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©
THE
Gentleman s Magazine
Volume CCXCII.
M.S. t^g
JANUARY TO JUNE 1902
PaODBSSE &• DCI-ECTARE
£ Pluribus Unuh
EJiUd by SYLVANUS URBAN, Gentleman
lonDon
CHATTO & WINDUS, iii ST MARTIN'S LANE
1902
A
1>,>6 i50
f CONTENTS 0/ VOL. CCXCII.
Aaccuors, The, of Chulcs Rcadc in the Civil War, By Rev.
COMPTON Reade, M.A i8
Anciral kom«, Public Readings in. By J. B, FiRTH . . . li
Ann,.ThcIH«iiageof. »y E. A. GiLLiE 511
AnnufLls, Old. Dy KathixrN KkoX 507
Art Criiic, A FoiEoiien- By A- C. Coxmead . . . . JS6
Aithor, " King of England." Uy K«v. Canon WoOD, D.D. . .1*0
Aipen Tongue, The. By Rev. A. Sm\tiie Palmkr, D.D. . . 444
AnroDomicitl Heresy. The Latest. By Rev. Ja«ks W. CoTIOK , 334
Bom, By CitAKLES Eun-ARDES 609
Belli. By Bakiiara Clav Finch 313
Bible, The ^4,000. imd Oihcr^. By J. CVTHRRRT Hadde-N , . jii
Bouyana, Some. ISy Tf-RCV FiTzoeraLD, M.A. . . . .191
Brettesgiave. The Vanished Manor oC Bv 1. G. SlBVEKlKQ . 396
Dniitb Beetles tn Masquerade. By Rev. JOHN Ikabkll, F.E.S. . 369
Bucks, Watling Street in. By Wh.i.iam Bradbrook, M R.C.S. 456
Canon Law, The, iis Auihority in Knclnnd. By J.E. R. STRPHKMS 474
Cariyle^ Tfaom.xs, and bis Wife, Some Domestic RcminiKeoccs of.
By E. WiLLiAMsoK Wallace 44S
Case, A, of Conscience. By Katherike SvlvesTER . . .105
Clare, John. By Robert Oswald 38a
Dabchick, The, or Utile Grebe. By Alex. H. Japp. LL.D. . 40
Dandies, Tbe King of the. By Chaklrs Wilxins ... 377
Do^i, Sceni in. By J. C. McPHBRSOK, Ph.D jjJ
Drama, Mr. Swinbunte's Firtt. By Ramsav Colles, M.A., LL.D. 301
Duke, The, of Ripperda. By R. D. HOMK 418
Educationof UppeiClossesinFranceandEngland. ByP.C.YORKE 03
Elhaoan, Ihe Rabbi's Son, who became ^ope. By Kev. W.
Burnet. M.A ' ■ SSi
Every Man His Own Mace, By PlilLiP Fitzreimund . . 81
Fells Tragedy. A. By William T. Palmkr .... 74
Foiu-ThouKand-Pouod Bible, The, and Others. By J.C. Haddem jit
f riendihip. By Re». J, HVdsoN, M JV, 373
Fueto Juigo. The. By A. K. WutTEWAV, M.A 257
Geacaio^, Tbe RonuAce of. By Dominicx Browne . . 537
Gipsy Bnde, The. By ISA J. Posigatk 54
Gceihian Ideal, Tbe. By AlVRKU JORUaK jj
Grebe, The Little, or Dabchick. By ALEX. H, Urp, LUD. . 40
How She LeamI Her Lesson. By LuttrkllSraRRICHT . 170
Jacqueline, Mme.,TbeMarria^s of. By F. Bavford Harrisok 131
•rcmjr Boyse, Tbe Story of. By Kdith GRav WHEELWRicnr . 309
obn Clare. By Robert Oswald 383
one. The Flight of. By Rev. Gkorge Bird .... 62a
Hag, The» of the Dandies. By Charlls WiLKlNS . . • ^77
Leave;, from Lakeland. By Wilijau T. Palmier . . . $01
» Lc* Hiirjiravej,'' By CeciUA E. Mestkckke . . . . »66
Lincohidiire Family, Some Generations of l By Rev. J. K.
