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Full text of "The Gentleman's magazine"

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© 



THE 



Gentleman s Magazine 



Volume CCXCII. 

M.S. t^g 

JANUARY TO JUNE 1902 



PaODBSSE &• DCI-ECTARE 




£ Pluribus Unuh 



EJiUd by SYLVANUS URBAN, Gentleman 



lonDon 
CHATTO & WINDUS, iii ST MARTIN'S LANE 

1902 



A 



1>,>6 i50 



f CONTENTS 0/ VOL. CCXCII. 

Aaccuors, The, of Chulcs Rcadc in the Civil War, By Rev. 

COMPTON Reade, M.A i8 

Anciral kom«, Public Readings in. By J. B, FiRTH . . . li 

Ann,.ThcIH«iiageof. »y E. A. GiLLiE 511 

AnnufLls, Old. Dy KathixrN KkoX 507 

Art Criiic, A FoiEoiien- By A- C. Coxmead . . . . JS6 
Aithor, " King of England." Uy K«v. Canon WoOD, D.D. . .1*0 

Aipen Tongue, The. By Rev. A. Sm\tiie Palmkr, D.D. . . 444 

AnroDomicitl Heresy. The Latest. By Rev. Ja«ks W. CoTIOK , 334 

Bom, By CitAKLES Eun-ARDES 609 

Belli. By Bakiiara Clav Finch 313 

Bible, The ^4,000. imd Oihcr^. By J. CVTHRRRT Hadde-N , . jii 
Bouyana, Some. ISy Tf-RCV FiTzoeraLD, M.A. . . . .191 

Brettesgiave. The Vanished Manor oC Bv 1. G. SlBVEKlKQ . 396 

Dniitb Beetles tn Masquerade. By Rev. JOHN Ikabkll, F.E.S. . 369 

Bucks, Watling Street in. By Wh.i.iam Bradbrook, M R.C.S. 456 

Canon Law, The, iis Auihority in Knclnnd. By J.E. R. STRPHKMS 474 
Cariyle^ Tfaom.xs, and bis Wife, Some Domestic RcminiKeoccs of. 

By E. WiLLiAMsoK Wallace 44S 

Case, A, of Conscience. By Katherike SvlvesTER . . .105 

Clare, John. By Robert Oswald 38a 

Dabchick, The, or Utile Grebe. By Alex. H. Japp. LL.D. . 40 

Dandies, Tbe King of the. By Chaklrs Wilxins ... 377 

Do^i, Sceni in. By J. C. McPHBRSOK, Ph.D jjJ 

Drama, Mr. Swinbunte's Firtt. By Ramsav Colles, M.A., LL.D. 301 

Duke, The, of Ripperda. By R. D. HOMK 418 

Educationof UppeiClossesinFranceandEngland. ByP.C.YORKE 03 
Elhaoan, Ihe Rabbi's Son, who became ^ope. By Kev. W. 

Burnet. M.A ' ■ SSi 

Every Man His Own Mace, By PlilLiP Fitzreimund . . 81 

Fells Tragedy. A. By William T. Palmkr .... 74 

Foiu-ThouKand-Pouod Bible, The, and Others. By J.C. Haddem jit 

f riendihip. By Re». J, HVdsoN, M JV, 373 

Fueto Juigo. The. By A. K. WutTEWAV, M.A 257 

Geacaio^, Tbe RonuAce of. By Dominicx Browne . . 537 

Gipsy Bnde, The. By ISA J. Posigatk 54 

Gceihian Ideal, Tbe. By AlVRKU JORUaK jj 

Grebe, The Little, or Dabchick. By ALEX. H, Urp, LUD. . 40 

How She LeamI Her Lesson. By LuttrkllSraRRICHT . 170 

Jacqueline, Mme.,TbeMarria^s of. By F. Bavford Harrisok 131 

•rcmjr Boyse, Tbe Story of. By Kdith GRav WHEELWRicnr . 309 

obn Clare. By Robert Oswald 383 

one. The Flight of. By Rev. Gkorge Bird .... 62a 

Hag, The» of the Dandies. By Charlls WiLKlNS . . • ^77 

Leave;, from Lakeland. By Wilijau T. Palmier . . . $01 

» Lc* Hiirjiravej,'' By CeciUA E. Mestkckke . . . . »66 
Lincohidiire Family, Some Generations of l By Rev. J. K. 

Flo\-ES. F.S.A 151 

I-Mt in the *■ Zenith." By C E. Mketkerke .516 

Jt-iRc. Evety Man His Own. By PhiUP FlT2REIlli;»D . . 81 

M.irrijge, The, of Ann. By E. A. Gillie Sit 

Marriages, The^ of Mmc. jacoucliDc. By F. BAYrORO HarkisON 131 

Marshes, Spring in ibe. By E. M. Rin^HERFORD . . , . 304 

Modem Psychology. By A. R. WiiiTWft'AV "^ 



Iv 



Conttnts. 



Napoleon : the Last Word. Bv E. A. REVS OLDS- Bxi.l, B.A. . 5:9 

Ow Anauab. By Kathleen Knox S97 

Old Woman, Tbe, o( tli« Woodj. By £. M. KuTHEitFORt) , . 4ro] 

On SenUc Hill. By JOHN Staffoku 179' 

Pot-Pmirri from a Tlicatrical Library. By Rowland Gsiiy . . $8 

Preachci, The : a Chcilo Sketch, liy Enoch bcxiHe . . . 3S6 

P>ycliology, Modem. By A R. Wkitewav . .... 98 

Publk RcMingi in Ancicm Rome, lly J. B. FlRTll ... II 

Rente, Tbe Ani;etton of Cbailec By Rev. COUrroK READS, M~A. 18 

Rippeixla, Tlic Dnke of. By R. U. Home 418 

RIUoo's liulaba. By A. WefiKER 417 

Ronuic«, The, of Genealogy. By DowmiCK Browne . 537 

Samoyedes, The. By Eknest Ward Lowkv, F.R.G.S. . . 140 

Scent in Dogs. By J. G. McPhersOn, Ph.D ijxj 

Scot, Th*, Abroad, By Wm. C. Mackenzie . . . . ist | 

Seclac Hill, On. By JOJIN STAfFOKD 17O,. 

Shakcipeare its Hi^oiy. By K. S. IIate-S I16 

Some Boiiyana. By Percy Kitzcf.bai.d, M.A. .... 191 
Sonic Uoitieiiic Keroiniacences of Thomas Carlyle and his Wife. 

By E. WiLLiAiisoN Wallack 448 

Some Memoriei of an Old Friend. By ZtUK DB L-ADEvkzE . a9S 

Sonnel, The, from M ilion to Woidiwonh. By J. M. AttehbOROUGH 35 J 

Spring in the Marshc*. By E. M. Ri;rHEK>-OKD . . . . 304 

Story, The, of Jereniy Boy»e. By Edith Gray Wheklwright. 309 

Swinburne's, Mr,, First Drama. By Ramsav Colles, MA, LL.D. 30: 
Table Tallt. By Svlvanus Urban :— 

The ShakMpe.ire-R.non Conlrovefsy— Bacon the Self-allcKcd 
Son of Queen Eliubcih — Bacon said to Claim Authonhip 
of Shakespeare's Plays— A Rejection of Bacon's Claim— 

The Hoopoe lot 

Mary Queen of Scot*— Tbe " Mystery of Mary Smart"— The 

" Casket Leilcn" aoft 

CompcDEaiion for the Desiraclion of Natural Beauty— Britain's 

New Flora 311 

The Bacon Cypher — Difficulties of a Decipherer — Omitbo- 

lopcal Ravaite— The Science of Punishment . . . 414 
More about the Bacon B i literal Cvphcr — Sir Henry Irving on 
Shakespeare and Bacon — The Author of Shakespeare's 

Plays WAS an Actor — Ijporance on the Lecture Platform . 518 
Archilcciutal Change in Two Capii.ils— The Trantfennation 
o( Loodoo— How many of our Sluart Sovereigns were 
Proieatanis ?— Prtrtestantism of Charles L and James L— 

ReligioDof James L— The New"EncycIop(cdiaItrilannica" 631 

Theatrical Library, Pot-Pourri from a. By Rowland GttEV . 88 

Thoreau. By S. E. Saville 400 

Three Sketches. By Charles LCSTED 577 

Tom Duncombe:'* Bogus Speech. By Jaues Svxks . . . 3t 

Toofue, The Aspen. By Rev. A. Suythe PaIJJKR, D.D. . . 444 

Two Sketches. By Jamcs CasSIdv 48; 

Vanished Manor, The, of Bretietgrnve. By I. G. StF.VF.KtNQ . J96 

Village Chronicles. By Arthur Ransom 496 

Watlmg Street in Buck*. By William Braodroox, M.R.C.S. . 4S6 

Wayfarers. By Thomas Ckesworth I 

While Fetich, The. By H. STUART BAKER 313 

Zionism. By Rev. Dr. Strauss ...•..• 3S 

Brians, The. By Ernest W. Loway, F.R.C.S. .... 344 



TUB 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 

January 1902. 



I 



Bv TuoKAS Chcswortii. 

IT was the Vizier's itani^ng invitation that made mc break tho 
direct line of tlis great walking tour and turn into the Wjlhcn- 
shairc district, where he lived. He wa; the son of Hiram Jones, 
ibc financier ; we were iniinutcs at school ; and bow be got hit 
iiiclcname is another afTair, The weather was bad. I had scarcely 
led the last inn— a snull place perched high on a streak of limestone 
road among the nioorri —when I struck into a dense mist and lost 
the road. 

Evening was at hand ; the prospect did not cheer rac. It would 
be hard to say how long I wandered, or if I fdl asleep in my 
wandering. Consciousness drowsed in mc ; then suddenly 1 noticed 
that the circle of brown heath which followed roc cvcryilicrc like 
my shadow had widened by about twenty feet. I lit my pipe — 
which was not the best thing I could have done ; for the idea of 
comfort involved touched my vi.tion with fi lirvlight glow hi uhich 
the Vizier sat awaiting mc. But I was stoic enough to blow the 
picture away on a whiff of smoke, and KK my legs again to tlicir 
interminable tramp over the mist-smotlicred moors. 

The mist closed in again, but almost immediately drew off and 
seemed to watch me. It was growing appreciably thiimer. Tho 
Jones's place might be a couple of miles away or under my nose ; I 
set down ihe town of Wythcnshawc at four or five Would it not be 
wiser to make a bed of the heather, and wait for the stars ? I 
suppose the question originated in my legs; lhcnce,at kast^\i.VaA. 

VOL. ccxcti. NO. aosj. ■» 



The GentUmatis Magazine. 



1 



a strong assent. The point waa still in debate when (he birsicging 
mist became articulate, and I caught a muniitiT of voicei. 

I stood itill with ear cocked to locale the sound, but it had 
ceased. Voices I had certainly heard. G)-psi€a? tramps P I 
shifted my knapsack : a disli^rett sketcli-hook, a volume of Goethe, 
and the bare necessities of a search for fresh scnsallon.i would not 
offer much temptation to the picdatory tribe. Scv-cral steps forward, 
then I hearkened again, nude another cautious advance, and 
blundered into a ml. A.i I rose, my hand touched something like a 
wall, and my ejc caught a faint haw of light not far ahead. TTie 
ground appeared to *lo[>e down toward the ha;tc ; and I had just 
time to observe this and take half a doz«n steps when I found myself 
squinting in some surprise along the liarrcl of a i>istol. 

An unsteady hand held the weapon ; the Cice behind was white, 
with n shine of excitement in the cyca, 

" Who arc >-ou, sir ? " I was asked in tones of tremulous violence. 
" Speak, or by heaven . . ." 

Then I noticed that someone else ivas tlierc. and heard x woman's 
VbtCf^ and saw a delicate hand placed on the threatening arm, 

"Smee you put it so per$ua»ively " I gave my name, " I 

nm a tramp, have lost my way in the cursed fog, and shall be glad if 
you can set me light." 

The pistol had dropped to his sida There was a pause, in which 
I heard him draw a deep breath ai of relief. Then he said : 

" I— we— are in much the same situation. I cannot direct you. 
Wc— my sister and I— areslrangorshcreabouu . . . shelterless . . . 
for the time being, of course . . . temporarily. My name fs— my 
name I* Edwards." l!c half turned to the figure at his side as for 
confirmation, then gave a jerky bow, and added, " Edwards, at your 
service. This is my sister," 

1 raised my cap. " If I intrude," I said, and made a movement 
to go. 

But his companion came forward impulsively, saying, " I beg 
j-ou will stay with us and share our fire. It is lonetyon these moors, 
horribly lonely, and I am sure we should both be glad of your 
company." 

'Xht man was watching me, hi« expression a curious mixture of 
hope ftnd dbtrust, and it was easy to sec that the pleasure in his case 
would not be undiluted. That did no: trouble me much. The 
woman's face and its suppressed anxiety had touched me in a tender 
place; on the other hand, I was not allured by the prospect of 
playing solitary blind-man's liuff all night on the moors; and there 



I 




Wayfarers'. 



rwas something so odd in the whole afTuir that ei'cn before the spoke 
I had made up my mind to stay. 
The haven to vrfaich 1 had been so stmngcly wlcomed was a 
stone-quarry, apparently abandoned. Grass flourished on mounds 
here and there, and between the deep cart-ruts. Near the centre 
nas a doorlcss hut, and before thb my friends had lit a Grc. A pile 

I of branches near ihc cabin doorway seemed to indicate a wood near 
at hand; further sources of fticl being on old oil-bairel and a 
mouldering staclc of peat 
All this looked dreary enough, but for my part I threw myseiT 
down ttiankfully on a gmss-cOTcrcd knoll, and scrutinised my com- 
panions through drowsy eydids. 
They were gentlefolk, that was clear. The man had an air of 
comfortable humdrum life ; he was a figure of mild conformity, the 
issue, one might h.ivc said, of a long line of prosperous tradesmen. 

I As for her, she was twenty or a little over : his sister, certainly — 
without any definite mental kinship. Her hair was brown, her cj"C8 
brown too, if the firelight could be trusted. 
To find creatures of civilisation in such a position wras of itself 
surprising, but that this manner of man should come to bit-ouac in 
a deserted quarry on the heaths was the extreme of incongruity. I 
could not believe that they were simply in my own predicam«it : there 
was more tlion this. His attempt to ex|)Uin had been that of a man 
in tenor of saying too much ; and it seemed more ar>d more dear 
that the truth was hidden in the woman's anxiety and the excite 
mcnt under which the man cri<li'ntly !alx>urecL 

From her seal in the cabin I felt that she was watching me. 
The man replenished the fire from his heap of dead branches 
like one who sought relief in action. Then he stood and looked at 
me a long moment across the lire. I thought be was going to speak, 
but I became aware tliat his eyes were vacant, and tliat what he saw 
was some absorbing picture of the bmin. \Vhcih«r by association or 
bora mere iKrvoos impulse he strode abruptly from ibc Grc toward 
the quarry mouth. 

Far up, a fringe of pines against a pale blur of sky peeped through 
the mist. There was the wood, then, growmg to tlie brink of tlw 
quatry. My fair neighbour was gazing into the fire, which lit up her 
face into something vaguely symbolical, somcthir^ that recalled my 
reading in Uve Greek mythology. Exactly what, I did not try to re- 
collect, but uking the chance of my host's absence, gave a short 
cough and observed : 

" We'll have clear weather before long," 



The GcNtltmau's Maga::ine. 



Sbc raised bcr eyes, but scciucd to foUov out Ivcr own tnin of 
thought. " Vou say jxiu arc a tramp," she mid. 

" I may say so. I am i-agatKxidtsing towards the lakes, or any- 
where else, accordiitg to whim—putting up at chcip inns, and 
quancring ni)-sclf oa unwilling acquaintances here and there." 
She reflected. "Itbstrangc. What is the object ? " 
" To escape an object. I'm looking for freedom ; purposes arc 
chains. Vou might call my object the Utk's— to lit-c, to take in 
air and sunshine, and, when lltc mood is on, to . . . sing." 

Sbe gavfi mc a faint smile and nan'cly asked my permission to 
guess. " You are an anisi ? " 
•• No." 
"A poet?" 
I laughed. 

" 3tty father was a t^Ior. I served under Mm for two years, and 
ruined an amiable temper. He look to gin and Bacon, and died 
broken-hearted about me, with a quotation from the Essays on his 
lipi." Tbcn, obsct\'ing her puzzled expression, and, at the same 
time, wondering at the camaraderie which bad sprung up between us 
(a result of the unconventional situation), I conlinucd mote soberly, 
" Tlie object is health. I have been closed up between olTicc walls 
(my uncle's) until I am a InirKh of nerves, and this is my way of 
getting bock to plain liumaii scn^tions. I was hunting up a fiicnd 
in this ne^hbourhood when ttic fog stepped in." 

But 1 had no intention of giving so much autobiographical 
matter without some return, and suggested: "Something has 
happened ? " 

She flashed a startled glance at mc " Yes," slie said, after a 
moment's hesitation. " ^Vhat it is heaven only knows. I was left 
at the inn. ... He would not go on to Wyihenshawe, nor back, 
even before the mist ...**' 

Hasty footsteps interrupted, and her brother came out of the 
gloom, and looked at her suspiciously. 
*' Were you speaking, Diana ? " 
"About the mist," 1 said. "I think It dears." 
He said "Yes," as though he did not understand, and his gaze 
fell to the fire. " Not a soul out on the moors. I strained my cars : 
no sound. Did you hear anything while 1 was away ? " He glanced 
around and upwards. 
•Nothing." 
" Better to take precautions," he explained, with a feeUc smile. 



A 



IVay/aixrs. 



I 



I 
I 



In deseiled places like these, you might expect to meet suspicious 
chsracters.'* 

His gaic hardened upon vac so uncomfortably that I seemed to 
shift a. respon.tihilily in suggesting : 

" Gypsii-s, footpads, poets," 

" Oi e^en . . . murderers" 

I apologised to meaiatrs ks asiautts for my omission, and 
eceived a long curious look which was so much more uncomfortable 
that I glanced into the catnn, wondeting what skt ihouglii. 

" Do you lake any inttrresi in th«e matters ? " he asked- " For 
my own jiart, I have studicti a few aj^-cis of crime— especially 
murders. You might say I am a connoisseur in murders." He 
was smiling; but as he said this his smile went as if it had been 
strangled. The spasm was only raomentai}'. He continued: 
"Motives arc an interesting study, very inteicstinf, and very 
important. 1 dont think it is quite recognised hcio impotlant. I 
think, when the importance comes to be recognised, there will bo 
' new relations between crime and the law. Don't you think so? " 

I reached with my foot and extinguished a thread of Arc creeping 
among ihc dried grass near me. " The law is perhaps too much in 
air; it doesn't come down close enough to ilie individual" 

*' You are right." His (ace lit up, " The law is inadequate. 
The bw sees only two things, crime and punishment. Tliere are 
such thing* as diflerences of chararter and pro\-ocation, but what 
does the law know or care about that? The one thing it stands in 
need of is charity — charity I Crime itself is not so cold and cruel as 
the law." In the midst of bis heat lie shivered, spread his hands to 
the fire, and added inclc^-antly, " It's growing colder." 

Across the fir<^ the girl was regarding him with pain and per- 
plexity ; as she turned her eyes in my direction, I read an appeal in 
them, and, taking the hint, I said : 

"This may all be very true ; but we arc three peaceable citizens 
cast up out of tlie fog into a dreary hole on the hcith, and it's no 
affair of ours. As for mc, after several hours without seeing a table, 
I'm not in much mood for abstract specuhtions; I feci," said I, 
sliifting my position Bliflly, "too much a creature of earth. It's 
more to the point that the fog is clearing, and if we get rid of it in 
reasonable time, we stand a chance of shelter for the rest of the 
night' Not that, on second thoughts, I was anxious for any change 
which would mean separation. 

My reward for this attempt at diversion was a grateful look from 
over the glow ; I began to warm with a smu^ &cn» tA MftxW. 'scAei- 



ie Gcfitfetiiatis Magazine. 



standing between us two. On the man, however, it nas evident my 
cfToit had been lost. Hii gaM was at the heart of the fire, and il is 
doubtful if be had he&rd half a doicn words, for he lifted his lace as 
if there had been no inlcrrxiplion, and said slowly : 

" Here is * case in ]x>inL I don't remember names or dates, but 
you may have heard of the case It concerns two men. One wux 
clc%-CT and unscrupuloui. The other was weak and Inisting, and 
had a small fortune, amplv for his needs ; and when the first (whom 
he thought his friend) came to him with fair words and at:gumcnls, 
he was persuaded to place his tittle all iji tlte other's lands. For a 
time profit came of the i^nturc ; then there was a cra.ih, an<l the 
man who trusted found himself, with many others, pcnnilcs<^ nothing 
but want waiting for him and those he loved. Then csmc evidence 
of his friend's villainy, I'erhaps you can guess his feelings, ]>crhaj)S 
you will understand tne when I say that be suddenly found depths 
in himself which he never before dn»mcd of. lie set out to see his 
fiivnd. 

"They met. The interview took place in the grounds of the 
other's house, where he had si)ied him walking and reading a 
book, ^^'ho knows wt)at was said ? The ruined man must have 
made some threatening movement, for the fin.tncivr, as if he had 
prepared bimself for something like this, (iourishcd a ptstol. There 
was a stn^gglc ; and then the ruined man was standing stupefied 
over the body of Ins friend, knowing nothing but horror of the suiv- 
shine and of the bloodstain spreading on the white pages at his feet." 

There he slopped, his white face working. 'Ihegirl had been 
watching his lips like a person fascinated, and when be came to the 
upshot she buried her face. It was no wonder 1— in view of ber 
presence, the %\ovj seemed curiously out of pbcc at such an hour 
and in such circumstances. A light brccEC, which bad apparently 
sprung up in the night outride, sent mist swirling up the quany 
mouth and around us like spectres ; liie fire sprang into a bla/e, and 
at once uneasy sliadoHS were crowding and starting in the precincts 
of tiic cabin; one suddenly saw that the loneliness of tlic great 
moors had made a sanctuary of this deserted quarry, and that we 
were mere intruders. I, for one, saw it so clearly that I had to get up 
lustily, with a pretence of attending to the fire. 

His eyes were on me— he seemed to cx|>cct some response ; so 
that, although desiring for her sake to turn the talk from its sinister 
course, I could do no less than say vaguely that the facts of bis story 
seemed somehow familiar. Still he stood without speech, possessed, 
•t seemed, by a degree of feeling not easily explained, except on 



I 




^^^^^^^^^ Wayfarers. 7 

grounds vrhicli a glar.cc at his sister and a reversion to lUf first 
cstimnlc of him wwe JiifScient to render untenaUc. 

>Vhat argument he intended )ti.i story to prov-e I gnrc him no 
chance of sbonitig. I'lte effect of his vords had been by no tneant 
soporific, but I took tlie situation in both liands and said, if the god> 
niJIcd, 1 should slccji for an hour or Iwa For the lady's comfort, I 
spread my grc;itcoat on the cabin floor, arranging my kiiai>sack 
into a pillow; and she thanked me with a wan smile that stuck in 
my vision long after I had thrown myielf <Son-n on the other side of 
the lire, with my Cacc toward the entrance of this great roolkss bed- 
chamber. 

But there was no sleep for mc, nor had I expt-ctcd it. The 
fatigue of my duty's ttamp tay on my bones, my couch was ivonc of 
the softest, and I lay, so fiir as I could judge, the bt:tter i»tt of two 
hours, all the night's incidents floating in inooheicnt pictures behind 
my eyelids, and the words of the miin droning mechanically in tiii-d 
hollows of my brain. 

He spoke DO further word, and as no sound came from the cabin 
I guessed that the occupant had wisely resigned herself to sleep, I 
could bear him moving fitfully about the Are ; once or twice he 
muttered to himself. Itut these sounds, tooy sink at last in the 
deepening quiet, and pieseiitly came the rise and fall of heavy 
breathing. 

The still night oppressed mc like a foreboding ; my senses were 
abnormally acute, and my imagination, as commonly happens in 
excessive fatigue, began to pliiy me tricks. The prevailing silence 
was a i-ast and sinister intelligence ; no! it wat my own consciousness 
which expanded miraculously and took |iosses$ion of the quarry, so 
thai the cabin, the forms of my companions, the smouldering fire, 
the sheer stone walls, even llie blades of gross, became nvid factors 
of my dilated being. From these altitudes I came down with an 
cITori lo the thought of my pipe; And that saved mc, 

I raised my head. 'ITk man lay a couple of feet fnim the fire, 
hii arms locked across his face. The low Gre left ihc cabin half in 
gloom, and my glance thither gained me nothing. Sleep was out of 
ihc question. I got up altogether, and picked my way out u]>on the 
heath. 

Right and left the moors were swept almost clean, under twinkling 
stars. Shimmerii^ tracts of mist still crouched here and there. From 
the higher giourvd of the wood I was able to make out a single light no 
bigger itian a piivhead across country, and I wondered if it were ths 
Viiier's place. That personage was long ago abed, ycobiU-j ^BiasiilvNi, 



8 



Tit GetUieniatt's Magasine. 



lips or tlumbCT m-er (he succulent joys of (he last meal, and here wni 
I awake, hungr}*, and wandering in the wilderness. 

But my pipe remained (o me, and I sat among fvms in the wood 
and took comfort of it for about half an hour. 'I'hcn, being visited 
with a sign in the shape of a mighty pwn, I made my way to the 
quarry brink and peered down. ']'hings were as I had left ihcm, 
save that the fire had sunk lower. A tiny llamc spurting near the 
edge of the embers brought the motionless form of the slctpcr now 
and then out of gloom, and moonlight kissed the cabin roof on its 
way to a pool at the end of the quarry, which lay still as death in 
the quiet shine. 

A handful of pebbles that I was clumiy enough to dislodge 
clattered down into the silent quarry. I held my breath, and saw 
the sleeper start up with the face of a drowning man and almost 
instantly subside. lie did not move again; and, withdrawing 
myself from the brink without further mi&hap, I retraced my steps 
to the entrance- 
He was still in heavy slumber when I reached the smouldering 
fire. 

I stood looking down on bim and wondering. Suffering was the 
heart of the problem be presented ; bo much his posture csprcsscd — 
the left arm thrOATi back, the right hand clenched, with pain 
fiickcring across the firelit features. It was not a face accustomed 
to suffering ; normally, in repose, it would be marked by a benevo- 
lence almost feminine. 

At a sound, I turned quickly, and beheld the girl smiling at me 
from the cabin doorway. 

"You haven't slept?" I said, subduing my voice. 

" No. The pebbles were )x>ur», then ? " 

" I went tip there to look fwr (he drowsy god." 

" And I suppose you peeped down to see if he had strayed here 
*Wlc you weie away." 

I laughed ; if I blushed as well, it was because the twinkle of 
her eyes kindled a sense of guilt in me. It pleased me to sec hct so 
bnvc in her trouble. 

" So the moon and stars are out 2t last, 
in the wood." She said it sadly. 

"You have an eye for these things." 

" I love them. . . . ^Ve had a wood at home" 

Her use of the p.ist tense kept me silent for a space ; and the 
draught blowing from the moors flicked a dead leaf into the fii^ 



4 



It will be ctichanling 




I 



Wayfarers. 9 

where it spattered briefly in the pause. Inarticubtc sounds escaped 
the slwrpcr, 

" You wcic telling me abwil the inn," I \-enliin.'d. 

" I am sure something dreadful hAp{x:ned. God grant . . . Von 
lieard the story he told. The first pan tkis our 01m case. He 
enuustc<] money as he said, some scheme failed, and yesterday he 
said that we must learn to regard ourselves o^ beggars." 

I'be last Rord hung on silence. 

"Do you thinl:.'* I said, with a gbnce at the sleeper, "tliat he 
has been altogvtlKT wise— or blameless ? " 

" Bhmtk-ss, yes. He has done it all for me. He spoke of the 
limitations of oiir life, my capacity for better things— those were 
his wortU. Oh, he should not have thought so '—but I mutt have 
given him causa It is I who am to blame." 

"Nonsense I 'i'he blame b apparently between an unwise man 
and a scoundrcL" 

She resumed, more calmly : " He came in during the day, very 
much cxciicd. 'U'c must set out at once,' he said. I tried to 
reason with him, but he would explain iwthing, and be was ui 
feveri:>h haste all the way. I was left at the inn " 

" Outside Hcathcnray, at the top of the long slope? " 

"Yes," 

" I might hare met you t Piay go on." 

"It was two hours before he came back stricken, anxious tc 
leave the neighbourhood, and to avoid all iigns of our fellow- 
ctcaturcs," 

The eyes she fixed on the skeper were fall of trouble and an 
almost motherly tenderness. I bad no iKed to press for further 
detail ; all about me was eIo(]uent of w!iat followed the Bight 
from the tnn. And there was too much reason to believe that what 
had already happcivcd was but a prelude to issues more disastrous. 
Tbc facts she had related, lighting up the singuUrwotds and manner 
of her brother, made it clear that they stood face to face with an 
appalling possibility. 

"And after tonight? " I said. 

She W.1S mute. 

I thought for 3 minute. 

" You see what may have occurred ? " 

" I daic not think of it" 

Pity for her pridied me into plain spealtir^ " Ah I bat you 
must think of iL To-morrow will show exactly what position you 
are in, but meanwhile we know that you are tVan^tv^ t^»x %. 



10 



The GeiilUniatfs Magati$tt. 



I>TCCipi>:e- At llus moment farces may i>e gathering which will sweep 
your bfollier awa/ frcin you for e^cr. It sccras to me that life has 
been kind lo you u^t to now ; j'ou arc about to k'am how brutal it 
can be. I want you to see tliat the Tcfug<;s of the weak are closed 
to J'OU) if you wish to suni^-c Vou must hare the courage to 
think. The point before you is tliis: if the worst has happened) 
what will you do ? " 

Brimming eyes were her reply to this piece of scrmoaising ; 
I recollected that she was a woman. 

" You have relatives," I suggested, more gently. 

"None." 

It WIS my turn to fall silent, before tlie mental picture of a hill' 
side eotugu among the bices, and in a prophetic ^vAx J saw the face 
nt my side brightening my mother's loneliness there. AVork would 
SODD caII me southward sgain, but there my ramble ended for the 
present ; and words of an offer on my mother's behalf rose to mjr 
tips, where for the time being they remained. 

Let the morrow decide. 

Toirard morning I fell asleep j and when I awoke I was alo«« 
with the ashes of the &re. A streak of cloud in conflagration 
hung above mc ; dawn was filling the quarry with still, grey light. 
1 gat up with a shiver and looked around, fragmentary images of 
last night flitting through my head in twilight uncertainty ; and I was 
asking myself if 1 had dreamed when my glance fell upon a piece of 
paper at my feet. 

I stooped for it. . . . 

I found, later, that I had wandered around in the mist lo the 
other side of Wythcnshawe. People were already astir when I 
walked into the village ; an indefinable thrill was in the morning air. 
At the first inn I was made aware of the murder of Mr. lilrani 
Jones in the groimds of his house on the preceding afternoon. 

In the wann kitchen I re-read my scrap of ppcr : 

" Whatcii'er happens, my place is at his side. Good-bj^." 



17 



TJu Ge 




rtirtumiiiaiiilfcii 

the pnBiat dif . Time «a» a vide 

MpBtc Md «aiKtioiik bM it » «MeM Aat dhe I 

WM wr KiriMd, »d Ifae ffiiiV wihor tooad it dffitak M I 

■■*« IIoKC dw tfO^ of dMK prtfie itifiagK Tite 

iMd «i^ to Mcsrc « mitMt hniMwi t and iiwuiii hu iateiKian i 

raiding bi» vert, nd he «m ca^iied to jodge by the receptkm^ 

MGOadHl «» il vlMkcr be ms Iftdj to lecsoplriMdr te ilie < 

flT fcMipg k prtfidMd. Hd*. therdbn; hiai qwdallr far tlw 

fvrptwe, ipraog sp in Rone ; lid) men lent ifaeir Ivge h mqu e tai g 

chiaibmb aad poorer tslben, who coold DM iJbnl the hire of a Ian 

■od bad no hfcemM IHende nd potioD^ veeiied in ibe t^ien air, at 

ibc buhft, ia (be poclicoe* raood tbe Fonun, and at ibe public 

Jaaag/l*, where Ibej could reckon with cataiiaf npon atiractu^ the 

Mfitinioaofariegoflaaleni^iBgawajr their time. In (ict,Jactaa 

b tondon then » a wdlKMpiitKd coocen acMon, so ia RoiBc tfaero 

tecfli to have been certain nootba of the fcai when there was a con* 

Uant round of recitalions. 

Tfaoi Pliojr [q one of hJs Icttcn cx>ngntuhues his friend, Scoedo^ 
on Ibe fine crop of poeti wbo had made their dlhit that year, and 
way* that right through April hardljr a day had passed without loine- 
one giving a redtalioo. Juvenal, whose satim open with a uvage 
attack on the laucoo* poets of his limc, tpcaks of these uarreling 
rrcaturc« rcdiirtg crcn in the month of August, by which tinK ths 
heat had driven all the wetl-to-do people to ukc refuge in their 
country hooio. In ai»otber letter Pliny speaks of his having fixed 
a (by in July for giving a recilal, because during that month he was 
!«■ lik«1y to be busy in the I^w Courts, bat it seem* clear that 
April and ihc spring months were the (avoudte season in which 
authors exhibited their wares cither to a select audience or to an 
indiscriminate assembly. 

As might be luppoted, numbers of people only attended these 
leading* l>ccause it was fashionable and "the thing " to do so, and 
because their friends, the authors, would be offended if they failed 
to put in an ap|>caninc«. There Is a very amusing letter of Pliny's, 
In which he cgmplains bitterly of the difficulty that authors some- 
times find in wcun'ng an audicrx^c. People will promise readily 

Wgh, he says, but they are slow to enter llic hall. They gossip 
waste tiitui oolside. Instead of going in and wailing for the 

tirer to begin, they orrangc for someone to come and tell them 



PubiU Headings in Ancicul Rome. 



13 



when he has got through his inlToduction, or whether h« is nearly at 
tlic end of his nunuscripc, aiiil finally they lounge in sloirly and 
languidly. Not even then, says Pliny, do they remain to the close ; 
the more considerate of thcru sidle out so as not to attract attention, 
while others limply ri.se 2nd go, without caring whether tliey hurt the 
feelings of the reader or not. It b eisy to see from thii psxage 
that tlie literary amateur of the Empire was just as great an indiciion 
to his friends ait th<: amateur reciter of our own time;, and was e%'en 
more diflicult to shake off. He sent out his invitations well in 
advance, and conslanlly reminded his friends in t!ic inlerim, and 
yet, Pliny adds patlietically, people are so " shockingly biy " that 
they cither do not come at all, or, if tliey do, ihcy complain that 
they tiavc wasted thdr day simply because tliey have not wasted it. 

Let us, however, look more closely into Pliny's conception of the 
i-alue of these literarj" gatherings. He writes of them with enthu- 
siasm, for no one was ever more dci,'Otcd to his studies than the 
) ounger Pliny, and it must he added that there never was a m:in 
vainer of his literary achievements and wiih a more untjuenchablc 
thirst for applause, lliis he confesses with the most engaging 
tsatvite. lie is constantly admitting that praise is sweet in his cars, 
and congratulating himself lh.it he is bracketed with Tacitus ia 
popular estimation, so that when the name of the oitc was casually 
mentioned in conversation the name of the other spontaneously rose 
lo the lips of the speaker. Applause, praise, congratulation — these 
were the incentives which fired him to deeper study and still more 
patient apphcation, and it is easy to untk-rstand, therefore, tliat he 
welcomed an institution like that of the public rcitding, where, as 
tile audi(.-ncc was expressly invited to attend, he was sure thai his 
periods would be politely punctuated with ajiphusc. Pliny's £amc 
rests upon his Letters, which have a chaim of their own in spite of 
many obvious defects, and he was in his day the most celebrated 
advocate in the Law Courts. IJut, like Cicero, he must ncedsdabblc 
in poetry j like Cicero, he was inordinately vain of his jioctical 
(lighu ; and again, Ukc Cicero, the specimens of his poetical talent 
which have come down to us arc exceedingly poor. And yet when 
he read thcni to a select company of friends we are assured that they 
were greeted with unanimous applause. Eithrr Plin/s friends were 
as poor critics of poetry as lliny himself, or, what is much more 
probable, they so cleverly concealed the fact that they were bored 
that the happy recipient of their congratulations failed lo see that 
their praise lackod the note of genuineness. 

In a very curious passage, which throws a Sood of light on the 



«4 



The Ctnilemaiis Magazine. 



chaiacier of the writer, Pliny tells us that the reading of his poems 
lasted for two daifs, for hta auditors were so enthasiastic llial ihcy 
TTOuId not let hitu off with less. Then he goes on tosay that instead 
of selecting the best possigcs and omitting the rest — which mis the 
usual practice of authors — he religiously read his manuscHpt from 
cover to cover. What, he asks, are friends worth mho only come to 
hear you for Uieir own pleasure ? So it was not to entertain hit 
friends and amuse them that he invited them to his reading, liol to 
get the bcncrit of their criticisms for his future guidance when 
revising the work for [nihlication. The audience, in other word^, 
ought to help him to make the liouk as perfect as possibly and ! 
considered it mere selfishness on their part if they f imply came i 
pass an idle and agreeable hour. Pliny certainly lived up to his ov 
maxims. If one of his friends was giving a reading he made a point 
of being present, however inconvenient nich attendance might be. 
" I have nci-CT failed in a single attendance," is his boast. He even 
remained in Rome during the dog days to carry out this most 
important social duty, though he was anxious to gd away to one of 
his country villas, out of reach of the heat and dust of the city and 
the bustle of the Law Courts. 

As we have said, Pliny was essentially a bookish man. He was 
never so happy as when he was reading or writing. Even when he 
went hunting he carried his tablets with liim, in case the game w«Sg 
shy ; and nothing pleased him better than for some young man to 
ask his advice as to his studies. He liked to discover youths of 
ptomise, to bring them on, to patronise them, and to hare all ihej 
world know tliat it w-as Plinius Secundus whom they took as thcin 
modcL We can well imagine, therefore, how delighted be was to 
accept the invitation of some budding poet or author to his first 
recitation. It afforded bim precisely the same personal gratification 
which many worthy people of our own day fee] when they arc asked 
to take the chair at some amateur debating society, or when they 
ace their names in the newspaper as " among those on the platform." 

There is a very charming piclurc of one of these recitations giwn 
in the Fifth Book of Pliny's Ixtters. The author was a young man 
bearing the honoured name of Calpumius Piso, and he had com- 
posed an elegiac poem on the " Legends of the Stars," Pliny tdla, 
us that the sweetness of his voice gave the poem an additionat 
charm, his modest bearing made his voice sound even sweeter, wliil 
bis blushes and evident nervousness lent the reading still furthef ] 
grace and distinction. In the audience sat the author's proud'l^ 
mother and a brother, whoise (ace at the opening of the recital bore 



Pitb/tc Readings »« Atuient Rome, 



I 



I 



I to bis anxiety that the leading should be a sucoust, and lit 
lip wSlh ptcasutc when he found that all wu going welt and that the 
poem met with the approval of those present. No sooner w.is it con- 
cluded ihin Pliny rosi? to his feet and improved ihe occasion with a 
speech of congratulation to the author, and then paid his compli- 
ments 10 the mother. Vain as Pliny was, there was no jealousy in 
his dis|imiuon, and he ta\Uhcd his praises broadcast to such an 
extent that people said that all bis geese irere swans. Occasionally, 
however, an awkward tontrttitHpt took place at these readings. 
For example a cruel joke was pl:t)-ed upon an elegiac poet named 
Passienus Paulus by his friend Javolenus Priitcus. 1'aulus had com- 
menced a poem in the conventional vray, te^inninj;, " I'riscc, 
Jubes — " and gravely started to read it aloud, when Priscus, who 
was in the audience, cried out, " Ego i-cTO non jubco." Just fancy, 
adds Pliny, how people roared with laughter and wliai jokes they 
were making at I^ulus' expense. 

Anolher and stiH more ludicrous episode took place when the 
chair upon which a particularly fat praetor was sitting collapsed 
under his weight. The reader burst into peals of laughter at the 
s^ht, and, though he tried his best to recover his gravity, the thought 
of the disconcerted magistrate kept sending him off into fresh 
hysterical outbursts. 

History, poetry, and hilks kltm formed the staple fare at these 
readings, but Pliny went e^-en further and recited the speeches which 
he had already dclirered in the Law Courts. We gather from his 
letters that certain of his acquaintances held the view that a speech 
— and especially an old speech — was unsuitable for these gatherings, 
and modern criticism will certainly endorse their objections ; for an 
old 5i>eech is rarely of any intcresl when the subject on which it was 
delivered has passed into the domain of history, and Pliny's specious 
ailment that they were practically new owing to the labour with 
which he had revised them carries no conviction. In spite of the 
warm affection which Pliny must have inspired owing to his many 
excellent characteristics, we can well belic^-e that there were times 
when his friends wiihed that lie was a little less enthusiastic about 
literature, a little less vain of his oratorical powers, and a little less 
exigeant as a redter. 

He lashes himself into anger on one occasion over the behaviour 
of some people in the audience during a reading given by a friend 
of his. They sal, he says, like deaf mutes, they never openeil their 
lips, or rabcda lwind,orstirTed from theirplaccscren when they were 
tired of sitting. Tl>ey ti-ere, in fact, " superior peisotvs," 



l6 



The Gentkinans Ma^oHtu. 



Ii is obriousthai I'lin^ regarded these readings as a hotbed for 
forcing gcniu; and developing wU, nnd that they actbd in this way 
to a certain extent caiinot be denied. But the system had obvious 
drawbacks. It tended to make the j'oung reciter vain and conceited. 
We are not told th,it any obscure authors of genius were unearthed 
by thcK reciutions, and the bmcntable falling off in tlic character of 
t^tin literature in the Silver Age inay be, to some extent, due to the 
fact ttut literature liad a fashionable following. Ijitle good work 
was produced in England towards the end of the eighteenth ccntur)-, 
wheti evory beau and man of fathion scribblol Tcncs in heroic 
metre, and wc sec a similar degeneracy under the Empire, when 
elegiacs were the rage — the easiest metre in which to write tolerably 
and the most difficult in which to write powerfully and well. Proba- 
bly there were (ar more people in Rome interested in litcratme 
under the Empire tlun there were during the Golden Age of l.jitin 
literature. Numbers of rich men pretended to literary taste, and, if 
they gave dinners, too): care that their guests should listen to their 
compositions. But the general standard was by no meant high, 
and Pliny himself, who may fairly be described as a good second- 
class author, is often unutterably tediuus through ht^ pedantic 
prolixity and tlie pompous manner in which he utters platitude aflcc 
platitude with wearisome Ecntc:ittousncss. 

There is another &ide to these readings, however, which deserves 
fuller treatment than it has received. When there was a tyrant on 
the scat of Augustus, sui]>icious like Tiberius, mad like Caltgulaj 
or Nero, or morose and gloomy like Domilian, |)olitics became a 
sealed book to the best society of Rome. They dared not enter 
into a declared and active opposition, for tliat would iiavc drawn 
down upon them the vengeance which they deemed themsclret 
lucky if they escaped by the most flagrant servility. The old 
Roman families never fully and frankly accepted the new n'simt, 
even when tlicy toolc o.'Gcv under it, though tlicy had no practical ' 
subiiituto to put in its place which would have lasted a week. 
Doctrinaires themselves, they rcserred their admiration for doc- 
trinaire re^icidtM like Brutus and Cas^ius and fell back upon 
literature as aRiirding some occupation for their energies. Hence 
we fmd them writing tngedie^, ctsays, pocm^, and biographies on 
ihdr heroes of the past and reciting them to their friends tliroughout 
the troubled reigns when hbctty was lost to the Roman cilixci:. 
The ixlla de lielurc became a sort of meeting ground for the oppo- 
sition and discontented party which did not dare to give voice to ita 
real feelings in open and unmisukablc language. Such a literature 



PublU Readings m Anctenl Rome. 



I 



vm sure to be full of allusions, and (A douhUi-tNltndrts, irlikh would 
be undeistood by the author's friends and would annoy the 
Emperor, though not affording him a handle for punishing the 
writer. 

Some, indeed, were more daiing than others. Tacitus «nd 
Suetonius hai-c preserved a number of these obnous dcnbkS' 
tittendrt% and biting epigram!, which, in some cases, cost their 
authors their lives. PHny leils a sloty of an Emperor vho, uhilu 
one day vralking in the grounds of his patace, heard the sound of 
clapping in a ntighbouriiig mansion, and, on asking what was taking 
place, vfas told that Noniaiius was gtnng a reading. He immediately 
made his way to the hall and remained until the theme was finished. 
Pliny refers to this as a sign that the Emperor took an interest in 
literature; but it is much more probable that Claudius — for he was 
the Emperor in question— shrewdly suspected that the sentiments 
which men were applauding so loudly must have been hostile to 
himself. Few of the Emperors tolerated freedom of speech. 
Augustus had bcsun wdl by disdaining to liike cognisance of the 
bitter lampoons which were circulated against his private life and his 
public acts, but in the end he was stung into adopting repressi>« 
measures, for the greaier impunity these libellers enjoyed the more 
shameful grew cticir attacks. Hence it is not surprising that most of 
his suoceusors looked askance upon these public readings, and that 
some of them published decrees forbidding the publication ui 
eulogies upon men like Brutus and Cassius, They knew rery well 
that the praises bestowed upon those two tyrannicides were meant as 
an instigation for others to follow thcii example, and that the morals 
drawn by the authors were intended to have a present day appli- 
cation. Such was the political use to which these readings were put, 
'^Otigh tlie net political results tlictcfrom were pi^cticaliy nil. 

The public reading remained in t-ogue for a number of centuries, 
though it naturally flourished more when a literary* Emperor like 
Antoninus or Aurclius occupied the throne. One of the latest 
mentioned took place in 544, when Aratus read his epic paraphrase 
of the Acts of the Apostles before the Tope Vigilius. It rocl with 
so much success that a public recitation was given in the Church of 
St. Peter ad Vincula, when both books were read through four times 
over— a fact which speaks more for the religious enthusiasm of the 
audience than for its literary ta$tc. 

;. B. riRTH. 



Toi. ccxai. Ka 3053. 



i8 



The GeHt/eman's Magazine. 



THE ANCESTORS OF CHARLES 
READE IN THE CI^IL WAR. 



IN 1550^ one Thomas Rcadv, a man who had inherited great 
wealth fifom his relatives, the Audclctts of Buclta and Nottbontx, 
Ac<iuired by purchase the I'alacc of the Miircd Abbots of Abingdon 
—11 huge Xoimon building, whose ruins still are visible from tlie line 
about a quarter of a mile from the old Berkshire town. At the 
dissolution of the rooiiastciies the manor was leased b/ Henry VIII. to 
John Atidelctt, and at his decease both palace and manor weic granlcd 
by Edw.ird VI. to Sir Richard Lee. Tlial was on July 10, 1547. 
On September 19 in the same year Sir Richard I,ec aliened to 
Thomas Readc, but for some reason did not surrender possession 
until Fcbruar>- 11, 1550. The great Benetliciinc Monastery hod 
been suppressed in 1538, but between that date and 1547 remained, 
so far as the palace was concerned, in the hands of the Crown, and 
irhen the grant to I.ee was made it was subject to the onerous 
condition of the Sovereign being enabled lo claim hospitality from 
its owner, the King paying from his privy purse annually jC6, u. 4^. 
I'hcre seems to have been some bargaining prior to the decease of 
Henry VIII., for in the grant to Lcc King Edward .nffirm* that be 
is " mindful of the last will and testament of our Dcarc Father." 

The lessee of the abbey, prior to the Db^olution, »>. of the manor, 
which comprised somefourtcen sub-manors, had been this nme John 
Audelctt, whose wife Catherine, in 1539, beiiueaihed the «^latc of 
Ipsdcn to the elder daughter of the said Thomas Reade, who married 
Thomas Vachell of Coley, later a Popish Recusant, and the victim of 
Queen Ucss's enaeimcnl, whicli reduced him and his wife — albeit she 
was a Conformist —to poverty. Three centuries later Cliarles Retde, 
novelist and dramatist, was born at Ipsdcn House, tl)e e*tale on the 
decease of VachcU in itito having reverted to the Reade ixrd\\y. 

Tliomaa Reade died in 1556, and, as his great personal friends 
were Sir 1*. Englcfield, founder of the Jesuits' Collie at Valladolid, 
and Serjeant Plowden, who refused the Woolsack rather than 
conform, it may be inferred llial he was not prejudiced iu (avoui 



Th€ Ancestors of Charles Reade in the Civil War, 19 

oE the New Ij&arning. His son, who succeeded him at Itanon 

House— as ihe pabce ms renamed, the ^joining manor being 

that of liarton— eiijoyed the Tiiendsfaip of Pope, rounder of Trinity, 

of Wigjitwick, co-founder of Pembroke^ and of Bodley. Probably 

hb bias was towards the High Church party — albeit his tbtughter 

married Bulstiodc of Bulslrodc, and her son ntiscd a corpti for the 

Parliament, while her nq>hov was the famousSirlSulstrodcWhilclodte. 

To liim succeeded at Barton House a gentleman destined to 

play a minor part in the war. Educated at Queen's College, Oxford, 

and a student of ihc Middle Temple, knighted by James I, in 1619, 

and Sheriff of Herts, Oxon, and Berks, Sir 'I'homas Reade married 

Mary, one of Iho co-hcircsses of Sir John Brocket, of Brocket Halt, 

by Helen, daughter of Sir R- Lylton, of Knebirorth. The oihef 

co-heiicsscs were the wives of Ciitto of Childcrley, Carleton of 

Holcoinbe — whence the Lord Dorchester— Cave of Bargrave, 

Spencer of Offley, and Lord North. As the I.ytlons were strongly 

Puritan, and Sir John Brocket had befriended Queen Elixabelh in 

her exile at Ashridge— she was actually his guest at Brocket, when 

the Lord Mayor came to carrj- her to Westminster for her coronation 

— it is not to be wondered that Lady Reade adhered tenaciously 

to the New Learning. Unfoitunately for prolonged domestic felicity, 

her huslund held l^udian views, and apparently also was one of 

those gentlemen who permitted themselves to be carried away by 

the fAscinntion of Charles Stuart's presence. They were married in 

March 1597-8, and until the outbreak of the Civil \Var, when boili 

were in later middle life, must have lived harmoniouiily, for die 

bore him ten cliildren. Of her sons, anon. It may be welt at this 

point to mention the daughters as illustrating how, in the Civil 

War, bouse was divided against house, as well as husband against 

wife, and children against one or other parent, inasmuch as they 

could not side with botli. 

The eldest daughter married Sir G. Comewall, baron of Burford, 

a Parliamentarian ; the ne«. Sir \Villinm Rtis»ctl, of Stri,-)Tisham, the 

sturdy Cavalier, who at the Siege of Worcester offered his life to sarc 

Ldji^dty ; tlie next. Sir R. J>ormcr, also Cavalier ; the youngest, 

^SBnind Winwcod, who, though tlic son of James L's Minister, sided 

with the Parliament. 

lady Reade, on the partition of Sir John Brocket's estates, 
obtained for her portion Brocket Hall — a demesne later in history 
a»ociated with the names of Ixid Kfelboume, the Premier ; Lady 
CaroUne Lambe, Lord Byron's Same; and Lord Pahnerston, the 
Premier. As owner of Brocket, jun ttxeris. Sir TliomA,^ &.■«»&« •«» 



30 



The Gentleman $ Magasine. 



summoned in 1635 10 lend moncjr to King Charles. He jcnned 
Sir C. Morrison, Sir T. Hyde, and others in point-blank refusing, 
and must bive fdt awkward when in 1619 tlic King and Queen 
Henrietta Maria honoured Itim with a vijit at Bnnon. Howc^'cr. by 
way or making things agreeable, a knighthood was conferred on 
William Spencer, of Yamion, his wife's nephew; and the Tisit could 
not have proved unpleasant to ihetr majesties, for they repeated it in 
1638, and ill 1643 John, the third son of Sir Thomas Rcade— on 
whom had been settled both Brocket Hall and titc Manor of Duiutevr, 
Oxon— received knighthood, and four days later a baronetcy. That 
these honours were intended as a compliment to the Cilhcr seems 
certain, inasmuch as when, directly after the Civil War broke out, 
the latter remained staunch to the Ro>'al cause, the young baronet 
at once Joined t)ie Parliamentary Committee for Herts, an set 
savouring of ingratitude. 

Sir Thomas's eldest son, a gentlmian Commoner of Magdakn, 
after marrying one of the Cornewalb without his Other's consent, and 
by her having a large family, died at Burford Castle in 1^34. His 
eldest son. Sir Thomas's heir, Compton, was an undergraduate at 
Oxford in 1642, and with his younger brother, Edward— afterwards 
of Ipsdcn — espoused the Royal cause. At this crisis, Sir Thomat 
and I-ady Reade agreed to differ as to politics and religion. They 
had surrendered Brocket Hall to their favourite son. Sir John, 
on his marriage with Miss Style, of Wateringbury, in 1640, and in 
1641 a deed was signed providing tliat the said Sir John shoutd 
board and lodge his mother and unmarried sister, with scnnnts, &c. 
for ^^148 a year— a large alimony, if vre consider the comparative 
value of money. Shortly after the war began. Sir Thomas jotrvd 
Ihe King in Oxford, wlicre he iiossessed a residence called 
" The Castle," which cannot now be identilicd. He was then sixty- 
eight, and gust the normal age for campaigning, but as great a tealot 
for the Stuart cause as his grandson Compton and his sons-in-law, 
Russell and Dormer. 

On April 17, 1644, he had once more to entertain the King and 
Queen at Barton, and the latter took farewell for ever of her ilt-faied 
husband either at Barton or a few miles off. Heath's chronicle 
states that " the royal contge started carJy in the morning for Lam- 
boume, and that the King's Troop canyed her out of the tounc of 
Abingdon returning with the King to Oxford." A year later, i.e, in 
April 1645, CromwcU was advancing at the head of the New Model 
over the Chiltcms, and the King apparently anticipated an atiatk on 
Oxford from the cast side. Neither Gardiner, nor any other irwdem 




The Ancestors of Charles Rtade in tkt 



I 



hUtor^n, mentions (he following inddcnt, but it is roconJcd in ibe 
Civil War Tracts— iV. contemporary newspapers — with sUgbtJy vaiy. 
ing details, to that it niay l>« regarded as xolhentic The cavalry 
t»lgade under Ijird Morthampton was quartered in the Otmoor Vale, 
seven miles nonh-east or Oxford, and the King ciidcntly viafaed 
Koftbampton to wSccl round and confront CrotDTclL Hctberefon 
dispatcjied Sir Thomas Reade--who was conoectcd with the 
CofOptons through the Spencers— under escort of Lieotcnant Dentoo 
and a troop of horse vith orders, but, unhappily, General Oauford's 
division coming up from Banbury, tn rvuU for Windsor, intercepted 
the party. A Major ShcBicld attacked thero with superior foroe^ 
and, according to Whildockc, the despatches were found on Sir 
Tbonass person. Of these, one was an autograph ftotn the Kjn^ 
the other a letter from Hatton to Lord Notthatnptoa. Both w«re 
described as of special importance. 

Sir Thomas Rcadc's neighbour and friend in Berks— at B«ssilc> 
letgh — was Speaker Lenthal, and it was ptobabl/ by his influence 
that the captured Ca\-alieT was remitted b)- order of the Committee 
of Both Kingdoiiu, signed iKttr alios by Northumberland, Man- 
chester,' and Loudoun, to the ParliamenUry Committee at St. Albaos. 
The chairman of the committee was the EatI of Salisbury, and 
thereon sat Sir Brocket Spencer, and Sir Thomas's Roundhead soiv 
Sir John Rcade, Bart, of Brocket. 

ProboiUy no incident in the Civil War was more Euggestivc than 
that of a favourite, a di»lo)-aI, and an undutiful tan sittii^ in )udg* 
mcnt on his own fathu', and tluit lather an indul^ient and a loyal 
parent Reading the records between the lines it seems evident 
eaoagh that Sir Thomas would have himself been offered a baronetcy, 
but that from the circumstance of his having differed from hiseldestsoo^ 
and because he had made a pet of his third son, he petitioned for the 
honour to be transferred to that favourite, for, had he accepted it 
himself, tlie baronetcy would have dev-otved on his grandsoo and 
heir Comjnon. Instead, he put himself aside, with the result that 
be found himself not long after at variance wiih the son whom he 
had favoured, and a [msoner, with his £ate in bis hands. 

The records of the Committee at St Albans, so &r as is known, 
have not survived. Sir Thomas was debtcd before them under the 
custody of the notorious Major Hurrell, who ratted twice during 
the war, and so far as am be asccnained, he obtained bis release 



• The ptetenl Duke of Uaacbetter b a deKcnlant of Sii Tbonas Rcada 
ttfoogh the Daibwwdi. 



32 



The Gentleman's Afagazitte. 



wirhin a year, on condition of joining the Parliamentary Committee 
for Oxon, He rcm:uncd on thai Committee ttntil the murder of the 
King, after whieh ho refused to act. He died at Dunstcw in 
December 1650, and neither his widow nor his son Sir John, vho 
succeeded him in that manor, had the grace so mudi as to pbcc r 
heubtonc to hb memory — a strange fate for a man uho^ in his 
prime, had cnlcttaincd royahy. 

We will revert to Sir Jghn presently. Flnt it will be well to 
retam to c\'cnts Kt Oxford. As has been said, )'Oung Compton, Sir 
Hiomas's grandson, like mo^t itndergrad) of the period, displayed 
cnihusiasm for the Royal causes A tiadiiion hath it that he vas 
with \m Uticic Rtt^sell in the Siege of Worcester. Sc that as it 
may, he played an lionotirable part for the King. 

13arton House— the old i'tilaee — stood at a diNtaiKe from Abing* 
don, which was held ptitin;icioiwly for the Parliamoit by Uiownc, 
the fdggot-mongcT of Whilechapel, who glorified litmtrvlf by a bout of 
fislicuS^ with Fairfax, wherein he came aS second best After the 
abortive attempt to recapture the town by Gage in 1644, Prince 
Rupcit left Biownc unmolested. Uut in Mnrcli, \^^ be devised n 
plan for surprising Abingdon, which is detailed in the Rupert Papers 
and the Civil War Tracts. ITie pivot of this venture was the old 
Palace, which had been held for the King after Wilmot's desertion 
before \Vallcr in 1643. Although the name of Compton— then only 
niiMteen — was not mentioned, there can be no doubt, from the high 
honours beslon'c<l upon him at the Restoration, that he was concerned 
in the affair. liricfly, some 300 infantry were brought by ri\-er to 
Barton I Eou^e, and there lodged. At daybreak they were joined by 
others from Oxford, but the cavalry arrived toolaie^ As the accounts 
give it, "a^cr the raraluc," a rush was made, and some undergrads 
got into the town, but the attempt proved nboitiw, Tlicn it was 
that Urownc resolved to sleight or dismantle Barton House. After 
pounding it with cannon-balU to no purpose, but eAliauiitiiig the 
nmmunition of the defenders, he piled faggots and straw against the 
front, and burnt it to the ground.' At ilie Restoration Compton was 
Created a Baronet and placed Fissr on the list of the gentlemen of 
Berks selected for the Order of the Ro)al Oak. His detcendant is 
the pnrwnt Sir George Complon Readr, 9tli Ibronct. 

Of his younger brother, I->lward of Ipsdcn, the direct ancestor of 
the novelist and dramatist, liulc needs to be said. His eldest son 

' ScVftil ciLiinon.IwUs wctc extmclfd fioni Ihc nins wmic fifty ycin ngo. 
Of ibcie, otic liclonj^ to Ihc l*lc Sir Jotin Ch«nJo( Itca^e, Bart., and «Dn(litr 
l(. TrendtU, Mayor o( Abingdon. 




The Ancestors of Charles Reade in the Civil War. 23 



was Fellow of Si. John's, his j'oungc&I daughter ihc wife of the 
Jacobite General Mackintosh, who led the 1715 rising of tlie clans 
and died a prisoner at Edinbur]gh, baring jast before his decease 
scratched with one of his teeth on the mils of his cell, " God ave 
King James ! ' 

llicTc remains to be told the sequel of tlic Roundhead Sir John 
of Brocket's caietT. It certainly fonncd a striking contrast to that of 
his Cavalier father, nc]>hev, arul brothers-in-law. 

In the State Paper Dcpanmcnt of the Record OfBcc ire find a 
curious entry. He was asked to contribute j£6oo to the war. That 
was in 1646. To this he demurred, and a Mr. Baibor of Hertford, 
a Puriiai), certified that he was "a right godly man, ^-ery acti\-e at 
Committee and as J.P. in suppressing ale-booses." It was piobably 
oiring to this nctnplary conduct, or through his connection with Sir 
Bulslrode Whitclocke, that he found favour with CromwelL The 
I'arliament in lis wisdom had enacted that all tionours bcitowed by 
King Charles irerc null and void. Hence Sir John dropped to be 
John Rcade, Esq. On June 18, 1656 — \pide Calendar of Letters of 
Privy Seals in tlie Record Office] — there was a " Writ of DiKcharge for 
John Reade in lesjicctofhisvoluntar)' offer for the maiuiainyng of 30 
footmen for 3 )'eaii» in his Highnes (m) army in Ireland, the title ot 
dignity of Baion" is conferred on him.** 

'litis was the first hereditary honour bestowed by Cromwell, and 
it was made out to the recipient's heirs indcfiniicly. It did not last 
long. In 1660 Sir John was suing for pardon from Charles II., and 
whereas when he accepted the Oromvrelti.iit baronetcy he changed 
his coat of arms, at the Rotoraiion he rc^'Cited to that borne by his 
ancestors. But altlioagb he accepted King Charles II., he rcmaiiKd 
at heart dislo)-3t, while his religion mutt have been strongly I*unt3nica], 
fur most of his large (amJly b)' Susarmc Style were not baptized, and 
in the Register of Hatfield is xa entry of a marriage performed by 
him as a layman. But it was in later life that his true charactcx 
developed itself. One would scarcely expect a wry lofty sense of 
honour in a man who, after accepting an honour from Charles I., 
turned against the giver before the ink of the patent was dr)-, who 
sat in judgment on his own father, and truckled to Cromwell, but even 
then he had not touched the depths of a mora! .Xveinuj. In 1657 
his wife died. Now a prominent memljcr of the Committee of Both 
Kingdoms had Iwaen the Hon. Francis rierpoim, son of the Earl of 
Kingston, and one of those who remitted Sir Thomas Rcade for trial 
l>efore the Committee at St. Albans. In 1661 Sir John manicd this 
gentleman's widow, by name Alissimmon, probably attracted by her 



24 



Tfi4 Genilenian's Magmine. 



fortune, Th« expeiiincnt pitwcd anything hut laliifactoiy. After 
Ihice yean of connubial felitily the pair not only quarrelled but 
attacked each other fiercely in pamphlcti, whereof on« surri^'cs at 
tbe British Museum. He accused her of "making songt .ngains 
him," and tiiai she procured one of the Koyal Guard to thrt^ten hit \ 
life. She in turn arowcd that bo bad appropriated her money 
and treated her with cruelty, that she was afraid of his violence; 
while under her very nose at Brocket Hall he kept a mistress — a 
patriarchal rather than a I'liritan proceeding ! Then good-natured 
King Qiarles tried to cITccl a reconciliation, but the Puritan Baronet 
was obdurate, and aRcciod to believe that lie would be damned if he 
lived with her. The affair eventually reached the House of I^ordi, 
whac he stated that she accused him of talking treason —wliich was 
not unlikely— and she rejoined that her object had been to screen 
him. While by no means accepting an tx park Bt.itemcnt, it looks lOJ 
the ordinary reader as if the lady bad been ill -treated, and such 
the view alike of the King and tbe Lords. It may be added that, 
his mother having left him her entire fortune to the exclusion of her 
other children, he was really an opulent man. He lived to 1694, 
and was succeeded in the title and estates in Herts and Oxoii by his 
fourth son, Sir James — a reputable gentleman, whose wife's sister^ 
manied Almcricus, Lord Kingsale, the nobleman who, after bein 
pardoned by Dutch William, asserted his right to remain covered in 
the Royal presence. This nobleman converted Sir James's heir, Sit 
John, the third and last Baronet of Brocket, to Jacobite ideas, and 
the young fellow after learing Oxford accepted a post in the suite of 
the Pretender at Rome — to die of small-pox six weeks after htj. arrival, 
'lliereupon Dunslcw went to his sister Dorothea, who Iiad married 
Robert Dashwood, and whose son, Sir James Dashwood, carried 
forward the Kirtlington line, while II rocket went to the third sister, Love 
Reade, wife of VVinnington, War Secretary in Wal pole's administration, 
arvd eventually was sold by the Winninglons to the Lambes. Such is 
the story of cross-purposes ; and, fact Carlyle, in the Civil War the 
Cavalier gentlemen showed to the best advantage. 

COMPTOM RL.VDE. 



Z/OXISM, 



THE vcrds of the LKia poet,*' Hobo S3ia.b3uc£ xi&£«aie 
abenom poro'' — "laasMoirv'Bdwodfla^aaesli^ua it 
unintmesdiigtoiBe'* — «Slbe3cot$Md.l&c;ie.bf tikf nni3cs«f die 
iragMJiieasoolesajfJkaiJctoihfihacipAemTgsi. 'nssKf 
apolocj far bringii^ imds ths nockc & lecxne i KWjaj-C s Tcvr 
miadb, if socccssfii^ viS cectaiaN- afeer £k qwiSrm of l«ws a libe 
vorid^ J"*? vitfa it also bear oDosidaai&fe cAacBoe ifnc < 
Most of jaar reados n3 have faevd or lead 
Zionism. Need I tdl tfaeia that Ibe vonl is facaed fern ibe 
Hdxcv Ziyan, wliicb moats *^atBmxix*f Zkovasde k£l ■■ 
the DocdMKst of Jerasalen on wbkh Ac Tea^ of oU seood. 
ZioD becaoie dte title of JerasalKn and I"*f^ ^bA, wok ■MCi^barir~ 
aQf sdn, it became the vatcbwonl fer ail tba: k srest and iH^Hitol 
ID the Isndiiiili "**■'' ■ ' aori iri^gjocL 'Oat cf Zun siiiS go faci^ 
instmction, and the U'onl of tbe Ettnnl bam Jenaai^a,' hat bees 
OQ tbe bps of Jcvty ance tbe es:ab l idiia en t of ibe «»«f^w T tJaas. 
Tbe fan^^ for ** tbe cooits of ibe Eaenw^* Ibe icnni to Zioi^ 
«]id not die wid) Ae destracban (rf die maaaal Tem^ On Ac 
cootniy, it became tbe mote intense tbe peater tbe ■*i'*"^-- of tse 
ms. Tbe older propbeu wptr^ s rd in gkw i mg wqrdt d>eg hope far 
a speedy retoni from tbe Babrfcntin caiMnilr, Tbe gnat sea 
known I7 tbe name of DenlenKlsnab ofKns ott a fiae nstt far tbe 
return to and tbe reaowtion of 2ion^ Eme in acwoJ of l»s cbiptov . 
I^ me only qoott two taxes from tiofta b. : "For tbe Eaoaal 
shall comfort Zion : He vill oomftat aJl ber vwtc pboes ; and He 
wiD make ber vildcnteB like Eden, and her desot tifae tbe pidon 
of tbe Ettmal; joy and gbdness sblJI be foond tfaeteia, danks- 
gtving and tbe voice of mdody. . . . Thcrefare tbe redeemed of dw 
Eternal shall retnni, and come with sxupag aaia Zaoo ; and atx- 
lastii^ joy shall be upon dieir bead : they sfaaD obtain gbdoess and 
joy; and sorrow and mooniing daD See awxy.' And riien tbe 
final demolitioo of Jentsilem and Zion^ Temple took pfacs in 
70 •.&, was tbe seal far Zioa estinguidicd ? Tbinkos uid as^ae^ 



36 



Tke GentUmatCs Magazine. 



preachers ax\& tcxcbcn, ncrcr weary of pointing to the lime when 
ihe people of God will again be restored tu their ancient homci when 
the outcasts of Imel shill be gathered and established on the land 
of tlicir inhciiUince, the bnd that flowed wiih milk and honey. 

During the dark Middle Agi-« the great singcn and thinlcers iu 
Moorish Spain held aloft the burning torch of enthusiasm for ZioiL 
The tendcrcst among them, Jchuda Haltevi, (louri^bing in the clercfflh 
centuiy, could not Tmd rest in happy Spain. .rVnxious to condude 
hisdays in the Holy Land, he emigrated thither in old age to find hi.t 
end tlicic, and to be buried in the ground lialloved by tfic history 
of his fore&tbcTS. The time of the Crusades, continuing llirough 
iwo centuries, laid low the hcpc for a return to Zion. The Crusaders 
bepn their assumed holy mission of freeing the grave of ihdr 
RcdeenKT from the occupation of the Moluunrocdans by a whole- 
sale slaughter of the brothers of Christ in Europe. Keformado 
and Renaissance tinges came, aivd Israel was allowed to breathe 
little more frocly. They did not need any longer to hide themselve 
away in underground c:ivcx to worship the Eternal. Vet contempt^ 
and Ecorn vere slitl poured on (hi-m. The I-'rcrtch Revolution ai 
the end of llie eighteenth century brought ihc " rights of roan." 
lend was also redeemed from iwiitical shackles. Other European 
States followed in the wake, until Israel was SGcmii>gly treated ai 
equal, and m.iny forgot the land of the Divine [promise. Fr 
to cxerci^: their holiest concern, their religion, they did 
need any longer to hide themselves in hole% as in the time 
of Moody persecutions. Some, eager lo please their Chrisbanj 
neighbours, hid themselves in a more fashionable mode and ui>de 
went boplism at ihc hand* of unscrupulous personx, who vished taj 
make a good catch of innocent longing souls, as they thought, whiirt 
it was only the Ho-hpots of modern Egy])t which drew those %ht- 
Kceking Jews near thcin. 

And (thai an irony of hiHlory \ — tlic country of Kant and Lesstng, 
the Uuc sposil» of tolerance and equality, a century after tbemj 
organised a veritable ninetccoih-ccntury Jeu-bail (" Judenhctie "). 
under olGelol sanction on the paM of the great Chancellor of lilood 
and Iron, whose spiritual and political tool, Pattor Stoecker, went 
even tlic length of saying that ihc baptitm of Jews was of no avail. 
Russia and Rumania, wher^ the majority of Jews are domiciled, 
made the yoke that had weighed upon them heavy enough, yet 
more gaUing and intolerable by all kinds of tUsabilities and vexations. 
And to crown the much boasted of nineteenth century, France — the 
FtalDCe of Ihe great trinity of iiberfi, fraltmitf, tt ^/iti—ibc 







«7 



I 



prolcssed libastiix of all sorts of sc rriiodc^ bcoune the boibed of 
ifae anti>Senutisin u ibe cod of the century and made tbc vboh: 
cnflised worid shudder over the " Dre^fin aJEurc," tiudgalcd bjr the 
Jesuitt, in whose cbws b beUc France is stiil hcid. l>r. Max Nordau, 
• profoond writer, tbc author of " DcgciMnition,'' and Dt. llcril, a 
poet and a thinker, both residiitg in Pans at that time, saw the 
aaatxj and heard th« groaning of Istact and remembered the 
covenant of Abraham. Both friends, ai>d till ihcn iudiffoeiH 
Jews, bat of an independent coungcous mind, betboo^ them- 
sclt-cs and their righteous anger was kindled. Tbc cry of the 
anti-Scnitcs — " Back to Jerusalem ! ** — was tak(.-n up by them, and 
they rcsoU'cd to realise it and thus ihcy became tiK foundcn of 
modern Zionism. The idea of Jevi&h emigration into hapfMcr buds 
was no<hing new, .America ai>d Australia had long become • baren 
of refuge for oppressed European Jews. But even ttiere, especially 
in the great western Republic, Jcni&h visitors in watcring-pbc«s and 
certain clubs are ostnciscd and Israel is considered an outcast atid 
a loriah. Arp»ibna and Caiuda were thought of as aBbrding refuges 
for the persecuted. Baion llirech dtnxted the stream of Russian 
Jewish emigranU thither; but cmigTalion to these countries can only 
be very slow, and as regards tbc .\r^nlinc Republic, with iu 
priest-ridden populace, it is not so vcrj* certain whether Israel will 
find a real harbour of peace tbcic. The government of that country 
might be liberal, but the people^ under the thumb of tis pticits, will 
hardly afibni a guarantee for a permanent settlement of Israel. Did 
not the Pope o( Rome declare^ a few months n^o, when Ccolgost, a 
Polish Catholic murdered Prewdcnt McKinlcy, tl«l the souices of 
Anarchism arc Freemasonry, Judaism, and Soctaliim ? Zionbtic 
societies with the avowed purpose of returning to and settling in tho 
hutd of the fathers were fooiMJed in Rumania and Russia about 
twenty yeara ago. But i[ was Dr. Henl wlio took (he idea up in 
earnest, and with all the enihusiasm, 7cal, and cool reasoning at his 
command he set to work to write his booklet, "A Jewish Sutc," 
which at first, in iS^e, appeared in German under Ute title "Der 
juedischc Staat," and which became the piii-ot of the recent phase 
of Zionism. I>r. Henl seriously propounds llie idea of the 
rcium to Palestine. "Palestine is car cvcr-incmoraUc his:otic 
home. The rary name of Palestine would attract tnir people 
with a force of mar>xlIou3 potei>c)-." The sentiment which 
pcrriulcs the breast of every good Jew in regard to Palcstiite is still 
a most powerful factor. As in the case of the poet Hallevi, a 
modern Israelite's great desire is to die and to be laid to test vn. vbA 



23 



The GentUmans Magazine. 



Iioly ground, if he cannot lh>* there ; and he who cinnot realise thb^ 1 
\i\ifi a morsel of the holf soil in order to have it Uid in hia coSin, I 
and thus at Icau to be buried with the earth of the consecrated IuAX 
The idea of the return not only appcab to the sentiment, but also to j 
the pncttcal sense of JemL "Supposing His Majesty the Sultan] 
were to gi\-c us Palestine, we irould in return pledge ounclvcs to] 
icgiUatc (he whole (inanecs of Turkey. We should tltere form x 
portion of the rampart of Europe against Asia, a buffer-State between 
the Powers interested in Asia, or an oulpoct of civilisattoa as 
opposed to baibaiism. The sanctuaries of Christendom would be 
safeguarded by assigning to them an cxtra-Icnitorial status, such as 
is well known to the law of nations, ^^'c: should form a guard of 
honour about these sanctuaries, answering for the fulfilment of thb 
duty with our existence. This guard of honour would be the great 
symbol of the solution of the Jewish question after eighteen censti- 
rius of Jewish suffering." The i>ropelling force of ihe renewed long- ' 
ingforZton ix, as Her^l rightly- says, the misery of the Jews. "It 
is an anachronism in this ngc of electric light, which should enlighten 
pcreccutors. Wc naturally move to those places where we are not 
persecuted, and there our presence produces persecution. Anti- 
Semitism consists of elements of vulgar spoit, of common trade 
jealousy, of uihcrilcd prejudice, of religious intolerance, and also of 
pretended self-defence." This cry of the pretended orer-power i 
Israel finds its illustration in one of those coarse anecdotes wliichi 
Stoecker used to retail Here is one of Ihem. " There was an tnqttestj 
over a human body : tlie medical man was a Jew, the coroner was a ' 
Jew, and the juror was a Jew ; the only German was the corpse." 
According to If cnl, the movement is not so much a socio] or reli- 
gious, but a national question. The Istaditish nation, taking the 
word nation in its true sense, bom within the same cnrironmcnt and 
under the same influence of the religion, morality, and history of the 
fathers, has never ceased to exist. The Jewish prayer-book is rich 
in national reminiaccnccs, and the Jewish festintis arc national and 
cdebratcd as tueh by the tnajority of Jews. In order to secure thai 
accoiDplishmcnt of his idea, Ilcrzl reckons with two factors — fir 
the Society of Jews, and secondly the Jewish Company. The 
Society of Jews are all those who syminthisc with Zionism, and their, 
sympathy is shown by fuiniing Zionistic associations or unions.' 
These send delegates to the great congresses, which have since the 
publicaiion of Hcrzl's book become facts. The four Bile and the 
London congresses have demonstmted that there is stili sufficient 
(irdour among Jeris of the world to combine and bring about the 



realisation of ihe Idea ; whilst the establishment of ihc Jewish Com- 
pony, or, as it is called, the Jeu-isli Colonial BanV, is a practical proof 
of the camcMncss of the Jen't. No less than 350,000 shares of ^i 
each have been subscribed by one hundred and twenty thousand 
individu.-ils, without any vietr of dividends. Two millions is the sum 
that is wanted. The response to the call for subscription Ins 
certainly been marvellous, considering that the great Jewish 
financiers, with perhaps one exception, have so far abstained. 
Dr. Herd will have nothing to do witli a planless tc<oIonisa- 
tion or re-occupation of the Holy Ijind. Tliete shall not be 
an inrush, but representatives of the Jewish Society and the 
Company, men of alerting quaditiet, shall first perform three 
tasks : (i) an accurate, sdeniific investigation of all natural re- 
sources of the country ; (1) the organisation of a strictly centralised 
administration ; (3) the distribution of bnd. Tlieie shall be no 
CorapuUion as regards emigration ; those who like to slay in the 
country where they are settled may remain. "Those only may 
depart who are sure thereby lo improve their posit ion; those who arc 
now desperate will go first, after them the poor, next the prosperous, 
and last of all the opulent." l>r. Herzl leaves the question of 
government open, but inclines towards an aristocratic republic, 
somewhat according to the analogy of \'cnicc, but with a careful 
elimination of all those institutions which caused the luin of that 
State. He will h.ive nothing to do with theocracy : 

" Faith unites us, knowledge gives us freedom. AVc shall there- 
fore prevent any theocratic tendencies from coming to the fore on 
the part of our priesthood. We shall keep our priests within Ihu 
confines of their temples, in the same way as we shall keep our 
volunteer forces within the confines of tbcir barracks. Army and 
priesthood shall receive honours as high as their v.iluable functions 
deterve. But they must not interfere in the administration of the 
Stale which confers distinction upon them, else they will conjure 
up difficulties without and within." Equality before the law will be 
guaranteed to all, even to the stranger that sojoumsYritliin the borders 
of the Jewish State. The intolerance of the nations among whom 
Israel has been dwelling shall be a thing to be Ehunncd. Under 
their while banner, symbolising a pure new life and bearing seven 
golden stars, representing the seven golden hours of the working day, 
they will enter the Holy Land. "Tor wc shall march into the 
Promised Land carrying Ihe badge of labour." The concluding 
words of the l)ook are: "The Jews wish to have a State, aitd lliey shall 
have one. We shall live at last as free men on our own io\V %n&. 4^ 



y> 



Tlu GentUmmis Magasine. 



p c MnMly iaowowb— fc TtewiddwB be freed bjrour liberty, 
canted bf oar vedtt, ■■^■ficd bf oar patncn; and whatever 
«v ■tto^ there !• aceoaifUi far onr <nm «clbn will react with 
bc nc 6 «nr force km ibe food oThnHMir.' 

TbM IH. Heaft pba h leiBwMt I here not the tf^lertdoabt, 
and iboBjli it naj take gencntioa^ it win fetcone. Rome was not 
btribbicoe day, nor are Stan Mdeb one gmeratinn. Ziontsnis 
taifBljr embraced by the poor peneoued Jews oTEastera Europe, and 
an diOM in Weuent Europe America, Africa, and AottnUa who can 
•fmpaUibe with their downlroddea brethren. The idea of Zioniini 
hnbeen tkimberiiigHnder the ariiei of the fires Ihu the Inrjotsilion 
HgbBedL Bor hfti it been exttngniihed onder ibe persecotions of 
modem aati-Semttttm. It wiQ not lett nnS it baa been awalccncd to 
life and action. With a lew lines from the "Ode to Zion," by, 
Jcboda KiUcTi. according to the tran^tkm of Mn. Lucas, 1 will 
oondude this enajt : 

Art Iboa ikk, Zioa, fain 

Ta nod fanh pcctiop from tby «Kwd ndi 
U«e thy capittc tnin, 

Wko pcM tbcc B i1m remasati of tlijr fade f 
Tftka thoa «a cvny ti^, 
EmI, wm *nd icnuli Mid Donk, Ui^ giectlnp Bwliifilicd. 

Swir lie p«ct> ihee Kill, 
The pihBiwf cf hofw who, (by and ntghl, 

SMb ecaaelcK tcan. Ii3(e dew on llenMet hQl ; 
WmU lh«l thtf (cU «[«) Iby mowttia'* bciglu ; 



TIk l^rd ilctirtiilxa t<A III»i]wcDlac-pl>e« 

Clnn>l)y, aod Um'd 
U be wboB God ha* diosen ibt the ^j»xa 

WltUn ihy eomu to (ctL 
IlappT ii h« llut wau^n, dnwine ncir, 

IJnlil he (Ml (hf glurioui lighu tntc. 
Anil oTfT whom Ihir dawn brcaki fall and c1c>t 

Set in (ha odonl tliin. 

Hut happint he, nfao, oilh tKultunl rjt*. 
The bllu o( thy redeemed ones xhitll Ij^icU, 
Anil Ke thy )«alh rcneuxJ u In ihe i)a/i of <M, 



JOS£PII STRAl'SS. 



31 



TO^f BUNCOMBES BOGUS SPEECH. 



Two exceptionally short Minivoicj rollovrcd th<: resignation of 
Lord Liverpool in 1837, after a premiership of fifteen yean. 
The old Tory Earl was succeeded by Canning, who, had he lived, 
would probably have avoided the errors into vhich the onli-Reiform 
patly fell, and founded a national Conwrx-ativc jMrty on a popular 
basis, as Pitt bad done before him, and as Di«iaeli did many years 
afterwards. But the hand of Death was upon Canning when be 
took his seat at the head of the Council, and four months aftemrards 
he lay dead at Chiswick. Lord Godcrich—previou^y Mr. Robinson, 
later Earl of Ripon — formed a hotch-potch Government of Whigs 
and Tories, but though an able and conscientious adntinistrator he 
lisd not the capacity to keep his miscellaneous team together, and 
after five montlis of ollice he handed qwx the reins to the finn hands 
of the Duke of \S'cIlington. 

Political parties were in a stale of nebulosity. " Parties were 
split into pieces," says Greville ; "theie was no Opposition, and no 
one could IcU nliat were the politics of his neighbour, and occasion- 
ally what his own." The constitution of Mitiistrtcs was much more 
n question of men than of measures. The one burning (juestion 
was Cittholic Emancipation, and George IV. still inxi-ited upon that 
unconstitutional stipulation with which his father had driven Pitt 
from office in 1801 — tlial Ministers might hold any opinions they 
pleased, but must undertake not to attempt to settle the question on 
the basis of any concession to the Roman Catholics, 

There was gradually arising from the chaos a patty which would 
preJier>tly sweep the country with the cry of "The Rill, the whole 
Bill, and nothing but the Bill," but though the Rcfonn ngitation was 
(0 burst in its full force within tlie next three yc^ars, the question was 
at this time an inconsiderable element in the movements of political 
parties. The most exciting debates in the early days of the U'ciling- 
ton Administration, February 1818, arose out of the recriminations 
of Ministers and ex.Mioiilers, and more p.irticu!aily out of a declara- 
tion of semi-independence made b)' Mr, Huskisson — who had been 



32 



Tke Genlkfiians Magazine. 



grudgingly admitted to the Cabinet by the Dulte — in the course of 
an address to bis constituents at Liverpool. 

It was duringa debate on this subject iliat Mr. Thomai Duncombc 
— Jtnoirn in society as Tom Duncombc— delivered a speech which 
created a. sensation at the time and (!'.e secret history of which was 
not known until many jxars aftent'ards. In order to underslaiMl 
the B^ificance of tlie speech and the sensation it caused wc most 
look for a moment at the condition of the Court at that period. 
George IV. was now nn old man, and was carrying with him to the 
grare all the rices and follies which charaaerised his youth. Vain 
vrithout dignity, cunning without judgment, obstinate without fino- 
neis, and panial without steadfastness, his character was only 
redeemed by an occasional display of courage or of generosity. But 
whilst e\'eryonc connected with the Government of the country had 
to coniiiiU his whims and prejudices, there were two people at the 
Court wlio ruled him like a child. These were the Marchioness of 
Conynghani, his reputed mistress, and Sir Willbm Knighton, formerly 
his physician, now a sort of Mayor of the I louscholdt with the o4fic« 
of Keeper of the I'rivy Purse, 

The secret of Knighton's influence was a puij:Ic to c^-crybody. 
No one who reads the memoir published by his widow can doubt 
that it was, on the whole, an influence for good, or suppose that 
he was actuated by sordid or unworthy motives ; but whether the 
Kin^s submission to his authority was the cITcct of love, or bate, or 
fear it U hard to say— probably it was all three in turns. Lady 
Knighton publishes letters from the King to her husband written in 
the most alTcctionatc terms, but Greville, who was a good deal 
behind the scenes, was quite convinced that George regarded his 
secretary with fear and detestation- Greville once suggeslcd to 
Botchelor, the King's valet, that his master vras afraid of the Duke 
of Wellington, but this Batchelor denied (" this man knows, I'll bc 
bound," observes the shrewd diarUt), and s.iiil the King feared no 
one except Knighton, that he Jiated him, that Knighton's inQucnoe 
and authority were without limit, that he could do anything, and 
without him nothing could bcdone ; that after hini Lady Conyngham 
was all-powerful ; that he knew cvcr>'thing, and nobody dared say or 
do anything of any sort without his permission. Greville adds that 
there was a mysterious awe mixed with dislike in the lone of the 
valol in speaking of the physician. Once the King, in a At of 
petulance, said wiibin the hearing of some pages : "I wish to God 
somebody would assassinate Knighton." 

In another place we are told that Knighton opposed crc^r kind 




^^^^H Taat Dutie(!i3^e*i Bogus Speech. ^3^ 

Vof expense except that lavished on Lady Conynghan, who must have 
H accunmbtcd enormous vrcalth by the presents which the King 

■ heaped upon licr; but there is ground for saying that he did hii best 
to restrain this expense also, and that on the death of the King'he 

H prevented the Marchioness from carri'tn;; avay a lot of t'aluahles to 
B which she laid claim. \ chance remark will lend to show the 
Blcind of authority Knighton possessed m-er the frivolous Court. A 
B^mncr party was given at the Ro)-al Ijxlge, and in the evening there 
B was dancing by a company of Tyrolesu. The King was delighted) 

and ihc company was very merry. In ihc midst of the gaiety one of 

the courtiers obscr^'cd in an aside, " I would give ten guineas to sec 
B Knighton walk into the room now " — ^just as one might speak of aii 

austere master whose family and servants were taking advantage of 

his absence to enjoy themselves. 
H These things were whispered about, but outside tbe select circles 

■ very little was known of the inner life of the Court, and public men 
fought out their battles with hltle apparent regard to the working of 

B the s]>nngs which )iad so much to do with their movements. 

B Suddenly, on the night of Uic 13th of Fobruar}', iSiS, Duncombc 

I made a startling speech which hid the effect of drawing up the cur> 

Han a liitlc way, disclosing enough to set all mea talking. According 

to Grcville it was Duncorabc's miiden spcccli, but in this the diarist 

■ was mistaken. Just a fortnight before he had intervened in a debute 
I on the Baltic of Navarino, and made a defence of Sir Edward 
B Codrington which favourably impressed the House, 

B Dimcombc was the eldest son of Mr. James Duncombe, of Cop- 
B grove, Yorkshire, and nephew of the first Lord I-'cversham, and was 
B bom to a comfortable fortune in 1795. Though he subsequently 
B acquired a considerable and respectable reputation, he was at this 
B time known chiefly as a devotee of the turf and the gaming tabic, 
B possessed of limited education but of unlimited assurance and sdf- 
confuJi-ncc. On essaying to enter Parliament he had been defeated 
at TontcTract and at Hertford, but after spending an enormous sum 
Bon a second contest at Hertford became in for that borough in 1836. 
B " Having bribed lundsomely he secured a majorily," his son candidly 
H t<^IIs tis. 

H It was l^tc at night when he made his sensational speech on the 
B-^finisteiijl changes which followed the resignation of Lord Godericli. 
I Hcrries and Huskisson and Ticmey and the rest had been gravely 
H quarrelling over the dissolution of the late Ministry and the forma* 
Btion of the new one, and a point of special interest was the 
Badjustmcnt of apparently irreconcilable difTcrencti ■w^vctsii'j Viwiv 

H VOL. iVXCIl, X<\ 20}). *& 



34 



TAe Genileman's Magasitu. 



Mr. Ilcrrics and ^(^. liutkisson had boon able to continue in oflicc. 
Mr. Duncombc, whose speech would iiot be worth recalling but for 
ihe exposure in regud to it which was subsequently made, said there 
vere circuruslances about these changes which had not ycX bc«D 
touched upon by anyone, and the? might t^lt to all eternity niihout 
satisfying him or tlie House unless they cleared ap these points. He 
was inclined to impute all tliat had happened to a secret and power- 
ful agency which liad not yet been unmasked, and which was 
exercised, accoidtng to the siatemenu of some, by a Jew stodc- 
broter and a Ctuiuian ph>-!(ician. 

"It has been credibly atTirmed (lie went on) that there is a 
myttetious penonage behind the scenes wito concerts, regulates, and 
{nRuenocs every arrangement There is— deny it who can?— a 
secret influence behind the Throne, whose form b never seen, whose 
name is never breathed, who hat access to all the secrets of the Slate, 
and who ounagcsallthc sudden springsorMinistcrialanangcinents — 



I 



Al whooc uA Dod tbc itRaau of honour flow, 
Wlwte unile* «II pUcc *tid purorui£c bc«low. 



Cloaety 



connected with this invisible and incorporeal person stands a 
more solid and substantial form— a new and formidable power, till 
these days unknown in Europe. Master of unbounded wcalili, he 
bouts that he is the arbiter of peace and war, and that the credit of 
nations depends upon his nod. His cortcspoodents arc innumer- 
abie, his couriers outrun those of sorcrdgn Princes and absolute 
Sovereigns ; Ministers of State are in his pay. Paramount in lite 
Cabinets of Continental Europe, he aspires to the dominion of our 
own. , « . Sir, that secret influences do exist is a matter of 
notoriety— they arc known to have been but too busy in the under- 
plot of the recent revolution. I believe their object to have been 
as impure as the means by which their power has been acquired, and 
I denounce them and their .ig^-nts as unknovm to tlic British Con- 
stitution and derogatory to the honour of tlie Crown." 

In conclusion Duncombe expressed a hope that the Duke of 
Wellington ajid the Secretary for the Home Department (Peel) 
would not allow the finances of tliis great country to be controlled 
Hny longer by a Jew, or the distribution of the patronage of the 
Crown to be operated on by the prescriptions of a physician. The 
hon. member, unless the rqiorls belie him, had mixed up Knighton 
[)d tbc Mardiioness in a vague and perhaps intentional obscurity, 
it b not ca*y to see the jwint of the reference to an " incor- 
"poreal ' influence. It may have had an a[>plication to some story or 



^^^ Tarn Duncomdis Bogus Speech. ^^35 

Bcandal current in society, or k taay have meant merely that Lady 
Conjrngham's mllucnce was subtle and secreL Tlie Jew was, of 
course, Nathan Rothschild, who mx at this time at the height of 
hU power as arbiter of the finances of Continenwl StalM. 

Sir Robert I'ccI, responding to the challenge, disclaimed any 
knowledge of the incomprehensible and incorporeal person to Yfhom 
llie hon. member had referred, not had he found that the other 
more substantial personage had interfered in the iray stated by the 
hon. gentleman with the financial affairs of the countT>-. Peel could 
not pretend not to see that Roth^hiJd was pointed at, and was probably 
correct inhisdisclaimcr in that rc&pcct, but, for the rest, his reply may 
be taken as a vague official denial of e^iually ^-ague allegations. We 
now know, at any rate — whether be knew it ot not — that ]^dy 
Conyngham, though she interfered liiile with ]>oliiicjil measures, 
influenced much of the patronage of the Crown, and we also know 
that it was only the influence of Knighton that induced the King to 
accept the premiership of Canning, whose principles he feared and 
whose personality he disliked. 

Duncombc delivered many speeches after this. He was rctoracd 
again for Hertford in 1830 and 1S31, but was defeated in the 
election which followed the Reform Act. He is said to have sjient 
j^40,ooo on his five contests for the little borough, and his opponent 
on the last occasion seems to hare beaten him with his own 
weapons, as the election was on petition declared void and the 
borough was disfranchised for tliat Parliament. Two years after- 
wards Duncombc, who had now adopted advanced Radical ricws, 
was returned for I'insbury, and that constituency he continued to 
represent until his death in 1S61. Sir William Frascr, who knew 
Duncombc in the 'fifties, says he spoke in a brilliant ^lyle, of a 
pococurante chamctcr. " He had begun life in the Guards, and I 
remember him relating to Lady Donegal how he had been twice 
flogged at Harrow after receiving his commission. lie had been 
one of the principal admirers of Madame Vestrit, and posed as a 
sort of Alcibiadcs of not vcr)- high life'* (" DisracU and bis Day"), 
He was a. man of luxurious habits, and long had the reputation of 
being the bcst-drcsscd member in the House. Mr. T. P. O'Connor, 
in his biography of Disrach, introduces a word-pictuic of a little 
group of Radical exquisites who would inc\'ilabty have attracted tho 
attention of a spectator entering tho Gallery of the House of 
Commons in 1S37. At their head sat Sir William Molegworlh. 

" In this group also sits a man who, even more than Sir ^Villiam 
Molcsworlb, is a paragon of fashion, gloved in lavendci m ^Vx'^-«- 

a 1. 



36 



The GentUmadt Magazine 



coloand kid, with boot! of the bri^mt boe; and a hot of the make 
tint Count ViOnkj approvo. A* to penoo, uD and well pc opor- 
tioac4 i and ia dqwrttneot ftaak, muiJt, sad 6eer from affectation 
thu one DttglK cspcct. This is the mawber for Finsbuiy — ' Honett 
Tom Dtmcowbt;' m tbst nge eaOs htm, wbon^ bowc^iT, wc, guided 
bjr Mr. CrenOc, majr not wboHf r^ard as so bonett or so clever as 
bW oontenpofaries believed." 

Tbii tast ob«emik» has reference to the expoiure already 
hinted at. More than iventj fears after Duneomtie had gone to 
Ua gave, the fou aeries of GreviUe's " Memoirs' came oot, and 
then for the CrU tine the dmnutances to whicfa his early ipeeclics 
were dcUreied were gticn lo the worU. 1 cannot do better than 
quotcOrcville'sown words, written in hiidiaiy on February 35, rSiS: 

"The great event of the roitht was DuncocDbe't speech, which 
was delivered with perfect tclT-posscnion and composure, hot in so 
rtdicutous a nnnnct' that eroybody laughed at hin, although they 
were amuted with bi> impadcnce and at the style and objects of his 
attack. HowoTT, the next day k wis diccovcml that he bad 
pofonncd a great exploit : he was loodly applaadcd amJ congratu- 
lated on all sides, and made into the hero of the day. His fame was 
infinitely increased on a subsequent night, when Herrics again 
Oune before the House, and when Tommy fired aiMlher sSrat at him. 
Tbe newtpapcn were full of his praises, the Whigs called at his door 
and eagerly sought his acquaintance. Those who lovu fun and 
persotiality cheered him on with loud applause, and he rvow fandes 
himself ilic grcau&t Dun gotng atid u ready to get up and abuM 
anybody on (h« Treasury Bench. To ne, who know all ttie secret 
springi that moved this puppet, notliing can l>e more amusing. 

" The history of Tom Duncombe and his speech b instnicttve 
as well as amusing, for it is a curious {irooTorthe facility with whicb 
the world may be deceived, and of the prodigious cITcct which may 
be produced by the smallest means if they arc atd«d by some 
fortuilous circumstances and happily applied. Tommy came to 
Henry dc Kos and told him that bi$ constituents at Hcrifoid were 
rcry anxious that he should make a speech, but that he did not 
krtow what to say, and begged Henrytosupply him with the necessarjr 
malerbU, He advised him to slritc out something new, and having 
received his assurance that he would be able to recollect anj-thing 
that he learned by heart, and that he was not afraid of his courage 
Euling, Henry composed for him the ^xrech which Duncombe 
delivered. But knowing tlie slender capacity of his man he was not 
■aiisBcd with placing the speech in his handt, but evened every 




Tcm Duucomb^s Bogus Speech. 



liion vhich his ingenuity suggested to aveit the danger of liU 
brealdng down. 

" He made him leain the 5pec<;li hy heart, and then made him 
think it over again and put it into language of his onn, justly fearing 
that if ho should forget any of the caorc polished periods of thv 
original it would appcoi' sadly botched by his own incerpobtions. 
He then instnicled him largely as to how and when he wai to bring 
it in, supplying him with various commonplace plirates to be used 
as connecting links, and by the aid of which be might be able to 
fasten upon some of the preceding speeches, I saw Henry de Ros 
the day before the debate, when he told me what he wa.s doing and 
asked me to suggeil anything that occurred to me on the subject 
and at the same time repeated lo mc the speech nith which he h>d 
armed his liero. I hinted my apprehensions that he would fail in 
the deliver]-, but though he was not without some alatm he expressed 
(as it afterwards appeared a well-grounded) confidence in I>un> 
comlw's extraordinary nerve and intiepidiiy." 

Grcrille adds that the second ^pccdi was got up in precisely tliC 
same way, the orator being carefully cnimmcd with ideas by Dc Ro^ 
who was intensely amused at the siicocEsful icsult of his instructions. 
Duncombc gained the reputation of having thrown a bombshell 
into the enemy's camp, and impressed everybody by his boldness in 
brin{png into the light of day those whom nobody had dared to 
mention before. 

As lo ihc effect of the oration ca the persons whose eeact 
inBucncc Duncombc denounced, there was no doubt a flutter of 
excitement in the mncr circles of the Court. Knighton went abroad 
shortly afterwards, and reports were current that Duncombe's attack 
had driven him out of the country. This supposition was, lioweveri 
entirely oroDCOUs, and prob.ibly the net effect of the oration was 
very small, except as establishing the reputation of IJunccmbc. 
Greville^ in his anxiety to give pungency lo his story, exaggerates the 
eHect of the speech upon the public mind. Of this one need not 
comjilain, but it is less excusablt^ that, wiih the same object in view, 
he should throw unmerited contumely upon Duncombe. He 
marrels that so great an effect should have been produced by "a 
man of ruined fortune and doubtful cliaracler, n hose life had been 
spent on the racecourse, at the gaming table, and in ilic giccn room, 
of limited capacity, exceedingly ignorant, and without any stock but 
bis impudence to trade on, only sjieaking to scr^c an electioneering 
purpose, and crammed by another man with e\-ery thought and 
every word that he uttered." 



38 



The Gentlcmafis Afagazint, 



I cinnot (Jiscm-cr itiat l>uncombe lel^ may papers which troulii 
vciVy or negative GrcviUe'j story. There was k biography by hii 
only son, published in t86S, before the memoin tpprarcd, and in 
this we Gi>d no suggestion of nny airangcment such as that described. 
KcTcrring to the speech in question, Mr. T. II. Duncombc says his 
father "was cridcntly well at his ease. Indeed, he treated the 
GoTcmmcnt with so little consideration, and, wh&t U more, was 
listened to with such marked attention, that Sir Robert Peel was 
roused into making a reply. The matter, as wdl as the manner of 
the speech, attracted general attention. Tories and Wiigj felt 
cquiHy interested in a Liberal member so well capable of holding tiis 
own, and apparently so likely to loosen the hold ofpbiceinen, present 
and prospective.^ This, of course, vm& written from the records and 
from hearsay, and there is ivothing in it inconsistent uith the 
nurratit-e of Grcville. The subslanlia! Inith of what Grevillc says 
one can hardly doubt, but I have already pointed out that he was 
wrong in stating that ibis was Ihincombe's maiden speech. This is 
a fe:ilure of some materiality in the case, and the error docs not 
strengthen one's faith in the accuracy of the other <)etails. 

Morewer, what we know of Duncombe's career is hardly consis- 
tent with Grcrille's very uncomplimenLiry portrait. It may be that 
Ibc reputation somewhat artificially made liad an elevating cilcct 
upon him— that his character and conduct changed after Grcville 
wrote the passages I have quoted. Certain it is that he became a 
fluent and acceptable speaker, though always rather eccentric in 
0|Hnion and in manner, and he earned the respect of all [xirties in 
the House of Commons. He was undoubtedly a man of generous 
sympathies, for it was the distinguishing mark of his career tliat he 
would take up with great earnestness the cause of whomsoever he 
deemed to l)C oppressed, from kings downwards. His son wrote 
nothing more than the truth when he said " Hon&tt Tom n«noombc " 
was " the honorary advocate of the oppresBcd of every class and 
creed," and he ad<l« that his father " pursued a course of Icgistation 
foi the sons of toil with no other object than their intellectual 
advancement. His life was eminently patriotic, and his labours 
singularly beneficial. To do this he turned his back upon art 
elevated position and passed by powerful recommendations for State 
employment, abandoned the alluremenli of a patrician drclc, and 
dea-oted himself to an arduous and unpopular scn-ice." He died 
poor, we arc told, but rifh in the memory of those who esteemed him. 

As to Henry dc Kos, he was a young man of fasliion connected 
"••H the peerage of Dc Ros or De Rooa. Indeed, I belicre he was 



I 

I 



Tffm Duncombe's Bogus Speech, 39 

that Henry William, afterwards Lord de Ros, who in 1837 brought an 
unsuccessful action for libel against some gentlemen who had accused 
him of cheating at cards. Whether the same or not, he never made 
any political position for himself, and one may take leave to doubt 
whether, after all, the man who founded a reputation on these 
sensationat speeches was not a more capable politician and a more 
worthy member of society than the practical joker who is allied to 
have composed them. 

JAMES SYKCS. 



40 



Tiu GcKilemaui Magazine. 




THE D^ SCHICK, OR LITTLE GREBE 

{PODICIPES FtUl'/ATJUSi. 



MR- RUSKIN, in " Ixwe'i MdnSe,"" set down the DibcUick as 
the true cooocctiiig link benrecn the land and the water 
Erea tlic curioaa and interesting points that ante on on 
Qinate of the Inrd in this light would give it a very special, if not 
unique, toterest such as would &scinate otbets than professed 
onAbologists. Bui there arc points yd nvore corioiu tlian this 
about the dabchklu. Unless I am greatly mittalien, tbcy ve at the 
tame time links between otdinary neit-building birds and birds such 
u the Ixipoa oaltata of Australia, ttut build mounds and hatch 
their eggs by fermenting heat, or of the Malice hens (so-called /^poa 
octliaia too), that, several in asiociation, dig a hole in the desert 
•and, lay tlicir ^gs on tcarcs on the bottom of it, and. having done 
so, Gil the liole up wiih leaves, twigs, and sand, and leave them there 
to be hatched by the heat of decaying vegetable tnatler, joined with 
the great heat of the sun in the sand of the Western Australian desert 
The Hon. I), \i. Carnegie h.is described ihcm thus : — 

"These nests arc hollowed out in the sand, to a depth of per- 
haps two and a half feet, conical shaped, with a mouth some three 
fe«t in diameter; the sand from the centre is scrapie! up into a 
ring round the mouth. Sei-cnl birds help in this operation, and, 
when finished, lay their eggs on a layer of leaves at the bottom ; 
then they fill in the hole to the surface with small twigs and more 
leaves. Presuniably ibc eggs are hatdied by >i>ontimcous heat, the 
green twijjs and leaves (noducing a slightly moist warmth tnmilar to 
that of the bird's feathers. I have seen numbers of these ncsts, never 
with eggs in, l»it often with the shells from recently hatched birds 
lying about. How the little ones force their nay through the sticks 
I do not understand, but ^^'arri (ii native) and many others who have 
Ibuivd ilie eggs assure me that tliey do sa* > 

■ Sfiiii/tx fJ StnJ, p. tSi. 




Tkc DakkicL; or LUile Grcbt. 



4» 



In rcpt>- to a IcUct of mine ail;ing more itatticulan about these 
Malice hens, Mr. Cfirnegie kindly nroie : — 

" I never saw but one Malice hen— they are extremely shy. TIteir 
nests are frcfiuently ni(.-t with (usually old ones) in the interior eitlicf 
in Malkc uc mulj^a {aeacia antura) scruht 1 have never seen the 
inside material reach a higher level than tlw top of itie ring of 
san<] whidi, scraped from inside, surrounds the mouth of the hollow 
(thi; ncsl), yet in describing tlie habits oi the Mound-birds (aa 
distinct from the Brush Turkey of Queensbncl, &c) Lyddekcr saj-s 
they make a pyramid-shaped heap of vegetation, sticks, &c, some- 
times equal to several cartlcadn. Can tltere be another species 
of Ktound-bird in Western Australia which l-.as been wrongly called 
Lti/'oa oeellala'}" 

And Mr. Caintgie's query was quite justified. In reply to a 
further kttcr of mine, he said : — 

" Iherc teems certainly some confusion about the Mound-birds 
and the Ztifca — poissibly the Leifea of the interior, being unable to 
get together sufgcieot wgetaiicn for its incubator, has perforce to 
make use of the fand. Vou sec, having only once Eccn the bird, I 
could not now describe it, end, ncicr having fouiid a nest with eggs, 
I am unable to say Diuch with authority." 



II. 

It tvill be »een, therefore, lliat the dabcliicV is a most curious 
exceptional, and interesting bird, and well wonhy of a special study 
all tobimsclf. I shall try lohclpmyrcaders to such a study, aauring 
them that I have devoted much time to the dabchick in London 
parks, especially St. James's and Dailcrsca r.itks, and, what is better 
still, at a large solitary- pond in Essca, where they pursue their own 
little ways in a manner far less constrained than is possible to them 
in a I.,oRdon park M-aicr. 

1 lie wings of the dabchick are short ; the legs are comparatively 
long, but placed far luck. In various respects its form makes tc 
admirably suited to its circumstances. It feeds on various water 
insects and on small r:shc«, and on occasion it will eat certain 
ponions of water- weeds, and pull them up from the bottom, showing 
no little strength, exactly hkethc ruri>le Water-hen' {Porpkyrio ^lU- 
kkIus), as described by I.oid Lilford, Sir Hciht-rt ^!3xt^eII, and others. 

' Cut tiiih rcBMd ici the gitU tttcr.gih of tl.c Tuii'Ic Watit-tcn, b it not 
poniUa that iha tdrd, like the dtbclikk, may ilo udnclliing hy (tlting (o loMcn 
the roots from the mud-bottoni bt'.ow } lliu in wuic an*, at all event*, ihe 
^ttbchidudob 



42 



The GtHlUmans Magasine. 



Alike in respect to peculcmties of fufnt, Usnesdng habits, its peculiar 
vajrs witli its j'oung, it b nu gmeris^ihac a really no other of our 
birds in the leaM tike it It builds its nest of le*Tcs ukI trater-weeds, 
which soon become a rotting fennenting mass, «4uch wastes aimy and 
loses solidity under its own dccomposiiioti, and often needs to b« 
repaired and added to^" made-up " in a word— the more especially 
that it u nothing but a rcgetable rsA, floating moored to some 
branch or spar or stone. 

Sometimes, where this is possiUc, it will build its nest on the lop 
of a kind of pillar with foundation on the bottom, but this is some- 
what exceptional, and, I am inclined tothink, only when the position 
dMsen is much exposed to winds such as would blow the floating 
nest away or iilKn Ibture for the rafUtke float or nest would be hard 
to find. Tlit slightot moremcnt of wind and ware may threaten its 
oobesioo when in the nfi-likc form ; but, presto '. the birds at onc« 
Mt about patching it up, adding new material, a bit here, a bit there; 
exactly wlvcrc most wanted ; and so this iKst, which is always in a 
scute a-bui!(ling, is, in sptic of its own inherent " spontaneous com- 
bustion," maintained in its original foim till it has scncd il^ purpose. 

Mr. Gould says :— 

" 'llic nutcrials composing this raft or nest are weeds and aquatic 
plants, catcfully heaped together in a rounded form ; it is very large 
at the base, and is so constantly added to that a con^derable por- 
tion of it becomes submerged ; at the same time it is suAicienOy 
buo)'ant to admit of its saucer-like hollow top always bcii^ above 
the surface. In this wet depression fire or six i^g;s are laid. The 
bjfd, always m<nt alert, is still more so now, and scarcely crcr 
admits of a near examination of the ncxt-niakJng or of a view of 
the cggt. In favourable situations, however, and with the aid of a 
telescope, the process may be walclied ; and it is not a little in- 
terming to nolicc with what remarkable quickness the datxrhick 
scratches the weeds over her eggs with her feet when sJie perceives 
henclf obscncd, so as not to lead even to the suspicion that any 
were deposited on the ill-sli.ipen floating mass. This work of an instant 
displays as much skill in deception as can well be imagined," 

Mr. Kcarton, a writer who for direct observation may be trusted, 
in his " British Birds' Ncsls," says of itie (bl>chtck's nest iliat it is 
"a floating kind of raft, l»iiU up from the bottom in all suitable 
localities throughout the British Isles,"' its materials "a liberal 

' There ar« (uiely bimc vordt or a line oiaillnl hcic, foi the Ikaling lind of 
TsJl b nut, of coune, buill up Itiim the botiom. Those built up from (he boitom 
ftie oUcmiirc in pecuIiM utualiont, nnially cIom lo i pole m (ecec «r neilia^ 
« lot of wmc Idiul. 



Tlu Dabchkk. or LittU Grg&e. 

collection of dead, half-rotten aquatic weeds, refy shallow at topi" 
The bird » " not a close siller, but covers over its eggs whea leaving 
the nest voluntatily." Mr. Kcaiton does not make any exception, or 
refet even to inlruxion of men upon it as having an)iluj>g to do with 
the covering of the eggs by the decaying weedft, 



I 
I 



I 



in. 

The young ones arc not completely actUx when they leave the 
egg, like ihe young of partridges, natcr-hens, and cools ; but, though 
they cannot walk, they can dive, float, and, to &oine extent, swim, 
and when they are tiicd out, and ihc cause of danger that had led 
them to leat-e Ihe nest has passed by, the patents nill tuck them undci 
their wings or on their badcs and bear them to the nest again. The 
parents will sometimes di?e with the young ones thus (ioni the nest 
and keep ihcm under water for a considerable time. This is one of 
the instances in which the young have been armed with specal 
powers for their protection ; tlic wings of the =duit dabchicfc 
being so formed that the young must be able to cling to ihcm 
by some means— in fact, must have some quite special power 
of holding on— since there is no record of their having been 
drc^pcd in any case when under intrusion borne from the nest. 
This would be almost incomprehensible unless some express 
provision had been made in view of the necessity. Indeed, wbco 
you think of it in a creature no more titan a few hours old, it is 
almost as wonderful as the power of the young cuckoo in tunung 
eggs aitd foster-brothers out of the nc-st, or as the hooked thuml> 
fingers on Ihe t(^ of the one-day-old wing of the HoaLcin to enable 
it to move from branch to branch for safety. 

As a sufficing proof that the youi^ dabdiick, tliough it has the 
remarkable powers we have named, does not have the power of 
walking in any true sense, the obsen-atiotis of Professor Alfred 
Newton on a young dabchick brought to htm, certainly not yet 
twelve hours old, may be cited. "^Micn hid on a table," he says, 
" that was covered with a cloth, the young bird not only crawled 
about it, but crossed it completely from side to side, without, irKlcec^ 
actually susuining its weight by its wings, but dragging itself forward 
by their means quite as much as it impelled itself by its legs. The 
resemblance of its actions to those of a slowly moving reptile was 
vay remarkable."' 

' i»»Ayt/.'. 1BS9, p. SJ7. 



44 



Th4 GentiemarCs Afagazine. 



And ihis IS all the more extraordinary in tbat a very careful 
obKTver has told lu that " in swimmiDg old and your% use their tegt 
like a frog, lioriiontally, striking both at once and bringing their feet 
together at the end of the suokc. I have seen the old ones diving 
[and twimming?] in clear m-aier some diiiancc, but they did not lue 
their wingn." > This b the more curioiis and soggcsiivc, surely, that 
Profeuof A. Newton, as quoted abo\'e, is dear that on a flat surface 
the wings arc at leoil as much, if not iitdeed more, eJBcJcnt in aiding 
it in locomotion. Dut in tliese matTcrs, irheic obsert-adon can be 
but in hurried, broken glimpses, much inust alwa)-s l>e doubtful. 
The point here is that, unce the wiiigs are not used in swimming, 
but the feet, the feet and legs should not have been more devdoped 
and tbc wingK less developed in view of what, accofdii^ to all the 
reasoning we can base on observed facta, it would earliest want to 
use both on land and in the water for its protection and escajw from 
enemiet. 



IV. 



There seems, however, to be some conflict of evidence as to the 
habit of the (labchick in coicring het eggs. Some say that gener- 
klly when Icavbg the nest she docs eo whether watched or not, and 
in this my obscn-ailons arc distinctly in favour of this statement ; 
for at a large pond in Essex, to which 1 often go, where there are 
itumerous dabchicks, I have only twice found the nests uncovered in 
the absence of the birds ; and 1 have had from peculiar circum* 
stances rare opportunities for watdiins tlieni. In ihc two instances 
when I found llie eggs uncovered. It seemed to me ih.nt there was 
more chance of the bards having st-en nic tlian on several occasions' 
when I could not think this possible and yet the eggs were coyi 
and so neatly that you would not liaie fancied there were ^gs tl 
but that it was a deserted nest. The process of discoloration ui 
(^jpi, at all events, I have found uniformly proceeding, more and 
more towacd-t the lirac of hatching, and brc^cn shells I have foui 
show that the discoloration actually goes through portions of tl 
thell, t)ic inside showing bint and irregular blotches. Uc^idcs, on 
examining tlic nests I always found the cov^-ring mntcrial arranged 
round the " rim " of the nest, tind hanging over on tlie outside of 
what may be called the nm — a method that helped to give it a very 
unusual and ragged look ; but sometimes, I confess, I have been io 
' Mr. Biynn Hook, in Sccbohm, quolcil Iiy Dr. Bowillci Sfcupc, AUca'i 



I 



The Dabckick, or Lit tie Grebe, 



I 



doubt whether this deposit w.itt not made to help to hide the lard as 
she sal in her strange raft-ncH brooding. 

In the c\-cnt of suddi-n intm-tion on the nest, I ha\-c alvays Tound 
tlie eggs covered or partially covcrtd. Tlie corerii^— like the nett, 
of rotting and decomposing watcr-trccd* and leaves— is alwa)'s wrhen 
the bird is sitting lodged round the bonier oX the ticst. Tliis odds to its 
unnestly aspect, and more and more makes it look like a wisp of 
leaves and urecds blown there by accident. In some case* thix rises 
so high that the bird, as already said, is scarcdy seen when ntlii^ 
on the eggs dcs]>iie the slullowness of the ncsi, which is almost 
saucer- like— the more that the brooding bird has ih<; habit of 
resting the head in a kind of depression due lo the weedy covering not 
there exactly meeting, marking out to her the point at which she can 
begin the covering process— not needing, in fact, much lo raise licr 
beak before bci^ntng the woik, but doin^ it in the proccst of lifting 
the head and turning round so as to begin laying a little at the side 
of iL \i\ix3\ taken off the nest, it would thus alirays each time be a 
little further round ; and her position in the nest each time this cover- 
ing process was gone through would really be a iilile different from 
the lasL The last part of the covering is done with the ckwj. 
This so far accounts for the incredibly short fjncc of tims in 
which thb bird will cm'er the nest and the eggs as wdt as uncover 
them. The covering weeds are re^uhrly bid out to enable her to 
do this. There is nothing accidental in it ; the process is com- 
pletely one of system aiid method. When the dabchick arranges 
Uie string of weeds round the rim of tlie nest it is with an exact 
appiecbtion of ihc best point on which to start in re-covering the 
eggs, this point also being determined by where her head rests for 
the lime being in sitting; and as change of position on the nest is a 
thing demanded by all sitting birds, f, for one, cannot agree that 
the dabchick only covers her cg^ when frightened u.T the nest, as 
then she would of course, if I am righi, be always with her bead in 
one pontion— to one point of the compau. 

Two great au'horiiict on [his bJtd, however, arc of opinion that, 
unless driven off tlje nest, she does not, at all events frequently, 
cover the eggs. Mr. Bryan Mook, in his raluablo contribution to 
Mr. Seebohra's " Itritish Girds," says :— 

"Only on one oiher occasion have I ever seen the esg» 'eft un- 
covered, which makes tnc think that the bird only covets her eggs 
when she is driven from the ncsl." 

Mr. Os'vin Lee tells of « Little Grebe he obsen-cd, " which did 
not, for reasons of her own, cover up her egg* 0:1 leaving them " ; and 



46 



The GentUntatts Magasine. 



he was fortunate by fn!c|u«nt verifications to jirovc that, in this case, 
it was the liabit of tlic bird not tn do so. I am not able to form 
anjr o(Kn>on on the case Mr. Oswin \xe cites, as I do not know the 
pond or water of wliicb he sfieaks, nor do I know that with whicit 
Mr. Br)'an Hook lad to do; but of this I atn ccrutin, that agmt 
deal in the habits of the bird in this respect, as in others, will depend 
on (r}its liability to be inttudodon and suddenly surprised, and (j) 
— and, in »-iew of certain things, yA more important— the amount of 
sunshine that might find entrance to the nest. On one point I am 
absolutely certain, having, as said already, attempted a study of 
dabchicks both in London and on a well-concealed £nd soiitaiy 
pond in remote Essck. Theic arc whole groups of birds which 
more or less practise the habit of covering tlic eggs wlien they leave 
the nC3t— among them water-hens, coots, and sevetal of the ducks. 
Mr. Romanes has this note : — 

"The water-hen (GaUinulut <h!oropus) is said occisiorully to 
cover her eggs when she leaves the nest, but in one protected place 
W. Thompson ('Natural History of Ireland,' vol ii. p. 338) says that 
this was never done." ' 

The water-hen, in certain ciroimstancw, always coi'crs the nest 
if the borders of tho pond where she has buiit has many visitors, or 
if certain animals (enemies) have much tncicaecd there, as do also 
many of titc ducks ; but in tite cases of all such birds my idea is 
that in what may be called thoroughly " protected places " this is 
Icis strictly adhered to. Water-hens often venture on ponds near 
houses, or ponds to which horMs and cotrs often come to drink, and 
sonic of them, at all events, become in most cases thoroughly fear- 
less of such visitors, knowing that their business and that of the 
men or boys accompanying them arc something quite dilTerent from 
anyway meddling with them ; and I have stood fishing for roach or 
tench at a certain pond, and observed that not o'en the alarm cries 
were raised to the young onus on the advent of these ; though 
because in warmer weather the horses would sometimes be seiied 
with a fancy to swim into the deep water in the middle of the 
pond for a "cooler," the old bird* would dnw the young ones quietly 
away into the upper and shallovrer end at which the inlet wot, and 
this, if I mistake not, the dabchicks were quick enough to see and 
to follow the water-hens' example. " l*rotectcd places," with the 
dabchick as wiih the water-hen, have much to do with it, as well as, 
in the case of the biier bird, the amount of suntliinc that can 
penetrate into the nest and keep the e^s warm. 

» Uaii^ Ev*!atua in AninuUi (DjrwJn^'iEiMyoa lauincfjk pt 37a 



Tht Vahchick, or LitlU Grebe. 



47 



I 



V. 

Observations of citaitures in perfcci rrccdom will not Gcldom 
be found not exactly to tally with those made on ihcm in such 
modified confinement as the bird* live under in, say, the 1-ondon 
park vaters, where, while they are exposed lo closet neighbour- 
hood to many other birds than they would put up with in free 
nature, ibcy are yet, as far as can be the case, protected. Their 
sense of this protection soon comes to modify the habit of the bird 
in the directloD of, in a sense, rendering unnecessary not a few of 
the actions most spontaneous in nild life. Tlicy are not subjeclctl, 
for example, to sudden intrusions on their privacy by man in their 
brooding time for one thing. This point is, I think, wdl illus- 
trated by a passage in an article by that dcligtilful writer Mr. W. H. 
Hudson, where, in Jjinf^matis Afagaiinf, ilarch 1899, he tells of 
an interview he had with Ktr. Kimber, one of the superintendents at 
St- James's Park. He says : — 

" Kiniber"s account differs somewhat from that of Mr. Br}'an 
Hook- He says that the four )-oiing binl« of (he first brood would 
all scramble on lo the lack of the patent bird as she sal on the 
water, that she would then by a very quick upward movement of 
her wings appear lo chsp them against her body with licr stilT quills, 
and instantly dive. After some seconds she would come up, with 
all the four young still clasped to her. their beads or necks appearing 
above her back. At the moment of diving sometimes one or two 
of the little ones would drop off, and remain floating on the surface 
until the parent reappeared, when they would oocc more scrambU; 
on to her back." ' 

Now, by tnenns of my field-glass and favouring circumstances, 
I have seen the dabcliicks at my Essex pond do Ihis frequently and 
in the most leisurely mariner. But it is entirely a difTerent matter 

en the dabchick U surprised on her nesl by an intruder of the 

aan species when she lias cither cg^ or young ones there. 
When with young ones, as a substitute for covering eggs we have 
this. Stooping low by the side of the nest, she somctiow, as appears 
seen from a distance by the glass, whips up her young ones under 
her wings, and in an incredibly short space dives with them, 
sometimes remaining below a considerable lime. In such 3 case 
as this I ba\'C rtei-er seen one of tbcin dropped ; though in the 
other case one or two birds will frequently be dropped and remain 

' P.466L 



48 



The Geuileittan's AfagaztHe. 



floating till ihc parcnl comes back for them to the point whcfc she 
had Icrt them— tlicy floating almon motionless all the time, and 
looking rounder little things than they do when teen othenrisc. 

In my diary I find this note : — 

" The old bird, stooping down, with one side a little lowered, as 
it irciCi into the neiit, with her benk somehow <|uicVly raises up tlte 
yogng, one after another, under the wing and seitlcK them Uiere ; 
then turns round quickly to the other side, and docs the ume for 
the rest, ihe several movcmenu being scarcely diitinjuishnble from 
each other, so deft arc they ; and since first observing this it has 
struck me that here vx; may have one of the reasons for the raft-like 
form of the nest, with a margin on which the old bird can stand, 
still in p:trt leaning over the nest, and accomplish the vork of 
tucking the young ones under its wings." 

And all this is done with such unerring accuracy that, its uid 
alnsdy. in these ciicuinstaiicei they very seldom drop any of the 
young ones in the course of bearing them away and diving under 
water. 



VI. 



The pecuItArily of the mali'rials us::d for the dabchtcVs nest and 
the way in which it is built lead mc to the idea that the bird has in 
; case discovered that fcrcncntalion of vegetable matter very slow 
undecided may help it in the work of incubation ; and if ibis is 
"^HfliSlttin the dabchicki have the further interest of bcinga decided 
U^ffBBppeside us, between ordinary iiest>buitders and lh« various 
groups of mound-building birds and birds that use heat of rotting 
leaves and sun for incubation of their eggs. It is lurdly possible 
that the green vegetable matter nearest to Ihe nest could Tor days 
and days be submitted to llic heat of an incubating bird's body 
without undergoing change— that heal would, with greater cxpeditioD 
tlian otherwise, draw or extract heal from the vegetable matlcr close 
to it; and this would incviiably excite the fermenting process. In 
degree it Is posuble lh.it the same aid is derived by hoopoes, certain 
of the owls, and other birds whose nests are composed absolutely of 
Iheir own droppings or c.-islings, materials which under moist heat 
— the more moiit from being in most of these cases narrowly 
enclosed in small space— would more or less speedily fermenL The 
result] reached are, at al) events, precisely the same as tliose attaine 
in the uiost artistically built nests— a point wliigh opens up a 
field for investigation and researcli. Anyhow, a mere mats of w< 



I 




The Dabchick, or Littie Grebe. 



49 



I 

■ 
■ 



iratcr-planls remaining in the original condition would, by their cold 
moisture, miliutv much against incuWiion. I am g!ad to find on 
this point some corroboration from the foUoving passage in Dr. 
Bowdlcf Sharpc's section on the Dabcbick in " Handbook of British 
Birds " (Allen), p. an : — 

"One nest nhich I found, vrith th« ftitl complement of c^gs, iras 
RO thick!)- covered with wet walcr-wc«ds and rushes thai ihc eggs 
had to be felt for beneath it, and for some time t thought that the 
birds had deserted thtm, as they were always cold and showed no 
signs of incubation, though day by day the)' became more and more 
discoloured. The constant presence of a pair of birds, however, in 
the viciniiy of this nest led me to believe that it was not deserted, 
and 1 more than once uncovered the eggs, only to find the w« 
covering replaeed on each occasion. Intent on 6nding out whether 
the birds re-covered the eggs on leaving the nest, I approached it 
cautiously m^ny lim<.-s ; but the grcl>es appeared to have always 
detected my approach, and were placidly swimming in the middle of 
the lake as if such a thing as a nest was the last thing in their minds. 
Once, however, I maruigetl to come down upon it unjierccivcd, when 
one of the parent birds flew away in a great fright. . . . The eggs 
were completely hidden, not by a few rushes such as the bird could 
sCTape together in a hurry, but by a dense covering of wetted and 
rotten weeds. 1 came to the conclusion that in this instance, at 
least, the hatching of the pggs would be left to the heat of the sun 
and the ferment;ition of the material of which the nest was composed. 
This takes place in other countries, as has been alarmed by Mr. A. O. 
Hume and other excellcn: observers." 

