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ATYQp.

*<'fiRA^\^

Gentleman s Magazine

Volume CCLXXI.

JULY TO DECEMBER 1891

RODESSE b* Delectare 'v^Kf X ~-^ E pluribus Unum

Ediud by SYLVANUS URBAN, Genlleman

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1891

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., KEW-STREET SQUARE

LONDOK

CONTENTS <?/ VOL. CCLXXI.

page:
Algerian Hill-Town, Life in an. By Dr. J. E. Taylor, F.L.S. . 164
Among the Algerian Hills. By Dr. J. E. Taylor, F.L.S. . . 472
Anuradhapura : a Pre-Christian City.- By C. F. Gordon

CUMMING 560

Aubrey, John, of Wilts. By Rev. B. S. Johns, M.A. . . . 279

Australian Aborigines, The Customs of. By C. N. Barham . 329

Ballad, The, of the Hulk. By H. Schutz Wilson . . . 416
Beaconsfield, Lord, Was he the Sun ? By J. A. Farrer . .254

Beverages, Summer, for Fat People. By Dr. Yorke-Davies . 153

Burial, A Pauper's. By George Holmes 93

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch. By Lillias Wassermann 109

Churches, Odd Items in Old. By Sarah Wilson ... 94

Commonplace-Book, A. By Major-Gen. Patrick Maxwell . 575

Competitive Utopia, A. By Arthur Ransom .... 44

Cry, The, of the Saxon. By M. A. CURTOIS 202

Customs, The, of Australian Aborigines. By C. N. Barham . 329

Cutting-out, The, of the " Hermione." By Fleetwood H. Pellew. 519

David, A Song of. By George Holmes 526

Day, A, at the Meydoum Pyramid. By Rev. H. D. Rawnslev,

English Sparrow, The:—

L A Sketch. By John Watson, F.L.S 398

II. For the Prosecution. By Charles Whitehead , . 399

III. For the Defence. By Rev. Theodore Wood . . . 407

IV. In America. By G. W. Murdoch ..... 412
Expletives, Some English. By Thomas H. B. Graham . .192
Farming, The Pleasures of. By Rev. W. G. Watkins, M.A. . 25
Flowers and the Poets. By Spencer Moore . . . .171
Folk-Tales, The, of Sardinia. By E.Sidney Hartland, B.A. . 33
Forefathers, The Naming of our. By W. Wheater . . . 623
Foulon and Berthier, The True History of. By E. Perronet

Thompson .341

French Revolution, The Great Talkers of the. Part I. By W. H.

Davenport Adams. . 478

Part H 606

From a Country Parsonage. By A COUNTRY Parson ... 50
Goethe^s Mother. By Rev. Dr. JOSEPH Strauss, M.A. . . 590
Great Railway Centre, A. By John Sansome .... 180
Grindstone Theory, The, of the Milky Way.| By J. Ellard Gore,

F.R.AS 359

Harriet Shelley's Letters, On Some Extracts from. By Annie E.

Ireland 232

"Hermione," The Cutting-out of the. By FLEETWOOD H. Pellew 519

" Incident, The."' By James Hutton 65

Jean Chouan : a Tale of La Vendde. By C. E. Meetkerke . 310
Jenkins' Ear War, The, and Vernon. By H. P. Roberts . .137

Jerome Cardan. By W. G. Waters 384

John Aubrey of Wilts. By Rev. B. G. Johns, M.A. . . . 279
Journal, The, of Richard Bere. By Major Martin A. S. Hume . 440

Kingfishers. By Frank Finn, B.A., F.Z.S 504

Life in an Algerian Hill-Town. By Dr. J. E. Taylor, F.L.S. . 164
Life in the North Sea. By Alexander Gordon .... 78
London History, Two Primitive Relics of. By G. Laurence
' Gomme, F.S.A. •••■•••••• 499

IV Contents.

Meydoum Pyramid, A Day at the. By Rev. H. D. Rawnsley, M.A. o
Milky Way, The Grindstone Theory of the. By J. Ellard Gore,

F.R.A.S 359

Moorland Sheep-Farm, A. By GEORGE RADFORD • • .124

Mrs. hibbert. By M. F. W. CROSS 537

Nameless. By J. Lawson 321

Naming, The, of our Forefathers. By W. Wh eater . . . 623
Notes on the Lias and Trias Cliffs of the Severn. By C. Parkinson 292
Odd Items in Old Churches. By Sarah Wilson .... 94
On some Extracts from Harriet Shelley's Letters. By Annie E.

Ireland 232

Oxford Beauty, The Troubles of an. By Philip Sinclair . .213
Pages on Plays. By J. H. McCarthy, M.P. 100, 204, 312, 420, 528, 632

Pauper's Burial, A. By Ceorge Holmes 93

Pearl, The, of Hafiz. By n *. . . i

Pleasures, The, of Farming. By Rev. M. G. Watkins, M.A. . 25
Poets, Flowers and the. By Spencer Moore . . . .171
Railway Centre, A Great By John Sansome . - . .180
Retrogression, Zoological. By H. G. Wells, B.Sc. . . . 246
Richard Bere, The Journal of. By Major Martin A. S. Hume . 440
Salvationist Sketch, A : Captain Kitty. By Lillias Wassermann 109
Sardinia, The Folk-Tales of. By E. Sidney Hartland, B.A. . ^^

Saxon, The Cry of the. By M. A Curtois 202

Severn, Notes on the Lias and Trias Cliffs of the. By C. Parkinson 292
Shakespeare, William, Naturalist. By Arthur Gaye . . . 364
Sheep-Fann, A Moorland. By George Radford . . .124
Some Engflish Expletives. By Thomas H. B. Graham . .192

Some London Streets. By E. K. Pearce 300

Spiritual failure, A By T. Sparrow 430

Summer Beverages for Fat People. By Dr. N. E. Yorke-Davies 1 53

Suppliant, The. By ISA. J. Postgate 631

Swinburne's Poems, The Theology of. By Robert Shindler . 459
Table Talk. By Sylvanus Urban :-—

Rabelais Abroad — Master Th^odule Rabelais . . . . 107

Efforts towards the Perfectioning of the Book— A New Mania

— Guide-book to Books 211

Le Morte Darthur — Heine on Englishmen — Actor- Management 3 1 9

Sir Walter Scott — Scott as seen in his Journal — Scotfs Last

Words — Eccentricities of Holiday-making . . . 427

Progress of the Bull-Fight in France — Author-Managers —

Actor V, Author 535

Promised Additions to Pepys— A Domestic Interior from

Pepys — A " Pentateuch of Printing " 639

Talkers, The Great, of the French Revolution. By W. H.

Davenport Adams 478

Part II 606

Theolog)', The, of Mr. Swinburne's Poems. By Robert Shindler 459
Troubles, The, of an Oxford Beauty. By Philip Sinclair . .213
True History, The, of Foulon and Berthier. By E. Perronet

Thompson 34^

Two Primitive Relics of London History. By G. Laurence

Gomme, F.S.A 499

Vernon and the Jenkins* Ear War. By H. P. Roberts . .137
Victor Hugo's Lyrics. By Cecilia E. Meetkerke . . • 5^9
Was Lord Beaconsfield the Sun ? By J. A. Farrer . . .254
William Shakespeare, Naturalist. By Arthur Gave . . .364
'^Jogic^ Rc^rogrqssioiv By H. p. Wells, B.Sc, . . 246

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

July 1891.

THE PEARL OF HAFIZ.

By n.

THE town of Old Quay lies on the farther side of a certain
important river in the North of England, and was once well
known to sailors all the seas over, owing to its proximity to the river's
mouth, and to the fact that vessels frequently unloaded there and
sought repairs in the various dry docks and yards, from whence arose
a constant clatter of rivetters and platers at their work. Now, how-
ever, it is much less busy than formerly, owing to the competition of
a new port on the south side of the river some few miles higher up.

Thus it had gradually attained to an antique and picturesque
appearance ; sundry warehouses, for example, had fallen into decay
on the river's bank, and at low tide showed black misshapen limbs,
on which the green seaweeds, like an evil disease, festered in spots.

The houses rose up tier above tier, from the very brink of the
river to the full height of the hill behind, red-tiled for the most part,
with curious tall and crooked chimney-stacks that reminded the
stranger of a foreign town ; here and there a gable end had fallen in,
and the irregular outline of its ruin added to the general effect of
the whole.

Down by the quayside, and along the lower length of the town,
ran a. curiously narrow and curving road, that but barely admitted the
passage of a cart.

All the length of this thoroughfare was crowded with public-
houses and drinking booths : here and there, indeed, a marine store
displayed a dingy window stuffed with ancient clothes, offering

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1927. B

2 The Gentleman's Magazine.

facilities for reopening a credit next door ; nor were there wanting
sundry chandlers* shops, from whose doors a pungent odour was
emitted. Occasionally the signs of other trades also might be seen :
enormous painted boots hung high in air, and on a windy day were
a frequent source of alarm to the passers-by ; sundry inscribed
boards proclaimed that up the various alleys that opened on to the
roadway travellers might be housed for the night as cheaply as the
good Samaritan lodged hisprotegi. But the public-houses so greatly
predominated, and were there indeed in such numbers, that a certain
well-known character in the town, of proved capacity, had refused
to back himself to walk down the length of it, take a glass at each,
and pronounce his own name at the other end.

There were, however, as was but natural, one or two of these
places of resort more popular than the rest, notably " The Spotted
Dog" and "The Goat in Boots,** where custom and a reputed
easiness in the landlord had founded a reputation. The last-
named inn was the favourite resort of merchant sailors, and stood
in the centre of the narrow street, a little back from the pavement ;
m front stood a tall mast from which swung a signboard, whereon a
fantastic creature in large sea-boots was understood — ^by the artist, at
all events — to be capering vivaciously.

One night towards the close of November, ten years ago, it
chanced that the " Goat in Boots ** was unusually crowded. A large
East Indiaman had just come in, and the inhabitants of the town,
relishing a now rare honour, had come in force to see the strangers
and hear the stories they would be willing enough to tell.

In the taproom a bright fire blazed, calling forth a responsive
gleam from the dark panelling that ran round the room. The floor
was clean and sanded, the long tables resounded with the clink of
pewter and the ring of glasses, and the atmosphere was thick with
laughter and tobacco smoke.

Round the chimney corner, and lounging in the arm-chairs pro-
vided for superior guests, were two or three of the new comers, whose
words were reverently listened to by the habituks of the place, whose
knowledge of naval matters, though great, was essentially theoretical.
Nearer the door sat a swarthy seaman, gay with bright coloured neck-
cloth, rings in his ears and on his fingers, who was earnestly endea-
vouring, notwithstanding occasional hiccoughs, to convince his
neighbour — a timid shoemaker from next door — of the dangers of the
deep and the better security of terra iirma. Quite close to the entrance
1 a nondescript group, consisting generally of those who hoped
! ape acquaintance with the new arrivals, and, by learning their

The Pearl of Hafiz. 3

weaknesses, to glean advantage for themselves ; amongst whom touts —
that one-eyed, errand-running race of men — and red-faced, Amazonian
females, who might fitly have lectured on the equality of the sexes,
were plainly visible.

In the middle of the room and at a table by himself sat a tall,
white-haired, venerable old man, who looked superior to, and yet
quite at his ease among his strange companions. He migflt have
been observed to be taking secret note of all that was going on out
of the comer of his half-shut eyes ; yet, though his eyes were thus
apparently only half open, his glance was clear and keen as k
hawk's, and the paper he held in his hands was merely a pretext for
escaping observation and avoiding conversation. One figure more
especially occupied his, as well as, indeed, the general attention —
that, namely, of a stranger who was sitting in the comer nearest the
fire in the chief place, with a wise-looking parrot on his shoulder and
a big cheroot between his lips.

Stories of adventure had been freely circulating amidst a din of
laughter, applause, and the clink of pewter, but when the owner of
the parrot spoke, his individuality seemed to assert itself, for the
noise gradually ceased and the space of silence about him gradually
widened.

He was certainly of interesting appearance : his hair was long and
hung in curls about his shoulders ; his face, through exposure to the
sun, was of a dark tan hue, while his eyes were of the deep blue
colour that typifies the sea on a summer day, and is only to be
found amongst the race of sailors. His hands and arms were tattooed
with quaint symbols and devices, and in the lines of his mouth was
visible a humorous expression, which, taken in connection with his
easy attitudes, gave him the air of one who has seen the world and
found it to his liking.

There seemed, indeed, to cling about him a scent of romance
and adventure : a Sindbad of the nineteenth century, imagination
whispered, plucking, when he spoke, expectation's sleeve.

Some of the bystanders had remarked upon the strange colouring
and wise aspect of the parrot that sat upon his shoulder and surveyed
the company with cold penetrative eyes.

" Ay, ay," said he, in response to some query, ** she's a wise bird,
yon is, and knows more than many a human. The Indian priest who
gave her me said she was more nor fifty years old, and a curious jiistory
it was that he told of her. He believed there was a spirit inside of
her. She was always findin' out things he'd have rather kept hid,
and had a memory for them that was quite as perplexin' as it was

B2

A f •

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE

LONDON

The Pearl of Hafiz. 5

me,' says he, ' and I'll tell ye all about it,' clappin' his arm through
mine and halin' me along like a pliceman, takes me to his hotel.

** Well, dashed if it wam't just one of them Turkish women I'd
just been sneerin' at ! The young Squire had been travellin', d'ye
see, makin' a ' grand tour ' as he called it, to complete his eddication;
eddication not bein' complete, of course, without a lesson or two from
the fair sex." Here the narrator paused a moment, gave a mighty
wink at a nervous-looking little man near him, drained his glass, and
continued with a smile :

*' He'd made up his mind to marry her there and then, run the
blockade, and carry her off if need were. There was need enough
and to spare indeed, for her Pa, d'ye see, was a minister, a Pasha»
they called him ; a hooked nose, fiery Turk, who hated Christians,
and more especially Englishmen, like pork, which those pagunds say
is unclean, though they ain't over-clean themselves, if it comes to
that Well, notwithstanding all this, and all I could say against it —
and I was strong against it, too, tellin' him as how he was over-young
for the job, and could take his choice in England when the proper
time came — * Why,' says I, forgetting myself for the moment, * as for
runnin' away with a foreign gal in a veil — why, it's like buyin* a pig in
a poke.'

" * Jack,' says he, laughin' quite in a good humour at the notion,
as it were, 'you'll be ready to eat your foolish words when once
you've seen her.' Well, I didn't think so, but I said no more, seein'
the uselessness of it, for 'tis the skipper pricks the chart and the sea-
man must just obey.

'^ So I agreed to be at a certain point that night at eleven o'clock
and follow out all his instructions, happen what might Well, I
might ha' been seen that night, at the very moment the clock was
strikin' ten, clamberin' up a great high wall that shut in the Nabob's
paliss and grounds.

" I'd to wait, d'ye see, just below the wall, in the shadow of a
fig-tree, for her to come, then help her over the wall by a rope ladder
I had round my waist, and jump into the carriage which was to be
there ready for us — the young Squire himself bein' the cabby, dressed
out in linen togs and turban to distract attention.

'* 'Twas a nasty wall to climb, was yon : I doubt if I hadn't been a
sailor I'd never ha' got to the top ; however, I managed after a bit
to get a foothold, and swingin' myself up to the top, lay there to get
my breath. First thing I see is a great scowling sentry just below
me with a nasty heathen sword like a sickle waiting for me. There
wasn't a moment to think about anything at all — I just made a jump

6 * The Gentlemaft s Magazine.

on to him there and then — almost fell on him, in fack, and by good
luck stunned him as I came down pretty heavy right on top of him.
I was mighty pleased it was him that Ws stunned and not me, as
there'd ha* been mighty little chance of my ever seein' the light
again, had he had a say in the matter. For fear, however, he might
come to before the young lady was to arrive I took the turban off his
head and tied it tight round his mouth like a gag, and then, tying his
hs^nds behind his back, left curlytoes senseless on the grass and hid
myself in the shade of the fig-tree. Two or three minutes passed
away, and I trembled at every sound, fearing lest an alarm had been
given and it was all up. Yet all of a sudden comes a rustling noise,
and, lo and behold, there she was ! Well, mates, she was just
like "

Here the narrator's imagination, proving unequal to the task,
sought a stimulus in the glass that had been judiciously ordered by
one of the audience beforehand and placed beside him.

"Ay, ay,** continued the sailor slowly, "it's no use talkin', but
she beat a fairy in a pantomime hollow — a bit pale, perhaps, she was,
but her eyes shone like stars on a dear night in the Indian Seas,
glimmerin* as 'twere, with grace and beauty, like the pearl ye've
seen to-night

" Well, it wasn't many minutes before she was over that blessed
wall and safe into the carnage t'other side. Off we drove to the
Hotel, and there that very evening they were married by an English
^ergyman who happened to be out there at the time. Ay ! married
right enough, no doubt about that : why, I gave her away myself and
finessed their signatures, aj, and got a kiss too for the job, and
^hat I valued less at the time, mates, this here pearl as well," again
producing it as he spoke from his pocket

^ No, nO|^ cried the honest sailor in condusion, *' he promised
Hue enough to love and to chi»ish her till death did them part, else;i
^uiie or no squire, he^d not Ka' had my hdp ! "^

A munnur of applause greeted this manly and es^^itiaUy British
^enlimeiit diat so ^dy brought the tak to a condnsioo.

The storj of the peaii had moQC^i^ed all attentioQ, and die
Men ga«<d le^i^eieiiilv upon the possessor of a je«^ that had been so
iOHMntka% won. Profile attentions w^»e |>)entitully shown the
Imiesi sidor, ofcffs of ^ soiaethM^ hot ^ it$i>Qnded on all sides of
hlH^ bit wyw nine h«ft cane fenranl and intimated, wiih d^veou
«nd ii^gyer pmied to the cli>clu duA the tiine had come
li^ Imnmv^ iMiwiWi%h » mns faiced to dc«ie his doois and

The Pearl of Hafiz. 7

The company slowly broke up and dispersed in little groups of
twos and threes, all discussing the sailor and his pearl and repeating
again the romantic details of its history.

The venerable looking individual who, as was noticed above, had
taken such an interest in all that was going on, though he had not
joined in the throng of those who offered their services, was awaiting
with impatience an opportunity of accosting the possessor of this
priceless jewel. "Good-nights" were exchanged outside as the
company broke up and went their various ways, and the sailor, who
had refused all the invitations for prolonging the night that had been
showered upon him, was left standing alone for a moment in the
middle of the street.

The venerable old man, perceiving his opportunity, came up at
once and thus accosted him.

"My friend," said he, "if I may without offence thus style a
stranger, should it so happen that you seek a lodging I offer my
humble roof to your notice."

Here he produced a card on which was inscribed in large
letters —

EBENEZER STALLYBRASS,

6 Marine Terrace.

Furnished Apartments.

which he impressively handed over to the sailor.

" Ay," he continued slowly, " at 6 Marine Terrace, I, Ebenezer
Stallybrass, let lodgings ; charges moderate, all things cleanly and
orderly, and an extraordinary fine prospect of the sea, which will be
very pleasing to a sailor." "Ay," he commenced again after a
moment's pause, " and lest ye should fear ye might be robbed I may
tell ye that I am an Elder o' the Kirk and well respecked in the
town."

" Ay," he concluded, after another and most impressive pause,
during which the sailor had difficulty in subduing a smile, " at
6 Marine Terrace there's prayers morning and evening and all the
comforts of a home."

It may be doubted whether the honest sailor would have included
prayers in the category of home comforts, but at all events he seemed
impressed by what he heard, or perhaps it was rather that he was
amused by the manners and character of his would-be host, for he
reflected for a short space, and a humorous twinkle lit up his eye as
he replied, " Well, thank ye, mate, I've got a berth for to-night, but
111 look ye up to-morrow, and maybe Til stay with ye a bit, though
v to prayers, now, — ^well, I'm one who's for prayer myself— but— — ^

\

L

j)'^arr. irj- fci iiji'r ; 7* « ;::s: iivt lesi tgribij nfy-'irnrag at
iLt -^iT- :jL.r: Df ji. Aj. :v-l i»e ;ii^ £ rrxz" cccccrzrrj fcr yeif
Tt i:iirt viii. nit. '

Ht bid Zi-?'. z'.'Zit Terr fir. b:¥-trr*r. ':»£:'; r* b* atl: 2 ts^ upon his

sb:i*ilier. ii:;!- Iiiz-Vt.z rujiklj riciii. Terisrr*:

vb^ £^:r. h.'^z'j5iti ? "'.■ ** Jr-fsi.' r.t ssji. ~-lI^ ar coe at

t.iCi. ..&. J F}.>^.r i. tr*«. •>. ..^^k ->'^-*±- *-— ^ -'— -^ — > *- ^ ITS UC

-^'^Liz, curr i*: -z»t _j^ 11 2Zj:iiy*r :: in — ye ilzi tDces same Acre
vbc "wi''-!! rii T£ Ln»:si :_r nt '-"li ;: i £.j:ss cc "^bisirr.*

•• .-^y. :Lt c:i.r:^~ri- si-t — ^. 7. " mi t: 2. pezr. -lit tco upon ye
i: -wir^i be z si:: =.: :; iiie prriL-r :z3^ Niv. if ye wcc^ liV^ to
cepi»s:: :: ttI" znt zic -Jie rizb: I - nit :be nsi irf i:, 2nd. ITl ghne yc
2 reifcipc ::r :: '.bj vbile,'' f^:; b*. ::c'~^ 25 be srcke
Lis loikei, uii ciref-'-lv -g-err^z 2. 7»ez.iil rerrere:: his u

-I:r ii: r.£'-: v:± —e, liujnk ye i-r.ily." rezlied ibe sailor,

iziustd 1: ±e :±trs -srirziz^ mi miierr :: res::^ ibe peari in a
pb-ce cf ^e-ririrr. "N:^ n:." he c:z.ilzr:ri, -yzz reckcxi I can
prt" Veil ?:eer i rl^h: c:-r>e ry :b:i i-ne. fiir -weaiber or foci !*

bis Di'ZL '.z»t7. in T-is r.mi. ■s'lim.nz ms retrr'.'.Trg nz^ire witii anxioiis

As the b:::e5: mminer zmie bis -a-iy brn:e"»-ird he =»ight have
been heard :; Li-c'r. :it:u- ml iz2^- :l: ihe :r.:.;zb: cf bis would-be
landlord. Tr.iu^b he r.ii se-en. like a certain fsmcus iraTeQer of

•»■• « •• «■ • ..- ,_

had quickened bis human :n:ere<:s^ uni l=-d bin: tc lake new 23
in ever.- fresh :yi-e z: chirucier he en:cun:ered- He had now,
indeed, almcs: inide ur his mini ::- l:-i^e a: uie house of ihe £lder,
vhereas a mere cauuous man wouli irjbably have hes:u:ed to htot
such a formidable ccmbina:::n c: qualides as wen: to make up
Ebcnezer's f-ersonality.

The hones: mariner dimlv guessed indeed that Ebenezer
complex character, but he did nc: endeavour :o form any
but came to the simple conclusion :ha: •* Sco:::e " was a n:m
and from that fact promised himself some amusement. « - ■

The honest mariner, however, as we said above, troubled himidf i

The Pearl of Hafiz. 9

not about these things, but next day betook himself to Marine
Terrace in order to inspect Ebenezer's apartments. He found them
much to his liking and fully bearing out, so far as he could see, the
description given of them. Not merely were the rooms neat and
simple, and commanded a good prospect of the sea, but a pretty
parlour maid answered the bell, as it turned out, and added another
attraction which was " very pleasin' to a sailor." It was this, perhaps,
rather than the situation, or the fact that his landlord was an original,
or even the rusty telescope in the garden, as large as a small cannon,
of which he could have the gratuitous use, that clinched his desire
and determined him to have his chest brought up thither at once.

The next few days passed by pleasantly enough, the sailor thought,
as he peaceably smoked his pipe in the garden on a warm afternoon,
and in the evening sat in his arm-chair beside the red-bricked fire-
place, where a fire always burned cheerily, keeping the hobs — those
brackets so convenient for after-dinner enjoyment — warm and ready
for their uses.

As for the "prayers — morning and evening" the honest sailor
had devoutly attended at first, and had somewhat disconcerted
Ebenezer — who previously had always been listened to by the two
servants in perfect silence — by uttering devout, but unfortunately ill-
timed, amens : as for example, when Ebenezer paused to take in
a fresh supply of breath. What had finally put an end to the sailor's,
attendance was not the "prayer " so much as the " exposeetion," as
Ebenezer called it, which followed, wherein he sustained the part of
" devil's advocate " with efficacy, exposing the weak side of various
apostles and divines with an unfailing satisfaction.

" Ay," he remarked one evening in an " exposeetion," suggested
by a chapter he had just read from one of the Epistles, " ay, St. Paul,
now, had a gran' eloquence, doubtless, and a ch9ice of words quite
extraordinary, but he was aye over- weak in doctrine — whiles beseeching
instead o' threatening, and aye leaving the sinner a loophole for
escape. Ye cannot coax the sinner to righteousness wi' a kiss, but
wi' threats maun drive him afore ye as an auld wife brings hame her
kye of an evening. 'Twas a great peety, too, he should write of
himself as bein' * weak in bodily presence and in speech contemptible.'
Ay, 'twas a peety, indeed, he should ha' been so meek — ay, and a
sair peety that others who ha' the gifts should lack the opportu-
neeties."

Then there ensued an impressive pause which was broken unex-
pectedly by the sailor, who, but dimly understanding what had been
said, and believing something to be expected from him, audibly.

lo The Gentlematt s Magazine.

ejaculated "Amen !" and thereby so startled the elder that some of
the hard sayings destined for another fell upon himself.

After this the sailor no longer attended prayers, notwithstanding
the expostulations of the landlord, who enlarged upon the " building
up " the " exposeetion " never failed to effect.

To this he bluntly replied that " there wasn't no chance for one
of the crew if the skipper were trounced like that," alluding to the
above-mentioned attacks on the divines of old.

Indeed, he more than suspected that Ebenezer's scheme of
righteousness worked out in the form of an equation, whereby the
election of one just man, viz., Ebenezer, was equivalent to the
rejection of ninety-and-nine unjust persons, amongst whom the sailor
felt he was himself included.

He dimly guessed, indeed, that his future host combined several
diverse qualities in his constitution, and, had he been gifted with the
analytical spirit, he might have likened him to a prodigy of old, an
instance of the " triformis " class, composed of three very different
elements, of which three elements, or members rather we should call
them, the Scot would generally predominate, assisted by the second —
the lodging-house keeper — while on Sundays of course the Elder
would reign supreme. It might be surmised, moreover, that on the
remaining six days of the week the elements of the Scot and the
lodging-house keeper^— when any mutual advantage was obtainable —
would be only too ready to lay violent hands upon the unfortunate
Elder and incontinently imprison him.

He had discovered very soon that it was not so much the desire
to save him from destruction, as the extraordinary affection he had
for his pearl, that had made Ebenezer so eager to secure him as a
lodger.

For every evening after the Bible had been put away his landlord
would come downstairs, and under pretence of seeing that his guest
was comfortable, would enter into conversation and sit down oppo-
site him. Before he departed the conversation would be sure to
turn sooner or later to the wonderful pearl \ the story of course re-
sulted, and finally, in answer to certain hints, the pearl itself would
be drawn from its case, to prove, as it were, the authenticity of the
story.

The sailor, indeed, was nothing loath to tell the romantic history
as often as might be, but yet found mighty satisfaction in pretending
not to notice Ebenezer's hints that came fluttering forth each evening
after prayers, like bats or moths about a lamp^ as he used to silly
reflect within himself.

The Pearl of Hafiz. ri

Many were the groans Ebenezer had to give vent to before
his hints would be perceived by his obtuse lodger, whose insensibility
invariably increased as the eagerness of the other was more openly
displayed. The period of suspense was prolonged, in fact, each
evening, till, as the sailor used to mischievously describe it, " it wasn't
afore he had burnt both wings and was buzzin' about and around
the pearl like a bluebottle fly," that the torture was ended by its
production.

Here, indeed, the sailor felt he had his host at a disadvantage,
and could repay with interest on the material side some of the severe
buffets he had himself received in the spiritual discipline he had been
subjected to.

On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to pretend he
had lost it, and Ebenezer's face worked like that of a man in a flt.
Indeed his passion for the pearl was fast consuming him, and with
his passion his hate of the owner of the pearl grew correspondingly,
not, of course, because he envied him a mere carnal possession, but
that his spiritual pride was wounded at thus having to ask a favour
of one who was a mere castaway.

Matters, however, came to a crisis one evening. It so happened
that Ebenezer had been reading at prayers that night concerning the
merchant in the Bible who sold all his possessions in order to buy a
pearl of great price. The incident thus recorded had taken imme-
diate hold of his imagination, for the merchant, it seemed to him, had
been in a similar position to that wherein he himself was placed at
the moment The question that at once occupied him was the
amount of the sum thus raised by the merchant that proved sufficient
for the purpose.

" Could it have been as much as ;^5oo ? " cogitated Ebenezer, as
he slowly descended the stairs, groaning within himself the while at
the immensity of the amount.

He found his lodger at home, as was usual in the evening, and
after a few preliminary and inconsequent remarks, skilfully, as was
his wont, led up to the great subject When again the jewel was
disclosed, he could restrain himself no longer, but was fain to discover
once for all — though several times previously he had thrown out
judicious feelers on the subject — whether his lodger would be willing
to part with it — at a price.

*' May be," he questioned insidiously — " ye can give a guess as
to what the value of it might be," peering out, as he spoke, from
under his bushy eyebrows at his careless lodger who sat in the
arm-chair opposite.

12 The Gentleman's Magazine.

' " Oh ! I dessay a thousand pounds, maybe," replied the other in
his oflFhand way.

" Eh ! a thousand pounds ! " echoed the horror-struck Ebenezer.
" Man ! ye can never mean it. Na, na, you sailor folk are just a
daft set and dinna ken the right value of siller. Na, na, ye'U have
just made a mistake,'' he continued, visibly brightening at his sugges-
tion ; " na doubt but ye meant five hundred, and that maybe would
be mair nor it would be worth from a strict mercantile point of view,"
he concluded thoughtfully, fearing lest he might be influenced by the
scriptural parallel above mentioned and be offering too much.

"Well, well," replied the sailor with a laugh and a mischievous
look in his eye, " suppose we say five hundred, what then ?"

" Well, maybe," replied Ebenezer, cautiously, " ye'll be wanting
siller soon, and perchance I might be able to raise as much, though " —
groaning deeply — "it's a tar'ble large amount and no easy got
together."

" Ay," he continued, almost bitterly, as he perceived no special
sign of delight at the ofifer in his companion's face, " you sailors are
just a reckless race and have absolutely no idee of the value of siller.
Why, there's plenty men could keep themselves in board and lodgin'
the rest o' their lives on five hundred pounds laid out at a decent
rate of interest."

His cbmpanion's ideas on the subject differed probably ; at all
events, he did not immediately reply, and the two men sat watching
each other in silence — Ebenezer debating within himself whether he
could offer guineas instead of pounds, and the sailor mischievously
pondering a scheme whereby he might outwit his host, teach him a
moral lesson in the matter of covetousness, and yet retain the pearl
notwithstanding.

" Well," the sailor broke out at last, with a jolly laugh, " I'll tell
ye what. We'll have a carouse for the pearl. I'm not particular
anxious to sell, but I've no objection to give ye a chance to get it
Look ye, now, we'll have a friendly carouse by way of a match for it
— my pearl and your brass for the stakes, and grog the weapon."

" Ay, ay," he continued, laughing, " I challenge ye, and I choose
the weapons. All fair and square : you stake your brass, and I my
pearl, side by side on the table, then glass and glass about to prov^
which is the better man — chalking up the score, I for ye and ye iot
me, as we turn about Then, gradually, I calculate, one of us will
feel the ship roUin' and staggerin', and will seek seclusion, mayb^
under the table, whiles t'other, still keeping right end up'ards, wins
the match, and pockets pearl and brass.

The Pearl of Hafiz. 1 3

" The one that's beat can't say nothin' against it next mornin',
mind, though like enough he won't remember much what's happened.
No, no, he'll be occupied enough, I calculate," concluded the sailor^
with a hearty laugh, and a mischievous glance at his companion, " in
refrigeratin' his headpiece as though t'were a perishable article
a-passing through the Tropic of Capricorn."

Ebenezer sat there rigid and stiff, scarce believing he could have
heard aright.

Eh ! How Providence favoured the elect ! This was the thought
that predominated in the tumultuous eddy of his brain. Here was
opportunity literally thrust upon him, and he remembered with pride
certain bouts of former days, wherein he • had gained a reputation,
though he had long since found it convenient as an Elder of the Kirk
to put away the memory of such misdeeds.

He almost felt the pearl in his grasp; and as for the ;^Soo,
why, there it was still comfortably housed in his trousers' pockets.

"It — it will be whisky?" he queried hoarsely, after the short
pause wherein he had endeavoured to collect his thoughts and main-
tain to outward appearance his usual composure, "yell ha' ho
objection to the whisky ? "

" Ay, ay — whisky, for it makes one feel so frisky," replied the
roystering mariner, not bethinking himself that as a Scotchman his
host, however reverend, was probably acclimatised to that beverage.
" Whisky, first course, hot ; second course, whisky ; third course,
whisky ; then a brew of punch, and something tasty to eat atween
whiles." Then he broke off into a jolly laugh, and began to sing in
a full deep voice a stave or two of a drinking song.

The anchor's slipt and the freight's unshipt,

Sing ho for Jack ashore !
Now gold doth chink and the glasses clink,

Sing ho for mirth galore.

The fire bums bright, Jack's heart is light,

Sing ho, the night arouse !
We'll drink about till Sol be out.

Sing ho for a carouse.

"Whist, man, whist," exclaimed Ebenezer anxiously, for he had
now had time to reassume the mantle of the elder which had so
nearly fallen from his shoulders in the excitement of the last few
moments. " Ye canna comprehend the delicate nature of a good
repute," he continued, by way of explanation. " It just clings about
a man like a sweet savour, and if once suspeecion, wi' it's foul breath,
comes nigh it, it's just altogether overpowered— like ointment o' the

r4' The Gentleman's Magazine.

apothecary that stinketh by reason o' the dead flies in it There's
aye plenty reprobates gangin' up and down like roarin' lions seekin'
to do the godly a damage. I should na wonder," he continued,
suddenly descending to the particular, "if there were ane o' them at
this meenit wi' his lug fast to the window." With this he stepped
towards it, and lifting up the sash peered cautiously out into the
night After he had duly satisfied himself on this point, he closed
the window, drew the curtains carefully to, and, facing the sailor,
commenced again.

" Ay, ay," — with a sorrowful wag of the head-^" there wad be
mony not ower guid themsell wad be .only too glad to bring a
discredit on anither, wha wad shoot out the lip wi' scorn and whet
their tongue like a sword, rejoicin' the while at the thought o'
bringin* a scandal on the Kirk, if ance they heard tell there had been
a * carouse,' as ye ca' it, in the house of Ebenezer Stallybrass.

" Ay," he continued, with a sigh, after a pause, " and doubtless
there wad be some found to believe them. But I ken a way," he
continued, brightening up at the thought ; " we'll defeat them. We'll
just carry up the necessary supplies ourselves to a little bit room I
ha' up i' the garrets. It's full wi' lumber and things, but we'll ha' a
fire, and it'll no be bad. Ay, and ye can sing a song if ye like —
none will hear ye up there. I'm thinkin'," he continued, after a
moment's hesitation, " we'd better begin early while there's noises in
the streets, and suspicion will no be so likely to be snuffin' about wi*
her nose as keen's a game dog's. What d'ye say to nine ? "

" Ay, nine will suit me, mate," replied the sailor somewhat dis-
consolately, not altogether liking the way in which his suggestion had
been caught up and positively taken out of his hands by his host
Indeed, he had gleefully promised himself an upholding of hands,
protestations, and a ludicrous exhibition of shifts on the part of the
elder in the event of his accepting this dissolute challenge and the
consequent necessity he would be under of reconciling therewith his
austere piety.

Instead of this, however, here was Ebenezer calmly arranging the
details of the carouse as though it were a meeting of the Synod of
his Kirk to discuss lay matters. He could scarcely understand it, and
indeed began to feel doubtful whether he had not been premature in
making the suggestion.

It was too late to go back now, however, and they parted for the
night, after having agreed to take up the necessary supplies the
following afternoon when the servants would be out and suspicion
would not be incurred.

The Pearl of Hafiz. \ 5

Ebenezer, as he went upstairs, exulted in his heart at the thought
of his enemy's discomfiture ; the trap his enemy had prepared for
another would be the means of his own downfall ; Providence had
favoured him indeed, and he sang a song of triumph in his heart at
the thought of victory. At the moment he might be compared,
perhaps, to one of the grim heroes of his own church in times past,
who, proud in their election, found Providence a willing ally, and
justification easy, in any adventure they might be engaged upon
against the person of the ungodly.

On the other hand, the sailor could not look upon the carouse
that had just been planned in the same pleasing light as before until
he had partaken of a stiff glass of grog ; then, indeed, he could once
more agreeably perceive the elder lolling in his seat, half seas over,
struggling in his utterance with the sanctimonious polysyllables he
could no longer effectually pronounce, and, delightful thought,
oblivious of the fact that he had lost his " siller " and yet not won the
pearl. Enraptured by these various thoughts, both combatants
sought their respective couches at an early hour.

The next afternoon Ebenezer occupied himself upstairs in the
lumber room on various excuses, arranging details for the evening's
entertainment, and coming downstairs now and again for the supplies
the sailor surreptitiously introduced into the house.

At last the fated hour struck — the hour anxiously awaited by both
host and lodger through the long interval of the day.

The host, indeed, had previously prepared himself for the carouse
by a big meal partaken of at one of the Quayside restaurants, for, as
he sagely reflected, " whisky was unco' ill on an empty stammick."

His lodger, on the other hand, had purposely taken little or no
food, in order to do himself full justice, as he thought, in the evening.

Punctually at the last stroke of the clock he made his way up
the narrow wooden staircase that led to the chamber in the attics.
Pushing his way through the trapdoor at the top of the staircase, he
emerged into a small encumbered room which was brightly lit up by
a big fire, in front of which he perceived his host already standing.

The table was spread with the various weapons of the duel ; a
big stone bottle, evidently containing whisky, flanked one end of the
table, while a sturdy broad-bottomed flask, that suggested rum, stood
on guard opposite ; in the middle a big punch-bowl serenely
rested — a noble advertisement of the coming struggle, while round
about were basins containing sugar and lemons that gleamed brightly
in the light of the lamp. A slate was propped against the punch-
bowl, on which stood the score to be kept by the respective

1 6 The^ Gentlemafis Magazine.

combatants, each for the other, as aforesaid. Then there were two
or three side dishes containing viands of an appetising description,
which were merely meant to whet the appetite for the liquor on
which, as we know, the issue depended.

A kettle hissed merrily on the fire, and the sailor, as he viewed the
suggestive scene before him, felt enraptured once again with his plot,
and gloried in the thought of the instant duel.

" Capital," he cried, " capital, it could not have been done better,
mate," and he commenced rubbing his hands briskly in keen
anticipation, and hummed to himself a stave of song.

" Ha' ye brought the pearl wi* ye " ? inquired the elder anxiously,
indifferent to compliments.

" Ay, ay, here she is," replied the sailor, producing it from his
pocket.

The Elder took the case carefully into his hands, opened it, and
reassured himself that it was still therein, then gently placed it in
front of the punch-bowl in the middle of the table. Having done
this, he turned to the chimney-piece and lifted down a canvas bag
which he carefully placed alongside the pearl, after having just untied
the string round its mouth, and thereby exposed its golden contents.

" We'll leave them there," said he, for he felt that with the stakes
before his eyes victory was doubly assured.

The combatants now sat down, Ebenezer at the top of the table
as host, with the sailor on his left hand.

" The fire burns bright. Jack's heart is light," sang the enraptured
sailor, grasping the stone jar near him with both hands.

Had a third person been present, he would have greatly marvelled,
doubtless, at the strange scene before him and the strangeness of the
surroundings.

Here was one reveller gay and happy, flourishing his glass aloft
and singing snatches of quaint ditties, while the other sat still and
almost silent with a hard and constrained look in his eyes.

Then the garret in which they were holding their carouse was
encumbered with such a curiously diverse sort of furniture — in one
corner was a big sideboard supported by carved oak dragons, in
another were carpet-bags and Chinese jars — effects of various
impecunious lodgers, while on the rafters and cross-beams that bore
up the low roof was piled a heavy net, though for what purpose it
was there was certainly not manifest. The cord ends hung down
not far above the heads of the carousers, but had not apparently
been noticed by either of them.

The trap door had been shut down, and no one disturbed or was

The Pearl of Hafiz. 1 7

cognisant of this secret revelry, save only the parrot, who had accom-
panied his master into the room, and was now safely ensconced on
the top of a kitchen clock in the corner, where he sat solemnly blinking
at the fire, regardless of the revellers.

Meanwhile, of the two combatants, the sailor had very soon out-
stripped his host, who had been paying more attention to the viands,
and was two glasses of grog behindhand.

But, while the latter sat steady and upright in his chair, the sailor
lolled about and showed signs of an excessive hilarity, proposing a])d
seconding and drinking the healths of individuals whose names
he frequently was unable to remember, and all the time poking
fun at " Old Snuffles," as he familiarly termed his host.

Now it was time that the punch should be brewed, and when he
had mixed and tasted the beverage and found it inimitable, he filled
his glass and proclaimed the health of " the prettiest maid in Old
Quay." The Elder's glass had been filled too, but curiously enough
on this occasion he did not raise'his glass as he previously had done
in response to his companion's lead, but sitting back in his chair
lightly grasped the full tumbler, watching intently, like a cat about
to spring, his companion's action. A gurgling noise proclaimed the
delicious draught to be ended, and the smack of the lips that fol-
lowed eminently suggested an encore. Slowly the unsuspicious-
sailor raised his head — his mind wholly intent upon his desire— and
just at the very moment that his eyes appeared upon the horizon of
the punch-bowl, a blinding splash of spirit met them full in front.
The sailor, stupefied and bewildered at the sudden attack, sat mo-
tionless for a second ; down came a thick net upon him over head
and shoulders, and he felt himself fast in the grasp of the Elder.

