Skip to main content

Full text of "The Gentleman's magazine"

See other formats


Go  ogle 


This  is  a  digitaJ  copy  of  a  book  that  was  preserved  for  generatioDS  on  library  shelves  before  it  was  carefully  scanned  by  Google  as  part  of  a  project 
to  make  the  world's  books  discoverable  online. 

ll  has  survived  long  enough  for  the  copyright  to  expire  and  the  book  to  enler  Ihe  public  domain.  A  public  domain  book  is  one  that  was  never  subject 
to  copyright  or  whose  legal  copyright  term  has  expired.  Whether  a  book  is  in  the  public  domain  may  vmy  country  to  country.  Public  domain  books 
are  our  gateways  lo  the  past,  representing  a  wealth  of  history,  culture  and  knowledge  that's  often  difficult  to  discover. 

Marks,  notations  and  other  niaiginalia  present  in  the  original  volume  will  appeal'  in  this  file  -  a  reminder  of  this  book's  long  journey  from  Ihe 
publisher  to  a  library  and  finally  lo  you. 

Usage  guidelines 

Google  is  proud  to  partner  with  librai'ies  to  digitize  public  domain  materials  and  make  them  widely  accessible.  Public  domain  books  belong  to  the 
public  and  we  Lue  merely  Iheir  custodians.  Nevertheless,  this  work  is  expensive,  so  in  order  lo  keep  providing  this  resource,  we  have  takeD  steps  to 
prevent  abuse  by  commercial  parties,  including  placing  technical  restrictions  on  automated  querying. 

We  also  ask  that  you: 

+  Make  non-commercial  use  of  the  files  We  designed  Google  Book  Search  for  use  by  individuals,  and  we  request  that  you  use  these  files  for 
personal,  non-commercial  purposes. 

+  Refrain  fivm  aiftomated querying  Do  not  send  automated  queries  of  any  sort  to  Google's  system;  If  you  are  conducting  research  on  machine 
translation,  optical  character  recognition  or  other  areas  where  access  to  a  laige  amount  of  text  is  helpful,  please  contact  us.  We  encourage  Ihe 
use  of  public  domain  materials  for  these  purposes  and  maybe  able  to  help. 

+  Maintain  attribution  The  Google  "watermaik"  you  see  on  each  file  is  essential  for  informing  people  about  ihis  project  and  helping  them  find 
additional  materials  through  Google  Book  Search.  Please  do  nol  remove  it. 

+  Keep  it  legal  Whatever  your  use,  remember  that  you  are  responsible  for  ensuring  thai  what  you  are  doing  is  legal.  Do  not  assume  Ihat  just 
because  we  believe  a  book  is  in  the  public  domain  for  users  in  the  United  States.  Ihat  the  work  is  also  in  the  public  domain  for  users  in  other 
countries.  Whelher  a  book  is  still  in  copyright  varies  from  counlry  lo  counlry.  and  we  can'I  offer  guidance  on  whelher  any  specific  use  of 
any  specific  book  is  allowed.  Please  do  not  assume  Ihat  a  book's  appearance  in  Google  Book  Search  means  it  can  be  used  in  any  manner 
anywhere  in  the  world.  Copyright  infringement  liability  can  be  quite  severe. 

About  Google  Book  Search 

Google's  mission  is  to  organize  Ihe  world's  informalion  and  lo  make  it  universally  accessible  and  useful.  Google  Book  Search  helps  readers 
discover  Ihe  world's  books  while  helping  authors  and  publishers  reach  new  audiences.  You  can  search  tlirough  the  full  text  of  Ihis  book  on  the  web 


at  http:  //books  .  google  .com/ 


© 


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  hniMwit  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  hmquetaig 

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  iKWjaj-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:ablidiiaent  of  ibe  «»«f^wT  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^srd  ingkwimgwqrdt  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  scrriiodc^  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. 


pcMnMlyiaowowb— 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 
bcnc6«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^ty  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  receives  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,  deliberately,  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 
Ihwii^  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, 
Imyit-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  pre|»ted  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  coMMoe  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 
hidtyoom  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  adioiping  isntovy  beome  alnxHt  bei  own.  Tbe  young  couple 
paid  a  visit  to  hris— thea  dttfraned  bj  tbe  feeds  of  tbe  Annagiiacs 
and  tbe  Buigundian<  — 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  fawaost  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. 

0  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,  tenicrs.  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 : 

"  0  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 
gtowowi  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  luy  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  Taaiw/,  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  dtwpiter  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  rwdwd  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« 
inciwbc, 
^^^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  bookadlet  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  unfamiliar  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"(icnaalefnitteUbei«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  fcwdjghta  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  dwfctW    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^  0  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*  MTiiypg  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  0  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  iinponance  of  these 
marts   developed ;   ycarlf   it    most    iooeaw   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  Petraidt 
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  tltc  raoiuciit  lay  my  hands  on  it     In  a  second  case  • ■ 

(I  spare  his  name)  exhibited  a  specimen  of  Baei's  Tochard  (Nyrwa 
Batri)  which  bad  been  shot  on  the  Tiing  reservoir.  At  the  result 
of  a  Oivcuasion  it  seemed  established  that  this  was  "  a  truly  wild 
l)ird,  which  doubtless  lost  its  way  and  wandered  to  this  coutiirr 
in  the  same  way  that  other  birds  have  done,"  and  sheltered  on  the 
inhospitable  waters  of  Tring  reservoir.  The  third  case  a,  t!ui  of  an 
American  bird,  Ibe  Yelloir-biUcd  Cuekoo,  which  arriving  at  Pyllc, 

near   Sheplon   Mallet,    was   duly   shot    by   Mr. .      It    is  an 

insect! \-oious  bird,  which  had  been  blown  out  oi  its  course  in  its 
autumnal  migration,  ai>d,  meeting  the  inevitable;  late,  wax  butchered. 
Not,  I  fear,  until  it  is  too  Late  sltall  we  establish  a  close  time 
for  rare  birds  all  the  year  round,  and  siir  general  sentiment,  until 
it  is  the  sportsman  (!)  or  the  natunibst  that  is  held  Up  to  public 
view,  and  not  his  victims. 

The  SciEXCE  or  Puwishmext. 

CRIMINOLOGY.  Penal  Science,  or  that  which  is  oAcn  lalselr 
so-called,  is  to  the  front  just  now  even  in  England,  mainly 
owing  to  a  aeries  of  articles,'  written  by  Sir  Robert  Anderson.  Mr. 
Wbiteway,  a  frequent  and  valued  contributor  to  The  GtntUmaa^t 
Mtigaxine,  has  taken  the  opportunity  of  bringing  out  a  small  volume 
called  "  Recent  Object  L<sso«s  in  I'cnal  Science," » which,  in  spite 
of  its  somewhat  unattractive  title,  should  not  be  passed  t^  anread, 
since  it  contains  good  work,  and  shows  common  or  rather  uncommon 
sense.  He  seems  to  be  ad  idtm  with  Sir  Robert  upon  the  difficult 
subject  of  the  treatment  of  piixoncn,  which  the  latter  sums  up  in 
the  pregnant  question,  "  Will  anyone  defend  the  practice  of  immur- 
ing an  untried  prisoner  (or  one  sent  to  prison  to  be  reformed)  in  one 
of  our  modem  and  ajiproxed  prison  cells  ?  "  This  is  one  of  the  few 
books  on  the  subject  in  English  worthy  of  study,  because  the  writer 
has  familiarised  himself  with  the  excellent  literature  on  Penology 
that  France,  Italy  and  Germany,  if  not  England,  have  all  alily  put 
forth  of  late.  His  use  of  the  com[)anitivc  method  makes  it  of 
Kientific  value,  while  its  succinctness  and  good  index  together 
constitute  a  tool  unusually  easy  to  handle,  even  by  those  who  are 
not  penal  scientists  by  previous  education. 

SYLVAKUS  URJ-AN. 

*  NitKiuulJk  CatlKiy,  Mucli  190},  p.  192. 

■  Swan  SonocMcht-In  &  Co^,  190a, 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE 

May  1903. 


i 


li/TSOArS   INDABA. 

Br  A.  Werner. 

THIS  happened  many  years  ago.  Ritsoa  U  deid,  and  so  is 
Endeil>y,  and  therefore  there  an  be  no  liarni  in  telling 
how  Enderby  saved*  soul  which  another  man— a  good  man,  too,  in 
his  way— -had  been  doing  his  best  to  push  over  the  brink. 

Rit»on  was  a  trader,  in  days  when  "  the  imcrior  trade  "  was  still 
a  thing  one  could  live  by ;  no  worse  than  the  average,  perhaps  better 
than  some,  and  not  at  all  the  man  to  Uke  ill-luclc  patiently. 

He  had  ivc»«  before  had  so  petwsleoi  a  run  of  Pl-Iuck  as  on 
the  road  lo  Moshingwc's,  tlial  year — the  year  which  brought  the 
tuming-p(»ni  of  hb  life.  Moshingwe's  was  not  quite  at  the  Other 
End  of  Nowhere,  but  very  near  it,  as  white  men's  knowledge  went  in 
those  days;  few  travellers  ever  penetrated  there,  and  ivory  was 
pleDtifiii  But  it  was  a  bad  sc:ison,  and  he  lost  half  his  oxen  before 
he  arrived,  beudcs  more  than  a  touch  of  few^r  on  his  own  account ; 
aitd  when,  to  crown  all,  he  found  that  Mosliingwe  actually  had  a 
missionary  on  the  premises,  he  felt  himself  a  very  ill-used  man 
iodeed. 

Ritson  was  not  usually  on  good  tcims  with  missJooaries— for 
whkh  circumstance  both  parties  auy  have  been  to  blame.  Some 
had  made  indiscreet  revelations  (o  chicfe  in  the  matter  of  "  conces- 
sions "  and  itie  like ;  and  otliers  (or  the  same,  so  mixed  are  we  all 
in  our  motives  and  feelings)  liad  taken  insufficient  pains  to  disguise 
their  prejudice  against  him  and  his  class.  He  returned  tlie  prejudice 
with  interest,  and  gave  them  a  wide  berth,  when  he  could. 

So  that  he  was  rrot  pleawd  when  he  saw,  on  some  rising  ground 
»ot  far  from  Moshingwe's  Great   Kraal,  a  neat  brick  boose,  shaded 

vol.  men.    Ko.  aojy.  o  q 


4i8 


The  Geniieman's  Magazine. 


by  some  ptromiiiDg  btue-gunu,  vith  a  vcll-kcpt  garden  in  front  It 
aCTecteid  him  agreeably,  for  a  moment,  to  catch  a  gtimpoe,  on  the 
veimnduh,  o(  a  pretty  woman  in  a  blue  cotton  dress  and  sailor  hat — 
but,  the  next,  he  turned  his  bead  away,  muttering,  "  She  wouldn't 
look  itt  me,  except  to  say  Votttak !  " 

Mocshingu-e  was  friendly,  but  slightly  siiiT,  as  if  oventwcd  by  the 
Rev.  Jonalluiii  Carvclh.  This  gentleman,  who  was  present  at  the 
interview,  was  alto  a  little  sliff,  if  not  exactly  unfriendly ;  and  the 
two  maintained  a  son  of  armed  neutrality. 

Btisincss  went  on  faiily  well  for  a  limi^  and  then  it  stuck.  Some 
good  tusks  were  bought,  and  paid  for,  and  stowed  away  in  the 
waggon  ;  and  more  were  bitrgiiined  for,  which  could  not  be  deliv 
at  onoe,  as  they  had  to  be  fetched  from  ii  distance,  ^^'hile  Ritsoa'^ 
was  waiting,  another  ox  died,  and  some  goods  were  stolen  from  the 
waggon.  He  compbincd  to  Moshingwc,  who  was  sympathetic 
enough,  and  readily  promised  to  do  his  best  to  discover  tlie  tliieves 
and  compel  restitutton.     But  that,  again,  involved  delay. 

You  must  remember  that  this  territory  was  many  mites  outside 
any  civihsed  Jurisdiction  whatever.  Moshingwe  was  Pamnoont 
Chief  of  those  parts,  and  nilcd  his  tribe  justly  enough,  on  the  w)i 
— consulting  Carvcth  from  time  to  time,  and  taking  his  advice,  • 
not,  as  it  seemed  good  to  him. 

Carvctb  took  no  more  notice  of  Ritson  than  he  coidd  posuUyj 
help,  and  never  once  asked  hint  up  to  his  hous^  eran  after  seeing' 
him  at  the  Sunday  service.    He  guessed— and  rightly— that  Ritson's 
motive  was  to  stand  well  with  Moshingwe  by  doing  the  rcspcclabla< 
thing— the  Chief,  in  a  very  clcnientar)'  stage  of  instruction  himself/ 
bdng  particular  on  this  point.     No  doubt  there  was  some  excuse 
for  Car%-cth's  unwiltingnesi  to   introduce  to  his  wife  the  sort  of 
ruffian  he  believed  Ritson  to  be.     It  was  a  pity  that  bo  had  a  way  of 
taking  so  many  ttungs  for  grunted. 

Ritson  ground  his  tecih  when  he  passed  the  Mission-house,  and 
pretty  Mrs,  Carveth,  if  she  happened  to  be  on  the  stocp,  would  turn 
away  her  head  and  pretend  not  to  see  him.  He  thought  he  knew^ 
what  sort  of  thing*  Carvctli  had  been  telling  her,  and  made  va 
resolutions— which  came  to  nothing  for  the  moment— to  try  and 
Justify  those  accusations. 

So  the  days  draped  on,  and  Ritson,  what  with  the  dr^e  of  bis 
last  "go  "  of  fever,  and  the  lingering  ivory,  and  the  undiscorend 
thiei'es,  and  the  Car%-eths  on  the  top  of  all,  was  feehng  sore  and 
irritable  to  the  point  of  explosion,  when  Moshingwe  invited  him  to 
drink  utskwaia  with  him  and  his  councillors.    He  thought  it  politic 


Riison's  Indaba. 


419 


and  take  a  bottle  or  tiro  of  "  squarc-hce  **  irith  him. 
as  olTer  of  a  vhole  case,  whereb)-  he  had  hoped  to  grease 
the  wheels  of  the  ivory  transaction,  had  been  (througii  Carvctb's 
influence)  cotdly  received ;  but  this  iras  anothec  matter.  Carvcth 
bad  not  succeeded  in  putting  down  beer-drinkings ;  the  only  result 
of  his  conscientious  elTorts  had,  so  fnr,  been  his  exclusion  from  tlie 
iovita[ion4ist. 

Ritson,  who  had  learnt  to  tike  the  native  brcv,  enjoyed  himself 
tolerably,  and  took  enough  to  change  his  mood  to  one  of  cone- 
sponding  elation,  in  short,  be  got—as  he  himself  would  !iave  said 
' — gloriously  drunk,  and  reeled  back  to  bis  waggon  in  a  state  of 
complete  satitfaction  with  himself  and  the  univente. 

It  was  still  early,  for  »ome  glimmering  reinnanl  of  sense  suggested 
the  policy  of  reluming  while  he  could  do  so  on  his  own  feet.  He 
threw  himself  on  his  bed,  but  could  not  sleep.  The  full  moon  hung 
low  in  the  east,  and  seenie<l,  to  his  excited  fancy,  to  be  making  faces 
at  him  between  the  bouglu  of  the  Mission  gum-trees.  It  wus  amus- 
in|^  and  he  made  faci:3  back  again.  He  felt  so  strong,  so  joyous,  so 
ready  for  anything.  .  .  . 

"  Happy  thought !— go  and  call  on  the  parson's  wife ! " 

Carvcth  had  gone  out  after  evening  ser\'icc  to  sec  a  sick  convert ; 
Mrs.  Carvetb  was  in  the  liont  room  setting  the  supperUble,  with  the 
help  of  the  little  native  maid.  The  galheiiitg  at  tlie  Chiefs  had  not 
yet  broken  up,  but  it  was  a  select  and  not  very  noisy  one,  and  did 
not  disturb  the  peace  of  the  rose-grown  verandah — a  peace  that 
•omehow  impressed  iueif  on  Ritson's  bemused  Acuities.  He 
Itirched  up  tlie  steps  and  stood  in  the  doom'ay,  a  band  on  either 

po«. 

"  'Evoiing,  Mis'  Carvelh.  Sorry— not  able— call  before.  Pay 
respects,  )-ou  know." 

She  looked  up,  startled,  but  kept  her  presence  of  mind. 

*'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Kitson?  Won't  you  take  one  of  the 
chairs  on  the  stocp  ?    Mr.  Carvcth  will  be  in  presently," 

Ritson  helped  himsvlf  along  by  the  wall,  and  dropped  into  the 
receptacle  indicated,  smiling  foolishly. 

"Thanks,  awfly.  Floor  deuced  uneven— trobbles  so — can't 
think  what's  got  mto  it.  ^Vhere's  old  Carvetb  ?— off  on  a  little  spree 
all  by  himself?  Wasn't  at  Mosbingwe's.   All  right — i»e\-ermindluml" 

Mrs.  Carreth  turned  and  whispered  to  tlie  girl,  who  darted  out  at 
the  back  door,  and  off  at  full  speed  to  tind  her  master.  She  herself 
remained  motionless  inside  the  room,  hoping  that  Ritson  would  fall 
asleep  in  the  chair  and  cause  no  further  trouble.     But,  unluckily, 

aaa 


4*0 


Tkt  Gentltma*'s 


\m  inioikatioa  did  not  uie  thsi  titnt.  It  b  not  a  nice  thing 
dwdl  00.  Suffice  it  to  ay  lliat  when  Cureth  returned,  breathless 
with  running.  Ritson  had  dused  Uis.  C&rreth  into  a  comer  of  tbe 
TCfSBdth  lod  WIS  trring  to  kiss  ber. 

CuTtfh,  with  the  Msfattikoe  oT  two  sturdy  natives,  hau3cd  him 
off  and  deposited  tun  in  the  box-room  under  the  verandah.  Before 
it  was  hgbl  tn  the  tnoming,  be  was  earned  oS^  fast  asleep,  to  hb 
wiggoo,  and  laid  on  his  own  bed,  where  he  awoke,  Ute  in  the  day, 
with  1  bad  hcfldachc  and  a  verf  Yeaf  recoUectton  of  jresterdaj^ 
doin^ 

As  9000  as  Mosbingwc  wa$  sober  enough  to  attend  to  basnesi^ 
the  wiaioauf — jgnoring  tbe  ntskwala  qaeatMn  for  the  moment — 
farot^it  bis  ctWBplMiil  before  him,  as  the  only  couit  of  justice  tlien 
and  there  araiiible,  The  Chief;  a  little  doabtful  at  Gm,  succuoibed  to 
ptesanie,  and  stmunoncd  Ritson  to  the  iagedkU ;  and  the  case  was 
tried  in  doe  form.  Ritson  knew  the  langusge  nearly  as  well  as 
Cairelh,  ao  do  intcrpteter  was  weeoBd. 

Ritsoo  said,  satkQy,  that  be  had  been  drunk  and  retnembered 
nothing.  He  knew,  bowever,  that  the  charge  was  true,  and  bis  self- 
£sgiist  turned  to  a  dull  rage^  not  ^ipeased  wfaen  Canreth  remarked, 
drily,  that  the  escuae  made  tnittent  if  anytlui^  nther  wone  than 
before.  There  were  several  witnesses  to  tbe  scene  on  the  verandah, 
which  Ritson  did  not  attempt  to  deny.  He  offered  to  pay  damages 
to  any  extent  the  Chief  might  assess — adding,  to  himself,  that  this 
only  was  wanted  to  complete  his  ruin. 

Carrcth,  appealed  to  by  Moshingwc,  said  he  tho«%ht  Ritsoo 
ought  to  sui^  the  penalty  in  such  case*  made  axiA  provided.  If  a 
Mack  man  would  have  been  sentenced  (bt  a  similar  offence,  why  not 
a  white  ?    But  the  Chief  still  hesitated. 

"  This  is  an  iWd^  between  brethren.  There  b  no  white  man 
here  to  Judge  between  you.  But  I  ne^'er  knew  such  a  tiling — that  a 
white  man  should  want  a  white  man  shamed  in  the  sight  of  our 
people."  • 

Ritson  looked  in  bewttdenaent  bom  one  to  the  other.  Carrcth 
went  on  explaining  that  it  was  not  a  case  of  private  rererge.  The 
law  must  tnke  its  course  for  the  sake  of  exaoiplc ;  nothing  woukl 
meet  the  requirements  of  justice  but  tbe  usual  sentence.  .  .  . 
Fifty  lashes,  in  the  open  assembly.  .  .  . 

"You  don't  mean  itl"  cried  Ritson,  with  livid  lipi;  "Yoo 
wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  as  that  !  ' 

Carreth  shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders  and  said  nothing.  Tbe 
man  tumed  to  him  in  agonised  entreaty.     Moshingwc  and   hit 


I 

I 
■ 

I 
I 


I 


RUsoh's  Imiaba. 


4=1 


induius  did  not  understand  his  words,  bui  the}' guessed  his  meaning, 
and  looked  away. 

"  It  <nis  3  blackguardly  thing,  I  know,  and  I'm  sorry  Tor  iL  I  'd 
never  bai-c  done  it  if  I  hadn't  txx-n  drinking.  I  'il  pay  anything 
you  like— and  you  may  thtash  mc  yourself,  as  long  as  1  can  stand — 
only  not — not  that !— You're  an  Englishman,  aren't  you  ?" 

But  Carvcth  hardened  his  hcait.  Perhaps  it  was  not  altogether 
easy ;  but  he  said  to  himself  that  sentiment  must  give  way  to  juauce, 
and  no  concessions  be  made  to  caste  ptejudice.  He  roust  have 
had  an  enviably  strong  conviction  thai  he  was  right,  or  he  never 
oould  have  faced  Ritson's  c)-es. 

Moshlngwe  did  not  half  like  the  business,  and  was  not  sure  but 
thai  trouble  would  come  of  it  some  day.  But  he  did  not  want  to 
quarrel  with  his  missionary ;  and,  after  all,  there  was  something 
to  be  said  on  that  side.    So  he  took  the  opinion  of  his  councillors. 

Them  old  men  said  llieir  say,  one  after  another,  at  great  length, 
and  had  not  materially  advanced  tlie  business,  when  a  welcome 
diversion  occuned.  A  messenger  arrived  with  news  that  Enderb/s 
waggon  was  on  its  way. 

Moshingwc  and  Carvcth  both  knew  Endcrb}*)  and  respected  him 
— Carvcth  rather  grudgingly,  for  he  was  a  mere  secular  person,  a 
hunter  and  explorer  (unknown,  at  that  date,  to  fame  and  the 
R.G.S.),  and  not  an  indiscriminate  enthusiast  for  missions,  though 
most  natives,  and  some  misguided  missionaries,  were  cntbtisiasts  for 
him.    Tlie  Chief's  brow  cleared. 

"If  this  K  indeed  Endeiby,  can  he  not  judge  the  matter? 
Refer  it  to  him,  O  Kaviti,  and  let  botli  agree  to  abide  by  his 
decision." 

RiliTon  accqHed  ngerly ;  Car%-eth  was  reluctant,  but  gave  way  ai 
last,  Mncc  lUcrc  was  nothing  cU<:  to  be  done.  The  prisoner  was  shut 
up,  for  the  present,  ii]  an  empty  hut,  where  he  was  supplied  with  food, 
and  left  alone—  to  his  infinite  relief. 

lie  had  heard  of  this  Endcrb)*,  but  kitew  very  little  about  him. 
It  was  hardly  likely  that  any  other  white  man  would  hack  up  Carveth 
in  his  monstrous  resolution ;  and  yet— and  yet— tiad  he  not 
heard  that  Endcrby  was  a  friend  of  the  missionaries  at  Kuruman  ? — 
They  were  all  alike-  .  .  .  He  fell  to  wondering  stupidly  what  he 
should  do  if  things  went  against  him.  He  thought  of  the  cav:s  of 
powder  in  his  waggon,  and  the  wild  plans  that  had  rushed  through 
his  mind  while  he  stood  at  bay  in  the  itigodhle.  .  .  .  They  bad 
taken  away  his  knife,  or  it  might  have  been  best  to  make  sure.  .  .  . 
But  now  there  was  nothing  for  it  sa^v  to  wait  and  sec.  .  .  . 


422 


Tht  GcniUmatCs  Magaxine. 


In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Endeiby  caroe  to  Kim.  He 
had  talked  out  the  inJaia  for  three  hours,  and  bad  tlten  asked  to  >ee 
Rilson  alone  Vihtn  the  door  was  pushed  aside,  aitd  a  man  cnwled 
in  on  his  hands  and  knees,  one  look  at  his  Tace  told  Ritson  that 
help  bad  come. 

He  iru  cold  and  stem,  but  Rilson  tlioughl  the  sound  of  his 
voice  was  like  spring  water  in  the  desert.  He  stood  up,  and  hang 
his  head,  tike  a  schoolboy  in  disgnc^  and  answered  oil  questions; 
with  no  attempt  at  excuse  or  et'asion. 

"Well,  you  seem  to  be  a  pretty considcnible  blackguard,"  said 
Endctby  at  hut ;  "  but,  all  the  same,  I  don't  like  the  idea  of — what 
was  proposed.  You  dewrvc  it,  every  bit— but  I'm  hanged  if  I  could 
ttandibat!" 

Ritson  put  out  his  hand  against  one  of  the  hut-posts  to  steady 
himself.     He  could  have  falk-n  at  this  man's  feet. 

"Anything  ,  ,  .  "  he  stammered.     "IWII  sec  fair  play  I" 

"Moshingvc  and  the  missionary  have  agreed  to  leave 
it  in  my  hands.  Uliat  I  propose  is  this.  You  spcdogise  to 
Carvcth " 

"  I  wont— 1 11  be  cut  into  pieces  first !" 

"  Very  good — I  have  no  more  to  say," 

"  Oh  I  don't  go  I  For  God's  sake,  listen  a  minute  I  Vou  were 
not  there — you  don't  know  1 — I  diJ,  and  it  was  no  use.  I  told  bin 
before  them  all  I  was  sorry  I  'd  done  il,  and  offered  to  let  him  lake 
it  out  of  me  in  private  to  any  extent  he  lilud.  ...  I  thought" — 
hia  voice  dropped,  and  he  stole  a  shamcbced  look  at  Enderby — 
*  fou  were  going  to  say— you  'd  thrash  me  yourself." 

"So  1  was.  ...  I  didn't  knon-  you'd  said  that."  .  .  .  Carveth 
IimI  not  seen  fit  to  mention  it ;  but  Enderby  saw  that  the  man  was 
speaking  the  truth.  ..."  Well,  arc  you  willing  to  take  your  lidcuig 
from  me,  with  no  one  but  Carveth  present  ?— It  "s  a  disgusting  }ob— 
but  there  seems  to  be  no  other  way.  .  .  ." 

*'  God  bless  you  I "  cried  Ritson,  and,  leaning  against  the  post, 
broke  dov.'n,  and  sobbed  out  loud.     Enderby  understood. 

"  It  was  a  bnilc  of  a  thing  to  do— but — I'm  sony  for  you."  He 
iioppcd,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  more,  but  turned  away 
abruptly,  and  went  out,  leaving  Ritson  comforlcd. 

He  went  to  the  Chiefs  hut,  where  Caivcth  was  waiting,  attd 
reported  Ritson's  acceptance  of  the  arrangement. 

"  lliat  is  good,"  said  Moshingwe,  politely  waving  aside  Carveth's 
attempted  remonstrance.  "Is  it  not  best  that  a  man  should  be 
judged  by  his  own  people  ?    Go,  then,  and  fininh  tl»e  matter  I " 


Jiilson's  Ittdaba, 


433 


Jd  Bnderby,  as  ihey  went  away  togeiher— « is  it 
true  WtSK^fdSbt  vai  sorry  for  what  had  happened  ? '' 

"I  believe  he  did— but  what's  the  good  of  that?  He  only 
wanted  to  escape  the  consequences." 

"  I  think  you  do  him  injustice.     He  did  feel  it    Bat  if  you  do 
best  to  break  doirn  a  man's  sclf-retpect,  and  drive  him  to 
desperation " 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  strike  you  that  I  am  not  acting  for  myself 
alone.  It's  difficult  enough  to  get  any  sort  of  justice  done  in  these 
parts — and  think  of  the  moral  cflcct,  if  such  conduct  is  passed  over 
in  a  white  man !  Think  of  what  it  may  mean — not  for  me,  or  my 
wife,  but  for  any  who  may  come  after  us  ! " 

"  Can-eib,  there's  truth  in  what  you  say,  and  yet —  Forgive  me  if  I 
apeak  very  pbinly.    Arc  you  quite  sure  there's  no  ])cnonal  feeling? 
^Wouldn't  yon  have  been  a  little  bit  glad  to  see  the  jwor  deviJ  degraded 
.  his  own  eyes  ai»d  everyone  cisc'i  ?  " 

Can'Cth  looked  al  him,  with  an  angry  light  in  his  small,  keen 
eyes;  but  Enderby  went  on,  quietly,  before  he  had  time  to  ^>cak. 

"Never  mind— I'm  not  your  judge ;  and  pcrluips  that  was  too 
much  to  say.  Only—don't  you  sec  ?— he's  not  all  bad,  1  fancy — irat 
by  a  long  way.  And  that  would  have  gone  near  to  make  him  so.  If 
you  could  realise  wliat  it  meant  lo  Aim,  you'd  sec  it  was  rather  out  of 

proportion.  .  .  .  And,  if  we  all  had  just  what  wc  deserve It's  not 

what  you  preach  yourself,  you  know  1 "  concluded  Enderby,  not  reiy 
lucidly. 

*■  Thank  you  I "  said  Carveih  icily.    •'  I  M/«*  I  know * 

"  Oh  !  can't  we  get  the  business  over  t '  interrupted  Enderby 
wearily.    "In  there,!  suppose?    111  be  back  directly." 

When  he  returned  from  his  w^iggon  lie  found  Carreth  already  in 
tlie  hut,  which  was  faintly  illuminated  by  a  paraffin  lunp  set  on  a 
packing-case.  The  guards  had  been  stationed  out  of  earshot,  with 
instructions  to  allow  no  one  to  approach — a  needless  precaution,  as  it 
turned  out,  for  the  most  ardent  curiosity  durst  not  disobey  Mosbingwe'i 
orders 

Ritson  was  still  leaning  against  the  post  when  Enderby  came  In. 
He  stepped  forward,  without  a  word,  while  Carveih  went  to  shut  t!ie 
door— stripped  off  his  shirt,  and  knelt  down.    Endeiby  turnedaway 
for  a  moment,  drawing  the  sjambok  he  held  through  his  left  hiuid- 
Then  he  bent  towards  him,  and  whispered, 
"  I  can't  spare  you— for  your  own  sake." 
Ritson  looked  straight  at  him,  and  said,  "  jUI  right — don't  I " 
"Ready ?    Now  I- 


434 


Tk£  GenlUman's  Magazine. 


Ritson  never  moved  or  uttocd  a,  sound  ;  in  fnci,  he  bore  it  better  ~ 
tlian  thejr  did.     Not  a  word  was  said  till  it  w»s  over,  and  Enderby 
fluog  his  whip  across  the  hut,  and  snapped  at  Carveth, "  There  I  that 
ought  to  be  enou{^  !    Now  go  !  " 

Carvelh  was  glad  enou^  to  get  away.  He  bad  not  expected  to 
witness  things  at  such  close  quarters,  and  was  a  good  deal  sliaken, 
and  abo,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  staggered  by  the  nun's  fortitude; 
and  be  did  not  feel  comfortable. 

Ritson  by  still,  where  he  had  Itirched  forward  on  his  ftcc 
Endetby  knell  beside  hint,  ai>d  laid  a  gentle  lui>d  on  his  shotilder. 

"  We're  all  alone,  Rilwn.     Come,  lei  me  help  you." 

He  could  scarcely  stand,  when  lifted  to  his  feet ;  be  icwKd,  as  if 
dazed,  against  Enderby,  wito  held  him  in  his  arms,  for  n  minute  or 
two,  in  silence.    Then  he  rouscd.himself,  and  tried  to  draw  away. 

"Ob  I  1  forgot— I  (Udn'i  mean •" 

"What?" 

"To  Icl  jrou  touch  me " 

"Ikty  poor  chap,  see  here.  YouH-c  done  all  a  man  can  do,  aod 
no  one  wants  to  remember  the  other  thing  now.  Forget  all  about  it, 
and  make  a  fresh  start.  I'm  sorry  I  called  you  what  I  did— I  see 
yoaVe  not  that  I  Ther^  then—just  lie  down  on  the  mat  here.  Now 
drink  this,  and  youll  fed  better.  .  .  .  Am  I  hurting  you  ? — So !  .  ,  . 
Now  III  leave  you  here.  No  one  shall  disturb  you.  111  come  and 
fetch  you  when  ii's  dark,  and  you  can  go  attaight  to  bed.  No — 
really— you've  nothing  lo  thank  me  for ! " 

And,  very  red  and  embtrrasicd,  he  drew  away  ihc  hand  whicb 
RilGon  had  caught  to  his  lips,  and  hurried  off  to  Ritson's  cunp, 
where  he  found  the  boys  sitting  about,  sullen,  iictplcxcd  at>d  hdplesL 
He  set  them  to  work  at  once,  and  himself  saw  thv  bed  made  up  on 
the  cartel,  sending  over  for  some  of  his  own  things  to  make  it  more 
comfortable.    Then  he  started  for  the  Mission-house. 

"  I  suppose  there's  no  objection  to  his  slaying  where  he  is  till 
dark  ?— ni  gel  him  away  quietly  then." 

Car\-clh's  face  hardened. 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  the  matter ;  but  I  must  say  Z 
think  he  has  been  let  off  far  too  easily.  Why  should  he  CKcapc  public 
disgrace?    It's  putting  a  premium  on " 

"  Oh  I  come,  Carveth  I  can't  you  forgive  him  now  ?  Hasn't  he 
sulTcred  enough  ?  " 

"As  to  that — it's  not  been  excessive.  A  hardened  nilfitn  like 
ihat ■■ 

"Do  you  think  so?    Then  you  know  less  of  human  nature  than 


Rilson's  /ndala. 


425 


I  gave  you  credit  for.  With  one  word,  if  you'd  uid  ii  in  time,  jrou 
might  h&ve  had  that  man  at  )-our  feet !  I  xuppone  —strictly  speaking, 
>'ou  were  withiti  your  right-i.  Bui  I  should  have  thought  )'Our— 0vr 
— religion  would  have  taught  you  that  it's  socnttimei  best  not  to 
insist  on  them." 

**  You  don't  uiKlcTstand  ! "  cried  Carveth  choking.    "  It's  not  « 

question  of  forgiveness  or — or You  have  no  right—"    His 

conscience  vium  not  quite  easy,  and  he  was  growing  tieated. 

"Well.  I  won't  argue.  But  you're  wrong — and  I  think  you  know 
it,  in  your  huart." 

"If  you've  cooM  hae  to  insult  roe  and— and  the  Gospd  1 
preach " 

"  I  haven't    Good-eTcaing," 

Rilson  bad  fallen  asleep  from  sheer  nervous  exhaustion,  and 
awoke  in  the  friendly  darkness,  to  find  Endcrby  beside  bim. 

"  Can  you  walk  ?— steady,  now — come  along  I " 

He  got  bim  to  bed  and  then  brought  him  some  hot  soop^  and 
made  him  drink  tt,  while  he  sat  beside  bim,  unfolding  bis  plans. 

"  I  mean  (o  inspan  and  start  about  an  boui  after  midnigliL  By 
the  lime  it's  hght  we  shall  be  miles  away  from  here.  Then  you  can 
go  your  own  way,  or  irek  with  mc — just  as  you  like." 

Kitson  gave  an  impatient  moremenL 

"  I'd  give  anything  to  get  away  from  here,  but  I  can't !  I  shall 
be  mined  an)-u-ay.  I've  paid  out  no  end  of  stuff  10  Moshingwe,  and 
he  hasn't  got  his  ivory  in  yet," 

"  Look  here,  Riison,  you're  not  fit  to  ulk  business  to  night. 
Doni  you  worry.  Ill  pay  you  bock  what  you've  Uid  out  and  uke 
tay  chance  of  oolleaing  the  tusks  Dom  Moshingwe  later  on.  Do 
you  think  you  can  trust  nve  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  sob  in  the  dark. 

"  Go  to  sleep,  then.  .  .  .  Look  here,  I  tblnk  111  fetch  you  a  dose 
of— Bomelhing  I  keep  for  emergencies.  You  must  sleep  and 
forget* 

Ritson  clung  to  his  hand  as  if  he  could  never  let  go. 

"  If  you'd  only  make  it  strong  enough  for  me  not  to  wake  again  I  * 

"Nonsense!~I  thought  you  had  more  pluck  !  Things  are  not  so 
bad  as  all  tliat  .  .  .  ]>on't  yovt  go  thinking  Jonatlun  CUrveth  made 
the  world.  You  were  wrong — but  he's  been  wrOng  too-^aod  hell 
find  it  out  some  day.     Just  you  lie  still  and  don't  think  of  anythii^  t " 

"  Just  one  thing."  It  was  not  easy  to  say.  and  Ritson  turned  over 
and  half  hid  his  face  in  the  pillow.     "  I'd  Uke  her— to  know " 

"Yo.    ni  see  her  myscl/.- 


i 

426 


TJi0  Gentleman* s  Magaziiu, 


"  Sajr  I'm  an  awful  bladcguaid,  and  I  couldD't  think  ^1 
to  fofgivc  .  .  .  but,  if  bong  ashanied  ..." 

■■  I'll  tell  her.    1  think  ahcll  undetstand."  ■ 

She  did.  Enderby  wound  up  a  cnielly  trrii^  day  b^ 
once  more—after  Rilson's  oircrwrought  brain  bad  been  ina< 
hj  the  merciful  opiate— to  the  brick  house  among  the  gum- 
As  lie  came  up  the  path  he  heard  the  piano  through 
front  windows,  and  stopped  to  listen.  Car\-eth  was  no 
deeper,  least  of  all  what  he  was  worried,  and  the  interval 
don  which  the  two  allowed  themselves  ader  winding 
business  bsled  to-n^t  a  tittle  longer  than  usual. 

Sa  1o^  Thf  power  Kiih  b1c«t  ac,  huc  it  ni-lll 
WmiMd  neon 

tang  Mrs.  Carveth's  tweet,  weak  little  aopranoy  and  End 
in  the  shadow  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  till  she  had  finished. 
np  as  the  last  chords  died  away,  aiid  began  a  bmc  t^lof 
btenest  of  lii.H  intruuon,  as  he  saw  Carvcth  risinj;  slowly 
depths  of  his  basket -chair.  His  greeting  was  anything  bui 
and  indeed  he  looked  worn  out.  Hts  wife  faced  round  on  t1 
•tool,  and  sprang  up. 

"  Why,  Mr.  F.ndcrhy  !  Come  to  liave  a  little  music  bud 
10  bed  ?    Please  sit  down  t ' 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Carvcth,  but  I  mustn't  stop.  I'm 
disturb  you,  but  I'm  leaving  early,  and— I  have  something  t 

The  lamp-light  fell  on  his  face  as  i:e  stood  there  sayinf 
his  look  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  awed  and  louctwrd  her. 
being  reminded— -though  she  did  not  know  it— of  what 
drawn  her  to  Jonathan  Carveth  seven  years  ago,  and  also 
Bciounly,  wondering  what  had  become  of  that  sometbiog. 

"Norah!"  exclaimed  the  Rev.  Joruthan,  in  an  unde 
amazed  reproof.     For  she  was  plainly  not  using  her  ban 
drive  away  the  mooquiloes. 

For  once  she  took  no  notice.    She  held  out  hi;r  liand  I 
"  Tell  him  not  to  worry  tiimself.     t  will  never  think  of  it  *ff 

For  one  mon>cnt  her  training  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
add  someiliing — 1  might  almost  say,  professional ;  but  with  . 
5ut»Iimc  trustfulness  of  intuition,  ^e  concluded  that  it  int); 
be  left  to  Enderby.  He  wrung  her  little  brown  hand  very  h 
said,  fer\-ently,  "God  bless  )X)u  t — Good-bye."  Carveth  walk 
to  the  gate  with  him. 

"If  there's  anything  we  can  do" — he  b^n,  trying  to»p 


tncya 
idt^ 


Ritson's  Indaba. 


427 


it  were  ft  trifle  which  had  only  just  occurred  to  him — "any  medical 
attention,  you  know " 

"  Tliank  you — but  he  doesn't  need  anything  mote  than  I  can  do 
for  liiin.  !'d  l>e  very  much  obliged,  though,  if  )-ou  wouldn't  mind 
telling  Moshingwe  111  call  round  and  collect  that  ivory  from  him  in 
six  months*  time.  I'tc  settled  with  Ritson  to  buy  it-  Thanks. 
Good-night" 

Mow,  1  hare  tried  !iard  to  show  that  Jonathan  Carrcth  was  not  a 
bad  man,  or  even  an  almoTitiatly  contemptible  one-  He  had  some 
queer  twists  in  his  nalurv,  though  ;  and  to  the  end  of  his  days  he 
never  got  it  out  of  his  head  that  Endcrby  had  made  8  good  thing 
out  of  that  transaction  about  the  ivory.  'I'o  show  how  this  was  would 
ukc  \'o1umcs  of  analysts,  and  do  no  good  after  aU.  The  main  point 
is,  that  Kitson  did  not  go  to  the  bad,  but  was,  apparently,  of  some 
use  while  he  lived,  in  his  own  rough  way,  and  sordy  missed,  by  some 
few  people^  when  he  died. 


42S 


Tke  Gtntltman's  Magatitu. 


THE  DUKE  OF  RIPPERDA} 


SPAIN  for  many  generations  hu  been  the  paradise  of  politict] 
ad  vcntuicTs— native  and  foreign.  The  fablory  of  the  coantry 
for  the  last  three  or  four  centuries  praents  as  with  a  constant 
succe&Moo  of  ihcm.  Sometime*  they  arc  unworthy  Court  taTOurite* 
of  tlM  I^ima  or  Godoy  type ;  at  other  tintes  pure  advcnturcn  of 
foreign  extraction,  like  Albciont  and  Ripperda.  The  indolence  and 
iacapadty  of  those  who  would  naturally  rorai  the  governing  class  in 
the  Stale  hat~c  tended  to  bring  about  ibis  result,  and  iiavc  led  to  the 
frequent  employment  of  aliens  in  the  COai>try  wbicb  of  all  nations 
in  Europe  is  most  jealous  of  foreigners. 

The  atiange  adventures  of  one  of  these  aliens,  who  (or  a  abort 
time  got  to  the  topmost  round  of  the  political  ladder,  iUustnteft 
strongly  the  dearth  of  statesmanship  in  Spain  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  as  vretl  as  the  profound  dislike  of  the  native  Spaniard  10 
have  that  done  for  him  which  he  cannot,  or  will  not,  effect  by  his 
own  exertions.  The  name  of  Ripperda  was  much  in  men's  mouths 
about  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  but  in  these  latter  days  has  fallen 
into  oblivion— a  fate  which,  considering  the  part  that  he  played 
towards  his  adopted  country,  cannot  be  said  to  have  been  altogether 
un  men  led. 

William  Louis,  Boron  dc  Ripperda,  was  a  native  of  Groningen  in 
the  Netherlands,  but  his  family  is  said  to  have  been  of  Spanish 
extraction.  He  was  born  in  ihc  year  ifiJo,  and  was  brought  up  as  a 
Catholic  in  the  Jesuit  College  at  Cologne.  His  religions  principles 
appear,  however,  to  have  sat  lightly  upon  him  from  hb  earliest  youth, 
and  never  in  his  after  career  stood  in  the  my  of  what  was  to  hioi 
the  first  object  in  life — his  own  personal  advancement     Aocom- 

'  "  Meinoln  tA  the  Duke  dc  Ripperda ;  TivA  Emlsmdot  froin  the  SutA- 
Genetsl  to  hU  Mott  Catholick  Mojoij,  Thtti  Duke  and  Gnndcc  of  Spun ; 
Afterwanli  Buh>w  and  Prime  MinUid  (o  Muly  AbdiUo,  Empcfot  of  Fes  aad 
Mwono  Ac,  CoDttSniag  A  Snceinct  Aixonnt  uf  the  mori  Remwlwbk  Events 
whidi  hupppiiM  ticiween  1713  «nd  1736.  London,  PrimnI  for  John  Stagg,  ia 
WcsiminRei  Hall ;  aad  Daniel  Browne,  41  the  BltckSmn,  wiltiout  Tcmple-Bu. 
KDCCn," 


The  Duke  of  Ripperda. 


429 


¥ 


to 


Idiahed  tnd  fitcinating  in  his  nunncis,  the  manuge  which  presented 
itself  as  most  likcljr  to  promote  his  interests  wu  hiH  union  with  s 
wealthy  Dutch  heiress,  sind  in  exchuigc  for  her  hand  he  bad  no 
scruple  in  dccUrii;g  himself  a  convert  to  Protcslaniism.  This 
niaiiiafc  secured  for  him  various  emplojinents  in  Holland,  both  of 
a  ciTil  and  military  character,  and  in  all  of  these  he  acquitted  htm- 
sdf  with  such  ability  and  discretion  that  the  States-General— when 
they  had  to  ac^oint  a  Minister  to  the  Coun  of  Madrid  after  the 
Treaty  of  Utrecht — fixed  upon  Ripperda  as  one  who  had  proved  his 
capacity  for  dealing,  not  only  with  affairs  of  State,  but  also  with  thooe 
intricate  questions  of  trade  and  Rnance  which  were  soon  to  arise 
between  the  two  countries. 

The  rKw  ambassador  arrived  at  Madrid  in  July  r7t5,  and  before 
long  had  completely  won  over  the  Prime  Minister,  Cardinal  Giudice, 
and  had  made  himself  a  general  lavouritc  in  the  society  of  the 
capital.  But  the  reign  of  the  Cardinal  lasted  only  a  short  time,  and 
be  was  displaced  in  favour  of  an  ecclestasttc  of  a  far  higher 
intellectual  grasp.  This  was  the  celebrated  Cardinal  jUberoni,  who 
bad  contrived  and  successfully  negotiated  the  marriage  between 
Kii^  Philip  V.  and  Elizabeth  of  Parma,  the  niece  of  his  own 
30^'eieign.  Philip  was  a  well-intenlioned  but  weak-minded  man, 
who  throughout  his  life  allowed  himself  to  be  controlled  by  bis  two 
win8,andthcy  in  turn  were  the  instrumcnls  of  their  favourites.  The 
Atst  wife,  Maria  Louisa  of  Savoy,  had  been  under  the  influence  of 
the  French  adventuress,  the  Princess  Orstni ;  but  the  latter  had  been 
discarded  and  sent  ignominiously  out  of  the  country  on  the  arrival 
of  Elltabelh  of  Parma,  who  would  tolerate  no  female  rival  for  the 
King's  favour.  Ripperda  paid  his  court  to  the  new  Minister,  but 
Alberoni,  who  probably  discerned  in  him  a  kindred  .spirit  and  a 
possible  rival,  gave  him  little  of  his  confidence,  although  he  could 
not  fail  to  reco)i;nise  and  appreciate  the  talents  of  the  Dutchman. 
He  had  become  acquainted  with  a  secret  negotiation  which  had  been 
going  on  in  Giudice's  time  for  the  reconversion  of  the  Baron  to  the 
Catholic  Faith,  and  for  his  abandonment  of  the  service  of  the 
States  (or  that  of  Spain.  This  project  may  not  have  presented 
itself  to  the  Suietman-Cardinal  as  an  event  of  such  supreme 
moment  as  it  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  the  Inquisitor-General,  Giudice. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  Ripperda  had  by  this  time  made  up  his  mind  as  to 
the  course  which  he  would  pursue.  He  had  lost  his  Dutch  wife 
some  years  before  this,  ar>d  had  married  a  Spanish  lady  of  noble 
birth  and  connections ;  but  so  well  bad  he  kept  the  secret  of  bis 
intended  change  of  faith  that,  when  he  was  recalled  by  the  States  in 


430 


Th$  Gentleman's  Magazuu. 


1716,  the  changes  was  not  attritnited  to  any  suxfncion  on  thcb-  put  of 
his  w«)l  of  loyally.     (Ic  tiimself  vnts  ■vkxj  gUd  of  the  excuse  Tor 
reluming  to  Holland  to  settle  his  ndairs  and  realise  his  propertr  in 
that  country,  and  he  kept  up  the  deception  to  the  last.     He  took 
leave  of  his  friends  in  Madrid  with  ail  the  signs  of  grief  on  his 
oounicnance,  »  if  he  weic  destined  ne^'er  to  see  them  a^ato,  and  be 
lost  no  opportunity  when  in  Holland  of  contradicting  the  runaourt 
which  reached  his  ears  of  his  intended  abjuration  of  Protestantism. 
Soon  afterwards  he  threw  off  the  mask  by  returning  to  Spain- 
He  met  with  n  most  cordial  reception  from  the  King,  the  Queen, 
and  the  Cardinal  Minister,  who  resolved  to  celebrate  his  adnitssion 
into  the  Catholic  fold  with  elaborate  ceremonial.     He  was  rcceivad 
on  the  day  i^ipointed  at  the  Palace  of  San  tldefbnso  by  the  I'rince  of 
Asturtas  and  a  company  of  Grandees,  who  conducted  him  to  the 
Cbapel  Ro]-al,  "  where  their  Caihotic  Majeaties  and  the  InCanU  of 
Spain  were  present."    When  the  ceremony  of  his  admission  and  a 
Grand  Ma.<is  had  been  concluded,  he  was  cntenained  at  a  tnagnil- 
cent  banquet  by  the  Jesuits,  and  this  was  followed  by  an  equally 
splendid  supper  at  his  own  house.     But  the  Queen  and  Alberooi 
hoped  to  get  something  more  useful  out  of  the  Baron  than  his  oon- 
rerrion.     Before  the  ceremony  took  place  the  people  of  Madrid  bad 
been  greatly  edified  by  hearing  of  the  lengthmed  inten-tews  of  the 
neophyte  with  (he  Cardinal,  which,  naturally  enough,  they  attributed 
to  the  pious  zeal  of  the  latter  in  explaining  to  his  pufnl  the  mysteries 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.    This  sublime  conception  must  yield, 
Itowever,  to  the  more    probable  story  that  they  were  conauUiog 
together  as  to  the  establishment  of  a  wool-mill  at  Segovia—  a  project 
which  Ripperda  had  unfolded  to  the  willing  ears  of  the  lar-seetng 
sutcsnuin. 

Since  the  days  of  Ximenes,  Spain  had  never  possessed  a  states* 
man  who  understood  better  or  was  more  capable  of  furthering  her 
tnie  interests  than  she  now  had  in  Albef oni,  and  it  is  truly  suiprisiqg 
that  even  his  masler-mind  was  able  to  effect  so  much  in  the  coviae 
of  his  short  career.  The  country  had  been  brought  by  misgovern* 
ment,  corraption,  and  gross  superstition  to  the  lowest  state  of 
poverty  at>d  d<^radation  under  the  miserable  rule  of  the  three  last 
princes  of  the  House  of  Austria.  It  was  diihcull  for  the  vulgar  mtnd 
in  those  days  to  realise  such  a  fact  as  this,  which  seemed  to  be  con- 
tradicted by  the  accounts  of  the  fleets  of  gnlteons  comity  over  every 
year  to  Spain  laden  with  precious  metals  from  the  Indies.  But  it 
was  long  before  the  nations  could  recognise  the  truth  that  the  posses- 
non  and  the  loclcing.up'of  gold  docs  not  constitute  wealth,  nnd  it  was 


The  Bide  of  Ripperda. 


431 


I 


of  utonbhment  that  a  small  couniry  like  Holland,  wttb  few 
*TCSomccs  in  itself,  wu  so  much  more  prosperous  than  SpMiiit  and  the 
inhabiuints  individtuUy  so  much  richer  and  more  comfotuble  in 
iheir  drcumslaiices  than  those  of  the  southern  State.  Spain  ti-as 
further  exhausted  by  the  desolating  war,  which  had  so  long  raged 
within  ber  boiden,  to  determine  the  succession  to  the  crown.  But 
this  war  had  been  of  some  service  to  her  in  displaying  to  tbc  world 
the  unconquerable  spirit  of  her  sons,  and  their  determination  r>ot  to 
jicid  Co  foreign  dictation  in  the  choice  of  their  sovereign,  and 
Alberoni  showed  what  she  was  again  capable  of  becoming  under 
care^l  guidance.  If  he  had  been  allowed  bis  own  way  he  would 
piolxibly  hav-e  kept  out  of  embroilments  with  foreign  Powcts,  and 
would  liave  concerned  himself  principally  with  the  development  of 
the  internal  resources  of  the  country. 

One  of  the  schemes  which  he  cordially  Approved  of  and  pro- 
moted was  the  esublishment  of  this  wool-mill  at  Segovia,  which  was 
encouraged  with  the  view  of  directly  competing  with  England  in  her 
manu&ctures.  Ripperda  explained  that  the  English  bought  the 
Spuifsh  wool,  worked  it  up  at  home,  and  sold  it  to  the  Spaniards  at 
greatly  enhanced  prices.  This  was  a  source  of  wealth  which  might 
very  caKily  be  retained  by  the  Spaniards  if  they  would  only  undertake 
the  manufacture  themselves,  and  there  would  also  be  the  pleasure  of 
■trilitng  a  blow  at  England  In  one  of  her  most  important  industries^ 
The  mill  was  accordingly  established,  and  Qouri^ved  greatly  under 
the  fosterii^  care  of  t)ie  Baron. 

But,  although  he  was  willing  to  employ  him  in  such  matters,  tlie 
Cardinal  could  not  bring  himself  to  lake  Ripperda  into  his  confidence 
in  matters  of  State,  whidi  he  entrusted  to  none  but  his  own  creatures 
and  those  under  his  entire  control  and  authority.  This  ho  felt  with 
a  man  of  Ripperda's  talents  and  ambition  could  not  long  be  the  case. 
He  was  now  eager  to  work  out  iheschemet  of  hisambitious  patroness, 
EliEabeth  of  Parma,  but  it  must  be  by  his  own  ways  and  means,  and 
with  his  own  instruments.  The  Queen  had  two  great  projects  in  her 
taind,  one  of  these  being  the  tecovery  of  Gibraltar  from  the  Ei^lish, 
and  the  other  the  securing  of  the  succession  of  Panna,  Piacenm,  and 
T^iscany  to  her  son  Don  Carlos.  Her  ambirious  derigns  were 
well  known  in  Europe,  and  led  to  the  formation  of  the  "I'riple 
Alliance  "  between  Great  Britain,  France,  and  Holland  for  protecting 
the  int^rity  of  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht.  The  Enjpcror  Charles  VI. 
declined  at  first  to  join  the  Alliance,  having  no  good  reason,  as  he 
thought,  for  satisfaction  with  tltat  Treaty  which  bad  disposed  so 
cavalierly  of  his  pretensions  to  the  Crown  of  Spain.    He  bad  soon 


Th4  Gentiiman's  Magazine. 


good  cause,  however,  for  bunenting  hts  dectnon.  Under  the 
tbe  Panncwn  Qu«cn  and  httnisier,  Spain  exhiUted  an  extraord 
and  most  unexjKCted  rerival  of  energy.  A  well -equipped  expeditioa 
left  Baicdona,  and  tn  two  months  had  subdued  the  trhnle  of  Sardinia. 
In  June  1718  astQl  luger  annamcnt  set  sail  from  Spain.  It  tras 
inlciMlod  for  tt»c  conquest  of  Naples  aod  Sicily,  and  C23\  anchor  near 
Patcnno.  The  Emperor,  now  obliged  to  ilirow  himself  into  the  arms 
of  the  Allied  Powers,  concluded  with  them  what  Es  known  as  Uie 
"  Quadniple  AlliancCi"  and  nteasuret  were  taken  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
ambitious  career  of  the  Spanish  ConlinaL  Admiral  Byng  caught 
the  Spanish  Sect  in  the  Straits  of  Meuina,  and  in  tbe  action  which 
followed  the  whole  of  their  ships  were  taken  or  destroyed. 

After  this  great  failure  Alberoni  endeavoured  by  various 
intrigues  and  negotiations  to  bring  about  divisions  among  the  aliiei 
He  projected  an  expedition  to  England  in  bvoui  of  the  Pretender, 
and  a  still  more  daring  scheme  for  the  sciiurc  and  deposition  of  the 
Regent  Orleans.  The  discover^'  of  the  latter  plot  rcsuItiMl  in  the 
invasion  of  Spun  by  a  French  aimjr.  and  in  tbecvcntual  di:igiaceand 
banishment  of  the  Cardinal,  whom  the  Queen  four>d  it  necessai;  at 
length  tosaailice  to  the  offended  dignity  of  the  Allied  Powers.  To 
th«M  events  succeeded  a  National  Congress,  which  was  held  at 
Cambrai,  and  wliich  dragg^  on  its  weary  length  for  four  years  with- 
out d<nng  anythinft  eRectual  for  the  settlement  of  the  dtspoies 
between  the  1  mperial  and  Spanish  sovereigns.  "  1'his  poor  Congress,' 
says  Carlyle,  "spent  two  years  in  'arguments  alwut  precedencies,' 
in  mere  beatings  of  the  air;  could  not  get  seated  at  all,  but  wandered 
among  tlic  chairs  till  'February  1734.'  Nor  did  it  manage  to 
accomplish  any  work  whatever  even  then ;  the  most  inane  of  Hamao 
Congresses ;  and  memorable  on  that  account,  if  on  no  oilier.  Tbeit^ 
in  old  stagnant  Cambrai,  through  the  third  year  and  into  the  fooitb 
were  Delegates,  Spanish,  Austrian,  English,  Dutch,  French,  of  solemn 
outfit,  with  a  big  tall  to  each,  .  .  .  there,  for  about  four  years,  were 
these  poor  fellow-creatures  busied,  baling  out  water  with  sieves." 
Elizabeth  Famcsc  lost  patience  at  lut  willi  tbe  Congress,  and 
cmplo)-cd  what  our  author  calls  a  "  surprising  Dutch  Block-Ani&t, 
one  Ripperda,"  whom  she  had  for  Mini.iter,  "to  pull  the  floor  from 
beneath  it  and  send  it  home  in  that  manner.'* ' 

If  wc  may  bclie^-c  the    "  Memoirs,"   Kippcrda,  then  living  in 

retirement  at  Segovia,  knew  nothing  of  the  project  which  had  l»ccn 

devised  for  sending  him  to  Vienna  to  negotiate  a  separate  treaty  with 

the  Emperor.     Tbe  idea  originated  with  a  Spanish  Jesuit  Ktded  at 

>  PnitTitk  tkt  Grtat,  IL  1 16. 


Th4  Duke  of  Ripptrda. 


433 


RcHDe,  but  «u  brought  to  maturity  in  the  subtle  brain  of  Alberoat, 
who  was  now  in  h^h  fivouT  at  the  Papal  Court,  and  the  choice  of 
Rippcrda  for  tlic  delicate  serWcc  was  probably  due  to  htm.  An 
insult  offLTcd  to  the  SpunUh  Court  came  opportunely  to  the  aid  of 
the  Baron  in  his  negolialions.  Tlic  Infanta,  who  had  been  brought 
to  Paris  to  be  united  to  the  young  King,  was  sent  back  to  her  own 
country,  as  the  King's  advisers  had  other  views  for  him  in  the 
matrimonial  line.  By  the  active  exertions  of  Ripperda,  a  treaty  was 
concluded  at  Vienna  between  tlitir  Inipeiial  and  Ca^lilian  Majesties 
on  April  yi,  \'^t%-  Uy  this  treaty  tlie  £inj>eror  for  himsvlfand  his 
heirs  renounced  all  claim  to  the  crown  of  Spain,  being  at  the  same 
time  confirmed  in  the  possession  of  iliose  dominions  which  had 
been  handed  to  him  by  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht,  such  as  the  Spanish 
Netherlands,  Naples,  and  Sicily,  and  I'aima  and  Piaccnia  were  to 
go  to  the  eldest  son  of  the  Queen  of  Spain  on  the  death  of  the 
present  possessor.  There  was  also  a  treaty  of  commerce  between 
the  two  Powers,  securing  to  the  Emperor's  subjects  contmetcial 
advantages  at  the  expense  of  the  other  maritime  Powers,  A  third 
secret  treaty  is  said  to  have  had  for  its  objects  the  transference  of 
Gibiallai  to  Spain  and  an  cvpedition  to  England  in  the  interests  of 
tlie  Ptctendei. 

The  Treaty  of  Vienna— the  news  of  which  fell  like  a  thunderbolt 
I  the  rest  of  Europe— was  the  cause  of  great  delight  and  utisfac- 
to  the  Spanish  sovereigns.  They  proceeded  at  once  to  show 
tliis  by  the  honours  which  they  heaped  on  the  successful  negotiator. 
He  was  created  a  Duke  and  Grandee  of  Spain,  and,  on  receiving 
]>eTmission  to  return  to  Madrid,  his  son,  a  mere  youth,  was  allowed 
to  remain  at  Vienna  at  tlie  head  of  the  Embody.  Rippcrda  left  the 
capital  in  October  1725,  and  during  his  journey  homewards  was 
everywhere  welcomed  witli  marks  of  the  highest  distinction.  He 
arrived  in  Madrid  on  December  ti,  and  was  at  once  entrusted  by 
the  King  with  *ome  of  the  chief  oRiccs  of  Sute.  But  these  were 
not  arough  for  hi.i  ambition,  and  he  grasjied  at  the  very  highest  post 
ofaU— whicji  liad  already  within  recent  years  been  held  by  two 
fofcign  advcnlureis,  Giudice  and  Albcroni.  After  a  short  time  he 
succeeded  in  obtaining  the  position  of  Prime  Minister,  and  to  the 
duties  connected  with  it  he  attached  those  of  five  or  six  other  im- 
portant offices  of  Government,  all  of  which  he  kept  in  his  own  hands. 
His  industry,  indeed,  was  marvellous,  and  he  showed  sucb  a  capacity 
for  work,  and  in  many  ways  sudi  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  true 
interests  of  the  country,  that  had  he  acted  with  ordiiury  prudence 
and  forbearance  he  might  have  been  able  to  maintain  his  exalted 

VOL   CCXCtl.     KO.  >0j7.  H  H 


434 


Th«  GeniUmans  Magazine. 


•Ution  for  «  long  tunc     Mis  hend  was  Full  or  scbemeB  for  ihe 
aggrandisement  of  Spain,  bolb  enernal  and  internal,    llic  fonncr 
he  lought  to  pfomotc  by  inuigucs  which  involved  him  in  disputes 
ami  jealousies  with  other  Powers,  and  at  borne  he  created  numerouaj 
enemies  by  the  haughtiness  of  his  manners  and  his  unscrupulouaoean 
wherevcT  his  own  interests  were  concerned.     His  ekvaiion  had,  itu 
fact,  tumvd  hi*  head,  and  be  bad  the  nusfottune  to  olTend,  not  onlf ' 
the  Spanish  nobles,  whom  he  excluded  from  power  at  home,  but 
foreign  nations,  such  as  England  and  HoIUikI.  wbo«c  commcru;  tie 
was  doing  everything  he  could   to  injure.      The  sovereigns,  too^ 
could  not  discover  that  be  was  effecting  much  in  fulfilment  of  the 
moigntlicent  promises,  which  he  hod  made  to  them,  of  renewed  pros'j 
I>«.-riiy  for  S]uin,  and  thef  lud  ample  evidence  of  hJs  extravaganecn 
and  love  of  display.    Graver  charges  caine  to  be  added  to  the  hca\7 
indictment  against  him.     He  wis  accused  of  revealing  to  unauthorited  i 
persons  Importanl  scenes  of  State,  and  of  embcszling  sums  of  money  \ 
belonging  to  the  Treasury.    These  rumours,  whether  tnic  or  not, 
had  such  an  effect  on  the  King  that  he  consented  to  hold  a  Council 
in  the  absence  of  Kippcrdo,  at  which  it  was  resolved  that  he  should 
be  reowvcd  from  the  post  of  Prime  Mbbtcr  (May  1716).     ItwJ 
Puke,  although  at  first  astounded  by  the  newt,  which  he  rcccivcdl 
from  the  lijn  of  the  King  himtelf,  had  sufficient  dignity  arwl  presence 
of  mind  at  once  to  reugn  all  hij  ajipointmcnts,  at  the  sama  dmaj 
reminding  his  Majesty  that,  if  he  liad  not  his  confidence  in  regud  to^ 
one  of  these,  he  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  retain  any  of  them.    He 
then  retired  to  hit  hotisc  ui  Segovia,  and  so  little  thought  had  the 
King  at  this  time  of  his  utter  ruin  that  he  bestowed  on  him  a  pension 
of  3,000  pistoles  "  until  such  time  as  he  could  employ  him  again  ia 
his  scTvicc." 

His  alTain,  then,  at  this  stage  were  not  in  sudi  a  desperate  con- 
dition as  to  preclude  ilie  cliaiice  of  his  once  more  regaining  bilJ 
a.toendency,  if  he  could  only  have  been  induced  to  remove  himseln 
for  awhile  from  the  public  eye,  until  affairs  had  quieted  down.     But 
the  restless  spirit  of  Rippcrda,  which  his suddcnelcTation  hod  excited 
to  the  verge  of  intoxication,  hurried  him  on  to  on  act  which  caused 
his  final  ruin.    Professing  to  believe  that  his  life  was  not  safe  Erom^ 
the  Airy  of  the  mob,  which  had  Ixren  roused  against  htm  by  his " 
enemies,  he  resolved,  contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  wife  and  of  hit 
l)cst   friends,   to  place  himself  under  the  protection  of  Colonel 
Stanhope,  the  British  Ambassador.    This  fatal  step  at  once  oon- 
Armcd  in  the  minds  of  most  men  all  the  worst  suspicions  against 
him.    Stanhope,  although  he  could  not  refuse  tlie  liospitaliiy  of  bis 


Tk«  Duke  of  Mifperda, 


435 


» 


^ 


bouse  to  Uie  Duke,  found  himself  greatly  embarrassed  witli  such  m 
guest,  and  be  wi»it  the  next  momii^  to  infonn  the  King  of  what 
had  happened.  He  gave  his  word  of  honour  that  tlte  Duke  »hoa3d 
not  be  allowed  to  leave  the  Embassy  without  notioe  being  sent  to 
the  Court,  nor  until  he  should  lestore  certain  papers  which  he 
was  accused  of  having  purloined.  Tlic  Ambassador  vras  obliged 
nevertheless  to  submit  to  the  presence  of  guards  about  his  house 
aiid  avenues,  so  as  to  prevent  all  chance  of  escape  on  the  part  of  the 
Duke.  A  still  more  Sagrsnt  breach  of  intcnutional  law  wax  com- 
mitted a  few  days  later,  when  an  order  was  signed  by  the  King  for 
the  forcible  seizure  of  Ripperda  within  the  hallowed  precinctit  of  the 
Ambu»dor's  house,  lliis  order  was  put  into  execution  cirly  on 
the  morning  of  >!ay  25  by  a  detachment  of  the  Life  Guards,  who 
effected  an  entry  into  the  Embassy,  and  took  the  Duke  out  of  his 
bed,  seized  all  his  papen,  hurried  him  into  a  coach,  and  conveyed 
him  under  a  powerful  escort  to  the  Castle  of  S^ovia.  Although 
this  outrage  could  not  be  passed  over  without  indignant  protest  by 
Stanhope  and  his  Government,  it  is  okmc  than  probable  tlut  they 
were  rather  glad  to  get  rid  of  their  unwelcome  guest,  who  had  not 
been  a  friend  to  England,  and  there  are  some  who  even  venture  to 
suggest  that  the  farce  of  a  forcible  seizure  had  been  contrived 
between  the  Spanish  Government  and  Colonel  Stanhope.  Mowerer 
this  may  be,  ui  spite  of  the  fierce  diplomatic  war  which  followed  ott 
the  outrage,  nothing  funhcr  came  of  it. 

The  fallen  Minister  in  the  meanwhile  passed  his  time  in  irksome, 
but  by  no  meus  severe,  confinement  in  tlie  Alcazar  of  Segovia.  A 
man  of  such  an  active  mind  as  Kipperdn,  who  had  so  recently 
possessed  almost  absolute  power  in  the  State,  could  not  be  expected 
to  KCODcik  himself  all  at  once  to  his  enforced  retirement,  and  for 
awhile  be  gave  vent  to  frequent  outbursts  of  rage  and  to  reproaches 
against  the  Spaniards  for  their  ingratitude  to  one  who  was  doing  so 
much  for  their  country-.  Two  other  troubles  came  also  to  add  to 
his  annoyance  at  this  time.  One  was  the  gout,  which  fastened  on 
him  with  great  tenacity ;  the  other,  the  desertion  of  his  wife  and  son. 
The  Duchess  at  the  first  news  of  her  husband's  disgrace  was  even 
more  uiKuntrolUble  in  her  rage  and  fury  against  his  persecutors 
than  he  himself  had  been ;  but  once  he  was  shut  up  she  chose  to 
consider  that  it  was  all  over  with  him — or,  what  is  more  probable^ 
site  had  been  consoled  by  tlic  bestowal  of  some  portion  of  the 
royal  favour  to  the  exclusion  of  her  husband.  This  had  no  doubt 
been  secured  to  hei  by  her  noble  relatives  about  the  Court.  Whet 
a  ceruin  is  that,  while  tier  husband  was  languishing  in  prison,  she 

BKI 


43* 


Tlu  GtHileman's  Magasim. 


and  her  son,  who  bad  been  recalled  from  Viemu,  continued  to  live 
aflerwards  in  comfort  and  distinction  in  Madrid,  and  never  again 
crossed  tlw  path  of  their  luckless  relative  on  this  nd<:  of  the  grave 

Ripperda  himself  in  the  intcrrals  of  gout  was  not  without  con- 
solation of  the  kind  most  agreeable  to  his  nature.  Vihax  has  been 
generally  regarded  as  an  intrigue  with  a  chambermaid  in  the  senrice 
of  the  Governor's  wife  is  worked  up  in  tlic  "Memoirs"  into  the 
lOOUiDce  of  the  "  Fur  Castiban."  But  whoever  the  young  person 
may  hai-c  been,'  she  appears  to  have  iaithfuUy  stuck  by  the  Duke  to 
the  end  of  his  chequered  cacccr,  and  by  her  ingenuity  and  devotion 
the  devised  and  carried  out  a  scheme  for  his  escape  from  confine- 
niciit.  Many  attempts  had  been  made  by  Ripperda's  friends  to 
obtain  his  release,  but  without  success.  Not  even  the  prospect  of 
a  ruplute  witli  England  ai>d  Holland,  which  the  recent  proccedin^^ 
of  the  Government  had  almost  provoked,  tended  to  relax  the 
vigilance  with  which  the  state  prisoner  was  guarded,  so  that  hb 
friends  looked  upon  his  etcape  from  the  counir>-  as  tbc  only,  but 
doubtful,  resourco  left  to  hiu.  They  had  contrived  to  realise  and 
send  out  of  Si>ain  the  greater  portion  of  his  fortune,  at>d  his  faiths 
lenudc  friend  and  his  valet  devised  ■  pbn  between  them  for  out- 
wittiiig  the  (.k)v<:nior.  Tlicy  purloined  from  the  keeper's  apartment 
the  key  of  a  door  leading  into  a  little  flower-garden,  which  bordered 
the  valet's  chamber,  nnd  in  which  they  concealed  a  silken  Udder. 
Horses  were  engaged,  which  wcje  to  wait  in  a  secluded  spot  not  br 
from  the  walls,  and  a  truslworthy  guide  was  provided  to  conduct  the 
party  from  the  cutle  to  the  sea-coast.  The  preparations  being  thus 
made,  it  only  remained  to  choose  a  iavourable  night  for  tlie  enter- 
prise- It  never  seems  to  have  entered  (he  keeper's  mind  that  a 
heaty  gouty  man  like  the  Duke  would  attempt  to  escape,  so  that  no 
extra  precautions  were  taken.  'Hlien  everything  was  in  readiness,  a 
bundle  was  made  of  all  the  valuable  effects  of  the  l^ukc,  and  the 
three  inmates  posted  quietly  through  the  valet's  room  into  tlic  garden. 
The  gardener's  ladder  enabled  the  valet  to  fix  tlie  rope  ladder  to  the 
other  sidcof  the  wall,  and  when  be  descended  to  the  pbce  of  rendez- 
vous outside  he  found  the  guide  with  a  post-diaisc  awaiting.  The 
whole  tiling  seems  to  have  bun  gone  about  In  the  most  cool  and 
deliberate  manner.    The  guide  and  valet  returned  to  the  castle  lot 

<  Mr.  George  Moote,  relyine  on  Ripperda**  own  wonla  ia  ■  letter  to  •  TyoA 
oortapondciu,  my*  that  she  wu  a  younjE  lady  of  good  iMtaVtj,  a  nstire  of 
TDtdc*illi*i  but,  from  wtui  we  know  of  (he  Dulie's  vcndty,  it  doa  not 
necciMrlly  follow  that  the  Maierocnt  it  uricily  aecuratf.  Zkvi  ff  CardiHoi 
/Utermi,  Tkt  Dmt*  tf  Jti/ftrit,  amJ  Tit  JUiirfuii  t/ fitmia/.    LMCidQa,  iSo& 


TAr  Duie  of  Ripperda. 


437 


I 
I 
I 

I 


tbe  bundle  and  brought  it  to  the  chaise,  and  it  then  became  tlw 
Duke's  lurn  to  mount  the  Udder.  This  the  gouty  old  senllemsn 
found  to  be,  as  he  had  feared,  a  very  difficult  task  for  one  in  his  dis 
abled  condition,  and  it  was  only  with  much  ado  tliat  the  fsir  Indy 
could  persuade  hini  to  pecse^-ere  in  the  attempt.  A  few  steps  up,  with 
much  pain  and  difficulty,  and  he  was  fain  to  halt  and  take  bicath. 
She  then  got  on  tlie  ladder  herself,  and,  at  the  risk  of  her  life,  lifted 
tlie  Duke's  feet  step  by  step  until,  after  an  hour's  hard  work,  he 
succeeded  in  reaching  the  top  of  the  walL  The  dc«:cnt  on  the 
other  jide  was  somewhat  easier,  snd  they  reached  the  post-chsiisc  in 
safety  and  drove  off  in  haste.  They  arrived  at  the  sea-coast  at 
St.  Andoro  without  further  alarm,  got  on  board  a  ship  in  the  road- 
stead, and  immediately  set  sail  for  England. 

The  news  of  the  Duke's  escape,  which  was  not  discovered  in  the 
Castle  until  the  next  day  .it  noon,  was  immediately  communicated  to 
the  Ministry,  and  every  effort  was  made  to  overtake  the  fugitives,  but 
without  success.  The  event  caused  a  sensation  at  the  time  in 
Madrid,  but  before  long  it  came  to  be  considered  an  exceptional 
piece  of  good  luck  for  the  Government  in  having  thus  got  rid  of  a 
man  so  feared  and  bated  on  such  easy  terms.  Rippcida  meanwhile 
had  arrit'cd  safely  in  London.  He  took  and  furnished  a  fuic  house 
in  Soho  Square,  whence  he  launched  out  into  all  the  gaieties  of 
society  in  the  Itfeiropolis.  He  had  taken  the  precaution  to  secure  a 
targe  portion  of  his  fortune  l>y  remitting;  it  to  the  l)anks  in  London 
and  Amsterdam,  so  that  he  had  no  difficulty  in  making  an  appear- 
arKe  wonhy  of  his  rank  and  reputation.  But  he  \\xA  now  only  one 
object  in  life,  namely,  revenge  on  the  nation  which  he  considered 
had  treated  him  with  such  signal  ingratitude ;  and  during  the  f\\^ 
years  of  his  residence  in  England  (1716-17^1)  he  tried  by  every 
means  in  his  power  to  fan  the  flame  of  discord  between  the  country 
which  he  had  once  ruled  and  that  which  now  sheltered  him.  The 
EngUsb  Government,  nev-crlbdess,  were  deaf  to  all  his  persuasions. 
Grateful  as  they  were  for  tbe  information  supplied  to  them,  and  for 
the  revelations  of  intrigues,  in  which  Ripperda  himself  had  doubiless 
played  an  important  part,  the  Ministry  were  naturally  disinclined  to 
enter  tbe  lists  against  Spain  on  his  <iuar[eL  He  had  tbe  same  ill- 
success  with  the  States-General  of  Holland.  He  then  turned  his 
attention  in  another  direction,  and,  acting  on  tlie  advice  of  a 
notorious  Spanish  adventurer,  a  quasi-pirate  named  Admiral  Perez, 
he  resolved  to  attempt  to  carry  out  his  schemes  of  reverse  ag.iinst 
Spain  from  tbe  States  of  Barbory,  which  were  then,  as  they  had 
been  for  centuries,  in  a  suie  of  clironic  warfare  with  their  old 
enemies  in  the  Peniiuuta. 


438 


1'he  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


A  r«»el  wai  purd«»ed  for  bim  and  sent  round  lo  ihe  Texe^ 
and,  hi;irii^  tclttod  hit  affairs  in  England  and  Holland,  he  set  oat 
fiom  that  pott  ncoompntiicd  tiy  hU  female  friend  and  by  his  v.ilctt 
and  by  certain  Icw^  to  vhom  he  had  grunted  a  passage  lo  Morocco. 
This  was  done  front  a  desire  to  cunciliale  their  nation,  which  ms 
very  powerful  in  the  Moorish  State,  and  Rippcrda  was  not  long  in 
cxpctiendnf;  the  pood  effects  of  his  policy  when  he  arrived  in  ihc 
country.  On  his  bndiiig  at  Tangier  he  was  hoqiiiably  entertained 
hy  the  Jews  of  that  place.  At  Mcquinez,  the  capita)  of  the  country, 
he  soon  obtained  an  audience  of  the  Emperor  Matey  AbdalLah,  to 
whom  he  presented  his  letters  of  recommendation  with  an  offer  of 
his  services  ngainst  the  Spaniards.  These  the  Emperor  gave  bim 
10  andentand  coiiM  only  be  accepted  on  condition  Uut  he  abjured 
his  errors  and  tiimcd  Mussulman.  There  was  at  this  lime  In  the 
Moorish  Court  a  French  renegade  named  Ali,  a  man  who  had  been 
a  Cistercian  monk,  but  who,  harir^  i\in  through  a  course  of  wicked- 
ne»  and  dcbaitchery,  had  fled  from  his  onn  country  to  Mequinei. 
had  abjured  the  Christian  religion,  and  had  been  admitted  into  the 
Mrvtce  of  Mulcy  Abdallah,  with  whom  he  was  in  high  favour. 
Rippcrda,  with  his  u^ual  astuteness,  soon  gained  the  ac<iU3intancc 
of  this  renegade,  and  ihcy  became  bosom  friends  and  companions. 
Ali  obtained  for  him  a  second  audience  of  the  Emperor,  at  whidi 
the  Duke  appeared  dressed  !n  a  splendid  suit  of  crimsoa  velTCt 
trimmed  with  gold,  his  ralet  St.  Martin  accompanying  him.  He 
was  more  graciously  received  than  on  the  former  occasion,  and  a 
pTomiM:  was  made  (hat  his  services  would  be  accepted  and  his 
schemes  for  the  ompaign  against  Spain  examined.  Fortunately  for 
his  interests  at  Court,  the  arrival  of  his  friend  Admiral  Perez  waa 
suddenly  announced  at  Mcqutnez.  That  bold  adrcnturcr  stnmgly 
advised  the  Emperor  to  avail  himself  of  Rippcrdn's  offer  and  to 
entrust  him  with  the  conduct  of  the  war,  which  one  of  hb  rast 
abilities  was  well  fitted  to  bring  to  a  successful  issue.  But  as  to  one 
thing  Muley  Abdallah  was  lirm.  Ripperda  must  become  a  Matsol- 
man  before  he  could  be  trusted  .is  a  Ba.ihaw,  such  being  the  high 
distinction  for  which  he  was  destined.  To  this  after  much  hesita- 
tion, he  at  length  agreed,'  greatly  lo  the  grief  of  the  Fair  Castilian, 
who,  however  slic  may  have  erred,  had  at  all  events  been  devoted 

■  In  Ihe  GtMltma^t  JU^tatiae  (Vol.  II.)  there  Ii  llie  CaUawio);  lun  of 
newi  under  the  hcftdii^  of  Foidgn  AAun  for  Aiiput  i^ja:  *'Ftmii  ACricat 
ThftI  the  Duke  (le  KippenU,  wbo  ia  turn'il  M*honietan,  had  gal  into  the  Empetot 
of  Uoioocu*t  fwoui ;  Mid  th«t  lo  sv<re  hirn  Authority  llicy  lalkM  of  a  Hatch 
between  him  and  ih«  Molhn  Qu«n." 


I 


The  Ihtke  of  Rxpp€rda, 


439 


I 


"to  him,  and  now  showed  that  she  had  some  remnants  of  a  Christian 
conscience  left  in  her.  The  valet  bad  00  such  scruples,  and  preceded 
his  master  with  much  alacrity  in  bis  submission  to  the  initiatory 
rite. 

The  plans  of  the  Bashaw  de  Rtppeida,  as  be  was  now  styled, 
were  pushed  on  vrith  great  vigour,  and  he  set  out  in  {leraon  at  the 
head  of  10,000  men  for  the  siegeor  blockade  or  Ceuta.  Tliis  was  his 
fint  appearance  as  the  Commander  or  a  great  army,  and  he  soon 
showed  lliat  he  was  endowed  wiili  many  of  the  best  qualities  for 
such  a  position.  He  infused  fresh  spirit  into  the  conduct  of  the 
sic^  winning  the  complete  confidence  of  the  Moorish  troops,  and 
ihe  place  would  probably  hare  follen  into  hi9  hands  had  it  not  been 
for  Hat  arrival  of  a  large  armament  from  Spain,  which  was  spcdally 
intended  for  the  reduction  of  Oian.  Ripperda  took  due  precautions 
for  preventing  the  landing  of  the  Spaniards,  but,  his  orders  having 
been  negligently  attended  to,  the  Count  de  Monteniar,  the  Spanish 
Commander,  succeeded  in  disembarking  his  army  and  commenced 
to  lay  siege  to  the  place.  Ripperda  then  cAine  on  with  his  main 
army — 10,000  strong — and  a  furious  Ijattle  took  place  (June  30^ 
1 731).  It  was  well  sustained  by  the  Moors  for  anUile,  but  a  flank 
moi'ement  by  the  Count  instilled  such  a  panic  among  ilit:ra  that, 
io  spite  of  the  Bashaw's  most  strenuous  eflbrts,  they  gave  way  and 
fled  in  all  directions.  Oran  was  immediately  abandoned  by  tlie 
Moors  and  was  occupied  by  Montemar,  who  found  in  it  Lirgc  supplies 
of  guns,  ammunition,  and  provisions  which  had  been  laid  up  there 
by  the  provident  foresight  of  Ripperda.  The  ncus  of  the  victory 
was  brought  to  Spain  together  with  the  intelligence  of  the  fonncr 
Minister's  apostasy,  and  at  the  "  Tc  Deum  "  for  their  success  in 
arms  their  SpanUh  Majesties  proclaimed  the  di^nidation  of  their 
tiuicoTous  foe  from  his  rank  of  Duke  and  Grandee  of  ^win. 
At  Mcquincz,  too,  Ripperda  had  reison  to  fear  the  worst  vcogeaoce 
of  a  jealous  tyrant  on  an  unsuccessful  General,  but,  although  he  was 
recalled  from  the  head  of  the  army,  whicb  be  had  rallied  after  bis 
defeat,  he  met  with  a  generous  and  friendly  reception  from  the 
Emperor,  who  assured  him  that  he  was  fully  sensible  of  the  value  of 
bb  services,  and  that  the  blame  lay  not  with  him  but  with  the  troops. 
This  was  not  the  only  trouble  which  the  unfortunate  Muley  Abdalkh 
had  to  endure.  A  pretender  to  the  throne  arose  in  Muley  Hamet, 
who  threatened  the  capital  itself  with  an  army  of  several  tliousaod 
men.  Rippcrda's  infiucnce  obtained  for  him  Ihe  command  of  9,000 
men,  with  whom  he  matched  against  the  rebel,  and  by  his  skilful 
dispositions  inflicted  upon  him  such  a  severe  defeat  that  be  was 


440 


Ths  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


obliged  to  betake  himself  again  to  the  mountaios.  TbU  succ 
put  the  climax  to  the  asccndenqr  of  Rippcrda  at  the  Icnpcria] 
Court,  «^ete  be  enjojred  the  bvour,  not  oaly  of  Mulcj-  AbdalUb, 
but  alto  of  hit  mother,  who  had  fallen  in  lore  with  hiin.  He  w»i 
nised  to  the  mnk  of  Ptime  MiniMer  and  Chief  Director  of  the 
Kingdom  in  things  both  civil  and  railiury.  His  power  wu,  in  fact, 
absolatc  for  awhile.  Hi*  Friends  Admiral  Perez  and  Ali  might 
naturally  hav«  been  envious  of  this  euddcn  deration  lad  be  not 
taken  care  to  soothe  and  flatter  them  by  atitibating  his  good  fortuoe 
to  their  excellent  advice. 

