine of Re-biiih. {Folklore, vol. 

viii, Dec.) Articles on four names Sihtric or Sigtryggr (d. 871, d. 927, 

fl. 962, and d. 1042). {Diet. Nat. Biog., vol. lii.j 
James Sime. (Ibid.) 



tPreface to W. Rothenstein's Paul Verlaine. Hacon and Ricketta. 

tReview of Halperine-Kaminsky's Turgu4niev and his French 
Circle. {M. G., Jan. 18.) 

Reviews of W. L. Clowes's The Royal Navy and D. Hannay's Short 
History of the Royal Navy. (Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. xiii, April.) 

tLecture on King Alfred, delivered at Winchester. (Report in 
Hampshire Chronicle, June 18.) 

The Alleged Attack on King Milan. {M. G., July 28.) 
A defence of Professor Vesnitch, the Servian scholar. 

Review of L. J. Vogt's Dublin Som Norsk By. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. 
xiii, Oct.) 

Letter on ' Dr. Vigfdsson and Dr. Gislason '. {Athenaeum, Oct. 5.) 
See vol. i. p. 36. 

tDaniel Defoe. {The Quarto, vol. iv.) 

Christ Church fragments of Mediaeval French Discourses on the 
True Vine and on the Paternoster. {Mod. Lang. Quarterly.) 

tReview of Count Pier D. Pasolini's Catherina Sforza, trans, by 
P. Sylvester. {M. G., Oct. 22.) 

tReview of D. Comparetti's Traditional Poetry of the Finns, trans. 
by I. Anderson. {M. G., Jan. 25.) 

Some Hints on Richard Coeur de Lion. {General Courses Magazine 
of National Home Reading Union, Feb.) 

The Death of Warin of Lorraine. {Windmill, April.) 
A long passage of ti-anslation from the old French romance, 
Garin le Loherain, into rigidly literal blank verse. 

Review of J. S. Corbett's Papers relating to the Navy during the 
Spanish War, 1585-1587. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. xiv, April.) 

Introduction to catalogue of the late Gleeson White's library 
(L. Isaacs ; dated May 19). 

Review of Eleanor Hull's The Cuchullin Saga in Irish Literature. 
{Folklore, vol. x, June.) 

Reviews of S. Bugge's I%e Home of the Eddie Poems ; W. A. Craigie's 
Scandinavian Folklore; Jon Thorkelsson's \)i6dsdgur og Munnmceli; 
Nytt Safn. Part I. {Folklore, vol. x, Dec.) 

Gudbrand Vigfusson. {Diet. Nat. Biog., vol. Ixvi.) 

tReview of P. Sidney's Memoirs of the Sidney Family. {Morning 
Post, Aug. 17.) 

tPreface to G. Berry's Translation of Langlois' and Seignobos' 
Introduction to the Study of History. Duckworth. 8vo. 

tReview of A. W. Ward's Great Britain and Hanover. {M. G., 
Sept. 29.) 

tPreface to (Mrs.) L. M. Elton's translation of A. Nazarbek's 
Through tlie Storm. Murray. 8vo. 

Review of J. Fitzmaurice Kelly's Segunda Parte del Don Quijote de 
la Mancha. {Morning Post, Dec. 28.) 


Review of H. M. Chadwick's Cult ofOthin. [Folklore, vol. xi, March.) 
tJohn Ruskin. (Saint George, vol. iii, April.) 

Reprinted with Thoughts on Democracy, 1905, q. v. 
+The Pretty Maid : from the French of Paul Fort. (Tlie Quad.) 

Again in Broad Sheet, 1902. 
Review of R. C. Boer's Edition of Grettis Saga Asmundarsonar, 
Note on the Life Index. {Folklore, vol. xi, Dec.) 
Review of Lord Rosebery's Napoleon ; the Last Phase. (M. G., 
Nov. 7.) 

tLetter on Grant Allen in Edward Clodd's Life of Grant Allen. 
Grant Richards. 8vo. 

tPreface to Miss B. H. Barmby's Gisli Sursson : a Dmma, &c. 
Constable. 8vo. 


tMandellCreighton, Bishop of London. (Obituary notice.) (M. G., 
Jan. 18.) 

Review of L. O. Pike's Year Books of the Reign of Edward III. 
Year xvi. Part II. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. xvi, Jan.) 

tReview of F. W. Maitland's trans, of Gierke's Political Theones of 
the Middle Ages. (M. G., Feb. 25.) 

Review of H. A, Grueber's Handbook of Coins of Great Britain and 
Ireland in the British Museum. ' (Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. xvi, April.) 

William Stubbs. {M. G., April 23.) (Obituary.) 

tThe Alfred Millenaiy of 1901. (North American Rev., vol. clxxiii, 
Oct. 15.) 

Beowulf and Watanabe-no-Tsuna. (In An English Miscellany pre- 
sented to Dr. Fnmivall. Clar. Press.) 

A brief note comparing the two demon-stories. 

tAn Impression (Verses in The Book of the Horace Club. Black- 
well: Oxford.) 

tPreface to Grant Allen's Country and Town Life in England. 
Grant Richards. 8vo. 

tPreface to Charles Beard's The Industrial RevohUion. Reprinted 
with John Ruskin, 1905, q. v. Sonnenschein. 

tQuATRAiNS FROM Omar Khayyam, rendered into English by 
F. York Powell ; together with preface, A Note on Omar. 
The quatrains as in Pageant, 1897 ; tlie Note is new. 

•^The Queen's Reign Surveyed. (M. G., 1901.) 
See Memoir, ch. vi. Published in an edited form. Partially re- 
printed in vol. ii, now for the first time in the author's form and with 
his later MS. corrections. 


+The Pretty Maid : from the French of Paul Fort. (Broad Sheet, 
Feb.) See 1900. 

tJohn Richard Green. (Quart. Rev,, vol. cxcv, April.) 
Portion by F. Y. P. of an article * Two Oxford Historians '. 


tSamuel Rawson Gardiner. (M. G., Feb. 25.) (Obituary.) 
1 Samuel Rawson Gardiner. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. xvii, April.) 

tlrish Influence on English Literature. (Freeman's Journal, 
April 8.) 

Report of Lecture given to Nat. Lit. Soc., April 7. 

+The Sailor and the Shark : from Paul Fort. (Broad Sheet, May.) 

Ancient Rites and Modern Symbols. (M. G., June 11.) 
Article on coronation robes, regalia, &c. 

+Lord Acton. (M. G., June 21.) (Obituary.) 

+The Study of History in Universities ; Address to the University 
College of North Wales, Bangor. Bangor. 

Review of Historical Essays by Members of the Owens College, Man- 
chester. (M. G., April 14.) 

Review of Creighton's Historical Essays and Reviews. (M. G., 
Nov. 10.) 

Gudbrand Vigfusson. (Encycl. Brit., vol. xxxiii.) 


Review of A. Lang's History of Scotland, vol. ii. (M. G., Jan. 3.) 
+The Dead Mother : from a Danish Ballad. (Broad Sheet, March.) 
Review of T7te Cambridge Modem History, vol. i : The Renaissance. 

(P. M. G., March 28.) 
tAlgernon Charles Swinburne. (Eng. Blust. Mag., vol. xxx, April.) 
Review of W. G. Collingwood's and J. Stefansson's Life and Death 

of Cormac the Skald. (M. G., April 11.) 
Review of E. Pears's Destruction of the Greek Empire. (P. M. G., 

May 2.) 
Charles Godfrey Leland. (Folklore, vol. xiv, June.) 
Reviews of A. Kippenberg's Die Sage vom Herzog von Luxemburg ; 

of M. Maclean's The Literature of the Celts ; and of C. Roessler's Les 

Influences celtiques avant et apres Columban. (Ibid.) 

tReview of The Cambridge Modem History, vol. vii : The United 

States. (P. M. G., July 13.) 

Review of F. Seebohm's Tribal Custom in Anglo-Saxon Law. (Eng. 

Hist. Rev., vol. xviii, Oct.) 

tA General Survey of Modern History. (M. G., Oct. 5 ; abridged 

report of lecture.) 
tReview of J. L. Mclntyre's Giordano Bruno. (P. M. G., Oct. 15.) 
+Mr. Lecky as Historian and Philosopher. (M. G., Oct. 24.) 
Review of A. W. Ward's The Electnss Sophia. (M. G., Oct. 27.) 
tPamela Colman Smith's Drawings : a Personal Impression (pre- 
face, dated Nov. 9, to catalogue of drawings). 
Review of A. Lang's 27te Valet's Tragedy. (P. M. G., Nov. 11.) 
tRudyard Kipling. (Eng. Illust. Mag., vol. xxx, Dec.) 



Review of A. J. Carlyle's Mediaeval Political Theories and H. Sidg- 
■wick's European Polity. (P. M. G., Jan. 20.) 

Review of L. 0. Pike's edition of Year Books of the Reign of Edward 
III, Year xvii-xviii. {Eng. Hist. Rev., vol. six, Jan.) 

tReview of The Cambridge Modern History, vol. ii : The Reformation. 
(P. M. G., Feb. 2.) 

^Tradition and its Conditions : Presidential Address to Folklore 
Society ; in Folklore, vol. xv, March. 

Posthumously Printed. 
•^Sonnet, 'Warm, gusty showers.' (Daily Mail, May 20.) 
tA Horror of the House of Dreams. (Greensheaf, No. 13 (edited). 
Printed, ante, vol. i. pp. 124-7, as ' The Little Man ', with correct text.) 


♦Origines Islandicae : A Collection of the more impor- 
tant Sagas and other Native Writings relating to the 
Settlement and Early History of Iceland. Edited and 
translated by Gudbrand Vigfusson and F. York Powell. Two vols. 
Clar. Press. 8vo. 

Dedication : * Hoc opus Qudbrando Vigfusson Frederico York Powell 
et amicitia et studiorum communitate coniunctis litterarum Islandicarum 
peritissimis dedicant Delegati Preli Univ. Oxon, desiderii observantiae 

Prefatoiy Note unsigned : not by G. V. or F. Y. P. List of Corri- 
genda, mostly by F. Y. P. 

John Ruskin and Thoughts on Democracy. Saint George Press, 
Boumville; and George Allen. See 1900 and 1901. 4to. 

[Chief writings first printed from MS. in the present volumes.] 
A General Survey of Modem History. 
Cardinal Wolsey's Hat. 
An Aspect of the Eighteenth Century. 
C. L. Dodgson. 
Gudbrand Vigfusson. 

Original Verse. 
Quatrains from Omar, Nos. xxv-xxix. 
Lines after Omar. 
The Two Tent-makers. 
To Camoens. 

By the Graveside of James Sime. 
Ambleteuse : ' From an Album.' 
Ambleteuse : ' A Stretch of Sea.' 


Ambleteuse : * Across the Buckthorn's tangled brake.' 

Ambleteuse looking Seaward. 

New Year, 1894. 

Weary Wood. 

At a certain Auction in 1897. 

Fragment : ' Sails on the Summer Sea.' 

Regnante Carolo. 

Monorhymed Sonnet. 

To the Well-skilled Translatresse. 

In a Copy of Andy Shirref s Poems. 

To an Admirer of Chaucer. 

Translations in Verse. 
Icelandic Ballad-Refrains. 
Icelandic Couplets and Ditties. 
From the French, thirteenth century. 
From Gerald de Bornello. 
From Giovanni Guidiccioni. 

From Verlaine's Sagesse : ' Le Ciel est par-dessus le toit.' 
From Maeterlinck's Douze Chansons : The Last Words. 
From Maeterlinck : The Pilgrim of Love. 
From A. Angellier : The Rose-Tree. 
From Camille Mauclair's Sonatines d'Automne. 

Chief Obituary Articles (1904). 

Times, May 10. 

Morning Post, May 10 (article and leader). 

Manchester Guardian, May 10. 

Oxford Chronicle, May 13 ; Oxford Times, May 13. (Account of 
burial in both.) 

Oxford Magazine, May 18. 

New Age, May 26 ; by J[o8eph] C[layton]. 

Monthly Review, June ; by Theodore Cook. 

United Irishman, July 16 ; by J. B. Yeats. 

Folklore, June ; by Edward Clodd. 

Blackwood's Magazine, June, 1904 ; in ' Musings without Method ' 
(unsigned) are paragraphs on ' Professor York Powell '. 

English Historical Review, July ; by R. S. Rait. 

Church Quaiietiy Review, Oct., pp. 111-14, on F. Y. P. in 'The 
Oxford School of Historians '. 

Note. — The paper on An Aspect of the Eighteenth Century, of which 
the occasion is described on p. 163 of this volume as unknown, was 
delivered on Jan. 15, 1896, at the Rainbow Tavern, Fleet Street, to 
a club of journalists and others called 'The Cemented Bricks '. 



[Though addressed to an unprofessional audience, consisting largely 
of working men, this Survey is in the forefront of Powell's writings on 
the aim, scope, and achievements of written history. Done in the 
year before his death, it is his deliberate and final pronouncement on 
the subject, and his type- written copy is carefully corrected, amplified, 
and signed 3 Oct. 1903. Next day the lecture was read at the New 
Islington Hall, Ancoats, Manchester, in the author's absence. The 
little note on History in London is inserted, as the hope it uttei-s is so 
far little fulfilled save by the work of the London School of Economics.] 

I SHALL premise that I am not speaking for any one but 
myself, and you must not make my friend, who has been 
good enough to undertake to read my lecture, responsible for 
any opinion I may express. 

Well then, to begin with, I am going to interpret the title 
' Modern History ', which Mr. Rowley has printed for my 
lecture, in my own way. He is not here and I am quite 
safe in so doing. Modern History to-day, then, shall mean 
what might perhaps be called the New History, as distinct 
from the Old History. The New History is history written 
by those who believe that history is not a department of 
belles lettres and just an elegant, instructive, and amusing 
narrative, but a branch of science. This science, like many 
other sciences, is largely the creation of the nineteenth century. 
It deals with the condition of masses of mankind living in 
a social state. It seeks to discover the laws that govern 
these conditions and bring about the changes we call Progress 


and Decay, and Development and Degeneracy — to under- 
stand the processes that gradually or suddenly make up and 
break up those political and economic agglomerations we 
call States — to find out the circumstances affecting the various 
tendencies that show their power at different times. Style 
and the needs of a popular audience have no more to do 
with history than with law or astronomy. Now, at the 
beginning of the nineteenth century the science of history 
was what we might call the prae-Kepler stage. We had 
amassed observations, but we had not been able to correlate 
them or to draw definite conclusions from them. Since the 
old Greek days when Thucydides, Aristotle, and Polybios 
founded the science, it had produced but few masters 
(Machiavelli, Sarpi, Adam Smith, and Gibbon being perhaps 
the only ones of real note), but now history at last came to 
its own. And it was not in Germany but in England that 
the greatest of modern historians appeared, Charles Darwin. 
His work gave historians as well as biologists and physicists 
the key they had long been hunting for, and just missing, 
as in Adam Smith's case and Malthus', by an hair's breadth. 
With his key, for instance, the complications of Institutional 
History were clearly and luminously unravelled once and for 
ever. Again, we had begun to collect and register facts with 
something like the correctness of a third-class botanist or 
second-class entomologist, but we had no calculus, no proper 
mathematical method, till the great Belgian Quetelet arose. 
And here it is worth remarking that, as a State producing 
men of worth, Belgium is as much a success as Switzerland 
is a hopeless failure. Belgium indeed, as regards art, prose, 
literature, and poetry, holds a far higher position to-day than 
the huge empire of Germany. Let me add further, as a side- 
note, that it was to Palmerston, of all modern statesmen, that 
the existence of Belgium as a separate entity is due, a fact 
which even the proverbial ingratitude of the Belgians has 
not wholly forgotten. It was Quetelet, closely followed by 
an Englishman of singular talent, Dr. Farr, that founded 
the science of vital and historical statistics. Darwin and 


Quetelet gave us the means and the method that enabled 
such men as Mr. Charles Booth, Mr. Rowntree, Dr. Karl 
Pearson, and a multitude of other quiet, steady, useful workers, 
to be now building up one great side of history on a mathe- 
matical and physical basis. The whole worth of Buckle 
(a brilliant man born out of due time) lies in the fact that he 
saw clearly and said boldly that history was not a matter of 
Chance or Fortune, or of what the Church calls the Finger of 
Providence, but of Law, Law that works exactly as it does 
in Hydraulics or Botany. 

There are so many sides to history that when one talks of 
history one can easily be misunderstood. For instance, to 
Thucydides and Machiavelli, and largely to Sarpi, history 
meant a scientific study of politics, a most interesting and 
important branch of history indeed, and worthy of the 
attention of such men of genius — all of them persons, too, 
to whom the art of politics and its practice were well known 
by experience, and who sought to discover the bases and 
conditions on which those kinds of human action which we 
call politics really depend. But, of course, there are many 
other sides to history, and the art of practical politics, 
whether it be the winning of elections or the carrying of 
bills, is not really a part of the science of history at all. 

To Plutarch again, as to Aubrey, to Brantome, to Johnson, 
and to Carlyle, history was biography — the lives of great men 
and women, to be studied not only from an historical but 
from an ethical point of view. Of course biography is a 
department of history, and stands to it as the life-history of 
a plant or an animal does to general biology : but its ethical 
purport has nothing whatever to do with history. All things 
are written for our learning, but we must make the applica- 
tion. Plutarch, the greatest of all prae-christian biographers, 
wanted to make good citizens, as Mr. George Wyndham 
has shown in the wise and beautiful essay he prefixed to 
Mr. Henley^s noble edition of North^s Plutarch — (the book 
that both Shakespeare and Gordon knew and liked) : but 
it is not the business of History to make good citizens ; its 

B a 


business is to discover the laws by which mankind in political 
masses acts and is acted upon. The practical development of 
conduct is a matter of Ethics, not of History. History only 
deals with the effects of conduct. The historian can help those 
that wish to learn conduct from biography, by seeing that bio- 
graphies are exact and accurate, that facts and dates are not 
misstated. For the method of history, of course, is just the 
method of every science ; it collects and sifts facts, gets them 
down as correctly as it can, classifies them, and then, making 
hypotheses, tests and tries these till it arrives at conclusions 
that stand every test and trial it can apply. Based on these 
sound conclusions, it reaches higher to new collections of 
facts, new hypotheses, and new and broader conclusions. 
The historian, in fact, must work exactly like the astrono- 
mer or the chemist. 

But in the collection of facts as well as in the discovery 
of new methods the nineteenth century has made glorious 
and astonishing progress. First, a Frenchman, a great and 
modest man of. science, Boucher de Perthes of Abbeville, 
a friend of such Englishmen as Blacklock of Salisbury (one 
of his first disciples and believers), and of Lyell (who first 
really laid his views before the English puljlic), founded by 
his great discovery the study of primitive man, which has in 
the face of much idle, dishonest, and bigoted opposition 
deeply and healthily influenced modern thought, and created 
a totally new branch of history. This branch of history is 
one of the greatest creations of the nineteenth century^, and 
its development under later scholars both at home and abroad 
has been extraordinary. Closely connected with it are the 
study oi folk-lore, the study of scientific archaeology, the 
study of the conditions of barbaric and savage life, in which 
such enormous progress has been made both by scholars and 
explorers, progress in which Englishmen have done their full 
share, and done it (one is proud to remember) without any 
expectancy of the reward or even compensation that any 
foreign Government would have been proud to give to its 
distinguished sons. 


Let us particularize : the scientific study of archaeology 
has simply restored to us thousands of years of human 
history ; it has made the past of Egypt, Assyria, Persia, 
Asia Minor, and Greece, open books, not to be read without 
difl&culty, but still readable by those who will give their time 
and pains to it. This, too, has been largely English work : 
for Egypt, Young, followed by the great Frenchman Champol- 
lion and by a succession of devoted investigators, down to our 
living friends. Flinders Petrie and Grenfell and Hunt; for 
Assyria, Layard and Rawlinson and George Smith ; for 
Greece, Schliemann (a noble German enthusiast), whose 
work has been followed up by a crowd of investigators, of 
whom not the least distinguished is my colleague, Arthur 
Evans, the discoverer of Knossos ; for Persia the Dieulafoys 
have gone on with the work of Rawlinson. 

We have recovered the very mummy of Rameses, the 
actual library of Nebuchadnezzar, the authentic archives of 
Sargon. We have recovered dictionaries, grammars, hymns, 
epics, romances, contracts, charms, diplomatic correspon- 
dence, mathematical tables, astronomical observations of 
thousands of years ago, set down before the call of Abraham 
or the birth of Moses. We can read epics written down 
long before Homer, and psalms composed long before David, 
creation-stories earlier than the Book of Genesis or the poem 
of Hesiod. The palaces of Minos and Priam, Agamemnon 
and Sardanapalus, have been discovered and unearthed ; we 
can handle objects of ivory and metal that they may have 
used, we have the pictures of the Pharaohs and the Great 
Kings, and can see with our own eyes their versions of their 
exploits in war and in the hunting field ; we can reconstruct 
the life of men five thousand and seven thousand years ago, 
as we can those of the days of Pericles, Alexander, and Caesar. 
We are gradually filling up the long blank periods that used 
to lie between the times of the savage, with his sticks and 
bone weapons and unpolished flint knives, and the men who 
built the Pyramids and founded Babel, and burnt Troy and 
established Rome. The well-worn Hebrew history has been 


interpreted and enlightened by the scientific criticism of the 
old documents in which it is enshrined. In European 
archaeology great strides, too, have been taken. We are 
gradually getting back the true story of the colonization of 
Europe by our own ancestors and the tale of their progress 
towards civilization. Philology and archaeology have gone 
hand in hand here, and the proper interpretation of our 
ancient records, poems, and traditions, for which Wilhelm 
Grimm did so much, has helped the man with the spade to 
interpret his finds. 

With all this there remains much, very much, to be done. 
There are many libraries still to be unearthed, the position 
of which (and even some of their contents) are known. 
Masses of inscriptions are yet to be collected and copied, 
hundreds of historic sites are still to be explored. Hercula- 
neum, for instance, where two houses yielded such surprising 
results to the explorer, must be richer even than Pompeii in 
its revelations of the life of those who trod the earth in the 
first century of our era. What has been discovered in the 
last few years at Silchester and Glastonbury has already 
thrown new light on the Roman occupation of Britain, and 
the civilization this occupation brought with it. And all 
this mass of new facts has been recovered in one century of 
isolated and almost haphazard effort. There is an abundant 
harvest waiting. Each discovery adds new links to the yet 
imperfect chain of historical consequence. Only a few years 
back the Dieulafoys brought back for us that exquisite work 
from the old Persian palaces which now adorns the Louvre, 
work that shows how the traditions of Assyrian art were 
filtering down to the time when Greek influence was to bring 
fresh impulses into Persia, impulses that passed through 
Persia to India and to further India, and thence to *far 
Cathay and Zipangu ', and can be seen now in the wonderful 
masterpieces of Chinese and Japanese art by those who will 
look rightly. 

Again, it was a famous French scholar who lived the most 
fruitful part of his life in England, Terrien de Lacouperie, 


that discovered the origins of Chinese art and civilization and 
traced the influences of the early Mesopotamian civilization 
upon the wandering immigrant tribes that built China up out 
of a score of various brown hordes. Chinese civilization 
through Corea has again helped to build up the great 
Japanese nation, just as Indian civilization has been the 
basis of the civilization and art and religion of Burma, Siam, 
and Java. A number of devoted scholars have worked out 
from the native sources the history of the spread of Buddhist 
influence, so important in art, religion, and thought, from 
North India over half the Asiatic world. Mr. Rhys Davids' 
last book will show the general reader the immense changes 
that Buddhism has made and is making in the world, how it 
touches us practically as a nation in all our dealings with the 
Farther East. 

The enormous mass of history recovered for us in Asia 
alone from northern inscriptions, from Parthian and Bactrian 
coins, from the Asoka tablets, from the annals of nation 
after nation, discovered, copied, printed, and explained, is 
wonderful, and this is all one century's work. From Prinsep 
and the great Hungarian pioneer in Tibet down to Thomsen 
of Copenhagen, and Dickson, the first scientific student of 
Japanese history, there is an unbroken record of patient, 
laborious, and successful research unparalleled in any former 
time. Truly we historical students of the nineteenth century 
have reason to be proud of our masters. Nor has European 
history been neglected : it is not too much to say that more 
has been done for it in the nineteenth century than in any 
century since the birth of Christ. We have not only 
produced plenty of work upon the history of our own times, 
but we have searched the old Scriptures as they never have 
been searched before. Ducange and the great Benedictines 
and our own Coke and Prynne were giants. But giants' 
work has been done by men of our day — Freeman and Stubbs 
and Gardiner and Acton and Maitland, to name English 
scholars only. The lead given by Niebuhr and Wilhelm 
Grimm, fathers of the new criticism, has been eagerly pursued 3 


and the right use of sources, and the careful examination 
and estimation of authorities as the necessary basis of all 
historical inquiry, have produced astonishing results in 
European history. The Dark and the Middle Ages as well as 
Early Rome and Early Teutonia have been made compre- 
hensible by patient and minute study, mere names have 
become living persons, mere archaic survivals have been 
found highly significant facts. The romantic history of our 
old institutions has been unravelled and explained, and 
though a good many fables have been exploded, the truth 
has turned out, as it often does, to be more interesting, more 
suggestive, than any fiction could be. 

The ecclesiastical history of Christianity has been almost 
reconstructed by faithful criticism of the early monuments 
of the Church, and we find that neither ignorant piety nor 
ignorant scepticism has given us the truth as it reveals 
itself more and more clearly, that Voltaire's witty and super- 
ficial scoffs and Bossuet's absurd official credulity are both 
far beside the mark, and that the true story is more wonder- 
ful than hitherto accepted fiction. 

But a mere catalogue of results tends to be wearisome, and 
I pass to another part of my subject, hoping that I have been 
able to convey to you something of the enormous difference 
there is between the old histories of the world accessible 
when I began to read in the * fifties ', and the histories now 
within reach of every school boy or girl in the town free 
library, or in the library of any well-equipped school, in this 
year of grace 1903. 

The next thing I want to talk about is the importance of 
historj^ What does all this matter to me ? all this knowledge 
of old times J of old things, of old people parsed away ? That 
is a fair question, and I will tell you one thing as part of my 
answer. Bulgarians would not be blowing up Greeks with 
dynamite, or Greeks joining Turks to cut the throats of 
Bulgarians and keep Servians out of Macedonia to-day, but 
for history, written history. My old friend Morse Stephens 
(the historian of the French Revolution) used to say that 


Portugal was raised from the dead by Hercolano, a mere 
historian. It is true, and the world and Portugal are the 
better for it, and owe Hercolano no small debt. It is 
history, written history, that has raised the Baltic nations, 
that has made Roumania and Hungary important European 
factors, that has set Bohemia on her feet again, and is 
making a nation of Albania, that is keeping Polish patriotism 
alive, that has given little Finland the national spirit that 
Russia, the pretended champion of Christianity, in spite of 
the most solemn engagements, is doing her vilest to crush. 
In far-off Georgia there is a resurrection of national feeling 
against Russian perjury and oppression that ought to be 
respected. It is history that is largely responsible for the 
unity of Germany and for the very making of the Italian 
nation. This nationalism has, of course, its shady as well as 
its sunny side, and the too common sight of paid demagogues 
masking as patriots and flourishing on imposture and ignor- 
ance is a sorry one, but one we have seen plenty of, both in 
and out of Parliament, for the last half century. But all 
this is an index of the tremendous power of sentiment that 
can be and has been roused by written history. It is this 
sentiment that keeps the Alsatians French at heart, that 
keeps the Swiss, whether they be speakers of German, 
French, Italian, or Latin, all patriotic Swiss. It is this 
historic sentiment, far more than economic difference or 
religious fanaticism, that sets Kurd against Armenian and 
Russian against Jew. Race-hate is largely a creation of 
cherished historic sentiment maintained by ignorance long 
after the conditions on which it is supposed to rest have 
departed. A great deal of the newspaper and committee 
and parliamentary patriotism of the Balkans is based upon 
false history and patriotic lies. But it is obvious that where 
the Greeks, the Servians, the Bulgarians, each severally 
regard themselves as heirs to the whole of the peninsula that 
is now left in the hands of the Turk, each founding their 
separate claims on historic grounds, there is likely to be 
a difficulty which Russia will try to solve in her own way, as 


the Greeks already clearly perceive. I am not talking 
politics, nor preaching in favour of the heirs of Solomon the 
Bulgarian, or Dushan the Servian, or the great Basil himself, 
or standing up for the sons of Othman ; but simply showing 
you how the reading of history for political motives some- 
times leads to political difficulties. It is obvious that if 
Italy and Germany were unified largely because the pro- 
fessional historians and their pupils preached unity as the 
result of their researches, and made the dreams of Dante and 
Rienzi come true (dreams founded on the very imperfect 
study of former history), that History cannot be safely 
neglected. A true history of Ireland, for instance, ought to 
have a calming influence on Irish politics. The false history 
taught and talked on both sides is simply a foul and fruitful 
heritage of evil — Catholics reviling (in complete ignorance of 
the history of Celtic Ireland) the Saxon and attributing all 
the miseries of Ireland to his presence ; Protestants refusing 
to examine the circumstances and institutions and ideas that 
have made the Catholic Celt for good or for evil what he is : 
the greatest opposition from both sides to the unpalatable 
but salutary truth, and every endeavour made to prevent it 
from emerging from the well to which it has now been 
confined for centuries. It is far better to have no idea of 
the past at all than to have such false ideas of it as prevail 
over most of Ireland, owing to the fond cherishing of ignor- 
ance and prejudice and the persistent obliquity caused by 
party politics and greedy superstition, and kept up by those 
who gain a profit from both : while the publication of the 
records of the past, the quiet patient research into the dark- 
ness of old times, is neglected save by a small residue, 
a faithful few, and the miserable old threadbare lies are 
hawked about, in the pulpit, on the platform, in the newspaper, 
shameless, baseless, full of hatred, malice, and all uncharitable- 

We cannot afford to neglect history. If we look round upon 
the great movements that characterized politics in the nine- 
teenth century, and are influencing us now one way or another. 


we shall notice, if we care to, that they are largely the effect 
of historic or pseudo-historic teaching. The poisonous rubbish 
of Rousseau was based on false history, and Darwin has ex- 
ploded it, but its miserable effects are not all yet destroyed. 
The nationalist movement, as we have seen, is based on historic 
teaching, true and false ; the reform movements that have 
influenced every Christian Church have their basis in history. 
Strauss and Renan and Colenso and Wellhausen, Dollinger 
and Smith and Cheyne, have not laboured in vain. Even the 
Oxford movement of 1830 was largely a renaissance, a curious 
counterpart of that pleasure in the rediscovery of the Middle 
Ages that Walter Scott roused all through Europe, that in- 
spired Victor Hugo and the French Romanticists, as it 
earlier inspired Macpherson and Blake. The study of the 
Elizabethans, that was a passion with Charles Lamb and 
Wells and Keats, and their successors Rossetti and William 
Morris and Madox Brown, was an historic renaissance. 
It was upon historic study that Adam Smith founded his great 
book. It was upon historic study that the German socialists' 
Bible by Marx was based. It was upon the study of history 
that Moltke and Bismarck, practical men both, fed themselves 
with a view to the work that lay before them. The story of 
our rule in India shows the immense practical importance of 
history : in the question of land-tenure alone the lives of mil- 
lions of ryots, Indian peasants, have been affected by the 
different historic views of earnest and energetic Indian 
administrators. The influence of History is everywhere about 
us. History has had her say in Art, in Religion, in practical 
politics, all through the century. 

No — we cannot afford to neglect history, but history is not 
a study that it is necessary for every one to take up ; we do not 
expect every one to be acquainted with the very important 
study of the higher geometry, or to pursue the investigation 
of the X-rays for himself. It is sufficient if we provide for 
such specialists as wish to give their lives to the study ; but then 
we for our parts must determine not to neglect their results. 
We want teachers to teach our teachers in the schools, in the 


press, on the platform, in the pulpit, and even in the bar- 
parlour. And we want to secure that every scrap of evidence 
that has come down to us from the past should be noted, 
preserved, and made use of. We want to see our historic 
monuments cared for, the stone-work, wood-work, metal-work, 
and glass-work of old times, as well as its parchments and 
papers, cherished and preserved, so that our descendants may 
make better use of them (as they ought) than we do. There 
is very little left of the past that has not its story to tell us, 
that will not help us to understand what our forefathers hoped 
and feared, loved and hated, had and wanted to have. It is 
part of our own history indeed, for we also are the creatures 
of their impulses. Every one need not read or write history, 
but he can make history by doing his work, and he can help 
history by taking a pride in and preserving what remains of 
old and interesting in his town or neighbourhood, by fighting 
vandalism and holding out against the silly craze for replacing 
sober old work by bad flash new work, by opposing reck- 
less restoration, by seeing that the local records are properly 
housed and indexed, by setting down himself in ink (printers' 
ink is best) any scrap of old tradition or local knowledge he 
may have gathered. 

History then, if I may sum up, is a science: it must be 
worked on scientific methods, or it becomes worthless gossip. 
It is important to have in every nation students of history to 
supply true history ; not false history, therefore there must be 
facilities for such students at Universities and great libraries, 
and they must be employed by the State to work at the mass 
of materials that luckily exists for the study of national his- 
tory. They must study and give us their results. We need 
not be afraid that their results will lack practical use. Such 
men will not be expensive : they only need the wages of going 
on ; but among them there have been and there will be men 
whom England may be proud of. And now a practical sug- 
gestion or two, and this is where you come in. You must 
not starve research — it does not pay to do so ; you must help 
to build up great libraries for other ends than your own 



recreation, and great Universities for other ends than your own 
forwarding in life. You must buy books for them that few 
of you will ever want to read yourselves, and you must pay 
for the support of those people whose work you will not be 
able yourselves thoroughly to appreciate ; but all this will be 
necessary to maintain the students that will be digging out 
results for you, results that will in the end profit you, often 
in some strange and unexpected way that you can hardly un- 
derstand. Most of you believe in democracy : if there is 
one thing the study of history shows to be certain, it is that 
an ignorant democracy cannot last long. 


With the prophecy of a great historic harvest from France 
we thoroughly agree. The young American who goes to 
Germany for history nowadays is behind his age. The lamp 
of history passed from Germany to France after the war. 
Whether the 'milliards' were worth the sacrifice is perhaps 
matter of doubt. Already in such workers as Sorel, 
Th^venin, Bemont, the new French school is well to the 
front. Fustel de Coulanges' example has done what Taine's 
vaunted recipe failed to do ; it has founded a school of 
vigorous, exact, and methodic workers. We laugh, and 
justly, at Victor Hugo and his Paris-Pensee, Paris-Univers, 
and are ready to crush him with our mammoth Nineveh, 
with its area covering a county, its population larger than 
that of many a kingdom, its trade exceeding that of whole 
empires of old ; but we forget that London has never been 
a centre of thought, while never since the thirteenth century 
has Paris ceased to rear and foster teachers, thinkers, and 
artists whose influence has been evident and unmistakable in 
Europe. The only cities worthy to stand beside her as 
' workshops of thought ', ' lighthouses of the mind ', are 
Florence, Bologna, Geneva, and Oxford. And yet, save 

* From a review dated 1893. 


Rome and Constantinople, there are few sites in which so 
much of the history of a nation is concrete as London. 
Politically London has had immense weight. It is the city 
of ' self-government ', of ' Parliaments ^, of the * common law ' 
par excellence. The palaces, the prisons, the courts, the 
records of the great kings and statesmen and prelates that 
helped to build up the British Empire, are there. When the 
man comes that will worthily organize the study of history in 
London there will be no lack of that local stimulus without 
which it is difficult to keep enthusiasm. 

[The applications of these ideas are first and best seen in the 
judgements passed on other historians, classic and contemporary, to 
whom the double test is regularly applied:— first, of their power 
to state and order the real facts, scientifically ; secondly, the power to 
see the meaning of the facts by a process of equally scientific, because 
verified hypothesis. ' Truth ', Powell would say, ' comes in flashes * ; 
and the flashes, he would say also, come in their place at the moment 
when the hypothesis is formed which the historian then proceeds to 
assay. His own working hypotheses, as well as his method and spirit, 
wei'e more influenced by Machiavelli than by any other writer ; 
Machiavelli, to whom he often returns, may therefore come first. 
The fragments are chiefly from presswork of 1891-2 — about the 
date when Powell's non-ethical views of history clearly deflne them- 
selves in print; and the repetitions of these views are purposely 
retained. Two of the pieces are from notices of Mr. Burd's edition 
of II Principe ; the third, possibly edited as to some phrases by Mr. 
Henley, is interesting for its personal sallies. Once for all, it must 
be borne in mind that these and most of our later extracts are 
journalism, not systematic writing ; but they are high journalism, 
they are Powell's written talk — cast forth in fervour, but giving 
his settled thoughts and convictions probably better than treatise 
work could have given them.] 


With regard to Machiavel, on the other hand, [this 
author's] work strikes one as entirely inadequate ; he con- 
^ From a review of 1898. 


demns the man (no doubt with justice from his [own] 
standard), and in so doing he seems to suppose that he has 
disposed of the writer. It is not MachiavePs private principles 
or practice that are really in question — we may leave them to 
the psychologist or the professor of ethics ; nor even his plays, 
which the literary man will judge as he chooses ; but it is his 
scientific value that has to be considered. He was essentially 
no moralist ; we might as well look for ethical principles in 
Newton^s Principia as in The Prince ; he was a scientific 
student of politics, and as such he must be ultimately 
condemned or acquitted. If his study is sound, if the chief 
scientific theories he advances in his Commentary on Livy^s 
Ten Books (of which The Prince is merely a partial epitome) 
can be maintained, his position as a great observer and 
a precise thinker, next only to the Aristotle of the Politics, 
is assured. And it is on this ground his adversaries must 
meet him ; but if they can defeat him here, the defeat is 


The best English edition of a great classic. From the 
days of Henry VIII to those of Victoria the name of 
Machiavelli has been honoured and defamed, for the most 
part ignorantly. Yet when one notes that of Cromwell 
Earl of Essex and Prince Bismarck alike it has been said 
that they were ' pupils of Machiavelli ' it seems worth while 
for the 'general reader' to get a correct idea of what 
Machiavelli's most famous work means and to understand 
what Machiavellism is. Lord Acton's brilliant preface, 
a storehouse of the best and wisest opinions of thinkers, 
historians, and statesmen upon Machiavelli, will at least 
help to clear the ground, and Mr. Burd's most helpful 
edition, with his excellent historical abstract of Machiavelli's 
times and life and his learned and interesting introduction, 

* II Principe. By Niccolo Machiavelli. Edited by L. A. Burd. 1891. 


will put his reader in possession of the means for mastering 
the subject in a thorough and methodical way. 

And indeed this book, The Prince, needs elucidation, for 
though it is a masterpiece of clear exposition, a very model 
of that bello stile of which the great Italians seem to have 
held the secret, a style classic in simplicity, force, and 
beauty, yet its object and its lessons are apt to puzzle those 
who come to it without preparatory knowledge. Machiavelli, 
a civil servant of Florence, a clever poet and dramatist, 
a good scholar and a true patriot, aimed at the freedom of 
Italy. Italy must at all events be cleared of foreign foes and 
begin to work out its Unity. That Unity was like to come 
about, not through an Emperor (as Dante had hoped), nor 
even through a Pope (as many had desired), but through 
some Italian-born prince with ambition, foresight, persever- 
ance, patience, skill in arms, and knowledge of statesmanship, 
a man who knew how to win power and how to hold it when 
won. Such was Machiavelli^s forecast, and it has been in 
our own days fulfilled to the letter. An Italian prince has 
won and held and left to his son an Italian kingdom, one 
and indivisible as France herself, precisely as Machiavelli 
expected. Borgia failed, with all his talent in camp and 
court and all the Papacy's influence at his back, by pure 
mischance when the prize was almost in his grasp, but 
Vittorio Emanuele had better luck and reached the goal, 
thanks to his own stubborn hereditary grit and the talents 
and devotion of Garibaldi, Cavour, and Mazzini. Machia- 
velli had studied Borgia's startling career minutely, and in 
The Prince he takes up the problem of how a prince may 
win and hold power in his own lands and in lands that have 
not before been under his sway. This problem he treats 
practically ; it is not a matter of ethics with him ; he is not 
concerned with conduct, but with practical politics and 
dynamics ; and just as a Treatise on the Art of War does 
not begin with a discussion upon the righteousness or 
unrighteousness of war, so we must not expect Machiavelli to 
discuss moral problems in this connexion. The subtlety. 


the ingenuity, the grasp of principle and knowledge of detail 
with which the problem is handled are beyond all discussion 
wonderful, and have made the book a textbook for politicians. 
And yet it is probably not Machiavelli's greatest work. His 
Art of War, with its searching exposition of the principles 
and practice that made the Spanish swordsmen the masters 
of continental Europe a few years later, and his Discourses on 
Livy, which range over the greater part of the wide field of 
politics, are even more astonishing books, but the handy 
form, the logical completeness, and the brutal frankness of 
The Prince have secured it hundreds of readers where the 
greater works have proved caviare to the general. Nor are 
Machiavelli's dramas to be despised ; his literary talents 
would have kept his name in a high rank had they alone 
survived to prove his powers. His letters are, of course, of 
high interest. But though The Prince be not his greatest 
work, his admirers will be content that he be judged on that ; 
they may truly say that since the Politics of Aristotle there 
has not appeared any study of statesmanship so profound 
and prescient. Great statesmen have seldom wished or cared 
to record the results of their experience in book form, and 
probably since Machiavelli's death there have not lived ten 
men who could have dealt with politics as directly, scientifi- 
cally, and calmly as he did. Talleyrand and Pombal, 
Richelieu and Mirabeau, are certainly among those few, 
Bolingbroke and Retz possibly ; but Mazzini, when all is said 
and done, comes nearest in genius (though of a very different 
type of mind) to the great predecessor whose aspirations he 
helped so eagerly and unselfishly to fulfil. 

Machiavelli's personality is interesting. Montaigne long 
ago told us, and his own correspondence vouches for it, that 
he read the classics in his dress-clothes, and that he found 
refuge from the folly and fickleness of a vain world in the 
honoured society 'of the learned dead'. It gives one an 
unpleasant twinge to know that, according to the ordinary 
accidents of the times, this great man was actually tortured 
by his political opponents that they might get at certain 

T. p. II c 


knowledge which it was supposed he had, but the fall of an 
administration for many a year after Machiavelli was dead 
and gone meant the fall of heads even in peaceful England ; 
and the times, if they were Epicurean in one aspect, required 
the courage of Stoicism in one who meddled with matters 
that touched politics or religion. Small wonder that the 
wisest man of the age preferred to teach his fellows under 
the garb of folly the primary lessons of freedom, tolerance, 
honesty, and science. But Rabelais was a citizen of the 
world, and Machiavelli was bred and born an Italian patriot 
and by profession a politician. 

Most Englishmen know Machiavelli through Macaulay, 
but that is not enough. Macaulay is not Machiavelli ; nor 
was he by nature or training qualified to appreciate entirely 
a genius so alien to his own. Those who care to make the 
acquaintance of a famous book and a famous man have now 
in Mr. Burd's admirable work the best means of so doing. 


Few men have so thorouglily ' cleared their minds of cant' 
as Machiavel. He saw clearly that there was a practical 
political art, that it had its principles, its processes, its 
problems, and that these could be studied more easily and 
effectively when the subject was stripped of the thick ethical 
envelope that had hitherto obscured its phenomena. This 
was a great advance, and, like most intellectual departures, 
it met with bitter resistance. On all sides fools and knaves, 
and clever bodies with stupid prejudices, and honest persons 
blind with bigotry, raised a chorus against the man of science 
who dared to treat of human conduct without allowing any 
religious or political bias to interfere with the course of his 
argument. Of course there was some ground for the outcry : 
there generally is in such cases. It was felt that MachiavePs 
method had its dangers, that the anethic politician does not 

• ^ From review in National Observer (Sept. 11, 1891) of the same 
edition of H Principe. 


really exist any more than the economic man. But both 
creatures, like certain mathematical conceptions, are merely 
used for certain definite schemes of calculation, and, so used, 
are by no means unprofitable. Yet it needed a man of nerve 
to calmly compose the Discourses, and to work out a part of 
the new science in a treatise like The Prince. Machiavel 
was no book- worm : he knew life on both its sides, he could 
easily foresee the obloquy that would assail him ; but he had 
the strongest possible motive to induce him to disregard it, 
and courage enough to permit him to face it. His pathetic 
struggle for Italian unity in a long service of diplomacy during 
which his warnings had been persistently disregarded by his 
shortsighted employers and invariably fulfilled to their dis- 
comfort, had not disgusted him with his ideal nor led him to 
despair. And so, with a hope worthy of Dante himself, when 
he had seen the brilliant adventurer, whom he had long 
watched eagerly, fall helpless when the prize was wellnigh 
in his grasp, he turned to his gtudy to gather up for future 
Borgias the lessons of the first one's failure. The career of 
Napoleon furnishes in many ways the finest commentary upon 
Machiavel's theories and conclusions, his mistakes being as 
accurately anticipated by the Florentine as his successes. 
The series of steps which enabled Cavour and his master to 
' realize ' at last the Italian nationality are laid down, or 
can be drawn as corollaries from propositions laid down, by 
Machiavel. And then the man's style is so excellent : clear 
and concise and conclusive as Caesar's own, and wholly void 
of that grotesque awkwardness which mars some of our best 
Elizabethan work. You have but to compare Machiavel's 
work to the petty prosy cunning and poor quibbling and 
shuffling of the good Comines, or contrast it with the pompous 
pretension and hackneyed aphorismic eloquence that mark the 
more ' Polonial ' utterances of Bacon, to see how the Italian 
towers above the other politicians of the Renaissance. 

C 2 


IV 1 

Macaulay (sinking Clapham Whiggery) has justly praised 
The Mandrake (which Voltaire sniggered over). La Fontaine 
did himself the honour of imitating Belfagor ; and, despite 
the attacks of certain ' capuchins ', there are few now but 
admit to the full the extraordinary scientific and historic 
worth of the Discourses, The Prince, and the Art of War, 
which, to borrow the words of a great critic, ' ne traictent que 
gestes heroiques, choses grandes, matieres ardues, graves et 
difl&ciles, et le tout en rhetorique armoisine et cramoisine/ 
Criticism on the Master is therefore not needed here ; let them 
that desire it read Lord Acton's preface to Burd's edition of 
The Prince, and be content. As to the Professor, his best 
chapters are probably those on the Florentine History and its 
composition, on the friendship and intercourse between 
Guicciardini and Machiavel, and on the rivals and imitators 
of Machiavel. The book, in fact, is one not to read through 
save once, but to turn to for notes on fifteenth-century 
literature and history. 

The fifteenth century is without doubt one of the most en- 
chanting of eras; the Reformation (badly as it may have 
been needed) had not yet come to ruin art and divide society ; 
rich and poor spoke one tongue, had the same feelings and 
sympathies and the same appreciations ; cruelty, dirt, 
ignorance, and misery, of course, there were in plenty, and 
no lack of greed and selfishness ; but even such hypocrites as 
Cosimo and Richard of Gloucester were not so vile, to our 
notions, as the hypocrites of later ages. Tartufe was not 
born ; Rodriguez Borgia, with all his faults, was no Pecksniff; 
and his son's frankness in evil is merely surprising because 
ourselves are used to sanctimonious and philanthropic pretence. 
And were the Poltronismus rerum Italicarum, labolenus de 
cosmographia Purgatorii, and other dull works of the day, 

^ The Life and Times of Niccolo Machiavelli. By Professor Pasqualo 
Villari. Translated by Linda Villari. Review from National 
Observer, Feb. 6, 1892. 


half as dull as the theological novel or as those treatises on 
the possibility of serving both God and Mammon, or on the 
art of keeping up friendly relations with religion and science 
at once, which seem to interest what in courtesy and mendacity 
is called the reading public ? And if we must judge centuries 
by their fruits, surely Teofilo Folengo, Alcofribas Nasier, 
and Nicholas Machiavel present you plenty of good matter, 
well sauced with excellent wit, smacking of garlic at times, 
and hot in the mouth, but not too strong for a healthy palate. 
Those meetings in the Oricellarii Gardens in the early years 
of the sixteenth century must have been pleasant. Cosimino 
the gentle cripple, Nardi the historian, Trissino and Alamanni, 
scholars and poets, Buondelmonti (to whom the Discorsi were 
dedicated by their author), the Diacceto and the Diaccettino, 
Grecians both : these were the men that Machiavel met and 
talked with in that delightful Academia. It was for their 
and his pleasure that he composed in a ' new style ' his life 
of Castruccio, borrowing freely from Diodorus, Laertius, 
Xenophon, and others, his aim being not so much to adorn 
the tale as to point the moral — the scientific management of 
conduct, the laws and method of statecraft, of economy, of 
war. But it would be quite untrue to picture him as the cold 
man of pure reason, the crocodile-skinned ^scientist ' : he was 
flesh and blood like ourselves, and, unlike ourselves, in no way 
ashamed of it. He could joke about the vermin on his prison 
wall — * so big and swollen, they look like moths ' — when he 
was lying with a pair of jesses about his ankles and the aches 
of six turns of the rack in his shoulders, in the midst of a 
stench ' such as never was in Roncesval nor there in Cer- 
daigne' (so we read it) * through the bushes'. He could be 
happy bawling over cards or draughts with craftsmen and 
peasants at a village tavern. He loved a comely face. He 
was a kind father, and helped his kinsmen, even when it cost 
him trouble. He had the sense and luck to wed a good, 
honest woman, who clearly loved babies better than books, 
and could bring him healthy children. 



[In counterpoise, not in contradiction, some words on Mazzini, 
written also in 1891, should be given. The sentence placing him 
above MachiavelH might not have been so phrased by Powell ten 
years later. But he thought of the two men as working, with different 
but equally practical means and canons, to the same end.] 

The words and life of a man like Mazzini are of abiding 
interest. He was one of those rare spirits that rise now and 
again in history to regenerate their people. He belongs to 
that class of which his great forerunner Dante is perhaps the 
most striking example since the prophets of the exile. Greater 
than Garibaldi, because he was wiser ; greater than Cavour, 
because he saw deeper into the future ; greater than Machia- 
velH, because he never gave way to the temptation that besets 
the politician of stooping to evil as a means to good ; simple, 
sincere, unselfish, Mazzini is one of the noblest, as he is cer- 
tainly one of the most important, figures of this century. 
Yet this man, the peer of the greatest European statesmen, 
passed most of his life in exile and danger, hunted by spies 
and police, and bespattered with the cruellest calumnies by 
hirelings and apostates. But now that all parties acknow- 
ledge the judgement and skill of his political life, even where 
they differ from him in his ideals, it is time to look carefully 
into the man's own words and works. We must not let the 
curious antithetic declamatory style of '48, which we know 
so well from Hugo's grand but unequal rhetoric, blind us to 
the scientific truth of much that seems at first in an English 
translation mere eloquence. Mazzini was nothing if not 
practical ; he knew his audience : they looked for rhetoric in 
their leader's discourses, hortatory or condemnatory. But 
when Mazzini is giving orders or planning operations he writes 
like an engineer — briefly, exactly, to the point. His paper 
on guerilla warfare in the first volume might do credit to 
Montecucvdi. Interesting biographical details, a good deal 

^ Life and Writings of Mazzini. 1891. 


of ethical discussion, and much historic matter, make up the 
bulk of the instalment of the whole six volumes now before 
us. The tale of the liberation of Italy, so full of romance, 
of glorious sacrifice, of obscure effort and unknown and silent 
devotion, has been told by George Meredith and sung by 
Swinburne and Carducci, and it remains the most splendid 
episode of this century. It was the work of many hands, 
but none did as much as Mazzini. 

[There is, unhappily, no passage of any length on Sarpi, whom 
Powell incidentally honours in company with Machiavelli, Thucydides, 
and other truth-finders of the first rank. With these he would often 
associate Gibbon, of whom he had occasion to speak more than once, 
when reviewing Mr. Bury's edition of the Decline and Fall and Mr. 
Murray's and Mr. R. Prothero's of the Life and Letters. The third pas- 
sage, from a different article, written during the same years, 1896-7, 
serves, when pieced with the others, to balance his judgement upon 


The extraordinary power that Gibbon still maintains over his 
audience was shown by the late celebration of his centenary, 
when students and men of letters united to do honour to his 
memory, and it is hardly possible to question the justice of 
the favour he enjoys. He has deserved his honours. One 
may disagree with the very title he chose for his great work ; 
one may point out his deliberate refusal (as it seems) to 
explain, or try to explain, the vast phenomena he describes, 
the success of a new set of beliefs and their influence upon 
the older and newer nations of Europe ; one may regret that 
he should have declined to point out the way in which our 
modern society, scarcely inferior even in Gibbon^s day to the 
Imperial system he deplored, has developed under Roman 
traditions from the hopeless ruin that, to his eyes, followed 
the overthrow of the old superstitions by the new ; but while 
we would fain have had him supply us with more than he 


chose to give us, we cannot quarrel with the quality of the 
work he has been willing to leave us. He has no small 
portion of that genius of common sense which was the most 
precious endowment, the most coveted gift, of the greatest 
eighteenth-century writers. Neither his cynicism nor his 
contempt for enthusiasm (that has so often in the past proved 
akin to superstition and cruelty) has ^ affected his respect for 
facts, his earnest endeavour to keep his judgement clear and 
unbiassed and his observations exact. To the man of science 
his book is as valuable as it is delightful to the man of letters. 
It is perhaps the sole post-Renaissance history that takes 
permanent rank as a classic by reason not only of its form 
but of its substance. Beside its clear majestic amplitude and 
firm well-reasoned periods Macaulay^s work shows but as a 
forensic display and Michelet^s as brilliant but incoherent 
compositions. Whether as a writer or a thinker, Livy must 
be placed far below him, and it is only as a stylist that Gibbon 
could be adjudged a lower place than Tacitus, who is certainly 
his inferior in judgement and critical power. Carlyle's highest 
work is rather historical than a history, and refuses comparison. 
Bossuet and Voltaire are far surpassed by their pupil. 
Knox^s and De Thou's partial histories and the amazing 
fragment of Raleigh's great design are in their various 
degrees classic also, as is perhaps Lamartine's masterpiece. 
But they no more than the modern Germans can pretend to 
Gibbon^s rank. 


Strange that this little puffy baby-like figure of the silhouette 
(here duly given as a frontispiece), vtdth its polite and ready 
snuff-box, was the grotesque human vesture of the man who 
first, since Machiavel and Raleigh and Sarpi (and perhaps 
Campanella), really dared to treat history scientifically. He 
took the history of the foundations of modern Western civili- 
zation and treated it under the aspect of the fall of the classic 
society and the reconstruction of the ruins into a new shape 
by the Church and the mediaeval Empire working through 


barbarian settlers. He may have neglected the Teutonic 
element and sneered at the Hebraic influences, but he dared 
to accomplish a great work in a scientific spirit and show the 
working of a few continuous human institutions through long 
and troubled ages. He used the labours of his predecessors as 
quarries affording blocks for his chisel. He especially admired 
Pascal, and despaired of imitating Hume, but, imitating 
neither, hammered out a style of his own that not only 
admirably suited his purposes of expression, but has compelled 
the attention and admiration of the whole intelligent world 
ever since the first instalment of the Decline and Fall 
appeared. He heartily loathed and strove to expose sham 
and imposture, while he was not of a mind or temper to be 
led astray by raw enthusiasm or passing frenzies. The worst 
that can be urged against him is an occasional Sterne-like 
lapse of taste in dealing with matters which the present 
fashion is to leave unnoticed as far as possible. His irony 
is sometimes bitter and for th^ most part deservedly applied, 
but it is never coarse or openly irreverent or pushed to 
extremes. He had the good fortune to win the fame he 
deserved in his lifetime ; but he would have been an historian 
if he had looked for no applause but his own, so strong was 
the natural bent of his genius. His anxiety for exactitude 
and his laborious pursuit of truth are worthy of all praise, for 
such cares do not beset them that strive only for applause ; 
they are the sufferings appointed for those who endeavour to 
bring light into darkness, make order where old chaos reigned, 
and, like Milton or Dante, struggle in their own day and 
their own way to interpret to themselves and others some of 
the cryptic leaves of the great book of science. 


* Back to Gibbon ' is all very well, and Gibbon was a 
master of history, but he was deficient precisely in the quality 

^ The Meaning of History, and other Historical Pieces. By Frederic 
Harrison. 1896. 


Mr. Harrison is always calling for — the consciousness of 
human evolution. Poly bios, poor stylist as he was, yet 
understood that the future of Europe lay with Rome, while 
Gibbon, ridden by the prejudice of his age, chose deliberately 
to call his book the * Decline and Fall ', whereas it was really 
with the rise of the Christian nations of Europe and of their 
Churches that he was dealing. Hence he dwarfs the part of 
the Eastern Empire, belittles the influences and energies that 
have made modern Europe what it is, for good or ill, and 
fails to anticipate the great changes in which his eulogist so 
openly rejoices, though he stood so close to them. Such 
a man may be a great literary artist, but he is not an historian 
of the first class, not to be placed with Thucydides and 
Machiavel as one who understood the drift of the events he 
gave the best part of his life to describing. Mommsen's 
comparative neglect of the Jews and the German tribes in his 
Roman history, his contempt for the very forces that were to 
metamorphose the face of history, supplies, as Vigfusson once 
pointed out to me, an instructive parallel to Gibbon's 
handling of his great subject. 

[More ample are the views on contemporary historians, chiefly 
English. Several of these Powell had long known personally : his 
tributes and verdicts were in most cases printed when they were dead ; 
some of them are in the nature of generous garlands on the grave; 
but all had been weighed and balanced, and represent what Powell 
thought and wished to be the permanent verdict upon each author. 
The first note, from a review of Dollinger's Studies in European History 
(1890), shows how the historian in Powell contained a poet. It is 
clear how Freeman and Gardiner are nearest to his heart and mind ; 
and how the justice done to Lecky implies resei-ves, not as to his 
impartiality, but as to the ethical prepossessions and theories under 
which he avowedly wrote. The remarks on Taine, to whom less 
than equity is dealt, treat of one who violated the first article of 
Powell's historical faith. Both articles on Freeman, and both on 
Gardiner, are reprinted (despite a few repetitions), seeing that all four 
were written unhurriedly and at leisure, and that there is fresh 
matter in each of them.] 



The Sarpi of our time. Indeed, in his judicious but in- 
tense mental attitude, his catholic hopes and fears, his firm 
and brave position towards the great retrograde councils, he 
cannot fail to recall his illustrious predecessor, and [by] his un- 
availing but noble stand against that assembly, when, if ever, 
* the seamless coat was sorest rent^, to the grief of countless 
pious souls both then and since. But it must be admitted 
that in power, grasp, and knowledge, in gifts that make a 
great historian, the Bavarian Doctor has far surpassed the 
industrious and statesmanlike Venetian. ... It is noteworthy 
that in touching such subjects as the Jews of Europe, the 
origins of the Eastern question, and the house of Wittenberg, 
Dollinger is never the historian of the dead but always of the 
living ; his province is all history, man and his thoughts and 
deeds. Whether he has lived in the crannogues of some misty 
lake over which Rome^s eagles never flew, or haunted the 
bright forum of some famous city of the classic landsi; whether 
he has dwelt deep in the forest glades of the free Teutonic 
world, or groped about in the foul, prison-like ghetto of some 
close mediaeval town ; whether he is now living and stirring 
on the Boulevards or under the Lindens, [mankind] is equally 
a subject for the historian's thought and pen and sympathy. 



Had he never written a line Professor Freeman would have 
been a remarkable man. His vast capacity for work, his 
ability, his devotion to the truth as he knew it, his upright- 
ness, courage, and kindness of heart, would have distinguished 

' Dollinger, Studies in Eutvpean History. 1890. 
» The Speaker, March 26, 1892. 


him among his contemporaries. His fine patriarchal head, 
his powerful voice, and his robust physique (not unlike that 
of Mr. William Morris) were the evident external signs of his 
vigour and energetic personality. It was good to be with 
him ; his very presence and speech were a stimulus to what 
was good and hearty within one, and one was irresistibly 
driven, not only to admire and love him, but to endeavour to 
deserve the confidence and generosity with which he treated 
his friends. He had his own ways, of course, and they were 
not those of all the world ; but he was always willing to do 
what he could to accommodate himself to those about him 
whenever he was conscious of the least diflBculty. His 
patience and kindness (with which he was too rarely credited) 
were continually evident, and he was anxious especially not to 
offend ' the little ones'. His fondness for children and dumb 
animals, who reciprocated his attachment and at once made 
friends with him, was always a very marked feature in his 
character. Many of his often-quoted sayings alone, cut 
apart from their circumstances and contexts, give a wholly 
false idea of the man. He had a bluff, pithy power of 
expression which made what he said stick in people's minds, 
and the reports of his conversation or phrases were usually 
coloured by the reporter so as to convey a very different 
impression from that intended or produced when they were 
uttered. His sharp, Dantesque scorn of idle work, of shams, 
of lying, of sophistry and humbug, was instant and outspoken, 
and naturally bitterly resented by those he detected and 
gibbeted. But there was no bitterness in his real nature, 
and his humour, which was as spontaneous and as naive as 
that of a child, often gave point and edge to a remark which 
from other lips would have fallen harmless, unsteeled, and 
ineffective. Of things he did not care for — painting, poetry 
save Macaulay and Homer, philosophy, fiction save Scott, 
Austen, and a few other favourites — he would not talk at all, 
but his interest was by no means narrow, and his memory 
was so clear and strong that there was a wide diversity of 
topics in his conversation. And he was ready to learn of 


any one and eager to question about things or persons which 
had the slightest interest for him. 

His life was exceedingly simple and orderly, and the love 
of his family had, with the most watchful and affectionate 
care, managed so that he had the fullest disposal of his time, 
free from any interruption or distraction that would hinder or 
trouble him in the slightest ; so that, down to his death-day, 
when he passed away from their unfailing but unavailing love, 
he was happy in the continual presence of those whom he 
loved and who loved him. 

He was happy, too, in his friendships, and the sincere and 
generous way in which he always spoke of his friends was 
but a slight evidence of the pleasure he felt and the devotion 
he showed in his intercourse with them. 

His house at Somerleaze was of his own choosing, and 
partly of his own building ; and there was no other spot he 
took such delight in. He had ridden a good deal in his 
middle life, but of late years his sole exercise was to walk 
over the country round — a country he had explored so 
thoroughly that there was not an old house, or an orchard, or 
field, or hillside that he did not know and remember. 

At Oxford, the big red-blinded, stone house in St. Giles 
was like Somerleaze — a rendezvous of his friends ; and 
scarce an afternoon passed but he had some guest anxious to 
get half an hour of his talk or advice. He was very exact in 
all his University work, and though he sometimes groaned 
over the calls committees made on his time, he would get his 
committee work regularly done. His public lectures speak 
for themselves, but besides these he gave courses of lectures 
on textbooks which illustrated in a very interesting way his 
methods of study and work. He took a vigorous share in 
University controversies, and though he would not accept the 
system by which men are ' prepared for the Schools ' nowa- 
days at Oxford, and did not fail to express his decided and 
outspoken dissent from the system and its advocates and 
conductors, those whom he most flatly opposed will not fail 
to acknowledge the advantage which their subject has gained 


directly, and perhaps even more indirectly, from his presence 
among them. If he made adversaries among his opponents, 
he made many friends, and his example of devoted industry 
was no slight encouragement to every one who cared for the 
increase of knowledge, and believed that an English University 
required a higher ideal than even that of the conscientious and 
hard-working college tutor. 

His work ranged — as it had done all his life — over political 
letters, magazine articles, contributions to historical, literary, 
and popular journalism, as well as over those fields of more 
esoteric learning which he had made his own. He found 
rest and pleasure in varying his work, and the several big 
tables — each with its separate apparatus — bore witness to the 
way in which he parcelled out his long working day, that 
often stretched far into the night and began before the rest 
of the household was astir. 

But it is by his strictly historical books that he would have 
wished to be judged, and they are, indeed, a splendid example 
of industry, learning, and well-directed intelligence of a high 
order. They have won him a place in the bede-roll of this 
century's English writers which even his remarkable powers 
as a controversialist and his great political knowledge could 
not have gained for him. They mark a distinct stage in the 
course of English historical study. They have led students 
to an intelligent study of the documents, in vellum and stone 
alike, upon which our knowledge of much of the past must 
necessarily rest. His treatment, for example, of the various 
copies of the Old English Chronicle is a masterly specimen 
of the way in which the scanty relics of a bygone age can be 
made to testify to the facts they so fragmentarily record. 
He took up a dark and little-appreciated, though important, 
period of our history in his Norman Conquest and Rufus, 
and he has fairly made it live again. We may not agree 
with his views of Godwin and Harold, with all his conception 
of the constitutional or social position of their days, but we 
have in much that he has written in these noble volumes firm 
ground for advances in future investigations, and a series of 


well-based conclusions from which to step on to future 
knowledge. He has shown the way in which the work may 
be done ; he has been the pioneer of his generation to 
English students of history, as Niebuhr and Arnold and 
Grote and Gibbon were to theirs. His grasp of historical 
geography was unrivalled even by Munch. ^I have not 
written of any town which I have not seen save Ardres only/ 
he said with reference to one of the last of that grand series 
of local studies which has made the history of France and 
Italy and Dalmatia so interesting and instructive to the most 
untrained reader. His architectural work, never wholly 
interrupted for half a century, is of exceeding value. To him 
a building was, as it were, a living organism, and he had so 
vast a store of well-remembered types of Gothic and Roman- 
esque at his command that it was rare indeed for him to fail 
in putting an intelligible interpretation to any strange and 
unique example of either style that came in his way. Within 
the last few months he made a journey to see certain early 
churches that he had visited and sketched more than a 
generation ago. The last day he was out of doors he sat 
enjoying the view of the * acropolis ' of Alicante that was to 
mark and guard his last resting-place. 

His grasp of general principles and the true perspective of 
the history of Europe are manifest in every page he wrote, 
and no matter whether his audience were, as in his Old 
English History, children, or, as in his General Sketches, the 
unskilled reader, or, as in his Sicily, the student and admirer 
of the classics he knew so well, he managed to convey a sense 
of proportion of the true aspects of the great world-history in 
a manner which has rarely been equalled. His work on 
constitutional history, and his splendid fragment on Federal 
Government (which has been the admiration of politicians of 
every school and country), show his wide knowledge and 
accurate observation, and a wealth and courage of thought 
and treatment none but he could have supplied. 

As to his style, opinions will, of course, differ, but many 
pages of the Conquest and the Sicily are surely wonder- 


ful examples of robust English prose, the phraseology firm 
and serious, as well as truthful and exact. He has shown 
that it is possible to write with scientific precision and 
common grammar, and at the same time with an eye to the 
significance of words as well as to the sound and colour of 
the sentence. One habit of style he had which has injured 
his reputation as a writer among the casual skimmers of books 
who abound in print nowadays, to wit, the way he drives 
home and clinches his ideas by well-directed repetitions. You 
must understand his view clearly if he has to give it you 
three times over. But it is this habit that had brought his 
convictions to the common knowledge of most of us. A 
truth that was worth learning he thought worth repeating, 
and there are therefore few of us but were in possession of 
his opinions on the great questions of the past and present. 
He loved comparisons, and his illustrations by likeness and 
difference were often most striking and suggestive, though of 
course they necessitated the employment of the names of 
persons known and unknown, to the general reader's continued 
exasperation, until in very anger he felt himself bound to seek 
further information — a task he probably resented in many 

His historical portraits compare with those of Stubbs and 
Clarendon for life and vigour — the Red King (for whom he 
had a secret affection, in spite of his own judgement almost), 
the Conqueror, stark and wise and just, the saintly and 
irritable Confessor, that noble knight Helias, the crafty Papal 
diplomat who foiled Rufus and his bishops, the meek and 
stubborn Anselm, the truly unscrupulous Flambard, and 
many more figures that appear with Hals-like distinction 
upon his varied historical canvases. He was keen as a contro- 
versialist, and could indite a * Grimthorpe ' with the best, but 
his doughty strokes were dealt in good faith, and he cared 
more for his cause than for the overthrowing of the enemy's 
champions ; and though he enjoyed the fray, he was often 
unconscious of the wounds he gave by a stinging epithet or 
a fiery phrase. He never deliberately inflicted pain, and he 


was often surprised at the anger his plain-spoken words 
caused. But in his own firmly held conviction he could 
hardly imagine it possible that the opposite opinion could be 
honestly maintained, and hence he did not always stay his 
hand in his zeal to put his own case clearly. His love of 
accuracy was part of his inmost nature : names meant facts 
to him, and he knew how easily people were misled by the 
careless use of words. Hence the scrupulous care, for which 
he has been most unjustly rebuked by those who cannot 
understand that it is almost as easy (and much better in the 
end) to use the right term as the wrong one. He was — often 
excessively — annoyed by criticism that he thought unfair or 
careless ; but no man welcomed more earnestly any real 
rectification of his words or views. His care in revising his 
work was continual and scrupulous. He was eager to seek 
information from every quarter, and he would spend hours in 
searching for any detail which he regarded as in the slightest 
degree bearing on any opinion or statement he had made. 

He planned out his work with great care, thought out the 
details, and noted carefully any authority he could get at 
before he wrote ; and it is worth recording that it was his 
way to write, not to dictate ; dictation he rarely made use of, 
and then for some special purpose. He verified every reference, 
and he went over his proof-sheets with minute care. And it 
is quite wrong to suppose that he wrote carelessly or without 
constant correction, though his * copy ' was singularly clear 
and good, and his firm, characteristic handwriting was, 
though a little difi&cult at first, easy to follow by reason of its 
unvarying form. 

On no work had he lavished more thought and industry 
than on his last — doomed, alas ! to remain incomplete. It is 
impossible to perceive any loss of grip or falling off in the 
last pages he penned. ' I think I write better than I did ; 
I am sure my judgement is as clear, only my verbal memory 
is not as good as it was', was his verdict on himself but 
a month or so ago. And it must be a source of constant 
regret that he should not have lived to finish this masterpiece. 


for the history of Sicily, that * inn of strange meetings ', is 
a subject on which, of all others, he was perhaps best qualified 
to write. It dealt with movements he had long studied, with 
peoples whose past and present he had followed with interest 
all his life. The Greek, the Roman, the Phoenician, the 
Saracen, the Norman, the Lombard, the Frenchman, the 
Spaniard, and even the Englishman, have each played a part 
in this strange and eventful island's history. 

But it was not granted him to grasp his ideal, and the soil 
of the Protestant graveyard of Alicante covers the dust of the 
greatest English historian of this century, snatched by too 
sudden a death from the midst of the friends, the kindred, 
and the labours he loved. Spain guards the sepulchres of few 
worthier Englishmen, though many have found death beneath 
her cloudless skies. 


Those (and they are many) who only heard of Freeman as 
(f)povboKT6vos, as a fierce debater at antiquarian meetings, as 
an impassioned speaker at St. James's Hall, as an inditer of 
* Grimthorpes ', will perhaps be a little surprised to find this 
burly, rough-tongued fighting man to have been also a warm 
friend, an affectionate paterfamilias, a zealous magistrate, an 
amiable host, a considerate landlord, a person of singularly 
simple life and unaffected piety, and a man with a great deal of 
boyishness in him to the last. These characteristics naturally 
show through his correspondence. One sees therein his 
pleasure in his own queer schoolboy jargon (made up of funny 
epithets, tags of Greek and Latin, scraps of misquotations 
that had caught his eye) ; his cheery habit of finding his task 
amusing, however dry it might seem, and enjoying it as if he 
were at play ; his delight in the little daily trifles of his quiet 
country life, eager over the babies, the beasts, the house 
gossip ; his pleasure in discussing his work with his friends 
of kindred taste, his inability to care at all for things that did 

' Review of Dean Stephens's Life and Letters of E. A. Freeman, in 
Pall Mall Gazette, January 30, 1896. 


not interest him, his frankness and confidence towards his 
friends, and abiding interest in their welfare. 

Of the bluntness without compromise and the rough speech 
that not seldom in his earlier days showed his impatience with 
what he thought was idle folly or indefensible ignorance or 
knavish insincerity, there is very little in the letters here 
printed; more often, especially in later years, a boyish 
grumble at a galling instance of ineptitude, or silly policy, or 
wild statement in quarters where better things were to be 
looked for. Of course, there is plain speaking, but very 
little ill-temper. And, indeed, he was not an irritable or 
impatient man. And he had a strong desire to do and speak 
justly, but if he once ' found out' an unrepentant and need- 
less offender he was not sparing in his efforts to punish him 
and deter others from the ' corrupt following ' of such a one. 

It is pleasant to know that his zeal was not in vain, though 
it may not always have been wisely restrained. He and his 
younger friend, the bishop, really founded a school of history, 
which insisted upon certain canons that had been forgotten 
by the ordinary practitioners and ignored by the crowd of 
dabblers and guessers that imagined themselves to be historical 
students. They insisted on careful study of the originals, on 
which every conclusion we draw, however 'new and brilliant', 
must be based. They insisted on the necessity for wide as 
well as deep reading, on the benefit of the ' comparative 
method ' ; they looked on history as a scientific study of the 
past conduct of man in his political aspects, and not as the 
propagation of special pleading in favour of some institution, 
person, or creed which they favoured; they dwelt on the 
importance of accuracy even in details, they condemned the 
hurtfulness of misleading, slipshod phraseology. This faith 
Freeman preached continually, both in example and precept. 
Being human he sometimes made mistakes, and these, being 
really anxious for the truth, and above the petty vanity that 
dooms a man never to admit himself wrong, he was glad to 
correct and anxious to prevent. As for his style, his chief 
model was Macaulay ; and he paid the closest attention to 

D 2 


making what he had to say clear, so that he did not fear 
repeating himself where he thought there was a danger of his 
statement being misunderstood or ignored ; but he was also 
ever anxious for plain words, loving rather such English as 
Defoe's or Swift's than Dr. Browne's or Dr. Johnson's, and 
loving every now and then to revive some honest old home- 
spun expression and to get rid of a longer and less expressive 
word or phrase. He had the gift (for it seems a special 
endowment) of greatly irritating certain of his adversaries by 
some of his harmless peculiarities that, indeed, had nothing 
to do with what he was saying or with its correctness ; and he 
was often puzzled by the fierce opposition that was roused 
by such a habit as writing proper names by a rule or rules of 
his own, which he had adopted after some consideration and 
often in agreement with previous and accepted writers. 

The early life of the man, as unfolded in this memoir, 
accounts for many of his idiosyncrasies : the grave, lonely, 
quiet country life, the precocious pleasure in books and bookish 
talk and in matters ecclesiastic, the innocent schoolboy fun, 
the serious ambitions and premature earnestness, the love of 
things olden and interest therein, the quickly-developed 
historic imagination that could make dead men live, raise 
dead causes, espy the true connexion between far-off 
phenomena, and trace the politics of the day back till they 
had become history, the politics of the past. 

At Oxford the hard-working youth took pleasure in the 
ecclesiastic disputes and pursuits then the fashion of the 
place, and became an authority upon what Willis aptly called 
' architectural history ', a study which gave him much enjoy- 
ment and much instruction all his life, as he was always glad 
to acknowledge. He was already too much of an historian, 
too proud, too sensible, to be inveigled into those curious 
* subterranean ' vagaries and mole-like methods into which 
many weak heads were at that time seduced. He remained 
the ' old-fashioned Churchman ' to the last, singularly 
attentive always to the religious observances he had always 
cherished, but free from religious bigotry to a very rare degree. 



and with a belief that just so far as a man upheld truth and 
right, and strove to do his duty to his neighbour, so near was 
he to the kingdom of God. Hence, though he had a distinct 
prejudice in favour of the Eastern Christian, and a distinct 
dislike for ' the Jew ' and ' the Turk ', it was not in him to 
condone any wrongdoing by Greek or Russian, or to pass 
over righteousness in an Israelite or Mohammedan. He had 
firm friends of many creeds and uncreeds, marvelling some- 
times how men without the beliefs he held could live decent, 
honourable lives, yet freely acknowledging that they did. 
His antipathies he cherished, as Johnson did. ^ Philosophy ' 
he did not esteem ; he thought Plato would have been better 
employed in the quarries than in the Grove. He loved no 
poetry but the epic, and indeed considered prose rhetoric the 
proper expression for emotions we usually account peculiarly 
suited to the lyric muse. Scientific method he fully recognized, 
but for its application in mathematics and the so-called 
* natural' sciences, except geology, he cared nothing — save 
(as in the Vivisection controversy) when they touched ethics, 
whereof he took great heed. To art, other than architectural, 
he paid no attention. He loved a fair prospect, but had no 
sense of colour whatever. 


There have been few instances since that of Gibbon of 
long-continued historical work so carefully planned, so steadily 
pursued, and so successfully carried out as the histoiy of 
England during the best part of the seventeenth century, that 
we owe to the single-handed industry of the historian whose 
name is in many mouths to-day. Dr. Gardiner's life is an 
unbroken record of quiet, unpretentious, and continual work. 
He shrunk from no toil of research, visiting far-off archives, 
inspecting historic sites, perusing myriads of manuscripts and 
» Feb. 25, 1902. 


thousands of pamphlets, maknig French, Dutch, Spanish, and 
German collections of State papers yield all they contained 
that could throw light on the subjects he was treating, 
aiming at and attaining a most rare impartiality, and 
gradually, during the long years that he gave up to his self- 
set task, teaching himself to write a style that, void of all 
ornament and wholly innocent of rhetorical device, was yet 
able without unnecessary clumsiness or heaviness to convey 
a clear and definite meaning. It is possible that to attain 
the adequate expression of his thoughts cost him more trouble 
than all the rest of his work put together. For his orderly 
mind and industrious habits made him refuse no part of his 
task because of its aridity or obscurity, and he would as 
cheerfully go into dockyard accounts or investigate the details 
of taxation as he would follow the progress of a great 
diplomatic or military campaign or describe one of the striking 
historic scenes that are so characteristic of the period. 
When he was yet young he deliberately made history his 
life-work, and nothing was suffered needlessly to interrupt 
this. His sound health and regular life permitted him to 
anticipate, and made the undertaking of such an enterprise 
as the detailed history of England from 1603 to 1660 by no 
means foolhardy, even though he knew that the necessity of 
earning a living would largely encroach upon the time he 
could devote to it. But Gardiner was of the same strenuous 
stamp as Littre. Day after day he would come up to 
business from his home near London like any City man, do 
his full day's work at the British Museum Reading-room, at 
that well-known table loaded with books and MSS., and 
return home, where other work often awaited him. He took 
no more holidays than were strictly needed for health's sake, 
and he was so chary of his time that, after six hours of 
examining at Oxford, he has gone on to work in the Bodleian 
till the evening. Indeed he was most happy when in full 
work, as he more than once said, and it was a happiness that 
he did not think it wrong to allow himself. So, without 
pressing and without ceasing, he dutifully laboured while his 


light held out. It is sad to remember that the bigotry of the 
law at first rendered him unable to receive the endowment 
that the Dean of Christ Church would fain have bestowed 
upon him. But it is pleasant to know that when those 
intolerant laws were abolished Christ Church bestowed on 
him the highest honour in her gift, and All Souls and 
Merton Colleges rejoiced in being able to help to endow so 
splendid and successful an example of wisely directed 
research. . . , 

Compare Gardiner's life-work with that of Macaulay, who 
has been for two generations the most popular and typical of 
English historians, and it will be at once felt that, save in the 
grace and power of style (to which alone, be it remembered, 
Macaulay owes his popularity), Gardiner has proved his 
superior in every respect. He has read more, he has thought 
more, he knows more. He is a competent scientific in- 
vestigator, whereas at best Macaulay is a brilliant party 
pamphleteer, a rhetorical essayist, a man who was never 
able to see beyond the petty formulae in which he had been 
brought up, and who had no real love for the naked truth 
at all ; a man who did not think it below the dignity of 
an historian to try and make the worse appear the better cause. 
If we compare Gardiner with Froude — who was a bigger- 
brained man than Macaulay, but wholly incapable of any 
approach to exact investigation or correct reasoning, who 
wrote best when he followed his instinct and openly sought 
™ acceptance by the allurement of his plausible style, — the judge- 
P ment is still more definite ; we must class the one as a literary 
man, the other as a man of science. For, strange as it seems 
to say so, judging from the surprising attacks such remarks 
call forth, history is not a matter of beautiful expression but of 
absolute science, whose results are attained only by careful 
^ observation, correct reasoning, and proper methods of investi- 
H gation. History may be used as a collection of specimens for 
H ethical disquisition, or it may be called on to furnish matter 
^H for impassioned political and partisan orations, but it is not 
^^ a branch of ethics nor a department of belles-lettres. It is 



a branch of concrete science dealing with the definite organic 
phenomena concerned with human development and human 
retrogression. ' The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth ' would seem ridiculous as a motto to anything that 
Macaulay or Froude has written (valuable in its own way as 
their work has undoubtedly been), but it is the motto of the 
scientific historian, and it is the motto that Gardiner lived up 
to. He had, as all men have, predilections and partialities 
of his own, but while one can sometimes detect in the turn of 
a phrase which way his natural sympathy lay, there is no 
instance where he can for a moment be thought to have 
misled his reader by suppression, exaggeration, or colouring 
of the plain fact. We may not agree with Gardiner in his 
estimate (arrived at after long and close thought and with 
extensive and minute knowledge of all the extant evidence, 
be it remembered) of the peace policy of James or the 
character of Charles I or Cromwell, but we know that he 
is giving his verdict with all the weight of a well-stored and 
scrupulously j udicial mind, and that he has himself been most 
eager to supply us with every means of arriving at a conclusion 
for ourselves. 

This is so rare that, save Lecky and Ranke, we know of no 
historian of the nineteenth century that has exhibited an 
equally scinipulous impartiality. The astonishing and blind 
partisanship of men like Mommsen and Fustel de Coulanges, 
the abominable endeavours to mislead posterity out of 
'patriotic* motives that disgrace Von Sybel and Thiers, the 
unconcealed malignity of Treitschke and the like, abide as sad 
and memorable instances of scholars descending from the 
pursuit of truth to the lower methods of the * ward politician*, 
of the religious controversialist, or the quack advertiser. 

Gardiner set aside without effort every temptation to treat 
history in any but a scientific spirit It would have seemed 
as dishonourable to him to use a question -begging adjective 
as to tell a lie or suppress a fact. Hence it is not only 
interesting to watch him dealing with a worthy subject, but 
highly instructive to see how, as his own horizon of knowledge 


widened, his treatment of men and things broadened, so that 
it became possible for him to think of Charles as a man 
worthy of respect and of Cromwell as a man that followed 
where duty and wisdom led, without being unduly swayed by 
the undoubted deceits of the one and the illegalities of the 
other, though he himself was the most sincere and law-abiding 
of men and loathed lies and law-breaking more than most men 
do. If at times we seem to detect a disposition in the 
historian to expect his characters to act with fundamental 
consistency, we can easily reckon the bearing of this mani- 
festation of the personal equation ; and surely to expect an 
average consistency is a good working rule for the student of 
human nature, who is thus the better kept alive to the 
numerous deviations from the normal that he is certain to 
encounter sooner or later in any prolonged investigation. 
Many of us look on Cromwell as essentially an opportunist 
(and the more English so), which would be too sweeping 
a conclusion probably for Dr. Gardiner to assent to. There 
are those that despise Vane, but Dr. Gardiner would be 
disposed to take a view more in consonance with Milton^s. 
For a few of us Rupert is a more important personage than 
he appears to Dr. Gardiner, but Dr. Gardiner's view of the 
measure of his effectiveness can be supported by many 
arguments of weight. Moreover, Dr. Gardiner has forestalled 
a large number of objections by giving them prompt con- 
sideration as they naturally arose ; he has solved an immense 
number of difficulties by the express testimony of the crowds 
of new witnesses whom he has discovered and produced ; he 
has even been able to rid himself from the besetting British 
temptation of delivering ethical judgements, which is an 
occupation clean outside the historian's province and an 
occupation for which he has seldom either adequate training 
or sufficient knowledge to justify him in undertaking it. 
The practical bent of his mind has saved Dr. Gardiner from 
many pitfalls and led him to follow the sound rules of evidence, 
so that he escapes from fallacies that have ere now deluded 
scholars of high rank but imperfect grasp of method and of 


logic. His superiority to Ranke, where they meet, lies in the 
fact that, first, he understood Parliament and what it means 
better than the famous German, and secondly that he knew 
the internal course of the politics of England, in and out of 
Parliament, as well as the inwardness of all the foreign nego- 
tiations that were being carried on here in the seventeenth 
century. The absence of literature (save the early works of 
Milton and the poetry of Vaughan, Traherne, and one or 
two more) and of book help other than tracts, newsletters, 
sermons, satires, proclamations, exhortations, commentaries, 
and narrations, often false, mostly dry, and frequently useless, 
that swarm and pullulate during the period, has not been so 
inimical to Dr. Gardiner as it would have been to an historian 
with greater feeling for literary work and expression. 

This has made his toil more irksome, possibly, but at all 
events he has not been distracted. The great work will be 
a model for those who, we hope at no distant date, will 
undertake the history of the British Isles and plantations 
under the various kings of the House of Brunswick and their 
still more important ministers. Their task will be easier but 
longer, their problems less perplexing but more frequent, the 
characters they must consider will be more intricate, of less 
bold modelling and more various in colour. The social and 
political side of politics will absorb much of their attention. 
But they will have the advantage of a model in this noble 
history of Dr. Gardiner's, a history not surpassed in its kind, 
or indeed fairly equalled, by the work of any Continental 
scholar of this century or the last. . . . 

His fame rests securely on his big history, the book in 
which this English Polybios reveals the passions and prejudices, 
the instincts and motives, the virtues and the capabilities, the 
political actions and thoughts of a famous generation of 
a mighty people ' mewing a mighty youth'. ' Comely indeed 
and refreshing ' is the veracious record of such an era, not 
because of the eloquence of its presentment or the dazzling of 
its rhetoric or the poetry of its expressions, but by reason of 
its accuracy, its fidelity, its exactness, the completeness of its 


evidence, the judicial treatment of its phenomena; and 
though an able and highly trained man should give his life, as 
this man has, to such a subject, shall we not esteem him 
highly fortunate in his success and deem that he at least has 
deserved well of the country whose past he has so wisely and 
faithfully studied ? 


Of his monographs, his Cromwell (in which he paid much 
attention to the manner as well as to the matter) is perhaps 
the best, and it proves that he had made himself master of 
a plain nervous style admirably fitted to the subjects he was 
treating. His editions of original documents are exact, 
straightforward, and businesslike, without parade of learning 
or pomp of useless annotation. In his big book he had to 
choose between giving time to style or to research, and he 
(wisely, as I think) determined that his first duty was to get 
at his results and set them forth as plainly and clearly as he 
could, knowing that he would not be able to furnish his book 
forth with a bravery meant to attract, save at the cost of much 
pains better spent on investigation. He found difficulty in 
his earlier volumes in getting his results down vividly, but he 
learnt much of the art of writing by continual practice, and 
there are not a few pages in his later volumes that deserve 
selection among the best typical pieces of English historical 
prose. Like Polybios he was ever greatly desirous to get at 
the knowledge of things he held to be important and to give 
that knowledge as he got it to his readers, but he sought only 
an audience that would be content with an accurate state- 
ment and could dispense with rhetoric. 

It is not too much to say that Gardiner found the story of 
the first Stewarts and Cromwell legend, and has left it 
history. The reign of James was untilled ground, the reign 
of Charles a plot choked with warring weeds, the Common- 
wealth unexplored country till he came. Jameses policy and 

^ English Historical Review, April, 1902. 


theories, Charles's character and aims, the position of 
Buckingham and Pym and Strafford, the foreign influences 
operating upon court, church, and people, the financial 
position from year to year (which Gardiner was the first to 
investigate), the varying fortunes of the war and the causes 
that determined the changes, the exact political meaning that 
the religious question assumed from year to year, the precise 
constitutional or unconstitutional attitude of the different 
parties and their ideals, the aims and achievements and in- 
complete enterprises of Cromwell, the Scottish difficulties 
(never dealt with so broadly and impartially before), the 
Irish imbroglios and the Settlement, even the military and 
naval history of the period, as far as we now know them on good 
evidence — we know from evidence collected, marshalled, and 
weighed by Gardiner. He was sometimes surprised at the 
unforeseen results that gradually worked out under his eyes 
as he proceeded with his orderly and minute investigation of 
the evidence for each successive year of the period, and he 
could test every step forward as thoroughly as the material 
admitted, his fine memory and his aptitude for chronology 
standing him in good stead and helping him to make the best 
use of his full notes. That he was by blood connected with 
the Puritan party was a source of satisfaction to him person- 
ally ; but I know also that it put him on his guard lest he 
should by natural partiality be led to press unduly against 
the other side. The immense care he took to try to under- 
stand the men of the seventeenth century gave him, as he went 
on, a fine historic instinct, and enabled him to grasp facts at 
once that earlier he could only have understood with difficulty ; 
for he was by nature a man of singleness of mind and dis- 
position, and it was a cunning and complex world, in many 
ways different from the world of his own experience, that he 
had undertaken to explore. But his good common sense 
upheld him, and his grasp of character and theory of motive 
became keen and searching long before he reached the end 
of his labours. No man that I have known worked more 
unflinchingly up to his highest ideals. And it has been 


given to him to write the history of those dark years of 
struggle and unrest that have largely moulded British history 
— years in which many mighty men went down to the Un- 
seen fighting for the portion of truth that they had managed 
to get a glimpse of — years of costly sacrifice, but sacrifice 
not to be accounted wholly vain. Charles died as honour- 
ably and usefully as Hampden, Strafford and Montrose as 
nobly and unselfishly as Falkland ; Herbert's ideals were as 
true as Milton's, though not so splendid; and the mystic 
Vaughan was as near to the verities as the homely Bunyan. 
Hobbes and Filmer (unequal pair) alike shared in the ^ making 
of England ' ; even Cromwell's work as it fell from his dying 
hand was taken up by the ministers of his royal successor. 
It is possible to take a broader and wider view now that 
Gardiner has cleared the path up the heights to which he 
himself painfully but surely won his way in half a century's 
steady toil. Magna est Veritas et praevalebit, and Gardiner 
no less than Green had the firmest faith in the old Oxford 
device they both admired. 

He has been our Master Interpreter; he has toiled year 
after year that his countrymen might understand what their 
forebears really thought and did, when they failed, where 
they succeeded. He has made it possible for us to under- 
stand the curious warp or twist in the regular development 
of this nation that has made it different from other European 
nations in its political and social life — a warp of a strange, 
possibly not wholly beneficial, kind, but a warp the conditions 
of which can now to some extent be made out. He has 
done for us as to Cromwell's day what Stubbs has done for 
us as to the days of Henry FitzEmpress and Earl Simon 
and Edward I, and he has done it by enormous toil, and by 
a well-devised and consistent method. Knowledge can only 
be achieved by rightly directed and unselfish effort. Gardiner 
knew this, and in the security and helpfulness of his results 
he had the sole reward he sought or valued. 

Personally, as a friend of a score of years, I cannot but 
here record my abiding sense of gratitude to the man that 


has gone, as I remember his patient and gentle kindness, his 
friendly help and ready counsel, the simplicity and sincerity 
of his life, the unflagging enthusiasm that lightened the 
drudgery of perusing thousands and thousands of the dullest 
of pages in print and manuscript that he was bound to go 
through in his self-imposed task, the scrupulous care with 
which he formed and examined his own conclusions, and the 
unfeigned and brotherly delight with which he welcomed 
every fresh recruit to the small army of English historians. 
These things dwell in one's memory, and must dwell as long 
as memory remains. ' It is no light thing to have known 
wise and good men ', and certainly this man was both wise 
and good. 


Mr. Lecky began at an early age to devote himself to the 
studies that occupied the greater part of his life. His first 
work, Leaders of Public Opinion in Ireland, issued anony- 
mously in 1861, when he was twenty- three, was of high promise, 
and though it passed comparatively unnoticed at the time, by 
some freak of the fortune that affects the sale of books, it was 
seen by good judges to be a remarkable achievement. Wide 
reading, close reasoning, sympathy joined to a remarkably 
cool judgement, and great and praiseworthy impartiality, 
combined with a clear and effective style to delight the 
intelligent reader. The sketch of O'Connell in particular is 
a little masterpiece of its kind. From the province of 
biography Mr. Lecky turned to a wider and even more 
difficult branch of history, the progress of reason in Western 
Europe as applied to the main matters of general social 
concern, and here his studiously moderate language, his lofty 
standpoint, and his command of facts gained favour for a book 
that by no means supported the popular ideas that then held 

1 Oct. 24, 1903. 



favour in the British press and in British society. It is 
amusing to compare the calm but not cold statements of 
Lecky in his History of the Rise and Influence of the Spirit 
of Rationalism in Europe (1865) with the shrewd and biting 
onslaughts of Buckle upon the same superstitious and false 
ideals. It is probable that Mr. Lecky was by no means the 
least effective in the attack upon the delusions he so quietly 
but unflinchingly exposed. Without committing himself to 
any system such as that of Mill or Comte, Mr. Lecky was 
content to show the illusory nature of the popular beliefs on 
many important subjects; he appealed to reason, to quiet 
thought and reflection ; he left his reader to convince 
himself. He half unconsciously but evidently applies the 
doctrine of development and evolution in the sphere of human 
conduct ; he refuses to prejudice his case by violent words, 
by over-statement, by specious rhetoric ; he is content with 
a plain but exceedingly skilful exposition, lucid, orderly, well 
supported by acknowledged facts. The book has done good 
service, and its influence has been wider than perhaps even 
its writer knew. It was in a sense completed by the History 
of European Morals from Augustus to Charlemagne (1869). 
A certain immature Puritanism natural to the man and the 
time in which it was written is to be noticed in this work, 
which, though it does not hinder the historical exposition, 
shows that the writer had not yet grasped a rational theory 
of the origin of human ethic. 

It was perhaps a consciousness of the lack of the scientific 
groundwork necessary for a full treatment of the history of 
ethic that turned Mr. Lecky^s attention to later political 
history, in the critique and sources of which he was thoroughly 
at home. His admirable History of England in the Eigh- 
teenth Century (1878-1890) is a monument of learning and 
exposition, and is completed by the History of Ireland in the 
Eighteenth Century, which concludes with the Union. In 
these two books, while he notices that in the face of a mass 
of material the historian can only hope to produce a mosaic 
picture, he has nevertheless written many pages of reflection 


and conclusions forced upon him by the systematic study of the 
huge array of evidence before him. We may agree or not 
with the views he expresses, but we cannot quarrel with the 
narrative of facts so scrupulously and judiciously compiled. 

We may not judge Clare or Tone as he has judged them, 
but the accuracy of his relation of the events of their lives we 
cannot question. His effort to be fair and just is so scrupulous 
and so successful that at times it seems to have almost stayed 
his hand and fettered the free expression of his feelings ; but 
then he is not writing for the sake of success, of literary fame, 
but for the sake of truth, and he attains at times the stately 
judicial manner we have admired in great judges — a manner 
surely, after all, higher than the dazzling and misleading 
rhetoric of many a famous advocate. 

In his Democracy and Liberty he has made a scientific 
study of the influence of modern ' democratic ' Governments 
in the direction of restraint. It was written after his History 
of the Eighteenth Century, a study by which he rightly 
believed that he had gained certain * kinds of knowledge and 
methods of reasoning ' that might be of use in the discussion 
of contemporary questions. The book met, naturally enough, 
with opposition, but it is the kind of book that students of 
politics must value highly. It deals with tendencies ; it 
weighs these, and attempts to show the dangers and difficulties 
likely to be met with in the almost uncharted sea of the 
future. It frankly recognizes that the democratic experiment 
will be tried, rightly or wrongly, and that the success or 
failure of the experiment will depend upon the sagacity of the 
executive and the common sense of the body for which they 
act. That there is anything like a divine right of democracy 
or that there is any finality about a democratic system Mr. 
Lecky would naturally refuse to admit ; yet he is not dealing 
with theory here, but with practical matters. 'You who 
work this experiment will have such and such difficulties ; 
they cannot be met in such and such ways; wherefore 
perpend ! ' This is the kind of attitude he assumes in 
Democracy and Liberty. He examines the ordinary falla- 



cies in the loose talk only too prevalent over politics, he 
shows the insidious approaches tyranny continues to make 
toward overthrowing the measure of liberty that democracy 
claims to afford to all ; he notices the real claims democracy 
makes upon every citizen, claims not always wholly acknow- 
ledged by those most loud in calling for democratic institutions 
of the most uncompromising type. He must not, therefore, 
be classed as a reactionary; the true friends of democracy 
are those who, like Ruskin, Carlyle, and Lecky, point out the 
perils ahead. 

In his autobiographic books, his poems, and his Map of 
Life, he reveals himself as of a sober, kindly, not unhumorous 
nature ; he shows that he trained himself to be reasonable in 
expectation, steady in face of the inevitable shocks and 
disappointments of life, and kindly towards those who are his 
co-mates in the httle raft floating between the two immensities. 
His creed is that of a quiet, reflective, dutiful man, who faces 
life, as he understands it and has known it, squarely, without 
exultation or depression. Of the joie de vivre in the full 
sense he does not show much experience. His life of pre- 
dilection is that of // Penseroso, though he is firmly con- 
vinced that it is the duty of every man, whether inclined by 
temperament or not, to play his part as a citizen for the 
benefit of his fellow creatures, his country, and even of 
himself. He makes but slight calls on Faith or Hope, but 
he admits to the full the rights of Charity. It is per- 
haps a little colourless, his scheme of life, but it is clear, 
sensible, reasonable as far as it goes, and a man who lived 
up to it would be of use to his country and a credit to 

He made himself by careful practice a good, fluent speaker, 
with a gift for a kind of gentle irony that was often ex- 
ceedingly telling and humorous. His voice and intonation 
were clear and pleasant. He had not the faults of the 
ordinary public speaker. He was not a master of common- 
place, nor one that plastered over an inconvenient issue with 
a daub of futile generalities. He was not grotesque or weak 

I. p. u B 


in style or expression. He understood and studied his 
audience. His business was reason, not rhetoric, but he was 
not therefore careless of the form. 

His tall, spare figure and characteristic carriage and face 
will be remembered by many to whom he is only known as 
a member of Parliament — the least, perhaps, of his titles to 
memory. As an historian he ranks rather with Gardiner on 
the one hand and with Mill on the other. It is idle to expect 
of a scientific man, even of Newton or Darwin, that his work 
will be final, but it will probably be long before his work on 
British and Irish history of the eighteenth century can be 
replaced ; and his earlier work can only be superseded by one 
who has added to his wide reading a deeper knowledge of 
the evolutionary process of intellectual development than is 
found save in the foremost thinkers of to-day. 


In 1894 came out the last instalment of this elegant 
and well-based study of a difficult but fascinating epoch. 
His cool judgement, the complete mastery of the condi- 
tions, the ready comprehension of the problems that faced the 
men of whom he was writing, the quick grasp of character, 
and the honourable impartiality with which the bitter and 
perennial religious and political controversies are handled, 
make it a work of permanent value. One might have wished, 
perhaps, that he had been less severe upon himself, and 
given his amusing wit and ironic humour a little more play. 
The dignity of history would scarce have suffered, and we 
should have been richer by a complete literary masterpiece. 
But, no doubt for reasons he felt to be good, he refused to stir 
from the cold and decorous style that at least does not betray 
its follower into the pitfalls that are set — not in vain always — 
for those who choose their own paths and paces. One felt 

' Jan. 15, 1901. 


in his work a sense of restrained power, and one knew that 
he could have made an instant reputation by style but 
preferred to remain faithful to the more obvious and binding 
duties incumbent on the historian. And this History of the 
Papacy during the Reformation is the only first-rate piece of 
Church history in narrative form that the nineteenth century 
has produced in English. The rare capacity for appreciating 
foreign art, and art of an extremely conventional style, was of 
material service to its author in the repeated visits that he 
paid to Italy during the progress of the work, and it was by 
reason of his instinctive aesthetic feeling that he was able to 
solve many difficulties, that commonly resist the Teutonic 
mind to the wonder of the Latin critic. There was always 
something of the Renaissance about Mandell Creighton. 
He would have been at his ease in a cardinal's hat, whether 
he had to sit with the scholarly and travelled Pius II or that 
great patron of arts and letters Sixtus IV, or to march with 
that * martial restorer of the Papacy ' Julius II, or whether 
he had to attend Councils or manage Congregations or 
govern or pacify one of the more turbulent States of the 
Church. His historic imagination, his pleasure in tracing out 
the complex tangles of political struggles and noting their 
results, his intense appreciation of intellectual force and of 
the skilful play of a master statesman, are qualities that less 
frequently adorn our English historians, though they some- 
times furnish the greater part of the Southern historian's 
equipment. It was this historic imagination, and the tact 
that was one of his most notable gifts too, that helped to 
make his mission to Russia to represent the Anglican Church 
at the Tsar's coronation something more than a piece of 
gracious courtesy paid by one Christian community to 

While at Peterborough he also wrote his brilliant aperqu 
of the reign and personality of the great Queen, whom such 
men as Spenser and Ralegh delighted to honour, the Queen 
who made England the foremost Protestant power, whose 

I navy set bounds to the cherished Spanish dreams of world- 
E 2, 


empire, in whose days an Englishman reached the ' topmost 
heights of that poetic mount ^ which none but Dante had 
scaled since Greek ceased to be the tongue of civilized man- 
kind. It was no easy theme, but it was so handled that 
something better than a mere pleasing piece of popular 
literature was produced. . . . 

In the Bishops of London and Oxford the Anglican 
Church, faithful to the scholarly fashion of the seventeenth 
and eighteenth centuries, has secured historians whose equals 
no other European Church can point to among their hierarchy, 
and this must be counted to her credit. It is curious that in 
France and Italy, Spain and Germany, it should now be left 
to simple priests, professors, and abbes to uphold the traditions 
of learning that men like Jerome and Augustine, Ximenes 
and Isidore, to name only a few characteristic teachers, 
implanted in the higher ranks of the Christian organizations 
of their day. True, there is a gap between Collier and Fuller 
and the Anglican historians of this reign, but it is a gap that 
is not entirely bare. As an historian of learning and judge- 
ment, as a bishop of unwonted sagacity, as a man of great 
personal charm and influence, Mandell Creighton has left 
a mark on his generation and a sympathetic memor}^ among 
his many friends. 


The author of the Short History of the English People was 
a man whose attractive and brilliant personality will be of 
interest to a large circle of readers ; and this personality is 
admirably displayed in the work which stands first on our 
list. Mr. Leslie Stephen has modestly called his memoir 
the Letters of J. R. Green, though he might fairly have 
called it a *Life', for the letters and bits of autobiography 
and talk are so artfully pieced together, with concise and 

^ Quarterly Review, April, 1902. 


luminous elucidations, that the whole constitutes a biography 
which for completeness and justness of presentment may 
well be compared with Dykes Campbell's Life of Coleridge. 
Green, like Coleridge, has been allowed, so far as may be, to 
speak for himself ; and the reader is placed face to face with 
the living man, not with an interpretation of him, that, how- 
ever faithful, must lack the intimacy and individuality of the 
original. Mr. Stephen's studied and masterly brevity is 
a most laudable quality in these days, when every one thinks 
he has a licence to write at length on any subject. He has 
also followed Carlyle's advice and given three most helpful 
portraits of his subject. Very characteristic is the frank 
square face, defiant, humorous, alert, and determined, of the 
photograph taken at Florence in 1869. A second portrait, 
from a collodion print, shows him at a later stage, when 
resolution has taken the place of mere determination, steadfast- 
ness of defiance, and a keen pilot-like look has come into the 
face, in lieu of the careless boyish humour of the earlier 
presentation. Again, in Mr. Sandys' delicately drawn and 
finely engraved head, there is a marked refinement that 
comes of sorrow well borne, replacing the cubic strength of 
former years. The ironies of life have left their subtle but 
unmistakable traces on the face. There is wit and kindliness 
as well as eager courage in the look of this bright-eyed 
nervous man, with the seal of his doom on his drawn temples 
and hollowed cheeks. 

It is not very complex. Green's life-story, though it is by 
no means void of interest even to those who are not con- 
cerned with the studies that occupied most of it. Born of 
an old and respected Oxford family at 5 St. John Street, 
Oxford, in 1837, John Richard Green was the first son of 
his parents. His father and grandfather were both robe- 
makers and (like Webster's father) parish-clerks, serving the 
city church of St. Martin. His mother, a woman of marked 
musical ability, came of another well-known Oxford family. 
His father was a man of intelligence, of artistic tastes, and of 
a sunny, gentle, and unselfish nature. Green was sent to 



Magdalen College School when he was only eight years old, 
a precocious, weakly, tiny boy, whose chief pleasui'es were 
reading the few books within his reach, and revelling in the 
antiquities, alive or dead, of his native city. He was a lonely 
little fellow, for he had no one but his father to sympathize 
with his particular tastes, and was always more engrossed by 
his own theories of politics, history, and religion, than with 
the games of his schoolfellows, though he by no means 
disdained to take his share in these. His father, who died 
in 1852, had resolved to send him to college; and in 1854 
he gained an open scholarship at Jesus. -At school he had 
already won the notice of two men who were to be his friends 
in after-life — Mr. Sidney J. Owen, whose history prize he 
carried off, and to whom he was indebted, not only for advice 
as ix) his reading of history, but also for the loan of books ; 
and Mr. E. A. Freeman, to whom he was introduced by 
Mr. Owen, and to whom he was specially recommended by 
his thorough study of the Gothic mouldings and sculpture of 
the diocese, acquired by half-holiday excursions to all the old 
churches within reach of Oxford. 

He came up to Jesus, a zealous antiquary, with leanings 
towards Tractarian views, which he was only beginning, by 
help of his history-books, to reason over. The college was 
not very active or very wisely managed ; and its atmosphere 
was not at all congenial to the eager, restless, intelligent, and 
ambitious lad. Save for three friends, Mr. Trevor Owen, 
Mr. Brown, and Mr. Boyd Dawkins, he found few who 
cared even to discuss the ideas that occupied the greater part 
of his time. 

' Partly from ill-health, partly from disgust at my college, 
I had' (he says in a notable letter to Dean Stanley) 'cut 
myself off from society within or without it. I rebelled 
doggedly against the systems around me. I would not work, 
because work was the Oxford virtue. I tore myself from 
history, which I loved, and plunged into the trifles of 
archaeology, because they had no place in the University 
course. ... It was the same with religion. High Churchism 
fell with a great crash and left nothing behind — nothing but 


a vague reverence for goodness, however narrow and bigoted 
in form, which kept me as far from the shallow of the current 
Oxford Liberalism as I had already drifted from the Mansel- 
orthodoxy. I saw only religious parties, unjust to one 
another, as I stood apart, unjust to them all. I had with- 
drawn myself from Oxford work, and I found no help in 
Oxford theology. I was utterly miserable when I wandered 
into your lecture-room, and my recollection of what followed 
is not so much of any definite words as of a great un- 
burthening. ... Of course there were other influences — 
Carlyle helped me to work — above all Montaigne helped me 
to fairness. But the personal impression of a living man 
must always be greater and more vivid than those of books.* 

His diaries, often minute and always carefully written, 
show him as a hard worker, interested in the people, things, 
and books about him, delighting in congenial talk, and full 
of hopes and aims for the future. During his student days 
he wrote, for the Oxford Chronicle, his admirable Oxford 
sketches, a brilliant set of articles on the Oxford of the 
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, from the times of 
Anthony Wood and Aubrey to the days of the last Nonjurors. 
These articles show him already the possessor of a picturesque 
style, a vivid imagination, and a certain decision of view 
over a wide tract of varied material — qualities characteristic 
of his literary and historic work to the very last. After all, 
though he felt bitterly that the opportunities which the 
college possessed were not properly used by either dons or 
undergraduates, he saw that he had gained by his college 
career ; and, as he looked back after he had achieved his 
degree in physical science (for he persisted in flouting his 
college tutors and throwing up the certainty of brilliant 
honours in modern history), he could write : — 

'These four years have been the Medea's kettle from 
whence I came out renewed. Oh, how I laugh at myself as 
I came up — that little restless animal in black, covetous of 
applause, of society, of ambition, and only hesitating whether 
my choice should make me a Pitt or a Fox ; prating of Love, 
with the self-conscious air of an expert; sharp, sarcastic, 
bustling, pressing to the front — and now ! ' 



He decided, after due deliberation, and against his kins- 
folk's wishes, for the Church rather than the Bar. He 
wanted leisure for the historical work which he was feeling 
to be more and more his duty, and he had absorbed the 
Broad-Church Liberal views of the school of Maurice, for 
which clerical duties among the poor formed a natural 
and satisfactory practical outlet. After a short stay at 
Theale, learning geology from his friend and pupil Dawkins, 
whom he coached for his * Smalls ', making plans for the opus 
magnum, and relishing to the full the pleasant society he was 
in, he passed his qualifying examination and was ordained 

His youth was at an end ; he was conscious of his own 
powers and his own shortcomings, and keen to plunge into 
the battle of life. Poor, ambitious — for his work at least, 
if not for himself — intensely appreciative of all that was 
beautiful to hear or see, he was yet unselfish beyond his 
years, and willing to sacrifice much to make a home for his 
younger brother and unmarried sister. Impatient of formulas, 
intensely sincere, and as honest with himself as he was with 
others, difficult to turn in argument, but open enough to the 
logic of facts, he was at the same time eager for friendship 
and companionship, clinging to those he had once made his 
friends with an admirable fidelity not always fully repaid. 
Regarding cheerfulness as a duty, he triumphed over ill- 
health and physical weakness ; and a combination of moral 
and intellectual strength made him sounder in his judgements 
than most men of twice his years. 

For nine years he spent two-thirds of his waking time as 
a hard-working, practical, stirring. East-end clergyman, and 
the other third as a patient, methodical, historical student, 
and an active and versatile journalist. He overtaxed his 
strength in his zeal for work and in the conscientious fulfil- 
ment of his clerical duties. He allowed himself far too few 
holidays for his health, though he was always longing for 
the breath of the country and the sight of the green of the 
Oxford water-meadows, as he laboured in the murkiest and 


most miserable parts of Hoxton and Stepney. One thing he 
gained by his London exile ; he made a new friend, whose 
value to him he felt he could never overrate, in Mrs. Ward, 
the wife of his vicar, a woman of saintly and beautiful nature, 
wise, tender, instinctively unselfish, beneficent and sympa- 
thetic, patient and hard-working. Her loss, after an 
acquaintance of little more than two years, was one of the 
great griefs of his life. In a funeral sermon, that has in it 
some memorable phrases, he speaks of her as one in whom 

'were fused in an admirable unity qualities and gifts the 
most various and opposed . . . for hers was a mind of no 
common order, a rare nature, and a rarer grace. . . . Noble- 
ness was the characteristic of her life, the nobleness of high 
longings, of a sublime reaching forward to all that was lofty 
and true, an instinctive scorn for all that was base and mean, 
a quiet indifference to the pettiness of the world's common 
converse, a resolute aversion for the trivial gossip that eats 
away truthfulness and charity. . . . Over all, like the silver 
haze of dawn, brooded the reserve of a gentle melancholy, 
broken indeed by gleams of childlike playfulness, a sunny 
humour . . . the natural blitheness of a heart chastened but 
not darkened by the sad discipline of her life.' 

It is a privilege to have known such high and gentle souls ; 
and Green was especially open to the wholesome and refining 
influence they exert. His gratitude was shown in his 
touching care for the interests and welfare of her children. 

Next perhaps in importance to him was his friendship 
with the Von Glehn family, to which he often gratefully 
alludes in his correspondence. In 1862, at a meeting of the 
Somerset Archaeological Society at Wellington, he renewed 
acquaintance with Freeman, whom he had not seen since his 
schoolboy days. 

' I read in great fear and trembling my St. Dunstan. It 
" took ", was much applauded ; and the critic I so much 
dreaded took me by the hand as I came down, and congratu- 
lated me. " You remember me, do you } " "1 remember 
little Johnny Green ! . . . You not only read your books well, 
but you know how to use them.*' I really was very proud 
of the praise. He followed it up by requesting me to write 
for the Saturday,' 


Henceforward they were friends to the end. One of the last 
messages Green sent from his death-bed was to Freeman. 
When Green was gone there was scarce a day but Freeman 
would talk of * Johnny \ * Ah, what a Johnny it was ! ' 
* No, there was never any one like Johnny ! ' * Do you know 
what Johnny said about that ? ' were phrases most familiar 
to his friends and household. Through Freeman too he 
came to know his great fellow-workman Stubbs, and other 
friends and pupils of the Somerleaze historian. The Saturday 
work was of great help to him. It paid ; and he was not 
well off, and yet the most generous of men. It gave him 
an opportunity of getting into shape many ideas he had set 
down in his notes ; it taught him to write brightly, to use 
every sentence and word, for space might not be wasted, and 
the reader's attention must be held. It allowed him to 
record his observations on society, to do for his day what 
the essayists he loved and knew so well had done for theirs. 
And though he possibly thought too highly of his essay-work, 
as Freeman probably thought too low of it, it certainly did 
him no harm, even if it only confirmed him in his persistent 
habit of watching curiously and closely the track of the 
currents of popular thought, the shape of the passing traits 
that show change as it sweeps over a community. To him 
facts that, isolated, looked trivial, were often significant 
because he knew how to correlate them with others and 
gauge their meaning. His humour saved him from extra- 
vagance in pushing his conclusions too far. 