Flo\-ES. F.S.A 151
I-Mt in the *■ Zenith." By C E. Mketkerke .516
Jt-iRc. Evety Man His Own. By PhiUP FlT2REIlli;»D . . 81
M.irrijge, The, of Ann. By E. A. Gillie Sit
Marriages, The^ of Mmc. jacoucliDc. By F. BAYrORO HarkisON 131
Marshes, Spring in ibe. By E. M. Rin^HERFORD . . , . 304
Modem Psychology. By A. R. WiiiTWft'AV "^
Iv
Conttnts.
Napoleon : the Last Word. Bv E. A. REVS OLDS- Bxi.l, B.A. . 5:9
Ow Anauab. By Kathleen Knox S97
Old Woman, Tbe, o( tli« Woodj. By £. M. KuTHEitFORt) , . 4ro]
On SenUc Hill. By JOHN Staffoku 179'
Pot-Pmirri from a Tlicatrical Library. By Rowland Gsiiy . . $8
Preachci, The : a Chcilo Sketch, liy Enoch bcxiHe . . . 3S6
P>ycliology, Modem. By A R. Wkitewav . .... 98
Publk RcMingi in Ancicm Rome, lly J. B. FlRTll ... II
Rente, Tbe Ani;etton of Cbailec By Rev. COUrroK READS, M~A. 18
Rippeixla, Tlic Dnke of. By R. U. Home 418
RIUoo's liulaba. By A. WefiKER 417
Ronuic«, The, of Genealogy. By DowmiCK Browne . 537
Samoyedes, The. By Eknest Ward Lowkv, F.R.G.S. . . 140
Scent in Dogs. By J. G. McPhersOn, Ph.D ijxj
Scot, Th*, Abroad, By Wm. C. Mackenzie . . . . ist |
Seclac Hill, On. By JOJIN STAfFOKD 17O,.
Shakcipeare its Hi^oiy. By K. S. IIate-S I16
Some Boiiyana. By Percy Kitzcf.bai.d, M.A. .... 191
Sonic Uoitieiiic Keroiniacences of Thomas Carlyle and his Wife.
By E. WiLLiAiisoN Wallack 448
Some Memoriei of an Old Friend. By ZtUK DB L-ADEvkzE . a9S
Sonnel, The, from M ilion to Woidiwonh. By J. M. AttehbOROUGH 35 J
Spring in the Marshc*. By E. M. Ri;rHEK>-OKD . . . . 304
Story, The, of Jereniy Boy»e. By Edith Gray Wheklwright. 309
Swinburne's, Mr,, First Drama. By Ramsav Colles, MA, LL.D. 30:
Table Tallt. By Svlvanus Urban :—
The ShakMpe.ire-R.non Conlrovefsy— Bacon the Self-allcKcd
Son of Queen Eliubcih — Bacon said to Claim Authonhip
of Shakespeare's Plays— A Rejection of Bacon's Claim—
The Hoopoe lot
Mary Queen of Scot*— Tbe " Mystery of Mary Smart"— The
" Casket Leilcn" aoft
CompcDEaiion for the Desiraclion of Natural Beauty— Britain's
New Flora 311
The Bacon Cypher — Difficulties of a Decipherer — Omitbo-
lopcal Ravaite— The Science of Punishment . . . 414
More about the Bacon B i literal Cvphcr — Sir Henry Irving on
Shakespeare and Bacon — The Author of Shakespeare's
Plays WAS an Actor — Ijporance on the Lecture Platform . 518
Archilcciutal Change in Two Capii.ils— The Trantfennation
o( Loodoo— How many of our Sluart Sovereigns were
Proieatanis ?— Prtrtestantism of Charles L and James L—
ReligioDof James L— The New"EncycIop(cdiaItrilannica" 631
Theatrical Library, Pot-Pourri from a. By Rowland GttEV . 88
Thoreau. By S. E. Saville 400
Three Sketches. By Charles LCSTED 577
Tom Duncombe:'* Bogus Speech. By Jaues Svxks . . . 3t
Toofue, The Aspen. By Rev. A. Suythe PaIJJKR, D.D. . . 444
Two Sketches. By Jamcs CasSIdv 48;
Vanished Manor, The, of Bretietgrnve. By I. G. StF.VF.KtNQ . J96
Village Chronicles. By Arthur Ransom 496
Watlmg Street in Buck*. By William Braodroox, M.R.C.S. . 4S6
Wayfarers. By Thomas Ckesworth I
While Fetich, The. By H. STUART BAKER 313
Zionism. By Rev. Dr. Strauss ...•..• 3S
Brians, The. By Ernest W. Loway, F.R.C.S. .... 344
TUB
GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.