Notwithstanding  his  ill-success  before  Oran,  Ripperda  h«d  been 
able  to  maintain  the  blockade  of  Ceuta,  and  he  now  attempted 
through  the  medium  of  his  servant  Sl  Martin  to  corrupt  tbc  fidelity 
of  certain  parties  within  the  walls.  Unluckily  for  the  poor  valet,  bit 
movements  baring  excited  suspicion  he  was  arreitn],  and,  being 
threatened  with  the  torture,  was  oliliged  to  make  a  full  coiifesuoa. 
Recogniied  as  a  renegade  and  apostate,  lie  was  sent  oCT  at  once  to 
Spain  and  handed  over  there  (o  (he  tender  mercies  of  the  Holy 
Inquisition.  Rippcrda  continued  to  make  incursions  in  the  direction 
of  Oran  and  of  Ccula.  During  one  of  these  raids  he  was  unhorsed 
and  very  nearly  captured.  He  succeeded  in  establishing  a  better 
discipline  in  the  army,  and  inspired  it  with  confidence  in  his  guidance, 
but  liule  or  no  progress  was  made  towards  ihc  reduction  of  these 
strong  places.  By  his  advice  the  Emperor  applied  to  the  neighbouring 
kingdoms  of  Algiers,  Tunis,  and  Tripoli  for  their  assistance  in  ibti 
Holy  War,  and,  with  a  targe  army  from  theie  paru  joined  to  his  own 
Moorish  forces,  he  marched  against  Ceuto.  A  battle  was  fought  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  that  towru  After  a  fierce  contest  the  Spaniards 
were  routed,  and  Rippcrda  was  able  not  only  to  invest  Ceola  but  to 
detach  All  with  an  army  of  30,000  men  to  lay  siege  to  Oran.  At 
Ceuta  two  Chrisliin  spies,  who  attempted  to  spread  a  report  among 
the  Moors  thai  a  .Spanish  flotilla  was  on  Its  way  to  relieve  tbc  place, 
were  delected  by  Rijiperda,  and  by  his  orders  were  impaled  alive. 
This  sight  roused  the  indignation  of  some  Christian  slaves,  who 
contrived  to  escape  into  the  fortress  and  persuaded  the  Governor  to 
make  a  sortie  in  force,  which  was  carried  out  so  efficiently  tliat  the 
Moors  again  fled  in  panic  and  abandoned  the  works  to  the  Spaniards. 
The  Moori.->h  cavalr)' behaved  with  courage  and  sustained  the  contest 
for  some  hours ;  but  tlie  whole  of  their  inrantry  wot  either  destroyed 
or  dispersed,  and  Ripperda  himself  escaped  with  difficulty  to  Tctuart 

The  Emjieror  was  much  perplexed  as  to  what  was  best  to  bo 
done  in  these  di.itressing  circumstances— whether  to  sacnlioc  the 


Tk€  Duie  of  Ripperda, 


441 


general  or  to  strengthen  his  position.  He  was  confirmed  in  his  own 
inclination  for  the  latter  course  by  the  advice  of  his  mothCT,  and  be 
set  out  from  Mcquinez  for  the  purpose  of  re-establishing  the  authotitj 
of  the  Bashaw,  which  had  been  somewhat  impaired  owing  to  bis 
recent  misfortunes.  He  had  do  sooner  left  the  capital  than  the  mob 
broke  out  into  insurrection,  and  in  their  thousands  assembled  round 
the  Pabce,  tltreatening  its  inmates  with  violence.  The  Queen- 
Mother,  taking  refuge  from  thdc  fury  in  the  gardens,  died  after  a  few 
hour^'  illneis  from  her  exposure  to  the  night  air— an  event  nhich, 
when  it  became  known,  struck  with  awe  and  tenor  those  who  had 
been  concerned  in  the  tumult.  The/  had  good  reason  for  their 
Vim,  lor  Muley  Abdallah,  tfter  reinstating  Ripperd^i,  returned  to 
tbe  dtphal  and  prepared  for  a  bloody  revenge  for  the  death  of  his 
mother.  1'he  officers  of  her  guard  and  \a^  numbers  of  ciiiieni 
were  put  to  death  after  various  methods  and  degrees  of  cruelly,  but 
mnny  escaped  from  the  city  and  took  up  onns  with  Muley  Ha  met, 
who  was  soon  at  the  head  of  a  considerable  force. 

At  the  news  of  this  fresh  revolt  Muley  Abdallah  sent  off  for 
assistance  to  Ripperda,  who  despatched  a  division  of  5,000  men 
under  the  Etasltaw  of  Taxar  against  Muley  Hamet.  The  latter  was 
drawn  into  an  ambush  and  his  army  was  totally  destroyed,  while  iha 
victor  relumed  in  triumph  to  Mequinez,  where  he  was  welcomed 
with  the  gtatcful  thanks  of  the  Kmperor.  But  to  Ripperda  this 
success  of  a  lival  Bashaw  meant  the  probsble  loss  of  his  position, 
and  he  now  took  a  step  wbidi  he  hoped  would  relie\'e  him  from  tbe 
envious  intrigues  of  his  enemies.  On  the  plea  of  increasing  age 
and  infirmity  he  asketl  permission  to  retire  from  the  bead  of  the 
army,  and,  at  one  last  special  favour,  to  hare  the  nomination  of  his 
successor.  This  was  agreed  to,  and  he  then  named  his  friend  Ali, 
who  was  wholly  devoted  to  his  interests,  and  whom  he  at  once 
invested  with  the  insignia  of  Commander-in-Chief.  He  now  turned 
his  energies  to  the  civil  affairs  of  tbe  kingdom,  and  with  the  assist- 
ance  of  his  friends  the  Jews,  who  were  his  spies  ai>d  btokers  in  all 
his  transactions^  be  continued  to  exercise  a  vast  power  and  influence 
in  the  country.  He  persuaded  the  Emperor  to  consent  lo  the 
debasing  of  the  coinage  as  a  means  of  lessening  the  taxes,  and  at 
the  same  lime  of  securing  some  solid  benefits  for  himself,  and  he 
contrived  lo  net  very  coasKtefablc  profits  oul  of  this  kind  of  fraud, 
in  the  partidpaiion  of  which  he  lad  secured  the  services  of  a 
cunning  old  rascal,  the  Bashaw  of  Tetu-in,  on  whose  secrecy  he 
eould  implicitly  rely.  Ripperda 's  career,  in  fact,  exhibits  a  continued 
downwanl  progress  until  we  find  that  tbe  statesman,  who  at  one 


44a 


Th4  Geniieman's  Magazine. 


time  had  conUsUed  the  destbiet  of  t.  ptax  counliy,  at  length  itoopt 
to  dip  the  coin  of  «  bubuotu  and  povcrtf^trickeo  italion. 

T1>e  unfortunate  Enperor  was  bound  to  mp  the  fruits  of  his 
idnncc  on  the  eril  oounads  of  bis  foithlest  adviser.  Ripperda's 
enemies  made  the  most  of  the  financial  dilBculiies  which  foHowed 
on  his  disattroos  policy,  and  spread  rumours  of  liis  embezzlements 
from  the  Treasury  and  of  his  luvtng  bctiajrcd  secrets  of  Sute  to  the 
Christians.  The  leader  of  the  new  movement,  one  Mnley  Ali,  wis 
a  pretender  to  the  throne  and  ossnmed  the  r6U  of  a  potiiot  in  order 
to  WTVC  bis  purpose.  He  gathered  together  a  Urge  numbci  of 
adherent!,  and  to  these  he  made  speeches  strongly  invdghing  agaJnst 
the  Emperor  and  the  renegade  Rippcrda.  The  latter,  perceiving 
hov  matters  were  likely  to  turn  out,  took  rocasuics  to  »cnd  bis 
most  valaaUc  effects  to  a  place  of  safety  outside  the  city.  He  then 
returned  to  warn  the  Emperor,  but,  finding  he  was  absent  on  a  hunt 
ing  ex|>cdilion.  be  set  out  pri\-ately  for  Tetuan  and  took  refuge  with 
his  frivnd  the  Dashaw  of  that  place  Meanwhile  ^fuley  Abdallah 
on  his  return  lirom  hunting  learned  to  his  dismay  of  the  progress  K& 
the  rebellion.  Ripperda's  desertion  tended  still  more  to  discoonge 
bids.  By  the  advice  of  his  Council  he  sent  Commissioners  to  traK 
with  the  rebels,  and  orders  to  the  Bashaw  Ali  to  repair  to  Hcquinei 
with  all  hb  forces.  At  the  same  lime  a  Proclamation  was  tamed 
<>>Tm*H»c  Rtpperda  from  all  his  employments.  But  these  precau- 
tlom  amiled  him  nollung.  The  people  accused  him  of  having 
connived  at  Ripperda's  escape,  the  rebels  slew  the  Commissioaaa 
and  defeated  the  Hathaw  All's  army,  so  that  the  unhappy  Emperor 
was  obliged  lo  fly  from  the  city.  Mulcy  Ali  was  immediately  pro- 
cUimrd  Emperor  of  Morocco  and  Fez  in  his  stead.  He  received 
the  submission  of  all  the  Bashaws  of  the  Empire  except  of  him  of 
Tetuan,  who  took  refuge  with  Ripperda  in  the  strong  fortress  of 
Tangier.  There  they  were  benQ^ed  by  an  army  of  negroes  sent 
agunst  them  by  Muley  Ali,  but  they  managed  to  buy  them  oX,  and 
the  blacks  went  away  from  tlie  place  with  ihdr  pockets  full  of  gokL 
But  the  two  Bashaws  thought  it  better  lo  come  M  terns  with  the 
new  Erapcror,  and  they  offered  to  do  him  homage  ai>d  to  contribute 
a  large  sum  to  his  coffers  on  condition  that  they  received  his  pardon 
and  protection.  These  terms  were  willingly  agreed  to  by  Mulev 
Ali.  They  then  returned  to  Tetuan,  where  they  took  up  their  abode 
and  where  they  were  joined  by  Ali,  who  had  up  to  that  time  loyally 
adhered  to  the  fortunes  of  tiie  dethroned  monarch.  That  unfommate 
man  had  been  forced  to  take  refuge  in  the  wilds  of  the  Province  of 
TaSilel,  where  for  the  time  he  was  safe  from  the  rage  of  hts  enemie  s 


I 


i 


The  Duke  of  Ripperda. 


443 


I 


The  subject  of  our  sketch  spent  the  last  few  years  of  his  life  at 
Tetuan  in  peace  and  safety.  He  gradually  became  very  infinn  and 
took  to  his  bed,  attended  by  his  friend  Ali  and  (he  Fair  Castilian, 
whom  he  had  alirays  regarded  as  his  wife.  He  would  allow  no  one 
else  to  come  near  him,  and  he  suffered  much  from  his  old  enemy  the 
gout,  which  at  times  caused  him  the  greatest  agony.  The  "  Memoirs" 
state  that,  when  be  was  near  his  end,  he  bad  a  secret  visit  from  a  monk 
resident  at  Mequincx,  one  Father  Zachary,  to  whom  he  made  a  full 
confession  of  the  many  giievoos  sins  of  bis  life,  and  from  whom  he 
received  absolution  and  the  sacraments.  He  died  on  October  17, 
'737.  *n<J.  as  had  been  foreseen  by  him,  the  breath  was  no  sooner 
out  of  his  body  than  his  enemies  entered  the  house  and  pillaged  it- 
As  the  Moors  were  quite  ignorant  of  his  having  changed  his  idigion, 
his  body  was  transported  by  the  Bashaw's  orders  to  the  MosquCi 
where  the  "Imam"  uttered  a  long  harangue  on  the  virttics  of  the 
deceased,  and  he  was  interred  with  great  pomp  under  a  triple  dis- 
charge of  the  guns  of  the  fortrcsa, 

R.  D.  ROUS. 


444 


Tht  GentUtRan'i  Magazins. 


THE  ASPEN  TONGUE. 


AN  indent  writer  ohserred  with  wtne  trutli  that  a  kindljr 
Providence  has  beitowed  upon  ercrr  ^ledes  of  uiinul  itt 
owD  proper  meani  ti  defence,  whidi  it  intfinctinly  caUs  into  acdoo 
when  molested.  The  donkey  m&kcs  ttutant  trootine  to  iu  hctJi^ 
the  ox  to  its  hocttt,  the  dog  to  hb  teeth.  The  pbptcaOy  weska 
half  of  the  hutntn  tpecfes,  in  »  siraibr  tDamicr,  hu  txX  been  left 
deOitme  of  ita  peculiar  weapon.  Wonun  can  aSbtd  to  leave  to  her 
coaner  mate  inch  brutal  ntpcriotitjr  as  tbewi  and  tinewt  are  abte  to 
aecore;  in  the  temte  comcioufiien  of  poncMing  a  potent  instrumcnl 
of  defence  and  assault  in  her  ikitrul  use  of  that  small,  but  nimble 
and  effectire,  member— the  tor^e.  Man  hat  felt  its  power,  and, 
smarting  under  its  castiption,  has  Eillen  back  on  his  own  blunter 
weapon,  Ihc  pen,  Tain  to  turn  his  impotent  satire  against  that  organ 
which  he  knew  he  was  unable  to  encounter  on  its  own  field. 

Considering  that  the  vast  preponderance  of  wrilcts  in  Ifae  olden 
tine  bdonged  to  the  ruder  and  more  tadtttm  ms,  it  is  not  nuptiung 
to  find  that  early  literature  abounds  in  paawges  which  make  neny 
at  the  czpcitse  oi  women  aiH]  the  superior  powers  of  loquacity  with 
which  they  arc  endowed.  The  mischief  dotie  by  the  first  woman  m 
her  fatal  colloquy  with  ihc  Tempter  was  always  in  evideiMe ;  and 
thai  didactic  fourteenth-century  father,  ibe  Knight  of  La  Tour 
landiy,  warns  his  daughters  "  to  bave  not  mani  wordes,"  by  the 
examiilc  of  a  talkative  young  lady  who  lost  the  chance  of  a  royal 
husband  by  indulging  in  her  "  mervailous  mocbe  langage."  Jean 
Paul  Richler  had  a  theory  tliat  tlte  tongue  power  of  women  was  the 
mult  of  the  sedentary  nature  of  their  occupations,  as  men  whose 
work  is  of  a  similar  character,  such  as  tailors  and  shoemakers, 
devdop  a  similar  faculty.  He  thought,  too,  that  he  had  discovt-rcd 
a  useful  end  in  the  economy  of  Nature  which  was  fulfilled  by  thti 
fcmbtine  peculiarity.  Accurate  observers,  according  to  him,  have 
pointed  out  that  the  reason  why  the  leaves  of  trees  keep  up  (heir 
constant  fluttering  motion  is  ihat  the  almospbere  may  be  purified  by 
this  perpetual  flagellation  or  osdlUtion  of  the  leaves.     Now,  it  would 


The  Aspen  Tongue. 


445 


^ 


be  very  wonderful  hid  Nature— ^altuys  economising  hci  forces, 
Nature  who  never  docs  anything  in  rain — oidaincd  this  much  longer 
oscillation,  this  seventy  years'  wagging  of  the  feminine  tongue,  to  no 
definite  purpose.  "  For  the  purpose  in  qucttion,"  he  says,  "  we  have 
not  far  to  seek.  It  is  the  same  which  is  subserved  by  the  quinrii^ 
of  the  leaves  of  trees.  The  endless,  regular,  unceasing  beat  of  the 
feminine  tongue  is  to  assist  in  agitating  and  stirring  up  the  alnio 
sphere,  which  would  otherwise  become  stagnant." 

W'c  might  feel  inclined  to  dismiss  this  httarrx  play  of  fancy  as 
characteristic  of,  and  peculiar  to,  Jean  Paul.  But,  as  a  matter  of 
[Act,  the  same  ungallant  comparison  occurs  again  and  again  witli 
curious  reiteration.  A  host  of  writers  have  indepeadenUy  rccc^nised 
a  counterpart  of  the  female  tongue  in  tlie  perpetual  movement  of  the 
leaf  wagging  upon  its  bough.  Thus  old  Gerarde,  who  wrote  the 
Hcrbeill,  1595 — to  begin  with  him — enlivens  page  1,303  of  his  sober 
and  bulky  folio  with  the  ily  remark  that  the  "  Aspentree  may  also  be 
called  Tremble,  after  the  French  name,  considering  it  is  the  matter 
whereof  women's  toongf  wen:  made,  as  the  I'octs  and  some  others 
report,  which  scldome  cease  wagging."  One  of  the  poets  he  relers 
to  was  dout>tIcs<  Inward  Gosvnhyll,  who  some  forty  years  before 
published  a  satirical  poem,  called  "  Prayse  of  All  Women,"  in  which 
occur  tlic  lines  : — 

Some  ny  the  woman  bad  aa  tonKue, 

ARa  thai  God  did  licf  citnie, 

Until  the  man  look  leaits  long 

And  put  them  under  hci  palate ; 

An  Aspen  leaf  <A  the  Devil  be  gat. 

And  (iw  it  moveth  with  every  wind 

They  lay  women's  tongues  be  uf  hke  kind. 

Wilty  Sir  Thomas  More  expressed  his  fear  that  if  women  were 
once  suScrcd  to  begin  speaking  in  the  congregation  "those  aspen 
leaves  of  theirs  would  never  leave  wagging"  {"Works,"  1531,  viii. 
p.  769).  A  little  later  an  ohscuic  |>oet,  T.  Howell,  who  dcKncs  his 
oblivion,  makes  the  fiippaiit  remark :  "  In  women's  mindes  arc  divers 
winds,  which  sturthdr  j\5pLn  tunge  to  prate  at>d  cbftt "("  Poems,"  1 567).' 

Amoi^  the  ancient  Hgyiitians  the  leaf  of  the  Pcrsca  tree  is  said  to 
have  been  held  in  reverence  from  its  likeness  to  the  human  tongue, 
but  tlib  was  in  refpect  to  its  shape  rather  than  its  mobility.* 

■  We  can  only  recollect  uoc  autbot  who  hM  Uie  candoui  to  altivbiiM  the 
aipen  tongue  to  hit  own  tea.  Dr.  O.  Wendell  llolanni  BpcaLs  of  "  boys  wboM 
longiici  woe  M  the  libradng;  leavei  of  (he  Ibrest "  ( Ctvr  tit  TtMu/i,  19). 

■  D\  C<HWfa,  Cjfrui,  p.  37?. 


446 


The  GeniUrnaris  iMagaztHe, 


Another  vciy  rare  "lytdl  boke  named  the  Scbole-hoase  of 
Women,"  1561,  tells  bov  a  certain  roui  having  married  a  tongudea 
wife  mufibt  a  remedy  for  her  deficiency  bom  the  Evil  One,  with  1 
results.  I'be  Deril  bids  hiin  put  an  aspen  leaf  in  her  mouth 
tongue  it  shall  her  malce— which  il  did  witli  a  vengeance.     For 

Frani  that  djiy  tatvtai  th«  ncrer  ccaMd  1 

tiet  boisuoat  htiAe  pcend  Um  sen. 

Aad  bf  praor  di;4y  <•«  tee 

Wbat  iBdiMtkA  Mtute  nwkMb ; 

The  ai(to  kCt  huciag  wliere  H  t«, 

Wb  little  wlitde  (It  DOM  U  ihakcth. 

A  wonu^  tuBB  in  like  wbe  ufcMh 

Liule  fat  uiA  liule  reti  i 

F«  ifil  shdaM,  the  but  woidd  beeil  [botst]. 

Very  simiUily  in  "Tlie  Hundred  Merry  Tales'*  (1536)  a  man  cures 
a  dumb  wife  by  laying  three  aspen  lca\-cs  under  her  tongue  white  she 
is  asleep.  The  same  cbarra  recurs  in  an  old  Scottish  ballad,  "  The 
Dumb  Wife  of  Abcrdour  "  :— 

Thlt  ai^  1b  her  fiat  ilMp 
Undcf  ber  icKguc  Own  k; 
Of  qiMkiog  upcB  loif 
"      Tb«  whilk  betokeni  wind  • 
Aod  the  thall  han  relief 
Of  ipctkioc,  Ibou  ihah  Gad. 

How  well  this  sly  pleasantry  hit  the  popular  taste  is  manifest  from 
its  penistcnt  appearance  in  chap-books.  In  "  Pasquil's  Jests  with 
the  Merriments  of  Mother  Bunch  "  (about  1650)  the  Mory  is  told  of 
a  certain  farmer  who,  having  the  roisfortuno  to  lia\-e  a  dumb  wife; 
resorted  to  a  great  magician  for  help.  To  cflect  a  cure  be  is  directed 
to  lay  an  aspcji  leaf  under  her  tongue,  as  that,  if  anything,  would  set 
it  wagging.  The  good  nun,  howc\-er,  exceeds  bis  instructiona,  and, 
in  order  "  to  make  the  matter  more  sure,  tooke  iAnt  aspen  leai«s 
and  laid  them  all  three  under  his  wife's  tongue^  who  imntediatdy 
tx^an  to  talk  and  prate  rery  nimbly,  and  upon  a  very  small  occasion 
to  curse  and  raile  downright"  The  unha^^y  husband  hastens  to  the 
magician  to  undo  the  miitchief  he  had  brought  on  himselC  "  Many 
then,  God  help  thee  ((luoth  the  magician);  for  it  is  an  easie  matter 
to  make  a  woman  speak,  but  to  make  her  hold  her  tongue  is  past  my 
cunning." ' 

Another  curious  ballad,  highly  commended  by  Addison,*  "The 

■  J.  Albion,  HumvHr,  Wit,  md  Satin  tf  III*  XVlllk  CaUury,  p.  iml 

■  Tit  Sp*ital«r,  No.  S47. 


Tke  Aspen  Tongue. 


447 


* 


Wanton  Wife  of  Bath,"  represents  the  shrcv  a^  demanding  admission 
at  Hcftveii's  gate;  she  taunts  tiic  various  saints  «ho  dispute  her 
enlnnce  by  outing  up  to  them  their  own  failings  when  on  earth,  and 
lias  the  following  jxissagc  of  arms  mth  St.  Thomas : — 

"  They  »•/,"  quoih  Thomas,  "  women'i  loogoa 

Of  upcn  leuva  m  made  j " 
"  Thou  nnbdicTing  wretch,"  ciuoth  ibfi 

"  All  U  not  troc  tlui't  viiA." 

It  is  certiunly  remarkable  with  nliat  struigc  unanimity  men  of 
languages  and  ctimcs  the  most  remote  ha\-e  agreed  in  thus  finding 
"tongues  in  Uccs,"  when  women  are  in  question.  The  canny  Scots 
of  Kelso  satirically  call  the  Populut  tremulUf  or  aspen,  bj*  the  homely 
name  of  "  Auld-wives' •tongues."  Making  exactly  the  same  quip  the 
North  American  Indian,  mindful  of  tlic  squaw  that  shares  his  wig- 
wajn,  luuncs  the  aspen  tree  in  his  own  language  "  woman-tongue," 
and  adds  the  explanatory  comment,  "  Kevur  still,  ne>*cr  still,  always 
go."  Souihcy  gives  the  story  in  his  "Commonplace  Book,"  iv.  171. 
Nearer  home  we  have  Taffy  in  his  expressive  Welsh  calling  the  same 
restless  tree  Ta/od  y  mtrcfun,  which,  being  interpreted,  is  just 
"  woman's  tongue." 

Finally,  the  stolid  German,  when  he  remarks  that  the  tongues  of 
his  women-folk  fapptkn,  tji,  prate  or  babble  too  much,  uses  a  wonl 
near  akin  \.o  pappel,  the  poplar,  so  called  from  the  restless  movement 
of  its  lisping  leaves ;  just  as  the  aspen  in  tlie  Ixle  of  Wight  xi.  named 
^eplpfk,  and  the  tremuloux  Bo  tree  of  the  Biitldhi.tUi  i^  yhepifpala. 
We  dose  this  libellous  article  with  a  citation  from  an  old  poet  given 
by  Folkard  in  his  "  Plant-lore  " : — 

The  quakinc  Aspen,  light  and  thin. 
In  the  ail  iiaii:t:  pxuage  givct ; 

Rctcmblixig  Mill 

The  Itcmbling  ill 
Ot  tesipcn  of  womankind. 

Which  neret  tcil 

Bst  still  are  pieil 
To  wave  witli  every  wind. 

A.  SUVTHE  FAI.WEX. 


448 


The  GentUmatis  Magazine. 


SOME  DOMESTIC  REMIN/SCENC. 
OP     THOMAS     CARLYLE     AMI 
HIS  WIFE. 


THE  following  incidents  in  the  ever^'daif  life  of  lliomw  Caitflc 
andhiswi(e,iiltliough  Uirialin  thcmselvccmay  be  of  interest, 
as  they  arc  unknown  to  tlic  general  public,  uhI  ruirated  by  those 
whose  dflily  occupations  brought  them  within  tlic  domestic  i^etc  of 
the  Carljriest  both  in  the  countiy  and  in  London.  dl 

Neai  to  the  village  of  Thocnhill,  in  Dumfriesshire,  is  the  Eun^ 
house  of  Tcmpland,  to  which  Jane  Welch  came  with  bo-  mother, 
and  where  she  li\-cd  until  marriage  joined  her  bright  and  clever 
personality  to  the  rugged  genius  in  the  shadow  of  whose  fame  it  was 
thercAftet  hcf  fate  to  live  and  be  known  only  as  tbc  wife  of  Tboixuu 
Carlytc.  During  her  mother's  life  they  several  limes  visited  Temiv 
land,  and  there  occurred  two  little  incidents  which  show  tluit  Cailylc. 
as  a  rule  undemonstrative,  had  a  very  strong  affection  fur  his  wife; 
In  those  days  the  only  mode  of  conveyance  was  by  sbtge-coach, 
which  passed  through  to  Glasgow  by  the  main  road,  and  as  the 
distance  was  too  far  for  Mrs.  Carlyle  to  walk,  an  ordinary  Scotdi 
£um  can  was  sent  to  meet  ttie  coach  at  the  nearest  point  To  sani 
his  wife  from  its  sptingtcM  sliaktng  and  jolting.  Carlyle  took  her  on 
his  kne^  but  when  they  came  to  the  stcvp,  rough  hill  leading  up  to 
Tcmpland,  finding  that  even  this  did  noi  protect  her  from  feeling 
the  sudden  jolts  of  the  lumbering  wheels,  he  stepped  over  on  to  the 
BhftA,  and  with  her  still  in  liis  arms,  seated  himself  on  the  haunches 
of  the  steady-going  carl-horse,  thus  holding  her  in  comparative  ease 
until  they  readied  Ihc  house.  'ITie  other  incident  was  later  on, 
when  Carlytc  drove  himself  down  in  a  gig,  and  Mrs.  Carlyle,  who  was 
in  the  house,  hearing  the  sound  of  wheels,  ran  out  to  meet  and 
welcome  him.  He  was  so  occupied  in  bending  down  orcr  the  side 
to  kiss  her  that  he  forgot  to  guide  the  horsey  with  the  consequence  that 
the  gig-wheel  grazed  on  a  stone  and  the  whole  affair  was  ovcrturocd, 
though  happily  with  no  ili-cffccts. 


Thomas  CarlyU  and  his   Wife. 


449 


About  a  mile  from  Tcnipland.  on  2  knoll  overlooking  the  River 
Nith  and  a  lovely  stretch  of  fallcy  and  hilbidc,  is  Uolmhill,  at  that 
lime  the  residence  o\  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Russell,  the  doctor  having  retired 
from  practice  and  occupying  the  position  of  banker  in  Tliombill. 
Both  he  and  his  wife  vere  Mrs.  Carlyle's  great  and  consunt  friends, 
and  she  oden  paid  them  lengthened  visits,  her  husband  also  coming 
at  interval!!,  but  never  remaining  long  at  a  time,  as  he  usually  went 
down  to  .ttay  with  his  uster,  Mrs.  Aiken,  who  lived  near  I>iimrric3. 
Mrs.  Cartylc  was  very  dvticatt^  often  comjilaining  <^  pain  in  her  side, 
and  the  doctor  and  his  wife  were  extremely  kind  and  attentive  in  all 
things,  humouring  h«  moods  and  giving  way  to  her  wishes.  Dr. 
Russell  would  sometimes  link  his  aim  in  hen  and  walk  with  her  up 
and  down  a  small  corridor  in  the  house  for  half  an  hour  at  a  tim«. 
She  was  also  extremely  ncn-ous,  and  during  her  visits  the  cocks  wcr« 
all  shut  away  in  an  ouihousc,  so  that  ihcir  crowing  might  not  be 
heard,  and  all  ilie  clocks  prevented  from  striking,  as  she  coold  not 
bear  thesesounds.  Every  fortnight  she  was  weighed,  wearing  the  sains 
dress  each  time,  10  that  there  should  be  no  difference  in  the  weight 
of  clothing,  and  in  one  'nsA  of  ten  weeks  she  gained  iwclvc  pounds 
to  hci  own  and  the  KubcHs'  great  satisfaction,  the  peace,  rest  and 
quietness  of  the  country  evidently  suiting  her  better  than  the  more 
active  and  busy  life  she  led  in  London.  Itct  morning  headdress 
n-as  a  white  net  ca;),  coming  to  a  point  in  front  and  drawn  in  bchuid 
under  the  hair,  this  being  changed  in  the  artcmoon  for  a  small  piece 
of  Ucc  resting  lightly  oo  her  head,  without  any  edging  or  trimming 
a  very  frivolous  and  unimportant  affair  compared  to  the  large  aad 
extremely  unbecoming  style  of  cap  then  considered  the  conect  wear 
for  every  married  woman,  whether  young  or  old,  thus  even  in  this 
small  detail  sivowing  herself  of  an  original  mind  untrammelled  by 
convention. 

Although  Templand  ivas  by  this  time  in  the  hands  of  strangers, 
sl)e  never  failed  to  pay  at  least  one  visit  there  each  time  she  stayed 
at  Holmhtll,  usually  bringing  away  a  flower  as  a  little  souvenir,  and 
on  OIK  occai:ion  she  took  a  nettle  and  a  thistle  to  pbnt  in  her  garden, 
saying  she  was  sure  these  wen  the  only  tilings  tlut  would  grow  in 
London.  She  could  say  very  sarcastic  thii^  when  in  the  mood, 
CTCO  at  the  expense  of  those  she  was  most  friendly  with,  and  abo 
delighted  in  bestowing  apfnopriate  nicknames  not  .-ilwa)-s  considered 
as  compliments  by  the  recipients,  who,  hearing  of  them,  and  not 
undcrstai>ding  the  clevcrtKSB  of  the  application,  failed  to  see  its 
sense.  One  day,  seeing  the  cook,  a  very  tall  woman  with  well- 
raarked  features  and  dignified  aspect,  going  about  some  work  outside, 
vm-  ccxcn.    so.  3057.  1 , 


45° 


The  Gentiettmn's  Magaang. 


she  said  to  Mis.  Russell:  "T)o  you  know,  Kate  reminds   mc  of 
nothing  so  much  as  Mrs.  Skldoni'x  Ijtdy  Macbeth,"  and  on  bring 
told  this,  Kate  indignanilj'  exclaimvd,  *'  Lcddr  Macbeth  !  Hoots  I 
she  maun  surely  sec  som<.-thing  gc)-  dccvilish  or  fiend-like  aboot  mc 
tie  liken  me  tae  a  vrumman  like  yun  < " 

Among  the  household  ««xc  Andrew  Hunter  and  bis  wife  (tbe 
bcfon;'ir.«nlioned  "  Katc"^  who  for  many  years  filled  the  respective 
poets  of  coachnun  and  cook  with  the  Ruwelb.     Andrew  is  now  an 
old  man  of  eighty  and  his  wife  owns  to  serenty,  but  tbey  are  still 
itring  in  Tbomhtll,  in  a  small  bouse  kept  in  spotless  order  by  the 
old  fauly  heneif,  on  seeing  whom  one  can  perceive  the  appropriate- 
ness of  Mre.  Carlyle's  remark  ancnt  her  likeness  to  the  great  actress. 
Andiew  (who  this  y«ar  was  ibc  recipient  of  the  ^5  priw,  \ch  by  his 
old  master,  to  be  given  yearly  to  some  oldest  working  man  in  the 
village  who  continues  to  support  himself)  is  nothing  loth  to  tell  hti 
remembrances  of  the  Catlylcs,  principally,  however,  of  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
whom  he  drove  tvtjy  day,  wet  or  dry,  during  her  vists  to  HolmhilL 
Dr.  Bussdl  kept  a  brougham  and  one  horse,  of  which  both  be  and 
his  coachman  were  t«ry  careful,  and  the  lengtli  and  direction  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle's  daily  drives,  in  whidi  she  was  nearly  always  accompanied 
by  Mr^  Russcit,  were  r^ulated  by  the  doctor  to  occupy  exactly 
three  hours,  therefore  il  was  necessity  to  go  very  slowly  and  walk  the 
horse  up  all  the  small  hilU  to  spin  out  the  time.    One  day  Mia. 
Russell  ol^erved,  "  As  it  is  such  a  fii>e  day,  I  ihtnk  we  might  prolong 
our  drive  a  little  I  "  to  which  Mrs.  Carlyle  replied,  "  No,  na  I  you  will 
ftnd  Andrew  has  bad  his  orders  from  the  doctor,  and  hell  not  go 
past  them  t  "    Neither  did  he. 

No  consideration  of  weather  seemed  to  affect  her  p«saiaa  for 
driving,  as,  for  instance,  one  rery  wet  and  stonny  day,  when  the  tain 
and  wind  were  la&hing  and  howling  round  the  bouse,  AihItcw  was 
told  that  Mrs.  Catlylc  wanted  to  drive.  It  was  a  terrible  day,  fit  for 
neither  man  nor  beast,  and  Andrew  in  his  wiaih  was  moved  to 
propose  that  he  would  take  the  carriage  round  to  the  front  door, 
and  Mrs.  Carlyle  could  sit  in  it  there  and  get  all  the  fresh  air  she 
needed,  without  either  himself  or  his  horse  being  exposed  to  the 
elements,  but  in  spite  of  this  ingenious  suggestion  the  usual  three 
hours  had  to  be  undertaken. 

On  another  occasion  when  tlie  weather  was  unpropitioiu.  Dr. 
Russell,  careful  of  his  animal,  said,  "  Andrew,  the  ladies  arc  wanting 
to  drive  out  in  the  afternoon,  but  it  it  such  a  bad  day,  you  will  |usi 
tell  them  the  horse  is  lame."  Ijitcr  on,  when  he  came  back  from 
the  bank,  the  day  had  cleared  a  linlc,  and  coming  out,  he  said. 


Tkfftmu  CarlyU  and  his  Wift. 


"  Well,  Antlfcw,  the  Udics  arc  set  upon  going  out  today ;  I  doubt 
youll  hare  to  make  ready," 

"  But  I  icll't  them  the  horse  was  kme  I "  iiuoth  Andrew. 
"Ay,  and  so  did  Ii"  said  the  doctor,  "  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
However,  it's  no  lie,  for  she  is  always  a  Wt  stiff  from  spavin."    So 
maslci  and  man  salved  thdr  consciences  for  the  attempted  evasion. 

Thomas  Carlylc  did  no  writing  during  his  brief  visits  to  Hotm- 
hill,  preferring  to  spend  the  lime  on  a  rough  wooden  bench  made 
specially  for  him  by  Andrew,  where  he  read,  and  mediuied,  and 
sBOlced  long  clay  pipes,  this  scat  not  being,  as  one  tnight  hare 
supposed,  in  sight  of  the  beautiful  sunlit  view  of  bill  and  riirer,  but 
placed  with  its  bock  to  all  this,  away  down  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  drive,  in  a  spot  overshadomed  by  trees,  where  the  only  jirospect 
wasa  moss-covered  stone  wall  and  the  trees  in  the  plantation  l>eyond. 
If  Mrs.  Caityle  was  not  popular  with  the  domestics,  Carlyle  was 
even  leo  so,  as  he  went  about,  bestowing  no  word  or  look  on  anyone, 
abscnt-mind«d  and  tacitun).  Even  Andiew,  who  saw  most  of  him, 
being  so  much  out  of  doors,  who  made  ihe  seat  and  carefully  set  a 
fiagstone  under  it  to  Iceep  his  feet  from  the  damp,  and  who  often 
worked  within  a  few  )-aTd3  of  him  for  hours  at  a  time,  said,  "  Na,  for 
a'  the  times  he  was  here,  Maisler  Carlyle  never  opened  neither  hia 
mouth  nor  his  hand  tae  me,'  an  expression  suggesting  both  cbicncss 
of  speech  and  pocket  I 

Cailylc'a  objection  to  interruption  sometimes  carried  his  manners 
past  the  point  of  surliness  to  absolute  rudeness.  On  one  occasion 
be  was  seated  in  the  carriage  reading  a  book,  when  Mrs.  Russell, 
who  had  just  got  out,  met  l>r.  Crierson,  a  nun  now  dead,  but  well 
known  and  remembered  in  Thorohill  and. the  district  for  his  kindly 
perMinality  and  his  great  inicicst  in  and  knowledge  of  Natural 
History,  a  soui'cnir  of  which  he  left  to  the  village  in  the  intcrestit^ 
collection  known  as  "  Dr.  Grierson's  Museum."  He  was  very 
anxious  to  speak  to  Carlyle,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  asking 
Mra.  Rusaell  to  introduce  him.  This  slie  did,  brir^ng  him  up  to 
the  carriage  and  saying,  "  Mr.  Carlyle,  this  is  Dr.  Gricrson,  our  local 
practitioner."  Carlyle  raised  his  e)-e3  from  his  reading,  ejaculated 
[  in  an  indescribable  kind  of  a  grunt,  "  Oh  I "  and  immediately  re- 
buried  hinuelf  in  hi^  book,  an  unlooked-for  response  both  to  his 
hostess  and  his  wouldbe  admirer.  At  another  lime  a  duchess  hap- 
pened to  call  on  Mis.  Russell,  when  he  was  staying  with  them,  and 
dpcessed  a  desire  to  sec  Mr.  Carlyle ;  so  Mrs.  Russell  immediately 
vent  out,  and  finding  him  seated  in  his  favourite  spot  asked  him  to 
L  come  in  for  a  few  minutes.  His  exact  reply  is  not  vouched  for,  but 
1  >■« 


45* 


Th4  GentUma^s  Magazine. 


jta  purport  was  ([uile  clear ;  be  absolutely  declined  to  see  her  Gtacc, 
and  hit  diicomfited  hostess  had  to  return  as  beu  she  might,  wjtii  the 
ungracious  refusal  However,  once  as  h«  iras  driving  u|i  Ihtough 
Tbomhill,  he  stood  up  in  the  carriage  so  that  the  jKople  might  sec 
him,  man/ having  expressed  a  desire  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him.  He 
wore  chamois  leather  ilippen  in  the  housei  and  what  were  called 
"  Bluchcr  "  boots  out  of  doors,  these  latter  bdng  always  made  for 
him  by  the  same  man,  a  boolmoVer  named  Duncan,  in  Edinburgh  ; 
but  on  one  occasion,  something  about  his  feet  being  not  quite  cont- 
forlable,  he  was  heard  to  remirk  that  "  if  they  would  bang  two  a 
throe  of  itH-sc  thoemakcrs  it  would  teach  the  others  to  moke  their 
boots  to  fit  a  body's  feet,"  showing  that  even  a  philosopher  maybe 
roused  from  his  philosophy  when  the  shoe  pinches. 

The  maid  who  was  with  Mrs.  Cattyle  in  London  during  the  last 
year  of  her  life,  and  who  aAcr  hvr  mistress's  deatli  stayed  on  st 
Cheyne  Row  until  her  own  marriage,  was  a  Scotchwoman,  and 
Catlyle,  who  was  very  Scotch,  and  liked  all  Scotch  things,  approved 
of  hoT  in  many  ways,  especially  of  her  porridge-making  and  oat  cakes, 
which  he  called  "  illustrious  cakes,"  and  also  for  her  punctttaliiy,  he 
being  extremely  punctual  himself.  The  making  of  porridge  and  oit 
cakes  was  not  among  her  duties,  but  she  was  proficient  in  the  an. 
¥rhich  Mrs.  <rarlyle's  English  cook  cither  could  not  or  would  not 
learn,  hence  the  followii^.  Jessie  was  going  to  be  married,  and 
accordingly  gave  notice  to  leave,  hut  the  young  man  being  promised 
a  more  lucrative  occupation  in  the  future,  they  agreed  to  wait,  and  oo 
this  being  made  known  to  Mrs.  C:trlyl«,  she  impulsively  threw  her 
arms  round  the  maid's  neck,  and  kissing  her,  exclaimed,  "Tl 
God,  I  shnll  get  my  oat  cakes  yet .' " 

Mrs.  Cailylc,  never  very  strong,  was  less  so  during  this 
and  spent  a  greater  part  of  the  time  on  the  sofa  in  the  dmwing-roon^ 
but  was  still  very  fond  of  company,  both  at  home  and  abroad^  and 
passionately  fond  of  driving  out.  Mr.  Carlyle,  on  the  contrary,  did 
not  care  in  the  Icist  for  society,  or  to  be  troubled  by  visitors,  but 
•0  long  ns  he  was  left  alone  was  quite  witling  to  let  her  do  exactly 
as  she  pleased.  He  was  coming  very  much  to  the  front  at  that 
time,  and  people  were  anxious  to  make  much  of  him,  failing  whid:^ 
as  he  was  \-cry  rarely  to  be  seen,  ihcy  turned  their  attentions  to  bii 
wife,  and  her  visitors  and  their  carriages  were  continually  in  cx-idenc« 
at  No.  5  Chcyne  Row.  She  was  very  impulsirc  in  pving  away 
thing*,  saying,  howc^^cr,  that  if  she  did  not  receive  so  many  presents 
she  could  no]  have  given  away  so  much.  Among  others.  Lady 
Ashburton  sent  every  week  a  hamper  containing  creant,  eggi%  utd 


•m  Her 
rhanl^ 

yciir,V 

roonbl 

1 
I 

I 


I 


I 


TAofHas  Carfy/i  and  kis  Wife.  453 

fresh  \-egeUbles,  which  would  no  doubt  be  very  highly  appreciated, 
a«  for  those  who  have  lived  long  in  the  country  a  taste  for  the 
London  egg  and  so-called  cream  is  difficult  to  acquire 

Neither  of  them  read  a  newspaper ;  Dr.  Russell  sent  them  one 
regularly,  which  was  promptly  readdiessed  by  Carlyle  to  Mrs.  Aiken 
(his  favourite  iJ«e»  "  Jean  "),  with  the  addition  of  two  strokes  ~'  " 
under  the  address,  ilie  explanation  of  ihese  beinj;  that  Carlyle,  who 
hated  writing  to  his  relations,  bis  time  being  so  much  occupied, 
took  this  means  of  communicating  to  his  utter  that  all  was  well 
with  them.  Only  once  be  forgot  to  put  the  strokes,  and  the  omission 
promptly  brought  a  letter  of  inquiry  as  to  the  cause. 

\n  ordinary  day  in  Cartylc's  life  was  somewhat  as  follows.  He 
lud  no  sutcd  hour  for  rising,  it  depending  very  much  on  what 
time  he  had  gone  to  bed,  so  tlie  breakbsi  hour  varied  between  nine 
o'clock  and  eleven.  He  always  had  colfee  for  breakfast,  and  that 
and  everything  else  must  be  at  ihe  Ixniing-point  or  it  was  of 
DO  use ;  the  kettle  had  to  be  brought  boiling  to  the  table,  and  the 
eggs  in  the  hot  water,  $0  that  he  could  see  for  himself  that  all  really 
was  as  hot  as  he  desired  it.  "If  he  could  have  got  things  hotter 
than  boiling  he  would  hare  liked  it  better,"  was  Jessie's  comment, 
and  it  is  on  record  that  Mrs.  Carlyle,  who  oRcn  remonstrated  with 
bim  for  taking  things  too  hot,  suggested  he  might  put  a  cinder  in  his 
mouth.  Then  to  work,  sated  in  an  oId-£3shioncd  square  armed 
chair  with  a  ttard  horse-hair  scat,  before  the  quaint  oblong  writing- 
table  with  its  two  flaps  for  letting  up  or  down  according  to  the  space 
required,  and  steadily  work  on  until  two  o'clock,  when  he  would  go 
upstairs,  find  hot  water  ready  to  the  minute,  and  after  washing  his 
hands  and  making  some  slight  change  in  his  dress,  went  out  for  a 
walk  until  four  o'clock.  On  his  reiurti  he  went  out  into  dte  small 
{laved  court  at  the  back  of  the  house,  whkh  led  into  the  strip  of 
garden,  and  here  a  small  dose  of  brandy,  filled  up  with  coM  water, 
was  brought,  and  the  tumbler  being  placed  on  an  ordinary  kitchen 
chair  beside  him,  he  sat  on  the  wall,  reading  a  book  and  sipping  his 
brandy  and  water  until  dinner,  which  would  soon  after  be  announced. 
His  meals  were  vcr>-  simple ;  he  liked  what  he  was  to  cat  on  bis 
plate  at  once,  aivd  if  the  quantity  bad  not  quite  agreed  with  him  on 
any  previous  occasion,  he  would  say,  "  Not  quite  so  much  to-day." 
When  at  Holmliill  a  certain  quantity  of  potatoes  were  weighed  for 
bim  ead)  day,  hb  wife  saying  that  if  this  was  not  done,  be  was  so 
absent-minded,  he  would  be  sure  to  cat  more  than  were  good 
for  him  without  being  aware  of  it.  He  rarely  took  anything  to 
drink,  except  a  gbss  of  port  occasionally  with  his  cheese ;  and  after 


454 


Th  GentUmatCs  Magazint. 


dinner  it  was  bis  habit  to  go  upttaits  to  his  room  and  lie  down  on 
the  Bofi,  and  there,  with  an  old  hat  on,  a  handkerchief  laid  otct  his 
ear,  and  warmly  tucked  up  in  a  thick  plaid  or  m^  to  sleep  for  an 
hour  and  a  quarter  exactly,  at  the  end  of  which  time  Jessie  wai 
strictly  inttructed  (o  wake  him.  Going  downstairs,  he  smoked  a 
pi|K  (be  never  bad  any  lack  of  cither  his  favourite  long  clays  or 
tobacco^  hdng  pcesenlcd  with  stacks  of  the  one  aiMJ  qnantitic*  of 
the  other  hy  admireis  who  were  only  too  honoured  by  the  great 
man's  aoceplance  of  their  gifts),  then  up  to  the  drawing-room  for 
tea  and  to  r«ad  a  book  quietty,  except  on  tlKtsc  evenings  on  which 
visitors  (who  had  most  probably  prc^-iously  wrinen  to  Mrs.  Carlyle 
praying  for  permission)  happened  to  "drop  m  "  for  a  cup  of  tea 
and  a  laUc,  the  talk  on  ibeae  occasions  M>on  resolving  ilseU  into 
one  voice  alone  hdi%  heard,  while  the  guests  sat  round  like  an 
•odience  at  an  inierciiing  lecture,  only  an  occasional  answer  of 
assent  or  murmur  of  admiration  breaking  the  general  attitude  of 
(trained  attention.  Tltcn  ofic  by  one  they  would  6tt  away,  uking 
their  fine  drc»c5  and  jewels  on  to  other  and  more  daxzting  rece{>- 
tions,  where,  hovc^-cr,  they  could  be  sure  of  rousing  both  interest 
and  jealousy  by  remarking  that  they  had  spent  the  earlier  {larl  of 
the  evening  with  'ITiomas  Carlyle. 

The  \wx  gticst  gone,  Carlyle,  unable  to  continue  his  interrupted 
reading,  would  rise,  and  crying  impatiently,  "  Another  night  spoited ; 
this  muu  n«l  happen  again,"  take  himtself  off  for  a  long  walk,  perhaps 
not  returning  until  after  eleven  o'clock,  lettit^  himself  in  with  his 
latchkey,  to  find  his  porridge  wanning  in  the  saucepan  on  the  hob  of 
the  dining-room  fireplace,  and  his  candles  (there  was  no  gas  in  the 
bouse)  set  ready.  His  favourite  position  white  reading  was  to  sit 
with  his  elbows  forward  upon  the  table  and  bi^  head  held  between 
his  hands,  und  in  this  attitude  he  would  remain  until  tlie  last  flickcn 
of  the  waning  candles  gave  warning  of  coming  sudden  darkness, 
cA>l)gitig  him  to  riite  and  dqiart  to  bed,  Jessie  usually  having  takoi 
Ac  precaution  to  substitute  (alily  ^lort  candles  for  the  long  ones, 
because,  as  she  said,  "  If  ihey  had  been  the  full  length  he  would  have 
sat  up  reading  Juki  tliac  much  longer." 

That  musical,  or  rather  unmusical,  form  of  torture  the  "hurdy- 
gurdy"  was  an  abomination  to  him,  and  it  was  prindpally  on 
account  of  his  intense  disUkc  to  these  instruments,  and  his  voicing 
of  this  to  a  friend  who  was  influential  in  high  pbccs,  that  tlie  Act 
was  passed  by  wtuch  it  was  made  imperative  that  the  organ-grinder 
should  move  off  at  once  on  be!i%  requested  to  do  ao,  with  the 
ultcmativt  of  be\iv%  %vv«t\  wv  <£ms^  SSi\i«;  ^dcM^A. 


Thomas  Carlyle  and  kis  Wt/e. 


455 


If  Cftrlfle  had  seen  a  tithe  of  the  people  who  cacne  to  obiain 
inttrricws  or  e%-cn  speech  with  hint,  his  time  irould  have  been 
occupied  by  little  eUe,  and  as  it  was  then;  were  many  who  hung 
about  the  house  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  or  by  good  luck 
perhaps  a  stray  word  from  the  object  of  their  admiration.  But  he 
was  not  always  obdurate  in  his  refusal.  An  American  who  had 
called  tiaw  after  lim^  asking  only  to  ut  him,  at  leit^h  received  the 
reward  of  importunity  by  being  admitted,  and  found  the  great  nun 
in  his  study.  On  his  entiunce,  OHyle  rose,  and  standing  with  his 
band  on  the  writing  uhtc  said,  "  Well,  here  I  am  take  a  good  look 
at  mc."  And  not  only  so,  but  evidently  being  tluit  day  in  an 
amiable  htimour,  he  sat  down  and  talked  to  his  visitor  for  a 
considerable  time,  the  latter,  no  doubt,  when  he  left,  hugging  the 
memory  of  that  intcrricw  as  a  priceless  poraessioti. 

Whatever  may  have  been  said  or  thought  to  the  contrary,  it  ia 
stated  that  Carlyle  and  his  wife  had  a  sincere  alTcction  for  cacb 
other,  although  they  lived  their  life  together  in  very  undemonstraiira 
fashion.  Her  death  was  a  great  and  lasting  grief,  but  borne  with 
the  Spartan  determination  of  the  Scoich  charaaer,  which,  doggedly 
hardening  itself  against  any  display  of  feeling,  holds  its  aonow  locked 
up  witliin  itjrelf  and  rejtels  would-t>e  sympathy  as  an  impertinence. 
On  his  return  from  her  funeral  he  vent  straight  upstairs,  and  entering 
the  room  wbich  had  Iwen  hers,  shut  the  door  behind  him.  After 
awhile  he  came  out  and  went  on  up  to  his  own  room,  where  he 
remained  for  ^ome  timc^  then  descending,  look  up  his  ordinary  life 
again  to  all  appearance ;  hut  although  he  rardy  afterwardi  mcntiomxl 
his  vrife,  an  i^d'fashi<Micd  photograph  of  her  stood  always  on  his 
miting-ubic,  and  from  the  time  of  her  death  he  aged  rapidly. 

E.   WtLLIAHSON   WALLACE. 


456 


Th«  Gtntteman'f  AftigasrHf^ 


IVATLING   STREET  IN  BUCKS. 


"  ''T^HB  great  ch&in  of  communiauion  rrom  the  nonh-weu  to  the 
X  KMth-can  point  of  the  Empifc  wai  drawn  out  to  the  length 
of  4080  Ronun  miles.  The  public  roadi  were  Acctiratcly  drride<l  by 
milcstonn,  and  ran  in  a  direct  lii>e  from  one  city  to  another,  wJib  very 
little  rcapcct  for  the  obsUcIei  either  of  nature  or  priratc  propimy. . . . 
The  middle  pan  of  ihc  load  was  raised  into  a  terrace,  which  cooi- 
nunded  the  adjacent  country,  consisted  of  several  strata  of  sand, 
pavel,  and  oement,  and  was  pared  with  bigc  stones.  .  .  .  Houses 
wtK  erected  at  tlve  distance  of  fire  or  six  miles ;  each  of  tliem  was 
provided  with  post-horses."  Such  is  Gibbon's  description  of  the 
Roman  highways  (literally  high  vrays,  for  did  they  not  overlook  the 
adjacent  country  ?)  at  the  period  of  the  Emptre'i  greatest  nsccr>dency 
and  highest  dcvclo|>nKfit.  In  Britiin  Ihc  most  important  of  the 
Roman  roads  was  thai  one  which  formed  part  of  the  "  great  chain  of 
communication, "  the  (pahaps)  stratum  I'ikL'ianmtH,  which  has  been 
known  for  hundreds  of  years  as  Walling '  Street,  and  cxtendwl  from 
Rictibofou£h(Rutupi%)  in  Kent  lo  Chester  and  thence  to  Holyhead, 
passing  in  its  course  through  Canterbury,  Rochester,  London,  St. 
Albans  (Vemlaniium),  l>unstablc  (Durocobtine),  and  then  oUiquely 
acroM  the  north  comer  of  the  county  of  Buckinghamshire  oa  lu 
way  to  TowccKlcT,  and  so  to  the  iwnh. 

Watling  Street  enten  Buckinghamshire  at  I.ittle  Brickhi]!  and, 
passing  through  Fenny  Stratford,  Shcnley,  and  Stony  Stratford,  leaves 
the  county  ni  Old  b'tralford,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  north-west  of  Stony 
by  Crossing  the  Rit-ci  Ousc  and  entering  Noilhamptonshirc.  Of  the 
eleven  miles,  or  Icge,  of  the  road  in  Bucks  "no  traces  peculiarly 
Roman  remain,  if  we  except  the  undcviating  stiugbtness  of  iu 
course,  and  the  records  of  its  once  pascd  causeway  presencd  in  the 
names  of  the  towns  through  which  it  passes." 

The  vilbge  and  parish  of  Little  Brickhitl,  picturesquely  nttiated 
on  a  spur  of  the  Chiltetiis,  i.s  not  mentioned  in  "  Domesday  Book." 
"  It  was  taken,  I  judge"  (writes  Cole),  "out  of  Bow  ar>d  Great  Brickbill, 

■  "  Wailins  "  it  klw  uld  t»  b«  a  modcni  fcrai  of  Gneiheliaga,  tbe  Suon 
iuin«  of  t)i«  iniid. 


I 


IVai/iitff  Sirut  in  Bucks. 


Bow  Biickhill  atvO  Great  BncVliil)  being  parishes  adjacent  to  Link 
Brickhili  and  situated  on  cither  side  of  it."  CcAc  may  or  majr  not 
be  right  in  his  judgment,  but  die  riUagc  mttst  hare  existed  fnatn  very 
early  times,  perhaps  from  prc-Roman  times,  as  Walling  Street  was 
made  on  the  track  of  a  pre-existing  British  road,  and  the  summit  of 
the  hill  must  hat's  always  been  an  appropriate  spot  for  houses  of 
rest  and  refreshment  for  man  and  beast  after  the  long  pull  up  from 
Fenny  Siraifoid  ;  more  especially  as  in  the  olden  [imcs  the  hill  was 
even  longer  and  steeper  than  it  now  is,  competent  autboritics  being 
of  opinion  that  the  aspect  of  the  counir>-  has  undergone  considerabk 
alteration  by  reason  of  the  reduction  in  altitude  of  the  hilla  and  the 
raising  of  the  surface  of  the  road  in  the  valley. 

That  the  place  was,  at  least,  of  local  imporianec  and  con>'cnicnt 
for  public  business  is  proved  by  the  fact  ihat  the  assi^xs  were  hdd 
here  frequently  during  the  period  1443-1638  ;  it  also  iras  largely 
resorted  to  for  the  purpose  of  gi'tting  married.  Couples  came  bither 
frora  all  the  drcumjaeent  parishes,  and  evxn  from  far  distant  places. 
I'hc  [larith  register  contains  a  very  large  number  of  marriage  entries 
— out  of  all  proportion  to  the  local  population. 

ComiDcrcial  activity  is  indicated  by  the  'I'hursday  market  and 
annual  fair  on  St.  Giles's  Day  granted  to  Philip  Lovcl  in  1357.  In 
1384  Hugh  dc  Audlcy  was  regrantcd  the  Thur»lay  market  and  a 
fair  on  St.  John  Baptist's  Day.  In  1441,  Humfrey,  Uuke  of  Bucking- 
ham, had  the  market  conftrmcd  to  bim,  and  two  fairs  yearly,  on 
SS.  Philip  and  James's  Day  and  Si.  Luke's  Day. 

In  1551  Henry  Cary  was  alloacd  to  alienate  the  manor  to  Robcit 
Brocas.  The  latter  died  in  1558  and  was  succeeded  by  liis  son 
Bernard  Brocas,  who  died  in  1589,  leaving  the  manori^tl  lordship  to 
his  son  Pexal  or  Pepal  Brocas,  then  aged  i»cniy-one  years.  Mr. 
Pexal  Brocas  achieved  fame,  or  rather  notoriety ;  his  amiable  weak- 
IKSS  is  sufficiently  indicated  by  the  following  entry  in  the  raster: 
"  1610,  December  x".  Mary,  a  bastard,  the  reputed  daughter  of 
Mr.  FcpoU  Brocas  ar>d  .4nnc  U'inckcworth,  bspt."  His  frailties 
accumubting,  Mr.,  now  Sir,  Peul  Brocas,  on  Sunday,  October  34, 
1613,  expiated  his  sins  of  commission  by  doing  open  penance  at 
St  Paul's  Cross.  "  He  stood  in  a  white  sheet,  and  held  a  stick  in 
his  hand,  having  been  convicted  before  tbc  High  Commissionen  for 
secrti  and  notorious  adulter)-  with  divers  women." '  *'  Divers ""  indeed 
most  (he  women  have  been ;  a  writer  in  the  "  British  Magazine  " 
(August  1767)  states  that  be  was  informed  by  Lady  GardrKi  (Sir  P. 
Brocas's  great-granddaughter)  that  &i  Pexal  bad  mwity  children 

■  Stcnt\  CAtvnMt,  p.  1,085. 


7"-*»  Gei^^an^^t^stnt. 


born  to  him,  but  onljr  one  won  bjr  hU  Udy.  He  had  thirty  men 
clothed  in  scarlet  that  waited  upon  him  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  where 
be  went  to  deroand  >  diniK^r  ullcr  doing  pcnance- 

Ii  ia  also  recorded  in  the  reciter :  "  1614.  Sir  Pepall  Brocu, 
Lord  of  the  Manor,  rcruscd  to  pay  a  rate  of  i6s.  4^  on  his  land 
towards  churdi  refwn,  because  the  south  '  ile '  was  not  apprc^matnl 
to  ht»  »ole  ti«  during  acnice,  as  it  had  been  for  former  lords."  Tlie 
suit  was  tried  in  th«  Ecclesiastical  Court,  and  then  hiatus  in  manu- 
script—no result  recorded.  At  last,  at  tbe  age  ofsixty-one,  this  notable 
gentleman  deceased,  and  Little  Bnckhill  register  contains  the  fotlow- 
ing  entry :  "  1629,  Sir  Pepall  Brocas,  Knight,  Lord  of  ye  Mannor, 
dyed  August  1^°,  and  was  liurycd  in  pt  August  14*."  His  body  afler 
death  appears,  like  his  afiections  during  his  life,  to  have  been  divided, 
and  Cole  explains  "  in  part"  to  mean  that  his  Atmnis  were  buried  at 
Little  Ilrickhill,  and  bts  My  probably  with  his  anceston  at 
Edtcsborough. 

1563.  William  Smith,  William  Diduoo,  I'eter  (KetnpsterX 
Willism  Day,  and  James  Shakespeare  suffered  dcalh,  and  were  buried 
July  7.  This  entry  it  the  first  intimation  given  in  the  raster  of 
the  holding  of  the  Assiies.  There  arc  like  entries  in  the  years  1570, 
■583,  1587,  15B7  8,  1588,  1595,  r6i7,  and  1619.  In  all  there  ire 
thirty-nine  names  of  people  who  suffered  death  (hanghigX  inchiding 
one  woman,  who  was  burned  ;  of  these,  three  were  women,  all  banged 
together  in  1618.  Aboul  ten  of  these  executed  criminals  rejoiced  in 
\\'clsh  names,  a  rather  Urge  proportioa,  which  seems  to  prove  a 
copious  output  of  criminality  from  the  principality,  unless  indeed 
English  prejudice  suspected  ever]-  "taffy"  to  be  a  Ibicf  because  hft _ 
was  a  Welshman.  In  1595  a  batch  of  ten  men  was  hanged  on^ 
March  xxvi" ;  and,  continues  the  register,  "  Cicely  Revis  was 
burned  the  same  day  "—no  other  lurticular,  no  indication  of  the 
victim's  offence ;  she  may  have  been  a  "  witch,"  but  death  at  the 
stake  was  awarded  for  other  crimes  then.  It  is  doubtful  if  all  the 
deaths  iitllictcd  judicially  at  Brickhili  were  registered ;  probably  many 
a  sturdy  be^ar  or  vagrant  wa»  strung  up  and  no  record  attempted. 
The  Assiies  were  held  here  for  the  last  time  in  (638 ;  the  icgiMer 
begins  in  1539-  I>uring  those  eighty  )'car9  the  judges  mttst  ba*e 
appeared  on  more  than  the  eight  occasions  referred  to  in  the  regi.4ter. 
Here  is  a  proof :  there  was  a  ballad  printed  aliout  1613,  called  "  The 
sorrowful  complaint  of  Susan  Higgs,  a  lusty  country  wench  who  was 
executed  at  Bri<:khilL"  There  is  no  entry  of  Susan's  death  in  the 
register.  Tradition  »iys  the  gallows  stood  on  the  heath  towards . 
Wobum,  alwut  three  furlongs  out  of  the  town. 


Waihng  Street  tn  Bticks. 


459 


The  parish  register,  harinji  been  carefully  kept,  is  of  exceptional 
interest,  and  provides  abundance  of  detail  iltusiraling  the  life  (and 
death)  that  renders  the  studjr  of  Watling  Street  and  its  chronicles  so 
fuU  of  intcTcit.  In  1581  the  "Lyon"  is  first  mentioned  in  the 
entry  of  burial  of  David  Welsh,  who  kept  that  hostelry.  The  liouse 
vras  doubtless  one  and  the  same  with  the  "  Red  Lyon  "  noticed  in 
i6tt,  1630,  and  in  1634,  when  Kichaid  Uatcs,  chaoiberlayn  at  tbc 
"Lyon,"  was  buried.  This  inn  is  not  mentioned  a|$ain  until  1737, 
vtd  perhaps  the  sign  was  then  revived  after  having  been  disused  oc 
the  or^^nal  house  dismantled.  In  161 1  the  "Talboti  ■*  is  mentioned 
as  kept  by  John  Neall,  in  the  entry  of  baptism  of  Anne,  daughter  of 
Anne  Walker,  a  stranger,  the  wife  (as  she  sayde)  ofoncThofnas 
Kinge,  of  Brill,  in  the  lowe  coimtryes. 

In  1614  "The  Crawnc"  is  mentioned,  and  again  in  1654  as  a 
**  soutdjwr  "  died  there.  Metition  is  also  made  of  the  "  Greene  Tree  ' 
in  i6«6;  the  "Blacke  Boye°  in  1619;  the  "George"  secures  its 
first  notice  in  1644  owir^  to  the  burial  of  its  cbambcilayn,  George 
Widdall ;  it  does  not  appear  to  have  l>ecn  a  prominent  boose,  as 
only  one  more  mention  of  it  occurs.  In  1669  the  "  Angel  *  sppean, 
and  occurs  several  times  up  to  1734.  Other  houses  were  the 
"CroM  Keys"  (1670X  il>e  "Unicorn'  (1690X  «nd  the  "Cock" 
(1736).  The  "White  Horse"  was  probably  the  principal  inn,  if  we 
may  judge  from  the  frequency  of  its  appearance  from  1690  up  to 
1800  (nVrti) ;  it  is  very  likely  identical  with  the  "  While  Hart,"  which 
has  its  one  mention  in  1675.  In  1755  Chnilcs  liakcr,  who  k^  the 
"White  Lyon,"  was  buncd,  age  83.  In  1805  the  " Swan "  appears. 
None  of  the  above  signs  is  now  in  use,  the  four  licensed  houses 
being  the  "  Bull,"  "  King's  Ams,"  "  George  and  Dragon,"  and 
"Green  Maji."  About  1700,  Richard  Winch,  John  Hart,  Barnard 
Uagcdoi,  and  Richard  Dawson  were  innbotders. 

At  the  above-named  inns  not  only  died  many  a  stranger,  from 
the  nameless  vagrant  to  the  well-to-do  man ;  but  al»o  were  bora 
many  infants  the  offspring  of  all  classes,  and  in  very  many 
cases  of  uncertain  paternity.  161 1.  Dorathe,  the  daughter  of  John 
Sherwood,  a  stranger,  who  was  marrycd  at  I.ondon  (as  he  sayde) 
was  baptized  June  xxv.  1618.  Agtvcs,  a  bftstard,  tbc  daughter  of 
Mary  Mason,  of  Leycestcr,  January  mix.,  ba{)4.  163S.  Mary,  the 
daughter  of  a  strange  woman  who  would  not  acknowledge  her 
name,  was  baptized  Jan.  xL  1695.  Mary,  the  daughter  of  a  Strang 
woman,  ddivrcd  at  John  Hart's,  l«ipl.  March  ye  7,  &C, 

There  was  one  advantage,  however,  in  being  baptized  at  Utile 
Brickhill :  the  infant  stood  a  good  chance  of  becoming  an  itMJividual 


460 


Tht  GentUmans  Magazine. 


by  being  blessed  or  cursed  with  an  uiKommon  baptismal  nam 
not  losing  identity  among  ihr  crowd  of  Johns,  Marj-x,  Williami, 
beths,  &c.  Rarely  docs  any  baptinnat  rc^ster  show  Kuch  a  vsr 
names,  r^.  Athanasius  Tiapnell  was  baptized  1375  ;  and  1 
the  names  met  with,  not  mcnrly  once,  are  Sailing  Sampson,  A 
Ambrose,  Penelope,  iladria,  Benedict,  Valentinr,  Lydia,  j 
Embfcy,  Sftyrfordc,  Diana,  Duglas  (girl),  &c.  After  1641 
commoner  names  prevail.  The  name  Magdalen  was  not  on 
and  occurs  for  the  first  time  in  1573  as  Maudlin. 

Very  many  strangers  and  traTcllers  reached  this  place  01 
find  a  last  resting-place  in  the  cliurchyord.  A  great  numbe 
nameless,  and  the  entry,  "a  stranger  bur.,"  "a  vagrant  bur.,"n 
the  last  of  some  male  01  female  specimen  of  the  genus  tram 
modem  representatives  of  which  race  still  abound  on  this 
They  were  noi  inCreiniently  found  dead  on  the  road  :  "  1618,  1 
ignotus,  about  fii-e  and  twentye  yeares  of  ag^  was  found  dead 
the  high  wajc  l>eceml>cr  xvi'." 

Others,  able  to  put  uj)  at  a  decent  inn,  arc  named  :  "  1567. 
Mr.  Itooth,  a  stranger,  buiicd."  Mark  the  "  Mr." ;  in  the  sizi 
century  crcryonc  was  not  honoured  with  that  prefix.  "  1611. 
Spenser,  ser^-ant  to  the  right  honourable  ye  Eaile  of  Huntin 
being  hurt  by  the  fall  of  a  waggon,  buried  Bcbruary  xiii."  « 
A  daughter  of  Tcige  6  Govain,  Irishman,  bur.  Nov.  ix."  •' 
Hugh  Apowen,  of  St.  On}-oo,  in  Carnarvonshire,  bur.  Maidi 
"  1658.  William  Bennett,  the  sorme  of  Willhm  Benncti,  Aldcm 
Chester  and  Justice  of  Peace,  was  burit-d  11  March."  Ald« 
Bennett,  who  had  been  Ma}'or  of  Chester,  placcxl  a  pand  i 
church  to  his  son's  memory  with  his  aniiorial  b<.'artng5  thvreon, 
two  bars  gu.,  a  bcrdcr  cngr.  sa.,  a  creaccni  or,  and  label  of  three  | 
of  the  third.  Crest ;  A  nag's  liead  ar.  cliaiged  irith  two  bars  gu.' 
1 70ft  \Villiam  Howson,  Dr.,  of  Mayboyte,  in  ye  Itayliwick  of  Oi 
Scotland,  died  at  the  "  White  Horse  "  on  his  return  from  Loi 
March  13,  buried,  &c.  ^ 

The  dangers  of  the  road  are  exemplified  by:  1788,  .\iigJP 
poor  man  crushed  to  death  by  a  waggon,  buried.  1755,  Octol 
John  Gaylon,  killed  upon  the  road  by  a  waggon.  1760,  Ociobj 
William  Hill,  n  waggoner,  kill'd  by  a  waggorL  1785,  Juni 
^\'i!liam  Oxford,  a  waggoner,  cniithcd  to  death,  &c.  And 
occasional  interment  of  a  coachman  or  a  postboy  further  im^ 
busy  and  fiequenied  road.  '^k 

The  churrfi  is  on  higher  ground  than  the  road,  and  its  h< 
buttressed  tower  is  visible  from  a  great  distance ;  the 


edite 


Waiiing  Stred  in  Biuks. 


461 


consists  of  a  chance)  with  a  !»xith  chapel,  nare  of  four  bajrs  witli 
south  aisle,  south  purch,  and  west  tower.  There  iras  formerly  a 
north  chapel  to  the  nai-e,  which  was  used  for  a  free  school ;  this  was 
hlowT)  down  hy  a  high  wind  in  1 705,  as  was  alio  i^art  of  the  chancel. 
^Vi1lis  reconb  that  ihe  "  chancel  was  rebtiili  with  htick.,  and  a  square 
meeting-house  window  put  in  at  ye  eatt  end."  In  1864  the  whole 
building  was  properly  restored  and  the  cliancel  rcbuilt>  and  is  now 
in  good  repair  and  well  cared  for. 

In  spite  of  its  apparent  importance.  Little  Brickhill  docs  not 
apipear  10  have  ever  been  a  very  populous  place.  Archlushop 
Sheldon's  religious  census  gives  148  Confoniiists  and  seven  Noncon- 
formists above  the  age  of  si-vtecn  years — say  a  total  popubtion  of  .^oa 
Willis  about  1714  gives  seventy  families— say  350  people.  Cole 
writes :  "  In  1 748  there  were  sixty-nine  bouses,  but  of  these  fifty-four 
single  houses,  and  tho'  the  assiitcs  were  so  commonly  held  here 
formerly,  there  docs  not  appear  to  have  been  more  houses."  The 
present  population  is  less  thaii  300. 

Leaving  Brickhill,  one  descends  the  long  hill  of  about  a  mile  and 
a  half,  on  which,  when  half-way  up,  "  Great  Paul "  stuck  when  on  his 
way  in  iSSi  from  Messrs.  Taylor  &  Ca's  beliroundry  in  I^ugh- 
borough  to  his  assigned  destination  in  the  south-west  tower  of 
the  Cathedral  of  SL  Paul. 

Strangers  from  the  following  places  arc  mentioned  in  the  register : 
Weedon  ;  I.ee,  in  Ewt-x  ;  St.  Jolin'i,  Cierkenwcll ;  St.  Sepulchre's. 
London ;  DoiKaster ;  Magdalen  BHti^e,  Norfolk ;  lambelh ;  Lan- 
caster; Carricfc,  Scotland;  Newport,  Salop,  &c.  'fhe  following 
items  are  also  of  interest : — 

1736.  Joyce  SinRcld,  alias  Greyby,  dy'd  excommunicate, 
August  10.  1710.  A  poorc  woman  found  dead  in  John  Heart's 
grounds,  November  15.  1718.  EUinor  Asbpolc,  aged  no,  Imrkd 
January  II.  1657.  A  son  of  George  Gostley,  whom  he  named  GcorgCr 
not  baptized,  was  putt  into  a  bole  (as  he  learmed  it)  on  March  »\^. 

Th«  road  crosses  the  tittle  River  Ousel  which  marks  the  boundary 
here  between  the  (larishes  of  Little  Brickhill,  I'enny  Stratford,  and 
Bow  BrH^hill.  Tho  last-named  parish  comes  down  to  the  road,  and 
includes  the  spot  where  it  is  supfXJsed  the  Roman  station  Magio- 
vifitiim  formerly  stood.    TT>c  locality  is  now  called  Dropahort. 

Bow  Brickhill  Church,  situated  about  one  and  a  half  miles  away 
from  the  road,  on  the  top  of  ihc  same  line  of  hills  as  Little  Brickhill 
(but  about  one  and  a  lialf  miles  from  it),  is  683  feet  abore  sea-level, 
and  is  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  district  On  the  south 
side  of  the  churcli,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile   from  it,  on  the 


462 


The  Genikman's  Magemm. 


higha  part  o\  the  ground,  stood  a  beacon,  the  posts  of  whicf 
not  the  kettle,  existed  in  1700.  There  is  a  tradition  t)ul  a 
Lord  <A  Bow  Brickltilt  divided  his  lands  here,  and  gave  them  to  tlie 
inhabiuntt  as  a  leward  for  ilicii  valiant  bduviour  at  the  txittle  or 
A^ncourt.  The  villa^  though  mainly  situated  towards  the  foot  of 
the  steep  acclivity  on  whicii  the  church  stands,  straggles  a  good  way 
up  the  hill  In  175s  there  were  here  finy-six  house*,  viz.  twenty- 
five  on  the  left  hand  and  thirty-one  on  the  ri^t,  SKcnding  the  hill. 
The  church  being  in  ruins  and  having  been  disused  for  many  years. 
Dr.  Browne  WiUtt  in  1756  collected  funds  to  restore  it.  Though  his 
xeal  and  energy  were  much  admired,  the  Bow  Biickhill  <^urcb 
peo[de  wou]d  have  prefetred  Iceqiing  up  the  tower  as  an  ornament 
and  removing  the  church  to  a  more  convenient  spot ;  but  Willis 
would  have  none  of  that.  Anyone  who  has  climbed  the  hill  once 
will  (]gite  agree  with  the  view  taken  by  the  porishionns  ;  even  in  the 
most  ftkvounble  weather  churdt-going  for  the  aged  and  invalids  must 
be  somewhat  in  the  nature  of  a  physical  penance,  white  in  tempcsitioos 
or  wintry  weather  Ui«  ascent  to  church  by  even  robust  Christians 
ought  to  serve  instead  of  the  "  absolution,"  as  it  is  said  to  do  in  the 
cue  of  another  church  situated,  like  Bow  Urickhill,  on  a  semi- 
inaccessible  pinnacle.  Perliaps  the  public  worship  difficulty  Just 
referred  to,  acting  through  hundreds  of  years,  nmy  have  brgely 
aantted  in  making  this  pbce,  according  to  Cole,  a  "  nest "  for  a 
seminary  of  Quakers  and  other  sects.  During  the  eighteenth  century 
members  of  the  various  sects  ceruinly  abourided  in  this  district  and 
the  adjoining  part  of  Bedfordshire.  Tlie  Quakers,  tteUirii  trtmularii, 
were  the  most  numerous  ;  they  had  a  meeting-house  and  burial-yard 
at  Hogsty  Knd  (now  called  Wobum  Sands),  in  the  adjacent  parish  of 
Wavcndon.  At  Hogsty  End  were  buried  not  only  the  Quaker  dead 
of  the  district  but  from  distant  places,  and  the  Wavcndon  rcguter 
contains  many  an  entry  of  the  "  interment  according  to  the  Act " 
{f.t.  Woollen  Act)  of  the  body  of  a  deceased  member  of  the  Society 
of  Friends  who  bad  died  in  London,  and  whose  corpse  was  carried 
along  Watiing  Street  to  its  final  resting-place. 

By  ciosung  the  Ousel  the  market  town  of  Fenny  Stratford  is 
entered.  The  road  itself,  Watiing  Street,  is,  or  perhaps  was,  the 
principal  street  of  the  town,  the  houses  being  arranged  on  either 
side;  but  of  late  years  the  old  High  Street,  now  called  Aylesbury 
Street,  has  assumed  greater  importance.  This  tliorough^e  is  at  right 
angles  to  the  high  rood.  In  it  the  market  i.t  held,  otmJ  the  church 
and  other  places  of  worship  are  situated  therein.  Now  Fenny 
Stratford  \%  peculiarly  situated.     It  became  a  separate  ccclestastjcal 


Waiiing  Street  in  Bucks. 


463 


parish  in  1 730 ;  before  tlini  iliitc  it  was  an  "  enilxhip  "  of  the  patish  of 
BIctchlcy,  and  to  this  day  ihut  portion  or  tlie  town  which  is  on  the 
north  side  of  Watling  Street  is  in  the  parish  of  Simpson.  CoHse- 
quenlly  the  Bictchlcy  station  of  the  London  and  Nortti-Wcstcm 
Railway  is  in  Fenny,  and  the  Fenny  Stratford  station  is  in  Simpson. 

About  half  the  population  of  Blelchlcy  parish  lived  at  the  Fenny 
Stratford  endship,  and  made  a  living  out  of  travellers.  In  a  petition 
askini;  for  help  to  build  the  church  in  1735,  the  inhabitants  sUIe: 
"...  An  andcnt  market  town  and  great  thoroughfore  situate  on  the 
principal  road  of  England  ;  that  many  strangers  arc  obliged  to  lodge 
at  our  inns,  which  are  the  chief  support  of  our  town." '  At  this  date 
th«  place  was  recovering  from  the  scries  of  calamities  which  not 
mcrdy  delayed  its  growth  but  seriously  reduced  its  imi>ortance  and 
population.  These  catastrophes  were,  firstly,  the  dissolution  of  the 
Dionaitericf,  which  was  followtid  by  the  civil  war,  ai)d  Anally  the  plague. 

A  fraternity  or  guild,  founded  ten^.  Hen.  VII.,  10  pray  for 
the  good  estate  of  that  monarch,  and  not  forgetting  the  welfare 
of  the  souls  of  its  founders,  attracted  the  rapacious  notice  of 
Edward  VI.,  or  rather  his  ministers  and  advisers,  with  the  rrsull  that 
the  timber,  stone  walls,  lead  and  bells  (four)  of  the  chapel  of  the 
Guild  were  granted  to  certain  men  for  £*,$■}'  15*.  i//.,  ami  the 
brotherhood  house  became  the  "  Bull  Inn  "  ;  and  it  may  be  surmised 
that  the  R-sident  st-nlT,  consisting  of  one  alderman  and  two  wardens, 
besides  brother*  and  sisters,  being  now  deprived  of  the  material 
guerdon  which  wu  the  reward  of  devotional  activity,  was  sent  adril^ 
and  turned  its  energies  into  other  channels.  The  destruction  of  the 
church  and  cunfucation  of  the  endowment,  with  its  result  of  diverting 
mudi  trade,  must  have  been  a  he&vy  blow  to  local  prosperity.  The 
remains  of  the  church  were  finally  destroyed,  femp.  Eliz. 

Thequarri:!  between  the  Kiiigand  the  Commons  had  considerable 
eflect  upon  the  county  of  Bucks.  Much  fighting  took  place  round 
this  neighbourhood,  and  no  doubt  caused  a  diminution  in  the  traffic 
along  Watling  Street  and  "  bard  times  "  for  the  little  towns  that 
depended  for  a  living  on  travellers.  The  pariah  r^iistecs  give  some 
evidence,  but  not  4*  much  as  one  would  expect,  as  the  persecution  of 
the  parochial  clergy  caused,  among  other  evils,  a  suspension  of 
registration  activity.  An  interesting  and  very  curious  entry  is  that  at 
Utdc  BiickhtU  :  "  i$4>.  Agnes  Potter,  of  DuDsUbIc,  wounded  at 
the  bauel  at  Edge  hill,  was  buryvd  Novcmb.  30°."  In  Blelchley, 
under  date  16431  "^  ^^  buriab  of  three  unnamed  soldiers;  to  which 
side  they  belonged  is  not  mcntioocd.    The  defeat,  but  not  the 

'  fitU  Ayof  Jimaij  I,  1735. 


464 


The  GcntUmatt's  Magazine. 


extinction,  of  th«  loj^l  parij-  onljr  broDgbt  \  sort  of  utned  pcftee; 
the  Restoration  vras  nucessarr  to  reaton  social  well-being.  Fenny 
Stratford  strove  to  rise  Crom  its  deptession,  um)  e\'idcncc  of  ihii  is 
given  that  three  local  tradesmen — vix.  Robert  Honnor,  groctn-,  Joha 
Smalboncs,  chapman,  and  William  Inns,  mereer — all  issued  biass 
tokens  lo  supply  the  want  or  small  change,  as  also  did  Charles  Lord, 
of  Uitlc  Btickhill.  The  returning  prospetity,  htfwcver,  received  t 
diuslTous  check  ;  and  the  third,  last,  and  heavint  calamity  almoA 
destroyed  the  future  of  the  town.  Iliis  final  misfonune  was  the 
"  Great  Plague,"  which  visited  I'cnny  Stratford  in  1665. 

In  Blctchlcy  resislcr  the  burial  record  for  1665  b  headed  by  ilie 
fourth  and  fifth  vctm:s  of  I jjkc  xiii.  ;  then  follows  a  list  of  1 36  deatht, 
which  occurred  chiefly  in  the  months  of  August,  September,  and 
October.  The  epidemic  ap]>cars  to  have  alfected  both  the  hamlets 
of  Bktchlcy.  as  well  as  the  cT>dship  of  I'cnny.  Cole  says  Hat 
106  people  died  in  the  Blctchley  [lart  of  Fenny,  and  in  the  Simpson 
part  twenty-tlirec  Travellers  avoided  the  plague-infected  town,  and 
the  traffic  was  diverted  from  this  i«rt  of  Wailing  Street  ar>d  pasted 
through  Wohurn  ;  the  market  was  abolished  or  became  exttoct,  and 
the  population  was  very  much  reduced.  In  prosperous  times  beftwe 
1665  several  Large  inns  flourished  in  Fenny,  but  even  as  long  afler 
thei^Bgucas  1710 only  four  remained,  Hz.  "The  'Red  Lyon,' the 
ancient  post-house.  The '  Uull.'  The  '  Swan ' :  this  was  an  inn,  as 
api>ear3  by  old  deeds,  in  1473.  The  'Sanux-n's  Mead ' :  this  was  the 
principal  inn ;  anciently  it  stood  at  the  corrKr  opposite  to  Simpson 
Lane.  Of  the  others,  the  '  Bell,'  mostly  pulled  down.  The  '  .\ngd ' 
now  belongs  10  the  town  chanty  ;  it  stood  against  the  '  BelL'  The 
'George,'  pulleddownin  i6St  by  Mr,  Jauncey,  because  k  hindered 
the  cti&tom  of  hU  house,  the  '  Red  L}'oru'  Tlic  '  Antelope,'  now 
turned  into  tenements," ' 

Inns  are,  of  course,  mentioned  in  the  n^ster.  From  1577  to  iMo 
OKT  seventy  entries  of  Inirial  arc  described  as  iho»  of  strangen^ 
vagrants,  travellers  &c,  and  the  name  of  the  Iiouae  of  enienainmcot 
that  the)'  died  at  is  sometimes  entered.  1602,  March  31.  One  Mr. 
Sharpc,  a  stranger,  that  died  at  hir.  Raynoldes  his  house,  a  pursiphant, 
wa-s  buried.  160;.  An  unknown  died  at  Willm.  Kynr»*,  buried.  Both 
Raynoldes  and  Kynnt  muMt  ha\-e  been  innhotders  ;  tlic  btter  nune 
cqiecially  occurs  scvera!  limes.  The  "  Bull  "  is  first  memioned  in  ^^ 
1613,  and  frequently  later— more  often  than  any  other  ion.  Tbe^| 
"AngcU"  is  first  noted  in  1620;  in  i6aS,  "April  jolh.  Robert^^^ 
Walton,  a  carrycr  that  dyed  at  the  Anngcll  in  ffcnnystra.,  bur."    The 


Watiini  Strt€t  in  Bucks. 