It was not a fair fight ; . for the Elder, like the retiarius of old,,
had his victim fast in the meshes of the net, and soon had twined
the folds round and round his arms so securely that resistance-
was impossible.

Then, bearing him backwards to the ground, the Elder, after
having first thrust a handkerchief into his victim's mouth, pro-
ceeded to tie his legs together, and make fast and sure the knots^
about his chest and arms.

Seated astride his prostrate lodger, and grimly engaged upon
these final touches, the joy of triumph welled up within his soul, and
overflowing, found a vent in song.

" Aha, aha ! " chanted the Elder, in sing-song fervent tones,.
" the ungodly man thought to triumph, and like a vain fool had
VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1927. c

1 8 The Gentlematis Magazine.

lifted up his horn on high, but suddenly was he dashed down and
caught in the net he had laid for another."

" Ay, ay," he continued, as a sudden movement of the prostrate
body underneath him accentuated the position ; " dashed down and
trodden under foot is . he ; and strapped tight wi* a weel-knotted
rope."

The Elder would probably have continued to illustrate the para-
phrase, had not the glint of the pearl, as it lay on the table, caught
his eye ; hastily rising, he stepped to the table, took up his prize of
victory with reverent hand, then carefully buttoned it into an inner
pocket The canvas bag he then proceeded to tie up, having done
which he deposited that also in another of his capacious pockets.
Then, looking about him and reflecting for a few seconds, he advanced
to the window, looked out, and thus soliloquised :

"Ay, it's early yet ; may be it will be half an hour yet afore thejr're
here. I'd just better slip round and hurry them on." So saying, he
turned towards the door and unlocked it, but on a sudden turned
back, and stalking up to where his victim lay, pronounced the follow-
ing epitaph over him :

" Ye're no but a great fule — possessin' neither the head to carouse,
nor the wut to keep yer ain."

These scathing words were finally driven home by a contemp-
tuous kick ; then the door shut softly, a creak jarred on the stair,
and the unfortunate sailor was left alone in the silent room to reflect
upon the truth of the portrait.

The shock of the encounter, and the perilous condition in which he
was, had effectually sobered him. Crimping apparently awaited him,
to judge by the words he had overheard, and the terrible lot that was
to fall on him was the result of his own pride and the poor desire to
have the laugh of his sanctimonious host. Could folly herself have
devised as contemptible a plot — have perilled so much for so trivial
a triumph?

The unfortunate captive groaned in spirit as he saw pass by him
in fancy the various events, like links in a chain, that had led up to
this final catastrophe.

Then, after having lashed himself with regrets, he became calmer,
took his bearings, and finding himself lost in the breakers, resigned
himself to his fate.

He saw himself carried away, a common sailor on board a vile
merchant brig sent out to sea to be scuttled, the owners gaining the
insurance, and no tales told.

Meanwhile Mogib, the parrot, perceiving that the noise and

The Pearl of Hafiz. 19

consequent danger, as she was well aware, had passed away, took
advantage of this opportunity to fly down from her perch and settle
on the table to inspect the viands and liquor, of which she had a
peculiar knowledge.

Seated on a plate, she was discussing, with one eye shut, head
well thrown back, and critical tongue, the flavour of the rum punch
that had so pleased her master's palate.

It so chanced, however, that an unconscious movement of the
captive jarred suddenly against the table leg. Mogib, startled, lost her
balance and fell backwards, screaming loudly " man overboard," and
bearing with her to the ground at the same time plate, fork, and knife.

The noise and clatter startled the sailor in his turn, and rolling
over on his side, he dimly perceived Mogib, fragments of china,
and lastly, with a sudden leap of hope, what seemed a knife close
beside him on the floor.

Scarce could he believe his eyes — Mogib had then brought him
this chance of deliverance ! There was not a moment to be lost, for
'twould be a hard task enough to set himself free under any circum-
stances ; and then there was the possibility of Ebenezer's returning
at any minute.

Rolling over till he felt the knife underneath him, he endeavoured
to gradually work his fingers through the meshes in order to get hold
of the handle.

His hands being fast tied at the wrists, and his arms and chest being
tightly encircled by the cord, the only possible way to set himself free
was to get the knife between his hands, thrust the handle into the
grip of his knees, and then, by a gradual friction of the blade against
the binding of the wrists, to sever the cord.

Painfully and with diflficulty his fingers pulled themselves through
the meshes, dragging the knife af^er them ; every now and again the
blade would slip from their feeble grasp, or catch fast in some of the
thick meshes of the net.

After a long and desperate struggle, during which he had several
times given up all hope, and sank back exhausted from the struggle,
he finally succeeded in getting firmly into the palms of his hands the
trusty weapon with which he was to work out his safety. He lay
there still a moment, happy but breathless, for hope had blazed up
again and fired determination, and now he felt indeed his freedom
was assured.

Turning over on his back, he raised his knees, thrust the handle of
the knife between them, then slowly inserting the point between the

ca

20 The Gentleman $ Magazine.

cord-lappings that bound his wrists, endeavoured to cut through the
strands by a gentle rubbing against the knife blade.

It was a terrible strain, and one that could not last long, for,
crippled as he was, and in danger moreover of suffocation, he found
the greatest difficulty in keeping all his forces concentrated upon the
delicate task before him — every detail of which, indeed, as it
depended upon a measurement the result of touch and not of sight,
was liable to miscalculation, and in that case the chance of liberty
would be lost.

Suddenly there came a loosening of the cord just at the moment
when his knees had released their grip and the knife -had fallen
between them. Could it be that a strand could really have parted ?
With wrist against wrist he stretched to the utmost the cords ; now he
felt them slipping, and then all at once his arms were free.

A moment before and all his strength had ebbed away, but now,
with a full tide, it came rushing back.

Seizing the knife, he rapidly cut through the net a passage for his
arm ; then, this done, sawed through the cords that bound his chest,
and in a few more seconds had actually regained his liberty.

Now, the question was, w^hat would be the best plan of action —
escape seemed to be the first thing aimed at — revenge could con-
veniently follow.

The door, however, proved, on being tried, to be locked, and the
window, on close inspection, was found to be too great a height above
the ground to be available, nor was there any projection or pipe by
which descent would have been rendered possible.

Well, there was no help for it, the sailor soliloquised ; he must just
await Ebenezer's return. To do so, indeed, jumped better with his
inclination.

It was certain that Ebenezer would be back soon, but whether he
would come alone was the question to which no answer could be
given, and yet it was on this that all depended.

On reflection, however, it appeared probable that he would return
alone— his dread of scandal would be one reason for so doing— and
then the long rope with hook attached, which he had discovered
fastened to the ends, about his chest, had revealed the fact that he
was to be lowered out of the window into the arms of the gang, who,
as he had overheard, were shortly expected.

Thus thinking, he formed his plan : the door w^as locked, as we
have seen, but as it opened into the room on the left-hand side, it
would, if pushed back to its limit, naturally come against the heavy
sideboard that stood behind it, and thus would form a place of

The Pearl of Hafiz. 2 1

ambush for an assailant. First, however, before taking up his
position, he made up a bundle of rags, and laid them carefully together
in the same spot where he had himself just been, dropped his hand-
kerchief on the edge of the bundle to represent the position of the
head, then strewing over it the severed pieces of the net, gathered up
the remaining coils into his hands and turned down the lamp.

Then, mounting on the sideboard, he cautiously crouched on the
edge nearest the door, net in hand, scarcely daring to draw breath
lest the sound should betray him — all his thought suspended in
revenge.

Ah ! if he could once feel the Elder writhing in the meshes, how
lightly would he esteem the loss of his pearl 1 Some ten minutes
passed slowly, during which his ear, like a timid sentinel, challenged
the silence and caught the footfall of a fancied foe.

Then came a creak of heavy footsteps on the staircase just below
him, a slight sensation was instantly perceptible in the woodwork of
the wall, a key grated in the lock, and in another moment Ebenezer's
head cautiously appeared beyond the edge of the door.

Satisfied in the dim light that all was as he had left it, he stepped
inside, unconscious of his peril ; at that moment there came a
suspicious noise from behind, but before he could look round a net
fell upon his head and shoulders, and a heavy body followed instantly
and bore him to the floor.

The Elder, knowing instinctively that his enemy was upon him,
and no quarter would be granted, yelled like a wild beast when
suddenly stricken, and fought with delirious fury. He was under-
neath, however, and the net entangled his movements, while the
sailor, strong in his lust of revenge, with both hands had a firm
grasp of his opponent's throat.

It was not, indeed, until Ebenezer's face had assumed a black
and unnatural hue that the sailor relaxed his hold, and even then it
was only for the purpose of binding the hands and feet of his victim
tightly together.

This being safely accomplished, he could search the pockets of
the unconscious Ebenezer for his pearl, not without some fears, how-
ever, for the money had disappeared and possibly the pearl had been
secreted also.

But, no ! there it was lying securely in its little case in a high vest
pocket, and when taken out, seemed to shine with even additional
lustre, as though recognising its true owner.

The tension of the last few minutes loosened its grasp, and now
triumph found a voice and sang along his brain. Looking down

22 The Gentleman's Magazine.

upon his prostrate foe, his fancy depicted an instant picture Of
Ebenezer on board the dirty merchantman destined for himself, forced
to grope his trembling way up the unused shrouds in fear of his life,
rope's-ended like a cabin boy for every blunder, and finally — he who
had been but yesterday an elder and edifier of the kirk — the butt and
scoff to-day of godless men.

He chuckled inwardly at the delicious picture thus presented to
him, but whilst he gazed, a slight stirring of the prostrate body warned
him that the Elder was returning to consciousness. Taking up, then,
the remains of the net, he finally completed the fastenings, and now
attached the hook and chain to the bundle as they had previously
been fastened to his own person.

Ebenezer had now indeed fully recovered consciousness, and
struggled madly with his bonds, to the mighty joy of his secure enemy,
whose eye grew mirthfuller at every fresh token of his impotent
wrath.

The remembrance of the words the Elder had spoken over him
when he was in the like desperate case, and which so nearly had been
his epitaph, recurred to him and suggested retaliation. With a
chuckle he knelt down, and in fair imitation of the Elder's slow and
nasal tones, whispered impressively in his ear — " Ye're just a fool,
Ebenezer, with all your self-conceit — but, mind ye, a sea voyage is a
splendid cure for the self-conceit, as ye'll find — ye carousin', wicked
old elder that ye are ! " concluded he, in his normal tones, as the
wrath of the natural man got the better of the moralist.

He likewise enforced his epigram by a hearty and contemptuous
kick upon the person of the Elder, which had the curious effect of
immediately checking his convulsive struggles.

The tumultuous thoughts that surged up into the Elder's brain as
he just recovered consciousness — the loss of the pearl, his present
perilous condition, the chances of escape — had doubtless been dis-
quieting enough; but it was the kick — the cruel indignity of the
kick — that exasperated him almost to madness. The abysm of
misfortune in which he lay was thus revealed to him ; he could
have screamed with rage had not the handkerchief been stuffed
too deep into his mouth ; as it was, he palpitated with murderous
wrath.

At this moment, however, there came a sharp " hist " from out-
side, startling the sailor from his pleasing reverie, and clearly
intimating to the Elder what his fate was to be.

The sailor at once cautiously proceeded to the window, and
peering out, perceived three or four figures waiting in the street belov*.

The Pearl of Hafiz. 23

" Are ye ready ? " queried the sailor softly, imitating the Elder's voic^,
for he guessed rightly that they were waiting there for himself.

" Ay, ay, lower away. Sharp's the word ! " came back the answer
in gruff undertones that seemed to bode ill for the comfort of the
Elder, as the sailor thought with mischievous glee.

Carefully lifting up the prostrate form of the enemy, the sailor
carried it to the window, and, after a brief struggle, forced the shape-
less bundle through the somewhat narrow space, using perhaps rather
more force than was absolutely necessary to effect his purpose.

This accomplished, he gradually paid out the rope, at the other
end of which Ebenezer was helplessly swinging, till he felt a sudden
stoppage ; then the rope swung light and loose in his hands, and he
knew his enemy was safely in the hands of the hirelings below.

Looking out, he perceived them plainly enough, making off at
all speed, and carrying, as best they could, their unwieldy burden.

The Elder was safely caught in his own net this time, thought the
sailor, chuckling at the remembrance of the Elder in his hour of
victory, and wondering whether the spiritual parallels in which he
had so delighted would be able to afford him consolation in his hour
of misfortune. Well enough did the sailor know that no excuses
would avail the wretched man on board ship — no attempts to prove
that he was the wrong man would go down when a ship was sailing
shorthanded. No, no ; there he was aboard a dirty merchant brig,
in as sorry a plight as could well be imagined, and all, as the sailor
gleefully reflected, through his own wicked devices.

Some two or three months after the events just recorded, had any
inhabitant of Old Quay been passing through the pretty village of
Mor eton-in-the- Wolds, and had inquired — being smitten with thirst
after the constant manner of his native town — as to the whereabouts
of the best alehouse in the place, he would certainly have been told
to seek for his solace at the sign of " The PearL"

As he proceeded thither, he would first perceive on his approach
a ponderous signboard swinging over the entrance, on which were
depicted two warriors engaged in a desperate duel, while two armies
in the background breathlessly awaited the result. On the forefinger
of the fiercer and rougher of the two opponents was a huge ring,
which was set with so gigantic a pearl that the wearer must have
been seriously incommoded by it in the violent struggle in which he
was engaged.

Having gazed upon this stirring scene, and unconsciously won-
dered what the history that was evidently attached to it could be, he

24 The Gentleman s Magazine.

would discover, on arrival at the bar, none other in mine host but
the famous sailor — the possessor of the wondrous pearl — who had
been so well-known a figure in Old Quay for a short time some
months ago, and had outwitted the Elder in the famous episode of
the carouse.

The honest sailor, indeed, had departed very shortly after his
victory, but not before he had related to his comrades the manner in
which he had got the better of the Elder, whose strange disappear-
ance, of course, had set everybody speculating as to the cause.

The humour of the situation and the retribution that had befallen
the Elder tickled everyone*s fancy, and delighted many who had
doubtless often been rebuked by him for their backslidings.

The sailor, however, early escaped from attentions that were
beginning to become wearisome by a sudden departure. He had
'determined to sell the pearl at its own true value, and having done
rso, to settle down in his old home on the land belonging to the
young squire, whose lovely wife, as we have heard above, he had
/been instrumental in helping to win.

He bought with the proceeds of the wonderful pearl the village
:inn, and was now fast becoming, after the squire and his wife, the
most popular person in the district.

The story of the jewel had, of course, become famous, and often
would mine host be pressed to tell the tale of how first Hafiz won it
.in fair fight against the invader ; then, how he had received it as his
prize for helping to carry off the " mistress," and lastly — best of all —
how he bad regained it from the grasp of the sanctimonious but
perfidious Elder.

25

THE PLEASURES OF FARMING.

Venio nunc ad voluptates agricolarum, quibus ego incredibiliter delector. — Cicero.

THE number of young men who are continually being educated
for a farming life and the eager claimants who beg for the
tenancy of any popular farm prove pretty conclusively that the life
of a farmer is fraught either with pleasure or with profit — probably
with both. A pessimist will, of course, assert that there are no
pleasures in farming, and certainly no profits ; but on these practical
questions plain men may be permitted to use their own common-
feeling. In the case of most arable farms, it must be admitted that,
unless rents have been much reduced, agricultural distress has largely
resulted No amount of ingenuity or hard work can extract much
profit from highly-rented plough-land when corn stands at the price
it does at present, more especially if the enhanced cost of labour and
other necessary expenses on such a farm be taken into account. It
does not necessarily follow though that farming with small profits
is not attended with many pleasures. The sense of ownership and
freedom is always there ; and, if farmers may be credited with any
feeling of beauty or artistic delight, the aesthetic pleasures of an
agricultural life are largely present. Unfortunate clergymen, whose
fortunes follow the farmer, and whose tithes fall year by year to a
lower ebb, are obliged to console themselves in great measure with
these unbought, intangible pleasures of the country. They have much
occasion to thank Homer and their college studies, Tennyson, and
Mr. Ruskin. Cultivating the ground, though originally imposed
upon man as a punishment, has been beneficently associated with a
natural feeling of pleasure ever since the time when Noah " began to
be a husbandman " and planted a vineyard. The Roman poet who
has glorified agriculture writes :

Pater ipse colendi
Haud facilem esse viam voluit ;

and yet

Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes,
Panaque Silvanumque senem Nymphasque sorores.

26 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

How many disappointed kings, soldiers, and politicians have
experienced something of the charm which thus attaches itself to
cultivation of the soil ! From M. Curius and Cincinnatus, the
dictator at the plough, to Sir William Temple pruning his apricots
at Moor Park — to name only classical examples — is an almost
incalculable interval in all that makes life desirable and civilised, yet
all three meet, owing to their sharing in that natural love of cultiva-
tion which seems impressed more or less deeply upon human nature.
Farmers used to be divided into those who drove to market in a
gig and those who went in carts. The division was fair enough until
the last forty years. An enhanced style of living among all classes,
and the reign of steam, have changed matters of late. The old days,
when farmers, night after night, drank in the village public- house, and
when one begged that he might be buried near the corner of the
churchyard, in order that he might hear his neighbours discussing
the price of wheat as they rode from market along the adjoining road,
have entirely passed away. Farmers may now be marked off as little
freeholders, ordinary tenant farmers, and scientific farmers. The
first of these may be seen in Devon combes to perfection. Their
manner of life is sordid, and almost as full of toil as that of their
French representatives. They add penny to penny with miserable
daily efforts, and still lay these wretched gains in a " stocking foot "
under the eaves, like their predecessors of the last century. As for
intellectual food, it is melancholy to think of their books : a tattered
Bible and Prayer Book, a greasy ready reckoner, and Old Moore's
Prophetic Almanac form the literature of their houses, after all the
efforts of School Boards and popular lectures. Drinking cider, and
a rare visit to market, are the chief recreations of these men. The
farm and a neglected garden supply all their wants. In their case
Cicero's words find their aptest fulfilment— 3;V7/« hortum ipsi agricola
succidiam alteram appellant. No class of the community has as yet
had so little done for it. Compulsory education, and the franchise
before they knew how to vote — these are the latest boons granted
such little farmers by civilisation, and it is not matter of wonder if
the agitator and the designing tap-room orator lead them by the nose.
It is a relief to turn from the spectacle of one of these small free-
holders trying to till an ungrateful hill-side with an old-fashioned
plough drawn by a pony and an ox, as we have seen, to the
industrious, well-to-do tenant-farmer. He cultivates at least a hundred
acres, frequently much more, but does not ordinarily blossom into
one of George Eliot's large Lowick farmers. There are number-
less systems of bookkeeping published to aid farmers, but a shrewd

The Pleasures of Farming. 27

suspicion may be entertained that few of them are used by this class
of men. Rule of thumb, constant supervision, thrift, and per-
severance— these they deem the best account-books. Perhaps they
have rather acquired a habit of lamenting the bad times, the low
prices, the general depression, or these depreciatory and deprecatory
tones may be inseparable from the abstract idea of a farmer. They
appear to forget that the bulk of their living comes from the farm,
and that, beyond this, it supplies not only profit, but, any ordinary
man must needs think, considerable profit. After the corn is sold
(doubtless not at the price made by previous generations), it may be
that hay or roots also find a market The stock which is reared from
cows, and the lambs, are yearly disposed of. Wool forms a con-
siderable item in profits. On many farms poultry and rabbits
(generally the perquisites of the wives) can easily be sold at the
neighbouring markets. If attention has been duly paid to the
exhortations of an eminent living statesman, fruit, honey, mushrooms,
cut flowers, wild nosegays have added no inconsiderable sum to the
careful farmer. What other trade or profession supplies so many
profits ? The wonder is, save from his own extravagance, how any
tenant-farmer can be ruined — be the separate profits never so small,
they must in the aggregate mean competence.

As for scientific farming on a large scale, with lavish employment
of manure, labour, and steam-power, it is very questionable whether,
from a business point of view, it ever pays — the outlay is too vast.
Mr. Mechi's once famous Tiptree farm is now a strawberry-garden.
At the best of times it was probably reinforced in no slight degree
from the shop in Leadenhall Street. It served to illustrate, at all
events, that economy, extreme care in the selection of seed, and a
preference in many kinds of farm work for steam rather than horse
power, were principles well worthy the attention of tenant-farmers.
Thus that spirited agriculturist has greatly advanced the cause of
agriculture, if he did not profit himself. Although his experiments
and machinery would not pay as a whole, lessons in enterprise and
the use of some scientific aids on a smaller and less celebrated farm
might well result in a profit. Labour will be the great difficulty of
the farmer's future. Any economy of human power by the employ-
ment of steam deserves the attention of the practical agriculturist
before that time comes.

There is, however, something banausic in estimating the farmer's
life by his profits. In a strictly utilitarian age, and among men who
are perhaps at times slightly commonplace, and little moved by the
lighter graces of art and poetry, it may be as well to point out to the

28 The Gentleman s Magazine.

farmer what a store of secondary pleasures (as he would deem them)
his occupation discloses. The end and aim of farming certainly is
hot " to die a good un," as the phrase runs in East Anglia. This
ignoble, but all-mastering desire is productive of meanness, contempt
of all liberal or charitable impulses, and a miserliness which increases
with age — and all in order to leave behind a few thousands of pounds
more than did his neighbours, John Doe or Richard Roe. A farmer
of this type advances no good cause, neglects his relatives, despises
art, literature, and travel. He is rustically self-sufficient, and when
the scorn of his neighbours touches his dull sense only shakes his
sovereigns, and murmurs, like the miser of old, " at mihi plaudo ipse
domi." He cannot spend his money, for he has only animal wants,
and they are cheaply satisfied. No demon ever whispered to him,
" Have a taste." The smaller farmer, who at a respectful distance
resembles this agricultural Croesus, is stingy and sordid. He, too,
spends nothing on higher pleasures. He knows nothing of the
lighter graces of life. Frequently his wife and children are worse
clothed than many labourers' families. Market-day once, or, in some
cases, twice, a week, is his only notion of recreation, and the neigh-
bours and pedestrians have a wholesome dread of his spring-cart
driven recklessly through the dark lanes at night when he returns,
" market peart," as the phrase runs, to the bosom of his family.
What the whisky which he drinks at his ordinary resembles may be
gathered from the following fact. A friend, meeting a wine and
spirit merchant, was asked by him to dine at the farmers' ordinary
at the "Blue Bull." "But take great care to imitate me after dinner,"
said he, " for we sell a particular whisky for these farmers' houses."
After dinner he called, like the rest of the company, for a couple of
glasses of whisky for himself and friend, and then, winking at the
latter, took an opportunity to empty his glass into the coalscuttle
and fill it up with water instead. His friend followed the example,
and both escaped without a headache.

It would be absurd to credit the farmer, in most cases, with a
cultivated taste for nature, or to suppose that the softer influences of
the country can affect him with an artist's or a scholar's love. And
yet, after a blind, unconscious fashion, nature's charms do appeal to
his heart in spite of himself. Early morning in spring is dear to
him when he surveys the well-nibbled upland pasture and longs for
sunshine and warmth.

Avia turn resonant avibus virgulta canoris ;

and the songs insensibly take him captive, and lead him back to

The Pleasures of Farming. 29

boyhood and the field-paths along which he went to school before
he knew anything of oats and fat beasts. He has a supreme contempt,
as a rule, for wild-flowers, but on such an occasion he deigns to
gather a bunch of primroses drenched in dew, and offers them, with
the ludicrous bashfulness of an agricultural Cyclops, to the '^ missus,"
on his return to breakfast. The rooks which strut over the fallow
field cawing assiduously, and the larks rising or falling in ecstasies of
song, make no definite impression on his perceptions, and yet their
happiness helps to form the idea of home peace and contentment
which he possesses. His eye wanders over the woods to the moun-
tains beyond, where thin fleecy mists rise and gather shape into
clouds, and the glance that he obtains of the distant common, dotted
over with white cottages, is consolatory, although he does not put it
into words. It bids him rejoice, as his holding is something very
different to that of the cottagers there. He has plenty of land of his
own, and no scarcity of stock, and the feeling of satisfaction which
results is eminently congenial to a farmer's mind.

Another scene fraught with extreme pleasure to him is found in
the hayfield during the noontide heats of June. The river murmurs
by, its even currents every now and then broken by the rising of a
trout, while swallows and swifts dart up and down, and rise higher
into the air to seize some larger fly. Men and w^omen are busy
turning the fragrant swathes, a knot of boys and girls play round a
perambulator, which holds a couple of babies, near the shady hedge.
Meanwhile, the incessant " whirr, whirr ! " of the haymaking machine
arises and clouds of dry grass are swept up into the air as it progresses.
The farmer never read how the Homeric king is represented on the
shield of Achilles as surveying his labourers in like manner — "stand-
ing on a heap, with his sceptre in his hand, silently rejoicing in his
heart "; but the effect is the same. Visions of wealth and plenty, of
fatlings and warmth and easeful peace rise before him, unmarred by
any thoughts of rents or taxes. There is not at that time a happier
man in the kingdom, if the farmer had but the wit to know it.

Take another country idyll, and see eventide falling upon the
golden cornfields— golden in a double sense, as the farmer feels that
the produce will pay the rent and wages and keep his house, and leave
him a fair margin of profit as well. The West is bathed in a crimson
lustre spreading far up the sky, and, without in the least being moved
by the fair prospect, he watches the ruddy colour deepen into a livid
red, and then again into long clouds dappled with fire and vermilion,
as the sun sinks below the hills, while immediately opposite the broad
disc of the harvest moon leaps up into the sky from some far enchanted

30 The Gentlematis Magazine.

land of the morning. The farmer does not hear the soft chir-
ring of the nightjars as he walks home, or notice the silver shafts
of moonlight on the laurels in his garden — but all these beauties have
insensibly tranquillised him. He sits down to supper at peace with
all around him, and, for the time, reckless of strikes, low prices, and
swine fever, which seem to be the three betes noires of modern fann-
ing. Such pastoral pictures as these, redolent of country joys and
occupations, cannot but raise deep sensations of pleasure within the
minds of every reflecting person who is at all conversant with rural
employments. Nature, and Nature*s face at her fairest, are ever wel-
come. Even more than sportsmen, farmers behold the rare beauty
of the country, and inhale its sweet scents, and listen to its songs of
contented peace, because they are in the open air night and day,
early and late. This sense of freedom it is which has led so many
persons to commence farming as a means of earning their livelihood.
Enthusiasm blinds them to the fact that a long apprenticeship must
in most cases be served ere experience can be learned. The same
ardour wings multitudes of emigrants, who think it is only necessary
to reach the New World for a man to become a successful farmer,
however little he may have seen of agricultural work at home.

A keen sense of independence is another pleasure brought by
farming. The feeling awakes early in the budding agriculturist. He
knows that his calling will take him always into the open air, that he
will no more have occasion to " pore over miserable books." He will
be able to command men and boys and horses at his will ; while
farming, it is notorious, can always be done in the quickest manner
on horseback. The Ground Game Act now furnishes a motive for
a farmer always to carry a gun. What can be more delightful to a
hater of books? Sportsmanship need not always be taken into
account. In the present dearth of hares, how many farmers think
twice of sparing a stock for others in future ? One, of whom we re-
cently heard, saw a hare in its form when he was unluckily without
his gun. Stepping back gently on tip-toe, so as not to disturb the
poor animal, he hastily went home, and returned, bearing his fowling-
piece, well charged, to the vicinity of the hare. Carrying the gun in
readiness at his shoulder, he then cautiously advanced until, at short
distance, he again beheld the hare, and fixed the sight on it A
moment more and the foully-murdered creature lay prostrate before
him. The tendency of all modern farming agreements is towards
independence on the part of the tenant in every way. The four-
course system of husbandry is not made binding ; straw and manure
may be sold on easy conditions, and so forth, the theory being that a

The Pleasures of Farming. 3 \

man knows his own interests best, and, if fixity of tenure is reasonably
guaranteed, that he will not, as often in the old days of stipulated
crops, rack out the land when he has the opportunity.

Country life ministers many other pleasures to the farmer. Each
season of the year abounds with its own joys. Fishing is little to
his taste : it requires patience, and is eminently a thoughtful, solitary
enjoyment But hunting is specially dear to all young farmers, and
they can lay the flattering unction to their souls that in hunting they
are actually working for their own interests, by no means idly amus-
ing themselves. They are exhibiting horses for rich men to buy ;
they are ready to dispose of straw or oats ; they are meeting their
fellows, with whom there is always a chance of driving a bargain.
Happy men, to whom increased holidays bring but greater profits !
Besides fox-hunting, too, a farmer can frequently find an opportunity
for following the otter hounds. If he has a taste for racing, again,
there are sure to be race-meetings at his market town, where (as
cynics might say) he can handsomely ruin himself. A good deal
of emulation can be roused by ploughing matches in the winter, by
shows of fat cattle, and the like. Comparison of animals is in itself
an education ioit a farmer, while there are generally dinners and con-
vivial meetings in connection with cattle shows. Of a quieter nature
are chats with the head-keeper on the stile leading to the pheasant
preserves ; walks with him round the fields to look at partridges, find
pheasants' eggs, and the like. These often lead to invitations to shoot
the young rooks in the park, or to a day's rabbit-shooting when the
big house must be supplied. On the whole few classes of the com-
munity enjoy more frequent and more varied pleasures than the
farmer. Add to this that, even in the present days of low prices for
com, a timely forethought for other branches of agriculture, together
with energy and industry, will always earn an honourable subsistence,
and it will be confessed that the farming interest is not at present
in the deplorable plight of which some agitators would persuade
their disciples.

And yet, to the thoughtful man, there is something sad in agricul-
ture. On one side, with the Roman poet, he sees, as his crops of
clover and com wave on the hill-side, an approach to the Golden Age,
when men were just, sober, righteous, and their pruning hooks were
not yet beaten into swords. On the other, a deeper spiritual know-
ledge and more serious introspection remind him of the inevitable
doom of labour and death, and how the oldest form of toil since man
left Paradise still shows itself in keeping sheep and tilling the ground.
The world has advanced on many lines, but these necessary processes

32 The Gentleman s Magazine.

have not been, and cannot be, superseded until the end. There is
an ineffable sense of want and sorrow in even the fairest sights of
agriculture, which a great interpreter of Nature in our own days has
not forgotten —

in looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

The processes of farnaing leave much time for the soul to com-
mune with itself, to entertain regret and melancholy. How many
an old man in his hayfield or orchard tries, like Laertes of old, to
solace himself for his son in far Australia by hard work ! How many
actually find comfort in the direst troubles of life by the toils of the
planter and pruner, rejoicing, like Cyrus the Younger, as they survey
the plantations : " these coppices of such goodly proportions were
designed by me, most of these trees were planted by my own hand" !

Indeed, an atmosphere of peace surrounds most farms, if the
farmer only accustomed himself to perceive it. They have frequently
descended through several generations, so that the tenant-farmer has
more interest in his house than the clergyman enjoys in his rectory.
Its stone tile roofs, starred with yellow and grey lichens, were set up
by his grandfather ; its large chimneys, and irregular windows through
which peep roses and Pyrus japonica^ picturesque objects in them-
selves, are set off by stacks and barns on which pigeons flutter, and
the constant stir of life is maintained around them by the lowing of
heifers, the various cries of the poultry -yard. No formal plantations
surround such a farm, but large ashes or elms lend it character, while
hedges — carelessly ordered, for the most part, in a grassy country —
over which, in June, wild roses and honeysuckle run riot, tell of
easy minds and old-fashioned profusion. As the classical eulogist of
farming wrote — "villa tota locuples est ; abundat porco, haedo, agno,
gallina, lacte, caseo, melle." An extraordinary fascination hangs over
the spectacle of farms and farming for most thoughtful persons after
middle life. A cause deeper than mere artistic effects or love of
natural beauty underlies it — the inarticulate yearnings of the spirit for
the new earth wherein shall dwell righteousness, of the body for wel-
come rest in its bosom. Cremation may be a scientific mode of
disposing of the body, but it does violence to the soul, to all the
cherished instincts of humanity, which draw it strongly to Mother Earth
in death as in life — " Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

M. G. WATKINS.

23

THE FOLK-TALES OF SARDINIA.

IN the midst of the Mediterranean Sea, a few miles to the south of
its smaller, but more illustrious, neighbour Corsica, lies the
Island of Sardinia. It was well known to Grfeek and Phoenician
sailors, and in classic times one of its peoples claimed descent from
Trojan fugitives. A variety of mineral wealth lies buried beneath its
mountains, and, especially of late years, has drawn trade that way.
But visitors for other purposes are comparatively rare ; and the
islanders yet retain much of their ancient simplicity.

Among a simple race, and in a mountainous island, we should
expect to find many old customs, tales, and superstitions in full vigour.
Nor, from what we know of the Sardinians, should we be disap-
pointed. But so little has civilisation as yet penetrated their grassy
valleys and rugged uplands, that the collector of folk-lore has hardly
done more than gain a footing there, though he has reason to be
proud of his exploits all over Italy and Sicily. Indeed, a German
traveller, only a few years ago, ventured on the assertion that in
Sardinia one would seek in vain for any of the half pagan, or at least
profane, traditions in which his own country was so rich. To those
who know anything of the science of folk-lore this is a wildly
improbable statement ; and it has been abundantly disproved by the
researches of several eminent men, among whom may be named
Professor Ferraro, Professor Guamerio, and Dr. Mango.

These writers have dealt chiefly with the songs and tales current
among the natives of the island. Forty stories in all have appeared ;
and these have been obtained from peasants, and are given in
various dialects, some of which are evidently unintelligible to the
ordinary Tuscan. One of the most popular stories is that of Maria
Intaulata (Mary Wainscotted). It is given in the dialect of
Calangianus, and runs in this way. A man who had one daughter
lost his wife. Before she died she gave him a ring, saying that it
was her wish he should marry for his second wife her whom that ring
would fit. Moved, no doubt, entirely by the desire to carry out his
dead wife's wishes, the man went round the whole town with the ring,

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1927. D

34 The Gentleman s Magazine.

but failed to find a lady whose finger it would fit At last he tried
it on his daughter's hand, much against her will, and lo ! it fitted
her. Then he said to her : " You must be my wife." When the
girl heard that, she went and took counsel of her teacher as to what
she should do. The teacher answered : " Do this : if you are to be
his wife, let him get you a moon-robe." The maiden accordingly
demanded of her father a moon-robe. AVhen the father had bought
that robe, she asked for a robe of stars. Again the father complied ;
and she then asked for a robe of chimes. On this being obtained
also, the maiden for the fourth time took her teacher's advice, and
she was told : " Now, go to a wood-cutter ; let him make you a
robe of wood. Clad in that, go away until you meet your fate." The
girl did so, and wandered about until she came to the gate of the
king's palace, where she asked for shelter for the night. She was
told there was no room ; but the poor child begged to be allowed to
stay, saying she could sleep anywhere, even in the fowlhouse. She
was taken at her word, and contemptuously permitted to find shelter
with the fowls. But at night she went out, took off her wooden
gown, and in her robe of chimes climbed a tree which stood before
the palace. All the city ran together to the palace to inquire
what the music meant. But the king was as much at a loss as
the people. " I have no music," he said ; " I do not know whence
these chimes are." The girl repeated this performance the following
night, and again the people crowded to the palace to know whence
the sounds came. The king answered in vain: "I have heard
them again, but I do not know whence they are." The people went
home puzzled and angry. The next morning the king learned that
his waiting-maid had gone no one knew where ; and, as he could not
possibly be without one, he sent for the girl who was in the hen-roost
She came up dressed in her wooden robe, and the queen asked her :
"Why not take off that wooden gown?" She answered : "I cannot;
I wear it for a penance." The queen said : " What is your name?"
"I am called Mary Wainscotted." "Henceforth," said the
queen, "you are to be our waiting-maid. My son is going to a
feast to-morrow; get his things ready." The girl got everything
ready for him, but forgot his riding-whip. Her duties, indeed, seem
to have been somewhat various ; but such is the peasant's idea of
a palace and its inmates. AVhen the king's son was dressed he
wanted his whip, and he said to Mary Wainscotted, the royal waiting-
maid : " And the whip ? " "I quite forgot it," she answered, and went
to fetch it When she came back the prince was already on his horse,
and on handing the whip to him he struck her with it No sooner

The Folk-tales of Sardinia. 35

had he gone than Mary Wainscotted asked the queen's permission
to go to the feast too. The queen answered: "No, Mary; I
shall not let you go, because my son might see you." But Mary
b^ged, and promised, sly thing ! that the prince should not catch
sight of her ; and the queen, seeing the waiting-maid had taken it
into her head to go, gave her consent at last. Then the maiden
took ofif her wooden gown and threw it into a bush, making her
appearance at the feast in her robe of stars. As soon as the
prince saw her he asked her to dance. Of course she could not refuse ;
and, as she was a stranger, he was inquisitive as to whence she
came. " I came from Whiptown," she said. While they were dancing
he made her a present of a diamond, and said : " Don't go away ;
we will go together." But she gave him the slip ; and when she got
home the queen asked her : " Did my son see you ? " " Oh ! no,
certainly not," the waiting-maid calmly declared ; and while she was
speaking back came the prince. She asked him : " Have you had a
{feasant time, master ? " " Yes," he replied ; " the feast was pleasant,
but I did not see you, Mary Wainscotted, though there was a girl

there " A few days after, another feast was given ; and Mary

forgot the prince's bridle. He had to wait while she fetched it \ but
at last he was off, and Mary immediately went to the queen and
begged leave to go too. The queen made the same difficulty as
before, but Mary surmounted it in the same way, by vowing that
the prince should not see her. She hid her wooden gown in the
bushy and went clad in her moon robe. The prince fell in love with
her at once and invited her to dance. While they were dancing be
presented her with another diamond, and asked : *' From what town
is your ladyship?" ''From Bridletown," she answered; and the
prince again prayed that he might accompany her home. She escaped
him, however ; and when he reached home she came to receive him,
inquiring if the feast had been a pleasant one. '* Very good," he

answered, " but I did not see you. But there was one " In

making ready that the prince might start for a third festival, Mary
forgot a spur. When there he saw a lady wearing a robe of chimes.
He invited her to dance, and gave her another diamond, asking from
what town she was. " From Spurtown," she answered promptly. It
was Mary Wainscotted, who had stripped off her wooden gown and
pot on the robe of chimes. The king's son was so vexed that he
could not find out who these three ladies were, that he fell ilL T*he
doctors declared that he was lovesick, and th^y could not cure him.
He woold not eat the broth his mother brougtohim ; so one day Mary
Wainscotted asked the queen to allow her to take it to him. '* If he

1>2

36 The Gentleman s Magazine.

won't take it from me, why should he from you ? " asked the queeiL
" Try me, and see," returned Mary. At last the queen consented,
and Mary took him the broth, putting one of the diamonds he had
given her into it, and so gave it him. He took it and asked for more.
Mary fetched him some more broth and put another diamond into it.
Evidently she could cure him. He still asked for more, and she
gave it to him with the third diamond in it. When the prince saw
that all those ladies, for whose sake he had fallen ill, were but one,
and that one Mary Wainscotted, he jumped out of bed with one
bound, seized his dagger, and split the wooden robe asunder. Then
there appeared no longer Mary Wainscotted, but the lady whom he
had seen at the feasts. It need hardly be added that they were
married and lived happy ever after. ^

This story, told on the barren hillsides of Sardinia, is identical
with one formerly current in our own land. But our story has, I
fear, long since died out, killed probably by the French tale of
Cinderella. It is referred to in " The Vicar of Wakefield," and was
no doubt well known when Goldsmith wrote. The form in which it
is last known to have been repeated is that of a ballad called " The
Wandering Young Gentlewoman, or Catskin." In this ballad the
heroine is an outcast because she was a daughter, whereas her father
was anxious to have a son, and was disappointed and enraged at her
birth. She has a robe of catskins, and becomes scullion in a knight's
house, sleeping in an outhouse. The knight's lady strikes her on
each occasion of her son's going to a ball, because she asks to go
too. The first and second time the lady breaks a ladle and a
skimmer over poor Catskin's shoulders, and the third time she
drenches her with water. The young squire overtakes the damsel
on her way home after the third ball, and thus finds out who she is.
By arrangement with her, he feigns himself ill that she may attend
him ; and they have a good time together, until one day his mother
surprises them, and finds Catskin arrayed in her rich attire.

Which caused her to stare, and thus for to say,
" What young lady is this, come tell me, I pray ? **
He said, "It is Catskin, for whom sick I lie,
And except I do have her with speed I shall die.**

The proud lady and her husband, the knight, acquiesced of course.
The story, however, has a sequel wanting in the Sardinian version.
Catskin's father, hearing his daughter was so well married, disguises

' Prof. Guarnerio's collection, No. I. Archivio perlo Studio delU TradisunU
Popolari^ vol. ii., p. 21.

The Folk'tales of Sardinia. 37

himself as a beggar, and goes to her to ask alms. When she knows
who he is, she takes him in, gives him " the best provisions the
house could afford," and, thinking him in want, offers him a home.
He replies, he has only come to try her love ; he himself has
enough ; and for her love he will give her a portion of ten thousand
pounds.

Another good old English ballad is represented in Sardinia by a
tale called " The Escaped Canary." Once upon a time, a king who
had a beautiful canary, of which he was very fond, committed it to
the care of a servant. One fine morning this servant left the door
of its cage open for a moment, and away it flew. The king came
in shortly after ; and when he knew what had happened, he ordered
the servant to be summarily dismissed. The servant began to weep
and to pray for pardon because of his long family, promising and
vowing that he would never be guilty of such carelessness again.
The king at last, moved by compassion, had him called back into his
presence, and said : " Listen ! if you can answer me two questions I
will let you stay in the palace ; if not, you shall be turned out neck
and crop." " Say on, your Majesty," replied the man, " I am ready
for everything." " Well, then, you must tell me first the distance
from hence to the sky, and, secondly, how many stones would be
wanted to build this palace of mine." The servant promised that he
would answer these questions, for all in his heart he knew he was not
equal to doing so. As he went weeping from the palace he met an
old comrade, who, seeing him weep, asked why. The man told him,
" And are you faint-hearted on that account ? " asked his comrade \
" the answer is easy enough, and I will tell it you at once. Take a
ball of twine, big, big, very big, and tell the king that that is the dis-
tance from earth to the sky ; and as for the number of stones, tell
him a million and a half." The servant went away content, and the
next day he presented himself to the king. " Well," said the king,
**what have you done about that matter?" " This is the answer,
your Majesty ; this is the distance from the earth to the sky," and he
presented the ball of twine to the king. The king said : " Oh, no,
that won*t do 1 It's not true." " Measure it," replied the servant,
unabashed, "and see if I am not right" The king was silenced ; he
did not know what answer to make. ** And the stones that are in
my palace ? " he asked. " In your Majesty's palace are two millions
of stones," declared the servant. "Oh ! " replied the king, "that is
certainly not true." " Yes, yes," said the man, " it is quite true ;
count them, and see whether I have not spoken the truth." The
king, delighted with his cleverness, not only forgave him, but gave

38 The Gentlematis Magazine.

him a large sum of money, which he divided with his comrade as a
reward for showing him so good a way out of his trouble.^

Nobody will dispute that the English ballad of King John and
the Abbot of Canterbury is both far stronger in plot and wittier in
the replies given to the king ; 'but then it has been through the
skilful hands of Bishop Percy. What can be neater than the replies
to the first and last of the three queries ? —

** First," quoth the king, " tell me in this stead.
With my crown of gold so fair on my head,
Among my nobility with joy and much mirth.
Within one penny what I am worth."