January 1902.
I
Bv TuoKAS Chcswortii.
IT was the Vizier's itani^ng invitation that made mc break tho
direct line of tlis great walking tour and turn into the Wjlhcn-
shairc district, where he lived. He wa; the son of Hiram Jones,
ibc financier ; we were iniinutcs at school ; and bow be got hit
iiiclcname is another afTair, The weather was bad. I had scarcely
led the last inn— a snull place perched high on a streak of limestone
road among the nioorri —when I struck into a dense mist and lost
the road.
Evening was at hand ; the prospect did not cheer rac. It would
be hard to say how long I wandered, or if I fdl asleep in my
wandering. Consciousness drowsed in mc ; then suddenly 1 noticed
that the circle of brown heath which followed roc cvcryilicrc like
my shadow had widened by about twenty feet. I lit my pipe —
which was not the best thing I could have done ; for the idea of
comfort involved touched my vi.tion with fi lirvlight glow hi uhich
the Vizier sat awaiting mc. But I was stoic enough to blow the
picture away on a whiff of smoke, and KK my legs again to tlicir
interminable tramp over the mist-smotlicred moors.
The mist closed in again, but almost immediately drew off and
seemed to watch me. It was growing appreciably thiimer. Tho
Jones's place might be a couple of miles away or under my nose ; I
set down ihe town of Wythcnshawc at four or five Would it not be
wiser to make a bed of the heather, and wait for the stars ? I
suppose the question originated in my legs; lhcnce,at kast^\i.VaA.
VOL. ccxcti. NO. aosj. ■»
The GentUmatis Magazine.
1
a strong assent. The point waa still in debate when (he birsicging
mist became articulate, and I caught a muniitiT of voicei.
I stood itill with ear cocked to locale the sound, but it had
ceased. Voices I had certainly heard. G)-psi€a? tramps P I
shifted my knapsack : a disli^rett sketcli-hook, a volume of Goethe,
and the bare necessities of a search for fresh scnsallon.i would not
offer much temptation to the picdatory tribe. Scv-cral steps forward,
then I hearkened again, nude another cautious advance, and
blundered into a ml. A.i I rose, my hand touched something like a
wall, and my ejc caught a faint haw of light not far ahead. TTie
ground appeared to *lo[>e down toward the ha;tc ; and I had just
time to observe this and take half a doz«n steps when I found myself
squinting in some surprise along the liarrcl of a i>istol.
An unsteady hand held the weapon ; the Cice behind was white,
with n shine of excitement in the cyca,
" Who arc >-ou, sir ? " I was asked in tones of tremulous violence.
" Speak, or by heaven . . ."
Then I noticed that someone else ivas tlierc. and heard x woman's
VbtCf^ and saw a delicate hand placed on the threatening arm,
"Smee you put it so per$ua»ively " I gave my name, " I
nm a tramp, have lost my way in the cursed fog, and shall be glad if
you can set me light."