Mr. A. 0. Hume, writing of the Little Grebes of India, 
says : — 

" It is almost impos»bIe to catch the old bird on the nest, and 
almost ai difficult to surprise her so far as to make her leave the eggs 
uacowrcd. I doubt whether the birds sit much during the day, as 
I have watched a pair (hat hod a nest containing five (as it turned 
out) much incubated eggs nearly a whole day, and found that tbcy 
never left the comparatively open water in whicli they were feeding 
for the dense rush in which we found the nest next morning for 
more than five minutes at a time. The birds certainly did not see 
me, as I was completely hidden and watching tticm tlirough a pair of 
binoculars. I suspect that during the day the combined heat of Ibc 
sun and fermentation of the weeds is sufficient for incubation ; and 
I haw obaer%-cd that some of the eggs (I presume those first laid) 
are always mucli more forward Uian others. Dr. Jcrdon sap they 
vou ccxcit. Ka K>53. ^ 



5° 



The GtnlUmans Magazine. 



lay from Rvc to eight eggs ; but 1 have never seen or beard of any 
neit contuiuing more than six eggs, and the number is almost 
invariably five." 

Exactly what I have tried to say ; that the presence on the nest In 
daytime would be largely determined by heat of sun and fermentation. 

Mr. Hume quotes Mr. Brooks : — 

"The eggs arc oral, somewhat pointed at both cods, mottled, 
«tippled dirty yellowish brown all over, the small end sometimes a 
darker brown. They must, of course, have been white when first 
Uidi and have become the colour ihcy are {which is much like that 
of some addled vulture's egg) from tying in the midst of wet decay* 
ing vegetable matter." 

Colonel Butler says : — 

"1 have on u-o occasioni only seen the old bird sitting on the 
nest, and when obser^'cd sh^- immediately slipped off into the water 
and di^'cd. The eggs, unless taken within an hour or two after ihcy 
are laid, are a smoked cefiaH-kUl colour, from the e\-aporation 
lliat takes place on the wet weeds with which they ore covered. . . . 
The shell of fresh eggs when held up to the light, if looked at 
through the bole, bdark green, and the yolk is ihe deepen colour of 
any egg I know — almoit, I should say, a deep orange." 

Mr. Oatcs, writing from I'egu, sa)i :— 

"In England the eggs ore «aid to be pure white, but all those 
that 1 have seen in India have always, if quite fresh, exhibited a 
fsint bluish-green tinge. Owing to the bird's habit of covering the 
«ggs over with wet watcr-wccds whenever it leaves them for a lime, 
they become rapidly discoloured, turning green, dingy yellowhh 
brown, and then dark earthy brown, like a liard-KCt Shell Ibis's 

Mr, Robert Read, however, says that "the eggs of birds Uken 
on the Thames, when newly laid, are of a pure bluish wliitc, and 
become later on sLiiiied 10 a dec[) dirty jvllow, but they arc never 
of such a deep brown as the pcat-staincd eggs from some of the 
Scotch moorland loclu." 

In eggs taken from a backwater on a stream in SulTotk Ihe eggs 
had decidedly this faint bluish tinge, whereas from my Essex pond 
they had much less of it— -scarcely Jioticeable indeed— which leads 
roe to raise the question whether moving or stagnant water, or 
diRcrenl soil, may elfcct coloration in the case of the eggs of this 
bird. 



The Dabehici, or Little Creh. 



51 



VII. 

The Rev. Horry Jotks, vfho lutd paid particular alleiition to Ihe 
(Ubchid:, and wrofc well of it in his first scries of " Holitby Papers," 
remarks that "the common natne is very happily expres.uvc of the 
habits and appearance of the bird, recalling in a moment its nerrous 
jeilcy motion on the water and its sudden dlttppearance with a 
' Sip,' ax if, instead of diving, it bad urtexpectedly jumped down its 
own throat. . . . Wriggling about ereryvrhere, all over the pond, in 
a state of chronic fuss, as if they had only five minutes to get 
thioogh the wwk of a day, now popping up a frcpos to nothing at 
all, ai»d then Wming head over heels as if to catch their laiU 
between their Ic^it these birds fidgetted through life in a ceouless 
bustle." And be goes on to wy : 

*■ The grebe &mily, to which the dabchiclc belongs, represent the 
fresh-water divera. They remain during nearly the whole of the year 
on the same mere, spending a large proportion of their time under 
water, whence ihcy drag the material of whkh iheir nests arc 
composed. The grebe seldom takes to the wing and makes 3 very 
bod hand at walking, its legs being placed so far aslem as to render 
it difBcult foe the body to be supported when on dry Uod. It has 
DOC the sense to hold iut chin up and jump like n kangaroo. The 
dabchick swims at a great j»ce under water, and when disturbed 
will remain for some time willi i>o more llun its bill above the 
stn&ce to breathe. The >-oung ones dive from the cradle, as well 
ihey may, for they have been incubated among wet weeds; and 
when the hen leaves the eggs for a short time she drags a few water- 
weeds OT'er them. It is tnic of them, as my friend the Rev. J. C 
Aikimon said of the Loon, or Great Crested Grebe^ ' tlw first 
lesions ot tlie young Loon in diving are lakcn beneath the literal 
.shelter of Uie mother's wing.'" ' 



WW. 



It goes without 5a)-ing that in India the dabchick would gain 
more from sun heat as aiding incuhation than it could do with us. 
llcncc the probability that Mr. Hume is ri^ht about the bird 
being able to such an extent to dispense with sitting during the 
day; and though, in our climate, there would be more call for her 



• Pp. 6i-«5. 



X 3 



52 



The GentUfttans MoffasiHe. 



1 



to nt steadily, jrct of all our birds the datidiick sccnu to b« the 
least li«cl to the nest in the season or brooding. I have ofiencr 
found tbc hen off the nert than I have any oilicf Wrd ; and such a 
lubit as this could not be foimcd and persisted in vithout rcry good 
reasons. These n-asons, in my idea, are simply the combined heat 
of ran and decomposing matter, wliich arc enough lo keep sufficient 
mmith about the eggs for the purpose of incubation. The heat in 
the mound.i of the Megafwlii is not so great, only it is a steady, 
moist heat, and the deeper the warmer— as Sir George Grey told in 
his account of the Mv^pods of Australia— and as Mr. A. O. Hume 
tells us in his " Birds of India." And cerlainly in all such cases birdi^ 
as well as other animaU, quickly Icam from experience, and arc apt 
in judging possibilitios in such circuRistancet— for instance, the 
eioct amount of heat necessary for this ptir]>oic. 



IX. 



The dabchiclt's nest has been knovn frequently to break from 
lU moorings, and go swimming about hither, thither, according to 
wind or current. In one inMance, in the lake of one of the London 
|Uiks, it thus drincd about whik the hen sat fearlessly on her young 
ones, duly watched and fed by the cock. Their boldness and 
perseverance were rewarded, for at last the nc&t reached an island 
and was secured, the brood being aHerwards all safely fledged. 
Mr. Hudson, in his "Birds of London," has fully described this 
incident, or scries of incidents, and has given fine drawings of ibe 
nest as it floated about. 

The d-ibchtck's nest sometimes contains in its materials what b 
not only cdiWc to the swans, but is a kind of tit-bit for them ; and 
Mr. Hudson tells of a very severe battle between swans and dabchicki 
because of an onset made upon the nest. The tactics of the 
dabchicks were to dive down and peck the webbed feet of the 
swans, which pro\-cd so uncomfortable to them that it caused them 
sn'eral times to desist. 

The weeds with which the dabchick on lea'.-ing its eggs covers 
them over haw undoubtedly the elfcct of changing their colour 
before they are hatched to a sort of dirty grceniih yellow. More 
than one naturalist, on seeing the eggs thus covered, would have 
sworn that the nest was deserted, until it was felt with the hand, 
and not immediately then ewn was the observer alwap certain tHl 
the Jciics and weeds had actually been VJtcd off. 



.1 



The Dahchick, or Little Grebe. 



%l 



Noihinjji, liomrer, is absolute or without exceptions in the 
feld of !{;ilural flixtory. As we have said already, it is really in 
observing and following uj> the exceptions tlot tlie romance of 
Natural History is found. 

I Tcmember a few years ago noticing in one of (he enclosurc^^ 
that is, witcd-in teaches — near one of the islands on the lake in 
St. James's Parle a peculiar fact. A dabchick, with a single young 
one, was swimming alx)ut not far from the margin, while the Uttlo 
one would, in its clumity manner, make a sudden run on to the 
sloping cement margin to jMck up some favourite morsels. There 
were two or ihtec tufted ducks about. They nc%-cr sought to attack 
or meddle with the dabchick while swimming about, but the 
moment the dabchick hen ran very awkwardly ashore after its 
young one to prevent it going too far, the ducks, one or other, would 
suddenly dash aitcr it and make a peck with die beak on iu back 
and then rush into the water again. Had they, too, had experience 
of the dabchick's power of divinj^ and wiili its sharp beak wounding 
the webbed feet xs the swan\ bad if they attacked them in the 
water? And knou'in;; tliis, did thcj- of set purpose wait till the 
dabchick was on solid earth and could not there have recourse 
to this mo&t a\-a!ling mode of retaliation? I patiently sat and 
tlirough my glass saw this behaviour repeated several times. This 
surely is a good deal on the very principle titat Mr. Kcarton 
made his shepherd say that his dog illusttalcd in action and 
practice : — 

" He alius bowls over littlcnt just as you sch; bim do that 'un, 
but he 'andlcs big dogs rougher by bitln' their feet. There's no dog 
as can fight tike a dog as goes for feet, mister ; take my word for iL 
They're alius winners." So it would seem to be with wraicr-birds also^ 
if the conduct of the dabchick here may count, with tlie advantage 
that water is an additional element in t!ie matter. 

A. u. j&pr. 



54 



Tki Gemum^sMag^m. 



THE GIPSY BRIDE. 



OLOMS, thro* sunshine, storm, and strife. 
My heart will go wiih thcc; 
Thou nit my light, my breath, my life ; 
But be not fJUsc to me I 

For thou must leave thy gipsy quccii 

For maids high-bom and Tair, 
AU drcsl in robes of dazzling slieen, 

With i«weU in their liair. 

IT Busnd lady, &i lie arrayed, 

Try then thy heart to gain, 
O thinV upon thy gipsy maid, 

Remember sunny Spain. 

In my black C}-cs thou oft hast said 

Love lighlclh starry beams : 
He may ; and yet a small sharp blade 

Hid in my bosom glcami. 

Ah, see ! the white moon waneth fast, 

And chill the night has grotm. 
Our lr}-sting hour will soon be past, 

Thy gipsy maid— alone 

AUs ! too soon the morning breeze 

Thy snowy sail will swell, 
And sadly sigh the orange trees 

AVhcre we have said farewell. 

O Love, thro' sunshine, storm, and strife 

My heart will go with thee ; 
Thou art my Ught, my breath, my life; 

But be not false to mc ! 



55 



THE GOETHIAN IDEAL. 

GREAT men usaaQy ^ipeai to as as the ctbodiiaents of specal 
powers or {acuities, which 2ie dcTdapcd at the ^rp^t y of 
other parts of our commoD Datme. Sodi, appoiBiiif, b tix pfajsio- 
logical cost of Genius, wtuch stands for growth in certain A-fcicf 
directions. The principle is an old cn^ and re c e iv e s aiaqife iOBSia- 
tloQ from the post hlstotr of oar nee. Thoe are, bowery, a few 
rare exceptions to which it most be applied in a -mr^-s^ fam. 
Great men there are who, while aDowing free pbj to the oatmal 
bent of their genius, are yet jealous of its ahsoimg dogrinJoc o*a- 
their being, and by an exercise of will seek to bring into line otliez 
energies for which they are indebted to Nature lea directly. TIk 
result is then a genual quickening erf' tbc entire moital charactn. 
There is i^^iarently less in^iiatioa and moie jndgment ; less geoii:^ 
more sanity ; less of what is most truly imoMrtal, aacre of what is- 
most characteristicaUy mortaL 

To this small company of great men bdoogs tbe irmarkablc 
personality wluch fonns the subject of tbe present inquiry. The 
genius of Goethe was not of the aD-absocbiog t]Fp& la tbc moK 
literal sense his genius was hU, and did not poaess Um. What be 
did, he did in the main cxHisctoasIy, d el ibe ra tely, with a &D know- 
ledge of its bearing upon himself ; and, as ciojune koors, it was 
his aim to bring into use almost erery beaky of which be vas 
possessed. That be soccecded in bis object is prored bjr the record 
of his life and works, for where shall we find a panDd \o tbe Dsmber 
of different aspects thus presented to the stndenl by one man ? In 
him we are introduced to a sit^olarly rich and fbll life, crowded 
with incident, and fomishit^ experience of every human rc^atica. 
We sec the iHccocioas boy, tbe stodott, tbe courtier, adminisnator, 
actor, theatrical manager, man of letters, eacb phase being farot^u 
out as in a iix>dem btogia[Ay. Artd of stiU greater significance 
is his work. From a purely mtional point of new we haie his 
unique service to German liter^nre which, if not actually his ovn 
Creadon, as some affirm, at all events under his inflnence first 



56 



The Genlieman's Magasine. 



assumed character and distinction. Applying a suit highci test, we 
rccogntM) one having an undisputed place among the really great 
pocu and proGc vritcrs of all time— a true citizen of the vorld. 
Then there is his rcmnrkalile appreciation of science and his positioi^ 
ts pionccc in the working out of biological erolution. And finally* 
tnd most important of all, thcfc is his special work as lyrist, 
dramatist, novelist, literary ti-formw, critic ar>d philosopher, in 
which capacities he contributes to almost every dqiaitmcnt of 
human thought. 

Now the price paid for such cxttaoFdinary versatility is sufficiently 
obvious, though it hardly seems to have received the attention it 
deserves. It is with geniuses as with ordinary men : TcrsMiliqp 
implies a certain relative lack of what wc slioutd now call concen- 
tration and thoroughness. ^Miat is achieved in a number of 
directions may be great, but in almost e\eTy case it might concciv* 
ably have been greater if the energy bc&towed had been less freely 
distributed. To iliis truism even so great a man as Goeilie is no 
eitception. looking at his work £iirly and calmly, a century after i 
was given to ilic world, any candid critic must admit that he 
responsible for a great deal of arid and dreary prose writir 
interesting only to the antiquary or Goetbe wonhippcr. The^ 
Biography, despite its title ("I^lchtuTig und Wahihcit aus mcincm 
Leben "), is surely full of such writing ; " VVJthclm Meistcr " mighty 
without serious loss, ha^'C been considerably curtailed, and probablj'l 
few will deny that other well-known works, such as " The Elective 
Acuities " and " \Verthcr," arc characterised by all the protixiQr of 
the age to which they belong. And what is thus true of scvenl 
individual works is equally true of Goethe's work as a whole. From 
the evidence of the Life and Letters, we know that the number < 
schemes projected and abandoned at rarious stages almost eqn 
the number of those actually canicd out " Faust" and " Mcister" 
were laboured at so fitfully, and over such long intervals, that the 
work.s lost unity of conception, and ihcir later portions might almost 
l>e regarded as llic product of a different brain. Much time appears 
to have been wasted l>erore he rcali.ied that he had no aptitude for 
pnctical fuic art work; while the return for the energy bestowed 
on experimental science, as he conceived it, was certainly quite 
inadequate. 

Accustomed as we now arc to extreme diflerentiation of thought 
and purpose, mt cannot fail to be in a measure repelled by the work 
of one who probably never saw the iraporUncc of this feature. 
Staitiiog as it may seem to say concttttin^ vUt wotlK. o( wuch a. 



The Gceihian Itkal. 



57 



I 
I 



genius, it is |>robal>Iy not Tar fiom ttic ttuih to assert tlut in the 
whole of Ooctbc's productions ihcrc is oot one of vliich we can say 
that it is at the same lime both great and pcrrcct— pcircct, that is, in 
the sense of infallibly attaining soroc clear object with just tlte 
ncccssat}' expenditure of force. He docs not belong to that class 
of writers whose greatness depends on some single work, or whose 
thoughts lie in certain bioad tracts patent to all readtTs. The 
precise opposite is the truth. He is conspicuous for the range and 
average excellence of his n-orl:, revealtr^ at comparatively tare 
intervals, and at times in totally unexpected places, insight and 
execution of the highest order. His prinuiy instinct as an artist 
led him to be diffuse iatl)i.i than exact, suggestive rather than 
exhaustive, tieh as to the meant employed r«tlu;T than empliatic as 
to the end in view. Alan, to him, was infinitely complex, his 
attributes infinitely correlated, hts being infinitely mysterious ; and 
in the presence of the infinite in human luturc he declined to be 
held to those hacdand-fast lines which all special conception and 
treatment involve. And so, in reading a Goethian tnastcrpiece, 
although we may iq>prove, admire, enjoy, we are seldom wholly 
satisfied, for wc arc always conscious of a certain bck of grasp, a 
certain suspicion that a really vital point may have been overlooked. 
Thus it comes about tlut Gocibc presents quite exceptional 
difficulties to the student. From the time when Carlylc disco-vercd 
in him " the devoutncss of a Fcnelon " and " the belief of a saint," 
h has been abundantly evident that it is quite possible to see in his 
writings more than he ever intcndt-d to convey, to credit him with 
conceptions, belief:!, intention*, of which he was quite innocent. 
Despite the (act that the criticism on two works alone alinoat 
amounts to a small library in itself, we are still Ear from arriving at 
unanimity as to their true inter]ireiatio«. And what is true of these 
two works is true of Goethe's teaching as a whole. He is undoubtedlf 
a diflercnt man to difTercnt minds. Not that be is intentionally 
ambiguous, for clearness was with him an cvcr-prewnt aim. But so 
broad b his mind, so universal his culture, so catholic his nature, 
Uiat the ordinary commentator never really rises to his plane. To 
see him clearly is to see psrtially, and as to the precise significance 
of these parts, a certain dilTerence of opinion will long continue to 
exist. Still, even in the matter of Goethe criticism, progress has 
been made. As to the gmeral interprcution of his loessage there Is 
happily some approach to agreement, and cadi ste|^ honestly and 
independently taken, is, in a measure, a step towards that finality ia 
JBdgment which has to do duty for an absolute criterion. 



58 



The GeniUman's Magazine. 



So much, then, by way of miroduciion. Now to stale the aim of 
the precent etiay. Ii b, of course, quite impossiUc to separate the 
nun fmm hU wHUi^?, for nc^er has * pc»onal experience been 
more vividly reflected in literary work. But this is not to be a 
psychological study of the nun ukJ liis life, his an, or method. 
Recognising that he is aboi-e cvcr)lhing else a poet, we hare (o 
considL-r him nuinly as a teacher, or, in the true sense of the word^l 
a philosopher— that is, one nho is familiar with all the doepcH 
problems of life, and who has arrived at certain far reaching con- 
clusions regarding thought and conduct. Detkale as the task may 
wcin, we have to try to penetrate to the really vilal parts of his 
thought and life-work, to try to throw into relief that which b of 
most moment at the present lime, to build up, as best wc may, a sort 
of Idea] of Life as ibis wise man conceived it. That his view of life 
differed at various stages of bis career cannot be doubted. But theJ 
inconsistency is that which muit ever characterise a rich andn 
de\-etoping nature that profits by experience and gathers strength 
with each change. Tu ihwic, therefore, who apptoacli the t.uk in c 
the right spirit of disciimiiiaiion, the difliculiy of selecting the best| 
and most characteristic thought should not be insuperable. In this 
process we shall, of course, meet with much that b well known to all 
students of Cocthc, and to many to whom he docs not specially 
appeal. Uut in oider that the concqilion may emerge naturally in 
the process of cxaminalion, it will Ik itecessary lo introduce llie 
features in ibc order of llieir uliuncy without rt-gard to the novelty 
or othenrise of minor point.i. 

Now, the first and mosi obvious thing about the teaching of 
Goethe, the principle which may be said to embmcc all others, and 
without which his personality and work arc inexplicable, is the 
principle of Self-culture. The literature of the world affordsi 
examples of m:iny who have written about self-cullure ; Goethe 
Hv<4 it. It is not a mere proposition, a generalisation from cxperi* 
ence. It i.i more, c\-cn, than a conviction having a consunt relation 
to conducl. It is, for him, nothing less than the supreme (act of 
life ; something to which cvciylliing else becomes tributary— an 
ever-present impulse, a ruling pas&ion. ^V1latG^'cr cl»e he forget^ be 
never forgets this. Beliefs nuiy diange, projects be abandoned, , 
friendships disappear, loves die out, but the ever conscious ^//i/«j^ ! 
of Johann Wolfgatjg Goethe proceeds unceasingly, okiu ffatf, chnt 
Raft. We arc not here concerned to trace out the remarkable effect 
on his character of this principle of self-development, realised and 
carried out to an extent probably ciuite viihout precedent. There 



The Goethian Ideai. 



59 



I 



n no virtue which, blindly or exclusively i)Ta<:tt!«(l, may not piu» 
into a vice ; and the strongest believers tn live sage of Weimar will 
probably sdtnit that his cxceuive self-absorpiion— sclf-woiship, 
According to his sc\'crcr critics — gave ii«e to tmits at once limiting 
to th« man and irritating to those be addressed. Nor must wc fall 
into the error of confusing the man himself with his life-principle. 
A society modelled strictly on the pallcra of the life actually lived 
by Goethe would have many objectionable features. Amongst oUicr 
things;, for in&tance^ we shoald most certainly hare a consideiabic 
development of the genus "prig," that is to say, there irould be a 
constant parade of self- improvement without the sclf-forgelfulness or 
genius which can alone give it proportion and balance in the 
individual character. (JoeUic himself nonheie poses as a model for 
humanity to cop)-. He may have been an egoist, but he was ccr* 
tainly not arbitrarj-. The personality of man was to him inviolable. 
But ne need have no fear that this far-icflching principle of self- 
culture will ever be realised in the Goeihian sense by the ordinaiy 
man. It is, unfortunately, too far remo\-ed from the common 
concerns of life, too profoundly opposed to the stronger and lower 
instincts of our naluia The imporunt fact for us to note is that 
Cocthc presents the claims of self-culture with an od^nality, with a 
sincerity, and with a force that have perhaps never been equalled, 
certainly not surpassed. Uc tells us in a hundred ways that the one 
unpardonable sin is indiffcrcncei aimlessncss, sluggishness. Every 
man by the exercise of his own free will muU develop. The germs 
of this Liter growth arc pbnted in c\try breast ; to cul:ivatc them is 
the ttuc vocation of every human soul, which only in this manner 
fulfils Its mission. Culture, therefore, is the one i»imc essential of 
life —the means whereby existence is rendered hannonious and happy. 
Such is Goethe's gospel of culture in its roost general fonn. 

At this time of day it is, of course, quite unnecessary to dwell on the 
claims of culture as a conicious aim in life — that is, as a real factor 
in human conduct. To those who arc indilTerent as to the true 
progress of the individual and the race there will pnsbably be little 
of interest in this man's work. Assuming that all recognise tlic 
Tiul importance of culture of some son, we are bound to take 
account of the grave and earnest appeal of one who wat endowed 
by Nature with exceptional insighi, nho had exceptional experience 
of lilc, and who had an cxccplianal gift of communicating his im- 
pressions to his fellow-men. 

Now what is the dominant note of this appeal ? Unquestionably, 
the first point that strikes us about Goethe's ideal of culture is its 



Co 



TIu GentUmatis Ma^asint. 



■ am/UUfiai. Taking togciher what he says and what he does, we 
perceii.'e that he is content vilh (he advance of notliuig lea than the 
whole being. He aims at nothing less than perfection. Phjaiually, 
intelleciually, niofally, xslhelkally, religiously, rousl tiie human 
character be unfolded. Only in ihb complex fashion can man pro- 
f^ress at man ; in no other way can the highest point be reached. 
Thb conception, now Oiiniliar to all students of human develogitncnt, 
had pn)t>abiy never bcfo-tf been thus embodied in tlie work of one 
man —certainly not by a modern. The world has seen many 
teachers calling loudly on men to be virtuous, free, pious, rational, 
aitistic It was rcscxvcd for Goethe, through his life and thought, 
to tcU them to be, in the fullest, deepest senses nitJt, to lire the wMt 
life. 

Such severe impartialiiy can of course never be popular. The 
individual roan is a creature of bia^. His nature is more alive in 
some directions than in others. He requires a clear statement on 
some simple issue appealing to his prejudices. Any opinion which 
Indicates a liolancc of judgnient, or makes a twofold appeal, he 
regards with inUiffweiico or suKpicioiL It seems indeed necessary 
that in order to command attention everylliing must be presented 
without proportion- in an exa^crated form. And so in Goethe we 
look in vain for the qualities of tli« I.eadcr, for a leader must be a 
partisan, a.nd that is precisely wliat he is not. Of course no man 
ca.T be wholly free from prejudice {and in passing it may be granted 
that we should lose all interest in him if he could), but in the mind 
of Goethe the clement of bias ceruiuly «ems to be reduced to the 
lowest possible point. His concern is with the entire man, that 

' infinitely complex being whose powers must not work independently, 
or fitfully, or aimlessly, but harmoniously, steadfastly, intelligently. 
If not a l^eader he is, tlierefore, in the strictest sense a Pioneer. His 
standard of all-round culture is probably the highest that can be 
fixed. That it can never be attained, that he himself, rarely gifted 
a* he wa.<t, never attained it, is not t)ie point. The itue ideal roust 
alwap remain unrealised. Mere at least U something towards which 
humanity may strik-e without ceasing ; lomcthing which must help 
to correct tliosc $|wcial tcr^cncics which are characteriuic of all 
men, and which so often Itad them astray ; something, in short, 
which will serve to impress us with the many-sidedness of truth, and 
to quidccn our recognition of it, no matter under what strange 
guisca it may appear. 

Bm let us hasten to note that Goethe's ideal of culture, though it 
■'"mands the dtM'eJopraent of the cnlitc naiute o( nam, \x\% ^knost 



The Coethtan Ideal. 



61 



equal stress upon the cultivation of spcci-il Ulcnts. His pontion 
here is not so clear as could be wbhcd, but having regard to tlie 
essential spirit of his teaching, we must suppose that the harmonious 
general dwclojimcnt is to be atUtincd through what we now call 
general principles, tlie special development through boih gcnetal 
principles and spcci.il knowledge. He beliei-es that every man is 
bom with certain peculiar faculties, certain aptitudes which distin- 
guish bim from his fellows, and which it is hU first duty to discover 
And cuUtvate. Thus we have ft general and a special culture pro* 
ceeding concurrently, the one characterised in the main by breadth, 
idea {Bfsriff), insight ; the other by depth, knowledge of detail, 
practical activity. The general culture has reference to the larger 
faculties or main runctlons of our nature, the sp:xial culture to our 
particular powers or crafts. It is this latter form that Goethe has in 
mind when, towards the close of his life, he bewails the loss of 
valuable time. To Ecltcmunn lie says : " I should have kept more 
lo my own trade"— meaning thereby poetry— and solemnly warns 
his friend against false tendencies. 

Between these two forms or modes of culture then; is of course 
no essential contradiction. It is only when they are carried to an 
extreme that a certain aniagonivni ,ippears. Now it must be remem- 
bered that Goethe wrote in an age wlicn sjiccialism, ns we under- 
stand it, was uiiknonn. During the past century the numlier of 
workers bent upon incrwising the sum of human knowledge or rais- 
ing the standard of human achievement has enormously increased ; 
indeed it is not too much to say that the subdivision of labour and 
the degree to wliich it has become specialised is the most remark- 
able feature of our time. The case of a man's devoting his whole 
life to some small branch of inquiry or spcci.il form of skill, to the 
total exclusion of every other form of culture, is a comparatively 
modern de%'eIopmcnt— or slialJ we say disease?— of our civilisation. 
To Goethe the cultivation of a particular taste or faculty woald 
appear to be quite consistent with his grand principle of a complete 
life. A niodern specialist of the more pronounced type, with his 
exaggerated estimate of his own department, and his generally lop- 
tided <lc\'elopment, would Iiavc been regarded as a matt)T to sodcty, 
living for its sake a partial or imperfect exist;:nce. 0"cihe, it is 
clear, would have told us to be men first, specialists afttrH-ards. even 
though Society should produce a tinallet number of abnormally 
clever or abnormally learned people^ even though the accumulation 
of fact or the increase of skill should proceed mote slowly, or 
material civilisation be somcuhat retarded. 



63 



The Centlcomnts Magazim. 



In connection with this concq>tion of cullure another point 
miut a'.so be noted. Al the present day-, in treating tA man and hti 
work in t1i« world, ihc Tint step would t>c to recogntfc the dilTereocal 
Iwtirocn the ordinary daily employment undertaken in obedience to 
ttw 3ie.-i) necessities of exiitence, and lite occupations of ki^uns 
cntacd upon voluntarily from a sense of love or duty. In Goethe's 
treatment of the question of vocations this distinction is iKvcr clearly 
drawn. Thoc is no acknowledgment of wliat our present industrial 
system now forces on our notice, y\t., tliat the vast majority of 
people pass the greater part of their time in work from which they 
derive little or no real pleasure. The clement of payment— woildly 
gain — as a factor in shaping the work is ignored by Goethe, nc4, we 
miy be sure, because be is unconscious of such a powerful motive 
in human afTatrs, but because, as a true apotlle of culture, tlie acqui- 
sition of wealth as an end in itself it outside his province, 'llie 
cultimion of a talent is, with him, tite sueceuful puntuit of a callings 
In bis ideal world c\-ciyone is en^gcd in a labour of love, joyously 
pcrfdrming the task for which he !a tilted by Nature. The only 
specialism of which he taket account is the persistent activity which 
is founded on self-knowledge. Out mission is unfailingly to search 
out the one congenial pursuit, and waste no time on others for which 
we feel ourselves uiiiiltcd. Of course this view is not practical. 
Indeed Gocihc never <>praetic.nl in the political seme of suggesting ^ 
refonns which may be directly catricd out. Obviously the pr 
view is not practical because it docs not recognise a fundamental ] 
fact of modern society : that life is a keen slrugglc — a struggle for 
cnstcrcc or for wealth. Happily, however, c%-cn at the present diy 
there is a large class which is not hopelessly involved in either of 
these forms of strife ; and if wc may ^'enIure to believe that they are 
not necessarily chatacterisiie of the highest social state, and that 
they will become less marked with the progress of the race, it ti 
hardly too much to hope that Goethe's lofiy conception of a true 
lifecalling, fanciful as it may now seem, may be ever increasingly 
realised. 

This then, in broadest outline, is the Goethian ideal : that the 
first aim of man should bo self-culture, that his culture should be 
" whole," his entire nature being symmetrically developed, and that 
his vocation in life should be in harmony wilb his special tastes. Wc 
now advance to a somewhat closer inspection, directing our attention 
first to the more purely intelleclual side of his thought. 

Goethe has all the poet's lack of order and method. It was no 
part of bis plan to tccp his ideas tor ihc innitaite v****- Some of 



Tbg Coeihian Ideal. 



63 



liis pTOfoundcst generalisations, for instance, are pl-ieixl in U>c mouths 
of rather commonplace people. His knowledge is great, but there 
la no attempt at arrangcniciit or co-ordination. Wc look in vain for 
anytliing resembling a ircll-dc6n«l scheme. The conclusions at 
which lie arrives by the intellectual, as \>f other processes, are dis- 
connected, and are contained chieRjr in short dissertations, aphorisms, 
or maxims. On certain main points, however, his position is 
tolerably clear. The judgment of Mcphistophcles expressed to the 
Student might almost be taken as his own motto— 

Grau, ttieoTei Freund, til aHe Tbeotie, 
Dcch pan det LcWn* eo'Jcci lium. 



He i^ indeed, not so much a thinl:cr as a liver. He lias all the 
contempt of a sensuous and active nature for rigid tbcorj" or purely 
abstract tliought. He deems it a ^iiiuc never to have "thought 
about thinking." To Sdiillcr he ^xp, " I am glad to think that I 
bare ideas without knowing it, and that lean see theni with my eyes"; 
and to Eclteimann, " I have always kept myself frco from philosophy 
[always meaning thereby metaphysicsj. mine iras the common-sense 
point of view." Even Spinoza, who of all thinkers appears to have 
had the greatest influence upon him, he n«\'cj seems to have studied 
syttematicallj (as Professor Edward Caird points out), his apparent 
aim being rather to seek confirmation of his own views than to 
acquire new principles. His position in regard to metaphysics is 
perhaps best summed up in the remark — " Man is not bom to solve 
the problem ol the universe, but to rei>Irain himself within the limits 
of the comptchcDsiUe." No doubt this begs the question to some 
extemt, since it is just as to where the limits of the comprchco^ibtc 
are reached that diScrcnce of opinion existt. But this n-ay of 
regarding the mystery of the universe came with a shock to con- 
temporary thought in Germany, and did much to correct the 
prevalent tendencies toirards excessive introspection and theorising. 
To Englishmen, on the other hand, this attitude of mind has long 
been familiar. It lias that practical character so dear to the hearts 
of our countrymen, which condemns as vain all attempts to srarch 
out the ultimate dthcr in mind or nature. "There b no sadder 
sight than tlic direct striving after the unconditioned in this 
thoroughly conditioned world." " The more we know how to use 
our knowledge, the better we sec that the unfathomable is of no 
prftctical use." Thus clearly does he see thai all knowk-dgc is rela- 
tive, and that no amount of thinking can make it otherwise. ^Ve 



64 



The GentletKatC s Magazine. 



•re tliercforc to realUc, once for all, that the end of life — u be puts 
it — is not to think but to act 

We must, however, keep clearly in view that Coethe's repugnuKe 
was confined to what he deemed to be desultory or metaphysical 
thtnktc^ Of the value of the tliinktng which is directly rclaitd to 
the fiicts of life no one could t>e more conscious. In his domain of 
the coraprcheniiUe one great fact stands out— the conception of 
Natural l.aw. Here he was far ahead of his lime. This is not the 
place to examine his services to the theory of evolution, but we 
must take account of the fact tliat he was one of the first to appre- 
hend clearly the essential unity of Nature. He saw that in Nature 
there arc no sudden gaps or radical changes, that the present 
condition of our earth and its formi of life have been reached 
ihiough a process of slow and orderly development, and that to the 
e)-e of intelligence the universe is revealed through its laws. In 
his day evolution was one of thL- vaguest of speculations ; as a 
hypothesis, it vras con6ncd by its few supporters to certain special 
branches of biMog)'. Hence we cin hardly hare stronger proof of 
the penetration and breadth of Goethe's mind than is alTorded by 
the fact that he not only accepted the principle of evolution as an 
approximate explanation of the phenomena of life and the gnnd 
movement of Nature^ but applied it to man and his work in the 
world. Indeed it is hardly loo much to say that in the formation of 
hii lhoti;(hl, this principle stands out above all others as being, for 
him, by far the most potent and abiding. 

But it is impotsibte to remain with Goethe long on a purely 
intellectual plane. Even the two features just spoken of arc tinged 
with an clement of religious feeling. The imperfection of knowledge 
passes into a vague form of faith, and the recognition of natural law 
merges into somclliing closely akin to Nature- worship. His attitude 
in relation to knowledge gciii.-ially is highly characteristic: "Merc 
stores of knowledge, however vast, in themselves give no capacity for 
ihinkii^" " We can truly know only what we love." "All philoso* 
phy must he lived and loved." Here we arc near the ultimate source 
ofhis wisdom. He seeks to express knowledge in terms of life and 
feeling. To him the knowledge which is not felt is mere pedantry, 
the effect of which is not to expand and animate the mind, but to 
narrow and weaken it. Thi* view is surely full of significance for us 
at the present time. In this age of cram, when knowledge is pur- 
sued as an end in itself, we are apt to forget that the really vital 
point is not whal we know, but the use wc make of it The paths 
t^ Jbion-lcd^c should all lead to pcrmnaliiy. So far as k-c are men 




Th4 Goelkian laea/. 



6S 



I 



I 



and not mere animals of human form, the highest significance of life 
must be sought in the direaiun of conduct, culture diameter ; and 
the knowledge which has no relation to these is, for us, no knowledge, 
but so much intellectual di^wdght, which might as well be on the 
shelves of the library for reference, as in the brain. Goethe's 
"Lebcniust" is largely iraceable to his emotional responsiveness 
to the stimulus of knowledge. No nutter how systematized, how 
scientiRc the knowledge to beac*iuircd, he will not have the "sense" 
clement taken out of it ; it must appeal to him as a living aitd 
volitional being. It would not be difficult to trace out the effect of 
this conception in the work of subsequent thinkers, notably in 
Kuskin. It is here ihat Goethe rises to the level of the Prophet. 
He is a preacher against the idolatry of symbols, bringing us back 
from the pursuit of intellectual phantoms to the claims of life and 
reality. 

His esthetic teaching proceeds on similar lines. If it is true 
that, in his view, to know is to feel, equally true is it that to feel is 
lo portray. Only that is of Talue to him to which he can give 
shape and foiin. He has no theory of art. The iitiial contempt 
for abstract principles is conspicuous here as elsewhere : " ^Vhat 
need of dcfmitions? A lively feeling of situations and power to 
express them make a poet" But he sees vividly the esscntui truth 
underlying all M>und art : that the artist must portray only what hfi 
feels and knows, that skill without sincerity is base, that the man 
must put himttlf into his work. To this ideal he was himself faith- 
ful throughout life, " I have never," he says, " affected anything in 
my poetr>-. I have never uttered anything which I have not ex- 
perienced, and which has not urged me to production." ft is this 
Kincctity, this fidelity to life and self, which lends so rare a charm to 
his art work considered as a whole. We may not be always moi'cd 
by the scniimenlality, the situation may at times be distasteful, but 
we always feel that we are in the presence of one who is Idling us, 
without striving after eflecl, of soraethit^ that he sat. He believes 
in art as a regenerator of mankind, as an infinite source of snme of 
the purest pleasure* of life. " One ought every day at least lo hear 
a little song, read a good poem, and see a fine picture." " I'octry is 
gircn us to hide the little discords of life, and to make man con- 
tented with the world and his condition." Thus poets are the great 
leachen of the world, vitalising and re-creating for mankind every 
other form of work. Ttiose to whom this is not a selfevidt-nt truth 
will fail to understand the Goctbian outlook. Extensive as that 
outlook is, it is after all the outlook of a poet — the exponent of 

VOL. CCXCU. NO. MS3- 't 



66 



The CmtUmans Magasim. 



tbe sensuous, the creator of images, tltc rcvcalcr of the deeper 
mewling of things. Goethe is « realist only from a trajucendental 
point of viciT. To the ordinary mind he is an idealist, delighlii^ 
in an ideal wofid, striving indeed to show that the real irorld is 
of litilc v-aluc aput from the ideal, that cxJstcnoe without tma^ 
nation is death. 

Coeihe's religious altitude seems to han given gmi trouble (o 
tlte cntics. In such a matter individual btai b vety Uroi^ and 
tltc rule seems to be to credit him with much more or much less tl»n 
he bc!ic\'cd. Here of cour« we arc not coneeTncd with the precise 
elements of his creed, but it xrill be necessary to notice a few general 
features of his religious bcliuf. Apparently he docs not accept any 
dogmatic theology wiiatcvcr, ChTi$.tian or otherwise. Miracles, is 
commonly understood, are e<|ually unn'onliy of credence, and piety 
and faith arc not in themselves eHlcacious. On the o:licr hand, be 
believes in God, the source of all goodness, truth and beauly, vho 
reveals Himself directly through Nature and through great and 
inspired men. But (he rharactcrislic of personality in the Snprcotc 
Being is aln-n)-s extremely faint. " I am nut satisfied viih any one 
aspect of divine things ; as a poet and atlist 1 am more or less of a 
polythctsi, as a natural philosopher I am a panthcUt, and if I 
require a personal (lod for my personality, there is provision made 
in my mental constitution for that also," The following opinion, 
cx[)rcsscd only eight years bcrore his death, is significant i "This 
occupation with ideas of imniortatity b for people of rank, and 
especially ladies who have nothing to do. Bui an aljle man, who 
has something regular to do here, and must toil and struggle and pro- 
duce day by day, leaves tlie future world to itself^ and is active and 
useful in this." It is indeed clear that on all matters alTccting the 
future life he is comparatively indifTcicnt. His supreme principle is 
to molte the most of the pie«nl life. His objeaion to the Chris- 
tianity of his day was almost solely confined to this ground. He 
haled asceticism and "other-worldliness" because they cncwiniged 
contempt for the present world, and professed lo sec in the mortifi- 
cation of the flesb the only way to a higher life. In his view tticre 
is no more deadly sin than this. 

In this connection there is one point of which all who wish lo 
form an impartial estimate of the subject of this article should take 
account. Writing to Jacobi on one occasion he good-humourcdly 
spoke of himself as " an old heathen," and the term seems to have 
l>een seriously accepted as an indication of his religious belief. Wc 
tbould here be on our guaid lest vz accept, the dictates of a narrow 



The Goelhian Ideal. 



which is unable 10 coDCdre of any hot ccrtoui special 
filfmi of revelation. Heathenism is one of thOEc common words 
whJcli no one stops to dclinc, but the task would be by no means 
easy. This much, however, is clear, that there is an element of 
heathenism in tlic beliefs of all reverent students of Nature. To be 
wtthoiil it is to admit that we have remained untouched by one of 
the most primary emotions of these latter days of sdcnce, that wc 
have never tcaWyfiU that, in some mysterious and unsearchable way, 
we are indeed part of the universe. That this aspect appeals to 
Goethe with exceptional force cannot be denied, but any man whose 
belief in the Deity was confined to such mamfcstations could ntvtx 
deduce therefrom the conception of a moral world, sustained and 
controlled by one Supreme rower. Of Goethe's religion it may 
perliaps be admitted that it had roanifest shortcomings rendering it 
unfit —according to those best qualilicd to judge— for the mass of 
mankind. But let it also be frankly acknowledged that it was at 
leist adequate lo the man himself, permitting him to live a long life 
untroubled by remorse, and to die with all the serenity of profound 
conviction or faith. 

It is fitting that we should approach the ethical side of Goethe's 
teaching by way of that pha.'ie of morality whidi stands out so 
prominently in his life and which has given rise to the severest 
criticism. It is no mere coincidence that the very last words of his 
greatest poon should be— 

riat Ewle-Wciblii:h« 
Zicbt uiu hinaa, 

for truly the "Eternal Fenuniiic" looms big on the Gocthian 
horizon. It has been said that the influence of woman was the only 
influence which reached him, and in a certain sense this is un- 
doubtedly true. To put it plainly, the friendships of men were 
valued for what they could g,ive him. With the possible exception 
of Schiller, the element of personal liking never seems to have 
entered into any of his attachments. He was kindly by nature, but 
lo true fellow-feeling he was probably astiangcr; he was, indeed, 
too far abo%-e those with whom he came into contact. And so, as 
his character develops, the men who have ceased to be useful to him 
are dropped, with little regret and apparently little emotion. I-'ar 
otherwise is it with his women friends. At an early age he got into 
ihc way of falling fn love, and in this course he persevered to the 
dose of his life. Strange to say, the cxtiaoidinary number of his 
attachments does not seem to have materially affected llie intensity 

r X 



I 



68 



The Gentleman's Magazine. 



of the focling ; and in this respect, as in many Dtbcrs, be retained 
the suKieptibilities of youth to a quite renurluibic degree. As all 
the world know*, it was from the experience tliui gained tliat be 
drew the in!ii)i(ntion for so many of his nnut delightful lyrics, as welt 
a> for nearly all hiti female cliaractera in romance. Here we are of 
ooune interetted only m a general way in this phase of bis character, 
as indicating a certain fixed principle of condtict. Now, it will pn>-j 
bably be admitted by ali who try to take a broad sun-cy of 
general course of his life, that in the matter of Kcxual morality 
Goethe was not, to any material cxlcnl, in advance of ihe standard 
of bb time or place. Xot that he was ever the &Iavc of passion or 
impulse even during the fierce period of Sturm unJ Drang. The 
suspicions of proSigacy, or e\'cn of inconiinenci^ which seem to 
exist in the minds of some of his detractors, arc cle&ily unfounded. 
Despite hii impressibility, his passions in this, as in other re 
appear to have been under control ; and, so far as we know, all his| 
love alTairs (with one or two possible exceptions) were of a pure and 
elci'siing character. Still, we cannot escape the inference to boj 
drawn from his writings. He is not consciously immoral ; he do 
not condone acts which arc opposed to his sense of right ; but lh4 
scope of his sexual ethics is limited. He remains ihroi^hout life, 
to a certain extent, wffmoral. His conception of the social order 
and the supreme importance of individual development permitted a 
freedom which a later age, with different ideas as to the effect of 
such conduct, cannot sanction. This moral haancss on such a tIuI 
matter is doubtless one of his most serious limitations, and be 
paid di;arly for it in the estimation of posterity, at all events anton^J 
Anglo-Saxon people. 

Indeed, if we carefully dissociate the teacher from the artist, va 
shall find that, on the subject of the rcbtion of the sexes gcnenllyt j 
ii ideal, considering his experience, is diuippointirig. His 
ation is true so far as it goes, but at the present lime one 
must indeed be blind not to perceive that his view is partial and 
one-sided. He places woman on a lower plane than tliat on which 
any modem conception could now place her. There is in his 
ttttittidc alwa>-s an element of condescension. In a word, though he 
gives tis many touching pictures of feminine devotion—of Ideal 
Lxnc, the offspring of mutual sacrifice and constancy, wc hare com- 
paratively faint indications. I'he a|)parcnt anomaly is perfectly 
explicable on the view of his character here taken. Self-culture i* 
for him the supreme fact, and to this cwn love must give way. H« 
nquircs love and plenty of it, but— to bonow >Ir. R. H. Hutton's 



The Goethian Ideal 



I 
ft 



wase— il is wiih "limited liability." Lifelong devotion toasii^le 
wonui) is out of the question. He sees clearly enough thai to ooe 
with this fixed purpose such an obligation is a disturbing element, 
bristling with surprises, and be boncstly feels that be cannot take the 
risk unless it be postponed to a period of life too late seriously to 
alTcet the course he has marked out. Opinion will ever be divided 
•I to how far the world Is a gainer by this absolute adherence to one 
grand firinci[>Ie. Peibaps, on tbc whole, it is correct to say that be 
g^ns Ktthetically what lie loses morally. Still, with the example of 
Ilanic an<t Beatrice l>efoTc us, it seems hard to suppress a wi^th that 
Goethe's emotions cooiM have been more concenlraiCTi, tlut some 
singk personality could hare inspired his muse throughout Kfe. 
However, this would implya very diflerent Goeihe from tliat of which 
we have aetual knowle<^e. 

But let us leave this question of sex and pass to other aspects of 
Goethe's moral teaching. As has been so often remarked, his ethical 
pooijoa is disttnguishcd for the prominence he gives to activity^ 
work — founded upon a sense of duly. In this manner is character, 
the ultimate aim of every man, to be built up. Tbc moral note in 
Goethe's appeal is a very strong, if not, as some contend, a dominant 
one. or himself be says : "I ha^-c meant honestly all my life both 
to m)'sclf and others, and alwap looked upn'.trd to the Highest.** 
Here are a few of his sayings, characteristically pregnant, throwing 
miKfa light upon his attitude on the subject of man's work in the 
worid. "A niit>d endowed with active powers, and keeping with a 
practical object to the task that lies nearest, is the wonhiest there is 
on earth." ..." Let each endeavour everywhere to be of use to 
bioiself and others ; this is not a precept or counsel, but the utter- 
ance of life itself." ..." How can a man know himself? Ncs-cr 
by thinking ; only by doing. Try to do )'our duty and )'0u will at 
once know what jtiu are wortb.^ ..." Duty : where a man loves 
what be commands himself to do." His ideitl of right coruluct, 
therefore, is to do tlte work at liaruJ. Not locroak about the passing 
nature of the worldly show, the futility of all human effort, or the 
Unuiations to whidi all arc subject, but to do something; to cast 
away vaui desires and aims, to renounce wi[h a good grace what wc 
canrmt attain, and to pene^-erc steadfastly on the path we have 
marked out for ourselves. Only by thus making (he most of our- 
sdves, do we deal property with life. Hence the only self-denial 
which u virtuou.s is that which lias some useful end : all other forms 
are immoral, because ihcy needlessly retard natural growth. We 
hod hcK no deSnitt: ethical system, but the essential ptino^c w toA 



The Cenlleman's Afa^atine. 



difliaiU to discern. He rclio ultimately on the indiridual OOtkvl 
sciencc,3nd a moral code founded upon utilitj*. A utiliunan in Xtub^ 
technical sense he is not. IIU was not the intetlcct to anticipate the 
conclusions of Mill and Spencer. But in an intuitive sort of way 
be certainly recognises that the fir^t, if not the sole, justification of 
« moral law is the extent to which it promotes the general happiness 
or vrell-bdng in the present life. Of course we have long onc« ■ 
become accustomed to this mannci of solnng the ethical probkni, 
but in Coetlie's time the idea was still no>-el to the majority eren of 
thinking men, and tliere can be no doubt that bis inflacncc En tliis 
direction has been both e.xlen.-.ive and profound. 

But a crucbl point under this head Ktill remains to be noticed. 
All right conduct involves on the part of tlie individual a consideration i 
for others, and we have to face the question as to bow far the claims i 
of Bclfculturc arc consistent with altruism, whether the conscious, 
persistent dewlopmcnt of one's own jwwers docs not imply a certain 
disregard of the feelings of others. Students of Goclhc lileratute 
have become accustomed to the criticism that he is inhcrcnlly scllish, , 
that in pursuing his own ideal he is indiflcrent to the pain he inflicta 
on those with whom he comes into contact, litis opinion ta 
[Kobably either the result of prejudice or is based on an imperfect 
knowledge of the facts of his life, there arc to be found un- 
doubtedly many acts of kindness and generosity which no really i 
selfish man could possibly perform. The worst that can be said is | 
that in considering others he never forgets himself. If he denies 
himself for others, it is because be betie\'es his character is thereby' 
improved. For him the act and its clfect upon himself arc parts of ' 
the same fact. We are here on the verge of the old problem as to 
whether amy act can be absolutely disinterested. Clearly, to ignorei 
llie effect on the mind of the doer is absurd. We cberiih a belief ia ' 
pure unsel&shnens, but the absolute, here as elsewheti^ is unatiain* 
able There would be little %irtuc in the world if the consciousness 
of doing right, or of having done right, were to be removed If Goctlie 
had been less candid concerning his aim in life, we should doubtletail 
hare heard fnr less of his selfishness That he sees the importance 
of the altruistic principle comes out cU-arly when wc gUncc at the 
product of his most mature thought— the second part of " I'aust." 
However inferior this may be as a piece of art, it is undoubtedly the 
woik of a great intellect, and without it the poem of " Faast " would 
be, at best, a magnificent fragment. And what is here the solutioo 
of the problem staled, but not solved, in the first p^iit ? Under what 
ctrcamstances docs tlie wisbcdfor momenv anviiit Or&^ «VitA \fvin 



The Goethian Ideal 



71 



Faust, bliiwl and stricken by Cue, realises that the direct pursuit of 
li(« own happiness as an end in itself ts futile ; only when he had 
bcconw absorbed in practical work ; when the good of otktn ar^ 
not hi« own good, lud become the aim of his life. Thus do we sec 
that, in the last resort, Goethe's outlook docs not greatly differ from 
what ic most generally accepted as the soundest view to-day: a 
qualified altruism, an ideal which recognises that consideration for 
others must be an cuential and c\'er-increaungly powerful factor in 
tiie happiness of self. 

As bearing on the subject of Goethe's moral feeling, reference 
may be made to two questions of a rather more concrete character. 
Very sij^nificant \% the way In which he regards the sentiment of 
nationality. Of patriotism in the popubr sense he has barely a 
trace — wiiness the fact that amongst all his songs there is not one 01* 
a distinctly national character. At a time when his country was 
being overrun by the frcnch he was expected to write war-songs;. 
"How could I," he says to £ckcrmann, "write songs of hatred 
; hating? And, between ourselves, I do not hate the French, 
Sb I thanked God when wc were free from them. How 
could I, to whom culture and barbarism are alone of importance, 
hate a nation which is amongst the most cultivated uf the earth, 
and to which I owe so great a part of my own cultivation ? " He 
loves his countr)', but it is not with the love of a father who ignores 
or excuses the faults of his child. He Ooes not jfcrtiplc to hold up 
the weaknesses of Iiii countrymen, but he ne^-er points a fault 
without, as an idealist, indiciiing the direction in which a remedy 
may be found. " National Iiatred," he says, " is strongest and most 
violent where there is the lowest degree of culture. But there is a 
<l^rec wliere it vanishes altogether, where one stands to some extent 
abOTC rutions and fuels the weal or woe of a neighbouring people 
as if it liitd happened to out own." In thought he is probably the 
greatest cosmopolitan tlint the vorld has seen. One of the most 
^ultlcss of critics, he has a keen vision for excellence quite iodc- 
pcmknt of the country in which it appears. England, France, Italy, 
Germany, and the East, Greece and Rome are all laid under con* 
Iribution for what, in his judgment, they can betit supply. He is 
thus led to form an ideal of a true World I-iteralure which shall rise 
above all national feeling and prejudice and recognise only the 
Highest Only in (he comparative study of lutiorul thought and 
feeling could there be a general progress towards perfection. It is 
not to be expected that any but a very small part of mankind will 
be able to stand witli Goethe on tliii plane. But few will decline to 



^^^^^ Tiu Gentlemans AfagastKe. 

admit that he at least puts us on ourgwud aguoit the h\sc palrioti&m 
which is bom of ignorance, and wtMsse cficct is to retard the progress 
of civilisation in its highest sense. Th« ideal is a \oUj one, and 
fiom iis.'widvi acceptance it were surely wrong to expect anything 
but good^to the nee. 

Equally ttiiVii^ is his position on the subject of social refonn. 
In the social as in the pbyiical, world hts profound belief in the 
laws of evolution caused bim to be sceptical of sudden change or 
npbetvals. The Jaty Rct-olution b of less importance to him than 
tfaa tevotetion in btotog>-. He looks for the improvenunt of socieljr, 
but k ntBM be throcgh the culture of the individual rather than 
Ih w ii ^ violent action founded upon enthusiasm. " Freedom it an 
odd dun^ teed etay roan has enough of it, if h« cnuld only satisfy 
bJnNdl What nmib a superfluity of freedom we cannot use? If 
■ warn hn feOBdon CBoagh to liw healthily and (O work at his craft 
he %m oKMigh, and m much all can easily obtain." And of the 
Jbtwre: "Men will becxnne dererer and more acute, but not better, 
Imy i t- i or ttroDgcr in acdoa.'* There is iitdecd but one concIuMon 
W be diswn tnaa his way of lookirtg at the social phenomena of his 
day : he has only the funtest sympathy with democratic ideals. He 
does 001 bclici'e that hiqipiness depends, to any \xry great extent, o» 
a man's material sunvnidti^s, and be has little iuterest in social ■ 
■dion bated on Ibe oppo^te view. Of course «re must rentember 
tbe lotalty dtflieicni aspect presented by the social problem in his 
tJoM^ but making due allovaiKe, we are forced to admit titat the 
mind of Goethe^ iimcinatne and comfRehensive as it is, fails to 
rcaJiae the manifold esils iDddcntal to the coromon lot. 

And thb brings us to our fina] point : Goethe's ideal of life 
■alTcrs from the good foftone which he en)ojed Of the struggle 
for existefKe he knew noilmig first-baiKl. He wm spared all the 
petty cares and anxieties of life. Of pain and disease he had an 
exceptionally small share. He seems to hare keenly fctt the lots 
of two or three persons during his life, and his mental troubles 
were pioliatily real enough. Ilut he is never in danger of losing 
his balance. Under any circumstances he would no doubl have 
remained a stable and self-contained man ; but his actual lot tended 
to develop these qualities to a quite incalcubbte degree. As has 
been so frequently remarked^ it was his nature to avoid the con- 
templation of suffering in any form. Of the existence of suffering 
real and wide-spread, and of the irudequacy of the ordirury nature 
' *a rise superior to the evils of life, he is but dimty conscious. He 
sometimes called a detni-god, ixA m t\n.5 4c«:t\V'^mift *»* ia ft 



uGoethjan Meal 



n 



measure or Iniib. There is in his pcircct mental adjustment, his 
I lelf-complaccncy, an elcin«nl of the superhuman. But tliis 

rll^ its price In rising above humanity he must also lose 
sympathy with it. I'he partial loss of Uiis sentiment of sympathy, 
upon which the whole social instinct is founded, is serious enough. 
It a/Tccts his religion, it limits the scope of his ethical icachinj;, 
it places his own moral character on a lower plane. Dut from 
such psychological failings there is no court of appeal ; ihcy are 
part of that ultimate hw of compentation which is co-n(tcnsi>'e 
with humanity itself, and which is at once a warning to the brilliant 
and a consolation to the otdinarj' man. I^ us, therefore, accqit 
ihb lack of sympathy in Goethe with a good grai^e. His nature a 
built on a colossal scale, and on a similar scale he must pay for 
bis development. 

Such, then, is the Goethian Ideal as it nppc:ars to the present 
writer. TTie attempt has been made to present it fairly and frankly, 
neither suppressing features which arc commonly regarded ns 
objectionable, nor unduly emphasising those which app<.-al to the 
sentiment of time or place, llic Ideal is not perfect, for it is of 
human creation ; but its place among the abiding conceptions of 
the world's greatest men will remain secure. Studied sympathetically, 
it wiil take us as far and as deep into the mysteries of the univcTMi 
and into the prime realities of life as we can hope to penetrate 
under any single guide. And in adding sisnificancc to life it also 
adds hope. For none can yield to its infiucncc without having a 
keener sense of the value of the present life, its fulness and possi- 
bilities, without recognising that for each individual there is indeed 
a " life worth living," whose pleasures and aspirations are founded 
upon the higher instincts of our nature. 

ALFRED JOKDAK. 



74 



The Centienian's Magazine. 



A FELLS TRAGEDY. 



ALL day 1>chind tlic j-cllinghoundi we had li^tnicd poor Reynard, 
and at niglit slicilcred undct the hos(>ttabIc lOof of an old 
yeoman- AAcr supper our pipes were lit, vnA, among the thickening 
reck, many and \-aticd were the stories told. Most of them aio 
forgotten now, but one so impressed my memory (hat I cannot forget 
it. It came from the lips of an old guide ; ninety years had bo seen, 
)'ct in agility and speed few men present that day had been able to far 
surpass him. f Ic leant forward from bis scat of honour, andaddrcsscd 
the man, some twenty years his junior and much bis uifcrior in 
|)h)-siquc, seated opposite. 

" Jack, do you rcmcmbcf titc Hermit of the Fells ? " 

" No ; but my father used to tell of bis doings. He was killed 
in the Micklcdorc, wasn't he ? " 

" He was," answered ttic old guide. Was ii some unknowable 
communion of siiirits, or was it some {leculiar inflexion in lii« Toice, 
ibat forced us all into instant attention ? 

" The Hermit is forgotten now, for no stone, save loose boulders, 
marks where his body was laid in Micklcdore. Where be came 
from no one knows, nor did bis name; or bis reotons for quitting 
bis proper place, ever leak out. He lived on the ftltt, getting food 
where he could ; a bettor cragtrman or hunter there was not, even 
then, when every man could move like a fox. 

"One fine December morning (it was early in the "twenties) 
I decided for a climb in Micklcdorc ; so gathered my roiKS together, 
and set off. Before I rcai-hed the shccpfold in Mickledcn, I heard 
u call from behind, and there, coming down with ease as well as 
speed one of the worst shilling beds on the End of Stickle, was the 
Hermit. I waitctl, and in a short lime he caught mc up. 

" ' Where to ? ' he asked — for in speech he was very briefs 
noticing the tackle. 

" ' Into Micklcdorc, to have a whet [try] at some of the higher 
crags beside ScawfcU cairn. Will you come ? It's like for a nastf 
day.' 



A Fills Tragedy 



75 



" ' All right,' he answered, and led ibe way. 

*' The mociting mist was hanging ihidi ai wo faced Rossett Ghj-H, 
and it didn't seem to rise any higher as daylight came in. Soon we 
were among it— x freei^ing max* of white, rolling in the sheltered 
hollows in leisurely rhythm, like the waves of the sea, scurrying along 
the open like the snuAc spewed from an enormous gun ; for half 
a gale of wind was shrieking over Bowfell. In a short time wc had 
reached Eskhausc, and* sta^eting and reeling as the strong gusts 
smick us, with an occasional lie down to regain oitr breath, were 
pushing our way on to Scawfcll Pike, finally to reach the cliflii of the 
cloud-fillcd Mickledore. Skiiling the edge, wc aniveit on ttie more 
shchcred side where Scanfell's mighty top shielded us from the 
worst of the now furious gale— scant Umft for him who would cross 
the Hause rtoa: Selecting a cosy corner, at the suggestion of the 
cool and watchful Hetinit, we sat down and ate our lunch, listening 
the while with all our cars' power to the rattle of falling scree 
and rushing water, for in our descent chiefest dangers would, we 
knew, he in these. Now came a Utile lull in tlic hlasl and miow- 
flakes hovered in tlic air, one iiftcr anoihcr, till a shower had left 
a thin griming on grots and boulder. The Hcnnit once looked up, 
but did not speak, while the suggestive dangers kept mc silent. 
Stubborn, foolish hearts must have been ours, for to descend on 
such a day was mere suicide, even lo practii^ed climbers, as, under 
the srtow, the ground was wet and foothold treacherous. 

"The shower ceased suddenly, the dense cloud began lo part, 
then came a rift through which wc could see the whole chasm 
below. In that insiant the Hermit nas on his feet, and, as one 
arm shot out towards the serried line of crags, he yelled, abo^'e the 
still noisy gale : 

■"Which?" 

"'Third,' I roared back — it was time for liaste, as, almost ere the 
word passed my lips, there came the hoarse boom of another burst 
of wind and all was hidden in a white impenetrable cove-ring. 

" ' Uo you believe in second sight, Bate?'askcd the Hermil, when 
wc had finished the meal and were ready to go on. 

" ' Of course I do. Is there « guide or a shepherd between Shap 
and Ennerdolc who docs not ? ' 

" ' Then '—and this was the first confidence of his long sojourn 
among the fells—' I had a dream hst night that this day some one 
is to be buried down there,' and he pointed down into the dccpchasm 
From whicli rose, during the lulls of tbc wind, the merry splash of falling 



^6^^ Tk$ Geni/etnan's Afagazme^^^^^^^ 

water. I looked aghast, but the Hennit aid no more. He turned 
to continue our «ralk, while I followed, busying myself with the ro]>c. 
XS'hcn wc- reached the point agreed upon for our descent, the Hermit 
stopped, while I handed the loose end of the line to him. Mecluniciltir 
he put it around h:m, tying it with a vc^' insecure slipknot, and 
pR-pared to descend. Foran inntant I thought this a piece of reckleu 
bravado ; ttien, like a flash, there crossed my mind a fearful tmpresvion. 
Was he going to justify his morbid dream— (o sacrifice himself to a 
flight of fancy f The awful idea of this man — surest of cragsmen and 
b«t of comrades— ^ng wilfully to destruction appalled mc, and for a 
brief period a dread of coming doom gripped my brain and tongue, 
and prevented their customary duties. When, however, the Hennit 
stepped into the steep shelving scree some power aided me to rctcasc 
roy faculties, and 1 fairly screamed out : 

" ' Hermit, I go first I I am a guide.' 

" He stood back at this flimsy excuse — for he knew ibis ground 
belter than I or any other man. 

" * Now,' as more ofmy wonted power escaped that cursed lethargy, 
•tie that rope properly — or— 1 won't go.' The bst few words wete 
jerked out incohercnily, for the Hermit now faced me. 'lliough bis 
iron-like features did not kIiow any frclinjc, I feared he was laughing 
nt me inwardly ; but my relief was grcit wlK-n he properly knotted 
tJic line and motioned me to take the first place. 

" For the first thirty yards the scree fell steeply, after which I found 
myself on the narrow brink of a cliff, where the Hermit soon joined 
me. In the meantime I had passed the rope round a cornice of 
rock to case the tlrain, for it would now be a descent by rope. 
ITicn came the Hermit's turn to lead, and he quickly climbed into 
the gulf, I paying out the rope as his weight made itself felt; for 
though the cliff was abrupt there were, in crag parlance, good and 
bad places in it— breaks where a climb down was possible, slabs 
where the smooth surface left no hold even for the hand. After a 
while the rope slackened — the Hermit had reached some point from 
which he could reconnoitre— then the jerking began anew, and I 
felt the Hennit climbing back again. My muscles ached imdcr tlie 
strain, but the effect on the n)j)e was horrible. A strand here and 
there cracked as it parted mxi the knife-like k-dgc, and oft I expected 
the whole to snap asunder, llic snow recommenced, and was now 
falling so densely that for a while it was only by the clicks that the 
unwen one's movements could be determined ; in a few moments 
his whitc-covcTcd cap appealed, and he was beside mc: He had 
£>aad a negotiable crag, with shirting VicVow, anCi vra^cw^ \Vav. I 



A Fills Tragedy. 



7? 



I 
I 






should climb tloim after him, lowering my!«ir by ihe looped rope. 
Down the cnig (it wax steep .itmoxl a.s the clifT wc had loped, but its 
fronl was broken enotigli to runiiitli fooihold) we reached the scree, 
and at the foot of this found a ledge ttiniilar to the one wc hnd left, 
with a straight (ace of rock descending and mingling with the mist. 
Though in the world bctow this freezing cloud it was midday, hero 
•emi-daikness prc\ailcd, while the gale thundered and screamed on 
the fells above our h'jads, arul the falling snow quietly but quickly 
enveloped evcrjthiiig. 

"Suddenly the Hermit, who was scrutinising the abyss below, 
started back. 

" ' Hark ! there is someone below. Hush ! ' he added, for I was 
OD the pcMnt of giving the ancient danger call of the felb-guides, ' or 
tbcy are lost.' 

"Our ownpotition was periloua enough and the storm was minutely 
rendering it still more so ; but could we think of that when those 
below were in (be very presence of death } 

■"Is it possible to rescue ihem?' I asked, for the voices pro- 
claimed a man and a woman. Succour must be speedy, for the 
sleep induced by excessive cold was upon them, and if once they 
gave way to it— and in their inexperience (I gleaned this from what 
scraps of conversation I 01,-crhcnrd} the great probability was that 
they would— the Lord have mercy u[ion their souls ! The Hermit 
thought for a moment— the situation was grave— and then &aid : 

"'Without the snow, there was just a chance ; now, to retreat 
along a ledge with a burden v, impossibtc. And that woman is 
ixKapabte of walking another yard Dut wc must try to get to them. 
Oct the rope looped.' 

" • Yes— ready I ' 

"Over the ciag be went, and I again let out the rope, but with a 
£u different feeling this time. The Hermit ki>ew his business loo 
well to reieal himself to the lost ones as yet, for to them a misstep 
was ckath. The rope iussed and clicked as it ran out of sight, and 
my coil grew leis and less. At last it stretched taut. The Hermit 
gave no call (I could not sec him, for he was hidden by a corner of 
rodi), but he must have known that aJl a cragsman could do was 
done. Those poor souls below 1 I choked with pity— they would 
have to be abartdored. Still, despair would be far from the Hermit, 
ai>d I must nght him for signals. Tlie line slackened out and hung 
loosely ; something was amiss, for still no sound came up to mc. 
Laying my stick down to prevent the Jagged stones cutting off the 
only hope of our retreat, 1 slid down to the comer *hetc iVit H«m\ 



>« 



The GenlktnatCs Magasine. 



had vanished. It was ticklish work, hot I nached the jutting end in 
saiclyi and, al^cr care-fully proving a foothold, espied the Hcrout 
stai>ding on one foot in a perpendicular crevice, the top of whidi 
vas closed by the ctag nt my fixt. He was all right and greatly 
relieved to be able to signal precisely what Iw: wanted. HU first 
sign was for silence; second, more rope — I shook my head as I 
answered this, for every inch we had was in ii9C. Third, haul up the 
slack and repay from your feet. This I managed, as well as lo 
release the top loop of our rope, thereby gaining some yards more. 
Still too shon by about ciglit yards, as the Hermit look it from 
round his body and let it down. Sliding the intervening divtarKe 
was impossible. Taking the rope in my hand, I ventured across a 
slippery slab of rock, and found one or two cracks and irregularities 
which let me make a sliort dcseenL This, though trifling was 
■ufBcient to allow my comrade to get lo the ledge he aimed at, and 
shortly an intervening crag cut him from my view. h\y impatience 
— the cold and snow did noi seem to have power to render mc dis- 
comfort -soon became ao great that I felt I must do something ; w, 
scrambling a few yards to the left, I descended— I know not by what 
method — to a place whence I could see the ledge, with iu two 
unshapely moundj;, which I knew to Ik liuman bodies. I could %tX 
no nearer, daring as I then was, to had to remain inactive, the snow 
falling in thick clouds now. After a* long lime— many hours it 
seemed to me in my anxiety— the Hermit appeared, carefully sidling 
along the narrow ledge, having abandoned the rope as soon as be 
struck the corrca level. lie did not see mc, though I was not more 
than thirty feci away. Quietly, yet swiftly, he ripped his jacket lo 
|Hcccs and boun j their limbs, while J watched cvciy proceeding as 
never before ; for a presentiment of some hox'cring evil was upon me. 
Then he straightened himself, and made the dull snowstorm resound 
to the danger call—our agreed signal of rescue, 

" The Hermit carefully scouted along the ledge before he picked 
up one form— thit of a woman — and commenced to sidle, with his 
back against the steep side of the mountain, toward the outer edge 
of the chasm, where a safe place might be foiind, if he co\ild reach it. 
Kve yards, ten yards, and then he slid along easier— fifteen yard* 
be covered, and my hopes rose Now he fairly coiled himself roui>d 
an awful comer, and the woman in his arms stirred in her lellmtgy. 
Her shoulders l»rcly touched the wall, but it was sufficient to push 
the Hermit off the delicate balance necessary. I saw the muscles of 
his legs and back stand out rigid, then a little stagger — aivothcr col- 
lisioo, harder than before, and, w\t.\\crai % vrtc&Tti ot a sound, that 



I 
I 
I 

I 
I 



A Fills Tinged): 



i 






intrepid climber irtth hb burden toppled mcr— litleen hundred feet 
Uk)' vrauld fall into etemily. I was tliunderiinick at this turn of c^'cnts, 
and did not rtalise for fully a minute its portent Then, seeing the 
other snow-covered body, I rccowred myself. Could I rescue rV? 
The fact thai the Hermit "bad been smashed htc an c^shcll did not 
deter me— 1 was beside mj-sclf with detperatiun. My senses said 
No, but an undelinaUe pov,-er dn»-e me on. Scrambling back, 1 
found the rope the Hermit had detached from his waist after his 
■Bucceesful descent, and by this I descended to the ledge. Although 
the Hermit had sho^-clled tlie tnnw away with his feet as he had pio- 
gresed, it was thick as dcr now. Half an hour after that awful 
accident, through I know not what danger, I found mj-self standing 
by that whitc-covcrcd piece of humnniiy, and then the honible fate 
of the Hermit was forgotten. My brandy flask was freely used, and 
all ray httte knowledge of chafing extended, but it was of no avail— 
tbc aaa was dead. Too laic I Too late ! He had slept his way into 
the Rgions bej'ond. HoniGed, I slid along ihc ledge and left the 
white flakes to resume their merciful covering. That unnatural 
energy which had brought me to this rescue sened me as I scaled 
ibe cliff and daahed towards Wastdalc Head, intent on bringing aid, 
while the (iendi of hell seemed to rejoice at my failure from the 
cover of mist ar>d snow, as I, half frantic, slid, lopt, or ran along. 

** When I reached the farmhouse of Will Ritson it did not take 
long to organise an efficient search party, for the accident roused one 
and all to adion. Some scaled Scawfdl through the blinding snow, 
to bring back if possible the dead body ; while others scrambled with 
(nc through the very hell of sounding wind into the Micklcdore, to 
find traces of the Hermit, for few of them could believe in his death. 
Had be not been given up as killed many a lime before and then 
come back, with a story of desperate courage to tell ? 

• ►•»•••••• 

" After a short seardi we found bloodstains on the rocks, which 
gtiidcd us to a gory (atch of snov,-— all hope had been in vain. The 
awful Call had crushed the bodies together so that no morul could 
separate tbem. A shallow trench was rent among the snow-covered 
screes, and then came the moment when that conglomerate of blood 
and snow, flesh and clothing, had to be laid into its final rcstir^- 
pbcc. For a moment each and all shrank from the horrible task, 
and then the shovels were plied vigorously, amid a silence which spoke 
to our better selves as an inipa.t.sioned Isaiah of judgment. Ho 
funeral ser»-iec was recited, no hymn sung, not a bead bared, as 
that small ek/t iras coivrcd in; bat a silent prayer conlinuaU'j wtnx 



So The GentUmans Magasim. 

up from each heart to Goi If a mortal's supplication can elevate the 
soul of a dead friend in the presence of its Maker on that day vhen 
the mountains shall roll like billows of the sea, then the Hermit 
must be counted as one of the elect. 

" \Ve returned to the house to find that the other party had arrived 
first. They could not bring dovn the dead man with theto, so 
another ascent was made next morning, when all was bright and 
clear ; and at midday, with the honours of a Christian burial, the 
body of an unknown man was buried in the churchyard of Wastdale. 

" More than one ventured to hope that with the death of the 
Hermit the mjrstery of his existence would be cleared ; but it was not 
so. A mist of intangibility rests over his whole history, to pierce 
which no man can aspire." 

WILUAH T. PALUER. 



8i 



EVERY MAN HIS OWN MAGE. 

A SUGGESTION. 



THE present em lias bsen aptly termed "The Age of Hand- 
books " ; and ten will be round to deny that the title is welt 
deaeived. To almost— read funhcr before quarrelling with the 
adrerb— to almost every single department of human industry there 
exists a guide, packed to bursting -point with compressed informa- 
tion, written with almost contemptuous clearness, and procurable 
(pardon the Pindaric flight) at a price which places it within the 
reach of alL Whether the object of your ambition be the building 
of wanhipi or the mending of boots, the rearing of a (atnily, or the 
manufacture of high explosives, tlie expenditure of ninepencc (I 
choose the discount price as the more iltustiatire) will render >-ou, 
Bt least in theory, master of yoax chosen subject. 

Yet there is room for anotlier hand-book ; for a work which 
would really supply a long-felt want, and would attnin to an enormous 
circulation. Its scope and character are sulliciently indicated 
hj the title of this paper ; but I may be allowed to go someivhat 
rarthcr, and to enlarge some deal upon a subject of so much 
importance. 

It is not the object of the present article to insi-st at any length 
upon the desirability— nay, the necessity— of such a manual. Of 
thai, methinks, there can be little doubt. Who, in the days of his 
innocence. Has not inveUed hoarded txAa in the purchase of a 
*■ Wzard's Handbook " or " Ma^dan's \'adc-Mccuin " (falsely so- 
called) ? And who does not remember his keen disappointment on 
findii^ therein — not directioits as to walking invisible (into the 
jam -cupboard)— not instructions how to obtain a familiar spirit (to 
be sent on punitive expeditions against one's headmaster)— but a 
beggarly acronnt of futile and uninteresting card-tricks? Which of 
OS, again, is so prosaic as twi to fed the temptation of a midnight 
interview (under perfectly safe conditions) vriih an evil spirit? Who 
o be blind to the solid adi-ant.<i"es 



inptactieal as to be t 
vot. ccxcii. KO. 1053. 



ling' 



8a 



The GentUmati s Afagazim. 



inrUit):Iity, or a Foriunalus purse, or the magic gartera that render 
cmk: independent of a sordid railvay company ? ' 

II uay be objected that there already exists a considerable body 
of literature relating to this science ; that every Urtre library possesses 
a Crimoirc or two ; and that there is consequently no room Tor a 
new iroil: upon a subject already so well thrashed out. To this we 
reply that the Chaldean, Egyptian, or &[cdt«vat Books of Ma^c are 
by no means suited to the ordinary inquirer, who J* rather repelled 
tliaii attracted by the nature of their contents. He finds them 
written In ancient and exceedingly difficult languages ^d with 
meaning too often obscured by a crabbed ar>d uninviting style. The 
authors, too, ulcc much for gnintcd on the neophyte's part ; one 
constantly meets with the words : "This process, unless conducted 
with all the necessary precautions, is most dangerous to the operator " 
— and not a word further as to those precautions 1 This shows an 
almost criminal carelessness. Ingredients, again, of the most costly 
and far-sought chaiactcrarefrequcnlly recommended; and that without 
a single direction as to where and how to obtain Ihem. Finally, 
certain parts of these ancient books are decidedly dangerous : 
everyone knows t!ic story of /Vgrippa's pupil, who read in a book 
of his master's one day, and thereby summoned up several evil spirits, 
who dew him in a highly painful manner. 

Now our projected handbook would be free from all these 
disadvantages. It would t>e written in clear and agreeable English ; 
crerything would be inotl lucidly explained, and estimates given, 
showing the cost of c^-ery ingredient, with the address of the 
(mdcsnian willing to supply it. Any portions of the text, the mere 
re.nding of which would be dangerous, might be printed in red ink, 
and prefaced with the warning, " Before reading this, be careful to 
enter Magic Circle {V. p. <)4)." 

Merc follow a few recipes which the writer (at what cost and 
peril to himself matters little) lias extracted from tonS-jSJe works of 
magic, llicy are inserted hereasan indication of the material for th« 
soggcsted Manual ; and also as a whet to the public appetite, in case 
the writer, changing his present intention, should himself attempt the 
composition thereof. 

To ffitaiH a Fumi/i'ar Spirit — " An excellent way toget a fayrie," 
nty authority terms it, who would seem to have found it indeed 
excellent, if his naive paienlhesis — "For myself I call Margaret 
Barrance " — is to be credited. First take a " broad square " crystal 
or Venice glass, three inches by three, and lay it on three Wcdnes- 



I 



I 



Every Man his Oztm Mage. 



83 



dtys or throe Tridii)^ in the blood of a white ben, ancrwaids 
wishiap; it in "holy aq.," and fumigating it, Obiaio three hatcl 
sticks of a year's growth, and plane them Qat on one side ; write tht 
Mctme ^ the fairy y&a with ta call three times on each prepared 
sur&ce, and bury tbo sticks under some hill " where as ye suppose 
layries haunL" Take them up again "on the Wednesday before you 
call her " and again on the next Friday ; "eallM 8, 3, or 10 o'clock " 
(apparently on Tburediy), being of clean life at the time, and turn* 
ing towards the East, as you call. " Atid when j'Ou tiavc her, hind 
her to that stone or glasse." ' 

The itaUcbed passages of the foregoing recipe present an 
instance of the graceful ease with which vrritens of this class give 
cxtraoTdloaijr directions vrtihoul any attempt at expUnation. One 
is reinind«i of Bella Wilfcr's cookery book witli its " ' Throw in a 
handful ' of something entirely unattainable." 

Ta Co Inviiiblt. — An accomplishment de&ircd of many ; its 
manifold adv-anuges need no demonstration. Shakespeare and 
oiliers recommend tlie use of fern-seed ; but a friend, who has tried 
it, discrediu this. His ejtpertnients, howet-er, may not have gone 
far enough ; some far-souglit, special kind of fem-sccd may procure 
success where my friend, who has only used common varieties, has 
met with disheartening failure. There is a ring, too, said to produce 
the required effect ; it ts to be made upon a Wedrwsday in s|>ring, and 
formed of mercury fixed and ptiriRcd, set with a stone found in the 
hoopoe's nest, fumed with the I'crfumc of Mercury." But this ring, 
though exceedingly di£Eicu1t to make, is not an altogether trustworthy 
ulisman; I cannot recommend it to the youthful occultist. For 
any evil-disposed personage— sucli as a setter of examination papers 
or the churlish keeper of a rich orchard — can defeat tlie designs of tu 
wearer ; and by no less humble an instrument than a ring made of 
pure lead, set with a young weasel's c}'c, and constructed upon a 
Saturday, under the auspices of Saturn. 

For tlic two following methods much may be satd. They 
involve but a moderate outlay, requiring, as they do, but few and 
simple ingredients. The course of procedure in each is admirably 
simple, and yet presents sufficient difficulty to spur the ardour of 
any earne<it inquirer. Both again hold forth promise of certiiii 
delightfully exciting experiences ; if the mysterious noises hinted at 
in the first recipe, and the encounter with tlie Demon Gardener 
positively prophesied in the second, do not tempt you, you must bo 
iitdeed unenterpri^ng. 

■ MSS. AshncJc 81&9. >40^. >■ * St- Luc ir. 30L 

G X 



84 



The Gentitmaiis Magazine. 



(a) Purchase a new pot, dish, minor, agate, steel and tinder; 
" convey " 2 black cat — a dead one will do. At the stroke or mid- 
nighi, fill your pot at llie rountain, light a fire^ and put the pot on it. 
Place the cat in the pot, and hold the lid on with your left hand. 
Remain fot Iwcntyfour hours in ihii position without rooi-ing, 
ipcaking, eating or drinking ; and be e^xially careful not to look 
behind you, whatever noises you may hear. At the end of this 
time lake off the pot and place the contents on the new dish. 
Separate the 6csh of the cat from the bones, and throw the Tormer 
over your left shoulder, saying "Atnpe qued Hit rfc, et niAii 
am^ius." Then place each bone in succession between your tvcth 
oo the kfk-hand side, looking in the minor meanwhile ; those wliich 
prodtice no cficct must be thrown over the left shoulder «ritb the 
Karcely civil, but very necessary remark given aboi-& Rcuin that 
bone which when pkced between the teeth makes your image dis- 
appear from the nitnor ; and having secured ihii^ the object of your 
experiment, retire ftom the room backwards.* 

<^) Arise before daybreak on some convenient Wednesday, and 
having provided yourself with a skull and seven black bean;, retire 
to some setiuettered place, lilile liable to obsen-alioo. To the 
Londoner, it is true, the selection of such a spot may be attended 
with some difficulty ; the Paries, for examptc, are frequented at almost 
every hour. The National Gallery would be the vcr)* place, but that 
digging (which )-ou will presently see is most necessary) would be 
almost impossible there, white the most adrtHtly-fcigned enthusiasm 
(or Old Masters would hntdly procure a permit to visit the Gallery at, 
say, two in the morning. Wc will sitpiM>sc this initial ohsuclc over- 
come {I approach my subject, you sec, in the very spirit of the hand- 
book maker), and imagine you arrived upon the spot, with all your 
apparatus. Take the skull, and set a bean in the mouth, and one 
in each nostril, eye, and car. Then inscribe a triangle in the fore- 
head, and bury ihc skull, face upwards. Do not neglect to come 
every morning before daybreak for nine daj-s, and " water " the spot 
with brandy. You arc particuUily enjoined to use only the test 
brandy. On the eighth morning you will probably find a demon 
Iherc It will be as well to conceal any emotion you may feel at such 
an cncMmter, and to begin your usual task in silence. Presently the 
demon, moved as it were with curiosity, will inquire what you are 
doing, to whom you will reply, "Watering my planl." "Give mc 
j-our bottle," he will instantly answer, "and 1 will water it mysdt" 
But do not be deluded, by his api»rcnt enthusiasm for horticulture, 

' Petit Alben. 



I 
I 



Every Man his Own Mage. 



85 



into giving bim that boctle. On the other lianO, abstain from any 
any peniD^gc as to his (knigiis in making tlie retiuest. (A sub- 
section on " Demeanour towards Demons " would be a motit useful 
addition to tlie projected bandbook.) Refuse courteouitly, but at the 
amc time firmly ; a»d persist in your refusal until he holds out hia 
palm, and you see tlieieiipon the same figure as ihat which you have 
inscribed upon the skull. Then all is wcl! ; you can jmss over the 
bottle wiili a %Iit heart and retire, leaving your new friend to finish 
the " watering." Next day you return, dig up the skull, and take 
kvay the beans. Stand in front of a ghss and test Ihcm in the same 
manner as the bones of the cat, being careful to bury the man^ui 
t-^ctables. I don't knov what would happen if you left ihcm 
about.' 

MiictUaruoui Rtdpa? — ^Tbe Grst of those which I select is written 
in langitigc somewhat ambiguotis. Quoth he who speaks in llie 
mighty name of Kirani, King of Persia : — " If one put the head of 
a frcth herring upon the coals to fumigate, and he get upon the house 
in the night, he will tliink all the stars nin into one." Strange sigbu 
might wry conocivably l>e viewed t>y a fresh herring (aye, marry, or 
a sail one), which, after fumtgatior), should %fX upon the house in the 
n^ht. But we detain tlie thimty seeker after knowledge : — " And i( 
one at fu'l moon sliati put the head into a dry fig. and shall lay it on 
the lire when the air is still, he wiJI sec the oib of the moon as big as 
tuir of heat-en." (Note the subtle siiggcstivcncss of the moon's 
age.) 

Such experiments as iIk-^c may attract the tranquil student ; to 
the bold and enterprising, who prefer a crowded hour of excitement 
to «a uocTcntful lifetime, we commend the following :~" If you 
powder the stone pj-rites, and in like manner lay it on, there will bo 
thunder and lightning. And if you also lay on earth, which fell from 
an house upon a man, tlicre will be an earthquake in the place." 
Tbb last ingredient m certainly rather dillicult for a dweller in bricken 
buildings to obtain, unless he cunningly mnrk where the swallow 
builds, and lake his watchful stand thereunder, regarding an eye or 
so as a cheap piicc to pay for an earthquake e\-en of moderate 
intensity. 

" If an>'one slab a crocodile," pursues our occultist, " and anoint 
himself with it [an emollient procew truly], wlutsoeicr blows oc 
wounds he receives he will not at all feel them. A wolfs a savsget. 
ctatiy animal ; if anyone therefore [the connection is obvious] drink 
his blood he will go niad, and can never more be cured." This 
' AIUr. » V. ef^vd HoM'i yt«T-fi«^. 



The Gentumansm^^^nt. 



prescription will prove simply invaluable tolhoscwhowish (o become 
iiuanc A woirs right c)e, wc arc further informed, "carried 
privately about one performs great things ; for all four-footed 
creatures, wild or tame, viU fly Trom the bearer, «nd he will pa» 
through the midst of his eneinies and no man will touch him. It 
also enables a man to conquer in every cause ; it puts away all 
phantoms, it also expels all fiu of ague, nnd a sheep will nc«r tr 
upon the skin of a wolf. (Those accustomed to lay them down to" 
rest in sheepfolds, take note] Also the eye of a wolf, and the first 
joint of his tail, carried in a golden resscl, will makcthc bearer powerful, 
and glorious, and lionounible, and rich, and acceptable." Gre 
things, indeed I Henceforth we may look to see the tore-stricken 
abandon the sheep's eye, heretofore their main reliance, in favour 
that of the great enemy of all muttons. Who will not now k< 
wolves? and should the freseni writer have induced tlie sorely- 
oppressed agriculturists of his native country to Uke up and proAt by 
this new source of income, he will not ha\-e lived in vain, 

Afagic Cirelts, Conjurations, Pacts, &•(. — Thij would form by fa 
the most important section of tlic SAilltng Grimoire, and would 
lequirc the very closest study and a long course of experiments on 
the part of its author. Many conllicting methods of procedure are 
recommended by existing authorities on this most delicate matter of 
the Infernal Interview. Some recommend that a gift of pure gold be 
laid before the demon ; while others warn the student against giving 
anything at all— a safer and ccriainly a less expensive course. One 
occultist prcsciitics a form of present to suit Iho Uistc of individual 
sprits. Thus, Acham (who is accesrible on Tliursdays between the 
hours of 3 and 4 a.m.) is to receive a piece of bread ; Bechet 
(Fridays 11 p.m. — la) is contented with a nut; while .^quiel 
(Sunda)'S, midnight— t a.u.) will ask for a hair of your head, and 
must be prcsenictl— lublle sarcasm — with that of a fox.' In any 
case, beware of graniing ambiguous requests. For instance : should 
a demon, o-tsuming nn air of studied carelessness, ask you for " the 
feathered biped in the dining-room," remember that he may be 
demanding— «<?/ the canarj-— but the wife of your bosom, at that 
moment trying on her new hat in that apartment Think of the 
narrow escape of thu young lady who rashly promised the devil " the 
first bundle she thould tie up next morning." For had she not 
taken advice, and been careful to make up a parcel of stmw, before 
adjusting her garter or her i>ctticoat, the affair might have had very 
painful consequences. 

' Etuft. dtt Seumeti OtmiUt. 



Every Man its Own Mag4. 87 

At least one fonn of Pact,' carefully drawn up by a solicitor of 
reputation, should be presented with every copy of the Manual. 
And an appendix might be added, giving a rhumi of many of the 
successful tricks which have at one time or another been played off 
upon the de^il. For these are so extremely numerous that the 
victim has probably forgotten most of them. And reasoning from 
analogy, it may be assumed that the devil never reads books of 
diablerie. So much we may infer from the historic case of the little 
boy who, being asked to take jam, replied, " No, thank you, mum — 
we makes it," 

FUILIP FITZREIMUND. 

' It i« quite a misUke to imtf^ne that the Pact must be written in blood. 
The Crimeires prescribe a special Tonn of ink, composed of gait-nuts, Roman 
vitriol, alum, and gum-arabic ; it must be freshly made each lime of use. — Ehcjt. 
its Siitncit OeaiUts, 



ss 



The GetUhman's Magazine. 



pot-Pour Ri FROhf a theatrical 

LIBRARY, 



When fint the ckwl of iBnarniiM withdrew, 
And lc«niing*s iVjr all gtotioui tow to view. 
The *U£i! eiliitrilcd pnitcwonhy urno. 
The end impfovtrmcnt, uid delight the mcaiu, 
\'inue Mid joy lynonytnoui became. 
And public good adojiled pleiuuTc'i mmc : 
Enoi^c diclinn moral iiuthi convcj'd. 
And benuteoui Eiimcnti innoocnce Kiny'd, 
XV^ild vice and folly mot dcMneil fate, 
Thb Kan incun'U »nd (Iwl nciicd hnie ; 
Fiction ira then the phyric of the mind. 
The pMttoni puTc'd and icniimeiiii icRn'd, 
DttiMiIe wotlu to lettnoni wcic ally'd 
And ihcklre* by pulpiu uinclifjM, 
ItuI ihoueli tl>e iroitliicit Riindt, in eveiy a(e^ 
Have look'd with sppcobtttloD on) the «Ca0e, 
Vet tome mad d«vau, with mUpUoed (IMaiB, 
Have tcrm'd il tcRMial, liiipioun, nnd prplui9, 
UecRi'd il to vice ■ lucinaline tpcll. 
The home of fall)' and high road to hcU. 
But If we do to tcoKin*! voice appcod 
Such noilani will apprw initi«1ccn (cal. 

Tlu /fa/iorm! ftniiad. by F. B. L. (Seiict tract.) 

WE arc all aware that, according to an eminent cn\\c, Uw 
scent of the hayficlds sometimes creeps over the footlights ; 
itidccd, the thing became at one time so common that the phnue 
gicw extremely tiresome. It Is, however, much more unusiul io 
lind the still wide spaces of the green country as it were iQi:aded \rj 
an anny of dead actors, of dead critics, of dead plays. 

Yet within hearing of Big I'um of Lincohi there may be found a 
llbnry, small in the actual number of its books, great in the interest 
rare 3ta|;:e annals never fail to inspire. The very incongruity of this 
crowd of bygone pla)-ers, tiiih a landscape all com and peace, has a 
sott of charm of its own. To handle the dusty brown volumes, 
roany so scarce as to be almost pricelcu, eloquent of triumphs ■ 



Pot'Pmrri from a Tkeatricai Library. 89 

forgotten, of heated (iturrcb Lninil out to cold greif ashes, has tbc 
fascinaiion of ihc unexpected. 

Here Antliony I'asquin, nio^t scurrilous &bt»er of tlie " Cbtldrca 
of Thespis," shows his ugly, vindictive countenance. Here bygone 
divines thunder Boanerges-like Dgainst the vHckcdne^t of ihe suge, 
or rarely, like good Bishop Percy of Uromore, more &mous for his 
"Reliqucs" than for his one drama, "The Lkllc Orplian of ihe 
House of Chao," uphold the theatre as a moral agent. 

Arch Woffington, beautiful Anne Cattley, laughing Jordan, 
merry Kiily Ciiw peep out with laughter and vfit from the dingy 
records of their brilliant past. l"or these who would not fw^t 
their slanderers, and quote their svrom ally, the little Queen Anne's 
poet : — 

If to her sliirc some female cncin tail. 
Look (111 )iei EUG BDil xou'tl fi»i<ct tlicm all 1 



Major Mohun, smart and soldierly, reminds us tliat gentlemen took 
to the stage in the days of the Mcny Monarch, when comedy and 
folly avenged themselves on CronnrcU's niemorj-. Foot^ mrly 
Quin, heai.7 and ponderous as tkit fatuous eulogy on his genius 
contained in 1 homsons " Cnstic of Indolence," immortal Ganick, 
Colley Cihber, the King Coll of the coffee houses, all these arc 
praised or blamed, loved or hated, by their busybody biographers. 
Pure as snow, cold as ice, Siddons bctself docs not escape calumny, 
for here, labelled " scarce," is that " letter of Mr?. Calindo," with 
its base allegations, that made jealous enemies rejoice. 

The idler, turning the volumes over to kill a pleasant hour, is 
stopped short and anrcsted by a sentiment that is indefinabtc For 
here is a noble quarto Ben Jonson, stately as the Beaumont and 
Fletcher to poiseis which immortal Etia went hungry to bed. 
English roite, Scotch thistle, Prince of Wales's feathers, and Irish 
harp on the front pa^e suggest royal patronage. ^Vho cares to 
read the names of Sir I-'rancis Stewart, of Lady ^^'roth, of the Earl 
of Pembroke, when before the opening scene of " Every Man in 
his Humour " is a list of " principal comedians," headed hy that of 
Will Shakespeare? Lower down comes Burbage, the actor held in 
such esteem thai "country gentlemen visited him to improve their 
conversation " when ihcy came to town. 

But the name stands first, as if Shakespeare bad played the lead 
in that old Globe Theatre wc know so well. We have only 10 turo to 
Beaumont and Fletcher, and there in the prologue to " The \Voman- 
HUei " are Ihc prices : " Boxes cne shilling, pit sixpence, glUery 



Tkt Gentleman's Magaziw, 



twopence." Did Sbakcsivctie asnime Ihe port of Justice Ocmenr, 
" an old merry magistrate," or of Roger Formal, his clerk ? Even 
rumour is obstinate))' silent. 

'• Rare Ben," according to a scarce manuscript, " rt-ljvd " mucli 
upon tiis potations to inspire his muse. He says he uroic most of 
"Volpone" afteraprcscntof "tcndoBcnorpalmsaclt." " 'Catilina' 
was writ after I had parted with loy friend at the Devil Tavern, I 
had drunk ndl that night, and had brare notions. There is one 
scene in (he i>lay which I think u Qat. I will ilrini na tttort water 
wilkmywine." Again: "Tlie King — God reward him — scntBMa 
hundred pound*. I went ortentimeH to the ' Devil,' " 

It is a far cry from Ren Jonson, Kunning himself in royal bounties, 
to the most in\-ctcralc enemy the theatre vvet had, an enemy who 
paid the uttermost price for his violent linlrcd of the sLigc. Barrister 
of that Lincohi's Inn, with its stately hall, scene of many a gorgeous 
masque played by gorgeously attired lcg.-il luminaries, I'rynrvc's 
Ihuitanism was of the cxttemcst t)-pe. 

In 1633, despite the niarVcd favour shown to actors by King 
Chnilcs and Queen Henrietta >iaria, despite the fact that the theatre 
was so popular that no fewer than forty thousand copies of plays 
were published in two years, he ventured to issue his famous volume, 
" Histiio-Masiix : The Player's Scourge," Conscientious he may 
have been m his hatred of wliat he calls "devils' chapels," but, as 
Dr. Doran remarks tolerantly, "when the writer gets beyond 
statistics he grows rude." 

The thickly printed tillc--]iage of this rare and cuiious monument 
of daring fanaticism maintains boldly, "Tliai popubrstage-pla)>s (the 
very pomps of the Devil which we renounce in baptism, if we 
believe the Fathers) are tiinful, heathenish, ungodly spectacles and 
most iwrnicious corruptions." M iclmel -Spark sold the heavy volume 
"at the Blue Bible, in Greene Arbour, in little old Boylcy," when it 
naturally provoked much comment and speedy retribution for its 
author. 

But those were halcyon days for Prynne's pel detestations, the 
*' play poets," for even the King, who was so soon to assume the lead 
in a great tragedy, took part in a gay pageant git en by the courtiers 
in protest against this killjoy philoiopher. Prynne, in his strange 
life of sharp vicissitudes, had his short hour of complete triumph. 
Released from prison by the Long Parliament, he and his supporters, 
Bastnick and Burton, mardied through a silent, sombre I.«ndOR 
purged of playhouses, with ivy and rosemary in their steeple hats. 
It may be that the erstwhile " King's servants," now branded " rogues 



Pot'Pourri from a Theatrical Library. gr 



I 



and %-agabonds " by ihe stem Protector's harsh decree, watched tiiat 
quaint procession. 

It may be that, when the Mcny Monarch had come to his own 
iigain to lead the mad revels that followed the artificial and unnatural 
restraint, the same actors saw joyfully the " liistno-Mastix" flung 
to the flames by the commoii hangman, whilst the miserable Pryune 
stood twice in the pillory and lost his care. Lxpcllcd from Bar and 
University, he was further condemned to pay a fir^ of Ere thousand 
pounds, an enormous sum at the then value of money, and to pass 
his diecrlcss days in perpetual imprisonment. Perhaps he is happy 
in another world, uking sweet counsel with John Knox. 

" A tract of extreme rarity by Tony Aston." This pcndl nolo 
by some dead collector arrests attention. "The Fool's Opera ; or. 
The Taste of the Age. Written by Mat Medley." Medley, other- 
wise Tony Aston, was a strolling player, an early actor manager, now 
"all alive," as the "author's life, written by him.telf," testifies. An 
amusing feature of this tiile-iKige lies in a line of meaningless 
doggerel inneried to rqibce the usual Latin motto for which, perhaps, 
Mr. Tony Aston was insufticiently erudite. The preface closes with an 
" N.B." thai proves that " The I-'ool's Opera " paid, whether " privately 
played by persons of quality "' or publicly. "1 own to have received 
one thousand three hundred and forty-four pounds for this opera" — 
a confession that will amaze the average reader. 

It is poor, coarse, and feeble to a degree, an unworthy imitation 
of the " Ikggar'E Opera" that causes its author to break out into 
eulogy of 

" Th*t nme fMnoui play 
Which ran nighl and day 
Called the Bcggar't Dpoo. 

O Btnvc Gay. 

Shtkcspcu divine wu cut to the toul, 
Addiwn tntl Diydcn ran ihcir hesdi in a l]o1c. 

'Zouiidi'quolh Wychcilcj-, 

Steele iwoie littcrly 
He'd kill hliu which it He, 

Sonid Lee." 

Tliat there have been frail beauties, and gentlemen not (juite sans 
nfiroche. Upon the sUge is unfortunately true enough; yet it is 
scarcely too much to assert that never actor or actress was as shamc- 
kss as their self-appointed censor, the outrageous John Williams, 
too notorious wiiter of the scandalous " Children of TTiespis," and 
its equally disgraceful sequel, " The Pin Basket." 



The GentUman's Magazine. 

John Bem«n<J, some time sccrciary of tlie famous Beef-Steak 
Club that elected the incomparable Pej; Woffingion to a member- 
ship no other woman ev-er enjoyed, tella a rariciy of stories of the 
quondam editor of the Star in his piciisant " Reuospections of (lie 
Stage." 

He relates liow AViUianu, otherwise " Anthony Pasquin," orga- 
nised a club knon'n as the " Humbugs," under his eccentric jntion, 
Lord Bairymoret and sa)^, in passing. lh;tt the mtscr, Daniel 
Dancer, bad not a greater " passion for dirt and ncgtigcncc." Hb 
personal habits ircre so objectionable that when on one occa»on 
Lord Batrjmorc presented him with a ticket for a masquerade he 
accompanied the gift with the suggestion that Pasquin should vear 
a clean shirt, " for then no one would recognise him." 

His pen vas ready, his impudence unbounded. He potscd for 
a time as the champion of Warren Hastings during his trial, after- 
wards writing him denunciatory letters. " Go, thou Jngiate.; return 
to llw ho\'el of t])y fotbcrs," is a sample of his agreeable style. 
In the iledicalion of tlic " Children of Thcspis," « mirade of 
malignity, coars«ic*», and vulgar bulfooner)-, he speaks snceringljr 
of "such smooth triflcrs in verse as the Bristol Millcwoman, 
W. Cowpcr, the Rellman of St. Sepulchre's, Messrs. Pye, Pratt, 
and a thousand otlicr silken jingk-rs of equal notoriety and 
inefficacy." 

He can now and then write a valentine-sounding couplet wch aa 
this to 8 Trench dancer : — 

L(ivc*( chubby imtiios round h«T tandats *lray, 
And Uiigli ind ilrow thc^ nacs in her vaji 

though this is quite exceptional. 



At in Ktrcu ihc'd Enihci more plaudiu nnd pelf 
Thought iht nore of the audience uid Irat of hnself, 

is a decent instance of his milder sarcasm. That tliis evil-minded 
scamp had parasites who flattered him as grossly as he himself 
flattered Lord Banymore seven tributary [K)cms— save the nurlc ! — 
printed before the thirteenth edition of " Children of Thespis," beat 
c\"idence. 

An Irish gentleman, dating from the Dublin that is not so vety 
fiir from the verdant groves of Blarney, says ; 

Puqnln, I've Kod yocir irondious poem (lirougli. 
Twould Hke a hundred ulu to nakc hut one like you. 



^M Pot-Pourri from a Theairkal Library. p? 

" All apologetic di&tich wiiitcn with the pencil of the author " 
goes one better, if its metre is sadly halting : — 

Accept a miracle Instwul of wit — 

Two dull linci trilh rKtquin'i pencil wtIl 

In a veiy pl^n-spoken note of adniiralion for the so called Gre^ 
and Roman costumes worn by the French actresses of his day 
Pasquin tells us of a bdy who woic diamonds fastened 10 the bare 
toes revealed by ber sandals. 

It was in 1775, rather earlier than the epoch— 1797 — nhcn lie 
was sticking his piits into ibe thin skins of the luckless players, that 
a more reputable John Williams, bookiellcr, of 39 Fleet Street, sold 
3 quaintly illustrated pamphlet, called "The Vauxhall Affray; or. 
The Macaronis Defeated," 

Much mystery hangs about the truth of the mailer, but there is 
little doubt that a certain Rev. Henry Bate fiist defended the well- 
known actress, Mrs. Hartley, from the rudeness of some so-called 
Macaronis at Vauxhall, and then boxed and beat either a Captain 
Crofts or a servant impersonating him. The story might be a 
chapter in " Evelina." Popular sympathy evidently went with the 
gallant cleric, whose manly letter to the Morning h>s/ justifies his 
temporary forgetfulncss of his cloth. The picture of the reverend 
divine assisting at a sacrifice of his challengers before the Temple of 
Virtue is distinctly amusing. 

All kinds of attractions tempt the loileier round the theatrical 
library. One would like at least to read plays with stich lilies as 
"The Pigeon P)-e," "The 'Sparagus Garden," "The Beaux Tossed 
in a Blanket," " Love in a Mist," early forerunner of Mr. Louis N. 
Parker's dainty pastoral of the same name ; or that " Hobby Horse," 
which, ccnturi« before llie comparative failure of Mr. A.AV. Pinero's, 
" was acted only once, and failed to please." 

"(Jrccn-Room Gossip: a Galimaufry, gathered and garnered by 
Gridiron Cabbie, gent., Godson to Mother Goose," is an amusing 
little volume. In the "galimaufry " we find such interesting informa- 
tion as that Handel was one of the greatest gluttons of the age, 
frequently ordering a dinner for fire when only himself was to sit 
down to it ; that Braham, entering a cathedral, the choir of which 
was singing very ill, said that " the prophecy of Amos was fulfilled : 
' And the songs of the temple shall be howling*.'" 

Amid a crowd of mere anecdotes, some doll, many silly, may be 
found a charming record of that fascinating woman, Mrs. Jordan, 
\whose generosity was one of the most delightful of her attribuRs. 



94 



Thi Genilematis Magazine. 



Romney has left her picture, fnmed in her own n^tunt curls. Here 
is h«T Idler, which "smells sweet and blossoms" in ll»e dusty 
"Grecn-Room":— 

" Sir,— 

" I h^iSQ done myself the pleasure of subscribing to your 
noriis (en pounds, and request jpou will accept the sune sum from 
me e%-cry )-car, in remembrance and respect of your sapcrior abilities. 
" I am, Sir, 

** YouT sincere admirer and humUc ser^'ant," 

" Dora Jordan. 
"To Charka MacVUn, Esq." 

In James Boaden's lengthy Life of Mrs. Jordan on account may 
be found of Mncklin's performance of Shylock when over dgbty, 
and of ihc touching speech in which he excused the momentary 
forgctfulness the enthusiasm of a much-moved audience caused htm 
to conquer. 

Admirers of Fanny Sumcy may like to be reminded tlut at 
about the date of this letter the laughing Jordan was puslicd from 
the stage to make room for her dreary tragedy " Edwy and Elgiva," 
Uut Kcmble could not save it, or Mrs. Siddons "dying elegantly on 
a sofa out of doors," and comedy, in the dashing person of Sir 
Harry Wildair, favourite rtU of \\''ollington as wdt as Jordan, soon 
drove "Edwy and Elgiva" to that over -populated world of dead 
tragedies, a dismal Hades indeed, condemnation to which would 
assuredly be a punishment to fit any crime liowcver black. 

After Mrs. Jordan's death several apparently authentic stories of 
her ghost having been seen are to be found. Mr. Boadcn'a asseveta- 
lion that he met her outside a bookseller's in the Stnmd might 
inspire a curious picture of a long line of bygone acin^sses comtrtg 
back to revbit the scene of former triumphs^ 

A fiirnd lo >11 in m!i«iy the tf^id. 

And her chief pride wm plwcil in dulng good | 

lines which, says her biographer, "poor Savage wrote with tears of 
gra^tude streaming from bis eyes." 

Mrs. Jordan was one of the many witnesses of the triumph f£ 
that extraordinary career of Mailer Betty, world-famous as the 
Infant Rosctus. To read the evidence of friendly critics as lo hts 
litlenu is less convincing than that afforded by jealous enemies and 
detractor*. Tliat Kcmblc's retirement was hastened by the wild 
l^thusiaim for this amaiing child is an open secret. Tlic rivalry 



Pot-pourri from a Tkeairisat Library. 95 



I 



I 



was fostered by the caricatuiisls, and iht pleasing plan of a circulating 
jwitfolio^ lent out foi ihc evening at a small fee, kept the genera] 
public aujail with theatrical polemics. 

Of the boyi.ih beauty of Betty, Sin};Icton's sketch of him as 
Hamlet, engrt\-ed b>' Bond, is a mo>t attraclive example. On 
August 16, " vrhen he iras yet a month short of twelve years old," he 
was announced for the part of Osman iti Aaron Hill's tragedy of 
" Zara" at Belfast. His success was instantaneous, and accmlualcd by 
a performance next night of a ri^le more suited to his very tender 
years, that of young NoT\-al. " My name is Non'al ; on the 
Grampian hills my father feeds his flock, a frugal swain." This 
solitary quoUlion has passed into the langu.igc. it may be because 
Miss Austen mentions it in connection nrith the theatricals at 
Mansfield Park. 

The tragedy of " Douglas " is very [)ondcrous to modem ideas, 
though it long held the sUgc and excited wild enthusiasm. It was at 
Edinburgh that the venerable author, John Home, proclaimed to 
the audience, whilst embracing Betty, that the character of Douglas 
had never before been given as he liad conceived it. The jiainting 
by Drummond, howei-cr, makes the poor lad all belnict and plumes, 
and painfully childlike. Those who know their Thackeray will 
remember that the "Virginians" saw "Douglas," and that Tlieo 
I jmbert pointed out one of the guards weeping. *' ^^^^eIc'i Wully 
Shakespeare noo?" asked a fcnMnit Scot when pit and boxes shed 
tears together. 

Even J. Jackson, the severe writer of " Strictures upon the Merit 
of Young Roscius," allowed his Romeo to he good. He censures 
smartly his Frederick in that dismal version of Kotrcbuc's " Loverv 
Vows " which brought the " Mansfield I'ark " people to that "guilt 
and misery" described by immortal Jane Austen as "odious 
subjects." 

There is quite a library of Betty books, including " Lines by a 
Gentleman of the Inner Temple " of roost fervid eulog)- — 

Wilh wonder we behold 

A youth H) young, in Ingio lore so old. 

"The young Rosciad," an admonitory poem wcU seasoned with 
Attic salt, by Peter Pangloss, is in a very different vein. Actors are 
furious, authors quite as angr)-, for new plays arc shelved, and 

M»ny a tor^ remnini in duJgeoit, 
Supplanted by thii youne curniudEeon. 



96 



The Gentleman's Magazine. 



" Panghas," who surely musi have been one or the olh«r, notes 
MTagely " that j«ung Rosdus will \\a.\G nralbcd between the two houses 
this season, includinj; benefits, salary, presents, &c., the paltry sum of 
ten thouKind pounds." Early in his career the manager at the 
Birminghnm Theatre cleared a thousand pounds in one week, three 
hundred having lieen the highest sinii ever before recdred. 

Stephen Kcmble especially objected to Betty's Mamlct, but it is 
doubtful whether he himself, fntnous only for his ofl-quoted ability 
to play FaUtalT without trtullin^, was more attractive than the liihc 
boy whose grace in fencing seems the best plea for his asntmption 
of a character it was impossible he should realise. 

Those curious in the ci-olution of the art of acting dould find, 
if they can, a copy of " Practical Illusirations of Historical Gesture." 
This booh, compiled from (he Cicrman of Enj^l by the son of Mr^ 
Sddons, is excessively quaint. The notion of tlic stage aspirant 
gravely learning bis emotions by heart by the help of illustrations 
is very ludicrous, nor is " Vulgar Triumph " at all the most difiicuU 
of the expressions. "Suspicion," for instance, comprises much 
business for the forefingers, whilst " Sublime Admiration " has to 
stretch hit arm out in a most comfortless posture. 

The " Oramatic Souvenir," niih its two hundred feeble little 
wood engravings of scenes from " melt-ltnown" plays, oflirrs convin- 
cing evidence thai no fonn of literature die* sooner than a for- 
gotten dramn. " I.tabella," adapted by Ganick from a novel by the 
notorious Mrs. Aphra Bchn, deservet rescue from oUirion, for was 
it not in this part that Mrs, Siddons dawned on the English stage, 
to be henceforth one of its most glorious memories ? A picture of 
the fainting heroine has a suggestive serpent and a sword beneath it. 
for in those days tragedy was tragedy, and, if the sublime went hand 
in Iiand with the ridiculous, it v.-ts the misfortune, not the fault, of 
the author. 

Whilst the " Tragic Muse " w.is the idol of London, one of its 
popular characters was J. dc Castro, comedian, for thirty-eight years 
in close connection with ,\stlcy, the founder of that famous 
nmphithcilre described perhaps best in "Sketches by Dot" Astley 
liad scored a success as a dancer in Paris only second to that of 
Vcstris, receiving a gold medal set in diamonds from the beautiful 
hand of the ill-starred Marie Antoinette. Dc Castro was a Portuguese 
Jew, and made bis maik in "vocal and rhetorical imitations." His 
biographer, fmding his subject thin, pads his book with anecdote 
quite in modern st) le, frequently losing sight of " our adventurer " 
for entire chapters. 



Pol-Pourri from a Theatrical Library. 97 

What he calls "scarce advcitiscmcnti " for March 1741 contain 
"His Majesty's express command that no person whateret bo 
admitted behind the scenes"— that is, of th« Haymarket Tl>calrc. 
" ' BickcrstafTs Unljuried Dead,' adramatick piece," isone announce- 
ment; another, rather inexplicable, lha», "owing to ihc anniversary 
of the death of King Charles, the opera ' Anaxeiccs' will be given," 
thoui^h surely the execution was in January, not March, according to 
historical evidence- 
To draw attention to the character of Mrs. Grundy is supcriluous, 
nay, personal, for it woiikl be uncouiteous to criticise a living 
celebrity among those that are deceased, invidious to draw com- 
parisons between Mrs. Davenport and tht long line of successors to 
tbc part that has never yet been ciuiie hissed off the stage. 

A view of Covent Garden Theatre it» 1804 is intercstint; when 
it is recalled who (rod its boards at that brilliant period. The 
"O.P." war, when desperate efforts were made by ballad-mongers 
and cariottunsts to induce Kemble to restore the old prices, has quite 
a little literature of its own. These fusty volumes have their ^-alue 
still, as throwing sidelights on names round which there is a lialo of 
ihe most indclerminate of all lames. AVe may handle with curiosity 
a paper-covered pamphlet labelled "The manner pointed out in 
which the common prayer was read in private by Mr. Garrick, for 
the instruction of a young clergyman." \Vc can con over his 
directions, many of them so admirable; wccan turn, with wonder 
at his daring, to his wholesale mangling of the plays of Shakespeare; 
yet we cannot catch the most fugitive glimpse of the bright, keen 
glance that tradition says put his Ricliard, his ilamlct, far beyond 
all others in their magnetism. 

Alfred de Musset, in his lovely el^y to Malibran, says that the 
singer's voice, so thrilling and so sweet, has " passed into the ntghtin* 
gales' throats." But Mr. Vi. E. Henley, in his " Ballade of Dead 
Actors," strikes the true note in its mournful refrain : — 
Into the night ga one and nil. 

The writer leaves his book, the sculptor his slaiuc, the musician 
his crabbed score alive with harmonies, tlie finest actor, the most 
exquisite actress, can but lea^-e the "bubble reputation," llic distant 
echo of a silvery laugh, the tradition of a tear. 

KOWLAND CRKY. 



yoL. ccKaL HO. «5j. 



98 



The Gentletttaits Magazine. 



MODERN PSYCHOLOGY.^ 



THOUGH Abatracl Thought U out of date la tl>e practical 
irorl<) or to-day, and Mill and Herbert Spencer not in 
fashion, Ps)'chology v\\\ holds the field, and is a Ectencc upon which 
books continue to be written, and not only wititcn, but read, if not 
always understood. Witness the success of Father Mailer's * late 
work, recently Tcriewcd at length in Aia /ourmai of Mental Scuta \ 
with sympathy by, if wc mistake not, the very writer of the boa 
now under consideration. 

Mcrcicr's " Psychology " la wiitlen from a new standpoint, 
standpoint is that a knowledge of the Normal is a condition ne 
sarily precedent to making uscrul researches into the Abnormal. 
What is astonishing is that so obvious a principle has nowhere beca< 
dearly enunciated, if ca-ct acted upon, before. We find here r»es 
views fredy expressed and forcefully insisted upon, if couclied in 
language sometimes a little lacking in style, of which the writer 
has, however, already* shown himself to be a past master. Such 
views, if not absolutely correct, are nevertheless much nearer the 
truth than any tuthcrto advanced. The only fault the most carping 
critic can furly take exception to— and that is to tlie oiiginal sin of 
most philosophers— seems 10 us to l>c that the book is long, while life 
is short, and that of making many books on this subject there hss 
been of late no end. 

Psychology is now no longer the Science of the Soul, but that of 
Psychic phenomena. If iniiospcciion was the old method, obscrra- 
tion and experiment have now taken its place, PsydioloRy never 
got divorced from Metaphysics until the lime of Spencer, Bain and 
Tainc, who not only togcthct cflTcctcd this change, but also, each 
after his fashion, appealed directly to phytiologica] results. Ps)-chic 
phenomena were now for the first time shown to have always 

' Fgnktl^—Ifariaa! aud Jtftriid, Xrj Clatl«t Mnrier, ppuJlS^xri 
SonMnKhein & Co., LondiM. 1901. 

■ Ptfii*ttty—Emfirit»J and Hiilivaa!, by M. Uahcr. Loncnwot. 

■ As !a Saally and Intaait/. Walter Scoti, Lond«Hi. \iy>. 



Modem Psychology. 



99 



pliysical corrciatire, *' Un concomiiant c^r^bral qui Icur correspond, 
et (lont il est la condition csseiitielle." The phcDoroaia of uncon- 
scioua cerebration were shown liy Lclbniu to be the origin of those 
of conscience. It now began to be seen that the action of the brain, 
cerebral localisation, sensation, tnhibiiory phenomena, the pace of 
ncfx'e transmission, and the like were matters in espedal with which 
Psychology had to deal. Then tame attempts to measure and to 
calculate with reference to mental facts, and thus arose the two 
sciences of Psychophysics and Psychomctry, which arc now rightly 
held to constitute the more importaiu parts of Psydtology. 

Fechner (iSCJo), in his "Elemente der Psychophysilc," vas the 
first true psychologist ; and he was followed in 1874 by Wund% in 
his "Orundzugc d« physioIogUchcn Psychologie," which has now 
passed into many editions. Two years afterwards Ribot founded bb 
" Revue Philosopliiquc," which tlie French think gave the start to 
*' Mind," " Brain," and Arenarius's German publication.' 

In 1875 Wundt founded at Leipsic ihe first laboratory of phj'sio- 
logical psychology, which gave imjKtus to those since started in 
other countries. It ia from it that " PhiloKOjAischc Studien" 
emanated, in which rejwrts appear of p^chic proccsfcs studied by 
the iiamc kind of experiments that arc in use in physiology, lliis 
science is, in fact, the Science of Wan, and includes social science, 
education, and criminology, a science to which in fact nihil huntani 
is foreign. Kach worker in this field approaches the wide subject 
that Pr, Mctcicr has made his own fiom a different point of view, 
and in so doing accurate note must be taken of his proper personal 
equation. Our author, as a doctor and still more an alienist, is thus 
well entitled to a careful hearing when he traces the wanderings of 
the abnormal from tlie normal, of which he seeks to measure with 
Ecicniific precision the various curves, and often apparently with 
marked success. Dr. Mercier starts with the hypothesis that it is 
ibe duly of the writer on Ps)'chology to show what a delusion is, and 
how it differs from a nomul state of mind, in what way it arises, and 
its many forms. It is little matter for wonder, then, if perfect con- 
sistency is not always to be found in his five or sis hundred pages, 
to many of which deal with disorders of mind th,nt have nc\'er l>cfore 
been correlated with their normal i)*j)e8. The writer's forcible excuse 
for this, which wc hold to be in the fullest degree admisuble, is that 
bis has been the " axe of ibc pioneer," the " plane and sandpaper of 
% subsequent investigator," merely polishing, if perhaps perfecting, 
the handiwork of a predecessor. 

' VkH4tjjikri4hrifi fur WiimtAa^\i<\it Phi!«»{hi(> 



lOO 



Tht Gtnlleman's 3fagazin<. 



No such apology is needed. The work done is a " monumcntum 
acre perennius, quod non fuga temponim possit diruere." For is not 
his account of the rcoioning processes both novel and aUo true ? Sncc 
Ariitotlc's day, lias nut the lyllogism been accepted as iHc sole method 
of reasoning? If of btc pxfchologists have had from lime to time 
dim doubts of its absolute dficacy, no one before him hasei'cr formu- 
lated any other mode of reasoning. To him it bos been left to 
propound the truth that there are besides it four or five primary forms 
of thought, lliis is the main novelty in the book, and it it by this 
that it inust stand or fall. 'Hic subject of Thought takes up half 
the pages, and the Faults of Thinking. Belief, ProbaWlity, and the 
Faults of Belief are its most absorbing sections. Perhaps it would 
be ircll for him who is afraid of hard reading to begin with the 
chaplcr on Probability, which will probably cany him on to and 
prepare him for that on Pleasure and Pain, which includes a 
plausible and practical solution of the Origin of Evil, and also to 
others on Belief and iu Errors, Memory and ihc Subject -Conscious - 
Dcss. All these arc of the highest interest, as also ate those on 
Faith and Authority. But, after al), we hold ll)e logical section to 
be ihe pearl of greatest price in this casket of philosophical gem* i 
and it affords niauer for deep n^rct that in a kodak review like 
the present no reproduction thereof, however Limited, is possible. 
The book itself can alone speak thcrcont and it docs speak lucidly, 
if not with the writer's wonted especial graces of style ; for style in 
such subject-matter is well-nigh impossible to be uniformly observed. 
Flashes there are here and there of great brilliancy, nor is evidence 
lacking throughout— however the writer may disclaim the same — of 
the "eagle-swoop of genius," 

To conclude this all loo imperfect and summary notice of 
I>r. Wcreicr's remarkable production, which it is impossible to 
review, nnd difficult even to grasp and handle. As an InsUtutional 
treatise it must be read, marked, and learnt before it can be 
inwardly digested. This can only be done at the cost of much 
time and trouble, and then— and not till then— can its true inward- 
ness be rightly, or other than moi-t imperfectly, apprehended. As 
a tool for mental culture and tillage, its handle— the Index — docs 
not render it as easy of use as, we think, a more complete one 
might readily have done. But even to the mere reviewer this fact 
stands out tTansparcnlly clear : that in its perusal he has been groping 
about in a gre:it work, full of novelty and treating of new doctrines 
of the vcr)' highest imirartonce. Moreover, that such doctrines, if 
not absolutely correct, are very much more so than any that ha\e 



Modem Psychology. lOi 

been heretofore given to the world upon the same subject-matter. 
To our view, these may vtthout bias or e^caggenttion be described 
as being, metaphorically speaking, 

Wedge) of gold, great anchors, heaps of peiTli, 
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. 
All scattered 

throughout this magnum opus, properly so called, to which we 
heartily wish God-speed. For "a good book" like this "is the 
precious life blood of a master spirit imbalmed and treasured up on 
purpose to a life beyond life," ^ 

A R. WHITEWAY. 
• Milton, Anepapiiia 



loa 



The Gentkmatii Magazine. 



TABLE TALK. 



TUE StlAKKSPEAKB-D.\COX COXlROVESSr. 

DURING the progress of the Bsoon-Shakc^Kare conlro* 
vers; I have held aloof from the subject. Both here and 
dsewherc I have discouraged cotilroveny on a question which, 
like M^ine nijrsteries of ptimitJve worship, ophidian and other, 
seemed to point in the direction of madness. When now I find a 
man endowed with reasoning fiicuUics ao clo^te and keen as those 
of Mr. W, H. Mallock, thu author among other matter of " The 
New Republic " and nmdi pIiiloiO]>hii»l argument, treating serioutly 
the question of the Baconian cypher, I scarcely know how to deal 
with the subject That Bacon was keenly interested in cyphers is 
well known. In his "Dc Augnicntaliono Scientiarum " he dcali 
with them at some length, and he describes a special cypher wbidi, 
as he states, he devised in his own youth when in Parts, aitd 
wbich he judged " not worthy to be lost," holding it to conlain 
" the highest degree of cypher." This " Bi-literal Cypher " he 
is at some pains to describe, a proce<(s in wliieh I shall rrat follow 
bis example. The name, as Air. Mallock shows, is a misnomer, the 
cj'phcr not necessarily involving the use of letters, since ^gnt aiuwer 
equally well. Tlie whole is, in fact, a species of Morse Code, simple 
enough for ordinary comptcbension, and fully explained by Mr. 
Mallock in the December " Nineteenth Century." 

Baco?( the SKi.r-ALLcr.ED Son or QimEK Elizabeth. 

THE application of tliis cypher to the works of Shakespeare 
began naturally in Arucrica. .\ Mm. Gallup, studying in 
England, on behalf of Dr. Owen, the wotdcypher, a perfectly different 
thing— there are, we arc told, six cyphers in 5hal:espeare— noted in 
Bacon the description of this bi-literal cypher, as, for the sake of 
convenience, I ivitl call it, and strove to trace its influence in 
Shakespeare. The result of her investigations was to show, to her 
satisfaction, lliat Bncon, by means of two different founts of type, 
confided to the astutcsludent of the First Folio the secret of his life. 
The revelation, I must state, is wholly typographical, and might as 
well have been made in one book as in another. It can best — and, 
to far as Shakespeare is concerned, only— be studied in tlie First Folio, 
and is not even to be traced in Booth's reprint— which edition, for 
practical purposes, I generally use. In facsimile reprints, one of 



Table Talk. 