** For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Among the false Jews, as I have been told ;
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I think thou art one penny worser than he."

. a • . • •

<* And from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think."

<< Yes, that I shall, and make your Grace merry ;
Your Grace thinks I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ;
But I'm his poor shepherd, as here you may see.
Come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The story is an old one. It is found in one form or another all
over Europe. Perhaps the oldest version now extant is in the
Gesta Romanorum^ where the emperor puts seven questions to a
knight against whom he wishes to find a ground for punishment It
is found also among the Hebrews and in Turkish. The Turkish
version, as given by Professor Child, whose account of the tale is the
best, is comic enough. " Three monks, who know everything, in the
course of their travels come to a sultan's dominions, and he invites
them to turn Mussulmans. This they agree to do, if he will answer
their questions. All the sultan's doctors are convened, but can do
nothing with the monks' questions. The hodja (the court fool) is
sent for. The first question. Where is the middle of the earth ?
is answered as usual." That is to say — Here ; and if you do not
believe, measure for yourselves. " The second monk asks, How many
stars are there in the sky ? The answer is. As many as there are
hairs on my ass. — Have you counted ? ask the monks. — Have you
counted ? rejoins the fool. — Answer me this, says the same monk,
and we shall see if your number is right : How many hairs are there
in my beard ? — As many as in my ass's tail. — Prove it — My dear

* Dr. Francesco Mango : Navelline Popolari Sarde^ p. 21. The stories quoted
below are all from this collection.

The Folk-tales of Sardinia. 39

man, if you don't believe me, count yourself; or we will pull all
the hairs out of both, count them, and settle the matter. The monks
submit, and become Mussulmans." ^

The Sardinian peasants are fond of a joke, if their jokes are not
always of the keenest. Here is a story, modern at least in its
present form, of the taming of a shrew. It is entitled " The Girl
who did not like Smoke." —

There was once a priest who had a niece who was resolved not
to marry. Often she was asked, but she would not listen ; for she
had got it into her head that she would not have a man who smoked.
Finally a young fellow came and asked for her hand. Her uncle
said to him: "Do you smoke?" "Yes, sir," he replied. "Then
my niece will refuse you, for she will not have anyone who smokes."
But the suitor said : " Is that all ? I'll let the smoking alone."
The uncle called his niece. She said. Yes ; and they were married.
In the evening of the day they were married the bridegroom, without
saying a syllable to his wife, went off to bed, and was soon fast
asleep. And in the same way every day when he came home he
never spoke, but went straight to bed without taking any notice of
her. She thought this conduct strange, and began to fret and pine.
Her uncle said to her one day : " What is the matter, that you are
always sad ? Does he iiltreat you ? " " No, he doesn't illtreat me ;
but when he comes home at night he never speaks, but goes to
bed and sleeps. In fact, when he is in the house, he never utters
a word to me." Then the uncle spoke to the husband : " What
is the matter, my son? Are you not satisfied with my niece?"
"Oh, yes, uncle," answered he, "but somehow, when I don't
smoke, I cannot keep my eyes open." When the old man repeated
this to the bride, she said : " If that's it, he shall smoke." And
from that time she was never satisfied when he had the pipe out of
his mouth.

Our old favourite. The Story of the Two Sisters who were envious
of their Youngest Sister, which M. Galland put into the mouth of the
immortal Scheherazade, is dealt with by the Sardinian peasant in a
somewhat unexpected fashion. There were once three poor girls,
sisters, who kept a poultry yard close to the king's palace. They
often used to talk together in the yard ; and the two elder used to
wish to wed some servant of the king's, but the youngest longed to
wed the king himself. Her sisters laughed, and joked her about it ;
and when at last the king asked her, they were jealous, and told her
that if he married her it would only be to make game of her and
" Prof. Child : The English and Scottish Popidar Ballads^ vol. i. p. 410.

40 The GcnflematCs Magazine.

laugh at her. But he did marry her and took her to live in the
palace. By-and-by she was expecting to become a mother, and told
her husband she felt sure he would have two beautiful children.
Just at that very time war broke out, and the king was obliged to
take the field. Before leaving, he gave his wife in charge to her
sisters, who promised to send him tidings of all that happened.
After he was gone, the two sisters conspired together to write to him
that his wife had given birth to a brace of puppies and was now
stark mad. The king replied, ordering her to be driven from the
palace. Her sisters accordingly cast her out. Weeping, she asked
why they were sending her away ; but they only answered that such
was the king's command. " God will right me," she said ; " give
me but strength and patience ! " The poor creature wandered far
and wide until she reached a certain mountain. There she met an
old, old man who, seeing her plight, courteously invited her to rest in
his dwelling. In that shelter she brought forth two lovely babes, a
boy and a girl. When the king returned from the war his sisters-
in-law had a long tale to tell him of his wife's evil doings. Hearing
so much ill of her whom he tenderly loved, the king fell sick and took
to his bed. After awhile, when he was able to get up again, to divert
his thoughts, he went far into the country, till he arrived at the
mountain where his wife was. There he saw two little ones playing,
and said to himself: ** How fair they are ! If they were mine how
happy I should be ! " Drawing near, he saw the old man, and
asked : " Good man, can you tell me whose chiljiren these are ? ^
" They belong to a poor unfortunate girl who has been thrust out of
house and home by her wicked sisters." " Might I see her ? " So
the old man called her ; she came, and when they saw one
another, husband and wife exclaimed : " My wife ! " " My husband ! "
They ran into one another's arms, and with tears of joy the mother
called her little ones : " Here is your father, kiss him ! " The
children ran, and jumping up, embraced their father. But when
they looked round for the old man who had so long taken care of
the helpless outcasts, he had vanished— for he was the Lord Jesus
Christ.

The introduction of such a deus ex machtnd is very far from
offensive to the peasantry of the Continent. Stories in which Christ
and His Apostles figure are everywhere popular, and this is one of
the least objectionable. There is nothing incongruous to simple,
realistic faith in the personal intervention of the Deity to succour the
distressed and to do justice to the helpless. If ever that intervention
be called for in human affairs it is surely for such a purpose ; and it

The Folk-tales of Sardinia. 41

is our fault, or our misfortune, if our association of the tale with talk-
ing birds and singing trees, magic necklaces and cucumbers with
pearl sauce, startle us when, in place of all this elaborate and costly
machinery, we have the simple form of the Good Shepherd. If the
Church herself frown on the imagination which embodies in these
tales the objects of her faith, it is quite a modern austerity. For
ages she cherished all such fancies and erected them into articles of
belief. She wrought them into her services, and showed them to
the peop e in her miracle plays. The miracle play of Santa Uliva,
for instance, the earliest edition of which is unknown, was reprinted
at Florence in the year 1568. Its plot is in some respects similar to
that of the tale before us, but it is the king's mother who schemes
against the heroine, and not her sisters. In the earlier part of the
play the heroine cuts off her hands to avoid her father's importunities,
for, as in the tale of Mary Wainscotted, he desires to marry her ; and
the Virgin Mary afterwards appears to fit her with new ones. Nor is
her intervention deemed at all incompatible with the nymphs and
cupids and other mythological personages who also take part in the
performance.* This play was very popular ; and it is by no means
an extreme or a solitary example of what we may think the grotesque
mingling, under the Church's sanction, of sacred and profane, of
Christian divinities in pagan fairy tales.

At the beginning of this paper the Sardinian Cinderella came before
us ; we may close with another figure, equally familiar if not equally
beloved — that of Bluebeard. The Sardinian Bluebeard is called — The
Devil ; and the story about him is this. A poor man who had three
daughters went one day into the wood to gather a bundle of sticks.
While he was cutting them he heard footsteps, and turning round he
saw a gentleman, who asked : " What are you doing, my good man ? "
*' I am getting a little wood, you see, sir, to warm myself" " Would
you like me to help you ? " " We always want help until we die."
" What family have you ? " " Three daughters." " Well, I will help
you if one of your daughters will marry me." " How can a poor girl
like my daughter marry ? " The gentleman thereupon cut off an entire
branch at one blow, gave it to the woodcutter, and said : " Then I
shall expect an answer to-morrow." But when the gentleman had
gone away, the woodcutter said to himself : " He must be the devil
himself, or he could not have cut that big branch all in a moment."
However, devil or no devil, he went home and told the story to his
daughters. The eldest and the second both refused to marry the

* D'Ancona : Sacre Rappresentaiioni dei Secoli XIV, XV, e XVI, vol. iii.
p. 235.

42 The Gentleman's Magazine.

unknown gentleman. " I will," said the youngest ; " so I shall be
mistress in my own house." The next day the stranger came to the
wood and met the woodcutter. " Well," said he, " what have you
done, good man ? Which of them will have me ? " " The youngest,"
replied the man. " Then take this money, and to-morrow I will
come and fetch her." But the old proverb is true : Marry in haste
and repent at leisure. On the morrow the gentleman came and the
wedding took place, and the married pair afterwards set out for
home. Before parting, the bride's mother gave her a little dog to
keep her company. When they reached home the bridegroom said to
her : " You are mistress of everything." And he gave her the keys and
took her all over the house. But there was one room he did not show
her, and the key of which he omitted to give her ; and she said to her-
self : " I must find out why he did not give me the key of this room.
But I understand that he does not come home from midday to
midnight, so I shall get my chance." One day she accordingly
succeeded in finding the key, and she opened the door. What a
sight she beheld ! Those agonised forms were nothing else than
souls of the lost. Overcome with fright, she gasped : " Who are
you ? " " We are paying the penalty of our sins. I," said one, " was
a miller's wife, and I robbed every poor man who came to grind his
com." "I," said another, " used to blaspheme continually." "I,"
said a third, " murdered my husband." And so they told every one
her sin. " And who are you ? " asked these lost ones in return. " I
am the mistress of the house, and I live here with my husband."
" Poor child ! and she knows not she has married the devil" " The
devil ! How shall I manage to live with him ? " she asked, almost
beside herself. " Don't despair ; we will tell you how to get away.
Write a letter as if from your mother, saying that she wishes to see
you. Tell your husband, and ask him to take you to her. When
you reach the house, have a cock made ready to take back with you ;
and when you are on the way back squeeze the bird's wings, and you
will see that the devil will soon disappear." So the wife forges the
letter, and goes to her husband in tears, and hands it to him. " What
is the matter ? " " Read this letter, and you will see." Devils are
so easily deceived — in folk-tales. " Well, well," said he, " don't cry ;
we will go, and you shall see your mother." When they got there,
the mother was surprised to see her daughter. "What do you want
here ? " she asked. " Hush, mother ! pretend you are unwell, and
that you wanted to see me once more. I have something of import-
ance to tell you." When they were alone the girl told her mother
all. The mother quickly got a cock, and packed it up to go with

The Folk-tales of Sardinia. 4 j

them. Presently husband and wife started home again. When they
had gone a little way she slyly pinched the cock's wings. Out he
bounced with a flutter and a screech. The same instant her husband
vanished ; and she returned rejoicing to her father's house.

The cock's magical power in driving away demons is well known.
At that season of the year when the bird of dawning singeth all night
long, no spirit dares stir abroad. Night is the time when spirits have
special power ; and most spirits are looked upon as evil and hostile
to man. But it is a commonplace of European folk-lore that what-
ever time of the night a cock crows all evil spirits are at once put to
flight ; their power is gone. Therefore it is that, as in this tale, arti-
ficial means are constantly taken to induce a cock to crow, in order
to rescue the hero or heroine from the devil's grasp. What the
origin of this superstition may be is a difficult question. It is pro*>
bably not one of the oldest superstitions yet current, for the domestic
fowl is not indigenous to Europe — a fact that has perhaps something
to do with the supernatural virtue assigned to it.

But the cock is not the only one of the lower animals introduced
here. A little dog is mentioned as given to the bride by her mother,
and then it is forgotten. We may be quite sure it was originally not
mentioned for nothing. In some other Italian stories concerning the
Forbidden Chamber, a dog is kept by the ogre-husband to warn the
wife against disobedience, and to blab her secret In the present
case the dog belongs to the wife ; and if we could go back to an
earlier form of the story, it would not be surprising to find that it was
the dog, and not the condemned spirits, who counselled her how she
should escape from the devil's clutches.

E. SIDNEY HARTLAND.

44 The Geniletnatis Magazine.

A COMPETITIl^E UTOPIA,

EARLY last year, Dr. Hertzka, a well-known Viennese political
economist, published a book entitled ''Freeland : a Social
Anticipation.'*^ The book quickly ran through several large
editions, and before the year ended societies were being formed in
different parts of Germany and Austria, preparatory to the organisa-
tion of a colony in which Dr. Hertzka's new economic views might
be practically tested. The author has been called a " high priest of
the Manchester School," and " one of the most acute of the acute
epigones of Ricardo." In what directions the author would develop
the generally received principles of Political Economy may be seen
from the following notice — first, of the leading principles of " Free-
land," and next of the story by which those principles are shown in
operation.

Some years ago Dr. Hertzka arrived at the conclusion that the
great problem which first called forth, and has since been the enigma
of, political economy, was and is, " Why do we not become wealthy
in the ratio of our growing capacity of producing wealth ?" In other
words, time was when it was impossible to produce more than
enough to make a few persons wealthy, and to barely feed and clothe
and house the rest ; the time has come when, thanks to the con-
trol man has acquired over the forces of nature, it is easily pos-
sible to produce enough to make every individual wealthy. Why
has not actual production kept pace with possible production ? The
reply which Dr. Hertzka gives is, "Because actual production
depends upon the effective demand, which is prevented by the
existing social conditions from increasing in the ratio of the increase
of productive capacity." He further finds that effective demand or
consumption cannot increase sufficiently to stimulate such an amount
of production as shall make all persons wealthy until every man can
retain for his own use the whole of what his labour produces. And
in order to make this possible, the means of production, land
and capital, must be always and equally accessible to every man.

> Freiland: ein sociaies Zukun/isbild, Leipzig : Duncker und Humblot 189a

A Competitive Utopia. 45

Neither the community nor the individual should possess any pro-
perty in land. Productive capital — to be first accumulated by
annual charges upon production — should be at the disposal of any
worker or association of workers, without interest, but repayable by
instalments. It should be optional for any worker to join or leave any
association of workers at will, the mobility of labour being thus made
to depend solely upon the changes in supply and demand. This
perfect mobility of labour will preserve an equality of profits in all
branches of industry, and will thus make the advantage of any one
branch the common advantage of all. Thus, with nationalisation of
land and capital on the one hand, Dr. Hertzka would combine the
fiercest competition on the other. Only, as the profits of the com-
peting individuals or competing associations are made — by the free
mobility of labour — advantageous to the whole community, the com-
petition is not that of opponents but of friendly rivals. Com-
munism is, in Dr. Hertzka's opinion, as fatal in one direction as the
exploiting competition at present existing is in another. He would
get rid of the bondage of both exploitation and communism. Every
one should be perfectly free to do what he pleases, except to exercise
a right of private property in land. There should be no bar even on
the payment of interest to private capitalists, or on the employment
of one man by another, if any one chose to pay interest for what he
could get for nothing, or to work for another when he could more
profitably work for himself. Having laid down a correct scientific
basis for the community. Dr. Hertzka expects that community
automatically to develop into a condition of universal wealth, and
the highest and noblest possible well-being.

The author's principles will be better understood as seen realised
in the narrative of his imaginary colony — Freeland. An "Inter-
national Free Society " is organised for the settlement of a tract of
country in the hill districts of Equatorial Africa. The funds are
supplied by the voluntary subscriptions of the members in the first
instance, and the management is vested, until the colony is com-
pletely organised, in an executive committee. A pioneer expedition
of two hundred well-armed, well-equipped, experienced and enthu-
siastic men starts from the Eastern Coast at Mombasa, and after
successfully overcoming the difficulties of the way, reaches the slopes
of the Kenia mountain district in health and safety. On the way,
they have not only effectually frightened but even made allies of the
tribes — including the terrible Masai — they have met with. The details
of the pioneer expedition are based upon careful studies of the works
of Afirican explorers, and of Joseph Thompson in particular. In fact.

46 The Gentlematis Magazine.

all the details are very carefully drawn, and the narrative, which
some may think unnecessarily circumstantial, has everywhere an air
of verisimilitude. The author has purposely made his narrative
minutely circumstantial, in order to show that though the story is a
fiction it is in every point capable of realisation.

As soon as the pioneer party has fixed upon a site for the head-
quarters of the colony, and has made hasty but very substantial
provision for more immigrants, the general body of members hurries
to the Kenia in large instalments. The executive committee remove
from Europe to the colony itself, and hand over the control of
affairs to the elective government, which consists of twelve depart-
ments. Into the details of the definitive constitution of Freeland it
is impossible here to go ; but it should be stated that the perfect
mobility of labour is further secured by means of universal publicity
of all business and industrial transactions. All accounts are kept by
the Central Bank, the books of which are open to any one. The
bank, moreover, publishes from time to time all such statistics as are
necessary to show the changes of supply and demand, profit and loss,
throughout Freeland. Accounts are kept in terms of English money,
but the unit used in calculating profit, income, salaries of officials,
&c., is the average value of an hour's labour. This unit rapidly and
enormously increases in value. From the beginning the most
costly thing in the colony is human labour. As, by virtue of the
absolutely free mobility of labour, the advantage obtained by any one
association of workers is at once spread over the whole body of
workers throughout Freeland, machinery receives an immense
impetus. As a consequence, by the time the population has reached
7,500,000 producers, the profits have risen to seven milliards sterling
(;^7,ooo,ooo,ooo). Deducting two and a half milliards for the contri-
butions to the public service, &c., the remaining four and a half
milliards give an average income of ;^6oo to every producer, with
an annual average of only 1,500 hours of work. Thus the average
net value of a labour-hour is eight shillings. Out of the money
deducted by the commonwealth are paid all the costs of educatioUi
public conveyance, lighting, &c. &c., as well as the maintenance
allowances of all persons over sixty, all women whether married or
not, and all children. The Freelanders hold that no woman should
be dependent upon her husband for the necessities of life, or should
be compelled to labour for her livelihood. The woman's place in
society is that of the beautifier and the refiner. The maintenance
allowances can accumulate in a family until they reach as much
as 70 per cent, of the average income of a producer. Thus, if the

A Competitive Utopia. 47

average income of a producet be ;^6oo a year, the maintenance
allowances of a non-producing family of a man, wife, and three or
more children who are not yet old enough to work, will be ;£^42o.

Dr. Hertzka has left scarcely a detail in the public and private
life of a community untouched in his description of the founding and
early growth of his colony at Eden Vale. The government, the edu-
cational system, the provision for defence, and of course all the
financial, economic, industrial, and social features of the common-
wealth are abundantly enlarged upon. When Freeland has been in
existence some four- or five-and-twenty years, it finds itself compelled
to go to war with Abyssinia, with the result that the highly-trained
and exceptionally intelligent youth of Freeland easily, and almost
as if they were engaging in their ordinary sports, dispose of an Abys-
sinian army many times outnumbering the force brought against them.
In the course of a few days the war is over, and the world has dis-
covered that Freeland is invincible.

At this date Freeland has constructed and presented to the
world, free of toll, ocean-steamer canals from the Atlantic to the
Indian Ocean across the centre of Africa, and from Equatorial Africa
to the Mediterranean. Some surplus Freeland capital, which several
of its wealthy citizens have loaned to other countries by way of specu-
lative whim, has immensely lowered the rate of interest all over the
world. Other sums are continually flowing out of Freeland into the
old countries as benevolent contributions in relief of the distress of
the populations where exploitation still prevails. All the roads into
Freeland are open to any of the inhabitants of other countries who
may long for a refuge from care and want.

The Freeland passenger-steamers ply in all oceans, carrying emi-
grants from all the world to Freeland free of charge. The eyes of
all the distressed everywhere are upon Freeland; the hopes of all
wise philanthropists are centred in the propagation of Freeland prin-
ciples, and the fears of all tyrants and reactiot\aries find their ground
and justification in Freeland. Despotic governments would like to
crush Freeland, but they are afraid to attack it lest their own
oppressed peoples should rise against them, and the more enlightened
nations should take up the cause of Freeland. And at last, when
Freeland shows with what ease it can crush a formidable enemy, the
crisis comes among the peoples : the advanced nations begin at once to
take measures to adop(t Freeland institutions, and the despotic powers
find their countries in a state of volcanic revolution. Freeland offers
consultative commissioners and grants of money to the rising peoples
everywhere, and calls a universal congress of the nations to meet at

48 Tlie Gentleman's Magazine.

Eden Vale to discuss the political future of the world. One-fourth
of the book is occupied with the report of the meeting of this congress.
The questions discussed are :

How is it that it was left to Freeland to set the example of

a commonwealth based upon the principles of justice and

freedom ?

Is the success of Freeland due to exceptional circumstances,

or are the Freeland institutions based upon conditions every-
where existing and inherent in human nature ?

Are want and misery inevitable; and if misery be temporarily

removed, will not over-population ensue and bring it back

again ?

Is it possible — and if so, by what means — to establish the

institutions of economic justice universally without interfering

with inherited rights and vested interests ?

Are economic justice and freedom the final issue of human

evolution, and what will be the condition of mankind under the

domination of these principles ?
Throughout, and particularly in the treatment of the above
questions, Dr. Hertzka's work differs from most of the earlier Utopias
in basing the conclusions arrived at upon scientific principles. The
book is both a Utopia and a treatise on political economy. It is a
treatise thrown into pictorial form, and on this account it will pro-
bably— particularly in England — meet with objection from two different
quarters. Those who want a story will complain of the economic
disquisitions, and those who want economics will scarcely have
patience with the story. But though these two classes of readers
may object, it is most likely they will both read the book.

Not only have readers in abundance been already found in Ger-
many and Austria, but, as has been said, a practical result of the
reading has already become manifest. Local societies are formed
in many of the larger cities and towns of both empires, and these
local societies are organised into one confederation with its head-
quarters in Vienna. Funds are pouring in, fresh members are
rapidly accumulating, and it is in contemplation to put Dr. Hertzka's
theories to a practical test in British Equatorial Africa, if pos-
sible next year. Much is hoped from the appearance of the
book in English form,* as it is expected that the English-
speaking populations will contribute a large contingent of both
members and funds to the International Free Society. As soon as
an English branch of the Society is in existence, it is proposed to
' An English edition will immediately be published by Messrs. Chatto & Windus.

A Competitive Utopia. 49

approach the British Government for the purpose of procuring such
assurances of neutrality as shall enable the Society to make its
experiments without fear of British interference.

The object of this short paper has been merely to draw attention
to a striking attempt made by an economist of reputation to solve
the economic problem. Criticism of that attempt is best left until
the work is in the hands of the English reading public. German
writers have not refrained from criticising it; many have applauded it,
and even such leading economists as have not found themselves able
to endorse it as a whole, have treated the book as one of the most
serious and noteworthy attempts ever made to solve the burning
problem of the times.

ARTHUR RANSOM.

VOL. CCLXXI, NO. 1927. g

50 The Gentleman's Magazine.

FROM A COUNTRY PARSONAGE.

MY father had two hobbies, to which he was about equally
attached. He was a great entomologist in his way, and
wrote tracts on temperance. So far as I know he was the first and
the only one of our family that had advocated total abstinence from
fermented liquor. It was certainly not because he was morally weak
that he adopted this principle, but rather to set a good example to
his parishioners. Intemperance was not one of the prominent
weaknesses of the dale, but it must be confessed that one or two of
the yeomen came home tipsy as certainly as they visited Greytown
on market day. As to the entomology, there was always abundant
proof of this at home. In summer and autumn rare moths and
butterflies were pinned to the dining-room curtains in very great
abundance, to our infinite delight and our poor mother's slight
irritation. My father, I believe, added two or three insects to the
then known British species, and one which was new to science.
This was called after our name by one of the great scientists, and
we all felt very proud at what we thought the distinction conferred
upon us. I am bound to say, however, that I have never yet seen
the same in print, nor have my brothers, although we have often
tried to find it. One of our red-letter days was when a copy of the
Transactions of a learned society arrived at our home, and contained
a list of insects of our valley, written by my father. We all of us
felt very proud, as in assisting my father we felt that part of the
distinction belonged to us. We read the learned paper with its
hard names many times over, and especially a little postscript attached
to it by the editor of the Review. This learned man remarked that
the list was an exceedingly complete one ; that it was evidently from
a district rich in insect life; and finally held it up for imitation,
urging upon others to do conscientiously for their districts what my
father had done for ours, and concluded by pointing out that in this
way the cause of science could best be served. There was only one
thing to damp our pleasure, which was that, instead of appending his
name, my father had merely written his initials. As I have said, we

From a Country Parsonage. 51

were disappointed, and told my father that the list, so far as the
signature went, might have been compiled by anyone, and that he
had robbed himself of half the honour. He answered that in what
he had written he had endeavoured to add his mite to science, and
in this he had his reward. And so we were silenced. Loving
natural history as he did, my father encouraged each of us to take
up some branch of it. He impressed upon us, too, the necessity of
close and accurate observation, and said that, if we were to excel
beyond our fellows, we ought each to have a specialty, and pursue it
with a great ardour.

I do not think the farmers set much store by our studies in
natural history, and I believe some of them held us in rather slight
contempt for pursuing them. What practical good could come of
it? Was it going to bring us our bread? And because our
neighbours could not find answers within themselves to these self-
imposed questions our pet projects were both mercilessly reviewed
and summarily condemned. We were illustrative of types of mental
weakness out of which no good thing could be expected to come.
In after years I knew exactly what they thought of us, for I found
their very ideas incorporated in the Ingoldsby Legends, And
when I read them I saw our own pictures start up vividly
before me :

Still poking his nose into this thing or that,

At a gnat, or a bat, or a rat, or a cat,

Or great ugly things, all legs and wings,

With nmsiy long tails armed with nasty long stings.

Or take this other description of the popular verdict against us,
for it is even more succinct :

He would pore by the hour o*er a weed or a flower,

Or the slugs which came crawling out after a shower;

Black-beetles and bumble-bees, bluebottle flies,

And moths were of no small account in his eyes ;

An industrious flea he*d by no means despise ;

While an old daddy longlegs, whose long legs and thighs

Passed the common in shape, or iir colour, or size.

He was wont to consider an absolute prize.

But this scant justice which our early studies obtained did us
little harm. My father was always ready to lend us his ready
sympathy and knowledge, and my dear mother expressed herself
pleased that we seemed to have such a fondness for nature. Nothing
but good could come of it, she thought ; and I well remember her
nying she could not understand how anyone with a deep love of the
works of the Creator in his heart could ever become quite depraved.

E 2

52 The Gentleman s Magazine.

The members of our family, however, were not the only naturalists
that the valley had produced. So rich was it in natural objects,
that I am fully convinced most of the yeomen were naturalists them-
selves without knowing it. Although they never set anything down
on paper, they were keen observers, and I have heard them describe
in the most interesting way the various traits of the live creatures
they met. But two or three had been born in the dale at long
intervals who had afterwards distinguished themselves in science.
One of these was John Wilson. Wilson was born and lived in the
dale, and we were very proud to think that he wrote the first great
work on English Botany. This worthy man came upon the scene
when botany, in its best sense, had made but little progress. He
was one of those naturalists who did much to place the science on
the broad scientific basis upon which it now rests. His predecessors
had mostly comprehended the subject as it taught them of the herbs
and simples of the wood.

Rue, cinque-foil, gill, vervain, and agrimony,
Blue-vetch and triiium, hawk-weed, sassafras,
Milkweeds and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew.

Like his predecessors, too, he clung fondly to the old English
names, and loved to wrap about the flowers the attributes his fathers
had done. Their knowledge of " herbalism " had been profound,
but he would have none of it Wilson was a truly remarkable
man ; and although there is all that intenseness and simplicity anent
his dealings with nature that there had been in connection with the
old workers who preceded him, yet his work is of an eminently
scientific character. They were not always infallible observers,
and frequently tripped in their facts; Wilson rarely did so. He
found botany as a science a veritable maze, all without a plan;
but at his death he left it somewhat systematised. I have said that
Wilson was born in our valley, and may add that he came of
pious yeomen folk, who were poor enough, except in the possession
of many stern virtues. The primitive dale must have proved a
very paradise to him, as it was so secluded, and certainly had
never been invaded by science prior to his coming. This pleasant
environment did not last long. In the fulness of his boyish en-
thusiasm he roamed over the hills like a partridge. The very
isolation referred to, and which was a merit in one way, rendered
the people a prey to the grossest superstition. Our botanist made
long, lonely journeys, often at night, among the hills and woods
and by the sea. The fell folk said that the nightly calling which

From a Country Parsonage. 55

took him so far afield might be honest ; but they shook their
heads, and some even ventured to say that he was a ** wise
man " — a dealer in mysteries, and given to dark sayings. It was
probably this evil repute which gathered around him, and the want
of books, that caused him to leave the dale and go to a small
market town about ten miles off. And, maybe, this enforced
circumstance was well. He had studied long and hard in his native
valley, and there had had abundant and rare material. At home
he had only an old " Herbal," which he well knew was as full of
inaccuracies as superstition. Now he had good guides, and
found himself within reach of the best books on the subject, and
came into connection with those who had like interests to him-
self. Some of these were really remarkable workers — workers who
stood out far above the common run of men. They put before
Wilson the then standard works of his own pet subject, and of the
contents of these, with his already acquired knowledge and native
understanding, he quickly made himself master. But none of the
works to which he had access were so good as the one he was
destined to write. They were styled "scientific "; but the first law
of science is order, and, as yet, there was only chaos. Our botanist
was the great mind born to perceive and exhibit such order from
the then ascertained elements of botany so far as collected. I need
only further say that Wilson laboured hard for many years, working
at his book the while he pursued his trade. When it was published
it came out in English, and not in Latin. The author had
set out with a well-defined plan, and executed it in an admirable
manner. It was a strong and original work, a very monument of
accurate observation and the genius of hard work. The botanist^s
early wanderings among the fells were stamped upon every page,
and Wilson was wont to say that he never could have succeeded
without that early life which he loved so well. And so our greatest
" worthy " produced his Synopsis of British Plants,

I have already said something of our studies in natural history,
and also of the desire which my father had that we should each
take up some specialty instead of working indiscriminately. He
knew from experience how many a keen intellect had rusted, shut
out as it was among the isolation of the hills. If ever that fate
should be ours, as it had been his, he felt that by encouraging us in
some scientific study he had done what he could to guard against
the breeding of ennui^ and that the science, whichever we might take
up, would teach us the habits of close and accurate observation.
My father knew little of birds, but in his diary he kept records of the

54 The Gentleman s Magazine

arrival and departure of the rarer summer visitors ; and, speaking
for myself, it was these entries and the observations which they
suggested that first interested me in ornithology. From that time
I have always taken an intense interest in birds. T propose to set
down here a very short account of those that visited our valley, and
I must sketch one or two of its main physical characteristics.
These are essential to the better understanding of the subject.
It is hemmed in on three sides, and on the south sweeps away
and loses itself in the undulations of a wooded plain. An arm
of the sea touches upon the confines of the plain, and thus it will
be seen that the dale includes tracts of a very diversified nature.
It is probably this that makes the woods and streams and meadows
of the valley so rich in bird life, and the fact of the quietude of
the spot being rarely broken.

Owing to the close proximity of the hills, the Raptores have always
been the most prominent birds of the valley. They are not so
common now as formerly, though the sparrow-hawk may still be seen
in the woodlands, and the kestrel holds its own among the rocks of
the scaurs. The beautiful circling kites have left Gled Hill, and the
merlin falcon has flown, never more to return. Occasionally an
osprey visits the still mountain tarns on migration, and ravens cross
from moor to moor, uttering their dismal " Croak, croak, croak 1 "
The old dismantled Hall has its pair of screech-owls, and the tawny
owl makes night mournful by her hooting in the stiller woods. The
more rare long-eared and short-eared owls are occasionally found on
the lower-lying mosses which skirt the waters of the brackish creek.
The great grey shrike, or butcher-bird, visits the copses which are
likely to provide food for its larder, and I have found the red- backed
species among the hedges which encircle the moat of an old lichened
tower. The spotted and pied flycatchers come to us as our first
summer visitants, the former being much more common than the
latter. They establish themselves everywhere along the trout streams,
obtaining food from the insects of the overhanging boughs. The
pretty white-breasted dipper, or water crow, haunts our rocky stream,
and early builds its nest along the Greenwash tributaries. Com-
panion of the ouzel is the brightly-plumaged kingfisher, with its
metallic tints. You hear its whistle far down stream ; it comes
through the old ivied bridge, darts past, and is gone — gone to the
dripping moss by the waterfall, where the female halcyon is hatching
her eggs. The song-thrush is everywhere, and often in spring several
may be heard at once, filling the whole glade with their warblings.
Of the other thrushes, the "orange-billed merle" floods the copse

From a Country Parsonage. 55

with its mellow song on summer evenings. The blackbird stays
about our hedgerows the whole of the year, so does the missel-
thrush ; while the fieldfare and the redwing come to our holly-
berries in winter from the pine wastes of Norway. The ring-ouzel
still holds its own among the fell '' becks," and there trills out its
weird and not unmusical song. The hedge accentor, the redbreast,
and the redstart are common, the last coming to us in April to rear
its young. It is quite the most beautiful of the warblers, and its
brilliant plumage shows well against the sombre hues of the lime-
stone.

It is now that so many other of the Sylviadce come — the soft-
billed warblers of the wood-bird kind. Among these are the
stone-chat, whinchat, and wheatear. The first — a shy bird of the
Common — builds its nest among the gorse ; the second in like
situations, or among broom or juniper bushes ; while the wheatear
lays its pale-blue eggs in some old crannied wall. Then come
the willow, wood, and garden warblers — the white-throat, the
sedgebird, and the blackcaps. The sedge and willow warblers
have their nests among the aquatic plants of the tarns and meres,
and their game preserves in the stalks and leaves of the waving
grasses. Sweetest of wood-birds are the warblers, and sweetest
songster of the choir the blackcap warbler. This bird is some-
times called the "mock nightingale,*' and we have known per-
sons listening, as they believed, to Philomela when the blackcap
was the only bird under the night The nightingale has never
extended its northern haunt to our valley, although it is difficult
to ascertain why this should be so. The whole of the warblers
and white-throats may be found in our more sheltered woods,
where they breed after the first weeks of May. The old Honey-
bee Woods have always been the chief haunt of these delicate
songsters.

Owing to the number of larch and fir plantations which border
the slopes of our valley, the family of tits has always been repre-
sented. The first of these is the golden-crested regulus, the smallest
of British birds, though by no means the rarest The crested wren, the
great, blue, cole, marsh, and long-tailed tits are all of them common.
This miniature family of acrobats disperse themselves over their
breeding haunts in summer, nesting for the most part in holes in
trees, but in winter scour the woods in companies in search of food.
Often they may be seen, hanging head downwards, abstracting the
seeds from the hardened cones. Flocks of Bohemian waxwings
are sometimes shot during the severity of winter, and occasionally

56 The Gentleman s Magazine.

chattering crossbills appear among the pines at the same season.
The pied and grey wagtails stay with us throughout the year;
while a third species comes to our creeks in April, and thence pro-
ceeds inland. The meadow and tree pipit we have, the latter in
autumn leaving the vicinities of farmsteads, where it breeds, for warmer
climes. In summer the skylark is everywhere common, the sweet-
singing woodlark rare. The snowflake, or mountain bunting, is a
little northern visitor which comes to our fell slopes in winter. The
common and yellow buntings have their nests among the tangled
herbage of the roadsides, and the black-headed bunting, or reed-
sparrow, is everywhere common in the vicinity of water. Owing to
the better cultivation of the valley "intacks" the goldfinch has
become almost extinct The bullfinch, the greenfinch, and the chaf-
finch are common everywhere, and more than half the bird-sounds
one hears in summer are due to the last named. The beautiful
mountain finch, or brambling, is rare. Linnets and siskins go through
life together, ranging the fields in search of cress and wild mustard
seed. In summer they are among the broom, in winter among the
fallows. At the same season we frequently find the lesser redpole
among the nut-tree tops, though its relative, the twite, keeps to
higher ground. The peregrine and the carrion-crow are much more
rare than formerly, as is also the hooded crow ; their haunts, too,
are getting farther and farther away. Rooks, jackdaws, and magpies
are everywhere on^the increase, though this can hardly be said of the
jay and the wryneck. The garrulous blue jay is confined to a few oak
copses, and the wryneck to one belt of wood. The litde mouselike
creeper and the wren* have protection in their diminutiveness, and
consequently abound. The hoopoe is also an occasional visitant, and
has been more than once taken. The lap of May brings that wan-
dering voice, the cuckoo, which has been preceded, a few days, by the
sweet birds of return — the jwallows, martins, and swifts. The night-
jar, or goatsucker, follows a few days later, and files immediately to
the coppice woods, preferring those where huge slabs of limestone
pave the ground, as on these the birds love to bask, and between
their crevices lay their eggs. The ringdove and the rockdove haunt
the woods, though the turtledove comes but rarely. The semi-
domestic pheasant flourishes only under protection, though the
more hardy partridge has her oak-leaf nest under the glowing gorse
bushes in every congenial situation. The indigenous red grouse
is common on the moors, the blackcock rare. Occasionally the timid
quail rears her brood amid the long summer grass. The bittern has
ceased to boom in the bog, but the gaunt heron still pursues his

From a Country Parsonage. 57

solitary trade. From " pond to pond he roams, from moor to moor."
The beautiful golden plover stays with us on its way to the more
northern hills ; and the common green plover, peewit, or lapwing,
breeds everywhere over the fallows. The curlew still gives out its
weird whistle on the fells, and hovers around the farm lights on
stormy nights. The rare ruff and the green sandpiper occasionally
come to the mosses by the Greenwash; and here in winter
may be heard the wild clangour and cries of innumerable sea
birds.

Our valley is as rich in its plant life as in its birds, and I will
here set down some account of its floral treasures. Then, again,
it may be interesting to the botanist to know what flowers really grow
in a valley which produced certainly the greatest botanist of his time.
Of course I refer to Wilson ; though before I proceed I may say
that these flowers are those of a summer, and the prominent ones
that are seen in the dale. Among the most quaint and curious
of our summer wild flowers, both in device and life history, are
the orchids. And this order is nowhere better represented than
here. Many of them are late-flowering plants, but early summer
has five species of its own. First blooms the spotted or purple
orchis, and soon follow the bird's-nest, fly, palmate, marsh, and
great butterfly orchids. The fly orchis is a somewhat remarkable
plant, and it requires no stretch of imagination to see in the
leaves the resemblance to the insect from which it derives its
name. Its flower is dark purple, and may be found growing in
copses and on hedgebanks. " The nether parte of the fly is black,
with a list of ash colour crossing the backe, with a showe of legges
hanging at it ; the naturall fly seemeth so to be in love with it that
you shall seldome come in the heate of the daie but you shall find
one sitting close thereon." The butterfly orchis is not a well-named
species, and has but slight resemblance to the winged creature
whose name it bears. Its flowers are creamy white, and at night emit
a sweet perfume. This being so, it is interesting to know that this
particular flower is fertilised only by night-flying moths. Among the
more general flowers of the season is crosswort, growing in pretty
golden clusters on every bit of neglected ground. Side by side with
this is the tiny pink valerian, everywhere nestling under the moister
meadow banks. One of our haodsomest weeds is the globe flower —
a rare and cultivated plant in many districts, but here growing wild.
Wherever it flourishes its delicate yellow globe-like flowers enliven
the surrounding greenery. In times gone by globe flowers were
gathered with great festivity by youths of both sexes in the beginning

58 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

of June, and it was usual to see them return from the woods of an
evening laden with these flowers, with which they made wreaths and
garlands to adorn their houses. The old floral usages of the country
— the flower strewings and well dressings, the decking of houses
and churches with wreaths — are now nearly over, and even the
garlands of May-day become fewer each year. Cow-wheat is a
pretty, delicate plant, with long tubular pale-yellow flowers. Cows
are fond of it, and Linnaeus asserts that the best and yellowest
butter is made where it abounds. There is a popular error respecting
the large family of buttercups, to the effect that when these are most
plentiful butter will be yellowest. But cows, on account of the
acridity of the flowers, rarely eat them, and tufts may be seen
still standing when the grass about them and over all the pasture is
closely cropped. This northern valley is one of the spots where the
handsome columbine grows wild, but even here its distribution is
local. The large blue, white, or pink petals have each incurved
spurs, and the flower acquires its name from the fanciful resemblance
to a nest of doves.

As summer advances she deepens her colour and renders sweeter
her breath. And so it happens that the wild flowers now blooming
have brightly coloured corollas, and lend a richness of beauty to the
surrounding foliage almost peculiar to the season. Prominent among
these are the foxglove, trailing woodbine, guelder-rose, iris, golden
rod, giant bell-flower, and many others. But there are marvellously
beautiful plumes — flowers we usually pass unnoticed on account
of their diminutiveness — which, examined with the aid of a lens,
show a wondrous witchery of structure. They are the grasses. This
one, with its soft and hairy head like a brush, is the meadow foxtail.
That, with the slender waving purplish flowers, the common field
grass — the chief element of the meadows. Then there are the haulms
of brome, with large, broad, flat heads, fiercely bearded and standing
square to the breeze. And here, again, the sweet vernal grass, which
imparts such a delicious odour to newly-mown hay. In addition
there are fescue, matweed, wild oats, cord grass, darnel, and wagging
bennets, as well as creeping couch grass, the farmer-loved timothy,
quake or dodder, and tares. These are a few of the many British
grasses, intermixed with which is red and white clover. Because
they find tiny drops of honey in the long corolline tubes, children
love to call it honeysuckle. To show how almost inextricably
interwoven is the existence of one branch of nature with another,
let us take the case of red clover as illustrated by Darwin. The
humble-bee is the only insect the proboscis of which is sufficiently

From a Country Parsonage. 59

long to reach the nectar in the clover flower, and hence only this
insect can fertilise it. The number of bees in any one district is
dependent upon the number of field-mice, which destroy the combs;
the number of field-mice is again dependent upon the number of
cats, which, in turn, prey upon them ; and hence it may be said
that to the domestication of the cat are our large clover crops
due.