The pistol had dropped to his sida There was a pause, in which
I heard him draw a deep breath ai of relief. Then he said :
" I— we— are in much the same situation. I cannot direct you.
Wc— my sister and I— areslrangorshcreabouu . . . shelterless . . .
for the time being, of course . . . temporarily. My name fs— my
name I* Edwards." l!c half turned to the figure at his side as for
confirmation, then gave a jerky bow, and added, " Edwards, at your
service. This is my sister,"
1 raised my cap. " If I intrude," I said, and made a movement
to go.
But his companion came forward impulsively, saying, " I beg
j-ou will stay with us and share our fire. It is lonetyon these moors,
horribly lonely, and I am sure we should both be glad of your
company."
'Xht man was watching me, hi« expression a curious mixture of
hope ftnd dbtrust, and it was easy to sec that the pleasure in his case
would not be undiluted. That did no: trouble me much. The
woman's face and its suppressed anxiety had touched me in a tender
place; on the other hand, I was not allured by the prospect of
playing solitary blind-man's liuff all night on the moors; and there
I
Wayfarers'.
rwas something so odd in the whole afTuir that ei'cn before the spoke
I had made up my mind to stay.
The haven to vrfaich 1 had been so stmngcly wlcomed was a
stone-quarry, apparently abandoned. Grass flourished on mounds
here and there, and between the deep cart-ruts. Near the centre
nas a doorlcss hut, and before thb my friends had lit a Grc. A pile
I of branches near ihc cabin doorway seemed to indicate a wood near
at hand; further sources of fticl being on old oil-bairel and a
mouldering staclc of peat
All this looked dreary enough, but for my part I threw myseiT
down ttiankfully on a gmss-cOTcrcd knoll, and scrutinised my com-
panions through drowsy eydids.
They were gentlefolk, that was clear. The man had an air of
comfortable humdrum life ; he was a figure of mild conformity, the
issue, one might h.ivc said, of a long line of prosperous tradesmen.
I As for her, she was twenty or a little over : his sister, certainly —
without any definite mental kinship. Her hair was brown, her cj"C8
brown too, if the firelight could be trusted.
To find creatures of civilisation in such a position wras of itself
surprising, but that this manner of man should come to bit-ouac in
a deserted quarry on the heaths was the extreme of incongruity. I
could not believe that they were simply in my own predicam«it : there
was more tlion this. His attempt to ex|)Uin had been that of a man
in tenor of saying too much ; and it seemed more ar>d more dear
that the truth was hidden in the woman's anxiety and the excite
mcnt under which the man cri<li'ntly !alx>urecL
From her seal in the cabin I felt that she was watching me.
The man replenished the fire from his heap of dead branches
like one who sought relief in action. Then he stood and looked at
me a long moment across the lire. I thought be was going to speak,
but I became aware tliat his eyes were vacant, and tliat what he saw
was some absorbing picture of the bmin. \Vhcih«r by association or
bora mere iKrvoos impulse he strode abruptly from ibc Grc toward
the quarry mouth.
Far up, a fringe of pines against a pale blur of sky peeped through
the mist. There was the wood, then, growmg to tlie brink of tlw
quatry. My fair neighbour was gazing into the fire, which lit up her
face into something vaguely symbolical, somcthir^ that recalled my
reading in Uve Greek mythology. Exactly what, I did not try to re-
collect, but uking the chance of my host's absence, gave a short
cough and observed :
" We'll have clear weather before long,"
The GcNtltmau's Maga::ine.
Sbc raised bcr eyes, but scciucd to foUov out Ivcr own tnin of
thought. " Vou say jxiu arc a tramp," she mid.
" I may say so. I am i-agatKxidtsing towards the lakes, or any-
where else, accordiitg to whim—putting up at chcip inns, and
quancring ni)-sclf oa unwilling acquaintances here and there."
She reflected. "Itbstrangc. What is the object ? "
" To escape an object. I'm looking for freedom ; purposes arc
chains. Vou might call my object the Utk's— to lit-c, to take in
air and sunshine, and, when lltc mood is on, to . . . sing."