I01 



which I liavc consulted in ntn, one nauM luturall)' expect to have 
found it. WTial doe* the reader sappose it the "perilous stuff" 
which lUcon, anticipating Pepj-s, look this strange and inconceivable 
method of convcj-ing f I majr not answer in full, reasons of space 
prohibiting. It is, howc-rcr, to the effect that he, Bacon, was tlie 
son of Quocn Elizabeth by a private marriage with the Earl of 
Leicester, and was titc rightful heir to the throne of England. The 
Queen admitted to him, he said, in & fit of anger, wbeii lie was 
nxtcen years of age, iliat &hc was his nioihcr, and tli:tt she had 
ecpoosed Leice«er secretly in the Tower during their joint confine- 
ment previous to hOT accession. For political reasons the youth was 
confided to Anne and NichoUs Bacon to be educated, the Queen 
being determined ne^'cr to own him. To ha^v breathed a word of 
this would have involved bis certain destruction, so Bacon— acting 
himsel/, preioinably, as a compositor — con&ded it to the First Folio 
^^hakcspeare. 

H Bacok said to Claiu AuTitoitsnip or SHAResrEAit&'s Plays. 

ROMANCE or mystery did not end here Bacon was not the 
only offspring of these secret nuptials. Essex was \m 
younger brother, During his stay in Paris Dacon uras the favoured 
lover of Uargaret of Navarre, eight years hts scnio;, the wife of 
Henri IV. Steps were taken with a view to her divorce from the 
monarch and her marriage with him. In this romantic attachment is 
IiHU>d the suggestion of "Romeo and Juliet," which he long after- 
wards wrote in order to commemorate It. As the biiitcral cypher 
supports the word-cypher, it follows, if we accept what is now 
advanced, that we muu in vei>' sooth attribute to Bacon the whole 
erf Shakespeare's plays, as we31 as Burton's "Anatomy of Metanclioly " 
u»d other works of tlie sixteenth or seventeenth century. Mr, 
Uallock has prosecuted his own researehes with a certain amount of 
fuccess, thoi^ many of the letters continue to baffle him. He 
holds it, bowci-cr, to be almost inconceivable that multiplied co- 
tocidcaoes such as these can be the work of chance, or that they can 
originate otherwise than in the fact that "in certain pages a bilitenl 
qT>hci exists," 

A Rejection of B.\co!('s Cl.\iii. 

HAVE set tlic tnattcr timidly and inadequately before my readers, 

but there shall be no timidity in my utterance concerning it. 

\fiAi regard to Bacon's l»rth and adventures, I will leave the matter 

to the decision of beUer scholars than mysdf— and such abound. 

That Bacon wrote Shakespeare's plays is an idea I scout. At the risk 



Pi 



104 



The GcntUniani Magasiue, 



of being classed— Justly, En llits case— vjth tho«e who will not bclien-c 
though on« come from (he dvad, I reject the idea trith scorn and 
mirth. Internal evidence alone disproves the possibility. Sonne 
day, when ruither derelopmentx arise, I may discuss the nutter rrom 
ihia point. In spite of atl I h-.> evidence of cyphirr experts and pro* 
fectOTs, 1 say that If, directly or indirectly, Bacon daims the autbor- 
■bip of Shakespeare's pla}'x, Bncon is an unveracious braggart. 

The HooroB. 

SCARCELY a month passes nithout bringing with it a record of 
the mnton destruction of bird life by scir-itylcd sportsmen or 
natuialists, who, instead of doing penance for their iniquities, boast 
in the toc3iI ncwj^papers of tlieir skill— or shall I say their prowess? 
Among occasional visitors to our shores, which_but for the Cocki»cy 
BpOTtsmnn would become a permanent habitant of oar woodbnds 
is the hoopoe, one of the lovelieM of European birds. I use the 
term "Cockney "advisedly, since the mnit guilty of shooting creatures 
of this class, thou(;h he be a resident in the country, and cTcn a holder 
of broad acres, is, so Ear as sport is concerned, a Cockney at hcart> 
Once more I hear of a hoopoe which was teen in Norfolk, and orKe 
more a man. who by his addrct« xhould be a countr)' squire, lias shot it 
ond uttered a crow of triumph in the local jiapcr. Ko lof^ time 
previously a I.ancashire clergyman (!) was guilty of a like atrodty, 
and was dcsenedly called m-er the coals for hia crime. A t^dent 
now in towns, my opportunities of seeing rirc birds arc few, and half 
a century has past since 1 have seen a Itoopoc, once almost a familiar 
object. From naturalists I learn that persistent elTbrls arc made by 
the bird to settle here, and that the result is in every instance a 
failure. lu the case of women who seek to deck themselves in the 
feathers or the carcasses of birds I have learnt that appeal is hope- 
less. Vanity is one of the cruellest of passions— perhaps the 
cruellest of all— and our if//ft James are almost all Janus sans 
tiurci. A collector or a sportsman is, or ought to be, a man, and 
not wholly inacce)«ble to reason or humanity. I would fain, then, 
appeal to him not to daiudc our country of all bird life except such 
as by rapidity of prop.ig.«!on defies extctniinatiun. The Itoopoe 
\% a friend to the farmer, and is guPtless of the crimes with which 
he is charged. What is most needed b that country people should 
receive some clemcnlary instruction in natural history. An even 
better remedy would be more stringent laws for the protection of 
bird life. But, alas ' our legislators are, as a rule, on the side of the 
datroyer. syltaxvs t;KBAK. 



I 
I 



THE 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 

February 1902. 



yf CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 



"A 



By Katheris'f. Syi.vkster. 

ND I do assure you, my dear Mrs, — 
q>eakcr paused interrogatively. 



Hn. 



the 



" GilfUlan," replied her inlcrlocutor, with enough of henuiioii to 
mark an instinctive reluctance to parting with the secret of her 
surname to this acquaintance of five minutes' standing. 

" WcU, Mrs. Gilfillan," rwumcd tlic other, gliWy. *' I do assure 
)-ou tliere's nol a comer of any floor in my house off which yo« 
might not eat a meal, nor a dish-cloth of mine with which yoa 
would hesilAtc to wash your fjcc I " 

" You muit be a remarkabic housekeeper ! " The tone of the 
speaker held litOc enthusiasm, but her face twinkled. She adjusted 
her eyeglass and turned to examine more closely the specimen 
of British maternity who h.id drawn up a chair besidi; her in the 
hotel drawing-room. She saw Iwfwre her a large woman of almost 
grotesque plainness, dressed expensively in shot sillc with hcaty gold 
orDamcnis about the neck and wrists. 

"Oh, there's nothing so ver)- remarkable about my house- 
keeping," &bc said, making a gesture in affected denial of the other's 
oomplimeniary suggestion. "Only"— here she dropped mto a 
confidential tone — " I'm one of those who don't mind putting my 
own shoulder to the wheel — tv/M fA4 M'nds down, ofeount, for we of 
the professional class must keep up appearances or die No one 
would guess, ROW, who meets me out of an evening, fresh as a daisy 
and better dressed than women wiili twice our income, that IVc 
been up and about since cock-crow, running after the servants — the 
)ACj huzzies :— saving here and scraping there ; tr)'iiig always to 
make silk purses out of sows' ears." 

VOt. CCXCIL KO. »J|' I 



io6 



Tkt GetUkman's Magoiine. 



" Whit extaordinary women mhdc men do many t " was Mrs. 
Ctllillnn's itiward comment. But >be answered in hypocritical 
obedience to tlic look and smile that clullci^cd <x>mplimcnt : " You 
•lie tike the wom^n in the last rhiipter of l*toveil}s ; you are a crown 
to jour husband, and he should be both proud and grateful ! " 

"Not a iHt of it !" rrtumcd Mn. GitfiQan*s new acquaintance 
hhaking her head vigorously. " 'flic men may knoir how to mukoj 
ihe money, but they don't UTider&tand the way to sjwnd it, and w«| 
poor wives must expect, I suppose, to be jeered nt Tor out economic 
and scolded for our necessar)- outlays. Now, would you bclicTc \* 
ttad the gnatcil wotk to nuke my husband bring us to this hotel lor 
a few weeks? He wanted to put me oH with a fortnight in lodging 
up a back street in U'orthing, or some ^uch hole^ and us with %* 
grown-up daughter to flourish al)oul too ! Times were bad, he 
would have me believe ^ as if a giil'i looks can arford to u-ait for 
good times I Ah ! here comes my Dulcie ! " and she stopped ^rt 
as a girl stepped into the room through the open French window, 
and came towards tltem smiling. She had picked tip a stray kitten 
Irom the lawn out^de, and was holding it close against her, her fair 
liead droo|)ing lovingly above it, while she murmured so(t, carcstxv 
souiid.i. A beautiful girl with flower-like tints, and lliat air of arch 
yet dignified innocence with which imagination invcttt the heroines 
of Scott's romances- 
Mrs. GilAlkn looked from mother to daughter in rain scardi of 
a likeness, and the puolc on her own face deepened when the girl's 
eyes, meeting her own, shot at her a bright, quick smile, WTiCfe 
before, in time and space, had someone smiled at her so? 

" You 're thinking there 's not much of me about my daughter t " 
remarked Dulcic's mother, who had been watching her new 
acquainuncc with some compbcency. " And we "re about as dif- 
ferent inside as out. She sits on her cushion all day aiKJ sews a 
fine scim, while her poor mother hai to bustle round to keep her in 
tirawbcnies I " 

" Mamma I " remonstrated the giti, iu a voice that matdied her 
graceful personality. 

"Well, my dear, I'm not blaming you for it. Il can't be 
expected that tlie people who decorate the world can put themselves 
out to be of use in it. Her father doesn't hold with me. If he 'd 
had bis way, he'd have sent her (o one of these new-bngled schools 
where she 'd have mined tier eyes and complexion over book* 
and rubbish. But I set my fool down. I said to him : 'Other 
(jcoplc's daughters may need these things, but our giil can afford to 



A Case of CoKUience. 



to? 



do nitboat the Highct Education.' — Have you any girls?" she 
questioned suddenly, wilboat this time pausing Tor commeiiL 

*' I have only one son," replied Mrs, Gilfillan. " He is comti^ 
here to-night. At the end of a few weelcs his fuilough is up and be 
must go back to Indb to rejoin his regiment, leaving me sohtary. 
Wc are alone in the world." 

She spolte softly, glancing down at her lilack dress. The other 
voman, who had risen, rt:garded her with fresh interest. A greedy 
light icapt into her eyes as lhi.7 took in the degnnt details of her 
personal equipment. "The only son of bis mother, and she was a 
wealthy widow ! " was her mental comment. 

"We shall be seeing one another again after dinner," slie 
remaiked aloud as she moved away, her daughter, still holding the 
kitten, in her rear. 

At the door tite girl glanced over her shoulder and nodded and 
smiled, and the pux/led look returned to the n-idow'.-i face. 

Mrs. Gilfillan sat aflc-r dinner in the hold veslibule, which was con- 
ceived in tbe grend style, with a plashing central fountain and statues 
■et among palms. Her son was t>eside her, and their absorption in 
uid enfoymcirt of one another's conversation indicated a more than 
usually tender ciuality in the mutnal relation. At length there came 
a pause in their tail:, while they sat and watched in silence tbe 
smart crowd that passed and repassed Ibem, glancing every now and 
then at one another in humorous appreciation of some passing 
oddity. 

" UTiat an exceedit^ly pretty girl ! " 

Mrs. Gilfillan followed the direction her son's eyes bad taken, 
and saw that tliey lutd &Uen on ilic Maiden of the Kitten, who with 
hex mother was malting for where they sat. Duleie looked really 
very efCeciivc in an evening gown of green "liberty" silk, above 
which hct fair head drooped tike a flower upon its stalk. The 
mother was all r>ods and becks and wreathed smiles. 

" Wc have been looking for you everywhere 1 " she cxcl^mcd, 
vrtlh an intimate warmth of manner that might have betokened long 
years of friendship. "And this gentleman is, of course, j-onr son. 
I should have known him anywhere by the likeness. . . . Ah, Capuin 
Gilfillan " (a TOccnt inspection of the visitors' book had furnished 
ber with the appropriate title), " you must talk lo me and Dulcic 
about India- We're l)oth dead in \<nt witli India ' Now I must 
introduce my husband." she continued, twisting her head about in 
search of the aforesaid personage. " There he is, trying to read in 
this widched l^t!" And <^ she bustled in the dircaion of a 

\a 



io8 



Tk4 Gentkmaiis Magimne. 



ndghbooiing window, where « man stood wilh hit bock towards the 
group. 

Something familiar in the aspect of the stooping shoulders, m 
the sliape of tbo gre; head that bent orer the newspaper, set the 
widow's heart beating and drove tho blood from her checks. A 
moment later, and he and she stood Eice to foce, puppets in his 
wife's ceremony of introduction— he, embarrassed, awkward, buti 
without any look of recognition — slie conscious that, through the 
mist of sudden tears, she saw before her, changed, oldened, saddened, 
the &ce of a man who had once been her friend. 

"Have you foigoitcn mc, Mr. Marchanl?" 

At the sound of her voice he started and looked quickly up at 
her, narrowing his cj-es. 

" I knew a lady once called Catharine ValUanL ..." 

The words came slowly, the dull, even tones contrailing strangely] 
with the a^tatcd manner of the questioner. The man's wife looked 
curiously from the one to the other. 

" Ah ! I sec you are old friends ! " she cxcbtmcd, in a manner 
wtuch, though sprightly, had a touch of annoystKe. " Now we 
■ball all be comfortable together. I am always saying to my husband, 
• How small the world is 1 ' and here is another instance of it. What 
do you say to our taking a turn together about the grounds ? " 

It was half an hour later, and Mrs. GilAllan had resumed her 
seat by the founUun. This first meeting between the friends, set u 
it was to an acconipanimenl of Mrs. Marchant's chatter, had not) 
proved a success, and the lurty lutd soon broken up, the Marcbants 
retiring to their own quarters. Captain Gilftllan tud gone off in 
search of a game of billiards. His mother had opened a book, but 
her thoughts went w.indcring off into that old world where she and 
the man whose ghost she had met to-night had ridden and rowed 
and shot at the target together throughout the whole of the golden 
summer that he had spent at her uncle's rectory. \VIiat a memofyj 
of sunshine hung about the time ! They had been constant play^l 
fellows— a strange word in connection with the sad grey man who 
had w;ilkcd in lumbering silence Just now by her side. Playfellows 
were they, and nothing else? She drew her brows together at the 
mental question, flushing slightly ; thea slowly shook her bead. 
Nothing as fiir as she knew— as far as she herself was concerned. 
She had been conscious of vague pam at bis sudden disappearanc 
from hci world, at htj seeming forgctfulncss of herself and tbchappyl 
times they had bad togctlicr. But all this had been coincident with 
e wdden (ipspringing of new intereiU, new emotions, the prelude 



A Case of Consckna. 



log 



to a crisis in her own life, from which itll that had preceded it 
ap]>eaTed shadowy and insignificant. And now the past bad risen 
3g»in In the shape of a h&lT-forgottcn friend, and the old painful 
wondering doubt bad risen too, with a new pain and wonder added. 



"Was that old Geoffrey Marchant I saw you taUcing to }u5t 
now?" 

The man who stood beside her had been her neighbour at the 
tabic d'hote dinner. She bad not now heard his approach, and 
started somewhat at the question. 

"Yes. We used to be friends long ago, before he was injirried. 
1 have never before met his wife. Do you luiow her? " 

He drew a chair up to \\tn and lowered his voice to a confidential 
whisper, 

"Can't help knowing one mthout the other, unfortunately. 
• Whither thou goest I will go,' &c. She must have read that text 
into the marriage service. Talk about marriages being made in 
Heawn ! Why, the arch-fiend himself must have had a hand in 
this one. Such a success as be once seemed Ukely to make out of 
life 1 She's just impossible, that's what she is, and no one knows it 
better than he. It's taken all the spirit out of him— e%'crythtng that 
makes the struggle seem worth while. ..." 

" How do you account for her? What docs it mean ? He had 
such subtle perception — was so sensitive to beauty, moral and 
physical. ..." 

"Can't tell you, I'm sure. Put it down to human inconsistency. 
I have beard it hinted, though, that he married her in a fit of pique- 
on hearing of the engagement of a girl be liad courted through a 
whole summer and with whom he believed himself to have a 
complete understanding. —Arc you off already ? But you look dead 
tired !— The air in these hills docs certainly take it out of one ! " 

All that night Mrs. GilCIlan tossed on her bed in a fever of 
pit)' and remorse. It was she who had brought it about then, 
this ruin of a life—how unwittingly Heaven knew. She could not 
close her eyes but the man's giey, drawn face rose before hei, 
alternating with the piaure of a former Geoffrey Marchant as be had 
once stood waiting for her on the banks of ilie river. The sunshine 
had filtered upon him through the leaver of a willow, and his face 
lighted up with a quick, bright smile (Dulcie's smile of this morning) 
at sight of her coming to him across the meadow. He had seemed 
to her then to embody the spirit of youth and hope. Had her 



1 lO 



The GeuiUmans Magazine. 



short-sightot] c)'c» seen love there loo, wliat might not l»ve bcca 
changed, what pre\'cnlcd ? Oh I the irrctricvrablcncss of it all, iho 
inpoGsibiliiy of making amends ! Could she ever be at peace again? 
she questioned, hiding her face in the pillow from the grey light of a 
morning that had brought with it no relief from pain. 

Mrs. Gilfillan's original idea had been to spend the rcmaiodcr of 
ho son's furlough in Iravclling about from place to place, but it 
htppcned ncrcrthclcss that, without any expressed reason for the 
change of pbn, tlicy lingered on in their old quarters until wiiliin a 
few ityi of its cxpiraiion. Perhaps the Marchants were the reason, 
for they stayed on too, and the two families were much together. 
Ai far as the widow was concerned, the intercourse was fraught wiih 
more of pain than pleasure ; but she took it as part of a deserved 
peiuncc that she should daily, hourly, come face to ^e with a 
trouble which she held to be of her making. Further, she was 
upheld by the consciousness that her friend derived pleuure from 
her society. They bad long talks tosether, echoes of old talks, of 
men and books, as Ihey sat about the gardens and terrace and 
watched tlic young people at their gamu. Sometimes his wife 
would come and sit beside lliem, eager to wedge in irrelevant 
coniri but Ions to the conversation, till, becoming aware of an intel- 
lectual Jtttnosplicre unsuitcd to her mental constitution, she would 
relapse into a mood of sulkincss, and march off fiercely, rustling shot 
silk skirts. But in a general way smiles predominated over frowns 
in her relation with Mrs. (Jilfillan ; and the widow knew why. Both 
were watching, but with very different emotions, the progress of an 
intimacy that had arisen between Dulcie and young Gitfillait — an inti- 
macy that owed something, perhaps, on the one side to maternal tactics. , 
He was her chief partner in the outdoor games, in the c^-cninj' 
dances. He brought her flowers, and look no patns to keep the 
admiration he felt for her pretty person out of eyes which he 
constantly turned in her dir<»;tion. In the light of his near 
departure the event asstnned the character of a race against time. 
Would the remaining days suffice to bring his feelings to proposal beat? 

The onlookers were breathless, and cross-prayers went up daily 
from two mothers' hearts. Poor Catharine Gilfillan ! Her son was 
her ewclamb, ihc pride of her heart, and public opinion justified the 
maternal estimate. She doubted whether she had ever met a vroman 
whom she would have held worthy to join hands with him. And , 
now for him to fall a prey to what was little more than a chance 
hold acquaintance— to a vulgar match-making woman, who had not 
»pread her nets for him in vain I 



A Case of Consdente. 



Ill 



About Dulcie hetsdf there seemed liltlc to know. She t.iiiilcd at 
tliem all irtih a smile that was not bcr own, and stood alwut iu 
becoming attitudes while her mother drew public attention to her 
points. It was enou^lh against her, in the widow's eyes, that she wa.'s 
her mother's daughter. And yet, Cathaiitie leflected, was slie not 
alM> the child of the man for whose mined life ilie held lictscif 
responsible? Would any atonement be loo gieal— the wicriflcc 
even of bcr son, her only son, on the altar of a vulgar ambition ? it 
was lliis consideration that later on made her regard her own 
passivity in the matter as a moral obligation, (hough i>he still gaic 
her prayers a free rein. At one time she scarcely knew whether the 
father was a conscious spectator of what was going on under his cj cs, 
or, being conscious, took any thought for likely de^-clopmcnts. But 
aU doubt on the subject of his feelings in the maiier was dissipated 
one evening when he and Catharine stood watching on the terrace 
for the return of the young people from a late ramble among tl>c hills. 
The dusk tiad fallen, and each was conscious of a feeling of relief 
as ibe Wo familiar shapes emerged through the trees. Then came 
her son's voice shouting a greeting. Catharine waved her handker- 
chief- Had her companion seen, she wondered wiili a judder, llie 
suddun dropping of clasped hands that had preluded the shout? 
She turned to read his face, and caught him looking down at her with 
eyes that held a passionate prayer. Steadily she met his gaze, then 
held out hcT hand, with a smUc. There was no need of any words. 
He knew she bad granted what he had sought. Her consent, when 
asked for, would not be withheld. 

For two or tlirec days following this incident Gcofficy Marchant 
wore an aspect so clianged as to elicit much comment among 
the other guests at the hotel, most of whom were inclined tu 
ascribe it to the healtli-giving properties of the place. There was 
a smile on his face such as his wife nwa remembered to Itave seeit 
tben^ and which puuled her e\-en more tluui it did the rest of 
the small community. Catharine saw it too, and felt the glow of 
sacrifice ; though, for the life of her, she could not leave off 
praying that the hope that had ^ivcn the smile birth might noxr be 
ful&Ued. 

Geoffrey was indeed almost happy. All was not lost. Ihc old 
wrong was to be righted in a way he had never dreamt of. Their 
children's love was to bridge over the gulf that yawned between her' 
life and his. And he rejoiced even more for his daughter's sake, 
whose uncertain future had of late much troubled him. Material 
advantages apart, what better fate could he have wished for her 



^ 



113 



Tie CtntUmatis Magasine. 



than nunlase vith Cithtrine'a son, iriio seemed to Geofirojr his 
molher't conntcrpan ? With such a guide his Dulcic must needs 
put forth the best Bowcrt of hei ruture, all possible wW. shrinking 
and withering in tbc simshioe of bb love. Bat it was just this intin: 
of thought that brought with it ooeuiness. Ho vas haunted \ff\ 
painru) doubu and questionings. He loved his daughter, and was 
proad of her fair yoang {pace, but, outwaid things apart, to him aQ 
knowledge of her wu a sealed book. Would union with her bring 
blettiiv '■> the house of the woman who still stood for him as a] 
symbol of what was best in the world ? He thought with a shu 
of the long tonnent of his own married years. If what had beblleaJ 
him should be&II her son also ? 

He took to watching Duldc, interpreting for good or evil every 
trifling word and gesture; and the longer be watched the greater] 
grew his uneasiness. Sometimes this uneasiness broke out into • 
critidsro and rebuke, and that in the preserKX of Calliarine and 
son. There was that within him whidi ditn'e him to sound what he 
felt was a note of warning. Dulcie on these oocuions had not 
ictoned, merely turning on him wide e)-cs of contemptuous suipri^e;. 
Mrs. Marchant had scarcely been able to contain her irritaiiou. 
" ^^'hai's come over the man ? " she asked herself. " Can't he sec the 
way things are going? It's ju^ like bim to want lo cut off his nose 
to spile his face I' 

The days passed on till within a wock of Ihe time fixed for 
Captain Gilllllan's departure for India. The hotel season was 
drawing to a close, and the proprietors, to celebrate its unwontc 
success, were getting up some final festivities which were to indudel 
a water patty and a ball. The actors in our liltlc drama felt that a 
crisis was imminent, and bcatts beat bstcr, each in response to a 
different emotion. 

Dulcie and her mother, both wearing an air of the profoundest 
industry, sat over some costly fancy-work in the hotel drawing-rooo^ i 
when a whispered communication from an attendant that 
boxes had arrit-ed for lliem by rail sent them flying with flushe 
foces to their own rooms. Here there was a feverish puUtng at' 
strings and tearing of paper, and the contents of several earlont 
(which bore the name of a well-known milliner) soon lay spread 
about on bed and sofa. 

** You had better try the ball-gown first," said Mrs. Marchant in a 

tone low with excitement, and a minute later the pretty figure of 

her daughter, clad in a charming confection of rid) silk and lace, 

1 revolving in front of the pier-glass. 



A Case i>f Conseiettee. 



"3 



^ 



^ 
^ 



" Beauliftil ! Exquisite ! Worth every farthing of the money I " 
munnured the mother. " If lliat doesn't do our business . . . > " 

Dnicic nt dou-n and proceeded lo study lier reflection in detail 

" How crudely you do put ttiings, Mamma ! " she remarked. Then, 
aflCT a pause, " And if it doesn't settle our bH*itiess, a.t you call it, I 
should like to know who's to pay Madame's account ?" 

*' Now, my dear, don't go suggesting anything so dbappointing ; 
though it ctTlainly docs seem odd that, with all the opportunities and 
philanderii^ things shouldn't hitve got any farther between you. 
Mind, my dear, I'm not blamii^ you, but don't you think a little 

more encourageniient on your part ? You know I'm the last to 

approve of forwardness in a young girl . . ." Then, ithooting at her 
daughter a sudden inquisitorial gtancc, " I can't help thinking some- 
times that you're not giving your whole mind to the affair — that you 
haven't quite got rid of a hankering after a certain ywrng penniless 
fool that used to come banging about the house last year . . ." 

Duleie bung her head and began tracing patterns on the carpet 
with bar foot. " It does seem hard," die murmured, "that people 
who suit so well in one way won't do in another. Now, if Mr. 
Hobson had only been in this one's position . . . But dont be 
afraid, kfamma," slie continued, lifting her head and meeting her 
mother's look. " I know what's due to you, due to myself, and 
I mean to make the best of my opportunities. Giria like me 
can't aJIord to induce ihenuelvcs in the luxury of a misplaced 
attadimenL . . ." 

>trs. Marchant tushcd at her daughter and administered an 
embrace as hearty as was compatible with a respect for trimmings. 

" There's my own dear girl ! " she exclaimed. " 1 did wrong to 
doubt you. Now, my dear, let's have a look at the water-party 
gown. Ah ! Kladamc has excelled herself- What tints ! ^Vhat 
dapery ! Mark my words, it will be the water-party Rown. He 
will speak to-morrow at tbe watet-party ! . . . GcolTrey \—yoH 
here!" 

Her husband was standii^ at the door, looking don-n at them 
with miserable, angrj- e)-es. How long had lie stood there^ how 
much bad he overlieard, they wondered, trembling. Tbe pause that 
followed seemed intermiiublc. ^^Iien at h-tiglh he KiKAe it was in 
a voice they scarcely recognised. 

" Those new dothcs," be said, pointing at Dnlcie and then to the 
tumble of finery on the bed. " How much do they cost ? " 

"It's aQ ri^^ Geoflrey ' " replied bis wife in a tone one might 
adopt with a fractious infant. " We need not think about paying 



114 



The GtnlUman's 3Ittgasitu. 



yet. Mulame U content to wait six mofttbi—d yctr tvan. 
who knows whut may happen between that time and this ? ' 

lie did not answer her, but turned to his daughter. 

"Will you give ran the liill at once, pleiae?" 

Diilcic reluctantly handed him a. paper that wu pinned to the 
bodice of one of ihc go*-ns. Both women, with heightened colour, 
watched liim as he cxaniincd it ; but there was no change in his 
expression. 

" Do you realise," he said, slowly lifting his eyes rroro the paper, 
" how this outlay wDl cripple my income for tlie year ? " 

" But don't you see, Geoffrey," pleaded bis wife in what wis 
meant to be an a»idc, " we must look upon it as an investment, and 
one tiMt's likely to give good interest If we want our girl to marry 
well, wc must dress her well. Rich men don't take up wilh dowdy 
girls any more than they buy pokey houses or shabby furniture. If 
King Cophctua lived nowadays, he wouldn't look at his beggar-maid 
till she'd changed her rags for thiffatit. . . ." 

But her husband had already passed tlirough the door wliich 
comuiunicatcd with his own room, leaving the women alone with 
their diacomfitiirc. 

For some iima they could hear him pacing up and down within, 
and by way of comment exchanged glances half afraid, half con- 
temptuous. They mu»t have pitied him had ihey been caiKiblc of 
realising the pain with which for him the minutes were ladun- 
During the last few weeks he liad thought to descry light above the 
bladincKt of his boriion. Now the light had gone, and the clouds 
hung thicker and darker than before. About his wife he had long 
ceased to have illusiont. But this lifting of the veil upon his 
child's unworthincss Gllcd his cup of bitterness to orerllowinf. 
With Ihc new knowledge of her, one course alone was open to 
hii right mi ndcdncss. His problem had solved itself in the dreariest 
way- 

Whcn half an hour later he re entered their room Putcie and her 
mother were stowing the new garments in drawers and cupboards 
with a zest tltat betokened restored sclf-rcspcct. His own face was 
haggard— a keen observer would have read there the signs of a 
great struggle, but there was no consciousness of this in the faces 
that were turned towards him, and from him to llie paper in hi* 
hand. 

" I have brought you a cheque in payment of Madame '« 

account." he said, in a voice ho tried to approximate to its ordinary 
Hall level. "Please see that it is forwarded at once. And" — 



A Case of ComtUuce. 



lis 



Jin; op s hind to check the flov of gntiiude with n-hich he saw 
himseli' threatened— " under the circumsUmces you irilt understand 
thai tre cannot remain any longer at ihU hotel. I have talicn tickets 
for the hofnevrard joumc)'. The ratlvay omnibus will be round at 
six.' 

" G«oflrcy ! Do you know whnt j-ou are doing ? You arc ruin- 
ing your girl's prospects 1 Arc j-ou mad ? " half shrieked his wife, 
while Dalcic stood by wTingii^ her hands. But a glance at his face 
made them realise the usclcssncss of an appeal. For once they were 
sileiKed. There was nothing for it but to obc)-. 



" He will wtile, depend upon it, he wilt write ! " whispered Mrs. 
^Ta^chant some hours later in the railway carriage to her daughter, 
weeping tears of shame and disappointmcni behind her novel. 

Ar>d the widow, who could make nothing of the sudden flight of 
the Marclianta, kept her elation in check with the same thought. 
Surely the episode was not closed — her son would send a letter after 
the bclOTCd. But the days passed, and to her ccnain knowledge no 
leUer was writteiL Slill her son's customary spirits showed no 
abAtement, and she grew to believe wlui was indeed the case, that 
her on'n fear) and others' hopes had exa^erated the significance of 
his part in the little drama. As for her sacrifice. Heaven had 
ordained o*herwi«. \Vhat could she do but bow her head in grati- 
tude to its decree ? 



tx6 



Tkt CeKtUman's Magastne. 



SHAKESPEARE AS HISTORY. 



I. 

THE cbicf hindrances in the attempt to understand history 
coiui:^! in the fact that it b as hard to realise that those who 
arc dead haw bcvn aXwa as that vc who arc altrc will t>c dead, and 
in Uiti imjioaibility of enuiring irhoUy into the Feelings of others. 
Thus, obvious as has become (he need of an historian making exact- 
ness his first aim, ttic bc¥t historians are often thosi: who are more 
vivid than exact ; vividness is itself a form of accuncy, and the imagi* 
nation, as Mommscn sntd, is the author of all history as of all poetry. 
But usually, if wc desire both qualities, wv must turn to the uncon- 
scious history of conlcmporaty writers. The necessity of first-hand 
evidence for facts is ahvays being urged ; the same method is ibo 
only one vfhich will enable us to grasp as clearly as possible those 
mental and material surroundings constituent of life as life was 
til en, to us non-existent 

If this be true, it is true of Elizal>ethan England. Ufc was never 
more strenuous than then, never, therefore, harder to be realised by 
those born later ; and there is abundance of contemporary evidence. 
Shakespeare's is the best uf this, altogether lustoric in quality, matter, 
and form. Simply by being thegrealest of authors he tsan histonaiii 
bis range, and truth in that range, epitomising an age unsurpassed 
for width and depth. And as to the form : awakened as the English 
were to a new free life, ihcir character impelled them to choose in 
their pleasures the broadest, nio)>l sitrciiuou.t form, and of all forma 
of Art, Drama is the greatest, (iive movement to Painting, to 
Sculpture too, and colour it, unravel Music, speak I^iteraturc; combine 
all to represent action, and Xhan is Drama. How popular it ms it 
shown by the country plays which ^altcspearc burlesques, by the 
wealth he acquired, iht- number of dramatists, the dependence of the 
Thames watermen for most of ihdr livbig on ferrying playgoers, and 
by the rapidity of its growth— the first theatre and licensed company 
arose about 1571, by 1587 there were nine companies, and by 1600 
one small theatre to every 17,000 people instead of one large one to 
every 100,000 as now. 



Shakespeare as History. 



ri7 



i 



Shakespeare then, by becoming aii acior-dnimalist, chose the 
career most sure to keep him in touch with the people. In the same 
5|»rit in which he composed sexual rcrsc on classical themes Tor a 
nobleinaD to read, coosdoosly, yet spontaneously, pleasing, in the 
customajy way, that be might live, did he lewiite favourite plays 
and dramatise familiar stories, reflecting, as he wrote, tlie <^uintes- 
seiKc of his audiences' thoughts. The deeper otic looks, the more 
l)'pical he appears ; but how vividly all is reproduced may be made 
clear by a few examples. FalstalT alone might serve as the basis 
of a social history; when "merry," he wants to "hare a pUy 
cMcmporc"; his appetite exemplifies, what all foreigners, lago for 
one, agreed about, How far Englishmen were from recognising that 
discretion is the better part of dinner. He brings to mind the fairs 
by resembling "a tidy little Bartholomew boar-pig" and "the 
Manningtiee ox with the pudding in hb belly " ; he pasKCs for ihc 
witch of Brentford, one of the many popular diaractcrs with whom 
the p!a}-s acquaint us, including Robin Hood, the dancing horse, 
King Copbetua (there wai a real King Cophetua then, King Eric of 
Sweden, once a suitor to Queen Elizabeth}, Adam the Archer, Hume 
the Ilanter, aod Dome Partlct, the rwtable hen. Above all, he was 
"as well known as Paul's," the centre of the Englishman's world ; 
the resort of debtors and mastcrless rogues (he " bought Bardolph 
at Paul's "), the promenade, the news'-ccntrc, the tailors' show-room, 
a spittoon, half a brothel. Near by was the " Boar's Head," non- 
existent certainly In Henty IV.'s lime, but to an Elitabethan 
audience the prc«:nt was everything. Moreover, Fabtaff's ally in 
thieving, the inn-" cluunbcriain " at Rochester, was typical of a dass, 
to protect themselves from whom even clergymen, when travelling, 
wore daggers. The " tkw chimney " at that inn was also a sign of 
Ifae titoes, and Lord Bardolph, wiping to make his views dear to 
his fellow-rebels (and the playgoers), uses an elaborate building 
metaphor as appealing mo4t to the people of an ^e when buDdtng 
tot its own sake was a fashion. How they fumisbod their houses 
we learn from Gremio's description of bis "dty-house^" which, 
tbou(^ part of the Shakespearean Apocrypha, may be med, 1 
st^ipoe^ for " example of life and instruction in tnannera." On such 
tapestry as his were the sayings of the copy-book order rememticred 
by Orlando when he compared Jacques' convcnaiion to " right 
painted cloth," or pictures like that in Imogen's bedroom ; while the 
arras, hung on frames to avoid the d.imp, was far enough from the 
wall to hide Polonius, and even FabtolT, turioe. Details to small as 
the mention of knives, but not of forks, ore significant, the fonncr 



The GeHlUmott^afSgStM. 



bdng inlioduced ibout 1563, the Utter not dll 161 1 ; and reference 
to botb cvpeu and rushes as ttaat-cawatgt itotes the substitution 
of one for the other — Queen Elizabeth being the last sm-ercign 
wliose presaioe-chamber was strewn with the biter. 

And so the list might continue— the eailf marrbgcs at earl; 
hours miglit be paralleled in the case of Queen Mary Stuati, nho 
was a bride ):oui^er than Perdiu and married Darntey at the same 
lime of day, between five and six in the morning, as Cbudto refused 
Hero; and so on— until there was found lo be but one notable 
omisiiion, that of tobacco, which, first known to Cnglishmon (1565) 
about the lime of his birth, nn-ivcd in London, as a medicine, near 
tho same time as he, when its use became so general, amid \'>olent 
satire on the stage and cisewhcie, that before he died " most men 
and many women " were '■ tobacconists," and dealers in it as common 
as publicans. In the nuRcr of dress, however, Shakespeare is ample ; 
no writer ignored it, nor could ignore, tea its changes were so rapid, 
its extremes so incredible, that, as Harrison iiays, " You shall not see 
any so disguised as are my countrymen of England, unless it be a 
dog in a doublet.'' 

Another pleasure nearly as dear to them was sport. But to show 
how full was Stialcespeare's sympathy wiiJi and knowlcd;;e of iliat, 
one must borrow from one of ihe best books written about him. 
*' The Diary of Master William Silence." Tor example : " Prospcro 
sets on his B[Mrits in hunter's language, by names well known in 
Gloucestershire kennels. Ulysses compares Achilles sulking in his 
lent to a hart keeping thicket. The fallen Caesar suggcsu to 
Anthony a noble tian whose forest was the world, bayed and sbin by 
blood-stained hunters. Titus Andronicus proclaims a solemn hunt- 
ing after the fashion of Glouccnter^hire. Eg)'ptiane, Athenians, 
Romans arc intimately ac^iuainled with the courwng matches of 
CoUwoId. Roderigo of Venice and Pandarus of Troy speak the 
language of English sportsmen. Thcsois hunts the country miad 
Athens with hounds as thoroughly English as was the hone of 
Adonis." Love for country scenes and people was t\tn deeper in 
Shakespeare than love for London. Justice Shallow became pro- 
rerbtul in his own time, and equally typical are many more; 
Autolycus, for instance, the minslrel-pedlar-rogue. who robbed his 
audience while he sold those ballads whose popularity is shown by 
Shakespeare's quoting from at least fifty-nine of them. To live in 
London then was not to forget the country ; citizens had gardens, 
and in leaving the city, entered the fields. Stepney, Hoxton, IsUngtoa 
were Tillages ; the iliealres, just outside the walls, as much in the 



I 
I 
I 




Shakespeare as History. 



119 



countiy as th« Stntford-wi-Avon tbeanre no<r, and et-eiy slum- 
dweller could spend t " Md}'-mon) " tike Lysandcr and italic back in 
time for Rotk. 

But to look deeper. One cbaracicriBtic ot the age, much a& it 
changed the suT&ice, went far below it also : the influence of Italy. 
Four centuries before, English archdeacons having been sent thitlier 
to learn bv, it had become a regular subject for schohstic debate, 

," wlietlier it was [>oj^iblc for an archdeacon to be saved " ? and when, 
the sixteenth cvmwf, all who could alTord it went there for 

'pleasarc, ihcy seemed to Icam noihiiig bin to "commit the oldest 
sins the newest kind of ways.™ if indeed they did gain more than 
the dinllosion of " the murderous Machiavel " and " the Neapolitan 
bone-ache," with which three out of four London hospital patients 
were stricken, it was not that luljr had grown less e^^i with lime. 
The lact was thai in ICngland the influence was mainly a stimulant, 
its course controlled bj- the receivers. Travel there made Wyait and 
Surrey the pioneers of the liicratuic perfected by Siiakcspcaic ; one 
Italian was literary ancestor 10 his "Arcadians," another to his 
tonnets, and pby after pby reminds us of the country of the Moor 
of Venice and the merchant of Venice, the liarhour of family feud-t, 
of Art and of war, of love, cnmmerce, and learning. M. Taine 
traced the cvit influence of the Italians to their " bad and false 
conception of man " ; the English conception, let Ulysses describe 
I describing Troilus :— 

The youngest ton of Ptiun, a tnie knifht. 
Not r« matute, jtl nutcliku, iinn of word, 
Spakiag in decdi, and ilenllcts in lii* tongue, 
Km uan pcoToktd aot Wing proTciIiecl *oon cilin'J ; 
lib hc*n and hand both open *tid boih free ; 
For what be ku be civo, shat thinks be ihowi : 
Vec giret he not tiU judgment guide hU bounty, 
Not dlgni^ei ut iciput thought with breath : 
Manly u Hector yet tDore danceioiu ; 
Foe Hector in hi* lage of wnih iul*ctil>ea 
To tender ot-jea». bat h« ia btai of nai»n 
Is laore Timlicatire ihin jesl^ui Iotc. 

The ideal is that of a soldier, noteworthy considering that the 
: of war was as powerful then as Italy'^. The English knew 
' its cttne, felt its beneiit ; there was war abroad, iiupiring ihc-m to 
whom its success or otherwise meant prosperity or ruin ; peace at 
home. Thus although from 1570 to i6ifi there was really no fight- 
ing in England, men were rarely seen unarmed, and to be a soldier 
was, not a profession, but an " age of man." " Rumour," in 



120 



The Gentleman's Ma^a^itu. 



" Henry IV.," is probably a descendant of Ve^'s " Fanu," bat I 
business ts not, lilie hei^ genenl, but to 

Spenk or pesce, flute conn enmltr 
Vndct the iniile or safety woundi tbc ir«f Id. 
And who but Rumour, nbo but only 1 
Hake tarful muiteri uid p re |»t ed defimce, 
Wkfte tb« big year, bvoln nritb Mme Olliei crier. 
It ihouchi w'itli child by the ttem tjmat wu 
And 00 tuch matter ? 

And as wc read the plays wc grow familiar with "cutting foreign 
throats, witli breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades," with leaden 
ballets and bowit, pilccs and " gun-stones," lighting generals, cmbex- 
aling captains, the pressed cx-criminat *' soldier, rough and hard of 
heart, with conscience wide as hell," prisonen murdered, cities 
tacked, sons of war h'ke Enobarlms, Fluelkn and Tistol, and crippled 
" mganiuffins," "mho are for the town'* end, to beg during hfc." 

But gentlemen, returning to a land of peace, find that when 
"wax-thoughts Have left their places vacanl, in their rooms Come 
thronging soft and delicate desires." It was a sign of civilisation in 
Homer's Greeks, says Lc^ing, that, unlike the Trojans, they could 
express their griefs without becoming less in valour ; so, in sixteenth 
century England, soldiers, as Shakespeare shows, could yield to the 
gentlest influences and remain among the best ai war, and he himself 
combine force and delicacy at their highest. 

Li*l h!* diacoiinic of wu and you *h>U heu 
A hwfiil billle rendered you in iDUile, 

Music was one of those genllcst infltiences. Music-loving rulcts had 
mode B inusic-lo^ing people, nnd given them peace to develop the 
love, for music is a daughter of peace, a nniversul language which 
out-Penlecosts Pentecost So far went this lore that it could be 
thought, as tlic lines beginning "The man that hath no music m 
himself" declare, that without a sense of music's beauty there 
cannot Ik right action. Yet it was better lorcd than composed 
then, despite Palestrina and Tallyjr, wherefore Shakespeare, while 
using all that was available, most in his latest play, set his own 
dramas to music by evolving it from the words. He docs not 
anticipate Pope's contcmporariea "and" let "ten low words oft 
creep in one dull lino," but, again and again, makes melody with a 
line of monosyllables. ^\''ord5, indeed, were his subjects, io,ooo or 
more ; his source of coinage illustrates the revival of leamir^ tbdr 
rariely, tlic uni^'crsaUty of the age, their vagueness of EOMoing and 



Skalts/xare as History. 



I3C 



II. 



liis irregular uw of them, its transitional character and seiT-confidcncc. 
How tnuch of Elizabethan hi»ory is latent in those words of a 
servant : " To be called into a huge sphere and not to be seen to 
move in'i, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully 
^^mter the cheeks." 

^^P^^rith the »ocul histot>', so wiih (he political : expansion is its 

^■{(.■ature. It ts shown by the places Sbalcespearc mentions ; all parts 

1^ of Italy, of course; Vienna, Lapbnd, Troy, Sicily, Illyna, Iceland, 

Aleppcs Athens, Marseilles, Bohemia, Cyprus, are some among 

many. Benedick olTers to go to the Antipodes, the furthest inch of 

Asia ; Prester John, the great Cham or the I'igmies ; Othello has 

travelled past " antrcs vast and deserts idle, Kough quarries, rocks 

and hills who^c tK:;ds touch heaven " ; the merchant of Venice 

^^hasshi^ 

^H f ram Tri|ioUi, frocn Mexico and EusImiJ, 

^^K From Lbbon, Dubuy and lodia ; 

^^ and the Kii^ of Na[riea' daughter dwelb " ten leagues beyond man's 
life." The names show how exploration was seeking an casten^ 
not a western, world. It was tlic attempts nf Englishmen, after 
America's wealth had become known, to open northeast and north- 
west routes to Asia, which, by rediscovering Russia, brought the 
Muscovites here who arc laughed at in " Love's Labour's Lost." 
But how terrible the risk whatct'cT the course, we can guess from the 
frequerKy witit which tempests modify Shakespeare's plots, from the 
stress he lays on the sea's power to harm, and from the fact C'Onzalo 
Tcftrs to, that adventurers used to lend their money on condition of 
receiving five times the amount if they reiurtwd. Commerce then 
was half romance: these same bti:$incss-mcn see "mountaineers 
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'cm Wallets of 
Dah," ai»d " men UTiosc heads stood in their breasts," tales incredible 
when tbcy were boys. 

Inseparable as commerce was from politics, the merdiant being 
also explorer, diplomatist and pirate, the state-religion was equally 
sa That rdigion could be odierwise than theological was even 
fanber from beng grasped then than now; European opinion and 
iheir own forced Eliabeth's gOT'emincnt to profess some doctrine. 
But their main object throughout was *■ internal peace," and the 
subject nominally most important wa.s dealt with as best accorded 

TOU C«XCI1. VO. 30S+. », 



^ 




123 



Tht Genlkntants Magasine. 



irith IfaU object. The creed allowed bjr Parliament was of to i 
a latitode that all could confoini to it whose beliefs were not extreme, 
contenting the majority witli a religion whicli could be ignored so 
long as Ihey were loya]. The (lueen's contemjit towards ilic clerg)- 
was imitated l>y the laity, many of whom u^cd the livings in their 
gifts OS pensions for scn-snts, white a number of " the basest sort of 
the people," linkers, for example, were in orders. Even with these 
whese title of *' Sir " was' their only dignity, there were not enough 
elcTgj"; their enforced poverty, therefore, made pluralities a double 
necessity. Their position being such, their wives were not likely to 
be of the best, the less so as a change of government might render 
them concubines : they belonged, in fact, to the servlr^ class. The 
total result was " a generaJ contempt of the mini*lry " which Harrison, 
one of the best of ihem, gave as a chief reason why the Chnrdi 
remained corrupt. Turning to Shakespeare's few ministers, we find 
tbem people to be slightly amused at and then passed by. Sir 
Nathaniel is "a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and 

soon dashed a marrcilous good neighbour, faith, and a very 

good bowler," bat, in plaj-ing Alexander in a mas(]ue, "a linle 
o^erparted" ^ Sir Hugh Evans is such another, his profession evident 
only In a phrase or two, as when he mingles the ■37th Psatm with 
" Come live with me and be my love." The iempor.-iry suppression 
of the theatres for sharing in the " Marprebte " quarrels may have 
disinclined Slialccs|war« from alluding to tiic Church ; in any cas^ 
his references are few, and yet, because of Ihcir fewness as wdl as 
by their tone, exceedingly characteristic of the time. So also are 
the frequent allusions to the Bible and Apocrypha, which, tike those 
to dogma and tlie Puritans, ari; as little serious as olTeruive. It was 
not that he undervalued *' religion " ; Henry V. i» all thai Troilua 
was "and a true lover of the Holy Church"; but this was the 
Roman Churct), whoie di);niiy, and subtle combiiution of mystery 
and logic, arc shown in their full fascinating Klrcngth in that grand 
central scene in " King John," where the view, not distorted by hate 
nor by servility, is the truth about an enemy overthrown but sdll 
(langcrrous : while bishops like Carlisle in " Ricliard H." or Canter- 
bury in " Henry V." are full of the spirit which created the High 
Church party in Sliakcspcarc'a lifelinic. 

Then, as to politics undisguised : think of some ol the events of 
the sc^'cn years nearest to Shakespeare's arrival in L-ondon, 1583-9. 
Davis's three Arctic voyages started in 1585-6-7 ; four timca Drake 
latutned from stiowing beyond words ttut the supreme power of 
the age was iliat of Englishmen in a ^p ; then happened the first 



I 
I 

I 



SkaMtspeare as HUlory. 



123 



I 



aBempt to colonise, the issue of ibe firat Englbli newspaper, 
" Holinshcd," "The Faerie Queeiie," and other books of lasting 
value ; Giordano Bruno paid hi.1 visit and the foundera of English 
Diama b«^n their work. The fear of Alen^on's marringc vrith the 
Queen was folloired by his treachery at Anlwcrp, hi? death, the 
formation of the " I-igue," the murder of Cuiso and of Hcni^* III,, 
Henry IV.'s accession. Cair Iran, I^-iccsli-r, and Sidney died, 
William of Orar^e was assastJnntc-d, plotting against Elizabeth 
was continuous, including Unbington's, wbidi led, before this 
period was closed, to his snd Maiy Stuart's trial and execution, 
and lo the Armada. Under such conditions "he is but a 
bastard to the time that doth not smack of observation." The 
political badtgrounds to "Love's Labour's LoM" and to "Th« 
Merchant of Venice" are well known; so in "Othello" the back- 
ground is the war against the Turk, familiar to a generation to 
wtram the defence of Malta was an event of yesterday. In 1596 
Ralegh rettimcd from exploring the Orinoco, and soon alicr FalstaR' 
was hoping that Mrs. I'ord would prove " a region in Guiana, all 
gold and bounty " for him. ^Vhen the wcll-bom bastard in "King 
John," one of a scries, came on the stage, an adventurer was finding 
favour at Madrid as the son of Queen Elizabeth and Ijciccstcr, and 
a late viceroy of the Low Countries had had an emperor and a 
washerwoman for parents. The same play receives double meaning 
from the fact that it was written whcti {1595) another, mightier 
Armada was eicpected. In that year died Amnrath JIL, who began 
his reign by killing his brothers, to which Henry V, alludes in re- 
■ssurir^ his brothers, fearful at his accession — " Not Amurath an 
Amorath succeeds, But Hany Harry "—just as his entry into 
IxKtdon after Agincourt is compared (1599)10 that Essex might 
enjoy if he came victorious from Ireland. Ireland appears a mere 
Und of *' gallow.gUss and kom," half-beast, halfenemy; Scotland, 
in the earlier plays hostile, is, after 1603, civilised, furnished with 
kings, assassins, ^ic«, and women of splendid mind. Wales seems 
now a place on the way lo Iteliind, now borderland bcl»rirt earth 
and fecril-, inhabited always by turbulent hununtty whose English 
bears an accent which still survives. 

Leaving details for forces; why is "Cymbclinc" so named? 
Because, like " King Lear," it is among the historical plays, witnesses 
to tl>e people's share in ih.-it interest in their poiit so deeply attractive 
to the scholars of the day. Again ; Machbvellism entheoriied 
dqilomatists' practice, and Engbnd owed much of her safety to the 
dBciency of her spy^yttcro, which, begun by Cromwell, had been 

K3 




Tk€ Gtntiemads Magtuiiu. 



perfected bjr tfast greU qitlrpbc Ptototant Jecuit, Walsifl;^hain ' 
Seji Uljnei to Achilles :— 

Tte pawitaicc tint'* io ■ nuiihl sUir 

nnd* faouow m the naeoHiFntaHivi deep*, 
Keq» pbtt «U dmihil, >»< •■MM Hkt dw fadi 
Docs ibovflMi M*al to tbfn ^ab oadlci. 
Tlwra it ■ ajMoTi with when idaBcn 
Mm iw*** neddk in Ux «>b1 o^ «^e i 

TiMit bM^ at pta en (he niraMrc 10 1 
AH dw coM M oe thai jim hit« lud alth Ttojr 
At pofccdf teMnu rout*. M7 lonL 

Under tbc PluagcncU grew ihe theory of kir^' <livine right 
which the bousei of Vofk and Tudor practised ; the privileges used 
by tbc Long Parliament were gained under Lancastrian nilcrs. 
Eliabeth's reign was tbns a transition period like Richard IL'x, but, 
owing to the cooviDoed desire for peace and to the sympathy 
between the people and the queen who had been at their haul while 
they worked their way Irom ruin to weUare, without revoiutioa 
Yet the Commons were growing resolved to share in the goremment ; 
at every tession the queen ordered them to absuin from debate on 
ihe Eucccwion and on religion ; at e^-ery setvon she was disobc)'cd, 
and her misdeeds finally attacked so forcibly that breakable promises 
was Iter only refuge. In Shakeapeare we find equal in&iuence on 
the temi-divinity of kingship and on the humanity of its liolders, 
on the need for kings and strot^ ones, on their ccaselcu responsibility 
and on tbc dangers of supremacy to daractcr : it is Claudius, tlie 
incestuous murderer, who is careless of danger because " divinity 
doth hedge a king." If tlw "Richard 11." whkh Essex, wishing to 
imitate Botingbroke, had acted to prepare tbc Londoners to support 
him, was Shakespeare's play, it was ill chosen, exemplifying, as it 
docs, the idea, which occurs more oAcn in his ]>lois and words tlian 
any other idea, and which, its truth never doubted, grows into 
knowledge near hb life's end:- - 

If I oonld find eumplc 
Of (hoUMLiMk thil Iixl itrack auoinled king) 
And Aouiiihed aArr, I'd not ilo'i i bat nncc 
Nlt tirnsi nni >lon« not patchmcnl bcMi nol on« 
L<1 rilbny itwlf fofsiv«it'l. 

The miseries of rebellion were evident, apart from past history, 
in the state of the four nearest countries, two of which were in that 
state habitually, the other two during most of ihe period. England 



Shakespeare as History. 

was secure from such through this atlitudc of tho middlc-cUss, 
Shakespeare's membership of wliich by birth and wishes is as 
evident in his stage politics as in the contempt be s)iows for tlK 
mob, even vfhilc sympathising, sts a man, with iu units. The 
Tudofs, making the middle-class the core of the nation, were repaid 
with vigoToas patriottsm. Patriotism then meant more than " drinks " 
and shouting: it implied continuous fighting for existence as a 
nation. Ever)'onc knew it, Shakespeare most surely, who, convinced, 
how justl}' the Spant.sh State Papers ba^e shown, that nothing; finally 
could imperil it but such "subject-enemies" as Henry V. had lo 
deal Willi, raised, by sheer greatness of feeling, that narrowest virtue 
nto a faiili worth boldinK. 



III. 

But to human beings tlic history most important is tbat oi the 
huDoan mind : political and social arc but manifesutions of it. 

All European thought is akin to one or other of two systems, 
Greek or Hebrew. Nearly 3,000 years ago the latter was at its best, 
the former 500 years later; 500 years more, and both were dying, 
both about to be reborn, the one on an intellectual basis through 
Phito and I'lotinus, the otlicr on a moral, through Jesus. Their 
foUowcTs fought ; the pagans lost ; for about ten centuries European 
thought was merged in Christian theology. Then, owing to the 
decay inseparable from foimalisation and to the attractions of pa^n 
life tnadc known by the revival of learning, men were feeling that 
the Papacy Itad departed from the Iliblc greatly for the worse, and 
that there was more in life than either spoke of. Over aac by acre 
tlie fcvling .spread, till all were longing cither to return to the Bible 
ot to piit it aside, to choose the Hebrew or the Hellenic view of life. 
To the Jew, man's nature was evil; to yield to it was lo be pursued 
by an inevitable Vengeance ; in obedience to this lay the only guilt- 
leu \<vt. To the Greek there was neithci good nor evil ; no desire 
was to be uprooted, but all to be trained ; harmony was their aim, 
beauty their hearts' desire, and their hununity their [>ridc. Neither 
view had originally been known to the Englisli. Formed by one 
race thrice invading, they had felt ito foreign influence except tlint 
brought by the third band, the dying away of which during 500 
j-cars in as island left the common cluractcristics dominant. What 
they had been, such they kept, shaped in fights with sea and earth 
and merv. E«nly dcvdoped, rating tKcessaries before other tilings, 
tnota] rather than rcligioos, intellectual whetKver intelligent, ener^tic 



126 



The GeHtlematCs Magaeine. 



to brutality, tntlti-loving^ adf-conftdent, slow to change. Such « 
chancter, ulert through tiie «Abrt mode in purging the church, both 
tendencies of the time were suited to expand ; that they did bo we 
know, dcarlicst from Shakespeare. 

Resemblances between the Greek drauutists and him have often 
been noted ; of words and phrases, of " Macbeth " to the Orestean 
trilogy, of Margaret in " Richard IIL," his addition to the old pity, 
to a Greek chorus, of " Alcestis "■ to *' A Winter's Tale"; the pkrt- 
coiutruction with the cnsis in the middle is common to both, and 
the best criticism on Sophocles, "who saw life steadily and saw it 
whole," applies exactly to Shakespeare. In creating cliantctcr he 
stands supreme, " the interest in Uie plot it always on account of 
the characters, not vitt unS, ai in almoKt all other writers," most 
expressive of the Elizabethan Englishman's joy in individual life ; is 
he not there in harmony with the people to whom man was " the 
measure of all " ? And this independence was trebled, not only by 
the discoveries whereby men found the world both doubled and yet 
shrunk from creation's centre to a speck in one universe and the 
world of thought enlarged as much as the material world diminished, 
but also by the Hebrew-minded Luther's forcing each one lo judge 
for himself about the All-Important. 

Sine, he Ihil made us with such k^ diicauiKe, 
Ijsaking before >nd »llci| gnre lu not 
TbM capaliility and god-tike tttaoa 
Tq fiut in us unused. 

Greek self-trust mingles there with scepticism and faitb, the 
extremes of which alternated in the Jew. " Hamlet " is indeed 
"Job" rewritten; yet we read in it: "What a piece of woik is 
man ! how noble in reason 1 how infinite in faculty t in form ai»d 
moving how express and admirable I in action how like an angel ! 
in apprehension bow like a god 1 tlie beauty of the world I the 
paragon of animals "i " Miranda adding: " How beauteous mankind 
is ! O brave new world Thitt has such people in't I " though through 
"The Tempest" runs, like ihc PUgtims' song through "Tann- 
bauser," the call lo 

[Icut-tocnTiT, and a cicu life etuuing. 

Even in the titles is the same duality: "As You Like It." and 
" Measure for Measure." 

There was a resolve, however, like Leonato's, to be "flesh and 
blood." Hence sprung, Saxon grossness helping, that lock ol 
reticence which distinguishes their ways from ours even more than 



Shakespeare as History. 



"7 



their openness of affcaion between niui and man. &find and bodjr, 
ndlber aeemcd shameful to tbcm ; feding was stronger then, cod- 
venttons more questioned, than in most ages, and in any age 
conventions arc but trifles to feding deep as Lear's or IxKinCes' ; so 
to reproduce such feeling needs an author and an audience lo whom 
ihou^t sad the expression of it are to be limited by their pos- 
sibilities aloDC. Apart, then, from the filthy drivel inserted in tbe 
plays by "the pitiful ambition of the fool that uses it," the inde* 
ccndes there arc mostly such as justify themselves, and arc, besides, 
essentially historical. Decency and great books tarcly go together ; 
they don't in the " Commcdia," nor " Wilhelm Meister," nor the 
BiUc, least of all in the best <£. all, the book of Nature. 

Another feeling of theirs, wealtcr amongst us than amongst 

fourth century Athenians, equally the result of that vividness of 

uman life which aUo causes the terrific swiftness of the action in 

"Romeo and Juliet" and "OtbcUo," is their passionate bate of 

death: 

To i3xe, knd f^o nc know Dol wiwre ; 
To lie in cold obatiuuion, uid to rot i 
Thu lennUe aano motion la become 
AknMdtdcUid . . . 

'Tis too horrible ! 
The wtAiicat and moil lo*th«d woitdly life 
That a(^ adiCi pcnniy, and iiuprlMinmcnt 
CiA Iqr Ml DUwc ti a puadite 
To whsi we U»a of AxaA,; 

I drc*d whose base ludicrous side is seen in the tales about Queen 
Eliabeth when old forbidding, for cxattipic, the use of "cotlin" 
14 a synonym for "pie-crust." Prospero's poetical non-belief, and 
other such " thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls," agree rather 
with the vagueness of Greek ideas of a future life, or the Hebrew 
lack of any, than with tbe Christian hope. Disbelief makes grow 
the gloom of the gloomy, the vigour of the vigorous : thus was 
sympathy with the Jewish preacher's " Wlialsocvcr thy hand findetb 
to do, do it with thy might ; for there is no work, nor device, nor 
knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou gocsl," tightened 
and broadened into a great love of action till death was almost 
forgotten in the sense of tbe glory of life. Egmont thinks tn prison, 
" Ich bore auf zu leben \ aber ich habe gelebi," and Edgar, hopeful in 
misery — 

WotU, world, O world 
But ih*t thjr itrui^ uuitaiioat imkc ua hale thee 
Lifc wovM not ptld lo >gc.- 



138 



The GetUieman's Magatine. 



Between these two extremes might, anJ did, exist an outlook of 
genial breadth, lubmilting to reverence, " that angel of the vorld," 
as Bclarius calls it, and akin to that linn, sweetly sane motality 
which Plato shares with St. John. Us triumph is in the latest plays \ j 
whence its firmness, the outcome from the experience of all vice I 
which informs the tragedies. His contemporaries' thoroughness in 
fidlomng vice b icvcaied in the thoroughness of his probing, moiit 
|Mtilesa when directed, aa in '* Timon," into sensuality and love of 
money, the immediate pcrvcr&ions of our two root-instincts of self- 
reproduction and of M;If- preservation. But litis criticism of life, 
whidi inspires " Cymbclinc " wholly, is present throughout, always \ 
growing ; how subversive of all irreverence, orttiodox and oiher- 
wise, is the meditation of old I^feu : "They say miracles arc povt ; 
and we have our philosophical persons, to make modem and famitiaij 
things supcmatuml and causeless. Hence is it that we make triRcs ' 
of terrors ; ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we 
should submit ourselves to an unknown fear." 

Changed, however, as the Saxon mind was by foreign inSucnces, 
they did not nibdue, but nourished it And that because of its 
affinity to tbcn, wherefore, b>' being so nourished, it became no 
but all the more itself, all the more effectually since, like Shakes; 
unconsciou.sly. In some ways the Saxon Renascence is mere e^'Olu* 
tion. Amid daily fighting with llie elements the race had become 
wliat it was, and no one can read Shakespeare without being strucJc 
by his habit of ascribing to thent sympathy with human affairs , 
never did their thought rise higher than when, dramatising a talc' 
that arose from a storm-myth, he portrays I^ear as he 

Siriva in hu liiOt woiUt of mui to out-tcotn 
The lo-uid-lio cunfllcting wind and tsio. 

Similarly typical is it that by him ftrst should humour be shown to 
be of the essence of poetry, while their serious love of music was 
inherited from those Germans to whom the consonance or otherwise 
of their shields and spears predicted victory or defeat. But their 
chief heritage was that honour for women which seemed so note- 
worthy to Tacitus. " England," said a foreigner, " is tli« ijaradiie of 
niantcd women ;" the whole of " Euphues," a sure autltority here^ 
conflrms it ; but Shakespeare manifests not their position only, hut 
the expansion of character also resulting from and causing it. 
Christianity, in civilising barbarism, taught no higher ideal of 
womanhood : submission was all its counsel to them. Two occupa* 
tions only seemed worthy — war and prayer j in the one women had 



Ska^spean as f/ishry. 



129 



no shju^ in the otbci %'cr>- little. Knights were taught to defend 
them and to be chiLStc because the implied Bclf-denia] wa» holy, the 
principle being that on whidi MacauJajr based the Puriuns' di&likc 
to Ixiar- bailing. Where peace crept in, as among the Albigcois, 
culture, heresy, and honour towards wonieti arose together, but 
ptactically all llie tendency towards the latter allied itself with the 
ot-eTgrowlh of Madonna- worship, the beneficence of which Mr. 
KuHkin lus defined in " I'ors Clavigera " (letter 41) u-iih enthusiastic 
exactness. But among the right nation at the right time the 
" Vitgin-Moiher " was supphtnted by the "Virgin-Queen," whose 
eagerness for peace procured that Surrey's lines to his wife should 
not be an inelTectual beginning, but should herald an infinite 
expansion of themsutve^ in the works of him who seemed bent 
10 excel Dante in writing " what hath not before been wiiiten of any 
woman." Dante, in this, resembles Columbus; as Columbus, 
mediacral through and through, died in the belief that Cuba was 
Asia, discovered by hitn, God's chosen servant, that the natives 
might be converted before the apjiroaching end of the world, so 
Danlc, enshrining in words the whole mcdixval spirit, unconsciously 
makes a discover)' as glorious as his countryman's. To Beatrice he 
ascribes his knowledge of things dime, and when the idcab he 
illumirutes had been tlirown away, and new ideals, infmitely broader, 
and by that greater breadth, infinitely more glorious, came to be 
expanded to their full vastncss by Shakespeare, the incarnation of 
them, it is part of this successor's woilc to illuslrale, with an 
emphasis not exceeded by the emphasis laid on any other theme, 
ttiat "to know women is to see God." 

To sura upi Just as Engbnd, thanks to the "nanwv seas," was 
: to heart with tlie European ferment without toeing overwhelmed 

it, so Shakespeare received all the unnumbered conflicting in- 
fluences around him and harmonised them. All that was felt by 
Luiber and da Vinci, by Rabelais and Burghley, Hooker and 
Montaigne, be felt, and more, for he felt the unity that lay beneath 
their differences, even to the point of utterance. To express the 
rule of this harmony which lie e^'olved is to sumntarisc the conclu- 
sion of all the striving wherewith loen then strove ; all, that is, of 
the teal history of the lime. It must needs be no common sense 
conchision ; Shakespeare, indeed, as Ben Jonson regretted, often 
neglected common sense, being guided by that uncomnion sense 
which is genius, and the essence of which the sense of beauty. 
Jits men and women are Englishmen and Englishwomen, sensitive, 
BS a body, to the ideas of the time as their creator is^ like him. 



130 Tke GtniUman's Mt^astne. 

Sttxtm, and searching, with every faculty keen, the seemiDgly cladi 
ing ideals which teach, the one, "the beauty of goodness," thi 
other, " the goodness of beauty." living so, they rise or fall ii 
character according to the degree to vbich they possess thii 
sense of beauty, embodying the harmony which Goethe phrased 
" The Beautiful ia higher than the Good ; the Beautiful includes thi 
Good." 

E. S. BATES. 



131 



THE MARRIAGES 
OF MADAME JACQUELINE. 



Wri'H the earliest dawn of the fifteenth century there came 
into the world a child whose career was to be one of the 
stonnieu aim] most eventful of that stormy and eventful era. She 
is known to hUtor^- as Jacqueline of Bavaria, Countess of Hainault 
and Holland— a predecessor of the present young Queen Wilhelouna 
of Holland. We are now only to consider Jacqueline in her married 
life ; she left i>o issue, and at her death her provinces were united 
to those of Burgundy. 

She was the daughter and heiress of \\'illiam VI. hy his wife 
Margaret, sister of John Uic Fearless, thikc of Burgundy ; but as 
Salic Law bad always prevailed in the Nethertand provinces, it was 
very doubtful if the girl would be allowed peacefully to succeed her 
£ttber. She would be supported by the Hock (Hook) party, who 
rftised the banner of Loy^ty and the Sovereign ; but abe would be 
opposed by the Kabeljauw (codfish), who posed as the champions 
of Liberty and the People^ The maniage of a sovereign or his 
heir, and especially the marringe of a female sovereign or of aii 
heiress^ is always a most momentous matter for both the ruler and 
the people ; and in the case of the young Jacqueline the safety of 
her dominions no less than her own domestic happiness hung on 
the choke of her consort. Her (athet^ sister, Isabella, was wife to 
Chailes VI., King of France, the ill-treated and insane monarch ; 
IsabdU was one of the most tiotorioutly vicious women of her day. 
To escape from the miseries of the French Court, her second son, 
John of Toaratnc, took refuge with his uncle, William, and was 
brought up at tlic Court of Hainault. As a child he was on terms 
of brotherly affection with Jacqueline, and as they both grew older 
their mutual regard grew warroer. 

Jacqueline's portraits testify to her beauty and charms. Her 
hair was of a bright brown colour, her complexion &ir and clear ; 
her features were delicate and 6nrfy cut, her nose straight, her teeth 



T3» 



Tkt GtmilaKott's Magtuim*, 



petiif. J«bo of Tonniae Dsst bne wlafmeJ binadT bippy indeed ' 
wacs tltti wOVKPf joiui^ P" cwcftflkG no irk ^^icy were numGd iX, 
VdeadeoDO, then tbe ofiitil of Hainiolt, oo August 6, 1415, the 
hi d tyoom bene Atee jtaa older ibsa tbe bnde. FoIitiaUy, this 
taioa vaseMSfUtbgdiat coold brwtdied; the Ketbertand proi-inccs 
became sllied «^ s nn^tt^ nanon, and Fiance m^bt ooosider that 
^e ad i o ipi n g isntovy beome alnxHt bei own. Tbe young couple 
paid a visit to hris— thea dttfraned bj tbe feeds of tbe Annagiiacs 
and tbe B ui g un dian< — u>d letamed soon ftfterwards to Hainault. 
A short time only ebpied wbcn, by the unexpected death of tbe 
I>atiphin, John became bar to the French throtie. Her nc«- posttioD 1 
made Jacqodbe one of Ibe fa wa o s t woneo io Ettiopc. It would 
certainly bave been right Ibu John sboalQ reside among his own 
people and tn bis own coootry, bm WilUam's pcudcoce made him 
aKKtmnrilliagtotniittbeyoaagpeofdetotbcmcrcicsofa profligaic 
Comt and a distiacted oalioa ; aiid wben a pressing invitation cauic 
that they should revisit Paris, answer nas returned that John, < 
aeconyanicd by the Count of EUnaoIt, would meet his mother at 
Compjegne: William hurried on alosc, and met labella at Senlis. 
Tbctc he told ber that she roust dismiss the Annagnacs from her I 
council and admit ilie IXtke oT Burgundy to iheni. IstbcUa angrily 
refused to do anything of the kind, and returned lo raris. Nothing 
had been settled about the Dauphin's visit to the capital; UltUami 
followed Isabella in order to speak with ha on the subject, but 
found her completely uiider the influence of the Annagnacs. A 
Eiormy intcrricw look ptaoe, which was foHowed by Hainautt's 
hurried flight back into his own territories, lest be should be 
murdered by the Armagnacs. I 

But it was John whom doatli overtook. He died suddenly, and 
of course poison was said to have done the deed, though there was 
no proof oi foul play. Thus Jacqueline was a widow, thou|b still a 
cliild. Six wcdts later William died from the bite of a dog. With 
Ilia kut breath he declared that Jacqueline must imowdiatcly marry 
again, and Mde her take her cousin John, Duke of BrabanL Much 
against her inclination she corucntt^ to the marriage ; and a dis- 
pensation from Popt Martin V. was obuined to allow the cousins I 
to contract wedlock. Hardly had it been granted when it was 
recalled. John, Bishop of Lii-ge, sumamed tbe Pitiltst, claimed to 
tK his brother William's heir ; he had gained the support of the 
Emperor Sigismond, who gave orders to the Pope. And Martin, 
whose throne was very insecure, those being the days of the Circat 
Schism, bowed to the Emperor's commands. In September, 1418, 



The Marriages oj Madame Jatqm line. 133 



I 
I 

I 



, feeling safe from the Emperor's dispteasurf, sent a message 
to John of Brabant to say that the dispensation Vi-as valid, iltc 
TCTOCalion of it having been forced from him by fear. 

Jacqueline's second husband was Vkq ycurs her junior, a feeble, 
haughty, spiteful boy, and there was not a vestige of alTcction between 
theoi. Me dismissed hi:T Hainault ladies, amused himself with other 
women, and on one occasion at least insulted his wife by the absurdly 
petty device of having empty dishes laid by way of her Easlw dinner. 
At this very time John the Pitiless was keeping her (irovinces in a 
state of war and bloodshed. At la&t idie left her unworthy husband 
and took refuge with her mother. She applied 10 her unck-, the 
Ihike of Burgundy, for assisLmco, and he sent to h<-r his eldest son, 
Philip, Count of Cbarolais, ati able and prudent ninn, stem in 
temper, though showy in attire ; his mantle was trimmed with forty 
ells of silver ribljon, and his plume was composed of sixty-two 
feathers I I'liilip had half-closed steel-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, 
and a projecting under lip ; he y3& a man of few wotds. The form 
of protcciio[i which he offered to Jacqueline was a treaty with the 
Bishop of Liirgc, very much to her disadvantage. Brabant signed it 
willingly ; Jacqueline was compelled to do so too. 

It is at this point that Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, comes 
upon the scene. One of Jacqueline's gentlemen, a Sir I^cwis 
Rohsart, h.id received knighthood from Humphrey's sword and was 
dwiuenl in praise of the English prince. This young Kobsait was 
employed by Jaciiueline on various missions. Before he could effect 
anything in her favour another t^udden death changed the face of 
affaiis. Joiin the I''ear1ess was assas.sinated at Montereau by the 
Armagnacs, and I'hilip became Duke of Burgundy- Flanders 
already belonged to him, and it was soon apparent that he aimed 
at acquiring his cousin*s dominions for hiraaelf. Her uncle had 
lieen her friend ; her cousin wns in nalily her enemy. Her public 
and her priratc life were equally unhappy. So intoterahic were 
the wrongs which she suffered from her husband, that she could 
think of, or hope for, nothing better than a divorce on the grounds 
of consanguinity. Sir Lewis Robsait came 10 tell her that Duke 
Humphrey was ready to constitute himself her champion and the 
head of the Hock parly. Her spirits rerivcd. Freed from John's 
tyranny, and under ihc care of llumphrc), she would be safe and 
happy. 

Under pretext of hunting she rode off with Robsart, got across 
the French frontier, and reached Calais, then an l^nglish town, and 
was warmly received by Humphrey, King Henry V. being at Troyes^ 



»54 



The Gentlematis Afagaztm. 



concluding a treaty with Isabella and I^ilip of Burgundy. Humphrey 
ms then in hU thirtieth year, of middle height, «ith pale blue ej'es 
and almost colourless hair, pleasant but not impressive, amiable but 
incorutant, sincere hut superficial, a patron of learning and letters, 
suspected of a leaning to Lollardy. JacqueUnc's braised but still 
susceptible heart turned trustingly to the Engli&hman, and Iw fell 
pmtnte before her charms. He a.'isured her tliat her marriage 
with John of Brabant could l)c broken, and lie was deli);hted at 
the pro$iKxt of a quarrel with Burgundy, for nhoni he had long 
cherished feelings of personal dislike. Then Humphrey conducted 
the Countess to England, where she was kindly n-ceived by the 
I^ondoners and ent<Ttained by the I/>Td Mayor, Sir Richard 
^Miiltington. 

Application was made to Manin V. that he would issue a Bull 
annulling Jacqueline's marriage with John of Brabant, but the 
Pope's position was still so insecure- that he feared to act in any 
way which might bring upon him the displeasure of any potentate. 
Benedict XIII., the anti-pope of the moment, had not relinquished 
his claim to be recognised as Soi-creign PontilI| and Martin's scat 
stilt iTcmbled beneath him. 

When tlie liLir to the English throne was bom, Jacqueline held 
the infant at the font, as proxy for his godmother. Queen Isabella. 
Shortly aflerward-i the child hccame Henry VI., for his father died 
unexpectedly at the Bois dc Vinconncs, By this demise Henry VI. 
became heir to the King of Trance, and the Duke of Gloucester 
became Regent of ICngland. He was now most anxious to man; 
Jacqueline, and to beoomc the ruler of her provinces ; she was 
equally anxious to marry him. But no decinon was sent from 
Rome. 

Then a new and most unfortunate idea stitK-lc ihcm. There 
were two popes ; and if the one pope would not help tlnan, perhaps 
the other would. A secret envoy, carrying h;indsomc presents, was 
sent to Benedict XIII., with instructions to obtain from him tlic 
desired Bull. It vats considered certain that Martin would in the 
end do as they wished, and if they called Benedict's document 
merely the " pnpnl decision," no harm could arise ftoro tlte tempo- 
rary use of it. Martin would confirm it later on. Benedict, flat- 
tered at being recognised as Sovereign Pontiff, fell into tlie trap, 
and at once issued the Bui). Probably neither he nor Martin knew 
that a trick was being played. On October 21 Charles VI. closed 
his miserable life ; two kings were procbimed in France, orvc was the 
Dauphin, now Charles MI., the other was Uie baby, Hcoiy VL of 



The Marriages of Afaaame fatquelme. 135 



I 
I 



N 



Engitiid. The Duke of Bedford wu made Regent of Trance. On 
October 30 Humphrey and Jacqueline were qniclly married in West 
minster Abbc}-. The secret concerning the Bull became known, 
and all Europe vas scandalised. Th« newly-married couple left 
London suddenly, and reached Hainault before Philip of Burgundy 
knew that they lud crossed the Channel 'I'he people received their 
Countess with open arms ; but Philip made it knovm that he looked 
on Humphrey lu a traitor and n rebel to the Church. The wars 
in the Netbetbnds were renewed. Hocks and K.-ibclj.auirs, Braban* 
tines, Burgundians, and Knglish slaughtering each other. In the 
spirit of the times nothing but single combat would satisfy Philip 
and Htimphicy ; they agreed to a duel on St. George's Day, April 23. 
But Bedford wrote that intriguet were being formed against the 
Regent of England, and that only Humphrey's presence could put a 
stop to them. He set off for England. By this time Jacqueline 
was awaie that her new huslnnd had long been attached to Eleanor 
Cobham, niece of Lord Cobham, who had l>oen executed for trea-wn 
)tnd heresy ; she guessed that Humphrey's visit lo England was 
undertaken partly because he hoped to be able to protect Eleanor 
&nd her property. As joon as Humphrey had deparletl, after declar- 
ing that he would return in time for the duel, Philip took possession 
of Hainautt in the name of the Duke of Brabant, who, as Jacque- 
line's husband, claimed Iter territoncs. Terrible encounters and 
carnage drenched her provinces with blood. She wrote a most 
pathetic letter to Humphrey entreating him to come and help her. 
It is probable that the letter was intercepted. 'Hien it was declared 
that the duel could not take place, l-inally, Martin V. gave his 
judgment that Jacqudine was Brabant's lawful wife, and that even if 
he were to die she could never marry Humphrey. Her whole Ufc 
seemed crushed at one blow. 

She sanendered to Philip, who sent her as a prisoner to Ghent 
Every hope was shattered ; yet &he was but twenty-five years of age. 
This harsh treatment of a young princess roused the spirit of l^r 
friends;. It was rumoured that Humphrey with twenty thousand men, 
and the King of Scotland with eight thousand, were on their way to 
rescue her. lu reply to this Brabant sent a message to Philip that 
he might take on him the govcmmciii of I lolUnd and Zccland ; 
only Hainault remaiiwd, even nominally, under Jacqueline's rule, 
Crvslxd as slie wa.1, her noble spirit did not quite fail her; shi: 
found means to escape from Ghent, assisted by one faithful servanL 
On August 31, r 4 15, Jacqueline and her maid in male attire managed 
to leave the town, and, with a small retinue, and after fotn- days of 



136 



The Gentlematis Magasine. 



riding, utived taStAf at the Casde of Byanen. There good newi 
a<rait«d her ; John the I^tileu was dead— poisoned, some said, bjr 
order of Jacqueline's ntoiher.Ilifargarct, but of course there was no proot 
ofiucha minder. John of Bavaiia bad named Philip of Burgundy 
his hdr. Fresh contests ensued. Friends flocked around Jacque- 
line, and in an encounter with the Burgundians she was victorious. 
This was much to Iter, for she thought that her reviving prospcttty 
would bring Humphrey to her side once more. She persisted Ja 
n-gatding herself as Humptirey's wife ; for had not Martin hiinielf 
once dci:larcd tttai she could tKii inari)' John ? But her advanla^tcs 
did not last long. 1'he Hoeks came to her banner, but the Kabel- 
jaaws Joined the Burgundians; and Pliili|> liad more money titan 
JacqtKlinc, and his troops were better traint;d than hers. Still, bcr 
trouragc was kept up wh^n a letter came from Humphrey lo say l)ut 
he was on hb way with succour for her. On tlie other hand, Philip 
had many powerful supporters, wnoi^ others the imponant family 
of ihc Van Borselcn. 

English troops under Lord FiuWalter met with Pliilip's men 
near Brouwcrshavcn ; it is said that six thousand English and Hoeks 
were killed. Philip's victory was ruinous to Jacqueline's cause. He 
and John of Brabant were leagued against her, and Humplirey 
could not, or, at least, did not, help her. He acquiesced in the 
Pope's decision ; Jacqueline w.^t left in a sort of jtoveny-siricken 
liberty, and resided cliieflyat (loiida. Humphrey came to ber no 
more ; he married his mistress the l>eautiful and unscntpulous 
Klcanor Cobham, who thencefunt'ard ruled him as she chose. 

On April 14, 141;, John of Brabant died, a^er a short illness. 
His dtrath made Jacqueline once more miMrcss of herself and licr 
lands. But a large numlicr of her most eminent opponents decided 
that Philip should retain his suzerainty, and she and her party were 
not strong enough ior»iKt him. He look a firm position on the old 
ground that a woman could not own land ; and he also proclaimed 
publicly that her marriage with Humpbrt-y n-as null. A few yevt 
pm'iously the English Crown and the CngU.>h Parlbment h»d 
recognised her as the lawful Ductieta of Gloucester. 'I'he women of 
London now made a public demon^tmlion in her favour; one 
Mistrets Stckcs headed a procession which went in vans to the 
House of l/>Tds and demanded that Hum]>hrcy should be sent back 
to his wife, 'Hie aflair WIS disturbing but futile, Humphrey's wife 
now was Eleanor, and he did not go back to Jacqueline. With the 
unhappy Countess matters went from bad lo worse ; the Hoeks and 
the Kabeljauws were still at war ; murder and massacre darVeiied 



^^H Tht Marriages of Madame Jacqueline. 137 

tbc Und ; j2C<]uclioe, weary and worn, remained witb a few 
adbeients within the walls of Gouda. Ilcr final surrender was made 
in tbe spring of 1418; Philip took over all her territory, leaving het 
cnljr berfbnnal Ittics and the revenues of the foiests of Holland; she 
WW obliged to make a promUe that the would not contract another 
mafriage without the consent of the States and of Philip. A Council 
oT Regency was to be appocntod, of which she might name three 
noembers. When she asked who was to be Siadtholder and Presi- 
dent of the Council, Phih'p replied that he li&d chosen Frank \Ui 

^^onelen. " My deducd enemy I " said Jacqueline. 

Tet Van Borsdcn was a man on whom nature and fortune had 
l>eslowed their best gifts. He possessird a tall and knightly figure, 
a brave and sympathetic heart, and a libera) spirit ; he was awcalthy 
man ; he was one of tlte chiefs of the Kabcljauw party. 

Philip required llut Jacqueline should publicly announce her 

I own dcfcitt ; he made her travel with him through her ptovincca, 
cvcT)-wlKrc proclaiming that she had placed the gorcnuncnt in his 
hands and that he was her heir. At times her girlish excitement 
made her almost gay for tbc moment, and Philip thought that he 
lud achieved his object ¥nlh great ease. The only person who 
resolutely opposed all bis doings was the Dou-ager Countess Mar- 
garet; but her inilticnce with her daughter and with t)ie people was 
small, ar)d Philip was not mudi afraid of her. From this time forward 
Jacqueline's name does not appear in Uie history of Europe, and the 
later yean of her life are chronicled only in the annals of her 
own country. She took up lier abode at Goes, near Flushing, 
in an old and dismantled castle which had belonged to the Van 
Borseic" family before they rerolted against the Counts of Hainaull. 
Here * qucline lived in honest poverty with a few old friends, such 
as hex raiihful and aged ttcaEurcr, ^Villiam van Bye, scning her to 
the best of their ability. Frank van Borsclen was her custodian, 
and supplied her needs as far as be could. 

No gaoler could be more courteous than tlie stem Frank. 'I'he 
first lime that slie came to his castle of St Iklartinsdyck it was for 
the purpose of being present at a cosily banquet. On cnlcring tbe 
dining-hall »h<: saw that the usual wall decorations of tapestry were 
absent, and their place supplied with green willow branches, among 
which appeared everywhere the letter D. When Jacqueline en- 
quired what this meant, Frank van Borselen rephed that the D 
meant Dienst (service); " Dienst en wodcr Dicnst," or " More and 
more service." Now the Dutch for willow is wUs, and the Dutch 
for wiiUng is mWg \ therefore the whole " conceit " ran thus ; " Mwc 

^_ VOL. CCXCII. KO. 3034. ^ 



138 



Th4 Genl/etnem's MagastHt. 



and more wiUing service to tny pnnc£$»." She couUl not fail to be 
touched by such courtesies ; and soon she forgot that slve was the 
head of the Hocks, iu>d he the leader of the Kabcljaun-s. 

Whil« Jacqueline was liring a very lonely life at TIk Hague the 

Counteu Dowager bethought henclf to send a jnesent to the 

daughter of whom »Ik saw so little. Quite as a novetly came gifts 

of fine horsn, rich gannenin, sitrer goblets, and so fonh. Hut when 

llic messengers were about to d<.-part homewards Jacqueline could 

not let then) go empty-handed, and she had nothing to give them. 

In ibis cattreniiiy she allowed Van Bye to appeal to Frank van 

fionolen, who tctumed woid that she might dispose of him and of 

his goods according to her pleasure After many such kindnesses 

Jacqueline remarked one day that she could never repay her debu 

to him, unless it were by foifciting herself. He had already 

]>eiceive<] their mutual inclination, and from that day forth ibey 

began prii-ately to discuss the possibility of marriage: She was 

bound by her oath to Philip not to marry without his consent, and 

certainly he would never consent to her marriage with bii own 

adherent, tlie Stadtholder, the gaoler wliom he had placed over her. 

Love laughs at treaties. Frank and Jacqueline were privately 

wedded in the year 143a. Philip soon came to know what had 

taken place. He said little, but laid his plans. He paid her a visit 

at 'F!ic Hague. One crcning after supper, when the Udics had 

retired, Philip desired to speak in private with the Stadtholder. Frank 

was seized by the captain of a coveted bark, gagged, and carried 

10 the boat, and conveyed prisoner to Rupelmondc, on the Scheldt. 

The Governor of Kupclmonde was an old friend of Frank's, 

named De Lannoy, who did everything in his power to sofien the 

pains of his prisoner's position. They often played chess together, 

and were thus pas:iing the time when a letter arrived from Philip 

ordering that Frank should at once be put to death. Uc L.annoy 

recoiled from the task. He devised a scheme by which Re hoped to 

«a\-c his friend's life. ^Vhen all was (juict in the fort he led Frank 

down into a deep dungeon, where he shut him up with warm 

coverings and provisions enough for several days. Next day be 

announced that Van Borselen had "taken his own life"— an exprec. 

sion always undorstood to imply private murder of a prisoner. A 

coffin filled with rubbish was duly buiicd, and then De Lannoy went 

to Ihe Hague and informed Philip that his commands had been 

obeyed. Philip seemed much distressed, and confessed that he 

repented of having ordered \'an Borselen's execution. Whereupon 

the CoTcmor told what he had done, and Philip showed great gladneo. 



I 



Tk4 Marriages of Madame J mqueliat. 139 

De Lannoy returned to Rupelmonde, but was afraid to release 
Van Borselen at once. He must await further instructions. Then 
appeared s messenger from Jacqueline demanding that Frank should 
b« iuuntly set at liberty, or she would attack the castle. Her 
orden were not obeyed. Burgundy hiinself arrived with troops, and 
she feared for her husband's life. Through the whole night she 
stood on the deck of her \'cssel, hoping for some sign from Frank. 
In the morning she sent to Philip to say that she would obey him in 
every particular if he would re&lorc her husband to her. Philip 
ordered that Franl:, still in duins, should be led to a window from 
which he could sec Jacqueline and speak to her. At the first sight 
of him she sprang from the vessel to the shore and rushed into the 
cftttte. 

A freA treaty with Philip allowed Jacqueline to keep her 
husband, but on condition that she retired into private life Broken 
in health, crushed in spirit, she could hardly desire anything else. 
During a couple of years she lived quietly, with Frank e%'cr at her 
nde. Her days were numbered ; only a few months of quick 
decline, and then, on October 9, 1436, slic died at Teitingen, aged 
thirty-six. Her remains were laid to rest in the Chapel of St. Marj; 
at the Binnenhof, the palace at The Hague. With one exception, all 
the tombs in that chapel have entirely disappeared, Jacqueline's 
among the number. 

l-'rank ran Bonelen did not remarry; bedted in 1470, full of 
years ai»d honours, and was buried at St Martinsdyck. His brandi 
of the Van Borselen family is extinct. 

r. BAVFORD HARRISON. 



\.\ 



I40 



Tht GeniUman's Magazine. 



THE SAMOVEDES. 



IN the castle of &L Michael the Archangel, on the coast or the 
White Sea, there lived tn the fcar i o&o one Onecko, or vrboni we 
told in "Piudtas his Pilgrims" that he sent mcsset^ers to 
plore ihe land to the north-cast, from whence came yeirly ilic 
Samoyedes with stores of costly furs. After a jouinc): which 
occuiued ttiem more thin a year, the messengers returned to their 
master in Archangel, and Purchat thus quotes their sur\'e>- of 
Samoycdia and its inhabitants : 

Tbey fouixt fimc* wcic iherc to b« batf ftn uiull price, tnci ihtt ertst woliti 
wu tben caxilj lo be Kotlcn, ■nd forthct that llu> people had nnl any cElic* Uil 
1t*cd lopthei la coupwiici and pMCC«tilf, ^ovctncd by tome of the uiclentcA 
■noif them. They were laaihcioiiw tn th«u feeding and lived on Ihe de«h of 
tuch beutct u they lockc, thaj they had no knawlcilg« of cam or btead, woe 
cunnini; and AilUiil trchtn, nuking Ihrir boHi of a penile and Oeiible kind of 
wowt, and that Ibrii anoiiB wcie hcadnl with (haipened itonei or fiih bona | 
with thru Ihsy kitlnl wUdc bcwlet, which arc eiCMdiiig plentiful in thoM fMits ; 
lliat ibef Mwed alw with the bona of fiahn wtving then for bmiUmi llMai Ihiead 
bttalf made of the tlncuei of certain smalt beutcs, asd m tbty HW logclbci the 
Anrn wherewith they doilhe IhemM-lvci, Ihe Fmrie iide in lummer tumtd 
outward and in winter inwirdi. They eorer theii houw* villi Ihctkinaof elkci 
u»d other nich like lesite Utile eileemed among iheoL Finally these mi llfmi ri 
of Onecko itevehed ouiouily into erery matter ud retnmed home stored willi 
tMIly furr» 

So runs one of the earliest reports of the Samoyedes, a report 
pasacd on to the Court of Muscovy by Onecio, and on the strength 
of which the Emperor " Pheodor Ev-anovide sent many capUiynes 
and gentlemen of small ahilitic among his followers " to establish 
trade with them. 

Time has written few changes north of the Arctic circle, and the 
accounts of Samoycdia given by our Eliubetlinn voyagers stands 
true to-day, so Uttle have the customs — one cannot call them manners 
—of the inhabitants chnngcd, cither for IjetCer orfoi worse. The 
sweets of idleness supply the place of passions in the north ; rwcessity 
is there, not only the mother of iinention, but the maiemal parent 
o/fill activity. "Must" is Ihe only word which is followed by 



Tlu Samoyedes, 



MI 



motioo. Chancteristics, virtues, vices— are all neguire. The fint 
four oomnandoMnts the Samoyede keeps, because they arc con- 
dudf'e to peace and coiuequeDt inactivity ; he does not break tbe 
latter six, for this requires all the energy of civilisation. Ambition — 
that motive povrer of action good or evil— is wanting ; he has no 
word to express it ; nor, indeed, do the words " vice " and " virtue " 
have place in his simple lar^uagc. He is indeed the master and the 
judge of his own actiotis. Morals are simple in the extreme ; lofty 
fligbta and lowly depths arc alike unknown, sins arc more those of 
omission Iban of commission. In the bi[icrcoId(3s, indeed, in the 
Temperate Zone) it is easier to leave undone than coda &Iurder is 
unheard of; iivdeed, the Samoycde never lights, and scarcely knom 
what theft neans. False witness he cannot bear, for be ha.<t no law 
court ; landnuirks there arc none to remove, for the tundra is common 
(oaU; deer are the only thing worth coveting, for they are the current 
coin of the tundra, and Dame Nature olTets ihem to all who will. 
Such is the moral character — if such negati^'cs can be said to compoGe 
a character — of the Samoyede. Idleness is bis real ruler, for h« has 
no mortal king, regarding his Imperial Majesty as little more than a 
tribute taker, sitting at a gmnd " receipt <^ custom " in distant 
Petersburg, afar from Samoyede eyes. If the character of the 
nonhem mu}ik be, like the Russian rivers, phlegmatic and slow, 
that of the Samoyede is stagnant and stationary. On sudi plastic 
material l-'athcr 'nme has had but little elTcct; possibly it was of too 
son a luture to rcceire any very permanent impression even from 
him. 

If the Klongolian type, with its oblique and almond eye sur- 
mounted by a heavy fold, it; siubby nose, high malar bones and 
sloping fordiead, be excepted, MalLdm, my Samoyede sen-ant, a man 
very typical of his race, was not unpleasant to look upon. A certain 
straight forwardness shows through his brown poxpittcd face, as it 
smiles sadly up at me tn memory. In height not quite live feet in 
his "pimi," or fur boots, his wife, Mara, is three inches less. True 
to their race they are dark, well-nigh black, in hair and eyes, shorter 
than the Ostiak and Zirian, although taller than thcii western cousin 
the Lapp. All four races arc singularly dc^-oid of beard and 
moustache, so roudt so that a few straight hairs cause a man to be 
remarkable and earn him a nickname, which is the more remark- 
able as their neighbours the Rusnan.t are so well endowed in this 
fc^xct. For his short suture Makrtm was well and stoutly built, 
and showed better muscle in pulling out our sledge from tbe many 
drifts into which it fell than many a heavier and larger man. 



142 



Tht Genilenians Magasine. 



The home ot the Sainoycde, be he ri<^ or poor, is ibc same in 
fonn, in skc and in material ; the Rumiant rail it " choom," but its 
turners never speak of it save is " mya." Conical in form, seven to 
nine feet high, and froni ten to twenty in drcumfcrcncc. according to 
the number of the family. A skeleton framcMOrk is made of twenty 
to forty thin poles, twenty feet lonjt, whose thick ends arc stuck into 
the snow in a circle and their thin ones lied logctbcr with a strip of 
skin. This framework is covered over, from June to the first autumn 
flXHU^ wiih strips of birch-bark, sewn together and bound round the 
edges with sinew cords, and is rendered impermeable to rain by a 
partial tanning process of steaming. In winter birch-bark is replaced 
by ft double row of firmly sewn together deer skins to protect front 
the bitter Areiic wind and cold. Baik or skins are semi up into 
strips three and a half feet wide and twenty-five in ler^th, with 
which the Samoycdc covers the framework from below upmrds, so 
that each row m'erlaps the one below it, }ust as do the slates of our 
roofs, and so pre\'enls rain or snow from penetrating. A small 
opening with a flap of hide serves as an entrance through which to 
crawl, while another where the sticks join at tlie roof forms a smoke 
vent. Teapot and kettle hang from horns fastened to the apex, 
with a great iron pot in n-hich the snow is melted over the ccntntl 
fire, whose fuel consists of driftwood and " yeora," the small creeping 
Polar birch. The raii^n ^itrt of this erection is, as maybe guested, 
its ease of reraot-al and reconstruction, for it only takes the S>n>0)'ede 
"inka" (woman) an hour to take down and pack an sictlgcs her 
house and household gods. Keep on tlic move the}- must, for a 
herd of perhaps 6ve hundred reindeer soon devours all the white 
moss of the district, and necessitates the finding of fresh 6clds and 
pastures new. 

The staple food of the Samoycdc Is reindeer flesh, to which be 
adds, when able to obtain the flour from the Russian merchant in 
exchange for deer skins, bitter rj-c bread toasted into scones on long 
slicks, or moulded round a fish and baked, together with it, on a Sat 
stone. Like the Russians, he is fond of soup, and the remains of all 
eatable thingi find their way into "yud," the great slodipot which 
hangs over ei'cr}- Samoycdc fire, and arc boiled into a soup that, tike 
the Irish, contains "both m^l and drink in one." A very good 
poiage, made from flour and meat, Gsh and snow, called " iikha," is 
stewing in every tundra home at all hours ; while the pudding most 
in demand is constructed of rye flour and blood, just as bread it 
made from flour and water. Tea, though a luxury in its way and 
ver^- dear, has long been a favourite drink, but to English tastes 



The Samoyedes. 



M3 



N 

H 



brick-tea— a mixture of tea leares and resin irhtdi the merchants pass 
off upon them— it not verr appetUif^. A porridge of wheat, buck* 
wheal, a plate of rice, bear's meat, constitute the Itixuriet ; salmon, 
nataga (^adut, /^avaga Kclreuter), and veniton the daily diet; 
while in bad seasons the flesb of dog, fox, and crcn seal is not 
despised. An unpleasant meal is that fit which the Samojrede 
deraure with iclish tbe raw flesh of the just killed deer, dipping it 
into the still warm blood, which he catches m a skin, gulping down 
small pieces at a time almost without mastication, and entirely 
without the aid of any other instrunient llian his shcath-knirc. 
Fbcing a long inch-square strip in the mouth, he holds it between 
his strong white teeth and left hand, while with the knife in his right 
he slices off, bc)-ond his nose, a length of three indies, which simply 
disappears. Face, hair, hands become smeare<) with gore ; and 
when the fire from the centre of the dark choom oasts a ruddy 
^ow thereon, then, indeed, the Samoywle is not attractive. 

As they drink their tea they soak the bread, not a bad plan 
iodeed, for it is always sour and often frozen, as around tlie fire ihey 
squat, holding each a piece of sugar between the teeth and a tea 
mug in the hand. 'I'his is the time to note the ways of the wanderer 
and learn the wisdom of the half-wild man. Hicn one may see and 
bear the belter side of his nature, maik his hospitality, kindhcarted- 
ness, k»x of children, and learn how different the Samoycde at home 
u from the same man at the fair or in t)ie Uvem. The Samoycdes 
are very fond of smoking, and when tliey visit Russian villages a 
cigaretlc b always seen between their lips ; but at home they are 
reduced to a bone pipe, and often, for want of tobacco, to birch-bark 
sbxvings to lill it. 'fbcir pipe stems are long curved tubes of bone, 
while the bowls arc luade either of deer bones or the end of walrus 
tusks. 

Tiadescant, in his " Voiag of Ambuswd," tells how *' that ni^t 
(July 1618) came aboard of our ihip a boat of Samrooyets, a mber- 
aUe people of small growth. In my judgment is that peo|)le whom 
the fixiion is foyncd of that should haw no heads, for they have short 
necks and commonly wcr their clothes over head and ihouldcrs." 

The male's outfit still consists of the malitza and sovik, two huge 
overcoats, a fur cap, and the lepti and pimi, or fur stockings and 
long boots. The malitza is a sort of sack, with sleeves and an open- 
ing for the bead. To keep the neck warm is attached a collar some 
six or seven inches broad, through which the head can pass freely. 
Rnkantsa, or mittens, are stitd>cd to the ends of the sleeves in such 
a>ay that the hands can either pass into them, or through a siit if 



144 



The GeHiUtnan's Magazin*. 



the use of the fingers is lequired, leaving the glore part hanging 
loose. 'I'he wnist is tied in vith a cord, smd the blouse half of the 
gannent is thus turned into a ttorehoose. If one gives bread — a 
ddicacy of towm — to a Samofcdc and he docs not wish to sirallowr 
it then and there, he wrigglca his ami up his vride sleeve onddepo&ils 
the gift round his waist for future reference. Tlic fur of the mahua 
beiitg inside, it is very vrami, and the skin side waterproof. Ii)'wa)-of 
trimmii^ ^hion dictates a border called the " panda," from three to 
seven inches in width, which is senn on the iMttom of the gamienL 
This is made of alternate strips of white and black fur, Iwaded by a 
narrow band of red or green cloih. The maliua is worn next the 
skin, or over a shirt or blouse called " mekot." Tlie so\ik U a Uiser 
maliba, but with the fur outside, with no pAnda, and with a suima 
or hood sewn on to the collar. It is worn over the malic^oi, but only 
during very great cold, though invariably carried about by the Samo- 
yodct on their joumeyings. Both malilza and sovik arc made from 
seven to twelve inchc? shorter than tht wearer. Thecap,"polgnou)kaL," 
is made of the skin of puizhik, or fawn, when from two to four weeks 
old ; it fits very close to the head, and has flaps made from the skin 
of the leg of the calf, two feet long, to cover the ears and tic under the 
chin. The lipti are long loose-fitting stockings, coming well abm-e 
the knee, made from the fur of the nebliuia, or fawn of from one 
and a half to two and a half months old, the fur being worn iiikide. 
Over these are the pimi or long boots, stretching well up the thighs, 
and made of the skin from the shanks of full groiAi deer, with the 
fur outside. Thc>'are sown up in longitudirvil and transverse stripes, 
tome broad and some rurrow, or brown and white with pieces of red 
or green dotli inserted between by way of ornament. No garment 
can rival the loose-fitting malitza for cold weatlier from the point 
of view of weight or warmth, no wool stocking can match the lip*i 
made of the soft skin of the young deer. 

The women wear the same head and foot coverings as the men. 
The yonditza is worn next to the skin, and coming down to the 
knees. It is made from the skin of the nebliuia, with the fur 
inside. It corresponds to the saraan, or national Ru»iat) dress, 
except that it is opened from the front. The panliza, or female 
mititsa, is made of young deer skin with the fur outside arvd trimmed 
with the fur of fox, wolf, glutton, marten, and even sable. Over 
the entire gannent, as well ns on the cap, arc stitched scraps of 
vari-coloured cloth fur, and by the number and quality of these rags 
and irimmtngs can the worldly circumstances of the ladies of 
Samoyedia be unerringly foretold. The gaudy colour displayed io 



The Samoyedes. 



"45 



aes« outer coverings calls to mmd the "Obsemtions of William 
Por^Iovc," addressed early in (lie sixteenth century tollie owners of 
hb vessel, in wbidi he recommends them to send out " Hamborough 
Lichenae-^ red, blue, and tawny," as *rcli as "coarse nonhcm dozens 
and kersie<t Norlheme dyed in Ibosc colouis, for the Samoicds 
delight altogether in thick cloth .... red and yellow would be do 
bad oommodJtie." tn addition to the fawn skin cap before described, 
the richer womt-n wear a very omamenial headgear called " cbcbak," 
made of patches of marten and white fox, which they keep for 
holidays, which occur very often in the Samoycde year, and itie 
trips to Russian villages arid their taverns nhidi conxiilute the chief 
attnction of those holidays. 11ie tiair b worn in wo long plaits 
decked with various amber and glass beads, or with pierced coin^ 
vhicb, as with us, are considered lucky, tied on with many-coloured 
cloths. The long black plaiw are never undone, for the owner 
sddofu uivdrcsses, and, having no bed, sleeps wherever E&tigue or 
drunkenness may overcome her — on snow or swamp, indoors or out. 
From tlie beginning of the forties to the eighties of the past 
century the Samoyede racc^ from one cause or another, has declined ; 
while from the eighties onwards it has increased, reaching 6,748 in 

1896 in ibc Government of Archangel alone, so that there exists in 
reality no ground for presupposing, as some do, its eventual extinc- 
tion. Emphatically heaJthy — living always in the open and invigo- 
rating air — they are long lived and little subject to disease, save 
smallpox, which is only too common, for few have been vaccinated, 
not even a " conscientious objection " being required, and conse- 
quently the same penalty is paid as our latest vaccination law seems 
prcparii^ for us. A law making vaccination compulsory, and the 
enforcement of pciulties on those who tranigress it, together with 
the supply of officers to vacdnaic free of charge, with stations at the 
Samoyede headquarters of Ness, Pcsha, and Ust Zilma, would, in a 
generation, effect boundless good. Dysentery and other forms of 
inflammation and ulceration of the mucous membrane of the intes- 
tines are the next most pre%'a]ent complaints ; opium, alas I is 
seldom among the drugs kept by the unqualified doctors of the 
viUagcs, much less by the wise men of the tundra. Rheumatism is 
very common, both chronic, articular, and acute, and I have made s 
reputation extending over many a league by mixing ammonia in the 
sea oil used in the lamps— in imitatioD of " white oils "—and vigo- 
nmsly rabbtng the limbs of sufferers. Massage, although so much 
in vogne with the Finns and Lapps, is unknown to the Samoycde. 
Scurry is common araoi^ the poorer folk of both the Russian and 



146 



The CeniUniaHs 



w. 



native nice, and the Govemraent might well nuke some experiments 
Willi (he object of proving whether the potato, onion, and other 
vcseubles could not be induced to groir a Tew degrees north of their 
present limit, nnd, if it find that they «iU not, then some system of 
imporUtioii might tx: iiicd. The wild onion {Atlittm Sehotitafraaim') 
grows u-cil up to the northern limit of forest tices, and is at times 
used, mixed with bread into n paste, by the Samoycdes, and much 
more largely by the Zirians. I'otatocs fail only about fifty mtks 
south of Mcxen, but those fifty miks make all the difference to the 
Samoyede, as there is but tittle deci'inou south of that city. The 
" maroshka," or ctoud-berry {Rubut ehamaemorui), the bilberry ( VaC' 
dnitim vitii idata\ and the blueberry {Emf'ttmm nigrvm L.) form 
tile only v<^etablc diet of t]ie nonliem nomad. 

The tundm women do more than their share of hnitl work, 
pitching chooms, harnessing deer, besides cooking, sewing, and the 
thotisand-ond-one odd jobs which fall to the lot of eren a Samoycde 
housewife. Supporters of the theory that wives should work will be 
pleased (o Icam that they look as wcit and as healthy as they do 
happy. Thcii faces arc ruddy, therein contrasting strangely with llie 
North Russian " Baha," or peasant woman, whose complexion is 
anything but rosy, owing to the atmosphere of the dwelling she «o 
seldom leaves. In ihe " Later Obscnations of William Gourdon," 
in the year 1614, wc find recorded a strange confirmation of the 
liardincss of Samo)'cdc womankind, and his statement is as true 
to-day as it was when wriitcn. "The women," he says, " be of very 
hardy nature, for at their child-bcarins the husband must play the 
pan of midwife, and, being delivered, the cliild is washed with cold 
water or snow, and the next day the woman is able to conduct her 
'argish' (uledgc)." The latter-day visitor from vrarmer regions is 
often horrified to see some small brown atom of humanity dragged 
from the overheated choom and rolled vigorously in the snow. 
Children, too, appear not to experience the many troubles which fall 
to Ihe lot of their more pampered brothers and sisters : teething, for 
instance, ihcy get over far mote easily, and a four-year-old child will 
gnaw a bone like a puppy of as many months. I'hey are, in iheir 
v«y, precocious ; a girl of five or six being well able to drive two 
deer in one of the rear sledges which form an " obose " (train of 
sledges), while her sister but a few years older will steer the 
leaders. I strove hard to master the art of throwing the " tioxey," 
or lasso, from a preceptor of nine summers, who secured the dog 
which pla>-cd the part of target far more often than his pupil A 
boy of twelve can often show a bear-skin to the credit of his flint- 




The Samoycdes. 



'47 



I 



lock, aiid at a v«iy culy age he ukcs an active part tii tlic inariiig 
of the wUloir-grousc which figure so largely in itic Sanioyedo bill of 
fiUCt It is not, therefore, surprising thai they marry young, or that 
many a btide ai>d bridcgTOom have started choom-keee^ing wh«n 
ibcy ruich their thirteenth and .ttxiecnth binhdayx. 

Syphilis hu found its way into snowland, and as no meaiurcs tiavu 
been taken to root it out it is working an evil influence on an olhcnrisc 
sound race. The rddshcrs, who take th<: place of qunlilicd medical 
men in the villages, haw for the most part served an apprenticeship 
as dressers in civil hospiuls, or while with the colours ; but, as 
they are forbidden by law to keep mercur]', they can do tittle. 
Drink, too— that curse of all half-civilised peoples, as well as of half 
the civilised— plays sad havoc with the dwellers of the tundm ; for 
it they exchange their furs, their deer " xagas " (hind-quartem), their 
willow -grouse, and the other products which constitute the mer- 
chandise of the north. Strong, ndl etifurcvd laws regulating— or. 
better ktill, forbidding— the ulc of fire-watcr to Saino)'odes, on the 
same lines as the Acts governing the North American Indians, might 
surely be introduced. Such bwj, and their strict enforcement, 
might enable and encourage these good-liearted nomads to stand 
upright in the battle of life, to earn. e%'en as their cousins the Zirians 
do, a living independently of the Kiissians, and to become self- 
reliant citttcns of the great Empire. 

'I'he question is often asked, and, by many authors, answered in 
the affinnativc, "Arc the Samoycdes very dirty?" I cannot entirely 
support the popular theory that they arc »o filthy. It has been 
stated that they never wash during the term of their natural lives, 
and do not remOTe their clothes until Nature docs so for them. It 
is not explained, however, hotv they \'ary their attire in winter and 
summer. Certainly, they do not use soap and water, for they know 
not tile fonoer ; but they do daily scrub themselves with snow, which 
reiguircs much tnore moral courage. Most of those whose hides I 
came in contact with, for the purpose of medical treatment, showed 
unmistakaUc signs of having washed nt a recent date, and many 
were veiy clean. Almost invariably they wash their liands before 
eating, and keep snow melted in the choom for that purpose. It 
Quutot be denied that their bodies do harbour a good deal of un- 
neccsMrr animal life, but in this respect they arc no whit behind 
their Kustian neighbours. The chooms — those of beggars around 
the towns excepted— are fairly clean and well swept. At tea I 
generally noticedlbe hostess wash and wipe the cups before Itanding 
them to her gwsls ; while the iron pot in which their food is stewed 



148 



The Gentleman's MagasiHe. 



is ved scraped, even though sapolio has not yet reicbed ibetr lundn 
homes. So-cral times I have had clothes mshed in melted snow, 
and when I Had explained the use of the soap which I lud brought 
witli me, found that ilic iiikas soon picked up the irajr to work. Their 
own furs they clean by beating Ihcm on the snow—a ccctbod which 
is practised and recommended by all Russian fur-dealers, who say 
that it greatly improi'cs the appearance of the goods, especially the 
glosuness of black aslrachan. 

Among not a few of the younger generation of Sanioyedes there 
it dii^cemihle a mixture of Russian blood, and indeed there is 
nothing improbable in the supposition that this blood will in time 
preponderate and the Russian type of face prevail. It will be but a 
poor consolation if, with the blood, they imbibe the rices of the Slav 
without hii virtues. A rich Samoycde, named Vinchciski, of the 
Boli^eienielskaia (or Greater I^nd) I'undra, married the daughter 
of a peasant of Mczcn, who was daulcd by the wealth of her suitor, 
for he owned nearly one thousand reindeer. Their children, with 
whom I have lodged, have a completely Russian typo of face, are 
active and enterprising, write and read well, and ha^-c become lafge 
herd owners ; but arc by no means free from one of the vices 
of their mollier's race — dishonesty, a fault unknown to the 
Samoyede. 

The relations of the Samoyede to his Government are sim[rie 
the extreme, and cortsist of little but the payeoait of a yearly poll- 
tax, called "yossak." Meetings are held, yearly, of as many 
Samoyedes as can attend, not an easy matter when it is remembered 
that each family takes with it an enormous herd of reindeer, for 
whom moss must bo found. At these a "pisar,"or scribe, is cicclcd, 
and the ways and means of assessing the tax are discussed. A 
" starshina," or elder, for each of the three Samo>'edc tribes is elected 
every three years, and the poorer members of the race always elect 
one of the richest, who by no means appreciates the honour, which 
involves collecting the tax, journeying with the "pisar " to Meien or 
Ust Tsilma to pay in the money to the Treasury, and, worst of all, 
the duty of presenting himself to the authorities in the person of the 
Ispravnik, or District Officer of Police, and the " Official in Charge of 
the .\ffairs of the Peasants." Various expenses and unpleasantnesses 
arc connected with the office, including scoldings, and possibly 
arrest, should the unfortunate starshina fail, from want of wit, in 
respect to the above-mentioned authorities. He has also to pay for 
the journey, and at the same time to hand in, out of his own pocket, 
Ihe full amount of the tax due from his entire community, afterwards 



The Samayedes. 



149 



^ 



» 



gettiitg it refunded as best he can Trom his wandering brethren, just 
as the officials of a Kossnn nlLagc commune bare to do. 

One wealthy Samofcdc elder built, at his own etpcnse, a wall 
round the graveyard or Mczen, which act of generosity so pleated 
the powers that be that ihey gave liiin a medal — t)ie Grst, I think, <:vor 
awarded to one of his race. The pi«r of the Kaninskaian Sanioycdcs 
resides at Ness, tlat of the RolshcfCineUki at Uiit T»lma ; they were 
generally of Russian descent, but of Ute the office lias been Riled by 
pure bred Sanio}'edes, who have mastered the diiScuIties of reading, 
writing, and srithmelic. Of the migratory Samoyedcs but few can 
read and write Russnn, although many can speak it imperfectly. 
Those who cannot write have generally some private mark of their 
own with which to brand their belongings, which generally consists 
of a rude monogram, in imiution of the three initial letters: the first 
is that of tl>e father's ttame, the second that of the owner, the third 
the tribe or tundra to which he belongs. 

If otily measures could be taken to educate the rising generation, 
and to potnt out the value of work and the principles of ihtift, tlie 
road would then be clear for the improvement of the race to the 
tevet of holding its own with tlie Russians who have colonised its 
territory. 

Th« archives of a Petchoran commune contain letters patent 
from ihc Czars Ivan Alexiowitx and Peter Atcxiovilch — " Sovereigns 
of All the Russias— Ibe great, the less, and (he white '' — wriitcn in 
IS>5, wherein is a strange reference to Samoycdc taxation, which 
would make one think that ei'cn then they did not have things all 
their own way. The letters tell the Governor of the Pcichora disuicl to 

ffotect tht SMDogrede ftoot all focdsn intalt, to hare foitkuUr core that no 
vfelence be done to ibev, ami enjctn that theii tnbiitc oT one ikin per iMmmui 
be paid at Puatnaei and aoc 4|«m extracted bcm them a,t Bcioowa or Mcxen, 

and, Airther, 

tbai Ibcy bare permistloa of eoUcciing thU Uibute by ihcmtclvct, in conformiiy 
W tba aecient revert; and tint there be ^nulled to them kit a tecrivcr 
whom they tbcnuelrc* wQl eboote, tb>i the said receiren of tribute oder no 
viokBcc to thcK Sunoycde people, bjr requtring or extorting from them for their 
ndhrldaal adTaaia{e anyiluog bejrood what it Imposed 00 them. 

Sgncd " Diadc {ChameBot), Ptooophd Woshidn," and '■ Sub-Db<cb Alcxd 
FctMnow." 

In tlie southernmost parts of the Kaninskaia and Timanskaia 
tundras there wander about a few families of the so-called '' forest 
Samoyodcs," who, leading quite a diffcient life from their brethren 
further north, pass all their life in the forests hunting b«ars, wolves, 



'50 



The Gettiicftian's Magasine. 



foxes, otters, glutloni, squirrels, and wild deer. Thc^ travel at timet I 
M far south as the district of Pincga. Reindeer arc by no means tbei 
main object of their existence, but ihey keep enough to take ihcir 
belongings from place to place. They pllcli their cbooms, which are 
b^r than those of tlie lundra, in glens well sheltered from the 
snoW'Kjualls, nntl there, amid tlic rustling of the trees, aru l>om i 
and pass tlieir lives. Tlteie, with nothing moving but t)tc hcisx* 
and tijrds that hav<: formL-d the one source of ibdr livctihoxl, 
Ibc)' lay them down to die. Pluck)' sportsmen, they (^ht hand-j 
to Itand with the brown bear, and olwap tuuc victors from the < 
oooflkt. 'lliey wander but little, being generally dependent upon 
some Rutuan village, where they sell thcii g^mc or exchange ii for 
powder and shot Forest life Ims a deadening influence on the 
character, causing them to be renowned for unsociableness — iiMleed, 
they seldom speak. They arc good ^ots, if the ratio of hits to 
misses be a criterion, but they seldom waste ammunition, the most 
expciuive of (undra merchandise, save upon stationary animals ; 
reminding one of the saying, " What is killed is history, but wliat 
is missed b mystery." I'bcy cannot be blamed, for they have but 
" pistchab," old and clumsy lliiil-lock.'i, which miw fire lu often as 
not. Ijirge stocks of modern rifteH have lately been iMued to tlK'm, 
as to the Russian sealers, by tlie Government of Archangel, at the 
not unreasonable price of eleven roubles (24'.), which may be paid 
in very small instalments; but they are still loih to give up the 
hard-bought weapon.t of their forefathcnt. 

Another settlement of semi-stationary Samoyedcs lies at the 
mouth of the river Kojvo, in the Kanin Peninsula, and numbers some i 
130. The source of livelihood is the uadc in walrus tusks and 
hides, white bear, and sea hare, which between the Mcien and tli« 
Kara is much in Sanioyede hajids. 

Their homes are built of wood, and from thence Ihey set out on 1 
expeditions along the coai.ls, or to the islands of KolguefT, Matv^ev, 
Dolg, and Varand. Of the walrus of these parts a quaint dcKfiption it 
given in " Rcrum Motcuviticarum Commentatii," by Harbestdn, in 
1517. " The ocean," he says, " which lies about the mouths of the 
Pelchota, to the right of the mouths of the Dwina, is said to contain 
animals of great size. Among others, there is one animal of the 
size of an OK, which the pcopLc of the country call mors. It has 
short feet, like those of a beaver ; a chest rather broad and deep] 
compared to the rest of its body, and two tusks in tlie upper jaw. 
This animal, together with other animals of its kind, on account of 
its offspring and for the sake of rest, leaves the ocean and goes in 



The Samo^Sesr 

h«td& to the nwunuios, and before yielding JUelf to the very deep 
sleep, which naturally- comes over it, sets, tike the crane, one of its 
number to keep watch. Their tusks are sold I>y weight, and arc 
described as fishes' teeth." 

Some fevr Samoyedcs have extended their knowledge of the 
world by a trip to St. Peler^bur^ thanks to a cert:tin trader of Mezen, 
who took it into his he^d to show the people of ilic capital the 
inhabitants of the extrenii; norlh of Russia, thdr dwellings and (heir 
deer, by which enterprising notion he xcrapcd up a coinforiable little 
Cftpiul of some thousands of rouhlOL Kur a wretched pittance he 
faired foe the winter two faitiiliu who were given to drink. U'ith 
the aid of their deer he carried tlicm over roads, swamps, and forests 
(reindeer find a road cverywhtrie) to St. I'etersburg, travelling by d^y 
and n^ing by night. Arrived at their destination, the authorities 
allotted them a suitable place on the Neva. There they pitched 
their chooms and, for a given sum, the curious could come and gaw: 
at tbcm, tl»cir dwelUngs, their dress, and their deer. For a higher 
pqrnkcnt people could go for a reindeer drive along the Neva. At 
oigbt the deer were driven to the neighbouring swamps and woods, 
whcic they found food and rest, and next morning others were 
driven back to town, having meanwhile, under the supervti-ion of 
one of the Samoycdes and his dogs, had time to graxe and rest. In 
lliis nay they lived till Marett, when they journeyed back to iheb- 
iiative tundra, arriving about the end of April. 

They acquired nothing for themselves by the trip ; indeed, giving 
themselves up to drink on the homeward journey, tliey lost their deer 
in ibeforest. They could console themselves, however, by lording it 
I over their brethren, and by relating tlieir experiences at " Peter," 
where they had seen ilie great au[huriti» in costly furs and )tad had 
aaiUi[Ditablusup{>lyof >'odka. Scebohm remarks (" Siberia in Asia ") 
having seen these Samoyedes in the northern capital when passing 
tlirougti on his outward joutneyto Archangel to tS74 — an unexpected 
first sight of the race he had come to study. 



CKNBST WARD IjOWRV. 



iS» 



Tkt GeniUnmn's Magasine. 



SCENT IN DOGS. 



FE\V observers arc not struck with the ocutcness of the sense of 
Gmcll in some dogs. Thcjr will follow the tnil of a rabbit or 
liare for a considerable distance ; by pure perseverance the har 
will by the scent hunt down a hare, and the bloodhound, a slavW^ 
For miles a kccn-noscd icrricr or rctiicver wiH follow up a well-known 
horse's hoof-sccnt. The pointer's marvellous powers uc familiar to 
all sportsmen. 

Now wherein lies this wonderful faculty ? Wiat is scent ? 
arc ([uedtions which meet iis at the very threshold of the inquiry.' 
Wc do not intend to naui><Mie our readers with a scientific disquisition ; 
yet such questions attr.tct the attention of all intelligent dog fsndc 
Everyone is quite familiar with many curious instances of the rcmark> 
able scent shown by some dogs. But, perhaps, no one has given 
more particular attention to this subject than Dr. G. J. Romanes, one, 
of the foremost biologists of this country. He had a remarkable 
terrier which showed the almost supernatural capabilities of the scent 
o dogs, On a bank holiday, when Regent's Park Walk, Londort, 
was literally swarming with pedestrians, who walked in all directtotts 
or lounged in conversation, Vh. Roinanev tcok his faraurite terrier 
along the densely-crowdcd walk. When the terrier's attention was , 
taken up with a strange dog— and deplorably irritating is that 
linual " forgaiiherin' "— Dr. Romanes suddenly "nwdc tracks" in 
zigug directions acro» the walk and stood upon a seat to watch hif 
four-footed friend's conduct. Leaving the strange dog from whom he 
bad got the news, the terrier found th.-it his master had not continv 
in the direction he was going when the stolen interview commcncc<L^ 
.Accordingly he went to the place where he had last seen his master, 
and then, [licking up the sccnl, he tracked his master's footsteps over| 
all the /-tgogs until he reached the scat, and looked up in pcnitenc 
at his master standing on it. Now, in order to do this, the terric 
had to distinguish his master's Uail from at leatt a hundred others^ 
quite as fresh, and many ihousatids of others not so fresh, crossing it 
at all angles. 



Seeut in Dogs:: 



'53 



\ia& there anything that came from the TootpriDts? Whit was 
the emanalkin that arose in scent whkli the dog recc^nised ? Was 
it ga.1, or matter, or what f 

I'o understand this thoroughly, let us for a minute or two consider 
the divisibility of matter, and tht; power of the smell-iensc in man. 
The ttnih part of a grain of musk will continue for ycari lo fill a 
room with its odorifcrout parttclct> and at the end of that lime will 
not be diminished in weight, when tested by the rer)- finest balana-. 
llic sixtcen-lhoutandth of a cubic inch of indigo di.'isolrcd in 
sulphuric acid can colour to an appreciable extent more than two 
gallons of water, so that it miut have been divided in the water with 
ten million risible parts. Threads of platinum have been drawn out 
to the thrcc-millionih of an incli in diameter without breaking. 
Cold leaf U beaten out to the three- hundred -thousandth of an inch 
in thickness. A soap bubble can be blown until the film is the 
twenty- five- millionth of an inch in thickness before bursting; and in 
that thicknci^ there are said to be twenty molecules of matter. This 
gives an idea of the minuteness of atoms. Vet scent depends on the 
enporation of these atoms and thdr a]>preciation by the sensitive 
oigan of smell. 

Very careful experiments ha\'c lately been made to test the 
delicacy of the sense of smeli in human beings. A scries of solutions 
of fivx different substances was prepared, each series being so arranged 
that cvciy solution was of half the strength of the preceding one. 
These scries were extended by successive dilutions till it was impossible 
to delect the odours. The order of the bottles containing these 
solutions was completely disarTai>ged, and the test consisted in the 
attempt to classiiy them by the sense of smcU nlone. An equal 
number of male and female observers were selected from the best 
apothccaties' shops, and each was required to atrangc the bottles, 'llic 
males were able to detect the smell of the nitrate of amyl in the 
solution of one part lo 783,000 of water, and the females were able 
to detect it in the solution of one part to 311,000 of water. The oil 
of wintcrgrecn was detected in about the same proportion and to the 
tame extent of dilution. There was, therefore, a very great pre- 
pondennce in fovour of the males as to tlie scnititiveness and dis. 
crimination of the sense of smell. This is ceruinly an astounding 

So acute was the sense of smell in two of the male obseiven that 

they were able to detect one pan of prussic acid in about two million 

parts of water ; and, as any of our readers can easily observe by asJcing 

a druggist to let him smell it, prusstc acid lias no very decided smcU 

vot. txxzM. Ha 3054. a 



'54 



Th« GetUleman's Magazim, 



— only a strxnge fuMtness. The sense of smell in man ha«, thcTcfc»^ 
eclipsed all chemical tcsls in the case of pniBsJc add, for the poison 
could never be detected in that solution by any chemical tests. 