The giant bell-flower is one of the children of swarthy summer.
It grows in moist and shady woods, with its purplish blue or more
rarely white petals, and the children call it the Canterbury bell. As
eagerly do we look for the first wild rose as for the swallow or
cuckoo. In June everyTiedgerow is adorned with them, and wood-
bine twines about their branches. The pink and white roses are
among our sweetest summer flowers, and not only beautify the
country now, but their bright scarlet fruit in winter relieves the
monotony of the hedges and affords food for the birds. In the
low-lying and wet woods the guelder-rose, or wayfaring tree, has
put on its bloom. Of all floral sweets that emitted by the guelder-
rose is the most refreshing. Its flowers hang in graceful white cymes,
and are peculiarly wax-like ; the drooping clusters of berries are
smooth, clean, and bright as rubies. The gold and purple iris of
the bogs and tarns is an imposing flower, well set off by its dark-
green, sword-like leaves. The honeysuckle, or woodbine, is loved
alike by all. Its blossoms are as sweet as beautiful, and just now
it is threading its sinuous way through every hedgerow. This was
the caprifole and twisted eglantine of the older poets. Generally
distributed through the woods in each summer are the wild hyacinths
or " blue bells." These cover the floor of every copse, making in
places floods of purple. Rarely there may be found white varieties
of this beautiful flower, several of which have been gathered in our
woods. The flower of the ancients which bore this name had upon
its petals dark spots resembling the Greek word " Al " — alas ! Our
hyacinth, however, having no such distinctive mark, is named Non
Scriptus — not written. Blooming in hedges and waste places is the
ground ivy, with its purple flowers and dark rounded leaves. Primi-
tive botanists considered this plant of great efficacy in many dire
diseases, and even now in some rural districts its leaves are dried
and used as tea. It emits a pleasant fragrance, and has an aromatic
taste. The ripening of the yellow rattle indicates our hay-time, when
the hard seeds rattle in the capsules. This blue marsh vetchling is
rare in its beauty, and blooms in like places to the silvery grass of
Parnassus. Lady's-mantle is the plant whose fringed and rounded

6o The Gentleman s Magazine.

leaves always contain a sparkling drop of dew. Deadly nightshade
is a rare but fatally poisonous plant, whose dark purple leaves in
autumn so much adorn the hedgerows. One of our few climbers is
the graceful black bryony, with its picturesque entwining boughs. Its
scarlet berries are as inviting as its bright green foliage is cool in
summer. The scabious shines through the foliage of the dusty road-
side, and in the green lanes tower the stately foxgloves. For
dignified beauty, for loveliness of form and hue, few English flowers
can compete with the foxglove. Houndstongue and dusky cranes-
bill are rare flowers here, though elsewhere they are not uncommon.
Beautiful to our eyes is the little scarlet pimpernel, poor man's weather-
glass, or shepherd's barometer. All these names are appropriate, for
not only do the flowers close at the approach of rain, but wake
and sleep both morning and afternoon at seven and two respectively,
with the greatest regularity. The pimpernel is one of the only
two scarlet British wild flowers, and is extremely beautiful. It is a
low creeping plant, which trails its delicate stem about the stalks of
the scarlet poppy of the cornfields. Enchanter's nightshade, betony,
figwort, and the little eyebright all bloom in the valley. This last
possesses wonderful virtues of eye-preserving according to the old
herbalists, and in rural districts is much used as an eye-wash.
The bogbean, butterwort, and golden rod are all handsome summer
flowers, the last a mass of golden blooms mounted on a dense spike.
In times past it had repute for the curing of wounds, and old Gerarde
says : " It is extolled above all herbs for the stopping of blood,
and hath in times past been had in greater estimation and regard
than in these daies; for within my remembrance I have known the
drie herbe which came from beyond the seas sold for half-a-crown an
ounce." Butterwort is a rare and singular bog plant, its leaves having
the appearance of being covered with white crystals of hoarfrost ; it
was formerly used for dyeing the hair yellow.

One of the dalesmen, a yeoman of repute and some standing,
was a minute philosopher, and enjoyed the friendship of Mr.
Wordsworth. Like Gilbert White, he was in the habit of setting
down what he saw going on about him, and all his observations
are of the most interesting description. He was essentially an out-
door observer, and as he took his facts at first hand from nature
there was always a fascinating freshness about them. One of his
more ambitious essays at writing was a sketch entitled The Fisher-
man : a Character^ a production at once quaint and accurate.
After describing the varied charms of the valley, its sweet stream ,
and the way in which he used to ensnare its crimson-spotted, golden-

From a Country Parsonage. 6i

sided trout, and adding that he must not be tempted to dwell on
these reminiscences, he goes on to say : " Our present object is an
attempt to describe a somewhat singular character whom we met
with lately on a morning walk along the road that skirts the aforesaid
stream. We had stayed our steps as usual to contemplate, with ever
new delight, the features of the valley, when we observed moving
down the stream, from just opposite to where we stood, a certain
individual who, though not strictly an angler, may be denominated a
fisher of the first magnitude. We had not seen him till he moved,
but he had seen us, and shifted his position about a hundred yards
down the brook, by the side of which he again planted himself. We
have known him long, but not intimately, for he is of shy habits and
very chary of all familiar intercourse. We could not but admire his
handsome, tall figure, as he stood on the bank of the stream, looking
into it * as if he had been conning a book.' He was arrayed in his
constant garb — a durable sort of dress, the colour of dingy white,
or rather approaching to a pale blue. The cut or fashion of this
costume he never changes, nor does he often renew it — not oftener,
we believe, than once a year, when he gets a new suit.

"Your angler is somewhat of an enthusiast, and pursues his gentle
craft with an absorbing interest ; but then it is only as a pastime and
at suitable seasons, when the weather is favourable, when the spring
rains have raised the brooks, and dyed their waters with the precious
ale colour, and the wind breathes from the mild south ; and yet, after
all, alas ! how often does he return with an empty pannier ! How
different with our hero. His sport depends not on the fickle
seasons ; at least he pursues it in all weathers — in the bright sun-
shine or when the face of heaven is overhung with clouds, in the
hot days of summer or when the wind blows from the biting North
and the ponds and streams are bound over with plates of ice, he is
still at his work fishing, evermore fishing. Indeed, it must be con-
fessed his very living depends upon it How often have we pitied
him in winter, in a severe winter. It is hard to live upon nothing
but fish, and, moreover, to have to catch them before you can dine.
It is hard, indeed, to be confined to one dish, and to have no other
resource, for if that fail, where are you? It is like that Irishman
with his potato — when that rots there is famine. But it has been
hinted that our friend is not entirely confined to fish, and that he
can occasionally eke out his scanty repast with frogs. We shall not
deny it. It is probable enough. It is consoling to have such a
resource. In this he but resembles the Frenchman.

** We have said that the angler is an enthusiast, much carried away

62 The Gentleman s Magazine.

by his imagination. We have known two or three of this gentle
tribe, buoyed up with the hope of sport, set off from our part of the
country, walk all the way to Bracken Bridge to try the waters of the
silvery Greenwash, and return the same night, after fishing all day,
a distance of forty miles, but perhaps not much encumbered by
heavy panniers. But if the disciple of Walton is patient and per-
severing, and takes long rambles in pursuit of his pleasures, we think
he is exceeded in every respect by the subject of our description.
We believe there is not a tarn or lake, still water with sedgy shore
or running brook with sandy bottom, or even dyke or ditch within a
radius of ten miles from his home, that is not well known to him,
and in which he has not pursued his solitary sport.

" We have been somewhat puzzled whether to class him as gentle-
man or poacher — for he partakes of the character of both — a kind
of hybrid betwixt the two, neither selling his game nor, after serving
his own needs, disposing of it in any other way, except feeding
his children when he happens to have any, and then only while they
are of tender age, for they are soon turned out of the parental
shelter, and compelled to seek their own living in the world at large,
like himself, by fishing. So has it been with his progenitors, so will
it be with his posterity till the end of time. As in the East with the
Hindoos, and, in a degree, with other wanderers like himself, as
gipsies and potters, his family seem not to have got beyond the
system of castes, which, it must be allowed, shows but a low degree
of civilisation. But still, as he sells not his fish, or stoops to any
kind of vulgar labour, so far we must rank him as a gentleman. On
the other hand, however, as he cannot be called the owner of a single
rood of land or water, and yet presumes to sport wherever it suits
him, on the property of gentle or simple, yeoman or squire, without
condescending to ask leave of any man, we fear, therefore, as far as
this goes, we must consider him a poacher. Moreover, like too
many of that lawless profession, he is wretchedly poor, and, laying
nothing up for a wet day, he must be often, as we hinted before,
sorely beset with his wants. There is something in his looks that
makes this too probable — the same lank, meagre figure he always
was. Let the season be ever so genial, fish ever so plentiful, it makes
no difference in his personal appearance ; he is as thin and spare as
ever, with scarcely an ounce of flesh on his bones. He is emphatic-
ally one of Pharaoh's lean kine — seems far gone in consumption,
almost like the figure of death in the old pictures. It was this thin
and haggard appearance that led a fanciful French naturalist to
describe him as the very type of misery and famine. We suspect,

From a Country Parsonage. 63

however, that Mons. Buffon was a little out here, and that our hero
has more pleasure in life than he was aware of. His patience and
persevering efforts must procure him many a savoury meal, and
though they do not fatten his ribs, they at least keep him in good
working, or rather sporting, order. We trust he will long remain so,
and continue to enliven our valley with his presence. Poacher
though he be we respect him for his love of freedom and inde-
pendence, of nature and of fishing. We are certain, however fortune
may frown upon him, to whatever straits he may be reduced for a
living, that rather than seek shelter in a union workhouse he would
die of famine.

" We have said nothing of his method of fishing. How various
are the arts by which cunning man contrives to circumvent the finny
tribe. With all deference to honest Izaak it must be allowed that
the whole art of angling is based upon deceit and imposture.
Therefore our sportsman rejects it, we suppose, on that account.
And then as to the use of nets, it has doubtless been copied from
the villainous spider, who weaves a web from his own bowels, and
hangs it before the door of his lair, in which he lurks, ready to
pounce upon the unwary victim entangled in its meshes. He will
have none of this. Nor does he adopt the more simple and straight-
forward scheme of the schoolboy and otter, by dragging his speckled
prey from under the banks and braes of the populous brooks. No ;
he has a method of his own. Armed with a single spear-shaped
weapon of about six inches in length, woe to the unhappy trout or
eel that comes within its range. It is transfixed with the speed of
lightmng.

" There is no history of an individual from which a moral lesson
may not be drawn. Why not then from the character of our hero ?
In a poem of Wordsworth's a fit of despondency is said to have been
removed by the patient and cheerful bearing of an old man whom
the poet met with on the lonely moors gathering leeches. We have
sometimes amused ourselves in running a parallel betwixt the
character we have attempted to describe and the brave old Scotch-
man of the poet There is no slight resemblance. Both silent and
solitary in their habits ; both models of patience and perseverance
and of contentment with the calling allotted to them by Heaven ;
both wanderers, both haunters of ponds and moors, * From pond to
pond he roamed, from moor to moor.' Yes, and on much the
same errand, too ; for we believe our hero could gather leeches upon
occasion ; indeed, we durst back him for a trifle (were we in the
habit of laying wagers) against the old man, both for quickness and

64 The Gentleman s Magazine.

tact in that employment We have, however, no wish that the poet
had substituted our hero for his in that noble poem, for we would
not alter a line or word of it. We only beg that our fisher may be
placed side by side as a teacher of * resolution and independence *
with that immortal leech gatherer. Our paper has reached a greater
length than we had intended, and yet we have only touched on the
character of an individual. Perhaps we may be pardoned a few
words more on the tribe to which he belongs. Like that of the
gipsies and other nomadic races its origin is involved in much
obscurity. The probability is that it came from the East, but of its
first introduction into Europe we believe history is silent, and the
most learned are at a loss on so mysterious a subject. We think,
however, it is pretty certain that this wandering tribe had spread
widely, were perhaps more numerous than at present, before the
barbarians from the North had. overrun the Roman Empire.

" Nay, if we might hazard a conjecture, they are so ancient that
they date even from beyond the Pyramids. Not, however, to
indulge in disquisition, but to confine ourselves strictly to the
historic period, we find abundant evidence that they were firmly
established in our island during the middle ages, and held in much
higher respect than they are at present. Not only were they often
present with the baron in his field sports — especially that of hawking
— but not seldom in the ancient pastime played a very active part.
A still stronger proof of the regard in which they were then held
was that when the lonely baron entertained his numerous followers
on grand feast days, the dinner would have been thought very
incomplete had they not been present, and then not at the lower
end of the long table among the poor retainers, but at the upper
part with the most honoured guests. Like the Jews, the people we
speak of live in little knots and communities, but not, like them,
confined to some dirty quarter of a city, where they can practise
their money-making arts. On the contrary, our purer race avoid all
towns — nay, like the Arab of the desert, they view them with
unmingled fear and horror. Never is there one seen there, unless it
be some poor captive, pining away his life for want of fresh air and
freedom."

It need hardly be added that this quaint sketch refers to the
heron.

A COUNTRY PARSON.

65

" THE INCIDENTr

ON August T7, 1641, Charles the First took his seat in the
Scottish Parliament, upon which occasion he was welcomed
in effusive speeches by the Earl of Arg}'ll, as the mouthpiece of the
nobles, and by Lord Burleigh as Praeses, or President, of the Barons
(lairds) and burgesses. His Majesty showed an undignified eager-
ness to touch with his sceptre — the Scottish equivalent for the
Norman formula Le Roy U veult — the thirty-nine Acts he had
previously refused to recognise, and was with some difficulty dis-
suaded from acting with such inconsiderate hastiness. Differences
arose from the very beginning. No usher having been appointed,
the function was summarily usurped by a member, whom the King
instantly committed to custody for his presumption. The royal
interference was resented, and, on Argyll's motion, it was agreed that
if any dispute on matter of debate sprang up, the question should be
referred to a committee of six representatives, two from each Estate.
Accordingly, at the afternoon sitting, Argyll informed Charles that
**it was hardlie taken that Langtoun, a member of their House,
should be committed without advyce of Parliament," in whose name
he invited his Majesty to declare for himself and his successors that
nothing of the kind should again occur. Lord Burleigh, a devoted
adherent of Argyll, " tho' otherwise no great plotter," was obliged,
by reason of his increasing infirmities, to resign the office of Praeses,
and was succeeded by Lord Balmerino, who had already forgotten
that he was indebted for his life to the misplaced leniency of his
sovereign. A tough contest raged for a brief space with regard to
the appointment of State, Council, and Session officers, which the
King claimed as his prerogative, but finally yielded the point in
deference to the alleged use and wont of the Scottish Parliament.
Charles, indeed, was always worsted. " His Majesty's businesses,"
wrote Endymion Porter to Secretary Nicholas, " run in their wonted
channel — subtle designs of gaining the popular opinion, and weak
executions for the upholding of monarchy." Nevertheless, Charles
assured Queen Henrietta that Argyll had proffered his faithful

vol.. CCLXXI. NO. 1927. F

66 The Gentleman s Magazine.

service, and that Leslie had driven about Edinburgh with him, amid
the applause of the people. But his eyes gradually opened to a
truer perception of his isolation when the troops, upon whose aid he
had counted, were sent to their homes, and when the Barons claimed
permission to vote by ballot — "whereby no man's voice might be
known " — and agreed that no one should be eligible for office who
had taken the King's part in the late war. Then, indeed, he became
subject to almost constant depression. " What will be the event of
these things," Sir Patrick Wemyss remarked in a letter to the Earl of
Ormond, " God knows ; for there was never a king so much insulted
over. It would pity any man's heart to see how he looks ; for he is
never at quiet among them, and glad he is when he sees any man
that he thinks loves him. Yet he is seeming merry at meals."
Worse, however, was in store for the unhappy monarch than he
could have foreseen or imagined, and the blow was all the more
painful because it was struck by a friend in whom he had always
reposed perfect confidence, and who had taken excellent precautions
to insure his own immunity from charges of disloyalty and double-
dealing. This characteristic love of self-preservation was exemplified
in this wise.

One day, says Principal Baillie, Lord Ker, in a drunken mood,
declared Hamilton to be a " juglar with the King, and a traitor both
to him and his countrie " ; and sent the Marquis a cartel by the hands
of the Earl of Crawford, who had also been drinking, not wisely, but
too well. The missive was delivered in the King's presence, but the
Marquis, observing the condition of Ker's messenger, civilly asked
him to come for an answer on the morrow. The affair, however,
soon became public property, and was taken up by Parliament, which
was greatly scandalised that a man of Hamilton's quality should be
" abused at his Majestie's elbow by drunken fooles." The Marquis
thereupon, on his knees, entreated Charles to pardon Lord Ker's
indiscretion for the sake of his estimable father, the Duke of Rox-
borough, and further besought him to overlook Lord Crawford's
misconduct, as he was in some measure bound to deliver his com-
rade's message. At the same time he begged both the King and the
Parliament to do him justice, and clear his character of all imputation
of disloyalty. Lord Ker was forthwith compelled to crave his pardon
in presence of the King and Parliament, which was done very reluc-
tantly, for he had approached the House with a following of six
hundred armed friends and retainers. Charles, still attached to his
self-seeking servant and very equivocal representative, then expressed
his belief " that the Marquis had carried himself as a faithful subject

" The Incident r 67

and servant in all his employments during these troubles, and as one
that designed the good and happiness of his country." His Majesty
farther assented to a formal Act of Parliament, dated September 30,
1641, the tenour of which is thus worded by Bishop Burnet :

Whereas there have been certain scandalous words spoken of the Marquis of
Hamilton tending to the prejudice of his honour and fidelity to his Majesty and
his country, which are acknowledged by Henry Lord Ker, speaker thereof, in
presence of his Majesty and the Estates of Parliament, to have been rash and
groundless, for the speaking whereof he is heartily sorry ; and since his Majesty
and the Estates of Parliament know it to be so, Therefore his Majesty and the
Estates foresaid declare the said Marquis of Hamilton to be free thereof, and
esteem him to be a loyal subject to his Majesty and faithful patriot to his country ;
and the said Estates remit the further censure of the said Lord Ker to the
King's Majesty.

The explanation of the zealous interest in Hamilton's exculpation
manifested by the Scottish Parliament, which had not been particu-
larly well disposed to him as High Commissioner, is to be found in
the intimate relations with Argyll, established by the Marquis, with
the King's privity and approval. At the same time it is quite
evident that Charles felt much hurt by Hamilton's marked deference
to Argyll and the Covenanters, by which alone he escaped being
" pursued " as an incendiary. Montrose had more than once warned
the King against Hamilton's duplicity, being of course ignorant of
the singular understanding that existed between the latter and his
royal master. In consequence of his close imprisonment in the
Castle and the jealous vigilance of his enemies, it was impossible
for Montrose to hold any communications with Charles except
through the agency of the faithless William Murray, whose treach-
ery he had not yet learned to suspect, though shortly afterwards
convinced that it was through him the Covenanters had become
acquainted with his letters to the King from Newcastie. Clarendon,
indeed, represents Montrose to have had direct intercourse with his
Majesty, and to have offered to make away with both Hamilton
and Argyll — a proposition quite in harmony with the manners of the
times, though, we are assured, it was sternly rejected by Charles,
who desired his tempter to furnish him with proofs of their guilt such
as could be submitted to Parliament. No interview, however, of the
kind could have taken place. It was William Murray who was the
go-between of the King and his imprisoned well-wisher, and it is not
disputed that he canied three letters from the Castle to Holyrood.
On the very morning of October 11 which, as alleged, was to
have witnessed the abduction or assassination of Hamilton and
Argyll, William Murray visited Montrose in his prison, and was

F 2

68 The Gentleman s Magazine.

charged by him to deliver a letter to the King, in which he expressed
his earnest desire to convince his Majesty of the machinations of his
enemies. As will be seen hereafter, the language he employed was
too vague and too general to command immediate attention.

We learn from Principal Baillie that, after the subsidence of the
Ker and Hamilton scandal, " sundrie wyse men even then did begin
to smell some worse thing ; bot at once there brake out ane noyse of
one of the most wicked and horrible plotts that has been heard of,
that putt us all out for some dayes in a mightie fear." Commissary-
Clerk Spalding is hardly less sensational. " Much about the 13th
of October," he writes, " there fell out a great stir at Edinburgh (the
King and Parliament peaceably sitting) anent an alledged plot devised
by the Earl of Crawford, Lieutenant-Crowner (Colonel) Steuart,
Crowner (Colonel) Cochran, and some others, for taking or killing the
Marquis of Hamilton, the Earl of Argile, and the Earl of Lanark,
brother of the Marquis, as the chief instruments of all their troubles."
For the picturesque summary of the rumour that got abroad, and
which was unhesitatingly accepted by the Covenanting public, we
cannot do better than refer to the gossiping Principal of the Glasgow
University. This is his report of the current version of the affair :

It was noised everie where that, upon Captain Walter Stewart's relation,
Hamilton, Argile, and Lanerick, onlie for companie, should have been called for
out of their bed that same night it. was revealt, by Almont, as it were to the
King's bedchamber ; when they should have come they were to have been
arrested as traitors, and to have been delyvered to the Earle of Crauford, waiting
on with armed sojours at the foot of the back stairs in the garden, by them to be
cast in a close coatch, and carried to the shore ; for there ^-as a boat attending for
their convoy to one of the King's shipps which for some weekes had been in the
Road for no other purpose known, but should have been the prison out of the
which they were to be brought before the Parliament to answer challenges of the
highest treason ; bot, if in their arresting they should have made any resistance,
Crauford and his sojours were readie to have stabbed them. Cochrane was said
to have given assureance for bringing his regiment from Musselburgh to command
the causey of Edinburgh ; and that night, with the assistance of manie friends in
the toune, to have made fast, or killed, if need had been, so manie of the
Parliament men as were suspected might have been headie for the prisoners*
relief. Wayes were made to delyver the castell to Montrose and his fellow
prisoners. The Kerrs, Humes, Johnstouns, and the most of the borderers were
said to be in readiness and warning to march towards Edinburgh ; the sojours of
Berwick also, who yet were not disbanded. These horrible designes breaking
out, all the cilie was in a flought. Hamilton, Argile, Lanerick took a short good
night with the King and fled to Kenneill. The citizens keeped a strong guard
that night. Manie of the weel affected noblemen caused watch their houses.

Such was the popular way of looking at " The Incident," as the
affair came to be called by common consent. In the Hardwicke

** The Incident'' 69

collection of " Miscellaneous State Papers " is printed a brief memoir,
signed by the Earl of Lanerick, or Lanark, without any address, but
purporting to be written to a friend whose good opinion was highly
valued. It is dated " Kenneel, this 22nd day of October, 1641."
As Lord Lanark was a comparatively respectable, colourless, un-
imaginative individual, it may be fairly assumed that his narrative is
truthful so far as his personal knowledge was concerned. His life
was too insignificant to have been in any sort of danger, but the
use of his name imparted a more natural and substantial aspect
to the pretended plot. Collusion might possibly have been suspected
had Hamilton and Argyll alone seemed to have been threatened ;
while the addition of the harmless Secretary of State gave greater
breadth to the scheme, and excused the vulgar belief that a great
blow had been meditated against the friends of the Covenant.
Lanark's statement may be briefly epitomised. He begins by saying
that he fancied the King distrusted him until he took an opportunity
of assuring his Majesty that he had no more loyal subject than him-
self, who would aid in bringing even his own brother to justice if he
deemed him unfaithful. Charles replied that he believed Lanark to
be " an honest man," but thought that his brother " had been very
active in his own preservation." Subsequently to that interview,
Lanark watched his brother very closely, but became only the more
convinced of his fidelity. The King, however, did suspect himself,
though wrongfully, and that feeling was intensified by the untoward
event which had just come to pass. General Leslie one day sent a
messenger to Parliament House to bid Hamilton, Argyll, and himself
come to him privily. On their arrival they found awaiting them
a Colonel Hurrie, or Urry, who told them that there was a plot on
foot to cut their throats that very night, and gave as his authority
Captain Stewart, who had been asked to join the conspirators; the three
noblemen, he explained, were to be called into the King's " withdraw-
ing chamber," as though his Majesty desired to speak with them
about some Parliamentary business. As soon as they were within
the apartment, two lords would have entered from the garden stairs
at the head of 200 to 300 armed men, who, in case of resistance,
would have made short work of them, but otherwise would have
carried them on board a King's ship then lying in the Roads, As
there was only one witness to attest this tale, Hamilton, fearing a
charge of " leasing- making," could only inform Charles that a plot
had been formed against him and his friends, " the particulars whereof
he could not then condescend upon, because he could not sufficiently
prove it" Later in the day, however, Captain Stewart confirmed

TO The Gentleman s Magazine.

Coloners Urry's statement, and shortly afterwards Lieut. -Colonel
Hume and some others deposed that they had been ordered to hold
themselves in readiness for a great design that was to be accomplished
that night, for taking part in which they would be duly rewarded. As
the appointed hour was then nigh at hand, Hamilton and Argyll
withdrew from the Court after sending for Lanark, who very
reluctantly tore himself away from the pleasant society he was at
that moment enjoying. Impressed with a belief in all that they
had heard, the three consulted their safety for that night, and on
the following morning they wrote to the King to explain their
absence on the previous evening. His Majesty was sorely displeased
with these letters, and on going to Parliament House, allowed some
500 avowed opponents of the Covenant to follow and surround his
coach. With a view to prevent a tumult in the streets, Hamilton
and the others, escorted by a small party of friends, quietly rode out
of town, but took care, before they did so, to entreat the Lord
Chancellor to assure his Majesty of their unshaken loyalty and
attachment. Lord Lanark concludes with the remark, that on hearing
that the King had spoken of him to his disadvantage, he had imme
diately written to his Majesty affirming his fidelity, and protesting
his readiness to punish his brother with his own hands, if he had done
anything amiss. The King, however, had vouchsafed no answer.

According to Bishop Guthry, the King and many others were of
opinion that the pretended plot was devised in the expectation of
suddenly terminating the parliamentary session, and of bringing
about a rupture between his Majesty and the majority that followed
Argyll, though one does not see very clearly the object of such a
measure. To avert this issue, Charles hastened to Parliament House
with a strong escort of devoted Royalists, who are accused of having
conducted themselves in a riotous and unseemly manner within the
precincts of that august assembly. The King's party, inflamed by zea
and indignation, demanded that Hamilton and his companions
should be proclaimed traitors, and the King himself, as will be
presently shown, dwelt with bitterness and sorrow upon Hamilton's
ingratitude to himself. In the first instance the seemingly affrighted
noblemen proceeded no further than to Lady Anne Cunningham's
country seat, about twelve miles distant from the capital, and a few
miles from Linlithgow. Some days later they removed to Hamilton,
and ultimately to Glasgow. In the meantime great excitement
prevailed in Edinburgh. General Leslie was appointed Captain of
the Guards and of the Castle, and Governor of the town. The
King himself, says Spalding, was much astonished, "and imme-

" The Incident'' 71

diately hung a sword about his craig, which he never did before."
The commissioners, or " spies," of the English Parliament lost no
time in reporting this commotion, so as to make it appear in the
worst possible colours. Pym straightway affected to believe
that a Popish plot had been devised by Lord Crawford and other
Papists against the religion and liberties of both countries. The
Parliamentary leaders thereupon applied to the Earl of Essex for
additional guards to secure the independence of their debates, and
in compliance with their request a hundred men of the Westminster
Trained Bands were stationed round the House. The Scots, how-
ever, simply suspected Montrose and his fellow " Plotters " confined
in the Castle, and had no fear of their Popish enemies.

A singularly quaint and racy description of what passed in
Parliament in connection with this curious business is furnished by
Sir James Balfour, Lord Lyon King-at-arms, which may be sum-
marised without entire loss of its original piquancy and flavour. On
October 12, the narrative begins, the King informed the Lords that
he had a very strange story to tell them. While walking in the
garden on the previous day, he was joined by the Marquis of Hamil-
ton, who, after presenting some trivial petition, began " in a philo
sophicall and parabolicall way " to show how his enemies had been
uttering against him malicious calumnies, "to misinforme and exasperat
my wyffe (Queen Henrietta) against him, wich werry muche greived
him." He went on to say that he could not believe his Majesty
was accessory to such base plots, and so begged leave to retire from
the Court that night. The King then took out of his pocket a letter
which he had that morning received from Hamilton, gratefully
acknowledging his Majesty s manifold favours to himself, and pro
testing his own loyalty and devotedness even unto death. This letter
having been read aloud by the Clerk of the House, the King, " with
teares in his eyies, and (as it seimed) in a verey grate greiffe " ex-
pressed his surprise at such a letter, and declared that had he believed
the reports made by persons about him, whom he respected and
trusted in the highest degree, he would have " layed him faste " long
ago, but he had always slighted such rumours and had taken his part
through everything.

The depositions of Captain Stewart, Lieut. -Colonel Urry, and
Lieut-Colonel Hume having been noted down, the King demanded
that Hamilton should be forbidden to enter the House until the
matter had been thoroughly sifted and full justice had been done to
himself. The Duke of Roxborough went down on his knees and
declared that he knew nothing of the matter, and Lord Amond, whose

72 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

name had been dragged into the imaginary plot, asserted that he had
no hand or part in anything so base. Nevertheless, continues Sir
James Balfour, his Majesty "still exaggerats my Lord Hamilton going
after that maner from hes Courte" ; and, alluding to the confidence
he had reposed in the Marquis, when calumniated by Lord Ochiltree
and others, he said he thought he could not have found " a surer
sanctuary " than the King's bedchamber. But since he had made
" suche a noisse and bussines " it must be for one of two reasons —
" ather feare wich he thought could not be inherent to maney Scotts,
muche lesse to him, ore ells a grate distruste of him." The Lord
Chancellor desired that the affair should be conducted in a strictly
Parliamentary manner, and that the persons implicated should be
arrested, kept apart, and brought to a public trial. To that reason-
able proposition Lord Lindsay demurred on the ground that it would
be unprecedented, which drew from Charles an extraordinary expo-
sition of his views as to the power and duty of Parliament, which,
he averred, was not " tayed to the rigor of former lawes, bot to make
lawes and not to follow them bot in such casses as they pleassed."
For himself he should feel that he was wronged if the House
appointed a committee, as he was aware that there were many indi-
viduals who were trying to make mischief between himself and his
subjects. The House then rose, after committing Crawford, Stewart,
and Cochrane to the custody of certain " bailzies," or baillies.

On the following day the King expressed himself as much pained
that " Hamiltone should haue so scurweley wssed him after that
maner. Now he hard he wes gone and had debosht the other two
with him. As for his brother Lanreicke, he wes a werey good young
man, and he knew naething of him. As for Argyle he woundered
quhat should move him to goe away ; he knew not quhat to say of
him ; and he wes in a verey grate doubte wether or not he
should tell quhat he knew of Hamiltone, bot nou he wold not."
In this feeble maundering style Charles whined and babbled
throughout that untoward business, scuffling with Parliament but
never daring to strike home. It is true that, with the exception
of the Duke of Lennox, he had not a single staunch and avowed
supporter in any one of the Three Estates. He was buffeted to and
fro by angry winds and waves, and found nowhere a sure resting-
place for the sole of his foot. His own Advocate, Sir Thomas Hope,
had the effrontery to exhort him to remove from his person and
court those who had been cited to appear before Parliament as
common incendiaries and stirrers-up of tumults, simply because they
were reputed to be well-disposed to the King rather than to the

** The Incident^ 73

Covenant. To this impudent suggestion Charles replied that it would
not conduce to peace " to put publick affronts opone men of quality ;
and it was better to quensche a flame with watter than ade oyle
therto." A desultory conversation ensued, in the midst of which
the House was informed that the Earl of Carnwaith had said to
William Dick " yesternight," that now we had three kings and " by

G two of them behoued to want the head." This statement was

confirmed by William Dick, who added that the Earl spoke "with
grate execrations of Hamiltone and Argyle." A committee, consist-
ing of three members of each Estate, was then appointed to inquire
into this absurd affair.

At the sitting of October 14, Charles condescended to explain
how it was, as Lieut. -Colonel Home had truly deposed, that
Cochrane was brought to his bedchamber by William Murray.
Cochrane, he said, had been strongly recommended to him by his
sister, the deposed Queen of Bohemia, and therefore he had consented
to receive him. On being introduced, Cochrane stated that, if assured
of secrecy, he could reveal some matters of great importance, but, as
a fact, he did little more than sing his own praises. For his own
part, he would rather say no more unless the House pressed him to
do so, and Cochrane gave his consent. He must, however, call upon
the Lord Chancellor to find a way to clear his honour, lest he should
be " esteeimed a searcher out of holies in men's coattes." On this
string his Majesty harped for some time, though to quite unsympa-
thetic ears.

The wrangle as to whether a public or a semi-private examination
should be instituted occupied the House also on October 15, and
in the end Charles lost his self-control, and, with a great oath,
asseverated that Hamilton, the night before he went away, told him
he was basely " sclandered." Why, then, did the House deny him
his just and reasonable request ? If they refused him this, what
would they grant him ? At that moment the House was informed
that Lord Crawford and Colonel Cochrane craved to be heard in
their own defence, but the King insisted that no answer should be
returned to them until he had received one, otherwise he would
proclaim to all the world that Parliament had refused him justice.
On the next day the King appealed to the barons (lairds) and bur-
gesses, whereupon Sir Thomas Hope, son of the King's Advocate,
moved that the absent lords be invited to return, as they had quitted
the town solely to prevent rioting. Charles rejoined that he would
take no part in their recall. If Parliament agreed to a public trial,
their friends could send for them, but personally he would have

74 The Gentleman s Magazine.

nothing to do with it. After a few words from Lord Lindsay and the
Duke of Lennox, his Majesty querulously repeated his complaint of
the treatment he was experiencing. " If these were the fruits of theu:
Covenant, he called the Lord to judge it.'* The King's Advocate
then " opined " that if the absent lords petitioned to be heard before
Parliament, they would be entitled to an answer, Yea or Nay.

The 17th falling on a Sunday may perchance have afforded
some rest and relief to the sorely harassed monarch, while, on the
i8th, each Estate sat apart ; but on the day after that, Lord Chan-
cellor Loudon stated that on his knees he had craved his Majesty's
permission to visit the absent lords, whom he had consequently seen,
and was empowered by them to attest their loyalty and devotedness.
The King insisted that the incident must, for all that, be thoroughly
cleared up. At length, disgusted and worn out by the hopeless struggle
against bitter enemies and lukewarm unfriends, Charles consented on
the 2ist to the appointment of a committee of four members from
each Estate, seven of whom should constitute a quorum, provided
that each Estate was represented by at least two members.

On October 22, Hamilton wrote to Charles from Keneill to the
effect that words failed him to express his sorrow " for the clowd of
your Majestie's displeasure which now hangs over me, occasioned by
misfortune and the subtility of my enymies, noe designe of myne in
doeing that which might prejudge your Majestie's service in the least
degree." He then proceeded to explain that it was past ten o'clock
at night before he was in possession of trustworthy information, and a*-
that hour he could not venture to disturb his Majesty. On the morrow
the Earl of Argyll instructed Mr. Maule to acquaint the King with
full particulars of what had come to their knowledge, but they had no
intention of leaving Edinburgh until they heard that the King
was about to set out for Parliament House, attended by the cited
lords and their followers. As many of their friends had gathered round
them, they feared that a tumult might arise, to avoid which they rode
out of town. Could he, however, have foreseen that the King would
misjudge him, or imagine that he personally could entertain the
slightest distrust of his Majesty, he would rather have laid down his
life. This plausible epistle was followed by another on the next day,
in which the Marquis bewailed his misfortune in having caused so
much disturbance of the public business, for which he humbly en-
treated his Majesty's pardon. Still more did he grieve for the " heavy
aspersion " that he could have admitted a thought of the King " being
privie to any such base act." To have believed which would have
been a greater crime in him than in any other person living, seeing

" The Incident^ 75

how long he had enjoyed the happiness of knowing his Majesty, and
the manifold favours he had received'at his hands.

By the 28th of that wearisome month the clouds and thick dark-
ness had begun to disperse, and a little light penetrated through the
gloom. We learn from Sir James Balfour, that on that day " the
grate committee for the lait incident does make their report, and
the depositions taken by them are publickly read in the House."
These depositions on many essential points flatly contradicted one
another. There had evidently been much loose and idle talk among
those "irresponsible chatterers," but no trustworthy eyidence was
obtained of anything that could be construed into a serious plot. Of
the King's privity even to these vague utterances, there was not the
slightest proof. Two days later, Charles remarked that the return of
the absenting lords would give him pleasure, but, for reasons best
known to himself, and which he did not care to communicate to others,
he would not agree to their being recalled by order of Parliament.
Nevertheless, on November i. Parliament voted that Hamilton,
Argyll, and Lanark did well to leave the town in order to avoid tumult,
and instructed the President to write and request them to return.
Montrose and his three fellow "plotters " then demanded their release,
as they had been imprisoned for seven months without being allowed
a public hearing. Parliament, however, refused to consider their appli-
cation, until Montrose should have explained what he really meant
when he wrote to the King, that " he wold particularly acquant his
Majesty with a bussines wich not onlie did conceme his honor in a
heighe degree, but the standing and falling of his croune lykwayes."
It was therefore ordered that he should be examined before The
Incident Committee, who informed the House that Montrose pro-
tested he wrote in a general sense, and had no intention of accusing
anyone — an answer that was reasonably pronounced unsatisfactory.
For all that, on November 16, Parliament "ordained" the libera-
tion of Montrose, his brother-in-law Archibald Lord Napier, and
the lairds of Keir and Blackball, " on caution that from hencefourth
they carry themselves soberly and discreitly, and that they shall
appear before the committee appoynted by the King and Parliament
4th of January next." The Earl of Crawford, and the other military
men implicated in the alleged plot against Hamilton and Argyll, were
unconditionally released " one the humble supplicatione " of those
two noblemen.

According to custom the dissolution of Parliament was preceded
by its " riding " — ^a phrase explained by the following entry for
November 17 in Spalding's History of the Troubles^ dfc, \ "The

76 The Gentleman s Magazine.

King with his Estates rode to Parliament in a goodly manner." The
crown was borne by the Earl of Argyll, in the absence of the Marquis
of Douglas, while the Marquis of Hamilton as "Master of his
Majestie's horsses red iust behind the King." Parliament sat
till eight o'clock in the evening ; and was afterwards entertained by
the King at supper "in royal and merry manner" — "the castle salutes
the King at supper with thirty-two shot of great ordnance." Previous
to the rising of Parliament on that last day, Charles presented to the
Earl of Argyll, with his own hand, a patent creating him Marquis of
Argyll, Earl of Kintyre, and Lord of Lome. This distinction Argyll
received on bended knees, "randring his Majesty humble and
hartly thanks for so great a grace and favour far by (beyond) his
merit and expectation." Lord Amond was at the same time created
Earl of Callendar, while the " crooked little " veteran, General Leslie,
with tears running down his cheeks, not only thanked the King for
making him Earl of Leven, but promised that " he would never more
serve against him ; but that whenever his Majesty would require his
service he should have it, without ever asking what the cause was."
Honours descended in a bounteous shower upon the most troublesome
of the King's opponents, while his friends alone were left out in the
cold without the slightest recognition of their unflinching fidelity.
Thus Charles returned to London "the contented King of a
contented people," at the cost of his own influence and self-respect,
and with the knowledge that the Scots were only awaiting their
opportunity, in conjunction with their English correspondents and
sympathisers, of wringing from his necessities still greater concessions.
As for " The Incident " itself there is much reason to suspect that
it sprang entirely out of the subtle and unscrupulous brain of William
Murray. Up to that date he had been apparently attached to
Montrose, notwithstanding his secret betrayal to the Covenanters of
that nobleman's letters to the King ; but subsequently he became
devoted to the Marquis of Hamilton, so long at least as the latter
maintained his close intimacy with Argyll. In what manner Crawford
and his associates were drawn into the business has never been made
quite clear ; though it may be not unfairly conjectured that Murray
took advantage of their extreme weakness and credulity, and contrived
to make them believe whatever he wished. The proceedings of the
parliamentary committee and the depositions of the oflScers were
transmitted to his Majesty's Privy Council ; and on the 4th November
Secretary Nicholas wrote to Charles that their lordships had caused to
be read in their hearing all the papers connected with the affair, but
had no intention of publishing their contents, beyond making it

" The Incidentr 77

generally known that there was nothing in them that in any sort
reflected upon his Majesty's honour. The papers, he continued, were
left in his hands unsealed, with instructions to allow them to be
inspected by any members of the Privy Council who might desire to
read them, though no copies were to be given to anyone without his
Majesty's special permission. There the matter rests in its original
obscurity. In the words of the late historiographer of Scotland,
nothing resulted save "chaotic contradiction and confusion" from
the parliamentary investigation, which was either "wrecked, or so
steered as to reach no conclusion."

JAMES HUTTON.

78 The Gentleman's Magazine.

LIFE IN THE NORTH SEA.

WHEN the hot summer sun shines upon the city, blistering poor
mortals with its fierce rays, when the dust and din and
steam of town have done their work, our thoughts turn to the sea.
Yea, even in the still country, when spring is past, or the long summer
days have come and gone, a time arrives when we begin to think we
have had enough of gentle life, enough of the

Shady rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals,

and we long for the roar of the breakers.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll I
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain,

we say to ourselves, furbishing up our memories of Byron, and then
perhaps we pack our trunks, take our tickets, and make for the sea-
side. Arrived there, we immediately set up as amateur sailors, rowing
in dainty little boats, taking passage in trim sailing yachts — sometimes
even daring to sit far out on the prow — crossing perhaps to Boulogne
or Dieppe on a creaky old steamer, and, when ashore, generally and
at all times strutting about in loose semi-sailor dress. It is all so
sweet, so pretty, so " awfully jolly," we venture to say, even allowing
a little scope to our language when away from town and freed from
conventionality.