Sbe gavfi mc a faint smile and nan'cly asked my permission to
guess. " You are an anisi ? "
•• No."
"A poet?"
I laughed.
" 3tty father was a t^Ior. I served under Mm for two years, and
ruined an amiable temper. He look to gin and Bacon, and died
broken-hearted about me, with a quotation from the Essays on his
lipi." Tbcn, obsct\'ing her puzzled expression, and, at the same
time, wondering at the camaraderie which bad sprung up between us
(a result of the unconventional situation), I conlinucd mote soberly,
" Tlie object is health. I have been closed up between olTicc walls
(my uncle's) until I am a InirKh of nerves, and this is my way of
getting bock to plain liumaii scn^tions. I was hunting up a fiicnd
in this ne^hbourhood when ttic fog stepped in."
But 1 had no intention of giving so much autobiographical
matter without some return, and suggested: "Something has
happened ? "
She flashed a startled glance at mc " Yes," slie said, after a
moment's hesitation. " ^Vhat it is heaven only knows. I was left
at the inn. ... He would not go on to Wyihenshawe, nor back,
even before the mist ...**'
Hasty footsteps interrupted, and her brother came out of the
gloom, and looked at her suspiciously.
*' Were you speaking, Diana ? "
"About the mist," 1 said. "I think It dears."
He said "Yes," as though he did not understand, and his gaze
fell to the fire. " Not a soul out on the moors. I strained my cars :
no sound. Did you hear anything while 1 was away ? " He glanced
around and upwards.
•Nothing."
" Better to take precautions," he explained, with a feeUc smile.
A
IVay/aixrs.
I
I
I
In deseiled places like these, you might expect to meet suspicious
chsracters.'*
His gaic hardened upon vac so uncomfortably that I seemed to
shift a. respon.tihilily in suggesting :
" Gypsii-s, footpads, poets,"
" Oi e^en . . . murderers"
I apologised to meaiatrs ks asiautts for my omission, and
eceived a long curious look which was so much more uncomfortable
that I glanced into the catnn, wondeting what skt ihouglii.
" Do you lake any inttrresi in th«e matters ? " he asked- " For
my own jiart, I have studicti a few aj^-cis of crime— especially
murders. You might say I am a connoisseur in murders." He
was smiling; but as he said this his smile went as if it had been
strangled. The spasm was only raomentai}'. He continued:
"Motives arc an interesting study, very inteicstinf, and very
important. 1 dont think it is quite recognised hcio impotlant. I
think, when the importance comes to be recognised, there will bo
' new relations between crime and the law. Don't you think so? "
I reached with my foot and extinguished a thread of Arc creeping
among ihc dried grass near me. " The law is perhaps too much in
air; it doesn't come down close enough to ilie individual"
*' You are right." His (ace lit up, " The law is inadequate.
The bw sees only two things, crime and punishment. Tliere are
such thing* as diflerences of chararter and pro\-ocation, but what
does the law know or care about that? The one thing it stands in
need of is charity — charity I Crime itself is not so cold and cruel as
the law." In the midst of bis heat lie shivered, spread his hands to
the fire, and added inclc^-antly, " It's growing colder."
Across the fir<^ the girl was regarding him with pain and per-
plexity ; as she turned her eyes in my direction, I read an appeal in
them, and, taking the hint, I said :
"This may all be very true ; but we arc three peaceable citizens
cast up out of tlie fog into a dreary hole on the hcith, and it's no
affair of ours. As for mc, after several hours without seeing a table,
I'm not in much mood for abstract specuhtions; I feci," said I,
sliifting my position Bliflly, "too much a creature of earth. It's
more to the point that the fog is clearing, and if we get rid of it in
reasonable time, we stand a chance of shelter for the rest of the
night' Not that, on second thoughts, I was anxious for any change
which would mean separation.