ButaveryrcitiatfcablecasehasUtelycoincberDreus. Dr. Fischer 
used mercaptan and cfalorophenol as the odoriferous substance*, and 
experimented in a room of 9,000 cubic feet capacity. He dissolved 
sevcnly grains of each substance in a separate gallon of pure vatcr. 
Of the solution of one he took some drops and put them into a 
quantity of pure water. With a fine jet he directed this solution in 
a spray to all parts of the room, the air of which was subsequently 
agitated by the waving of a flag. Experimenters came in by turns 
and detected the scenu The result arrived at is simply marvellous. 
Experts were able to detect the three- hundred-millionth part of a 
grain of chlorophenol, and even a thousandth part of that quantity 
of mercaptan was distinctly rcoogni.ied. We bare here a degree 
of delicacy of the sense of smcH of which wc cannot form any 
definite ideal It is far more subtle in detective power than the 
almost fabulous power of the spectroscope in detecting the metal 
sodium in a gas flame by the peculiar yellow bands in the 
spectrum. 

A(\er knowing these facts in connection with man's power of dis- 
criminating minute particles of matter by means of the olfactor>- 
nems, «c can more easily understand tlie fine scent which the dog 
possesses, and the source of that scent. I» the dog guided by some 
distinctive smell attaching to his master's shoes, or any distinctive 
smell of his maMer*! feet, or to both these differences combined — 
both being minute particle emanations ? To solve this interesting 
problem, Dr. Romanes took a most intelligent setter-bitch, whicit he 
had had for eight years, on his shooting excursions. The animal's 
do-otion to him he had often tested most minutely, and her sense 
of smell was known to be cxccplionnlly acute. He first allowed her 
to be taken out of the kennel by some one to whom she was quite 
indifferent, who led her to an arranged apot from which the tracking 
was to commence. The spot was leeward of the kennel, and hQJS 
kept 10 leeward of the sUrting-place. The district was quite opei^' 
being the paiklands round his houw, interspersed with trees and 
shnibs, with a wall behind which he could hide to watch the expeiu 
ments. Cvety precaution was taken to ensure that (be bitdi had tol 
depend upon the sense of smell alone. Dr. Romanes first valkedl 
over the gmtilands for about a mile in his ordinary shooting-bootskB 
The instant the bitch came to the starting-pUce she broke awayf 
At full speed, and, faithfully following bis track, overtook him to a 



Scent in Dogs. 



I 



I 



few minutes. Thoi^ repealcdl)' put on the track of a stranger litiin 
^fae staning'pbcc, the animal would not foUovr him. 
V Next the bitch was taken into the gun-room, where she saw her 
master mnking ready to start for shooting. He then left the room 
and went to another part of the bouse ; but his gamekeeper left the 
houte by tlie back door, walked a certain distance, and conceiUcd 
himself. Tlie 1)itch, now howling to follow her master, vn led to 
the keeper's lacks !>/ a servant. She tracked this trail for a few 
yards, but she soon found that her master was not wiib the keeper. 
Accordinglr she hunlcd about in all directions for bcr master, but 
did not succeed in tracking him. 

Dr. Romanes then submitted his favourite to a most severe tesL 
He collected ete^'en men about the place, and directed them to walk 
close behind one another in Indian lilc, each man taking care 
to place his feet in the footprints of bis predecessor. In this pro- 
cession Br. Romanes look the lead, while the gamekeeper brought 
up the rear. A^cr walking zoo yards, he turned to tlie right, 
follnwcd by five of the men, the remainder turning at an angle to the 
left, and walking a.t liefore in single file. The two patties, thus 
formed, then walked a eon»derable distance and concealed them- 
selves. The bitch was then put upon the common track of the 
whole party. She followed thiit track with rapidity, and at fir^t 
ovenbot the point of divergence, where the band split into two 
parties ; but, quickly rccorering the track, she, without any hesita- 
tion, chose the footsteps to the right, Vet in this experiment llie 
footprints of Dr. Romanes in the common track were owrlaid by 
deveii otlKTS, and in ttie track to the right by five others. More- 
over, though it was the gamekeeper who brought up the rear and 
went to tlic left, and a.i in the absence of her master's track the 
bitch would always follow the keeper's trail (the fact of his iccnt 
being second uppcnnost in the series), the animal's aitenlion was 
never diverted fiom bcr master's trail ; for to get to him was the 
object of her desire. 

Dr. Romanes then gave bis sbooting-boots to a stranger, who 
walked with these over the park to leeward of the kennel- When 
the bitch was led to this trail, she followed the scent with the eager- 
ness usually seen when tracking her master. This was a tcmaikable 
discovery ! He next put on the stranger's boots, and walked over 
the park ; but on bang taken to this trail she would not be coaxed 
to follow tl. This was even more remarkable ! The stranger 
walked over the park barefooted ; but the bitch would not follow 
that trail. Dr. Romanes then walked ova the park in bare feet ; 



156 



Tht GttUieman's Magazine. 



the bitch roUowed this trail, but not ki eagerly as when he liad on 
his shooting-boots. She seemed always in doubt about the correct- 
ness oT the track, and seemed tenibiy put about. She followed it, 
but slowly, and with apjiarciit hesitation. 

The results of ihese experiments stimul^ited Dr. Koninncs to go 
on furlhei rnili l)i» invesii^.iiion» on the scent of dogs, in order to 
ascertain the secret of the discriminaling fucutty. He walked o\'cr 
the park in new shooting-boots ; but his very sensitive favourite 
would not follow the trail, Nest he glued a layer of stiff bmwn 
p-ipcr to t!ic soles and sides of his old shooting boots, and mllced 
over the park with Ihcm ; the setter, when led along (he trail, paid 
no attention to it, till she came to the place ivhcre, owing lo the 
brown paper being worn through at ilic heel, the boot liad touched 
the ground. Here she immediately recognised his trail, and speedily 
followed it up. 

Again Dr. Romanes walked without boots in new cotton socks ; 
but the bitch lazily followed for a time and gave up the trail. He 
then tried the woollen socks which he had been wearing all day, but 
the result was equally liad. He next altered llie experiment, by 
walking for fifty yards in his shooting -boou ; ihen walking an 
hundred yard-i in his stockings, and the nest hundred yards barc-< 
footed, 'Hie bitch followed the first part of the trail at full speed, 
and continued to run at the same rate till the end. 

Changing the experiments, he soaked his ordinary shooting-boots 
in the oil of aniseed and walked with these thu^ contamiiutcd 
over the park. Thiis strong odour did not interfere with the bitch 'i 
scent, for she ran hitn down as (juickly -as before. That is a moit 
remarkable lact ! Mow strong must the scent of the leather have 
been over that of the oil ! 

Lastly he tried some experiments on the power which the bitch 
might display of recognising his individual odour as etn.inating 
from his whole person. And he discovered to his astonishment 
that, in the absence of wind, the odour of his head diffused itself 
through the air in all directions to an amount sufficient to enable 
the setter to recognise it as his odour at a distance of two hundred 
yards. 

Dr. Romanes came to the concluNion that this setter-bitch dis- 
tinguished his trail from that of all oihcrs by the jKjculiar smell of 
his boots, and not by the particular smell of his feet. I'he exudations 
Irom his feet required to be combined with those from shoc-lcather ; 
and l>rown [laper can stop the transmission of the scent of boih. He 
also conclude 1 that the whole body of a man exhales a peculiar or 



Sceni in Dogs. 



'57 



individual odour whidi a dog On recogniie fts that or his matter 
uniid a crowd of other penons. 

Mr. W. J. Ruiscll mentions a very striking instance of the scent 
of * pup-bitch. He placed a snull piece of dog Osborne biscuit on 
the floor under the centre of a footstool, which was one foot square 
and six inches high, and standing on feet which lai^ed it one inch 
from the ground. He saturated the footstool with eau-de-Cologne, 
in ord^r to destroy as far as possible the smell of the biscuit. The 
bitch, which during the time was in another room, was brought in 
b}* anothvr person. At once &he made for the stool, evidently 
certain that the piece of biscuit was there. From this it seems that 
so odourless a substance as dr>' plain biscuit emits so much and so 
dnraclcristic a smell that it immediately qireads, even through con- 
siderable obstacles and strong odours, to a distance of several inches 
in a few seconds. 

Wc must not wonder st this nuirvellous sense of discriminating 
odours, wtien we know how keen is the scent in certain insects. If 
s \xr^in female of the moth, known by the name Safumia ear^ni, 
is shut up in a l>ox, ma1e« of the same species will trace her out for 
a mile through the partiodoured air of a wood. The infinitc-timal 
emanation from the female is powerful enough to direct the mule all 
that dtstnncv. 

Morcorer, it has been lately proved, by careful experiments, that 
the civilised man's sense of sotdl is not so acute as that of the scnii- 
savage. The aborigines of Peru can, in tlie darkest night and in 
tlte thickest woods, distinguish respectively a white man, a n^o, 
and one of their own race by the sense of smell. 

It is by tlic peculiar nnell, too, that tlic motlier ewe riect^niM;^ 
her own lambs among the hundreds tlint are gambolling on tlic 
grassy knolls. Nawic, when left alone, without aitilicial adtiltetu- 
tions, is intensely acute in the exercise of thi; panicutnr faculties 
importantly endowed ; we wonder not, then, after calm reflection — 
though wc were stitnlcd at the first realisation— that some dogs have 
such a powerful and tenacious faculty for catching scents peculiarly 
and s]>ccial1y known to them by long, instinctive training. No 
doubt many of our readers can corroborate the observations here 
recorded ; still, the ventilation of tlie conclusions arrived at nilt 
siimuiate some to pay more direct attention to the wonderful work 
of their retrievers, tenicr s . and setters, and tbcicby to value more 
than ihcy have done the excellent scnices of these faithful animals. 

;. C. H':PHKfiSON. 



158 



The CentUmans Magasitu. 



THE SCOT ABROAD. 



"A 



SCOTSMAN is never at home unless he is abroad" is a 
pat.idox which nptly vxprcssct the ubitjuity of that enter- 
privliig individual Instances could be quoted of Scotsmen wbo, 
more particulaily in the disUnt Hebrides, cting, bmpet-like, to their 
native rocks, and irill not cmigrati; even in the last resort, but these 
cases are exceptional, »nd arc the fiuit of special circuiastanccsvhjcb 
cannot here be detailed. The normal type of Scot evinces no repug- 
nance to leaving his native country for his own good and that of the 
land which receives him. On the contrary, notwithattanding his 
pre-eininent patriotism, the frequency with which he elects to bid 
farewell to Scotia's shoret in a matter of common knowledge. He 
finds "broad Scotland" too narrow for the exercise of his energy, 
and for the consummation of his ambition ; and so catHcs lioth to 
countries which feed him better, clothe him better, and aSbrd his 
ability greater scope than the land of his birth. And as he linds the 
1ntti;r too overcrOYrded to afford him the large amount of elbow- 
room which he seeks, so does he frequently find even the area of tlie 
United Kingdom loo circumscribed for his talents. And then he 
goes abroad. 

The Scot has ever been a wanderer on the face of the eATt!i. 
The word " Scot " itself is, by some auihofiiics, supposed to ni jix\ a 
" wanderer." Since the day when he crossed from Ireland and took 
possession of the country upon which he imposed both his name 
and his rule, he has been busy carrying his name and !iis rule to all 
parts of the world. The Scot who is to be found at the North Pole, 
when the latter is discovered, has become a by-word of Arcdc 
exploration. 

Strange as it may appear at the present day, tlie firit emigration 
of Scotsmen on an extensive scale was due to liatred of England. 
The hardly-earned independence of Scotland was safeguarded by the 
fiuDOtis league between that country and France, having as its basis 
mutual protection against a common foe. The lirst con^deroUe ' 
body of Scotsmen who passed over to i'rancc to fight for their ally 



The Scot Abroad. 



»59 



left ibeir native country tgirly in the Rfteenth century. John Stewut, 
Eail of Buchan, irith over 5,000 Scotsmen, fought Tor th« French 
at the Baltic of Bauj^, and mstcrially contiibutcd to the defeat of 
the English, At the Daltle of Crcv&nl, in 1434, most of the 3,000 
Scottish auxiliaries of France were slain. At Vcmcuil, in the fol- 
lowing I'car, the Scottish ranks were almost decimated, the Earls of 
Buchan and Douglas being among the sluin. Soon after this period, 
we read of tlie famous Scots Guard which for cenlurien formed tlie 
bodj^iuard of the French Kings, being honoured as no native corps 
ever was in France. Ilie exact date of its inception is unknown, 
but Hill Burton, the historian, thinks it probable that it wiu formed 
out of the remnant of th« Scot* who sur>-ivcd Vtmeuil. In any 
case it apipears certain that it became a p^rm-mcnt institution of the 
French Court under the direction of Charles VI!I. The Scots 
Guard consisted of a hundred gendarmes and two hundred archers. 
Its lint captain was John Stewart of Domlcy, who was created Lord 
of Aubigny and Marshal of France. The right of appointing the 
Conmtaitdcr of the Guard was originally vested in the reigning King 
of Scotland, but in course of time that privilege was withdrawn. 
The first Frenchman to hold Ibc command was the Count of Mont- 
gomery, the assumption apparently being tlut a Frenchman wiih 
such an obviously Scottish name would be less objectionable to the 
Giurdsroen than one with a purely French inatronymic. In course 
of time, the Scottish element was gradually eliminated from the 
Guard, until, in 1730, it did not conuin a single Scot, althoiigli it 
still retained its i»mc of " La Garde Ecossaise." The Great 
Revolution GnaUy put an end to it, with all the pomps and vanities 
of the French monarchy. 

The great nobles of Scotland, equally with ihdr less distinguished 
compatriots, found Prance of the Middle Ages to be a pleasant land, a 
land flowing with milk and honey, where Scotsmen were welcomed 
as friends, honoured as allies, and rewarded as heroes. Perhaps the 
best of them all was Bernard Stewart, Lord of Aubigny and Marahal 
of France, the " hammer " of Spain, the companion of Bayiud, and 
his rjval in lame as a pattern of chivalry. 

Scots learning found a home in France even earlier than Scots 
military prowess. As far back ae 1307, Duns Scolus was lecturer in 
the University of Paris, and subsctiucntly founded the University of 
Cologne. John Major, the historian, was a doctor of the Sorbonnc, 
and Hector Bocce published bis history of Scotland in Paris in the 
year 1536. Ceotrge Buchanan was famed throughout France as one 
of the most learned scholars in Europe ; he was a professor in the 



i6o 




The GentUmans Magazine. 



College of Si. Ilarbc, and tubtequcntly at BordcauXfwhMc Mont&Igne 
was one of his pupils. At n Inter period, Jolin Knox U found in the 
same countiy, toiling at his onr as a gnljey sUve ; vhik his colleague, 
John Craig, became profc«or of theology ai Frankfiirton-lhe-Odcr. 
Andrew Melville's name appears about the same lime u that of a 
Scot of Continental reputation. In the cigbteenlh century, tlio 
Icrd'headcd Father Inncs, of the Scots College in Pari*, made a 
great name by lib critical essay on "I'he Early Inhabitants of 
Scotbnd," a work whidi is a monument of learning nnd research. 

In iheir day, ibe Scots Colleges of Paris and Rome were centres 
to wbtcli the )'outh of Scotland repaired in large numbers, bringing 
back to their native countr>- the accumulated results of their studies, 
and thus moulding the ititcllcctual life of the Fatherland. The 
" College des Ecoa.<tat!( " in Paris is now a Ixiarding school si 
65 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. During the P'rench Revolution, the 
properly of the College, together with that of the English and Irish 
CoUeget, was seized, and the Colleges were suppressed. On the 
restoration of the Monarchy, ihe Scotch and English properties were 
placed in the hands of an administrator appointed by the Govern- 
ment, and they slill remain under the control of the Minister of 
Public Instruction, for the purpose of defraying the cost of the 
clerical education of >x)ung men chosen by the Catholic bishops of 
England and Scotland. The chapel attached to the Scots Cullt^c 
in Paris, built in 1673, is dedicated to St. Andrew. The Scots 
College in Rome, in the street of the Four Fountains, is rK>w 
devoted to the educatioit of Scottish priests, and its piesent numlict 
of students is twenly-fn-fc A Scots College, less renowned than 
those of Paris and Rome, is that at ValladoUd in S(iain. Ft is a 
purely Highland school, the students hailing from the Roman 
Catholic portion of the I^ng Island and from the «rest coast of 
InvemesR-xhirc. 

Among the Scots who, during the sixteenth century, acquired a 
notable reputation in Southern Europe, James Crichton, of Pertli- 
shtre, "the Adminbiti Crichton," stands pre-eminent. Crichton 'a 
career wa.t brief but brilliant. After amazing the half of Europe by 
his wonderful gifts, he perished at the age of twenty-two in a street 
squabble by the hands of his pupil, Mnccnzio dc Gon^aga, son of j 
his patron the Duke of Mantua. An embellished life of this 
oocious genius was written by Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty, 
an eccentric Scot of the sixteenth century, who went about the 
Continent like a roaring lion seeking to devour any uofortuiMte 
native who \-ci)lurcd to utter a disparaging word about Scotland. 



The Scot Abroail 



irrquhart's life was published in 1S99, antl very cnlcrlaining reailing 
it is. Another ScollUIi firetnird of aboui llie same pcrioil was 
Thomas Decmpster, whose hnnJ was ever on ih<; (lili of his s(Tor<l lo 
inflict condign punishment on any Continental detractor of Scotia's 
honour. Urquhan and Decmpster were men with a mission ; and 
to m«n iHth a mission moderation is unknown, and a sense of 
humour is denied. 

By means of men like Urquhan and Decmpster, the choleric 
S(»t became a by-word on the Continent. " He is a Scot, he has 
pepper in his nose," was a medieval proverb. " II est fter comme 
un CcuAKiii^'' (he is high-s]>iritcd lilcc a Scot) was, according to John 
Major, a French proverb. 

Of a dilTerent sL-ii»p was Sir James Macdoiiald, the ScoltUi 
" Man:wllii*," who flashed like a mtteor across the Continental Ay. 
Like that of Crichton, his Klar soon :«cl. He died at Rome in 1 766, 
dgcd only twenty-five, and was honoured by the I'opc with a public 
funeral, an unprecedented honour for a foreigner. 

When we turn to the North of Europe, we find the fighting Scot 
again in evidence. The Dutch wars, which secured the indepen- 
dence of the United I'rovinces, and the wars of Gustavus j\doli)hus 
oBeial opportunities to the soldiers of fortune which they were not 
slow to sciw. The original of Scott's Dugald Dalgetly was pro- 
bably Robert Munro, who wrote the " Expedition " describing the 
ads-cnturcs of the Scottish frcebnccs in the Low Countries. In 
the Dutch wars there were Scots on botli iidejt, and the ex]H.rience 
gained by the Dutch regiments— by which name the Scots who 
foi^ht for Hollaitd were known in Scotland— wa^ afterwards turned 
to good account in the Civil Wars uhich de%-asta(cd their native 
country. The great Montrose was for a short period in the ser\-ice 
of llw: Emperor of Germany ; the Leslies fought in the I-ow 
Countries; and it is supposed that Claveihousc and Mackay of 
Scaorie were comrades-in-arms in Nonhcm Europe before they 
faced one another at KilliccranVic. The ScoLs Brigade of (Gustavus 
Adolphus gained a world-wide reputation for soldierly qualities. In 
Mitchell's " Life of V\'allcnstcin " it is stated tiut in his third cani- 
Faign Gustavus had under his command, of British .-ilone, six generals, 
thirty colonels, fil^-one lieutenant- colonels, and ro,ooo men, most 
of whom were Scots. The first commander of the Scots Brigade 
Sir John Hepburn, gained the reputation of being the best soldier in 
Christendom. The brigade formed tlt« flower of the victorious 
army with which the IJon of the North protected and consolidated the 
Protestantism of Northern Europe. In more than one engagement 



l62 



The Gentkman's Magasitu. 



it nidcicd sererely. At tlic BiUle of NordUngcn, the Maduy reg^j 
nwnt of HigbUf>dcn was atinon dednulcd, after a career whic 
evned for it tbe prow) title of " The lovindbles." The defence 
Strabund by tbe HigbLtod regiment was one of the finest things i 
tbe war. Subsequent to this incident, Sir Thomas Mackcnue, 
Duscanline, brother of the second Earl of Seafortii, was govenwrl 
of Stralsund. Hit bier career in Scotland liardly bore out the mili- 
tary reputation which be acquired abroad. At the end of the 
Thirty Years' War, the remnant of the brigade entered the French | 
Krvice under Hepbum, its old coiDmandcr, and with the Bobcniian 
bandi of Sir Andrew Cray and the Scots bodyguard of tbe French 
King, became incorporated with the I-'rcnch Army under the title of 
" Le Regiment lyilebron." So gready was the regiment honoured 
that it took precedence of aU others in tbe French amy. At the'j 
present day it is represented in our own army by tbe Royal Scoti^ ' 
otherwise the Lothian Regiment, which has recently done good' 
senricc in South Africa. In the eighteenth century Ogilrie') ' 
Scottish regiment in the service of France perpetuated tbe con- 
nection between the ancient allies. One of the lieutenants of : 
the regiment was Neil Macdonald, of tbe Qanranatd branch of tliat 
warlike cbn, who fled to France widi Prince Charlie after Cultoden. 
Netl Macdonald was the £atlter of Marshal Macdonald, Duke of ' 
Tarentum, one of Napoleon's most trusted generals, who died in 
1840. 

Of tile individual Scots who ruse to high distinction in Northern 
Europe^ there arc several notable examples. One of the most strik- 
ing careen was that of James Keith, broihct of the Earl Marischal 
of Scotland, the Utter being a sharer in the good fortune which 
afterwards befel his iUusuious relative. After uking part in abortive 
Jacobite risings, Keith found his way from the Spanish scn-icc to that 
or RuRun, and finally tieeame identified with the historj' of Prussia 
and of Frederick tlie dreat. J;imes Keith yt^s, perhaps the ablest 
soldier and the most devoted scn-ant of the great king. His end was \ 
that of a soldier: he was killed nl the Ualtlc of Hoclikirche in 175S. 
To this day the memory of Field- Marshal Keith is perpetuated alike 
in his adopted country and in his native Scotland, both by means of 
montimenis and East Coast filing-boats named after him. 

\Vhai James Keith was to Prusua and Frederick the Great, 
Pauick Gordon was to Russia and Peter llie Great. After Peter 
himself, no man did more for the consolidation of the Russun 
empire than the Scou laddie who set out from his home to seek and 
lo find his fortune in the North of liuropc. He it was who destroyed 



The Scot Abroad. 



163 



be alinost sovereign power of ihe Strelitiers, the guard created by 
Ivan ihc Teniblc. and brought the great Corporations, with Novgotod 
at their head, under subjection to the Ciar. Well might his royal 
patron weep by the bedside of Ccneral Patrick Gordon during hi: 
last illness, for he bad no abler coadjutor or more faithful iiubj<:ct 
than tlie Scot who spent hb best years in bis service. 

If Patrick Gordon organised the Russian army, Samuel Greig 
practically created llic Russian navy. This Scotiiah ex-licutcnant of 
the British navy, who was lent lo Russia by the British Government, 
found the Rusnan navyasa fighting machine beneatli contempt, and 
left it a force to be reckoned uiih by Europe. Greig was chiefly 
instrumental in the acquisition of the Crimea by Russia, and the 
great fortre&s of Cronstadt b the result of his genius. Tlie son of 
the Inrerkeithing «kippcr left his mark in no uncertain manner on 
the jiagcri of Euroiieaii hi.ttory. In the war vith Sweden in \i^% he 
was the Ruaian admiral, and fought tlie great but indecisive Battle 
of Hc^bnd, where he was woundi^ dying soon afterwards from the 
eflVcts of tlw wound. 

Wit!) thcxc examples before us and others which might be quoted, 
it is not suipriM'ng that the Scot abroad was lamed as a lighter. The 
Scot, indeed, has ever been known as a pugnacious animal The lo\-c 
of fighting for fighting's sake waa an im[>ortant factor in attracting 
Scotsmen lo the Low Countries or wherever the soldier of fortune 
was wonted. Scot frequently faced Scot on Continental battlefields, 
and the stern realities of war were occasionally softened liy an 
exchar^[e of national pleasantries between the compatnols in 
ihe rival armies. When the Scotsman's sword is tcmporarriy 
beaten into a [^oughshare, his pugnacious proclivities find an outlet 
in the hundred -and -one forms of public life. Argument is his 
weapon of peace, and the Scot who cannot argue is a type which 
can only be characterised as abnormal. In ihe great talking-shop at 
Westminster, he argues SoQlhcmers off their benches, and even in 
the placid atmosphere of ecclesiastical courts his forcible dialectics 
are not infrequently a disturbing clement, The Scot'.s ability to con- 
jugate the verb " lo fight " is unquestioned. But he is ne\'erthclc5S 
CTcr willing to live at peace with all men — so long as all men agree 
with his views. 

In fields other than those of martial prowess, however, the Scot 
ocaipied a commanding place in European countries. Sir William 
I-ockhart won Dunkirk for England while his master, Oliver 
Cromwell, rode rough-shod over Scotland. AleMmdci Erskine was 
the War Minister of GusUvus Adolphus, while his compatriots 



1 64 



The GentUmaiis Ma^^fu. 



fought in tbc trendies ; Sir Alexander Mitchell, the British Ambas- 
sador to I'niwia, joked wilh Frodciick the Great while James Kciih 
worked for him ; Lord Stair represented Btiliah interests in Parw, 
while a rdlow Scot, John Law, opposed theni. Tliis ex-goldsiuilh 
of Edinburgh for a time held the destinies of France in llic 
hollow of his hand. He was one of the lx>tdest spirits who vax 
shot acroM the hori/on of the financial world. In Ihcsc days, when 
the business enteqjrisc of the American threatens to capttirc the 
commerce of the world, and when the colossal financial schemes 
which «rc hatched and consummated on Iht; other side of the 
Atlantic astonish the conservative British mind, it ii worth remember- 
ing that a Scottish adventurer of the eighteenth ccnttir)' tried n bigger 
thing titan any financier on either side of the Atltniic hu yet 
attempted. Law was the Napoleon of finance. During his brief 
spell of power he ruled France with a rod of gold. He was a shrc«(I 
company promoter on a huge scale, and were he now living would 
probably be figuring one day in Capel Court and the next day in the 
Bankruptcy Court, For \m vaulting ambition soared above the 
coTumoiiplacus of finance, and refused to \k. fettered by limitations. 
Like the military genius of Knpoleon Bonaparte, his fmandal genius 
declined tu recognise the impossible. Andy^t an attempt to convert 
all the crvditois of a great State into shareholders uf a commercial 
company, whose profits were of the most visionary character, was 
surely foredoomed to failure. Law tried it and failed. It is not 
matter for surprise that this enterprising Scotsman blinded the 
business instincts of the French people by the glamour of his scheme. 
In England the South Sea bubble— the direct outcome of I^w'.i 
project— and in Law's native country, the Daricn Sdicmc, show that 
a whole nation can easily be worked into a speculative fever. The-ise 
epidemics of financial lunacy occur periodically, and no people, least 
of all our shrewd Transatlantic cousins, are exempt from their 
devastations. The lucid intervals vary with the severity of the 
attacks and the remembrance of the cure— and the memories of 
nations in such matters arc notoriously short. It is the few who reap 
fortunes, the many who reap ruin ; but the former arc too fretjuently 
remembered when the latter arc forgotten. Law's Mississippi scheme 
failed, as it deserved to fail, because it rested upon an insecure basis. M. 
Thiers, writing on this subject, says : " Falsehood, oppression, spolia- 
tion, destractton of all fortunes : these are the ordinary results of a 
false credit soon followed by a forced credit." ^^^lcn the Mississippi 
bubble bunit, Law was ruined, and France was in the throes of a 
financial convulsion. The cx-tradesman of Edinburgh, who Ijecamc 



The Scot ^\ broad. 



165 



Compuoller-General or France, died at Venice destitute and CotgOtten 
— a pathetic f^ucc in the li>t of Si:»ts abroad. 

One practical outcome of Law's Mi-sxiiisippi sclicmc may be noted, 
and that was the formation of ihc I'rcnch East India Companyi 
which for a linic thrcJtcnid to innkc of Iiidi.:i a Ka'nch dependency, 
but ultimately colbp^d before the gt-nius of Clivc and Eyre, and 
the bravery of the British toldier. Ijiw's compauiot. Lord Stair, as 
in daty bound, o[)po5cd his plans by every diplomatic art at his 
disposal 

Bui it was in comtnerce as distinct from high finance, that the 
evpatriatcd Scot found, next to fighting, his most con(fCiiia! occupa> 
tion. He was a master alil:c in the field and the mart, his success 
in boti) departments of activity bcmg conspicuous. As early as the 
sixteenth century, lliere veie in France Scots merchants who 
imported Scotch fish, Scotch woo!, Scotch leather, Kcoidi skins, ajid 
Scotch men, sending in return to their nativ-e country- Freiicl) wines, 
French sitks French sugar, French spices, and French manners. 
And so by this reciprocity, the French acquired a liking for Scotch 
haddocks, wtiilc the Scotsman became a connoisseur of French 
ctarets ; the French woman clothed her dainty feet in Scotch leather 
— ^unncd, mayhap, from the hides of English cattle— and tite Scots 
dame made her sisters, in homespun, green with envy as she swept 
past ibem in all the gtory of her new French silk gown. In the 
Hanse ton'ns and Northern Europe generally, Scots mercltants made 
their special mark as enterprising business men. .They secured 
exceptional trading privileges, and had a consul whose duties con- 
sisted in safeguardiiij; their interests. In later times the oDice 
became a sinecure. Among its holders is found tlie name of 
John Home, the author of "Douglas," who was deprived of his 
parish by tbc kirk session for offending that austere body by his 
verses. In Sweden, a number of Scots merclianis, together with the 
remnant of the army of Gusiavus Adolphus, formed what were kngrrn 
OS the thirty-six noble Scots houses in that country. After the union 
of the Parliaments of England nnd Scotland, the Scots merchant 
pruKcs and paiy pedlars— on the Continent alike— swarmed home to 
participate in the commercial advanugcs of that measure. Their 
places in Northern Europe were Cllcd by Jews, who have ever been 
the greatest rivals of Scotsmen in commercial slirewdneas. 

As in war, diplomacy, and commerce, so in art, the Scot abroad 
ac()uired a European rcpuuiion. The naoKS of Geoi^e Jamesone, 
the great portrait painter, of AVilliam Aikman, of Gavin Hamilton, 
of Alkin Ramsay, son of the author of the "Gentle Shepherd," of 



1 66 



The Gentltnta^s Magazine. 



his pupil, David Manin, of Sir Robert Slrangc, the engraver, of 
James GibS, the architect, are all those of men who studied, worked, 
and won fame on the Continent. The last-named created a style of 
architecture previously unknown in England, an example of which 
XDK^ be seen in the church of St Marlin's-in-the- Fields. 

At ihe pr«ent day, there is little apparent evidence of the parti 
wliich Scotsmen have played in shafring the history of foreign nations. 1 
A dose examination, however, would probably reveal the fact that thfrl 
emigration to the Continent of Scotsmen at dilTcicnt epochs of their 
country's history has left traces which are even now not inconspicuous. 
France in particular offers a fcTtile field of research in thi.t direction. 
The asylum for centuries of Scot* who had found their o»-n coimlry . 
too narrow or too hot to hold ihcni, France must of neccisity have a J 
certain element of Scottish blood, which, having Qowcd into thai 
main channel ofnationiOlife, isnow indistinguishable from thcnali^'ej 
stream. It may here be fitting to state that the ancient friendship j 
between France and Scotland is at the present day perpetuated in aj 
quiet, unobtrusive ^hion by the Franco-Scottish Society. Thiftl 
Society was founded in Edinburgh in 1895, and in the fotlowinfj 
year was inaugurated in Paris. To r|Uotc a former Prcudent, th« J 
late Marquess of Lothian, the great object of the Society is "loj 
foster in every way the happy and fruitful international and inter-| 
tMSldemic ealtnU with France " — surely a inOit excellent raisin d'etre, I 
The membership of the Society is composed of Scotsmen and French- \ 
men and the doscendanls of Scotsmen and Frenchmen ; of gntdualcs | 
of French and Scottish universities, or peraons holding official posi- 
tions in them ; and of others, who, not being otherwise eligible, may I 
be elected on account of the interest which they take in ihc objects | 
of the Society. 

h could, without much difficulty, be shown that many French 
names were originally Scotiish, their origin being obscured by the 1 
foreign garb which in course of time they have assumed. Wio, for! 
instance, would expect to discover in the name of Colbert, the grcnt] 
Minister of I^ouis XIV., his descent from the Cuthberts of Inverness, ' 
or would look for the same name— according to some authorities — I 
in the Boer form of Joubert? Or, to lake another instance of si 
name which is generally supposed to be of Frencli origin, who would I 
expect to find the descendajii of a Scot of Galloway in ihe Boer j 
leader at Paardtberg ? Vet we are credibly Infonned that Cronje is j 
but a variant of the a^rcssively Scottish name of MacCrone. TbAi 
elder MacCrone, the reputed Either of the Boer general who is now! 
in enforced retirement at St. Helena, is said to have left Galloway 




Tht Scot Abr&ati. 



167 



(ai>pRmil)]r under a cloud) for Ameiica, whence he proceeded to 
South Africa, wliere his now famous son wm born. Scotsmen inay 
ca may not fee) proud of the connexion, but there appears lo b« 
good ground for the belief in its existence. It is curious to note 
that the style of warfare adopted by Oonje, and by the lioen 
gefxaally, is closely analogous 10 that [vutsucd by the reputed Scottish 
ancestors of the former, who, in oldcn times, so frequently crowed 
the Border on their shaggy ponies to take toll of the Southerner^-. 
\Vhil« on this stibjcci, it should be mentioned that Mr. J. O, Frascr, 
the gre:it political opponent (and ratlicr-in-1aw) of ex- President Steyn 
of thcl ate Orange Free State, is a Highland Scot, being the son of 
an Inverness minister. 

At ihe celebrations in Berlin a few months ago there appeared « 
"Count Douglas" — an intimate friend of the German Emperor — 
who \* descended from the noble house whose history is bound up 
with that of Scotland, A Count Fcrsen of Sweden n'as also among 
the noubilities present on that interesting occasion. The Litter is 
descended from a Scottish family of Macphersons wtio settled in 
Sweden during the Thirty Years' War. An ancestor of this Count 
Fersen cut a prominent figure during the French Revolution. A 
devoted admirer of Marie Antoinette, he organised a daring attempt 
to effect the escaiie of that unfortunate queen from Paris. Count 
Fcrsen executed his part of the perilous enterprise with consummate 
skill and with complete success. Alas I the escape «-» but the 
prelude to the return ; the guillotine was wailing for the beautiful 
refugee ; but no one who reads Carlylc's eloquent description of the 
queen's flight can help admiring the wonderful resource and boldness 
of the ^lant Scoto-Swedc who imperilled his life for the sake of 
IiCT whom be adored. Carlyle's " Glass Coachman," Count Fcrsen. 
by his chivalrous action, proved himself a worthy descendant of the 
CtanChatlan. 

Perhaps the most prominent Scotsman of tlic present day in 
foreign service is Kaid MacLean,' the organiser of the army of 
Morocco and the tnisty friend and adviser of the Sultan of thiit 
coantty. Kaid MacLcan isstiU a patriotic Highlander : he has his 
piper who discounscs sweet music during dinner, and he hintsdf is 
said to be no mean perfortDcr on the national instrument. 

Apparently he has succeeded in making a convert of the Sultan 
lo tlie channs alike of the Highland dress and of the Highland 
bagpipes, for we are told that his Majesty has recently ordered from 
Scotland a set of pipes and a Highland costume for bis own use. 
' Now Sir H*ny MuLeui. 



l63 



The Gcntkmans Magazine. 



One of tbe most noteworthy Scots, who l«ft his native country 
in the early days of his youth, is Mr. Andrew Cimegie, the uncrowned 
monarch of iron and steel- Mr. Carnegie's career is too well knonn 
lo be told here. In some respects his is an absolutely unique figure. 
He is not merely the wealthiest Scotsman who h«s ever lived and 
the most magnificently phiUnlliropic. His epigram that " the man 
who dies rich dies disgraced " has apparently been adopted by him 
as an aiiioDi to govern his own life, for he is disposing of hit 
million.s upon wortliy objects with a celerity which should sati.sfy 
the most uncompromising Socialist. His latest scheme, designed 
lo place a university education within the reach of every ScoLsniati of 
talent will l>e appreciated, as it deserves to be, in his native counti)', 
which, from the days of John Knox downwards, has l>een distinguished 
for a universal thirst for knowledge, extending from the highest to 
the humblest of her sons. 

It is emphatically as an empire-builder that the modern Scot has 
made his mark. The great name of Livingstone will be for ever 
aasodaled with Africa, and when the Cape-lo-Cairo Railway shall 
have become an accomplished fact, its promoters will remember 
with gratitude how the project was facilitated by the pioneer work 
of the enterprising Scotsmen who have connected Lakes Nyaasa and 
Tanganyika by road, taught industri.il arts to the natives, and 
successfully developed the agricultural resources of Centra! Africa.1 
The British East Africa Company, which was the means of adding 
something like a million square miles to the empire, owed its 
inception to the late Sir William Mackinnon, a Scottish imperialixt 
cf the best lyiw.'. 

The i)Art which Scotsmen have taken in making and governing 
our Indian Empire, in buildiug up and guiding thu destinies of the 
great Canadian Dominion, in forming the fabric, framing and 
dispensing the laws, developing the resources and invigorating the 
national hfe of those colonics which arc hereafter to be known as 
the Australian Commonwealth, is matter of common knowledge. 

Tl)c fair cities of I 'unedin and I'erth reappear under the Southern 
Cross ; the Scots tongue breaks on the car in Sydney, in Melbourne, 
in Brisbane ; Gaelic-Speaking colonies croon their Gaelic airs and 
hold their wlid/is over ihc log fires of a Canadian winter ; Scottish 
kirks, Scottish Societies, Scottish manners, customs, songs, onA 
poetry are engrafted on the life of the northern backwoods and the 
life of the .wuthem bush ; while even in the great Republic of the 
West, Scottish institutions flourish side by side with Tammany Hall. 
1'he Brst Governor-General of the Australian Commonwealth is a 



The Scot Abroad. 169 

Scottish nobleman, and of the premiers, mayors, and other leaders 
of Australian political and social life who will support his authority, 
his own countrymen fonn no inconsiderable proportion. And thus, 
to whatever portion of the Empire one turns, one finds the Scot 
taking his full share of the work which is being done, and exempli- 
fying in his person the enterprise, the energy, the course, and the 
endutance of those genuine Imperialists who have evolved a Greater 
Britain beyond the seas, the future greatness of which neither they 
nor others can foresee. 

WU. C. MACKEHZtE. 



VOL. ccxcir, NO. 3054. 



I70 



The CcHtUman's Magazine. 



HOtV SHE LEARNT HER LESSON. 



WHAT was ih« matter? Ii seemed as Uiouj;Ii a moiiituin 
iTcijilit pressed on her aching brain. And why was all so 
dark nliout her? She felt a^ though she lud suddenly lod her 
memory, ai ihout;1i some honor had shaken the very centre of licr 
being ; Aiid yet — and ycl — surely, a little while ago, kIk- had been 
happier than it Is oflen git-en one to be in tlii.t world ? 

She moved slightly, a» she lay — or she thought she was lying — 
and opened her eyes. Then she shuddered, for all was quickly 
TCtuming to her. How weary and dry lui eyes felt, and yet she 
could not weep 1 And now slic saw him ! 

No, she thought lo herself, she was not lying down ; kt wa* 
lying, cold and still, on the bed near, and^but all had rui^hed over 
her again, and she could have shrieked aloud in anguish. 

Then she rose lo her fccl~-and how strangely weak tlie wa* ! 
Slie swayed, as though she would have fallen ; then she clasped her 
hands atwve her head, and cried aloud to him she loved in her deIiiiou« 
despair ; then fell into her chair oncc more, and sat with her head 
drooped on her brL-a^t, in silence. 

But her misery awoke her again. And she leant over him. It 
was strange that the)- were all alone, she thought. Hut the tliought 
just passed through her mind and wtis gone. And then she aieJ 
aloud to him, as before : 

" Oh, Bernard ! Oh, my love, my love I " 

PreMntly she was silent again, siitir^ beside the lied as one 
dazed. She knew not now whether there was anyone else in the 
room or not, or whether any voice spoke to her. All she w.is 
conscious of was that there Ik lay — the man who was dearer to her than 
her own life— and that, in effect at least, slic had killed him I She 
had quarrelled widi him, and now no word of her hitler repentance 
could ever reach him ! 

Thoughts came and went, and she did not even recognise them as 
thoughts. It seemed lo tier that she was reading aloud— sadly enough 
— fragments from many Ixxjks : books which he and she had often 




How She Learnt Ilcr Lesson. 



171 




Hiked orer in ihe put—the happy past that could never come 
agun ! 

Quietly non- she muroiurcd 011 j and the pain and btitemess of 
•pint she fell a$ she did so .^he would never forget. 

"When wc have offended people jxtsl pardon," so she muTtnured, 
"it ol^n happens that our compunction drives us into assiduities we 
should never ha\-e thought of before, and that would have urcd us 
all the irouUc had wc practised them in lime." 

She nghed heavily, then went on agttin : 

" WtA 1 tiow «uil]r l)iing» go wrong, 
A woiil too much, oi r fcoHn loa \aa^, 
And there (ollowt i mltl and > weeping tnin, 
And life u nevei the mine ngBin.'" 

Then sl>c sat still, and gazed at hica as he lay so silcntlyt unheed- 
ing all hcT bitter trouble. 

" Wliere is he ? " she suddenly cried. " My darling, who is to be 
left now— did they not say so ? — in the ' obscuracy of the grave ' ! " 
She had uttered the last words in a sort of scorn, and continued : 
" How dare they talk of such things \ How do they know ? He will 
be lifted into light, and life, and glorj— <ny lo\'e !— far from such 
misery a.f is dc\'ouring my heart I " 

And then she out herself upon the floor beside the bed) and 
cried, in a voice whose pathos would have drawn tears from the 
coldest eyca : 

" my Tott love, »iul my own, own lovc. 
And my \vtt ihai loved me lo I 
It there nei'ti a chink in ilic world above 
\\'hete thi!)' liitm to vmiIs froin txlow ? " 

rose again, and, bending over that silent figure, touched the 
dead face softly, yet passionately, with her lips as ^e said : 

" Oh, my darling, you are mine now for atw3}-s, please Heaven J 
and the tenderness for you sliall never leave my heart ! " 

A moment more, and she added, in trembling tones : 

"Good-byei my loi-e. ... I shall be able to see presently, 
perhaps, the meaning of this terrible power called Death — 'the 
delircrancc, and all the belter knowledge that it brings.' " 

She sat down again, and her sorrow overcame bcr once more as 
(he cried : 

" Oh, Bernard, Bernard, my dearest ! shall I henceforth see you 
only in dreams ? Oh, it cannot l>e — it cannot be — that you will be 
mine on earth no more I * 

xa 




172 



The Gentleman's Magazine, 



Too late now, she recalled words he had so often sung to 
her: 

If eT«i Sliire iu dUeocil fllagt 
O'er Llic'* enebutol »U*iii, 
L«i Liovc but gattlf touch the itilnip. 
Twill all be tweet ugalii. 

Sweet words 1 Vet, in that ine)qili«Wc Iiour, llicy had been] 
fofgottcn by both I I'hough, as she recalled them now and th« 
plaintive aii to which they had been sung, she remembered also that 
as he had been leaving tbc room after their quarrel he had lo<dccd^ 
at her, and she had read relenting \n his face. And she had Imowa' 
that, At a single word from her, he would have rushed bftck to her, 
and all would have been well. But — she had coldly turned away ; 
and be had gonc- 

"But not for ever 1 " she said softly at length, lu she laid her 
hand on his cold brow. But though her voice shook, no blessed 
leant cicne lo Iter eyes. After a short silence she spoke again, still 
sitting there with her liand on tii& brow, murmuring the words aloud 
as though she had been reading them : 

'"Will Time, tlial heaps dust on all things,' heap dust on my 
darling's memory ... of all the happy hours wc have spent together ? 
Oh, no, no I I will not, cannot, bclicvv it t " 

How strange it wui, she thought, that she could now see, as slie 
did not know that she had done at the time, the sadness of his face 
as he had looked t<wards her in thnt one moment that could never 
return '. .\nd she wondered that her tears did not (all like rain I 
But no^ her eyes were dry, and she felt as though she would never 
be able to weep again. 

And they were to have heen married two days from now 1 

She looked, as she sal now in ([uiet despair, at tbc summer roses 
he had laid in her lap only that morning. This was her room, lo 
which at lu'.r bidding they had brought him. The flowers were , 
close bciido her, and she bent and touched lliem also with her lips 
as she thought yet again of the song tlvit would have for her such 
A tenlbplc reminder for ever. Siie would have sung it now — it might 
have helped to relieve her over-charged heart— but she had no power 
left to do so. Instead, she listened, while the words seemed to be 
Kung in her own mind : 

If tv«t Strib iu disccvtt Oinp 

O'ci t-lfc't CDchiiiicd Ura!n, 
Lei Love but gttA\y Inuch the ilrli^t, 

'Twill all be tweet agkin. 



How Ske Learnt Her Lessott. 



173 



^^^And now a great and terrible long^ came orer her, tore hex 
bean again and again, if she could but have called back that 
moment— ibat one dreadful moment — in whicli anger and fassion 
had risen to a height and the mischief had been done bcj'ond 
recall I Ob. the stiCTglb of that longing ! It seemed enough to 
hill hex. Ab, if the same force had but been spent in quclting 
passion, all would hare ended— how diflcxcntljr ! She would have 
escaped ibis misery, and he would hare been with her still. And 
then she seemed to sec before bcr, in pictures rather (ban word*, 
the tifefitories of many poor souls whose names were written on the 
list of criminals, who had but done as she had — used their strength 
to swell anger inilead of to ciuell it. . . . She saw a hundred things 
in a light she had never known till to-day ; she felt a hundred new 
sensations. But that surging wave of grief and loss and sharpest 
remorse was always uppermost. Would it presently overwhelm her 
entirely? And for a time she was as one dumbly looking on at her 
own anguish. 

The moment of deepest despair passed. Ity-and-by she seemed 
to be saying in her heart : 

" He was a good man, my Bernard ; all ibat has happened will, 
in some way, be overruled for good. It is, because it muA be, 
right — quite right — no matter how sad it seems. 

•■ Notlung God docs, or niflen to be doae. 
Bat what Ihou wouldit dijndf, U thon oooldii see 
Tfawngli all evcnu of thingi m w«1I u fie." 

And even at that sad moment, when she was suflering the 
shipwreck of all her hopes, she was able to put to herself the question 
as to n-hy it should be so hard to part with our darlings when we 
know that it ts the King of I.ove Himself UTio takes them, for their 
and our highest good. Should we not, she asked herself, be more 
willing than we ever show ourselves to endure present pain for such 
an end? 

And now she felt able to teftr herself for a moment from thoughts 
of Bemard. She gave a remcmbrartcc, as she sat there, to her kind 
old nurse, who had been by her side in the first shock of her trouble, 
who had been as a mother to her since her own young mother had 
died so long ago. She gave a thought also to her dear old father, 
rapt in his studies— his chief solace — though he had come to her 
directly he knew. Was he here now? She did not know : it was 
strange, but she seemed not to be able to tell. 

And she believed that, for a few hours only, she sat at her 
darling^ side, exalted, exhausted, looking at his quiet &ce, so peaceful 



174 



Tks Gentlentan's Magasim. 



if so cold. And then she thought that she had risen agxin, and, 
bending over him, bad whispered softly : 

" Farewen, my love — my love ! I shall meet you next 'where 
tove only will give recognition.' " 

Then she thought that they led her away, and (hat she at last . 
sank down upon the great white bed in the spare room, and tajr ' 
looking at the two lar^ windows ^opening to the cast. And the 
while, in a dreadful waking dream, she seemed to go again and again 
through all that had happened. She seemed to hear, as it were, the 
echo of those last angrj' words ; she saw his pleading look again ; 
she heard his departing footsteps— in anger; she heard the hall-door 
close behind him ; she listened to his quick ttead — he paused— he 
was coming back, she thought. . . . And though she longed for him to 
do so, she felt her featurirs Stiffen again as she waited to meet him. 
. . . She waited— but he did not come. 

And now she had to realise that she had lost him, her lov'e, her 
darling ! He bad not returned to her as. for a few seconds, she had 
expected ; but, alas ! only a tittle later he had been brought hack. 
He had met with a bad accident, she had been told, close to the 
house ; and he had been carried in unconscious. 

And there he had tain as one dead. And she thought she had 
heard the doctors say that they could give no hope at all. She told 
herself all this, and still her dull brain gave no response. 

How could she have said to him all she did ? He had beeoj 
thinking of her wicked words, she was sure, when that runaway waggODi 
had knocked him down. " How hard we are to our darlings ! " 
she whispered. And then she quoted in afar -away voice— strangely 
sweet and clear now— as though ttie had been in a tiopefut dream : 

"*Thc world is not such a perfectly happy place that we ne<.-d 
be so ready to mar the sunshine wc, or our darlings, might liave. 
. . . But with our own hands wc make our heavens and helts, and 
the ticavens and hells of those wc love." " 

How snd the wonis sounded ! she thought — as though she had 
not uttered them herself. And then she lay still for a little while. 
Was it night now ? It was blackest night in her heart. . . . And 
without all seemed dark and silent — as tier life would henceforth 
b^ it seemed. 

But at length it appeared to her that she was coming back to 
her ordinary c^'eryday self, in part at least. The room dtd not lock 
quite so dark. She even noticed th.it no one tiad drawn the curtains 
or let down the blinds. And as she dreamily watched she saw a 




How She Ltarnt Her Lesson. 



175 



great red moon lise in quiet giory .ibovc ihc low casicrn hills, . . . 
Bui — how was it thai she could sec the moon as she lay ? Her one 
window &ced south I . . . Something had happened. . . . And then 
a moon-ray caught the nng on her left hand as she tossed restlessly 
— the beautiful sippliire and diamond ring thai Bernard had given 
ber — her engagement tini;, of which she had h(>en so proud. Sh« 
kissed it posdonaiely, and was amk« to her sorrow once more. 

And yet — was it so? For she caught herself listening and 
waiting for any tidings they might bring her of him ! Then she 
remembered again. She would hear no more news of him she lowd 
in this world. lie had enlcrud into the wonder of that other life, of 
which wc talk so much and know so little. 

And then il was as thougJi the bittcnwss of death took hold of 
her again. There was nothing left for her, she said in her heart, 
but to go softly all her days in bitterness of soul, like Job and 
Hezeki^ — or, at It^st, as job and Hezekiah had thought they 
would do. 

And then she belie^'cd Ihat many d3)'S had passed away, and 
that she rose from her bed, and in languor and desolation looked 
once again at all the pretty things that had been made " in waste " ; 
for, she told herself, she would nc%-cr wish to sec them more after 
to-day. 

Next she thought that she went out into the quiet lanes acid 
fields, as she had been used to Ao with him. But now, she reminded 
herself, she was alone — unless it was her dear old nurse who seemed 
to be with her now and theiL 

Slie was able to see lovely colours again, her thoughts no longer 
robing c\'eT)rtliing in the blackness of night or tlie whiteness of that 
dreary spare room. And, morning, afternoon, and evening, she 
thought she sat on the grassy banks by the country roadside or in 
the meadows, watching the birds or listening to the cliirp of the 
grasshoppers. She had read how good and helpful a thing it i$ to 
" give oneself up, whenever possible, to the ennobling charms of 
nature." 

j\nd she strove, in spirit, to get away from this narrow and gloomy 
world, as she called it in her thoughta. Yet was it not her owo inner 
life, she askod herself, and not the outside world, tliat was narrow 
and gloomy ? Oh, how could she find an outlet for that prisoned 
inner self? It bctongcd to as br^hl a woild as this had once 
appeared to bcr. How could it find its way back to iu home ? How 
could it — how could she— gain a small new hope of peace and 
happiness beyond this tossing misery? 



176 



The Genikmaiii Magazine. 



And she thought that she read— as she sat by a pictuiesquo field- , 
path, with late bluebells scatlend everywhere, and great honey* 
suckSc blooms, just ready to open, hanging over the high hedge 
which sheltered her— something about "the young dream of the 
uolcnown." Ah, she bad known that dream, and it had been very 
ftircel 1 Would any reality ever be as sweet ? Yei, oli yes, she 
could not doubt it 1 And a voice within her seemed to whisper that 
tliat name "dream," as every youth and maiden knows it, is but 
at the first streak of light in the east— the harbinger of the glorious 
new day of the future. And then she mused, as she leaned over a 
cluster of nodding bluebells : 

" 'This is the victory tlutt orercometh the world, even our laith.' 

" In ricbu, and in povcrly. 
Til only w»ni of faith thai iitngi," 

At length it was to her as though her trouble murmured from a 
greater distance— as the angry waves, sometimes, when tlie storm 
has spent itself. 

And, presently, she thought that she reached up to gather a spray 
of honeysuckle— while a great brooding hoi>e fell on her tired spirit. 
But what was her wonder to hear— as it seemed she did— the voice 
•be loved saying, in tenderest tones : 

" Here it is, darling I " 

She gave a great start, and scales invisible seemed to fall from 
her eyes as, looking up, she saw him standing by her couch ! 
For it appeared that she was not in the field at all, nor in the spare 
room, but in the little shabby sitting room. 

And she felt a strange fear come over her. What did this mean ? 
Had tlie, perhaps, died, and was she now, in meeting him she 
loved, standing on the other shore of Time ? 

She sat up on the couch— Bernard was supporting her— and at 
once hcT C)'cs fell on the dress she was wearing. It was a pretty 
pink — one her lover had always admired. How came she to be 
wearing it ? What had been taking place while she had been in this 
— this dream? 

l^ooking amazedly at Bernard, she saw that he was deeply moved, 
and that as her eyes met his, with recognition in them, he breathed 
heavily, as though in unlold rcticf. I'jien, folding his aims round 
her as she sat, he kissed her with gentlest, tenderest lo\-e. 

"Ithought,"shebeganby-and-by,weak!y,wonderingly, "ihatl was 
in a field alone, and that I wanted to gather a piece of honeysuckle." 

Bernard had brought her a long, beautiful ipray, she found, and 




Mtmt She L«ami Her Lessmt. 



177 



I 



b 



the scented fiagnuice of it had led lier to think herself out of doors 
in the sireet summer sunshine. 

Uut &Ik noted now that it was ntgbt — a s^ll, balmy summer 
night— nnd that, though there iras a shnded lamp in the room, the 
windows were ail open and the moon peeping in. 

And he — her darting— was he not, then, hurt ? And she turned, 
as be held her, and gazed at him again, with a great terror in her 
eyes, side by side with a gieat hope. 

" it was nothing, after all, G!ad>-s, my dearest ! To think ■ — in 
a voice of pain — " that I nhould have made you suffer bke this ! " 

Hts vcuce broke, and his Face, now that she observed him 
more closely, was very pale, she saw ; but oli, not with the deathly 
paleness it liad worn in her dream — if it had been a dream I 

" Sing, dearest Bernard," she said to him, scarcely herself enough 
)'el to know how much she was asking, .^nd neither did she 
know who else was or was not in the room. It was, for the present, 
sufBdent that A* was there. 

He had heard all her sad thoughts— spoken in words as they 
had come to her — and did not need to ask what he should sing. But 
at first the rich musical tenor that she knew so well, and that she 
liad thought lost to her for ever, faltered. Then her lover's voice 
grew steady and sweet, and she listened entranced to the words she 
had tried to sing for hersdf, but could not : 

" KcTVi Sliife iu discoid Ulngs 
O'er Life's enchanted yUtXxi, 
\jet Ixtve 1x1 1 e^ntly touch the nrinpi. 
Twill >I1 be sweet a^n." 

there were tears in the e>'es of both as the your^ man 

Soon they led her to bcr own room. And as she looked at the 
bed, she covered her eyes with her hands, then burst into glad tears 
of thankfulness as she cried : 

" He is not lying there ! Oh, my darling, how good Heaven has 
been to us ! And I— hare learnt my lesson ! " 

And presently she said, as her father sat beside her in thankful 
silence: 

" All is well . . . and it was guilt, and fear, that wrought me all 
that suffering I . . . A\T»at slaves we arc to fear 1 . . . Yet it may be 
that it has done us both good service." 

" Try to sleep, my dear Gladys,* s»id her fiither, in tones of pain ; 
for hts child's lace wo; bringing tender memories of her long-lost 
mother. 




178 



The GfiUiemaits Afagazine. 



But she irtis too full of mirrcUing, restless joy to sleep yet. 

" A little more patience," she murrnured on, " 2nd I should have 
saved myself—and those I love better tlian myself— all this ! ' Do 
we not all deepen the shadows on our lives by a want of patience f ' 
. . . And why do we so continually forget tliat ' often, in our very 
darkest moments, the angels are on their way to 11.1 nith glad tidings '? 
. . . And so it was with me." 

And she sank into a long aitd rcuful slumber. 

They did not actually lull her nhat had happened ; but, liitlc by 
little, she gathered it. She Iiad been delirious for a whole day and 
night. She would not be persuaded to rest, but insisted upon weating 
the pink drcKt that Bernitid had admired, and u-andering out into 
the meadows, in her \a\n and misery, for houn and hours, her old 
nurse or her Fadicr or Bernard, or all three, accompanying her. 

Bernard had been merely stunned, and had quickly recovered, 
having, ntarvcllouB to relate, received no other injur)- whatever. 

The wedding took place as had been previously anangcd. It 
had been given up; but directly Gladys had shown signs of returning 
to her normal self, Bern«rd and her Ijither had dashed off one or two 
pcremptor)- telegrams, and all was ready in time. And the pretty 
things were wont afior all— but ne^'e^ again tliat pink dress ; it wa:> 
ijion: than Gladys could bear even to took at it 

And tlie two lived a long ai>d liujtpy life together, and never had 
another quand^ 

LUTTRKLL SEABRIOIIT. 




179 



ON SENLAC HILL. 



I 



I 



* 



. ■ . ■ e^ntic hin, 

Ciccn aiKl of mild dcciiiitf , the Inl 
At 'iwric the cS|ie o( a long ri'lgc of such, 
Ssrc thai thfre w«s no tc» to h»« iti liinc, 
Bat 1 mo(l livin); landtnpt. 

THUS, all uiicoiuciouUy, docs Byron quite concctljr describe 
the liEl spur of the vild and beautiful " Forest Ridge " of 
Susses, <pn which, just eight hundred and thirty-live years ago^ was 
lost and won this realm of England. Crowning the hill, as everyone 
knows, arc the rwins of the great DcnediciJiic Abl»cy which the 
Conqueror set up to the glory of Ciod and the slain or Hastings 
fighL Not all ruins, for the present mansion, ajurl from its modem 
additions, is a well-preserved i»oriiorj uf the former monastery— a 
houw of great size, recently a ducal home, yet seeming only a 
magiiiriccm fragment alongside the remains which testify to the one- 
time splCfMlour of Battle Abbey. William, as his way uhk, had done 
the thing handsomely, and the fact that he caused the alur place of 
the monastic church to be raised on the very spot where 1 larold fell 
is evidence of the best of his chivalrous regard for his rival's metnor)-. 
The whole area of the baUlcfidd is, of course, much wider than Ihe 
few precious acres here on the hilltop ; but the present Abbey, the 
wide ruins spread about it, and the grove-like setting softening all, 
make a fine and striking centre to the scene, one consecrated by 
the tifc-blood of dcaihk-«» heroes of EnglJsli story, and one to 
which numberless pilgrims have flocked and will flock, through years 
unthinkable, to ttte deatb^>lace of the unfortunate I-Iarold. It is 
sacred ground, if ever there was such. We have trodden it many 
limes ; liave wandered about the pleasant vales and uplands near, 
finding voices in the trees homilies in carven stones, and, ntalgr^ 
all, something of good in everything, thereabouts at Senlac— yea, 
even though on a day of sad dcs[Hte its green slopes ran with 
patriot blood, even still ran, if we are to believe the local peasanuy, 
w!io thus explain certain dark oonngs here and there, which, of a 



i8o 



The Genthmatis Magasing. 



truth, are (jiiite « siiggeitive of red corpuscles in serum u of oxide 
of iron in innocent wnter I 

It was all so inevitablCi that coming of the Normans, and that 
terrible blood-letting for future Cngland'ji sake. We know it now — 
Harold in his heart's heart may have known it then ; but standing 
there where he fell, and remembering that day of carnage and its 
tragic ending, our feelings get the belter of us, And deep in our con- 
Kciousness a tittle voice half moans, " Oh, the pity of it ! " He had 
made such a splendid stand — the second that autumn against an 
invsding foe. Thoroughly had he thrashed the one— liow com- 
pletely might he have checked the other but for the few undisciplined 
poor fellow* on his right who in their folly gave him and England 
away I Incviuble, yes; but it was liurd that the stroke of Fate 
should have fallen with such an appalling crash— should have 
been so utterly final too ; for what were the subsequent struggles 
but the throes of a cause slow-dying of a mortal wound ? It might 
ha\-c been othenrisc but for that Nora-cgian pother, that galling 
splattering on northern shores at the very moment that the southern 
needed every available sword and »pear. Harold and all his fine 
fellows who look their choice that day 'twixt death and Norman 
tyranny might, we fondly think, have sold their lives e^'en more 
dearly, might themselves have lived to fight many another round ere 
yielding their land to the haled heel. No philosophy can Mlenoe 
OUT combative instincts on tliat point. Indeed, it is difficult at first 
to think steadily at all on that melancholy mount ; the teeth are apt 
to lighten, the hands to clench, and, forgetting all the good in the 
evi! of that "memory of sorrows," and seeing only through the mind's 
eye the poor dead and writhing thousands all about us, we arc apt 
to think of the crowing and chortling victon only to heartily curse 
them. But, taking the hint from the low soughing of the trees, it is 
pleasant, and wise as well, to tall back on a quieter mood ; and only 
then, looking from lliese days to those, can we bring them Jnlo right 
soda] focus. 

If the Norwegian invasion had its ridiculous side, tliat of the 
Normans was nothing short of a stem and great fulfilment, while 
its so happening was one of those instances of large " opportunism " 
which make us almost believe that Humanity, in adjusting herself to 
each new phase in her development, acts lilie a collectively conscious 
thing. Harold Hardrada witli his hardy Norsemen lent unawares a 
hand in the work ; he had his o«'n brave dreams, but they only 
served to make true those of William. He might land, he and his 
host of stalwarts ; he might send the Saxons flying, as he did at 




On SetUac Hill, 



i8i 



I 



i 



FuUbrdjhc might haw himself prctcliiimcd on tlie morrow of the 
rout a.1 King of all the English ; but the thought of that giant 
simpieion ruling over our stubborn and restive island people— over 
B land which was becoming such a vascular member of the growing 
organism, Europe— a an impossible one. HouCTer, the sharp and 
decisive lesson of Stamford Bridge proved lo the >foTthmcn, for 
good and all, that England, tempting though it was, was no place 
for them. Harold might have put what n'as left of ihcm to the 
sword ; but that was not his way. Humane and [endi:r-heaitcd to a 
lauh, be allowed them to return to their ships and sail bad: to their 
bomeland. But, alas ! they had lost him his kingdom. 

It may be said of that soft side of Harold that it proved his 
ruin — it, with just the soup^on of Saxon slow-wittedness whidi 
made him such a gentleman. For with kings, as with common men, 
tbc luge and noble natures are so often the least discerning. 
Hardrada's landing had been a thing expected, yet in the event it 
had taken Harold by stuprisc— had found him unready. So, too, 
with the more fateful invasion. The Normans ail the summer long 
had been making ready for it ; and Harold, fully alive, as it seemed, 
to the growing menace, had guarded well his coast vrith fleet and 
army. But because he was too kindly to keep his people longer 
from their bar^'esting — too gentle, even in the face of famine, to 
" commandeer " a few hundred Wessex sheep and bullocks to fill 
their empty bellies wiilial— he weakly dismissed every man of them, 
de-flceted all his sliips, disbanded all his army. While over there 
on the other shore were 60,000 waiting men whistling for a wind ! 
A few mofc patient days, a little more of firmness with his hungry 
and grumbling followers, and Harold liad made the Xorman Con- 
quest quite another story. 

Stajiding on the field of the great disaster — a lair Sussex scene 
good to t«e and revel in — one's sentiment groans to tliink of it, 
while one's reason is inclined to quietly chuckle. The former, 
asking angrily why the King, knowing that his enemy was but across 
the narrow waters, waiting only for a biceu to HU his myriad sails, 
should have bared the breast oif his motherland at such a juncture, 
is met by the comfortable " Well, well, it had to be," of the other, 
"and it was a good thing all round that it luippencd when it 
did and as it did." Asked to explain, reason points out that all 
the alarums atMl excursions of previous history bad been but a 
clearing of the ground for the real beginning of national life. 
The Saxons and their tribal brothers had landed, bad put to 
the sword or driven to the hills the native Kdts, and liad 



j83 



Thi GefitUinan's Magazine. 



settled down to dig, and plough up, and genenlljr prepare the 
rruitful land for those who in the fuhiess of time were to grasp 
{toxsi^on of il, and wisely rule for the good of all its divided 
people— a people of fine sinew and phlegm, excellent husbandmen, 
and fierce defenders of their own ; but lacking in other qualities 
no less necessary to the making of that mighty coming entity, the 
Englttth nation. Proiatfim est. It was the final grafting on to the 
Saxon Ktoclc,and Providence, seeing so far ahead, had decreed that 
the nc«- strain should be of llani.th-cuni-Keltic origin, nurtured in a 
Roman miiieu. And viewing the various processes whic!i had 
been silently and otherwise working for this beneficent blending, 
one cannot but admit that U'illinm dealt his stroke at the right 
sociological moment. The Confessor was dead ; Harold was new 
to his work ; had already shown some blunders ; whs surrounded by 
subtle Norman brains busied with affairs both of Church and State 
— the ground lay open to his feet. 

But though the hour was come, it would not strike. His vast 
army was mustered ; his Sect was in being ; all was ready save 
the Iftglpng southern wind. With his eye on the weathercock of 
St. Valery minatcr, \\'illiam watched and waited and fumed for long 
weeks. IJtit even now the Fate* were working with him. 

For in the middle of Seplemlter month (farold, as vrc know, was 
suddenly called from 1-ondonloihe North. His brother Tost tg and 
the other Harold had drawn the lion from hix fastness even as he was 
crouching for a southern spring at the first sight of a Norman helm. 
One wonders whether the King, in the intcrvah of strife, was also 
watching the wenlhcrcock during those anxious da)-s ; whether at 
the banquet after Stamford Bridge be saw a skeleton at the feast ; 
whether he had the least foreboding of the ncirs which, even as he 
was Kitiitig there cup in hand, was travelling to him as fast as man 
and horse could carry it. And there, all at once, the man stood, 
a sturdy Thegn of Sussex, covered with dust and mud. with hardly 
strength to stand— for he liad ridden night and day — but able )-cI to 
breathlessly tell how with his own e>*es lie had seen the landing of 
the Norman host two days before on the coast at Pevensc}'. 

Harold could hardly liave been unprepared for this. If at tlie 
first shock hiss brows had run up in momentary astonishment, they 
must have dropped on the instant to a frown of deepest cliagrin. 
For the enemy had not stolen * march or aept in 1^ some Mck 
alley of the land, but had entered by the very front gates of it ; and 
he— fool that he had been ! — had left them wide-open, with nc%-er 
a ship to guard them. The Normans had bounded ashore with 




On Sett/ac HilL 



>aj 



foviui laughter, scarce believing their eyes at the right of the 
descfted strand— had planted their standard in good English soil, 
land not a blow had been stniek. It was maddcnmg'! 

It wctc idle to wonder noflr what had happened had Harolds 
naval force been there to meet and show light to the Norman 
armada. English prowess was very well when it laced the later one 
of Spain, but it was a timely hurricane, all the same, which heli>ed 
to so beautifully scatter it There were fine admiral^ip and d<-sperale 
bravery at Satamis, but we know now that it wa:i the deitdly current, 
the j:<i<[iV>iv/<«, which sets in at certain hout^t from the famous gulf 
which really turned the fortunes of that epic day. Had a blustering 
storm blown up, such as that which had ravaged the coasl a few 
weeks before, iherv is little doubt that \\'illiain'.s opcn-bottoniedt 
cockleshdl " ships," pac):etl as they were with men and hoises. and 
heavy with arms and all the harness of war, had been sent flying like 
corks before the blast. But without such aid from ^l^lus, Harold's 
comparatively little fleet would have been, with all its valour, well 
nigh helpless against that tidal wave of warrior-laden vessels; irhich, 
taking a mean estimate, probably numbered some two thousand. 
The bet was that the English King had had no idea of the scale 
on wliich his enemy had been making ready for this tremendous 

Heavy with tltc news of tt, but full of figlii, wc see Hiitold 
posting up to l,ondon, his army in his wake, gathering by accretion 
as it marched. Never yet had he had a greater call on his courage; 
l-'or all through those terribto dnys he was tortured not so much by 
ihoi^lils of the devouring dragon floundering on the shores of 
Sussex OS by the little ax^ of conscience which was jioisoning the 
very heart of him. He wss essentially of his age— one of thickest 
superstition — aiKl far ftota lightly did he remember his %-iobled oath, 
his solemn swearing on the saintly relics to further Wiitlam's claim ; 
nor without a ucmor could he recall the flaming comet of the April 
skies— evil poncni, if ever there was one; nor yet could he laugh 
aivay the impression that, while kneeling before the fhrinc at 
\\'aliham, the holy image bad bowed its head in more sorrowing 
sorrow, as sign of hopelessness to him and his people's cause: More 
than all this, the \'ery Pope Itad banned him, had even sent a con- 
secrated banner to his rival, not to speak of a hair of St. Pclcr 
enclosed in a ring of price. Compared with all these, old Mcrhn's 
prophecy that "a Norman people in iron coats should lay the pride 
of England " was a thing to smile at. 

lui conscience could make no coward of this mnn. Had he 



Tke Cfntiewans Magaxine. 




not been Torced to take that oath ? ud btd not th« good Sti^od 
abaolvcd him? And William— the KaUise bybkiw — what chum, 
aflcr all, had he to England's throne? Had nM Edward on his 
dying bed repented of his promise, and appointed htm, Harold, as 
his uuc KUccenoT ? and had not the Wiun wiili accUmation accepted 
hinj ? And was not the Wiian the voice of the nation ?— but who was 
this ? A cowled figure advances through the throng, and, with low 
obdsance, gives out that he is Hugh Margot, a monk of F^camp^ sent 
10 summon him " in the name of the Duke of Nonnandy to come 
down from the throne and lajr aside his crO«'n and sceptre." Harold 
Itttens with boiling veins. The monk, unabashed, goes on— reminds 
him of hii broken oath— of William's rights — of the Duke's villing- 
ne« to nibmit the matter to a judicial tribunal, and so forth, till 
Harold, losing hold of temper, half leaps to his feet, and but for 
Uunh, his brother, is likely to do hurt to the frocked envoy. A 
tribunal ! ^\llat Court under heaven could settle a quarrel so 
deadly ? Suppose the verdict to go against him, would not all his 
army still ukc the field? Suppose ii to go against the Duke, was it 
podaiblc to think of his mercenary host, after months of waiting and 
redtoning up of fine rewards, returning quietly to their ships and 
sailing away with clean swords and t^mpty pockets to jeering 
Kormandy? There was only one answer, and the wottliy Maigot 
bore it to his ducal mooter. Tli« offer, as Freeman says, was n 
bUnd, and instantly had Harold seen it. Hts hot blood was up ; hb 
sword-hand was itching ; to Satan with idle scruples ! Let the two 
armies meet and fight it out, and God reward the rtgbtl To 
Senlac! 

And by the evening of the day fuDovrinfc the King and his army 
—desperate lo a man— arc »afcly on the hroad ndg^ which in 
Hanrfd's mind— for well h« knew his natiw Sussex— had slood out 
as the fittest sjiot for a Stand and a battle of the strong. Wisely had 
he chosen the iwsition, inaccessible as it was on three sides, and 
open only to the south, where the hill's broiui breast dips suddenly 
to ihe vale. And there, tlirough the long hours of the monow, was 
fought the great 6ght. Wacc, who has i]uaintly sung of it, was not 
present, but his giandsirc was, and from him and other eye-witnesses 
the Norman poet seems to have come by the bets which make his 
" Roman de Kou " to tally so with the great sampler of Bayeux. 
On this last— worked with fair fingers while William was yet alive — 
Freeman mainly relics, using ^VilIiara of I'oiticts, Guy, and Wace as 
subsidiaries. As to the more protuberant events of the day, all 
more or less agree; and taking tbdr cTidcace collectively, one may 



I 



I 




Oft Sen/tu Hili. 



i8s 



I 



get a T«fy fair idea of vrbat the batde was like, espectalljr if one be 
oi) the field itself on, say, a late October day. It stands now as 
actual as the hiU-girt plains of Maratfaon^as Ibe undulating cbam- 
paiga of Waterloo ; ant] if Ruskin be right in saying tliat the chief 
atlraction of a givirn scene is not in its natural b<.-auti« so much as in 
iLd human a»ociations, ihcn that square mile ot two of hill and dale 
ii the most Cascinating bit of country in all our land. Aided by the 
naire old chroniclers, we may. in sight of that tree and grass-grown 
stage of lite great national tragedy, rc-cnacl to the audience of our- 
sclvcj the whole icnibic business. And we may thus fool ourselves 
—now standing at the wings, as it were, now gazing up from the pit 
of t)K valley, now lookiitg across from the high balcony of Telham — 
through the whole of an October day, fairly losing ourselves in the 
dccitcnwnt of the thing, till the owls in the Abbey ruins hoot derision 
at us, and we start and rub our ejes to !!ee only a simple English 
bndscape quietly sleeping under the autumn moon— the same soft 
luminary which had shone that night, to show weeping angds, if 
one may faiKy it, what man had been doing that day down iliere by 
the southern scu. 

At dawn that morning die two hosts had &tood ui> and beheld 
each other froin the opposite heights of Telham and Senlac, a 
marshy vale between. While his barons and knights were getting 
into their armour— heavy gear, borne tlius &r by their rarlets— 
^Villiam on his noble horse (the gift with a " God btesx your cause ! " 
of the Spanish king) rode restlessly about, arrangii^ in his mind the 
best mode of attack. Harold's position, he could pbinly see^ was 
ncllnigb impregnable; it was e<)u)tlly obvious that if the English 
only KcW tight, there would be no victory for him that day. They 
)uid bungled in pulling on his armour just now— had turned the 
hauberk wrong side foremost ; but, at when he liad tumbled and 
taken seiiin of England on Pc-vcnscy beaeh, so again he had con- 
vened evil omen to fine prophecy. He who was only a Duke, he 
had told them, would be turned that day into a King I Qui there 
seemed iww some doubt about it. From right to Ic^— cast to west 
— he could see the Saxon lines to the length of nearly s mile. Only 
a frontal attack was possible. Could he have got round on cither 
flank, his magnificent cavalry — the pride of his army— hod decided 
the issue in an hour or two ; but tlieie was dense forest on the one 
h^nd, and an impossible ravine wi the other : only there, right 
opposite, could the atuck be made. William saw a great day 
lieforc him. Well did be lay his plans. 

Towards nine of the clock Harold, having ridden along his lines 
vou ccxcii. no. >05«. o 



i86 



Thi Gentfentan*! Magatine. 



and assured his followeis that if the)* would only tiand firm they 
were invincible, dismissed bis horse, and on foot, like ail his army, 
took up his position by the two standards— the Royal of England 
and hiit own of Wcssex — brave banners both, and so flashing their 
jewels and gold in the young morning sun that William, seeing 
them amid the glilten'ng spear-foreM, and learning who stood nigh 
them, turned to those around tiim and vowed that if God vouchsafed 
him victor)- he would build to His honour and glory the great Abbey 
which has become so famoui^ Unsuipecling that the very ground 
he stood upon was to be the site of hi.s future moniiment, Harold 
looked out and beheld the final massing of the Norman forces prior 
to their dispersion on the field. Then his eyes fastened on one 
central figure— there, right in from of all, the splendid figure of 
William haranguing his army. Far above the common height, 
superbly mounted, his exquisite armour glinting in the level sunrays, 
bis deadly mace in his hand, his whole frame alive with the hot 
ardour in him, his troops had only to sec such a leader to feel the 
devilry- of battle in all their veins, "There is no other such knighl 
under heaven 1 " exclaimed the Viscount of Tours ; " fine Count he 
is, and a fair King he will be \ " Then, belike, ho caught the Duke's 
last words, m, after bespattering Harold's good name and denounc- 
ing the iniquities of his people, he pointed to the bristling hill : 
"On, then, in Cod's name! and chastise these English for their 
misdee<J-t 1 " Then, to the clamouring of trumpets and bugles and 
horns, and ilie hoarse shoutings of myriads of voices, (bo host 
spread itself out in iMttle array. 

Silent far the most part, with set teeth and thumping hearts — 
some few of them pale and uneasy, according to Wacc — for such a 
martial multitude had never been seen on their native soil, the 
Er^lish waited behind their palisades for the first shock of onslaught. 
They saw \Villiam take his position immediately opposite to that ol 
Harold. By his side, on his white charger, was his half-brother 
Odo, the warrior-bishop of Bayeux ; over the pair wared the holy 
banner of St. Peter, while behind them on their fretting war-horses 
were drawn up in their thousands the flower of Norman chivalry. 
They saw the Duke's plan to advance in three divisions, sending the 
archers, slinger.s, and cross-bowmen to the first harrying attack ; the 
heavily armetl infantry to follow it up with axe and spear ; the 
cavalry' behind to charge overpowering finality. William himself 
would command the centre, Roger de Montgomery the right wing, 
and Alan of the Iron Glove the left. Good— let them come— ihey 
were ready all ! But look ! What was the meaning of it ? A single 



187 

horsenun adnuicing, tosdng his sword in llie air «nd deftly catching 
it again, sinfpflg the while a careless chanson of Roland I It was 
tlie minstid TaHtefer, who had crared of ^Viliiam the honour of 
strikii^ the firet blow. Smiling, jaunty, debonair, but riding to 
certain dcatli, the whimsical figure drew near, till with sudden battle- 
cry and stab of si^ur he dashed at the (fuvaux He/rise awaiting him. 
Then blared tlie trumpets anew and the bugles and the horns ; and 
with a black tempest of arrows the battle began. " Dieu aide ! 
Dicu aide I " yell the Normans. " Holy Cross I ' " God Almighty ! " 
roar the Saxons, " Out ! Out ! " — and with sword and spear and 
murderous axe they kept them out. 

On ct-ery point of vantage round stood watching thousands j and 
those of them who were stationed on the heathery heights of Telhara, 
or on the risng ground to the right of it, would see e\-ery moi'e and 
dnngc of fortane of that terrible day. The awfuHest feature of all, 
tiU their ears were liardcned to ii, must have been the fiendish 
hubbub— a sound lortuiing the air for miles round, startling the 
forest creatures, beasts and birds and creeping things, and giving a 
vibrant trcmoT to the very fish in the sea. Up the slope, which ju&t 
there is like to a housetop, the gazers would sec rush the Norman 
infantry straight to the Saxon centre, would sec them hurled back 
again and again, like futile waves from rocky cliffs. So all along the 
line for hours, till at last the Norman left wavers, gives way, and 
turns, horse and foot alike, to flee in common panic. They would see 
galloping into the sumpeding horde the princely figure of William, 
his helmet in his one hand, his mace in the other, pointing back 
to the hill. The troops stop and turn and li.sten in grateful wonder- 
ment. For the cry bad gone forth th.it the Duke had fallen ; but lo I 
there he was, with bared head that all might know htm, and loud 
was bis angry voice : " Madmen ! behold me. Death is behind 
you. Victory is before you. I live, and by God's grace I will 
conquer*" The spectators cannot hear, but they understand. They 
see Odo spur up from the rear, waving his sword, and cren using the 
Bat of it to urge the runaways again to the fi^t. Ho jobs ^Villiani, 
and together tbey lead the second attack. " Dicu aide : Dicu aide ! " 
" Oat I Out ! " and the air trembles anew with the infernal din of 
battle. 

Straight for the standard rides the Duke, Uytng about him witb 
that terrible nftce ; and nearer and nearer he draws to it. The 
people watch with straining eyes ; and all at once their quick-beating 
beam stop dead. The Duko is down I But no ! there he is again ! 
Twos only his horse— he is on his feet unhurt ; he fights on, dealing 



i88 



Tlu GentUman'i Magasint. 



JMth to right and kit of him— a terror of a Duke— and down xt last 
tumUes his second horse, pierced to the h«aJt by Curth, who ia bis 
turn— for the Dulic has marlied him wcU— is ptomptly fcUcd. A 
moment later and I^ofwine his brother ToUoirs him, and Harold alone 
of Godwin's house remains on th« hill by the standard. His ranksare 
seen to draw closer round him ; through gaps in the barricades the 
Kormans pour in like water through wide sea-breaches. But still 
the banners wave, and still the dogged defenders beat back the 
freiuied cohorts. 

Knowing ones in the crowd obscrrv that, (or all his biATO carair)-, 
l^Iliain can hardly do anything «-ith it. What use all tltat horse- 
flesh and fme soldiery on top of it whi:n ti comes to charging up- 
hill ? — which thought was AViJliam's too, and many a round word 
hu it cost him that day. He stopis to think, to girt breath withal, 
to rest his aching arm also. On his left is a slope of gentler sort ; 
once on its summit, his horsemen would be safe on that cursed 
plateau— on a level with Harold and the flag, and all that was left to 
win. A while back he had seen the defenders rush madly afler his , 
own people. The dolts ' they had deserted their line. But might ' 
they not do the like again ? Straightforvard figbUng wai very well, 
but it was tedious work ; and the time was getting on— why not try 
a little stratagem ? With a new dash in his eyes, he turns and gives 
the order. The trick works beautifully. Slowly the Norman left 
falls back, ostensibly retreating; cxuliingly the English follow. 
The day is theirs— for a second time they are routing the foe t 
Have at them, comrades ! strike and hew tliem down ! victory is 
won ! William, chuckling on his horse, thunders out the order to 
face about. It is done. The English arc checked— are pressed! 
back— arc in their turn cruelly mauled. But the centripetal forcc^ 
of the standard draw» all to it ; the inlanders have iceovcrcd them- 
selves, and form into as solid a mass :ls even 

All the same, the Duke's horsemen are now on the plateau ; they 
arc on tlie level— ei-en wiih some slight fall in their favour— and tlic>' 
can now charge eastwards to the htart of the Saxon jioiation. Th«y 
do so, but 10 their ainaxe are beaten olT times and again. With 
never a bayonet among tlicm, with only their spears and their }a^'clin^ 
their axes and their billhooks, the Saxons, as steady as a " British 
square " of later times, repulse ever}- dashing charge. And so tltc 
horrid hours pass on, and the sun lowers, and, almost unnoticed, 
slips him out of sight. 

Now William is struck with a new idea. Desperate to get ihir^ 
done with, one way or the other, he gives out word to tl>e bownicn 



Ok Senlae HiiL 



189 



r 



I 

N 

I 



to thool in the air. Tor all that day tlK arrows had done little more 
than stick in Saxon shields- that of llar<dd was bristling with them, 
It was lime now for another experiment, 'rhcn the sky, itself 
darkening with twilight, is blackened with a miyhty *hower, the 
pointed shafts flying like homing rcx>k£ to one devoted spot, there 
where tttc standard is and all its stout defenders. Suddenly a hoarsu 
roar of horror— the King is struck ! They sec him reel iiboui, 
maddened with pain— sec him wrest from his fye-socket tlic thing 
of fote and throw the shaft away — sec him tremble as he leans over 
bis sword, struggling with growing faintness. But he still lives, even 
iboogh (Mily in supporting arms: and his nobles and house carls 
still light on around him, even though their hearts are breaking. 

It mu now that a party of Norman knights — some twenty of 
iliein — take oath to break the Sa:con line, and capture the mocking 
standard or perish. They do perish, all sa\'C four, who manage 
somehotr to reach the flag and the dying Harold. Then, alas ! he 
b struck down, the banner is wrenched from his rebxin^ gra»p and 
is borne in uiumph away. An awful moment that for the dc$]uiring 
but still desperate men who so well that day had guarded it ! The 
Iwtli^it deepens. Saxon can barely sec Norman ; their voices alone 
ore guiding their thrustt and blows, yet they fight on. Tbcy know 
that the rest of the army is flyit^ in mad sauvt ^i ^k — that they 
might turn even now and save themselves ; but no, they stand their 
ground, taking life for life, scorning surrender, willing to die there 
OS Harold had, rather than gi?c in to the black-cycd fiends around 
them. And so, these valiants till not a man of them, noble or carl, 
was left alive. . . . Did the image bow its bead again at ^Vallbam? 
The rest is the story of a subsiding tempest. There were routs 
and repulses and routs again ; and, if wc take the word of Freeman, 
it was at this late hour that the Normans came by their greatest 
disaster— that of their being sent tumbling headlong, horse and man, 
into the deadly deptlis of >!alfosse. But, according to both the 
Tapestry and Viztx, this tragedy was an event frtadmg the fall of 
Harold ; and took place bttxtvtu the two armies and in sight of the 
Telham crowd, suggesting that the calamity w,-is n feature of the 
great repulse earlier in the day which had nearly made tbc whole 
anny take to its heels. It matters little' 

■ FreeoMti uippoMS tbc ikep hollow (o ihc cut of ih« Ablwy to l>« iha 
otigKi*) UaUbue : the ble Muk .Antony Lowa pc>intc4 to (]u!t« another tpcit 
Mfth of Battle town : while Mr. T. H. Colci. no lets eminenl in tuthorily, 
loesliKs thv "dmdfol ditch" in ihc vtlley bclve«n the two hills. Tbc Ullcr 
«rouM Mem to be lli« Iree Una it ff. 



190 



Ths G4nil€man's Magasine. 



So with the fiill of that night came the fall of Saxon England, 
and AVilliam, standing wht^ii all was over on the brow of Senlac, 
would sec rising over the eastern hill the pale October moon. 
Looking lo right and left of liiiii and all around, he irould see bj- its 
light tiow xrell Englishmen had tliat day done their duty. The 
victory was his— England was won — but at what a price \ And he ? 
Three of his horses lay dead on the field, but not a scratch had he. 
It was hard to believe in sight of those dead and dying thousands. 
/'auvns diaMfs I — and he shrugged his great shoulders and turned 
lo order his dinner I There tras nobility in William's soul, but the 
brute in him was uppermost then. He would dine there on the 
bloody forehead of Senlac, and those staring dead should be bb 
bodyguard. 

Our thoughts turn away from the spectacle to fasten on one little 
group which at dawn next morning is searching among the dead for 
the body of Harold. They are two monks of Waliham and tlie 
Lady Edith (" Edith of the Swan's Neck "), for whom ihey have «nt 
to help them in their quest. They know he lies somewhere there 
OR the brow of Senlac; ahcady have they found I.eofwine and 
Gurlh, his brothers ; but cither the light is too dim or their eyes too 
full, for they cannot Rnd Harold the King. It is Edilh at last who 
does so (who has not read the touching story ?), and they prepare to 
bear the [wecious corse away. But Ihcy arc stopped. They may 
bear off and do what they will with tlic two brothers, but the body 
of Harold was not for them. They urge and pray j they natvdy 
ofTer its weight In gold ; but no — " He who had guarded the sliore 
while living," said William, "should guard it stitl in death." And 
so, wrapped in a purple robe, the dead hero was borne away and 
buried by the sea at Hastings. There, so they say, he lay for years, 
till the monks of Waltham came and carried tlie remains to the holy 
place which Harold most had loved. But now both shrine and dust 
are lost in the waste of years. To no one spot in the land he lived 
and died for can we point and say : There lies Harold, the lost of 
the Saxon KingiL But the great sonowing soul of him — can we say 
that it never haunts the sombre grorcs there on the hill of Senlac? 



joim sTArroKD. 



191 



SOME BOZZYANA. 



N 



THERE is before me now an ituction catslogueof "Bozzy's" 
library, or a portion of it, issued by Messrs. Sothcby some 
yeant ago. I lecall turning over the volumes with a strange ioteresL. 
The old, crusty Lord Auchinleck must futvc moved a little unea^ly 
in his gmve as his collection of good old bistoricaJ folios w*s 
thus disposed of. It was x curious feeling wandering through tho«e 
old-Euhionod chambers, taking in one's hand now a work belonging 
to "Jamie," his son, now one of Sir Alexander's, now a book 
presented by the great Samuel himself. The collection had increased 
as it passed through the bands of different owners, but it was 
described as baring been " formed by the iaic Lord Auchinleck," 
an aociuaie enough designation from the "Sothcby, Wilkinson it 
Hodge" point of view ; for "late" he certainly was, though now 
dead nearly one hundred and twenty years. As I look up book after 
book I made a little note of these memoranda or transcribed them 
froin the catalogue. 

It is curious how from such little ephemeral scraps as these 
we may evolve indications of ttie owner's laate and character. A 
laborious German might rcconstnict him altogether. At least, we 
hare bcic the amiable, enthusiastic " Boay " revealing himself by 
many a pleasant little touch. He was so eager and ardent in his 
titerary likiiigs that be often wrote his opinions ox\. one of ihc fly-leama^ 
ud these have quite the natural, unaffected tone of his more oRicial 
vritings. Most interesting relic of all was the proof sheets of the 
original quartos of " Johiwon's Life," bound up somewhat roughly ; 
and these axe ctirious as showing in what careful and workmanlike 
Euhton he could cany through the laborious and difficult task of 
coticaing the sheets of a vast work of this kind. There were none of 
the mimite or over-refined alterations rather than corrections, which 
alvrays show that the writer is recomposing his work afresh, with 
the advantage of having it before him in print ; but " Bouy " has 
his simple, businesslike methods ; just what is necessary and no 
more. The c(»npositoTS woe careless enough, and gave him much 



192 



The GentUmavts Magazine. 



trouble, leaving oiil word* aiid lelters ami "(luoUition mirks." The 
Author often added u tenuuk of hix own on these failings. At the 
head of every sheet he genemlly wrote tcrerring the confiiKd 
passage to the care of one Mi. Selfe, appucnlly " the reader." It 
must be said, however, that even after "Soay's" corrections the bouk 
swarmed with cnors and mUtalccs, as may be seen by the long list 
of erruia. The puitrail by Heath, after Sir Joshua, was shown here 
in its first and second " stales." BoswuU writes on it that wIilI) 
Sir JoKliua saw ii he pointed out that it was too youthful ; and the 
engraver, accordingly, furrowed Ihc broiv and deepened the liiici, 
And it is curious to compare the two. He makes £uch pleasant, free 
and easy remarks as, '' Thank you, it is strange, but such was not 
observed, " referring to some word dropped out. These old proof- 
sheets fetched ;£t37, and went to America; his "Tour," simibrly 
corrected, brought £,\^^. 

Though I>r. Birkbeck Mill declares that " Boswell was no reader," 
there is evidence here of his exercising his tasie, and judgment even, 
when a book was not recommended b}* any notoriety or reputation. 
Such was " Robertson's Poems," of which " Bony" writes on thcfly-^' 
leaf: "Jumcs Robertson was a comedian in the York Company, a 
favourite of hit audiences in old comick characters. 1 saw hini play 
at York and called on him and had him sit with mc awhile at a 
coffee house." How like Ihe sociul BokwcH I Me thought well of 
his verses and had picked tliem out as good when he saw them in a 
newspaper, and recommended them to Uavics, the publisher. They 
were called "The Poems of Nobody," but he was offended 1^' a, 
lone of infidelity that ran through them. He then remarks on th<l 
pleasure to be found in compositions of llic kind, if written n.iturally 
and without artificiality. We have also the letters of one " J. Riidey, 
ostler at the Red Lion, Barnct." " This book," writes Boswell on 
the fly-leaf, " I Ifought from its author at Ramet, 30 May, 1783 ; he 
seemed to be a sagacious old man." lie then mpplies some touches 
of character, adding that, though an ostler, " he had actual osllcrs 
under him," and enjoyed an income of £,\\o a year. Then thcrci 
is a quariit Italian MS., " Mcmoric die Siena," by Abbe Talcnti. 
" These memoirs," he writes, " I had in a present frotn the collector 
of them, a Dominican Father at Lucca, when we contracted a; 
friendship, being both enthusiasts in friendship for sweet Siena.* 
llierc is something quaint in this. 

Among the many literary schemes plarmed by Boswell was a 
life of Sir R. Sibbald, and I have wondered why he was drawn to 
this subject. The reason is shown here— the possession of a MS. 



Sonte Bozzyana. 



^ 



^ 

^ 



account of himself kft by this Sir R. SibUld. " I hod it hf pur 
chase from my uncle, Dr. J. BoswcU. He had it from Dr. A. 
HamillOD." It could not be traced further, but "the handwriting 
vna wdt known." One of Bo&wcll's most pleasant days, m his early 
aUetMJance on his "Sage," was the expedition to Greenwich, the 
return by a wherry, &c. We find among the books a '* Paraphrase of 
the Psalms of David," in Latin, by George Buclianan, irilh the 
mutic, which Boswell notes: "I bought this for i^. at Greenwich, 
when I was walking there with Mr. Samuel Johnson." Then we 
have Johnson's "Political Tract*," 3 presentation copy from the 
Doctor with his inscription ; another book called "The Nt-w Year 
Gift," complete ; a collection of KLediutions and Prayers, " much 
used and worn, 1 709." It has on its fly-leaf : " This book belonged 
to Dr. Samuel Johnson ; James Boswell." We find a collection of 
cheap books : " History of Jock and the <;iants" " Dr. Faustus," 
" Guy of Warwick," &c,, on which Boswell had written in 1763: 
** Having when a boy been much entertained with ' Jack the Giant 
Killer,* I went to the printing office in Bow Churchyard and bought 
this little collection. 1 shall certainly, some lime or other, write a 
little story book in the style of thcs& I shall be happy to succeed, 
for be who pleases children will be remembered liy men." And be. 
it mighl be added, who writes In this unaffected, engaging style 
will be liked by everybody. This characteristic little pasuge has 
quite a Goldsmithtan flavour. K delightful passage in the "Tour' 
records a visit to the old Lady Eglinton, with whom he was a &vourite. 
Here is the original M& of Ramsay'^ "Gentle Shepherd," presented 
10 hit patroness by the author. She, as " Domj's " son writes on tlic 
fly-leaf, "gave it to J. Boswell, with fUtlering expressions of regard, 
the last time he visited her." This catalogue, 100, supplies us with 
a useful hint ot two as to our author's other works. We find- 
" Obser%-ations on Squire Footc's Dramatic Entertainment, entitled 
The Minor, by a Genius, Edin. i;6o," for which he seems to 
apologise on tlic ny-lcaf: "This was an idle performance, and 
written inconsiderately; for I disapprove much of 'The Minor,' 
as having a prolanc and Illiberal tertdency." Hiii friend General 
Paoli presents him with anecdotes of the Howard family. We 
recall the pride witli which Boswell dwells on hit ancestress,. 
Veronica, Countess of Kincardine, who is mentioned by Bishop 
Burnet in his history, and we find in the collection a Dutch Bible 
of hen: in old oak boards with clasps, forming a monogram. Ilcr 
name is at the beginning. BoswcU named one of his daughters 
Veronica after her, and was glad, no doubt, to have this relic of the 



194 



Tkt GeHtUntatis Magasiiu. 



great lady. He iIk) possessed Lord Kincardine's MS. diary giving 
sn account of " what he saw " in trK\-dlii% through CcrroaDy during 
tbo years 1657-1658. There isa little copy of Goldsmith's " TcarcUer." 
At the bcginniiig he notes : " In spring, 1783, Johnson, at my desire, 
ntaiked with a pencil the lines in this admirable {locm which he 
rumished. These, he said, ate all of vrhich I can be sure:" A relish 
for the "curios " of literature, for odd " out-of-tlie-wny " books, seems 
always to denote a taste for more serious and more important studies. 
No one but a man of reading— /om Dr. liirkbcck Hill — would 
hare cared for "Siden's History of the Scraiites or Serarambi," 
but it was interesting to him because of Oc Foe's use of it in tiis 
" Robinson Crusoe." Here, on my own shelves, are " Bouy's " first 
production, " The Cub at Ncwroarkcl," his own descTiption of liiin- 
self 1 Also bis essay written for his admirers to the Bar, and the 
correctness of whose Latin he dared to mainiata against the sage. 
Still mote interesting is a neatly written collection of observations 
on Corsica, given to him by Paoli, and printed in the " Tour." 

After receiving Dr. Johnson's blessing and advice, " Boxzy," 
when on his travels abroad, mftde i)arlicular friends with those two 
edifying companions. Jack Wilkes and Rou»eau. Witli \Viike5 he 
became afTcctionately intimate. That patriot little dreamed at the 
time that the best sketch of liimself was to be from the hand of the 
young Scot. The young man, it mutt be said, seemed to condom 
his friend's excesses, iiis letters are sprighdy enougk 



INTIUACY WITH WILKES. 

When our travclleT arrived at Naples be became exceedingly 
intimate wiili this personage, whose violent proceedings were' 
attracting the attention of Europe. This extraordinary man had 
been expelled from Parliament, outlawed, and put under a ban, 
and was even more notorious as having printed the most shame- 
less and shameful book wer written by an Englishman. The 
thouglnltss Boswell met this profligate in Rome, and no doubt owed 
his introduction to Churchili, and seemed to have entered into strict 
alliance with him. At the same time, it must be said that it was 
difficult to resist the attraction of Wilkes' good-nature, perpetual 
good-humour, uiigaie/^de eaur. Boswell's strange freedoms and 
awkward candour he put up with, and through his whole life seemi 
to hare retained a genuine regard for his volatile admirer. 

When Wilkes left Rome Boswell entered on a correspondence 
with him, which be continued in his own tree, amusing fashion. 



Some Boznyaaa. 



>95 






exhibiting his changes of humoui and impuLstreness in a very natural 
way. Sometimes, as will be seen, he was so carried away by his 
ardour as to speak very bluntly and even coarsely of his friend's 
political opinions, and when no answer reached him— for Wilkes was 
notoriously careless in answering letters — BoswcII would take alarm 
and become rather abject in bis apologies. At other times he had a 
knack of making awkward allusions to painful passages in Wilkes' 
career. Bui tlie equanimity of Wilkes was alwaj-s unruffled. 

A.t these letters to him have never been published, they are 
here givtn at length, and I am sure will be found an entertainment 
by the reader.' Of tlidr intimacy at Naples the only record U a 
few lellCTs hastily scribbled, scraps which iliow that the young man 
was cagcrio " convert " his friend. "Will you allow me to come 
down to you a moment, Hero of Liberty? Cromwell became ii 
tyrant ; arc you become a Grand Sultan ? " And again : 



h 



BOSWELL TO WILKES. 

I. 

Edioboigb, 

■4 Fcbtuai}-, 1783. 

DCAS SiK,— I did crptcl ih«t btforc now j-ou would hnvc sent me > pcice 
on<ru>{; of wU foa liavinj; fvl mt in ftur of Dr. JohntonS irigcr iH Mr. DillyV 
But IhM good Mid hotpilablc booktctlci Infoniu mc ihat tlic ChmnljcrUin of ihc 
Cilf of LoadoD ioBiti llul he U entitled lohcufiiil from th« Laitil of Aucliinlcck* 
I ihcfefate BOW i4Mami whii wc in ihc law Ungiuge oUI x i^kuium, not of 
shininz ok, bm ol 'Mlluot pUasuitiy. 

A» I un DOW KaMa of Ulnocae (?), of wluch we have ofktt uQted, I hope 
you will Tcuiiie to pay it ■ >. . . 

IL 

Rome, 
13 Apill, 1765. 
^R SiK,— The nuy pleuaat hour* wbicb «« paned logether » Nap)a 
\ b« l««t. Ttt* raaantniaaee of tbrm ihai] inspiiit thii gloomy mind 
Flivc. Ifv<& yoar eem[diBMBU wei« cxccUcnl acd hid full cfTwI. Vou 
Uld me I WM theniott tilxnl roin you had evnmelwitl), adliien of the world, 
bee bam the ptqodicci of aoy counuy, o'ho would be liked la Fnocc m much 
win Briuin. Yog called me ''my Old Lotdof SeotUnd,'' nod you mid 1 looked 
H if I had ■ Ihousasd men at my tack. Ilad il beta your chiefcst intci«t( to 
make Bwwetl aaUaCtd Kith himself you could not have done it better. Bat I 
lel a Ugber value oa youi pailing *c(di, which you pronounced with vath a toiw 
thai I abnotl believed you. I ihaU never ka^K youi civility 10 me. You are 
cflgnvcn in my bcarr. Wat you really io caracil ? 

I wUi much to bear bow you live now you ire got into the italdy CMlle 
whicb we twveycd with 10 creat allention. Vouix i> indeed a netik txiNum, 
I am afiaid [$ie) the pwniihmenl which you nilfei for your evil deedi will hardly 

Tbcy MC copied from the ortglnab ia the Britiih MoMiun. 




ig6 



TAt Geniittftan's Magazine. 



dcKt ollim from (Juing ih« like. Vou ma; tlihik ni you plcue, Imt I h«Te 
nnali ptiilc in t<ins abli; to mile tt> you vrilh thii giy good-hunout, Ibi I do oal 
my coiMciciin btlicvc jxni to be >n rnemy lu ibc true old Briliih CunsUtolioB] 
and til llic •ircln and hap|ilncH of locici)'. Thtx ii ■•> My, I briicvc y^u lo be «' 
«viy Whii; iinil « vciy llVntI one. But phllowphy c*n aulyic hunuiB iMlntc, 
sml from cvciy man of pniu can cnrnfl ■ ccruun (juanlity oJ V"^- I^C I 
allinn ItuU I h*ve Ibond chccrfulneis. knowltdgc, wit. on) geDcicrdiy ct» in Mr. 
Witkcs? I lUppOM Tew cntdblc* are to happily caosuuclcd ai mine, and I 
itnigine that I hare a piilicuUi laloii fui riadinc Ihc c^ld in Kooimt'i compou- 
lion. Ccitain it is tlini the piocen itiuit lie prtfornwd wry dctiiMely. Some 
diyi ago iiolhiiig would tcrvc me tnil to write to }\ra ba Heroic Ifpluk ; ifidj 
thni I be)pin : 

Tn ihcc, Ciiy Wilkct, iW outlawed will u gay 
Ai when Dm Amatrong wrote hi» German day. 
Another Scot now leodi his I^gli^i rliinitt. 
Spile oC the whi|;gi^ broilt which mark our tinm, 
Spjte of the tude Nofth Rtiton'i Tacliou* rage, 
And all th' atnue of the imputed page. 
Ih mtigmu wtiuiiu sM tit. 

In ibe Jltiitxit Gai^lt Ihey have thonght ptppei to gi(« }'on the cpitlicl of 
// Bruit /itgUu. Brule, in Ilalian, may lignify ciiher Bnitut or ngly, and you 
miut kitow it i) diipuled hctii-eon your (lienda and yuur enemiei whether the 
e|»th*l oughl to bo tnntlaled The Englith Bnilui ot The Ugly Eaglitlimao. 
Much may be Mid on both aide*. I.ct HadGniiriMUeConadinidetemrin«. 

Vim aie, no doubt, very buiy pieparing your exgicded workt at youf hoon of , 
leiture. I hope you think of yout Tiicndi nlive nnd dead. Oi ihe lint >t It | 
difficult 10 know which ai« which. Of the Uii I only know twio. Methiokt I 
K« Churthitl Iwiindng into the rcgiuni below, making even Ccrberui dread his 
Inwny futor, while poor Llo)-d ii lounging un the fatal ahore for want of a half> 
penny to pay h>i freight, lie would nut want it long could he who relieved j 
him from Ihc Fleet know where to find him. I luivc received from our &ict>d I 
Nccdham tome |>hl1onophlcaI remaiki whirli he dnim nay he oommuniratcd \ 
to you. I enctiHc hik Iciiei, but t<g )'ou may reluni ii me. 

I lun, dm Si[| ni much yiiura at i Scots Roj-alisl cnn be. 

jAUtS BotnxLL. 
I'ray wiitc to me it CalTe tngleic 1 leave iliii toon, 



III. 

Kome. 

17 May, lyfij. 

DUkR SlK,~Mr togue of a v^itt dt fUn lut been the cccuion of yuui nirt 
beuing from me three diyi looncr. lie told me on Friday that the Na^R peat 1 
Ud not go out till SaCunky, and on Saturday 1 learnt that il gun out on TuMdajV 
and Fridays. Were it not ihat the fellow hat a oumeiou) (loiily I would tuta 
him olf. 

I embrace you a* a regular eone^pondeni, and though 1 certain weekly 
political tract hat tcndeicd ynu, as it were, kaiJaitytd in punctuality, t doubt not 
to lie at punctual at you. Vou hare advised me to think of being a Fotdga 
Miniucr. Yon ihall judge how I can be exact in my deipalches. I am not 
du^ricated 10 find you can be meUnchoiy. The loss of Churchill it, nodoubl, the 



Som( Bozzyaua. 



<97 



I 



wi-HMt Alllicijoii ibat you omld mKi with. Pia; Iti m« be Kiiuui, ujiil advue 
you to sc«k contortion frtqn the immoftAUcr of lh« tout, which jniir departed 
friend tUoBgljr (Mend^ in hl» "Ducllihi.'' The iu|;uincntt foe Ihai noljlc i^Mern 
vhkb intfiotct Uie Oirinc Justice ue \mi\y aticng, uid it depends on ourselvri 
to cukivuc dev«ti]ig hope^ tt «m ihe pmtpect of meeting the renowned Mid 
Ibe «Milty of former >ges that nude Ciono aj- ** JV in kee trr», {ibmicr tm." 
I bcwtily with that John W ilka, who hu his mind woxU furnuhcd with dM»ien[ 
UcM, )i»d thh one in dii] ly icmembiince- 

I aiD oUigcd to you for ihc li(ic>pa(;e to jour Ititlory. The lirst motto » 
exMlleni fur a furioui Whig, and Ihe ucond SnlmiiaUy adajilnl lo Ihe yean of 
oui SoTereicn'* reign. I doubt not hui you wtti make more nolie willi the fiHii 
linl yvaik of King George the Third than Dc,\n Swift hw ilonc iiiih the fuui Ia\i 
yean of Queen Anne. 

At to youc evi) dcedi which I mviuioncd in my tail, I beg you may not refute 
the ehaif*^ Without entering inlo any long dbciiBian, it it certain that you did 
alt in your power to ilir U)) jealousy and halted belwecn Ihc Southern stnd 
\orlhein inbabltani* of Brilain, anil that you treated irith indrccm trany otit 
worthy Monarch, for which I wy you drioi'ed in be hcsien iWM itrnji itriftt. 
Von are now, it is true, connected with the gi exi cauie (if general wananit. llut 
far tUi you hair« reaipn lo thank the blunderint: head of a naieiiiian and can- 
AOt clftiMiaay real merit from il ] fo* to be taken np without a name «aii>un.-lyno 
|i*n of your pbm. Since yoii jiraiie the tinei »hich I lent you and aith I would 
go on with the poem, I vhall cnd«sroui lo do lo, but I <an lell you when my 
limKNU lately *uul giowi wann it will not bo much to ytnx credit 

Id the courM of our eoirexpondencc you Khali have the various schema 
•hicb 1 furm fat gelling lolembly through ihU (irunge cxiHIcnce. II you would 
think Juuly o( me y»u mmi ever lemembct thai I have a mclanclioly mtnd, Ihiii i* 

^H the great principle in my eompcBiiion. Farewell. 

^^L J AUKS BOSWU.L. 



^ 



IV. 



Pent), 

iSjone, 176J. 

OK-tK Six, — ^'ou Hal polite enough to uy llat I miglit hxve ]r-n for a 
trguUt corieifiondeiil, and I icry glndly aci^epicd of your offer. I wro'.c lo ynu 
Kvenl wefkt ago, and hare not yet hud an aniwct. Am I to impute your 
lilciKv lo ibe dejection of a failom twain, whom the cruel Coiradini hu left lo 
weej) in tolttndc, or have j-ou taken amiu the ttiong lenns in which I dccUtcd 
my ditapprohation of ymir conduct ? Ai tu the lint, I luppmc it u now pretty 
nuch over, and as to [he aecond, you know t alwayi talked the same language. I 
gkiry in bdag an enthuaiui Xat my King, for my religion, and I toom the Itatt 
appearance of diaumuUtion. Aa the gay John Wilkct, you are mo«t plcaieng to 
me, and I riiall be gbd to hear from yon often. I.el tciious ntalterv be out of 
the quolioni and yon and I can petfecily haimoniic. 

t bave fbesitd a great tntioaey with my Lord Kfountxtuan. who hat iiintted 
with me lo accompany htm in the ted of hi* tour <A Italy. He ia an amiable 
yonne DOUttnan, and 1 am lell you wants not the tpetit of his ancieot fiinuly. 
Yon tee me then in my eleoMM. My liberal d^iute will erer remain, should t 
ever 1l<^ In the heart oj a Conn. Gay Wilkes, adieu. 

JaMC!) Bosweu- 

My *ddttM k chei M. )ean WaUon i Vcnbe. 



I9» 



The Genilentan's Afagazitu. 



V, 

13 July. 1765. 

Dim Sik,— I (''all cciuinljr [^ lO'inonon nioimiiig. I htve a GiVDur to 
•A ef you. Fray come lo mc bctwttn eight and nine *nil lei ui pus (hii 
civning ta|t«lhci. Pnbapa It may be oui lul. I (toii*l like lo think m. Ordci 
foui KUppcT. I ilull value hi^ly, lonie yem hence, the houn which we lutfe 
enjoyed i,t N>|i1e<. Your Aildiun iih>ll nul tie ii/ttJ. Pi»jr ■lon'l fcfutt me, Ux 
I wiih much to tskc 1t««e of you on ttirndly tcrmt. You My you hare l«o ar 
thfN (cmk M*]r ihni wUch I hire founJ n congenUI to mine live fei evct 
vhilc the tf^Sl of the Whig Rocih downuticdi. 



VI. 

13 July. 1765. 

He it 10 mcrt me til Flotencc, and there I ptomise myMlf a singular pleaEuie 
tn the penml ofa production whoM nritjr ftlone might entitle it to * pl-ice in the 
BiilUi Httieiim. You me Midom ta > Mlmin humour. But yoo iiiii;t !>« w 
•omttilDCi i tot without hdn); in >li huniuun It li impoHitili: lo know hunwn 
BttUTc. Would I Hud one half o( foxa (;i>od-huniDur, which U free at lU houn 
Knd oiiintil be hurt either l^- outlnwiy or by the loss of ■ miitiea. I do admire 
four tinngth o( mind, ind look upon foa u one of the (igorDusfew who keep up 
the Inie niinly charxcter in thit cfleminatc age. Willi what a philotophioil 
palieuce do you ticai the flight of your beautiful tfologneM ! Yet I can >uppow 
you tunittinm plaintive and xomvlimct a little aogiy. If one may joke upon an 
ukl theme, I would nik if you h>vc never exclaimed with the Manluon twain, 
" 2t'4( mm aa'to iii/ariHii," 3ie. I 1 am sorry that Cotnulini and you have difiered, 
and I (linll not be diipleaicd lo hear that you hai-e mode it up apiin. There vat 
un idle report that ihe hail robbed you. I caDnol believe it, and, if you think u 
1 do, you will surely In- gcneroui enough to coDlradict ii. AAei oil, mairiage if 
the real state of happineti. FiJkts Ur it anfliui, &c.> can apply to nothing rite. 
What we lawycn call the lanitriimm ifimmitms vila ia the mott coniforlable of all 
ideoa, and I hope I ihall one day icl) jou 10 from expcricriM. I mean col lo 
Ifiumph over ymt. Marriage it an eiccllenl fntit wlien ripe. Von have been 
imlucky enough to cuii it green. Your Doiki iiiusi advance icry fa*l. You will 
lil^e lAuunne much, u the xocieiy there is vciy eaty and agreciUe. \\ 
Ccnev* you will be very well received ; the malconienit will flock around you, 
aad boirow vxok of that fiie which hm binicd with luch violence. Ai fai a» I 
can judge, the Geneva o|>poiition ii belter fonnded than thil in a certain Kient 
kingdom. [ own lo you 1 love lo tec these Itepulilicani at lariDnce among ihem- 
wivea. This, I feat, yuu will call a pUmie from the wing of Joliiuon. It may be 
so. My veneration and love for thnt illii»,tiioti» [•hiloMiphcr U v> great (IM I 
cannot promiie to be always free from some iiuitalion ol him. Could my fochk 
mind prrserve but a fnint imprcuion of Dr. J<:>lir>ton, it would be u glory to 
myielf and a benefit to mankind. Oh ! John Wilkca. Thou gay, learned, orul 
ingenioui private geollcuian ; ihuu pniaionaie politician ; thou Ihoughllcn 
infidel ; good witliout principle, and wicked without molnvlence I Let Johiuon 
Inich thee the road 10 ruuural riiiuc and noble felicity ! I hai'e not rnade two 
verKa these lost two months. I have the mo*l tncontlanl mind in Ihe world. At 
limes 1 can hardly help becoming \iUiiibit\ ... a man of conaderaUe pwu, 
but at other timca I inientibly bill ioio a lUle lilde better than that of a block- 
httti. Vou have proiied the U^iuting of my opiille to you, and, think, with 



I 



Some Bozzyana. 



199 



llct. I uni %Wii& lOfo on wiih it for fc*t o( ihe/nuwun ix/ttlgtrt. However, 
ir you iiuHt upon U, 1 iluU rue td! ris^tus to ctilciuin yon vilb ihe compklian 
of nf null (I«9den. I continiu to like Lotd Mouatiiuart. iAj intiin*cy 
iiiifa him iMubtought mc Kqu&inted witli the dunctui of l>onl Bulc, whoni I 
•hkll evet •dmire. Hit Ictfen to hit sod prove him [o be ■ man of the iiioitt 
gtowo wi wal and tao«t l«n<let hcul. [ nm sure h« is ooo of the b«»t fricn<ls *nil 
bcU liilim tbU cm lived. Ai 1 ktatomitn, I n-a >uic hi* iiuentiont uctc c'And 
M)d hoEKunblc What hii ndminisiraiion hoi been, upon my honour. I h»ve not 
ycl kncnriedge enough not abilitjr enough to judi^c. lie wrilei wiih an eloquence 
wlddi would dorm you. Since )-ou are willing enuugh to bear tny honnl Tiee- 
dam, oof omafMMrteice ihall be u fr<i]umt u you please. Lei us correspond 
not M poUtkteHi bat u mcD vf wil uiJ humour, and let us mingle M much 
politics b om kltcn m politicUns do with humour in theUt. 

Adinii deu Sir, 

JAUK* K 

iStaintJ *ttJ ml l<t'^t.\ 




vn. 

Genoa, 
I Decenihn, ijts- 

DkaS Six, — Vou uv a very nd man indeed. I wrote you a long letter from 
Venke. vA • nott cltwftral one from. ... I directed them both " i M. Wilkes 
i Kkpk*," ■ccotfingtofonrdetire, and am nirc that [ did not neglect to give you 
tnjFaddren at thia place. Aft<v makiif a very abigular tour tu the IiUnd of 
Coniea I arrired at Genoa bi foH hopoof finding a packet oC your vit anr] 
gajeiy ; but, to my ^reai ditapiwdntment, Ihcrc wu not a line Irom you. i/ ytiu 
bavo rtcciied the Icclen I mcnlion, I must be very atigiywith yen ; for, alihougli 
I hive heacd thji yaa have been running over the world and trying the keenn«(t 
of your uit widi tlai of Voltaire, 1 Cannot encusc jour forgetting an andenl IMrd. 

1 have bad a flow of spriu and have written above a hundred and lifiy lines 
of 1^ tpiflle to you. I am in hopes it will be a jriecc that will do us luili 
some bMOiir, I mi out for Pam la r week hence. Sly bther it ill and aniluui 
to »ec »r. If I do not hear that he i> better, my Rtay in France at thii time 
mMt be very ibott. Pny write to me immediately at Lyotu by the addren whic)i 
groH wiU GmI on the opponic page. It will please me to be thua met b]r you on 
iqrnMdla hiii. 

ri Adieu, dear Sii, 



N 



A Mooaent, 

UOKSIBVK BOSWEIX, 

Gentilbomme Eooataai, 
cliaM. 



J. a 



We find among these papers some lines which arc, no doubt, the 
poetiinil dFusion referred to in the letters. They have but little merit. 
It will be noted that the lines have often to be eked out with other 
supcf6uous words, and it was, no doubt, Wilkes' good-nature that 
prompted his warm praise. 



zoo 



Tht Ctnilematis MagasiM. 



FOK TlIE KOTED WILKES. 
SnriMKH or Pmujamixt : a 9im*. 

TW LMt ia SMRfand nd ilw &«|U SqMC 
fbriMi»7 AaMtfan ^md* boa SoBth to Honk. 
0« BnlMof Semn sad aa Bnk o( F<m(Il. 
To tmm lu y eamof halt my \mtt V* gbe. 
>ni M ht muwbtr, Wir»^. bnottoUvc 
WW « Ui BSi oMUBSUd^ ■Ninld «ir ? 
Wha wMld Ht be 1ft pat hdoHcar^ Kqr ' 
WhcM 0Mife the mautf «■ eleafa»« tpnt ? 
A|*H« to oat u» ilatr at cent, per con. 



Lat . . ■ f^Mnigpa ft «4iofe oat (Mpuc^ 

Aai 'noHp tbc poor in lOMMd iiNMten ikuc 
Let Snh fiWiHii «ak« U* ntan nim 
laaJarf tfa.igtjirf^Mii^t)WigWifcft. 
Jl«i Ml HnnMr *nMd En >iw (kieM« 
KV* Ik Tm IkMMb the mndlln boRMgh pte. 
t^ MftCT ■OBbcn BwdHW other rata. 



SiHft ^(v Uk powM. Note Mk aoici, 
WfwiAadfWimyitmmtibmi, 



Saw todK HnaM MM be < 

iW inl • iHt oc th^ fane faand ft lai«ii& 
Uha wbMhs T aaiw / , fts Misaari prie : 
WU Up f« MR ten Em^ MMiiae tiric. 
,|faUiC«kbldi<rn. 
raHbig to be aiic 
Ak ^etaeafca/'vfli' (o Lbc membti fceoachi, 
Awt-aarl-eaJ' acr thtf wUp oat (or > iMlt. 
CMil li Cictt Briuia pown ■ tdiool, 
e«di btaeha fann, each Act ■ (iMuur lehool ? 

Whr dU njr dtwpit er voU hit fatriot bKiM, 
I.eMSoMthfe)ade««eacdcnwredMnU ittit 
Whjr ihc Hgh hone of Indrptadmcc ride, 
And cry, "Dinde ihe IIouk ! I wy, DivHkl" 

When he returned to bis borne he wrote to his friend ^VlUccs : 
ffosyyMU TO tv/iKSS. 

Auchinltdc. 

6 Majr, 1766. 

1 tiMtl ntT«t r<*)tH ynir liunune uid kind behaviour (0 n>c U l*u{i, when 1 
l*r«lr«i] th* mf4*nclio1y ncnof my moihcr'i doth. I hare bcm doing >U in 
Mf |MiiM tu (omfon my woithy fitiha, and I Uuukk Cod be i» now |Kall7 

' tti*Ki, fcrt li» b ■ Bofro* doj,; ' And -and- and- for he ttwien. 




Smte Bozzyana. 



30I 



iteoTered. Vov nggertcd (o me a v«j- ere>l (cBcctiM, thai it wis tucky for 
Biy fu])ct that be r wdwd ihe KT«re sIrok« wh«n I wu ibaeRt, ibc twd I bwn 
with bjin he kduM have hnd nolhiii); strong cDUUgli to divert hii altenlion from 
BD ineponble Ith ; whcrcsj my return from w-y Iravclii urouid be a new object 
tohiBiandhdp to coinpcn«ilc r<>r h!(2'<^< ■o'^'l'iiic- I h*Te fouml the Uulli 
of vhal you nid, and, (or once in my Iir«, bave been of eonaidtmble dm. I 
know fOO iriti Dot like mc Ibc Wine thai 1 have been dainc 1117 ihly. 1 have 
oAcD tfaonGht at you with oflccilan. lodccd, 1 ncTei odniircd yon mote thvi 
wbeo you tried to ■Ileri&ije my afHiction : ior, whether it be from tctf-inlercit at 
not, J tet u higbti nine 00 ilie quolitiei oT ibe heart than on ihoie of the head. 
I hope jxM W9 better, and am Mtsiotis to hear paiticukrly eveiythiDe that con- 
cerns you. I have 1 j;tcat deal to My to you. But you forgot to give me 
yo«r addien, and I ibink It would be ieaptopcr (or me to write to you triih 
one rtax. I will bmte )-Dut ufciy. I hope to be wiili you in Loodoa next 
mOBlh, when wc ihull tcttlc the lime. In Sir Alexander Dick'i large COl> 
Icclioa of lelten from eminesi «ad ingcnioitt men, to whicli I hare &ee floevM, 
1 find a peat many from Dt. Aniutrong, some lof which arc vrry good. It 
k CMnoH lo obeerve viih whit food praise he mites of yon at one period and 
with what atiibtlioM nge at another. Sii Alexander, wtio u cow in hii Soth 
you, ii very litllc dunged (loai what yuu bave Ktn him. He temeobcn you 
with UT«ly pkatBTC; Do answer my demand without delay. You lUstn/e Jaji 
of pMC. l^ay msAx my complimcDCt atccpuUc 10 Mi«a Wiika, and belicT« 
inc iwbc, 
^^^L Dealer, 

Vandf 
■ talks 



I 



In March, 178^, he arrived in town, now " Laird of Auchinlock," 
rand found bis friend in a sad stale of sufrcrins. The old pleasant 
talks and meetiogs wcic, in (net, about to close, and Johnson's last 
illness had certainly begun. lie was in a state, too^ of fretful 
irritation, as when " a gentleman " asked him, " Had be been abroad 
that day?" 

Kothii^ is more curious than the ontiring interest in DoswcD's 
great work, attested b)- a stream of new editions and nc-w editors. 
One might hare thought that the vein Iiad been worked out and the 
Usi word said — at least, as regards regular L-xcgcsis, explanation of 
Db«:urc allusions, suppressed names, and the like ; but there still 
remains a Tcry interesting tract of country unexplored and which 
has quite a psychological interest, -to., the tracing in the bocd: 
Boswell's own chainictcr, feelings, whims, and eccentricities even; 
wluch leads to a suspicion that the whole is an elaborate and rather 
artfiil afiolopa for the author's life and frailties. Mr. Croker, long 
since superseded, was the fint to indicate this method of inquiry, 
and there is no doubt that it would offer a tatbcr novd and piquant 

VOL. CCXCII. NO. K>^. F 



203 



The Gentleman's Magazine. 



iona or eiUcrtainmcnt Bosv<;U's follies and absurdities were a 
perpetual source of enlcrtaiiimcnt to his friends ; he iras so ardent 
and earnest, and, do what he would, no one could talce him 
seriouttly. We And him, therefore, adroitly putting forward his 
great friend as his advocate, whose sonorous generah'ties would 
cover " BoM>''* " own special case. 

Thus, how of^en have readers been my^tiBed by the penUtent 
fashion in which he introduces the subject of the Roman Catholic 
religion, nimost compellini; the sage, by his own altncks on it, to 
enter on a vigorous defence of 'm tenets. He takes him through 
all its doctrines and extracts a fa\-ourab1e opinion of each. On llie 
subject of conversion he obtained from Johnson that noble en- 
comium of a Mr. Chamberlain who had become a Catholic at 
the Eacti(icc of liit worldly proipccts : "God bleu him for it I" 
Now this seems UDftCCOuntable until we know that in early life 
lioswcll had himself been a Roman Catholic, and, though brought 
back by a Scotcli divine, he still ching to many or the doctrines. 
Only the Roman Catliolic will recognise wluit a true Catholic tcavcn 
there wns in liis scntiment-t, in his notions of doing penance, his 
belief in Purgatory, the Real I'rvscncc, and the combination of good 
and pious instincts with bx practice ; with also the longing to rise 
again after a severe fall, a Caith in i>myer and exercises, llicse are 
often found in the Catholic in foreign countries. This curious 
incident has escaped the commentators, but what a Ught it sheds on 
such passages I 

*'Bo2iy,"as we know, was the lubjcct of much chaflT and ridicule, 
and constantly "gave himself away," as it were, by his ratlier 
ridiculous exhibitions. Albeit a husband and a father, "woman and 
wine " necm to have led him into many sad lapses. It would be 
much, therefore, if be could contrive to make his great friend to 
some degree cMmualc sucli irregularities, tie could then plead, 
" You sec what IJi. Johnson thought of these things ! " As in tJie 
case of religion, so was he constantly introducing these topics of 
"woman and wine" and extracting Johnson's indulgent opinion. 
He even furnishes many diverting pictures of himself in an intoxi- 
cated stale— in which he rather conveys tliat the lapse was quite 
exceptional and redeemed by a good-humoured display of penitence. 
"Sir, he said all that a man could say ; be was sorry for it." He 
makes tix think of him as an amiable, good-humoured creature, 
occasionally led away into excess. His letters to his frimd Temple 
indeed show these good instincts, and that the flesh was far weaker 
than the spirit. So with the odd questions he used to put to Johnson 



I 

I 

I 

I 

I 



I 



Some Sossyana. 