His historic studies were now gradually shaping themselves 
toward definite ends. He had been greatly attracted toward 
the critical history of early Irish Christianity ; but after much 
work he relinquished this because he saw that it could only 
be properly achieved by a well- trained Irish scholar ; and it 
was not easy in 1860 to learn old Irish, even if time and 
inclination were present and unlimited. Plan after plan was 
taken up and dropped, till at last he settled upon a monograph 
pn the Angevin Kings and Earls, or, ^what the book is in 
reality, " England and the Great Charter ; a history of the 


final formation of the English people and the final settlement 
of English liberty and the English Constitution ; in three 
volumes."' For this he had read wide and deep, but he 
never lived to print his results. Another project gradually 
taking shape was a brief but comprehensive sketch of the 
development of the English nation ; and this in time became 
the Short History. 

At the end of the year 1865 Green was made incumbent 
of St. Philip's, Stepney, a parish of 16,000 people, with 
a nominal stipend of 300/., which * various deductions reduce 
to two-thirds of that amount '. It meant independent work, 
and as much of it as there was time for in the day. However, 
he was now able, for the first time, to take holidays abroad. 
His journeys with Freeman to the places they knew so well 
from the chronicles were luminous episodes to Green. His 
companion marvelled at his enthusiasm and the flair with 
which he tracked out the things in which he was especially 
interested, and used to laugh at his enthusiasm for Italian 
municipal buildings — 'Johnny houses', as he called them; 
while Green would reproach Freeman with caring more for 
German emperors than for Italian free cities. Some of the 
best work of both travellers was the result of their French 
and Italian journeys; and Freeman thanked Green in his 
own way both then and years after. 

*Now, O Johnny, as I have been rambling over endless 
cities, telling the towers thereof, let me once more thank 
you for having first taught me to do a town as something 
having a being of itself, apart from the churches, castles, 
&c., within it.' 

Meanwhile Green's health was getting worse ; and it was 
becoming borne in upon him that he would not be able to 
stand the strain of his double work. The experience of 
human nature that his East-end incumbency enforced, and 
the deepening knowledge of the past that he had gained in 
his historical studies, were ripening his critical faculties. The 
Voysey judgement stirred him deeply, and possibly quickened 
the revolution that would have been inevitable in any case 


by reason of the serious state of his lungs. It was without 
much of a struggle that he resigned his incumbency. The 
offer of the Lambeth librarianship (a titular ofl&ce once held 
by Stubbs) was a graceful acknowledgement of his talent and 
his good services that he thankfully appreciated and accepted. 
He now had liberty and leisure ; but the question before him, 
in the face of Clark's serious verdict, was whether he could 
maintain his strength long enough to do even a part of the 
work he had been preparing for years. 

There was a curious irony about his position. At the age 
of thirty-two he was face to face with the chief work of his 
life, without a settled income, and without hope of advance- 
ment to one of those canonries that represent, in a haphazard 
way, the endowment of research in the English Church, with 
impaired health and the need of spending at least a quarter 
of every year away from libraries, with but few books at 
hand. But he faced it all cheerily, rejoicing, as he said, in 
the good side of his picture, and meeting the bad side without 
bitterness or illusion. He was going to write a history in 
his own way. 

* I shall never be content till I have superseded Hume, 
and I believe I shall supersede him — not because I am so 
good a writer, but because, being an adequate writer, I have 
a larger and grander conception than he had of the organic 
life of a nation as a whole. If I fail I have at any rate 

Through Macmillan's acceptance of his 

' offer of a Short History of the English People (600 pp. 8vo), 
which might serve as an introduction to better things if 
I lived, and might stand for some work done if I didn't . . . 
for 350Z. down and 100/. if 2000 copies sell in six months 
after publication ', 

he was able to drop most of his Saturday Review work and 
give his whole time to the work he wished to do. 

He could not get the right pitch of Little Book (as he 
called it) at first, and he wrote and rewrote till he was better 
satisfied, in spite of his poor health and his isolation, for Sail 


Remo was not at its brightest during the winter of 1870-71. 
But he made the best of it all in his letters home; his 
wonderful spirits kept him up, and he made progress. By 
October, 1872, he had reached the end of ' The New Learning'. 

' I must own ' (he writes to Freeman from Florence) ' the 
more I have worked and thought over our own story as 
a whole — and I shall always thank Little Book for making 
me do this — the more its political history has seemed to me 
to spring out of and be moulded into form by the " social and 
religious" history you like to chafiE me about. You see 
I shall die in my sins.* 

In March, 1873, he was in Capri, home-sick, lonely, by no 
means reconciled to an invalid life, but cheery and helpful as 
ever to his beloved correspondents. 

' I brighten up at the thought of a really merry companion. 
Why are people so grave, so solemn, so afraid of laughter, of 
fun, of irony, of quiz, of nonsense in all its delicious forms ? 
... I wonder whether there will be another world where the 
people will be very amusing? It might make up a little for 

By August, 1873, he was able to say, ' I have now only 
about a chapter and a half to do, so far as writing goes, and 
about half the book is in type, and the rest printing fast." 
Only the loneliness oppressed him. Italy and its blessed 
sunshine were in themselves delightful; but, to get this 
healing bliss, he must be an exile, and his thoughts were 
much with his friends at home. Success, at times, even 
accomplishment of his life's task, seemed small beside the 
common joys denied to him. 

' With me Happiness means simply a Home and a wife 
and some wee things. If I don't get these I don"t care for 
anything else, except a few friends and a little sunshine ; and 
H. and W. and W. T. I shan't get' 

During the progress of his Short History he paid earnest 
attention to the criticisms (not always just) he got from 
friends who read his sheets, and he corrected freely. 

*I have always said to myself that ... the book may 


utterly fail, and that I ought not to grumble if it does. 
I give English History in the only way in which it is intelli- 
gible or interesting to me, but it does not follow that others 
will find my rendering of it interesting or intelligible ... It 
is quite likely people may turn away from a story which 
strives to put facts on a philosophical basis and to make 
events the outcome of social or religious currents of thought. 
Then, too, others may quite fairly feel that, however interesting 
the attempt to work in literary and moral influences may be, 
it is safer and less confusing to stick to a purely political 
mode of viewing things. I put aside . . . people who will 
condemn it as " superficial '^ because it is picturesque ; or as 
partisan . . . because no party finds itself really represented 
in its pages.' 

At last the Short History was finished and published in 
1874. It was successful far beyond its author's hopes. As 
Mr. Bryce said, ^It was philosophical enough for scholars 
and popular enough for schoolboys.' It interested every one 
that took it up. It sold largely on the railway bookstalls. 
It was read in trains and hotels as popular novels are read. 
And it deserved its popularity. Stubbs's verdict is worth 

'Green combined ... a complete and firm grasp of the 
subject in its unity and integrity, with a wonderful command 
of details and a thorough sense of perspective and propor- 
tion. All his work was real and original work ; few people 
besides those who knew him well would see, under the 
charming ease and vivacity of his style, the deep research 
and sustained industry of the laborious student. But it was 
so ; there was no department of o\ir national records that he 
had not studied, and I think I may say, mastered. . . . Like 
other people, he made mistakes sometimes ; but scarcely ever 
does the correction of his mistakes affect either the essence 
of the picture or the force of the argument.' 

Nor was Stubbs alone among good judges in his admiration 
of the book. The general view is that of a Whig writer; 
and here and there, as in the story of the American Rebellion, 
the Tories are maltreated ; it is not, however, the book of 
a doctrinaire, but of a fair-minded man with strong opinions, 
trying to judge justly in matters that touch him nearly. 


There is no bigotry about it. It remains the best general 
history of England, and, when it comes to be superseded, it 
will be by a history on the lines of Green rather than on the 
lines of his critics. The new book will have to be a con- 
structive history also, not merely an unco-ordinated array of 

No history-book since Macaulay^s had been so successful 
in England. A well-deserved chorus of praise greeted it 
from the Press. Mr. J. Rowley's articles in Fraser (intended 
as a damaging attack from a partisan of Froude upon one 
who was regarded as of the school of Freeman) were only 
effective in so far as they supplied (not without mistakes of 
their own) a useful list of errata for Green's next edition. 
An enlarged Library Edition was at once called for and put 
in hand, while new editions of the Short History itself have 
followed each other rapidly from that time till now. 

Green had toiled for fifteen years, and had at last won an 
acknowledged position as an historian, and the probability of 
a competence. His success pleased him, though he took it 
coolly enough. The ' poor curate ' of yesterday was elected 
to the Athenaeum, under ' rule ii ' ; made an honorary fellow 
(along with his friend Dawkins and a far less illustrious 
person) in the college where he had suffered much in his 
struggling and sensitive youth ; and created LL.D. by the 
generous and timely appreciation of Edinburgh University. 
He met all attacks upon his writings with admirable temper, 
but without budging from his own historic standpoint. In 
February, 1876, he analyses his critics thus : — 

* There is, for one thing, the natural reaction against 
success; then there are my own faults, which I strive to 
correct, but of which plenty are sure to remain ; then there 
is the ill-will of the people who identify me with the " Freeman 
School " ; then there is the inevitable hostility of the " prag- 
matic historians". . . . The rest I can bear, but I shall feel 
keenly the condemnation of these last, such as Gardiner. . . . 
I respect the men, and I know and have always owned how 
good and valuable their work is, nor do I think them at all 
unjust in denouncing me. It is very natural that, working 


as they do to bring out the actual political facts and clear 
away loose talk, they should look jealously at what is in 
effect a protest against their outside conception of history, 
and what must look, to many of them, an attempt to bring 
the loose talk back again. . . . For me, however lonely I feel 
at times when I think of this, ^' I can no other ". . . . Every 
word I have written, . . . through the last ten years, went to 
the same point, to a protest, that is, against the tendency 
to a merely external political view of human affairs, and to 
a belief that political history, to be intelligible and just, must 
be based on social history in its largest sense. ... I don't 
doubt that the English ideal of history will in the long run 
be what Gibbon made it in his day, the first in the world ; 
because it can alone combine the love of accuracy and 
external facts with the sense that government and outer facts 
are but the outcome of individual men, and men what body, 
mind, and spirit make them/ 

This is, surely, the real justification of the Short History. 
It has, no doubt, its shortcomings, its lacunae, even errors, 
as its author knew well enough. 

' I shall do far better work than Little Book before I die. 
... It is full of faults, unequal, careless, freakish, with 
audacity often instead of a calm power, only rising when the 
subject caught me, and hurrpng over topics I didn't fancy. 
There is a good deal of me in it ; but I shall have a nobler, 
a juster, a calmer me to reflect in other books.' 

The style of the book is sometimes flamboyant ; there are 
too many phrases and expressions that smack of the news- 
3)aper ofl&ce rather than the study. 

' All through the earlier part,' says Green, * I see the 
indelible mark of the essayist, " the want of long breath ", 
as the French say, the tendency to *^ little vignettes", the 
jerkiness. ... I learnt my trade as I wrote on. . . . You see 
I should make a harsher critic of my own work than any of 
my reviewers. I hope I always shall. But I love it too, 
though I see its faults.' 

He perceived, in fact, that there is a fire, a life in the book ; 
it is an organic whole; it gives a consistent picture of the 
development of the English nation, drawn by a sympathetic 
and judicious hand. 


In 1877, at the age of forty. Green married Miss Alice 
Stopford, and in her love and companionship he found his 
stay and support during the rest of his too short life. His 
health had lately been better, and he was hopeful himself; 
but he had been trying himself too hard. He never could 
work save with his might. The Mediterranean winters were 
not always as mild as they should have been, and he was 
feeling the long annual exile more and more. His friends 
hardly understood how much his friendship for them meant 
to him, how greatly he desired their presence, how delighted 
he was with their letters, what interest he took in all they 
were doing. It was everything to him to have the most 
devoted of companions always with him ; and it was really 
her tireless care and affection and his own courage that kept 
him alive and working month after month to the wonder of 
his doctors. At last, when he could no longer hold the pen, 
his wife took to writing at his dictation. The long-continued 
exertion brought on writer's 'cramp ; but still they both 
persevered, and, in spite of all difficulties. The Making of 
England (his detailed study of the genesis of the English 
state) came out, to his great joy. Its companion volume, 
The Conquest of England, was all but completed; but before 
it appeared the author himself had passed away. * He died 
learning ' was his chosen epitaph ; and it was a true one. 

We have lost at least one great book by his untimely 
death ; and the flaws he most deplored in the work he left 
were largely the results of the illness that dogged him and 
crippled his hours of work for so many years. But, even as 
it was, his output was remarkable, both in amount and 
quality. The Short History, the Oxford Studies, the Making 
and the Conquest of England, represent much toil and much 
thought rightly directed. They are the outcome of a mind 
active, well-trained, perspicuous, reasonable ; they give their 
author a settled place among English historians; and they 
are the fruit of scarce more than half an average working 

Green not only loved history himself, but he loved to see 


others working in that great and scantily-tilled field. So far 
back as 1867 he planned out a Historical Review ; and some 
years later he was offered the editorship of such a periodical 
by Mr. Macmillan, who was willing to start it if he would 
take charge ; but he declined, modestly fearing that the 
opposition which his leadership might rouse would injure the 
journal's success. So it was not till three years after his 
death that a little band of Oxford students got Dr. Creighton 
to co-operate with them, to promise to be editor, and to find 
a publisher for what in Green's words was to be 'a purely 
scientific organ of historical criticism and means of informa- 
tion as to the progress of historical study at home and 
abroad '. The English Historical Review has justified Green's 
aim, and done credit to those who carried out his ideas. 

The Oxford Historical Society was started not long 
before Green's death, on lines he had laid down years before. 
The series of Primers of History and Literature that he 
edited and organized has been a great and legitimate success, 
bringing home to the poorest teacher or student the results 
of the best scholars' work in many directions, and preparing 
a reading public to receive and welcome books of more 
detailed information. He was indeed, throughout his life, 
a man with practical aims, who saw much more clearly than 
most students the right way to teach pupils who have never 
been taught, the right way to make them care about the 
subjects he cared about and knew to be important, the right 
way to make them think out things honestly for themselves, 
without prejudice and without credulity. His series was 
successful because it deserved success. 

His diaries and notebooks show how observant he was ; 
how patiently he noted facts and thoughts that would, he 
felt, be useful to him; how he studied character (not 
forgetting his own) ; how he trained himself to write by 
writing on many different topics — from a country walk to 
a problem of ethics, a journey or a conversation — as brightly 
and concisely as he could. A description of the field of 
SenlaC; written on the spot in one of his notebooks, is 



a model of clear topographic exposition ; and a set of rough 
notes on a * town-and-gown ' gives the best sketch yet put 
down of the aimless, disconnected, sporadic turbulence of an 
Oxford fifth of November in the sixties or seventies. 

It is but just to touch on his remarkable critical powers. 
Of his brilliancy, of his quickness, his laborious study of his 
authorities and his clear head, there can be no question. 
But he had also a potent sense of justice that often curbed 
his wit and made him restrain his gleeful humour lest he 
should do an injustice or cause another pain. He took the 
trouble to think; and so, though some of his verdicts are 
quite wrong — for he was fallible as the rest of us — many of 
them are quite excellent. If he undoubtedly misjudges 
Seeley badly and mistakes Gardiner's attitude towards his 
subject, he is in no error about Ranke's shortcomings or 
Mommsen's. His analysis of historic personages often shows 
remarkably fine handling. Mr. Stephen cites his pictures of 
Cromwell and of Madame Roland. He thoroughly under- 
stood persons so different as Stubbs and Garibaldi, and was 
enthusiastic about both. He is even fair to that bogey of 
the advanced Whigs, Napoleon III, though he cannot help 
rejoicing at his fall. 

His keen insight, his skill in controversy, his power of 
hard hitting made him a formidable antagonist; but he 
disliked wasting labour on disputes that do not convince. 
Again and again he strove to get his friend Freeman to be 
content and cease from further attacks on foes no longer 
formidable or dangerous. He never feared offending his best 
friends by remonstrating where he thought friendship required 
him to speak plainly ; and yet, to him who loved those friends 
so dearly, this was by no means a congenial obligation. Self- 
sacrifice was an integral part of his daily life, and yet he was 
one to whom the joie de vivre appealed far more strongly 
than to most. One can see from his letters how he loved 
and made good talk ; but he was capable of renouncing the 
insidious pleasures of conversation in order to drudge, not 
only for the purposes he had set before him as his life's work, 

p a 


but also to provide those who had but scant claims on him 
with extra pleasures. 

One lays down the book of Greenes Letters with some 
pain. There is revealed in them a personality never allowed 
its full development. This fine spirit was capable of far 
more than it was allotted to it to accomplish. Ill-health, 
scant means, small leisure, many cares could not, however, 
prevent him from doing in his brief life more than would 
have taxed to the fullest the powers of most of his con- 
temporaries. If he had not been, as he was, a scholar of 
mark, he would still have been distinguished in his genera- 
tion, a conversationalist of quite abnormal wit and power, 
a man of most sympathetic and luminous nature, a sincere 
friend, a true follower of the best, a champion of all that 
was good and made for higher things, an abiding memory to 
all who knew him. As he held, a man should be content if, 
when he dies, he can be said truly to have done good work 
and to have had an inmost place in his friends' hearts ; and 
he, at least, knew, long ere his own swift death came, that lie 
had achieved so much. 


The map of England is an epitome of English history, but 
it wants reading. This little book is an attempt by a man 
who had studied it lovingly to help others to get in the way 
of understanding it for themselves. The local story of an 
English county or town shows one many things that the 
ordinary history-books do not and often cannot attempt to 
notice. It makes their dry bones live. It gives meaning to 
a number of isolated and unconsidered facts. It has a charm 
of its own that attracts many who have not the opportunity 
of doing good historical work on a larger scale. 

^ Prefatory Note to Grant Allen's County and Totcn in England. 



Grant Allen had special gifts for writing such a guide to 
local English history as this book really is. He had a good 
eye for the ' lie of the land ' ; he was a perpetual observer, 
and a born expositor and interpreter. He had a first-hand 
knowledge of many of the documents on which much of our 
early history rests. He wrote brightly and clearly without 
seeking to efface his own individuality. He loved his siibject 
for itself, and had thought it over in his many journeys and 
resting-places all over England. 

It was a pleasant thing to go a walk with him. The 
country was to him a living being, developing under his eyes, 
and the history of its past was to be discovered from the 
conditions of its present. He would put himself into this 
past, as an historian must do, and could recognize the lines 
along which the changes had gone and were going. He could 
read much of the palimpsest before him. He was keen to 
note the survivals that are the key to so much that has now 
disappeared but that once existed. He was persevering and 
would keep a problem before him for years, watching for 
fresh evidence or seeking for better explanation of the 
evidence he already possessed. He never forgot or allowed 
you to forget that there is a great mass of extant historic 
evidence not to be found in books or even in vellums or papers. 
The object-lesson was dear to him, and he could make it 
a real means of education. Plants, trees, birds, beasts, 
insects, rocks and rivers, braes and banks, moors and marshes, 
the sea-shore and the high fells, each and all had a tale to 
tell, and he could translate more of the tale than most men. 
He had also the charm of being singularly wide-minded in 
historical matters (for, after all, history is a science, though 
a science in a rather rudimentary stage), and he was ready to 
test his most cherished theories and reject them if he found 
they would not stand the trial. Like Freeman, he was 
always open to conviction, and grateful to any one who would 
give him fresh light. 

None of his books can give the whole effect of his educative 
quality j for the good teacher must be face to face with his 


pupil if he would exert his full influence ; but they give an 
idea of the pains he took to see things truly himself and 
make others see them for themselves. I know that I learnt 
much from him, and that I shall always regret that we had so 
few opportunities of late years of talking things over together. 
He was the first English historian to put forward in a con- 
vincing way the fact that the Teutonic element is not the 
only important element (perhaps not even the chief element) 
in the present population. He welcomed the arrival of the 
' prae-Celtic theory', which he had foreseen. He first showed 
his generation clearly that the results of archaeology and 
anthropology must take their due place even in our English 
school histories and 'popular' history books. He had 
nothing of the acute Teutonismus or Morbus Germanicus 
that came of the too absolute acceptance as oracles of certain 
antigallic North German historians. He cared greatly about 
the economic and social conditions that have such immense 
weight as determinants in the progress of a nation. His 
strong political views and his Spencerian religion did not 
hamper him in historical matters, such as those with which 
this book is concerned, though they sometimes manifest 
themselves in a kind of appendicular form, as when he 
condemns his own college, Merton, and Christ Church, the 
college of many of his friends (on grounds I consider wholly 
mistaken), or when he eulogizes the imaginary manufacturer 
at the expense of the equally imaginary landed proprietor, 
typifying one as a Nabal, the other as an Abigail (a conclusion 
to the making of which there has obviously gone much 
debatable matter) . But those little ' excursions and alarums ', 
idiosyncrasies which I have scrupulously left as they stood 
(though I dare say if Allen had edited his own book he would 
have left them out in his riper judgement), have absolutely 
nothing to do with the rest of the chapters in which they 
occur, or with the investigations on which the whole work 
is based. 

The first two parts of this book. Towns and Counties, are 
complete as far as they go, though the tale of a few counties 


and of many towns is not told, as I hoped while Allen lived 
that it might have been ; but he never found time to write 
more, nor opportunity of making the needful personal ac- 
quaintance with the places he had determined to write upon. 
For he would not write of a place without having seen it, 
sharing in this the practice of Freeman, who once told me 
he had never written in detail of a place he had not seen save 
Ardres, where, as he said, he accordingly made mistakes 
that five minutes' eyesight would have saved him from. But 
the places Allen had seen were so varied, were, in fact, such 
* typical developments ', that it will be an easy task for those 
with the requisite local knowledge and trained enthusiasm to 
carry out his work on its present scale to the few remaining 
counties and the rest of the big and famous towns of England. 

The Chronicles of Churnside, with which this volume ends, 
is a piece of reconstruction such as VioUet-le-Duc once worked 
out for a typical North French stronghold, but it had never, 
I think, been attempted for • an English district by an 
English historian. The sketch-map will show the reader the 
particular district chosen by Allen, a district with which he 
was peculiarly well acquaint. The harmless device of fancy 
names was necessary to the plan he had formed ; which was 
not to give a history of part of Dorset, but to set forth 
a typical specimen of an English countryside in its gradual 
development from savage times to Victorian days. To do 
this in a series of short articles was not at all easy, but 
it seems to me that this Chronicle is a successful achievement 
of what it was meant to be — a piece of popular scientific 
exposition. It is the kind of work that a reader who cares 
at all about the past of his own country will certainly find 
stimulating; it should make him ask himself a lot of 
questions, it must show him gaps in his local knowledge and 
in the sources of knowledge he has at his command. It is 
intended, indeed, to make him think, and if it does this it 
will do what Allen wished it to do. 

The teacher's office is, as he conceived it, first to make 
his pupils see and then to make them think correctly on 


what they see and remember, and he was never weary of 
teaching. He had his message and he delivered it. He 
could not help it. Hence his scientific writing never sank 
into the second-hand stale stuff that is so plentifully retailed : 
it was always based on personal convictions acquired by his 
own work or by his own testing of other men^s work, and he 
would not write in a way or on a thing he did not really care 
about. He preferred, if money had to be earned, to earn it 
by regular fiction rather than by second-hand or make-believe 
science. The ease with which his writing can be read is by 
no means an index of the amount of work on which these 
vivid chapters are founded. It cost their author thought and 
pains to make his readers' task plain and pleasant, and he 
never grudged taking trouble. He was not a superficial man. 
Though this present book and his Anglo-Saxon Britain are 
alone left to attest his interest in the history of his country, 
one feels sure that, had he possessed the necessary time and 
means, he would have materially advanced certain portions of 
this great and wide subject. I can remember long talks in 
which he was full of suggestions ; lively discussions wherein 
difficulties were at least thoroughly faced ; critical disquisi- 
tions, serious and subtle, upon the authorities ; hard questions 
eagerly and honestly debated. The stealing hours of time 
slipped swiftly by with Allen when the talk was of history. 
He had the real worker's sympathy with any one who was 
trying to push on his subject, and things often seemed 
clearer and more hopeful after an hour or two with him even 
when he had been able to give no direct help to the solving 
of the problem on hand : — 

My sorrow for the friend that is gone. 

And there remains to me only his shadow, the memory of him 1 

The chapters that make up this book were first printed in 
the Pall Mall Gazette, 1881-82. I asked Grant Allen 
more than once to reprint them, and he would have done so 
had he lived to complete them. We must all regret that he 
has not been able even to prepare them for publication. It 


has been left to me to see them through the press^ and 
I have done so without making any changes save those 
marked by brackets. These only touch points which, in my 
judgement, could not have been left in the text without 
stereotyping certain errors that the author would surely have 
corrected as a matter of course. Where theories merely are 
in question I have left the text as it stood, sometimes adding 
a bracketed query to warn the reader. I have not even 
removed a certain number of the repetitions made inevitable 
by the originally serial mode of production, for to do so 
would be to recast the work rather than edit it. Editing, 
like translation, must often be a compromise. I want my 
friend^s work to stand as he left it ; but I also want it to 
stand as he would have left it had he been printing it now. 
Several sentences, I know, he meant to alter, as I have done, 
duly marking the change. History moves, hypotheses that 
hold the field to-day may be overthrown as fancies or 
established as verities to-morrow ; new evidence crops up and 
compels attention, dim features in our reconstruction of the 
past become more clear, or fruitful relations between isolated 
facts are discovered. But ' corrections ' are few. I have 
not been able to identify every spot in the Chronicles, but 
the rough map will enable the reader to see the general lie of 
the land, the direction of the roads, and the old sites in the 

For an index there is no need, as the table of contents will 
in this case supply its place exactly enough. Notes I have 
not added, nor do I see that they are wanted. Allen was 
careful not to overload his explanations, he liked to make 
his points sharply and leave a definite impression in each 
paragraph and chapter. To try and do more than he saw fit 
to do would, it seems to me, alter the character of the book. 
He wrote these studies for the general reader, and he knew 
the general reader well, and esteemed him more than most 
writers do : and it is to the general reader that I confidently 
commend his book, which, for my own part, I have found 
both suggestive and interesting. 


It is not needful that I should keep the reader, if indeed 
he be one of the courteous and wise minority that peruses 
prefaces, any longer from the book itself. I am glad to 
have done what very slight service I could for the work of 
a man whose generous, sincere, and unselfish qualities I 
admired, in whose friendship I delighted, and of whom 
I shall not cease to cherish the remembrance. 

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 

Enough, if something from our hands have power 
To live, and act, and serve the future hour. 


Here are some scraps that linger in my memory touching 
G. A. The first time I met him was in Bromley^s rooms in 
1869, 1 believe. He was, of course, wholly unlike the average 
British undergraduate, and it was his pleasure to accentuate 
the differences with a kind of defiance, quiet but real, of the 
conventions that the Philistine worships. He was never 
afraid of being himself; he was not ashamed to seem gro- 
tesque if he chose. This was almost incredible originality in 
the undergraduate of the seventies and sixties. Of course, he 
talked openly, but we all did that, and confidently, as most 
of us did, upon the many questions that interested us — theo- 
logic, philosophic, social, political. He was of the most 
'advanced^ type of the sixties, and I think he was that to the 
end. The bent of his mind was logical, orderly, accepting 
only the appeal to reason, but at the same time caring (too 
much, as I thought) for completeness of 'system'. At first 
he struck one a little unpleasantly perhaps, for he would never 
allow a man to think he agreed with him if he diHn't, and so 
he used to state his own position very sharply and irrevocably ; 
but one soon got to see through the confident doctrinaire the 
kindly, gentle, generous, and sympathetic friend and comrade, 
who could differ without bitterness, and would treat any 

^ Letter in E. Clodd's Memoir of Grant Allen. 1900. 


honest and unselfish belief he did not hold himself as wrong 
certainly, but never as discreditable to the holder's heart, 
though he must often have considered our crude theories as 
damaging to any trust in the soundness of our heads. I 
remember he was interested in my raw joy in Biichner, the 
fashionable, popular materialist of the day, and once or twice 
we discussed Comte; but we neither of us gave him the 
position that the preceding generation had allowed him, and 
when a man could read Darwin and Spencer we both felt there 
was no further need for such as him. When Allen got 
hold of Spencer I don't know exactly, I think as early at 
least as '69, but he was a whole-souled disciple. He had 
naturally a bent toward dogmatic, and he welcomed the 
comprehensive system that at once satisfied his scientific 
bent, his love of logical order, and his desire for com- 
pleteness of theory. I remember many arguments over 
Spencer both in the seventies and later. When Richard 
Shute, my philosopher friend, got to know Allen, they often 
argued grandly, Shute taking the extreme sceptical position 
and attacking wittily and vigorously, and Allen defending 
the whole Spencerian stronghold with boundless ingenuity 
and tireless perseverance, the rest of us putting in a query or 
a word or two of encouragement or deprecation whenever we 
got a chance. I remember, too, solitary walks and talks 
with Allen, especially about the river below Oxford, and above 
it in the fields by Godstow, after he had taken his degree. 
He was a great lover of the quiet, soft, meadowy landscape 
of the Thames valley, and he often used to refer to a stray 
remark of mine, made one superb summer afternoon at Iffley, 
that I doubted after all 'whether the Tropics were more 
lovely*, andjWould say that his tropical experiences had de- 
cided him that they were not. He had a keen eye for the 
character and 'make' of landscape, but he could never draw 
a line, and I don't remember him ever attending to any but 
'local colour' in the scenery. I think he saw nature as a 
naturalist rather than as a painter. 

I remember being presented to his first wife — a gentle, quiet. 


soft-speaking woman, in poor health even then in the early 
days of their wedded life — and noticing the tenderness and 
care with which he anticipated her wishes, and spared her all 
fatigue or trouble, while it was delightful to see how she ap- 
preciated in her silent, grateful way his affectionate attention 
and guardianship. 

The last scene of the early prae-Jamaican days of Allen at 
Oxford was a jolly oyster-lunch that he gave at the Mitre. 
There were a lot of men there, for he made it a kind of fare- 
well feast to all his Oxford friends. Esme Gordon, the lad 
he had been 'coaching^ for a time, was there, and there was 
a strange mixture of riding, reading, and rowing men, all for 
the hour united happily in Allen's glad hospitality. Every 
one was struck with the originality and success of this inno- 
vation of an oyster-lunch at Oxford, but I don't remember it 
being imitated. Oxford undergraduate and bachelor life is 
excessively governed by routine, and shuns even new forms 
of feasting unless they are regarded as required by fashion. 

After his second most fortunate marriage and long stay in 
Jamaica we used often to meet, and I found him a far happier 
man than I had ever known him before, but as kindly, as 
keen, as clear-headed, and as enthusiastic and zealous for re- 
forms in ethic and politic as ever. He had learned a lot in 
the Tropics ; he had thought out a valuable thesis on colour- 
sense ; he was on the way to several discoveries in botany ; 
he was full of energetic plans for the future. His conversa- 
tion was as delightful as ever, more full of instances, widened 
by experience, but still steadfast to orthodox Spencerism, and 
definitely radical. In his accent, his attitude, his looks, his 
judicious parcelling of his time, his wise care for the future, 
his humane and ceaseless care for others, his pleasure in 
talking and walking, his love for Swinburne's Poems and 
Ballads^ and his reverence for Spencer and Darwin, he was 
still essentially the same man I had parted from early in the 
seventies with so much regret when he left England for 
Jamaica, and the same he remained in all essentials to the last. 
I learned a lot from him always. The phlegmatic dullness and 



self-satisfaction of the 'average Englishman ', who hates to 
think at all save when at business on business matters, and in 
everything else gives full swing to prejudice and custom, re- 
fusing to believe that any 'foreigner^ can ever (save perhaps 
in the matter of sauces, or piano-playing, or sculpture) teach 
him anything — the vulgar dullness of such an one exasperated 
his clear Gallic mind, and he would gibe and mock at the 
shams we English profess to believe in and are pleased to occa- 
sionally do public homage to (especially in our 'cant news- 
paper phrases ') in a most amusing and effective way of his 
own. He was determined whenever he had the opportunity 
to speak out and plainly attack the tyrannous and stupid 
conventionalities that are allowed to do their worst to choke 
healthy life in England. And it is a satisfaction to me to know 
that he had his knife deep into many of them before he died. 
His kindness was delicate and unfailing, and I and mine have 
often experienced it; he was really pleased to do a friend 
a service, and he could spend time and take trouble in such 
a care ungrudgingly. 

When Grant Allen died I had known him for thirty years 
without a shade of difference ever arising between us, and cer- 
tainly he was one of the best and truest friends a man could 
have — generous, fair-minded, and unforgetful of the old com- 
radeship ; so that though he was always able down to the last 
to make new friends, I do not think he ever lost one of his 
old friends, save those whom death too soon removed. I do 
not see how such a straightforward, sympathetic, enthusiastic 
nature as Allen's can have passed through the world without 
influencing those he came in contact with very definitely for 
the better. His patience, affection, and practical wisdom in 
facing the inevitable with a brave politeness, made one 
ashamed of one's own lesser troubles, and helped one to meet 
the diflBculties in one's own path. Few men I have known 
well have cared more for the essentials than Grant Allen. 
Truth, Justice, Pity, Love, Gratitude, and Sympathy were 
to him throughout his life real things to be upheld at 
all hazards. His Faith was always great; his Hope was 


continually and wonderfully sustained; his Charity was 

I must leave other people to speak about his fiction and 
his study of the natural sciences. The first I could not, save 
in the short stories, appreciate ; the latter skilled specialists 
must finally appraise ; but it is impossible to avoid noticing 
its ingenuity, its basis of research (often long and hard), the 
clear and pleasing style in which the arguments are given. 
His folk-lore studies, though I think he was a little apt to 
recognize fewer factors than I should have postulated, deserve 
most careful attention, so suggestive and so ingenious are their 
hypotheses and conclusions. He had the keen, quick, fear- 
less mental temper and the acute memory so often associated 
with the power of making scientific discoveries, I consider 
that he was among the first to really expose the weak points 
of the Teutonic School of early English history, and to show 
that prae-Teutonic elements must be fully acknowledged and 
their forces allowed for by every historian of these islands. 
His historical writing was distinguished by many of the 
qualities that mark the best work of J. R. Green. He pos- 
sessed the historic imagination; he could see what had been im- 
possible in the past and was mere bad guessing on the part of 
moderns ; he could frame reasonable hypotheses, good working 
theories ; he was not easily diverted from his track by argu- 
ments based on * authority^ or prejudice or rhetoric. He was 
a born teacher, an excellent and painstaking instructor, never 
sparing himself, remindful of his own difficulties in learning, 
and careful to explain things clearly that could be explained 
clearly, and to acknowledge that there were things that as 
yet were not capable of satisfactory explanation. His little 
Anglo-Saxon Britain marked a distinct advance when it came 
out, and connected the bookman again with the spade-man in 
the task of interpreting the early days of Teutonic coloniza- 
tion in Britain. Of his verse, I admire the faithful and 
polished Attys translation above the rest. His guide-books 
seem to me both fresh and excellent, truly educational and 
admirably practical. 


There are certain favourite spots in the Isis meadows and 
banks, certain oft-trodden walks near Dorking, a hillside in 
Wales, that will always be associated in my mind with Grant 
Allen. I used to think he talked best in the open air, and 
that the fireside was not his real coign of vantage. The walk 
was the crown and pinnacle of his day, the pleasure to look 
forward to and to look back on ; every copse and hedgerow 
was a living museum to him, every roadside or field corner a 
botanical garden. He loved observing far better than read- 
ing, and he never shrank from thinking things out as far as 
he could. Hence there was perpetual interest in his talk and 
life. But if he had been blind and unlettered I should have 
loved and respected him, for he was ever a close follower of 
Truth, and walked in noble companionship with Pity and 


It was inevitable that the Napoleonic studies of the late 
M. Taine should again bring up the chief questions connected 
with that extraordinary man. Of all possible publicists the 
worst qualified to judge of a man with whose disposition, acts, 
and character he could not sympathize was the austere and 
narrow doctrinaire, wedded to method, and believing that out 
of a classification of facts truth must necessarily spring (much 
as flies do out of a manure heap), the precisian whose fine 
qualities as a teacher were precisely his disqualifications as 
a researcher, whose canons of criticism were seen to be 
almost ludicrously inept when they were applied to any but 
third-rate litterateurs, whose knowledge of history was based 
upon a few hard-and-fast but inexact theorems, and supported 
with immense industry and a persevering and ceaseless search 
for quotations that would fit his notions ; a man honest and 
hardworking, but painfully stiff, and with his historic eye- 
sight strictly limited by the blinkers of his unyielding maxims 

1 1894. 


and his unbending method. And this is no fancy picture of 
M. Taine, as those who have known him personally will 
admit. He was a fine trainer of young men, who could see 
his faults, and yet appreciate his earnestness, his zeal, his 
adherence through evil and good to the thoughts and things 
he honoured and believed. But such a man was about as 
well qualified to judge Napoleon as he was to understand 

[Next, before passing to Powell's own notes on Napoleon, and his 
other historical miniatures and surveys, his thoughts on the teaching 
of history, and the ordering of this and kindred studies, must be heeded. 
These are chiefly to be found in his pastoral addresses to younger or 
elder students. They are set out with method in his address, given 
at the University College of North Wales in Bangor, at the closing 
ceremony of the session, on June 20, 1902 ; the earlier one, delivered 
at Reading in 1896 is touched on in the Memoir, ch. v, supra ; but 
room should be found for the charming and limpid ' lecture by letter ' 
written for the young boys of his old school ' by an old boy ', and 
printed in the school magazine : see Memoir, ch. i,] 


There are times when the teacher's daily work seems to 
be so unyielding, so unfruitful, so barren of all result but 
weariness, that one falls to thinking how it should be if one 
could have one's will : if one could be Khalifeh of Education 
for a month or two and remodel one^s business to one's 
liking. I think these day-dreams are sometimes prophetic 
as morning-dreams are said to be, and it is some reveries 
I am putting before you for a few minutes to-day. I may 
also premise that I am going to speak as a student and 
teacher to students and teachers without attempt at orna- 
ment or desire to compliment, and that, therefore, I shall 
not shrink from saying a good deal that you all probably 
know and accept already, when I think it is really important 
enough to bear repetition. And if I seem to be pleading 


overmuch, you must remember you have brought me here to 
make a discourse ; and though I know well that one of the 
qualities Welsh people admire least in English people is their 
irritating habit and endless power of giving advice, you must 
also remember that I am as much Welsh in blood as most of 
you, and that I make it a rule (which I keep as well as I can) 
only to give advice on occasions like these when I am asked 
for it. 

I have limited my subject to the teaching of History at 
a University not because I have not thought, and even spoken 
and written, on the teaching of History for younger pupils, 
but because the whole subject is vast and the time and your 
patience, as I conclude, finite. But I shall say so much 
with respect to History in schools that, to my notion, children 
should not be taught much history as history, though they 
may be taught a good deal of history as ethic in the good 
and well-approved fashion of Plutarch, through the lives of 
great men and women, and that only in the upper forms 
should the main tabular facts that form the skeleton of post- 
archaic history be taught, and that all kinds of history 
teaching should be made as real as possible by association 
with actual objects, and pictures and plans and models of 
objects, with the portraits of notable persons, with local 
buildings of various ages, and the like. It would be hard 
for an ordinary child to avoid remembering some of the best 
passages of the good Readers that are now in use in most 
schools, and in the school library or at home tales more or 
less connected with striking episodes of English history are 
by no means scarce. Kingsley, Scott, Thackeray, Marryat, 
Dickens (not to speak of Cooper, Ainsworth, Grant, and 
Lever) at least furnish vivid pictures of notable persons and 
events, while, judging from one's own experience, they put 
things in a way not unwelcome to the boy or girl who likes 
at times a quiet corner with a good story. It was the custom 
at my old school, Rugby, under Temple, for our form-masters 
to give us as a holiday task during the long summer vacation 
a history book of some sort to read and get up j such as 


Helps, Southey, Prescott, or chosen parts of Napier, Motley^ 
Michelet, or Carlyle, and these were certainly not devoid of 
interest or information. 

We may then fairly require of pupils that come up to 
a University some working knowledge of the successive eras 
of British history, and the careers of leading Englishmen, 
a certain number of fixed dates (a couple of dozen would 
probably suffice), and a sound idea of the order of the main 
events of real consequence. If to this we add an acquaint- 
ance with some portion of the history of other peoples, 
whether of Hebrews, Greeks, or Romans, or French, Italian, 
Spanish, or even German, so much the better. We should 
not want more, and in acquiring so much boys and girls 
would have had plenty of time left for other subjects and 
things that (as modern languages, for instance) are an abso- 
lutely necesaary equipment for modern life, whether it be 
the contemplative life of the man of science or literature or 
the active life of the professional or commercial man. 

And here I would plainly state that no person, to my 
thinking, should be allowed to matriculate at any University 
unless he or she can prove a sufl&cient knowledge of at least 
two languages other than the native speech, so far as to 
enable him or her to read fluently and correctly translate 
a book of no more than average difl&culty, and, in the case 
of a modern tongue, to write to dictation and to be capable 
of speaking with decent pronunciation. This, to my mind, 
is an irreducible minimum, and it is not too much to require 
of schoolmasters that in the eight or ten years they have had 
the teaching of pupils they shall be able to impart so much 
knowledge to those of their charges who are fit to enter 
a University. 

One would further expect those who wish to take up a 
University course to be able to make a decent precis and to 
know how to make and use notes, and I should like them 
to know the elementary facts of geology and geography, as 
taught by any of the many accredited manuals. I should 
rejoice to know that those who were about to become Uni- 


versity students had been abroad if only for a few weeks, 
a matter which in these days is not so hard for schoolmasters 
and parents to arrange for as it was some twenty-five years 
ago : and I should hope that they had seen some of the 
famous sights in their own country. A noble building, a 
mountain range, a great seaport are within the reach of 
almost every boy or girl. 

I do not see the slightest good in entrance examinations or 
entrance scholarships including history as a subject. If we 
secure young men and women that know two languages 
besides their own, that can write sensible English correctly 
and clearly, that can make a good precis and take notes 
properly, that is enough equipment as far as Arts go ; but 
I suppose a modicum of Mathematics will be requisite for 
the professional student, such a modicum as an intelhgent 
boy or girl can attain during an ordinary school career, and 
no doubt it will be of help to such as are going to work at 
many of the most important branches of history, branches 
that are likely in the future to be of even more importance 
than they are now. 

Well, supposing we have our zealous and intelligent student 
up at the University eager to begin the definite study of 
history, what work shall we set him at ? Now the Uni- 
versity's business lies with advanced education and with 
research. For the greater number probably of its students, 
its duty is done when it has done its best to educate them, 
to bring out all the mental and bodily qualities they have, and 
to enable them to use them to the best advantage themselves. 
H I am not one of those that rate the general study of History 
very high for purely educational purposes, e.g. for what is 

1 technically known as pass-work. And I should myself much 
prefer that other branches be used for this purpose. Law, 
for instance, which has many and marked educational advan- 
tages ; it teaches exactness in the use of words, closeness of 
reasoning, brevity and precision of statement, the principles 
of evidence and the need of careful and accurate examina- 
tion of facts and arguments. Logic again affords a useful 
G 2 


gymnastic largely of the mathematical kind, and the elements 
of that branch of history that we classically call Political 
Economy is, as I know from experience, a really good subject 
for pass pupils. 

But though I am convinced that the pass student ought 
to leave History alone, as he ought to leave alone many other 
subjects that are only suited for what we call honour students, 
I am equally certain that for real honour students History is 
an appropriate study. In his work at History, the student 
ought to learn how to collect and classify facts, how to put 
down the results of his work in a concise and orderly way 
with scrupulous exactness, how to judge of the accuracy 
and judgement of other men^s statements ; he should acquire 
the elements of textual criticism and of palaeography; he 
must learn how to read a map, how to make a simple plan 
or diagram, how to draw up a pedigree; and he should 
acquire the elements of statistics. Of course such a training 
is centred round the study of a certain number of important 
texts in the original, and of certain definite subjects. This 
is not a bad educational course, and the lessons learnt in 
dealing with the facts of the past may help to fit a student 
to deal with the facts of his own day. 

Still this training, useful as it is, is still Gymnastic, and 
the University has another function to fulfil in Research, 
and it seems to me that the organization and practice of 
historical research is one of the most useful and necessary 
objects of a British University. And I hold that students 
in their later undergraduate terms who really care about that 
branch of science which we call History, and are sufficiently 
trained to pursue it to advantage, might and should be 
encouraged to undertake research work in History. There 
js plenty for such students to do, e.g. the collection and 
tabulation of scattered but related facts, the transcribing, 
editing, and annotation of unpublished, inedited, or rare 
texts ; the calendaring and docketing of documents ; such 
tasks as every working historian must have had to do more 
than once. And this work, while yielding great results and 


furnishing new and valid material, is also so educational that 
my old master, Gudbrand Vigfusson, used to say that every 
man who wanted to do real work in history should have 
copied and edited at least one old text. The student who 
will transcribe accurately and edit sensibly an old Church 
Register, or a set of Guild Accounts or Sessions' Records, 
who will calendar properly the papers of a College or other 
public institution or Trade society, who will patiently collect 
and sift the facts relating to some definite district, and set 
them down in order of time, who will index historical items 
in the past issues of the local press, who will give a useful 
account of the trade history of a particular place, or trace 
the growth of a particular industiy, who will compile a 
bibliography of a given town or district, will certainly have 
preserved and stored material that future workers will find 
of value, will have made discoveries, small it may be (but 
every discovery advances knowledge), and will have learnt 
by practice to pursue the scientific method, which must be 
pursued if History is to be anything more than an orna- 
mental and often untrustworthy literary comment on certain 
political aspects of the past. 

I confess I do not look on History as a branch of Litera- 
ture or a province of Ethic, but as a branch of Science dealing 
with man under political and social and economic conditions, 
and my conception of History makes it the necessary com- 
plement to Biology and Anthropology. I consider Adam 
Smith as perhaps the greatest scientific English historian 
before Darwin, and I see in Stubbs's Constitutional History 
not only an admirable legal textbook but one of the finest 
examples of the process of evolution ever worked out. I 
think that men like the brothers Mayhew, Charles Booth, 
and Rowntree, who have shown us the value of collected 
facts, and Farr, who taught us in England how to use 
statistics in Anthropology and History, have done more to 
advance History than all the descriptive and brilliant de- 
scribers who have been content with aiming at rhetorical 
distinction and the popular applause of the general public. 


They too have their uses as they have their reward, but they 
are literary artists, not historians, and their aim is to excite 
emotion, to stir the imagination, or to gain adherents to the 
particular school of ethics or politics to which they belong ; 
but these aims, legitimate as they are, are not scientific ones 
and do not at all concern History as a science. But while 
I should infinitely prefer to have Livy's authorities before 
me to having Livy himself, and while for the date of an 
event I prefer the authority of a contemporary inscription to 
that of Thucydides, I go to Thucydides for what is more 
important still, for evidence as to the inner feelings and 
desires, the political and social outlook of a great Athenian 
of the great Athenian age, as I go to Dante or to Machiavelli 
when I want to know what politics meant to an Italian of 
the time of that saintly knight Henry VII, or of the master 
of the Renaissance, Michel Angelo. Of course Dante and 
Machiavelli are each men of science, but I am thinking here 
of the Commedia and of the literary works of Machiavelli 
rather than the original and magnificent scientific treatise 
on Politics which is known as the Discord, together with 
the detached monograph II Principe, So though one must 
not expect from Tacitus a true and complete account of the 
early Caesars and the empire they ruled, one does get from 
him a superb picture of the political passions, the literary 
culture, the ethical ideas of a Roman of the conservative 
senatorial party, such as is of infinite value in estimating the 
civilization and ideas of the age. 

As to Ethics, I must continue to differ wholly from Lord 
Acton, my distinguished Cambridge colleague, and profess 
that it is not the Historian's duty to try and estimate the 
exact degree of damnation that should be meted out to that 
dauntless captain and bold statesman Cesare Borgia, or even 
to his capable but unpriestly father, or to play the moral 
judge to such men as Thomas or Oliver Cromwell, or ' that 
great King Harry the Eighth ', or Napoleon. I must leave 
such work to the professors of Ethic, to whom History at 
any rate supplies plenty of examples. We have no lack of 


philosophers, let us hear them ! Of course, the historian 
must deal with the History of Moral Ideas as he must with 
the History of Religions, he must trace the circumstances 
under which all mental phenomena (healthy or otherwise) of 
the body politic originate and spread, and are furthered or 
combated, but he is the observer not the preacher, the biolo- 
gist not the surgeon or physician. His work must be done 
in the library, not in the tribune or the pulpit. He must 
leave * the advice-giving art ' to the statesman and churchman 
and pressman, all of whom he is willing enough to furnish 
with facts, if indeed they will take them (as they will not 
always), in preference to pseudo-facts of their own manu- 

We may say then that the historian^s business is first, to 
classify facts according to the best working theory at hand, 
and we will take it that so to do may well form a considerable 
part of every undergraduate's University work, in which the 
teacher may be of great help-; and second, to get at the 
meaning of the facts, and every one who learns to do this 
must have more or less taught himself to do so. And further, 
we may as well frankly allow that it is not every trained 
student that can do this kind of work, for whether a student 
does anything to advance his science in this part of his work 
depends on his power of constructing hypotheses and of co- 
ordinating observations. This is a rare and precious faculty, 
a faculty priceless in its higher developments, so precious 
that the greatness and progress of nations depend on the 
number of healthy persons within them possessing it. We 
cannot expect many students at any University who will be 
so rarely gifted, but it is in the power of any University to 
insist that every student shall have done some piece of actual 
useful work before he or she is honoured by one of the 
higher degrees. 

The History student ought to concern himself with his 
documents and facts precisely as his fellow students, chemists, 
physicists, or biologists, do with the objects in their labora- 
tories j he must not neglect observation in his daily life 


(Stubbs used to say that serving on committees taught him 
the dynamic of institutions as he could have learnt it from 
no book or description), he must organize his own powers 
so as to get the best out of the time and wits and strength 
he has, neither insisting upon grappling problems too deep 
for his experience (a mistake that has led to some sad failures 
within my own observation) or neglecting all precautions 
against error when things seem clear. If we can correct 
the analysis of air after nearly two centuries of careful inves- 
tigation, if we have had to wait till 1861 for a working theory 
of the main determinants in the process of evolution of living 
things, it is obvious that the discovery of great scientific facts 
and laws is one that does not happen every day. But the 
humblest work along true and honest lines may be building 
up a magazine of ascertained observations that the great 
theorist can confidently use. Many discoveries have been 
delayed for lack of accurate observations that could be safely 
used. We have read how the priority of Adams's discovery 
of Neptune was hindered and obscured owing to the grudging 
obstinacy of Airy and to the lack of sets of observations such 
as now at last exist in photographic form. It is the work 
of men like Mr. Tegetmeier, whose keen eye for facts and 
scientific instincts of observation drew from his amusement 
as a pigeon-fancier such significant facts as enabled Darwin 
to base and test his hypothesis, that is of real use. 

As I conceive it, the history work of my ideal History 
faculty at my ideal British University will begin with testing 
the proficiency of those who wish to enter it. This must be 
done by some proof such as teachers' certificates or a 
University entrance examination. The student when ad- 
mitted will carry on his work under teachers who will not 
only * drill ' him, but will enter him as soon as he is suffi- 
ciently ' set up ' to the kind of work for which he is found 
to be fitted, who will practise him in the simpler processes 
he must understand in order to do his work intelligently and 
critically, who will supervise and check each piece of work 
that he turns out. This kind of instruction, much of which 


is done now by devoted teachers in spite of the obstacles of 
the foolish Examination System (a system rendered neces- 
sary, like railway tickets and other nuisances, by the dis- 
honesty and stupidity of the minority) should take the place 
of the wasteful class lectures that are rendered necessary by 
the existence of the sham honours student (who should be 
pitilessly excluded from the Faculty work), and of the mass 
of useless ' memorizing ' and the deliberate ' cramming ' that 
chokes and overgrows the time and powers of those who 
have to teach History in our Universities. We have no 
right to cumber the history schools of any University with 
a number of worthy persons who have to be pap-taught 
because they will not or cannot learn properly, and must be 
forced through their degree without their being able to gain 
any accession of real knowledge or training of their reasoning 
powers whatever, or even being able to acquire the sure con- 
viction they should have of their complete ignorance. 

The careful study and criticism of certain texts must, as 
I have said, form part of the historic curriculum, but the 
teacher will not have to act as a cheaper and easier manual, 
wasting himself on elementary lectures in subjects the average 
student can perfectly well learn for himself if he desires to 
take the trouble, but will have time to direct his pupils* 
studies, to advise them as to their reading, to show them the 
reasonable way of dealing with their material. All this takes 
much time and calls for all the teacher's energy, but it is not 
time or energy wasted. We must give up all thought of 
large classes, of lecture-room eloquence, of crowds of dilet- 
tanti and dilettante pleased with the ^ soft option*. The 
change would mean fewer and better pupils who would be 
led instead of driven, who would be led to definite achieve- 
ment and not to the examination schools. 

You must allow me to speak plainly : and the fact is that 
more than half of our educational troubles are due to humbug 
and make-believe. We go on doing things we know to be 
almost useless, we go on teaching persons who do not want 
to learn, and who sit under us simply because degrees are 


supposed to mean money, and parents want degrees. We 
grant degrees to people who are intellectual incapables and 
turn them loose to humbug others with their supposed attain- 
ments. We scrape together large roomfuls of unfit and 
inapt persons whom we dub ^ students^. We refrain from 
weeding out what sportsmen call the ' crocks ' under our 
training, the worst of the worst, because we are afraid of 
losing fees or interfering in some other way with the Machine, 
or of being suspected of infidelity towards that British 
Juggernaut, the Jumping Cat. We are terribly afraid of 
making people pay properly for education, so we tax imbe- 
ciles and cumber ourselves with the elaborate, cumbrous, and 
pretentious teaching of unteachables, in order to retain a few 
rays of honesty to cloak our naked and shivering consciences. 
All this must be reformed if the Way of Knowledge is to be 
enlarged in our Universities. And I think in our hearts we 
all acknowledge this necessity, even though we palter and 
procrastinate ' a little longer, and then ' ; but the * then ' gets 
farther off instead of nearer by our delays. 

We do not want all the Lord's people to be Men and 
Women of the Book or of the Tongue or of the Laboratory 
or the Studio — they could not be if we wished ever so ; but 
we do want to make sure that the picked ones, whose busi- 
ness it is to teach the nation, to provide and to promote 
sound vital knowledge, shall be trained without waste of 
time, and shall busy themselves with better things than 
examinations and degrees. Strange as it may seem to the 
British parent, perhaps to many a British teacher, examina- 
tions and degrees are not really the ends for which Univer- 
sities exist. I can even imagine noble Universities in which 
neither have ever [existed] or shall ever exist. 

The University I have seen in my waking dreams was 
good to the History student. She gave him a large, well- 
arranged, well-catalogued, accessible library, with properly 
fitted work-rooms wherein he would find ready to his hand 
the texts and comments and the learned periodicals, British, 
American, European, that he needed for his studies. She 


supplied him with access to a good historic museum arranged 
for the student, not for the Whit-Monday gaper, with work- 
rooms also where he might study the objects he needed to 
understand, and with a representative and retrospective 
gallery of applied art in which he might observe and inves- 
tigate the handicraft of various epochs and eras. She did 
more, she gave those of her students that could profit by her 
bounty opportunities for wider observation, she sent them 
forth, those picked ones, as Darwin and Bates and Wallace 
went forth, as Gill and Codrington and Bleek and Callaway 
have gone forth to study in other lands where people are 
still living and toiling and playing in other ways than we 
use. She did not restrain her students' wanderings for 
knowledge to the civilized lands of the past or the present, 
but she even granted travelling scholarships or fellowships 
to those of her alumni and alumnae who cared, as Mary 
Kingsley cared, to understand the black people and the yellow 
people and the brown peoplej so many of whom are our 
yoke-fellows under the flag of the world-Empire we are so 
proud, so justly proud of. 

The State provides Governance for these peoples as for us, 
the Universities of the future must provide Men and Women 
whose duty it will be to understand the present and past of 
those people who have developed along lines often parallel 
but never quite identical with our own. We could not 
rightly know what we know of the human structure without 
knowing something of the structure of animals often strangely 
dissimilar at first view ; and we cannot understand our past 
history rightly without some use of the Comparative Method 
which such pioneers as Montesquieu and Maine have induced 
us to make use of. The advantages, monetary, political, 
social, and the increase of knowledge to be reaped by such 
investigations and study, are incalculable. I need not labour 
this point. Nor need I elaborate the profit gained by the 
students and teachers of our Universities visiting civilized 
lands, and trying to understand the great monuments and 
great movements of the past and present. The economic 


and social questions that are pressing upon all civilization 
can often be studied abroad for a time to more advantage 
than at home. 

Nor did the University of my dream allow the study of 
British history to be neglected. We owe to an American, 
Dr. Charles Gross, the first comprehensive study of the 
main institutions of our old times since the classic treatise 
by Madox. We owe to a Russian, Professor Vinogradoff, 
the first adequate investigation into our mediaeval villeinage, 
to a German Hebrew, Liebermann, the best edition of 
our Old English Laws, to a Dane, Dr. Steenstrup, the only 
history of the settlement of the Northmen in our islands, to 
a Frenchman, M. Paul Meyer, the discovery and publication 
in masterly form of the biography of one of the greatest of 
Englishmen, William the Marshall. If foreigners find so 
much to do there must be plenty for us to busy ourselves 
with. The Historical MSS. Commission is only just indi- 
cating what rich sources of knowledge of the past lie un- 
heeded in our midst. The French nation, bearing almost 
twice our load of taxation, are far more generous in giving 
national aid to research into national history. Yet our 
British history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries 
is as yet unwritten. 

Then there is the historic lore of our various districts to 
be worked, and this is a task which only natives can properly 
achieve. And local field-names, folk-tales, dialects, buildings, 
ruins, earthworks, old memories and memorials of all kinds, 
afford plenty of opportunity for University students of his- 
tory, for the work done by the Archaeological Societies 
already is but a small part of what remains. There is much 
more to be garnered than is generally supposed. E. T. 
Kristenssen, the model collector of our days, has picked up 
enough from the peasantry of his own land to fill a score 
of volumes. The work of men like Campbell of Islay, Dr. 
Douglas Hyde, Dr. John Rhys, Mr. Carmichael, shows the 
value of such collecting within the last half century. A 
young English lady within the last few years got in the Isle 


of Axholme half a dozen new folk-tales of the most primitive 
and archaic type yet recorded in the British Isles. 

The history of British Applied Art is yet to be written. 
There was, for instance, a mediaeval school of East Anglian 
limners, that won William Morris's highest praise, of which 
no record, save their unclassified work, remains. There were 
schools of West-country wood-carving, and North-country 
stone-workers, whose art and history deserve to be traced 
and illustrated. 

Of English Domestic Architecture only partial and in- 
adequate accounts are yet printed ; though much material still 
exists, in spite of the destruction waged year by year upon 
all good old work. Indices of published material are much 

The history of our Institutions is not yet settled with, 
though much has been accomplished by Dr. Stubbs, Dr. 
Maitland, Sir William Anson, and Dr. Dicey of late years. 
But the County, the Manor, the J.P., the Local Ofl&cials, 
the Privy Council (on which Mr. Dasent has done good 
work), even the great modern Government Departments and 
Services, are subjects still needing adequate treatment. 

For our Economic History, in spite of good examples 
(such as Mr. and Mrs. S. Webb's valuable work), little is 
yet accomplished, but happily its study is now organized in 
London with adequate library and funds, better organized 
in fact than any branch of British History whatever. It is 
a subject of vital importance. Its study should prevent such 
stupid delusions as the ' silver crusade ' in the United States 
and the * fallacy of commending waste', as preached and 
practised far too widely in these islands, not to speak of other 
yet more dangerous economic superstitions. In short, for 
a History faculty that is not content with drill and parade, 
but means fighting, there is plenty to do for hundreds of 
students for hundreds of years, and much of the work ought 
to be done as soon as may be. We cannot afford to wait for it. 

But the money needed for all this ? The money now 
J)eing wasted in keeping persons examining and being ex- 


amined, and being taught to be examined ; the money thrown 
away in paying for the University career of people not fit 
for book-work or head-work at all, who might be engaged in 
the more mechanical byways of trade or professions, or 
busied in nobler and more useful outdoor occupations at the 
farm, or at the bench, or even at the stone-heap — the money, 
in fact, spent in shams, is quite sufficient by any calculation 
I can make to provide for the realities I want to see pro- 

You must remember that bad history, prejudice, false 
witness as to past and present facts, delusions of the most 
mischievous and far-reaching kind, can only be properly met 
and destroyed by the historian. Dishonest history is a 
dangerous curse. To Treitschke, a brilliant but wholly 
unscrupulous and prejudiced man, is owing no little of that 
unprovoked and bitter envy and hate that has been the inspi- 
ration of the ignorant German press and the blind German 
politician for the last twenty-five years. The historian who 
can catch the public ear wields a force that unless used 
rightly will land his silly followers in catastrophes. Thiers 
is responsible for much of the blatant French chauvinisme 
that brought on the debdcle that ended in the Treaty of 
Versailles. No nation can afford to neglect history and to 
trust to chance for getting a true knowledge of it. The 
historian may help to make as well as to mar. The revival 
of Italy, of Portugal, of Germany, of the Balkan States is 
largely due to the influence of a few historians. The political 
theories that have moved European statesmen ever since 1793 
were theories (often false, I am bound to admit) started by 
historians. History is not a quantite negligeable but a factor 
of weight. 

The times are serious, more serious than most English 
people as yet suspect. We cannot afford any longer to mis- 
apply our forces, we cannot afford to let such brains as we 
have lie fallow, we cannot afford any longer to bow to 
popular fallacies masked in fine words, tamely to accept the 
existing perilous situation, if we mean, as we surely do mean, 


to hold and better the heritage our fathers' sweat and blood 
secured for us. Those concerned with Education, whether 
as teachers or learners, must wake up as those concerned 
with Trade and National Defence have been summoned to. 
And in very deed. Education is the first line of any real 
system of National Defence and National Progress. ' Brains 
with a sound heart and a sound body must tell every time.' 

Do not think I am at all despondent. I am not, though 
I am rightly impatient, for I see we cannot safely dally with 
this matter. I know that at the three Universities in which 
I have been honoured vdth work to do, the three I know the 
best therefore, Oxford, Cambridge, and London, the History 
Faculties are doing to-day better work than they were doing 
before. I see former pupils producing good books (not 
merely good manuals and class-books, though those are most 
necessary). I see the English Historical Review under Dr. 
R. L. Poole's care keeping as high a standard as any historic 
periodical I know of in any country. I see young students, 
men and women, capable of doing the research work that 
I consider it the special function of our Universities to en- 
courage and promote in every way. I think I see, also, that 
the small band of English historians are conscientious enough 
to strive to keep free of prejudice and party and sectarian 
feeling, knowing that for the Historian there is but one goal, 
one test, one point of honour — the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth — the truth, if needs be — as your 
own device has it — against the world.^ 


One of my hobbies is history, and I am allowed to write 
a few lines on it here, as I cannot just now come and speak. 
It is possible for boys not only to learn history, but also 
to help towards making history — a much more important 

* In this article the initial capitals, etc., tliat Powell sometimes 
favoured, have been kept as characteristic. 
« In -S^. Clare, July, 1895. 


thing. It is also possible for boys to help those whose 
business it is to write history. For instance, there are 
many old buildings, old fragments of buildings, pieces of old 
furniture, or armour, or dress, and the like, which are as 
much bits of history as an old parchment record, or even an 
old chronicle. How many of these old bits of history are 
allowed to perish without any one caring to preserve even 
their outward aspect ! What I want is, that boys who can 
draw in pencil or colour, or photograph, should begin to 
take drawings or plates of such old houses, or old chests, 
or ironwork, or panelling as they can find in their neighbour- 
hood, and, writing on the back or mount the date of their 
drawing or photograph, give the facts they know of the thing 
they have drawn or photographed. If such drawings or 
photos were mounted on cards of regular size, and num- 
bered and indexed, they would soon form a most valuable 
part of a school museum. There are old houses pulled 
down every year ; nearly every one has some detail, some 
aspect, that is beautiful or interesting. People have put 
their life and thought into them, and they still reflect some 
of it to us so long as they exist. When they cease to exist 
all this is lost unless some faithful record is kept. In the 
case of a house or room a plan should always be added to the 
description, and reference made to the Ordnance map, which, 
I have no doubt, will be found in Mr. Murray's keeping. 
I know a man, a famous scholar and writer, who used, when 
he was travelling, to sketch any plan or district that took his 
fancy, as well as he could in broad pencil lines on quarto 
paper. Then he would ink in these pencil lines when he 
got to his inn at night, so that the pencil might not be 
rubbed out by accidents of travel, and write the date and 
name of the place. In time, these quarto half-sheets came 
to a goodly pile, and he found that he had in this way, in 
the course of forty years or more, been able to get a record 
of the original state of many buildings, since injured by 
time, or restoration, or even altogether demolished. Another 
thing that I should like to suggest is that a good search 


should be organized in likely spots for ' remains ', whether 
flint instruments or Roman pottery, or mediaeval crockery, 
that these all might, with due register of place and date, find 
their shelf in a school museum. The fun of relic hunting is 
not to be despised, and the places it takes one to are often 
beautiful and always interesting. 

I know that there are a good many boys (and men too) 
to whom history seems a dry subject, names and dates, and 
tables, and maps hard to remember. These people I can 
sympathize with, but I should like to tell them that there 
is a great deal more in history than this, and if they will 
read such books as Stevenson's Kidnapped, or Scott's Rob 
Roy, or Kingsley's Westward Ho /, they will find history can 
be interesting. And then, if they go and get hold of G. C. 
Macaulay's Froissart, and North's Plutarch in English, and 
Joinville's Life of St. Louis, and Rawlinson's Herodotus in 
English (they can buy the Froissart and borrow the others) 
they will begin to find that not- only modern history (such as 
the Mutiny and the Crimean War, and General Gordon's 
noble career, of which they can get people to tell them who 
have known of them), but ancient and mediaeval history can 
be delightful to read and think upon. Miss Yonge's Extracts 
from Chroniclers and Historians are good, but the little 
book on the Crusade of Richard I that Mr. Archer put 
together, and Mr. Ashley's Wars of Edward III, and Mr. 
Button's Simon of Montfort, all three made up of accurate 
translations from the old mediaeval chronicles of the times, 
are better still, and they cost very little. M. Zeller has 
treated French history (in French) after the same fashion in 
little books one can stuff in one's pocket, and I recom- 
mend them to any St. Clare boys that can read a little 
French and are travelling in France, or looking forward to 
doing so. Books about books are usually rubbish, but the 
old books themselves are nearly always wise and useful, and 
pleasant to read. 

Now I have lectured enough. I only mean to tell you 
that what I have found it most useful to know through my 


life of the things one learns at school has been languages old 
and modern. One cannot learn or teach history properly 
without French and Latin, and one ought to add Greek and 
probably German. The other tongues one can learn later. 
It is not only useful in one's work to know languages, but 
it makes life abroad twice as enjoyable to be able to under- 
stand the people about one. The time and pains spent in 
learning French and Latin are well spent certainly. Every 
Englishman has a duty to fulfil to his country in training 
himself to be a good citizen, and unless he knows something 
of what wise people have done and thought in the past, and 
of what wise people abroad are doing and thinking now, he 
is doing his work and giving his vote on great issues half in 
the dark. 

You have a noble name for your school. St. Clare was 
a good unselfish woman in her day, and such persons are 
worth remembering with honour. I hope you will all have 
as happy memories of St. Clare as I have of the Old Manor 



[Under this title are covered many of Powell's finer contributions 
to critical journalism. As already said, they represent the governing 
bent of his mind as an historical artist, as distinct from his spade-work, 
marshalling of evidence, and narrative. They rank with the best 
things of the same kind in his Northern studies or his English 
history-book; indeed, they often flash keen brief lights on world- 
figures, or open sudden vistas into world-history, after a fashion that 
the theme or plan of his completed works prohibited. They are 
taken from his reviews, but can often be shredded away from his com- 
ments upon the particular book before him. There are frequently 
rehandlings, which he contrives shall not jade his pen ; his ideas were 
definite, but alive and not petrified. These portraits are chosen out of 
scores that he struck off, and show the range of his interests. They 
are set here, like the Surveys of the next section, which take his 
favourite panommic or processional form, in rough chronological 
order of subject. But the passages on Napoleon come first ; they, 
above all, apply Powell's canon of the attitude of the historian, 
who must rise above a narrow code-reading of men and things to 
a higher insight, and will so furnish, as he would perhaps have given 
leave to say, the material for a truer ethic. 

The first extract is occasioned by a partisan biography of 


[The author] distinctly attempts to whitewash his hero by 
aptly chosen citation s^ and he is so far successful that it is 
perfectly evident to any one who can read a little between the 

» 1894. 
H a 


lines and keep in mind the value of the authorities he is 
citing that the charges of gross selfishness towards ' the 
family ', of unnecessary harshness towards his subordinates, 
of unbounded personal avarice, of lack of patriotism, and of 
ingratitude, must be withdrawn. Napoleon may not have 
been indulgent because he was of a kindly and forgiving 
disposition, as [this writer] wishes us to believe ; he may have 
been indulgent and generous out of policy ; but that he was 
indulgent and generous there is no doubt. It may have 
been his fault or his misfortune that many of his subordinates 
were men incapable of honesty, gratitude, or honour, but 
that he had to deal with such persons is certain, and that he 
dealt with them in a magnanimous and humane and even 
unselfish manner is true. No man met with baser ingratitude, 
no man did more for his family. It may be that the favours 
he showered upon unworthy persons were but the fruits of 
his own usurpation and that his motives were Machiavellian ; 
still the facts remain that the dogs bit the hand that fed them, 
and that Napoleon was betrayed by those of his own blood 
and affinity over and over again out of mere greed and 

We are not dealing in the book before us with the 
political aims and practice of Napoleon, but with his personal 
traits and character. That there was a charm about the man 
that impressed even his enemies is undeniable ; the jealous 
and dishonest Bourrienne, the noble and faithful Polish lady, 
the fair-minded observant English sea-captain, the cold- 
blooded Austrian Archduchess, the old grognards of his 
Guard, all vritness to the magnetism of his presence, the 
power of his smile, the exceeding attractiveness of his 
character when he exerted his powers of pleasing. That he 
esteemed an honest man above any other may be taken as 
a proof of his wisdom, but that bravery and honesty and 
honour were precious to him even in an enemy there is plenty 
of proof. That he felt pity and gratitude and showed both 
in unexpected ways is also certain. In fact he was a man, 
not a monster. It may be absurd to worship him as Hazlitt 


did, but it is just as ridiculous to treat him as a second 
Crouchback, a rawhead-and-bloody-bones. It was wise 
policy no doubt to send a man so dangerous, so capable, so 
ambitious to a far captivity, away from all he held dear, 
under a gaoler whose petty soul could see nothing but 
buckram rules, but it came dangerously near making a 
martyr of him. The callous treason of Marie Louise, un- 
softened by any touch of humanity, was a sore punishment 
to the man who had never forgotten her comfort and whims 
even in the middle of the most difficult and dangerous and 
most brilliant of his campaigns. The great fall gave dignity 
and pathos to the career of this 'parvenu among kings ^ . It 
is no use blinking facts ; * tyrants ' (as Mr. Freeman preferred 
to call such persons as Napoleon) are not always bad men in 
the ordinary sense ; they may have persuaded themselves 
that they have the right, as they have the power, to break 
and sweep away the laws intended to bind them. They are 
not seldom affectionate in their families, of warm sympathies, 
of artistic tendencies, of delightful conversation, of business 
capacities ; they can take broad views, and at the same time 
care for detail with unwearied patience. They have numbered 
among them poets and philosophers, generals who have saved 
as well as ruled their countries. Sicily owed her safety more 
than once to tyrants, and tyrants have long ere this saved 
Europe from Asiatic despotism as well as aristocratic slavery. 
We have seen * tyrants * of no great capacity who were 
personally neither cruel nor unsympathetic, though they 
inflicted great damage upon their country and deep wrongs 
upon innocent and upright individuals. For such offenders 
Nemesis waits, but Rhadamanthus is just. Human nature 
is a very complex thing and circumstances are perplexing ; 
historical ethic is by no means as yet a science ; let historical 
students follow the safer method of trying to get at the facts 
and leaving the ethical consequences and verdict to philosophers 
and the poets, who often judge more surely than the sages. 
Who would not take the opinion of Goethe and Byron and 
Shelley on a great man rather than the views of Sybel and 


Taine and Alison and Lanfrey ? Has not Aeschylus given us 
the spirit of the great age-long rivalry of Greek and Persian 
better than Thueydides himself? Comprehension is more 
powerful than apprehension. 


Another point that deserves more consideration than it gets 
from English and German historians is the vast improvement 
in law and civil administration, due largely to Napoleon's own 
influence, though not always to his initiative. The Directory's 
plans were carried out by their successor. Germany was 
even a greater gainer by Napoleon's victories than France. 
Switzerland may date an era of real progress from the 
General's mediation; even Spain, which rightly spurned 
foreign rule, and curiously preferred ignorance and the 
Inquisition to reform under alien compulsion, profited more 
than it lost by the frightful and cruel partisan warfare that 
laid villages waste and gave whole towns over to flame and 
felony. Napoleon, like Julius and Alexander, was a builder 
as well as a destroyer. What he destroyed was rightly and 
efficiently destroyed ; what he built up was built to last. To 
us he was (as Julius to our British ancestors) a foe dangerous 
and implacable, an ambitious adversary, but to his subjects 
he was on the whole a beneficent tyrant. ' Perhaps,' as he 
said, ' too fond of war,' but conquering in order to organize, 
to civilize, to improve. If he had less excuse than Alexander 
he had as much as Julius. Without him the work of the 
Revolution had been wofuUy incomplete. That the teeth of 
the Inquisition were drawn, that the abominable criminal law 
of the States of Germany was swept away, that the heavy 
and dull despotism that was crushing the life out of Italy was 
torn forcibly from its exhausted quarry for a while, so that it 
never secured so firm a hold again, was owing to Napoleon, 
the true heir of '93 and '89. The absurd but almost ex- 

^ Life of Napoleon. By the Rev. S. Baring-Gould. 1897. 


cusable abuse of patriotic Prussian historians has blinded 
them to the merits of the man that shot Palm and Hofer, but 
Englishmen can afford to judge fairiy the deeds of the man 
they overthrew thrice. Mr. Baring-Gould has not condoned 
the petty side of the great man^s character, and he 
recounts enough of the St. Helena exile to show its un- 
satisfactory effect upon his hero, already smitten by the 
approaches of the disease that was to kill him. He is not 
blind to the defects of his character, the extraordinary 
fluctuations of the Emperor's moods; but he sometimes seems 
to forget the pressure of the immense toil that he daily 
accomplished. The Emperor had three or four kingdoms to 
govern, besides the direction of six or seven armies, of a fleet, 
and of a difficult mass of foreign negotiations. He had few 
real friends (save ' the soldiers and the common people ', as 
he once pathetically declared); he had many open, many 
secret foes, even [in] his own household ; the woman he loved 
he had been obliged to abandon, the child he loved was too 
young even to know the depth of his father's affection, his 
mother (like Cromwell's) was too full of forebodings to give 
him real help of any kind ; the companions of his youth had 
become his rivals or restless and jealous aspirants for his 
favour. His fife was inevitably lonely, and it was when 
absorbed in hard and continual brainwork that he was 
probably most happy. Such men are, after all, by no means 
adequately paid for their labour if they persist in their 
altruistic work, and even when they have enough self-restraint 
to retire from their place at the world's helm of their free 
will they probably regret it ; and we need not fancy that 
Diocletian's Spalato was much happier than Napoleon's Elba, 
or that Sulla (though his cynical humour and selfish callosity 
exceeded the self-centred indifference of Napoleon) was better 
content with his successor's doings than is Bismarck. We 
must not judge Napoleon by his temper at St. Helena. 
The man was a person of the most splendid physical health, 
the healthiest, soundest brain ; he had received the education 
of adversity, undergone all the misery of hope deferred, of 


unrecognized ability. He had known but little affection or 
gratitude, but he was certainly the most kindly and humane, 
the wisest, and the most clear-sighted of all great European 
rulers since the Reformation, with the possible exceptions of 
Gustavus the Great, William the Silent, and our own 


In all the long conflict between Israel and her foes the 
character of the fierce little twin kingdoms is frequently so 
difficult to sympathize with that it is on record of a well- 
known cleric that he could never bring himself to side with 
the Jews ^save in the case of Samson^. In the secular 
struggle between England and France there is but one epoch 
when one would rather have been serving beneath the lilies 
and the ' white banner with Jesu-Maria upon it in great gold 
letters ' than following the blood-red cross of St. George, the 
martlets of the Confessor, or the crowns of our English 
St. Sebastian, and that is when Joan of Arc was by her 
courage, her generalship, and her renown driving us out of 
our * French inheritance'. Typical English heroes have 
often been very English : the Iron Duke, Henry V, Gordon, 
are all highly developed forms of acknowledged insular 
types, though in the case of Shelley we produced a most 
un-English character. So in France persons like Chenier, 
Ney, Fran9ois I, and Bayard are easily recognized as 
typically French; but in two of the great mediaeval 
personages, the sainted Louis and the saintly Joan, there 
appears a most un-national type. St. Louis and Jehanne 
d'Arc have all the simplicity, absence of boasting, absolute 
purity of body and mind, strict and steadfast adherence to 
truth and duty, and utter disregard of glory and worldly 
pleasure which we expect in our ideal heroes and heroines, 
but which are by no means necessary in the chivalrous ideals 

* Joan of Arc. By Lord R. Gower. 1893. 


of the average Frenchman. Hence, of all the brave and devoted 
men and women of France — and there have been many, from 
Bishop Gregory and Charles Martel to the nameless moblots 
and federaux that met death willingly for la patrie or la 
commune, and the faithful priests and nuns that sealed their 
testimony with their blood in the far-off East but a few 
years back, — of all these heroes and heroines none are so 
comprehensible to us as these two, one of whom was the 
friend of our great Edward and the foe of our greater Simon, 
while the other was sent by the mighty English Cardinal 
before the judgement-seat of a hireling renegade and burnt 
under the authority of English nobles and gentlemen while 
English men-at-arms looked on. We have sinned both in 
deed and word against this noblest of women, and it is but 
a poor excuse for the ribaldry of Greene (or whoever it was 
that left his legacy of shame to Shakespeare) that his 
patriotism blinded him. There was a time when the rich and 
great, the French King (a monster of ingratitude), the English 
Council in their cold political hate, could not see what was 
felt instinctively by those poor Norman peasants and bur- 
gesses that knelt in prayer round the prison when the 
Maid was receiving the last services of her Church, and 
by that low, foul-mouthed sacrilegious student-burglar, who 
even in the depths of his reckless misery kept pure thoughts 
and noble verses for his poor old mother and for the ' good 
Maid of Lorrain whom the English burnt at Rouen '. Even 
in the last century the philosopher (and Lord Ronald Gower 
charitably supposes that Joan would have forgiven him as 
she did the traitor ecclesiastic Loiseleur) showed the most 
grievous ignorance and blindness when he chose the heroine 
as the butt of his filthy ape-like mockery, while the simpleton 
he derided at least offered an honest homage. The Roman 
Church still hesitates, in spite of the Rehabilitation suit of 
1456 (the result of political considerations, as Lord Ronald 
clearly shows), to undo as far as may be the crime of 
Cauchon by afl&rming the sainthood of the Maid. And 
surely, if miracle be proof of sanctity, Joan's career was 


miraculous. She found her country perishmg, her lord 
hesitating whether he should give up his cause and leave 
his kingdom to his foes; she left her country far on the 
way to complete restoration of peace and prosperity, with 
a certainty implanted in every French heart of the speedy 
expulsion of the powerful invaders. Joan's anticipations 
were invariably accurate, her prophetic words fulfilled to the 

We can understand the elements of her character better 
than might have been possible a generation ago, for we have 
seen in Gordon's life and words much that is closely parallel 
to her speech and action, even down to jninute details. 
There were the same high purpose and fatalistic reliance 
on the Higher Powers, the same reluctance to shed blood, 
the same power of stern rebuke, the same marked love for 
little children, the same profound pity and helpfulness for the 
weak, the wounded, and the poor, the same mysticism. Joan's 
sayings often recall a bit of the Journals ; for instance, when 
she afl&rms, ^ My Saviour has a book in which no one has 
ever read, however learned a scholar he may be,' one cannot 
but remember the English soldier's firm but humble assur- 
ance. And if men so alien in dogmatic faith as Burton 
and Power felt a certain sympathy for Gordon, we are not 
surprised to find La Hire and Anjou touched by Joan's 
noble character, a character so intense that for a time it 
even influenced for good that most abominable of maniacs, 
the Seigneur des Rais himself, and drew from one of the 
canonists that sat at the Rouen trial the cry which Shake- 
speare has put into the mouth of a poor, heartbroken, dis- 
reputable, but far less guilty sinner ^, 

^ [Possibly a comparison is intended between the exclamation 
' Nous avons brule una sainte ' and some of the last words of Othello, 
' less guilty ' than des Rais. — Ed.] 



Catherina Sfobza is one of those historical figures that, 
like Mary Queen of Scots (whom she greatly resembles), are 
essentially romantic ; figures that excite the sympathy and 
rouse the partisanship of all that become acquainted with 
them. As brave and defiant as Black Agnes of Dunbar 
herself, as skilful and provident as Elizabeth, as politic as her 
namesake of the Medici, beautiful, gracious, a good com- 
mander in the field, a shrewd counsellor in the hall, a firm 
friend and a bitter foe, Catherina, daughter of the Sforza and 
mother of Giovanni delle Bande Nere, Lady of Forli and 
Imola, ancestress of our own Queen and many other royal 
and noble persons, was famous and remarkable in her own 
day, and there have been few women rulers since who have 
surpassed her in personal qualities and political and military 
talents. She embodied almost the ideal of Brantosme, 
Machiavel admired her, Caesar Borgia long feared her. She 
lived in most tragic and picturesque times, when Fortune^s 
wheel turned passing swiftly, and death was ever lurking 
behind the pictured arras or in the silver cup. Murderers 
hemmed her about ; her father, her husband, her eldest son 
had all been privy to assassinations. War was seldom far from 
her doors. There was never a time since her first marriage 
but she had chiefly to depend on her own good heart and 
shrewd brain if she would keep her position, and even her 
life ; and when her first husband was slain it was solely 
owing to her astuteness and courage that she and her little 
children were not driven forth as penniless exiles. Like 
Queen Mary^s, her reign was full of perils of all kinds ; like 
Mary, too, the Lady of Forli must sometimes have regretted 
not to have been born a man ; like Mary, she loved to ride 
armed amid a company of stout spearmen or skilled hunts- 
men ; and, like Mary, she was ever for bold enterprises, for 
the strong hand and the ready blade rather than the glozing 

* Catherina Sforza. By Count Pier D. Pasolini. 1898. 


tongue and the crabbed parchment. She knew no bounds in 
her vengeance, and allowed nothing to sever her from those 
she loved. Her generosity, beauty, and valour roused the 
deepest devotion and provoked the most unreasonable fear 
and hate; though it was her misfortune that her friends were 
not so faithful to their affection for her as her enemies to 
their antipathy. Her letters, the correspondence of the time, 
contemporary reports and diaries, give the fullest materials 
for the life of Catherina, and Count Pasolini uses them ex- 
cellently. The many-sided activities of his heroine are made 
manifest ; we know her tastes, we hear of her needlework, 
her love of sport, her jewellery, her dress (always in excellent 
taste), her piety, for she was a good ante-Lutheran Catholic 
of the Renaissance type, in whom the grace of faith was 
rather more frequently made manifest than the gift of charity. 
Her Receipt-book shows that she had a penchant for what 
one might call domestic chemistry ; she dabbled in alchemy 
also ; for practical purposes she was a good builder, a careful 
economist, an admirable administrator, a sagacious com- 
mander, a woman of extraordinary personal distinction ; 
a beauty in an age and among a people that worshipped 
beauty, an able ruler at a time when the possessor of poUtical 
power was put to the most severe tests, a captain whose 
exploits the most experienced and gallant soldiers of her day 
admired and envied. Catherina seems, moreover, to have 
been possessed of a stoic greatness of soul that forbade her to 
look on her frightful misfortunes as capricious decrees of fate, 
and made the very ills she suffered stepping-stones, as it were, 
to repentance, to resolution, to higher aims. With vast 
capacity for happiness, she seems to have thoroughly enjoyed 
the pleasant days of her life and to have wasted no time in 
regretting them when they were past. Her delight was in 
action, and as long as life remained it was its opportunities 
for action that she chiefly prized. It is the blackest stain on 
Caesar Borgia's career that he could treat such a woman as 
Catherina with cruelty and dishonour. Among all those 
noble Amazons and glorious ladies of Villon's most famous 


ballad there is none more worthy of remembrance as a 
paragon at once of beauty and bravery than this Italian 
countess, part of whose life overlapped the poet's. 


The only trace of Mr. Fleming's own predilections that we 
have been able to detect in the book is perhaps a slight leaning 
towards Knox, whom he defends in one instance when he is 
certainly wrongly accused. For moral turpitude the murders 
of the Cardinal and of Darnley seem not very dissimilar. 
One was justified on grounds of religion, the other on those 
of personal honour. Nor was Mary at all less brave than 
Knox himself, or less persistent in her plans. She had 
a penchant for brave men, and sometimes allowed this to 
interfere with her policy, whereas Knox's platonic relations 
with his female admirers do not seem to have stood in his 
path. Knox was to the full as superstitious, as bigoted, as 
pitiless, and as proud as any Guise of them all. It is true 
that the besetting sins of the Guises were not his, but he was 
not brought up in a walk of life where these particular sins 
were likely to tempt him. One can respect Knox for his 
courage, admire him for the pithy vigour of his style (surely 
the best Scots prose that was ever penned), one may be 
grateful for the incidental good that his fierce bigotry and 
keen energy brought about ; but he is not a lovable figure, 
this grim, red-handed patriarch of the Reformation in 
Scotland. The curious thing about Mary is that one may be 
firmly convinced of what her opponents call her 'guilt' and 
yet be able to feel the persistent charm of her personality. 
She is as fascinating as Cleopatra, and not, as Cleopatra was, 
more than half 'sensual, devilish'. She played with her own 
life, if she risked others ; this wanton Egyptian princess 

^ Mary Queen of Scots, from her Birth to her Flight into England. 
By David Hay Fleming. 1897. 


feared the triumph to which the Roman meant to drag her, and 
found a coquette's pleasure in thwarting him. Mary spoke 
once of suicide, but she never gave up the struggle, and her 
last letters are full of gratitude and revenge, for, like the 
dying David, she never forgot an enemy, though, unlike him, 
she had never betrayed a real friend. Mary would never 
have fled as Cleopatra did, for she loved danger for itself, as 
some men have loved it, and few women. Mary will never 
be sainted, for her religion was to her a matter of honour, of 
policy, of breeding, no more and no less. She had little 
cause to love the Reformed party, that had insulted and 
opposed her and was bent on her death ; she knew that the 
dagger and the pistol, aye and the bowl too, were not the 
monopolies of the Guises or the Medici. While one 
perceives that she was capable of making very great mistakes 
(and, in fact, she did make such bad mistakes as led to her 
ruin), one is not the less persuaded of her great ability and 
cool power of will. 

But, to come back to Mr. Fleming, this is the best book 
yet written upon Mary Queen of Scots ; it gives the material, 
it does not pretend to judge, it leaves the reader to draw his 
own conclusions. It is not the province of history to deal 
with ethics, but those who care to make judgements have 
here the means of forming a fair verdict. 


This is the first reasonable account of Philip II that has 
appeared in English. It is founded on full knowledge of the 
sources and written without prejudice. Its purpose is [to 
consider the causes of Philip's failure]. 

The reasons Mr. Hume considers as, partly, his great 
heritage, which brought him into the spheres of many 
conflicting interests and hampered rather than helped his 

^ Philip II of Spain. By Martin A. S. Hume. 1897. 


foreign policy; partly his hereditary qualities, bigotry, 
devotion, caution, and melancholy, which were the conse- 
quences of the close interbreeding of which he sprung, and 
were not balanced by strength of body or quick energy of 
mind ; so that, while he was patient and persevering, he was 
always too late in making up his mind and too willing to 
disbelieve what was told him till the news was belated and 
useless. He was brave, courteous, kindly, and humane to 
those about him; relentless (but not a lover of cruelty) 
where either the cause of Spain or the faith which was 
Spain's lever to move the world with was concerned ; 
admirably self-controlled in adversity, never losing faith in 
himself or his cause, a true Spaniard to the core. Even the 
torments of his long agony of fifty-three days did not wring 
from him an impatient word or shake in the slightest his firm 
faith and resignation to what he considered the Higher Will. 
Fate was against him ; the obvious and necessary condition 
of his success rested upon a strong and hearty English 
alliance ; but this soon became impossible, and with England 
against him the Low Countries were able to hold their own 
and the Catholic cause was debarred from further progress. 
Campanella's dream was, luckily, never to be fulfilled. And 
Philip's failure meant the speedy fall of Spain from the first 
place in Europe, and probably in the world, to the level of 
a second-class or third-class power. The Spain of Velasquez 
and Murillo, the Spain of Cervantes and Calderon and 
Quevedo, swiftly vanished, and a Spain poverty-stricken, anti- 
progressive, letterless, leaderless, given over to obscurantism, 
to corruption, to animal torpor, became the Spain of generation 
after generation, till foreign invasion and colonial revolt 
closed the sad record, and the beginnings of a New Spain 
again showed themselves in the present century, when men 
like Goya and Gayangos, in their respective paths, attest the 
power and vigour of the great Iberian stock. . . . 

One cannot help reflecting that it was a ' great mercy ' for 
England that Sidonia rather than Recalde or Oquendo led the 
Armada. It will astonish most English readers to know that 


Philip was a generous and intelligent patron of art, but there 
is no doubt of this. One of the few relaxations this slave of 
duty allowed himself was to watch his artists, painters, 
sculptors, architects, designers during the twenty years of 
work that finished that splendid monument the Escorial, in 
the vault of which his body was in due time to be laid, where 
it has rested 'through three centuries of detraction and 
misunderstanding^, Philip loved children and flowers, music 
and birds ; he was not at all the cold, inhuman personage we 
have been taught to think him, but merely * a naturally good 
man cursed with mental obliquity and a lack of due sense of 
proportion '. Bigot, yes ; hypocrite, no. One recalls the 
famous poem, one of the gems of that very heterogeneous and 
incongruous collection the Legende des Siecles, where, in 
the long alleys of Aranjuez, beside the fountain, stands the 
little pink princess, in all the childish glory that Velasquez 
could give, and behind her, at the window, the dark, marble- 
faced king, patiently, tacitly watching, while the shiver of 
a western gust sweeps coldly down the ranks of elms, and 
ruffles the calm water of the marble basin, on which the petals 
of the rose, dropped from the child's fingers, are idly strewn, 
till one by one, to the little girl's astonishment and her father's 
boding dread, they sink in the bright ripples. Nowhere has 
the tragedy of Philip's long and painful life been better 


. . . And then the documents themselves, the plain speech, 
the courtly greetings, the undaunted resolution, the skill and 
foresight and industry of all concerned, the brotherly conduct 
of the English commanders, their zeal and heartiness in doing 
their duty, their genuine affection for the Queen, their sound 
contempt for the mariners of Spain, and their respect for her 

^ State Papers relating to the Defeat of the Spanish Armada, 1588. 
Edited by J. K. Laughton. 2 vols. 1894. (Navy Record Society.) 


soldiers ! The characters of the men are written broad and 
firm in their letters and reports — the Admiral, Charles Lord 
Howard, wise, dutiful, ready to take counsel of men of more 
experience than himself, attentive to every minute detail that 
could ensure success, not grudging to praise those under his 
command, sure of his men, wroth with traitors, ever anxious 
for the Queen's personal safety; Seymour, active, busy, 
vigilant ; Drake, bluff, plain, the longest-headed of them all, 
a commander who knew the infinite value of time, and could 
plan a campaign, divining as by instinct the purposes and 
faults of his enemy, ever eager to ^ wressyll a poull ' with the 
Spaniard, and with a good trust so to handle him at their 
meeting that * the Duke of Sidonia shall wish himself at 
St. Mary Port among his orange trees ' ; Hawkins, the best 
practical seaman of the bunch, resourceful, energetic, having 
every point of his craft ready for use, a thrifty, perceptive- 
minded man, that honest men believed in and knaves 
misliked ; Fenner, who finds more difficulty in writing a letter 
of two pages than in engaging a Spanish galleasse j Darell, 
indefatigable worker; Borough, shifty, untrustworthy, 
voluble, but useful in his way of science, a man plainly 
incapable of high command or office at sea (as Drake half 
contemptuously points out in a parenthesis), and wisely left 
to ride off the Nore and survey the mouth of the London river 
in the Bonavolia galley, while better fighters were running up 
Channel at the heels of the hunted Armada, 'which went 
always before the English army like sheep ' ; Palavicino, the 
Genoese banker, who left the Court to go off to the fleet ' to 
embark and join the Lord Admiral, where I hope to be 
present in the battle, and thereby a partaker in the victory 
or to win an honourable death, thus to testify to the whole 
world my fidelity to Her Majesty'; Leicester, proud, con- 
tentious, dissatisfied, but apparently capable and thoroughly 
in earnest ; Salman, patriotic Master of the Trinity House, 
* careful of his duty,' helpful, and a man of resource ; Cely, 
a much-travelled man, with an eye to the main chance, ' one 
that hath had his losses, too, marry', and *one that hath been 


brought up without learning, and one that hath but a patched 
carcass ' by reason of ^ thirty-two sundry torments in the 
Inquisition with the apretados [racked] . . . and eight years in 
prison, lacking but two months. I take it was for Her 
Majesty's sake and her subjects . . . and, God I take to witness, 
without desert, more than that they approved that I was her 
sworn man. Truth is, I did strike their secretary as I was 
before the Inquisidores, they sitting in judgement. I had great 
reason to do it. Let these things pass.' Ever intent, this 
much-enduring mariner, upon his secret plan for * abating the 
malicious intention of the Spaniard', which he is verily 
persuaded the Queen only rejected because she feared lest he 
might ' come to any foil, for that I am assured ', writes he, 
' Her Majesty doth love me.' Then there was Winter, canny, 
strenuous, one who loved a fat buck withal and did not forget 
to ask for it, while he was keeping the narrow seas all weathers 
against danger from Parma and the Armada combined ; not 
to be forgotten, either, is good William Coxe, of Limehouse, 
who brought news from the Spanish coast in February, and, 
having ^showed himself most valiant in the face of his enemies 
at the hottest of the encounter' on the 23rd July, ^afterwards 
lost his life in the service with a great shot,' as is supposed, 
a few days later off Gravelines. Such are the men whose 
words and deeds fill this volimie. 

[The following review, of Mr. Philip Sidney's Memoirs of the Sidney 
Family, printed in the Morning Post on Aug. 17, 1899, and signed, is 
a good example of Powell's most natural and favourite form of writing, 
the gallery of historic miniatures, which form a kind of pageant 
when thus ranged together.] 


One cannot help thinking that it would have been better 
for Mr. Sidney to re-edit the Sidney Papers than to strive 
* to combine within the covers of a handy volume a concise 
and correct biography of the Sidneys of Penshurst from the 


time of Sir William the Chamberlain to Henry VIII, down to 
the death of Lord Romney, in the reign of Queen Anne ', 
especially as he has been obliged to curtail his account of the 
campaign of Sir Henry Sidney in Ireland, to omit a full dis- 
cussion of the literary career of Sir Philip, and to refrain 
' from entering upon, from a legal point of view, a sufficiently 
detailed description of the trial of Algernon Sidney ', as he 
duly notices with an apology. But as the author has 
preferred to give us an epitome of the Sidney history during 
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, that may, he hopes, 
' humbly claim to rank as a useful footnote to the history of 
Great Britain,' we must judge him by his performance. 
Now the history of the Sidney Family would be worth writing 
in full, as the sketch pedigrees at the end of this little book 
sufficiently prove, and there is plenty of material for it. It is 
one of the most interesting of the great families that rose 
under the Tudors. It has produced more than its share of 
noble men and fair women. There is a romance about it 
that makes Penshurst, as it were, a place of pilgrimage. In 
its blood there were strange strains, but the breed was none 
the worse ; the bold, ambitious, selfish, and capable Dudleys ; 
the gallant, swaggering Brandons j the proud, reckless, and 
stubborn Percys ; beside less known but respectable Pagen- 
hams, Oakeys, and Gamages. There were marriages into 
the great Elizabethan families of Cecil and Walsingham, and 
alliances with the noble Elizabethan earldoms of Sussex and 
Pembroke. The crown of England had been seized by the 
Dudleys on Philip Sidney's uncle's behalf; the crown of 
Poland was offered to Philip himself. His father had ruled 
as Viceroy in Ireland and Wales ; his uncle was the most 
influential man in England while he lived, and two genera- 
tions later it was Algernon Sidney that was Charles the Second's 
most dangerous foe. It was Philip Sidney, his elder brother, 
that sat and helped Cromwell to rule Great Britain ; it was 
to Henry Sidney, the younger brother, that (perhaps more 
than to any other man) the crowning of Dutch William was 
due. Waller's cold mistress ' Sacharissa ' (though she never 

I 2 


could have rivalled her aunt Mary, 'Sidney's sister, Pembroke's 
mother') was yet the paragon of her own days, and a woman 
that had tasted both of prosperity and adversity, for the 
husband of her youth was snatched from her by an unlooked- 
for fate, and she lived to hear of the brother she chiefly loved 
and reverenced meeting his death at the block. Her husband 
died in the name of the King whose son sent her brother to 
his death. So her life, too, like Mary Sidney's, closed in 
sorrow. But it was in Philip himself that the house of 
Sidney showed most nobly and bravely. Round him are 
grouped the glorious figures of the first generation of great 
Elizabethans. Hubert Languet and Giordano Bruno were 
his teachers, Edmund Spenser and Fulke Greville were 
his brother poets, Drake and Essex followed his hearse as they 
had companioned him in hf e. Ralegh and Frobisher and the 
early colonists and pioneers of this notable age were his 
associates in their schemes ; among his literary acquaintances 
were Marlowe, Jonson, and Shakespeare ; he had conversed 
with the chief poet of the Catholic revival, Tasso ; he had sat 
to Veronese ; with Du Plessis Mornay he was on terms of 
close friendship. He had dared to check Elizabeth herself ; 
he had won praise at the Imperial Court and at the Curia 
itself. William the Silent openly admired his character and 
gifts, and his godfather Philip spoke of him in proud and 
chivalrous appreciation, though he well knew his anti-Spanish 
policy. Even envy was stilled by the sudden glory of his 
death. Nor were the laments that rang over his grave 
undeserved or exaggerated, for his life had meant much to 
his country. He was wise, he was fearless, he had an 
influential and devoted following, and he coidd hardly have 
failed to wield a great and useful influence in the counsels 
of his royal mistress. But it was not to be, and it is by 
favour of his 'Contemplation' rather than of his 'Active Life' 
that Astrophel, that ' most heroic spirit ', still lives. Books, 
as he desired, are his memorial, and the defender of * Poesie ', 
the lover of Stella, the patron of Spenser, the author of 
Arcadia, enjoys the fame that death forbade him to earn as 


a discoverer, a general, and a statesman. Beside him the 
figure of Algernon, heroic in its way also, must pale, though 
this later Sidney, like his greater kinsman, knew, as one of 
Plutarch^s men, both how to live uprightly and how to die 
worthily. Without agreeing with the attacks of our author 
and of his distinguished predecessor in his strictures on the 
trial and condemnation of this martyr of the Good Old Cause — 
for there is no doubt that Sidney had done his utmost to 
upset the existing form of government, and thereby became 
technically a traitor — not the most bigoted Royalist would deny 
that he bore himself as became his name, and that he had 
never faltered in his zeal for what he considered the good of 
his country. He was a politician in times when men risked 
their heads for their party, and, while he had no party scruples 
with regard to taking Louis's gold for his own party and 
England's good, as he supposed, or to using the indulgence 
of the Government to plan its overthrow, or to planning 
an armed invasion to put his own party in power, he was 
not the man to permit Cromwell to override what he 
believed to be his lawful rights unchecked, nor had he 
recoiled before the anger of Gustavus. He set his life at 
hazard generously and played cunningly and boldly, but he 
lost, and one can hardly, from the political point of view, 
blame those that advised Charles to exact the stakes, though 
when Algernon Sidney died a great and sincere Englishman 
and a strenuous writer was lost to his country. The ideal of 
Sidney was not and has not become the ideal of this 
nation, but it was not an ignoble ideal, and there was 
the same spirit of reason, of pride, and of austere virtue in 
him as glows through the subhme steadfastness of Samson 

Such are the golden hopes of iron days! 

Those goodly couples, Philip and Mary, Algernon and 
Dorothy, were elect souls, moving on high planes, filled with 
that heroic mania that has ever filled the noblest of each age, 
and of them, their doings, their words, and their praises we do 


not readily tire. But there were other Sidneys whose careers 
would furnish matter for romance and narrative enough. 
There was Henry and his good and human-hearted wife, the 
patient and sorely-tried servants of Gloriana. There was 
Robin, the light-hearted friend of Charles II, and his capable 
and successful brother Henry, who avenged their brother 
Algernon's blood on the Duke of York. The changeful 
career of this latter Henry is to be traced, and full of interest it 
is, though it was neither by Helicon nor from ' Sion Hill nor 
in Siloa's Brook that flowed fast by the Oracle of God' that 
this Sidney sought inspiration. With an epitome of the brief 
meteor track of Monmouth (whom he believes to have been 
Robert Sidney's son), and the arrival at power and ofl&ce of 
Lord Romney, our author closes his book. He might have 
included Sacharissa's son, the statesman Sunderland, in the 
next generation, the seventh from Nicholas, whose wits, at 
least, did not belie his Sidney blood. If this book is meant 
to whet the curiosity of those who wish to hear more of Stella, 
of Sir Henry's labours, and Lord Rodney's adventures, of the 
courting of Waller, of the pity that made Sacharissa wed 
a second time, of the gay company that Robin kept abroad, 
and all the gossip and incident that clings about these 
vigorous personalities, it will probably fulfil its purpose, and 
some who have never known more of the Sidneys than the 
death of Philip may be directed by it to books that will tell 
them much of them that bore his honoured name, and such 
reading will not be idleness. It has been suggested that in 
the Sidney ' pheon ', or barbed javelin head, we have the 
origin of the * broad arrow ' that distinguishes all royal states ; 
but however that may be there is no doubt but that Sir Philip 
Sidney left his mark on the nation. His life, his death, his 
conversation, his love of lofty things, of whatsoever things 
were of good report, were not without effect; they set a 
standard that was needed and that was looked up to, so that 
to men even a generation later the Court of which Sidney had 
been the glory was looked back to as a place of culture, of 
wisdom, of bravery, and of nobility, surpassing any English 


Sovereign's Court before and since. The poets did well to 
mourn their patron Astrophel, for he above all men it was 
that fostered Letters in England, so that he made it the 
fashion at Court to care for poetry and to favour the players. 
And though Arcadia appeared but pretty fanciful unreality to 
Milton, and lacking in those qualities that could fit a book 
for the reading of a Christian man in his distress, there is 
proof enough that its influence was neither hurtfvd to art nor 
morals, and that it set a higher ideal of English prose than 
had been before held up for imitation. Till Waller and 
Dryden and the new French taste, witty, commonplace, 
rhetorical, and neat, swept away the towering and glowing 
extravagances of diction (that delighted Johnson when he 
read Browne), and with it much of the depth and richness 
and humour and colour that characterized the Tudor prose and 
verse, the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia was deemed an 
honoured book wherein is much wisdom, many beautiful and 
true and gentle sayings, and a certain peculiar, gracious, and 
old-world gravity of its own; though it is in his sonnets 
that Philip Sidney shows his highest powers, and he that 
looks therein may (as the poet tells us of his author's picture) 
behold there : 

Love's truest Majesty, 
And the soft Image of departed Grace. 

There may be read unfeign'd Humility, 
And golden Pity, born of heav'nly brood. 

Unsullied thoughts of Immortality, 

And musing Virtue, prodigal of blood. 


Again a life of Sir Walter Ralegh, the last, but also, for 
the purposes of the general reader, distinctly the best ; written 
with full cognizance of all that the labours of Oldys and 
Edwards, Gardiner and Stebbing, have gleaned for us, and 

^ Sir Walter Ralegh and the British Dominion of the West. By 
Martin A. S. Hume. 1897. 



with a first-hand knowledge of the Spanish papers that place 
beyond doubt the shameful and disgusting behaviour by 
which James, fooled to the top of his bent by the cunning 
Gondomar, sacrificed his noblest subject to his desire to curry 
favour with Spain. Mr. Hume has put his book together 
well; he has set forth in their due proportion the divers 
elements of his heroes varied and extraordinary life. He has 
shown a true comprehension of his wonderful and incongruous 
character. He has understood that the ' real Ralegh ' was 
a man who with persistent purposes could show chameleon 
colours, that, like Napoleon, he could bend to seek grace of 
the graceless, to grovel in despair, to shuflfle and equivocate, 
not from fear of death or love of life, but because he felt 
himself called to great issues, because he had wide ends in 
view which no man but himself could compass. He under- 
stands that one must judge the details and passing fashions 
of Ralegh's style and behaviour by the standards of his day, 
translating them to comprehend them out of their gold-laced, 
pearl-strewn extravagance into our grey homespun prose. 
He gives Ralegh full credit for his high intents and far-sighted 
plans. He is not unduly shocked at his pride, his subtlety, 
his tortuous manoeuvres. There was much in Ralegh for the 
moralist to blame, but no unprejudiced judge can account 
him less than a great man, or other than a true and wise- 
minded lover of his country. The severest critic must pass 
favourable judgement on the classic grandeur of his prose and 
the earnest grace of much of his poetry. Misunderstood as 
Ralegh was in the greater part of his life, compassed about 
by false friends and foolish confidants, struggling with the 
obstacles placed in his way by his unscrupulous rivals and his 
own unquenchable pride, his plans were necessarily greater 
than his achievements, and his achievements less than, with 
ordinary good fortune, they might have been. His Cadiz 
exploits are those of a Nelson, his colonization schemes were 
worthy of Wakefield, his amazing power of work and fertile 
knowledge of detail remind one of Napoleon himself. That 
* wise white head ' foresaw, as Ralegh's acquaintance Shake- 


speare had foreseen, the wider Britain, the new nations of the 
future. Only in his own stately prose could the tragedy of 
Ralegh's fall be fittingly depicted when, purged by suffering 
and sickness, the loss of his darling son, the overthrow of his 
dearest hopes, the man came forth as calmly and merrily as 
good Master More himself to die for the love of England. 
When the White King met his doom (as bravely but not so 
innocently) the guiltless blood of Ralegh was barely avenged. 
James's vanity had sacrificed a better man than him whose 
head was sacrificed to the weak fears and helplessness of 
Charles. Mr. Hume's book draws on the reader not only 
with the attraction of its subject but by the clear and lively 
presentation of the story from the Plutarchan point of view, 
the only true one in such a case as this. . . . The motto for 
such a patriotic book is excellently chosen. Who but 
Milton of Ralegh's successors could write in a score or so of 
words a prayer such as the great Elizabethan might have 
penned or breathed, in his greatness or in his despair ? 


Kenelm Digby — there is something proudly romantic in 
the very name — was worthy of his descendant's pious care, 
and there are many who will delight in the beautifully 
illustrated, prettily covered, weU-printed and graceful book. 
Its compiler has gone to the right sources, especially the 
private memoirs of his hero; he has put his material 
together with rare impartiality, and while one feels he 
loves the man he is writing about, one feels also that he 
will never stoop to excuse a failing or pass over a blot 
— the truth must out; the portrait will not be the more 
unpleasant but the more human for the little irregulari- 
ties of feature, the scars of old wounds, the wrinkles of 
painful thought. This is the spirit of the Digby to whom 
we owe those ' handbooks of seventeenth-century chivalry ' — 
* The Life of Kenelm Digby. By T, L., one of his descendants. 1896. 


the Broad Stone of Honour and its companion volumes, and it 
has its reward. The reader learns to respect both the author 
and his subject, and to think more kindly, and more justly 
too, of those whose foibles may be exceedingly antipathetic 
to his own. Kenelm Digby was a notable man in his day, 
handsome, of enormous strength — he would do the feat that 
Stepniak in our day could repeat, that of raising a man 
seated in a chair to the height of a table-top with one hand, — 
of high culture, of charming and sympathetic manners, true 
to his friends, courteous even to his foes, a lover of what was 
beautiful throughout the whole visible universe, faithful to 
the memory of that dead lady whom in her life he adored, 
brave, energetic, proud, and versed in the ways of political 
and ' curial ' life. On the other hand he was subtle, pursu- 
ing his own designs under colour of other projects, secret, 
diplomatic, restless in intrigue, loving the subterranean 
labyrinth of seventeenth-century statecraft, looking more 
carefully to acts than words, not meticulous as to those 
complimentary expressions that were the current money of 
the stately politeness of those days ; friend of Laud, courtier 
of Charles, chancellor to Henrietta Maria, agent accredited 
to Cromwell, envoy to Rome, conspirator in Italy and peace- 
maker in England, captain at sea, alchemist at home — the 
man was so versatile, so dazzling in his harlequin activity, 
so generous in his impulses, so free from any vice but the 
naif kind of vanity which rather delights one in a friend, 
that it is impossible almost to judge him in cold blood. His 
biographer seems to us to lay far too much stress on expres- 
sions of Digby's that read nowadays as serious affirmations 
of intent, whereas they were really mere but necessary 
compliments, a dangerous custom requiring expressions of 
lifelong devotion where we are content to subscribe poor 
assurances of our fidelity, truth, and sincerity. We may 
acquit Digby of double-dealing. Cromwell knew his man 
and what he meant by his euphemistic politeness. It is 
easier to deny his effectiveness than to question his honour. 
He was always in action, but his political career resulted, 

DIGBY 123 

80 far as can be seen at present, in insignificant achieve- 
ment. As a thinker and experimenter he was by no 
means in advance of his learned contemporaries. But 
he was a gallant privateer, a fine swordsman, and a most 
exemplary lover. His memoirs enshrine in romantic form 
the record of a very true and pathetic love-story. He loved 
Venetia, 'brave Venetia Stanley,' from childhood; he refused 
for her a queen's favours, for her he braved scandal and 
calumny, and though he is so frank as to admit that it was 
the lady's munificent and unselfish generosity that finally 
made * his heart yield ' against * the dissuasions of some of his 
friends, particularly of his mother ', it was for her, we cannot 
doubt, that he made his famous voyage, in order to win the 
honour and wealth that would enable him the better to take 
a high hand with the world and set the lady he loved in 
a position above the tongue of slander ; for her he followed 
one of her traducers to Italy, and * cowed him into silence in 
his own paddock' ; for her he mourned not only in sable suit 
and flowing hair, but in heart, hoping still for a final and 
infinite reunion with the generous gentle lady who had died 
— ' suddenly snatched in her sleep by the relentless claws of 
Vulture Death ' — in the full bloom of her wonderful beauty. 
Venetia was mourned by grateful poets whom she or her 
lord had befriended — Randolph and his master Jonson, 
Habington, Townshend, and others. And Sir Kenelm 
himself wrote a touching and expressive poem over her. It 
was not till 1665, thirty-two years after his Venetia's death, 
that Sir Kenelm departed this life, after about a year's 
illness. He was buried beside his wife in the gorgeous 
tomb he had reared for them both, and Ferrar made him 
a sonorous epitaph. And so we may turn from Sir Kenelm 
and his pious biographer, with sympathy for the former and 
gratitude to the latter, in that his very agreeable, if not 
over-critical, volume has the power of recalling remem- 
brances of two noble persons of singular gifts, extraordinary 
attraction, and romantic lives. 