We become roused to a wonderful pitch of enthusiasm, and begin
to think in soberness and faith that no life is like that spent on the
ocean wave.

But perhaps we cannot get away to the bright seaside, and as a
sort of compromise betake ourselves to the Royal Naval Exhibition
at Chelsea, where the smell of the sea is in the imagination if not in
the air, and where perhaps more may be learned of the great ocean,
and those who go down to the sea in ships, than by many months'
sojourn in indolent activity in fashionable watering places. Amidst
a host of attractions in the Exhibition, our attention is specially
riveted by a ship of quaint structure and dimensions, with a great
twenty-feet flag, bearing the words " Mission to Deep-Sea Fisher-

Life in the North Sea. 79

men," and with a smaller burgee flying from her mizzen, inscribed the
Heroine. This ship, we find, has a wonderful history, to be read as
follows :

" The Heroine is a British dandy-rigged ketch, and is a perfect
specimen of the deep-sea fishery trawling boats. She was built at
Yarmouth in 1858, and has been fishing out of that port for over
thirty years. Her long list of voyages was only closed during the past
winter, when she returned home seriously damaged in a gale. Yet
as lately as 1889 she was registered as * first-class Yarmouth,* though
the smacks that are now constructed for fleeting are mostly larger
than this vessel.

" When first built, the Heroine was rigged as a lugger, and was
engaged in the herring fishing, but since 1886 she has only been used
for trawling. Till that time, during the spring and autumn home
herring fishing, she accompanied the drift-net fleets, though in
summer and winter she acted as a trawler. The Heroine appears
always to have had Yarmouth as a centre, and, unlike the Scotch and
Manx boats, did not follow the herrings round the coasts of the
British islands.

" When trawling she carried a crew of six men, though from Hull and
Grimsby only four men and a boy form the crew of a trawler. When
engaged in drift-net fishing, eight or nine men would form her crew.

" She is nominally only 36 tons burden, but looks a larger vessel,
and has a wonderful record of combat with the waves, for in this re-
spect she has proved a veritable heroine. For more than thirty years she
has been tossed about, taking all weathers and surmounting all dis-
asters, and there is probably no gale of memorable severity during
that long period which she has not encountered. For instance,
on December i, 1863, a terrific storm swept a portion of the
North Sea, where she along with other Yarmouth vessels was fishing.
Seventeen Yarmouth boats were lost, and many and many a fisher-
man went down, but morning dawned to find the Heroine riding
safely. She was out again in the March 1883 gale, when hundreds
of fishermen were drowned, and twenty or thirty smacks sank with
all hands. This and many another storm battered the ancient craft

"On October 14, 1890, she was fishing off" Borkum reef, in North
Holland. It was blowing heavily, and the ship was * lying-to ' close
reefed on the starboard tack, when a heavy sea rose up to windward
and broke broadside full over her. It was dark at the time, being
half-past six at night. The mizzen mast was snapped off at the deck,
and sails and all were hurled into the water on the port side, danger-
ously held by the rigging. The crew cleared it away successfully.

8o The Gentleman's Magazine.

only to find that the bulwarks were smashed, the mainsail burst to
shreds, and — ultima spes I — ^the boat stove in. However, they rode
the night out successfully, cleared away the wreckage, rigged the
torn foresail as a trysail against the mast, were picked up in the
morning and towed home by another of the same owner's boats.
The mysterious whisper, * coffin ship ! ' has been heard relative to
the Heroine — but her skipper ought to know, and he describes her
as a good sea-boat This same skipper, who commanded her during
her last voyage, was, oddly enough, cabin boy in her when first she
went to sea ; while, still more oddly, one of her former skippers was
cook or cabin boy. A battered, genuine old tub, a true child of the
ocean, that is the fferoine^

The Heroine is thus a typical North Sea trawler. That is to say,
while there are now many craft in the big North Sea fishing fleets
which far surpass her in size and general provision for comfort, yet
she is a fair sample of what smacks used to be, and what many of
them still are. She forms a link with the past, and still bears the
smell of the sea upon her ; for, almost yesterday, she rode upon the
waves and took her share of punishment from the wind and tempest.

Suppose we take a voyage in her, and imagine that the time is
ten or twelve years ago. We shall then see what a large fleet is like,
and how the days and nights of these North Sea trawlers (of whom
there are now 20,000) are spent. It is a winter's morning, there is
some snow on the ground, and, as Hamlet says, " it is a nipping and
an eager air." We had better be at home in our beds or breakfast-
rooms than seeking for adventure on the water, we perhaps think, as
we squeeze ourselves through the hole in the deck which admits to
the little cabin. This is no easy matter, even to thin-bodied men
like ourselves, and we can picture more than one of our friends
whose girth of flesh could scarcely enter here. It is a thin short
ladder by which we go down, unsteady at the foot, and it requires
a clear head and a steadying arm to support one while feeling his way.
The last step is made by a sort of jerky slide from the rung of the
little ladder over a tiny locker on to the floor, and then we are able
to draw a fresh breath and look around. The first thought is that
here we are shut up in a little cupboard. No spacious state-room
this, or big steerage cabin. By the side of the stairway a fire is
blazing in a rough grate, and a large round pot is upon it, lashed into
position by a strong iron chain. Were it not for this chain the pot
with its boiling contents would soon slip from its resting-place as
the little vessel began to pitch and roll upon the waves, and our
knees would probably be sadly drenched and scalded. The litde

Life in the North Sea. 8i

room is five feet six inches high ; its length is about eight feet, and
there are deal lockers on both its sides. Above the lockers are
certain diminutive cupboards with sliding doors, but these are the
bunks into which big burly men have to squeeze their huge bodies
if they desire a rest in bed {sic !), but which, we mentally vow, will
never tempt us within their dismally small recesses. Should the
Heroine go down, say we, in this wild North Sea, let us at least
perish in a bigger space than those coffin beds. The keen air is very
piercing on deck, and as we clear the river and get away beyond the
Yarmouth Roads, we can hear the whish of the wind in the sails, and
know that the grey waves are already beginning to lash the sides of
the ship. Involuntarily we think of the grim tales of shipwreck
and death on these dangerous roads, and we wish more than ever
that our cruise may be brightened by friendly skies and smooth seas.
" Come up, sir," bawls the cheery voice of the skipper ; " come on
deck ; we are now in the open." " Ay, ay, skipper," we respond,
and then make our way up. The shore is now a mere black line
enveloped in a misty haze, but the clear sky looks down upon this
wintry sea. It is piercingly cold, and we find it necessary to wrap
our warmest clothing around our bodies. Meanwhile the little
Heroine ploughs her way right gallantly, rising and falling gracefully
with the undulating swell. Rising and falling a little bit too much
for us, however, for a strange sickly feeling has seized our inwards,
so that the far-off wonder of the heavens and the measured musicof
the waves begin to have their magic taken out of them. As the
hours wear on the light-hearted cheeriness of our sailor friends
increases ; little snatches of song are sung, pleasant badinage is
heard, but there is little pleasure in our hearts ; so that we are fain
to seek once more the shelter of the grimy litde cabin. If the cold
is keen above, the heat is here stifling, and adds fuel to the flame, scr
far as our sickness is concerned ; but we make the best of it, quietly
huddled in the corners at the farthest angle from the red-hot fire.
The steward — a grizzled old man he, who has seen many a sad day
and wild night on this rough German Ocean — is busy cooking the
dinner. When it is ready, we dimly observe that it consists of a
small boiled leg of mutton and a gigantic sweet suet pudding.
"Jest try one mouthful, sir," pleads honest Mat Taylor. "No,
thank you, steward," say we, loathing the very sight of food. But
the hungry smacksmen eat, and eat with a vengeance. The mutton
soon vanishes, and the quantities of that indigestible suet pudding
that are stowed away are simply illimitable. Brave stomachs ;
braver than our hearts 1 This afternoon is a cheerless one ; the wind
Tou ccLxxi. NO. 1927. Q

82 The Gentleman's Magazine.

is sweeping the dark cold sea ; we can imagine the black clouds
massing in the sky that looks as if it were about to fall on our heads ;
we know that the waves are now lapping and then thrashing the
sides of the ship ; we feel that every minute takes us nearer the
Dogger Bank, whither we are bound ; but, indeed, we can think of
little, nor, of that little — long. So the afternoon drags along, and
tea-time comes. A huge pot is that simmering on the fire ; great
beakers are those that the big fellows hold to their mouths ; but the
tea is not for us. We have a mad inclination to sweep everything to
the floor, and glory in the wreck which we have made. But calmer
thoughts prevail.

And now the night has fallen ; that most solemn of hours, night
to a landsman in a tiny craft in an unknown sea. For to us it is
unknown under these circumstances, however well known it may
be to the seasoned salts who form the crew. Bad as we feel, we
must make a determined effort to go up and have another look
around, ere we make our beds in the comers for the night. We
therefore scramble and squeeze our way up the little staircase, and,
like drunken men, steady ourselves as best we can when on deck.
The sea, oh ! how we have loved it in song and in story ; oh ! how
we hate it now as it churns us on its bosom. Feebly we gaze on
inky skies, an inky sea, and a dancing, uncanny heap of boards
under our feet. But the strong man at the tiller is jolly, and he
treats us to a sacred song with this refrain :

Rocks and storms I'll fear no more,
When on that Eternal shore.
Drop the anchor, furl the sail,
I am safe within the Veil.

As the night gets blacker and the skies denser we descend the
ladder once more. There are the cupboards up there, which the
crew call bunks, but we still prefer our corners on the lockers. It is
a long and weary night through which we pass. We can scarcely be
said to sleep, only to doze wearily, awaking ever and again to a sense
of continued sickness, and disturbed from time to time by the calls
of the men on deck, the roar of the gale in the shrouds, or the
stertorous sounds from the sleepers in the bunks. But with the
morning calm reflection comes, and best reflection of all, the thought
that our sickness has quite passed away. We bounce upon the deck
with renewed vigour, and " a strange sight and a beautiful " meets
our eyes. Yonder is the broad bright sun slowly climbing the
eastern wave ; the clear steely skies are free from a single cloud ;
the sea is smooth and friendly, and a gentle breeze fills the sails.

Life in the North Sea. 83

Half an hour's exercise on deck gives us a vigorous appetite, and we
eat as if we had never eaten before, and indeed we have touched
nothing since yestermorn. Our courage is once more up, and thoughts
of adventure arise again. Everybody seems happy, and the smart
Heroine (she is already old) skims gracefully on her way. Ere night-
fall we shall be with the Short Blue fleet, now fishing in the Great
Silver Pits, and we shall behold that floating village peopled with a
thousand souls which hitherto we have only seen in imagination or
rude pictures. Our sailor friends amuse us, for they can spin any
number of yams, some gruesome enough, and others gay, but all
smelling (if one may so say) of the sea. As the day wears on we
have the company of a flock of sea-fowl, and as we have been careful
to provide guns we forthwith set ourselves to deal out death to the
poor birds. It is not an easy task, however, for it is one thing to
shoot birds on terra firma^ and quite another from the deck of a
rolling North Sea fishing smack. Still we manage to bring down
two, though we are almost sorry for our bloodthirsty work, like him
who shot the albatross :

And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work them woe :

For all averred, I had killed the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

" Ah, wretch ! " said they, ** the bird to slay.

That made the breeze to blow."

When early dinner time comes we are fully prepared to do
justice to the substantial "tack" provided by our good steward.
To-day it is a wonderful decoction known as "broth," with cold
mutton, and a tremendous currant dumpling. These are the times
of the " coper " in the North Sea ; there are only a limited number
of teetotallers as yet in the fleets, and we find that of this crew of
seven, five wash down their capacious meal with a jug of ale drawn
from a little barrel stowed away in a diminutive locker behind the
little stair that leads on deck. All through the afternoon we are
favoured with the same seasonable breeze and pleasant seas, and just
as the earliest approaches of dusk are noticed we sight the fleet.
At first the sails seem like a group of snowflakes on the horizon, but
as we get nearer and nearer the smacks loom bigger and bigger, and
at last we find ourselves set down in the midst of some two hundred
fishing vessels, and at least seventy miles from the nearest strip of
land. Some of the smacks are bigger than ours, and some smaller,
but yonder ones far away, whether smaller or bigger, seem no larger
than a coast fisherman's lugger. Hearty hails greet the Heroine

G 2

84 The Gentleman s Magazine.

from many a quarter — "What cheer, oh's?" and "Welcomes*'
innumerable. Our crew have another fresh leg of mutton in stock,
and three or four cronies are invited to come on board to-morrow
and join in the feast.

And now the evening has fallen — an early, cold, winter's eve, and
the village of floating cabins fades from our view, all save the ship's
lights that twinkle in the gloom that has crept over the sea. Far
away yonder the smack of the " admiral," or leader of the fleet, is
pointed out to us, distinguishable by a special white light that gleams
in the rigging. At sundown the " admiral " had given his flag signal
for " Down trawl," that is, casting the net overboard, and it is now
our turn to shoot our great 40 feet trawl beam, with its gaping net
bag, to secure, if possible, our first catch of fish. The wind is
freshening, and there is every prospect of that "smart breeze" which
the trawler always welcomes as a good and profit-bringing friend.
The heavens are dull and black ; no stars are visible ; only those
faint and lustreless ones that dot the surface of the sea — the lamps
of the two hundred smacks that surround us. It is now time to
" turn in," so the first night-watch goes on deck for his lonely vigil
until eleven or twelve o'clock, when the "admiral" will give his
signal to " Up trawl," by firing a white rocket.

We are sleeping as best we can in our two corners ; one man is
lying on the floor with his feet to the dying fire, and his head on his
rough sea-boots for a pillow ; the others are crouching in the
cupboards up above, most of them in their usual garb — less the sea-
boots — when suddenly a tremendous voice is heard from the deck,
sounding like the trump of doom, " Rouse out there ! rouse out I "
It is the most unwelcome moment perhaps in a trawler's life when
this shout is heard, for the eyes are heavy, the limbs stifl", and the
cold night wind raves above. Yet we all rush on deck — we, the land-
lubbers, as anxious as any to have a share in the first haul. The
net is heaved up by means of a wooden capstan, and we set to work
with all our might to turn this round and round and round again.
Talk about gymnastic exercise ; this is muscular exercise with a
vengeance. For two mortal hours we are at it. Sonre of the other
smacks have an engine to work the capstan, and the gear is got up in
twenty minutes, but our tug of war in the game of competition is an
uneven one, being only muscles versus steam. " Bah ! " cries the
stay-at-home personage who knows everything, from the fate of
empires to the latest bit of scandal, " this is mere child's play to big-
chested brawny men with irony sinews." " Well, my dear sir," we may
rejoin, " try it yourself ; or if you be a weak valetudinarian, send one

Life in the North Sea. 85

of your athletic friends, and perhaps he will be glad to get a respite,
like another athlete now reclining and puffing uneasily on the deck."
But, bless us, these arm-chair folks know everj^hing with scientific
accuracy ! When the trawl is fairly hauled in we are gloriously
rewarded for our midnight toil. There is a grand " take " of haddock,
halibut, whiting, and, best of all, such " prime " fish as sole, plaice,
and turbot. " Better nor some first hauls is this yer, mate," cries
Bill, the fourth hand, to Jim, the third. " Ay, ay, friend," responds
Jim, " better nor that 'un when on'y a wee whitin' cam' up." This
leads to one or two further stories about the heartless days and nights
that smacksmen spend in the course of their arduous handling of the
trawl, wherein the climax is reached by the tale of a former eight
weeks' voyage of the Heroine^ in which only J[^2^o was earned,
representing about ;;^5 or ;£"6 as the share of the entire crew. Pity
the poor wives and children of these hardy fellows in such a case.
Meanwhile the fish have to be cleaned and put away in boxes, and
the trawl is again shot into the water. Then we turn in ; all save the
second night-watch, whose place is on the deck, guiding the ship, and
passing the hours as best he can under the silent companionship of
the heavens. At 5.30 the shout is heard once more, "Rouse out !
rouse out ! " ; and as a second refrain, " All haul ! all haul ! " We
hasten to the capstan and commence our second stiff tug. When
daylight has come the boat is got down, the fish boxes lowered, and
three of the hands row for the steam cutter, which is now in the fleet
awaiting her cargo of fish. Day is well up ere a bit of breakfast can
be served, but when the food is ready all hands fall to with might
and main.

Slowly, but withal pleasantly, the days drag by. Perhaps the two
events that dwell most vividly in our recollection are those of a
visit to the coper, and the fierce gale that smote the fleet with dire
havoc during the early days of the second week of our sojourn on
the Great Silver Pits. The "coper," or floating grog-ship, is, we
find, the smacksmen's chief rendezvous. They are not all drunkards
— far from it — but the fleet, as a whole, is, to say the least, bitten by
the serpent The coper is a Dutchman, carrying a considerable
supply of vile brandies and gins, and certain other merchandise that
had better be nameless. We board her on the fourth day of our
stay, and are received by the master himself, who bellows in our ears,
" Velcome, and velcome, mine very goot friends." " And vat vill
you 'ave," adds he, in dulcet tones as we reach the dimly-lighted
after-cabin. " Just von leetle drop ov Hollands for veelings and
goot vellowships," he continues, producing a botde and pouring out

86 The Gentleman s Magazine.

a tiny drop for his customers, as a whet to appetite. The coper is
fairly thronged both below and above deck, and a brisk trade is
clearly being done. This is the engine of demoralisation in the
fishing fleets, without a doubt. It is a vile drink that is retailed, and
it arouses vile passions. Not only are scant earnings thrown away,
to the impoverishment of faithful wives and loving children far away
in the dark streets at home, but dishonesty is begotten as well, for
there are nets, gear, and fish handed to Mynheer Dutchman which
belong to others, while coarse language is now in the ascendant ,
combined with fierce horseplay and occasional bitter quarrels. Time
forbids to tell of all that we see and hear, and, indeed, the whole
atmosphere is so sickening that we hasten from the demon-ship as
from a tainted thing —

The nightmare, Life-in-death, is she
That thicks men's blood with cold.

As we row back to the Heroine the mate tells us a sad story of
the coper. " It wus Ted Jones," says he, " and 'e 'ad been to the
Louise with two o' *is crew. They spent the afternoon in playin*
cards and thick drinkin', and it wus dark when the Dutchie turned
'em off the ship, and cut the boat's painter. This fair angered Ted,
who was three- parts drunk, and he swore like a trooper. Pete Young,
the second mate on Ted's smack, 'ad the steerin' oar as they put orf,
but Ted 'e would 'ave it. Pete and the rest said *No,' and this made
Ted more v/ild than iver. So 'e got up, made for the stern, seized
the oar, and yelled, * I'll steer her to hell, by God ! ' But jest then
he lost his balance, for 'e wus 'alf mad and more n 'alf drunk, and 'e
sank like a stone in the black water."

This is but one of the many stories which reach our ears of the
sad misery wrought by the " coper," or " devil's ship," as some of the
pious men call her. She is, at this time, the smacksman's one friend,
and a false one she is, luring men to poverty, broken-down health,
loss of character, and, very often, to ruin and death. There is no
need for one to be a teetotaller to see such evils and deplore them.
On the whole we find these hardy fishers a brave, simple-hearted,
fine race of men, but there is wide-spread ignorance in the fleets,
no books, no means of improvement, none to ** allure to brighter
worlds and lead the way," save and except a few godly individuals,
who are hoping and praying for some deliverer to arise, doing their
best — but what are these amongst so many ?

It is not all fair weather and plain sailing during our ten days'
sojourn on the fishing grounds. We get at least one good taste of

Life in the North Sea. 87

the driving tempest and the lashing waves. It is nightfall, and the
wind is evidently freshening for a gale. " Going to blow, skipper ? "
say we, bravely. " Ay ! there's a bit o' wind about, I'm thinkin',"
rejoins he slowly, and peering away to the nor'-east. In another
hour or so it is fairly on us. The howl of the wind and the mad
swelter of the waves make us fancy that a thousand demons are
clamouring for our destruction. Drenching showers of spray keep
falling on the deck, and every now and again a great rush of water
thunders over the little smack, threatening to engulf her and us. It
is too dangerous for landsmen to remain on deck in such a storm as
this, so we must needs keep below, tossed about, as one of us remarks,
" like an egg in boiling water." It is only the lynx eye and dexterous
movements of the smacksman that save his life on such a night as
this ; and very often he cannot save himself, but is swept into the
tumbling sea and is no more seen. The gale continues at its height
till past midnight, when its strength is moderated, though the ship
rolls and pitches uneasily as ever. We venture up, but a look is
enough. " Oh ! oh ! 'tis foul," we exclaim, with poor old Lear
When the morning dawns the fleet is scattered in all directions, and
when we reunite, sad reports reach us of lives lost, limbs broken,
sails carried away, bulwarks smashed, and, saddest of all, we are
told that the Mane has gone down with all hands !

We return to Yarmouth wiser than when we set out, though
pained to think of the stern battle in which these men are engaged ;
of their isolation, friendlessness, and sad social lot.

Ten years roll past, and once more we are in the Heroine^ on
our way to the trawling grounds. This time we are making for
a fleet known as " Durrant's," which is fishing in the North Sea
about seventy miles from Yarmouth. "The winter is past, the
rain is over and gone," and the broad, bright sun is shining in a
sky of unclouded blue. No fear of frozen, fairy rigging to-day ;
there is gladness on the sea, warmth, and peace. Our experience
now is like that of our good holiday -making friends on shore, who
bask in the glory of the summer and rejoice in the friendliness of
the breaking sea, scarce thinking of the grim battle that scores of
men on their far-away ocean homes are waging from time to time
with storm and squall, beyond shelter and beyond succour. But
to-day even we think not of this.

How merrily the days of Thalaba go by I

But it is hours in our case, instead of days, for we are not long in
teaching our destination, and once more sharing in the toils and trials

88 The Gentleman s Magazine.

of the fishermen. But the toils and trials are now lightened by the
presence of what we may safely call a bright messenger in the fleets.
On the last occasion we heard much — too much — of the "devil's
mission ship " : now we are about to hear a great deal of a vessel,
reverently spoken of by the trawlers as " the Lord's mission ship."
There she is — riding gallantly in the centre of the fleet, with all her
trawling gear, for she works with the secular arm as well as the
sacred or the benevolent. Her name is the Euston, and we find
she was the gift of the Duchess of Grafton, a lady who has a heart
for sailors, and a feeling for their cares and sorrows. Her skipper is
a young, intelligent fellow, who knows how to handle his trawl net
as well as the net that catches men.

One of our first duties is to board the Euston, She is a trim
craft, larger than the Heroine^ and larger, too, than most of the other
smacks engaged in this fleet. In the Heroine the crew's cabin is in
the after part of the ship ; here it is in the middle. There is a big
hold for the fish boxes, which may, however, be cleared out and
room made for the men and lads, when they assemble for a religious
service ; there are lockers for the tobacco (of which more anon) ;
there is a large cupboard with a really excellent stock of drugs;
and, in the after part, a plain but most comfortably fitted cabin for
the abode of clergy or laymen who may be out to assist in the
religious work. Tlie Euston has her gear down like the other
smacks, and her crew are no laggards. It is only two days since
she came out for a fresh voyage, and we hear that during her
absence the " coper " made its appearance, for, though scotched by
the presence of the mission ship, the snake is not yet killed. It is a
wonderful change this that has coniie over the fleets since we were in
them ten years ago. The " coper " is virtually banished. The smacks-
man has now a real friend, instead of the insidious false one. '* The
Fishers' friend," as the men sometimes call her, has a cargo of good
things to be had for nothing. There is no temptation here to
spend hard-earned savings or owner's gear in noxious liquor or
nameless articles of merchandise ; no one will leave the Euston
with gnawings of conscience, unless it be sorrow and regret for by-past
days of sin and wasted energies. Even the tobacco which is sold in
the mission smack is charged for at but a mere fraction above cost
price, while the woollen goods, such as helmets, comforters,
steering mittens, and seaboot stockings are retailed at one-sixth of
their real value. The skipper bears the certificate of the St John's
Ambulance Association and the National Health Society, and is
fully qualified to minister to the medical and surgical wants of the

Life in the North Sea. 89

men in any but the most serious cases ; and even when serious and
dangerous cases are met with, the skipper has power, if need be,
to run into port, bearing such cases to the hospital ashore. The
trawler's calling is, as we know very well, an extremely dangerous
one, and his calling, housing, and hard fare, between them, breed
many illnesses, such as troublesome seaboils, poisoned fingers and
arms, which though not usually dangerous, yet urgently require
needful treatment. For these men cannot " lie by " like many stay-
at-home folks. They have bread to earn and stern duties to
perform, for none of these smacks are over-manned, and much
inconvenience is caused when one of the hands is disabled.

Here are some testimonies to the great physical blessing that the
Eustortj and vessels like her, are in the fleets with which they sail —
for they are empowered to receive patients on board, as well as to
dispense medicine to sick visitors. These letters are but samples of
many:

From T. Batty, skipper of smack Rothie May,

I write these few lines with heartfelt thanks for the blessing I have received at
the hands of the skipper of the mission ship and crew. I have been on board
sixteen days, owing to an abscess in the thumb, for which I had to give up work.
If it had not been for the mission ship I should have had to have gone home after
having only been out a fortnight, and it would have been a very serious loss,
as I have a wife and four children dependent upon me. By the aid of the
skipper, I am thankful to say I am able to resume my duty. There are none
but the fishermen out here know the blessing we daily receive both in medical,
and surgical, and spiritual gifls from the mission, and may the blessing of God
still rest on the mission, and prosper it. — From your grateful debtor, T. Baity,

From J. TURRELL, of the smack Brilliant.

June 20. Dear Sir, — I now take the pleasure of thanking you for the kind-
ness and aid I have received from the mission vessel, as my cook was on board of
the Bethel ship four days, and the captain was kind enough to let me have a man
in the place of ours till he was better, and also that I myself have received medi-
cine ; and we thank you kindly for the mission, for I think it is a grand thing that
ever the mission smack came in amongst us. — ^James Turrell, Master.

From C. Garwood, of the smack Sprite.

Sir, — Allow me to thank you on behalf of myself and others for the benefit
of the mission that is doing such good work for the fishermen at this fleet, and
others that are connected with the fishing trade, which cannot be carried on without
some accident of daily occurrence. I myself had a bad hand, and was obliged to
go on board the mission vessel on Thursday, and had to stop till the Tuesday mom-
'ing ; whereas, if it had not have been for such a boon, I should have had to go
home, and that wouldn't have done for me, or yet for any one else, as there i5
such a lot walking about without work at Yarmouth. The hand is now going
on nicely, and I hope in a few days to do my usual work. I write this to let
those on shore know how well we are cared for on the fishing grounds. — E. H»

90 The Gentleman s Magazine.

We hear of rather startling statistics ; of eight or nine thousand
patients treated on the mission ship during one year, for ailments
varying from toothache to pulmonary disease, and from poisoned
fingers or sprained wrists to acute pleurisy and smashed legs. When
we think that in past days there was no doctor or medicines of any
kind at a nearer distance than scores of miles across the wild waste
sea we can vividly realise what acute suffering must have been borne
in those times when there was no mission ship bringing alleviation
to pain and healing to disease. We hear, too, of three first-class
hospital smacks in other fleets — ^with still more ample room for
maimed in-patients — and which carry, all the year round, fully-
trained and skilled medical officers, and we can well understand
the feelings of lively gratitude which fill the minds of the honest
smacksmen when they speak of the great work of the Mission to
Deep-Sea Fishermen amongst them.

The trawler will have his 'bacca. He is nothing without his pipe
and even his " chaw." Superfine people may turn up their noses, if
they will, but this is a fact, and it has to be faced. It is this need of
the men which lent to the coper her abnormal power for ill ; not that
the tobaccos which she vended were necessarily evil (though even
they were vile enough in all conscience), but because the 'bacca was
an irresistible bait, alluring to the poisonous liquids which were too
successfully pressed upon the customers for tobacco. Surely the
checkmating of the coper, which is complete wherever a mission
vessel is present, has conferred a benefit, physically, intellectually,
and morally, upon the North Sea fishers, which bears abundant and
well-recognisable fruit. It is a mistake to suppose, as many do, that
the banishment of the coper has been secured by the adoption of an
International Agreement for the regulation of the coper traffic. In-
deed, I do not think that it has been adopted finally by all the Legis-
latures of the interested Powers ; but, in any case, this is true : with-
draw the mission ship, and the coper very soon returns from her
banishment, vigorous as ever. The coper, driven from her happy
hunting- fields in the North Sea, has now opened an extensive cam-
paign off the Irish shores amongst the native fishermen and those
fleets now forming by Manx and Scotch mackerel fishers, and we
hear of the mission being invited by Her Majesty's Customs to take
immediate steps to checkmate the foreign grogships in these waters.
So that the fisherman's deadly enemy has still to be fought.

There is many and many an hour in the smacksman's life on the
lonely sea which a graphic and cheery book or illustrated paper will
brighten, and nothing strikes us more in the conduct of the sturdy

Life in the North Sea. 91

fellows who board the Euston than their eagerness to obtain a good
bit o' readin*. The mission, we find, is very careful in its oversight
of the literature which is put into circulation with its stamp upon it.
But there is great variety. Here is an " English Grammar,*' a
" Robinson Crusoe " well thumbed ; " Tales of Adventure," by R. M.
Ballantyne ; a volume of " Addresses " by D. L. Moody ; an old
copy of the " Vicar of Wakefield," and, next door to it, so to speak,
a very modern copy of the " Pirate," by Walter Scott. Add to these
a bundle of " Sermons " by C. H. Spurgeon, and a sheaf of
Graphics and Illustrated London News^ and a fair conception is
gained of the sort of reading which is freely supplied to the men.
There b a rich intelligence in the minds of our trawler friends, long
latent it is true, but destined soon to bear worthy fruit ; and what
agency for this purpose can be better than the systematic diffusion of
sound, healthy literature ?

The fisherman is a reader of many books, but there is one which
is his bosom friend. It is the breath of his life if he be a pious man,
and even if he is not, it wields a commanding influence over his mind.
The old Bible we find holds the field in the North Sea. It is to
explain its message and enforce its precepts that the mission mainly
exists. In its articles of association, a business document, drawn
upon the lines of the Companies' Acts, this is very clearly stated
The objects for which the association is established are, "The
visiting by means of smacks and small vessels, which have already
been, and may hereafter be acquired for the purpose, the various
fleets of fishing vessels in the North Sea and elsewhere, with a view
to preaching the Word of God to the crews thereof, and in every pos-
sible way promoting and ministering to their spiritual welfare, and
affording to the crews thereof advice and counsel in the cause of
religion and temperance," &c. The spiritual work of the mission is
thus always kept in the forefront, and is carried on by volunteer
missioners and the mission skipper. Personal influence is brought
to bear ; many " Bible readings " are held ; public religious services
frequently take place, and so the Bible story is told and retold. And
what is the result ? Well, here is the testimony of a London solicitor,
which may be taken as typical :

On Sunday we had service on board the mission ship. It was most encour-
aging to hear one man after another confess that it was the mission God had used
to bring him into the fold.

Many of the skippers told me, however, that the real work of the mission was

to be seen in the altered homes and families of the fishermen. Men who had

once been hard-drinking, hard-swearing men, now go straight home to their wives

% and children, whom the}' find happy and fairly comfortable, instead of being, as

92 The Gentleman s Magazine.

before, in misery and want. I was also told that the owners of the smacks now
did much for the men since the public press had informed the world of the hard-
ships and unnecessary discomforts that the fishermen were called upon to endure.

From all that may be seen and heard in the fleets we gather that
a great change has been in progress. Our old friend the Heroine
touches with one hand, we may so say, a state of past things dark
with sorrow, trouble, and sin, and, with the other, a bright influence
at work in the fleets — an influence helpful and fruitful in its present
scope, and showing tokens of wider and extended usefulness in the
future.

ALEXANDER GORDON.

93

A PAUPER'S BURIAL.

I.

" r^ O fetch the Parson, and throw back the gates.

^^ " The old man died a pauper, so the rates
" Must bury him. I see no men about, —
" And weVe no bearers. Come, your arm is stout !

II.
" And he no weight. 'Tis strange the hate they bear
" To the house yonder : only three weeks there,
" And told them he should die, if once inside : —
" To think that paupers should have all that pride !

III.
" Here comes the Squire : he'll earn a sixpence loo,
" Just for the fun of throwing it to you.
** Yon slouching tramp shall walk his fellow-mate,
** Shoulder to shoulder, through the churchyard gate ! "

IV.

The small, pale g^een is shooting to the sky,
And in and out the church's ivy fly
The building birds, and on the gravestones sing.
Sw eet chance ! an old man buried in the Spring !

V.

And he a pauper : old and weak and sad ;
Yet welcome here. What matter that he had
No black-draped train to follow in the rear ;
Odd passers shouldering the common bier !

VI.

So poor and sad ; forsaken and forgot ;
Not one of all those children he begot
To see him to his parish grave, and tell
He was their father, and they loved him well.

VII.

" What, back already } Well, our turn's to be !
** He says the same for rich and poor, I see.
" The Parson spoke up well : I heard it all,
*^ Resting the horses by the churchyard wall."

Death and a parish grave — these were his rights.
Sleep fast, old man ! On balmy summer nights.
The sweet-lipped flowers, and moonbeams as they pass.
Shall weave thy story on the nameless g^^ass.

GEORGE HOLMES.

94 The GentlematC s Magazine.

ODD ITEMS IN OLD CHURCHES.

THERE are odd items in many of our old churches of which we
are quite unaware ; and there are many others which, though
seen, we pass by with scarcely a glance at them for want of under-
standing their meaning or use.

The penitential cell in the Temple Church is one such. High
up in the thickness of the north wall, looking down, through two
narrow openings, upon the magnificent rotunda, with its mystic
circle of porphyry columns and effigies of cross-legged knights lying
full length on the glistening pavement, and into the long chancel, is
a small stone cell, too short for a man to lie down in at full length,
and too low for him to stand upright in, in which recusants were con-
fined for penance. A narrow stone stair winds up till it arrives at the
small strong low door of access to it, and passes on to the triforium
around the rotunda, now lined with monuments to the memory of
legal worthies formerly on the walls of the church below. Word has
been handed down to us that a Jcnight, Walter le Bachelor by name,
was led up this stair, thrust into this cell, and, with irons on his
limbs, left to die in it of starvation ; when his body was dragged
down the winding stair, and buried in the grounds outside. Perhaps
it is this tradition that gives the stony cell an enchaining and pathetic
interest that brings it back again to the minds of those who have
looked into it, long after the busy traffic of the Strand, close by, has
effaced the memory of the showy Elizabethan splendours of the
Templars' Hall and Parliament room, with their carved oak and
painted glass.

A few years ago about fifty earthenware pots, or vases, were found
built into the internal surfaces of the walls of Leeds Church, in Kent,
so placed that it was impossible to assign any other purpose to them
than that of an intention they should assist, in some way, the trans-
mission of sounds. This discovery drew attention to the subject, and
other examples were pointed out in other edifices. Some that were
observed in St. Nicholas's Church, Ipswich, were noticed to be one-
handled. Others, found at different times in three churches in

Odd Items in Old Churches. 95

Norwich, were without handles, and others with them. Forty found
in the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, and sixteen met with in All
Saints' Church were without handles ; and sixteen found in the
Church of St. Peter Mountergate were one-handled. Other examples
have been met with in different parts of the country in more limited
numbers. Seven have been counted in Fountains Abbey ; and still
smaller numbers in churches at Ashbumham, Chichester, Upton,
Denford, East Harling, Bucklesham, and Luppett. Ten have been
found at Youghal, in Ireland. Archaeologists who took the subject
up ascertained they have been also observed in Denmark and
Sweden in very ancient buildings, and occasionally in France, Russia,
and Switzerland. Their use has been referred back to the old times
of Augustus Caesar, when Vitruvius wrote that the seats of theatres
should be prepared with cavities into which brazen vases should be
placed, arranged with certain harmonic intervals which he gives, by
which means the sounds of voices of performers would be increased
in clearness and harmony ; and remarked that architects had made
use of earthen vessels for this purpose with advantage. On the
continent these jars are sometimes found in the vaults of choirs, or
among the sleeper- walls under the floors, as well as in the walls.

In connection with sounds, it may be mentioned there is a
curious instance of an echo at Tatenhill, Staffordshire. The tower
of the church there has an echo that repeats five times the
syllables uttered at the centrum phonicum, which is about seventy
yards distant. Whispering galleries, too, can scarcely be con-
sidered anything but odd items in- our sacred edifices. Of these,
there are examples in Gloucester Cathedral and St. PauPs.

The twelve small incised crosses, sometimes filled with brass,
which were placed at the dedication of the building, and anointed
by the bishop when it was consecrated, are also curious. In this
country these dedication crosses are found on the exterior of the
buildings, though on the continent they are generally seen on the
interior. They may be seen at Cannington Church in Somersetshire,
as well as at Moorlinch. Salisbury Cathedral has examples, as has,
likewise, Edendon Church in the same county. Brent Pelham
Church, Herts, also possesses these relics. And one of the piers
in New Shoreham Church, Sussex, is enriched in this manner.
These crosses are not to be confused with the five small crosses
often seen incised on altar-slabs, which slabs are occasionally to be
noticed turned to account as paving stones on the floors, as at St.
Mary Magdalen's, Wiggenhall.

There is an item that is equally rarely met with that would be.

96 The Gentleman's Magazine.

probably, a puzzle to most persons who looked at it without a key
of explanation as to its use. This is a tall, long, narrow recess in
the wall, low down towards the ground, near the altar. It is
supposed to be intended for the reception of a processional staff,
too long to be placed with other treasures in the aumbrey, or else-
where. Another square recess has been observed in a few instances,
near the ground, to the east of the piscina, the use of which has not
been handed down. There are at least three churches, too, that
have a peculiar niche or recess, partaking somewhat of the character
of two piscinae, one above the other, the meaning of which has also
passed out of knowledge. These churches are at Southwick in
Sussex, and Burston and Bletchingley, in Surrey.

Sometimes the memory of departed persons has been per-
petuated by the erection of some part of the fabric, or by the gift of
some article of church furniture, instead of by the erection of a
monument. In Little Birmingham a pew is thus constituted a
souvenir. In Willington Church, Sussex, a tie-beam is made to
answer this purpose. A corbel in Reculver Church, Kent, is
inscribed to the memory of one Thomas. Many fonts and screens
are thus memorials, as are also chalices. The pulpit in Wells
Cathedral was put up in the reign of Henry VIII. by Bishop Knight,
"for his tombe." Lord Thomas Dacre, in 1531, left a certain sum
of money for a tomb, which he directed should be used as the
Easter sepulchre. In the preceding century, another testator
desired there should be made for him " a playne tombe of marble

m

of a competent height to the intent that it may bear the Blessed
Body of our Lord, and the sepultur, at the time of Estre."

There are about fifty examples of Easter sepulchres still to be
met with in this country. Sometimes they are only plain oblong
recesses ; in some places they are richly decorated with sculpture ;
and in two instances they consist of two parts, one at right angles to
the other. They are generally placed on the north side of the
chancel, but are also to be seen in other positions. An example in
Kingsland Church, Herefordshire, is on the north side of the nave,
and is entered from the porch. It is rather more than nine feet
long, and rather less than ^we, feet wide ; and on the side adjoining
the church is an arched recess pierced with four openings, through
which ceremonies taking place in it could be seen from the interior
of the nave. It is lighted by unglazed windows on the north and
east sides. Within it lies an oblong mass of masonry, that may be
either a tomb or an altar. Warwickshire has three examples.
There are others in St. Andrew's Church, Clevedon, SL Mary's

Odd Items in Old Churches. 97

Bampton, St Michael's, Stanton Harcourt, and several in the
neighbourhood of Lewes. St. Patrick's Church, Patnngton, in
Yorkshire, has also a particularly fine specimen. They were all
meant to represent the tomb wherein our Lord was laid ; and some
were enriched with presentments of the soldiers and three
Maries ; and in the days of actual dramatic representation of
sacred subjects, the whole scene of the burial and watching at the
tomb was reverently performed at them. We should probably have
had many more remains of them, but for the fact that they were
often made of wood, and removed from Easter to Easter.

Masons' marks have an interest of their own in old churches.
Where there has been some protection from the weather, such as a
bold overhanging cornice, we may sometimes see them on the
external masonry ; but, generally, rains and winds have obliterated
them there, and we have to look for them in the interiors. On
many a stone we may see cut the curious device of the mason who
wrought it from the rough block that was taken from the quarry
into the flat surface it now presents. These devices are of
innumerable variety and combinations of geometrical figures,
crosses, and lines. They are to be noted in many parts of the
world as well as in our churches. In Elsdon Church, which is in a
moss-trooping centre, there are several deep cuts on one of the
pillars of the arcade of the south aisle, which are of a different
character to masons' marks, and considered likely to have been
made by the sharpening of weapons upon them.

This association of ancient churches with the coming and going
of men, perhaps on horseback, recalls the presence of another odd
item, here and there, in the matter of mounting-blocks, or horse-
blocks, which are still in situ in outlying parishes in rural districts.
They are generally merely rough boulders taken from the neigh-
bouring moors, of a suitable size, and set down rather close to the
church door or to the opening into the porch. Disused and mute
though they be, they tell us tales of the pomp and circumstance of
old times, when round the church doors were to be seen richly
caparisoned steeds, stalwart knights, and fair women — besides stout
yeomen, with their wives and daughters, waiting their turn to mount
to their pillions pleasantly.

Old grave-slabs are sometimes to be seen used up in our old
churches in an odd manner, showing that our forefathers, in these
instances at least, had but small regard for relics of the kind.
There was one fine slab, with a handsome cross incised upon it,
observed recently cut into lengths, and made into a water-table, to

VQU CCLXXI. NO. 1927. H

98 The Gentleman's Magazine.

throw off the rain on the roof of Alnwick Church. Another in the
same edifice may be seen made into the lintel of a clerestory
window. In the south aisle of Morpeth Church, another is made
into a lintel. In Middleton Church, Teesdale, there is another
example of similar economy. A portion of the shaft of a cross
carved with Saxon ornament was made into the stem of a font,
dated 1664, in Rothbury Church. In this way many fragments
have been handed down to us that might otherwise have disappeared
altogether.