203 



I 



^ 
^ 

^ 

^ 



as to relatioca with the other sex. There he was again most 
persistent. He would urge ihnt a wife whose hutband neglected 
hcT WM justified in rctaiiiting, i!lu^t^lting live theory by the case of 
a dame to whom he was paying devoted attention. The narvet/ of 
this is truly amusing, for here his vanity came in. In this direction 
he was indeed "a sad dog." 

Absorbing as wa* hb de%-otion to Jolinson, there can be little 
doubt that one great aim ol his was 10 exhibit his own gifb and clever- 
ness. Mis share in the conversations is alwa)-s effective, but it is 
difficult not to bdicve that thi.f was carefully edited, and ofien, 
perhaps wholly composed after tlie event. He lias, indcMl, told us 
ihat he liked sometimes to make Johnson talk, as he thought it 
likely he rpcuU talk ; he was so full of the Johnsonian clher lie 
could do this with ease: 

A passage in Boswell's reLuions to his friend that las never 
been elucidated properly is his absence from the deaih-bcd. When 
wecon»der"Bouy's''asstduousdcvolion.ind attendance, laboriously 
cuilinucd for cnxt twenty years, it seems extraordinar)- ihat at so 
critical a time, when his assistance would have been useful, he 
did not By to his side. lie tells us himself that something tike a 
quarrd of coldness had arisen owing to Johnson's bitter rebuking 
of his complaints and hypochondriacal sorrows, but the difference 
most have been of a more serioos cast ; for wc find Uoswell saying 
that, "as he persisted in arraigning mc," he would not write at al^ 
though later be wrote him " two as kind letters as I tou/dt" A 
singular expression for the once devoted henchman. Johnson, who 
left souvcnira to most of his friends in his will, omitted Boswcll's 
name altogether. This slight was deeply monifying, and he felt 
must have been a suhjcct of amusement and enjoyment to both 
friends and enemies. He fell bound to put forward an excuse, which 
was lame enough, viz., that others had been omitted alsa No doubt 
Pr. Taylor and Pr. Adams were passed over, but who was so pecu- 
liarly intimate with him as his "Itozzy"? llie latter suggests that 
he only mentioned such names as occurred to him, and that he had 
shown others " such proofs of his regard ihat it was not necestaiy to 
crowd his will with their names." ^Vi[h some lack of good taste 
and feeling he rather maliciously adds that " Mrs. Porter [his step- 
daughter] was k-ft nothing, but slie should have considered tliat in 
Aer will she had left nothing to Jdinson." 

PF.RCV nTZCr.RA!.D. 



ao4 



Th4 Ge.itUfttan's Afagasine. 



SPRING IN TUB MARSHES. 



THEV sing the Spring of wood And i-ale 
By rippling brook and cr>-sul stream, 
How early buds bedeck the dale 

And greening lanc-s await Love's dreani. 
But few of thy Spring Soo' know, 

\Vide, tangled mtrc and marshy lea ! 
Uliich spreads where open breeces blow 

Cer the low country by the set. 
The song-birds carol in the grove, 

Spring's censer swings o'er memd and hill; 
Does not the Manh Kinjj:'* kingdom more 

In uniiion with N;ittiri:':« will ? 
Come where the curlews call, white fades 

O'er fos* and fen the big Sun's red— 
Till 'mid the groping, dusky thadc3 

Of one wild waste he drops his head. 
Here reigns the Oungcl' lord, whose might 

This rich, damp healthy life sustains ; 
All through the length of Winter's night 

He makes the bws for his domains. 
His dark hand lying on the niiie 

(A« gnarlW sium]> of bug-grown tree) 
Lights Will -o'- Wisp's deceiving fire 

And waits his viaims warily. 
Down o'er his couch of juicy sedge 
Mist canopies lie dnws for sleep. 
Hliile glowworms guard the murky edge 
And fire-flics gleam o'er ditches deep. 
Uc wakes to find d.ink tassels green 

Befringing all his curtaining— 
The whistling widgeon's shrilly scream 
I>cclareG above him : '* It is Spring." 

* A Cctmao Utic \t>i the Manh King. 



Spring in the Marshes. aofl 

In irco, Trcsh dAwn is beard the 07 

Of wild grey goose snd quacking teal, 
A thousand insects whirling b>- 

Crcct morning in ihcir circling wheel. 
Where pooLi expand to weedy streams 

And mud-banks lecdy shallov^'s bound. 
Snipe plume beneath the noonday beams 

While watcr-waguils flutter round. 

Orcat Cungel King, they lilllc know. 

Who think that love and bciuiy dwell 
Alone upon the mountain's brow 

Or in romantic dale and dcll I 
No stern white cliff with swrrct cave 

Shall guard thy ever open door; 
The storm wind blows across the wave 

With ocean message to thy moor. 

Low o'er the foam the sea-gull flies. 

The tern and petrel sweep inlund 
To wliere the sandy ridges rise 

Wliich belt the marsh from surf-washed strand. 
On— on — across the brackish cteck 

To whvre, all hui% with duckweed slime, 
Tln-y find the boggy throne tlwy seek, 

And favour pray for nesting-time. 

" Some rced-deck'd swamp ot rush-grown place 

Grant, mighty monarch ! " O'er the tidd 
They travel far to ask his grace 

And bring to court each white-plum'd bride. 
The bittern's booming drum doth sound, 

The heron swoops on downward wing, 
l-'or is not this enchanted ground 

With all the mysteries of Spring ? 

E. u. RtrrHEKroKDb 



206 



Tht GtntUman's Mag&tine. 



TABLE TALK. 

Maky QrEKM cr Scots. 

SO long as history lasts, the tragedy of ihc life and death of Mary 
Queen of Scots will stir men with passion or pity. Aiuottg all 
" sad stories of ihe death of kings " or queens, hers is saddest and 
most romantic. Her enemies even — and such arc not confmcd to 
the bigots or aspirants to Ihe Throne — of her own generation are 
influenced by some feelings of comniiseratioii for her youtli, her 
inexperience, and htrr utilTcrings. Raricly, if ewr, was a woman so 
young and so fair the centre of so many luse and mercenary 
intrigues, or called upon to reign over a world so turbulent, self- 
seeking, and sanguinar)-. Were it my cue to speak, 1 could dwell 
tijion her xuncringf and her dcmcritt, and show how cnicl was the 
dc^liny that confided into weak hands reins that the strongest men 
might hesitate to grasp. Anxious to shun patticipation in a fray in 
which all engaged become inevitably partisan, and still more anxiotis 
to avoid teDing afresh an oftcn-told talc, I restrain myself from com- 
ment on the character of Mary, or even from a restatement of the 
conditions under which her youth was nurtured and hex destiny 
shaped. Like other members of her race, stic inspired the wildest 
and most uncompromising devotion and the fiercest and most 
implacable houilities. Charles I. e^en did not beget more en- 
thusiastic loyally on (he one part, or, on the Oilier, more justifiable 
mIstnisL Men are for her or against her liy inherent sympathy — 
almost, so to speak, by natutc — and divide into dirTerent camps as 
naturally as, in the r^isc of the Civil War, ihcy range themselves inj 
sympathy as Cavaliers or Koundhcadi. 



The "Mvstert of M.\rv Silmrt." 

THE controversy concerning Mary Stuart is not dead, can never 
die. Scarcely a year passes in which some attempt is nnt 
made to pour new light upon her crnxr, or cftimatc afri-sh Ihe 
conditions under which she lived. Troudo and Sir Waller Scott are 



Table Talk. 



ft 
ft 
ft 
ft 
ft 
ft 

I 



perhaps tiie accepted guides of most readers of the present genera- 
tion ; while Sir John SkcUon and Mr. T. F. Henderson are bterand, 
on the whole, more trustworthy authorities. Latest of all is Mr. 
Andrew Lang, whose " Wyslcrj- of Mary Stuan " ' has only just seen 
the light, and is in some respects the most important coiitril>uiion to 
the literature of the subject recently given to the world. 

Mr. Lang himself will not pretend that he has solved the mystery 
be seeks to penetrate. Unless some further light, scarcely to be 
anticipated ercn in these days of close inrcstigatioD and research, 
breaks upon tlte subject, imi solution is to be expected, and men's 
niinda will be as much exercised to-morrow as tlicy were yesterday 
and are t<vday. Mr. l.ang, however, brings to the task of elucida- 
tion a fine and practised critical metliod, as well as close fiuniliatitjr 
with the subject From tlie dcslmctive standpoint his reasoning is 
ananswerable, and it is only in tlie constructive portion of his 
labours that he ts driven to conjecture, which, however much it may 
please or cxodse the mind, is not put forward as conclusive. Mr. 
tang's singularly alert intellect delights in the rcahaping of problems 
and in the detection of the weak points in argument, and he devotes 
to the analysis of accepted theories concerning Mary Stuart th« 
same methods that have detected the weakness in accepted views on 
primitive ctiltuic. 

TiiK "Casket Lkttkrs." 

IN judging the claraeter of Mary Queen of Scots, the extent of 
hcT perversity or ini<iuity depends upon the acceptance or 
rejection of what arc known as the "Casket I-cttcrs." It might fairly 
hare been assumed, in a case of so much historical importance, that 
knowledge of what arc the "Casket Lettcnt" would be general. 
Such, however, is not the case. I may, then, say that they consist 
of Mary's letters to Bothwell, some love sonnets addressed to him, 
ar>d documents connected with the death of Danilc}-. Ttiesc, 
with a view to self-defence, were preserved by Both well, their 
receptacle being a silver casket given him by the queen. After the 
battle of Carberry Hill, Botbwdl, flying from his enemies, sent for 
tbe precious casket. His messenger was, howc^-er, betrayed to tbo 
Confederate Lords, who captured both the prize and its bearer. The 
qiMStton, then, is how far the documents then seized arc genuine. 
That some of ihem are so is scarcely to be doubted. There was, 
however, ample time for faUtfication, and the idea that some of them 
were forgeries of George Buchanan or others was held at an early date. 

' Loagiraah 



308 



The Gentleman's Magazine. 



It suffices to tx$ that, if the letters arc genuine, Ma^'i share tn the 
murder of Datnlcy isabundanttjresublishcd, and die Queen of Scots 
stands formrd one of tlic most tctHble characters iit history. It 
is obt'iously impossible for mo either [o sum up or to follow a contro- 
versy still unsettled, or to deal with matter the due discussion of 
which exacts a volume or rolumes, when I hare space but for a few 
jmagtaphs. All I can possibly do ts to convey to my readers one or 
tiro condosiotis of the latest and one of the acutest of critics. Among 
the designs with which the Confcdemle I^ida were justly credited 
n-BS llic purpose to bring Mary into conlem|)t with the public — 
but too ready to mat her with outrage and insult — and so prepare tiK 
people toaocejitheriniprisonnientand, it might be, hcT condemnation 
to b« burnt aUve. At the some time, they had to secure themselves 
s^inst the resentment of France and that of Eliiabetb, in no wise 
prepkrcd toaccq)t the interference with royal privileges of rebellious 
subjects. Nunc of them could at this date foresee what might be 
the attitude of Moray, the future regent, to the persecutors of hts 
sister. The appearance of the " Casket Letters," so soon to exercise 
in England a malignant influence on the fortunes of Mary Sluart, was 
at least opportune. Kfary was imprisoned on June i6, 1557. Three 
days later the letters were seized, and on the >ist they were entrusted 
to the keeping of Morton. The question then and subsequently de- 
bated was : Are the letters then sciwd genuine ? Opponuniiies of 
falsification were, as has been said, aflbrded, and the temptations to 
such process were strong in the case of men some of whom irere 
gravely compromised in the death of Damley. \Vas the forger George 
Buchiuun, U)c man of all others of those days most capable of a task 
of extreme delicacy and diAicuIty? Recently-obtained evidence 
tells in favour of their authenticity, though there arc chronological 
difficulties in the way of their acceptance as they stand. Internal 
endeuce, in my opinion— which, for the rest, is of little value, or none 
— supports their genuineness. On this point Mr. Lang deserves hear- 
ing, and I commend warmly to my readers his conclusions. Iliese 
arc not final, and I cannot attempt to explain them. That task I 
must leave to my readers, and I wtll only add that the latest uricer on 
the subject is at least in favour of their trustworthiness in parts, and 
that he finds difficulty in comprehending how a forger, however 
adroit, placed Mary imaginatively in an altitude vhidi she sab* 
sequenlly adopted. Tlie one decision I can quote is that "Whoever 
held the pen of the foi|;«r, Leibington must have directed tbe 
sdicnie." 

BVLVASUS CRBAS. 




h 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 

March 1902. 
T//E STORY OF JEREMY BOYSE. 

Bv Edith Gray Whrelwiight. 



"HpHESE pend! marks are most objeoionablc," sud Jeremy 

The liitle bookseller readjusted his spectacles, and, t^'i% up a 
small brown volume from a confused heip upon the counter, scanned 
the pages witli an indulgent eye. 

"Not so much scribbling in this one," he remiukcd after a pause. 
*' lla]rbc the gentleman cooled off a bit beTorc ever he got to the 
second rolume. I've seen that ha[>|>en in second-hand literature 
heaps of times. It's what I call a sign of desultory learning. And 
the scribbtings and underlinings are often put in just to look grand 
and Kholar-likc: That's another thing we gvt to know by observa- 
tion. Second-hand books are a sort of indication of character, Mr, 
Boysc, when a man has n little insight in reading tbem." 

Jeremy Boysc stood under a flickering gas lamp which cast 
unflattenDg lights and ghostly shadows upon the sombre, itccumu< 
laied books. A small, stighily-built figure, stoopiitg with the weight 
of years and sedentary occupation, clad in a shabby overcoat and 
hugging an umbrella whose handle had gone astny, his appearance 
ai the first gfamce was lacking in distiiKtion. But uptm closer 
acquaintance a certain chatm, apan from mere natural comeliness 
of feature, became apparent. The face was intellectual, sensitive — 
tlie transparent index of passing emotions. It habitually reflected 
the finer grades of thought and feding ; occasionally the rercrse. 

" They are ocrtainly neat little volumes," be obscrred, sunreyii^ 
the two brown books with satiiiaction ; "and I dare say I am 
fortunate in getting; them second-hand. ' The Colloquies of 

VOL. CCJCCIL NO. aosj. Q 



3 to 



The CtntUmans Mageatue. 




rmiiiiii' *K nm u> often seen u one mi^ es^etx, consHJou^ 
what deCgbtftil feadio( tbqr aBatA. I wOt uke then with mc, if 
you please, Hi. Bailow.' 

Then be begu to poke about bete and tbeir wmaa% the nus- 
cctlaneouK literature, while ihe boo k adl et tttmed away to take up ibe 
throMl of an tntentipted comFenatwa wHb a aao who bad remained 
■Uadbg by tbe door. 

During a casual excursion into u nf a mili a r pagei, Jeremy Bojne 
was somewhat distracted by tbe dialogue, which was easily orcrbeaitd 
He turiMKl round after a Ivm minutes and nirrrycd tbe mmnifr 
curiously. He was a man of middle a^ well drcncd and pleasant- 
nuiuKTcd, and he was speaking in an cssy and coofideot tone. 

" Of courae," be said, addressing 3>tr. Bailow, " for a man like 
yoorsdfi «rho baa but little to invest and that little the mull of careful 
savings, it ts csaential to thonnighly examine the security. And 
there are ao many sharks about nowaday*, a man can't be too 
careful However, 1 have given yon my opinion of this affair for 
what it ii worth. 1 consider it a perfectly sound thing. And five 
l>er cent, at the present time t« of course * 

" Dcslniction." said Jeremy Boyse. 

Both mvn looked round quickly and saw the speaker peering at 
Uiero over his spectades, Ids bead shaking slowly ftom side to side. 

" Ab ! " said the tittle bookaeller, laughing ; " that's just your 
dark way of lookii^ at things, Mr. Bo)-sc. I know you don't con- 
sider anything ovtr two and a hiilf i>ct cent- worth a fanhing. Bui 
tfaen pcopk have got to live ; iliai't wliat I uy." 

" If 1 have said it before, Mr. Barlow, I repeat it again," aid 
Joremy Boysc ; " two ;ind a half per cenL b all that reaitonablc 
pMplc ought to expect or can get with safety." 

*'Oh ! come now," observed tlic stranger, good-humouredly. 
*' that liniiu tilings rather, doesn't it ? I am a busiiKs* man raysd^ 
you know -a man of weights and measures ; and I don't go in for 
risks and speculations and that sort of thing, but 1 like to gvt u 
decent value for my money. Why, there are some of the Inscribed 
Stodts, three and a half per cent. They are all right Then there 
are the Indian " 

Bui Jeremy Boyse wiu shaking tiii head again with a slow, 
courteous gesture of diMpproval 

" India in not like our own country," he aid, "and tbe security 
cutDOt be the same. It is impossible." 

"Then I suppose you yourself stick to Consols," remarked the 
■tnuiger, noting the overcoat and umbrella as he spoke. 



I 




The Story of Jeremy Boyse. 



211 



I 



" 1 do not invest at all," was the quiet reply. " My money is In 
th« Bank. I believe it ts safe there. I once had an unfortunate 
experience which made me afraid of investing." 

He took off Ills spectacles, wiped them and put them amy. 
Tlicn he looked up again. The large, intelligent eyes were full of a 
kindly gntclousness ; the manner had a dignified simplicity all its 
own. 

•■ With the best intentions," he continued, "a friend advised me 
to invest in on oyster company years ago. I did so, but only two 
bimdred pounds, which I lost tlie following year. It was a curious 
thing, for 1 bcliwe there was nothing really wrong with the company. 
It wa* simply that that year there were no oysters. EvCT)-one knew 
it It was a great misfortune that there were none. So I loit my 
money, and ever since then 1 have rwiily bern afraid to invert. 
That was my experience, liut I dont know why I should have 
traobkd you with it, I am sure. Anyhow, I hope that you may both 
be more fortunate. Good-evening, Mr. Darlow. Cood-e^-ening." 

And with a liitlc bow to each of them he disappeared. 

The booksdler's friend brought his hand down suddenly upon a 
sudt of sermons, thereby evolving a cloud of dust and a faint odour 
of tobacco. Then he l3U};hed until he cried. 

" Who on earth is he ? " he gasped ; " and what is he ? I never 
&aw such a chaiucler in my life. And to think tliat 'there were no 
oysters ! ' Now, if he had only bought them retail I " 

" To tell tlie truth, I know no more than you do, Mr, l-'rampion." 
said the l»i>okw;llcr, "a.* to what he was. Il's clear that he has got 
some sort of pension. I fancy it was something under Govcmmeni, 
for he's a real gcnilctnan for all his cranks. Very useful chap, too. 
Buys up the mouldy ok) chssics that I'm glad to get rid of. But a 
chaiBctcr. Oh I there's no doubt about that." 

" Well, such a chap as that is to a banker what the Great Aok is 
to a tuturalist," obscrrcd Mr. frampton, as he too picpaied to 
depart, " a rara avi%, if there ever was one. No, by Jove ; I sha'n't 
&M^ him easily." 



A short Wftlk across the noisy London thoroughTare into tributary 
streets of comparative gloom and silence brought Jeremy Buysc to 
bis home. He produced a latch-key and enteied quietly. From a 
door within, a young gii! at that moment stepped into the hall and 
came towards him. 

" Ah 1 Mr. BoyfC," she said brightly ; "we were just saying that 
it was bter for you than usual." 

1* 



212 



The Gentieman's Afoffmifu. 



He acknowledged Iier greeting with hia cuslotnary polilvncss,] 
uid placed his hat and stick in a lituniliar place near the door. 

"I had occasion to call at tlie bookseller'*," he answered, "and 
I was delayed a few moment* there." 

" There is someone waiting," said the girl in a lower tone, " in 
your room. She has been there since four. Mother told her shfl 
had beet call again, but she begged to stay, and she scented all righ 
and — like a lady. So she is there." 

" Really ? I have no idea " he b^an pleasantly ; thert, as an'] 

alarming thought occurred to him, " I trust it is not a begging Udy.j 
Such people arc so very— cmhaTrasnng. Thank you. I will go andf 

SCO," 

The light from one hanging gas lamp fetl fiill upon him ns ha] 
altered. It also threw into soft relief the details of the plainly 
fumished room— ^thc bureau with its scattered books and papers, the 
old arm-chair, the ublc spread for tea. Just beyond, in the shadow, 
a tall woman in bbck was standing. Then she came towards him 
slowly. The veil thrown back from her bonnet revealed the pale, 
delicately chiselled features of a face long past its )-outh. 

Jeremy Boyse stood still. His fmgers, mechanically strayingl 
towards the pocket of his coat, were trembling slightly. 

" Jeremy," said the woman in a soft voice distinguished by a] 
slight foreign intonation ; "it is Marion — come back." 

" Ah I " With an uncertain movement he catight the edge of I 
the arm-chair, pulli^d it towards him, and sat down. In a hapless 
moment, as it seemed, had the unexpected come upon him : his 
phyMcal energy failed before it ; he sat bent and speechless — a frail, 
old man. 

The woman went and stood beside him. " So many years," she ' 
said dreamily ; " and perhaps you have almost forgotten. Why, 
there has been time to forget evetj-thing, even our youth," 

" Sit down and tell me — what has happened," latd Jeremy i 
Boyse. 

The gentle dignity of self-possession had returned to him ; ha\ 
rose and placed a chair Ibr her beside his own. 

"Just the one thing," said the woman quietly, averting her tijc» 
as she spoke. " What else could it be ? Two months a^ my ■ 
husband died — in Melbourne," 

ITiere wa* silence. The clock upon the mantelpiece struck five 
in a thin, ciackwJ voice, and the sound died away in slow vibrations. 
Then the speaker continued in the same even tone: 

" Wc had lived there, you know, for the last ten years. ThingsJ 



The Story of Jeretny Boyse. 



I 



were not vtry prosperous. I don't think be was ever a very lucky 
man, somehow. He bad lost a lot of money by speculation before 
be died, i think it worried him. He was ill for &ome months. I 
nursed bim myself all the time ; and then afterwards — 1 paid all thv 
debts and things with the money tie left It wasn't irery much ; and 
directly I could, I came liome. That is all, Jeremy." 

"You came home." He echoed the words with a gentle, half- 
woodering inflexion. " Docs that mean, then, that after all this time 
the old associations arc the strongest?" 

" It means that my probation is ended," she answered simply. 
" I gave all I could— my duty always, sympathy when it was possi* 
Ue. So the years passed on. You can't be really unhappy when 
your life fills up like that, and people give you tbcir best, even 
though it is a second best to you. Only, when it was ended, I felt 
% grcait longinjj to come back to my own country, and so 1 came. 
Then I got your address from Mr. Arnold — yesterday." 

" You have some great qualities, Marion," said Jeremy Boytc. 
He sat with his face averted from her, and fingers absently [latting 
one knee where a little ragged hole in his trousers worried him. In 
feality his thoughts were recalling ilie emotions of a distant time, 
but he could not lightly give them utterance 

"Tell me about yourself now," staid the quiet voice; and he 
turned and glanced rourvd the room with a vmile^ 

" It speaks for rac," he answered. " You see those books, these 
papers, the sUppers, the pipe. Doesn't this all tell you what an old 
fogey I have grown 1 " 

She looked at lum as he was speaking ; but Love, the traos- 
%uring angel, showed her not the bent, enfeebled figure, but ralhcT 
the lover of her youth. 

" No," she said ; " you are just the same, Jeremy. " 

He laughed with a hint of bitterness. 

" Does a man remain crj-stalliscd because his life is inoomplcte? 
One has to develop somehow. I have got on well enough, no 
doubt, as far as that goes — u well as most men : and now at last I 
am free to enjoy Life in the way most suited to me. But we missed 
the supreme gift, you and I. Nothing can alter tliat." 

Tbe woman slipped her hand into his own. 

" But the sacrifice lies behind us," she said softly. 



The lealisation of a desire once keenly cherished, which tbe 
years have gradually annihilated, is a not unrainili.ir aspect of the 
"irony of Um." Thus bod it frequently happened with the fortunes 



JI4 



Tht Cenilanan's Magasint. 



of Jeremy Boyiie ; thus did it happen now. The wo<nan Uix loine of 
whom in liis early maiihood no sacrifice would httve hcen reckoned 
great, and whose compulsory marriage plur^cd hiin for »on»c yew> 
LiitQ an abyss of rcientful gloom, had come with some itcmblancc of 
intrusion into these later, peaceful daj?. Hi: had outgrown the 
need of her. The memory, all lender and beautiful, was Uid to 
est in the sanctuary of his inner life: it seemed wanton, nay, 
bruiai, to disturb it. 

But the disturbance had been wrought — by Destiny ; and now 
the upheaval of his daily life and habits was about to follow. It 
was characteristic of his simple, unworldly attitude that he did not 
for a moment hesiutc as to the course he should pursue. That be 
riioutd marry his first lot<e after their separation of thirty years 
teemed to him natural and inevitable ; the more m m ihe had 
come back unchanged in all easciitials from the lo)'al-beatted, self- 
sacrificing woman lie had known. With a feeling akin to diame he 
reoognised these qualities; remembered the Ktcrificc which had 
MLved hei fiUher'.s honour ; recalled the agony and conflict of those 
dUBcuIt, dark days. And now ahe had returned with loyalty 
unshaken, and it never apjMrcntly occurred to her to question his 
own. evidently, then, for him therewas but otK course possible. He 
must accept it with all the reasonable sobriety becoming to his years. 

And indeed, as their comradeship widened, he began to apfne- 
date its influence, and to turn more willingly froai tlic books which 
had become the companions of his solitude to the daily intercourse 
wiUk a refined and not ill -cult it'Aied mind. It was not until two 
mondis had passed that a linte " rift within the lute " made itself 
apparent. They were sitting together in his little parlour one day, 
towards tlie end of January, when site made a sudden and, as it 
seemed, ill-timed observation. 

" Jeremy," she said, " why don't )-ou invent your money ? " 

" I thought I bad made it clear to yoii Iwfore," he annrercd, 
" iliat t did not like iiivesimenti. I jwefcr to keep it where it is." 

" But don't you think ilut is rather a mistake itow 7 " she said 
gently. " You sec, wc have really so very little between us. My 
■ixty pounds a year won't go far, and you ha\e only }-our pension, 
and that is barely sufficient for two. Besides, even as you arc, you 
could spend more money with comfort. I don't quite sec how wc 
are to live, dear, unless you take that little nest-egg — how much is 
it? — two thousand potmds ? — and do something with it \V'hat was 
Uie use of savin^^ it all tht^se ye»s if it is to do nobody any j;ood 
after all?" 



The Story of Jeremy Boyst. 



^ 



"Up to the present time I repeat that 1 ha\-c had no use Tor 
it," Ik said stiffly ; " but of course, as you remind me, the cltciim- 
ttanoes are now very diflerenL Still, I should tiaic thought that 
with economy my present income would have been sufficient for us. 
Bu: you prohabty dittltke economy. You were, of course, Hccuslomcd 
to wealth and-^" 

The sentence died in inditlinct murniurings. 

•' The wealth soon departed," she answered limiting. *' Five 
years after my marriage my husbund was as poor as he had bera 
rich. You must not think that I am extravagant, Jeremy. It only 
seems to me so silly to have money tying idle when wc need it, that 
is aQ." 

He made a little grab at what appeared to t>e a fragment of some 
fluffy material upon his knee, but immediately patted it down again. 
It was only the frayed edge of thai exasperating little hole, which be 
bad frequently tried to pick up before, with a sense of irritation. On 
this occasion, howe%'er, it produced an opposite effect ; he reflected 
that a woman's supervision of his wardrobe might be desirable. 

" If I invest the money, it will be in Consols," he said, after 
a pause ; ■■ but they are so high. We want a EtimiKnn war," he 
added lightly. 

His companion raised her ej'ebrows with a little smile: 

" ^Vell, you must do as you think best, dear," she answered. 
" Of course Consols are very safe and comfortable, l>ut I should 
have thought there were other things that would pay you far better. 
I vras Bpt^ing upon this verj- subject with your friend, the book- 
seller, yesterday. He told me that he had lately made an excellent 
tnrcstroent in a company which had already paid him a good 
dividend and bonus, and the shares were going higher every day. 
He aid he should be very glad to tell you all the particulars, but 
he thought that sinc« the smash of that oyster company you had 
been afraid to do anything at all." 

" Do 1 understand," said Jeremy Boyse in an accent of frigid 
displeasure, " that you were discuning my affairs with a person — 
almost a stranger (o you — who could not be expected to have any 
intdUgcnt comprehension of these matters? I— really, I cannot 
undemand your freedom with such people. It may be colonia], 
but it ia certainly not — not desirable from any point of view." 

He rose and walked to the bureau, where for some moments Ik 
shifted and ditananged the papers with a purposeless hand. Hb 
annoyance was clearly visible. 

"But you see you had already told Mr. Barlow about the o)'ster 



I 



3t6 



Tke GentieiHan's Magazine. 



comptuy," said Marion HargTca%'cs ; " and after all 1 told him noil 
thai he did not know before. So it is all right, Jeremy." 

Sh« smiled as she spoke An impcrtuibablc good'humour 
patt of the tutural equipment of her long-enduring, steadiest souL 
To hei the whole circumstance seemed too commonplace to call for, 
argument. Her calmer temperament rendered her quite incapable 
of comprehending a diiTereni point of view. 

But to Jeremy Boyse the incident brought more than a mere 
{lOMing irritation. A throng of morbid su$cq>libilicies and luvpicJons^ 
hitherto held in the leash by a counter inlluencc now leapt u| 
unrestrained. In the still hours of the evening, pacing up and 
his room, in which no light but that of the street lamps and (he star 
had found sdmitunce, he reviewed the situation critically— reviewed' 
also the content of the slow, monotonous years ; their gradual 
cumulation of thoughts and interests and habits which had grown^ 
DUi him and possessed him, and were now indeed as essential ft] 
pan of his being as tlie bark is of a tree. He said to himself — Cor in 
self-examination he slill preserved a simple candour — that the sav 
of a considk-iable sum of money had certainly been one of 
chief interests of his Ufe. He did not care about the money for its 
own sake, but he liked (o feel that it was his — the result of honest . 
work and thrift and numberless economies whicli had beconieaj 
second nature to him at last. He realised now with a bitter pari] 
what marriage would demand from him. Fie would be expected^ 
to spend money upon trivial details in which he tiad rra pleasure ; 
hil simple meals— Jind he a»kcd for nothing belter — would be 
considered mean, and his whole habit of existence inadequate. 
And it was in order to bring about changes wholly repugnant to 
him that he was asked to invest his savings. The spirit of rebellion 
was strong within him. Why should he do this thing ? Again, the 
recent conversation harassed his memory. That his adianccd wife 
should show such an evident desire to have the money invested 
struck him in a ne*' and unpleasant light. It was clear that she 
wanted the money, and consideration for bis own feelings in the 
mattci would have no weight. To a man who for forty years had 
known no thwarting save from the insuperable band of Fate, this 
reflection was also unwelcome to the last degtee. He stopped in 
his walk, and, standing before the uncurtained window, looked out 
into the night. In the street all was silent ; above, in the dark 
heaven, the tender edge of the earth's pale satellite shone, crcKent- 
wise, among the slats. Just so from iliis little uLtement had Ite 
watched it year by )-ear ; thought over again the poets' thoughts ; 



Th£ Story of Jeremy Boyse. 



i\7 



nerved his intelligitnce to meet xll that knovlodge codd declare and 
ignorance conjectuie. Just so, year by year. And thus had he 
wished to reotain ; thus would he have recnaincd, but for this 
unlooked-for change. Surely it vros too late now to conform to it : 
be ma too old— loo old. 



I 
I 



The night wore on, and a thought was born of his perplexitj-. 
Why, after all, had this maniagc seemed so incumbent upon hiin ? 
It was the love and loyalty of the woman which had as it were 
shamed him into professing a constancy equal to her own, while 
memories of their impassioned youth Mill clung to him. But ilicrc 
was clearly no reas<m why they ^ould manj' at all. This calm, grey 
woman, with her gentle, undemonstrative ways, had, like himself, 
outgrown the buoyancy of youth and its illusions. It was evident 
thai the |>nic[ical aspect of things was her chief consideration. She 
cared for tlie comfoits and luxuries of life, while he caied fur none 
of ihein. His mind, still biassed by recent displeasure, niugnificd 
this dilfcrence and its results until it seemed to him that, under the 
circumstances, marriage would be wholly impracticaMe. 

But the solution of the matter did not rest here. It was also 
ckar to him that for a gift SO faithfully bestowed some acknowledgment 
was due. If he did not marry her, he mu$t at loa.^ enable her to go 
her way with comfort. A smaller sacriiice must still be made to 
save the greater. The decision inrolved a struggle, but of the issue 
there was no doubt. He would never do a thing by halves. 

In the twilight of the following day, >tarion Hargreaves, looking 
up from a book that she was holding, saw the figure of Jeremy 
Boyse passing 'juickly by the bookseller's door. She stL-pped across 
the shop and looked after him, but the grey mist had already hidden 
him from view. Then she returned to the counter and met Mr. 
Barlow's enquiring gaze with a smile. 

"Mr. Uo)-sc has just gone past," she said. "I did not try to 
stop him, as be seemed in a huTi>-. It is not often, I should think, 
that he passes your door without entering ? " 

*' No, indeed ; a good customer," said Mr. Bailow affably; " and 
has an excellent good taste in books." 

" Well, I think I may safely take this volume of Macaulay," rite 
said, after a pause. " I know he wanted it, for I heard him say so. 
Thank you ; I will take it with roe now." 

The little bookseller nith deft lingers encased the well-worn 
volume in paper and suing. 



3lS 



The GentUtnati' i Magasme. 



" Must be a pleasure for the poor old gentlctnan to have Komconc 
to look alter him a bit," he obscnvd ; " ettpcctailjr one as talcet an 
interest in his wayn. It'.f n bad thing, too, for people to get too 
solitary ; it givL-x them cnuilcs and fande«." 

" Undoubtcdljr," she answered, bughing, as she took the book 
in her hand. "Our social instincts arc not to be disregarded, 
(lood-wcning, Mr. Barlow." 

The booVseUcT remained for a few minutes in the same places 
Kiirranging a pile of odd volumes, and talking to himself at inlervab 
the while. 

" Poor old gentleman I Talk about cranks, indeed ! A man 
who sits with a pile in the Rank and ne%'er sees a fatthing of it I 
Those damned oysters must just have got upon his brain." 

"What's that you are saying, Thomas?" asked Mrs. Barlow, 
entering the shop at that moment by the prii'ate door. 

" I was rtideciing, Ix>uisa,'° said the bookseller in an altered tone, 
"how easily people's minds go wrong in the practical things of 
life." 



i 



It was raining heavily as Marion Hargreaives readied her tod^ng, 
and the somewhat flimsy protection of a thin mackinloKh did rvot 
shelter her from the wet and chilly air. On the following day «he 
had i>urj>o!ied to take the book to Jeremy, but a severe cold and the 
continued rain prevented her. It was not until the sixth day thai 
she was free to start upon her errand. At the door of his house she 
knocked and rang for admittance, stepping back for a moment to 
peep, if posubic, into the little parlour, whose window faced the 
street. Her trantiuil features were aglow with a pleasurable antici- 
pation. She had kept her present back until to-day that ^e might 
herself enjoy \m pleasure ; and during the six days that she had not 
seen him she had accumulated quite a little treasury of subjects, too 
manifold for eorres|)ondence, but eager to be dealt willi l>y word of 
mouth. She was kept waiting longer than usual on the doorstep. 
Then the door opened — slowly. 

Something had happened. That she saw at once from the 
woman's harassed face. Calmly, as one accustomed to emergendes^ 
she followed hc:r in, through the hall, into the sitting-room, where all 
was quiet and undisturbed. The books and pii>e lay upon the (able 
as usual, but their owner was not there. They had found him at an 
early hour thai morning in his accustomed chair — his arms stretched 
out upon the book before him, his hr.td fallen forward upon his 
lunds. In this very manner he had once expressed the wish that 



The Story of Jeremy Boyse. 



t\9 



Death mi^ht coin« to hiiu : the biidliid)' remeni)>efed it vrith tears. 
There seemed to ha\-e buen no previous illness— no hint of danger 
dose tx. hand. Only for a few days {Mst h« had a[)|>eared to be a 
little worried and irriiatile. Some business mailer had been 
transacted : he had called two witnesses to sign a paper for him on 
the previous artemoon. 

Wilh bowed ht-ad Marion Hargieares listened to the narrative 
her haiKi rolling upon a little open volume which remained just as 
be h«d left it a few hours ago. 

Mechanically her eyes followed a passage rccentlj' underlined iii 

pencil ; — 

Poit aAw (tonia MM( . . . 

Sim after wane, deUli after He, doth gmtty pleate. 

Tlieii, closing the book carefull)-, she took it under her arm. 

In a quiet comer of a London cemeteiY an inconspicuous head- 
stone bore the record of Jeremy Boysc. i\nd day by day the woman 
who had loved htm brought to the graveside a tittle pa»ing sucrament 
of flowers and tender thoughts and tears. She knew now that just 
before hi^ death he had bought her an annuity with all the money 
that he had to spare, and she accepted the act in all its strangeness 
with a deep though wondering gratitude. But of the real motive 
and its pathos she knew nothing ; that also lay buried beyond her 
ken. Only the sure and peaceful memoTy of an unchanged lore 
remained with her. 

Surely we should cherish our illusions. Without them, which of 
us could stand unblinking in the cold daylight of Reality? 



330 



The GentUmans Magazine. 



ARTHUR, "KING OF ENGLAND." 



IN the Mof Kirchc at Iniubntck there kneels on a high marble 
sarcophagus the bronxe effigy (by Ludovico del Duca) of the 
Emperor Maximilian 1. Hi» body, by strange irony of fortune, re»t» 
in a simple tomb at Wicner-Nciutsdt, in Austria. 

Bdow the dfigy twenty-four exquisite bat-reljers in Carrera 
marble depict his chequered life. Battles and f,\c%ei, surrcrvdcrs of 
cities, triumphal entries at the head of his troops, treaties and inai- 
riages (among ihem his own eventful maniage with his beloved 
Mary of Burgundy) succeed each other in great rariety. In all of 
thc$(; the Emperor's figure \» conspicuous. 

Here he points a cannon during the siege of Kuffstein, there be 
serves as a i>rivate under the boy King of England ai the battle of 
Guincgatc and storms a French battery, while his friend Hetuy is 
seen leading the English mcn-«t-AnDs to victory. In all the scenes 
wc hftve a careful realistic repitsCDtation of actual events in which 
he took part, wrought with the utmost elaboration of armour and 
weapons and dress, the traditional straddling swaggcf of the 
German lanzknccht not forgotten. It is a marvellous glorification 
of a remarkable personality. 

Bui so romantic a character as MaximiUan was not content to 
hand down facts of history, however interesting, in connection with 
his name. Round the imperial tomb and guying upon it stand 
huge bron£c statues, e^ht-and- twenty in number, representing both 
actual members of Maximilian's family and relations, such as his 
wives Marj' and liianci Maria Sforaa, his daughter Margaret, his son 
Philip of Burgundy and his wife Joanna, with her father Ferdinand of 
Aragon ; and, besides these, worthies such as Rudolph of Habsbuig, 
Leopold who fell at Scmpach, the great Thcodoric of the Ostrogoths, 
Clovis of France, and — " Arthur, King of England." 

But who was Arthur, King of England? The British tourist 
leads the name under one of the noblest of these figures, a warrior 
in the prime of life, and turns perplexed to his Murray for informa- 
tion, but neither Murray nor Baedeker lend him much help. The 



ArtAttr. "JCing of England." 



221 



bmUB figures "represent iomc of the worthies of Europe, but prin- 
cqally the most distinguished personages of ihc house of Austria." 
Under which of these categories is "Anhur" to be reckoned? 
*' King of England," of course, our British Arthur never was. And 
it seems to ntc probable that when Maximilian arranged the details 
of his tomb, he cbosc " the blameless King " as a type of a Christian 
hero, not without reference to his namesake, ^\rthur. Prince of \^'alcs, 
son of his ally, Henry VII. of England and husband uf Kaihannc, 
wlKUe elder sister, Joanna, was married to his own son, Philip the 
Handsome. 

If my supposition be accepted, it adds fresh interest to this 
berojc figure and accentuates tlve pathos of the contrast. For 
Arthur, whose yit^ot Ayafot with Katharine of Aragon led to 
so many ad >r>d unexpected events, might ruturally hare been 
expected in a few short years to bear that title, and it was in antici- 
pation of this that Fcrdiitand had not only agreed to the marriage 
when the children were only three and four years old respectively, 
but had required the betrothal to be gone through no less than three 
limes by proxy. 

Let us turn now from the valley of the Inn and its towering 
precipices to one of the loveliest scenes in England, where a boy of 
fifteen and a half years of age lies on his deathbed in a great feudal 
eastl& His wife, scarcely half a year older, hangs over his couch. 
It seems to her all unreal as a dream. She could just remember a 
great day of triumph when, with trumpets and dram-beatings and 
ecstatic shouts of a multitude, she had been carried through the 
narrow streets of Granada, a child of four years old, part of a great 
procession of ktughts and nobles and prelates in goi^cous robes, 
while dark -faced men wearing turbans and Sowing while garments 
kneh on either side, and one more venerabte tlutn the rest handed 
a huge key upon a cu.thion to a stately figure on a richly caparisoned 
steed in token of surrender. She knew, child as she was, that it 
was ber father who was «o honoured. Did rwl someone herself 
wearing a royal diadem, press her to her heart and whisper that 
(act to her, while tears of joy and gratitude filled Isabella'i eyes ? 
And then she had been (aught to picture to henctf a child Prince in 
a distant land whom she was some day to call husband. 

As time went on (they were then eleven and twelve years otd) 
}fiUtn had passed between them— childish letters, stiff and formal. 
for Arthur could not write Spanish nc» she English, so they cor- 
responded in Latin, and their tutors corrected the sentences. Yes, 
I at twelve years old she had received missives indited, " To the 



m 



The Genlletntuis Magazine. 



most tUuttrious and excellent Princess, the Lady KathKrin«, 
Princess of Wales, Duchcu oT Cornwall, and my most entirely 
beloved spouse." Then, only last year, came the reality of which 
ihis had been the shadow— the terrible sea-voyage — her ship beaten 
back to Coranna— the second attempt—the laitding in a strange 
country — the pageants— the wedding in the great cathedral — the long 
journey on horseback to Ihis vast' and sombre castle, and now, when 
the dreary winter wa.t past and the birds were beginning to sing and 
the trees to clothe iheinselves anew for all their summer glory, a 
black cloud had fallen on her young life. Tlie lairy Prince was 
passing away from her and there was none lo help her. 

Surely, poor Catalina of Aragon. in the course of two muried 
lives, t>oth of which began auspiciously and citded so sadlj, realised 
OS keenly as ever woman did — 

The glorin of our euthlf tuie 

Ar« shadoin, not lubitantial thing* i 

Tticfc It no amioar agxintt Kite, 

Death lajn hi* i^ hand on King*. 

Sceptic Atul crown itiall turn hie down 

AqJ in the dukt be equal made 

With ih* poor crooked urythe and ip(ul& 

ittwrt ever such a contrast as this between what secRKd likdy 
and what actually occurred ?— between the huge mail-clad chief who 
iL-ans upon his sword and gaies day by day on Maximilian's marble 
tomb, and the dim delicate lad as lie lies gating out his life in the 
hands of the ignorant medical piaciitioncrs of the lime in Ludlow 
Castle? 

Of all the roy.il marriages of the day, that of Arthur and 
Catalina had seemed most promising. True, thc>- were but innoccol 
pawns on the chcs»'board, and the players were more deeply absorbed 
in wiles of statecraft than concerned for the happiness of ihdr 
children. liut it is only in fairy talcs that princes and princ«9Ma 
can choose for themselves, and there seemed no reMon wliy the 
little Spanish maid should not enjoy life as Queen of England, 
though Henry VIL and Ferdinand had planned tlie match as a 
counter-stroke to l-'rance. So the treaty had been carried out in 
1501, and for nearly fire months (Green says "three," but the 
marriage lasted fiom NoTCuber 14 to April a) a mimic court had 
been mainlined in the Prince of Wales's name at Ludlow, where, 
in sight of the wild niountaini of Radnor and Montgomery, his 
deputies, the great Lords Marchers, governed in bis tiame. Arthur 
was not the first boy Prince who held court at Ludlow. The roocns 



( 



I 



Artlmr, "King 0/ Ettgiand." 



223 



in which he lived are still pointed out by tntdition. They had Ikmui 
occupied eighteen yeais carlici by his mother's brother, ilic uiirortu- 
natc Inward V. From hence that poor boy also had profeued to 
govern his Principality, and here in 1483 be had I>ct;n procUin>rd 
King. The ordinance* for liis daily conduct still exist, picscritung 
bis aitcndanci: at the Divine service, his meals, his ekcrdse, and his 
studies, which n-(;re to be conducted under the direction of Alcodc, 
Bishop oT Worcester. 

Hut to return to Arthur. His life ¥fas too short to give inorc 
than B promise of the future, and his death ojicns such a vista of 
great and absorbing ct'cnls tliat his name is chiefly remembered tn 
oontMClion with them. Let us try to put tojjethcr what bac bocD 
recorded of him, and in thought revi;rt to the England of tbe 
fifteenth century. 

Few characters are so full of interest from a psychological p<nni 
of view as that of his father. If he had succeeded to an undisputed 
mheritaacc Henry might have remained simply the dreamer, the 
patron of an and Utcrature, nay, possibly the adept in hb own 
person of all that be delighted to encourage in others. Even as i\ 
is, he lives as much through Reginald de Diayc and TorTegian<^ hi.t 
architect and sculptor, as by the ascendency of the sellish and 
tortuous policy which secured bis tlironc. It is instructive to com- 
pare Die dilTcrent elements which combined to make the man. Not, 
IKihapii, from sentiment mcrdy, or from bis love (01 the old Arthurian 
l^CiMlt which Caxton was publishing to the world, but in jmrt from 
the desire to connect his olTspring with the race from which he pro- 
fessed to be descended, he arranged that hia Queen should bear bcf 
child at the Arthurian capital of Winche-Mcr, and guve him the time- 
honoured name of the old British King ut hit Uipttsm in the 
caibedraL We have seen Henry's motive for the Spanish alliance, 
and the sad end of so many hopes on both sides. 'I'he prospect 
seemed bright enough at first, and the accounts which have come 
down to us of Katharine's landing in England and of her rcceptioo 
here are picturesque and interesting. The Spanish ships reached 
Plymouth on October a, and ilcnry set out on horseback with the 
young bridegroom to OKct her. How he brushed aside Spanish 
punctilio and tbe restrainu of etiquette, bow he insi&tcd that he 
should be admitted at once to see the Pnaceu, even in her private 
room, and brought in bis boy also, to the scandal of her attcitdanls, 
has fortunately l>een preserved for us by an c)'e'Witi>ess. On 
\ November 9 Aitliur, with a great retinue, rode to Blackfriars, w-Iieie 
I he remained till tbe wedding. The Princess entered London in 



224 



T^ GentietnaHS Magazine. 



state, mounted aw a mule. On her r^t rode jvunf; Princ« Hen^ 
on her kri ihc papal legate. "She wote a broad round hul," we are 
lold, "like a Cardinal's hat, tied with a lace of gold, which kept It 
on her head," a " cmf of carnation colour " was underneath, and her 
liair, "of a rich auburn," Mreamed m'cr her shoulders. 

The wedding day wai fixtd for November 14, and the cereinonjr 
was performed by Dcanc, Archbishop of Canterbury, in St. Psul's, 
nineteen bishops and miircd abbots being present. A long narrow 
plalfonn of timber had been erected from the we^l door of the old 
Gothic cathedra], Itself the longest in Europe, and iit the middle 
was a high stage, "circular like a mount," and ascrnded by steps. 
The little Duke of York, Katharine's future husband, again escorted 
her. Clothed in white satin, he led her by the hand from the 
bishop^s palace to the great cathedral door. The bride " wore on 
her head a coif of white silk, with a scarf twrdered with gold and 
peail and ]>recious stones, five and a half indies broad, which vHlcd 
great part of her visage and her iierson." I ler wedding dress was 
(in accordance with the latest Spanish fnshioii) made large, the sleeves 
and body much p'eated, ^n(^ below the waist both she and her 
attendants had their gowns " borne out from their bodies by certain 
voond hoops." And now, when the crotvd of spectators had feasted 
their eyes with the sight, the)- mo\'C on towards " the mount," wbcte 
the other chief actor, the PritKc of Wales, waits for his bride. The 
espousals o%-cr, the procesaioii is resumed to the high altar. Prince 
Arthur now leading Katharine by the hand, her train borne., as 
b^ore, by "the Princess Cicely" (the Queen's sister), and "one 
hundred ladies in costly apparel " following. The nuptial Mass and 
final Bericilictiona ended the rite. 

After the newly married pair had spent some days at Baynard't 
Castle, to which they had been escorted in sute by Henry and 
Elixabclh, there ensued a grand procession in luirges to Westminster 
for a tilting and pageant and a great dinner in Westminster Mall, at 
which the King und Queen sat in the centre of the board, tho lords 
and ladies on cither side of them, not alternately, llie dinner 
ended, " 1 hen came down Prince Arthur and the Princess Cicdjr, 
his aunt,' and danced two base dances (apparently stately movements 
of the minuet style) and then departed up again, the Prince to his 
(aihcr and Lady Cicely to the Queen, her sister." Next the bride 
and one of her .Spanish ladies danced other two base dances ai>d 
then departed up to the Queen. 

But the prettiest spectacle was when " Henry, Duke of ^'o^k. 
L * Th« Lady Cicely and the Lady Anne had auiied Atihui at Iho fwat. 



Arthur, " King 0/ England." 



2iS 



I 



havini; wilh bint bis sister. Lady Margaret, th« young Queen of ScotSi 
in his hand " (she was a child or twelve and he or ten), " came 
down and danced two dances and went up to tht- Queen." 

The royal children were so delighted with their success and 
the plaudits of the spectators that the dance was renewed. Then 
Henry, finding himself encumbered with his dress, " suddenly threw 
off his robe and danced in his jacket with the said Lady Margaret 
in so goodly and pleasant a manner that it was to King Henry and 
Qncen Elizabeth great and singular pleasure. Then the Dulcc 
departed up lo the King and the IVincess Margaret to the Queen." 

As we seem, even at this lapse of time, to be present at the 
scene so bithfully depicted by the old chronicler, we forecast the 
sad future which awaited so many of the ituiocent actors in it. 
"Nod* men* hominum fali lortfaque liiiuix !" 

More pageants followed, and at length, some time after Christmas 
apparently, the Prince and Princess of Wales left for tlieir own home, 
Katharine travelling on a pillion behind her Master of the Horse, 
and eleren ladies of the household following on palfreys. 

So the ca\'a}cade passed on to Ludlow. Little has been handed 
down of the short period of Arthur's and Katharine's life there, 
though one of the towers is still known by the Prince's name, 'ihc 
VBSt square keep remains, and commands, as of old, a magnificent 
poitorainie view, beyond the steep streets of the old-fashioned town 
at its feet, \o the lovely %-aJley of ihe Tcme and Corve and the 
distant hills of Wales. We can picture to ourselves the young 
couple cltmbirtg the staircase of the Norman donjon tower, relic 
of old Rogci dc Montgomery, and Arthur pointing out in the 
landscape the way by which Kath;iiinc had travelled to her English 
home. It needs little to realise how Arthur, who had attained con- 
«derable proficiency in bnguoges, would soon make himself under- 
stood in Spauiisb with so fair a teacher, though Katharine (herself, 
like all her sisters, exceedingly well educated) avows, in a letter to 
her father four years later, that she could not speak English properly. 
Arthur's studies, indeed, if his tutor, Bernard Andr^ is to be believed, 
woukj have qualified him for a high place " ih iiurit kumanhribus " 
(Homer, Virgil, Thucydides, Liv7, Ovid, &c. &C., are spe<nfi«d as read 
by him), while Erasmus says of Katharine thai she was "^regie 
docta," and " non minus [Hetate susptcienda quam eruditionc* ' 

Nor had her motlier neglected more homely arLi, for Isabella 
(who herself, we are told, used to make Ferdinand's shins) had 
taught all bcr daughters "ntrt, sntrt, aeu fingtrt" spionii^, sewing 
. ' EfiiUU, 31 and 34. 

L VOL. ccxciL mn. aojj. K 



226 



Tki Gtnileman's Magazint. 



«i>d embroidery. From their common studies and Intetestt file 
Prince was called oAf from time to lime to vrlicre in tbe great hall 
(a century and u half UtCf to be honoured as the scene of Milion'i 
"Comus") the court of the Lords Marchers sal and waited his coming. 
But a sterner and more imperious messenger was on hU way to 
Ludlow. In the lirst bloom nnd promise of hts young life, with 
an undisputed succession to the throne of Et^Iand and the 
strong support of Spain, mth the wealth and prestige of his father 
behind him, when all tbe happiness that power and place, culture 
and domestic afleciion could give, seemed to lie at his feet, 
Arthur received tlie Gatal summons wliich awaits us all. The 
plague, ax the worse forms of typhoid diseases used to be called, was 
a too famtliiir visitor in English towns, and it was, as we know, at 
this time prevalent in Worcester. liut whether the sickness was 
communicated from wtUiout or resulted (as might so well be the 
case) from unhealthy conditions within the castle, we cannot tell. 
Arthur sickened at the end of March and died on April i. 'Ilic 
Spanish notice is brief and characteristic : ** Prince .'Vrthui died of 
the plague" (Bemaldes says) "a little alter his nuptials, being in 
the Principality of Wales, in a place they call Pudlo. In this house 
was Donna Catatina tcft a widow when she tiad been married 
ccaicely six months." 

But if we know little of that piteous scene at Ludlow, of the 
heart-broken litlk wife and her despair, of the homc-sickncss tliai 
must hav« seized upon her now that she was left desolate in a 
strange country, of the confusion and perplexity of the Council, of 
the }ack-bouted messengers ridinj^ forth over the drawbridge or 
toQing up the steep aiccni, mudbesiwtiered. on their return, wi; are 
not left without due description of the solemnities of the funenL 
Fortunately for us, the herald who was appointed to take charge of 
the pfucccdings teens to have been conscious of the dignity of his 
office and the importance of the occasion. His account may be 
read in Leland's "Collectanea," and would do no discredit to riewt 
purveyors of the present day. 

The body had been removed with great s«te from the castle on 
St. George's Day (April 33), and on the ajth (Sl Mark's Day) the 
procession set out for Worcester. It rested that night at ficwdlcjr, 
about nghtcen miles off, after pauing tlirougli what was then one of 
the greaiest forests in England. The wonder was that they got so 
tar. " It was " (says the lierald) " th« foulest, cold, windy and rainy 
day and the wont way I have seen, and in some placet the (funeral) 
car stuck so fast in tlie mud timt yokes of oxen were taken to dnw 



J 
I 



Arthur, "King of England." 



227 



^Hl out, »o ttl wa& the way." At every pdrish church or religious 
V house that ni«t tlu^ cor|Mu in procession or had rung their beUsi a 
gold noble, Tour torches and six scutcheons of anns were presented 
to thcnj- From Bewdley, Sit Richard Croft and Sir William Ovcdall 
steward ai>d comptroller of the Prince's household, rode before to 
Wflvceslcr. . . . "'lliat da>-c was fatrc, and then the gentlemen 

•lode iwo and two together wkI uU the other as were before ordered." 
So at length ihcy reached ^Vorcestcr and the cathedra) closa 
Here "secular canons in grayc amy^ with rich copes, and other 
curates, secular priests, clerks and children with sur|>!isses in great 
number" were assembled, and four bishops in rich copes censed 
the corpse as it was taken out of the car. There were present to 
receive it tl>c Abbots of Gloucester, E^'csham, Chester, Shrewsbury, 
H Tewkesbury, Hayles, and Bordesley, the Prior of Worcester, &c 
~ TTie nine short lessons at the " Dirige" were read by abbots and 
bishofM. '* At the Magnificat and Bt:nedictu.^ all that were in ponti- 
ficatfbus did cense tlie corpii-e." 

I Next day thrve masses for the dead were sung, the liist " our 
Ladye masse," by the Bishop of Chester, an abbot and a prior being 
gOlpellei and cpistlcr, the second " of the Trinilic," the third by 
tbe Bishop of Ltucola.' The offerings at the mass were carried out 
with due ceremony, the Prince's "oote of arms imbroidered," hia 
shield, sword, and helmet being presented in turn by dlflbent nobles 
and knights. There followed a strange offering of the Prince's hone 
and armour. 

I "Then Sir John Mortimer, Banncrctt, Sr. Richard de la Vcrc, 
Banncrcti, Sr. Thomas Cornwall, and Sr. Robert Throgmorton, 
Batchclors, conTe>-ed the man of arraea, which was the Earle 
of Kildarc's sonnc and hcire called the Lord Garrard armed 
with the Prince's own hameys on a courser richly tnppcd with 
a trapper of velvet cmlirothered witli needleworke of the Prince's 
annes with a pollaxc in his hande, the head downwards, into 
H the midst of the qucete, where tiie Abbot of Tewkesbury Gos- 
peller of that masse rccdi-cd th« oflTring of that horse. Then the 
said mait of annes alighted and was led with the axe in hi.i hand 
as before tu tl)e buyshoppe. . . . But to have scene the weepingc 
when the olTringe was done, be had a hard hean that wept not," adds 
the herald, feelingly. The citizens, we are told, were excluded from 
^^ "offering" "because of the sickness that then rained amongst 



' A) lleiuy Vin.S fimoul, in like manner, ihc Ihirc masm of our Lady, 
of lh« Triatly, koA «f Ktquko, were tung in Ibeir apiHofirialc Sainm eoloun at 
wtiiic, blue (fot (cfial). sod tilack, ncdct Ctaitmn's dircetkin. 



a a 



238 



The Gntlleman's Magazitu. 



tbcm.'' There follovcd an ofiif ing of rich palls of gold ibsue " al 
tlic quecTC doorc," and the sermon pfcachcd by a " noble douor " 
(the herald docs not seem <o have asccruincd his naine)L 

" At tyme of Si. John's Go*j>cll " <f>. at the end of nu») " Sr, 
CrtlTith ap Rice otTcred to ihc deacon ihe rich cmbrothcred banner 
of my lorde'sarines." The prcUtes finally " seoced the cwptw " a^n, 
" all the convent standing without the uttennost barrea " (i>. of the 
choirhcreen) "sin^ng divcnandnunyantliemes." AtevcTf "Kurie 
ElyeKon" an oflicer at arincs witli a high voice said, "For Prince 
Arthur's joale and all ClmMian soutcs, Pater iiostcr," . . . "Then 
the corpse, with weeping and sore Inmcntxtion wa.t laid in the grave, 
the orisons being said by the Bishop of Lincoln^ also sore weepinge. 
He sett the crosse over tltc chest and cast holy water and earth 
thotcon. His officer of annes, sore n-ixping, tookc off his coatc of 
armcs and out it along over the chest right lamentably. Then Sr. 
^VilIianl Ovcdall, Comptroller of his household, sore weeping and 
cr>ing, took the staAc of his offict: by both cndes and over hb own 
head brake it and cast it into the grave. In like wi.<ie did Sr. 
Richard Cioft, Steward of his household and cast his staffe broken 
into the grai'e. . . . This was a piteous sight to those who beheld 
it . . . Thus God have mercye on good Prince Arthur's soulc I " 
concludes the sympathetic herald. 

A rich pall in possession of tlie Worcester Clothiers' Company is 
suppot>«d to be one of those olfered on the occasion. It is em* 
blazoned with the arms of England and France, and has cfligies of 
St. Katharine with the pomegranate and castle. 

Prince Arthur left a will, by which he bequeathed his jewels, 
chains and even some of his habiliments to his beloved sister 
Margaret, the I>etrothed of James IV. 

Katharine does not appear to have been present at the obsequies. 
The Queen showed much sympathy for the young widow, and sent 
a litter to carry her to Cro>'don, The litter was covered with bladi 
velvet and cloth, in which funereal conveyance her )oumcy was 
performed. It was something to have an aifeclionale reception 
from the kind-hearted Eliiabeth of York, but Katharine's (roubles 
were not yet at an end. 

Arthur's grave is described by the herald as "«t the south end 
of the high altar." Here Henry, with bis love for art, commissioned 
Sir Reginald Brayc to erect a chantry clupel, which still remains, a 
fine example of late Gothic, In the centre is the Prince's tomb^ 
but there is no efiigy. The rich tabernacle work was terribly 
mutilated by Puritan iconoclasts during the civil war. 



Arthur, " King of EnglamL" 



229 






The grief "f ilie roynl parents, when tlic sad n<;ws <.A Arthur's 
di'Sth reached thcni, wus genuine and touching. The King's con- 
fessor, a Friar Observant, was chosen to break the tidings to him. 
On being admilted to Henr>-'» presence the friar addressed him in 
the word£ of Job, "Si bona susccpimus dc manu Dei, maU quaie 
non suscipiamus ? " "Shall wc receive ({ood at the hand of God, 
and shall we not receive e\'il ? " It was an ominous commencement 
and well adapted to prepare the King's mind for what was to follow. 
Heiiry sent for the Queen, who besought hira to bear patiently 
their terrihie affliction. Having said all shv could to console him, 
she retired to her own apartments. But there, when alone, she was 
M> ovetmastered by her grief, lliat her attendants went to beg the 
King to come to her, and Hcniy, in (urn, came and soothed her, 
saying, " he for his parte would ihaiike God for his sonn and would 
she should doe in like wise." 

The beauiirul window which still adorns St. Margaret's Church 
at Wesiminster is supposed to represent Arthur and Katharine in 
the two figures kneeling at either side, and, if so, possesses additional 
interest, as containing one of the only three likenesses of the Prince 
extant 

A more intetesting and indubitable likeness of Prince Arthur is 
to be seen in the Priory Church, Great Malt'eru. In the year 1500 
Henry and Elizabeth, with the )-oung Prince of Wales, arc believed 
to have visited Malvern. They certably were at Worcester about 
that tinw, for the monastery accounts remain, with a statement of 
the provision made for them, and a " summa totalis " of " Ixii li. 
iis. vd." expended. On ilial occasion Henry ii believed to have 
ordered the xjilendid window which once adorned tlie Jesus transept, 
of which Abington in the seventeenth century gives the following 
acccount : — 

" In that large and stalely window is set out in a g!ass first the 
ti«ly Picture oJ thai wise and deiout King Henry the Scvenlli, 
pmying, all armed sanng his hands and head, whereon he wcareth 
an Imperial Crown and his Royal Taberd France and Ei^land 
quartered. Behind him knecleth his Queen Elizabeth, the un- 
doubted heir of the House of York and of all England, crowned 
also aiK) on her mantle France and England quartered. And next 
to her Arthur Prince of Wales thcii son comptente in Armour 
(saving his Hands) and head covered with a Princely crown iuid on 
his uberd France aiKl England with a label of three argent" 

He ilien mentions the " tres milites," viz. " Sr. K. Bray, Sr. John 
Savage and Sr. Thos. Sutton." 



330 



Tht Ctntlf man's Afagazitu. 



This splendid window lus fallen upon evil timet. Blown out iti 
ibe dghtecnth cralury nnd put together by s local glazier, since 
then left unprotected frocn slonc-throwirg by idle bop, it is a wonder 
that so much is left. In the midst of fragments of all kinds, [ucsced 
together anyhow, then still rcinfttn two figures, l*iinc(: Arthur and 
&i Reginald firay — "some of the finest specimens of English 
glass of the fifteenth century," says Fugio. The inscription ran as 
follows : — 

" Ontc pro bono sutu nobilissimi ct excellentiaimi regis Henrici 
seplimi et EUubetbc rcgine ac domini Arthuri principb fiUi eorun- 
dem necnon predileciissime Consonis sue et quorum trium 
mill turn." 

It seems plain from this llmt t)K window was pminied during the 
lifetime of Arthur and Kalliarine — "(uo bono sUtu," evidently 
implies as much — and .dncc Katharine's figure is not inchided, it it 
probable thxt the date would be before the actual marriage in 1501- 
We hove sct-n that Arthur addresKS her as his "most entirely 
beloved spouac ** in 1497. In cunnocuon with this, a singuiai dis- 
covery has just been made by the writer of this p^>CT. 

He has hnd in his possession for nearly fifty years a portion 
3 stained-glasK window, once the property of l>r, W. Scvell, 
presented by him. Wlicrc Dr. Scwell obtained it is unknown, but 
he was a great collector of works of art at a time when medianal 
glass a»d such things were little valued. The glass in question has 
lain for the last thirty years in a packing-case, and had been almost 
forgotten. On taking it out Lately, it struck the writer that it bore 
a close resemblance to the celebrated window at Malvern, aitd a 
careful examination provx-s it to be an exact rrpliat. That it is not 
a modem copy is obvious at once, both from the style, from tlie 
fact that fifty years or more ago our glass painters could not \\x\^ 
made it, even if anybody had a desire for «uch a thing, and, more 
rcmnikable still, from the slight dilTcrciiccs between the two, owing tO 
the way in which some of the smaller bits of glass have been ananged.' 
It will be seen on a comparison, that one of the angels on the left, 
which is incomplete in the Malvcm window, is complete in this. In 
that at Malvern the upper part of the angel's figure is lost and bar 
been supplied by a bit of gloss from elsewhere. A^ain, it will be 
seen thai above the one runs a motto, the meaning of which was 
not obvious: "Gaude gaudet mater in Filio." In laci, the lexl 
has no connection whatever with the picture, but belongs to a series 

■ The Mttlvpn filutiircproduetilin Ilw "Ceidt to UaWBm Priory Ctiuich," 
by Jainici 'S.axx, G(c*i Malvrm. 



Arthur^ " King of England' 



231 



of illustrations of the "Seran Joys of Mar>'," which fomicrly occu- 
pied ihc upper part of the vfiodow above the portraits. I'hc puzzle 
is to accouDi for the existence of the replUa of so celebrated a 
window as that in the Priory Church. Were two windows made by 
Henry VII. 's orders from (he same design, presumably under the 
direction of Sir Reginald de Braye, who was also Henry'K architect 
for the Lady Chapel of Westminster ? and, if so, for what chnrch 
was the second de«ii;ned ? The question seems insoluble. All 
that is apfMuent u thi«, titat the glass must have been taken out of 




wme church or other, whether Westminster Abbey or Prince 
Arthur's Chapel at \Vorcc5tcr Cathedral, and so came to be dis- 
posed of. .\nd, as is plain from the " Gaude " texl, the whole of th« 
window must have been reproduced, not the kneeling fibres only. 

I give a copy of the effigy of tbe PTiiic« from the window in my 
possession. 

It only remains lo notice one other memorial of this uA 
marriage. 



232 



Th« GentUmatt's Magaztne. 



At Magdalen College, Oxford, is preserved in th« President's lodg- 
ings \ large piece of Flemish UpcsUy, probably bequeathed by Presi- 
dent Maycw. afterwards Bishop of Hereford, who was one of the envoys 
sent to escort Katharine from Spain. It docs not profess lo rqtreseni 
the scene in St. Paul's, but rather the betrothal, according lo the 
artist's fancy, introducing, however, what are apparently portraits 
of the chief characters. The likenesses are especially noticeable. 
The King sJts on a high chair of estate, and wears a cap turned 
up at the side in a way whidi we have learnt to associate with 
Colonial [roop». In his hand is a sceptic, at his feet a little page 
with a liawk on his wrist. On the right, in llowitig robe and wearing 
a cap like the King's, stands Prince Arthur, his left band on the 
arm of (presumably) his best man, whose hand rests on Arthur's 
shotil(l«T. Op]>oxitc to the Prince in Katharine. She wears an 
ermioe-bDrdcrcd rolK with ermine cape. On tlic back of her head 
ic a caul. Behind her stands an elderly man, an ambassador 
possibly, with his left liand on the Princess's shoulder. He wears 
a gorgeous collar of S.S. The canvas on each side behind the 
betrothed is filled wit!) nobles and ladies. Katharine's chief lady 
weare a caul, with ihc curious hom-Iike twist like those still worn in 
llollitnd. In another lape^try is n|i[i3rcntly rqircscntc-d a sccnv in 
the streets, pcrliaps meant for the rejoicings at the wcddit^. Behind 
a barrier arc four men, one of whom holds a sceptre. Below them 
in the street arc iwo young girls, nine otht-r female figures and a 
fountain, perhaps flowing with wine. 

On the opposite wall hangs a large piece which seems to 
reproduce the idea of "being Iiappy ci-er afterwards." In the 
centre, on a high throne, sit (apparently) the King and Queen. He 
wears a gold collar. His left arm b round her neck and his band 
rests On her left shoulder, while site bears a sceptre in her left and 
pbces her right liand on his right arm. On a lower seat to the right 
another pair are silting, i>crhaps the Prince and Princess, thou^ his 
face is almost as old in appearance as that of the King. A man in 
the foreground is lifting up his hands to them, as if asking a favour. 
Five ladies of the court fill up the canras to the left foreground, 
and above them are the faces of (apparently) Henry and Elirabeih, 
with an elderly woman in turban (the Queen's mother T) next to the 
Queen. Another lady is seen on the King's right, and three more 
ftgurcs (two men and a lady) in the corresponding part of the picture. 
The Prince- had twice visited Magdalen during ihe years 1495 and 
1496, but there is no record of this save what is implied in the 
College accounts for those years. From these it appears that he was 



Arthur, "King of Engiand:' 



m 



in th« Presidenl's apRrtmcnts, and righti)<,-ncc was spent on 
cusbesforhis bedroom floor,' "WillUm Taylor " receiving sineen- 
pencc for two btaoe of pike and Icnch for the Prince's cntertaiu- 
Dwnt.* "Vinum rubrum, cUrct ct vinum dulcc"are other entries 
on both occasions, and he was allowed a fire in his bedroom, for 
whieh " focatia " «nd " carbo " were pronded. " Torches " were a 
costly item in those days, as much as zis. Zd. being paid for four. 
We roust remember that carpets were an cxocptional luxury in 1495, 
and that no unsaltcd fish was procurable al Oxford save that which 
fiesb water could supply. The customary presents of gloves were 
made to Arthur and his attendant nobles at a cost of fourleen 
shillirtgs, and his escort iras also well sui>|)lied witli fuel and wine. 
The College, in short, then new from the h3Tid.i of \\'aynflete, inain- 
tained its diaracler for hosiiiulity, and doubtleiu many of tiie Prince's 
Attendants could have echoed the sentiment of good Sir '['homas 
Danvers of W»terstock, who, writing to his friend Ptcsidcnl Mayew 
a few years earlier, tells him, " 1 was yesterday at the College and had 
foil good cheer with the bowsers " (bursars).* 

Ere long Thomas Wolsey will be Bursar of Magdalen, and with 
bis rise a new era seems to bc^. 

WILUAU wooix 



■ "Sol. prn drpit etntiU* pro cuUcuIo d. Pmidentu in «dTeam Priecipis 
viiid." 

' "SnI. Wyllelmi) TajHor pro duobua dtntiicibu* M tinci* tmplii at dads 
D- Prindpi cum Cuenii in Coflislo vHld. 1 " 

viiid. J 

' Man^riaSs ^ tki Dojtven Family, p. 1J7. It eomei upon od« rUtwr u a 
tufpriie to fiod Ibti, (ID a Snndty in 1497, when nuuir i;uau one eciciuined, 
"tliG AbbiM of GtxUiow, • oua >ad uiothct Udy" were diuii^ with the 
Pmidm. 



334 



The GentUtHOH's Afagasuu. 



THE LATEST ASTRONOMICAL 
HERESY. 



PROFESSOR A. W. BlCKIiRTON. of the New Zealand 
Uaifcrdty, has recently published, through Messrs. Svan 
Sonnenschcin & Co., Ltd, a work entitled "The Romance of the 
Heavens." Tlie title being somewhat vague, it may be well to warn 
the student nf mythology that the book is not a ueaiisc on Cephem 
and Casifiiiria, Peneui and Andromeda, and other wonderful pet* 
tonages whutc deeds are supposed to have been pictured iu stan of 
tight on the face of the sky ; and it may rtot be altogether superfluom 
to warn the hSx reader that it is not a newnovd by the author of "A 
Romance of Two Worlds." It is, in reality, an expoaition of ■ 
hypothesis relating to the origin of suns and systems. Considering 
the abstruse charaeter of many of the problems with which it doli, 
it must be admitted that the book is written in avery intcrcstir^ and 
fascinating manner. The author gives evidence, moreover, of having 
been in mental conflict with the problems of which he ticaU. Hi* 
views will certainly be regarded by the astionomical world as largely 
heretical, but it cannof be said that they have been arrived at whhoul 
serious thought. Professor Bickcrton belongs to a very ditrcrmi 
category to the eanh-flattencrs and otlier heretics who received such 
summary treatment at the hands of ihc late Mr. R. A. Proctor. He 
rejects none of the phenomena which have been brought to light by 
tck-scopic and spectroscopic investigation. It is only in the inter- 
pretation of these phenomena that he gives expression to opinions 
whidi will be regarded as heretical. His own vcrdon of the maitci 
would probably be that his heresy consists in having a theory to 
explain the observed phenomena, while the astronomical world has 
no such theory-. In a word, Professor Bickerton has discovered, ai 
he supposes, in impact or colli;»on between heavenly bodies the 
master-key to unlock the mysteries of cosmieal evolution. 

\Vc must try to conceive the magnitude of the pmblem mth 
which he K face to face. 

It is well known that there are to be observed in the heavens a 



Tht Latest Asirffttomkai Heresy. 235 



I 



great rarict)- of objects. In the fint place there ts that rotating 
^bcrc of intensely ticatcd matter, 865,00a miJcs in diameter, which 
wc call the sun, vith a scries of planets of varying size and density 
revolrine around him, each one in its own prescribed path. Some 
of the planets, too, arc known to have attendant moons or satellites 
revolving around them— the earth, for instance, Iwt one, Mart two, 
Jupiter five, while Salum, in addition to a retinue of eight wttellites 
(nine, if ProfeKSor W. H. Piekering's discovery by means of jtltoto- 
graphy receives confirmation), has also, circling around it, swarnu 
of small bodies, which, rcflecling the rayn of the sun, appear in our 
tdescopes as rings encompassing the planet. The wide gap, toOr 
which was formerly supposed to exist between the orbit of Mars and 
that of Jupiter is found to be occupied by a swarm of small planet- 
oids, n;.-arly 6vc hundred of vrhich havx' been named or numbered. 
Other phenomena include the zodiacal light— that lenticular radiance 
that is sometimes seen before suniisc or after sunset in dose \ytaK\' 
mity to the sun ; the comets, some of which have nuclei of daxiling 
brightness and tails which stretch o^'cr a considerable portion of the 
sky, while others arc so minute that they can only be seen E>y the 
aid of the nioi^t powerful telescopes ; and, associated with ttie comets, 
the inctcoiic swarms, indiridual members of which, by ruithin]{ 
through our atmosphere at an enormous speed, are volatilised by 
the friction produced, and at the moment of tlieir d&stniction are 
levealed to us as shootingslors. Vastly further afield than the 
objects which belong to our solar system are the sUrs— that is, the 
suns which, owing to their immense disUncc, appear to us as points 
of light, lhouf;h in reality many of them are vastly larger than uur 
suiL TIm dista^ioes of sonic of the siats have been mea-turcd. So 
(ar as is at present known, the southern star Alpha Centauri is ilte one 
i>eareNl to our stdar system ; yet it is twenty billions of mites distant, 
and light, travelling at the rate of i36,ooo miles [icr ^weond, Udtes 
four years to crots the intervening space. In addition to the Stats 
which are visible to the naked eye, the telescope reveals ntillJons 
more ; while dull dead suns arc known to exist, though no telescope 
can show them, and Sir Robert Ball ba^ expressed the opinion that 
they are probably more numerous than the bright suns. &lany of 
the stats which appear to the naked eye as single points of light are 
perceived, by the aid of the telescope or spectroscope, to be double^ 
tripte, or quadruple — that is, they con«st of two or wore associated 
suns revolving around each other according to the law of gravitatJon, 
ax the planets revolve arouiwl our sun. Amongst the stars in general, 
too, and especially amongst the components of these systems of 



2^6 



Th« GtHtUman's Magaxine. 



Stan, there is often a great contrast of colour. Some star^, more- 
over, «re rari:ible in their light — thst is, in a more or less definiie 
period thar brilliancy, as seen b; us, Increases and diminishes. 
The well-known slar Mii» (The Wonderful), for insUrKe, in a jieriod ^ 
of about 33t days goes through a rcmaikablc scri<:s of changexj 
For about a fortnight it shiiK-s with about the lustre of a second-] 
magnitude star ; ihcn, for about throe months, its light diminLiheftI 
until it becomes a star of magnitude 9^. and is consequently invitiblft] 
excepting in the telescope. It remains invisible for about fivei 
tnonlha, and then begins to regain iu lustre, so that in three months 
more it is once again shining as • star of about the second magni- 
tude. Algol (the Demon star) is another remarliable variable, though, l 
unlike Mira, it is visible to the naked eye during all its changes. ItH 
period of variation extends over 69 liours. For 59 hour& it shines 
with almost the i»illianc)- of a second -magnitude star ; then it begins 
to fade rapidly, and in 4^ hoiits lias reached its minimum brilliancy 
of 3-7 magnitude; It rcniain.i at this for fifteen or twenty minutes, 
after which it begins to increase again in brightness, so that in , 
4^ hours more it has regained its maximum lu.stre. Now, whiloj 
Mirii and Algol arc the two tjcst known variables, they are only typenj 
of many moic. AccordingtoMr.G. I-'. Chamben, three hundred Stan 
are known to be variables, while as many more are suspected to be so. 

^Ve arc sonietimes startled, moreover, by observing a »Ut libie 
out in some pan of the sky where no star was previously known to 
exist. In isii a.d., for instance, the new star with which the natoe 
of Tycho Brah^ has been associated blaied out in the constellation 
Cassiopeb. Another appeared in Corona Borealis (the Northern 
Crown) in 1866, and &lill another in Cygnus (the Swan) in 1876. 
At the end of January i8gj a new star was discovered by Dr. 
Anderson, of F.dinburgli, in Auriga (the Charioteer), while sdll 
another was pcrcetrcd by him to hftve suddenly appeared in Perseus 
in February 1901. 

There are abo to be seen in the heavens stai-clustcts — patches 
of light which, when examined by the telescope, prove to be great.] 
swanii» of associated suns. In addition to the st&r-clustcrs arc the' 
ncbuUc— patches of light which no telescope will resolve into stars, 
and which, on this account, combined with the character of their 1 
■pectra, arc concluded to be enormous masses of glowing gas. \ 
These are of various shapes. Some are globular, and tn the tele- 
scope preseni a disc like a planet, so that they have been named 
planetary nebulw. Then there are spindles, spirals, rings, and other 
■hapes in endless variety. In addition to all these wonderful object^ 



The Latest Astronomieal Heresy. 237 



I 
I 



I 
I 



^nBuy sec, on any dear night, strctchii^ acros the heavens, that 
marveUous band of light which we otU the Galaxy or Miltcy Way, 
and which is due to innumcnble mutciuidcs of .^rs so disUnt as to 
be Mended in appearance and only disunguishablc in powerful tele- 
scopes. A careful inspection of this striking phenomenon confirms 
the irulhAilness of the sutcment that "the Milky Way is a most 
coiBplex object. In one place we find it broad and diffused, in 
another it narrows almost to disappearance. Here the outline will 
b« sharp ; there it is fringed out into faint filaments. In some 
places it coagulates into knots and streaks of light, in others it is 
interrupted by channels of darlcness " (E. W. Maunder, F.R.A.Sw, 
in " Knowledge," July 1900). 

Th<: observer residing in the southern hemisphere sees the portion 
of this great cloven ring of light wliich is never visible in these 
latittides, sr>d he sees also the two marvellous objects which arc 
known as the Magelbnic Clouds. 

Now, many attempts have been made lo account for this wonderful 
UDi>'crsc and the great variety of objects which it contains ; but it is 
probably safe to say that no man, previous to Professor Bickcrtoo, 
has ever professed to have discovered a single thcorj- that would 
explain everything at a stroke. The prevailing opinion amongst 
aatronomcTB, indeed, is that the heavenly bodies were produced in 
a nuiety of ways. Miss Agnes M. Clerke, one of our ablest bdy 
astronomers, says: "We have indeed gained, from all recent 
inquiries into cosmogony, the profound conviction that no single 
scheme will account for everj'thing ; that the utmost variety prevailed 
in the circumstances urvder which the heavenly bodies attained their 
present status ; and that a rigidly constructed hypothesis can only 
misieptesent the boundless diversity of nature." Profes.<ior Bickerton, 
however, on the other hand, undertakes to propound a theory that, 
in his own word*. " finds astronomy a chaos of facts and converts it 
into a classified system ; that finds no generally accepted explanation 
of the genesis of a single celestial body or s>-stem and leaves none 
untold ; that also shows the mechanism by which the cosmos renews 
itself and gives probability to the belief that it b infinite and 
imtnoitaL" It appears that upwards of twenty years ago be was 
impressed with lh« idea that impact or collision between the heavenly 
bodies was lite theory that would explain the mechanism of the 
universe and account for the genesis of the various objects that 
appear in the heavens. Pajjers by him on Consiiuciive Collision 
appeared in the 'I'ransoctions of the New Zealand Inuitule from the 
year 1878 onwards. Not until recently, however, has h« been able 



238 



The GtniktnatCs Magazine. 



to latis&ctorily apply his theory to the whole Add of astronomicai 
pbenoniena. He x^iWi us, tndvcd, Uial JI needed for it* rcriRcxtioa 
UfXt which, DMil recent fears, had not been brouglit to light. The 
conception, in its main points, '\% not dUTicult to apprehend. As it 
is biiKid on sdom of tlte wellknown bwi of chumistr)' uid physics, 
however, it may be well to haw the inoU important of these laws 
dearly before the mind. The following will perhaps be sufficient 
for the puqioie. All matter is made up of ultimate indirisible 
particles called atonu. Th«se atoms usually exist, combined with 
Other atoms, to form what are called molecules. The molecules of 
■ compound aie composed of diRcrcnt kinds of atoms united to- 
gicther, while in an element the atoms are all of the same kind. 
Even in a solid substance atoms arc never at rest, but are in a con- 
stant state of vibration. Both matter and energy, though they may 
be transferred from one body to another and strartgcly altered in 
form, are indestructible : the motion of a projectile, for instance, may 
be suddenly stopped, but its energy is not destroyed : it is converted 
into heat. There is a definite general velocity in each diSerent kind 
of molwHilc that represents its tempemtnie -the higher the tempera- 
ture, the liuter is the molecule moving. 

It will be well also to bear in mind that each coemic body has a 
certain critical velocity — that is, there is a certain speed at which, if 
an object be shot away from that body, it will not return. If a bullet 
were shot from gur earth with a velocity of se^'cn miles per secoiK] 
he graviution of the earth would not be sufGdcnt to drag the bullet 
back again : hence it would continue to ascend. Seven miles i^er 
second, then, is the critical velocity of our earth. The critical vel<K-ity 
of the moon is about a mile and a tialf per second, and that of the 
sun is given by Uickerton as 37S miles per second. Each cosmic 
body has thus a critical velocity of its own, dqiendent upon its mass. 
The grc^Ater the mass of the body, tlie greater is the speed with 
which an object would have to be shot fixun it in order to escape its 
attraction. 

Now, it is probable that, though wc speak of "fixed stars," 
because, on account of their immc4isc distance, they a|q>GaT to us 
to be fixed, all the stars are really in a constant slate of motion 
through space. Our own sun, which is simply a star much iMsarer 
to us than the rest, is known to be rushing through space, and carry- 
ing all its planets and their satellites along with it, at a rate wliich 
Bickerton gives as four miles per second, but which Sir Robert Ball 
gives as over fire miles per second, while L. Struve's computations 
would indicate the velocity to be fourteen miles per second. The 



I 



^ 



The Laitst AstrOHomieal Heresy. 139 

tUT knoim as i8jo Grooinbridg^ which Profcssot Newcomb aSbbi. 
" tl)u turviwuy sUr," '» hurrying through »pace at the rate of loe 
miles per second. U Pritchard's measurements are correct, the star 
Mu Cas&iopcisc is travelling at not less than 301 miles per second, 
while 376 miles per second is the ipccd at which the bright uat 
Arcturus. according to Elkin's mcasunrs, is flying through inrinite 
space. These rates may probably be exceptional ; but if two huts 
tnveUing at a fraction of these v«locitic»~say, forty or fifty miles 
per second— were to come into entire collision, the heat engendered 
by ilie impact would be sufficient to transform every solid particle 
into gas. Bicketton, of course, admits that such an event is iwt 
likely to occur every day. Siitl, he regards it as within the nnge oT 
possibility that two surh may collide ; for .should they approach 
each other vrithin a distance of several million miles, tht; agency of 
gravitation would appreciably come into play, dm^ng one towards 
the other. He pointt out, inoreo<v«r, that while a face-to-face 
coitisioD between two such bodies must be r^ardcd as exce|>tiona], 
a gnuing collision may occur more (ie<iucntly ; for tidal action will 
drag out the approaching side of citbex body, and these protruding 
pans will tend to collide. Now, Sir Robcn Ball has expressed the 
opinion that, in the esse of a serious graze, the colliding bodies 
would probably be stopped in their journey through space, and the 
whole mass of each globe would be raised to a state of vivid incan- 
descence. Professor Bickerton's contention, however, is that ilie 
energy of motion possessed by the stars before ibc collision would 
be almost infinitely more than sufficient to cut a slice off each, so 
that they would go on their «'ay without havii^ suflirred any 
appnectablc retardation of speed. The portions sheared off by the 
collision would have their energy of motion converted into heat, and 
would thus mingle to form a third body between the other vko. 
The mass of this third body would not determine its tempcmiurc — 
a small shear would be as hot as a large one. if the mass wY;t« 
small, however, it would be unable to retain its now gaseous molfr 
cules. They would start away in all directions with a speed greater 
than the critical velocity uf the remaining mass, so that from our 
point of view the whole body would appear to expand with a great 
temporary increase of light. At length, howe%-cr, the nebula pro- 
duced would become so rarefied as to give but little light, owing to 
the increasing infrcquuncy of crKountcrs between the molecules. U 
would, indeed, expand into a boUow shdl of gas or planetary nebula, 
and finally often dissipate into space. The first apparent result, 
dwn, of a collision between two suns is, according to our author, to 



340 



The GenilentMt's Magazine. 



produce a rery brilliant body tbat «oon toeea its light, nof becatue it 
has cooled dovo, but because it U too hot to bold together. Thic 
U ProTessor Bickenon's accouot of the phenomenon that »-c call a 
new star. He claims that " all observations of temporttry sUrs leD 
the same story of sudden appearance; tentponiy increase of 
brilliancy ; rapid and generally oomptete dtMppearancc, sometime! 
leaving a plutietary nebub." In reply to those who consider the 
rapid disappearance of the star to be du« to the cooling of an 
intensely heated body, he contends tliat so Urge a body would 
require ages i» cool ; nhile if it is urged that the brilliance of the 
body is not owing to its lai;ge sise, but to the fact of its being 
comparatively near to us, he urges in reply that the bright body's 
apparent fixity in space proves it to be at true stellar distance. He 
claims, moreover, that \\n own theory has been denioti«rated in iu 
entirety by observations of the new star in Auriga. The $]>ectro- 
scope, he says, showed this star to be really compMcd of two which 
were moving with a relative velocity of joo milu a second, and also 
rereided the presence of a third body moving at the rale of twenty- 
three miles per second. It is only fair to say that other plausible 
theories have )>een propounded to explain the complicated spectra of 
such bodies. The "tidal theory," for instance, "supposes that the 
near aitproach of two great stars to each other has given rise to 
immense tidal waves of highly heated gas." Tlic " cosmical cloud 
theory " supposes the phenomenon to be " due to the rush of a awifUy 
moving «ar through a nebula." Our author, howc^'cr, confidently 
claims that hit theory of a [lartial collision between two sum — |>ossibly 
dull dead ones — producing a vivid gaseous body as the result of the 
coalescence of the shcarcd-oflT portions is the only one that covers 
all the fiKMof thccaa;. He asserts that Mr. Alfred Taylor, F.R.A.S., 
after examining the work of eighty-&vc observers of Nora Auriga^ 
concluded that there was no doubt that the new star consisted of 
three separate bodies. The tliird gaseous body, too, expanded in 
accordance with our author's tljcory into a planetary nebula, the disc 
of which was measured by Professor Barnard with the great Lick 
telescope. It camiot be denied, moreover, that if the light seen in 
the case of a new star is, as Professor Bickcrton suggests, the 
mingled light of two wounded sUrs and a gaseous nebula, which 
may be seen under various conditions, it becomes comparatively 
easy to account for the curious fluctuations which are often observed 
in the light of these bodies. Our author, however, is not content 
with showing that the theory of impact will account for the 
phenomenon which we call a nova or new star. He claims to be 



The Lattst Astronomua^ Hertsy. 



24 » 



khie to show tbat Ibe same theory will account for the getMxis of 
evety kind of )xHly thai the h«avei)s contain. 

With regard to the stars whkh are variable in their tight, 

(ProTcsKot Bickenon does not, of course, deny that In some cases 
—that of Algol for inMance— the spectroscope has demonstrated 
thll>Stti*biltty to be due 10 a dark body revolving around a bright 
Wtr, md thus periodically ecli[»ing it. He reminds us, however, 
thai there are many variables which cannot be explained on this 
Uieorr- How, then, arc these 10 be explained ? Well, our attention 
is TCCftlled to tlie two dead sun.i, which, afiitr coming into grazing 
collision, have gone unimpeded on their way with the scars of the 
conflict upon them. Their partial impact has taken a slice olT each 
of them and exposed their mollcn intL-iior ; the colliding parts, 
moreover, have been intensely heated by the collision. The grazing 
impact has set each of the two bodies spinning, with the result that 
the dark aide and the luminous side of each body is alternately 
pncented to the same part of space. Thus i-asily, according to 
1*rafBMor Bickerton, is the mystcr)- of variable stars cxplainctL 
Now, if this tbcor; be true, it should be possible to support it, 
in the first place, by spccuoscojHC evidence ; hence we are reminded 
that in the case of Nova Auriga: the spectroscope revealed tbe 
presence of two stars travelling at the rate of 300 and 430 miles 
respectively. The meaning of this is that two superimposed spectra 
were seen, in one of which there was a displacement towards the 
violet end, indicating a body that is approaching us, and in the 

■ other a displacement towards the red end, indicating a body that 
Is Kcedii^ from us. Dark bands were abo obwrved, evincing a 
sbeated sun shining ihrough a hydrogen atmosphere. Bright bands 

Iweie also seen, and our author considers that they were due lo the 
■tar presenting the edge of t)ie molten sea to us, so that what was 
observed wa.s the gaseous atmosphere. It will easily be conceived 
that the two .iia» might be in almost any position oi rotation with 
regard to our earth, and that other conditions might exist to modify 
the phenomena. Again, tf this theorj' of the origin of variable 
stars Ik: correct, they arc produced in pairs, and consequently 
should often be found in pairs ; and Professor Bickcrton claims that 
this is strikingly in accordance with what has been observed. He 
plotted some of these stars, and on a pair of ten-incti charts tome 
were so close ih.-tt, in special cases, he could not put a r^edlc 
through one without dcstroyir^ another. In support of the same 
facti too, be gives the positions of nine remarkably close pairs of 
variable stars, from a Ust by Mr. J. E. Gore, all of which are 
vou cnccir. NO. 1055. $ 



343 



The Gentiemans Magastne. 



•elected from one compandTdy small portion of ttic sky. TIP 
theory of impact, moreover, suggests that the two surs wliicb htn 
partially collided are rushing in opposite directions, and thui 
increasing their distance It suggests, also, that tbey are associated 
with nehulx. Our author claims that these poinu arc borne oat b; 
the resulu of observation. In regard to the latter point he instance 
Hind's variable star, T Tauri, and lemJnds us that in Sit C E. 
Peek's notes on variables there is &eqaent reference to obiened 
nebulosity. This irould seem to be the most fitting place for la 
ugatncnt which he holds in reserve until he is dealing with dusLea, 
Mmely, that If variable stare are the tcsoIi of impact, it miy be 
expected that a large proportion of them will be found in the ttir 
clutters, where, owing to the comparati%-e closeness of the stars, tbc 
possilnlitie:! of Impiact are the greatest. His claim that this expedi- 
tion is fulfilled appears to be valid, for Professor H. H. Tuinn, 
in his "Modem Astronomy," sa)-s: "A notable discovery iboct 
■tar-clusteni has been made by Mr. S. I. Bailey, of Hanird- 
viz., that a large proportion of the stars in them are variable. 
In one cluster 85 stara are variable out of 900, which is a m; 
large proportion compared with the ordinary sky." BJckerton, of 
course, admits (hat a variable star, uncrjtially heated, will tend to 
lose iu heat in a variety of ways ; but he contends that there tit 
also counteracting Influences which may retard the equalisalioa ef 
temperature for perhaps thousands of years. Seeing that sucb « 
variety of conditions may exist with regard to the constitution of 
the colliding bodies and the drcumstanccs under which the coUissa 
takes place, it is not surprising that Sir C. E. Peek's reconM 
observations of variable stars show a few cases of extreme irrego- 
Urity both of brilliancy and of variable period. 

Having poetically referred to the grazing coHlston of two sunsit 
a " kiss," our author introduces us to a con* idera lion of the agenda 
that have prndticc^d the dutible or binary stars, with the remark thit 
he will " try to deticribc the modus operandi by which that fiery kin 
weds the two giant oibs into a union That may last scores of roOtioos 
of years." The two suns, ofT each of which a piece had been 
sheared as the result of the collision, would rusti on in opposiR 
directions without their speed being appreciably affected by the 
catastrophe. The new middle body, however, formed of the 
coalesced fragments, would exert a powerful ^ittraction upon each of 
the retreating orbs, so that, unless iheir original speed was enormous 
and the portion sheared off by collision vciy small, they would ncA 
entirely escape each other, but would become orbitalty connected. 



Tkt Latest Astronomical Heresy. 



243 



The l2ie Mr. R. A. Proctor admitted that stars might become 

■ orbitiJIy connected as the result of ootlision, but he thought that 
thejr would collide again at every revolution. Professor Bickcrton 
points out, however, that the nebula that retarded their escape and 
united (Item tn invisible bonds would, in many cases, l>e largely 
H di.<isipated before their return, so that instead of being pulled back 
10 collide, they vould keep at distances of scores of millions of 
miles from each oiIkt. Now, if binary stan havi; been united by 
the nebub of coalescence resulting from partial impact, we may 
«x|>ect them to be more often ^'ariabIe tlian single stars, and Struve 
has shown this to Im: the case. We may also expect that double 
stars will frequently be coloured, owin^ 10 the welling up of their 
metallic interior as ibc result of the scar they have receivedt 
and it is well known that (he double stars do often exhibit striking 
contrasts of colour. If instances were necessary, the beautiful double 
star EpsilOD Bootis might be mentioned, one component of which ia 
H yellow and the other blue ; or the southern star Beta Hsi.-is Austratis, 
" which Mr. Core, when in India, observed to Ije composed of a white 
star si>d a icddish-lilnc one. It is needless, however, lo multiply 
tnsunccs ; for even the tyro in astronomy is acquainted with scores 

■ of sncb objects. On this hypothesis, too, we may cxpea to find 
<loub]e stars associated with nebulie, and we ha\-e the testimony of 
Sir John Hcrschel that "the connection of nebula; with double 
■ star^ is, in many instances, extremely remarkable." Moreover, if 
H binaries are formed as the result of collision, wc may expect to find 
a large proportion of them where the stars arc thickest and there is 
the greatest diancc of colliding, and our author asserts thai in 
accordance with this expectation nearly all the known binaries arc 

■ confined to the Milky Way. 
IJefore considering the case of the star-clusters it will be con- 
venient to devote 3 littic attention to the principle which Professor 
■ Bickerton calls "selective molecular escape." It is a well-known 
fact that each gas has its own atomic weight. In other words,, some 
yascsare light and others heavy. Now, al the same temperature the 
molecules of which the l^ht ga.'ies are composed will be travelling 
much quicker than ibe molecules of the heavier gases. Strialy 
«pcal(ir^, the velocities will vary invendy as the square root of the 
atomic weights. As the result of this principle, then, the coalesced 
mass composed of the fragments sheared off two colliding sum 
will lend lo lose its light gases ; for, owing to the enormous tempera- 
ture, tliey will rush away into space with a velocity greater than the 
<^lical velocity of the remaining mass;, to be followed by other 

J SI 



»44 



Tkt GentUmat^s Magazitu. 



gMw in th« invene order of their atomic weights. Th« ver>- lighten 
gues majr escape the system altogether and be ilissipatwl tmo space, 
those of mcditiin weight ouy renuin for a constderabte time at the 
Unua of elTectira gravitation, while the heavier metallic gases, 
gmduall^ losing heat by radiation, will Ix; reattracted bock to the 
centre, forming, accotding to the amount of the rotation and the 
quantity of oxygen pretcnt, sUrs, sUr-<rluUcra, or possibly meteoric 
swarms. 

The formation of star-ciustcre will be dependent upon the 
quantity of oxygen present ; for while oxygen, not being a heavy 
gas, might be expected lo have « fitir chance of escape, it has a 
gnat alfinity for many metals, forming with them non-volatile and 
oosdescenl molecules. Oxygen is thus largely entrapped, and as the 
mass expands this chemical action sets in, and a rery rare, very 
stupendous dust globe is formed. If there were no rotation, this 
dust. Professor Bicbcrton thinks, would coalesce into a sun ; but 
with rotation he regards it as mote likely that the particles of dust, 
growing larger by coalescence, will be converted into a star^dustcr. 
All that applies to the origin of tiar-cltuters will apply o» a smaller 
scale lo the formation of meteoric swarms. 

Our author is of the opinion that a »Ur>cluster, owing to the 
central condensation produced by impact between the suns whidt 
compose it, will eventually become a system with one huge flaming 
nn in the centre and a number of dead suns, destined at a distant 
day to become giant planets, revolving around it. 

Our solar system— the mn, planets, and satellites — Bickeiton 
comidct^, ii due to two Itodies having completely collided so as lo 
Aise and coalesce. He doc5 not r^ard the planets, however, as tlie 
oAspring of the union. He holds that they existed before tlic 
collision, and are therefore to be regarded as step-children. The 
four dense inner planets— McrcuT)', Venus, Earth, and Mars — he 
thinks, may poMibly have belonged to one parent ; white the four 
less dense outer ones — Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune — be- 
longed to the other. He admits, however, that some of this contrast 
of character between the iruicr and nuter planets has probably " come 
about during tlieii later evolution." 

While setting up a rival theory with t^iard to the origin of the 
sobr 8)-stcm, it mu.st be admitted that our author pa>-s an ungrvd^- 
ing uibutc to the fascinating and ingenious "nebular hypothesis" of 
Lapbce. This hypothesis is to the elTcci that the wltole system — 
■un, planets, satellites, &c— was evolved from a single nebula, the 
greater part of which now forms the sun. This nebula was originally 



I 

I 



Tki Latest Astronomical Heresy. 



'45 



I 

t 

I 



• dowly rotatbg difFus«d nuss, but gradually it contracted and coa- 
sequendy routed fiwtci nnd Taster, with tlic result tliat at critical 
epochs it thr«v off rings which ultimately coalesced into planets. 
Similarly, the moons were fotntod t>y rings of matter which the 
nebulous planet threw off during its rotaiion. It is (rue, as Bickerton 
says, that this hypothesis, fascinating though it is, has been largely 
abAndoncd by scientific men. One objcciion urged against it is that 
while globes of gaseous or vaporous matter will easily brcalc up 
into rings, the rings manifesi no tendency to coalesce into globes. 
Another objection is that the long antecedent strab ffbich, according 
to Laplace, was relte\'ed by the production of each planet never 
existed, inasmuch as nebulous matlei is absolutely inooherent and 
cuDOt be stretched or stiainctL Strange to say, however, Professor 
H. H. Turner, in his " Modem Astronomy," which appeared about 
the same tioK as Bickerton'^ work, has written in defenoe of l^place'tt 
hypothesis, and has given it as his opinion that it luis received its 
COftfirmalion from the photographic appearance of the girat nebula 
in Andromoda, which shows one ring of n>;bulous matter thrown off 
from the main body, with two satellites formed and others in the 
countc of formation. Bickciton holds, however, that neither this 
nor the meteoric hypothesis of Lockycr and Proctor can be fully 
accepted ; hence he claims that the ground is clear for his own 
hypothesis, which harmonise^ as he considers, with the varyitig 
inclination of the planets' axes of rotation, the greater density of the 
inner planets, and other known bds relating to the solar system. 

Professor Bickerton cannot, of course, rcftise to admit the 
cogency of Professor G. H. Darwin's thcor)- of ridal evolution. In 
accordance with this theory, he regards the satellites of out system 
as having revoh-cd originally much nearer to the planets to which 
they belong than they do at present. He has (idled, however, to 
be capnircd by the Tascinatin^ idoa that the satelUte was originally 
fractured off the planet around which it re^■olves ; for he renaarlu : 
"The moons were probably bodies entrapped by the planets when 
nebulous." 

The lodiacal light the Professor holds to be probably a portion 
of the original meteoric swann which constituted a large pan of 
the solar nebula. On no other supposition does be consider it 
possible to account for the fact that this radiant phenomenon lies 
chiefly in the pbuie of the sun's equator. In collisions between 
these meteors he sees the probable cause of that eirccssively bright 
light whkh was observed independently on September i, 1859, by 
Carringion and Hodgson, as the pauage of two intensely bright 



94^ 



The Gentiiman's Magazine. 



bo^es across a small ;>.irt of the nin'i surface, and which wis 
followed by a violent magnetic Gtorm and magnificent RUroras. He 
■uggeats, moreover, that it b the light reflected by this meteoric 
twann ihat \% the cause of the corona seen during a total eclipse ; 
for the corona extends much further cquMorially than axially. 

The asteroids or minor planets are in groups of two oi three 
moving in closely related orbits, and the generaliy accepted hypo- 
thesis amongst astronomers is that "each group consists of frag- 
ments of a primitive nebuUr mass torn asunder by the unequal 
attraction of Jupiter shortly after its detachment from the greai 
parent sphere eventually condensed to form the sun " (Agnes U. 
Clerlce). Professor Bickerton, however, returns to the hypothesis of 
Olbers, the discoverer of Pallas and Vcsia, to the effect that the 
asteroids are fragments of an exploded planet. The principal 
objection which has been raised against this view is that if a plauet 
were blown to pieces the spot where it exploded would be « spot 
through which the orbits of these little Ixidies would all pais. 
Professor Bickerton contends, however, (hat tlie perturbations awia| 
to the attraction exerted upon the various fragments by their gigantic^ 
neighbour Jupiter will modify any such expectation ; and, ^S^^fl 
that the body whicli, by plunging into another body, caused fl^ 
explosion would not eR'ect the whole of its destructiTc work tn one 
spot, for the effect would partly accompany the exploded planet afld 
partly the body which causL'd the explosion. 

The same reasoning, our author thinks, may be applied H> 
Saturn's rings, which, in his view, consist of particles associated hj 
gravitation, revoKing around Saturn, and which, in all probability, 
are (he fragments of a moon that has been blown to pieces by an 
explosion. Can he, then, on the theory of impact, account for 
the phenomena of comets? Yes; for he holds them to be, in 
reality, meteoric swarms which, as we have seen, can, in his vie«, 
be produced as the result of collision. Coming into proximitf to 
the sun, the swarm is distorted, with the result that its constittieni 
fragments collide with extrnordinary frequency and thus beconK 
brilliant. There would, he considers, be an enormous development of 
beat and electricity resulting from the friction. It should be pointed 
out, however, that the opinions of some astronomers ate decidedly 
the reverse of this. Miss Clerke, for instance, while admitting that 
" the nuclei of comets are essentJalty meteor swarms," holds that 
"all the constituent particles must revolve round the centre of 
gravity of the whole in a common period, but with a velocity 
directly proportional to distance from the centre — that is, iiKTCasiDg 



Tk4 Latest AslmmotHuai Heresy. 247 






^ 



k» 



oatirard. Hence collisions would be infrequent and of slight cITcct ; 
while the probabitity of their occu/rcnce should diminish with th« 
comet's approftch to the sun, which by Its unequal attraction would 
c'rew the revolving particles asunder and amplify their allowance of 
xpace. Internal collisions nuy then fairly be left out of the account 
in consklcring the phenomena of comets." Bickcrton's idea that 
the material of a comet's tail does not belong to itself, but is the 
dust of space lit up in some way like motes in sir illuminated by 
a searchlight, will interest even those who cannot accept it, as will 
a3so his suggestion that the tail of a comet being electrical, the 
curratUTC is due to the fact that the electrical action would take « 
sensible time to travel the many m!lliun$ of miles to which the tail 
reaches. 

But enough of such petty detail I Let us accompany our author 
in his attempt to apply the theory of impact to explain the construc- 
tion of the whole visible universe. The stars of our universe aie, as 
is well known, spread diiedy in the form of a gigantic ring called the 
Milky Way. In this ring are also nebuke, temporary star?, twin 
suits, triple suns, multijile suns, and dark suns. Our solar system 
probably lies otthin [his gigantic wheel of a universe somewhere near 
iti centre. Now, Bickerton thinks that this great universe, which is 
probably only one amongst many, consisting of nebulae and sunaand 
qratems amngcd in the form of a gigantic cloven ring, resulted from 
a collision between two preexisting universes. It was ilie centri* 
filgal motion owing to the colbsion that, in his view, swung this great 
collection of stins and systems into the form of an irregular ring 0^ 
double spiral character. While the two pre-existing universes were 
thus closing in upon each other, and impacts between suns and 
ncbulie were occurring with ever-increasing frequencj', the centre of 
cocUescence would become gaseous and its average temperature would 
steadily incnaisc, so that great pressure would be produced. This 
pressure would tend to ex]>and ttie gas, and it would be able to find 
iK> way of e-cape excepting in the direction of the axis of the great 
whirling mats. Rushing out, then, in this direction, it would cover 
the regions at the poles of tlie gigantic ring of suns with wide nebular 
caps. Now what evidence can Professor Bickerton adduce in favour 
of his view that the universe, as we know it, resulted from a collision 
between two pre-existing globulac cosmic systems ? Well, he poinU 
to the sprays and streams of stars, and to the community of proper 
motion amoDgtt adjacent stars, as natural results of the groups of 
stars, similarly situated, having tended to take a common direction. 
He suggests that, on this theory, the identity of matter throt^bout 



248 



The Gcnileman's Magazine. 



OUT universe a.s rcvcal«d by the spectroscope would be esqilained. 
The douUe spiral charactci of the Milky Wajr he considcn to accotd 
with the tbeofy, as also the fact that temporary, variable, and douUe 
Stan, planetary nebula;, and sdr-ctustcn arc situated Ln this giant 
ring ; while other regular ncbuLc arc at the poles of the ring. In 
regard to variable stars, however, he would have done well to take 
note of the fact that, as Mr. ]. E. Gore has pointed out, it is only 
those of short period that are found in the neighbourhood of the 
Milky Way, the long period ones being scattered indifTcrcntly ovcr 
thc surlace vf the heavens. 

There are stQl to be accounted for the nebulse of regular shapes 
— masses of glowing gas in the form of spirtdks, spirals, riitgs, &c., 
which have been rc\'caled by the tclc»:opc and especially wiih the 
assistance of the photogniptiic plate. It was soon clear to our author 
that an imixict of suns eitlier bright or dark would not account far 
these objects, inasmuch ax the explosion of impact, with the great 
outrtish of expanding gax, would blow the lovely shapes to pie 
It occurred to him, however, that the impact of other nebulK could' 
produce them. This surmise would retpitte that these lordy 
" Celestial flowen " should be chidty near the poles of the Milky Way,J 
where, owing to the abundance of nebulous matter, the possitnlitiecf 
of impact are greatest. A partial impact of two nebulous ma 
would produce spindles and ^irslsi while a complete impact would 
produce the annular or ring ndiula^ The oulrush of gas in the 
direction of the axb of the whirling mass would account for 
hollow centre of the ring, as well as for the gauze-like maicrial that is"" 
seen in a powerful telescope to stretch across it 

Such is Professor Bickerton's account of the wonders of our 
univetse. There ore wonders in the heavens, however, which in his 
view do not belong to our universe at all. The Magellanic Ctonds, 
for instance, he regards as external universes. Mr. H. C. RuoaoU'i 
photographs of these objects, according to our author, show | 
spiral structures, with siarK, star-clusten, and every variety of object 
that peoples our own universe. " Is it possible," he asks, *' that these 
ore two systems on the way to form, by mutual coalescence, a system 
of a higher order P " 

The conclusion of the whole matter is certainty optimistic Our 
author sees no need to acquiesce in the idea of the degradation of 
energy and the coming universal death. True, he cannot predict 
individual immortality foi any particular cosmic body ; but he sees no 
reawn why the cosmos as a whole should not continue renemng 
itself for ever and ever. Owing to selective molecular escape, the 



■ AsU 



I 



The Latest AstroHomicat Heresy. 249 

gases set free hy collision will, according to his hypothesis, be 
disstpated into ^cc, and will tend to collect in the most empty 
regions ; Tor the fuither a molecule is from cosmic muter the slower 
it tnTeb. This is what Bickcrton calb " the aggregating power of 
high potenliaL" It is a tendency the reverse of gravitation. Gravi- 
tation acts upon heavy atoms, high polenti^ upon light ones. 
" The field of (be one is where matter is richly distributed ; th« field 
of the other wh«re it is rarest." Thus it U that th« light gases set 
free by "selective molecular escape" become "cosmic jwoneers," 
filling the parts of space left empty by shrinking cosmic systems. 
As the light gases accumulate tt will be cosier for the heavier gasM 
^ there, for grantatioa will gnulually come into play. As the 

iutivc power iticreascs the tcmpcrtturc of this portion of space 
will rice. Should any high-velocity mass plunge through these 
accumulated gases, it may be heated to incandescence^ resulting in 
OKjgan beang combined with such clcmcnlar)- Bubstances as boron, 
lithium and sodium. This combination would give rise to solid or 
liquid nuclei, which, condensing into dust, would eventually aggregate 
into dense bodies. These masses of accumulated gas entrapping 
mndefing bodies Bickenon calls cosmic systems of the first order. 
These ptimiti\-e systems come into collision, with the result thit 
" selective molecular escape " sets Fnx some of the light molecules, 
to that they start away once more to play the part of pioneers, while 
the dense elements oggr^ate into suns and systems, i.t. into 
universes of tbc secoi>d order. Our univene, he thinks, is the 
result of impact between two systems of the second order ; hence be 
calls it a system of the third order. The Magellanic Clouds he 
formerly thought to be systems of the first order ; but since ex- 
amining the spiral structure shown in Mr. Russell's photographs, 
be is of opinion that they are of a higher order, and theii very 
condensed character would favour this view. 

From tlic evcr-rhyilimic |)roceues, then, by which light gases, owing 
to impact, are being dissipated into space, are accumulating in 
poeidoos of "high potential" and cntra]>ping other wandering 
bodies. Professor fiickerton concludes that ihc cosmo«, as a wholes 
may have an immortal existence. *' Worlds, .systems, universes, are 
evolved, play their part, disintt^rate and disperse, only to rca{q>ear 
in new and complex relationships. The mighty cosmos remains 
ever rbylhinic in its glorious ener^es." 

Such is Professor Bickerton's hypothesis. In slating it I have 
noted some points at which it comes into conflict with the views 
generally accepted by astronomers. With r^rd to the hypothesis 



250 



The Gentleman's Magaxine. 



as a whole, it must be admitted thai, foKinaUng though it ts, it is 
Iniill large))- upon pure speculation. Thii » cstxrciuil)' true of the 
author's account of the bter and more complex Mages of th« 
cosmical pirocesses. It is true that be consunlly reTen to obaerved 
phenomena which, in hiv view, demonstrate the theory ; but one 
caniwt get awa]r from the idea that, after all, there ij a lack of that 
thorough -going sifting of all the available evidence which cliarac- 
tcrises the work of many of our ablest sstronomers. I'hc fact is. 
Professor Bicicenon is a better advocate than a judge. His chief 
oODCcm appears to be to fasten upon every point that will appear to 
tell in favour of his theory. Considered simply as a literary pro- 
duction, his book cajinot be described as "not having spot or 
wrinkle oi any such thing." The llowery language ofien strikes one 
as somewhat out of harmony with tlte subject-matter. There is, 
mofeo^'cr, a large amount of repetition, white tlte pages are disfigtued 
by not a few printer's errors. At ilie ttame time, the book has Iwo 
redeeming features— it is very intctntii^ and it conUiiu a good deal 
of valuable suggestion which may yet prove of great service to other 
workers in the same field. 



I 



jauks w. cotton. 



25 » 



SOME GENERATIONS OF A 
LINCOLNSHIRE FAMILY. 



IN Lincolnshire tbc Mductire irolda, indcing th« tntTcUec to 
dimb their small eminences only presently to l«ad him gently 
jlkwn again, until he is no more exalted than his Tellows, [ircunilly 
^tgave htm with a last smite to foce the more open sicrnness of the 
At the pcHHt where he would pull bis eoal about him and 
out on the plain the particular chuccti tower, clump of trees, 
and windmill which constituted the parish of his desiiniiiion (here is 
built tlic ancient Iowa of Louth, its delicate and ircll -proportioned 
church spire keeping aUve the sense of beauty among the stem wid 
practical dweUent in the Marsh. 

In this town before the middle of the fifteenth century there 
settled a family called Bradley. Tlii;y were, to bt^ with, mcrchanis, 
first simple traders, later merchants of the Staple, and dealers doubt- 
lets in the class of produce which in the Tudor times so rapidly 
increased in value — irool ar»d leather. 

They never attained to a position among the first of the land, 
and had it not been for their matrimonial alliitnccs they would in 
ail probability have been content merely to lake their part in the 
civic administration of the quiet majkct town of the county which 
Henry VIH. rudely called "one of the most brute and Imtalie of 
all the realm," and George III. remembered as all flats, fogs, and 
fens. At t))e latter remark Lincolnshire people are wont to smilCt 
and remark that the acquaintance of George III. wiih (he county was 
only that of a tourist, and that in his later days, probably on the occa- 
sion of the remark, his mind was subject to occasiorul aberration. 

John Bradley, however, more wealthy than his fatho, about 1550 
allied himself with the family of Fairfax, at this time rising to faoK 
in the person of Sir Thomas 1-airfu, who was at the sack of Rome 
under the Duke of Bourbon in 15171 and whose son Edward, loving 
better his books and meditations, preferred a lilcrar)- life, and wrote 
in defence of the Church of England, tried to probe the mysteries 




357 



TAe Gentltmani Magaztju. 



ofirilchCTaft.andtfataUltd"(icnaa lefnitt eUbei«ut" John Bradley** 
wife's tmdc Sir Ralph Fairfax ("^r* being the nuik of his uni- 
versity degree and not of his kni{;hthoo(!) wu the Uat Prior of 
South Kymc in Lincolnshire, and on July 6, 1539, suncndered it to 
the CommiuioncTS of King Henry VIIL ju«t three yean after the 
protest against dc^wltation reprcMnti^ liy the " Pitgrtmage of 
Grace." John Bradley by thb lady had two *oiu, Tltonus, a 
merchant, and John, a doctor, and two daoghiers, who both married 
remarkable men. Ann, the elder, became the wife of Matthew 
Satclifle, and Elizabeth, the younger, married Oegory NichoUa, 
sometime Master of Magdalene CoU^c, Cambridge. 

It would surely be difficult to find two mtcn married to two 
ludi clever, conteiUioiu, and in some respects disorderly divines. 
Matthew Sutcliffe was originally of a Dutch family, who settled in 
Lanca-ihiie. He was bom about 1550, so bis meroor)' may almost 
have reached bode to the lime of Queen Mary, and he threw the 
whole weight of hix learning and energy on the Protestant side in 
the fierce eontrovcrxie* that were then ragittg. 

Bdlarmine and Parsons, two powerful Romanist controversial 
writers, and Cartwright, the Presbyterian, were the subyect of his 
fierCM attacks, and the lillc-]iagc:( of hix workx are not less remark- 
able for their warmth of expression than for the directness of ibcir 
onslaught. Some itttes occupy the whole page ; others ore more 
concise, though not less pointed. It takes litilc estamtoattoa to 
understand that a work of his cnllcd " Turco^papismo " is an answer 
lo one by two Romanist writers called " CalviiMt-lurcismos," and 
that as the one compares Calvinism with Mahomctanism, so the 
reply employs the "tu quoquc" argument, and points to the re- 
temblsTKe between Roman Catholidsm and the religion cA 
Mabomct. Sutcliflie's writings were numerous and chiefly conuoi-er- 
tial. One, however, was on the " Laws of Arms." 

In the controversial works not only the weapons of fair arguroenl 
are freely used, but ridicule, criticism, and even invective and 
personal defamation of cliaracler are turned to damage the adversary's 
position. Kdlison, the inventor of what i» known aa the "Nag's 
Head " &ble about Archbishop Parker's consecration, is called 
a "copper kettle masse-priest," and an insinuation is made 
as to his early vocation as butler to Lord Vaux that " he hath 
belter grace in drawing of Spanish wine than in talking of 
rd^on," and there is much else in this vein. But whether his 
roetliods of controversy were better or worse than other disputants 
of bis time, there is no question as to the extent of his leamii^ In 



I 

I 



Some Gtneratiotts of a Lincolnshire Family. 253 

his "Sun-ey of Poperie" he quotes consideraUy over two hundred 
writers, giving in most ciuet the actual passages, and generally the 
relercncc And he had reason to be exact in such matters, for only 
three or four years before, Fhillippc de Momay, a Huguenot, had 
been tried before the Bishop of Evrcux for corrupting and lalsifying 
five hundred authors in a book he had written ; and SutclilTe, under 
the tnitiah O. E., had written a " Challenge ' 10 support Momay, so 
it would have been fatal to give wrong references in a book written so 
soon afterwards. Bui there is also evidence that Sutcliffc was well 
acquainted with some of the works he quote*, for he criticises the 
different editions of TurrKCremata's works, and shows considerable 
Euniliarity with many other writers. 

Sutcliffe was also tn his later days, when Dean of Exvtcr, occupied 
with commercial schemes in New England. He was personally 
acqaainied with Cai>ta!n John Sniitli, and may have heard from 
him of his wonderful escape from the Club of Powhatan, and may 
even have seen, too, that famous Indian boauty, the rescuer 
Poc^ontas. 

But his zeal for the theological position of the Church of 
Engfamd he retained to the end of his life, and even founded a 
"College of Controversy" or "Polemical College" at Chebea at 
his own charge, which was intended to be a "Spiriiuall Garrison " 
occupied by distinguished divines, "with a magazine of all BooJcs" 
useful for attack and defence. 

We need not follow out the fortunes of this establishment, which 
was known as " Kin^ James's College of Chelsea," but is now the 
"Royal Military Ho^j>iiaI." In its first form It did not survive a 
generation, but it was a remarkable institution founded by a 
Femnrkable man. 

Dcgory Nicholls, the husband of John Bradley's other daughter, 
Elizabeth, wis not less original and equally contentious, if not 
possessed of so much ability. Abottt 1570 the heads of collies 
exhibited articles against him and others "who doe goc vciyc 
dixorderlic in Camberdgc, waring for tlie most part their hates, and 
continually vcrj- unseemly rufRcs at their handes, and grcate 
galligasldns ' and barreld hoocsc stuffed with hone-taylcs, with 
skabilonioos and knit ncthcntockcs loo fine for schollers." In 1577 
he was made Master of Magdalene College, Cambridge, and with 
others held a conference in the Bishop of Ely's Palace at Wisbcach 
to try and induce John f'eckenham, who had been abbot of the 
Kvived Abbey of WcstminScr under Queen Mary and had since 
■ Wide locHC trowsm, oUcd >bo Gslly-bcwchcs 1570, ti. HalliwtlL 



254 



Th€ GentUnmn's Magazine. 



been (lepriv«d, to scknow1cdg« the Quecn^ uiprenucjr. At the dose 
of 1578 B dispute arose in the colI«!c between him and some of hii 
WcUh undergraduates, who were, in oonKquence. expelled. They 
rculinted in a manner not uncommon with andergmduates t^ 
bringing contemptible charges against him— />. that he liad an 
enmity for all Welshmen, that his kinc were milked at the eollcne 
hall door, and that his wife was such a scold ax to be heard all over the 
college. He was afterwards presented 10 three livings successively tn 
Devon and Cornwall, and, having resigned the mastership of 
Klagdatene College, ended his life as rector of Lanreath in Cornwall, 
and canon residentiary of Ewtcr, which latter i»cfcrment he probably 
owed to the instance of his brother-in-law the l>can. 

John Bradley, the son and succosoi of Thomas, after becoming an 
undergiaduaie at Cambridge, and subsequently in 1595 a member of 
Gray's Inn, went out as a sergeant -at- arms in the famous expedition 
into tlie I^w Countries which was led by Sir John Norris, in whkh Sir 
i'hili]) Sydney lost his life. Bradley served under Sir I'rancis Vcrc 
ax a captain of pikemen. He wa^ then, i>t>txi1>ly at the sieges of the 
fort Itefore Minequen, and uw hard (ighiing at Gittranbark and 
Groningen, but no facts are told us of his actual deeds. If they bad 
not been brave it is not likely that his part in the expedition would 
have been recorded at all by his descencUnts. He lii%d to retire to 
his native town nf I.outh, inherit his uncle Sir Peter Chapman's 
fortune, see forty-three descendants gathered round him, and if even 
a portion of tlie epitaph on his tomb may be trusted, die, after an 
exemplary life, covered with the esteem and honour of his fdlow 
townsmen at a ripe old age. His son George succeeded hiro, who 
married twice ; first, a daughter of Sir John Read, of Wrangle* some 
time High ShetilT of his county, a member of an old -established firm 
of wool merchants, and a granddaughter of Sir John Garrard, Loid 
Mayor of Ix>ndon. His second wife was a member of the Eimily 
of Ayscough, who numbered among them the Bishop Ayscough, of 
Salisbury, who was murdered in \Vilishire in a local rebellion at the 
time of Jack Cade, and who also was a great great niece of the 
celebrated Ann .'Vskew (for the spelling is of no account), one of the 
Wolestant martyrs in the reign of Henry VIH. under the Six 
Articles Act, and, if the Beefeaters arc to be believed, the last 
person tacked in the Tower. Anne Bradley, sister of John, the 
capuin of pikemen, married Francis Lockton, of Swineshead, son 
of Sir John I>jckton, of the same place, and a member of a nouUe 
Ro>atixt family. Readers of Shakespeare will remember that this 
Abbey was the scene of the last part of " King John," and also that 



Sonu Gtneraiions of a Lifuoinskirt Family. 255 






» 



31 is where that king was laken wiih fever on his way from L^rnn to 
Meirarlc Tradition, in fjuet, ays that the king was poisoned by u 
monk ol that house because he had threatened to raise the price of 
bread all o%'er England. After the Dissolution Sir John Lockton, in 
1607, built a large farmhouise on the site and with some of the 
materials of the Abbey. In later year? the I^cktons found the fami- 
housetoolarge for their requirements, or perliaps their mtrans loo small 
to proride other houses, for it was more than once divided up for the 
use of two m«nibers of the faniily. The rooms in the Dairy Court 
and certain others attached to them were at one time inhabited by 
the mother, Mr^. Anne Lockton, and the remainder of ihc rooms 
were occupied by het son John, brother of Francis, and so it 
descended mote than onoe to other generations. 1'he present build- 
ing is now an unpretentious looking farmhouse enough. Jane, 
another daughter of Ca;>tain John Bradley, the pikeman, married 
a son of a noted Lincolnshire man, Sir Charles BoHcs, o( 
Thoipe Hall, near Louth, who raised n regiment, collected ship 
money, and fought for Charles I., and was much concerned in the 
distaibances at the time of the rebellion. On one occasitm, in a 
skirmish near his house with a dctacbroent of the Pailiamcniarian 
army, he narrowly escaped being taken prisoner by concealing himself 
under the bridge near Louth Gaol, while the enemies galloped over 
it in pursuit of him. Nor was he a less estimable person in time of 
|>eace, for in 1633, when the plague was rife in Louih, be viiited the 
town every morning accompanied by his servant, taking with him 
medicines which he left in person at the house of those who were 
sirkken, and in this way helped to arrest the march of the disease 
in that part of the country. 

The inhabitants were not unmindful of his services, for in the 
town accounts an entry appears in 1639 of y. 4J. paid for tobacco 
and pipe* " when y* Corondl & Captaines were at Thorpe Hall," 
ar>d again in 1647 91. was expended in his entertainment, a sum 
which in those da)-s might do much towards a merry-making. 
His ponrait by Zuccheto represents him with a hiRh forehead, 
aquiline nose, and short square beard. He has his hand on a sword, 
and a chain, possibly a gift of honour, round his neck. 