A PRETTY German woman of Lithuania, essentially volatile, 
vain, energetic, fascinating, and kindly, who rivalled Lady 
Hamilton in the shawl-dance and Madame de Stael in the 
art of romance, who retained her husband's respectful con- 
sideration in spite of her open infidelities, who, moved by 
sudden impulse and the sentimental maunderings of a char- 
latan and a fanatic, gave up the delights of the world when 
they were first beginning to pall, and took up sentimental 
Evangelism with the greatest success and delight, reaching 
at fifty years of age the summit of success as the pious 
Egeria of the weakminded and amiable Alexander I, and 
as the inspirer of that ridiculous document which revolted 
the good sense of Wellington, roused the suspicions of 
Metternich, and served as the outward sign of a hateful 
and useless policy for nearly a generation. . . . Madame de 
Krudener is, indeed, an interesting figure in modern history, 
the first of a line of ladies whose psychology we have learned 
something of in the pages of Tolstoi and Turgueniev and the 
autobiography of Mademoiselle Bashkirtsef. Not even the 
eclipse of her later years, when, full of unfulfilled prophecies 
and of rancid religious phraseology, she delighted in the 
society of a set of stupid enthusiasts, only her undying 
vanity and her ungrudging generosity surviving in the 
extinction of her beauty, her sense, and her health, can 
entirely alienate from her the reverence and affection of 
her admirers. Sainte-Beuve had as near a grande passion 
for this long-dead lady as a Voltairean and academic critic 
could be expected to feel for any one of his most lively 
and beautiful contemporaries, and the shock he experienced 
when he realized that his idol has feet of unmistakable 
clay is almost incredible in the case of so fleshly a sceptic. . . . 
Madame de Krudener, we must confess, does not fascinate 
us, as she perhaps ought to; her letters are too strongly 

' Life and Letters of Madame de Krudener. By C. Ford. 1893. 


redolent of selfishness and vanity, and of that peculiarly- 
revolting pietism in which Lady Byron delighted; but as 
a * subject' she is, of course, distinctly precious and interest- 
ing. The workings of an able woman's heart and head are 
laid bare in her in a remarkable way. Thackeray would 
have revelled in the minute but exquisite skill by which in 
the days of her vanity she wheedled the 'puff preliminary' 
out of academicians and scientists, and rejoiced in the 
delicate but indicative way in which she covers under high 
motive her inconsiderate and relentless selfishness. Her 
insatiable self-love is obvious in spite of protean disguises, 
and accompanies her from the beginning of her career to the 
end. Yet her courage and her lavish generosity were as 
inseparably companions of her life. Altogether, it is easier 
to blame than to condemn Madame de Krudener.^ 

* In a letter of April, 1893, Powell wrote: 'I have a screed on 
Madame de Krudener. She is a woman I don't like, but can't bring 

myself to despise or hate, damn her. What does Mrs. think of 

her ? I should like a woman's judgement of her. I have tried to be 
as fair as possible, and just daub as I see, and not conclude. Joan, 
my other subject, was a saint if ever there was one.' 



[These extracts are not so much fragments as brief sketches, entire 
in themselves for the most part, easily detached from the reviews 
that incited them ; they are sudden pageants, populous with historic 
faces and sometimes splendid in colour ; perhaps, in their own way, 
the best examples of Powell's historic sense and imagination, 
duly controlled and also working into shapely form.] 


What painter of the school of Gerome could resist the 
Triumph over Crassus — the two semi-barbaric kings, in the 
full glow of high festival, sitting with their attendants and 
people in a vast theatre looking on at Euripides* famous play 
of The Bacchantes) As Agave enters with the train of 
frenzied ladies the heralds of victory burst in, travel-stained 
and mad with joy, bearing the head of the proud and greedy 
foe, the erst-mighty Crassus himself, to prove to the Parthian 
monarch the success of his arms. The head is thrown to the 
player on the stage who sets it on the thyrsus in lieu of the 
semblance borne before, and parades it before the encircling 
and applauding multitude, and raises with redoubled energy 
the thrilling chorus : ^ From the mountain to the hall, new- 
clipt tendril, see, we bring blessed prey !' 

Again, the Treachery of Caracalla is a most dramatic event. 
The Roman Emperor with his legions, fully armed and 
marching in regular order, is approaching the Parthian 
court. The road is lined with rejoicing throngs, garlanded, 
gay of raiment, with song and dance and music of flute and 

^ 1893. 


pipe and drum and tabor. The Parthian warriors had dis- 
mounted from their horses, laid aside their deadly bows, and 
were carousing at ease as they watched their foreign friends. 
Their own king, in noblest array, with all the splendour of a 
rich Asiatic court, is coming forth to meet the man who was, 
by a self-sought honour, to become his son-in-law. Suddenly, 
as Dio tells, the perfidious Roman gave the signal to his 
men to fall on and massacre the barbarians. Artabanos, the 
beguiled king, is hurried off by his faithful guards at the cost 
of their lives ; the multitude, helpless, disarmed, encumbered 
by their flowing festal raiment, falls a miserable prey to the 
cowardly onslaught of the steel-clad legionaries, who slay 
without mercy, for they have a long roll of unavenged defeats 
to wreak upon the dangerous foe now delivered defenceless 
into their hands. 


Glorious were the days of Gelon and Hieron; mighty 
builders they were, founders of cities, raisers of moles and walls 
and palaces and temples, great champions at the Hellenic 
games, great patrons of poets who repaid them with noble 
verse, ^fathers of strangers,^ brave captains of men-at-arms, 
hereditary priests, bountiful benefactors to their subjects and 
neighbours. Theirs were the days of Simonides, composer 
of the noble elegies on the valiant Greeks that fell in battle ; 
of Pindar, the Theban eagle, whose odes best recall to us 
those stirring times which were to Greece what great Eliza- 
beth's age was to England; of Aeschylus, whose patriotic 
plays were acted at Hieron's court, and who met his strange 
death by the white waters of Gela, in Sicily, far away from 
Marathon, where he had smitten the ' short-cropped Mede ' 
in the day of his pride. But tyrannies, glorious though they 
may be, are short-lived, and not long after Himera and Cyme 
Hieron died. Within a few years all the tyrants had been 

1 1891. 


driven out or slain, and the restoration of the Syracusan 
Commonwealth and the Feast of Freedom ushered in a new 
era. But still Sicilian prosperity increased by leaps and 
bounds. There was plenty of corn and wine and oil, plenty 
of fish and meat; there were Rabelaisian feastings, and 
gorgeous pageants and illuminations at banquets and bridals 
and arvals ; and there was no lack of mirth for the eye and 
ear, for the pantomimes and comedies which sprang from 
the holiday games of the native islanders were eagerly 
adopted by the Greeks. Ships were built, magazines and 
arsenals were equipped, and temple-building went on, and 
the raising of walls and fortifications was not checked. 
And there were still great men in the land, Empedocles, 
the reformer, of whom Matthew Arnold has had his say; 
Gorgias, the teacher, whom Plato has drawn for us ; Gellias, 
the witty citizen ; Antiochus, the historian ; and Damophilos, 
the father of the great school of Greek painting. 


The interest of the present volume is largely political, of 
course ; but politics are not always uninteresting, and the 
characters of the foremost statesmen and generals of the 
day are remarkable. There are the two Basils — the sage, 
ambitious, harsh, and crafty old giant, who loved power for 
its own sake, and hated (as later politicians have) to see his 
marvellous pupil, the younger Basil, emancipate himself from 
the long guardianship that had formed his education, and, 
shaking himself free of the pleasures that gilded his youth, 
become the enduring, never-ceasing defender of the Christian 
empire, wise and cunning, brave and stout-hearted, soldier, 
general, emperor, worthy to stand beside the great heathen 
imperatoreSy who marched over half the world at the head of 

^ L'Ep(yp4e hyzantine a la Fin du dixieme Steele (969-989). Par 
G. Schlumberger. 1897. 


the armies, who brought peace and order and tillage wherever 
the eagle was planted. There is the gallant Otho, a very 
Coeur de Lion for adventure, with as faithful followers and 
more chivalrous foes. There are the Churchmen — the stern 
but practical patriarch Polyeuctes, who used the crimes of his 
penitent to the benefit of the Church, and spared Aigisthos 
while he was relentless to Klytaimnestra, after the wont of his 
kind ; and the old ascetic Neilos, a saint with that common 
sense which distinguished St. Teresa de Jesu and St. Francis. 
There are the barbarians — the last great Bulgarian Caesar, 
struggling with greater skill, but far less luck, than Bruce or 
Scanderbeg himself against overwhelming odds, and after all 
enabling his kingdom and nation to fall nobly, conquered but 
unshamed, before the union of the two great Powers that have 
ever since held the supremacy over the Slavonic races ; and 
the first Christian Russian Caesar, wedding (like our Ethel- 
bert) a Christian princess, whose union with him was to lead 
to the conversion of himself and all his people, persuaded by 
the excessive glory of the cathedrals of the * white city of the 
Emperors protected by God^, and the splendour of his 
greatest rival Basil himself, that the way of Christendom was 
the way of material progress and of earthly as well as 
heavenly glory. 

Wonderful tragedies, too, pass before us — the headlong fall 
of the beautiful traitress Theophano ; the death of Bard as ; 
the terrible alternations of prosperity and adversity at the 
Byzantine Court ; the varying fortunes of war, when the 
best heavy cavalry of the world, the Roman cuirassed 
lancers, went out to battle against the finest heavy infantry 
then alive, the Warangian, with his javelin and broadaxe ; 
when the dashing Armenian line regiments met the magni- 
ficent Arab light horsemen, and the fate of empires as well as 
of emperors hung upon the result of the day. It was hard 
work for a Caesar of Byzantium to hold his own. The 
marvellous riches of the Asiatic and Balkan provinces before 
the destroying hand of the Turk had withered their prosperity, 
the accumulated treasures of centuries of civilization, the 

130 StfRVEYS 

abiding force of a skilled and well-formed regular army, 
the prestige of the empire that was the most enlightened, the 
most humane, the most progressive of the great governments 
earth had yet seen, still upheld the Cross on the Bosphorus. 
But the pressure of taxation, the vile intolerance and crass 
and increasing ignorance of the clergy, and the breakdown of 
the old land system, were, with other less prominent causes, 
to sap the strength of the Eastern Empire and give it a prey 
to the Turk, though his victory was delayed long enough to 
make that victory the last great and successful effort for 
centuries of the Asiatic regime against the European system. 
The heroic age of Byzantine history is, indeed, a fascinating 
piece of history, and one could hardly study it under better 
guidance than M. Schlumberger has given in the book before 
us. It is the first book that has rendered accessible to Western 
readers the vast industry (sometimes almost over-patriotic in 
its manifestations)of the present generation of Russian scholars 
on the mediaeval history of Eastern Christendom. It will 
remind some who have almost forgotten that the Turk did 
not always rule at the Golden Horn, that there was a time 
when the only mosque in Constantinople existed by favour of 
a Christian Emperor at request of a Khalif residing at Cairo. 
It will also perhaps prove, again, a much neglected but certain 
fact, that there was only one realm in Europe where anything 
beyond the elements of civilization existed in the tenth century, 
where people were polite, cleanly, lettered, commercial, and 
capable of understanding the remains of prae-Christian learn- 
ing that survived, where sound money was struck, trading 
corporations flourished, sport was organized on a gigantic 
scale, while regularly drilled armies supplied with engineers 
and an artillery of high efficiency were kept on foot, and that 
this realm was the domain not of the Karling or the Capetian 
or the sons of Frey or Woden, but of the Greek-speaking 
Macedonian dynasty that ruled the Eastern Empire. Those 
students whose scope extends not beyond their own islands 
will get some interesting information and references touching 
the origin of the Warangian guard (first known to most of us 


from Count Robert of Paris), the guard of 6,000 Northmen, 
Russians, and Englishmen in which that Harold who fell at 
Stamford Bridge and fought at Athens and in Sicily had 
served, as well as the younger brother of Grettir the Strong, 
the famous Kolskegg, the magnificent BoUi, and a host of 
self-exiled Englishmen ^ flying from the overbearing of 
William the Norman ' to the service of the * throne-king '. 
When the Turk departs and the beautiful city is free again, 
there are few of its past monarchs that have better deserved the 
honours that will be accorded them than Nicephorus, John, 
and Basil, the three heroes whose lives M. Schlumberger has 
so well written. 


As with Dante, one must judge the man chiefly in the 
light of his own work, and a thorough appreciation of the 
work is an absolute necessity. Gentleness, generosity, and 
courteous sympathy, mingled with a terrific sense of justice, 
an overpowering and intense faith, and a scorn and hatred of 
certain sins and certain sinners, mark both men^s characters, 
and must be acknowledged clearly if we are to try to under- 
stand how Dante could doom his friends and kinsmen to 
endless woe, could realize the mortal sin of Francesca, and 
^pitying, still condemn % in consonance, as he believed, with that 
divine righteousness and love that laid the foundations of the 
dolorous city itself ; or if we are to try and comprehend how 
Mahomet, the man who loved children and cared for dumb 
beasts, and neither showed pride nor lack of politeness to 
any human being, and whose tears were ever ready to mingle 
with those of the mourner, could sit by while his judge sent 
eight hundred of his chained foes to ignoble death, could 
praise the traitor that slew his foster-brother in his arms, 

^ Fragments from three separate reviews, 1891-6. 


and approve the assassin of a woman sleeping with her babe 
on her breast, in blind reliance on what he felt to be the 
avenging arm of the ' Lord of the Kaaba '. There are many 
parts of the Koran, many parts of the Commedia, that strike 
us painfully, that jar horribly on what we consider our wider 
and more highly developed humanity. But before we can 
judge the men who could make themselves stark enough 
to do or command deeds at which we shrink we must try 
humbly and sincerely to understand their circumstances and 
ideas and temperaments. There was no callous cruelty nor 
love of torment about these two, no selfish sacrifice of others 
to their passions or desires, and yet they commended acts 
that to most of us are horribly criminal as agreeable to the 
divine orders and the highest law. Here is no common 
difficulty, and it must be faced ; it goes right down to the 
bed-rock of the depths of Ethic. It is no light matter to 
differ with these righteous men, as we do and must. To 
condemn them hastily is out of the question ; they knew what 
they were doing, and we have to realize their position. It is 
hard enough to get at facts in history, but to get at the 
meaning of the facts when we have them is harder still. 
The ideal historian must be a student of life as well as of 
books, and it is this that makes the pages of Machiavel more 
helpful than the volumes of Gibbon and places Aristotle 
above Ducange. ' By the going down of the sun : verily 
man busieth himself in that which will prove of loss, except 
they that believe and do that which is right and mutually 
recommend the truth and mutually recommend perseverance 
unto each other,' 


Islam is certainly not dead. The inevitable question 
comes. Is it for the benefit of mankind that Islam should 
persist? No absolute answer can as yet be given by the 
historian, though the theologian in the street of course has 
his reply pat enough ; but it is [certain] that, for whatever 


reasons, Islam has a singular conservative power of resisting 
what we in the West call progress. The community that 
adopts the Mohammedan faith has generally taken a great 
step forward in civilization, but it seems all the more difficult 
for it to take any further step. However, as it is not till the 
present century, according to good judges, that we ourselves 
surpassed the material progress of the ancient Romans (so 
dear to Miss Blimber), we may yet prove that Islam is no 
greater obstacle to the advancement of knowledge than (say) 
the European systems of the sixteenth century. 


We have to do with powerful forces and impulses which 
we can only control by understanding them, and not the 
least important work done by Burton was that he gave 
Englishmen a means of getting deeper into the mind of the 
Mohammedan world than was possible before. ... It is 
certain that, from the lowest commercial point of view, we 
are losing thousands of pounds every year by ignorance, 
stupid avoidable ignorance, of the East, and it is because 
such books as the one before us help to lessen this ignorance 
that we cordially commend them to English readers. 


A HISTORY of the Saracens by a Mohammedan, a grave 
and intelligent attempt to give the general public a history of 
Islam from the point of view of a pious but rationalist 
follower of the Prophet, is a new thing, but it is certainly not 
unwelcome. Such a book if written by one who shared 
neither the prejudices of Rome nor Mecca, by a scientific and 
scholarly investigator such as Noldeke, would of course have 

* A Short History of the Saracens, from the Earliest Times to the 
Destruction of Bagdad and the Expulsion of Moors from Spaiti. By 
Ameer Ali Syed. 1899. 


been of still greater use. But it is highly interesting to see 
how Islam appears to a well-educated nineteenth-century 
Indian Mohammedan. The Syed glides gently over many 
horrors, nmch bloodshed, disgraceful treason, abominable 
persecutions, and shocking examples of vice in the way with 
which we are familiar in our own historians, who if Catholics 
too often deal gently with Dominic and Philip and palliate the 
brutality of Cinisaders and inquisitors, and if Protestants are 
anxious to make all possible excuses for the sins of Calvin 
and the Huguenot, and the shortcomings of Reformers and 
Covenanters. ' A religion is not responsible for the crimes of 
those who profess it ; ' *We must not judge people of the past 
by our present standard ; ' * The people who were persecuted 
were, after all, very wicked and ill-living persons and hardly 
deserve our pity.' These apologies are familiar to us in such 
cases, and though the Syed uses them for the benefit of Islam 
instead of against it, he is really trying to give what he 
himself would probably consider a fair history of the rise and 
progress of the faith as revealed to Mahomet, down to the 
fall of Bagdad and the expulsion of Boabdil, the 4ittle king'. 
. . . The romance of Antar and the Biographic Dictionary of 
Ibn Khallikan, the short suras of the Quran, and the poems 
of the ' times of darkness ', the Assemblies of Hariri, and the 
Thousand Nights and One, all books accessible to the English 
reader, will give him a truer knowledge of the inner life and 
feelings of Oriental Moslems than this History of the Saracens 
would, taken alone ; but it has its value as a handy epitome of 
the story of the great Arab conquerors that swept Persiaii 
Chosroes and Greek emperors and Berber princesses and 
Gothic princes before them, and set up and maintained a 
higher standard of culture and comfort and social life than 
was to be found elsewhere in the world in the Middle Ages. 
On the other hand, there are three vices that persistently 
haunt Oriental courts, and against which even Berber 
fanaticism and Arab asceticism are not proof — lust, bigotry, 
and cruelty, — and it is these, conjoined with the selfish greed 
which Dante describes in its essence as * Avarizia ', that so 


determinedly hamper the efforts at progress enlightened men 
and even enlightened dynasties have made. But Islam has 
never been absolutely rigid or motionless. As a missionary 
faith it has continually advanced ; it has had its rationalist 
and mystic schools and sects, if it has had its puritan and 
devotee revivals. The Persian Mohammedan has never been 
able to accept the Semite religion without change ; neither 
Svfi nor Babi nor philosophic Epicurean (such as Omar) is 
possible among pure Arabs. To the negro of the Nile or 
Congo Islam means something quite different from what it 
did to Masudi or the Founders of the Four Followings. 
Nationality tinges the faith, but the prayers, the pilgrimage, 
and the book manage to keep up a theoretic and even 
practical unity among non-Aryan Mohammedans that the 
convokers of Christian Oecumenic Councils have never been 
able to attain to. 

Western Europe, however, is now as much in advance of 
the Mohammedan world as it was in the Middle Ages behind 
it. Science has as yet no votaries in Islam. Men seek faith 
rather than truth at Al Azhar, in spite of recent symptoms 
that point to better ideals at the great Moslem University. 
The Japanese and Rajputs, the Red Indians and the Zulus, 
prove that strong ideas of honour, extraordinary courage and 
endurance, and other vigorous qualities of mind, may be found 
under religions that have not a trace either of Islam or of 
Christianity ; but still the claim of those that look on 
Mahomet as the * last of the Prophets ' to have a ' manly 
faith ', a faith that gives confidence to the believer, that 
disposes him to endure without complaint and to hope when 
things seem most desperate, that enables him to despise 
suicide as cowardice and to regard himself as a chosen vessel 
reserved for honour as long as he keeps the faith, though in 
this life he may be of all men most miserable — the claim that 
this religion is one a man can hold without his best qualities 
being injured, a religion 'such as befits a gentleman', maybe 
conceded by the impartial historian. Islam is a step in 
religious development j there is real truth in those burning 


denunciations of falsehood and sham and all vile and mean 
things that thunder through the Quran, and the men that 
died at Ohod were martyrs for the truth as well as those that 
died at Mohacs or Thermopylae or Salamis. So much and 
no more may be granted to Ameer Ali, who, as a skilled and 
veteran apologist for Islam, knows very well the weakness 
and strength of his case. As a rationalist he deplores the 
bigotry that fettered Islam so early, and has hopes of an 
awakening, a return to the ideals that were in the Prophet^s 
own mind, ideals that undoubtedly would admit of progressive 
development. Whether the Arab and African and Malay 
Mohammedan will care for such a renaissance, if it ever comes, 
is a difficult question to answer. For the Indian, Afghan, 
and Persian Mohammedan the strict Semitic traditions are 
bonds to be broken or slipped off, and no doubt among them 
are many ripe for a more rational system than that which is 
generally received as orthodox and respectable by the doctors 
of the law, whether Sunni or Shiah. There are few who have 
lived long among Mohammedans without acquiring respect 
for their higher qualities, and a hope that when once the 
reign of formality is over the intellect of Islam may be 
liberated once for all from the miserable traditionalism that 
is the flaw of Semitic forms of belief. 

It is a great and engrossing theme, the glories of Bagdad 
and Cordova and Cairo and the generations that raised 
and maintained them, and not easy to tell without confusion 
or vain repetition in one handy volume, but this the Syed has 
been able to do. If one might suggest so much, the addition 
of a chapter on the state of Arabia immediately before 
Mahomet, when the best of the Arab poets lived, when the 
seven best of their poems, the Muallakat, were composed, 
would add value to a useful and interesting little book and 
give a better setting to the noble figure of the son of Abdallah, 
whose word is still law to millions and whose book is 
reverenced from the Atlantic to the Pacific. When the 
English were but emerging from barbarism and taking 
Christianity upon them, in the very lifetime of the apostle of 


Kent, the spirit of the young Arab was moved with a great 
pity for his people and a great zeal for the truth beyond the 
south-eastern confines of the empire that had only lately 
surrendered Britain to its own fate. And of the nations 
that have changed the face of the world since those days, 
thirteen centuries back, it has been the Arabs and the English 
that have perhaps done most for human progress, in spite of 
many errors in thought and deed. It is probable that an 
English Christian will be more likely to sympathize with the 
conquests of Musa and Khalid and with the fate of Ali and 
the fall of Jaafar than either a Buddhist or a Brahman, 
though he would scarcely sympathize with the later Islam, 
when the Turk shouldered out of power and place the 
degenerate Arab of Bagdad and Bussorah and the Kirghiz 
captives took possession of the land of the Ptolemies. From 
the days when rigid orthodoxy strangled thought and 
despotism took the place of Arab independence there have 
been grave and deep evils in the Moslem world, but we may 
hope with the Syed that these are not inherent to the races 
that have so easily and warmly accepted Islam, even if we 
cannot, like our author, put faith in the teachings of 
Mahomet as final revelations containing all that is necessary 
for the perfect and effective guidance of human conduct. 


Professor Maitland has given us here a splendid and 
comprehensive textbook to the mediaeval theories on politics 
and political science, in a translation of part of Gierke^s great 
book on the Germanic corporation law, or fellowship law. 
Das Deutsche Genossenschaftsrecht. Those who have read 
the Song of Lewes (probably some Oxford student's plea 
for the cause of Montfort and reform), and the far greater 

* Political Theories of the Middle Age. By Otto Gierke. Translated 
by F. W. Maitland. Vol. i. 1901. 


number who have been puzzled and disconcerted by Dante's 
De Monorchia, will have wished often for some handy book 
which should guide them to the mediaeval ' publicists ' and 
their treatises and theories. They want to know where 
Ockham and Marsilius stand with regard to the questions 
raised or debated by Dante; they want to know how far 
Thomas of Aquino would have repudiated his pupil's con- 
clusions ; they wish to know how men such as they that 
deposed Edward II and Richard II and resisted John and 
Henry III by force of arms justified their conduct to them- 
selves on grounds arguable in those days. They would like 
to understand the attitude of Wyclif and Gerson, and to see 
how far it was original, how far merely a development of the 
positions of earlier thinkers and teachers. They would 
welcome information as to the precise claims that the English 
nobles repudiated in the case of Sigismund, as to the precise 
authority exercised by or acknowledged to reside in the Pope 
by his supporters and opponents in such cases as that of 
Boniface VIII, and as to how far the Schism upset or dis- 
arranged men's theories of the Papacy. Mediaeval opinion 
on such subjects as representation (the great political invention 
of the Middle Ages), tyrannicide, and transfer of power and 
territory, explains much in mediaeval history that at first 
eludes one. All this and a great deal more will be found, 
with full references, in this handy and well-printed volume, 
furnished with a most attractive and informative introduction 
by Professor Maitland, the historian of our English law. 

Those who are little concerned with the Middle Ages will 
also find their account in this book. Persons like Cajetanus, 
Miinzer, Machiavelli, and Campanella (not to speak of Calvin 
and Sarpi, Cranmer and Bodinus, Grotius and Selden, Locke 
and Hobbes) did not start from a blank and make something 
out of nothing ; they started with the ideas of their time, the 
ideas that the Middle Ages had taught, and these they had 
to metamorphose or controvert in an acceptable manner. 
The theory of the Social Contract was not Hobbes's invention; 
theories of Acquisition and Dominion troubled Wyclif before 


they were handled by Grotius ; the theory that would have 
the State a mere servant of the Church was held and fought 
for long before Calvin and Knox tried to raise a ^godlie 
politic ' in Switzerland and Scotland ; the theory which Henry 
VIII, Edward VI, and Elizabeth enforced as to their Royal 
Supremacy was a theory that had its roots in the Imperial 
law-books, and it was as standing in the place of Augustus, 
Constantine, and Justinian that our * high and mightie 
Princesse^ Gloriana stood out at once against the protestations 
of the iconoclast and rebellious Puritans and the anti-imperial 
and usurped tyranny of ^the Bishop of Rome* who presumed 
to put her under the ban of the Church. It was mediaeval 
theory as much as compassion and kinship that held the hand 
of Elizabeth for years from putting her cousin Queen Mary 
to death. Protestant assassins such as slew the Guise and 
Catholic assassins such as murdered William of Orange were 
moved to strike by a faith that was buttressed up by such 
mediaeval theories as Gerson urged in his famous apology for 
the * taking off ' of Orleans. 

The famous comparison of the body politic to the human 
body, to which Mr. Herbert Spencer has devoted one of his 
most instructive essays, goes back, of course, to the ancients, 
but it was never more characteristically made use of than by 
Cusanus and certain of his mediaeval predecessors and after- 
comers, persons to whom Mr. Spencer has not even thought 
it worth while to refer his readers. The curious idea of the 
triplicity of the Christian State, as it relates to faith, know- 
ledge, or political needs, with imperium, studium, and sacer- 
dotium reigning respectively at Aachen, Paris, and Rome, and 
under the care respectively of the German, French, and 
Italian nations, is one of several interesting conceptions 
started by mediaeval philosophers. The famous controversies 
that raged over the Papal pretensions as regards the Empire, 
the question of poverty and the property of the Church, the 
question of Conciliar supremacy, brought forward many 
acute and ingenious writers who went into every quarter of 
the matter and built up ingenious schemes of demonstration 


on premisses universally admitted then but since discovered 
to be wholly or in great part illusory. 

The passion for order, for unity, for logical completeness 
which must, in the eyes of the mediaeval schoolman, be the 
characteristic marks of creation, is responsible, of course, for 
much absurdity, for long resistance to obvious truth, and for 
neglect of experiment and observation ; but it brought out 
a number of most ingenious theories and exercised the wits 
of many generations of persons of high mental ability. That 
* Order is Heaven's first Law ' is, on the whole, an axiom 
that befits Dante rather than Pope, and it led to a forcible 
maiming of facts to make them square with the 'inspired 
authorities '. Just as cultured Mohammedans of to-day have 
difficulties in reconciling observed ' scientific truths ' with the 
poetic diction of the Quran or the Traditions, and find small 
sympathy with their less well-read co-religionists (whose 
schoolmen have furnished them with logical systems that 
cannot be refuted save by attacking the bed-rock of ortho- 
doxy on which they rest), so there was no place or peace for 
the observer, but great honour for the dialectician, in the 
Middle Ages ; and while Abelard was condemned and Roger 
Bacon imprisoned, the great system-mongers were revered 
and sainted, or at least rewarded and read in the * schools ' of 
the time. It must be remembered that Aquinas and Anselm, 
Marsilius and Wyclif, were well-trained persons of exception- 
ally powerful brain, possessing wonderful grasp of the 
instruments they used and an inventive ingenuity that has 
rarely been excelled. In their small space, with their few 
lawful counters, they juggled to perfection, they did astonish- 
ing feats, they showed mental resource of the highest order. 
That they advanced so little is partly because they were 
living in an age and under conditions that did not allow 
thought to wander freely, but confined and limited it to a tiny 
circle within which alone it might play ; and partly because 
the plane of circumstance in which they dwelt had not been 
disturbed for ages and was regarded as final. Plausible 
answers had been supplied to every question that a man was 


likely to ask, and there was nothing that forced him absolutely 
to doubt the solidity of the enormous and beautifully con- 
structed system of which he himself was a part. When the 
bases were once attacked it crumbled quickly, and so swiftly 
were its fragments seized and built up into other novel and 
rival constructions on similar bases that the true plan of the 
original mediaeval system was almost forgotten, and it has 
been left to Dr. Gierke to reconstruct it in its entirety in the 
course of a gigantic book on a subject of which the con- 
sideration of mediaeval political theories is only a portion. 

The English lawyer will read with particular interest 
Professor Maitland's admirably lucid account of the discussions, 
legal and political, fraught with important practical results 
and consequences (of which Dr. Gierke's book is one famous 
outcome), that have long been waged abroad, especially in 
Germany, over the legal conception of 'artificial personalities^ 
and * corporate bodies ^ and the like. The German solution 
has not been in practice quite the same as the solution which 
a good deal of mother-wit and a little pinch of theory 
suggested to our lawyers and men of business, but it is 
evident that the trend of business and opinion is gradually 
leading lawyers all over the civilized world toward a treatment 
of the question that will be generally acceptable. Our 
peculiar (and often healthy) aversion to theory has saved us 
from some bad mistakes, but it has landed us in several 
errors by which we have lost a part of our heritage and raised 
dangerous obstacles where a little more attention to theory 
would have smoothed them away. Dr. Gierke's work is above 
praise now ; its value is generally acknowledged. But one 
cannot help noticing especially his immense superiority in 
style, in method, in concise and scientific statement, to the 
men, not excepting even Gneist, who have hitherto dealt with 
constitutional theory and history in Germany. Here is 
a worthy successor of the Grimms, indeed — and, moreover, 
one who has sprung from a school of savage Teutonizers, but 
who has here wisely cast aside all that offensive apparatus of 
brag and sentiment in which a blatant and ignorant Patriot' 


ismus delights to masquerade, and (unlike Treitschke and the 
rest) chooses to \vrite soberly and plainly, as a man of science 
should. And Dr. Gierke has his reward. It is a pleasure 
(a pleasure not at all diminished in Professor Maitland's 
skilful and adequate translation) to read what is in effect 
a lucid and illuminating summary of an enormous amount of 
reading, set forth with a classic precision that recalls the 
great lawyers of old, in a style of scrupulous exactitude and 
of unadorned but evident force. 

Professor Maitland is doing manful work in reviving in 
England the study of mediaeval law, a study which, save for 
the brilliant exception of Mr. Nichols, the editor of Britton, 
and a small number of scholars who are editing year-books 
and chartularies, has been suffered to fall for nearly two 
centuries into unmerited neglect. Without a knowledge of 
mediaeval law, lay and cleric, the Middle Ages will be mis- 
understood inevitably, and there are few great mediaeval 
authors — certainly neither Langland nor Dante — but have 
been misconstrued by those who did not comprehend the huge 
space filled by law in mediaeval life. It is significant that it 
was not possible for Chaucer to think of a typical mediaeval 
company of Englishmen without a Serjeant-at-Law and a 
Summoner, besides such local legalities as aldermen, justices 
of the peace, reeves may well represent. 

One hopes that this treatise may be the forerunner of a 
series that may render accessible to English I'eaders other 
important studies by leading Continental legists. 


There are few subjects of real interest of which so little is 
generally known as of this which Mr. Abrahams has chosen. 
And he has been well advised in choosing it, for he has the 
power and taste to deal adequately with it. He is no bigot, 

* Jewish Life in the Middle Ages. By I. Abrahams. 1897. 


he is learned, he writes in a graceful and simple style, without 
extravagance and with conspicuous and rare fairness. All 
that he gives us in this book is good reading, and most of it 
will be new to the general reader, even to him that has had 
a little glimpse (through the medium of Heine) into some 
phases of Jewish life and feeling, and knows how much 
family and faith and the remembrance of past glory and hope 
of future restoration meant to the despised and persecuted 
exile or the envied and hated alien. But here Mr. Abrahams 
has given a pretty complete picture of Jewish life in Western 
Europe from the beginning to the close of the Middle Ages : — 
of the synagogue and its organization, the home life before and 
after the Jewry became a kind of perpetual quarantine, the 
occupations, trades, and professions, the costume and badge, 
the pastimes, the Jewish drama, the Jewish poetry, the 
Jewish system of education, and the intercourse between 
learned Jews and their Christian friends and patrons. The 
spread of the Jews westward began this chapter in their 
history, a chapter closed by their expulsion from Britain and 
Spain and their enforced isolation and semi-servitude, 
degrading and deteriorating in its effects, rousing the bigotry 
that condemned Spinoza and the vulgarity that has injured 
modern society ; largely destroying, apparently, the art sense 
as expressed in other terms than those of music and the 
drama, and hindering the progress of learning by forbidding 
criticism and confining Hebrew studies to absurd mysticism, or 
delivering it over to stupid and childish credulity — a policy 
from which Europe has deeply (though deservedly) suffered. 
The reception of the Spanish exiles by the Protestant nations 
is a bright spot in a record that became very dark in the 
middle of the fifteenth century, and remained dark till the 
French Revolution scotched the power of the persecutor and 
gave once more an open career to men like Marx, Lassallei» 
Darmesteter, Reinach, Disraeli, Gambetta, and the great 
banker dynasties that have now to be reckoned with in the 
politics of both sides of the Atlantic. 

And yet in the last century there were big Christian towns 


where, by the unholy alliance of a despotic State and an 
ignorant and retrograde Church, Jews were burnt alive for 
the dreadful crime of being Jews. 

If we follow, with Mr. Abrahams, the Jews through the 
Middle Ages, it is astonishing how important an element we 
shall find them in mediaeval society. Jewish doctors kept 
alight the faint flicker of science in spite of the cold blasts of 
dogma. Jewish translators interpreted the ancient classics 
to the barbarian world, and were the accepted teachers alike 
of Christian and Moslem philosophers. Jewish merchants 
and bankers helped to build up the trade that civilized the 
western kingdoms, gave to commerce instruments of credit, 
and laid the foundations of that vast system of international 
intercourse which has almost uniformly been an influence 
making for peace and enlightenment. The Jews were great 
travellers, able, thanks to their exceptional position and faith, 
to voyage freely, though not untaxed, over the Mohammedan 
and Christian parts of the world, and even among the 
heathen and Buddhists of India and China. They were 
great chart-makers too. Juseff Faquin should rank with 
Masudi and Marco ; and it is a tradition that it was one of 
Columbus's Jewish sailors who first saw the New World. 
Jurists and commentators abounded. Of poets and poetesses 
of fine inspiration there was never any lack. For generosity, 
for charity, for steadfastness against any argument but reason, 
for fair and gentle family life, the Jews were a bright example 
to the rough, brutal, ignorant, and often selfish society around 
them. There is not a chapter in this book but gives new, 
amusing, and pathetic descriptions of mediaeval Jewish life. 
There were boy-rabbin like the boy-bishops, and a close time 
for schoolchildren when * not even a strap might be used*, as 
the Shulchan Aruch puts it ; there was a children's patron 
for little Jews, 'Sandalphon, lord of the forest,' the Boy 
Angel, just as Dunstan of Canterbury and good St. Nicholas 
were scholars' saints with our ancestors. In their humanity 
the Jews eschewed hunting (a sport beloved by Nimrod, Esau, 
and Herod), but they were fine runners, fond of games and 


dances, great lovers of pageants, and chess-players (using 
silver pieces on the Sabbath). They rejoiced in the gay rich 
mediaeval clothing that lit up the mediaeval streets. They 
were especially proud of dressing their women and children 
richly. ^ You go like the coalman^s ass, while your wives 
prance about in fair rich harness like the Pope^s mule/ said 
the King of Castile. For this reason, amongst others, the 
badge, be it Innocent the Third's * circle' or the English *two 
tables' or the French and German ^wheeP or the ^ Judenhut', 
red with twisted rims, was especially hateful, and it is 
noticeable that it was not adopted in Spain, which was then 
^ fresh with breezes of perpetual inter-sectarian friendliness ', 
much to the scandal of the Catholic Church ; * indeed, the 
happier lot of the Jews in mediaeval Spain did much to 
preserve the rest of their brethren from demoralization.' 
The gradual enforcement of monogamy (custom overriding 
law) soon differentiated the Western from the Eastern Jews, 
and generally the moral tone among Jews was far higher 
than among the Christians that surrounded them. Few 
Christians would scruple to try and outwit a Jew, but the 
Rabbis absolutely laid it down plainly that a Jew did worse 
when he robbed a Christian than when he robbed his brother 
in faith, because he not only broke the law but profaned the 
name of God. * Ah, Ariel, Ariel ! Shall men say there is 
no God in Israel ? ' But enough has been said to show the 
character and contents of this good and original book, well 
vrritten, well referenced, well indexed, and well printed — 
a book that can hardly fail to do good work in helping to 
break down those ignoble prejudices that prevent Jew and 
Gentile from understanding each other fully, and in sweeping 
away those barriers of bigotry that should have been abolished 
long ago. In Great Britain and France, at all events, the 
benefit of Jewish emancipation and the gratitude evoked by 
the bestowal of perfect political equality has never been 
doubted by any one who has examined the facts, though it has 
been one of the evil fashions of the ' neo-Catholic revival ' in 
Paris and the still sillier pseudo-patriotism of Berlin and 

Y, P. II L 


Vienna to appeal to the greed and envy of those who would 
certainly be among the first to suffer were the inhuman cry 
of * Hep ! Hep ! ^ to be raised again. 


This is a charming book. Written from the point of 
view of a broad-minded and conscientious Catholic, but with 
the utmost fairness to opponents, it gives a most interesting 
account of the life of one of the most remarkable leaders of 
men that have yet appeared in modern Europe ; for since the 
days of St. Francis of Assisi there had not arisen a man of 
such influence over his followers and the world at large, 
while in his own day the only person who approached him in 
power of organization, in logical determination and zeal for 
what he held to be the truth, was the * Tyrant of Geneva*, 
John Calvin. The Spiritual Exercises is one of the most 
important devotional books which the Western Church has 
produced, and none save the Imitation of Christ (which was 
Ignatius's favourite reading, as it was Gordon's) has exer- 
cised the same deep influence over men's minds and 
characters. It is a work of genius; founded on personal 
experience and on a most carefully thought-out basis, no 
less a person than De Sales could say of it that it had saved 
a soul for every letter it contained. But Ignatius not only 
gave his Company its ' Drill-book', but he raised the Company 
itself, and it is the Company that is his most enduring 
monument. There is no human organization that wields such 
influence as is exercised by the Generals in whose hands has 
lain for the greater part of this century the direction of the 
policy of the Church of Rome. It is certainly worth while 
to study the foundation of a system which has not only 
* carried the Cross to the very ends of the earth ' and 
produced ' thousands upon thousands of martyrs ' in Japan 

^ St. Ignatius Loyola. By Stewart Bose. 1891. 


and China, and thousands upon thousands of converts in 
the midst of the American forests, but has upheld in most 
difficult and dangerous times the tottering authority of the 
Papal Chair in Europe, stopping the Protestant attack at the 
time when that attack was most vigorous, and completely 
arresting the spread of the reformed doctrine in Latin 
Europe. What the Company has done for geography, for 
medical science, for philology, for education, is not a little, 
and dwellers in the Dominion do not forget that they owe 
the foundation of their country to Jesuit zeal. To examine 
the origin of such a vast and active body as the Society 
of Jesus must have an abiding interest for a number of 
persons, and even those who know little of the Company 
save through the polished invective of Pascal or the less 
bitter mockery of Voltaire, and possibly even those who are 
haunted by the continual fear of Mr. Gladstone's being 
received into the Order, and who regard nearly every political 
phenomenon as the outward and visible sign of Jesuit influ- 
ences working underneath, like the fabled South American 
'earth-snake', may be glad to have the opportunity of 
reading so accurate and vivid an account as Mr. Stewart 
Rose has compiled of the life and work of Ignatius and his 

Up in the bosom of the great Pyrenean hills, that recall 
Wales to the British traveller, there still stands Ignatius's 
birthplace, a simple old Basque mansion, foursquare, with 
blind lower stories and rows of upper windows under its 
pantiled roof. But, untouched as is the ^ Santa Casa ' itself, 
it is now enwalled by the wing of the noble range of build- 
ings whose centre is the Marble Church, that looks down the 
valley to the characteristic town of Azpeitia, one of the chief 
centres of Carlist influence in the last wars. From the 
family estate the younger son, Ignatius, went out to take 
up the profession of arms, and a bold and gallant cavalier 
he proved — punctilious, proud, brave to rashness and loyal 
to frenzy, sharing his devotion between his lady, his king, 
his family honour, and his Church. To the old house he 

L 2 


M'as brought back from Pamplona, wounded horribly through 
both legs by a cannon-ball and splinters, and in the old 
house, as he lay through weary months of dreadful and 
constant suffering, a change came over his mind, the perusal 
of the old Saints' Lives first leading him to think of devoting 
himself to God's service. An earthquake and a vision con- 
firmed his resolves. Leaving his home again as soon as he 
was able to travel, he went to Montserrat, where he dedicated 
himself to be God's knight. But it was at Manresa (where 
the cave of his hermit retirement is annually visited by 
numerous pilgrims) that, after greater austerities and terrible 
mental agony, he at last resolved on the details of what was 
to be the work of his life, and perfected the chief instrument 
by which such extraordinary results were to be obtained — 
his Spiritual Exercises. But before this foundation could 
be built on much was to be done. Ignatius went on a 
pilgrimage to the Holy Land and travelled all over Western 
Europe, studying at Alcala, Salamanca, and Paris, picking 
up a little knot of true friends who were to be the apostles of 
his mission, and encountering with unflagging purpose the 
envy, hatred, malice, and uncharitableness which, with the 
accompaniment of poverty and great physical discomfort, for 
long pursued him. After twelve years of preparatory work and 
training, Ignatius and six friends — Xavier, Lefevre, Lainez, 
Rodriguez, Bobadilla, and Salmeron — took solemn vows at 
Montmartre Chapel. Three years later Ignatius was ordained 
priest. But it was not till 1538 that the * Institute' which 
formed the basis of the new Order was finally drawn up, and 
the Bull which approved of it having issued in 1540 after 
great difl&culties had been surmounted, Ignatius was elected 
General, and the Society of Jesus started on its wonderful 
career in April, 1542. The toil of twenty years had been 
rewarded, and Ignatius entered upon his new duties in his 
fiftieth year. Fourteen years longer he lived, guiding the 
institution he had so carefully founded through the anxious 
days of its weakness and youth with unvarying success. At 
his death the new Order was already a power wherever the 


Catholic Church was established, and even beyond its admitted 
sphere. Very interesting are the many notices of Ignatius^s 
personal character and ways — his love of order, his honour, 
his wonderful penetration into men's minds and intuitive skill 
in judging of their qualities and capabilities, his immovable 
faith and absolute devotion, his patience with the young and 
headstrong, his sympathy and thoughtfulness, his power of 
inspiring unquestioning affection and securing obedience, his 
practical mastery of the smallest details, his continual and 
watchful discipUne over himself and others, his dauntless 
courage and endurance, and a hundred other traits that 
make up the personality of this wonderful man, the ' greatest 
Spaniard since the Cid '. 

. . . That in the midst of a brilliant and self-indulgent 
society, such as that of Ignatius's day, an appeal to self- 
sacrifice so absolute as was made by the Order should have 
met with such astonishing success, is a fact to which many 
of our statesmen and politicians would do well to pay con- 
siderable heed. The goal of mere prosperity will in time 
even become repulsive to an 'Australian working man, full 
of beef and bread', as he has been lately described. There 
are higher tests of progress than Mr. Giffen can tabulate, 
and it is one of the most hopeful omens for the future that 
unselfishness — even when, as most of us believe, largely 
mistaken in its aims and ends — should have been capable 
of such high organization and productive of such durable 
results as are patent in the history of the * forlorn hope of 
the Church militant here on earth', which Ignatius mustered 
and drilled so wisely and led so gallantly. 


At last we have a handy and correct popular history of 
Portugal. ... In spite of the work of Sir Richard Burton, 
Mr. Latouche,*^ M. Aubertin, and a few more, there is a 

* Portugal. By H. Morse Stephens. 1891. 
' Pseudonym for Mr. Oswald Crawford. 

150 • SURVEYS 

deep ignorance respecting Portugal and her history and ideas 
in this country, and it is pretty certain that the present mis- 
understandings over the African question might have been 
for the most part avoided had our public men had a better 
knowledge of the peculiar position and susceptibilities of 
those that lead opinion at Lisbon. The slightest knowledge 
of the past of Portugal will suffice to show that her foreign 
policy has been, and must in the future be, chiefly influenced 
not only by the commercial position and outlook of her own 
colonies, and notably of Brazil, the sister transmarine State, 
but also by the condition of affairs in Spain, by the legitimate 
and long-continued connexion with her biggest customer. 
Great Britain, and by the antagonistic pressure of French 
diplomacy, ever fiercely jealous (according to an old but bad 
tradition) of English influence, and ever striving to make 
Portugal a French outpost directed by French ideas and 
subservient to French direction. Portugal, a poor and in- 
dustrious country, very susceptible to trade crises and com- 
mercial disturbances, is obliged to walk warily, playing off 
the varying ' interests ' of the great foreign Powers one 
against the other, and striving the while to ensure steady 
and peaceful progress within her own borders ; and it is 
impossible that she should not at times regretfully recall 
those glorious days of Portuguese greatness to which the 
notable beginnings of the Dutch Republic and the Eliza- 
bethan splendours of England alone supply a parallel. 
Portugal has indeed one of the most romantic of histories. 
There were those early struggles in which the border lord- 
ships, hardly won back from Mohammedan invaders by native 
valour, aided (as often later) by foreign help from France 
and England, became the 'headstone of the corner of 
Christendom ', ' the coronet of general Europe,^ as Camoens 
puts it. The kingdom, founded amidst most picturesque 
episodes by warlike ladies and devoted knightly Orders, passes, 
amidst crusades and civil wars, down to the time when a 
race of great kings of English blood reaped the harvest that 
the 'first pilots^, headed by Prince Henry the Navigator 


himself, had just put sickle to, and to the later and yet 
prouder period when PortugaPs great discoverers and vice- 
roys ruled empires in far-off continents. Then within a 
little space of Camoens^ ^ own death (happy only in that it 
took place before the great catastrophe) came the most sudden 
eclipse that perhaps ever overtook a noble nation, the fatal 
field of Alcacer, where Sebastian cast away his crown and 
his country for a * false, fantastic dream of glory ^, a day 
more fatal than Flodden to the great houses of Portugal. 
Then came the Spanish captivity, with all its degradation 
and decay of enterprise and destruction of commerce that 
accompanies a nation^s slavery. Again, it was a woman 
that freed Portugal and set the House of Braganza at the 
head of the emancipated country ; but the work of regenera- 
tion was the task of * the great Marquis ', Pombal, who faced 
earthquakes and Jesuits, Court conspiracies, and popular 
fanaticism with the equanimity and alacrity of a Richelieu. 
True, Pombal's work was only half done when he was hurled 
from oflBce, and the miserable monarchs that followed his 
dead patron did little for their subjects' benefit. One almost 
sympathizes with the few who preferred the rough soldier 
Junot to the cowardly fugitive who left his crown to 
foreigners to defend. Wellington finally checked Napoleon's 
aggression on Portuguese soil, and Torres Vedras became 
a household word to our grandfathers. The story closes for 
the time with the final severance of the last great Latin 
colony from the mother-country, but a few months ago, and 
the exile of the scholar-Emperor. 


We know very little about Austria-Hungary, because in 
the first place the Austrians do not write much themselves, 
and in the second place those who visit the Eastern kingdom 

^ See the sonnet on Camoens, printed post, p. 386. 

^ The Realm of the Hahshurgs. By Sidney Whitman. 1893. 


are seldom qualified either by knowledge or experience to 
explain or consider the phenomena before them. Mr. Mere- 
dith has shown that things Austrian are worth thought, but 
most persons of mark who have understood the interest of 
the Habsburg realm have looked at their subject from the 
side of dynamic rather than of static. Here we have a 
bright, shrewd analysis of the actual present conditions of 
the Austrian Empire and of the elements that compose this 
most puzzling of States. Here is a government which rests 
upon the popularity in one of the capitals and in some of 
the country districts of a royal house, supported by a rich 
landed nobility, Catholic, exclusive, brave, and profoundly 
contemptuous of everything but courage and good blood, 
and by a Church which, while it secures the conservatism of 
the peasants, is by no means disposed to yield its help 
without an adequate return. Here is a monarchy, consti- 
tutional in parts and unconstitutional in other parts of its 
domains ; a monarchy ruling by a variety of titles, and even 
of usurpations, over a number of different kingdoms, duchies, 
principalities, and counties made up of antagonistic and 
heterogeneous races and tongues; an empire the most 
modern in Europe, held by a family that has ruled the 
Roman Empire for nearly three centuries ; a monarch 
whom no series of blunders, or even crimes, can deprive 
of the love of his hereditary subjects, [nor can they] add 
to the distrust of [him felt in] his elective dominions. 
Here is a capital, the most pleasant to the ' average sensual 
man ' of any in Europe, and yet the most artistic, in many 
respects even distancing Paris, where art is less a part of 
popular instinct than it was forty, or even twenty years 
ago ; an army with the finest cavalry and the best sharp- 
shooters in Europe, officered by a brave but half-educated 
and prejudiced set of officers, and hitherto hampered 
by the badness of its staff and the incompetence of the 
majority of its commanders — an army which under good 
leaders has beaten every force opposed to it, and under bad 
ones has undergone a series of crushing defeats without 


demoralization. Austria after Austerlitz never knew the 
degradation of Prussia after Jena. Waldstein was the worthy 
rival, as far as military genius goes, of Gustavus himself. 
Had Benedek been supported as Moltke was the results of 
1866 might have worked out differently. Here is a navy 
which can point with pride to a victory won over superior 
and better-trained forces. Here is a bureaucracy which is 
one of the most stupid, lazy, ignorant, and prejudiced in 
existence, managing to carry on a government with far less 
oppression than in Russia and less unpopularity than in Italy. 
There is, indeed, no end to the curious contrasts which this 
extraordinary confederacy presents. Hungary, a nation of 
peasants rising by virtue of self-help from a miserable pro- 
vince to an important kingdom within half a century, with 
railways, savings banks, agricultural shows, and a number of 
flourishing towns furnished with newspapers, literary socie- 
ties, musical unions, and all the modern appliances ; Bohemia, 
the scene of a fierce political struggle between the rising 
Slav nationality and the Germans, who had hitherto 
usurped all rule and culture ; Herzegovina and Bosnia, where 
a series of secret but bloody campaigns have transferred a 
Slav principality from the yoke of the Turk to the yoke of 
the Habsburg ; an Italian province flourishing by its situa- 
tion, so admirably adapted for trade, but continually con- 
vulsed by the desire for reunion with a poorer but more 
progressive State and one more seductive in its ideals. 


We are too apt to regard the Renaissance period in Italy 
entirely from the external and picturesque point of view, and 
thus to lose sight of those substantial underlying phenomena 
that gave rise to the Catholic Reformation. We forget that 
the mass of the Italian people were but slightly affected by 

» 1898. 


Rafael or Michel Angelo, by Machiavel or Aretin, by Caesar 
Borgia or Vittoria Colonna, by Leonardo or Mirandola. We 
ignore the fact that the Novellieri and Epistolarii do not 
pretend to picture the quiet everyday life, but rather the 
brilliant Court movements and the light talk and startling 
episodes that for the moment attracted local attention. We 
should not judge of England in the latter half of the four- 
teenth century by Chaucer and Froissart alone, neglecting 
the testimony of Wyclif and Langland. The steady, sober 
stream of life in Florence was, after all, not deeply affected 
either by Savonarola or Lorenzo or the beloved Sandro. 
The Courtier of Castiglione was for courtiers, and its ideals, 
however acceptable to the cultured coteries of France and 
Spain and England, were not, and could not be, those of the 
trading or working classes. The Catholic, enthusiastic, 
allegorical Tasso was as popular as that cynical and free- 
thinking humorist and romancer Ariosto. Full of pagan 
influences as it was, the Italian Renaissance, by its very 
limitations, by its dependence on clerical patronage, by the 
character of its chief exponents, remained Christian in its 
essentials. Those developments — such as Michel Angelo's 
masterpieces of sculpture, as La Tite de Cire (the glory of 
the Lille Museum), as the bust of Lorenzo at the Ashmolean, as 
the noblest medallions and a few drawings and pictures of 
wholly exceptional character — that are really classic in 
feeling (a very different thing from being classic in the 
intention of their authors), are all manifestly exceptional and 
outside the main current of Renaissance work. We must 
not judge the age by these rare and exceptional works, note- 
worthy and influential as they seem to us now, but often 
rather curious than admirable to their own times. 


It [1525-1555] is an interesting period, when it was still 
uncertain what the permanent strength of the two contending 

^ 1903. 


parties would prove. The real hero is not Luther, but the 
Emperor vainly struggling for unity, peace, and order. One 
grows into sympathy with this self-controlled, sagacious, 
much-troubled man, set in the midst of a mass of selfish, 
greedy, and unscrupulous factions, with enemies on every 
hand. Small wonder if the burden of the crowns grew 
heavier and heavier, till when the worst of the work was 
over he was glad to resign them to his kinsmen, knowing 
that by his self-sacrifice of ease and health for many dark 
years he had at least assured his heritage to those whom he 
made his heirs. Francis I appears in an unpleasant light, 
and indeed there is not very much to be said for him. He 
loved splendour and glory as much as our Henry VIH did. 
But he was defeated in open fight ; he shrank from a wager of 
battle that he had provoked ; he was not ashamed to commit 
perjury after perjury in order to try and outwit the foe he 
dared not face and regain the liberty he had forfeited by his 
ignorant foolhardiness ; he saw his once despised rival justly 
honoured as the victorious champion of Christendom, while he, 
the eldest son of the Church, the descendant of Charlemagne, 
was fawning upon the Grand Turk to get help against the last 
great Crusader. There is another and rather better side to 
Francis, his real love of art and letters; but even that is 
dimmed by the callous cruelty with which he, who scrupled 
not to call in the infidel upon Christians, salved his con- 
science by condemning men for ' errors ' he had neither the 
wit nor the courage to fall into or to maintain. It was a 
sorry world upon its political side, yet it was a world that 
held many very white souls and some singularly sane per- 
sons, such as Desiderius and Master Francis; some good 
scholars, many valiant gentlemen, many gentle ladies, and 
a company of glorious artists, a noble army of martyrs, and 
a great deal of warm charity in the midst of a seething mass 
of hypocrisy, cruelty, lust, and ignorance, which made a very 
evil and conspicuous show in the Vanity Fair of that day. 



The Dean of Winchester, who has done so much for the 
repair of his Cathedral and for the preservation and order of 
the Chapter records, has in this little book furnished a read- 
able and clear account of the city of Winchester — the town 
which once seemed much more likely than London to be- 
come the capital of England ; the town which was at once 
the Rheims and the St. Denis of our old English kings ; the 
town where the English Chronicle was first compiled by 
Alfred's order ; a city adorned with three palaces, sanctified 
by three great minsters and numerous churches, fortified by 
a magnificent castle, furnished with schools which wellnigh 
became a university, with guild-halls and knights' halls, and 
enriched by a crowded fair ; a city which was far renowned 
even in the eleventh century for the riches, politeness, beauty, 
and behaviour of its inhabitants. From 900 to 1300 Win- 
chester kept its leading position in South England ; it was 
the favourite sojourning place of our restless Norman and 
Angevin kings, the seat of the richest bishopric in England, 
the place of courts and councils and government ofl&ces ; and 
then, owing to a variety of causes not altogether easy to 
explain, the town slowly lost its power and pride of place, its 
roll of citizens dwindled, its fair fell off, its trade decayed, the 
great plague smote it sorely, till, in the fifteenth century, its 
taxation had to be reduced by reason of its lack of population 
and the many deserted houses it contained. Still the beautiful 
minsters, the famous school, and the quiet cloistered peace 
remained with it untouched. Even the Reformation at first 
affected it but little, though it led to the destruction of two 
of the splendid abbeys that joined the Close, where St. 
Swithin's great cathedral (now renamed Trinity Church) was 
left almost unharmed. It was the eighteenth century, with 
its ignorant and short-sighted zeal for doubtful *improve- 

» Winchester. By Dean Kitchin. 1890. 


ments ', that did away with old Winchester, attempting even 
to sweep away the venerable Butter Cross, pulling down many 
noble old buildings, turning Alfred's last resting-place into 
a county bridewell, carting his bones away as manure, and 
turning his very coffin into a drinking-trough for horses, an 
instance of ungrateful iconoclasm almost unparalleled in 
history. Winchester was ' the Queens' City ' par excellence, 
the dower and dwelling-place of the beautiful Norman lady, 
Emma, wife of two English kings ; the chosen home of the 
good Queen Maud, the stronghold of Matilda the Empress, 
and the court of Eleanor, the Duchess of Aquitaine, some- 
time Queen of France and long years Queen and Dowager 
Queen of the English, a generous patroness of jongleurs and 
troubadours, as were her two most famous sons. It was also 
the chosen spot where Mary, first sole Queen of England, 
married the greatest prince in Europe. There are, of course, 
numerous picturesque bits of history bound up with Win- 
chester, beautiful legends of Saints Frithstan, Eadburh, 
Dunstan, and Anselm; quarrels between bishops and bishops- 
elect, monks and citizens, on points of precedence and law; 
rivalry between the citizens of London and Winchester at 
coronations and State banquets; trials such as that of Sir 
Walter Ralegh; armed occupations — by the French Prince 
Louis, who all but won the English crown ; by Cromwell, 
who won it but would not wear it ; by Stephen, who won it 
and wore it, but could not keep it safe ; stormy scenes, such 
as that when Henry, the Lion of Justice, punished the guilty 
moneyers, and that when his descendant, Henry of Win- 
chester, angrily rebuked his fellow citizens for the brigandage 
by which the needier of them (many of whom were unpaid 
Government officers) eked out their scanty incomes, to the 
distress and detriment of pedlar and pilgrim, traveller and 



Dr. Ward treats the Georges, as they are seldom 
treated, with fairness, because he understands their position, 
their dispositions, and the ends of their actions. The ill- 
informed and vulgar clap-trap of Thackeray^s too famous 
lectures has been allowed far too much weight, and people 
have talked of two respectable kings and conscientious 
statesmen as if they were persons wholly beneath contempt. 
Had they been fools they could not have kept their throne ; 
had they been knaves they would have lost both kingdom 
and electorate. The continuance of their rule meant oppor- 
tunity for prosperity, for progress, for empire, for the 
Greater Britain. They had deplorable taste, save in music ; 
their mistresses were neither as handsome, as well-dressed, nor 
as witty as those of Charles II or his brother; they were 
grotesque at times, and never possessed any of the personal 
magnetism of the Young Chevalier ; they had no pleasure in 
speaking English or in reading English books ; but they were 
brave, honest, practical, preferring reason to sentiment — their 
own realities to other people's ideals ; they were not bigoted 
in religion, or cruel, or pei-fidious ; they were capable of 
perseverance carried to obstinacy and fortitude carried to 
callousness, and they kept their personal extravagances within 
the decent bounds enjoined by considerations of expense and 
reputation. There was nothing about them that could 
personally offend Squire Western or Parson Adams; they 
would not have repelled Tom Jones or even Sophia. They 
were not generous, but they lived plainly ; they were not 
gracious, but they were not ungrateful ; they were slow to 
forget or forgive offences, but they seldom allowed their 
rancour to interfere with their duty, as they conceived it ; 
their family lives were not altogether affectionate or amiable, 
but much allowance must be made for circumstances in 

^ Great Britain and Hanover: Some Aspects of the Personal Union. 
(Ford Lectures, 1899.) By A. W. Ward. 


which public considerations were often inconsistent with 
private affection, the position of the heir in especial being 
surrounded with difficulties that prevented that union between 
him and the actual wearer of the crown which would have 
been otherwise possible and was of course desirable. We 
may dislike persons of the type above described, but we 
cannot despise them or refuse to acknowledge the force and 
even wisdom of their characters. Nay, we may even go 
further in the case of the first two Georges, and acknowledge 
their faithful stewardship of a great and onerous trust, and 
reflect that both in their virtues and their defects they 
exhibited what may be fairly called the Hogarthian character- 
istics that all observers have agreed to consider essentially 


[This little essay of the pensively humorous historical kind, which 
exists in MS. corrected as if for press, is to be saved as a scrap of 
Powell's nicer miniature work, here completed ; whether it was ever 
printed or delivered has not been traced.] 

The great lord CardinaVs great red hat ! — Ingoldsby Legends. 

A HAT, and a beautiful hat too, eighteen inches from 
brim to brim, about five inches high at the tip of the rounded 
crown, lined with white silk, made of the finest and most 
exquisite cherry red cloth, cloth that has faded to a more 
delicious colour than the original red that we know from the 
old illuminations. This hat, now in the big Library at Christ 
Church, has a good pedigree too. It had lain long in the 
royal wardrobe so safe and so secluded, so forgotten, in fact, 
that neither Presbyterian, Protector, nor Parliamentary dis- 
turbed its repose or injured its substance. From the days 
when the greatest of English Cardinals fell from place and 
power, the hat he left in the Royal Wardrobe remained there 
apparently till after Reformation and Rebellion, Restoration 


and Revolution. Bishop Burnet, Clerk of the Closet, came 
upon the relic, which was now no longer a hateful symbol, 
reminding men that it was * never merry in England ' since 
priests were allowed to rule the roast, but merely a curious 
waif cast high and dry by the ebbing tide, that might well 
rouse curiosity and stimulate memories of the past. Burnet 
was not likely to get his offer of a red hat as Laud had done, 
nor did he feel a whit the less proud as a prelate because he 
had no chance of being dubbed a Cardinal of Rome. The 
poor Pope was not in a very influential position in the 
eighteenth century. 

Burnet seems to have had no doubt the hat he found was 
Wolsey's. It could only have been Pole's or Wolsey's, and 
there was probably a tradition that it was Wolsey's. Wolsey 
was my lord cardinal for years ; Pole was not long in Eng- 
land, and though tradition would naturally have gathered 
about Wolsey, whom Shakespeare and Fletcher had immor- 
talized, rather than Pole, who had left no popular tradition, 
yet if there was a cardinal's hat in the Wardrobe known as 
Wolsey's hat, it is not impossible or improbable that this hat 
was really the hat of Henry's great minister. At all events 
Burnet, who had the best means of knowing, seems to have 
believed it, and we know no reason to the contrary if he did. 
From Burnet, as a note affixed to the crown of the hat itself 
tells us, it passed to his son Judge Burnet, who left it ' to 
his Housekeeper, who gave it to the Countess of Albemarle's 
Butler' (the names of these two notable domestics are not 
given), *who gave it to his Lady, and her Ladyship to Mr. 
Horace Walpole in 1776.' Not a bad pedigree for a per- 
sonal relic, far better than many that are universally credited. 
Thenceforward all is plain. Mr. Horace Walpole's collections 
at length, as most collections use, came to the hammer, and 
the hammer they came to was wielded by that prince or 
emperor of auctioneers, George Robins, of whose ^ flourish- 
ing ' eulogies so many amusing tales are told. He was in 
his element in disposing of the Strawberry Hill collections. 
His soul was as the soul of Horace Walpole. He rejoiced in 


bric-a-brac, his heart went out to curios, he delighted in 
that kind of object that collectors value for its associations, 
he had a pretty fancy of his own and no doubt dreamed of 
battle-axes and partizans, helmets barred and barded steeds, 
just as often as the noble author of the Castle of Otranto or 
Jeames de la Pluche himself. His preface to the Catalogue 
of the Walpole collections is immense and well worthy of 
citation, but ' ^tis not of him Fm going to sing ', but of his 
hat, the red hat that Burnet believed to be Wolsey^s. 

Now Charles Kean, anxious as always for good informa- 
tion as to costume, — he was the Irving of his day and spent 
great sums in mounting his plays in as near an approach to 
the ' costumes of the olden times ' as the public of his day 
would stand, — Charles Kean, of course, attended this sale, 
and bought the hat for £36, as the great auctioneer's own 
catalogue marked with the prices certifies. Mr. Oxford has 
been good enough to look it up so as to make sure of every 
step in the descent of the relic. Mr. Charles Kean possessed 
the hat, very possibly wore it, certainly copied it when he 
played Wolsey, undoubtedly rejoiced in its possession. 
When he died it went with his estate, and on the death of 
his daughter Mrs. Logic, last year, it came for the second 
time to the hammer. A patriotic Christ Church man, Mr. 
Oxford, was good enough to warn those interested at the 
Cardinal's own college, and by his generous aid and the coti- 
sations of several other generous Housemen the hat was bought 
and presented to Christ Church, where it is hoped it may 
long rest, the symbol of the first founder, side by side with 
his great illuminated Lectionary, which is among the most 
valued possessions of the House. 

The case in which the hat rests is interesting in its way. 
It bears an inscription referring to Kean's ownership of the 
hat it contains, and it is of curious ^churchwarden gothic' 
design, plasterwork on wood, painted and gilt, most prob- 
ably from some design of Horace himself, the chief begetter 
of those monstrosities of sham design which indicated the 
regretful aspirations of the British antiquary in a mediaeval 

T.p. u yi 


direction, touching in their naive and horrible immediaevality. 
However, it is itself a piece of history, it marks in its own 
funny way the dawn of the Gothic Renaissance, and it does 
its work of preserving the hat quite creditably, after more 
years have passed over it than such flimsy plasterwork can 
fairly be called upon to endure without much reparation. Its 
wooden substructure is solid, its timber unwormed, its royal 
blue cloth lining unfretted by the worm. 

What strange diversity of fortune and dispositions has 
existed between the different owners of this hat, from the 
time when the Pope sent it to Wolsey, who received it but 
as an earnest of the tiara he never had the luck to don, 
though it was temptingly near his hand more than once, till 
the day when Mr, Oxford and his friends restored it to the 
coUege that is the true heir of this great minister's hopes, 
the college that, like Virginia, can boast above all other 
colleges of being the ' mother of statesmen ', who rule as 
Wolsey ruled, though with even greater responsibilities, and 
in face of even greater dangers. Burnet, the practical, shrewd, 
unspiritual prelate ; Walpole, the dilettante gossip, fooling 
away the time he knew not and cared not and probably was 
unable to apply better ; Kean, the last of a name that the 
genius of the great Edmund (greatest of actors since the little 
David) had rendered illustrious. It were vain to speculate as 
to the Countess of Albemarle's butler, most generous of 
serving-men, or that even more judicious housekeeper of Mr. 
Justice Burnet, though * they too were God's creatures ', and 
there is no doubt that any historian worth his salt would 
give more for a few hours of still-room gossip between these 
two worthy souls than for all that my lord Nadab ever wrote 
or the good Justice ever put on record. Walpole at least 
would have preferred such Pepysian confidences to all the 
State papers penned to persuade and mislead, to serve as 
excuses or apologies, or to preserve extinguished negotia- 
tions and keep in mind the stages of disputes long since 

The stage, the court, Westminster Hall, my lady's pantry. 



WRITTEN ON MAY 3, 1889, AND OCTOBER I9, 1894. 


the private museum, the auction-room, the quiet library, these 
have been very various stages in the Red Hat's progress. 

As long as Christ Church endures Englishmen will look back 
vrith respect and gratitude to the last great English Cardinal, 
to the builder's son that dreamed of building a college and 
a school that should have no peer in Christendom, and whose 
patriotic dream was not wholly unfulfilled. 

[These Surveys may well include a paper which has not been 
printed, so far as has been discovered; nor is the occasion of its 
delivery known ; but it must not be lost, in spite of the great difficulty 
of accurately transcribing some of its pages that are roughly noted in 
coloured pencil. Some passages have been given up as hopeless, and 
not all the names have been identified : to check them has been used, 
not Mr. Jackson's edition, but that of 1824, by ' Andrew Knapp and 
William Baldwin, attorneys-at-law ' : in some cases the name has been 
made out through Powell's description and carefully-picked epithets, 
or by the branch of crime favoured by the owner.] 


The most important age for us of to-day has not yet 
received its due consideration. It stands to the nineteenth 
century, now so near the end of its wonderful career, as the 
fifteenth century stood to the sixteenth. It was not only an 
age of revolution but an age of preparation. It is near 
ourselves, we can read its utterances without difficulty, we 
know its pictures, we live amid its buildings — for it was 
frankly iconoclastic and replaced many relics, which we 
would fain it had spared, by its own creations. The grand- 
fathers of some of us were bom in it : we have most of us 
known people who remembered it, who lived in it, and were 
of it. But yet how far it all seems! The days before 
Napoleon was emperor, the days before the revolution, the 
days when Johnson was alive, the autocrat of English 

M 2 


letters, the days when Defoe was hiding in North London, 
the days of ^45 and '15, when waggons were replacing panniers 
and when canals were only a-making, and steam-engines [were 
displacing the] infant machinery for pumping. The Western 
world had but just reached, if indeed it had even done so, the 
level of the Roman Empire at its best. Agriculture was 
beginning to struggle out of a state of things generally 
inferior to that described in Vergil's Georgics and Bucolics. 
Science, in spite of Bacon's inspiring call and Newton's 
illuminative energy, was but just emerging from its mediaeval 
swaddling-bands. Constituted party government was a new 
institution on its trial, and the larger part of the globe was 
unexplored and uncolonized by civiUzed powers. America, 
even India, was to that age as Africa and the Australias have 
been to us, the prizes civilization won from savagery and 
barbarism. Russia was revealing herself as a gigantic power 
still half -barbaric. Germany was, like Italy, a geographic 
expression. Poland was failing fast. Turkey had hardly 
ceased to be formidable to Europe. France was still the 
most powerful, the most civilized, and the most cultured of 
nations, though her government was transforming itself too 
slowly to keep pace with the new demands and requirements 
of a progressive era. China was almost a land of fable, 
Japan a garden sealed. But it is with Great Britain only 
that I am going to deal to-night. 

Of the history of its policy and constitution during the 
period you all know something. The great names of Marl- 
borough and Bolingbroke, Walpole and Carteret, Chatham 
and Wolfe, Pitt and Fox and Burke, Clive and Hastings and 
Wellesley, Rodney and Jarvis, Hawke and Nelson, are among 
those cut deepest in our memories and our history. Of the 
economic history much has been written and much remains 
to be written, though Defoe and Adam Smith and Laurence 
have not written without effect; nor have Arkwright and 
Watt laboured in vain. The outward aspect of the age has 
been presented to us by portrait-painters of the highest 
excellence, Reynolds and Gainsborough j and, like its land- 


scape, survives in the naive and powerful early water-colour 
masters who founded a new form of pictorial art, one pecu- 
liarly English. Steele and Addison and Defoe and Swift, 
succeeded by Johnson and Goldsmith, and the great English 
makers of that new and universal medium of expression, the 
modern novel, Fielding, Richardson, and Sterne, and Smollett, 
have given us the very spirit of the age. Hogarth and 
Rowlandson were our pictorial satirists ; as Pope and Churchill 
and Young were our literary censors. The third literary 
Renaissance Europe had known, the rediscovery of the work 
and thought of our forefathers, was beginning with Chatterton 
and Percy and Blake and the antiquaries. Memoirs, letters, 
and papers exist in abundance, printed and unprinted. The 
newspaper, though young, was vigorous, the press active. 

But though we know so much of this great period, 
it is difficult, across the gap of wellnigh one hundred years 
of change, to realize it. When one follows Boswell through 
a conversation, or looks at the portrait of some beautiful 
great-grandmother or handsome great-grandfather of the 
present generation, one feels the reality of this past, a past 
distinct from other pasts. But just as trivial things help us 
to recall one's own past most distinctly, so there is a book 
of no account, a vulgar common book, a set of biographies 
written in a simple slipshod style, by a person of no distinc- 
tion, a mere hack, for the profit of a common bookseller, 
that seems to myself to give something of the reality of this 
century as scarce anything else does, and I am going to try 
and interpret its evidence. 

This book is the Newgate Calendar. There are many 
editions. The one I have used is, ' The New Newgate Calendar 
or Malefactor's Universal Register. Published with Universal 
Applause. Printed for and sold wholesale and retail by 
Alex. Hogg & Co. at the King's Arms, No. 16 Paternoster 
Row, and by William Jackson, Esq., of Inner Temple Bar ; 
along with the Rev. Mr. Priestley's New, cheap, and elegant 
Evangelical Family Bible, Granger's New, Original, and 
Complete Wonderful Magazine, and Dr. Durham's New 


Domestic Medicine, improved by D. Walter; and other 
improving and useful works/ It is illustrated by near an 
hvmdred ^ elegant copperplates ', queer stiff things. It goes 
from 1700 to 1808, and is in seven volumes. Each narrative 
of crime is followed, after the fashion adopted from it by 
Mrs. Sherwood in her delightful Fairchild Family, by moral 
reflections, which are as empty and useless as most moral 
reflections, and equally full of platitude and assumption. 
Dr. Watts and Mr. Addison are the favoured poets, and are 
cited, more or less to the purpose, in order to round off 
a period with elegance and propriety. 

In his narrative, Mr. Jackson, this Plutarch of the kennel 
(we may keep to him), confines himself to the depositions, 
with an occasional copy of a letter, or citation from the 
Ordinary of Newgate or other respectable authority. He is 
not without a certain skill in giving the circumstance and 
setting under which the various unhappy persons, whose 
biography he has to set forth, brought themselves into the 
clutches of old father Antic the law. He is businesslike here, 
unaffected, interested himself in what he writes, anxious to 
judge fairly, content to own his ignorance of unknown facts 
without useless speculation. His knowledge of the law saves 
him and his readers many difficulties. He is in political 
creed centre gauche, intensely respectable and strictly law- 
abiding, but an advocate of popular education, desiring to 
make convicts do useful work (holding with Sir Thomas 
More that it was better to enslave than slay prisoners who 
were not quite past praying for) ; desirous of severer punish- 
ment for some offences and milder ones for others; rather 
troubled about the facts of heredity, seeing that they are apt to 
run counter to his belief in the perfectibility of human nature 
by proper training and education; with a weakness for and at 
the same time a tendency to criticize the nobility and gentry 
of high degree ; and a kindly but very firm attitude towards 
the lower classes. He goes so far as to expect criminals to 
repent and behave with cheerful resignation at the gallows, 
and is a little discontented when they do not come up to his 


standard, but '■ preserve a surly demeanour ' or ^ show feeling 
unbefitting to the solemn occasion ' ; and is quite angry if in 
their pride or agony they anticipate execution by suicide. 

He is ready for minor practical reforms and greater 
humanity. He is obviously a kind-hearted man, but timid, 
and afraid of facing the intellectual effort, so hard to 
Englishmen, of considering larger measures, broader and 
deeper amendments. He hated cruelty, but was blind to the 
horror of such legal processes as pressing to death, and the 
painful and disgusting punishment of treason, while proudly 
maintaining that torture is unknown to Englishmen. An 
honest and not unsympathetic reporter, in fact. 

And his report ! A panorama of wide range, if of some- 
what dark scheme of colour. There is shown the heroism of 
Balmerino, the noble eloquence of Emmet, the ironic courage 
of Lovat, the resignation of Kilmarnock, the stoicism of 
Despard ; the warlike energy of Russell ; martyrs all of lost 
causes. And side by side with these, the baseness of spies like 
Hannay and Delamotte, the callousness of Picton, the hard- 
heartedness of Wall, the abominable degradation of Charteris 
and Home and Baltimore, the brutal madness of Ferrers — 
most debased types. The beautiful resignation of Sarah Lloyd, 
the reckless impulse of Bosavern Penlez, the honesty of 
Francis Brightwell, the accomplished grenadier, ^too good 
for this wicked world,' are set ofE by the foul life of such 
wretches as Jack Ketch, Catherine Hayes, the Meteyards, 
and the Brownriggs. 

There are pirates : Gow, cunningly entrapped by High- 
landers ; and highwaymen : [illegible ^] desperate rogue and 
skilful scrieve, who died with a flower in his mouth; the 
comely and brutal Turpin, the genial but unlucky King ; 
William Page, actor and lady-robber ; Boulter and his kins- 

1 [William Hawke, whose * behaviour was such as may be called 
decent rather than penitential ', sufiFered at Tyburn, July 1, 1774, 
with a flower in his buttonhole, where he ' with great composure 
placed it '• It does not appear if he was skilled in handwriting. — 


man, bold Harry; Gentleman Harry (Simms); Galloping 
Dick (Ferguson of Hereford), Abershaw^s friend; Sixteen- 
string Jack (Rann, the coachman) ; Jas. Macfarlane, who 
robbed Horace Walpole; Isaac Darking, the Duval of his 

Pickpockets : Peter McCloud, captain of a gang of thieves, 
like the famous Captain Jack ; Dick Oaky, who repented of 
stealing a wDl from a lady's pocket ; Jenny Diver ; Jane 
Gibbs ; Barrington, the most noted of cly-fakers ; and 
Jumping Jo, whose wife, Mrs. Louisa, uttered the famous 
query, ' If there were no flats, how would the sharps 
live ? ' 

Swindlers : the false Duke of Ormonde, Henry Grifl&n, 
poet and bravo ; another poet. Major Semple the shoplifter ; 
and two more poets, T. Conner to the Duchess of Glueens- 
berry, and Usher Gahagan to George III, who wrote [the 
lines] ' Hail, little Cato ' . . . ' Ned, thy little Juba ' ^ ; Will 
the sailor, who wore a sword and acted the duelling trick ; 
his lady, who practised the ^ you'll be run over ' dodge ; the 
boys who made a living by the Spanish lay and the marble 
fake; the Long Firm (always with us), waggon-robbing, 
cutting reins on the far side. 

Jail-breakers : like French ; Jack Sheppard and T. 
Mountain, epical heroes, to whom a crooked nail was a 

^ [The lines referred to are Gahagan's to George III, and open as 
follows : — 

. . . ' tuus jam regnat Apollo.' — Virg. 

Hail, little Cato, taught to tread the stage, 

Awful as Cato of the former age ! 

How vast the hopes of thy raaturer years. 

When in the boy such manly power appears ! . . . 

What rapture warm'd thy princely father's breast! 

What joy thy sceptred grandsire then confest, 

Beholding thee, a Tyro from the school, 

Foreshow the wisdom of thy future rule, 

And Ned, thy little Juba, play his part, 

Half-form'd by Nature in Bellona's art ! 

Newgate Cal, ed. Knapp and Baldwin, vol. ii. p. 28. — Ed.] 


skeleton key, and any iron bar as the finest steel jemmy; 
the sullen desperate Blueskin (Jo Blake) ; Jack Hall, defiant ; 
and W. Fairall, who broke into Poole Custom-house, and, not 
without poetry, remarked, '^We shall be swinging in the 
sweet air while you are rotting in your grave/ 

The forgers : most famous of all these, save Old Patch, 
[were] Perreau, Dan and Robert, who were hanged, while 
Mrs. Rudd escaped. 

. . . There are instances of extraordinarj' courage, 
humanity, and unselfishness, side by side with every kind of 
wicked act and impulse : the dreadful misfortunes of the 
innocent convicts Clench and Mackley, the innocent Colman; 
[also] the notable and clever apology of Dodd, the fashion- 
able preacher and philanthrope (composed by Dr. Johnson, as 
they say), the unavailing and ingenious pleading of Aram, 
the simple sincerity of Baretti's defence, and the selfish but 
not actually ignoble letters of Hackman. 

We have raked enough. It were too long to cite more. 
Let us close Mr. Jackson with a word of thanks. There are 
adventures by sea and land, by road and by river, in quiet 
country homes and upland farm and cottage, and in grand 
town mansions and miserable dens of vice. There are 
women of all ranks come on the stage, the innocent and the 
guilty, young and old, veise and foolish, good and bad, sailors 
and soldiers and merchants and country folk, shopkeepers 
and vagabonds, a motley crew, passing through the temple of 
Justice under Mr. Jackson's observing eye. 

[What is] the impression that comes from the whole 
panorama as he drew it ? Life is more simple, more stable ; 
adventurers may travel, change occupation, drift from trade 
to trade, but the bulk of Englishmen have a station in life 
and keep to it without desire of change respecting them- 
selves and their occupation. There is little government and 
less police. Sir John Fielding was a very efficient person, 
but the ordinary watch gave but little help or protection in 
London to the harmless and injured citizens. The law was 
broken continually, but there was a law. It was generally 



obeyed^ and upheld vigorously whenever necessary. The 
country was never impatient of law, never defied it, never 
tried to set Lynch law in its place, though the clumsy cruelty 
of the system or non-system which Bentham exposed, and by 
his influence remedied, might have been an excuse. There 
was a humanity even about our * high toby ' men, which led 
them to think it wrong to injure those they robbed. The 
law was strong against the sword, and the risk prevented in 
England the continual duels that took place abroad. The 
press-gang and its violent ways, the extreme roughness of the 
manners of the service, are responsible for some of the crueller 
brutality that appears. 

People of fashion behaved themselves even more scandalously 
than at present. Gambling and drinking were fashionable, 
and half the sudden tragedies came from the overheating of 
young heads by strong drink — the Mohun and Byron trage- 
dies for instance. The filth, the disease, the darkness and 
discomfort of the slums were a more legitimate excuse than 
idleness for the drunkenness of the poor. 

The whole scale of things was smaller, as it were, than it 
is to-day with the huge towns that were just beginning to grow. 
The country is far less changed, though the conditions of 
agriculture and trade have wrought vast differences. There 
was far less culture, and life was certainly harder and 
rougher. Long dangerous drives and rides were the part of 
every one who travelled: safe transport is an invention of 
this century. Medicine and hygiene were rudimentaiy. The 
poor law was by no means efficient. Jails were in the state 
described by Howard, and but slowly mended — nurseries of 
crime, hotels where the befriended criminal was not so badly 
off, while the poor and unfriended starved and suffered and 
languished of ague and fever. The Ordinaiy, who was the 
one functionary the State supplied in token that prisoners^ 
minds should be attached as well as their bodies, seems to 
have regarded the condemned convicts as his chief care, 
desiring to get them into a satisfactory state of mind before 
they finished their career at Tyburn. With everyday prisoners 


he seems to have done nothing. They might feast and drink 
(some of them were hanged drunk) and see their disreputable 
friends as much as they liked. Newgate was indeed managed 
much as we may suppose a Turkish prison or Chinese prison 
is managed to-day. 

Powerful interest could do even more than it can to-day. 
It could save a doomed man^s life and fortune, bring him 
position, employment, wealth. But it could also hinder an 
honest man^s advancement, wreck his fortunes, and even 
procure his death. 

The richest nobles, with all their wealth, fine clothes, and 
state, and the reverence paid them, were without comforts 
within the reach of us all. 

Family ties were less strict ; hence violent revolts against 
marital and parental tyranny, and occasional tragedies. 

Were people happier? Possibly we shall never know. 
Happiness does not depend upon comfort and safety, rather 
on health and spirits and activity. At all events they 
complain less than we do. Taedium vitae was not a fre- 
quent ailment among them. How should it be, when they 
were daily in danger ? That we should have been unhappy in 
their shoes is no proof that they were unhappy in their own. 

We seem to be pretty safe, however, in drawing some 
conclusions that are to our advantage. We have made, 
under the leadership of Bentham, and the brave advocacy of 
Romilly and Clarkson, efforts to do away with some evils — 
the slave trade, slavery. We have set ourselves to try and 
grapple with the grave problems of crime and ignorance. 
We have done something towards training the young, for it 
is not learning but training that is really needed. We can 
teach ourselves occupation or book-learaing if we are trained 
to steady habits, but we have hard work unaided to train 
ourselves to anything. Our army and navy are better 
officered, better paid, better cared for, than in those old days, 
and the discipline is firmer, more reasonable, and less cruel. 
There is a little less superstition, though superstition has 
a way of escaping the glance of science. 




[The occasion of this Survey of the reign of Victoria is told in 
the Memoir. It will be clear from that account that much in the 
article now printed sees the light for the first time, embodying 
not only the first draft but manuscript changes made in the Scrap- 
book. Though only a portion of the Swrey (the narrative itself being 
omitted for reasons given), this chapter is a comprehensive distant 
view of the first years of the reign in their larger drift and features.] 

The passing away of a monarch whose dominions occupy 
a great part of this planet's surface, whose people exceed in 
numbers and prosperity and power the subjects of any other 
earthly potentate, is an event of mark, and the close of 
a reign longer than that of any former ruler of these islands 
a memorable moment. It is impossible not to look back over 
the greater part of a century to that anxious hour when, in 
the midst of many causes for care at home and much 
uneasiness to be feared from over seas, the young heiress 
of vast hopes and vast possibilities came to the throne she 
has so long and so worthily filled. Many and great things 
have happened since the morning when the Princess Victoria 
was awakened to be told of the glorious and grave responsi- 
bilities that had fallen to her. How the Queen fulfilled her 
trusteeship we all know. She at least laboured bravely, 
wisely, ungrudgingly, and without ceasing, giving a long life 
to the noble cares of the broad Empire whose crown she 
wore. Nor was her service vain. And she had among 
those she presided over no few helpers, not only in war, but 
in peace ; men and women of all sorts and conditions who 
have toiled and suffered, many of them even bestowing their 
lives generously and without complaint, that they might 
leave their country better than they found it, and make 
the lot of those that were to come after them safer and 
happier and lighter. 

It is difficult for us as yet to estimate the value of all their 


exertions, to count up the gain they have won for us, but 
those whose memories can take them back beyond the middle 
of this most memorable century are at one in testifying 
to great and beneficial changes that have come about under 
their own eyes. Politically and socially, and commercially 
as well as intellectually, the England of Victoria is a different 
place in many ways from the England of George IV and 
George III. Our views, our aims, our hopes are not the 
same as those of our grandfathers were on the day that 
WiUiam IV was alive and dead. Whether we ourselves are 
wiser or more dutiful in our generation than they in theirs is 
a question that might easily be argued but hardly decided. 
They, at all events, faced their difficulties with undaunted 
courage and decided success ; we cannot boast to have done 
more. If we have been able to pay off their debts, we have 
reaped the golden harvests of fields enriched by their blood ; 
if we have held the vastest sea-empire this earth has known, 
it was they that drove our rivals off the water and left the 
Atlantic an ' English lake ' ; if we have raised and kept going 
a body of industries and manufactures miraculous in its 
immense output and marvellous in its efficiency, and if 
we have made England the "^workshop of the world' and 
carried British trade to the very ends of earth, it was their 
keen invention, their patient skill, their quenchless energy 
that gave us the means of such incredible developments of 
production. If our homes are on the whole healthier, our 
lives on the average longer and less liable to disease, if the 
cruel pressure of poverty ih less, the shameful burden of crime 
lighter, the horrid blackness of folly and ignorance largely 
dispersed, it is to our forefathers' wisdom and prudence that 
we owe the possibilities of the advances we have undoubtedly 
made. England was but a little nation when she was not 
afraid single-handed to cope with the ablest autocrat and the 
greatest general since the great Julius himself, with all the 
men and money of the greater part of Europe at his back. 
We are richer, more numerous, quicker at book-learning, 
better fed, but when we have to go down into the lists to 


fight for our national existence and to settle the place our 
tongue and flag are to take in the future of the world — and 
the stake is no less when the real danger comes — we cannot, 
after all, desire better fortune than that we should not 
disgrace the traditions of the men of the days of Trafalgar 
and Waterloo. 

Affairs in 1837. 

At the time of the Queen^s accession the nation was in the 
process of recovering from the terrible drains of men and 
money caused by the war, and from the distress springing 
from the disastrous fall of prices that accompanied the long- 
desired but expensive peace. Long arrears of reform must 
be made up, for though some beginning had been made 
towards setting the nation^s house in order, there was still 
not a branch of the law but obviously called for severe 
amendment, not a department of the Government but needed 
to be overhauled from top to bottom. Truly horrible and 
hopeless was the situation in which a large proportion of the 
badly paid and truck-cheated working-class was condemned 
by bad custom, stupid law, and ignorant selfishness to lead 
their brief and maimed lives. Abominable and sordid was 
the cruel industrial slavery that fettered and crippled and 
slaughtered their children in the factory and the agricultural 
gang, striking at the very roots of national existence. Dis- 
graceful and dangerous had been the swift increase of 
pauperism, stinting the means and eating into the wholesome 
habits of the struggling worker, and actually laying waste the 
land like a plague. An enormous national debt required 
heavy taxation, and the burdensome and clumsy revenue 
system, if so unsystematic a set of exactions, the creature of 
the hasty expediency that war permits, can be so styled, was 
only gradually being alleviated. The new Poor Law had only 
just begun, amid much ignorant and much factious opposition, 
to do its beneficent work in its own somewhat ungracious 
but very salutary fashion. A lengthy era of municipal 
jobbery and dull misgovernment had at length been brought 


to a close by the Act that restored to local administration 
the possibility of clean-handed and clear-headed action. The 
crowding of urban populations, fed with bad and insufl&cient 
food, supplied only with foul water or adulterated liquor, 
smothered in dirt, too ignorant of, or too helpless to carry 
out, the most simple sanitary rules, had formed dangerous 
forcing-beds of foul disease, that compelled attention, but 
could not as yet be adequately dealt with even according to 
the rudimentary hygienic knowledge of that day. As for the 
problem of Crime, the beneficent labours of many earnest 
workers and shrewd observers had only begun to show profit, 
and the new police and the transportation system could only 
help to cope with the worst sides of a state of things for 
which ignorance, neglect, foolish laws, and bad social con- 
ditions were largely responsible. Necessary Irish reforms 
were still delayed by bigotry, oligarchic interests, and the 
unfortunate but usual way in which all Irish questions 
became the playthings of party. Education as a national 
requisite was hardly envisaged save by a few enlightened 
theorists, whose isolated efforts were wonderfully intelligent 
and effective, but, of course, inadequate to the demand upon 
them, for the greater part of generation after generation of 
English children had been suffered to grow up without the 
elementary discipline and instruction that a primary school 
affords, the instructive example of Scotland was almost 
unheeded, and the eagerness of the Irish peasant for teaching 
was mocked by disingenuous attempts at proselytism carried 
out by careless and incompetent bigots. Nothing but the 
imminent danger of an ignorant and guUible electorate could 
finally force the English public to a settlement, hindered so 
long and dangerously by the cowardly fears of political 
tricksters and the low cunning of religious disputants. The 
Penny Post, with its potent educational influences, was still 
a projector's dream, paper was heavily taxed, avowedly to 
prevent the spread of knowledge, and books were dear. The 
Press, potent though it was, was yet in its youth. The 
measureless activity that has made the map of England 


a gridiron of railways, metamorphosed the face of every 
English borough, turned country towns into huge cities, and 
London from a city into a huge province richer and more 
populous than some European nations of age and repute, 
was at work with a fervid impatience that led to heavy 
speculation and its consequences. The Empire had expanded ; 
the little kingdom that was its centre was undergoing rapid 
change; the ^full tide of British prosperity^ had begun to 
flow in spite of adverse winds and currents ; for good or for 
evil, the Industrial Revolution, with all its inevitable and 
intricate train of consequences, consequences whose manifold 
issues we have by no means outlived, was definitely accom- 
plished. Agriculture became subordinate to manufacture 
and trade; the great majority of English men and women 
came to seek their livelihood in towns ; machinery replaced 
hand-labour. The England over sea was still but a set of 
small, if promising, communities. In the West, Canada 
was in a disturbed and uneasy state, caused by the 
incapacity of the home Government and the domestic, 
constitutional, and social difficulties created by increased 
immigration. The West Indies were still in the first flush of 
the artificial state of things brought about by the compensated 
emancipation, while the notorious system of apprenticeship 
was obviously a failure, and not about to last. In the South, 
such of the Australian colonies as were settled were still in 
their callow and somewhat ignoble youth ; New Zealand, 
finally secured to us by one man^s unrewarded prudence, was 
scarcely in its infancy. The energy of a few vigorous and 
shrewd men was laying the foundations of new Australasian 
nations, obscurely and hopefully, without encouragement from 
Government, or any support save that perforce extended to 
them when, as British subjects, they claimed the establish- 
ment of that order and protection of industry that follows 
the British flag. In Africa, the Cape was not, though 
increasing in population, in a very satisfactory state ; troubles 
with the Kaffirs were ahead, and the Dutch population, angry 
at not being allowed to treat the natives as animals domestic 


or noxious^ were sulky and disaffected. In India troubles 
were brewing on the North- West Frontier, but for the present 
quiet and progressive government was doing its work. The 
Chinese Government, faithless, ignorant, obstinate, short- 
sighted, and antagonistic as ever, was steadily set on 
destroying all trade with England, a course that was bound 
to end in our armed interference on behalf of our injured 
and legitimate interests. 

Abroad, the ambitious and persistent but unavoidable 
advances of Russia were for the moment checked by the 
remembrances of the disastrous incompetence of 1828, by the 
recollection of the troubles that marked the beginning of 
Nicholas's reign, by the compulsory ari'angements that con- 
firmed the new and virtually independent dynasty in Egypt, 
and by our opportunist diplomacy, that postponed or evaded 
real difficulties, trusting to the beneficence of time and chance. 
France was amused with the bootless but plausible schemes 
of the veteran intriguer that had wormed himself into his 
incompetent and bigoted cousin's place, and occupied with 
the perpetual stir kept up by the gathering forces of 
industrial, literary, and political revolution. Spain was 
exhausted by a civil war forced upon her while she was 
still smarting from her colonial losses ; Germany and Austria 
were still under the heel of the rulers the Holy Alliance had 
given and maintained. The United States were suffering 
from the ridiculous mismanagement of their currency, the 
unchecked follies of their financial institutions, and the gross 
political ignorance of their electorate ; but they were growing. 
The civilized world was recovering slowly from the economic 
effects of the great war and the greater revolution, and slowly 
absorbing the elements of the new industrial system that had 
put England in a more commanding economic position than 
she had ever occupied. It was a somewhat oppressive 



Thought, Letters, and Arts ix 1837. 

In the world of thought and opinion new forces were 
active, though not very apparent to contemporaries. The 
swift victories of steam were giving opportunities for the rise 
of a great body of professional engineers, to whose brainwork 
and handiwork every country in the world was ere long 
to testify. But electricity was an infant science, and its 
mighty possibilities scarcely dreamt of as yet, though many 
of the practical uses of the electric current were already 
known, and the telegraph existed. 

Modem chemistry, raised upon the foundations laid by the 
English experimentalists and theorists of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries, was being modestly but eagerly built 
up by Davy's great successor, Faraday, at home, and such 
men as Berzelius, Dumas, and Liebig abroad. The immense 
value of the results of this study to agriculture, to manufacture, 
and to our knoMdedge of the world in which we live, and 
of the processes of life itself, has since been manifested. 
The modern science of physics — a mighty and largely an 
English creation — was being founded. The new mathematic, 
with its wider range and more powerful methods, was being 
pursued both in England and abroad by some notable 
students. Geology, almost an English science at the 
beginning, interested many, and, with the palaeontologic 
researches that accompanied its development, was pointing 
toward conclusions that were soon to enlarge in marvellous 
fashion man's knowledge of his own past and the life-history 
of his dwelling-place. Political economy, which had never 
lacked keen students since Adam Smith's masterpiece 
appeared, was largely given over at this time to doctrinaire 
theorists, whose views, though sound on revenue questions, 
were often grotesquely imperfect on other important topics. 
But Science had made as yet exceedingly little impression 
on the mass of educated thought, which was not at a high 
level in this country, where the clerical control of the higher 


education instinctively objected^ as far as possible^ to the 
permeation of new ideas among the youth of the well- 
to-do classes^ and, as long as possible, prevented the 
new sciences from taking their due place in the higher 
courses of study. Education was at a low ebb generally 
both in its theory and practice, and the ignorance of the 
average ' educated man ' was a great obstacle to every kind 
of improvement, and left society a prey to dull and hypo- 
critical conventions on the one hand, and on the other to the 
unrestrained vices and vulgar excesses that were a reaction 
from the ^cant' of respectability. The valiant efforts at 
spreading exact knowledge and sounder social ideas by the 
progressive party of the day, the men who clustered about 
Bentham and his disciples, the associates of Brougham, and 
the more advanced disciples of the French philosophers 
and English deists, did something to dispel this disastrous 
obscurantism, and the triumphant foundation of London 
University and of other educational bodies was already the 
encouraging outcome of their efforts. 

In the Established Church a petty academic dispute at 
Oxford had been the first outward sign of the general reaction 
within the Church itself against the stupid and unpleasant 
school of respectable Evangelicals that had succeeded to the 
rule of the Church, which their forerunners, the Evangelical 
reformers, had fairly earned, as well as against the small but 
powerful rationalizing school of theologians that, inspired by 
German teaching, were endeavouring on their side to breathe 
fresh life into the old formulae, with but slight regard to 
traditional interpretation. The narrow but earnest High 
Church movement was greatly helped by the mediaeval 
Renaissance Scott had fostered, that overran Europe as the 
preceding Byronism had done, and that, finding such ex- 
ponents as Victor Hugo and John Ruskin, was largely to 
influence the thought and art of the century. But the 
Anglican movement not only, in its turn, helped on the 
establishment of a new view of art and destroyed the aesthetic 
canons of the Georgian period, but was destined to change 


for the better the clerical personnel of the Church, to narrow 
and cramp its intellectual aspects, to revive its popularity, 
and largely increase its influence and prestige. At the 
opening of the reign the Oxford Movement was being 
violently opposed by the mass of bishops and clergy, and it 
only succeeded little by little in attracting the average lay 
Churchman, whose legitimate suspicions of Popery and hearty 
contempt for ritual it took long to remove. 

In Scotland the ten-year-long dispute that led to the 
Disruption was simmering on. The Nonconformist churches 
in England had succeeded in attacking for the first time with 
success the intolerable grievances of the tithe, the church 
rates, and the compulsory church marriage, and were largely 
interested in the various liberal and progressive movements 
of the day, naturally attractive as they were to men who 
considered themselves the heirs of those who had maintained 
both with pen and sword the Good Old Cause. But there 
was a singular dearth of learning and intellectual eminence 
throughout English religious bodies. 

The poets, as ever, seem to have caught most surely the 
permanent impulses that were stirring the century. Byron, 
Shelley, and Scott enjoyed popularity among all classes that 
could read ; Keats was the poets' poet, unknown save to a 
few; Wordsworth and Coleridge were the teachers of the 
more intellectual. Keble was the expression of the spirit of 
the Oxford Movement in its earlier phases, the popular and 
prosaic link between the quainter and more spiritual fabric 
of George Herbert and the more exquisite and intense de- 
votional work of Christina Rossetti. Many of the names 
that were to mark the Victorian era had already emerged — 
the Brownings, expressing the progressist feelings of their 
day ; Tennyson, Keats's foremost pupil ; Carlyle, interpreter 
of Goethe and prophet of sincerity ; Dickens, most English 
of humorists, and his polished compeer Thackeray ; Michael 
Scott and Marryat, who carried on the traditions of Smollett ; 
Bulwer, the fashionable litterateur ; Disraeli, whose novels 
were manifestations, pronunciamientos in harlequin garb; 


Howitt, most delightful of those who in this century have 
written of rural life in England. The Northern School, 
represented by Wilson, sturdy critic and humane if narrow 
observer of life and letters ; the portentous De Quincey 
(Beethoven of English prose), as well as Southey and Barham, 
characteristic but far inferior figures, perhaps belong rather 
to the preceding generation than to the Victorian age. 
Palgrave, a florid but industrious student; Kemble, a man 
of rare talent, who, with all his industry, hardly did himself 
justice ; Hallam, an elegant and interesting but superficial 
compiler ; Thirl wall, a robust, judicious, and learned scholar 
of high order, were our representative historians. Faraday, 
in succession to his master Davy, was almost the sole 
* scientific ' man of his day whose words as well as deeds 
had power to interest. Gladstone was about his first clever 
and worthless book; Arnold was busy over his classic and 
robust Roman History; Lady Guest was translating the 
Mabinogion, a book that was to Tennyson and many more 
an inspired revelation of the true Celtic spirit ; Newman was 
beginning the literary career which was to endow English 
prose with some glorious oases of spontaneous diction set in 
wastes of arid ineptitudes; Tupper, that strange shapeless 
wooden idol of the lower middle-class for two generations, 
was about to start on his long career of undeserved popu- 

As for art, music, generally considered as a mere trivial 
amusement or at best as a handy domestic accomplishment, 
was naturally at a low ebb in England. 

At the theatre there was a genuine and notable school of 
comic actors, a good deal of hack farce writing, and a popular 
and incredibly childish melodrama. The opera, then highly 
popular, was wholly a foreign importation. There were 
a few actors of talent, but none of genius since Edmund 
Kean^s death. 

All kinds of decorative art were living on the dregs of 
an exhausted tradition, and, save where a little school of 
designers such as Haite had grown up round certain en- 


lightened manufacturers, there was no knowledge left of the 
principles of applied art. Art sculptural could scarcely be 
said to exist, in spite of a few degraded monstrosities that 
disfigured the very cemeteries. In pictorial art England 
still ranked high, and deservedly so. The great Constable 
and his most distinguished fellow townsmen Cotnian and 
Crome were at once the worthy heirs of the great Dutch 
tradition and the progenitors of the best side of European 
landscape painting of to-day. Turner, in his full titanic 
furore, was producing his masterpieces. Portrait-painting 
had died away with the loss of Raebum, but indigenous 
landscape schools of considerable excellence flourished as 
they had never done before since the heyday of the Dutch. 
In lithography Prout in his own way produced prints of rare 
sensibility, and architectural draughtsmen like Joseph Nash 
and George Scharf did interesting and useful work. The 
last and probably greatest artist of the Bewick school of wood 
engravers, Samuel Williams, was in the plenitude of his 
delightful and peculiarly English art, which has preserved 
the aspect of this country before railways perhaps more 
perfectly, certainly with greater art and insight, than any one 
else. But art really interested only the few, and the few, 
though certainly not less appreciative, were fewer then 
than now. 

Printing and bookbinding were poor and bad in design. 
Some traditional craftsmanship lingered here and there in the 
unmachined trades in spite of the rococo fashion. Ordinary 
plain furniture and crockery were as good or better than they 
are now. There was a flourishing school of English pottery 
living on the Flaxman tradition, and the grotesque pieces the 
old school still turned out had a homely charm of their own. 
Jewellery and silver work, like lace and needlework, were of 
very inferior design. The arts of comfort were understood 
by the middle-class household better than in any country of 
Europe save perhaps Holland. 


The Situation in 1837. 

Politics, as ever, were the chief factor in the daUy mind- 
stir of the Englishman, but the broader Imperial statesman- 
ship of the great houses and their nominees was giving way 
at this time and politics were growing more and more 
parochial ; our leading men were taking smaller and shorter 
views in their insular ignorance, in the absence of actual 
danger from without, and in consequence of the obvious need 
for dealing with a mass of petty details that required seeing 
to. Fussy opportunists, unreasoning Tories, and interested 
obstructionists found their occasion and conspired to put off 
as long as they could questions that they knew must be 
faced. Disappointment bitter and widespread was following 
closely upon the inevitable failure of the extravagant expecta- 
tions and over-heated hopes which the agitation for Parlia- 
mentary reform had kindled. Formidable-looking but really 
futile agitations were exciting fresh enthusiasms, and ' The 
Charter ' and ' Repeal ' were cries that survived the manufac- 
turers' successful crusade in favour of cheap corn against the 
landed interest. Such, as it now appears to us across the in- 
tervening span of years, was the situation of Great Britain at 
the time of the Queen's sudden but not unexpected accession. 

The picture looks dark at first sight, but it must be 
remembered that alongside of much misery, ignorance, and 
cruelty there was much simple, wise, peaceful happiness, 
that there was in England none of the violent class-hatred 
(save between a certain number of manufacturers and their 
workmen, and then only to a less degree) that destroyed the 
ancien regime in France ; that there was a career open to 
every shrewd, hard-working, and energetic man who could 
profit by his opportunities ; that wise men were trying to put 
things in better order throughout the country, and were 
prepared to sacrifice much to effect this ; and that England, 
with all her faults, was incontestably leading the world. 

The first fifteen years of the reign (1837-1852) were busy 
ones. Chartism, Repeal, the Free Trade struggles. Colonial 
Reforms, and beneficial changes of the statute law took up 


much well-employed time. And all the while the rapid 
increase and improvement of the railway system, of steam 
navigation, of the electric telegraph, and the mighty develop- 
ment of all kinds of manufacture (improved processes and 
better machinery being continually introduced) went on with- 
out a break. There was much building of all kinds, especially 
in towns, much railway-making and ship and engine building, 
plenty of employment, and rapid and continued increase of 
population. Wages, which had reached their lowest level 
when the reign began, rose but slightly and slowly in most 
occupations, rents were high and rising, and the whole con- 
dition of labour extremely unfavourable to the employed 
classes ; though the exertions of those who got Parliament to 
put bounds to the selfishness of the employer, and the efforts 
of the more intelligent workmen themselves in the formation 
of strong trade unions, were gradually but with great 
difficulty changing it for the better. Agriculture profited 
largely by the increased area drained, the use of foreign and 
chemical manures, the discovery of labour-saving machines, 
and the pains bestowed upon the breeding and feeding of 
stock. But this did not benefit the agricultural labourer, 
who was in a worse position than before the great war, and 
whose scanty pittance was still severely shortened by the 
high price of bread, sugar, and tea. 

The Leaders. 

The chief personage with whom the conduct of affairs 
rested in England at this time was Lord Melbourne, most 
able, amiable, and charming of men, endowed with greater 
power for influencing individuals than managing a party. 
He was the leader of the Reformers, and the tutor of the 
young Queen, who practically learned from him her rights 
and duties as a constitutional monarch, and became familiar, 
under his tactful guidance, with the complex business of 
government, and acquainted with the aims, opinions, and 
characters of those who had to carry out the policy of the 
day. His most gifted colleague was undoubtedly Palmerston, 


a brilliant young Irish gentleman, with a real talent for foreign 
affairs, a personality of importance in Europe, active, obstinate, 
bold, and determined, bent above all upon making the 
name of Englishman respected as the name of Roman had 
been all over the civilized world, and not at all afraid of 
finessing or of playing his cards out. He understood the 
machinery of English public life, was well skilled in 
party management, could wheedle and persuade or make 
a blunt, brief speech that would turn public opinion on his 
side. Being absolutely free from ^ cant ', the ' unco guid * 
and punctilious disliked him secretly, and he hardly ever 
secured the whole-hearted support of his more timid colleagues, 
while his way of taking responsibility on his own shoulders 
and committing his Government to a policy before they had 
made up their minds was never quite pleasing at Court, 
especially after the Queen's marriage, when she began to 
take a very close interest in German politics. He was no 
admirer of democracy, and by no means in haste to carry out 
or pass new measures of importance. In the country and in 
the House his genial, witty, sportsmanlike behaviour and 
the manifest pluck and ability with which he ^ scored off his 
own bat ' won and kept him an increasing popularity. 

Peel, the Tory leader, was a man of business capacity, of 
an open but limited mind, and a tender conscience, stiff and 
silent, and by no means winning on casual acquaintance, but 
one who commanded respect and, though he did not disdain 
the ordinary manoeuvres of party warfare, was capable on 
occasion of facing obloquy and unpopularity in order to do 
his duty to the country, although his proud and sensitive 
feelings suffered deeply under such a trial. His honesty and 
single-mindedness, his high principles and well-cultivated 
intellect, were of essential service at a difficult time, when 
a difficult question had to be faced. His colleague in the 
Lords, the Duke of Wellington, was now a veteran, with 
opinions unchanged, but a mind always awake to the possible 
need of shelving them, and of acquiescing, before it was too 
late, in the inevitable. He was a trusted and valuable 


adviser, but he was precluded by prejudices too strong for 
him (and perhaps a httle deterred also by the natural dislike 
of a veteran for any but the tnost needful changes) from 
carrying out even those reforms which the army needed 
before it was in a condition to take the field in Europe, though 
he did what he could to ensure discipline and to keep his 
regiments well officered. His experience of war and dis- 
turbance made him averse to all thorough reforms, but 
equally determined that civil strife must be avoided at almost 
any cost. His name was respected throughout Europe, and 
his opinions carried great weight in his own country ; and 
though he had incurred the temporary hatred of the extreme 
party, he was the man of all others of whom the mass of 
Englishmen were most proud. His foreign policy, though 
at bottom directed only with a view to the advantage of this 
country, led him to sympathize with strong absolute govern- 
ments and to favour the Holy Alliance and the Bourbons in 
France, while Palmerston belonged to the school of Canning 
rather than that of Castlereagh. 

Lord John Russell, a nimble-witted man of little real 
knowledge or ability, full of restless, meddlesome activity, 
untnistworthy and fond of intrigue, inflated with self-con- 
fidence, and unabashed by repeated failure ; ineradicably 
convinced of his own wisdom and tact; was a mere politician, 
with the ordinary views of the Whigs, with whom he had a 
hereditary connexion. He maintained his position by his 
cunning and self-assertion, and, like other mediocrities, 
profited by the failings of better, wiser, and stronger men. 
His impudent courage from time to time gained him the 
half-amused encouragement of the public, but no one save 
himself ever seriously believed in him. He is by far the 
meanest figure among English Ministers of this century, as 
Lord Aberdeen is probably the most helpless. The latter 
was one of those well-meaning, highly moral, indecisive, 
gullible, and unobservant gentlemen who may manage to 
pass through private life respectably without great cata- 
strophe, but are positively dangerous in any position of trust 


or command, for they may awake to their own imbecility 
at the wrong moment and drift rudderless to ruin. Lord 
Stanley was a model English statesman of the aristocratic 
type, a scholar and a gentleman, a fine debater, a man of 
vigour, culture, and sense, a capable practical leader, and 
one who, though far too reluctant to mend for fear of 
marring, seldom knowingly subordinated the interests of his 
country to mere party considerations. Of the younger men, 
the most curious figure was that of the brilliant Jewish adven- 
turer Disraeli. Seeing his opportunity for rising to a condition 
that he felt himself called to, and which he had trained him- 
self to fill with credit, he did not allow punctilios of behaviour 
to prevent him from using party weapons for his own purposes, 
or from attacking those he knew to be in the right in order 
to make his own position better. A man without scruples, 
but not without honour, with legitimate ambitions and a 
definite policy and distinct purpose, who felt himself justified 
in going great lengths to get hold of the leverage by which 
he intended to move the world, good-natured, cynical, a 
mocker by nature, never slow to indulge his wit at the 
expense of the heavy respectability, stupid ' cant ', pompous 
pretence, and snobbish exclusiveness that surged about him ; an 
idealist, seeing many truths hidden from the dull nonentities 
he despised, with a delight in the Mosaic, and a half-veiled 
but fierce pride in his own people very characteristic of the 
modem Jew; he was a dangerous antagonist whether in 
debate or diplomatic intercourse, for he took vride views and 
lacked neither courage, wit, nor cunning. 

Of his chief rival, the young Liverpool man, the hope of 
the Tories, the ardent supporter of the New Oxford party, 
the faithful follower and pupil of Peel, the character was 
already revealed, though the rare capabilities had not yet 
been exercised on a great scale. His splendid personality, 
his Parliamentary ability, his noble and persuasive eloquence, 
his high ideals, his power of convincing himself and others, 
his strong, unfounded, and narrow religious opinions, his 
unblemished life, his complete blindness to much that he 


dught to have seen, his limited views, his generous sympathies 
and power of evoking enthusiasm, as well as his unshaken 
conviction of the justice of his cause and the correctness of 
the opinions he was for the moment supporting — these 
qualities were soon obvious. Nor were those wanting who 
mistrusted both his great powers and the deficiencies they 
thought they perceived in his character, and argued that 
Gladstone would never make a safe Minister. 

Lord Ashley was a characteristic personage of the time. 
Personally courageous and of fair intellect, he was of the 
extreme Evangelical school in religion, but while he believed 
in their dogmas and followed their methods and fashions of 
life he was a keen social reformer. He took up the cause of the 
unhappy white mill-hands when no one else would pay atten- 
tion to anything but the more fashionable and romantic black 
slave, who, cruelly ill-treated as he often was, upon the whole 
suffered far less in the West Indies than in his native land, 
or to the convict, who, though his lot was not a happy one, 
was often better clothed and fed in prison than he was when 
at liberty. To the untiring exertions of this young lord and 
his two good friends, Mr. Sadler and Mr. Oastler, is due 
the stopping of the worst and most dangerous oppression 
ever exercised by one class upon another in this country. It 
was Lord Ashley's foible to talk with evangelical unction, to 
worry over bishops (whom Lord Palmerston humorously and 
ironically gave over to his charge), and to suspect the direct 
influence of Jesuits and the Pope in every move of the 
Anglican party ; but there was hardly a man in his generation 
who deserved better of his country, or did his duty, as he 
conceived it, with stricter fidelity. 