Often in the furthermost end of an aisle, or transept, recessed
into the wall, or but slightly standing out of it, bracket-fashion, may
be seen the small piscina that was used in old times when there was
an altar there. Besides these, only much more rarely, a piscina
upon the ground may be seen. This is a small hole upon the floor
at the east end of the church, south of the altar. If there were no
piscina into which to pour the water in which the chalice was rinsed,
we might assume this was intended to carry it away, but in three out
of four examples known there are piscinae on the w^ls as well. These
ground piscinae have been noticed in St Catherine's Chapel, in Car-
lisle Cathedral, and in the churches at Utterton, in Lincolnshire ;
Little Casterton, Rutlandshire, and Hevingham, Norfolk. It has
been suggested they may have been made to carry away the water
used in the consecration of the building.

Sedilia are sometimes treated in an odd manner. Sometimes
there is but one seat, sometimes two, four, or five ; but more fre-
quently three. In some small churches the window sill forms the
sedile. In a church in Sussex the divisions between the seats reduce
them to a size almost too small for use. In some churches they are
stone benches without arms ; in others they are superbly decorated,
and grouped together under handsome canopied recesses. Over and
above these seats for the clergy some very few old churches have
stone seats, or stalls, at the east end. St. Mary's Church, at Stone, in
Kent, for instance, has a range of these stalls on the north, south, and
east sides of the sacrarium, and St Martin's Church, at Cheriton, in
the same county, has examples on the north and south of the chancel.
In the church of St. Nicholas, Rodmersham, are three sedilia of
wood : a rare survival. And besides these, there may be noted here
and there a larger recess adjacent to the sedilia, for which it is diffi-
cult to assign any use.

Now and then a small door may be seen high up in the piers
that divide the nave from the chancel. This is the door that once
gave access from the winding-stair within the pier to the footway on

Odd Items in Old Churches. 99

the top of the screen with which most churches were once provided.
When screens were found inconvenient, and were removed, these
doors were left. Ross Church, Herefordshire, has a noticeable
example ; Hinckley Church, Leicestershire, has another.

Any of these items might be easily passed by without recognition,
even in a tolerably careful glance round at the general features of an
ancient fabric We are likely to look at the richly-carved doorways
that seem to invite us to enter, and up to the carven angelic host
upholding the mighty timbers of the roof, or along the lines of pillars
supporting the graceful arcades, or at the windows to admire their
tracery or stained-glass, or on the floors to note the last resting-places
of the good and great ; or we may take special notice whether the
pulpit has an hour-glass, or the stand for one ; whether the almsbox
has an inscription ; whether the vestry has an ancient chest ; whether
the great brazen eagle is ancient or modern ; or whether there are
any marble or alabaster effigies lying cross-legged or hand-folded in
the shadowy aisles ; and miss these minor details unless our attention
is called to them.

SARAH WILSON.

- H2

icx) The Gentleman s Magazine.

PAGES ON PLAYS.

BY a curious chance, an Ibsen play is once again the chief
topic of the past month. And in many respects the latest
attempt to interpret the Norwegian dramatist is the most interesting
of all the many recent attempts ; for Miss Rose Norreys brought to
the part of Nora Helmer a great number of qualifications. First
and best, perhaps, she had that quality of enthusiasm for her
author, and for that particular one of her author's characters,
without which good dramatic work can scarcely be accomplished;
Her appearance, again, corresponded with our conceptions of the
child-wife, child-mother. Then, she brought to bear upon the play
an experience ripened by many successes, an artistic sympathy
with the dramatist's purpose, which enabled her to appreciate not
merely the wide humanity but the deep sense of beauty which
belongs to all Ibsen's plays. I have seldom looked forward with
more interest to any performance than I did to Miss Norreys's
rendering of " The Doll's House " ; I have seldom followed any
performance with a closer attention. It proved to be one of the
events of the dramatic season. It revived an old controversy, it
stimulated fresh curiosity. If the interest in what may be called
the Ibsen question was at all waning. Miss Norreys's enterprise
lent it a new life.

"The Doll's House" is perhaps the most significant of the
whole series of Ibsen's social plays. It ought to be called " A Doll's
Home," by the way, and why it is not so called I am at a loss to
understand ; but let that pass. Some of us may prefer the more
absolute " modernity " of " Hedda Gabler," others may think that
profound problems of life are presented with a more tragic in-
tensity in " Rosmersholm " ; others, again, may maintain that the
strife between man and woman, between husband and wife, is
represented as truly and more beautifully in " The Lady from the
Sea." It really doesn't matter : all who admire Ibsen at all are
agreed in regarding " The Doll's House " — I adhere to the accepted
name under protest — as a very fine, very typical, specimen of the
master's work. It is certainly, if it is nothing else, a very remarkable

•••••• *

... •

Pages on Plays. loi

specimen of dramatic construction. The oftener it is read, the more
deeply will the reader be impressed by the technical beauty of the
building-up, by the exquisite pains taken to insure completeness and
proportion in the dramatic whole. There is nothing too much —
nothing too little. The incidents succeed each other with all the
apparent ease of everyday life, with all the actual accuracy and
logic of a machine. If it were not one of the greatest, it would
still be one of the most ingeniously composed pieces of our time.

I shall never forget the profound impression which " The Doll's
House '* made upon me when I first saw it acted some couple of
years ago by Miss Janet Achurch at the Novelty Theatre. It was
the first Ibsen play I had seen acted, and it carried conviction
with it from the rise of the curtain to its fall. It gave me at
once the impression, not that I was sitting in a theatre surveying
with more or less pleasure the efforts of actors and actresses to
present a play, but that I was on the stage itself — that I was one
of the friends of that ill-starred Helmer household — that I was
witnessing the real woes of real men and women. I saw the play
again, and with the same result ; no play had ever seemed to me
quite so intensely real before. The performance appealed to the
public curiosity ; it delighted some, it irritated some, it interested
very many. Put up for a few nights, it ran for some weeks', and
might have run for many more if Miss Achurch had not been
compelled to leave London to fulfil an Australasian engagement.
But it left behind it a heritage of controversy which raged then,
and has raged ever since, and is raging now, with almost unabated
intensity.

To my mind, the indignation which certain critics have expressed
at the motive of " The Doll's House " and the conduct of Nora
Helmer is an overstrained, unreasonable indignation. It is, of course,
a matter for argument whether Nora was justified in leaving Torvald
under the conditions : it is open to argument whether a woman is
justified in leaving her husband under any conditions. The up-
holders of what may be called the old attitude towards woman, an
attitude half of chivalrous devotion and half of Oriental disdain, will
absolutely deny Nora's right to draw that front door behind her on
that famous night. The advocates of what we may be permitted to
call the " new theory of woman " will argue otherwise. Their theory
is the theory of which the Norwegian Ibsen, the Russian Tolstoi, are
the latest champions in art, the theory which John Stuart Mill did so
much to formulate, the theory which has been the jest of humourists
in all times, from the " Lysistrata " of Aristophanes to the " Madame

I02 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Pantalon " of Paul de Kock. Their theory asserts that woman has
equal rights with man ; that the wife is as free as the husband, that
what is lawful for the one is lawful for the other — and so on. I
certainly do not propose to go into this question now, or to commit
myself to any opinion upon it. But whether we may think Nora
Helmer right or may think Nora Helmer wrong in going away from
the husband who had so degraded himself in her eyes, we ought
not to attack Ibsen for making her do so. The woman Ibsen was
drawing would have acted so: there are no doubt very many
women in the world who would have acted so: it is for us to
accept the characters that Ibsen has given us, and to see if, under
the conditions of his game, he has made his moves artistically.
I think he has. I think that terrible scene between the selfish
husband and the wife whose eyes have just been unsealed to see his
selfishness must carry artistic conviction with it, especially when it is
played as Miss Norreys played it. She rendered admirably the frozen
despair, the frozen determination of this fair young thing, this doll-
wife, this baby-mother, before the sudden revelation in all its naked
horror of a selfish man's soul.

Again, there are critics who profess to be gravely shocked by the
scene between Dr. Rank and Nora Helmer, in which Rank, with his
doom clearly before him, confesses his love for her. They say that
the talk of the man and woman before the confession, the talk about
the stockings, the talk about heredity and hereditary malady, is un-
pleasant, objectionable, detestable, according to their various degrees
of dislike. Far too much has been made of this scene. It is a mere
episode in a tragic play. But taking it as it stands, it has been gravely
misunderstood. The two are very intimate friends : they are talking in
the first instance lightly about a light topic, in the second instance
lightly about a serious topic. I can see no offence in the scene as it
is written. I saw no offence in it when it was played by Miss Janet
Achurch and Mr. Charrington. I see no offence in it as it was
played by Miss Norreys and Mr. Abingdon. But the recent per-
formance of " The Doirs House " has revived the old controversy
with all the old heat. So much the better. Miss Norreys is to be
congratulated on having succeeded in playing perhaps the most
difficult part in the modern drama with rare artistic sympathy and
rare artistic earnestness.

Perhaps there is a more significant proof of the progress of the
Ibsen drama in this country to be found than is afforded even by the
most able, the most conscientious interpretation. This proof is to be
found in the productions of Ibsen's parodists — Ibsen's avowed ftod

Pages on Plays. 103

deliberate, as opposed to Ibsen's unconscious or unavowed
parodists. Mr. Anstey in the pages of Punch has for many weeks
past been delighting the mirthful by [the humour of his parodies of
those plays of Ibsen's which are most familiar to the reading public
in England. But parody now^ ftas passed from the pages of a
periodical to the boards of a theatre : on the stage which has been
invaded by the new Viking, two English humourists retaliate, with the
humourists* weapons of ridicule, satire, irony. Mr. J. M. Barrie, the
author of so many attractive essays, the part author of "Richard
Savage," has made " Hedda Gabler" the target for his scorn at
Toole's Theatre,'where the audience shriek with laughter over Mr.
Toole made-up as " The Master " himself; and at the extraordinary
ability shown by Miss Irene Vanbrugh in her mimicry of the die-away
airs of Miss Marion Lea's Thea[Elvstead, and the " grand manner " of
Miss Robins's Hedda. At the Avenue Theatre Mr. Robert
Buchanan organised an assault upon a larger scale on the Ibsen
method and the Ibsen creations. Much of "The Gifted Lady " was
undoubtedly funny : the whole attack came quite fairly from a writer
who has avowed himself once and again hostile to the Ibsen method
and the Ibsen creations. To Mr. Buchanan Ibsen is only a " stuttering
Zola with a wooden leg " — why with a wooden leg ? — he is opposed to
him with all the energy of his energetic nature ; and he formulates
his opposition in the time-honoured formula of burlesque. No
admirer, not the most impassioned, of Ibsen, could possibly object
to all this. The test of ridicule has been applied to all great men
since the days when Aristophanes delighted the Athenians by the
spectacle of Socrates swinging in his basket. Ibsen can stand the
test : his admirers need not be discomposed. " Ibsen's Ghost " and
" The Gifted Lady " are excellent fooling when all's done \ but they
are also the most decisive tribute of recognition that has yet been
paid in London to the influence, to the importance, to the genius of
Henri k Ibsen. His bitterest enemies could hardly say that he is a
" man of no account," at a time when he and his creations were made
the objects of satire in two leading London theatres by two well-
known English authors ; and as for his friends — well, their devotion
will moult no feather. No one who admires " Hedda Gabler " will
admire it less because Mr. Anstey, Mr. Barrie, and Mr. Robert
Buchanan have made merry over it. I was much amused by
" Punches Pocket Ibsen." I was much amused by many things in
"The Gifted Lady." I thought it was too long: the satire would
have been sharper if it was shorter: Mr. Barrie's skit had the
advantage of brevity. But I cannot understand the mood of mind of

104 T^ Gentleman s Magazine.

those Ibsen lovers — and I believe there are some such — who feel any
irritation at these light-hearted ventures. Ibsen is as fair game as
Socrates ; and if he should succeed in creating a new Aristophanes,
why, we should all be heartily delighted.

Miss Fortescue, for some occult reason, chose to give a series of
five matinees of "The Love-Chase." "The Love-Chase" is an
exceptionally tiresome play — one of the worst of its antiquated class.
It is written in a style which " is my aversion," and which must be
the aversion of all who like dramatic language to be natural and
blank verse to be melodious. Its characters are impossible and un-
interesting puppets, its plot is a wearisome and unnatural intrigue. An
imbroglio which Marivaux might have made enchanting, and Sheridan
gay, becomes merely depressing. Why on earth did Miss Fortescue
choose to revive this specimen of the fossil drama? She did so well
with Juliet, she did so well with Pauline. What impelled her to
waste ability and opportunity upon Constance? Perhaps some people
were entertained. Mrs. Lambert and her daughter, we may remem-
ber, were moved to tears by Home's ** Douglas," which only moved
Mr. George Warrington and Colonel Lambert to irrepressible mirth.
But, alas, if an old-fashioned play can be tedious, the art is not con-
fined to old-fashioned plays. On the evening of Miss Fortescue's
first matinee was given, at the Strand Theatre, the first performance
of a modern farce from the German, called " A Night's Frolic." Mr.
Edouin and Miss Alice Atherton are an attractive and deservedly
popular pair, but they could not make " A Night's Frolic " enter-
taining.

Jules Lemaitre, the brilliant dramatic critic of the Debats^ had,
not very long ago, a somewhat remarkable experience. He wrote a
play, " R^voltde," and his editor insisted that, as M. Lemattre was the
dramatic critic of the Debats^ he must needs review " R^volt^e," as
he had reviewed the other plays of the Parisian season. M. Lemaitre
obeyed, and criticised, if I remember rightly, " R^volt^e " with con-
siderable severity. I do not, however, propose to follow M.
Lemaitre's example, although it does so chance that among the
number of the pieces of which I should under ordinary circum-
stances have to speak, there happens to be included a piece of my
own. I do not follow M. Lemaitre's example, not because I at all
doubt my own firmness in dealing with my own defects, but because
the piece happens to be so slight, and the conditions of its produc-
tion so exceptional, as to justify me in passing it by. But if I am
silent concerning the piece, I need not keep silent about the acting
of Mr. Colnaghi and of Miss Letty Lind, which gave to a trifle what-

Pages on Plays. 105

ever value it possessed. I must speak especially about the acting of
Miss Letty Lind, because it justified me in the belief I had always
entertained that the exquisite dancer had in her the capacity of an
actress as well. For my own poor part, I rate dancing very highly
among the arts that brighten life ; and a triumphant dancing-girl has
little reason to envy her graver sisters the laurel-wreath of tragedy or
the ivy- wreath of comedy. But a woman may be a delightful daiicer
and also be able to act well. Miss Kate Vaughan is a witness to
that. She was Queen of the Dance while she danced : when she
gave up dancing she was able to prove herself an agreeable actress.
If Miss Letty Lind is our best dancer to day, she has also shown
that she can act very gracefully, very sympathetically — for which,
indeed, I have every reason to be grateful.

I mentioned the name of Jules Lemaitre a few lines back ; let
me recorcj t^e first performance of a play by Jules Lemaitre upon a
London stage. There is a company of French players performing
at the Royalty Theatre, a company brought over by that indefatigable
entrepreneur M. Mayer, whose season of French plays at the St.
James's Theatre last year was such a disastrous failure. Perhaps
the enterprise will be more successful this year; in any case, it
opened well with M. Jules Lemaitre's latest piece. M. Jules
Lemaitre has written three pieces — "R^volt^e," in 1889; "Le D^put^
Leveau," in 1890; and "Mariage Blanc," in 1891. "Mariage
Blanc " is decidedly the best of a series of clever plays, which per-
haps are better to read than to see acted. I say, perhaps, because
I cannot think that the interpretation at the Royalty Theatre does
full justice to M. Lemaitre's brilliant literature. Mr. Clement Scott
— who is, I think, unjustly severe towards the play — is only justly
severe towards its interpretation. While I cannot possibly endorse
his statement that " few modern dramatists would dare to produce
so bad a play at a leading London theatre," I certainly can endorse
his statement that " no prominent English company would on the
whole perform it so badly." It is really time for London to learn
that the fact of an actor or actress speaking French does not neces-
sarily make that man or woman a good actor or actress.

A serious interest attached to a series of matinees given by Mr.
Todhunter at the Vaudeville Theatre. Mr. Todhunter is a poet,
and a believer in the poetic drama. He has drunk deeply — per-
haps too deeply — of the heady wine of the Elizabethans ; he has
sought to know what things were done at the Mermaid ; he has
followed, courageously, in famous footsteps. His Vaudeville matinies
offered two pieces to his audiences. One was " A Sicilian Idyll,'*

io6 The Gentleman* s Magazine.

already familiar to the critics ; the other, a new piece called " The
Poison Flower." This " Poison Flower " is founded upon a story
of Nathaniel Hawthorne's, called " Rappacini's Garden " ; and as
Hawthorne wrote an almost perfect prose style, it might well seem a
superfluity to turn it into even the most polished blank verse. But
" The Poison Flower " had its charm, yet not so much charm as
" A Sicilian Idyll," with its pleasant recollections of Theocritus, and
of love-lorn shepherds offering beechen cups, and love-lorn maidens
calling upon Selene to avenge them. In " The Poison Flower," and
the prologue to " A Sicilian Idyll," Mr. Bernard Gould distinguished
himself by his admirable acting and his excellent delivery of his
blank verse. In " A Sicilian Idyll," Miss Lily Linfield, whom I had
occasion to praise before for lending by her skill a charm to a
dreadfully dull play at the Globe Theatre, dancedja dance which it
was a delight to witness, which it is a delight to remember,

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

107

TABLE TALK.

Rabelais Abroad.

TO M. Arthur Heulhard we are indebted for the most important
contribution to our knowledge of Rabelais that has appeared
within the last decade. His "Rabelais: ses Voyages en Italie, son
exil \ Metz," * is a conscientious piece of work, which treats Rabelais
from a serious point of view, and adds somewhat to our information
concerning him. Comparatively little is known of the proceedings
of Rabelais during his successive visits to Italy, and the new book is
in fact rather a history of the Du Bellays, the illustrious protectors
and patrons of Rabelais, than of the master himself. Very patiently,
however, does M. Heulhard tread in the steps of Rabelais, and
the illustrations of the houses in which he is known to have dwelt,
the spots he must have contemplated, and the scenes in which he
may have participated! give the volume beauty as well as interest.
Comparatively little remains to be added to the account of Rabelais
and of " Pantagruel " which appeared some years ago in these pages.
The persecution to which Rabelais was exposed on the part of the
Parliament and the Sorbonne is put in a clearer light. After the
death of Francis I. the enemies of the satirist thought they had him
at their mercy. The king, who confined their murderous attacks to
visionaries, enthusiasts, or philosophers, was gone, and the hope to
send Rabelais the way of Dolet warmed the hearts of bigots. As
an initial proceeding, after the appearance of the fourth book, the
Parliament prohibited Michel Feyzandet, on pain of corporal punish-
ment— a pleasant euphemism — from selling the first or fourth book
until the Court had full instruction as to the "volont^ du Roy."
Henry II. followed, however, the example of his predecessor : laughed
over the jokes of Rabelais, and allowed him to scarify the monks at
his pleasure. The Parliament was silent, the Sorbonne snubbed,
and the author of " Pantagruel" died peacefully in his bed.

> Paris : Librairie de TArt.

io8 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

Master Tnf odule Rabelais.

THAT Rabelais had a son in whom his heart centred, and who
died when two years of age, is now proven. We are even in
a position to give his name, which was Thdodule, or the slave of God ;
a curious name, surely, to bestow upon a child, if Rabelais were, as
his detractors are fond of stating, an atheist. Concerning Master
Th^odule, indeed, we obtain, in a curious way, more information than
is often preserved concerning a child of similar age. In the library in
Toulouse are three manuscript volumes of the writings of Boissonius,
otherwise Jean de Boysson, a friend of Etienne Dolet, Rabelais, Alciat,
and other scholars of the epoch, his correspondence with whom
is included within the collection of his works. No French dictionary
gives the name of this individual, who, nevertheless, was a man of
mark. English readers, meanwhile, will find a full and deeply interest-
ing account of him in the admirable " Life of Etienne Dolet " of Mr.
Richard Copley Christie. The death of young Rabelais seems to
have impressed Boysson very painfully, and he immortalises the
child in iambics, elegies, hendecasyllables, and distiches. I will
spare my readers the Latin verses of Boysson, quoting one distich

only:

Lugdunum patria, at pater est Rabalaesus : utrumqae
Qai nescit, nescit maxima in orbe duo.

In spite of Girton and of school-board, I shall render this in
English :

Lyon; is his country and Rabelais his father :* who knows neither ignores two
of the greatest things in the world.

In another distich he declares that the tenant of the tomb received
while living the cares of the Roman prelates. He tells us, again, that
whom the Gods love die young ; and, in an elegy, he says that " in
this little tomb reposes little Th^odule, in whom all — age, form, eyes,
mouth, body — is little, but who is great through his father, the learned,
the erudite — skilled in all arts which it is becoming a man learned,
pious, and honest, to know." Never, indeed, has an infant received
such constant and overflowing homage. The world is not likely to
share the tenderness of Boysson, but his homage to Rabelais is, at
least, worth preserving, if only to show what was the estimate of him
held by one who was a doctor regent and professor of law in the
University of Toulouse, a priest and councillor of the Parliament of
Chamb^ry.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

August 1891.

CAPTAIN KITTY:

A SALVATIONIST SKETCH.
By Lillias Wassermann.

In human love I claim no part :
To her I give your changeful heart.
Though unforgotten be the past,
Diviner bonds now hold me fast.
By this last kiss of mine on earth
I seal you claims of higher worth.
The mists of sin now dim our eyes,
But o*er the sea of death will rise
A nobler goal, a grander prize.

Every-day Verses,

Chapter I.

HER face, under the shadow of the ugly bonnet, was one of
extreme refinement and beauty. She looked — as indeed she
was — thoroughbred. Katherine Villiers, in fact, belonged to one of
the oldest families in England.

Nevertheless, she was one of the most popular and successful
captains in the Army ; and, amid all the coarseness and apparent
probity of the stormy meeting then progressing, she held her head
high and never flinched for a moment, though some of the language
used both by orators and sinners must have been a revelation to her.

But Captain Kitty had that enthusiastic, exaltk sort of tempera-
ment of which saints and martyrs are an outcome ; although there
was both human passion and feeling in her dark eyes. When she
prayed, as she did now in her turn, it was not so much a prayer
as an impassioned protest against the powers of evil—an agony, a

VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1928. I

no The Gentleman's Magazine.

battering as it were at the' gates of Heaven. One could hear the
human heart-throbs through the eager words. Her cultured,
exquisitely modulated voice rang through the great hall like a silver
bell, and set the chords of many a long buried feeling vibrating.

" That's right, Captain Kitty ! Have it out with the Devil !
Give him a bloody nose ! Land him one in the eye ! "

The expressions of applause that were echoed about from one
enthusiast to another were perhaps not very choice or elegant, but
they were certainly evoked by genuine feeling, undeniable emotion.

One man upon the platform commenced to spar wildly in the air, as
though he were fighting with some invisible opponent who was bent
upon overthrowing him. A woman — whose eye was black and her
face swollen, as though she had been exceedingly maltreated — rolled
on the floor in a fit of hysterics. She began to confess to a catalogue
of sins — a roll-call of an exceedingly ghastly and unedifying
character, beginning with minor offences against the law — such as
petty larceny and " drunk and disorderlies " — and gradually working
up to the climax of infanticide, on a wholesale scale, for the sake of
insurance moneys. There are even now Lucrezia Borgias in humble
life who, without the stage accessories of gilded goblets and sparkling
wines, commit murder on the same big lines as that dramatic per-
sonage. The revelations made sometimes at these sensational religious
meetings are appalling. But people attending them are so accus-
tomed to melodrama that they produce very little effect.

One of the workers stooped over the writhing, groaning, guilt-
stricken sinner, and whispered words of hope and encouragement ;
but the beautiful, passionate pleading went on all the time, every
word distinctly audible, even through the tumult it raised.

And yet it was not the words that moved them, but the tones,
the thrilling subtle sweetness of the voice inflexions. These swayed
their senses and played upon their emotions, as might the music of
some great and glorious symphony.

In this sort of emotional religion the words are nothing ; the
voice, personal magnetism, nervous force, sympathetic rapport of the
speaker are everything. Captain Kitty was perfectly aware that this
power belonged to her. She delighted in the' exercise of it, just as a
great actress might delight in seeing her audience alternately laugh
and weep, while under the spell of her genius. The dramatic instinct
is indeed a valuable one to a Salvationist. If it were entirely
eliminated from the platform there would be few conversions, fewer
disciples.

After the prayer was over, Captain Kitty came down from the

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch. 1 1 1

platform and went slowly about amongst the people — exhorting,
beseeching, encouraging. Eager hands — palsied with drink, clammy
with excitement, foul with the filth of days — were stretched out to
grasp her as she passed ; and she had a word and a kindly greeting
for all.

When she reached the sobbing, hysterical woman, she paused,
laid a cool, soothing hand on that miserable, beslobbered brow, ^
parted the ragged wisps of hair, and gazed into the bleared, drink-
sodden eyes.

" Tm a bad un, a downright bad un ! " cried the sinner, with a
sort of despairing pride in the gigantic nature of her guilt. " It's no
manner of use me tryin' to be good, because what I've done is enough
to damn the whole of creation."

" The Lord wants your heart, or He would not be asking for it
now," replied the Salvation captain, in a tender voice ; and the woman,
stooping suddenly, grabbed a bit of her dress and kissed it.

Close beside them stood a man who had been a very attentive
listener to Captain Kitty's prayer, and who had followed with his
eyes her every movement, with a sort of breathless eagerness.

He was a man of perhaps thirty-five years of age, with a handsome,
bronze, haggard face, and a lean figure, upon which his rags of cloth-
ing hung loosely. Poorly, meanly as he was dressed, there was about
him that nameless, indescribable air that marks unmistakably, to the
end, him who has once been a gentleman.

When Captain Kitty drew near and began to talk to the hysterical
woman, this man hid his face in his arms, as though either to bury
away some intense emotion, or to prevent some possible recognition.

If he was moved by the latter feeling, however, he defeated his
own object; for the Salvationist took it for granted that he was
moved by her exhortation instead, and stayed to clinch the argument.

The cause was hers, heart and soul, and she but lived to rescue
sinners from the Devil's grasp.

When, therefore, she noticed that the man's shoulders were work-
ing convulsively, and that he kept his face sedulously hidden, she
judged that it was the Spirit of God at work within him.

She laid her firm white hand upon his shoulder, and at the touch
he shuddered from head to foot.

" Brother," she murmured, stooping over him, so that he felt her
warm breath on his cheek, " God asks your soul of you 1 Will you
let Him ask in vain ? "

The man groaned, but made no other reply. Captain Kitty
went on.

I 2

112 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" Oh, my brother, my dear, precious loved brother in Christ, will
you not listen to my poor pleading, and cast away the burden of sin
that is weighing you to the earth ? It is so simple — so simple, and
^e relief is so unutterable ! Give me your life, and let me pass it on
to God."

At this last adjuration the man seemed moved by some irresistible
force to raise his head and to look her in the face.

As their eyes met — hers eager, supplicating, ardent, full of beseech-
ing love and tenderness ; his full of nothing but a haggard trouble
and despair — she cried out wildly, and put her hand to her heart, as
though stabbed there by some sharp and sudden pain.

"Julian — Julian Gray!" she exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise
and excitement.

" Ay, Julian Gray — or at least all that is left of him ! " replied the
man, in a hollow voice. Captain Kitty was breathing quickly, her
hand still pressed against her side. You could see her heart beating
through her dress, as she vainly strove to regain her self-possession.
The sight of this face, risen from her former world to confront her,
had disturbed her strangely.

" I — I thought you were still in Australia," she gasped, after a
moment's pause. " Where have you been all these years ? "

The man laughed — a ghastly, unmirthful laugh, that would have
provoked notice in any other place, but did not sound at all extra-
ordinary there.

" Where ? To hell, I think I You hear lots of queer experiences
in this new life of yours. Well, call to mind the very strangest and
the very wickedest of them all, and you still wouldn't be able to
realise mine ! "

For once. Captain Kitty did not appear ready to grasp the
opportunity this confession opened to her. She was usually quick
to seize upon every chance given her to fight the powers of evil.
But now she seemed struck dumb. She merely stood still, and
gazed down into the depths of those wild, despairing eyes — a like
trouble growing into her own as she gazed.

" I — I scarcely thought you would have known me ! I hoped
you would pass by, unrecognised, the wreck of the man you
once — ki^ew ! "

" I should have known your eyes anywhere," replied the
Salvationist, slowly.

Then she sighed, and awoke to the reality of things. She was
one of Christ's soldiers, and she must not neglect her duty. No
mere human emotion must interfere with that.

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch, 113

"Julian," she said, and now her voice was quiet, though full
of repressed intensity, "you did well to come here ! I have prayed
for you always. I have begged that God would give me your soul,
so that I might render it back to Him. My prayer is surely answered,
since you are here ? "

" Don't you make any mistake, Kitty," he answered roughly, " I
did not come here for any of that tomfoolery. You don't catch me
slobbering over my sins, like those idiots over there ! I'm a man,
when all's said and done ; and, if IVe sinned, I can repent without
howling about it."

"I hoped you were here to seek salvation, my poor friend !
What was it that brought you, if not that ? "

" The chance of seeing you ! I heard about you, and I could not
believe it, until I saw it with my own eyes. Besides, I was hungry
for the sight of you — after all those hateful, God-forsaken
years ! "

She would not notice the break in his voice, the pleading in his
wretched eyes.

She was all duty now ; and, since the time for his conversion was
not yet come, she must leave him for other and more accessible
souls.

" You must come again," she said — her sweet, clear voice com-
pletely under control. " Come again, and again, until the Spirit of the
Lord begins to move in your torpid soul. Believe me, dear
Julian, there is no way to happiness, save only by the way of
conversion ! '^

But at night, when she lay on her hard narrow bed, the thought
of that strange meeting came back to trouble her, and to prevent her
from sleeping, tired as she was.

Years before, when she was a light-hearted girl in her teens,
Julian Gray had been her betrothed lover. He was the younger son
of a baronet, whose lands adjoined those of her father. He was then
in the army. His prospects were not, perhaps, brilliant, but they were
fairly good. He would inherit his mother's fortune, and his bride-
elect was not penniless, so that there was every reason to suppose
that the young people would be very comfortably off.

Then, little by little, a change took place. Rumours reached
her home that troubled the peace of the family — Julian was
becoming a by- word in his regiment for fastness and general reck-
lessness of conduct. He gambled, and became heavily involved in
debt in consequence. Then, to drown his regrets and remorse, he
took to drinking. That finished him. Before long, news came

1 1 4 The Gentleman's Magazine. ,

that he had been obh'ged to sell out, and was now on his way home,
disgraced and humiliated.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Villiers insisted, not unnaturally,
upon the severance of his daughter's engagement. She rebelled
against the edict ; but all in vain. The family was a proud one,
and her father pointed out to her that for generations their escutcheon
had been stainless, and that no shade of disgrace had ever rested
upon their name. Would she — taking all this into consideration —
ally herself with a man whose name had become notorious for every
species of riot and debauchery ?

Katherine was young and sensitive, and she could not answer
this, except by consenting to the separation. She begged in her turn
but for one thing — which was, that she might break it to him by word
of mouth ; that before they parted for ever she might have one final
interview with him. How well she remembered that last day!
They had met by his special desire at one of their old trysting-places,
for he did not feel equal to facing the disapproving eyes that would
glare upon him up at the Hall

The day was drawing to a close ; a cold, clear, sunless October
day, with a low wind moving about amongst the grasses at their feet,
where they stood on the barren sandhills down by the shore.

She could picture it all quite distinctly now, when she closed her
eyes : the long stretch of cold pallid sand ; the bleached sea-grasses,
from which ever and anon crept up a sound like a shivering sigh ;
the gray sullen sea, with its great waves thundering on the shore.

It was all hopeless, utterly hopeless and colourless ; like the
future that stretched before her, when he should have gone out of it.

And she loved him so— she loved him so I

Never, perhaps, had she realised this fact so thoroughly as at that
bitter moment of final separation.

* I am not good enough for you, and they are quite right to part
us,' he said, with a sort of sullen resignation ; * but it was my only
hope — my only chance ! '

* What will you do, Julian ? ' she asked timidly, after an inter\'al
of sorrowful silence.

* How do I know ? Go to the Devil, I suppose,' he replied, with
a desperate brutality, born of much pain. For his love had been the
one good and true thing in him ; and now the sight of her pale face
and pleading eyes unmanned him, and made him bitter and savage.

If he alone could have borne the suffering, it would not have been
so unendurable. There was reason why he should be made to smart.

Captain K/ifty : a Salvationist Sketch. 115

But there was no justice in the power that punished the innocent for
the sins of the guilty.

So the very tenderness of the man helped to harden his heart, and
to madden him. But love lends insight, so it is possible that
Katherine understood.

When it was all over his people managed to raise some money for
him, and packed him off to Australia, that refuge for our scape-
graces. Does that much ill-used country thank us for making her a
present of our younger sons and our ne'er-do-wells, I wonder?

Whether or no, at least it is convenient that, if they have nothing
before them but starvation, they should do their starving at a
respectful distance from their aristocratic relations.

He had kept his word He had said that he supposed he would
go to the Devil, and now it certainly appeared from his words and
looks that he had done so in earnest.

But, as for her, she had given herself over to the good cause, body
and soul.

They might prevent her from marrying the one love of her life,
but they could not prevent her from enlisting in the ranks of the
Lord's Army, much as they might be scandalised at the low vulgarity
of the proceeding. Had she turned Catholic now, and entered a
convent — that would at least have been a well-bred notion !
Broken hearts could be hidden in a much more reputable manner
within convent walls, since the girl was so foolish as to declare her
heart to be broken by a worthless scamp !

But Katherine Villiers had no vocation for the life — if life it can be
called — of a nun. There was a vein of wild, tumultuous blood in her,
along with all her goodness and virtue ; and this made her yearn
for something more thrilling and exciting than the dreary, gray
monotony of perpetual prayer and perpetual telling of beads. Better
to die at once, she thought, than doom herself to a living death !

Just at that time there rolled a sudden wave of enthusiasm for the
Salvation Army across the country ; and it carried back with its
ebbing tide one eager, enthusiastic recruit.

Once more her colourless existence became infused with vivid
tints ; gold and purple and scarlet flashes lighted up its dull mono-
tony, and in the blare of trumpets and waving of banners Captain
Kitty forgot for the first time her own private grief and despair.

But she had never forgotten to pray for him. And now ? Was the
answer to that prayer come at last ?

1 1 6 The Gentle7nans Magazuie.

Chapter II.

She had but slept for a couple of hours when someone can^e lo
rouse her.

" You are to dress at once and go to No. 9, Mulcaster's Rents.
There*sa man there met with an accident, and they've sent for you !**

Captain Kitty wondered a little as to who it could be that wanted
her in particular, and not one of the nurses who lived in the place ;
but she was too sleepy to feel much astonishment at anything. She
did not delay long over her toilet; just dipped her head into a basin
of cold water to dispel the drowsiness, and hurried on her clothes
anyhow.

Mulcaster's Rents was a nasty neighbourhood for a lady to visit
alone at one o'clock in the morning ; but the Army had made
it a head-quarters for one of its divisions, and its soldiers were free
of it, and in no danger of molestation.

Captain Kitty felt very weary, both in body and mind, as she
toiled up the greasy, dirty staircase ; where the boards were rotten and
crazy, and where the stair-rails had been torn out for firewood. But
the weariness was all gone when she entered the wretched room, and
recognised that there, iipon the bed, lay the form of Julian Gray — the
man for whom she had been praying so earnestly.

A doctor was bending over him, and hailed her advent with
pleasure.

" I don't know why on earth they didn't take him to the Hospital
at once," he said, in a tone of vexation ; "but it seems he begged hard
to be brought home, and to have you sent for, before he relapsed
into unconsciousness,"

" Is he much injured ? '* asked Captain Kitty, in a low voice.

The doctor shook his head.

" It isn't that. He was knocked down by a cab — drunk, I suppose,
and blind, they generally are — and has two or three ribs broken; but
that won't kill him. He's been a fellow with a splendid physique, to
begin with ! "

And the surgeon lifted the arm of the prostrate man and looked
at it admiringly.

" Then, what is it you dread ? '*

The doctor gave her a sharp glance. There was no fear of shock-
ing a Salvationist. They were too well used to every variety of vice.

" It's the fever that will supervene, the D. T., you know ! The
man's been drinking like mad for weeks, I should say, and now his
blood is little better than alcohol. Who's to see him through with it.

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch. 1 1 7

I wonder ? It'll be a tough fight. She's not much use, poor little
wretch ! " he ended, with a glance towards the fireside.

Captain Kitty followed the direction of that glance, and started.

The figure of a girl — untidy, dishevelled, ragged — was sitting there
with her head buried in her hands ; sobbing in a soft, subdued sort
of fashion.

The Salvationist turned pale to the lips, but she set these same
lips in a firm line.

" I will see him through it," she said, with quick decision.

The surgeon looked at her doubtfully.

" But perhaps you don't know what it is that you are undertaking ?
It is no joke when the fits come on, I can tell you. "

" I have some idea. I spent four months once in the accident
ward of a hospital."

" That's all right, then I You know what you have to expect when
he comes round. You will have to keep giving him doses of this —
bromide of potassium it is — to quiet him, or inflammation will
set in ; and if he should become violent he will require to be strapped
down. Are you afraid ? "

" Not in the least ! Look at my arm, I am as strong as a man."

It was indeed powerfully and splendidly moulded. The doctor
ran his eyes over her, and confessed to himself that he had never seen
a grander specimen of womanhood. From the glorious masses of
ruddy-brown hair, to the firm, shapely feet, there was not, to all
appearance, a weak spot about her. Nevertheless, the quick pro-
fessional gaze detected something amiss.

" Are you quite sure of your strength ? " he asked, with some
hesitation. If she did not know, it would be worse than fcolish
to warn her.

But her eyes met his in significant response to the question under-
lying his spoken one.

" I know," she said quietly; " you need not fear shocking me ! I
have known it for long. But I am going to nurse him all the same,
and I shall not break down."

** Has he any claim on you ? " he persisted.

" Yes. It is partly my fault that he is — what he is ! Had I been
brave enough, I might have saved him — once ! "

" Ah ! " was the long-drawn monosyllable that came from the
doctor's lips. It meant a great deal. He had seen sufficient of hfe
during the course of his hard-working years in the East End to guess
at the facts of the story pretty correctly.

A man who had been a gentleman, dying of drink and dissipation ;

ii8 The Gentleman s Magazine.

a woman, still young and very beautiful ; bound together by some
past, unforgotten and regretted — it was easy to piece together such a
romance as this.

But the doctor came across so many queer stories during his day's
work that he had no time to speculate concerning them. All he now
wanted was to do the best he could for his patient, and to see that he was
left in capable hands. And those of the woman before him seemed
thoroughly capable, even though she had heart-disease, and would
not last long under the stress and excitement of the Hfe she was
leading.

It was a pity, because she was a fine creature ; but, after all, it
was no business of his ! So he went on giving her directions ; and
told her that in case of necessity she could send for the man who
lived on the opposite side of the landing — a big, powerful coal-heaver,
who was under obligations to him, and who would gladly come to
her assistance. Then he took up his hat and left her there alone
wiih the sleeping man — and the fair-haired girl by the fire.

When he had gone, she sank on her knees by the bedside.

" Oh, God, why did we not die, both of us — on that dreary October
day, long ago? It would have been bearable then, and we could have
passed out into the night and the darkness — together. You were
mine then, darling, and I was yours ! It wouldn't have been so bad
to face it, hand in hand ! But — now ? " Here she stopped for a
moment, and the sound of a low sobbing fell on her ears. She trembled
violently, and rose instantly to her feet. " Now I belong to God,
and must do His work," she said resolutely, setting her teeth, and
frowning. " And as for you, Julian, you are in all probability hers \
What I have got to do now is to save you for her."

Mastering her feeling of repugnance, she crossed the room and
put her hands on the girl's shoulder. ** You must stop that," she
said in a firm voice. "If you want to be of any use to him, you
must leave off" crying at once."

The girl gave a queer sort of choking sound, making an effort to
obey. Then she looked up wonderingly. She was a rather pretty,
fair-haired creature; very young, and apparently very much accustomed
to being commanded. Her big blue eyes had a frightened stare
in them ; and every now and then, when anyone spoke suddenly, she
would start and shrink, as though dreading a blow to follow.

" Who are you ? What is your name, I mean ? " asked
Captain Kitty.

" Me? Lor, I'm only 'Meliar! " she answered at once, beginning
to rub her eyes with her not too clean apron, preparatory to entering

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch. 1 19

upon an account of herself ; then, with a wistful gaze across the room,
" He ain't a-goin' to die, is he ? I thought as 'ow 'twas only the jim-
jams he'd got ; but the doctor 'e says it's a bad job, an' 'is ribs is
broke ! But he'll get better, don't you think ? "

" Yes, I think he will, if you and I do our best for him. Now,
'Melia, I want you to take a note for me to head-quarters as soon as
it's light, and then get me a telegraph-form. Where is the nearest
office ? "

'Melia thought a moment

" There's an orfis next door but one round the corner — R. Green,
grocer an' confecsh'ner, general post orfis, an' telegraft ! Will that
do ? It won't be open afore 'arf-past seven, though."

" Yes, that will do. Now you had better wash your face and lie
down for an hour or two, and I will watch. Is there a vacant room
near this ? "

'Melia nodded.

" One nex' door. People lef only the day before yes'day. Got
nothin' in it but a 'eap of shavin's. Never mind. I'll tyke a blanket,
and lie on the shavin's till you call me— if — if you're quite sure as he
won't miss me."

" I will tell you if he asks for you," replied Captain Kilty, coldly.

The girl turned her big, vacant blue eyes on the other, as the tone
struck her with astonishment ; but the Salvationist waved her away
imperiously.

The next few hours were like years, as the woman watched by the
side of her long- lost love.