My reward for this attempt at diversion was a grateful look from
over the glow ; I began to warm with a smu^ &cn» tA MftxW. 'scAei-
ie Gcfitfetiiatis Magazine.
standing between us two. On the man, however, it nas evident my
cfToit had been lost. Hii gaM was at the heart of the fire, and il is
doubtful if be had he&rd half a doicn words, for he lifted his lace as
if there had been no inlcrrxiplion, and said slowly :
" Here is * case in ]x>inL I don't remember names or dates, but
you may have heard of the case It concerns two men. One wux
clc%-CT and unscrupuloui. The other was weak and Inisting, and
had a small fortune, amplv for his needs ; and when the first (whom
he thought his friend) came to him with fair words and at:gumcnls,
he was persuaded to place his tittle all iji tlte other's lands. For a
time profit came of the i^nturc ; then there was a cra.ih, an<l the
man who trusted found himself, with many others, pcnnilcs<^ nothing
but want waiting for him and those he loved. Then csmc evidence
of his friend's villainy, I'erhaps you can guess his feelings, ]>crhaj)S
you will understand tne when I say that be suddenly found depths
in himself which he never before dn»mcd of. lie set out to see his
fiivnd.
"They met. The interview took place in the grounds of the
other's house, where he had si)ied him walking and reading a
book, ^^'ho knows wt)at was said ? The ruined man must have
made some threatening movement, for the fin.tncivr, as if he had
prepared bimself for something like this, (iourishcd a ptstol. There
was a stn^gglc ; and then the ruined man was standing stupefied
over the body of Ins friend, knowing nothing but horror of the suiv-
shine and of the bloodstain spreading on the white pages at his feet."
There he slopped, his white face working. 'Ihegirl had been
watching his lips like a person fascinated, and when be came to the
upshot she buried her face. It was no wonder 1— in view of ber
presence, the %\ovj seemed curiously out of pbcc at such an hour
and in such circumstances. A light brccEC, which bad apparently
sprung up in the night outride, sent mist swirling up the quany
mouth and around us like spectres ; liie fire sprang into a bla/e, and
at once uneasy sliadoHS were crowding and starting in the precincts
of tiic cabin; one suddenly saw that the loneliness of tlic great
moors had made a sanctuary of this deserted quarry, and that we
were mere intruders. I, for one, saw it so clearly that I had to get up
lustily, with a pretence of attending to the fire.
His eyes were on me— he seemed to cx|>cct some response ; so
that, although desiring for her sake to turn the talk from its sinister
course, I could do no less than say vaguely that the facts of bis story
seemed somehow familiar. Still he stood without speech, possessed,
•t seemed, by a degree of feeling not easily explained, except on
I
^^^^^^^^^ Wayfarers. 7
grounds vrhicli a glar.cc at his sister and a reversion to lUf first
cstimnlc of him wwe JiifScient to render untenaUc.
>Vhat argument he intended )ti.i story to prov-e I gnrc him no
chance of sbonitig. I'lte effect of his vords had been by no tneant
soporific, but I took tlie situation in both liands and said, if the god>
niJIcd, 1 should slccji for an hour or Iwa For the lady's comfort, I
spread my grc;itcoat on the cabin floor, arranging my kiiai>sack
into a pillow; and she thanked me with a wan smile that stuck in
my vision long after I had thrown myielf <Son-n on the other side of
the lire, with my Cacc toward the entrance of this great roolkss bed-
chamber.
But there was no sleep for mc, nor had I expt-ctcd it. The
fatigue of my duty's ttamp tay on my bones, my couch was ivonc of
the softest, and I lay, so fiir as I could judge, the bt:tter i»tt of two
hours, all the night's incidents floating in inooheicnt pictures behind
my eyelids, and the words of the miin droning mechanically in tiii-d
hollows of my brain.