465 


** George"  is  first  referred  to  in  1653,  aiid  ihe  "Samwn's  Head"  in 

ti66i.  From  1700  to  1725,  Nathanell  Ashton  ot  Ashen,  Matthew 
Swanell,  Rogers  and  John  Gosle)'  are  referred  to  in  the  roister  as 
iniikec)>crs. 

The  "Swan,"  the  "BuU,"  and  the  "Saracen'i  Head"  still  exist 
and  Aourish  in  this  year  of  grjce  1903,  in  compuijr  with  about 
fourteen  other  licensed  houses,  so  that  it  nrould  seem  that  the 
demand  for  liquid  and  other  rcrreshmcnt  is  not  less  among  the  c)'clicti 
tr>d  motoriKts  of  this  age  than  the  travellers  by  pack-horse,  post- 

■  chaise,  wagson,  and  coach  or  tltc  past— to  say  rKithing  of  the  tramps. 
When  affairs  arc  at  their  woibi,  it  is  said  that  ve  may  anticipate 
amaiclmcnt :  considered  in  this  way  the  future  of  Fenny  maybe 
said  to  have  been  highly  promising  at  the  end  of  the  pl^ue  year. 
A  large  tccli<ni  of  the  inhabitants  had  been  recently  interred,  and 
trade   had  qtiitc  disappeared.     There  was    plenty  of   room  for 

•  optimism. 
In  1600  the  population  of  Bletchley  was  about  600;  in  1664 
the  population  had  increased  to  about  900,  and  in  1713  was  about 
700 — Cole  aj-s  900.     In  t7ii  there  were  soo  families  in  the  parish 
of  Bletchley,  of  which  seventy-three  were  in  Fenny  Stratford  end- 

•sfaip^  where  the  market  had  been  revived  in  1 701. 
This  recrtidescence  of  local  vitality,  fortuiutely  for  the  town, 
cwnctded  in  point  of  time  with  the  tucces«on  of  a  new  Lord  of  the 
Manor,  who  greatly  assisted  in  the  re^lahlishment  of  nutenal 
prosperity.  It  would  be  scarcely  jMssibte  to  relate  the  history  of 
this  district  and  not  mention  Browne  \ViIli*,  Esquire,  F.S.A.,  ar>d 
D.C.I-,  Lord  of  the  Manors  of  \Vhaddon,  Bletchley,  and  Kenny 
H  Stratford.  1>t.  B.  Wilttt:,  the  fomous  antiquary,  succeeded  when  a 
'  ^ung  lad  to  his  paternal  estates,  and  died  at  the  age  of  scvcniy-sJx, 
in  the  ycu  1760.  lie  wax  tl>e  grandson  of  the  cek-brated  physician 
Dr.  Thomas  ^^''iUi5,  who  acquired  tlie  estate,  'llw  physician  in  his 
youth  had  fought  in  the  Royalist  army  for  his  King,  and  was  the 
ton  of  an  Oxfordshire  yeoman,  Thomas  U'illts,  who  was  slain  at  the 
•iege  of  Oxford  on  August  4,  1643,  while  lighting  for  the  Royal 
CMse.  With  such  an  ancestral  histoty,  it  is  not  very  sutprising  that 
Browne  Willis  throughout  hts  life  was  a  sttot^  not  to  say  some- 
what bigoted,  Churchman  and  loyal  subject  He  eithcf  ivry  brgely 
conlributcd  to,  or  entirely  at  his  own  expense  rebuilt,  repaired,  &c, 

I  six  of  the  neighbouring  churches,  helped  in  their  endowments,  com- 
piled their  histories,  and  during  his  life  largely  influenced  and 
moulded  iIk  services  conducted  in  them.  As  for  the  rest  of  hit 
acts  and  deeds,  his  manuscripts,  ccccntrkitics,  &c.,  behold,  are  they 
vol.  cczcii.    xa  soj7.  £  X 


466 


The  GentUmaiis  Magaeitu, 


not  wrilten  in  the  "  TiixAinTarj  of  Nadunal  Biographjr,"  to  lAaA 
Bwaumental  work  all  inquiicrs  uc  referred. 

Peony  owes  much  to  Browne  Willis.  The  cfauidi  having 
destroyed,  u  «bove  detailed,  some  170  years  before,  be  set  to 
to  provide  a  aew  one.  In  1711  he  took  his  first  step,  which  was 
purchase  and  pull  down  a  "  meeting -hous^"  "  to  prevent  th«  growth 
of  ranatidsm,"  and  get  the  inhabitants  to  sign  a  docutoent  prombii^ 
never  to  sell  land  nor  houses  for  the  purpose  of  erectirtg  another. 

Tlte  church,  which  originalljr  consisted  of  a  nave  or  body  fdij 
feet  long  and  a  west  tower  fifty  feet  hi^  was  tmtU  of  brick  in  the 
pteudo-classical  style  of  the  age,  and  paid  for  by  Mbsaiptiou 
mainly  collected  by  its  indefotigable  onginatoc.  The  rt^stcr  rccordi 
the  details  of  the  progress  of  the  work,  which  lasted  four  >xar$,  and 
In  1730  is  the  burial  entry  of  Danid  Eastmoit,  who  "did  all  tbe 
brickwork  of  ilte  chapcll." 

From  Octobd  11  to  March  15  the  to-called  "  curfew  bell "  ii 
rung  nighdy  at  eight  o'dock  in  fa\ny  Stratford.  This  cuMom 
appears  to  have  been  regularly  obtcrvcd  in  Browne  Willis's  tim^  fat 
be  makes  mention  of  ii  in  his  record  of  the  purduse,  &c,  of  the  great 
bell,  towards  which  cxpunse  the  Rector  of  Blelchley,  Dr.  Mattb 
BcDBon,  who  wu  aftenrardi  Bishop  of  Glouocster,  gave  jQ»o. 
"Dr.  M.  Benson.  .  .  .  noster  benefactor,  dedit  riginti  libnu  in 
BcqainliofMin  nugns  campana  pulssnda  in  concionibus  funcribus 
« in  horn  octava  nocturna,  antique  vocat.  '  Curfew  BelL' " 

Tlie  north  side  of  the  road,  as  mentioned  before,  was  in  Strnpson 
parish.  In  the  eighteenth  century  there  were  about  thirty  houacs  in 
the  "Simpson  pact  of  Fenny."  The  village,  with  small  cnicifonn 
diurch,  is  about  one  mile  away,  and  here  tl)CTe  were  at  this  time 
thirty.cight  houses.  In  1565  a  poor's  le\-y  realised  91.  4^.j  the  chief 
persons  that  paid  it  were  Cranwell  and  Hatch.  At  first  sij^t  disi 
seems  on  almost  ideal  condition  of  affiiir^,  but  perhaps  the  paupen 
did  not  find  residence  sufficiently  comfortable  or  lucrative  in  a  village 
which  was  described  as  one  "  of  the  most  miserable  of  the  aasxy 
miserable  villages  in  Bucks. ** 

-  Cole  says  Simpson  register  began  in  1 538  ;  but  the  old  book  is 
miKxing,  and  the  present  book  begins  17 19.  Owing  to  this  loss,  no 
doubt,  much  of  interest  concerning  the  inns  on  the  rood  and  the 
deaths,  Ace,  that  occurred  in  them,  is  gone  beyond  recovery. 

About  a  mile  from  Fenny  is  a  wayside  inn  called  Denb^h.  JaK 
here  the  Uand  N.-W.  Railway  crosses  the  road  obliquely,  nccessitatii^ 
i  bridge  of  great  width  and  strength.  In  183S,  the  line  from  London 
'  ■rminatcd  Vieic  lcmv''tuv\'j,  %»&  ^  ».Ve«  ^sMNL^^endini^  further 


Watiing  Street  in  Bucks. 


467 


nil  exteukni,  dtete  was  a  station  at  nhich  the  trains  from  the 
noetiopola  disgoiged  passengers  and  luggage,  which  continued  a 
nOTihwud  journey  by  coach.  "  In  1641  the  constables'  boiucf  were 
Denbigh  and  Ulllow  Hall,  two  cottages  on  the  Watling  Street  road. 
Willow  Hall  was  pulled  down  in  1706.  Denbigh  Hall,  alas  !  still 
stand*.  This  shows  it  was  so  long  ago  computed  as  pait  of  Blctchlcy, 
nut  Dot  Fenny  Stratford.  Mr  Willis  endeavoured  to  pull  down 
Denbigh  Hall,  a  reputed  bawdy  house  just  by  his  grounds  on  the 
road  in  the  Bottom  at  the  foot  of  Ricklcy  Wood  Hill,  and  exactly 
where  the  brook  from  Woughum  makes  a  sort  of  rirer  in  flood)' 
weather ;  but  be  was  cast  at  hb  trial  about  it."'  lliis  spot  had  an 
evil  reputation.  Rickley  Wood  was  situated  on  a  moderate  bill 
two  miles  from  Fenny  Sintlford,  on  the  south  side  of  the  road. 
The  wood  is  now  gone,  all  the  trees  having  beeit  felled,  and  the 
ground  they  once  occupied  is  now  ploughed. 

In  1654  one  Buncc  or  Bunch  committed  a  murder  in  Rickley 
Wood.  He  was  hanged  for  it  on  the  oppoiiic  side  of  the  great  road 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  wood.  Tbc  stump  of  the  gibbet  was  taken  up  in 
1 699,  and  a  house  built  on  the  place  and  elm  trees  planted.  There  is 
no  mention  of  this  murder  and  execution  in  any  neighbouring  roister, 
but  Bletchley  has  a  umilar  event  recorded:  "1617,  Septembers. 
A  stniunger  slayne  and  found  in  wryckley  wood,  burj-ed." 

TIm  locality  must  have  afforded  special  &ciltties  for  homicide^  or 
possessed  great  attractions  for  murderen;  Shnpson  register  pro- 
vides more  evidence:  "1741,  January  ■■.  Edward  Sanden  and 
George  Fo«er,  a  child  atjout  seven  years  old,  were  burled,  who  were 
both  found  murdered  on  Saturday,  January  9,  in  a  booth  or  hut 
erected  by  the  said  Sanders,  in  which  he  tbc  said  Sanders  sold  ale 
ar>d  other  liquors  to  Persons  that  travell'd  the  west  Chester  Road, 
cootigaous  to  the  Highway  just  opposite  to  Rickley  wood,  by  a  place 
call'd  Gilbert  close  in  this  Parish."  During  the  sevenlocnth  century 
the  parish  constable's  house  was  at  Denbigh  Hall ;  but  the  presence 
of  the  limb  of  the  law,  though  no  doubt  salutary  and  some  check  oo 
evildoers,  seems  to  have  foiled  as  a  complete  deterrent.  Bleichley 
register  contains  many  entries  of  burial  <A  strangers,  chiefly  paupers 
and  frequently  nameless,  who  died  at  "  yc  constable's  bouse." 

As  a  sort  of  chivabous  annexe  to  these  gory  predncts  thete  still 
ensts,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  to  Rickley  Wood,  an  acre  or 
two  of  unenclosed  land  OR  the  roadside.  TbisNo-man'sland  isorwas 
repudiated  by  the  adjacent  parishes  of  Loughton,  Woughton,  and 
Simpsioii,  which  all  meet  here.  It  is  traditionally  asserted  that  on 
■  Col«,  (irt*  17  ss. 


468 


The  GeutUntan'i  Maffastne. 


this  land,  disowned  ai  it  wu  uid  tfactefoce  free  from  the  ]iirtscBctioa 
of  parish  auihutities,  Ou«li  and  prue  GgbU  could  be,  and  woe, 
faroughi  to  a  conduuon  by  the  combaitnta  in  "  peace  and  quictncA.^ 
About  a  mile  from  Ricklcy  Wood,  that  is,  raUier  more  than  thm 
miles  from  >'cnn)'  Stratford,  we  two  roods  mctrting  the  high  road  at 
r^t  angles,  the  road  on  the  south  tide  going  to  Shenlcjr  and  the  ooe 
on  the  north  to  Loughton,  Watling  Street  being  the  bonndaiy  line 
between  ibeac  paiithcs.  Shimlcy  Church  is  situated  on  a  modenie 
eminence  about  a  quatter  of  a  mile  from  the  road,  cniciform,  with 
central  town  and  of  chiefly  Notnuui  and  Transitional  Nonnao  utiii* 
lecture.  It  is  well  ¥torth  a  visit,  being  in  excellent  repair  and  wdl 
eared  for.  Though  the  parish  register  docs  not  begin  until  1653,  it 
aflbrds  abundant  evidence  of  ihc  life  on  the  road  and  the  dangcn  of 
tiavdling.  Looghton  Church  it  about  half  a  mile  from  the  notlli 
side  of  the  rood  ;  the  register  commences  1707  and  contains  leva 
cnlrie*  bearing  on  the  highway. 

Shenley:  "  i66>.  Margaret  WoUon  brought  to  this  par.  with 
s  pass  and  dyed  aitd  bur.  August  »."  This  entry  is  a  sample  tf 
a  frcqucnily  recurring  incldeni.  the  death  of  a  pauper  during  hit 
journey  to  his  place  of  legal  settlement.  Again  in  "  t&^^  James 
Bayly  passed  toStockford  in  Arexhire  by  Mr.  Will.  Oxton,  itfayor 
of  Sl  Albans,  bur.  November  9,"  and  "  t6So,  Roger,  a  ntgrani 
pson,  bur,  by  yc  constable  July  ult.,"  &c.  "1741,  January  18. 
Eliz.,  »ife  of  Richard  Rogers,  dying  excommunicate,  was  pu 
into  tlw  ground."  Seven)  similar  entries  occur,  probably  of 
Dincnten- 

Tbe  scourge  chiefly  dreaded,  after  tlic  plague  last  \-isited  these 
islands,  was  the  smallpox ;  persons  suOerii^  from  it  were  shunocd 
as  the  ncxt>quoted  entry,  which  Is  not  unique,  ihows.  "1748, 
November  38.  A  stranger  was  buried,  who  in  the  affidavit  before  Mr. 
Thomson  is  called  Tliomas  Davis,  a  drover.  He  was  reported  to 
have  been  sent  with  the  smallpox  out  in  his  face,  &c.,  in  a  cruel 
and  fraudulent  mamtcr,  and  to  han  been  placed  in  ^Vidow  Kent's 
bam  at  the  said  'Cow'  alehouse  in  the  night  15-36.  Being  not 
admitted  into  bcr  house,  he  died  through  inhumanity  on  the  ijtb. 
Attested  by  Matthew  Knapp,  Rector." 

or  people  found  dead  on  the  road  entries  abound,  r^.  "1768, 
Febmary  i&.  A  wonun  stranger  who  died  on  the  rood,  buried  " ;  and 
the  penalties  inflicted  by  the  law  are  recorded  in  the  following 
eataiaples :  "  1 745.  March  38  :  Richard  Parsons,  who  was  hanged  at 
Aykdmry  on  March  j6,  was  buried  " ;  and  "  1793,  September  30. 
Baptited  Rebecca,  illegilimaie  daughter  of  Jane,  the  wife  of  Edward 


I 


Wailing  Strtel  in  Btu&s, 


459 


I 


Smith,  confined  in  the  hutks  at  Woolwich,  he  hsnng  been  trans- 
ported  to  Botany  Bay  above  a  year.     Bora  ScptcnbcT  ij." 

Sbentey  is  and  was  but  a  small  village.  In  1711  the  population 
was  only  150^  and  in  1750  there  were  eighty-five  families  in  the 
parish,  but  a  portion  only  would  live  in  the  village  by  the  church. 

Loughton  was  probably  smaHcr  and  appears  to  have  obtained 
less  custom  from  the  traffic  on  the  road  ;  but  in  1749,  "John  Smith 
or  Hampslead  in  the  county  Middlesex  (being  taken  dead  out  of  the 
Ashbourn  wagon)  buryed  June  15." 

From  Shcnlcy  to  Stony  Stratford  the  south  side  of  Walling  Succt 
is  bounded  bj*  the  parish  of  Calvcrton.  The  church  is  viwbic  from  the 
road  at  one  spot,  but  there  is  no  direct  road  to  it  and  the  vilbgc,  and 
litis  dilhcully  of  access  easily  accounts  for  the  few  entries  in  the 
register,  which  l>egins  early  1559,  dealing  with  the  highway.  In 
1711  the  popul.ttion  was  250,  or  fil^y  families.  In  i6fii  "a  vagrant, 
being  sent  hiih<^  by  a  pass,  d)'ed  and  was  buried."  In  1711  is  a  list 
oT  thirty. four  paupers  who  received  com  and  money,  December  it. 

In  1695  is  recorded  the  death  from  sinaII|)ox  and  the  burial  the 
same  day  of  an  infant  sister  of  Dr.  Browne  Willis,  and  a  few  weeks 
later  the  burial  of  "  a  poor  traTclter  upon  tlie  roade." 

After  passing  the  cemetery  on  the  right-hand  side  of  tlie  road, 
and  descending  a  slight  slope,  one  enter*  Stony  Sliatford.  The  town 
of  Stony  Stratford  is  arranged  on  either  side  of  the  road  for  about 
a  mile,  and  ma  the  onljr  town  in  the  county  with  two  churches, 
there  being  originally  two  parishes,  that  on  the  cast  side  being  St 
Mary  Magdalen  and  that  on  the  west  St.  GQcs.  The  register  begins 
about  1619,  and  conuins  various  notices  about  the  two  parishes, 
which  had  each  its  register ;  the  books  were  kept  apparently  sorae- 
linKS  by  one  official  and  sometimes  by  two.  In  1653  the  Act 
directing  the  election  of  dvil  registrars  by  the  parishioners  took  effect, 
and  John  Godfrey,  "cbrdie,"  being  for  the  moment  in  a  lyrical 
mood,  thus  records  it : — 

So«  6u  go**  ihU  Rcg^M  bookc  foe  both  rido, 
(ot  ao  Act  <i  pMlkmrnt  clolb  <lcvid«*. 
Wbesrfgre  Uiej  a  dcw  RccUtei  Bmke  doth  suJie, 
AoA  cbrwM  ui  olber  mut  the  ume  to  uttdctlakc 
Thui  1  from  thii  Labor  on  th«  Woi  Bd«  ioi«c. 
And  pcwMdc  00  the  Kut  wJe  in  Loue  snd  Pwce. 

fn  166a,  "Thomas  Godfrey,  Junier,  of  Stonistratlbid,  who  by 
the  major  pan  of  the  town  was  choose  to  be  clerk  and  p''* 
Register  of  both  sides,"  &c.  This  at  once  intimates  tlie  eccle- 
siastical result  of  the  Restoration,  the  death  of  the  late  clerk,  and 


470 


Tk4  Gentiematis  Afagcadtu. 


lbs  tppfoubing  union  of  tlie  two  parishes.     Bcfote  1676^  ocillfl 
chnrcb  bad  any  settled  maintenance,  and  ibe  minister  was  cboifl 
\rf  twelve  of  the  principa]  inbabitants.     In  that  year  the  united 
benefice  was  endowed  with  j^ao  per  annum  by  Edmund  Anwitd, 
Em}.  ;  this  nucleus  has  been  augmented  at  t'srious  times. 

St.  Mat/s  Qiurch  was  destroyed  by  fire  io  1743,  and  not  rebuilt, 
and  a  few  yean  later  St  Giles's  was  rebuilt — all  but  the  tower.  The 
register  has  ihb  record  :  "  The  parish  church  of  St.  Giles  In  Stony 
Slratfoid  was  on  Monday  ye  4  of  March,  A.a  1776,  b^un  to  be 
taken  down,  in  order  to  be  rebuilt,  the  Pahih  of  St  Maiy 
Magdalen  (the  church  destroyed  by  a  fire  in  1741),  having  been 
united  to  that  of  St.  Giles  in  1775.  llie  Foundations  of  the  New 
Church  was  begim  April  5th,  1776,  the  same  day  betns  Good 
FHday-(0. 

On  May  19,  1736,  lifly-three  houses  were  burned  at  Stony; 
and  on  May  6,  1741,  113  houses  and  St.  Mark's  Church  ;  large 
collections  were  made  for  the  last,  as  the  damage  was  estimated  at 
^10,000.  Tbe  eighteenih  .century  equivalent  for  the  modem 
"  Mansion  House  Fund  "  was  the  "  brief,"  and  by  briefs  the  paUic 
was  able  to  show  sympathy  for  disaster.  In  1743  for  the  loss  at 
Stony  11,550  briefs  produced  ^^4,193  15'.  3J</.,  arxi  ^£3,000  was 
collected  in  the  neighbourhood.  Cole  says  that,  as  many  folk  over- 
stated their  losses,  he  docs  not  think  they  sufTcrcd  very  much  on 
the  whole.  Dr.  Browne  Willis  repaired  St  Mar)''i  tower  at  his  own 
espcnse,  and  gave  ^f  10  to  the  fire  fund,  and  collected  £foi\  from  his 
London  friends. 

St.  Mary's  Church  stood  at  the  nortltem  extremity  of  the  town, 
and  the  Eleanor  Memorial  Cross,  which  was  destroyed  dunt^  the 
Great  Rebellion,  stood  near  this  church  atKl  opposite  to  the  Horse 
Shoe  inn. 

This  church,  before  1686,  had  a  ring  of  four  bells,  when  one 
Mr.  Piercy  Langrache,  who  was  steward  to  the  Longucville  family, 
of  the  neighbouring  parish  of  Wolvcrton,  gave  a  treble  bell  in- 
scribed:— 

Thai  Monmouth  and  his  rebelli  MI, 
I,  dcTMjF  Ijtn|[n«hr,  pvc  this  bcIL 


The  demonstrative  loyaKy  of  thb  inscription  was  a  piece  of 
political  precipitancy  on  the  part  of  the  donor  which  he  had  cause 
to  regret,  for  the  "  glorious  revolution  '  following  a  few  months  later 
catjsed  the  inscription  to  be  hostilely  reflected  on  by  the  statmch 
Protestants.     So,  in  order  loacquit himself,  Mr.  Lar^rachepromoted 


Watlini  Strtet  in  Bucks. 


47  < 


the  Fccasting  of  the  five  bells  into  six  about  16S9.  He.  how- 
erer,  escaped  all  future  embunssmcnt  b)'  death,  and  was  buried  in 
the  church,  February  15,  16S9-90L 

BefOTe  railways.  Stony  Stratford  was  a  place  of  some  imporiance 
on  ihc  road  ;  Iherc  were  many  innn,  and  probably  iiaveUers  preferred 
to  put  up  here  to  any  of  the  places  mentionc'd  in  this  article.  The 
"  Red  L)-on  "  is  first  mentioned  in  the  le^stci  in  "  1656,  June  10. 
Edmuitd,  son  of  &lmund  May,  a  little  child  that  dyed  at  the  Red 
Lyon,  a  stranger,  buried."  The  "  Crowne"  is  mentioned  in  1666, 
the  "  Horee  Shoe  "  in  1670 ;  the  "  Swann,"  "  Cock,"  "  Bell,"  "  Old 
Beawi"  "  Talbott,"  "  King's  Head,"  "  White  Horse,"  and  the  "  Rose 
and  Crown"  all  occur  before  1700.  The  "Cock,"  "Crowne," 
"  Red  Lion,"  *'  White  Horse,"  and  '■  King's  Head "  ate  signs  still 
in  use. 

In  1641  there  was  a  great  mortality  Iiere — orer  a  hundred  burials 
— plague  probably  the  cause;  in  1657-S  there  were  outbreaks  in 
various  places,  but  Stony  Stratford  escaped.  There  were  only  sucteen 
buriab  in  St  Giles's,  and  about  the  same  at  St.  Mary's  in  1665,  when 
London  was  dc\'asiated. 

Iju^e-making  as  an  indtistry  was  introduced  into  Buckingham- 
shire b)'  Kemish  refugees  about  1616.  Of  its  imponanc:  there  is 
DO  doubt ;  the  very  frequent  mention  in  ibc  registers  of  not  only 
"  bco-mftkers  "  but  "  Uce-buyers "  and  mctcharits  is  evidence  of  the 
considerable  trade  done;  r.g.  Blvtchley,  1700.  James  Crosby,  a 
Scotch  lacc-buyer,  &c.  In  Stony  Stratfoid  is  entered  on  the  fly-leaf: 
"  For  the  use  of  Rich.  Hatch  and  Kaih.  Hatch.  Lais  sent  at  an 
adventure  to  Vii^nia  in  October  1701,  to  Mr.  Jon.  Hatch  ";  then 
follows  a  list  of  certain  laces,  with  priors  amounting  to  £i.  ijs.  111/., 
signed  Rich.  Hatch,  Minister  and  Register.  Mr.  J.  Hatch  may 
have  been  the  John  Hatch,  p"**  register  of  1656.  The  result  of 
this  adventure  is  not  enterrd  ;  perhaps  the  exporter  did  not  live  to 
find  out,  as  in  1703,  September  31,  Mr.  Richard  Hatch,  minister  of 
this  town,  was  buried. 

Except  perhaps  the  road  to  Portsmouth,  no  high«-ay  wns  so 
much  used  by  troops  on  the  nuuch  kk  Wailing  Street ;  conxtntctcd 
In  the  fir»t  place  for  military  reasons,  it  has  probably  had  a  brger 
number  of  soldiers  pass  along  its  surface  than  any  other  rood  in 
Great  Britain.  There  is  copious  evidence  of  this  siivce  1 700 ;  before 
that  date  military  entries  in  the  registers  refer  chiefly  to  the  Civil 
Via.t~-*.g.  Little  Brickhill,  1644.  Mr.  Williams,  a  souldyer  of  the 
Ring's  army,  was  slaync  by  the  Parliament  souldyers,  August  37,  and 
btirycd  here  the  same  dayc. 


472 


The  Gtnthmans  Magazine. 


1740.  Rowland,  son  of  Rowland  Davis,  cotporai  In  Brif^dier 
Wctunonh's  n^mcnt,  c.  in  Capt.  Ilarman's  company  aboard  ihe 
Mtt^genl  man-of-war  at  Spiihtad,  bnpt.  October  5.  Thi*  entry 
form  a  sort  oT  link  betvrccn  the  commonplace  and  history;  iti 
detail  txings  us  in  touch  with  boih  Army  and  Navy. 

1808.  November  17.  John  I'otrester,  of  the  loth  Regiment  d 
ArtilleT)-,  kill'd  liy  £Uling  iiQia  an  artilleiy  wa^'n  wb.  went  ox-er  him 
(Shenley). 

iSia  January  5.  Cur.  Thomas  Wudner,  a  printe  of  the  tojrd 
Foot,  who  bang  hiinxflf  in  this  parish  ist  tmrt.  Verdict,  hmacy ; 
age  13  (Ixxighion). 

1795.  Qtr.-maslcr  of  yA  Dragoon  Guards  Uir. 

1775.  Two  soldiers  of  69th  Rest.  bur. 

1740.  William  Uarlow,  a  marine,  bur.  (Stony  Siratibcd). 

1794.  Three  men  of  90th  R<^l.  bur. 

iSoo.  A  yeoDuut  infanltyman  bur. ;  also  a  soldier  aged  sixly-sii, 
aitd  a  sergeant  aged  filly  (ivc  bur.  (I'enny  Stratford). 

The  above  are  but  sclcciions  from  many  Mmilar  entries,  the 
details  of  which  would  go  a  long  way  toK'ards  reconstructing  the 
military  organisation  of  the  past,  and  form  filaments  of  uoioA 
between  the  obscure  and  quiet  life  of  inland  villages  and  baookts 
with  the  great  historic  events  that  have  influenced  our  national 
htstof)-.  Stony  Stratford  register  has  a  wr)-  large  number  of  such 
records. 

The  last-named  parish  always  possessed  a  conudetable  popo' 
lation-lhat  is,  compared  with  adjacent  places.  In  1547  there  were 
600  bouseling  people — that  is,  contmunicants— which  would  mean  a 
total  po[>ulalion  of  at  IcaM  1,100,  perhaps  1,800.  After  the  Res- 
toration the  number  of  Diuenters  was  large,  and  the  burials  at  the 
"  meeting -house,"  though  entered  in  the  church  register  because  of 
the  \n  for  burial  in  woollen,  are  spectalbed.  During  the  Common- 
wealth the  Anabaptin*  appear  lo  lave  been  the  dominant  sect,  c^. 
October  15,  1653,  Richard  Goodman,  p''*  register  of  Stony  Sir,, 
approved  l>y  me.     Wm.  Hartley,  Anabaptist. 

The  following  items  hwt  interest  and  explain  themselves  ;— 

1665.  Old  K nock .tt one,  the  )iavicr,  bur.  August  ■>. 

1709,  August  13.  Kaihi:rino,  daughter  of  a  poor  Palatine,  bur. 

1789,  November  i.  Thos.  William,  son  of  John  ar>d  Grace 
Hinde,  strolling  plaj'crs,  bapi. 

■73^  December  3&  Susanna  Stairs,  widow,  excommunicated,  bur. 

1768,  August  ».  A  young  lad  kill'd  by  a  waggon,  name  un- 
nown,  bui. 


I 


Watiing  Strtei  in  Bweks.  473 

1777.  Samuel  and  Admiral,  twin  sons  of  Daoiel  and  Susanna 
Benbow,  bapL 

1 784.  A  poor  man  brought  by  a  pass,  bur. 

1784.  AsaSor;  1786.  Amail  guard;  1791.  A  coachman,  bur. 

1703,  February  31.  Old  Thomas  Brown,  the  Blew  Man,  bur. 

The  above  are  samples  only  of  the  obscure  chronicles  of  a  road, 
every  yard  of  which,  during  the  last  two  thousand  years,  must  have 
claimed  a  life. 

An  entry  or  two  concerning  a  "  waterman  "  draw  attention  to 
the  River  Ouse,  which  flows  by  the  north  end  of  the  town ;  and  by 
crossing  this  by  the  bridge,  which  long  ago  rendered  useless  the 
stepping-stones  in  the  ford,  the  traveller  leaves  Buckinghamshire 
and  enters  the  county  of  Northampton, 

WILLUU   BRADBROOR' 


474 


Tks  Gtntlenums  Magazine. 


THE    CANON   LAW  AND    ITS 
AUTHORITY  IN  ENGLAND. 


THE  Canon  Law  sprang  up  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  Rninu 
Emjtin;,  and  fix>fn  the  power  of  the  Roman  PoniilT*.  la 
origin  b  said  to  bv  coe%'al  with  the  foundiDg  of  Chhstiantty  tindd 
the  Apostles  and  their  immediate  aucceasors,  who  ue  supposed  to 
hare  Inuned  oeitain  rules  or  canons  Tor  the  goTcmment  of  tbe 
Church.  These  are  called  the  Af&shiUal  Canom ;  and  altboogh 
It  cannot  be  proved  that  tltey  were  drawn  up  b)'  the  Apostles,  jct 
we  hare  erety  reaKin  to  bdie%'e  that  they  belong  to  a  wry  earij 
period  of  ecclesiastical  history.  These  rules  were  sabsequendy 
enUiged  and  explained  by  the  General  Councils  of  Nice,  Conitan> 
dnople,  Cphcius,  and  Chalccdon  (which  were  held  at  different  timet 
to  the  fourth  and  liflh  centuries),  and  received  the  sanction  of  the 
secular  power  by  a  law  of  the  Emperor  Justinian  (Norcl.  tji,  ch.  i). 
The  decision  of  ecclesiastical  controversies  which  could  not  be 
drawn  from  the  Councils  »aA  the  Fathers  was  sought  for  fiom  the 
Roman  Pontifls,  who  wrote  answers  to  those  that  coasultcd  them 
in  the  same  manner  as  the  Roman  Emperors  had  been  accustomed 
to  do ;  and  their  determinations  were  called  raeripfs  ar>d  dtenUU 
tpistlet,  which  obtained  the  force  of  kw.  The  dtcrtes  were  eccle- 
siastical constitutions  made  by  the  Pope  and  Cardiitals,  ai  the  suit 
of  no  man. 

In  scientific  merit  the  Canon  Law  of  the  Church  of  Rome  standi 
br  behind  the  Pandetls,  otherwise  termed  the  I^igfti,  of  Justinian, 
the  Roman  Emperor.  The  Popes,  Councils,  and  Fathers  forbid  am) 
enjoin,  persuade  and  disapprove^  merely  ;  tliey  know  nothing  of  that 
refined  analysis  which  distinguishes  the  classical  jurists,  aad  which 
renders  the  iragmoits  of  them  that  we  possess  to  well  worth  tha 
study  of  a  lawyer,  even  when,  as  with  ourselves,  they  hare  no  practical 
bearing  on  (be  system  he  himself  is  conrcrsant  with.  On  die  other 
hand,  the  Papal  collection  is  a  most  important  historical  monument  ; 
it  sums  up  in  itself  one  great  phase  of  development  in  the  European 
mind ;  it  is  a  great,  rccoid  a.'n&  a.  ^«u.  Vcvuttv. 


d 


The  CoHOK  Law  and  its  Authority  in  England.  475 


» 


I 


Betvecn  the  years  1139  and  1141  Graiian,  a  CamaklolcM:  monk 
of  the  Abbey  of  Si.  FelU  at  Bologna,  conceived  and  cxecuttd,  it  if 
said  at  the  su(;ge«ion  of  Sl  Bernard,  a  compilation  which  was 
intended  to  be  for  the  Canon  Law  what  that  of  Justinian  was  for 
the  Ronian  Empire,  and  so  to  enable  the  new  science  lo  take 
its  place  on  an  equal  footing  in  the  studies  gf  the  unit'ersity.  His 
plan  was  to  form  such  a  digest  of  the  law  actually  in  force  in  the 
ecclesiastical  tribunals  as  might  be  adapted  to  practical  use,  both 
in  the  forum  and  the  schools,  eliminating  ail  antiquated  matter, 
except  where  it  might  be  necessary  fof  the  understanding  of 
existing  institutions.  The  work  met  nith  success  beyond  all  that 
its  Author  could  reasonably  have  anticipated ;  it  was  lectured  upon, 
oommented  upon,  and  very  soon  came  to  be  untrenally  received  as 
the  authentic  text  of  the  law  as  in  force  at  the  date  of  its  appearance. 
Gnttan's  wotk  was  called  "  CocKordantia  Discordantium  Canonum," 
but  soon  became  known  as  "Dccreium  Gratiani,"  or,  yet  more 
simply,  "  Dccrctum."  It  is  a  great  law-book,  and  the  spirit  which 
animated  its  author  was  not  that  ola  theologian,  nor  that  of  an  eccle- 
siastical ruler,  but  that  of  a  lawyer.  The  "  Dccrctum  "  soon  became 
an  authoritative  text-book,  and  the  Canonists  seldom  went  behind 
it  it  nevcf  became  titatttd  law ;  but  the  Canonists  had  for  it  rather 
that  reverence  which  EngUsh  lawycn  have  paid  to  "Coke  upon 
Littleton  "  than  that  utter  submission  which  is  due  to  every  clause 
of  a  statute. 

Gratian's  work  is  divided  into  three  parts,  and  treats  in  the  fini 
of  ecclesiastical  legislation.  Church  government,  and  the  relations  of 
Church  and  State.  This  pan  is  divided  into  101  JUfinetions  or 
sections,  each  containing  a  greater  or  less  number  of  rtm^n/— that 
is  to  say,  of  passages  purporting  to  be  textually  extracted  from  the 
ortgiittl  sources  of  compilation.  The  sceoiid  part  contains  the  bw 
relating  to  jurisdiction  and  jHocedure,  the  doctrine  of  ecclesiastical 
oScoccs  and  punishments,  that  of  marriage,  and  indeed  that  upon 
most  of  the  subjects  which  could  properly  form  matter  of  conlcntiota 
jurisdiction.  The  mode  of  arrangement  here  is  different  Thirty- 
six  amt  {(OHsa)  are  stated  and  decided ;  under  each  case  arc  pro- 
pounded the  qtmtiOHS  of  faiw  involved  in  it,  upon  which  texts,  or 
tatumi,  are  then  brought  lo  bear,  with  illustrative  comments  oc- 
casionally interspersed.  The  Mni  part  chiefly  relates  to  the 
Sacraments  and  other  matters  of  purely  religiotis  import;  it  is 
distributed  into  five  diuinctions,  but  conuins  linle  or  nothing  of 
comment  by  the  compiler  himself.  TIk  individual  canons  are 
derived  from  the  most   multifarious   sources:  from  the  Old  and 


's  Afagazine. 


the  viiungs  of  ibeFstei 

Law,  and  the  Funk  aBf» 

gsrbled,    ttude  ip  i 

to  other  tkulham 

wok  «»  the  reconcilMBl  rf 

the  tnioe  of  "CoocoriMii 

'  ipve  a  fresh  tmpube  to  ^ 

tritninals  daitjr  pnibed  As 

in  of  civil  juricdictia^ Ai 

aad  with  tbena  ibc  decnnltl 

of  rescripts  addreaed  V 

a  nf>^  to  their  own  request  fv  ik 

■be  rompfciini  of  pama  alkn 

«|Be«tions  thus  rabed  «tR  i* 

a  k^ad  of  Hiaaue  jodiouU  committee,  uddi 

of  decretal  efristlea  liM  k 

k^  lai  aack  the  nine  kind  of  mtta^* 

■  OTE  on  COQTtS. 

i^Mttsaoe  of  these  nmhoriiieiiMi 
t»  be  aade^  snd  about  fifty  yews  ih 
'  a  compilation  by  Bcnnrf ' 
dKRtahttbe  dccrcoi  of  the  third Cavi 
ef  older  matter  omitted  by  GiDiK 
adopted  by  the  kW  ' 
gloaaed,    and    cited.     Subieqirt 
WOT  pabbhcd  by  lonocem  IIL  and  by  HoootiotlB 
In  i«54  iftnand  the  digaa    now    known    as    the    "Deodife 
Gicgon  IX,'  wlaeh  mnliliwra  the  second  great  dtviston  cf  t> 
enbng  Canon  Law.    The  anangemeot  of   Bernard  was  ittnNl ' 
bat  nry    coosidaaUe    Ubcniei  were  taken  with    the   text.    1^ ' 
obfca  was  to  pcoduce  a  complete  supplement  to  the  "DcciclA* 
in  which  all  the  nailer  ovcfkMikcd  by  Craiian,  all  tliat  was  fit* 
qocDt  to  hia  compilatioa,  should  be  insetted,  with  the  omtsnon  (f '  I 
that  was  antiquated,  or  eootradictoty,  or  superfluous.    Gregory's  vot 
comprised  fire  hooH  and  was  an  aulbotiiative  statute-book ;  ilAc 
decrelabofBga>era]  impott  that  bad  Dot  been  received  En  HM 
thereby  repealed,  and  every  sentence  and  every  rubric  that  it  <*  | 
taJncd  was  law. 

'ihe  next  portion  of  the  exiit)n$  Canon  Law  is  that  pubtithedif  I 
Boniface  VUI.  in  119S,  under  the  title  of  "Liber  Sextus  Dccielifiia' 
(popularly  called  the  "Sext*^  hut  itself  figain  divided  into  Avebodk 


The  Canon  Laxu  and  its  Authority  in  England.  477 


and 


following 


in  its  dbtfibution  and 


I 


I 


the  Decretals 

of  Gregory,  to  whicli  Jt  it  a  uipplcinenL  The  "  ScxI  "  contains  an 
after  gleaning  of  ancient  dccrt-tals,  together  with  all  those  published 
since  the  great  collection  nhicli  were  to  be  consideied  as  still  in 
force,  as  is  expressly  provided  b)-  live  bull  of  promulgation  ;  it  also 
conuins  (he  decree*  of  two  so-called  general  rouiKiU  The  new 
compilation  was  promutgnlcd  at  KomCi  tn  a  consiktoty  of  car- 
dinals, before  being  sent  to  Paris  ftnd  Bolt^na,  hitherto  the  usual 
method  of  publication  ;  the  pretension  to  a  strictly  legislativo 
power  being  thus  put  forward  more  distinctly,  just  at  the  i>cry 
moment  when  public  opinion  vns  becoming  less  disposed  to 
recognise  it.  A  further  supplement,  similarly  divided  and  arranged, 
is  Vnown  as  the  " Conslitutioncs Clcmcnlinic," or  "Clementines"  ;  it 
was  published  in  1313,  by  Clement  V.,  and  is  said  to  have  been  by 
him  Iransmilted  to  the  tuiiversiiy  of  Orleans ;  it  was  not,  however, 
ofBdalty  forwarded  to  I^s  and  Bologna  until  1317,  by  his  successor, 
John  XXII.  The  matter  of  the  "Oemenlines"  is  chiefly  drawn 
from  the  decrees  of  the  Council  of  Vicnne,  held  by  Clement  in  131 1, 
with  a  few  decretals  of  the  same  Pope.  It  is  merely  a  collec- 
tion or  republication  of  what  it  contains  \  it  docs  not  pretend  to  be 
a  compk-ie  supplement  to  (he  former  collcctioits,  much  less  to  abro- 
gate such  constitutions  as  vrcre  subsequent  to  them,  though  not 
contained  in  it.  The  I'apal  power  was  now  evidently  beginning  to 
CUtcr,  and  the  Pope  did  not  venture  to  command  where  it  was  highly 
probable  he  might  not  be  obeyed.  Tlie  "Scxt"  and  "Clementinvt," 
however,  met  with  ihc  same  reception  as  the  collection  of  Ctcgoiy, 
and  form,  together  with  that  and  the  "  Uccrclum,"  ihc  whole  of  the 
"  Corpus  Juris  Canonici,"  strictly  so  called.  No  official  collection 
has  since  been  published,  and  all  documents,  of  whatsoever  kind, 
not  contained  in  those  already  mentioned  arc  in  so  fat  only 
authoritative  as  they  have  been  received  for  «ich,  either  in  the 
(rhuich  gcnciatly  or  in  particular  Churches,  There  arc,  indeed, 
two  private  collections,  the  one  known  as  the  "  Extrava^antes 
Jobannis  XXII.,"  the  other  as  the  "  Exuavasantcs  Communes," 
which  are  always  printed  with  the  "  Corpus  Juria  (.'ai>onici,"  aiKJ  ore 
con'.ntonJy,  in  a  looser  sense,  spoken  of  as  fonnii^  |)art  of  it ;  but 
ibcy  ow«  their  origin  to  the  early  editors  merely,  who  collected  at 
undom  what  they  could  find  of  wandering  ordinances.  Htstoiically, 
manyof  the  documents  contained  in  them  arc  of  the  highest  interest; 
the  celebrated  bull  "  Unam  Sancum  "  is  one  of  them. 

These  four  compilations— the  "Dccretum,"  the  "  liecrelah  of 
Crcgoty,"  the  "  Sew,"  and  the  "  Clementines  "—  very  soon  came  to  be 


478 


GentUmatfs 


r^arded  as  forming  a  whole,  a  body  of  Co 
to  local  cuKtoms  and  statutes  on  the  one 
diapoottons  not  contained  in  tbcm  on  the  c 

Spclnaan  saj^  that  the  decrees  and  caao 
were  adopted,  as  tfaey  then  existed,  by  t 
England  as  earij  as  a.i>.  605,  sooo  affa 
Chrisdaniljr  in  the  country.  Besides  the 
hare  our  "  l^gatine  "  and  "  Provincial  '*  C 
the  exigencies  of  the  English  Church.  O 
codesiastical  ta«-s  jitomulgatcd  by-  the  Card 
legates  front  Pope  Gregory  IX.  in  the  tei 
"  PKA'indal  Constitutions  '  were  decrees  o 
under  divers  Aichbtshops  of  Canterbury,  fin 
the  reign  of  Henry  III,  to  Henry  Chi 
Henry  V.,  and  adopted  also  by  the  province 
Henry  VI. 

With  respect  to  these  canons,  tl  was  pre 
Refornialion,  by  the  statute  35  Henr)-  VIIL, 
by  I  Philip  and  Mary,  c  8,  but  revived  by  t '. 
sImuM  be  reviewed  by  the  King  and  ccrtd 
appointed  under  the  Act,  but  that  until  such 
all  canons,  constitutions,  and  syrK>dals  provii 
made  and  not  repugnant  to  the  law  of  the  li 
gative,  should  still  be  uied  and  executed, 
pbioe  in  Henry's  time;  but  the  project  fba 
canons  was  revived  in  the  rdgn  of  Edward 
Ecclesiastical  Law  was  drawn  up  under  a  oc 
the  Crown,  under  ibc  statute  3  and  4  Edwarc 
the  name  of  "  Refonnatio  Legom  Ecclesiasdi 
lion  of  this  was  prevented  by  the  premature 
although  the  project  for  a  review  of  the 
renewed  in  Elizabeth's  reign,  it  was  speedil 
sinoe  been  renewed.  The  consequence  of 
the  English  canons  nude  previously  to  the 
as  is  not  repugnant  to  the  Common  or  Sta' 
is  still  in  force  in  this  country.  It  was,  h* 
Court  of  King's  Bench  tliat  canons  of  tl»e  Ca 
in  1603  (which,  though  confirmed  by  the  K 
sanction  of  Parliament)  do  not  (except  so  (ai 
of  the  ancient  Canon  Law)  bind  the  laity  of  t 
V.  Croft,  Suange's  Rep,  1,056).  It  was  ad 
wicke,  in  delivering  judgment  in  the  above-m 


The  Canon  Law  and  its  Authority  in  England.  479 

clergy  !tr«  bound  by  all  the  canons  which  are  confinn«d  by  the 
King. 

The  revival  of  the  study  of  the  Roman  Civil  l^w  towards  the 
beginning  of  the  tweiflh  century  is  without  question  one  of  the 
most  memorable  circumstances  in  the  history  of  modern  Europe. 
Throughout  a  very  considerable  portion  of  Europe  the  Civil  Law  was 
admitted  as  of  direct  authority,  and  even  in  those  countries  where 
it  was  made  subservient  to  the  existing  national  legislation  it  was 
appealed  to  generally  as  a  guide,  if  not  as  a  rule,  in  cases  for  which 
the  municipal  law  had  made  no  prtn-ision.  There  is,  perhaps,  no 
circumstance  connected  with  the  renovation  of  the  Civil  Law  mote 
remarkable  than  the  rapidity  with  which  it  was  adopted  and,  as  it 
were,  became  naturalised  among  the  very  nations  where  it  had  for 
some  centuries  past  been  gradually  falling  into  disuse  and  oblivion. 

During  the  long  period  of  darkness  and  barbarism  which  had 
succeeded  the  subversion  of  the  Roman  Empire  the  moat  valuable 
and  authentic  monuments  of  its  jurisprudence  bad  disappeared. 
Fragments  of  the  legislation  of  Imperial  Rome  were  indeed  extant, 
and  in  some  instances  obtained  the  force  of  law,  in  many  more 
preserved  the  authority  of  custom.  The  Bucgundians,  the  Goths, 
and  the  Wisigoths,  on  establishing  themselves  in  the  South  of  Europe, 
bad  retained  a  portion  of  the  laws  and  institutions  previously  in  use 
among  such  of  the  imperial  possessions  as  they  had  subjugated. 

It  has  sometimes  been  hastily  and  inconsiderately  advanced  that 
all  traces  of  the  Civil  Law  of  Rome  liad  absolutely  disappeared  after 
the  general  irruption  of  the  barbarians  into  the  Roman  territory. 
But  this  opinion  is  refuted  by  the  best  historical  testimony.  The 
Roman  Law,  incorporated  and  amalgamated  with  that  of  the  Oennan 
nations,  probably  maintained  its  influence  as  prescriptive  custom 
after  its  immediate  authority,  as  derived  from  the  Codes  of  Alaiic 
and  other  barbarian  legislators,  had  ceased  to  be  cither  respected 
or  acknowledged.  Some  shocks  it  undoubtedly  received  from  the 
feudal  system,  but  (except  in  the  West  Gothic  Empire,  where  it  was 
expressly  annulled)  its  general  validity  was  never  directly  impugned. 
That  some  portion  of  it,  therefore,  and  probably  a  very  consider- 
able one,  sunk  into  desuetude  is  a  Eact  to  be  attributed  solely  to  the 
gradual  innovations  introduced  by  other  systems  and  to  the  effects 
of  time,  which  in  those  unlettered  ages  often  consigned  mere  acts  of 
positive  l^islation  to  rapid  and  premature  neglect. 

If  it  could  be  admitted  tliat  ttie  Civil  Law  of  Rome  had  fallen  into 
coinplete  disuse  before  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  it  would 
follow  almost  as  a  necessary  consequence  that  the  study  of  it  must 


48o 


'i'ht  GenUnnaJts  Magazine. 


have  been  iltogether  laid  Knde  ;  and  according))-  Uiocc  wlio  bcliere 
in  tbc  absolute  extinction  of  the  Kotnan  jurUprudcncc  on  have  no 
difficulty  in  giving  credit  lo  ibe  accoaais  rticb  rcpri»ent  il  aiwboOy 
unknown  to  the  teamed  until  the  diiocivery   of  the   Pandects  oT 
Justinian.     But  Indqiendent  or  the  bet  that  the  authority  oT  the 
Roman  I^«r  was  never  wholly  inralidatod,  and  t^  the  infercnoe 
which  may  thence  be  dnwn  thai  ihe  study  of  it  was  ne\'cr  wtioOy 
neglected,  there  is  vaj  laUs&ctory  evidence  to  disprove  such  a  sup- 
poiition.     In  Savigny**  learned  and  elabonte  Histoiy  ot  the  Ronua 
Law  during  the  Middle  S%t^  »ev«ral  tenimonies  arc  collected  which 
■bow  that  the  study  was  proaecuted  in  different  aclmols  of  WcMcrn 
Eorope,  in  Engbnd  at  well  as  etsewhcre,  and,  among  other  places 
at  York,  between  the  seventh  ami  elcTcnlh  centuriea.     Thtn  aie 
also  traces  lo  be  found  of  a  Kchool  of  bw  which  existed  at  Ravenn 
in  the  clc%-cnlh  century,  and  which  Savigny  not  only  conjectures  to 
have  been  the  same   establish  mcnl  afterwards   so   celebrated  ai 
Bologna,  but  to  be  idenlical  with   the  law   Bcho<d   organised  fay 
Jvitinian  at  Rome,  whence,  indeed,  a  writer  of  the  thirteenth  century 
expressly  declares  it  to  have  been  transfcriL-d.     But  howe*«  tkii 
may  be,  il  b  very  certain  thai  for  some  time  iwcvioui  to  the  epoch 
when  the  rnndccts  are  supposed  to  have  been  brought  to  light  Ihe 
oaiversity  of  Bolojcna  had  boasted  its  professors  of  Ci\'tl  Law.    One 
PepOt  of  whom  Utile  is  kiwwn  but  the  rumc,  is  said  to  have  delrreicd 
hia  lectures  there  lo¥rards  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  and 
his  successor  or  contemporary,  the   celebrated  Imeriu^  who  has 
been  honoured  with  the  epithet  of  "illuminator  et  Incema  juria,*  it 
known  to  have  attracted  thither  a  considerable  number  of  studoils 
at  least  as  early  as  the  year  1 1 15.    The  Canonists  also  of  the  sasK 
period  availed  themselves  of  the  writings  of  the  ancient  civilians,  and 
il>e  "  Decrcluni  Canonum  "  compiled  by  Ivo  of  Chartres,  which  is 
the  earliest  work  of  importance  esiant  on  the  sul^cct  of  Canon  Law, 
makes  specific  mention  of  the  remodelled  system  of  Justinian.    The 
diMOVery  of  the  Pandccis,  tln^refore,  was  rather  the  effect  than  the 
cauM  of  the  revival  of  iltc  study  of  the  Civil  law. 

As  early  as  a.d.  1138  Archbishop  Theobald  of  Canterbury,  at 
the  instance,  perhaps,  of  his  clerk  Thomas — 1'homas,  who  was  him- 
self to  be  Chancellor,  Archbishop,  and  mart)T,  and  who  had  studied 
law  at  Bologna,  and  liad  sat,  it  may  be,  at  the  feet  of  Graiian— 
brought  over  Vacarius  and  other  learned  ecclesiastics  from  Italy  lo 
introduce  the  study  of  ihc  Civtt  and  Canon  Laws  in  Englar>d.  It 
would  (cem  that  Theobald  wished  to  have  the  help  of  a  trained 
iawjer  in  the  struggle  in  which  he  was  engaged  with  Stephen's 


Tlu  CattOH  Law  and  its  Authority  in  England.  481 


I 


I 


brother  Henry,  Bishop  of  ^Virech^tter,  wlio,  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
r^hls  of  Canterbury,  hid  obuined  the  office  of  papal  legate.  That 
Vacarius  taught  the  Civil  Law  there  can  be  no  doubt  That 
Stephen  endeavoured  to  sikrKc  him  and  to  extirpate  the  books  of 
the  Civil  and  Canon  Laws  we  are  told  upon  good  authority.  Froca 
Stephen's  reign  onirards,  the  proofs  that  the  Civil  and  Canon  Laws 
arc  being  studied  in  Engbnd  become  moie  frequent.  The  letters 
of  Archbishop  Theobald's  secretary,  John  of  Salisbury — one  of  Uie 
foremost  schokrs  of  the  age— arc  full  of  allusions  to  both  laws; 
many  of  these  occur  in  relation  to  English  ecdcsaastical  lawsuits  of 
which  John  is  forwarding  rcporu  to  the  Pope.  Maxim.t  out  of  the 
"Institutes"  or  the  "  Digest"  became  pan  of  the  stoclc-in-trade  of  the 
polite  letter -writer,  the  moralist,  and  the  historian. 

When  Archbishop  Theobald  brought  over  Vac&rius  and  other 
learned  ecclesiastics  from  Italy  to  introduce  the  study  of  the  Civil 
and  Canon  Lawa  into  England,  the  bishops  and  cicigy  of  the  day 
%-igorously  supported  the  new  system  so  favourable  to  their  order, 
tmt  the  nobility  and  Uity  geneially  adhered  to  the  old  Commcm  Law 
with  great  pertinacity.  Accordingly  we  find  that  this  system  of 
Jurisprudence  never  obtained  as  extensive  a  footing  in  this  country 
as  it  did  in  other  countries  of  Europe;  and  our  most  eminent 
lawyers,  in  all  periods  of  our  history,  have  sliown  great  unwillingness 
to  defer  to  iu  authority.  It  is  well  observed  by  BUckstone  that  all 
the  strength  "  that  citber  the  papal  or  imperial  laws  have  obtained 
in  this  realm  ...  is  only  because  the)'  have  been  admitted  and 

■  received  by  immemorial  usage  and  custom  in  some  particular  cases 
and  some  particular  courts,  and  then  they  form  part  of  the  custofoary 
law ;  or  else  because  ihcy  arc  in  some  other  cases  inUoduced  by 
consent  of  Parliament,  and  then  they  ovre  their  validity  to  the  tegts 

tsiripfa,  or  statute  bw." 
England  assimilated  less  of  the  Canon  Law  than  other  countries 
of  Europe,  or  than  she  might  hare  adopted  with  advantage.  It  was 
not  that  tiK  English  people  considered  the  Canon  Law  inferior  to 
their  own,  but  tlieir  struggles  against  appeals  to  Rome  and  other 
claims  of  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  roused  the  spirit  of  the  nation, 
and  they  stoutly  stood  Up  for  their  Common  Law,  cumbrous  ai>d 
CTco  barbarous  in  soioe  ittpecta  as  it  was,  not  because  they  thought 
Ibeir  own  perfect,  but  because  they  were  resolved  to  manage  their 
own  afEitTB  after  their  own  fashion. 

The  eiKtoachments  of  the  Church  up<m  temporal  rights  and 
authorities  were  never  encouraged  in  England.  1^  English  people, 
HJealous  of  their  natiooal  freedom,   had  a  rooted  dislike  to  Uk 
H        vot.  ccxcii.    no.  »S7.  L  t. 


I 


482 


The  Genlteman' s  Magazine, 


public  law  of  the  Roroaits,  •rtiicb  set  no  limiu  to  tbe  royal  prettfi-^ 
livo  and  pUccd  the  prince  beyond  ibe  control  of  hU  nibjecb;  and 
therefore,  when  at  various  itmcs  attetapu  were  made  in  PulancDt 
to  introduce  changes  founded  on  tbe  Roman  Law,  tbeae  tnoowuiiw 
were  nranaouxly  rcsifttcd  by  tbe   English   barons,  from  a  Band 
ai^ireheQBion  that  the>-  might  prove  injurious  to  liK  liberty  of  Ik 
subject.     The  rude  and  fierce  barons  who   composed  the  Pirtii- 
raents  of  Henry  IIL  and  Edward  I.  were  not  the  sort  ofSMBti 
relish  the  doctrines  of  passive  obedience   artd  non-resiatmcc  h 
^vishly  inculcated  by  the  decretals.     Englishmen  have,  in  all  m 
shown  a  firm  deterroinatioa  that  neither  the  national  Chiudi  nx  At 
natkma]  law  should  be  subject  to  the  Papal  It^islatioa  or  jurtidKnt 
During  the  growth  of  the  Canon  Law,  the  Cburcb  extendeiJ  ^ 
influence  into  all   deportments   of  life       Churchmen   GUed  l# 
pbccs  of  state  and  performed  the  duties  of  practJaU  lawycn,  itt 
prelates  often  exercised  civil  jurtsdiction  over  a  considenblc  OH  i 
country.      Hence  the  legislation  of  ih«  Church    embnced  w^ 
subjects  which  properly  belonged  to  municipal  law.     Ail  hib 
connected  in  the  most   distant  way  with  the  Church  tx  n6^ 
duties  were  deemed  proper  subjects  foi  disposal  by  her  tfibMk 
Tbus  ii  came  that  on  various   grounds  tbe  Church  i-itimwi  ad 
obtained  jurisdtctioo  in  matters  properly  of  a  civil  nature,  and  vm 
liraes  to  tbe  exclusion  of  (he  temporal  courts,  somcttma  in  e» 
currence  with  them,  while  in  many  respects  the  administrsmo  i 
juUice  in  the  temporal  courts  was  Lir)cely  influenced  by  ecdesitfial 
principles.      Throughout  the  Christian  world   the  exisilig  li*  i  I 
marriage  is  based  upon  the  Canon  Law  ;  it  is  from  the  Canno  L»  j 
that  the  notion  of  usury  has  passed  into  our  ideas ;   it  is  u^ 
Canon  I^w  tliat  we  must  go  back  would  we  thoroughly  t 
in  their  reasons  and  origin,  (he  forms  of  procedure,  both  dri  i 
criminal,  in  use  throughout  (he  greater  pari  of  Continetttal : 
to  say  nothing  of  (he  influence  it  has  cserdsed  on  l^al  jdeaif 
ally,   the  very    universality  of  which  makes   the   speci&aticn  *  I 
instances  impossible.    The  procedure  of  our  own  Court  of  OuncA 
lbs  very  fundamental  notion  upon  which  in  gencnl  our  eoM^ 
jurisdiction  is  grounded,  that  of  a  persona]  lien  upon  tbe  coosotf' 
are  ultimately  derived  from  the  same  source. 

Professor  Maitland,  in  his  essays  on  "  The  Roman  CaoooUsil 
thcChurch  of  Entfland"  (1898),  discusses  the  authority  of  tbe  Cfj 
Law  of  (he  Church  of  Rome  in  Englbh  courts  of  law  dotiH  i*  \ 
Middle  Ages.  On  pp.  51-84  be  says  tJiat  in  much  of  what  fawtw'  I 
wriiien  by  historians  and  said  by  judges  touching  ;bc  &ie  of  '*J 


Tht  Canon  Law  and  Us  Authority  in  Engiand.  4B3 


Roman  "  or  "  the  rorcign  "  Canon  Law  in  England  there  seems  to  bea 

^Undenc}'  towards  the  conrusion  of  two  propositionx.    The  fint  is 

Hthis :  that  in  England  the  State  did  not  suETer  the  Church  to  appro- 

Hpriate  certain  conatderabtc  portions  of  that  wide  field  of  jurisdiction 

Bwbkh  the  Canonists  claimed  as  the  heritage  of  ecclesiastical  law. 

Hrhe  second  is  Uiis :  thai  the  Bn^ish  cotirls  Christian  hetd  them- 

Hk!\-cs  free  to  accept  or  reject,  and  did  in  some  cases  reject,  "  the 

f  Canon  Ljw  of  Rome."     The  truth  of  the  lirst  proposition  no  one 

doubts ;  [he  truth  of  the  second  seetns  to  me  exceedingly  dahious. 

At  any  rate,  we  have  here  two  independent  propositions,  and  we  do 

iKjl  pron;  the  second  hy  proving  the  first.     By  proving  that  at  the 

present  time  and  in  out  own  country  the  bi&hops  of  the  Roman 

Church  have  nothing  that  ought   to    be    called    jurisdictiocii    we 

^ould  not  prove  that  they  do  not  think  themselves  bound  by  the 

Canon  Law  of  Rome,  nor  et-en  should  we  prove  that  they  are  not 

inducing  their  flocks  to  obey  that  law.     Never  in    England,  nor 

H  perhaps  in  any  other  country,  did  the  State  sunender  to  the  ccclcsi- 

"aatical   tribunals  the  whole  of   that    illimiubte  tract   which    was 

demanded  for  them  by  the  mote  reckless  of  their  partisans.     Every- 

■  where  we  see  strife  and  then  compromise,  and  then  strife  again,  and 
at  latest,  after  the  end  of  the  th^eenth  century,  the  Sutc  usoaUy 
geu  the  belter  in  every  combat.  The  attempt  to  draw  an  unwavef- 
ing  line  between  "  spiritual "  and  "  temporal "  affairs  is  hopelen> 
Soch  it  ¥rill  always  be  if  so-called  "  spiniual  courts  "  are  to  exercise 
any  power  within  this  world  of  time.    So  ragged,  so  unscientifiq  «ra$ 

■  tlie  frontier  which  at  any  given  moment  and  iu  any  given  coiinUy 
divided  the  territory  of  secular  from  the  territory  of  ecdestastkal 
law,  thai  ground  could  be  lost  and  won  by  iiuenuble  degrees.  The 
king's  justices,  even  when  the)-  were  dealing  with  adbirs  which  wcre> 
or  had  been,  claimed  by  the  Canonists,  did  not  profess  to  admtnistct 
the  Uw  of  the  Church.    They  administered,  in  all  cases  that  came 

■  before  them,  not  the  law  of  the  Church,  but  the  law  of  the  realm, 
and  in  so  doing  they  paid  little  regard  to  cartons  and  decretals.  It 
must  be  allowed  that  during  an  age  which  extends  from  Henry  II. 'i 
to  Edward  I.'s  reign  they  were  learning  a  good  deal  from  the  Church's 
lawyers.  A  class  of  professional  caitonists  b  older  than  a  class  of 
men  professionally  expert  in  English  temporal  Uw,  and  the  secular 
courts  adopted  many  snggeHions  fron  without.  Still,  here  we  have 
tm  more  than  the  accepunce  of  hints,  and  after  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth  century  the  temporal  la«r)crs  were  becoming  deeply  xcA 
confessedly  ignorant  tit  ta  ttf  de  sank  aghu.  It  is  true  tiiat  they 
were  in  general  willing  to  co-operate  with  the  Canonists  in  producing 

^  L  L3 


484 


Tkt  GeniUttia$is  MagoMtm*. 


an  harmonious  result.     For  all  this,  there  arc  ntmieroiu  instanoec  bi 
which  we  nuy  be  rare  that  the  kinj^i  courts  decided  tn  one  mjt « 
question  which  would  hav«  been  decided  in  another  could  it  have 
COOM  before  an  ecclesiastical  tnbiuuL    JoJin  of  Ayton  inentiam 
one  which  may  acrte  u  an  example.    An  abbot  Uhtows  atoaef, 
and  ^ves  a  bond  under  the  Jtbbcy^  Kal  for  iti  repayment.     The 
Canonin,  before  deciding  that  the  abbey  was   bound,  would  be 
Inclined  to  diicuss  the  nuinncr  in  Mhich  the  borrowed  montj  wu 
expended.     But  the  law  of  the  realm  b  not  so  suUle ;  it  Ins  an 
Archaic  reverence  for  sealed  pordinMnt,  and,  says  John,  will  hold  the 
abbey  bour>d,  "ci-en  though  the  money  were  thrown  into  the  sea.* 
The  clerical  defendant  who  nat  sued  in  a  pcfional  action  before  the 
•ecutar  court  would,  at  a  hundred  pomts,  have  found  there  a  It* 
different  from  that  which  would  have  awaited  htm  had  he  enjoyed 
the  frhiUginm  fori.    The  two  procedures,  for  one  thing,  were 
ndically  different. 

What  was  the  theory  of  the  dccttuli  that  prevailed  tn  the 
English  courts  Christian  during  the  later  Middle  Ages?  IVere  the 
dccTcuU  regarded  as  sutulc  law,  or  did  the  English  Church  excrcbc 
iny  right  of  accepting  some  and  rejecting  others?  In  modem  boob 
and  judgments  we  may  sec  an  assertion,  more  or  less  emphatic;  that 
tlrii  rjght  was  exercised ;  that  "the  foreign  Canon  I^w  "  was  only 
applied  in  Enj^land  when  it  hod  been  sanctioned  by  English  cuaton^ 
or  had  met  with  the  approbation  of  the  rulcis  of  the  English 
Church.  We  may  find  also  the  assertion  or  assumption  that  aH  this 
n  proved  and  no  longer  dubiuble.  But  when  we  look  (or  the  prttof 
il  evades  us.  The  longest  li«t  that  I  have  met  with  of  "canons  that 
were  not  received  here "  occurs  in  SiDtiitgfleet's  "  EodeaiaAicd 
CBses''(i6<^S),  p.  386.  In  none  of  the  cases  do  we  sec  an  ecclesi- 
MllCil  court  or  council  tefuurtg  of  its  own  free  will  to  enforce  a 
deeietal. 

y.   S.    R.  STRPHKHJ. 


I 


485 


TfVO   SKETCHES. 


I.  IN  THE  RED  GLARE. 

ATpTE-TREE  court  li«  off  lh«  main  ihoroiighfare  hy  two 
short  streets.  lu  pink  and  white  apple  bloaitoms,  which  gave 
to  the  Court  its  name,  have  long  since  dUappeared,  tc^ethcr  with  iu 
pink  ami  white  virtue,  and  in  its  neighbourhood  flourish  blossoms  of  a 
darker  hue  The  adjacent  main  thoroughfare  is  rowdf,  at  times 
uproarious ;  its  gaiety  is  often  ribaldry,  its  liberty  license ;  but  its 
khaki-coloured  fogs  aie  cheered  by  a  glare  of  oil  lights  at  the  costers' 
sullii  and  Troni  the  gas-jets  behind  the  shop  windows. 

Neither  the  noise  nor  the  glare  penetrates  to  Apple-Tree  Court, 
which  is  invariably  silent  and  in  gloom.  The  casual  obserrer, 
walking  Its  Icitgtb,  would  pronounce  it  a  very  quiet  and  req>ectable 
little  street,  free  from  gutter  children  and  gossipii^  women,  and  as 
silent  as  though  it  walked  in  ti»t  slippers.  Xot  such  the  i-erdict  of 
the  more  experienced  travdter.  Behind  those  tightly^rawn,  coarse 
lace  Uinds  hi;  knows  and  feels  a  Ceaseless  watchfulness  is  maintained, 
and  tlut  the  street  is  full  of  eyes  which  furtively  note  his  movements. 
Prom  January  lo  December  Ai>])le-Tree  Court  stands  on  stealthy  tip- 
toe that  it  may  peep  through  Utile  round  holes  in  its  outside  wooden 
shutters  at  the  unconscious  passer-by.  Some  of  the  shutters — every 
house  is  provided  with  them — arc  closed  and  barred,  as  though  the 
houses  were  empty;  but  (hey  are  full  of  stealthy  life,  hiding  from  possible 
legal  scrutiny,  for  in  Apple-Tree  Court  dwell  few  honest  men ;  heiKe 
the  reason  of  its  dishooeat  quietness. 

Occasionally  the  strange  silence  is  disturbed  by  a  police  raid 
(btlowing  an  ultra- impudent  robbery,  and  then  it  is  a  very  warren  of 
alertness  and  jarring  discords. 

Yet  there  are  a  few  honest  artisans  in  the  court,  men  who  work 
for  their  own  and  their  families'  daily  bread,  but  who  dwrell  in  Apple- 
Troc  Court  because  t)>e  rcnu  are  low  owing  to  its  bad  name. 

These  poor  fear  nothii^  from  their  ne^bours,  the  thieves,  who 
would  no  more  think  of  robbing  them  than  they  would  of  providing 
bonest  bread  for  their  own  tables;  for  ibe  poQ^  io  n^«it9i!vS,\cmi''&«, 


486 


The  GtntUmait  s  Magnziiu. 


poor.     Indeed,  it  b  understood  in  the  Court  that  stin^ncn  a  a 
if  indulged  in  by  the  ligfat-fingered. 

All  the  bouses  in  Apple-Tree  Court  are  the  same  height, 
design— all  but  one,  which  U  a  storey  lower  than  its  neigbbooa 
stands  aloof  Ironi  the  rovrs  on  either  side  and  facing  the 
the  Couti.  The  view  from  the  back  is  over  a  series  of 
nibbaxh-heaps,  but  its  oecupants  are  not  given  lo  the  rtudf  of 
ejects,  and  the  ruhbtsh-heaps  neither  emi  nor  speak.  For  tcsi  ifct 
folic  of  that  hooae  had  been  looked  upon  as  the  swells  of  Appfe-Tne 
Court.  Had  hem,  we  repeat,  for  a  little  while  ago  the  unopui^ 
had  happened. 

To-dajr  we  see,  smell  and  taste  the  jrllow  fog  that  has cnlodfc 
house,  steamed  the  clotely-shuttercd  windows  and  put  out  dK  f* 
damping  the  fiiel  that,  in  spite  of  the  patient  elforts  of  a  »zteeafar4t 
girl,  refused  to  rekindle,  sputtering  sulkily  out  into  darknes.  1h 
repeated  efforts  of  the  kneeling  girl,  the  hatf-hcated  kindle  on  it 
dead  hearth,  and  the  suticnness  of  the  befogged  coaJ,  weregMJ* 
by  a  woman  seated  near  the  grate  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  so  UbM 
was  their  vision  by  strong  despair.  Her  stolid  face,  usually  sofiorf 
by  kindly  sympathy,  was  now  set  in  the  hard  lines  of  uiicr  kopiln 
ncss :  all  good-nature  was  wiped  from  its  expression,  and  )M 
misery  had  haggard  its  features,  robbing  her  eyes  of  bd^tnesk  ■* 
fixing  them  painfiilly  on  a  ^oomy  mental  ptctur«  that  b«l  M 
directly  to  do  with  the  familiar  room. 

The  woman's  hands  were  as  still  as  her  dumb  W^iy  and  die  pi* 
of  her  daily  toil  had  ^ven  pbtce  to  the  sere  and  yellow  hue  sfaoia*>! 
the  hands  of  the  dead. 

Pulling  at  her  gown — a  faded  black — was  a  little  whimpoing 
who  disapproved  of  the  closed  shutters,  the  Qrelcss  grate  and 
discomfort  of  foodlessness.  His  plaintive  whine  was  anhcedol ;  ^ 
mother  was  even  regardless  of  the  wound  on  his  head,  inSictedt*! 
vicious  stone  flur^[  by  the  hand  of  a  former  playmate.  In  the  ^ 
comer  of  the  little  room  sat  a  girl  of  eighteen  or  thereaboOfc  SN 
was  dressed  for  outdoors,  but  had  sat  sullen  and  broods^  i^ 
nursing  her  vengeance  for  full  an  hour.  Her  hands  were  rKXdi' 
her  lap,  as  were  those  of  the  elder  woman,  but  twitched  and  woitf 
spasmodically,  while  her  lips  uttered  inarticulaie  anguish.  Ho 
were  not  fixed  in  stony  gajie,  but  were  (all  of  fury,  and  bloodshot 
sleeplessness  and  outraged  feeling.  She  had  worked  with  her 
in  a  lactoty  until  an  hour  ago,  when  they  had  both  been  somaV 
dismissed  by  the  manager,  with  a  week's  money,  to  stop  an  Imf*' 
ing  riot,  for  wcro  they  not  the  daughters  of  a  murderer  ? 


Two  Sk4tcMes. 


487 


I 


I 


ThK,  hit  bmily  only  knew  him  u  n  kind  bmtend  Md  Ks 
indulgent  lather  ;  they  knew  that  he  was  industrious  ami  tkiUbl  M 
his  work,  and  believed  that  his  oft  absences  front  home  were  neces- 
sitjiied  by  special  commuaions  given  hiio  by  his  employer.  His  wife 
was  older  than  he  and  plain  at  face ;  but  he  had  always  shown  his 
pride  in  her,  presenting  her,  whert  fiush  of  money,  with  a  dress  of  silk 
and  a  watch  of  sUndard  gold— to  the  admiration,  and  perhaps  envy, 
of  her  neighbours,  who  "  viewed  "  her  00  Sundays  as  one  of  the  sighu 
of  the  court. 

On  the  mantelshelf  stood  a  marbte  dock,  the  pride  of  the  family 
until—  It  had  been  the  oflering  of  his  shop-fellows,  the 
outcome  of  thdr  esteem  and  goodwill.  It  liad  ticked  to  many 
jo)'OUB  hours  in  the  little  home,  biit  to-day— ah,  dear  God !— it  was 
ticking  away  with  cruel  accentuation  the  minutes  of  his  life  in 
the  ^ol  of  an  sdjaccnt  county.  In  disconsolate  Ktlence  sat  the 
womenfolk,  kce]>ing  watcti,  hi.i  death-watch.  True,  he  was  in  robust 
health,  vigorous  and  strong.  But  what  shifted  that  ?  When  the 
■noming chimed  dght,adishonoured(hing,  his  body  would  be  hanging 
notioiriess,  limp,  lifeless,  and  witti  broken  neck  in  the  gaol.  The 
widow  and  the  fatherlcM  would  be  silting  in  that  daikened  room  on 
the  morrow's  mom.  They  had  thought  so  much  of  him ;  their  love 
had  centred  in  him.  for  his  word^  had  always  been  in  kindly  tones, 
and  they  had  believed  he  lo%-ed  them  and  the  home  his  eflbrts  had 
made  for  them.  Then  hadcomc  that  terrible  day,  thne  months  ago. 
when,  without  warning  of  any  kind,  he  wa.s  arrested — he  wlio  to  them 
bad  been  above  suspicion —and  his  other  life  stood  revealed,  that 
black  life  of  hbcrtinism,  betrayal,  and,  when  the  occasion  came, 
murder.  Apple-Tree  Court  tolerated  the  murder  of  impulse  by  a 
hasty  mate,  and  stood  by  the  impulsive  one  thriHigh  thick  and  thin ; 
but  Apple-Tree  Coutt  waxed  indignant  in  «Talh  over  the  dastardly 
comrdicc  of  the  premeditated,  cold-blooded  deed  which  had 
crimsoned  the  hand  and  stained  the  soul  of  its  hitherto  most 
"  respected  "  habitant.  The  virtuous  indignation  of  the  Coun  knew 
DO  bounds,  but  expTcs.sed  itself  in  loud  jeers  and  derisive  laughs  at 
the  murderer's  daughters,  and  fiung  stones  from  its  shuttcied 
windows  at  his  little  son,  as  the  boy  slunk  homewards  af^er  brave  but 
pitiful  efforts  to  gather  in  necessaries  for  the  darkened  house.  One 
of  these  stones  h.id  gashed  his  bead  and  wrung  from  him  a  cry  of 
pain.  Away  to  the  rear  of  the  bouse  the  clammy  fog  wrapped  the 
desolate  grareyard  in  its  damp  and  suffocating  odour,  standing  like 
a  wraith  of  ill-omen  above  graves  new  and  old,  and  then  Boatiitg  in 
through  the  boha  in  the  shutters  and  beneath  closed  doors,  touching 


488 


Th4  GtntiemtuCi  Magatitu. 


with  heavier  ^oon  the  dolotOtti  brnDy  in   the  ifauiuwd  bone 
Suddenly  the  nknce  of  the  daitened  boine  tnvolontanljr  gadMied 
itteir  together  and  becftmc  an  car,  a  Ustcntng  ear,  tod  upon  h  f«B 
the  aoondt  of  the  nuh  or  many  feet,  the  murmur  of  matty  «oice^ 
mingled  with  hoanc  Uughicr,  which  came  GtfuUy  in  gurtii  j*"^ 
the  nerves  of  the  waiting  family.    Apple-Tree  Conrt  waj  tejoiciiic. 
From  erstwhile  shuttered   and   barred  windowa  peered   mco  tod 
waaDen  of  cunning  face,  and  over  their  ahoukkn  pfecockwa  children. 
Theae  all  swelled  the  iouikIs  of  Uughtcr  and  joined  tn  the  thooi; 
fofgetting  for  the  momeot  thdr  ncalthy  canlkm.     The  foggy  atnet 
was  lighted  by  the  Bare  of  many  torchc*  borne  hither  and  thithn 
bjr  the  crowd.    The  harsh  nHccs  of  the  people  called  ilaud  eo  the 
dvdkis  within  to  "  IamIc  upon  the  guy,"  and  ihoM  looking  bngbad 
boisterously  at  the  cAgy  of  ■  man  banging !     Nearer  and  oeaier 
■bamfaled  the  mob  to  the  bonae  itaoding  aloof  fiom  its  ndghban^ 
Un  tftqp  tCMhed  its  doorstep.    The  girl  in  tbc  coraer.  wbo«  baiMit 
had  worked  convutnrely  in  her  lap,  sprang  from  her  seat  and  looked 
through  the  closed  shultcn,  hissing  out  the  words,  "  It's  .  .  .  the . . 
guys .  .  .  ;  they're  guying  him  .  .  foifaer  .  .  .  ;  they're  bringing  it 
here.    Cuise  tbcin ! " 

The  woman's  shudder  ^Kwk  the  little  room ;  with  startled  eyet 
she  looked  on  her  daughters,  then  at  the  door ;  the  red  glare  tbooe 
into  the  darkness.  Tbc  mob  had  fired  the  cifigy ;  the  guy  wai 
burning,  lighted  by  a  score  of  willing  hands  canning  torcbei. 
Laughter  and  wild  aong  accompattied  the  Bare,  while  the  white  bees 
in  the  house  of  the  doomed  man  blanched  whiter  as  the  mother — 
his  wife— cried  agonisingly,  "Oh,  God  I  wilt  they  bum  the  house?" 

"  Hell  never  know  of  this ;  he's  spared  that  pong,"  said  the 
patient  girl  of  sixteen  as  tl>c  flicker  of  tlie  bonfire  died  down,  and 
the  vtituous  crowd,  flinging  Kttcks  and  stones  at  the  barred  window, 
drew  off  witli  jeers  and  gibes — for  vice  it  vice,  and  must  be  trampled 
in  Apple-Tree  Court,  as  dscwltere, 

"Hell  never  know,"  whispered  the  mother;  and  the  thought 
brought  comfort  to  the  stricken  tieatts  of  those  whose  TaithftU  love 
was  stronger  than  sharo^  treachery  and  death,  stronger  than  eren 
Cain's  curse. 


II.  ^SYMPATHYt* 

"  I  WISH  I  didn't,  but  I  do ;  I'm  made  like  it,  and  I  can't  help  it ;  I 
take  other  people's  troubles  to  heart  as  much  as  I  do  other  people': 
^dren ;  in  eUher  cue  \'n\  s,  \q(A  Vw  ini  '^VMh\*' 


Two  Sieitkts. 


489 


The  spcaVet'i  voice  deepened  as  she  proceeded ;  iheie  could  be 
no  doubt  or  hec  e^Lrnestness,  for  she  eicpcctcd  a  contradiction  from 
her  listener ;  betides,  »he  felt  that  the  possessed  not  a  few  betutUul 
truts  of  character,  apt,  alas !  to  be  ignored  by  her  friends^  unless 
eaicfully  pointed  out  to  then. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  one  must  take  something  to  heart,  and  why  not 
troubles  and  kids  of  giber  people's  rearing?"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

"  But  it  docs  lake  it  out  of  one,  though." 

"  Wliat  ukes  it  out  of  one  ?    The  troubles  or  ihc  children  ?  " 

"It's  very  well  for  you  to  sneer;  you  c&n  throw  things  oS*; 
tronbles  dent  press  on  yffu." 

"No?" 

"  Why,  if  I  hear  two  strangers  talking  togelher,  telling  Ihcir 
trooblcs,  I'm  obliged  10  listen,  and  before  tbeyVc  finii-hed  I  feel 
as  though  I  want  to  put  my  arms  round  their  necks  and  comfort 
thcm^ask  ihcm  not  to  mind,  to  cheei  up^  for  thcylt  sooo  be 
dead." 

"  Wdl,  why  don't  you  do  ii  ?  " 

"  Absurd  )    They  wouldn't  un<krsta»d." 

"What  would  thai  matter?    Vou  could  still  sympathiw," 

"  Humph !  I  lincw  you'd  make  fun,  1  wish  now — I  always  wish 
afterwards — I  hadn't  spoken,"  and  the  confidante  turned  petulantly 
away.  She  had  sought  sympathy  and  evoked  raillery,  and,  thrown 
back  on  herself,  found  an  object  for  comrotscralion.  She  was  "  itl- 
used,"  and  the  ill-usage  produced  a  morning's  limpness. 

She  was  very  sensiti>-e  on  the  subject  of  her  "  sympathy,'  for  she 
had  never  troubled  to  analyse  it ;  she  was  so  sure  she  possessed  it 
in  '*  vohtme."  Had  not  the  phrenologist  told  her  so  ?  T1>cn  again 
she  admired  "  sympathy  "  in  the  abstract.  It  was  such  an  "  unselfish  " 
quality,  so  "  far  removed  from  all  self-sediin^"  she  thought. 

In  the  house  wheie  she  dwelt  there  were  do  children,  and  nobody 
for  the  moment  En  trouble  but  betSGlC  Outside  in  the 
garden  the  plants  grew  and  bloomed,  and  their  growth  and  gay 
petals  were  as  little  noticed  as  she  wait.  She  would  go  out  to  them. 
She  took  the  fem-lcav<.-s  in  her  hands,  and  drew  tliem  between  her 
Gr^ers  and  buried  her  knuckles  in  (heir  roots.  She  inserted  h«r 
nose  in  the  scented  blossoms,  and  her  gaae  rested  admiringly  on 
their  rich  colours  and  tints. 

A  man's  voice  coming  over  the  garden  palii^  awoke  her  from 
reverie.     "  They're  beautiful.  Miss  W'ilson  ;  yours  beat  outs." 

She  stood  op,  a  little  startled.  "  Beat  yours  ?  Ob,  I'm  sorry  " 
she  said  apologetically. 


490 


T^  GtntUmans  Magazine. 


'•  Sony  ?  Well,  ihart  queer ;  I  should  have  ihooght  you'd  beat 
glad.  I'm  alwayi  gUd,  I  know,  when— wdl — when  our  things 
do  better  lh*ii " 

"Mine,  for  instance?" 