Sir Charles was the »on of Sir John Botlcs the builder in 1548 
of a picturesque, substantial house known as Thorpe Hall, close to 
Louth. Sir John was celebrated for being the subject of the ballad 
of the "Green lady." He distinguished himself at the siege of 
Cadii in 1596, and was afterwards GoTemor of Kinsale. The well- 
known tradition ts that among the captives at Cadiz was a lady of 



35^ 



The Gentleman's Maganne. 



grttt beauty, high rank, and immiinM wealth, who fell to the peculiar 
durgeofSit John. The natuml consequence Tollowcd. OT him 
•he became greatly enamoured, and proposed to accompany him to 
England. Sir John was, however, faithful to his matrimonial vows 
aiui declined to take her, upon which, on hii departure, she retired 
to a convent, and sent over to hcf unknown rival in England 
jewels, lapcslry, and other ornaments of value. Some of these 
articles are still in the possession of Sir John's various descendants. 
Her iK>r[r;ti[, drawn in green, used to har^ in ThoqK Hall, but has 
DOW diMppcaicd. 

In Pcrcjr's " Relics of English Poetry " is a ballad composed on 
Ifait event, beginning :- 

Will Y<ja heu a Spanlth Udy, 

How *he waood ui EngHthman, 
Gnnncnu [ay and lich u niBf be. 

Decked with Jewell «h« had on. 
Of a onnelj' cocolcuacc knd [race yta ihe, 
And \rf Unh aod pareoti^ of high degree. 

Shensione also composed a i>ocm on much the same evenu called 
" Love and IlOfiour," which is said to refer to thv story of Sir John 
BoUcs. 

The Bradley family, whose fortunes we have followed, soon after 
this became extinct. Jiine Bradley survived her husband, (h« "pike- 
man,' her son and grandson, and nearly all the forty-Llirec children 
and grandchildicn whom her husband had lived to see. She died 
at the age of ninely-threc in a house at Loutli, and left a bequetf 
which ts »till applied for the salary of the parixh clerk. None of 
her descendants bearing the name survived. Tlie family was like 
many thousands of '\U kind which held a certain position in its lime, 
and, though never rising to great eminence, was for eight generations 
concerned in an utiostcntultuiis way with every extended religious 
and political movement of the period. Every county can find 
hundreds of such families, every town perliaps one or two. They 
sustain the level uf English cliaracter, if no more, and tiave been 
fruitful stores from whence the country has produced sonic of its 
greatest men— divines, generals, peers, and sutesmcn— and if no 
member of the Uradlcy family made any great mark on his gcncn- 
tion, still the family a5 a whole are gufficicnily great, and sufficiently 
interesting to have their existence chronicled for posterity. 



;. K. FLOrBR. 



U' 



«57 



THE FUERO JUZGO. 



N 



THE JFu^vJiage or Famm JuJicum was the Uw which governed 
the Chi^tians of Leon znd Castitt; from the beginning of the 
eighth century, until its putUI supersession by the Sittt Partidas in 
the day of Alphonso the Wise. This code was revised by San 
Penundo in the earlier half of the thincenth, and formed port of the 
nipplementary law of Spain until quite the end of the eighteenth 
ceniut>'.' Egica, who in 6S7 succeeded Erwig as king of the 
Spanish Wisigotbs, bade the siitecnth Council of Toledo make 
a complete collection of the laws of the Wisigoths, and ilm collec- 
tion was the Fuero Juigo. Of it Gui«>t says ' that it is more far- 
Kcing, more complete, as well as wiser and justcr than any other 
bubuian code. Cujas, likewise, in his treatise on Fiefs * bears 
wilness to its value, though Montesquieu,* Mably, and Robertson 
are of a totally opposite opinion. The object of this study is to 
show, after a brief glance at its sources, that th« former is the true 
view, as might indeed be inferred from the fact of long survi\al. 
For if so, it thus furnishes another illusttaiion of the great ^iiidple, 
the Survival of the Fittest, so named by Mr. Herbert Spencer and 
upheld by Mr. Darwin under the term Natural Selection,* which 
holds the field in social as «rell as in nattiral science. 

Ju\t as Justtnian'tlaw inspired the compilers of the Sictc Partidas, 
along with the desire to maintain royal authority at the expense of 
the growing power of the nobles, so Wisigothic legislation was the 
basis of the Fuero Juzgo, and its object to upliold ecclesiastical 
influence at all hazards. The way this was brought about will be 

■ Th« Coaaeil of Culik la 1 7SS ciuclcd ihM where tb« t-'ti*r^ Jtagt xaA tai 
Suit Partial diSeicd the fanoa were to be pteCened. 

' Uiittirt itl OrigiittS A GmnrrHfimittt riftiientatif, i. 366 ; ct 
L'Ems«jft Hist. trit. titrt U antiait ItgiileiUn, j6 ; tutd Fccniul, iMirti atr 
j ftlprit ie rffiitdrt, Letue SS. 

' <>. diFtvJit, ii. 11, 

• HetaUtUielawioftbe Wuigotbs "p>i«nl««, e»ueh« <t \iitM*'' EifHi ^ 
UU, lib, ixx. cap. tf. 

■ Origin ef Spttiit, cd. 1897, p. 4$. 
VOL. ccxai. VOL aejs. T 



»58 



The GentUman's Magazttu. 



Ken htiM on. Between 466 and 484 King Eurie tuul reduced I 
writing the lawx and ciuton» of tlie Goths, and beTore 507 Alaric 11. 
publUhed in the Bmiarium Aniani* tuch laws of Roman otigin 
ai were to appljr to hit Roman subjects. About fifty yean bter 
ChindaauintiM revised King Eunc'i Uvs. and in the first quarter of 
the seventh century Kocnuinthc, after permitting Goths and Romans 
to intemurry, assimilated the laws under which his subjects of thesd 
two nationalities lived. The fonn his Icgisbtion took was the 
Fuero Juigo. 

This code is divided into twelve books, containing in all aboat 
fifty-four titles and 573 laws. These are of three sorts, some »4 
antiftia or netnUr emtndala taken from the Breviarium Amani 
109 without any rubric, and 3^\ ear-marked with the name of the 
king by whom they were promulgated. Although the rubrics and 
text in the various manuscripts differ, as is well seen in the splendid 
Spanish edition of the Fuero (1815), we find from a patimpsett 
(pablished in facsimile by the Sparush Roj-al Academy of History, 
1896) of the Laws of the Wisigoths, that most of its fiAy-two chapters, 
thirty-live alone of which arc clearly decipherable, seem to be re- 
produced in the Fuero Juigo, and to lie marked therein anfi^iM. 
Obviously It is with these that the historian is mainly concerned, u 
from the uncial character of the writing this manuacript cannoc be 
of later date than about the second half of the seventh century. 

Perliaps the chief reason of the long survival of the Fuero Juzgo 
was, tlie fact of its being a code that aiTcctcd alike the conquering 
Goths and the conquered Spanish Romans. Here we have an early 
instance of a territorial as opposed to a personal law.* It professed 
to govern Spain, not any particular people in Spain, and in this 
respect difTered in its esserKe from Frank or Lombard legislation. 
Guisot distinguishes fotir kinds or sources of law in the Fuero Juzgo .-— 

(a) Laws made by the kings themselves with or without the 
aasisiancc of ihi-ir Privy Council.* 

(J) Laws made by National Councils at Toledo and elsewhere. 
tt which the influence of the bishops, as being the richest and most 
powerful of the nobles, was predominant. Nobles assisted, but tn 
fewer numbers ; while the people were there merely " to see, to hear, 
and to praise God."* 

if) The third source of origin was afforded by the several 

* Munr, Aniitnt Late, tuh ed. p. 108; Violl«l, Drtit awil Jrai^at' 

■ OgUium T^aU/iHim, Guiiot, »f. tit. p. JJI. 

• H. E. n'alU, S/MH, p. 15s. 



I 

I 



Tkt Fugro Juzgo. 



259 



I 
• 



coUectiont of Uw* rctpcctivdy made by Eunc, Leovtgild, Reccared, 
ChintUiuintbe,' and other previous Gothic monatchti slU more or 
len borrowed from the Kouums. 

((0 Laws wholly Roman. 

Oot of these ns ronncd and wiitiea in Latin the Fueto Juigo^ 
which had been reduced to writing before the date of Rccesuinthe't 
law, in which there is reference made to such copy,' and secondly, by 
San Fernando <iai7-t»5i), before its authority got impaired through 
(he action of his successor, Alphonso the Wise, in promulgating las 
Sute Fartidat. 

At the date when the Fuero Juzgo came into force, the ruin of the 
CurMjSivandthcdccadenceofmunicipalraagislratesbad 90 strengthened 
the imperial power that a Df/ensor, ' usually the bishop, arOM in each 
iiti. He was elected theoretically by the euriales and inhabitants, 
hut really by the bishop and clergy, who alone at that period pos- 
sessed energy and credit. In this way the Church acquired soon 
after the Wisigothic conquest the chief power in the towns of Spain, 
snce the middle classes tlteie had lost all influence, and the airiaUs 
at wealthier citizens became altogether overshadowed by it even as 
longagoas the beginnii^ of the lifth century. The bishop became in 
effect the &[aire of each place, and it was the clergy who safeguarded 
Roman laws and customs. I'his strong position of ecclesiastics 
accounts for the form the Fueto Juigo took, namely, that of a 
work of clerical philosophy, setting forth the doctrine that human 
law is binding only in so far as it is the copy of and fully purposed 
to execute God's law, and not as being the expressed will of the 
governing classes through the legislature.* It says that " Our fathers 
were right in affirming,* ' Rex eris si recta fads, si autem non facis 
non eris.' " From this it will be seen that Guizot's sutemcnt that 
the Councils of Toledo made both kings and laws is, broadly speaking, 
correct, and that we may perhaps take it that the proportion of 
iderica and laymen thereat averaged about sixty-three and sixteen * 
Tcspedirely. The Church objected at this date to the docttirie of 
the Divine Right, holding the monarchy to be elective. Laws 
according to it were good so far only as they reflected the spirit of 
the great Ruler of the Universe, and were not the expression of the 
will of the people entrusted to a delegate or delqfates to carr)- oul 

■ Biinaud, ef.fH.p.%Oi Violtd, Dr*il tivii /nuiiaii. p. 116. 

■ F./. ii. I. 9. • lUJ. IL 1. 1}. * IM. i. 3. s, " Qnt4 sit )n." 

• Fourtli Coimdl of Toledo, Cuaoo I (A.D. frjjb qooud ia FJ. (ed. 

■ Sis), P- ('^ '^ C'«-n- Tol- "'^ 

* T)tti we lc«ra botn >n ttnslpn of th« kc""<^** '<> '^* onont uf Hie dghtb 
Council of Tottdo nnder RKcnunihe, who died la 672. 

Tl 



26o 



Tkt GtiUkman's Magazine. 



TTie clerics controlled the Sorereign ' by fear erf excommumcxtion 
uid ui'Urpation was intended to be similarly kept in check. As a 
matter of Tact, however, usurpation beeatne the rule nther than the 
nccpcion, probably owing to tlie ([rowing influence of the Offiaiim 
PiilatiiiHm, or ofhcut ariMocnicy,* introdoced in imitation of Rome. 
In this institution the \Visigoths diRcicd essentially from other 
barbarians, who maintained the German LtuAs and An/rustiomi, 
and did not assimilate the Roman OffUium Palatii, which was more 
its reaching, embracing as it did not only Comttti bat Magisrri, and 
those who bad the right to sit in the ConsiUaritiM PriiKtpu. Th« 
Spanish Wisigoths had previously to tbdr occupation of Spain dwdt 
long in Southern Caul, and it was then in especial that they imbibed 
Roman ideas. 

Naturally, as the power of appointing the OfBcium Uy with the 
Monarch, his power side by side with its own likewise grew in time 
more exalted, and made headway at the expense of the clergy. Never- 
theless, this latter class seem to ha\'c ever retained grot influence, 
not only from their general authority to excommunicate, but abo 
owmg to the {xirticulac jwwer they retained' of revising judgM* 
decisions when apparently unjust. The importance of this latter 
can hanlly be overrated, if we remember that the judicial body was 
in\'esicd with military, judicial, and also administrative powers, which* 
at that period luul not been separated. There was no equality o( 
persons before the l.iw, the division being into free men and slaves, 
each of whom had separate tights. The Monarch nominated 
magistrates,* tlie only check upon him being the bishops, for the 
power of the town^, even through \\tt-\t prinHpalts, was in the earlier 
period of the (ilothic supremacy quite unimportant. All this goes 
to show that, as M. de Rozi^re puu it,' " In tlic Fueio Juzgo one 
sees at every page the triumph of Roman civilisation, and that of 
the clergy over Germanic inslitu lions." 

In connection with these observations upon the public law oS the 
Fuero, it may be well to sute here that those portions which treat 
of this branch in dcuil arc the Primus titulus, " Dc clectione 
principum et dc communionc corum qualiter juste judicent »-el de 
tiltore nequitcr judicantium," Liber i. " De legtslatore et de lege," 
Lib. il lit. ii " fe judicibus ct judicaiis," and Lib. ni. tit. r, " Dc 

' F.J. ii I- 37, " De d«l« epiicopii potoult." 

' A. Thierry. Kn. dt Ug. xvii. p. 736 j Sempci c, Httl. dtl Ptrttkf, p. 76. 

■ P.J. ii. I. aS, " De <Iati episcopit poieitaic." 

* Maine, Ptfuiar CtvetnmiHt, Jib ed. p. 319. 

* Council of L«on (lOio), Canon iS. 

* Ftrmtilrt IViiigptiijiui InidUii, Intiod. p. I. 



The Fuero Juxgo. 



261 



temperando judicio et temovcnda prcssura." ' Those who desire to 

see K full account of the various editions of this Fucro, for between 

■ them there is often great variance, are referred to " Historia de la 
H Lc^islacion " of Marichalar y Manrlque,' which is the lecut cUusian 
H on this bnuich of th« subject. 



I 



TMS CIVIL LAW OF THE FUERO. 



Among the fundamental principles of the Civil Law of this Fuero, 
the airangcmcDt of which testifies to the primitive importance of 
pcoccdute, are the following. The Fuero Juzgo alone is to have 
authority, and only such causes as are permitted by it must be heard 
by judges, while afCiirs of piinces come before those of the people. 
As regards procedure, the Tiumfadus appears to be the ordinary 
judge, and the Saio the executive ofTiccr. Anyone taking upon him- 
self to act as judge when not duly authorised, is puni&hable with a 
beating of one hundred strokes. Penalties are imposed not only 
upon unjust but also upon incompetent judges, as well as in the 
case of witnesses and pArtics not appearing when summoned. 
Judges are first to interrogaie witnesses, and especially (o call for 
any writings that may appcruin to the cause before them, and not 
nshly to permit the parties themselves to make oath, except a$ 
a last resort Indeed, the law of evidence is luddly treated, while 
maodates and c%-cn powers of attorney are not overlooked. Those 
who disobey the judgment of the Court, if able, pay three pounds of 
gold to the fisc therefor, and other men receive one hundred strokes. 
Ilut/cr« majturt is here sutlBdent excuse. As is the case in all old 
Codes* the proportion of space here given to dvU as opposed to 
aiminal and public law is small, and reaches certainly to not more 
tlian a third of the whole Fuero. Marriage has allotted to it 
most of one of the twelve books of this Code, the remainder being 
devoted to the punishments due to those who violate the laws thereby 
enacted *' De ordine conjugalL" No one ts to marry without a dot. 
Romans and <ioths may intermarry. The woman to be married is 
not to be older than the man, and if free herself must not become 
tbe wife of an unfiee man. Divorce, except for adulter)-, is pro- 
hibited, as is abo marriage between freed slaves and their masters' 
relations. Betrothal is almost as inviolable as marriage, and a-fianelt 

' Th« ptorohienee ^na at «aily code*, u ia ibl*, to Conm of Justice snd 
tbrit offic«ts u eipluned by Sir It. S. Hune, Early Inaitulwm, dup. iL 
pf>. 381 II ttf. 

■ Vol, I, pp. 461 cf jff. ' Hune AiKmU Lam. mk cd. p. J69. 



The Fuero /u£g0. 



^63 



I 



\ 



wkb delicu and indeed with ciiines, that tliey cannot well be dealt 
with separately from Criminal Law, of which it is now piopoMd to 
take a superficial survey. 



CRIMINAL LAW. 

In all ancient codes, criminal law bulks larger far than either 
pvblic or civil bw. In both the latter there are, as wc have seen, 
many lacunae^ which bit by bit got provided for by custom or had 
to be filled up from Roman Law. The criminal law, too, included 
that of totts or wrongs, for which, if no money compensation was 
fOTthcomii^ the delinquent had to suffer a prescribed number of 
strokes. Only offences which menaced the existence of the State' 
or Church were unable to be compounded for, as crimes against 
individuals were always capable of compiomise by payment,' Not 
only is la di/tme tcciale a modem doctrine' unknown to early legisla- 
tion, but there were in early days no prisons in which to confine 
malefactors however dangerous, who could, in consequence, only 
be exiled, killed, or beaten. The necessities of the fisc and the 
greed of tlic injured family demanded money compensation ratbci 

the former was forthcoming, 

legislation Wekrgtld was 

es. This particular code 

ffetent classes of homicide, 

But, on the other hand, 

Jews were by it expressly 

urage perjury hy 

oath and that of 

the Ecclesiastics 

which necessarily 

if defence, and also 

ued ihercftom. 

It. Adultery, tape, 

imes, and punishable 

leir perpetrators being 

'dca of prii-ate vengeance 

munily from punishment 

sexual offender in the act 



than corpora] ai 


^imcnt whei 


and so it cam^l 


^that in alU 


the remeo"^^^^ 


Kei'cnfifl 


if cmel *• 1^ 


Kliidl 



.ibitjl 
iDdf 



loiMKh, with (ha ooiucM at both 



■ /■.?. ti. S- 1-4 



26a 



Ti* GtHtUmatii MagattHt. 



discovered in flagrante ileHtla with another inut mxj be slain with 
impunity, jusi ax Uk erring wife. 

Here we ha\-e a very differenl slate of things from that at Rome, 
where diroroes were easily obtained, and beuothab could be undone 
by forfeiture of arrhat, and we leam from Tacitus that its origin' 
is to be found in Germanic customs.* By the same authority we 
are informed Detttn nan uxor man'fa W uxart maritus offtrt^ and 
therefore it is no matter for wonder that the Morgtngabe is herein 
enjoined to be dunianded by the bride's father from the husband. 
A« does the For of B^rn tu^ voet 1 oumedot, to does this t'aero 
command the return of the wife's portion (0 her family, *s w^ as of 
the Morgmgait, on her death, while iiAcr -acquired property also in 
certain cases * is ordered to bu divided between hasbund and wife^ in 
proportion to their scrcral shares in the family property. Moreover, 
concubinage ii recognised, and provision made against tampering 
with the concubines of relatives. Speaking generally, the position 
of the family was distinctly more secure under thit> Fucro than 
among Romans or Germans. The falria poUstat was Less Ear- 
reaching, and the position of women better, extending even to 
their having the guardianship of children Upon iho death of thbj 
fiuber. The mundium did iioi, in the case oi the Spanish Wisigotfa^i 
place women at a disadvantage, while children of fourteen couM 
make a will. 'I'his, as likewise the comparatively happy cooditic 
of slaves, was due to tlic humanising influence of the Church, \Mt,\ 
OS we have seen, ftecdmcn could not marry into the family of ibdt 
tale masters, and their oaths had no avail against those of men who 
were ficeborn. 

An entire book, the I'ourth, is also devoted to Orige naturaSt, 
or The Family Relationship and Succession to Property, and here 
females share &iily with males. In addition to these matters, wards^ 
exposed children, and wilU make up togetlter the subject of this 
book. The title of another is " De transaclionibus." Ii deals with 
ecclesiastical afTairs, gifts, sales and exclianges, loans and debts, 
while the last book but one is al>out doctors and their patiettts, 
burial-places, and — curiously enough in this connection— also with 
mariiirae commerce. Although prcscripuon is not overlooked, 
contracts as in all societies but that of Rome here find but tiltk 
notice, for the moral notions on which they depend were immature 
in Spain at the date of this Fucro.* Torts likewise arc so mixed up 

' Ctrmamui, vxU I* • Hid. I«cl. l8. • PJ. iv. a. lA. 

* M&isf, Aiuitni hno, riih ed. p. J69. .\s xa the influenw orf lb* Chorcfe 
on Contract l.«*, (« Miinr, Barly InitiimlifHi, 6ih cd. pp. $6, 104. 



The Fuero Juzgo> 



ifij 



wHh de}fcts and indeed with crimes, (hat (hcjr cannot well be dealt 
with separatdy from CriminiLl I^w, of which it u now proposed to 
uke a superficial sunrcf. 



» 



» 



CRIMINAL LAW, 

In all ancient codes, criminal law bulks larger far than either 
pabKc oc civil law. In both the bttcr there arc, as we have seen, 
numy lacunae, which bit by bit got provided for by custom or had 
to be filled up from Roman Law. The criminal law, too, included 
that of tons or wrongs, for which, if no money compensation was 
forthcoming, the deUn(]uent had to sulTer a presaibed number of 
UrokeiL Only oflencei which menaced the existence of the State' 
or Church vrere unable lo be compounded for, as crimes against 
indiiriduals were always capable of compromise by payment,' Not 
only is la iiftme siKiale a modern doctrine* unknown to early Icgisla- 
tioo, but there were in early days no prisons in which to confine 
makfactori however dangerous, who could, in consequence, only 
be exiled, killed, or beaten. The necessities of the (isc and the 
greed of the injured family demanded money compensation rather 
than corporal punishment whene^-er the former was fonhcoming, 
and so it came about that in all Barbarian legislation fl'ihrgtld was 
the remedy prescribed even in murder cases. This particular code 
if cruel wa.<i just, in that it recognised different dasses of homidde, 
as well as rnanslaughter by misadventure.* But, on the other hand, 
bumii^ torture, and great cruelty to Jews were by it expressly 
cnjoti>cd. Like the Salic Law, it did not encourage perjury by 
permitting the accused to dear himself by his own oath and that of 
maoy witnesses (mi^urgatio), probably because the Ecclesiastics 
who framed it objected to the judicial combat which necessarily 
foDowed as a consequence upon such a mode of defence, and also 
by reason of the rank perjury which so often ensued therefrom. 

To take instances of crimes and punidiments. Adultery, rape, 
and public prostitution are alike held to be crimes, and punishable 
with fines and strokes, and sometimes by their perpetrators being 
handed over to the offended parties. The idea of private vengeance 
ihcieby recognised again appears, in the immunity from punishment 
enacted in favour of those who slay tlie sexual offender in the act, 

* Thoe ctKiM «n]y be pudoncd liy the Mooordi, with the comnit of both 
clogr aad Offidgn FalatU. FJ. vi. L 6. 

* Cf. Tadnu, GtrmaiU, Met la. 
■ lottodttMd hj BMCflik, a.d. tyro. * P.J. ti. S- 1-4 



264 



Tk* GentletnaiCs Magazine. 



Olhet sexual offences, with which is joined apostasy, are betd to be 
crimes, OS for example tampering with the coDCubixie of a lather or 
brother, the penalty for which is slavery aixj exile. A whole book 
El devoted to thefts and cheating, the penalty for which in the case 
of public money is to restore the value of the object wrongfully 
taken nine tines over, and iti pritate cases compensation and beating 
with a fixed number of itrokea. Another book U entitled, " De 
illatii violentib et damnis," and deals with invasions, arson, tree- 
felling, trespass, animals danugc-fcaiant, and bees In the same con- 
nection. Hcic the sum payable by the owner of a noxious animal, 
in respect of any one killed by it, differs not only in the case of free* 
men and slaves, but also tn that of slaves of various ages. Notice 
of pitfalls placed for beasts has to be given to neighbours, under 
pun of a money penalty. Slave stealing and harbouring, and not 
jnning the colours when summoned, and also taking sanctuary, fill 
up the ninth, and the divisions of the year the tenth book, wbkb 
latter, however, has nothing in paniculai lo do with oiminal law. 

As has been before said, wrongs occupy a vast amount of the 
Criminal Law in this Code, and sins as opposed to crimes do the sami 
That private wrongs ate also offences against the State was then 
very imperfectly underatood, while the clerical lawgiv-er had no doubt 
that a sin, if it could anyhow be brought under one of the Ten Coin- 
mandmenis, must necc»ari1y be a crime, tfencc the prominence 
given to criminal and quasi -criminal law, owing to the limited oppor- 
tunities members of society had at that period of changing their 
status, of alienating property outside the family, or of entering into 
contracts with suangcrs— conditions which amply account for the 
paucity of public personal and real property law, as also of contract 
law in most eaily codes. 



COKCLtJStON. 

This Fuero differs from others in the deep imprints it throughout 
discloses of ecclesiastical influences, mainly directed to better the con- 
dition of women and children, and to some extent too of offenders and 
slaves, after having provided for the upholding of the Church as an 
institution, and, as a useful accessory also, of the monarcbical |>ower. 
Coming Feudalism cast no shadow before it in the pages of this Bar- 
barian code, nor, of course, are subsequent Saracenic customs there 
traceable. Germanic law is fused into that of the earlier Roman 
period, and thus fused presents a comprehensive, and on the whole 
excdlCDi, if severe, system of legisUtioo. Although imperfect in 



TA4 Fiuro Jusgo. 



265 



nunjr retpecu, iti 



> rather beciusc the 



necessity Tor IcgisUlioo in 
such icgard could no4 th«n be appreciated, than because it had been 
ovcrlooJied. At a. system of philosophy it is both aUe and high-toned, 
and, having regard to the pciiod of its cotopoisition, wonderful in its 
completeness of detail and forethought. If the entire appanittu of 
couTU, evidence, procedure, trial, and execution it not portrayed in 
it, this is probably because the clerical lawgivers of the period 
tbon^t these matters unnecessary to recapitulate, as being commonly 
known. More about it can be le&mt from articles by Boys, " Rev. 
Hist, du Droit " (i566), xii. 18S, 102 ; H. C. Lea, " Hist. Rev." il 567 ; 
Matdnej! Mahno, " Ensayo Histdrico-Crftico sobie la ancian Legis- 
bunon," 1 rob. ^fad^d (1834) ; Batbie, " Recuetl de I'Acad^mie de 
L^t^tion de Toulouse" (1856), toot. v. p. 333 topL 310' ; Guizot's 
" Origines du Gouverncment Rcpr^sentalif en Europe," Pans (1851), 
voL i. p. 335 to p. 413. Other references are to be found at p. 118 
of Vlollet's " Droit Civil Francis," Paris, 1893. Of the Fueroitself, 
the Madrid editions of 1815 and i84r are perhaps the best, while 
liaenel's (1848) Of the Laws of the Wisigoths, the Madrid 
Facsimile of the Palimpsest (Sanctae Legionis Ecclesiae) of 1S96, 
and Zeumer*! several recent studies, and especially his Critical 
Text (Hanover and Leipzig, 1894), taken in conjunction with 
Capoani's " Barbaroium Leges Anliquae," vol. 4, almost complete the 
neagie list of tlie best ai-ailable editions of works useful in connection 
with the study of thisremarkable Code, the moving ^irit in the draft- 
ing of which might in truth say without vaunting himsdf ovennuch, 
" Jfir pcrittis discct Iber Rhodaniqucpotor,"' for on the other versant 
of the Eastern P>TCnecs, pace M. BiutaiU,' it has had likewise great 
weight. 

A. I!. WHTTRWAV. 



' This Mady I htvc fcranil jmrlicuUilr helpfuL 
* Ifor. Od. II. XI. 19, ao. 

' EtuJa tm-UtfHditimdtififfHlatia'untrvUiJit K4miti!Um«u U»yt»Ap, 
Puit, 1S91. 



366 



7*14* Genl/emaM's Magazine. 



LBS BURGRAVES: 



O Colo«Mt I (c BOftdi <M iKpp pcdr poar tc>«i. 
Toi, MliMde, u tnitt (rcfood^ lij«i« « doos, 
Laiae In d«<n gteMi t'aofimMt ^mi tea ombffc 
E( qoc totiu U (cite, <b ta nutl nlmc cl tomtoc, 
ReE>rd« arcc tci|<etl, el pft*que arte Un«ui, 
Entiet Is srand IxirpraTc M le gnnd cmptmu ! 

Vicro* Huoo. 

THE voices raised in rapturous applausci when on one memor- 
nblc crcning in 1S30 "tout Paris "met within the walls of 
the Thcitre FtanQUS for the first TCpresentation of " Hcmani," were 
changed only a few years later to murmurs and groans of disparage- 
inent on the appearance of " Les Burgravcs." It was Victor Hugo's 
last play, and ran for thirty nights, was said to be of inferior qiuUty. 
and faik4\ 

The literary world stood petrified ! 

That the most ambitious, the most powerful, of all the maatct^ 
dramatic works should be thus dealt with was past belief— and 
aU the more surprising since it had been greeted with accfaunttion 
at a first reading before the assembled todHairts of the CouMie 
Fran^aisc, where the destined actors were unanimous : " It wst 
grand I it was sublime \ " 

It was, however, noticed that Rachd alone^ although expressing 
due admiration of the piece as a whole, had refrained from offering 
fiersclf as the possible impersonation of Guanhamara. Nor had the 
author suggested it, having in hi^ own mind reserved the weird arKi 
awful character for ^Cdllc. Georges, who would hare sustained it lo 
perfection ; but ber despotism at lite Porte Saint-Martin waa well 
known and dreaded. 

Rivalries and tracasttriet are teldoin far off in the arrangements 
of theatrical matters. 

The stage cficctivencss of Hugo's dramas, with the opportunitic* 
they afford the actor from his singular power in dialogue, could not 
be doubled. Even the restrictions and difficulties of rhyme in which ' 
his best plays are written seemed to stimulate a talent peculiarly bis 



" Les Burgrav$s" 



267 



I 



I 
I 



for it was agreed that when his characters speak in vene thcy 

invaiiabty more forcible and more naiuraL It was e^-en said that 
in " Aogck)," " Klaric Tudor," and " Lucrice Bor^ " Hugo became 
aa one who throws away his armour in the hour of battle. 

From a literary point of view, the poet's latest may well be 
thought his finest acbievemcnt ; its groundwork half hiGtoric, half 
l^endary ; lis personages striking, full of exalted feeling and splen- 
dour of speech; its situations strongly dramatic — these merits were 
incontestable ; but there remained the stubborn fact — playgoers 
would have rmne of it I 

Strange as it might appear, the reason was not far to seek : there 
was a siKlden return to the classics. Bocage and Marie I>orval, 
romantic artists par tMttlewt, had enrolled Ihemtdrcs under the 
banner of the old r^me ; and even during the repetitions of " Les 
BuTgravcs" I'onsftrd'i"I.uciccc'* was oiwniy discussed; the beautiful 
old-world music was once more to be heard, and the renewal of a 
past passion is never without its chann. 

Urvstable as water, public opinion had again veered round. The 
dramatist of " Hcmani " and " Ruy Bias " was superseded : the name 
had been heard too often — the favourite had lived too long. 

It must, however, be confessed that "Les Burgravcs" U not 
an easy play : the characters are larger than life— not creatures of 
flesh and blood — not pusionate human )>eings, Init, as it was 
MKrted, a (onfliet of tkt pastiom tk^mithxi ; and, at Brandci 
Matthews has stated it, in rather less poetical language^ " Hugo gives 
a paction apiece to each of his people, and lets them fight it out." 

TIk story is plain enough from the onset ; the author of so many 
long and intricate dramas was always careful to construct his {dots 
on easily intelligible lines. But tlie title of " Trilogie," although 
■imply a play in three acts, or a poem in three cantos, possesses a 
far more subtle meaning ; it is, in fact, (he very bean of " Lea 
Burgraves," and should be mastered. 

The author's end aiul aim is to give a figurative lesson of 
grandeur and decadence — a picture of rentorse and retribution 
through three generations ; it was his object never to give the 
audience a " spectacle " that was not an idea. But to reduce a 
l^nlosophical abstraction to a palpable tlramatic reality was no such 
easy tadc, and to bring before a prose-loving generation such 
romantic scenes and such cc^ossal characters might well lay his last 
effort of imagittation open to the magnificent reproach of being loo 
good for the stage : " too rich in classic beauty, too superb in Attic 
sute." 



368 



Tht GtnfUman't Magazint. 



Pilifie ^koMStj «H in mbm d^n Aw to fownilwM, A 
BcptAGon in tutatj, Hiv> bad tikai no dcSnito ride ia poUtici, 
lad hiiioipinkltqribat Inn ont from Pick cdUwotioa — "beauti- 
ful, but beyond racaare Mtano," wm dw beat tt»t oonld be taid ; 
" in good Ffcocfa " Sunu-Beun conceded, Miifint with bis usual 
ruttJq* cynidwi, "WM^MaM." 

Under tbc glare of the fc w dj g h ta h nuy all have teemed misty 
and onteal, a fort of ppuic &iiy lafe. Bnt changing the point of 
view, Uaoqnrted by the hemic ^amour of aordi from the actual , 
world into a woftd of rooanoc; an enU^uoed audience ihould 
come to * better under«anding ; and in a revival of the play, to 
wlndi vc nay now look forward, the dialogue will be oo<nsldciablf 
rikOcteoed, allbough at the expeme of nnch magnificent poetry, and' 
tbe picture of a bygone age will be made clearer by ibe perfection 
of modem theatrical means. 

The spccUtor will hare before his eyes the Castle and the Ruin; 
be wiD see the dungeon and the captiva ; he will bear the jingle 
ghsM* and the chitg of chains ; will be shown the Cavrau ferAt-^^ 
borribtc cavern on the brink of the torrent— fit for the perpetration 
of horrora, the nanow aperture in the rock with its wrenched 
broken ban and tbe Mains of bk>od upon tbe wall 

A tragic story is there told without tbe need of words. It ia 
lelf-evidcnt thai the poet drew his inspiration from a lour on tbe 
Khini:, uken with no Other object than to Jnam a Httk. The wild 
scenery wait full of inuigirutive poasibiUties, and in view of the i 
amidst whidi lie wandered— mute witnesses of bygone violefKe — it' 
came into his mind to reconstruct, in all its former grandeur, one of 
tbase (irudal fortresses : to bring bock to life the robber barons, 
rtpeople the castle and the dungeon, to paint the whole picture 
■n aspect so savage and formidable that, in his own words, oothtc 
would have been less surprising than to see appear, from out its 
curuin, some supernatural form— Ucb, Ibe beloved of Barbaroaa^ 
or Hildegarde, lite wife of Charlemagne. 

From the ruins of Falkenstein he drew the likeness of 
tbe feudal casllc of Corbus in the niaichlcu story of Evi- 
radous: 



For full ihrce hoDdtcd yesn ih« moM sad wm4, 
l¥y ■ad EcliDiiDc, h«d held ibdr tmvf 
In the old dudct : (be luinnl tu«p, 
SliAed Si in ■ cold «dJ dntitty (bsp, 
Und«i Lit imiding-thcel rif braiablw la; i 
The batllementt liad crumbled to tlie griMiBd — 
K<i lonelf giKTc kept liknce mote jitorouod. 



" Les Burgraves." 



369 




Only in wlelti — when Ihe ccuelcu nia 
And resllcM atonni of night (duincd aGatn — 
The dungeon waked l« take icvence and tear 
Tiit mocking gulandi huni^ni; wildl]' ihere. 
And *pit from gucojrle'i Brinaicg li[s his math. 

The " Wgcnde des Si^cles " is rich in such pictures, and the 
poet's impressions were even lasting enough to take him into other 
land! : to the lonely citidel where Ruy Diaz receives under his 
"battered banners" the traitor king of Spain, in the Romancero of 
the"Cid": 

Fo( my wilLi ai« ilcadSut yet 

And tny thccahold clean alny 1 
Dungeon, Keep, and Parapet 

Face (he sun at dawn of dajr. 
If my t«WMi aie rnde and bare 

Round Ihcm &lls the \vy wreatli : 
llanjuii the ancient gvUnd (h«te 
Ai lonnd nic my ancient fiith- 

The poet combines both fact and fcible to set on the stage the 
epic gr&ndeur o( the Middle Ages ; he assumes the right to take 
from both whatever he may find best suited to his purpose, and no 
better grourvdwork for romance could be found than the wars of 
Frederic liarbarosss with his refractory vassals, the giants of the 
Rhine, whose raids and depredations had become a terror to peace- 
able citizens. The Emperor came down on them remorselessly, 
destroyii^E a considerable number of their castles, and showing them 
no nercy until he joined the armies in Palestine, where It was 
rq>oited he bad lost his life ; but it having been prediaed that he 
should three times be reported dead, and should reappear three 
times, his return was still a matter of belief to the faithful. 

It was held that In a certain spot in the Tbtmngian Afountains 
the immortal Barbarossa, crowned by picture and statue, in song 
an4 <t<nT> throughout the breadth of German lands, was lying 
ste^>cd in an enchanted sleep, till on a certain day, recalled by the 
sore needs of his country, he should arise, restoring strength and peace. 

The play opens with a scene in the Fortress of IleppenholT, to 
wluch the Burgrave Job, called for his many misdeeds it maudit, 
returns, old, broken, and repentant, nccompanicd by his son Magnus, 
who, having shared in all his exploits, still holds htm in high vcncia- 
tion. They have chosen to retire in a sort of voluntary captivity to 
a distant port of the castle, leaving Halto— the last of the Trilogie — 
in ftill possession and authority, with unstinted enjoyment of ruthless 
rapine and disorder, followed by interminable orgies. 



iJO 



The GentUman'i Magaxitu. 



The audience, as the curUtn me«, sees before them a long., 
ciicul&r gallery surrounding the dui^eon; Mding-doors contmuni 
cate with the interior of the dwelling ; through wide arcades the 
outer gates and courts arc partly visible ; a torn black binner U moi 
to Hoat over th« tower. Pictures of ancestors hang on the walls, aod 
warlike panoplies. 

It is evening, and the front of the stage is in semi-obecuriiy, 
while the lower end is brightly illuminated. 

A woman, old, wild, hagi^'ard, half disguised in thick veil and 
mantle, is dimly seen leaning against a pillar. 

Guanhamara is tlie most thrilling peisonage in the drama. SIk 
ii one of tlugo'.i weird creations, al onoe terrible and fascinatin|- 
Hersclf a ^'ictim of destiny, she holds the thread of many lives, and 
wait* the appointed hour for means of retribution. 

The r&lc would be wurtliy of a Siddons, a Ristori, or a Sanh 
Bernhardt. Kachel refused to undertake it, but when the " Boi- 
graves " was produced in 1843 ut the Th^dtre Franks Madune 
Melinguc was sumnioned in haste from the Ambigu Comique. 

She was said to act with iudgment and intelligence; but the 
strange and fearful character conceived by le Maltre went Eu 
beyond the power of any but a consummate artist, almost beyond 
the understanding and sympathy of any modem {^a)-gocr. 

After a short soliloquy, in which she compares a past linw O 
crime and violence with the present licentious reign, she retires to 
the back of the stage, where she remains unseen during the act. 

The prisoners enter in chains ; they lay aside their tools^ aa^ 
throwing themselves down in attitudes of pain and cxhaustk^ 
confer together, in low tones, of the mysterious terrors of the pbce; 
of the old Durgraves, silent and secluded, visited from outside ooly 
by the Countess Kegina — the promtscd but unwilling bri<te of Hatto~ 
and by Otbt^, a young adventurer who had l.itely taken scnwe 
under Magnus. They speak of the veiled woman who is at large, 
though manacled like themselves, half a sorceress, who had kiuiv- 
1«dge of incantations and philtres, and could restore Ufe h 
destroy it. 

They declare that rumours hare lately arisen of the apimition of 
the Emperor Barbaiossa, who it was wrll known had perished 
crossing a liver in the Holy Land ; and one of the band, a merchant 
despoiled and made prisoner by Hatto, remarks that it would almost 
seem as if one of the predictions current at his birth was about to 
be fulfilled, and that a slory he had heard many years ago mt 
sufficient to prove it. 



"Las Burgraves.' 



371 



AU gilhcT round, and he proceeds lo relaw that he had met a 
cottaia Spondati, who, from his niany hallucinations, was suppo&ed 
to be paitially insane, and who died in hospital. 

It was asceruiiied that Spondati had been of the household of 
the Duke of Suabia, th« father of Barbaiossa. The Duke, havinji 
been given sinister predictions with legard to bis son, tiad him 
oonreyed out of the country, and on his return, as soon as he 
cune of age, despatched him to this very cattle of HepfMnnhofT, 
the domain of his half-brothct Fosco, Baibarossa going under the 
name of Donaio, their relationship to each other and 10 the Duke 
being kept from both. Some years went hy, and then Fosco 
discovered that Donaio and Ginevra, lo whom lie was betrothed, 
were lovers, and used to me*l in a cave at the foot of the tower. 
He surprised them, and in a moment of ji^tous fury slew Donato, 
and had him thrown with his attendant (Spondati) into the torrent. 

They were miraculously saved. 

The prisoners are called hack to work, and there follows one of 
those interludes of perfect poetry which lighten the darkness of 
melodTanu, and by which ihc poet never fails to subjugate a modern 
MKlicncc. 

Rcgina has left the banquet hall, followed by Otbert. She leans 
half fainting on his arm, Hatto having insisted on her presence ; and 
in her weakness and despair only looks forward lo death to set ber 
free from so dreadful a &te. 

In words of simple but entrancing beauty she watches a flight of 
dejuarting swallows, and a few words may be quoted from " Frag- 
menu of the Lrgeruls and Lyrics of Victor Hugo^" a book of no 
great size or pretensions, published some years ago : 

Oiiirt (LcMk liri in the window, imploring Iwr to Itave hope and 
patience) : Ah ! why speak ihuj i 
Behold the luntet'i gto«y 

Ves— the skies 
Ar««UBflune-'tista when dajrlighl din. 
W« we in Autump, aod M Evcniog— 
The learn Fall. 

Tbejr ue bom aEain in Spriog. 

Yet*, it u mA lo tec ihe iwkIIowi iiAck 
Tltougb <loads to golden tham. 

They will owne back. 
Vcs : but fu< iD« Uifhl leave* iiiil *pgtlng no mote 
Nor (wallowi IMtvct back from golden dkore. 



itipmi: 



Olitrt: 
Oltert: 



anbanuira is seen approaching, and they separate. As he sees 



274 



The GentUntans Magazine. 



her, Otbcrt recollects to have hc«rd of her nugic power with hcAling 
drugs, and he implores her to save Rcgioa ; at first she rcftues, and 
in bitter and awful words demand) if it is Trom her that he expects 
compassion. She exclaims: 

Long hiT« I >u(Ieie(l 1 >I1 ilio Intia waten 
Ibve galheccd oa my tout i I have becoiM 
Hideous Knd fciurul I Exile, hungti, [ricf, 
nicil on my hmt. Vet I tuTc livfid l>iti>ugh all I 
And I have waiehcd ihe ocdft uid the Uom 
And the vncndtne nighit of Poiar Stan — 
Under the luh I chaici aling in my fteih— 
Sick — wctping—froua 1 it il lioithti] now. 
/ an M» hngfr AmiMa / 

But it dawni upon her mind that here it a tool fitted for her 
jaufose. She consents to save Regina, obtaining a solemn oath from 
OttwTt that, as her ransom, he wiU commit any crime the should 
require of him ! 

The doors of the banquet hall are now thrown oper>, and Hatto 
enters with his guests — a crowd of men and women sumptuously 
attired. 

The orgic is at its height when foldit^-doors at the back are 
opened, and Job and Magnus, followed by armed retainers, arc seen 
standing on steps which lead down into the gallery ; they remain for 
some time listening to the revellers boasting of adventures, robberies, 
treacheries, and false and broken promises. 

Job looks round with contempt, and Magnus speaks : 

There was a lime— I ny il with tome pride — 

When on oath pUdged in andcni Getroany 

Wai like our brnst pliiu made of siubbom Uetl. 

Il waia bri[;ht thing — solid— InnitDOUl — 

Not Itndcicd without ktrifc and urgency— 

By whirh a man wa« ineatur^ ; anJ which atood 

Beside him in the field, and by hii bed. 

And which, if nity, vai stiti (ood ami uived. 

The noble slept wtthio bit hooouicd tomb 

Safe in hit word as in hit totl of mail 

And time, which rou Ibe )[annenti of the dead. 

May rend hit armour — never break hit faith. 

There is a dead silence, during which an aged bcggarman is seen 
at the gate. His head is uncovered; a long white beard reaches 
to his knees. The soldiers are preparing to warn him off, and Hatto, 
laughing, throws stones at him. But Job, suddenly advancing, 
asserts the old feudal rights of hospitality; he commands the guards 



"Z.M Burgrav$s" 



273 



to open wide the gales, and tpeikx aloud with all his old dignity and 
force. 

Ai the old man entcis, leaning on his staff, he addfesi«5 him : 

Speak ! hare Ihey told jrou, whojoe'ei you be, 

liiat in the Tauniu 'Iwiit Cologne and Spirt^ 

Upon a rack— (u wliich locki look IDie htUi'- 

A btutt* tundi above all forlrcMei ? 

Aftd that there ciTelli triUiin hi crumbling willi 

A Bar^re poit all Bargnvei in&jnoui ! 

And have the; told yoa thai (hit lawles man, 

H»ckened with crioDM and f-'orioiu with de«d*— 

Bf Diet aod l>7 Couaci] [Cgirobate— 

DttMlcd — rrSck en— mined and jret ttroag 

Upon hia land and in hia will — haa spurned 

An Rmperoi'i loddei ftom hti dwelling 'place i 

Spumed vith hit Ibcil ! and have they said he make* 

TTie poor man rich and mialers slaves ? — ihai o'et 

The head of Kings upon hii Dungeon toirei 

He wavei a tanner intn by winds and itorm ? 

Thai this man, touching on a hundred jreats— 

And dating Hnv«n and mijcking dcslin)' — 

Km wan that rent the cutlet from theii rock*— 

Nor Cacur furioua — nor ancient Rome — 

Noa t»llct burden of advancing fean, 

Hare daunted } Giant of the EUiine 1 disgraced— 

Accnrtt? Speak 1 have they told yoo this ? Vou stand 

Befoic him. Enter in, my lord, rny guett I 

Welcome ! My cull« and my sword aie jrouri. 

In the second act Barbarossa, still disguised, stands alone in 
the gallery of the castle, and deplores the anatchy and decline of 
his Empire in an eloquent soliloquy ; it is the simplest mode of 
expbuMtioo—the classic way. He reviews the history of the twelfth 
century, as in " Hemani" the history of Spain ts rerievred by Don 
Carlos at the tomb of Charlemagne, and as the whole policy of 
Rkhetieu is given in " Marion Dclormc." But so much prolixity 
might well occasion some impatience on the part of an expectant 
audience. 

This groundwork of the heroic, of which Hugo could never 
wholly direst himself, gave rise to the reproach of Classicism 
leveQed at him by the Romanticists I — a reproach he had full 
reason to bear calmly, as it b the very soul of imaginative 
poetry. 

There follow rather lengthy scenes between Job, Olbert, and 
Regina, where it is decided, in view of Hallo's misdeeds, that 
Reg^'s marriage contract should be brolcen, and that, as his 
VOL. ccxcii. MO. ao5s. u 



m 



Tit Gentleman's Magaxine. 



dil^poialnMat vbA fi»7 were grot])' to be dreaded, the lovers st 

be tMbUd to makethdr escape from the castle without dels7. They 
tre at the lieet of the old BuTKrare, oimJ in each other's anns, when 
Cuanhamara, who has rcmatned hidden during the whole scen^ is 
seen (o make a signal to Hatto, who ccters, followed by his guests^ 
soldiers, and attendants. 

The rest rixjuires no comment : it is ododrama pur tl simfk. 
Hatto, in a voice of thunder, orders the soldiers to advance wlih the 
insolent words 

So'm tkt mam amdwmmaml 

Otbert comes forward and, throwing down his glove, defies him, 
and draws his sword. 

Hatto contemptuously refuses to meet him, as an impostor and 
base born ; but should any of the nobles present be willing to take 
up the tjuarrel, he is ready to f^hl it out to the death. 

WhiUt ttiis goes on the pretended beggarnian approaches, and, 
taking a sword from one of the panoplies in the wall, calls on him to 
make good his words. 

There is a movement of surprise, and Hatto laughs aloud, de- 
claring that it only needed a touch of the grotesque to finish the 
Eurce: 

Wifailfram MstmUhsnit le Cl«mms I fttir namt f 

The reply came like a thunderbolt : 

Fitdtrii—Bmptnr tf Gtrmia^ f 

There is a silence of speechlets consternation, when, alt his 
rags and tatters falling to the ground, disclosing the grand cross 
of Charlemagne glittering on his breast, fiarbaroasa continues 

calmly : 

I rise from out the thsdowi where I tlept 

A voluntary exile : it u time 

Td raitc my bead above ground i do jwu know me! 

Leaning on his sword, he speaks of his old wars with the 
Burgmves, and, turning to the revellers, comiiarc-s their low exploits 
of mere larceny and outrage with the courajje and grandeur of their 
forcEathers. He calls them each by name at thieves and malebctors ; 
and then turns to the soldiers, some of whom were with him in the 
past ; tbcy at least had not forgotten him : 

JVtU-u fM, vHiraii t /Ftst-tt ptu, Ksmaf^iit } 

A scene more replete with every dramatic element could hardly 
be imagined ; it is one of those magnificent conceptions that 



I 
I 




" Les Burgraves." 



»7S 



enthral an audience, and the interest is sustained when Mtgnva, 
coming near, survcj-s the Emperor from bead to foot, then apeikl 
slowly with convictioo : 

Y4t, it it kt—U u kimnlf—Xt ffwi t 

Rnshiog to the outer door*, he rammons the guards : 
SjMtfUm ttvrdi kt ii tattvitltd ! Situ kirn I 

The noMes surround the Emperor with drawn swords ; but Job, 
hitherto a silent spectator, sets aside the crowd with au authoritative 
gesture, and in a loud voice cries 

Tt y«Hr kntts t 

He throws himself at Barbarossa's feet, who looks At him fixedlf 
and, as he bends to raise htm, murmurs : 

The Uit ad takes place vHthout change of scene in the Cavtau 
ptr^ — sombre, fearful, almost in darkness. Job '-a, seated at a table 
roughly hewn out of the rock, his head buried in hts hands, lost in a 
maze of painful thought, half dis|iosed to fancy the evenu of the day 
mere phantoms of a dream, but still conscious that his arch-enemy is 
again before him — risen, as it were, from tlie dead — that there is no 
escaping an inexorable fate — that he is chained to bis last rock — the 
last of the Burgraves I It is the retribution. He rises and looks 
round as if in fear, speaking almost at random with broken woids : 
F«i it H*« he[« wiiliin t^«M hiil«oui walln 
Which ■Imou Kcn in biothc— on lueh > oiglil— 
O ! il WM long Bgo • beneath Ihii v»ulr — 
HotTor \ O long ago, tmt ilill tbr Mine ! 
And tinn Ilul £ilal bout lay crime Iiiu filtered 
A* U tht twcftt uf tilood down drop bj' drop. 
The ihiag tbe^ cill temMSC : and here 1 9|i«*k 
Unlo d«Bd can I Tbe world bu culled mc grtat. 
And I wn *Wte wilb age : Iml whatsoe'er 
A iDutderet mtj he, he cumot tnalce 
Hii coiuicience dupe of glory — *!ul al night — 
E«ch night— each night im many ■ hitler ytai 
Hy crime malienuit ipecire livei vaA laugh* 
Wliilii I kneel down in penitence tnd ««ep ! 

Whilst be continues speaking, the figure of a woman appears 
before him ; she carries a lamp in one hand, whilst with the other 
she drags htm to the aperture in the wall, pointing to the broken 
bars and the stains of blood upon the wall. She recapitulates the 
dreadful story, and, throwing back her veil, in the supposed 
Guanhamara 

FitH9 rtcegnistt Gintvra, 

V a 



276 



The GetttUmarCs Magazine. 



This travesty of names has been said to border on the ridtcoloni^ 

and off the sUge it might be so; but with the characters aH<re befive 

their ejres ao audience ii not bevildered or surprised. 

She continues tpeaking : 

Lbten I you wslkod b lUDthliM on jrout wtj 
And I In dw fct W bat I fallowed ;ou ! 
Kow rUc np^ FotOO, in the Ktpenl't fui^t ! 

In words of monstrous nulignity she describes the course of her 
tong- meditated vengeance, which is now to be accomplished when 
the son of his <dd age lays her enemy a corpse at her feet. 

But the scene it suddenly illuminated. EubonKsa appears ; 
and for the rest there is no need of words. It is powcTFuU)' dramatic. 
The dagger falls Irom Otbeit's hand ; Kcgina rises from hci s}ecp; 
th« old Burgravc is on his Icnccs before the Emperor, who speaks: 

Filw wlga md MfliBr— far the tines ue hard— 
Rtlpaa tiM RUm, (m Bih bntath tht cniH 

I «B<M islO itlttlM. 

CBCtLtA B. MBETXERKX. 



277 



THE KING OF THE DANDIES. 



EARLY in the century just expired, there was a small circle of 
lords and gentlemen who were considered to lead the fashion 
in diess. They were not remarkable for talent, and they did not 
cultivate any particular branch of human learning, their studies being 
sartorial rather than intellectual. They were well up in coats, 
cravats, and shirt collars, and oould have passed a creditable 
examination in the art of tying a neckcloth. 

It is astonishing to look back on the inSucncc this oligarchy 
exerted over aristocratic society, and at the absolute sway their 
leader exercised there. Many odT tbcm belonged to prominent noble 
bnulies^ and for their rise to eminence it ts not diSicult to account; 
but the man they delighted to call their chief, their autocrat, ihelr 
oracle and model, had no family connections, no recomniendations 
as to fortune, no iiitetleaual superiority, nor any perwn&l advantages. 
He had no claim to noble and but doubtful pretensions to gentle 
blood ; yet hin chief associates were tlie Heir-apparent to the "nirone 
and the fim nobles of the land, and his social influence was greater 
than thatofaiqrof hisfoUovers. 

Individuals have appeared from time to time who liave attained 
a large amount of social celebrity solely by their successful attempts 
to become "the glass of fashion and the mould of form — the 
observed of all observers." George Bryan Brummell eclipsed all 
prirvious adventurers in this direction. His origin has been doubt- 
fully staled ; but he was the grandson of William Brummell, a con- 
fidential servant of Lord Monson, who, when retired from service, 
let apartments in Bury Street to Mr. Jenkinson, afterwards first 
Lord Liverpool, irtio eufdoycd his M>n (also William) as his 
amaooensis, finally oukiiig him a Govenmient ofiicial with tucnlive 
enoJumenL He was enabled to send hb son (the Beau) to Eton 
and Oriel, and to Uundi him upon the world with no inconsiderable 
fortune. 

Young Brummell, when he appeared in the chief places of public 



ays 



Tht GentUman's Afagazttii, 




resoit, attracted general attention hj hia cxtrenidy fashionable 
appearance. Persona of the highest distinction inquired about him, 
his taste in dress and refined manners were marked by the mou 
exclusive circlet, and the leaders of bshion bcf^an to make a point 
of inviting him to their parties. 

I'he Prince of Wales sent for htm, and look such a liking to bit 
•ociety that they became inse;>arab1c associates, and all young men 
about town became eager to \x admitted into hia circle. 

A striking change in the ordinary attire of gentlemen was a result 
of diis favour. The Prince aod his auociatea formed thcmselres 
into a Council of Taste, of which Mr. Bratnmell was unanimously 
elected president; and calling in a much-bvourcd tailor, they first of 
&1I remodelled the dress-coat. Mr. Brummcll was then required to 
do as much for the cravat. If the coat was thought a marvel, ths 
cravat was a miracle. How the muslin retained its place so admir- 
ably nobody knew. Writing-paper, buckram, and other sUAcniitg 
devices had hitherto produced nothing tike the same result. The 
mystery as to the secret of the preparation was geUing littolerabte, 
when it was solved by the now great man wbiipenng i^ Iha ear of 
one of tus devoted followers the monosyllable " Starch !" 

To the intense admiration of his royal patioii and of his arbtocratic 
disciples, trousers became tight pantaloons, and the fuIMress evening 
costume was shorts, with long silk stockings. Tlie shirt collar was ele- 
vated neartytothe ears, and the shirt front had tlte addition ofa ftiU. 

Beau Brummcll became a social ddty of the first cbsa— a nuld 
kind of Jupiter Tonans, whose smile conferred felicity, and whose nod 
was the most covctabic of honours. By universal consent be was 
raised to the throne of fashion ; by the chroniclers of A?ff Am be was 
acknowledged " King of the Dandies-" 

The devotion of hts subjects can only be comprehended by 
seeing him in the public promenades surrounded by tlie noblest of 
his contemporaries — Lord Alvanley, Lord Yarmouth, Lord Fyfe, and 
the rest of that most select company of dandies— or riding with the 
Prince of Wales in Hyde Park, or lounging in St. Jame&'s Street 
witli Prince Eaierhazy, who was almost as prominent a figure in the 
fashionable world. 

Surely the admiration of Sh.ikcspcare's Caliban for the "poor 
drunkard" is the only parallel passage in thchistoiy of folly to match 
this mad approbation. 

In " Fops' Alley" of an opera nighl the Beau was a study — the 
general idea being " How well ' got up ' is Btummell I " The 
niltes of beauties in the grand tier glanced In his direction much 



The King of the Dandies. 



279 



more frequently than at the stage. Id the immediate vicinitjr of the 
great man clustered a galaxy of stats — Sii Lumley Skeffing;ton, Lord 
Foley, Henry Piencpoint, Tom Raikes, and G. H. Drummond — 
more than one of which had advanced nearly to the end of that 
grand highway which leads to ruin. 

Beau Brummell sometimes condescended to help them on thetr 
way, and, after honouring the best provided with his notice in Fops' 
Alley, occasionally finished the evening at their expense at the dub. 
He was generally tucky at cards ; on one occasion he is said to have 
risen a winner of ^20,000. 

The King of the Dandies, with the aid of his subjects of both 
sexes, had fitted up his apanment in Chapel Street, Maylair, in a 
style of elegance to >ati»ry the fastidious tastes of that day. There 
vas tlie place to sec this autocrat of fashion to the most advantage 
«hfle he held his le%-ee. 

The Hon. Gianlley F. Berkeley records the following sketch of 
BmnuDcU's headquarters as related to him by a friend, who tried, 
I a very young man, to make the Beau's acquaintance : 

' In Chapel Street, near the house, might be seen the four-in- 
hand of Sir John Lade being driven from it by that veteran 
charioteer. He sat in bis high place, in a white small cape and 
OTCTcoat, his good-natured countenance striving to look content at 
an investment he had just made in the shape of a loan. The 
prwcipal be would rurer see again, yet it might bring him interest 
tbcwgh not in current coin. 

" There, too, were the Duke of Dor^t on his white horse and 
Lord Moreton on his swishtailed grey, talking earnestly to a well- 
digaied man, Brummell's valet. He bowed low as the Duke and 
Lord rode olT, and retunted to the house through a double row of 
footmen lounging on the steps. 

"He tunwd round," my friend continued, "as I entered the 
passage aAer him, and, with a scrutinising glance from head to foot, 
bowed with impressive civility. 

" ' Vou come to see my master,' he said, ' and very right, sit. 
Everybody comes to see my master. Sir, may I have the honour of 
announcing your name to Mr. Brummell?' 

" I presented him with my card and a gold sevcn-shiUing pieces 
then a favourite tip for upper servants. 

" ' A thousand thanks, sir ; always ask for Watson when you 
come to see Mr. Brummell,' he added confidentially; 'he is par- 
ticolarly engaged this morning with the Marchioness of Heitford't 



38d 



Tht GtntUman's Magazint. 



maior-domo, unnging >ome fitr lo be };ivcn to the Prince. Ijidtt 
of fashion can do nothing witliout him, I assure you, sir, from the 
msniige of thcit daughten to lt)« ditmissal of their coolu ; tbey 
must have his advice.' 

" I was shown into a large room ncarlf filled with comfortable- 
looking men, all of whom veie leading tradespeople. As soon as 
Mr. BrommcH'i valet entered with me, he was hailed by Hi least a 
dozen of the company. One stout old churchwarden-looking per- 
sonage in a brown suit, with gaicem, and a powdered head with a 
pigtaS, contrived first to fasten on him. 

" ' Now, Mr. Hamlet,' exclaimed the valet with lofty condeKen- 
eton, ' you ha\'e been wailing an hour ; but it is clearly impoaible 
that ^fT. firammcU can dismiss half the peerage in that time, to ssy 
nothing of the Royal Family. You wish lo know about the service 
of plate for my Lord Wilton, and my Lady Jersey's diamonds^ 
and the large wine-cooIcr for ihc Duke of York, and my Lord 
Pelcrsbam's gold dressing-case. Very right. You must not pro- 
ceed without master's sanction. But patience, Mi. Hamlet. My 
master cannot attend to everybody's afGiiis at once.' 

"The well-known gold- and silver-smith fell back as another 
eager applicant for favour i)Ounced upon the valet. 

" 'Realty, Mr. Smith,' exclaimed the valet, 'do be reasonable. 
Those pictures were sent to Coilton House a month ago, were tbey 1 
You cannot have the temoteitt idea how ntuny things are sent on 
approval to His Royal Highness.' Here followed a scathing critidmi 
of the pictures. The [uaure dealer seemed mote amused than dis- 
pleased with this denunciation of his invaluable Osudes Tcnienes 
Brauerses, &c., &c, 

" The others eagerly caught hold of Watson in turn, all Kspiriog 
for Mr. Brummell's patronage ; lo each of these the valet addressed 
apologies, explanations, and promises. 

'"Now, sir,' whispered Watson confidentially, and I foUowed 
him from the room. 

" ' Those fellows are as eager in hunting master as a pack of 
beagles after a hare,' he observed. ' Come this way, sir, if you 
please, and I will announce you at once.' 

*' I followed him up a richly carpeted 6ight of stairs to the dc 
of a back drawing-room, which he opened and announced 
name. I entered a luxuriously famished dressing-room fiill of 
mirrors. The first object that attracted my attention was the pcreoDj 
of the illustrious Beau himself, seated in a low arm-chair, in 

i'n dressing-gown, having his hair dressed by a tall fellow in a 



The King of the Dandies. 



281 



white apron with deep pockets, who I readily recognised as the 
principal coiB'cur at the Wc&t End. 

" Mr. Bnunmell uiclined his head very slightly to the bow of 
introduction. 

"'Aw — weii, Watson,' he said in a somewhat drawling tone, 
addressing bis valet, ' what has arrircd ? ' 

" ' Three haunches of venison, four salmon, two turhoLt, one 
dressing-case, five lapdogs, and an casy-cbair, sir ! ' 

" ' Send the fish and the venison to Grove's, Wliat is the use 
of presenting things to a man who has twenty invitations to dinner 
every day of his life ? Aw — no — re«n-e the finest turbot and the 
finest salmon for my L^dy Cholmonddey. Her ladyship gives a 
large dinner party to-night — io tend at once, that the cook may have 
it early." 

" • Ves, sir.' 

•"Aw— and tell Grove I shall expect the full allowance.' 

" ' Yes, sir.' 

" ' Aw— and the dressing-case and the easy-chair inay also be sold. 
I have five casy<hair8 and three dressing-cases.' 

" ' And what is to be done with the lapdogs, if you please, sir ? ' 

"'Aw — if there is a pug amongst them, send it to my Lady 
Ccmper ; if there is a King Charles, send it to my Lady Seflon ; if 
there is a Blenheim, it must go to Mrs. Drummond Burrcll, Aw — I 
don't know anyone else who wants a bpdog ; so the rest may be 
disposed of. Is there anything else ? ' 

*' ' Yes, sir ; a box of French Idd glores, three pairs of worked 
slippers, a china christening bowl, a butt of Spanish wine, and a 
canister of Dutch sntiSl' 

" • Aw— put the glov-es away for use. \'\t got a drawer full of 
slippers. Reserve the bowl for punch ; the wine may be bottled ; 
ihesnulT, if very good, may go lo the Prince. Anything else ? ' 

" ' Sir Benjamin BlomGcld has IcftHis Royal Highncss's command 
for your attendance at the concert to-morrow evening ; my Lady 
^stlcrcagh, my Lord ConynRhani, Sir John Lade, the Duke of 
Donet, 8i>d my Lord Moreton iiave called to remind you of your 
eopigemcnts to them.' 

" ' Aw — every day they expect me to eat a dozen breakfasts, as 
many luncheons, a score of dinners, and to attend an unlimited 
number of concerts, masquerades, halts, private theatricals, <on- 
venati&ms, and entertainments of every possible description. Aw — 
l^n requested to be at Klayfair and Carlton House ; to be at HaU' 
Chester Square and St. James's; to be ai Grosveoor Place and 



382 



Tht GtntUmsms Magatint. 



KnlghUbridge, and nwre distant parts of the town, nbere T aiQ< 
«iq)cct«d to have th« digestion oX an ostrich, the agility of a ' 
DervUli, the loquacity of a [KirTot, and the constitution of a horse.' 

" ' But a Brummell, sir, is an extraordinary person ; therefore 
■that so natural as the general expectation that lie should do extra^ 
ordinary things?' 

"'Aw— yes ; tnitnottmpouiblethings. But did anyone else call?' 

'"His Highness the Prince Bstcrhoiy, the most noble the 
Marquis of Cholmondeley, and my Lords FyTe, Wilton, Alvanley, 
and Yarmouth. I thought you would wish to see them, sir, and 
■sked them into the drawing-Toom.' 

" ' That was right. You have done, La FIcot ? ' 

" ' Yes, sare. The hair of your head is supcibe— it is ravishing 1 ' 

" The Beau turned and looked at the effect in the glass with a 
very critical gaxe. 

" ' My coat — my morning coat, of course.' 

" The Frenchman tenderly took off the drening-gown ; the vale 
brought the required garment. It fitted to a hair — there was not a^ 
Cfcasc on the cloth. The Beau looked long and searchingly into the 
glass, adjusted his cravat, pulled up his stiff shirt collar, and carc^IIy 
examined his trousers and boots. 

" ■ \Vhat do you think, sir } ' said the Beau, suddenly addressing 
me for the first time. 

" ' There cannot be two opinions about it. Mr. Brummell,' was tl>e 
reply. ' If you are not the best-got-up gentleman in the kingdom, 
whob?' 

"'Come along with me,' and taking me by the arm in a well- 
pleated way he led me into the next room, where were assembled 
six of the most fashionable men of the day. 

*" Aw — delighted to see you, Prinoe— charmed to sec you all, by 
G— dl' 

" ' How are you, Brummell ? ' was the conventional greeting. 

" They were all dressed after one pattern, with slight rarialions. 
Lord U'ilton wore a fur collar to his froggcd surtout ; Lord 
Yarmouth a long overcoat ; Prince Cstcrhazy held a riding whip. 
They had been talking bnguidly, and resumed their conversation 
when the greeting was over. It was some scandalous gossip then rife 
respecting the Princess of Wales ; but what amused mc most was the 
Teutonic English of the Prince, the Scottish accent of Lord Fyfc, 
and the affected drawl of the others, who, however, said very little. 

"While I was listening with much interest to the Prince, who 
discussed the foreign news of the day with Mr. Brummell, I became 



TJ^ KtHg of the Dandies. 



a83 



amie tint wch of the othci dsindics, with a glass in his right ejre, 
w»s tnbmtly scrutinising my pctsonstl appcanmcc When obsored 
the tightly dressed exquisites wheeled round to eumine the [MCtures 
on the wall. 

" In a few minutes I again noticed the dandies clustered aUout, 
gaiing as so many teamed savants might at an entirely new species 
of genus homo. Again ihcy moved away when they had found they 
attracted my ob3cr\-atioD. 

" I had taken pains to be well dressed when I decided to attend 
the levee of such a connoisscui in personal decoration. I could not 
therefore help feeling alanned at this singular behaviour. Remember, 
my can;« as a man of fashion had only commenced. I wu but a 
youth, and 1 grew at once very red and uncomfortable. 

" Presently I observed that my host and Prince Esterhazy were 
also intently observing me through their eye-glasses, and that they 
looked with an expression of concern and amaicmcnt. 

•"My dear fellow,' exclaimed Brummell, 'Aw — where did you 
pick up that extraordinary afiair you have upon your back?' 

" ' Most singular, indeed ! ' cried Lord Yarmouth. 

" ' Maybe it's a heirloom ? ' suggested Lord Fyfe. 

•"Coeval with Alfred the Great, at least,' observed Alvanlcy. 

"The Prince laughed good-humouredly as he added, *It is not 
your fault, mine goot sir. You shall not be to blame because L 
d«void-of-eo(ucience- influencing tradesman decdves you when you 
purchase of him his detusitre fabrics.' 

"'Is there anything the matter with my coat?' I Inquired {n 
dreadful confusion. 

" ' Coal I' exclaimed Beau Brummell. 

"'Coal I' cried his friends in chorus, all in extreme astonishment. 

" ' It's no more like a coat llian a cauliflower— if it is, 111 be 

d d ! ' cried Brummell himself, everyone continuing to scrutinise 

the garment. 

"Indignant at what I considered unwarrantable criticism, I was 
meditating a hasty retreat when the valet announced some very 
great lady. I was piqued, perhaps, for they must have known whose 
son I was, and the rank, too, to which one day or other I must 
attain. The interview, however, had the wholesome cflbct of curing 
me of dandyism ; and I CT-ctroorc prefcned politics, sports of aU 
kinds, and hunting and racing to the fripperies of useless folly." 



Such was Beau BrummeU, then the gayest of the gay, revelling 
the best part of his life in royal favour, wealth, and the height of 



284 



The Getttieman's Magazine. 



fjuhion. How wretched was his cw), how toriblc the fall he met 
with! 

The btc Hciiiy Pietrepoint rotates tbo following anecdote : — 
" ^Ve of the Dandy Club issued ioritations to a ball, front which 
Bnimmell had influence enough to get the Prince excluded. Some 
one totd the Prince this, upon which His Royml Highness wrote to 
uy he intended to have the pleasure of bcin^ at our balL A 
number of us lined the entrance passage to receive the Prince, who, 
at he passed along, turned from side to side to shake bands with 
each of us ; btit when he came to Brummell he passed bim without 
the smallest notice, and turned to shake hands with tlw man opposite 
to BrunmelL As the I'rincc turned from that man— I forget who it 
was— Bnimmdl leaned forward across the posmge, and said, in a 
loud voice, ' Who is your fat friend 7 ' Wc were dismayed ; but in 
those days Biummell could do no wrong." 

Hcnr^- PicTTcpoint might be called the " Last of the Dandies." 
I believe that at the time he told the above he was the only suiriv- 
ing member of the club to which Ihey gave their name. 

A man ruined in fortune by his own indiscretion invariably 
assigns his &1I to ungrateful friends, and c^'cn accuses those who 
first took him by the hand to give him an opportuni[y of making his 
fortune of having deserted him and become his enemies. The 
Prince of Wales was mo«t generous and considerate to Brummell; 
there was a kindness of heart about the Prince and his royal 
brothers, and they were the very last to causelessly desert anyone 
they had once taken by the liand. If the proU^ had not regarded 
his own interest, and in any way had misconducted or forgouea* 
himself, then, if ni^glected, he liad no one to thank but himself. 

If the anecdote is true ttiai Brummell once desired the Prince of 
Wales, as "George," to ring the bell, His Royal Highness but 
requited such snobbisti presumption properly by <iui<;i)y fulfilling 
the request and ordering ihe Beau's carriage to take him away, never 
to return to his presence. There is a characteristic llunkeyism about 
BraromeH's presumption which suggests that, however mucli gilding 
he bad got, it was insuOicieni to refine Ihe internal man, ov to 
permanently cover the dross of his inferior nature. 

The last heard of Beau Brummell was that he went to Calais, 
and there, the ruling passion not yet quenched, he seized on « poor 
French tailor, nor did be leave him till he had uught him Ihe pr^iar < 
cut ; and out of a ninth part of a man he made a rich one. From 
Calais he crept to Caen, his fortune fallen, his senses failing, and hit 
reason gone. At Caen, a lady who bad known him in his happies 



Tht King of ike Dandits. 



985 



hours went to sec him, and found him at an asylum, seated alone in 
% room, btoodiog over the fiie, his elbom on his knees, his chin 
upon faJ8 hands, with a large overcoat enveloping his ligure. Ho 
rose as she entered, and, witli the wonted courtesy of old, held out 
his hand. 

He conversed with her, recalling anecdotes of days long since 
passed, jret seemed incapable of remembering any occurrence 
Ave minutes together. He had then no ^elf-resitect. No reverses 
taught him prudence. Nothing could induce him to forego his Eau 
dc Cologne for hb toilet, his maraschino, and hiscuits de Rheims 
for his luncheon ; and when credit was denied for these coveted 
articles, he used to beg them at the shops where he had foimeily 
deaUl 

At 1eng;th he was carried forcibly to the asylum of the Bon 
Sanveur. Here an English clergyman visited him on his death-bod, 
who reported that he had never come in contact with such an 
cihibilion of human vanity, ignorance, and thoughtlessness respect- 
ing a fuiare state : with him there was no response to the call of 
rdigion. 

A nun who attended htm gave these particulars of his last 
moments : " About an hour before he expired he fixed his eyes on 
me with an expression of entreaty and fear, raising his hands as 
though asking for assistance, but saying nothing. Upon this I 
requested him (o repeat after me the a^t dt contritieH of the Roman 
ritual. He innnodiately consented, and repeated in an earnest 
QMUtDer after me that form of prayer. Then, becoming more com- 
posed, he turned his (ace towards the wall ; but this tranquillity was 
interrupted about an hour after by his uttering a cry, appearing to 
be in pain. After this he never moved, dying imperceptibly on 
March 30, 1840." 

HLt success may be referred to a combination of somewhat un- 
enviable qualities— a matchless want of feeling, imperturbable 
impertinence, considerable smartness and talent, and the most 
matured and cherished selfishness ; his failure is a striking lesson for 
the frivolous, the improvident, and the unjust. 

CHARLES WILKINS. 



386 



Tk4 GeHilemans Magasiiu. 



THE PREACHER. 

A GHETTO SKETCH. 



IT was still almost an hour before the appoinlrd time ot the 
Preacher's discourse, and already the synagogue of the 
" Seekers of Truth " was thronged with an animated congtegation. 
The Beadle was desperately busy, accommodating visitors from 
other religious centres with seats varying in comfort and conveniettce 
«rith their position and influence in the community. Such an influx 
of worthippers be had never witnessed before, and the sight of the 
swelling ftssembly evoked from him the observation, that never hadj 
(he "Seekers of Truth" been so numerous. This remark h« 
deemed a gem of wit, and he delivered himself of it in the course 
of five minutes not less than twelve several times, in different puts 
of the shrine, and on each occasion with apparent spontaneity. But 
hb pun was lost in the babel of gossip that filled the humble hoase 
of prayer, for everybody's tongue was wagging briskly, and a 
thousand and one topics were being discussed with strenuoua 
energy. 

All the nei^bouring chapels seemed to have emptied them^telrcs 
on tliat Sabbath afternoon into this small and unassuming Chtvrak, 
at it was called, and Chaim Funkelstcin— the exultant warden — 
marvelled at its vast containing capacity. Friends espied one 
another from afar, and endeavoured to obtain contiguousi seats so oa 
to indulge in the pk-asures of a cbat. Mundane subjects jostled i 
with spiritual, business problems with theological, and a Tnlmudical 
subtlety was being threshed out amid the din of a discuuion about 
tailors' strikes. Here and there was a man of saintly mien poringj 
over some holy book, or reciting aloud the Psalms for the day. A) 
solicitous father was cxaminbg bis unwilling son, a little rogtiish 
lad, in the weekly portion of the Pentateuch ; and the iVeccntor, 
Bttoking hb well-trimmed beard as he leaned over one of the 
benches, was exchanging views with a fellow-songster on the merits 
of a rival precentor, who had lately been promoted to a West Eod 



The Prtacker. 



a87 



incumbency. The gallery loo was all agog with feminine flutter ; 
women young and old, wrinkled and fresh, caiewom and buoyant, 
motbcTs and grandames, with a babe or two in arms, bad betaken 
themselves hither with an enthusiasm of which their wonted 
demeanour hardly gave promise. And, needless to say, though tlil* 
ms a day of rest, their tongues were nevertheless at woik. The 
tOFHCS they discussed presented a variety similar to that of the con- 
Tabulation below : recent marnagcs fortunate and unfortunate, 
bantlings bom and others yet to come, the price of fith and 
millinery bargains, domestic mishaps and prospective matchec 
Yet here and there this ^inulity was relieved by a devout, attcniire 
groi^ of women clustered around an elderly dame in spectacles, 
who with sobbing accent slowly read from a homely paraphrase o^ 
the Pentateuch. 

Commotion and confusion reigned throughout. Batch after 
batch of arricals strolled in leisurely, changing their seats several 
times before finally fixing on a coign of vantage. The upper portion 
of tlie shrine was already crowded in every nook and cranny. The 
gangu-ays, too, were slowly filling with those content to stand. Chairs 
were brought in from invisible anterooms and ranged in front of 
the benches, only to disappear quickly beneath the oncoming tide 
of eager humanity. The bustling Beadle was at his wits' end, what 
with maintaining the equilibritmi of his temper and of his top-hat 
and reducing the swarming concourse to a semblance of order ere 
the renowned Rudnitzker AfaggiJ, from whose fount.s of eloquence 
the assembly was to drink deep, should appear on the scene. 

At last lie came. like a blissful calm tliat succeeds a blustering 
stonn, the gentle presence of the Preacher diffused a rcstfulness 
through tlie tumultuous throng and the din sank to a respectful 
murmur. All rose as one roan to do reverence, and the Beadle^ 
with a pompous air, cleaving a way for tlie slight, stooping pastor, 
received as his own this triumphant o%-ation. At length the seat at 
honour was reached, on the right of the ark, and in a moment the 
Precentor lud begun tlic service. 

The last words of the Mourners' Prayer had died away, and a 
lode of gladsome cxpccUncy passed over tlie faces of the multitude. 
A isovement was made from the rear of the Reader'x platform, and 
on eithei itdc the people pressed forward, at first timidly and then 
boldly and in solid phalanx, till almost on a level with the wardens' 
pew. With impressive solemnity the Beadle placed the Icctcm in 
position— for the " Seekers of Truth " boasted of no fiied pulpit — 
and, after escorting the Preacher to the foot of the ark, stolidly made 



285 



Tht GetUiemaK' s Magatme. 



his way to the central dalLS, wfacncc he viewed the mii;hly guhering, 
mn some orienul monarch, from oa high. 

The Preacher swept tlte throng witli a preliminary glance. He 
wu of medium height and spare of figure, but his Qowtng grey 
beard, his lofty forehead crowned by a skull-cap, his pcnairc pene- 
trating eyes shaded by griuled brows, his fimi closc-prcsscd lips, bis 
TJsage frank and fearless, furrowed by many a deep line of care and 
study, his demeanour humble yet noble, subdued yet eloquent— all 
this gave him an attraction that more than compensated for com- 
manding sUtuic And withal, the fame that had preceded him, and 
the increased repute he had earned in this country by his soul- 
stirring discourses, inrvstcd him with veritable grandeur and dignity. 
He arranged the folds of the praying-shawl about him, and wailed 
yet a moment for ihc restlessness of the people to subside. With 
presumptuous chivalry the Beadle brought his big brawny palm down 
on the Reader's desk with a thud, once— twice, and exclaimed in 
(he awesome accents of authority : " Sha — sha-a-a 1 " till the taAen 
overhead gave forth the echo, and every soul grew still, and a tense 
silence spread throughout the crowded fane. 

In tones subdued and steady the Preacher propounded his text, 
and every car strained to catch the pregnant utterance : "SuttH^ 
htarhemi not unto Motti for angutfh of spirit and for eruel AonJagt." 
In language homely and direct, and with an eloquence rugged yet 
impressive, and a charm that was the charm of simplicity, the 
Preachi^r explained the ver&e word by word »o that e^'en the dullest 
intellect might understand, ajid hinted, in a manner that roused 
airiosity, at the modem application of the passage. U'iih dnuoui 
and imperceptible course he slowly proceeded to ilhistmte his text 
by a curious apologue from the hlidra^ the allegorical kre of the 
sages, quoting the entire anecdote by heatt, and had soon com- 
pletely won the spellbound attcniioti of the vast assembly. The 
Preacher was the Moses of to-day, and like that mighty Heaven- 
tent leader of tlie hoary past, he still found the people rebellious 
and stilT-necked. Their "anguish of spiril " nowadays was due to 
racking poverty, slacknes:! of employment, daily distracting cares — 
an ailing wife or pining child. In this distress, in the toil of 
furnishing their families with the bare necessaries of existence, their 
whole being was absorbed, and the admonitions of the Preacher fell 
on deaf and listless cars. And when work was abundant, btkI the 
father of the household was busy, and the home was cheerful, and 
everybody had plenty, then, again, the Preacher's words fell fiat and 
unheeded ; for now it «ru a case of constant and continuous labour, 



Tht Pr4mk4r. 



»89 



of incMMat md imperious comnunds from nithless uslmastcrs, 
semng at MUl^ the holiness of the Siblxith iceek after week with 
unbridled iniquity — verily, ihey wcxe living over once more the 
cnicl bon<Uge of tlieii forefathers in Egypt. 

And as the voice of the Preadier rose and fell with clear, melo- 
dious cadence, anuming e%'eT and uion the sing-song of Tahnudk 
atguraentation, and as the moral of his discourse — illumined by 
countleu altusionB to sacred writ and rabbinical literature, by happy 
quotations from Midmshic commentaries and interesting anecdotes 
of ancient days, suffused hcie and there by a ray of humour and 
now by a flash of wit— as the moral of his discourse penetrated the 
vast Usteiiini^ throng, a thrill of mingled emotion coursed through 
every frame, and many a countcrtance gleamed with ecstatic btiss, with 
keen though suppressed exultation. Turning with spontaneous rt^- 
larityfrom right to left and left lo right, and speaking with a rapid and 
focile flow of lar^uxge, he seemed to address himself to every single 
soul in the hushed assembly, and his words sank deep in every bcarL 
Speech and learning ovcrdowed from his lijK ; neither book nov 
notes lay before him ; but so Ear Irom this being a detcnent, he 
revelled in the freedom of a quick, resourceful mind, stored with an 
infinity of wisdom, and of a tongue ever ready and fluent He 
touched the diverse chords to which the human heart — and especially 
the beait of his humble brethren — is responsive ; he appealed to 
their sense of the righteous, to their pride in their glorious heritage— 
the wondrous Light of the Law — to their family aJlectioas and theii 
prm'eibiat sound sagacity. And as he ncared the end of each 
period and rounded ufl* his impressive exhortations, his voice rote to 
a shrill clarion treble, and then sank to a wailing old-world intona- 
tion, dying away with plaintive echo in the thickening shroud of 
gjoom. For the day was almost spent, and the golden beam of 
SUDli^t that had previously fallen athwart tlie ark had long vritb- 
dnwn its sovereign splendour, and in every part of the crowded 
■hrinc the shades of darki>ess were gatherir^ slowly. 

But with an attcntivcness that seemed stoical and self-imposed, 
but which was really a spontaneous and todomiublc inlerett, the 
people gave thciofidTes up to the mellifluous discoune of the un- 
wearied preacher, drinking in with avid icst the oeoMless flow of 
wit and wisdom, of moral exhortation and iaterctting laU^ of 
scriptural exposition and autobiographical reminiscence. And even 
when in a passionate moment, and with the majestic mien of a 
prophet of old, he revealed his hidden allusions and overwhelmed 
his patient bearers with a torrent of reproaches for their mao; 

VOL. OCXCIl. NO. MJ5. X 



a90 



Tht Genitemans Magasxtu. 



backsliding^ — pioui (hough they might appear in this «ror1d of nn — 
eren then (hey s(ill listened on mthoiut a murmur ot gesture of 
protest. For the Preacher bad tbcro in thnll, and they were borne 
along submissively, yet nimbly and cheerfully, on the onnuhing 
stream of his gushing thoughts, exulting in this energetic exercise of 
their faculties, and exchanging ever and anon a smile of appreciation 
or ejaculating their cordial assent. True, there were here and there 
a few slumberous souls who had had their fill of the Preacher's lore, 
and retired to the seclunon of dreamland to reflect on the lessons 
be strove to impress. But they wvre only a few ; and though 
apparently unconscious of what was toward, the very rhythm of 
their respiration and ihc soundness of their sleep seemed to partake 
of a special dcliciousncss by reason of the inspiriting atmosphere. 
And when some enthusiastic admirer unintentionally aroused them 
by a gesture of approbation, they grumbled not, but quickly re- 
covered and disposed thciiuelves anew to earnest attention. 

Wliat time the Preacher worked with marvellous and unabated 
vigour, driving home hi.s points straiglit and sturdily — his whole 
body atliroh with [>retenia[ural pulsation, his face aglow with celestial 
lustre. Ever and anon he mopped the beads of persinnition on his 
glistening forehead, and adjusted the prayir^-shawl which slid from 
his shoulders with his perferrid movements ; but he allowed himself 
scarce any pause in the flow of speech) as though he were under 
some hypnotic influence. A holy freniy seemed to possess him, his 
hands twitched convulsively, and his eyes flashed with a fiery gleam 
which piurccd every soul in that swarming throng as he delivered 
some gmv« and trenchant utterance. Now and again he leaned 
heavily on the Icclcin and rocked to and fro as he chanted rather 
than cited some apothegm of an ancient sage, and anon, bristling up 
with renewed energy, he would raise his hand in dramatic gesture 
and show the relation of ihc Talmudic maxim to the ^miliar circum- 
stances of present -day life. Never flagging, never feeble, buoyed up 
with remarkable powers of bodily endurance and sustained elo- 
qoence, he sped along the course of his variegated homily with 
nasterly ease, ever finding something fresh to expound, discuss, 
iltumine. In apparently endless strain he went on, his voice now 
grown thick and husky, till at last with a mighty wrench he iviKhed 
the close of his exhortations and fervenily exclaimed the wonted 
finale of hope : " And a Redeemer shall come unto Zion, and so 
may it be His will, and let us say Amen ! " — when there burst 
throughout the enthusiastic concourse a great and joyous shout of 
congratulation : " \oshtr Ktmoih — thy strength increase ! 



The Prtcuktr. 



391 



The Prcadiet «u asaated from the humble rostnim b)' a hundxed 
eager wringing hands, and a tumultuous din of conversation and 
discussion arose in every part of the animated sanctuary. Erery- 
body struggled forward lo olTer in person his effusive compliments to 
the hero of the day, whoitt: face was wreathed in smiles at this 
tinivenal giatificaiion ; and yet e%-erybody knew that this was no 
exceptional effort of the Preacher, and that his discourse at the 
" Well of Jacob " synagogue on the morrow (in connection with the 
rnauguiation of a society for the study of the Talmud), and at the 
Cracow Congregation next Sabbath, would fully equal if not excel 
it in the importance of the meiisage, in novelty of exposition, In 
doqnencc, erudition, and magnetic attractiveness, 

" That's what I oil a Maggid ( That's what 1 call s"''g* ' " 
exclaimed a gesticulating little fellow, with lean cheelcs and a goatee 
beard, to a little knot of his companions. 

" Vou arc also a judge ? " retorted another individual, a rising 
grocer, who had a smattering of Talmudical knowledge. " Do you 
even know the difference between Midrash and Getnara ? " 

" Give me a Pentateuch, and I will show you," was the con5dent 
reply. 

A thunderous burst of laughter greeted thia response, for both 
Midrash and Gemara are distinct and extensive bodies of lore in 
themselves, existing in tomes altogether apart from the Rctiptiires. 

MeanwhUe the Kchobrs of the assembly sought each other out 
and eagerly discussed dialectic poinu in the momentous homily, 
each convinced of his own infallibility and declaiming his views 
with raucous voice and vigorous gesture, what time their less 
enlightened but curious brethren gathered around them to listen to 
the wit-combat, prompt to urge each rival champion in turn and to 
decide themselves whenever the contest wavered. The entire con- 
gregation broke up into irregular gossiping groups, some blocking up 
the gangways, others clustering about the benches, and others roving 
amid the general shifting noisy crowd. The bouse of prayer was 
coovetted into a wranghng forum, and the Beadle did not attempt 
to assume the direction of this chaotic multibrious debate. On 
every side, from every person, whether young or old, wise or simple^ 
rkh or poor — yea, and aloft too in the gloom-hid gallery bubbling 
over with fttminine garrulity — there flowed unending streams oif 
argumentative tattle and controvetsial chatter, brisk, rattling, 
roaring, thunderous. 

And tl»c Preacher sat at his ease breathing freely and heavily, 
though in truth the atmosphere was sorely changed from its pristine 

X a 



393 



The G^nilematis Magazine. 



poritf. He Icutcd well bacit in the shadow with folded annt, his 
bee shoving thin and worn, anxious, xs it were, to el^c his presence 
from the tccoe white he iind his dtscoursc were undergoing judgment 
from (he txHstcrous tribunal. Now and again tome loud remark,, 
pitrlied in an inordinately high key, reached his ears and suggested 
a train of reflections in wtuch h« soon l>ecanie absorlKd, hb grave 
ascetic features slowly relaxing into a smile ever so faint His eyes 
half closed as in a dream ; he was loxt in the luxurious xMxt of his 
imaginalion : his soul tltrobhed with the blissful struggle of a botti 
of vague sublime aspirations ; and a hato as of the Divine Presence 
mned to encircle his radiant brow, 

ENOCH SCRtBB. 



»93 



SOME MEMORIES OF AN OLD 
FRIEND. 



IN th« days of long ago, when, as a small child of tvclra, I troned 
up Hampstead Lane by my sister's side, our aileniion was 
dsily arrested by two out of the few pcreons wc met on our way to 
school. 

One of the two was a dapper gentleman, dad in a wetl-fitling, 
bhw sunout coal buttoned tightly round the waist, with chest well 
thrown out, displaying a Urge expanse of Khirt-froiit, whilst broad 
white cath half covered his hands. With a sad want of reverence 
for oui elders, and with a directness rarely absetit in children, we 
dubbed him " the ctilT and collar maru" ^V'e made all aoru of con- 
jectures as to his walk in life, one of which was that he was a school- 
master, that profession being then re^^rded by us as demanding the 
hdghl of correction and propriety on the part of Its follower. 

His daily appearance wa* so regular that wc could time ourselres 
by him as b)- a clock. If wc met him directly we turntd out of our 
road into Hampatead Lane, where his quirk footsteps sounded crisp 
and cheerful on the dry gtai-cl, our faces fell, for wc knew we should 
have a " bad mark " for un punctuality. If, on the conlntry, we came 
across him in a dip in the road, where the groujid was always dam|^ 
and where a smell of dank leaves and of decaying vegetation per- 
vaded the atmosphere, our spirits rose, and wc arrived in tine for a 
chat with our school-mates before the Rnt class b^^. 

Itwa-t somewhat amusing, in later yta.n, to meet th« same gentle- 
man with all tlie mystery that had rendered him intert^ting to us 
dispelled, and to know that he was a City nutchani, who travelled 
up to town from llampstcad Heath railway station for the sake of a 
daily walk tn the finest ^r, amidst the most beautiful scenery, of 
which the I^iidon suburbs can boast. 

A greater contrast to him could not have been found than the 
quaint litOe figure that we met with almost equal regularity. It was 
an oU gcntteinan of unkempt appearance, dressed in white ducks 



294 



Tkt Genilentan's Ma^asine. 



tnd wautcoat in fine wcsther. In all wealhcts his coat was open 
and flying in the breeze (he invariabl)' gave the imprcsnon or a 
person mlkin;; against the wind, however still the day), hii hat was 
on the back of his head, and his shoutders veic nearly on a level 
with \\i* ean on account of hJii hands being thrust into his waistcoat 
pockeu. 

After meeting him continuotuljr for some tnooths, we asked a 
icboolfellow who be was. She replied tersely, "That's o!d RusseU." 
Ttuit infofmaiion, however clear and devoid of circumlocution, wat 
bcking in detail, *o we inquired further what he was. She said he 
was a " malhetician " ; and on being pressed for a definition of ibU 
iKW terra, haxaided vaguely iliat " he did lots of sums and tilings." 
Sums having cost inc more tears than all other studies put together, 
1 hesitated whether I should set down tlie gentleman in question on 
my black li«t, by the side of our arithmetic master, whose angry 
exclamation, "This is confusion worse confounded I " stiudc such 
terror to my heart every Saturday, during that awful hour devoted to 
the explanaiion of the rule of three. And here I pause to wonder 
why a teacher can never explain arithmetic with the same patience 
with which he would expound grammar, for instance. Why does 
youi arithmetic master deem it a personal iruult if you fail to under* 
stand his problems? Emotion and calculation are iireconciUble, 
and I defy any small girl who is quaking with fright at the rery sight 
of her mathematical teacher to give any other reply than deren or 
Abtecn if he suddenly asks her in loud, sarcastic tones what seven 
plus five make. 

However, after mature reflection, I concluded that &lr. Russell 
did eums instead of setting them, and I thenceforward regarded him 
with sympathy and pity. I wondered tliat a tnan of his age should 
spend his time in such an unpleasant occupation. I have lived to 
many a " mathetician " and—tell it not in Gath ! — 1 still wonder. 

In thoiie old (lays, a Friendly Discussion Society flourished in 
Highgate. It may still flourish— 1 hope it does. Many and many a 
plea.<tant evening have I spent in li.^tening to its members discusnng 
various subjects. It was at one of its meetings that I became 
acquainted with the subject of this sketch. Professor Tomtinson 
was also a member of the Society. Whea Mr. RusscU got on his 
feet to speak at these gatherings there was a twofold movement 
amongst the audience. His admirers leaned forward to catch his 
words, and his detractors leaned back in their arm-chairs with a look 
of benignant pity. I always leant forwaid with his admirers. At 
Arst we seemed to be in ihc right, for he began with •ome Judicious 



^^" Some Memories of ax Old Frund. 295 

and carefully worded Gommcnts relative lo the to|»c for ibe evening ; 
but whatever the subject — Moslcmism, Thackeray vtnui Dickens, 
Eliiabcth Banctl BrowDing, &&— he almost mvarubly ended by 
mourning his hobbyhorse: the supposed nmdeeds of the Evan- 
gctical paity, whom he accused of tr>ing [o " frighten young govern- 
esses out of thdr senses with awful Ulcs of fire and brimstone," 
and he would relate some absurd incident in support of his theory, 
which he accompanied with incoherent sputterings and laughter 
until he was called to order by the cbairtnan. 

I'hcsc outbursts, amusing as they were to us young people, were 
yet painful, though vre »rould never admit it, to those of us who 
were his partisans. We were divided into Tomhnsonians and 
RusBclliies. Professor Tomlinson was ilie soul of propriety, and 
looked unutterably slioctced when his learned friend let himself go 
and fizied and tputlered like csikes in a fi)-ing-pan. Some who 
thought propriety the chief good gued stonily at us, the Kussclliies, 
as, convubcd with laughter at the droll stories of our hero, we 
applauded him to the echo. 

At the conclusion of the debates a sumptuous supper was served, 
and it was proverbial that Mr. Russell always look in to it the prettiest 
and best-dressed girl in the assembly. 

By degrees the learned mathematician began to be a frequent 
visitor at our hou.te. He would tell us how many discoveties he 
hud made since he last called. One day, anxious lo explain some 
principle, he borrowed alt my reels of cotton and, rolling them up an 
iiKlincd plane, tried to make the subject clear to me. But he failed 
utterly ; even his genius was incapable of making mc grasp such 
questions. Still, he never ceased his efforts. If he met me out of 
doors he would say, "Oh, Miss Z^lia, let me just explain this to 
you," and he would draw figures in the dust niih a iwig (he never 
carried a walking-stick), to the intense delight of the passers-by, and 
to my confusion, for sometimes a group of listeners would forni 
around us. 

One evening he called and said in his earnest, excitable way 
thai he had read an article on numbers which had much interested 
hiHL The writer of the e»ay liad tried to discover how diflcrcnt 
iitdividuals saw numbers in their minds. He had found that some 
saw ct-nain figures surrounded by a misty halo; that others saw 
them printed in various colours ; others still saw them on the page 
of the first arithmetic book they liad studied as children. He asked 
those present how they saw figures. I do not know what reply they 
gave. I was learning my lessons in another room ; but be wanted to 



296 



Tht GetUlenuin's M'agantu. 



know how MUs ZAia mw figures, to I wu sent for. Dtrealy T 
appeared b« burst out with his question : 

"MiM Zdia, how do you »ee figures?" 

Not knowing whether it <ra.i s riddle, or whether he wa.t rererrins 
to the iitueof ntf feetingion the subject of arlthiDctic— in the latter 
cue I thould hare promptly relied : " I «ce them with arersion " 
— I weakly answered : 

" I don't know." 

He MW I had not grasped his meaning; so said : 

**We will soon And out. Shut your eyes «nd linen to ine 
Seven!" 

"Seven 1" I repeated. 

" How did you see it ?" 

" Going down the line," I replied— somewhat vaguely, I 

" Eight ! levenleen ! thirty-five I one hundred t " be shouted' 
CKcitedly. " Now, how did you see those figures ? " 

I opened my eyes and looked at him. 

" I tM»-cT thought of it bd'oTc," I said. " I suppose I aee then 
like everybody else, going in lines." 

" Equal lines ?" be queried. 

" Oh no. Stop. I will shut my eyes again, and as you say the 
figures I shall see them and I will note where ihcy arc." 

He calkd out t«>'efal numbers, and then told me to write down 
the Uncs of Hgurcs I liad mentioned. 1 did so and the result it 
given on the next page. 

Mr. Russell was puuled by my figures turning at twelve and 
again at twenty. But I could give no cxplonRtion then, nor can I 
now. I only know that I see the figures thus to this day. 

"Tell mc whether the lines ate flat as on paper," be asked me, 
lookir^ at my dedgn. 

" They are not flat ; they go away from mc down-bill from one 
to twelve, then they come slowly up-hUl towards me to twenty, when 
ihey get on to a higher plane. They then rise rapidly, and get 
CaintcT and fainter until they reach one hundred. Then they begin 
again, as they did from one to twelve, &c., but very faint artd much 
higher up." 

Mr. Russell made note of this, and I oAen wondered wbttk indi- 
cated that 1 should sou the figures thus definitely. My husbaod loM 
n>c }xars aAcrwaids, when I mentioned it to him, ihat it proved that 
I had a most unmailiematical mind, which, incapable of grasjHng the 
abstract, was able only to deal with the concrete. 1 am afraid he is 
He added that mathematicians sec no figures; they deal with 



Some Memerifs of an Old Friend. %tyf 

tite nbstract idea. I remember that Mr. Russell stated that he mw 
no figures in hti mind. 

Much as I liked the societ)- of my mathematical friend, I must 
ftdmit dial hit discourses on his favourite topic wearied me. It was 
in tain, bowefer. to protest to him that my knowledge of uathe- 



# 






43 
4« 

«7 

«a 
4i 



9 



10 14 



lA 



16 



17 



4J 
«t 

4i 

40 
39 
3» 

3S 

33 
32 
31 
90 
t» 

ta 

» 
74 

»0 



matics was limited to being aware of the &ct that two and two 
make four ; he continued all the mote cantcstly to explain. 

Happening one day to mention Goethe in our chat, he found I 
was an aidcnt admirer of German Itteiatiire, and ftom that time we 
bftd a. more intcRtdng subject of conversation. He told me he 
could learo a new language in three months. He certainly had a 
most retentive memory. 

As we were discussiiig Faust one afternoon on oar way to 



398 



The Gentleman's Mt^asine. 



Hanipncad Heath, a big black dog, led bf a dignified old Udjr, 
walked by. The dog had an evil look in Us ejr^ and Mi. Rusiell 
imoMxliatcIy declared Uiat it was Fausfs poodle. This idea so 
tidcled his fancy that he startled the lady by one of hU " Honteric 
bunts of Inughur." We nerei met a black dcg afterwards but be 
laughed until the tears stood in his eyes. The ducovery that I, too, 
had, as one of vaf teachers nmtly expressed It, "a keen perception 
of the ridiculous," formed another bond between us, and from that 
moment his one desire when he met me was to tell mc mirth-pro- 
voking stories for the sake of seeing me laugh. As soon as be 
caught sight of mc coming along the lane he would shout out : 

" HuHo I Miss <^!ia, here yoti arc I Now, }ust listen to thb I " 

Then amidst bursts of laughter and incoherent ejaculations, be 
would tell me some preposterous story he had just read. \Mien I 
wanted to humour him — and when did 1 not "i his quaint exterior 
hid such a kind, affectionate heart — 1 would put my hands to my 
ears and, shaking my head gravely, would say : 

" Now, don't tell me any more of your dreadfully absuid norJei^ 
because I'm not going to listen." 

He would shriek with laughter at this, and sun at once. One 
of his stories began : " I saw in my dream a king, and 1 said ' O 
king, Uve for ever.' " This struck him as being so exquisitely fimny 
that he would repeat it again and again. "Just listen. O kin^ live 
for vytLi^ and he would laugh until the tears ran down hi* rh^c^l 
I do not remember ever having heard the conclusion of the tale. 

After we left school, my sister and I were much interested in 
navvies. We used to talk to them on their wurku, nrtd wc opened a 
night school for them. As we were speaking to a group of them 
one morning, Mr. Ru.uell came along ; surveying us with an amused 
air, he called out to mc : 

" ^Vell, Miss Z^lia, what arc you talking to those fellows about — 
fire and brimstone, eh ? " and he threw bock bis head to give vent to 
one of his resounding peats of laughter. 

I replied : " We are telling them what St. Auguiiine said so Ion 
ago : ' Thou hast made us for Thyself^ God, and tlie heart ; 
rests until it rests in Thee.' " 

His manner changed immediately, and, grasping me warmly byj 
the hand, said : " Can't do better ! Can't do better I Cod blewi 
you," and as he turned hastily away I saw a tear glistening in hit eye- 

He was sincerely devout. He was most regular in his attcrtdance j 
at church to " say his prayers," as he called it ; be alwa)-s left beforaj 
the sermon. He never wrote the shortest note in reply to an 



Some Memories of an Old Friend, 299 



I 
I 



I 



inrltation without adding " D.V.' lo his acceptance. But be was not 
fond, as I ha^'G stated, of the Et-angelica) school of theology. I 
remember that he much disliked a bttie book by F. R. Havcigal 
entitled " My King." He objected to texts which so evidently 
applied to King David and others in tlieir aithly relationships 
bdng wrested from their context and applied to Our !«rd. With 
the derout spirit of that gifted authoress he had, I am sure, the 
deepest sympathy. 

On my return to ilie dear old home a year or so after my 
marriage, I asked for news of hfr. Rus«ell. 1 was told that be hnd 
calkxl once, soon after my wadding, but never since. He had then 
complained mysteriously of being out of sorts : a young friend of 
his bad got married and gone right away and he missed her. He 
was still to be seen " taking his constitutional " down Hampsteid 
Lane, and was just the same quaint little figure. 

The following Sunday I met him. He came to mt with out 
stretched bands, and of all the welcomes with which my former 
friends greeted me, his was the warmest. He walked home with 
me, expressing Iiis delight at renewing our old intercourse. He 
looked intently at me in the middle of our walk, then exclaimed : 

" Miss Z^lia" (he always called me by the old name before h$ 
could stop himself), "you arc a happy woman ; I can .fee it in your 
eyes." 

"My eyes teD true talcs," I replied. "Come and see my 
husband and baby." 

" Your baby 1 " be shouted ; " you've got a baby I " and he made 
tbe old woods roui>d Hampstead I^nc ring again to his laughter. 

"Certainly I have; and if you arc good and promise not to 
drop him, you shall nurse him." 

Shrieks of laughter hailed this promise ; but that very afternoon 
he appeared and admired my little one to my heart's content. But 
then there never was such a pretty . . . but i seem to ha^-e heard 
another mother say that of hers. 

Mr. Russell soon began dropping in to tea again, and I noticed 
with satis&ction titat hot buttered toa.<tt had its old charm for him. 

One afternoon he found me alone on the bwn. The opportunity 
was too good a one to be missed, and with paper and pencil he was 
soon " explaining" to me in the old way. I keep the paper still as 
a souvenir of my dear old friend, but I did not understand it any 
better than his former designs in the dust. My husbarMl comirtg in 
jusl tlten, it was not long before they were in the depths, or, I should 
rather say, on the hc^hts, of matheouiics. At last Mr. Russell 



300 



The Gentlepum's Magazine. 



had round some one in my circle who could undentand siMl 
apprcdalc his discoveries. They were mutoally interested in each 
other, and I was rejoiced to know that the RuRcllites had every 
reason to be proud of their hero. 

Later on Mr. Russdl invited us to tea at his lodgings. When I 
firet kiKw him his aged mother was still alive ; she look such care of 
him and of his financial affiiirs that she only allowed him to spend 
sixpence a day. After her death he took lodgings a stone's throw 
from his old home. I have often wondered whether his landlady 
was a kindly soul or a tyrant. 

Those of hilt detracion who accused him of "a warn of propriety" 
should have seen him aa host ; but this, I believe, was reserved for 
(he favoured few. 

When wc arrived we found him well brushed, clad in immaculate 
white, and wearing a new bbdc coal, lie received us with a gentle 
dignity that became him wonderfully. No boisterous mirth, no 
screuDS of laughter, were intermingled with hii conversation. 
Amongst othi-r interesting things, he showed us some of the 
memoirs he had laid before the Royal Society. My huxband 
exclaimed as he examined tbem : 

" There ate not forty person* in Europe that can read this." 

'* You arc quite right," answered my old fncnd ; " there ate 
certainly not fifty anywhere," (And yet tlie Tomlinsonians used to 
maintun that our hero was a fraud and more eccentric than learned !) 
He gave a copy of two of these memoira to my husband; they lie 
on my deslt as I write. One is " On the Calculus of Symbols," the 
other "On the Calculus of Functions." After they had discussed 
these, to roc, unintelligible subjects, lea was brought in. The look 
of satisfaction with which my dear old friend watched me preiade at 
his board touches me now as I remember it. 

The day before our dejuriurv Mr. Russell cantc to Wd tis farewell 
Holding my hand in hiii, he said sadly : 

" These good-byes must be said, but it is hard work." The>- 
were his last words to mc. I never saw him again. 

Some months afterwards I received a letter from home telling 
me that my old friend had been found dead in his bed one morning, 
having passt.-d away peacefully, to all appearances, in his sleep. 

Dear, faithful, old friend ! How I wish you could know that you 
are still unforgoltcn, and that your genial mirth and allectionatc 
ri^ard are amongst my most cherished memories ! 



30I 



MR. SIVINBURNES FIRST DRAMA. 



I 



MR. SWINBURNE'S dranm are vWdi in nuiuticr. They were 
published in iht following oidcr: "The Queen-Mother" 
and " Rosaraord," 1 860 ; " Aulanta in Calydon " and " Chastcbrd," 
1865; "BoihweU," 1874; " Erechthcus." 1876; " Mar> Stuart," 
1881 ; " Marino Faliwo," 1885 ; " Locrinc." 1887 ; " The Sislcrs," 
1891; and "Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards," 1900. The 
fint-iDcntioncd was published when its author was but twenty- 
three jcars of age, and may be considered the poet's earliest pro- 
doctko, allbough he had already contributed poeius and essays 
to the "OxTord Undergraduate Papers," and had written an 
articie on Congret'e for "The Imperial Dictionary of Universal 
Biognphy." The extent of the indifference with which the tK)ok 
was greeted may be surmised from the bet thai James RusHdl 
Lowell, writing on " Swinburne's Tragedies " as late as 1 866, does 
ttot appear to be aware of its existence. Looking t>ack to the few 
jodgHMfHa pronounced upon the work, we cannot but experience 
noMhii^ stronger than "a gentle shock of mild surprise "at the 
short-sightednesa of the critics who faile<l to see that such a morning 
gave us promise of a glorious day. Mr. Swinburne, who, not 
unhappily, has been designated a second Shelley, exhibited in bis 
earliest wock qualitin which are visible only in the later and 
malurer wofk of his progenitor in song. The power to depict men 
and women came to Shelley in his later years ; it was inbcrent in 
Mr. Swinburne as in Shakespeare, and was never more apparent 
than in this the earliest work from his hand. Of the many persons 
leprcscnted in " The Quccn-Mothcr " there is not one, from the 
ficrce-soulcd and fateful Catherine dc' >tcdici to Yolandc, her maid 
of honour, from the timorous and tacillatii^ King to the Jester, 
Cino Galli, that is not filled to the tips with life, and with such life, 
moral and |>hysictl, as was possible to dwellers in Pans in 1573. 
To discover what that life was the student must turn to the 
" M^moires " of the chief rJironiclcj of the |>eriod, Pierre de 
Bourdeille, Sei^eur de Bnuitdmc. Mr. Swinburne says elsewhere : 
'* What were the vices of the society described by Brantoioc it is 



302 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



impossible, or at leant it would be repulsive, to suggest by so mucV 
as a hint ; but its virtues were homicide and adulteTy." Brantdme 
hinueU app«an in the pages of " The Queen-Mother," and there 
tells a talc which can be as readily accepted from his lips as its 
only parallel in modem English literature, tlw stoiy of Grcgorio 
and the tailleu dog in the " Penumeron," can, (hough written by 
Landor, pass as the invention of t!ie laughter-loving spirit of 
Boccaccio. 

As " The Quccn-Mother " h:is been for some ycara out of print, 
the outline of the plot may be here briefly given. The scene is laid 
in Paris during the two daj-s which precede the massacre of St. 
Bartholomew, with which event the play culminates. The Queen- 
Mother, whose whole energies are bent on the accomplishment of 
this sanguinary ptot on the lives of her Protesunt sub)ccts, observea 
that her weak-minded son, the King, is sliaken in his allegiance to 
her by his love for Denize dc Maulerrier, one of her maids of 
honour ; and niipecting that Dcnisc, to whom Charles has confided 
the whole design, is opposed to its execution, she jioisons the Court 
Jester, Cino Galli, and accuses Denise of his murder. By so dmng 
she is enabled to imprbon Denise, and thus clonic for a season an 
unruly mouth, which might otberwi.se tell strange tale», while at the 
same time Charles ts freed from a beneficent influence, and proves 
as flexible in the hands of evil as he might have been in those of 
good. The King, thus wrought upon, consents to the perpetration 
of as foul a deed as history has e>-cr recorded ; and in his greed for 
blood, arqucbuse in hand, he shoou from the palace window, and 
unwittingly slays, amongst others, Dcnisc, who had but a few minutes 
previously regained her freed om. 

The character of Catherine, though drawn in strict accordance 
with her portrait as limned in history, nevertheless exhibits touches 
nhich presage the mighiicr work man ship of Ihc same hand which 
fourteen years later gave to tlic world the marvellous delineation of 
Mary Stuart in "Bothwcll." A hint is given us of what the years 
will bring in the gibe flung at her once too-willing pupil by this 
tjme-worn adept in vice : 

1 niay lEitiemtwt aw 

That Scntiwonuui did llecr *I my ^rty boe ; 

I muvcl now whu ton of haii die hot. 



Like all Cnnattcs, the Que«n>Ikf other can read with case " the 
riddle of the painful earth." She sect that God 

S«t not ligcrt 
In An meBD km of apti, 



Mr. Swin&ttme's First Drama. 



503 



that human tigers are expected to do tigers' work, and ihas fulfil the 
fell purpOfC for which she deems the)- wcic created: 



II>Ch he Kl upcii-Iit and made larger eyes 
To read wmc broken Ictlen of ililt book 
Wluch hu Ihe world «t IcMon i *iid for whal. 
If we no[ i!o the ruyitlnt good wuuk. 
If wc not wou ihe wntUi of Mvcieiuntjr 
Aj UtriUilc >nd [mimeni [ At our feci 
Lies tcMun like * hound, txA &ith is chained ; 
Ltmc expccudon hilii Ivhind oar <vay«. 
The louodlcu tectcl of dead things i« nude 
At naked tUIowx 10 i». It u for thu 
We owe itiong tctiicc of the complete 
To (he inuM cunning faihionei that nutdc 
So good work of tu i and except we »crvc. 
We ate mere beuu and leBct than a make, 
Not n-onh hii pain at all. 

And she ftdds : 

To etoM up all, 
Dcaili takes the ilesh In hit abhorred hasda 
or clean alike ind unclean ; but to die 
Is tomciime gtacioiu, as to slip the chain 
From wiiM and ankle ; only ihii it ad, 
To be giwi up to change and the mcic ^une 
0( lU kbonfauUt and ob«cui« work 
With BO good den*, no clean thing in the wul 
To fwccten agftinU raurroccion-lime 
Thii mire that made a bod)-, lest we keep 
No toyaltiei at all, or tn the flesh 
The worm's toothed rarin touch the wot indeed. 

Etco so have many " urioun of society " girt ap their lotni tn 
their enthusiasia to act as purifiers of the body social, oblirious of 
the abysmal foulness of their own stcrcoraceoua souls. Mr. Swin- 
burne has instaiKed Shakespeare and Coleridge as the two English 
poets whose peculiar majesty of mdody no other poet can emulate 
and whooe note baa never be»i caught. But if the style of 
Shakespeare has ever been caught — and Coleridge himself essayed 
to do to — it has been reproduced, if not in this speech, assuredly in 
the one which precedes it, " yea (even to) the thin grain of one 
particular word." AtuJ not in this speech alone has " that large 
uttenuKC " again made music in human cars, but throughout the 
play the strength of the verse recalb Uie workmatuhip of no meaner 
haiKl ; indeed, this very lad has ted an eminent writer on Victorian 
literature to sum up his judgment of "The Quevn-Motber " with 



304 



The GetUUman's Magtuin*. 



the astonishing staitcinent ilmt " the imiUtlion [in this pUjr] is >o 
dose, the faults so miuijr, and the *tyle so little individual, as lo 
make the work unimpoitant." Here is a passage from this faulty 
and unimporlant work, which proves that, as " the car shouhl be 
long to measure Shakespeare," faults may be found in the melodies 
of Swinburne undiscoverable bf those who are not endowed by 
Nature with the hirsute appendages requisite for the task of *dju> 
dicatiiig on ita meritK. 

Catherine thus concludes her appeal to DeniK : 

I icll ibn, God is wbe and thou twioc fool, 
TliM wouldit h»v« God eon ihte by tott, and by 
This chAt£c oci ibco, ^Ifi olT i)uu otha duugc, 
And mcle thine tiiwud incho out by rule 
That hath ibc neMUie of iplidcj worlds in tl 
And limit ofgrou ttan. 

Here are a few lines from u speech by Margaret : 

There is no crown i' ihe world 
So px>d 3J1 patience ; ncittiei i* ■ny peace 
Thai Gvd putt in oot lip« to drink a* wine, 
Muie honey-pun, more woiihj tove's own ptuM, 
Than that iweet-aoulecl endurance which makei dean 
The iron hmdaof u^er. 

And, again, words from the tips of Charles : 

I would have you pitiful as Icus, 

Would have you fill with pity u the moon 

With perfect round uf kCMouabte gold 

FUU h«r klarvod lulca at point of Uie yellow Bioallk. 



Dcnise is a feir and gracious figure, but withal "a creature not 
too bright or good for human nature's daily food " in a period which 
vaunted not the virtue of any woman save that of the "maiden- 
longucd, male faced Elizabeth." NcTerthclcss, " her hands are 
quicker unto good " than are those of any other dauKhtcr of the 
poefs imagination save the Aecklew child of Erechtheus and 
Ptaxtthea. She has the strength of soul which is one of the chief 
qualities of Mr. Swinburne's women. Her inability to stem the 
torrent of evil does not breed in her despair ; nay, rather the calm 
endurance ot 

Onii maimed and dumb 
That sees hli houM bum. 



Mr. Swiniume's First Dratna. 



305 




At the worst she Jiocepis the apparent triumph of ill in tsilcnce, or 
acknowledges resignedly the painful trucli that 

All malten hll out coinehow in God'* wixk, 
And round the KimrM tdget of tlxni flat. 

She is fenrless and 611txl with the divine love of ^ccdom which 
is characteristic of all bter crtaitions of the samu liand. She sees 
that 

Not the thinci thai born up cleu make hell, 

Not p<un, kaic, evil, actual thune oc tense. 

But ju« ihe lewd obtdienee, the dead work, 

The btalen service of \ t«ncQ wage 

TTtft gets DO itsfnog. 

^ndthat 

TU belter be whole beggu, uid have fled) 
Hial U bm pinched by weaihet out of liteiA, 
Than > nfc slave u-iih happy blood i' the check 
Aod wriits nagallcd. 

She loves fieedom with an undivided love, yet nould risk its loss 
to win the sclf-apjiroving mind without which freedom itself were 
nothii^. With all her fit^ry forcd'ulness, she is "tender as sun- 
smitten dew." In her fniitlets endeavour to hold Charles back from 
evil, she appeals to him on behalf of all iho helpless many or] whom 
he would " set iron murder to feed full " in words that almost change 
the current of his actions, bidding him remember 

How to cadi foot and alom of thai de»h 
That nukci the body of ilic -wfsnl man up 
TliMe ¥fent tbt rtty pain atid the »me love 
Tbal out of love and paiu cuuipounded jou 
A piece of Mich man'* earth; lint all of theae 
FmI, famitht, and taalc, move and uilutc and tletp. 
No Inu than you, and In each little utc 
Divide the ciulonu that yonnelf endure ; 
And ate so coitly that th« wont of thcte 
Ww worth God'f time to Gniah. 



Charles the KJi^ is the Charles of history. " Infirm of purpose," 
he ia a pipe played upon alternately by the Queen-Mother and 
Denisc. Full of the plot, he must needs tell Dcnise of it : 

. , , ThiH Baiihulomew shall be (lucribcil 
Btyoed the lint 1 the IiUter ipeech of time 
Shall quench and make oUivioui ru upon 
: The fonner and dcfntcd laeinDiin, 

vM. ccxcii. kol 2055. r 



3o6 



Th4 Geni/ematis Magcmn*^ 

K«w h[iCurict Uaehiag in. Kof there mil be 
Blood »n<l tlic R)oi«l, nntlncly li|i a( death, 
Anil io (he diiUy hunga ol hb bono* 
A tudtirn marrow ihajl rcfrcth iUelf 
And uprrod Id perfect Knew. There «1ll Mtr 
Even in Ibe ted aod haUon beat of hell 
A motioa or ihup ipitilt • qiiickciMd trata 
Such u wine nukes In lU ; yn, web ■ daj 
God hath eol at«n u I (halt rnaLe Tot him. 



This shallow, babbling Tool must needs coa»der timtself, as fools 
are wont to do, God's chosen instniment. His ndlktion and 
timidity are as strongly marked as his subsequent greed for blood, 
and throughout the range of Mr. Swinburne's dramas there is nothing 
more admirable than the truth and justice with which he is depicted, 
If tome slight demur be not made in favour of the broader and 
more powerful figure of John Knox in " BothweU." Cimrles's inter- 
views with Dentse and the great scene with Catherine In the second 
act are the most forcible and eloquent passages in this most marvel- 
lous of all first prodticcionv. To call the play eloquent is but poor 
ptaisc. It is remaricablc alike for the force and fidelity with which 
the characters arc drawn and the high quality of the poetry which 
pervades it throughout. Mr. Stcdman lightly says that the style is 
caii^t from Sbalcespcarc, "as if tht youth's pride of intellect would 
let him go no lower for a model," and he instances the language of 
TeUgny, Act iiL Scene t, and that of Catherini^ Aft v. Scene 3. 
quoting the following lines in support of his asser^on : 

Surcl/ the wind would be u ■ hard fire. 
And the ie»'i yellow utA •iiitcmpded foam 
Diiplou* tbe h^ppy he>i-cn . . • 



. . , Tow«a ud popular sUMis 

Should In the middte gncn amMher ind droara. 

And havoc die with rulnuK 

This can be traced also in the other p:tssagc sclt-cled by the same 
critic, the lines in which Charles says of Denisc : 

She it aU white to the uead hxir, vho vnu 
So Tull of ETMioui rote the lir touk colom 
Turned lo a ki» againit her (aob 



Of the rest it may be said that " ihe name is graven on the nork- 
manship " ; for instance, on such vmvi a* the following t 



Mr. Swinburne's First Drama. 

I would lUil have a UHich of j«n 
Upon tne Kumewhete ; oi • woid oT your* 
To moie all muue iiupid in m/ ear. 
The \t:aA kiu O'er p»I upon your lips 
Would put me tliia Bide heaven, to live there. 



307 



Or 



Or 



God prei him painful braul, and fcit all wine 
Doth feed biin on ihaip sUi of simple teon. 



1^ God, how fair fcm uel 
It does aoute me; surety G«d felt zlad 
The day he finished maldna you. Eh, Sweet, 
You have the C)'u ■°^u choose lo punt, you know ; 
Aod jusi that suft tum in the Utile throait 
And blui«h oiloui In lh« lower lid 
They make satnu with. 



Howsoe'a tbtae bm a* ftiendi with you. 
With UD tliey will hut &te af murdefers do 
That live txlwcea the BharpcQing of a knife 
AAd the knife'i edge embrued. 



Or finally the last line of the following tliree ; 

Hark I I hear shott 1 as God jihaU {Mty me, 
I heaid a ahot. Who dies of that ? yea, now. 
Who llct Hid moana and makes some inches red ? 

In the fim scene of the second act will b<; found the eailJcet 
mention in Mr. Swinburne's verse of ihat world of waters of which he is 
ocvcx wearied in singing the praises, and which seems to have caoisfied 
the " strange >-caming " " that the sea feels " by having breathed Ha 
bread] upon his verse and left iu odour there. Few, indeed, and not 
to be envied, are those who can read for the first titne llic line that 
speaks of " the sea's salt insolence " and not feel exhilaration and 
ddigbt akin to the emotion created \y$ a sight of the shore aftcx 
yean of exile on some inland ttact. 

Of the old French lyrics in this play and in " Rosamond," let 
those speak with authority who can. Evcrj'one who hus read Mr. 
Stedman's book will remember the poet's own ttitlcment as there 
given : " I confess Ihat I take dchght in the metiical forms of any 
language of which I know an)-thing whatever, simply for the metre's 
•ake, as a new musical instrument" No matter in what tongue the 
vctse may be, in Mr. Swinbtirne's hands its melodies are sweet : 



3o8 



Th« Gentleman's Magazin$. 



*' piercing sweet," whether the trumpet of Rome or the Giocian flute 
be Tor the lime the instrainent of hia choice. 



" Rosamond " is a short one-act play in fire scenes, but even as 
tucb it will bear comparison with the more ambitious study of the 
same subjca by the late Lagrcatc. Mr. Swinburne's sketch of '* not 
Rose the chaste, but Rose the Eur," differs from the elaborate 
pottnit by Lord Tenn)-«>n in characteristics which alone render Oio 
younger poet's women the truest and, therefore, the most powerAil 
creations in modern poetry. Since Beatrice dc Ccnci lived anew In 
Sbellc>''s pages, no hand has succeeded in delineating in Engli^i a 
woman worthy to be ranked with those drawn by him who luis rc- 
fUlcd with Gre the veins of Mary Stuart. Save his and the otM; 
iroman in all Shelley's verse, none can be likened to "one of 
Shakespeare's women." Lord Tennyson's heroine, when compared 
with !i(r. Swinburne's, is indeed "a doU-bcc blanched and blood- 
less " ; and there is not throuj;hout " Bcckct " a single line which 
brings the Queen ]>cfore our eyes with half the force of that early 
poem, from the tame hand, which seems lit with the lurid glow of 
the "dragon eyes of anger*d Eleanor." 

Placed in a secondary and subordinate po«ition to "The Queen- 
Mother," it is nerertheles* probable that " Rosamond " should take 
prior rank when judged from a clironological standpoint. If it be 
indeed the earlier work, one fiict is addudble therefrom which cannot 
fail to interest all lovers of this poet-laureate of childhood ; the £iet 
that in his earliest work the poet's love of children, whic^ a certain 
wise man of the North would have the world believe is the growth of 
later yean, found full and perfect expression when the writer had 
but for three years' space assumed the title of manhood. 

Do you love childirn ? [uks Roumond]. 

Doci It touch yoBi Mood 

To xe God's woid linuhcd in a cMIiI'r face 

Foi m to touch and hnndlc? Seems II tWMt 

To have nicli tliingi in the world to hold And klM^ 

No need is there to have " tender woman's fiicc " for such words 
as these to " touch our blood "; tlicy prove to man and woman alike 
the presence of that future claimant to " half a note from Bloke " 
whidi bestows on its possessor a right to rank with those whose glory 
it is to have sung in faultless verse the praises of infancy, and (jveo 
a voice to the inefiabic joys and sonows of humanity iu its inarttculue 
dawn. 



Mr. Svnnbunu's First Dranta. 



309 



The dramatis persona of this play consist of Rosamond and hci 
msid Constance, Queen Eleanor and Sir Robert Bouchard her 
ptnmour, the King and Anhur, a choir-bo>- of the church at Sheen. 
'ITie first scene opens with an abruptness which is admirably 
dramatic. The greater portion ia fittingly devoted to an eloquent 
defence by Roramond of her own beauty, which she declares renders 
her 

PmI of the ptitet wiincM for the world 
How good it it. 