His opponent, John Bright, ' the greatest English orator of 
this century,' as Mr. Gladstone has styled him (though he 
himself always awarded the palm to his panegyrist), was 
also one of the most successful of English agitators. It is as 
the fighting Quaker, the champion of his own class — the 
northern manufacturers, — the successful prophet of Free 
Trade and the cheap loaf, the friend of Cobden and Gladstone, 


that we must regard him, rather than as the ignorant political 
doctrinaire, the prejudiced and callous opponent of the Factory- 
Acts, the defender of dishonest trade, the foolish herald of 
^ peace at any price ', and the vehement opposer of every 
measure for redress of grievances that did not come within 
the narrow bounds of his own sympathy. It was never given 
to him, save as touching Free Trade, to speak for the nation, 
but he won the respect of many of his earlier foes when time 
had tamed his tongue and the bold, selfish, reckless dema- 
gogue had become the cautious, conservative, and loyal 

A man of far deeper insight and broader views was Thomas 
Drummond, the Irish permanent Under Secretary, who saw 
that definite economic causes underlay Irish misery, crime, 
and agitation, and dared to remind the Irish landlords, the 
class that had misgoverned their country for a hundred and 
fifty years, that ^ property had its duties as well as rights *, 
and to work hand in glove with O'Connell in endeavouring 
to secure such social reforms as would relieve the worst evils. 
Later years have justified a policy which political passion and 
the influence of the landlords and the alien Church would not 
allow to have a fair trial. But Drummond, like his Liberal 
colleague Lord Normanby, ^ the best of Viceroys', sought his 
satisfaction in the advance of the nation he served. 

Of O'Connell, a force apart, it is more difl&cult to judge. 
His strong Liberal sympathies, his ardent personal loyalty, 
his tremendous oratorical powers, his engaging personality, 
his instinctive knowledge of Irish character, would have made 
him remarkable in any party. As the Irish leader who had 
carried Catholic Emancipation single-handed against the 
British Government, who was a power in the House of 
Commons as he was on Tara Hill, the * Liberator ' is a great 
figure, never quite understood by the English public, who 
mistrusted him as a pious Catholic, a born agitator, and a cun- 
ning politician, and instinctively dreaded a policy that might 
loosen the bands of Empire. He had his faults, but ^ it was 
not for the ordinary politician to judge him ', the accepte4 


leader for two generations of his own countrymen, who, with 
a continual weighty responsibility resting all that time upon 
his shoulders, without funds save those he raised by voluntary 
subscription, without organization save that he created, without 
a policy save that which he himself worked out in the midst of 
factious and unscrupulous opposition, was able to do much to 
make Irishmen happier and much to raise their respect for 
themselves. That he was not young or strong enough to 
support the burden longer or to control the wretched flatterers 
and hangers-on that squabbled over his succession before his 
death and kept honest men from approaching him at the last ; 
that he sinned Uke Eli ; is not so much his fault as Ireland's 
lasting misfortune. Without him the national idea could 
hardly have survived as a great poHtical force in Ireland. . . . 

Literary Summary (1837-1850). 

It was a time of great and vigorous growth. Mill, the 
most distinguished and influential of Bentham's disciples, got 
a wide hearing, while Spencer began to give the results of the 
new science to a small public of specialists. Bentham's 
lessons were absorbed completely, and scarce a legal reform 
— and there were many — but was owing to his initiative. 
The Broad Church party sympathized with the sufferings of 
the voiceless farm hands and helpless, truck-paid, and cruelly 
sweated urban workers ; Carlyle's deep and noble voice was 
preaching the gospel of Sincerity and Work, and exposing 
the culpable weakness for ^ cant ' and * sham ' and ' shoddy ', 
that was the crying sin of the English middle class, in a way 
far more powerful than even Byron had done. Ruskin brought 
the younger generation to see the importance and significance 
of Art, and did for the aesthetic what his master Carlyle was 
doing for the political and social sides of English life. Arnold 
was continuing Niebuhr's work with splendid vigour, and 
Kemble and Palgrave were founding on the German methods 
a new school of English history. Napier was writing his fine 
prose epic of our six years' war in Spain^ Finlay compiling his 


scientific story of the greater and later Hellenic governments. 
Freeman working historically at architecture, Macaulay turn- 
ing out his brilliant, specious, and untrustworthy essays. In 
poetry Browning and Tennyson were on novel methods carry- 
ing on the work of Wordsworth and Keats — Browning speak- 
ing to the restless young that were dissatisfied with the bald 
* philosophy ' and cut-and-dry ethics of the Benthamites with 
a sincere and sympathetic, if not very clear, note; while 
Tennyson, with his exquisite Virgilian charm, his pious pathos, 
and his thin, conventional thought, appealed to a larger public, 
which could not fail to enjoy his beautiful art, to ignore his 
inability to write narrative, and to appreciate his insular 
respectability. Arnold was the most faithful of Wordsworth^s 
disciples, adding to his master^s habit of mind a classic form 
unseen before in his generation. The striking work of the 
*last of the Elizabethans', Wells and Beddoes and Darley, 
and of Keats's friend, the able Reynolds, passed unperceived 
save by a few connoisseurs. Poe's curious power, too often 
stained by vulgarity, could not pass unappreciated. Mac- 
aulay's resonant * ballads ' gained lawful popularity and many 
followers, of whom Aytoun and Martin were the best ; but 
the Corn-law Rhymer Elliot and the sentimentalists appealed 
to a larger public still, and Clough, in poor verse but 
convinced phrase, expressed the feelings of 'earnest' 
academic youth. Strain, poor rhythm, and cheap rhetoric 
and sentiment characterize most of the minor poetry of the 
day, which still strove to copy Moore and Byron. But 
there was still amongst the work of Peacock, Ebenezer Jones, 
Hood, and Mrs. Browning verse that, besides being character- 
istic of the time, was also personal and poetic. The last of 
the Lake School, Hartley Coleridge, was no unworthy scion of 
a poetic sire. Landor stood alone and unrivalled in his best 
work, as did Emily Bronte, the highest English poetess of 
her day. The influence of Carlyle, Browning, Tennyson, 
Ruskin, and the Mediaeval Renaissance was prominently 
shown in The Germ, the first naive manifestation of a little 
knot of painters and poets destined to make deep impressions 


upon the England of their riper years. And the man who 
was to become the greatest of English novelists came before 
the public first in a little book of verse that was the 
forerunner of such a masterpiece as the ' Modern Love ' 
sonnets. The desire for purer and more flexible form will be 
found over against great laxity (save in Tennyson and Arnold) 
and even carelessness in practice: imaginative expression 
tinctured with local colour^ often mock-archaic, over against 
bald flatness of diction : a mawkish piety over against the 
aspiration to enshroud the newest scientific conclusions in 
verse. These things mark the transition period and the 
diverse leanings of the younger and older schools. In 
Ireland, which more or less closely followed the flow of 
literary English taste, only Mangan, most exquisite in cadence 
and poignant in expression, and a long way after him Davis, 
whose vehement rhetoric once or twice touched actual poetry, 
and Ferguson, who sometimes, as in his paraphrastic versions 
and original ballads, soars for a while above the respectable 
commonplace, deserve mention. In Scotland, Nicholson, 
Burns's best disciple, was the most poetic figure. The 
colonies, like the United States — for the Sunday-school stuff 
of Whittier and the trivial verse of Longfellow (whose 
translations are, however, far better than his own inventions) 
do not rise to poetry, — had not yet ' answered to the call of 
the highest Muses ', if, indeed, their material preoccupations 
allowed them to hear it. 

Foreign models had but little influence ; Goethe, the 
German balladists, and Beranger had perhaps the widest. 
But the prae-Raphaelites, owing to the special Italian culture 
of the Rossettis, knew something of Dante. The general 
* insularity ' of English poetry during this period is marked : 
its best is untranslatable, its worst hopelessly banal and 
provincial ; hence its highest messages have reached the 
Continental world of letters through other and often inferior 
voices. In the province of prose fiction only France could 
rival us, though neither Gautier, Hugo, nor Balzac had as yet 
the slightest influence here. There was Dickens, rising to 


the greatest Elizabethans in his characters and sinking to the 
lowest Victorian melodrama in his plots — a humorist, a 
humane man, understanding through a keen sympathy, often 
slipshod, never a great stylist save in dialogue ; not a clear 
reasoner, but for all that an artist whose want of form has 
not prevented his dramatic power from asserting itself, and 
rightly securing him European popularity such as has fallen 
to no English novelist since Scott, and to none of his 
literary contemporaries save Macaulay and Poe. There was 
Thackeray, keen dissector of social folly, pious and sensitive 
beneath his affected cynicism, a poor critic save as regards a 
few favourites, often abominably mannered in phrase and 
diction, but a man of wit and talent, who never perhaps did 
himself full justice, greatly dreading the snobbish public he 
despised, but succeeding in creating two or three of those 
characters that we know better than we do many of our personal 
friends, though he never could lay claim to that peculiar cos- 
mopolitan quality which gave Dickens a world-wide audience. 
Bulwer and Disraeli continued, as they had begun, to please. 
Marryat, ^ that prose Dibdin,' went on with his honest, simple, 
humorous work. Lever, the ' Irish Dumas ', was writing in 
his first boyish comic vein. Two men of distinction and rare 
attractiveness, George Borrow and Herman Melville, began 
their best books, which secured them the delighted attention 
of a small but choice circle of readers. The Brontes brought 
in the analytical novel. Emily's tragic power and Charlotte's 
feminine susceptibility and satiric sharpness compelled 
attention. Mrs. Gaskell introduced the new novel of social 
life outside ^society', and is more judicial and generally 
observant than * Currer Bell ', whose introspective power far 
excelled hers. Trollope, Collins, Kingsley, and Reade belong 
to the next generation, which they so widely influenced, though 
it was in this one that they began ' trying their wings first in 
Fancy's gusty air'. A crowd of second-class humorists and 
third-class * society ' novelists — Douglas Jerrold, S. Warren, 
A. Smith, and Co. — jostled the harmless and Adelphian 
Ainsworth in competition for the public favour. The Howitts 


went on with their quiet, beautiful work ; North dashed off 
his noisy but often pathetic and poetic dialogues ; numerous 
essayists of the fourth class crowded the magazines and 
quarterlies, which received work of higher quality from men 
like Whewell and Sydney Smith. Periodicals, such as The 
Penny Magazine and The Saturday Magazine^ brought 
much literary and aesthetic writing into quarters which such 
work had never before reached, but where it was eagerly 
appreciated. A respectable comic weekly journal afforded 
welcome outlet to men like Thackeray and Jerrold, and an 
opportunity that some of our best illustrators soon seized ; 
while The Illustrated London News, largely served by foreign 
engravers and draughtsmen at first, afterwards became, like 
The Graphic in the next generation, a school for black and 
white artists. The newspaper press, as its legal encum- 
brances were swept away, grew exceedingly, and the profes- 
sional journalist, if he did not correspondingly prosper in 
pocket, became an acknowledged power in the land. 
Delane, the editor of The Times, not only followed but to 
some extent guided public opinion, and his voice was to 
the Continent as the voice of England herself. The Fourth 
Estate had indeed come of age. 


[This note is a preface to a series of scenes of Armenian life 
entitled Through the Storm (Murray, 1899), and written by Mr. Avetis 
Nazarbek, the Armenian poet and revolutionary patriot. The occasion 
of the book is explained in Powell's words, which, brief as they are, 
may be thought well to illustrate his historical temper, sympathetic 
yet detached, in dealing with recent politics.] 

The case of Armenia obviously claims attention, and it 
is for the purpose of forwarding this claim to the attention 
of the Western European and American public that the 
author of this book has written. He has a right to speak, 
for he is familiar with the facts of the matter^ and has an 


almost unique knowledge of the causes, progress, and aims 
of the late revolt of a large section of his countrymen against 
the Turkish government. Whether the solutions he pro- 
poses for the Eastern question, as far as it touches Armenia, 
are correct or not, does not affect the value of his book, 
which is intended to give pictures of life in Armenia during 
the darkest part of her long and troubled history. He 
writes frankly from the Armenian point of view, but his 
stories are none the less firmly based upon fact. He has 
known personally most of the characters he draws ; the 
opinions they express are those they actually held ; the 
adventures they go through are real experiences of his 
friends and kinsfolk. He has deliberately chosen the form 
of his book, a series of incidents and aspects of Armenia 
in time of terror, connected together as it were by the 
black and red threads of persecution and revolt which run 
through the whole book. It was impossible for him at 
present, for obvious reasons, to write down the plain story 
with particulars — the story is not yet finished, many of the 
characters are still in danger. The form he has chosen 
seemed therefore to him the best mode of expression at 
his command. It has allowed him to express himself freely 
without compromising any friend or publishing any matter 
better unpublished. It has enabled him to deal with his 
facts from different sides, and given him, as he believes, 
a Avider range of facts to present before his readers. 

Mr. Nazarbek is anxious that his readers should judge 
for themselves whether, given the facts — the mere facts of 
misgovernment tempered by massacre — there is not suflEicient 
ground for some interference of the Western powers on 
behalf of his persecuted people. What are the facts in the 
simplest form ? They appear to be these — There are in 
Asia Minor, bordering upon the frontiers of Russia, Turkey, 
Persia, and Syria, some millions of an ancient historic 
people, speaking an Aryan tongue, belonging to a venerable 
form of the Christian belief. This people has had a noble 
history and a high civilization in the past; its members 

O 2 


have shown themselves eminent alike in peace and war, 
persistent in the struggle for life, steadfast beyond the 
average in their aims, practical, conservative in their lives, 
with a remarkably intense family life, and a complete grasp 
of the economic principles that make for success in the 
commercial world — a people in some of their modern aspects 
resembling their Parsee cousins, and in others recalling 
the heroic persistency of their more distant Swiss relations. 
This people, for the more part, dwells under the Turkish 
rule, which has been and is still of the ordinary Moslem 
type, tolerable only to those who are of Islam, and often 
oppressive even to them, but regularly and irregularly 
oppressive to its Christian subjects. The Armenian, being 
found useful to the government, was often able formerly 
to purchase exemption from the worst exactions and illegali- 
ties of the government's officials ; his importance as a banker 
and trader made him a resource not to be neglected, but one 
which it was wiser to treat Avith tolerance. But as Asiatic 
Turkey, owing to a variety of causes, ceased to prosper, 
while its misgovernment increased and checked the possi- 
bility of recovery, the Armenian, tired of unavailing sub- 
mission and becoming penetrated with the * Western spirit 
of revolt', began to resist outrage, and even to avenge it. 
The Turk, long unthwarted, proud of what he considered 
his truer faith, and of what he knew to be his superior 
power, grew furious when it was forced upon him that 
the ' faithful nation ' had its own hopes and ideals, and 
that those were not based upon the acceptance of the 
eternal supremacy of the Ottoman ; that Armenia, in fact, 
was bent upon securing at least as good treatment as Samos, 
and would hardly be content in the end with less local 
independence than Bulgaria. Regardless of the folly of 
crushing a nationality which might, if encouraged, form the 
best and surest ultimate bulwark to the Russian advance, 
the Porte met the revolt with those horrible methods of 
suppression that have always formed part of Oriental prac- 
tical politics, but which in our days cannot fail to startle 


and shock civilized powers, even when their own immediate 
interests, as they understand them, forbid more than verbal 
remonstrance. England, hampered by many and serious 
cares, and unable to reach that part of Armenia which was 
the scene of the chief Turkish barbarities, found herself 
reduced to the exhibition of strong rebuke, which hardly 
did more, as it seemed, than irritate the Porte. France 
was hoodwinked, and her people duped as to the facts by 
her complaisance towards her Slavonic ally. Germany had 
no means of enforcing her advice, and consequently did 
not tender it. The United States were not armed. Russia 
might have interfered with instant success, but her states- 
men cynically avowed their acquiescence in a process which 
could only tend to the removal of an obstacle in the way 
of their advance south-west when the time came ; for, 
obviously, a strong Armenian nationality, with an older 
civilization than that of Russia, could resist Russification, 
and the ancient Armenian Church would yield hardly to 
the measures by which the Orthodox Synod 'compels' 
those not of its peculiar communion to ' come in '. The 
Armenians were left to their fate, thousands perished, 
thousands did their best to avenge their brethren, thousands 
managed to hold out, as the men of Zeitun did, and some- 
how, though contrary to all probability, to weather the 
storm at its fiercest, and secure some slight measure of 
temporary amelioration ; at what a cost of blood and tears 
may be easily understood, when one recollects how many 
gallant lives it cost merely to secure that news of the 
fortunes of Zeitun should reach the wide world west of 
the Armenian highlands. The men of Zeitun are surely 
as worthy of respect as the men of Montenegro, whether 
we think them wise to have taken up arms, or foolish not 
to have agreed with a notoriously brutal adversary quickly. 

Surely it is to the interest of Western Europe (though 
not of Russia) that an Eastern Switzerland should be allowed 
to grow up on the east of Asia Minor, a power that ought 
to be suffered to have its own internal development^ to show 



the energy that is in it^ and allow the possibilities that 
seem to the best observers latent in the Armenian character 
the scope they are believed to need. A national intellect 
and character, so strong in their past developments, so 
persistent in spite of all obstacles_, must not be lost to 
the world. 

It is perfectly useless for England or any other state to 
threaten the Porte, until such time as she is able to carry 
out her threats promptly and decisively. When that moment 
arrives, the Porte \nll, as in the past, give way gracefully. 

Germany might probably, as matters now stand, interfere 
diplomatically with considerable success. If she has con- 
vinced herself that it wiU profit her to secure the goodwill 
of the Armenians, she will not fail to do so. Moltke's 
words as to the suitability of Asia Minor as a sphere of 
German interest are certainly not yet forgotten. 

Those who profess to hate the Turk because he is a Turk 
will find little encouragement in this book. The Turk, too, 
suffers under bad government : the difference between him 
and the Armenian is, that in the case of the Turk the 
government is his own, not that of aliens. The Turkish 
government is bad, because of an evil condition and practice, 
because of the obstacles, ignorance, bigotry, corruption, the 
hatred to change however beneficial, obstacles not unknown 
in the West, but flourishing in less civilized states, where 
cruelty is not yet normally discouraged, and ignorance still 
abnormally fostered, when corruption is the only step to 
advancement, and bigotry the condition of office. The 
Turk is, perhaps, no worse govenied than the Persian or the 
Chinese, but the Armenian suffers more than any of these. 
There is no necessity that he should suffer, and it seems, 
to say the least, the general interest of mankind that he 
should not suffer. 

Nor is it right to attribute the bad government from 
which the Armenian suffers to Islam. Jewish and Bud- 
dhist governments have been quite as cruel ; Confucian, or 
even Christian principles, do not necessarily imply justice. 


mercy, or truth in them that practise them. Spain, in the 
West Indies, employed methods which vie with those of the 
Ottoman, when she was most Catholic ; neither ^ monkery * 
nor the ^ holy office ' have ever flourished under Islam. It 
is because the Turk is half civilized that his government 
is so bad ; he does not feel the necessity yet for ' ending 
or mending ' the institutions he endures ; he has a loyalty 
such as that of the Frenchman of the seventeenth century- 
felt for his sovereign ; he is as callous as a Spartan to the 
way his helots are treated. He can often be roused to 
the foulest, cruellest outrages by the passion of bigotry 
and the incitement of plunder. The natural excellences, 
however great, of a semi-civilized people do not fit them 
to rule over a more cultured race. Such a state of things 
is generally felt to be intolerable when the subject race is 
proud, capable, and progressive, and only needs numbers 
and combination to make good its claims to self-rule and 
an unfettered national career. 

The wisdom of Europe, after no slight delay, has put 
the Cretans in the way of working out their own salvation, 
if they are capable of so doing. What those who know 
the Armenians best desire is that they may be given the 
same chance. Precisely how this may be done is a question 
on which few know enough to speak with authority. ' 

Meanwhile it is a service to his own people and, it would 
appear, to Europe generally, that Mr. Nazarbek has done 
in expressing the wishes and aspirations of a considerable 
section of his nation, and in showing the conditions of 
Armenian life under the stress of the struggle between the 
government and the advanced Armenian party. 

Mr. Nazarbek has not desired me to write as an advocate, 
nor, indeed, should I have wished to do so. He is rightly 
content to let his book speak for itself. I have simply tried 
to put down the case as I have been able to understand it. 
I am only anxious that those who will interest themselves in 
this question should be induced to look honestly into the 
matter for themselves mthout sentiment or prejudice. It 


is because I think this book may, by its intrinsic interest, 
induce people to do this, that, in spite of my beUef that 
good wine needs no bush, and that few general readers ever 
even skim a preface, I have done as Mr. Nazarbek asked me, 
and penned so much by way of prefix to his work. He is 
not responsible in any degree for my opinions or the way 
in which they are expressed. It has, at all events, been 
a pleasure to me to vouch to his wide knowledge of things 
Armenian ; to the labour he has given to this national 
question, which has indeed occupied him, day and night, 
for years ; to his absolute devotion to what he believes to be 
the highest and best aims of his own people. 


[One of the few articles done in form and at length by Powell on 
a great personage of history is here reprinted from the Notih American 
Review, Oct. 15, 1901 : on The Alfred Millenary of 1901. At Winchester, 
three years before, when the movement for the Commemoration was 
being started, Powell had lectured at length on Alfred, and for the 
report in the Hampshire Chronicle of June 18, 1898, see Memoir for that 
year. In some ways it is fresher and less strictly narrative than the 
article, though less authoritative : and one passage, on the youth of 
Alfred, is added here, as it is not echoed in the article, as well as 
a sentence or two from the peroration. A number of reviews, not 
here given, mostly on millenary books that seem to task his generosity, 
show the erudite work that lies behind these popular expositions. 
The proper names in these articles have been left in the special forms 
Powell used.] 

On the 18th, 19th, and 20th of September this year in the 
old, famous, and beautiful city of Winchester there was held 
a solemn Commemoration of the millenary of King Alfred's 
death. A huge bronze statue of the hero by Thornycroft 
has been set up and unveiled ; there were lectures and 
addresses delivered by notabilities in Church and State, in 
learning and letters. The town that Alfred loved was in 
high festival, her honoured guests were warmly welcomed, 
and the great occasion signalized by processions, illumina- 
tions, and banquetings in which all sorts and conditions, 
from the children in the schools to the aged poor from the 
workhouse, had their share. Nor were the citizens and the 
Guildhall allowed to bear the responsibility alone ; the bishop 
of the ancient diocese, the dean and canons of the Cathedral 
of St. Swithin, the head master of the famous and ancient 
College of St. Mary, did their part. Soldiers, sailors, and 
marines were present to line the streets and furnish the glad 


music of their bands. Tlie historic sites preserved in the 
modern county town that succeeds without a break to the 
little market-fort of the Belgae were all in turn visited and 
reviewed — the remains of the abbeys, new and old, of the 
episcopal palace of Wolvesey, what is left of the castle of 
the king, the A'enerable west gate of the city. The pleasant 
and antique hospitality of St. Cross was as freely dispensed 
as ever. The playing fields of Wykeham's College, the 
paradise and close of the exquisite cathedral, once dedicated 
to St. Peter and St. Paul, now to the Trinity ; the beautiful 
view from the King^s House which led Charles II with 
characteristic feeling for art to plan a series of gardens that 
should rival Versailles in magnificence and outstrip it in the 
beauty of their surroundings, were all duly admired. Win- 
chester is determined to do her best to honour him whom 
Gibbon was not afraid to style 'the greatest of English 
kings % one, too, especially associated with her own histoiy. 
The callous and stupid neglect of the past is to be amply 
atoned for, and the generation that is of all since Alfred's 
most unlike his is prepared to do the highest honour to his 
name and fame. 

Delegates from the English, Scottish, and Irish univer- 
sities were, of course, present, and with them stood scholars 
especially sent from the sister universities of Canada, 
Australia, New Zealand, and India, as well as from the 
leading universities of the United States. Many of the list 
of leading Englishmen that form the committee for the 
Celebration also took part in the proceedings. The Lord 
Mayor of London and the mayors and provosts of many 
other towns attended in their old-world and picturesque 
panoply. The Commemoration was indeed one that appeals 
to the whole of the English-speaking world. 

It is almost a new thing in modern England (common 
though it be abroad) to seek to do honour in this public way 
to heroes of the far past; we have not been, of late cen- 
turies, a people greatly given to pageants, our middle classes 
had almost lost the taste for public spectacles, though a few 


survivals such as the Lord Mayor^s Show and the like were 
always keenly relished by the populace. We are getting rid 
of our awkward self-conscious dislike of the visible signs of 
public magnificence or national joy or grief. The great 
Guildhall masque showed that we could rival Vienna or 
Paris when we really set about a celebration of an artistic 
kind. The reviving taste for beautiful pageantry is, how- 
ever, undoubtedly strong, and it naturally tends to reflect 
the prevalent feelings of the time. We English are now 
acutely conscious that our empire, so long at peace within, 
has been most dangerously attacked by a cunning and 
malignant foe. We know that our envious enemies on the 
Continent are many and powerful, we are coming to under- 
stand the truth of the maxim that 'only the strong man 
armed can keep his house and his goods ', and we are making 
up our minds slowly, but surely, to the sacrifice of interests 
and prejudices that we see to be necessary. We delight 
intensely in the comradeship of our colonies, and are proud 
of the ready and unselfish way in which they sprung to our 
assistance the moment the unity of the empire and the 
future of British South Africa was seen to be at stake. 
Hence to us to-day the career of Alfred appeals in a way 
it could not have appealed a generation ago. Alfred had to 
deliver and reorganize the England of his day as our states- 
men have to deliver and reorganize the empire to-day. The 
example of men like Nelson, Drake, Henry VHI, Montfort, 
William the Marshal, a long line headed by Alfred himself, 
that saved England from the dominion of the alien, is 
becoming a real influence again. We may have to face 
Europe as our great grandfathers faced it, and we are glad 
to remember the proud and profitable lessons of the past. 

Again, Alfred's literary work is far better known and 
appreciated now than it could be at the last Alfred cele- 
bration, half a century ago. The tongue he spoke and wrote 
is understood now as it was not then, his versions and his 
originals have been studied since to no small purpose. W^e 
look back fondly to the king that helped so greatly to make 


the mother-tongue we speak fit for high and deep thought, apt 
to record exact facts, able to express all that can be expressed 
in language ; to the painful student who did so much in his 
far-off day to make the rough speech of two or three millions 
of yeomen and fishermen the noble tongue of more than a 
hundred million of their descendants in the two most power- 
ful and progressive nations of the world, and half-a-dozen 
rising English commonwealths, and the business and political 
tongue of some two hundred million more of other blood and 
other races. 

Again, the details and the significance of Alfred's life and 
actions are probably better understood now than ever before 
since his own days and the days of his son. We can reaJly 
estimate the importance of his work and the difficulties in 
his way, perhaps, even better than Gibbon himself, certainly 
more completely than William of Malmesbury. Our very 
distance from him brings his greatness out ; he towers among 
his contemporaries and we see him afar off at his full height, 
the mighty tree that tops its fellows in the distant forest. 
Of course, Alfred has never been forgotten, no child that reads 
but knows his name as that of a gentle king that met adver- 
sity bravely and gave peace and justice to his country. Not 
all our long line of English rulers from Egbert to Victoria 
have left their names in the popular memory ; local memory 
has preserved a few, the Confessor will not be forgotten at 
Westminster, nor Henry II at Woodstock, nor Henry VI 
at Eton, but King Canute, King John, old King Harry, 
Queen Bess, Oliver, good Queen Anne, Dutch William, and 
honest George III are known through the length and breadth 
of their land. In Alfred's case fond legendary remembrance 
of 'The Truth-Teller, England's shepherd and Englishmen's 
darling', is amply justified by historic facts, clear and well 

The last fifty years have given us accurate and scientific 
editions of Alfred's own books and of the early books about 
him — Dr. Sweet's Orosius and Pastoral, Dr. Sedgefield's 
BoethiuSf the Laws edited by Dr. Liebermann and Dr. Turk, 


the Dialogue by Professor Napier, Asser by Mr. W. H. 
Stevenson, and the Old English Chronicles by Dr. Earle and 
Mr. Plummer, as well as the many rich materials furnished 
by the editions of the Latin and French Chronicles to be 
found in the Rolls Series, the British Museum charters, and 
Mr. Keary^s Catalogue of Anglo-Saxon Coins. 

Let us resume the results. Alfred's grandfather Egbert, 
son of Alhmund king in Kent, was one of the new genera- 
tion of princes that stand grouped about Charles the Great, 
who was the leader of what might well be called the great 
Ninth Century Renaissance. Egbert was banished from his 
own country as a dangerous pretender in the way of the 
Mercian overlord and took refuge at the court of Charles 
the Frank, who was now, after his triumphs over the Lom- 
bards and Saxons, obviously the greatest ruler in Christendom. 
There he had noted the leading lines of the Frankish king's 
policy, he had seen him deal with the stubborn Saxons (men 
of his own blood), he had shared probably in his great 
campaigns against the heathen Huns, the dreaded pirates 
of the Steppes, he had possibly witnessed the proceedings of 
the council of Frankfort that condemned image worship and 
made a reform that it was hoped would purify and revivify 
the Christian Church. He had seen the old alliance between 
the Pope and the King of the Franks culminate in the crown- 
ing of Charles emperor of the Romans by Leo the Third on 
Christmas Day, 800. He knew how Charles had made new 
capitularies and established the reign of law among the 
Franks ; he had marked how greatly he cared for justice, 
how minutely royal officers watched and checked the local 
feudatories. He was aware of the care Charles took to foster 
trade, to keep up the roads and to ensure undisturbed 
markets. He met him, followed him in his marches ; he 
may well have stood by him in battle and watched his 
generalship ; he certainly knew the swift and stern punish- 
ment he dealt out to disturbers of his realm from within or 
from without. He must have met his learned countryman, 
Alhwin, and the band of foreign scholars that Charles 


gathered about him to teach in his palace school and in 
his own academy. And Egbert surely knew, as Charles 
himself knew, that not only from the east and from the 
south, but also from the north, danger was rising, and that 
the Roman empire, east or west, nay, Christendom itself, 
could only be saved by the utmost exertions of the Roman 
emperor and the Christian people under him. 

In good time the royal exile came back to his own land 
and put in practice much that he had learnt during his 
thirteen years with Charles. He climbed swiftly to the 
unstable West-Saxon throne, a lucky and acceptable claimant, 
but when he died he held the strongest and widest domain 
that any English-speaking king had yet held in Britain. He 
had defeated the jealous and restless Welsh princes upon 
his borders, he had overcome his Mercian rivals, he had 
secured the overlordship of the Northumbrians, he had met 
and defeated the formidable Danes who had already made 
the Pictish kings' position precarious and ravaged and occu- 
pied great part of Ireland. He had made a close alliance 
with the Church at Canterbury, whose ruler was, in truth, 
the English patriarch and a prelate ever in close touch with 
the great Prankish churchmen and the Pope. But when 
Egbert died, though his skill and energy had exalted the 
West-Saxon crown, the outlook for his nation and his family 
was not so bright as when he came back from exile well- 
nigh forty years before. 

The grandsons of Charles were quarrelling with their 
father; the Saracens were gaining ground in the Mediter- 
ranean islands and on the Italian mainland and in the East, 
though Barcelona was still the western bulwark of Prankish 
Christendom ; the Northmen were growing stronger and 
bolder both in the North Sea and in the Baltic; the Bul- 
garians and the Paulicians in the East seemed to be en- 
dangering the creed and the temporal power of Christendom ; 
the insane quarrels of the families that ruled at Aix and 
Byzantium weakened the Christian cause, though the 
Prankish and Roman armies were still superior to any orga- 


nized force in the world. Egbert's son Ethelwulf, pious and 
brave and eager to do well, yet, like Charles's son Lewis, 
showed a certain weakness at times that threatened to end 
in family dissensions, but for all that he met the Northmen 
handsomely in the field, drove back their Welsh allies, and 
endeavoured to strengthen his position by marrying his 
daughter Ethelswith to the Mercian king, Burhred; by 
visiting the gallant Pope, who had just saved Rome from 
the swarming Saracens by his own exertion ; and by allying 
himself to the daughter of Charles the Bald, who was busy 
resisting the inroads of the Northmen and the incursions of 
the Saracens of Spain and Africa. 

When he died the danger was nearer, but he had done 
his best to prepare to meet it. His sons were wiser than 
Lewis's. They agreed to take up the royal burden one after 
the other. In eight years' time the two elder had ruled and 
died. England had been threatened, but was not yet seriously 
attacked, though Winchester had been stormed and sacked 
by a sudden raid and the Northmen were active along the 

In 866, when the third brother, Ethelred, a young man of 
little more than twenty-one, came to the throne, the storm 
burst, and the great host from combined fleets under 
Northern and Danish leaders determined to carve out new 
kingdoms in the Britains, as for the time the Franks had 
become too hot for them to meddle with ; hoping, perhaps, 
also that with a fair base in Britain they would be able to 
secure what of Gaul they wished when the time was come 
and their prey was riper. 

Northumberland bore the first brunt of their deadly attack ; 
her rival kings united for a brief space to resist the invaders, 
but were swiftly borne down and slain ; the Mercian king 
(brother-in-law of the West-Saxon princes) called earnestly 
for their help against the cunning and prowess of the sons 
of Lodbroc, most dreaded of aU sea-kings of their day, who 
were believed to have a particular feud against the English 
in the north. And now it is that we see Alfred the Etheling 


taking his place at his brother's side and entering public life 
as his trusty lieutenant and counsellor. 

Of the young prince's early life a few significant facts are 
noted. He came of a fine stock on his mother's side, for 
Osburh, the daughter of Oslac, the king's cup-bearer, was 
well bom, and a good woman. He was born at the royal 
estate of Wantage, in Berkshire, 848, not many miles from 
Oxford. His childhood was remarkable. He was first sent 
at the age of five to Rome to Leo IV by his father, probably 
with the idea that the special papal benediction and con- 
secration of this, his favourite and most promising son, 
would mark him out by evident tokens for the eventual 
succession, and so secure that the brothers should succeed 
each other rather than that the realm should fall into the 
hands of a child-king. The boy was but seven years old 
when he journeyed home with his father, who had brought 
him out a second time in 855 to the Pope, his kindly god- 
father. They passed through Gaul and visited the western 
emperor, and at Verberie Alfred saw Ethelwulf take the 
child Judith to wife as a pledge of alliance between him and 
the King of the Romans. Alfred had looked on much that 
was noteworthy at an age when clever children will notice 
much — the visible splendour of papal and imperial majesty, 
the sacred and strange glory of the great stone palaces and 
basilicas of Italy and Gaul, the stately etiquette and afflu- 
ence of the foreign courts, the orderly array of imperial and 
papal hierarchy, the mighty works of the warrior Pope, his 
benefactor, the hosts of Italy and Gaul and Germany, armed 
and disciplined after the Roman traditions of New Rome, 
wonders of art, a multitude of things that contrasted with 
the circumstances in which his own life was to be passed. 
These he could hardly forget, and his love of the arts and 
crafts, the ready welcome he gave to strangers, his generous 
acknowledgement of his debt to the churches abroad for the 
prayers and skill and learning with M'hich they endowed 
Christendom, his eager willingness to learn and teach, his 
conviction of the necessity of knowledge and thought for 


the nobles and prelates, leaders temporal and spiritual, of 
his people, his broad prudence and just foresight, seem to 
be the final fruits of impulses set going by this memorable 
time. Cadwalla and Ine had gone to Rome to learn to die, 
as many more English pilgrims had done ; Rome helped 
Alfred to learn to live. That he loved the old songs and 
traditions of his own people, that he was original enough to 
try and make his own speech a classic tongue instead of 
trying to force Latin upon an unwilling people as a vehicle 
for knowledge, that he ever busied himself much with hounds 
and horses and hawks, that he was keenly interested in art 
and handicrafts and those that exercised them, that he made 
himself skilful in law and good at his weapons : — shows that 
he had a bent of his own. The fatherless child of ten throve 
under the care, probably, of his mother^s kin. His own 
estates were in the south-west, but we know he must have 
moved about from place to place, whether he dwelt with his 
brethren the kings or no. By the time he had reached his 
twentieth year and took to himself a wife, Ealswith, daughter 
of Alderman Ethelred Mucil of the Gainas, a woman of 
Mercian royal blood on the side of her mother, Eadburh, he 
was already apt for the duties of his rank as a big landowner 
and a gentleman of the blood royal His biographer and 
friend tells us that he was already of a pious and dutiful 
mind, and that he had been for some years sorely afflicted 
by a tiresome and painful chronic malady that troubled him 
most by threatening to hinder him in his life's work ; but (as 
he believed in answer to his prayers) this disease now passed 
from him to give place to another that, though it gave him 
pain, did not interfere with his daily business. The call to 
the active pubUc life for which he had prepared came 
very soon after his wedding, and from this year, 868, till he 
died, thirty-two years after, Alfred was ceaselessly busy. 

It was the distress of Burhred assailed by Ingwar and Hubba 
that brought him forward. The swift march of the young 
brothers. King and Etheling, seems to have surprised the 
Northmen, who were driven into Nottingham, an easy place 


to defend if they were provisioned, but a close blockade 
forced them to seek for peace. Tricked by Ingwar's cunning 
Ethelred gave the invaders favourable terms instead of making 
up his mind to crush them at all costs. Burhred was left 
tottering on his throne, and the enemy's next move was to 
attack Edmund, the young king of the East English, who 
was defeated, captured in flight, and cruelly martyred on the 
20th of November, 870. Guthrum the Dane reigned in his 
stead; Halfdan, one of Lodbroc's sons, was king in York 
over Northumbria ; both there and in East England the 
invaders began to settle and till the land. The Midlands 
bought off the Danes for a time after the foolish Frankish 
fashion, but now the West-Saxon kingdom itself was to be 
assailed. The northern host, the eastern host, and the hosts 
from the midlands, two kings and seven earls, the pick of 
three or four Wicking fleets, crossed the Thames in 871 and 
took up their post at Reading, whence they could move down 
the Thames or up the Kennet Valley and south into the 
dales of Hampshire, or along the ridge into the western 
shires to the very heart of Ethelred's land. Battle after 
battle was fought with much stubborn slaughter but no 
conclusive result ; even the famous fight at Ashdown, where 
the White Horse now gleams, when the broken Danes fled 
and fell mile after mile, till the remnant reached their earth- 
work between the Thames and Kennet, failed to stop the 
invaders. Both English and Northmen soon rallied in force, 
fresh levies came up from the West-Saxon shires, and fresh 
crews from the Danish fleet ; the invaders forced their way 
over the downs, battle after battle was fought, and at one, 
fought at Marden, Wiltshire, Ethelred was wounded to the 
death, and Alfred at twenty-three was left to take up the 
troublous crown in the midst of the campaign. He fought 
on, and at last the Danes withdrew sullenly from Wessex. 
The wretched Burhred, cut off from his friends, was forced 
to make peace on what terms he could get, and soon, hope- 
less of the future of his kingdom and his kindred, he left 
his country and went to Rome to seek peace. There he 


soon died, and the puppet king set up for a short while in 
his place was the last Mercian king of English blood. 

A few years later, after many fierce engagements by land 
and sea, the Danes, who now occupied the greater part of 
the midlands as well as the north and east, determined on 
a fresh attack on Wessex, aiming at the south-west, for if 
that were subdued the West-Saxon realm must fall into 
their hands. The heathen fleet and army moved in concert 
along the Roman roads and along the coast. The fleet, 
having wintered in South Wales, suddenly sailed south-east, 
about to attack the important border city of Exeter, while 
the army under Guthrum dealt with the cities of the Severn 
and Avon plains, and a huge stronghold of well-planned 
earthworks was raised at Chippenham as a centre from which 
to raid. But the fleet under Hubba was defeated with heavy 
loss, and that leader's death by the good men of Devon, and 
the taking of his enchanted raven banner, was regarded by 
English and Northmen alike as an evil omen for the cause 
of Lodbroc's sons. Alfred, however, met with poor support 
at first against Guthrum ; many of his best men had fallen in 
the former campaign, many distrusted his powers, many, 
tired of the struggle, had followed Burhred's example and 
fled abroad. Until the king could gain the confidence of 
the western levies he was obliged to take refuge in the Isle 
of Athelney among the Parret marshes with a small guard 
and a few personal followers. But now, in 878, after weeks 
of quiet work, the levies were ready to follow him, the south- 
west rallied cheerily to the beacon fire that was the signal 
for the English muster. The battle of Edington drove the 
Danes into Chippenham, which was cut ofP from all succour 
by Alfred's able tactics. A few days' hunger forced Guthrum 
to surrender at discretion, and the treaty that followed was 
the first step since Egbert's alliance with the Archbishop of 
Canterbury toward the building up of an English kingdom 
of all England. A modus vivendi was arranged between 
Guthrum and his Danes and the English king, limits were 
fixed, arrangements were made for trade, the elements of 

p 2 


border law, that should provide for peaceful intercourse, 
were agreed to. Above all, Guthrum and his men were to 
accept the Christian faith. The terms were fairly well kept 
by the Danes, and Wessex was again freed of their un- 
welcome presence. In 879 Alfred was able to begin his 
task of reorganization, in which he spent twelve years' busy 
and fruitful work. 

The old Teutonic system (long disused in a country where 
local feuds had taken the place of regular wars), by which 
half the shire-levy was to be ready to muster while the other 
half remained at home to till the fields, a convenient and 
traditional usage, was now revived. New shires were formed 
in the English midlands by the rearrangement of groups of 
hundreds round carefully selected and garrisoned strongholds, 
chosen by reason of their situation and command of country. 
Fortresses were marked out to be raised in convenient and 
defensible spots along the coast ; a fleet was built and largely 
manned by hired Frisian seamen, on a new model of the king's 
own, the ships bigger and more seaworthy than the flat one- 
decked thirty-oared Danish keels, that were fit for coasting 
and bay-fishing, but often unequal to the stormy season on 
the main sea and to the rough currents of our uncharted 
tidal waters. Local magnates of trust and experience were 
set as aldermen over the new shires, and their behaviour as 
Judges and lawyers carefully looked to. The old custumals 
and novellae of Ethelbert and Ine were republished and a 
number of new statutes passed by the Wise Men, at Alfred's 
initiative, were added to them. The king himself, one of 
whose main ends as a lawgiver was to substitute the ^law 
of court ' for the ' law of feud and vendetta ', made continual 
progresses through his o^vn kingdom, while Alderman Ethel- 
red, a Mercian of notable gifts, acted as his lieutenant over 
the part of hi§ dead brother-in-law's kingdom that had now 
fallen to him. The broken communication with the churches 
of the East and of Rome was resumed, London was resettled, 
its wall repaired and placed in Ethelred's charge, to secure 
the mouth of the Thames and the Lea, and to take up again 


the interrupted trade with Gaul and the Rhinelands. The 
king procured teachers from Wales, from Gaul, and the 
Midlands for himself and the Palace School, which he now 
established after Charles the Great^s model. The revenue 
was carefully estimated and assigned, and the court service 
organized on a new footing, the servants and guards being 
parcelled out in three four-month shifts, which succeeded 
each other in attendance on the king. Foreigners who could 
bring knowledge or skill of any kind were welcomed and 
maintained at the king's expense. And now, in the brief 
leisure secured by an exact arrangement of the day's duties, 
Alfred and his scholars set to work to translate into English, 
for clerks and laymen alike, the books the king thought would 
be of most use — Orosius, his sketch of the world's history 
and geography, to which the king added the voyages of 
Othere the Helgolander and Wolfstan the Englishman ; the 
Consolation of Boethius, with many reflections of the king's 
own interspersed among the chapters of the last Roman 
philosopher; the Herd Book of Pope Gregory (a copy for 
each bishopric), and his Dialogues and the Blooms, selec- 
tions from the Soliloquies of Augustine, Baeda's English 
Church History (translated by one of his Mercian scholars), 
and, lastly, the Chronicles drawn up under his eye, partly, 
perhaps, at his dictation, as we can hardly doubt, at Win- 
chester. His own last work, a translation of the Psalms, he 
was not granted time to finish. 

In every department of Alfred's work difl&culties met him — 
ignorance, indolence, prejudice — but he persevered; what 
he had to do was necessary and must be done. Much was 
achieved before the even tenor of his labours was again 

In 891 the Danes met with a crushing blow in their defeat 
by the Dyle, in the Low Countries, at the hands of the gallant 
Carling king Arnold. Haesten, the boldest, wildest, and 
most determined of their leaders, resolved to attempt the 
conquest of Wessex, and secured the assistance of many of 
the Wickings that were drawing off from the Frankish 


domains, hopeless of further success there. The attack was 
well planned and cleverly and boldly carried out ; full advan- 
tage was taken of the foolish neglect of the Kentish men 
who had left unclosed the forts that were meant to guard 
the south-east coast ; but the fate of England was secure as 
long as Alfred, or the son and daughter he had trained care- 
fully in his ways and set to work to carry out his policy, 
should remain at the helm of England. Haesten and the 
fleet leaders made repeated raids and dangerous incursions, 
but they were defeated in detail, pursued on their marches, 
beset in their strongholds ; the whole kingdom was confident 
in the king; his aldermen, his bishops, and the shire-levies 
stood by him manfully. Haesten fought well ; he was 
desperate ; it was his last cast for a great prize. The settled 
Danes forswore their obligations in favour of their kinsfolk, 
and gave succour, and supplied soldiers to the invaders ; but 
the inevitable end came, and Haesten and his followers were 
forced out of the kingdom. He went off to Iceland to found 
a family there and make a new home. Other Wickings tried 
to settle for a time in Ireland or Scotland ; some went back 
to Norway to be met by the stern rule and heavy hand of 
Fairhair and forced to live peaceably or fly to settle in the 
new-found lands of the far north-west. By 896 the king 
was free again to go on with the ordinary labours of his 
toilsome life. The losses of the war in money, stock, and 
men (made heavier by the murrain and plague that had lately 
afflicted the land) had to be repaired. Councils were held, 
the whole business of peace was resumed. 

Four more years of toil, and then, worn out, as we may 
suppose, by his unceasing exertions and by the inroads of 
the disease that had weakened his hardly-tried frame, Alfred 
fell ill, and died on October 26, 900. He had begun the 
task of reabsorbing the Danish settlements in South Britain 
into his own all-English kingdom, but he was not to live to 
see more than the beginning of the successful progress by 
which his children and grandchildren realized his idea. 

It is not easy to overrate Alfred's achievements as com- 


mander. The conditions of the Danish war were such as 
the English organization was ill-fitted to meet ; the heathen 
fleets composed of scores of boats, manned by forty or fifty 
warriors each, could move far faster along the coast with a 
fair wind than the English levies could follow. The crew of 
such a fleet, disciplined, hardy, veteran fighters, accustomed 
to face emergencies deftly and to act swiftly at word of 
command, were more than a match for the disorderly and 
unskilled levies of any single shire. These fleets could com- 
bine and separate easily, their captains could plan simul- 
taneous attacks on various quarters at a given time. They 
would land in a convenient estuary, run up a stockade to 
defend their ships, raid the neighbourhood of horses and 
cattle, slaves and spoU, sally forth mounted on the stolen 
English horses, riding by night and day along their chosen 
roads, to fall upon defenceless districts and outflank the 
slower defenders. They were hard to fight with, difficult to 
keep in touch with, dangerous to attack. By means of two 
or three fortified stations on the coast they were able to 
master broad stretches of country, whence they could draw 
supplies in safety, while they were able at any time to sally 
forth swiftly and silently upon the lands beyond. They were 
as bad to treat with as to fight with. They broke again and 
again the solemn oaths they had sworn. They found well- 
wishers among the jealous Welsh and traitors even among 
the despairing English, some of whom chose rather to obey 
a Danish king than risk all they had in a struggle they had 
begun at one time to look upon as hopeless. The Danes 
lived on the country and made great profit out of the war, 
trading away cargoes of slaves and loads of precious booty 
to the Jewish merchants in Gaul, who supplied them with 
arms and cloth and wine and ornaments. They were traders 
as well as fighters, they struck money in great quantities, 
and they were well served by their agents and spies, who 
profited by the commerce they created. In skill and courage, 
infinite sailorly resource and cool contempt of death, they 
were beyond any fighting men of their dayj they were. 


indeed, the very flower of the finest of the Teuton race. A 
spirit of adventure akin to that of the Crusaders, of the 
Conquistador es, of the Elizabethan seamen, filled their souls ; 
but they had another side to their minds, and it was on their 
practical wisdom and shrewd grasp of fact that Alfred based 
his hopes when he treated with Guthrum. The Danes could 
see the advantage of strong, orderly rule ; they frankly 
acknowledged the English as their closest kinsmen. Both 
sang of the same heroes and traced their royal blood back 
to the same gods. They were not averse to the manifold 
attractions of the new faith and accepted it readily, as sensible 
men awake to the advantages it offered. In a few genera- 
tions they became good Englishmen, though they kept their 
own names and their own peculiar laws and customs, which, 
after all, were as close as possible to those of the English 
themselves. They feared and respected the spiritual power 
and order which was the greatest legacy that pagan Rome 
left the Western world. To many a settled Northman it 
seemed easier to live under a West-Saxon king than under 
Fairhair. The third choice was a far voyage and a rough 
life in unknown lands. Most of those who were not of 
noble blood preferred the strong peace of the West-Saxon 
king, and many of high rank were won over by the wisdom 
of Alfred, by the possibilities that opened before them in the 
new England which he was building up, and by the manifold 
attractions of the Christian civilization of Western Europe. 

The reign that had begun in the darkness of a black night 
ended in the light of dawn ; the future loomed fair ; English- 
men and their leaders had gained confidence ; they had been 
tried and not found wanting. In the north, beyond the 
English border, the stronger Scottish kings had succeeded to 
the weaker Picts ; and Constantine^s defeat of the Northmen 
in 904 had, possibly, almost as much to do with the coloniza- 
tion of Iceland as Fairhair's earlier and more famous victory 
at Hafrsfiord. The settlement of the last of the Wickings, — 
like Alfred himself, one of our Queen Victoria's ancestors, — 
Hrolf, son of Rognwold, Earl of Moere, on the valley of the 


Seine and the coast rivers of Neustria, and the succession of 
his half-brother Einar to the earldom of the Orckneys, closed 
the Wickingtide. New and great developments came of the 
stir and activity of that fierce epoch. And these new de- 
velopments Alfred had largely helped to shape. 

Of Alfred's bodily presence and features we have no ac- 
count, his biographer's unfinished sketch of him does not 
help us, but of the character and bent of his mind there is 
much evidence in his own words. He thought boldly and 
clearly on intellectual things as he did in practical matters ; 
he had devised for himself a clothes philosophy long before 
Carlyle; his Theory of Nobility, namely, that the right 
nobility is in the mind, was the one which afterward found 
warm acceptance from Sordello and from his pupil, Dante ; 
he had grasped the law of causation with as great dialectic 
skill as the later schoolmen and divines ; to better ethical 
purpose, in thoughts more elevated he reasoned high 

Of providence, fore-knowledge, will, and fate. 

He conceived as spiritually of God as did the Eastern Sage 
of old. ' He is wisdom. He is reason itself,' he said. 

To the statesman and warrior that saved his own country 
in her hour of need, preserved hier national individuality, and 
paved the way to her future unity ; to the scholar and man 
of letters that first made of our English tongue an avenue to 
all the knowledge of the past, a vehicle for the highest 
expression of human thought that the world was then capable 
of ; that raised his vernacular to the rank of a classic lan- 
guage, is due, at least, the gratitude of those whom he has 
benefited. Alfred's life was not an easy one : ' Hardship 
and grief not a king but would desire to be free of if he 
could, but I know that he cannot.' He bade a man do his 
duty and look to no reward but God, but the good report 
of his fellows was dear to him as it was to the greatest of 
his time. A northern contemporary, one of his foemen, 
possibly, has put this strong Teutonic feeling in a simple 
and direct way; — 


Cattle die, kinsfolk die, 

Land and lea are wasted, 
One thing that never dies I know — 

Men's judgement on the dead. 

Cattle die, kinsfolk die. 

And man himself dies. 
But never dies good report 

Away from him that won it. 

And Alfred himself has recorded in well-known words his 
heart's desire : * This I can now most truly say, that I have 
desired to live worthily while I lived, and after my life to 
leave to the men that should be after me a remembrance in 
good works.' 

Surely to grant this man his wish that his good works 
should be held in loving memory by his own people is but 
a plain and grateful duty, and certainly his example is not 
one that we in England, or you in the United States, can at 
any time or in any way afford to neglect. And to bring 
Alfred's good works and noble example clearly before the 
English-speaking world is, I take it, the real object of this 
Millenary Commemoration. 


It is therefore possible to get at the man himself, to know 
how he looked at the world around him, what he thought of 
his own life and office, and to understand his times. We can 
perceive the dangers and difficulties against which he waged 
constant and continuous wars. We have, put before us by 
himself, the pains and perils that he braved in the cause of duty 
to humanity. The man's own words have a ring of absolute 
veracity; they rouse one to instant sympathy, they are so 
frank and so obviously spoken from the heart, so simple and 
modest, and meant indeed for the helping and furtherance of 
those who would be heartened in their own struggle to hear 
the encouraging voice of a fellow swimmer across the dark 
waters. This English king a thousand years ago faced his 
foes with all the patience and perseverance of the Iron Duke 


himself, with all the devotion and skill of Nelson, with all 
the simple and trusting faith of Gordon. Of such a man it 
is surely good to know something, and to such a man it is 
surely well to pay as much honour as possible. Alfred, 
though his life was of that kind which to all that knew it seemed 
to be a pattern, an ideal realized, a model set up on high, was 
by no means a Pharisee ; he was a humble-minded man in 
his ways and his works. He like others had been torn by 
temptations and marred by faults ; he had gone through his 
dark hours and deep disappointments ; he had suffered not 
only from pains of the mind, but pains of the body. He was 
doomed never in his life to get that ready and swift obedience, 
that intelligent co-operation, that he longed for from his 
people, even though the objects he set before them were their 
own security and prosperity, and he was no doubt often 
impatient of their folly. We must not suppose that his 
youth had been free from the faults of youth; indications 
seemed to point to the fact that he, like others placed in any 
high position, had been attacked by pride and desire, that he 
had had a struggle to master himself ; but he went early and 
young to that schoolmaster whose lessons are always im- 
pressive — adversity — and learnt these lessons. From his own 
words we know that at the time he was chosen king he had 
set clearly before him the duties and requirements of the 
arduous office he was about to undertake, and that he took up 
the office with no light heart. We know that he had already 
pierced the brightly coloured glamour that gathers about 
young souls, that he had already found out what mere 
pride and power were, that he had felt already how little man 
is in the presence of the warring elements that conspire 
against our frail endeavours, that he had made the talisman 
of duty his star of honour, and had formed the fixed deter- 
mination to deal honourably and kindly with his fellow men. 
His mind was already stored with fruitful impressions, and 
prone to plan out schemes at once practicable and hard to 
carry out, plans of great profit, that would take great toil to 
complete in action. . . . 


He had done as much as it was possible for him to do in 
the time, and then, worn out before his time with toil and 
anxiety and physical pain, the great king fell before the foe 
that none could long resist. He was but little more than 
fifty years old, but in those hard days he had aged swiftly. 
At all events he had not lived in vain ; what he did is with us 
still, for this man saved England. But for him England 
would not have been England now, nor would the speech of 
Langland, and Shakespeare, and Bunyan have been spoken 
half the world over. The unity of this country, unity it took 
Scotland, and France, and Spain, and Germany so long to 
win, was won easily here, thanks t^ Alfred. That English 
trade and commerce began to flourish is largely Alfred^s 
work, that the West-Saxon princes of the tenth century were 
the very flower of great princes — men of honour, of courage, 
and of humanity — was chiefly due to his example and precept. 
His own son and daughter owed all to his training. His 
grandson, whose greatness he foresaw as Leo had foreseen 
his own, had his noble memory to look back on. The 
ministers he had trained, the policy he had set on foot, the 
measures he had promoted, went on doing daily good for two 
generations at least after his death. This man indeed was to 
his country what Charles the Great had been to Gaul, more 
than Peter the Great was to Russia ; he was, undoubtedly, as 
pious as St. Louis, without his superstitions ; as earnest for 
the truth as Simeon the Righteous, without his over-fondness 
for his kinsfolk and his over-harshness to his foes ; as good 
a soldier as William the Norman or Richard the Lion Heart, 
but with far more scrupulous principles. He was as laborious 
a statesman as Henry the Second, without his ambition j as 
true a lover of justice as the great Edward himself, but less 
stern and passionate. To paraphrase Beowulf — ^ There is no 
king we know of wiser, worthier, or more useful to his 


[The following papers elucidate or supplement many of Powell's 
views which are to be found in the books written with Vigfusson on 
Northern themes, in the preface to Saxo, in the translation of 
Fcereyinga Saga, and in reviews and remarks in the pages of Folklore. 
The paper on Teutonic Heathendom was contributed in 1889 to the 
volume Religious Systems of the World (Sonnenschein) : it is a clear 
summary of Powell's conclusions, and is noteworthy for the translations 
of the Thrymskvida and Sonatorreh, which are in some few points 
of intei-pretation as well as in style different from those in the Corpus 
Poeticum Boreale. Originally a lecture, it was expanded for print. 
The article, Tradition and its Conditions, was the presidential address 
to the Folklore Society in January, 1904, and was Powell's last 
substantial piece of writing. Here, too, may be added the preface 
to the late Miss Barmby's nobly-executed drama founded on the 
Gislasaga, and some notes taken from reviews on the heroic verse, 
Finnish and other, which is of popular source as to its substance.] 


Now, God be praised, that to believing Souls 
Gives Light in Darkness, Comfort in Despair! 

2 Hen. VI, ii. 1. 

It can hardly be denied that there is an enduring interest 
in the subject of this lecture — the beliefs of the heathen 
Teutons. No one who cares for the history of the thought 
of our race but must feel an interest in tracing back to their 
springs the courses of such mighty rivers. But though on 
this voyage of discovery the way becomes darker and darker, 
and difficulties crowd around as one nears these sources, yet 
some part of the voyage is already mapped out. 

The material existing includes, first, written evidence, 
which, apart from the fragmentary notices preserved by 
Tacitus, Dio, Velleius, Florus, the Augustan historians. 


Marcellinus, and other classical authors, together with the 
scraps furnished by the later Christian chroniclers, such as 
Eginhard, Prudentius, Asser, and Adam of Bremen, consists 
mainly of exact and excellent accounts of heathen ways and 
customs, preserved by an Icelandic priest named Are, born 
in 1067, who took a great interest in the antiquities of his 
race, and wrote books (c. 1100-25), in which are preserved 
a number of most curious traditions. 

Then there is a collection of old songs or lays, the so-called 
Older Edda, which, it is believed, was compiled in the twelfth 
century in the Orkney or Shetland Islands, by some Icelander 
who retained an interest in the old heathen legends which but 
for him had died out of memory. He has preserved some 
twenty or thirty fragmentary poems. The Younger Edda, 
really a gradus or poetic dictionary, was compiled by Snorre 
Sturlason, 1178-1241, the Icelandic historian, and other 
scholars and poets, for the benefit of those who intended to 
compose vernacular verse, for Icelandic poets (like our own 
poets of last century), even after the acceptance of 
Christianity, were accustomed to make allusions to old 
mythological gods. 

Next comes the Latin Historia Danica of Saxo, the monk 
of Lund (about 1215), who not only wrote a good history of 
his own time, but out of ancient songs and traditions — many 
furnished to him by Icelanders, and persons familiar with 
other western Scandinavian colonies — put together a curious 
account of the mythic days of Denmark, working after the 
fashion of our Geoffrey of Monmouth.^ 

* The chief works of Are, Landndtna-hoc (The Book of Settlements), 
Libellus Islandorum, and the Story of the Conversion of Iceland, have 
been edited by Dr. Vigfiisson and translated by myself, and will 
shortly appear [as Origines Islandicae, 1905]. The Elder Edda poems 
have been edited and translated by the same in Corpus Poeticum 
Boreale (Oxford, 1883). The first two parts of the prose or Younger 
Edda have been several times translated into English, by Sir G. 
Dasent and others. Are's Ynglingortal is translated (from a Danish 
version) by Laing in his Sea-kings of Norwai/. [Mythical Books (i-ix) 
of Saxo translated for Folklore Society, 1884.] 


Besides these main authorities there are a vast number of 
valuable little stories, hints and allusions to heathen habits 
and beliefs, scattered through the vast mediaeval literature of 
England, France, and Germany. These have been for the 
most part collected and arranged in his masterly and de- 
lightful way by Jacob Grimm in his Teutonic Mythology, 
now accessible to all in Mr. Stallybrass^s excellent and 
accurate translation. This book may be supplemented by 
M. Rydberg's study of Saxo, entitled Teutonic Mythology, 
and translated by Rasmus B. Anderson (Swan Sonnenschein 
& Co., 1889). 

Jacob Grimm and his brother William also set the example 
of collecting and using oral evidence, fairy tales and folklore 
of all kinds, which still linger upon the lips of the people in 
country places, as material for the history of mythology and 
thought of the past. Much has been done by Germans, 
Icelanders, Scandinavians, and something by such English- 
men as Halliwell and Campbell, to work this great mine of 
popular tradition; and recent scholars, especially Mr. A. 
Lang, Mr. Nutt, and Mr. Frazer, have shown the use to 
which it can be put in elucidating some of the more 
important problems of the history of man's past. 

Such being, roughly, our materials, how are we to study 
them ? What trains of thought may be most profitably 
followed ? First of all, it must be acknowledged that it is 
useless to attempt to solve the problem by one key, to explain 
the religion of the past by one principle. 

Our early Teuton forefathers were influenced by anthropo' 
morphism, and animism, and thought that inanimate objects, 
as stones, stars, the elements, and organisms such as trees, 
fishes, birds, and beasts, were possessed of spirits akin to 
their own ; they believed in dreams, and used them largely 
as a means of foretelling the future ; they worshipped the 
dead and treated their deceased ancestors as gods ; they held 
the doctrine of corres'pondences, i. e. that things which had 
a superficial likeness had a deeper resemblance — from which 
last doctrine there grew up some of the earlier systems of 


medicine : while the wizard, with his use of hypnotism, 
mania, poison, jugglery, and medicine, was dreaded and 
sometimes punished. In fact, there is hardly a superstitious 
use or observance which a modern missionary may note in 
the barbarous Central African, or South American, or Poly- 
nesian tribe he is endeavouring to civilize and raise, but we 
may find its analogue among the practices or beliefs of our 
Teutonic forefathers. These things are a part of the general 
history of mankind, they make up a mental stage through 
which progressive nations pass — a stage of false but shrewd 
reasoning, of clever but mistaken guesses, of erroneous but 
plausible conclusions, a stage such as individually we all go 
through in infancy and childhood. Our minds are of little 
better quality than our ancestors', but we profit by the vast 
mass of accepted, tested, and recorded information which they 
had not. We start higher up the ladder, and consequently 
ought to get a little higher on the climb to knowledge. 

Again, it is important that we should at once throw aside 
the idea that there was any system, any organized pantheon, 
in the religion of these peoples. Their tribes were small and 
isolated, and each had its own peculiar gods and observances, 
although the mould of each faith was somewhat similar. 
Hence there were varieties of religious customs among the 
Goths, Swedes, Saxons, and Angles. The same thing was 
the case in ancient Greece, and it must occur in all civiliza- 
tions at the stage before small clans and tribes have combined 
into great leagues and centralized nations. Hence we shall 
find many parallel versions of leading myths, many alterna- 
tive forms of the same tale, many widespread legends attri- 
buted to different persons in different places. Then, too, 
one perceives that round the actual living flesh-and-blood 
hero of the day the stories of former heroes crystallize. Thus 
the stories related about King Arthur once belonged to earlier 
heroes — Gwyn and others ; precisely as I was once told by 
a friend that in a country-part of Italy he had heard a story 
of Garibaldi, which has been referred for many hundreds of 
years to an old Semitic hero. Garibaldi was in the hills with 


a small band of men, pursued closely by the cruel White- 
coats. The fugitives had been marching hour after hour in 
the burning sun without a drop of water ; it was high noon, 
and in the agony of thirst several of the general's little band 
threw themselves down on the ground declaring they could 
go no farther. Garibaldi ordered a little mountain gun he 
had to be brought up. This gun he aimed himself at a con- 
spicuous cliff, not far off, and fired. Scarcely had the smoke 
of the gun passed away when a glittering thread of water was 
seen trickling from the rock precisely where the shot had 
smitten it. The thirsty Redshirts drank their fill, marched on 
refreshed, and escaped their foes. In the light of this story it 
is easy to see how upon Theodric, the famous East Gothic 
king, there descended legends which belonged to an earlier 
and divine Theodric, as Professor Rhys has pointed out ; how 
upon Beowulf the Jute, and upon Sigofredos-Arminius the 
Cheruscan, there have fastened tales of dragon-slaying which 
belonged to more mythical heroes. 

With such preliminary note, one may proceed to touch on 
some of the beliefs of the heathen Teuton world. With 
regard to cosmogony three or four different opinions have 
reached us, the oldest being, as we should suppose, extremely 
childish. It was that originally there was nothing but a huge 
giant, who nearly filled all space. Some heroic persons 
killed the giant, and from his body they made the world, 
sun, moon, &c. At first this was firmly believed in, then 
doubted, and afterwards told to children as a fairy tale. It 
is, of course, common among Aryan nations. 

There were also tales of the earth-goddess and the sky-god, 
of the god of day, of the sun-goddess and the moon-god, very 
like those in the classic, Polynesian, and Semitic mythologies. 
Then, there was a tale of the first man and woman being 
made by the gods out of two trees, ash and elder, that grew 
on the seashore. Kings and heroes were always supposed to 
be the actual descendants of the gods, and became gods 
themselves when they died. 

The world was looked upon as a huge plain, a belief which 


existed in Greece and other countries. Man lived near the 
edge of this earth-plain, outside was the ocean-stream, as in 
Homer's cosmogony. Beyond this, again, was a belt of 
frozen land, the boundaries of which were indefinite, where 
dwelt giants and demons. 

All the primitive arts and culture came from the under- 
world, won by the clever tricks and devices of heroes. Swans 
and bees came from a paradise, somewhere underground, 
where the Fates lived. Sheep and oxen were also believed to 
be gifts from the underworld. Eager was the sea-god and 
Ran his wife. Rode the wind-god, and Loke the evil-plotting 
giant who brings trouble among gods and men. Man 
obtained inspiration by some hero getting from the giants 
or dwarfs a certain potent liquid, which gave to him that 
quaffed it the power of poetry, prophecy, and memory. As 
to the origin of Jire, Woden was the Prometheus of the 
Teutonic race, as Heimdal was its culture-god, and Sheaf the 
Triptolemos who taught men to sow corn and make bread. 
Frey and Tew were the chief gods of the Swedes and Franks, 
Thunder (Thorr) of the Reams and Thro wends in West Norway. 

As a good example of the form in which the legends 
of the gods have come down, I give here an exact trans- 
lation of one of the most famous of the Eddie lays, 
dating probably from the ninth century. It is entitled 
* The Story of Thrym ', and runs thus : — 

Wroth was Wing-Thor when he wakened. 

And missed that mighty hammer of his ; 

He began to shake his beard, he began to toss his locks ^. 

The Son of Earth was groping about him ; 

And this was the foremost word that he spoke : 

' Hearken now, Loke, to what I am telling thee ^, 

A thing never heard of on earth aforetime 

Or in heaven above. The god^s hammer^ is stolen!' 

^ Thor has long red beard and locks, with a dark scar between his 


^ Loke is a cunning mischievous god. It is his fault that the 

hammer got into Thrym's keeping. 

' The hammer is of stone or bronze, short-hafted. It was made for 

Thor by the dwarfs. 


They walked to the town of Freya the fair. 

And this was the foremost word that he spoke : 

^ Thy feather-fell wilt thou lend me, Freya, 

That I may be able my hammer to find?^ 

Then spake Freya : ' Yea, I would give it thee though it 

were golden. 
And grant it to thee although it were silver/ 

Then away fled Loke, the feather-fell rattled 

Till he won out of the town of the gods. 

And till he won into the land of the Ettins [giants]. 

Thrym, the giants' king, on a grave-mound was sitting, 

Plaiting the leashes of gold for his greyhound; 

Trimming the manes of his horses so even. 

Spake Thrym : ^ How goes it with the gods ? How goes 

it with the Elves ? 
Why art thou come alone to the land of the Ettins ? ' 
Loke spake : ^ It goes ill with the gods ! It goes ill with 

the Elves! 
Hast thou hidden the Charioteer's hammer?' 
Thrym spake •• ^ I have hidden the Charioteer's hammer 
Eight leagues deep beneath the earth. 
No man shall ever get it again. 
Save he fetch me Freya to wife.' 
Then away fled Loke, the feather-fell rattled 
Till he won out of the land of the Ettins, 
Till he won into the town of the gods. 
There met him Thor, in the midst of the gate. 
And this was the foremost word that he spake: 
' Hast thou tidings for thy errand ? 
Tell me aU thy tidings aloft as thou fliest ! 
For he that speaks sitting oft stumbles in speech. 
And he that speaks lying down oft tricks men with lies.' 
Loke spake : ' I have tidings for my errand. 
Thrym hath thine hammer — the king of the giants. 
No man shall ever get it again 
Save he fetch him Freya to wife.' 

They walked to the town of Freya the fair. 
And this was the foremost word that he spake: 
' Wrap thee, Freya, in the bride's veil ; 
We two must drive ^ to the land of the Ettins.' 

^ The driving in a car was a necessary part of the wedding 



Wroth grew Freya then, and snorted with rage, 

The hall of the gods all trembled beneath. 

The Brisings' great necklace^ snapped asunder. 

Freya spake : ' Sure I should seem man-maddest of women 

If I drove with thee to the land of the Ettins ! ' 

Then all the gods held a moot together. 

And all the goddesses a parley; 

The mighty gods took council together 

How they might win back the Charioteer's hammer. 

Then spake Hamdal, the whitest of gods^. 

Great foresight had he, as all the Wanes have: 

^ Let us wrap Thor in the bride's veil ! 

Let him have the Brisings' great necklace ! 

Let the bunch of keys rattle at his girdle. 

And a woman's coat fall about his knees ! 

Let us fasten the broad-stones ^ on his breast. 

And wind the hood deftly about his head ! ' 

Then up spake Thor the doughty god: 

*Lewd fellow, surely, the gods will call me. 

If I let myself be wrapped in a bride's veil ! ' 

Then up spake Loke Lauf ey's son : 

' Spare such speaking, Thor ! 

Soon shall the Ettins be dwelling in Godboro', 

Save thou canst win thine hammer back ! ' 

Then they wrapped about Thor the bride's veil. 
And put on him the Brisings' great necklace. 
They let the bunch of keys rattle at his girdle. 
And a woman's coat fall about his knees. 
They fastened the broad-stones on his breast. 
And wound the hood deftly about his head. 
Then up spake Loke Laufey's son : 
^ I will go with thee as thine handmaid ; 
We two will drive to Giant-land ! ' 

* The Brisings' necklace was a dwarf -made magic necklace that, like 
Eriphyle's necklace, was a curse to any mortal that owned it, and like 
the cestus that Hera borrowed, a love-chain when the goddess wore it. 

* Hamdal, the ancestor of men, the bringer of culture from the 
underworld, warder of the gods, a huge white ram-headed deity with 
gold teeth ; he sits over the rainbow-snake. He belonged to a set of 
the gods called Wanes, as did Niord and Frey. 

* These are the two ornamented brooches of oval shape worn by 
ladies on the breast. 


Then the goats were driven home^. 
Harnessed to the couplings. Off they ran ! 
The rocks were rent, blazed earth in flame. 
As Woden's son drove to Giant-land ! 

Then spake Thrym, the king of the giants: 
^ Stand up, Ettins, and strew the benches. 
Now they are bringing me Freya to wife— 
Niaord's daughter of Noatown ! 
There, walk here in the yard, good horned kine. 
Oxen all black for the joy of the giants' lord. 
Treasures a many I have, jewels many have I, 
I lack nought but Freya alone.' 

The bench was set for the women that evening. 

And ale borne round in the house to the Ettins. 

An ox whole, eight salmon. 

All the dainties cooked for the women, 

Sif's husband [Thor] ate, and drank three vats of mead. 

Then spake Thrym, king of the giants r 

^ Was ever bride so sharply set ? 

Did ever bride take bigger mouthfuls? 

Did ever maid of mead drink deeper ? ' 

The handmaid, all-wise one, sat by the couple. 

And found answer to the Ettin's speech. 

^ Freya hath not eaten for eight nights. 

So eager was she for the land of the Ettins ! ' 

He bowed under the veil, he longed to kiss her. 

But he sprang back the whole hall's length — 

*Why are Freya's eyes so awful. 

It seems as if fire were flaming from her eyes ? * 

The handmaid, all-wise one, sat by the couple. 

She found an answer to the Ettins' speech. 

* Freya hath not slept for eight nights. 

So eager was she for the land of the Ettins ! ' 

In came the Ettins' aged sister. 
She boldly begged for a bridal fee. 
'Take the red rings off thine arms. 
If thou art minded to win my love — 
My love and my good-will withal ! 
Then spake Thrym, king of the giants: 

* Bring up the hammer to hallow the bride ! 

* The goats are Thor's team, that draw his thunder-car. 


Lay the Miller ^ on the maiden's knee ! 
Hallow us twain together by wedlock's hand ! ' 
The Charioteer's heart laughed in his breast 
When he felt the hard hammer in his hands. 
First he slew Thr}TTi, the king of the giants. 
And battered the whole breed of Ettins; 
He slew the Ettins' aged sister; 
She got a pound instead of pence, 
And hammer strokes instead of rings. 

This is how Woden's son won back his hammer. 

There is a rough naive humour in this ballad-like poem 
that reflects the tone of the primitive stages of society in 
which such legends sprung up. Thor was specially the god 
of the fisher-farmer and farmer-fishers of the west coast of 
Norway, whence came the bulk of the emigrants that peopled 
great part of Great Britain and Ireland, and the whole coasts 
of Iceland, the Faroes, and West Greenland. 

All natural phenomena were ascribed to the agency of the 
gods or demons ; storm and bad weather were wrought by 
spirits ; frost and cold were the work of giants and much to 
be feared. Thunder was looked upon as a beneficent god — 
killing demons, bringing back the sunlight and fructifying 
rain. Pearls and amber were the tears of goddesses ^. 

These beliefs were childish ; but their explanations were 
the beginning of science. They only differ from many of our 
hypotheses in their greater ambition and simplicity. We are 
content nowadays to try and make out the how without trying 
to explain the why. 

As to ritual, animal and human sacrifices were offered. 
Instances are recorded of the sacrifice of kings for good 
seasons, and of launches of war-ships sanctified by human 
blood (as in New Zealand of old). Nevertheless, human 

* Miller, the name of the hammer. 

^ It is probable from a curious story in the Kalevala that the 
nodules of white flint in the white chalk were looked on by the Fins 
as the clotted, hardened milk of some spiritual being, and that this 
belief was afterwards used to explain the origin of the later-known 


sacrifices seem to have been always regarded with a kind 
of horror and awe. A great temple was at once treasury, 
storehouse, and meeting-place. Once or twice a year there 
were great sacrifices of cattle, persons were sprinkled with 
the blood, auguries were taken with hallowed apple-twigs, 
and afterwards the sacrificed beasts formed the material for 
feasts. They had village feasts, holiday feasts, Easter feasts 
welcoming the Summer, Midsummer and Christmas feasts. 

The Teutons — differing in this from the Western Prae- 
Celtic race, and those Celts who had adapted their customs 
and beliefs — do not seem to have had a regular priesthood, 
though special persons were, by hereditary right, charged 
with the service of certain shrines. 

The greatest fanes we know of were situated at the head- 
quarters of the great tribes, or tribal leagues ; thus at Upsala, 
the High-Hall in Sweden, the cult of Yngwe-Frey flourished ; 
at his grave-mound were a temple, a treasury, and a sacrificial 
place, and an oracle where folks sought, by various kinds of 
divination, to gain from the god a morsel of his prescience, 

^Now we will speak a little of the superstition of the 
Swedes. That folk have a very noble temple, which is called 
Ubsola, placed not far from the city Sictona [Sigtan]. Near 
this temple is a very great tree, stretching wide its branches, 
ever-green summer and winter ; of what kind it is no man 
knoweth. There also is a spring, where sacrifices of the 
heathen are wont to be made, and a live man drowned. . . . 
In this temple, which is all adorned with gold (for a golden 
chain goeth about the temple hanging over the top of the 
house, and shineth from afar upon those that come thither, 
for this same fane standeth in a plain, and hath hills stand- 
ing about it after the manner of a theatre), the people 
worshippeth the likenesses of their gods, whereof the 
mightiest, Thor, hath his station in the midst of the hall, 
and Wodan and Fricco have places on either side, the 
significance of which is after this manner: "Thor,'* say 
they, " ruleth in the air, and govemeth thunder and light- 
ning, wind and showers, clear weather and good crops. The 
second, Wodan (that is. Madness), wageth wars, and giveth 
man strength of heart against his enemy. The third is 
Fricco, that bestoweth peace and pleasure upon men, whose 


similitude they make with the emhlem of generation. But 
Wodan they carve as an armed man, as we do Mars, but Thor 
is made to appear with the sceptre of Jove. They also worship 
gods made out of men, whom they endow with immortality 
by reason of their mighty deeds, as in the life of St. Anscar 
we read that they did with King Heric [a famous Swedish 
king deified after his death]. And all these gods have their 
special priests, who offer the sacrifices of the -people. If 
plague or famine be at hand, offering is made to Thor ; if 
war, to Wodan ; if wedding is to be kept, to Fricco. More- 
over, after nine years' span, a common feast of all the 
provinces of Sweden is held at Ubsola, from which feast 
none may be excused ; kings and people, all and singular, 
send gifts to Ubsola, and what is crueller than all, they that 
have already put on Christendom must redeem themselves 
from those ceremonies. Now the sacrifice is on this wise. 
From all living beings, that are males, nine heads are offered, 
by whose blood it is the custom that the gods be propitiated ; 
their bodies are hung in the grove which is next the temple. 
This same grove is so holy to the heathen that every tree in 
it is held divine, by reason of the death or blood of those 
offered. There also hounds and horses hang with men, 
whose bodies, hung together, a certain Christian told me 
that he had seen. For nine days common feasts and sacri- 
fices of this kind are held ; eveiy day they offer one man, 
and one of each different kind of beast with him (so that in 
nine days seventy-two beasts are offered). This sacrifice 
takes place about the spring equinox. But the follies which 
are wont to be used in this rite of sacrifice are many and 
foul, so that it is better they be not told.'' ' 

So speaks Adam of Bremen (iv. 26-8) about the greatest 
of heathen Teutonic temples, a sacred spot for centuries, the 
Tara of Sweden. 

In England the word Harrow marks a heathen ' high place '. 
There was always a temple at the place where the High 
Court of Parliament or Folk-moot of a tribe was held, and 
the court-field was hallowed, and order kept there by the 
hereditary priests of the place (chaplains of these earliest 
Houses of Lords and Commons). 

Heligoland, that tiny North Sea island, lately much in 
folk's minds, but long famous only as a station for ' bird- 


men ', and a watering-place for north-west Germany^ was 
once a famous fane and sanctuary. Adam of Bremen (iv. 3) 
speaks of it thus : 

^Now the Archbishop [Adalbert] ordained from among 
his clerks, to Sleswick, Ratolf; to Seland, William; to 
Funen, Egilbert, who, they say, flying from pirates, first lit 
upon the island Farria, which lies out in the Ocean some 
way off from the mouth of the Elbe, and built a monastery 
there, and made it to be dwelt in. This island lies over 
against Hadeley. It is about three days' row from England, 
and it is near the land of the Frisians, or our Wirrahe, so 
that it can be seen lying on the sea. Its length stretches 
barely eight miles, its breadth four; men use straw and 
morsels of ships for fire. The story is, that if pirates take 
any prey thence, even the very least, they either perish by 
shipwreck or are slain by some one, for none can get home 
unpunished. Wherefore they are wont to offer to the 
hermits living there a tithe of their plunder with great devout- 
ness. Moreover, this island is most fertile in crops, most rich 
in birds, and a foster-mother of flocks ; it has only one hill, 
no tree ; it is shut in by very rugged cliffs, with no entrance 
but one, where is also a spring of sweet water, a place to be 
honoured by all seamen, but especially by pirates, whereby 
it took its name, and was called Holy Land. In the life of 
St. Willebrord we learn that it used to be called Foseti's 
land. In the life of St. Liudger it is told that a certain man 
named Landricus was baptized there by the bishop in the 
days of Charles [the Great].' 

In the temples and holy places no weapon could be worn, 
no unhallowed act performed, under penalty of the god's 
high displeasure, as we learn from Bede's story of the con- 
verted heathen priest, Coifi (Coibhe), who, mounted on a 
horse and fully armed, rode into the sacred temple-enclosure 
and hurled his spear in defiance of the god to which the 
temple belonged, at Godmundingham, hard by York. 

With regard to death and the future life^ there were two 
pretty distinct sets of ideas. The older seems to have been 
that at death man's spirit dwelt in the grave where his body 
lay. These graves — tumuli — were the resting-places of the 
dead who inhabited them, just as the living inhabit houses. 


With the deceased were always buried those things which it 
was thought would be useful to him in his spirit-life. 

No one was supposed to die naturally ; it was always some 
spirit, such as Weird or Fate, or the War-goddess, or the 
Fever-spirit, or some spirit sent by witchcraft, which destroyed 
a man, and then Death, a kind of psychopomp (like Hermeias 
in ancient Hellas, or Charon in modern Greece), led his spirit 

Again, there was among the old English a belief that at 
death man took a long journey and plunged into a great 
abyss, where dwelt a black goddess, from whom the name 
of Hell in other religious systems is obtained. If the 
departed were clever enough to elude the demons there, they 
passed on into a happier sphere. This is, in some of its 
later forms, a kind of heathen reflex of the Christian idea, 
but in its earlier forms it resembles certain Polynesian 

Some of the Teutons seem (in the eighth century, at least) 
to have believed in the transmigration of souls, in a dead hero 
being born again in his descendant. Hence, when Hakon 
the Good — our Athelstane^s foster-son — came back to Nor- 
way, men said : ' It is Harold Fairhair come again ! ' And 
the soul of Helge the Good was — according to a fine tenth- 
century poem — twice re-incarnated in heroes named Helge. 

As to punishment after death, as early as the eighth cen- 
tury there was a widespread belief that evildoers, perjurers, 
murderers, persons of foul life, and traitors, would meet 
a fit recompense in the next world ; and Christians in 
England, and Germany, and Scandinavia, and France, 
throughout the Middle Ages, had their ideas of judgement 
and the next world deeply coloured by these old heathen 
beliefs. But, till the infiltration of Christian ideas, in the 
ninth century, they had not arrived at any idea of a great day 
of doom. 

The elaborate Walhalla pantheon found in the later Edda 
was put together by scholars after the heathen days, and the 
eschatoloffy, with its Ragnarok, is largely drawn from one 


poem, the Wolo-spd, or Sibyl's Prophecy, which bears evident 
traces of Christian influence. 

One of the most important of their religious institutions, 
but one which we can only reconstruct by piecing together 
bits of scattered fact, was the clan or totem system, an insti- 
tution very widespread and very important in the early 
history of many races, both of the Old and New Worlds. 
The pattern of nomenclature among the Teutons seems to 
point to the system being in full vigour down to pretty recent 
times. But it fell rapidly before the economic and social 
changes brought about by an altered mode of life, and by 
the change of thought consequent upon contact with Chris- 
tianity. The members of a clan probably could not inter- 
marry ; they traced descent originally through the mother ; 
they bore the name of their totem, or ancestor, as part of 
their own name ; and, no doubt, they had certain common 
legal rights, and performed certain religious rites, in common. 
The wolf, the bear, the horse, the war-goddess, the chief god 
of the tribe under many epithets, the rock, the spear, the 
blade, the helm, the home-land, the day, the sun, the shrine, 
are the chief totems used by the early Teutons. The ^Ethel- 
ings, who ruled South England in the ninth and tenth 
centuries, the Gothic Amalings and Balthings, the Choruscan 
Sigelings, are examples of famous royal clans. 

Witchcraft, of a type resembling that of the Obi or Voodoo 
black-magic cult, was met with among the early Teutons, and 
was to them, even as heathens, a thing hateful and horrible, 
loathsome to gods and men ; though seers, and weather- 
prophets, soothsayers and men of second sight, augurs and 
dream-readers, were reverenced and treated as specially 
favoured by the gods, who gave them part of their own 
knowledge ; and white magic was often appealed to, to 
frustrate the wicked assaults of witches and wizards. 

Turning from ritual and the creed of Teutonic heathendom 
to its ethical system, an immense superiority is manifest. 
There were no *Ten Commandments', but good manners 
and morals were taught in songs, and given to the young in 



the form of story. One old poetic Dialogue between Father 
and Son contains many precepts — as, how to behave as 
a guest, friend, and householder — and much wisdom in the 
form of proverbs. The first virtue is bravery, the next is 
manliness. Uprightness of life, cleanness of living, were 
enforced. Sincerity and generosity were directed. Silence 
was a virtue. Reverence was much enjoined, and, indeed, no 
people can advance far without a high regard being paid to 
this virtue. Reverence was paid, not so much to the gods as 
to those things that were worthy of respect — to family life, 
the political organization, to the king, to the aged, to women 
and children. There was also a high ideal of duty to kindred, 
lord, and comrade ; among the free classes a high standard 
of self-respect. History and geography and statecraft were 
taught by the heroic lays, which recorded the deeds and 
deaths of great kings and champions of old. The songs 
about Attila were made in Greenland in the eleventh century, 
six hundred years after him. 

Alongside of such excellent principles as the old poems 
teach and testify to, there were great shortcomings : harsh- 
ness, deceit, and cruelty towards all who were not kinsfolk 
or friends (for only these were considered as within the 
ethical circle ; all the rest of the world was outside with 
the animals) ; pride and self-complacency, false ideas of 
honour, weakness in face of superstitious fears ; though 
we find noble examples in which men, of their own truth 
and sweetness of nature, refused and scorned sins which 
those around them commended and committed. 

With such good ethical principles, and such poor creed 
and ritual, it is not to be wondered that the heathen beliefs 
and faith went down before Christianity without any com- 
pulsion, and that in England and Scandinavia Christianity 
was accepted willingly and readily by king and people. 

There were many gains accruing from the adoption of the 
new system. First, kindliness was enforced instead of 
brutality to slaves, paupers, and persons not of [the same] 
family. Next, there was greater truthfulness and stricter 


keeping of covenants, which rendered higher political progress 
possible. Third, the importance of self-sacrifice to duty was 
more decidedly enjoined. Fourth, the cruel terrors and foul 
superstitions connected with witchcraft were put away. Fifth, 
the greater simplicity and reasonableness of the New Faith 
opened the way to further progress in thought. Last, the 
New Faith brought its Teutonic votaries into touch with 
other European nations, with anterior civilizations, and with 
a certain amount of knowledge won from nature by wise men 
in the past. 

After this brief and necessarily imperfect sketch of a great 
subject — every paragraph in which might be illustrated by 
numerous examples and instances, and sustained by lengthy 
argument and copious exposition — it may be well to conclude 
by giving a faithful and plain version of a poem composed in 
the last days of Teutonic heathendom by a warrior and poet, 
named Egil, who had served our own King Athelstan, had 
wandered over many northern lands and seas, and settled 
down at last, after all his chequered career abroad, in his 
father's house in the new colony of Iceland, looking for 
peace. But he met with a series of misfortunes in his old 
age ; and, worst of all, came the death of his two eldest and 
best beloved sons. The first, Gunnere, had died of fever; 
the second was drowned. It is told that, when the news of 
the last calamity came upon him, Egil rode to the shore 
to seek his son's body, and came right upon it, and took it 
up and set it across his knees, and rode with it to the grave 
of his own father. Then he had the grave opened, and laid 
his son therein by the side of his grandfather. And the 
grave was not closed again till about sunset. Then Egil 
rode straight home and went in and shut himself up in his 
own room and lay down. There he lay, speechless, and 
neither eating nor drinking all that night and next day, and 
no one dared to speak to him or reason with him. But on 
the third morning his wife sent a man on horseback off to 
fetch Thorberg, his favourite daughter, who was living some 
way off with her husband. She at once started for her 


father's house, and rode all the evening and through the 
night without halting till she reached it. Then she alighted, 
and went into the hall. Her mother greeted her : ' Have ye 
eaten by the way ? ' Says Thorberg : * I have taken neither 
bit nor sup, nor will I till I sup with Woden's wife [the 
goddess] ; I will follow my father and brother.' Then she 
went to her father's door and cried : * Come, father ; for 
I wish us both to go the same way ! ' And Egil opened the 
door to her, saying : ' Thou hast done well, daughter, to 
wish to die with thy father. Is it likely I could live after 
such sorrow ? ' But Thorberg did this that she might by 
some stratagem get her father to break his fast and live, and 
this she cuimingly brought about, and then said : * Now our 
plan of starving is over, and perhaps it is better, for I should 
like us to live a little longer, father, that thou mightest make 
a dirge over thy son. For there is no one else that could do 
so fitly.' And Egil said he would try to do as she wished. 
And as he made the dirge he grew better, and when it was 
finished he rose up and recited it to his wife and daughter 
and kinsfolk, and then sat down in his seat and ate and 
drank and held the funeral feast over his son in heathen 
fashion. And he sent his daughter home again with costly 
gifts and much love. And this is [part of] the dirge, and it 
is called 


It is hard for me to raise my tongue, 
the steel-yard of sound, within my mouth ; 
Little hope have I of winning Woden's spoil [poesy], 
nor is it lightly drawn from the hiding-places of my mind, 
• •••••• 

The heaviness of my woe is the cause thereof. 

For my race hath come down to the stock 
like the burnt trunk of the trees in the forest ! 
No hearty man is he that must bear in his arms 
the corse of his kinsman from his house ! 


First I will with my song-blade [tongue] 
hew this matter out in the hall of memories [my breast] ; 
Yea, this verse-timber, leafed with speech, 
shall pass out of the word-fane [my mouth]. 

Cruel was the breach the billow made 
in my father's fence of kinsmen ! 
I can see it standing unfilled and unclosed, 
the gap, left by my son, which the Sea caused me ! 

Ran [the ocean-giantess] hath handled me very roughly : 
I am utterly reft of my loving friends: 
The Sea hath cut the bonds of my race 
its hard-spun strands that lay about me. 

How shall I take up my cause with the sword 
against the Brewer of all the Gods [the Sea God] ? 
How shall I make war upon the awful Maids of the Storm 

or fight a wager of battle with the wife of Eager [the Sea 


Moreover I know that I am not strong enough 
to cope with the slayer of my son, 
for manifest to the eyes of all the people 
is the helplessness of me, an old man ! 

The Ocean hath spoiled me sorely : 
it is a hard thing to tell over the slaughter of kinsfolk ! 

The second matter of my Song shall be 
how the Friend of the Gauts [Woden] raised up to Godham 
the Sapling of my race [Gunnere], that sprung from me, 
the tendril of the kin of my wife. 

Yea, he is gone to be a guest at the city of the Hive 

• •••••• 

I know very well that in my son 
was the making of a goodly gentleman : 
if that fruitful branch had been left to ripen 
ere the Lord of Hosts [Woden] laid hands on him. 

He ever held fast to his father's word 
though the whole congregation spake against it : 
and upheld my cause at Wal-rock [the Moot-hill] 
and was the greatest stay to my strength. 


There cometh often longing into my mind 
for the brotherhood of Arinbeorn [the best friend of his 

youth] : 
reft of my friends, when the battle is waxing high, 
that bold baron, I think on him ! 

What other man that loves me well 
will stand by my side against my foes' counsels? 

I often lack the strong pinions that upheld me. 
I go with drooping flight for my friends are dropping away. 
It is right hard to find a man to trust 
among all the congregation beneath the gallows of Woden 
[the World-tree]. 
• •••.*« 

It is a proverb that no man can get 
full recompense for his own son ; 
nor can one born of another kin 
stand to a man in the place of a brother. 

I was friendly with the King of Spears [Woden] 
and I put my trust in him believing in his plighted peace : 
till he broke, the Lord of the Wain, 
the Judge of Victory, his friendship with me: 

Wherefore I do not worship the brother of Wile [Woden] 
the Prince of the Gods, nor look yearningly upon him : 
yet the Friend of Mim [Woden] hath bestowed upon me 
recompense for my wrongs, if I am to count up his better 
deeds to me. 

The war-wont Foe of the Wolf [Woden] 
hath given me the blameless art: 
yea, the poet's song, by which I may turn 
open foes into well-wishers. 

Now the Wreck of my Two Sons is sung to the end. 
Night standeth near at hand : 
but I gladly and with a good will 
and without dread await Death ! 

This poem, badly preserved in a corrupt and incomplete text, 
necessarily loses in translation much of its character, its 
metrical harmony, its fine concise rhji;hm, its powerful flow ; 
but I do not think I could have chosen a more typical or nobler 


utterance of old Teutonic heathendom than these lines, in- 
stinct with deep grief and wrath, but all-inspired with a 
courage which never let the man sink to despair or mockery 
but enabled him to beat out in the very furnace of affliction 
a poem which for its beauty and strength is as wrought 
Damascus steel. 

Human nature is everywhere much the same. Grief 
touches the same chords in us as it did in our heathen fore- 
fathers of our long ago, or, and as it did long ago in those 
better-remembered heroes whose sorrow is enshrined in the 
Homeric laments over Patroclus and Hector, or that Song of 
the Bow which David taught his people. Their primitive 
faith, clumsy and childish as it was, yet represented the higher 
instincts of their niature, the sympathy they felt for their fellows, 
and the awe that was upon them by reason of the unknown 
forces that compassed them about : our faith can do no more 
for us. 

It is not in a man's creed but in his deeds, not in his 
knowledge but in his wisdom, not in his power but in his 
sympathy, that there lies the essence of what is good and 
what will last. 


It is beside my purpose here to note the affinities of 
Teutonic Heathenism. The mythology is largely of the 
general Aryan type. There are many close parallels to the 
Celtic mythology in particular, and apparently also to Slavonic 
heathendom. This was of course to be expected. 

I do not believe that there are any traces of borrowings 
from the Latin or Greek mythology in extant old Teutonic 
myths, though it is not impossible that older Oriental 
mythologies may have affected all these systems. 

It must be remembered that among the fairy-tales of 
modern Teutonic nations are many which do not go back to 
the heathen days, but are drawn from foreign sources during 
or since the Middle Ages. 



It is Tradition, the oral handing on of oral knowledge, that 
is the means by which the most of our folk-lore material has 
been and is being preserved. Tradition as a process deserves 
examination. We ought to know what are its conditions, 
its limits, its possibilities. Little has been done, as far as 
I know, to investigate these matters. They have been left 
vague. The Benthamite, content with citing Russian 
scandal, is wont to deny the possibility of accurate tradition 
at all. The credulous sentimentalist of the Bernard Burke 
kind will set no bounds to the process. It has been 
gravely argued that because one of the names of Seirios 
may be interpreted the traverser there is in this title a 
remembrance of the time, more than thirty thousand years 
ago, when Seirios was crossing the Milky Way, which, as 
Euclid would say, is absurd. And yet there are materials 
for the more accurate determination of the scope of oral 
tradition, as I hope to show by certain examples. 

Now it is first to be noted that in many unlettered, that is, 
in my sense, bookless communities, there are special means, 
pieces of social machinery, devised and practised for the pre- 
servation of the knowledge of the events and culture of the 
past. What Caesar tells us about the Druid school of the 
Gauls in his day is but an earlier description of what Dr. Hyde 
and Dr. Joyce tell us from mediaeval Irish MSS. about the 
schools of ancient and mediaeval Erin. Says Caesar, ' The 
Druids are not accustomed to take part in battle, nor do they 
pay taxes with other people. They are exempt from military 
service and everything they have is immune. Roused by the 
certainty of such privileges many congregate to their course of 
life of their own will or are sent there by their kinsfolk and 
neighbours. They are said to learn a great number of verses, 
and some remain in their course as long as twenty years, nor 
do they think it right to commit these things to writing, 
although in other business both private and public they make 
use of Greek letters.' Caesar guessed that they did this 


because they wanted to keep their lore secret, and also 
because they wanted to assure good memories in their pupils. 
But this is merely his rationalistic theory. He goes on to 
say the Druids taught * that souls do not perish, but after 
death pass from one set of persons to another, and this', 
says he, ' they think a great incital to righteousness, seeing 
that the fear of death is put away. Besides this they hold 
much reasoning over the stars and their motions, over the 
universe and the size of various countries, over the beginning 
of things, the power and the rule of the gods that die not, 
and all this they deliver or hand on to the youth they teach.' ^ 
Here we have a regular pagan University in which by 
memorial verse during a course of many years a whole 
system of philosophy, mythology, and history is carefully 
handed down orally from generation to generation. The 
Vedic schools of India, where the early Vedas have been 
handed down from the days of the collection of the Rishis' 
songs, long before Alexander and Buddha, to our own days 
by the carefully trained memories of master and pupil is an 
example of the possibility of exact transmission in a stable 
society for many generations. Exact dates in the uncertain 
state of Indian chronology are hard to get. 

The secular or bardic schools of mediaeval Ireland com- 

^ 'Illi rebus diuinis intersunt, sacrificia publica ac priuata procurant, 
religiones interpretantur ; ad hos magnus adulescentium numerus 
disciplinae causa concurrit, magnoque hi sunt apud eos honore. . . . 

Druides a bello abesse consuenint, neque tributa una cum reliquis 
pendunt ; militiae uacationem omniumque rerum habent immuni- 
tatem. Tantis excitati praemiis et sua sponte multi in disciplinam 
conueniunt et a parentibus propinquisque mittuntur. Magnum ibi 
numerum uersuum ediscere dicuntur. Itaque annos non nuUi xx in 
disciplina permanent. Neque fas esse existimant ea litteris mandate, 
cum in reliquis fere rebus, publicis priuatisque rationibus, Graecis 
litteris utantur. ... In primis hoc uolunt persuadere, non interire 
animas sed ab aliis post mortem transire ad alios, atque hoc maxime 
ad uirtutem excitari putant, metu mortis neglecto. Multa praeterea 
de sideribus atque eorum motu, de mundi ac terrarum magnitudine, 
de rerum natura, de deorum inimortalium ui ac potestate disputant 
et iuuentuti tradunt.' [De Bell. Gall. vi. 13-14.] 

R 2 


prise a twelve years' course, that is to say, a pupil could not 
compass it in less than twelve years. These schools are 
undoubtedly the successors of the kind of school that 
Caesar's Druids kept. We have some certain information as 
to the work they did.* In the first year the pupil's memory 
was tested by the learning of twenty tales in prose, seven as 
Ollamh, three as Taman, ten as Drisac, so that when he 
became Fochluc he had learnt elementary grammar, certain 
poems, and ten more tales, and was regarded as a person 
capable of the minor kinds of poetry. In his third year, as 
Mac Fuirmedh, he went on with grammar, philosophy, 
poetry, and ten new tales. In his fourth year as Doss he 
began law, learnt twenty more diflBcult poems and ten more 
tales. As Carta, in his fifth year, he went on with his gram- 
mar and learnt ten more tales. As Cli, in his sixth year, he 
learnt forty-eight poems, ten tales, and began to study the 
diflBculties of the oldest Irish poetry. He now became 
Anradh (something like a Master of Arts), and was qualified 
as a Bard or ordinary poet. For three years he learnt 
poetry, acquired old Gaelic, and had to compose in various 

^ Dr. D. Hyde, LAterary History of Ireland, p. 528, &c., gives, from 
the Memoirs of Clanrickard, London, 1722, an account of a bardic 
school in the later day. It began at Michaelmas, and lasted till 
March 25. The pupils all brought gifts to the chief Ollamh. Those 
who could not read and write Irish well or had bad memories were at 
once sent away. The rest were divided into classes according to their 
proficiency and past studies, the juniors to be taught by inferior 
professors, the seniors by the head Ollamh himself. They were only 
taught at night by artificial light ; they composed and memorized 
each in his own dark, windowless room, where was only a bed, a 
clothes-rail, and two chairs. Hence luidhe i ledbaihh sgol, to lie in 
the beds of the schools, meant to be studying to become a poet. 
Before the supper candles were brought round for the student to 
write down what he had composed. They then took their compositions 
to the hall, where they supped and talked till bed-time. On Satur- 
days and holidays they went out of the schools into the country, 
quartering themselves on the country people, who supplied their food 
and that of their professors. Obviously there are remains of the older 
discipline still to be recognized in this description. 



difficult metres and to learn 105 tales. For his last three 
years he was studying to be received as Ollamh (equivalent 
to our Doctor's degree), and to be known as File (a poet) or 
Eces (a learned man). He had now mastered 100 poems 
of the highest class and 175 tales (making 350 in all), which 
he is prepared to repeat accurately at the call of his audience. 
The degree was conferred by the king on the report of the 
examining doctor. The Ollamh thus knew poetry, history, 
law, and the older language, which had now passed into 
another stage and was becoming rapidly unintelligible. He 
had learnt the geography, history, and mythology of his 
native land. He had acquired great privileges, the musical 
branch corresponding to his degree, of gold as Doctor, of 
silver as Master, and of bronze for the lower grades. He was 
entitled to carry the riding-whip of state, to wear white 
garments and a mantle, in the case of a chief poet made of 
birds' feathers, white and partly coloured from the girdle 
down, and upward green-blue made from the necks and 
crests of drakes, a very old-fashioned species of honorary 
clothing. He had a right to entertainment and guerdon, and 
even as Anradh had a train of twelve persons and rode on 
horseback. At the banquet the head-poet's portion was 
the haunch. His worth-fine was that of a king or bishop, 
he was free from all taxation, he was believed to possess 
many of the supernatural powers the Druid or magiis had 
possessed. His satire could bring out black, red, or white 
blisters on the face of his victim. His poetic curse, per- 
formed in heathen fashion, with one foot, one hand, one eye, 
and one breath, could cause death. He was an augur and 
could interpret dreams and find lucky days. He could hide 
his clients from their foes under magic fogs or by means of 
shape-changing. He could make a lethe-drink, could raise 
the elements, and by his magic wisp, the dlui fulle, he could 
cause insanity or idiocy.^ The privileges of the poets were 

* It is curiouB, but not at all wonderful, that much of the reverence 
and fear felt for the magus in Ireland has descended upon the priest, 
who is firmly believed to ' know the word ', and to be able to make any 


80 great, and full advantage was taken of them, that they 
were twice publicly attacked, and only saved by powerful 
intercession. Public banquets were made in honour of the 
poets as late as 1451, and their circuits were continual 
sources of easy emolument. There was every encouragement 
for a man of good birth and fine wit to enter the OUamh's 
school, and become historian, poet, taleteller, or judge to his 
clan.^ For from the ranks of trained scholars the hereditary 
poets and judges {brehons) were chosen. Remnants of this 
organization went on to the beginning of the seventeenth 
century, when it passed away after at least 1800 years of 
existence from the days of Caesar to those of James I. The 
oral teaching in the little dark huts of the scholars that 
flocked from various quarters, the system of memorizing vast 
masses of verse and prose, dealing with various natural and 
human phenomena deemed of the highest importance, the 
privileges of the doctors and the generous maintenance of 
the scholars, were alike under the discipline of the Druid and 
in the Bardic schools of distracted Ireland in the sixteenth 

Irish mediaeval manuscripts have preserved to us only 
a small part of the lore of the schools, but the legal Tracts, 
the Dinsenchus, the Dialogue of the Ancients, the many 
fragmentary Tales (often jotted down merely as memoranda), 
are specimens of the kind of traditional matter handed down 
by the organization. But it is evident that the acceptance 

one he wishes to afflict insane, or paralytic, or epileptic, or to 'change ' 
him, and the fear of the priest's anger and secret powers is no small 
element in the veneration and obedience he unquestionably gets. In 
mid-England I know of a case in which a village wizard was believed 
to be able to cause the falling sickness, and have heard of an instance 
of his power. 

^ It was not till the days of the high-king Conchobhar Mac Nessa, at 
the beginning of the Christian era, that the office of poet no longer of 
necessity carried with it the position of hrehon or judge, in conse- 
quence of the obscure pleadings of Ferchertne and Neide when they 
contended for the office of High Ollamh of Erin before the Kings 
of Erin. 


of Christianity must have profoundly disturbed the subject- 
matter and importance of the Pagan schools, so that for the 
last twelve centuries before the end came the greater part of 
the old teaching must have been modified or omitted ; but 
though many of the spells and stories of the gods and the mass 
of heathen cosmogony and eschatology vanished, the method 
remained, and we have still much genealogy, law, romance, 
history, and poetry of the old days. The place of the heathen 
religious matter was filled by the sacred history of the Church 
schools, where the interpretation and language of the sacred 
books of the Christians and the rules and law of the Church 
Catholic were assiduously taught, where reading was, of 
course, permitted, and the degree attained was that of Sat 
or Doctor of Divinity. 

But it is in the antipodes that by far the best example of 
the heathen university for an unlettered people is to be found. 
In the excellent and invaluable Maori history of John White, 
we have an account of a system of schools by which all 
valuable knowledge was accurately and orally handed down. 
Chief of these was the Red House, Whare-kura, raised in 
a sacred place, consecrated by a living sacrifice in which 
need-fire was employed ; the sons of priests, having had spells 
recited over them, occupied this place from nightfall to dawn 
in the autumn, and studied from sunset to midnight for four 
or five months in succession. They were fed at the public 
expense, they were strictly disciplined, they were kept apart 
from the rest of the people, so that no distraction should 
interrupt the effort of memory. Spells and legends formed 
the greater part of the course, much of which consisted in 
the learning of verse. No man could become a teacher in less 
than three years, inapt pupils were at once dismissed, which 
with constant tests secured efficiency. Besides the Red 
House there was a School of Star-lore, where priests and 
chiefs of the highest rank taught the omens, the calendar, 
proper times and observances connected with feasts, hunting, 
and the times at which crops should be planted and reaped. 
The teaching time was always night, the school was under 


tabu and opened and closed ceremoniously like the Red 
House. There was also a less formal establishment which 
one might call a School of Agriculture, where people of all 
classes learnt the necessary knowledge for the procuring of 
vegetable food and the incantations which secured good 

We have both in the Irish and Maori tales many examples 
of the regular formulae that helped the reciter, just as the 
regular lines that so often recur in the Homeric poems and 
the Chansons de geste descriptive of common operations 
helped the -rhapsode and the trouvere. 

Among the Eddie poems we find examples of the poetic 
Dialogue form of Didactic compositions, dating from the 
last days of Scandinavian heathendom in the ninth century, 
giving instruction of the kind then deemed most impor- 
tant. These poems prove that the Scandinavians had also 
their method of handing down folk-lore, though there 
were no Medicine-men or Druids in the heathen North, and 
though Scandinavia was never greatly given to superstition, 
admodum dedita religionibus, like the Gaul of Caesar's 

What comes out of all this (and there is much more that 
could be said on these archaic arrangements for securing the 
correct transmission of knowledge and science without the 
use of lettei's) is that unless interrupted by a revolution such 
as the incoming of new religion and culture, conquest from 
abroad or enforced emigration, a certain number of traditions 
(larger probably than we should commonly expect) may be 
handed down in a form little changed for several centuries at 
least Each New Zealand tribe remembered the canoe of 
settlers from which it took its descent as far back as the 
twelfth century or earlier, if we may judge from genealogies 
numerous enough to afford fairly safe means of comparison. 
For if we get sufficient pedigrees running side by side, with 
traditions dependent from each step, in one or another 
synchronisms will become apparent that will help us to 
ascertain within a few years the date of a battle or the 


accession of a chief.^ It is these synchronisms that in 
Mangaia (the biggest of the Hervey Islands) enabled Mr. 
Gill to get back to within a few years of the dates or occur- 
rences that took place as far back as the fifteenth, sixteenth, 
and seventeenth centuries, though the Hervey Islanders were 
wholly unlettered and had no special means save their dramas 
for preserving tradition.^ These dramas of theirs are exceed- 
ingly remarkable — they are dramas persistent in the precise 
stage of that the Greek drama had reached before the coming 
of Aischylos; dramas performed by means of a reciter, 
a chorus leader, and a large chorus ; dramas dealing with 
history and mythology, with the tragedies of kings and gods 
and famous men and women, death-songs and celebrations 
or remembrances of striking occurrences. These dramas 
were composed by regular poets, hundreds of people took 
part in the performances, and if the drama was successful it 
was learnt and remembered by hundreds more. So that in 
the middle of the nineteenth century Mr. Gill was able to 
collect from his cultured converts a great number (probably 
the finest) of these plays. They were performed at night 
only, in time of peace, after preparations that sometimes 
took more than a year. They were played in groups, and 
some twenty would be played between sunset and sunrise by 
the light of fires and torches. They seldom extend beyond 
100 or 200 lines. They are as allusive as the Odes of 

^ It was by these synchronisms in the parallel pedigrees of 
Landndma-hoc that Dr. Vigfusson was able to solve the puzzle of Are 
Frode's chronology. 

^ Basil Thomson concludes that the people of Nine must have been 
established on that island before 1300 because they have no ' certain 
tradition ' of their origins, and the only clues to their provenance are 
their customs, such as mock circumcision, absence of tattoo, a moho 
token, kava preserved for the priests alone, &c., and the prevalence 
of certain definite racial types, one like the Cook islanders, wavy- 
haired Polynesian, one lank-haired Malayo-Micronesian (not more 
than 10 per cent.), one in the SW. in Avatele with some Melanesian 
characteristics. He would, therefore, believing traditions, oral and 
unassisted, to go back no further than 500 years, put the arrival of 
the first settlers on Nine as earlier than five centuries ago. 


Pindar himself : the explanation of many of the oldest could 
only be given by chiefs and priests who were constrained 
to become acquainted with the legends centring round the 
religious functions which formed their daily duties. That 
the Play of Captain Cook and Omai (made soon after their 
arrival in 1777) should be remembered a hundred years later is 
not surprising, though the accuracy of the native tradition as 
tested by Cook^s own journals is noteworthy ; but we have 
earlier instances proving the accuracy and scope of native 
tradition. At the end of the sixteenth century, in the time of 
Shakespeare and Elizabeth, Tekaraka was exiled with his 
family and friends in two large double canoes on the advice 
of the oracle-priest of the god Motoro. Nothing was known 
of the fate of these outlaws, until, after the conversion of the 
islands, certain New Zealanders, Christians, were able to visit 
in peace a land that had always shown itself especially 
inhospitable to strangers. These Maoris brought the news 
of Tekaraka's landing in their islands, where many persons 
traced their descent to him, and where many places kept the 
old Mangaian names he brought there. 

Nearly fiftj' years later Iro of the Tongan tribe raised 
a great conspiracy against the leading chiefs of his day, 
the plot was discovered, and he too was condemned by the 
priest of Motoro to exile. With plenty of provisions he and 
his friends, forty souls, sailed in their two double canoes 
from the west of the island on their uncertain voyage, and 
lost sight of their native land lit up that night by the torches 
of their sorrowing friends. No tidings of the exiles reached 
Mangaia for 155 years, but Iro's sad fate was the subject of 
a drama, by the famous poet Koroa, played as late as 1791, 
amid the sympathy of a great audience. In 1826, when 
Christianity had just been introduced to the Harvey group, 
a Raratongan who came with John Williams the missionary 
to Mangaia told the Harvey people that Iro's canoe had 
reached Raratonga, where a chief named Kainuku had given 
them a home and a welcome, repaid by their raising 
Kainuku's tribe to regal position through their wonderful 


valour in battle, so that this tribe alone could eat turtle 
and royal fish, the prerogative of the chiefs only in other 
tribes. Iro left behind him in Mangaia a message of 
vengeance, and before many years were out his friends 
revenged themselves upon those who had forced this famous 
and popular hero into outlawry. 

Here are instances where corroboration exists to prove the 
facts tradition has preserved. This corroboration cannot be 
looked for in every case, but here is an authentic example 
of events accurately recorded and handed down for eight 
generations without special means of record, for if the dramas 
preserved facts, yet the facts in this case had to be remem- 
bered without letters or even regular oral teaching. There 
may have been earlier dramas on the subject than those of 
Koroa (composed many generations after the exile of Iro), 
but analogy does not point to this as a necessity. Most of 
the dramas date from the eighteenth century, though there are 
dramatic songs of far older date and obscure by reason of the 
old language. At the end of the eleventh and the early part 
of the twelfth century long poems, based on oral tradition, 
were being composed in France and England on events and 
persons of the eighth and ninth centuries ; while, in the 
thirteenth century, a vast body of romance grew up round 
oral legends attached to persons who, if they existed, must, 
some of them, have lived and died in the sixth century. In 
both these cases the foundation of the new literature was 
certainly oral. For the ' Britannic book ', like the ^ British 
History^, can but have contained the substance of oral 
traditions. It is true, as Carlyle said, that beyond a limited 
time (no greater perhaps than three centuries) all the past 
tends to be viewed as on one plane. These are the old 
times, — 

Far in the pristine days of former yore, 

a8 the parody has it, — but even then a certain order is 
remembered ; the two Cromwells may be confused, but they 
are known to be later than the Danes, and the Danes them- 


selves younger than the 'old Romans^. In the far-off 
landscape, only a few peaks catch the sun, only a few names 
survive, but we must remember that with us since the 
Conversion, which began in the late sixth century, there has 
been no systematic tradition, no organization that secured 
the handing down of that great mass of heathen history and 
knowledge which the Teutonic settlers must have brought 
across the North Sea in the fifth century. Kings, like 
Alfred and his exemplar, Charles, may have busied themselves 
with the collection of the old songs, but the change in 
religion, in language, and in culture, and the long disgrace 
under which all that had affinity to the Old Faith had so 
long lain, must have prevented their collections, of which so 
little now remain, from being at all adequately representa- 
tive of the vast mass of tradition that belonged to the past. 
Spells have survived in out-of-the-way places, and a few 
curious penmen (to whom we owe great gratitude) took the 
trouble to write down some few compositions in which they 
were personally interested. It is to such a stray collector 
that the preservation of the two collections of the Eddie 
poems is due. But the mass of old lore in Britain has 
perished, and in the field of folk-lore it is only from tiny 
fragments that we can gain a knowledge of how far our 
ancestors were able to maintain and transmit their own 
knowledge of the past. 