"  Not  particularly  youn,  you  know  ;  other  folks'." 

"  I'm  incbded  in  the  'other  folks'?" 

"WeU — yei— I  suppose  so;  but  those  arc  wondcrfiilly  fine 
Ulles." 

"  Yes,  they're  very  fine.  The  Japuiese  LOy  is  to  me  a  symbol 
of  a  v-ery  favourite  attribute.     It  always  saggema " 

"Sympathy?" 

"Yea,  but  how  oould  you  know  thai?" 

"  SympAthy,"  he  tepJied,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  minhfulJy. 

"  Oh  1  you  are  sympaihellc,  then  ?  " 

"  No ;  only  a  good  deal  curious,"  he  answered. 

"  Curioos  !     Why,  what  ha.i  cariosity  to  do  with  sympathy  ?  " 

"  It  bears  a  facial  resemblance ;  often  geu  the  homage  oflfered  to 
its  nctghbour,  and  is  get>eralty  mistaken  for  it." 

"  Impossible  with  those  who  sympathise. " 

"Mot  at  all.  At  least  that  is  not  my  experience.  Pan  on* 
alloyed  sympathy  is  about  as  rare  as  pure  unalloyed  curiosity." 

Miss  Wilson  stood  silent  She  was  reflecting  on  the  asKttioai 
of  the  "  knowing  "  young  man  on  the  other  side. 

"Do  you  know  a  single  individual  whom  you  consider  synt- 
pathetic?"  she  asked  aggrievedly,  and  with  a  slight  htttemess  of 
tone. 

"  Yes,  I  know  just  one  who  to  my  mind  understands  some 
of  sympathy." 

"  Man  or  woman  >  " 

"Nehher." 

"Boy or  girl?" 

"Giri." 

" Who  is  she?" 

"Susie  Lowell." 

"Tell  me  about  her,  please." 

"There's  little  to  tell." 

"Then  tcU  ine  that  little." 

"  1^1  do  my  best,  but  1  don't  expect  you  to  be  convinoedL" 

"Of  what?" 

«  Sin." 

"What  sin?" 

"  Plamudtnananwtn,"  \ffi;MW»««A,»»\«c. ■*»»!«**, Outlaw  bladi ' 


Taw  SkeUkes. 


491 


palings  and  ted  the  way  in  an  cas)-  manner  to  a  smaU  rustic  suramcF* 
house  in  the  suburban  garden,  and  Eamiliarty  tapped  the  seal  beside 
him  as  a  si^  to  his  gentle  neighbour  to  occupy  it. 

"Susie  Lowell,"  he  bt^an,  "is  a  dear  young  friend  of  mine.  1 
«rish  you  coutd  sec  her ;  the  sight  inspires  lore  and  many  other 
virtues. 

*'  \Vhcn  I  first  mel  the  child  she  was  a  wee  winsome  crealurt  of 
three  or  tbcreabouts  ;  she  wai  in  a  blaclt  frock,  made  when  htr  dad 
died.  As  free  from  self-consciousness  as  a  forget-me-not,  the 
pranled  on  in  bewitching  manner,  lisping  here  and  there  the  story  of 
her  house  and  garden,  her  pets  and  poues,  until,  boy  as  I  was,  I 
thought  I  hod  never  heard  anything  half  so  pretty.  Susie's  mother 
is  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  Udy,  with  a  high  forehead,  a  small  mouth, 
and  dark  blue  eyeti  t)iat  waidi  her  cliild's  every  movement  with  a 
devotion  that  is  deeply  pathetic  Bereft  of  her  huabaiKl  and  ber  son, 
this  little  daughter,  a  pale  fragile  blossom,  is  all-in-all  to  her.  She 
was  at  that  time  conscious  of  her  child's  every  breath,  <A  the  sound 
of  her  ever)'  foo(£dl ;  she  heard  each  word  she  lis|>ed,  and  was  so 
bound  up  in  her  that  life  Ibr  her  meant  'Just  Susie,'  as  1  foumj  out 
for  mysdf. 

"  And  Susie  lo^-ed  her  mother,  re^-ermtly,  filially.  She  w»  fobet, 
mother,  and  teacher  to  her.  SHr  was  proud  of  her,  too,  and  looked 
up  to  her  always.  But  it  was  just  that  '  looking  up '  that  left  her 
child  heart  hungry  with  it  all.  If  she  could  have  looked  down,  or 
alongside  at  someone^  she  would  not  have  felt  so  lonely.  She  did 
not  know  she  was  lonely,  but  she  whispered  softly  to  herself  of 'some- 
one '  to  pby  with,  ■  a  little  girl  as  big  as  me,'  or  '  a  very  small  boy ' 
to  '  talk  to.'  She  had  a  plot  of  ground  in  which  she  was  taught  to 
plant  Aowen  and  sow  seeds.  But  the  flowers  woiked  and  played  so 
silently,  and  they  could  nevcrs))eak,  only  always  listen.  In  vain  she 
bent  her  ear  to  them,  and  held  up  her  chitdbh  foreftnger  to  adnMnish 
the  noisy  birds  to  'hush ';  but  the  pculs  never  spoke,  and  only  sat 
still  in  their  beauty,  and  she  grew  'so  tired '  of  that. 

"  Mrs.  Lowell,  her  observant  mother,  guessed  the  truth,  as  she 
watched  the  child  pining  in  her  londiness,  and  one  day  hfted  into 
the  maiden's  lap  an  Irish-terricr  pu[^. 

"  *  For  my  little  Susie,'  aaid  the  mother ;  '  your  own  little  pbymate, 
to  follow  you  about  and  to  love  you,  dear.' 

"The  child's  colour  rose,  slowly— quickly ;  it  crimsoned  her  face. 
She  laughed  ecstatically,  then  burst  into  uan,  tier  whole  body  shaking 
with  sobs.  From  that  day  she  began  to  mend  ;  her  eyes  regained 
their  mirthfulness,  her  limbs  their  eUsticitY,  y^  co>in«d  ^'bx(»ksij\  *>sx 


493  7lu  CnttietnoMS  Ma^axin*. 


I 


I 


vtios,  and  her  happy  bogK  nnf  out  at  all  hours  of  the  daf.  Ko 
under  tnothcT  wu  e%'er  more  lender  of  her  dariuig  than  was  Susie 
of  her  broirn-eyal  phytnaI<^  vho  fritkcd  with  her,  slept  wUh  her, 
and  responded  to  her  caresses  by  leaps  and  boffcs  of  affection  and 
eager-eyed  atuntion.  \Vhcn  the  little  one  grew  older,  BDd  daily 
leannt  eaietcd  into  her  daily  life,  TulT  sai  patiently  beside  her, 
anxiously  Uinkiug  at  the  sums  his  lady-mistress  ttniggkd  with,  and 
catling  knowing  looks  at  the  copjrboolc  acnisKS  sImi  pcrfonoed 
before  him.  '  Only  one  more,  1'uA^'  would  set  his  approving  tail 
lowork,  while  ihc  announccmcni,  '  Don^  Tufly  dear  ;  now  liir  a 
Kktne,'  would  fetch  him  off  the  chair  in  a  rooment  and  plui^  him 
into  the  most  appreciative  and  entertaining  capers. 

"  1'herc  wu  only  one  place  from  which  Tuff  was  excluded,  one 
place  where  he  never  dared  intrude.  11ui  was  church.  Sunday 
mornings  were  a  severe  trial  to  the  dog.  He  knew  Sunday  apsA 
ftooi  other  days  by  this  mclaitcholy  bet.  The  chitd  soothed  and 
eaicticd  hini.  She  placed  her  dainticM  sweets  before  htn^  she 
coaxed  him  and  told  him  she  would  be  (lUJckly  home  ;  but  iMithiog 
could  ii>duce  him  to  stand  up  and  wag  his  taiL  His  sad  brown  eyo 
looked  over  his  ]ia«-s  with  a  rcproochlul  wtsifulneiss  thai  often 
brought  lh«  tears  to  Susie's  own  cycfl.  Cvrtalnly  the  ck-r^TOsn  bid 
iw  lonely  dog  at  home  wailiitg  his  rciuni,  or  he  would  liare  shortened 
the  service  and  ended  hLi  sermon  with  the  text ! 

"  And  so  the  days  slid  by  until  Tiiir  wax  six  )'caTB  old  and  Susie 
nine.  It  was  mid-March  wlien  -nhe  whimpered  in  his  car,  'We're 
al)  going  to  move,  Tuff;  we've  such  u  tuie  new  house,  and  a  long 
garden,  where  we'll  romp  every  day.'  She  talked  to  him  of  die 
rooms  and  the  conservatory,  and  Tuff,  with  an  almon  human 
intelligence,  responded  to  ihe  new*.  '.\notl>cr  dog  will  perfatps 
lire  here,  Tuff ;  but  you  and  I  will  be  together,  dear.  You  know  wc 
wouldn't  leave  dear  old  Tuff  behind,  don't  you,  darting?' 

"  Yes,  Tuff  knew.  But  he  nox-r  did  know  what  possmed  him  on 
the  e^-cntful  dsy  of  the  move  to  absent  himself  from  his  young 
mistress  aiKl  waitdcr  vagabond-like  into  the  streets.  He  only  knew 
that  when,  at  the  end  oi  a  long  and  tiring  day,  be  returned  to  the  old 
house,  he  Tound  it  deserted  and  the  furniture  gwK  Trom  the  place. 
He  knew  that  all  tiis  barkings  were  unavailing,  and  that  bis  whines 
and  piteous  cries  were  equally  powerless  to  gain  him  admission  to 
the  deserted  boiite.  Hither  and  thilbcr  he  ran,  intensely  troubled 
at  the  loss  of  ail  he  knew  and  krvedi  toitund  by  meowrics  of  Staie 
and  home. 

"  That  nifht  Tuf[  cT^en«nK«AA\«ii«MLfX  «.wnU-,vN&v<bA  V«M>a««<H 


Two  Sketches. 


49J 


I 


I 
I 


chSd  stole  out  of  bed  in  her  restless  grief,  talking  exdtcdiy  of  her 
lost  pet,  and  «ru  led  back  to  Iter  pillow  b;r  her  wiLtchful  mother, 
whose  wonls  wcic  powerless  to  soothe. 

"  A  week  dragged  its  length  over  dog  and  child  ;  ncilhei  bad  seen 
the  other ;  neither  bad  for  a  moment  forgotten  the  other. 

"  By  a  snowy  bed  a  small  white-robed  figure  folded  bands  and 
Mbbed  out  a  broken  prayer :  '  O  Ood,  don't  let  Tuff  die  of  hunger ; 
don't  let  him  be  ill-treated  by  cruel  people ;  and  do  show  him  the 
mj  home  again  soon.'  Tbc  prayer  was  broken  by  the  child's  eager 
b'stening  to  hear,  if  might  be,  the  familiar  voice  of  bcr  playfellow. 
On  the  night  of  a  day  during  which  she  aitd  her  mother  had  walked 
miles  followuig  up  clues  of  the  stray,  with  but  little  success.  Suae, 
whose  hope  had  strengthened  her  fortiludc,  passed  Iroin  grief  to 
fever,  and  tared  of  her  lo&t  darling.  He  was  beaten,  stoned, 
hunted,  bleeding.  He  was  hungry,  thirsty,  worn,  cold,  and  wretched. 
He  was  barking  and  whining,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tcans  snd  his 
face  of  misery.  He  was  frightened  and  wanted  her.  She  sprang 
from  ha  bed,  ran  to  the  window,  and  looked  this  way  and  that,  then 
up  at  the  sky  ar>d  at  the  teafleu  trees.  Her  burning  hands  shook,  and 
the  anguish  in  her  fe%-er- brilliant  eyes  pierced  her  mother's  bean 
as  she  cried,  '  Tell  me,  tell  nte,  did  Jesus  when  He  was  a  boy  keep- 
idog?' 

"  The  doctor  standir^  b)-  her  bedside  next  morning,  ai>d  waidting 
her  delirium,  turrved  to  Iwt  sorrowing  mother  and  said  huskily  : — 

" '  Find  the  dog,  or  trace  him  to  his  death ;  nothii^  else  can 
save  her.' 

*' '  I  would  give  half  I  possess,'  she  answered  quietly,  sadly ;  she 
was  very  miserabk,  and  wry  quiet  in  her  misery. 

"  When  the  delirium  had  passed  and  the  child  by  white  as  a  lily, 
motionless  and  exhausted,  the  widow  whispered,  'Susi^  I  am 
going  out  for  a  little  to  the  old  bouse,  dear.'  The  grateful  eyea 
looked  their  thanks,  ar>d  a  faint  colour  crept  over  the  pallid 
checks. 

"Thesearch  was  vain;  the  occupantsdeniedhanngaeenanydc^ 
about.  Then  an  advertbetnent  appeared  in  the  daily  papers : 
*  ^Ay  guineas  reward.  LonI,  an  Irish  terrier ;  answers  to  the  name 
of  Tuff.  Chikl's  life  depends  upon  lU  recovery.  Two  or  three 
Icetb  missing  upper  >aw.  LAst  seen  .  .  .'  Here  followed  the  date 
and  locality ;  and  the  mother  waited  with  wrung  heart  to  see  the 
result  of  her  announcement 

*■  The  first  few  days  followiog  the  appeannce  of  the  advertisement 
dogs  were  (nought  b}-  the  score,  ci-ery  breed  but  IriUi  tcrners,  their 


Tkt  Gtntlemans  MagaztHt, 


494 


ownen  evidently  holding  that  one  dog  w  as  good  w  soalhet 
provided  it  could  dnw  the  reward.  Another  week  dngged  on.  Tbe 
chDd  WM  xinking  slowly  but  futely — 'dying  for  a  dog'  ai  the 
neighboun  told  each  other. 

"  From  all  parts  of  the  counuy  poured  In  tetters  at  condolence. 
letun  of  quettion.  With  hopden  hopefulness  the  tender  mtKbcr 
nadcach  one  tendeHy,  earnestly,  ftota  b«^Biiig  to  endj  but  Tuff 
was  not  in  them. 

"  The  child'*  gtief  had  paated  tnio  a  domb  daapair,  m.  mnib 
for  her  lost  idoL  No  tean  tUinined  her  eyes^  «4ndi  no* 
queationed,  '  Have  you  beard  ? '  They  reasoned  with  her,  liiey 
told  hei  of  dogs  fat  more  beautiful ;  she  smiled  inoeduloiuL  Ha 
wasted  fingers  clutched  constantly  an  old  dog-ooUar  engrmvcd 
with  his  name,  and  worn  by  Tuff  before  the  purchase  of  his  Ust 
new  one 

"Al  las^  otM  day,  as  tbe  little  life  was  slowly  ebbing  out,  i 
unrrrd,  hungry-looking  boy  of  ten  yean  or  so,  wearing  a  hunted  air, 
knocked  with  his  grimy  knuckles  at  Mn.  Lowell's  door,  amd  waited 
tJinidly. 

"■Can  I  sec  little  mtisus  woi't  ill?' he  asked  the  maidaemntK 
she  inquired  his  erraitd. 

" '  Likely  that  t '  she  exclaimed  scornfully. 

" '  Please  say  to  her  as  JoeS  here,  and  has  something  to  teJ)  her 
very  speshaL' 

•■  •  Joe  who ?'  asked  the  girt  douhiTuUy. 

"  'Joe ;  I  aint  no  other  name  that  I  knows  on.' 

•'•You're  beggin','  said  the  fpxl 

" '  No,  mias,  I  ain't  no  b^g^  ;  I  am  bent  on  Mein'  the  yoang 
very  penicklcr.' 

"  With  a  toss  of  her  bead  the  maidservant  dosed  the  door  in  tb* 
vagrant*!  face,  aitd  carried  his  message  to  her  tni-itress. 

" '  Come  in,  Joe,'  said  tliat  lady  as  she  opened  the  door  to  tbe 
outcast  Joe  doffed  his  cap,  and  shuffled  his  shapeless  boots  into 
the  bright  snug  kitchen. 

*"So  this  'ere  was  the  dawg'g  'omc,'  be  said,  looking  round 
riwQMShly.  '  It's  a  fine  place,  too  ;  it'd  be  real  hard  for  tittle  raisay 
ID  iNve  it  all.  I  ain't  rwwt  but  the  dawg ;  and  I  ain't  thai  now  ;  cot' 
why  7    I'm  a  olTrin'  of  it  back  agin  I ' 

"■The  dog!  Tuff;  do  you  mean?'  aitd  Mrs.  LoweUt  colodr 
mounted  swiftly  to  her  cheeks. 

" '  Is  that  wot  yer  call  "im  ? '  asked  the  boy. 

•■  •  We've  lost   a  dog,  and   my  daughter's  life  depends  on  bii 


Two  Sketchts. 


495 


return ;  she's  ill,  very,  very  ill.  It  cant  be  that  ysa  Wing  news  or 
Tufl;joc?' 

"  '  I'd  a  brought  tht  dog  hisscif,'  said  the  Ixiy,  '  but  Icunin'  u 
W  she  was  very  bad  I  thought  as  'ow  *t  miglil  make  her  too  sudden 
gild.  So  I  come  along  fust  to  make  blieve  to  ask  her  about  Is 
colour  and  all  that.  But  he's  hem  right  enow',  missus,  f  le  followed 
me  riom  the  olc  house  wur  you  was  a  liTin',  and  wc  shared  wittlcs 
and  ben  good  friends  too,  him  and  me.  I  didn't  think  no  'onn  of 
keepin'  'im,  bein'  as  1  wur  wanitn*  a  frin'  cruel  bud,  and  'c  sec<ned 
Io<^ng  for  one.  I  kep  1  m  close ;  I  got  that  fund  o'  the  creatur ;  I 
shouldn't  a  owned  up  now,  but  they  said  little  missus  was  a  frettin' 
'cr  'cart  away  I ' 

" '  Vooi  know  of  the  reward  that  is  offered  ? ' 

"  '  Reward?  No,  I  ain't  hccrd  nothink  o'  reward.  Vm  a  bad  'un, 
missus,  else  I'd  a  brought  the  dawg  'ome  afore ;  but ' — a  tear  in  his 
voice  as  be  spoke — '  there's  nuthin'  alive  luvs  me,  and  I  ain't  hiv'd 
none  afore ' 

"  '  Go  quickly^  and  fetch  Tuff,'  answered  Mrs.  Lowell ;  '  you  ne«d 
never  be  fricndk^s  again— poor  Joe ! '  "• 


"  And  where  is  }oe  now  ? "  asked  Miss  Wilson. 
"Is  that  a  question  of  'synii»thy'  or  '  curiosity '?"  responded 
the  narrator. 

JAMKS  CASSIDY. 


Ctntlematis  Magaxxne. 


yjLLAGE  CHRONICLES. 


T 


^ 


^HE  object  of  diii  piper  a  not  to  deacAe  wbst  o^ 
Higgctt  wint  n^  be.  Everyone  who  hu  itaffiei 
butoi7  of  ouf  riltfM  OHHt  bare  ditccnere^  fim,  that  the  p 
Bwrc  or  tcM  •  btinic,  tad  next  ibil  that  Uank  "'■^'  bave 
flDed  viih  a  racerd  ■hnys  of  grail  imereM  ui  the  bical  icdMbi 
and  often  of  great  iatoeR  end  no  \em  value  to  the  gr*f**«'  bin 
Tbi^atany  nie^  bas  been  the  experience  of  ibe  writer  while  ia 
ptfa^  the  biitorjr  of  loaie  Korei  of  nllagei  Tu  the  casnal  ob 
a  %-ilbgc  b  gcDCaDjr  Qnk  iiMin:  than  a  doter  of  hottaea  and  ■  ■ 
chuith,  the  whde  poateMlng  move  or  len  of  niral  pictiiwjqDi 
The  cotlagcn' tradUiofu  may  go  bad  afeoctatioo  or  tvc^  bol 
aic  T^ne  and  imtnictworthy ;  ■ome  of  the  fiumoa  nay  ha  vc  inbeH 
little  local  loic ;  Oic  doctor— if  the  pariah  can  bcwt  of  ooe— ba] 
Dccesnrilf  i  ttnuigcT ;  the  dagynnn  ii  as  often  a  sxaa^fx,  u 
Ac  ia»)orily  of  caacs  his  contented  hinueir  iriib  a  cunory  tgaa 
bii  pnid)  Rgbtcr  and  at  a  uttered  terrier,  if  the  parish  tl 
p0iie»»  fuch  a  documenl ;  and  the  (quire  either  '?**'mgn  to  a 
fiunSy  or,  if  he  have  a  local  aoocatry,  hai  ctodied  bit  nn 
■rchivei  limpljr  ai  title-dcedi.  There  arc.  of  course,  notOH 
noeptioiu  among  both  raial  clergy  and  lords  of  maxKn  ;  bni 
tbove  deicription  b  true  in  only  too  many  inttances. 

Yet  the  faa  b  that  our  country  b  to  thoron^y  saturated 
bbtory  that  acaioely  a  nml  parish  can  be  foond  the  true  annal 
irbicb,  could  they  be  recorcrcd,  would  not  be  both  welootne 
ttiefiil  to  the  hiitorical  studenL  And  what  hiklory  could  be  i 
interesting  to  the  inteUigeot  among  the  parixhionenc  theraiclvcs  i 
that  or  their  own  village?  Educationally  luch  a  local  chnN 
would  be  inraluablc  The  hitb  and  valleyi,  fields  and  roadi>aii 
which  Ihc  villagcn  pass  their  liv«s  would  acquire  a  new  interoit, 
would  bcconM  to  the  local  residenu  put  and  parcel  ol  tbe  ai 
ttpon  which  our  great  national  conflicu  have  been  wiigcd.  Ulter 
such  local  knowledge  exists,  it  is  difficult  for  ordinal'  n>cn 
women  to  realise  that  hUlOry  is  anything  more  than  a  tale  tok 


A 


Village  CkronuUs. 


497 


I 


iu^«Tents,  and  tlut  the  people  who  once  lived  where  they  ttiem* 
•dvet  sow  live  actively  participated  in  those  events. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  something  bos  been  done  to  preserve 
the  tustory  of  obscure  places  from  oMivion  by  the  various  archaeo- 
logical societKS  and  by  the  publication  of  local  "  Notes  and  Quenes." 
Bot  the  results  arc  known  to  only  a  few,  and  tlie  fiicts  collected  are 
without  atrangenicnt  and  not  alvays  carefully  verified.  Duit  accti- 
mtilatcs  on  the  "  Proceedings"  of  learned  societies,  aiK]  few  pcnoos 
are  the  wiser  for  the  lore  ttuit  is  aocumubted.  If  something  mocc  is 
not  done,  and  that  speedily,  the  ikw  conditions  of  life  which  are 
rapidly  penetrating  even  our  rural  districts  will  blot  out  much  that 
may  still  be  recovered  and  (hat  would  be  a  rich  I^acy  or  historical 
Oliiatralion  to  our  successors.  Our  churches  arc  being  '•  restored  "  ; 
our  ancient  manor  houses  are  disappearing ;  our  old  tamilles  are 
being  supplanted  by  new  ones  without  traditions  or  with  quite 
modem  associations;  our  rural  population  b  undergoing  "a  sea 
change  " ;  our  villages  arc  tn  danger  of  becoming  eitlier  <lep<^uLitcd 
or  of  being  made  as  ugly  as  our  towns,  and  it  will  soon  become 
difficult  to  reproduce  in  imagination  the  village  life  of  even  a 
feneration  ago. 

What  b  suggested  b  this.  Let  a  hint  be  taken  from  the  example 
of  the  ancient  monkish  chionielea.  An  attempt  will  be  made  futthct 
on  to  show  that  it  is  very  practicable  to  have  tn  every— or  in  almost 
every — %-Dlage  a  I^al  ChrvnUk  kept.  AVhile  the  chronicler  posts 
up  tlte  current  annalt,  he  can  at  the  same  time  be  collecting  all  that 
is  recoverable  of  tlK  past  histor)-  of  the  parish.  The  "  J^ocal  Chron- 
icle "  wUl,  of  course,  contain  much  that  is  of  interest  to  no  one 
outside  of  the  parish  ;  but  even  such  material  would  interest  the 
parishioners,  arid  might  afford  subjects  for  parish  addresses  and  for 
teaching  in  the  village  schools.  No  better  introduaion  lo^  or 
stimulus  to  the  study  of,  general  history  can  be  found  for  viltagers  than 
on  intelligent  exposition  of  the  history  of  ttieir  own  parish  as  a  pan 
of  ibe  nation  and  of  the  national  life.  But  there  are  few  vQlages 
which  hav'e  not,  at  one  time  or  another,  sent  out  from  their  manor 
liouse,or  had  intlteirchurch,or  given  birth  to  in  farmhouse  or  cottage, 
men  and  women  who  have  made  a  name  in  the  world.  Some  of  our 
obscurer  parishes  have  been  the  scenes  of  historical  incidents,  and 
all  of  them  could  afford  illustrations  of  former  social  and  economical 
conditions. 

The  materials  for  the  retrospective  pages  of  the  "Local 
Chronicle  "  would  be  found  in  our  national  archives,  in  our  manorial 
deed-dtcsts,  in  the  various  repositories  of  ecclesiastical  doconeats, 
voi-  cc\cii.    xoi  aoi^  M  H 


498 


Tht  GentUmans  Magasine. 


pwlly  in  ibe  veiy  «rehitect<irc  of  ihe  dmrcikes,  and,  during  the  ten 
century  uid  a  half,  in  uugiuinic*  «fld  neinpapen.  The  ritla^  tndi- 
tioRS,  checked  where  possible  bjr  docutnenarjr  evidence  and  b^  the 
intelligent  judgnwm  of  the  chronicler,  would  supply  soaie  mstcriil. 
The  '  Chronicle "  would  no4  be  complete  without  introdaetorr 
iKNes  on  the  geology  md  nattiral  history  of  the  locftUiy.  A  record  of 
dtMOvvries  of  prehistoric  remains  would  ^pilf  introdtKe  a  notice  oT 
any  local  ttaoes  of  the  occupation  of  the  parish  by  the  Britom, 
the  Romus,  and  the  Saxons ;  after  which  the  history  would,  in 
■um  cases,  becoiDe  more  or  less  continuous. 

It  tnay  be  sud  that  the  above  is  i  "Urge  order  "  for  every  smiS 
parish.     But  it  looks  larger  than  it  really  is.     It  is  proposw!  ih*i 
the  "Chronicle"  should  be  continuously  kept,  and  time  thaefare 
need  nn(  be  considered.    The  chroniclCT — or  chroniclers,  for  dw 
work  in  a  parish  might  be   undertaken   by  two  ot  mote  pcnmi 
acting  in  concert— would   not  be  in  danjet  of  lieing  dunned  U* 
"copy"  by  the  "printer's  de«l."     Moreover,  Uic  chromcler,  like 
the  king,  would  iM^er  die;  one  would  pass  on  the  tordi  lo  hit 
successor.     Again,    every  parish    has    its    own    Identity,   its  ova 
interests,  its  own  history.     The  work  would  b«  better  done  if  cwi 
chronicler  were  confined  to  his  own  parish  than  if  his  researches  «ae 
spread  over  half  a  doMiu    Let  the  existence  of  such  a  **  Chronide ' 
in  every  parish  be  supposed ;  how  much  the  work   of  the  modon 
historian  would  be  simplified,  cspedaUy  now  that  we  expect  a  htftorr 
to  tell  us  not  merely  of  " kings  and  crowns,"  but  "men"!    71k 
histOfian  in  doubt  about  a  local  (act  would  know  at  or>co  wbeie  lo 
ap(>ly ;  and  a  penny  stamp  or  a  siitgle  railway  journey  would  pal 
him  in  possession  of  the  most  trustworthy  information  obtainable. 
It  is  said  that  one  of  the  difficulties  experienced  by  the  compitei 
of  the  monumenul  "  Victoria  History  of  the  Couniica  of  England" 
is    the    lack    of   just    such    material    as  the  propoaed    "Village 
Chronicles  "  would  pUce  within  easy  reach  of  the  historian.    That 
there  is  a  demand  for  local   lustory  is   shown  by  the  apparcm 
success  of  the  many  small  and   hastily  compiled  monographs  of 
local  traditions  and  local  detcriptloti  which  the  puMtshets  arc  nos 
throwing  upon  the  market.     Itolh   national  and  local  patriotism 
would  be  intensified   had    every  locality  iu   own  carefully  keix 
chronicle.     Noi  should   it   be  left  out  of  consideration  that  tba 
carrying  out  of  the  project  would  develop  a  true  historical  sense  in 
thousands  of  chroniclers  many  of  whom  at  present  lack  it    The 
lack  of  such  a  senfe  in  otberwiae  cultured  minds  is  a  serious  defect. 


Viilage  Chronicles. 


499 


I 


too  often  accompanied  by  an  inability  to  judge  without  prejudice  uid 
pamion  of  eiiber  past  or  conleiuporary  events. 

This  leads  naiuralty  to  the  question,  Who  arc  to  be  the  chroni- 
cler! ?  Are  qualified  persons  to  be  found  in  sufficient  numbeta  en 
our  villages  ?  As  leading  up  to  an  affinnaliTe  answer,  it  may  be 
renurkcd  that  the  modem  conditions  of  life  have  done  much  to 
make  intellectual  culture  almost  if  not  quite  as  accessible  to  the 
dcniicns  of  our  eouniry  hoiiH:^  as  to  those  of  our  town  houses. 
Postal  and  railway  bcilitics,  the  enormous  increase  of  boo)[3,  the 
raised  standard  of  education,  the  continuous  social  interchange 
between  town  and  country,  sie  destroying  the  old  isolation  of 
coantiy  life— a  fact  of  which  prol^cstiona)  Hterary  men  in  town  do 
not  always  seem  to  be  aware-  Again,  not  only  is  the  intelligent 
and  cultured  class — or  classes — in  the  country  tnofe  numerous  than 
formerly,  but  the  members  of  it  have,  comparatively,  more  leisure 
than  their  compeers  in  town.  There  are  fewer  distractions  in  the 
country ;  and  in  not  a  few  cases  a  new  intellectual  interest  would  be 
cordially  welcomed.  It  is  true,  both  in  town  and  country,  that  much 
leisure  is  frittered  away  in  occupations  that  give  only  a  questionable 
kind  of  aatisfactioo.  To  exchange  some  of  these  trifling  occupa- 
lions  for  one  that  would  soon,  if  not  at  once,  become  an  interesting 
and  to  many  minds  an  absorbing  recreation  would  be  both  an 
individual  and  a  social  benefit. 

Who,  then,  could  become  the  "chroniclers"  in  our  villages? 
The  chroniclers  could  be  drawn  from  the  clergy,  from  the  lords  of 
the  manors  or  ihcir  families,  from  ihe  indc[>cndent  residents  who 
are  multiplying  in  many  villages,  and  from  the  more  intelligent 
farmers  and  their  families,  llw  village  schoolmaster  might,  in  some 
cases,  assist~^>ot  a  little  to  his  own  inidlcctual  bcnelit.  In  not  a 
few  villages  the  chronicler  could  become  the  central  figure  of  a 
snull  social  coterie  or  committee,  the  members  of  which  would  at 
least  give  their  sympathy,  and  would  often  give  aid  even  to  the 
extent  of  utvdertaking  specific  departments  of  investigation.  Id 
such  cases  a  new  social  interest  of  an  intellectual  character  would 
be  created.  Only  those  who  live  in  the  eounuy  can  fully  under- 
stand how  welcome  and  how  profitable  a  novelty  this  would  be. 

There  would  be  little  difficult)'  in  nfcguarding  the  documents 
thus  produced.  In  many  cases  they  might  be  duplicated  or  multi- 
plied by  persons  or  families  who  would  prize  a  copy.  But  the 
otiginal  sboald  be  the  property  of  the  village,  entrusted  to  the  can 
of  a  responsible  keei>er.  The  manor  house  or  the  parsonage  woold 
perhaps  generally  be  the  place  of  deposit ;  but  it  should  be  acees- 

M  KS 


5O0 


The  GeniUntxns  Magazine. 


sible  both  to  outside  hona-fiJt  students  and  to  intetl^ent  in 
bdof^ng  to  the  parish.  Its  contents  might,  from  tnoe  I0  tb^ 
fonn  the  subject  of  popular  addresses  by  the  ctefgnna  ct  Ik 
sqoire  or  the  schootmaster.  Not  only  would  a  local  puriodst,! 
village  fifril  lie  <otfs,  be  generated,  but  the  intcfloctuil  tone  of  ^  | 
people  as  a  whole  would  be  raised. 

It  would  doubtless  retiuire  some  time  to  secure  anytfaiif  Gkti 
general  adoptioii  of  the  proposed  scheme.      But  it  smd;  vtdd 
not  need  mudi  eiKOurageroent    from  the  numeroDS  atdueiA^ai 
societies,  ilw  English  Historical  Society,  and  other  ackaovUpJ 
leaders  of  historical  study  to  induce    niany  of  the  more  laA 
gent  resldenu  in  the  countr>'  to  set  an  example.     The  locil  itditt 
logical  mdetjet  would  acquire  a  new  poputarity  by  pationiiiags 
even  tmdertaking  the  superintendence  of,  the  scheme  in  iheb  o" 
districts.     Were  the  scheme  once   set   on   foot,  diffioOtJa  •«* 
wnish,  and  its  »ali>e  would  rapidly  become  widely  apparent 

ARTHUR  lUUnOK 


50» 


LEASES   FROM   LAKELAND. 


I. 


I 


THE  sky  tubd  been  overcast  since  daybreak,  and  tli«  rain,  which 
during  the  hours  of  darkness  had  "  fair-Zr  tcem'd  an'  poor'd 
doon,"  at  the  locaU  described  il,  was  succeeded  b)-  a  powerful  gal<^ 
gusts  of  which  penetrated  into  ittc  roost  sheltered  recesses  of  Kent 
dale. 

Before  we  had  drit-en  half  a  mile  ire  were  crossing  a  high 
elevation  with  the  wind,  thrice  stronger  llian  we  had  anticipated, 
sighing  across  bleak  expanses  of  moor  and  poMure,  soughing  through 
^rsc  sawins  and  coppices-  Tims  for  six  miles :  then  we  dis- 
mounted to  walk  a  long  hilt,  from  the  summit  of  which  glorious 
Windcnncrc  was  sighted.  At  Lowwood  the  gale  was  rolling  huge 
billows  inshon.-,  where  they  broke  among  the  boulders  into  a  score  of 
white  fountains,  the  spray  from  which  drove  in  a  fine  mist  over  the 
low  wall  into  our  faces.  Near  W'aterhead,  besides  a  view  down  the 
losing  waters  of  the  lake,  we  caught  a  wonderful  glimpse  of  the  lofty 
mountain  cirdc  where  the  drifts  of  a  late  snowstorm  still  showed. 

After  our  horses  had  been  refreshed  at  Ambleside,  we  turned 
down  to  Rotbay  Bridge  aiMj  drove  along  the  road  under  Loughrigg, 
passbg  nony  places  associated  witli  the  memoty  of  Wordsworth, 
whose  great  genius  inler|)rcted  the  charms  of  Nature  as  heie  seen. 
The  famous  stqiping-stones  were  under  water,  for  the  Rothay  was 
in  high  Aood  jJter  ilie  night's  rain.  Through  t)ie  leafless  screen 
of  oak  and  beech,  as  we  approached  Pelier  Bridge  a  chanc*;  view  of 
the  poet's  home,  Rydal  Mount,  was  noted,  and  later  we  drove  by  his 
Ekvourite  rock  scat,  whence  he  watched  for  many  years  the  seasons 
come  and  go  over  Kydal  Mcic  and  Loughrigg.  A  russet  tinge  on  the 
towering  hillsides  around  told  of  de«d  bracken :  the  gale  thundered 
and  shrieked  anwng  the  aaga  and  screes  of  Nab  Scar.  The  surface 
of  Grasmere,  sheltered  as  it  is  by  coppice  hung  hills,  hardly  bctTa)-ed 
s  ripple,  and  by  one  o'clock  we  were  passing  l>ove  Collage,  where 
Wordsworth  parsed  his  early  years,  and  so<m  readied  the  \illage. 


502 


The  GeniiemaHS  Alagazine. 


W«  fint  visited  the  quiet  churchyard  by  the  Rothay,  to  sec  the 
"  Poet's  Comer,"  then  strolled  towards  Silver  Howe  and  Score 
CnfC^  We  crossed  the  lowei'  breast  of  ihc  famous  guide  rjicc-couT»c, 
then  sctaniUed  up  the  edge  of  a  deep,  rocliy  glen.  The  rale  of 
Gnumere  spread  out  behind  and  bdow  with 

Krdal  brighia  aad  Uvnoull  raiw. 
Ami  kll  llMk  Ulvw  twBks  um)  InM. 

Helm  Cnig— "The  Witch's  Lair" — wns  still  more  than  ever  domi- 
nating the  outlook  northward,  the  great  otasscs  of  cra^  on  its  shoulders 
dwwing  up  fiiKly.     Fairfield  buried  its  head  in  cloud,  icndcHng  the 
rift  flf  Tongue  Ghyll,  close  gtiarded  by  wide  drifts,  more  distinct 
The  ^yll,  aficr  we  had  nearly  reached  the  hawse,  turtied  up  into  the 
6r  wuods.     A  torrent  was  foaming  its  way  down  :  its  white  calaracn 
showing  clearly  thiough  the  denuded  branches.    A  lady  of  our  party 
was  busy  pinning  her  hat  more  scrurcly,  wlien  a  wfaitl-bbui  600 
behind  the  hilt  rushed  o'er  the  wood  with  surtUng  sound.     The  hat 
was  vTTcivchcd  from  her  hands,  whirled  a  little  dtuance  in  mtd-air, 
finally  dropping  in  tlie  depths  of  the  gully,  wltence  it  was  retrieved 
intact.    Just  as  we  read>ed  tlic  bell  of  crags  and  bracken  1  tratiocd 
a  grey  roof  through  a  veil  of  trees — Score  Ciagi  (arm,  where  *e 
were  to  paruke  of  a  meal.     Aiiother  squall  struck  us  a.'s  wc  got  along 
t  particularly  exposed  piece  of  upland — "That's  wild,"  said  wc,  but 
wc  didn't  know  wliat  was  in  store.    The  farm  we  stopped  at  may  be 
a  little  out  of  the  way,  but  it  is  the  place  fot  a  nie^  of  the  sound 
solid  character  only  daksfolk  know  bow  to  prepare. 

After  dinner  we  settled  to  go  to  Easedale  Tarn,  some  three  miles 
away  by  roug^  and  steep  moimiain  path.  We  wandered  through 
leafless  wood  and  soaking  meadow  till  we  rc^cht'd  the  path  up 
the  dali\  The  walk  up  wu  delightful :  a  few  picturesque  farm- 
steads  were  dotted  here  and  there  in  odd  comers;  the  mountain 
solitudes  apfurouched  us  closely ;  every  turn  in  the  brae  showed 
up  a  new  recess  down  which  rushed  a  swollen  torrent.  In  front, 
the  roar  of  Sour  Milk  Force  was  becoming  perceptible  though  the 
white  ribbon  of  (ailing  water  was  still  half  a  mtle  away,  artd  high 
above  the  hollow  \-allcy  the  gale  could  be  heard  swelling. 
With  us,  howev-et,  the  air  was  almost  calm.  We  were  now  approach- 
ing a  pine  wood,  through  the  swaying  tops  of  which  could  be 
seen  the  Force.  The  path  ted  steeply  up  the  brae,  over  which  the 
water  was  coming  in  gigantic  leap».  ^\'e  sat  awhile  admiring  the 
sceiK;  the  cataract  is  divided  into  three  distinct  fotcca:  afts 
tiunbling  over  the  fimt,  tlie  beck  swirls  rouiKl  a  deep  pool ;  cscai^ 


Ltavts  from  Lakeland, 


503 


ing,  iti  CBrnDt  ii  divided  by  a  huge  mau  of  atone  fringed  witb  ash 
and  beMharand  Kfvh,  and  it  dasti««  do«m  two  riven  courses  to  a 
nanow  basin.     Below  ihb,  einboiT«r«d  in  a  femy  brake. 


Suns  from  ■  iaxtf  sleep  ibc  undtmUd  rill, 
Rvbed  inalsntly  In  g&ib  of  uiow-«h!i«  ronm. 


H  A  curiously  twitti'd  hawthorn  bush  has  found  a  footing  right  among 
the  roaring  waters,  and  amid  the  clouds  of  spray  rising  from  th« 
rocky  foot  of  the  cascade  scores  of  heather  tufts  Sourish.  Though 
I  we  were  as  yet  und«r  cover  of  the  crags,  the  power  of  the  gale 
'  was  becoming  more  perceptible,  and  as  wc  passed  into  the  open 
beyond  the  uppermoKl  fall  we  turned  to  face  it.  The  effluent  of 
Eascdale  Tarn  rattled  down  the  hollow  by  our  wde ;  the  scene  grew 

I  bleaker  aitd,  as  we  rose  higher,  our  difficulties  from  the  wind 
increased.  The  rocky  summit  beyond  the  tarn  (which  was  as  yet  in- 
visible) became  more  and  more  prominuil.  We  climbed  up  the 
water-washed  path  to  the  edge  of  the  torn-ba^in  in  a  perfect  hur- 
ricane. For  a  few  minutes  we  kept  in  the  shdter  of  the  refnnhment 
hut,  but  as  the  force  of  the  wind  abated  wc  ventured  into  the  open. 
The  water  was  &i  above  its  ordinary  levd  down  every  ghyll 
could  be  seen  pouring  those  while  stretches  of  foam  denoting  sur- 

•  charged  streams.  Against  the  dull  gre>-  sky,  the  dark,  immovable 
mountains  sheered  up  grandly,  and  here  and  there  in  the  deepest 
ghylls  were  white  patches  of  snow.     From  the  head  of  the  tarn 

I  two  glens  opened ;  there  was  an  angry  shout  of  the  gale  on  the 
storm -riven  front  of  Blokerigg,  and  irutantty  the  powerful  blaat  wax 
again  on  us.  Head  bent  wc  tried  to  hoM  our  ground ;  one 
lady  had  sat  down  on  a  low  rock  while  wc  surveyed  the  wild 
■  scene.  The  storm  struck  her,  carrying  her  bodily  some  feel  from 
her  seat.  Through  the  wilder  gusts  came  a  fine  moisture — spray 
from  the  lam.  As  rapidly  as  posnblc  wc  returned  lo  the  belter  of 
the  roughly  built  hut,  and  engaged  its  weather-beaten  owner  in 
convesmtton.  "It  was  wilder  this  morning;  why,  man,  it  luk 
t'waticr  off  ttam  1'  sheets  a  foot  thick."  It  was  sufliciciUly  wild 
now  i  but  as  the  squall  wore  itself  out  I  ventured  again  on  to  that 

•  exposed  piatform,  and  found  thai  by  going  on  to  one  knee  the 
power  of  the  gide  cotJd  be  more  eadly  resisted.  I'he  scene 
was  splendid ;  every  few  seconds  a  gust  of  wind  struck  near  the 
head  of  the  water,  and,  a*  it  came  sweepii^  towards  us,  we  could 
tee  it  lifting  the  spray  in  white  tJoudlds.  As  yet  we  knelt  in 
comparative  calm,  but  ihe  pretsore  increased  as  the  squnll  laced 


Tkt  GtHtUntaiC s  Magazine, 

ftlong  Ibe  waves  in  our  (lircction.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  cyo 
seotted  that  the  storm  fury  leapt  upon  us ;  huge  Imakcn  vcfe 
hoped  against  the  shore  »x  out  frvt,  and  the  white  spnty  flew  like 
smoke  Ear  up  the  hilUidc.  Many  a  time  wc  were  almost  blown  over, 
but  we  stude  to  our  position  somehow.  The  power  of  the  gale  was  a 
ttvctalkiB  even  to  one  imirod  to  mountain  storms. 

Afket  A  patiM  we  left  Ihc  tarn  side,  and,  Kamcd  bjr  the  blustering 
gale^  made  our  way  bade  to  Sour  Milk  Foroe,  where  we  had  left  the 
remainder  of  our  party,  and  then,  tracing  the  beck  as  it  swiOly 
rushes  through  rocky  {xuHes,  or  makes  its  way  down  qoictly  flowing 
reaches,  or  dances  down  brief  walerbreaks,  on  to  Grasmere,  and  so 
home. 


W. 


It  docs  not,  perhaps,  argue  much  prudence  to  (um  out  early 
the  morning  after  a  series  of  heavy  ihundershowere,  and  to  csny  s 
long  cycle  ride.  Till  the  world  w«kes  up  (about  eight  o'clock)  the 
cyclist  is  practically  cut  off  from  aD  sbeller  and  harbour. 

^Vhen  I  started  at  4  a.m.  the  light  was  only  poor,  and  a  cold 
breeee  was  blowing.  The  sky  was  packed  with  doue  rain  doadi, 
and  al  any  moment  a  heavy  shower  might  descend.  For  a  mile 
or  two  my  route  lay  between  high  hedses,  under  the  shade  of 
which  tlie  roadway  hod  made  liule  progress  towards  drybg.  Mud 
sploslivd  up  in  showers,  and  I  u-as  thankful  when  the  lines  of 
lel^raph  pules  showed  the  Shap  turnpike,  where  the  goit^  would 
be  almost  dry. 

By  a  number  of  easy  ascents  the  rood  rose  till  a  wide  view  of 
the  vale  of  Kent  was  commanded,  and  at  four  mDes  from  Kendal  I 
was  on  a  comet  of  the  hill.  On  three  sides  the  fields  fell  down  to 
the  Sprint,  whose  numerous  waierbreaks  gleamed  wbitcly  through 
fringing  birch  and  coppice.  To  the  right  the  road  continued 
gradually  rising  to  a  region  of  grey  moorUnd  pastures.  A  deep 
hollow  between  steep  wooded  hills  showed  the  entrance  to  a 
narrow  glen  on  our  left,  but  a  ^rcy  belt  of  mist  shut  off  all  i-iev 
of  the  di&tant  mountains.  A  few  minutes  after  passing  a  Utile 
wayside  inn  I  was  pedalling  bj'  the  edge  of  a  dense  fir  planta- 
tion. Scores  of  rabbits  lopped  about  on  the  roadway,  tlien,  as  the 
sound  of  creeping  tire*  came  nearer,  bolted,  some  to  the  shelter  of 
the  turnip  field,  more  into  ihc  wood. 

I'a.-(sing  FoR-st  Hall,  one  of  the  largest  of  our  mountain  sheep- 
forms,  I  was  ^cdily  in  view  of  the  cul-dt-ioe  valley  which  ends 
in  Uollowgate.    So  t«  4:a  ■««KdMa  'Vtt&  \*:«ct  Vux^  '•leatti^  dull ; 


I 


J 


Leaves  from  Lake/and. 


505 


"^nowToT  a  short  minute  the  suii  broke  through  the  doudi  bonVs.  It 
was  but  a  "  gUsh,"  prdiminary  to  the  cloning  down  of  the  clouds  on 
the  hilb  and  to  a  drenching  shower.  In  this  moment  ol'  sunlight 
I  looked  up  the  fell-ndc.  Ot'ct  the  waving  brackens  rose  a 
betlher-covered  rocky  blulT,  and  upon  its  front  many  siveep  wem 
fKdinj;,  their  grey  eoau  contrasting  beautifully  with  the  deep 
brown  background.  The  grass  t>y  the  roadside  wat  beaded  with 
oiotsture  though  no  rain  had  follen,  but  the  mist  had  hours  before 
dragged  its  clammy  ragged  txJge  across  the  dalchcad.  As  I 
Todc  further  up  the  pas.%,  it  became  j>uTCic:ptibl)-  darker ;  a  cloud 
was  rolling  in  behind,  and  I  was  si>ecdily  enveloped.  Before  dis- 
mounting at  the  cotiitr  where  bcgin.t  ihc  descent  to  Boroiigh  Bridge 
the  mist  was  so  dcnxc;  that  little  Iteyond  the  wall  by  the  road's  edge 
could  be  seen.  Now  and  again  a  brackcn-cowred  hill  shoulder 
would  pierce  through  the  moving  veil,  in  the  next  sweep  of  the  wind 
all  would  again  be  buried  in  murky  gre)-ncs3.  A  tiny  cluster  of 
houses  now  came  into  view,  and  as  soon  as  tlie  road  could  be  clearly 
seen  I  mounted  my  cycle  again.  The  damp  of  the  mUt  had  pene- 
bated  to  my  skin,  but  many  a  time  had  I  thus  been  drenched  on 
Ihc  Lakeland  mountains.  The  momentum  gathered  by  my  machine 
canied  me  without  exertion  a  fair  way  up  the  succeeding  slope — tbc 
beginning  of  the  two-mile  ascent — and  here  I  dismounted  againi 
Seen  through  the  half-light  of  the  mist-breath  Borunghdale  is  a 
cheerless  pbice.  The  tliree  bleak  houses— one  of  which  «Fas  an  inn 
in  the  old  coaching  da)-« — had  a  deserted  a!r  :  the  beck  splaslied 
aloiig  a  rough,  rocky  bed,  and  the  few  pastures  were  choked  with 
boulders  from  unseen  heights  above  the  mist.  Only  two  or  three 
trees  were  in  sight  to  relieve  the  general  air  of  desolation  by  iheir 
warm  green  foliage.  After  completing  some  two-thtrds  of  the  climb 
I  made  a  halt :  the  mist  was  now  whirling  about  in  huge  masses 
under  the  influence  of  a  strong  wind,  and  frequently  at  a  gap  in  the 
cloud  stream  there  wa^  a  splendid  view  into  the  dale  beneath.  I 
could  not  rcfnun  from  a  retrospect  of  the  wUd  scenes  enacted  since 
faistoir  began  on  this  bleak  "cross  fells"  road.  The  hordes  of  tbc 
Forty-Five  under  I'rincc  Charlie's  banner  had  tramped  gaily  across  it 
to  tbc  south  ;  a  few  short  weeks  later  tliey  had  doggedly  retreated 
through  November  mists  and  rains,  witli  the  Hanoverian  soldiers 
hamssing  their  rear. 

The  mist  again  surrounded  mc  as  I  foced  the  last  slope,  and  a 
heavy  shower  caroc  on.  It  was  no  use  thinking  of  shelter,  for  ttw 
jKarcst  houses  were  six  miles  aliead.  At  the  crest  of  the  hill  the 
toad  lies  open  to  the  moor,  and  to  right  and  left,  till  the  shifiitn^ 


5o6 


Tkt  GentUman's  Magazttu. 


dead  sUverr  mask  suycd  tbe  outlook,  weie  long  dopes  of  heuhet, 
above  dark  Uyent  of  peaL  Here  and  tliete  an  indu*tnou>  daloniui, 
undaunted  by  the  tliinneM  of  the  chocolate-coloured  taycn,  bad  est 
a  few  caitkAds  of  the  fuel  and  stacked  it  that  it  might  dij  the 
more  qutcUy.  I  rode  a  few  hundred  jrards  here,  then  diitnountcd, 
fbf  the  pufiice  of  tlie  road  was  corered  with  kharp  gnveL  1 
was  a  imding  amonjj  tbc  !iuh  grass  by  the  roadside,  as  if 
mall  aoimal  were  moving,  and  a  moment  later  the  bead  of  a  yoa 
cock  grouse  appeared,  and  one  after  artotbcr  came  bis  family. 
watched  them  feed  for  a  full  minute,  then  picked  up  a  stone 
ifaied  it  among  ihcm.  A  slight  acceleration  of  their  leisurely  pact; 
a  protesting  "ctuckuck"  from  tbe  cock,  to  whom  tbc  stone  had 
Esllcn  unpleasantly  dose,  were  tbc  only  effects. 

Below  tbe  mta-wrcautu  I  mounted,  and  was  soon  pMsing  War 
dale  Bridge,  then  over  tbe  sbon  hill  came  lottg  descending  milei 
through  Shap  ar>d  Hackthorpe,  and  by  the  spreading  oakwoods  to  the 
Eden.  Everywhere  I  was  the  firu  cyclist,  disturbing  tbe  pamidget, 
the  rabbits,  artd  the  hares. 


After  a  day  in  the  village  town  of  Appleby  I  bad  to  ride  agaw,^ 
over  the  Shap  Fell.  IIk  tight  was  rapidly  waning  by  tbe  time  t 
reached  the  granite  works,  and  the  iit«c]>  were  moving  down  6on 
tbc  higher  groiutd.  Tbe  sun  had  set  in  a  Surry  of  crimson  cloudy 
a  dangiT  signal  for  the  morrow.  The  silence  deepened  as  I  rode  by 
Wasdalc  Bridge  ;  a  cuitew  rose  from  a  pool  by  the  ro3i^!i  ide,  its  wild 
whistle  resounding  over  the  moor.  The  darkness  was  complete  by 
tbe  time  I  arrived  at  the  head  of  the  axccnt,  and  the  clouds  bad  long 
since  spread  over  the  higher  ground.  I  did  not  dare  ride  down  that 
long  slope,  as  my  mnchtnc  was  brakclcss,  so  walked,  and  by  9  kh. 
waa  repassing  the  lonely  houses  of  Borough  bridge.  At  the  top  of 
Hucks  Brow  I  again  mounted,  but  the  darkness  in  the  shadow  of  I 
tlie  coverts— to  whirh  (he  feeble  glimmer  of  my  hmp  apparently 
only  added  intensity—  was  so  complete  that  it  was  anxious  wovk. 
The  sky  was  without  a  ray  of  light,  and  the  roadway  so  covered  with 
pools  of  water  that  it  was  difficult  to  see  where  macadam  ended  and 
grass  began.  After  five  miles  going  at  a  snail's  pace  1  came  to  a' 
lane,  unridcable  cerUinly,  but  n  short  cut  for  home.  I  wheeled  the 
cycle  along  the  narrow  way  between  the  tall  hedgerows  of  hazel, 
sycamore,  and  ash.  It  n<at  dark  here,  I  oould  barely  see  my  own 
hand  bcfotc  my  eyes;  biil  bats  were  wlweling  and  twittering,  and  the 

1  hum  of  nocturnal  insects,  as  ihev  hovered  round  favourite  plants, 


LtcoiU  from  Lakeiand. 


507 


I  pkuDly  beard.  An  alTrighted  hedgehog  dashed  across  the  tiny 
patch  of  tight  from  my  lamp,  taking  tdiige  in  the  dense  undergromb. 
I  tried  hard  to  anal)-ee  the  various  sounds  of  night,  hut  fiuted.  ^Vn 
owl  hooted  from  the  ivies  of  an  old  farmhouse,  a  Iamb  t>leated  from 
the  intakes,  a  rabbit  nished  headlong  down  the  road.  Thai  was  aU. 
I  am  not  easily  tired  of  wandering,  ettbei  afoot  or  awheel,  but  this 
time  I  was  drowsy  and  weary  for  home. 


III. 


I 

I 


I 


There  is  a  very  certain  pleasure  in  long-distance  walking,  but  it 
is  hardly  apparent  at  5  a.u.  on  a  morning  when  t)ie  tbermonieter 
registcre  fivr  degrees  of  frost.  Tlie  glorious  autumnal  tinu  on  moor 
and  hedgerow  and  brae  arc  scarcely  [lerceived  till  exercise  toniewltat 
warms  ihc  blood.  Then,  as  the  atniospl-.ci(:  grows  more  tolerable, 
the  scene  seems  to  gain  in  beauty. 

The  sun  had  not  j'ct  risen,  stars  were  glowing  brilliantly,  a  rosy 
flush  was  gradually  creepdng  along  the  cast.  We  soon  left  behind 
the  square,  grcy-towcrcd  village  church,  with  its  unfixed  survdial, 
tht  squire's  modest  home  amid  close-dipt  yews,  a  few  sycamore- 
surrounded  farmsteads,  and  entered  the  open  road.  The  moun- 
tains do  not  approach  our  dale  closely,  but  tlierc  is  a  grand  out- 
look to  right  and  left  over  a  land»»pc  in  which  predominates 
"the  rushy  fen,  the  nigged  fune  ...  the  Rony  heath  ...  the 
stubble  cbapt,  the  thistly  bwii,  the  thick  entangled  broom  ...  the 
withered  fern."  A  partridge  called  from  a  stubble  on  the  hiUnde,  a 
cu  riew  whislled  aloft.  As  we  paatied  a  tittle  nook  of  mountain  landL 
a  gaunt  heron  rose  from  the  tiny  runnell  intersecting  it,  and  made 
away  with  n>easurcdly  sweeping  wings  towards  the  tarn  over  the  next 
bluff. 

We  got  our  first  glimpse  of  Windermere  just  before  a  quarter- 
past  six,  aiKl  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  reached  its  shores  at 
Lovwood.  Here  for  some  distance  the  toad  lies  close  to  tbc  lake's 
edge.  A  shght  breeze  was  rippling  the  surface,  tbc  beds  of  grass 
and  occasional  tushes  swayed,  aitd  tiny  rollers  l^>ped  the  shore. 
Occasionally  we  were  divided  from  tlie  lake  by  a  thin  frii^e  of  oak 
and  ash,  sycamore  and  alder,  overgrown  with  green  cUn^ng  ivies 
and  dead  honeysuckle  trailer*.  The  sun  was  now  noticeably  be- 
giruiing  to  shed  a  warmer  light  on  ihc  grej-  clouds :  lints  of  crimson 
and  orange,  rose  and  mauve,  ocpt  through  tbc  intcrstioet  of  the  duQ 
canop)'.  and  at  last  the  stu&cc  of  the  water  caught  glimmenngx  of 


5o8  Th$  GentUntani  Magastnf. 

the  brighlening  davra.  Down  Uk:  bkc  the  vic«  was  eiKlcd  \sj  \ 
chain  of  treccrowncd  isleu,  whil«  to  right  and  left  pine-hung  bluffit 
ascended.  It  was  interesting  to  note  the  various  stages  of  aatttnuui 
decay :  we  liad  passed  thnMigh  many  woods  where  Uie  way  «at 
thickly  carpeted  vrith  Callen  ash  IcAvea,  a  few,  loosened  by  the  slig^ 
morning  breeze,  were  already  twirling  down.  At  other  pUcei,  too^ 
the  roadway  was  carpeted  with  acorns  and  beechmast.  The  hazd 
coppices  clinging  to  the  rocky  slope  of  Waosfcll  were  gorgeoiu ;  the 
o^  treea  beneath  barely  showed  the  touches  of  latamn,  while  the 
deep  peen  of  pine  and  holly  struck  n>orc  than  aiually  tombre.  We 
were  passing  towards  the  water's  head  when  there  opened  oat  a 
grand  semicircle  of  mountains,  from  Loughrigg  to  Wansfell,  with 
the  half  lights  of  early  morning  still  fioeling  in  tbcar  bosoiru.  Actost 
the  lake  the  white  sails  of  a  yacht  were  being  hoiked,  anil  the  con- 
trast of  snowy  cam'as  against  distant  grccrKry  and  st  cell  ike  waten 
was  most  elfcctire.  A  few  chor-fishers  were  afloat,  and  the  steamer 
by  the  pier  was  raising  a  white  cloud  preparatory  to  the  tUy^  wnfc. 
We  took  the  road  round  the  head  of  the  water,  passing  the  knrnte 
of  the  old  Roman  camp,  guarded  on  three  sides  by  river  and  lake. 
So  far  Loughrigg  had  only  appeared  to  us  over  lofty  trees,  but  no* 
it  shoved  clear  in  a  long,  rugged  line  of  rock  and  bracken,  heather 
and  coppice.  For  awhile  the  sun  four>d  n  gap  among  the  clouds, 
and  speedily 


The  rieid  hou-frMt  melt*  before  lui  bwm  | 
And  hung  on  evety  ^>ny.  on  vrny  tibdc 
Of  gnM,  the  mjTad  dew-diofa  twiaUc  roond. 


Though  the  clouds  were  barely  cluarii^  the  summits  in  their  low 
flights,  the  air  was  clear,  and  the  ripple  of  tlie  slight  breeze  was 
plainly  discernible  on  the  many-hucd  bracken  beds  abore  the 
coppices.  Soon  Roihay  Bridge  was  passed,  arul  tlien  Clappensate 
This  is  one  of  those  too  rare  hamlets  where  all  b  dean  and  trim, 
where  every  garden  is  bright  with  flowers,  and  every  wall,  doorway, 
and  casement  masked  with  gorgeous  creepers  and  climbing  roses. 
From  the  trees  across  the  river  cane  the  cawing  of  rooks,  and  as  we 
passed  along  an  occasional  blackbird  or  thrush  whirled  on  frightened 
wing  from  the  bianibles  in  the  roadside^  on  which  a  luscious  feasi 
still  huiig.  After  some  distance,  overhung  with  spreading  oaks  and 
beeches,  with  the  Brathay  swirling  down  its  rocky  bed  close  by,  we 
debouched  into  Oie  level  valley,  where  the  river  Bows  very  sluggishly, 
its  course  being  a  successton  of  dixp  marshy  pooU.  Here  the  char 
will  come  in  November  from  the  great  lake,  and  all  through  the 


\ 

I 

I 


4 


I 


Leoifes  from  Lakeland. 


509 


I 


I 


banks.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  number  of  fish  annually  seen  here 
s«ems  to  be  diminishing,  while  increasing  ukcs  arc  recorded  in  the 
lake  iiself.  But  the  chai  is  a  most  peculiar  fish,  retiring  to  the 
lowermost  deptlis  during  the  period  at  which  insect  life  is  mott 
abundant  and  returning  to  the  surface  as  the  last  family  of  fiies  is 
djring  olT.  Many  mysteries  attach  to  his  life's  career,  and  his  spawn- 
ing is  not  tl>c  least  dlllicult  ofsolulion.  One  of  the  |X)oU  which  tlie 
char  formerly  frcciucntcd  bears  the  name  of  "  Badj^er  Wheel,"  the 
latter  probably  on  account  of  its  circular  shape.  The  badger  is 
generally  considered  to  be  extinct  in  this  di^itrtct,  but  ll>cre  is 
little  doubt  that  a  good  number  of  these  shy,  retiring  animals  exist. 
The  locals  have  no  idea  of  their  economy,  crediting  their  mar^-etlous 
earthworks  to  the  rab)>i[  and  thdr  oocanonal  acts  of  lawlessness  to 
the  fox.  The  country  hereabouts  is  certainly  favourable  to  the 
badger's  exUicnce,  being  ro%'ered  with  extensive  woods,  the  under- 
growth of  which  will  prov-ide  congenial  food,  and  possessing  in  its 
ndcy  hillsides  innumerable  unassailable  holts. 

I-'rom  a  comer  of  the  road  there  was  a  splendid  view  of  King 
Wheel,  the  highest  pool  of  the  series  ;  sedge  grass  grew  far  into  Ha 
waters,  and  its  bosom  was  covered  with  the  brown  leaves  of  a  watcr- 
lily-Iikc  weed.  A  coujilc  of  wild  duck  were  still  disporting  Ihero- 
selrcs  undisturbed,  while  a  motionless  heron,  knee  deep,  was  Intently 
watching  the  movements  of  sonYc  finny  school  ^\'^lcn,  beguiled  by 
the  still  shadow,  they  approached  within  reach,  the  long  neck  shot 
out,  and  the  cruel  bQl  withdrew  from  the  water  with  a  struggling 
pefch  or  troutlet  impaled.  From  this  point  there  was  a  fine  view 
of  the  Coniston  Felb,  looking  over  intcncning  ridges  into  this  valley. 
The  nearer  hills  were  clothed  to  the  summit  with  firs  and  oaks,  but 
the  loftier  ranges  were  bare.  In  the  clear  air  thdr  gullies  and 
crags — "  scams  and  rents  in  their  colossal  texture  "—showed  plainly. 
But  across  the  meadows  at  the  foot  of  the  nearest  bill  is  Skelwith 
Bridge,  its  white-walled  houses  in  solemn  protest  against  the  dense 
green  of  the  sunounding  woods.  Two  steep  spurs  of  rock  converge 
on  the  river  behiitd  the  houses,  compressing  its  width  till  it  comes 
down  in  flood  time  a  channel  of  white  water.  As  wc  look  down  into 
tlie  stream,  rushii^  over  iu  pebbly  bed,  from  the  tall  blucstone 
bridge  this  ia  apparent,  even  if  the  steady  murmur  of  the  wsterfall 
did  not  proclaim  its  proirimtty.  For  a  time  the  sound  of  falling 
waten  floated  from  our  right  through  the  trees,  to  be  succeeded 
by  the  lisping,  rustling  silence  of  the  larch  woods.  Passing  this, 
we  were  alongside  the  hill,  and  the  ground  above  was  cmercd  with 
gone  bushes  and  heather  clumps,  savvins  and  the  prickly  whitv. 


'J 


Tke  GentUmatis  Magasint. 

■nuKtg  which  pUfcd  scores  or  nbbits.  Oac  footing  rabbit, 
in  the  roadway,  tarried  co  long  that  wr  were  dose  to  it  before  it  «u 
aware.  Then  it  bolted  in  a  trtmendotn  httrry,  leaping  one  or  two 
amall  bushes  and  tmsodts  of  gnss,  finally  daafaiiig  into  a  "moot,' 
or  tmall  bole  intentionally  left  Tor  the  pasMge  ofipinie,  in  the  «aS. 
There  wa^  a  sharp,  choking  >ound ;  we  roshed  forward,  rather  (fxpcct- 
ing  to  fim)  liiat  the  rabbit  in  its  firenided  rush  had  met  and  been 
aiucked  b)-  a  weasel.  But  no.  there  it  lay  in  the  "  Rmoot,"  Oian^erf 
b]r  a  wire  snare,  doubtless  laid  some  hours  previoosty  by  a  poadier. 
We  broke  the  wire  and  released  the  labbit^  throat,  to  find  tlut  i 
neck  had  been  dislocated  and  it  was  quite  dead. 

For  half  a  mile  more  the  woodf  lay  to  oor  tight,  strmight 
stems  ritinK  from  a  ult  undergrowth  of  now  decaying  bneko).  Tbr 
moor  on  the  other  side  gradually  Ikccaiue  wilder,  occa:iJonal  moraisei 
of  boulders  were  interspersed  amon);  the  dark  brown  and  vivid  grtn 
{latclie*.  As  the  road  climbed  hif;her  we  cleared  the  woodi 
altogether,  and  a  few  minutes  later  our  attention  was  attracted  bf 
a  glimmer  of  water  to  the  right — Eller  \Vater.  with  n  chain  of  tangle- 
grown  islets  almoit  diriding  it  in  twain.  About  a  mile  from  Skelm'th 
we  reached  a  point  whence,  abOTc  the  high  hcdgemws,  we  could  see 
the  house  of  Cohrith,  backgrounded  by  spreading  coppice  wood, 
where  the  leaves  were  all  aglow  with  autumn  tints.  The  hollow  of 
Little  Lsngdalcwas  now  openinf;  out,  but  we  preferred  to  keep  along 
the  high  rmd  to  Contston  until  the  entrance  to  a  grass-gTown  cail- 
road  was  reached.  This  track  held  on  over  the  moors,  past  sevenl 
ivy-covered  farms  and  cotiaftes,  which  to  one  who  thought  the  whole 
of  the  valley  was  Ksmiliar  seemed  to  spring  from  the  grourxl,  and 
skirting  aevtm)  plantations,  where  the  game  appeared  curious  rather 
than  fV%htened  at  the  unwonted  stranger,  with  a  &harp  trend  all  the 
way  towards  the  valley.  A«  we  came  down  the  slope  to  the  ford  in 
the  Coniston  road,  a  squirrel  dashed  aaou  our  path,  and,  chattering 
volubly,  took  refuge  in  a  tall  oak.  The  »cene  wna  one  of  th«  quietest, 
tlte  overhanging  trees,  the  grass^grown  road,  the  stone-doored  fool- 
bridge,  and  the  ford  seemed  to  proclaim  a  f<»);otten  piece  of  andeot 
England. 

WILUAH  T.    PALMBR. 


s»> 


THE  ;^4,ooo  BIBLE— AND  OTHERS. 


I 


FOUR,  thousand  poundi  for  a  Bibte !  Such  wax  the  figure  paid 
not  50  long  a^  in  a  Ijondon  auction  room.  People  talk  of 
Cremona  violin  collecting  a«  a  ctuie,  but  the  highest  price  hitherto 
paid  for  a  Cremona  is  only  a  modest  j^i.ooo.  And  after  all  there 
is  some  practical  adivintagc  to  be  grained  from  the  possession  of  an 
old  violin,  A  violin  iinptoi-es  with  age,  and  a  specimen  from  th« 
hands  of  Stradivariux  will  give  out  a  music  tliat  no  modem  instru- 
ment can  matdt.  But  Bibles  ?  Well,  Bibles  are  printed  and  sold 
that  they  may  be  read ;  and  to  the  uninitbted  ii  would  seem  that 
Ihctc  can  be  no  inherent  or  appreciable  distinction  between  a  Bible 
priced  at  four  shillings  and  one  priced  at  four  thousand.  But  the 
bibtiORianiac  knows  beUer.  He  does  not,  like  Browning's  poet, 
"glance  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye."  He  employs  both 
his  eyes,  and  the  whole  of  them  too.  He  knows  tliat  rare  books  are 
not  bought  to  be  read— not  primarily  at  least :  the)-  are  bought  for 
the  pleasure  of  "collecting"  them.  Moreover,  the  biUiomaniac 
generally  buys  in  a  partieuhir  line.  He  is  like  the  man  who  has 
been  described  as  purchasing  "  as  many  little  Elzevirs  as  he  can  lay 
his  hands  upon,"  for  the  sake  of  collecting  tliem  into  a  library, 
"  where  other  books  are  scarce  enough."  So  tliere  ts  the  Bible  col- 
lector, and  his  prize  is  the  great  edition  of  the  Scriptures  for  which 
the  enthuaast  paid  the  ;f  4,000,  the  highest  sum  eves  given  for  a 
BiUe. 

The  predom  vohimc  which  thus  er^ages  the  interests  <rf  the 
btbliomaniM;  has  cotoc  to  be  known  as  the  Mazarin  Bible  since  the 
discovery  of  a  copy  in  tiie  library  of  Cardinal  Maxarin.  It  ought 
more  properly  to  be  called  the  Gutenberg  Bible,  coming  as  it  does 
from  the  press  of  the  bcrw&cior  who  discovered  the  art  of  printing 
from  movable  metal  types.  The  Mazarin  Bible  is^  in  &ct,  the  first 
book  so  printed,  the  slow  and  expensive  process  of  usii^  engraved 
blocks  being  the  only  resource  of  the  printer  prior  to  its  appcaraiKc. 
It  is  said  that  Guiaiberg  issued  it  to  the  clergy  as  a  genuine  manu- 
script, and  that  his  towosmeo  believed  him  to  be  in  leaew  wixK^W. 


The  GtntUmojCs  Magasme. 

(Im-iL  There  b  no  date  on  the  booV,  and  the  precise  fcar  in  whidi 
il  was  printed  cannot  be  fixed  :  it  »  gcncmll/  suppos«d  to  (uve  been 
istucd  before  1456.  It  is  a  fotio  of  64  r  leaves,  and  is  printed  n 
bbck-lettei  in  double  columns,  nittiout  title-page  or  pttginstion. 
For  Ktrength  >nd  beauty  of  the  paper  {wbtch  bears  Tour  water-mvks 
throughout),  lu&tre  of  the  ink,  and  exact  uniformity  of  impression,  it 
bat  never,  saj-s  an  aulhorit)-,  been  equalled  ti}-  any  other  wodc.  It 
"lectn-t  nurvellous,  in  looking  at  the  fages  of  those  iplcndid 
volumes,  that  the  inventor  of  printing  sltould,  by  a  single  cSbrt,  hire 
exhibited  the  perfection  of  his  art."  That  he  choce  the  Scriptura 
for  the  introduction  of  that  an  is  a  point  woith  noting.  As  Haltem, 
the  historian,  has  put  it,  we  nuy  see  in  imagination  the  venerable 
and  splendid  volume  leading  up  the  cro«-ded  myriads  of  lU  follomt^ 
and  imploring,  as  it  were,  a  blessing  on  thi:  new  art  by  *'  dodicatiq( 
its  first-fruits  to  the  service  of  heaven."  So  wonder  that  an  crilln- 
itutic  "cataloguer*  described  it  once  as  the  most  important  and 
dixttnguiihcd  article  in  the  whole  annals  of  typography,  "  a  tnasnre 
which  would  exalt  the  humblest,  and  stamp  with  a  due  character  of 
dignity  the  proudest  collection  in  the  world." 

Unfortunataly,  nowadays  it  is  only  the  owners  of  the  proudM 
coDections  who  can  afford  to  indulge  even  the  hope  of  such  a  posses- 
sion. A  hundrMl  years  ago  OfM  might  have  bought  a  ftfaxar^n  Bibk 
for  the  nntdcm  price  of  a  lint  edition  of  "  The  Vicar  of  Walcefidd,* 
but  that  time  has  gone  for  ever.  Mr.  Perkins,  of  Hanworth  Paik, 
had  two  c<^C5,  one  on  vellum,  the  other  on  paper.  He  bought  the 
vellum  cop)'  in  i8]5  for  jCs^A,  luid  the  paper  copy  for  ^199  toj. 
His  library  was  sold  in  1S73  ;  the  vellum  copy  tlien  brought  jCi,4/x, 
and  the  paper  copy  jQafi^.  The  purchaser  of  tJw  fonncr  was  the 
Earl  of  Ashburnham,  and  when  his  library  was  sold  in  1S97  the 
treasure  produced  ^£4,000.  lliis  is  a  splendid  Cnsuncc  of  risiqg 
mlue,  especially  when  the  (act  is  recalled  that  ten  years  before  Mr. 
Perkins  otade  his  purchase — tlut  It  to  say,  in  1815— a  perfect  copy 
on  vellum  realised  only  ^^175.  The  Karl  of  Hopetoun  was  the 
fortunate  possessor  of  a  Mazarin,  though  he  did  not  know 
the  sale  catalogue  of  his  library  came  to  be  nude  up.  Mr.  Q: 
the  Piccadilly  book  magnate,  bought  this  copy  for  jf  i.ooo. 
John  Thorold's  sale  in  1884  Mr.  Quaritcfa  was  also  the  lucky 
for  a  copy  which  appeared  there.  This  lime  he  began  at  jCuoao, 
and  after  a  B[»rited  content  the  volume  vas  knocked  down  to  him 
W  .^^3.850.  Doubtless  when  a  *'  Ma/arin "  next  comes  into  the 
market,  it  will  realise  a  sum  considerably  in  advance  of  any  figure  yet 
auoctalcd  with  the  book. 


J 


Tie  ;^4,ooo  Bii& — a»rf  Othtrs. 


513 


I 


I 


Many  cart/  editions  of  the  Bible  are  sought  after  by  the  collector, 
with  the  natural  result  tlial  they  produce  a  lon^  price  when  a  copy 
turns  up.    TliuK  a  copy  of  the  first  printed  Latin  Bible  (1461)  iru 
knocked  doirn  at  the  Ashbumham  sale  for  ;^i,5ocv  white  Myles 
Coverdale's  English  Bible  of  1535  ran  up  to  ;£^82o.     In  a  good 
many  cues  the  bibliomaniac  hunts  his  quarry  merely  because  of 
some  peculiarity  of  transbtion.    There  is,  for  example,  the  wclt- 
knowa  "  Bugge "  Bible,  nhich  is  unsuspectingly  connected  with  a 
popular  misconception.    Thb  edition  takes  its  name  from  a  some- 
what curious  rendering  of  Psalm  xci.   5:  "So  that  thou  shalt  not 
need  to  be  afraid  of  any  buggcs  by  nigbt,  nor  for  the  arrow  that  flietb 
by  day."    The  sentence  in  the  prologue  reads  as  follows :  "  He  that 
hath  the  spirit  of  Chri.it  is  now  no  more  a  child ;  he  neither  leameth 
oc  maketh  now  any  longer  for  pain  of  the  rod,  or  for  fear  of  bogges, 
or  pleasure  of  apples."    There  used  to  be  a  great  deal  of  discussion 
about  the  precae  meaning  of  the  word  "  bugge "  as  so  applied  ;  for 
of  course  the  signification  is  quite  diflcrent  from  tlut  now  attached 
to  it.     But  the  word  means  simply  ex'il  spirit ;  it  is  from  the  same 
root  that  wc  have  the  word  "  bugaboo,"  and  the  modem  "  bogie " 
dreaded  of  the  children.    The  "Bugge"  Bible  b  sought  for  not 
alone  on  account  of  the  peculiarity  which  has  brought  it  its  name : 
the  prologues,  by  Tyndalc,  gave  such  offence  to  the  clergy  that  thty 
caused  the  edition  to  be  entirely  suppressed.    This  of  course  means 
that  the  work  is  excessively  rare ;  arnJ  for  a  book  to  be   rare  it 
enough  to  set  all  the  bibliomaniacs  on  its  track.    The  edition  always 
produces  a  good  price  in  the  market.     One  collector's  copy  sold  for 
£60,  and  an  imperfect  specimen  brought  ^45  some  years  ago  in  a 
London  auction  room. 

The  so-called  "  Breeches  "  Bible  of  1560  is  not  so  valuable.  It 
owes  its  name  and  distinction  to  the  rendering  of  Genesis  iii.  7 : 
**  Then  the  eyes  of  them  both  were  opened,  and  they  knew  that  they 
were  naked.  And  they  tewed  fig-tree  leaves  together,  and  made 
themselves  breeches."  The  "Rosin"  and  the  "Treacle"  Bibles 
both  tAke  their  name  from  tronsbtions  of  the  well-known  question  of 
Jeremiah  iww  rendered  "  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilcad  P "  In  the  one 
case,  for  the  word  "  balm  "  we  have  "  rosin,"  and  in  the  other  case 
"  treacle."  The  word  thus  rendered  by  three  different  English  words 
often  oecun  in  the  Bible;  and  it  is  curious  to  iwlc  that,  although 
the  AuiboHscd  Version  has  "  balm  "  in  the  text,  it  gives  "  rosin  "  in 
the  margin  as  an  alternative  reading.  King  James's  translators  were 
evidently  doubtful  as  to  which  word  exactly  represented  the  original 
With  these  two  editions  may  be  dasscd\,'he''\'\T*^'''ttM*'A  ^■V'v.v 
vw.  ccmai.    so.  3057-  "*  * 


ji^.  The  Gentleman's  Magazing. 

In  thb  case  the  name  codks  from  ibe  beadlioe  of  St.  Luke, 
Cbopter  ».,  the  word  "vinegar"  being  printed  bt  mutaJce  for 
"  vineyard,"  thus  :  "  The  parable  of  the  vinegar." 

About  the  ytw  1630  scveisl  small  Bibles  were  printed  by  Robett 
Barker,  the  most  notable  of  which  nas  the  octavo  of  1631.  This  is 
knotm  as  the  "  Wicked  "  Bibk,  from  the  omission  of  the  "  not "  from 
the  Seventh  Commandment.  The  error  must  have  heeo  discoveted 
before  the  printing  of  the  edition  was  finished,  for  in  several  eitaat 
copies  the  negative  is  in  its  place.  NcTcrthcless,  the  hapless  printer 
was  cast  in  a  fine  of  £zw>  \yj  Aichbiihop  Laud,  the  raone^,  as  we 
are  told,  being  expended  in  "  a  fount  of  fair  Urcck  type,"  which  was 
to  render  almost  impossible  such  cnotmitiea  as  the  above  Onlp 
four  copies  of  the  "  Wicked  "  Bible  are  known  to  exist ;  bat  curioustf 
enough  the  ame  blunder  has  lately  been  detected  in  a  Cennaa 
edition.  Some  cotlecton  run  after  the  "Whig"  Bible,  so  called 
because  the  ninth  verse  of  Matthew  r.  is  made  to  read :  "  Blest«d 
are  the  place-makers,  for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God' 
This  rare  vohinie,  seldom  found  in  a  perfect  condition,  was  sent 
into  the  world  by  a  Genevan  printer  in  1569.  in  1613  Barker,  tb« 
London  printer,  made  two  issues  of  the  Btbl^  which  arc  genenlly 
distinguished  as  the  "  Great  He  "  and  the  "  Great  She  "  Bibles,  from 
the  blunder  which  substituted  "  he  "  for  "  she  "  in  the  last  clause  of 
Rath  liL  15.  Copies  of  either  edition  usually  fetch  a  good  price. 
Kot  many  yean  ago  an  imperfect  copy  of  the  "  She  "  lEsue  broogfat 
ten  guineas  at  PuU»ck*s  ttle-room.  The  "  Wifc-bcatci's  "  Bible— 
fortunately,  perhaps— is  seldom  noticed.  In  this  edition  the  husband 
b  exhorted  to  "  endeavour  to  beat  the  fear  of  God  into  her  "— ta 
method  certainly  calculated  to  inspire  the  fear  of  man  t  ^ 

Published  in  London  in  ijys,  the  "Pagan"  Bible  is  a  teal 
curiosity,  containing  as  it  does  at  St.  John,  itt  Epistle,  chapter  i.,  a 
woodcut  of  Mount  Olympus  and  iheCods — Ledaand  Swan,  Daphne 
and  Apollo.  This  extraordinary-  Bible  abo  contaimothec  cceon  fion 
the  "  Metamorphoses."  It  m  perfectly  inconceivable^  layi  a  writer, 
"how  such  utterly  inappropriate  illustrations  should  have  been 
allowed  a  i>Iace  in  an  edition  of  the  Bibtc."  It  is  well  known,  bow* 
e\er,  that  two  or  three  centuries  ago  the  difficulties  of  reproducing 
pictures  of  any  kind  in  books  were  so  great  that  one  block  was  made 
to  do  duty  not  only  in  several  works  of  wholly  diverse  kind,  but  was 
even  used  over  and  over  again  in  the  same  book.  Tlie  first  Bible 
printed  in  Scotland  is  another  of  the  rarities  sought  after  by  the  col- 
lector,   ll  vas  hota  \\ift  v'^^  ^  TbmnsA  Gasaandyne,  and  boars  the 


I 


Th<  /'4,ooo  Bihk — and  Others. 


515 


I 
I 


Earl  or  Moiton.  Average  spedmens,  if  in  good  condition,  usually 
fetch  something  like  £,io.  Of  merely  curious  Bibles  there  are  a 
large  number.  Tlim  there  is  the  "  Persecuting  Printer's  "  Bible,  in 
which  the  Psalmist  is  made  to  say  :  "  Printers  have  persecuted  me 
without  a  cause."  'I'hc  "  Ear  to  Ear  "  Bible  w.is  printed  at  Oxford 
in  1810,  and  takes  its  name  from  the  rendering  of  Matthew  xiii.  43 : 
"  WTio  hath  cars  to  car,  let  him  car."  No  fe«-ci  than  three  editions, 
the  latest  being  of  1833,  transform  the  word  "fishers"  in  Eie- 
kJel  :dvij,  10,  into  "fishes,"  so  that  the  phrase  reads:  "Itshcs 
shall  stand  upon  it."  These  editions  arc  accordingly  known  as  the 
"Standing.fishes"  Bible.  The  "To  Remain"  Bible  obtained  its 
name  from  a  very  curious  circumstance.  In  this  editJon.  Gala- 
tians  iv.  19  reads  :  "  Persecuted  him  that  was  bom  after  the  Spirit 
to  remain,  even  so  it  is  now."  While  the  work  of  this  edition  was  in 
preparation,  the  proofreader  was  somewhat  puzzled  about  the 
question  of  whether  a  comma  should  be  inserted  after  the  word 
Spirit,  and  accordingly  asked  his  superior.  When  the  superior 
letomed  the  proof-sheet  it  had  the  words  "  To  remain  "  pencilled  on 
the  trMTgin,  and  the  printer  inserted  the  two  words  into  tlie  body  of 
the  text  I 

J.  CUTHBERT  H.\DDEN. 


The  GtfUlemaiit  Ma^anHf7 


LOST    IN    THE    ''ZENITH: 


WHERE— for  what  land  «c  these  adventuren  1 
These  lulgrims  sailing  for  an  unknown  abora 
Seek  they  lome  haven  ship  baa  vxxa  found, 

SocM  port  whence  mariners  return  no  roorc  ? 
Swifter  than  fakon  falling  on  its  prey, 
Borne  on  the  wing  of  winds  they  pass  away. 