She dwdls with deep delight upon the effects wrought by her 
pbysjcftl loveliness, a reflection of which she sees alike in Henty's- 
k)TC and in the jealousy of the Court beauties, whose enmity that 
lore has won her. She speaks of herself as one 

. . . WboM cuilei] bail wu u n tttong staked net 
To ukt the liuiilcn uid llie hunt, uid bind 
F«ca and feci and hand* ; k golden pn 
Wherein the lawny-lidded lioni Ceil, 
Biolcen *t ankle. . . . 



And, again, in words full of colour and melody ; 

I Ihat hnvc ro8cs in my lume, and Riak« 
All fiowcis gliid to s*t ihi-ir coloui by ; 
t ibil have held a land belwecTi Iwin tips 
And tuincd large England to a Utile kits; 
God thinki nol of me m coii:einplible. . . . 

To read such lines as these is to remember them with joy for 
ever. It is customary to dismiss " Rosamond " with a few cold, 
critical words, commendatory of the style and condemnatory of it& 
extravagance — words which conrcy a false impression of the drama, 
while they give a true conception of the critic, inasmuch as they 
demorutrate the total absence in him of eye and ear, org^ms hitherto 
deemed undeniably necessary for the apprehension of all poetry. 
The silence with which Mr. Swinburne's earliest work was received 
is absolutely inexplicable, save by an ^peal to the now generally 
recognised theory that every new singer of any power has to create 
in his hearers the tense by which his productions are enjoyed. By 
no other mcaiu is it jKiiuiblc to minimise the sheer wonder which 
fills the reader of this play when he calls to mind the absolute 
indifference with which such clear notes of pure melody were firrt 
beard. 

In the second scene, laid in the palace at Sheen, the Qucca 



3IO 



The Genitetnan's Magazine. 



appeals to Bouchard lo sid her in the pureuit of Rosamond. He 
consents after much hcsiuiion, and departs on hearing the Tootsteps 
of ihe approaching King. The third, which is at Woodstock, opens 
with a bulilos song in old-world French, which falls u t^urally 
from the pen of the poet aa it might hav« done from the lips of his 
heroine. The fourth scene is in an ante^hapel at Sheen, in which 
the Qucvn and Boucliard [>1ot, while the choir-bojr rtadi aloud a 
Latin hymn and reflects on the beautjr of Roamorvd. The final 
scene in the Bower exhibits Mr. Swinburne's power of dramatic 
ciprcssion at its highest. In this scene he docs not adopt the 
method of (he Greek diamatists, which he elsewhere thrice employs, 
of making a witness of the catastrophe a dcscribcr of the crcnt. The 
reader b a spectator of the fatcrul meeting of Rosamond and Eleanor, 
and of tlic death of the former in tlie arms of the King. Those who 
delight in comparative criticism will fmd an additional pleasure in 
this play hy contrastiitg the Ircaiment of the theme in this scene with 
that of Mr. Bell Soott as given in his hallad of ■■ Woodslodc XUte." 
The student of these poems will note that in both a fine efl«ct is 
wrought by depicting the mddcn change which takes pUce in 
Rosamond's Joyful expectancy of Henr/s approach by the unlookod- 
for appearance of I'^Icanor, 

Thus ends a volume which has not yet reccivc<d its meed of praise 
a volume containing dramatic poetry of a quality more closely akin 
to the music which filled "the spacious limes of great Eiiiabetb " 
than that of any singer from the days of ShakesjKare to the days 
of Shelley. 

RAMSAY COUJfS. 




TABLE TALK, 



COMPIKSATtOH FOR THK DESTRUCTION OF NATURAL BeAUTY. 

IN common with most worshippers of natural beauty I express 
constantly my fear lest the conditions of modem life may end 
in tl>e total disappearance of certain species of animal and plant life. 
In regard to the preservation of rare birds public interest b iilicady 
aroused, and measures for their protection — futile as yet, but destined 
before long, as I hope, to be successful— are beiitg carried ouL \Vhh 
plants things are diiferent. Humanity, according to our present 
Tten, is not concerned with their preservation. Innumerable species 
which M-erc once widely distributed are now confined lo a few 
localities, and cannot gladden tlic eye of those unprepared to take a 
long journey or undertake earnest explorations. Once more I take 
as my authority and instructor the Kcv. John Vaughan, an ardent 
naturalist who writes on plant life in Lofigma>fs Ma^aunt. A few 
Species only of flowen have become extinct in these islands, but many 
btve become greatly reduced in numbers and arc only to be found 
with difficulty. The causes responsible for the diminution of flower 
life include modern conditions of agriculttire — especially diaii>ag&— 
the enclosure of commons, the stubhing-up of hedgerows, and the 
tntosplantaiion into gardens and nurseries " of showy species tike 
frilillary and Da^kne mesereum" to which let me add flowers so 
common even a« foi^o\-e and various species of fem.'t. The fancy 
for associating with the memory of deceased celebrities fiowers such 
as the primrose —lowanls which one statesman thus honoured appears 
to have been profoundly indiRercnt — causes terrible ravage in planta- 
tion and hedgerow. The primrose is hardy and persistent in growth, 
taad Heaven forbid that spring should forget to throw it on every 
bank as a diallenge to winter. I never sec tlie bulrush, once a 
cooaiant delight. It is pulled up by yokels to be sold in the street 
and appeal to public sentiment like a caged skylark. For tiic last 
meadow-sweet that I saw growing in profusion I had to go to South 
Wales. 



il 



312 



Gentleman's Afagasine. 
Britain's New Klora. 



UNDER conditions luch as I mention and deplore, it ib ; 
to find tlmt if we are losing many old wild flowers we are 
gaining some ttiAt are new. Mr. Vaughan is still my informant, and 
will not, I am sur<.-^ grud)^ me the use of the stores of knowledge he 
has acctimulftlud. A Inig;.- number of novelties are indeed revealed 
to the experienced botanist. Some, it is held, were brought over by 
the Romans, and others by the Crusaders, Others, again, " owe their 
existence to the old monastic herb-gardens, among which may be 
mentioned the birthworl, the mastcrwort, the wild hyssop (still 
growing on the walls of Bcaulicu AbbcyX and perhaps the wild 
mercury, formerly used as a pot-hcrbt" Ndthet the larkspur nor the 
wallRowcr, though the latter is now completely naturalised and 
probably dates back to Roman times, is indigenous. The lovely 
Ivy-leaved toad-flax, to be found within eight or ten miles of London, 
was two centuries ago a garden plant. Aliens also ate " the splendid 
red valerian— so conspicuous on the grey walls of Winchester Cathe- 
dral, of Porchester Castle, and other historic buildings — and the rare 
Dianlhut ptumarhtt, the origin of the garden pinks." America lias 
tent us many " interesting species," the mimulus by which some of 
ourxtreams are almost choked, aitd the bistort or snakeweed. To 
conclude my plundering from Mr. Vaughan, I will say that he points 
out how rapidly a plant that once establishes iuelf in Great Britain 
is dilTused. The Canadian pond-weed, Anaekaris alsinaitrum, was 
detectt'd in 1836 in County Down, in 184a it was reported from 
Berwick -on -Twc^ed, in 1847 it vras found in LeJoestersliire and 
Hampshire, two years later it was in the Trent and in Cambridgc- 
^irc, and since then " it has npidly spread through ponds at>d 
can»t.s and sluggiali streams mer ihc whole of Great Hrittin." nierc 
is at least the coniohtdon that, whatever may be the extent of human 
ravage the productive forces of Nature are not yet seriously 
impaired. 

SVLVAinJS CRBAM. 



THE 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 

April 1902. 



^ 
^ 

^ 



THE WHITE FETICH. 

By H. Stuakt-Bakek. 

""V/ES," jaid John Gilthwaitc, glancing round the room, half 

X study, half library, and letting his eyes roam from the huge 
dk's bomi over the door to the omamenut cabinets against the 
waBs, " there are curios in this room from most parts of the world/' 

John Gilthwaile is pretty well known to the general public His 
renown as an explorer, a hunter of big game, and scout in the Boer 
spar has sprt^d far and wide, and his book, wliicli, muclj against 
his will, he was persuaded to write, is widely read and quoted, so 
that neatly my friend needs little iutroduclion. Short in stature, a 
taob tanned and bronied by exposure, two blue eyes twinkling from 
under bushy eyebrows, a short, stubbly beard, and a white, scarred 
cbeek (a reminiscence of a white rhinocetM up Unpnievesi way), 
such was John Gilthwaite a-t he lay back and rocked himself in 
his long cane chair, while the wtiicr pried among the collection 
of curiosities in his cabinets. ^Vith no wife and family to bear 
him company, be lived a soliUry life at hts little place— pan fanu, 
part shooting-box — sittiatod among the moors in the north of York- 
shire, where be roamed over the heather and through the &lubble 
" keeping his hand in," as he termed his shooting. 

It was my lirst visit to Caldon Manor, and a great delight it was 
to DK to examine the spoils he bad collected in his many journeys 
and adventures. 

There were hideous idols of all sbcs, some gaily gilded and 
painted and even studded with gems ; others simply grotesque figures 
moulded out of clay or mud. I lifted out a sheaf of slender reed 
arrows, tabdied "dangerous," and asked Gilthwaitc respecting 
ibem. 

VOL, CCXCIl. KO. >0i& Z 



The GtnitemavCs Magaxine. 




304 



die astonishing statement that " the imitation [in this pby] is 
dooe, the fjiulu so many, and tlw style so little individual, as ui 
make the work unimportant." Here is a passage from ttus £itihy 
vsA unimportant work, which proves that, as " the ear should be 
long to measure Shakespeare," faults may be found in the melodies 
of Swinburne undlscoverable by those who are not endowed ti; 
Nature with the hirsute appendages requisite for the task of adtju- 
dicaCing on its merits. 

Catherine thus condudei her appeal to Denisc : 

1 icll thee, God ia wIn and tbon twice fool. 
Thai WDuldn Kbtc God con thcc by lotc, uid lay 
TMt chuGc on Owe, shtfi off ilut otiici chuge. 
And nwic thlno inwud Lnchct <k\ liy rule 
Tlutt \iaS& the oMHiue of iphcnd wodds in it 
And limit gf potl lUn. 

Here arc a few lines from a speech by Margaret : 

There u no crown i' th« world 
So good u pftticDce ; neither ii any pcM« 
Thai Gtxl puts in oui tips to drink as wiae. 
More hrjney-fiurc, more wuilhy love's owo prane, 
Tlian that iwttt-iuiiUil cnduomcc which imkM cteut 
The iron huidi of anger. 

And, again, words from the Ups of Charles : 

I would luivc you pilkful ui tern, 

Would have you fill with pily as the mMn 

With pcifecl round at ticaionable ^old 

Fillt hei iluvcd adea at pc^nl of the yellow Dsoalh. 



Dcnise is a ^r and gracious figurt^ but with^ ** a creature occ 
too bright or good for human nalw^ dlDy food " in a period wfaid) 
vaunted not the virtue of any woman save that of the "naidav- 
tongued, male-faced Eliiabeth." Nerertheless, " her hands are 
quicker unto good " than are those of any other daughter of the 
poet's imagination sa>-e the ficckless child of Erechtheus and 
Prauthea. She has the strength of soul which is one of the cfaiof 
qualities of Mr. Swinburne's women. Her inability to stem the 
torrent of evil does not breed in bcr despair ; nay, rather the cahn 
endurance o( 

One maimed and dumb 
That lees hii house bum. 




Mr. Swinburms First Drama. 



305 



At the worst she accepts the apparent iriumpb of ill in silence, or 
acknowledges resignedly the painrul truth that 

Atl raalten bll oul Kitncbow in God'» notli. 
And luund the o^iuuM edge* of then) Sol. 

She is feuless and filled with the divine Icnw: of freedom which 
is characteristic of all later creations of the same liand. Sh« sees 
that 

Nol the things thai bum up cicnf make hell. 
Not pain, h«te, evil, actual shame or seme, 
But jun Dig lewd obedience, the (lesid woih, 
The be*l«a torice of ft bwtcn w«£e 
Thftl gcti DO re«.ping. 



And that 



TU bcitet be whole begsiii, and h«»e flesh 
Thai is but pinched by wcalliei out cif brctih, 
Than ■ nfc sIhvc wilh happf blood i' the chwk 
And wrisu ungklled. 



She loves freedom with an undivided love, j'ct would tistc its loss 
to win the self approving mind without which freedom itself wer« 
nothing. With alt her fiery forcefulncss, she is "tender as sun- 
smitten dew." In her fruitless endeavour to hold Charles back from 
evil, she appeals to him on behalf of all tlie heljilcss many on whom 
he would " set iron murder to feed full " in words that almost change 
the current of his actions, bidding him remember 

How \a nch foot and atnm vfthai flesh 
That mallea the bod; of tile wont nun vp 
There went the very pain and the Bune lore 
That out of Idve and pnln cooipounded you 
A (ncce of such rwh'i culh 1 that all of IheM 
Feel, l>realhc, and laslc, luuve and aatutc and tieepi 
No leu than you, iind in each little um 
Divide (he catlumt that yourself endure ; 
And ate fo conly thai the worst of these 
Was wonh GodV time to linish. 

Charles the King is the Charles of history. " Infirm of purpose," 
he is a pipe played upon allvmatcly by the Queen-Mother and 
Dcnise. Full of the plot, he most needs tell Dcnise of it : 

. . . Thii BftEthotomew ihall be iuscn'bed 

BeyonJ Iho Rnst : the laller tpeeeh of time 

Shall ijurnch and t»al:e otiUviout war upon 

I The f'lTincc »ni1 tlefcated memarlol, 

yoL. ecxcii. no. 2055. T 




306 



The GeniUntatis Magaxute. 



Kc« hittoriet ♦"'■*""g H. For tbere will be 
Blood »dA Ibe nonl, mtinely tip of dcfttb. 
And in the diuty biinga of hii boon 
A tnddto murow thtll nfrtah iti«tf 
And spcttid to patfKt tiiinr. There will Mil 
Etea in lh« rtd uid boOow he*t of l>«tl 
A motion Of ihaip tpbit, « <)uiekcncd acBSc 
Such u mnc makes in us ; pea, nch a dxy 
God tuitb not teen as I iball nutkc fu« bim. 

Thtt shallow, babbling fool mutt n«eds consider himseir, u fools 
arc wont to do, God's chosen instrument. His vacUlatioD and 
timidity arc as strongly iiurked u his subsequent greed for bloocL 
and tbroi^out the range of Mr, Swinbume's <ban»s theie b oothing 
more admirable than the truth and justice with which he is depicted, 
if sonic slight demur be not made in favour of the broader and 
more powerful figure of John Knox in " EolhwcU," Charles's inte- 
views with Dcnise and the great scene with Catherine in the second 
act ate the roost forcible and eloquent passages in this most marrcl- 
lous of all first productions. To call the play eloquent is but poor 
praise. It is remarkable alike for the force and fidelity with which 
the characters are drawn and the high quality of the poetry which 
[Jcnndcs it throughouL Mr. Stedman lightly says that the Style is 
caugltt from Sliakespcare, "as if the youth's pride of intellect would 
let him go no lower for a motlel," and he instances the language tA 
Tcligny, Act iiJ. Scene a, and that of Catherine, Act v. Scene 3, 
quoting the following linw in support of his assertion ; 

Surely the wind would be u ■ boid fire, 
And llic >«'a yellow sod iliittmiMi^ (iMm 
UisplESU llii ^ia;p^ hcsvoa . . . 



, . . Towco taA p^nlor ttroeu 

Should fn (be middle ipcen nnother and drown, 

And havoc die with fulnesi. 

This can be traced also in the other passage selected by the same 
critic, the lines in which Charles says of Denise : 

She is all while to the dead haii, who wu 
So full of gracious rose llie air took colour 
Tamed to a kiss a£,uni1 hcf face. 



Of the rest it may be said that ** the name is graven on the vorl:- 
tnanship " ; for instance, on such verses as the following 1 



Mr, Swinbum^s First Drama. 



307 



Ot 



Or 



Or 



I would noi hnve ■ lottdi ofjrou 
Upon me jumcwhere ; ot » word of foun 
To make oil music Uiipid in my tax. 
The least Niss ever pul upon yoat lipt 
Would pal toe this tide hcsven. to tive there. 



God g^vcs him pninful bread, uu) for itll wine 
Doth Iced bimon ihupsall ofsiiiiple lean. 



By God, how ftJr you arel 
Ii does amuc me i turcly God fell (Iftd 
The d*y he lioi^hcd nicking you. Eh, SwMt, 
Vou hafe llic e)ee mco chooie to poinl, you know ; 
And just lh«l scdl nan in the lilllc throat 
And bluith colour in ibc lower lid 
They make niati lAdt. 



Ilowwe'er Ibcir fiue m Tiiends with yon, 
With IK ihey will Ijut face lu murdcrert do 
Tbnl live between ihe sharpening of 1 knife 
And the knife's edge embrued. 



I 

I 



Or finally the last line of the foUoving three : 

Hafk I I heal «hols ; as God shall pity me, 
I hctrd a shot. Who dies of that ? yea, now, 
Wio tie* uid moaos and mokes lomc inches red ? 

In the first scene of the second act will be found the eaitifK 
mention in Mi. Swinburne's verse of that world of waters of which be it 
never weaned in singing the praises, and which seetns to have satisfled 
the " strange yearning " " that the sea feeU " by having breathed ita 
breath upon his verse and left its odour there. Few, indeed, and not 
to be envied, are those who can read for the first lime the line that 
speaks of "the sea's salt insolence " and not fed exhilaration and 
delight akin to the emotion created by a sight of the shore afler 
years of eidle on some inland iract. 

Of the old French lyrics in this play and in " Rosaownd," let 
those speak with authority who can. Everyone who has read Mr. 
Siednun's book will remember the poet's own statement as lhei« 
given : " I confess that I uke dchght in the metrical forms of any 
language of which I know anything whatever, simply for the metre's 
sake, as a new musical instrument" No matter in what tongue the 
verse may be, in Mr. Swinburne's hands its melodies arc sweet : 



308 



The GcntUmans MagaziN4. 



" ]»«rcing svrect," whether the trumpet of Rome or the Grecian flnte 
be foi the lime the tnstninient of his choice. 



" Rosamond " is a short oae«ct play in five scenes, but even is 
such it will bear comparison with the otore ambitious study of the 
same subject by the late laureate. Mr. Swinburne's sketch of "noi 
Rose the chaste, but Roae the fair," difim from the clabonilc 
poRiait by Lotd Tennyson in characteristics which alone render the 
younger poet's women the truest and, therefore, the most powcrfitl 
creations in modem poetry- &nce Realrice de Cenci lived anew in 
Shelley's pages, no luind hu succeeded in delineating in English > 
woman worthy to be ranked with those drawn by him who baa it 
filled with fire the veins of Mary Stuart. Save Ai's and the one 
woman in all SbcUcy's verse, none can be likened to "one of 
Shakespeare's women," Lord Tennyson's heroir>c, when corapaied 
with Mr. Swinburne's, is indeed "a doll-face bUnchcd and blood- 
less" ; and there is not throughout "Bcckct" a single line which 
brings the Queen before our eyes with half the force of that early 
poem, from the same liand, whidt seems lit with the lurid ^ow dl 
the " dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor." 

Placed in a secondary and subordirute position to " The Qoceo- 
Mother," it is nevertheless probable that " Rosamond " shoukl take 
prior rank when judged from a chronological standpoinL If it be 
indeed the earlier work, one (act is adducihie therefrom which cannot 
fail to interest all lovers of this poet-laureate of childhood ; the Gict 
that in his earliest work the poet's love of children, which a certsta 
wise man of the North would have the world bdievc is the growth of 
later years, found full and perfect expression when the writer had 
but for three years' space assumed the title of manltood. 

Da you loie cliildicti 7 (ukt RoMmcini)]. 

Does it touch your blood 

To MC Cod'f woid finiihcd ui i child'j bee 

For us to touch and handle ? Statu it sweet 

To h&vc sucb ibingi in the vrorld to hold and \uati 

No need is there to have " tender woman's face " for sucb words 
as these to " touch our blood "; they pn»-e to man and woman alike 
die presence of that future claimant to " half u note from Blake " 
which bestows on its possessor a right to rank with those whose glory 
it is to have sung in faultless verse the praises of infoncy, and given 
a voice to the incfTable joys and sorrows of humanity in its tnaniculaM^ 
dawn. 



i 




Mr. Swinburne's First Drama. 



309 



The dramatis persona of tbis play consist of Rosamond and hcc 
maid Constance, Queen Eleanor and Sir Robert Bouchard her 
paramour, the King and Arthur, a choir-boy of the church at Sheen. 

The first scene opens with an abruptness which is admirably 
dramatic. The greater portion is fittinyl)' devoted to an eloquent 
defence by Rosamond of her own beauty, which she declares renders 
ber 

Put of the perfect witness for the world 
How good it is. 

She dwells with deep delight upon the edects wrought by her 
physical loveliness, a reflection of which she sees alike in Henry's 
love and in the jealousy of the Court beauties, whose enmity that 
love has won her. She speaks of herself as one 

. . . Whose cuHiij hair wis as a strong iioked net 
To lake th<; hunltri and Ihc hunt, mi bind 
Fiwes And feel .tn'i hands ; ■ ^nUen ^ 
Wherein the titwn7-iidde<l tions fell. 
Broken at imkle. . . . 



i, again, in words full of colour itnd melody : 

I (hit have rosei in my name, and make 
All dowcis glad to ^et Ihrir colour by ; 
I that hate held a Land between twin lija 
And turned large England In a Utile kiss; 

God thinks not of me as conlcniptible. . . ■ 

To read such lines as these Is to remember them with joy for 
ever. It is customary to dismiss " Rosamond " with a few cold, 
critical words, commendatory of the style and condemnatory of its 
extravagance — words which convey a false impression of the drama, 
while they give a true conception of the cdtic, inasmuch as they 
demonstrate the total absence in him of eye and car, organs hitherto 
deemed undeniably necessary for the apprehension of all poetry. 
The silence with which Mr. Swinburne's earliest work was received 
is absolutely inexplicable, save by an appeal to the now generally 
recognised theory that every new singer of any power has to create 
in hia bearers the sense by which his productions are enjoyed. By 
no other means is it possible to minimise the sheer wonder which 
fills the reader of this play when he calls to mind the absolute 
indifTerence with which such clear notes of pare melody were first 
heard. 

In the second scene, laid in the palace at Sheen, the Quceo 



310 



Tke Genilematis Magazin«. 




4{^)e*ls to Bouchard to aid her in the punuit of Rosamood. He 
conaenis after much hesitation, Mid defnns on hearbg the fooisMpi 
of the approaching KiDg. I'he third, which is at Woodstock, openi 
with a Eaulilcss sor% in old-world French, which falls as natinally 
from the pen of the poet ss it might have done from the lips of hit 
heroine. The fourth scene is in an antc-chapel ai Sheen, in which 
the Queen and Bouchard plot, while the choir-boy reads aloud ■ 
l^tin hymn and reflects on the beauty of Rosamond. The final 
scene in the Bower exhibits Mr. Swinhume's power of drainalic 
expression at its highest. In this scene he does not adopt the 
method of the Greek dramatists, which he e!»ewhcre thrice employe 
of making a witness of the catastiophe a dcscn'bcr of the event. The 
render is a spectator of the fateful meeting of Rosamond and Eleanor, 
and of the death of the former in the arms of the Kii^. Those who 
delight in comparative criticism will find an additional pleasure tn 
this play by contrasting the treatment of the theme in this scene with 
that of Mr. ficll Scon as given in his ballad of " Woodstock Hate.' 
The student of these poems will note that in both a fine eieet is 
wrought by depicting the sudden change whicli lakes place ia 
Rosamond's joyful expectancy of Henry's ^}proacli by the tinlookcd- 
foT appearance of Eleanor. 

Thus ends a volume which has not yet received its meed of praise, 
a volume containing dramatic poetry of a quality more closely akin 
to the music which filled "the spacious times of great Eliiabetb" 
than that of any singer from the days of Shakespeare to the dtn 
of Shelley. 

RAMSaV CX>L1£S. 



« 

1 

I 




TABLE TALK. 






COMPBNSATION FOR TBB DESTRUCTION QV NATUKAt BeAUTV. 

IX common with most wonbippcrs of natural beauty I express 
coQsUntly my fear lest the conditions of modern life may end 
in the total disappearance of certain species of aninni and plant life. 
In regard to the presen-ation of rare birds public interest u already 
aroused, and measures for their protection — futile as yet, but destined 
before long, as I hope, to be successful— are being carried out. ^Vith 
plants things are different. Humanity, according to our present 
views, is not concerned with their preservation. Irmumenible species 
which were once widely distributed are now confined to a few 
localities, and cannot gladden the eye of those unprepared to lake a 
long journey or undertake earnest explorations. Once more I take 
as my authority and instructor the Rev. John Vaughan, an ardent 
naturalist who writes on plant life in Lotigmait's Magastne. A few 
species only of flowers have become extinct in these islands, but many 
have become greatly reduced in numbers and are only to be found 
with difficulty. The causes responsible for the diminution of Sower 
life include modern conditions of agnculture — especially drainage^ 
the enclosure of commons, the stubbing-up of hedgerows, and th« 
transplantation into gardens and nurseries " of shony species like 
fritillary and Daphne meuwtum," to which let mc add flowers so 
common even as foxglow and rarious species of ferns. The fancy 
for associating with the memory of deceased celebrities flowers such 
as the primrose— towards which one sutesman thus honoured appears 
to have been profoundly indilferent — causes terrible ravage in planta- 
tion and hedgerow. The primrose is hardy and persistent in growth, 
and Heaven forbid that spring should forget to throw it on every 
bank as a challenge to winter. I never see the bulrush, once i. 
consunt delight. It is pulled up by yokels to be sold in the street 
and appeal to public sentiment like a caged skylark. For the last 
meadow-sweet that I saw growing in profuMOn I bad to go to South 
Wales. 




312 



The GeHtUmmCs A/agasine. 



Britaik's New Flora. 

UNDER conditions sudi as t mention and deplore, it is pi 
to find that if we are losing many old wild flowers ore are 
gaining some that are new. >fr. Vaughan is still my informant, and 
will not, I Am Kure, grudge me the use of the stoies of knowledge he 
has acoimulaicd. A liirgc num1>er of novelties are indeed revealed 
to the experienced hotnnist. Somi^ it is held, were brought o^-et by 
tlic Romans, and others by the Cruadcrs, Others, again, " owe their 
existence to the old monastic hcrl>gardens, among which may be 
mentioned the birthwort, the masterwort, the wild hyssop (still 
growing on the walls of Bcaulicu Abbey), and perhaps the wild 
mercury, formerly used as a pot-herbt" Ndther tbe larkspur nor Ac 
wallflower, though the latter is now completely naturalised ami 
probably dates back to Roman times, is indigenous. The lovdy 
ivy-leaved toad-flax, to be found within eight or ten miles of Londoo, 
was two centuries ago a garden plant. Aliens also are " the splent&d 
red valerian— so conspicuous on the grey walls of Winchester Cathe- 
dral, of Porchester Caslte, and other historic buildings — and the rare 
Gianihiti plumarius, the origin of the garden pinks." America his 
sent us many "interesting species," the mimulus by which some of 
our .itreamK are almost choVed, and the bistort or snakeweed. To 
conclude my plundering from Mr. Vau^han, 1 wilt say that he poiaii 
out how rapidly a plant tliat once establishes itself in Great Britain 
is diffused. The Canadian pond-weed, Anaeiiarii altintutrumt "" 
detected in 1S36 in County Down, in 1S43 it was reported Inxa 
Berwick-on-Tweed, in 1847 it was found in l^ccstershire and 
Hampshire, two years Inter it was in the Trent and in Cambridge- 
shire, and since then "it has rapidly spread through ponds and 
canals and sluggish streams over the whole of C!rcat Britain." There 
is at least the consolation that, whatever may be the extent of huinan 
ravage, the productive forces of Nature are not yet seriouily 
impaired. 

SVLVAMUS URBAN,. 



( 



THE 




I 
I 



GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 

April 1902. 



THE WHITE FETICH. 



Br H. Stuart-Baker. 



" "\7ES," said John Gilthwaitc, glancing round the room, lialf 

X study, half library, and letting his eyes roam from the huge 
elk's horns over the door to the ornamental catHnels against the 
walls, " there are curios in this room from most paru of the world." 

John Gilthwalte is pretty well known to the general public. His 
renown as an explorer, a hunter of big game, and scout in the Boer 
war has spread far and wide, and his book, which, much against 
his will, he was persuaded to write, is wide!/ read and quoted, so 
that really my ffiend needs little intro<!uc[ion. Short in stature; a 
face tanned and bronzed by exposure, two blue eyes twinkling from 
under bushy eyebrows, a short, stubbly beard, and a while, scarred 
cheek (a reminiscence of a white rhinoceros up Unyameresi way), 
such was John Ciilihwaitc as he lay back and rocked himself in 
his long cane chair, while the writer pried among the collection 
of curiosities in his cabinets. ^Viih no wife and family to bear 
him company, he lived a solitary life at his little place— part farm, 
pari shooting-box — situated among the moors in the north of York- 
shire, where he roamed over ihe heather and liirough the slubble 
"keeping his hand in," as he termed his shooting. 

It was my first visit to Caldon Manor, and a great delight it was 
to me to examine the spoils he had collected in his many journeys 
and adventures. 

There were hideous idols of alt sizes, some gaily gilded and 
painted and even studded with gems; others simply grotesque dgureii 
moulded out of clay or mud. 1 lifted out a sheaf of slender reed 
anows, labelled "dangerous," and asked (Jilthwaitc respecting 
them. 

voi:. ocxat. x<x M5G. 2 



3"4 



Tkt CentUman's Magazine. 



" They're the devil's own mapooj, otd wan," he leluroed ; " the 
least scratch with one of those would send you to 'ktngdocn come.' 
You'd roll on the floor and writhe like a man with hjrdropbobia, and 
then your body wouM iweU until it was n mass of corraptiotL Oh, 
they're very demons, those little dwarfs who made 'cm,' and be 
resumed his pipe, while 1 carefully rcpUced ihc deadly airows. 

Curiously shaped swords and daggers, dainty is-ory carvings of 
pagodas and junks, the writingtof bygone ages on slabs of wood and 
stooc^ the burial cloths of a people who lived long before Moses was 
lifted from the bulrushes, such were some of the contcnu of my 
rrteT>d's cabinets. 

" Nice weapon, tbb I " I called to him, whirling a kriss, that cue 
through the air with a murderous swish. 

"Ay," answered my friend quietly, "there's soxn men's life 
blood on its hhde." 

'I stopped my iword exercise, and |)ut the weapon in its place 
ifam, not without a shudder as I noticed the brown cncrttsution on 
ttbstecl. 

" When I was at Singapore in 'Sv," continued Gilthwaite, " a b^, 
ttaked half-breed, part Malay and the rest a mixture, ran amuck. 
He was mad with drink and jealousy, for I fancy a little o)Hiun-d«n 
hmiri had thrown him over for an opulent Chinaman, Axtyhow, he 
slatted down the main street of the town «rith a lust for blood in bis 
eyes. ' He saw red,' as we used to say. Fonunately I was able to 
slip into Sampson's store before he reached me, and u he went 
flying past I put a bullet into him at twenty yards that sent him 
tumbling over and over like a buck nbbit. His victims totalled up 
seven, to say nothing of a number of sliced laces and limbs. Why 
the place was like a shambles. Eugh 1 " 

"What's this, John?" I enquired, when he related the history of 
the kriss, taking up some rolled sheets of paper from one of the 
shelves. He turned his head and laughed when he saw wlvat I w^is 
holding up. 

"Bring It over here, old man," he replied, "and III tell yoa 
how it fell into my hands. There's only a couple of sheets of 
paper, but they contain a very curious story, and where the writer of 
it is I shouldn't like to say. Now," he went on, straightening the 
ctulcd sheets " ^^it do«-n and draw op your chair. You see the 
paper has evidently )>een torn from some bo^k-^thc fly leaves 
probably — and the ink and pen were not of L}'on's and Gillott'a 
manufacture." 

Certainly they were not. 'i"hc paper was brown and water- 



Tht WhiU Fttuk. 



315 



» 



I 



stained, nnd the ink looked fts if it bad l>een concocted from some 
kind of earth, while from the way the writing w« executed, the pen 
must have been a dumsjr affair. 

" Well," commenced Gilthiraite, reh'ghting his pipe, and talcing 
two or three vigorous dtnws to get the weed well alight, "about 
three years ago I was seeking new fields for game. Africa bad been 
so unsettled, that it seemed a.s if all the animals had < trekked ' 
nonhwards, SO the btmter had to do likcwHe. 

" For some months I had been idling away my time at Kimberley, 
letming that confounded game of golf. Do you know, Dick, I've 
been at that game now for over three years and haven't Icamt it yet; 
aod the worst of it is, I can't giro it up. The agony of being 
'bunkered' is about as exasperating as losing a fine 'tusker' all 
through your boy running away with your spare guns, or your 
'double-barrel ' getting jammed at the critical moment I do really 
believe Td rather go round the links eight holes up than s)>oot the 
finest lion in Nj-anca. 

"Well, as I was saying, 1 was at Kimberley, and at bst got sick 
of the eternal breakfast — golf; lunch— golf ; dinner — club, whisky, 
billiards. I began to feel as if the place wasn't big enough for mc. 
I wanted to be where 1 could siretcli out my arms, throw back my 
head and yawn, with a ttiousand miles of veldt and forest between mc 
and dvilisaiion. Towakea.t the sun lifted above the plain, tingcing 
the leaves with gold, and to hear the far-off roar of a bc»ncward- 
bound lion, or the trumpeting of an elephant at it« morning bath, 
and to have the smelt of a new land in my nostrils. So one 
rooming 1 started, and leaving my wagons at Kstongo, I crossed 
the Leeba in company with four natives (three Kafirs and a 
Hottentot, the idlest, dirtiest scamp in the Colony— so I thought at 
that time), and got on almost ur>cxploied territory. For a week we 
cut and hacked our way throogh. a iorcal. It was dense as midnight, 
with noxious vapours rising from our feet at every step, and pHckly 
creepers and thorny bushes impeding our progress, so that when we 
did emerge on the pbin we were pretty well done up^ I can assure 
you. The Kafirs were as lean as the leanest rat, while the 
Hottentot, who had been alternately ' booted ' and cajoled to get 
Hm along, was in a mortal funk, and 'yowled' and yelled and 
danced about like a madman, bewailing the day he was born, and 
cursing the mother that bore him, till the unewy foot of one of the 
Kafirs laid him low and slO|)ped his cries. 

"Then, of course, down I must go willi fever, waking out of 
my delirium about once a day with just sufficient strength to dose 

I a 



3i6 



Tk^ CeniiemaHS Magazine. 



mficM villi Soodali's Fner Dniighu and quiniiK, both oT which 
I had in my liltlc mcdidne case. 

" In a week's rime, however, I pulled round, though fearfully 
weak. Old Cobu— ' monkey fwx,' I colled him — was my ligbt-hand 
nun, and without him I don't expect I should have recovered, for 
thou^ be wasn*t a ftnc hand with a riSc, he managed to keep us 
in food, and there \m'i a (Af/ in London who can turn out such 
•trengthening meucs as he did, even though his material was only a 
ftKCulent lizard or a bloated frog. 

"There were plenty of the latter at haitd, for clotse by the edge 
of the foreu was a marsh bang full of 'em, and when you've once 
heard a concat of frogs youll give up thinking of music, young 
num. The beggars would entertain us every evening, about the 
time wc were wooing sleep ai>d ctirsing the mo«quttoes. Boom and 
cioak, boom and croak, and tlieii vanalionx with the ' basso pre- 
dominating,' ax you critics say. Huwe\'CT, when I was suffidcnily 
recovered to look about me, I saw tltat we'd got into a veritable 
ivory country, for the spoors were Iveavy and numerous. The only 
drawback was the forest, and how I should get the stu6f through 
that (o Kalongo, where I'd left the carts, I couldn't imagine. One 
day, about a month after our arrit:al on the plain, I strolled out 
Irora the camp towards il>e west— a direction I had not taken 
before — in the hopes of iralting a ' kadoo^' for tbc larder was getting 
low. 

" I must have gone about eight miles when I suddenly came upon 
a native village. I was all alone, having IcK tlic others engaged in 
digging a pit for an old brute of an elephant wlio came every erenii^ 
around our camp and joined with the frogs in disturbing our rest, 
but who was u-ary enough to cleat olT before I could get a shot 
at him. 

" Well, there stood the village, with a stockade of thorny mimosa 
Burrounding it, and looking at a distai>ce like a. colony of anthills. 
I should think there must have been a hundred kraals, but do 
signs of any inhabitants, save a few ugly vultures that rose laiily and 
flapped off slowly as I pushed through a gap in the stockade and 
entered the village. All was strangely still and silent, and had there 
been signs of a fighl or a fire I should have put it down to the 
Arabs, who oflen cleared out a place and hurried the poor beggars 
off to slavery. 

" But there were no such proofs, and calabashes, boskets, and 

some rude implements used in tilling the patches of ground, lay just 

■Sere they had been cast down after being last used. 1 strolled 



I 



The White FetUk, 



317 






N 



slowly along the path between the huts, peering here and lh«re to 
find a dtte to the mystery, and at length reached the end of the 
street, where stood a kraal larger and more carefully constructed 
than the others. A rush mat covered the entrance, and itll around 
Uy rows upon rows of human bones, some scattered here and there, 
other) piled up with an attempt at some ornamenution. At least 
two hundred skulls grinned at me from all directions, and it was 
with no slight repugnance that I pulled away the mat from the door 
»nd stepped into the hut. By the faint light that came from a hole 
in the roof I could just make out a rush-strewn bed and a low 
wooden seat, but no signs of disorder or recent occupation. It 
puzzled nJc, this deserted village, but on coming out of the kraal my 
foot caught this little roll of papers and kicked it out into daylight 
Picking it up I saw that it was co^'ered with writing, apparently 
EngKsh, so I stuffed it in my pocket, and leaving th« place, went on 
my quest for game. 

" On the right of the village was a thicket of thorny bushes, covers 
ing probably a couple of hundred square yards. Unthinkingly I 
approached it without taking the necessary precaution of making 
sure it was uninhabited, and was within ten yards of the Erst cluster 
of bushes when, with a snort and a hunch of his broad shoulders, a 
big white rhinoceros burst out and caroe ' full tilt ' towards me. 
I've been in a few tight places, but I really don't think I ever was so 
startled, for my thoughts were chiefly taken up with the deserted 
httts. I bad no lime to raise my guit and no time to take aim, so I 
let him have both barrels, shooting from my side where I bad carried 
my gun. 

"The recoil knocked me dean off my feet, and probably sa^-cd 
tny hfe, for with the stench of fifty pigstyes the beast overran my 
t)T0«trate form in his eagerness to annihilate me, imfortunateiy gash- 
ing my check with his horn as he went past. Before he could turn 
1 was on my feel and speeding for the bushes, the blood from tlie 
wound almoxt blinding me. Still I could see that my shot had 
taken effect, for a red stain dyed his greyish-white shoulder, but h« 
wa.s after me with a vengeance, and a nice game of hide and seek we 
played. 

" Fortunately I had picked up my gun, and at last managed to 
ram a couple of cartridges into the barrels, »iA as be came round 
the next conver 1 blew a hole in his skull, for tlu: rai^ was very 
short. You can imagine how thankful I was when I saw him ml 
over, for I was faint and giddy from loss of blood. Ilowe^'er, I 
rigged up a bandage and made the best of my way back to tbe 



3'8 



Tfu G<nikmatt's Magasitu. 



camp, wheie I bad to lajr up for a couptc ol cU)^ During that tinM 
I lemembered the papers I had Tound in the knul, so tiihing them 
out of my pocket, I read them. 

" This is what the)' contain, and I'll read you the story or history, 
whichever you like to call it, because many of the words are almost 
tuideciplierable, but aa I have pcru^rd it a good many limes, I am 
aUe to make them out ;" so saying, he took up the first sheet and 
commenced : 

"If crer these papers fall into the hands of an Englishtna n, will be 
come and saves fellow-country man from this HeU? ^^'bcrc lam I 
know not, save that I am north of the Zambesi. Six months ago, it 
may be more, for, except that daytiglit comes ai>d goes, I have no 
reckoning of time, I was one of a party who went north beyond the 
\jiic.c that is called Moero prospecting. Wc had heard from an old 
witch, a woman of the name of Waiiwa, that 'the ore which is 
yellow ' lay thick around Moero, so I, wiili two men of the South 
Africa Comiwiny's sen-ice stationed at Buluwayo, set off to enrich 
ourselves, taking with us the old hag, Wanwa. For days and vredu 
we journeyed, feeding In the 'kraals' of the natives, and living as 
they lived. On and on we pushed, footsore and gaunt, but ever with 
the golden prospect before us. 'llicn we reached a village belonging 
to a kinsman of the woman, and sta)*cd there for several weeks until 
we had somcnhat recovered our strength. Il was strange that the 
presence of the old hag was sufficient protection for us white tnoi 
among those savage hordes, but at c\-cry village wc stayed at great 
respect and awe was shown her, and the fearful and wonderful magic 
she worked al the wild orgies and bloody feasts, I tremble at it now. 
My eyes shine red and my stomach sickens as I see again the head- 
less bodies, and the red blood spurting and Sowing hoi and Cast 
from her victims. I swear to God that with my own eyes I saw 
huge honis grow out from one of the severed heads, and the light- 
ning come and go at her command, and strike down all she bade it. 
But even her witchcraft could not kee]> her from death, for as we 
slept by the Great Forext, a lion leaped out of the darkness, and 
dragged the wrinkled, wicked body of Wanwa to her doom. Without 
a protector, witliout n guide, miles from a white man's dwelling, and 
with a horde of blacks eager to gorge their devilish appetites with out 
flesh, wc stood like men bereft, three of us — ^Joho AViUiamson, 
Isaac Glavcs, and Thomas Moxon, who now writes, perhaps, his dying 
story. Little food we had, and no weapons, save a bow and a few 
arrows that had belonged to Wanwa. We dare iwt turn back — we 
daic not go forward. Hunger assailed us, and my two companions 



I 
I 



The WhiU Feiuk. 



3'9 



ate like ravening wolves of the berries on the buEbes, and died 
writhing in hideout agony, and I was left alone. Fever was fast set- 
ting its hand on mc, and raging and cursing, I rushed in Tright thiouf;h 
the thicket, and decjxir, ever ileq>CT into the gloom of the forest. 
Voices called me from iis depths — sweet voices that spoke of peace, 
test, joy, happiness. The sound of bells — clear, chiming belts — 
seemed to ring from the trees, and I was at home, in dear old 
England, with the village bells calling, calling. Then my wander- 
ing brain cleared, and I found myself in a little dell, dark and 
gloomy, but with something thai showed mc human foot had 
trodden there." 

Here the first sheet ended, and my friend took up the second, 
and continued to read : 

" Standing on a rough hewn log was a little idol, not more than 
a foot in height. Its features were carved in hideous mockery to 
resemble a woman, and the whole was plastered wiUi a kind of white 
mud, so that it showed out vividly amid the gloom of the forest. 
Ttie thing, inanimate as it was, startled me, and I screamed like a 
frightened child, until, I suppose, the fevei gripped mc again, and I 
fell to the ground at the foot of the log. and lay there unconscious of 
evtiythii^ I awoke throbbing in every nerve, and wcl through 
with the drip of the damp and stagnant rcgeution. The ttecs 
rustled) artd shed their moisture like rain, but all around mc was the 
rush of paneling, naked feet, as they beat the caith in their circling 
dance. 

"I peered into the daikncss with weary eyes (for I cared not but 
to die), and saw a host of wild, black, silent figures jumping and 
hopping, circling Easter and faster round the log at whose foot I lay, 

"Suddenly, a tall, black iigurc rushed from the midst of the 
whirling dancers, and approached the little white god, dumbly 
^sticulaiing with its arms. Closer and closer the figure came, until 
I thought that it must stumUe over my prostrate form, but as it 
reached me, it bowed its body lo the earth, and 1 felt two hands 
clutch my tattered clotliing. 

" The horror was on me, and I rent the silence with shrieks, 
like tho«e of a hysterical woman. The black figures stopped their 
circling darKc and stood aghast, but the dim whose harvds were on 
me dragged me to my feet, and held mc as in a vice. 

" Then I looked into two fierce, green eyes, shining like 
emeralds, and iiceming to tear my very soul from mc. In vain I 
tried to turn my gaie from those awful eyes, but they were rifM:tcdon 
mine, and pierced deep into my brain. At last tliey turned from me 



320 



Tlu GefUlemaHS Magasim. 



towards ibe motionless wot^hippcrs, and then I san- that my captor 
was a woman. Tiill as the tallest man I had ever seen, naked ai the 
mother Eve, and with skin black and shining Ukc ebony, she held 
me, as she will always bold mc until I kill her. Oh, for the day 
when I dare grasp her coarse throat, and choke I 

" I lieard no words of command pass her hps, for I again re- 
lapsed into oblivion, and when I fccoTefed I was in a hut, dark and 
hot. On a bed of grasws I lay, naked as when I was bom, while bjr 
my side crouched an old nun, who crooned a dilty, the magic of 
•bicb was, no doubt, to restore me to health. A.s night fell, for 
tfanugh the smoke bole in the roof I could sec the sky, I heard the 
hideous boom of tlic 'tom-toms,' every skin of which bad once_ 
clothed a living body. I taw the red glare of the fires mount hif 
and higher in the sky, litigcing it with a bloody hue. I sntclled agaia j 
the awful, earthy scent of blood, and heard the cry of the girls 
demncd to die for the fetich of the feast, and the rush of dandu 
feet, and the clang of shields like the roar of clashing cymbals. 
Then the din ceased, and all was still and silent as the gni\'«. The 
n^ mat before the door of the hut was drawn away, and the 
woman with the eyes of a beast came towards me, and knelt by my 
side. In her band she carried the fetich of the foreil, and her eyes 
sought mine and held them fast. 

"No word did she utter to the man, but placing the white 
plastered image on my body, she took my aim in her hands, and — 
oh God ! the horror of it 1 — bit deep into the white flesh with her 
sharp, gleaming teeth, sucking my blood like some loathsome vam- 
plie. I was too weak to re»st, Icouldonly moan, and the pain kept 
me from swooning. For several minutes she sucked the bJeedingJ 
woimd. ilKn dropped the ann, and extended her own towards th 
old man, who sat crooning his healing song by the bed. Wttli some 
■harp insuumcnt he scarred her Bcsh, and the dark blood flovedj 
slowly down her arm. ^Vhen she was sntis5cd with the flow, ahe' 
held it over my mouth, and drop by drop her blood fell upon my 
lips, each drop seeming to burn like molten lead. 

" Her eyes glared into mine, I could not move hand or fi»t, 
while her loathsome blood tticklcd into my mouth. An awful sense 
of suffocation rose in my thioal, and I knew no more until I opened 
my eyes and saw by the grey light iliat dawn was at hand. By my 
»de, her arms encircling my neck, and her breast hearing as she 
breathed laboriously, lay the woman, while on its rough hewn 
pedestal the white fetich seemed to grin maliciously at roe from the 
foot of die bed, where it had been placed. 



T^ White Fetich. 



321 



" God ! th« awfulness of that momeni, when I found that vom&n 
hj my sid« ; ind ttie ftsiful dajs and devil-sent nighls. She is the 
queen over this horde of cannibals. I am her husband — her d<^ 
ber sbve, for while her baneful eyes fix mine, all ci?ilised thoughts 
leave m«, I act like one of them, and gnaw with a relish the ' tit- 
bits ' uken from the body of some prisoner. My soul has fled I I 
cry out to sky, and my ay is for dealt). And now, at the appioAcb 
of white men, we go " 

Here the writing abruptly ended, and Gilthwaite laid down the 
paper with a sigh, and a shudder of repugnance. 

" Funny tale, isn't it? Let's hare some whisky." 

AVhen the liquor had somewhat removed the nauscousncss of the 
ttory I adccd, " Did you ever heai any more tidings of this nun 
Moxoa?" 

" Not a word," replied my friend. " I made enquiries when I was 
in fiuluwayo, but with no result." 

" 1 wonder where he got his paper from," I said, taking up the 
discoloured sheets. 

" Probably from some book that had been stolen from « 
laisuonary station up Nyanza way,"* said Gilthwaite yawning ; "but 
come, just one more ' three 6ngcr,' and then to bed. We must be 
astir early in the momi ng to find the birds in the ' Square Patch.' " 



32a 



The GentUmatii Magazin*. 



BELLS. 



A SPECIAL interest lias always attached to bdls. TheEr 
legendary, poelical, and historical anoclaiiooi arc numerous, 
and in old times ihey were looked on with veneration, baptii^ed like 
children, and credited with the povrer of driving away evil spirits 
and albying storms — a belief that was demontlrated as late as 1852, 
when, in a violent storm, the Bishop of K(alta ordered the church 
bells to be rung for an hour. In OM St. Paul's tl was the custom, 
according to Stowc, to ring the " hallowed belle in great tcmpcstcs ot 
lighlninges." \Vynkyn de \\'ordc, in the "Golden Legend," Idls 
us that "the evil spirjtes that ben in the region of the ayrc double 
moche when they here the bcUes ringcn when it thondrcth, and when 
gretc tempestcs and rages of whether happen, to the end that the 
Gendes and wyckcd spirjtes should ben abashed and fice and csaAit 
tA the movynge of the lempeste." In the " Helpe to Diicoursc," 
publbhed in l.ondon in 1633, the following I^iin rhyme ts given : 

En ego ciunpina nunqium ekmenlit vtns 
Laudo Deum vcrum, pkbcin nxo, conj^ego clcrum, 
Dcfiinctos plangD, vivo) vooo, fulmlna frango. 
Vox mc^ vox vile, txico rex ul were i-enitc 
Sincloa colendo, toniittu Tugo. focdcr* clando, 
Fnncra plango, ful^m rrango, Slbtata pango, 
Excito kiiio*, dittijio vcoioc, (mco ctucDta^ 



The last two lines arc inscribed on the bell in the minster «( 
Schuffhauscn ; and the bells of more than one abbe}- in England 
bear an Eni;lish version : 

Men's duth) I Icll liy doleful kncll, 
tjghtnini! and ihnnder I biotk aiundec. 
The >lecpy liead I TAlte (ram bed, 
TbB windi V) lierc« 1 do ilisp«ae, 
On S«bbuh sll Id church I call, 
M«d'» crud lage t do uiuagc. 
And ihou|[h my voice i* heard oa higlh, 
I never ycc did tell a lib 



Bells. 



in 



Barnaby Coogo has the following qtiaint lines In " Naogcorgtut " : 

If that the tbanil«r ehuunce (o rorc, 

And siordIc icmpett ttiike, 
A woondn U ll for to tM 

The wretchn howe th«]t qiuke, 
owe that no IxfAt at oil they tnve^ 

Noi trail in )in)-ihing, 
The daike doth all ih« bclla fottbwilli 

At once in steeple lini; : 
With wondrous sound and dcepa krK^ 

Than he wan woont befiMC, 
Till in the Iodic hcavcm duke 

The thundct btay no more : 
Fot in thoie christened bclla they Ihinke 

Doth lie tuch puwtc and might 
As ahlc is the tempnt gre*i 

And slonnei to vuiish qutglil, 
I taw mpclf at Nnimbure once, 

A lownc in Toiingcoasti 
A bell tlwt with tUa title bolde 

Hinelf did proudly boaM : 
By name, I Maiy c^led am. 

With soiinil I pui to night 
The thunder cmckci uid hurltull tlorma 

And erwy wicked ipiight. 
Sncb Itawgt when ai these belles cno do, 

No wonder ccitainlic 
It is, if that the papittes to 

Theit tolling Always flie, 
When hwle, or any rsging stotme. 

Or letnpeu come* In «ight, 
Or thunder hollo, or lightning 6croe 

That every place doth imieht. 

llw Scandiiwvian UoUs shared the demons' dblikc to the sound 

orbeUs. 

PIcastat it were in Dotna fail! lo dwell. 
Were it not Tor the sound of that pla^y bell, 

quoth one discontented troll ; and another, in Zealand, was found 
hurrying away as quickly as poi&sible from the "eternal ringing and 
dinging." Even our English fairies, "good people" though they 
are, do not love the sound ; and when Inkbcirow Church, in 
Worccfitcrshiie, was being rebuilt too near their luuint, they nightly 
carried the building materials further off. But in 5i»te of the pooi 
little people the church was built ; and, long after, tlicir pathetic 
lament could be heard ; 

Neither sleep, otathct lia. 

For lokbro' ting-tangt hao^ to Ugili. 



324 



Tht GefUittmm's Magoiint. 



As the world grew older, the id«a of the efficacy of bell* u ft 
protection in tempest grev less universal. "BcIIk," says Puller, 
" are no eltectu^l cliarms against lt;jbintng ; " while Lord Bacon tries 
to find a rational ground for the belief: "It has been anciently 
reported, and k still received, that extreme applause and shoutir^ 
ot people assembled in multitudes have so rareHed and broken the 
air, that birds fljring over have fallen down, titc air not being able to 
support them ; and it U believed by some that great ringing of bells 
in populous citi« hiive chased away thunder, and also dissipated 
pestilent air, all which may be also from the concussion of tJic air, 
and nol from the sound." 

The ringing of the passing bell grew out of the idea that the evil 
tl>inls, believed to be standing at the bed's foot while the invalid lay 
m arUeuio mortis, would be driven away by the sound, and when it 
wB« heard all good Christians were expected to pray for the 
deporting soul. The custom seems to have been almost as ancient 
as the introduction of bells. The Venerable Bcdc Iclls us that, at 
the death of St. Hilda, a nun in a distant moiustcry believed sbo 
heard her passing bell In the paii^ of Wolchurcb, Stnitt mentions 
that there is a. regulation that " the clerkc is lo have for tol1)'nge the 
passynge belle, for manne, womannc, or cbildes, if it be in the day, 
fouTpenoe ; if it be in the night, eightpcncc for the same." At Ibe 
Reformation the custom was retained ; but ihe people were taught 
that its object was to admonish the living, and remind tliem to pray 
for the dying. Gradually the custom clianged; and, since 1700^ 
though the tolling is continued, it takes place after the death, or 
while the funeral ceremony is proceeding. \n old woman, within 
living mcmor)', gravely narrated that when the wicked squire of ! 
village died, his spirit came and sat on Iht Ml, so that the imited 1 
efforts of the ringers failed to move it. The Sanctus bell, which 
in many old churches— Over, in Cambridgeshire, for example — 
had a bell-col to itself— was rung at the Elevation of the Host The 
An^ or pardon bell, was, l>efore the Reformation, lolled before and 
aAcr service, that Ihe people might offer a prayer to Die Virgin at il9 j 
commencement, and an invocation for pardon at its close ; but 
was abolished in 1538, when it was ordained that it "be not any 
more tollyd." 

Bells were solemnly baptized like children— a custom which is 
still extant in the Roman Church. This is probably not a primitive 
practice, and cannot be traced further back than the reign of 
Charlemagne. It is first distinctly mentioned in the time of Pope 
John XIII, (9S8), when he gave his own name to the great bdl of the 



Bells. 



325 



Lateran churcli. Sleidan gives ta\ account of the ceremonial to be 
obserred. " first of all, tlie bells must Itf so hung that the Bishop 
may be able lo nallc round tliem. \Mien he has chanted a few 
psalms in a low voici:, he mingles water and salt, and consecratca 
them, diligently sprinkling the bell with the mtxtuie, both inside and 
out. Then he wip« it clean, and with holy oil describes on it tfafl 
figure of the cross, praying the while that when the bell is swung up 
and sounded, faith and charity may abound amongst men ; all the 
snares of the devil — hail, lightning, winds, storms — may be rendered 
vain, and all unseaaonable weather be softened. After he has wiped 
off that cross od* oil from the rim, he forms seven other crosses on it, 
but only one of them witliin. The bell is censed, more psalms are 
(o be sung, and prayers put up for its welfare. After this, feasts and 
banquetings are celebrated, just as at a wedding." The following 
very curious prayer is translated from the acn-icc for the blessing of 
bdb in a Roman Pontifical printed at Venice in 169$ : 

" Lord, grant that wheresoever this holy bell thus washed and 
bl«st sltall sound, all deceits of Satan, all danger of whirlwind, 
thui>ders, lightnings, and tempests may be driven away, and that 
devotion may increase in Christian men when they hear it. Oh 
Lord, sanctify it by 'lliy Holy Spirit 1 that when it sounds in Thy 
people's cars, they may adore Ttiec May their failh and devotion 
increase, the devil be afraid and Iremblc and 6y at the sound of it 1 
Oh Lord, pour upon it Thy heavenly blessing I that the liery darts 
of the devil may be made to fly bacVirards at the 5>ound thereof^ 
that it may deliver from danger of wind and thunder. And grant, 
Lord, that all that come to church at the sound of it may be free 
from all temptations of the devil. Oh Lord, infuse into it the 
h<>aventy dew of Thy Holy Gliost, tliat the devil may always fly 
away before the sound." 

" Let the bells be blessed," ordained the Council of Cologne, 
" as the trumpets of the Church Militant, by which the people are 
assembled to hear the ^Vord of God ; the clergy lo announce His 
mercy by day, and His truth in tbdr nocturnal vigils ; that by 
their sound the &ilhful may be invited to prayert, and that the 
aptrit of devotion in them may be increased." 

For tfaoe belli have b«cn knoinlcd 
An<l baptitoJ wich hoty water I 
Tbcy defy aui uimoM power, 

wail the evil spirits when Lucifer bids them hurl the bells of Stiat- 
bui^ Cathedral, 

OuUnC, Glugingi to the pavemenu 



326 



Th€ GtHlUman's MagasifU. 



Immedintcly after the accession of Mary Ttidot, Great Tori, at 
Christ Church, Oxford—which had previously been recagi — was 
rebaptiicd by her name. Malihew Paris telU \\\ that the use of 
bclla was anciently forbidden in times of mourning. It will be 
remembered that when an Interdict was pronounced no bdls were 
to be rung. 

In the very earliest ages of which we hare any history, bells have 
bc«n known ; but it is probable that the original specimens were 
only hand-bells. In E^pt the feast of Osri.t was announced by 
ringing them; small bells were found by Ijiyard in the palace of 
Nimrod ; Aaron hod golden bells attached to his vcslments ; from 
Thucydidcs, Diodorus Siculus, Suidas, Aristophanes, and other 
Greek writers we Icatn that they were known in Greece, called 
kadOt and used in camps and garrisons ; while the Romans called 
them tinlitiKahila, and announced with tbcm the hours of bathing 
and business ; ai>d they ate mentioned by Plautus, Ovid, Tibullus, 
and other Latin writers. Their introdaction into Christian churdics 
is usually ascribed to St Paulinus, of Nola, in Campania ; and there 
is a pretty legend telling how the form of the first church bell whidi 
ever rang was suggested to him by the Campanula lalifi>Ha. There 
b no evidence of their existence till a cenlury later; but that they 
were at least first made in Campania may be inferred from the Urge 
ones being known as iiaM/iiiur~whenoe tamf anile, " bcIl-lowcr" — 
and the smaller ones no/tr. Bells were first heard of in Fiance 
•bout 550 A.D. Cloiaire II. was frightened out of besieging lh« 
city of Sens by the ringing of St. Stephen's bells in 610 ; and a 
similar means of defence was adopted at the Syrian Bosra in 633. 
when the Soiacens attacked the Christians. At the beginning of the 
seventh century, Pope Sabinus ordered that every hour should he 
announced by the ringing of a bell, that the people might attend to 
their dcs'otions -apparently the firat precursor of a church clock. 
(By the way, it is curious that Germany retains the name of Giielte 
(at a bell, while our "clock "is the outward and visible face and 
fingers.) Our English name for the bell lias no interetting associa- 
tion, but is derived from the same source as " bellowing" — Anglo- 
Saxon M/an, to make a loud noise. In England the first church 
bells seem to have been used in Northumbria. Bedc mcntioDS 
them as being in use as early as 530. About 680, BciKdict, Abbot 
of Wearmouth, brought a church bell from Italy. Wc hear of them 
again in Wilfrid's " Canons " in 8 1 6 ; and b>> 960 the ringing of bells 
in parish churches is mentioned as a matter of course. Towards 
the e>d of the ninth century, TurkctuI, Abbot of Ooyland, gave his 



Belts. 



337 



abbey a great bell, called Guihlac, and afterwards sddcd six others, 
Pcga, Uega, BettcHn, Bartholomew, Tatcvin, and Turkctul. Bells 
vere not used in the Grevk Church till 865, when Ursus Patriciacus, 
Duke of Venice, gave some to the Emperor Michael, who built a 
tower to St. Sophia wherein to hang them, Uy the eleventh century 
they were known in Swi-ts and German churches. 

Like most other arts and crafts, bcUrounding was for some 
centuries almost exclusively confined to the monks. St Dunstan 
was a skilful workman, and was said by Ingulplius to have given l>«Ils 
to the WeMein churches. Later on, when a regular trade had been 
established, some bellTounders wandered from phc« to place; but 
the majorily settled in tai^e towns, princi[»lly I^ndon, Gloucester, 
Salisbury, Norwich, Bury Si. Edmunds, and Colchester. It was long 
a fixed idea that silver mixed with the bell-metal improved the tone ; 
but this is now considered incorrect. The " Acton Nightingale " and 
"Silver Bell"— two singularly sweet bells at St. John's College, 
Cambridge— are said to ha%'e a mixture of silver; but, if tnic, this is 
[tot believtd by competent authorities to be the cause of their bcauti- 
fdl tone. This idea led to the story of the monk Tandio concealing 
the silver given him by Charlemngnc, and casting a bell in tha 
Monastery of St. Paul of infaior nicial, whereupon he wa.i struck 
by the dapper and kDlcd. In the ninth century bells were made in 
Prance of iron ; they have been cast in steel, and the lone has been 
fouiw) nearly equal \n fineness to that of bell-metal, but, having less 
vibration. «ras deficient in length ; and ihici glass bells have been 
tnade which give a beautiful sound, but are too brittle to long withstand 
the strcAes of the clapper. Bell-metal is a mixture of copper and 
tin ; but authorities di-tpute as to the proportion of the mixture. A 
bell was generally named after the patron saint of its church ; and, if 
more were added, the names folloit'ed tlic saints to whom the 
difleicnt chapels, altars, or shrines were dedicated. The older 
foundeis rarely placed their names on the bells ; but nearly cvciy 
bell bad its own inscription, first in the Lombardic, and then in the 
black>letter characters, which, towards the close of the sixteenth 
century, were replaced by Roman capitals ; and most of the older 
bells are marked wiihthe foundry stamp or trademark of the makers. 
Prolnbly no belts exttt in England older than ihc fourteenth or the 
end of the thirtt.'enth century ; but no perfecdy accurate judgment can 
be formed, at the pntctice of adding dates to the inscriptions they 
almost invariably bore did not become general till after 1550. The 
bell bearing the earliest date— one at Fribourg— is stamped 1158, 
and bean the inscription, "O rex i^lorice, retu cum pace; me 



3^8 



The Gentieman's Magazine 



resommtc, pia populo succurre Maria." The oldest English dnied 
bell i* believed to be one at Duncton, in Sussex, bearing date 1369, 
At All Hallows, Staining, Mark Ijute, ii one a little orcr Tour 
hundred yeare old. 

The weight of bells lias increased immensely since the founding 
of ihciii first grew into an art A bell presented by the FrciKh 
King to a church in Orleans in the deventh century, which was looked 
upon as unusually large, weighed only i,fioo lbs. They were made 
considerably heavier during the next century ; and durii^ the 
following hundred years reached really large dimensions. In 1400 
the bell "Jacqueline" of Paris was cast, weighing 1,500 lbs. ; and 
the great bctl of Rouen, called aSxxt its maker, who is said to have 
died of joy at its completion, Georges d'Amboisc^ cast in 1501, 
weighed 3(>,.f64 lbs. Around it was inscribed in Gothic letters : 

Je mi» waatai Ceorffci d'AmboiK, 
Q«i bi«n irciit«->)T mille i>oiac j 
Gl nlui qui bien Die pcMra, 
Quaiuitc tnilU Iioaver*. 



I 



Georges d'Aniboisc hung sufdy in his towcr, the Tour dc Bcurre 
—so callod because it owed its erection to the Tnonc>' gained by 
permission to the wealthy Rouennais to cat butter in Lent — till the 
coronation of Louis XVI,, when it cracked— an evil omen, alas ! too 
well rul61lcd, for the coming reign— and was tncltod down for 
cannon in 1793. Other big bcDs wc— Great Peter of York, io| 
tons; Montreal, cast rS47, 13^ tom; Great Tom at Lincoln, 5^ 
tons ; the Great Bell of St. Paul's, s^a 10"^- 'I'his bell only tolls for 
the Ro)'al Family, its Biiliop, Dean, and tlie Ix>rd Mayor; and 
superstition asserted —|>er)iitps sliU asserts— that when it dots toll all 
the beer in the neighbourhood is thereby turned sour. Those living 
within heaiing of it yet recall the tcrriblo thrill when the heavy 
tolling announced the Queen's widowhood, and he, one of the few 
" ideal knights " of modem times, went to his rest \ nor will anotlter 
December night, ten years later, be soon forgotten, when the Iteir o( 
the kingdom lay between life -and death, and the ringers waited, 
ready for the wont, in the great cathedral. " Big Ben " is more 
than twice as heavy as St Paul's, and can be heard for over ux miles ; 
but at that distance it must be remembered that it is lialf a minute 
behind Greenwich time, the sound taking thirty seconds to tnivd. 
Tlie Great Bell of Pckin, 14 feet high, weighs 53I tons ; a bell near 
Amarapoora, in Bumiah, standing u feet high, weighs 90 tons; 
another at Moscow, 80 tons ; but tfu Great BcU, or Monarch of 



I 
I 



Bells. 



339 



Moscow, fiiT surpasses these puny striplings. This bcti, cast in 17341 
stood 31 feet high, and weighed 19a tons; but, falling down duiing 
» fire in 1737, wu injured, and remained sunk in the earth till 
exactly a century htter, when it was raised, and now forms the dome 
of a chapel made by excavating beneath it. 

The inscriptions on bells are numerous, and often very interest- 
ing. All the more ancient are, of course, in I^lin ; but al^cr the 
Reformation, when they were more frequently in Englith, they often 
degenerated into sad doggerel Generally speaking, the oldest bells 
bear only the name of the saint to whom they w«i: dedicated ; later 
comes the inrocatton ; and, towards the end of the sixteenth century, 
Latin hexameters and mottoes. Weaver, in his work on fiincrat 
monuments, mentions that Edward III. gave three bells for the 
use of St. Stephen's Chapel, Westminster, the largest bearing the 
inscription : 

King Edwiii] made me Ihiily thipuund wright and thrte, 
TftLe (DC (lowo and way nc, and mure you ihall find mee. 

Tliese bells were taken down in the reign of Hcnrj- VIII., and 
someone b said to have wTittcn with a coal beneath the empty space: 

Rut Haiiy the Eight 
Will halt mc of my weight. 

This anecdote sounds tligblly apocryphal ; but it is a fact that 
ftmr "Jesus bells," sUnding near St. Paul's School, were staked by 
tlie Defender of the J'uith for a hundred pounds on a cast of dice 
against a certain Sir Miles Fartiidgc, and won by the latter, who, 
says Stowe, "caused the bells to be broken as they hung." 

Some of the older Latin inscriptions are : 

Virginis Egrtgie Vocoi Cnmrona Marici 
Sahet nuDCAdain ijui cnncta acavi', ci Adam. 
Som Row Palnia Mundi K.-ilciina rocata. 
SictU Maib Mccurrc piia^mo aoUa. 
Mc Rididi vcie non est Camp«aa tub ere. 
In multii anni* loonat Canipaiia Jt^hannit. 
Foe Mar^dn noliix hac munera leU. 
l^ndeoi itwno Ulchse!. 
Uon Tenia vUa. 
Boati Imvaciilati. 
^0 torn To« clajmtnlb pamtc. 

Roland, the great bell of Ghent, which has had almost as many 
journeys as the horses of St. Mark's, having first been hung, 
crowned with its dmgon of gilded copper, in St Sophia, and then 
%-OL. CCXCIi. KO. aoj6. A A 



330 



Tke Gentleman s Magazine. 



tiaotpOTtcd to Bru^ after the Fourth Cnisad^ only to be tnns- 
feiTcd by "gfCiit Artcvelde victorious" to Ghent, has Tor his in- 
scxiptioii : " Mijnen lotam is Roland ; als ik ictcp is cr brand, en 
als ik ling b tx victoric in bet land." (" My mune is Roland ; when 
I toll there b Sre, and when I ring there is victory in the land.") 

As for bcU-ringing, or, as its devotees prercr to call it, caropano* 
Logy, the subject is inexhaustible, and, to the uninitiated, unintelli- 
gible. " Great," says Southcy, " are the mysteries of bcll-rin^ng ; and 
this may be said in it.i praise that of all devices which men have 
sought out for oblaining distinction by making a noise in the world, 
it M the most liarrnkss." In the Netherlands the carillons— or series 
of bells on which tunes nre played with kfj-s — are unsurpassed. The 
bells of Bruges, thanks to Longfellow, arc known by repute to 
everyoiw : 

la the ancient town of Brugei, 

In tiic qimint old FlcmUh diy, 

As the evening thadci doccniled. 

Long sad loud and iwe«(lf blendad, 

Low It times t-ai luud rI lime*, 

And chanelni; like i poet's thTmcs, 

Rang the bciuUful wild cliimei 

From ihc bclfiy in the market 

Of (he incUDt town of Bragc*. 

Tlien with deep tonoraui clangour 
Calmly antwcilnft their »we«t soger. 
When the wnui£lln|; belli had ended. 
Slowly (truck the cioelt elereo, 
And Trom out the tllcnl hcann. 
Silence on the town dctcerided. 
Silence, illenec evaymkat. 
On the earih and in the air. 
Save that fcmtitept here and there 
Of some bucgher home letuming. 
For a tnoment woke the echoes 
Of the anclcttl town of Ikugei. 



TbM OMSt beautiful and tolenm, bilnging back the otden liosei, 
WA tnA strange unearthly change}, rang the melancholy ihjsict, 
like the Ptalms In tome old claitict, when the riuni sing in the cboir, 
Aod the great bell tolled among them, like the chaniiag of a ftiu. 



The chimes in Copenhagen arc said to be the finest b Europe. 
But England is par tMtHinct the borne of bell-ringing. "The 
pncdce of ringing bells in change or regular peals," says Hawkins 
in; bia "History of Music," "is said to be peculiar to England, 



Belis. 



331 



whtnctf Britain his be«n termed Uic ringing ttUMd." Indeed, to ua 
Eogiish, D fecial aionu of home has alwaya attached to 

Thote chimes tb>i idl ■ ihautaad ulet, 

SwK( islv* of oic]i:n time ; 
And line <t thounnd memorita 

At rtspoi And « prime. 

Tennysoa, it will be rcmcmbcicd, speaks with his marvellous 
ouomatopoeic power of 

The mellow l!n-Ui)-lone of evening belli. 
Far, tu away. 

The changes that can be rung seem practically countless. Tbus^ 
we 4re told— it is a thing we must take on trust — that " the changes 
on seven bells are 5,040 ; on twelve, 479,001,600, which it would 
take nincly-oae years to ring, at the rate of two strokes in a second. 
Hie changes on fourteen bells could not be rung through at the 
■ame rate in less than 1 1 7,000 tnllioRs of years ! The largest peals 
of bells inJEngland are at Bowf Church, Exeter, and York, which all 
have ten bells. Of these, the first- mentioned are well known by 
name to e\-er)body, a Cockney being defined as one "bom within 
the sound of Bow Bells." 'I'hts, however, seems rather a modem 
notion, as it is nowhere mentioned by Stowe, who died in 1605. 
John Donne, mercer, left in his will, dated 1473, two "tenements 
and appurtenances for the maintenance of Bow Bell," which was 
rung r^ularty at nine o'clock every night. The young 'prentices 

|Considered that the bell was not rung punctually, and addressed the 

'lollowing warning to the clerk : 

CIctke of (he Bow Bell, wUli tbe fellow locket. 
For ttiy liie tio^ng thy bead sluU have knock*. 

But the deik replied podfically with : 

CUUren of Cbeape, hold you all stilt, 

Fm ye shall baTe llic Bow Bell runs at your will. 

The extraordinary terms used in campanoI<^, Mid the still 
more extraordinary directions, read to us uninitiated people like an 
unknown tongiic Certainly, Sanskrit would be as intelligible to 
most people u— " hunting up, hunting down, double dodging, bob 
doubles, treble bob, superlative surprise, tiitums, treble bob major, 
grandsirc caters, obscr\-ation, plain huiit, cut down, bob royals, bob 
cinques, and treble bob maximus." The instructions for tinging 
changes do not tend to enli^ten us : " Call two bobs on q. 0.x.; 

A AS 



33= 



Tke Gentleman's Magazine. 



bring them round. Or, if the practitioner pleases, lie may call the 

tenth and eleventh to make the ninth's place ; the former will be a 

six before the course end comes up. Then a bob when the tenth 

and eleventh dodge together behind completes it. In tbis course 

the bclU will be only one course out of the tiltums." 

The constant pealing and tolling of bells became something of a 

nuisance. 

Four lionont U» morU il* foni mourii Ut vivtaU, 

complains a French poet; and vriJte Bishop Grandison, writii^ the 
statutes for the Church of Oilcry St. Mary, enjoins : *' Peals are to 
be rung at funcnil.t according to the dignity of the deceased, on 
fewer or more bdls; but we forbid them to be sounded at too 
great length, nor sgain al^r erensong or early in the momirtg (as 
they do at Exeter), because 'sounding brass or the tinkling cymbal ' 
profit souls not at all, and do much barm to men's cars, and (o the 
fabric, and to the bells." 

There were— and indeed still are— several societies of bell-ringers 
in London. A famous one was the " Society of College Youths" 
founded 1639— ringers being always "youths," as postboys arc 
always " boys." Sir Matthew Hales, the Lord Chief Justice, was 
said to have been one of the members, Nell (jwjnn left in 1687 a 
certain sum for the weekly entertainment of the ringers of St. 
Mattin's-in-tlie-Helds, and others liavc followed the example. 
Everyone knows the (,'urfew Bell — the "(mvre-/tu" ordained 
Norman William — a custom long kept up in some parishes, 
Stoke Pogis, where 

Tlie ouiem tolU the knell of paning day— 

indeed, not yet altogether disused, though its raisen tfitrt has lon|; ' 

ago cca&cd. 

Solemnly, moutnftilly, 

l>«*hng ill dulc. 
The Curfew Bell 

Ii beginning to toll. 

A pancake bell used to be — and in tome pbces still i»— rung 
on Shrove Tuesday ; and a bread and-chcese bell is still rung during 
term at Jesus College, Oxford. "Silver bells" sound poetical ; but 
an ignoble association attaches to the silver bell bequeathed by a 
Mr. Graham to the Grammar School at Wray in 1661, to be won 
b>- the humane and refined sport of cock-fighting. Two boys, 
chosen as captains, and followed by panisans dcdccd in blue and 
red ribbons, went in procession to the village green, wiwre each 



Bells. 



333 



produced his cocks ; and when ihe figbl was over, the owner of 
the winning biid had the bell suspended to his hnt. At Flatherleigh, 
in Devon, n curious custom pre^'sils of announcing, cmry day at 
Grc in the morning and nine at night, the number of the day of the 
month, by strokes of the church bell ; and, at the same place, the 
bells ring a lively peal after a funeral. The " cursing bcll " formed 
an important adjunct in the solemnity of an excomtnunication. To 
be cursed by " bell, book, and candle " was the fate of the unfor- 
tunate Jackdaw of Rhcims, as lovers of the "Ingoldsby trends " 
will remember. At Strawberry Hill was a silver bell, made by 
Benvenuto Cellini for Pope Clement VII., specially for the cursing 
of animals, covered with representations of serpents, flies, grass- 
hoppers, and various insects. The formal excommunication oE 
human beings must have been an impressive and tenible solemnity. 
The officiating priest pronounced the formula, which consisted of 
maledictions upon the offending person, shut the book from which 
he read, cast a lighted candle to tlie ground, and caused a bell to 
be tolled as though for the dead. The many Canterbury pilgrims 
used to cany with them on their return little bells — "campanx 
ThomK" — which vrith their leaden ampulbe and brooches were 
guarded as souvenirs of iheir pilgrimage. The proverbial saying 
"to bear the bell" came from the old custom of presenting the 
winning horse of a race vnth a silver bell. 

Jockey and hU hotic were by their nuulcn scat 
To put in tot the bell. 

says North in his " Forest of Varieties." The practice of banging 
bells round the necks of horses, coin, and sheep comes down to tis 
from Roman times. 

And drowsy tlakUnei lull ih« dlttant folds, 

says Gray ; and the phrase " bclUwcthcr of the flock," the ratlier 
deprecatory term applied to Ihe leader of a party, of course takes 
its origin from the bcll borne by the sheep which leads its com- 
panions. Another proverbial exprcsuon, " to bcll the cat," comes 
from the fable which tclh how the n'Jce in parli.tmcnt assembled 
St^X'Sted that their common enemy the cat should have a bell 
dut^ roimd her neck, that all might be aware of her approach; 
when a shrewd member asked who was willing to undertake the 
busiitess. Archibald Douglas, Earl of iVngus, gained his tebriqutt 
of " BeU-tlic-Cat " when, at a meeting of Scottish nobles at Lauder, 
where tbey discussed the necessity of pulling down the King's low 



334 



The GentUman's Magazine. 



bom ravouritcs, I^rd Gny asked, " Who will bcU the cat P " and 
was answered by the fierce Eari — *'Th« will I " — no empty threap 
for in the very presence of James III, he slew the obnoxious pat^ 
Vtnu. 

The peculiar interest and vcnernlion attached to bdb from th« 
time of theJT introduction arc probably the caute of so many saints^ 
especially Irish and Scotch— having thdr names connected with 
ibem— *' the magic belb," says Kingslcy, " which appear (at far as 
I am aware) in the legends of no other country till you get to - 
Tartary and the Uuddhius— such a bell as came (or did not come)' 
down from heaven to St. Sencn ; such a bell as St Fursey sent 
flying through the air to greet St. Cuanardy at his devotions, when 
he could not come himself; such a bdl as another saint, wandering 
in the wood's, rang till a stag came out of the covert, and canied hia 
burden for him on his horns." The bell of St. Patridc— the 
" Qo^n-cudhachta Phatraic," or " Bell of St. Patrick's will," with 
which he is said to have summoned the snakes of the fen and the 
great Peishtamore (the python of the lakes) from their fastnesses, 
and tlien driven them from the land— still exists at Belfast, in a 
curious brass shrine adorned witli gems and gold and silver Sligreev 
aiid wilh an inscription in Irish, showing ihal it was made between' 
1091 and rio5. The bell itself, which is believed 10 date back at 
least OS early as 551, is six inches high, five inches broad, nod four 
inches deep^ Another curious old bell is that of St. Ninian at 
Edinburgh ; and the four-sided bcl! of St- Gall, who died in 646, 
still exists in the city bearing bis name in Switzerland. The bcU of 
St. Muta or Muranus, who founded the famous Abbey of Falian, 
in Donegal, in the seventh century, is now in the possession of 
Lord Londcsborough. It is of bron«, four-sided, and elaborately 
decorated with a tracety of Runic knots, and b said to have 
descended from heaven, ringing loudly ; hut, as it approached the 
earth, the clapper detached itself and reascended. Any liquor 
dmnk from it was supposed to have the power of alleviating human 
suflering. St. Fillan's ticll, at Kitlin, in Perthshire^ had, according 
to Mr. Stuart, the minister of the parish, a somewhat similir 
repuution. "It seems," he says, "to be of some mixed metal. It 
is about a foot high, and of an oblong form. It usually kty on a 
grave-stone in the churchyard. AMien mad people were brought to 
be dipped in the Saint's pool, it was necessary to perform certain . 
ceremonies, in which there was a mixture of Dniidiam and Popery. 
Aftcj remaining all night in the chapel, bound with ropes, the bcH 
was set upon their heads wilh great solemnity. It was the popular 



Beiis, 






opinion that, if stolen, it would extricate itseif out of the tliicrs 
hands, and ictum home, ringing all the way. Tor some )-ears past, 
ihb bell has been locked up to prevent its being used for superstitious 
purpoces." Another bell, this time a small silver one, whtcli 
belonged to King Marie of Cornwall, was brought over to Brittany in 
a fish's mouth, at the intercession of St Pol de Leon, and was placed 
in his caih<.-dral. Bells scetn to have sometimes been looked upon 
— pcihaps owing to their baptism — as semi-human; Trotty \'ecl£, 
ve may remember, hair-belicv-cd they were supernatural beings ; and 
Ibe people of Saragossa held that the great bell of their cathedral 
tolled without human aid on the death of the King of Amgon. It 
it, maybe, owing to this superstitious feeling that the counsel of the 
bells has been every now and then applied ta We all remcmbcf how 
they bade the lonely 'prentice 

Tiun BfiBin, Wbitlingtoin, 
Thrice M>}«t of LoiuloD town t 

but i>erhaps everyone is not so well aware that James Stuart, ilie 
captive king, wrote his "King's Quhair" at the bidding of the 

matin bell: 

Way for-lpa, 1 lutingt *odayntye. 
And soae t hcid the bcU to maltns lyng^ 

Aiid op I ISM, tui Uogei wold I !ye; 
But now how ttow« ta suich a faAtixj'c 

F«1I ni« ti)my nynd, that ay methciBghi ih* t>dl 
Stilil to me, Ttll on man, quh&t the bdelL 



I m mc down 
And farther witlial my pen in hand I took 
And nwd s ciob, nnd t)iu> tx^nihm)' bnlte. 

^Vbeii Panurge was thinking seriously of matrimony. Friar John 
nude him hearken to the bclb of Varenes, and Panurge joyfully 
interpreted their mcssa^ into, " Take tliee a wife, lake thee a wifi^ 
and many, marry, marry ; for if thou marry thou shall find good 
therein, herein, herein a wife, thou shall find good, so marry, marry, 
marry;" but after the Friar had given his own decided opinion of 
the evils of wedding, the would-be bridegroom pUunly understood 
their counsel to he : "Do not marry ; marry not, not, not, not, not ; 
marry, marry not, not, not, not, not ; if thou marry, thou will 
miscarry." A FVench widow anxious to marry bet man-servant 
tried the same means of divination, and distinctly heard the bells 
say, " Prends ton valet, prends ton valet," and accordingly did so ; 
but when hex new spouse's bad oondiKt made her si»eedily rei>ent 



336 



The Gentleman s Magazine. 



her nshncn, she went agiiin to bear the bells which had given such 
diustrous advice ; and lo ! they unmistakably told her, *' Ne tc 
pTcnds pu ! n« )e prends pas ! " — only, unrortuoately, it was a Utile 
too laic to take their counsel There is an English version of tht% 
the burden of tiie song being : 

As the bell Ifnks, to Ihe fool tUnlci ; 
A* the fool ihialu, m the bell link*. 

A Sterner association is that of the vc^r bell at Palermo, 

WhoM deep'lontit i>aJ 
\\ he&nl o'cT lutd xvA vvtt, 

which gave the signal for the terrible Kcilian \''expers in i sSs ; and 
<rtcn more awful ihni terrible tocsin which Itirned the Louvre into 
a shambles and reddened the Seine wi[h the blood of Huguenot 
victinu in 1571. Widely different was the import of the bell rung 
by the good old abbot of Abcrbrothock on the Inchcape Rock, to 
warn passing ships of ihc danger : 

When the rock wu hid bjr the icmpcM'i swell. 
The muinfri hearil ih« wiming bell ■ 
And Ihcn they knew the [>cii!ous rock, 
And hint ilic ptieu orAt>oibioiho«k. 

fiut Sir Ralph the Rover wantonly eul the bell front the floa^j 
and, in righteous rctiibution, bis vessel struck on the hidden reef OK] 
his honiewurd way, and sank with all her crew. 

The7 hni no toimJ, the swell it ittong : 
Though the wini! hid fallen Ihcy dtilt >lon(i, 
T^lt ihe vcuci ilrikci wilh a ihivcring thock : 
AIu I il ii the Inchcitpe Rock. 

Sir Rilph Ihc Rovet tore hii hair ; 
He beat himtelf in uild dcapnii -. 
The wavci nuh in on eve(y side. 
The ahip ilnki ^i beneath ihe tide. 

But, evfn In hit dying feu, 
One dradful tound he >eenie<l lo hear t 
A MUad, 1* if, with Ihe Inchcapehcll, 
The evil ipitit wu ringing hii knelt. 

There is a legend connected with the Silent Tower of Boecastle 
—anciently called Botlrcaux — in Cornwall, which has 00 bells, while 
the adjacent church of Tintagcl has a fine pcaL II is said that 
the bells for Botlrcaux were cast on the Continent and were shipped 
for Cornwall, but never reached land, owing to the captain's 



Bells. 



337 



impiety. 
Tcrao; 



Hawker, the Cornish poet, tells the story in picturesqtic 

TinUgtl Wll* ring oVi fhe lid*, 
Th< bo]r lauu on hii vcnel'ii Qile, 
lie hc*n the uound, and dioini of home 
S<MIhe the wild orphan of ihc fotm. 

" t -me to IhyGod in lime," 

Thus nalli Umu pealing chime : 

" V<paUi, muihood, otti age pui, 

Come 10 ihy God m Uil" 

Bat why aie Botlmui'i «chocs Mili ? 

Het Xvwtt lUnd* proudly on the hill, 

Yet the »r>n|[e chotigh ih*i hnmt tiMh found, 

The Inmb Met sicepinf; on the ciound. 

■■ Come to thy Cod in time." 

Should l>c her answering chime ] 

" Come to thy Cod at Iwt," 

Shoulil echo on ihc hlut. 

Tlie ship lode di>wn with oounc* bee. 
The Jtiufjhter of a diitaitt «eBi 
Her Uittt vu Ioom, hn anchor itoteil. 
The merry Boitrcsui bells nn bo&rd. 

•' Come 10 thy God in time," 

Rons out Tiniagel ehime j 

" Voulh, manhood, old age poM, 

Come 10 thy God at lasL" 

The pilot h(«jd bii natiTc belli 

HMig on the brecie in £tful tpefli. 

" Thanli Cod," with r<Tercnt Uo» lie died, 

'■ We make the nhore with evcning't tide." 

" Come 10 ihy God In time," 

It was hi) mamigc chime ; 

" Vonih, maahooil, old age {a.tt. 

Come to Ihy God ai Uat." 

■'Thank God, thou whining koavie, on laad. 
But ilunk at tea ihe atecnmas'* hand," 
The eojiuin'i voice ibore Ihc {ale, 
" Thank the good ship and nady mIL" 

" come to thy God in dm^" 

Sad grew the iNxIingdrimei 

" Coma to thy God at last." 

Booncd heavy on the blaM. 

UpTOte that *ea, xk if ii hewd 
The miEhty Mailci'i i^^oslword. 
What thrilbthe captain's v-hitccZng Lip} 
The deatb'gtoani of his unkirf ituix 

" Come to thy God in time," 

Swnng deep tlie foiKfal chioie, 

" Gn«, mercy, kindnen paU — 

CodKloilvCodat lau." 



338 Th$ GentUmatis Magazttu. 

Ltagdid ihc rcKOiMl pilot leil, 
Vbco pcj bain o'tt bU rorehcod Ml, 
WUIe tbwc ttiowid would betuuid WMp, 
Thil burul jmlsmeni of tbe detfi. 

" Come to thy God in time," 

He icwl his imtivc c)ti»« t 

*■ Voulh, mnnliood, oMtgt pait. 

Come to thy God *I luL" 

Slill, when the iturm of BottMaiu's waves 
Ii iraliiDg in hi* weedy <Mrt%, 
Tmhc Ulli, tbkt nilUa VorgM hide, 
PmI their derp lonei beotMh ibt tide 

" Come to thf God in time," 

TbM Miih ibt occ&n chime ; 

" Storm, wUflwind, biUow past, 

Come to thjr God ix luL" 

The bells oT Boltrcaux arc nol the only buried ones. When 
Comberraere Abbey was banded over by bluiT King Hal to the 
anoealor or the present \'tscount Combcrmerc, the last abbot— so 
cMth ttadiuon — flung tlie bells into the lak^ where they may still be 
heard tolling on tbe death of tlicir lord. In a vaUey in Nottingham- 
shire a village is said to have been swallowed by an earthciuakc^ and 
people u.scd to aucmble on (he morning of Christmas Day to hear 
tlie ehurch bellx tinging underground. TIk bclb of Jersey — so rtiDi 
a legend — were uken down and sent to Prance to be sold during the 
Civil War ; but the ship foundered, and the bells were tost, and 
since then tbcy ring always before a storm, and the fisherfolk of 
St. Oucn's Bay listen carefully at tbe water's edge for tbe sound of 
tbo dreaded bells ere tbcy embark : 

TU an omen of deslh to ihe muinet 

Who wearily fights "ilh the lea j 
For the foamine lurcc ii hii winilini'-ihccl, 

Altdhte foDcnl kneil kic vt. 
Ills UMa\ knell our putjag belU beat, 

Aad hit winding iliod the m*- 

Tbc church bell in ihc little Canadian village of St Regis has a 
curious history. Sent out from France in the seventeenth century for 
the Indian converts of the Jesuits established there, it was captured by 
an English ship nnd carried to Salcm, and thence sold to De 
in New England, where it called the rigid ruritanical congrt^tioti 
to prayer, " till at last," says Howells, " it also summoned the priest- { 
led Indians and habitants across hundreds of mites of winter and of 
wilderness to reclaim it from that desecration'; and it was carried 
triumphantly to its destined home in tbe Churdi of St Regis. 



Beiis. 



339 



In his opera of " Inkle and Yarico," Colman incurred strong 
disapprobation from Dr. Moseley for the lines : 

Now l«t tudanee and ting, 
Wtule all Barbailon liclli do liog^ 

The puzzled author asked what was wrong. " It won't do — it won't 
doi" retlcisted Ihc docwr ; " thcic is but one bell in the island." 
One wonders if it is belter supplied now I 

BclU have been honoured with a good de«] of notice fratn 
the poets. Shakespeare speaks of " the midnight bell," with its 
" iron tongue and broxen mouth," and has an exquisite metaphor for 
mental infirmity: "The sweet betU of his intellect are jangled out of 
tune." Cowper writes : 

How aoft llie e*dencc o( thue village bcUs 
FalUos at intervals upon the nr 
In cadence tweet 1 now dj^ng all away, 
Nowpcalins loud again and louder iiiU, 
OcM and tonorous as tlie galo comet In ; 
With caif Ibrct it open* all the cells 
Where memoty tlepl. 

"The music highest bordering upon heaven," as Lamb calls it, 
is gracefully noticed by Moore in his well-known tines on "ITiose 
Evening Bells." One would Ukc to know if he owed bis inspira- 
tion to 

The Ixili of Shandon 
That louad lo erand on 
Tbe plcaiani wawn of 
The rivei Lea. 

In "Lalla Rookh" he refers to the belief inculcated in the Koran 
Uiat bells hang on the trees of Paradise, and arc rung by wind from 
the throne of God when the blessed long for music — 

Bellt M muiical 
Ai thote Ibal, oD the Kolden-ihofted trees 
Of Eden, shook by ihe elcmal btecte. 

Schiller's magnificent " Glockenlicd " is known to most of us 
CJtbcT in the original or by translation, witli its picture of the bell : 

On high, above tbe po* csrtb swecfdng, 

Wilhin (lie purer air of day. 
Amid the ilare tis viKiIs kccpii^ 

Familiar wiih the lii;hlntn|>*i plajr.— 
Tliere ihall it teem a ttnix above. 

E'en aa the lUrty host» appear 
To praiK their grcal Cteaicu'i love. 

As ibey lead in tbe rosy year. 



340 Th$ GeutUmatCs Magasint. 

Of iolenn taA eternal tUogs 

Iiet it diMonnr frau moutti of ban | 
And let th« hown wf ih n|^ vingt 

Fall OM W (III li M Ihey pttt.— 
To dnab F>tc ii « tooeoc tluU hod ; 

ilcuikn iiMl/. not nnde to fedi 
Yet iUI it* M T iiy p g tlnkn attend 

BiA umbg or Hfc^ f^Ay wheel. 
Aitd u Ell pnl apoa tli« «u 

F*ll« hcsTUr am) die* away, 
Tvfll teach hoK nanglu abUcib berc^ 

flow all thingi eanhl; mujl <kt^. 

Goethe's comical ballad or ibc " Wandclnde Glocke," who came 
to fetch the naughty boy to church as he vru playing truant, is 
perhaps less well known : 

Away he Ksnpm Uirougb the fitHs, 

Tix peat bell uUI {Mrsuing ; 
He tokM ihc tuming to the church, 

Sofce knowing what hc'i doing. 
Hcoodixth each bat and Teitival, 

The bdt't fini warning heeding, 
Yov'd ICC him trottiag off to dmrdit 

No other lummona nacdin^ 

No one has described the distant tolling of a bell more pic- 
taresquely than Scott : 

Slow on the midnight ware k twai^, 
Nortbnmbrian tociu in aniwet niog ; 
To Waikworth cell the eeboea rolled, 
Hit bead* the wakcNI hermit lolil ; 
The Banborough pcuanl iau«d hi* bead. 
But ilept ere half a piay ct he taid i 
So for wu hnrd the mighty knell. 
The *lag »pniDg up on Chrriol Fell, 
Spread bit broad nosiill lo the wind, 
Uttcd bel«M, bende, behind ; 
Tboi coaobed him down beside the hiad. 
And qoafced among the moantaiB fern. 



Poc's wonderful " BcUs " arc unique— the silver sledge bells, the 
golden wedding bulls, the braxen alarum, the iron tolUng : 

1 tcoi the tolling or the belli — 
Iran beU> I 
What a Mund of mlcmn thought Iheir melody compel* I 

In the lilence of the night, 

How we thiva with aCFtighl 
At the melaocholy menace of iheir lone ! 



Bells. -^^^H 341 

For eveiy SMind ih&t SoRte 

From the lu&t siihin Ihcii ihiottt 
Ii B gtiMn. 
And the people — ah, ihe people— 
The}- that dwell up !□ the steeple 

All SlIohc, 
And who, tolling, lolling, lolliag, 

la tluii niuilled moiiotcnr. 
Felt B Kinry in ki tolling 

On the humgji hciit oritone— 
They «e neither mnn nor woraan— 
Tley are neither btute nor htimnii— 

They are Ghouls ; 
And iheic King it u who tolU t 
And be rviU, rolls, tollt, 
Rolls 

A pcpin ftom the belt* ! 
And his tneiry bntom swells 

WHh the pxan of the bctis I 

And lie d«ncci Mid be )'*lls ; 

Kec{dng tEme, lime, lime, 

In B sort of Runie ihymc 

To the pDin of the bclU— 
Of the bells: 
Keeiiing time, time, time, 
In * sort of Runic ihjme 

To (he llitobbinf; of the bells — 
Of the l«lls. bclis, bells— 

To the sobbing of the belb J 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knclU, knelK 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the Ulls, bells, bells- 

To l!ic tolling of the bells. 
Of the bclU, helte, belts, Ullt, 

Bells. Ulls. bclU— 
To the meaning and the groaning of the bcUs. 

fStirely a niatvd of onomatopoeu 1 

After that it is rather an abrupt descent to remember how B)TOn 
wrote of " the tocsin of the soul— the dinncr-bclI ! " 

I^ngfellow's " Bells of Lynn " hare his peculiarly pJcitircKlue 
beauty diction : 

O CBifcw of the setting sun I O BctU of Lynn I 
O Mquicm of the dying day I O B«IU uf Lyoffl t 

Fr«an Ihc dtik belfric* of yon cloud-calhedta! wafted, 
V<n» (Quods tuxaX seem to Botil, O BelU of Lynn ! 



343 The Cenllemans Magazine. 

The fiihctTMn in >iik boM, br out btyoM ttw hMdlud, 
UattQ«, knd IcUurtly lowi uhore, O Bdit cf Lpai I 

Born« on Qio tvcninK wind, *cr«iu tha criatOD Iwiligfal, 
Cm land uiJ to they ibc and hll, O Bc]I» of Ljwi I 

One l)ic »Iilnlng kuid ihc wand^fing caltk homcwul 
Follow each tatittt at yoiu oJl, O Bells of Lfnn I 

The dklanl Ughihouse hatn, M)d with fail flMuing ligul 
Aiuwen jwi. pauine the mtchvotd on, O Bolb of Lyna I 

And down ihe daikeninf; cout run the Inmuhuoiu sia^t*. 
And claji thcii liaod^ and tbout la jwi, O B«lb of Ljriia I 

Till from th« ihuddctioc tea, wtth yonr wIM Ineantatioiw, 
Y« Mimmoa up ihe ipeclrai moon, O Beiln of Lyiw I 

And (UitM at lh« tltbc, like ihc wcinl wonun <A Endor, 
Yt ay aloud and ihen an »U1, O Uctla of Ljuq ! 

Kcblc has an cxquisilu KUriia : 

Evtf ihe Mine, yd c»«t new. 

Changed and ycl irue, 
IJke the pHTE heaTcd's unfulinc blue, 
Which rarici on fioni hour lo hour, 
Ycl of the aimc high Love and rowet 

Tctlialwaj; ■ Mich may icem 
Thiuugb life, or waking, or in dream 

The echoing l>ctU (hit \p,te 
Our childhood trclcomc to the licaling wave : 
Such the remmiberetl WottI, »o tnighty then to tava. 

But of atl bell-vcnes the noblest are surely those which, though 
so well knovn, are bcit fitting to cloie this !>Iiort history of belb: 
Ring oui, uild bclti, lo the wild tky. 
The trying cloud, the froMy light ! 
The yvar h dying in the night i 
Ring oui, Mild belli, and Id him die. 

King out Ihe old, ring in the new, 

Rmg, hajip}' Ixrll*, across the uow t 
The jext U going, lei him go i 

Ring out the blie, ring in the Xn^ 

Ring out (he grief iluil njis the mind. 

For thoie ihai here wc kg no mon i 

Ring nul Ihc feud of rich and poor ; 
Ring in icdicst to all manliind. 

King oui a slowly dying cauae. 

And ancient formi of party (tilfe ; 
Ring bi the nobler modes of life. 
With (wcetcr manners, purer Ian. 



BeUs, 343 



Ring oat the wuil, the caie, the sin. 

The bithlest coldaes* of the times ; 

Ring out, ring out, my moniniol ih]>me«. 
And ring the fulln minstiel in. 

Ring out &lte pride in place and Uood, 

The dvic slander and the sjnte ; 

Ring in the love of Imth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring oat old shapes of foal disease, 

Ring oat the narrowing lost of gold. 

Ring out the thousand wars of old ; 
Ring in Itie thoosand jeais of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The la^ei heart, the kindlier hand [ 

Ring out the darkness of the land; 
Rii« in the Chriit that is to be. 

BARBARA CLAY riHCB 



344 



Tht Genileman's Magasint. 



THE ZIRIANS. 



THE Ziriana, Eryes, Zarayny— call these Russian Gipsies whnt 
you will— jcem to haw attracted scant notice from tlw earlier 
English writers ; which is strange, seeing how frei]uently they mention 
the othcT northern branches of the great Finnish race. Indeed we 
know nothing definite of the Zirian, from either English or Russian 
sources, before tlte fourteenth century ; and even the voyagers of 
Eliiabeth's time, who give such good accounts of the Siintoyedcs, 
leave bim severely alone. Probably he is trwluded under the tcnn 
" Bftmian," or Permian, a name by which the early writers, whose 
chronicles are so well handed <lown to us by Purdtas in hii 
"Pilgrinu," by Hakluyt and by Pinkerton, deagnatc the inhabitant! 
of ihc North of Tttrland xenerally. We can therefore only con- 
clude that they— like their co-religionists the Ostiak, the Sauoyede, 
and the Lapp — were a nomadic race, who spent their days in herding 
■nd hunting the reindeer, whicli atone render man's cjustencc upon the 
arctic tundra possible, let alone prolitablc. The race is well worthy of 
careful study, for, although in constant contact with the Russian, it 
has ill no way become Russianiscd, but keeps closely to its old habJts 
and wflys, and seldom interoiaTrics with its neighbours. They are 
increasing yearly, both in number and in wealth, and to-day represent 
dvilisation and progress over a i-ast area of North-Eastcm Ruana. 

Early in the fouttccnth century we hare tlie authority of several 
Russian historians for as.scning their conversion from Slunnanism to 
Christianity, by Sl Stefan Hrap or Velikopermoki, of Perm ; but th« 
course of their convention does not lecm to have run smoothly, for 
Sigismond von Herberstein, writing in 1517, says; "While yet 
infants in the faith, tlicy Hayed a certain Bishop Stcphan who was 
a^eiwards enrolled amongst the number of the gods by the Russians, 
in the ragn of Dimitry Ivanovich." An interesting account of his 
missionary labours and adventures is to l>e found, in Russian, in 
Epifaniev's " Life of St. Stefan Pcrraski," from which we Icam thai 
he invented and taught the use of written characters peculiar to the 
Zirians : an alphabet which does not seem to hare been explained 



I 



I 



TAc Ziriatts. 



345 



I 



by anybody, and whtch has ^C^u^Hy l>een tupentedcd by Rus^an, 
of which many now speak a dialect, Although the majority still adhere 
to their ovn tongue when speaking among themselves. According 
to most etymologic Zirian is « branch of the Finnic class of 
Turanian languages, brother to Tchciennisk, Mordoi-sk, and Votiak, 
cousin to Finnish, Korclslc, and Velsk. It possesses many cases, u 
indeed do all the members of this class, but is the only one 
which Ins a comparative degree. TheZirians cannot pronounoetha 
letter F at all, which greatly impedes them in learning Russian. 
Zirian lias two dialects, so distinct fcom one another that those whose 
homes are in tlie Pelchora basin cannot unUercand tho»c of the 
Dwina. A few Russian metehaiiU have acquired a smattering of 
these dialectt in order to trade the more advantageously vn oui-of- 
thc-way Ziri^in vi tinges. 

The change of religion, brought about b}' St Stefan, seems to have 
been much more thorough and effectual than with the Samoyedcs, 
who also fell under his influence, fo( Uw Zirian not only acknow* 
ledges the Faith of Christ, but seems to liavc some knowledge of 
what that faith involves. The great god Num, and the Shaman, or 
Priest, of darker ages, still secretly cherished by the Samoyede, has 
long since been forgotten and discarded, for the majority are zealous 
hoWers of the " Old Faith "—that is, tlisscnlcis from the State Church 
of Ttarland. A good number of Zirians, in ihc govenimcnt of 
Vologda, have, of late, been won o?ei to Stundisnt, which now sends 
out its missionaries into all parts of the Empire: According to 
Smimov, the original territory occupied by the Zirian race must have 
been enonnous. He bounds them to tlie ea.it b}' dm River Ob as 
far a* Berezov; to the south by ilie Kama to Viaika ; to the west by 
Moscow and Vologda ; to the north by the Tsiinta and the Ossa to 
Obdorak. They still spread more or less over tliis vast area, living 
in setf-goveming vDIage communes scaltex<xl along the banks of the 
Petcbor« and its tributaries, ilie Islima, Txihna, and Ussa, and on 
the cattem tributaries of the Northern Duina, the Wicchcga, \-$xa, 
Sisolsk, ar>d Siria, an ol&hoot of the Kama. They form 60 jicr cent. 
of Ihc district of the Pctchon, of which some volusts arc exclusively 
theirs. A colony of some 700 folk has also existed from remote 
times on the Upper Mezcn artd the Va&bka, its tributary. I'wo of 
tbc Zirian rivers are alike in possessing the uncommon feature of 
numing underground for considerable distances. The Ussa, tribu- 
tary to the Pctchora, rises in the north of Obdorsk spur of the Urals 
by Bowing out of a huge hole in the mountain &ide ; while the Vcrka, 
a small ofisboot of the Vim, which joins tlK ^^'iIcfacga, rises in tlie 

VOt.. CCXCIL KOt ]0J«. H n 



346 



The GcnlUman s Magazine. 



Tlmui nnge, to the south of the vast tundra of that name, and, 
sixtf miles CrofO its souko, plunges into a chaim, reappearing twdvc 
miles fuTther on. Bjr means of these tirent, and the Ishma, com- 
munication is established between the Dwinu and the Tctchota, but 
two htiiidred miles of Utm] interveninj; between the two systems. 
Adding to these rivers the Sudtona, the ZiriBns of the Petdiora 
reach Vologda tiy water, and so find ihemsvlves in communication 
with the great waterways of the Hmpirc, The pure Zirian population 
of the four northern governments Archangel, Vologda, \'iallca, and 
Penn, has been officially estimated, b 1865, at 110,000 ; the Lapps 
and Samoycdcs being respectively but 3,000 and 13,000. 

The Zirians, like the Pcrmians and Votiaks, call tliemscKx^ 
Komi-mutt (rivermen), while the Samoycdci speak of tbem.tclves as 
Nietia (mcn^ or as Kassova (males). Tlic words Zirian aitd 
Samoyede are Russian, and are seldom made use of, and often not 
understood, by the races to which tbcy refer. Doubt ensts as to 
the derivation of the word Zirian ; many explaiuiions having been 
offered, of which, perhaps, the most plausible is that wlitch oonnects 
the name with that of the river SIs^o, whence Kssolyane, and 
finally Syrian or Zirian. Doubt also clings to the or^n of 
" Samoyedc," which is held by some to denote " self cater," and by 
othcn simply " flesh cater "' ; the latter being most probably correct 
as no one ha.>i found traces of cannibalism among them, while tbcy 
■till devour the raw flesh of reindeer, while warm, dipped in the 
blood of the scarce dead animal. 

In appearance the Zirian resembles neither the Russian nor the 
Samoyede, being short, thick-set, and of powerful atlilctic figure- 
In oomplcnon he is often fair, with almost chestnut hair, so that at 
first light one might take him for a Scandinavian, were it not for his 
high check bonts and pyramidal skull, which connect him unmistak- 
ably with the Samoyede, and his full beard and size, which nicest 
the Russian. 

Fashion has changed but little upon the tundra since the day 
(1618) when Tradcscant saw it. "Tljcy use," he tells u% in his 
" Voiag of Ambusscd," " bowes and arrowcs ; the men and the 
women be hardlie known one from the other, because they all wear 
clotliesc like mene and bt: all clad in skins of beasts packed very 
cuiiouslic together, slockings and alL" The bows and arrows Iiave 
indeed given place to rifle and lead ; but the users are to-day "clad 
in skins of beasts packed very curiousltc K^clher." In dress the 
Rutsi&n, the Zirian, the Samoyede and the Englishman of the 
tundia do not differ ; the Samo)-cdc " inka," or housewife, is tailor 



The Zirians. 



347 



I 



to aU, for Tashion— and utility— have decreed the deerskin coat, imd 
the long fur boois and stockings, to all nho aspire to be well dressed, 
whatever ibeir race or station. 

The inak's outfit consists of tlie malitxa and sovtk, two huge over- 
coats, a fur cap, and the lipti and pimi, or fur stockings and long 
boots. The mxlil^a is a sort of s.ick, vilh sleeves and an opening 
for the head, surrounded by a coll.ir some six or seven inches deep. 
" Rukavitsa," or miilens, .nic stitcbed to the ends of the sleeves, in 
such a way that the hnnds can either pass into them, or through a 
slit, if the use of the fingers is required, leaving the glove part 
hanging loose. The waist is tightly tied id wiih a cord, the blouse 
half of the garmcDt being thus turned into a storehouse ; and if one 
gives bread to a Samoyedc. and he docs not wish to swallow it there 
and then, he wriggles his arm up his wide sleeve, and deposits the 
girt round his waist, for future reference, partly because it will not 
freeze in this natural larder, and partly because he cannot well forget 
it there; The malitra being made with the furry «dc of the skin 
inward^ it is ver)' vrarm, while the skin side being outwards renders 
ft fairly waterproof. By way of trimming, fashion diclatCH a border, 
called the panda, some three to se%-en inches wide, made of alternate 
strips of white and Waek fur, headed \yy a narrow band of red or 
green cloth, sewn round the lx>llom of the garment. To protect it 
against mow or rain, the malitut is covered with coarse cloth, or 
even velvet, according to the means of the wearer. 1'hc mah'lxa is 
worn next the skin, or over a shirt called "mckor,"acoording to 
fancy or the weather ; in very severe cold it is supplemented by the 
"sovik," a larger sack with the fiir outside, and with a hood sewn on 
to the collar. I3oth these garments arc made about eight inches 
shorter than the wearer. The cap, " polgaouska," is made of the 
skin of the " puizhik," or two- to four-weck-old fawn ; it fits very 
ck»ely to the head, and has flaps two feet long made from the leg 
of older calves, which cover the cars and tie tightly under the chin. 

Of the lipti and pimi, with vrhich the tundra folk cover their 
lower cxtrcmiltcs, the former are long loose-fitting stockings, coming 
w^ above the knee, made from the fur of the nebliuia, or fawn, 
from one-artd-a-half to two-and-a-half months old, the fur being 
woni inside. The pimi arc long boots, also coming well up the 
thigh, made from the skin of the shanks of full-grown deer, with the 
fur outside. They are sewn np in narrow strips of brown and white 
sku), with pieces of red and green cloth inserted between by way of 
ornament. No garment can rival these loosc-filting furs, eitlwi from 
the point of view of weight or warmth ; it would be certain frostbite 

a Ba 




Th£ Genileman's Magazine. 



to mar a tight boot of leather, <rM« with ibesoAIiptiaiidpimi one's 
toes Betdooi fed cold. 

The women wcair the umc head and foot coverings as the oocn, 
but in the place of the mckor they «cu a " j«ndiiza ' coming dovn 
to ihc knees, which corresponds to the national Ruxsian saraGan, 
except that it is opened Iron the fronL It b made of the hide of 
the n^liuta. with ibe fiir asainsi the skin. The puiita is the 
fcniinine malitza, and also opens in front, and is worn over tbe 
yonditza. It is made of jroung deer skin, with the fiir outside and 
trimmed with the epidermii of fox, wolf, glutton, marten, and eiren 
laM^ acoording to the hunting skill and wvalili of the wearer, with, 
as a rule, a wide border of white dog or wolf skin round the hem. 

The "shtani" complete the feminine rig^ntt; my dictior 
uanslatcf tlie word " breeches, trouscn, small clolhes," but a rac 
up-todatc work might render the Russian as "bloomers." In plaocfl 
of baodkerchids and towels the tundia dweller uses thin shavings of 
birch bark, and i ndecd they are not a bad substitate, as I have I 
myself by experience. 

All these garments arc sOK-n up by the ladies of Sunoyedia with 
deer sitKws. which are split and separated into fibres by chewing and 
rolling in the moath. The threads thus made arc fine as silk and 
very strong, and in no way aflcclod by damp. The women spcndi 
hours over each seam, oAcn with no better needle tlian a fish- 
bone, wbicfa they use as an awl, maling the hole first and then 
pushing the thread through it No present is more acceptable to 
one's Samoj'cde friends than a needle, and if any visitor to the great 
lone land will provide himself with a fev,- pockets of blunt-pointed 
harness- maker's needles he will be ircll repaid for hts troobtc by 
seeing the pleasure they aObrd to the inka in whose choom be has 
put up. 

IIm nomadic dement in t)te Zirian seems gradually disappearing, 
for, although a perfect man of nature, he becocDCS as tbe years go by 
more and more a settled agriculturist and forester. The " rolatioDi 
of crops " practised by the subarctic agriculturist consists in what . 
is known as the " Field Forest " system— the alternation of agricul* 
ture with more or less lasting periods of forest growing. He cut 
down the trees on the spot which he desires to form into a fidd,,j 
uses their trunks for house or bout building, bums tbdr branches 
where they stood, and ploughs in the ashes. These cfacntically 
improve the poor sandy land to such an extent that bo is able to get 
ten or twelve crops of winter wheat, or rye, before its fertility givesi 
out. Then he leaves that ^ot to Nature, who, after long years, rears • 



Th6 Zirtatts. 



349 



again the stately TorcM pine, for another generation to ruthlessly cut 
umI btirn; and seeks fresh Rclds and pastures new, whereon to 
repeat the process. So well docs this primitive method of farming 
answer tlutt often ttfler }'cars of com, when the grain gets small and 
weal:, hay may be grown and catllc graied for two or three years, 
crc the ground be given over to Mother Naiure. The system can, 
of course, only be adopted where land is of no account owing to 
thinness of population, and but little south of Zirian tciritory it 
gives place to the usual Central Russian "Tliree FieJd system "(i) 
Callow, (a) winter rye, (j), oaU, barley, or buckwheat. 'Ihc Ztrian's 
farming; operations also embrace tlie rearing of small brown hornless 
cattle, gicy Siberian sheep, and a few pigs, which winter in the large 
bams which surround his " isba " or farmhouse. Oittle, although 
small, do well in the north, and it is by no means impo^iblu that 
wc may impon butter from the AVhitc Sea ere very many years go 
by. The Governor of Archangel showed mc his farm at Holmagor, 
some ninety miles from Archangel, and many of his large herd were 
really line beasts, giving a fair quantity of milk, although under 
cover for six or seven months of the year; while at Mezen, and 
within llie arctic circle, good butter and milk vary the monotony of 
reindeer stealcs. Reindeer flesh, rye and wheat bread (at roakbg 
which they are better hands than their Russian neighbours), fuh and 
milk are the chief articles of a diet supplied by Nature, while many 
add to their means and iheir board by the sale and cormimption of 
honey. Like all arctic folk, the Zirian asks as much from the waters 
as from the land ; nor is he disappointed, for his rivers yield splendid 
salmon, uurgcon, pike, lota, and gwiniad. At Usi Sisotsk, the 
hamlet — as the name implies— at the mouth of the Sisolsic, a large 
fbh market is held, dcilcrs from Viatka and Vologda buying the 
greater part of the catch for the capitals. Tlie house of the Zirian is 
never locked or l>ol[ed, even if the owner be away for a lengthy 
period : his idea, like tluit of our Shetlanders, being one of hoc- 
pitaliiy, for they never lefiuc food or fire to a stranger. No wanderer 
need fear that Samoyedc choom or Zirian isba will ever be closed to 
him, be he never so poor. 

Some of the .Vrdtar^el Zirians, whose homes lie on the ishma, 
and more particularly those of Mochtcha (some 11,000 in number), 
arc called Ijmians, and dilTt;r from tlie rest in many ways, being 
nwre energetic and keen — not to say tricky — in business, while their 
neighbours are chiefly remarkable for inertia. Their villages of 
Moditcha and Ijmta, which reap considerable gains from the sale of 
petroleum, arc rkh beyond rctchorbn dream, and contain many 



350 



The GintUmatC$ Magazine. 




itKVStoried ami well-furnished houses. To tlie Ijmiin, as to 
Samojrcdc, tti« arctic tundra and the randecr herded upon it wk 
the moinsprii^ of vcalth. Tlie Ijmiaiu own three-fourths of the 
Pctchorian hcrdt, numbenng about three hundred thousand, but the 
actual management of the animab is left as a rule to the Samojede*. 
Deer breeding is by no means unprofitable, for nature supplks the 
pasture in the form of mois, while tlie sabr)* and expenses of a 
Samoyede herdsman do not run to more ihnn ten pounds a yeat; 
and be and his liimily can care fur some 500 animals, each one of 
whom is readily saleable at from four to eight roubles while alire, 
and if his hide be dressed into chamois leather and his hind-quant^ 
sold for butchers' meat in ibc towns, be realises far more. V 

Strong as is the connection between these rind races, lliere are 
distinct differences, especially of opinion, between them, for both 
own reindeer, and, therefore, both want the tundra, and allhuugb 
there ix room enough for l>olh, neither will believe it, although the 
Governor of ATchangcl has stated his belief tliat there is am[de 
pasturage for over one million deer. To those whose capital liet 
tied up in reindeer, vrant of si>ace is want of dividend, for, as tbc 
white moss on which they feed grows only on the higher and djict 
parts of the tundra, a herd requires an enormous territory on nhidi 
to feed, so it may be imagined that this land problem results m 
continual conflicts. Nor has the old Russ proverb failed to come 
true : " Where wolves fight sheep lose their wooi" The subjea is 
keenly discussed, and, indeed, constitutes the great question of part; 
politics upon the tundra. The Goveniment sides rather wiih th: 
Zirian, and denies that the ancient Charters give to the Samoyedcs 
exclusive claim to the great lone land ; and there seems to l>c a show 
of reasoning in this view, for if custom be interpreted to imply 
per|>ctual and exclusive usufruct of tenttory, then "possession'' 
would indeed be " nine points of the law," and civilisation 
colonisation would have to cease their onward march. 

Some thirty-five years ago a demand sprang up in St. IV-tersb 
for tlie flesh of the reindeer. Tliis demand, especially for 
deer-fltih, lias been on the increase ever since, venison being mO 
nnd more in request at the tables of the wctl-todo. Traders 
up all the available " ladas," or hind-quarieis— byfiw tbc best-< 
port of the reindeer — from the owners; but, partly to spare tbc 
y< ung animals, and partly from insufficiency of stock, the latter were 
unable to meet the demand, so that prices rose considerably, for the 
laws of supply and demand apply upon the tundra just as well . 
Wall Street or Mark Lane. The first autumn fall of snow rend 



sbu^ 




The Zirtans. 



351 



theveuch for white moM most difBculi to tlie young animnls, born 
iSe prerioiis spring, wlio daily grow tliinncr and lliinnw. Slock bas 
thus to be killed off wtt)i the first sign of winter front, so as to enable 
the adas to be con%-eyed, on sledges, over the first snow roads to 
McBCni whence llic traders fomard them to St. Petersburg. Froiu 
the end of September the Ijmiaiis wander about as near to Mczcn u 
moss grows, so that they may kill tJieir stock as soon as Nature lays 
the road and sends the frost, which pre&enes the meat during its 
long journey southward to civilian ion. Long trains of sledges, or 
"obosi," loaded with deer meat, arc to be met with upon the winter 
road which leads from Mcicn through Archangel to St Petersburg, 
crossing the ice of the three great lakes Wodio, Onega, and Uidoga, 
as well as of the rivers Onega and Svir, The summer post road is 
long and winding, the winter short and suaight, aossing the frozen 
waters, which in summer must be rounded. Four men working in a 
company, or "artel," will manage a train of thirty sledges, the heads 
of the borscs being tied to the vehicle in front; often these trains 
are from a quarter to lulf a mile in length. This year the Vologda- 
Archangel railway carried much of this trade for t)ie northern mujik, 
and, through him, the wide-awake Zirians are fast becoming aware 
that the new system carries goods as cheaply and as quickly, 
ilthougb not much quicker, than the old. Thus la the irresistible 
nfluencc of steam making itself felt even in the grc.it tone land of 
North. The earliest adas arriving in Si. Pccenhurg fetch the 
prices ; later in the season there is a very considerable falling 
The original price for 23das was ir. fioc. the pood (about jf, 
tl»e 36 lb«.) ; for skins, ir. ;oc. {y. 6ti.) ; while they have since risen 
to y. and y. 30c. {6s. and <«. 6d.) respectively. The price of 
tongues has not \'aricd, loc (or aV.) per pair for young deer, and 
aoc (51/.) for full sixed- Most of the tanning of deer skins is done 
by the Zirians, who dress the hide—in seal oil and ashes -after they 
hare sJtavcd it and sold the hair to felt-makers, and so convert it 
into what is known to as as "chamois leather," so mudi used for 
gloves. As proofs of the capacity of the Zirian for reindeer-breeding 
and trading, many of them bave sold, and annually sell, at Meten, 
^ins, tongues, horns and meat to the value of ten thousand roubles — 
an annual turnover which demands but little previous outlay, when it 
is remembered that they can cither tend the stock themselves or hire 
Samoyede families to do so for a decidedly modest wage, while 
Dtttne Nature undertakes the feeding and ['rovidcs the laiKl rent 
free. The essential dilfe/cnce i>ciwcen thcSamoyedc and bis cousin 
the Zirian seems to be that the latter possesses a strongly de^'eloped 





ibedodlerd 

■t nw •■ tke look-DBt to '»«*fcf 

te ^ mil*. *fc* fc* «nd Itnh 

hkfe good 

1^ — ktiwlfifw 

t Ac one tei the keen 

to do 'm'hi*^ ind 

ooe has become 




iiirfiiiil, vtuk ibe oiber kn tiken oak wA ibe nten and tiadcn 
of Rmm— the Mmfpi wid cofooHt* rto hxre itttlej vithm ha 
gue; and, rah dw^ he viO ba faaad in the naArts oT Ac North. 
Vcarljr bu die faHenukmal "*■—'*—■ and ii npo nan ce of these 
marts developed ; ycarlf it most ioo eaw with ever growing 



I 



In tUi new Mdkovt', thb awakexted Ronia ot UHlay, there Iks 
— u wttnctt ottr eonicbr reports — a oew and growing coauDetci&l 
rival, an enemy to our inMilar repote. Itailwajr lines in workiDg 
order, which profit and belong to the State, connect the Polar coast 
witli Archnngd and with the Metropolii, and meet the Great 
Siberian Trunk u Kottus. Slcanuhips |4y re^lar^y along the 
Wtiitc and Arctic Seas to Nova Zcmbla and the mouth oT the 
iminensc Pctchora Rircr, whose Noah's Ark-like barges bring down 
the grain of fertile I'lrrm and Viatka, as welt as the mineral wealth of 
the Urals. Canals connect the river sj^ems aided hj the flatness 
of the land, while telegraph wires stretch across the tundra lo far 
Ust Tiilma attd across Siberia, as well as to the North Cape. 

Saw mills, Slate-owned and prit-ate, work night and day, winter 
and summer, ablaae with dectric lit;ht, north of the arctic cirde^ 
at the mouths of tlic river which float down their timber, free of 
cha^e, to the deep sea whar^■es, Eggs (\-alue itf. pet doecn), butter, 
chickens, "chamois" leather, hides of bears both white and brown, 
of foxes and wolves, cider down and feathers, cobs and ponies, with 
thousands of standards of the best and mo»t vatuable white pine 
and other limber, now reach our shores, from this (ast-rising Russia 
of the near West. 

ERNEST W. tOWBlf. 



I 



353 



THE SONNET 
FROM MILTON TO WORDSPVORTH. 



THE sonnet lias been a poetical vessel of so much honour in 
the nineteenth centur}-, and so mucli of the ccn[ur)-'s finest 
poetjcil thought luu been poiiri:d into it, that we Tind it hard to-day to 
realise the state of the literary world a hundred years ago, when a great 
poct like U'oidsironh felt called upon to make an apologj- for using 
t)ie form. But at the beginning of the now closed century the tradi- 
lions of the sonnet were very different from thoiiC of to-day. No poct 
of distinction had made any considerable use of the form for nearly a 
hundred and fifiy year?, and cren in the magazines, where the minor 
bards found a sanctuary, it was all through that period not Ivss a rara 
avis in iV-z-m thanon iJic pages of the greater writers. In the middle 
of the cighlecncli century it is not too much to say that the sonnet 
seemed to have pUycd its poetical pari, and to luvc come to an end of 
its snious history as completely as the English of Chaucer. Only one 
sonnet collection had appeared since the time of Milton, and that 
had failed to attract the slightest attention. The " classical " theory 
of poetry, fnidir^ expression in the couplets of Dtydcn and Pope, 
held iron sway ovvj the literary world, and as yet there ms little sign 
of relaxing r^our. The two men, in Cowpcr's phrase, had 

Blade podry a mere luMhanic oit 

And every wublct h.-id Ihdt tunc by heart 

— ot had 10 have if he wanted to be listened ta 

The first man of esUblishcd reputation who was bold enough to 
dqKut from the moral and didactic path of I'opc and utter a lyrical 
note after that great writer's death was Akcnsidc. His two hooks of 
odesr which appeared in 1 745, set the example to Gray and Collins, 
and for this reason, though their poetical quality is not high, tliey 
will always occupy an imponant place in the history of English 
poetry. But neither Akcnsidc, nor Gray, nor Collins rcrivcd the 
sonnet in returning to lyrical poetry. It was not until the last quarter 
of the century, when the heralds of the romantic sdwol appeared, 





The GentUtnatis Magazine. 



led by Thomas Warton, that the sonnet began to take finn root i 
in OUT Utciaturc. It was from the hind of Cowper and these men 
that the great poets of the beginning of the nineteenth century took 
the form. 