Personally I think the transmission-power of tradition has 
been very much undervalued^, since we, in modern days, 

* If I may be permitted to refer to the GHmm Centenary Papers 
(Oxford, 1886), I believe that my master, Dr. Vigfusson, made it most 
likely that the recollection of Sigfred was 1,000 years old when the 
Northern colonist in Greenland made a Lay about the tragedy of the 
revenge taken for him, and when in these ' Western Isles ' of Britain 
Northern colonists made the Lays that deal with his fall, his wife's 
widowhood, and the death of his murderers. 

I have not alluded to the well-known case of the gold-clad giant of 
Mold, a tradition that lived through several centuries at least orally, 
and the remarkable preservation of place-names in England through 
many centuries (frequently more than ten) merits special notice here. 


have so little experience of its possibilities and scope. 
Unlettered tradition will always be at the mercy of a slight 
cataclysm. It is not till tradition is committed to letters 
that its preservation is at all definitely assured. And this is 
a truth that, even in this century, is not sufficiently recog- 
nized. Societies such as ours must be the recorders. Our 
function as Recorders and Remembrancers is even more 
important than our function as Interpreters. Our oppor- 
tunities for record are swiftly and silently slipping past. 
There will always be time for the systematizers, but at present 
the Duty of Collection is to my mind paramount. 


Easy to understand is the abiding interest of Beowulf, 
a noble work of art, in spite of faults due largely to the 
scruples of the composer through whose hands the heathen 
traditions passed and came forth robbed of many features of 
interest, scarred by omissions, but loaded with heavy moraliz- 
ings. There rings throughout the poem a noble tone, and 
not a few passages that appeal now as strongly as ever to 
the deepest and highest human feelings. Not Wordsworth 
at his best felt more truly that close fellowship with nature, 
that intense sympathy with mother Earth and all her children, 
that deep sense of the glory and pathos of human life, that 
sturdy faith face to face with the immensities, than did this 
old-world singer, so far from us in time, so close in heart ; 
though centuries have passed over this land since he and the 
heroes he sung of were numbered with the dead, and, as he 
himself says in a famous passage : — 

The horsemen are sleeping. 
The brave in the grave ; there is no sound of harp there. 
No mirth in the courts, as was wont there of yore. 

1 1898. 


The Nihelungenlied is assuredly not one of the great 
poems of the world, not even one of the great epics ; it is 
inferior to Roland, to the best of the William of Orange 
cycle, to Beowulf, perhaps to the Argonauticon, none of 
which can be placed in the first rank. It is enormously in- 
ferior to the little Scandinavian epics that deal with the same 
subject. It has many faults of construction, of execution, of 
tone. But it is a powerful and readable mediaeval poem with a 
fairly well-arranged plot, and its obvious defects — the stanzaic 
measure, the long-winded narrative, the flat conventional 
colouring, the useless and childish exaggerations — are not 
such as interfere too much with the reader^s enjoyment. Its 
most obvious blemish to the modern — the mediaeval aspect 
in which a prae- mediaeval tale and characters are draped — 
does occasionally jar a little, but it is a necessary factor of 
much good mediaeval work, and must be frankly accepted. 
Its strong points are its simplicity, the unaffected sympathy 
of the poet for the people he is singing about, the skill with 
which he often manages his own peculiar metre, maintaining 
the rolling swing of his lines, as of billow following billow, 
with the endless variety of cadence of the North Sea waves ; 
his lack of sentimentality (even in the matter of the blameless 
Margrave), and the interesting little personal touches in 
which he makes his own reflections; his 'asides' to the 
audience upon the action as it proceeds, his obvious sense of 
the bitter reality of the whole thing, his real power (even 
concentration at times) in tragic moments; his true, if 
uncouth and rough, humour when matters wax grimmest, 
lighting up and so really intensifying the horrid gloom. Let 
us take a few specimens, and two stanzas of the memorable 
and well-known induction first, which might be roughly but 
pretty closely rendered : — 

To us in stories olden is many a marvel told 
Of heroes highly holden, of deeds both great and bold. 
Of joys and merry makings, of weeping and of wail. 
Of noble warriors' battles, marvels shall ye now hear tell. 
» 1897. 



There grew up in Burgundy a noble maiden free. 
In no land on earth could fairer damsel be, 
Kriemhild her name was; she became a beauteous wife; 
Many a noble vassal for her sake must lose his life. . . . 

For further instance we might give that notable passage 
where Dancwart * walks proudly to court ', which might 
stand in pretty close English : — 

When the doughty Dancwart 'neath the hall-gate was come. 
The vassals of King Attila he bade them give him room ; 
Not one of his garments but was dripping all with gore. 
And a great and mighty weapon drawn in his hand he bore. 

Across the hall he shouted, in a loud voice and strong, 
' Hagen ! Brother Hagen ! ye be sitting here too long ! 
To you and God in heaven I commend me in our need; 
Your knights and squires are lying all in their lodging 
dead.^ . . . 

The good knight who made it is at his very best here; even 
his epic formulae seem no longer pieces of style, but true 
enhancement, not to be spared if the impression is to be 
complete. How impressive it is — the feast at its height, the 
great hall gay with colour and metal, and the sudden hasty 
entrance of this big man, sword in hand, shieldless, dyed in 
blood, with his loud stern appeal, the death-knell of well-nigh 
every soul there, in that vast gathering of the starkest warriors 
of the world ! 

Again, let us take the opening of the fine scene of the 
night-watch, when the two veterans are cheerily keeping 
guard over their doomed kinsmen and friends ; we may 
render it thus : — 

* Chill grow the mail-rings on me,' Volker spake and said. 

* Full well I know from over us the night will soon be sped. 
By the sky 1 tell 'twill soon be open day ! ' 

Then they woke up their company that still a-sleeping lay. 

Again, we may translate : — 
There was full mighty glory left lying there dead, 
The people all were falling to wailing and to need ; 
The King's high feast had ended in bitter grief enow. 
As ever Love to Loathing at the last must go ! 


What later befell there I cannot unfold ; 
Knights and ladies weeping there were to behold. 
And noble squires likewise, for their dear kinsmen dead. 
Here hath this story ending ! This is the Nibelung's 

The thirteenth-century Norwegian author used sources 
much more archaic than, if not quite so poetic as, the 
Austrian Nibelungenlied of a century earlier. The earlier 
Scandinavian versions of the tenth and eleventh centuries are 
accessible to English readers in Dr. Vigfiisson's text; and 
there is William Morris's poem. 


The Finns have a literary life of their own ; one that, like 
their music, is drawn from popular sources and is of recent 
development. The history of the movement by which an 
unlettered people, whose ideal of culture had been imitation 
of Swedish literature and the acquisition of Swedish and 
Latin as modes of expression, turned to the cultivation of 
their own tongue, the garnering of their own unwritten 
poetry and traditions, and upon this foundation proceeded to 
build up a national literature and an adaptation of the national 
spoken language to the purposes of a ' book-tongue ' — all this 
is a piece of recent history, the course of which is known and 
its different stages traced. It has been in great part told 
clearly and pleasantly by Professor Comparetti, the well- 
known Italian scholar and *folk-lorist^, in the apt and careful 
translation before us, to which Mr. Lang (who is entitled to 
speak upon the Homeric problem, long one of his favourite 
subjects) contributes a learned and readable preface, wherein 
he shows what he takes to be the bearings of the story of the 
Kalevala upon the composition of the vulgate texts of 

^ The Traditional Poetry of the Finns. By Domenico Comparetti. 
Translated by Isabella M. Anderton. 1899. 


Now, the story of the way the Kalevala, now the national 
epic of Finland, was put together is an interesting and also 
a significant one. In 1835 Lonnrot, a native Finn, a doctor 
and lover of popular poetry and folk-lore of his country-folk, 
published, through the Finnish Literary Society (which he 
had helped to found four years earlier) at Helsingfors, an epic, 
which he had woven together out of various folk-songs or, as 
the Finns call them, runos, and entitled it Kalevala, after 
the name of one of the heroic beings appearing in it. This 
Kalevala was a distinct composition by a clever and poetic- 
minded man, well trained in the cadences and characteristics 
of Finnish popular unwritten poetry, of which he had 
accumulated a vast store taken down from the lips of the most 
famous folk-singers of his time. Out of this store or treasury 
of living song the worthy doctor chose those lays that dealt 
with the myths of Vainamoinen and of the quest for the 
magic Sampo, the tragedy of fair Aino, the wooing of the 
sea-god's daughter by Kaukomoinen and other of his 
adventures, the wooing of the maiden that sits on the rainbow 
by the children of the Host of Heaven, the tragedy of 
Kojonen, who slew his wife and himself, the origin of the 
kantele or Finnish zither (upon which the music needed by 
the reciters of those folk-ballads and folk-epics is played); 
certain magic songs, such as the song of Fire, of the Bear- 
killer, of the healing of sickness; the lays of the Virgin Mary 
and of the judgement of Vainamoinen and his self-banish- 
ment in his sorrow and anger at the advent of Kullervo, 
Kalervos*s son, and the sad end of Tunro (?), for the horror of 
which we must seek a full parallel among our own North- 
country ballads or those Russian by liny that tell of Aljoscha 
Popovic, whence, indeed, Tunro's story is in all probability 
derived. These various lays he fitted together so as to make, 
as far as he could, a connected story, not scrupling to add 
verses of his own to effect the junctures of the various incon- 
gruous pieces of material he used, not scrupling to give his 
heroes adventures that really belonged to others, nor even to 
modify and alter his matter to suit his purpose. In the lays 


he used he did not follow a single text, but combined variants 
as he thought fit. He arranged, retouched, and as far as 
possible unified the various elements at his disposal, while on 
the whole he took care that the mass of the long epic produced 
should consist of matter and verse that were essentially tradi- 
tional and folk-born. The result was a poem that not only 
caught the fancy of the patriotic Finnish public, just 
awaking to a feeling of nationality, but attracted the admiring 
attention of foreigners such as Jacob Grimm. The Finns at 
once accepted Kalevala with pride as the exponent of its 
own genius and embodiment of its own national qualities. 
The doctor's composition became a European classic. It is 
an inorganic compound, but the factors were natural products. 
There was not so much ^ fake ' in it as there was in Ossian, 
less, indeed, of the compiler himself than there is of the 
Austrian knight in the Nibelungenlied. If some worthy 
Spaniard or Russ were to put together the separate cycles of 
byliny or romances and weave them into a long and connected 
whole, the result would be comparable to that of Lonnrot. 

Now the origin of the long Homeric epic and Hindu epic 
is a matter much debated. In the case of the Niflung epic 
we have separate short lays made by Scandinavians in the 
ninth and tenth centuries in their colonies from Great 
Britain to Greenland ; we have also three centuries later 
a regular composition in many thousand lines in which a 
South German litterateur has endeavoured to tell the old 
story in his own way. But he does not use the Scandinavian 
short epics or ballads as his material. The question is^ as to 
•Homer, somewhat of this kind. 

No one now doubts that the Iliad and Odyssey, as we 
have them, are artificial book-poems made of several kinds of 
material. They were * composed ' as we have them by 
a * literary ' rather than a popular process ; persons at least 
as * civilized ' and * modern ' as Dr. Lonnrot himself have 
been at work in ancient Hellas, and their achievement, but 
not their raw material, has reached us. It is quite possible 
to detect variations of style and dialect, variations of matter 


and thought, underlying the vulgate Iliad and Odyssey, 
and so to get at some conclusions respecting the material out 
of which they were composed. The tale of the * Home- 
coming of Odusseus' has, it must be confessed, a poor skimpy 
ending attached to it to eke out the twenty-four books ; but 
at its best it is perhaps the noblest part of all Homer, and 
rests on good genuine traditional stuff. The Phaeacian episode 
is poor, thin, and artificial in comparison, and wholly modern 
in tone ; the ^ Sinbad the Sailor ' adventures rest on popular 
stories that had probably been attached to travellers older and 
other than the son of Laertes. Again, the Odyssey does 
not tell the whole history of its hero ; there must have been 
poems, surely, dealing with the Beguiling of Philoctetes, with 
the contest in which the hero strove gainfully with the brawny 
Aias, the search for Achilles, the stealing of the Luck of 
Troy, and many other notable adventures. Yet no line of 
these has reached us. The necessity for symmetry, the 
exigencies of space (twenty-four books), the Greek dislike of 
heavy clumsiness have confined the Odyssey to definite 
bounds. The process that has given us Kalevala and the 
Odyssey is (apart from the question of exact amount of 
modification of material) the same essentially. Only the 
Odyssey is, of course, a far finer poem than Kalevala. 
In the Odyssey the result is probably immensely superior 
to the separate factors. In the case of Kalevala the 
material is so very slightly modified that there is but little 
difference between elements and compound. Mr. Lang will 
hardly admit that the process is the same in the case of the 
Odyssey and the Kalevala, because the result is so 
different. It is different because the material dealt with is 
different, because the lays about Odusseus were very much 
more beautiful, more artistic, more elaborate than the half- 
barbarous Finnish ballads about Vainamoinen and Ilmarinen 
and the mysterious Sampo. It is, however, perfectly possible 
to find out Lonnrot's process by analysis ; that is to say, the 
skilled critic could have discovered from Kalevala itself 
that it was made up of various elements. And the analysis 

S 2 


of Kalevala does not at all invalidate the conclusions critics 
have reached respecting the Hexateuch or the Homeric poems. 
As to the quality of the Kalevala and of the ballads out of 
which it was woven, Mr. Lang quite rightly says that it has 
a true charm, that of the ' magical handling of nature . . . 
the expression of early humanity, above all, among races, 
isolated, remote, defeated, abiding in the solitude of hills and 
forests, culling its songs " from the plumes of the fir trees, the 
winds in the woods, the music of many waters'^ '. 

It may be well to remind those who may care to study Dr. 
Comparetti^s book en pleine connaissance de cause that there 
is a fair translation of the Kalevala by Mr. Crawford 
published in the United States, and that there is an excellent 
grammar of Finnish by Mr. Eliot, of the diplomatic service, 
brought out under the auspices of the Clarendon Press. 
The notes, bibliographic and literary, of Dr. Comparetti's 
book will give the reader a good notion of what has been 
done for the Finnish folk-literature by European scholarship. 
Those who have an opportunity of travelling in Finland will 
find Helsingfors University the centre of a very vigorous and 
intelligent Finnish culture. 


To most readers this curious epic, almost more formless 
than the gigantic and amorphous Hindu poems of Vyasa 
and Valmiki, but as simple as the finer Irish or Scandinavian 
poems, yet possesses a curious glamour, a misty iridescence, as 
it were, of a spring morning, that has a charm of its own. 
The rustic or the elfin nymphs, sad or merry, that are seen 
from time to time in the glades of this epic ; the wicked old 
hags, as of some Polynesian tale ; the powerful sorceress, the 

^ The Hero ofEsthonia, and other Studies in the Romantic Literature 
of that Country. Compiled from Esthonian and German sources by 
W.F. Kirby. 1895. 


mighty smiths, and the cunning Loke-like demons: — these form 
a kind of setting which displays the central figure, the huge, 
hurly young hero, yeoman-like as young Gamlyn, the ideal of 
a peasant's song, with all the animality, the recklessness, the 
thirst for adventure that becomes him, now performing 
gigantic feats ; wading wan waters ; Thor-like, carrying huge 
loads ; Samson-like, fighting with rocks and fists and monstrous 
pine-tree club ; like Renouard himself, laughing with the girls, 
drinking with the men, and sleeping for days and even weeks 
after his bouts of superhuman exertion. The character recalls 
most clearly the Heracles of Aristophanes and of Euripides, 
the champion of primitive order against the disorder of the 
surrounding world, the forest-clearer, the monster-slayer, the 
jolly trencherman, the generous toper, kindly, friendly, fear- 
less, easily roused to wrath or soothed to friendship, the only 
mortal that ever won a throw against that master-wrestler 
Death himself. The Kalevide's journeys into the lower 
M'orld, where he plunders Old Horny^s domains, are pretty 
close parallels to ThorkelPs voyages as told by Saxo. There 
is something Gargantuan about it all, and the sea voyage 
reminds one now of St. Brandan, now of that questing 
company that ' passed Beyond^ and attained unto the nymph- 
kept shrineand the hallowed fount, entering at the jasper portals 
by the light of that lantern ' than which there was no better 
or more divine in all the region of Lanternitia '. But there 
is no allegory about our Esthonian epic ; its force is natural, 
elemental, even childish in parts, but never lacking in a 
strong simplicity. ' The curse that fell on Kalev's mighty 
son ' was a curse he brought on himself, and he perished by 
his own sword, yet there is work for him even after death, 
and he is set to keep Hell-gates, and so preserve the earth 
from the invasions of the cruel subterranean hosts. 



This little volume was unhappily not fated to get its last 
revision and preface from its author's hand, and those who 
loved her have taken upon them the last cares of bringing it 
into print. It has fallen to me to write a few words of 
introduction. It was Miss Barmby's pleasure, during many 
long hours that would otherwise have passed heavily and 
often painfully, to busy herself with the Old Northern tongue 
and literature. She taught herself Icelandic, and she entered 
gladly and sympathetically into the wonderful scenes and 
landscapes to which that speech is the key. The fruit of 
part of her joy in and fellow-feeling for the heroic age of 
Iceland as revealed by the sagas is the content of this book. 

It falls into three parts : first the play, next the original 
poems suggested by Icelandic subjects, and thirdly versions 
of Old Northern poetry of different times. The story of 
Gisli, on which Miss Barmby's drama is firmly and wisely 
based, is perhaps, of all Icelandic stories dealing with Ice- 
landers, the best fitted for regular dramatic treatment. She 
felt this instinctively, and her choice of a subject is abun- 
dantly justified by her working out. Indeed, of all the 
plays I have read founded upon the sagas — and there are 
not a few in various tongues — hers seems to me the best, 
and my judgement is not in this case singular. She has 
understood how to treat her original, both by selecting only 
those incidents that are of dramatic value and by interfering 
with these parts of the original as little as possible ; so that 
Gisli, the hero, stands clearly out in her play without 
exaggeration or modern elaboration. His character, with 
its sympathetic and poetic temperament, allied to a constant 
obedience to justice and duty irrespective of all risk and all 
temptations, was one that doomed him to much suffering, to 
much ingratitude, and to a tragic fate, but brought him 

^ Preface to Gisli Stirsson : a Drama. By Beatrice Helen Barmby. 


much love and the honour of even his foes. When at the 
last the clouds that had shattered his life and vexed his mind 
were lifted, and the issues that had wrung his generous, 
dutiful heart were clear for ever, he met death as bravely 
as he had faced life, wishful only to thank his noble wife for 
the patient and loving care and courage that had upheld 
him in his long and haunted outlawry. Such a death and 
such a life as his in all their sadness yet did not stand for 
failure, and this is clear to the reader. Gisli has * dreed his 
weird ', but the doom has made a hero of him ; he has stood 
up for all that makes true life. He has really lived and 
lived nobly, and death snatches him from pain, from wander- 
ing, from the horror of darkness and the terror of night, 
from old age and sickness and the weakness that comes so 
cruelly to strong men. In his death-fight it was noted that 
his last blow was as sure and hard as his first, and of all 
those great encounters when famous heroes fought at bay, 
there was none remembered so wonderful as his stand, out 
on the hillside with his brave wife looking on and his dead 
foes at his feet. Like Gunnar, Gisli, * gentlest of outlaws,' 
has a tenderness, a sense of the lurking caprice of life, a 
plain and cheery patience, and an unquestioning generosity 
that were fitted for companionship with nobler souls than the 
bulk of those about him. 

But the lesser personages of the tragedy are not less dis- 
tinctly set forth in Miss Barmby's play : Aud, an ideal wife ^, 
brave, shrewd, never-failing, the one person that always from 
the very beginning is aware of the full worth and beauty of 
Gisli's character and treats him as he deserves to be treated, 
cheerfully facing exile, insult, and death for him ; Thorkel^ 
vain, selfish, ambitious, a man to be stirred easily enough 
by greed or hate or jealousy, but never to be deeply moved 
by love or pity or gratitude, a formalist in his very affection, 
a calculator in his most impulsive moments, but with the 
handsome face and careless good nature that have marked 

^ Only in the Nut-hrown Maid, I think, have we precisely such a 
character fully drawn in English literature. 


other selfish men and won for them the enduring and patient 
kindnesses of men and women far better than themselves ; 
Vestein, bright, courteous and true, fit friend for Gisli, fit 
brother for Aud, and fit father for the boys whose simple 
rectitude and naive guile brought them both death and 
success, on the path that duty, as they saw it, led them ; 
Asgerd, proud and wilful ; Gest, with the uncanny pre- 
science that he would fain control, knowing that his words 
could never avert the storms he foretold, and that must out ; 
Gudrid, grateful and impulsive, to whom even the very 
shadow of dishonour is intolerable ; Thorgrim, who hates 
Gisli because he knows he is a better man than himself, but 
who never fears to risk his own skin to sate his brutal, sullen 
temper ; Eyjolf, base-hearted and purse-proud, callous of 
others, careful of himself, foul-minded, vile instrument of 
chance, most shameful and odious in his successes, so that 
his plotted triumphs turn to his foul dishonour and bring the 
open mockery of his very hireling upon him. 

The required effects, the fatal moments of the action as 
it inexorably proceeds step by step to the end, are obtained 
by a broad, simple treatment, a straightforward construction, 
and plain and suitable diction. The 'repeat^ that is used 
with such excellent and legitimate effect in several modern 
plays is here admirably and naturally employed. The whole 
story is envisaged as a tragedy that, like Beowulf, and 
for that matter Hamlet, turns on the pivot of duty. Gisli, 
like the son of Ecgtheow, and unlike the son of Gertrude, 
accepts the burden and bears it manfully. His hauntings 
are not the gnawing of the uneasy conscience, the torments 
of irresolution, but the results of the cruel buffetings of cold, 
of long watchfulness and dark loneliness and stark hunger, 
and of brooding sorrow for the well-beloved slain in inno- 
cence, the enemy's worst injury. Gisli's whole career is 
indeed an implicit but plain acknowledgement that though 
life is good and pleasant there are far worse things than 
death, and the play is accordingly a signal expression of that 
Northern stoicism that M'as to our English and Scandinavian 



ancestors the true way of manliness and womanliness. And 
this, it will seem to the hearer and reader, I am sure, Miss 
Barmby has essentially expressed. She has felt the tragedy 
herself, and she has been able to convey its poignancy. 

The inborn sense of tears in human things, 
in a new medium. It is seldom that a work of art so perfect 
in one shape can be with so little change transported into 
a new form, but, to my mind, this rare transformation has 
been triumphantly accomplished here. 

The play was meant for acting, and it is evidently actable. 
I do not remember any other play of late years by an Eng- 
lish hand that has dealt with an heroic subject and yet dealt 
with it dramatically. If it had been written by a Danish 
woman or a French man it would have been represented 
ere this with all the adjuncts that the actor's art could 
supply. It is certainly not in any way inferior to those plays 
of Ibsen's earlier period that have in their day met with 
much applause. It is far less stagey, far more dramatic, 
and a hundred times more artistic than those classic plays 
that the Germans listen to with such patient and undeserved 
attention because they were written by men held famous. 
It is a serious and genuine tragedy, moving with the direct- 
ness of a Greek piece, and not, like a Greek piece, neces- 
sarily stripped of action. It needs no apology. It deserves 
a respectful hearing. 

Over the rest of the volume, which, in its way, is little 
less remarkable than this play of Gisli, it is permissible to 
linger for a little. The poems of which it is made up 
exhibit several phases of the classic Icelandic literature, 
skilfully garbed in our English tongue, so that he that runs 
may read. That they were translated out of the pure 
pleasure of translating is evident, and that they deserve 
printing, not only from the merit of their subjects, but from 
the deft ability of the translatress, is surely clear also. Miss 
Barmby was greatly affected by the work of Sturla, a notable 
writer, who is the last of the Icelandic classic masters of 
prose, and tells the tale of the Civil Wars that wrecked the 


commonwealth, with a power and simplicity that are unsur- 
passed, as any one that has read the history of his own time 
in his own words will testify. Miss Barmby has grasped 
Sturla's character, has appreciated his style, and been stirred 
by the deep poetry of his histories. She has been well 
advised to take out episodes and treat them in her own way, 
preserving the essence, but not troubling to dwell on the 
non-essentials. Her Burning of Flugumyr is an excellent 
ballad, in which the story of the outrage is told as it presents 
itself to the ballad-maker. She does not go over the story 
line by line like the Rimur-makers, or old Parker, or our 
later St. Giles's bards, but she seizes on the significants and 
enforces those. She will leave out the silver belt and the 
whey-butts which befit Defoe's prose, but are not needful 
to her verse ; but she dwells on the haste of Eyjolf, the 
pride of the bride, the mock of Kolbein, the lament of Earl 
Gizur and the curse he laid upon those that slew his nearest 
and dearest : — 

* I may not weep for my gold and gear, nor the shame that's 

done to me, 
But for my wife and my three sons that never the day may 


*For I may build my halls,' he said, 'and gather my 

But never build up the Hawkdale House that finds its end 

in me. 

' There shall never be men in Iceland more, from the Heaths 
to the Silent Sea, 

But they shall remember the deed that 's done and the ven- 
geance that yet shall be ! ' 

This is the right stuff. In Bolli and Gudrun, again, that 
grim meeting between the lady, who in her venomous pride 
and bitter jealousy plotted the murder of the only man she 
loved, and the murderer who betrayed his best friend, is not 
unworthily treated, though it was no easy thing to handle 
rightly. I greatly prefer Miss Barmby's verse here to the 
same passage in Morris's Lovers of Gudrun. Morris is 


sentimental in Tennysonian fashion. For once he does not 
dare to face the direct truth, he softens away the facts, he 
writes in the genteel spirit of the Idylls, misled by his master 
apparently; he makes a real mistake in his story-telling — 
a rare thing with him, and a thing almost incredible in his 
later work ; but Miss Barmby has not recoiled from the cruel 
pity of it, and she has her reward. 

In Glum the Poet a stray and suggestive allusion is ad- 
mirably worked up into a ballad of the style of those weird 
predictions of the fourteenth century that centre round the 
Wee Man and True Thomas. In Springday and Menglad 
the latest and most romantic of the Eddie tales is treated 
in the German fashion, which well beseems it, for we have 
not the tale in its older form. But the older Eddie poems 
are better represented in the Waking of Angantyr, where 
there is some of the fateful force of Gray, though the verses 
have not, in all probability, received their final polish, and 
in the careful Lay of Atli, that in the original, maimed and 
curtailed as it is, is yet the most splendid of all the poems 
that the Fall of the Burgundians has inspired. It was a 
right instinct that led Miss Barmby to rejoice over verses 
such as these — 

Rin seal ra^a rog-malmi scatna. 

i veltanda vatni lysask val-baugar 

heldr an a haondom goU skini Hiina baornom^ — 

which have a pomp and glory of diction that none of these 
old Scandinavian poems can rival. The Sons' Loss is a fine 
rendering of what is left of EgiFs greatest and most pathetic 
poem, where in a prophetic strain, with passionate figures 
that recall the fierce old Hebrew Dirges and Complaints, 
the undaunted patriarch faces the Death that had done her 
worst upon his house. The later mediaeval knight-errantry 

^ [' The Rhine shall possess the strife-begetting treasure of the 
heroes. . . . The great rings shall gleam in the rolling waters rather 
than they shall shine on the hands of the sons of the Huns,' Corp. 
Poet. Bor., vol. i. p. 49.— Ed.] 


which left its traces in Snorri's later Kings' Lives is well 
brought out in the song of Harald Hardrede, wherein the 
old simple Wicking-life of battle and storm and the old 
mocking scorn of the soft stay-at-homes, that Cormac long 
ago voiced, are mingled with a most un-Norwegian desire to 
gain a proud lady's favour by the flattery of song : — 

We were sixteen lads a-baling together, O lady gay, 

And the sea grew high and the billows on the bark broke 

grim and grey ; 
Little the loitering laggard would haste to such a play. 

Yet gold-decked Gerda of Russia has naught but 
scorn for me ! 

I was born where far in the Uplands men bend the 

twanging bow, 
But now I sweep past the skerries, and the farmers my 

galley know. 
And wide, since I first sped seaward, I have cloven the sea 
with my prow. 

Yet gold-decked Gerda of Russia has naught but 
scorn for me ! 

In the meditations of Eyvind the Poet and Raven Oddsson 
Miss Barmby has taken Browning for her master, and tried 
to sum up in soliloquy the character and situation of two 
singular and marked characters. I am not so much drawn 
to these poems as to her translations, though I can see that 
they are skilful and in some ways effective, as I do not care 
for the medium chosen and mistrust its capabilities perhaps 
too much. I feel the same kind of objection to Eyvind 
Scarred-face and The Night before Stiklastad, which are 
more purely imaginative and do not seem to me to express 
ancient reality, but a modern point of view — legitimate, I 
confess, but to me personally not sympathetic ; 

TipTivbv 8' kv avOpcairoLS Xaov ea-crcTat ovbiv. 

I feel, on the other hand, that in the Dirge of Erling the 
gentleness of Sighwat, his spiritual courage and his fidelity, 
the very qualities that made the holy king love him and 
provoked poor loving Thormod's jealousy, are cleverly and 

GISLI the outlaw 269 

surely expressed, without any touch that is not in keeping 
with the spirit of the original. Whereas in Eyvind Scarred- 
face we have a story of mediaeval invention, due in all 
probability to the zeal of some bigoted clerk, dwelling on 
heathen obstinacy of the stupid Pharaonic or Neronian style, 
turned into an appeal for toleration. It is allowable to use 
a story in this way, I admit, but its device and treatment 
jar, to my feeling, with the clear sharp note of the best 
of the ballads that Miss Barmby has here translated or 
originated. Faul Vidalin's and John Thorldksson' s ditties 
have the true mint-mark of the old poetry about them — a 
deftness, a laconism, an absence of the lack-lustre, blurred 
reflections that the muddy thinking of poets with less brains 
than melody has made too tolerable to us. The translatress 
has perceived their true quality and gone far to render it. 

It is because Miss Barmby was so frankly awake to the 
true charm of the Northern dream-ladies, to the joy of songs 
and tales that could enthral men of action and brain-power, 
skilful sailors, stubborn soldiers, crafty statesmen, that her 
work, though one must regret it has often lacked the last 
touches of her skilled hand, will, I think, at its best remain 
to witness, for many who can never attain to the originals, 
faithfully and sympathetically to the masterpieces of the 
greatest literature the Teutonic peoples produced till the days 
of the English Wickings came, and Philip shivered, like his 
forebear Charles the Great, to hear of the Northern rovers 
that disturbed his proud dreams of world-empire, when men 
whose blood and speech were akin to those of Egil and 
Sturla once more came to their heritage and ruled the realm 
of song as they ruled the sea. 

Upon the writer of this little book the ^ unfriendly night ' 
came down too soon, and it has been a real regret to me 
that I never had speech of her. Her work seems to me to 
show gifts that had not yet attained their full perfection (in 
spite of what I regard as the astonishing achievement of this 
play of Gisli) when the end fell upon the 'poet captive*. 
I can only be glad that the piety of friends has rescued these 


poems from time, and given them as a memorial of the 
undaunted courage, the fine skill, the busy curious brain, 
and the brave gentle heart of their writer, and I am glad 
to have been able to set in these few lines my stone to the 
cairn of her remembrance — 

TTOTi^opos 6' ayadoiai /xio-^oy ovroy. 


[The paper on English Allegory leads the way from the mediaeval 
scholarship of the last section to Powell's three finished appreciations 
of modern literature. It was read on July 5, 1895, to a private 
society, the ' Sette of Odd Volumes ', and printed by them. The 
verses are in the form of a dialogue between one of the members 
termed the ' Playwright ', and Powell himself, ' Brother Ignoramus ', 
so called a nihil ignorando. Defoe was published in the very limited 
issue of The Quarto, 1891, and Meinhold in TTie Pageant for 1896, 
soon out of print. All of them show Powell's inborn and impassioned 
sense for that kind of style which is nearest the quintessence of 
living, often homely speech, and yet is magically discriminated and 
sifted therefrom by the artist's instinct — a sense that is rooted not 
in any literary theory, but in the feeling for life itself. We may 
remember what he says of Bunyan in a letter : * His prose intoxicates 
me with pleasure. I read bits over and over again ; they sound to me 
something of exquisite rusticity, like an old country song.' The 
appended note on fairy-tale writing is in spirit akin ; but the same 
kind of joy in rougher phrase that comes straight from the life 
informs the article on Mr. Kipling. From a different region are 
the judgements upon Turgueniev and Mr. Swinburne, with the 
latter of which should be compared the words in the letter printed in 
Memoir, p. 21. The lecture on the influence of the Irish genius, given 
in Dublin on April 7, 1902, is pasted in the Scrap-book, as a press 
report. It survives in that form alone, but is here turned back from 
reported speech, with a few verbal corrections. It is clearly some- 
what shortened, but is well worth saving.] 


Dixit Frater Ignoramus — 
Piscibus copertus hamua 
Valde mordax ac mor talis 
_ Est Allegoria talis ! 


Ast respondit Dramatista 
Tu ne crede, f rater, ista ! 
Te decipiunt verba, quia 
Non est sic Allegoria ; 
Est Matrona pulchra, decens, 
Cui origo non est recens, 
Cvjus lingua bene pendit, 
Ac mens omnia prehendit, 
Velata admodum Vestalis, 
Est Allegoria talis ! 
Causam, fratres, judicate 
Et victori plausum date. 

Allegory has long been with us, it forms part of our 
speech and part of our thoughts, its power for good and evil 
has been manifest often enough in human history, it is 
difficult indeed to keep clear of its influence, even where it is 
possible to do so, and we are reduced to the use of symbols 
if we would escape the magic of what is itself but a sym- 

In a famous passage, which I shall here English, of his 
best known epistle, that to Can Grande, introducing his 
great poem, Dante sets forth the meaning of the term 
Allegory as he understood it. ' And according to the testi- 
mony to be spoken it must be understood that of this 
work there is not merely one single meaning or significance, 
but rather, it should be called polyseme, that is, of many 
meanings, for there is one significance of the letter and an- 
other significance of the meaning of the letter ; and the first 
is called literal, but the second allegoric or mystic. Which 
kind of process, that it may be the better set forth, may be 
considered with regard to this verse. When Israel went out of 
Egypt and the house of Israel from among a strange people, 
Judah became his holiness and Israel his power. For if we 
look at the letter alone, there is set forth the coming up out of 
Egypt of the sons of Israel in the days of Moses ; if into the 
Allegory, there is set forth to us our Redemption, through 
Christ. If into the moral or ethical meaning, there is set forth 
to us the conversion of the Soul from the struggle and 


wretchedness of sin to a state of grace. If into the anagogic 
sense, there is set forth the issue of the holy Soul from the 
slavery of this Corruption into the freedom of Glory Ever- 
lasting ; and though these mystic senses be called by divers 
names they may all be called generally allegoric, for allegory 
is called from the Greek alleon, which in Latin is called 
aliene or diverse.' 

This is plain enough, and I would define allegory for my 
purposes as a literary representation of qualities by beings 
and objects ; an algebra, as it were, of the mind, long used 
by great thinkers and poets to set forth more vividly and 
passionately their imaginings and conclusions. 

England in especial has had many famous allegorists, 
Long Will of Langland, good Master Robert Henryson, 
Edmund Spenser, John Bunyan, Jonathan Swift ; and there 
are modem masters of the art allegoric, whose names will 
readily recur to every reader. 

The flowers are ours and the fruit, but the seed was 
fetched from over the sea. The Romance of the Rose, a 
grave, pretty tale of love, left unfinished by William of Lorris, 
to receive after a long interval a marvellous and encyclopaedic 
completion by John Clopinel of Meun, most weighty, most 
cynical and most humorous of mediaeval ethical teachers : 
the Pilgrimage of Deguilleville, the best-known example of a 
type of allegory that has gone far since his day : above all, 
the noblest book the Middle Ages have left us, vast and lofty 
as a great Gothic cathedral, as elaborate in detail and as 
holy in purpose — the Divine Comedy, portraying the pro- 
gress of the Human Soul towards the Divine. Such were the 
models in the hands of our fourteenth and fifteenth century 
writers. The makers of the models themselves, French and 
Italian alike, had woven their beautiful dreams after the 
pattern of the heathen Roman's Dream of Scipio, of the 
Consolation of Wisdom (which our Alfred englished) by 
the wise and much-enduring Boece, and of the fantastic 
Marriage of Philology by Marcianus (Saxo's master in 


These, and besides these, that curious series of symbolic 
Christian Visions, Adamnan's, Fursey^s, TungdaPs, which 
Bede and later hagiographers have preserved for us — wild 
horrors of the brain and heart, sprung from the vast Oriental 
imaginations of fasting seers and prophets, grafted on yet 
older and more primitive theories and crude myths of heathen 
magicians and medicine-men — all these lie at the stem of our 
famous English allegories. But beyond these too, far back 
as literature exists at all, aye, as far as words and sentences 
have sound, the roots of Allegory stretch into the primaeval 
darkness that broods over our human beginnings. 

We cannot win back so far to-night : we must be content 
\o begin with Langland, a name as unknown five and twenty 
years ago as it was well known five centuries earlier. An 
earnest, sorrowful personage, that had learnt his wisdom in 
the hard school of the world, as well as out of crabbed 
vellums, with the Malvern Hills for his Ecclefechan and the 
busy, squalid, slimy hithe by Thames Street for the orderly 
peace of Cheyne Walk ; the Carlyle of his time, and with no 
less influence; scornful, pitiful, hopeful, though few stars 
pierced the black night through which he was steering. 
With less impatience than tormented ' true Thomas ' and 
none of that childish make-believe that seems to be a part of 
Tolstoi's nature, Langland perceived, long before the famous 
Scot or notorious Russian, that the faithful, simple, hard- 
working Piers Plowman, peasant or fisherman, taught of 
earth and sea, comes perhaps nearer the apostolic life 
preached and practised in Galilee than any other we know. 

This poor, proud, lean, long-legged clerk, stalking silent 
and self-absorbed to his chantry, along the merry, noisy, 
dirty, bright-coloured, stinking Eastcheap of Richard H's 
day, was indeed the wisest man then alive' in England. One 
cannot forget his bold Apologue of the rats that would bell 
the cat ; his keen etching of the sluggish, servile Parliament 
' that dreaded Dukes and forsook Do-Well ' ; his miniatures 
of Lady Meed and her supporters in Church and State ; his 
Hogarthian picture of the seven Deadly Sins portrayed as 


seven English types of his day : — the tavern braggart, Pride ; 
the meagre backbiting merchant, Envy ; the mischievous 
convent cook, Ire ; the drunken village whoremonger, 
Lechery ; the ragged tradesman, Avarice ; the ale-house sot. 
Glutton, who when he set out for home at night ' could 
neither step nor stand till he had a staff, and then he began 
to go like a gleeman's bitch, sometimes aside sometimes 
arear, as a man that is laying lines to catch larks ^; and 
last and least, the idle, gossiping, ungrateful, poaching priest, 
Sloth. Nor of less interest is his clear chart of the pilgrim^s 
Path to Truth through Meekness to Conscience across the 
brook of Natural Piety, by the side of Swear-not to the croft 
of Covet-not, past the stocks Steal-not and Slay-not on the 
left to the park of Lie-not, where, in the field of Say-sooth 
there stands the manor house of Truth himself, with its moat 
of Mercy, its walls of Wisdom, its embrasures of Baptism, its 
buttresses of Belief, its roofing of Love and Loyal Speech, 
its bars of Brotherhood, its bridge of Prayer, its doorposts of 
Penance, its hinges of Almsdeeds, where the porter is Grace 
and seven sisters that keep the posterns — Abstinence, 
Humility, Charity, Chastity, Patience, Peace, and Largesse. 

And as William has his Pilgrim's Progress, so he has his 
Holy War. My Lady Soul lives in Fleshy Castle, guarded 
by the castellan Conscience and his sons the Five Senses, 
assailed at all points by the Evil Ones, Pride and his mighty 
Meiny, and holpen of the high host of Heaven. The burning 
questions of his time, Free-Will, Poverty, the possible Salva- 
tion of heretics and heathen, the Right Life, and the coming 
Reform of the Church, William debates in long, tangled, 
rambling * visions', always with power and often with 
poetical force, in that rough, tumbling metre that the mass 
of Englishmen, in spite of Chaucer's fine new-fangled French 
measures, long continued to prefer to any other. 

Let us turn from the misty Malvern Hills and the foggy 
banks of the London river to the wild shaws and desert 
heaths of the North to seek the Abbey schoolmaster of 
Dunfermline, with his delicate and humorous anticipation of 

T a 


that greatest of fabulists. La Fontaine, his exquisite para- 
phrase of Adam's exquisite French pastoral, and for us, 
above all, the dainty little poem that describes the mystic 
raiment of the Ideal Woman, and that strong and concise 
allegory, the Bluidy Sark, surpassing even Southwell in its 
plain pathos as it tells of the True Knight that for our sakes 
(as a contemporary allegorist put it) ' jousted at Jerusalem ' 
with ' Death the Joyless ' and won the victory through great 
tribulation. Well may Dunbar have regretted such a singer 
and thinker as Robert Henryson. 

Leaving learned Douglas and courtly Lindsay unnoticed 
now, and passing South again, we omit those worthy Tudor 
practitioners of the Mystery of Similitudes, gallant out- 
spoken George Gascoigne and simple Stephen Hawes (as we 
must neglect even the Fletchers, whose mastership Milton 
was to acknowledge, and that Welsh Dante, Ellis Wyn, 
to whose weird power George Borrow eagerly testified), 
and come at once to Spenser. Never was allegory more 
elaborately worked out than in that glorious and typical 
Elizabethan fragment, the Faery Queene. The theme is 
worthy — the construction of a perfect character, the ideal of 
highest humanity, with materials drawn alike from Plato and 
St. Augustine ; and it is decked with all the jewelled splen- 
dour the Renaissance could offer, enriched out of the solid 
wealth of the re-opened classic mines, adorned with great 
store of the naive and romantic broidery of the Middle Ages ; 
while always double, sometimes triple, the red thread of 
allegory runs through the gorgeous fabric, and the whole 
design is wrought upon the ever-varied, ever-graceful, if over- 
elaborate pattern of the stanza its author especially devised 
for his immortal work. Spenser's art must astonish every- 
one that has served apprenticeship, however brief, to the 
poet's craft — his Mantegnan processions, his Botticellian 
idylls, his Diirer-like grotesques, his wild landscapes recalling 
those of the old Lombard line-engravers, his grand personifica- 
tions, such as Michelangelo himself has scarcely surpassed; 
and yet, with this astonishing variety, the poet still keeps 


within the bounds of that particular Italian epic style he 
learnt from Ariosto and for the first and only time naturalized 
in England. The palace of Spenser was, like other less 
lasting but bulkier buildings of the Renaissance time, never 
finished ; but what remains is perfect in itself, the full plan 
can be seen, the proportions realized, only the details of the 
unbuilt wing are to seek. The ethical, political, and religious 
allegory can be traced by the patient and affectionate student 
beneath the plain story that in itself yields sufficient pleasure 
to prevent hundreds of readers from diving deeper into this 
fair-flowing stream of English poetry. 

The adventures of the Red Cross Knight and Prince Arthur, 
Britomart and Una, Guyon and Artegal, Scudamour and 
Hellenore, the encounters with the false Duessa and the 
wicked magician, with cruel, cowardly, braggart pagan 
knights, and strange and terrific monsters of sea and land, 
are interesting in themselves ; and it is not until one reads 
the poet^s preface with the attention it merits that one feels 
there is more to be got from his poem than the story that 
delights. The greatest allegories have always drawn to them 
scores of pleasure-hunters for one profit-seeker. Even Dante 
and Milton, who would fain have justified God to Man, will 
be read, when their philosophy shall be acknowledged as 
infantile as their science, by thousands whom their poetry 
must stir to finer issues through those outward and visible 
signs, which, after all, are every whit as spiritual as the inward 

Spenser may be denied a statue as, to our shame, Cromwell 
was, by those that ihislike his patriotism, or loathe his views, 
political or religious ; but as a master of allegory, as the man 
next after Dante, who has most effectively presented the 
symbolic and real together, as the most exact exponent of 
the ethic theory of his day, and, certainly, as the greatest 
of English Platonists, he must ever claim our gratitude and 

It is far from Spenser's strong but ill-omened tower in 
Ireland, far from the rich arras-clad banqueting halls of the 


peerless Gloriana where Sidney sung and Shakespeare acted, 
to the dark noisome jail, where the simple but sore distracted 
spirit of the humble Bedfordshire tinker was able to bring forth 
from its deep treasury things new and old. The Pilgrim's 
Progress has passed through the whole world like Robinson 
Crusoe or Gulliver's Travels, and is one of that dozen of 
English classics that are almost as well known in Paris 
and Moscow as they are in London or New York. The 
Damascus watchman used the book as a touchstone of his 
fellows^ worth, and who loved the Pilgrim was to him a true 
man. Founded on an old motif, crammed with Scriptural 
citations, filled with reminiscences of Foxe's Martyrs, the 
book is above all others fresh, personal, and novel. One is 
attracted at the very outstart by the natural beauty of the style, 
which is throughout as pithy, homely, and quaint as Sancho's 
at his best, and as noble, as unworldly and dutiful as his 
master's. Who but relishes the earnest doggerel ? Who has 
not felt the power of those apt parables, the Soul that took 
the Kingdom of Heaven by violence ; the contrasted pair of 
children. Passion and Patience; the robin and the spider; the 
man with the muck-rake ? We have all longed for those 
fleeting glimpses from the Shepherds' outlook on the Moun- 
tain Delectable, of the fair golden City towering above the 
cold black River. We remember the Temptation, Trial, and 
Martyrdom in Vanity Fair. We have shuddered at the 
doubtful combat with Apollyon ; at the grim horrors of the pit, 
of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, of the by-way to Hell. 
We have felt the haunting fear of Doubting Castle and of that 
dim glen beside it where the blind are left to stumble among 
the tombs. We have followed Christian through the Slough 
of Despond and up the hill Difficulty. And then the characters, 
everlasting types, but as human as Dickens or Defoe could 
have made them — the fearf ulness of Faint-Heart ; the sturdy 
courage of Greatheart, and Faithful, of Mr. Steadfast and 
Old Honesty, in whom the King's Champion dehghted, for 
he loved one greatly that he found to be a man of his hands, 
and Valiant for the Truth ; the brave matronly tenderness of 


Christiana ; the serene Quakerlike charm of gentle Mercy ; 
the carnal smiles of Madam Bubble; the wiles of Lady 
Wanton and her kindred; the vanity of that ^very pretty 
man* Mr. Talkative, of Prating Row; the easy confidence 
of Demas and Ignorance ; the cozenage of Mr. By-Ends and 
his followers ; the rancour of that haughty Jeffreys, My Lord 
Hategood, and the servile malice of his jury; the comfortable 
presence of the Shining Ones and the pitiless perseverance 
of the Prince of Evil — a gallery of portraits we all have 
learnt to know. 

There are those who would scarce scruple to place the 
Puritan preacher's Iliad, the Holy War, as high as his 
Odyssey, the Pilgrim's Progress, and there is something to 
be said for this, even if we must firmly decline to elevate the 
realistic Mr. Badman to a front place among English alle- 
gories. The scenes in and round Mansoul (drawn from 
Bunyan's own experience of civic strife) are notable indeed, 
the beleaguered town, the siege, the sallies, the relief, the 
judgement of the victor on the traitors, the secret councils of 
spies and enemies, the reconciliation of the Lord of the 
city with the repentant citizens ; and they make up a piece 
of work comparable even to Milton's two Epics for the 
contrast of bitter and base malignity set over against most 
patient justice and profoundest mercy. The very muster- 
roll of the army of fiends marshalled for the great assault is 
full of that simple matter-of-fact horror dear to all of us, 
and ever immensely impressive to the natural British mind. 

It were too long to attempt to exhaust the broad realms of 
English allegory, but for a last stage we may halt a moment 
to survey the rich but storm-scarred domain of Jonathan 
Swift. If his Gulliver be beyond our scope to-night, we may 
at least consider his Tale of a Tub, a most pregnant story 
which cost its author a bishopric it had richly earned him, 
and gave to English letters one of our notable prose-writers, 
William Cobbett. Still green beneath the summer sky, 
unencumbered by encroaching bricks and mortar, stretches 
beside Thames the broad meadow where in the early morning 


the poor country boy threw himself down in the grass to read 
the tiny book, whose satiric spell woke the fire of genius in 
him, for he too was bom to bear witness in his own wayward 
fashion against the wrongs and follies of the world, as the 
Dean had done before him. Swift united Voltaire's fine 
skill of wit with the clear, sharp, stinging, ironic force of 
Pascal and the rich idiomatic expression of Quevedo. 
Rascality and folly show in their worst aspects under the 
white heat of his compressed fury. The tragedy of his own 
life fitted him for the role he played ; there was a depth of 
pity and sympathy in the lonely-hearted man, and this pity 
and sympathy only made the world, as he scanned it, the 
more terrible to his eyes. We know his achievements. If 
the love of love seems sometimes to have been denied him. 
Swift was indeed dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of 
scorn. His satirical allegory is a piercing sermon on the 
pitiful squabbles and the ignorant intolerance that divided 
and still divide Christendom, and he bore so hard on the 
ugly malice and vulgar pride of the contending factions that, 
as in the case of Defoe's famous pamphlet, those who loved 
to believe that the filthy parasites, the dead leaves and rotten 
fruit, were essential parts of the living tree, were bitterly 
offended and took care to revenge themselves in their own 
scurvy way. 

And here I would fain have spoken of one more book, that 
most original, most philosophic, and most searching of modern 
allegories, Robert Louis Stevenson's masterpiece, as I hold. 
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; but it is well to pause, not for lack 
of subject-matter, but for the sake of them that have sat at 
meat with us. 

A last question intrudes itself : * Why have we English so 
excelled in this branch of Art ? ' It were probably hard fully 
to answer. We are reticent. We exaggerate by understate- 
ment, we like to set forth our case without seeming to attack 
our adversary, to indulge in imagination without it being flatly 
forced upon us that we are departing from the strictly 
practical. We dearly love literature with a purpose and we 


have tried to write it so often that we have sometimes 
succeeded gloriously in spite of the absurd difficulty of the 
enterprise. The form in fact suits iis, hence our excellence 

To-night you have allowed me to lead you swiftly along 
a path that passed from the secular pines of Ravenna, through 
the pleached arbours of the old French Rose-garden, over 
quiet English hills and rough Scottish moors, till we lingered 
among the hazel coppices of Bedfordshire, and stood for 
a moment in the old Deanery at Dublin. The guide may 
have been a worse cicerone than you looked for, but he has 
surely not erred in trying for a brief space to recall memories 
of happy hours spent spellbound at the feet of the veiled 
dream-lady Allegory. 


We all know one book of Defoe^s, and have come under 
his spell long before we came to think of him as a person, or 
to mark his place in English letters. Yet his life and aims 
have their interest too, though, like all real writers, he put 
his best into his work, and let his peccant humours infect 
only his own mortality. 

Defoe not only wrote Robinson Crusoe, the outcome whereof 
was many and many ensuing novels of adventure, and so 
planted a branch of letters that has flourished exceedingly (for 
what are boys' stories, from Stevenson back to Marryat, but 
prolific seedlings of his golden bough ?), but he founded our 
modern biographical novel in his story of the Blessed Woman 
(for so that artful unregenerate, the old apple-seller of 
Lavengro's youth, tenderly christened her), and laid open the 
track that Fielding and Richardson, Austen and Thackeray 
and Dickens, and more beyond reckoning, have travelled to 
their profit and ours. Further, he was the originator in 
England of that curious type of essay to which Steele and 


Addison owe their lasting fame, and Goldsmith and Charles 
Lamb most of their perennial charm. 

Nor is his distinction as a romancer and essayist his sole 
claim to our gratitude, for his incessant and multifarious 
activities cover the whole sphere of journalism and popular 
instruction. He was, indeed, never wearied of trying to 
enlighten and amuse his public. He would turn you out, in 
the captivating form of narrative, whole treatises on African 
and South American geography, in which Madagascar and 
Patagonia were pointed out as fields for British enterprise ; 
he would put together the best gazetteer of his native country 
that had yet been projected or executed, all compiled from 
personal knowledge, during fifteen circuits, three complete 
tours, and five visits to Scotland and the North. He under- 
stood and made use of the attraction of history put into 
literary form. He wrote a practical guide to business, such 
as Cobbett himself could not surpass. 

He was active in practical matters. He got a Copyright 
Bill and a Bankruptcy Act passed. He had much to say, 
and said it vigorously and yet inoffensively, on education 
(higher and lower) for women as well as men, on temperance, 
on charity organization, on pauperism, on hygiene and 
police ; and it was not his fault if statesmen left these ques- 
tions almost untouched till they were forced on them in later 
days by blatant and unpleasant facts. The science of con- 
duct interested and concerned him greatly. His views on 
courtship, marriage, and family life, while often narrow and 
sometimes wholly mistaken, are not to be passed over as the 
idle suggestions of amateur philanthropy, but must be looked 
on as the sober conclusions of an earnest and observant, if 
limited mind. 

As to his political industry, it was immense. For more 
than forty years he fought in the forefront of the battle, not 
without shrewd scars and sore peril, for he was the most 
powerful pamphleteer of his time, whether in prose or verse, 
wielding the pen political as effectively in his day as Swift, 
and as Junius and Burke in theirs. He did genuine service 


for his hero, William the Deliverer ; he advocated wisely and 
in no narrow spirit the cause of English trade at home and 
abroad ; he wrote and talked and worked on behalf of the 
parliamentary union with Scotland; he stood up valiantly 
for free speech, for toleration as a right. He upheld, in a 
hundred ways, the cause of common sense and fair play so 
plainly, so persistently, so plausibly, that in spite of Pope^s 
cowardly and mendacious sneer, the pillory became to him 
an everlasting honour, and to his persecutors an enduring 
disgrace. Wellnigh the whole field of the Vita Activa was 
covered by his restless energy, and what he did he did with 
his might. 

In the sphere of the Vita Contemplativa, Defoe was not 
quite so happily placed. His religious speculations and 
ethical theories are strangely childish, though but little more 
so than those of his contemporaries ; for, to speak the truth 
(as he would say), he never got beyond the ordinary moral 
and theological standpoint of an intelligent and consistent 
eighteenth-century nonconformist. In spite of a slight lean- 
ing to mysticism, a mighty curiosity as to the mythology of 
his creed, and a firm belief in a daimon (not unlike that of 
Socrates) that warned him and counselled him, a psychologic 
phenomenon that was part of his curious personality and of 
a kind one is not yet quite ready to explain, Defoe's soul 
was, as it were, earth-bound. 

Of his life, in spite of his cunning reticence, we know 
something, thanks to the industry of a succession of devoted 
admirers, who have pieced together scattered scraps of testi- 
mony into something like a complete biography. Born in 
Fore Street, Cripplegate, into a Puritan household — his 
parents (of whom one at least had the Low-country blood in 
him) were grave, careful, God-fearing folks, who wished to 
train their clever son for the office of minister in the peculiar 
form of Christianity they preferred. The sturdy children 
with whom he played and fought, as he tells us, learnt him 
one lesson he remembered, that of never hitting a man when 
he is down. The school at Stoke Newington, where he passed 


five years, was kept by that notable rank Independent, and 
'polite and profound scholar % Charles Morton (later Vice- 
president of Harvard College), who, like a sensible man, 
taught his pupils their work in the shortest way, discarding all 
pedantry, and especially drilling them soundly in mathe- 
matics and the tongues ancient and modern, so that they 
might at least possess the keys of knowledge. In 1676 came 
the choice of a calling, when, refusing steadily (for what 
reason we know not, but wisely, as one can see) to take up 
the ministry, the young fellow, though he had overcome the 
difficulties that bar the way to the learned professions, chose 
to go into trade, whereby, after he had learnt his business, he 
became a wholesale hosier. 

He married on New Year's Day, 1684, at St. Botolph's, 
Aldgate, one Mary Tuffley, a woman who seems to have been 
unable to suit herself wholly to his temper, but who bore him 
a family of whom at least one daughter was always very near 
to his heart. He commenced authorship as soon as he was 
his own master, and being a zealous partisan was concerned 
in the movement that all hot Whigs were favouring, Mon- 
mouth's ill-managed rising. By lying quiet for a while, 
travelling abroad and busying himself with trade, he had the 
luck to escape the fate of several of his friends and former 
schoolfellows ; but he soon began pamphleteering again, both 
in prose and verse. He founded a chapel at Tooting, in 
1688, and when the Revolution relieved the Whigs from their 
bigoted oppressors, his devotion and gratitude to the Dutch 
king were freely and openly expressed. But too great 
generosity, met, as often, by treachery, now brought disaster, 
and in 1692 Defoe was bankrupt for £17,000, a large sum 
for those days. His courage never flagged; he resolved to 
pay his creditors, and soon did so ; he took up new enter- 
prises, was busy over big tileworks at Chadwell near Tilbury 
in 1694, and over his new house and garden at Hackney. 
And still his interest in the world, political and social, never 
flagged ; he wrote year after year, month after month, verse 
and prose j his best poem, ' The True-born Englishman,' 


gained him the personal friendship of the king he justly 
admired and bravely defended ; while his best piece of political 
prose, The Shortest Way tvith the Dissenters, brought him 
to the pillory and prison in 1703. But his room at Newgate 
was but an editor's sanctum to Defoe, who met all fortunes 
with a smiling face and a cool head, and his famous journal, 
the Review, was then set afoot. Out again in 1704, he was 
kept continually busy with his paper, his plans of reform, his 
projects. He had become a power, his tongue and pen were 
valuable. His pretty turn for controversy is admirably shown 
in his passage with my lord Haversham, ' the dog that bayed 
at the moon that gave him light,' the man that was ' raised 
without merit and advanced without honour', a miserable 
stinking blue-bottle embalmed in the translucent amber of 
Defoe's prose. Government could not but make use of such 
a staunch and strong ally. Harley employed him to forward 
the cause of the parliamentary union with Scotland, and he 
was soon busy, paying repeated visits to Edinburgh, to the 
very great advantage of his country, his party, and his patron. 
Then, at home again, we find him attacking Sacheverell, 
* doing his duty,' as he says, ' in exposing doctrines that 
oppose God and the Revolution, such as Passive Obedience 
to Tyrants and Non-resistance in cases of Oppression.' The 
definite importance of his political work is shown by the fact 
that Harley, who knew what he was about, paid him on 
a higher scale than he did Swift ; but he was not a whit the 
more puffed up. He had by this time gained plenty of 
enemies, inspired by envy and paltry prejudice, and by that 
malicious ignorance that accompanies these. And he had 
(as he says) seen the rough side of the world as well as the 
smooth, — 

No man has tasted different fortunes more. 
And thirteen times I have been rich and poor. 

About the end of 1711 Defoe went to Bristol, and there, 
at Dr. Damain Daniel's house in St. James's Square, had a 
momentous meeting with a Scottish sailor named Mr. Alex- 


ander Selcraig, or Selkirk, who had been marooned on Juan 
Fernandez, and passed four years and four months there 
alone till he was brought home that October by Dampier, the 
well-remembered navigator. Selkirk sold his papers to Defoe, 
who set them aside for future use. For there was peril at the 
door ; the very probable Jacobite succession, and all that it 
meant to a man of Defoe's faith and views, was a matter that 
must be dealt with swiftly and sharply, and Defoe buckled 
on his armour readily enough ; three damaging pamphlets 
raked the Highflyers cruelly. But again his irony betrayed 
him ; his friends mistook, or pretended to mistake, his intent; 
he was arrested (not without difficulty) and clapped into 
Newgate once more, this time under sentence for libel, as 
a favourer of the Pretender, April 22, 1713. But this second 
imprisonment was over in eight months, busy months ; his 
Mercator and Flying Post continued the mission of the 
Review ; a sharp tussle with Swift (not to Swift's advantage), 
and a set of letters in which Defoe played the congenial part 
of a Quaker, kept his pen and his colleague's (for he had one, 
as he tells us) in constant employment, while he dabbled, as 
usual, risking his interest and money, in trade or specu- 

He was in no small danger as the crisis drew to a head, 
and was actually committed to prison for warning his country- 
men against the Jacobite plan for getting control of the 
Irish army, when the queen died and the unready Tories lost 
their one great chance. The strain had been severe, no 
doubt, and at the end of 1714 Defoe had a rather severe 
apoplectic attack. On his recovery he entered Townshend's 
employ, under whom he served till 1726 as a Government 
spy and agent among the Jacobites, working at Mist's 
Journal. All he wrote hitherto had been capably and keenly 
planned and well thought out, and he had proved himself a 
journalist of more than ordinary powers, the ablest journalist 
in England if you will, but no more. Had he died in 1714 
he would hardly have anticipated his name surviving among 
the notable names of our literature. He would have been 


left with Ward, and Brown, and Tutchin, the good Tryon, 
and a host of other publicists and gazetteers of the day, to the 
contemptuous eyeglass of the weary historian trying to study 
his period in contemporary sources. 

It is strange this — that a busy, hardworking journalist 
with a strong interest in speculative trade, a man that had 
' had his losses too ', a working politician, deep in the confi- 
dence of ministers, with an unrivalled knowledge of the many 
evershifting currents of public opinion, a person whose every 
moment was occupied with exciting business, should, after 
a long career, suddenly develop new and unexpected powers 
and proceed, at the age of sixty, to create a new branch of 
literature, with a masterpiece ! Yet this was what happened. 
In 1719 Robinson Crusoe came out, founded on the old 
Selkirk papers obtained in 1711 ; and then, for more than 
a decade, volume after volume, two or three a year, of 
astonishing and varied interest, manifested their author's 
complete and fully developed powers. Biography, adventure, 
history, geography, practical conduct of life, — Defoe deals 
with all and does well in each : Duncan Campbell, Memoirs 
of a Cavalier, Captain Singleton, 1720 ; Moll Flanders ; 
Religious Courtship, A Journal of the Plague Year, Colonel 
Jack, Car^OMcAe the Highway Robber, 1722; Peter the Great, 
Rob Roy, 1723 ; Rowana, and A Tour thro' the whole Island 
of Great Britain, divided into Circuits or Journies, giving 
a particular and diverting account of whatever is curious and 
ivorth observation ; Letters on the Behaviour of Servants, 
Jack Sheppard the Prison-breaker, all in 1724; Wild the 
Thief-taker, Gow the Pirate, A New Voyage round the 
World, The Complete English Tradesman, in 1725. In 1726 
The Political History of the Devil, A General History 
of Discoveries and Improvements in Useful Arts ; in 1727 
a Treatise on Matrimony, an Essay on Apparitions, Augusta 
Triumphans (schemes for London improvements), A Plan 
of the English Commerce, in 1728 ; the Compleat English 
Gentleman, a Treatise on the Needs and Possibilities of 
Education for the Upper Classes, in 1729. In 1730 Defoe, 


who had been in trouble from his enemies ever since 1726, 
when some of his secret political dealings were discovered 
and used to his discredit, fearing lest his family should suffer 
by any attacks which might injure his property, made over 
his estate and belongings to his son Daniel in trust for his 
mother and sisters, and went into hiding. Daniel behaved 
badly, and the old man, with health threatened by a quartan, 
and with affections sorely wounded, felt, perhaps for the first 
time, that death was at hand and not unwelcome. 

' I am so near my journey's end, and am hastening to the 
place where the weary are at rest and the wicked cease to 
trouble ; be it that the voyage is rough and the day stormy, 
but what way soever He please to bring me to the end of it, 
I desire to finish life with this temper of soul in all cases, Te 
Deum Laudamus.* He had not long to wait. He died in 
1731, in the parish he was born in. 

Mr. [William] Lee's big list of over two hundred works, 
beside seven newspapers and forty pamphlets and the like, 
shows Defoe's industry, an industry with which it is hard to 
keep pace. Many of his writings, of course, treated of the 
politics, home and foreign, of the day, and much of their in- 
terest is gone, but among the rest there are Robinson Crusoe, 
the three great novels of life, the Histories of the Cavalier and 
of the Plague, the Tour thrd Great Britain, The Complete 
Tradesman, and the two little ghost stories of Mrs. Veal and 
Dorothy Dingley ; his two best poems, ^The True-born English- 
man ' and ^ Jure Divino ', and his famous pamphlet. The 
Shortest Way with the Dissenters, A goodly mass of literary 
baggage for one man, all, as Lamb said, 'good kitchen read- 
ing,' and all vivid and interesting. His homespun style has a 
peculiar charm, and I must confess I am disposed to judge his 
prose (of his verse I shall speak later) more favourably than 
some competent critics have done. I can see the blemishes, 
of course, the careless sentences, the superfluity of words, the 
useless repetition, the long-winded explanations, the fond love 
of details, even when they are useless, thefaiblesse for didactic, 
for like a true-born Englishman, Defoe yielded too often to 


the sin that most easily besets us, our darling English sin of 
* preaching ', the sin that has earned us an unpleasant national 
reputation for cant which clings to us in spite of certain well- 
meant and vigorous efforts made of late years to escape from 
the taint. Defoe could not write a long story, he flags as 
Scott does, and begins to lose his own interest. Further, he 
can be dull though he is never stupid. Yet granting all 
these defects, how little they affect his hold on us. He was 
an artist, and his art seldom entirely forsook him. How 
delightful, even to a boy or girl, his charming familiarity, his 
cunning naivete, his prosy but enticing garrulity, his pet 
phrases, his apt and singular anecdotes and occasional bits of 
autobiography ! How terse he can be, how lightly he slips 
in a touch that gives colour as it were to a whole page ; 
how excellently in keeping is the whole composition and play 
of motive ! What a living reality there is in the man's work ! 
The careless mariner, wrecked and alone, is a plain man with 
his workaday deeds and his simple thoughts, yet the record 
of his life is so intense that it almost becomes an allegory in 
the reader's mind, as indeed Defoe claims it to be. The 
' gentlest of savages ', the courtly Spaniard, the selfish brutal 
British ruffian, who is brought at last under Fate's strict 
discipline and turned into a very decent fellow, the fervent 
but tolerant young priest — who can forget them any more 
than the unfading incidents of the solitary life before Friday 
came ? Less known, but as wonderful, are such pieces in 
the other books, as the child life of the pretty spoilt little girl 
' that would be a gentlewoman ' ; and of the ragged, keen- 
witted street arab ' that slept in the glass-house ' and earned 
his precarious living as a very honest, kindly, innocent little 
thief : there is the poor wretch cast for the gallows, laughing 
and singing in her reckless despair ; there is the good-hearted 
old * fence ' ; the lazy squireen who had not even wit to make 
a successful highwayman ; the lovely adventuress displaying 
her finery and accomplishments with excusable and graceful 
vanity before indulgent royalty ; the servant maid with her 
careless, luckless fidelity. There are scenes in France, in 

Y. p. u TJ 


Virginia, on shipboard, in London, in country towns ; that 
northern ride of the two young scamps is more interesting 
than Master Naylor's famous gallop. Heathen, Moslim, 
Catholics, Quakers, landlords, ostlers, pirates, sea captains, 
soldiers, sailors, merchants, planters, slaves, Jews, poor folk, 
noblemen, honest and dishonest, good and bad, jostle each 
other in Defoe's pages as they do in real life. He had 
a beautiful humane interest in life ; he watched, with sym- 
pathy far more tender than his oflScial religious views would 
have admitted, the ups and downs of fortune, and sadly but 
surely spied out the tiny chink that lets Fate creep into the 
best-guarded and most carefully built citadel of happiness. 
He had all Balzac's fondness for circumstantial detail and 
business transactions, and he knew as well as Adam Smith 
that love of gain is one of the main springs of the brisk 
action going on so restlessly around us. He was quick to 
note the significance of little traits of character, of small 
events that at first sight seem meaningless. He had read his 
own heart narrowly, and could understand the force of 
temptation, the false security of self-deceit, the slow rise of 
character and the sudden fall of those that seem to stand as 
rocks earth-fast ; and while he condemns, for the sake of his 
ethical theories and for example, he is not the man to veith- 
hold a brotherly hand even from those whom he believes 
(often wrongly) to have sinned most deeply. 

As an advocate he shows skill almost matchless among 
British controversialists, his eye ever on the jury whose 
weaknesses and prejudices he has fathomed at the first 
glance ; nor will he close his case without a spice of sound, 
hard reasoning to suit the bench whose favour he does not 
mean to lose. Now he is full of consideration for his adver- 
sary, now he is gently ironic, now he diverts the issue by 
a little kindly banter or chatter. Then, in a moment, he 
draws himself up, plain-spoken and peremptory, and with 
swift and sharp decision of word and gesture, drives his point 
home to the hilt ; but through it all, never, in his anxiety to 
get his verdict, overstepping the limit of fair play and good 


manners, never for an instant losing the respect of his 
audience or of himself. We trust, and rightly trust, — 

To Truth, to Nature, and Defoe. 

As an historian he chiefly excels in seizing and presenting 
the essential colour and temper of the times he describes, and 
in skilful use of tiny scraps of significant evidence, of bits of 
reminiscence, of morsels of oral tradition, so that he gives us 
more than fact, and enables us to get a glimpse at motive and 
the direction of the forces at work. Only the greater his- 
torians have done this, and they have not always been among 
the best writers of their age. 

As a journalist he was as keen for ' copy ', as pushing and 
as crafty in the matter of advertisement and reclame, as the 
most modern of his successors. He meant to hold the 
market, if good writing and a quick perception of the public 
taste could do it, and he was successful. He never let any- 
thing slip that he fancied might turn up useful. He would 
visit Jack Sheppard in Newgate, journey to Bristol to see 
Mr. Alexander Selkirk, search out the particulars of the 
lives of those he came across in the chances of his journeys, 
in his prisons, in the tavern, in the minister's cabinet, at 
court, on change, or among his suburban or country neigh- 
bours. Not the least of his feats, nor the least popular, are 
his biographies of notorious criminals, which seem, indeed, to 
have led to the production of that veritable social history of 
eighteenth-century England, the Newgate Calendar. And, 
indeed, as Defoe was interested in every plane of life, and had 
the power of interesting others, he was never at a loss for 
attractive matter. 

As a writer of didactic and satiric verse Defoe has perhaps 
been undervalued ; his ear is so faulty, his lines are so 
uncouth, he hammers away at the same thought so long; 
but he has been freely imitated, and plenty of his vigorous 
couplets have passed into general circulation. Of course he 
was not a poet in one sense at all ; the Muses never loved 
him, he was deaf to the lyric cry, never touched by the divine 

U 2, 


frenzy. He simply got hold of a subject which he felt the 
rhetorical force of his couplet would drive into his readers' 
heads, and he hacked away quickly and roughly enough at 
his material till he put it into couplet shape, and, his copy of 
verses so done, red-hot to print it went, and when it came 
out it did not fail of its desired effect. The man who could 
pen his best lines dwelt no further from Parnassus than 
Cicero or Voltaire, and though his ear was not as good as 
Oldham's or Johnson's, his performance was often not below 
their level. He had something to say, and he managed, in 
spite of his diificulty with metre, to say it, so that there can 
be no mistake about it. He may have been wrong to write 
verse at all, but he chose it practically, as Theognis chose it, 
as the vehicle that would carry his ideas the most widely. 
His heroics and Bunyan's doggerel alike served their authors' 

* What was the man's standpoint ? What were the ideas 
he held and proclaimed?' *What is his significance in his 
time ? ' When Defoe began to write, the Elizabethan Italian- 
ate tide had ebbed, and the Caroline French flood was coming 
up swiftly. Waller and Butler had set the new fashion in 
verse that Rochester (a man of fine talent, as Defoe rightly 
held) and Dry den (a master of full, robust diction) had brought 
to smooth perfection. Milton's notorious pamphlets and the 
paper wars of the time, chiefly carried on over political and 
religious questions, in numberless sermons and tracts, had 
brought in a new prose, a prose that Dryden and the great 
authors again had learnt to write with careless and comely 
ease; though they are, I think, far excelled by Bunyan's 
homely and classic pith. For the poor tinker's style is the 
more natural, and, to my mind, the most delightful English 
of his century. 

Defoe's instruments lay all ready to his hand. Shaftes- 
bury, the father of all Whiggery, had systematized the ideas 
that Defoe and the great party of progress maintained and 
cherished for more than a century. Locke had followed 
Bacon's lead^ and put the search for knowledge on a higher 


footing. The dazzling genius of Newton was soon to compel 
the assent of the educated to the New Science. The long 
and fierce religious struggle was over, the dirty destructive 
flood of bigotry was draining slowly but surely away, and, 
though the stagnant sloughs and noisome puddles of prejudice 
still marked its passage, the dry land was appearing. In 
every direction fresh interests were getting hold of the 
younger generation ; to clever, quick-brained, busy, shrewd 
people, everywhere, the possibilities of trade and commerce 
were more attractive than the old theological squabbles 
whose bitter fruit they knew too well. The fathers had 
eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth, happily for them, 
were set on edge. The sects, one and all, had failed in their 

The reign of the saints had proved as intolerable as the 
old way of Canaan. Tacitly, if not openly, the aged contro- 
versies were allowed to drop, so far as they affected theory ; 
there were more hopeful fields for energy ahead. It was the 
Dutch and English that first grasped the facts, saw their 
possibilities, and pushed out boldly, risking blood and 
gold in the lottery that the lands of the Pagan, the mis- 
believer, and the Catholic king presented to the merchant 
adventurer and his supporters, devoting time and toil to the 
patient task of enlarging trade, increasing and cheapening 
production, destroying mediaeval barriers, that, once useful 
and defensive, were now but fetters to the interests whose 
healthy growth they dangerously compressed. Spain was no 
longer a dreaded rival ; France might be outstripped in the 
race; those must win that first make up their minds to 
count the cost, that cast off all the silly prepossessions and 
ignorances that cumber new enterprises, and so prepared, put 
it boldly to the touch. Defoe saw and felt all this, and made 
it his business to do for his generation what Alfred the king 
had tried to do for his. He gave it the means of self-culture, 
and so supplied the equipment it needed. He knew the time 
was coming when it would depend upon the shrewdness, 
thrift, honesty, perseverance, and self-restraint of Englishmen, 


whether or no they would distance their rivals, seize their full 
share of the trade and commerce of the world, and set up 
those establishments that were to knit the far-off continents 
east and west to our little archipelago in the North Atlantic. 
The task was, of course, not uncongenial. Defoe loved to 
preach (even in the midst of his romances and lives of robbers) 
like any Newgate Ordinary ; but the burden of his parable 
was not ignoble, he insisted that life was real, that men and 
women had largely the shaping of their own future, here and 
(as he supposed) hereafter ; that much is possible to courage, 
wit, knowledge, and perseverance ; that wickedness, laziness, 
and folly are pretty sure to meet their punishment even in 
this world, and (as Stevenson wisely said) ^generally folly 
first '. Of these maxims Defoe never had the slightest 
doubt, and with a sturdy reliance on himself, a strong preju- 
dice in favour of fair play, and an unshaken trust in the 
absurdly wooden Puritan God in whom he believed, they 
formed his own simple, but exceedingly practical philosophy 
of life, a creed perhaps easier to believe in than to act up to. 
The effect of his work was probably greater than we can 
easily admit, for the man had energy and faith enough to 
move men and mountains. How many sluggish brains has 
he not roused, how many young minds has he not stimulated, 
how many weak ones has his charitable, friendly counsel 
heartened up, to how many mean ones has he not shown the 
advantages of truth, mercy, and charity ? The spirit in 
which he did his own work comes out in his own words. 

There have been plenty of honest men in England with 
a love of preaching, whose work has done harm in every way, 
by its incurable dullness, by the idiocy of its expression, as 
well as by the folly of its substance. This man was a good 
preacher because he was a fine artist, not because he felt 
strongly, or because his general notions were true. It is 
necessary to state this plainly because the popular creed of 
Gath and Askalon formulates the absolute necessity of hold- 
ing the opposite opinion. 

To his own generation Defoe was a very Diderot, an 


indefatigable encyclopaedist, providing, as far as he could, 
sound useful knowledge ; but when he found that what 
interested him was also of interest to others, and brought 
grist to the mill, he was not unready to give free play to his 
artistic instinct. No one, save the specialist, reads Diderot's 
gigantic Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, written before 
steam-driven machinery, and there is no need to reprint 
Defoe's practical books, there are later volumes of greater 
use on the same subjects ; but one is never tired of that 
truly Shakespearian creation Le neveu de Rameau, and as 
long as there is a boy with a boyish mind left, Robinson 
Crusoe must be a favourite. Nor is it unsafe to predict that 
as long as English novelists read novels there will always be 
an appreciative, if more restricted, audience for the fortunes 
and misfortunes of the ^ truly honourable Colonel Jack ', the 
' famous Mrs. Flanders ', and the notorious ' Mademoiselle de 
Belau, called afterwards the Countess of Wintselsheim, in 
Germany '. Surely none but Meinhold has equalled him in 
reproducing the tone of the past life he is describing. 

And the man himself that did all this work ? Curiously 
enough, we know his outward form best from the proclama- 
tion in which a reward was offered for his arrest. It describes 
him as of middle size and spare build, with dark complexion 
and hair beneath the wig, grey eyes, hook nose, sharp chin, 
with a large wen near the mouth. We are told that he bore 
a striking resemblance to William III, his patron and admira- 
tion ; but, unlike William, he was a healthy man, of sound 
constitution — singularly active of body, a good rider, a fine 
fencer (once at least he fought and felled his man, and, like 
O'Connell, repented ever after). That he was capable of 
bearing fatigue and labour well we can easily[believe. Of his 
habits and tastes his works reveal much ; we know he was 
a great reader and had a fine library of his own ; not a great 
talker, save probably on occasion, when his love of quotation 
and his great range of book-learning was marked. Of 
a healthy palate, no smoker, a lover of fine dress, exceeding 
neat and clean, a good waterman (he kept his own pleasure- 


boat), an excellent gardener, chosen to help Queen Mary to 
lay out her gardens at Kensington. He liked a good house 
and everything roomy, plain, and comfortable about him. 
His writing is remarkably neat, clear, upright, and round, 
with a certain elegance that bespeaks his complete mastery of 
his fingers. He used shorthand and many contractions, for 
he was a man that had large masses of copy to turn out, and 
could depend, for the most part, on no one but himself. 
That he was restless and would be always stirring, that he 
was passing curious to see and hear of new inventions, new 
discoveries, new arts and processes, that he took huge delight 
in the significant details of all manner of crafts and occupa- 
tions, is very evident. 

His temper and character, too, are plainly self-revealed ; 
cool and hopeful in danger, he was little afraid of what man 
could do to him ; obstinate and reserved, generous but not 
lavish, careful but also adventurous and loving to run risks, 
courteous and honest but not over-particular as to those 
minute and delicate points of honour that would perhaps 
have troubled a man not used to trade as he was. In his 
subterfuges he was ready to meet guile with guile, though 
ever and wholly unwilling to take what he considered an 
unfair advantage, or to decline to make t€rms favourable to 
himself. Affectionate in a deep, if mostly silent way ; careful 
of his family's interest, and even of their comfort ; though 
restless, freakish, and determined to have his will in house- 
hold affairs. A great mystifier, mole-like, working fiercely 
underground, and enjoying the concealment of his proceed- 
ings — a taste that his harassed and hunted condition for 
great part of his life must have intensified. Vain of his gifts, 
but minded never to degrade them, proud of his knowledge, 
but eager to use it for others ; a man that would often spare 
others but seldom himself ; a constant courtier and most de- 
voted subject of Her whom he calls ' that most serene, most 
invincible, most illustrious princess. Reason, first Monarch of 
the World, Empress of the East, West, North, and South, 
Hereditary Director of Mankind^ Guide of the Passions, Lady 


of the vast continent of Human Understanding, Mistress of 
all the Islands of Science, Governess of the fifteen provinces 
of Speech, Image of and Ambassador Extraordinary from the 
Maker of all things, the Almighty's Representative and 
Resident in the Souls of Men, and one of Queen Nature's 
most honourable Privy Council \ 

Defoe proved himself more than once as willing to suffer 
for his country as to serve her well for fair wages. He studied 
his fellow men carefully and judged them gently, with a sym- 
pathy and impartiality seldom found in one of his creed or of 
his satiric gifts. If he had not attained to the Publican's 
humility there was nothing of the Pharisee about him, and 
he was the last man to have passed by with the priest and 
Levite on the other side. His limitations were those of his 
nature and his faith, his talents he had dutifully put out to 
usury ; he worked hard all his life, and at the end, when he 
was old and solitary, ill and persecuted, he could praise his 
God as honestly and heartily as in the years of his health and 

An effective politician and statesman, a prose writer almost 
supreme in his own style, a novelist and biographer of high 
rank, he was that contradiction in terms, a bourgeois genius. 
But though he dwelt in Ashdod, at least he paid but small 
homage to Dagon, and seldom failed to succour the outlaws 
of Israel. How can we look on him but as one of the noblest 
Philistines that ever lived ? 


It must have been a beautiful passage in one of the lectures 
of Eugene O'Curry that first led me to think of putting 
together a few thoughts on the subject of Irish influence on 
English literature. O'Curry told of a mighty singer of his 


youth, one Anthony O'Brien, chanting the ballads of Ossian 
on a boat on a quiet summer evening with such power and 
sweetness that the haymakers from the shores of Clare and 
Limerick came down to the Shannon bank to listen to the 
noble strains. O'Curry told too of the lovely old hymn to 
the Virgin that his own father was wont to sing to its ancient 
music. The old metres and the old tunes have come down to 
us, and are still sung, set to new and far less beautiful music, 
it is true, but still bearing with them something of their 
antique charm. Traditional airs have survived in England, 
and are sung to-day, having come down from the sixteenth 
and seventeenth centuries. Some years ago, in a study I was 
making of English songs of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and 
eighteenth centuries, I came to the conclusion that there is 
an element in them which is not drawn from abroad, and 
which is not English. This element began to show itself 
clearly in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in popular 
songs; and after an examination of Irish metres and such 
Irish songs as I could get at, I came to the conclusion that 
this element is certainly Irish, and that in fact popular metres 
founded on old Irish stanzas have been introduced by Irish- 
men into English literature. Much has been written on the 
subject of the influence of French, Italian, Spanish, and even 
German and Russian writers upon English literature. But 
the Irish influence has been ignored. This is not altogether 
the fault of the English, for to estimate it finally should be 
the work of a trained Irish scholar; and it would be an 
interesting investigation. I find that not only were the Irish 
metres used by Irishmen writing songs in English, but that 
a good many Gaelic songs were turned into English by them. 
In the broadsheet collections printed in England there are 
still a few of them to be obtained. Under the Stuarts, 
especially after the Restoration, numbers of Irishmen found 
employment and occupation in England, in the Court, the 
army, the stage, and the press. This emigration to England 
has been very much less noticed than the great emigration 
abroad ; but it has been very important in its effects, both to 


Ireland and to England. Irish emigrants into England found 
voice first on the stage and secondly in the press ; and it was 
through the press and the stage that the Irish influences were 
constantly kept alive during the whole of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries. I have noticed that Irishmen and Irish- 
women, having, from their political and religious circumstances, 
been thrown much more into contact with the Catholic people 
of Western Europe, had given evidence of this contact by 
their special power and facility in translation. Mangan was 
by no means the earliest, and he will not be the last of the 
great Irish translators. Some of the most prominent persons 
who have translated the great foreign writers into English 
have been Irishmen. Dante had first been translated into 
English by Henry Boyd, an Irishman. Cary, who made 
the Miltonic translation of Dante, was of Irish birth ; and 
there were a great many Irish translators from the classics. 
The extraordinary skill which has been shown by translators 
from Irish into English is a great feature in English 
literature. The most famous translation of the nineteenth 
century is the work of Edward Fitzgerald, an Irishman. 
The best prose translation of Omar is that by Justin 
Huntly McCarthy ; and it is also worthy of note that Miss 
Hickey is the best and most poetical translator of old English 
poetry, and that she, too, is an Irishwoman. The next thing 
that I notice is the very strong and marked penchant of the 
Irish writers for the stage. Not only did Ireland supply 
actors and actresses and singers many and notable to the 
English stage, but also playwrights and libretto-writers ; and 
this began very early indeed, with Boyle and Denham, and 
continued without break right down through the days of 
Goldsmith and Sheridan to the present day, when, of the 
many stock plays that hold the British stage, the most 
popular and the most certain to draw are the work of Irish- 
men. The stage and the press were in the beginning very 
closely connected. There was not much distance between 
Drury Lane and Grub Street in those days. The rapid 
development of the press in England is very largely owing to 


Irishmen. Irishmen seem to have peculiar aptitudes for the 
daily press as well as for the stage. 

Their characteristics as writers are great quickness of 
apprehension, very great vividness of presentment, a very full 
and ready vocabulary, and a fondness for a rhetorical style. 
All these are just the qualities that are calculated to arrest the 
attention of the public, which requires to be amused and to be 
interested, which requires to have its attention first called to 
a matter and just kept there while one says what he wants 
to say and with as little effort as possible. When the history 
of the English press comes to be written the characteristics of 
the Irish pressmen will be shown in the English press much 
more distinctly than lam able to trace them on this occasion. 
I do not doubt but that the formation of the ordinary literary 
English, what in its higher form is known as 'good 
English ', and in its lower form as ' newspaper English ^, is 
largely owing to Irishmen, and largely, in the beginning at 
all events, to the bilingual Irishmen. Literary English has 
really a vocabulary of its own, its own syntax, its own idioms, 
and its own stock phrases. Sometimes it is a little stiff and 
a little pretentious when it is dealing with ordinary sub- 
jects, and a little over-rhetorical when it is aiming at pathos ; 
and if sometimes it sinks down to a heavy level it is 
also capable of rising to very clear heights, and, when we 
want, to a brilliant exposition, and it possesses great force 
of denunciation. 

It is largely owing to Irishmen that the public grew accus- 
tomed to, and even enjoyed, a style more in consonance 
with the foreign ideal of the seventeenth century than with 
the plain humdrum style of the Elizabethan age. The ex- 
travaganza and the burlesque have been developed on the 
English stage almost entirely by Irishmen. Just as in 
American comic periodicals, which are sad things to have to 
examine even for serious purposes, we can trace side by side 
with the heavy, trickling river of German humour a certain 
light and quicker wit, which is evidently of Irish origin, so in 
the early English stage we can trace this bright, quick, alert 


element alongside the rougher, heavier, and more clownish 
English comedy. The stage Irishman is one of those curious 
mimicries which depart more and more from the original 
as time goes on, so I do not think it necessary to notice him 
at all. There is so little trace of the real Irishman in the 
stage Irishman, that the former is not recognizable in the 
latter. In fiction Irish influence has had a decided weight 
and power. A great deal of the work done by English 
novelists is very bald work indeed. But I cannot help 
thinking that it would have been a good deal duller and 
poorer were it not for the Celt. In the domain of poetry the 
great success of Irishmen, undoubtedly, is the lyric. A great 
number of the best, the most singable songs of the eighteenth 
and nineteenth centuries have been produced by Irishmen. 
In the ideal Irish biographical dictionary, which we all hope 
to see some day, the Irish song-writers will occupy a 
prominent place. Yet, little as I have been able to work on 
the Celtic side of Irish literature, there is one thing I am 
confident about, and that is that the very best that Irish- 
men have been able to do in English is necessarily inferior to 
what Irishmen have done in Irish. The greatest names in 
Irish literature in the future, when we shall judge better of it 
than we can to-day, will be the names of persons very little 
known at present, even to the majority of people of Irish 
blood and Irish names. This points to the fact that the 
first study of literary importance for an Irishman is the real 
Irish literature. It is only from the real Irish literature 
that the Irishman can draw the inspiration which differen- 
tiates him and makes his impress on literature really 
peculiar and valuable, and I think that the influence which 
the Irish people have had upon English literature has been 
owing to their Celtic characteristics, and not to any others. 



The historic novel might be set aside as wholly inartistic 
and impossible were it not for a few examples of distinct 
beauty and power in this singular form. Defoe's Memoirs 
of a Cavalier, though not one of his finest works, is yet 
excellent in parts. Balzac has greatly triumphed in this 
style. Scott does not approach the intensity of Balzac, 
though his historic novels made an epoch, and are, of course, 
remarkable. With Dumas the local colour is barely more 
than a convention. The essence of the TTiree Musketeers is 
not their costume, but the play of incident and character. 
Some of our modern English hands have essayed the adven- 
tures of the historic romance with quite respectable success, 
but scarcely with complete victory. As far as we know, 
neither in Italy nor Spain has any man gone near these in 
excellence ; but, and this is passing strange, considering the 
signal badness of German novels (that most miserable Ekke- 
hart, for example), a Pomeranian pastor of this century has 
written two of the very first rank. Naturally, with German 
taste as it is — and as, in spite of French and Norwegian 
influence, it is likely to be for some time — Meinhold has 
been little honoured in his own country, though Goethe gave 
him sound advice when he asked for it; and Frederick 
William IV of Prussia not only understood the wonderful 
power of his work, but with princely courtesy printed one of 
his two great stories for him unasked. The Bavarian king 
has earned the poet's praise and the musician's love by his 
real sympathy with the highest art, but cases such as this 
and that of Riickert should plead favourably for the Hohen- 

Wilhelm Meinhold's was a curious personality : fiercely 
individual as Beddoes, with an instinct that brought him not 
only to assimilate details, but to enter easily into the very 
life and feeling of the past, as it has been given to few men 
to do. One, too, that saw through the vulgar popular ideas 


of his day, and took refuge from cant and noisy insincerity 
and cowardly lack of patriotism in historic studies and intel- 
lectual interests, not without turning occasionally to smite 
the yelping curs he despised. Small wonder that a man 
of his sympathies, who of course scorned the futilities of 
Lutheran apologetic, should have felt drawn toward the old 
Church of the West, with its more antique, more dignified, 
more mysterious associations. He wanted an atmosphere 
more highly charged with the supernatural than the hard, 
dry, cast-iron traditions of his own sect could supply. 

The portrait (prefixed to the edition of 1846 of his collected 
works) shows a type not uncommon in Ireland : round head 
domed up from a fine brow; keen level eyes behind the 
student's glasses ; straight well-shaped nose, not of the 
largest; good firm mouth, and well-turned chin. Shrewd, 
obstinate, not to be convinced save by himself, persistent, 
observant, and keen in feeling and word and deed — so one 
would judge the nature from the face. 

That Meinhold should have deigned to use his two notable 
inventions as controversial weapons against his uncritical 
and bemused adversaries is curious enough, but it is not 
necessary to suppose that Sidonia and Maria were composed 
for the sole purpose of puzzling the Sadducees. In the case 
of the Cloister Witch, he had the story in hand as far back 
as 1831, and two of his early poems come from the drama 
he had first written ; while the censor, vdth instinctive dread 
of true talent, of course withheld his favour from the Pastor's 
Daughter, a play founded on the plot that was to grow into 
the Amber Witch. 

It was not till after a fair amount of poetical and contro- 
versial work that our author, in 1843, issued his Amber 
Witch in book-form, and had the wonderful luck to find 
a gifted woman to clothe it in appropriate English. There 
is lying at my hand a little pocket Tasso, with the pretty 
autograph, * Lucie Duff Gordon, Wurtzburg, 1844,' a relic 
of the girl whose pen naturalized at once a work that is 
probably more widely known here, and far better appreciated. 


thanks to her, than in Germany. Meinhold gracefully appre- 
ciated his translator's skill, and Sidonia was dedicated, on 
its first appearance in 1848, to 

der jungen geistreichen Uebersetzerin 
der Bemstein-Hexe. 

It was not Sarah Austin's daughter, but Mrs. R. W. Wilde, 
the Speranza of the Nation, who turned the Cloister Witch 
into English, and she, too, had well earned a dedication if 
the novelist had lived to complete his last work — *Der 
getreue Ritter oder Sigismund Hager von und zu Altensteig 
und die Reformation, in Brief en an die Grafin Julia von 
Oldof redi-Hager in Lemberg ' — which was issued at Regens- 
burg in 1852, with a preface by Aurel, his son, and has not 
yet, to our knowledge, found a translator. 

So much for the circumstances and the man. As to his 
two famous romances, it would be difficult to over-praise 
them ; within their limits they are almost perfect ; and of 
what work of art can more be said ? The life of Maria 
Schweidler, the Amber Witch, is supposed to be told by her 
father — a kindly, cowardly, honest old creature, who writes 
an account of the providential escape of his beautiful, brave, 
and clever daughter from the fiendish malice of her enemies, 
at the time of the Thirty Years' War. It follows the simple 
scheme of an English melodrama (as Mr. Jacobs has noticed), 
where villainy uses occasions to drive an innocent heroine 
into dire stresses, till the lover, long delayed, manages to 
rescue her at the eleventh hour. It is, however, necessary 
that the plot should be simple and easy to grasp, when there 
is so much action in the detail. Appropriate setting, delicate 
touches of character, most skilfully enhance the nobility of 
the helpless innocent child, and draw the warmest sympathy 
from us for her unmerited suffering from the ignorance, 
envy, and lust of her persecutors, who urge her charity, her 
learning, and her courage against her as proofs of the horrid 
guilt of which they accuse her. The pretty episodes of the 
glorious Swedish king, and of the ring of Duke Philippus, 


the grim matter-of-fact narrative of the famine, are in 
Defoe's vein ; but the serious, beautiful charm of the girl is 
somewhat beyond his range, though the method by which it 
is indicated is one of which the author of Robinson Crusoe 
and Moll Flanders was a past master. It would be inter- 
esting to learn what knowledge of his famous predecessor 
Meinhold possessed ; he must at least have read of * poor 
Robin '. But the Pomeranian has qualities the ^ True Briton ' 
never possessed; Defoe's ghosts and spirits are vulgar, and 
he cannot deal with the supernatural so as to arouse horror 
or terror ; he does not meddle save with sordid crime, which 
remains sordid under his hand. Meinhold has the true 
Elizabethan power of shocking the reader's soul with the 
repulsion and the sympathy he can arouse by his presentment 
of depths of sin and abysses of dread. And this without 
Tourneur's extravagance, without the mere sham and unreal 
taste for blood and bogeys that long haunted the childish 
Teutonic mind, and inspired the absurdities of the German 
romantic drama. This man is no Walpole, with vapid, 
ill-begotten rococo invention; no Monk Lewis with crude, 
Surrey-side imaginings. He is of the true stock of Kyd and 
Shakespeare. He can mix you broad humour with horror, 
and banal incident with the most pitiful tragedy, so that the 
relief shall enable the catastrophe to tell the more surely and 

Sidonia is far more ambitious, certainly in some respects 
finer, than the Amber Witch, illustrating its author's rare 
qualities in fuller measure. Astonishing for breadth and 
power is the conception of Sidonia herself — the true adven- 
turess nature — with a perpetual hatred for the pretences 
about her; proud of her own birth, and full of disdain for 
those below her, with eager greed and envy for all that was 
out of her reach but had come to others without an effort ; 
and armed in that selfish, revengeful cruelty and callousness 
for others' sufferings that belong to the habitual criminal, 
who urges pretended right to punish a society so constituted 
as to show symptoms of not existing mainly for his ease 


and comfort. There is something of Becky in her petty 
malignity, her indomitable courage, her elaborate and long- 
prepared schemes, her quick change of plan when it becomes 
obvious she is on the wrong track, her contempt for plain- 
dealing and honesty, which she accounts crass animal stu- 
pidity. Yet Meinhold rises higher than Thackeray ever 
soared ; the little Mayfair tragedy shrinks beside the 
monstrous crime of Saatzig; even Regan or Goneril might 
have recoiled from ordering the merciless torment that 
Sidonia never scrupled to inflict. It is a feat to have 
imagined and put into being a creature so devilish and yet 
so human as the Cloister Witch. For such is Meinhold's 
marvellous skill that he forces us to pity her, and to rejoice 
that Diliana's pleading won a painless death for the wretched 
old sinner who had suffered so terribly, both in soul and 
body, before the inevitable end came. Dr. Theodorus 
Plonnies, the simple narrator, is a less pronounced figure 
than Pastor Schweidler, and this rightly, for the story he 
has to relate is twice as long as the Caserow cleric's^ and the 
adventures of his incomparable heroine fill the canvas ; but 
his dogged fidelity to the bestial hog-like brood of dukes 
that reign over Pomerania, and his infantile credulity, are 
distinctly marked. The book comprises chapter after 
chapter of wonderful graphic force, ingeniously various in 
tone, but always lit with that spark of humour which alone 
could make so much horror endurable : one recalls the swift 
and unforeseen end of the mighty young standard-bearer on 
the ice; the aimless beery revolt of the town rascalry; the 
squalid encounters on the boat by which the outraged father 
and the brutal paramour are brought to their deaths ; the 
devout ending of young Appelmann ; the boisterous horseplay 
of the castle, with death ever close at the heels of drunken 
idle mirth ; the futile squabbles of the peasants and the 
hangman over the gipsy witch ; the bear-hunt ; the ridiculous 
fray with the treacherous malignant Jews, followed by the 
impressive conjuration of the Angel of the Sun ; the bits 
of half-comic, squalid convent-life ; the haughty ceremonies 



of the feudal court ; the cruel martyrdom of the innocent 
* dairy-mother ', and the vulgar quarrels of the girls in the 
ducal harem. But wherever the unconquerable Sidonia 
comes on his scene, the author rises to tragic heights, and 
his work grows in power and gains in colour. Admirably 
rendered is the mischievous fooHng and insolent mockery 
of the wanton artful beauty who brings lust and hate and 
impiety in her train, withering all that is good wherever her 
influence spreads, so that, till accident foils her, she pulls 
the wires of the wooden-headed court-puppets, defies Her 
silly Grace and the honest chamberlain, and is blessed by 
the very victims she has bespelled. That midnight incident 
should surely find an illustrator where the brave-hearted 
maiden, cross in hand, has chased the werewolf out of the 
church into the churchyard, and lo ! at the touch of the holy 
symbol, the foul beast has suddenly disappeared, and there 
stands Sidonia trembling, with black and bloody lips, in the 
clear thin moonlight, beside an open grave. The climax of 
her career is reached with the coffin-dance, when the ' devil's 
harlot' sang the 109th Psalm, and took her revenge while 
the hymn was pealing through the church above, and the 
plank beneath her feet quivering with the death-agony of 
the girl-mother who had stood her friend in the midst of her 
disgrace, when even her own kinsfolk had cast her off. 

Nor is it possible to forget Sidonia, crouching in her 
wretched cell in the witches' tower, with the black, scorched, 
half-roasted head and cross-bones of her miserable accom- 
plice flung on the floor beside her; Sidonia writhing and 
shrieking in impotent rage and agony on the rack at Oder- 
burg; Sidonia, perhaps even more pitiful to remember, as 
she curses and blasphemes in her despair over her lost 
beauty and ruined life, when the court painter, Matthias 
EUer, brings the portrait of her youth to be completed by 
the likeness, at sixty years' interval, of her hideous senility. 
Sidonia, it is always Sidonia! She haunts the mind and 
shakes the imagination, long after one has laid down the 
book that has created her. She is complete j her awful life 

X a 


from childhood to age one unbroken tissue of dusky and 
fiendish wickedness, with only the gleams of courage and 
wit and recklessness, and instinctive loathing for pretentious 
folly, to lighten its dark web. Once only is she repentant ; 
for a brief moment she pities the little child she has 
orphaned. But her end is a relief, when, not without the 
kind of dignity which Dekker or Webster can bestow 
upon the foulest criminal, Meinhold^s fearful heroine makes 
her last exit. 'At length the terrible sorceress herself 
appears in sight, accompanied by the school, chanting the 
death-psalm. She wore a white robe seamed with black 
[the death-shift that her worst sin had brought her]. She 
walked barefoot, and round her head a black fillet flowered 
with gold, beneath which her long white hair fluttered in the 
wind.^ So she passes to her doom. 

After which, most fit and congruous is the epilogue, 
wherein, with true Shakespearian craft, Meinhold soothes 
his readers' tense nerves with soft melancholy, and shows us 
the faithful servant by his master's coffin in the vaults of the 
castle-church of Stettin on the anniversary of his burial, 
with the paper bearing the record of that burial in his hand. 
^But my poor old Pomeranian heart could bear no more; 
I placed the paper again in the coffin, and, while the tears 
poured from my eyes as I ascended the steps, these beautiful 
old verses came into my head, and I could not help reciting 
them aloud : — 

So must human pride and state 
In the grave lie desolate ; 
He who wore the kingly crown 
With the base worm lieth down, 
Ermined robe and purple pall 
' Leaveth he at Death's weird call. 

Fleeting, cheating, human life. 
Souls are perilled in thy strife; 
Yet the pomps in which we trust. 
All must perish ! — dust to dust : 
God alone will ever be; 
Who serves Him reigns eternally.' 


Has such weird tragedy been written in Europe since the 
Elizabethan stage was silenced by the Puritan, as this of 
Sidonia? When we compare it with Victor Hugo^s Notre- 
Dame de Paris, the Frenchman's raw colouring is almost 
ludicrous, and his coarse conventional scene-painting ceases 
to impress. Scott's diablerie and magic is child's play, 
mere gossamer, beside Meinhold's firm, strong, natural work. 
Marryat has produced some rough half-vtrought effects in 
this kind ; Barham and Stevenson have done well within 
restrained limits ; Poe is too fantastic and vulgar, for all his 
talent; Emily Bronte had the requisite power, but hardly 
attained to the exquisite art. Not Michelet, with the 
splendid glow of his romantic effects, nor Flaubert for all 
his rich and elaborate prose, nor Huysmans with his artful 
chameleon embroidery of phrase and shrill neurotic narrative, 
has been able to attain to Meinhold's marvellous creations. 
Only Balzac's Succube, ^ ceste ange froissee par de meschans 
hommes ' — a tale (like Maria Schweidler's) of pitiful charity 
brutally betrayed to torture and death, — this tiny master- 
piece of a great master, is fit to stand beside them. It 
would seem that upon this German pastor of the nineteenth 
century there had descended the skirt of Marlowe's mantle. 
He who drew the pride of Tamerlane, the ambition of Faust, 
the greed of Barabas, was the true ancestor of the creator 
of Sidonia, and we must go back to the time of Ford to find 
a right parallel among English men of letters to him that 
portrayed the meekly borne sufferings and soft courage of 
the Amber Witch. 


A MORE difficult matter to dispose of than that of the 
novelist's character is the position of his work. As a critic 
he was delicate and useful in examining those works that he 
felt to be within his sympathy ; of those outside his some- 

» 1898. 


what narrow range he was no just judge — for instance, he 
could not read and did not like Balzac. As an original author 
of the school of Gogol and Sand, he is entitled to a place 
that, though far below that claimed for him by his first 
readers and admirers, is still respectable. In the first place, 
he is a fine observer of the * nuances', he is a good craftsman, 
sincere with his art, caring greatly (like his comrade Flaubert 
and his young friend Maupassant) to get the right word in 
the right place, impatient of inaccuracies, of small faults, of 
blurs and blots. In the next place, he is sane and wholesome. 
He saw through the cant of the windy talk supposed to show 
' progress " and * purpose ' in Russian circles in the fifties 
and sixties. He saw through the silly formulae that entrap 
weak souls. He not only saw the wrong path and knew to 
where it led, but he saw the right path and pointed it out, 
a trifle sardonically perhaps, but still with kindly intent. 
This naturally caused the babblers to accuse him (as they 
accused Goethe before him) of being a bad patriot, a turncoat, 
an anti-progressive, and so on. He was strong enough 
(though a sensitive man) to stand against the current of abuse 
that broke against him for years. He disdained to bid for 
popularity, and was content to wait till his position was 
proven true by the hard calculus of fact. All this must be 
counted to him for righteousness. The man must, of course, 
be judged largely by his books, by the impressions that he 
produced on his friends (as such valuable documents as the 
Goncourt journals demonstrate), as well as by his authentic 
letters. The gentle giant, a little sad, a little ironic, a little 
capricious in ordinary things; careless with money; detached 
from places, attached to people ; severe in self -analysis, not 
unsympathetic, but searching in his analysis of others; 
a gentleman and an artist to the finger-tips. This is the man 
who loved his friends and despised his enemies, who pitied 
himself (and others), who left his own land to follow his own 
art ; who loved rather the truth in exile than the sham with 
the applause of ignorance and the rewards that it brings, 
a man early disillusioned but never soured, a character that 


could not but be fascinating to the few whom he admitted to 
his intimate friendship^ and rather enigmatic to those outside 
this circle. 


It was certainly a moment of the keenest mental, almost 
bodily pleasure, when, nearly forty years ago, in the sixties, 
one first heard and felt the fresh harmonies of the Atalanta 
and the Poems and Ballads. Mr. Swinburne had created 
a new paradise of English poetry, full of marvellous melody, 
melody hitherto undiscovered and unsung. It was enchanted 
ground, and the glamour that it cast about us then clings to 
it still. It will always be hard for any of us who hailed the 
triumphant advent of the new poet, when both he and we 
were young, to judge his achievements calmly. We are and 
must be content to admire. 

Certainly the new poems were no less pleasing to us 
then in that their exquisite workmanship carried ideas that 
were, to our minds, full of high and holy truths — ideas 
some of which certainly have not all the same charm to-day, 
though the verse that enshrines them is as beautiful, as 
admirable as ever. We felt warmly toward Hugo both as 
poet and politician, we loathed the French emperor's coup 
d'etat and the false and cowardly truckling to the clericals 
that brought about the Halt before Rome, we venerated the 
great conspirator Mazzini, and the greater liberator Garibaldi, 
and to have lofty verse concerning these made by a poet, 
whose mastery in technique already raised our high enthusiasm, 
was doubly delightful. His joy and deep knowledge in, and 
exquisite interpretation of, the Greek singers and Mediaeval 
makers also gave us intense and sympathetic pleasure. He 
loved the Elizabethans and the Border Ballads as we had 
learned to do. With his attitude toward the manifestations 

^ English Illustrated Magazine, April, 1903. 


of oflBcial Christianity at Rome and Moscow we were in 
whole-hearted sympathy. How were we not to rejoice in 
such a poet ? 

Of course, after a while we began, some of us at least, to 
differ with the poet in degree ; we did not prize all Hugo's 
verse and prose as he did, we could not always feel such 
strong disgust or admiration as he expressed towards the 
objects of his praise or blame, we did not care for some of his 
later subjects as much as he did, we loyally but keenly 
regretted certain violent utterances, we began to make dis- 
tinctions, especially when the poet wrote in prose — but the 
spell of his finest verse was still upon us, and so it remains. 
As for myself, if I may speak of my own feelings in this 
critical matter, what of his I read and re-read and what 
I know by heart, is to be found neither in his longer narra- 
tive, nor in his later dramatic verse, but in the work of his 
lyrical or pensive moods, in the just and magnificent sonnets 
on the Elizabethans ; in poems filled, as is Hespena, with 
the august music of the sea; in the Hellenic beauty and 
poignancy of Anactoria and the Sapphics; above all in the 
exquisite haunting melodies of the Ballad of Dreamland 
and of that inimitable piece The Forsaken Garden. There 
are exquisite songs for singing, noble elegies and dedica- 
tions, superb passages in the narratives, and golden lines 
in the dramas, that do not fail to delight as they did at first, 
but the purely lyrical and pensive poems are those that seem 
to grow even more lovely as the years pass.. 

A sincere passion for the Sea in all her moods, and as true 
a love for England, give peculiar nobility to much of Mr. 
Swinburne's most impressive work, deepening the thought 
and strengthening the music, and imposing on the elaborate 
craftsmanship a sovran and serene simplicity of purpose. 

But English as he is, it is not only in his own country that 
he has been a living voice to his generation. He has found 
honour and admiration in the land of Villon and Baudelaire, 
of Hugo and Gautier, in that realm of France of which he 
and George Meredith of all our English poets have written 


most generously. And he is known as a master-poet in the 
land all English poets from Chaucer to Landor have loved, 
the land of Carducci, of Leopardi, of Bruno, and of Dante— 
a land he has honoured only less than his own. 

He has written much, and much he has written well; and 
surely, when his time comes, this man, having woven for 
himself an immortal robe of honour, shall be summoned to 
the fellowship of those great poets he has worthily praised, and 
like them 

Pass not crownless to Persephone. 


Mr. Kipling is a force in politics as in letters. But this 
makes it harder to judge him fairly. Some of his least 
artistic work is wholly sound in feeling : ' Pay, Pay, Pay ' is 
not his best poem, but as an effectual piece of writing it had 
a deserved success, and helped many that would have fared 
ill but for such an appeal. For myself, I do not greatly 
admire his Hymns, and I find the talking ponies and 
machinery of the kind tiresome, but these Hymns and animal 
stories and the less inspired ^Just So^ tales are favourites 
with many both young and old, and certainly the moral is 
excellent. As a teacher, indeed, Mr. Kipling is undeniably 
effective. I am profoundly grateful for many of his sermons, 
and gladly acknowledge the good he has done. We English 
cannot help preaching ; it is one of our most notable charac- 
teristics to the foreigner's eye that we must be eternally giving 
advice, advice generally unasked. To my mind Mr. Kipling 
is very English (if I may differ, as I regret to do, from Mr. 
Chesterton) ; he loves the didactic, he dallies gladly with 
allegory, he has, like Defoe, practical ends. He is an artist 
born, but he is also a born preacher, though it is only fair to 
say that he does not make himself a missionary, and his 

* English Illustrated Magazine, Dec. 1903. 


ministrations are confined to his own countrymen^ who have 
need of his advice. He preaches Faith, Hope, and Charity. 
He has enforced, again and again, the necessary lesson of 
sympathy with everything that lives. He has made us feel 
that there is a common humanity between us and the in- 
scrutable 'native^. He has made the most stupid of us 
understand that there is an abiding interest in the thoughts 
and ways of the wholesome plain man and woman doing their 
daily work and rejoicing in it. He has got close to the 
inwardness of the soldier and the sailor, and the engineer, the 
civilian, and the fisherman. The whole life and mind of the 
newspaper man, whether editor, compositor, printer's devil, 
reporter, or correspondent, is open to him, and revealed by 
him to us. 

He is a perpetual and patient and swift observer, ever on 
the look-out for the vital and distinctive among the mass of 
phenomena that surrounds us all. He has not a little of 
Maupassant's gift of giving the local colour and the personal 
impression without waste of words, though he was trained in 
a far less artistic studio, and was some time before he 
worked free of the tricks of the school of Dickens and Sala 
and the Kingsleys, and reached the higher simplicities of 
finished art. Dumas has influenced him, as he influenced 
Stevenson, wholly for good, in the spirit and not in the letter. 
He has the delight Gautier so often expressed for technical 
detail, he sees its importance ; he knows what the engine is 
to the engineer and the ship to the sailor. He can paint 
moods by a very different method to that of Henry James, 
but one as legitimate, and more Meredithian, discovering the 
instinct by the act, marking the play of incident on the 
character. It is not his business to endeavour to trace out, 
according to the miraculous and unique method of the 
greatest of American novelists, the whole working of the 
tangled current of will as it is contorted by circumstance. 
His prose is straightforward, concise, untrammelled by 
useless ornament, and, as he develops, less and less dis- 
turbed by those episodic appeals to the reader which Defoe 



rightly disdained, but which spoil much of Thackeray's 
work. His reader is never unfairly dealt with by Mr. 
Kipling: if he cannot move him with a 'plain tale' he 
will not strive by such illegitimate efforts to stimulate his 
stolid brain and dull heart. With a fine descriptive gift, 
never sliding into the dangerous catalogue style (which, 
though it was nobly employed by Balzac, was not seldom 
abused by Zola), he gets his effect by a careful but spon- 
taneous-looking selection of the touches that really tell. I often 
wonder whether he does not practise in letters the method 
Phil May used in design, and write into his first sketch 
much more than he means to have printed, cutting out all 
but the really significant lines and leaving them to speak out 
clearly, unhampered by those that would only fill up and 
dull the impression he has already secured. He can create 
characters that help to people the world that each of us has 
in his brain ; a world where Falstaff and Mrs. Gamp are as 
real as one's flesh-and-blood acquaintance. Mrs. Hauksbee 
and Private Ortheris, Dick and the red-haired girl, Terence 
and Dinah, the engineer's wife and Kim's old bonze. The 
Infant, Strickland, Torpenhow, Badalia and Judson, Jakin 
and Dan, are not paper things, but move, and talk, and laugh, 
and suffer, and breathe, and bleed, as mere puppets never can. 
For plot and situation he has, of course, a most rare and 
singular gift ; such tales as The Man that Was, The Brush- 
wood Boy, The Strange Ride, and a score more that might be 
named, attest this power to the full. He has had, of course, 
scores of imitators, and not a few that have been inspired by 
him to do good work of their own (like Mr. London, whose 
Call of the Wild is far the best book Mr. Kipling's beast 
tales have brought into existence) : but even his imitators 
have not made the originals stale. 