Wc  know  our  world  is  but  a  parasite, 

A  link  speck  forgoltcn  mtdst  the  ipbcres, 

A  gleam  from  distant  stars  and  boats  of  night, 
A  thing  unheeded  by  thv  rollir^  years, 

And  that  nun's  tHtterest  cry  can  only  seem 

lite  baseless  Eincy  of  a  midnight  dream. 

But  though  our  soundings  reach  not  the  abyss, 
Wc  turn  to  all  that  there  beyond  us  Ues  : 

To  other  suns  we  look,  afar  from  this, 

And  when  wc  dare  to  hope  we  lift  out  eyes. 

Vasoe  impulse  t  as  the  doods  in  ether  blend 

So  do  our  thoughts  unconaciiously  ascesd. 

God  speed  the  travellers  beyond  the  set  I 
0\'er  the  mountain  pasa,  above  the  snow  ! 

To  where  desire  is  lost  in  ecstasy, 
To  secrets  human  hearts  may  never  know. 

They  do  not  fear  *  they  rise  invisible. 

Far  from  our  e}-e3— too  far  for  our  farewell  I 

But  one  returns  ffom  that  aerial  r«ce, 
One — for  the  coflSn  and  the  winding  sheet — 

To  lie  down  silent  in  his  fitting  place. 
The  little  narrow  rest  for  weary  feet. 

Flesh,  miserable  mnrtyr  !  comes  to  claim 

The  diiit  ol  laLtft^  m«TCHK'«i!i  (A  ^.fam.^. 


Lost  in  the  " Zenttk"'  %\f 

The  others — 0  let  loftier  voice  than  mine, 

One  nearer  to  your  glory  and  your  faith. 
Speak  of  your  fate,  less  mortal  than  divine ! 

You  may  have  found  the  gates  of  life  and  death. 
And  shrouded  in  your  veil  of  mystery 
May  still  pursue  your  journey  to  the  sky. 

C.  K.  UEKTKERKE 

{fivm  snu,y*raoDBOMKK.} 


S»8 


Tk«  Gentlematis  Magatxne. 


TABLE    TALKi 


More  about  tiic  Bacon  Biliteral  CvrnEJt. 

PERSONALLY  I  bare  nothing  to  add  to  what  1  said  in  tbcK 
pages  concerning  the  Shakespeare- Bacon  craze  when,  through 
the  advotisement  given  by  Mr.  Matlock  to  Mrs.  Uallup's  rcadii^ 
of  the  biliteral  cn>her,  it  came  in  a  neur  gaise  before  the  public 
Supposing  Bacon,  in  a  method  at  once  fantastic  and  inconcetvabki 
to  ha^-e  claimed  the  authorship  of  the  works  of  Shakespeare,  Spenser, 
Marlowe,  Peele,  Greene,  and  other  contemporary  writers,  be  oa 
only  go  A(y*m  to  posterity  as  a  mendacious  braggart,  as  w^I . 
Pope  called  him— 

The  wuetl,  brighten!,  mMnett  of  nuntiocL 


It  should  not  be  in  vain  that  the  highest  authorities  have 
that  the  Bacon  whom  the  American  dreamers  liare  cji 
even  though  endowed  with  a  prescience  that  enabled  him  lo 
anticipate  by  nearly  a  century  what  future  poets  or  tmosUton  were 
going  to  say,  did  not  know  the  current  speech  of  his  own  day. 
Appalled,  it  must  be  assumed,  at  the  chorus  of  censure  that  bs 
readings  have  provoked,  and  the  amount  of  disproof  by  which  thU 
has  been  followed,  Mrs.  Gallup  has  withheld  her  promised  cxpUiu- 
dons.  Nothing  that  I  have  seen  from  her  pen  or  from  that  of  aajr 
of  hCT  supporters  or  followers  has  answered  the  chaigcs  by  which 
she  has  been  met,  or  added  one  jot  of  reason  or  support  10  tht 
statements  she  has  advanced.  As  an  amusement  for  visionaries  and 
lunatics,  the  ascription  of  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  to  Bacon  xtOf 
perhaps  be  continued  j  but  signs  are  not  wanting  that,  so  br  at  te 
intcllcclual  world  is  concerned,  the  whole  affair  will  shortly  be 
consigned  to  the  limbo  of  the  vanities, 

StR  Henry  Irving  ok  Shakespb-^re  and  Bacoi?. 

A  CERTAIN  clement  of  appropriateness  may  be  found  in  tbt 
fact   that  the  toap  dt  gr&a  has  been  administered  to  Ik 
Shakespeare- Bacon  crow  by  the  greatest  of  Shakespearean  act» 


^^  519 

Requested  by  the  Senate  of  the  Princeton  Unirersity,  New  Jersey, 
to  give  the  Trask  lecture,  Sir  Hcniy  Ir\-ing  chose  for  his  subject 
"  Shakcspcaic  versus  Bacon,"  Worthy  of  closest  study  is  hU  enlLre 
lecture,  and  the  part  which  deals  vrith  the  assertion  that  Bacon 
wrote,  amoi^  other  things,  the  plays  of  Greene  is  a  masterpiece  of 
irony.  Greene,  it  is  known,  is  the  man  who  rebuked  Shakespeare 
as  an  "  upstart  crow  beautified  with  our  feathers,"  a  reproach  which 
meant  that  in  the  alembic  of  Shakespeare's  genius  the  lead  of  Greerw 
had  been  converted  into  refined  gold.  As  Shakespeare  and  Greene 
were  both,aocordiag  to  our  American  discoverer,  the  same  person — 
i.e.  Bacon— the  foUowing  position  is  reached :  "First,  Bacon  writes 
Greene;  then  he  beautifies  Shakespeare"  (whom  also  he  wrote) 
"  with  Greene's  feathers,  and  makes  Greene  very  angry ;  but  he  will 
not  let  Gfeene  denounce  Shakespeare  as  an  impostor,  for  Greene  is 
himself  an  impostor.  Greene  is  entitled  to  our  sympatliies,  because 
it  is  obvious  that  in  his  name  Bacon  wrote  poor  stuff,  whereas  in 
Shakesi>eare'>  name  he  wrote  magnillcently."  I  do  not  know  where 
a  more  magnificent  instance  of  the  rtdwth  ad  absurdum  is  to  be 
found  than  in  the  notion  of  Greene,  who  is  Uacon,  censuring 
Shakespeare,  who  also  is  Bacon,  for  stealing  and  improving  his  own 
work.  Not  less  ingenious  and  elfcctiTc  b  the  method  with  which 
Sir  Hcniy  establishes  that,  assuming  the  infomiatJon  revealed  by  the 
cypher  to  be  true,  the  conspiracy  which,  to  oblige  Bacon,  foisted 
Shakespeare  on  Tudor  limes  as  the  supreme  genius  of  our  literattire 
is  a  mairel  beside  which  all  secret  societies  and  literar)-  foiseries  sink 
into  insignificai>ce. 

Tub  Author  or  Shakespcark's  Plays  was  an  Actoil 

I  MUST  devote,  however,  a  separate  heading  to  what  is  the 
greatest  triumph  of  Sir  Ilenr/'s  insight  and  logic.  Speaking  as 
an  actor,  be  shows  that  whoever  wrote  Shakespeare's  plays  was  not  an 
iiupired  outsider,  but  one  who  was  in  the  very  heart  and  centre  of 
theatrical  life  and  knew  all  the  technique  of  the  stage.  The  plays 
arc,  in  fact,  written  by  an  aaor  whose  skilled  hand  is  risible  in  all 
his  dramatic  work.  Before  all  ^things  he  is  master  of  the  art  of 
getting  an  actor  off  the  stage,  one  of  the  arts  most  difficult  of  attain, 
ment  by  the  untrained  dramatist.  Shakespeare  shows,  moreover,  as 
Sir  Hemy  p<nnts  out,  ttic  closest  sympathy  for  all  an  actor's  grievances, 
such  as  the  compUini,  to  quote >nc  .instance  only,  concerning  tlie 
public  taste  for  the  child  actors,  the,"  cync  of  children  "  of  Hamlet, 
"  little  eyases  that  cry  out  on  the  top  of  the  question,  and  are  most 
tyxa/uiically  clapped   for    U."    \V\wnct   &.4  '^%.«kv   dtfUkXTi.  vi^ 


The  Gentieman's  Magazine. 


520 

\  ■  ' 

sympatbics  ?  Who  but  ao  actor,  I  personally  ask,  irould  have 
to  ihe  chief  of  the  players  who,  while  tiaveUing,  has  let  his  beard 
grow,  "  Comcst  thou  to  beard  me  in  Denmark  ?  "  or  chafiod  the  boy 
who  played  the  principal  woman's  part,  "  ^Vhal,  my  young  lady  j 
matress  I  By'r  kdy,  your  lad>-»liip  t»  nearer  to  heaven  than  wbe 
saw  you  last  by  tlie  altitude  of  a  chopbe.  Pray  God,  your  vote 
like  a  piece  of  uncurrent  gold,  be  not  cracked  within  the  ring  "?  I 
can  only  counsel  that,  with  a  view  10  stamping  out  a  ridiculous 
and  pestilent  heresy,  or  which  I  now  take  leave,  this  admirable 
lecture  should  be  printed  in  a  separate  form  and  circulated  amon^ 
all  English-speaking  peoples. 

lOSORANCE  OM  THE  LECTURE  PLATFORM. 

I  AM  not  in  the  least  disposed  to  deprccbtc  American  scholanluf^ 
to  the  value  of  which  I  would  gladly  bear  tribute,  nor  would  I 
for  a  moment  arrogate  a  superiority  in  any  l»ranch  of  literature  over 
our  Transatbntic  kinsmen.  The  charm,  moreover,  of  the  ^\menan 
g^rl  I  acknowledge.  There  is,  however,  about  the  advanced  Ametioa 
woman  a  kind  of  assumption  it  is  not  always  eas^  to  accept.  Withia 
a  few  weeks  ao  American  lady  of  this  cla^  lectured  before  a  dub 
that  piques  itself  upon  its  Uterary  reputation.  Her  subject  was  die 
literary  progress  of  American  women.  Through  her  entire  lecture 
she  gave  proof  of  her  fitness  to  speak  on  the  subject  by  talking  <A 
Pcn-c-lope  as  a  trisyllable.  I  have  heard  ait  Englishman  in  a  sp«di 
talk  of  votaries  of  Terp-si -chore,  and  have  been  told  of  Cal-ll-qie. 
Englishmen  capable  of  such  pronunciation  do  not  oflert,  howera, 
appear  on  the  lecture  pbtform.  \^'hat  the  future  has  in  store  for  w 
e^'cn  in  this  direction  I  hesitate  to  conjecture,  when  I  note  ths 
stupendous  ignorance  which  cbaructerises  much  modem  jou 


ETLVANUS   VRC.1.XJ 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

June  1902. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ANN. 

Bv  E.  A.  Gimt 

THERE  were  three  of  them— MaT>'  Jane,  Jane  Eliia,  and  Ann. 
The  two  eldest  were  &)»*)->  called  bjr  both  lumes,  and  many 
people  speculated  as  to  the  reason  for  the  repetition  of  one  of  them. 
It  had  been  their  father's  wish,  hoire%-er.  "  One  on  'cm  might  easy 
die,"  be  hod  said  when  choosing  the  name,  "and  I  should  lilcc  to 
hare  it  in  the  famil)-.  It  was  mjr  motlier's,  and,  like  all  good  things, 
it  can't  be  worse  for  repcaiin'.  Besides,  we'll  change  the  plac^ 
trfaich  makes  a  nice  difference." 

B/  the  time  the  third  daughter  appeared  bb  ideas  had  oom«  to 
an  end,  hence  the  want  of  a  second  name.  Possibly  the  very  fact  of 
being  less  burdened  than  her  sisters  in  this  respect  lent  the  extn 
(aim  colour  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  slight  sparkle  to  her  eyes— a 
shade  and  sparkle  one  would  scarcely  have  noticed  unless  when 
comparing  her  with  her  sisters.  Ann,  too^  ventured  a  little  further 
than  they  in  h<:r  dress.  All  three  chose  sad  shades  of  brown  oc 
grey,  wearing  usually  plain  round  hats  with  a  ample  bow,  but  Ann 
added  a  bright  ribbon  at  her  neck  and  a  bit  of  lace  or  other  frivolity 
to  her  hat.  The  elder  sisters  treated  her  with  a  mingling  of  admira- 
tion  and  protective  surveillance.  She  still  sat  between  them  in 
church,  kcc[»ng  the  f^cc  she  had  been  given  in  childhood,  "  in 
case  she  would  talk,"  which  any  onlooker  would  have  declared  a 
wild  improbatHlity.  But  then,  again,  it  was  she  who  always  advised 
their  small  circle  of  customers  as  to  what  "style"  their  dresses 
should  have,  and  the  "suitablcst  trimmin's."  It  was  sh^  too^  who 
did  any  purchasing  of  stuffs,  and  who  put  the  finishing  touches  to  the 
"  costumes."  Mary  Jane  owned  frankly  that  she  was  "  no  good  foe 
VOL.  ccxcit.    KOw  aosS.  O  O 


522 


The  GtntleniatCs  Magazine. 


anythin'  but  houKkcepin'  «nd  seirin'  linin'i,"  which  work  tibc  fulfilled 
with  a  fine  regard  to  her  duty. 

Since  thfir  father"*  death  they  bad  madi-  sufEctent  to  ke^  thera- 
sdva  and  their  two  roonu  together,  and  tiic  two  eldest,  at  least,  had 
never  considered  marriage  even  as  a  remote  ponJbility. 

"  It  is  so  unmfe,"  Mary  Jane  had  dccbred,  and  only  once,  ml 
trade  had  been  bad,  Jaivc  Elt«L  hod  cried  quietly  to  bcndf  tli 
the  nighi  "  because  she  was  that  plain  a  man  would  never  look  at 
her."  But  when  qticstioncd  as  to  the  reason  of  her  lean  by  her 
etder  sister,  she  replied  that  she  must  haf-c  had  too  much  supper  and 
was  dreaming  badly.  Perhaps  it  was  fortunate  that  ^fary  Jane  never 
thought  of  inquiring  which  part  of  thdr  fnigal  meal  had  proved  "  too 
much"  for  her.  It  was,  therefore,  a  severe  shock  to  both  the  elder 
tasters  when  they  nw  Ann  return  from  Sunday-school  one  afternoon 
accompanied  by  a  "friend"  of  the  ot^potitc  lex.  They  did  not 
venture  to  nwntion  the  subject  to  Ann,  thinking  it  too  delicate  as 
yet,  and  decided  to  wait  a\fhilc  and  see  how  alfairs  turned  out. 

"  It  may  just  be  a  mUtake,  Mary  Jane,"  said  Jane  Eliza,  "  and 
he's  so  pale  and  solemn,  I  am  sure  be  cant  be  a  bad  young  nun.* 
"The  mistake."  howcrer,  was  repeated  the  following  Sunday,  and 
they  thought  it  best  to  imiuirc  who  "  he  "  was. 

Ann's  colour  grew  one  shade  brighter  as  she  informed  them  that 
he  had  a  stationer's  shop  (one-windowed),  and  had  taught  in  the 
Sandxy-school  for  some  months.  That  satblied  them  for  the  time 
being,  but  when  ho  began  to  escort  their  sister  home  from  "  ptayer 
neettn' "  as  well,  they  were  thrown  into  a  state  of  mingled  exalutioo 
and  apprehension. 

"  If  it  should  turn  out  a  match,  Jane  Eliia  1 "  said  the  elder  sisttr 
in  awe  iJruck  tones ;  and  so  varied  were  the  feelings  of  Jane  Eliia 
that  she  could  gasp  out  nothing  but — "  I  wouldn't  hare  bdiered  it 
possible  I  ■* 

It  was  only  after  much  discussion  and  *onK  urging  from  Ann 
that  they  renturetl  to  ask  him  in  to  take  "  a  cup  of  tea  "  on  the  Sunday 
aftenuMn,  and  the  inviution  had  required  such  an  expenditure  of 
thought  and  energy  tlut  they  bad  none  left  to  aid  thc-m  in  convcna- 
tion  round  the  tea-table.  'I'hcir  visitor  could  certainly  not  be  called 
n  brilliant  t.-ilkeT,  either,  but  what  he  said  must  apparently  have  been 
valuable,  for  they  told  Ann  afterwards  that  "  he  seemed  a  remarkable 
clc\'er  yoting  miiL" 

It  was  not,  however,  until  several  months  later,  when  Ann  an- 
nounced, ¥rith  some  real  colour  in  her  cheeks,  "that  ibcy  were  to  be 
manicd  m  iW  s^'mig,"  ^u.  4vt  v«q  Ov^m  wa«x%  t«i]Med  the  (iill  in> 


Tk4  Marriage  of  Ann. 


523 


I 


portance  and  nufniiudc  or  what  had  befallen  their  ramily.  "Wxtai 
lalk  then  centred  wholly  round  "  the  m-image  of  Ann."  That  was  the 
limit  set  to  all  tlicir  plans  and  arrangements,  and  their  energies  woe 
all  directed  tou-ards  preparing  for  it.  After  some  serious  di&cussion, 
they  determined  to  make  the  vedding-dress  themselves,  and  irent 
out  in  a  l>ody  to  huy  the  necessary  materials.  Tltey  visited  numerous 
sho[M,  examined  many  stulTs,  and  finally  went  home  wiUiout  buying 
anything,  "just  to  talk  it  m-er."  They  sallied  out  ag^n  the  next 
day,  however,  and,  with  much  fear  and  trembling,  mode  their  choice, 
wondering  all  the  way  home  if  "they  had  not  been  too  pred[»ute." 

It  was  begun  at  once,  and  when  finished  laid  away  in  a  drawer, 
while  they  set  about  compicting  their  sister's  outfit  and  making 
dresses  for  themselves.  Their  few  irr^surcs,  too,  were  all  or«:Th.iulcd 
to  see  if  anything  could  be  produced  to  add  to  the  glory  of  Ann's 
little  store.  A  small  stik  shawl  of  their  mother's,  which  had  been 
stored  away  as  too  precious  for  use,  was  brought  out,  and  Mary  Jane 
direslcd  herself  of  her  mother's  watch  and  cliain  as  "  moic  saiuble 
for  a  married  woman." 

"If  William  ever  gets  another  for  Ann,  she  can  give  it  bock 
to  mc,"  she  said  wistfully,  for  it  had  been  her  pride.  *"  ^Vell  give 
her  the  china  dog,  and  the  vases  from  the  mantle  too,  seeing  father 
himsdf  got  them  at  the  &ir ;  and  it'll  make  ber  room  a  bit  more 
homely."' 

A  customer,  whose  bill  had  long  been  despaired  of,  sent  th« 
money,  and  Jane  Elixa  suggested  a  few  things  which  were  needed  in 
the  bouse,  but  Afary  Jane  shook  her  head  decidedly. 

"  We  will  put  it  by  for  the  roatriagc  of  Ann,"  she  said.  "  We 
wilt  need  it  all  then ;  it  does  not  roattei  much  about  the  bouse  for 
just  us  two." 

So  It  was  with  many  things ;  and  the  drawer  with  its  linlc  store 
of  treasures  grew  full  and  heavy. 

As  tbe  time  drew  nearer,  they  were  filled  with  importance  over 
Aim's  new  home,  and  went  round  frequently  to  the  liule  shop  with 
the  dii^  pariour  behind  to  «ee  that  William  was  not  l>cing  cheated 
in  any  of  his  purclwces.  Ten  days  before  the  weddir^  they  began 
to  prepare  the  cakes  for  the  "  breakfan,"  txA  regarded  with  pride  tbe 
"  curran'  loaves,"  which,  if  weightiiKss  arwl  sjlidily  counted  for 
anything,  certainly  deserved  respect. 

"  With  a  pink  paper  rufUc  round,  they'll  look  beautiful,"  said 
Jane  Eliiia,  wiib  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  Which  we'll  choose  from  the  shop,"  pot  in  Ana  proadly;  for 
"  the  shop  "  was  a  glory  and  delight  to  them  alL 


Tfu  Gentlema^s  Magasine. 


sn 


Imagine  ihc  consternation  of  the  household,  then,  wbcn  ».\ 
days  before  the  wedding  they  discovered  that  Mme  mice  had 
interfered  with  the  treasured  cakes,  and  nibbled  the  edges  away  ia 
a  maitncr  which  completcljr  spoilt  the  bcaaty  of  the  whole.  ^ 

"  Wc  can't  set  tketn  on  the  table,"  said  Mary  Jane  racfuDy.  •  ffl 
just  have  to  eat  them  beforehand  instead  of  other  things  and  BtfE? 
ffcsli,  though  I  do  regret  a  good  voste  of  curran'*  and  lemoo-ped." 
The  sislcTS  set  to  work  to  supply  the  loss,  however,  and  dutiroily 
fed  on  that  which  the  mice  had  left,  niietber  or  not  the  cake  bad 
provx-d  loo  weighty  and  excellent  a  food  for  e\-eryday  use,  I  camwE 
say,  but  certainly  on  the  wedding-day,  in  spite  of  their  unQsmHf 
festive  attire,  the  faces  of  the  cider  sisters  looked  solemn  and 
melancholy,  and  even  the  ricc-tbrowing  failed  to  entirely  dissipUe 
their  gloom.  ^ 

"That  would  have  made  more  nor  one  rice-pudding,  j9 
EUm,"  whispered  Mary  Jane,  looking  down  regretfully  at  the  chorcb 
steps,  which  were  sprinkled  by  the  contriburions  of  rhc  ncighboun^ 
noubly  that  of  the  grocer's  wife,  who  liked  to  show  that  she 
get  what  she  wished  from  the  shop. 

The  tiistets  cheered  up  somewlut  when  the  wedding 
began,  however. 

The  bride  and  bridegroom  sat  in  the  place  of  honour  at  one 
end  of  the  Ubie,  the  latter  resplendent  in  a  red  tie  and  a  blue 
buttonhole ;  and  conversation  flowed.  On  tlie  whole,  Mary  Jaae 
waa  saiisftL-d  with  the  appearance  and  disappearance  of  the  riandi, 
though  she  did  catch  the  grocer's  wife's  somewhat  audible  reinai^ 
that  she  "never  knew  a  dressmaker  yet  what  could  make  ca^| 
ri:t,"  and  her  pale  face  flushed  dully. 

"All  the  same,  Jftne   Eliza,"  she  said  afterwards, 
satisfied,  half  regretful  tone,  "the  plates  is  wdl  emptied." 

The  whole  party  adjourned  to  the  station  to  see  the  ■ 
decidedly  exhilarated  by  the  game  of  "Postman's  Knock  "whii 
had  followed  the  breakfast. 

"  I  hope  you  remembered  to  put  on  a  woolly  body,"  whisp 
Mary  Jane  anxiously  to  the  bride ;  for  as  they  had  not  been  able  to 
afford  a  new  jacket,  Ann  had  thought  it  a  p'ty  to  spoil  the  costume 
by  wearing  her  old  one,  and  had  proposed  a  "  woolly  body "  at  j 
substitute. 

Neither  of  the  siaters  could  refrain  from  shedding  a  few  tean  l 
the  train  left  the  station,  though,  as  one  ne%hbour  remarked  "L 
did  seem  useless  to  cry,  when  they  was  comin'  back  on  Mondar— 
and  this  was  Friday." 


Eighbout^ 


1 


Tkt  Marrimgf  of  Ann. 


\ 
I 


I 


The  sisters  returned  alone  to  ihcir  home,  and  felt  "  that  low  "  at 
the  sight  of  the  cmptj'  rooms,  that  nothing  but  sheer  hard  work 
would  console  them.  Thcj-  had  to  attend  to  the  shop  in  the 
absence  of  the  owner,  and  that  certainly  supplied  a  want,  but  never- 
Ibeless  they  were  glad  when  Monday  came.  They  bad  tiic  table 
laid  in  the  little  shopiKttlour  by  half-past  three  in  the  afEerrKMn, 
atthou^  the  wanderers  were  not  expected  back  till  fir& 

The  tea  was  made  early  and  had  time  to  get  bitter,  but  that  was 
Slid)  a  customary  thing  tlut  nobody  noticed  it.  Besides,  the  con- 
versation of  the  travellers  was  ko  interesting  that  it  made  the  siiters 
almost  forget  [o  continue  their  nieaL 

"  We  stayed  at  an  hotel)*  said  Ann  tritimphantty,  blowing  down 
the  teapot  s]>out  to  nuke  it  pour  better.  "  A  temperance  hotel,  as 
became  Sunday-school  tcachcn,"  put  in  ^Villiam  a  little  pom]>ously. 

"And  we  had  dinner  there  on  Sunday,"  continued  Ann,  waxing 
energetic  and  eloquent. 

"  Tell  us  what  there  was,"  both  nsters  asked  eagerly,  and  Williain 
nodded  at  his  wife 

"You  can  tell,"  he  said  nuf^nanimously.  "Well— soup  first." 
"  Potato? — Urolh  ?"  came  simultaneously  from  the  two  listinicrs. 
"No,  I  don't  bchcvc  it  had  seen  a  vegetable;  rather  thin  for 
my  taste  it  was,  but  it  had  a  French  name.  And  the  meat ! "  Attn 
took  A  deep  draught  of  tea  and  pauKd  a  moment.  "  llicrc  were 
two  kinds,"  she  went  on,  "and  we  didn't  know  neither  names,  so  wc 
each  took  a  diScrcnt  one  to  see  which  they  were.  Mine  was  just  a 
kind  of  slew,  got  up  a  bit,  but  William's  was  quite  a  fancy  dish,  and 
looked  beautiful" 

Neither  of  the  travellets  mentioned  the  fact  that  they  had  both 
declared  "  a  good  round  of  boiled  beat  the  fancy  things  hollow." 
"  Thcre'd  be  pudding,  I  suppose  ?"  put  in  Jane  Eliza. 
"  Of  course,  two  sorts.  One  was  called  Queen  Charlotte,  but, 
would  you  beliere  it,  it  was  just  bread  done  up'aitd  covered  with  white 
of  egg.  The  other  was  [)lum  'duff'  with  saucer  and  tlie  whole  was 
served  by  a  waiter  ! " 

That  was  certainly  the  culminating  point,  and  convenattoo 
languished  awhile  after  it,  questions  and  remarks  recurrii^  only  at 
intervals.  More  about  the  journey  would  doubtless  be  heard  when 
they  had  Ann  to  [hcmsclvcs.  The  holiday  did  indeed  serve  as  a 
fruit^l  topic  of  conrcrsation  for  a  considerable  time  after,  and  the 
two  cWer  sisters  usually  rediscussed  the  news  when  they  were  by 
themselves,  for  after  the  first  week  things  fdl  back  into  their  old  ways. 
There  was  one  less  to  sew  and  otk  less  to  feed  in  the  sisters'  homct 


526 


Tkt  GentUntan's  Magastne. 


and  that  one  was  she  who  had  nia<le  the  liltlc  brightness  there  had 
been  in  tltetr  lives,  which  now  sceoied  odc  long  Ic^-cl  of  com- 
parative:!. 

Their  wedding-dresses  were  "  laid  by "  to  be  kept  for  grand 
occasions.  "They're  such  good  material,  I  shouldn't  wonder  bat  what 
they'll  latt  out  lives  out,"  Mary  Jane  had  said.  Tlie  loptc  of  iheit 
lister's  wedding  certainly  seemed  as  if  it  would  "lasi  their  lives,"  Ibt 
the  talk  alwap  went  hack  to  that  point,  and  they  were  never  dred 
of  discussing  each  step  in  the  courtship  and  niarriage.  It  was  to 
them  what  the  Christian  Era  is  to  the  hiuonan. 

"  n»ai  happened  before  the  marriage  of  Ann,"  Mary  Jane  would 
say,  and  Jane  Eliia  would  remind  her  of  M>in4.-thing  that  had  happened 
since.  "When  wc  had  our  jjarty  "  was  just  another  way  of  putting 
tlie  same  thing,  for  the  only  "  party  "  which  could  by  any  courtesy  be 
called  such  was  at  "  the  marriage  of  Ann."  They  were  somctimei 
in  the  little  pailour  behind  the  ^op.  but  tbcy  were  usually  alone,  lor 
Wlliam  declared  that  when  he  had  "  his  friends '  in,  there  was  not 
any  room  left ;  and  "  besides,  Ann,  they  would  not  care  for  my  friends' 
talk,  it  ii  too  new  for  them,"  he  lud  said,  and  Ann  acquiesced.  She 
ran  down  when  she  had  time  to  sec  how  her  sisters  were  getting  on, 
and  found  always  a  ready  welcome.  They  never  told  ber  how  hard 
the  work  seemed  to  them  now  in  the  hot  summer  weather,  in  the 
stilling  air  of  their  little  room  ;  though  they  acknowledged  to  them> 
selves  that  ihey  had  not  ideas  like  Ann,  and  it  took  them  much 
longer  to  make  things  "  set  weH,"  and  they  were  fearful  of  losing  any 
of  ihcir  customers. 

"  Bui  as  Ann  doesn't  share  in  the  profits^  and  has  her  own  house 
to  sec  to,  it  doesn't  scorn  fair  to  bother  her  about  the  gowns,"  ibcy 
had  decided,  and  laboured  on  pairulakingty  with  but  few  results  at 
time*. 

But  when  summer  was  past  and  winter  began,  the  two  sisters 

began  to  whisper  mysteriously  together,  and  run  up  to  the  little  shop 

whenever  they  could  invent  an  excuse.    The  bottom  drawer,  to(^ 

began  to  be  filk-d  industriously  again,  and  sometimes  in  the  evening 

they  would  take  out  its  contents  and  turn  over  each  article  with 

tender  rapture.    The  wedding-dresses  were  uken  out  and  examined 

to  see  if  they  were  still  "  fashionable,"  and  the  sisters  began  to 

munnur  of  the  next  time  they  would  use  them  again.     But  titat 

time  newr  came,  foi  a  few  evenings  later  Ann  came  rushing  down 

ithe  street,  begging  them  to  come  and  see  what  was  the  matter  wtlh 

■Vll^m.    "  He  was  ill,"  was  all  ihcy  could  learn  from  ber  excited 

Hnrds,  aftd  vVicy  foWowcA  \*x  -n^  x»  **.  &m«  '^■wi*-  *w^  *<***. 


\ 


I 


nnidoiu  hearts.  When  thcj  stw  the  pale  face  on  the  pillow,  they 
felt  "  the  illness  "  was  beyond  their  skill,  and  Jane  Eliza  ran  hastily 
for  th«  doctor.  He  made  his  cxamiRaiion,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  almost  impatienlly,  murmuring  something  al>out  people 
with  such  constitutions  marrying.  Then  it  was  tliat  the  two  sisters 
took  op  their  abode  in  the  shop,  and,  forgetting  now  hon  seldom 
they  had  crossed  the  threshold  in  William's  time  of  proipcrity, 
nursed  hiin  unrein  it  itngly.  Vet  it  availed  nothing,  and  ihvy  liad 
scarcely  time  to  draw  down  tlie  blinds  and  no  time  to  "get  into 
moumio's,"  whm  the)'  were  called  to  their  sister's  bedside,  and  went 
through  the  light  with  death  again.  Bra%-ely  they  fcught,  in  .spite  of 
the  doctor's  declaration  that  it  was  of  no  ai'ail,  and  .itowly,  breath 
by  breath,  they  dragged  bcr  back  to  life — but  tlie  child  followed  its 
father.  They  bore  her  to  thi-ir  onm  rooms  again,  almost  as  slenderly 
prondcd  for  as  when  she  had  left  ihcm.  More  so  indeed,  in  one 
way,  for  she  was  listless  and  devoid  of  energy.  The  faint  colour  had 
left  hcT  chocks,  ncrcr  to  return,  and  her  lora  for  gay  ribbons  liad 
died  wiih  her  husband  and  her  hopes.  The  neighbours  pitied  Ihcm 
for  having  an  extra  mouth  to  feed  again,  but  they  rejoiced  that  they 
could  minister  to  her  vanis,  btmI  did  not  grudge  lost  sleep  and 
added  labour. 

They  slared  day  and  night  for  Ann,  giving  her  every  luxury 
they  could  procure,  stinting  themselves  to  supply  her  more  liberally. 
She  rarely  mentioned  "  William,"  and  the  MStcrs  refrained  from 
referring  to  the  marriage  in  her  presence,  but  spoke  in  lower 
tones  of  "  those  days."  Day  after  day  went  by  and  brought  no 
change  in  thcii  dead-level  of  everyday  straggle.  It  was  as  Ann  her- 
self compIaiiKd — she  bad  lost  William,  the  shoii,  and  everything; 
that  might  have  been,  and  had  fallen  back  into  her  old  life  as  if 
she  had  "never  known  nothin'  more."  llic  two  listers  tried 
pitifully  to  comfort  her,  forgetting  in  their  lo^'e  that  out  of  the 

teen  monttu  of  the  "something  more"  she  had  known,  they 
experienced  but  one  day,  and  hjtd  been  lirir^  on  the  memoiy 
of  it  e%'er  since. 

"  Never  mind,  Ani^,"  Jane  niia  said  awkwardly ;  "  you  will  get 
it  back  or>c  day  in— in— heaven." 

"  But  the  little  sho]>  -  -  and— and— the  baby— and  William.  How 
do  I  know  ii  ni  find  them  all  there  ?  How  do  I  know  what  heaven's 
like  ?"  wailed  Arm,  aitd  Jane  Eliia  tunK-d  away  In  silence  ;  but  her 
stiler  put  in  Ikt  word. 

"Why,  heaven— Ann— 1  think  heaven  will  be  like— like  those 
days,  only  it'll  be  without  the  ending." 


5*8 


The  Getitltmans  Magazine. 


For  ihe  lint  tJmc  for  many  a  wedc  Ann^  dull  eyes  brightened 

"  Are  you  sure,  Mary  Jai>e  ?  "  she  said  eagerly.  ^ 

**  Quite  sure,"  returned  her  tUler  steadily.  fl 

"Then,"  laid  Ann,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  I'm  coolenteder." 

And  surely  when  they  are  lifted  out  of  their  life  of  compaiati 

and  their  tired  eyes  Open  in  the  "  land  that  is  may  far  off" 

glories  or  God's  high  heaven  will  not  suffer  Ion  became  soa»  wt 

woilccn  used  their  own  poor  measuring  scale,  whose 

not  reach  further  than  the  "  marriage  of  Ana." 


5*9 


NAPOLEON:    THE  LAST  WORD.' 


IT  may  be  said  without  exaggeration  that  no  great  personality  of 
modem  times  has  been  so  much  wiitteo  about  as  Napoleon 
Buonaparte.  The  Napoleonic  bibliography  seems,  indeed,  inex> 
hau-ttible.  Not  only  has  every  separate  phase  of  his  life,  every 
campaign  and  ever>-  im[>ortant  adventure  and  episode  aflbrded  a  peg 
for  innumerable  monographs,  studies,  and  treatises,  but  his  meteoric 
career  has  brought  in  its  train  a  whole  librar}-  of  polemical 
literature.  Such  a  wealth  of  maicrial  is  calculated  to  dismay  and 
cmbamus  tlve  latter -day  historian  or  biographer.  In  this  scholarly 
snd,  in  parts,  brilliant  study,  which  will  probably  long  remain  the  last 
word  in  Napoleonic  biography,  Mr.  Rose  has  wisely  determined  to 
igDOie  the  jwuely  personal  aspect  of  Napoleon.  The  vit  inlime—to 
ftr  as  It  concerns  his  numerous  amours,  his  private  friendships,  his 
tabletalk  and  social  habits — in  short  what  corresponds  to  the  pro- 
verbial "  chatter  about  Harriet,"  is  only  indirectly  suggested  wheti  it 
is  required  to  throw  light  on  the  motives  of  Napoleon^  conduct  in 
matters  of  stale.  Yet  in  spite  of  this  praiseworthy  self-restraint 
Mr.  Rose  has  produced  an  eminently  readable  and  entertaining 
biograj^hy,  sound  and  scholarly,  but  never  heavy  or  aggressively 
academical.  It  is,  indeed,  a  notable  achievement  lo  write  a  history 
of  the  Napoleonic  r/gime  which  shall  at  the  same  time  meet  the 
requirements  of  the  historical  student  and  yet  be  found  thoroughly 
acceptable  to  the  ordinary  |ialron  of  Meers.  Modic.  For,  though 
the  book  is  a  scholarly  and  serious  contribution  to  Napoleonic 
literature,  the  lucid  yet  graphic  descriptions  and  the  l^bt  touch  of 
the  author  make  it  in  parts  almost  as  cnicrlaining  as  a  ocmL  In 
certain  passage  a  leaven  of  dry  humour  adds  mudi  to  its  rcadaMe- 
ness ;  as,  for  instance,  when  referring  to  the  offer  of  I'ulton  to  the 
French  Government  of  his  "  plunging  boat  "~lbc  prototype  of  the 
submarine  boat — Mr.  Rose  observes  that  as  Fulton  had  not  applied 

'  Th  Lift  tf  /fef»fMm  /.,  iiuliuliiig  mtv  m^eriali fnm  ikt  Btitiih  OfitUl 
Jttftrii.    ^J.  U.  Row,  M.A.    avok.    Gcot^e ^U &. Sfxn.    VfA. 


530 


The  Gcnlkttian's  Ma^azint. 


an]:  motive  fotcc  lo  bis  invention,  "  the  name  conveyed  an  \ 
notion  of  its  funcitons,  whidi  veie  more  suited  to  a  UTq 
contemplation  ihin  of  dotnictive  activity." 

One  of  the  most  important  Teatures  of  ^[r.  Rose's 
thoroughness  mili  whidi  the  firiiish  archives  of  the  period,  hiti 
unaccouiitahly  neglected  bjr  Engli^  historians,  hare  been  exam 
In  the  preliicc  Uk  author  U>-s  grcit  stress  on  the  unique  raJi 
these  official  records.  "  'I'hcy  are  of  great  interest  and  value, 
diplomatic  agents  then  had  the  knack  of  getting  at  State  seen 
most  foicign  capitals,  even  when  we  wctc  at  «-ar  with  their  Go 
menis;  and  our  W.ir  OfBce  and  Admindt):  records  have 
yiddcd  mc  some  imercsting  '  finds.'  M.  I^vy,  in  the  prcft* 
bis  'NapoWon  Intimc*  (1893),  has  well  remarked  that  '  tl»e  ( 
mentary  htstof)-  of  ibc  wars  of  tlie  Em^Mre  has  not  yet  been  wi| 
To  write  it  accurately,  It  will  be  more  important  ihorotigbly  to  1 
foreign  archives  than  those  of  France"  Those  of  Russia,  An 
and  rniuia  h.tve  now  for  the  most  part  been  examined ;  ai 
think  that  I  may  claim  lo  have  searched  all  the  important  pv 
our  Foreign  OfBce  archives  for  the  years  in  question,  as  wdl  i 
part  of  the  St.  Helena  period.  I  have  striven  to  embody  the  re 
of  this  search  in  the  present  vtrfumes  as  far  as  was  compatible 
Umits  of  siMcc  and  with  the  namttiw  form  at  which,  in  my  J 
meni,  hiittory  ought  always  lo  aim." 

The  portion  of  the  book  dealing  with  the  early  yean  ol 
French  Revolution  is  of  special  value  as  a  corrective  to  Qui 
History,  from  which  the  avera|[e  reader  gets  his  ideas  of  the  \ 
national  upheaval.  For  inxiance.  In  the  account  of  the  cou 
revolution  of  Vend^miuire  (1795)  the  ilhisory  nature  of  Car 
lamous  epigram  is  conirincingly  demonstrated,  for  the  "wU 
giapc-shot,"  instead  of  blowing  the  French  ReTOluiion  into  s{ 
rather  purged  it  of  its  more  disorderly  dements,  and  act 
perpeluated  the  Re^-olution.  This  point  U  panicularly  well  hrt 
out  by  Mr.  Rose.  V 

The  remarkable  versatility  of  Napoleon's  genius  is  a  then 
which  tite  author  is  careful  to  enlarge  : 

"  In  the  personality  of  Napoleon  nothing  is  more  reniMrl 
than  the  combjnation  of  gifts  which  in  most  natures  are  mn) 
exclusive ;  his  instincts  were  both  political  and  military  ;  hU  a 
of  a  land  took  in  not  only  the  geographical  but  even  the  fl 
wclfore  of  the  people."  " 

To  which  mi^  be  added  llut  Napoleon  was  a  jurist  as  «f 


Napoleon:  ths  Last  Word. 


531 


■  maker  and  epigrammatist  he  is  not  a  bad  second  to  Talleyrand. 
What,  Tor  instance,  could  be  more  graphic  or  forcittle  than  his  dc6ni- 
tioo  of  a  council  of  war  as  "a  device  to  cowt  the  cowardice  or 

■  irresolution  of  the  commander,"  or  his  ingenious  pica  for  the 
H  annexation  of  Holland,  because  it  vras  merely  the  "alluvium  of  three 
H^  French  rivers,  the  Rhine,  the  Meuse,  and  the  Scheldt"? 

^HM  Napoleon's  readiness   of   resource  and  diplomatic  fintist  are 

^^^vftingly  shown  by  the  dexterous  way  in  which  he  arranged  that 

H  the    Pope,   whom   he   met    on  his    way  to  the  coronation   near 

Foniainebleau,  ostensibly  by  accident,  should  be  forced  to  cede  to 

■  the  Emperor-elect  the  place  of  honour.  When  Napoleon's  carriage 
wBLSdri%-en  up  to  the  side  of  the  Pope's  travelling  carriage,  "foot- 
men were  holding  open  both  doors,  and  an  officer  of  ihc  Court 
politely  handed  I'ius  VII,  to  the  IcR  door,  while  the  Emperor, 
entering  by  the  right,  took  the  »nt  of  honour,  and  thus  settled  once 

■    for  all  the  vexed  qtiestion  of  social  precederK:c" 
But  though  unstinted  admiration  is  shown  for  Napoleon  as  the 
soldier,  statesman,  or  legislator,  the  author  does  not  spare  his  hero 

■  for  the  infamous  execution  of  the  l>uc  d'Enghien — a  crime  which 
even  the  most  devoted  of  the  Emperor's  admirers  have  scarcely 
ventured  to  extenuate.  In  the  whole  sior^-  of  the  noble  victims  of 
the  Revolution  no  more  tragic  note  is  struck  than  in  the  last  hours 

■  ofthis  ill-fated  Condf.' Prince. 

In  the  State  archives  at  Paris  is  ptetencd  the  letter  which  the 
Duke  wrote  lo  his  morganatie  wife^  Princess  Qiarloite  de  Kohan, 
only  a  day  or  two  before  his  execution.  The  pathos  of  this  letter  is 
intensified  by  the  fact  that  the  writer  scarcely  realised  the  gravity  of 
his  position. 

I"  .^s  far  as  I  can  remember,  they  will  find  letters  fiom  my 
relations  and  froni  the  king,  together  with  co]>ics  of  some  of  mine. 
In  aD  these,  as  you  know,  there  is  nothii^  that  can  compromise  mc, 
any  more  than  my  name  and  mode  of  thinkirtg  would  have  done 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  Revolution.  All  the  papers  will,  I 
bclic%-e,  be  sent  to  Paris,  and  it  is  thotigbt,  according  to  what  I 
hear,  that  in  a  short  lime  I  shall  be  free ;  God  grant  it !  They  were 
lookirtg  for  Dumouriez,  who  was  thought  to  be  in  my  netgbbourhood. 
It  seems  lo  have  been  supposed  that  we  had  had  conferences 
t<^etheT,  and  apparently  he  is  implicated  in  the  conspiracy  against 
the  life  of  the  I-'irst  Consul.  My  ignorance  of  this  makes  me  hope 
that  1  shall  obtain  my  liberty,  but  we  must  not  flatter  ounelres  too 
much.  The  attachment  of  nty  people  draws  tears  from  my  eyes  at 
B  ewiy  moment.    They  tnighi  htive  esca^cA-,  wj  ows  ^cw^  <M9x<.Mk 


53» 


The  Ctnllentart  s  Mi 

follow  me.  Tbcy  came  of  theirown  acco^V 
ibb  momiirg  except  the  commandant,  who 
lund-hcancd  okan,  but  at  the  same  time  »tr 
duty.  I  am  expecting  the  colonc]  of  gent 
and  who  is  to  o^n  my  papers  before  xat." 

Tried  on   this  groundless  charge  of 
summoned  couTt-maniitl,  h«  was  sentenced 
four  hours.    To  add  to  the  horrors  of  hU 
his  grave  already  dug  at  the  {>Uce  of  jh 
hunicd  early  the  next  morning.  ^ 

This  atrocious  murder  created  a  scnsa 
FraiKe  but  throughout  Europe.  Even  tt 
Paris  salons  was  scandalised,  and  the  view 
is  well  summed  up  in  the  fiimous  mot,  "  It 
— it  was  a  blunder." 

Among  other  important  results  ii  tost  I 
Chateaubriand,  whoaftenrardstiecame  on« 
of  the  l^mperoT.  Indeed  his  polemical  pci 
ct  des  Bourbons,"  was  decbied  by  I^ouis 
army  to  the  Bourbon  cause. 

That  Mr.  Kosc  po»etscs  one  of  the  moc 
of  an  historian— a  sense  of  historic  proporti 
devoted  to  his  Italian  campaign,  by  which  I 
as  a  strat<^st  and  tactician,  and  that  allotted 
the  more  popular  episodes,  sudi  as  the  Ktt« 
and  St.  Helena 

To  the  onjinary  reader  the  Waterloo  Ci 
Bras,  and  Waterloo)  is  perhaps  the  most 
waged  by  Napoleon,  but  it  was  a  soldier's 
tattle^  and  ttiercfore  on  this  account  is  of  U 
military-  history  than,  for  instance,  those  of  1 

The  battle  of  Waterloo  is  not  a  difficult 
sisted  of  a  series  of  frontal  attacks  on 
Wellington's  sole  aim  being  to  maintain  I 
arrived.  Till  the  afternoon,  when  the  I*russi 
issue  seemed  doubtful,  and  indeed,  at  one  ti) 
ful  attack  oti  I.a  Haye  Siiinte,  it  looked  as  i 
the  day.  But  when  Jiluchec's  troops  arrircd, 
of  Grouchy,  Napoleon  was  comi>elIed  to  ha 
charge  of  the  Guard,  which  was  repulsed  will 
decided  the  day,  and  Napoleon,  leaving  the  c 
lised  remains  of  his  army  to  Soull,  hu 


Napoleon:  the  Last  Word, 


533 


A  whole  library  or  polcmtcil  litoraCurc  hns  been  written  on  Uio 
cause  of  Napoleon's  defeat,  and  though  military  critics  will  point 
oat  grave  errors  in  the  conduct  of  the  battle^  yet  pctbaps  oivc  would 
LBOt  be  WIOD0  in  attributing  Napoleon's  failure  mainly  to  his  tncx- 
r^ttfidilfr  iratit  of  preciscness  in  his  orders  to  Grouchy,  and  iluit 
manhars  extraordinary  supincncss  and  lack  of  initiative,  or  even 
cominon  seme.  It  is  ctuious  to  note  thAt  Najioleon  himself  at 
St  Helena  blamed  in  turn  the  weather,  Vandamme,  Ney,  Gu)-ot, 
Soult,  and  Grouchy. 

^Vatc^loo  is  justly  included  in  thi  great  decisire  battles  of  the 
world.  In  its  momentous  results  it  undoubtedly  deserves  lo  be 
called  decisive,  but  scarcely  so  in  the  sense  of  the  issue  being  practi- 
cally auured  from  the  first.  Waterloo  might,  in  some  respects,  be 
considered  the  converse  of  Marengo,  but  the  Litter  victory  was 
snatched  from  defeat  by  Dcsaix  and  Kdlcrman  almost  by  accident, 
while  at  Waterloo  the  absence  of  Grouchy  turned  a  probable  victory 
into  an  irreparable  defeat. 

But  it  would  seem  that  Wdlinglon,  too,  was  by  no  means  dear 
about  the  history  of  this  great  banle.  It  is  well  known  that  the 
Duke  contradicted  himself  again  and  again  in  the  simplest  facts,  aiMl 
some  of  the  accounts  h«  has  written  are  no  more  reliable  than  those 
of  Napoleon.  A  writer  in  the  St.  Jamefs  Gaielte  has  recently 
pointed  out  that  when,  twcnty-scvcn  years  after  the  war  was  over, 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  dictated  some  notes  on  the  campaign  in 
answer  to  the  criticisms  of  a  Prussian  general,  the  notes  directly 
controverted  Wellington's  own  despatches  written  at  Waterloo  and 
Quatre-Bras. 

What  Wellington  did  not  know  of  Napoleon's  last  campaign 
nobody  else  is  likely  to  be  able  to  tell  us,  at>d  the  world  is  not  likely 
now  ever  to  hear  what  Wellington  despaired  of— "an  account  of  all 
its  detaib  vdiich  shall  be  true." 

In  his  sketch  of  "  11k  Last  Phase "  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  a 
cocnparison  with  Lord  Kosebery's  brilliant  study  of  Napoleon's 
capttvtty  ;  and  the  more  sober  and  dispassionate  narrative  of  Mr. 
Rose  serves  at  a  wholesome  corrective  to  this  bsdnating.  but 
decidedly  partisan,  monograph.  'Ilie  author  holds  a  brief  for 
neither  Napoleon  nor  Hudson  Low^  but  in  the  course  of  his  lucid 
exposition  of  the  interminable  intrigues  between  the  rival  bctions  he 
iacidenlally  knocks  the  bottom  out  of  many  of  the  stories  of 
Napoleon's  confinement  which  help  to  nuke  up  the  Napoleonic 
legend. 
I        Innumcntbte  biograpbers,  as  well   as   Lord    Roeebcry,   nuke 


5J4 


The  Gentleman  s  Magasine. 


capital,  for  instance,  out  of  the  harrowing  incideni  of  the  i 
Einpcroi  being  reduced  to  sell  some  of  his  table  plate  m  oi 
*'  pTO\-idc  thoNC  little  comforts  "  denied  to  his  suite.  That  the  iUu 
captj%  c  did  diapose  of  some  of  his  plate  for  ^350  is  undeniable; 
is  it  denied  ittst  it  nat  ostensibly  sold  for  the  purpose  of  piovj 
better  tabic  for  his  tntmra^t.  But  O'Mcara  himself  reveals 
most  uncompromising  ^hion  the  true  molivc  in  a  letter  w 
cont-eniently  ignored  bf  the  opponents  of  the  much-malign 
Hudson  Lowe  "  In  this  he  [Napoleon]  has  also  a  wish  lo 
odium  against  the  Governor  by  saying  that  he  has  been  oblij 
•ell  his  plate  in  order  to  provide  against  starvation,  as  be  I 
tcdd  roe  was  his  objecL" 

The  agrhuntt  of  Napoleon,  whereby  he  strove  to  bre 
monotony  of  existence  on  this  remote  i«lct,  arc  amusingly  desi 

"  He  used  the  opjrartunity  a/fordcd  by  ihc  excavations,  1 
by  the  alterations  in  the  grounds  of  Longwood,  to  show  bow  ii 
might  be  so  disposed  on  a  hastily  raised  slope  as  to  bring  a  \ 
fire  to  bear  on  attackmg  cavalry.  Marshalling  his  followers  at 
by  the  sound  of  a  bdl,  he  nude  them  all,  counts,  valets,  and  set 
dig  trenches  as  if  for  the  front  ranks,  and  throw  up  the  eanh  I 
rear  ranks.  Then,  taking  his  stand  in  front,  as  the  shorted 
and  placing  the  uUcst  at  the  rear  (his  Swiss  valet,  Noverasa 
triumphantly  slioivcd  how  the  horsemen  might  be  laid  lo|d 
rollit^  volleys  of  ten  ranks."  ■ 

Among  other  recreations  billiards  was  a  favourite  distractiOi 
it  is  curious  to  read  that  Napoleon  pTeferred  to  play  wltb^ 
Instead  of  using  the  cue  like  meaner  mortals. 

Some  lime  was  spent  in  learning  Fjiglish,  and  indeed 
touch  of  pathos  in  the  bllen  Emperor's  attempts  to  Icain  the  Ian 
of  his  gaolers.  Mr.  Rose  gives  the  only  English  letter  extaoi 
Napoleon's  pen :  ^ 

"  Count  Lucases,—  ^ 

"  Since  six  weeks  y  leant  the  English,  and  y  do  rvot  any  ptc 
Six  week  do  fourty  and  two  day.  If  might  Itave  leain  fivty  mn 
day,  i  could  know  it  two  thousand  and  two  hundred.  It  ii  1 
dictionary'  more  of  fourty  thousand ;  even  he  could  most  tv 
bol  much  of  tens.  For  know  it  or  hundred  and  twenty  week,  1 
do  more  two  yeai&  After  this  you  shall  agree  that  the  stud. 
tongue  is  a  great  labour,  who  it  must  do  into  tlie  young  aged." 

The  author's  admirable  summing  up  of  Najwleon's  career  if 
and  illumining :  H 

"  \\ctiw^\\v»  CMttx  a&  a.  ■•VwAt,  >!i.  mckqk  ^ist  and  fair  tol 


bM 

idi 


NapoUoH:  the  Last  Word. 


535 


■ 
■ 
■ 

I 


tlut  Ae  AindameBUl  owe  or  his  overthiow  is  to  be  round,  not  tii 
the  Gdlings  of  Ibe  FMiebt  for  tbey  served  him  niili  a  fidelity  that 
would  vring  Xtxn  of  pity  from  Rbadainanthus  ;  not  in  the  treichery 
of  this  OT  iliat  general  or  politician,  for  that  is  little  when  set  i^:ainst 
the  lo)-aUy  of  forty  millions  of  men ;  but  in  the  character  of  the  man 
and  of  his  age.  Never  liad  mortal  man  so  gntnd  nn  opportunity  of 
ruling  over  a  chaotic  continent ;  never  had  any  great  leader 
antagonists  so  fcebtc  as  the  rulers  who  opposed  his  rush  to  supremacy. 
.  .  .  With  the  exception  of  Pill  and  Nelson,  who  were  carried  off 
by  death,  and  of  Wellington,  who  had  not  half  an  army,  Napoleon 
nevcf  came  faee  to  face  with  thoroughly  able,  well-equipped,  and 
stubborn  opponents  until  the  year  iSii." 

"  Napoleon  was  superlatively  great  in  all  that  pertains  to  govern- 
ment, the  quickening  of  human  energies,  and  the  art  of  war.  His 
greatness  lies  not  only  in  the  abiding  importance  of  his  best  under- 
takings, but  stU!  more  in  the  Titanic  force  that  he  threw  into  the 
inception  and  accomplishment  of  alt  of  them.  .  .  .  TIk  man  who 
bridled  the  Rei-olution  and  remodelled  the  life  of  France,  who  laid 
brood  and  deep  the  foundations  of  a  new  life  in  Italy,  Switzerland, 
and  Gtrmany,  who  rolled  the  West  in  on  the  East  in  the  greatest 
movement  known  since  the  Crusades,  and  finally  drew  the  yearning 
thoughts  of  myriads  to  thai  solitary  rock  in  the  South  Atlantic, 
must  ever  slarul  in  the  veiy  forefront  of  the  immortals  of  human 
story." 

It  is  not  easy  to  resist  the  temptation  to  continue  quoting  from 
this  fascinating  work,  which  as  an  introduction  to  the  serious  study 
of  the  greatest  man  of  his  age  is  of  the  highest  value,  but  a  magaiine 
srtictc  has  its  limits. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Mr.  Rose  has  not  allowed  himself  a 
little  space  to  discuss  the  inBuence  the  Napoleonic  r^gimi  has  had 
on  modem  France.  It  b  not  disputed  that  the  later  Napoleonic 
WBis— those  waged  from  personal  or  dynastic  rather  tlian  from 
Dtlional  moiivea— have  prated  disastrous  to  France,  and  have  tended 
to  check  its  devdopraent  as  a  nation.  But  Napoleon  must  not  be 
regarded  merely  as  a  generaL  As  a  statesman  and  administrator  hu 
influence  has  been  permanent  and  on  the  whole  beneficial  to  France, 
being  well  adapted  to  the  French  national  character.  Indeed,  the 
Napoleonic  system  b  actually  the  bed-rock  on  which  is  based  the 
machinery  of  the  French  Government  of  to-day.  Even  its  detrac- 
tors, who  dislike  the  centralised  bureaucracy  which  ts  the  keynote  of 
French  administration,  grudgingly  admit  that  its  maintenance  b 
oeoessaty,  because  it  b  the  one  and  only  safeguard  of  the  stability 


536  TA*  GeMil$maM*t  Magamni, 

of  France.  Abolish  this  tyitem,  and,  as  "Vs.  Bodl^  hu  «dl 
"CTOy  itutttution  in  Fnince  would  fidl,  and  to  build  op  u 
Fnuice  another  Napoleon  would  be  reqidred." 

This,  then,  is  the  crowning  achievement  of  Ni^oleoii,    M' 
Fiance  is  his  real  monument— «nd  this  is  lua  daiin  to  gnatnesi 

K.  k.  EBYMOUW-BI 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  GENEALOGY. 


Wlicte  *re  lh«  ^liu  of  the  dead. 

Tbc  mi0Ay  io»U  of  )r<afc 
Whose  Ihou^U  ««  Uace  «n  tvo)-  pac^i 

Whose  deed*  on  ewy  shore  ?— C.  C.  B> 

IT  cannot,  we  believe,  be  generally  imagined  what  a  vcrjr  interest- 
ing and  engrossing  occupation  may  be  found  by  (racing  up  a 
htttory  or  even  a  plain  p(;digree  of  one's  ancestors.  Let  a  m^n  have 
some  taste  for  Hieraturc,  be  perhaps  past  the  middle  age,  and  hare 
some  leisure  on  his  hands,  and  he  will  find  that  be  has  given  himself 
a  dcligh(f\il  xtiidy  which  will  last  hiro  the  rest  of  his  life,  at>d  which 
the  farther  he  carries  it,  and  the  more  deeply  he  may  try  to  pierce 
into  the  dark  pages  and  ages  of  history,  the  nwre  he  will  find  to  do 
before  he  can  produce  anything  tike  a  perfect  ublc  of  his  forc^-ithers. 
How  many  of  us,  in  our  younger  days,  have  spent  a  great  part 
of  our  time  in  huntir^  or  shooting  wild  birds  and  aninuls  !  It  seems 
almost  natural  to  us,  o-en  in  this  twentieth  century,  to  pursue  and 
kill  something  for  mere  sport  and  pastime,  as  our  ancestors  a 
thousand  years  ago  did  to  supply  themselves  with  food.  However, 
many  a  person  wQl  now  find  quite  as  much  interest  in  hunting  for 
his  ancestors  as  in  formerly  destroying  other  animals  which  wc  had 

I  been  always  taught  to  consider  to  be  in  a  lower  scale  of  creation. 

H  A  principal  qualification  for  devoting  oneself  to  pedigree  work 

^^  must  now  be  n»ent»oned.  It  is  not  every  one  who  knon's  or 
can  by  any  means  discover  who   bis  ancestors  were  (and   after 

H     making  continued  inquiries  among  our  neighbours,  wc  fii>d  ibat  few 

^  of  them  know  very  much  even  of  tlicir  grandparents).  No  doubt 
they  were  as  goo<l  men  and  ¥romen  as  others,  perhaps  better ;  but 
the  dark  pal)  of  oblivion  has  settled  down  over  them,  ai  Horace  so 

I        findy  pots  it : 

^K  VtMK  fectet  sale  AgMnemoona 

^^^^  Haiti.  Md  oinats  ilkOTaaUkt 

^^^^b  l<*rgen((»,  ignoliiiae  toop 

^^^^^  Nodr,  careitt  ([sU  vat«  uctct. 

^B         roi.  cczciL    xo.  10S&  "i  'v 


Tht  Gentltmafis  Magazitu. 

We  constantly  hear  of  "*  fine  old  Gimilj',"  or  of  "one  0* 
oldctt  raii)i)i«s  in  England,"  but  wc  forf[et  tluu  the  only  differ 
between  one  family  and  another  U  that  in  the  one  case  its  menU 
having  rormcrly  occupk-d  a  good  position  in  sodety,  arc  wcD  kn 
(or  a  long  scries  of  years,  while  on  the  other  band  a  com 
hbouring  man,  even  though  bearing  the  historic  name  of  Spet 
Willoughby,  or  Lester,  would  be  altogcthcf  unable,  eren  if  be  a 
to  do  so,  to  connect  himself  with  the  well-knovn  peojile  who 
bear  tbooc  distinguished  names.  fl 

Here  would  be  the  place  to  write  ■  chapter  on  the  nR 
biognplty ;  but  before  we  begin  to  lament  that  no  good  accotm 
the  life  of  any  particular  ancestor  is  to  be  found,  let  us  look  at 
•helves  of  any  good  library,  and  see  the  multitadca  of  Lives  of  pei 
there  arc  which  arc  seldocn  or  never  read,  because  we  suppose,  1 
are  not  very  readable.  It  it  said  that  there  is  nothing  so  difficnl 
write  n  a  biography,  puticulaity  if  you  are  determined  to  gii 
true  and  unbiased  account  of  your  deputed  friend.  Wc  believ 
was  Lord  Brougham  who,  on  seeing  another  volume  of  the  "  L 
of  the  Chancellors "  announced,  exclaimed  ilat  this  book  ad 
Aootlier  terror  to  death— this  mtiit  be  taken  as  a  great  triboU 
Lord  Canipbell's  veracity. 

On  the  other  hand,  take  the  obituary  notices  that  appear  ei 
day  in  tlie  papers,  and  you  will  often  scarcely  recognise  the  acoo 
they  give  of  the  man  who  died  the  day  before,  and  with  whom  ; 
were  well  acquainted.  Some  years  ago  we  stopped  for  a  momeni 
watch  two  men  who  were  cutting  an  inscription  on  a  marUc  ton 
stone,  and  they  were  rather  surprised  when  we  told  them  that  th 
pious  memorials  were  two  thousand  years  ago  called  "  MecK 
ilarmor,"  ot  "  the  lying  marble." 

After  all,  those  of  us  who  hare  done  anything  worth  co 
memomting  may  well  sympathise  with  the  great  Alexander,  «l 
when  he  visited  Uw  ruins  of  Troy,  and  thought  how  gratMUy  1 
valour  and  actions  of  the  Greek  and  Tiojan  heroes  had  b( 
celebrated  by  Homer,  wondered  whether  any  vatet  sactr,  any 
spired  author,  would  so  write  of  him.  It  b  not  every  one  who,  11 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  can  during  his  lifetime — so  it  is  said— engi 
the  services  of  a  friend  full  of  admiration  and  veneration  to  ] 
down  c%-crything  he  said  or  did.  Boswell's  Memcnrs  are,  of  coarw 
masterpiece  which  no  one  would  ever  be  tired  of  reading  over  a 
over  again,  and  a  few  other  biographers  could  be  mentioned  tl 
arc  equally  excellent ;  but  how  maoY  a  man  has  tried  in_ 
copy  thew  ^.VfAc  *n4  craxftv^X 


Tht  Rotiiame  of  Genea^^. 


539 


I 


Our  family  genealogist,  however,  will  not  always  be  to  purticulw 
in  asking  for  a  fim-raic  biography  of  his  ancestors.  Someiimes, 
vfhcn  coming  to  the  career  of  a  man  who  lived  pc-ihaps  hundreds  of 
years  ago,  and  after  having  consulted  cwry  possible  authority  he 
has  discovered  nothing  but  a  bare  illusion  to  or  outline  of  some 
fine  action  that  he  performed,  he  will  wish,  and  wish  in  vain,  that 
any  one  had  written  even  a  few  pages  about  him.  It  seems  to  us 
hard  that  political  or  religious  bias,  or  perhaps  other  reasons  in  past 
times,  should  ever  have  even  partially  consigned  a  great  and  a  good 
man  almost  to  oblivion.  Such  was  the  case  with  the  galbnt  Charles 
Martel ;  wc  may  also  refer  to  the  so-called  impostors  of  Henry  VII.'s 
time,  whom  the  intense  jealousy  of  the  House  of  Lancaster  is  sui>- 
posed  to  have  deprived  of  their  proper  place  in  the  history  of 
England.  We  do  not,  however,  ctaim  any  descent  froni  these  latter 
worthies. 

Wc  are  not  sure  whether  Genealogy  can  claim  to  be  called  a 
sdencc,  but  certainly  many  of  its  handmaids  which  we  have  had 
coniintialjy  to  consult,  such  as  Histoi}-,  Heredity,  Anthropology,  &%., 
arc  allowed,  by  common  consent,  to  bear  that  title.  We  may  first 
make  some  remarks  on  the  value  of  History,  from  which  we  gain  so 
much  wisdom  as  well  as  knowledge.  After  a  man  has  traced  back  hJs 
fore&thers  to,  say,  the  eleventh  century,  and  finds  that  he  descends 
from  a  lew  good  English  and  Norman  fiimilies,  he  will  not,  of 
course,  be  content  to  stop  there,  and  will  at  once  find  himself 
obliged  to  read  the  history  of  France,  and  even  Germany  and  Itaty, 
and  he  wiU  be  hard  to  please  if  he  does  not  at  once  become  deeply 
interested  in  tlie  habits  and  manners  of  Western  Europe  in  those 
early  times. 

The  history  of  Fngbnd  before  1066  will,  of  cooirst,  be  ah^ays  of 
the  greatest  interest  to  the  genealogist,  but  certainly  we  feel  much 
disappointed  to  find  so  little  there  to  satisfy  our  inquiries.  There 
lire  several  families  that  wc  should  be  glad  to  know  something  abon^ 
as  we  Rnd  we  are  descended  from  them.  Among  them  we  may 
mention  t^ofric.  Earl  of  Mercia,  who  was  a  person  of  some  import- 
arKe  at  the  beginning  of  the  etei-enlh  century ;  but  all  that  seems 
to  be  known  of  his  ancestors  is  merely  the  lumes  of  seven  genera- 
tions, without  dates,  marriages,  or  anything  else  to  identify  Ihem  by. 
We  can  only  suppose  that  literature  and  learning  were  little  cultii'ated 
in  England  t>efofe  the  Norman  ConquesL 

It  is  in  i'lrtncc.  however,  that  wc  fmd  family  history  catried 
tuck  to  the  strj  early  times,  and  we  feci  pleased  to  be  able  to  trace 
ourselves  back  to  Saint  Atnoul  and  ttw  ftiA  Ve^  (A\jM!AKa.vi 


540 


TAe  Gtttlieman's  Magazine. 


called,  tbe  ancreston  of  Chartemagne.  These  di 
who  lived  in  rmlhcT  barbarous  time*,  both  died  about  the  year 
and  their  descendants  for  five  generations  upheld  the  boaour 
faiety  of  their  country,  and  defended  it  against  its  fo«s,  until  in 
on  the  almou  total  extinction  of  the  Meronngian  family,  the  a 
of  France  was  bestoved  by  the  Pope  on  Pepin  Ic  Brcf,  from  w 
it  pawed  to  hb  son,  the  great  Emperor  of  the  West. 

We  suppooe  it  is  the  amtntion  of  every  one  to  be  able  to  p 
Iw  detoent  from  Charleottgne ;  we  have  succeeded  in  tracing  ii 
CrOm  no  lesi  than  six  of  bU  graiulchildren,  besides  which  we 
proved  it  in  the  mo»t  (ashiooable  way— for  so  it  was  considern 
the  Bourbont— from  the  daughters  of  the  Emperor's  laat  I 
descendant,  Charles,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  who  died  in  982.  T 
pdnccGEcs  were  Gerbe^e,  Countess  of  ^tons  and  Louvain, 
Hennengardc,  Coiintets  of  Namur.  Ceruinly  the  story  of  Cb 
magne,  his  ancestors  and  his  descendants,  ought  to  be  car« 
studied  by  every  one,  if  it  were  only  to  illustrate  the  value  of  bete 
He  possessed  all  tbe  noble  qualities  of  his  ancestors  for  n 
generations ;  they  were  all  concentrated  in  him,  but  in  a  long,  ac 
and  successful  life  as  a  conqueror  and  a  lawRirer  he  seenu  to  1 
expended  ererything,  for  Ik  left  not  a  nngle  descendant 
any  genius,  and  his  nee  came  to  an  ignoble  end  in  the 
170  yean  after  his  death. 

Here  wc  insert  some  lines  by  Six  FranciK  Palgrave  on  the  \ 
value  of  a  Carlotingian  descent,  but  vc  must  confess  that  wc  do 
know  whether  to  take  them  seriously  or  not : 

"Not  only  through  the  ^tiddlc  Ages,  but  long  after  that 
there  was  a  species  of  mystical  pre-eminence  attached  10 
Carlovingian  lineage,  which  those  who  could  daim  the  boi 
nourithed,  though  often  in  silence.  God  alone  can  bestow 
{Herogati^'c  attached  to  renowned  ancestry,  no  human  power 
impart  or  destroy  the  prerogative ;  it  b  specially  and  directly  • 
by  the  Almighty^  band." 

In  the  South  of  France  we  come  on  the  remains  of 
civilisation,  and  wc  were  much  pleased  to  find  so  early  as 
an  ancestress,  Dodanc,  wife  of  Bernard,  Duke  of  Toulouse,  wri 
a  manual  for  her  son  "  pour  Ic  former  1  b  vertu."    A  few  y 
later  wc  see  anollicr  ancestor.  Boson,  King  of  Aries,  deaoeil 
from  Childebrand,  brother  of  Charles  Maitel,  and  we  arc  told 
his  old  Roman  capital  was  the  centre  of  all  the  telinemf 
civilisation  of  KraiKe. 

The  VirtXot^  tA  IxaS.-}  '«\  *«>»  OA  ■Cwsws.  '-a  ■«'3S.  •*'3e<!&  *.  ^ 


I 


icnfc 


J 


The  Romance  of  Genealogy. 


541 


I 
I 


mention.  Even  among  the  much-nulignod  Lomhards  some  fine 
traits  of  character  arc  to  be  olncrvcd :  the  bmous  Thcodolinda, 
for  instance,  who  seems  to  luvc  been  a  model  0/  all  the  virtties  of 
a  queen,  and  wlio  ordered  the  famous  iron  crown  to  be  nude  foe 
her  husband  AntiiarU;  or  her  descendant,  Portharit,  Lombard  king, 
who  in  678  received  at  Milan  with  such  generous  bospitalitjr  WilMd, 
ATchbishoi>  of  York,  when  he  was  journeying  to  Rome  to  defend 
himself  n^iiiist  his  uxusers.  ^Ve  arc  glad  to  know  that  ihu  prince 
has  been  celebrated  by  Corneille, 

We  suppose  that  our  chief  interest  in  Italy  was  to  find  the  odgia 
of  the  families  of  Guelph  and  Esle,  from  whom  we  claim  descent ; 
we  have  traced  them  back  to  the  time  of  Charlemi^e,  but  there 
wc  have  to  halt  for  the  present— not  in  this  case  from  paucity  of 
rocoids,  but  actually  on  account  of  the  number  of  dubious  pedigrees 
that  have  been  givco  to  U),  and  which  we  could  not  possibly 
accept 

The  origin  of  the  house  of  Saroy  has  also  been  carefully  studied 
bjr  us,  and  we  are  rather  disappcHnled  to  find  that,  althou^  we 
were  ahrayt  assured  that  this  was  one  of  the  oldest  royal  families 
in  Europe,  it  was  only  at  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century 
that  an  ancestor  of  lite  present  King  of  Italy  was  able  to  style 
himself  Count  of  the  Empire  and  of  Savoy.  We  have  been  given  oo 
leu  than  four  difterent  accounts  of  the  origin  of  this  royal  family, 
bat  we  are  r>ot  at  all  sure  that  we  have  as  yet  got  the  right  one. 
However,  we  suppose  that  they  descend  from  a  Burgundian  bmily, 
who  themselves  come  from  the  old  kings  of  Italy  of  the  tenth 
century. 

In  Germany,  as  far  back  as  the  year  910,  we  find  another 
ancestress,  Matilda  of  Ringdheun  and  OMcnburg,  wife  of  Kuig 
Henry  the  Fowler,  and  herself  descended  from  the  &imous  VVitikirvd. 
So  good  sikJ  virtuous  was  she  that  we  find  her,  as  well  as  her  son 
Bruno,  Archbishop  of  Cologne,  included  in  the  list  of  the  Saints  of 
the  Roman  Calendar.  A  few  years  later  we  come  on  a  fine  English 
princess,  Editb,  daughter  of  Edward  the  Elder,  and  wife  of  the 
Emperor  Otho  1.,  and  it  is  told  how  beautifully  she  restrairwd  her 
husband  in  bis  persecutions  of  bis  mother,  the  holy  Matilda. 
These  men,  Menry  and  Otho,  were  the  first  kings  and  emperots 
of  the  Saxon  family  nbo  did  so  much  to  build  up  and  consolidate 
the  old  German  Em[Hre,  while  at  the  same  time  tltey  beat  olT  and 
pat  an  end  to  the  incursions  of  the  Huns. 

Wc  ham  made  only  a  Uight  allusion  to  tliese  countries,  to  show 
what  a  mine  of  delightful  reading  their  bistorj-  afbcds,  and  aUa  to 


543 


Tkt  Gentleman's  Jt. 


1 


point  out  to  an]r  nuker  of  pedigrees 

vbere  anccflore  nay  be  found. 

It  (nay  be  objected  ihait  wc  have 
those  trom  whom  we  can  claim  descent ; 
to  write  a  history  of  Western  Europe,  we 
of  those  persons  who  came  under  our  notio 
the  eumplc  of  Stente,  who  lelh  us  that 
picture  oF  the  hociors  of  impfisonnient  tu 
loo  nsl  for  him,  and  wu  better  pleased  tc 
one  solitary  captire.  AVe  aU  know  how  t 
fonned  hit  Wtk. 

Wc  confess  that  we  have  a  great  feeling 
of  Cologne  and  Archduke  of  l^onaiae,  Wl 
both  as  a  churchman  and  a  civilian  in  t 
died,  wom  out  with  hard  woric,  in  the  year 
arc  connected  with  him  by  a  spiritual  li< 
note  eiteented  at  that  period  than  «t 
faid  that  he  uood  godfather  and  gave  h 
Hugh  II.,  Sieur  de  Lus^mnin  Pottou,  tl 
softer  Pioven^al  aoccnl  of  the  laugue  d'ec. 
the  Archbishop  made  a  tour  through  the  so 
the  French  nobility  to  Kwcar  aUcgjoncc  to  I 
of  Louis  d'Outremer,  who  had  just  died,  at 
as  their  king.  The  Archbishop  suoceedi 
Lothairc  became  nominally  king  of  France 
The  few  lemainirtg  desceudaals  of  Chark 
degenerate  and  worthless,  botli  mentally  i 
another  of  his  nq>hewii,  Hugh  Capet,  a  ; 
already  managed  to  engage  the  sympaib]! 
French  people,  and  was  only  watting  in  i 
thione.  Lothaire,  then,  wiu  the  last  of^ 
France,  and  he  died  in  986,  poisoned,  itfl 
wife  Emma. 

A  fc-w  remarks  on  the  value  ofgcncalogya 
will  not  be  out  of  place  hetc—whelhcr  it  is 
long  list  of  ancestors,  and  to  commcmojate 
lues,  and  their  crimes.  Wchave  had  more  I 
selves  fram  the  almost  sneering  remarks  of  o 
"  V'ou  must  be  very  hard  up  for  something  t( 
ts  the  good  of  troubling  ourselves  about  the 
dead  and  comfortably  buried,  why  can  you  1 
To  this  we  are  always  ready  with  a  reply 


The  Romatue  of  GentcUogy. 


543 


ve  cannot  undcrsund  a  man  living  and  dying  irithout  wishing  to 
know  who  his  forefathers  wctg  and  something  about  tbcm.  Choriottc 
Bronte  expresses  this  feeling  well  when  she  writes: 

When  the  dcnd  in  ihcii  colJ  si>vct  ue  Ijing 

Ailcrp  to  wake  Dcvcr  agaiD, 
VHim  pail  m  didr  «n3a  and  their  mghios, 

Oh  !  wh;  'I'OuU  tbcii  iiii.iiior7  remain  1 

Bccaiue  (hat  ihe  fire  ii  uill  lUning, 

Bcouw  thai  the  lamp  ii  «BI  bright. 
Wbik  ih«  twly  in  diut  b  rceUalng, 

Ttie  ioul  Km  m  gloiT  and  lighi. 

The  old  Ronun  writen  are  rather  divided  in  the  way  thejr  r^ud 
thcii  ancestors  i  for  while  Horace,  in  Ihe  lines  we  tare  already 
quoted,  laments  that  th«  names  of  so  many  great  men,  who,  pahaps, 
helped  to  build  up  the  Roman  Empire,  had  perished,  Juvenal,, 
who  had  not,  perhaps,  so  much  poetical  imagination,  simply  $«>«: 

Stcmnutn  quid  fadnnt  1  quid  iirodest,  Pooike,  longa 
Saticuinc  <enicri  ?  iMUaqne  oMcniI«Te  vultni 

or,  as  wc  tcad  in  the  "  Metamorphoses : " 

Nwa  gams  ct  proavos  el  i|iix  non  fecinut  ipd 
Vix  ea  iMNtrD  voco. 


-  Thus  tboe  were  people  of  the  time  of  Cicero^  and  liring  in  Ihe 
most  ctiltivated  society  then  Icnown,  who  thou^t  very  little  of 
hendily  and  the  induenoe  that  ancestors  of  noble  natiue  must  have 
upon  their  descendants.  \it  can  only  say  that  that  son  of  people 
survives  in  full  foice  to  the  pcesenl  day. 

Instead  of  ihinkir^  of  our  ancestors  as  a  long  line  of  shadows  or 
mere  abstractions,  or  perhaps,  as  most  people  do^  never  bestowing  a 
thou^  upon  them,  is  it  not  more  reasonable  to  consid>ei  them  as 
the  authors  ar>d  origins,  under  God,  of  all  our  mental  and  pliysical 
qualities  ?  \\'c  know  that  in  our  own  case  we  cominiialiy  look  round 
on  and  oluer^'c  our  nearest  nations ;  we  study  their  general  appear- 
ance, thdr  looks,  health,  strength,  and  mental  atuinments,  and  we 
wofKler,  but  of  course  in  *-ain,  what  sort  of  people  they  were  in  past 
times  wltose  blood  runs  in  our  veins,  and  whose  place  we  now  occupy 
in  the  world. 

(.,.We  will  now  inscn  a  passage  from  a  well-known  writer  which 
seems  applicable  to  what  we  have  wriucn : 


The  GeniietHan's  Magazine. 


544 


"  A  people  is  giudcd  Ua  more  hj  its  dead  than  bjr 
racmbcra.  It  is  by  its  dod,  nnd  by  its  dead  atone,  tlul  ■  I 
Founded.  The  gtrncratJons  that  have  pused  away  do  not 
us  their  physical  constitutions  merely ;  ihi^  also  bequeath  us  th 
thoughts.  The  dead  arc  the  only  undisputed  masten  of  the  livi 
We  beat  the  burden  of  their  mistakes,  we  reap  the  remrd  of  tk 
virtue*." 

Any  maker  or  a  pedi([ree  will  anxiously  search  for  and  traui 
up  any  scattered  notices  of  his  fotefathets.  We,  of  course;  i 
delighted  when  we  come  on  a  few  old  letters,  some  more  or  I 
authentic  or  probable  traditions,  or  even  some  occasional  menli 
in  an  historical  work,  not  to  forget  a  long  pedigree  in  the  male  li 
which,  with  all  our  trouble,  we  liave  never  yet  been  able  wholly 
vcfify.  Certainty  we  were  well  su.ti.ified  when,  not  long  ago,  in  1o< 
ing  Ibrot^h  a  volume  of  the  Hivtorical  MSS^  Commission,  we  cai 
on  a  good  copy  of  Latin  verses— an  ctcgy  and  an  ana^m — sent,  al 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  by  our  ancestor  in  1680  to  the  great  Duke 
Ormonde,  to  condole  with  him  on  the  deatli  of  his  mn,  "  the  gaUl 
Ossory."  Wc  also  find  that  a  few  years  later  this  same  nixxs 
commanded  a  rcsimenl  for  King  James  at  the  battle  of  Aughnm. 

Wc  must  here  mention  a  very  cuttous  thing,  which  will  somcwl 
modify  any  ideas  3  man  may  have  about  his  ancestors,  and  will 
the  same  time  oast  some  light  on  the  way  the  human  race  t 
always  lived.  A  man  al  the  present  day  may  well  believe  thaCl 
had  368  millionB  of  ancestuis  alitx:  at  the  time  of  the  Nonnan  Cc 
quest— thirty  ytais  to  a  generation.  'I'he  calculation  is  very  simpl 
we  etch  of  us  had  two  parents,  four  grandparents,  eight  great-gmi 
parents,  and  so  on,  doubling  always  twenty-eight  times  to  t 
bcgimiing  of  the  chapter.  Of  course  some  deductions  can  be  mai 
frotn  this  almost  infinite  number — where  a  woman  married  two 
our  ancestors,  one  after  another,  or  where  two  or  three  of  our  anceitt 
married  two  or  ihicc  sisters  of  a  family,  t>oth  which  cases  appe 
in  our  sheets ;  but  deduct  as  much  as  we  like,  the  whole  tbti 
appears  alu^her  impossible.  In  order  to  be  more  precise^  let 
take  any  number  of  persons— we  will  My  agricultural  labourers — Itvii 
in  any  district  of  the  centre  of  En^aod,  s  country  which  was  pral 
well  cut  off  from  ihc  rest  of  the  world  in  ancient  times,  foto  divu 
orhe  liritaHnot.  fl 

Let  us  also  remember  how  almost  completely  the  rural  populiH 
of  England  ore,  and  always  were,  aduripti  gleha,  and  that,  wttbo 
any  particular  Act  of  Tarliamcnt  compelling  them  to  be  so,  fin 
laboutcn  and  a.nA%a.iu  Va,'««  nxoo.  \{s.'&i  V.-<««i  w,  <»  neu  tho  1 


CIO  an 


Th»  Romamt  of  Genealogy. 


545 


I 


{daoe  fbr  many  generutons  ;  how  then,  when  the  populaiiott  of  th« 
United  Kingdom  b  not  suppo^d  lo  have  exceeded  three  miUions  at 
the  time  of  the  Conquest,  could  eadi  of  these  peraons  have  had 
not  3S6,  but  even  one,  million  of  ancestors  Uving  at  that  time  ?  The 
onty  solution  of  all  this  must  be,  we  suppose,  that  the  human  nee 
has  ntway^  from  one  generation  to  another,  and  from  one  century  to 
knoihcr,  lived  like  rabbits  in  a  warren,  continually  intermarrying 
with  more  or  less  closely  connected  blood  relations;  and  how  oould 
it  be  otherwise  t  Tim  will  then  open  another  ctirtous  question.  If 
it  is  hurtful  to  a  man's  strength  and  stamina  that  his  forefalhcns  htuJ 
married  near  relations,  may  not  the  invauon  of  a  country  by  a  horde 
of  stranger*,  where  numbers  of  it*  inhabitants  are  of  course  slaughtcrod, 
while  the  women  are  pn;seT\ed  alive— may  not  such  a  tragedy  be 
sometimes  a  blcsung  in  disgiii^  and  be  the  means  of  strengthening 
his  race? 

It  is  now  quite  time  to  say  something  more  about  the  best  way 
of  making  out  a  pedigree  of  one's  ancestors,  and  here  vrc  must  confiiw 
ourselves  as  much  as  possible  to  givii^  our  own  experience  on  the 
subject— what  has  happened  to  ourselves.  At  fint  it  will  be  a  very 
easy  matter  to  write  down  the  different  generations  one  above  the 
other ;  wc  may  o'cn  succeed  in  obtaining  the  much-piriied  itise 
piartUrs,  ot  our  siitecn  ancestors  of  the  fourth  generation  with  tbcir 
coats-of-arms.  Many  people  are  quite  content  to  stiip  here;  but  we 
have  always  considered  that,  although  no  pedigree  can  of  course  ever 
be  made  perfectly  complete  for,  at  any  rate,  a  few  hundred  years,  with 
all  tbe  marriages  inserted,  stiU  it  is  necessary  to  go  back  as  far  as  we 
possibly  can. 