When tA il ton died the French cbsxtcal school had already gained a 
complete victory in England. The couplet, and the ode freed from 
the Pindaric licence by Congrcvc, wcic the only poetical fonm 
rccogniMd, but the latter vu little used. It was governed by cxtcf- 
nal laws as rigid as those binding hertwc poetry. 'Ihc sense wm 
retiuifcd to end with every second or fourth line, only two or three 
lands of lines were approved, and the form was of little more lyrical 
utility tlian the couplet itself. From l>iydcn's "Alexander's Feast" 
to the death of Pope very few volumes of these odes appeared, aad 
not one exumple, whether Addison's or Pope's, contains either mu&ic 
or inspiration. I'he sonnet did not allow of epigtam like the couplet, 
nor of rhetorical iKtnip like the ode, and was therefore considered 
useless. One sonnet only occurs in the literature of the fifty yean 
following Ihc death of Milton, and this, strangely enough, was by 
one of the cliicf critics of tlie " correct " school — Pope's " knowing 
Walsh." Walsh had been a student of the lulian poctiy of the 
Renussance, and it was probably under the influence of P etraidt 
that he wrote his sonnet " To Cclia" : 

What has thU liagbcar Ocalh ihit 'x womh our car* 7 

After a lif« in paia iumI umnw pAM, 
After deluding hop« tiA dire dnpur, 

Pealli on))' givM nt (|uiicl U llw Imi. 
Worn Mrangcly uc our l<>vc and hate mUpIaccd 1 

Freedom wc seek, Kiid yet fiom frccdoin Dec ; 
CouTiinf ihcKc tjinoi m(u thkl chuo ut Ua., 

And thunnine dcnili ihil only teU lu Ctcc. 
Tu not a fooliili fcai of fulur* puiu 
(Why (hoaU xhcf fc«r who keep thdi wuli rrom tlaJita } ) 

That nukA me dtctd thjr Iciron, Dcalb, to *m : 
Tit nut ttia lost of liclics oi of bmr, 
Oi Ihc Kiiti toy) the vulfu plcautei came : 

Tit nothing, Cclia, hut the toung thee. 

The oclave of the sonrwt is simply two quatrains of alternate 
ihymcfl, and, in true Augustan style, breaks in the middle of lines 
are carefully avoided. The first line, it has never been pointed out, 
is taken from one of the translations in Drydcn's " .MiscdlanJw.' 
Walili was undoubtedly a man of much greater talent than ap. 
in his works, which consist only of a few pages of verse, chic 
pastorals and epigrams, and a single prose essay. The essays whk 




Tht Sonne i from MUton to Wordsworth. 355 



I 

\ 



go unJ«r his rame in tlie oM editions of Drjtlen's " Virgil " hare 

been proved to be of otlier autlionliip. Drj-den desctibetl him u 

" the best critic in our nation," and Pope, who n^ceived from him 

that early advice to be " correct " which was never foi^tten, wrote » 

eulogy of him in the " Etsajr on Criticism " which is luiown to erciy- 

one. His couplets are nearly as perfect, according to ihc eighteenth 

century slAndard, as Poik-'s own. 'Hie sonnet quoted is, of coursd 

of no other interest than arises from its historical position. 

The sonnet volume of Thonus Edwards, which appeared in the 

middle of the eighteenth century, is a book that has not dcscn-cd the 

cocQpIetc oblivion into which it fell almost immcdiatdy after it came 

fiooi the press. It is one of the strangest of literary phenomena. 

Ko other collection of sonnets was published in the tint half of the 

century, and it appeared ju.st at ibe time in the history of English 

litetttture wlien outride influences were least encouraging to sonnet 

productioa Edn'ards had been a close student of Shakespeare and the 

literature of the earlier se^■cntc^^nlh century-, and was a litetar)- heretic 

who was not able 10 liiink (hat there was only one heawn-niade 

form into which all poetical thought was to be confined— the heroic 

couplet. His "Canons of Criticism," an aiUck on Warburton's 

edition of Shakespeare, shows that he was tlie ficst Shakespearean 

scholar of his day. For this work the ponderous divine altempled to 

damn him to everlasting fame in the notes to Pope's " Uunciad." 

As in the case of Pope and the other Shakespearean scholar, 'I'heo- 

bald, the first hero of the pociu itself, succeeding time has come to 

the conclusion that the satiriscr only satirised himself Edwards'* 

sonnets, which arc for the most part Mtltonic in fonn, have not great 

poetical merit. They arc, however, polbhcd and graceful in style 

and sincere and rtfined in sentiment. Number >, which is headed 

" To John Clcrke, Esq.," has something of a really Miltonic ring in 

its close : 

Wbfly, O Ckrkc, enjoy the present hour, 

The present houi ii all the lime we Imvd ; 
lllgh C<k1 lh« ml b4S placed beyond out potNt, 

Conbigncd ptrhipa to f;Ticf~or to the envc. 

VVteii:hcJ ihc mafi whu tuils Anibition'i Avt« ; 
Who piiict for wta]l)i or ligbt for empty hme ; 

Ulin rjll) In |jl»iy\i(n which the Duod dcprai«, 
Bouglit wllb KWrc Kinotte and guilty dame. 
^liMc and knowledge be our better aim ; 

Theic help nt ill lo heat ct \taiAt to iliun ; 
Let friendship chcet lu with het jcnctoia Himc, 

Frioidsliip the *ur) uf all out joji in one : 
So ttuJl v« live each woment Fate ha* ^rcm. 
How lung Of iLart let lu tetien to tMnrea. 



356 



The GeHtUmau's Magazine, 



I'hc iine&t sonnet of lite collection in tlie ooc written before a 

bmily portrait. It cuitounly roembki Cowpci's Ciunous longer 

porlnkil poem, and it \s not at all unlikely tlut Cowpcr TCtncmbcrcd 

it: 

n'bcn pcnuTe on that pMUahiiK t (uc, 

^Vhcrc my fooi botbcn ramd «baut tat lund. 

And fout Ciir xiitcti imik nith gncn blind. 
The coodty oiooDinanl of hftpjacr d>yi i 
And lUnli bow hwb inMiUt* Death, *bo pr«y> 

On ftti, hM cm])pe4 ibe rnt with niiUcu tiiuid ; 

While I aUmc nnivc of aW that band 
Whicli one choHe bed did to my blhci hum ; 
II Mcm* iboi, like « column left klone, 

The iMtering rennjutt o4 Mine tptendid fane 
"Sckped from Ihe Jiicyuf tbelarlinoiuGul, 
And wutlBg Time, which has the ml o'eilfarown, 

Amidu out H<iu»c\ ruins I itm^in 
SIoeIc, unpioppcd, and nodding to my fall. 

In the " Miscellanic-K " of a once cvk-brntcd literary lady, Mrs. 
Chaponc-, now a rare book, there is a sonnet to Edwards in which 
the authoress compares herself to a linnet and Edwards to a wood- 
lark. The poem is not vonh quoUng, but it sho«-s pleasantly that ihb 
mid-eightfcnih century sonneteer was not altogether unappreciated 
in liis own day. Edwards was a close friend of Akensidc, and in 
Akciuidc's works there is aii ode to him on tlte subject of U'atbur- 
ton, who had aiucked " The Pleasures of the Iinagliutlion " as well 
IS the lesser poet, 'flic sonnets arc fifty in numtwr, and arc 
generally to be found bound up in a volume with " The Canoru of 
Criticism." They seem to luive quite escaped tlie attention of the 
anthologist. 

Only one other name calls for mention in the history of the 
English sonnet during the b-irren [loctical period on which Edwards 
wxs ca.1t. In the ^vnlings of Benjamin Slillingllcet, grandson of the 
great preaclier and theologian, a selection from which was puUtshed 
in j8ii, a few examples of the form arc to be found. One of them, 
" To John \\'illiamson," stands out very remarkably from the rest, 
and well deicn-es the praise Mr. Main gives it of "a noble poem.* 
The ^\'i11ianlson to whom it refers was one of the many men of 
great learning and literary ability wlto ^led to attract notice in the 
Augustan age, and Itvvd in Gnib Street poverty and contempt 
StillmgQeet's influence finally gained him admiiunce into the Church 
and a chaplaincy to the English settlement at Lisbon. Tbe sonnet 
W.TS first published in the year tSoi. It appeared in Todd's " Millon " 
with the date t746: 



The Sonnet frmn Millon to Wordsworth. 357 

When t behold Ihee, blimclcu Willamvxt, 

Wttcktd like «n in&nt oa a »v.Tgc tboie, 

Wiiilc others round oo boirowcd |>iniaTU soar, 
Mjr liii*y r«nc]r ealll Ibf iKitad raU-ipun [ 
Till Fiiih inUtucU me ih« deceit lo thun. 

While iliiM iiie speftki i " Thoae wiogi iliai ftum the iioic 

Ofvittue »«ie nol lent, liou-e'et ihcy bore 
I* this giou *tr, will mcl; nhen oou the )un. 
The Inilf aoiliitious wait foi Knluie'i lime, 

Cont«nt by ccttain though by ■^aw degrees 
To tnouftt above the reach uf ruls>t Hicht % 
Not ■• ihu naa cosfined to thb lo* cliinv 

Who hut tlic cilKRicM tkliu of glory tc«i 
And hun cclctliil cchoo with ddigbi." 

SdUingflcet, whose f^mc has long been forgotten, was one of the 
most reinarl:al>Ie met) of the eighleentli cenlur)-. At various tiroes he 
6U«d the rAfe of divine, physjcion — he rose lo be ProfcsMW of Medi> 
one at CatrobridKe— and actor. He inherited all bis grand&lher's 
love of classical literature and philosophy, and was a copious writer 
on subjects connected vrith both. In addition lo his poems, four 
plays came from his pen, and to complete the drcic of the arts and 
sciences he nutsteret) music, in whidt he made a considerable name as 
a composer. Like the Admirahle Crichton, he united with his gicat 
scholarly attaiDments extraordinary personal cliaim. His brilliant 
conversational powers caused him to be one of the most sought 
after men in eighteenth century sodeiy, in which he was known as 
"Blue Slocking Stillingllcct." from the fact that he invariably 
appeared in blue stockings. The nick-name clung to him a^i long 
as his name was mentioned. Perhaps no more "various" man, 
certainly no man who equally combined depth and variety of know- 
ledge, was to be met with in the polite circles of London and Bath, 
between which places be divided his time. His sonivet shows 
further that he had— what was almost as rare as blue stockings at 
ibe court of Beau Na$b~a noble hcatt as well as many accomplish- 
roents. Stillii^ficct dkd in 1771. 

It is surptiung that Cray, who had been so deep a student of 
earlier English poetry, did not make use of the soniwt. U'iih his 
constitutional mdancholy, and his mind too rcllcctive for sustained 
creative work, one would have thoo^t that he was of all men the 
one most likely to leave a drawer full of sonnets — the monuments of 
his varying moods aiMJ occasional poetic visions. Unfortunately, be 
only left a single example — the poem on the death of ^Vest, first 
published by Mason. The beauty of this solitary sonnet makes 
disapp<Hntmcnt at its author's unpioductiveQess the keener. 





The Genlientan'i Magazine. 

la *aiB to me the snulns mcmtnp Ain«, 

And reddciuoc PlKxbw lifl* hii golden &re i 
The bud* in Tain their ■moroiii dcKsni yAa, 

Ot diMifiil fiddi mume thdr pern altirc : 
Tlinc c«r>, a^ I for other nolts reptec, 

A dKrrenl o)jc<1 do ibcie e}-e« reqvirt t 
H]r loocly aaguidi melti no tioui boi Bine i 

And in wef braut Ibe inpttfect jar* expire. 
Yd mominc waiSm Uw liuqr nM M cheer, 
And Bew>bom plcunra bttnp to haiipiti men : 

The fietds in ill ibetr vcnl«d tncKMe botf ; 
To WKrm (heir liiile lovt* the bud* oompUIn : 

1, fraitlen mourn to him lluil cannol beu 
And weep the mure became I u-r«[> in vaiiL 

in ihepre^e to "Lyrical Baltad^" Wordsworth quotes these Unesas 
an instance of the false poetical diction of the eighlecnih century — 
" the language of passion wrested from iu {irojicr use " — against 
which be set himself caily in his career, and dismisses them with 
coiUenipt. " Reddening I'lHcbus "and his " golden fire " al the outset 
{irejudiccd him ngaiiist the whole sonnet. \VoTdswonh, as a critic, 
went as far to an extreme in advocating simpUdty of language as 
the eighteenth century poets, by their practice, did in Ihc other direc- 
tion, and no succeeding pod has modelled his style on (he theory of 
lite preface. Gray, in one of his leilers, lias sliown tlut he had also 
considered the subject of poetical diction. " The language of com- 
mon Hfc can never be the language of poetry " he wrote to West, 
and though in making this assertion he was dealing ont/ with the 
question of a poet's right to overstep the limits of t)ie common 
language of the age, and to adopt words used by Shakespeare and 
the older poets which had passed out of ordinary speecit, later poets 
have decided that the pronouncement is just as Itue in the sense 
which Wordsworth opposed. One of the great chamctcri.ttici of the 
poetry of the last half of the nineteenth century is that its langungc has 
become more and more curious and technical. Wordsworth notes 
" yon stir above the mountain top," but Tennyson in " Ixfcksley 
Hall " observes " Great Orion " and *' the Pleiades." The poetry of 
the Rosseiti School and Swinburne is, of course, the complete 
negation of Wo rd.s worth '.t ihcory. 

It is worth nK-niloning, while on the subject of Gray, (hat Mason, 
his biographer, nearly wrote a good sonnet in tliat poem on ibc death 
of his wife to which, as Mr. Gossc has shown. Gray contribatcd the 
magnilicent finish. 

Thomas Warton — who took from Gray the design of a history of 
English poetry, and produced a work whkh Coleridge considered 



w 



The Sonnet from Milton to Wordsworth. 359 

the chief force whidi operated in the emancipation of our poetiy — 
did more perhaps than any other eighteenth centuTj- writer to restore 
the sonnet to credit. He and his brother Joreph— the editor of the 
delightful old edition of Pope — tMoke emirely away ffom current 
litCTxry traditions, and incurred thereby the wmtit of Johnson. Both 
iVerc deeply read in old English liter:tturc and permeated irith the 
romantic spirit. The poctr)- of Thomas who became Laureate, with 
its glowing talcs of chivalry and its picturesque ic creation of the 
medixval world, was once extremely popular ; but Scolt, following 
into the same field, very soon eclipsed it for all lime. Watton had 
little originality. Ko volume of poctrj* is more markedly derivative 
than his. Some of his poems are, indeed, little more than centos 
of quotations from the old writers. Soutbey very Justly said that 
Warton produced his elTeci by the feeling of genius in others, but 
ott by the influence of his own genius. The praise of \Varton is 
that he was almost the only man of his age who xtiA capable of this 
feeling of the beauties of pie<lassiC3l poetry. His sonnets are only 
nine in number, and they have been long forgotten. They are 
precious in their fruits rather than in themselves. Coleridge 
eulog^d ihero, and Cary, the transhtor of Dante — seemingly 
'ibrgetfiil of Shakespcaic and Milton — declared that they pro\-ed 
finally that the sonnet was a poetical form adapted to the English 
language. The poems on Winsladc and "To the River Lodon" 
exemplify best the " pensive grace" which Bishop Mant, Warton*s 
editor, pmised as the chief charm of his sonnets. 

Wintlade, thy bc«h.caiit htlU with waring |p<cn 

Mkittlcd, thf chcquerdl views or wood and lawn 

Whilom could fhona, ot when the BiBdii*! ibwn 
"GiD the gray milt witli purple orient slain, 
Oi Evening glioiaicNd o'er the foMei) mln : 

Her fiirctt laadictpe* whence my Mute litt dntwn. 

Too free with lernle courtly phntte lo fawn. 
Too wmIc to try the biuliin'i tt*ic)y ttnun : 

Yet now no more tliy tlopn of bcceh and com 
Nor viewi intile, since he £>i distant ittays 

With «honi I iniMd theii iwceU al eve and mom 
From Albion &r to cull tlciptriaa b«y» ; 

In ihis alone ibey ptcme, hnve'et Totlom, 
Tlttl ilill tbeyean recall thote happier days. 



TO THE RIVER LODON. 

Ah I what a woary race my feet Inve ran 
^Dce fint I trod tby banks wtib alden crowned, 
Aad Aot^bt my «ny was all throngh fairy Erouod 



360 



The GentUtitan s Magazine. 



Bcne»ih tlif iraro ^ anid golden hd, 
Wicie Crt( e>jr Mum to &p bcr noU* Ixsun I 
\Muk pciuivc ucinMjr baco tack the touad 

WkM^ fills the railed inlem] between : 

ll«ch pleHoR, nofie of tonmi, nuitlu the letae. 
Sweet oUtve itictm ! lUxe iXic* tad mn w pure 

No More return to dicer ny eTeoing read ! 
Vet Mill OMJojr mauia— that, not obtcvcc 

N'c* wdcEt an nr <r>auit d>y« hare flowed 
Pmbi yoath'* e*]r daira to naahood** printt mature : 

Not with ibe Mum's Unrel uabeuoved. 

WDliain Cowpei wis of ctnirsc an infinitely greater poet than 
Thomas Warlon, but his initnnlialc influence was kss great. Waiton 
was ProTcssof of Poetry a: Oxrotxl, while Cowpcr was merely a re- 
tired country gentleman. Though there is Ihtk of the romantk 
spirit in Cowpcr's poetry, the two men had this in common, that 
they were warm admirers of Milton. Both edited the minor poems 
of the KTcat seventeenth centuT>' poet, but Cowpcr did not complete 
his edition. Warton's is still a delightful vdumc. Covper drew hit 
love of the sonnet diiccUy from Milton's works. He made excellent 
translations of his master's Italian sonnets, and he has left at least 
one ordinal poem tn sonnet fonn which for »inipl« pathos is trosur- 
passed in the bnguage: 

Miiy, I wani a lyre with othci )^llinc*< 

Such aid fiorn 1 loven ni men have fvigned tbcy drew. 

An eliHiucnce icum ciren lo moitali, new 
And undcbskMd by praUc of meaner tbingi ; 
That, cte thraugh age oi woe t died my wine*, 

I may record thy worth with honour du« 

In vene u mwical ai thou an inic. 
And that immorlalbe* whom ti unci. 

But Ihou tiaal tiiile need : iherc U a liook 
By arropha writ with beani<i or heavenly light. 

On which the eye» of God not Kldam look , 
A diionlcte of aelions juM and Iiiighi. 

Theie all thy deedi, my futlifu] ^tai)-, thine. 

And since ihou o«-n'»l that piiix 1 >parc tbee ntiileb 

"Petrarch's sonnets," wrote Mr, Pjlgravc of this poem, "hare a 
mor« ethereal grace and a more )>CTrecl finish ; Shalccspeare'a more 
passion; Milton's stand supreme in statelincss; Wordsworth's in 
depth and delicacy ; but Cowpcr's unites with an cxquisiteness in 
the turn of tliought which the andents would have called irony an 
intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving and ingenuoiu 
nature." 

The finest of Cowpcr's other sonnets is perhaps the one to 
J, Johnson, which, though not Millonlc in form, lias a truly 



The Sonnet from Milton to Wordsworth. 56 1 

MStonic accent. Johnson had given the poet a bust of Homer, 
It horn he wai then translating : 

KinfBttii bdoNd and u » mh bf me. 
What I behold IhU fruil of tbr tt^iai. 
The (culptoicd form oC mf old (itvouitic baid, 

I tewtence f«l for him nnd love for thee. 

Joy. loo, and ^\d. Much joy that there should be 
Wise men intl leanied who grudge not lo reward 
With lomc applnutc my bold alleinpr and hard, 

Which othcn icoro, cruus by eouitcq'. 
The (rief is tfait, that lunk in Ilomci't mine 

I late Bijf precioui ye«rj— now toon lo fail— 
Handline his gold, which, howioc'er it thine, 

IVoTca droM when talanced in the Ctitutixn Kale. 
Be wiser Ibou ! Like our brcfithcr Donne, 
Seek hoiretilr worth and work for God aJone. 

As Mason's name is insei»raMy connected with Gray*s, so is tfie 
name of the equally small i>oet Hayicy with Cowpcr's. Hayley is 
indeed one of the poorest poets who ever enjoyed a high reputation, 
' and none is more completely forgotten. He left a few sonnets of 
I very slight quality. The following example was addressed to another 
poet, once famous but not much greater, James Bcattie, on reociving 
tlie literary remains of Beattie's son : 

Bard or (be North I 1 thank the* with my Imh 

Vot lhi» tokl work of thy patcru.il hand i 

It bids the buried youth before me Mand 
In Nature'i lofieil light which love endearj, 
rueau like thee, whoie grief the world tcvetes, 

Faithful lo pure aficclioD'a proud cetnmuiii, 

Fo* n loat cliild have latiitig bonoun planned 
To give in Fame what Fale dcitied in yean. 

The lilial fonn of Irorm wai wrought. 
By his ofllicicd ste, the urt of an ! 
And TuIIm's bine engroased her hthcr't heart : 

That &ne roM onlf in pcrlarb&l thoaght; 
Rut iwcel pcrlection crowna, oi imlh b:gua. 
This Chinliui image oJ thy hapfner too. 

Two minor poets, whose notes had a much truer ring than the 
admiKd Hayley's— and who, perhaps, on this very account nei-cr 
Itttracted any conaderable attention— deserve to be honourably 
ded b)- tlie historian of eighteenth century literature — John 
Codrington Bampfylde and Henry Headic}'. Both these men hai-e 
left volumes of poetry od" very difiercnt order fiiom the conventional 
contemporary kind. Bampfylde, who died in 1790, the sane year 
as 1'bomas Warton, published in 1 7S8 a volume of sonnets, of wbich 
VOL. ccxai. ica 30$& c c 



362 



The GentUman's Magasine. 



several of ihe great poets of the bo^iming of the ninctccniti century 
spoke good vordt. He seems to have had as vrctchcd a life as Saragc, 
Colliitf, Smart, and the most unfortunate of eighteenth century literary 
men. Though the son of a baronet, he spent pari of Mvi lifu in gaol, 
and, hke Colling fmalt)' ircnt mad. His sonnets, which Southcy 
considered "among the most original in our languagi^" show a true 
apprecUtion of nature and considerable dcscrijilivc power, 'lliey 
were written probably before the fiixt of K'arton's was published 
(• 775)- Two examples may be given : 

All jre who, Wx from town in rani hall, 

Uk« me wrrc wool lo dwrll mm pl»B»t fi.;M, 

Enjoying >ll llic tunny day illd ykM, 
Wiib at« the chuige bncnl, in uktotne ilinll. 
By laini uimwum bcM i for now no call 

From caily twain iovitei my hoad lo wlehl 

Th« Kytht I in paitoiu dim I tjt coacealeil. 
And uMk ibc Unentiq; mbiI Kram liout ^ui filt ; 

0( 'bcMh 8iy window Tkw the wbtful Inla 
Of diippii4[ poulUy, whom the tiae'i bcoad kam 

Sheltet no hmk. MdIc i* the OMurerMl |<Uin, 
iMlent thB fwallow liu brotatl) Ibc thatch. 
Aad vacant hind hangi pemirc o'er Im hatch 

Cmntlnc ihe &«|ii<iii drvp {mm [ceded cat«>. 

To mi CvB>ii»a 

A'hat nuucniiu rotarle* 'n«alb thy thadowy wii^, 

O mild and madeti Evening, And <l«U(h< ! 
Km to the gioi-e hit linsciing fiiir ii bring 

The warm and youthful lover, haling light, 
Siglu oR for Iher. And next Iht baaitcraw lUiiig 

<jr tchoul inij^, Irced frotn Dam«*s all dnaded v^A, 
Roond Ttllaga-crau In many .1 wanloa ring 

WbhCi Ihy ttay. Then, too, with vatly might 
From atacpli-'V nilc 10 tiigc the iMunding hall. 
The buy hinidi aaail lliy (lacrant call ; 
I, friend to all by lurnn, am joined with alt, 

Lova and elfin gay and harmlctt hind ; 

Nor heed the pioud to real wisdom Uind 

So B) my henri be iiutc and tree my mind. 

Headlc)', who was one of ^Varton's students at Oxford, had a 
career as short as Kirkc White's, dying at the age of twenty-three. 
His poems, which include a number of sonnets, appcartxj originally 
in th<! Gemtuoiax's Macazise. At Oxford he became thoroughly 
imbued with the Iwe of the older poets, and mode a selection from 
Elizabethvi sxA earlier poetr>- which did much for the rcviral of 



The Sonnet jrom MUton lo Wor^worth. 363 

imcrcst in those then neglected miters. He lUed at Usboo, the 
great eighteenth century continental health resort, and was buried 
by the side of Fielding and Doddridge. The third sonnet in his 
collectioD, " To Time," seenu the best he wrote : 

ThoQ hoiiy iTBTellct ! sloir luuinc; by 

Tlie irreCcli vhu counU each monwQE o( hit woct, 

TiU Ubetty hi* prbon-Eatc uuckoe i 
An the (lull Muii who«c motion tnock^ tlw cyCi 

Full oft thy loidy jouRieylngii (Ktray 
The ipailei— ]<ondci ma»y-manltcd lower, 
WKmc head niUlme derided once ihy pi>irer, 

Kow sileat crumbting licki bcncjib ihy nraf ; 
Tie N^ing, Iby till Kimmci, Kates c« hi^, 

VUlat ihy dnp ironnil* each maqr (iiMn ilram 

Like wrinktci furrowing deep Iby own t!icy bnxtt: 
Vet noi foi this tode triumph melli my lijih. 

But ihat iby hand nil) wither beauty's tom 
And itim the Ike Hut lijihu (he (pnUing ejrc. 

was one of Terr's {xupib at Norwich, and the great 
sdtolar has left the following account of him in hit diary : 

" Let me pay a tribute of respect and affection to the incmof)- of 
Henry Hea^ejr, son of Henry Hcadlcy of North Waltham. He 
came to me at Colchester and was idle. His idleness continued at 
Norwich. J irished to part with him. His father with tears ptc- 
vailed on me to make a final experiment ; it succeeded speedily and 
amply. He displayed taste, he acquired learning, he composed wdl, 
he went to I'rinity College, Oxford, and nas highly esteemed by 
Tom Warton. His volume of poems has some merit ; his collection 
of ancient poetry in t«-o volumes shows great research and great 
discriniination. The preface abourKls nith curious learning and 
original thinking, " 

As Dr. Parr was one of the most Busbcian of scboolinasters in 
his educational methods, the nature of the experiment he tried with 
such excellent and speedy results may easily be guessed. 

One of Hcadle)-'s soiincts was addressed to the once popular 
DO^'clist, Ktrs. Charlotte Smith : 

Of thee, &ir moumcr, o'er whc«e diimciM fMW 

Fonane has tpraul the sickly lints of grief 

<WUbt Fm^, to eive thtc iwnt relief, 
Aiuys with warblinp mild tby woes to chat*) ; 

An emblem nice: thy leanii fkr-raviaj; finds 
ABMni! the iuknt tpring's first openiDg fiowen — 
Drooping its hcjd, ^nd wet with firequent ibowett. 

The soowdiop trembla in the tuflling wtodi. 



364 The Gentitman's Magazine. 

Vet (won iu ifanple Ibca in Ttaefi eye 
Uofc lenlr, ikicc in radeit leuoa bonu 
Km* pitcoiu Kirh a Bowct iboaU Ude Ow *com 

Of c*«f7 Bwly Momt that pewti t? I 
lloM £u nMf«pi«MHnrty>l«e««ilw^ I4»w 
X»HiM ihee, «tMMC aong b cdM 10 tlqr «oe I 

It rcJers to a volume of sonnet degics, wluch was the Bret woik 
Un. Smith published. 'Ilie book contains some rery pleasing 
poetry ; and though a hundred masanne writers of to-day have as 
much skill And Tanc)' as Charlotte Smith, tt is cany to undcrs-^and tlial 
a century and a half ifp it was gic.itly valued by lovers of mie 
singing. The sonnet *■ To a Nightii^Te " has a grjcefulncss and a 
chann which may siill Iw iVlt : 

SwcM poet or iJic wooiL— « tone mUc* I 

FucveO, *oft mkutrcl sf ibccwiy yeu. 
Ah I 'iwill be long etc ibcn diali ting »ncw, 

And poin lliy nvBic on the nigbi'i dull ecr. 
WlMthn en SpAng thj* waMdering flig^ awiit, 

0( whethn ntral in oui pave* jo« dwdt, 
Tlie p«ii*iv« Muie thall own thee Cm hei nue, 

A&d uiU protect the ttitig the itnti m wdl. 
With emdolu uepa the love-bm jouib thsll gliile 

Thfoogb the \oae brake thai diulct ihy mouy neil | 
AikI ihcphenl £■''* ^"t" 'Y*^ ptofuoe ihall hide 

The s"aOe bird, lint uaci of pily bcM : 
For Mill ihjr voice thsll tnft aiTcclioiu nMVC, 
And illll be de«r to mttow «k1 to lore. 

In personal fascinaliun and rarietyorftccomplisbmcntsCharlolle Smith 
rivalled " I^dy Mary " among the women of (he eighteenth century. 
Lady Mary was a toast at the " Kil-Kat " Club at the age of twelx-c, 
and Mrs. Smith was a distinguished society belle at an almost equally 
early age. She was married when 6/tccn. As a literary woman she 
raotc resembled her conlcmporarj- Hannali More than the brilliant 
authoress of the " Letters from Constantinople." Like Mia Mote 
she bad un immense facility in composition, and, besides innumer- 
able no%-el», several very long poems, which can hardly have been 
read even when they first appeared, came from her pen. That her 
sonnets wen: popular is, however, ihown clearly by the fact that they 
passed through eight editions in four years (1784-8). She died in 
1806. She seems, indeed, to have been the only member of the new 
•chool of poets who at once obtained great vogue. No doubt ber 
sex and social influence did much for the volume, for other greater 
poets who broke away from the popular style— chief among ihcm 



Thi Sonne i from MiUon to Wordsworth. 365 

Christopher Sman, the author oX itic miraculous "Song to David" 
—were entirely neglected. 

The unfortunate Kiike White wu another sonneteer who stood 
in the direct line of succession from Warton. In one of his essays be 
has acknowledged the influence of the Laureate on his }'outhftil 
iua^nation. Mr. Saintsbury has, somewhat harshly, called Kirkc 
IVbite a poetaster. Nearly all his poems arc fragmcnif, and some of 
then) arc certainly only the sickly complaints of a diseased and ovcr- 
scnsitit-c youthful mind. The natural dislike in an ordinary English- 
man of morbid scniiRicntalism may easily blind one (o the evidences 
of a fine poetical imagination which arc really to be seen in Kiiko 
While. The following sonnet, which Mr. Sharpe has selected for 
his anthology, is by no means contemptible: 

U'hu ftrt Thou, Mighty One, and vliere Thy m*1 T 
Tboa liiKidcti on ihe ntm thu cheers the luids, 
And then) dint bear ailhin Thtnc awfiil hands 

Tlic rulling ttiuiidcn knd llie I%htfting» I1«ct : 

Stem on Thy duk'Wn>e|;hl cai of cloud and nind 

Thou gpid'it the noclhcm Aorta at niglit't dcul noon, 

Oi, on the ted wiii£ of tlic &crM monsoon, 
Dutuih'il the ilccping gianl of the Ind. 

In tlic dtor slencc <A the I'olu span 
DoM Thou rrpotc ? or in the tolilodt 

Of lullry mrkf^ where ihe lone carariB 

lltsn alfihtly bowl the ligei'* hungry txood ? 

Vain thoa^ht I the cotilioa of llii throne to tnce 

Who glow* ikroo^ all ibc £cidi d( Ixmodlctt (face. 

With a happier lot and a longer life there is good reason to think 
that White, if he could never have approached greatness, would at 
least have won a permanent place among poeti of the second class. 

If Kiikc White's merit has been gnsitljr exaggerated, llie latter 
part of the eighteenth century produced another poet, almost equally 
iJtort-lived, who has never gained the fame lie dcscnrt. Of all the 
young writers who had their poetical "awakening" from the Waitons 
easily the first in genius was Thomas Kussell. Coleridge, Soutbcy, 
Landor all wrote of Russell in terms of praise higher than they gai'c 
to almost any other poet of the century, and Cary — an excellent 
critic, if vxn a great genius — declared that he was a worthy successor 
of Spenser and Milton. Russell was another of VVurton's Winchetfer 
scholars. From Josei)h Warton's hands he passed into Thomas's at 
Oxford, where, while still an undergraduate, he made a high 
reputation in the literary work! by two papers on Provencal poetry 
in the Gk-viuijian's Machine, defending the Professor's " History of 



366 



The Getit/emaft's Magazine. 



EngUtb I'oelTy " against Ihc attacks of RiUon. He gained a Fe 
ship and was ordained, but died almost immcdUlcljr afterward! 
178S. His poems were published after his death by Howie)-, 
a^emurds vVfchbishop of CantcibuTy, and dedicated to Tboroas 
Walton— not his old schoolmaster, as the " Dictionary of National 
Biography" asserts. I'hc following (inc sonnet, which Coleridj^ 
admired so much that he declared it would authorise Russell to joi 
ll« shades of SojAocles and Euripides, was in the rolumc ; 

PHILOCTETES AT LMMS'OS. 

Ob iliU tone ble, whoM raQwl rocks iffrighl 

Tbe caiitlou> pilot, ten iwdvini; }-cnn 

GrMt r*«*ii*i Mm, vnvonled eru Ia tear*, 
W<|it o'er hh wound [ alike each mlUnE li(kl 
Of hcBvra he wiicbed, and bluNcd iu liageriac fliffcl ; 

By dqr Ihc M*^«w tcnantng mtnA Ym cove 

UiOTc dumber from kb eyet ; i!i« chiiliR^ ware 
An) wvi^ howlioci ch«»ed hi* dnsiof \»j algbt. 

Hope uiH wu hu : in each low breefc ihkt ilgbod 
Thnnieb liix low grot he hcuil a ooming o«— 

In each nhite clood • coming tail be spied \ 
Noi sddom UiUocd lo ihe bacied roM 

or Ocu's lorrcnu, m the boarwi iJd« 
That f«Ki. Umcd Tiachit from ibe Enboic Aatt. 

WordKworih embodied four lines of incthcT of Russell's sonnets 
in his sonnet " Upon landing at lona" "as conveying his feeling 
tetter than any noidii of his ov,-n could do " : 

Think. pi«ud philo(opbcr. 
Fallen Ihoueli »hc it, tbU gtevy oT the WcU, 
Siii on hor *0B« ibo tmau of Bcnjr iLine : 
And "Itii^tct, p(ih«p* mote heavenly Iiri^hc llum llilne, 
. A Grace liy ihec >n«MKht and nnpov^-ucd, 
A Culh more fixed, a rapture mofc dinne. 
Shall (iUl (hdi pa»B£e to Uciiul rot." 

Ilic unmeasured eulogies of the next gctvcnilion of poets may 
seem surprising to a present day reader of Russell's poctr>' with the 
whole litcnttire of the nineteenth century in view, but if we compare 
it with its a^ we shall not thiiUc Coleridge's talk about Sophocles 
and £urip»des so inewusable. Rtissell deserves, next to Chatlenon, 
the highest place among eighteenth ccntur>- " inheritors of unfulfilled 
renown." 

The eighteenth century poet whose work has had most emphasis 
laid on it asa"link" byeriticswas William lisle Bowles. Mr. Saints- 
bury, in his " History of Nineteenth Century Literature," has perhaps 
written more unfavourably of Bowles, as well as White, than his works 



The Sontut from MUton (o \Vordsv>orth. 367 

derive- Hix elaborate edition of " Pojk," with its rclc^ttoD of the 
greatCHi of out satirists and didactic nrilers to the second tank of 
poeis, forms almost a landmark in the hi-ttory of English criticism. 
Hardly any work lias made a greater stir in the literary world. 
Though Joseph Watton had insinuated the same view in his edition, 
Bowles was the first man to openly defy the Pope worshippers. 
The controversy that followed between himself on the one side and 
Byron and Campbell on the other is still interesting reading, though 
the question b now long sir^c placed beyond dispute. Bowles's 
poetical stream is very thin, and no one would think nowadays of 
reading his longer works \ but he had enough inspiration for some 
very pleasing sonnets. In an early nineteenth century edition of 
Bowles the sonnet on the "Mpproach of Summer" is higjily praised : 

How dmil I meet Ehce, Summer, won! lo liU 
My bcMt frith gtadncu, when tli^ p!cuint tide 
F&n canie, txA on ihc Cwmb'i lomaotic tide 

Wu heard the diil.int CDckoo't hollow bill? 

Frah flowCTi !.hi>tl £rin^ the iiHrf^n ufthe sUtun, 

A* wtib llw Mngi of jnyancc intl of hope 

Th« hadgnowi shall ring toud, and on the k1op« 
The po[itan ifaikle in the pasung beam ; 

Tbe ihmU and Uatili thai 1 loved to lend, 

Tlunkina their May-tide &agranoe vould d<Iigh( 

With many a ptacthil chaiBi, Ibce. v\y poor fticod. 
Shall put fuith ibcSt ctten Uioottand chMt (h« tight. 

Itnl I ihall mark thdr hue* wlih udder cyeft, 

AdJ weep the more br one who in the ciild grave lie*. 

The sonnet on "Absence," which resembles this one in feeling, 
was admired by Wordsworth : 

There it i^trancc aiiuic in the ttininQ wind 

When lowen the ftntumnil eve, uid all alone 

To ibe daih wood') cold covert thou iit \ptit, 
Wboie ancient licei on Ihe rougli ilopc rcrlineil 

Rock and a( lime* ualln Ihdr licun Mie^ 
If in )uch shacks bcncaih Ihcit niurnutring, - 
Thou li:c hau pouicd the hippiei honrtof Spring 

With udcen thou will cnuk tbe fading jrear | 
Chklly if one with whom tndi swoett at mom 

Or menios iboa hail shared oJir dull ttray. 

O Sprirrg return ! rHum, uupLciom May ) 
Kul shI will be Ihy totniag and (bilo«n 

If <hc relam not with ihy cheoine ray 
Who from ibcM ibddc* i> gooe. Tat, {u a«sy. 

Bowks acquired bb Im-c of tbe sonnet directly from Thomas 
Wanon, whom he bad known when at Winchester Coll^ under 



368 



Tht Gentleman's Magasine. 



the tutorsbip of the elder brotber, and his cxcclleot poetical seme 
was also the re^^ult of the tralnii^ he received from tiie two \\'aRoas. 
He Urcd on to tlie middle of the nineteenth century, and raw the old 
Popcan traditions, aj^inst which he fought in his youth, not ooly 
ended, but brought into a contempt which he could approve u 
lilttc as their predominance. He saw also his own works — which 
Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey had read with delight and 
admiration— in contempt not less profound. But neither Bowles nor 
any of the poetn we linve mentioned deserves to be despised. It 
canDOt be said of their use of the sonnet that in their hands 

iho thing became * iiuaipct wbtacc (hcf Uew 
Soul RBimiilne ilnin* — klas \ no few. 

But it a no slight praise that they were able to appreciate the miuic 
of the old pocls who had waked such strains, and to echo them, even 
faintly, in an age which bad very little music in its soul, 

JOIIX UAX ATTSKUOttOUCH 



5*9 



BRITISH BEETLES 
MASQUERADE. 



IN 



L 



THE xdrocates o\ ibe iheor>' of mimicry have invaded the British 
Isbnds in force. The theory saw the light in the tropics, 
and, nnlitrally etiougli, wa> nouriiihcd in its early days by cxomplvv 
drawn from thai centre of luxuriant life. In recent years it has been 
realised that insUnoes of inedibility advertised by warning colours, 
and of its accompanying mimicr}-, are to be found all the world over 
by those wlio haw patience to search ihem out. The work of 
Wallace, Bates, 13clt, and thdr fellows hat been continued and 
extended by younger disdplcs, in spite of suggestions that their con- 
clusions arc fanciful, and that they only see what they wiih to see. 
Professor Poulton, in particular, by numberless experiroents on 
British insects, has demonstrated the sense- pliotography by which 
cater;>illars paint themselves when entering into the pupal stage. 
Now Mr. H. St. John Donisthorpc, who has been studying the 
British Coleoptcra, almost startles us with the suggestion that (con- 
trary to common belief) this order bristles with examples of warning 
colour, protective resemblance, mimicry of inorganic, vegetable, and 
animal substances, and of imitation of other insects. There are just 
3,300 beetles in the British list, and Mr, Donisthorpc, in a lengthy 
communication to the Entomologiral Society of London, adduces no 
fewer than 150 gcncn (containing perhaps four times tliat number 
of species) as more or less illustrating the theory. Ooubtlcxs many 
of these will be discarded as a result of further research and cxi>Cfi- 
ment ; but, on the other hand, it is certain that new examples will be 
added to the list, leaving us with an army of native beetles which 
iUostrate this fascinating doctrine. I may remind my readers tlut 
" mimicry," aa commonly understood, postubtes at the outset a con- 
siderable nnmbcr of insects anpalatabic from some inherent taste, or 
dangerous from the possession of some deadly weapon, to birds, 
lizards, and other animals which prey on thdr allies; this ixwdi- 
bility being duly adt-enbcd by the assumption of staring colours or 



The GcntUntatis Magastne. 




370 



UDiDistalubk p.itt<.-T:is. Thcte oolotrn are usually j'cllow and Uad, 
red and black, bright red, metallic gieens or blues, and, it »aid, 
plain bUck. Tbc warning colours nuy be laid on in spots urunpcf, 
or may extend over the whole body. Insects attired in g>t»Iy 
uniforius promenade boldly, 'lltcir sarcty is partial, not nbsoloic ; 
but a method of defence which is effective in fifty cases ont of a 
hundred affects very seriously the rate of mortality. 

Conspicuous examples of inedible Brilisli species are found in ibe 
Ijidybiids. These beetles are all gaily coloured in rt.-d or ycQow, 
$l>olted with blade or while, and even their larv,i; and pupoe are 
brightly spotted. They walk about without any attempt at conceal- 
ment, and that ihey are justified in ibis apparent rashness ha$ bees 
demonstrated b>' many experiments Insectivorous animals unhes- 
tatingly reject them. Decs and waspt, with their dangerous sunpt 
hare a hereditary right to dark raiment embellished with red and 
yellow bands; but they claim no monopoly, beetles, iirotab^ 
nauseous, being found with compicuous orange stripes and pal 
as, for instance, many <A the Sextons, some of the ground-f< 
carnivorous beetles, and a brilliant species, with bright blue head ud 
lliorjx and red wing-covers, allied to the well-known Chrysomela. A 
number of live specimens of ilie las[- mentioned were offered to ta 
insca-ealing birds, including lite laughing jackas^ but were rejected 
by four out of the six. A large group of beetles with soft integu- 
ments and pugnacious habit's iind often bearing patcbcs of red or 
black on their wing-covci$, are distinctly inedible. The so-caUed 
Soldiers and Sailors may be taken as the type. I'hcy walk and flf 
about, or assL-mblc in numbcts on umbelliferous Bowersi, without 
ony attempt .it concealment, and are rejected by small birds. Tbe 
beetles known as Phjiophagn arc among the most beautiful iosccti 
in the world, being shining green, radiant blue, or glowing bronu, at 
any of these with an admixture of red or yellow. Many of tbtst 
beetles are undoubtedly nauseous, and that this fact is appreciated 
by less gifted species is shown by the persistent imitation gf the 
protected group. Unicoloured species not metallic are well repre- 
sented by the scarlet Cardinals, which rest operdy on hcrba^ as if 
they had nothing to fear. Mr. Donisihorpe suggests iKat the Urge 
Cornbus beetles with black bodies arc dista-iteful, as they possess ■ 
strong and most unpleasant smell, and discharge an acrid iluid frooi 
the mouih— sometimes into the C)'e3 of incautious entomologists. It 
would be helpful if we knew what enemies they had most to fear. 
Judging by the crushed .ipecimens found on country roods, they 
suffer extensively from the weight of *' Hodge's " boot^ and no 



unount or wnmmg colour can avL-rt that form of attack. Tlic i4rg« 
blue-black Oil beetles, which (.-xude an offcTisive yellow fluid from 
Ihcir limbs, crawl about composedly in the open, as do also tho 
Bloody nose beetles, which eject a red liquid from the mouth. But 
inedibility vanishes in the presence of minute ichneumon flics, snd the 
present writer has reared forty of those pertinacious insects, of very 
rare species, from grubs which emerged from the body of a living 
Sloody-nose beetle. 

Edible beetles protected cither by invisibility or by pretending 
to be somelXHly cUc abound in the British Islands. Alargenumlwr, 
belonging to families by no means closely allied, escape the eyes of 
enemies by aswrnilaiing themselves in colour to the sand, earth, or 
mud upon which they spend their lives. As a rule the sandy- 
coloured beetles are yellow or grey, but reddish specimens of a 
weevil, ordinarily grey, have been taken upon the red sands of Boar$ 
Hill, near Oxford. A parallel case has been found in a. yellow 
weevil, whose usual habitat is a sand-hill ; two individuals taken from 
white pebbles being while like their surroundings. It is a common 
practice for British beetles to accommodate themselves to the colour 
of the tree-trunks thcj' frccjucnt ; the Longicoms, which arc mostly 
tree-feeders, naturally enough being prominent in this respect. Many 
are described as closely resembling flakes of hark, or as mottled and 
coloured like lichens. These species live on oak iruiiks, in fir and 
pine woods, or on fallen bougbs and faggots, and exliibii a very 
perfect colour-harmony ;^ith their backgrounds. It is obvious that 
this mimicry cannot be detected by those who only, or chiefly, study 
the insects in cabinets — they must be socn in their natural enviion- 
mem. One beetle described as mottled, so as to resemble a lichen, 
was first captured by the picscnt writer on board a steamer in the 
Mersey. It seemed to him a very conspicuous insect. But then it 
had settled on bis beard, which was not its natural environment. 
A couple of beetles, which live in the nest of the woodant, closely 
resemble bits of wood ; some of the Elatets, which feign death, look 
like pieces of brown stick, both in colour and shape; and a beetle 
of another family might be taken for a dry curled autumn leaf. 
Dead bud;, anthers of flowers, ard c\cn Howers themselves, arc more 
or less successfully imitated. 'Hie beautiful Rose beetle, says Mr. 
Holland, "with its head and fore pi^rt buried in a flowerheadof 
Viburnum opulut, the projecting hind juirt slashed with wavy whitish 
maiks like pollen flakes, and dusted with real pollen as the result of 
its own activity, is hardly to be seen at all." Queer disguises sre 
often assumed. Thus, beetles which burrow in "cow pads" oflcn 



372 



The GeniUmans Magazine. 



have the sordMl aspect of tbeir nnouodings ; while a whole 
pretend ihat tbcy are the excreu of birds. It may be rerocml: 
that Mr. H. O. Forbes, in his " NatiinUist's Wandetingi in the 
EmMiti Archipclitgo," describes \a% deSighl at finding that hia eyea 
hid been deceived, and that wlial seemed to be the excreta of a bird' 
was an artfully colotired s{>Jdcr, lying on its back and nooLing ittelf a 
Itvtng bait for butterilie*. 

Britbh beetles have not been slow in realising the inedibility of 
the Phytopha^ the l.adybird!(, and the Soldiers and Sailon, andJ 
mimic their sptcndtd lints or ihcir spots with sbamelcss pertinacity. 
The dangerous Hymenoptera, which include ants, bees, niby flics, 
wasps, and ichneumom; are paid that tribute which is the meed oitj 
■access, and hare Ihetr counterparts among the stingless beetles. 
Wasp-beetle, for instance, which is black iritli yellow bands, □ 
its legs, as Professor Poulton says, in a "jerky manner, very different' 
from the usual coleopterous stride, but remarkably like the active 
monmcntB of a wasp." Some small beetles found in old 
look almo&t exactly like spiders, but what they gain by this is not ' 
known. Ijuttly, the " Pills," and many of the veenls, pack up oc 
stick out their legs when alarmed, and remain motionlcu as if the 
sudden shock liad been a stroke of panlysis. The common Dor 
beetle feigns death, but whether this isany protection from its natural 
enemies is doubtful. At all ci'enis, the domestic hen disregards the 
recommendation to mercy, impales it on Iki beak, and administers 
tummarj capital puniilimenl. 

Such in outline are komc of the devices adopted by tlic beetles 
of our own country. The mere citation of them suggests that instead 
of beiitg content with nn examination of the insects when fastened • 
with pins or gummed on cardboard, it might be worth oar while to' 
watch them alive and among their natand surroundings. 



;0BV ISABEXX. 



Johu Clare. 



383 



raodi^, but his lack of humour, of Iccen insight into the chantcter of 
bis fellow -creatures, makes these attempts llic mo»t convincing proof 
of the di»iinil.iriiy of the gifts with which each was endowed. As 
Mr. GilTord apily uid, " Claie is a creature of feeling nilm than of 
fuKy," and, though lor removed indeed from the nobility and 
abstraction of Wordswonb, in his passionate love for ilie humbler 
beauties, he reminds one more than once of ihe master I.ake poet 
We might say that if Crabbe had been a poet of narrower intcicstSt 
less scientifically accurate in his botanical and geological touches, 
bad displa)-cd more naive passion in his love of country scene*, above 
all hftd been nd^ectm nuher than objeditt, he would liave borne a 
strong resemblance to Jolin Oare. 

But to taste the true aroma of this " wild&owcr nos^ay " we 
must turn to an account of the life of Qarc, for it is not till wc know 
bow he lived, how he contrived tot to itarrt, that wc can grasp^ ta 
part at least, what this bumble peasant's gif^ meant to htm. Speaking 
of adverse criticism of his imperfect work, he says : 

Slitl must my rudenos pluck (he flowti 
TbM'* plutknl, Um, in ciil hovi ; 
Oppircuaun'* tmro allliough 1 be ; 
Still will I Un<t n>y simple wicath. 
Still will 1 love Ihce, PMty ! 

John Clare was bom at Hclpstone, a small village near Peter- 
borough, in 1793, two years before the death of Bums and the birth 
of Keats, when Walter Scott was still an advocate, and Jamet Hogg, 
"The Ettrick Shepherd," had published lits first poem, and Words- 
worth's " Evening Walk " lud just been given to the world. 

There iitver surely wa.* a poet, rising to eminence in his own 
lifetime, who began his career ui>dcr such overwlielming disadvan- 
tages. The son of a travelling fiddler turned village schoolmaster (a 
fiuber so uneducated that he was not even quabfied for this humUc 
post, but had to seek parish relief before the birth of his sonX all 
the education for which Claic was directly indebted to his parents 
was confiiKd to a year or two at an infant school ; be left this school 
at the age of seven to tend geese, and after an interral of some fiva 
years resumed bis almost forgotten elementary studies at the village 
school of Clinton. Even for this privilege he contrived to pay partly 
out of his earnings, arvd at a time when an attack of the tertiary agiie^ 
cofttracted al^er the heavy bbour of ihreihiRg, had rendered him 
temporarily unfit for liann worL 

Chre bavir^ mastered the rudiments of writing and arithmetic 
was encouraged, before he left, to study mathematics ; one cannot 



384 



Tk4 Geiitifmatis Afagazine, 



but admire the courage of this mere child, whose pathetic, dniM 
unaided gropings aAcr knowledge led him, on leaving Clinton, (o 
punue such uncongcnul studies as Algebra and I.xrarc's Critical 
Spelling Book. 

Que's )oy in listening to the sound of |>OGtry seems (o have been 
tvnkencd vccy eariy— if he did not exactly " lisp in numben," the 
numbers were not long in coning. Mr. Cherr)-, in his " Life and 
Rcmatnt of John Clare," tells us that a poem was found in a school- 
book of Chrc's, aiul, though this is not c^-idencc that it was written 
in schooldays, sliU wc know he composed his first poem, "To the 
Primrose," at sixteen, as well as ihc rough draft of sci-eial of the 
ihorter poems in the " Poems of Rural Life." 

\Vhen he was in his fourteenth ytax he undertot^ the light duties 
of boy at the " Blue Bell " Inn, and here he had leisure to read not 
only the fairy Laics, of which he found a Eair assortment, but also 
ft few volumes of the great poets, such as Mttton nnd Pope. He 
tells us that the first time he read the fairy tales ihcy made such 
a vivid impression on him that certain dark lanes seemed to bs 
haunted by appropriate ghosts, and to counteract these terroo he 
used to foiec himself, on approachii^ the sinister spot, to recite some 
particularly prosaic ule of daily Ufc aloud. 

I.ater on he bonowcd a volume of Thomson's " Scuons," and 
this work, dealing with a world with which Clare was famtltar, 
inspired him, he sa)-s, more than all the others ; he roaruiged to care 
liis poor pence, and walked into Market Dcepn^ one roocntng to 
buy the first book of [tocms he wa:t to possess. This was; perbip^ 
the happiest period of a sii^larty ill-slarred hfc ; free from respon- 
sibilities, able to indulge his simple tastes for poetry and country 
nmbles, to quote his own words : 

I KOiDcd the Tielils atiout, & happ; duld. 
And Uvnnd injr poi'ici up with rushy [ics. 
And bushed and mutconl (t my Wiinft) uil>l. 



At the " Blue Bell " he stayed alwut two years, and when in hi) 
rixtecmh year, being like most poets of a susceptible dispositioD, 
he met the girl who was to be to him wlut Highland Mary was (o 
Bums. Shy and awkward as he was, he appears not to have lost 
much time in making advances to Mary Joyce, whom he lirst found 
engaged in the girlish occupation of weaving lloverx For six 
nonths they were recognised lovers, but her father, a thrifty Cumer, 
insisted on Mary breaking with this son of a pauper, and the girl, 
too timid to disobey and bee the prospect of Uack poverty with so 



It 



John Clare. ^^^ 385 

uncertain « companion, gave him up at faut, though with genuine 
rduclance. The memory of this (iru love never left the poet ; it 
int|Hn.-d him with some verses of manifest Einceiity and simile 
ttnlour ; even in after years, vhen disaster and bralten health 
had obliterated almost e\'cry otbei impression, his wandering mind 
RtWDcd to ihc KcoUeciion of the giil of his first boyiith love, and 
the bst Ictti-T he wrote in his own home was addtebed 10 hit wife, 
Mary Clare. *' I love thee, sweet Mar)-, but lo%-e ihoe in fear," and 
" Mary, I dare not call ihee mine," ate the two poems that occur 
to a rcidcr as most obviously addressed to the memory of his fitU 
sweetheart. 

We ncKt Itor of his a[^>Tcntictng himself to the huid gardener 
of Burghlcy Park ; but this drunkard not only eru:our3gcd Clare to 
emulate him in the bottle, but so ill-used him otherwise that he ran 
away, having weakened his constitution and acquired a lastc fw 
drink that he ever after had to battle against, to his credit motUy 
with success. Until the age of nineteen he now remained at 
^ipstooe, doing farmwork as a day labourer, scribbling vetoes in his 
leisure momenls, mostly on the spot, using his bat for a desk, as ht 
did not trust his memory. Ho would read these early essays to hb 
parents as purporting to come from penny ballads, practising this 
pardonable deceit to prevent their meeting the fate of his first 
attempts, whicli were burnt by a prudent mother to discourage her 
John from such foolish waste of time. 

The careless days of boyhood are now over, with their reckless 
and innocent )oys of nuttioig flower and wiklbcrry plunderinj^ 

whcD 

Down ih« hayficU «-»iin|; to ibc kncct 
Through icu of wivini; grmu, wlut dsyi V\t ganc, 
Chotiin th« liopcs of iDUiy IntioBriaf tms, 
B7 ooppiag hloMowi llicy wc«« petdieil upon — 
A* thjwie kloHE Ibc Inlli ind Iimtiloc koutt 
And tlw will) iialking Ciuitcitnu; bell. 

His admiration for the beauties of the field and wayside b not 
any longer the only form of cnthu$ia$in. IJc has begun to admire 
other blossoms : 

Ami now the btcsMm of the vilUge new. 
With airy b*i df Maw ud apcon blue. 
And dtoK-ikcved pnra ihai taalf to pK** reve^lt. 
By fiae-turool um*, Oie bMnly It CODCcalt. 

He was for ever losing his Iteart 10 some " Rose in fuU-blown 
blushes dyed," some artless milkmaid with [tail on arm, shadii^ her 



386 



The GentUntan's Afagazine. 



eyes as »hc called her cows mth the pretty, quaint 07, "Comc.tnulb^ 
come, mulls" ; and it w» nfter a (luarrcl with one of these, more 
spirited than her companions, who, grown tired of his diffident lore- 
making, had hinted broadly at maniagc, that Cbic, abrmed at the 
rcsponsihitities this idea suggested, withdrew his attentions, and then, 
npcnting, rushed into the wild life of the gipsy, to forget and 
drawn his rcmorst; vfith King Uosn-dl and his bard. A brief 
experience of this unwashed existence was enoi^h ; even for tlie 
humble peasant tlic promiscuous and common cauldion became 
distasteful, and h« returned to his native village and to somewhat 
fitful spells of farm labour. 

In 1811, when all England was in a panic about the threatened 
Napoleonic invasion, }olin Clare was drawn into the tnililb, but, 
fonunately for himself and the peace of the ndghbtnirhood, this 
unruljr body of raw recruits was soon aRcrwardt disbanded, being 
more of a danger than a protection to their countiy. 

At the .-igc of twenty-four, having stil) no fixed occupation, be 
was glad enough to get the work of tending a lime-kiln at Brid^ 
Castcrton, and, lliough the hours were long and the pay miserable 
(about 9/. a week, out of which he had to spend it. ftd.ion^ bed), 
he contrived to save a few shillings, to be detx)led later on to his 
darling project ol i^tsuing a pTos2)eaus for a collection of his poems, 
now sufficient to (ill a volume. 

In the long days spent in the open sir, the hot noons, the chill 
momtng hours, Itc had oppotlunities of studying the effects of 
Nature in bcr mo«t varied aspect?, and his observ-ation finds almost 
passionate if somenliat difficult expression in such lirw« as the 
following : 

Nook. 

All haw uIl-di and Iiow Rill ! 
NolhinK hcicd now but ttic mill. 
While the douIH eye snrvcyj 
All nnnind a liquiJ blue 
And ftmid tbc icorcfaing (hmnu. 
If we euncu look, it wnn* 
Ai {(crooked Uu of e'*** 
Sc«nic(l repeatedly to pMt. 
Itogged robins, orc« to pink. 
Now aic turned u bbicV u intc. 

And this of a summer morning has a bcauiiful freshness : 

Nov let roe Ircid the mciilow path* 

While Elitlerini: dew the ground illume*, 
A* tprinkled o'er (he wiiheiing iwtths 

Tbcir moistaic ihiinkj in tweet perfiunei ; 



John Clare. 



387 



And heu tlw becilc Mnind hii hom. 

And hcu the tkyUik whiiiling nigh, 
Spriae Uoat hu htA of icftcd coin, 

A hailidf; minilrrl to the iky 1 

The synUx a often rather ohscurc, vords are not always used 
in the strictly correct scniiC, but there is a flow, a lyrical touch 
in his best verse not at the couiniand of the more scholail/ 
Cnbbe. 

At lost the ercnUtil day anired when, after much negotiation, 
Mr. Henson, of Market Deeping, agreed 10 print an addios to the 
public ^ other words, a prospectus), inviting them to subscribe for 
the fint volume of poems, and it was arranged that o-cntual publi- 
cation should dcjxind on the result of this appeal To tliis Clare 
joyfully agreed, and, after much cudgelling of brains (for the wriiing 
of prose was a weighty matter to Clare), he composed an address of 
touching humility and candour : 

" The public," he announces in this unique address, " are 
requested to observe that the Trifles hunibtyolfcrcd for their perusal 
can lay no claim to eloquence of poetical composition (whoever 
thinks so will be deceived), the greater part of them being juvenile 
productions; and those of a bter date, offsprings of tho«e leisure 
intervals which the short remittance from hard and manual labour 
sparingly alTorded to comiiose them . . . " 

By such a diitident attitude he disarms wliat he calls "the iron 
hand of criticism " ; and, though at first the subsciibcrs wvrc extremely 
tardy in coming forward, this prospectus succeeded in arousing the 
curiosity of Mr. l>rur)-, of Stamford, a publisher, who was finally 
insmiincntal, with the help of Mr. Taylor, in placing the first 
coUectioo of John Clare's poems before the public. 

But, as if at this momentous time the poet had iwt ciwugh on 
his bands, he must needs (all seriously in love with a girl whom he 
had met, or rather seen, for the first time as he was returning from 
a convivial evening at a neighbouring inn, where his skill with the 
fiddle was in some request The poet tells us with hit habitual 
candour that he was too shy to speak to the girl, but, afler w;Uching 
her pass him on the pathway, lie suddenly scrambled up a tree for 
the pleasure of watching lier a little longer, perhaps of discovering 
where Patty lived, lie discovered this, and mote. On one line 
summer holiday, when, for the occasion, be may have donned a 
fiowcry waistcoat and a hat i>ot brcdccn down by the wci^t of 
pencilled inspirations, he fourtd courage to address her and to make 
his own sentiments clear. 



388 



The Geniieman's Magazine, 



CrDod iiBiuie fonxd the maid m spcil;. 
And good behB*iaut, not to >t«k, 
Gave nBcdncn lo tm rosy chctlc 
Impravcd by raily liunit- 

And so Paitjr of the Vale, " artless, innocent, and young," more 
confiding than Maiy of Clinton, became the poet's svreetlieatt, and 
before two yeara were over, his wife. 

This anion ns, one itmst suppose, on the whole a bnppy one; 
She waa, in fact, as well as in name, intclleetaally a Xfaiths rather 
than a Mary, bu; was houscwi fely and cheerful and sincerely attached 
to him. In his tvrribte trials and priraiions she stood by hiio 
loyally, though, strai^e lo ny, when be was taken from ber she never 
went to see him. 

We need not follow the tiresome reeord of the jouroej's this first 
little collcclion of poems made to this connouseur grocer and that 
country bookseller; how ihlr. Porter ob^ted lo tlte grammatical 
slipsan<l Mr. Thomson could see no merits in the verses. Suflice it 
to say thai Mr. Diury of Stamford, in conjunction with Mr. Taylor 
of London, finally arranged to publish a small edition of the 
"Poems of Rural Ufc," which were brought out in the spring of 
tSio. 

Mr. Cilchriil, a scholar and later on editor of the Zofu&n 
Magatiiu, had l>ecn coiu-ulted as to these poems and gave a most 
favourable opinion of them, desiring Mr. Taykn- lo nuke him 
BiC<luaintcd nilh ihc poet, and, if lie was guilty of drawing Clare out 
rather unscrupulou.ily, both be and Taylor were shrewd enough to 
see that, if the rcciuiuie stress were laid on the exceptional conditioos 
under which thc^c poems were produced, ihcy could hardly fail to 
interest the public. 

Tbey were fully justified by events, for when the influential 
icvicfrs introduced this humble poet to the notice of the public^ 
prefacing their criticism by a short biography of the writer, the 
curiosity of tlie reading world was immediately and signally anxaed. 

" The instance before us," says the Quar/er// Jitview, " is, 
perhaps, one of tlw moot Mriking of patient and persevering talent 
existing and enduring in the most forlorn and seemingly hopeless 
conditions that literature has at any time exhibited." 

In the London Magatiiu (a new periodical brought out in the 
spring of iSao) Mr. Gilchrist, the editor, says : " Nothing in these 
pieces has touched us more than the indication tbey aflbrd of the 
author's ardent attachment to placet that can have witnessed tittle 
but hiH labours and his hardships and his necessities." 



I 



John dare. 



3«9 



[t is ratlicr curious to find ihat John Clare owed hit first brief 
success partly to the same cause as that which gave James Thomson, 
his chosen model, his immediate popularity. j\s with "The 
Seasons," the " Poems of Rural Life" came at an opportune moment, 
and were read with a new interest by a generation grown tired of the 
mpid and witless imitators of Pope that still nrrived, a forlorn ukI 
dwindling band. 

With such a bunching, then, a less seawonhy ship would have 
made at least a good start, but, unfortunately, Clare's well-wishers 
were too anxious that he should take the tide at the fiood and sail 
to fortune instantcr. Dr. Bell, of Stamford, got up a subscription 
in London in aid of the peasant poet ; Mr. Taylor, wc arc told, sub- 
scribed ;£ioo (which sum, in view of the accusations made against 
him of not having come to definite terms with Cl.ire, as his publisher, 
may at least be regarded as part payment), great names soon made 
their appearance on the list, aitd before the close of iSzo Clare was 
informed tliat oi'cr ;^4oo waa invested for his benefit. 

To a :)ature as genuinely honest and independent as Clare's this 
form of ap]>redation was most distasteful. He bad objected to the 
note of pcrson.ll ai>pcal in the London reviews, and now he even 
wrote pathetic and Jll-Kpclt lettcrt to Ins noble palroni assuring them 
tluu bis need was not so Imminent as to justify recourse to charity ; 
but, not further to offend, and too diffident to insist, he rductantly 
accepted this donation. 

The " roems of Rural Life " contain two nanative pocnt^ "The 
Fate of Amy" and "Crazy Nell," not wanting in tenderness or 
touches of poetical observation, bat possessing neither the terseness, 
the humour, nor the grasp of character essential to such composi- 
tions ; he excels here and always in the sonnets and shorter songs 
and addresses : "To Hclpstonc," "Summer Morning," "Summer 
Evcnii^" and such naive songs as, " My Love, thou art a Nosegay 
Sweet" The address to Poverty, in its simple, elemental force, is 
very impressive : 

ToiiiBf! In th« fukol field). 

Where no buih i ihelter yi«Ui, 

Needy Ubom diihtriui; lUndi, 

Beab and bloH-i hii numtiuif; Tmiuli, 

Aad Bpon tfa« cni>n)]ine toawt 

Slas>[« tn v&In (o warm hil toe*. 

One of the faults observable in these early jioems, a fault pointed 
out by Charles Lamb to the young poet, i.t the too plentiful use of 
dialect words and prorincialisms. Here and th<:Te such a word 



3SO 



The GeHiUman's Afagazhu. 



give* freshness and sawur W a tcwc, but Clare's use of this license, 
it must Ik acknowIcdg<Kl, wa.i at first a little indiscriminate. 

Soon aftcT his marmgc, which took place in March, 1810, John 
Clare paid his first visit to I.ondon, to slay with a brother' in-law of 
Mr, Gilchrist. London as a spectacle does not seem to have made 
afavouiuMe imptcsion on the poet; he was at a loss to undentud 
the epithet " beautiful " as applied to such sights as Wcstminsca, 
the City, or St. Paul's, and was more scared than edified at the 
amount of company he was expected to be civil to. However, be 
trotted obediently on a round of visits, and the small, encxgetk 
figure, clad in a long overcoat (10 coiKcal the deficiencies of hii 
die»X heavy boots, and wearing bis hair with scant r^ard to the 
fashion, became for a time quite iamiliar in the drawing-rooms cf 
Ibe inSuential. 

He was not sorry to return to his homely cottage at Helpstooc; 
and was more annoyed than gratified to find that his new-won faae 
was beginning to pursue him ei-cn to his obscure birthplaca No*) 
liltc Bums, he was constantly being called away from the Addt t» 
receive some notoriety {or more often nonentity) curious to l»n 
a glimpse of the peasant poet. Between his first and second raox 
to London, however, he did not work much in the fields, but devottd 
himself mainly to composition ; he would spend hours in the fidds 
or low-lying fens of the district, note-book in hand ; be had hi! 
special haunts that seemed propitious to his Kfusc (to ute te 
favourite figure of the period), be even bad a rude plank desk kt 
into the hollow of a certain tree — Lea Close oak — and here 
From 1)11: viittX time wtica spring's jroung UirilU ar« bom, 

And g»ldcn calkiDs deck the ttllow tree, 
Till sutnmet'a blue caps blofsom 'fttM iJic coro. 
And autumn'* riigwon mdhnn on the le«, 

Ae might be found, in all seasons and weathers, adoring 
observing those common beauties of Nature which Raskin tells 1 
arc the most precious inheritance of man : 

Tliere's the daily, the wuodliine. 

The crowduwci »u|;o|i]e». 
The wQd rn«e, the cglanllne. 

And May buds unrolding ; 
There are flower* fut my fiiiry. 

And bowers for 1117 love. 
Wilt ihoM go with me, my SUry, 

To the l<ftnki of Itcocm'i Grove ? 
Then come etc ■ minule'i gone. 

Since ihe long lummer tUy 
I'm* winp swift M liitncts' on 

For hieing away > . 



John Clan, 



39' 



\ 



He is seldom successful in dating ihyiucs or accurate iit nietrci 
but llierc is a fugitive charm ii) his very simplicity, and always the 
indispensable note of Mncerity in his best work. 

But again John Clare b in London; it is the spring of iSia. 
This time he is to stay with Mr. Taylor in Fleet Slrett. Mr. Taylor, 
hospitable but busy, hands him over to Tom Hood, and under his 
congenial guidance and that of Rippingille, the painter, be sees the 
convivial and trivial side of London. He loses his heart to 
Mile. Dalia, of the Regency Theatre, to such an estcnt that, after 
toasting her lathcr enthusiastically, he oversleeps himself in a 
hackney coach (being unable to obtain admission to the house of 
his hostess), and, behold, in the morning he is driving— being driven, 
rather, into the wilds of— well, some presumably unfamiliar parish, 
and has to pay the jar.'ey heavily for the jaunt. Of course, he told 
the story against himself in strict confidence, and equally, of course, 
it was all over London in a day or two, and he never heard the last 
of il. Meeting Charles Lamb not long after, he was greeted with 
some atrocious pun about country poets and liackney coaches which 
was, perhaps, hardly appreciated by the sby countryman at so early 
a stage of their acquaintance ; but they became good friend.i later, 
and Lamb wrote several letters to Clare encouraging him and 
mentioning for special praise such poems as " Recollections aflcr a 
Ramble," " Co*vpei Green," and "Solitude." 

We hare dwelt so long on the brighter period of John Clare's 
life that wc are forced to give a very abbreviated account of the 
years of disappointment, distress, and disaster that followed. 

Prom the date of his second visit to London Clare's fortunes 
began to decline; on his return to Helpstone In 1S22 he for the 
first time began to miss the cultivated society and convivial amuse, 
tnents enjoyed in the company of his London friends. He grew 
restless and discontented, and found himself dreading poverty in « 
way ne»' to him ; yet, with the characteristic inconsequence of ihc 
discontented, we aie told that just at this time he grew less 
economical and ran into debt The failure of a scheme to buy a 
small freehold with some seven acres, owing to want of funds, 
preyed on his mind ; he began to despair of rising permanently 
above his struggling condition, and, with an increasing family, found 
it impossible to malte the wretched pay of a day labourer and 
the scanty caniings of his pen suffice for bare necessities ; worse 
than this, it was grown difficult even to be sure of his former occu- 
pation : Eftrmers looked askance on a labourer who had made great 
friends in London, whose books had been printed and "Sashed 



39* 



The Genlie?najt' s Magazine. 



•bout wl* gilded Icttera " ; and more than (mc hndovner tefused to 
employ him. 

In i8j3 a second volume of poems, cnlilled "The Village 
Minstrel," vu jmblishcd, and to Chrc's dismay met with but 2 oold 
recqilion, although in style at least it showed a considerable 
admnce on the first coUeaidn. There is no doubt that the com- 
patative Sulure or "The Village Minstrel " was due in part to the 
greater activity in the publishing world. Scott's " Kcnitworth," the 
last pocmi of Keats, a new collection of Wordsworth's poems—all 
were lioh from the press. But this alone would not account for so 
sudden a fall ; he was paying the penalty that the misdirected zeal 
of his friends had brought upon him in apf>ealing to the public on 
his behalf, and the public were retrospectively resenting it At a 
lime when large sums were paid to successful authors, an ad miuri- 
(ordiain appeal to the world was in tltdr eyes tantamount to an 
acknowledgment of incompetence. Id ^ort, the personal interest 
shown by the world in the author as a peasant poet had always 
been ^Tcalct than their appreciation of his far frofn perfect veisc, 
and, for all but a few, Clare's lilllc day of fame was run out. 

In 1814 Clare's health caused him so much aniicty that lie 
paid his last visit to London to consult a doctor, who was not slow 
to see that want of nourishment and anxiciy were his patient's chief 
complaints. A period of slightly improved health followed, dining 
which he composed enough to publish a third volume of verse ; 
but "The Shepherd's Calendar" met with an even worse Cite than 
"The Village Minstrel," and the poet took the desperate step, 00 
ihe advice of his publisher, of hawking his own poems about the 
district like a podlar, with what result may be imagined. 

In the winter of 1831 Clare again broke down seriously, and 
Lord FitxwillUm of Milton Park kindly offered him a new and move 
roomy cottage at Nortliborough. His family gratefully accepted, 
but Clare became depressed at leaving his "old home of homes," 
and when the move was made in the following spring he fell into 
a strange brooding condition and refused for a time to go out 
and sat at home writing religious poems and para|riinisiiig the 
Bible. 

It is evident that at this critical period no one was quite aware 
of Clare's condition except himself, and it was not till it was already 
too late and his mind was giving way tlut tardy attempts at succour 
wereeagcrly offered. The publication of "The Rural .Muse," largdy 
composed of poems already contributed to the ephemeral Keepsakes 
of the day, was rccdvcd much more graciously by the reviewers— too 



I 



^^^^^(^ John Clare. ^^^P 393 

late, alas! to berwfit their author, who two years btcr, at the advice 
of Lord Milton, was removed to a printeasflum near Epping Forest. 
Here he rcnuiineiJ finit yean; impraring in ph)-sical health, but sub- 
ject to quite har[nl<:ss delusions, one <^ then bcii^ that Maiy of 
Glinton vros his real nire. 

In 1841 he connived to escape, and actwUly made his wajr, 
mostly on foot, to I'clcrborough. A diary kept bj hinueU at this 
period is tbe most pathetic record e\'er left of a joumef . He seems 
10 ha^-c been singularly lucid as to his main object, and gives a 
strange insunce of his distrusting his own mental endurance. He 
VQutd carefully lay hiiusclf with his bead towards the north wlKn he 
went to steep in the bams or oulbouscs, so that he might be sure of 
starting in the right direction tbe next morning. 

He might have been allowed to spend his remaining years at 
NoTthborough, but the authorities again intervened, and be was 
remoi-ed to tbe County Asylum, irbere he remained till his death, 
twenty years later, in 1864. 

These last years were spent by him in silent resignation ; he still 
wrote occasionally, and Mr. Chcny ^ves an interesting selection 
from the poems written at this period. The best have in them a 
certain style and even grandeur that he scarcely achieved in his 
cariier verses. There is almost an Elijabethan ring about the 
following : 

I on — t«t vhit I un who knows oteuct? 

My rfkod* foiMlie mc like a memory Ion ; 

I un llic sdr-MnMimct of my won, 

Ttiey (Im >nd iviUh— an oLIivioui bod. 

Shadows of life whose very u»l U lou. 

And yd I un, I live— thra^ 1 am to««d 

Into Ihc nolhingoeu ortconi and noUe, 

Into the living wa of mkiiig dfcWM, 

XVbere there ii neiibci i«n«e of tile aof jof(, 

Bni the hoge Aipwtock of miae own esteem. 

And all (h«i'» dear. Et«o IhoK I lDt« tbe best 

Are unnge— nay, llity are firanget ttkui the leM. 

It is diilicult in short cxtracu to give a just impression of this 
peasant's umple gift of lyrical verse. The form Is seldom perfect 
eDOi;^b to justify the quotation of isolated lines— he liad not the 
iiKvital^lity of the great lyrical poets, and yet he was essentially 

l)Tical. 

I ttw bcf aop a rote 

Richt cirly in the day. 
And I went to kits the plM« - 
Where Ae broke the rotr away : 
vot. ccxcti. K& aojA. £ g 



394 "^^^ GeniUman's Magaunt. 

And I aw Ibe pttleo rinp 
Wlicte ilw o'ct ibe uite bad gune : 

And I tore «I1 ulJwi thiap 
That hct bi^ht Vfta look apon. 

If ilii lode* opoa the h«4c« w np tbc haJGnc trtti 

Th« whiw tlun utd ibt Lrowa oak a(e uadc 4cwcj itjofi ta me I 

In tbctr sinipte ardour tbc»c liix^ migtit almost claim kinsliip 
with the "Schon* Mullcrin" song cyck of Wlhclm MOIIer, 
itnmortiltscd by Schubert. 

There is a sincere ring in these veiscs : 

I've left njr own old ItooM of IIc«ieS| 

Gitcn lielib and ctetf t^Jcuaol pUcc i 
Tbc BniBtnci l&e a sinngti comet, 

I pauw mil hinlljr ki)»« ber inx 1 

I miu iht beUh, Iti yellow fiute, 

Hole Ii3b and tsbhli imeki ihiti Ici I 
Throajh bcsooi'ling and leasrt Utm. 

And ihece lines suggest Tennyson : 

See how ili« wlnd-enamaued upea Icav«i 
Turn up thcif iBrer liaing Lo ibc uio I 

Ofton a sonorous phrase, an august note is struct : 



and 



TbcM tMnbdb all 
$M«n iMMrlntt whb ibe lictuilful in 1002 i 

While sliilkinf; o'ct tbd Eetdi ajjain. 
In tUipptd dcriaocc of the slomu, 
TTie hardy Mcditman uprwub the gmin. 



Occasionally a word or e{Mth«t, not used in a Uitctty correct sense, is 
singulaily cfTective. Tims of Autumn : 

Sjrita of *ullcn moodt und fxting 1me> ; 
or of the swallow : 

And on hU wing the ttti'lttring suabeun lk«. 

Robert Louis Stevenson said of Bums that he died of bi^ng — 
Robert Bums. One might almost say of John Clare that he died of 
not being consistently enough himself— of being too ready to take 
the advice of others, for with all his energy he had little reliance on 
his own judgment. He visited Ix)nilon against his own inclinations ; 
he resumed his poetical compositions at a time when his brain 




John Clare. 395 

imperatively needed rest ; finally, he hawked his poems about like a 
pedlai — all at the suggestion of well-meaning patrons. 

He asked but little of the world, yet one thing that it is often 
ratal to happiness to accept— the world's advice. He would have 
been content only to live like a peasant, working in the fields, 
vrriting his simple poems, if be could only earn enough to feed his 
young family and keep himself in health. He fell a victim to the 
convention that cannot allow a peasant to live within his own natural 
limitations, if he should happen to wear the unlucky jewel of genius 
in his head. 

He was buried in Helpstone churchyard, and on his forgotten 
gravestone Wordsworth's " Poet's Epitaph " might fitly have been set, 

endii^ t 

Come hither in thy hour of strei^th ; \ 

Come, weak u is a breaking wave 1 . , 

Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
Or baild thy home upon this giavc. 

ROBERT OSWALD, 



ixa 



396 



Tkt GtniUmims Alagaziiu, 



THE VANISHED MANOR OF 
BRETTESGRAVE, 



ASrECIAL interest, a spccbl poihoa, attaches iudf to an old 
building that has outUved counllen changes in the country's 
history— countless mings and bl]ingi of men's rortuncs, countless ' 
\awi and hates and hopes and fears. 

To ramble quietly over an old house, an oM priory, an old 
ciljr, ii to gather up some of llic threads, frayed now and broken, 
wfaicb once. In the br^away past, went to nuke up the beautiful 
fabric of a liv-ing, splendid prcKnt. 

It is, for the tiine^ to put resolutely aside one's own inustent 
present, wiili its problems, its moootonout duties, and soinetiinei^ 
it may be, its narrowir^ horizons, and In littttt batk, as it were, for 
the echoes of the thousand races that once were sounding in that 
iww dead wotid of which the old building was pott and parcel: the 
thousand footsteps that passed and rcjusscd, the thousand f^ans 
and ambitions and friendships that had their »hon — sometimes bril- 
liant—lime of floircring, and then "found earth again in another 
long sleep." 

Nol only consecrated ground is sacred, but also all bnd where 
human life liiis Ii>-ed and lo^■ed and suffiired. One can scarcely help 
letliiig the sober-coloured garment of to-day slip down, fotgottcii, at \ 
ooe stands before the I^t— tliat Putt whicli is dad in its coat of 
many colours of a more vivid, pictuiesqtK, adventurous age than our 
own. 

Now and again, in luniing an old page in records written in other 
days, one comes upon a mental picture with no tnaicrial frame — 1>. 
a suggestive Ti:alistic account of a manor house which once existed 
in the midst of vast lands, but of which to-day the very spot whereon 
it stood is unknown, even in its own immediate ndghbourhood. And 
when one comes to think of an old nunnoi house, what a succession 
of stirring scenes crowd through the mind ! 

There are hardly any otiier words that sound more musically in 
one's ears or which call up more suggestiTO pictures. 



The Vanished Manor of BretUsgrave. 397 



¥ 



The life-stories thai went on within its walls ages ago, during 
"iheilODi' iweet hours that" brought them "all things good," even 
though sometimes there did come to them unsettled dxys u wcU, 
wiih " wMS and nimoun of wars " — days when *' might " was more 
"r^ht" than, happily, now is the case. 

Such a manor house once existed in or near Ejusom, and was called 
the Manor of lltellesgtave, or Bmiigravcor Bruttc^^nive, as it is v-ari- 
ously spelt in old chronicles in thoM: tinvcs when Spelling ambtcd 
along with a ii-cry loose rein indeed, and nobody noticed her fie* 
quent stumblings. 

Now and again someone with a peculiar gill of sight for the Back of 
Beyond dcctaics, as a visible fact, that he or she has seen a ghost. 

Does the ghost of an old bouse ever appear — for one can scarcely 
say "walk"! — on a moonlit night, in all its former ma^iliccnce 
and stately presence, on the spot wlicre of yore it stood in all its 
glory? 

I remember an old retainer, In a certain old house near Cut^ 
Heath (an old house, alu ! which was demolished some few )x;ars 
ago, and its apparently long-esiablished ghcst thus discourteously 
turned out of doors, without a roof to its head (I), unattached and 
dispossessed), telling mc oix», when I asked a few questions 
about the atxn-e-mentioned insulted apparition : " Theoi as docs 
their dooiy needn't never fear no ghostises." 

The time when the ManorofUrcttesgntve was of most importance 
was, QVit may reasoiubly assume, in the early Middle Ages ; and 
alter the Dissolution it becomes increasingly difficult to trace its 
career, probably because the estate had been split up into many 
pans. 

From Manning and Bray we kam that "on a trial of novel dis- 
seizin at Gildcford in Edward IlL, 1348, between the Abbat of 
Cbeftsey on the one part, and Nicholas dc Tunstall and Joan his wife 
and Thomas dc Say of the other part, it was stated that the Abbat 
and Convent had been possessed of this manor from the foundation 
of the Abbey : that in the time of Henry HI. John de Tichmershe 
held it of the Abbot, as his ancestor had done from the foundation 
of the houseL" 

Then, later : " Tlic Abbat entered and held it as an escheat (ill 
Henry de Say and Joan his wife disseised him, taking hb com and 
cattle, and by fon:e obtained from the Abbot a release in writiiift it 
being ne%-cr seen by tlic Convent. 

■' That Nicholas Tocutall and Joan his wife (bic wife of said 
Henry de Say) levied a fine thereof to Richard, \'icar of Ebesliam.'* 



398 



The GentUmatis Magazine. 



la 1^7 ihccsute was granted to Sir Guy 6e Bnvie undo' a 
yearly n:iil (is. ^.>. " In this license it is described u a capital 
■MHoage, tSoacrca of land, 8 acrca of meadow." 

IVre is an account of a Ueeme gircn to Sli Guy for petfonnance 
of IHriiic service in bti chapel at the Manor of " Ucrte^ve in 
Epaon." Lhigdale uys it belonged to the Earl of Laneaitcr, and on 
his death Maud, one of his dai^hten, manried Ralph, ion and heir 
of Lord Stiaflbtd, and had thU as part of her share: 

" In Bdmd IV. this manor «as beM by Tltomu Bothvrcll— 
the rercrsion belonging tu Dome Rove MenWo, late vife of Sir 
John Morton. 

" At the end of a Rcnlalc of Ebisham (in Henry VII.] arc the 
mctcs or bounds, anioi>g which mention is nude of a corner called 
Brcttcsgrai'c's hcrnc al's WolfrencBheroc." 

Now, of coufBc, *' heme " is the Anglo-Saxon word for " comer."' 
There is an entry in tl>c Chertscy Cartulary (to which I was kindly 
allowed access at the Public Record OITice) which runs, roughly 
translated, as follows : " Ebbcsham begins at Wolfrencihcrne, thence 
to the well called Abbolsptit, and so lo the King's High Road gwng 
from Kingston to Rcy^te, and so along the Abbofs land (called 
Dewland*) to the road called Portway," and so on and round again 
" to Chcseldonc Parlcbatch, and thence to the place called Koctchetc " 
(prolnbly this was ilie *' Oxshot '' of lo^Iay), "and thence to the comer 
called Brctlc-'grave's Heme or Wolfreneshcme." 

*' Abbotcpilt " is maikcd in an old map of the neighbourhood as 
being dose to a signpost on tlic E]MOin and Hedley road which is 
now called " Pleosuro Pit." 

" Portw3y " is the old Roman nay, and is still a bridle-way, vhicli 
th« Epsom imrish boundary crosses. 

1'he comer mentioned as being between Epsom and Ashlcad I 
imagine (o be the angle at the junction of the Fpsom and Hedley 
roads ; the boundary of the Egnom parish goes along it at the present 
day. 

The high-road from Kingston to Walton did forraetly c»om Iho 
tacecoursc on the Epsom downs, and came up by the east of the 
Warren House Poisibly "Chcscldonc" is the old formofChe*- 
•inglon, a little village near Hpsom. 

There are many surmises as to the exact former locaUty of 
Brettesgrave Manor, and it is very difficdt to make up one's mind 
about it with any certainty, for many of the old names seem to have 
disappeared. For instance, during all the years 1 myself have known 
Epsom and its immedintc neighbourhood, neither in drives nor walks 



Tie Vantsked Manor of Brettagravi. 



do I remember ever having come actoa any name like " Wolfres- 
heme " or " JJewhndi " or " Parkhaich " ; possibly " ScWnsghcs on 
the Hill" iras near Walton -on-lhe- 1 i ill, but this is i>ure conjecture. 

After nil, on the whole, thb seems the most probable sapposilion 
—viz. that Brcttc^rave lay at the further side of Woodcote {spelt 
" Wodcotl " in the Chcrtsey Cartulary), that one of its bouodarics was 
somewhere near the "heme" between the [larishcs of Epsom and 
Athlead, and that much of its land was round about Langlcy Bottom. 
So that, broadly spealdng, the manor probably was situated between 
Epsom, Ashlcid, and Walton-on-tbc-Hill. These boundaries, which 
I have (luoled above, were of the lime of Henry VH., as tbc Chertsey 
Cartulary is of abmit that dote, and of course at the Dissolution 
Brcll<::<gmve Manor nits no longer in the po^ession of the Priory of 
Chertsey. There i^ I believe, mention made on some monument 
or talitct in Stoke d'Abemon Church of this manor as having been 
pan of the dower of »)me noble dame, but I have not been able to 
verify tliis personally, though 1 have the sutement from a reliable 
source. 

There are two or tliree large houses now in the neighbourhood of 
Hedlcy which are luiown to be built on very old foundations, though 
there is small nsibic reason in the present building to make one 
question lh<ir apparent youth 1 Possibly — but this is only a vague 
supposition — one of these is built on the foundations of Brcttesgrave, 
whoae very name has died out in its own neighbourhood, where once 
upon a day, in other summers and other winters, it was a living 
power, a picturesque and edudtio:al environment for its numerous 
retainers and dependents. 

I should like to mention liere that I am much indebted to one 
or two friends for their kind aid xu re the investigation of old 
documents. 

!. CIBEttKE SIEVEKIMC. 



400 



The GentUjuatCs Magazine. 



THOREAU. 



" Cowijd* niStr, bttoe* cnjof." 

ItCMLV DaviD TtlOKKAr. 

THOREAU, Uic unique nun, the man strong and xinccrc 
cnougl) to live lib ovn life— « life so round, and thorough, 
and all sidod that the voy animals admired and loved him. How 
fresh and [>iingiml, earthy and piny were his daily featt in the Waldcn 
Woods, diiys full of rich odours, of Uic toughest and mod wiry of 

iTing. 

But Thorcau is almost a stnmgcr to englishmen, at least be is 
little read, and n-hr? His arc no dr}-, deep, or misty volumes, 
neither are they common bindings of ttash and sensational wi^ to 
(icicle half-slccpy can, Hv ts on the nicrt, if ever any man va^ 
awake in all his Encuhics, and his rcadcre have no time to drowse. 
As Emerson says in his own clear, expressive way of his friend, " He 
saw as witlt a microscope, heard as with an car-trumpet, and lus 
memofy wat a photogTai>hic register of all be saw and tteard." 

lie belonged to [hat select clique of Hferati of which tlie shy, 
observant Huwtltome, the briiliant conversationalist Margaret 
Fuller, and the noble Emerson were members — the Transcendental 
Qub, which met at the tatter's house, and summerly at a countty 
teat amonft the birches and maples and pines, for a few bright 
weeks, and bad conversations, discuuions, and witty parleyingiL 

Thorcau was proud to belong to Concord. Concoid of &rn»te«ds, 
of honest country folk, sharpened and electriricd by men of ipuUing 
minds, "a Rreat intellectual thinker at one end of the Tillage^ an 
cii]uisite teller of laics at llie other, and the rows of New England 
elm* between." Such was paradite to a young, aspiring scholar, a 
man wealthy in hi« own trea-%ured mind, utterly scorning the luxuries 
and hoarded wealth of the vulvar. OIi, what wealth had he; he him- 
self tells us of his banking account: "Oh, how I laugh when I 
think of my own indefmite riches ! No run on my bank can drain 
it, for my wealth ia not possession but enjoyment" Cut then, you 
8C«, be was a contented man ; he was rich because his needs were few. 



Tltoreau. 



Some men, if tbey ever have the furtune to find thcmselt'CK m 
heaven, will plead poverty ; notliiiiK, not even the boundlefs t.turcs 
of Nature, can satisfy their numen>us wanu. 

He was not only a poet, a natunlUt, a rare letter writer, and a 
transcendciilalist, but a genius csiuntially and notably. He had a 
genius for living, for seeing, for knoMnng. for gathering all the 
essence and meaning* and holdings of Nature and cireumManccs. 
He had leisure, he made ieisutc, to live, to ihinic, and to be ; to(dc 
leisure out of the time most men give to luxuries, to ortifidal living, 
to unnecessary conventionalities. He says: "Simplify, simplify; 
instead of three meals a day, if it be ncccssarj-, cat but one ; instead 
of a hundred dishes, five ; and reduce other things in proportion. 
For more than five years I maintained myself thus: by working 
about six weeks in a year, I could meet all the expenses of living. 
The whole of my winters, as wdl as most of my summers, I had free 
and clear for study. The inferior wants maai be simplilicd in otder 
that the hi^cr life may be enriched." And yet he was the last mm 
in the world to deiire " servile imitmiion of his own method.' He 
believed in plain living aitd high thinking; he did botli, and the 
fruit was gracious. 

So this Bohemian poet, this man akin to tbc woods and fens, 
built himself a hut in the Waldcn \\'oods, on the frir^ of the 
primeval forest in Massachusetts, "where there was pasture enough 
for his imagination." " I cannot think nor uttci my thoughts," he 
writes, "unless I have infinite room. The cope of heaven is not 
too high, the sea is not too deep for him who would unfold a great 
thought." 'i'herc he lived for two j-ears and two months upon grain 
and nuts and fruit ; did his own cooking, and dressmaking, and 
house cleaning, and bathed in ilie crystal poitd in the "awakening 
hour," with the sun to dry, and green canh for carpet. Such a 
baptism was inspiration for the day, hts own hymn of praise, and 
the sun's benediction. He wooed ts'ature ; she was his bride, capti- 
vating, and adored ; he married her, and the)- li\-cd in the woods 
together; and she totd him many of her secrets, unclosed her virgin 
beauty, kissed him with dewy lips, bieaihed sweet perfumed breath 
upon Ms cheek in the eariy dawn, and dauied liim with her colour, 
and form, and variety of luimount. Why, say some, did be cboon 
to live away there out of read) of the society of men? For a 
purpose surely, for this earnest man was not one to act the fool. " 1 
went to the woods," he acquaints u«, " because I wished to Uvc 
delibe.-atcly, to front only the cssentbl bets of life, and see if I 
could not Icatn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, 



403 



The GtntUmatii Magatttu. 



discover that I lad not lived. I did not wish to live what vras not life, 
livii^ Is so dear. I wanted to live deep, and suck out all the marrow 
of tire. To live so suudily and Sjxtrtan-tikc as to put to rout all that 
was not life; to cut a broad swath and shave clow; to drive life into 
a comer, and reduce i[ to its lowest terins> and if it pii»'cd mean, 
whjr tlKn to get the whole and genuirw meanness of it, and 
publish it to ihc world ; or if it were sublime, to know it by cxperi* 
cncc, nttd \k able to give a true account of it in my next excunion." 
He lived simply, independently, and intelligently — though more than 
tlut. I want a word to express the mind and the spirit oombincd — 
ideal is perhaps the nearest, lie sou);ht praetieally to solve some of 
ihc problems of life. He was an enemy to luxury — the benumber of 
virtue. "Most of the luxuries," he says, "andmanyof thcso-c«Ikd 
comforts of life, arc not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances-, 
to tlic elevation of mankind. With respect to luxuries and comfoRs, 
the wisest have ever lived a more simple and meagre life than iho 
poor." 

He made hi.* whetler with his own hands ; put into it good work 
and true, so that it was, what it was meant to be, a shelter from the 
cold and rain, and a sioie-house for his roots and I'can^ and scanty 
furniture. There he studied hard, and put his brains to their 
natural use, got awakened from Die lethargy of town life. "Why 
should we live w iih such hurry and waste of life } I.cl us spend one 
day as delilicmiely as Nature." And he Kj>cnt many daj-s, and 
nights too, in thinking, and watching, and preiuring the soil of his 
mind for new growths. No exotics, but r.nre mountain and moor- 
land blossoms were his, of rare fertility and quality. And he read — 
read to some purpose, without interruption and rude shocks. 
" Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were 
written." He gave days to the sentences of great men. until he 
knew the men as friends, undcriitood their ripest thoughts, gauged 
their wit, and glowed under the lit;hi of their inspiration. "Hating 
learned our letters wc should read the best that is In literature ; " h« 
bemoans th.it " the best books are never read even by those who are 
called good readers. . . . Shall I hear the name of I'hto, and never 
read his book ? As if I'lato were my townnnan and I never saw turn 
— my next neighliouT, and I never heard him spcak, or attended to 
the wisdom of his words." 

All the beauties he fed upon in that solitary wood — sounds of the 
animak, the birds, the trees, were tuneful rondos, pastorales, fantasias, 
fugues, and serenades, The sharp whistle of the blackbird, the ves- 
pers of the whip-poor-wills, the hoo-hoo-hoo of the owl, the "silver 



T^areau. 



403 



fe 



tinkling " of the chklcadccs, the scicaniing of the blue ^y> the trump 
of the bull-rrog, Ihc laughing of (he loon, the honking of ihe wilt) 
geese, the soft iDoaning in the tices, the whiqxmng t4 the leaves, 
the moting or the wviicrs, were Ihc nolcs in his scale and the chinKS 
of bis belfry. He loved the pines and the firs and the hickory (hat 
dung round hU lair ; the johnswort, sand-cherry, golden-rod that 
decorated his arbour ; the partridges, wild pigeons, and timid hares 
thai fluttered past his door ; the squinels that played hide and seek 
round bis feet, the sparrows that hopped on bis shoulders, and the 
wood-mouse that look its lunch from his fingers. He loved nil 
these as brothers and sisters, and delighted to live amongst tlveni. 

He says, " 1 frequently Iramped eight or len miles Uirough the 
deepest snow to ke>cp an appointment with b beech tree, or a yellow 
binji, or an old acquaintance among the pines," or to watch a Aock 
of snOw bunlingit — " white birds of the winter, rejoicing in the snow." 
He was so tlioroi^hly a child or Nature that he felt the kin^liip every 
hour ; be wa-t in sympathy with all ber movements, her liveliness, bcr 
jubibfKC ; and in no man found he such pcrrcct friendUncss, sjm- 
pathy and fellowship, though he never under-estimated the value of 
man. "To atuin lo a true relation to one human creature is 
enough to make a year memorable," he says, and bis essay upon 
"Friendship" beats witness to bis higb ideal of that relationship. 

Solitude was a rapture to him. " I hare an immense appetite for 
sollludc, like an infant for sleep, and if I don't get eiun^ of it this 
year 1 shall cry all the rest. . . . That glorious society, called 
Solitude, where we meet our friends continually. ... It is not that 
we love to be alone, but ttiat we love to soar ; and wlien we do soar 
the company grows thitmer and thinner, till there is none at alL It 
t* either the tribune on the plain, a sermon on the mount, or a very 
private ecstasy still higher tip. . . . Solitude is not mea-tured by 
miles of space that inicn-cne between a man and his fellows. I have 
found that no exertion of the legs cnn bring two minds much nearer 
one another. ... I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part 
of the lime— the sun is alone, God is alone. 1 Iwc lo be alone. I 
am no more lonely than the mill brook, or a weathercock, or the 
North Star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January 
thaw, or the fim spider in a i»cw house." "nwugh so fond of soli- 
tude, he was withal a social man — no churl, or cynic, « misanthrope. 
He loved a chat with an old farmer, a market dame, a little child, or 
even with a learned Ph,D., if only he were humble-minded and lowly 
enough. He was not always alone in the woods. He had visitors 
at odd times : friends to partake of bis hasty pudding, or his bread 



404 



The GcntUmans Magaziat. 



made without yeast or alkali, and lo cttjoy a clmter In his " with- 
diavineroom " under the pinci, "always n-atJ)' for company — a iiricc- 
less domestic swqit the floor, and dusted hU furniture, and kept 
things in order." 

He grew his beans and potatoes, went a-hucklcbcnying and a- 
nutting, and visited the village every now and then. He played his 
flute to the flounce of the perch, and his delight was in the Walden 
Fond. A pond of great depth, wonderful purity and transparenc}', 
"a pure white crystal in a setting of cmciald,'' a perennial spring in 
the midst of pine and oak woods, a mile and thrce-quaitcrs in cir- 
cumference, so transparent that the bottom is seen at a dcpl]i of 
thirty feet, " a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, 
swept and dusted by the sun's haiy brush." 'I'horcau watched it in 
the summer stillness, and when the autumn winds movxd it into 
ripples, and ihe winter chillness turned it into solidity, and when the 
•olt colours of spring were reflected in its silvery blue waters. In it 
he cat^l the perch and the pickerel ; he measured its length and 
breadth, and voua<!ed its depth. He watched llic ice form day by 
day. and heard tlw report of its breaking ; he startled the musquash 
on its ledges, aivd gloried in the scarlet apotltecia of the codferx on . 
the stumps near its shore, partly covered with inow. He knew irs 
lights aiu] reflections, ib features under every sky, and loved it as a 
fticnd of strong growth and intimacy, and listened with eager can to 
its stories and its mirth. 

With iill 'I'horeau's love of, and marvellous intimacy with. Nature, 
his acute observation and strictly accurate accounts of bets, some 
arc ready to scoff and say that he was no naturalist — did nc 
towards the progress of science, carried out no organised ins 
tion, had no regubtcd system of research. Where was his catalogue,^ 
hb cb&sification ? lie never pretended to be a naturaliit, a scientist, 
or, in fact, an}-thing ; he was simply an earnest man who got all out 
of life there was for him to get out, and that surely was worth some* 
thing. It seems to me very mtich like grumbling at a lark or t 
thrush for not registering its song between lines and spaces, amoc 
slaves and rests— ilic bird is the music, nnd needs no theory and 
system. And men like Thorcau (if there arc any) can never bc 
cramped by systems, methods, or specified plans ; they livt (he ideal, 
not tall: it all day long. I don't know that wc were intended to bc 
naturalists, cither botanists, zoologists, or any other -ist, like labelled 
stock in a warehouse. No, Thorcau was irot " made to order," 
bence he could not circumtciibc and cut down his life to suit hts 
critics. The world has plenty of naturalists, but only one Thoreaii. 



Tkoreau. 



405 



He \\xxA hU lire in tlie woods, in his own frue^ untnminelkd way, 
and when hu had ulcen out of ihe solitude, and the charm, and the 
green life wliai he needed, when the work «fas dooe for which be 
wvnt, he came Iwck to ilic biwier irorld and man. " I left the 
woods," he uys, " for as good a reason as 1 went tltere. I'erhaps it 
sccrocd to mc ihat 1 had lercral more lives to lire, iind could not 
spare any more time for that one." And thus he lived, and prubed 
life and found it sublime. And as fniit for the winters and summcn 
in the forest among the loons, and the owls, and the squirrels, and 
the wild ducks, we have " Waiden," a treasure, a Koh-i-noor among 
books. He bad lived the words before he said, " Every roan is 
tasked to make bis life, even in its details, wottliy of the contempla- 
tion of his most elevated and critical hour." And the influence of 
this elevated and critical life throws its rays in every direaion, fomt 
prismatic colours upon the pages of " Waiden," and rainbow hues 
athwart all his written words. Hu wasa kingly man, ihotigh he wore 
rto feathers in his cap to attract vut^r attention. Mis Ln^c, deep 
set, blue-grey e}cs. his intense face were criterion enough of his lofty 
mind — that is, to the wise. 

A genius in liWng, though his genius was somewhat wild and 
rugged it may be ; but arc not the moorlands and ttic heights as 
deli^tful and as godlike as the valleys and meadows ? Healthier 
and nune biadng for the brccic and expanse. His own words 
sOjEgest a love of the uild. " I would not have every nun, nor every 
jurt of a man, cultivated, any more than I would have every acre of 
earth cultivated ; part will l)o tilbge; but the greater port will be 
meadow and forest, not onlyseningan immediate use, but iireparing 
a mould ag.iin5t a disinnt future by the annual decay of the vegeta- 
tion which it supports." And again, " In literature it is only the 
wild that attracts us. l>ulncEs is but another name for lameness. 
It is the uncivilised, wild thinking in ' Hamlei ' and the Iliad, in 
all the Scriptures and mythologies not loomed in the schools, that 
delights us." If he had a weakness in a critic's words, " he indulged 
himself in fine renouncements." 

Before his sojourn in (be woods he had writtcit his " Week on 
the Concord and Mcrriroac Rivers," the stor; of a voyage lie liad 
with his brother Johrt, who died shortly after, and whom Thoceau 
revered as a hero. A book of beautiful tellings and original obser- 
vations. In the quid of Waldcn Woods he edited this vrork, lingered 
lovingly over the memories which breathed oC r soul hollowed and 
enshrined in hts heart. 

His genius spatl:les tike live cool in ki> essays ; his wordt are 



406 



The GentlemarC s Magazine. 




strong, uraight, and have the courage and heroism of a Herailcs. 
No second-hand sutia arc pegged up in hU mitid, but his words givx 
you genuine Thoicauncan thoufthts, direct from the mill, newly 
irro\-en, pure n'ool to keep out the (rost. He Iwd xuch a hatred of 
sham and pretence and half knowledge — he preferred ignorance to 
conceit, and Aintts out bold sayings on this point. "A man's 
ignorance sometimes is not only useful but beautiful, while his 
kivowlcdgc, 50 called, is oftentimes worse than useless, besides being 
w^)-. . . . The highest we can attain is not knowledge, but sympathy 
with Intelt^enoe." He startles us witti the truth and fierceness of 
his ciiliciuns, he bys hold of the knots which have been tied hard 
for centuries, and loosens tlicm before our eyes ahnost like a 
conjurer. 

His genius glows, too, in hU chancier ns helper and teacher. 
He was not one to fall into the rau which any society or -ism had 
formed, he had a way of his own. He believed that one could best 
teach and help the world by living one's own life worthily and wdL 
" If you would convince a man," he says, " that he docs wrong, df 
rigM. But do not care to convince him. Men will believe what 
they see. l.et them see. . . . Do tmt stay to be an ovcnccr of 
the poor, but endeavour to become one of the worthies of the 
worW." 

Sach an abhorrence had he of all littleness and uiviaUties, of 
gossip and newspaper liitlelalile, tliat he asks indignantly, " Shall the 
miiMJ bo a public arena, where the nf&ira of the street and the govtip 
of the lea.table are chicfiy discussed ? Or shall it be a quarter of 
heaven itself, an hypxthral temple consecrated to the service of the 
gods? If I am to be a thoroughfare^ I prefer that it bu of the 
mountain brooks, the I'arnassian streams, and not the town tcwets." 

Aspirations and dreams, life idealised, were more to him than 
money markets and news from llic Fortim. He says : "HoMEaaito 
your most indefinite waking drum. The very green dust on the 
walls is an organised vegetable ; the atmosphere has its fauna and 
flora floQtittg in it, and iball we think that drtams arc but dust and 
ashes, are always disintegrated and crumbling thoughts, and not 
dust-tike thoughts trooping to their standard with music, s}'sieins 
beginning to be organised ? " 

How alive he was to the beauty and the best in everything — 
afraid lest he or any oilier should miss the grandneu of life ! " 1 
am not afraid," he say», *' that I sliall exaggerate the value and 
significance of Uf^ but thai 1 shall not be up to the occasion whidi 
it is. I shall be sorr)- to remember that I was there, but noticed 



Thofxan 



407 



notliing reniirlcable— not so much as a pnncc in disguise; lived in 
the golden age a hired m.i» ; visited OI}'m[nis even, but fcU asleep 
After dinner and did not hear the conTOrsation of the god«." 

Concoid was prominent in the anti-slaverj' nio\'cmcnt, and the 
Thorcau family were friends and ptacltcal sympathisers with the 
sbrcs, and zealous irorkcrs with the nbolitionius. His evuy on 
the "Vindication of John Brown" is a grand "In Memorum" in 
poetic prose, a noble march to the music of an Iterok life and 
sacrificial ending. Though Thorcau disliked puUic speaking, or 
mixing in quands and debates, he stood up, against much opposi- 
tion, like an inspirt.-d Jeremiah, and pleaded gallantly for his friend. 
Tl>e sentence of death had been passed upon the brave helper of 
uodden-down humanity, and Thoreau exclaims, witli ficr>- indigna- 
tion, " Is it the intention of law-makers that good men shall be bung 
ever "i Are judges to interpret the law according to the letter and 
not the spirit ? . . . I'bey talk as if a man's death «ras a Mure, 
and his continued life, be it of whatever character, were a suc- 
cess ! These men (namely. Brown and sucli), in teaching us how 
to die, have at the same time taught ns how to lire. I plead 
not for his life, but his character— his immortal hTc, But some 
men never die, because they have nctvr lived. In onler to 
die )'0u must first have lived. 1 don't bclie\'c in the hearses and 
plumes and funerals that they have had. lliere was n) dcith in 
the case, because there had been no life: ihty merely roitcd or 
sloughed ofT, pretty much as they liad rotted or sloughed along. No 
terapU:'» veil was rent, only a hole dug somewhere." He could plead 
the case of a good, honest man as r<:w liad the power or nerve to do. 

Not only was Thoreau a genius in the reading of Nature, but as 
a Ictlcr-vrTiier his ins[Hratioo shone with a lam bait flame. Few of 
hit letters arc printed, but tlie few ore a volume in themselves — 
mastenneca of art, choice gems fit for golden frames, or rather 
rims of dew and sunlight. Singularly true and beautiful and 
enlivening arc his words to women friends, and his messages to 
comrades arc full of vigour, encouragement, and manly honesty. 
Some of them are fine cameos with choicetf figuring and prismatic 
colourings ; none but a chaste, and delicate, and Iiiglt4x>m soul could 
have created such. If you wish to take a diploma in llic techniques of 
the sky, in its subtle meanings, its grandeur, and its benign influence^ 
read lUs letters which touch upon the subject. Heaven wilt open 
before your eyes. Unconscious of the cart-wheels that trundle into 
Concord carrying provender for tho tabic, and down for the cushions, 
he climbs the mountains and sees the sun set — an unveiling of the 



4o3 



Th4 GenlUmaHS Magasiiu. 



gods. And he becomes strong and alert, braced for hi^ doing and 
tare thinking : his tboughu conK trooping to confirmktion. "Con- 
Bidci the dawn and the sunrise— th<: rainbov and the crcaing— th« 
words of Christ, and tlic aspiration of all the Esinls." And if fou 
would hear as n rcvetlment the beauties and secrets of Nature, his 
opinion of ber, 1o<dc Into his " Early Spring in Mossa^hu^tta." He 
says, " Nature teems to )ia\i: given tnc these hours to pty into Iver 
private drawers." And he made da' best poosiblc use of these <^pof • 
tune moments, he missed nothing ; in his ec&tasy he exciums, " Life 
looks as fair as a summer's sea, like a Persian city, or hanging 
gardens in the distance, so washed in light, so untried, only to be 
Ihrodded by clean thoughts. All its flags are flowing, and tassels 
streaming, and drapery flapjung, like some pavilion." 

He encouraged sturdy thinking ; " provided you think well, the 
heaven's falling or the earth gaping will t>c music for )*ou to march 
by. How yoti can overrun a country, climb any rampart, and cany 
any fortress with an army of alert thoughts ! thoughts tlut send their 
bullcu home to heaven's door, with which you can ukc (he whole 
world, without paying for it or robbing anybody." TItoughts arc so 
larv nowada>-5 one is eager to by hold of the golden words of a 
true tliiiikcT ; and ncKr a letter he wrote, or a diary jotting, or a 
book luge without some of these inspired messengers winging their 
way to the heart. 

As a friend he was priceless, in his own original way ; be had a 
genhis for knowing one's needand supplying it i yet some would tt 
him cold, he asked so little, and was as independent as the shrubs.^ 
Such words as these, " If my world is not sufficient without thee, my 
friend, I will wait until it is, and then call thee," frighten tlic demon- 
strative, dependent friend. He abhoncd morbid sentimenulity, ot 
anythit^ bordering upon selfish affection— loved rather the glow 
wUcb the wind generates, and the warmth of snow, and says in his 
essay on " Love " : " The luxury of alTection, tlicrc's tltc danger. 
There must be some nerve and heroism in our love, a$ of a winter 
morning." And to a friend who is worthy he says : " What wealth i« 
it to have sudi friends that we cannot think of litem without eleva- 
tion. And we can think of them any time and anywhoc, and it 
costs rK>thing but the lofly disposition." One who knew Tltoreau 
Intimately, with wliom he lived for two years, cipteascs himself 
warmly: "A truth speaker he, capable of the most deep and suict 
convcnalion ; a physician to the wounds of any soul ; a friend, not 
only knowing the secret of friendship, but almost worsliipjwd by 
those persons who resorted to him as their confessor and prophet, 



Thoreau. 



409 



;4Pd knew the deep value of his mind and great heart. His soul 



made 



know- 



the noblest Bociely . . . wherever thcr 
Ic^e, wherever thcic is virtue, wherever there is beauty he will find 
« home." 

A poet ! If jrou mean b^ poems, stanxas with so many feel and 
ao much Aytae, his poems were scant, short, and few ; but if you 
mean sudd^ beautiful thoughts, expressed in graceful, flowing, 
effective bnguage, every chapter in " Walden," in his " Essays," his 
"Early Spring in Massachusetts," his "Week" is a poem; his 
letters are poems, but above all, the finest poem is his life. 1 know 
of no maA so essentially a poei as he— he himself, llic beauty of 
things, which is poclrj-, was his life, his religion: ho imbibed it with 
erery breatli, and sent it out with every respiration. He bathed in 
it the day through and all his da)-s, taught it, li\-cd it, and knew of 
no other. 

1S63 saw the close of his life, and his last days were worthy the 
genius he was. His forty-five >'cat5 had been well spent, and he 
could afford to rest now. Death to him u-as an angel of pcaoe, a 
friend ; he had no moibid pleasure in the approach of death, death 
was never in his mind. The shadowing angel closed his eyes, and 
he went to sleep, to awake, we believe, more alirc and alert than 
ever, ready to enjoy and investigate the beauties and nuirvels of yet 
higher imaginings, symbols, aiu] meanings— or it may be the realities 
tbemselTes. 

8. R. SAVIUJ. 



vol. ccxc;i. xo taxfi. 



F r 



4IO 



The GentUman's Magazine. 



THE OLD WOMAN OF THE WOODS. 



T>1E glory of ihe autumn hat come, and the country lies tn 
goldcit gitenoe this OcIoIkt aftemoon. Theie i.t not cnot^h 
Kind to disperse the little white tniKi vhicli nutka the tovn lying 
in the ral1e>', but in the woods on tlie hilUide tliere is iust a 
gcntk vcart now and again to bring down some fluttering brown 
leaves, loosened by the Trost of thti niglit before. 

Some of the bracken, which mingles with tlic undergrowth, is nf 
a copper shade ; then comes a piece slill green, and again another 
patch of light straw coloiur. The Iwecb trees have hardly turned 
yet, but the chestnuts, lower down, arc browned yellow, arvd there 
are red berries on the holly bushes near the clearing. 

I.ast vock there was a gale, and there is stilt dnft-wood on the 
path— thil is where our old woman com<.-s in. She enjoys ihc right 
(sliarcd by certain cottagers round) of picking up all Ihc wood 
she can carry, and the last few days hare been a good barrest 
time 

She is coming up the path now— not from the town direction — 
hci habitation i.s at ihe bottom of the sloping fields on the other side 
of Ihe wood. It Ik a hut, and lliere is a stream close to it. All the 
wet from the woods runt down there, and at this lime of ycttr a 
white mist rises from the ground about four o'clock in ilie aflen>oon. 

The old woman is bent nearly doubk-. It is this which gives 
her such an ancient appearance, for really her face is twt that of on 
aged person. She may not be much o\'er sixty. She supports her- 
idf on a Mout &tick, but walks with marrellous rapidity. To sec her 
so bent, jxi so (juick of movement, first attracts notice, and then tlie 
curious upward glanco— caused by tlie downward position of her 
head — claims attention. Mer liair is brown, streaked with grey, her 
eyes of ttiat blue which is seldom seen tn adults save where there is 
Irish ancestry; and, although her home has been this South of 
England hovel for so many years, we strongly suspect our c^d woman 
of Erse descent—" in spite of her name and general appearance," 
fti Mr. Tunch said of a certain Hebrew. 

She is of the "Roman CathoUc pcrstusion." The good old 



Th4 Old IVoman of tke Woods. 



411 



I 



poHt from ihe tovn walks out now and again to visit her, and the 
knd dstcTs from the little convcnt-housv on the hill sec that she 
docs not want for bread and soup in the severe ircather. But they 
never ui^« her to move into one of the little brick cottagi.-^ outside 
the town, or to k-t the rural council rebuild her hut. Whatever the 
sfaortcomii^ of the Romish Church, they and the Irish character 
seem to meet half-way. 

There are some other huts besides her own down at the " Wood- 
Bottom." But the younger membersof those households were forced 
to attend the schools ol the neighbouring village (ncaicr thai) the 
distant town), and ihct) from the little parish church came a xxex6 
" District visitation." 

j\s to compelling the little colony to more into a more sanitary 
situation, that was impossible. They hold their tenure by "a 
squatter's right," and could not be moved. Of course they are of 
ppsy origin, and the children, half wild and dad in rag% meet with 
jwor encouragement from their schoolmates who belong to the 
irell-to<lo little village, which llourislies on its picturesque sofrotmd- 
ings and the pairoimgc of summer visitors. 

Oui old Tvonun i* decidedly the wwliliy inhabitant of the colony, 
protected b)' the shadon* of u Church which " cannot err ' and whkli 
supplies her with gtl^ according to her desire rather than to iu own 
judgment. ITic \-ill.Tgc clergyman persuaded the rural eooiKil to 
insist on the hovels being raised a foot from the ground and floored, 
and on their having weather-proof roofs. The old u-onun's hut, 
having always been on a superior footing (both literally and Gguia' 
tively spealcing) escaped these welhtneaning philanthropists, whose 
actions were rendered still more unpopular by ttieir eRbrts to befriend 
the mo*t noted character of " \\'oodBottom "—the extremely aged 
broom -maker. 

The old broom-maker claimed to be loj years old, and 
as no one knew anything to the contrary, and the oldest inhabitant 
" guessed he couldn't he UtoS that," his fame was so established. 
During the summer months he used to sit on tlte grass outside the 
hut and make litilo penny brooms, which were bought by visitors 
who tuade excursions to what they considered " a real giiuy encamp- 
ment" His habitation (sliured by numerous descendants) was that 
which first excited the pity of a fresh district visitor, working under 
a new vicar who " had the cau*c of the poor " at heart 

When the winter months came the broom-maker's residence was 
still under repair, and the vicar and district Udy both urged him 
to accept the shelter of the model Union the Xvnn provided, 



412 



The Gentleman s Magazine, 



enlarging on the comforts thereof, and dUiuraging the teoaponiy 
canvu abode as an unRt dwelling for anjx>nc over « hundred yean 
old duiing the damp days of Novciober. 

ClcTgy and lajr-helpcr prc\-ailcd. The old man entered die 
woikltoiue early in the winlcr — and died before Christinas. The 
colony's prejudice a^tnst improved dwelling-houses wai deeper 
than ever, as they regarded the old man's death as a premature 
decease — not through " the visitation of God," but froni the meddling 
of man I 

I'tic old woman (who must be considered diittinclly apart from 
the other ir)tutiers, inasmuch as she \i not of the one fomily name 
in which all the others rejoice) felt that her superiority was 
established in having kept Iverself free from " Ihem with new-langkd 
ideas" ; and save that three dwellings are now large sheds instead 
of small hovels, the settlement has relumed to its former apathy, 
tinged with tlie additional obliquity (certainly dc«ri-cd) of base 
ingraliludc. 

And here comes the old woman, with the sticks on her back- 
from the lower wood, to gather a few more higher up, bcfotc sfa 
makes up her bundle. The afternoon glow makes a dear 
bchtrKj her as xhe comes up the path, and a squirrel drops a 
with a soft patter right on her burden. On she comes, ai>d pboes 
her first bundle in a convenient iwsitioa for tying on an addition, 
and thi^n lingen to pick up a few chestnuts and tic thcni up in her 
red handkerchief, before she returns to the more serious business 
of stick -gathering. 

She must hat-c a good nLilf of the scent of the sweet October 
earth as she stoops over her work even lower than her natural beod. 
Docs it remind her of the lime when the lingering blackberries 
used to distract her, a pinafored girl, from the labour of fueMinding ? 
Did she live in these parts when she had a family round licr— father, 
mother, Inother, and nislen? Or, later on, whi^n slie owned a 
husband, and had a little nigged child to carry as well as the sticks ? 
Truth to tell, I have never asked my old woman questioos coo-j 
ceming her jiast. By common consent we are frientb as we stan<Li 
which perhaps is the tafcst kind of friendship. 

Yet, one cannot but wonder, how have tlie yean passed for her, 
and by what events does she mark their course ? Is it with her 
even as with the gnarled oak beneath which she is now bending 7 
A bough or two broken by the winter's wind, a sense of pleasure 
at the coming of spring, a quiet apatliy through tlie warm days of 
■ummer, a silent watching of the steamy, russet decay of autumn — 



The Old Woman of the Woods. 



> 



and then agsin a consent to stand and suffer, and nialce the best of 
winter chills and discomforU. 

Or has >he known Ihcne moments in wliich one forgets the 
times and S(;ason3— the joy of cbsping the first babe, be the world's 
welcome ever so poor ; the agony of hope deferred ; the walcli by 
the dying child ; the despair <rf the knowledge of The Wonii 

We cannot lell how these lives— so apart from that which we are 
apt ourselves lo term Li/e—^nn out ihcir appointed course. Yet, if 
I heard my old woman was dead, I should feel a keen sorrow, not 
only at the moment, but c%'cry time I passed through the wood, 
especially through that lower chestnut wood where we have so often 
met. 

Year after year the nuts hare fallen and lie, as they lie now, with 
the outer husk broken and the httle brown double fruit showing in 
the shell, or forced out with the fail and lying near it on the ground. 
One year the nuis will patter down, and she— or I— wilt not be 
here. 

If it is tht fiist, then I shall never come through without 
thinking of her. The tall firs up llicrc (which stand in slAtcly 
superiority this autumn season, for th^- do not change their hue for 
gold army) will just bend (heir dark heads in the winter winds, and 
will teem to me to be her funeral plumes. My feet will rustic in 
t)ie dead lea\*cs, and all the steps will be as walking by her grave, 
though she will be buried in that bare-looking portion of the distant 
cemetery which those of her creed have insisted on having put 
apart for them — a sort of tacit concession to a belief that God 
will not recognise the diOerencc in the Last Day without Dun's 
assistance I 

Thcgrcat of the world pass away, and we deplore them ovci our 
breakfast-table paper; others take their pbce, and we — forfiei. 
I believe I shall remember her longer ihan ihoae— my Old Wonmn 
of the Woods ! 

E. U. Rl^TIIERFOBD. 



414 



The GentUmaris Ma^zine. 



T/IBLE TALK. 



Tub Baooh Cvmier. 

NO long time his lapsed before the eridcncc proving thf^ 
futiUly of the tnlitenkl cypher of Uacon for which I called hu 
been forthcoming. In that same Niiutttnth Ctntury in which Miw 
Mallock fust drew attention to Klrv Gsllup's .-tllcgcd discorerics two 
writers, Mr. H. Candler and ^t^. K. U. M.iiston, lave dealt with 
the subject. The former has shown, as I was sure would be done 
by some one, the gnti'C historical dif&culiies that face the assumption 
that Bacon watt tlte legitimate son of Queen Eltut>cth and die Earl 
of Leicester, and the brother of Robert Devcreux, Earl of Esmx, and 
that EUiabeth condemned her own offsprit^ to the block, and 
einplo)'ed his brotlier to draw up t)>e act of itxlictnieiu against hiio. 
lie also proiTs that the Bacon e^-ulved by Mrs. Gallup was 
anfnmiliar with the custooiary language of the sixteenth and 
seventeenth centuries, and emjiloyed locutions other than thoic to 
be traced in his published work). Mr. Marston goes a step brthcr. 
Cirrj-ing out an idea firat promulgated by him in the Titnett he 
shows that the translation of Homer's " Iliad '— which, on the strength 
of the bilileral cypher, as rex'calcd tn the i6»8 edition of Burton's 
" Anatomy of Melancholy," Hacon claims to have written— was in 
Gact an anlidpation of that subsequently issued by I'opc. We have 
here a wonderful reJiutie ad at>iur4um (or shall wc lake it as a 
fiict^) that Dacon wrote everything, and that, in addition to the 
plays of Sliakespeare, "The Anatomy of Melancholy," and works of 
Spenser, Marlowe, Ben Jonson, and other 1'uilor celebrities, Ite 
contrived to leave behit>d him a translation of Homer, subsequently 
discovered and employed by Pope. I will ask once more, what I 
have asked elsewhere, Will not some ingenious American student 
csublish him as the originator of Ihc quatrain* of Omar Khay)-am 
and the anticipator of the Letters of Junius 7 

DiFncin.TiE.1 OF a Drcipkereil 

IF I thought the subject worthy of serious discussion, instead of 
introducing my own banter, I should extract froni the Ti'mts 
and other periodicals the atgumenu of authorities such as Mr. 



Tt^U Talk, 



4»S 



Sidney LcC and Sir l'ti«odore Mattin. What is advanced by 
rrofessor Skcil, jwrliapj the greatest Eng)Ub authority on ptiilologioil 
subjects, is concliuive and final. After saying, what is now conceded, 
that the English language has a definite history-, andttut its changes 
are understood. Professor Skeal dvells on the fact ilut Ijacon is 
said to have employed the phrase " mildly interesting," and declares 
that Bacon could not liave used the word " interesting " before it was 
invented. He continues : " I do not reauict hi* [Mr. Sinnctt's] 
search to tttc works of Bacon, but I challenge him (or anyone else) 
to produce any example of the adjectival use of the word 'interest- 
ing ' from the worki of any author whatever l)eforc 16601. He can 
find other words ; let him find this one. When he has done so tic 
can let us know." The first instance of use in the " New English 
IModoRuy" belongs to 17 11. "Mildly interesting "is an obviously 
modem locution. The Dictionary has not yet reached M, or I 
should be curious to hear of an instance or the subhumoroui uic 
of " mildly " earlier than the eighteenth ccntuiy. Pope has 

N*Moi»tt'( n>tutc, modcritely milJ, 

To Make 1 Huti would h«rdl;r ticw > ehiliL 

Wth tlie gcnenl dissemination of a knowledge of bnguage the 
enterprises of Chatterton and Ireland would have hut a poor chance. 
ITw production of Rowley MSS. and " Vortigems " would require a 
trained skill scarcely less than that of the forgcx of oriental Biblical 
texts. 

OsMiTHOLoaiCAL Ravage. 

UKTIL I can shame so^:aUcd omitbologisU and naturalists into 
&omc mood of penitence or humanity— which is tantamount, 
I fear, to saying until the Greek Kalends— 1 shall not, while breath 
remains, cease to hold up to public reprobation the cruelties they 
practise under the name of science. The following instances of 
baibarity appeared in different newspapers on the penuliimale day 
of the past year: — "At a recent meeting of the British Ornitho- 
logists' Oub the corpse of a blue robin, recently shot, was produced, 

and pronounced by , tlie president, to bo ' probably a sirag- 

glcr, if not an cscai>c' " Poo* straggler ! The boy. the " imp of 
mischief,'' who shows his lore of animahi, as Gcoige Eliot says, 
by throwing stones at them, ^lares the rt^Mn. Not so the 
naturalist. The swift-winged, merciless messenger of death reaches 
the bird when he is driven by stotm and fatigue upon our inho3|Mtable 
coast, and tlie oatur^tlist adds the carcass to his loatliM>mc collection. 
I inaf not say wh.^1 I would d», had I the power, to the murderous 



4i6 



Tk« Gtntkman'i Magazine. 



prowlers down our country Ibiks or by our dunes. A poem by that 
ddigliiful humotUt, Oliver \\'ci)d<:II Holmes, ciprc^cs exactly my 
senticnmts on the subject, but it is too long fot quotation, and 

I cannot at tl