For his verse, there is much that is imperfect in it. He has 
let far too many poems be printed and reprinted that do not 
fairly represent him, that are imperfect, immature, unbalanced, 
unfinished. He has not yet the heart to prune his verse as 
he prunes his prose. He is too content with labouring and 


re-labouring inside the same circles of thought and expression. 
He injures some of his best poems by leaving ugly flaws that 
could easily be removed, by imperfect rhymes, extra-metrical 
lines (a bad fault this because it irritates), jarring discords, 
superfluity of expression, and above all by labouring the 
idea overmuch as Victor Hugo too often did. This laxity 
is the sin of Eli, and it is deadly if a man do not repent and 
forswear it. Prose may be ^ let go at that ', but not verse ; 
it is not 'playing the game^. But when all is said, Mr. 
Kipling is a vigorous and sincere poet. His best verse has 
music in it, and there are wings to his words. He has learnt 
much from Mr. Swinburne's early work, but it is the more 
massive qualities of his master's rhythm rather than the deli- 
cacies of his more elaborate craftsmanship that have chiefly 
pleased him. Mr. Kipling has the essential gift that the poet 
of children and the crowd must have, the gift of correct time 
and clear flow of melody, but he has more than that : there 
is a soul as well as a body in the finest of his poems, they 
cling, they haunt the mind, as they satisfy the ear. Some of 
his scraps of verse set at the heads of chapters are in this kind 
admirable. He is also, as few modern poets are, a real song- 
writer : he makes verse that calls for a singer, that demands 
the baritone and the tinkle of the strings and the fidl-mouthed 
chorus. What he has written in slang is wonderfully good, 
full of movement, and never commonplace, as so much 
dialect verse tends to be. There are excellent specimens : 
Piet, M. /., and Me in his last volume. He is exceptionally 
strong in allegory, a vein rarely touched of late, but which he 
has worked to purpose. The Galley, The Three-decker , The 
Truce of the Bear, The Dykes, and True Thomas, are notable 
examples. Neither Tennyson nor (as I think) Browning 
could write a good ballad, but Mr. Kipling can. Fisher's 
Boarding-house, The Bolivar, The Last Suttee, and Denny 
Deever, for instance, are real * little epics '. For the full, rich, 
rolling verse in which he excels, perhaps the best are : The 
Last Chantey, The Dirge of the Dead Sisters, Et Dona 
FerenteSf The Long Trail, The Jollies y The Anchor Song, though. 


there are a fair number nearly as good in manner or matter. 
But if these alone existed Mr. Kipling would go down to 
posterity with ' a full and proper kit of song ', to use his own 

His limitations are obvious, but they are the consequence 
of his peculiar gifts, and we do not look to him to rival the 
work of thinkers like Mr. Meredith, to walk with the dreamers 
like Mr. Yeats or * A. E.^, or to touch the poignant personal 
note of such poets as Mr. Blunt or the best verse of Mrs. 
Watson and T. E. Brown. Henley^s finest work was much 
more subjective than Mr. Kipling^s is or can be. But there 
are many mansions in the House of Apollo, and to one of 
these his title is writ clear enough. 

It is pleasant to write about good work, but Mr. Kipling's 
work does not need much explanation — it speaks for itself. 
He is yet young and strong, and in full power : one may hope 
for more prose and more verse from him. He will never lack 
subjects. He evidently loves his work, and like the artists in 
heaven of his Envoy , he would do it for the pure pleasure of it 
were there neither fame nor reward in it. He has deserved 
well of England, and well of the Empire. He has never 
hesitated to speak plainly to his countrymen, and some of 
them, at least, have taken his lesson to heart. He has been 
faithful to Art also, and his devotion has not been thrown 
away. He has always been a learner, and though at first one 
feared that he would be too easily satisfied, the increasing 
finish of his prose style (for his verse does not improve 
perceptibly) shows that he has constantly striven for more 
perfect expression. His leniency towards his past work is, 
though regrettable, not hard to understand. 

Perhaps no English man of letters since Byron has seen 
his ideas and his manner of conveying them so widely 
welcomed among the reading public of his countrymen. 
Unlike Byron in most things, he resembles him in this, that 
he commands the attention of the public because he can be 
easily understood, because his manner is that which his age 
admires and recognizes, because he has something new to 
say, which he must say plainly, and does say well. 



[This article appeared in a sportive Young Oxford magazine, The 
Spirit Lamp, in Oct. 1892, as a Causerie du Vendredi. The quotation 
heads the article. A volley against American literature and civilization 
follows, of a conversational character : we quote the remainder. Mr. 
P. H. Emerson's Caoba and other books were also favourites of 

' I drank it, and say, " Ah, look here, chummy, that is beer, that 
different stuff what you went and got t'momin' ".' — A Son of the 

. . . Poor Emerson ! he had at least the consciousness 
(which the rest of the babbling Boston minikins have never 
had) that all was not right in the * Great Western Republic^. 
Once, too, on a pathetic occasion he wrote a sad and 
touching little piece of verse — a great sorrow struck a spark 
of poetry out of his flint. But enough of this honest fellow 
and his hopeless commonplace copy-book stuff. He never 
was, and is not, this fleeting down-east phantasm, this 
angular New England evanescence. 

But, curiously enough, there is an Emerson, a real 
Emerson, a man who can write and does write, whose book, 
A Son of the Fens, is one of the English novels of this 
century. Realist, in that his subject is taken from simple, 
actual, infinite life, ' drawn from the quicke ' ; impressionist, 
in that he strives for justice of tone, for the harmony that 
there always is in an aspect of nature ; Mr. Emerson has 
given us a simple record, autobiographic in form, of an East 
Anglian life, a hearty, wholesome, useful life, with the 
common ups and downs that befall dozens of good east- 
country ' mash men ' and fishermen ; but it is all somehow 
deeply interesting. You can fancy yourself, you cannot 
help fancying yourself sitting in the brick cottage by the 
mill over pipes and mugs of homebrewed as the plain man 
tells his plain tale, * backing and fetching^, and Hacking 
down a long reach,^ but still getting on, in that natural 
artless way that is the perfection of art. The verisimilitude 


of the whole thing is almost magic : the unfolding of 
character is admirable and sure, the detail correct to a hair's- 
breadth. Miss Dobree and Miss Ingram and Mrs. Riddell are 
artists all three, and they have written admirable records, but 
of lives that are not in the least idyllic — cramped, mutilated, 
adulterated, civilized, middle-class lives : lives not lived but 
poorly shambled through. But this rough countryman's 
life is an idyll. And then Mr. Emerson never moralizes, he 
judges not, he is the true chronicler, he records as well as he 
can what is to be recorded, and he leaves it. Nor does he 
cumber his drama with elaborate superfluous scenery, he is 
as free from the need of scene-painting as Homer or a Sagaman. 
The extraordinary force of the book is felt by a moment's 
comparison with the work of such worthy people as Black- 
more. Beside A Son of the Fens, how unreal, flat, sen- 
timental, is a tale like Lorna Doone ! And yet Lorna 
Doone has much more merit and labour in it than the vast 
bulk of English-made noveltry. Nor has Mr. Emerson the 
excited forced note which sometimes spoiled a fine page of 
Jefferies, or the hopeless bitterness that scarred Runciman's 
best work. He is not feverish, he reminds one of Valles at 
his best, he has the same idiomatic aptness of phrase, definite 
clear memory, restraint, accurate adjustment of colour, and 
unprejudiced sympathy. Mr. Emerson has worked hard at 
his East Anglian, his earlier tales are often careful, accurate, 
poetic, drastic, but this Son of the Fens is a little master- 
piece. Into that worshipful company of immortals created 
by man there has entered one Dick Windmill, and his pardner 
Jo and his wife Jenny are with him. * Night you go, old 
Dicka ! ' 


It is not so easy as it seems to write a fairy tale. In 
reality it is impossible; fairy tales are 'born, not made'. 
Give a great writer the skeleton of a real old fairy tale, and 
^ 1891-2 : from two reviews. 


he will clothe the dry bones and breathe the breath of life 
into the hollow ribs and start the creature forth as a new 
avatar. Andersen may be cited as example of the modern 
fairy-tale maker, but he could not invent a fairy tale. The 
Tin Soldier is a ' mime ', an ' idyll ', of fairyland, but not a 
fairy tale. Lewis Carroll has invented a new branch of 
literature in his Alice, but however we may christen his 
curious, whimsical, topsy-turvy, dream-like medleys, they 
are not fairy tales. The burlesque fairy tale is to many of 
us (in spite of TTie Rose and the Ring) a piece of bad taste, 
generally detestable to children, and is liked by those who 
can appreciate a genuine folk-tale. The elements of vul- 
garity and ignorance in Hawthorne (so ably concealed in 
several of his other books) are shown up as soon as he begins 
to deal with the Greek myths. Southey has produced an 
admirable folk-tale, the Three Bears, but it must have been 
founded on a traditional foundation. Froude has turned out 
an excellent beast-fable of no little humour and couched in 
the true spirit of Eastern didacticism. Mr. Howard Pyle 
has hashed up old fairy tales into new dishes with much 
skill, and illustrated them with unrivalled grace and power 
and absolute fitness. And Mr. Proctor has done some very 
striking and adequate cuts to a set of popular books of rare 
literary qualities which bear the same relation to the real 
fairy tales they copy and follow as Amadis of Gaul, Tirant 
le Blanc, and Palmerin of England do to Lancelot, Tristan, 
and Perceval. The old stories may be retold by men of 
talent in each generation, as Mr. Harris has retold the beast 
stories in his Uncle Remus, but to invent a fairy tale seems 
beyond the power of civilized man. 

... If it is impossible, as most of us find it, to believe 
with Blake that the fairies exist — and even he saw a fairy 
funeral, omen, as it seems, of their extinction, completed 
by the telephone and begun by the church bells — it is at 
least consolatory to think that they once existed, that they 
lived under the green hillocks, that they tended and milked 
their fairy cattle, danced in their fairy rings by moonlight, 


and were small, hairy, merry, quick-tempered, swift-footed, 
clever-handed, grateful little beings, who have probably left 
some of their blood with us to prolong in our much-mixed 
race the elfin virtues of mirth, industry, craftsmanship, and 
gratitude. These dead races and what they have bequeathed 
us yield matter for reflection, and one begins to doubt 
whether even a high religious authority was quite wise in 
sneering at 'old wives' tales'. At all events, Shakespeare 
treats the old lore in a more Christian sympathy and a wiser 
prescience of its essential truthfulness. 




[Here follows a prefatory note to an exhibition by a living artist ; 
the preference shown by Powell for child-like truth and charm, or 
for fanciful but keen observation, in line and colour, recalls his love 
in literature for simple or homely phrase.] 

There are two sorts of pictorial art, both, as it seems to 
me, noble and lawful, and both acceptable after their kind. 
One is concerned with what we call real things^ things that 
have existed, or do or may exist in this three-dimensional 
workaday world of ours. The other is busy with the 
things of Dreamland, the things that never have been and 
never are, and perhaps never will be. I am not going to 
settle which of these two kinds of art is the nobler, or to 
confess which I prefer, though that would be an easier 
matter. I am only going to try to give my impressions of 
the work of an artist who seeks and finds subjects in both 
worlds, but most often in the World of Dream. 

Miss Pamela Smith's Dreamland is a Dreamland that 
I like to visit through her painted visions of it. Some 
painters' Dreamlands I wholly refuse to enter or even to look 
at over the wall ; they are alien to any Dreamland I have 
ever cared to travel in ; but I find her Dreamland full of 
interest, as I walk slowly past the giant hills and giantess 
1 ♦ I like real things best.' [F. Y. P. ; MS. note.] 
y. p. II Y 


crags, and peer into the deep caves, look up to the high rocks, 
pore down into the deep pools, or gaze up on the big rolling 
clouds sped by the warm west wind, or wait to see the fall of 
the towering wave, and the sudden leap of the glittering 
fountain. It pleases me to get glimpses of the floating fairy- 
ladies with their tall crowns of gold and their trailing em- 
broidered jewel-beaded robes, to peep at the little trooping 
pixies, hurrying past with their swaying leaf-banners and 
long cloaks, to discover wan, shadowy forms, encysted in the 
immemorial rocks, to watch tall figures in sober raiment, 
grouped silently, or moving to stately rhythms. For there 
is, as in all natural compositions, a musical effect in these 
pictures. The varying shades of green and purple, and faint 
blues and yellows, the specks of gold and silver, are pleasant 
to the eye and appropriate to the whole atmosphere of the 
vision. There is a phantasy and imagination in the very 
placing and pattern that makes the tiny scenes impressive. 
For these translations of dreams into form and colour are 
manifestly sincere and simple. Not a few indeed are 
recollections of actual dreams. The direct style, the un- 
affected handling and swift, child-like conventions of the 
drawing befit the subjects. And here it is allowable to say 
that Mr. Whistler — no indulgent critic — spoke in generous 
praise of the execution of these drawings by Miss Smith, 
insisting that over-care and high finish, and academic rigidity 
and exactness, would have been completely out of place in 
them, and not at all in keeping with those gleaming inter- 
pretations of the fairy world, where the air is thin and fine 
and the colour iridescent, and all is unstable and fluent, 
dissolving and recomposing and perpetually changing before 
the wondering eye. Only the swift impression can be put 
down, and it must be recorded as quickly as possible, for the 
vapour that veils this airy universe may cover it all in another 

But there are other sides to Miss Pamela Smith's art. 
She likes to play with the funny old-fashioned little children 
and listen to the graceful beskirted mammas and delightful 


aunties, old and young, of the days of Mrs. Barbauld, and of 
Anne and Jane Taylor, and here she has a little province of 
her own. 

Of her illustrations, especially the admirable Golden 
Vanity, and the original and delightful Annancy Stories, 
I must not speak now. Her landscape is to me especially 
delightful. Its conventions are well and aptly adapted to 
her individual feelings and impressions ; excellent in them- 
selves, always expressive, sometimes really masterly in their 
simplicity and force. They have style. The composition is 
easy and eloquent, the frugal colour finely chosen. They 
are intensely personal too, and to me they seem to possess 
the kind of charm that I find in George Wilson's landscape 
work, though they are usually joyous and have none of the 
rich Keats-like melancholy of that distinguished painter's 

Of course these drawings will not appeal to every one that 
sees them. One person's drawings are not necessarily 
interesting to another. But those that feel the personal note 
there is in all Miss Pamela Smith's drawings, who can accept 
her convictions, understand her point of view, and grasp her 
scheme of interpretation, will take a great deal of pleasure 
in them, and for these persons they have been wrought. 

To me there is a grace about them akin to the grace of 
childhood, a grace hard to describe but easy to feel. The 
true visionary is always young, for the years he passes in 
Dreamland do not count, and he always sees and feels as 
a child — as Blake did even upon his death-bed. 

That Miss Pamela Smith's work is original and absolutely 
sincere is obvious ; that she has found a natural and 
harmonious mode of expression is clear also. She comes 
before us with a set of fresh and vivid transcripts from her 
own peculiar outlook into Nature and Memory that are not 
only new, but, as I think, often beautiful, with a singular 
beauty of their own. That is all I claim for her, but I claim 
it decidedly, and if I am right in my claim surely she has 
deserved well of those that love and care for Art. 

Y 2, 


[Thoughts on Democracy appeared first as a preface to Mr. C. Beard's 
Industrial Revolution, and then as part of a pamphlet (see Catalogue 
of Writings), in which was also reprinted the article on Buskin, itself 
originally issued in the Ruskinian organ, St. George.] 


At sunset, on the 20th January, 1900, died a man who 
has done much for his countrymen and would fain have 
done more. For years and years he prophesied to us of 
faith and hope and charity, and of judgement to come. He 
kept high ideals before us ; he was charitable, kind, and 
unselfish in his own life. Like Carlyle, his master, he hated 
shams : ' appearances ^ or ^ custom ', or * what is expected ' or 
'what must be profitable', were excuses of no avail in his 
eyes. ' Is the thing true ? ' was his test, and it seems to me 
that though in applying this touchstone we shall often go 
wrong, such is human ignorance, we shall not be so likely to 
go wrong in the long run as if we took another. Like 
Carlyle, too, he was a great preacher, preaching to a nation 
that has known and required many great preachers from the 
days of King Alfred and of Langland until to-day. Moreover, 
he was a popular preacher, but he was no hireling loving to 
prophesy smooth things, flattering under the simulation of 
rebuke or craftily apologizing for and cunningly glossing 
over mean and petty but well-cherished national sins. He 
was a statesman sometimes, but never a politician. It was 
emphatically not his humour to worship the ugly idol of 
expediency, nor could he stoop to cajole fools in order to 


gain place or popularity. He was an intensely religious 
man, but he never put on the garb of a sect or pretended 
for a moment to share the dogmatic beliefs that are the 
delight of the churches, though such acquiescence would 
have secured him powerful sympathies for his life's work. 
Priding himself to be the son of an honourable merchant, 
his morality would never have allowed him to inform the 
House of Commons that 'adulteration was a mere form of 
competition '. He was not willing to tell working-men that 
they are wise in matters of which they are ignorant, honest 
when he knew that they are too often lazy and stupid, fine 
fellows when they are obviously, too many of them, more 
drunken, brutal, and dirty than they need be : though to no 
man in England was the cause of the poor ever nearer, and 
few public men, whom we have known, have thought and 
worked more earnestly and usefully on behalf of those who 
labour with their hands or have held good handiwork in more 
complete respect. Like Carlyle, too, he was one of the first 
English thinkers to discover and expose the hopeless but 
most delusive fallacies of the old school of political economy, 
though aU he got for many years in this national service was 
shallow mockery. But the political economy of to-day is 
the political economy of John Ruskin, and not the political 
economy of John Bright or even of John Stuart Mill. There 
was a time when, as he said himself, Carlyle and he stood 
ahnost alone against a world that listened greedily to 
the babble of party politicians and the chatter of popular 
jom-nalists, to all the meaningless, deceptive buzzing of the 
ephemerals, in fact. But how does it stand now? What 
was essential in the creed of these two teachers is now 
largely a matter of faith (though unhappily not always of 
practice) among thinking men and women wherever English 
is spoken. I am not claiming for John Ruskin the infalli- 
bility that belongs to no man, were he even Isaiah or Dante 
or Shakespeare, but I do say this, that in the midst of an 
evil generation that laboured busily with the muck-rake, 
delighting in its filthy toil and refusing any other work, he 


was not content to live meanly or think meanly or act 
meanly ; and that like Meredith (the greatest now left to us 
of the foremost English teachers this dying half-century has 
known) he never ceased to point out the evil of the headlong 
national pursuit of riches and rank, followed to the reckless 
damage of body and soul, and to the callous and wanton 
injury of every beautiful place and beautiful thing in these 
islands. I confess it is this side of the man that chiefly 
appeals to me in his writings, though I can see perfectly 
well that he was not talking idly when he complained that 
he was taken away from his own proper work because upon 
him (as upon William Morris later) it was borne in that no 
one but himself could or would give to his fellows the 
message he had learnt. 

For Ruskin was both an artist and a teacher of art. His 
own art work was twofold : he wrought with pencil and with 
pen, with line and colour and with words. His drawings 
are always delicate and conscientious, often gently and 
delightfully expressive. His art criticism is admittedly of 
high order. In fact, he has anticipated much of the most 
modern aesthetic teaching now received wherever art is really 
followed. It is not such a slight thing that he was able to 
teach himself by patient painstaking to understand and 
appreciate the work of a man who was neither understood 
nor appreciated before, though he had in highest measure 
the divine gift of nobly rendering natural colour and form, 
and of clothing his vision of reality with such a garment of 
glory as had never till then seemed possible or credible to an 
English painter. If, like all critics, Ruskin was no judge of 
the works of art he did not love, at least he deeply under- 
stood those that he did love. He was blind, wholly blind to 
the genius of Whistler, but he was also one of the first and 
best appreciators of one important side at least of Turner, 
and though there are certain high technical qualities in 
Turner's work that are (as some good judges hold) even 
to-day insufficiently apprehended, yet there must be, as 
a result of Ruskin's generous partisanship, many careful 


students of this great artist who were first led to study his 
prints and pictures by reading Modern Painters, It was 
Ruskin^ too, who placed the study of mediaeval art on its 
true historical basis. It was Ruskin^s championship that 
helped prae-Raphaelites in their long struggle, and Ruskin's 
writings furnished them with a store of arguments for the 
positions they had taken up. His philosophy of art and 
ethic largely became theirs. In the battle where Millais by 
his illustrations, Morris by his handicraft, Rossetti by his 
colour, and Swinburne by his verse overthrew the armies of 
the aliens, Ruskin did his allies yeoman service. That he was 
unable to see that beyond these men and their work there 
were new men and fresh possibilities to come ; that he could 
hardly conceive a great architecture save in terms of Medi- 
aeval Venetian or North French Ogivale ; that he could neither 
appreciate ' classic style ' nor the imitations and paraphrases 
thereof — to say this is to say that he had marked and dis- 
tinctive likes and dislikes, and that, possessing the artistic 
temperament, he was frankly and sharply intolerant of all 
that did not seem likely to satisfy his personal ideals even in 
the work of those he most venerated. It is certain that Turner 
would have differed totally from him in his prejudiced view 
of the Dutch school; and a system of criticism that mis- 
understands and practically ignores the greatest of masters, 
Rembrandt and Velasquez, treats with contempt and dislike 
the most beautiful and most subtle developments of Japanese 
art, and has high praise for certain inferior artists and 
pictures, can never be accepted as in any way a complete 
view of the subject. Still few critics have had the power 
to transfer to others so much of the effect, that a favourite 
work of visual art produces on themselves after prolonged 
and intelligent study, as Ruskin had. He would sometimes 
dwell far too long and fancifully, as many of us believe, on 
the subject, or the ideal that was conjured up by the picture 
he was admiring, but he could also feel acutely the quality 
of the painting, the charm of the pattern, the satisfactory 
play of the lines, and the power of the colouring, whenever 


the picture was of the kind he could understand. He did 
his best to educate his public to art ; whether in this he did 
well or ill, who shall yet decide ? It has been held by those 
who do not speak lightly, that to awaken any one to the 
Delight of the Eye is to do him an immense service ; and that 
even though such an one have but small art aptitudes, those 
tiny aptitudes were better increased than left to diminish by 
disuse. The influence of Ruskin's teaching really marks the 
difference in English art between 1880 and 1860, and there 
is scarcely a street, indeed, or a house in England that does 
not bear some trace of Ruskin^s influence. 

Though Mock- Venetian has become an abomination in the 
dirty hands of the jerry-builder, though Postlethwaite has 
prattled nauseously of Botticelli and of much else, though 
much foolishness has been said and done^ by those who have 
made the following of Ruskin a symptom of fashion instead of 
a matter of conviction, though even among honest followers 
of the Master there has been much blind bigotry and plenty 
of silly partisanship, all this does not really destroy the value 
of the good he has done, working at first entirely single- 
handed and long almost alone. We must remember, too, 
all that is really essential in his art-teaching has been gener- 
ally absorbed; we only stop now to discuss points where 
we differ from it, tacitly accepting its main axioms — the 
necessity of sincerity, patience, observation — and agreeing 
implicitly with his rejection of machine-made decoration, 
dishonest use of material, needless ornament, useless detail, 
and all fashionable falsities that can never become tolerable 
or even excusable to the true artist. 

His own handiwork was patient, careful, minute ; he was 
a fine draughtsman (so fine that few, save artists, seem to 
me to have really appreciated the beautiful and attractive 
character of his most sensitive work) ; he had a subtle feeling 
for colour in itself ; but he would not understand what the 
critics meant by * composition ', and he did not try to grapple 
with or to comprehend the colour-problems that men like 
Manet and Degas have set themselves to solve as far as may 


"be. Those natural iridescent effects, for instance, that Turner 
saw and grappled with so boldly, as Mr. Stevenson has 
pointed out, a whole generation before other men dreamed 
of trying to reproduce them, were negligible phenomena to 
him. He did not often care or even notice whether a picture 
was ' true ' in colour, provided it really satisfied him in other 
respects, as his criticism on Turner's water-colours plainly 
shows. He too often mixed ethical matters that do not concern 
art at all with his art criticism, always to the intense delight 
of the Philistines, but not to the satisfaction of the rightly- 
trained artist. But, apart from this acknowledged mistake, 
it is certain that in treating of the social aspects of art he 
did great service, and fearlessly and rightly took up the 
consideration of difficulties that had not been overcome or 
even fairly attacked since the days of Plato. He was often 
fantastically feminine, he was not seldom unduly whimsical, 
he was at times obstinate in his first expression of opinion. 
We may freely allow all this, and yet the man was so 
forceful that we shall detract little from the great mass of 
benefit he did, and it must never be forgotten that he was 
the first person to convince English people, other than artists, 
that art is a matter of real importance, that art must above 
all things express the artist's real feeling, that there is no 
such thing as 'middling well' in art, that only the human 
hand can produce a piece of art — all axioms, platitudes 
almost, now, but all condemned as absolute paradoxes when 
he first wrote them down. 

I have said that Ruskin was a prophet — that is, in its true 
sense, a forth-speaker — a man who stood up to speak the 
truth as he felt it to his generation ; he was also a prophet 
in our common sense — a fore-teller. How many of the 
measures he recommended, when the kindly Thackeray was 
compelled by the angry outcry of the orthodox economists 
of the day to close the Cornhill to his articles, are now 
practical politics ! National Education, National Hygiene, 
National Dealing with the housing of the poor, even National 
Succour for those who fall by the way in the toilsome 


march of the Army of Labour, National Dealing with Land", 
National Dealing with Trade, with Colonization, with all 
the real National Interests — all these measures, so long 
denounced without distinction by the old sham political 
economy of the past, he advocated, and now they are within 
or at our doors. No European statesman of this generation 
or the last (save perhaps Bismarck) has set out with such a 
programme and seen so much of it carried through in his 
lifetime ; and this, though he was a mere private man, not in 
Parliament, belonging to no creed, no party, attached to 
no newspaper, possessing not the gift of platform oratory, 
loathing the demagogic arts, opposed by the idols of the day 
— Gladstone, Bright, Mill and Company, only welcomed by 
the young enthusiasts who read his books and flocked to his 
lectures, only appreciated by a few honest workers, such as 
Thomas Dixon and Charles Rowley, and supported by a few 
wise friends such as Carlyle. And it is this man, laughed at 
for years as a sentimentalist, scorned as an idle dreamer by 
the * big editors', * able journalists', whom he wholly abhorred, 
who has proved himself almost alone in his generation a 
great, practical English reformer. 

But Soothsayer though he essentially was, born to the 
office, he was also the Knight of art consecrated to the quest 
in which he spent most of his life. His message was 
delivered in the most enchanting melody. Every sentence 
of his best work is a beautiful morsel in itself fitted aptly 
and justly into the particular mosaic he is constructing. 
He uses that most difficult and beautiful of musical instru- 
ments known to us — the English language — with all the 
mastery that long and careful self -training, that minute 
observance of the older masters, that an inborn sense of 
rhythm and an exquisite variety of expression all his own 
have given him. Whether he speaks of things homely and 
peaceful, as in his Praeterita ; or of things antique and high, 
as in his books on Italian and EngUsh Art; or of things 
deep and pathetic and sternly imminent, as in his works on 
Society and Economy, one cannot choose but listen to the 



strain, though there is in it no siren music, no wanton piping 
of vain musicians, but the right melody that Milton loved 
and used, now simple and winning as a child's talk, now 
high and clear and compelling as if an angel spoke. His 
fair, winged words catch the listeners up into the beautiful, 
wild places of the earth, lead them through the fair cities 
and minsters of old, waft them to the shore of the sounding, 
sunlit sea : and whether the seer chooses to speak of the air 
of the earth, of the fires of the heaven, or of the waters of 
the firmament, he enchants all those who hear him. Even 
the works and deeds of great men as he tells of them seem 
to glow more brightly by reason of his words. 

But in the midst of his loving care for the glories of Art, 
and his perpetual sorrow for the fair things that he saw 
neglected and destroyed around him, it seemed as if he could 
never for an hour forget that there were possibilities of fairer 
things on earth in this common world of men than any that 
painter or sculptor imagined. It was Ruskin's rooted belief 
that to bring beauty into life was the artist's supreme task. 
He was never tired of proclaiming that the grime and 
pretence and squalor, all the dull, stupid, vulgar horror of 
the modern city, were the results above all of ignorance and 
greed and lack of truth, and he never ceased to declare that 
it needed only the self-sacrifice and thoughtful effort of those 
who really loved higher things, if they would but band 
together against the evil that encompassed them, to bring 
about the Great Conversion, and make the workaday world 
we live in a place fit for human beings and happy, living 
things, instead of allowing it to remain the inferno that it is 
now to far too many of our fellow creatures in this England 
of to-day. 

Of all the Englishmen of this century, both rich and 
gifted, surely this man put his talents to the best account. 
His great wealth he spent wisely and generously, he sought 
for no base returns, he did not require or look for gratitude, 
he merely desired to see what he had bestowed was put to 
the best use. That he neither sought for nor attained selfish 


happiness we know, for we know from his own lips of his 
frugal childhood, his solitary youth, his sad manhood, his old 
age darkened by the knowledge that though his teaching was 
a real force for good, it could scarcely be accepted before 
some sudden calamity, searching and significant, should force 
his countrymen to pause in their blind race for wealth and 
steadfastly to consider other aims. But his own personal 
sorrows never soured him, he continued pitiful for others, 
grateful to his friends, steadfast in the path he had chosen 
to pursue. 

Such a character is surely worthy of honour ; above all, of 
the honour of patient attention. Faults, shortcomings, errors, 
and prejudices he had, of course — are they not set forth in 
his writings ? But in what man of his intellectual rank are 
these faults so little hurtful, so easily recognized, so simply 
avoided ? for sure as he was of the business he had to do, he 
lets us see everywhere in his work that these dust-specks on 
the mirror are but momentary blurs in its clear reflections. 
Ruskin was right where most thinking men held him wrong, 
and only wrong where most thinking men, of his time and 
ours, have been right. If he was one who never faltered in 
his arraignment of sins and sinners, of fools and foolishness, 
he was not eager to quench the smoking flax, nor slow to 
acknowledge his own mistakes. When he saw the multitude 
he pitied them, so that he has left many behind him who 
bless his memory, and there are not a few to-day who have 
cause to deplore, full of years and of achievement as his life 
has been, the death of a righteous man. 

In conclusion, let me state once more in the briefest way 
the central thoughts that John Ruskin, as every one of our 
Enghsh prophets before him, has desired to impress upon us 
as a nation. They have not told us to tire ourselves out in 
saving our own miserable souls, or even the miserable souls 
of other people; they have set small store by dogma; they 
have not tried to bind us down to rigid rules of ritual observ- 
ance ; they have uniformly insisted upon deeds rather than 
wordsj upon the necessity of taking the trouble to think, and 


upon the duty of every Englishman wholly abjuring for himself 
the crying national sins of cant, pharisaism, snobbishness, 
love of money, and the pride of stupidity ; and upon the duty 
of every Englishman cherishing at all costs the national 
virtues of fair-play, patience, courage, and perseverance. 
They have all seen and told us plainly that the people who 
possesses the greatest number of healthy, honourable, cheer- 
ful, and wise men and women is, and must be, the greatest 
nation on earth. 

It behoves all of us to pay heed to John Ruskin's message, 
and especially at this hour when the outlook is by no means 
unclouded. If we mean to secure for our race the high and 
worthy future we have dreamed of, nay, if we would secure 
the useful and honourable position we now hold in the world, 
we must set our house in order while there is yet time to do 
so. We must forthwith determine, as we can, if we will, 
that we at least will be, at any material cost, a people of 
truth-lovers and lie-haters, of healthy bodies and clear minds. 
Luck that has so long favoured us we cannot command; 
riches are deceitful, bravery without brains has never saved 
an animal, much less a nation, from extinction. As a nation, 
or as individuals, we can only depend, as Ruskin has warned 
us that we must depend, on hard-bought wisdom, and self- 
control, and the power that lies in strong muscles and wisely- 
trained brains. We are, every EngUsh soul of us (and we 
ought to feel that we are), in the position of the Roman of 
old whose paramount and perpetual duty it was to take care 
that his commonwealth came to no hurt. There are few of 
us who do not wish to hand on this goodly heritage our 
forefathers' blood has bought for us unimpaired to our 
children, proud in the faith that they will not misuse it or 
waste it, but till it to the general advantage of all that is 
good and beautiful on earth. It is not that the path of duty, 
the way of the right life, is unknown to us — it is merely that 
it is diflficult to walk in. 

But it is only by the effort, strenuous, if small, of individuals, 
each in his own sphere, that we can so forward matters that 


a man may come to look forward, as John Ruskin was able 
to do, in a full and, as he believed, a well-founded confidence, 
to times that we can never see, but that our efforts (feeble 
as they must often be) may possibly bring nearer to our 
children's children, when for Earth's severed multitudes of 
the Wicked and the Weary, there shall be holier reconcilia- 
tion than that of the narrow home, and calm economy, where 
the Wicked cease — not from trouble, but from troubling — 
and the Weary are at rest. 


The classes that labour with their hands for weekly wages 
have now entrusted to them much of the power possessed by 
the Government of this country. The future of this country, 
and the parts of the world dependent on it, must be largely 
settled by the use, wise or foolish, good or evil, they will be 
making of this power. Their own future depends on it. If 
they refuse to think, if they choose to listen to fools' advice, 
if they do not take advantage of the opportunities they have 
for making themselves better, morally, physically, and in- 
tellectually, the world will pass them by speedily and 
inevitably. Goodwill is no excuse in face of facts ; only 
good deeds will count. 

Knowledge and the will to use it, and the courage and 
perseverance required to use it rightly, these are the neces- 
sities of progress and of well-being of any kind. Ignorance 
that may be felt (but that may by honest effort be destroyed) 
is the cause of many more of our troubles than we like to 
admit. Science, not Creed, is the Deliverer, if we will only 
take the trouble to follow it. There will be plenty of 
mistakes on the way, but if a man means to learn by his 
former mistakes, he nearly always has the chance, and the 
advance, though slow, will be continuous. 

Democracy is no heaven-born institution. There is no 
right divine about it. Darwin has dismissed the fatal. 



poisonous absurdities of Rousseau to the limbo of lost rubbish. 
If democracy cannot do its work, it will, and must, go as 
other political methods and expedients have gone. If this 
country is not healthier, stronger, wiser, happier, and better 
off in the highest sense under a democracy than it was under 
an oligarchy, democracy will have failed, and some other 
plan of government will be tried, whether people like it or 
not. Democracy is on its trial. If it is worked by wise 
men and honest men, it may do well; if it is worked by 
ignorant, prejudiced, gullible, and selfish persons, it will not 
do well. The greatest enemy of the democracy is the lie- 
maker, the flatterer, and the person who tries to persuade 
the voter that dishonesty is not always the worst policy, and 
that a bit of boodle for himself cannot hurt him or any one 
else. A democracy, of all governments, is the least able to 
afford to listen to lies, or to grow corrupt, or to remain self- 
indulgent or ignorant. Its stability depends upon the persons 
it trusts ; if it trusts the wrong persons, it falls sooner or 
later — generally sooner. 

These are commonplaces, but they are not suflBciently 
attended to. Democracy is a good or bad thing as they are 
remembered and attended to or not. It is worse and more 
unpleasant and more dangerous to be ruled by many fools 
than by one fool or a few fools. The tyranny of an ignorant 
and cowardly mob is a worse tyranny than the tyranny of an 
ignorant and cowardly clique or individual. Rulers are not 
wise by reason of their number or their poverty, or their 
reception of a weekly wage instead of a monthly salary or 
yearly income. 

Again, workers are not respectable or to be considered 
because they work more with their hands or feet than with 
their brains, but because the work they do is good. If 
it is not good work they do, they are as unprofitable as any 
other wasters. A plumber is not a useful or admirable 
creature because he plumbs (if he plumbs ignorantly or dis- 
honestly he is often either a manslayer or a murderer), but 
because he plumbs well, and saves the community from danger 


and damp, disease, and fire and water. Makers of useless 
machine-made ornaments are, however ' horny-handed', really 
* anti-social persons', baneful to the community as far as 
their bad work goes; more baneful, possibly, than the con- 
sumers of these bad articles, quite as baneful as the entre- 
preneurs who employ them. We ' practical English ' spend 
millions on machine-made ornaments, and so-called art which 
is not art. Every furniture-maker's shop is crowded with 
badly-made, badly-ornamented stuff which ought never to 
have been made, and would never be sold if people only took 
the trouble to try to understand the difference between real 
art and sham art ; if they only knew so much as that a machine 
can only copy, it cannot make or create a beautiful thing 
at all. The hand of man, worked by the brain of man, 
is needed for that. A Windsor chair is an honest piece of 
work, acceptable ; the pieces of the wretched * drawing-room 
suite ' the women are so proud to put in their front parlours 
are vile to look at, and degrading to live with. The wax flowers 
you see in the front windows of * respectable artisans" 
houses, and the detestable 'painted vases' they set on their 
chimney-pieces (* mantels' they call them), are horrible to 
look at, and pure waste to make. They do not please the 
eye; they merely puff up a silly and anti-social conceit. 
They are symbols of snobbery. The dreadful waste on sham 
art and bad ornament is bad and anti-progressive. People 
who cheat themselves into liking, or pretending to like, bad 
art are blind to good art, blind to natural beauty, and 
cannot understand what true art is. This is a degrading 
state to be in for any person or set of persons. 

We must not be deceived by words. We talk of 'doing 
well' when we only mean 'getting rich', which is a very 
different thing in many cases. The only good institutions 
are those that do good work; the only good work done 
is that which produces good results, whether they be direct, 
as the ploughman's, or navvy's, or sailor's; or indirect, as 
the policeman, or the schoolmaster, or the teacher of good 
art, or the writer of books that are worth reading. A man 


is no better or wiser than others by reason of his position or 
lack of position, but by reason of his stronger body, wiser 
head, better skill, greater endurance, keener courage. Know- 
ledge teaches a community to breed better children, to bring 
them up better, to employ them better, to encourage them to 
behave better, and work better, and play better, and in their 
turn breed children who shall have better chances than them- 
selves — not necessarily better chances to grow rich or to 
become idle, but better chances to become honourable, wise, 
strong-bodied, and strong-brained able men and women. No 
system of government, no set of formulas, can save a state 
unless the people who work the system or formulas are wise 
and honest and healthy. A nation with too large a proportion 
of stunted, unhealthy, besotted, irritable, excitable, ignorant, 
vain, self-indulgent persons cannot endure in the world- 
struggle. It must and ought to be swept away, and the 
sooner the better. What we call Nature does not indulge in 
sentimental pity; she puts her failures out of their pain as 
quickly as she can. She does not keep idiot asylums. 

In the competition for trade that is upon us, nay, in the 
very * struggle for life ', we can only hold our own by greater 
physical and intellectual power. We must put ourselves in 
training ; we must throw off the * anti-social ^ habits that 
hinder our efficiency ; we must beware of the quack mixtures 
of the demagogue and the superstition-monger, and accept 
only what satisfies trained reason. We must put off Senti- 
mentality, which means the wholesome feeling for humanity 
gone rancid and turbid and unwholesome, and is an expensive 
and dangerous folly. We must take deliberate and calm 
judgements, and we must look ahead. 

The record of progress in this little book is largely the 
record of the success of men who with honest material 
objects worked in many ways wisely and prosperously, and 
made England the richest place on earth ; but this is not all, 
it is the record also of a great sacrifice, a sacrifice of health 
and happiness and vitality — a needless sacrifice offered up to 
Mammon, The English people never by any plague ot 


famine or war suffered such a deadly blow at its vitality as 
by the establishment of the factory system without the proper 
safeguards. Napoleon's wars crippled France (though not 
as badly as his legislation), but the factory system threatened 
to sap the very existence of our people, because those who could 
have helped it (both employers and employed) at that time 
were too greedy, too ignorant, and too callous to understand 
the full evil they were doing, and the governing classes above 
them too foolish to see that the remedy must be swiftly 

Ignorance and the blindness caused by greed are deadly 
enemies that we can only meet by knowledge and by honesty. 
And it must be remembered, though it is often forgotten, 
that the acquisition of knowledge does not mean book- 
learning, which is only a very little part of it. It is no good 
reading a book without understanding it, and no good under- 
standing it unless one profits by it, and makes the principle 
or the piece of wisdom or fact a part of our mental store, 
ready for use when the proper time comes. A man may be 
book-learned and very ignorant. 

There is a time, perhaps, when ignorance may be tolerated, 
but this is emphatically not the time. We have to set our 
house in order, as every one knows who has a grain of sense 
left, but it cannot be done unless we choose the right men to 
do our political and economic work, trust them wisely, back 
them wisely, and resolve not only that the nation, but every 
town, every village, every workshop, and every house be 
made healthier, be better managed, and the causes that check 
progress and security be done away with. We cannot afford 
to sit down and rub our bellies and think how fat we are. 
Disease and crime can be tackled, and would be if we were 
in earnest. It requires probably less effort to keep ourselves 
and our children healthy and out of the dock than to save 
money and leave it to fools, or buy an annuity, and it is a 
great deal more necessary to the nation. It is not a sin to 
break some old Hebrew tabu that has no utility left in it, but 
it is a sin to be diseased when you can be healthy; to be 


ignorant when you can, at a little trouble, learn the truth of 
a matter; to be dishonest when you can, at the cost of a 
little efEort, speak and act truly. Adulteration, again, is 
criminal and vile in all its aspects and results, and honest 
men will have nothing to do with it. It is one of the worst 
symptoms in the body social when adulterations and shams 
are tolerated. Adulteration is simply a low and vile form of 
larceny practised treacherously by persons who pretend to be 
respectable (like the bakers and brewers who poison their 
customers by the careless use of adulterants) upon persons 
who are often unable to detect or avoid the deceit and injury. 

The reading of good books without thinking things out is 
a mere debauching amusement, and reading for pastime is 
not a respectable thing, when it is pushed to extremes, at all, 
any more than over-eating or over-drinking. The ' habit of 
reading ' is no better than the * habit of snuffing ', unless the 
reading which the habitue does is good reading — reading that 
gives noble pleasure or that helps directly to progress, mental 
or physical, or trains one to practical ends. Waste of time 
is not only folly, but it is anti-progressive, and means de- 
generation, just like waste of money over bad or foolish 
things, or waste of work over ugly shams or false ornaments 
or dishonest productions of any kind. 

The world is ^ full of a number of things ^, as R. L. Steven- 
son says, and we have only learnt to make use of a few of 
these. There seem almost endless possibilities open, but 
they are only open to those who mean to take advantage of 
them, who mean to make themselves and do make themselves 
able to see the things that the ignorant and the lazy miss and 
always will miss. Our trade rivals have learnt all they knew 
till a few years ago from us — we can surely afford to take a 
lesson from our own ancestors ; but we must be prepared to 
strip off prejudice and renounce hollow formulas. Even if 
such a sacred institution as a trades-union stands in the way 
of real progress, it must change or go. 

Good work, not sham work ; good art, not bad nor even 
mediocre art ; good food, not the bad bread (one of the worst 

Z 2 


disgraces of this country) and the bad beer, but good bread 
and good beer ; plain, good clothes, not ' fashionably cut ' 
shoddy; good news, not party lies and foolish flattery and 
idle or malicious gossip ; real information (which need not be 
cheap, and cannot be easy, for knowledge is not an easy 
thing to get, but a hard thing both to win and hold), not 
chopped-up rubbish and dirty garbage; as much fresh air, 
and clean water, and out-of-door exercise as we can do with. 
These are things within our grasp, and we have not got them 
yet, though we have thousands of things we do not want or 
really enjoy at all, but which we are fooled, or fool ourselves, 
into paying for through the nose. The end of work is to 
produce useful things, beautiful things, necessary things; 
but the end of life is not merely work, nor what people look 
for in exchange for work — riches. Riches without health or 
security, or the knowledge of how to use them, are merely a 
danger and a daily reproach to an individual. They are also 
a danger and a daily reproach when unused, ill-used, or 
wasted, to a nation. Health and wisdom are not incom- 
patible with wealth, but worn-out vitality and blind ignorance 
quite certainly are. Only the strong man armed and healthy 
of brain can keep his house. 

Healthy people look to the future, sick people are content 
to linger through the day, or ready to sink into oblivion ; 
the mark of a healthy nation is that it looks forward, prepares 
for the future, learns from the past, gets rid of its parasites, 
shakes off its social diseases, and walks resolutely in the 
service of her whom Defoe celebrated as that ' Most Serene, 
Most Invincible, Most Illustrious Princess, Reasox^, and 
whom, long before him, Solomon, and the son of Sirach, 
lauded as the Chief of Things, the very emanation and 
breath of their God Himself. 


[This section includes some memorial notices and artistic judge- 
ments that are not easily grouped under the other headings. The 
Gtimms is the epilogue to the centenary volume of 1886. The sketch 
of Vigf6sson was written for The Academy not long after his death in 
1889. The memoir of Shute is prefixed to his posthumous History 
of the Aristotelian Writings, 1884. Powell's words on Gleeson White 
preceded a catalogue of his friend's library.] 


There are no Germans, save perhaps Luther and Goethe, 
so well known and so well beloved among English-speaking 
peoples as the Brothers Grimm. On the little child^s 
nursery-shelf their well-thumbed Household Stories stand 
side by side with those dear old favourites, Robinson Crusoe, 
Gulliver, The Arabian Nights, and Poor Jack. One cannot 
help feeling differently toward such books to what one does 
towards all others. They are the good-natured friends who 
would talk to us pleasantly, when other folks were too busy 
to attend to us. They were never tired of telling us the 
same stories over and over again in the same familiar and wel- 
come words, and we were never tired of glistening to their quiet 
voices. Hans and Klaus, and the master thief, and the 
magic fiddler, and the valiant tailor, and the too hilarious 
bean are and have been part and parcel of the dream-world 
of millions of English children. And if to have devoted and 


delighted readers everywhere is the author's meed, surely the 
Brothers Grimm have their reward. 

It must have come as a great surprise to many others, as 
it came to me, when I found out, after I had known the 
Brothers Grimm for years as well as I knew the gardener, 
and the gardener's boy, and the children who came and 
played with us in the garden, that these old friends were 
great people, known and honoured by the wisest and greatest 
of grown-up folk ; that they were Wise Men who had written 
learned books and made wonderful discoveries ; that they 
had even busied themselves with composing grammars and 
dictionaries, books which it must surely need the most 
deadly perseverance and the most abstruse knowledge to 
compose, judging from the infinite pains, both physical and 
mental, it cost most of us to master our daily portions of the 
Accidence and Syntax of the classic tongues. When one 
grew older still and came to have some acquaintance for 
oneself with these bigger books of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm 
one^s love and reverence for them did not at all grow less. 
It surprised one indeed at times, that one felt the same 
fascination in listening to their wondrous tale of Teutonic 
Grammar and Old-time Laws and Faiths and Customs, as 
one had felt in hearkening to the Household Stories long 
before. And when one came to know that these charming 
books — in which every fact seemed to stand in its natural 
place and in which by the most minute study principles of 
the widest range were fixed and laid down so surely and 
steadily — were the first and earliest of their kind, and that 
their authors had been pioneers working in the Wood of 
Error, bringing Order out of Chaos, timbering houses and 
barns, and tilling the ground to good purpose, where before 
all was dark overhead and clogged and slippery underfoot, 
a mighty maze without a plan, a forest wild and vast as that 
where Sigfred fought and Varus fell — one marvelled more 
and more. 

Englishmen are clumsy in the way they show gratitude 
and affection, but they are sincere j a grip of the hand says 


more than an illuminated address, and a silent look of 
admiration is really more flattering than all the applause of 
the Claque. But I do not know that foreigners ought to be 
expected to understand this, and indeed I find that sometimes 
they set us down as cold and ungrateful, because we prefer, 
like so many Red Indians, to conceal our emotions, and have 
no better words of thanks than the Ugh of a Mohican or 
a Sioux. 

If it were not for this national characteristic of ours, the 
love and reverence that are felt among us all, both here and 
in the Colonies and States, for the Brothers Grimm would 
have been manifested abundantly enough. The little child 
and the grey-bearded scholar are equally their debtors and 
would have taken appropriate part in their Centenary Cele- 
bration. But such demonstrations, natural and proper as 
they seem to foreigners, do not come naturally to us nowa- 
days. Our public statues and tasteless state ceremonials 
show how awkwardly our feelings are apt to express them- 
selves. And I think it is better that no celebration of the 
Grimms' Centenary was attempted in England. Perhaps 
ere the next we may have learned to conduct such a festival 
with grace and dignity — we cannot do so now. 

After all, the best plan to honour such men is to try and 
walk in their ways, though certainly it is not the easiest. 
For these Brothers led an upright, manly, industrious 
scholar's life, in word and deed, holding nothing too childish 
for their notice, but ever aiming at great things, and by no 
means contented, as others use, to bombast it about bigly 
over trifles, and to shrink abashed and helpless before the 
very notion of a great task. The example is not one we can 
afford to neglect nowadays, hard though it be to copy. 

To conclude, this little pamphlet must not be taken as 
more than the mere personal expression of our own gratitude, 
though like the floating thistle-down it may perhaps serve to 
show which way the wind is blowing, and so to bear witness 
that neither the Brothers Grimm nor their favourite studies 
are forgotten in Oxford. 


The poet shall have the last word — 

Call it by what you will, the Day is Theirs, 

And here, I hope, is none that envies it. 

In framing an Artist, Art hath thus decreed 

To make some good, but others to exceed. 

And these are her laboured Scholars — 

Their presence glads our days : Honour we love ; 

For who hates Honour hates the Gods above. 


GuDBRAND ViGFUSSON, the greatest Scandinavian scholar 
of our century, was born [in 1827] in the district of Broadforth, 
Iceland, of a good family. He was brought up in the north- 
west of the island by his foster-mother and kinswoman, 
Katrin Vigfiisdottir, to whom (as he thankfully recorded) he 
owed ' not only that he became a man of letters, but almost 
everything '. After passing some time with a tutor in whose 
house he stayed, he went to the high school, then at Bessastad, 
and when it was moved (wrongly, as he held), to Reykjavik. 
In 1849 he left, and, by the help of friends, went to Copen- 
hagen University, which he entered in 1850. There a 
scholarship at the Regentsen and a subsequent appointment 
as Stipendiarius under the Arna-Magnaean Commission 
enabled him to enter on the course of study in the literature 
of his own people which he had marked out for himself. 
The Arna-Magnaean Library, where he passed so many hours, 
was not yet moved from the quarters in the large loft of the 
church to which it had been hastily shifted after the fire of 
Copenhagen, and it was, as he described it, a curious and 
interesting place to work in. During the fifties and the first 
years of the sixties he not only made himself familiar with 
every scrap of vellum in the library, and got to know every 
paper-copy and its value, but also made collations and notes, 
which he was able to use as a firm basis for further investi- 

^ The Academy, February, 1889. 


gation. Among his chief friends, other than Icelanders, at 
the University were H. Larpent (the gifted translator of 
Tartvffe and other of Moliere's plays, whose early death 
Vigfusson often deplored) and K. Dahlenborg. 

In his first work, Timatal, written at full speed, from 
October 1854 to April 1855, was seen the debut of a master. 
It deals, in detail and methodically, with the chronology of 
the whole body of the Islendinga Sogur, and its results have 
not been disturbed save by his own corrections made in the 
Corpus Boreale and the Origines Islandicae. His first lite- 
rary work — the account of a tour in Norway with his friend 
Unger — appeared in Ny Felagsrit in 1855, and it shows him 
to have already possessed a singular gift of style and a power 
of writing pure unaffected Icelandic seldom approached by 
his countrymen. Englishmen will be able to judge of his 
style from his admirable letters to The Academy and other 
journals, and from the striking ' Visit to Jacob Grimm ' in 
the Grimm Centenary pamphlet (1886). He wrote for 
several Icelandic periodicals during the succeeding ten years — 
Ny Felagsrit (of which, in 1868, he appears as one of the 
committee of editors), Thjodolf, and Skirnir. Perhaps the 
most notable of these communications, besides those on 
critical subjects, was the account of the ' Tour in Germany ' 
in 1859, when he visited Maurer and Mobius. This tour was 
a consequence of a visit to Iceland in 1858 (the last he ever 
paid to his own country), when he met Maurer at Reykjavik 
and the two came back together in the same ship. But his 
main business during these ten years lay in editing the Sagas ; 
and his achievements in this line have served as a model for 
all that has since been done in this direction by others. The 
last part of Biskupa Sogur I appeared in 1858. The preface 
(the first of a wonderful series of prefaces in which the 
diplomatic history of the Icelandic literature is summed up) 
was written in April and May of that year. In this volume 
are already apparent his marvellous knowledge of MSS., 
generous labour in transcription (he always made his own 
copies), and keen eye for every fact that might throw light 


upon the genesis and history of any classic work. In 1860 
came forth Bdrdarsaga at Copenhagen and Forn-Sogur (with 
Mobius) at Leipzig ; in 1862, the preface to Jon Arnason's 
t^iodsogur (Folk-tales) ; in 1864, Eyrbyggja Saga at Leipzig, 
dedicated to Jon Sigurdsson, his warm colleague and friend. 
But the greatest task of these years was, perhaps, the edition 
of Flateyjarbdk [1^60, 1862, 1868), every word of which giant 
codex (now bound in two huge volumes) he copied out with 
his own hand, Unger, his fellow editor, seeing the sheets 
carefully through the press, the three volumes being com- 
pleted by a masterly preface dated October 1868. 

In 1864 opened a new chapter in his life. He was induced 
by Sir G. W. Dasent to come to London to undertake the 
Icelandic-English Lexicon projected by Richard Cleasby. 
After a stay of some months in London he came to Oxford, 
where, in 1866 — the Dictionary having finally been undertaken 
by the University Press — he began in earnest a task which 
kept him continuously employed for seven years, till, in 1873, 
the last of four fascicules appeared, with the grammar and 
index of literature. To the making of this great book — one 
of the most perfect and readable of existing dictionaries — 
there had gone no little labour. The materials furnished 
were miserably inadequate, and form less than one-third of 
the bulk of the complete work ; but his own wide and full 
reading, and the help which in many directions he got from 
Fritzner's labours (help he always generously acknowledged) 
enabled him to supply their shortcomings. The method — 
one of its chief merits — he worked out with the help of the 
Dean [Liddell] of Christ Church, whose own long experience 
in lexicon-making was freely and ungrudgingly placed at Dr. 
Vigfiisson^s disposal. It shoidd be added that the whole work 
was done single-handed, without transcribers or assistants. 
While engaged on the Dictionary he lived, first, at Clifton 
Villas, Cowley Road, and next at North Parade, whence he 
moved later to the well-known rooms at No. 2 St. John's 
Villas, which most of his Oxford friends will always associate 
with his kindly presence. He used occasionally to spend 


part of the vacation at Bessborough Gardens, London, and 
there I first met him in 1869. Though he lived a retired and 
laborious life, and never relished the * long English dinner ', 
he had made many firm friends already in England : in 
London — Carlyle and his family, Mr. G. Wilkinson, Lord 
Sherbrooke, Sir Edmund Head (who read Icelandic with him), 
Mr. H. Ward ; in Oxford — Mr. Coxe, Sir Henry Acland, 
the Dean [Kitchin] of Winchester, Prof. Price, Prof. Earle, 
and Mr. Bernard were those he saw most of at this time ; 
nor must the name of Mr. Pembrey, the reader of every 
Icelandic work that has gone through the Clarendon Press, 
be forgotten. 

The taking of transcripts at Copenhagen and Stockholm 
in 1874-5 was part of the preparation for the Rolls Series 
editions of Orkneyinga and Hdconar Saga, and resulted in 
the discovery of parts of a fuller text of the former than was 
before known. These texts were printed, but, owing to 
causes not under the editor's control, not published for ten 
years, when, with prefaces added, they were at last given to 
the world in 1887. 

His next work was an edition of Sturlunga Saga for the 
Clarendon Press, a' huge complex body of Sagas, giving the 
history of the latter years of the commonwealth in Iceland, 
and of the great Sturling family and its various fortunes. 
To these texts, published in two burly volumes in 1878, he 
prefixed, under the modest title Prolegoimena, the complete 
history of the classic literature of Iceland and the MS. 
materials upon which it rests. This history (which no one 
but himself could have done) forms [1889] a worthy appendix 
to his Dictionary, and should certainly be prefixed to any 
fresh edition of it. 

It was on the Prolegomena that I first began to work with 
him; and from the day that I began taking notes at his 
dictation, in 1877, till the day he died, I passed more time 
with him than with any other friend I had. In Oxford we 
used to work together at his rooms two or three afternoons 
a week and often of evenings at my rooms. In the vacations 


he used to take lodgings near where I lived in London, and 
we worked from 10 till 7.30 or later in my house (breaking 
off only for meals and a brisk afternoon walk) for weeks 
together, for almost three months of each year. In this way 
we finished the Prolegomena, and then set to work on the 
Icelandic Prose Reader (it was while we were on this that 
I stayed six weeks with him at St. John^s Villas one Long 
Vacation). The Reader came out in 1 879 ; and the next 
three years were devoted to the preparation of the Corpus 
Poeticum Boreale — one of the most important of his works, 
in which the whole body of classic Old Northern poetry is 
examined, edited, and translated, with full notes, &c. It 
marks a new epoch in Scandinavian studies ; being an 
attempt to assign date, place, and circumstance to a body of 
literature which had never before been critically grappled with. 
This work was followed in 1886 by the Grimm Centenary 
pamphlet (in which, as in the Corpus and Reader, I took 
part), wherein he worked out several points of interest 
suggested during further study ; and several small papers in 
the English Historical Review and the Oxford Philological 
Society^s Transactions may be referred to as dealing with like 

The next enterprise, one upon which Dr. Vigfusson was 
engaged till within a few days of his death, was the Origines 
Islandicae, to contain critical texts and translations of the 
Landndma-bdc, Libellus, Early Bishops' Lives, and Islendinga 
Sogur, upon which the history of the migration to, settle- 
ment in, and early constitutional history of, Iceland rests. 
Much of this is in print, and it is hoped that it will appear 
this year [1889]. A long stay at Copenhagen — during a few 
days of which I was with him — and a mass of transcripts 
were necessitated by this work ; and it was at this time that 
he showed me his old quarters in Regentsen College, that we 
visited W. Finsen and others of his valued friends, and that 
we went over all the vellums and important paper copies in 
the Arna-Magnaean Collection together. In 1886 he went 
for a few days to the Isle of Man, which resulted in * A Re- 


reading of the Manx Runes' and papers thereon, written 
with his friend, Mr. E. Savage, in the Manx Note-Book. 
He also, in 1887, paid a visit to Downton to see the Moot- 
stead there, and in 1888 made his last journey to the Orkneys 
and Shetland, taking care to inspect the old Thing-steads in 
those islands. 

It was after this journey that the first symptoms of ill- 
health began to be apparent, and they increased during the 
Michaelmas Term, 1888, till he determined to lie up for 
a while at the Acland Nursing Home, Oxford. There the 
fatal nature of his malady — cancer of the stomach and liver — 
was soon ascertained ; and after a few weeks of painless, but 
wearying, illness, borne with a serene and unclouded mind, 
he died quietly in sleep, January 31, 1889. 

On February 3 round his grave at St. Sepulchre's Cemetery, 
Oxford, but a few steps from the house he had long lived in, 
was assembled a large gathering of his Oxford colleagues and 
friends — a list too long to cite here — of all classes anxious to 
pay the last public honours to a great scholar and a wise and 
good man. 

Public distinction he never sought ; but he had received 
the honorary Oxford M.A. in 1871, the centenary doctorate 
of Upsala in 1877 (and his visit to Sweden to receive this 
was a source of long pleasure to him), and the order of the 
Dannebrog in 1885. He held since 1884 the office of lector 
in Icelandic and kindred subjects in the University of Oxford 
— a position created for him. 

Handsome as a young man, he was of striking appearance 
in ripe age — a fine brow, shaded by thick brown hair, scarcely 
threaded by grey; well-shaped features; rather prominent 
and expressive blue eyes and colourless skin ; a spare upright 
figure, the head only stooping when meditative; characteristics 
well given in the oil portrait taken of him in 1885 by his 
friend, Mr. H. M. Paget. He had a clear ringing voice and 
a happy smile ever ready to respond to a pregnant or witty 
remark. He was remarkably plain and simple in all his 
tastes. His handwriting, fine, regular, and characteristic, was 


unspoilt by the miles which his pen had so surely traversed 
in the masses of beautiful transcripts he had made. 

Those who knew him will not need my testimony to his 
strong, sincere, and generous character, his extraordinary and 
well-controlled memorj^, his wide learning in many tongues, 
his eager and unwearied industry, and his fine literary taste. 
For myself, I can only say that the longer I knew him the 
more I honoured, trusted, and loved him. 


Erat in Ricardo Shute ardor animi, ingenii vis, disputandi sub- 
tilitas, morum summa mansuetudo. 

Veritatem et amabat magno opere et librum de ea investiganda 
Bcripsit. H. R. 

In the words above written an impartial judge summed up 
in brief the life of Richard Shute ; but it has been thought 
well by his friends that a few pages set here side by side with 
his last work should recall such remembrances as might 
convey to others a little more fully the impression he made 
on them. 

He was the posthumous son of Richard Shute of High 
Park, North Devon, Captain in the Hannover Garde du 
Corps, and of Mary Power, and was born at Sydenham, 
Nov. 6, 1849. 

He was brought up in the country, where he came by 
that love of birds and beasts which was always strong in him. 
He never forgot his delight in his first pony. Silver-tail, and 
would often talk of the dogs he knew as a child. With poor 
health, as sometimes happens, the thinking faculties quicken 
early, and as a little boy he was full of quaint fancies and 
shrewd self-constructed theories which he used to apply with 
varied success to life. Being always bent on doing things 
and thinking out diflficulties in his own fashion, he was 
naturally a puzzle to some of those who had to do with him. 


For instance, he got a liking for mathematics in reading the 
first three books of Euclid by himself, at hours when he ought 
to have been learning his Greek accidence, with the result that 
his good tutor, knowing nothing of his real task and wondering 
at his invincible ignorance of his grammar, gave up his case, 
reporting him as an amiable but hopeless pupil, with but a 
poor chance of any future mental awakening — a verdict 
which the lad accepted with some wonder, but without 
attempting any vindication. He had luckily plenty of books 
in his way, and, tutored or tutorless, he read what he liked 
when he liked, and as he had a fine memory and good natural 
taste, his reading of course became his real education. He was 
happy too in his companions, for his sisters were children of 
more than ordinary ability and appreciation, and there was 
plenty of bright talk with them and his mother over books 
and things, and no lack of eager ventures in verse and prose 
in imitation of favourite models or in expression of favourite 

By the time he went to school he had a turn for mathe- 
matics, some knowledge of French and Italian, the power of 
ready composition in English, and a large store of English 
verse in his head, so that his master's criticism was confined 
to the fact that his handwriting was barbarous, and that 
he was as inaccurate in minutiae as self-taught scholars 
often are. 

Owing to a severe illness of nervous character which 
caused his removal from a preparatory school, he did not go 
to Eton till late, in 1864. He was then more than a fair 
scholar (though he had not read as many Latin or Greek 
books as his contemporaries), and still kept up his love for 
mathematics, wherein he showed considerable promise. At 
Eton he was happy enough to come under the care of Mr. 
William Cory, whom he often spoke of with affection as the 
first teacher whose words and help really influenced him. 
After an ordeal that would have been 'enough to daunt a boy 
of less than his strong mind', he got into the full current of 
school life, took eagerly to work and play, and battled bravely 


against his own weak health and the lack of exact training 
that marred some of his best work. His exercises were 
warmly spoken of by Mr. Cory (one of the most exacting 
of living critics), who noted boldness and passion in the lad^s 
verse, and once wrote of him, * He is in Latin an original 
author.^ At play too he held his own, was a good runner, 
and a fair swimmer and sculler. He was elected in 1867 to 
the famous Eton Debating Society {' an unwonted tribute to 
intellect,^ as his tutor remarked), and did a good deal of 
literary prentice-work in The Adventurer j a school magazine, 
and in several of the London monthlies. His endurance and 
courage, the originality of his thought, his unselfishness and 
his genuine sympathy for all that needed it, made him many 
friends in spite of his strong individuality and the uncom- 
promising way in which he stood by his colours on every 

From Eton he went to Trinity Hall, having gained an 
exhibition there in 1868; thence he migrated to Caius 
College. He read a good deal of literature at Cambridge in 
a desultory way, and did not wholly put aside his regular work 
at mathematics and classics. But he had ' not come up to 
read', he said, and he spent many a happy day with the 
hounds, or attending country steeple-chases, at coursing- 
meetings, or on Newmarket Heath, fleeting his time carelessly 
enough. But after a few such golden terms he made up his 
mind that he ought to read, and seeing that it would be 
difficult for him to change his mode of life at Cambridge, he 
resolved to break it off short and come to Oxford. Here he 
settled down quietly at New Inn Hall in 1869, and gave 
himself almost wholly to hard work. 

I had met him once before at Newmarket, but it was now 
that I came to know him well. I can remember how after a 
long spell of reading he would dash with a shout into some lazy 
friend's room, where two or three of us were pretty sure to 
be found, and join eagerly in the talk, no matter what the 
topic. We were astonished and delighted at his quick, bright, 
restless conversation, studded with happy quotations, bristling 


with cunning paradox. For he dearly loved dialectic, and 
would take up in his play the most indefensible positions, and 
defy us to drive him out of them, not unfrequently coping 
single-handed and successfully with a loud and eager band of 

Of his tastes I remember his especial fondness for poetry, 
especially that of the musical sort (which with him indeed 
took the place of music itself). I have seen him rocking to 
and fro in his seat crooning verse to himself like an Arab. 
His chief favourite at Eton had been Shelley, but at Oxford 
Swinburne's verse was most often in his mouth, and he had 
a special fondness for some of his French poems, though 
I think he read Browning more than anything else. He greatly 
delighted in comic verse, and possessed a goodly store thereof, 
old and new. He was a sound judge of style, and was seldom 
deceived by those eccentricities of second-rate writers which 
unduly charm one in youth. He had got to write a legible 
hand, but it was a curious script, much Uke type, and he 
' painted his letters ', as it were, with a quill pen. Perhaps in 
consequence of his early difficulties in writing, he was able to 
compose whole pages in his head and set them down in their 
final form on paper, so that his MS. was remarkably clear. 

He did not care for most indoor amusements, but he was 
a good whist-player, and a quick and awkward adversary at 
ecarte. He was fond, all his life, of training animals to 
tricks, and in his exceeding patience was usually successful. 

He had travelled in France and Italy, and spent some time 
in Florence and Rome, and he liked talking about those 
countries and their peoples, admiring especially the absence 
among Italians of that pretence and uneasy self -consciousness 
which he greatly objected to in his own countrymen. 

Among us there were those who were no judges of his 
mental gifts, but they too were attracted to him by his hearty 
companionship, his love and knowledge of sport, and his 
unflinching gameness. He was ready for a spin or a row 
almost any afternoon, but though he would drive he would 
not ride, because he said if he did he should have a struggle 

Y. p. II A a 


to stick to reading. In the long Sunday walks of thirty or 
forty miles and in the punishing runs he would take every 
now and then, he staved off this craving for what he always 
held the most noble of open-air exercises. 

He never spared himself, bore pain like an Indian, and 
though singularly quick to sympathize with another's trouble, 
would never let any grief of his own show in his face or 
bearing. We used to notice that he was much more tolerant 
than most of us of other people's ways and even views. His 
long-suffering with those he cared for or felt he ought to look 
after was really remarkable, and he had devotion enough for 
his friends to tell them when he thought they had got on the 
wrong path, and he would manage this with singular tact, so 
that a man, however young and vain, could hardly feel his 
raw self-respect hurt, even though Shute spoke plainly 
enough to show him his full folly. Not many men of his 
years have courage to help their friends in spite of themselves. 
He had high spirits, was always cheery, and there was a 
quaint wild spirit of fun in him which rarely slept, and many 
ludicrous adventures and extravagant jests this led him into. 
The presence of striking incongruity was always an attraction 
to him, and this was a joy most of his friends could share 
with him. 

Altogether Shute was a very characteristic person to his 
comrades. I can remember watching him many an evening 
as we all sat talking and smoking, or listening to his talk (he 
never smoked) ; and the grave kindly face, the tall spare 
grey-clad figure loosely flung across a big chair, the restless 
hands ever in abrupt action, the broken force of his speech, 
are all vividly present to me. Unforgotten too is his favourite 
Gordon setter ^Lill', his constant out-of-doors companion, 
whom we all, probably rightly, treated as a distinguished 
person of higher sagacity than our own. In deep silent 
thought she would shuffle on at his heel as he strode along, 
and never leave him save for some exceptional bait of 
unwonted fragrance ; after such lapse her repentance and 
his forgiveness, not without due penance, were also to be 


remembered. The best portrait of him as a young man is a 
photograph in which he and Lill are taken together. And I 
am sure he would not like the memory of Lill's broad honest 
black head, handsome eyes, and beautiful tan points to be 
left out in any notice of his undergraduate life. 

The Schools found Shute overstrained by his effort to do 
more work than there had been time for in his two years' 
space. He was threatened by a return of his old nervous 
malady, and had one or two sharp and disquieting bouts of it 
in the evenings after the paper-work, but he pulled through 
by sheer strength of will. We all felt that if he could only 
stay out the examination, the result would not be doubtful, 
though, as ever, he was distrustful of his own ability, and 
underestimated his progress. He was placed in the First 
Class in the Honour School of Literae Humaniores in 1872, 
and a little later gained a Senior Studentship at Christ 
Church after a severe open competition. 

This was the beginning of a new sphere of life for him. 
But in all essentials his character was formed, it seemed 
indeed to have been formed before he came to Oxford. 
Intellectually he had no doubt made progress, he had gone 
carefully over much new and some old ground during the 
training for his degree, and he had had the advantage of 
hearing the problems he was wrestling with handled by those 
who at Oxford had studied them most deeply. In especial, 
his taste for philosophy (which he had dabbled with even at 
school) grew with his work, and he began to form definite 
plans of future research in metaphysic. 

He entered on his new life and duties with zest, and won 
as great regard and affection from his colleagues and pupils 
as he had secured from his old companions. There was not 
the shadow of pretence or vanity about him : he was hard to 
move when he had made up his mind, but he usually contrived 
to resist the teacher's temptation to dogmatize, and rarely 
forced his theories as fundamental maxims on others. He 
would often leap at the solution of a difficulty, and he never 
lacked a ready answer, and a fair argument to support it if 

Aa 2 


he was posed with a problem ; but he seldom let himself be 
deceived by his own ingenuity, and would witness its ex- 
posure with good-natured and amused interest. He used to 
state his own serious opinions very directly, but he would 
take great pains to enter thoroughly into the views of those 
from whom he differed most widely, and towards an opponent 
he was always scrupulously and generously fair. 

The old talks went on, when the day^s work was over and 
accident gave him an evening to spare, or he wished to 
discuss some question that interested him, and which he 
fancied some friend might help him to unravel. Far into the 
small hours I remember these talks prolonging their devious 
and curiously chequered course, and I am sure that it was a 
gain to those of us who knew him well and saw him often to 
hear his hearty dutiful views of life, and to listen to the half 
comic but always logical analysis to which he subjected 
many a respectable fallacy, many a highly supported theory, 
with results eminently satisfactory but not always expected 
by his hearers. He was a good man of business too, and 
altogether had more experience than falls to most young men 
in the management of his own concerns, so that he could and 
would give useful practical advice. 

His friend Mr. C. L. Dodgson's photograph gives the 
happiest and truest likeness of him as a grown man : an 
enlarged copy of it is to be seen at Christ Church in the 
Undergraduates* Reading Room, a place the success of which 
he had much at heart. 

He had not settled to stay at Oxford, and had determined 
to get called to the Bar, before deciding upon his future 
career. Accordingly in 1874 he began reading English and 
Roman Law with a certain enjoyment, appreciating heartily 
the peculiar mental training and the legal habit of mind it 

In 1875 came a break in his work ; he took the Professor- 
ship of Logic and Moral Philosophy in the Bombay Pre- 
sidency. He considered this step carefully, though it turned 
out a mistake. We bade him good-bye and good-speed, and 


had a few hopeful notes from India. But he soon found that 
his health could never stand the strain he put upon it in that 
climate, for he tried to work as hard as he had been able to 
do in England. He was ordered home by the doctors within 
the year. 

In 1876 Shute took his place again at Christ Church, and 
was shortly appointed Tutor, but it was not till 1878 that he 
quite threw away legal ambition, gave up all thought of other 
work, and determined to stay as teacher and student at 

The work of the last ten years of his short life falls 
naturally into lines that may be shortly traced. Always 
persuaded that a teacher must, to keep up his own power, be 
a learner too, he began to follow out a regular course of 
philosophic study. 

In 1876 he brought out Truth in Extremis^ a little 
pamphlet on the question of Endowment of Research, called 
forth by Dr. Appleton's volume and much earnest discussion 
on the subject, which is of permanent interest at Oxford. In 
a few pages of more logic, of less bitterness, and certainly of 
greater cogency than one looks for in such controversial 
matter, he drew out his own ideas of the student's life and 
aims, and the dangers of Endowment. In 1877 he published 
the book he had written the year before, A Discourse on 
Truth, a singularly suggestive and ingenious essay in a 
direction which has been neglected in England of late years. 
This treatise, which is eminently readable and has some- 
thing of the man's own humour in its plan and structure, 
was taken up abroad, and resulted amongst other influences 
in [Karl] Uphues' Grundlehren der Logik nach Richard 
Shute's ' Discourse on Truth ' bearbettet, Breslau, 1883. 

It was in 1877, after this book was out of hand, that he 
spent part of his Long Vacation on a canoe tour in the north- 
west of France. His craft, the Eremia, was built at Oxford 
on his own plan, and proved strong and handy. He set her 
afloat on the Ranee in July, went along the Vilaine, the 
Loire, the Cher, and the Seine, and ended his cruise at Paris. 


He did some long paddles, one of seventy miles (after 
which he had to be lifted out of the canoe, for he could not 
stand), and kept a regular log of his voyage. And in spite 
of his over-exertion, the Eremia brought him the first real 
holiday he had had for years and did him good, for though he 
had his law-books in his fore-locker, he could not often open 

In 1882 appeared A Collation of Aristotle's Physics, Book 
Vllf Anecdota Oxoniensia, Classical Series, vol. i. pt. 3; 
Clarendon Press, Oxford — a work which had occupied much 
of his time in 1880 and 1881. The present unfinished 
treatise was his last work, and it shows that his intention 
had been to go over in a thorough way the bases of Aristo- 
telian study. He had got beyond the results here published, 
but had not had time to correct them or record his later 
impressions and acquisitions. 

It is not for me to judge of the value of these philosophic 
studies, but I can testify to the steady zeal and careful pre- 
paration with which he laboured, and to his utter scorn of 
secondhand or botched work. 

To his earlier boyish essays, to his numerous bits of verse, 
to his novel (written in my room in the evenings of one term 
in the year 1879 as a mere relief from the pressure of matters 
which he felt were then trying him too hard), he attached no 
weight whatever, and they are only mentioned here as a 
proof of Shute's versatility, though one fancied there was in 
his English writing promise of more than ordinary kind ; and 
since Landor's one has not often seen such real and interesting 
Latin verse as he would now and then dash off on a happy 
impulse, and throw away, when it cumbered his desk, without 

He was much concerned with all sides of College business, 
into which he threw his accustomed energy, and those best 
qualified to speak have repeatedly acknowledged the high 
value they set upon his ready and efficient help. With 
drafting the new Statutes for the House he had a good deal 
to do. In the year 1886 he was chosen Proctor by Christ 


Church, and was as assiduous in the service of the University 
as he had been in the service of the House. 

But the main part of his time and trouble was lavished upon 
his teaching, and to estimate his method and success here 
I shall borrow the words of his tutor, friend, and colleague, 
Mr. J. A. Stewart (in Mind, Jan. 1887). He is speaking of 
Shute's personal work with his pupils. ' " He riddled through 
one's seeming knowledge/' as one who was once his pupil 
has expressed it. This was the first effect of his conversations. 
Beginners were often discouraged, and thought that there 
was no truth to be obtained on the subjects discussed. But 
when they came to know Shute better they began to suspect 
that he was even enthusiastic about the truth. His enthu- 
siasm was perhaps all the more catching that it was, at first, 
only suspected ; at any rate, his pupils followed his singularly 
lucid expositions addressed studiously to the logical under- 
standing, with the growing feeling that it is a solemn duty 
which a man owes to himself, as a rational being, to try to be 
clear-headed. Intellectual clearness, as such, seemed to be 
presented as a duty. But his more intimate pupils and friends 
came to see that he valued intellectual clearness not merely 
for its own sake, but as indicating that ideas incapable of 
logical handling were being kept out of discussion and left to 
reign in their own proper sphere. These pupils and friends 
observed that in his philosophical conversations (as in his 
ordinary talk) he held much in reserve. He was reticent — 
almost ironically so — about those ideas which may be 
summarily described as *' moral and religious ", when others 
were tempted to discuss them and hope by discussion to make 
them clearer. This, those who knew him well had learned 
to understand, was not because these ideas did not interest 
him, but because he felt they were not objects of speculation 
but practical principles of life. And he showed how deeply 
they interested him by his own life. The acute dialectician 
never asked himself " the reason why " he should spend his 
failing strength in doing his best for the mental improvement 
of his pupils. He simply assumed that it was worth doing, 
and that was his " metaphysic of ethic ".' 


This picture is exact ; all I can add to it is my remem- 
brance of the cost at which this work was done — his never- 
satisfied desire to do better still, his anxiety when he fancied 
his teaching in any particular case was not as fruitful as he 
could have hoped, his thrifty economy of his own time in 
order to lavish the hours he covdd save upon his pupils. He 
could never do enough for them. The method of teaching 
he used in 'getting men to think' (as he called it) is one 
which is perhaps in the end the most trying to the teacher, to 
him it was especially exhausting. But as long as he had life 
in him sufficient to keep at his post, he would not bate a jot 
of his effort or spare himself a whit. 

In 1882 he married Edith Letitia Hutchinson, younger 
daughter of Colonel Frederick Hutchinson and Amelia Gordon, 
and went out of college to live in a house he had planned out 
himself at the north of Oxford. We all rejoiced in his great 
happiness and the helpful and true companionship he had 
gained, and we hoped that he would now see that the work he 
was doing must, if it was to be continued long, be done at a 
slower pace and with less stress. But he would not allow him- 
self greater rest than odd fag-ends of vacations, and toiled on 
as before. A threatening attack forced him to greater care for 
a while in 1884 ; but in 1885 he felt it his duty to act as ex- 
aminer in the School of Literae Humaniores, and the prolonged 
strain did him no good. In 1886 the Proctorship tried him 
still more, and before the end of his first term of office he was 
taken suddenly ill. He bore his four months' illness with 
serene self-control and gentle fortitude, though he knew very 
soon that, in spite of all the loving care bestowed on him, it 
could have but one end, and was fully conscious of all that 
parting must mean to him and those nearest him. In one 
of his last letters he wrote to his friend Mr. W. O. Burrows, 
* I think that man is happiest who is taken while his hand 
is still warm on the plough, who has not lived long enough to 
feel his strength failing him, and his work every day worse 
done.' And these words his wife has had engraved on his 


He died on the 22nd September, 1886, and was buried at 
Woking, hard by the grave which he himself had chosen for 
a sister who predeceased him. On the wall of the north aisle 
of the Cathedral at Oxford is a memorial brass to him, set up 
by his College friends and pupils, with a Latin inscription 
written by the Dean. 

Those who knew the man best had looked forward to his 
* future success ' confidently and with assurance, but though 
his studies lie unfinished, surely he has done his work. His 
influence must be a lasting one on those who knew him. No 
teacher that I have known had a higher ideal than Richard 
Shute, and I have known none that lived closer to his ideal ; 
I have met few men as unselfish and fair-minded, and no one 
of more absolute and fearless courage, or more earnest in the 
pursuit and love of Truth — and * this ', in the words of an old 
writer, I say * not in flattery. I loved him in life and I love 
him none the less in death ; for what I loved in him is not 
dead \ 


[This letter on 'Lewis Carroll' was found in MS. with the first 
pages missing. The form and the conclusion show that it was meant 
for the press, but it seems never to have gone there : inquiry has 
failed to trace it. It must have been written in support of the 
memorial to Dodgson, which took the form of a cot in the Children's 
Hospital, Great Ormond Street. It would therefore be dated 1897.] 

He was a born inventor ; he invented a memoria technica 
for the calendar, so as to be able to calculate week-days in 
past years when the month-day was given without needing 
writing materials ; and many other ' dodges ' of the kind : 
he invented logical signs, mathematical expressions, games 
with and without pieces, methods of calculating, of account- 
keeping, of sorting out weekly bills, and a thousand other 
devices for lightening the labour of keeping one's things and 


papers in order. Some of these were over-ingenious, of 
course, but he did not mind that, and he would smile over the 
recollection of having once induced a body to which he 
belonged to try a method of election which would have ended, 
if it had not been promptly renounced, in a result entirely 
against every one's wishes or expectations : though to the 
end of his life, I believe, he clung to the idea that every vote 
must be regarded as an individual expression of opinion and 
not as a means to the desired end. He had an almost pious 
devotion to the vulgate ^ Euclid ', maintained that it was the 
best introduction to geometry, and carried on more than one 
controversy in its defence. 

He was a great worker but not a very great reader. His 
library was full of the unexpected. At one time he had the 
first editions of most of G. Meredith's books (to my intense 
envy), but I believe he parted with them in one of those 
clearances by which he sternly kept the number of his books 
within bounds. He had many of the rarer first editions of 
Tennyson, but he was never a bibliophile, and ignored all 
questions of original shape, keeping of covers, uncut paper, 
&c. He admired Tennyson's poetry greatly and once made 
a useful index to In Memoriam, copies of which he gave to 
many friends. He loved Notes and Queries and had a good 
complete set. He was fond of dictionaries of quotations and 
the like. He bought no books except to read, and most of 
these, once read, he would get rid of at clearing-times. He 
was a reader of medical books, knew his ' bones ', and had 
a good layman's knowledge of the main medical facts. He 
had a love of pictures rather than a taste for art : his 
favourites were Sir Noel Paton, Sir J. Tenniel, Miss Thomp- 
son, and Holiday. His criterion was the drawing of a pretty 
young English girl-child, and provided the face was sweet 
and the figure in proportion he did not ask for more. He 
liked Frost's humorous drawings, preferred Leech to Keene 
and Sambourne to both, and admired (very rightly) Miss 
Greenaway's wee toddlers in their old-fashioned garb. He 
was an exceptionally good after-dinner speaker, but it was 

C. L. DODGSON 363 

rarely one could get him to undertake the unthankful task, 
and then he would only do it when inter amicos. The 
whimsical thought, the gentle satire, the delicate allusions to 
the various characteristic ways of his hearers, the pleasant 
kindness that somehow showed through the veil of fun, made 
his few post-prandial orations memorable. He seldom 
preached, but those who heard him spoke of his preaching as 
remarkable for its simple earnestness and apt cleverness of 
phrase. His last books were the outcome of his idea that 
perhaps he had not made full use of his opportunities to 
enforce what he held to be important truths. To the stage 
he was greatly attracted, and loved what he thought a good 
play, but the slightest infraction of the strictest decorum or 
a word that sounded * irreverent ' to his ears would ensure 
such a rebuke, public or private, as he thought best fitted for 
the occasion. His faith was of the old-fashioned evangelical 
school, and he was shocked at the playing of cricket on 
Sunday, which was encouraged by some worthy and sensible 
country parsons of his acquaintance. 

He was a man who thought it right to see that his charity 
was well bestowed, and he took care to see that what he gave 
was given in quarters where it would reach those he wished 
to benefit. He was especially alive, as might be expected, 
to the duties we owe to children, both the helpless and the 
poor and those who, though better off, are unduly neglected ; 
and he was so anxious to care for the little ones that one 
feels in penning these lines that the cause for which they 
are written would excuse those biographic details that he 
would have thought best withheld. 

He remembers the amusement caused by the Oxford skits, 
that, both before and after Alice, delighted the whole 
University. It is probable that the awful controversy as to 
Jowett's salary (which Freeman cleverly settled with the late 
Dean of Christ Churches help) will be chiefly remembered by 
the famous tract in which the elimination of ' tt ^ was discussed. 
And the demands, incessant though no doubt legitimate, of 
the scientific men upon the University funds were never so 


funnily criticized as in his pamphlet where the necessity of 
a small plot for the cultivation of 'roots' was set forth. 
The fun of his * Hiawatha the photographer ', ' that would be 
like the sea/ his burlesque of ' The Two Voices/ would have 
placed him beside Calverley : but the originality of his Alice 
parodies, the inimitable quality of his Jabberwock, and the 
invention of the ' Waterford ', as his ' found again ' scheme 
of verse epigram (first published in Sylvie and Bruno) has 
been called, give him an entirely unique place among the 
fun-makers of this century. 

He reminded one at times in his topsy-turvy, unexpected, 
whimsy fancies of Lamb, but he was never so widely ap- 
preciative, so catholic as * Charles the Great '. He never 
forgot his cloth, he had neither the weaknesses nor the 
pathetic gleams of the man whose criticism was the soundest 
and most sympathetic, and whose autobiographic sketches 
were the finest, of any written in his generation. Dodgson 
never forgot the realities, he never played at being other 
than he was — a cleric, a don, a Christian clergyman with 
sworn duties, a Student of the House. Consequently, while 
his range was necessarily limited and his self-correction and 
self-examination necessarily severe, he wisely chose a sphere 
of literature, small but his own, in which he could move 
freely, and he preferred to write for children, innocent and 
happy and intelligent, [rather] than for the world of grown- 
up men and women, with the weight of sorrow and sin on 
them, and the consciousness of the cares of this world and 
(as he thought) of the world to come weighing on them. 
For them he could preach and pray, for the children he 
could write and all his wonderful gifts of fun and fancy 
he used for their pleasure and profit. 

He took marvellous trouble to get his books printed, 
illustrated, and bound exactly as he thought best. He was 
a most careful and expensive proof -corrector. He had an 
ideal for every illustration, which he would press on the artist 
till he was satisfied with the result. He studied such details 
as ink and type and paper, for any book he issued, regardless 

C. L. DODGSON 365 

of cost or expense of time. Hence the wonderful correctness 
of his text, and the unity of letterpress and illustration that 
prevails in his books. 

His life at Oxford was simple in the extreme. He rose 
early, worked nearly all day standing at his desk, with the 
barest apology for lunch ; a brief smart walk now and then 
in the afternoon, or call at some friend's house, were his only 
diversion. Hall-dinner and a chat with a friend in his own 
room afterward, with more work after, tUl he went to bed. 
He rarely dined out, and only occasionally invited particular 
friends to dine with him. He wanted all his time for his 
work, he said, and he often told us he found the days too 
short. He had very good health and was seldom out of sorts 
for a day. His vacations he spent partly at the seaside, 
where he took some part of the work he had in hand, and 
often made much progress. But he would give himself 
some leisure away from his Oxford room, which was his home 
and his workshop. 

The quiet humour of his voice, a very pleasant voice, the 
occasional laugh, — he was not a man that often laughed, 
though there was often a smile playing about his sensitive 
mouth, — and the slight hesitation that whetted some of his 
wittiest sayings, — all those that knew him must remember ; 
but his kindly sympathies, his rigid rule of his own life, his 
unselfish love of the little ones, whose liegeman he was, his 
dutiful discharge of every obligation that was in the slightest 
degree incumbent on him, his patience with his younger 
colleagues, who were sometimes a little ignorant and impatient 
of the conditions under which alone Common-room life must 
be in the long run ruled, his rare modesty, and the natural 
kindness which preserved him from the faintest shadow of 
conceit, and made him singularly courteous to every one, 
high or low, he came across in his quiet academic life, — these 
his less-known characteristics will only remain in the 
memories of his colleagues and contemporaries. Dodgson 
and Liddon long made the House Common-room a resort 
where the weary brain-worker found harmless mirth and 


keen but kindly wit. Liddon, on his days, was a fine talker, 
full of humour and observation, an excellent mimic, a maker 
of beautiful and fine-coloured phrase, a delightful debater. 
Dodgson was a good teller of anecdote, a splendid player at 
the game of quodlibet, which St. Louis commended as an 
after-dinner sport, a fantastic weaver of paradox and pro- 
pounder of puzzle, a person who never let the talk flag, but 
never monopolized it, who had rather set others talking than 
talk himself, and was as pleased to hear a twice-told tale as 
to retail his own store of reminiscence ; a quality egregious, 
but, as all know, rare. 

That this kind, conscientious lover of children should be 
commemorated not in glass or brass or marble, but in a way 
that should be actively useful in the relief of children's 
suffering and sorrow, would have surely pleased his soul. 
And though he shrank from all publicity, and led his modest 
dutiful life in quiet academic shade, the books that en- 
shrined so much of his best thought and most sympathetic 
work have made him the intimate and playmate of many 
little ones in many homes, and they will not be sorry to 
know that their unknown friend was a man that they could 
respect as well as love. It may be true that his art is 
especially that of a day, exclusively nineteenth century, 
peculiarly Victorian and insular, and even Church of England : 
tant mieux : here is a production that can never be really 
imitated or in any way cheapened by the future, a curious 
little piece of fantasy such as will never be wrought out again, 
a thing per se : and it is none the less valuable because it is 
as frankly modern as the ^ turn-out ' of our newest novelist 
or last-arrived draughtsman. Dodgson and the talented and 
humane author of * Struwwelpeter ^ were contemporaries and 
died within a few months of each other. If to their names 
we add the greater names of Marryat and Grimm and 
Stevenson and the lower name of Andersen, we shall have 
gone over the roll of those who have made English nurseries 
happy by their genius, and struck those chords that find 
harmonious echoes in the delicate, sensitive, sympathetic 

p^ d Jinmrp 





C. L. DODGSON 367 

minds of childhood. It is no little privilege to have earned 
the love of these little ones, and it is a pleasure, surely, to 
help to honour in so becoming a way as you. Sir, have 
suggested, the memory of one that had worthily won this 


There are some men whose companionship is eminently 
helpful, their sympathy being so wide, their judgement so 
broad, their temper so fine, that one is lifted as it were on to 
a higher plane into serener air while one is with them. 
Such a man was Gleeson White. It was a refreshment to 
pass an hour with him : one came away from him with more 
hope, faith, and charity. The secret of his influence lay in 
his sincerity, his single-mindedness, the sensitive feelings 
that enabled him to understand and appreciate the aims and 
achievements of others, while his amazing and accurate 
acquaintance with the various means of expression that are 
employed in literature and the arts enabled him to see 
precisely what was the line along which any individual 
development was proceeding. His wit lit up the most 
serious discussions, and his absolute freedom from all the 
sordid motives that so often clog men^s opinions, his lack of 
jealousy, and generous delight in other men^s work whether 
in his own or others' fields, gave his conversation qualities 
exceptionally rare and valuable to his friends. 

He was also notably patient, and this patience for so quick- 
witted a man must have been an acquirement j he was even 
too long-suffering, allowing people who had no claims on his 
time or attention to take up both, rather than hurt their 
feelings or run the risk of not being able to help them in 
some way. He was never in a hurry ; hence, what facts and 
knowledge he won, he had always ready for use. He was 


eminently teachable, always desirous of learning more, of 
seeing more, of getting to understand more minutely the 
things and persons in whom he was interested. 

He had a great power of work, and here he was probably 
over-conscientious, exhausting himself over labour often less 
than moderately paid, and doing the most ordinary work in 
the most careful and elaborate way. But he could not bear 
to do less than his best, and he would sacrifice strength and 
time ungrudgingly to act up to his ideal. He never grumbled, 
and was able, though a sensitive man, to bear his troubles 
with a brave and unmoved face, but one can guess how the 
effort tried him. 

A man of such qualities is no ordinary person : and after 
getting to know him personally one was not long in making 
out how it was he won in so few years the exceptional 
position in the world of art and literature that he held at his 
death. A quiet life of nearly forty years in a beautiful little 
country town, where he made full use of the opportunities 
for self-culture that lay open to him, where he came to know 
all the living and moving elements that made for good, and 
where he enjoyed to the full the musical art that was always 
one of his chief pleasures, prepared him for the resolution he 
took to come up to London in 1891. 

A year in America gave him an insight into the business 
methods that underlie the conduct of artistic and literary 
production on a large scale. He got too to understand the 
modern town public with its insatiable craving for novelty, 
its eager attraction towards interesting work, its instability 
of taste, its limited but still not quite hopeless capability for 
being taught to distinguish between good and bad in matters 
of art and literature, the feverish and acute agitation by 
which it tries to turn the quiet way of the artist into a black 
cinder-path filled with shouting competitors, and the ignorant 
stupidity that allows dozens of poor and worthless imitators 
to do their best to degrade and hackney every new ideal or 
idea. He learnt the necessity of trained and sincere criticism 
as the only true and constant support of those who are doing 


honest work and the only effective foe to impostors, pre- 
tenders, and shams of all kinds. 

When he came back to London he soon entered on the 
work that occupied him till his death — the art of designing 
and the practice of criticism. His influence was quickly 
felt, he had plenty of ideas, ideas that could be carried out ; 
for he would not waste time over the unattainable, there was 
for him plenty to do that could be done and was worth doing, 
and to this he gave his whole heart. He set himself 
especially to encourage the young who were capable of 
doing well, who had thoughts of their own and wanted to be 
allowed to work them out in their own way: for them he 
had always a word of the sympathy that understands, 
a phrase of the encouragement that is so welcome when the 
struggle seems at its worst. He was always ready, too, to 
stand up for those whose achievements had been passed over 
without due acknowledgement, the modest proud men who 
knew that they had done well, but despaired of getting their 
due or anything like it from a fickle and hasty generation 
that is easily led away by profuse advertisement and unblush- 
ing self-assertion. To praise a thing that deserved praise 
was to Gleeson White a true pleasure, and, kindly and 
amiable as he was, he was too wise to lavish encomia; he 
certainly did not desire the death of a sinner, but he could 
speak clearly enough when there was need of discrimination 
and of distinguishing between the reality and the make- 
believe, and he was not easily deceived by the imposture that 
masks itself so deftly and cunningly beneath a show of 
words or an affectation of form or colour. Hence his praise 
was justly valued and his blame keenly felt, gently as it was 
always expressed. 

The surroundings of the man (like his face and hands) 
were markedly expressive; statuettes, enamels, drawings, 
etchings, engravings, prints, books, the things he liked to 
have about him, in that pleasant and well-remembered 
work-room of his, were things of a real distinction, however 
tiny and simple. His library was of course (since he was 

Y. p. It B b 


essentially a bookman, familiar with books from his childhood, 
with an inherited love that his own life had only strengthened) 
an index of his taste and leanings. Putting aside the large 
section of it that represented gifts from friends and aspirants 
to literary rank (an interesting and characteristic set of books 
proving the catholicity of his influence and the value attached 
to his verdicts), there were several special collections of 
carefully chosen books, chief, perhaps, those of the illustrators 
of the ' sixties ', Keene, Houghton, Pinwell, Watson, Walker, 
Hughes, Leighton, Lawson, Millais, Whistler, Solomon, 
Sandys, and a host of lesser lights, a collection that formed 
the base of his well-known study of this distinguished 
English school of wood engraving. Of the older wood 
schools, as original and native and as distinguished in their 
way, that of Williams, Harvey, Foster, Bewick and his 
pupils. Palmer, Calvert, and their contemporaries, he was 
also a collector, and it is one of the present writer's lasting 
regrets that a projected study by him of Samuel Williams 
(a remarkable and now little-known draughtsman) will never 
appear ; that and many other projects, certain, but for fate's 
decree, to have been wrought out to good purpose, having 
been untimely checked and finally frustrated. Of later 
draughtsmen of individuality and original workmanship he 
possessed many examples, notably of Aubrey Beardsley, 
(whose promise Gleeson White was indeed one of the first to 
detect), of Mr. Sime (of whose notable and truly grotesque 
fancies he instantly acknowledged the power), of Mr. Nichol- 
son, of Mr. May, and others whose names are now widely 
and deservedly known, he was among the first admirers and 
laudators. His collection of book-plates was an eclectic one 
and based on artistic rather than bibliographic tastes. His 
Japanese prints and pattern-books he had chosen with an 
eye to their decorative quaUties and uses rather than with 
regard to historic or illustrative considerations. He had 
a fine feeling for the canons that go to the building up of 
a beautiful printed page, and he had brought together a good 
many examples, old and new, that showed various classes of 




arrangement and type. Being himself a master of poetic 
form, a subject that always profoundly interested him, he 
had naturally collected a quantity of books in which the 
ballade, the triolet, and the hundred conventional shapes of 
minor verse were illustrated, many of them having helped to 
furnish him material for that memorable little volume in 
which so many of Mr. Henley's little masterpieces and 
a very notable introductory essay of his own are included. 

Gleeson White's library was a working library as well as 
a collector's treasury. He bought his books because he loved 
them and because he used them. He would choose out its 
appropriate book-plate (of which he had a plentiful and 
remarkable variety) for each volume, he would take pleasure 
in fixing its fitting place in his shelves alongside of kindred 
volumes, he would keep it carefully dusted and free from 
stain or scar. He handled books as a born book-lover should. 
Hence one feels that something personal clings to these pets 
and proteges of his, one cherishes a book he cherished as 
a relic of a friend, as well as a thing of beauty or use in 
itself. It is not every collector whose books became his own 
as Gleeson White's did, and many a book-plate is simply an 
index of the wealth that could endow a library and not 
a revelation of the former possessor's individual and personal 
likings or sympathies. For the impersonal collector is a mere 
conduit pipe : he has never really owned a book at all : he has 
simply become a channel between one owner and another, 
a mere fiction of conveyance. 

But this little library of Gleeson White was a part of his 
life, and though one would have been glad perhaps had it 
passed in bulk into the control of some pubhc institution, 
which would have permitted its free use to all that cared 
about the art or letters that it represented ; yet one cannot be 
sorry that it will be distributed among friends to whom the 
books will have a double value owing to their provenance, 
and for whom they will recall and in a way represent the 
tastes and sympathies and knowledge of their former owner. 

It is at best a sad thing, the disposal of the gatherings of 

B b a 


an earnest lifetime ; but here one feels that Gleeson White 
himself would have been satisfied that his friends and 
acquaintances, known and unknown, should share among 
them the things he had valued ; for he was ever one to whom 
it was a pleasure that anything he had should minister to 
others' service or delight. 

Those who never knew this simple, unpretending maft in 
the flesh will find it not so easy to understand, in spite of the 
perusal of his writings, how great a space he filled in the 
hearts and minds of those who knew him, and it is difficult, 
however faithfully one tries, to succeed in giving anything 
like a clear or defined portraiture of the qualities that drew 
one so warmly to him. There is such complexity in life ; 
the mixture of characteristics, the evanescent play of circum- 
stance upon temperament, the Werden that is always more 
important than the Seirij these, like the passing play of light 
on the features, are hard to seize and set down in due keeping 
and proportion so as to reproduce somewhat of the effect the 
living man produced on his friends. 

It is one of the inevitable sadnesses of human existence, 
trite though the observation be, that as the years go on, it 
is not so much our own personal losses, weaknesses, short- 
comings, disappointments that affect us, as the abstractions, 
sudden often, always sad and freshly sad, of those who have 
been comrades, co-mates, and fellow-travellers. One stumbles 
on, but one's heart is the heavier for the thought of those that 
have fallen by the way, although we know that for them the 
toil is assuredly over and the struggle ended in a great peace. 
Those that knew Gleeson White will never forget him, his 
memorial will stand within them clear and distinct and 
nnblurred till the soft darkness falls upon them also. To 
them, as long as they are permitted to recall the past, he will 
remain a perpetual example of a truthful, gifted, far-seeing, 
and gentle-hearted friend whom to know was a privilege and 
to remember an encouragement and an enduring and happy 


[The Quatrains from Omar lead here : with their preface, the most 
personal confession of belief that Powell ever printed or wrote ; xxv- 
xxix are added from MS. The sequel, derived from a letter, is a sally in 
the same form and spirit. The other original verses speak for them- 
selves. The translations from Icelandic, Italian, and French are in 
some cases reprints ; the Norse ones, of verses on infantine things, 
coming from a child's book on Iceland written long ago by a friend ; 
while the ballad of ' Sir Ogie ', like the refrains of dancing songs, is 
from the Grimm Cenfenafy, and that of ' Sigmund ' from the version 
of Fcereyinga Saga. For more see separate headnotes.] 


When FitzGerald put Omar into English he did more than 
he knew. He revealed to us in fixed and memorable form 
a white, broad tract of thought many moderns and a few 
ancients had descried, but only in vague and cloudy delinea- 
tion. Here at last it lay plain in the Persian sunlight — a 
field a few men have loved to stray into at times, and fewer 
have chosen as their camping-place. A varied field of various 
aspects, for Omar has many moods. Sometimes he wanders 
restless in the starlit night; sometimes he meditates in the chill 
fresh dawn till the stir of life breaks in upon his reveries ; 
sometimes he dreams in the hot slumberous noon when all is 
hushed save the cicada ; sometimes when the sun has set and 
the moon has risen in the pleasant evening, with the ripple of 
the brook in his ears, and the scent of the roses in his nostrils, 
he sings. Often he is alone with his heart; at other times 
he is in grave society with sages and seekers ; and now and 


again he is the centre of a merry company, where the saki sees 
to it that the glasses are not long left empty, while the singing- 
girl vies with the nightingale. Consistency is not the pride 
of his philosophy ; only through his moods he is ever true to 
himself, so that though there are many facets to the jewels of 
his thought, the jewels themselves are all strung upon the 
thread of sincerity. Hence many have found sympathy in his 
verse and have felt that he expressed for them the secret of 
their own souls. 

Omar is not often a preacher, seldom a prophet, occasion- 
ally a frank counsellor, always a friend. He had learnt to 
be content to accept men and things as they are. He would 
have men charitable and sincere. He had no ethical advice 
beyond this. He recognized that the ultimate explanation is 
beyond our comprehension, though he did not trouble himself 
to doubt its existence. He had done with systems and uni- 
versal theories. He laughed at creeds and mocked at super- 
stitions, but he welcomed facts with a gentle and humorous 
smile. He had no malice, no grudge against life. He was 
companionable in his hours, never inhuman. Of the hermit 
or the ascetic there was no trace in him. He was not the 
man to shudder at the beauty of women or the splendours of 
the earth and heavens, because Mutability has set her seal 
upon them all. He had no brain-made golden age to look upon 
with a sigh, no air-built Utopia to yearn for in vain. He 
knew that in himself were the limits and possibilities of his 
own happiness, and that fate must be faced. He only re- 
gretted that life, man's little capital, was often so ill and 
unprofitably invested. He would not be cajoled into despising 
this workaday world ; the homely, simple joys within reach 
(not the least exquisite) should be freely and deftly grasped. 
The wise man is not a sad man. Man is made for happiness 
as well as for grief ; both must needs come, and when they 
come they must be frankly and fearlessly met. On his thought 
he set no fetters : wherever Reason leads, whither Fancy 
dances, he will follow, exploring curiously and calmly, with 
firm step, amused at his discoveries but never condescending 


to be decoyed by the golden tale of El Dorado or the feverish 
quest of Bimini. Duty he did not talk much about because 
he practised it instinctively, for the tent-maker of Naishapur 
was more at one veith the pilgrim Abdu. el Yezdi than the latter 
supposed when he wrongly condemned Omar as one that 
prescribed merely sensual pleasures, which must all at last pall 
upon the voluptuary. For the truth is that the exhortation — 
Let us eat and drink for to-morrow we die — is only the half 
of Omar's wisdom ; the rest seems to me precisely the same 
as that of the Kasidah : 

Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect 
applause ; 

He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his 
self-made laws. 

All other Life is living Death, a world where none but Phantoms 

A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling of the camel- 

Such a man as this Shakespeare and Rabelais and Goethe 
would have understood and loved. Such a man Lucretius 
must surely have envied ; for while he himself had obtained 
freedom with a great price, Omar was born free, and his 
struggles had been wrestUng with intellectual problems, not 
sharp pangs and searchings of heart. 

Omar was, like Lucretius, a savant, trained by the practice 
of research and disciplined by science ; hence he does not 
shrink from the touch of reality, nor does he cherish illusion 
for its own sake. Clear-brained and sane, he consoled himself 
for the rubs of fortune with a stroke of humour instead of 
seeking satisfaction in bitter scorn and self-destroying 
contempt. He was too healthy to permit the eternal verities 
to crush him into wanhope and gloom. 

But Omar was also a poet, and he knew that the Real Life 
is not wholly intellectual. He had gone through his journey 
without losing zest. He was at ease in the fellowship of 
Youth and Mirth and Love, though he saw their frailty. 
The littleness of Life, clearly as he acknowledged it, could not 


really poison his enjoyment, but rather enhanced the glow of 
its fleeting charm. Timor mortis troubled poor Dunbar's 
aching morrows, but could not disturb Omar's morning 
dreams. He was alive to Opportunity. To-day, if ye will 
hear his voice ! To-day ! Will not the future be the better 
and richer for memories of past pleasure ? So surely must 
the sane man feel. 

Those also who would make of Omar a Sufi, such as Jilal- 
ad-din, or a Hedonist, such as Rochester, are as much at 
fault as those who would make of Rabelais a crusader or a 
drunkard. Omar had gone beyond empty phrases and passed 
the marshy reek of mysticism by ; he lived far above the 
haunts of the mere hog-philosophy. His palate was too keen, 
his senses too exquisite, his brain too healthy and active to 
allow him to find complete satisfaction in animal pleasures 
only. These same animal pleasures he does not by any means 
despise. They are natural, to be enjoyed and fully enjoyed in 
their seasons, but there are others. Even Mr. Wilkes (a true 
epicure) leashed together the pleasure of generosity, delight in 
the contemplation of nature, and the love of woman, as com- 
bining to his highest enjoyment. And for Omar the Persian 
there were many gratifications, and among them those that 
thrill, and rightly, the bodily senses. He was no despiser of 
the common joys of mankind, he acknowledged their blessed- 
ness. For him, as for Blake, Earth was a beautiful place ; 
like brother Martin, he loved vrine and song and woman. 
The perpetual miracle of the spring did not appeal to him 
in vain. The odour of roses came to him as a very breath 
from heaven. But his paradise was not as simple as 

Toward his fellows he was largely tolerant. He abhorred 
hypocrisy, but he was not too stern with the hypocrite ; he 
loathed bigotry, but yet he did not deeply condemn the 
bigot who yearned to murder him. He revolted openly at 
the cruelties and tragedies of life, but he did not wholly 
accuse the Universe that baffled him. A man could never 
be prevented from doing his duty. He would not allow the 


Unknowable to confound him, and his humour does not quail 
before any imaginable thing or being. 

There is a frank courage about him ; he dealt with life as 
with his mathematics. He was no quietist. We cannot steer 
our drifting raft, nor stem the resistless current ; but we have 
it in our power to behave decently, to share the meagre stock 
of victuals fairly as long as they last, to take the good and evil 
as it comes, and even to hope, if we choose to do so, for a fair 

Omar has no heaven to offer, no hell to threaten with. 
His appeal is not to spiritualities, his deity is more faineant 
than even the gods of Epicurus. To Omar the fair mirage is 
but a bright reflection, and he will not mistake it for the city 
that is very far off. He is a plain, downright man, and his 
* message ' is only a friendly whisper to them that care to sit 
near him, bidding them trust to the real and front life 

So I read Omar, ranging him as to his standpoint with 
Shakespeare and those who take the same kindly half-ironic 
dutiful view of life. Rabelais and Whitman are of the com- 
pany. There are plenty of lines among the best-accredited 
verses of Omar that seem to me to give just this notion of him, 
and I do not think it is inconsistent with what is known of 
his life. 

But among the verses that pass under his name are some 
that can scarcely be reconciled with this view, and these 
I cannot believe to be his. They belong to another character, 
to a man who had within him a wittier and a more malicious 
Heinesque mockery, but a man also capable of ardent mystical 
religious adoration. Such men have appeared ere now both 
in the east and west. One can hardly imagine the agony of 
earnest piety, that undoubtedly at times thrilled Verlaine, and 
the impudent, reckless, cruel gaminerie, that Villon often 
gives way to, coexisting in the same man with the calm 
science, deep humour, and kindly tolerance of Shakespeare 
and Rabelais. We know that much heretical verse and much 
repentant self-reproach expressed in memorable lines were 


cast by the copyists into the collections they attributed to 
Omar and mixed up with his genuine verse. 

In the quatrains that follow, for instance, there seems to 
be a distinct discrepancy between that numbered xii, beauti- 
ful though the original may be, and the nobler verses that 
conclude the selection ; and xii is not wholly inconsistent 
with VII and iii. Again i (where FitzGerald's rendering is 
rather restored than altered) is perhaps rather on than by 

The best is Omar's pretty certainly, and the impression of 
a selection of the best quatrains taken from, say, Mr. Payne's 
version (where the patient skill of the translator is seeking to 
render as closely as may be the original form) will, to my fancy, 
be that I have attempted to sketch above. The real Omar 
seems to emerge, and it is the Omar that FitzGerald recalled 
from limbo and transfigured for us occidentals in his immortal 
version. The form of his raiment is indeed slightly changed, 
but the man is little altered. He is visibly a manifest poet 
of our own race, more Aryan perhaps than Lucretius himself. 
There is nothing of the Arab about him : he does not raise 
high debate like the schoolmen of Islam on predestination 
and the prae-creation of the Quran, nor does he try to rival 
the Seven titan poets of the clans of the Days of Darkness. 
He is far closer to us than that high questioner Job, or even 
that loneliest of pessimists the Preacher in Jerusalem. There 
is nothing about him of the glittering, often tawdry, geo- 
metrical filagree dear to the alien Hindoo. Here is a Hellene 
beyond the Greek pale, a classic of our own blood, a modern 
too, albeit he is separated from us by eight centuries' space, 
and is in name a follower of the Quraish prophet, and in 
garb a barbarian. Nor can one forget that his tongue is, 
after all, a sister tongue to our own. 

It is FitzGerald's great claim to a loftier meed than befits 
the mere translator, that he felt this close kinship and took 
care to make his version poetry first and next English, leaving 
just enough local colour in his reproduction to help his readers' 
imagination, declining firmly to allow himself to be hampered 


by too rigorous fidelity to metre or metaphor. Omar is as 
yet the one Persian poet (besides Hafiz) that an Englishman 
can comprehend and feel at ease with, and even Hafiz, able as 
his translators have been, strikes most of us primarily as an 
oriental and secondly as a poet. 

Mr. Greene's Latin version of FitzGerald is worthy of its 
original, and has a harmonious pomp and a concise felicity 
proper to the language of Lucretius. One would like to have 
a version in Aeolic Greek by as good and poetic a scholar. 
Here surely, as Antarah puts it, there is a 'place for a patch, 
a purple patch in the long embroidered garment of a western 

As for the ensuing quatrains, they were turned into English 
on the familiar model from M. Nicolas' and Mr. Justin 
M*'Carthy's versions, for the pleasure of a friend of whose 
kindness they form but an inadequate acknowledgement. They 
were first printed in The Pageant, 1897, at the instance of 
its editor, Mr. Gleeson White. They have been impudently 
misprinted by a pirate in the United States, where the laws 
as yet permit such dishonest and uncivil dealings. They are now 
reprinted because, as they have been circulated widely in an 
incorrect form, they may as well appear in their own shape. 
They only hope to be considered humble appendices to the 
rendering of Omar by FitzGerald, for verily, as Harith sang 
of Amru long ago : 

He is a king that hath brought all under his subjection. 
Nor is there among them his peer in his gifts. 

Christ Church, Oxford, 
March the twentieth, 1901. 

Khayyam, that used to stitch the tents of Thought, 
Lito Grief's furnace dropt, was burnt to naught; 

The shears of Fate his Life's tent-ropes have cut 4 
Yea, Hope's sharp Broker sold him — nor got aught* 



The World gains naught that I live here below. 
And my Departure will not mar its show; 

No man has told me yet, nor do I know 
Why I came here, or where/or hence I go. 


The Day is breaking, let us welcome him 
With glasses crimson-beaded to the brim; 

And as for Name and Fame and Blame and Shame, 
What are they all? — mere Talk and idle Whim. 