^Ve  must  now  mention  a  thing  that  will  often  prevent  a  ped^rce 
extending  back  for  more  than  a  very  few  generations.  It  is  only 
daring  the  last  five  or  six  hundred  years  that  bmily-  or  sur-names 
came  into  use.  Before  tliai  time  people  had  only  their  landed 
property  to  distinguish  themselves  by— as  John,  I^ord  Kotrcaux— and 
if  they  had  no  land,  the  trade  they  followed  or  the  place  where 
they  lived  was  added  to  their  Christian  name,  as  W.  Taylor, 
Thomas  Miller,  or  perhaps  Thomas  Hill  or  James  Kivcrs. 

If,  as  we  have  learned,  a  man  was  in  a  high  position,  he  was  well 
known  by  the  name  of  his  estate,  and  then  his  sons  look  their  name 
from  any  property  they  themselves  were  able  lo  acquire.  For 
instance,  let  us  take  a  certain  Baldcric  or  Baudry  le  Teuton,  who 
seems  to  have  been  a  soldier  of  fortime  who  came  from  Germany 
and  lived  at  the  Coun  of  the  Duke  of  Normandy  some  years  before 
the  Conquest  of  England.    He  is  mentioned  by  Orderic,  but  this 


546 


Tie  Gentletnatts  Afagasttu. 


very  useful  writer  doet  not  tcU  us  who  be  was.  tbou^  be  mcfiliii 
a  good  tDarriagc  tbat  he  made  with  an  iUegitimaic  relation  of  A 
Duke. 

Balderic,  who  pcihape  brought  little  with  him  Trom  Gennany  bi 
Us  Kwofd  aitd  hb  Christian  name,  had  six  sons,  some  of  vtoa^  «i 
several  of  his  grandsons,  fought  bravely  at  i-Iastings.  Thcyva 
well  rewarded  by  the  Conqueror,  And  thus  became  aiKestoa  a(  H 
of  the  beaA  bmiliei  in  England.  The  tuimes  of  Balderic's  km  m 
MkbolM  de  BasqucbiUe,  tbc  Sire  d'Aunon,  Robert  de  Goad 
Rkhard  de  Nvuvil,  IJaldcric  de  Bougenscy,  and  Vigerius.  Ordoq 
who  lived  not  many  years  after  Hastings,  has  told  us  who  itieen 
men  were ;  but  certainly  their  names  give  little  clue  to  who  m 
their  ancestors. 

If,  as  wc  hate  observed,  they  bad  nol  been  in  a  high  poiian 
they  would  have  vanished  from  history  like  so  many  more  of  At 
sixty  Ihouund  men  who  invaded  England  in  to66.  The  aae 
De  CouTcy  and  Ncvil  or  Ncuvillc  will  be  recognised  at  ooctv  W 
besides  them  the  Warrens  and  tbc  Mortimers  also  appear  to  dtstdiJ 
from  Balderic 

Our  geitealogbt  will  thus  &>d  that,  after  hunting  for  hisaiKXBM 
for  about  a  hundred  yean  or  more,  serious  difficulties  will  at  ou 
begin;  he  will  often  ha%-c  to  go  to  the  British  Museum  ot  tk 
Bodleian,  even  perhaps,  as  wc  ourselves  have  done,  to  the  KlAr 
th^uc  Nationale  at  Paris,  or  he  will  anxiously  inquire  wboe  tk 
best  woiks  iclating  to  genealogy  are  to  be  found,  stored  up  in  \ 
institutions  or  in  ptivate  libraries. 

Afterall,  a  man  will  soon  fee!  that  all  Ibis  is  better  done  by  < 
it  is  not  diiiicull  to  find  people  whose  profession  it  is  to 
old  documents,  and  who  will  do  it  for  a  moderate  payment- 
profession,  of  course,  requites  an  education,  like  cverytbingels 
we  must  ullow  that  when  we  ourselves  havo  mtted  these 
libraries  we  have  found  ourselves  raihcr  in  a  state  of  bcwildamA 
Then,  of  course,  a  nun  will  soon  find  himself  engaged  inaptK 
correspondence.  He  will  have  lo  write  some  hundreds  of  lettotv 
pt-nioiKs  who  he  may  think  can  help  liim,  and  then  he  will  hare  At 
advantage  of  being  able  lo  make  a  good  climate  of  human  nanut; 
for  so  many  will  never  answer  his  letters,  while  those  that  do  nf 
be  divided  into  many  diScrciit  classes.  Some  will  send  you  lu- 
ticulars  of  every  possible  family  except  the  one  you  want;  odtn 
when  you  ask  for  a  man's  ancestors,  will  send  you  his  desocmlm 
and  this  is  a  thing  that  has  constantly  happened  to  us. 
tliere  remain  the  select  few  who^  without  being  always 


» 


acquainted  with  you,  will  give  you  e\*cT}-  assistance  in  thdr  power. 
In  two  cases,  however,  wc  have  been  scDt  pedigrees  of  a  particular 
Cunily  which  wc  at  once  found  Tcferrcd  to  other  people  of  the  same 
MDie.  This  was  done  in  perfect  good  faiih,  and  we  can  only  explain 
it  by  remcmbeiing  how  ready  some  people  are  aXvnys  to  do  the 
wrong  thing. 

A  good  genealogist  must  never  for^iet  what  is  the  real  object  of 
oil  his  labours  and  inquiries ;  it  is,  of  course,  to  discover  who  arc  by 
the  best  repute  and  evidence  the  real  father  and  motlicr  of  the 
particular  person  in  question  in  each  generation.  Now  and  then  he 
will  come  to  a  case  where  a  man  was  not  legally  married  to  the 
mother  of  his  ancestor.  Here  is  a  piece  of  immorality  which  is 
much  to  be  regretted,  but  it  need  really  make  no  dilTercnce  to  him. 
What  docs  it  niaitcr  to  a  man  whether  he  is  descended  from  a 
bastard  or  not  f  Some  of  these  persons  were  very  fine  fellows  in  old 
times.  William  tlie  Conqueror  wa.s  always  called  the  Baiurd  by  his 
CODiemponuies,  and  even,  in  one  case  at  least,  signed  his  name  in 
that  way. 

Sholcespearc,  alwa)-^  inimitable  ijt  his  description  of  natoic,  tn  bis 
"  King  John  "  gives  us  a  line  account  of  the  menul  and  physical 
qualities  of  Philip  Faulconbddgc,  "  bom  in  the  very  arms  of  love ; " 
and  n  really  touching  story  is  told  us  of  the  dying  moments  of  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans  in  the  year  14*8,  when  her  children  were  sum- 
moned to  her  bedside,  and  Dunois,  her  husband's  son,  the  famous 
"  Bastard  of  Orleans,"  appeared  with  them.  The  Duchess,  in  a  iKit 
very  Christian  way,  implored  her  sons  never  to  forget  that  their 
father  bad  been  murdered  by  order  of  the  Duke  of  Burgur>dy ;  bat 
the)-,  being  of  teodcr  age,  couldtcatcdy  undertake  this  responsibiliqr- 
itowcver,  Dujiob  at  once  stepped  forward  and  exclaimed, "  Madam^ 
as  long  as  I  can  mount  a  horse  or  wield  a  .ipear,  I  shall  always 
crtdcavour  to  avenge  my  father's  death."  Tlte  dying  woman  at  once 
raised  herself  in  her  bed  and  excbimed,  "  My  God  !  They  liave 
robbed  mc  I    Tbey  have  robbed  mc  1 " 

We  liave  «poken  of  the  father  and  mother  of  our  ancestors, 
but  wc  arc  credibly  informed  that  in  Spain — and  we  suppose  thai 
in  iw  country  is  more  care  Ukcn  to  make  out  a  periea  ancestral 
bee — it  is  an  axiom  among  the  best  genealogists  that  a  man  is  in  no 
way  related  to  his  mother.  This  may  sourul  very  ridiculous  to  any 
of  us  who,  of  course,  consider  a  pedigree  of  ver>-  little  value  unless  it 
includes  all  the  marriages  of  the  5unily.  It  will  be  enough  if  we  try 
to  explain  this  apparent  paradox  by  the  following.  A  former  sows  a 
quantity  of  w)>eat  in  one  of  his  6clds,  and  a  few  months  afterwards 


I 


I 


I 


S48 


The  GenlUmans  Magazine. 


be  mp<  Uie  com  and  thrasbcs  it  out.  He  th«n  canfuUy  confara 
dw  qualUjr  of  tlie  grain  that  he  has  reaped  with  what  be  Ind  »m  ; 
the  season  before,  but  he  gives  little  thought  to  tJic  piccvof  I 
which  be  has  raised  his  cto[».  This  idea  may  be  all  toy  i  _^ 
theoiy,  but  we  alt  kitow  the  influence  of  the  female  on  the  chiU^ 
has  brousht  forth.  We  do  not  allude  to  the  careful  way  ibe  te 
looked  after  his  health  and  nuinnci^  but  to  the  qualiues  thai  be  hi 
inherited  from  her  very  nature  and  being,  Wc  suppose  tbereuvfcr 
of  us  who,  when  we  reflect  on  the  events  of  past  years,  cannot  en^ 
Bcc  how  much  wc  owe  to  our  mother,  as  wcD  as  to  the  (atha.  vbe^  ^ 
course  is  alone  the  author  of  our  existence.  I^t  us  take  the  cw 
of  the  great  Napoleott.  Mis  father  aj^>cars  to  have  been  a  obl  i 
«ty  inferior  intellect,  who  left  him  nothing  but  the  seeds  d  i 
shocking  disease  from  which  he  himself  died,  but  many  of  ibepoi 
Emperor's  finest  qualities  oiay  be  traced  to  the  charactw  of  bi 
mother. 

Although  we  recommend  people  who  wish  to  know  who  the 
forefathers  really  were  to  be  very  careful  on  this  subiect,  and  oAoa  n 
prefer  the  puutirc  to  the  legal  father  of  their  ancestor,  we  find  (ta 
nations  long  accustomed  lo  and  devoted  to  hereditary  nwaaitl? 
were  not  always  so  particular  in  the  choice  of  their  Icitte.  Cow&i 
the  case  of  the  Emperor  aailes  the  Bald,  the  grandson  of  Oarffr 
oiagne.  and  of  the  awful  tragedy  and  crime  that  he  commiticd  "to 
he  put  to  death,  it  is  said  with  his  own  hand,  at  the  siege  of  Toidaic 
in  844,  Bernard  of  Toulouse,  Count  of  Barcelona,  who  was  reiDj 
considered  to  be  his  father ;  or,  to  come  down  to  3  much  later  period 
wc  would  ask  any  one  to  read  the  real  story  of  the  birth  of  Low  (f 
Orleans,  afterwards  Louis  Xll.  of  France.  We  have  often  tbouf^ 
that  a  close  inquiry  into  the  paternity  of  our  King  James  I.,  who^  * 
1603,  was  chosen  by  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  English  peoptelt 
be  their  king,  would  be  most  instructive  to  a  real  genealogist. 

Vollftire,  in  one  of  his  philosophical  works,  treats  this  subjcd  ui 
a  very  humorous  way.  His  hero  visited  in  his  travels  the  caT«ol» 
necromancer  something  of  the  style  of  the  Witch  of  Endor.  Hi 
asked  to  see  the  ancestors  of  the  king  of  France.  After  a  lillfe 
pause,  a  number  of  figures  were  seen  to  pass  across  the  stige-* 
priest,  a  common  soldier,  a  lackey,  &c  Candide  at  once  e:cclaiiM4 
"  ITiis  is  not  what  I  wanted,"  when  the  wizard  rejoined,  "  Vou  ;  ~ 
asked  for  the  ancestors  of  your  king,  and  I  have  shown  them  to ' 

It  is  bad  enough  when  a  stranger  presumes   to  intrude  on  d« 
Mcred  precincts  of  the  marriage  chamber,  and  thus,  in  a  mome 
time,  alters  a  man's  ancestry.     It  is  much  the  same  when  a 


Tke  RotttaHce  of  Geneahgy. 


549 


I 


perhaps  many  generations  ago,  has  determined  to  adopt  ao  heir  for 
want  of  more  legitimate  children.  If  all  such  things  ar«  not  carefully 
examined  and  accounted  for  by  our  genealogist,  our  pedigree  is  not 
nortli  much ;  and  who  can  decide  in  ihc  case  of  an  adoption,  which 
may  sometimes  be  carried  out  in  the  most  secret  manner  ?  AVe  will 
ask  any  one  to  read  the  fierce  commotion  which  took  place  in 
England,  in  the  summer  of  i68S,  at  the  birth  of  tlie  son  of  King 
James.  The  biUerett  religious  and  political  feeling  of  both  Whigs 
and  Tories  «u  suddenly  aroused,  and  even  to  this  day  it  is  not 
dear  whether  the  poor  baby,  afterwards  called  the  Old  Pretender, 
had  or  had  not  been  brought  into  the  palace  1>ed-chambcx  in  a 
warming-pan,  and  this  although  King  James  held  a  strict  inquiry  on 
the  subject,  and  the  sworn  e%'idence  e%'en  of  the  ladies  attending  on 
the  Queen  was  taken. 

If,  OS  we  have  said,  history  has  not  gi^'cn  its  decision  in  this 
matter,  how  can  a  genealogical  student  venture  to  give  his  opinion  ? 

We  must  now  mention  a  thing  that  many  a  man  who  has  spent 
fears  in  making  out  the  histor>-  of  his  family  would  think  a  sufficient 
revrard  for  all  his  trouble,  and  certainly  we  were  well  pleased  to 
fmd  that  at  least  four  of  our  ancestors  appear  as  Saints  of  the  Roman 
Calendar : 

t.  Saint  Amoul,  Main  du  falaii  to  Da);obert,  Merovingian  king, 
and  afterwards  Bishop  of  Men,  who  died  a  hermit  in  the  Vosges 
motintaini  in  640.  He  appears  as  the  cartieM  known  ancestor  of  the 
Emperor  Charlemagitc  in  tlte  direct  male  line. 

3.  Hb  daughter-in-law,  Sainle  Begge  of  Anden,  in  the  Ardennes, 
where  she  had  built  herself  a  monastery.  She  was  daughter  of 
Pepin  I.  She  had  married  Anst-gise,  son  of  St.  Amout,  who^  10 
a  book  that  we  possess,  is  styled  the  first  Duke  of  Brabant. 

3.  Saint  Wilhcm  "  Courtney,"  sometimes  called  Count  of 
Aquilainc.  He  was  descended  from  Charles  ftfatte),  and  was  one 
of  Charlemagne's  generals.  After  many  years'  hard  fighting  against 
the  Saxons  on  the  Rhine  and  the  inlideb  in  Spain,  he  at  last  hung 
up  his  armour  in  a  monastery  that  he  had  built  at  Gellone,  in  the 
desert  of  Lodcre,  near  Toulon,  and  iltere  piously  awaited  his  omI 
until  the  year  81a. 

4.  Saint  MfttOda  of  Riogelheun  and  Oldenburg,  whom  we  hxn 
already  mentioned,  who  died  96S. 

A  fine  old  gentleman,  a  French  priest,  who  lives  near  us,  has 
often  allowed  us  to  consult  his  tnany  volumes  of  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  and  he  has  also  explained  to  us  the  corulitions  under  whidi 
t  iwrson  was  admitted  to  the  ranks  of  the  blenod  b)  tbe  CHutcK  >n 


550 


The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 


az  asm 

3 


the  Middle  Ages— that  be  must  have  been  or  unblemished  i 
toi^  besides  tbat,  must  have  pcrfomicd  some  mirades. 
some  of  tbeae  mpernatural  peiformances  are  rather  smusing.  W 
End  thnt  these  aged  neophjtcs  ortcn  insisted  on  perfomiagd 
roost  menial  offices  in  the  monastery.  Saint  Wilhcm  assBDed A 
oGkc  of  baker,  and  on  one  occasion,  some  of  the  brethren  hua) 
complained  that  the  bread  was  not  well  baked,  the  futtm  SiU 
entered  the  hot  orcn,  pat  c^-crything  to  rights,  and  again 
untouched  and  unhurt  by  the  heat. 

It  was  a  common  custom  in  ancient  times  for  a  man  as 
old  to  retire  from  the  world,  enter  a  monaster)-,  clothe  himsdf  ia  i 
hair-Aiit,  and  be  laid  to  die  upon  a  heap  of  ashes.  No  doobt  \ 
was  supposed  dial  these  hardships  would  atone  for  the  sias  ofl 
misspent  life ;  but  we,  wl»  call  ourselves  *'  the  heirs  of  all  the  ^' 
will  remcmlw  that  It  is  much  easier  to  die  well  Uian  lo  Itw«l 
But  of  whatever  religion  a  man  may  be,  let  him  always  nrtirc  framit 
world  before  he  is  compelled  to  do  so  by  old  age.  Some  of  Eifluifi 
most  illustrious  sons  have,  however,  neglected  to  uke  such  (WO*- 
tioos.  It  is  now  freely  siid  that  the  last  year  of  the  official  hfc  t^i 
great  siaicsman  who  only  died  the  other  day  was  nothing  but  u 
obstruction  to  pubUc  buuness ;  and  some  of  us  may  remember  tk 
accounts  of  our  great  Duke's  daily  visits  to  the  Horse  Guards  kb 
old  age.  ^ 

We  have  demoted  a  good  many  pages  to  observations  osB 
histor)-  of  a  family  ;  before  we  conclude,  let  us  say  something  oe  b 
even  more  important  subject— vii,  the  origin  of  the  human  tut. 
Any  one  who  has  studied  biology  will  know  at  oncc  how  neatff  At 
two  things  arc  related,  and  what  tifijit  one  study  ihrowa  uptn  ih 
other. 

The  student  of  nature  who  spends  so  many  a  pleasant  Icaos 
hour  in  examining  and  admiring  everything  around  him--ai^| 
regetable,  and  mineral— will  at  last  find  himself  engaged  in  a  tfilP 
what  deeper  study,  and  will  soon  set  himself  to  work  to  inquire  fc 
origin  of  everything  he  sees.  He  may,  [icrhaps,  begin  by  ai^ 
how  the  very  pebbles  beneath  his  feel  were  formed,  or  he  ■■ 
inquire  how  the  distant  ranges  of  mountains  were  pushed  cr 
squeezed  up  above  the  level  of  tlie  plain.  When  he  looks  ol  ih 
organic  world  he  will  consider  how  it  is  that  so  m.-iny  difTcrcni  sob 
of  trees,  plants,  or  vegetables,  all  growing  closely  together,  id 
manage  to  keep  themselves  perfectly  distinct  from  their  netriiboeii 
although,  of  course,  they  all  originally  came  from  the  same  somtt 
It  will  be  the  same  when  he  turns  to  animal  life,  for  here  be  wiO  si 


The  Romance  of  Geneahgy. 


5Si 


I 

I 


• 


once  sec  before  his  eyes  another  picture  and  illustration  of  the  theory 
of  evolution,  for  the  most  lowly  organisms  are  Still  to  be  seen  itlive^ 
while  those  of  a  higher  grade  arc  also  before  him,  still  ascending  step  by 
step^  until  it  cotncs  to  the  acme  of  nature's  handiwoilc — the  race  of 
man.  An  intelligent  inquirer  will  not  be  content  to  stop  here ;  he 
will  anxiously  inquire  hoir  these  animals,  all  formed  on  the  same 
model,  have  proceeded  the  one  from  the  other,  and  more  panicularty 
how  he  himself  has  been  evolved  from  some  aa  yet  undiscoveted 
source,  some  famDy  of  animals,  probably  of  simian  or  lemurian 
nature,  that  have  long  ago  become  extinct  Here  the  genealogist 
will  at  once  come  forward  and  )oin  hands  with  his  brother  luturaliM. 
He  has  been  busily  engaged,  as  we  ha^-e  seen,  tracing  bock  the 
generations  of  his  family  as  far  as  he  could  ]>o»ibly  go,  and,  as  in 
our  case,  for  a  period  of  twelve  hundred  )'cars  from  the  present  tim^ 
and  be  will  thus  naturally  feel  a  great  interest  in  in\-cstig2ting  the 
very  early  bbtotyof  the  human  race' 

It  is  not,  of  course,  to  be  supposed  that  the  mo«t  ardent  maker 
of  pedigrees  will  c^-cr  R([eni[>t  or  think  it  possible  to  connect  him- 
Rtf  with  the  lemurian  period,  when  the  ancestor  of  man  at  last  rose 
to  an  erect  postiion,  and  at  the  same  time  attained  to  the  clearer 
powew  of  speech  and  reason  which  we  now  enjoy  ;  but,  ax  we  have 
atidt  he  will  necessarily  feel  some  curiosity  to  know  as  much  as 
possible  about  the  earliest  appearance  of  man  upon  the  canh. 

We  (Day  assume  that  every  one  who  has  studied  the  subject  is 
agiced,  now  at  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  centur)-,  that  the  pma 
hmno  has  bc<n  evolved  from  some  family  of  the  primates;  but 
it  was  iKit  always  so,  and  we  can  welt  remember  ounckes  the  time 
when  people  in  a  rciy  high  position,  such  as  a  wcU-known  bishop  or 
a  prime  minister,  would  socer  at  anyone  holding  such  an  opinion. 
However,  we  have  now  diangcd  all  such  ideas. 

And  now  let  us  think  on  all  the  countless  ages  that  must  have 
tll{»ed  since  the  first  pair,  or  possibly  niany  pairs,  of  bein^  were  at 
last  evolved  into  humanity.  And  then  wc  must  not  suppose  that 
these  first  human  creatures  at  all  resembled  men  of  the  present  day. 
By  the  story  of  the  evolution  of  the  horse,  whidi  we  give  on  a 
succecdit^  P^K^  ""^  "'T  ""^  imagine  wliat  a  very  different  appear- 
ance man  presented  in  the  most  remote  times.    The  Sacred  Kecord 

'  rtaienoi  Enot  Hacekri,  of  Jena,  b  hb  bleu  pohlkalioi),  Tki  ImiI  UmI, 
mile*  as  kt&omn  {pp.  $  umI  6) :  "  Tbc  iUliMIe  (Sunl  eauwctian  Utvecn  ooto- 
pay  aod  fttjlognj,  between  the  dn^pacnt  tJ  (be  lodivUual  tad  tbc  hiicory 
fi  tiB  tnceitots,  enaUci  as  to  gulii  a  safe  tad  cettaia  knowledge  of  ant  uiMunI 
«riw." 


552 


GtniUmatis 


teUx  tu  tiuU  man  was  nude  in  the 
lower  than  bis  heavenly  mecsengcn.  We 
not  this  recall  the  metDCnies  c»f  our  jroutb 
meet  tome  oi  "  the  daught«n  or  the  go 
well  as  theit  brothers,  fine  nunly  fellows,  a 
or  wir  to  incur  any  dangers,  worlcing  or  (i 
country  in  all  paru  of  the  world  ? 

But  then  we  ve  bound,  in  otl  EunH 
difleteat  picture  of  primeral  tnan,  wfaidi 
otajecia  which  arc  discovered  in  all  parts  of 
only  recognised  during  the  last  thirty  or  ft 
fabricated  by  beings  possessed  of  reason, 
stone  implements  vhkh  are  continually  un 
most  ancient  ones,  formed  in  a  very  rude 
now  supposed  to  have  been  made  by  peopi 
lithic  limes,  and  apparently  before  the  c 
period  in  EngUrMl,  which  came  to  an  eru], 
1 50,000  years  ago.  Thcst^  implements  an 
up  with  the  bones  of  many  extinct  animal: 
or  the  woolly  rhinoceros,  which  forn>erly  Ui 
bones,  with  an  ocauionat  skull,  have  abo  b 
these  caves,  and  the  wliole  thing  gives  us  a 
living  in  almost  a  stale  of  nature.  In  Fnn 
times,  people  seemed  to  have  been  posses 
taate^  to  judge  by  the  s{Hritcd  drawings  < 
reindeer,  and  in  one  cose  even  a  rukcd  fa 
on  a  piece  of  a  mammoth's  lusk  or  a  reii 
been  dug  up  in  that  country. 

VVc  ba>x  already  observed  that  nun,  wl 
the  earth,  was  probably  a  very  different  cm 
of  the  present  day ;  but  then  let  us  rememh 
body,  and  certainly  every  bone  and  muscle, 
of  the  lower  animals.  Let  us  then  uke,  b] 
perfect  history  of  the  horse '  since  he  Q 
America  in  early  Miocene  times.  Here  1 
animal  about  the  size  of  a  fox,  with  a  long  1 
each  foot.  It  is  called  the  Phenacodus,  x 
gradually  increased  in  size,  and  first  lost  th< 
each  foot,  and  aflt-rwards  (he  second  and 
became  unnecessary  to  ils  existence.  Not 
early  period  the  ancestor  of  our  horse  Id 

'   T%<  HWM :  «  Slwlj  in  Natural  HliMr 


TA^  Romarue  of  Gtmalogy. 


553 


I 


I 


r^tnoocros  and  the  tapir,  which  arc  proved  to  have  tud  the  same 
origin,  beudcs  other  t^aiiants  and  nondescript  aninwta;  such  as  the 
poleoihcrium,  which  was  a  mixlure  of  all  these  three,  and  whose 
bonc'!,  discovered  by  Cuner  ia  the  gypsum  quarries  of  Monttnartre, 
near  Paris,  ohl-  hundred  years  ago,  so  sorely  puuted  that  great  natural 
ist.  Such  a  pcdtj^ree  as  that  of  Lhe  horse,  written  upon  the  rocks  in 
various  parts  of  the  world,  must  be  the  envy  and  despair  of  his  rider, 
who  has  only  the  far  less  trustworthy  records  of  Dugdalc  and  Burke, 
or  other  similar  publications,  to  depend  upon. 

Most  of  the  other  families  of  animals  have  a  much  less  perfect 
geological  pedigree  and  origin,  but  mention  was  made  at  the  last 
meeting  of  the  British  Association  of  a  onc^oed  hoofed  animal  of 
three-toed  ancestry,  lately  discovered  in  Patagonia,  which  has  a  more 
perfect  pedigree  than  even  the  horse,  for  in  this  case  the  spUnt  booes 
have  completely  disappeared.  The  human  race  has  left  few  fossil 
recnaiiu  in  the  rodis  ;  even  in  the  valley  of  the  Somme,  where  the 
deep  beds  of  gravel  abound  in  objects  fashioned  by  man,  not  a  bone 
or  I  tooth  belonging  to  him  has  been  discovered. 

Let  us  remember,  however,  how  small  a  part  of  the  world  has 
been  explored  during  the  last  forty  j-cars,  before  which  time 
Paleontology,  or  the  classification  of  bones  and  other  remains  of 
animals  was  tittle  known.  We  must  abo  t>ot  forget  that  even  in 
early  historical  tJines  the  human  race  was  only  very  thinly  scattered 
over  many  parts  of  the  world.  How  much  fewer  of  them— the  last 
family  that  has  appeared  on  our  planet— would  there  then  have  been 
in  paleolithic  times!  Not  only  may  we  hope — we  may  fully  expect — 
dtat  before  the  science  of  Geology  has  celebrated  iu  first  centenary 
SDongb  may  be  unearthed  from  perhaps  some  tropical  source  to 
oomidetc  the  pedigree  of  our  race,  and  more  folly  to  prove  Our 
evolution  from  the  lower  animab; 

Let  us  cooduds  by  quoting  »>mc  lines  from  Haeckel's  last 
work:  "It  ia  now  generally  adiniiicd  that  vVnthropogeny,  of  the 
study  of  the  organic  development  of  man,  is  the  most  important  of 
all  biological  questions." 

Huxley  was  right  when,  forty  years  ago,  Iw  called  it  the  question 
of  questions  for  mankind ;  the  problem  which  underlies  all  others, 
and  is  more  deeply  tnterciling  than  any  other,  ia  as  to  the  place 
which  man  occupies  in  nature,  and  his  reblion  to  the  universe  of 
things :  whence  our  race  has  come,  what  are  the  limits  of  our  power 
over  nature  and  of  nature's  powers  over  us,  to  what  goal  are  we 
tcndmg.  These  are  the  problems  which  present  themselves  anew 
and  with  undiminished  interest  to  every  man  bom  into  the  world. 

vojL.  ccxcij.    Ka  aojS.  <^«^ 


The  GetUleman's  Magazine. 


554 


t^t  us  again  review  the  woiV  of  OQi  gcnealog:i8t.     He 
many  months,    perhaps  yean,  and  has  at  last  nude  out 
cotnpteic  lisl  of  his  ancestor?  for  some  htindreds  of  fears- 
(bond  out  when  and  vrhcrc  they  lived,  what  they  did,  with  \ 
they  married,  and,  last  oT  all,  he  »ces  that  about  every  tbhty 
one  man  dies  and  is  succeeded  by  bis  son. 

or  course  he  looks  al  his  manuscrip:  with  great  ntisfaction; 
if  he  is  a  man  of  any  intclh'gcnce,  will  he  not  surety  a«y  :  Wh«» 
Ihey  all  now  7  Wliere  are  these  men  whose  blood  now  rans  ]i 
veiivt  ?  Their  bodies,  oi  rather  ihelr  bones  nnd  dust,  ate  to  be 
in  the  family  tauU  ot  in  the  nearest  graveyard  ;  but  vhere  is 
tmmoital  part  ?  ^Mierc  are  their  toule  at  this  moment  ?  It  al 
appeals  to  m  k>  extraordinary  that  when  one's  dearest  rricntl  di< 
oite  seems  lo  rare  or  even  to  think  what  has  become  of  the  4 
that  is  to  live  for  c^tr.  We  smother  his  grave  with  flowers ;  we  i 
a  costly  monument  over  his  remains.  More  than  that,  wc  per 
gh-e  large  sums  of  money  to  charitable  institutions  to  pcrpettnti 
name  ai>d  memory,  and  wc  shall  certainly  always  remember  with  | 
and  plcasore  any  graiid  action  thit  he  pcrfonncd ;  but  there  e 
thing  seems  to  stop.  ^ 

To  such  an  inquiry  it  will  be  of  course  answered  that  wo^ 
Kitle  or  nothing  of  the  future  UTc;  but  surely  that  shoalii' 
prevent  us  from  thinking  or  speculating  on  such  an  imp« 
(|uestion,  paiticulnrly  where  the  history  of  a  great  friew 
concerned.  ^k 

DOMINtCR    lUiaWl 


555 


ELHANAN,    THE   RABBfS  SON, 
WHO   BECAME   POPE. 


IT  was  A  iiight  in  September.  The  beating  wind  and  heavy  rain 
had  driven  indoors  most  of  (be  inhabitants  ot  the  town  of 
Ma)'«nce  on  the  Rhine.  No  longer  as  llirough  the  lovely  summer 
evenings  can  tjiey  stroU  aloitg  the  river  banks  and  (east  uiion  the 
glorious  scenery'.  Now  the  first  stoints  of  autumn  compel  them  to 
crowd  together  into  places  of  public  resort,  there  to  while  airajr  the 
long  hours  in  gamci  and  tlic  discussion  of  public  affairs,  then  fuU  of 
interest.  But  let  us  turn  from  these  gay  scenes  to  another  quarter 
of  the  town,  retired  and  squalid,  inhabited  in  the  eleventh  ccniury 
by  the  poor  despstcd  Jews.  Let  us  creep  under  a  low  arched  gate- 
way and  enter  a  gloomy  ill-paved  counyaid  within  it.  It  is  enclosed 
by  smoke-dried  tumble^lown  walls,  and  in  the  daytime  partially 
shaded  by  a  few  uunted  trees,  whose  withering  leaves  begin  to 
strew  the  rough  pavement.  We  soon  reach  the  lowly  dwellir>g  of 
Rabbi  Simon  the  Great,  fomous  alike  for  bis  learning  and  piety. 
All  i*  silent  now,  except  for  the  dull  heavy  patter  of  the  thickly 
falling  rain.  The  door  is  open,  and  we  can  calcli  a  glimpse  of  the 
study  of  this  Master  of  Israel.  Round  the  walb  are  ranged  the 
well-filled  shelves  of  his  libnry,  venerable  copies  of  the  written  srtd 
oral  hw  are  pQed  togetlter  upon  them.  Precious  manuscripts  are 
there  of  the  Talmud  as  well  as  of  the  famous  Rabbins  of  different 
ages.  At  his  rude  tabl^  liglited  by  an  oil  lamp,  sits  the  oracle  of 
his  people.  Although  he  is  still  young,  there  is  an  expressioD  of 
deep  thought  and  care  upon  his  wrinkled  brow.  HLt  features,  sharp 
and  thin,  bear  ci-idcnt  marks  of  severe  study  and  frequent  alutinence. 
His  noble  countenance  not  only  beams  with  intelligence,  but  mirrors 
forth  a  large  and  loving  heart,  suOicicntly  at  leisure  with  itself  to 
sympathise  with  all  who  seek  him  for  counsel  wkI  comfort.  His 
eyes  arc  lixcd  abstractedly  on  i)w  paper  before  him,  while  his  bps 
repeat  alood  the  words  of  le  ic  composing 

for  the  solemn  servir  which  has 

just  begun.   Like  mi  lotbed 


556 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


L    prua 


in  language  so  omatc  and  Gguratire  as  to  resemble  the  njnen 
EBitem  poetn.  One  word  occurs  to  oflen  u  to  form  tbe  bufd< 
the  pctitioro.    It  is  "  Elhanan,"  which  signifies  "  God  is  gradm 

l^hc  Rabbi  starts  sikI  looks  up,  for  a  fiiK,  active,  th(nt|^ 
looking  tittle  lad  of  seven  years  bursu  into  the  room.  Tlie  bth 
too  much  engrossed  to  speak  at  firit ;  but  the  child  draws  cautk 
nearer,  and  looking  orar  the  RAbbi's  shoulder,  and  being  abl 
read  a  little,  exclaims,  "  Why,  father,  do  you  write  my  tiacw 
often?  Isn't  it  there  and  there,  over  and  over  again  upon 
paper  7  Oh  !  yes,  I  undentand,  you  arc  making  a 
to-morrow,  ai>d  my  name  will  hai-e  tbe  chief  ptaoe  in 
have  guessed  rightly,"  replied  the  Rabtn,  and  then  with 
yet  tSbctionatc  look  he  added :  "  Elhanan,  you  must  never  ft 
the  honour  that  will  be  shown  to  your  name  in  the  assembly  of 
people.  Try  to  prove  yourself  a  worthy  representative  of  our 
reU^on.  Remain  faithful  till  the  last  moment  of  your  life, « 
ever  sacrifices  it  may  cost  you,  to  the  eternal  principles  in  w 
you  arc  being  instructed.  As  you  grow  older  you  must  se 
deeply  into  the  tteasuics  of  wisdom  tn  our  sacred  books, 
especially  hold  fas.t  to  the  chief  precepW  of  the  law."  With  tl 
word)  t)»e  good  Rabbi  led  bis  boy  gently  back  to  bis  Dt 
renuned  his  writing. 

It  wa*  the  eve  of  the  "  Yom  Kippof,"  the  I>ay  of  Atori 
To  the  Jews  then,  as  now,  who  have  not  accepted  the  Gospel^  tt 
the  most  solemn  day  of  the  year.  Ever  since  the  destruction  of 
Temple  and  the  banishment  of  the  Chosen  People  from  the  hallc 
spot  where  Jehovah  was  wont  to  meet  them,  the  prescribed  ritcj 
that  day  hare  given  place  to  the  glorious  substance  of  which  t 
wcfc  the  shadows.  Yet  everywhere  and  always  the  Israelite  dt 
to  this  ancient  institution  as  does  the  ivy  to  the  crumbling  wall 
some  ruined  shrine,  and  he  grasps  it  with  all  the  tenacity  of 
strong  nature  aa  the  sheet-anchor  of  his  hopes  for  eternity.  The  I 
from  food,  and  even  from  drink,  is  reverently  kept  by  many  fr 
sunset  to  sunset,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  time  ts  passed  in  i 
recital  of  the  prescribed  oonfeasions  of  sin  and  petitions  for  m«t 
Early  the  next  morning  the  Rabbi,  his  wife,  and  son  repaired  to  t 
Syiu^gue.  It  was  soon  full  to  overflowing.  Hour  after  hour  pasi 
in  the  various  acts  of  devotion.  In  the  coutw  of  the  service  t 
Master  of  Israel  ascended  the  pulpit,  delivered  a  solemn  dtscooi 
suited  for  the  oecation,  and  concluded  it,  according  to  custo 
with  the  special  prayer  which  he  had  prepared.  Quite  naturally  v 
the  name  *'  '£.%aniA"  \ta,<!T«<  vtocv  '*K'i!c^  \ivk  -u;f^i«^  >m  *&«.  Q^. 


itorra 


Elkanan,  tk«  Rahbts  Son,  who  became  Pof>e.    557 

Grace,  and  nilh  intense  earnestness  did  the  father  lift  up  his  heart  for 
A  blcs&ing  on  his  boy.  Having  pronounced  with  thriUing  emphasis 
the  triune  benediction  of  the  IVicst,  the  preacher  left  the  pulpit.  The 
boy,  who  had  listened  with  the  ancntioa  possible  in  one  so  young, 
had  now  grown  wt:ary. 

His  nurse.  Marguerite,  is  sent  for,  and  takes  him  home.  The 
parents  were  bound  to  remain  till  sunset,  and  durii^  all  tliat  time 
she  knew  that  he  would  be  completely  in  her  hands  to  da  wliat  she 
thought  fit.  The  moment  seemed  most  opportune  for  canying  out 
the  purpose  long  cherished  in  her  mind.  She  was  a  zealous  Roman 
Catholic,  and  deeply  imbued  with  the  false  and  dangerous  maxim 
that  the  end  ju^iiics  the  mtans.  Some  time  before  the  pn«t  had 
extracted  from  her  in  confession  all  the  circumstances  of  the  family 
with  which  she  was  living.  ^Vhcn  be  learned  that  her  masici  was  a 
Rabbit  and  that  his  little  son  was  a  boy  of  h^h  promise,  he  told  her 
that  the  ought  by  some  means,  honest  or  dishonest,  openly  or  in 
secret,  to  rescue  him  from  the  perilous  errors  in  which  he  was  being 
educated,  and  lo  secure  him  for  the  service  of  the  Church.  "  I  love 
my  employers,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  i  lore  my  Divine  Master : 
whicfa  shall  I  obey  ?  If  they  die  in  unbelief,  they  must  all  perish. 
What  an  awful  thought  I  I  may  at  least  save  the  dear  child's  soul. 
I  wilt  consult  his  best  interests  and  carry  the  darling  lamb  within 
the  fold,  where  alone  he  can  be  laft"  The  rMol«  was  no  sooner 
made  than  executed.  She  at  once  led  the  boy  from  the  home,  Irom 
irtiich  for  many  long  years  he  was  destined  to  be  an  exile.  They 
had  not  &r  to  ga  The  priest's  house  was  close  at  hand  and  imme- 
diaiely  open  to  receive  them.  The  little  neophyte  was  welcomed  by 
her  spiritual  btther  with  open  arms.  The  deceit  and  cruelty  of  the 
act  were  entirely  overlooked.  The  little  one,  powerless  to  resist  and 
but  partly  conscious  of  his  fate,  was  speedily  b«ptizcd  and  lodged  in 
a  convent  near  the  town  under  the  care  of  the  holy  Sisters. 

Meanwhile,  the  nurse  had  disappeared  as  well.  Afraid  to  lace 
her  distressed  and  indignant  cmplo)-en,  she  had  6ed  to  some  oon> 
TCiucDt  refuge.  In  the  evening,  when  the  good  Rabbi  and  his  wife 
retariKd  to  break  their  long  fast,  tltey  were  horroT-stricken  to  find 
their  darling  gone.  They  rushed  frantically  into  the  streets  and 
inquired  from  every  one  about  him,  but  in  vaiiL  No  one  could  or 
would  tell  anything. 

Day  after  day  the  search  wai  repeated,  but  to  tw  purpose.  They 
mourned  for  him  with  the  mourning  of  Jacob  for  Joseph,  as  for  one 
dead.  Nay,  their  grief  was  c^-en  more  poignant,  since  be  waa  ibeir 
only  child.    Still  all  this  time  the  lost  one  waa  at  a  Art. 


558 


The  GentUmatCs  Alagaziru. 


dbtanoe  from  bis  bone.  Tluit,  howcrcr,  tnsde  no  difliera 
In»dc  the  hi^h  walls  of  lus  conventual  prison  lie  was  as  much  ou 
tight  as  if  h«  )ad  been  in  the  wilds  of  Siberia.  Before  loDgttae|i 
little  captive  began  to  realise  Xva  position.  ^Vith  biuer  cries  i 
tciin  he  implored  bts  keepers  to  restore  him  to  bu  patenls. 
thejr  paid  no  heed  ;  and  when  he  pernsted  lliey  would  KKiietii 
puniih  htm,  or  bid  him  dr)-  up  his  tears,  as  tliey  would  be  as  g 
and  kir>d  to  him  as  his  parents.  At  bitt  his  grief  so  agiuied< 
tender  frame  that  he  fell  into  a  high  fever,  llic  Sisten  bed 
anicioas  about  their  young  duuge,  and  nursed  hitn  kindly  and  ci 
fully.  But  tlH7  had  not  a  mother's  heart  or  a  mother's  hands. 
the  delirium  rose,  Elhaiian  scrcaoKd  aloud  for  his  mother,  but 
came  not  At  length  the  crisb  came.  Slowly  and  steadily  the  U 
sufferer  regained  strcn^tlh,  and  he  was  allowed  (o  walk  in  tbe  e 
vent  g.-irdcn.  Vcr)*  weak  was  he  still  in  mind  and  body.  He  tt 
hard  to  recall  the  past,  bat  could  remember  nothing,  his  raemi 
was  for  the  lime  quite  gone.  lie  thought  and  thought  Rgain,  di 
his  brain  ached  from  ihc  cfiort,  but  could  not  recollect  wheie 
came  from  or  how  he  camo  there.  His  other  faculties,  bowm 
gndually  returned  and  his  education  was  resumed.  Now  no  pd 
were  spared  to  instil  into  his  mind  as  much  as  he  could  grasp  of  i 
doctrines  and  principles  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  Thus  thi 
years  passed,  and  tlien  the  boy  was  removed  to  a  Jesuit  school 
the  town  of  Wurabur^  Tltere,  under  the  tuition  of  the  abbot  al 
experienced  masters,  his  mind  rapidly  expanded.  His  taste  « 
oiltivatcd  by  the  study  of  the  ancient  clasucj,  and  his  reui 
exeKtsed  in  logic,  mathematics,  and  moral  philosophy,  tutight  in  I 
maoner  which  hb  sagacious  teachers  deemed  suitable  for  thi 
purpoae.  After  a  time  he  was  taken  through  a  long  course 
reading  of  the  Fathcn  and  of  theolog)-,  as  far  as  it  could  be  taug 
without  recourse  to  the  fountain-head  of  revealed  truth. 

Thus  a  few  more  years  glided  by,  and  the  youth,  now  develofui 
into  a  shrewd  and  learned  churchman,  was  sent  to  receive  his  fit 
training  ut  a  college  in  Rome.  Gregory  MI.,  better  known 
HiUld)rand,  was  then  on  the  Papal  chair,  bikI  was  cstaMishing  t 
despotic  rule  for  which  his  name  is  so  notorious.  The  yotli 
Israelite  was  soon  brought  ui>der  his  notice,  and  he  quickly  d 
ccmod  in  him  such  capability  and  promise  tlut  he  took  him  utid 
his  own  personal  care  and  direction.  With  so  powerful  a  patroa  \ 
future  success  was  assured  ;  a  brilliant  and  prosperoos  career  open 
out  before  him,  and  his  promotion  was  as  rapid  as  was  possible  cw 
in  those  days.     A.\  VW  ^nX  tyg^Mv.un\V)  \>k  '««&  m%«»Mt&  ^fJMUb^  « 


J 


Eikanan,  the  Rabbi's  Son,  wko  became  Pope.   559 


after  a  verjr  brief  intcnitl,  when  he  was  only  twenty-three  fears  o( 
ag?i  hu  was  made  bUhop.  Soon  after  thia  a  circumstance  occurred 
of  singular  interest  tn  connection  with  tlie  youthful  Bishop's  Jewish 
origin.  The  Pope  Iwd  discovered  in  tiii  //Wi/j/  a  special  aptitude 
for  carrying  out  his  ambitious  designs  for  the.  aggrandisement  of  the 
Papacy.  Accordingly  he  vas  despatched  as  Nuncio  to  various 
imporUiU  places  to  preach  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy,  ind  the 
absolute  power  of  the  Pope  not  only  over  all  bishops,  but  over 
kings  and  eiuperois  as  well.  In  the  course  of  his  progress  he 
visited  the  neighbourhood  of  Maycncc.  ^Vhilc  he  was  suying 
amidst  the  scenes  of  his  early  life,  strange  misgivings  about  bis  own 
origin  arose  in  his  mind.  In  vain  did  he  strive  lo  recall  the  post— a 
hazy,  undefined  mist  floated  bclwccn  him  and  those  bygone  days. 
His  tlhicss  and  the  changes  of  his  life  had  oblitcntted  it  all  from  his 
memory.  Still  he  felt  a  strong,  though  unaccounuble,  atttactica 
towards  the  then  despised  and  penccutod  people,  to  which  be  really 
bdonged.  He  knew  not  why,  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  peculiar 
sympathy  with  that  down-trodden  race  and  an  ardent  longing  to 
relieve  their  sorrows  and  suBcrings.  One  day  Ite  was  driving  in 
slate  through  the  streets  when  an  elderly  RaU>i,  short  of  stature^ 
with  a  lo>%  Bowing  beard,  sallow  complexion,  and  piercing  eyes 
nished  in  front  of  the  horses  and  (breed  his  way  to  the  door  of  the 
carriage.  He  was  evidently  much  agitated.  lit  his  hand  he  held  out 
«  petition.  I'he  Bishop  was  greatly  struck  by  his  unhappy  appear- 
ance and  intense  earnestness,  and  at  once  bade  the  driver  stop.  He 
took  the  paper  and  read  it.  Its  contents  deeply  moved  him.  Tbo 
pciiiioner's  daughter  had  been  carried  off  by  brigands.  She  was 
described  as  a  sweet  and  lovely  girl  of  twenty,  the  delight  of  bcr 
parents'  hearts.  In  vain  had  the  father  implored  help  from  the 
authorities  of  the  tovm.  It  was  enough  for  them  that  the  injured 
fomily  were  Jews,  and  tticy  would  take  do  steps  towards  tbcrccorery 
of  the  lost  girl.  The  father  was  in  de^nir.  He  was  too  poor  to 
ransom  her  from  the  robbers,  and  was  powerless  in  the  nutter.  The 
Bishop's  visit  had  shed  a  glimmer  of  light  upon  the  distressing 
situation.  He  had  iKard  it  whispered  lliat  the  great  ecclesiastic  was 
an  exception  to  the  b^otry  of  his  Order,  and  so  be  laid  his  case 
before  him. 

Tbe  result  fully  justified  his  hopes.  The  Bishop  warmly  grasped 
the  old  man's  hand,  and  assured  him  that  he  would  do  all  in  his 
power  to  rescue  his  daughter.  His  influence  with  the  ningistraics 
soon  compelled  attention  to  tlie  case,  and  by  timely  and  vigorous 
measures  the  lou  one  was  brought  home. 


^do  Th4  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


Thb  act  of  justice,  so  promptlj  and  gncioualjr  performed,  mm 
the  hearts  of  the  Rabbi,  hit  fami];,  and  his  pcopk  ;  and  long  after- 
wards the  Bishop's  nnme  was  cherished  by  them  wfth  the  dccpesi 
gntinide. 


Many  years  now  pasiedi  during  which,  engrossed  with  the  active 
dutte<  of  bis  positioa,  the  Bishop  does  not  seem  to  ha^'e  appeared 
as  the  champion  of  the  oppressed  race-   The  cooAicts  between  Chitrcb 
and  State,  as  represented  by  Henry  IV.  and  Pope  Gregory  VTL, 
were  being    waged  with   increasing  bitterness.      The   memorable 
bumiliation  o\  the  Empeior  soon  followed.     Tor  three  days  in  the 
depth  of  winter,  bate-footed,  bare-headed,  and  clad  in  the  while 
gannenl  of  penitents,  the    tnoDarcb  stood  within    the   Castle  cf 
CaiKMso,  doing  penaiMe  and  beseeching  the  Pope  to  remove  tbe 
interdict  from   his  dominions.     On   this  occasion   the   impenoos 
Pontiff  is  said  to  luve  been  attended  by  his  Bishop,  now  a  middle- 
aged  man.    A  natural  rcoaion  ensued :  the  Pope  bod  to  fly  into 
exile,  accompanied  by  the  Rabbi's  son.    At  length,  in  10S5,  Ililde- 
btond  died.    Through  the  frequent  chaises  which  ensued,  iind  aD 
the  struggles  of  those  unhappy  times,  our  I^end  docs  not  conduct 
us.    It  will  suftkc  to  say  that  in  the  year  1 130,  after  the  death  or 
Hooorius  II.,  took  place  one  of  those  conl!icts  between  ri\-al  Popes 
by  which  the  pages  of  roedisvol  history  are  too  often  sioiried.    Peta^ 
the  son  of  Peter  Leo  of  hbtory,  a  Jew  by  birth,  or  the  Elhanan  cf 
our  story,  was  set  up  in  opposition  to  Gr^ory,  the  Cardinal  of 
St  Angclo,  whose  pontifical  title  was  Innocent  II.     Tbe  successfiil 
usurper,  our  Elhanan,  took  the  name  of  Anadetus  II.     Tlie  scqod 
of  his  life  is  said  to  hare  been  even  more  remarkable  and  tragic 
than  its  be^nning.  M 

Having  now  reached  the  lentth  of  his  ambition,  and  being  veryB 
Ui  advanced  in  age,  he  became  amtious  to  solve  the  mystery  of  Ids 
origin.  By  a  singuW  coincidence  it  happened  that  the  bead  of  the 
Jesuit  wminary  at  Wiirzburg,  also  a  very  old  man,  for  Mrac  reason* 
of  his  own  resolved  to  disclose  before  his  death  the  dread  seavt 
which  he  had  as  yet  jealously  guarded.  For  this  purpose  he  went  to 
Rome,  and  pri\Titcly  ailoundcd  the  PoniJIT  with  the  strange  intelli- 
gence. Anacletus,  being  much  moved  tiy  the  disclosure,  determined 
to  sift  the  matter  thoroughly,  and,  if  th?  story  were  true,  to  see  his 
kindred  face  to  face.  Great  caution,  however,  was  needful,  and  he 
contrived  this  way  of  eflixting  his  purpose  He  bsucd  a  challenge 
to  the  Jews  (A  t&Ktonob  %.n&  '«&  ttfi^fr}QnnA««A  Vi^  «.  outun.  da^  to. 


Elkanan,  ih4  Rabbfs  Son,  who  became  Pope.   56  r 


^ 


show  cause  for  their  rejection  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  and 
calkd  upon  them  to  depute  one  of  their  number  to  come  to  Rome 
and  discuss  with  the  Pope  in  person  the  great  questions  at  issue. 
The  now  extremely  aged  Rabbi  Simon  was,  as  Anaclctus  expected, 
unanimously  chosen.  Bending  under  the  weight  of  some  ninety 
years,  he  still  retained  the  force  of  bis  intellect,  and  was  as  full  of 
zeal  and  fire  as  erer  in  defence  of  his  ancestral  religion.  So  he  came 
and  was  lM»pitably  entertained  by  the  Pope.  This  wis  a  very 
painful  undertaking  for  the  i-enerablc  Rabbi.  The  change  from  his 
quiet  home  and  studious  hfc  to  the  pomp  and  excitement  of  the 
Papal  Court  was  most  distressing  to  him.  The  sights  and  i.ounds  of 
superstition  that  met  him  on  o'ery  side  grievously  offended  him.  But 
on  account  of  the  vital  interests  at  stake  he  bore  these  shocks  as 
patiently  as  he  could.  Scvcra)  days  were  passed  at  the  Vatican 
in  warm  and  lef^thcncd  discussion.  All  the  arguments  from 
history  and  from  reason  which  the  Pontiff  could  adduce  were 
carrMStly  and  skilfully  employed.  Deep  affection  for  his  parent, 
added  to  his  leal  as  a  Churchman,  prompted  the  strongest  appeals 
and  the  most  subtle  reasonings ;  but  all  were  powerless  to  shake  in 
the  least  the  Rabbi's  convictions.  At  lost  Anacletus  abandoned  the 
attempt.  Before  his  dcpanure,  however,  he  invited  him  to  a  more 
private  interview  in  his  own  library.  Conversation  of  a  general  kind 
ensued,  and  then  the  Pope  proposed  as  a  diversion  a  Ramc  of  chess. 
He  was  not  surprised  at  the  skill  and  adroitness  of  his  antagonist ; 
but,  having  from  his  childhood  been  an  adept  in  that  immortal 
game,  be  was  able  to  hold  his  ground.  The  game  was  long  and 
intricate.  At  last  the  Pope  took  a  certain  unusual  and  very  clever 
move.  The  Rabbi  started,  fell  back  in  his  chair,  arvd  his  face  grew 
ashy  pale.  Every  liive  and  wrinkle  which  time  and  thought  and 
sorrow  had  marked  on  his  aged  face  became  deepened,  and  his 
whole  frame  shook  a.s  with  a  palsy.  As  soon  as  he  had  recovered 
he  scrutinised  the  Pope's  features.  "  Elhanaii !  "  with  hoarse,  trem- 
bling voice  he  cried,  "  Elhanan,  an  thou  indeed  my  own  long  lost 
son  ?  That  was  the  move  I  myself  (aught  thcc.  Thou  must  be 
in  truth  my  darling  child."  Further  cotKcalment  was  impossiUe^ 
The  fother  fell  on  the  neck  of  him  whom  he  had  for  so  many  years 
mounted  for  as  dead.  The  son,  too,  was  deeply  moved,  and  in  the 
Mctct  of  his  diambei  the  Pontiff  llirew  atJde  all  dignity.  The  long 
pent-up  fountain  of  the  man's  heart  buru  open,  fond  embraces  and 
affectionate  pleadings  followed,  'lite  Pope's  faith,  not  founded  on 
the  only  infallible  authority,  the  Word  of  God,  gradually  ga\-c  way. 
Built  as  it  was  on  the  shifting  sand  of  human  uaditiona^  is.  codd 


56» 


Tht  Gentleman  s  Afagasitu, 


not  resist  the  Rubin's  pcnonal  appeals.  The  deep  itDptcsrioai 
hit  childhood  also  revived,  and,  after  nuDy  a  ahoip  struggle  i 
himself,  he  resolved  to  tcturn  to  the  rcligiOD  of  his  childhood, 
to  the  home  from  which  Lc  had  long  been  so  mdclf  torn.  \ 
gtiucd  as  a  peasant,  and  aocofnpanied  by  bis  father,  he  wcDt  on 
a  secret  door  and  left  the  Papal  chair  to  be  occupied  by  aoQl 
Soon  afterwards,  to  tbo  immcnM  joy  of  his  parents  and  of  tho  «i 
Jewbh  communily,  be  appeared  again  in  bis  luuivc  city,  no  lo 
AS  a  proud  ecclesiastic,  but  as  a  simple  despised  Israelite.  A 
bti  sliarcd  his  father's  studies  and  attended  the  services  of 
Synagogue.  Unhappily  he  was  no(  allowed  to  p«ss  his  few  ten 
ing  days  in  this  quiet  retrMt.  The  peace  and  comfort  of  hit  be 
10  which  he  had  been  so  singuUily  restored,  were  »oon  very  cm 
disturbed.  The  tnimpct  sounded  ihioughout  £urope  sumawt 
all  to  the  holy  war.  The  Jews  to  a  man  resisted  the  calL 
Rabbi's  son  was  (ofcmost  in  encouraging  them  la  their  refill] 
tike  arms.  Very  boldly  did  he  put  forth  his  remaining  ea 
Ugajrut  the  Crusade,  as  if  it  were  an  unhallowed  enicrpntu;  bat< 
aiKl  fraitlets  was  their  opposition.  Cruel  persecution  was  the  i 
result.  The  venerable  ex-Pope  was  detested  by  an  incensed  pri 
hood,  and  marked  out  as  the  object  of  tJicir  special  hatred.  Uai 
lebued  to  recant  hit  errors,  be  was  dragged  to  the  stake 
daunWd  he  let  hit  ruthlee  pertecutots  have  ilmr  way.  As  the  b 
flames  were  kindling  round  him,  and  wrapping  his  spare 
tlirxinken  linilw  in  tlicir  hot  embrace,  he  suddenly  tore  open 
clothes  atid  disclosed  to  the  astonished  croud  a  red  cross  impiir 
on  his  breast  "  See  that  I "  he  cried,  with  a  hoarse  voice,  i4 
rose  above  the  crackling  of  the  Sames.  "  Sec  what  I  was  modf  i 
what  I  am  again  !  A  Jew  I  was  bom,  and,  do  what  you  vrill,«, 
[  will  die  I     '  Hcsr,  O  Israel,  the  LonJ  our  God  is  one  l^ord.'  " 

Thus  perished  Elhanan,  the  Rabbi's  son,  in  heart  always^ 
in  name  and  office  a  Pope.  fl 

w.  Bi/Rinrt; 


563 


I 
I 


I 


ON  THE  EDUCATION  OF  THE 
UPPER  CLASSES  IN  FRANCE 
AND  ENGLAND. 

IT  15  proposed  to  compare  tlie  educational  syitcnu  of  the  upper 
dasscs  cxUting  at  Ihc  present  time  in  France  and  in  I^ngUndi 
a  comparison  whidi  has  bccoiric  the  more  intcicsting  from  the 
fact  that  whit«  wc  at  home  are  exiicnKly  dissatisfied  with  the  rcmltt 
which  our  education  gives  tu,  and  while  there  is  a  growing  inclina- 
tion to  believe  (hat  oui  system  is  inferior  to  those  that  e:dst  in  other 
oouotrics,  a  targe  numbcx  of  well-known  public  men  in  Franoc 
are  convinced  that  the  English  sj-slcm  of  education  la  «  good 
OQCv  and  have  already  talccn  steps  lo  introdticc  it  into  ibeir 
country. 

The  great  difference  betirccn  the  two  no  doubt  lies  in  this  foct, 
that  from  his  earliest  years  up  to  the  time  when  he  takes  his  degree 
of  LUtna  or  his  Dettoral  the  Frendiman  ia  always  in  tlie  same 
establishment,  under  the  same  system  of  education,  one  could 
almost  say — so  uniform  and  mecliaiiicol  b  education  abroad— under 
the  same  teachers.  The  whole  system  is  under  one  sole  head,  ihe 
Miniuer  of  Publk  Instruction,  and  he  is  the  ultimate  superiof  of 
the  most  obscure  professor  in  the  provinces  and  of  the  younger 
sdioolboy,  just  as  be  is  of  the  rector  and  professors  at  the  Surbonne. 
The  programme  of  instriKtion — the  text-books  to  be  used,  the 
dme  to  be  allotted  to  each  subject,  the  hours  for  work  and  play, 
queoiions  of  di9ci[dine  and  health,  and  method  of  leaching— all  i3 
laid  down  by  the  Cm'emment,  as  iu  the  Education  Code  for  our 
Board  Schools,  lo  the  smallest  details.  Every  processor  is  strict^ 
bound  by  the  regulations,  and  must  be  properly  qualified  for 
bis  post,  having  pasied  an  examination  at  the  University,  whidi  in 
France  meant,  as  a  nutter  of  courM,  a  Govenmient  examination, 
expressly  arranged  to  prove  tlie  candidate's  ability  to  teach  what  h« 
has  learnt.  He  is  appointed  by  the  Stale  and  paid  by  the  State, 
The   Slate  is  the  headmaster  in  I'ratKc;  it  arranges  the  clasteiv 


1 


The  GentUmatC. 

oompck  the  children  to  cotne  in,  brings 
puu  the  book'.hc  is  to  teach  rrom  in  his  ha 
verr  page.  The  whole  system  is  one  enon 
indiTUlual  teachers  arc  only  wheels  ivmin 
whidi  the  State  winds  Dp.  The  pupils  go  ll 
fyiits  are  on  the  ante  footing  and  under 
Every  boy  passes  through  his  classes  of 
rMorifve,  and^in  each  class  are  studied 
tutliors  and  particular  portions  of  history, , 
Once  through  these  classes  he  is  ready  tfl 
but  even  here  there  ii  no  gap  or  inleRegnai 
first  examination  he  has  to  pass,  the  Btut 
tight,  remembering  the  age  oT  the  candidates 
comprises  an  atnrmtngly  large  list  of  subjects 
in  fact,  nothing  but  a  general  examination  in 
candidate  in  his  but  years  at  school,  and 
tpeciil  preparation.  When  he  goes  up  Toi 
CDuniners  his  livnl  smiairt.  This  is  a  book 
number  of  pupils  in  hit  form  and  his  place  i 
the  tst  of  January  in  every  year,  and  an 
gained,  together  with  special  observations  wi 
professors,  while  according  (o  the  offidil 
"Ccs  livrcts  sont  examin^  par  lee  jurys.  t 
Vadmissibiliit! '  et  pour  I'admission,  des 
contiennent"  And  so  he  ptases  almost  in 
the  univcraity. 

This  is  a  great  contrast  to  the  Jetky  edtKi 
which  an  F.ii);liKh  boy  of  the  upper  class  is  1 
is  of  caccpiional  ability,  ito  doubt  great  «t1 
him,  and  he  will  be  pressed  forward  as  much 
to  the  school.  But  the  boy  of  average  abiliti 
taught  systcmaticslly  from  the  beginning  and 
has  a  poor  chance  in  our  schools.  I  do  iwt 
unfortunate  youths  «ho  leave  the  farce  of  th4 
for  the  idleness  of  the  public  school,  perh 
several  to-callcd  cramming  establishments 
wander  from  one  sham  to  another  till  the  fina 
mitfortunes,  as  I  have  shown,  cannot  be  incurr 
of  the  French  CoTernmcnt  system),  but  of  tl 

'  AdmUtiiiliil  a  pAu'of;  suMcuftiily  ihe  written 
aJmiuifH  pMtiog  l!i?  whole  Mamioaiion,  inctudiiif 


J 


Edaeation,  &e.,  in  Fratue  and  England.     565 


I 


I 


one  or  other  of  our  great  public  sdiooU,  spend  the  whole  of  their 
youlh  th<;re  from  ten  to  eighteen,  and  therefore  have  a  right  to 
expect  to  derive  some  benefit  from  these  fanwus  and  andent 
institutions.  The  preiient  writer  has  had  several  suci)  under  his 
obsen'ation  for  short  ]>eHods  of  time,  and  hii  experience  of  English 
public  school  education  would  amaic  any  one  who  is  not  behind  the 
scenes.  One  young  man,  who  lutd  been  six  years  at  one  of  our  most 
fiunous  pubhc  schools,  had  no  idea  where  Vienna  was ;  another,  who 
bad  hcen  almost  equally  long  at  an  equally  well-known  public 
school,  thought  the  Prince  Imperial  was  the  husband  of  the  late 
Queen  ;  and  a  third,  who  bad  just  left  another  public  school  of  great 
leputation,  always  wrote  "  Prince  of  IVhalts"  while  in  his  history  note* 
the  breaches  of  parliamentary  privilege  perpetrated  by  <ieorge  HI. 
come  out  George  III.'s  brucha.  These  youths  were  certainly  of 
quite  average  intellect  uhI  intelligence.  Iltese  are  not  isolated 
instances,  but  tliey  could  be  multiplied  indefinitely  by  all  those  who 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  English  youths  of  seventeen  and 
eighteen. 

Nor  are  tlicse  mysterious  and  inexplicable  phenomena;  the 
causes  are  only  too  apparent.  Leaving  apart  ilie  grosser  forms  of 
scholastic  fraud,  talce^  for  inslance,  the  question  of  the  teaching  o( 
nodem  tai^:uages  in  England.  Within  tlie  last  (ew  years  a  decided 
opinion  has  grown  up  in  England,  as  on  the  Continent,  that  mora 
time  and  attention  should  be  given  to  the  study  of  foreign  languages 
to  suit  the  wider  needs  and  changed  necessities  of  the  day.  In 
Fnmce  a  real  ellbrt  has  been  made  to  give  eS'ect  to  this  idea,  llic 
ZtBrnet  can  be  taken  in  English  or  in  German,  all  candidates,  how- 
ever, having  to  satisfy  the  cuminers  in  French  and  LaUn  composition 
or  essay.  A  ytrsum  and  a  TAhm  ate  given,  i>.  translation  from 
and  translation  into  the  language  chosen,  long  pieces  which  hare  to 
be  nMMt  carefully  worked  out,  and  for  each  of  which  tbc  candidate 
hu  Totir  hours  allowed  him.  If  he  passes  these  tests  and  the  two 
compositions  successfully,  he  undergoes  a  vivA  wet  examination, which, 
besides  Greek,  Latin,  arid  French  aathors,  and  a  short  cxamituuion  tn 
a  MCond  forugn  language,  includes  as  its  most  important  part  a  long 
oral  examination  in  tbc  special  language  he  has  chosen,  which  is 
intended  to  show  tut  only  that  the  candidate  can  translate  into  and 
from  this  language  at  sight  with  sufficient  accuracy,  aikd  that  he  can 
give  satisfactory  answers  to  questions  on  graffimar,  &&,  but  that  he 
can  speak  it  with  a  tolerably  good  accent  ai>d  can  discuss  in  it  some 
literary  question  taken  from  the  list  of  authors  on  the  progiamme. 
Then  the  agrfgafum,  which  is  a  competiti^-e  examination  between 


«T^ 


The  GeniUtHon 

Littnait  for  tbc  best  Kholftitic  nppomtm 
tests,  which  include  on  esujr  in  the  \ang 
the  delivety  of  «  louon,  a  special  lean 
candidate  is  fpveo  bis  aubject  one  day  by  i 
his  lecture  the  neat,  having  had  twcniy-fcH 
pare  it. 

Bui  the  study  of  modem  Ungnagcs 
oaminaUoos.  The  teaching  is  careful,  i 
The  profenors  take  great  pains  to  teach  n 
Utton,  and  every  pkce  which  is  ttaiulalei 
pored  beforehand  and  studied  by  the  pioCe 
There  is  no  rushing  through  pages  of  h 
unexplained  idioms.  Most  professors  alt 
a  week  when  their  inipils  visit  them  and  g 
hour's  private  tuition  or  advice  about  lb 
the  AMn<3— tcholotsbipa  which  ensblc  tue 
abroad.  A  genuine  interest  in  the  Eoglii 
has  sprung  up  in  I'rancc,  and  thb  is  ihow 
CDet|y  of  the  professors,  but  by  incrcasi 
students  themselves  ;  and  it  is  worthy  ol 
debatiitg  society  exists  now  in  Paris,  n 
debate  questions  of  English  literatttrc  and  ! 

A  latiiJactory  education  such  as  this 
eiptenly  arranged  to  show  that  the  candid 
binis  out  really  competent  men,  compared 
fauiguBgc  miistcTs  cut  a  very  poor  figure.  \j 
the  foreigner— the  gentleman  scarred  in  the 
the  decayed  gentleman,  with  a  "  de  "  before 
iiimily  (?),  and  the  fugitive  from  conscrip 
acknowledged  to  be  failures- 1  spe^  of  tb 
dertakes  the  modem  language  work  in  our  i 
ration  to  say  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hi 
no  special  training  for  this  work,  aiKl  bold 
which  can  testify  to  their  fitness  to  teac 
have  taken  up  modem  bi^guagcs  becai 
distinguish  themselves  at  the  unircnity  in 
lake  the  modem  side  in  the  school  bee 
"where  you  do  not  leam  Greek."  To  do 
tlieir  colleagues,  tltcre  k  no  attempt  mad^ 
pretend  that  irutniclion  in  laodcm  Ungm 
uiodtrn  language  master  will  not  c%cn  be 
himscU,  Utt  -"^tt  bt  ba.m5fe«4  w 


I 

I 


Education,  &£.,  in  Frame  and  England.     567 

hardly  be  heard  above  the  cUttet  of  scr/ants,  or  cl»e  to  the 
laboratory,  whiere  he  is  knocVed  down  by  the  fumes  of  yesterday's 
chemkal  experiments.  His  time  nill  be  eked  out  in  hearii^  the 
mill liplicat ion  tabic  and  Latin  dcclcnitons,  in  carving  huge  joints  of 
meat,  in  keeping  goal  in  Association  footboU,  and  in  sitting  in  a 
room  doing  nodiing,  lo  ke^  order  Tor  the  dratnng  master  and 
the  shorthand  master,  wlto  cannot  keep  order  for  themselves.  All 
this  time  parents  are  delif:hted  to  think  that  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry 
arc  placed  at  a  really  good  school,  which  has  kept  up  with  the  times, 
and  vrhicli  makes  a  special  point  of  modem  langtiages  in  its  ciir- 
ricnlum  ;  and,  naturally,  tlie  disappointment  is  great  when  it  turns 
out — then,  alas  1  too  late— that  they  hai-c  learnt  nothing  except  how 
to  throw  a  cricket-ball. 

Wbatcrn  the  defects  of  the  French  system  may  be,  no  one  can 
say  that  such  imposture  can  exist  under  it  as  this.  At  any  rale,  (he 
parent  is  able  to  provide  instruction  for  his  children  at  a  small  cost, 
and  is  assured  at  (he  same  time  of  iu  being  thorough  and  genuine. 
The  masters  have  no  pecuniary  interest  in  the  numbers  of  their 
pupils  and  no  object  in  or  means  of  concealing  from  the  parents 
the  unntbfactory  progress  of  their  children,  and  are  left  free  to  do 
their  duty  in  a  siraightfonvard  manner,  without  being  harassed 
cither  b)-  the  ^norant  meddling  and  threats  of  the  parents  on  the 
one  nde,  or  by  the  avarice  of  their  employer,  anxious  about  his  fees, 
on  the  other.  Tliey  teach  the  subject  for  which  they  have  been 
specially  trained,  and  they  are  not  called  upon  to  give  instruction  in 
those  of  which  they  know  nothing;  siill  less  is  it  expected  of  them, 
as  in  England,  that  they  shall  be  of  herculean  physique,  and  aUe  to 
jump  higher  aj>d  ran  foster  than  any  of  their  pupitsL 

it  cannot  be  denied  that  from  this  point  of  view  the  French 
sygtcm  offers  many  advantages  over  the  EngliiJi  system  j  at  the  sanK 
time  it  may  be  said,  and  has  been  »id,  tliat  the  monotony  and 
mechanical  character  of  French  education  are  great  defects,  tltat  boys 
arc  not  machines,  that  they  have  different  talents  and  different 
tastes,  and  that  to  subject  all  these  linng  intellects  of  such  I'arious 
calibre  to  one  uniform  process  is  to  stifle  gem'us  and  to  reduce  the 
able  and  original  down  to  the  level  of  (he  dull  and  ordinaiy.  At 
the  French  untTCtstty,  whatc\'er  special  line  of  study  he  may  chooie 
besides,  every  candidate  for  the  Hetntt  must  have  a  respectable 
liixnvledge  of  Latin  and  a  perfect  knowledge  of  his  own  language ; 
an  have  to  satisfy  the  examiners  in  Latin  and  French  essay.  Besides, 
the  different  ways  in  which  ihc  JJcttttt  can  be  taken  are  very 
limited,  not  more  than  ten,  while  according  to  ibe  writer  of  an  attiftW 


568 


Tht  Gentfenians  liTagazine, 


ID  Bloikofoo^s  AfagasiiK,  entitled  "  Oxford  io  Fact  and  Fiaioa,' 
December,  1895,  there  arc  4,00a  wa^-s  in  which  a  man  nujr  dot  ule 
bis  B.A.  deg^.  The  list  comprises  the  least-knom  Onmd 
bnguages  and  the  most  abstruse  departments  oT  sdcnce.  "lias 
is  aQ  intricate  and  elaborate  system  of  examination  in  almost  en; 
conceivable  nib}ect,  controlled  by  an  equally  eUbomtc  qraea  i 
Boards  ami  Commiltees.  The  list  of  University  offioen  atia- 
anuners  takes  up  twenty  pages  of  close  print  in  the  CaksdK.*  1 
magntficent  edifice,  it  vill  be  said,  of  many  mansions  in  whidi  tmj 
one,  however  "  specialised  "  he  may  be,  trill  find  a  phce.  A  aip- 
ficent  porch,  I  should  mihcr  say,  leading  to  nothing  but  ruia.  Fi 
it  h  not  by  vndlcsi  multiplying  of  examinations  iMt  real  mez  a 
best  recognised  and  that  a  human  being  becomes  somethiif  iMni 
than  a  mere  leamiitg  nutchinc.  hut  by  the  development  of  lut  ntanl 
ability,  by  enlarging  his  capacity  for  the  reception  of  knoriedgftlf 
catling  out  hidden  powers  and  awakening  orij^inal  thought  Tbs 
b  one  exercise  which,  apart  from  the  excellent  practice  it  grre  fa 
acquiring  a  real  knowled^  of  language,  especially  carries  out  iboc 
objects,  namely,  original  composition  or  essay  writing.  This  it  t 
real  lest  of  power  of  thought  and  grasp  of  the  subject,  in  t^ 
cram  or  ill-digested  knowledge  is  almost  useless.  This  is  au^  6t 
subject  which  is  thought  most  important  and  most  insisted  ob  It 
I-'rcnch  education,  'lliis  is  just  the  exercise  which  is  tbou^t  las 
imporUnl  and  almost  entirely  neglected  in  English  education.  W«t 
after  week  French  schoolboys  compose  essaj's  for  their  proToHB. 
and  essay  writing,  too,  forms,  as  has  been  already  mentioMtldi 
principal  pa.t  of  ail  French  unirersily  examinations.  In  E^^ 
it  k  ju»[  the  contrary :  wc  find  nothing  but  long  papers  of  qnestioe 
and  lranstation.<t.  Even  in  the  examination  known  as  "Gnti' 
(Utera  Ifumaniora)  or  in  the  history  examination])  itet 
questions  in  the  form  of  essays  arc  sometimes  given,  no  tsstfV^ 
be  written.  There  is  not  sufficient  timc^  A  long  list  of  quobfis 
has  to  be  attended  to  in  three  hours,  and  nothing  can  be  got  daa 
but  straggling,  hasty,  and  badly  written  answers.  In  "&otdi' 
according  to  a  well-informed  writer,'  the  limiu  are  so  weU  kiwn 
"  that  a  clever  tutor,  by  a  skilful  system  of  cram,  can  practically  aw 
his  pupils  the  trouble  of  reading  their  books  at  all.  Ortfjinal  tlioi^i' 
is  discouraged,  and  s  man  coiilincs  his  reading  entirely  to  the  sueciii 
subjects  which  he  thinks  will  pay  in  the  schools."  Then,  it  wtl!  te 
said,  there  arc  the  university  prises  for  original  essays  and  conpflB- 
lion.  It  is  obvious,  however,  that  they  are  competed  for  by  s  ICT 
■  Mt.  Wclb,  Oiftr^  »k4  On/at^  U^, 


Educaiidn,  &e.,  in  France  and  England.     569 


I 


smalt  portion  of  the  men  who  are  seeking  their  education  at  tbc 
universities,  and  have  no  influence  at  all  on  the  education  of  the 
majority  of  undergraduates.  It  is  signifirant,  too,  that  in  $pite  of 
the  large  and  increasing  numbers  of  undergraduates,  these  priMS 
arouse  anything  but  an  enthusiastic  competition.  The  Conington 
Etuay  )ta9  not  been  awarded  on  four  occasions  out  of  nine  since 
hs  foundation  in  1875.  The  Chanccllor't  Latin  Essay  «-as  na 
awarded  nine  times  between  1S76  and  1901.  The  Lothian  was 
not  awarded  eight  times  between  1S75  and  1901,  and  the  Arnold 
wa<  not  awardol  six  times  between  187:  aiul  1901 ;  while  the 
ominous  phrase,  "no  candidate,"  often  recurs.  These  arc  faas 
which  show  dearly  the  direction  in  which  English  education  is 
ninning.  Subjects  are  studied  entirely  and  exclusively  to  pay  in  the 
examinations,  and  the  subjects  given  in  the  examinations  are  just 
those  which  can  be  crammed  up  and  for  which  original  thought  and 
conception  are  superfluous. 

There  is,  however,  a  very  real  reason  why  essay  writing  has  been 
BO  generally  neglected  in  English  education.  No  one  his  ever  leant 
anjr  English.  The  average  English  gentleman,  in  spite  of  bis  nuny 
good  points,  has  not  the  least  idea  how  to  ose  bis  own  language  or 
how  to  give  expression  to  his  ideas,  and  this  is  shown  unmistakably 
in  his  letters  and  in  his  conversation,  to  say  nothing  of  his  speeches. 
Will  it  be  believed  abroad  that  an  educated  Englishman  can  hardly 
write  a  dozen  lines  without  some  ridiculous  slip  in  spelling?  and 
that,  for  instance,  an  officer  in  one  of  His  Majesty's  services  could 
write  to  his  »ster  and  ask  how  her  eahing  class  was  getting  on  ?  It 
is  ix>t  considered  necessar}-  to  know  how  to  spell  in  England  ;  it  it 
rather  vulgar  to  spell  correctly.  Englisli  grammar  is  supposed  only 
to  exist  in  some  people's  imaginations.  The  art  of  compo»ng— (be 
method  oi  arrai^ng  ideas,  and  of  passing  from  one  10  another,  and 
the  development  of  a  subject—  is  not  so  much  as  named  amongst 
us.  The  study  of  the  great  modeb  of  English  writing  and  of  the 
great  men  of  our  literature  is  waste  of  time.  Shakespeaxc,  Milton, 
^[aeauUy  do  not  pay  in  the  schools,  and  a  roan  may  take  the  h^bcst 
honours  at  the  university  without  ever  having  bestowed  a  glance 
at  »  tingle  EngUsh  poet,  dramatist,  or  historian.  The  only 
English  texts  which  he  finds  absolutely  necessaiy  in  his  studies  are 
the  English  translations  of  his  Greek  and  Latin  authors.  The 
wonderful  creations  of  genius  in  the  grandest  literature  that  the 
world  has  ever  known  arc  treated  with  contempt,  and  it  is  left  for 
fofcigners  to  be  charmed  and  inspired  by  its  beauties.  The  only 
real  English  classic  in  England  is  the  Old  Testament.    It  is  con- 

vou  ocxcn.    wo.  M58.  K  ^ 


570 


The  GeniUnmn's 


sUlured  a  scandal  if  vetvf  boy  in  the  sd 
Ibts  or  the  kings  of  Isncl  and  Judah 
meet  Samuel ;  but  it  it  thought  quite  natun 
sboald  nc^'cr  hare  read  ten  lines  of  "  Pand 
Mttton,  never  have  underAood  and  enjojre 
Chaucer  to  Tenny»on,  and  never  hare  fl 
play  or  any  Kreat  English  prose-writer.  In  < 
quite  eaHy  with  the  names  of  Corncille,  R 
Bosiuet,  La  Fontune,  to  go  no  higher  and  n 
these  gT«at  writers  with  the  sante  care  that  tl 
Ijitin  dassics.  They  learn  to  appredaie  ti 
onderstand  the  place  which  each  great  writei 
their  fiteratarc,  and  this,  together  with  c 
exercise  in  their  own  tangaage,  ia  the  hackb 
France,  both  at  school  and  at  the  university 

That  in  S{Hte  of  these  advantages  many  teal 
out  in  the  French  system  is  not  in  the  powt 
The  French  methods,  for  instance,  of  condu 
cannot  be  pmised  from  any  point  of  view.  1 
to  be  gone  through  Ijcforc  a  man  can  even  tM 
tion  are  quite  absurd.  The  permitcion,  vli 
ftom  the  Dean,  written  ovtoafiafiirtiwitrf; 
which  in  case  of  a  foceigncr  must  be  tran 
ajurmtnt/;  the  number  oftittte  documents, 
given  in  at  a  separate  office  and  at  a  difTcrent 
and  fro  from  these  places  became  some  oiw  I 
s^nature,  the  hours  spent  standing  in  the 
official  attends  to  fifty  or  sixty  iodinduals,  ihi 
consulting  of  no«ebo<&s,  and  fumbliitg  tmd 
hii  most  inpottant  papers  hare  been  lost,  tl 
»me  things  and  answering  the  same  questiof 
lorn  the  hair  grey-  Finally,  when  he  is  just 
be  sees  light,  he  b  confronted  with  an  official 
daiba  his  hopes  with  some  such  questioD 
enter  for  the  examination  now  ?  Why  did  yc 
— "  Wdl,  because  it  was  not  convenient  la: 
then  why  do  you  go  in  now,  why  don't  yoi 
time  ?  " — "  Because,  if  I  am  successful  tM*  li 
•aiy." — "  Oh,  but  thb  b  very  insular  id^ 
Monsieur  le  Secretaire" — and  the  tmhappy 
again  taming  in  the  same  hopeless  drcle. 

The  aTTangemenis  of  the  examinatton  in 


I 


» 


Education,  <Sv.,  w  France  and  England     5fi 

boun,  (rom  nine  o'ctock  till  threv,  are  pertups  not  too  much  fot  Uw 
Latin  and  I'rcncli  compovtions,  but  why  the  wretdied  candidates 
should  be  obliged  to  be  in  the  examination  room  an  hour  earlier  and 
■n  hour  extra  merely  to  sign  their  names  onoe  toorc  and  to  take 
their  seats,  it  would  be  bard  to  explain.  Everything  is  regulated  by 
the  most  rigid  eoonomy.  No  ink,  pens,  or  blotting-paper  arc  pco- 
%-i(led,  and  if  you  require  more  than  your  one  sheet  of  paper  you 
muxt  literally  struggle  for  it  and  seize  it  by  force  from  the  careful 
guardian  of  the  public  interests.  The  rooms  and  tables  are  generally 
in  a  very  dirty  state,  and  the  atmospticre  towards  the  end  oJ'  the  six 
or  seven  hours  is  poisonous.  The  university  cannot  afford  poata^ 
stamps  for  ttie  comniunicationa  it  sends  you,  neither  can  it  go  to  the 
expense  of  printing  its  papers.  Everything  has  to  be  dictated,  c^'ca 
long  pieces  of  translation,  and  as  several  sets  of  candidates  are  often 
huddled  together  in  tl^c  same  room,  it  is  frequently  more  than  an 
hour  before  the  three  or  four  pieces  have  been  taken  down  aitd  the 
men  arc  ready  to  begin.  'iTic  comforts  of  a  dean,  well-wanned,  and 
airy  examination  room  and  punctual  and  busincss-bko  arrangcmenu 
are  himrica  at  present  beyond  die  reach  of  French  students. 

If  the  candidate  is  so  fortunate  as  to  pass  unscathed  through 
these  ordeals,  fresh  difficulties  and  complications  anait  him  and  put 
off  his  possession  of  tlie  niuch-co%-eted  diploma.  Each  document 
has  to  be  signed  by  the  Minister  for  Instruction,  Fine  Art^  and 
Religion,  and  by  other  high  functioiunes.  Tlic  SccreUry  of  the 
FaniUl  dtt  LtUret  sends  it  to  the  Rector  of  the  Atadtiaie,  the  Rector 
of  the  Ataiimit  sends  it  to  the  Alinister  of  Instruction,  the  Minister 
of  Instiuetion  sends  it  to  the  Minbtcr  foe  Foreign  Afiuts,  the 
Hintstcr  for  Foreign  SShxn  sends  it  to  the  Con$ul.Gcnoal  in 
London,  and  tlic  Consul- General,  after  the  payment  of  fivepcnce  for 
postage-stamps,  fonraids  it  to  its  proud  possessor.  This,  of  course, 
is  in  case  of  a  foreigner ;  but  it  would  seem  that  the  method  of  trans> 
mitlingthc  precious  document  to  a  Frcfvchmati  in  the  provinces  is 
not  Ie»  complicated. 

Hiese,  however,  are  small  details  in  the  general  question  we  hare 
touched  upon,  and  of  comparatively  little  importance.  It  is  of  vital 
importance,  on  the  other  hand,  that  boys  should  be  made  thonxighly 
acquainted  with  the  language  and  literature  of  tbdr  owa  country, 
that  original  and  natural  talent  should  be  awakened  1^  original  com- 
positioti  instead  of  beii^  swamped  by  tcng  lists  of  questions  on  facts 
aix!  dates,  and  that  important  subjects  should  not  be  taught  except 
by  those  who  have  satisfied  the  examiners  that  they  are  fully  com- 
petent to  teach  those  subjects.    That  these  are  objects  which  are 

a  a  3 


S^a 


The  GentlematCs  AfagaziMt. 