He spoke DO further word, and as no sound came from the cabin
I guessed that the occupant had wisely resigned herself to sleep, I
could bear him moving fitfully about the Are ; once or twice he
muttered to himself. Itut these sounds, tooy sink at last in the
deepening quiet, and pieseiitly came the rise and fall of heavy
breathing.
The still night oppressed mc like a foreboding ; my senses were
abnormally acute, and my imagination, as commonly happens in
excessive fatigue, began to pliiy me tricks. The prevailing silence
was a i-ast and sinister intelligence ; no! it wat my own consciousness
which expanded miraculously and took |iosses$ion of the quarry, so
thai the cabin, the forms of my companions, the smouldering fire,
the sheer stone walls, even llie blades of gross, became nvid factors
of my dilated being. From these altitudes I came down with an
cITori lo the thought of my pipe; And that saved mc,
I raised my head. 'ITk man lay a couple of feet fnim the fire,
hii arms locked across his face. The low Gre left ihc cabin half in
gloom, and my glance thither gained me nothing. Sleep was out of
ihc question. I got up altogether, and picked my way out u]>on the
heath.
Right and left the moors were swept almost clean, under twinkling
stars. Shimmerii^ tracts of mist still crouched here and there. From
the higher giourvd of the wood I was able to make out a single light no
bigger itian a piivhead across country, and I wondered if it were ths
Viiier's place. That personage was long ago abed, ycobiU-j ^BiasiilvNi,
8
Tit GetUieniatt's Magasine.
lips or tlumbCT m-er (he succulent joys of (he last meal, and here wni
I awake, hungr}*, and wandering in the wilderness.
But my pipe remained (o me, and I sat among fvms in the wood
and took comfort of it for about half an hour. 'I'hcn, being visited
with a sign in the shape of a mighty pwn, I made my way to the
quarry brink and peered down. ']'hings were as I had left ihcm,
save that the fire had sunk lower. A tiny llamc spurting near the
edge of the embers brought the motionless form of the slctpcr now
and then out of gloom, and moonlight kissed the cabin roof on its
way to a pool at the end of the quarry, which lay still as death in
the quiet shine.
A handful of pebbles that I was clumiy enough to dislodge
clattered down into the silent quarry. I held my breath, and saw
the sleeper start up with the face of a drowning man and almost
instantly subside. lie did not move again; and, withdrawing
myself from the brink without further mi&hap, I retraced my steps
to the entrance-
He was still in heavy slumber when I reached the smouldering
fire.
I stood looking down on bim and wondering. Suffering was the
heart of the problem be presented ; bo much his posture csprcsscd —
the left arm thrOATi back, the right hand clenched, with pain
fiickcring across the firelit features. It was not a face accustomed
to suffering ; normally, in repose, it would be marked by a benevo-
lence almost feminine.
At a sound, I turned quickly, and beheld the girl smiling at me
from the cabin doorway.
"You haven't slept?" I said, subduing my voice.
" No. The pebbles were )x>ur», then ? "
" I went tip there to look fwr (he drowsy god."
" And I suppose you peeped down to see if he had strayed here
*Wlc you weie away."
I laughed ; if I blushed as well, it was because the twinkle of
her eyes kindled a sense of guilt in me. It pleased me to sec hct so
bnvc in her trouble.
" So the moon and stars are out 2t last,
in the wood." She said it sadly.
"You have an eye for these things."
" I love them. . . . ^Ve had a wood at home"
Her use of the p.ist tense kept me silent for a space ; and the
draught blowing from the moors flicked a dead leaf into the fii^
4
It will be ctichanling
I
Wayfarers. 9
where it spattered briefly in the pause. Inarticubtc sounds escaped
the slwrpcr,
" You wcic telling me abwil the inn," I \-enliin.'d.
" I am sure something dreadful hAp{x:ned. God grant . . . Von
lieard the story he told. The first pan tkis our 01m case. He
enuustc<] money as he said, some scheme failed, and yesterday he
said that we must learn to regard ourselves o^ beggars."
I'be last Rord hung on silence.