Why at the Dawning must the cock still crow? 
It is that by his crowing he may show 

That one more Night has slid from out thy Life: 
And thou art lying asleep and dost not know. 

Life's caravan speeds strangely swift — take care; 
It is thy youth that^s fleeting — Friend, beware; 

Nor vex thyself for Woe to come, in vain. 
For lo, the Night rolls on and Dawn breaks bare. 


The Spheres that turn have brought no luck to thee. 
What matter how the Years or Seasons flee? 

Two Days there are to which I pay no heed — 
The Day that's gone, the Day that is to be. 


Above thine head looms Heaven's Bull Parwinj 
Beneath thy feet a Bull bears Earth unseen; 

Open the eyes of Knowledge, and behold 
This drove of Asses these two Bulls between. 



The Rose saith^ 'I am Joseph's flower, for, lo. 
My Cup is fuU of Gold/ Hf this be so. 
Give me another sign/ I cried, and She 
Made answer, 'Red with gore my Garments show.' 


Rose, thou art like unto a Face most fair; 
Rose, thou art like unto a Ruby rare ; 

Fate, thou art ever changing shape and hue. 
Yet ever hast the same familiar air. 

Though the Rose fade, yet are the Thorns our lot; 
Though the Light fail, yet is the Ember hot; 

Though Robe and Priest and Presence all are gone. 
The empty Mosque at least we still have got. 


Open the Door ; the Key is Thine alone ! 
Show me the Path; only to Thee 'tis known; 
The idle Hands they reach I will not take. 
Thine Everlasting Arms shall bear me on. 


O Lord, have mercy on my enslaved Soul: 
Have mercy on my Heart that Griefs control: 

Have mercy on my Foot that seeks the Inn : 
Have mercy on my Hand that craves the Bowl, 


Creeds seventy-two among Mankind there be. 
Of all these Faiths I choose but Faith in Thee: 

Law, Sin, Repentance, all are idle words: 
Thou art my Hope, What's all the rest to me? 



The Drop of Water wept to leave the Sea, 
But the Sea laught and said, 'We still are we/ 

God is within, without, and all around. 
And not a hair's-breadth severs Me and Thee. 


Now Thou art hidden, unseen of all that be; 
Now Thou art full displayed that all may see: 

Being, as Thou art, the Player and the Play, 
And plajong for Thine own pleasure, carelessly, 


In these twin Compass-beams, my Soul, you see 
One Body and two Heads, like You and Me, 
Which wander round one centre circle-wise. 
But at the end in one same point agree. 


The Heart wherein Love's wick bums clear and well. 
Whether it swing in mosque or shrine or cell. 

If in the Book of Love it be enrollM, 
Is free from Hope of Heaven or Fear of Hell. 


Whether in Heaven or Hell my lot be stayed, 
A Cup, a Lute, a fair and frolic Maid, 

Within a place of Roses please me now; 
While on the chance of Heaven thy Life is laid. 


I lack not hope of Grace, though stain'd by Lust; 
Like the poor Heathen that in idols trust. 

Woman and Wine Pll worship while I live. 
Nor flinch for Heaven or Hell, since die I must. 



Come^ Friendj the cares of this brief life dismiss^ 
Be merry in thy momentary bliss. 

If God were constant in his favour, think. 
Thy turn had never come for Cup or Kiss. 


Let not the World's mass too much on thee vreigh. 
Nor grieve for them that Death has made his prey; 

Lose not thine Heart save to the Fairest Fair, 
Nor lack good Wine, nor fling thy Life away. 


'Tis well to be of good Report and Trust; 
'Tis ill to make complaint that God^s unjust; 
^Tis better to be drunk with good red Wine 
Than swollen with Hypocrisy's black Must. 


No Shield can save thee from the Shaft of Fate, 
Nor to be glorious or rich or great; 

The more I ponder, still the more I see 
That Truth is All, naught else has any weight. 


Of Duty towards God let Preachers whine. 
But do as I command, and Heaven's thine; 

Give freely, slander not, be kindly still. 
That done, have thou no fear, and call for Wine ! 


Yea! I drink Wine, and he that^s truly wise 
Knows that my drinking sins not in God's eyes. 

From all Eternity He knew that I 
Should drink : if I drank not. His Word were Lies ! 



Upon the ruined walls of Tus I saw 

Perched on Kai Kawus' skull a chattering Daw 

That croaked, ^ Where is thy Crown, thy Throne, thy 
Thy Glory, and thy War-horn's blast ? Caw 1 Caw ! ' 


To drink and take thy pleasure with the Fair 
Is wiser too than Faith's grey garb to wear; 
If all that love or drink to Hell must go. 
For a Heaven of hypocrites what soul could care ? 


The Sage reviled the Harlot on the way, 
' Thou drunken Drab, Lust-roving waif and stray ! ' 

aU that thou sayst I am 
She answered, ' Yea, all that I am and more. 
But thou, art thou as holy as men say ? ' 


I saw a hermit in a desert cave; 

Nor heresy nor faith nor wealth [he'd have] 

Nor Creed nor God nor Truth nor Law nor Wit. 
In either world where is a man so brave ? 


Drink and be merry, let the bigots yell ! • 
They lose this world : as for the other, well, 

Are boon companions and true lovers damned ? 
Why then, there'll be brave company in hell. 


Surely at Thy command we stand or fall? 
The very wheel of Heaven obeys Thy call. 

If I do evil, am I not Thy thrall? 
Whose is the guilt, then ? Thou art Lord of all ! 

While yet you boast of flesh and blood and bone. 
Content you with what Destiny hath done. 

Give way before no foe: were it Rustum's self 
And were it to Hatim Taj, be bound to none. 

What man of woman bom from Sin is free ? 

None such hath been, and none such shall there be: 

If Thou repay by ill the ill I do. 
What difference is there between Me and Thee ? 

They that for learning are the world's elect 
Would scale the heights of Heaven by Intellect, 

And climb the Firmament to seek God's truth, — 
These miss the secret, for their minds are wreckt. 

If Heaven deny me bread, I live for Fame: 
If I lose Man's respect, I hug my shame. 

The Cup is brimming with the Crimson Wine, 
And he that will not drink, be his the blame! 

March, 1899. 


[In a presentation copy of Quatrains from Omar!\ 

My Tent-maker of Naishapur, and he. 
Your Tent-maker of Tarsus by the Sea, 
Concurred but in this golden Verity:— 
ToiovTwy fxev fidCatv r} aydnr}. 

c c 


[The original poems that follow are, all but one, from MSS., which 
often vary in text, and variations are given in italics.] 


[For these lines on Camoens see extract on * Portugal ', supra, 
pp. 149-51. They are from MS., with the note : ' It was Camoens that 
kept nationality alive in the days of the Philips and of Napoleon. 
Alcacer was the field where Sebastian fell, which brought Portugal 
under the Philips of Spain.'] 

Strong hand, true heart, sweet song were thine indeed ; 
But hard and scant was else thy portion here : 
— Catherine's love that cost thee many a tear, 

Wounds, exile, prison, poverty — thy meed: 

And Death lagged (was there none to intercede 

With Her for thee ?) that thou shouldst live to hear 
The tidings that rang out from Alcacer, 

Thy country's knell and thine, as she decreed — 

But vainly ! Thou art living in thy Song 

Which hath availed thee twice to free thy Land 
From alien robbers. Thee, in the Hospital, 
Naked, forlorn, deserted. Death smote strong. 
But yet thou livest, and shalt live, to stand 
Guardian and glory of thy Portugal. 

April 9, 1890. 


White clouds were coursing o'er the sunlit morning sky: 
The birds for joy of spring sang overhead j 
All up the hill 
Tall elms, their lace-fine branches swaying high. 
Guarded the still 
White City of the Dead. 


Black-clad and hushed and sad of mien 
; for this man 

We gathered there; for he we mourned had been 
Of eye and hand and tongue 
In word and deed and speech and face 

Gentle and wise and brave and true 
Through his life's toilsome space ; 

We wept that he was gone — the Friend of all 
he knew. 

But on us there fell peace, as our tears fell, 

As if, tho' dead, once more he spoke 
And we could hear that 
And in his soft and kindly voice 
And well-remembered tone 

For the last time the Eternal Silence broke 

To comfort us and bid us all * Farewell ! 

Nor grieve that I ere you to quiet rest have won. 
Rather with me rejoice ! ' 
March 25, 1895, 


[The next is dated in MS. Published in the Book of the Horace 
Club, 1898-1901. The text is that printed. The readings over the 
lines are from the MS.] 

A LITTLE sadly, but how tenderly 
honey-rain drops 

The heavy rain of May drips, warm and soft ; 

The elms' bronze lace of twigs, fan-spread aloft, 

Touches the smoky mist that blurs the sky; 

paths gleam in fawn-yellow 
The mead below has donned fresh livery; 

The wet tower looms out in the west, the croft 

one o'er its hidden 

Shows its red chimney peering o'er the loft, 
Where the green leafage splashes bright and high ; 

c c 2 


For Spring is brooding amorous over all, chill 

And Earth has wakened from her long cold sleep, 
grave sweet 
Tho* nought her sweet grave stillness dares to move, 
Till the keen pleading of a lone bird's call 

through speeds a thrill 

Breaks forth, and all the silence seems to leap 
Instinct with hope and grief and life and love. 

May 5, 189a 


Warm gusty showers their gentle drops have doled 
On timid flickering leaves that throb and beat 
And glow like metal in the furnace-heat 

And fall and gild the ground with wasted gold. 

The air's asteam with perfume from the mould. 

Memory-laden, melancholy-sweet ; 

While past my windows pattering footsteps fleet, 
And up the elm-streets far-off shouts are rolled : 

The Year is dying, and ere the cruel chill grips 
Its prey, the peaceful languor of Death's spell 
Is weaving opium-glories round her grave, 
And though Remembrance still be dear, the lips 
Of veil'd Oblivion whisper, 'It is well 
That even Regret should drown in Lethe's wave ! ' 



A PicARD village set on high. 

Where the long moorlands stray; 

Red roofs, white walls, ring'd in with green, 
Group'd round a spire of grey. 


Fair dunes of sand across the stream ; 

And, where slack falls to sea. 
An ancient fortress gaunt and grim, 

In lone antiquity. 

Sunlit, wind-blown, rain-smitten stead, 

By changeful sea and shore. 
The swift and peewit haunt thy ways 
Still as they did of yore. 
Sept. 17, 1903. 


A STRETCH of sea, a shore of sand, 

A grey old castle^s majesty ; 
A few black boats that lie beside 

The river winding out to sea; 
Between, the dunes of shifting shapes; 

Below, the chalets trim and neat. 
Below the mound, below the spire. 

Below the quiet broad village street. 
Jan. 1, 1904. 

[The next four pieces come in one letter, from which, with their 
comment, they are printed. The variants are from other copies.] 


Staverton Grange, Jan. 24, 1903. 
I will keep up an old custom and send you some stray 


look through 
Across the buckthorns' tangled brake, as I couch in the 


I see the road to Ambleteuse and all the things that pass, 

The children playing on the bank, the cattle browzing by. 

And overhead the birds are flying. 
The birds that flutter overhead, the big clouds rolling high ; 


The roofs of purple tiles I see, grey bits of garden ground, 
The steeple over all the rest, the tall house on the mound. 

The little wood so dark and thick, from out whose centre 

The dim green shutter'd hall wherein the Sleeping Beauty 

sleeps ; 

I see all this and like it well, the scent of thyme is sweet. 
The autumn sun has warm'd the turf where sod and sand- 

hills meet. 

The salt air plays across my face as I lie here at rest. 
The sea^s soft call is in my ear, and that 's what I like best. 

That is the landscape on the road from Ambleteuse to 
Audreselles, and on the other side there is another landscape 
looking out to sea, quite as wonderful and restful, but the 
verses came in a queer long metre like some Arabic gasideh ; 
they have at least the merit of being exact : — 

September, 1903. 
I STAND on the dune with the Old Fort on my left hand 

bronze-brown, red-flecked, like some monster-shell of the 

And away to the right, Audreselles, scarlet-roofed, 

in a magic violet haze, on the reef at the edge of the 

The wide soft slope of the yellow-pink sand of the Bay 
at my feet, and above me the clouds marching by ; 

And before me the purple and green, striped, shimmering plain 
of the Sea, sunlit to the verge of the sky. 

Where the stately, long, proud, rose-white cliff-wall of the 
that is mine, looms out — and between us the sea-gulls 

NEW YEAR, 1894 391 

The next is a sonnet I made in 1894 New Year. It is not 
very gay, but one is not very gay at New Year. I found it 
the other day, and it seems to me better than it did when I 
wrote it, so I send it you with the others to make up the 
sheet, and also because I like it a little, though the tercet is 
not a very good form, and the rhymes ^ gain ' and ^ again ' are 
' rich ', which some persons object to in English. 

NEW YEAR, 1894 

New Year ! new Foes and old to face or fly ; 

Old Friends, a lessening band, to grapple fast ; 

The End more near ; another Milestone past ; 
The Shagreen of Desires shrunk wof ully ; 

The World more fair, the Game yet good to see ; 
The Soul, a little wearier of the blast 
And turmoil of the Age ; the Mind o'ercast 

More often by the Webs of Memory. 

New Year ! How can the Years be new again ! 

I can remember when the Years were new. 
When Time ran golden sands — my easy gain. 
Now the dull tide rolls oozy, every grain 

Is hard to win : but I have had my due. 
More than my due, and why should I complain ? 

The poem over-leaf may amuse. It was done for a picture 
of Pamela Smith's that I bought last year. 


There lives a witch in Weary Wood, 

Her wee white house you spy; 
If her green eyes lit on you first. 

You would be sure to die. 

The two tall pines of Weary Wood, 

That strain against the wind. 
You must not pass them in the night, 

Or when the sun is blind. 


If I were big and had a bow 
And arrows sharp and keen, 

Pd shoot her through her window-bars 
Before I could be seen. 

I'd drag her wicked body out 
And burn her up with fire. 

And I would live in Weary Wood 
And have my hearths desire. 


[This scrap is undated and incomplete : it might have been done 
in the yacht voyage of 1897.] 

Sails on the summer sea. 

Brown and grey and white. 
By one, by two, by three; 

Smoke on the far sky-line, 
Banking the weather shrouds, 
Trailing mile after mile 

Till it vanishes into the dim; 

Air keen and bright, 

Fill'd with the scent of brine. 
Whistling over the stays. 

Clouds floating aloft. 
Piled woolly and soft. 

High in the dazzling blue. 
Shimmering over with light. 

Plashing against the bows. 
Fleeting away in the wake. 
Tiny ripples of glass, 
Ripples that softly break — 
Deepest [blank] and green. 



[From an unpublished MS. in possession of the Horace Club. The 
sale was of Mr. C. L. Dodgson's effects.] 

Poor playthings of the man that's gone, 
Surely we would not have them thrown, 
Like wreckage on a barren strand, 
The prey of every greedy hand. 

Fast ride the Dead ! Perhaps 'tis well ! 
He shall not know, what none would tell. 
That gambling salesmen bargained o'er 
The books he read, the clothes he wore, 

The desk he stood at day by day 
In patient toil or earnest play. 
The pictures that he loved to see. 
Faint echoes of his Fantasy. 

He shall not know. And yet, and yet. 
One would not quite so soon forget 
The dead man's whims, or let Gain riot 
Among the toys he loved in quiet: 

Better by far the Northman's pyre. 
That burnt in one sky-soaring fire 
The man with all he held most dear. 
* He that hath ears, now let him hear.' 
Oxford, Nov. 1898. 


They dress'd in silks and satins rare. 

Their govms hung to their toe. 
They'd bands of lawn and scented hair. 
And loved to make the townsmen stare, 
Regnante Carolo. 


They ate good mutton broth and pease. 

Roast beef and greens also. 
Plum porridge, furmety and cheese. 
They didn't relish fricassees, 
Regnante Carolo. 

They drank for fear of feeling sad — 
That^s what they said, you know; 
And though no * Boy ' at all they had. 
They didn^t do themselves so bad, 
Regnante Carolo. 

(Stanza unfinished : ^ they couldn't golf or row ' :) 

But they could ride, and pretty straight. 

And shoot with gun or bow. 
Fence with a rapier, leap a gate. 
Use quarterstafE to break a pate, 
Regnante Carolo. 

The Provost, Dean, and Dons likewise 

Sometimes desired to know 
What was the meaning of their cries 
That sometimes woke the midnight skies, 
Regnante Carolo. . . . 


A Dialogue 

























May 23, 1901. 





There sat three maidens mtil their hour. 
And the twain o' them braidit the gold; 

The third she grat for her ain true-love 
That lay i^ the black black mould. 

It was the gude Sir Ogie, 

And he's ridden over the Leys, 
To woo at the ladie Elsie, 

That was sae fair to see. 

He has wooed at the ladie Elsie, 

That was sae fair to see ; 
All on their bridal-even 

Dead at her feet drappit he. 


Sae sair the ladie Elsie grat. 
And wrang her hands the day. 

That the gude Sir Ogie heard her 
Sae deep in grave as he lay. 


Sae sair the ladie Elsie grat. 

And beat her hands the day. 
That the gude Sir Ogie heard her 

Sae deep in earth as he lay. 



Up stood the gude Sir Ogie, 

Wi' his kist upon his back. 
And he ^s taen his way til his true love's hour : 

Wow, but his strength was slack. 


He has rappit on the door wi' the lid o' his kist. 
For he lackit the hilt o' his skene. 

'Stand up, stand up, thou proud Elsie, 
And let thy true love in ! ' 


Sae lang in her bed proud Elsie lay 

And til herself said she — 
' Can this be the gude Sir Ogie, 

That hither is come to me ? ' 


Then up spak the ladie Elsie, 

And the tear ran from her ee — 
* If ye may name the name of God \ 

I let ye in to me.' « 


' Stand up, stand up, thou proud Elsie, 

And dup thy chamber door. 
For I can name the name o' God 

As weel as I coud afore.' 


Then up stood the lady Elsie, 

And the tear ran from her ee. 
She open'd and let the dead man in, 

Wi-in her hour to be. 


She has taen her gold caim in her hand 

And caimed his yellow hair. 
And ilka hair she red on him 

Doun fell the saut saut tear* 



' I bid ye speak. Sir Ogie, 

Whom I loe best of a', 
Hoo fares it in the grave wi' you 

Beneath the clay sae cauld ? ' 


'O it fares wi* me all in the grave 

Beneath the clay sae cauld. 
As I were high in Paradise, 

Therefore tak thou nae care ! ' 


^I bid ye speak, Sir Ogie, 

Whom I loe best of a* : 
May I follow ye intil this grave o* yours 

Beneath the clay sae cauld ? ' 


'O it fares wi' me all in the grave 

Beneath the clay sae cauld 
As I were in the pit o' Hell : 

I rede thee «ain thy sell. 


For ilka tide thou greets for me 

All in thy dowy mood. 
My kist within is standing 

Brimful o' the red life-blude. 


And ever up, my head aboun. 

The grass it grows sae green; 
And ever doun, my feet about. 

The worms o' hell they twine. 


And ilka tide thou lilts a lay 

All in thy merry mood. 
My grave is hung all round about 

Wi' the roses o' the wood. 



The bonny grey cock sae loud he craws. 

He craws until the day; 
And ilka lyke maun till the earth. 

And I maun be away. 


The bonny red cock sae loud he craws. 

He craws until the day ; 
And ilka dead man maun till the earth 

And I maun be away. 


The bonny black cock sae loud he craws. 

He craws until the day. 
And a' the ports are steekit soon. 

And I maun be away.^ 


Up stood the gude Sir Ogie, 

Wi^ his kist upon his back. 
And he^s taken his way til the wide kirk -yard. 

Wow, but his strength was slack ! 


Then up stood the ladie Elsie, 

Richt steadfast was her mood. 
And she 's followed after her ain true-love 

Through the midst o' the mirk mirk wood. 


When she was come through the mirk mirk wood. 

Until the kirk-yard wide. 
The gude Sir Ogie^s golden hair. 

It withered aU beside. 


When she was come through the kirk-yard wide 

Until the great kirk-door, 
The gude Sir Ogie's rosy cheek 

It withered all before. 



The gude Sir Ogie, foot and hand^ 

Withered and fell away. 
His hand but and his rosy cheek. 

They mouldered into clay. 


* Hear my words, thou proud Elsie, 

Whom I lo'e best of a', 
I rede thee never mair to greet 

For thy true love ava. 


Rise up, rise up, thou proud Elsie, 

Rise up, and get thee hame ! 
I rede thee never mair to greet 

For thy true love again. 


Luke up until the heavens now. 

Until the stars sae sma'. 
And tell me how the nicht wears on. 

And when the day sal daw.' 


She has lukit up til the heavens. 

Until the stars sae sma'. 
And the dead man creepit from out her sicht 

Doun into his grave sae law. 


Sae nimbly did the dead man creep 

Doun, doun beneath the clay, 
Sae heavily went proud Elsie, 

Back til her hame again. 


Sair, sair did proud Elsie greet. 

And sair to God did pray. 
That she might win til anither licht 

Within a year and day. 



It was the ladie Elsie, 

And sick in bed she lay. 
But she lay dead upon her bier 

Before the threttieth day. 


' These ballads have been translated out of rough Faereyese 
into still rougher English (the rhymes, for the sake of closer 
translation, being sometimes replaced by assonances) and an 
eclectic version made out of the two texts/ The Tale of 
Thrond of Gate, p. xviii, [Some of Powell's notes are 

In Norway there dwells a christened man. 
Ye Norway men, dance so fair and free ! 

And Olave Trigasson is his name. 

Hold your peace, ye good knights all ! 
Ye Norway men, dance so fair and free ! 

King Olave he made a feast so fine 

In honour of God and Mary mild. 

The king to his footboys twain gave call, 
' Go fetch me Sigmund here in the hall ! ' 
They had not spoken but half the word. 
When Sigmund was standing before the board. 

Sigmund fell on his bended knee, 

' Christ sain thee, lord ! What wilt with me ? ' 

' O thou shalt win to the Faereys west. 

And there shall go with thee Tambar the priest ; 

In the Faereys there dwells an evil man. 

And Thrond o^ Gate it is his name ; 

Thrond o^ Gate his name will be. 

Good Sigmund, bring him hither to me ! ' 

^O is he a champion good in fight. 
Or is he a warlock cruel of might ? * 


' He is not a champion good in fight. 
But he is a warlock cruel of might/ 

Sigmund spake a word to the king, 
'Methinks he will not be easy to bring.' 

The king took Sigmund by the hand, 
^I give thee half of the Faerey-land.' 

They went out and along the sand 
Where the ships were lying off the land ; 

They loosed out of the fair, fair bay 
The best boat that ever in Norway lay. 

The sea-waves broke as they break on a reef^ 
But out by Lindisness they keep. 

They hoisted their sail so high on the mast^ 
And away to the Fsereys they sailed so fast. 

Out on the wild, wild sea they keep. 

And the ship she wellnigh sunk in the deep. 

It was two long nights and long days three 
Before they might the Faereys see. 

As soon as the Faereys hove in sight. 
Hard by Mewness he steered aright. 

The sea-waves broke as they break on a reef. 
But right to Mewness his course he keeps ; 

The sea-waves turned to yellow and blue. 
And the sea-sand over the deck it flew; 

The sea-waves turned like fire to see. 
But Sigmund never a whit feared he. 

One long night and two long days 
Sigmund outside of Gate he lay. 

' Though it cost us body and soul. 

To the Sound of Gate we may not go; 

Though it cost us life and limb. 

To the sand of Gate we may not win ; 

p. 11 D d 


To the sand of Gate we may not come, 
Thrond is raising his spells so strong ! ' 

Sigmund by the helm he stood : 

* Thrond methinks is wonderful wood ! ' 

Sigmund let words of anger fall, 

' Cursed be Thrond and his household all ! ' 

Sigmund spake a word that day. 

And they turned the good ship^s head away. 


Now we take up the second tale. 
Northward to Swiney fast they sail. 

In Swiney there dwells a mighty man. 
And Franklin Beame is his name. 

Sigmund seaward his course will keep,^ 
And the ship she wellnigh sunk in the deep. 

The waves they broke in the race so hard. 
But Sigmund was not a whit afeard. 

Sigmund up Swiney firth he stood. 

The strakes they buckled like hoops of wood ; 

The strakes they buckled like hoops of wood. 
The iron ^ grew black as the black peat-sod ; 

They cast their anchor all in the white sand. 
And Sigmund first set foot on the land. 

Harold fell on his bended knee, 

* Fast-brother, let me come with thee ! ' 

*Thou shalt not come with me this time. 
But thou shalt keep this ship of mine.' 

* There seems a couplet lacking here in both the texts. 
' ' Jamager ' is of doubtful meaning. Jon Thorkelsson would make 
it 'hero'. 


When they came to the franklin's yard 
All the household were sleeping hard ; 

Sigmund he drew out his knife so thin. 
And nimbly back he slipt the pin. 

' Oh, I never have been in Swiney afore, 

And now I must break in the goodman's door!' 

Bearne knew nought of what should betide 
Till Sigmund stood at his bedside. 

The goodwife she stood up in her smock, 
' It is ill of an old man to make your mock ; 

It is ill of an old man to make your game ; 
To slay an old m^i will do you shame ! ' 

' If Bearne will but christened be. 

He gets neither harm nor hurt from me.* 

*Why to seek me here art thou come? 

It is Ossur that sits in thy father's room ! ' 

* Bearne, come out on the green grass plain. 
Show me how my father was slain.' 

'Thrond he would thy father kill. 
It was not done with my goodwill.' 

This was the goodman's foremost word. 
He bade them spread a cloth on the board. 

They spread the board with clothes so fine. 
Of silken stuff and scarlet twine. 

This was the goodman's second word. 
He bade them set the meat on the board. 

Dishes seven on the board they laid, 
A bullock's loin and cakes of bread. 

This was the goodman's third good word. 
He bade them set the drink on the board. 

They bore in the drink so fine. 
Ale in cups and mead and wine, 
D d 2 


Of game and glee no lack was there, 
Sigmund and Bearne drank in a pair. 

They made merry with game and play. 
They danced and drank for nine long days. 

Before that Sigmund his leave has ta'en. 
He has christened Bearne and all his men. 


Now we will take up the thirdmost tale. 
Southward to Dimun fast they sail. 

In Dimun there lives a mighty man, 
Franklin Ossur is his name. 

Sigmund up Skuvey ford he stood. 

And the strakes they buckled Hke hoops of wood. 

^Oh, there stand rocks so cruel to behold. 
Between the islands east we will hold. 

West at Ratt we will make the land. 
There is ever a goodly strand.^ 

Sigmund went on the left-hand board. 
And stood hard under Greeny-score. 

Torbeom caught Sigmund by the hand, 
^Fast-brother, let me be the first to land!' 

^I will not let thee land this time. 

But thou shalt watch this ship of mine.' 

Sigmund took a line in his hand. 
His ready spear he cast to the land; 

He shot up to the green, green field. 

But the spear-point down on the rock it yelled.^ 

The clifE stood thirty fathoms high. 
But Sigmund drew himself up in a line. 

The spear, with a line attached to it, caught in a rock-cleft. 


Two strong men were walking the path. 
Both of them there have gotten their death. 

Sigmund made neither stop nor stay 
Till he was come to Scoreshay. 

Goodwife Gudrun came in at the door: 

' I saw a tall man on the path from the shore. 

Fair he was of growth to see. 

And the gold it shone on his arm so free.' 

' Didst see a tall man coming this way ? 
Was it not here at Yule he lay ? 

Didst see a tall man on the path to the west ? 
It needs must be an unknown guest ! ' 

'It was not here at Yule he lay; 
It is no time now to sleep, I say.' 

Ossur fetches his nine bags out 
And barrels four that he had got ; 

He dealt out the weapons to every man. 
To the hold with his nine men he ran j 

Nine men and twelve in brass. 

And they shall keep the hold so fast. 

Ossur stood in the gate of his hold. 
And a broad axe in his hand he bore. 

'Ossur, come out on the green, green plain. 
And show me where my father was slain ! ' 

' I gave thee life, and that was well ; 

It was Thrond that would thy father kill.' 

Sigmund brandished his sword on high: 
'Thou art putting thyself in jeopardy! 

Wilt thou, Ossur, but christened be. 
Thou gettest nor harm nor hurt from me.' 

Sigmund turned him back and fro. 
Every turn a man he slew; 


Sigmund turned him back and fro. 
East of the hold a man he slew ; 

East of the hold he slew a man, 
Ossur stood and looked thereon ; 

Ossur stood and looked thereon ; 

^ There shall no more go as he has gone/ 

Verily it was no child^s play 

When Sigmnnd and Ossur met that day. 

They fought together for long days twain. 
Neither could yet the mastery gain ; 

They fought together for long days three. 
Neither could make the other flee. 

But when the third day^s eve was come, 
Sigmund gave Ossur a deadly wound. 

'Now I shall take to a trick I know. 
King Olave he taught it me long ago.' 

Both front and back he smote a stroke. 
And Ossur's good right hand off he took. 

He shifted his shield and sword in the air,* 
And he smote off the foot and the hand as well. 

Ossur spoke in his wounds as he lay, 

' I never thought to have died this way ! ' 

Qssur spoke in his sore distress, 

' Bear me out to the rock at the west ! ' 

This was Ossur's latest word, 

'My head shall be turned to Greeny-score, 

My feet lie in and my head lie out. 
That I may look on the shore about; 

And this is the rede thou shalt take from me. 
West on the rocks thou yet shalt lie.' 

^ The ballad here preserves, under a corruption, the original feat or 
casting sword and shield in the air and shifting them as they fell. 


Now Sigmund sits in Skuvey so blithe^ 
But Thrond he lay in wait for his life. 

Sigmund lived in honour good. 
But evil men they sought his blood. 

For the love of God and his own good worth 
Sigmund must swim the Southrey firth ; 

He won to the Southreys in evil hour. 
And Thore hound was his murderer. 

North in Skuvey was Sigmund bred. 
But in Qualwick they did him to death ; 

South in Southrey he was slain. 

And north in Skuvey was buried again. 


' A few of the refrains of mediaeval Ballads or Dancing 
Songs which have come down to us in Icelandic — Englished 
as nearly as may be.' [From originals in Corp. Poet. Bor. 
ii. 391.] 

Fair blooms the world, but its fairness grows old — 
It is long since my joy was laid low in the mould. 

I loved a man dearly, until we did part. 

But now I must hide up my woe in my heart. 

I heard the fair songs from the Niflungs' house ring. 
And I sleep not for joy of the songs that they sing. 

All that is, must wither and fade away: 
All flesh is dust, deck it howe'er ye may. 

So fair sings the swan through the long summer day, 
'Tis the season, sweet lily, for dancing and play. 

Loft out in the islands picks the pufl&n-bone : 
Saemund in the highlands berries eats alone. 

But ever I love her as dear as before ! 


Thou art on the dark blue sea, but I am here at Drong: 
I'm calling long, I'm callmg for thee long ! 

Faster let us tread the floor, and never spare our shoes ! 
Where we drink the next year's Yule God alone can choose. 


'Ditties learned by heart by an Icelander when he was 
a child, not as a lesson, but picked up by ear from the 
different members of the household. They are in Corp. 
Poet, Boreale, ii. 410-4.' 

No. 6. The Rain 

The weather out of doors is wet to-day and makes me sad; 
But God Almighty he can make to-morrow fine and glad. 

No. 11. Child's Morning Prayer 
Now I'm clad and stand upright. Jesus, guard me in Thy 

By God's grace, oh grant to me to pass this day as pleases 


No. 15. Child's Writing 
My strokes are very big and queer, and badly made my 

As if the cat had scratched it here, but I can do no better. 

No. 76. The Pen 

This pen it suits me very well, from raven's wing it came; 
I cut it neatly to a nib, and Gunlaug is my name. 

No. 12. The Little Girl's Sampler 
She 's nine years old, the little girl, she 's quick to learn 

what 's taught her ; 
Every stitch she's sewn herself, Holmfrida Paul's 



No. 40. To Boy on his Pony 
Though hoof should slip and snap go girth, and mud on 

every side, 
Do you heed neither heaven nor earth, but just stick fast 

and ride ! 

No. 43 b. The Lame Poet, Sigurd Petersson 
Though I^ve only one good leg, why should I be sad ? 
Into heaven I hope to go, for all I limp so bad. 

No. 28. A Rich Man in Iceland 
Nine bams have I and nineteen cows, and nigh five 

hundred sheep : 
Six-and-twenty saddle-beasts. There 's a lot to keep ! 

No. 75. Of himself, Hallgrim Petersson 
He that made the Fox's rhymes, a merry man and gay. 
With swarthy brow and stubby nose — at least that 's what 
they say. 

No. 74. The Rainbow : A Riddle 
What is that path, come, tell me true, broad and high, with 

arches grand. 
Red and green and yellow and blue, all the work of a 

master-hand ? 

No. 64. The Benighted Traveller 
God bless this house and all vrithin ! A guest is at the door-a ! 
Ne'er an answer can I win : I can't waken Thora ! 

No. 66. To One asking for a Drink : the 

Lazy Wife's Answer 
Go down to the river, my dear good man : 
That 's the bishop's own horse's plan. 

No. 52. The Bogie, Grylla 
You may hear the Bogie call, as she puts on the pot, 
* Come down to supper, children all. Rag, Scrag, Long- 
shank, and Tot.' 


No. 7. Bits of Evening Hymn^ etc. 
The night is nigh, the sun is set, the dew ^s begun to fall. 
And home are come to our farmyard, cows, shepherd, 
sheep, and all. 

The evening sun is setting fast behind the northern light. 
The precious day is wellnigh past : God keep us all to- 

The evening sun is setting fast behind the northern hill. 
The precious day is wellnigh past, God teach us all his 

The evening sun is setting fast behind the northern crest. 
The precious day is wellnigh past, God keep the winds at 

The evening sun is sietting fast : God send us peace alway : 
And when this day is gone and past, give us another day ! 


'TwAS in a wood my love and I 

A little past Bethune, 
We went to play on Monday last 
All night beneath the moon. 
Until the day did spring. 
Until the lark did sing 
Singing ' Lovers, you must go ! ' 
But he murmured soft and low — 
' Day is not yet near ! 

Sweetheart, cease your sighs ! 
By love I swear 

The false false lark he lies!' 

He turned him to me where I lay 

And I turned to him then; 
Three times or more he kissed me close 

And I kissed him again. 


We wished, both he and I, 
That Night might never fly. 
But a hundred nights might last 
Ere he whispered as he passed 
* Day is not yet here ! 

Sweetheart, cease your sighs ! 
By love I swear 

The false false lark he lies ! * 


Loquitur Amicus : 

O King of Glory ! Pure and very Light ! 

Lord, if it please thee, God of power and might ! 
On this my friend thy faithful aid bestow, 
Whom, since night fell, I have not seen till now, 
And soon it will be dawn ! 

Fair friend, whether thou sleep or wake this night. 
Sleep no more now, but wake thyself outright : 
For in the East I see the Daystar show 
That leads the morn up : well its gleams I know ! 
And soon it will be dawn ! 

Fair friend, in this my song to thee I cry — 
Sleep no more now ! I hear the bird sing high 

That comes thro^ the dark wood to seek the day ; 

And I fear lest the Foe should thee betray : 

For soon it will be dawn ! 

Fair friend, rise up and to the window hie 
And look forth on the Stars that leave the sky. 

And thou shalt know it is the truth I say : 

If thou do not, it is thy loss alway. 

For soon it will be dawn ! 


Fair friend, since that hour I took leave of thee, 
I have not slept nor stirred from off my knee. 
But prayed alway to God, Saint Mary's Son, 
To give me back my true companion : 

And soon it will be dawn ! 

Fair friend, upon the stairs thou didst charge me 
Slumber and sleep I should eschew and flee 

And keep good watch until the night was done : 
But now my song and service pass for none : 

And soon it will be dawn ! 

Respondit amator : 
Fair sweet friend, I am in such pleasant stay 
That I could wish there were no dawn or day: 
For this most gentle dame that ere was born 
Holds me within her arms : wherefore I scorn 

The jealous Foe, and dawn ! 
March 9, 1902. 


Thou worthy Nurse of many a noble Son, 

That gave thee Victory when thy days were best; 
Once pious and happy Inn where God was Guest, 

Now haunted Hostelry of Sighs alone ; 

How can I bear to listen to thy moan. 
Or see, vrithout deep Sorrow at my breast. 
Low on the ground thine Empire's topmost Crest, 

And all thy Splendours, all thy Greatness gone? 

Slave as Thou art. Thou hast a royal mien. 
And if within my heart Thy very name 
Rings till I bow and worship e'en Thy shame; 
What shall he feel that saw Thee in thy Pride, 
Thine honour'd head that all men glorified 

EncroAvn'd with goldj and Thee a throned Queen ? 

Easter Sunday, 1900. 




^TwAS early in the morning, all on Midsummer Day, 
A sailor-lad fell overboard, and drifted down to lea. 

^ Oh, what would you be giving me, my sailor-lad so bold. 
If I should come and take you up out of the sea so cold ? * 

' My boat-load I would give you of silver and of gold^ 

If you would come and take me up out of the sea so cold/ 

' I will not have your boat-load of silver or of gold. 

But I wiU have your soul to keep when you are sick and old/ 

' My soul I leave to God to keep, for His it was alway ; 
My body to the salt salt sea until the Judgement Day/ 
April 15, 1903. 


For there's no Need to found 
A Tomb whose vasty round 

Should take in miles 
With antic Sculpture grave. 
With Doric Column brave, 

Ordered in double Files : 
Bronze, Brass, and Marble-stone 
For them avail alone 

That have no part in Fame; 
Whom Burial must bow 
Beneath Oblivion's plow, 

Body and Life and Name; 
But thou, whose lasting Worth 
Fame beareth over Earth 

With Wing of living power. 
Better than those proud Heights 
The sweet Mead thee delights. 

The Fountain and the Flower, 
1 In a review of Sept. 1893. 



The sky above the high roof-tree 

So blue^ so calm, 
The pine above the high roof-tree 

Sways like a palm. 

The bell up in the sky you see 

So softly rings. 
The bird up in the tree you see 

So sweetly sings. 

O God ! O God ! a life is here 

Of simple quiet: 
That gentle murmur all I hear 

Of the town's riot. 

What hast thou done, thou, lying here. 

In ceaseless tears ? 
What hast thou done, say, thou lying here. 

With thy young years ? 



And if he ever should come back. 
What am I to say ? 

I tpatcK'd for him 
— Tell him that for him I watched 

All my life away. 

And if he should ask me more. 

Nor know my face again ? 
— Speak gently as a sister speaks. 

He may be in pain. 


^ $Utitif li* lU ku. Cf^ J^ 
So Sune/^ ^Uif^f . 

Of lb [ffu^jJU4rt 
lO'U/l^t VuM dm^ , lica^^ ^t^ &^ 


If he ask me where you are. 

How shall I reply ? 
— Then give him my golden ring, 

very silently 

Neither speak nor sigh. 

And if he should want to know 

Why the hall stands bare ? 
— Then show him the burnt-out lamp 

And the gate ajar. 

And if he should ask me then 

How you fell asleep ? 
— Tell him that I smiled and died. 
Do not let him weep. 
Sept. 1900. 


Thirty years I've sought him. Sisters, 

Where's his hiding-place? 
Thirty years I've travelled. Sisters, 

Nor have seen his face. 
Thirty years I've travelled. Sisters, 

And my feet are sore ; 
He was everywhere. Sisters, 

Now he is no more. 
Weary is the hour now, Sisters, 

Lay my sandals by ; 
The day is djing too. Sisters, 

Sick at heart am I. 
You are in your youth. Sisters, 

Get you far away : 
Take my pilgrim-staff. Sisters, 

Seek him while ye may ! ^ 

Oct. 81, 1901. 

^ or, Yours the guest to-day. 



L0VEI.Y maid in gown of red. 
Let me cull that crimson rose 

That upon thy bosom stirs 

As thy sweet breath comes and goes. 

'Twere as if I pluck'd a rose 
From a rose-tree blown in May, 

But this rosebud speaks, and I 
Dare not risk the angry '^Nay'. 

If my rosebud were but kind. 
What a nosegay might be mine ! 

On those lips where kisses sleep 
There's a bud I deem divine. 

Roses on thy velvet cheeks, 
Roses on thy breast of snow. 

Other roses too I'd find. 

But my rosebud answers 'No'. 

Sept. 1, 1902. 


Daughter, daughter, open the door ! 

There is some one knocking there ! 
— I can't get up to open the door, 

I am busy braiding my hair. 

Daughter, daughter, open the door ! 

There is some one swooning here ! 
— I can't get up to see who it is, 

I am loosing my bodice, dear. 


Daughter, daughter, open the door ! 
I am old, my feet are slow ! 

— I can^t get up to go and see, 

I am fastening my necklace now. 

But daughter, perhaps the man is dead. 
Out there in the freezing sleet ! 

— If he had been handsome, I should have known. 
But my heart gave never a beat. 

Sept. 6, 1900. 


[This and the next two pieces, like the Romance del Marinero, are 
reprinted from Uie Broadsheet, where Mr. Jack B. Yeats's pictures 
accompany them. The variants are from MS. copies.] 

The pretty maid, she died, she died, in love-bed as she lay ; 
They took her to the churchyard all at the break of day ; 
They laid her all alone there, all in her white array ; 
They laid her all alone there a-coffin^d in the clay ; 
A-singing all so merrily, ^ the dog must have his day.' 
The pretty maid is dead, is dead, in love-bed as she lay ; 
And they are off afield to work as they do every day. 

' I wish I could get tunes written to them. Drawly tunes 
like the songs Fort had in his head when he made them. 
The metre is exactly copied. They seem to me very funny 
and pathetic in their way.' 

A Song from the French of Paul Fort 

All in a good sea-boat, my boys, we fear no wind that blows ! 

There was a queen that fell in love with a jolly sailor bold. 

He shipped him 
And he shipped to the Indies where he would seek for 

gold. All, 4-c. 

r. t. n Eg 


There was a king that had a fleet of ships both tall and 

tarr'd : leapt 

He carried off this pretty queen, and she jump'd over- 
board. Ally SfC. 

' The queen, the queen is overboard ! ' a shark was cruising 

round : the 

He swallowed up this dainty bit alive and safe and sound. 

All, SfC, 

Within the belly of the shark it was both dark and cold, 

But she was faithful still and true to the jolly sailor bold. 

All, Sfc. 

This shark was sorry for her and swam away so fast. 
In the Indies where the camels are he threw her up at last. 

All, 8rc. 

On one of these same goodly beasts all in a palanquin. 
She spied her own true love again the emperor of Tonquin. 

All, Src. 

She called to him, ' Oh stay, my love, your queen is come, 

my dear ! ' 

' Oh, I've a thousand queens more fair within my kingdom 

here.' All, S^c. 

so strong ! ' A shark has 

* You smell of the grave so strong, my dear: ' 'I've sailed in 
swallowed me I ' 

. a shark,' says she : J smell of the salt salt sea. 

I only smell of the sea. 
' It is not of the grave I smell, but I smell of the fish of 

the sea.' All, Sfc. 


' My lady-loves they smell so sweet of rice-powder so fine : 

The queen the king of Paris loves no sweeter smells than 

mine.' All, 4:(7. 


She got aboard the shark again and weeping went her way : 

with her black 

The shark swam back again so fast to where the tall ships 

lay. All, Sfc. 

carried off the queen 
The king he got the queen again, the shark away he swam. 

The queen was merry as could be, and mild as any lamb. 

All, ^c. 

maids that love a jolly sailor bold 
Now all you pretty maidens what love a sailor bold, 

You^d better ship along with him before his love grows 

cold. All, JSrc. 

April 5, 1901. 

THE QUEER MAN. To Jack B. Yeats 

As me and my wife was a-walking one day. 

The nut-brown ale for me! 

We met a queer man at the fork of the way : 

My true-love on my knee. 

Is that your daughter that walks by your side ? 

The nut, S^c. 
It is not my daughter, it is my bride ! 

My true-love, S^c. 

"Will you lend her to me for an hour and a day ? 

The nut, ^c. 
No, no, young man, that^s never my way! 

My trv£-love, Sfc. 

The left for you and the right for me. 

The nut, S^c. 

And Pll give the woman her choice so free. 

My true-love, ^c. 



Now he was young and my hair was gray, 

The nut, ^c. 

And the woman she took the leftward way. 

My true-love, ^c. 

She was off with him for a day and a night. 

The nut, ^c. 
But she came back with a laugh so light. 

^ My true-love, ^c. 

' And how do ye feel, my man ? ' says she. 

The nut, ^c. 

' Oh, Fm as my friends would have me be ! ' 

My true-love, Sj-c. 

' But if I were lying here dead and cold ? ' 

The nut, 4*c. 

^ I 'd bury my man in a coflSin of gold.' 

My true-love, S^c. 

When I heard those words from her lips to fall. 

The nut, ^c. 

I lay down and died for good and for all. 

My true-love, S^c, 

It was not the gold nor the silver free. 

The nut, ^c. 

But four rough boards they fetched for me. 

My true-love, S^c. 

They gave me a sack for a shroud to wear. 

The nut, ^c. 

And they fastened me down in the boards so bare. 

My true-love, ^c. 

*Oh, carry him out as fast as you may. 

The nut, SfC. 

And tumble him into the slough by the way ! ' 

My true-love, i^c. 


Oh, hold your hands, and listen to me. 

The nut, ^c. 

And m tell you a tale, how true wives be ! 

My true-love, ^c. 

A tale to-day, if you will but hear. 

The nut, <§-c. 

And another for every day in the year; 

My true-love, S^c. 

Were not my mother a woman too. 

The nut, SfC. 

I'd tell you more tales of wives so true. 

My true-love, 8fC. 
Dec. 27, 1901. 

^ It isn't half so good as the Irish, but it's the kind of 
way an English peasant who knew the Irish would put it for 
his own people to understand. It would not do to stick more 
closely to it, as the idioms are not English, so I have used 
English idiom. I think it gives the sense pretty well. It 
can be sung to any long-drawn droning tune, with a chorus 
rather gay.' 


From A Danish Ballad gathered by E. T. Kristensen 

It was upon a Thursday night, when all the clocks struck ten. 
Three small babes to the churchyard came, and wept and 
wept again. 

The eldest he wept tears so salt, the second he wept blood. 
The youngest he wept his mother up from out the black, 
black mould. 

' Now speak to me, my children three, and tell me why 

ye weep. 
So that where I lie in my grave I cannot rest nor sleep.' 


*Dear mother, rise and come with us, come home with 

us once more ; 
We have a cruel stepmother, and, oh, her hate is sore ! ' 

The dead woman prayed to our Lord, she prayed so 

earnestly — 
For leave to go back home once more with her small children 


^ Yea, thou shalt have thy leave of Me, as if thou wast alive ; 
But thou shalt seek thy grave again before the clock strike 

The dead woman got up and walked back to her house 

once more. 
And her three babes they followed her, till they came to 

the door. 

^ Woman, why hast thou done this ? They that make babes 

to weep. 
There is a bed prepared for them in helPs most lowest deep. 

I left my house, the day I died, well stored with candles high. 
But thou hast left my three small babes all in the dark to lie. 

I left my house, the day I died, well stored with ale and meat, 
But thou hast left my three small babes with nought to drink 
or eat. 

I left my house, the day I died, well stored with beds and all, 
But thou hast left my three small babes to toss upon the 

I left my house, the day I died, well stored with meal and 

But thou hast let my three small babes go hungry to their bed. 

Woman, why hast thou done this ? Repent thee of the sin ! 
For they that treat the orphans well in heaven a place shall 

My say is said, my time is short, I may no longer stay. 
For all the bells in heaven so high are ringing me away.' 


Aachen, see Aix-la-Chapella. 
Abdu el Yezdi, ii. 375. 
Abelard, p., ii. 140. 
Aberdbeit, Lord, ii. 186. 
Abershaw, L. J., highwayman, 

ii. 168. 
Abraham, ii. 5. 
Abrahams, Israel, Jewish Life in 

the Middle Ages, ii. 142-4. 
Absalom, Bp., i. 114. 
Academy, The, i. 31, 80, 130, 

136,242,454; ii. 345. 
Achilles, i. 300 ; ii. 259. 
AcLAND, Sir Hy., ii. 347. 
Acton, Lord, i. 85, 2u2, 343-4, 

402-4, 406, 407, 408, 411; ii. 

7, 15, 20, 86. 
Adalbert, Archbp., ii. 233. 
Adam, of Bremen, ii. 222, 231-3. 
Adam, de la Halle, ii. 276. 
Adamnan, St., i. 357, 376; ii. 

Adams, J. C, ii. 88. 
Addison, Joseph, ii. 165, 166, 

Addleshaw, Percy, i. 148 ; F. 

York Powell's Letter to, i. 333. 
*Adeler, Max,' i. 390. 
Adventurer, The, ii. 352. 
AEaisTHUS, ii. 129. 
Aeschylus, i. 242 ; ii. 102, 127, 

Afghanistan, ii. 136. 
Africa, ii. 135, 136, 150, 164, 176, 

282 ; Central, ii. 224 ; South, i. 

444 ; ii. 203. 
Agamemnon, ii. 5. 
Agnes, of Dunbar, ii. 107. 
Aiglon, Rostand's, i. 202, 322. 
AiNSWoRTH, H., ii. 81, 193. 
Airy, Sir Geo. B., ii. 88. 
Aix-la-Chapelle, ii. 139, 206. 
Ajax, ii. 259. 
Alamanni, L., ii. 21. 
Albania, ii. 9. 
Albemarle, Countess of, ii. 160, 


Alcacer, Battle of, ii. 151, 

Alcoforado, Marianna, i. 149. 

Alcswith, ii. 209. 

Alcuin, ii. 205. 

Aldus Manutius, i. 147, 371, 

Alexander, the Great, ii. 5 

102, 243. 
Alexander I, of Russia, ii. 124. 
Alexander VI, Pope, i. 388 : ii. 

20, 86. 
Alfred, King, ii. 201-20: i. 

29, 136, 152, 245, 256-7, 384, 

390 ; ii. 157, 186, 252, 293, 324 ; 

literary works, i. 257; ii. 20 1-, 

205, 213, 273 ; Asser's Life of, 

i. 191. 
Alfred the Great and William the 

Conqueror, F. York Powell's, 

i. 28. 
Alhmund, see Ealhmund. 
Alhwin, see Alcuin. 
Ali Syed, Ameer, A Short History 

of the Saracens, ii. 133-7. 
Alicante, ii, 31, 34. 
Alice in Wonderland, ' L.Carroll's ,' 

ii. 320, 363, 364. 
Aliscans, i. 201, 275. 
Alison, Sir A., ii. 102, 
Allen, Grant, ii. 68-79 ; i. 18, 

287-8 ; Anglo-Saxon Britain, ii. 

72, 78 ; County and Town in 

England, ii. 68-74 ; The Woman 

who Did, i. 187 ; Clodd's Me- 
moir of, ii. 74 {note). 
Allen, Grant, Mrs., ii. 75-6. 
Alsatians, The, i. 280 ; ii. 9. 
Amadis of Gaul, ii. 320. 
Amazing Marriage, Meredith's, i. 

228, 229. 
Amber Witch, Meinhold's, ii. 303- 

5, 309. 
Ambleteuse, i. 161, 230-1, 258-60, 

269-70, 294-6, 316, 324-6, 346, 

347-8, 359 {note), 382, 393 ; F. 

York Powell's poems on, ii. 




America, i. 21-2, 41, 187, 314, 

337, 345, 390-1, 421 ; ii. 164, 

300, 368-9. 
American Historical Review, The, 

i. 311. 
Amlethus, Prince of Denmark, 

see Hamlet. 
Ananias, i. 230. 
Andeesen, Hans C, i 320; ii 

Anderson, Rasmus B., ii. 223. 
Anderton, I. M., ii. 256 (note). 
Angellier, a., F. York Powell's 

translation of poem by, ii. 416. 
Angevins, The, ii. 58-9, 156. 
Anglo-Saxon Britain, Grant 

Allen-s, ii. 72, 78. 
Anglo-Saxons, The, i. 198, 199; 

ii. 224,, 234. 
Angus Og, i. 341. 
Anjou, Duke of, ii. 106. 
Anlaf, i. 102-3. 
Anna, of Byzantium, PrinceBS, 

ii. 129. 
Anne, Queen, ii. 115, 204. 
Anscar, St., ii. 232. 
Anselm, Archbp., ii. 32, 140, 157. 
Anson, Sir Wm., ii. 93. 
Antar, ii. 134. 
Anticipations, Wells's, i. 274. 
Antiochus, ii. 128. 
Antony, Mark, ii. 110. 
Apocalypse, The, i. 51. 
Apologia, Tertullian's, i. 144. 
Apology for Poetry, Sidney's, ii. 

116, 119. 
Apparition of Mrs. Veal, Defoe's, 

ii. 288. 
Apparitions, History and Reality 

of Defoe's, ii. 287. 
Appleton, Dr., ii. 357. 
Aquinas, Thomas, i. 208 ; ii. 138, 

Ai-abia, i. 160, 180-1 ; ii. 129, 

134, 135, 136, 137. 
Arabian Nights, i. 292, 401 ; ii. 

134, 341. 
Aram, Eugene, ii. 169. 
Arcadia, Sidney's, ii. 116, 119. 
Archer, T. A., The Crusade of 

Richard I, ii. 97. 
Archimedes, i. 403. 
Ardres, ii. 31, 71. 
ARi (Norse historian), i. 34, 100, 

101 ; ii. 222, 249 (note) ; literary 

works, ii. 222 (note). 
Aretino, Pietro, i. 389 ; ii. 154. 
Ariosto, ii. 154, 277. 
Aristophanes, i. 191 ; ii. 261. 
Aristotelian Writings, History of 

the, Shute's, ii. 341 (note), 358. 
Aristotle, i. 286, 300, 424 ; ii. 

2, 132 ; Physics, ii. 358 ; Politics, 

ii. 15, 17. 
Arkiv f5r Nordisk Filologi, i. 37 

(note), 41 (note), 454. 
Arkwright, Sir R., ii. 164. 
Armenia, ii. 194-9; i. 83, 276; 

ii. 9, 129. 
Arnason, Jon, ii, 346. 
Arnold, Matthew, i. 135, 138, 

329, 347, 422 ; ii. 128, 191, 192. 
Arnold, Thomas K., i. 8, 190; 

ii. 31, 181, 190. 
Arnulp, Emp., ii. 213. 
Artabanos, King, ii. 127. 
Art of War, Machiavelli's, ii. 17, 

Arthur, Duke of Brittany, L 205. 
Arthur, King, ii. 224. 
Arthur, Prince, Spenser's, ii. 

Ashdown, Battle of, ii. 210. 
Ashe, Thomas, i. 265. 
Ashley, W. J., Edward III and 

his Wars, ii. 97. 
Ashley, Lord, ii. 188. 
Asia, ii. 7. 

Asia Minor, ii. 5, 195, 197, 198. 
Asoka, ii. 7. 

Assemblies of Hariri, The, ii. 134. 
ASSER, i. 275; ii. 209, 217,222; 

Life of Alfred, i. 191. 
Asser, W. H. Stevenson's, ii. 205. 
Assyria, ii. 5, 6. 
'Astrophel', see Sidney, Sir 

Atalanta in CaZydon, Swinburne's, 

ii. 311. 
Athelney, ii. 211. 
Athelstan, ii. 220, 234, 237. 
Athens, ii. 131. 
Atkinson, Dr., i. 282, 283. 
Attila, King of the Huns, i. 52, 

59 ; ii. 236. 
Atys, of CatuUus, ii. 78. 
Aubertin, J. J., ii. 149. 
AuBiGNE, T. A. d", i. 240. 



Aubrey, John, ii. 3, 55. 
Aughrim, Battle of, i. 183. 
Augusta Triumphans, Defoe's, ii. 

Augustine, St., ii. 52, 136, 276 ; 

Soliloquies, ii. 213. 
Augustus, Emp., ii, 139. 
AusTENT, Jane, ii. 28, 281. 
Austerlitz, Battle of, ii. 153. 
Austin, Sarah, ii. 304. 
Australasia, ii. 164, 176. 
Australia, i. 191, 320 ; ii. 176. 
Austria, ii. 177. 
Austria-Hungary, ii. 151-3. 
Autobiography, Herbert Spencer's, 

i. 425. 
AVELING, Eleanor, i. 132. 
Axholme, ii. 93. 
Ayesha, i. 315. 
Aytoun, Wni. E., ii. 191. 
Azpeitia, ii. 147. 

Bacchae, of Euripides, ii. 126. 
Bacon, Francis, i. 389; ii. 19, 

164, 292. 
Bacon, Roger, ii. 140. 
Bactria, ii. 7. 
Bagdad, ii. 134, 136, 137. 
Baldini, Baccio, i. 375. 
Baldur, i. 51. 
Baldwin, Wm., ii. 163 {note), 

168 [note). 
Bale, John, i. 389. 
Balkan Peninsula, i. 247, 278; 

ii. 9, 94. 
Ballades and Rondeaus, Gleeson 

White's Preface to, ii. 371. 
Balmerino, Baron, ii. 167. 
Baltic Provinces, ii. 9. 
Baltimore, Baron, ii. 167. 
Balzac, Honore de, i. 144, 417 ; 

228-9, 410 ; ii. 192, 290, 302, 

310, 315 ; Le Cousin Pons, i. 

144 ; Euginie Grandet, i. 144 ; 

Le Succube, ii. 309. 
Bangor, F. York Powell's lecture 

in, ii. 80-95; i. 17, 119, 191, 

197, 343, 344-6, 356, 403-4. 
Barbary, ii. 136. 
Barbauld, Anna Laetitia, ii. 

Barbour, John, Bruce, i. 275. 
Barcelona, ii. 206. 
Bdrdarsaga, ii. 346. 

Bardas, Caesar, ii. 129. 

Baretti, ii. 169. 

Barham, R. H., ii. 181, 309. 

Baring-Gould, S., ii. 103. 

Barmby, Beatrice H., Gisli 
Siirsson, ii. 262-9; i. 308-9, 
418; ii. 221 (note); Poems, ii. 

Barnard, F. P., i. 39 (note), 333 
(note), 335, 350, 352, 365, 393, 
395 [note) ; F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i. 65, 323, 333, 343, 
346, 348-9, 364, 394, 395, 398. 

Barnes, Wm., i. 60. 

Barrack-Room Ballads, Kipling's, 
i. 135. 

Barrett, C. R. B., Essex, i. 412. 

Barrington, George, ii. 168. 

Bashkirtsefp, Marie, ii. 124. 

Basil I, ii. 128. 

Basil II, ii. 10, 128, 129, 131. 

Basques, The, i. 280. 

Bates, H. W., ii. 91. 

Bath, i. 293. 

Bathsheba, i. 302. 

Baudelaire, Charles, ii. 312. 

Bayard, Chevalier de, ii. 104. 

Beard, Chas., Industrial Revolu- 
tion, i. 308, 312, 314; ii, 324 
(note) ; F. York Powell's Letter 
to, i. 314. 

Beardsley, Aubrey, i. 160; ii. 

Beaton, Archbp., ii. 109. 

Beatrice, Dante's, i. 147. 

Beaufort, Cardinal, ii. 105, 157. 

Beazley, Raymond, i. 416. 

Becket, Thomas a, i. 174, 275. 

Beddoes, T. L., ii. 191, 302. 

Bede, The Yen., i. 205, 275, 357 ; 
ii. 213, 233, 274. 

Beeching, H. C, i. 135. 

Beethoven, i. 233 ; ii. 181. 

Behn, Aphra, i. 249, 271, 272 ; 
Oroonoko, i. 271. 

Belcher, Jem, i. 295. 

Belfagor, Machiavelli's, ii. 20. 

Belgium, i. 248, 337 ; ii. 2. 

Bell, J. J., Wee Macgreegor, i. 

Belleforest, Frangois de, i. 114. 

Bellini, Giovanni, i. 3. 

B^MONT, Charles, ii. 13. 

Benedek, Ludwig yon, ii. 153. 



Benedictines, The, ii. 7. 
Bentham, Jeremy, ii. 170, 171, 

179, 190, 242. 
Beowulf, i. 80, 82, 191, 275, 416 ; 

ii. 220, 225, 253, 254, 264. 
Beranger, p. J. de, ii. 192. 
Berbers, The, ii. 134. 
Bernard, M., ii. 347. 
Bernhardt, Sarah, i. 95, 305, 

Berry, d. G., i. 404 (note). 
Berzelius, Baron, ii. 178. 
Besant, Sir Walter, i. 134. 
Besnard, p. a., i. 19, 385. 
Bessastad, i. 32, 33 ; ii. 344. 
Better Sort, The, Hy. James's, i. 376. 
Bewick, John, ii. 182, 370. 
Beyle, Marie-Henri, i. 461. 
Biarritz, i. 10. 
Bible, i. 7, 32, 57, 59, 60, 242, 282, 

351, 379; ii 11. 
Biographical Dictionary, Ihn Khal- 

likan's, ii. 134. 
Birds, Beasts, and Fishes of the 

Broads, P. H. Emerson's, i. 188. 
Birmingham, i. 305. 
Biskupa SQgur, i. 93, 100 ; ii. 345, 

Bismarck, Prince, i. 246, 255, 

270, 352 ; ii. 11, 15, 103, 330. 
Blacklock, of Salisbury, ii. 4. 
Blackmore, R. D., Loma Doone, 

ii. 319. 
Blake, Dr. Jex, on F. York 

Powell, i. 10, 11. 
Blake, Jo, ii. 169. 
Blake, Wm., i. 12, 21, 134, 262, 

271,357, 392; ii. 11, 165, 320, 

323, 376 ; Jerusalem, i. 395 ; 

Book of Los, i. 133. 
Bleek, W. H. I., i. 300 ; ii. 91. 
Blunt, H. W., on F. York Powell, 

i. 162-4. 
Blunt, W. S., i. 206, 296, 317, 

324; Esther,!. 144, 181 ; Golden 

Odes of Arabia, i. 393 ; A New 

Pilgrimage, i. 123 ; F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 75-6, 123, 

144, 180-1. 
BoABDiL, ii. 134. 
Boadicea, i. 260. 
Boas, F. S., Shakespeare and his 

Predecessors, i. 222 ; Works of 

Thomas Kyd, i. 317 ; F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 222, 316- 

Boas, Mrs. F. S., i. 317; F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 395-6. 
Bobadilla, N. a. de, ii. 148. 
BoDiN, Jean, ii. 138. 
Boers, The, i. 258, 262, 313, 335, 

439, 445. 
BoETHius, De Consolatione Philo- 

sophiae, i. 257 ; ii. 204, 213, 

Boeotians, The, i. 249. 
Bohemia, li. 9, 153. 
Bojardo, Matteo Maria, i. 143, 

BoLiNGBROKE, Viscount, ii. 17, 

BoLLi, ii. 131. 
Bologna, ii. 13. 
Bombay, ii. 356-7. 
Bonchurch, i. 11-14. 
Bond, J. J., Handy-book, i. 200. 
Boniface VIII, Pope, ii. 138. 
Bonnier, Charles, i. 153, 315, 

324, 347, 348, 448; F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 353-4, 

358-9, 385-6, 394 ; on F. York 

Powell, i. 430, 455-61. 
Booth, Charles, i. 191, 300, 361- 

2, 397 ; ii. 3, 85. 
Borgia, Caesar, i. 388, 404 ; ii. 

16, 19, 20, 86, 107, 154. 
Borgia, R., see Alexander VI, 

Bom in Exile, Gissing's, i. 163. 
BoRNELLO, Gerald of, F. York 

Powell's translation of poem by, 

ii. 411-12. 
Borough, Wm., ii. 113. 
Borrow, George, ii. 193, 276; 

Lavengro, ii. 281. 
Bosnia, ii. 153. 
BossuET, J. B., ii. 8, 24. 
BoswELL, James, i. 233 ; ii. 165. 
BoTHWELL, Earl of, i. 266. 
Botticelli, ii. 276, 328. 
Boulter (highwayman), ii. 167. 
Bourbons, The, ii. 186. 
BouRRiENNE, L. A. F. de, ii. 100. 
Boyd, Hy., ii. 299, 
Boyle, R., ii. 299. 
Boyne, Battle of the, i. 183, 338. 
Boys' Country Book, Howitt's, i. 

167, 176. 



Beacton, H. de, Nole-book, i. 200. 
Bradlaugh, Chas., i. 460. 
Bbaqanza, House of, ii. 151. 
Brand, Ibsen's, i. 131. 
Bbandan, St., ii. 261. 
Bbandon, Family of, ii. 115. 
Brant6me, Sieur de, i. 266 ; ii. 

3, 107. 
Brazil, ii. 150. 
' Breitmann, Hans,' see Leland, 

C. G. 
Brestesson, i. 239. 
Bretons, The, i. 280. 
Briavel, St., i. 351. 
Bright, John, i. 166, 313 ; ii. 188- 

9, 325, 330. 
Brightwell, Francis, ii. 167. 
Brigitta, St., i. 357. 
Bristol, ii. 285, 291. 
Britain, see Great Britain. 
Britannic Book, The, ii. 251. 
Britton, John, ii. 142. 
Broad Sheet, The, i. 373, 377, 379 ; 

ii. 417 (note). 
Broad Stone of Honour, Digby's, 

ii. 122. 
Broadforth, ii. 344. 
Broadstairs, i. 147-8. 
Bronte, Charlotte, ii. 193. 
Bronte, Emily, ii. 191, 193, 309. 
Brougham, Baron, ii. 179. 
Brown, Horatio, i. 148. 
Brown, John, of Harper's FeiTy, 

i. 191, 314. 
Brown, Ford Madox, ii. 11. 
Brown, T. E., i. 299, 317. 
Brown, Tom, ii. 287. 
Browne, Charles F. [' Artemus 

Ward '], i. 390. 
Browne, Sir Thomas, ii. 36, 119. 
Browning, E. B., ii. 180, 191. 
Browning, Robert, i. 228, 329 ; 

ii. 180, 191,268, 316, 353; llie 

Ring and the Book, i. 330. 
Brownrigg, Eliz., ii. 167. 
Bruce, Robert, ii. 129. 
Bruce, Barbour's, i. 275. 
Brunanburh, Battle of, i. 81. 
Brunetiere. F., i. 272. 
Bruno, Giordano, i. 387; 159,222, 

286,313, 388; ii. 116. 
Bruno, Giordano, M^Intyre's, F. 

York Powell's Review of, i. 

387 {note). 

Brunswick, House of, ii. 42. 

Bryce, James, i. 84-5 ; ii. 62. 

Bryniolf, Bp., i. 55. 

BtJCHNER, L., ii. 75. 

Buckingham, Duke of, ii. 44. 

Buckle, H. T., ii. 3, 47. 

Bucolics, Vergil's, ii. 164. 

Buddha, ii. 144, 243. 

Bugge, Dr. S., i. 47, 49. 

Bulgaria, ii. 8, 129, 196, 206. 

BuNYAN, John, i. 272; ii. 45, 
220, 271 (note), 273, 292 ; Holy 
War, ii 275, 279 ; Life and 
Death of Mr. Badman, ii. 279 ; 
Pilgrim's Progress, ii. 278-9 ; 
i. 305 ; ii. 275. 


BuRD,L.A.,ii. 14 {note), 15.18, 20. 
Burgundians, The, ii. 267. 
BuRHRED, ii. 207, 209-10, 211. 
Burke, Bernard, ii. 242. 
Burke, Edmund, ii. 164, 282. 
Burma, ii. 7. 

BuRNE-JoNES, Sir E., i. 235, 260. 
Burnet, Bp., ii. 160, 161, 162. 
Burnet, Sir T., ii. 160, 162. 
Burns, John, i. 224, 236. 
Burns, Robert, i. 97, 265; ii. 192. 
Burnt Njal, see Njalssaga. 
Burrows, W. 0., ii. 360. 
Burton, Sir R., i. 150 ; ii. 106, 

133, 149. 
Bury, J. B., ii. 23 {note). 
Bussorah, ii. 137. 
Butler, Lady, ii. 362. 
Butler, Samuel, ii. 292 ; Hudi- 

bras, i. 353. 
Butt, Isaac, i. 377, 445. 
Byron, Lady, ii. 125. 
Byron, Lord, i. 134, 312 ; ii. 101, 

170, 179, 180, 190, 191, 317. 
Bywater, Prof., i. 416. 
Byzantium, ii. 128-31 i. 250, 

370 ; ii. 206. 

Cable, G. W., i. 390. 

Cadiz, ii. 120. 

Cad walla, ii. 209. 

CiEDMON, i. 28. 

Caesar, Julius, i. 404 ; ii. 5, 19, 

102, 173, 242, 243, 244, 246, 

Caesars, The, ii. 86. 
C&inAdamn&in, K. Meyer's, i. 376. 



Cairo, ii. 136. 

Cajetan, Cardinal, ii. 138. 

Caldeeon de la Barca, p., ii, 

Call of the Wild, Jack London's, 

i. 392 ; ii. 315. 
Callaway, Hy., ii. 91. 
Calverley, C. S., ii. 364. 
Calvert, Edward, ii. 370. 
Calvin, John, i. 264, 388; ii. 

134, 138, 139, 146. 
Cambridge, i. 359 ; University of, 

i. 214, 250, 252, 290 ; ii. 95, 352. 
Cambridge Modern History, F. 

York Powell's Reviews of, i. 

388-9, 390-1 ; 380. 
Camoens, L. de, i. 11, 149, 150; 

ii. 150, 151 ; F. York Powell's 

Sonnet to, ii. 386. 
Campanella, T., i. 389 ; ii. 24, 

111, 138. 
Campbell, Clan of, i. 393. 
Campbell, J. F., of Islay, i. 146, 

190 ; ii. 92, 223. 
Campbell, Jas. Dykes, Life of 

Coleridge, ii. 53. 
Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, i. 241 

(note), 289. 
Canaan, i. 243. 

Canada, i. 197, 320 ; ii. 147, 176. 
Can Grande della Scala, see 

Scala, C. G. della. 
Canning, George, ii. 186. 
Cante7-bury TaZfs, Chaucer's, i. 410. 
Canute, King, ii. 204. 
Canzoniere, Dante's, i. 152. 
Cadba, P. H. Emerson's, ii. 318 

Cape Colony, i. 320 ; ii. 176. 
Capetians, The, ii. 130. 
Captain Singleton, Life of, Defoe's, 

ii. 287. 
Caeacalla, Emp., ii. 126-7. 
Carducci, G., i. 313; ii. 23. 
Carlyle, Jane Welsh, i. 227. 
Carlyle, Thomas, i. 55, 57, 60, 

227, 256, 285, 343, 346, 385, 

410; ii. 3, 24, 49, 53, 55, 82, 

180, 190, 191, 217, 251, 274, 

324, 325, 330, 347. 
Caemichael, Alex., ii. 92. 
Carriere, E., i. 153. 
• Carroll, Lewis,' see Dodgson, 

C. L. 

Carteret, John, Earl Granville, 

ii. 164. 
Cartouche, Life of, Defoe's, ii. 287. 
Cary, Hy. F., i. 336 ; ii. 299. 
Casanova de Seingalt, J. J., 

i. 418, 459, 460. 
Casket Letters and Mary Queen of 

Scots, Henderson's, i. 265-6. 
Casket Sonnets, Mary, Queen of 

Scots', i. 266-7. 
Castiglione, Count, Book of the 

Courtier, ii. 154. 
Castle of Otranio, Walpole's, ii. 

Castleeeagh, Viscount, ii. 186. 
Casti-uccio Castracani, Life of, 

Machiavelli's, ii. 21. 
Catalogue of Anglo-Saxon Coins, 

Keary's, ii. 205. 
Cauchon, Pierre, ii. 105. 
Cavoue, Count, ii. 16, 19, 22. 
Cecil, Family of, ii. 115. 
Celestina, F. de Rojas', i. 416. 
Celtic Doctrine of Rebirth, A. 

Nutt's, F. York Powell's Review 

of, i. 186 ; 250. 
Celts, The, i. 41 ; ii. 231, 241, 

Cely, see Seeley, Thos. 
Cervantes, i. 276; ii. 111. 
Chamberlain, Joseph, i. 90, 

396, 397. 
Chamfort, N., i. 461. 
Chamilly, Count, i. 149. 
* Champfleury,' ^see Fleury- 

HussoN, Jules. 
Champollion, Jean Francois, 

ii. 5. 
Chanson de Roland, i. 275; ii 254. 
Chapman, George, i. 61. 
Charlemagne, ii. 205-6 ; 155, 

207, 213, 220, 233, 252, 269. 
Charles I, ii. 41, 43, 44, 45, 

116, 121, 122. 
Charles II. ii. 115, 116, 117, 

118, 158, 202. 
Charles V, Emp., i. 136; ii. 

Charles VII, of France, ii. 105. 
Charles, the Bald, ii. 207, 208. 
Charles Edward, Prince, ii. 

Charles Martel, ii. 105. 
Charteris, Francis, ii. 167. 



Chatham, Earl of, i. 255; ii. 164. 
Chatterton, Thomas, ii. 165. 
Chaucer, i. 87, 93, 303, 371 ; ii. 

142, 154, 275, 313 ; Canterbury 

Tales, i. 410. 
CniNiER, Marie Andre, ii. 104. 
Cherbuliez, v., i. 418. 
Chesterton, G. K., ii. 313. 
Cheyne, T. K., i.94; ii. 11. 
Childs, W. M., i. 192, on F. 

York Powell, i. 193-4 ; Story of 

the Town of Reading, i.l^Z {note). 
China, i. 332 ; ii. 67, 147, 164, 

171, 177, 198. 
Chippenham, ii. 211. 
Choate, R., i. 314. 
Church, Dean, i. 85. 
Churchill, Charles, ii. 165. 
Cicero, i. 179; ii. 292; De Offi- 

ciis, i. 241 ; De Amicitia, i. 241 ; 

De Senectute, i. 241 ; Somnium 

Scipionis, ii. 273. 
Cid, Chronicle of the, i. 11, 275 ; 

ii. 149. 
Cladel, Judith, Rodin, i. 392. 
Clare, St., ii. 98. 
Clare, [Fitzgibbon] Earl of, ii.48. 
Clarendon, Earl of, ii. 32. 
Clarke, Butler, i. 416. 
Clarkson, Thomas, ii. 171. 
Claudine Sen Va, ' Willy's,' i. 377. 
Claverhouse, John Graham of, 

i. 2, 393. 
Clayton, Joseph, i. 236, 359; 

Grace Marlow, i. 360, 361, 362- 

3 ; Life of Father Dolling, i. 

360; F. York Powell's Letters 

to, i. 221, 247, 360-2. 
Cleasby, R., Icelandic-English 

Dictionary, i. 36 ; ii. 346. 
Clemens, Samuel L., ['Mark 

Twain'], i. 390. 
Clement, J. B., i. 459. 
Cleopatra, i. 95 ; ii. 109-10. 
Clifford, W. K., Common Sense 

of the Exact Sciences, i. 240. 
Clinch, Tom, ii. 169. 
Clive, Lord, ii. 164. 
Clodd, Edward, Memoir of Grant 

Allen, ii. 74 {note)-, F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 187-8, 288. 
Cloister Witch [Sidonia the Sor- 
ceress], Meinhold's, ii. 306-8 ; 

303, 304. 

Clough, a. H., i. 347 ; ii. 191. 

Clubs of London, 1848, i. 146. 

Clytemnestra, ii. 129. 

CoBBETT, Wm., i. 411 ; ii. 279- 
80, 282. 

CoBDEN, Rd., i. 166 ; ii. 188. 

CocKERELL, S. J., i. 236 ; F. York 
Powell's Letter to, i. 273-4. 

Codex Regius, i. 61 (note). 

CoDRiNGTON, R. H., i. 190 ; ii. 91. 

COGHLAM, Eliz., i. 331. 

CoiFi, ii. 233. 

Coke, Sir Edward, I 189 ; ii. 7. 

CoLENSO, Bp., i. 300 ; ii. 11. 

Coleridge, S. T., i. 418 ; ii. 180 ; 
Dykes Campbell's Life of, ii. 

Coleridge, Hartley, ii. 191. 

Collier, Jeremy, ii. 52. 

Collier (robber), i. 340. 

Collins, W., ii. 193. 

CoLMAN (convict), ii. 169. 

Colonel Jack, History of, Defoe's, 
ii. 287, 295. 

Colon NA, Vittoria, ii. 154. 

CoLUMBA, St., i. 301, 340. 

Columbus, i. 136 ; ii. 144. 

CoMiNEs, P. de, ii. 19. 

Common Sense of the Exact Sciences, 
Clifford's, i. 240. 

Commonwealth, The, ii. 43. 

CoMPAGNi, Dino, i. 241. 

Comparetti, Dr. Domenico, Kale- 
vala, i. 260 ; ii. 256, 260. 

Compleat English Gentleman, De- 
foe's, ii. 287. 

Complete English Tradesman, De- 
foe's, ii. 287, 288. 

CoMTE, A., i. 189, 299 ; ii. 47, 75. 

Comus, Milton's, i. 297. 

CoNCHOBHAR Mac Nessa, ii. 246 

CoNDER, C, i. 392, 393. 

Confucius, ii. 198. 

Conner, T., ii. 168. 

Conquest of England, Green's, ii. 

Conrad, Joseph, i. 262, 394; 
Lord Jim, i. 360; Nigger of 
Narcissus, i. 360 ; Youth, i. 360. 

Constable, John, i. 260 ; ii. 182. 

CoNSTANTiNE, Emp., ii. 130, 139. 

CoNSTANTiNE, of Scotland, ii. 



Constantinople, ii. 14, 130. 
Constitutional History of England, 
Stubbs's, ii. 85. 

CONYBEAKE, F. C, 1. 187. 

Cook, Captain J., ii. 250. 

Cooper, J. Fenimore, ii. 81. 

Copenhagen, i. 34-5, 61 {note), 
nS ; ii. 344-5, 347, 348. 

Copernicus, i. 406, 408. 

CoQUELiN, B, C, i. 322. 

Corbiere, T„ i. 297. 

Cordova, ii. 136. 

Corea, ii. 7. 

CoRMAC, K., i 341 ; ii. 268. 

CoRNEiLLE, p., i. 370. 

Comhill Magazine, The, ii. 329. 

CoROT, J. B. C, i. 374. 

Corpus Poeticum Boreale, edit, by 
G. Vigfiisson and F. York 
Powell, i. 48-62 : 39, 45, 65, 
67, 69, 76, 83, 94, 99, 112, 157 ; 
ii. 345, 348. 

Correspondence, Flaubert's, edit, 
by Caroline Commanville, i. 

Cory, Wm., ii. 351, 352. 

CosiMiNO, ii. 21. 

CosiMO, see Medici, Cosmo de. 

CoTMAN, J. S., i. 223 ; ii. 182. 

Cotton, J. S., i. 130, 136. 

CouLANGES, Fustel de, ii. 13, 40. 

Count Robert of Paris, Scott's, ii. 

County and Toum in England, 
Grant Allen's, F. York Powell's 
Prefatory Note to, ii. 68-74. 

Courier, Paul Louis, i. 189. 

Courtier, Book of the, Castiglione's, 
ii. 154. 

Coxe, Hy. 0., ii. 347. 

CoxE, Wm., ii. 114. 

Crane, Walter, i. 236. 

Cranmer, Archbp., ii. 138. 

Crassus, M. L., ii. 126. 

Crawford, J. M., ii. 260. 

Crawford, Thomas, i. 266. 

Crawley, J. A., F. York Powell's 
Letter to, i. 275-6. 

Creighton, Mandell, ii. 50-2 
i. 17. 18, 27, 84, 85, 311-12, 403 
ii. 66 ; Age of Elizabeth, ii. 51 
History of the Papacy during 
the Reformation, ii. 51 ; P. York 
Powell's Letter to, i. 17.8-9; 

Mrs. Creighton's Life and 

Letters of, i. 84. 
Creighton, Mrs. M., Life and 

Letters of Mondell Creighton, i. 

84 ; F. York Powell's Letter to, 

i. 311-12. 
Crete, ii. 199. 
Crimea, The, i. 193. 
Cristne Saga, i. 100. 
Crome, John, i. 223 ; ii. 182. 
Cromwell, Eliz., ii. 103. 
Cromwell, Oliver, i. 1 {note), 136, 

184,404; ii. 15, 40,41,43, 44, 

45, 67, 86, 104, 115, 117, 122, 

127,204, 251,277. 
Cromwell, Thomas, i. 1 {note), 

206, 404 ; ii. 86, 251. 
Cromwell's Place in History, Gar- 
diner's, i. 247 ; ii. 43. 
Crookes, Sir W., i. 282. 
Crusade of Richard I, Archer's, 

ii. 97. 
Crusaders, The, i. 240 ; ii. 216. 
CucHULLiN, i. 28, 260, 261, 338, 

CusA, Nicolaus de, [Cusanus], 

ii. 139. 
Cyme, see Kyme. 
Cyrano de Bergerac, Rostand's, i. 


Dahlenborg, K., ii. 345. 

Dalmatia, ii. 31. 

Damophilos, ii. 128. 

Dampier, Captain Wm., ii. 286. 

Dancwart, ii. 255. 

Danes, The, i. 197, 198, 199 ; il 
206, 207, 209-12, 213-16, 251. 

Daniel, C. H., i. 267. 

Daniel, Damain, ii. 285. 

Dante, i. 26, 51, 110, 115, 129, 
147, 151-2, 232, 241, 275, 357, 
451 ; ii. 10, 16, 19, 22, 25, 52, 
86, 131, 134,140,142, 192,217, 
272, 276, 277, 299, 313, 325 ; 
Canzoniere, i. 152 ; De Monor- 
chia, ii. 138 ; Divina Commediay 
i. 151, 152, 410, 436 ; ii. 86, 132, 
273; Vita Nuova, i. 152, 436. 

Darell, Wm., ii. 118. 

Darking, Isaac, ii. 168. 

Darley, George, ii. 191. 

Darling, Grace, i. 254. 

Darmesteteb, James,, ii 148. 



Darnley, Earl of, i. 266, 267 ; ii. 

Darwin, Charles, i. 240, 264, 
406-7, 409, 431, 436, 458 ; ii. 2, 
11, 50, 75, 76, 85, 88, 91, 834. 

Dasent. Sir G., i. 36, 309 ; ii. 
93, 222 (note), 346 ; Burnt Njal, 
i. 11, 30. 

Daudet, a., i. 90. 

David, King, i. 242, 302 ; ii. 5, 
110, 241. 

Davids, Rhys, ii. 7. 

Davis, T. 0., i. 185 ; ii. 192. 

Davitt, M., i. 94, 183. 

Davy, Sir Humphry, ii. 178, 181. 

Dawkins, Boyd, ii. 54, 56, 63. 

De Amicitia, Cicero's, i. 241. 

De Consolatione Philosophiae, Boe- 
thius', i. 257 ; ii. 204, 213, 273. 

De Monarchia, Dante's, il 138. 

De Officiisy Cicero's, i. 241. 

De Rerum Natura, Lucretius', i. 
154 {note). 

De Senectute, Cicero's, i. 241. 

De Vita Contemplativa, Philo's, i. 

Dihacle, Zola's, i. 143. 

Debureau, Charles, i. 449 (note). 

Decamps, Alexandre, i. 247. 

Decline and FaU of the Roman 
Empire, Gibbon's, ii. 25, 26. 

Defence of Guenevere, Wm. Morris's, 
i. 235. 

Defoe, Daniel, ii. 281-97, i. 
272 : i. 57, 60, 222, 223, 261, 
271,314, 411,417; ii. 36, 164, 
165, 266, 278. 280, 313, 314, 
340 ; Colonel Jack, ii. 287, 295 ; 
Memoirs of a Cavalier, ii. 287, 
288, 302 ; Moll Flanders, i. 272 ; 
ii. 281, 287, 295, 305 ; Robinson 
Cmsoe, i. 305 ; ii. 278, 281,287, 
288, 295, 305, 341 ; Roxana, ii. 
287, 295; True-born Englishman, 
I 272 ; ii. 284-5, 288 ; other 
literary works, ii. 285, 286^ 

Defoe, Mrs. D., ii. 284. 

Degas, H. G. E., i. 420 ; ii. 328. 

Deguilleville, Guillaume de, 
Pelerinage de la Vie Humaine, ii. 

Deirdre, i. 339, 341. 

Deirdre Wedy Trench's,, i. 309. 

Dekker, Thomas, ii. 308. 
Delamotte (spy), ii. 167. 
Delane, J. T., ii. 194. 
Democracy and Liberty, Lecky's, ii. 

Denham, Sir John, ii. 299. 
Denmark, ii. 222. 
Deor, i. 80. 
De Quincey, Thomas, i. 378 ; ii 

Dermody, Thomas, i. 265. 
Descartes, Rene, i. 272, 389. 
Desiderius, see Erasmus. 
Despard, Edward Marcus, ii. 167. 
Des Rais, Seigneur, ii. 106. 
Devereux, Penelope, [' Stella 'L 

ii. 116. 
DiACCETINO, ii. 21. 
DiACCETO, Cattani da, ii. 21. 
Dialogues, Plato's, i. 241. 
DiBDiN, Charles, ii. 193. 
Dicey, A. V., i. 159 ; ii. 93. 
Dickens, Charles, L 410 ; ii. 81, 

180, 192-3, 278, 281, 314. 
Dickson, W., ii. 7. 
Dictionary of National Biography, 

i. 190, 276, 454. 
Diderot, D., .i. 389; ii. 294; 

EncyclopMie, ii. 295 ; Le Neveu 

de Rameau, i. 64 ; ii. 295. 
DiEULAFOY, Jane, ii. 5, 6. 
Dieulafoy, M. a., ii. 5, 6. 
DiGBY, Sir Kenelm, ii. 122-3: 

i. 387 ; T. L. Digby's Life of, 

ii. 121-3. 
DiGBY, T. L., The Life of Kenelm 

Digby, ii. 121-3 ; Broad Stone 

of Honour, ii. 122. 
Dill, Prof., i. 156. 317; on E. 

York Powell, i. 73-4. 
Dillon, J. B., i. 94. 
Dineen, Father, i. 375. 
Dinsenchus, The, ii. 246. 
Dio, see Dion Cassius. 
Diocletian, Emp., ii. 103. 
DioDORus Siculus, ii. 21. 
Diogenes Laertius,^ ii. 21. 
Dion Cassius, ii. 127, 221. 
Discourse on Truth, A, Shute's, 

ii. 357. 
Discourses on Livy, Machiavelli'a, 

ii. 15, 17, 19, 20, 21, 86. 
Discoveries, History of, Defoe's, it. 




Disraeli, B., Earl of Beacons- 
field, i. 63, 245; ii. 143, 180, 
187, 193. 

Diver, Jenny, ii. 168. 

Divina Comtnedia, Dante's, i. 151, 
152, 410, 436 ; ii. 86, 132, 273. 

Divorce of Catherine of Aragon, 
Fronde's, i. 169. 

Dixon, Thomas, ii. 380. 

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Steven- 
son's, ii. 280. 

Dr. Philips, i. 94. 

DoDD, Francis, F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i. 299, 304-5. 

DoDD, Wm., ii. 169. 

DoDGSON, C. L., [' Lewis Carroll'], 
ii. 361-7: i. 128, 225, 427; 
ii. 356, 393 (note) ; Alice in Won- 
derland, ii. 320, 363, 364 ; Sylvie 
and Bruno, ii. 364. 

Dolling, Father, Clayton's Life 
of, i. 360. 

DoLLiNQER, J. J. I. von, ii. 27 : i. 
136; ii. 11; Studies in European 
History, ii. 26 (note), 27 (note). 

Dominic de Guzman, St., ii. 134. 

Don $Mta:o^e,Cervante8',ii. 268,416. 

Douglas, Gawin, ii. 276. 

Douze Chansons, Maeterlinck's, 
i. 296 ; F. York Powell's trans- 
lation from, ii. 414-15. 

Downton, ii. 349. 

Dowth, i. 341. 

Drake, Sir Francis, ii. 113, 116, 

Dream of John Ball, Morris's, i. 235. 

Dream of Scipio, see Somnium 

Dreyfus, Alfred, i. 269. 

Driver, S. R., i. 58. 

Drogheda, i. 336, 338, 340. 

Druids, The, ii. 242-7. 

Drummond, Thomas, ii. 189. 

Dryden, John, i. 57 ; ii. 119, 

Du Bartas, G. de S., i. 353. 

Du Plessis Mornay, see 
MoRNAY, Philippe de. 

Dublin, i. 335-6, 339, 340, 341, 
420 ; ii. 271 (note), 281. 

DucANGE, Sieur, i. 170 ; ii. 7, 132. 

Dudley, Family of, ii. 115. 

Dumas, Alex., ii. 193, 314 ; Les 
Trots Mousguetaires, ii. 302. 

Dumas, C. L., ii. 178. 

Dunbar, Wm., ii. 276, 376. 

Duncan I, i. 349. 

Duncan Campbell, Life and Adven- 
tures of, Defoe's, ii. 287. 

DuNSTAN, Archbp., i. 275 ; ii. 144, 

DiJRER, Albrecht, ii. 276. 

Durham, Dr., New Domestic 
Medicine, ii. 165. 

DusE, Signora, i. 305. 

DusHABT, Stephen, of Servia, 
ii. 10. 

Dutch, The, ii. 176. 

Duval, Claude, ii. 168. 

Eadburga St., ii. 157. 
Eadburh (mother of Ealswith), 

ii. 209. 
Eager, ii. 226. 
Ealhmund, of Kent, ii 205. 
Ealswith (Alfred's wife), ii. 

Earle, Dr., ii. 205, 347. 
Early England up to the Norman 

Conquest, F. York Powell's, L 

Earthly Paradise, Morris's, i. 235. 
East Anglia, ii. 210. 
Ecclesiastical History of England, 

Bede's, ii. 213. 
EccLESiASTicus, i. 425 ; ii. 340. 
ECGTHEOW, ii. 264. 
i^cole des Chartes, see Paris, ]Scole 

des Chartes. 
Eddas, The, i. 46, 48, 49, 55, 56, 

61, 93, 94, 419 ; ii. 222, 234. 
Edinburgh, i 68 ; 290, 291, 292 ; 

ii. 285. 
Edington, Battle of, ii. 211. 
Edmund, King of East Anglia, 

ii. 210. 
Edward, the Elder, ii. 214, 220. 
Edward, the Confessor, i. 275 ; 

ii. 32, 104, 204. 
Edward I, ii. 45, 105, 220. 
Edward II, ii. 138. 
Edward the Second, Marlowe's, i. 

Edward Illand his Wars, Ashley's, 

ii. 97. 
Edward VI, ii. 139. 
Edwards, Edward, ii. 119. 
Edwards, Jonathan, i. 390. 



Edwards, Owen, on F. York 
Powell, i. 197-200. 

Egbert, King, ii. 204, 205-6, 

Egil, i. 28, 59, 255; ii. 237-8, 
269; Sonatorrek, ii. 238-40: 
i. 53,65, 385 ; ii. 221 (no<«), 267. 

Egilbert, ii. 233. 

Egilsson (fiddler), i. 33. 

Eqinhard, ii. 222. 

Eglinton, Sir Hugh, i. 122. 

Egypt, i. 191, 367 ; ii. 5, 137, 177, 

EiN ar, Earl of the Orkneys, ii. 217. 

Ekkehard, Von Scheffel's, ii. 302. 

Elba, ii. 103. 

Eleanor, of Aquitaine, ii. 157. 

Eli, ii. 190, 316. 

EnoT, Sir C. N. E., A Finnish 
Grammar, ii. 260. 

' Eliot, George,' [Marian Evans, 
afterwards Cross], i. 228, 329, 

Elizabeth, Empress, of Austria, 
i. 256. 

Elizabeth, Princess, i. 240. 

Elizabeth, Queen, i. 66, 170, 
266, 335 {note) ; ii. 51-2, 107, 
150, 204, 250, 278. 

Elizabethan sailors, i. 276 ; ii. 216 ; 
F. York Powell on, ii. 112-14. 

Elizabethans, The, i. 41, 55, 60, 
227,448; ii. 11, 193, 300, 309, 
311, 312. 

Elliott, Ebenezer, ii. 191. 

Ellis, E. J., i. 133. 

♦ Elsie, Ladie,' ii. 395-400. 

Elsinore, i. 77. 

Elton, Oliver, i. 234, 243, 260, 
299; F. York Powell's Letters 
to, i. 91-2, 129-30, 132-3, 140- 
1, 141-2, 143-4, 148-9, 151, 155, 
159-60, 160-1, 186-7, 221, 223- 
4, 227-9, 230-1, 263-4, 266-7, 
268, 271-2, 294, 299, 302, 315- 
16, 323-4, 325, 329-30, 353, 
356-7, 381, 382, 884, 399. 

Elton, Mrs. 0., F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i. 129, 143. 

Elzevirs, The, i. 371, 872. 

Emerson, P. H., A Son of the 
Fens, i. 144, 148, 247 ; ii. 318- 
19 ; Birds, Beasts, and Fishes of 

the Notfolk Broadland, i. 188; 
Cadha, ii. 318 {note). 

Emerson, R. W., i. 148, 152, 391 ; 
ii. 318. 

Emery, Mrs., see Farr, Florence. 

Emma (wife of Ethelred II), ii. 

Emmet, Robert, ii. 167. 

Empedogles, ii. 128. 

Encyclopaedia Britannica, i. 46, 

Encyclop^die, Diderot's, ii. 295. 

England, i. 257 ; ii. 34, 38, 104, 
150,154,164-5,169-71, 173, 197, 
202-3, 218, 220, 223, 234, 236- 
7, 251-2, 330. See also Great 

England fwm the Earliest Times 
to the Death of Henry VII, His- 
tory of, F. York Powell's, i. 26, 
86-9, 172, 270, 402, 410, 411. 

England in the Eighteenth Century, 
History of, Lecky's, ii. 47. 

English Historical Review, i. 84-5, 
178, 203, 246, 311, 408, 408 ; 
ii. 66, 95, 348. 

Enoch, Book of, i. 187. 

Epic and Romance, Prof. Ker's, 
i. 242. 

Epicurus, ii. 377. 

Epopee byzantine A la Fin du 
dixiime Steele (969 - 989), 
Review of, ii. 128-31. 

Erasmus, Desiderius, i. 387,388, 
889 ! ii. 155 ; Froude's Life and 
Letters of, i. 390 {note). 

Erin, see Ireland. 

Eriphyle, ii. 228 {note). 

Esau, ii. 144. 

Essex, Earl of, ii. 116. 

Essex: Highways, Byways and 
Waterways, Barrett's, F. York 
Powell's Review of, i. 412. 

Esther, Blunt's, i. 144, 181. 

Esthonia, i. 136. 

Ethelbald, King, ii. 207. 

Ethelbert, King, ii. 207, 212. 

Ethelfleda, ii. 214, 220. 

Ethelred I, ii. 207-8, 209-10. 

Ethelred, Archbp., ii. 212. 

Ethelred, the Mickle, ii. 209. 

Ethelswith, ii. 207. 

Ethelwulf, King, ii. 207, 208 ; 




elder sons of, see Ethelbald 

and Ethelbert. 
Eton, i. 333-4 ; ii. 204, 351-2. 
Etty, Wm., i. 322. 
Etu/Mie Grandet, Balzac's, i. 144. 
EUBIPIDES, ii. 261 ; Bacchae, 

ii. 126. 
Europe, ii. 6, 7-8, 23, 26, 31, 101, 

173, 179, 199 ; Western, ii. 47, 

EUSEBITTS, i. 187. 
EuTBOPius, i. 191, 205. 
Evans, Arthur, ii. 5. 
EvAKS, H. M., i. 413 (note). 
Evans, Wm., i. 21, 22. 
Exeter, ii. 211. 

Eyrbyggja Saga, i. 99 ; ii. 346. 
Ezra, i. 187. 

Faber, Peter, ii. 148. 
Fcereyinga Saga, englished by F. 

York Powell, i. 237-9 ; 15, 30, 

106, 160, 222, 223, 238 (note), 

254 ; ii. 221 (note), 373 (note). 
Faery Queene, Spenser's, ii. 276- 

7 ; i. 232, 260. 
Faiball, W., ii. 169. 
Fairbairn, Dr., i. 388. 
Fairchild Family, Mrs. Sherwood's, 

ii. 166. 
Falkland, Viscount, ii. 45. 
Falstaff's Letters, by Jas. White, 

i. 229 (note). 
Faquin, JuseflF, ii. 144. 
Faraday, Michael, ii. 178, 181. 
Farnell, Ida, F. York Powell's 

Letters to, i. 89-90, 123, 231-2, 

Faroe Islands, ii. 230, 400. 
Fabb, Florence, [Mrs. Emery], 

i. 241 (note), 315; F. York 

Powell's Letter to, i. 131-2. 
Fabb, Wm., ii. 2, 85. 
Faust. Goethe's, i, 97 ; Marlowe's, 

ii. 309. 
Favbe, see Faber, Peter. 
Federal Government, History of, 

Freeman's, ii. 31. 
Fenner, Thomas (?), ii. 113. 
Fkrchertne, ii. 246 (note). 
Ferdinand V, of Spain, ii. 145. 
Fergus, King, i. 261. 
FERausoN, Sir Samuel, i. 265 ; 

ii. 192. 

Ferguson, of Hereford, ['Gallop- 
ing Dick '], ii. 168. 

Ferrar, R., ii. 123. 

Ferrers, Earl, [Laurence Shir- 
ley], ii. 167. 

Ferrier, Walter, i. 13, 288. 

Feversham, Lord, ii. 285. 

FiciNO, M., i. 389. 

Fielding, Hy., ii. 165, 281. 

Fielding, Sir John, ii. 169. 

FiLMER, Sir Robert, ii. 45. 

Finland, i. 394; ii. 9, 256, 257, 
259, 260. 

FiNLAY, Geo., ii. 191. 

Finnish Grammar, Eliot's, ii. 260. 

FiNSEN, W., ii. 348. 

First Men in the Moon, Wells's, 
i. 319. 

Firth, C. H., i. 195, 300. 

Fis Adamndin, i. 357. 

Fisher, Herbert, i. 203, 217 ; on 
F. York Powell, L 200-3, 
449-50; F. York Powell's 
Letter to, i. 142-3. 

FiTTON, Mary, i. 325. 

FitzGerald, Edward, trans- 
lation of Omar's Rubdiydt, i. 
327, 336 ; ii. 299, 373, 378-9 ; 
Letters of, i. 401. 

Flambard, Ralph, ii. 32. 

Flateyjarbdk, edited by G. Vig- 
fiisson and C. R. Unger, i. 34 ; 
ii. 346. 

Flaubebt, G., il 309, 310; 
Correspondance, i. 116. 

Flaxman, John, ii. 182. 

Fleming, David Hay, Mary Queen 
of Scots, ii. 109-10. 

Fletcheb, Giles, ii. 276. 

Fletcheb, John, ii. 160. 

Fletcher, Phineas, ii. 276. 

Fleury-Husson, Jules, ['Champ- 
fleury '], i. 116. 

Flodden Field, Battle of, ii. 151. 

Florence, ii. 13, 16, 154. 

Florez, Meredez, i. 123. 

Florus, L. a., ii. 221. 

Flying Post, Defoe's, ii. 286. 

FoLENGO, T., i. 353 ; ii. 21. 

Folkestone, i. 386, 391, 392. 

Folklore, i. 276. 

FONTAINAS, i. 297. 

Force des Choses, P. Margueritte's, 
i. 148. 



Ford, C, Life and Letters of 
Madame de Krudener, i. 144 ; ii. 
124 (note). 

Ford, John, ii. 309. 

Fom-Sdgur, edited by Vigfiisson 
and Mobius, ii. 346. 

Fort, Paul, i. 296, 298 ; F. York 
Powell's translation of poems 
by, ii. 417-19. 

Foster, M. B., ii. 370. 

Fowler, T., i. 262. 

Fox, Charles James, ii. 55, 164. ■ 

FoxE, John, The Book of Matiyrs, 
ii. 278. 

France, i. 98, 118, 121, 197, 225, 
231, 240, 243, 246, 255, 277, 
289, 318, 345, 354-5, 371, 388, 
417; ii. 13, 31, 52, 102, 104, 
150, 154, 164, 177, 183, 192, 
197, 199, 220, 223, 234, 251, 
293, 298, 302, 312, 338. 

Francesca da Kimini, ii. 131. 

Francis I, of France, ii. 104, 155. 

Frakcis, Master, see Eabelais. 

Francis, St., of Assisi, ii. 129, 

Francis, St., de Sales, ii. 146. 

Francis Joseph II, Emp., i. 247. 

Frankfort, ii. 205. 

Franklin, B., i. 391. 

Franks, The, i. 255 ; ii. 226. 

Fraser, Sir Wm., ii. 223. 

Frederick William IV, of 
Prussia, ii. 302. 

Freeman, E. A., ii. 27-37 : i. 19, 
76.133. 141, 150,169,170,172, 
176, 177, 178, 189, 236, 300, 
330, 411 ; ii. 7, 26 (note), 31-2, 
35-6, 54, 57-9, 61, 63, 67, 
69, 71, 101, 191, 363 ; General 
Sketch of European History, ii. 
31 ; History of Federal Govern- 
ment, ii. 31 ; History of the 
Norman Conquest, ii. 30, 31 ; 
History of Sicily, i. 116 ; ii. 31, 
33-4 ; Old English History for 
Children, ii. 31 ; Reign of 
William Rufus, ii. 30. 

French (jail-breaker), ii. 168. 

Frey, i. 51, 264; ii. 130, 226, 

Freya, ii. 227-9 ; i. 248. 

Frigga, ii. 238. 

Frithstan, St., ii. 157. 

Fritzner, J., ii. 346. 

Frivola, Jessopp's, i. 449 (note). 

Frobisher, Sir Martin, ii. 116, 

Froissart, Sir J., i. 19, 240, 275, 
459 ; ii. 154. 

Froissart, The Chronicles of, edited 
by G. C. Macaulay, ii. 97. 

Frost, Wm. E., ii. 362. 

Froude, J, A,, i. 169-72; 71, 
138, 155, 159, 188, 189, 300, 
330, 409, 410; ii. 39, 40, 63, 
320 ; Divorce of Catherine of 
Aragon, i. 169; Life and Let- 
ters of Erasmus, i. 389-90 ; 
A Siding at a Railway Station, 
i. 171 (note). 

Fuller, Loie, i. 299. 

Fuller, Thomas, ii. 52. 

FuRNESS, of Rugby, i. 8. 

FuRNiVALL, Dr., i.'222, 255 fnofc). 

FuRSA, St., [Fursey], ii, 274. 

Gahagan, Usher, ii. 168. 

Gainsborough, Thomas, ii. 164. 

Galdos, B, P,, La Revoluci&nde 
Julio, i, 416, 

Galileo, i, 389, 

Gamage, Family of, ii. 115. 

Gamaliel, i. 278. 

Gambetta, L. M., ii. 143. 

Gamlyn, ii. 261, 

Gardiner, S. R., ii. 37-46 : i. 
135, 159, 170, 172, 173, 178, 
179, 189, 300, 410, 411 ; ii. 7, 
26 {note), 50, 63, 67, 119; Crom- 
welVs Place in History, i, 247 ; 
ii. 43. 

Garibaldi, G., ii. 16, 22, 67, 
224-5, 311. 

Garmond of Good Ladies, Henry- 
son's, ii. 276. 

Garnett, Constance, i. 224. 

Garrick, David, ii. 162. 

Gascoigne, George, ii. 276. 

Gaskell, Eliz, C, ii^l93. 

Gassendi, p., i, 272. 

Gaul, ii. 207, 208, 213, 215, 220, 
242, 248. 

Gautier, T., i, 449 {note) ; ii. 
192, 312, 314. 

Gavarni, p., i. 12. 

Gaveston, Piers, i. 381. 

Gayangos, Pascual de, i. 415 ; 
ii. 111. 




Gellias, ii. 128. 

Gelon, ii. 127. 

General Sketch of European His- 
tory, Freeman's, ii. 31. 

Genesis, Book of, i. 243 ; ii. 5. 

Geneva, ii. 13. 

Geoffrey, of Monmouth, ii. 222. 

Geoghegan, Miss, F. York 
Powell's Letters to, i. 258-60, 

George, St., ii. 104. 

George III, ii. 168, 173, 204. 

George IV, i. 140 ; ii. 173. 

Georges, The, i. 276; ii. 158-9, 

Georgia, ii. 9. 

Georgics, Vergil's, ii. 164. 

Germ, The, ii. 191. 

Germany, i. 38, 97, 117, 118, 121, 
225, 243, 246-7, 255-6, 277, 
354, 398,424; ii. 2, 9, 10, 13, 
52, 70, 82, 94, 102, 141, 164, 
177, 185, 192, 197, 198, 220, 
223, 234, 298, 302, 345. 

Ger6me, J. L., ii. 126. 

Gerson, J. C. de, ii. 138, 139. 

Gervinus, G. G., i. 222. 

Getreue Bitter, Meinhold's, ii. 304. 

Ghosts, Ibsen's, i. 242. 

Giovanni delle Bande Nere, 
see Medici, Giovanni de. 

Gibbon, Edward, ii. 23-6: L 
136,250, 410; ii. 2,31,37,64, 
132, 202, 204 ; History of the 
Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire, ii. 23 {note), 24, 25, 26 ; 
Prothero's Life and Letters of, 
ii. 23 {note). 

GiBBS, Jane, ii 168. 

Gierke, Otto, i. 315; Political 
Theories of the Middle Age, ii. 

Gifpen, Sir R., ii. 149. 

Gil Bias, Le Sage's, i. 456. 

Gilbert, Alfred, i. 181 {note), 182. 

GiLDAS, i. 275. 

Gill, W. A., Edward Cracroft 
Lefroy : his Life and Poems, i. 

Gill,' Wm. W., i. 190, 300 ; ii. 
91, 249. 

GiRALDUs Cambrensis, i. 222, 

Girondists, The, i. 314. 

Gisli the Outlaw, Sir George 

Dasent's version of, i. 309. 
Gisli Sursson : a Drama, B. H. 

Barmby's, i. 309: F. York 

Powell's Preface to, ii. 262- 

70 ; i. 418. 
GissiNQ, Geo., L 410; Bom in 

Exile, i. 163. 
Gladstone, W. E., ii. 187-8 ; i. 

90, 133, 134, 166, 184, 255, 313 ; 

ii. 147, 181, 330. 
Glasgow, i. 321-2. 
Glassinberry, i. 146 ; The Nine 

Worthies, i. 146. 
Glastonbury, ii. 6. 
Glehn, von, (family), ii. 57. 
Gneist, H. R. von, ii. 141. 
Godfrey, of Lyons, i. 39 {note). 
Godfrey, Captain, i. 13. 
Godwin, Earl, ii. 30. 
Goethe, i. 56, 62, 92-3, 95, 286, 

418, 445 ; ii. 101, 180, 192, 302, 

310, 341, 375; Faust, i. 97; 

Gedichte,\. 97. 
Gogol, Nikolai V., ii. 310. 
Golden Odes of Amhia, Blunt's, 

i. 393. 
Goldsmith, Oliver, ii. 165, 282, 

GoNcouRT, Edmond et Jules de, 

i. 116, 233 ; ii. 310. 
GoNDOMAR, Conde de, ii. 120. 
GoNERiL, ii. 306. 
Gordon, Amelia, ii 360. 
Gordon, Esme, ii. 76. 
Gordon, General, i. 191, 257, 

313 ; ii 3, 97, 104, 106, 146, 219. 
Gordon, Lucie Duff, ii. 303-4. 
Gorgias, Plato's, ii. 128. 
Gorleston, i. 378, 379, 380. 
GoscHEN, Viscount, i. 90. 
Goths, The, ii 134, 224, 235. 
Gow, John, [Smith], ii 167 ; 

Defoe's Account of, ii 287. 
GowER, Lord R. Leveson, Joan of 

Arc, ii. 104-6. 
Goya Lucientes, i 416, 461 ; 

ii 111. 
Grace Marlow, Clayton's, i 362-3 ; 

360, 361. 
Graham, Clan of, i. 393. 
Graine, see Igrayne. 
Grammar of Science, Pearson's, 

i 241. 



Granger, Wm., The New and 
Wonderful Magazine, ii. 165. 

Grant, James, ii. 81. 

Graphic, The, ii. 194. 

Gravelines, ii. 114. 

Cray, George, i. 300. 

Gray, Thomas, i. 51 ; ii. 267. 

Great Britain, i. 83, 118, 197; 
ii. 6, 42, 102, 115, 121, 150, 176, 
230, 258. 

Great Britain and Hanover, A. W. 
Ward's, F. York Powell's Review 
of, ii. 158-9. 

Greece, i. 101, 191 ; ii. 5, 6, 8, 34, 
37, 82, 102, 127, 128, 134, 191, 
224, 226, 234. 

Green, J. R., ii. 52-68 ; i. 76, 84, 
181, 342 ; ii. 45, 78 ; The Con- 
quest of England, ii. 65 ; The 
Making of England, ii. 65 ; 
Oxford during the last Century, 
ii. 65 ; A Short History of the 
English People, ii. 60-4; 52, 
59, 65; Primers of History and 
Literature edited by, ii. 66. 

Green, J. R., Letters of, Stephen's, 
i. 342, 343 ; ii. 52-3, 67, 68. 

Green, Mrs. J. R., ii. 65 ; on F. 
York Powell, i. 336-40, 400 ; F. 
York Powell's Letters to, i. 141, 
181-3, 221-2, 253, 264-5, 342-3, 

Greenaway, Kate, ii. 362. 

Greene, Herbert, translation of 
Omar s Rubdiydt, i. 145 (note) ; 
ii. 379; F. York Powell's Letters 
to, i. 145, 179-80, 229-30. 

Greene, Robert, ii. 105. 

Greenland, i. 59; ii. 230, 236, 

Gregh, F., i. 297. 

Gregory, St., of Tours, ii. 105. 

Gregory I, Pope, i. 82 ; Pastoral 
Care, ii. 204, 213. 

Gregory, Lady, i. 396. 

Grein, C. W. M., i. 113. 

Grenfell, B. p., ii. 5. 

Grettir, the Strong, ii. 131. 

Greville, Fulke, ii. 6. 

Griffin, Hy., ii. 168. 

Grimm, the Bros., ii. 341-4; 
141, 223, 366; Kinder- und 
HausmQrchen, i 82-3 ; ii. 341-2 ; 
Grimm, Jacob, L 84, 83; ii. 

223, 258, 345; Teutonic My- 
thology, ii. 223 ; Grimm, Wil- 
helm, ii. 6, 7. 

Grimm Centenary; Sigfred-Armi- 
nius and other Papers, by G. Vig- 
fuBson and F. York Powell, 
i. 34, 83, 99 ; ii. 225, 252 {note), 
273 {note), 345, 348. 

' Grimthorpes,' ii. 32, 34. 

Gross, Dr. Charles, ii. 92. 

Grote, Geo., ii. 31. 

Grotius, Hugo, ii. 138, 139. 

GUDBRAND, Bp., i. 32, 

GuDRUN, i. 52, 59, 407 ; ii. 403. 

GuERAUT, R., i. 428. 

GuERiN, G. M. de, i. 297. 

Guest, Lady, ii. 181. 

GuicciARDiNi, Francesco, ii. 20. 

GuiDicciONi, Giovanni, F. York 
Powell's translation of poem 
by, ii. 412. 

Guise, Dukes of, ii. 109, 110, 139. 

Gulliver's Travels, Swift's, ii. 278, 

Gullthorissaga, i. 31. 

GuNNAR, i. 239 ; ii. 263. 

GUNNERE, ii. 237. 

GusTAVus Adolphus, ii. 104, 
117, 153. 

GuTHRUM, ii. 210, 211-12, 216. 

Gwyn, ii. 224. 

Habington, Wm., ii. 123. 
Hackman, Jas., ii. 169. 
Hdconar Saga, i. 454 ; ii. 347. 
Haesten, ii. 213-14. 
Hafiz, i. 134 ; ii. 379. 
Hafrs Fjord, Battle of, ii. 216. 
Haite, G. C, ii. 181. 
Hakon, the Good, ii. 234. 
Halfdan, ii. 210. 
Hall, Jack, il 169. 
Hallam, Hy., i. 245 ; ii. 181. 
Halliburton, T. C, ['Sam 

Slick '], i. 390. 
Halliwell, J. A., ii. 223. 
Ham, i. 243. 

Hamilton, Gerald, i. 403. 
Hamilton, Lady, ii. 124. 
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, 

[Amlethus], i. 113, 159, 222 : 

li. 264. 
Hampden, John, ii. 45. 
Hamtheow Lays, i. 59. 



Handy-book, Bond's, i. 200. 
Hannay (spy), ii. 167. 
Harcourt, Sir "Wm., i. 264. 
Hardy, Dudley, i. 270, 298, 363, 

364, 866, 868. 
Hardy, Thomas, i. 265, 329, 330, 

358, 360, 420 ; Jude the Obscure, 

i. 307. 
Harley, Robert, see Oxford, 

Earl of. 
Harold II, i. 352 ; ii. 30. 
Harold Haarfager, ii. 214,216, 

Harold HARDRADA,ii. 131,268. 
Harris, J. C, i. 390; Unde 

Remus, ii. 320. 
Harrison, Frederic, i. 299; The 

Meaning of History, ii. 25-6. 
Hart, Horace, i. 218. 
Harte, Bret, i. 185, 390. 
Hartington, Marquis of, i. 90. 
Harvey, Wm., ii. 370. 
Hastings, F. York Powell at, i. 