It all came about as the doctor predicted. When the stupor
passed away, it was followed by wild delirium and cerebral excite-
ment, terrible to witness. Nevertheless, Captain Kitty did not find
it necessary to ask for assistance. Those strong white arms of hers
proved as efficacious as bonds, as she wound them around him and
held him down by main force, when the frenzy seized him. But
there was something also in the very presence of the stronger nature
that acted upon him like a spell ; even though he did not know her
in the least, and kept on calling for Captain Kitty to come and drive
the Devil away, and give a fellow a chance for his life.

During these ravings she learnt how her memory had been woven
into all these wretched, miserable years of his ; how, amid all his sin
and degradation, he had never forgotten her. At length the opiate
took effect, and he slept the sleep of exhaustion.

Then she had time to think and to mature her plans. It would
be easy enough to get leave of absence until he was out of danger.

I20 The Gentleman s Magazine.

But the things that were necessary for his comfort and health — she
could scarcely ask for those from head-quarters ? Her own money
she had simply given up to the cause, leaving herself penniless.

But she was not friendless, although her own kindred did not
approve of her doings. She decided, therefore, to ask her brother,
the one who was fondest of her, for a sum of money sufficient to
tide her over this crisis ; and, at the same time, she would write to
him for particulars of the present attitude of Julian Gray's people
towards him.

Weeks glided on, in a sad, monotonous routine of sick nursing ;
and it seemed to Katherine Villiers as though her life had begun
and ended in that dark, sordid room in Mulcaster's Rents. At first
it did not appear probable that Julian Gray would ever recover ; but
good nursing, combined with an originally tough constitution, pulled
him through.

During this period she was of course thrown very much into the
company of 'Melia ; and, without wishing or questioning on her
part, heard all the girl's pitiful, miserable story. How " he 'ad been
so very kind to 'er, an' give 'er a meal, oh ! ever so of en, when 'er
old granny, wot she lived with, got blazin' drunk an' turned 'er out
of doors, after a-beatin' of 'er till she was black and blue ; an* 'ow,
after granny died, an' she was lef alone, she crep' up 'ere one night
an' asked 'im might she live along with 'im ; an' he larfed, an' called
her a little fool for 'er pains ; but still he was down in the mouth an'
seemed afraid of bein' alone, don't yer know, and so she stayed.
An' — an' that was all !— on'y she was orful fond of him, an' if he was
to die, there was nothin' for 'er but to make a hole in the water ! "

At length came a day when he was pronounced out of danger ;
and after that a long, lingering convalescence.

When he could manage to sit up in a big, comfortable arm-chair
by the fire, the room was so transformed that he could 'scarce
believe it to be the same. Curtains covered the smoke- grimed
windows, flowers bloomed in pots — an air of refinement, if not of
luxury, reigned there altogether.

On a seat by the window sat 'Melia, clothed and in her right
mind — if one might judge from the way in which she diligently
pursued her task of needlework.

He looked away from this pleasant picture very quickly, however,
and up at Captain Kitty instead, who stood carelessly leaning
against the chimney-piece opposite to him.

" You have done it all," he said feebly. " How am I to thank you

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch, \ 2 1

for saving my life ? Not that it is worth much, any way ! " he added,
as a bitter after-thought.

She looked at him thoughtfully.

" Not to you, perhaps," she replied, in a slow, dreamy tone ;
" but God knows better than you the real value of your life."

"How cin it ever be anything now but a broken, worthless
thing ? But that is not the question. I owe it to you, such as it
is — not to God : you have saved it. What must I do with it ? "

" Give it to Him ! If, as you say, it is mine to do what I will
with, I here call God to witness that I give it into His hand, to deal
with as He may think best. Julian, I prayed for this — for years I
prayed for this, and it has come at last. You will not disappoint me
now, dear Julian ? "

Her voice crept up to his ears, in those exquisite, thrilling
modulations that were wont to draw tears from the most hardened
eyes ; and those of poor Julian were very soft and weak just then.

" What do you wish me to do ? " he asked, in a hoarse whisper.

She knelt beside him, and took his feeble hand in hers.

" I want you to give up drinking, gambling, all sorts of wickedness ;
I want you to lead a new, healthy, and happy life, with the light of
heaven shining into it ; I want you to go home to your own people ;
and — and I want you to marry 'Melia."

" You ask that ? "

" I do ! She loves you. She has given herself to you, and you
are all she has on earth."

" But you forget ? She is uneducated, vulgar, with no moral
sense — a wretched little gutter- brat ! Katherine, you are not
serious ? "

Katherine rose and stood over him, like an avenging angel.

" And what are you, Julian Gray, that you should dare to disdain
an immortal soul ? Have you made so grand a career for yourself,
with all your education and ability ? If she has no moral sense, so
much the less is she to blame for any sins she may have committed.
And if she has done wrong, she has the one supreme grace of loving —
loving grandly and unselfishly. ^MX.you ! — what is there in you to
justify you in despising her ? "

The sick man cowered down amongst his pillows, and put his
hands before his face.

" Do not — do not be so severe, Katherine," he remonstrated, in
a broken voice. " I did not mean to despise her ; God knows how
far more despicable I am myself 1 But — but — ioi you to ask me to
marry her !— it is that seems so strange ! "

122 The Gentleman's Magazine.

" Nevertheless, you will do it for my sake, and for your own, will
you not, my friend ? It is the last request I shall ever make to you,
Julian ! Surely you will not refuse it ? "

Once again she knelt by his chair, and looked up into his face.

" You ask me — ask me to marry another woman ? " he repeated,
hoarsely.

Their eyes met, and seemed to cling together as though drawn by
some irresistible power.

" I do," she answered in a faint tone, yet firmly.

" Then, Kitty, I — I will obey — if you will kiss me — kiss me —
only this once ! "

Their faces were close together. The same attraction drew them
nearer. Without another spoken word their lips met in. a long,
lingering kiss.

Then she turned away, and hid her face in her hands, for a
moment.

" The last time — the last time," she said, at length; and her voice
was like music, broken and jangled.

Then she rose and went over to the window. 'Melia was watching
her in sullen silence.

"Come with me," said Captain Kitty, imperiously, and the girl
obeyed. When they got outside, however, 'Melia turned savagely
upon her commander.

" Why do you go for to kiss 'im before my face ? " she cried, in
jealous anger. " If IVe got to lose 'im, there ain't any call for that^
anyways."

" You're not to lose him, 'Melia ! He has promised me to marry
you, and that's what I want to talk to you about."

" To marry me ? That's a good un ! What right have you to
go a-kissin' of 'im, then ? "

Captain Kitty flushed. For just one moment original sin got the
better of regeneration ; and she would fain have retorted.

" I bought him for you by just that kiss " — that is what she would
fain have said, but the evil impulse passed, and the words remained
unspoken.

"Do not let that trouble you, child," she said; " he will never,
never kiss me again ! I have said good-bye to him for ever. You can
nurse him yourself now, and his mother is coming to help you."

It was true. His elder brother had died of fever in India, and
Julian was now the only hope of the family ; who were therefore pre-
pared to receive him with open arms. Whether they would equally

Captain Kitty : a Salvationist Sketch. 123

appreciate 'Melia as a daughter-in-law remained to be seen. But he
would keep his word : Captain Kitty was sure of that.

It was long before the remembrance of that last kiss faded from
Captain Kitty's mind. At night she felt her cheeks flame in the
dark, as she thought of it. Then she fell to praying against the
temptation to dwell upon its bitter sweetness.

" My prayer is answered, God be thanfeed for that ! " she said to
herself, in an ecstasy of passionate joy and grief mingled. " And I
have made him promise to be good. But I wish that I did not feel so
tired — so very tired ! The work is too hard for me, I fear. But it
will not be for long. I shall not last much longer — so that doctor
said — if I do not take care. So much the better ! I am tired —
tired — tired ! God will certainly give me rest soon ! "

124 The Gentleman s Magazine.

A MOORLAND SHEEP-FARM.

I.

t

I HAVE at last found the man who does not love the moors. It
was quite by accident, and consequently the shock was a little
more severe. But it came out so gently, and I was taken into
confidence so simply as a fellow- thinker, that I nearly proved a traitor
to my best beloved. I had just sufficient bravery to refer with apology
to the summer flush of the heather, and memory enough to recall
Mr. Ruskin, whose words are ever our best rallying cries — " beds a
foot deep in flowers, and close in tufted cushions, and the mountain
air that floated over them rich in honey like a draught of metheglin."

I may be wrong, but I think that one who loves the moors is not
content with their artistic glories alone ; he lives in sympathy with
all the tiresome routine and startling vicissitudes of the numerous
denizens of the airy and bleak uplands ; he is a moor bird, and, to
parody Terence, everything connected with the moors is most
interesting to him. Are there any others, I wonder, who will share
with me in interest in the aftairs and in the sorrows of a moorland
farmer ?

A moorland farm is not necessarily situated entirely on the moors.
Many of the farmers who go by this name have land which, while
it lifts its face into the sky to smile, stoops down also to the riverside
to drink under the shade of trees. The lower ground is invaluable for
supplementing the use of the moors. The produce of these " beds
a foot deep in flowers " may be divided into three parts, namely,
mutton and wool, game, and honey, yielded by sheep, grouse, and
bees. The mention of these items in connection seems to us some-
what incongruous, for what has a moorland farmer to do with grouse
and bees ? And yet the three seem to go so well together, they
sound so much like a northern promised land, that we feel disposed
to cast the burden of incongruity rather upon circumstances and
ordinances than upon the idea itself.

Before speculating further on this matter let us inquire a little
into the stock and methods of one of these farmers, whose sheep run

A Moor!and Sheep-Farm, 125

on the moors. After speaking of a sheep-farm I can scarcely with
propriety postpone the consideration of the case of the woolly ones,
even in deference to the more noble animals which are associated
with them. The names and nicknames given to sheep by shepherds
are numerous. I can only mention a few. Hogs, or tegs, are the
sheep one year old, which are distinguished as wethers and gimmers,
according as they are male or female. A ram is usually called a tup,
and a ewe is pronounced something like " eowe.'* Barren gimmers
are fed with wethers, and become prime at four years old. I do not
know why I am writing this : it is not meant as a compliment to
butchers, whom I do not consider literary, nor to instruct them, for
they know the ages at which animals are prime. The use of what I
am detailing will best be seen when some town bird visits the moors
and begins to talk to the shepherds. A careful use of the words
" tegs," " gimmers," and " tups" will soon gain the Yorkshire moorland
heart.

Shearling is an adjective applied to the various classes after the
first shearing ; for instance, "shearling gimmer," "shearling whether,"
** shearling tup " are expressions used. The corresponding terms after
the second and third shearings are "two-shear," " three-shear " gimmer
or wether, as the case may be, and so on.- The age may be learnt
from the teeth : a shearling casts his two front middle incisors, and
the two next to them in the following year. This shedding of the
teeth is not always at the same age for each sheep, but varies a little
according to health apd condition. Those jolly old bachelors among
sheep, who know all the runs, and take to each class of food exactly
in the right season, are styled " old cock birds." They are favourites
because they thrive on poor food, stand the wintry blasts bravely,
and yield a good fleece. But alas ! when they become very old cock
birds they are extremely tough eating. " Old crocks " are old ewes
whose teeth have begun to open, and whose fate it is to be sold to go
to lower lands to receive more shelter in their old age.

I am now speaking of a millstone grit moor, and one can readily
understand why the sheep do so much better on limestone than
here: for it appears that, while on the grassy hills they have a
continuous and uniform pasture, on the moors they only take to the
food provided for them because they cannot obtain anything better.
When they have become accustomed to dead ling, with an occasional
dry rush, they are recommended to leave these and to try the louk
grass and moss-cops ; and when they have habituated themselves to
that vegetation, their guardian will again force the ling upon their
notice. The fact is that, though the sheep do not appear to see it

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1928. K

126 The Gentleman s Magazine.

clearly at the time, one class of mountain herbage comes in as the
other dies out. There is on the edge of the brows of the grit
formation, in the early bloom of summer, a fine grass called " mountain
fesk," to which the young animals must be brought to give them a
start in life. They soon take to it, but even when they have eaten
the ground bare, and have before them the prospect of star\'ation,
they must be driven off repeatedly and shown other food before they
will relinquish the old ground. Yorkshiremen are like their sheep —
a real native would almost prefer to die rather than leave the old
spot : once "earthed" you cannot drive him from his home !

It is perhaps well for us that the silly sheep do not fancy the
ling during the summer, when we and the bees enjoy it so much ;
but, when the " back-end " comes, we — the bees and ourselves — are
more indifferent, and they — the sheep — less so. We might here, too,
" point a moral" : for do we not often neglect, in its glorious beauty,
that which we turn to in its withered age? "That harvest of
amethyst bells ; what substance is there in it, yearly gathered out of
the mountain winds, stayed there as if the morning and evening
clouds had been caught out of them, and woven into flowers ; * Ropes
of sea-sand ' — but that is child's magic merely, compared to the
weaving of the heath out of the cloud. And once woven, how much
of it is for ever worn by the Earth ? What weight of that transparent
tissue, half crystal and half comb of honey, lies strewn every year
dead under the snow ? " No one is less likely than Mr. Ruskin to
forget the sheep, and I need not therefore ask his permission to
disturb some of this snow. We shall have to bring up some harrows,
and with much labour draw them over the white sheet ; but fodder
is scarce and dear, and if the sheep starve their master is likely to
pine too. So this dead, ungathered ** harvest of amethyst bells ** is
garnered under the snow, to feed the hungry flocks and enrich the
toiling farmer, after it has performed the proud part of its task for us
and for the bees.

When the cold season sets in immediately after warm weather it
affects the sheep with blindness unless special precautions are taken
to shelter them in huts. It would be well if in this matter it were
more usual for farmers to benefit themselves, while bestowing a great
boon upon their charges, by arranging for some rude shelter to
which the flocks " might run and be safe." As soon as the frost and
snow begin to disappear the ling becomes drier and less relishing,
and we have to inquire what diet Nature provides next. Accident,
the old cock birds, and artifice, all conspire to point out the newest
dish. In working among the ling the young sheep now begin to pull

A Moorland Sheep-Farm. 127

up by chance a few louk shoots, which the older ones recognise with
pleasure as soon as they see them. The shepherd himself, if he be a
considerate one, also pulls them up and strews them on the ground,
because he is really anxious for the inexperienced to learn their
value. The louk grass soon makes this value known by the
increased healthiness which it imparts : the clear, bright faces, the
good complexions are very soon to be noticed, and when once the
flock have accepted the new food they begin to thrive and do well.

The puUing-up of this grass is not a pulling-up by the roots, but
a drawing out of a sheath — a process which is only possible after Feb-
ruary. Birds, moor-game, and others understand this. Possibly
the same sensations which occur to man from well-cooked asparagus
are present with the sheep and birds ; and Nature, being the most
correct of cooks, will not serve her dainties up until they are ready
for the palate. The wily shepherd therefore attempts to present the
soft, juicy end to his saucy youngsters by the method referred to, and
ihe smart way in which the old hands can draw out and nibble from
the bottom upwards is worth observing. The moss -cops are the
young flowers of the louk, which are bitten off at a time when the
parent stem begins to be drawn out.

Afterguards the bents succeed, and carry the nibblers through the
summer, at the close of which an adventure awaits many of them, to
which I must now refer.

Those farmers who have not lower grounds suitable for wintering
the younger sheep are compelled to make terms with others, who
undertake the care of them at a certain price per head. This custom
of "festing," Agisting," or "joisting " (all these terms I have found con-
flrmed by Halliwell) seems to have been in use from early times. The
period of agistment commences at Michaelmas, and ends in some.
places on the 6th, in others on the 24th, of April. The sending-away
of the young flock is as pathetic and anxious a matter almost as
the sending lads away from home to school. The masters who supply
nourishment at from six shillings to seven shillings per- head are as
varied in their characters as are the gentlemen of whose profession
Dr. Arnold and Mr. Squeers are acknowledged types. Sheep are not
to all Yorkshiremen mere representatives of wealth ; the farmers take
care of them from goodness of heart as well as from greed, and, while
they deeply regret the death of the poor dumb beasts, they can, when
the money-sore is healed, laugh as heartily over their own mischances
as over some humorous tale at another's expense. I knew one very
careful fanner, so careful that his friends said that, if it were only six-
pence which came into his possession, " // were a prisoner'' This

K2

128 The Gentleman s Maoazme.

man had, some years back, taken a nice little crew of about thirty
sheep down to their allotted ground ; but he only brought one back.
To elicit this miserable information piece by piece — as the old man
paused between spells of slicing turnips with part of an old scythe —
and to see his countenance assume every aspect of pain, sadness,
anxiety, until the final catastrophe, which compelled him to bubble
out in shouts of mirth, perhaps slightly hysterical, was a sight well
worthy to be seen.

The rule is that if a sheep dies the man who joists it receives
the wool, the owner the horns. This latter arrangement is a
necessary safeguard, because, the horns being branded with the
shepherd's name, he knows that the missing sheep has not been dis-
posed of. The young flock are not fit for the market, and therefore
the temptation to dispose of them is partly removed. But I am not
prepared to swear that sheep-stealing has yet entirely disappeared.

Some of the places to which farmers are induced to send their
sheep do, in fact, turn out very poor indeed. One of my friends, who
had a confiding appearance about him, took a flock to a man at the
back-end, and set off* blithely for them in the April following. He
found the number complete, but something about them, which it
does not require much freemasonry to explain, caused him to follow
them home profoundly and sorrowfully ruminating. They were mere
skeletons ; and the old country blacksmith, who, no doubt, " had
passed many a remark " about them during their residence near his
smithy, threw himself in the way of the youth. " Are they all alive,
my man ? " *' They are." " Then they've ony just come out bat-i'-
hand." " I thought the same," said my informant. It appears that
the old smith meant, " They have stayed in, indeed, which is some-
thing; but they have done nothing — they have made no score." And
he hinted that sheep-owners would do well in future to inquire as to
the antecedents of the schoolmaster, whether he were a Dr. Arnold
or a Mr. Squeers.

Among the chief enemies of the sheep are holes. I said that the
louk grass keeps them free from disease, and that they thrive well
upon it, and I might have added that the flocks which inhabit swampy
peat soil are free from "foot-rot." To go further, sheep which
are already infected with this disease may be cured by turning them
out upon the bog. I may explain that there is a species of bog which
is not peaty, but of a clayey, tenacious character. It produces a
grass called by the shepherds " fluke grass " : a seductive but most
pernicious food. But in the bogs are holes — how they get there we
shall perhaps see later — and when the sheep is quietly nibbling off

A Moorland Sheep-Farm. 129

the moss-cops which overhang them, deceived by the heather and
ling which grow over the side, the dog suddenly startles it and causes
it to fall into the pit. As many as five victims have been found at
the same time in one of these traps.

The fact that we use steel monitors to illustrate what rams can do
in the way of warfare is some indication of our opinion of their
prowess. There were two rams of similar styles which met one
morning on the moor. One, just purchased, bore a bad character ;
the other had actually, on this very moorside, killed several com-
petitors. The owner of the latter is suspected of causing the meeting ;
the owner of the former saw it. At first they walked round each
other, and then they marched off twenty or thirty yards, as if it was
all over and the business ended. But now they commenced to pull
and champ or chew a piece of ling stubble. One bleated to the other
and was promptly answered. They then faced towards each other,
putting themselves into attitude, and, like arrows, shot together.
Being old pugilists, or batterers, they ran with their bodies almost
touching the ground, so that the shock might find them glued to the
earth. This is all- important, because anything so spindle-like as legs
would disappear like a spider's web. With all the art and crouching
of the home ram, however, he flew in a somersault over the stranger's
head, and the heart of the onlooker was in his mouth. They were
both alive, in spite of the shock, and the one who had stuck to, rather
than stood, his ground went back to see how his adversary fared.
They then separated for a second time, but did not go so far apart.
Then they met, and a third time retired to the end of the lists, and
finally withdrew for a fourth encounter, on each occasion the distance
being less. In the end they grazed amicably together, and for the
future the one who turned the somersault admitted his rival to be
the conqueror, although there was nothing further to denote the
reason. Thenceforward it would be said in sheep-circles, when
alluding to this encounter, as the slave of Aufidius said of Coriolanus,
" I do not say * thwack our general,' but he was always good enough
for him."

In the majority of such engagements one of the combatants is
killed.

The farmer, besides his flock of sheep, keeps a few milch cows,
from which, in his forefathers' days at least, if not now, butter was
produced of high esteem. The buttermilk, mixed with a little meal,
helps to feed the small stock of pigs which in summer time must
" find themselves."

He keeps a horse, and occasionally rears a colt. The work of the

130 The Gentleman s Magazine.

horse is varied. He does a little ploughing for potatoes and turnips ;
" leads " the hay and procures bracken for bedding ; and assists in
getting peat. Formerly, little else but this peat was used for fires.
On some farms the stock has not been entirely cleared out for a
quarter of a century. The digging of peat accounts for the numerous
holes which I have referred to as dangerous to sheep. The depth
of the cutting varies greatly. In earlier times each fanner had his
own appropriated breadth which it was his right to cut.

It is said that no bread tastes so well as that baked on the live
peat coal itself, and the ashes of peat make a splendid tillage : which
fact neutralises a few of the strictures of the press — whether Tory or
not it is not my duty to say — regarding some of the methods of the
Irish tenants. The Yorkshire, as well as the Irish, tenant has his
troubles, and I may venture to refer to them again. But the moors
of heather themselves seem ever full of joy : " Continual morning for
them and in them ; they themselves are Aurora, purple and cloudless,
stayed on all the happy hills."

II.

The sorrows of a moorland farmer are not few. I must not speak
of the arrivals of mutton from the River Plate and from New
Zealand, but of one or two matters which make his struggle with
these imports more difficult and distressing. The simplest way of
putting these difficulties is to say that a tenant-farmer is not his
own master. He cannot grow the crops which he thinks best, and
when his crops are grown he cannot deal with them to the greatest
advantage.

The question of game introduces itself into this important discussion
on crops. A farmer wishes to produce a little wheat straw for bedding
and thatching ; he can also do with a little wheat, in order that he
may get his batch ground for his household and his cattle. I will
for a moment imagine him to be more confiding and less suspicious
than he really is. I will imagine him to be so driven by blind
fate as to put in a little wheat, in a suitable situation, and I will ask the
world to watch the result with me. If we were ourselves to walk over
the ground, we should simply remark — " How well the wheat looks !"
after a certain time we should say — " It seems to be in a fair way
for a good crop if the rains keep off." But the gamekeeper, prowling
over the land, looks at the green sprouts with very different feelings.
At first he cannot believe his eyes, but afterwards he feels " it must
be, it is wheat." As soon as he is quite satisfied about this, he
scarcely confers with flesh and blood, but he writes out an advertise-

A Moorland Sheep-Farm. 131

ment which he forwards to a suitable paper. This advertisement
intimates that a good price will be given for hares of a certain age.
The appeal is well responded to, and forthwith a colony of hares are
*' taken, and brought, and clapped down upon the land," to use the
elegant words of my friend. The entire crop is thus devoted to the
feeding of these strange hares, in which he has not the slightest
interest ; not as much as the value of the seed is produced from the
field. It must be remembered, too, that a hare will sleep on the
moors, and come down daily from his couch, miles away, to eat from,
any crop which is specially pleasant to his taste.

It may be thought that the farmer has himself power to destroy
the hares which infest his wheat. He has this powder, but the landlord
has also an out-balancing power of finding another tenant if the hares^
suffer. Most of the farmers to whom I allude are on the annual
tenancy system, and the tenant is, as a matter of fact, entirely in the
gamekeeper's hands. One of the items, therefore, in our northern
paradise is wanting : the game is entirely the property of the landlord,
and is in his eyes the most valuable living thing upon the estate, not
excepting the tenant himself In any northern paradise this cannot
be : the farmer must have entire control over the game, and must be
able to deal with it as he thinks best Without a doubt he will take
care of it within due limits, and re-let or sell the shooting to the best
bidder or to his favourite sportsman. The keeper will be the servant
of the farmer, not his enemy and tyrant ; and probably a more
scientific* method of preserving some of the rarer species will arise ;
sport will become a better test of skill, poaching will be less possible ;
while shooting will give health to greater numbers of workers than it
does at present.

It is curious to note how the older men are much more nervous
about their landlord's displeasure than the younger ones are. The
older Israelites longed more ardently for the flesh-pots of Egypt than
the younger ones, and the generation of Aaron had to die out before
the generation of Joshua and Caleb could enter the Promised Land.

The farmer may not dispose of certain of his crops without his
landlord's leave, and consequently a dull, monotonous routine is
necessitated, which is good for no one. The man who has to contend
with American wheat and beef, with Australian mutton, with foreign
hay and oats and beans, cannot do so with shackled hands, nor by
means of a cut-and-dried system which is supposed to safeguard the
interests of the landlord ; but he can only compete by means of keen

> MDch might be added here as to the great variety of game which could be
on the land by using the different kinds of ground available.

132 The Genlkfnans Magazine.

wit and active energ)% which adopt every advantage of chemistry, and
adapt themselves to every demand of the townspeople who are close
to his fields. I was about to obtain relief in something like Donald's
method — ** I shall tamm the Boat if you will, and the Trouts — and
the Loch too ! " — but it is better not.

Perhaps the revelations which have been made in Ireland will
prevent any strong representations appearing as to the dwellings
which are thought suitable for some of the Yorkshire tenant-farmers.
I can only judge from the limited number of instances which I
have seen, and I must say that this fine old stronghold of the
English yeoman is not without its tenements which are only partially
roofed, destitute of every necessary adjunct of civilised life, and
utterly uninviting.

But even in the least luxurious farm-house, where the inmates one
and all have a hard struggle to earn a living, there is much to interest
and attract. The horse which makes its weekly journey to the market
town carries generally an alluring assortment of produce. After an
interval of decaj^ butter-making is improving rather than declining
of late years ; poultry- keeping is increasing ; mushrooms and black-
berries are becoming staple articles of sale ; and we hope soon to
see game and honey added to the list. Fruit has been neglected,
although it would do much to assist the weekly income ; vegetables
and flowers are now very rarely grown. Let the traveller point out
any human race throughout the world whose members are more
naturally formed to bring about a perfect state of farming than
the race of Yorkshire dalesmen. They are strong and active, careful,
shrewd, and persevering. If once started and filled with a little
cheerful confidence, some member of the family of the moorland
farmer would know each bee, be familiar with the haunts of every
hare, select good fruit trees, put in the most suitable vegetables, and
have a plentiful supply of eggs and poultry at all times, besides
being easily first in all the larger branches of the business — horses,
cattle, and sheep. No one like a Yorkshireman can understand
entirely the pleasure of " the trivial round, the common task " ; and
he would soon take earnestly to the only means of meeting foreign
competition. To encourage and assist him would not be an unworthy
effort of the landlord class and of the public.

So much for the potentialities of this worthy tenant race. Some
of their ways are strange. I do not find them very much at church.
The question is worth asking — how far his necessary duties to his
stock excuse this abstinence, and how far the clergy trouble them-
selves to interest and attract their parishioners. Their absence from

A Moorland Sheep- Farm, 133

church on Sundays is somewhat made up for by the very great regu-
larity with which they appear at all funerals. One of my friends,
who happened to be clad in his best clothes for some excursion of a
semi-holiday kind, was passing the old stone-breaker, by whom he
>vas accosted in these words : " Now, John, thou'st meade a mistack ;
they're not buryin' him to-day." The squire had, indeed, died, and
nothing but a funeral could properly account for the very respectable
clothes.

At some of the funerals there used to be singing as the procession
moved, and in one instance the minister lost his book, causing the
party to be thrown into a slight state of confusion. The chief
mourner — perhaps a little self-conscious, as rural folk sometimes are —
called out in impatience, " Now, come, sing something and gang on ;
we look very okward standing here." So that it has now become a
saying when anything puzzles, " Come, let's sing something and
gang on, as Tom Anderton said at t' buryin' of his mother."

A few relics of superstition may still be found in these regions.
The kitchen chimney in an old farm-house having taken fire, two
lads were poking in it to put out the smouldering soot, when, to their
surprise, a bottle fell down ; when they had wiped this bottle they
saw that it contained hair, pins, and needles. They did not open
it at the moment, but later, after showing it to their father, they
expressed their intention either of breaking or opening it. This,
with much fervour and excitement, he forbade them to do, lest the
charm or spell, which he declared emphatically must depend on this
bottle, should be broken also.

Naturally many of the superstitions are connected with their
stock, on which the farmers have to depend for existence. A calf
which dies under certain circumstances is buried feet upwards under
the groupstone, after having been stuck full of pins and needles.
This is done to prevent a recurrence of a similar calamity.

A fine old man, now living in decent retirement and comfort,
was accustomed to bind the churn with withies to drive out the
witch when the milk was too cold to turn : the scientific temperature
of Dr. Voelcker was not then arrived at. I knew this good man
well

It was considered unlucky not to scratch a cross upon the cheese
at Christmas time ; but this ancient usage belongs to a class other
than those referred to. The most remarkable case of survival of
superstition which I have myself encountered is the following, which
is true of a neighbour of mine within the last ten years. It was
considered unlucky if, after the birth of a calf, the owner did not distri-

134 T^^ Gentlefuans Magazine.

bute the " beastings " (the first milk) to the surrounding farmers' wives.
It was a most essential detail that the can or jug in which the milk
was sent should be returned unwashed. But details were nothing if
the original presentation was not made : the omission of this courtesy
was a most unlucky error. The farmer to w^hom I refer, through
some oversight or neglect, did not send the customary beastings to
one of the neighbours, and, " as ill-luck would have it," he was very
soon visited by a series of disasters, which he attributed, with all the
energy of heartfelt belief, to the witchcraft of the woman whom he
had overlooked.

We may still hear of the celebrated "barguest," or "guy trash" — the
animal w^ith great saucer-eyes, which walks on the tops of walls and
jingles chains. Wonderful stories are yet told of these creatures, and
descriptions are given as to how they walk round the house, and
look in at the windows, while, for fear of their eyes, some will draw
down the blinds as soon as darkness falls. Now that the aninial
itself has become extinct the name is applied to any ill-conditioned
horse or beast.

A personality less imaginary, but more illusive, than the last is
the " Will-o'-the-wisp," or " Peggy-wi'-th'-Iantern." Thomson says :

Drear is the state of the benighted wretch
Who then, bcwilder'd, wanders thro' the dark,
Full of pale fancies, and chimoeras huge ;
Nor visited by one directive ray,
From cottage streaming, or from any hall.
Perhaps impatient as he stumbles on,
Struck from the root of slimy rushes, blue,
The wildfire scatters round, or gathered trails
A length of flame deceitful o'er the moss ;
Whither decoy'd by the fantastic blaze,
Now lost and now renew'd, he sinks absorbed,
Rider and horse, amid the miry gulf.

The case which I am about to mention is not so bad as this,
but the light must in reality be very deceptive when it misleads the
moorland farmers and shepherds. One of these men was out in a
heavy, damp, foggy night, when he saw a light across the field
which he took to come from the lamp of some poachers. He went
towards it, but found that it shifted its position rather rapidly. He
thought it wiser, therefore, not to waste his breath by running, so
he called out, " Now, you've no need to run, I see who it is " ; but the
poachers made no reply. Consequently, he " made after them " as
fast as he could, to try to overtake them, but when he got near the
fence the light seemed to make a circle round almost to the spot

A Moorland Sheep-Farm. 135

which he had just left. So he went to the nearest fanner's house,
and acquainted the inmates that certain poachers were in the fields,
and a party set out to take them. " But," he said, " wherever we
went, * Will-o'-the-wisp ' was always somewhere else." " Peggy-wi'-
th'-lantem " — this " ignis faiuus or a ball of wildfire " — is hke
Bardolph's nose in the matter of moisture ; it prefers a wet
meadow of tenacious soil, in November, on a still night. The deep
ones who have studied her think that she is neither more ilor less
than a conflict of gases arising from the earth. The philosopher adds
that the world is a large " Peggy " — its bright things are never to be
realised ; following her is like going

Straight down the crooked lane
And all round the square.

I must not forget the sheep, which have to endure what the
" fantastic blaze " exults in. The damp atmosphere infects them
with a kind of catarrh, and makes them what the shepherds cal
"phantom-headed." And they appear to be most susceptible to
all coming changes in the weather — before a winter storm, for
instance, they are seen to become very nervous.

In the list of living things among which the moorland farmer
lives I have omitted my old friends the dogs, two of which find a
place near him, when his work is over, not far from the fire. In
one of the characteristic letters which I sometimes receive from my
" Yorkshire shepherd " occurs a passage which I will venture to
introduce in this place. Speaking of a celebrated Scotch dog, he
says that a photograph would greatly assist those who wish to study
this breed of Collie : " it would bring symmetry and intelligence
together, as he has a good head. The late Duke of Wellington, I
have been told, used to say that he liked to see a man with a long
head — it bespoke a long memory, and I quite think so in sheep-
dogs. I am sorry to say that many of the dogs we have lack that
propensity, although they are the descendants of the dog Rik, whose
offspring were kept in this neighbourhood, and were so highly
esteemed that they had them stuffed and put into a glass case (of
course, after they were dead) ; but I think we have not many here
that merit that bestowal." I am not quite sure whether my friend
means the phrase in parenthesis for a joke, or to correct any suspicion
I might have that the dogs were killed before the time in order
that they might be conveniently stuffed.

I do not think that I wish any evil to landlords ; I am sure that
I wish every blessing on good ones, of whom I could name many ;

136 The Gentleman s Magazine,

but I wish that the system did not stand so grievously in the way,
in many districts, of better farming and more successful English,
as opposed to foreign, work. I should like to see a combination of
all classes to bring about good and cheap mutton ; plentiful game,
butter, and eggs ; vegetables and fruit in perfection and in plenty.
Lastly, from the game- and sheep-stocked moors let us hope soon
to hear the drowsy hum of bees, whose various homes shall be,
with the other living things, on every farm. If town and country
are neither of them misled by any " Peggy- wi'-th'-lantern," but com-
bine for the benefit of all, we may yet attain a golden prime, both
in our cities and on our moorland farms.

GEORGE RADFORD.

^Z7

VERNON AND THE JENKINS'

EAR WAR.

ADMIRAL VERNON was not a great man, nor was the war in
which he chiefly distinguished himself a very memorable war.
But, although now forgotten, they were considered of the first
importance 140 years ago. Vernon's claims to remembrance are that
for a short time he was England's popular hero, who gained one small
naval success, which was shortly afterwards counterbalanced by a
greater disaster. To a certain extent Vernon deserved the popular
applause. He was a brave and able officer, who did well what he had
to do as long as he was left alone ; but he was possessed of a most
violent temper, which rendered him unfit to act in concert with others.
In the events about to be related he was more than ordinarily
unfortunate, because, in his most important expedition, he had as a
colleague a man who, according to all accounts, would have ruffled
a less inflammable temper than Vernon's. The war in which these
events took place is certainly one of the most peculiar mentioned in
English history. It commenced through the natural indignation of
the people when they were informed that several of their fellow
countrymen had been most cruelly treated ; but, with the exception
of Vernon's expedition, very little else seems to have been done
against our original antagonist Spain. We drifted, as was the custom
in those days, into a war with France ; and our hands were so fully
occupied with the Dettingens, Fontenoys, and Cullodens, that there
was no time or thought to be wasted on Spain. But, as far as the
Spanish war went, Vernon was undoubtedly the most conspicuous
figure concerned in it. Very little is known of him biographically,
but what little there is shall be briefly given.

Edward Vernon was born at Westminster on November 12, 1684.
His father, James Vernon, descended from an old English family,,
was a prominent politician during the reign of William III., having
been Secretary of State to that monarch in the latter portion of his
reign. Young Edward, our hero, was sent to Westminster School at

138 Tlie Gentleman s Magazine.

the age of seven, and, after spending several years there under the
rule of the celebrated Dr. Busby, he proceeded to Oxford, where
he particularly devoted himself to the study of astronomy and the
theory of navigation preparator)* to entering the Royal Navy, a
step on which it is said he decided in spite of the opposition of
his father.

His first experience of naval warfare was obtained under Admiral
Hopson, who so gallantly broke the boom at Vigo in 1702. Soon
after Vernon appears to have been second lieutenant of the
Resolution^ in which vessel he made his first acquaintance with
the West Indies. In 1 704, having returned, he was with Sir George
Rooke when the Archduke Charles of Austria, the titular king of
Spain, was conveyed to Lisbon, and seems to have made himself
either so useful or agreeable that His Majesty presented him with a
ring, and a purse containing 100 guineas. In the same year he was
present at Rooke's great victory off Malaga ; and on January 22,
1 706, he was promoted to the rank of post-captain, and appointed
to the Dolphin frigate, in which ship he proceeded to the
Mediterranean. In 1 708, in command of the Jersey^ he sailed for
the West Indies, and on that station, under the command of Sir C.
Wager, he remained for a considerable period ; and, although no
great actions were fought, still, Vernon found several occasions on
which he distinguished himself in single combats with the enemy.
AMiilst in those seas he also was ordered to cruise off Porto Bello
and Carthagena, and then obtained knowledge of those and other
places, which in future years was of great ser\-ice to him.

After the Peace of Utrecht, Vernon was employed on various
stations, and, although he had no opportunities of increasing his
reputation as a warrior, he gained the character of being a thoroughly
efficient and energetic officer. In 1722 he appeared on a new scene,
having been returned to the House of Commons as member for
Penr)'n in Cornwall, for which place he was also returned at the
General Election in 1727. In 1734 he was returned for Ports-
mouth, which he represented until 1741. On his entrance into
political life Vernon immediately joined the ranks of the Opposition,
the self-styled Patriots, led by Pulteney, and made himself early
conspicuous by his speeches, which were more remarkable for energy
than for polish. For many years he appears to have been without
professional employment, and the Fates seemed to have decreed that
he was to spend the remainder of his days with no other distinction
than that of being a noisy and pugnacious member of the House of
Commons. Events abroad, however, to which we must now turn

Vernon and the Jenkins' Ear War, 139

oyr attention, soon gave Vernon a chance of letting off his
superfluous energies in a more congenial and honourable direction.

Every year since the Peace of Utrecht the feelings between
Spain and England had grown less and less friendly. These
animosities arose chiefly out of the conduct of both parties as to the
Asiento Treaty. By this treaty English trade in negroes and other
merchandise with Spanish America was limited to one ship of 600
tons burden. The English traders kept to the letter of the treaty,
but violated its true intention to the best of their abilities. A
vessel of 600 tons burden certainly was the only one which was
supposed to have direct communication with the Spaniards ; but as
this vessel was kept cruising off the American coast, and was
replenished with goods and provisions by small craft from Jamaica
as often as required, the Asiento ship, as Carlyle remarks, was
converted into a floating shop, " the tons burden and tons sale of
which set arithmetic at defiance." The Spanish authorities naturally
resented these frequent breaches of the treaty, and their guarda
castas became suspicious of every English vessel that appeared in
those waters. Many ships were boarded and searched — some
justifiably, some not— but the Spaniards made no distinctions ; and
for several years reports were constantly reaching home of the gross
cruelty sustained by British seamen at their hands.

Some years passed without much official notice being taken of
these cruelties until, in 1738, when the "Patriots," having failed in
their endeavours to obtain a reduction of the army, suddenly adopted
an opposite course, and loudly clamoured for a war with Spain.

In this attempt they were more successful, not only as there was
some reason in their arguments, but also because the nation was tiring
of Walpole's long and peaceful administration. That minister was
represented aT being weak and timid in foreign affairs, and as " the cur
dog of Britain and the spaniel of Spain." Petitions from the aggrieved
merchants were presented asking for redress. These were sup-
ported by the eloquence of Pulteney and Wyndham ; and the energies
of the great William Pitt and of Murray, the future Earl of Mansfield,
were exerted on the same behalf. Several captains and seamen were
examined at the bar of the House, and old stories were raked up for
the purpose of strengthening the cause of the war-party ; amongst
others, the most celebrated being " The Fable of Jenkins* Ear," as it was
called later on by Burke. This Jenkins, seven years previously (i 73 1),
had sailed to the West Indies as master of the Rebecca, After loading a
cargo of sugar at Jamaica he proceeded on his homeward voyage. But,
contrary winds preventing his progress, he was for some time kept

140 The Gentleman s Magazine.

hanging about near the Havannah. Whilst there, he was boarded by a
^^2iVLy^\guarda costa^ and, although nothing contraband was discovered,
nor was it proved that he had visited any of the prohibited ports, he
was, nevertheless, treated with great and brutal cruelty. He was hung
up at the yard-arm to extort a confession as to the whereabouts of
the supposed contraband goods. The halter, however, not working
satisfactorily, the cabin-boy was tied to his feet to add to its efficac)';
but the Spaniards, apparently not being adepts in the art of knots
and nooses, the boy succeeded in escaping, much to the relief of
Jenkins. He, poor fellow, was hoisted up three times, but as no
confession could be wrung from him he was at last released, but not
before one of the Spaniards, in his exasperation, tore off Jenkins'
left ear, which had previously been nearly severed by a blow from
one of their cutlasses. The ear was then flung in his face, and he
was told to take it to his king and tell him about it. The coast-
guards then left, taking with them the Rebecca's sextant and other
property and goods to the value of about ;^ii2.

Jenkins' story, as delivered to the House of Commons, created
a great sensation, especially when, after producing the ear wrapped
up in cotton- wool, he was asked what his feelings had been whilst so
cruelly treated. He replied, " I recommended my soul to God and
my cause to my country." And his country justified his confidence
by taking up his cause with fervour and enthusiasm, although
there were many who denied that Jenkins had ever lost his ear, and
others, more cruel still, who, whilst admitting his loss, suggested that
the pillory had had more to do with it than the Spaniards. How-
ever, be the truth what it may, Walpole had, after fruidess pacific
negotiations, to bow to the popular demand, and measures were
taken to retaliate on Spain. On July 10, 1739, an Order in Council
was issued for reprisals and granting letters of marque, and on
October 19 following war was formally declared.

During the debates which preceded the Spanish war, and which
arc memorable as having first brought to the public notice the
greatest of all English ministers, William Pitt, probably no one
took a more violent part than the member for Portsmouth.
Vernon's invectives were so furious that he was on several occa-
sions in danger of being confined in the Tower. He advocated
stroni; measures against the American dominions of Spain, and
undoriook that with six ships of the line he would take Porto Bello,
one of the strongest and most beautiful of the Spanish possessions.
These words made him a great favourite with the populace j at the
same time they were considered as a reflection on Admiral Hosier,

Vernon and the yenkins Ear War. 141

who, in 1726, with twenty ships of the hne, had effected no captures
or exploits of distinction. Poor Hosier, however, had only orders to
watch, and not to act. Half the men of the fleet died of disease,
and the admiral himself sickened and died from the distress caused
by his inglorious and miserable occupation. As a fact of history he
is now forgotten, but I hope is still remembered as the subject of
Glover's beautiful ballad, " Admiral Hosier's Ghost."