1 


not  sitiined  in  England  cannot,  1  think,  be  dc 
public  tcbooh  are  manifestly  incompettmi  to  carry 
tion  vhkh  th«y  profess  to  gire,  th«  uimtiifactory  chaia 
teaching:  given  in  insliiulioni  canied  on  for  [wivate  gain  \ 
to  light,  and  the  n«glect  of  our  vn  language  and  liien 
where  and  throtichout,  are  £icts  whidi  are  becoming 
apparent. 

The  French  Minister  of  Instruction,  who,  tn 
inquirer,  is  supposed  to  hav«  been  aUe  to  point  oat  tbe 
which  ci'cry  child  in  Fmnc«  was  learning  at  that  poiti 
has  almys  laiM.'d  a  laugh.  This  may  be,  and  no  doubt  is, 
but  supposing  for  a  moment  that  those  who  direct  oar  % 
schools  were  asked  on  a  pariiculat  day  and  at  a  particobi 
the  boys  of  a  certain  form  were  doing,  could  their  answoi 
be  as  satisfhctory  ?  Their  replies  would  be  something  c 
I  think :  "  They  are  being  kept  in  order."  "  They  are  nt 
Greek."  "Their  education  is  being  seen  to  by  tbe  nui 
doors,"  "  We  specialise  a  grcot  deal  here,  it  is  impossibh 
We  liave  dwelt  upon  the  points  in  which  the  I'rcnch  e 
system  apt)eart  to  us  to  hare  disliact  advantages  on 
England,  but  it  is  far  from  our  intention  to  argue  that  \ 
T^rd  the  former  as  a  model  altogether  for  our  own.  Il 
DUny  Frenchmen  of  ability  and  knowledge,  as  we  ha 
already,  it  is  regarded  as  ircry  inferior,  and  is  made  by  the 
(he  blaine  for  their  cotonbl  failure,  for  commercial  fa 
administrative  incompetence  and  corruption,  for  the  1< 
standard  prevalent,  for  (he  lack  of  ambition  and  enter] 
even  for  the  decrease  or  stagnation  of  the  population, 
long  ceased  in  England  to  believe  that  education  any  i 
Acts  of  Parliament  can  do  cverylhii^  and  certainly  the  ei 
iffect  modem  France  teem,  at  least  to  us,  to  have  other  coi 
causes,  though  these  questions  open  up  immense  prob 
contTOTCrsics  into  which  it  is  not  our  business  to  enter  here. 
it  seems  to  have  escaped  the  notice  of  thote  French  writ 
are  so  displeased  with  the  state  of  education  in  their  owi 
that  many  of  the  eviU  which  they  especially  cmphasbo  exu 
in  England.  fl 

And  foremost  amongst  these  we  should  certainly  tal 
excessive  importance  attached  to  Latin  and  Greek  and  U 

>  Wollude  ttpcckllf  lo  M.  DesivoUni,  who  hu  wiiiten  moc* 
elerci  Itnlitc  on  the  rabjcci,  uid  whohuertobliibtda  Kbiwlin  I 
on  th*  Engl!(b  model. 


^^      EdtuaiioH,  &c.,  in  France  and  Hngland.     573 

proportion  of  time  allotted  to  Iheir  »tudy— lime  and  labouf  vhich  in 
the  great  majority  of  cases  is  waste  time  and  labour.  In  this  respect 
we  au)  hardly  imagine  that  the  French  groan  under  a  more  severe 
tyranny  ilun  ourselves,  for  in  England  it  is  a  matter  of  common 
occurrence  and  of  common  experience  that  boys  who  have  studied 
classic*  for  eifht  or  nine  years  assiduously  and  {uiinfutly,  and  who 
have  |)nictically  studied  nothing  else,  leave  school  witliout  being 
able  to  construe  a  single  author  in  these  languages  correaly,  arul  in 
many  cases  so  accustomed  to  labour  without  fruit  or  profit,  and  so 
discouraged  by  failure,  that  they  are  incapable  of  any  further  effort, 
and  sink  into  hot>eIe»  stupor,  thus  finishing  their  education  harirtg 
teamt  one  thing  atone— the  impossibility  of  learning  anything. 
In  spite  of  this,  wc  arc  told  that  the  study  of  the  classics  is  the 
greatest  and  the  only  training  of  the  mind,  that  on  account  of 
its  difficulty  it  is  the  grcaieit  training  of  the  charactci,  that  tbe 
kiKiwIedgc  of  Latin  is  the  only  way  of  acquiring  any  English 
grammar,  and  that  Latin  verses  are  invaluable  for  the  oppor- 
tunities they  a^td  to  schoolboys  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
English  poetry.  Finally,  all  who  arc  engaged  in  teachiiig  classics 
are  wamod  against  giving  any  encouragement  to  the  infriitgement  of 
their  monopoly  which  will  destroy  their  own  means  of  hvehhood. 
Such  arguments  have  proved  sufHciecit  to  convince 
Tantum  religio  poluic  luadcrc  milorum  ! 

Bttt  already  "  honest  doubt "  has  been  raised  in  nuny  quarters,  and 
we  may  confidently  hope  that  the  cloud  of  classical  superstition  will 
soon  fiec  before  the  dawn  of  a  more  reasonable  conception  of 
education. 

Another  evil  of  our  school  education,  which  we  can  scarcely 
imagine  to  have  increased  to  such  injurious  proportions  in  France, 
is  the  present  mischievous  system  of  prizes  and  rewardsas  incentives 
to  physical  and  intellectual  effort.  We  fear  tliat  our  fovourable 
French  critics  have  in  some  degree  praised  too  highly  ibc  energy  and 
independence  of  character  of  English  schoolboys.  Boys  do  not 
work  their  best  and  liardest  at  school  because  ihey  feel  tlttt  they 
will  liave  to  make  their  own  way  in  life.  On  the  contrary,  they  must 
be  tempted  by  the  promise  of  magnificent  \-olumes  or  doueeurt  of 
aiuxher  shape  to  do  th«ir  work  satisfactorily,  and  silver  mugs 
most  be  dangled  before  their  eyes  to  induce  them  to  run  a  few 
yards  ;  nay,  in  at  least  one  very  famous  public  schoolapriie  is  given 
periodically  to  the  best  conducted  boy— good  conduct  being  regarded 
as  something  quite  exceptional  and  phenoo>enal,  instead  of  being 
expected  from  one  and  all  as  a  matter  of  course.     From  a  priie 


574 


The  Gentleman  s  AlagaztHe, 


j^ren  lo  the  best  bo^  il  is  only  a  step  to  alJottii^  a  rewvi] 
most  iwpular  bo}-,  a  ridiculous  and  fatal  custom  nhich, »  *e  ni 
in  the  iKtper*,  has  been  established  in  some  schools  in  the  Nanh  ( 
England. 

The  cIToct  of  all  this  must  incWtably  be  the  encoungeaad  ( 
hypocrisy,  humbug,  pot-huntin;;.  and  selfuhncss,  togetlxT  w&  6 
extinction  of  all  motinrs  of  duty,  honour,  scir-rcspecl,  «nd  foRa|li 
and  the  English  bo>-,  comipted  by  sudi  a  s>-steiD,  blls  often  TOjli 
below  the  pleasant  picture  drawn  by  our  neighbours. 

We  now  come  loan  important  feature  in  education, wbctedoaUa 

the  English  system  has  many  advantages  over  (be  French— we >(■ 

in  the  t^pottunily  for  outdoor  and  physical  cxcrcUe.    The  [MW 

whicli  we  are  given  of  boys  in  France  screwed  to  their  dusks  bt  M^ 

schoolrooms  for  eight  hours  a  day,  loo  tired  to  tbuik  or  lcant,iiidl) 

out  at  length  from  their  prisons  only  to  continue  their  unemfing  tfi 

often  futile  toJt  at  home,  is  indeed  a  miserable  and  pi:iali^  tK 

Doobtless  this  lias  a  very  direct  and  destructive  influence  ooih 

national  health,  physlqae,  and   power   of   work   and  enei|^  ■' 

Frenchmen  do  nell  to  admire  the  healthy  system  of  open-aircsaiil 

and  physical  training  vhich  is  within   the  reach  of  Bnglisb  bo}(>' 

in  desiring  to  introduce  it  into  France.     But  even  supenori^  io  di 

point  is  not  without  iu  correspondir^  disadvantages,  and  out  Rail 

friends  scvm   to  be  quite  unaware  that  athleticism   indi  u  hi 

become  a  veritable  cujse  and  peril.     The   present  writer  vadd  ^ 

the  last  person  to  deny  the  value  and  necessity  for  due  alioitiaBH 

the  training  of  the  body,  or  the  need  for  relaxation  from  inldledd 

fatigue  and  for  fresh  air  and  games.     But  the  rage  for  atblcDo  i> 

English  schools  has  gone  much  farther  than  this,  and  has  bccosn 

absurdity  and  a  danger.    Solid  work  has  to  give  place  to  aitU 

matches  and  otlicr  contests,  and  ibe  recreation  of  mere  chDdro  > 

deformed  into  a  serious  business  of  life.     Tlic  reputation  of  a  f^ 

is  made  to  depend  on  the  number  of  matches  gained  aeainit  n*' 

establishments,  and  wdlknown  schools  have  been  actually  kiioA* 

order  to  attract  boys  who  may  thus  raise  the  fame  of  their  eslatt^ 

ment,  to  give  scholarships  for  proficiency  in  nports  by  uking  tfaoccfX^, 

at  games  at  half  fees.    A  boy  who  makes  a  brgc  number 

applauded  and  regarded  as  a  hwo,  while  those  who  are  le 

are  treated  even  by  the  maslcrs  as  a  di^raee  to  the  school. 

more  absurd  and  contemptible  spectacle  can  there  be  than 

middle-aged  and  well-educated  men  standing  round  the  rdatgna' 

wild  with  excitement  over  the  games  of  mere  children,  and  v»PH 

themselves  hoarse  with  discordant  eiKOuragentent,  as  if  the  lifett' 


EdMatioK^  <St*c  in  France  and  England.     575 


I 


(grtune  of  every  one  dcpcnd«i  on  one  goal  mote  or  one  nin  ]ess> 
Such  exaf^eralion  and  excess  bas  a  most  injurious  cOcct  on  lh« 
mond  tone  of  a  school.  Boys  encounigcd  by  thcii  masters  are  led 
to  r^rd  everything  from  an  exclun^'cly  [^ysical  point  of  view,  and 
are  Uught  that  ibc  only  object  in  life  is  to  develop  the  muscles,  while 
d>e  mining  of  the  rotnd  and  the  incicaEc  and  exercise  of  the  mental 
faculties  is  rc{;arded  as  of  secondary  importance. 

We  are  now  told  that  things  Itave  gone  so  far  that  a  man  of  lirst- 
cbis  intellectual  attainments,  good  character,  and  power  of  teaching 
is  by  no  means  welcome  tn  a  public  school  as  a  master ;  such 
qualities  entitle  a  man  to  no  respect  or  infiuence  there,  and  he  mutt 
be  an  expert  in  sports  and  games  and  w  in  the  respect  of  the  boys  by 
his  supciior  prowess  in  athletics  and  xuperior  hulk  of  frame  A 
jrour^  Frenchman  who  spent  some  little  lime  at  Oxford  is  not  far 
wrong  irhcn  he  q>eaks  of  the  brutality  of  young  Englishmen,  f>,  the 
exclusive  and  excessive  deference  paid  to  brute  force,  amounting  to 
a  worship,  which  is  such  a  prominent  feature  nowad3>'s  and  is 
already  beginning  to  show  itself  in  a  partictibrly  disagreeable  aspect 
— in  the  increasing  desire  of  people  to  watch  the  jpons  and  athletic 
contests  in  which  others  arc  engag<?d  without  tnking  any  part  in  them 
themsdves,  a:id  which  has  turned  our  football  matches  into  some> 
thing  hardly  less  discreditable  and  savage  than  the  Roman  gladia- 
torial shows. 

The  general  inference  then,  from  a  comparison  of  the  two 
methods  of  education  in  France  and  in  our  own  country  seems  to  be 
that  there  is  no  cause  for  either  nation  to  be  greatly  envious  of  the 
good  foclunc  of  the  othi-r,  still  less  for  a  desire  to  import  the  system 
of  the  other  in  its  entirely.  Each  has  some  advantages  which  the 
other  locks,  and  eacli  has  some  defects  which  the  other  has  escaped  ; 
but  many  evib  are  common  to  both  systems,  and  all  af^ar  capabh; 
of  being  got  rid  of  withotit,  on  tlie  one  hand,  tlie  Frencli  adopting 
our  state  of  anarchy  in  the  se-itch  for  freedom,  or,  on  the  other, 
oar  burdening  ourselves  with  the  tyranny  of  the  State  in  our  desire 
for  law  and  order.  Again,  there  are  some  Utopian  theories  which  we 
believe  cannot  be  the  principles  of  any  practical  systeiD  of  education, 
as  for  instance  that  conception  of  education  according  to  which  the 
training  of  the  mind  b  to  be  nothing  more  than  the  awakening  of 
interest  in  tite  child  and  the  satisfaction  of  his  cun'osiiy,  following 
hb  natural  inclinations,  and  never  forcing  his  mind  to  the  study  of 
uncongenial  subjects — "  Let  human  institutions  conform  to  nature, 
.  diminish  the  influence  of  government  and  increase  the  timiis  of 
freedom."    We  have  only  to  turn  to  the  pages  of  £mile  to  sec  this 


The  Gentietttan  s  Afagazine. 


576 


tpten  carried  out  En  all  its  logical  compietcDCSS.  No  doiUx 
an  cducuion  will  develop  to  the  gr«fttcst  eaOenl  the  ipint  rf 
individualism  and  inboitcd  pef50iul  qualirics,  but  we  cinoM  ^s 
that  the  cultivation  of  these  is  the  sole  or  the  greatest  o^«t  4 
eijncation,  or  when  once  the  natanil  characteristica  of  a  k; 
have  been  developed  to  their  full  extent  and  the  bent  of  his  nial 
hamoured  and  exaggerated,  that  he  will  necessarily  be  betttr  fakri 
and  prepared  for  the  battle  of  life  than  one  who  hai  had  to  siW 
to  the  study  of  uncongenial  but  useful  subjects. 

Persooally  wc  do  not  believe  that  the  road  to  knowledge  ca  be 
made  entirely  pleasant  and  easy,  though  to  increase  unnocetaadrih 
laboor  of  learning  for  children  is  one  of  the  most  btal  enws  te 
man  can  commit,  if  indeed  it  does  not  amount  to  a  crime,  faattks 
must,  wc  think,  al-nys  be  an  effort  and  a  struggle  upwards  to  ^ 
light.  Tlierc  mast  be  toil ;  but  toil  inspired  by  hope  <rf  ptyn 
and  cheered  by  the  feeling  of  success  is  not  a  misery  but  a  han«n 

PR.   ca.  VOCCL 


577 


THREE  SKETCHES. 


BOOKS,  OLD  AND  SEW. 

THERE  U  much  pleasure  in  the  reading  of  ft  new  book—iTitUm 
old  one,  and  the  older  the  better.  It  is  wiser  to  purchase 
Sopliocles  or  Shakespeare  than  to  waste  honest  money  on  the  work  of 
the  latest  genius  of  some  foolish  cUquc.  This  child  of  puffery  may  be 
compared  to  Shelley  or  Milton,  Charles  Lamb  or  Addison.  Still, 
even  then  it  is  iraxx  to  be  faithTuI  to  the  tragic  poet  of  Colonus  and 
the  "Sweet  Swan  of  A\-on."  They  will  not  be  superseded  during 
the  next  ensuing  weeks  by  another  immortal  genius. 

In  our  young  days  we  bought  new  books  on  the  virtue  of 
extravagant  pmixe,  but  we  paid  dearly  for  our  fooli^neo.  We 
began  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  new  criticism.  In  fonn 
and  appearance  we  had  bought  books,  but  in  reality  wc  had  pur- 
chased bound  copies  of  an  arrant  waste  of  good  paper.  Wc  hid 
been  robbed  with  an  air  of  warm  friendship  and  politeness.  Wo 
smiled  at  our  own  simpliciiy  and  buckled  on  a  little  worldly  wisdom 
for  future  use. 

But  truly,  wise  men  might  liaire  been  betrayod — the  epithets  of 
praise  had  been  so  lavish.  We  expected  the  freshness  of  the  green 
fields  with  the  morning  dew  ugion  tliem,  the  atmosphere  of  the  godii 
immortal  maMerpieces,  the  very  blood  and  life  of  litcmture.  And 
what  did  we  obuin  ?  Oik  author  gave  us  a  bbddcr  half  filled  with 
peas— it  made  a  slight  notse,  though  foolish ;  another  provided  a  bag 
of  wind — it  looked  bi^  but  a  rent  soon  reduced  it ;  and  yet  another 
flung  down  a  handfiil  of  sawdust — it  was  wood  ceiuinly,  but  a  plank 
had  been  more  useful.  Wc  had  seen  all  these  things  before.  VVe 
knew  them  intimately.  The  authors  called  thett  performances 
books.  There  was  new  paper,  new  type,  a  new  arrangement  of 
words— but  the  genuine  written  book  had  miscarried.  And  thus  we 
find  it  safer  to  stick  to  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare.  But  in  those 
days  we  were  so  very  young.  Unconscious  ignorance  should  at  all 
times  excuse  error.  And  I  bclic^'c  the  new  criticism  has  not  yet  a 
grey  hur. 


The  GentUntan  s  Magazint. 


578 


But  some  one  ui^es  that  the  latest  genius  mutt  live.  QoAe : 
But  u  be  is  eridenti/ 3  member  of  a  limited  Itubitity  cocnpuiv  of 
Utenturc,  or  what  ixuses  for  literature,  he  should  instraa  his  iSat- 
members  to  label  his  goods  honesUj-.  Tbc  pabltc  uks  tot  cte 
pagne  ocrasicxwilly,  and  has  a  right  to  be  angiy  when  it  ia  dcfinM 
by  having  palpable  gooseberry  palmed  upon  it. 

Dt&honcsiyin  cnticism  is  not  only  knavish  towxfdi  the  pobiicts 
dsn^tous  to  the  author.  \Vbat  wonder  if  cxtiaTagant  {mac  tOH 
the  head  of  some  young  bardlet  of  the  time  ?  Is  he  not  noalf 
Buike  almost  persuaded  Wanen  Hastings  that  be  was  as  bbdtt 
his  fervid  eloquence  painted  him.  (Vbat  woodcr,  thai,  thu  atr 
young  bardlet  conndets  himself  a  son  of  Sbakespmc,  or  tei  e 
Milton's  fume,  vhen  tlie  adulation  is  so  excessive  and  tennii^ 
sincere?  Wliat  wonder  that  lie  affects  an  arrogant  air  aodqaeoai 
the  grcatncst  of  the  immortal  gods  ?  ^Vhat  wonder,  iiHlccd,  vkn 
he  has  such  an  overwhelming  sense  of  his  own  genius  and  intMl' 
ancc  thrust  upon  him  ? 

Fof  'tis  vrcnMlrotti  odd 
(low  won  a  mbcow  Hunks  iucif  it  cod  t 

The  minor  writer  is  exceedingly  useful  tn  his  place,  tic  istte 
a  very  agreiMble  cominnion.  Some  of  our  most  loraMc  bccb 
were  written  lijr  men  whom  by  no  degree  of  favour  wc  could  imi 
great.  We  do  not  consider  BoswcU  a  magnificent  writer,  and  ja  k 
wrote  the  greatest  of  biographies.  Herrick  cantmt  eomoaiidlk 
genius  of  Milton,  and  yet  Hcm'ck  has  our  adinimiion  and  lore. 

The  mouse  and  the  elephant  both  have  thoir  uses  in  the ' 
of  nature,  but  there  are  some  men  who  prefer  the  elephant 
cling    to  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare  and  the    master   mindi 
literature.    Their  taste  is  not  godless,  nor  barbarous,  nor  intoloaafj 
hut  simjily  discriminatii^  and  judicial.     Wine    is  more  rc 
than  water,  and  no  one  can  be  angiy  if  some  men  select  the 
heroic  beverage. 

The  chief  anxiety  of  the  modem  writer,  minor  or  major,  ii: 
get  his  books  rend,  and  there  b  an  equal  desire  among  a  lane  < 
of  readers  for  new  books  to  read.    Indeed,  the  craving  for ' 
books  amounts  to  a  disease.    This  is  diSiculc  to  undersUnd 
wc  consider  that  the  old  authors  have  not  been  exhausted.     U'e  I 
Montaigne  and  Tepys,  Fielding  and  Scott,  Boswell  and  Re 
entertaining  wiilcTs,  all  of  ihein.    To  many   readers  their 
would  be  new,  and  yet  there  is  a  widespread  complaint  that 
are  no  new  books  worth  reading.    The  complaint  is  pitiful, 
arc  hundreds  of  old  books  which  would  be  new  to  the  majoitf  rf  I 


modem  mden.  The  woikaof  Homer  and  I>jnie,  Plato  and  Bacon, 
Sophocles  and  Shakespeare,  Tadtus  and  Hume  arc  not  lost  They 
exist  in  a  multitude  of  editions,  and  can  be  read  again  and  again 
with  additional  profit  and  renewed  delight  These  an:  the  pillars  of 
literature  and  worthy  of  purchase.  A  book  is  a  poor  thing  if  it  is 
not  worth  its  price,  and  poorer  still  if  it  will  not  bear  a  second  reading. 

Old  books  are  like  old  wines— we  cannot  help  prefening  them 
to  the  new.  They  do  not  offend  our  choicer  taste— do  not  grate 
upon  the  paUte.  And  how  kindly  they  took  down  upon  us  I  How 
ready  to  please  I  How  anxious  to  ler^e !  They  arc  our  devoted 
allies,  our  closest  companions— 

Fricoitx  in  t very  xaum,  Lrii-ht  ami  tlini. 
Kings  and  queens  vrithout  the  pride  and  pomp  of  imperial  state. 
New  books  caniKit  take  their  place.  They  hare  neither  Ibdr 
prinlegcs  nor  their  associations.  But  watt.  S'>nie  d.iy  the  new 
books  will  become  old,  and  if  Time  is  kind,  they  too  wilt  be  rewarded. 
They  will  have  tbc  choicest  nooks  in  tbcii  owi>cr'$  library  allotted 
lo  ibcm.  But  at  present  their  position  is  just.  They  cannot  claim 
the  love  and  attention  vhich  wc  give  to  a  gossiping  essay  of 
Montaigne,  a  choice  ulc  by  Boccaccio,  a  faultless  ode  of  Horace, 
or  an  immortal  play  by  our  own  divine  Shakespeare.  They  have 
not  been  with  us  in  our  sorrows  and  our  joys.  They  have  not 
diottened  a  pilgrimage  or  brightened  our  leisure.  They  have  not 
shared  oar  struggles  or  kr-own  our  triumphs.  And,  then,  have  they 
the  red  blood  of  the  human  heart  tunning  through  thdr  pages? 
Time  alone  will  answer. 

An  old  book  b  an  old  crony  in  a  chimney  comer.  Nothing  can 
take  its  place.  To  deiUoy  it,  the  ^-ery  house  of  life  would  have  to 
be  demoUshed.  If  a  printed  book  be  woithy,  there  is  nothing  more 
immonal.  It  will  outlive  the  fame  of  king«  and  tlie  glory  of 
nations. 


I 


SECONDHAKD. 

There  IS  a  ccnain  immorlotity  in  being  secoodbMid.  It  is  some- 
times better  to  be  an  old  curio  in  a  secondhand  shop  than  a  new 
brmtzc  statue  in  a  public  square.  To  figure  in  a  secondliand  book- 
telkr'i  catalogDe  confers  distinction  on  an  autlior.  It  is  Eime, 
postiUy  passing  fame  only,  or  simply  notoriety.  Tlie  gifted  Jones 
finds  one  of  bis  limited  first  editions  priced  at  a  guinea  in  one  of 
these  interesting  book  lists.  He  is  covered  with  bluslies  and  glory. 
He  has  discovered  America — perhapt,  immortah'ty.  "If  I  had 
saved  a  score  or  two  copies,  I  conld  do  myself  a  good  turn,"  be 


580  Tkt  G<HllemaH's  Magasine. 

thinks.  But  has  he  considered  the  matter  in  the  grey  U^t  of  the 
moning?  Pcrha]»  the  book  U  the  baniliitg  or  paOcry.  Gmim- 
,  mnffW  or  a  foolish  clique  nujr  luvc  tieen  kble  to  pcrsoade  the 
ouricet  to  purchase  three  copies  at  a  guinea  each ;  bat  aiD  the  sane 
cause  induce  the  market  to  take  three  doien  copies  at  the  same  cost? 
There  is  shoddy  in  books  as  in  doihes.  A  man  cannot  ptide  him- 
self upon  the  cut  of  his  coat  if  the  material  is  bad.  The  pabUc  b 
rwt  always  an  ass,  neither  is  the  collector. 

*  And  trlut  book-huntct  has  not  felt  the  stranse  Gudnalion  of  the 
secondh^itd  booksho[>?  He  cannot  avoid  running  orer  the  crordcd 
shelves,  even  thot^  the  poverty  of  bis  purse  may  prohibit  a  purdtaiB. 
He  sees  a  book  he  wants  and  turns  away  with  a  sinking  heart,  and 
goes  tluough  the  same  performance  during  the  following  week.  Snt 
give  him  suDicient  means,  even  to  buy  spanngty  only  ;  and  when  he 
finds  a  book  10  his  taste,  and  especially  if  it  is  marked  at  a  reason- 
able price,  his  joy  is  greater  than  the  joy  of  kings.  He  carries  the 
book  home  with  pride  and  it  becomes  hb  blest  idoL 

live  genuine  book-hunter  knows  all  the  book^ops  and  stallt 
from  Kensington  to  Aldgtte,  and  visits  them  r^ularly.  He  ii 
acquainted  with  all  the  ways  and  manners  of  the  larioos  bookseUert 
intimately,  and  they  luve  the  same  knowledge  of  him.  They  lOTC 
to  talk  "shop,"  and  never  depart  from  good-humour.  There  is  a 
sort  of  freemasonry  between  them,  of  which  an  outsider  knows  as 
little  as  he  docs  of  the  philosopher's  stone. 

And  most  book-hunters  know  old  vhops  which,  property,  are  not 
bookshops  at  all.  These  oic  hold  as  secret  as  the  mysteries  of  the 
giave.  The  book-hunier  pays  them  an  occasional  visit,  and  not 
iofmiucntly  returns  home  with  a  bargain,  and  sometimes  a  bundle 
of  basins.  Most  book-hunters  can  point  to  a  shelf  or  shelvei 
Riled  with  such  prizes.  These  are  some  of  the  rewards  of  a  book- 
hunter's  life. 

The  pleasure  of  the  auction  room  is  past  The  modem  b(X)k> 
seller  has  driven  the  modem  book<lorcr  from  the  lists,  lie  has 
compelled  the  amateur  to  buy  through  an  agent,  and  slain  one  of 
his  fiercest  joys,  llie  bookman  of  the  old  school  was  not  denied 
this  pleasure.  He  found  his  greatest  delight  in  aiterMling  and 
bidding  at  auctions.  To  carry  off  some  desired  book  after  a  keen 
fight  was  joy  irtdecd.  The  struggle  added  to  its  value.  It  garc  him 
happiness  for  days  and  made  his  remintsceiKcs  worth  recounting  in 
after  years. 

And  then  there  are  the  old  curiosity  shops— not  the  costly  Aopa 
that  frown  upon  one  in  bshtonablc  streets,  and  frighten  the  poor  but 


Three  Skeiehes. 


581 


I 


I 


keen  toTCT  of  curios  avay ;  bat  the  old  shops  oX  ihe  bjr-wars  that 
draw  one  to  their  nindoirs  and  entice  one  to  enter  their  homely- 
looking  doors.  The  loving  collector— Ihe  genuine  man  of  tute — 
knoTS  them  all.  Uke  the  book-Iorer,  he  keept  a  constant  watch 
upon  their  rarioui  slocks.  To-day  there  is  an  old  bionzc— a 
genuine  antique-  put  into  one  of  th«  windows  for  the  first  time.  If 
within  his  means,  the  ccJtector  buys  it  instantly,  but  with  caution 
and  debate,  and  generally  with  a  liberal  dturount.  To-morrow,  in 
another  window,  may  be  displayed  a  Dresden  pbte  of  the  best  pcriodt 
or  a  chotce  bit  of  old  Chelsea.  With  the  same  caution  the  colkctor 
will  conclude  a  purchase,  and  add  something  to  be  loved  to  his 
little  collection.  Another  day  it  may  be  a  beautiful  Italian  dagger. 
or  a  clioice  etching  or  print  by  some  beloved  master,  that  lakes  his 
fimcy.  The  gentle  collector  is  always  adding  something  to  his  bouse 
beatuiful,'and  is  only  unhappy  when  insufficient  means  do  not  permit 
the  pOTCliase  of  some  coveted  object  of  vir tii. 

And  who  does  not  prefer  the  secondhand  picture  to  the  new? 
Is  it  not  superior  ?  The  artist,  like  the  poet,  is  ambitious  to  equal 
the  immortal  masterpieces.  The  poet  pines  to  write  one  little  song 
that  shall  live  for  e\'er  in  the  hearts  and  on  the  lips  of  men  ;  and  the 
arti»t  longs  to  point  one  small  canvas  that  shall  be  crowrved  with 
a/ler  fame.  They  strive  to  achieve  perfection,  but  in  their  hearts 
they  have  to  confess  coo^Miatire  ^lure.  They  are  dissatisfied. 
They  know  tlie  secondhand  wotks  are  besL 

The  sculptor  staiKls  before  the  Venus  de*  Medici  and  is  pro- 
foundly conscious  of  his  own  weakness.  The  master^iiece  is  so 
sublime,  so  perfect,  that  for  a  time  he  is  appalled  at  bis  own  puny 
gifts.  The  painter  looks  on  a  picture  by  "Htian,  or  Raphael,  01 
Rembrandt  ;  and  the  poet  reads  a  play  of  Shakespeare  with  the 
same  feelings.  They  are  not  envious.  Tfcey  canitot  be — their 
admiration  is  so  great,  so  intense,  so  absorbing,  it  is  even  akin  to 
worship — the  works  appear  so  faultless,  so  immortal,  so  divine. 

But,  perhaps,  they  too  will  discover  immorubty  in  the  auction- 
room,  or  in  the  shops  of  the  secondliand.  The  gods  love  Itonesi 
endeavour. 

ON  THE  PLEASURES  OF  BEING  POOft. 

All  men  prefer  riches  to  poverty,  though  they  o^en  dull  the  edge  of 
enjoyment.  Not  infrequently  we  hear  a  man  expressing  himself 
with  generous  fervour,  "  If  I  had  more  money,  wliat  an  amount  of 
good  I  could  do  ! "  Unquestionably,  and  the  desire  is  laudable ;  but 
the  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  it  would  be  somewhat  illusory— it 


The  Gentlentan's  J\fagazittr. 


sS^ 


woDld  not  be  n«arl]r  so  Veen  as  the  imagination  proiniied 
man  vould  not  have  lialf  the  satUraction  in  wridn;  i  dic^  fer 
jfi.ooo  to  conrert  some  painted  savage,  that  he  fomierij-  hidL  •*(■ 
Iiis  income  was  narrow,  in  giving  a  p«nny  to  a  piliftil  cretnieai 
street  comer. 

Want  of  money  creates  the  value  of  it,  and  the  pleasure  ftpi^ 
Is  in  proportion.  "  But  this  is  selfish,"  saj-s  some  generooi  nidK 
Doubtless,  bat  it  is  human  nature  also.  Kfost  charity  h  itltt 
Men  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  giving,  and  the  smaller  the  laaralte 
mofe  exquisite  the  sensation,  and,  shameless  though  it  be;  rcanj  aa 
enjoy  the  publicity  of  grring.  At  a  public  cliarity  dinner  more  6t» 
pound  cheqties  wfll  be  seen  than  (ift>'-pound  notes.  But,  ifteri^ 
the  hard-camod  penny  honestly  given  has  more  real  virtue  thsD  At 
golden  coin  wrong  from  the  parw  of  affluence  because  ^t/dieii 
demands  it.  A  loaf  of  bread  irjll  aJvrays  be  better  than  a  onla 
d>eque. 

But  there  is  tw  one  with  slender  mcara  who  gets  more  pIcMK 
out  of  hb  position  than  the  nuui  of  taste.  Perhaps  be  iwet  nrt 
books,  old  china,  antique  hronies,  pictures,  and  quaint  fumtaite  H 
so,  cverj-  Ucasurc  must  be  purchased  at  the  expense  of  xm 
personal  sacrifice.  He  sUnghtets  the  idol  of  self  lo  gixti^  He 
pleasures  of  a  refined  nature.  For  days,  perhaps  weeks,  be  *i 
keep  an  anxious  watch  upon  some  desired  object  of  vinii  dttph^ 
for  sale  in  a  dealer's  window.  He  is  afraid  some  more  fmmk 
oollccior  may  snatch  it  from  his  »-aiting  hands,  and  be  piwn  tk 
shop  daily  to  assure  himself  that  the  coveted  article  £s  sttB  ttoc 
But  when,  after  much  mature  deliberation,  he  decides  npan  At 
purchase,  he  rushes  off  to  the  shop  nilh  the  enthusiasm  of  a  lad,  «4 
having  obtained  the  wishful  pHie,  returns  home  with  the  prkSeo'ii 
emperor ;  and  at  once  his  purchase  becomes  a  lovable  thira  udt 
household  god. 

The  house  of  such  a  man  is  abo\-c  alt  else  a  honae.  It  ts  a 
to  nestle  in.  The  fire  is  warm,  the  arm-chair  tempting,  and  etwf 
thing  honest  and  comfortable.  There  is  no  cold  unifortnit}'  of  (qi4 
either  in  furniture  or  decoration.  Not  one  room  all  blue  w( 
another  all  amber.  Because  the  chimney  ornaments  are  old  Tapn 
the  cabinets  will  not  be  filled  with  basins  and  plates  to  correspCBl 
There  will  be  nothing  that  could  be  broken  without  giving  p>^a 
.^old  unless  urgent  necessity  dcnianded  such  a  calamity.  EvetTtluif 
will  be  lored— some  with  a  feeling  of  teverervce — and  all  wiU  d»s 
ihc  gentle  hand  of  affection  in  arrangement  and  variety.  A  pictnt 
will  !)e  prixed  for  some  happy  association,  but  it  will  bare  no  ft 


Three  Sketches^ 


583 


I 


I 


An  etching  may  bang  on  the  line  with  a  small  portrait  of  Shakespeate, 
Of  «n  engraving  after  Hogarth,  but  the  etching  may  be  the  gift  of 
a  loving  patent  long  since  hidden  behind  the  mystery  of  death.  A 
Spodu  pbice  may  hai,%  a  prominent  position  because  picked  up  In  the 
King  of  Oude's  palace  during  the  Indian  Kluliny  by  a  x-Cry  dear 
friend.  A  piece  of  Coalport  may  stand  in  fTont  of  it  for  some 
reason  eiiually  iircdous ;  or,  maybe^  a  Worcester  vase,  secured  as  a 
ba^in  when  the  price  nnted  much  consideration.  On  a  bracket 
may  stand  a  beautiftil  Italian  figure,  a  monument  of  affection, 
beause  the  legacy  of  some  old  triend  with  similar  tastes.  In  one 
comer  may  be  a  fetish  idol,  and  in  another  a  couple  of  assegais, 
brought  home  by  a  brother  who  liad  known  tlic  power  of  both. 
Turn  to  the  bookcase.  Treasures  will  stand  there  which  represent 
many  shabby  suits.  But  they  arc  all  companions  and  friends  and 
not  one  could  go  astray  without  a  sigh,  pcrtutps  tears.  These  things 
are  loved  indeed,  and  transform  four  walls  into  a  paradise  which  is 
as  homely  as  it  is  beautiful. 

Such  was  the  home  of  a  young  poet  of  my  acquaintance  who 
died  all  too  early.  It  was  filled  with  a  ml-scellany  of  treasures,  and 
not  one  without  a  history.  Many  were  the  rewards  of  happy  pilgrim, 
ng^es  to  Wardour  Street  and  similar  lodgings  of  curious  and  beautiful 
objects.  Some  were  the  gifts  of  friends,  some  had  been  inherited, 
while  others  Itad  been  secured  with  stilled  breath  as  bargains  in  the 
)calous  auction  room.  The  place  of  honour  was  accorded  to  a 
Dresden  cup,  saucer,  and  cover,  with  detached  birds  and  flowers ; 
for  this  paramount  household  god  represented  the  first-fruits  of  the 
poet's  pen.  His  pretty  little  wife  had  longed  after  it  for  weeks 
before  it  found  its  way  into  her  china  cabinet.  Both  bad  gaaed 
upon  it  many  times  when  it  stood  in  a  VVardour  Street  window. 
I'hcy  had  once  inquired  the  pricey  though  they  knew  it  would  be 
beyond  their  allotted  margin  of  luiorious  expcixlitUTe.  They  bad 
discussed  its  purchase  on  many  occasions  in  their  bright  little  sitting 
room,  and  c^cry  time  had  decided  it  could  not  be — "just  yet."  But 
when  the  proud  poet  received  hb  firsi-ftuics,  though  below  the  price 
of  the  desired  Dresden,  he  rushed  olT  to  the  shop^  and,  after  much 
clever  manccuvring  with  the  proprietor,  be  bought  it  with  the  exact 
amount  of  the  publi^ci's  cheque.  His  liille  wife  said  it  was  genius. 
Perhaps  it  was,  but  the  fond  poet  gave  her  a  kiss  and  declared  it 
was  the  fortune  of  love. 

But  his  chief  pride  was  centred  in  hts  books,  of  which  he  h.id  a 
goodly  store  and  well  selected.  They  had  been  ptodused  at  (he  cost 
of  much  piiKhir^  and  his  h'ttle  wife  pinched  with  him,  for  she 


The  Gentittnan's  Afagazine. 

CDtcred  heart  and  soul  into  his  pleasures  and  ponoiu.  b  vii  i 
picttjr  sight  to  sec  her  sitting  in  some  dusty  secondhand  boctbcIkA 
ihop  chatting  with  the  ma&tcr  of  it,  while  her  husband  pok«d  ibooi 
among  llic  crowded  shdre&  And  what  attention  those  dd  bock- 
scQcfs  paid  ber  I  Courtiors  could  not  have  t>een  kinder,  or  ihan 
betlcr  manners.  T1>ey  would  dust  a  stool,  or  a  chair,  pnihil>|f 
without  a  back,  and  remoie  a  pile  of  books  to  give  her  more  ipn; 
and  place  some  huge  folio  for  a  footstool.  I  have  often  tbot^  Ik 
poet  had  some  cimning  in  this  potic)-,  and  used  her  winsmeiojl 
to  obt^  his  txK^s  cheaper,  for  he  bought  them  at  an  awerjoc 
than  most  men,  and  with  the  additional  charm  of  much  booUA 
gossip. 

I  haw  called  upon  them  manjr  limes  when  fresh  from  one  4 
these  visits,  and  found  them  sparkling  with  gaiety  and  pride  om 
some  new  ba^n,  and  they  nerer  remembered  Uiat  it  had  ba 
purchased  at  the  cost  of  many  makeshifts.  And  if  they  could  \m 
done  so,  it  would  have  made  the  ple.asure  the  more  cxqincK 
Riches  could  not  have  bought  them  the  splendour  of  socfa  [bc 
happiness.  To  enjoy  a  good  thing  one  must  buy  it  with  sale 
standing.    Pleasure  is  often  the  child  of  pain. 

The  man  who  buys  a  genuine  book  long  desired,  and  depriia 
himself  nf  a  dinner  to  help  pay  for  it,  has  a  thousand  ttraet  dB 
joy  in  his  purchase  than  the  richest  collector  could  experience  if 
buying  an  entire  library  of  rare  books.  The  bookman  who  oniai 
from  catalogues  has  not  half  the  pleasure  of  the  prowling 
hunter  with  a  few  shillings  in  his  pocket,  and  those  hardly  caned.  ] 

My  old  friend  W- was  such  a  man.     One  of  the 

plemsiues  of  his  life  was  to  March  a  bookshop  or  a  stall.    He 
slaited  out  to  buy  a  new  hat  because  the  one  he  was  wcarin| 
shockbgly  shabby.    He  bought  a  fat  little  "  Donne  "  instead 
then,  it  «a$  in  the  original  covers  with  the  portrait.     The 
was  to  blaroe.    It  enticed  him  in,  and  the  "  Donne  " — i 
copy — tempted  him.     He  took  bis  hat  off  and  looked  it  round 
round  vich  much  gravity,  and  brushed  it  vigorottsly  with  his 
sleeve,      'llie    brushing    was    miraculous   and    ail-poweifbL 
purchased  the  book,  and  wore  the  hat  for  weeks  afterwards  10 
for  it. 

On  another  occasion  he  stayed  away  from  the  theatre 
entire  month,  so  that  he  could  alford  to  purchase  a  small 
bnwwe  Mercury  he  had  set  his  licart  upon— and  the  theatre  wait 
of  his  prime  dclighta. 

These  are  the  men  who  enjoy  b'fe,  utA  make  pleasures 


Three  Sketches.  585 

ifations.  They  may  be  ill-dressed  at  times^  but  their  fkca  ue 
ndly  and  their  hearts  mellow.  They  can  weep  if  need  b^  and 
It  be  ashamed.  They  can  also  laugh  and  be  merry  with  a  friend 
a  book.  With  them  it  is  no  hardship  to  be  poor.  A  good  book 
better  than  a  ruby  mine,  and  a  work  of  art  has  no  aq>rice. 
iTOur  ii  a  flirt  Pleasure  is  happiest  when  conquered  with  a  self- 
tnigbt  sword. 

CHARUS  LUSTED. 


vol-  cczcii.    Ha  3058.  s  s 


S86 


Tkt  CeniletHan's  Afagasin^. 


A    FORGOTTEN   AR7^    CRI'a 


i 


MANY  years  ago  Ihe  vrlter, »  the  only  ant)  usual 
for  a  week's  service  on  a  grand  jury,  iriks  pcrsotk 
ducted  ovci  Newgale  prison,  lie  ira*  ibcn  mformcd  by  l 
Waider,  who  did  ihc  honoun  of  (he  csublishment,  aad  «h 
experience  would  ture  been  worth  much  to  him  had  he  b 
and  wiltirtg  to  turn  it  to  literary  purposes,  that  in  the  old  da 
tU  prisoners,  convicted  and  unconvicted  alike,  were  herded 
in  promiscuity,  there  was  after  a  few  days  little  to  dislinguii 
demeanour  of  any,  and  that  men  gentle  by  birth,  cduca 
occupation,  commiued  for  onenccx  which,  however  heinous, 
necessarily  imply  moral  degradation,  gave  vent  to  obaceni 
btasphemie*  as  freely  as  any  of  their  associates  drawn  from  t! 
of  the  city.  The  moral  deduced  from  ihia  observation  was  tl 
were  very  much  alikci  and  that  in  fact  if  you  scratched  the  ge 
you  found  the  blackguard.  It  is,  moreover,  a  commonplace 
ihu  human  nature  varies  little  in  the  «gi» ;  that,  while  in  e 
find  violent  contrasts— the  tender  piety  of  an  Bvdyn  w 
sharadess  self-indulgence  of  a  Pcpyi,  or  the  feculent  bnrta 
Swift  with  ibe  stately  purity  of  an  Addison — the  average  qt 
each  generation  is  much  the  same  as  that  of  its  [xtedecesa 
that  the  apparent  progress  and  enlightenment  of  the  race 
goes  on  is  due  only  to  a  change  in  conventions  and  Guhio 
not  at  all,  or  at  but  in  very  sli^t  measure,  lo  a  change 
hearts  and  minds  of  men.  Leaving  aside,  however,  the  q 
wheUier  the  public  conscience  could  become  more  sensitiv 
the  private  conscience,  excepting  of  a  few,  remained  as  cal 
before,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine,  for  instance,  that  our  Joa 
or  our  critics,  or  even  our  patty  politicians,  arc  not  tnlrii 
different  from  their  predecessors  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  or  thi 
they  freed  from  the  restraints  imposed  upon  them  by  nsaj 
prevailing,  they  would  hcmirc  themselves  with  the  invccti' 
scuiiility  which  »c  the  solieit  fcaturei  of  so  much  of 


A  Forgotten  Art  Critic. 


5«7 


decessora'  irarV.  Indeed,  it  is  inconceivaI>!t;  that  the  wnlen  oT  the 
honeyed  criticisms  which  odd  a  literary  grace  to  out  ive«%papeTs  and 
Teviews,  «nd  which  are  so  often  more  readable  than  their  subjects, 
would,  if  the^  had  their  own  way,  wallow  in  the  gross  personaiities 
and  in  the  filthy  alltuions  and  figuret  which  characterise  the  work  of 
the  subject  of  this  article. 

We  hare  seen  in  our  courts  of  law  many  actions  for  libel— 
literary,  theatrical,  tixA  artistic— and  John  Williams  (or  "  Anthonj 
Pasquin,"  which  was  his  pseudonym),  could  he  be  a  witness  of  them, 
would  open  his  eyes  in  wonder  at  the  very  slight  grounds,  at  the 
very  modest  expressions,  on  which  so  many  of  these  suits  have  been 
founded,  and  he  would  Inmcnl  that  among  the  many  signs  of  oar 
degeneracy  in  these  Utter  days  was  the  excessive  tenderness  of  both 
pbiintiir  and  defendant,  the  inability  of  receiving  sikI — in  his  opinion, 
more  seriousstill— of  giving  hard  knocks.  He  would  haire  sympathised 
with  the  critic  who,  himself  writhing  under  retaliation,  invoked  tlie 
protection  of  a  jury,  and  was  brutally  told  that  he  had  got  no  more 
than  he  deserved,  for  he  too  was  once  in  hke  case,  although  tlie 
kngmge  used  in  tlie  modern  instance  would  in  his  more  rot>utt  days 
have  been  thought  too  feeble  to  be  worthy  of  notice.  This  seems 
to  be  the  only  occasion  on  which  he  actually  appeared  in  a  court  of 
lav,  although  we  shall  see  that  more  than  once  his  absence  was 
dtie  rather  to  his  prudence  than  to  his  modenuion,  and  it  is  certainly 
KiDarkablc  that,  being  one  of  the  mo&t  unrestrained  of  libellcTs  in  a 
libellous  age,  he  wgis  not  defendant,  but  plaintiff.  It  was  in  the  year 
1797,  when  he  was  ihittysU  years  old  and  of  well-established  repu- 
tation, that  he  brought  an  action  for  libel  against  Robert  Faulkner, 
the  publisher  of  Giflord's  "  liaviad,"  the  alleged  libel  being  in  a  foot- 
note, where  Gilford  wrote  of  him  that  "  he  was  so  lost  to  every  sense 
of  decency  and  shame  that  his  acquaintance  was  infamy  and  his 
touch  poison  "—strong  wot<]s  certainly,  which  should  have  elicited 
swingeing  damages.  But,  alas!  iIm: defence  replied,  as  in  the  modern 
case  to  which  we  have  alluded,  witli  extracts  from  the  injured 
pfauDtifrs  own  writings,  and  the  jut^e,  Lord  Kcnyon,  in  whom  the 
najesty  of  the  law  had  been  inv^ed  to  curse  (he  defendant,  blessed 
him  instead  in  the  following  words : — 

"  It  appears  to  roelhat  the  author  of  the '  Baviad '  has  acted  a  very 
meritorious  part  in  exposing  this  man,  and  1  do  most  earnestly  wish 
and  hope  that  some  method  win  be  fallen  upon  to  prevent  nil  meh 
unprincipled  and  mercenary  wretches  from  going  about  unbridled  in 
society  to  the  great  anno^-ance  of  the  pubtk." 
Thus  was  the  engineer  hoist  with  his  own  petard,  and  Williams  mtui 


Ceniieman's 


■oR 


hare  had  fgxA  reason  to  regret  his  ae 

oouniiy  tetaa  to  have  been  closed  *l)ni| 

It  is  time  now  to  give  a  few  details 

writer.    Jolin  Wlltbms  was  bom  in  Loi 

and  when  ten  ytxn  of  age  wu  sent  Ic 

WhUe  ibcTC  be  erincod  the  eailicst  sigi 

an  epignun  upon  one  of  the  masten,  for' 

punbhmcnt.     "  IKsdpline  "  was  nerar 

Lane,  and  possibly  is  no  joke  evm  in  the 

]'cara  or  more  ago  the  schoolmaster's  am 

from  frequent  pmaicc,  and  the  j^uthft 

reason  to  bewaU  his  precocious  muse. 

ttons  were  not  choked,  for  before  he  va 

decided  to  adopt  UteraiUTe  as  a  profeni 

painting,  and  was  fortunate  in  obtaining 

a  pamphlet  written  in  his  behalf.     G« 

year,  else  the  budding  pamphleteer  mi| 

«  ttseful  knowledge  of  things  and  |>cn 

benciit  of  hb  wise  and  rcAraining  coun 

literature,  however,  do  not  seem  to  has 

the  mill,  for  in  or  about  the  ycsr  1781 

he  obtained  employment  00  several  puUi 

three  years,  when  an  attack  upon  the  G 

exposed  him  to  a  prosecution,  from  wl 

cipitalcly  retired.      Returning  to  Lond( 

Dudley  in  the  Morning  UtraUt,  which  ti 

but,  possibly  because  full  play  was  not  ac 

columns  of  the  newqtaper,  he  libelled  \m 

which  were  begun,  were  stayed  by  the  n< 

In  17S7  be  was  in  Fiance,  and  afterwi 

edited  the  BHghion  Gmidt,  whence  he  wi 

departures  from  both  these  resorts  of  fft 

dfcum.«tancct  in  which  writs   or  possib 

He  then  settk-d  in  I.ondon,  where,  unit 

which  we  have  already  described,  he  see 

principally  to  thoHrical  criticism,  with  sa 

was  not  shared  by  the  pciwns  upon  who 

exercised.    The  remaining  twenty  yean 

America,  where  at  one  time  he  edited  tbi 

he  died  of  t)-pbus  in  Brooklyn,  in  poor  cii 

1818.    Two  portraits  of  him  were  painted, 

bat  we  \tavfe  twA  wetn  tlDncck,i 


A  Fcrgottett  Art  Criiu. 


589 


ancc  conrormn)  in  anj  retpect  with  his  character.  HH  personal 
babiu  do  not  wem  to  have  been  ei^ging,  if  there  were  aoy  founda- 
tions for  the  remark  that  he  died  of  a  coM  caught  by  irashing  his 
face.  Wc  know  that  in  one  particular  it  is  not  correct,  while  the 
gjbu  has  been  made  of  many  persons,  and  has  been  made  the  indict* 
ucnt  of  a  nation.  Xhcre  is  no  record  of  his  having  been  married, 
ai>d  nothing  seems  to  be  known  of  bis  family  or  personal  relations. 

It  is  as  a  critic  of  [Minting,  or  rather  of  painters,  and  not  of 
actors  and  actresses,  that  Williams  is  the  subject  of  this  article.  It  i& 
in  ilie  latter  rik  that  he  is  dealt  with  in  the  "  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,"  although  scattered  among  tlie  pages  of  that  great  work 
may  be  found  many  references  to  the  book  which  ts  his  chief  contri- 
bution to  permanent  literature,  viz. :  "  An  Authentic  History  of  the 
Professors  of  Tainting,  Sculpture,  and  Atdiilcclure  who  lave  [naetiscd 
in  Irebnd,  involving  original  Letters  from  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  which 
prove  him  to  hare  been  illiterate  ;  to  which  arc  added  Memoirs  of 
the  Koysl  Academicians,  being  an  attempt  to  impro^'e  tlie  Taste  of 
tbc  Realm,  by  Anthony  Pasquin."  The  scope  of  the  work,  of  which 
the  title  is  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  slender  volume  which  bears 
it,  was  broad  and  important  enough  to  deserve  the  labour  expended 
upon  the  rcsearclics  of  twenty-one  years,  as  well  as  the  assistance  of 
the  oldest  and  most  intelligent  professors  of  the  arts  concerned, 
which  wc  are  informed  in  the  Pre&ce  were  )>estowed  upon  it ;  bat 
as  it  was  published  in  1 796,  and  the  autlior  was  bom  in  1 761,  he 
must  hive  begun  when  he  was  only  fourteen  years  old,  when  a 
schoolboy  in  London,  and  possiUy  still  tingling  from  the  results  of 
bis  first  attempts  at  satire,  .^fter  expressing  his  surprise  that 
Ireland  was  most  unaccountably  ignored  bj'  foreign  authors,  neither 
Da  Vinci,  nor  Vasari,  nor  even  so  recent  a  writer  as  Winckclnoann 
bavir^  made  any  mention  of  her,  he  goes  on  to  explain  why  the 
distressful  country  had  never  attained  any  great  excellence  in  the 
arts.  Poverty  was  responsible  for  much,  but  the  lulional  character 
was  most  to  blame ;  for  although  it  possessed  genius  above  the 
average,  that  genius  found  play  in  an  aptitude  for  merriment,  and 
Iriilimen  were  too  mercurial  for  profound  thinking.  It  is  painful 
to  refioct  that  in  these  days  Itisb  politicians,  at  least,  even  if  there  be 
more  profundity  in  ihetr  thoughts,  are  i>o  k>nger  mercurial,  and 
have  lost  their  sense  of  humour  as  well  as  their  faculty  of  honest 
laughter.  Trial  and  dtstresa  are  said  to  bring  tltc  best  out  of  a  man, 
and  now  iliat  it  is  a  serious  grievance  that  one  Irish  Iktember  of 
Pariiameni  is  not  allowed  to  speak  in  a  language  which  hardly  any 
of  his  own  political  Irieitds  would  undcTsland,  \V  mx^  V*  ^JN»^  *i«. 


I 


d 


590 


Th«  Geniltmatis 


neocMtiy  stimulus  b  muittng.  In  his  n^ 
aMiough  not  an  IHshinxn,  gives  an  example 
laownu ;  for,  abandoning  hi.i  profuund  tbtnl 
the  Ibllowtng  delicious  IjuII,  Tot  the  gniin 
Englind  and  Mcrdunl  Taylors'  School  mut 

"  In  the  vulgar  haunts  of  society,  cac 
bccon>e  a  greater  beast  than  his  iM^bovr,  i 
tbcy  are  generally  considered  very  tuoccssful 

The  book  is  anecdotal  nther  than  critici 
nlmes  of  many  men  who  must  have  been  v( 
time,  even  in  tlvctr  own  city,  and  it  is  dotil: 
graphical  dictionary  ever  reootded  the  e 
nonentities.  Some  of  the  subjects  hirc^  I 
con  of  repute,  so  that  the  stories  told  of  then 
Of  Nathaniel  Hone,  R.A.,  Ibc  author  lells  t 
of  his  career  be  was  wont  to  buy  a  hofsc  in 
fo(  a  tour  in  the  country.  On  coming  to  a 
the  best  inn,  and  by  judicious  llattery  of 
would  obtain  a  commission  for  a  family  port 
WM  Venus,  the  children  angels,  and  the  fall 
brown  periwig.  Of  West,  the  first  master  < 
ment  in  the  Dublin  Academy,  we  read  thai 
historical  idcft  it  was  by  sitting  on  .lome 
Pearson,  a  glass  painter,  perfonncd  ttie  fi 
worthy  Irisli  squire,  making  a  bailiff  chew 
which  he  "  admonislicd  "  him — "  aclmonis 
bade  him  depart.  He  tells  us  the  story  ol 
hlni  Ashley— «n  error  for  which  probably  hi 
was  responsible,  as  he  did  not  know  his  ( 
used  his  swotd  at  a  " moll-tiick,"  and,  "ost 
and  as  amorous  as  '  the  I'crsian  Sophie,' 
batli  at  the  top  of  his  house,  the  latter  perh 
to  tlie  chronicler  i  and  then,  dropping  into  p 
finally  "his  qiirits  decayed,  and  he  sij 
eternity."  Why  this  pathos  should  be  lavisl 
cult  to  sc«,  unless,  the  bath  apart,  our 
sympathy  with  his  idios)-ncrasic5.  Astley  w 
virtue  of  a  few  years'  rcsidcr>ce,  but  James 
indigenous,  for  it  was  he  who,  being  abused 
aJ]  too  Guthful,  tore  it  from  its  frame  and  na 
hall,  where  it  could  be  recognised  by  aQ  vi 
were  U&m^Ne^  (mX.  <A  «&  ^ec^OaxKin.  IBl 


A 


A  Forgotten  Art  Critic. 


I 


I 
I 


uiMrabk  painter,  and  all  who  have  seen  tliu  specimens  of  his  handU 
woik  in  the  National  Poruait  Gallery  will  agree  with  him,  dopite  th« 
"preposterous  adulations  of  Pope,"  Robert  Carver  was  a  gourmand, 
who  fnuUcly  conTcsKd  that  when  he  was  young  he  painted  for  repu- 
tation, but,  havii^  become  riclt,  be  painted  for  his  kitchen,  which 
leads  OUT  author  to  moralise  that  no  one  who  indulges  his  appetites 
wit)icxccsscscanmakc  any  conMdcraltle  progress  in  the  arts.  Aside 
bit  at  Horace  Walpolc  tells  us  that  that  nobleman's  Catalogue  could 
never  have  obulned  any  aedit  with  society,  "  beastly  as  it  is,"  had 
not  the  author  been  rich  enough  to  bribe  all  the  critica.  After  a 
sneer  at  Captain  Gtosc,  the  antiquary,  and  author  of  the  "Slaag 
Dictionary,"  known  also  as  the  "  Dictionary  of  Gross  Language"  «« 
come  at  last  to  an  artist  of  whom  the  author  can  say  a  good  word- 
Jonathan  Buck,  LL.D.,  "one  of  the  most  accomplished  men  in 
Europe"— for  whose  name  we  hare  searched  in  vain  in  the  "Dic- 
tionary of  National  Biography."  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  read 
nothing  else  of  him  but  tliat  he  lived  on  less  than  fifty  pounds  a  year, 
and  showed  great  civility  to  Arthur  Young  when  he  was  in  Ireland ; 
■ad  then  the  author  is  diverted  from  tlie  ot^t  of  his  admiration  to 
gird  at  Young,  who  "  scudded  through  several  kingdoms  to  prove  that 
Turnips  are  the  catholicon  formanandbeasL"  He  then  tetb  us  that 
Young  once  drank  water  from  Lough  Neagh,  which  was  reputed  to 
turn  all  it  touched  to  wood.  A  shepherd,  seeing  him  quenching  his 
thirst  with  to  perilous  a  draught,  rushed  down  the  hillside  to^'ards 
him,  shouting  wildly,  "  By  the  holy  father,  man,  if  you  touch  that, 
you  will  have  a  wooden  held  ! "  Too  late,  alas,  for  the  1-'.R.S.  had 
"  gulped  to  satiety,"  and  those  who  read  his  works  must  decide  how 
fiur  the  prediction  has  been  veriAcd. 

In  the  "Academy  Notes,"  however,  of  1794  and  1796,  surely  the 
earliest  examples  of  a  ctess  of  literature  with  which  we  have  become 
90  iamiliar  in  these  latter  days,  we  have  our  author  before  us  in  the 
genuine  r&k  of  art  critic,  and  however  much  we  may  he  repelled  by 
tiis  methods,  wc  cannot  deny  tlK  so4indnc»  of  his  judgment,  which 
has  been  endorsed  by  the  general  consensus  of  subsnjucnt  opinion. 
The  former  of  the  two  pamphlets  is  called  "  An  Attempt  to  correct 
the  Natural  Taste,  to  ascertain  the  Sutc  of  the  Polite  Aru  at  the  Period, 
and  to  reicue  Merit  from  Oppression,"  while  the  btter,  which  bears 
the  illuminating  motto  "  fame  is  a  lyar,"  is  "An  Attempt  10  ascer- 
tain Truth  and  to  improve  the  Taste  of  the  Realm."  The  price  of 
was  one  shilling.  The  tyranny,  or  "oppression,"  of  tlie 
^^  Hid  its  reluctance  to  recognise  any  merit  outside  its  own 

^t  tbods,  have  been  an  unfailing  t,l\enu&(<»cn)ii(Sb<\«n^ 


Tk£  Gentleman's  Ma^asine. 


59a 


the  first  days  of  its  exislcnoe,  and  we  need  not   uy    that 

Williams  was  no  Iws  downright  in  his  di-nunciations  than  any  ■  

succeoon.  An  invitation  to  the  Academy  dinner  scents  to  hsn 
been  coveted  as  much  then  as  now,  for  in  ihc  Notes  of  1796  we  an 
told  that  the  "  banquet "  was  so  crowded  thai  Mr.  Kox,  the  Msrqnii 
of  Buckingham,  and  the  Prebte  of  Durham  were  compelled  to  eal 
tbdr  "  catcs"  standing,  a  description  which  rivals  that  of  the  fashnn 
able  chnich  where  countesses  at  on  hassodcs  in  the  gangways.  In 
the  Notes  for  the  earlier  year  some  genius  Is  allowed  to  John  Qple, 
bat  on  all  possible  occasions  he  dad  his  peisoiuges,  from  entperon 
to  mendicants,  in  coarw  woollens.  There  is  a  portrait  of  the  King 
by  GooTgc  Dupont,  which  gives  the  idea  of  a  "  proud  idiot,"  whidi 
night  be  a  testimony  to  its  faithfulness  did  not  the  critic  go  on  U 
ascribe  the  general  fulure  to  portray  royalty  to  the  blinding  cffecti 
of  the  divinity  that  hedges  kings,  lliomas  Stolhard  is  said  to  be 
the  only  artist  i»  the  country  who  can  comprehend  an  historical  sub 
)ecL  A  {MHtrait  by  Shee  is  pronounoed  to  be  one  of  the  best,  if  not 
the  best,  in  the  exhilMtion,  and  is  accordingly  skied,  and  the  wriiei 
woodcts  bov  artists  of  ability  can  consent  to  be  sacri6ccd  year  afl«i 
year  to  tbe  jealousy  of  an  "academic  junta,  who  sit  jocund  in  their 
hoQernagger  oongress,"  happy  only  in  their  power  of  safely  insult 
big  their  superiors.  The  President's  0^'«st)  picture  of  the  "  Descettt 
of  the  Spirit  at  Baptism "  excites  (he  rare  religious  feeling  of  the 
writer,  who  eonsidcn  such  rcnderii^  of  a  sacred  theme  impious  as 
well  as  ludicrous  Hb  description  of  the  principal  figure  may  be 
Justified,  but  we  forbear  to  quote  it  R  jgatd's  "  Exposure  of  Moses  * 
exposes  the  artist— a  "  most  inaqriicable  daub."  Of  George  Ikto- 
land,  Witliams  is  highly  appreciative,  and  his  remark  that  the  better 
part  of  his  powers  seems  to  lie  dormant  from  tbe  want  of  legitimate 
piide  ihowa  how  true  aiMl  sound  his  critical  faculty  was ;  and  again  o( 
Wngbt,  of  Derby,  he  writes  with  admiration  at>d  respect,  wondeting 
that  sncfa  an  aitbl  should  condesoeod  to  exhibit  his  work  in  nMnpaoy 
with  that  of  most  of  the  Academicians.  On  Sir  Francis  Bourgeois 
he  pours  out  the  vtab  of  his  contempt.  Certainly  s  consul  was 
ooce  made  of  a  horse,  ar>d  a  pope  of  an  old  woown,  bat  these 
metamorpboses  were  less  surpnsr^  than  the  laakiiig  ("I  am 
ashamed  to  say  tktttHg')  of  this  painter  into  a  Royal  Acadrmiciaa 
Among  tbe  too  nutncroas  examples  of  his  incompetency  was  t 
picture  of  "  Sana  Culottes  uken  prisoner  by  a  detacbmeM  of  tbt 
Prince  of  Wales's  'light  Dragoons."  in  which  the  priaonei*  art 
"  loaded  with  chains,"  which  British  soldiers  are  not  in  the  babft  o> 
doing.     A  tto>^»wM,«RTjc«»»T'OM.^>w:  ■««*«*  «»**»*^'*«i»'^ 


A  Forgotten  Art  Critic. 


593 


was  unable  to  finish  «  portrait-group  or  the  xoyaX  laxaWy,  additions 
to  it  coming  faster  than  he  could  paint.  In  n  notice  of  a  picture  of 
N]rn)|)hs  by  WtKatlej,  decorated  with  pani-colourcd  ribtwns  like  a 
"maniic  in  Covcntr)-,"  ire  aic  reminded  of  vhal  was  the  staple 
induslry  of  the  many-spired  city  before  tlw  days  of  bicydes.  A 
portrait  of  Dr.  Priestly,  by  Arthaud,  ehcils  the  remark  thai  all 
Britom  mu«  b!ti.th  when  they  look  on  the  picture  of  so  great  a  man  ; 
showir^  liow  capable  Williams  was  of  apprecutii^  sterling  ralue 
outside  the  sphere  which  he  made  his  own.  Only  three  years  earlier 
Dr.  Printley's  house  at  Birmingham  had  been  destroyed  by  a  mob. 

In  the  pamphlet  of  1796,  after  an  allusion  to  a  prclty  little 
quarrel  between  Bccehey  and  Iloppncr,  one  of  the  hangers  of  the 
year,  our  author  proceeds,  as  before,  to  an  examination  of  the 
pictures.  A  landscape  by  Sir  George  Bcaunioru  —  "a  mere 
amateur"— is  pronounced  to  be  the  most  masterly  in  the  cxhibitioo, 
*  jut^ment  which,  notwithstanding  some  subsetiuent  contrary  tndi* 
cation,  shows  that  the  critic  has  not  emancipated  himself  from  the 
"brown  tiw"  tradition,  and  the  anlithests  is  soon  four>d  in  one 
by  K.  Garvey,  R.A. — "  witat  a  filthy  smear  is  ihb  ! "  Such  a  phrase 
as  this  would  surely  in  these  days  entitle  the  luinter  to  a  farthing 
damages  did  he  care  to  subject  his  art  to  l)i«  verdict  of  a  special 
)ur)-.  The  work  of  arrather  Academician,  whose  repute  ha.i  been 
piojc  enduring  than  that  of  Garrey— who,  by  the  way,  is  always 
called  "  Jarvey  " — Benjamin  West,  is  so  contemptible  that  to  see  it 
b  to  imbibe  a  disgust  for  "its  author." 

Of  a  picture  by  W.  Turner,  "  Ktshcimen  at  Sea,"  Williams 
speaks  in  terms  of  high  praise:  "The  management  is  novd,  but 
just,  one  of  the  greatest  proolis  of  an  original  mind,"  while  the  boats 
are  "buoyant  and  swim  weU.  Eight  others  display  the  same  excel* 
lent  chanctetisttcs."  ilamerton,  in  his  Life,  states  that  Turner 
exhibited  eleven  pictures  io  1796,  wh:le  here  we  have  notice  of  nine 
only.  Kot  being  able  to  refer  to  the  Catalogue,  we  are  uruble  to 
account  for  the  discrepancy ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  our  auittor 
discerrKd  in  these  early  elTbrts — for  the  painter  was  only  twenly-one 
years  old,  allhot^h  the  Academy  had  accepted  a  picture  from  him 
seven  years  before — the  nascent  genius  of  the  world's  greatest  bnd- 
scape  painter,  and  established  his  own  claims  as  a  critic  despite  his 
admiration  for  the  conventionalities  of  Sir  George  Beaumont.  It 
would  be  too  mu^  to  expect  bin  to  recognise  the  taste  and 
generosity  of  the  " hujjscr-mugger  congress"  which  accepted  so 
away  vorits  from  an  artist  so  young  and  socially  so  humble.  A 
portrait  of  Arthur  Young,  by   ].  R.mn^  v\  ^kmA.  -w'^^Jms^.  ^^w:^ 


594 


Tk4  CenilemaHi  Magaxitu. 


:ted :  but  H 


obiemtions  on  its  subject  which  we  raigtit  have  expected ; 
ground*  of  Willkmii's  dislike  of  Young  probably  did  not  ibeii  exist 
The  Kmuk  is  made  that  in  his  exhibition  the  portntt  painter  ba: 
hit  tipon  the  new  ptin  of  allUing  the  name  of  the  person  depicted 
It  was  not,  however,  >  new  phn,  ik  indeed  we  have  seen  in  thi 
author's  own  preTJou*  pamphlet,  and  did  not  become  itnit-efsal,  fo 
the  "  Pwirait  of  a  Genttcnun  "  wu  an  occasion  of  cheap  wit  fo 
many  yeari  alterwardi.  A  picture  of  "  Hogar  and  the  Angel,"  b] 
Downman.  A.R.A.,  is  another  intunoe  of  the  fact  that  "  vanity,  ami 
not  genius,"  was  in  i7()6  the  chatacterbtic  of  modetn  attlsts.  Or 
the  other  hand,  we  have  an  instance  of  manly  independence  oa  th« 
part  of  Seymour,  a  painter  of  hones,  who,  haring  irrevereotl] 
claimed  kinship  with  the  Duke  of  Somcnet  on  the  strength  of  theii 
conUDOn  name,  wu  dismissed  from  his  employ  by  that  proud  noble 
tMtn.  Being  recalled  by  the  Duke,  who  thought  probably  thai 
decorative  painting  by  a  competent  relative  was  preferable  to  tha 
by  an  incompetent  sttanger,  Seymour,  to  prove  doubile&s  that  thi 
bughty  Uood  Aow«d  also  in  hb  veins,  refused  to  return,  and  tob 
the  Duke  he  might  go  to— another  place.  jH 

We  now  come  to  the  "  Memoirs  of  the  Royal  Academidaoif 
and  have  at  last  a  full  taite  of  Willianu's  qoality,  the  quality  whic^ 
nadc  him  dreaded  by  actors  and  actresses,  and  which  prob^l] 
accounts  for  his  wandering  life  and  sudden  extirKtion.  Among  the 
Academicians  of  his  day  was  the  Itrtt,  and  we  beticre  the  only, 
gentleman  in  holy  orders  who  has  ever  figured  among  the  choser 
Forty.  His  sacred  piofenion  would  alone  have  sufficed  to  rende 
him  the  sport  of  such  a  one  as  our  satirist ;  but  there  were  soou 
circumstances  in  his  case  which  provided  some  superficial  groundi 
at  least  for  innuendoes,  if  not  positive  diaries.  A  clergyman  isalwaji 
fair  game,  but  one  who  can  be  accused  of  having  enjoyed  life  to  tbi 
(iiU— of  bavin;;,  in  fact,  "  had  his  Otng,"  until  youth  was  left  h. 
behind  him,  of  having  taken  orders  at  the  ripe  age  of  forty-one,  am 
of  having  so  soon  as  the  law  permitted  stepped  into  a  good  livuif 
provided  by  one  of  his  ctstwhilc  boon  companions— certainly  lay 
him«etr  open  to  the  insinuations  of  persons  less  outspoken  th» 
"Pasriuin."  Matthew  William  Peters  was  botn  in  1743.  firs 
exhibited  with  the  Academy  in  1766,  wat  Associace  in  1771,  ful 
Academkain  in  1777,  and  was  otdaincd  in  1783,  in  which  year  bi 
became  Rector  of  Eaton,  in  Ldcestershirc.  Without  consulting  thi 
Academy  Catalogues  we  ate  not  able  to  dcsaibc  the  nature 
earlier  works,  when  he  was  artist  only  and  not  cleric  ;  but 
hints — and  Va  VMn!ia  vra^  xwwxW*  -&«««.  «*.  V«,^i*Kmw 


I 


I 

I 

I 
I 


tbe/  vcrc  not  of  a  very  chastened  characler.  Of  the  hucr  one^i 
which  bear  the  imprcas  of  liif  acred  cnlling,  the  best  known  arc 
*'  An  Angcl  canying  a  Child  to  Paradiic."  which  is  «  Burghley,  and 
"The  Resurrection  of  a  Picas  Family,"  whicli  ii  we  know  not 
where,  having  been  sold  a  dozen  years  since  for  the  modest  sum  of 
twenty-two  guineas.  Knowledge  of  Baitolozd's  engraving  of  it 
leftds  one  to  think  that  the  seller  got  the  best  of  tbe  bargain.  On 
this  painter-priest  Williams  poured  out  freely  the  vials  of  his  vitu- 
peration. "  His  ikh  inugination  went  from  the  bowers  of  bliss  of  a 
Soathem  Cytherca  to  the  North  Pole  of  chilling  morality."  *'  He 
swallowed  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  with  the  eagerness  of  a  famished 
monk,  and  if  the  salvMJon  of  his  neighbours  required  it  lias  a 
stomach  for  thirty-nine  times  as  many."  "  If  ever  there  was  a 
shriek  tn  Pandemonium,  it  must  have  been  when  his  ample  shoulders 
were  hallowred  with  the  toga  of  divinity,"  while  the  sentence  describ* 
ing  the  manner  in  which  he  was  con\'ctied  is  unquotable.  A 
temporary'  lapse  from  the  paths  of  virtue,  during  which  be  painted  a 
scene  from  "The  Merry  Wives  of  Wtndiof,"  would  be,  the  writer 
charitably  hoped,  atonL-d  for  by  a  year  of  penance. 

Much  Of  little  as  the  clerg)'man  may  have  deserved  the  satirist's 
aninudrcrsions,  of  which  the  above  extracts  are  a  Uowdlcrised 
sample,  the  judgment  passed  by  the  critic  on  the  painter  is  just 
enough,  however  different  in  its  "  call-a-spadc-a -spade  "  style  it  may 
be  from  that  to  which  we  arc  accustomed.  "  The  family  bursting 
from  a  sepulchre "  like  a  "  vigorous  potato "  is  "  ludicrously 
wonderful,''  an  opinion  which  will  be  endorsed  by  anyone  who  has 
seen  tlvc  print.  Such  pictures  as  "  The  Angel  carrying  the  Spirit  of 
a  Child  to  Paradise  "  are,  he  frankly  confesses,  not  to  be  measured 
by  the  faculties  of  a  sinner  such  as  he,  but  with  all  humility  he 
submits  that  a  naked  boy  brought  into  close  proximity  to  a  fiery 
furnace  would  probably  writlie  in  exactly  the  same  maimer,  aiul  he 
cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  remark  tliat  the  e%idently  female  sex 
of  the  attendant  artels  betrays  the  old  leaven  of  tl>e  pointer's 
unr^enerale  days.  In  another  pmphlet,  published  two  years 
earlier,  "The  Royal  Academicians;  a  Farce,"  this  hankering  on 
Pelers's  part  after  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt  was  insisted  upon  in  terms 
which  cannot  be  brought  into  the  light  from  the  obscure  pages  in 
jkbich  they  are  hidden,  while  the  pseudonym  conferred  upon  him  is 
%n>  of  the  long  list  of  thirty-one  whidi  is  at  once  a 
'Rd  not  to  be  transcnbed.  As  there  is  tittle 
t  primitive  kind  in  this  farce,  from  wliicb 


The  Gentieman's  Magasitu. 

funhcT  rciDoirl:,  being,  unlike  most  of  our  author's  work,  dull  u  cd 
«s  diny.  The  humour  ui  the  names  of  the  dramatii  ftrtMui'isfiA 
as  might  be  m^inuracturcd  b/  a  strtiggling  apprentice  in  the  nadt  <t 
punniitg.  Edward  Burcb  becomes  "  Ned  Bunch  o'  Rods,"  RidBd 
Coaway  "Tinj  Cosmetic,"  and  Edward  Edwards  "  Niddy  NtAij.' 
William  Tyler  is  *■  Willy  Top  o'  the  House,"  and  NathanM  Dm 
•■  Nailianiel  Minuet,"  while  Oiarlcs  Catton  is  "  Chaitea  CoKh(md' 
Inallunoti  to  hb  original  occupation.  Michael  Angcio  Rookaii 
"Sulky  Mike,"  which  may  be  based  upon  an  idiosyDCiaiy;aiJ 
Edward  Garvey  become*  "  Edward  Garbage."  We  are  told  of  1^ 
by  the  way,  that  he  was  preferred  by  the  Academicians  to  Wi^ 
Derby,  when  a  candidate  for  election,  Wright  thus  being  one  (i  lb 
liist  of  (he  long  lift  of  great  painters  scouted  by  that  august  boi^. 

Returning  to  the  Notvs  on  ihe  Academicians,  we  read  of 
that  he  was  mighty  and  charming,  though  negligent.  Of  ]< 
Barry  we  arc  told  that  he  led  so  secluded  a  life  that  the  gim  pet 
thickly  on  his  thrnhold  in  Castle  Street,  and  the  cattle  vwM 
fioni  Oxford  Street  Market  to  browse  upon  jL  The  libovt 
Robert  Smith,  expended  upon  his  pictures  from  Shakespeare; 
perverted  by  the  ignorance  ar>d  vanity  of  Taylor,  who 
them ;  while  excuses  are  made  for  W'illiam  Hamilton  becasK 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  a  pupil  of  Zucchl  A  portrait  of  an 
princess  by  J.  S.  Copley  b  described  as  "  flutter  and  fotly, 
and  ribands,"  and  the  remark  upon  it  in  depreciation  cf  ihe 
is  revolting  in  its  profanity.  Copley's  first  picture  of  note  is  tud 
have  teen  "A  Shark  biting  off  the  Leg  of  Mr.  Brook  Watsoa.'«liA 
must  be  unique  among  family  pomaits.  The  last  criticism  is  oo  £k' 
Francis  Bourgeois :  *'  He  knows  little  of  cotouiiiig,  little  of  pospte- ' 
tiv^  little  of  human  anatomy,  and  less  of  effect  than  dtbo,' 
then  the  author  ends  his  work  with  a  hold  self.justification,  " 
call  me  the  tyrant  of  the  arts  and  the  drama,  but  if  it  is  a  InMI 

to  be  just,!  shall  deserretlw  opprobrium  and  maintain  my  pcindjk 
I  would  admonish,  but  not  destroy." 

A.  c  coxBua 


OLD    ANNUALS 


"    A  LI.  Upa  b  vamty,"  S3i)r»  Mt.  Stiggins,  and  Sam  Wdlcr,  of- 
£\.    immortal  memory,  replies : — 

"1  dcssay  ihey  may  be,  but  vkh  b  your  panitElar  wanity?" 
One  of  my  "i>artil:Iar  wanitics"  is  the  collection  of  old  and  useless 
ia^HS,  amongst  tltcm  that  special  class  called  Annuato,  now  as 
extinct  as  the  Dodo. 

In  my  mircgcneiatc  days,  when  1  had  no  snch  *'  wanity,"  the 
right  of  elaborate  steel  cngnvingf  "embellishing"  flabby  and  senij. 
mental  letterpress  would  simply  have  weariwi  mc.  Now,  boih  have 
a  chann  arising  partly  from  association,  partly  from  a  ceruln  pensive 
and  old-world  beatity  of  ihcir  own.  It  is  beauty,  but  worn  with  ft 
di/Terence.    And  suek  a  ditTi^^mcc  I    That  makes  the  charm. 

I  can  at  any  moment  shut  my  eyes  and  thus  bring  bcfor«  my 
nCDtal  rision  an  otd&shioncd  rectory  drawing-room,  whoae 
windows  look  on  lawn  and  flower-beds,  and  a  steep  grassy  banlc 
where  sweet  violets  grew  in  the  spring.  At  each  ndi  of  that  window 
arc  bookcases  and  boolc  cupboards  containing,  in  my  childish  fancy, 
a  perfect  treasure  of  unfamiliar  books,  for  I  was  only  an  occasional 
visitor  in  that  rectory.  How  often  since  have  I  dreamt  at  night  of 
that  diawing-room,  and  always  the  same  dream — that  I  bad  sttcccodcd 
in  opening  one  cupboard,  which  I  suppose  was  usually  kept  locked, 
and  had  found  therein  such  books  !—such  dream  boohs  as  nei'cr  were 
or  will  be  written  in  this  world  ! 

But  to  return  to  reality.  Among  the  books  I  was  able  to  get  at 
mre  three  little  \-otumet  bound  in  stamped  leather  and  called 
"  Friendship's  Offering." 

The  greU  cfaarm  to  me  in  these  little  old-fashioned  volumes  lay 
less  in  the  steel  engraringx,  which  nevertheless  formed  part  of  the 
glamour,  than  in  the  stories  which  accompanied  ihcm.  To  us  of  the 
piewnt  day,  the  stories  and  poems  in  the  old  Aruiaals  resemble 
notlung  M  much  as  stale  sponge  cakes  and  6at  soda  water ;  to  oae, 
as  a  child,  they  were  the  very  csscikc  of  the  world's  romance 

There  were  brigands,  troubadours,  knights,  abbesses,  and  lovely 


598 


The  Gentlgmatt's  Afe^azitu. 


kdtes  in  thesestorict ;  there  were  wondetful  uid  muncal  naniei,Sev)l 
Andalusia,  Genoa,  Padu&— lutne*  which  had  sn  Aioma  never  oow 
be  imparted  hj  guide  book  or  forei^  tnvcl.  But  why  were  I 
scenes  of  so  nuny  of  the  tlorics  in  those  old  Annuitis  bid  in  It: 
and  Spain  ? 

I  n  answer  to  that  idle  question,  we  may  remember  that  a  lonK  i 
had,  in  the  pre-Annual  days,  dosed  the  Continent  almoist  compldi 
to  British  trarcllcrs.  Klatetfanitlias  had  to  content  herself  « 
txktng  her  brood  yearly  to  ■  "  Bath  "  or  a  "  \\e\h  "  where  tlie  ^ 
went  (o  the  Pump-rooms  and  the  Assembly  balls  and  round  husbuH 
There  were  no  Cook's  tickets,  no  Dr.  Lunn's  tours,  no  railroads, : 
trippers  in  those  hak)-on  daj-s— the  Continent  was  a  scaled  book 
the  ordinary  British  bmily.  fl 

What  wonder  that  when  peace  was  at  last  proclaimed,  the  b9 
inatirKis  of  the  British  tourist  broke  out  with  a  fury  which  carried  h 
over  the  Continent  in  an  ecstasy  of  ardour  and  posthorsea;  it 
nordists  and  story  wrilers  hastened  to  lay  the  scenes  of  their  bl 
effons  in  the  rotnautic  countries  of  Italy  and  Spain,  and  that  atti 
and  engravers  found  their  h^best  socceiaes  in  delicate  aitd  elabon 
delineations  of  scenes  abroad,  and  never  were  lakes,  mountains,  a 
dlies  so  etherealiscd  and  enchanted  as  we  find  them  in  the  t 
Annuab  by  the  pencils  of  Turner,  l^out,  and  nuny  others  ? 

How  old-fashioned  those  elaborately  beautiful  steel  engravit 
look  to  us  now,  and  yet  our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  pi 
more  hard  money  for  them  than  we  should  be  «riUir%  to  give,  I  fan 
as  can  be  proved  by  tlie  fact  that  the  aecond  "  Keepsake  " — that  1 
i8>9 — cost,  to  bring  out,  no  lest  than  1 1,000  guineas  !  J 

What  is  there  in  it  to  justify  such  wild  expenditure,  we  Jf^ 
we  hold  the  compact,  oblong,  plain  volume  in  our  hands?  PU 
in  these  days  of  gaudy  cloth  bindings  unknown  then.  But  I; 
binding  is  crimson  watered  sitk  ;  how  fndcd  now,  bow 
then  I  and  it  is  gilt-lettcrcd  on  the  back. 

Open  it,  and  look  at  the  ornamental  "  Presentation  Plate^ 
Title-page,  with  their  delicate  and  graceful  Cupids,  Graces,  ai 
Muses.  Turn  over  the  leaves  and  note  the  two  Tumcn— li 
lulian  lakes  of  Albano  and  Maggiore,  with  tlieit  wttcliery  of  Irat 
parent  water  and  sky,  so  delicately  translated  by  the  cngrxn 
pictures  to  dream  over  I  fl 

Look  at  tlie  quaintly  iwMa  scene  in  "  Boccaccio's  Garden,*^ 
those  undulating  figures  peculiar  to  the  graceful  pcrKil  of  Stotban 
the  Landseer  portrait  of  Maida,  Scotfs  favourite  deeihound,  taki 
onA)  a  tew   -KcOfcs  \)«.V<mc  ^^ir  t«Ma  ^iiq^  4«Lih.     Oh, 


1 


K  i-»y 


Old  AftHuah. 