Hastings, Warren, i. 255 ; ii. 164. 
Havelock, the Dane, i. 28. 
Haward, i. 102-3. 
Hawes, Stephen, ii. 276. 
Hawke, Lord, ii. 164. 
Hawke, Wm., ii. 167 {note). 
Hawkins, Sir John, ii. 113. 
Hawkwood, Sir John de, i. 395. 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, i. 249 ; 

ii. 320. 
Hayes, Catherine, ii. 167. 
Hazlitt, Wm., ii. 100. 
Head, Sir Edmund, ii. 347. 
Head, Richard, i. 415, 
Hearn, Lafcadio, Kokoro, i. 331. 
Heath, (Oxford scout), i. 33, 174, 

Hebrews, The, ii. 5-6, 82 ; see 

Jews, The. 
Hector, i. 445 ; ii. 241. 
Hegel, G.W.F.,i. 19, 189,407-8. 
Heimdal, ii. 226. 
Heimskringla, i. 19, 61, 77, 373 ; ii. 

Heine, Heinrich, i. 19, 149, 256, 

299 ; ii. 143, 377. 
Heinzel, Dr., i. 53 {note). 
Helge, the Good, i. 53, 56 ; ii. 

Helias, ii. 32. 

Heligoland, ii. 232-8. 
Helps, Sir A., ii. 82. 
Helsingfors, ii. 257, 260. 
Henderson, T. F., The Casket 

Letters and Mary Queen of Scots, 

i. 265-6. 
Henley, W. E., i. 134, 229, 262, 

278, 293, 304; ii. 3, 14 {note), 

317, 871 ; London Voluntaries, 

i. 141 ; Lyra Heroica, i. 134-5 ; 

F. York Powell's Letters to, i. 

185, 141, 295-6. 
Henrietta Maria, Queen, ii. 

Henry I, i. 87 ; ii. 157. 
Henry II, i. 174 ; ii. 204, 220. 
Henry III, ii. 45. 138. 
Henry V, ii. 104, 204. 
Henry VI, ii. 204, 221. 
Henry VIII, i. 170, 202, 404 ; ii 

15, 86, 115, 139, 155, 160, 203. 
Henry VII, Emp., ii. 86. 
Henry, Prince, the Navigator, 

ii. 150. 
Henryson, Robert, ii. 278,275-6. 
Herbert, Geo., i. 1 (note) ; ii. 45, 

Herbert, Wm.,Earlof Pembroke, 

i. 825; ii. 116. 
Herculaneum, ii. 6. 
Hercolano de Carvalho, a., 

ii. 9. 
Hercules, ii. 261. 
Herd Book of Pope Gregory, 

see Pastoral Care, Gregory's. 
Heredia, J. M. de, i. 324. 
Herford, C. H., i. 422. 
Heric, King, ii. 232. 
Hermeias, ii. 234. 
Hero and Leander, Marlowe's, i. 

Hero ofEsthonia, Kirby's, Powell's 

Review of, ii. 260-1. 
Herod, ii. 144. 
Herodotus, i. 60, 66, 282, 459 ; 

History, translated by G. Raw- 

linson, ii. 97. 
HAROLD, A. F., i. 297. 
Hervey Islands, ii. 249-51. 
Hervorarsaga, i. 31. 
Herzegovina, ii. 153. 
Hesiod, i. 60 ; ii. 5. 
Hewlett, Maurice, Richard Yea 

and Nay, i. 208. 



Hexateuch, The, ii. 260. 

Heyn, p., i. 248. 

Hiawatha, Longfellow's, ii. 364. 

HiCKEY, Emily H., ii. 299. 

HiERON, ii. 127. 

Highland Rogue, Defoe's, ii. 287. 

Himera, ii. 127. 

Hikes, Miss, F. York Powell's 

LeUer to, i. 236. 
Hikes, Wm., i. 236, 247, 356, 

386-7,422,460; Songs of Labour, 

i. 177 ; F.York Powell's IfCWers 

to, i. 177, 224-5. 
Hikes, Mrs. Wm., F. York 

Powell's Letter to, i. 386-7. 
HiKTOK, Jas., i. 127. 
HiBD, Dennis, on F. York 

Powell, i. 307-8, 399-400. 
HiROSHiGE, i. 377. 
Historia Danica, see Saxo. 
History of Eutvpean Morals from 

Augustus to Charlemagne, 

Lecky's, ii. 47. 
History of the Rise and Influence 

of the Spirit of Rationalism in 

Europe, Lecky's, ii. 47. 
HoBBEs, Thomas, ii. 45, 138. 
Hobby-Horse, The, i. 133. 
HoFER, Andreas, ii. 103. 
HoFFMAK, Heinrich, Struwwel- 

peter, ii. 366. 
Hogarth, Wm., i. 13 ; ii. 165. 
Hogg, Alex., ii. 165. 
Hogg, J., i. 95. 

HoHEKZOLLERK, House of, ii. 302. 
Holder, A., i. 114. 
Holiday, ii. 362. 
Holland, see Netherlands, The. 
Holmes, E., Silence of Love, i. 

323, 329. 
Holmes, 0. W.,i. 391. 
Holmverja Saga, i. 102. 
Holy War, Bunyan's, ii. 275, 279. 
Homer, i. 60, 147, 191, 281, 282; 

ii. 5, 28, 226, 241, 256, 319; 

niad, ii. 258-60, 279 ; Odyssey, 

i. 156 ; ii. 258-60, 279. 
Hood, Thomas, ii. 191. 
HoPKiKS, Johns, i. 123. 
Horace, i. 147. 
HoRNE (criminal), ii. 167. 
Household Stories [Kinder- und 

Hatismdivhen], Gnmm's, ii. 341, 


Houghton, A. Boyd, i. 228; ii. 

Howard, John, ii. 170. 
Howard, of Effingham, Lord, ii. 

HowiTT, Wm.,ii. 181, 193; Boys' 

Country Book, i. 167, 176. 
HowoRTH, Sir H. H., i. 187, 300. 
Howth, i. 340, 341. 
Hrolf, ii. 216-17. 
HuBBA, ii. 209, 211. 
Hudibras, Butler's, i. 353. 
Hughes, Arthur, ii. 370. 
Hugo, Victor, i. 19, 322, 369 ; ii. 

11, 13, 22, 179, 192, 311, 312, 

316 ; Notre- Dame de Paris, ii. 

HuGOK, Cecile, on F. York 

Powell, i. 369-73. 
Huguenots, The, ii. 134. 
Hull, Eleanor, The Cuchullin 

Saga, i. 260. 
Hume, David, ii. 25, 60. 
Hume, Martin A. S., Philip II of 

Spain, ii. 110-12; Sir Walter 

Ralegh, ii. 119-21. 
Hungary, ii. 153 ; 9. 
Huns, The, ii. 205. 
Hunt, A. S., ii. 5. 
Hutchinson, Col. F., ii. 360. 
Hutchinson, Edith L., ii. 360. 
Hutten, Ulrich von, i. 389. 
HuTTON, Wm. H., Simon de Mont- 
fort and his Cause, ii. 97. 
Huxley, T. H., i. 458. 
HuYSMANs, J. K., ii. 309. 
Hyde, Douglas, i. 332, 396; ii. 

92, 242; Literary History of 

Ireland,!. 185-6; ii. 244 (note) ; 

Hie Story of Gaelic Literature, 

i. 185-6; F. York PoweU's 

Letters to, i. 279-83. 

labolenus de Cosmographia Purga- 

torii, ii. 20. 
Ibn Khallikan, Biographical 

Dictionary, ii. 134. 
Ibn Masudi, ii. 135. 
Ibsen, H., i. 97, 132, 133, 241 ; ii. 

265 ; Brand, i. 131 ; Ghosts, i. 

242 ; Little Eyjolf, i. 242 ; Peer 

Gynt, i. 131, 452 ; Rosmersholm, 

i. 131. 
Iceland, i. 24, 28-30,36, 38, 41-2, 



49, 50, 51, 55, 57, 58, 61, 66, 
69, 76-7, 99, 100-1, 113, 136, 
160, 237, 276, 308, 309, 373; 
ii. 214, 216, 222, 223, 230, 262, 
344, 345. 

Icelandic - English Dictionary, 
Cleasby's, enlarged and com- 
pleted by Gr. VigfuBson, i. 36-7, 
38, 39, 76, 98 ; ii. 346, 347. 

Icelandic Prose Reader, by G. Vig- 
fiisson and F. York Powell, i. 
32, 38, 39, 44, 45, 46, 76, 99, 
112 ; ii. 848. 

IdylU of the King, Tennyson's, ii. 

Iqrayne [Graine], i. 261. 

Iliad, The, ii. 258-60, 279. 

BluMrated London News, The, ii. 

Ilmarinen, ii. 259. 

Imitatio Christi, ii. 146. 

In Memoriam, Tennyson's, ii. 

India, i. 190, 206, 320 ; il 6, 7, 11, 
136, 164, 177, 243, 258, 260; 

India, Further, ii, 6. 

Indians, North American, ii. 135. 

Industrial Revolution, Beard's, F. 
York Powell's Preface to, ii. 
834-40 ; i. 308, 312, 314 ; iL 
324 (note). 

Ine, of Wessex, ii. 209, 212. 

Ingelow, Jean, i. 6. 

Ingoldshy Legends, Barham's, ii. 

Ingwab, ii. 209-10. 

Innocent III, Pope, ii, 145. 

Insolence and Insufferable Beha- 
viour of Servants in England, 
Defoe's, ii. 287. 

Introduction to the Study of History, 
by Langlois and Seignobos, F. 
York Powell's Preface to, 404- 
5 ; i. 252-3. 

Ipswich, i. 247. 

Ireland, i. 182-6, 221-2, 278-83, 
842, 358 ; 123, 160, 288, 391 ; 
ii. 10, 44, 115, 175, 189-90, 192, 
206, 214, 230, 260, 277; F, York 
Powell's tour in, i, 366-40; 
Bardic Schools of, ii, 243-7, 
242, 248 ; Influence of, on Eng- 
lish Literature, ii. 287-301 ; i. 

Ireland, Literary History of, Hyde's, 
ii. 244 {note}. 

Ireland in the Eighteenth Century, 
History of, Lecky's, ii. 47-8, 50. 

Iro, the Tongan, ii. 250-1. 

Irving, Sir Henry, i. 305 ; ii. 

Irving, Washington, i. 249. 

Isabella, Queen (wife of Ed- 
ward II), i. 381. 

Isabella II, of Spain, i. 415. 

Isaiah, ii. 325. 

Iseult [Isotta], i. 810. 

Isidore, St., ii. 52. 

Islam, see Mahomet. 

Islendinga Sdgur, ii. 345, 348. 

Israel, see Jews, The. 

Italy, i. 26, 197, 243, 270, 332, 
387 ; ii. 9, 10, 16, 19, 23, 31, 52, 
82, 94, 102, 153-4, 164, 208, 298, 
302, 313. 

Jaafer, ii. 137. 

Jackson, A. B., i. 147. 

Jackson, Wm., The New Newgate 
Calendar, ii. 165-7, 169. 

Jacobs, J., ii. 304. 

Jaffa, see Joppa. 

Jalal Al-din, ii. 376. 

James I, i. 7, 184, 403 ; ii.40, 43, 
120, 121, 246. 

James II, ii. 118, 158. 

James I, of Aragon, i. 416. 

James I, of Scotland, i. 301. 

James, Hy., i. 353, 360, 366, 890, 
420; ii. 314; The Better Sort, 
i. 376 ; The Lesson of the Master, 
i. 269; 2%e Wings of the Dove, 
i. 358 ; 353. 

Jammes, F., i. 298. 

Jansenists, The, i. 372. 

Japan, i. 12, 110, 197, 202, 206, 
212, 218, 373, 382, 394, 414, 
428, 455 ; ii. 6, 7, 146, 164, 327. 

Japheth, i. 243. 

Java, ii. 7. 

Jebb, Sir Richard, i. 317. 

Jefferies, Richard, i. 319. 

Jefferson, Thomas, i. 314. 

Jeffreys, Judge, ii. 279. 

Jena, Battle of, ii. 153. 

Jerome, St., i. 282 ; ii. 52. 

Jerrold, Douglas, ii. 193, 194. 

Jerusalem, Blake's, i. 395. 



Jervis, John, Earl of St. Vincent, 

ii. 164. 
Jessopp, Dr., Frivola, i. 449 (note). 
Jesuits, The, i. 26, 66, 142, 172, 

264 ; ii. 146-7. 
Jetc of Malta, Marlowe's, ii. 309. 
Jewish Life in the Middle Ages, 

I. Abrahams', F. York Powell's 

Review of, ii. 142-6. 
Jews, The, i. 250, 264, 280, 285, 

324, 332, 403, 421, 427 ; ii. 5-6, 

9, 26, 27, 37, 82, 104, 143, 145, 

272, 290, 297. 


Joan of Arc, i. 240, 136 ; ii. 125 

Joan of Arc, Lord R. Leveson 
Gower's, F. York Powell's 
Review of, ii. 104-6. 

'Joannes Acutus,' see Hawk- 

Job, ii. 378. 

JocELYN OF Brakelonde, i. 276. 

John, the Divine, St., i. 451. 

John, the Baptist, St., i. 128. 

John Zimisces, Emp., ii. 131. 

John, King, i. 205, 208 ; ii. 138, 

John VI, of Portugal, ii. 151. 

John, of Lejden, i. 388. 

John Inglesant, Shorthouse's, i. 

John Sheppard, Life of, Defoe's, 
ii. 287. 

Johnson, Samuel, i. 66, 421, 423 ; 
ii. 3, 36, 37, 119, 163, 165, 169, 

Johnstone, Arthur, i. 91, 92, 
131, 146, 223, 224, 226, 232-3, 
299, 302, 316, 381, 356 ; Musical 
Criticisms, i. 92 (note) ; F. York 
Powell's Letters to, i. 233-4. 

JoiNViLLE, Sieur de, i. 275 ; Life 
of St. Louis, ii. 97. 

Jonah, i. 264. 

Jonathan Wild, Account of, De- 
foe's, ii. 287. 

Jones, Ebenezer, ii. 191. 

JoNSON, Ben, ii. 116, 123. 

J6n80N, Dr. Finnur, i. 99. 

Joppa [Jaffa], i. 264, 405. 

JoRDANis, Bp. of Ravenna, i. 61. 

Joseph, i. 181. 

Josephine, Empress, ii. 103. 

JOUBERT, J., i, 109. 
Joumalofthe Plague Year, Defoe's, 

ii. 287, 288. 
JowETT, Dr., i. 215-16 ; ii. 363. 
Joyce, Dr., ii. 242. 
Jubilees, Book of, i. 187. 
JuDAH, ii. 272. 
JuDAH Halevy, i. 128. 
Jude the Obscure, Hardy's, L 307. 
Judges, Book of, i. 388. 
Judith (wife of Ethelwulf), ii. 

207, 208. 
Judith, i. 82. 
Julius II, Pope, ii. 51. 
' Jumping Jo,' ii. 168. 
•Junius,' ii. 282. 
JuNOT, A., ii. 151. 
Jure Divino, Defoe's, ii. 288. 
Just So Stories, Kipling's, ii. 313. 
Justinian I, ii. 139. 

Kaffirs, The, ii 176. 

Kainuku, ii. 250. 

Kalervos, ii. 257. 

Kalevala, ii. 230 {note) ; Compa- 
retti's {The Traditional Poetry 
of the Finns], i. 260, 416; 
reviewed by P. York Powell, 
ii. 266-60 ; Crawford's Extracts 
from, ii. 260. 

Kalevipoeg, The, see Hero of Es- 
thonia, Kirby's. 

Kant, Immanuel, i. 46. 

Karlings, The, ii. 130. 

Katrin, Vigfiis dottir, i. 32 ; ii. 

Kaukomoinen, ii. 257. 

Kean, Charles, ii. 161, 162. 

Kean, Edmund, i. 305 ; ii. 162, 

Keary, C. F., Catalogue of Eng- 
lish Coins in the British Museum, 
ii. 205. 

Keats, John, i. 297 ; ii. 11, 180, 
191 323. 

Keble, John, i. 324; ii. 180. 

Keene, Chas., ii 362, 370. 

Kells, i. 337, 340, 341. 

Kemble, J. M., ii. 181, 190. 

Kempis, Thomas a, Imitatio 
Christi, ii. 146. 

Ker, W. p., i. 101 (note), 340 ; Epic 
and Romance, i. 242 ; F. York 
Powell's Lettei-s to, i. 93-4, 96- 



7, 116-17, 123-4, 134, 139-40, 

145-7, 160, 223, 236-7, 242-3, 

247-9, 254-6, 260-1, 268, 309- 

10, 323, 378, 394, 398. 
Ketch, Jack, ii. 167. 
Khalid, ii. 137. 
Kidnapped, Stevenson's, ii. 97. 
KiEEAN, St., i. 337, 339, 340, 341. 
Kilmarnock, Earl of, ii. 167. 
KiMBEBLEY, Lord, i. 255. 
King (pirate), ii. 167. 
Kings, Book of, i. 388. 
Kings' Lives, The, see Heims- 

KiNGSLEY, Charles, i. 135, 379 ; 

ii. 81, 193, 314; Westward Ho! 

ii. 97. 
KiNGSLEY, Henry, i. 379 ; ii. 314, 
KiNGSLEY, Mary, i. 253 ; ii. 91, 
Kipling, Rudyard, ii. 313-17: 

i. 135, 146, 380, 416; ii. 271 

{note) ; Barrack-Room Ballads, i. 

135 ; Just So Stories, ii. 313. 
KiRBY, W. F., The Hero of Es- 

thonia, ii. 260 (note). 
Kirgees, The, ii. 137. 
Kitab al-Aghani, i. 181. 
KiTCHiN, Dean, i. 15; on F.York 

Powell, i. 14 ; Winchester, ii. 

Knapp, Andrew, ii. 163 {note), 168 

Knole, i. 378, 379, 380. 
Knossos, ii. 5. 
Knox, John, i. 212, 272, 273, 

389 ; ii. 24, 109, 139. 
KojONEN, ii. 257. 
Kokoro, Hearn's, i. 331. 
KOLSKEGG, ii. 131. 
Koran, i. 282; ii. 132, 134, 

136, 140, 378. 
KoROA (Maori poet), ii. 250, 251. 
Kbistenssen, E. T., ii. 92 ; F. 

York Powell's translation of 

ballad by, ii. 421-2. 
Kropotkin, Prince P., i. 206, 236. 
Krudener, Mme. de, ii. 124-5, 

125 (note) ; i. 136 ; Ford's Life 

and Letters of, i. 144 (note) ; ii. 

124 (note). 
Kruger, Paul, i. 264, 301. 
KuLLEBVO, ii. 257. 
Kurds, The, ii. 9. 
Kyd, Thomas, i. 114; ii. 305; 

The Works of, edited by F. g. 
Boas, i. 317. 
Kyme [Cyme], ii. 127. 

Labouchere, H., i. 264. 

La Bruyere, J. de, i. 439. 

Lacouperie, Terrien de, ii. 6. 

Lactantius, i. 144. 

Lady Molly, Marriott Watson's, 

i. 393. 
Lady's Lament, The, i. 80. 
Laertes, ii. 259. 
Laertius, see Diogenes Laer- 


La Fontaine, Jean de, i. 271, 

272 ; ii. 20, 276. 
Laforgue, Jules, i. 297. 
La Hire, ii. 106. 
Lainez, D., ii. 148. 
Laing, S., Sea-kings of Norway, 

ii. 222 (note). 
Lamartine de Prat, M. L. A. 

de, ii. 24, 
Lamb, Charles, i.418; ii. 11, 282, 

288, 364. 
Lamoracke de Galis, i. 310. 
Lancelot, Sir, i. 243, 310, 820. 
Landing, C, i. 389. 
Landndma-Bdk, i. 46-8, 61, 93, 99, 

100, 268; ii, 222 (note), 249 

(note), 348. 
Landor, W. S., i. 347; ii. 191, 

313, 358. 
Lanfrey, p., ii. 102. 
Lang, A., i. 288 ; ii. 223 ; Preface 

to Comparetti's Kalevala, ii. 

259-60; 256. 
Langland, Wm., i. 87, 152, 390 ; 

ii. 142, 154, 220, 273, 274-5,324; 

Piers Plowman, i. 275, 410 ; ii. 

Langlois, C.V.,and Seignobos, 

C, Introduction to the Study of 

History, i. 252, 276, 404. 
Languet, Hubert, ii, 116. 
La Rochefoucauld, Due de, i. 

Larpent, H., i. 35 ; ii. 345. 
Lassalle, F., ii. 143. 
Latimer, Hugh, i. 66, 411. 
Latouche, J., ii. 149. 
Laud, Archbp., ii. 122, 160. 
Laughton, J. K., State Papers 

relating to the Defeat of the 



Spanish Armada, 1588, edited 
by, ii. 112 (note). 

Lauka (of Petrarch's Canzoniere), 
i. 143. 

Laukence, ii. 164. 

Lavengro, Borrow's, ii. 281. 

Lawrence, Sir T., i. 392. 

Laws of the Anglo-Saxon Kings, 
edited by F. Liebermann. 

Lawson, C. G., ii. 370. 

Laxdcela Saga, i. 99. 

La YARD, Sir A. H., ii. 5. 

Leader, The, i. 374, 377. 

Leaders of Public Opinion in Ire- 
land, Lecky's, ii, 46. 

Lear, King, i. 28. 

Lebel, Jean, i. 240. 

Lecky, W. E. H., ii. 46-50 ; i. 
182,183,380,410; ii. 2^ {note), 
40 ; Democracy and Liberty, ii. 
48 ; A History of England in the 
Eighteenth Century, ii. 47, 48 ; 
History of European Morals, ii. 
47 ; A History of Ireland in the 
Eighteenth Century, ii. 47 ; 
History of the Rise and Influ- 
ence of the Spirit of Bationalism 
in Europe, ii. 47 ; The Leaders 
of Public Opinion in Ireland, ii. 
46 ; The Map of Life, ii. 49. 

Leconfield, Lord, i. 260. 

Lee, Sidney, ii. 288; F. York 
Powell's Letter to, i. 176. 

Leech, John, i. 12 ; ii. 362. 

Lefevre, ii. 148. 

Lefroy, E. C, Gill's Life of, i. 

Legal Code of Alfred the Great, 
edited by M. H. Turk, ii. 204. 

Leicester, Earl of, ii. 113, 115. 

Leighton, Sir F., ii. 370. 

Leland, C. G. [' Hans Breit- 
mann'], i, 375, 377. 

Leo III, Pope, ii. 205. 

Leo IV, Pope, ii. 207, 208, 220. 

Leo XIII, Pope, i. 270. 

Leonard, R. M., i. 410 (note). 

Leonardo da Vinci, ii. 154. 

Leopardi, Giacomo, Count, ii. 

Leot, i. 102-3. 

Lessing, Life of, Sime's, i. 92. 

Lesson of the Master, James's, 
i. 269. 

Letters, F. York Powell's, to — 

Addleshaw, Percy, i. 333. 

Barnard, F. P., i. 65, 323, 333, 
343, 346, 348-9, 364, 394, 395, 

Beard, Chas., i. 314. 

Blunt, W. S., i. 75-6, 123, 144, 

Boas, F. S., i. 222, 316-17. 

Boas, Mrs. F. S., i. 817, 395-6. 

Bonnier, Chas., i. 353-4, 358-9, 
385-6, 394. 

Clayton, Joseph, i. 221, 247, 

Clodd, Edward, i. 187-8, 288. 

Cockerell, Sydney J., i. 278-4. 

Crawley, J. A., i. 275-6. 

Creighton, M., i. 178-9. 

Creighton, Mrs. M., i. 311-12. 

Dodd, Francis, i. 299, 304-5. 

Elton, Oliver, i. 91-2, 129-30, 
132-3, 140-1, 141-2, 143-4, 
148-9, 151, 155, 159-60, 160-1, 
186-7, 221, 223-4, 227-9, 230-1, 
263-4, 266-7, 268, 271-2, 294, 
299, 302, 315-16, 323-4, 325, 
329-30, 353, 356-7, 381, 382, 
384, 399. 

Elton, Mrs. 0., i. 129, 143. 

Farnell, Ida, i. 89-90, 123, 231- 
2, 399. 

Farr, Florence, i. 131-2. 

Fisher, Herbert, i. 142-3. 

Geoghegan, Miss, i. 258-60, 352. 

Green, Mrs. J. R., i. 141, 181-3, 
221-2, 253, 264-5, 342-3, 395. 

Greene, Herbert, i, 145, 179-80, 

Henley, *W. E., i. 135, 141, 295-6. 

Hines, Wm., i. 177, 224-5. 

Hines, Miss, i. 236. 

Hines, Mrs. Wm., i. 386-7. 

Hyde, Dr. Douglas, i. 279-83. 

Johnstone, A., i. 233-4. 

Ker, W. P., i. 93-4, 96-7, 116- 
17, 123-4, 134, 139-40, 145-7, 
223, 236-7, 242-3, 247-9, 254- 
6, 260-1, 268, 309-10, 323, 378, 
394, 398. 

Lee, Sidney, i. 176. 

Lumsden, Lieut.-Col.,i. 81-2, 114. 

MacCoU, D. S., i. 289-90, 292-3, 

MacColl, Miss, i. 143, 147. 



Letters (continued)— 
Mackay, J. M., L 90-1, 94, 119- 

20, 121, 291-2, 346. 
Maclagan, Eric, i. 320. 
Mellersh, W. L., i. 176. 
Meyer, Kuno, i. 293, 376. 
Murray, Alex., i. 4, 7-8. 
Murray, Charlotte, i. 5-6, 
Pollard, Ella, i. 335, 351-2, 364- 

5, 378-9, 382-3, 393-4. 
Powell, Miss York, i. 287, 293-4, 

Prestage, Edgar, i. 149. 
Punchard, E. G., i. 127-8. 
Rait, R. S., i. 265-7. 
Reece, Mrs., i. 292. 
Shute, Mrs. R., 241-2, 352-3. 
Thomas, Prof., i. 175. 
•Tim,'i. 320-1, 365-8. 
Tout, T. F., i. 249, 270-1. 
Vigfiisson, G., i. 3, 45, 46, 47-8, 

63, 66-9, 85-6, 95-6. 
Warren, T. H., i. 176-7. 
Watson, Mrs. Marriott, i. 269-70, 

294-5, 296-8, 314-15, 822-3, 

325, 341, 347, 355-6, 376, 385, 

392-3 395. 
Wells, H. G., i. 262, 268-9, 274- 

5, 302, 303-4, 310, 319. 
Wilkinson, Spenser, i.246, 288-9. 
Yeats, J. B , i. 171-2, 330-2, 358, 

374-5, 376-8, 383. 
Yeats, Jack B., i. 374, 379, 392. 
Young, Lady, i. 333-4. 
Letters, Pliny's, i. 241. 
Letters of a Portuguese Nun, 

edited by E. Prestage, i. 149, 

150 ; see also Alcofokado, 

Lever, Chas., ii. 81, 193. 
Levy, Amy, i. 128. 
Lewis I, Emp., ii. 206, 207. 
Lewis, Matthew, ['Monk'], ii. 

Licensed Victuallers^ Gazette, i. 

LlDDELL, Dean, i. 254-5 ; 14-15, 

22, 36, 37 (note), 72, 237, 253, 

423 ; ii. 346, 363. 

LiDDISDALE, i. 47. 

LiDDON, H. P., i. 66, 128, 129 ; 
ii. 365-6. 

LlEBERMANN, F., ii. 92, 204. 

LiEBiG, Baron, ii. 178. 

Life and Death of Jason, Morris's, 

i. 235. 
Life and Death of Mr. Badman, 

Bunyan's, ii. 279. 
Lincoln, Abraham, i. 166, 314, 

391 ; Choate's Life of, i. 314. 
Lindsay, Sir David, ii. 276. 
LiUle Eyjolf, Ibsen's, i. 241. 
LiTTRi:, Emile, ii. 38. 
Liudger, St., ii. 233. 
Liverpool, i. 324, 335, 341-2, 343 ; 

University of, i. 117, 118-20, 

315, 346, 354-5. 
Lives, Plutarch's, i. 257, 405. 
LiVY, ii. 24, 86 ; see also Discorsi^ 

Lloyd, Sarah, ii. 167. 
Locke, John, ii. 138, 292. 
LODBBOC, ii. 207, 210-11. 
Lofoten Is., i. 249. 
Loiseleur, ii. 105. 
LoKi, ii. 226-9 ; i. 51 ; ii. 261. 
Lombards, The, ii. 34, 205. 
London, i. 270, 363; ii. 13-14, 

59, 93, 156, 157, 169, 176, 212, 

274, 284 ; University of, i. 120, 

250, 252, 315; ii. 95, 179; 

F. York Powell in, i. 22-3, 43, 

44, 62-4, 284, 350, 352 ; ii. 348. 
London, Jack, i. 392 ; ii. 315. 
London Voluntaries, Henley's, i. 

141 (note). 
LoNOFELLOw, H. W., i. 67, 135, 

391 ; ii. 192. 
LoNQiNUS, i. 418. 
LoNGWORTH, Maria Theresa, 

[Mrs. Yelverton], i. 134. 
LoNNROT, Dr., ii. 257-9. 
Lord Jim, Conrad's, i. 360. 
Lorenzo, see Medici, Lorenzo do. 
Loma Doone, Blackmore's, ii. 319. 
LoRRis, G. de, Roman de la Rose, 

ii. 273. 
Los, Book of, Blake's, i. 133. 
Louis VIII, ii. 157. 
Louis IX [Saint], i. 19, 208 ; ii. 

104, 220, 366 ; Joinville's Ufe 

of, ii. 97. 
Louis XIV, ii. 117. 
Louis XVII, i. 153. 
Louis Philippe, i. 256. 
LovAT, Baron [Fmser], ii. 167. 
Lote is Enough, Morris's, i. 113. 
Low, S., i. 390. 



Lowe, Robert, i. 166. 

Loyola, Ignatiua, ii. 146-9 ; 

i. 66, 136, 142, 388, 389; 

Spiritual Exercises, ii. 146, 148. 
Loyola, St. Ignatius, Rose's, ii. 

i46 (note), 147. 
Lucretius, i. 154, 272 ; ii. 375, 

378, 379 ; De Rentm Natura, i. 

LuMSDEN, Lieut.-Col., i. 81 ; F. 

York Powell's Letters to, i. 80- 

2, 114. 
Lusiad, of Camoens, i. 150. 
Luther, Martin, i. 388, 389 ; ii. 

155, 341, 376. 
Lyall, Sir A. C, i. 190. 
Lyell, Sir Chas., ii. 4. 
Lyra Ueroica, Henley's, i. 134. 
Lytton, Lord, [Bulwer], ii. 180, 


Mab, Queen, i. 260. 

Mahinogion, ii. 181. 

Macaulay, Lord, i. 409, 410 ; 
ii. 18, 20, 24, 28, 35, 39-40, 
63, 191, 193. 

Macaulay, G. C, Froissart, 
ii. 97. 

Macbeth, Miss, i. 364. 

MacCann, Jas., i. 336, 337, 342. 

MacCann, Mrs. J., i. 336. 

MacCarthy, Justin Huntly, i. 
327 ; ii. 299, 379. 

MacCloud. Peter, ii. 168. 

MacColl, D. S., F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i. 289-90, 292-3, 

MacColl, Miss, F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i. 143, 147. 

Mace, Jem, i. 247. 

Macedonia, ii. 8, 130. 

MacFarlane, Jas., ii 168. 

Machiavelli, Niccolo, ii. 14- 
21; i. 136, 152, 170, 197, 201, 
202, 208, 211, 216, 270, 296, 
SOU, 40;i, 407 ; ii. 2, 3, 22, 23 
(note), 24. 26, 86, 107, 132, 
138, 154; Art of War, ii 17, 
20; Belfagor, ii. 20; Life of 
Castruccio Castracani, ii. 21 ; 
Discourses on Livy, ii. 15, 17, 20, 
21, 86; The Mandrake, ii. 20; 
The Prince, ii. 20, 86 ; edited by 
L. A. Burd, 15-19; Villari s 

Life and Times of, ii. 20-21 ; 

i. 135. 
MacIntyre, J, Lewis, Giordano 

Bruno, i. 387 (note). 
Mackay, J. M., i. 140, 315, 316, 

346 ; F. York Powell's Letters 

to, i. 90-91, 94, 119-21, 291-2, 

Mackinder, Principal, on F. 

York Powell, i. 192-3. 
Mackley (convict), ii. 169. 
Maclaoan. Eric, i. 395 ; F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 320. 
Macleod, Fiona, [William 

Sharp], i. 330. 
Macmillan, ii. 60, 66. 
MacMullan, S. J., i. 316. 
Macpherson, Jas., ii 11. 
Madagascar, ii. 282. 
Madan, a. C, i. 426. 
Madox, Thomas, ii 92. 
Madvig, J. N., i 35. 
Maeterlinck, Maurice, i 132, 

134; Poems translated by F. 

York Powell, ii 414-15 ; i 296. 
Magda,i. 289. 

Magnusson, Ame, i 34, 35, 78. 
Mahomet, ii. 131-3 ; i 136, 315 ; 

ii 134, 135, 136, 137, 376. 
Mahometans, The, i 26; ii. 87, 

135. 136, 150. 
Maine, Sir Hy., ii 91. 
Maintenon, Mme. de, i 301. 
Maitland, F. W., i. 200, 224 ; 

ii 7, 93, 137, 138, 141, 142. 
Making of England, Green's, ii. 65. 
Mallarme, Stephane, i 158, 

215, 360, 455, 459 ; on F. York 

Powell, i 157-8 ; Oxford, Cam- 
bridge : La Musique et les LettreSf 

i 158 (note). 
Malory, Sir Thomas, i 29, 310 ; 

Morte Darthur, i 275. 
Malthus, T. R., ii. 2. 
Manchester, i 128-9, 247, 367, 

376 ; F. York Powell's Lecture 

in Ancoats, ii. 1-13 ; i 188, 197, 

380, 383-4, 405-6. 
Manchester Guardian, i 136, 223, 

243, 249, 276,277, 356 ; see also 

Preface and Reviews passim. 
Mandrake, Machiavelli's, ii. 20. 
Manet, E., i 247 ; ii. 328. 
Mangaia, ii 249, 250-1. 



Mangan, Jas. Clarence, i. 185, 

265 ; ii. 192, 299. 
Manin, Daniele, i. 128. 
Manning, Marie, i. 146. 
Manon Lescaut, i. 305. 
Manresa, ii 148. 
Mansel, Hy. L., ii. 55. 
Mantegna, Andrea, ii. 276. 
Manx Note-Book, by G.Vigfusson 

and E. Savage, ii. 349. 
Maoris, The, i. 129, 391 ; ii. 247-8. 
Map of Life, Lecky's, ii. 49. 
Marathon, Battle of, ii. 127. 
Marc, i. 310. 
Marcellinxts, ii. 222. 
Marcianus Capella, Marriage 

of Philology, ii. 273. 
Marco Polo, ii. 144. 
Marden, Battle of, ii. 210. 
Margueritte, Paul, La Force 

des Choses, i. 148. 
Maria Louisa, of France, ii. 

100, 101. 
Marie, de France, i. 201. 
'Mark Twain,' see Clemens, 

Marlborough, Duke of, ii. 164. 
Marlowe, Christopher, i. 389 ; 

ii. 116 ; Edward the Second, 

i. 381 ; Doctor Faustus, ii. BOQ ; 

The Jew of Malta, ii. 309; 

Tamburlaine the Great, ii. 309. 
Marriage of Philology, by Mar- 
cianus Capella, ii. 273. 
Marryat, Capt. F., i. 135 ; ii. 

81, 180, 193, 281, 309, 366. 
Marshall, Wm., Earl of Pem- 
broke, ii. 92, 115, 203. 
Marsilius, of Padua, ii. 138, 140. 
Martin, Sir Theodore, ii. 191. 
Martyrs, Book of, Foxe's, ii. 278. 
Marx, Karl, ii. 11, 143. 
Mary Magdalene, i. 379. 
Mary I, Queen, ii. 157. 
Mary II, Queen, ii. 296. 
Mary, Queen of Scots, i. 197 ; ii. 

107, 139; Casket Sonnets of, 

i. 265-7. 
Mary Queen of Scots, Fleming's, 

reviewed by F. York Povrell, ii. 

Mary Stuart, Schiller's, i. 141. 
Masoudi, Aboul Hassan Ali, ii. 


Mather, C, i. 390. 
Matilda, Empress, ii, 157. 
Matilda, Queen, ii. 157. 
Matthys [Matthyszoon, J.l, i. 

Mauclair, Camille, i. 296 ; 

F. York Powell's translation of 

poem by, ii. 416-17. 
Maud, Queen, see Matilda, 

Maugis of Asprement, i. 147. 
Maupassant, Guy de, ii. 310, 

314 ; Une Vie, i. 145. 
Maurer, Conrad von, i. 34 ; ii. 345. 
Maurice, J. F. D., ii. 56. 
May, Phil, i. 385 ; ii. 315, 370. 
Mayhew, Hy., i. 300 ; ii. 85. 
Mayne, J. D., i. 190. 
Mazzini, G., ii. 22-3 ; i. 21, 136, 

152,313; ii. 16,17, 311. 
Meaning of History, F. Harrison's, 

reviewed by F. York Powell, 

ii. 25-6. 
Medici, Family of, ii. 110. 
Medici, Alessandro de, ii. 154. 
Medici, Catherine de, i. 208 ; ii. 

Medici, Cosmo de, ii. 20. 
Medici, Giovanni de, [Giovanni 

delle Bande Nere], ii. 107. 
Medici, Lorenzo de, ii. 154. 
Med WIN, T., i. 134. 
Meinhold, Aurel, ii. 304. 
Meinhold, Wilhelm, ii. 302-9 ; 

i. 222, 223, 417 ; ii. 271 (note), 

295 ; The Amber Witch, ii. 

303-5, 309 ; The Cloister Witch, 

ii. 303, 304, 305-8 ; Der getreue 

Bitter, ii. 304. 
Melbourne, Viscount, i. 316 ; 

ii. 184. 
Mellersh, W. L., on F. York 

Powell, i. 164-8; F. York 

Powell's Letter to, i. 176. 
Melville, Herman, ii. 193. 
Memoirs of a Cavalier, Defoe's, 

ii. 287, 288, 302. 
Mimoires de la Soci^t^ des Anti- 

quaires du Nord, i. 47. 
Mercator, Defoe's, ii. 286. 
Meredith, George, i. 227-9 ; i. 

118, 135, 291, 353, 358, 360, 

419; ii. 23, 152,312, 314, 317, 

326, 362; The Amazing Mar- 



riage, i. 228, 229 ; Modem Love, 

i. 227, 228; ii. 192; Rhoda 

Fleming, i. 227 ; Richard Feverel, 

i. 227 ; Sandra Belloni, i. 228 ; 

The Shaving of Shagpat, i. 227 ; 

Vittoria, i. 228; on F. York 

Powell, i. 225-6. 
Merlin, i. 243, 310. 
Merrill, Stuart, i. 390. 
Meskard, of Padova, i. 146. 
Mesopotamia, ii. 7. 
Meteyards, The, ii. 167. 
Metternich, Prince, ii. 124, 
Meung, Jean de, [Clopinel], 

Roman de la Rose, i. 146 ; ii. 273. 
Meunier, L., i. 358. 
Mexico, i. 41. 
Meyer, Kuno, i. 186, 340, 355 ; 

Cdin Adamndin, i. 376 ; F. York 

Powell's Letters to, i. 293, 876. 
Meyer, Paul, ii. 92. 
Michelangelo, i. 371 ; ii. 86, 

154, 276. 
MiCHELET, Jules, ii. 24, 82, 309. 
Milan, King, i. 277-8. 
Mill, J. S., i. 152, 278, 313 ; ii. 

47, 50, 190, 325, 330. 
MiLLAis, Sir J. E., ii. 327, 370. 
Milton, John, i. 54, 134, 373, 

389; ii. 25, 41,42,45, 119,121, 

276, 277, 292, 331; Comus, i. 

297; Paradise Lost, ii. 279; 

Paradise Regained, ii. 279 ; Satn- 

son Agonistes, ii. 117. 
Milton, Raleigh's, i. 310. 
Minos, ii. 5. 
MiNOT, Laurence, i. 275. 
MiRABEAU, Comte de, ii. 17. 
Mist's Weekly Journal, ii. 286. 
Moberly, C. E., i. 9. 
MoBius, T., i. 34; ii. 345; with 

Vigfusson, Fornsdgur, ii. 346. 
Modem Love, Meredith's, i. 227, 

228 ; ii. 192. 
Modem Painters, Ruskin's, ii. 327. 
MoGK, Prof., i. 99, 142. 
Mohacs, Battle of, ii. 136. 
MoHUN, Baron, ii. 170. 
MoLiERE, i. 35, 97, 272 ; Tartuffe, 

ii. 845. 
MoP Flanders. Defoe's, L 272 ; ii. 

MoLTKE, Count, i. 256 ; ii. 11, 

153, 198, 

MoMMSEN, T., i. 195 ; ii. 40, 67 ; 
The Historif of Rome, ii. 26. 

Monasterboice, i. 336, 338, 340, 

Monmouth, Duke of, ii. 118, 284. 

Montaigne, M. E. de, i. 20, 271, 
334, 388-9, 390, 457 ; ii. 17, 55. 

MoNTECUCULi, R. de, ii. 22. 

Montenegro, ii. 197. 

Montesquieu, Chas. de, ii. 91. 

MoNTFORT, Simon de, ii. 45, 105, 
137, 203 ; Button's Life of, ii. 

Monticelli, M. a., i. 358. 

Montpensier, Duke of, i. 415. 

Montrose, Marquis of, i. 393; 

Moore, G., Mummer's Wife, i. 94. 

Moore, Thomas, ii. 191. 

More, Sir Thomas, i. 202 ; ii 121, 

Morel-Fatio, a., i. 416. 

MoRFiLL, W. R., i 215 (note). 

Morgan Le Fay, i. 310. 

MoRisoN, J. Cotter, i. 227. 

MoRLEY, John, i. 264. 

MoRNAY, Philippe de, ii. 116. 

Morris, Wm., i. 234-7 ; 21, 67, 
106, 121, 147, 177, 208, 217, 
218, 229, 312, 373, 411, 450, 
460 ; ii. 11, 28, 93, 256, 266-7, 
326, 327 ; 27ie Defence of Guene- 
vere, i. 235 ; The Dream of John 
Ball,i. 235 ; The EaHhly Para- 
dise, i. 235 ; The Life and Death 
of Jason, i. 235; Love is 
Enough, i. 113. 

Morte Darthur, i. 243, 804; Ma- 
lory's, i. 275. 

Mortimer, Roger, i. 381. 

Morton, Chas., ii 284. 

Morton, Nicholas, i. 266. 

Moses, i. 216, 263, 332; ii 5, 272. 

Motley, J. L., i. 410 ; ii. 82. 

Mountain, T., ii 168. 

Muallakat, The, ii. 136. 

Mtimmer's Wife, G. Moore's, i. 94. 

Munch, P. A., ii. 31. 

MuNRO, H. A. J., i. 154 (note). 

Munzer, Thos., ii. 138. 

MURILLO, B. S., ii 111. 

Murray, Alex., i 4, 377 ; ii. 96 ; 
F. York Powell's Letters to, i. 



Murray, Charlotte, i. 377; F. 

York Powell's Letter to, i. 5-6. 
Murray, Elsie, i. 5, 6. 
Murray, Emily, i. 5-6. 
Murray, John, ii. 23 {note). 
Murray, John D., i. 7. 
Murray. John P., i. 249. 
Musical Criticisms, A. Johnstone's, 

i. 92 (note). 
Mycenae, i. 191. 
Mystery of Pain, Hinton's, i. 127. 

Napier, A. S., i. 255 (note) ; ii. 82, 

190, 205. 
Naples, i. 405. 
Napoleon I, Emp., ii. 99-104 ; 

i. 11-12, 136, 202, 240, 246, 

250, 270, 326, 389, 404, 405, 

408 ; ii. 19, 79, 80, 86, 99 (note), 

120, 151, 163, 173, 338. 
Napoleon III, ii. 67. 
Nardi, J., ii. 21. 
Nash, Joseph, ii. 182. 
Nasibr, Alcofribas, i. 145; ii. 

Nathan, the Prophet, i. 242. 
National Observer, The, i. 134, 136. 
Navan, i. 336, 339, 340, 341. 
Nazarbek, Avetis, Through the 

Storm, ii. 199-200 ; i. 276 ; ii. 

194 {note), 195. 
Nebuchadnezzar, ii. 5. 
Neighbours of Ours, Ne Vinson's, 

i. 224. 
Neilos, St., iL 129. 
Nelson, Viscount, i. 140, 248, 

256 {note), 384, 405; ii 120, 

164, 203, 219. 
Nero, Emp., i. 418. 
Netherlands, The, i. 17, 248-9 ; 

ii. Ill, 150, 182, 213, 293, 327. 
Nettleship, J. T., ii. 374. 
Nettleship, R. L., ii. 144. 
Neustria, ii. 217. 
Neveu de Rameau, Diderot's, i. 64 ; 

ii. 295. 
Nevinson, Hy. W^ Neighbours of 

Ours, i. 224. 
New Domestic Medicine, Dr. Dur- 
ham's, ii. 165. 
New England, i. 249. 
Neu> Evangelical Family Bible, 

Dr. Priestley's, ii. 165. 
New Pilgrimage, Blunt's, i. 123. 

New Voyage round the World, 

Defoe's, ii. 287. 
New . . . Wondetftd Magazine, 

Granger's, ii. 165. 
New Zealand, i. 63, 320, 337, 340 ; 

ii. 176, 230, 248, 250. 
Newgate Calendar, Wm. Jackson's, 

ii. 165-9 ; i. 134 ; ii. 291. 
Newman, Cardinal, i. 245, 872, 

422 ; ii. 181. 
Newton, Sir Isaac, ii. 50, 164, 

293 ; Principia, ii. 15. 
Ney, Michel, li 104. 
Nibelungenlied, ii. 264-6 ; i. 19, 

416; ii. 258. 
NiCEPHORAS, Emp., iL 131. 
Nicholas, St., ii. 144. 
Nicholas I, Emp., ii. 177. 
Nichols, John, ii. 142. 
Nicholson, Wm., (artist), ii. 370. 
Nicholson, Wm., (poet), ii. 192. 
Nicolas, J. B., i. 327 ; ii. 379. 
NiEBUHR, B. G., ii. 7. 31, 190. 
Nietzsche, F., i. 233, 361, 399, 

Nigger of Narcissus, Conrad's, i. 

NiMROD, ii. 144. 
Nine Worthies, Glassinberry's, i. 

Nineveh, ii. 13. 
Njalssaga, i. 42 ; translated by 

Sir G. Dasent, i. 11, 30. 
Noah, i. 243. 

NoDiEB, Charles, L 449 {note). 
Noel, Roden, i. 148, 155, 285. 
Noldeke, T., ii. 133. 
Norman Conquest, History of the, 

Freeman's, ii. 30, 31. 
Normanby, Lord, ii. 189. 
Normans, The, i. 205, 339 ; ii. 34, 

105, 156. 
Norsemen, The, i. 41, 62, 79, 249, 

376, 391; ii. 206, 207, 214, 

' North, Christopher,' ii. 194, see 

Wilson, John. 
North, Sir Thomas, i. 61 ; P?«- 

farcfe'sLnes translated by, i. 221 

(note), 372 ; ii. 3, 97. 
North American Review, i. 257. 
Northumbria, ii. 206, 207, 210. 
Norway, i. 36, 49, 249 ; ii. 214, 

226, 230, 234, 302, 345. 



Norwich, i. 247. 

Note-book, Bracton'a, edited by 
F. W. Maitland, i. 200. 

Notre - Dame de Paris, Victor 
Hugo's, ii. 309. 

Nottingham, ii. 209. 

NuTT, A., ii. 223 ; The Celtic Doc- 
trine of Rebirth, i. 186. 

NuTT, David, i. 150. 

Ny Fdagsrit, ii. 345. 

Oakey, Family of, ii. 115. 

Oaky, Dick, ii. 168. 

Oastleb, Rd., ii. 188. 

Obi, ii. 235. 

O'Brien, Anthony, ii. 298. 

O'Brien, Wm. Smith, i. 185. 

OcKHAM, Wm., ii. 138. 

O'CoNNELL, Daniel, ii. 189-90; 
ii. 46, 295. 

O'Connor, Fergiis, i. 185. 

O'Connor, Patrick, i. 146. 

O'CuRRY, Eugene, ii. 297-8 ; i. 

Odes, of Pindar, ii. 249. 

O'Donovan, John, i. 332. 

Odysseus, see Ulysses. 

Odyssey, The, ii. 258-60 ; i. 156 ; 
ii. 279. 

Offa, King of Mercia, ii. 205. 

Ogie, Sir, F. York Powell's trans- 
lation of Ballad of, ii. 395-9; 
i. 83 ; ii. 373 (noU). 

O'GiLLAN, Enoch, i. 379 {note). 

Ohod, ii. 136. 

Olave, King, ii. 400, 406. 

Old English Chronicles, i. 19, 209, 
275 ; ii. 30, 156, 205, 213. 

Old English History for Children, 
Freeman's, ii. 31. 

Old Stories from British History, 
York Powell's, i. 28. 

Oldham, John, ii. 292. 

Oldys, Wm., ii. 119. 

O'Leary, John, i. 221, 222, 339, 
343, 375. 

Olrik, Hans, i. 115. 

Omai, the Otaheitan, ii, 250. 

Omar KhayyAm, ii. 373-9; i. 
179, 321, 327-8, 347, 357, 412, 
421 ; ii. 135 ; Rubdiydt trans- 
lated by :— F. York Powell, ii. 
379-84; i. 106, 108, 327; ii. 
373 {note); FitzGerald, E., 

ii. 373, 378, 379 ; Greene, Her- 
bert, ii. 379 ; McCarthy, J. H., 
ii. 299, 379 ; Nicolas, J. B., ii. 
379; Payne, John, ii. 378; 
Lines after Omar, by F. York 
Powell, ii. 384-5. 

Omdurman, Battle of, i. 259. 

Onions, J. H., i. 427. 

Oquendo, Miguel de, ii. 111. 

Orchardson, Chas. Q., i. 253, 

Origines Islandicae, edited by G. 
Vigfiisson and F. York Powell, 
i. 99-106; 39,47,77,79,81,82, 
92, 93, 95, 112, 172, 238, 381, 
422 ; ii. 345, 348. 

Orkney Islands, ii. 217, 222, 

Orkneyinga Saga, edited by G. 
Vigfiisson, ii. 347. 

Orleans, House of, i. 153. 

Oroonoko, Aphra Behn's, i. 271. 

Orosius, p., i. 82 ; Historiae trans- 
lated by Alfred, ii. 204, 213. 

Orpen, Goddard, i. 140, 414 

Orpen, Mrs. Goddard, on F. York 
Powell, i. 419. 

Orran, i. 301. 

OsBXTRH, ii, 208. 

O'Shea, Katherine, see Parnell, 
Mrs. C. S. 

OsLAC, ii. 208. 

Ossian, i. 28 ; ii. 258, 298. 

OssuR, ii. 403-6. 

Othello, Shakespeare's, ii. 106. 

Othere, ii. 213. 

Othman I, ii. 10. 

Otho I, Emp., ii. 129. 

Owen, Sidney J., i. 16, 22, 27 ; 
ii. 54. 

Owen, Trevor, ii. 54. 

Oxford, University of, i. 91, 116- 
17, 273-4, 315, 318-19, 333, 
352-3, 359; i. 361, 438; ii. 13, 
67, 70, 179, 180, 343. 
P. York Powell's Life and 
Work at, i. 14-22, 23, 27, 44, 
45, 64, 70-77, 94, 118-20, 172- 
5, 195-7, 213-16, 223, 268, 
269, 350, 355-7, 368, 382, 421- 
3; ii. 75-6, 347; described 
by : — Anonymous Students, i. 
207-13; Blunt, H. W., 162-4; 




Bonnier, Charles, i. 430, 455- 
61 ; Delegates of the Claren- 
don Press, i. 218-19; Edwards, 
Owen, i. 197-200; Fisher, 
Herbert, i 200-3; Hugon, 
Cecile, i. 369-73; Mellersh, 
W. L., i. 164-8; Oxford 
Magazine, i, 217-18 ; Paget, 
Bp., i. 423-6 ; Poole, Dr. R. L., 
i. 84-5 ; Prestage, Edgar, i. 
150 ; Punchard, Canon, i. 18- 
19 ; Rait, Robert S., i. 203-6 ; 
Strong, Dean, i. 426-9. 
Life and Work of Creighton at, 
i. 311 ; of Dodgsonat, ii. 863-6 ; 
of Freeman at, ii. 29-30, 36 ; 
of Gardiner at, ii. 38-9 ; of 
Green at, ii. 53-5; of Shute 
at, ii. 352-61 ; of Vigfusson at, 
i. 36-7, 43-4, 95-6, 98; ii. 
Clarendon Press, i. 215-19 ; 
Dante Society, i. 152 ; Rabelais 
Club, i. 144 ; Ruskin College, 
i. 306-8, 394, 399 ; Schools of 
English and Modem Languages, 
i. 116-18; School of History, 
i. 188-92 ; 250, 252 ; ii. 66, 95 ; 
Tariff Reform League, i. 313, 

Oxford during the last Century, 
J. R. Green's, ii. 65. 

Oxford Book of Verse, Quiller- 
Couch's, i. 217, 310. 

Oxford Chronicle, i. 189 ; ii. 55. 

Oxford Magazine, i. 174, 217-18. 

Oxford, Earl of, ii. 285. 

OxFOBD, A. W., ii. 161, 162. 

Page, Wm., ii. 167. 
Pageant, The, i. 327 ; il 379. 
Pagenham, Family of, ii. 115. 
Paget, Bp., on F, York Powell, 

i. 423-6. 
Paget. H. M., i. 96, 140, 148, 

149, 223 ; ii. 349 
Paget, Walter, i. 305. 
Pain, Jim, i. 269, 275, 304, 310, 

Paine, Tom, i. 254. 
Pala VICING, Sir Horatio, ii. 113. 
Palestine, ii. 148. 
Palgrave, Sir Francis, ii. 181, 


Pall Mall Gazette, i. 136, 389, 391 ; 

ii. 72. 
Pall Mall Magazine, i. 293. 
Palm, J. P., ii. 103. 
Palmer, Samuel, ii. 370. 
Palmer, Wm., of Rugeley, i. 134, 

Palmenn of England, ii. 320. 
Palmerston, Lord, ii. 184-6; 

2, 186, 188. 
Pamplona, ii. 148. 
Papacy during the Reformation, 

History of the, Creighton's, ii. 

Paradise Lost, Milton's, ii. 279. 
Paradise Regained, Milton's, ii. 

Parerga und Paralipomena, Scho- 
penhauer's, i. 46. 
Paris, i. 182, 201, 370, 398; ii. 

13, 139, 148, 152, 203; Ecole 

des Chartes, i. 190, 250-1, 

Paris, Gaston, i. 40, 363. 
Paris, Matthew, i. 275. 
Parker, Martin, ii. 266. 
Parma, Duke of, ii. 114. 
Parnell, C. S., i. 134, 183-4, 313. 
Parnell, Mrs. C. S., i. 184. 
Parsees, The, ii. 196. 
Parthia, ii. 126-7; i. 136; ii 7. 
Pascal, Blaise, i. 271, 370, 389; 

ii. 25, 147, 280 ; Pensies, i. 272, 

Pasolini Dall' Onda, Count, 

ii. 108. 
Passade, Une, 'Willy's,' i. 224, 

Paston Letters, The, i. 68-9. 
Pastoral Care, Gregory's, trans- 
lated by Alfred, ii. 204, 213. 
Patagonia, ii. 282. 
' Patch, Old,' see Price, Chas. 
Pater, Walter, i. 158-9, 372, 

Paton, Sir Noel, ii. 362. 
Patrick, St., i. 339. 
Patboclus, ii. 241. 
Pattison, Mark, i. 74, 214, 318, 

Paul* St., i. 159,264,282. 
Paulicians, The, ii. 206. 
Paulus Diaconus, i. 52, 59, 61, 




Payne, Jolin, Quatmins of Omar 
Khayyam, translated by, ii. 378. 

Peacock, T. L., i. 135; ii. 191. 

Pearson, Dr. Karl, ii. 3 ; Gram- 
mar of Science, i. 241. 

Peel, Sir Robert, ii. 185, 187. 

Peer Gynt, Ibsen's, i. 131. 

Pelerinage de la Vie Humaine, 
Deguilleville's, ii. 273. 

Pellinore, i. 288. 

Pembroke, Earl of, see Her- 
bert, Wm. 

Pembroke, Earldom of, ii. 115. 

Penlez, Bosavern, ii. 167. 

Penny Magazine, The, ii. 194. 

Pens^es, Pascal's, i. 272, 372. 

Penseroso, II, Milton's, ii 49. 

Penshurst, i. 114, 115, 378. 

Peppercorn, A. D., i. 392. 

Pepys, Samuel, i. 372. 

Pepys, Mrs. Sam., i. 372. 

Perceval, Sir, i. 243 ; ii. 320. 

Percy, Family of, ii. 115. 

Percy, Thomas, ii. 165 ; Reliques, 
i. 50. 

Pereira, F. de Arteaga y, on 
F. York Powell, i. 415-16. 

Pericles, i. 391 ; ii. 5. 

Perreau (forger), ii. 169. 

Persia, i. 206 ; iL 5, 6, 102, 134, 
135, 136, 195, 198. 

Perthes, Boucher de, ii. 4. 

Peru, i. 41. 

Peter, the Great, ii. 220 ; Defoe's 
History of, ii. 287. 

Petersen, Niel M., i. 35. 

Petrarch, 143, 146, 147, 227, 
232, 371. 

Petrie, Flinders, ii. 5. 

Pharaohs. The, i. 418 ; ii. 5. 

Philip II, of Spain, ii. 134, 157, 

Philip II of Spain, Hume's, re- 
viewed by F. York Powell, ii. 

Philippe, Duke of Orleans, Re- 
gent, i. 240. 

Philo, De Vita Contemplativa, 
i. 187. 

Philoctetes, ii. 259. 

Phoenicians, The. ii. 34. 

Picardy, i. 347, 348. 

Pico della Mirandola, i. 389 ; 

Picton (criminal), ii. 167. 

Picts, The, ii. 206. 216. 

Piers Plotvman, Langland's, ii. 

274-5 ; i. 275, 410. 
PiETRO, of Arezzo, see Aretino, 

Pilgrim's Progress, Bunyan's, ii. 

278-9 ; i. 305 ; ii. 275. 
Pindar, ii. 127 ; Odes, i. 238 (note) ; 

ii. 250. 
Pink'Un, 27i€, i. 419. 
Pinwell, G. J., i. 228 ; ii. 370. 
Pitt, Wm., ii. 55, 164. 
Pius II, Pope, ii. 51. 
Pius V, Pope, ii. 139. 
Plan of English Commerce, Defoe's, 

ii. 287. 
Plato, i. 180, 281, 282, 286, 306 ; 
ii. 37, 128, 276, 277, 329; 
Dialogues, i. 241. 
Pliny, Letters, i. 241. 
Plummer, C, ii. 205. 
Plunket, Count, i. 336. 
Plutarch, i. 180, 191, 314, 344 ; 
ii. 3, 81. 117, 121, 166 ; Lives, 
i. 257, 405 ; translated by Sir T. 
North, i. 221 {note) ; ii. 3. 97. 
PoE, Edgar Allan, ii. 191, 193, 309. 
Poems, F. York Powell's, Index 
of First Lines : — 
A little sadly, but how tenderly, 

ii. 387. 
A Picard village set on high, ii. 

A stretch of sea, a shore of sand, 
ii. 389. 

Across the buckthorns' tangled 
brake, ii. 389. 
All in a good sea-boat, my boys, 

ii. 417. 
Amice mi, i. 303. 
And if he ever should come 
back, ii. 414. 

Another friar that dares to think 
and write ! i. 159. 
As me and my wife was a-walk- 
ing one day, ii. 419. 
Daughter, daughter, open the 

door! ii. 416. 
Dixit Frater Ignoramus— ii. 271. 
Drink and be merry, let the 
bigots yell ! ii. 384. 
Fair blooms the world, but its 
fairness grows old-ii. 407. 




Poems (continued) — 
For there 's no Need to found, ii. 

Go down to the river, my dear 

good man : ii. 409. 
God bless this house and all 

within ! ii. 409. 
God's curse upon the plumber ! 

i. 130. 

Guess Who ! ii. 894. 
He that made the Fox's rhymes, 

ii. 409. 

He 's a starboard light in his lar- 
board eye, i. 379. 
I stand on the dune with the 

Old Fort on my left hand, ii. 390. 
In Norway there dwells a chris- 
tened man, ii. 400. 
It is hard for me to raise my 

tongue, ii. 238. 
It was upon a Thursday night, 

when all the clocks struck ten, 

Khayyam, that used to stitch the 

tents of Thought, ii. 379. 
Lady, whose polished Penne and 

careful Hande, i. 232. 
Lovely maid in gown of red, ii. 

My strokes are very big and 

queer, ii. 408. 
My Tent-maker of Naishapiir, 

and he, ii. 385. 
New Year ! new Foes and old to 

face or fly ; ii. 391. 
Nine barns have I and nineteen 

cows, ii. 409. 
Now I 'm clad and stand upright, 

ii. 408. 
King of Glory ! Pure and 

very Light ! ii. 411. 
Poor playthings of the man that's 

gone, ii. 393. 
Sails on the summer sea, ii. 392. 
Salutationes nunc novennales 

scribo, i. 333. 
She 's nine years old, the little 

girl, ii. 408. 
Strong hand, true heart, sweet 

song were thine indeed ; ii. 386. 
The Buik I send ye 's no com- 
plete : i. 301. 
The night is nigh, the sun is set, 

ii. 410. 

Poems (continued) — 
The pretty maid, she died, she 

died, ii. 417. 
The sky above the high roof-tree, 

ii. 414. 
The weather out of doors is wet 

to-day, ii. 408. 
There lives a witch in Weary 

Wood, ii. 391. 
There sat three maidens intil 

their hour, ii. 395. 
They dress'd in silks and satins 

rare, ii. 393. 
Thirty years I've sought him, 

Sisters, ii. 415. 
This pen it suits me very well, 

ii. 408. 
This we say of Sigurd blind : 

i. 374. 
Thou worthy Nurse of many a 

noble Son, ii. 412. 
Though hoof should slip and 

snap go girth, ii. 409. 
Though I've only one good leg, 

ii. 409. 
'Twas early in the morning, ii. 

'Twas in a wood my love and I, 

ii. 410. 
Warm gusty showers their gen- 
tle drops have doled, ii. 388. 
What is that path, come, tell 

me true, ii. 409. 
When the barons built homes 

like St. Briavel's, i. 351. 
White clouds were coursing o'er 

the sunlit morning sky : ii. 386. 
Wroth was Wing-Thor when he 

wakened, ii. 226. 
You may hear the Bogie call, 

ii. 409. 
Poems and Ballads, Swinburne's, 

i. 65; ii. 76, 311. 
Poland, i. 278; ii. 9, 115,164. 
Pole, Cardinal, ii. 160. 
Political History of the Devil, De- 
foe's, ii. 287. 
Political Theories of the Middle 

Age, Gierke's, reviewed by F. 

York Powell, ii. 137-42; i. 

Politics, Aristotle's, ii. 15, 17. 
PoLiziANo, Angelo, i. 389. 
Pollard, Ella, F. York Powell's 



Letters to, i. 335, 351-2, 364-5, 

378-9, 382-3, 393-4. 
PoLLEXFEN, Geo., i. 331, 445. 
Pollock, Sir Fred., i. 128. 
PoUronismus rerum Italicarum, 

ii. 20. 
PoLYBius, ii. 2, 26, 42, 43. 

POLYEUCTES, ii. 129. 

Polynesia, ii 224, 225, 234, 260. 
PoMBAL, Marquis de, ii. 17, 151. 
Pompeii, ii 6. 

Pons, Cousin, Balzac's, i. 144. 
Poole, Dr. R. L., i. 178 ; ii 95 ; 

on F. York PoweU, i. 84^5. 
Poor Jack, ii, 341. 
Pope, Alexander, ii. 140, 165, 

Popovic, Aljoscha, ii. 257. 
Portugal, ii 149-51; i 11, 136, 

149, 150 ; ii 9, 94. 
Portugal, H. M. Stephens's, ii 

149 (note). 
* Postlethwaite,' ii. 328. 

POTIPHAR, i 181. 

Potter, Beatrice [Mrs. S. Webb], 
ii. 93. 

Powell, Frederick, i 2, 94, 434. 

Powell, Mrs. Frederick, i 386, 
391, 398. 

CoBRESPONDENCE of, 866 Let- 
ters; Miscellaneous Writ- 
ings by, see Table of Contents, 
voL ii and Catalogue of Writ- 
ings ; Occasional Verses by, 
see Table of Contents, vol. ii. and 
Poems (Index of First Lines) ; 
Works, written or edited by, 
see Catalogue of Writings. See 
also Oxford and Vigfusson. 

Powell, Mrs. F. York, i. 22, 94, 

Powell, 'C York, i. 64, 72, 92, 
95, 148, 156, 176, 183, 248, 259, 
321, 326, 331, 347, 349, 352, 
355, 361, 364, 365, 366, 367, 
379, 393; F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i 287, 293-4, 340-1. 

Power, Frank, ii. 106. 

Power, Mary, ii. 350. 

Praeterita, Ruskin's, ii 330. 

Prendergast, J. P., i 183. 

Prescott, Wm. H., ii 82. 

Pbestage, Edgar, on F. York 

Powell, i. 150 ; F. York Powell's 

Letter to, i. 149. 
Priam, ii. 5. 

Price, Prof., i. 47 ; ii. 347. 
Price, Charles ['Old Patch'], ii 

Price, L. L., i 174 {note) ; on F. 

York Powell, i. 397. 
Priestley, Dr. Joseph, New 

Evangelical Family Bible, ii. 165. 
Prim, Juan, i 415. 
Primers of History and Literature, 

edited by J. R. Green, ii. 66. 
Prince, The, see infra. 
Principe, II, Machiavelli's, ii. 20, 

86 ; L. A. Burd's edition of, 

reviewed by F. York Powell, ii. 

15-19; 14 {note). 
Principia, Newton's, ii. 15. 
Prinsep, James, ii 7. 
Procter, B. W., i 135. 
Proctor, H. B., ii. 320. 
Prolegomena, to Sturlunga Saga, 

see Sturlunga Saga. 
Prometheus, ii 226. 
Proteus, Love-Lyrics and Songs of, 

Blunt's, i 181. 
Prothero, R. E., ii 23 {note). 
Prout, Samuel, ii 182. 
Provence, i. 89, 280. 
Prudentius, C. a., ii. 222. 
Prussia, i 202 ; ii 103, 153. 
Prynne, Wm., ii 7. 
Psalms, Book of, i. 94; ii. 213. 
Pucelle, Voltaire's, i 353. 
PuLci, Luigi, i 147. 
Pulling, F. S., i. 237. 
Punchard, Canon, on F. York 

Powell, i. 18-19; F. York 

Powell's Letter to, i 127-8. 
Purser, Miss, i. 358. 
PusEY, Dr. E. B., i 66, 458. 
Pyle, Howard, ii 320. 
Pym, John, ii. 44. 

Quarterly Review, The, i. 342; ii. 

Quarto, The, i 261 ; ii. 271. 
QuEENSBERRY, Duchess of, ii. 

Quental, Anthero de, i. 149, 150. 
Qu]6telet, L. a. J., ii. 2, 3. 


ii. Ill, 280. 



QuiLLER-CouCH, A. T„ Oxford 
Book of Verse, i. 217, 310. 

Rabelais, Fran9oi8, i. 389, 180, 
300, 310, 327, 328, 388, 390, 
456 ; ii. 18, 155, 375, 376, 377. 

Racine, Jean, i. 370. 

Radley, i. 413 {note). 

Raebukn, Sir Hy., i. 392 ; ii. 

Rait, Robert S., i. 226 (n«««), 267 ; 
on F. York Powell, i. 203-6; 
F. York Powell's Letters to, i. 

Rajputs, The, ii. 135. 

Ralegh, Sir Walter, ii. 24, 51, 
116, 157. 

Ralegh, Sir Walter, and the 
British Dominion of the West, 
Hume's, reviewed by F. York 
Powell, ii. 119-21. 

Ralegh, Walter, the Younger, 
ii. 121. 

Raleigh, Prof. Walter, Milton, i. 

Ralph, the Ganger, i. 19. 

Rameses, ii. 5. 

Ran (sea-goddess), ii. 226. 

Randolph, Thomas, ii. 123. 

Ranke, Leopold von, i. 403 ; ii. 
40, 42, 67. 

Rann, the coachman, ii. 168. 

Rape of Lucrece, Shakespeare's, i. 

Raphael, da Urbino, i. 363, 364, 
366 ; ii. 154. 

Raratonga, ii. 250-1. 

Rawlinson, Geo., Herodotus, ii. 

Rawlinson, Sir Hy. C, ii. 5. 

Reade, Charles, i. 387 ; ii. 193. 

Reading, ii. 210 : University 
College, F. York Powell's 
address at, i. 317-19 ; ii. 80-95 ; 
i. 194 ; ii. 80 (note) ; F. York 
Powell's relationship with, de- 
scribed by Principal Mackinder, 
i. 192-3; by Principal Childs, 
i. 193-4 : Childs' Story of the 
Town of, i. 193 (note). 

Realm of the Habsbu7-gs, Whit- 
man's, ii. 151 (note). 

Reoalde, Juan Martinez de, ii. 

Reece, Hy., i. 92 (note). 

Reece, Mrs., F. York Powell's 

Letter to, i. 292. 
Regan, ii. 306. 
Reinach, Salomon, ii. 143. 
Religious Courtship, Defoe's, ii. 

Religious Systems of the World, 

F. York Powell's article in, ii. 

221-41; i. 53, 112; ii. 221 

Rembrandt, i. 248 ; ii. 327. 
Renan, Ernest, i. 457 ; ii. 11. 
Renouard, ii. 261. 
Retz, Card, de, ii. 17. 
Reuchlin, Johann, i. 389. 
Review, Defoe's, ii. 286. 
Revolucidn de Julio, Galdos's, i. 

Reykjavik, i. 34 ; ii. 344, 345. 
Reynard the Fox, i. 275. 
Reynolds, G. W. M., i. 146. 
Reynolds, John Hamilton, ii. 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, ii. 164. 
Rheims, ii. 156. 
Rhoades, Hy. Tull, i. 13 ; on F. 

York Powell, i. 11-12. 
Rhoda Fleming, Meredith's, i. 227. 
Rhodes, Cecil, i. 174. 
Rhys, Dr. John, i. 47, 354; ii. 

92, 225. 
Richard I, ii. 129, 220. 
Richard II, ii. 138, 274. 
Richard III, i. 2 ; ii. 20, 101. 
Richard Feverel, Meredith's, i. 

Richard Yea and Nay, Hewlett's, 

i. 208. 
Richardson, Chas. Francis, i. 

Richardson, Samuel, ii. 165, 

Richborough, i. 223. 
Richelieu, Card., ii. 17, 151. 
Richmond, Sir Wm., i. 236. 
RiENZi, N. Gabrino di, ii. 10. 
Ring and the Book, Browning's, 

i. 330. 
RlQUER, Senor, i. 416. 
Robert, de Monte, i. 275. 
Roberts, Lord, i. 255. 
Robertson, Fred. Wm., i. 324. 
Robins, Geo., ii. 160-1. 



Robinson Crusoe, Defoe's, i. 305 ; 

ii. 278, 281, 287, 288, 295, 305, 

Rob Roy, Scott's, ii. 97. 
Rochester, Earl of, seeWiLMOT, 

Rode, wind-god, ii. 226. 
Rodin, Augusts, i. 116, 158, 324, 

358, 363, 420, 461. 
Rodin, Judith Cladel's, i. 392. 
Rodney, Admiral, ii. 164. 
Rodriguez, Simon, ii. 148. 
Rogers, Thorold, i. 190. 
RoGNWOLD,Earlof Moere,ii. 216. 
RoJAS, F. de, Celestina, i. 416. 
Roland, Mme., ii. 67. 
RoLLESTON, T. W., i. 379. 
Roman de la Rose, Part I, ii. 273 ; 

Part II, i. 146 ; ii. 273. 
Rome, i. 23, 271 ; ii. 5, 8, 14, 26, 

34, 82, 133, 164, 206, 208, 209, 

216, 252, 333; Mommsen's 

History of, ii. 26; Church of, 

ii. 139, 312. 
Rome, Zola's, i. 227. 
RoMiLLY, Sir Samuel, ii. 171. 
RoMNEY, Earl of, see Sidney, 

RoNSARD, Pierre de, i. 54, 266; 

F. York Powell's translation of 

poem by, iL 413. 
Rosamund, Queen of the Lom- 
bards, i 52. 
Rose and the Ring, Thackeray's, 

ii. 320. 
Rose, Stewart,S^. Ignatitis Loyola, 

il 146 (note), 147. 
RosEBERY, Lord, i. 174. 
Rosmersholm, Ibsen's, i. 131. 
RossETTi, Christina, i. 6, 235, 

296 ; ii. 180. 
RossETTi, D. G., i. 21 ; ii. 11, 

192, 327. 
RossETTi, W. M., ii. 192. 
Rossnaree, i. 341. 
Rostand, Edmond, VAiglon, i. 

202, 322 ; Cyrano de Bergerac, 

i. 202. 
RoTHENSTEiN, Wm., i. 154, 303. 
Rothschilds, The, ii. 143. 
Rouen, ii. 105. 
Roumania, ii. 9, 
Rousseau, Jean Jacques, i. 264, 

270 ; ii. 11, 335. 

RowE, N., i. 310. 

RowLANDSON, Thomas, ii. 165. 

Rowley, Chas., i. 384 ; ii. 1, 330. 

Rowley, J., ii. 63. 

Rowntree, B. S., i. 361 ; ii. 3, 85. 

Roxana, Defoe's, ii. 287, 295. 

RiJCKERT, Friedrich, ii. 302. 

RuDD, Mrs., ii. 169. 

Rugby, F. York Powell at, i. 8-10, 
30, 346, 347 ; ii. 81. 

Ruin, The, i. 80. 

RuNciMAN, Jas., ii. 319. 

Rupert, Prince, ii. 41. 

Ruscelli, G., i. 146. 

RusKiN, John, ii. 324-34; i. 
262, 305-6, 312, 329, 390, 422 ; 
ii. 49, 179, 190, 191; Modern 
Painters, ii. 327 ; Praeterita, ii. 

Russell, William, Lord, ii. 167. 

Russell, Earl, i. 245 ; ii. 186. 

Russia, i. 48, 224, 246, 278, 356, 
394; ii. 9, 37, 51, 153,164,177, 
195, 196, 197, 220, 257, 258, 298. 

RuYTER, M. A. de, i. 248. 

Rydberg, a. v., i. 15, 142 ; Teu- 
tonic Mythology, ii. 223. 

Rysselberg, Th. van, i. 296, 

* Sacharibsa,' see Sidney, Doro- 

Sacheverell, Dr., ii. 285. 

Sadler, M. T., ii. 188. 

Sainte-Beuve, C. a., i. 299 ; ii. 

St, Denis, ii. 156. 

St. Gaudens, A„ i. 390. 

St. Helena, ii, 103. 

St. James's Gazette, i. 141. 

Saintsbury, Geo., i. 417. 

Sala, G. a., ii. 314. 

Salamanca, ii. 148. 

Salamis, Battle of, ii. 136. 

Sales, de, see Francis, St., de 

Salman, Robert, ii. 113. 

Salmeron, a., ii. 148. 

Salvini, Tommaso, i. 305, 

Sambourne, Linley, ii. 362. 

Samos, ii, 196. 

Sampson, John, i. vii, 12, 414-15. 

Samson, ii. 104, 261. 

Samson Agonistes, Milton's, ii. 



Sancho Panza, ii. 278. 
' Sand, George,' ii. 310. 
SANDALPHONj'lord of the forsst,' 

ii. 144. 
Sandgate, i. 3, 85-6, 91-2, 261, 

269, 303, 310. 
Sandra Belloni, Meredith's, i. 228. 
Sandeo, see Medici, Alessandro 

Sandwich, i. 223. 
Sandys, Fred., i. 228 ; ii. 53, 370. 
Sappho, i. 282, 330. 
Saracens, The, i. 250 ; ii. 34, 206, 

207 ; Ali Syed's Short History 

of, reviewed by F. York Powell, 

ii. 133-7. 
Sardanapalus, ii. 5. 
Sargent, John S., i. 253, 374, 

375. 390. 
Sargon, ii. 5. 
Sarpi, Paolo, i. 300 ; ii. 2, 3, 23 

(note), 24, 27, 138. 
Sarsfield, Patrick, i. 183. 
Saturday Magazine, The, ii. 194. 
Saturday Review, The, ii. 57, 58, 60. 
Saul, King, i. 102. 
Savage, E., see ViGFtissoN, G. 
Savonarola, ii. 154. 
Savoy, The, i. 153. 
Saxo, Grammaticus, i. 114-15 ; 

59, 140, 157 ; ii. 221 (note), 223, 

261, 273; Historia Danica, i. 

113; ii. 222. 
Saxons, The, ii. 205, 224. 
ScALA, Can Grande della, ii. 

ScANDERBEG, Prince of Albania, 

ii. 129. 
Scandinavia, i. 16, 36, 55, 97-8, 

117, 136, 181, 407, 413 ; ii. 222, 

223, 234, 236-7, 248, 254, 258. 
Scandinavian Britain, F. York 

Powell's, i. 79. 
ScHARF, Geo., ii. 182. 
ScHEFFEL, J. Victor von, Ehke- 

hard, ii. 302. 
Schiller, Mary Stuart, i. 141. 
ScHLEQEL, Friedrich von, i. 403. 
SCHLIEMANN, Hy., ii. 5. , 

hyzantine a la Fin du dixieme 
Steele (969-89), ii. 128-31. 
Schopenhauer, Arthur, i. 46; 
45, 398-9, 409. 

ScHOPP, Gaspar, i. 387. 
SCHWEIDLER, A., ii. 306. 
Schweidler, Maria, die Bernstein- 

hexe, see Amber Witch, The. 
Scotland, i. 56,- 190, 280, 320, 

323 ; ii. 44, 109, 139, 175, 180, 

192, 214, 220, 282; see also 

Great Britain. 
ScoTT, Michael, ii. 180. 
Scott, Sir Walter, i. 97, 135 ; ii. 

11, 28, 81, 179, 180, 193, 289, 

302, 309 ; Count RoheH of Paris, 

ii. 131 ; Rob Roy, ii. 97. 
Seafarer, The, i. 80. 
Sea-kings of Norway, Laing's, ii. 

222 {note). 
Sebastian, St., ii. 104. 
Sebastian, King of Portugal, ii^ 

Sedgefield, Dr., ii. 204. 
Seeley, Sir John R., ii. 67. 
Seeley, Thomas, ii. 113. 
Seignobos, C, see Langlois, 

C. V. 
Selden, John, ii. 138. 
Selkirk, Alexander, ii. 286, 287, 

Selous, H. C, i. 305. 
Semites, The, ii. 225. 
Semple, Major, ii. 168. 
Seneca, i. 370. 
Senilia, Turgueniev's, translated 

by S. J. MacMullan, i. 316. 
Senlac, Battle of, ii. 66. 
Sephton, J., i. vi, 454 ; Vigfus- 

son's Letter to, i. 69. 
Septuagint, T/ie, i. 187. 
Serrano y Dominguez, F., i. 

Servia, i. 277-8 ; ii. 8. 
Seren Woods, W. B. Yeats's, i. 

Sevign^], Mme. de, i. 240. 
Seymour, Lord, ii. 113, 
Sforza, Catherina, ii. 107-9. 
Shaftesbury, Earl of, ii. 292. 
Shairp, J. C, i. 155. 
Shakespeare, i. 65, 95, 97, 114, 
159, 228, 242, 260, 305, 327, 

389, 444, 445 ; ii. 3, 52, 80, 
105, 116, 120, 220, 250, 278, 

305, 308, 321, 325, 375, 377; 

Hamlet, i. 159, 222; ii. 264; 
Othello, ii. 106; Rape of Lucrece, 



i. 222; Sonnets, i. 222, 325, 
328 ; Tivilus and Cressida, i. 
222 ; Venus and Adonis, i. 222. 

Sharman, Julian, i. 267. 

Shaving of Shagpat, Meredith's, i. 

Shaw, Geo. Bernard, i. 384. 

Shaw, Norman, i. 63. 

Sheaf, see Sif. 

Shelley, P. B., i. 21, 177, 305 ; 
ii. 101, 104, 180, 353. 

Shem, i. 243. 

Sheppard, Jack, ii. 168, 291 ; 
Defoe's History of, ii. 287. 

Sherbrooke, Lord, ii. 347. 

Sheridan, Rich. B., ii. 299. 

Sherwood, Mary M., The Fair- 
child Family, ii. 166. 

Shetland Islands, ii. 222, 349. 

Shirrefs, Andrew, i, 301. 

Short History of the English 
People, Green's, ii. 60-4 ; 52, 
59, 65. 

Shortest Way with the Dissenters, 
Defoe's, ii. 285, 288, 

Shorthouse, J. H., John Ingle- 
sant, i. 208. 

Shute, Richard, ii. 350-61; i. 
82 ; i. 18, 19, 81, 95, 192, 288, 
433; ii. Ih ; A CollcUion of Aris- 
totle's Physics, Book VII, ii. 
358 ; A Discourse on Truth, ii. 

357 ; A HiMory of the Aristo- 
telian Writings, ii. 341 (note), 

358 ; Truth in Extremis, ii. 357. 
Shute, Mrs. R., F. York Powell's 

Letters to, i. 241-2, 352-3. 
Siam, ii. 7. 
Sibyl's Prophecy, The, i. 51, 53, 59, 

61 ; ii. 235. 
Sicily, ii. 127-8; 101, 131; 

Freeman's History of, i. 116; 

ii. 31, 33-4. 
Siding at a Railway Station, 

Fronde's, i. 171 {note). 
Sidney Family, Memoirs of the, 

P. Sidney's, reviewed by F. 

York Powell, ii. 114-10 ; i. 276. 
Sidney, Algernon, ii. 117; i. 

232 {note), 227 ; ii. 115, 116. 
Sidney, Dorothy, Countess of 

Sunderland, ii. 115-16, 117,118. 
Sidney, Lady Hy., ii. 118. 
Sidney, Sir Henry, ii. 115, 118. 

Sidney, Henry, Earl of Romney, 

ii. 115, 118. 
Sidney, Mary, Countess of 

Pembroke, ii. 116, 117, 119. 
Sidney, Sir Philip, ii. 115-19, 

278 ; Apology for Poetry, ii. 

116, 119 ; Arcadia, ii. 116, 119. 
Sidney, Philip, Earl of Leicester, 

ii. 115. 
Sidney, Philip, Memoirs of the 

Sidney Family, ii. 114-19. 
Sidney, Robert, Earl of Leicester, 

ii. 118. 
SiDONiA, Duke of, ii. Ill, 113. 
Sidonia the Sorceress, see Cloister 

Witch, The. 
Sip (goddess of agriculture), ii. 

226, 229. 
Sigfred-Arminius, i. 83 ; ii. 

225, 252 (note), 342 ; see also 

Grimm Centenary. 
SiGiSMUND, Emp., ii. 138. 
Sigmund, i. 238-0; F. York 

Powell's translation of Ballad 

of, ii. 400-7 ; 373 {note). 
Sigurd, i. 249, 374. 
SiGURDSSON, Jon, i. 35, 36; ii. 

Silchester, ii. 6. 
Silence of Love, Holmes's, i. 323, 

SiLKE, Miss, see Powell, Mrs. F. 

SlME, Jas., i. 186-7 ; 92-3, 192, 

288 ; Life of Lessing, i. 92 ; P. 

York Powell's poem on, ii. 

SiME, S. H., ii. 370. 
Simeon, the Righteous, ii. 220. 
SiHMS ['Gentleman Harry'], ii. 

Simon, Hy., i. 268. 
SiMONIDES, ii. 127. 
Sinhad the Sailor, ii. 259. 
SiRACH, Jesus, son of, see EccLE- 


SixTus IV, Pope, ii. 51. 

Skene, Sir John, i. 122. 

Skimir, ii. 345. 

Slavs, The, ii. 241. 

* Slick, Sam,' see Halliburton, 

T. C. 
Smith, Adam, i. 376; ii. 2, 11, 

85, 164, 178, 290. 



Smith, Albert, ii. 193. 
Smith, Catterson, i. 236. 
Smith, Geo., ii. 5. 
Smith, Goldwin, i. 189, 
Smith, Madeline, i. 134, 395. 
Smith, Pamela C, i. 347, 380; 

ii. 391 ; F. York Powell's Pre- 
face to Catalogue of Drawings 

by, ii. 321-3. 
Smith, Robertson, i. 85. 
Smith, Sydney, ii. 194. 
Smollett, Tobias Geo., ii. 165, 

Snoeri Sturlason, Heims- 

kringla, i. 19, 61, 77, 373 ; ii. 

268; Prose £dda, i. 47, 419 ; ii. 

Social England, F. York Powell's 

articles in, i. 220-1. 
Socrates, ii. 283. 
S6larU6S,i. 51-2; 357. ^ 
Soliloquies, Augustine's, ii. 213. 
Solomon, King, ii. 217, 340. 
Solomon, King of Bulgaria, ii. 

Solomon, S., ii. 370. 
Somnium Scipionis, Cicero's, ii. 

Son of the Fens, Emerson's, ii. 

318-19 ; i. 144, 148, 247. 
Sonatorrek, Egil's, ii. 240-1 ; i. 

65, 385; ii. 221 {note), 267; 

F. York Powell's translation of, 

Song of Lewes, ii. 137. 
Song of Maldon, i. 81. 
Songs of Labour, Hines's, i. 177 ; 

F, York Powell's Preface to, 

1. 178. 
Sonnets, Shakespeare's, i. 325; 

222, 328. 
Sophocles, i. 242. 
SORDELLO, ii. 217. 
Sobel, Albert, ii. 13. 
South America, ii. 224, 282. 
Southey, Robert, ii. 82, 181 ; 

The TJiree Bears, ii. 320. 
Southwell, Robert, ii. 276. 
Spain, i. 41, 123, 332, 415-16; 

ii. 34, 51, 52, 82, 102, 111, 120, 

145, 147, 150, 151, 154, 177, 190, 

199, 220, 258, 293, 298, 302; 

F. York Powell in, i. 8, 415. 
Spalato, ii. 103. 

Spanish Armada, State Papers re- 
lating to the Defeat of the, edited 
by J. K. Laughton, ii. 112 

Spartans, The, ii. 199. 

Spencer, Hy., Earl of Sunder- 
land, ii. 116. 

Spencer, Herbert, 1. 19, 399 ; 
ii. 70, 75, 76, 139, 190 ; AiUo- 
hiography, i. 425. 

Spencer, Robert, Earl of Sunder- 
land, ii. 118. 

Spenser, Edmund, i.54, 106, 261 ; 
ii. 51, 116, 273 ; Faery Queene, 
ii. 276-7 ; i. 232, 260. 

Spinoza, Benedictus de, 1. 128, 
286 ; ii. 143. 

Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius 
Loyola's, ii. 146, 148. 

Stael, Mme. de, ii. 124. 

Stallybrass, J. S., ii. 223. 

Stamford Bridge, Battle of, ii. 

Stanley, Dean, ii. 54. 

Stanley, Lord, ii. 187. 

Stanley, Venetia, ii. 123. 

Stebbinq, Wm., ii. 119. 

Steele, Sir Richard, ii. 165, 281. 

Steenstrup, Dr., ii. 92. 

Steinlen, Alex., i. 456. 

'Stella,' see Devereux, Pene- 

Stephen, King, ii. 157. 

Stephen, Leslie, Letters of J. R. 
Green, 1. 342, 343 ; ii. 52, 53, 
67, 68. 

Stephens, H. Morse, ii. 8 ; Por- 
tugal, ii. 149 [note). / 

Stepniak, Sergius, i. xi-xli, 224- 
5, 313 ; ii. 122. 

Sterne, Laurence, ii. 25, 165 ; 
Tristram Shandy, i. 436. 

Stevens, Alfred, i. 363. 

Stevenson, Margaret, i. 292. 

Stevenson, R. A. M., i. 290-9, 
302, 304, 315, 324, 346, 433 ; 
119, 186, 206, 230, 258, 259, 
260, 261, 262, 275, 284-7, 360, 
451, 460 ; Tlie Art of Velasquez, 
i. 284. 

Stevenson, Mrs. R. A. M., i. 258, 
259, 291, 292. 

Stevenson, R. L., i. 183, 297, 
299, 365, 420 ; il. 281, 294, 309, 



314, 329, 339, 366; Dr. JeJcyll 

and Mr. Hyde, ii. 280; Kid- 
napped, ii. 97. 
Stevensok, W. H., Asser, ii. 

Stewabt, J. A., ii. 359. 
Steyn, President, i. 301. 
Stockholm, ii. 347. 
Stokes, Whitley, i. 128. 
Stone, Chas., i. 254, 288. 
Stone, Hy., i. 254 ; 3, 15, 86, 92, 

96, 237, 253, 288. 
Stone, Richard, i. 86, 92, 254. 
Story of Gaelic Literature, Douglas 

Hyde's, reviewed by F. York 

Powell, i. 185-6. 
Story of Thrym, The, see Thryms- 

Stow, John, i. 209. 
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, Uncle 

Tom's Cabin, i. 271. 
Strafford, Earl of, ii. 44, 45. 
Strauss, David F., ii. 11. 
Strong, Dean, on F. York 

Powell, i. 426-9. 
Struwwelpeter, Hoffmann's, ii. 

Stuarts, The, ii. 43, 298. 
Stubbs, Wm., Bp, of Oxford, 

i. 17, 177, 178, 189, 203, 212, 

300, 411 ; ii. 7, 32, 45, 52, 58, 

60, 62, 67, 88, 93 ; Constitutional 

History of England, ii. 85. 
Studies in European History, 

Dellinger'B, ii. 26 {note), 27 

Studio, The, i. 416. 
Sturla Thordsson, Lawman, 

ii. 265-6, 269 ; Sturlunga Saga, 

see infra. 
Sturlunga Saga, edited by Gr. Vig- 

fiisson and F. York Powell, 

i. 40-4 ; 38, 45, 46, 76, 99 ; 

ii. 347-8. 
Succube, Balzac's, ii. 309. 
Suetonius Tranquillus, i. 39 

Sulla, ii. 103. 
Sunderland, Earla of, see 

Spencer, Henry and Robert. 
Sun-Song, The, see Sdlarlid^. 
Sussex, Earldom of, ii. 115. 
Sweden, i. 11, 98 ; ii. 224, 226, 

231-2, 256, 349. 

Sweet, Henry, i. 47 ; ii. 204. 

SwERRE (Norse king), i. 160. 

Swift, Jonathan, ii. 279-80 ; 
36, 165, 273, 282, 285, 286; 
Gullivers Travels, ii. 278, 279, 
341 ; Tale of a Tub, ii. 279-80. 

Swinburne, Algernon Chas., ii. 
311-13; i. 21, 67 {note), 235, 
330, 380, 416 ; ii. 23, 271 (note), 
316, 327, 353; Atalanta in 
Calydon, ii. 311 ; Poems and 
Ballads, i. 65; ii. 76, 311; 
Tristram of Lyonesse, i. 65. 

Switzerland, ii. 2, 9, 102, 139, 
196, 197. 

Sybel, H. C. L. von, ii. 40, 101. 

Sylvie and Bruno, Dodgson's, ii. 

Symonds, J. A., i. 323. 

Symons, Barend, i. 142. 

Syracuse, ii. 128. 

Syria, ii. 195. 

Tacitus, i. 170 ; ii. 24, 86, 221. 
Taine, H. a., ii. 79-80 ; i. 369 ; 

ii. 13, 26 (note), 102. 
Tale of a Tub, Swift's, ii. 279- 

Talleyrand, Prince, ii. 17. 
Tamburlaine the Great, Marlowe's, 

ii. 309. 
Tara, i. 341, 358 ; ii. 232. 
Tartuffe, Moliere's, ii. 20, 345. 
Tasso, Torquato, i. 143; ii. 116, 

154, 303. 
Taunton, i. 247. 
Tavola Bitonda, La [o Vlstoria di 

Tristano], i. 310. 
Taylor, Anne and Jane, ii. 323. 
Taylor, John E., i. 265, 343. 

TCHERNICHEVSKY, N. Gr., i. 234. 

Tegetmeier, W. B., ii. 88. 
Tekaraka, the Mangaian,ii.250. 
Telesio, Bernardin. i. 389. 
Tell, Wilhelm, i. 255. 
Teltown, i. 337, 339, 340, 341, 

Temple, Archbp., i 8, 10, 347 ; 

ii. 81. 
Templeuve, i. 348-9. 
Ten Brink, Bemhard, i. 155. 
Tenniel, Sir J., ii. 362. 
Tennyson, Lord, i. 67, 113, 239, 

285, 309, 329, 330; ii. 180, 181, 



191, 192, 316. 364 ; Idylls of the 

King, ii. 267 ; In Memoriam, 

ii. 362. 
Tekence, i. 39 {note). 
Teresa, St., i. 357 ; ii. 129. 
Terby, Ellen, i. 305. 
Tertulhan, Apologia, i. 144. 
Teutonic Heathendom, see Religious 

Systems of the Wodd, F. York 

Powell's article in. 
Teutonic Mythology, Grimm's, 

tiunslated by J. S. Stallybrass, 

ii. 222. 
Teutonic Mythology, Rydberg's, 

translated by R. B. Anderson, 

ii. 223. 
Tew, see Tyb. 
Thackeray, W. M., i. 69, 272, 

410; ii. 81, 125, 158, 180, 193, 

194, 281, 306, 315, 329; The 

Rose and the Ring, ii. 320. 
Thaulow, Fritz, i. 296. 
Theocritus, i. 282, 324. 
Theodbic, the Great, ii. 225. 
Theognis, of Megara, ii. 292. 
Theophano (wife of Nicephorus 

Phocas), ii. 129. 
Th4rese Raquin, Zola's, i. 132. 
Thermopylae, Battle of, ii. 136. 
Thevenin, Marcel, ii. 13. 
Thibet, ii. 7. 
Thidrande, i. 104-5. 
Thiers, L. A., i. 136; ii. 40, 94. 
pidffsdgur, Arnason's, ii. 346. 
fnddsdgur og Munnmceli, Thorkels- 

son's, i. 268. 
Thirlwall, Bp., ii. 181. 
Thjddolf, ii. 345. 
Thomas, Prof., F. York Powell's 

Letter to, i. 175. 
Thompson, H. L., i. 37 (note). 
Thompson, Miss, see Butler, 

Thomsen, W., of Copenhagen, 

ii. 7. 
Thomson, Basil, ii. 249 (note). 
Thor, i. 227-9 ; 51,264; ii. 226, 

230, 231, 232, 261. 
Thora, i. 239. 

Thorbeorn, i. 102-3 ; ii. 404. 
Thorberg (Egil's daughter), 

ii. 237-8. 
TH0RDSS0N,see Stubla Thords- 


Thore, ' hound,' see Thorgrim, 

the Wicked. 
Thore Beinsson, i. 239. 
Thorgrim, the Wicked, i. 238 ; 

ii. 407. 
Thorhall, i. 104, 105. 
Thorkell, ii. 261. 
Thorkelsson, Jon, i. 31 (note), 

37, 41 (note), 454 ; ii. 402 (note) ; 

pid^sdgur og Munnmceli, i. 268. 
Thorlaksson, Jon, ii. 269. 
Thorn YCROFT, Thomas, ii. 201. 
Thou, Jacques Auguste de, i. 

240 ; ii. 24. 
Three Bears, Southey's, ii. 320. 
Three Musketeers, Dumas', ii. 302. 
Thrond of Gate, i. 239, 240, 

407 ; ii. 400, 402-3, 405, 407 ; 

see also Fcereyinga Saga. 
Through the Storm, Nazarbek's, 

F. York Powell's Preface to, ii. 

194-200 ; i. 276. 
Thi-ymskvida [TTjrym'sXrfii/], trans- 
lated by F. York Powell, iL 

226-30 ; i. 112; ii. 221 (note). 
Thucydides, i. 156, 170; ii. 2, 

3, 23 (note), 26, 86, 102. 
Thurid, i. 239. 
'TlM,'i. 262; F. York Powell's 

Letters to, i. 320-1, 365-8. 
Timatal, Vigfusson's, i. 34, 36 ; ii. 

Time Machine, Wells's, i. 262. 
Times, The, ii. 194. 
Tirant le Blanc, ii. 320. 
Tnugdal, see Tundal. 
Todhunter, Dr. John, i. 92, 

124,132,141, 183. 
Tolstoi, L. N., i. 226-7, 228, 

231, 234, 432 ; ii. 124, 274. 
Tone, Theobald Wolfe, ii. 48. 
Tormes, Lazarillo de, i. 415. 
Torres Vedras, ii. 151. 
Tour through Great Britain, De- 
foe's, ii. 287, 288. 
TouRNEUR, Cyril, ii. 305. 
Tout, T. F., i. 94; F. York 

Powell's I,e«ers to, i. 249, 270-1. 
TowNSHEND, Aurelian, ii. 123. 
Townshend, Viscount, ii. 286. 
Traditional Poetry of the Finns, 

see Kalevala, Comparetti's. 
Trafalgar, Battle of, ii. 174. 
Trahebne, Thomas, ii. 42. 



Transactions of the Oxford Philo- 
logical Society, ii. 348. 

Treatise concerning the Use and 
Abuse of the Maj'Hage Bed, De- 
foe's, ii. 287. 

Treitschke, Heinrich von, ii. 
40, 94, 142. 

Trench, F. H., Deirdre Wed, i. 

Trevelyan, Sir Chas., i. 90. 

Triptolemos, ii. 226. 

Trissino, Giovanni G., ii. 21. 

Tristan, see Tristram, Sir. 

Tristram, Sir, i. 243, 310; ii. 
320 ; see also La Tavola Ritonda. 

Tristram ofLyonesse, Swinburne's, 
i. 65. 

Tristram Shandy, Sterne's, i. 436. 

Troilus and Cressida, Shake- 
speare's, i. 222. 

Trollope, Anthony, i. 410; ii. 

Tromp, M. H. van, i. 248. 

Troubadours, Lives of the, Ida 
Famell's, i. 231. 

Troy, ii. 5, 259. 

True-bom Englishman, Defoe's, i. 
272; ii. 284-5, 288. 

Truth in Extremis, Shute's, ii. 357. 

Tryon, Thomas, i. 272 ; ii. 287. 

Tudors, The.i. 197; ii. 115. 

Tupfley, Mary, see Defoe, Mrs. 

TuNDAL, Visions, i. 357 ; ii. 274. 

TuNRO, ii. 257. 

TUPPER, Martin, ii. 181. 

TuRGUENiEV, A. I., ii. 309-11 ; i. 
224, 234, 250 ; ii. 124, 271 {note); 
Senilia, i. 316. 

Turk, Dr., ii. 204. 

Turkey, ii. 8, 9, 37, 129-30, 131, 
137, 153, 164, 171, 195, 196-9. 

Turkey in Asia, ii. 196. 

Turner, J. M. W., i. 286 ; ii. 182, 
326, 327, 329. 

Turner, Sharon, i. 410. 

TuRPiN, Dick, ii. 167. 

TuTCHiN, John, ii. 287. 

Twemlow, J. A., i. 325, 326. 

TWEMLOW, Mrs. J. A., on F. York 
Powell, i. 325-6. 

Twemlow, Madeleine, i. 326. 

Tyler, Thomas, i. 222. 

Tyb. ii. 226. 

Ulysses, i. 403 ; ii. 259. 
Uncle Remus, Harris's, ii. 320. 
Uncle Tom's Cabin, H. Beecher 

Stowe's, i. 271. 
Unger, C. R., i. 34 ; ii. 345 ; see 

also VlQFUSSON. 

United States, The, i. 390-1 ; ii. 

93, 177, 192, 197, 218 ; see also 

Uphues, Grundlehren der Logik 

nach Richard Shute's Discourse 

on Truth bearbeitet, ii. 357. 
Upsala, Frey-cult in, described by 

Adam of Bremen, ii. 231-2. 
Upton Letters, Benson's, i. 425. 
Uriah, i. 302. 
UzANNE, Octave, i. 266. 

Vainamoinen, ii. 257, 259. 

Valera, Juan, i. 390. 

Valles, J. L. J., i. 813, 459 ; ii. 

ValmIki, The Ramayana, ii. 260. 

Vane, Sir Hy., ii. 41. 

Varus, G., ii. 342. 

Vauban, Sieur de, i. 161. 

Vaughan, Hy., the Silurist, i. 1 
{note) ; ii. 42, 45. 

Velasquez, i. 260, 416, 461 ; ii. 
Ill, 112, 327 ; R. A. M. Steven- 
son's AH of i. 284, 286. 

Velleius Paterculus, M., ii. 

Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare's, 
i. 222. 

Verhaeben, Emile, i. 202, 

Verlaine, Paul, i. 153-4; 128, 
134, 155, 250, 272, 325, 327, 330, 
414, 455 ; ii. 377 ; Sagesse, i. 155 
{note) ; F. York Powell's trans- 
lation of poem by, ii. 414. 

Veronese, Paolo, ii. 116. 

Versailles, ii. 202 ; Treaty of, ii. 

Vesnitch, Milenko, i. 277-8. 

Victor Emmanuel II., ii. 16. 

Victoria, Queen, i. 343; ii. 15, 
107, 183, 184, 185, 204, 216; 
Reign of, ii. 172-94 ; i. 243-6. 

ViDALiN, Paul, i. 78 ; ii. 269. 

Vie, Une, Guy de Maupassant's, 
i. 145. 

Viele-Griffin, F., L 390. 



Vienna, ii. 146, 152, 203. 
ViGFUSSON, Gudbrand, ii. 344- 
50 : i. 32-4, 35-8, 44, 96-8 ; 
early life of, i. 31-6 ; collabora- 
tion with F. York Powell, i. 37- 
96, 98-9. 101; alluded to, i. 
14, 17, 23, 24, 106, 116, 131, 
187, 192, 207, 223, 276, 288, 
399, 413, 418, 422, 426, 459; 
ii. 26, 85, 221 (note), 256 ; Ice- 
landic-English Dictionary, i. 36- 
7, 38, 39, 76, 98 ; ii. 346, 347 ; 
Timatal, i. 34, 36; ii. 345; 
Letters, i. 65, 66, 69, 78; F. 
York Powell's Letters to, i. 3, 
45, 46, 47-8, 63, 66-9, 85-6, 95- 
6 ; see also Appendix A, i. 454. 
ViGFUSSON, G., and MoBius, T., 
Fom-Sogur, ii. 346. 

ViGFUSSON, G., and Powell, F. 
York, Corpus Poeticum Boreale, 
i. 48-62 ; 39, 45, 65, 67, 69, 76, 
83, 94, 98, 112; ii. 345, 348; 
Grimm Centenary, i. 83, 98 ; ii. 
345, 348 ; Icelandic Prose Header, 
i. 32, 38, 39, 44, 45, 46, 47, 76, 
99, 112; ii. 348; Origines Is- 
landicae, i. 99-106 ; 39, 77, 79, 
81, 82, 92, 93, 95, 112, 238; 
ii. 345, 348 ; Sturlunga Saga 
. . . with Prolegomena, &c., i. 
40-4 ; 38, 45, 46, 76, 99 ; ii. 

ViGFUSSON, G., and Savage, E., 
Manx Note-Book, ii. 349. 

ViGFUSSON, G., and Ungeb, C. R., 
Flateyjarhok, i. 34 ; ii. 346. 

ViLLANi, Giovanni, i. 241. 

ViLLARl, Linda, ii. 20 [note). 

ViLLARi, Professor Pasquale, The 
Life and Times of Niccolb 
Machiavelli, ii. 20-1 ; i. 135. 

Villehakdouin, Geoffroi de, i. 

Villon, Francois, i. 19, 327 ; ii. 
108, 312, 377. 

ViNJE, A. 0., i. 97. 

ViNOGRADOFF, Paul G., ii. 92. 

Viollet-Le-Duc, E. E., ii. 71. 

Virgil, i. 9, 330 ; Bucolics, ii. 164; 
Georgics, ii. 164. 

Virginia, i. 249 ; ii. 162, 290. 

Visions, Tundal's, ii. 274. 

Vita Nuova, Dante's, i. 152, 436. 
Vittoria, Meredith's, i. 228. 
Vladimir 1, of Russia, ii. 129. 
Voltaire, F. M. A. de, i. 140, 

389 ; ii. 8, 20, 24, 124, 147, 280, 

292 ; La Pucelle, i. 353. 
Voodoo, ii. 235. 
VoYSEY, Chas., i. 262 ; ii. 59. 
Vrooman, Walter, i. 306, 308. 
Vyasa, The Mahdbhdrata, ii. 260. 

Wade Csea-giant), i. 255. 
Wagner, Richard, i. 233-4. 
Wakefield, Edward Gibbon, ii. 

Waking of Angantheow, The, i. 52. 
Waldhere, i. 80. 

Waldstein, see Wallenstein. 
Wales, i. 1 (note), 120, 197, 198, 

280, 351 ; ii. 81, 206, 207, 211, 

Walker, Fred., i. 228 ; ii. 370. 
Wall, Joseph, ii. 167. 
Wallace, Henry the Minstrel's, 

i. 275. 
Wallace, A. R., i. 282 ; ii. 91. 
Wallenstein, A. W, E. von, ii. 

Waller, Edmund, ii. 115, 118, 

119, 292. 
Walpole, Horace, ii. 160, 161, 

162, 168, 305 ; Castle of Otranto, 

ii. 161. 
Walpole, Sir Robert, ii. 164. 
Walsingham, Family of, ii. 115. 
Walter, Card., Bp. of Albano, 

ii. 32. 
Walter, D., ii. 166. 
Walthamstow, i. 3. 
Wanderer, The, i. 80, 81. 
Wantage, ii. 208. 
War of the Worlds, Wells's, i. 261, 

262, 310. 
Warangians, The, ii. 129, 130-1. 
Ward, Dr. A. W., i. 85 ; ii. 158 ; 

Great Britain and Hanover, ii. 

158 (note). 
Ward, Edward, ii. 287. 
Ward, H., ii. 347. 
Ward, Mrs. Humphry, i. 410. 
Ward, Mrs., ii. 57. 
Warin of Lorraine, i. 276. 
Warner, W., on F. York Powell, 

i. 9. 



"Warren, Samuel, ii. 193. 

Warren, T. H., i. 366 ; F. York 
Powell's Letter to, i. 176-7. 

Warren, Mrs. T. H., i. 321, 366. 

Warwick, Earl of, ['King- 
maker '], i. 136. 

Washington, Geo., i. 314, 391. 

Waterloo, Battle of, ii. 174. 

Watson, John Dawson, i. 305 ; 
ii. 370. 

Watson, Dick Marriott, i. 296, 

Watson, Hy. B. Marriott, i. 262, 
296, 347 ; Lady Molly, i. 393. 

Watson, Mrs. Hy. B. Marriott, i. 
290 ; ii. 317 ; F. York Powell's 
Letters to, i. 269-70, 294-5, 
296-8, 314-15, 322-3, 325, 341, 
355-6, 376, 385, 392-3, 395. 

Watson, Wm., i. 128. 

Watt, James, ii. 164. 

Watts, G. F., i. 374, 376. 

Watts, Isaac, ii. 166. 

Wayland, the Smith, i. 255. 

Webb, Sidney, ii. 93. 

Webb, Mrs. Sidney, see Potter, 

Webster, John, ii. 53, 308. 

Wee Macgreegor, J. J. Bell's, i. 376. 

Weimar, i. 95. 

Wellesley, Marquis of, ii. 164. 

Wellhausen, Julius, ii. 11. 

Wellington, Duke of, ii. 185-6 ; 
i. 217, 228, 363; ii. 104, 124, 
151, 218. 

Wells, Chas. J., ii. 11, 191. 

Wells, H. G., _ i. 208, 360 ; 
Anticipations, i. 274 ; The 
First Men in the Moon, i. 319 ; 
The Time Machine, i. 262 ; The 
War of the Worlds, i. 261, 262, 
310; F. York Powell's Lc«ers 
to, i. 262, 268-9, 274-5, 302, 
303-4, 310, 319. 

Wells, Mrs. H. G., i. 262, 269, 
275, 310. 

Wessex, ii. 206, 210-12, 213-14. 

West Indies, ii. 176, 188, 199. 

Westward Ho I Kin^sley's, ii. 97. 

Whewell, Wm., ii. 194. 

Whibley, Chas., on F. York 
Powell, i. 158. 

Whistler, J. A. M., i. 148, 247, 
353, 385, 390; ii. 322, 326, 370. 

White, Gleeson, ii. 367-72 ; i. 
288 ; ii. 341 (note), 379. 

White, John, i. 300 ; ii. 247. 

Whitman, Sidney, The Realm oj 
the Hahsburgs, ii. 151 {note). 

Whitman, Walt, i. 21, 88, 135, 
148, 242, 390, 409 ; ii. 377. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, ii. 

WicLiF, John, i. 411; ii. 138, 
140, 154. 

WiDALiN, see ViDALfx, Paul. 

Wilde, Lady, ii. 304. 

Wilde, Oscar, i. 304, 414. 

Wilkes, John, ii. 376. 

Wilkinson, G., ii. 347. 

Wilkinson, Spenser, F. York 
Powell's Letters to, i. 246. 288-9. 

William I, ii. 32, 131, 220. 

William Rufus, Reign of, Free- 
man's, ii. 30, 32. 

William III, ii. 115, 204, 283, 
284, 285, 295. 

William IV, ii. 173. 

William I, of Orange, i. 248 ; ii. 
104, 116, 139, 254. 

William II, of Germany, i. 247. 

William, of Malmesbury, i. 275 ; 
ii. 204. 

William, of Tyre, i. 240. 

William, the Marshall, see Mar- 
shall, William. 

Williams, John, ii. 250. 

Williams, Samuel, ii. 182, 370. 

WiLLiBROD, St., ii. 233. 

Willis, Robert, ii. 36. 

•Willy,' ClaudineS'en Va, i. 377 ; 
Une Passade, i. 224, 234. 

WiLMOT, John, Earl of Rochester, 
ii. 292, 376 

Wilson, Alfred, i. 287. 

Wilson, Chas. Heath, i. 322. 

Wilson, Geo., ii. 323. 

Wilson, John, [' Christopher 
North '], ii. 181, 194. 

Wilson (artist), i. 374. 

Winchester, i. 136, 256-7; ii. 
201-2, 207, 213. 

Winchester, Dean Kitchin's, re- 
viewed by F. York Powell, ii. 

Windmill, The, i. 876. 

Wings of the Dove, James's, i. 353, 



Winter, Sir "Wm., ii. 1 14. 
Wittenberg, House of, ii. 27. 
Woden, i. 51, 53, 143, 385 ; ii. 

130, 226, 231, 232 ; wife of, see 

Wolfe, James, ii. 164. 
Wolosj)d, The, [Vdlu-spd], see 

SibyVs Prophecy, The. 
Wolsey, Card., history of his hat, 

ii. 159-63. 
Woman who Did, Grant Allen's, 

i. 187. 
Wood, Anthony, ii. 55. 
Woodstock, ii. 204. 
Wordsworth, Wm., i. 22, 221, 

297 ; ii. 180, 191, 253. 
Wright, Whitaker, i. 392. 
Wulpstan (navigator), ii. 213. 
Wycliff, see Wiclif. 
Wyn, Ellis, ii. 276. 
Wyndham, Geo., i. 221 ; ii. 3. 

Xavier, Francis, St., i. 142; ii. 

Xenophon, ii. 21. 
XlMENES, Card., ii. 52. 

Yacco, Sada, i. 299. 

Yeats, J. B., i. vii, 140, 224, 265, 
340, 343, 373, 379, 447 ; on F. 
York Powell, i. 438-45 ; F. York 
Powell's Letters to, i. 171-2, 
330-2, 358, 374-5, 376-8, 383. 

Yeats, Jack B., i. 324, 373, 377, 

378; ii. 417 {note), 419; F. 

York Powell's Letters to, i. 374, 

379 392 
Yeats, W. B.. i. 133, 143, 149, 

155, 268, 309, 420; il 317; 

The Seven Woods, i. 383. 
Yeats, M