"Do you thinl:.'* I said, with a gbnce at the sleeper, "tliat he
has been altogvtlKT wise— or blameless ? "
" Bhmtk-ss, yes. He has done it all for me. He spoke of the
limitations of oiir life, my capacity for better things— those were
his wortU. Oh, he should not have thought so '—but I mutt have
given him causa It is I who am to blame."
"Nonsense I 'i'he blame b apparently between an unwise man
and a scoundrcL"
She resumed, more calmly : " He came in during the day, very
much cxciicd. 'U'c must set out at once,' he said. I tried to
reason with him, but he would explain iwthing, and be was ui
feveri:>h haste all the way. I was left at the inn "
" Outside Hcathcnray, at the top of the long slope? "
"Yes,"
" I might hare met you t Piay go on."
"It was two hours before he came back stricken, anxious tc
leave the neighbourhood, and to avoid all iigns of our fellow-
ctcaturcs,"
The eyes she fixed on the skeper were fall of trouble and an
almost motherly tenderness. I bad no iKed to press for further
detail ; all about me was eIo(]uent of w!iat followed the Bight
from the tnn. And there was too much reason to believe that what
had already happcivcd was but a prelude to issues more disastrous.
Tbc facts she had related, lighting up the singuUrwotds and manner
of her brother, made it clear that they stood face to face with an
appalling possibility.
"And after tonight? " I said.
She W.1S mute.
I thought for 3 minute.
" You see what may have occurred ? "
" I daic not think of it"
Pity for her pridied me into plain spealtir^ " Ah I bat you
must think of iL To-morrow will show exactly what position you
are in, but meanwhile we know that you are tVan^tv^ t^»x %.
10
The GeiilUniatfs Magati$tt.
I>TCCipi>:e- At llus moment farces may i>e gathering which will sweep
your bfollier awa/ frcin you for e^cr. It sccras to me that life has
been kind lo you u^t to now ; j'ou arc about to k'am how brutal it
can be. I want you to see tliat the Tcfug<;s of the weak are closed
to J'OU) if you wish to suni^-c Vou must hare the courage to
think. The point before you is tliis: if the worst has happened)
what will you do ? "
Brimming eyes were her reply to this piece of scrmoaising ;
I recollected that she was a woman.
" You have relatives," I suggested, more gently.
"None."
It WIS my turn to fall silent, before tlie mental picture of a hill'
side eotugu among the bices, and in a prophetic ^vAx J saw the face
nt my side brightening my mother's loneliness there. AVork would
SODD caII me southward sgain, but there my ramble ended for the
present ; and words of an offer on my mother's behalf rose to mjr
tips, where for the time being they remained.
Let the morrow decide.
Toirard morning I fell asleep j and when I awoke I was alo««
with the ashes of the &re. A streak of cloud in conflagration
hung above mc ; dawn was filling the quarry with still, grey light.
1 gat up with a shiver and looked around, fragmentary images of
last night flitting through my head in twilight uncertainty ; and I was
asking myself if 1 had dreamed when my glance fell upon a piece of
paper at my feet.
I stooped for it. . . .
I found, later, that I had wandered around in the mist lo the
other side of Wythcnshawe. People were already astir when I
walked into the village ; an indefinable thrill was in the morning air.
At the first inn I was made aware of the murder of Mr. lilrani
Jones in the groimds of his house on the preceding afternoon.
In the wann kitchen I re-read my scrap of ppcr :
" Whatcii'er happens, my place is at his side. Good-bj^."
17
TJu Ge
rtirtumiiiaiiilfcii
the pnBiat dif . Time «a» a vide
MpBtc Md «aiKtioiik bM it » «MeM Aat dhe I
WM wr KiriMd, »d Ifae ffiiiV wihor tooad it dffitak M I
■■*« IIoKC dw tfO^ of dMK prtfie itifiagK Tite
iMd «i^ to Mcsrc « mitMt 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
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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
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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 <e 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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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617
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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.
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