599 


ptctores,  though  not  pcthap«  according  to  present  taste,  are  so 
lovely,  delicite,  and  graccrul,  ttut  for  tbcm  alone  the  booJi  would  be 
worth  preserving. 

And  what  about  the  1cttcrprc«?  Letterpress  !  The  very  word 
is  diquriting — it  so  obviously  suggests  something  n-ritten  to  order  to 
accompany  a  picture.  Well,  in  the  volume  1  Iiave  before  me,  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  three  stories  here  printed  for  the  first  time,  as  h« 
telb  us  himself  in  one  of  bis  prefaces,  though  he  unaccountably 
ascribes  them  to  the  Christmas  of  iSiS  in^teitd  of  1829.  The 
stories  are;  "My  Aunt  Margaret's  Mirror."  "The  Tapestried 
Chamber,"  and  '■  Death  of  the  Laird's  Jock."  They  arc  set  down 
as  being  "By  the  Author  of  'Waverley.'"  In  the  next  volume, 
that  for  rSjo,  Soolt  ha.i  a  drama,  "The  House  of  Aspen,"  and  he  is 
tbcrc  called  by  his  full  name  and  title,  "Sir  Walter  Scott"  This  is 
a  work  of  his  early  youth,  partly  an  adaptation  of  a  German 
nriginal,  and  profcfscdly  .in  imitation  of  the  German  school  which 
had  been  inaugurated  by  Goethe's  "Goclz  von  Berlidiingen,"  and 
to  which  Schiller's  "  Robbers  "  belonged. 

1  must  say  there  is  but  tittle  trace  of  the  "  Wizard  of  llie  Kortli " 
in  this  production,  even  though  the  subject  be  the  terrible  tribunal 
of  the  "  Vthmscruht^  afterwards  better  treated  in  "  Anne  of  Geier- 
stein." 

Coleridge  seems  a  fVequent  contributor  to  the  "  Keeptake,"  and 
to  at  least  one  other  Annual,  "  Friendship's  OlTering."  It  is  in  the 
latter  that  he  has  those  imitations  of  classical  metres  of  which  the 
following  two  lines  are  well  known : — 

In  the  hexameter  rites  the  fbuntaln'f  stlrefy  column. 
In  the  pcntJiiDctcT  vjk,  faUtog  in  melody  back. 

In  the  same  volume,  that  for  1834,  are  to  be  found  those  "L>ght> 
beartednesses  in  Rhyme"  that  contain  the  humorous  abuse  of 
Cologne  which  he  called  "  Expectorations  :  "— 

I  oaantcd  iwo-uid-Mventjr  ticnehct. 
All  aell-defia'J  M)d  tcpuate  (lioL»  I 


The  rirc*  Rhine,  it  i*  well  knovn, 
I>cith  v3>h  your  dty  of  Coki|[ne  i 
But  tell  me.  eymph*.  what  power  ditine 
ShaD  henc«rotth  nth  the  river  Klitne  1 


In  the  "  Keepsake "  for  1830  he  has  those  nobie  lines 
three  "  Graces  "  of  Education :— 


The  GeniUman  s  Magazine. 


O'ct  warnid  diiMhood  voaliM  tboo  hold  6nn  nito. 
And  ton  ibt«  in  Uw  l%Ui  of  lappy  bcci, 
Lciv«,  Hop*,  and  ruiencc,  (Iicm  mux  U  Uiy  Giacet, 

And  In  [Mat  own  bout  let  them  6nl  kcqi  tcboo). 

How  all  our  inodem  educational  Tiidi  must  come  back  at  b 
these  beautiful  prccqits,  given  in  SRXwer  to  "a  Lady's  que 
respoctiog  the  accomplishments  mott  desirable  in  an  iiHtmctm 
ditldten:" — 

Yet  Uqily  tbcK  will  eosne  a  weuy  d>y 

Wb«  oTertuk«il  Kl  len|iti 
Bodi  Love  and  Hope  beaauh  iIk  load  give  my, 
Tlwa  wdti  ■  ttune'i  smile.  ■  >tuue*»  itreneiti, 
Suad*  tbe  onie  lifieT.  Piiicnce,  iMiMnc  locb. 
And,  bMh  Htpportinc  do««  di«  work  of  both. 

Neither  do  Wordsworth  aiid  Soulhcy  disdain  to  contiibai 
tlic  Annuals.  In  the  "Keepsake"  for  1819  Wordsworth  has 
pieces,  one  of  which  is  the  sonnet  on  that  ncD-known  tomb  in 
cloisters  of  Worcester  Othedral,  which  b  inscribed  with  the  si 
word  "  Miscnimus."  Another  poem  b  on  tlie  equally  well-kn 
"  WiiUing  Gate  "  at  Grasmert  But— low  be  it  spoken  !— Wo 
worth  docs  not  seem  in  these  Annual  poem*  to  rise  much  above 
Ie\'el  of  hi.i  fellow  contributors. 

Mudi  more  interesting  are  those  "  Frafunents,  by  Percy  By 
ShcHey,"  contributed  by  his  widow.  That  exquisitely  plaii 
little  poem  "The  Auota,"  which  seems  to  give  us  such  an  i«fti 
momentary  glimpse  into  the  poet's  life  with  bis  Mary  in  Italy,  sc 
simply  to  light  up  the  pages  of  the  "  Keepsake."  I  cannot 
quoting  it : — 

"  Dill  jrou  not  hsu  the  AdoU  ny} 
M«<luntu  ih«  mnit  be  ni^," 

Said  Mit)'  as  we  lalc 
la  dutk,  on  kiatt  ware  lit,  or  cudk*  bfought ; 

And  I,  who  tbougtit 
TUs  A^oln  WM  Min«  ttdloiH  wooiui, 
Adted,  "WlioiaAdola?"    How  «1m< 
1  Itlt  to  know  ifau  k  «M  nothing  hnmant 
No  mockoy  of  nqisdf  to  fear  or  hale : 

And  Miry  saw  my  uxd, 
And  laughed  nnJ  nid.  ■■  Disquiet  younetf  not  f 
Til  nothing  but  a  little  downy  owL" 

Sad  Af  l»1a  !    Many  an  eventide 

Thy  made  I  had  ttMrd 
By  wood  and  iimm,  meadow  aad  ntounlnin  side, 
KtAfvM&aai&TMnfeiaa  wld«. 


Old  Annuals. 


601 


I 


I 


^^^^B  Sodi  K  DM  ridce,  no*  lute,  mat  wind,  dot  Utd, 
^^^^H  Tbc  wul  cfo  uiir'd  t 

^^^^^K  Unlike,  and  fii  iwwtet  than  tbem  alL 

^^^^V  Si4  AiIciU  I     From  ihit  inaintnl  I 
^^^^  I.e>Tcd  ihK  anil  lb;  nd  ay. 

SbeUcy  does  not  oflen  write  in  this  quaint,  halframiliar  strain. 
He  has,  however,  a  longer  poem,  the  "  Letter  to  Maria  CUboroe," 
whicfa  bas  the  same  unwonlcd  chann. 

How  strange  it  is  to  thtnk  that  when  this  "fragment,"  the 
"Aiiob,"  K.1S  published  in  the  "Keepsake,"  Shelley  had  been 
scarcely  more  than  half  a  doicn  years  dead  1  A  still  shorter  time 
had  Byron  been  dead,  when  some  hrtlcrs  of  his  were  given  to  the 
"  Keepsake  "  for  1830,  In  o«e  of  them,  written  the  year  of  Shelley's 
death,  he  mentions  the  building  of  bis  new  boat  at  Genoia.  At  the 
same  time  and  place  wai  built  the  "  Don  Juan,"  that  "  iatal  bark,* 
"  Built  in  theedipse  and  rigged  witli  curses  dark,"  which  cost  England 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  and,  alas,  at  that  time,  one  of  the  least 
recognised  of  her  sons  of  song  ! 

But,  to  leave  aside  these  great  names,  we  meet  some  which, 
though  known,  can  only  shine  with  a  reflected  glory.  Of  these  are 
Edward  Quillinan,  for  instance,  and  Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker 
poet ;  perhaps  also  Mrs.  Shelley,  or,  as  she  is  always  styled  in  th« 
Annuals,  "the  author  of  rrankcnstcin." 

Mrs.  Shelley  is  an  indelatigabic  contributor  to  the  "  Keepsake." 
Indeed,  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  she  sceros  to  have  had  for  a 
time  but  a  poor  and  struggling  life  of  it,  and  to  luive  depended, 
partially  at  least,  upon  her  pen.  Her  stories  show  little  or  nothing 
of  the  weird  power  of  "  Frankenstein."  They  are  curiously  deficicnl 
in  dramatic  qualities,  and  are  generally  mere  lumuiivcs  of  some 
more  or  less  interesting  ir>cident  taking  place  in  France,  Italy,  or 
Greece,  One  of  the  stories,  "  Ferdinand  of  Eboli,"  would,  in  the 
hands,  say,  of  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman,  and  treated  as  he  would  treat  it, 
make  quite  a  thrillir^  historical  romance.  It  is  rcaUy  at  present  so 
much  raw  material  thrown  away !  Another— probably  written  to 
order  for  two  delicate  engravings,  after  Turner,  of  "Virginia  Water " 
—though  in  the  scniimenlal  piling  ufi  fir  agtmy  style  of  the  twenties 
and  thirties,  possesses,  for  two  reasons,  a  certain  interest  of  its  own. 
First,  00  account  of  the  descriptions  of  the  solitary  beauty  of  the 
lake  and  surrounding  woods,  which  accord  well  with  tlie  pictures, 
and  secondly,  because  the  hero  describes  with  genuine  and  passionate 
rincerity  his  sufferings— the  sufferings  of  a  sensitive  and  lonely  boy 
,  — «t  Eton.  It  is  impossible  not  to  think  of  Sbcllcy,  for  all  tt^ 
VOL.  ccxcu.     tto.  SOjS.  "X  A. 


The  Genttemans  Magazitu, 

aendmenu  ex{>re93ed  are  his,  an<l  hard  to  believe  that  the  tnc 
the  murdered  bullfinch  is  not  a  teal  one. 

Edward  QuiUinan  *ras  no  great  writer,  but  be  lies  beside  Wo 
wonh  in  the  little  diurchyatd  of  Gnumcre.  He  married  I 
Woirdsworth,  whose  chanos— In  the  "Triad" — were  oelcbnued 
Wordsworth  in  ihc  "  Keepsake" for  1839,  and  in  the  "Forgets 
not"  for  1844  lie  writes  on  the  funeral  of  Robert  Souther.  1 
robio$i  he  sajn  in  his  verses,  lar^  pereistentty  as  the  funeral  pro 
sion  passed,  amid  storms  of  wind  and  rain.  The  poem  is  certa 
not  remarkable,  but  in  the  opening  lines  we  hare  an  ocbo 
Wordswonh  and  a  roll-call  of  mountain  names,  which  tliriUs 
heart  of  the  lover  of  Wordswonh  and  the  Lake  country  as 

names  can  ; — 

Croclfawaihi  Towvr  *rk1i  fertti  a  knell, 

Skiddaw  kaowi  in  monios  well  t 

And  Ui«  mooalaln  *tUi  Va  twad. 

At  ibcy  bttu  away  tbe  dtad ; 

ScawfeU UcUt hiiloweriac bd^  ; 

GJanMMa  thnnb  fnm  ti^  t 

AB  the  toknn  Steeds  tuHMiid 

V«al  thcif  Bwn  from  the  waaaA  1 

Dcfweat  tMtn  h.  Onia  hmn ; 

And  wliik  the  Oaadi  "■pply  iheit  lean, 

Tbe  ooablecl  Riven  n  ihef  ewcll 

Hoandy  chiile  that  fimetal  belt 

tleiben'k  Haunt  oa  Kmick-Mcre 

Feeb  tbe  Ghml  of  Gcniai  neat ; 

Lodoce  Madi  ■  deeper  wail 

To  the  KMi^  hoMt  of  Borrowd    e. 

Stnam  and  Lakr,  and  Force  and  Fdl, 

SriTas  Itle  and  iMcky  Ocll, 

Thdi  put  in  tliii  diy'i  tonow  bcu, 

And  beanci  ouke  ibc  )[toom  they  ihate ; 

Fo(  OUT  bninaD  lediac*  ci*e 

SjmipUhiw  that  ID  thcB  live. 

Edward  QuiUinan  still  lives  in  the  renes  of  a  greater 
It  is  of  him  that  &(atthcw  Arnold  wrote  :— 

t  Mw  him  icniiiive  in  frame, 

I  kaew  bit  spiiitt  low. 
And  wiihTd  Mm  health,  luoecu,  and  fxioK, 

I  do  not  widi  it  now. 

Foe  tboe  are  all  then  own  rewud 

And  leave  no  good  behind ; 
Tbey  Ifjr  ut.  ofieneM  mnke  it>  hard, 

Len  tnodett,  pore,  nnd  kind. 


Old  Annuals. 


603 


But  he  i*  now  liy  Totiune  bU'd 
No  maM :  fttid  <"«  reUin 

Siicct,  gtacTou*,  4nd  huinBft& 
With  atl  Ac  foilunilc  h«vc  not, 

nith  goillc  mice  and  brow — 
Alii-e,  we  vonld  )uvc  chin|;«l  hb  lott 

We  WGulil  not  cliange  il  iiow, 

Man>-  a  nun  has  a  worse  title  lo  remembrance  than  Edwaid 
Quillinan. 

Bernard  Barton  was  «  considerable  writer  in  his  day,  and  in  the 
half-dozen  or  so  Annuals  which  lie  before  me  he  has  man)-,  many 
verses,  but  who  rcadi  them  now  ?  WTio  ihinlts  of  him  except  to 
remember  that  h«  wa-;  the  friciul  and  correspondent  of  Lamb,  and 
so  great  a  friend  of  Edward  FitJ^erakl's  that  the  latter,  on  the  death 
of  tlic  Quaker  poet,  took  his  middle-«ged  daughter  to  wife  and — the 
less  said  of  that  laatilagc  the  better  !  In  the  "  Fotsei-me-not "  foe 
1817,  by  the  by,  Bernard  Barton  has  some  lin«  addressed  lo  this 
daughter — curious  to  read  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events. 

Another  and  very  different  person  who  shines  by  tcOcctcd  light  is 
Lady  Caroline  Lamb.    Not  that  she  was  not  capable  of  shining,  ar>d 
rery  brilliantly,  by  her  own—  for  she  was  an  eccentric  meteor  enough, 
Sashing  acrodH  the  iiiath  of  Byron  and  coruumiiig  not  hiin  Imt  herself 
in  her  devouring  fUmca.    U'ho  does  not  remember  the  ttory  of  her 
dressing  herself  up  as  a  man  and  visiting  him  in  his  rooms,  artd  that 
other  story  of  the  Kemhlcs  seeing  her  through  the  lighted  window  of 
bcr  lo/m  in  Paris,  in  one  of  her  gusts  of  passion,  smashing  oil  the 
^assat>d  china  of  ihesappcr  table?    The  cause  of  this  outbreak  was 
supposed  to  be  Byton  again.     In  the  "  Keepsake  "  for  1830  occurs 
ft  poem  said  to  be  by  Lady  Caroline  Lamb,  who,  however,  died  early 
in  1818.     Perhaps  her  husband  gave  the  poem  ;  perhaps  she  herself 
before  she  died.     Note  the  stgni6catKc  of  the  bit  vctK : — 
WOMAN'S  LOVE. 
DU  cv«i  BUI  a  woana  kwe. 
And  Uuea  l«  her  flaltciy. 
Who  £d  not  Koa  hbMly  ptora, 

Aad  nwaminRnelKr  bwebenr? 
For  were  xh«  fair  u  orient  bcuu 

Th*t  ^A  the  clondlot  Miamct  tkict. 
Of  iamcsnt  u  tiisiaa*  dmiM, 

Or  mcUbc  **  i'^"  lovert'  eyct. 
Of  >«!<  the  pw«  M  Iklli&g  dcwi 

llat  deck  the  Udmmu  of  Ihc  tpnoK, 
Still,  nan,  ihy  lore  the  wnild  winwe. 
And  from  thy  ta«3tt  conteataMtic  ytrte^ 


604  "^kf  Gcntieman's  Magazine. 

Tbn  inst  her  aot.  Ibm^  Ut  and  ]rem(  i 
Han  Iku  *0  Xbmjty  title  ticuTi  ctirTcil, 

Ttiat  wiMiaa  ihinfci  ibe  iloes  im  wroRg 
\MieD  she  ii  bbe  aad  be  decdved. 

Mh  pendant  to  this,  read  the  foUon-mg  :— 

WSAr  /S  £.OV£t 

Br  M.   L. 

Love  if  the  pudon  which  cBdarvih. 
WUdh  neithe*  tin*  noc  kbsciKc  cai«(b 
TOdi  nooght  oTcuihtr  dMagc  can  s«rer. 
Love  b  Uk  lifht  which  hhiocs  for  cwr. 

Whu  <«M  mmI  tdfidi  bnawu  deem  >n»diM9S 
Ll*et  In  lU  de|Mh  of  jojr  mm)  Mdnm : 
In  beam,  on  IJp«  of  fiame,  it  bumetb  ; 
Ow  ii  ill  ««()d,  to  MU  it  tntacth. 

Ittek*in«fCoU— wkUbndeajiUexk  it? 
tu  dMihktt  hold— what  force  cm  ibttkc  it  ? 
Mctc  poflioa  cnglil  oTcutb  bm^  9Knx, 
Bat  iatiii  thil  lore— love  on  far  cTcr. 

There   is  a  pretty  touch  of  sincerity  and   eamcstnesj  sboat  1 
little  poem.     Who  wrote  il?    U'ould   I   could   think  it  wcrdbf^ 
lAmb  I    But  I  fear  not— I  out  find  no  mention  of  it,  «nd  in  ibf 
the  clotids  about  poor  Marr  were  vety  dArk. 

Most  of  the  "  Annual  "  writers  arc  nothing  if  not  Eeiuiincnt& 
Songs  by  Hayncs  Bayly  abound,  and  the  copyright  of  them  is  a» 
folly  safeguarded,  reminding  us  bow  great  was  that  now  brgOK 
pop;ilarity.  Verses  innumerable  ihcre  are  with  names  like  "Lte 
on  Presenting  a  Copy  of  *  Lalb  Rookh '  to  a  Lady  "  (who  prtMnBt 
copy  of  "Lalla  Rookh"  to  a  lady  nQw?^  and,  u  I  hare  alradf 
hinted,  knights,  troubadours,  Albanians,  Spaniards,  pictaroTK 
Tobben,  and  haughty  highwaymen  stalk   through   the  paga  d 

But  occasionally  the  writers  are  gently  humorous.  Very  oca- 
sionally,  for  even  Theodore  Ho<A  drivels  more  or  less,  and  Min 
Mitford  in  the  later  Annuals  distinctly  prefers  fragments  froa  bo 
tragedies  to  village  scenes  and  characters,  though  ahe  has  these  toa 
But  in  the  first  "  Keepsake,"  though  anonymous,  Leigh  Hunt  sttadi 
out  froiQ  all  the  rest  by  his  delightful  essay  on  Pockctbooks,  at- 
taining that  parody  on  a  well-known  passage  in  Marlowe's  "Jewrf 
Ualto,"  part  of  which  is  as  follows ; — 


Old  Annuals. 

At  Iw  iheae  Bildiniu  uid  ihc  men  of  Leag 

Tbti  bouehi  m)-  W&IiR  Scolit  lad  cookery  boiA*, 

Ileic  have  I  puriei!  ibcir  p*llry  Kxyidpu. 

Fie  I  what  a  tioutilc  'lu  to  count  loch  book*  I 

Gire  me  the  flculcii  \a  ihc  wgvcnln, 

That  trade  in  voiumct  worth  thcii  weight  in  gold. 


605 


PHmoI  with  Ink  wlib  trine  ia  It,  »nil  boatid 
By  fcilotin,  M  *X  operiu.  In  Icid  glova ; 
Boolu  hiund  in  oi«l,  tipphiic,  unethjiit. 
With  lojoi  tooling,  Eden  gtccn  morocco, 
llM  oncewu  ilippen  to  an  emiieror  t 
And  fiiU  oT  aoUclei  of  t>  greftt  price. 
At  oaw  of  them  indiScitally  wtitlen 
And  aol  MCtitied  unto  x  nun  or  i^talit]-, 
Mlj^i  wne  in  pciil  of  a  wiit  of  Middlnax 
To  ruuom  grcal  binli  froin  captivity. 
Thii  b  the  toit  of  jHibliibing  Tot  me.  .  .  • 


And  in  another  volume  of  the  "Keepsake*  the  author  of 
"Ganby,"  T.  J.  I-Uter,  has  an  amusing  "Dialogue  for  the 
Year  3130."  Hear  the  prophecies,  and  remember  that  when  it 
was  vtiltcn  railway  cheap  education,  tclqihones,  and  many  other 
things  were  not 

It  opens  with  three  fric[>ds  mccJng  in  Kensington  Square  : — 

SttltrX/iVDK ohi^Sir  Jauki  B nwAV-Ma.  C— . 

LotD  A.  Ah,  C ■  I  am  delighted  lo  meet  yiM.    Yo«  aie  an  lUKzpecUd 

BO*ctt)r— I  tbooj-hl  you  were  in  Africa. 

Ma.  C.  I  imv  been  there  t  hut  1  tcA  it  a  mcoth  ago— «*e(]rbod]r  wu  kaviiig 
fl  when  I  came  away.  I  am  jiut  arrived  from  out  uT  Seotlaod ;  btoklMed  this 
aaemlag  at  Edinlxin^i  and  hat«  aot  been  in  town  above  a  couple  of  boufl^ 
The  fOftdf  are  dreadfully  heavy  bow.  Concrive  ay  haviiq;  been  tcvcD  hsvn  asd 
>  half  coming  from  Edinhurgli  tn  l.<i»dun  ! 

Sta  Jaues  B.  Aa  active  null  woxld  have  beaten  you.  ■  ■  • 


Africa  seems  to  have  loomed  largely  in  the  ftitufe  :— 

Loan  A.  Vou,  Lady  D ,  hare  nli»  been  travdiioc.  1  hetievc? 

LadV  D.  Ves,  we  weie  doI  of  England  in  the  winter.    Our  phyiiciao  1 

nModcd  a  witmn  elioiate  (or  Lord  D ,  bo  we  look  a  villa  on  (he  N^er,  ead 

■fttnrardt  uprai  a  tborl  time  11  Sadoloo. 

Ma.  C.  I  atppoM  70s  fousd  it  full  of  Englith  t 

LasyD.  Ohfttsitefntl,  and  tocha  tet  I  We  knew  hardly  any  of  them.  In 
tact  we  did  twt  go  there  br  Roctety.  We  met  a  few  pin  rant  people,  Aoslralvliu— 
the  Abcnhaws,  the  Hardy  Vaiuea,  and  Sir  Wiltbm  B»d  Lady  SoaiM*. 

Ma.  C  Did  you  go  t^-  the  new  Tangiee  and  Ttmbuctoo  toad  ^ 

LASY  D.  Vex,  we  did  ;  aad  we  found  it  exccllcot.  ... 


6o6 


The  GentlcmaH's  Magazifu. 


forab^ 


Typewriters  and  the  music  of  VViigner  arc  aUkc  fo 
Ute  following : — 

Ladv  D.  .  .  .  Hare  yon  M«a  Sh  Junct  Isldjr? 

Lord  A.  He  itoiiic<l  n  onlj  a  Kt«  ailaniet  Wfccc  wa  bad  ib«  |4i 
fiodiat;  ]raa  btlr. 

Lai>v  D.  I  wiib  foit  «<niM  Kold  hiat  Im  tne.  I  «nl  bun  an  iovil 
rnltnl*y  to  dine,  lad  be  nncr  cuMe. 

Mn.  C.  I  think  1  baud  hlni  Mjr  Owl  be  wu  isvited  for  [»nj|ht. 

Ladv  D.  Ah )  then  I  iind(«3lHHt  the  ranon.  Tbe  tuilt  bom hk 
h  that  mj  BulOBaton  oote-wriicr  dot*  make  lucli  drca>i]fol  whlatw  tin 
nalljrba**  Um  uImb  m  piiMa.  Do  ynu  Lno*  vhal  ho  diil  thcotbcrdai 
a  nel«  of  condokaoc  loMcad  of  canemuUiion  I  Add  i>  wa*  oe  ibe  ev« 
Lord  Baticnea'i  iMniage  «^  that  Iktte  Srt,  Mia  Pipliimon.  NouM 
have  been  nkore  imfaftumte.  I  daic  nj  I  am  nBpected  of  I 
parpMt.    Mi.  C ,  have  r(M  heud  tbe  tMiw  open  7 

UlC.  1>iyoutMM"AnnIbate"?    Yet,  I  hive  betrd  h. 

Ladt  D.  b  boI  ft  chanaine'  How  fine  that  "  PttHaec  d  tb«  A 
■low  well  the  miuie  repttaefiU  all  thai  one  caa  nipfKMe  (o  be  CDteg 
tnnnpting  and  beDawidf  o(  the  dtpbanli— Ihe  ibnnderilic  or  the  avalan^ 
repealed  Uowi  of  the  haamen  and  inallacka  i  then  how  inagnUieai 
cbDtii*  where  ihey  pom  Ibe  vineeu  dms  (be  luck*  I 

M*.  C  Yo,  verjr  IW  cotaialj  i  but  mokImiw  il  aet*  mj  leech  oa  a 

UtDT  D.  Hut  b  what  it  ought  lo  do.  .  .  . 


r% 


The  imincnsc  qurad  of  popular  Kictice  ai>d  unircrsal  ed 
Ittd  twt  begun  in  iSjo,  but  it  wns  clearly  anticipated,  and  n 
that,  but  lh«  nseleasness  of  cheap  sctcntifk:  knowledge  as  a  [ 
Cor  the  ilh  of  life  is  alyty  hinted  at  when  beggars 
nreepets  are  nude  to  talk  as  follows  :— 

Loan  A.  .  .  .  lUUo,  Sweeper  I     Hold,  jtn  have  tplaahcd  vx  t 

SwBana.  Ocb,  mre  !  I'd  be  aflhet  nupiadhiE  my  apemtiofuafaraj 
(Up'a  JMdihap  thonld  tecacre  aajr  diVianoil. 

Lou>  A.  Bat  I  AdM  reeeiTed  detriment  alieady. 

Swaarktt.  Why,  ihen.  by  ibe  power  el  pavJiMSoB,  anil  ••  I  liojie  (< 
bahnedi  I've  jierfanccd  ihoofXiMiceiofaUianlion  In  the  public  ray*  of  1 
nate  paralHIopam,  min  anil  bny,  above  twiniy  yean,  and  nivei  offended 
or  tirtcc,  at  alt,  ai  all,  pIoMyour  lorditiipH  honour,  in  Ihai  rtaplct  or  fa  « 
Shara  your  lordihip'i  haUtinient  dettitei  lo  be  ai  laamacukM  atyoot  li 
hosmr.  But  itep  on'  wjd  yets  BdV,  and  yell  be  iplaibed  no  noi^ 
fnmkrftu  ftii  ifult.  ■ 

Ma.  C  .  .  .  I  wonder  If  ihe  commoei  people  were  u  ceicfiilfic 
language  fonneTty.    Oh !  we  shall  have  nene  ntore  firte  phmsedog;— tl 
bcgpr  ol  our  ctlK'w. 

Bbooan.  I>cn>iii  me,  genttemes,  to  Impan  upon  yow  booMiM  beoi 
— •  COniriUitian 

Loan  A.  I  have  nothinj;  foe  yon. 


BlOQAX.  Ifttatit*!,  gnttlemcD,  nt,-titiiai  nin  iairt  Ugrm,  axui  netoxiljr,  in 
^litc  of  my  fclixuncc,  hu  compcllcil  me  to  embrace  ihe  ptofeskloo  of  an  opentive 
oieiullcant. 

Lou>  A.  I  tell  7«u,  in>-  good  maa,  I  hare  notiiine  tot  fov. 

BlCOAK.  Then  may  .  .  .  jiiout  bouinu  be  loeenteil  by  the  hjrdru  of  £itx»i ! 
May  k  conodine  colooy  of  ouking  caits  be  t-rci  icidjr  to  pnlluUtc  iJtesh,  &&,  Ae. 


Hk.  C.  Wlut  an  abuBve  Eccanilrel  I 
LOKD  A.  Ob,  he  1*  like  all  hia  Inbe. 


And  Lady  D was  one  of  the  patronesses  of  ihc  new  "  Cali- 

sthenic  Academy  for  the  Children  of  Pauper  Opciaiivcs  ! " 

Lifts,  telephones,  and  what  has  not  come  yet,  but  is  probably  on 
the  way,  aulonuiton  scnice,  are  foreshadowed  thus : — 

Lord  D.  .  .  .    Here  we  nic  at  D 't,     ( TiuteAei  a  ifrimg  c*  tk*  dttr.     A 

ulf-tuliitg  huettr  grpfi  « IrriJi  tntiti — dirtr  is  tftneJ  ty  a  Stttm  /Wttr,  drtsstd 
in  lie  D.  Kmtry.} 

toRD  A.  It  Lady  D at  home  ? 

\Figmt  MMb  il%  ktad.  Lokd  A.  a»td  Mr.  C.  tititr,  r*f<M their  twati  Ikmt^ 
thi  Aimmaiimi€iU  Tidt,  art  nndti^td  by  Iht  Ptritr  it  tkt  latrtduflieH  Chair,  in 
wkiih  Iktyfiatt  Ihtmulm.  Tkt  thiir  mPunU  wili  thtm  limi^h  lit  irilatg,  and 
fkty/tmdtitmulpn  in  the ^tifuc*  c^ hunt  D.] 

And  again  here  is  the  tclqihone  : — 

Ladv  D.  .  .  .  Poor  Mr».  WlntetbloHORi  I    I  have  been  talking  i«  fan  tM* 
aftemooa  through  the  lelcicop«  till  my  Gngert  acbe. 
Mr.  C.  Where  wai  ihc  ? 
LAI>y  D.  Abonl  two  uilc*  off,  in  her  hooM  In  Hamilton  PUoe. 


I 


The  map  of  the  world  is  played  at  ball  within  this  amu^ng  skit — 
here  arc  some  of  the  iopsyturvtyismi : — 

Mr.  C  .  .  .  M)'  friend  safi  they  had  received  IntelligenM  of  a&  ioMfTCcUon 
haling  broken  out  in  Tsikcy. 

Ladv  D.  Ttokey  I    Whcie  I*  ih«i  ? 

Mr.  C  It  b  one  of  the  touthcm  proiincet  of  Rusda.  The  ianitrectian  is 
luppoaed  U>  have  oii%inaTcd  ntaong  the  remnant  of  an  ancient  sect  called 
Uaboawlaiu,  and  lo  have  been  secretly  fomenud  by  ihutr  scditioui  levelltn, 
Ibe  AusuUnt.  TIkhc  reiiUu  monaii  are  like  tix  old  l-tcnch  jKolnn* :  not 
concent  «ith  revolutionising  tliemK'lYcs  Ihcy  «Uh  lo  carry  llicii  peroicioaa 
doctrinci  iftio  every  other  country. 

Ladv  D.  Ay,  I  wiifa  they  would  imitate  the  iteady  mcmatchical  govtmmcnt 
of  Amcnca. 


War  is  tlien  hinted  at  between  some  of  the  kingdoms  of  AmerKa, 

and  Mr.  C adds  iliat  war  b  also  expected  in  the  East  between 

the  united  powers  of  the  "  Emperor  of  India,  the  Bonnese  Republic, 
Uid  the  Kings  of  Borneo  and  Sumatra,"  against  the  "aggressions  of 
Austrslia."    "  It  will  be  singtilar,"  he  adds,  "  if  war  should  break  out 


Tht  Cenileman's  Magazine. 


1 


1 


■t  the  (BOK  lime  in  two  opposite  quarters  of  the  gk 
of  nations  all  of  which  ^>cak  EDglish." 

Lord  a.  Tme ;  bw  jon  iimM  tcweinbet  ihai  aiili 
oorauk*  in  out  Utile  Earopei  wUA  retaia  tlHst  ori^nal  Unpuf 
gnM«ai  B«ik)M  do  fpoJi  Euclid  It  b  Uie  hragmge  or  Ifatte 
nfakfr-tenilM  of  North  A»mHc*.  htit  Alricft,  and  all  ibe  Ion 
8o«lhSea>.  m 

Ha.  C  And  ihla  little  kingdon,  wkh  a  popvlaiioo  oT  flj 
nillMMmlMilMdtlMbQiKNHafalonlilmglwirihctlubet    ^ 

LoRP  A.  Tne  t  and  al  a  dMe  whea  osr  popuUitoa  wm  i 
half  «bal  h  b  now. 

Mk.  C  Ii  b  r  sniifiring  tc8«oilaii. 

LiUiVU.  Uight  nut  one  Bra  ■■mcvtiryniKOBc''?    TVw 

coloria  no  loagcr.    How  powerful  wc  ibooM  fa>t«  been  iC  we  ha 

Lord  A.  r«h«pf,  Lodf  U ,  not  madi  omr  povtrftil 

ftaaa.  I  miehi  almmt  lajr,  perlMf«,  dm  u  ponifuL  U  wc 
we  find  tlMi  whcB  the  Uabcd  State*  of  ABtrica  (aa  i\mj  wa« 
when  Canada,  India,  AiutiaUa  nioeeuiTcly  feU  bnm  oiu  gnspi 
BMl  iuIbmu  cocueijucnca  were  uilidpaied,  and  at  each  tla*  |h 
was  (band  lo  be  ibe  fofetunnei  of  iacieaied  pnHpcnljr.  Theie  a 
lioiiti  bejroad  wUch  no  natioa  can  esund  iueU  wiihoM  incnni 
diaanioQ  and  dccajr.  We  hare  tcM  wmaj  dtpaKleiKks  wfaidi 
were  boic  cipcitslTo  than  btDcfida) ;  Int  wa  oa  aenr  lo»e  thi 
been  the  mother  eooniry  of  half  (ha  dviBicd  (lote^  .  .  .  L«t  n 
nonbe)  cf  michtjr  natlcea  ihu  were  litil  Buned  Into  dvilbalioB 
and  Iben,  ihould  aUf  octc  a*k  whet  mantry  tloee  llie  wnM  bq 
ptntett  paction  of  tubstaniial  food,  I  tUnk  we  may  CrarleMly  ttlt 

And  with  thU  edifying  piece  of  patiiotixm  the  dialoj 
\\1u!c  Leigh  Hunt,  Min  Mttford,  th«  Howiia 
others  have  been  cotitiibuton  to  tite  earlier,  so  hare  li 
Tcanysot^  Dickens,  and  Thackcmy  to  the  latiTAnnu 
the/  begin  to  be  bound  in  cloth  they  lote  much  of  i 
my  mind  I  It  is  the  old-bshioncd  innocence,  so  tc 
txAy  silk  or  leather  bound  volumes  which  delights  me 
touch  more  of  them,  of  their  quaint  society  sketches, 
tales,  tbcir  exquisite,  if  mr<AV,  "embellishments;" 
must  have  an  end,  and  so  must  this  aiuttrit 
and  otU-of-date,  )'et  deli|{blful  Old  Annuals ! 

KATRU 


1 


%J 


I 


BARRA. 


THE  tourist  in  August  is  of  necessity  a  long-suffering  person. 
OlherwisG^  I  don't  quite  ibinlc  we  should  have  tolented 
our  quarten  in  this  remote  Hcbridean  isle  of  Barra.  We 
hare  been  here  nearly  three  weeks  and  are  getting  accustoined  lo 
the  fringe  of  the  heads  of  hanks  and  seagulls  and  the  tail  of  the 
wild  cat  which  decorate  one  end  of  our  tnn.  Also,  we  hare 
begun  to  fiml  the  morning  tuh  tn  the  aalinon  brook  outside  (hMden 
behind  »  diterert  little  thicket)  rather  less  acutely  oold  than  U  Grtt 
Our  gudewife  thinks  lu  an  odd  couple  of  Sjiartans  for  tumbling  out 
of  a  wirni  bed  down  her  pcrtwndicuUr  ladder  staircase)  and  out  into 
the  inhospiiable  morning  air  for  tiicK  lavatory  exercises.  But  she  is 
content  if  nc  arc  content,  and  though  we  return  to  the  "porridges" 
with  chattering  tccih  and  blue  noses,  we  loudly  proclaim  tho  benefits 
we  derive  from  the  icy  brook. 

The  inn  is  a  white-faced  little  hovel  with  an  attic  It  lo<^  at  the 
brook  and  the  heather-clad  rise  beyond  the  brook.  Vou  must  go  for 
«  few  yards  up  the  road  to  behold  the  sea.  At  the  be*t,  though,  it 
isn't  t)>e  Sea,  but  the  North  Bay  of  Barra,  a  shining  arm  of  water,  with 
low  rocky  and  heathery  land  clasping  it  very  tight.  The  tide  seeias 
alwuyx  otU,  which  means  bad  smells,  and  a  rim  of  golden  seaweed 
defining  the  water  mark.  This  latter  is  good  to  contemplate.  Old 
Cromc  would  have  enjoyed  it  cv%n  more  than  we  do.  As  for  the 
soKll,  it  is  held  in  high  esteem  by  our  v-ast-waisted  and  evcr-checriul 
landbdy.  She  boasts  of  a  fair  number  of  children,  one  a  bo>'  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen  whom  the  doctor  has  pronounced  delicate,  though 
appeaniKes  give  the  lie  to  the  nun  of  medicine.  This  lad  spends 
touch  of  hit  time,  for  his  health's  sake,  in  the  rery  heart  of  the  bad 
taneUi.  His  mother  says  tliey  hai-e  already  done  him  a  deal  of  good. 
He  is  a  bright  little  fellow,  and  the  other  day  informed  us  tliat  the 
doctor  also  said  he  was  to  smoke.  His  lungs  required  it  as  irapcra- 
tively  as  malodorous  air.  We  are  now  expecting  that  he  will  whisper 
to  us,  in  a  favoutabie  moment,  that  if  he  could  only  have  his  gill  of 
whisky  twice  every  twenty-four  hoots  bis  constitution  would  be 


6)0 


The  GentUntatts  Afa^azine. 


entirely  set  up.     He  ate  the  morsel  of  twisl  wc  gave  him  at  if  itm 
an  oyster  0(  a  cmnfit. 

Our  hostess  has  a  spianing-whcel,  of  course.  She  sia  in  tlie  sn 
before  the  white  walls  of  her  bouse,  and  lets  the  babUe  of  her  m^ 
man  wed  with  the  babble  of  tlie  brook.  >Ve  ha\-c  tikta  bet  nAi 
Kodak  in  this  industrious  attitude,  a  few  of  her  bue-kgttl  wi 
freckled  progeny  grouped  about  tier.  Wc  have  taluai  her  koI 
limes,  her  hints  being  pathetically  broad.  It  appears  tbit  taUB 
fisher  fellow  >-ears  a%o  came  here  with  a  caonera  and  loU  the  im 
lad)-  wh>t  an  interesting  couple  were  she  and  hci  wheel  FsAff. 
he  seems  to  liave  made  a  variety  of  studies  of  her.  I  am  Mttid 
sure  that  he  did  not  enlarge  her  (she  was  doubtless  sliiaiatta 
dafs)  and  send  her  to  one  of  the  illustrated  papers.  AB)ki«,b 
has  helped  her  character  to  a  measure  of  amusing  vanity.  IM 
other  fisher  fellow  must  have  been  an  annojanoe  or  worse  to  or 
good  hostess's  husband.  We,  on  the  contrary-,  are  nothir^  <tit 
kind.  "  Monsieur  le  mari "  looks  wise  in  the  comers  o(  Ui  (R 
when  his  spouse  percJKS  at  her  wheel  on  the  thiesbold;  bulhea^ 
grins  and  lounges  off  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  wben  the  Kcdi 
is  brought  into  play.  However,  wc  have  made  the  Udy  trndon' 
that  one  more  film  alone  can  be  devoted  to  her,  channingiypic* 
esque  though  she  is. 

As  may  be  supposed,  we  arc  not  irvdoors  more  than  we  can  b# 
But  the  Atlantic  has  a  scurry  trick  of  brewir^  up  (hundefSDM 
which  come  sailing  majestically  over  the  broken  heathery  hiUi  tw» 
three  limes  a  day,  as  it  seems,  for  our  special  discomfon.  TbeRiii* 
deceptioit  about  the  nun  supply  in  these  very  black  cJoads.  Motom 
«nce  the  cow  Mackenzie  ate  Dallas's  macintosh,  one  ortheaAe 
of  us  is  nlTvays  getting  soaked,  which  entails  a  spell  of  sbeltci  *tt 
the  things  are  dried.  It  is  bard  to  believe  that  about  the  cov,  bk 
one  of  the  men  swore  he  saw  Mackenzie  gulp  down  the  taQ  ad  ^ 
the  coat,  which  hat,  naturally,  been  tnis:&ing  evi^r  since.  TUi,' 
least,  can  l>e  said  of  the  cow :  its  taste  in  macintoshes  is  cstKBd) 
high  bred.  The  thing  was  as  good  as  new.  We  liave  to  coosole  0 
selves  with  the  jxititive  assurance  of  every  one  connected  widi  *( 
inn  (down  to  Donald  the  invalid),  that  Mackenzie's  milk  1* 
increasvJ  marvellously  in  quantity  and  cream  since  she 
expensive  and  unuMial  "  enWSe." 

When  we  arc  indoors  wc  live  in  a  small  snug  room,  the 
whereof  is  no  more  insecure  than  you  would  expect  in  so  ei 
a  climate.    There  are  plants  in  the  window,  and  there  is  ahr^t 
fire  in  the  grate.    Our  Mother  Superior  bustles  in  pcriodiaQy  tM 


aaSt  at 
■  ate  4k 

;fiai^ 
eneradP 


Darra. 


6ll 


inquires  if  we  like  this,  that,  and  the  other — "whatever."  As  a 
mailer  of  fact,  wc  like  her  "whaievers"  most  of  all.  They  arc 
elegant  finiala  to  the  cdiiicc  of  her  sentences,  if  one  may  be  altoAcd 
to  be  so  exuberantly  fiamboyant.  They  are  belter  e^'cn  than  her 
whisky,  which  is  warranted  to  oust  deathlike  thoughts  at  the  various 
funerals  in  ll»e  district.  And  we  arc  certain,  without  proof,  that  they 
«re  immeasurably  better  for  body,  mind,  and  estate,  than  the  cham- 
pagne entered  on  her  diminutive  and  grimy  tartt  des  vsfts,  at  three 
shillings  and  sixpence  the  bottle.  There  \&  a.  tCRibtc  mystery  con* 
necled  with  this  particular  wine.  How  it  came  hither,  and  who 
oonsumt^s  it,  we  have  not  yet  been  able  to  kam.  The  idea  is  that  wc 
must  drink  it  when  we  kill  a  salmon.  Hul  wc  arc  both  agreed  that  we 
will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Slill,  not  to  fracture  the  tics  of  friend- 
ship, we  have  put  away  all  our  salmon  flies  and  devoted  ourselves 
scrupulously  to  the  trout. 

When  the  lamp  is  lit  and  we  liave  said  our  latest  things  about 
the  midges,  our  room  is  calculated  to  warm  the  very  cockles  of  our 
hearts.  Wk  then  play  piquet  and  drink  whisky,  having  first 
entered  up  our  captures  for  the  day. 

As  for  our  sleeping  apartment,  in  spite  of  its  texts  and  the  three 
bibles  on  the  drtsser,  wc  do  not  care  for  iL  When  our  hostess 
appears,  with  her  insidious  "Veil  beready  for  your  beds,  whatever?" 
sind  offers  us  candles,  we  make  excuses.  But  of  course  the  fateful 
moment  arrives  at  length.  Then  wc  climb  the  ladder  to  the  attic 
somewhat  gloomily  and,  having  undressed  and  said  our  prayers,  rest 
our  heads  on  our  pillows  and  wonder  whose  turn  it  is  to  get  an 
imliraely  welting  this  night.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  roof  leaks. 
Dallas,  who  has  the  palm's  breadth  of  glass  skylight  over  his  chest, 
seems  the  more  exposed  to  raindrops.  But,  as  I  liave  explain<:d  to 
him  often,  the  sodden  condition  of  my  coverlets  in  the  morning 
proves  to  conviction  tliat  he  would  gain  nothing  if  vrc  were  to  change 
beds.  On  very  wet  nights  we  lie  awake  with  basins.  Our  talk  about 
spates  on  these  occasions  is  a  hollow  sham.  Really,  we  are  both  in 
a  condition  of  extreme  fur)-,  which  we  dissemble  with  mockii^ 
laughter  and  feeble  cynicism. 

Now  and  then  wc  catch  a  flea.  Our  good  lady  said  our  first  flea 
could  not  have  been  >  flea,  for  had  not  she  and  Flora,  the  eldest 
girl,  scrubbed  the  attic  floor  tilt  their  arms  ached,  and  was  not  the 
linen  as  white  as  the  outer  wall*  of  the  house?  But  she  has  been 
forced  by  direct  testimony  to  cat  her  earlier  words.  Now  she  blames 
the  poultry,  and  she  docs  right  in  the  matter,  for  the  inquisitive 
roosters  go  about  the  house  just  as  they  please.    One  cock  with  a 


'he  GeutUmati s  Magazine. 


1 

11  I 

1 


swoOen  gnat  comb  has  been  caoght  crowing  at  Tull  \ 
bedfoon  drcsset ;  and  its  brethren,  wires,  &c  trip  in 
pirfonr  with  audacioas  unrestnint. 

As  fot  OUT  (bod  in  this  inn  of  Baybcrirah,  it  is  bvish 
Wc  cara«  pfcpucd  to  live  on  trout  and  bannocks,  with 
croUB  as  the  principal  fluids.  But  wc  ate  indulged  wh 
enUitainmcnt  than  that  Up  the  valley  to  the  west  ther 
<arm  of  Altasdale,  round  which  two  thousand  sheep  and  £ 
head  oX  cattle  find  a  picking.  Of  couisc  the  monalk 
raanjr  quadrupeds  must  be  pretty  regular.  Hence  ou 
hence  our  mutton.  1  infer  nothing.  Our  mutton  is  m 
sailed.  Eaten,  however,  pifnng  hot,  with  a  lurap  of  bnl 
toothsonw  as  it  b  novel  The  beef  is  leaa  palatable, 
chickens,  if  chickens,  have  in  a  few  short  weeks  acquired 
strength  of  sinew  and  firmness  of  Hesh.  Our  bread  < 
Glatgow ;  lint  to  Oban,  ilien  0%'er  the  stormy  Minch  for 
faoma  (probably  in  pouring  rain),  and  lastly  six  miles  by 
Caitlebay,  the  mighty  capiul  of  the  island.  It  mmst  be  j 
We  impress  this  on  each  other.  If  it  were  not  good  bra 
not  have  been  adectcd  for  this  arduous  |oumey.  Nevci 
cannot  help  thinking  that  each  loaf  bat  suSered  from  "  n 
on  the  voyage.    Tbey  all  took  like  it,  and  they  are  all  fial 

The  "porridges'  are,  of  course,  our  chief  susteiuiw 
nilk  and  cream  yielded  by  Uacketuie  arKl  her  small  u 
Dallas  is  for  ever  trjing  to  And  a  flavour  of  macintosh  I 
It  it  a  ludicrous  idou  As  if  it  were  likely  that  the  coat 
protected  him  from  so  many  showers  should  now  by  OH 
tion  come  tnxjdv  iiuicad  of  outside  him  !  ^ 

Yesterday  we  had  a  gooseberry  podding,  the  fruit  httr 
the  wee  garden  of  the  CatboUc  priest  just  round  the  ca 
bnd,  and  the  pudding  proclaimed  by  our  landlady  as 
events  of  (he  season. 

Salmon  wc  hai-e  enjoyed  once.  Wt  did  not  tak« 
While  wc  were  breakfasting  one  morning  aiul  wishing  the 
would  drown  every  n]i<Igc.  and  gnat  in  the  land,  oui 
htubaod  scuffled  in  and  cric-d  nioud  for  the  pitchfork. 
inUe  we  saw  fathcT,  mother,  and  several  eager  and  ta 
children  steal  across  the  road  to  the  brook,  which  is  h( 
wide.  Then  the  pitchfork  was  poised  ;  splash  it  went  into 
and  the  next  moment  a  mithing  fish  was  hoisted  into  I 
was  an  eight-pounder  and  ntlicr  coarse  eatii^.  ir  only  I 
been  shining,  [   would  l\av«  "  ICodaked "   tliat  famil] 


Barra. 


613 


I 


I 


triumph  when  the  head  of  the  house  crossed  the  threshold  with  the 
luckless  impaled  fish  bcfoic  him. 

We  catch  plenty  of  trout  in  the  Loch  an  Duin  or  MiU-Uke,  about 
half  a  mite  up  the  load.  We  catch  them  b)-  the  score  daily.  It  is  a 
benevolent  task,  for  the  lake  is  crammed  with  them  and  ihey  are  so 
thin  that  one  may  study  their  bones  without  killing  them  and  with- 
out the  aid  of  the  new  photography.  They  come  to  us  not 
infrequently  by  threes :  a  tltiee^uaner  pounder  to  the  first  fly ;  a 
hatf'poandcr  to  the  second ;  aiul  an  object  of  a  couple  of  ounces  to 
tbfl  tbird  fly.  The  poor  creatnreit  nre  ravenous  and  would,  I  am 
sure,  if  they  were  not  so  debilitated,  niiempt  to  cat  each  other.  But^ 
as  may  be  imagined,  they  are  not  a  tabic  luxury'. 

There  is  another  article  of  diet  that  must  be  mentioned  in  this 
little  inn  of  Koilh  Barra :  cockles,  to  wit 

'Ve  have  never  eaten  the  cockles?"  exclaimed  our  landlady, 
when  we  commented  on  the  number  of  shells  in  the  neighbourhood. 
"  Well  now,  did  ye  ever  hear  the  like  I  But  I  shall  send  one  of  the 
baitm  to  the  sands,  ai>d  this  night  ye  shall  sup  on  the  cocklcrt, 
whatever  I " 

As  sh«  had  clearly  made  up  her  mind,  we  did  not  trouble  to 
contradict  her.  Besides,  it  appears  that  Sana  has  long  had  a 
reputation  for  these  she!l-(i.th ;  a  reputation  it  behoved  us  to  respect. 
So  far  back  as  1549,  Sir  Donald  Munro,  then  High  Dean  of  the 
Western  Isles,  in  his  n>r\'ey  of  Barra,  was  struck  by  its  cockles. 
This  is  what  the  gentleman  says  on  the  subject :  "  In  the  north  end 
of  this  Isle  of  Barry  iH(.-r  is  one  spring  and  fresh  water  wcU.  This 
wdl  treuly  springs  up  certaine  little  round  quhyte  things,  less  oor 
Ibe  quantit)-  of  confeit  oome,  lykext  to  the  shape  and  figure  of  ane 
little  cockill,  as  it  appcarit  to  mc.  Out  of  this  well  runs  thcr  ane 
little  strype  downwith  to  the  sea,  and  qubcr  it  enters  into  the  sea 
tber  b  ane  myle  braid  of  sands,  quhilk  ebbs  ane  royle,  callit  the 
Ttaymore  of  Killbaray,  that  is,  the  grate  sar>ds  of  Barray.  Thb  sand 
b  full  of  grate  eokilU  and  alledgit  bt;  the  ancient  countrymen  that 
the  G<^lb  comes  down  out  of  the  foresaid  hill  throughc  the  said 
ttrype  in  the  first  small  forme  thAt  we  have  spoken  off^  and  after  thet 
coming  to  the  sandis  grows  grate  cokilla  alwayes.  Ther  is  na  fairer 
and  more  profitable  sands  for  oAilb  in  all  the  world." 

Sir  Donald's  spelling  and  syntax  are  not  the  spellii^  and  syntax 
of  this  day.  No  matter  for  that.  It  lent  an  impetus  to  i^jpctite 
when  wc  had  the  smoking  cockles  in  their  shells  before  ua  to  know 
that  three  centuries  and  a  half  ago  the  progenitors  of  just  thesesbell- 
6sh  were  worthy  of  such  extreme  praise  at  the  lips  of  the  Dean  of 


The  GcntUman's  Magazint. 


614 


the  Isks.  However,  we  could  not  endure  the  grittj  tlaa2& 
may  be,  to  borrow  from  the  legend  of  a  GUsgow  icsuuniU,  "^ 
plain  meat  for  guid  plain  folk ; "  but  mcthinks  an  appRDtkol^ 
must  first  be  served  to  them.  Both  Dallas  and  I  have  Utile  dnk 
that  Sir  Donald  Munro  wrote  about  the  cockles  frota  bean^ni 
not  after  the  verdict  of  his  own  reverend  stomAch. 

But  really,  enough  has  been  said  about  eating  and  driid:ia(   Itf 
03  turn  to  nobler  topics  :  the  island's  society,  scenery,  and  k>  (wL 

To  befcin  with  the  scenery,  which  in  a  measoie  expkini  fc 

tocicty.    This  b  not  senutional,  though  it  is,  in  August;  aonc^ 

agreeable  to  persons  who  like  heather  lulls,  s<:3  cHlTs,  sands  mi  « 

feet.    The  island  is,  roughly,  some    seven    miles  long  by  Im  ■ 

breadth.     It  is  shaped  Ukc  a  tadpole,  with  groups  of  sateilitic  il* 

north,  cast,  and  south.    When  the  tide  is  low,  many  of  tbetc  tdn 

make  a  pretence  of  being  part  of  Barra's  mainland.     Voa  nar  tta 

see  bare-lcggcd  souls  ploddii^  across  vast  readies  of  yeSow  mt 

with  streaks  of  silvery  water  interlacing  the  san<U.     But  they  »re  s* 

permitted  to  loiter  tnidvay,  for  the  tide  corner  with  a  rush  wbenJia 

in  the  mood  to  come ;  its  white  surge  laps  up  the  golden  sonri 

which  beards  the  rocks  as  if  it  loved  the  stinking  pr>ctty  itnC  Wi 

do  not  boast  of  many  mountains.  There  is,  however,  old  He»il,MB|| 

in  the  heart  of  the  bnd,  a  bald-headed  fellow    i,z6o  btt  kj^ 

moated  round  with  didighlful  little  ravines,   generally  moR  'dm 

damp,  and  clad  as  to  his  spadous  flanks  with  magnificent  beilbn] 

good  proportion  of  which  is  white.     I  am  much  misakeo  if  I  dH 

not  sec  the  whisk  of  a  viper's  tail  among  this  heather  the  other  Af 

while  I  rested  in  its  midst  and  watched  the  smoke  of  my  pipe  oi 

townrd^  the  thunder-cloud  overhead.     Like  enough  too ;  dMaflkAr 

islanders  are  rurally  all  Roman  Catholics  and  might  be  soflpvt' 

therefore  to  be  under  llie  benign  inBuence  of  St.  Patrick  the ;» 

eminent  foe  of  reptiles.     Between  Hcaral  and   the  wcstem  iliM 

there  is  an  extensive  plain,  well  dotted  with  cattle  and  shetpitd 

good  store  of  bothies  with  thatched  roofs  by  the  coasL     Lakes  tkcR 

are  very  few,  considering  how  amazingly  the  northern  and  ncij^ibs* 

isles  of  the  Uists  are  enamelled  with  them.    There  is  Lodi  Sl  Ok 

near  Castlebay,  wiih  its  little  comrade.  Loch  Doirlinn  ;  and  eikse " 

us  there  is  the  Loch  of  the  Mill  and  another  with  a  name  1  m 

neither  spell  nor  pronounce.     And  these  are  atL     The  bland  axU 

do  well  with  another  or  two.    Tliere  are  trout  in  the  northern  poofc 

to  stock  lialf  a  dozen  lakes,  and  tlie  thunder-clouds  and  winter  iwt 

might  be  trusted  to  keep  them  full  of  water.    I'he  existing  laka  *t 

very  pretty  little  affairs  just  now,  with  their  deep  ^assy  bonkA 


Barra. 


615 


I 


I 


lOied  patches  and  the  brilliant  colouring  tA  the  heather  on  the 
lurroundinig  bills.  Oui  rocks  are  granite.  There  are  boulden 
ererywhere.  The  ^tuj^j^y  livirKoloured  and  black  cattle  in  uur  poit 
of  the  island  are  fond  of  posing  on  these  rocky  points  and  bellowing. 
It  is  as  if  ihey  cried  :  "  Arc  we  not  picturestiue  and  worth  the  atten- 
tion of  one  of  those  R.A.  genlkuicn  who  paint  just  such  quadrupeds 
as  lu  with  ju.st  such  a  t)ackt;iouiid  as  this  ? " 

These  are  the  niain  elements  of  Barra.  Add  a  soft  air,  which 
seems  almost  to  bend  the  bones  in  one's  body,  and  more  midges 
than  you  have  ever  dreamt  of  c\'cn  in  Lapland,  and  you  will  bavc 
the  island's  portrait  fnirly  complete. 

But  stay,  on  the  rocks  to  the  nest  you  must  spread  about  a  huge 
quantity  of  wreckage,  with  scores  upon  scores  of  the  bleached  skuUs 
of  oxen,  and  boms  dctMJKd  from  the  skulls.  The  Atlantic  now  And 
again  piungcs  a  ship  on  this  west  coast  of  Baira  whidi,  further,  is  of 
coune  at  all  times  a  shelf  for  its  nasty  refuse  It  is  some  years  since 
the  «ncck  of  the  cattle  ship  of  which  these  skulls  ate  the  gay 
memento ;  but  Barra  still  sports  its  mortuary  favours  with  a  soit  of 
ugly  pride. 

The  island's  popubtion  is  about  two  tliousaiKJ.  That,  if  one 
may  believe  the  tales  told  by  Scottish  lairds  arul  others  who  come  to 
the  hotel  in  Castlebay  and  sympathetically  discuss  the  lai>dlord's 
a&irs,  b  far  too  many  for  the  good  of  the  land.  But  the  Barra 
crofters  decline  to  be  persuaded  to  cross  the  Atlantic:  It  is  to  be 
feared  tliat  many  of  them  also  decline  to  pay  any  rent,  and  dare  the 
lord  of  the  isle  to  evict  them.     They  are  not  cheerful -looking  ia- 

rdividuals,  and  they  arc  not  energetic  Vou  may  see  them  choking 
up  the  doorways  of  their  hovels,  comfortably  clad  in  blue  jerseys, 
peaked  cjips,  and  sea  boots,  and  smoking  earnest  pi(ics,  what  time 
their  women  folk  dig  the  potatoes,  attend  to  the  pig  in  the  sty  or  the 
_  cow  in  the  croft,  wash  clothes,  or  prepare  the  isUiKl  wool  to  be 
Bttimcd  into  homespun  of  different  colours.  They  talk  Gaelic  when 
Btboy  ulk  at  all,  and  they  seem  to  relish  the  pafumc  of  their  own 
K^diains  OS  heartily  as  0(»uld  of  Baybcrirah  the  bad  smclb  of  the 
exposed  seaweed.    Their  boats  carry  pretty  names,  like  "  Welcome 

»Home  "  and  "  Be  in  Time,"  but  one  cannot  thi;tk  they  themselves 
are  at  all  in  harmony  with  such  admirable  phrases.  7'hcir  eyes  arc 
black,  and  so  is  their  hair.  Tradition  says  they  have  much  Spanish 
blood  in  them — with  reference  to  the  Arnuda  wrecks  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  And  tradition  is  somewhat  supported  in  the  matlci  by 
the  itfX.  already  mentioned,  that  they  are  mostly  CathoUcs.  In 
sotne  respects,  however,  they  are  more  akin  to  tbcir  Celtic  cousins 


WOgj 


GentUtnans  Magatxne. 


oT  IreUikl.  For  Instance,  titey  dearly  loi-c  a  funcnl,  and,  in 
oT  the  dvitisuig  influence*  of  modem  landtords,  modcni  p; 
an  oocasonat  viaitor,  atkd  an  occasiofnl  newspaper,  they  prd 
celebrate  the  rirtaes  or  the  deceased  with  bagpipes,  «] 
lobacco,  and  the  dance  rather  than  viih  tears  and  cnetancboly  n 
ayflablet.  Thdr  homes  would  not  be  regarded  with  a  flatterin 
t^  one  of  the  andcnt  Pku.  But  this  can  be  said  of  then : 
go  far  better  with  thdr  green  and  dun  surroundings  than 
red  tlate-rooTed  tenements  of  a  town. 

Briefly,  ^  Batra  folk  ought  to  be  very  interesting  to  the  n 
polognt,  tboagh  they  do  not  allure  the  tranritory  itianger. 

The  town  of  Casilehay  teems  to  us  quite  a  metropolis  aA< 
■olitBdc  Kod  sileoee  of  Bayherivah.  It  clings  to  the  shore  aix 
)Ment  hin  slopes  of  th«  wclMcfincd  Bay  itself,  which  has  a  r 
castle  on  an  islet  just  n^  the  land,  and  which  is  snugly  shd 
from  ibe  south  by  the  island  of  Vater^y  and  on  the  west  b 
\a0i  land  of  Barra'i  souih-westcm  cxtrGmiiy.  But  east  and  a 
c»t  Castlcbay  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds  and  the  waves, 
islet  of  Huldonoich,  some  five  hundred  feel  high  and  about 
mDes  from  Barra,  is  no  use  except  as  an  indicator,  by  the  whiti 
about  its  rocks,  of  rough  weather  towards  the  Mir>cli. 

Cstdebsy's  hotel  is  a  majestic  stone  bouse,  designed : 
gaest*  than  ever,  it  is  believed,  have  at  one  and  the 
bonoiued  it  with  their  custom.  It  stands  well  upi.  From 
dows  one  can  see  fiir  over  the  water,  and  also  the  barc-l(%ged  la 
throwing  the  caber  on  the  bit  of  pb^-ground  by  the  schooL 
somehow,  in  spite  of  its  luxuries  of  a  real  waitress,  dry  rooms, . 
visitors'  book,  wc  do  not  like  tt.  Perhaps  we  are  prejudiced  fa 
dismal  faces  and  conversation  of  the  couple  of  colonels  who 
found  here  upon  our  airivaL  These  gcnilemen  were  sampl 
the  great  army  of  sportsmen  who  carry  atl  before  them  in  the  \S\ 
to^Hgt  rooms  months  in  advance,  and  secure  (he  gillies  who 
the  very  best  spots  on  the  very  best  lochs.  In  the  Uists  the 
had  a  surfeit  of  big  fish^with  heavy  late  dinners  in  the  evcoini 
as  many  ladies  at  tabic  as  members  of  their  own  sex.  Il 
occurred  to  them,  tn  a  weak  moment,  to  move  on  to  Barra,  and 
did  so — to  thdr  distllusionrocnt  They  were  used  to  £ir  fine 
than  Locb  St.  Oair  yielded  them,  and  they  were  not  used  M 
on  thdr  own  society  for  entertainment  Really,  they  mu 
almost  unhappy  during  our  first  meal  in  the  island.  The  wi 
of  them  had  of  snatching  up  the  pipes  after  dinner  and  disclu 
about  the  qUc^  white  he  ntatched  u?  and  down  the 


Mn  li 


A 


Sarra. 


617 


I 

I 


P 


eomdon  vu  of  itself  unsettling  to  digestiORS  dcw  to  such  an  experi- 
ence. And  tliC  talcs  of  their  illinuteble  ttintti  later,  over  whisky 
and  cigan,  did  bat  tbiduo  tbe  young  doubts  tbey  thus  eariy  bred  id 
■s.  Tbeir  bnguage,  too,  was  often  very  martial  as  tbey  gazed  with 
infun.ited  countenances  at  the  sea-hoiizon,  in  search  of  the  belated 
steamer  that  tnu  to  carry  them  from  Barra  for  ever  and  ever. 

We  fled  from  these  warriors  to  Bayherivah,  and  do  not  regret  it. 
But  we  miss  them  now  when  wc  wander  into  the  town  and  listen  to 
the  dreary  echo  of  our  own  voices  in  the  large  apartments  of  tbe 
hotel.     No  one  has  arrived  to  take  their  places. 

We  have  tried  Loch  St.  Clair  and  made  aoqudntaiKe  with  its 
two  and  three  pounders.  Here,  too,  there  is  a  bit  of  a  castle  on  an 
islet.  In  the  old  days  there  must  have  been  conadeiable  feuds  in 
these  remote  lands,  but  no  one  knows  aught  about  them.  Tbe 
granite  hills  press  Loch  St.  Clair  quite  grandly  on  the  west,  and  we 
ha^-e  only  to  flounder  and  climb  half  a  mile  or  so  past  Loch  Doir- 
hnn  to  get  at  the  glowing  white  sands  of  the  Atlantic,  into  which  an 
attractire  stream  flows  as  if  for  the  particular  service  of  sea-going 
fish.  From  these  sands  we  look  right  away  to  Sl  Kilda.  lite 
douds  in  that  direction  are  always  worth  seeing,  even  though,  while 
we  arc  lost  in  admiration  of  them,  those  just  over  us  "  break  with  a 
bang  "  upon  our  heads  and  soak  us  in  a  minute  or  two. 

Castlcbay's  two  chief  buildings  are  the  Catholic  church  and  the 
botcl.  Wc  have  caught  a  whiff  or  two  of  incense  from  the  former, 
and  that  is  all  we  know  about  it ;  save  that  it  is  new  aitd  of  comely 
gnoitc  like  the  hotel.  Indeed,  if  the  Barra  crofters  were  not  so 
piggishly  attached  to  their  ancient  domestic  styes,  and  abo  so 
innately  averse  to  physical  cQbrt,  it  would  be  easy  for  them  to  run 
up  rows  of  elegant  little  granite  cottages  to  take  the  place  of  their 
hoi-eU.  The  artist  wx>u1d  not  perhaps  care  for  the  change,  but  from 
every  other  point  of  view  it  would  be  advantageous.  We  took 
pains  to  impress  this  on  one  swarthy  person  sitting  on  a  rode  in  his 
green  croft,  wliile  his  barelegged  women-folk  worked  behind  him. 
He  admitted  that  his  home  was  often  so  wet  that,  like  the  Lewis 
cioftcr  examined  by  Ilcr  Majesty's  Commisstooers,  he  went  to  bed  in 
hb  boots.  But  he  did  not  admit  that  there  was  much  hardship 
about  that.  And  vrbcn  Dallas,  in  a  fit  of  pardonable  impatience, 
told  htm  that  he  ought  to  q)end  some  of  his  savings  in  a  trip  to  the 
caiHtal  of  England— for  educative  purposes— the  man  replied,  by  tM 
means  unwisdy  :  "  ^Vhat  for  would  I  be  going  to  London  for  them 
to  mock  at  me  ?  "  The  word  America  stirred  him  more.  He  would, 
be  said,  like  line  to  be  there.    But  I  think,  he  «<»M  %«,\ii.  \iuik 

vol.  caccii.    ^^  2058.  ■>4>i 


The  Gtni/emaHS  Magazine^ 

after  a  short  trial,  for  be  would  discover  that  in  that  great  he 
it  ix  not  so  easy  to  grovel  through   life  on  a  mere  nibdsteace 
tod  obtain  the  respedful  tolerance  of  one's  ne^hbours.    In  a 
or  9ohc  vonld  probably  be  echoing  that  pathetic  lafiieDl  cf 
Hebridean  in  Canada  in  Mr.  Anderson  Smith's  Lcw%iam  : 


m 


Trcetl  IrcMl  tiees  I 

Syciuiorc,  mH,  and  be«cb  t 

Oh  1  for  the  wild  tex  brccte 
Ttat  sweeps  o'er  the  nmdj  mA. 

•     It  is  the  hale  foung  stock  of  these  Barra  crofters  that  oae  ( 
to  the  island.    A  little  governmental  interfeienee  wocAd 
wondere;  among  mImt  things  bestow  the  chance  of  hapfnwnvbatj 
now  these  seems  no  chance  of  it. 

For  the  xat,  Castlebay  b  a  aloir,  wiod-swcpt  and  fog-laBari;| 
spot.     It  has  a  well-filled  store  and  a  whii-ky  shop,  and  if ' 
want  to  team  the  news  >-ou  must  swing,  pendulum -&shion,  bemsl 
the  two  buildings.    But  there  oerer  is  any  news  bcre^  we  fuQ> 
except  in  June,  when  the  herring  fishing  U  in  ftdl  blast  aail  Atj 
pleasant  little  bay  packed  with  a  flotilla  of  boats  from  the 
as  wcH  as  many  of  tlie  isles.    Then  all -confounding  is  the  odestfl 
fish  in  the  place,  bo  that  the  *'  schoolmann  "  is  compelled  to  »r 
her  methodical  promenade  up  and  down  the  long  road  dm  ns  I 
cast  and  west  by  the  shore.     \Vc  felt  an  interest  in  this  scfaoolmin'  [ 
her  loneliness  touched  us,  and  the  way  the  wind  toyed  with  bsAiB 
and  bellied  her  tartan  hood    Also  we  were  sure  Iter  popjlf  coat  | 
not  be  of  the  kind  to  stimulate  her  with  a  sense  of  her  nsfftlMft 
But  our  acquainunce  was  nothing  more  than  a  one-sided  sytDjathit 
ac()uain  taticcship. 

Much   more  at  home  are  we  in  Bayhcrivah,  four  mOes  HaH  \ 
jtao^  the  tiills,  moist  beds  notuiihstandii^.     Here  we  toil  al  At  I 
trout  to  our  heart's  content,  or  make  for  the  white  sands  and  bBt  I 
in  the  Atlantic  surge,  or  advcntuiG  between  the  tides  to  a4}Ka> 
islets,  tboti^  never  thus  to  Eiiskay,  where  Prince  Charlie  liDdAJ 
the  memory  Khereof  is  preserved  in  a  certain  blue  flower  that  | 
there  alone,  begotten  of  his  luddess  footsteps.     Once  we  atU  i 
the  rocks  of  Flodday  and  verified  our  stout  landlady's  bngl 
the  number  of  seals  resident  on  the  coasts.     \\c  could  I 
thcni  by  twos  and  threes  had  wc  so  wanted. 

It  is  a  iianquilliMng,  strangely  seductive  sortof  life.     Tlioo^' 
growl  about  it,  we  are  unwilling  to  have  done  witli  it. 

llic  end  howci'CT  has  come  through  the  desolate  kirkyard  < 


Barru,  619 

by  Allaadale,  the  kiilcyard  with  the  tilted  gnvestones  and  the 
Arnddioia  knee  deep.  We  took  shelter  there  yesteidar  from  the 
inevitable  thundeistonn.  And  while  we  shelterad  (to  call  it  shdter 
■mbai  the  nin  burst  all  wajrs  I)  out  came  such  a  drove  of  midges  as 
might  have  done  dut^  for  the  worst  of  the  ten  pbgues  of  Egypt 
They  immolated  themselves  in  our  pipe  bowls,  and  bit,  and  hi^  and 
bit,  with  a  loud  din  of  insulting  challenges.  Then  it  was  that 
Dallas,  between  bis  exclamations,  propounded  the  question :  "What 
was  old  Maggie  McLeod's  reply  to  the  elder  who  asked  her  if  she 
believed  in  hell  fire  ? "  Of  course  I  knew  it  as  smoothly  as  the 
catechism.  "  Indeed  and  Fll  no  believe  in  i^  for  no  constitootion 
could  stand  it"  " Even  so"  said  Dallas,  promptly ;  " let  us  take 
the  boat  to-motrow." 

And  that  is  just  what  we  propose  to  do,  much  disfigured  by  our 
campaign  with  tiie  midges. 

CHARLES  EDWARDKS 


"Tfu  Gent/einatt's  Magazist, 


THE  FLJGHT  OF  JUNE, 

How  £ad«tb  Eist  the  Summer's  first  &ir crown  1 
On  garden  beds  the  peony  ^iOs  its  btood  \ 
The  gay  Ubumum,  stooping  down. 

Sheds  all  its  gold  ;  and  in  the  wood 

The  bluebells'  azure  tide  hath  spent  its  flood. 

The  pop[>y's  fiowcr-of-Oame  is  blown ; 
The  hawthorn's  foomlikc  glories  Heei, 
Wearied  of  dust  and  heat ; 
And  lilac  splendouts,  swiftly  on  the  wane, 
Tdl  us  bow  Trail  is  beauty,  and  how  vain  I 

And  lo,  the  songs  of  Spring, 
That  made  each  bower  and  copse  and  hedgerow  ib^ 
Have  taken  wing : 

Earth's  tender  vernal  green 
Has  lost  its  carl)'  glorious  sheen  : 
Tbe  woodland's  gloom  yet  deeper  grows  : 
The  fledglings  Trom  their  nest  are  fled  : 

And,  when  the  first  »rild-rosc 
Smileth  aloft,  tbe  bean-field's  breath  is  dead. 

And  yet,  0  June  that  fadelh  fast, 

I  would  not  grieve  at  this. 
Brief  is  earth's  longest  bliss  ; 

The  loveliest  things  arc  soonest  past ; 
And  we  should  tire  of  beauty  did  it  huL 

All  that  we  fairest  deem  beneath  the  blue 
Is  bom 
To  let  th'  eternal  loTcliocss  shine  through, 

And  then  withdrawn — 
To  leave  us  longing,  and  to  keep  as  tn>e. 

CEOKOK 


TABLE    TALK. 


ARCHlIECrURAI,  CitANCC   IN   TwO   CAPITALS. 

THE  picturesque  transformatton  of  London  is  accomplished 
dowly  and  with  deliberation.     In  this  it  contrasts  strikingly 
with  that  or  Paris,  which  was  the  work  of  a  few  years,  ainwst  a  single  ' 
reign.    Those  can  be  few  who  remcmbci  old  Paris  with  its  miles  of' 
narrow  malodorous  streei*,  which  in  a  very  brief  period  were  con- 
vetlod  into  wide  and  breezy  boulevards.    The  artist  still  bewails 
the  complete  subvcrsal  of  mcdixi-al  Paris,  much  of  which,  with  aU 
its  associations,  architectural  and  historical,  survived  until  half-way 
into  the  last  century.     But  the  change,  though  dq>lorable  in  some  1 
respects,  was  expedient  and  inevitable  in  others.    Political  necessities  \ 
accelerated  its  progress.    It  was  well  known  at  the  timCi  though  now  < 
it  is  in  the  nay  of  being  forgotten,  that  the  taibnlencc  of  the  Parisian  ' 
mob  and  the  attitude  of  constant  revolt  of  the  democracy  led  to  the 
substitution  alor^  the  main  lines  of  streets  of  broad  boulevards, 
which  could  be  swept  by  cannon,  for  narrow  tortuous  streets  in 
whtcl)  a  little  er^ineering  skill  could  convert  a  system  of  barricades 
into  an  almost  impregnable  fortress.    No  similar  cause  has  operated 
in  London,  and  the  changed  physiognomy  we  now  witness  has  been 
obtained  in  answer  to  the  imperative  demands  of  tiaflic,  and  the 
altering  conditions  of  life,  by  processes  which  have  been  rebuked  as 
tinkering.    A  solitary  individual  here  and  tberc  may  recall  as  in  a 
dream  the  work  of  Nash,  in  which  stands  fofemost  the  constructioo , 
of  Regent  Street,  intended  to  connect  Carlton  House  with  Regent^ ' 
Park.    To  a  date  well  within  living  memory  belongs  the  driviitg  of 
New  Oxford  Street  through  the  slums  of  St  Giles's ;  while  the  opening- 
out  of  the  mysteries  of  Soho,  in  which  I  have  often  lo^t  myself,  may  , 
almost  be  regarded  as  a  performance  of  yesterday. 

ThX  TRANSrORUATIOK  OF  LONDOH. 

MODERN  change  in  the  aspect  of  West  Central  and  Westen  ' 
London  is  almost  rcvolutionar)-.  Quickened  by  the  advent 
of  the  CoTOnntion,  changes,  necessary  enough  on  account  of  increas> 
ing  population,  in  the  great  thoroughfares  of  Piccadilly  and  the  Strand 
are  iww  in  part  accomplished.  In  ttie  case  of  the  Strand,  some 
regret  at  the  disappearance  of  what  was  at  one  time  the  moat 


T(^le  Talk. 


623 


I 
I 


PBOTESTAKTtSM   OF  ClIARLES    I.   AND  JaM£$   I. 

THE  question,  then,  seems  to  be  limited  to  whether  any  Stuart 
King  was  a  genuine  Proteslant,  an<l  that  again  oanow& 
Itself  to  JaoKS  L  and  Charles  I.  With  regaid  to  Chailcs,  I  can 
draw  no  conclusions.  In  the  terribte  dilEcullics  in  which  he 
involved  himself  irith  people  and  Parliament,  he  coquetted  with  one 
patty  tftet  aoother,  and  his  definite  promise  to  maintain  the  Pio- 
tfistsnt  reUgion  would  have  bound  him  no  ntorc  than  other  pledges 
lightly  made  and  as  lightly  brokciL  In  his  ocgotiatioos  with  the 
Catholks  of  Ireland  he  was  ready  to  promise  such  removal  of 
disabilities  as  filled  their  hearts  with  joy.  Vet,  the  moment  his 
interests  pointed  in  another  direction,  he  was  prepared  to  throw 
them  overboard,  and  he  offered  bb  content  to  the  Parliament  to  a 
"  Bill  for  the  better  discover)-  and  speedier  conviction  of  recusants, 
as  well  as  for  the  compulsory  education  of  their  children  in  the 
Protestant  faith."  This  disloyalty  and  tergiversation  aroused  the 
special  contempt  of  Dr.  Samuel  Rawson  Gardiner,  most  faithful  and 
diqauionate  of  historians.  On  the  whole,  then,  the  questioa  of 
religion  must  in  the  case  of  Cbailes  be  left  indeterminate. 

Religiom  or  James  I. 

THERE  remains,  tberi,  James  I.,  who  was  regarded,  like  Queen 
Klizabetli,  as  a  bulwark  of  the  Protestant  faith.  Sudi,  to 
some  extent,  after  he  became  King  of  England,  he  was.  He  wrote 
works  on  doctrinal  subjects  from  a  Calvinistic  standpoint,  and  was 
to  some  extent  separated  from  his  Queen,  Anne  of  Denmark,  after  her 
conversion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  In  view  of  the  morrtage  of 
his  son  Charles  with  the  Inbnta  he  rdiercd,  with  some  limiutions, 
English  Roman  Catholics  from  the  pressure  of  the  Pent!  Laws,  and 
gave  pemission  to  his  prospective  daughter-in-law  to  liave  a  church 
open  to  all  Englishmen.  About  this  time  Gondomar,  the  Spaoish 
Ambassador,  wrote  to  his  king  that  the  best  things  for  Spain  and  the 
Catholic  religion  that  had  happened  "since  Luther  began  to  preach 
heresy  "  were  occurring  in  En^ijand.  It  was  in  tlw  period,  however, 
before  he  ascended  the  Enghsh  throne  that  James  showed  his  dis- 
position to  sit  on  a  fence,  and  his  readinest  under  certain  conditions 
to  stamp  mit  Protestantism  by  force.  It  is  now  abundantly 
proven  that  James  was  ptivy  to  what  was  known  as  the  "Spotiisb 
Blanks,"  a  request  uport  the  pan  of  the  Roman  Catholic  rtoUes  of 
ScothrH)  to  Philip  of  Spain  to  send  over  to  Scotland  a  body  of 
Spanish  troops  to  co-operate  with  them  in  the  extirpation  of  Pro- 
tesuntisra.    So  early  as  1591  it  is  shown  from  a  document  in  his 


624 


The  Gentlemans  Magazine. 


own  vriiing,  pteserred  among  the  MSS.  of  the  MvoaU  o(  Stiiit» 
James  wu  we^htng  the  adranugcs  to  himself  of  a.  Spanish  infu 
oT  England  through  his  own  kir^dom.'  Until  his  hand  was  fatt 
jama  refused  to  punb.h  the  Calholic  nobles,  and  before  be  H 
any  steps  Argyle  was  in  the  field  against  them.  It  was  only  on  a 
pulsion  that  he  gave  his  coruvnt  to  the  Act  which  has  been  tall 
ttie  Magna  Charta  of  the  Church  of  Scotland.  On  anothcf  occm 
WiUtun  Crkhton,  a  Scottish  Jesuit,  sent  by  the  Pope  and  the  Gene 
of  the  Society  of  Jesuits,  was  smuggled  into  James^  palace  andca 
ccalcd  there  three  days.     Further  proof  how  strongly  di^Mscdn 

{antes  to  CalHolicitm  consists  in  a  letter  vrriiccn  l:^  hiiD  o 
'ebniary  19, 1584.  from  Holyrood  to  the  Pope,  asking  for  asttftnc 
asainst  his  enemies,  which  contains  these  words :  "  I  hope  » b 
ahlt  to  s-iti-tfy  your  Holiness  on  all  other  points,  espccalljr  if 
am  aided  in  my  great  need  by  your  Holiness."*  James^adfacaa 
would  have  brought  little  tnoni  support  to  cither  party.  Weai]r,bo« 
ever,  of  the  turbulence  and  dogmatism  of  the  Reformen,  and  tint 
of  his  place  on  the  fence,  be  was  ready,  for  a  considenuion,  "I 
the  old  Church." 

Tub  Nzw  "  Encvclopxdia  Britaxsica." 

THE  first  part  of  the  first  edition  of  the  ■'  Enc)-clopacdia  ] 
nica  "  was  published  in  Edinburgh  one  hundred  and  I 
four  years  ago,  and  the  last  volume  of  the  last  (the  ninth  ediu 
1889.     Since  that  date  great  advances  have  been  made  in 
et'cry  branch  of  koowledge,  and  a  Supplement  has  become  nectSHC 
which  should  bring  the  woik  up  to  the  existing  conditions  of  s^alv 
ship.    Of  this  Supplement  the  first  volume,  under  the  editorial  an 
of  Sir  Mackenzie  WalUcc  and  Mr.  Hugh  Chisholm,  has  ]uu  befl 
published,'  nnd  it  is  already  clear  that  the  new  series  of  voluiH 
wfaea  completed,  will  not  bU  behind  the  hij;h  le^-el,  both  IttetarT*" 
sctenti&c,  for  which  the  earlier  volumes  arc  so  justly  esteemed,   tk 
contributions  to  the  new  volumes  form  a  list  of  extraordinaiy  naf 
and  authority— extending  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  tal 
embracing  every  province  of  knowledge;  and  a  new  and  very  uscM 
feature  is  that,  for  the  first  time,  biographies  of  the  living  atetobt 
given.    The  whole  world  of  thought  and  action,  tlic  past  as  wd» 
the  present,  lies  ready  at  the  disposal  of  the  reader  of  this  aixlA) 
succeeding  volumes.     The  first  new  volume  presents  witfaiB  a 
limits  a  record  of  the  events  and   personalities,   the  artistic  oA 
sdentific  achicTcmcDts,  the  new  tendencies  in  thought,  politicking 
commerce,  which  together  make  up  the  world's  history  during  di 
Victorian  era,  but  it  also  describes  anew  such  older  provinces  ti 
human   knowledge  as  have  changed  their  aspect  uitder  the  boK 
searching  light  of  the  present  day.  svitamus  vkms. 

■  IInm«  BrowD**  Hhtity  if  Snt^nd,  u.  315  (CunbcMgc  Unlvctsiir 
'  li.  u.  194. 

*  Lilinbursh  uid  London :  A.  &  C.  Blick.    Lod3oo  i  ■  The  Timet,' 
House  Sqiinte. 


a 


I 


ii ;  - 


r 

h 

1 


'  1' 


:  I 


■  '! 


I 


SlJrilnrn  l.lni' 


UbnriM 


1 


3  6)05  126  y35   142 


Stanford  University  Ubrary 

Stanford,  California 

In  order  that  olbers  may  use  this  book, 
please  return  it  as  soon  as  possible,  but 
not  later  than  ihe  date  due. 


^