When war was determined upon, Vernon's offer was accepted, and
he, to his own great astonishment, was appointed to the command of
the West Indian fleet with the rank of Vice-Admiral of the Blue.
This appointment created a considerable amount of comment at the
time, as it was then a most unusual occurrence for a prominent mem-
ber of the Opposition to be appointed to any place of trust and
honour. Walpole's enemies soon, however, succeeded in finding
out, or inventing, reasons for such conduct in the fact that the com-
mand would remove a dangerous and popular adversary, and that
Walpole probably hoped the six ships demanded by Vernon would
not suflUce for conquest, but only for defeat, and thereby bring dis-
grace on him and his supporters.

Accordingly, Vernon sailed on July 20, 1739, with his flag at the
mizen of the Burfordy with nine men-of-war and a sloop. Of these
nine vessels three were of smaller size, and Vernon thus had only
under his command for aggressive purposes the six ships he had
desired. The admiral proceeded on his voyage in the hopes of in-
terrupting some of the Spanish treasure ships, but failing in this he
sailed for Jamaica, where he arrived on October 23, and there leaving
the smaller vessels he appeared off Porto Bello on November 20.

Porto Bello, so named from the beauty of its harbour, is situated
on the Isthmus of Darien or Panama. The harbour is almost circular
in form, the entrance being defended by a fort known as the Iron
Castle. The town lay at the far end of the bay, protected by a
strong fort called Castillo de la Gloria. On the morning of the 21st
the Burfordy Hampton Courts Princess Louisa^ Strafford^ and Nonvich
proceeded in line of battle to attack the town, the Sheerness having
been left to cruise outside. But the winds proving contrary it was
only possible to operate against the Iron Castle at the entrance of
the harbour. The ships were piloted close up to the fort by Captain
Rentone, and immediately commenced a cannonade, together with
a warm fire of small arms, under cover of which the seamen and
troops were landed, and although no breach had been made, the
sailors clambered up into the fort, pulling the soldiers up after them
and soon compelled the Spaniards to surrender at discretion. During

VOU CCLXXI. NO. 1928. j^

142 The Gentleman s Magazine.

the night, the vessels all having gained the interior of the harbour,
they drifted out of range of the town and of the Gloria Castle, with
the exception of the admiral's ship, upon which the fort opened fire,
and during the greater part of the night the duel was continued
between the fort and the Burford ; but soon after daylight, on the
22nd, a white flag was hoisted on the fort, which, together with the
town, was soon after taken possession of by the British. In these
operations only seven English lives were lost. After the surrender the
forts were destroyed, and several vessels in the harbour were taken
or sunk. Ten thousand dollars were also captured ; but Vernon
allowed no plundering, and assigned his share of prize money to the
sailors as some compensation for their disappointment at not being
allowed to plunder, or to cut off the ears of the Spaniards, as many
ardently desired ; one sailor, indeed, apologised to his wife for not
sending her a Spanish ear, and added as an excuse, ''our good
admiral, God bless him, was too merciful."

After the victory, Vernon, on December 13, proceeded with his
fleet towards Jamaica. During the passage very bad weather was
encountered, and several of his ships, including the flag-ship, the
Burford, were injured or dispersed. He having shifted his flag to
the Strafford eventually reached Port Royal, where the fleet had to
remain some time for repairs and reinforcements. This interval was
not wholly wasted, as many single combats took place between the
men-of-war and Spanish privateers, and several nests of pirates were
attacked and destroyed.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards had been busily strengthening the
defences of Carthagena, which they knew would be Vernon's next
point of attack. The Governor, Don Bias de Leso, amused himself
with sending insolent messages to the English Admiral, hoping to
have the pleasure of seeing him before he left those waters. To
which Vernon replied he would most certainly call in person
at the earliest opportunity. Accordingly, on February 25, 174O9
the fleet sailed from Jamaica and appeared off" Carthagena — ^the
strongest of the Spanish towns on the South American main-
land— on the evening of March 3. On March 6 and the
few following days, Vernon attempted to bombard the town, and
although several houses, churches, and other harmless buildings
were destroyed or damaged, he found he could not greatly injure the
town from the sea, and, therefore, resolved to abandon the attack
until he could be supported by a strong body of land forces. On
March 10 he accordingly sailed for Porto Bello to refit and repair,
leaving two of his ships to cruise ofi* and watch the harbour. Having

Vernon and the Jenkins Ear War. 143

watered and provisioned his fleet, Vernon put to sea on March 22
and proceeded to Fort Chagre, a notorious stronghold of pri-
vateers and pirates, situate on the Isthmus of Darien, and only a short
distance from Porto Bello. On his arrival he immediately com-
menced to bombard the place, and after a vigorous cannonade had
been kept up by three ships of the line, a flag of truce was hung
out on Monday the 24th, and the Governor and troops immediately
capitulated. Vernon ordered the fort and other defences to be razed
to the ground, also the Custom House, from which were previously
removed an immense quantity of valuable stores kept there for the
use of the Spanish galleons and privateers. The guarda costa vessels
in the harbour were also destroyed, but the town and people were
in all respects unmolested. During the next few months Vernon
accomplished but little with his fleet, waiting anxiously for the rein-
forcements of land and sea forces with which he hoped to be able to
destroy Carthagena. Several of his ships, however, continued to
cruise about in the West Indian seas, and frequent combats took
place between single vessels. The most noticeable of the captures
eff*ected by the English was that of a Spanish vessel commanded
by one of Don Bias' chief lieutenants, Don Apolanco, the identical
oflUcer, as it was asserted, who operated on the ear of poor
Jenkins.

Meanwhile the news of Vernon's successes had created the
greatest enthusiasm and excitement in England. He was com-
pared, in prose and poetry, with Raleigh and the other naval heroes
of England who had humbled the power of Spain ; and Mr. Cave,
the then proprietor of the Gentleman s Magazine^ in order to keep in
with the spirit of the times, employed his chief literary hack, Samuel
Johnson, to write for his periodical the lives of Blake and Drake.
Both Houses of Parliament, and the Ix>rd Mayor, Aldermen, and
Common Council of the City of London presented addresses of
congratulation to His Majesty on the successes achieved by his
sea-forces ; both addresses particularly emphasising the fact that
Porto Bello had been taken " with six ships only." Even Walpole
and the Duke of Newcastle gave great entertainments in honour
of the event. Captain Rentone, who had piloted the fleet into
Porto Bello, having brought home despatches from Vernon, was
presented by the King with a purse of 200 guineas for his good
news, and was promised the command of a 60-gun ship. During
the remainder of the year the public enthusiasm continued un-
abated, and Vernon was regarded as the hero of his country, and
the avenger of her wrongs. The anniversary of his birthday was

144 ^^^^ Gentleman s Magazine.

kept in a right royal fashion ; bells ringing, bonfires burning, eating
and drinking and illuminations all over the City of London and
throughout the kingdom. It appears that on that day a worthy
gentleman of the name of Benn was promoted to the dignity of the
Aldermanic gown. This event, in conjunction with the birthday
festivities, proved too much for an honest parish clerk, who broke
out into poetry, as follows :

Hail, happy day ! let Britons say amen,
That gave to Vernon birth — the robe to Benn.

The anniversary of the capture of Porto Bello was celebrated with
equal honours and rejoicings ; and as the hero of inn signboards
Vernon had no rivals in his own time except, perhaps, the Duke of
Cumberland and the Protestant Hero of Prussia.

About this time another celebrated public character was receiving
the rewards of his bravery. On December 12 the Directors of
tl)e East India Company presented Captain Jenkins (our earless
friend) with 300 guineas for having repulsed, after nineteen hours'
fighting, an attack made on his vessel, and those under his convoy,
by pirates off Goa.

At the General Election in the early partof 1741 the name of
Vernon was a watchword in many places, a,nd he was returned
triumphantly for Ipswich, Penryn, and Rochester, and polled heavily
though unsuccessfully for Westminster and London. Before this,
however, the Government had at last got ready for sea a large fleet
to reinforce Vernon, under the command of Sir Chaloner Ogle, con-
sisting of 25 ships of the line, several transports and smaller craft
having on board about 7,000 troops under the command of Lord
Cathcart. The Opposition, of course, and certainly with some reason,
complained bitterly of the great delay in strengthening Vernon's
hands. It was ascribed to a malicious desire of the Government that
Vernon might be defeated and ruined before the reinforcements
reached him. The true reason, however, I think, may be readily
found in the great difficulty then experienced in manning a large
fleet and preparing it for sea. But whatever the cause may have
been, Sir C. Ogle and his fleet at length set sail, after various futile
attempts, on October 26, 1 740. There was one vessel in this force
which ought to be very noticeable to us. The Cumberland^ of 80
guns, carrying 600 men, had on board a poor young Scotch surgeon's
mate, earning a salary of from thirty shillings to two pounds a month.
His name was Tobias Smollett, and to him we owe the most lucid
and authentic account of this expedition : an expedition memorable.

•/ ; • : . . •

Vernon and the Jenkins Ear War, 145

if for nothing else, as having given to the great novelist his first and
sole experience of the British navy, its officers and men, of which he
afterwards made such valuable and well-known use. To Smollett,
also, we owe a vivid description of the utter misery and want of care
that then existed in the navy. For many generations England had
shown the greatest indifference as to the comfort and lives of those
to whom she owed her mihtary glory, but that callousness, perhaps,
never prevailed more than at the time of which we are writing. In
addition to Smollett's evidence we have another account of one of the
most wicked pieces of inhumanity ever perpetrated by any Govern-
ment, and which took place only a few weeks before Ogle's fleet
sailed. Commodore Anson had been appointed to command a
squadron which was to sail round Cape Horn and act in concert
with Vernon on the Spanish main. Anson's instructions were to take on
board a regiment of foot, but when his squadron was ready for sea, he
found that the Cabinet, in spite of the objections of Sir Charles Wager,
the First Lord of the Admiralty, had ordered 500 Chelsea out-pen-
sioners to be taken on board instead of the troops promised. These
poor men, who had been pensioned on account of old age, or of wounds
received in the service of their country, naturally felt the cruelty of
this order, the consequence being that, when Anson prepared to take
them on board, he only found 259 of the oldest and most decrepit
waiting for him at Portsmouth, as all who were possessed of the least
strength or vigour of limb had run away. Of these 259 poor old
cripples not one returned alive. With forces composed of similar
materials to these Anson proceeded on that voyage round the world,
which, although not assisting Vernon, has rendered the old commo-
dore the hero of one of the most memorable expeditions in our naval
amials.

After a long and tedious voyage Sir C. Ogle joined Vernon at
Jamaica on January 9, i74r. Before the fleet arrived at Port Royal^
a great loss had been sustained by the death at sea of General Lord
Cathcart. He was everywhere regarded as a capable and efficient
officer, and what added more to the grief felt at his loss, was that
he was succeeded in the command by Brigadier-General Wentworth,
who was as generally considered to be totally incompetent.

Vernon now found himself at the head of the largest armament
that had ever been seen in the West Indian seas. He had 124 sail,
large and small ; and the troops under the command of Wentworth,
including the American regiments, numbered about 10,000. On
March 4 this large armament appeared off Carthagena, the fleet
sailing in three divisions, one under each of the Admirals, Vernon

146 The Gentleman s Magazine.

and Ogle, and the third under Commodore Lestock — the same
Lestock who a few years later rendered himself conspicuous by his
inactivity during the sea-fight off Toulon, and who, instead of being
shot, as he most richly deserved, was honourably acquitted by one
of the peculiar courts-martial that flourished in those days. The
fleet anchored in the open bay ofl* Carthagena, and it was soon found
that Don Bias had not been wasting his time, and that he was
thoroughly prepared to defend his charge. Several days were spent
in reconnoitring, in order to discover the most likely places for a
successful attack. The town of Carthagena lies at the far end of an
inner harbour, which is entered by a small mouth called by the
Spaniards the Boca-chica (little mouth). This Boca-chica was
strongly defended by forts, strong booms, and sunken ships, and, as
it was necessary to capture these forts before an attack could be
made on the defences of the town, a furious bombardment was com-
menced against them. Under fire from the ships some of the troops
were landed, and erected their batteries, and for sixteen days the
Boca-chica forts sustained the heavy fire from the sea and shore. At
length, on March 25, it was resolved in a council of war to storm the
chief fort that evening, and whilst a portion of the fleet was occupy-
ing the attention of the enemy's men-of-war and of the smaller coast
defences, the attack was made and the Spanish forces were driven
out and fled towards the town. A few days later another large fort,
the Castle Grand, was captured, and, the entrance to the harbour now
being in the hands of the British, Vernon sent home a despatch con-
taining news of the successes and brimful of hope as to the future.
The news was received with more than the usual rejoicings ; medals
were even struck in honour of the capture of Carthagena, and Vernon
was declared to be the saviour of his country's honour.

So far all had gone well — there had been hard blows given and
sustained — the disposition of the forces had been skilful, and land
and sea troops had been worked well and willingly together. But
now a change took place. The impetuous and irascible Vernon
made no attempt to hide his contempt for his colleague Wentworth,
whom he regarded as dilatory and incompetent. The defences at
the entrance of the harbour having been taken and destroyed, the
Spanish ships sunk and the booms broken, Vernon regarded the
naval portion of the operations as complete and finished. He asked
why Wentworth did not go at once and take the town ? Wentworth
said he could not do so without the co-operation of the fleet. Vernon
repHed it was impossible for him to get his ships up to the town.
And so the leaders openly quarrelled. At length, after angry recrimi-

Vernon and the Jenkins Ear War. 147

nations and delay, Wentworth'got his troops landed preparatory to
attacking Fort San Lazaro, the strongest of the interior forts, and
which was between him and the towa Vernon recommended carry-
ing the place by storm. Wentworth said batteries must be erected.
Batteries were accordingly commenced, and then Wentworth changed
his mind and thought storming would be better, and gave orders for
the works to cease. This last plan was strongly opposed by two of
Wentworth's officers. General Blakeney, the future defender of
Minorca when Byng failed, and Colonel Wolfe, of the Marines, the
father of the great general immortalised by his victory before Quebec,
and by Thackeray in the " Virginians." Meanwhile, whilst their
superiors were quarrelling and their general making up his mind,
the rainy season was having a dreadful effect on the troops. They
fell down dead or dying from scurvy or fever, not only in hundreds,
but in thousands, and, as they had no medical assistance on shore,
the animosities of the commanders greatly increased the horrors of
their situation. Wentworth disdained to ask help from Vernon, who,
in his turn, would not make overtures to Wentworth. And so things
went on until Wentworth had at last determined to storm the place.
The troops appointed for this undertaking advanced in two columns
up the hill on which the fort was situated, and, in spite of a galling
and a continuous fire, they marched up with a dogged firmness simi-
lar to that exhibited a few years later at Fontenoy, and added one
more to the list of combats, so large in English military history, where
the courage and heroism of the troops have more than compensated
for the almost perpetual blunders of their leaders — a fierce and stub-
bom fight having been kept up for four hours, and the attacking
party having lost more than half of their numbers, they were at last
compelled to retreat to their camp, which they did in good order.

The admiral and general now at length found one subject on
which they could agree, namely, that as it did not seem probable
that Carthagena was to be captured, it would be wiser to retire from
the place than to throw away any more of the valuable lives under
their charge; and accordingly, on April 16, all the troops were em-
barked, and, after having destroyed all the captured forts and having
removed everything that the Spaniards might have considered a
trophy, the fleet set sail for Jamaica. On their arrival at Port Royal
on May 19, Vernon and Wentworth spent the larger portion of their
time in quarrelling and heaping reproaches on each other. To a
certain extent both were blameable. Wentworth was without doubt
thoroughly inexperienced and useless, and Vernon, who'se ability
and energy nobody questioned, probably let his feelings of anger

148 The Gentleman s Magazine.

and contempt get the better of his judgment, and perhaps did not
render that assistance to Wentworth which he would have done if they
had been working amicably together.

Amongst the officers engaged in this disastrous expedition, one^
Captain Laurence Washington, of the American regiment, is well
worthy of notice. He gained the friendship and esteem of both the ad-
miral and general, and greatly distinguished himself at the attack on the
San Lazaro fort. After the failure of this attack he returned home to
his estate in Virginia, to which he gave the name of Mount Vernon,
in honour of the admiral under whom he had served and whom he
respected and admired. At Mount Vernon he acted the part of the
kindest of guardians to his young half-brother George, to whom, on
his death, he left the estate, where the great American patriot lived
in peace and happiness after the Revolutionary War was over, and
where he died and was buried. Mount Vernon, as a place of pilgrim-
age, is almost as dear to Englishmen as to Americans, who equally
admire the great and noble man who lived and died there.

Soon after the arrival of the fleet at Jamaica, the admiral diminished
his strength by sending home several of his ships under the command
of Conmiodore Lestock. Vernon himself was so dissatisfied with the
result of the Carthagena expedition, and with his colleague Wentworth,
that he asked permission to return home, but the opinion of the
country was still so strong in his favour that he was requested to
retain his command, and instructions were at the same time sent for
an attack to be made on the island of Cuba. Accordingly, on July i,
1 74 1, Vernon sailed with his fleet of eight ships of the line, twelve
frigates and smaller vessels, and forty transports on board of which
were 3,000 troops under Wentworth's command. They arrived in
Guantanamo Bay on the south side of the island on the i8th, and so
confident did the leaders feel of a complete conquest that they re-
named the bay, calling it Cumberland Harbour in honour of that
royal Duke who equally, though by different means, added so much
disgrace to the English arms at Culloden and Closter-Seven. This
achievement was all that the expedition accomplished, because,
although the troops were landed with the intention of taking Santiago
by surprise, yet Wentworth, after having allowed almost half of his force
to become inefficient through sickness and fever, wrote to Vernon
informing him that he thought he could do nothing, and that the
troops had better be re-embarked. Vernon expostulated and
stormed, but as Wentworth would do nothing with his troops, and as
their numbers were fast diminishing, the admiral had at last to
acquiesce, and returned to Jamaica with only 2,000 efficient soldiers

Vernon and the Jenkins Ear War. 149

— the sole remnant of the large force which had been sent out to the
West Indies under Lord Cathcart. This last exploit proved too
much for the temper of Vernon, and he wrote to the Duke of New-
castle, the Secretary of State : " Though I pretend to very little
experience in military affairs by land, yet it is my belief that if the
sole command had been in me, both in the Carthagena expedition
and the Cuba one, His Majesty's forces would have made themselves
masters both of Carthagena and Santiago, and with the loss of much
fewer men than have died."

After this failure, the fleet cruised about for some months without
falling in with the enemy, and nothing beyond a few naval duels
occurred until March 1742, when, further reinforcements having
arrived, the admiral and general determined to sail for Porto Bello,
and having there landed the troops, to march across the Isthmus of
Darien and attack the rich town of Panama. Vernon's surprise and
indignation may be well imagined when, on the arrival of the fleet and
troops at Porto Bello, a council of the land officers, held even before
the troops were landed, and in spite of the fact that the Spanish
garrison had retreated from Porto Bello and there was nothing to
oppose them, decided that the attack would be impracticable, and
advised an immediate return to Jamaica. Vernon, of course, could do
nothing alone, and so, after stormy debates and angry expostulations,
had to submit, and the fleet accordingly sailed for Jamaica. After
this useless and ludicrous parade, there can he but little doubt that
Vernon experienced the greatest satisfaction when, on September 23
following, he received a letter from the Duke of Newcastle ordering
him and General Wentworth to return to England.

Before leaving the subject of Vernon's West Indian command,
his connection with one of the most romantic episodes in the history
of the British Peerage ought to be mentioned. James Annesley,
whose adventures are described in " Peregrine Pickle," and whose
history supplied materials for " Guy Mannering," and formed the
foundation of the late Charles Reade's " Wandering Heir," having
escaped from slavery in which he had been kept for many years on
the North American mainland, besought the protection of the British
admiral. Vernon, having heard his story, and fully believing in his
claims to the Anglesey title and estates, furnished him with clothes
and other necessaries suitable to his station, and otherwise behaved
with the greatest kindness to him until he was enabled to give the
claimant a passage in a homeward-bound vessel. Vernon's kindness,
however, did not end here, as he wrote to the Duke of Newcastle a
detailed account of the young man's misfortunes and adventures, and

150 The Gentleman s Magazine.

recommended him to the Duke*s notice. The Anglesey peerage trial,
the longest then known, will be found described in many books of
romance and history, but it is most probable that, if it had not been
for the generosity of Vernon, this celebrated trial would never have
taken place — a trial which has a double advantage over another well-
known and more recent claimant case in being much shorter and very
much more interesting and romantic.

Vernon and Wentworth sailed from Jamaica in the latter part of
1742. They very wisely returned home in different vessels, and on
January 6, 1743, Vernon landed at Bristol, where he was received with
every demonstration of respect and esteem. The freedom of the city
was presented to him in a gold box, and a few days later he took up the
freedom of the City of London, which had previously been conferred
upon him ; and he also was elected a member of the Merchant
Taylors' Company, on which occasion he left 100 guineas to be
distributed amongst the poor of the neighbourhood. From the
Government he received no substantial favours, although his friends
were now in power, having succeeded in overthrowing Sir Robert
Walpole, but in a very short period he was successively promoted to
the ranks of Vice- Admiral of the Red, Admiral of the Blue, and
Admiral of the White. By the public, however, in spite of the
disastrous failures that had attended the West Indian forces, there
seemed to be no diminution in the favour and estimation with which
he was regarded. The popular voice, and to a great extent rightly,
declared all the disasters to be due to the indecision and incompe-
tence of Wentworth, and Vernon was regarded as a hero who had
been thwarted in every direction by his enemies. As to his ability
and courage there was no doubt, and his violent temper and irasci-
bility were considered to have been quite natural and proper under
the trying circumstances in which he and the fleet had been placed.

Shortly after his return Vernon elected to take his seat in the
House of Commons for Ipswich, for which town he was also elected
in 1747 and 1754. He devoted his attention to matters connected
with his profession, especially as to the best means of manning the
navy. His language was sometimes violent and unparliamentary, as,
for instance, when he declared that there was not this side hell a
nation so burdened with taxes as England. His pen likewise was not
idle, and was equally intemperate with his tongue. Amongst his
publications is especially noticeable the pamphlet containing his letters
to the Duke of Newcastle, wherein he publicly expressed his contempt
for his late colleague Wentworth.

At the time of the invasion of England by the Young Pretender,

Vernon and the Jenkin^ Ear War. 151

the public clamour pointed to Vernon as an officer who ought to have
high command during that time of danger. He was accordingly
appointed to the command of the fleet in the Downs. This
command he retained for a few months, during which time he showed
all his accustomed energy and ability ; and although he never had
the good fortune to meet the enemy, still, he justified the public
confidence by keeping that portion of the coast under his charge cleai
and free from invasion. This was the last command Vernon ever
held, as shortly after he had struck his flag he was made the victim of
a most unjustifiable piece of official tyranny.

In the early part of 1746 two pamphlets appeared, respectively
entitled " A Specimen of Naked Truth from a British Sailor," and
"Some Seasonable Advice from an Honest Sailor." In these
pamphlets were several uncomplimentary remarks on the way in
which naval affairs were managed, and on the statesmen who were
then at the head of the Admiralty. Many observations and copies of
letters contained therein seemed conclusively to point to Vernon as
the author ; and there appears to have been no doubt that he was
so. In the month of March, 1746, he received a letter from the
Secretary to the Admiralty Board, asking if he were the author or
not. To this Vernon returned no reply ; and on April 4 another
letter was written to him, to which Vernon answered that the request
was unprecedented, but if the Board demanded his presence he
would duly attend. Accordingly, on the loth, as he was leaving the
House of Commons, he received an order to attend the Board at
their office at seven o'clock that evening. Vernon obeyed the order,
and, after being kept waiting some considerable time, he was
admitted to the presence of the Board, the Duke of Bedford, the
First Lord, presiding. The Duke, after delivering a long lecture on
the power of the Admiralty Board, and on his authority as its head,
and after expressing astonishment that Vernon had not thought
proper to answer the Secretary's letters as he had been expected to do,
demanded from the Admiral an answer, " Aye or No," to the question
whether he was the author of the obnoxious pamphlets. To this
Vernon replied that he fully admitted the authority of the Board as
the head of naval affairs, and recognised the Commissioners' right to
order him to perform any military duty, or to ask him any question
relative to his profession, but as to the pamphlets he denied their
right, telling them that he regarded this as a private matter, over
which the Admiralty had no control, and therefore refused to answer
their question. At the same time he expressed great astonishment
that an officer of his years and services should be treated in such an

152 The Ge7ttlemans Magazine.

extraordinary manner. When Vernon had finished the Duke of
Bedford informed him that if he would give no other answer, he might
withdraw, and they knew what they had to do. On the following day
Vernon received a letter from the Secretary, informing him that the
circumstances of the case had been laid before the King, who had
been pleased to order Vernon's name to be struck off the list of flag
officers. Whatever may be our opinion of Vernon's discretion and
conduct, we cannot but feel that he was treated in a most unjust
and cruel manner. It seems monstrous to us, with our ideas of
justice, that a gallant and able officer should be degraded and
debarred from his profession, without his having been put upon any
form of trial, or his case having been submitted to the least investi-
gation. There is another cause for regret in the fact that that fine
old sailor Anson was one of the Commissioners of the Admiralty at
the time. It is almost impossible to imagine that the sturdy old
circumnavigator was any party to such a miserable piece of work.

From the time of his dismissal, with the exception of occasional
speeches in Parliament on naval matters, Vernon lived in retirement
at his seat at Nacton, in Suffolk, where he died on October 29, 1757,
at the age of 73. Very little is known as to his private habits and
life. He was married and had three sons, the two younger of whom,
however, died whilst their father was absent on his West Indian
command. In personal appearance he was noticeable for extreme
untidiness, and for having a preference for old clothes, an old
grogram coat usually forming the most conspicuous portion of his
attire. It is said that to this fact we owe the origin of a word now as
well known on land as at sea. During his West Indian command
Vernon ordered the spirits for the men, w^hich had previously been
served out undiluted, to be mixed with water. This innovation was
naturally not much relished, and the concoction received its now
familiar name in honour of its founder, who, on account of his
partiality to the before mentioned old coat, was known throughout
the fleet as "Old Grog."

H. p. ROBERTS.

All dates Old Style.

153

SUMMER BEVERAGES FOR
FAT PEOPLE.

THE old adage which says that "What is one man's meat is
another man's poison," may be carried a little farther, and
made to apply with equal truth to what he imbibes. I think it may
be admitted, without fear of contradiction, that the length of the life
of an individual depends a great deal more upon what he drinks than
upon what he eats. Excesses in both are equally to be deprecated ;
but, alas for weak human nature ! the gustatory nerves are very keen,
and it is not every one that can resist the temptation of pandering to
their desires and commands. Of course, where drink is used for
quenching thirst onl}\ it is scarcely possible for any persons to over-
imbibe regularly and continuously ; but how few there are of these.
There are a great many more, unfortunately, who would do well to
remember the advice of Socrates, where he says, ** Beware of those
foods that tempt you to eat when you are not hungry, and of those
drinks that tempt you to drink when you are not thirsty." But,
unfortunately for themselves, few people do take his advice, or any
one else's advice, where eating and drinking are concerned, and there-
fore as, especially in the warmer months of the year, a large amount
of liquid becomes necessary for quenching not only the natural thirst,
but also what may be called an artificial thirst, a few hints on the
subject may not be out of place. One thing may be admitted at
once, and that is that pure water is harmless in any quantity, to fat
and lean alike ; indeed, pure water is to the kidneys what pure air is
to the lungs— it flushes them, and helps to dissolve the refuse in the
blood in the shape of excess of salts and other products of waste that
have fulfilled their purpose in the operations of life, and therefore
should be carried out of the system through this channel. There is
no greater adjunct to health and comfort than can be obtained by
drinking, an hour before breakfast, a full tumbler of hot water, but it
should be as hot as it can be drunk ; if it is only lukewarm, it is apt
to nauseate. This dissolves the salts that coat the stomach after its

154 'The Gentleman s Magazine.

rest from food (if there are any), and washes away any unhealthy
secretion that may remain in it ; and thereby gives it tone and
energy to begin its day's work. It also acts beneficially in many ways
that it is not needful to mention here.

It is, or should be, an interesting subject to consider how the
largest amount of palatable liquid may be taken with the least harm
to the consumer, for an adult requires about a hundred fluid ounces
a day in summer. About 20 oz. of this is taken in food, as nearly
all solid food contains half its weight of water ; this leaves about
80 oz. to be drunk as liquid. The ordinary healthy man who is not
encumbered with an undue accumulation of fat, will have but little
difficulty in choosing a variety of beverages suitable to his taste.
If he abstains from alcoholic liquors he can drink soda water, lemon-
ade, tea, coffee, milk, and other harmless beverages. But if he
should be unfortunate enough to be handicapped with a tendency to
obesity, or gout, or, worse still, be the subject of it, the liquids that
he can take, to any extent, without increasing and developing the
evil, are few, and, beyond water itself, are not generally known to
ordinary persons.

In the May number of this magazine I wrote an article on ** Living
to Eat and Eating to Live," in which I endeavoured to show the evil
effects of certain foods in the case of obese and gouty people, and what
articles of diet were most suitable for them to prevent an aggravation
of the existing evil, and even to remedy it. Man is an animal, and if
we look at animal life, we see what can be done in this way, both with
solids and liquids. Take the animal, for instance, that furnishes the
matutinal rasher — what is done to fatten him ? He is fed on milk
and farinaceous food, and induced to sleep away his life in blissful
ignorance of the inevitable end, and he does fatten. On the other
hand the horse, if he is brought in fat and lazy from grass, is put
into condition by giving him a more concentrated food and plenty of
exercise, and he rapidly parts with his fat. I was amused the other
day by reading in a " Society " paper an article by a lady, in which
she said dieting would not cure obesity. Why will people write about
things they do not understand ?

I think I may claim to know something about this, and my expe-
rience teaches me that this is the only way to cure this diseased con-
dition, and that in this way it can be done safely, rapidly, permanently,
and pleasantly, and this on a full, sufficient, and even luxurious
dietary. Banting has passed into well-merited oblivion, but the
physiology of dietetics is better understood now than in his day, and
'tis well that 'tis so.

Summer Beverages for Fat People. 155

My intention here is to formulate for those really unfortunate
individuals I have been referring to, namely, the corpulent, a few
palatable beverages suitable for summer use, at the same time con-
stitutionally harmless, and containing no ingredient likely to induce
increased obesity.

In the first place, it is needless to say, this fact being pretty widely
known now, that these " cups " must be manufactured without the
aid of sugar, this article being more fattening than fat itself.

The evils that arise from drinking fluids in the case of fat or gouty
persons do not arise from the quantities of the liquid that they drink
— they may drink a gallon of water a day without harm — but from the
composition of the beverages, sugar and other articles that are injurious
to fat people being necessarily largely used in their manufacture.

In catering for such people — not only in the liquid aliments that
they require, but as I showed in my former article (in the May
number of this magazine), in their dieting as well — saccharin comes
in our day as a great boon and a perfect substitute for sugar for
sweetening purposes ; containing, as it does, no fattening or injurious
properties. With its assistance several drinks can be rendered enjoy-
able that, unsweetened, would be unpleasant to the palate. I look
upon its discovery as quite one of the most important productions
of recent years, and if its virtues were more generally known, it would
be more highly appreciated than it is.

If people who are subject to biliousness or gout, and people who are
inclined to be corpulent, were in all cases to substitute this for sugar,
it would make a great difference to their health and general comfort,
and, being perfectly harmless, nothing but a want of knowledge of
its virtues can prevent its use being more general. In its most
portable form, as prepared by Messrs. Burroughs, Wellcome, & Co.,
Snow Hill Buildings, London, it can be carried in the waistcoat-pocket
in the shape of minute tabloids in sufficient quantities for daily use,
and thus be conveniently at hand whenever occasion requires, or
where sugar would be necessary.

The exigencies of space preclude my entering here into a long
dissertation on the evils of obesity and its tendency to shorten life,
and the only safe and pleasant system of obviating it ; but those to
whom the subject is of vital interest may gain this information by
reading a little work that fully discusses this subject, and also contains
not only recipes for beverages suitable for them, but also a choice of
foods and articles of diet as well; and those who wish to know and under-
stand why and wherefore it is so necessary that certain people should
pay particular care as to the foods they eat and the liquids they

156 The Gentlernans Magazine.

imbibe, and to get some idea of their effects on the animal economy,
would, I think, be well repaid by a perusal of this volume.^

But to proceed with the subject of this article. Taking, in the
first place, wine — a beverage that from the time of Noah to the
present day has been the theme of the poet and painter, and the
virtues of which have been extolled, far beyond its merits, by many a
writer who has been shipwrecked on the rock that has been held up
to the adoration of mankind — one may say at once that the ordinary
healthy individual may drink in moderation almost any kind, or the
produce of any climate ; and it would fill a book to enumerate the
good qualities, and, may be, the reverse, of each particular brand.
In fact, this is a matter of taste. Some people like a dry wine, some
people like a full-bodied one, some worship — if I may use such a
word — the luscious Tokay, **the wine of kings," some the "drop"
produce that eventuates in that choice brand known as Chateau
d'lquem, some prefer the sparkling produce of the Champagne district
or the Moselle, some the still, but no less delicious wine that comes
from the last-named district or the banks of the Rhine. The wines
drunk by our ancestors were mostly the stronger vintages of Portugal
and Spain, and if the men of days gone by were not stouter than
those of the present day, at least they are depicted so in the works
of Hogarth and Gillray. Indeed, the paimings of Hogarth almost
tell you what kind of alcoholic liquor his prototypes drank. The
pale thin denizen of Gin Alley shows plainly the drinker of that
beverage ; the rubicund fresh complexion of the squire in " Marriage
h la Mode," the victim of gout, represents the wine drinker ; and the
bloated, coarse featured sot of "Beer Lane," the victim of that
beverage. I assume his fondness for, and his habit of drinking
largely of malt liquors, is the reason why the "John Bull " of a
hundred years ago came to be depicted as a very stout personage,
as he is even to this day typified in the pages of Punch, The "six-
bottle men " of days gone by are not heard of now, and the sweeter
and more alcoholic wines of years ago — the old crusted port and
delicate nutty sherry — have largely given place to many varieties of
lighter wines. Men in our day do not end a dinner party under
the table, or go to bed with their hunting boots and spurs on. Most
celebrated men, even in this epoch, were abstemious ; indeed, a
man whose brain is always under the influence of alcohol has
little chance of becoming noted, for he seldom lives beyond middle
age. Nelson, after one of his victories, when offered by a Hamburg
merchant a present of a choice selection of wine, refused to take but

* Foods for the Fat : the Scientific Cure of Obesity, London : Chatto & Windus.

Summer Beverages for Fat People. 157

afewbotties. Few people who remember the Duke of Wellington could
fail to have noticed, more or less, his extreme abstemiousness ; and
Bonaparte — to take a third instance of men remarkable for nerve and
activity — usually confined his libations to one or two glasses of
Chambertin (a very delicate claret) once, or twice a day. What
astonished him most when a captive on board the Bellerophon was the
amount of wine the officers drank, and he refused to follow their
example. I may say here at once, that if people of the class I am
now catering for drink wine, and if they wish to do so without harm
to themselves (and I can hardly suppose that there are any who
do not), they must take only wines that are manufactured in
the colder climates where the grape is grown, and of these the best
are the light wines from the banks of the Moselle or the Rhine.
These wines, unlike the wines of the south of France and Spain, if
they are selected with proper care, contain neither sugar nor tannin,
while their flavour and bouquet will vie with those that come from
warmer climates. These latter are always liqueured to suit the English
palate and market. Only recently I have carefully tested and
examined a large number of different brands of wine for the use of
the class of patients to whose comfort I confine my ministrations —
viz. the obese and the gouty, and in the treating such people it is
very important to know, not only the solid foods that they can take
without increasing the mischief, but also the precise nature and
composition of the liquids that they imbibe. As a dietician I may
say emphatically, that such people are debarred by considerations of
health from drinking ports, sherries, full-bodied burgundies, and
sparkling wines of almost every description, as these are all full of
sugar, and the waste of sugar when combined with alcohol in the
system, is the most powerful factor in charging the blood with goiit
poison and loading the body with fat.

After testing great numbers of Rhine wines and Moselles, I find
the driest to be Zeltinger, Schloss Rheinhausen, Trabener, Sonnen-
berg, Rottland, and Schazberg.^ Zeltinger and Schloss Rheinhausen
have the most distinctive Moselle bouquet and flavour of still wines.

It is difficult to find a sparkling wine sufficiently dry to admit of
its being taken by corpulent persons without injury, and a very dry
Moselle (Nonpareil), sparkling Burgundy, and sparkling Hock are-
about the only ones free enough from sugar as to be possibly and

* These wines and others are imported extra dry for me by A. Aldous & Co.>
61 Hatton Garden, Holborn, London, E.G. They may be had by any others
who desire them, and they are specially suitable for corpulent, gouty, and bilious
people.

VOL. ccLXXi. NO. 1928. j^l

158 Tlie Gentleman s Magazine.

sparingly admissible in such cases. Parenthetically, I may remark
here that if an obese person in the early spring underwent a course of
proper dietetic treatment by which his weight was reduced to healthy
dimensions, he might during the hot weather indulge in wines that
under other circumstances would most certainly bring on a fit of the
gout ; for the system, once cleared of the poison, it would take a good
deal of " indiscretion " to fill it again.

While on the subject of the hygiene of certain wines, it is a
curious fact, but one of undoubted interest to the gouty, that Rhine
wines, as a result of their freedom from sugar, do not tend to
induce the disease. It requires a combination of sugar and spirit,
apparently, to produce gouty poison, for those who take large
quantities of sugar and abstain from alcoholic beverages enjoy a great
immunity from gout (though not from biliousness), whilst those who
drink spirits that are free from sugar likewise rarely suffer from this
malady. On the contrary, however, others who take liquors that
contain the two properties combined, such as port and other sweet
wines, are notably subject to gout. Sir Robert Christison, during
thirty years* experience in the Royal Infirmary at Edinburgh, only
met with two cases of gout ; and both of these were in fat and over-
fed English butlers. Russians, Poles, and Danes, though they drink
large quantities of spirits, enjoy almost complete immunity from gout

Now that the hot weather is here, and tennis and other outdoor
exercises which induce excessive thirst are indulged in, it may be asked
what beverages can a fat, gouty, or bilious person drink with the least
injury to himself. Of course there would be no difficulty in his taking
up any cookery book and finding dozens of tempting recipes ; but then
all these contain sugar in large quantities — for saccharin, a harmless
product three hundred times sweeter than sugar, was unknown to our
grandfathers — and sugar, as I have said before, will in warm weather
fatten rapidly ; so that while the victim of superabundant adipose
tissue is fondly believing that the exercise is reducing his bulk, he is
being egregiously deceived. Many people put on fat — not flesh —
rapidly in hot weather, and this is one reason for it. Another b that
there is not the demand in hot weather for the combustion of foods
that are chemically converted into heat in the system, as the tempera-
ture of the atmosphere in the summer approaches that of the human
body. So that really a person should not only choose certain foods
as more suitable for the hot weather, but should also take less of them ;
and there are few people who would not benefit by taking one or two
bottles of effervescing potash water daily to correct the undue acidity
usually prevalent during this season.

Summer Beverages for Fat People. 159

We will assume that the reader is not one of those who takes
the advice of Socrates (previously given), and is, therefore, fond of
those beverages containing wine. In this case he cannot do better
than make a " cup " according to one of the following recipes.

As saccharin as a substitute for sugar will now be given in all
beverages, the reader will please remember that as tastes differ so
much in regard to sweetness, it is best not to overdo this process.
It is an easy matter to add a little, but too much cannot be with-
drawn. Generally spe.iking, one saccharin tabloid — this is about
the size of a split-pea of the shops — is sufficient to sweeten a large
cup of tea or coffee, or a tumbler of lemon- water : if this is remem-
bered there will be no difficulty in regulating the amount necessary
in any given cup. Each of Burroughs, Wellcome, & Co.'s tabloids
contains half a grain of pure saccharin, and one of these has the
sweetening properties of half an ounce of sugar. They should in all
cases be dissolved in boiling water, and this then put aside to cool
before use. A more wholesome and pleasant drinking beverage
for tennis than the following one cannot be made. There are no
fattening or bile-making properties in it.

Take four saccharine tabloids, and dissolve them in about a wine-
glassful of boiling water. Let these become cold. Then mix in a
punch-bowl one bottle of Zeltinger and one bottle of soda water.
Slice in the whole of a lemon, a grating of nutmeg, and a sprig of
borage. When the saccharin water has become sufficiently cool
add it, and throw in half a pound of ice broken into small pieces.

Where a large quantity is required, increase these ingredients in
the same proportion.

A more sparkling " cup '* may be made in this way, and though,
of course, it is not entirely free from sugar, it is as harmless as it is
possible to have any " cup '* that contains a sparkling wine.

Dissolve eight or ten saccharin tabloids in a wineglassful of
boiling water. Take a bottle of sparkling Burgundy, a bottle of
Schloss Rheinhausen, a slice of cucumber, two bottles of soda water,
and mix. When cold, add the dissolved saccharin, and break in
two or three pounds of lake -ice.

Refrigerators are now to be found in most well-appointed
houses, but where they are not, one should be procured, and I can
safely say that the small expense incurred would be amply repaid by
the luxury in the hot weather of being able to have nice and cool
beverages. There are so many in the market that it is hardly
possible to recommend any particular kind, but most respectable
ironmongers would know how to get one suitable for keeping cool

M 2

i6o The Gentleman s Magazine.

claret and other " cups." In these days, too, ice can be procured
almost anywhere, and if wrapped up in flannel can be kept for
many hours, or even days.

Perhaps it would be in place to mention here that the proper
way to break ice into lumps is to take a sharp instrument — say a
darning needle — and a small mallet. By using the needle as
a chisel the ice can be broken into suitable pieces with perfect
ease.

To keep a liquid cold, the vessel it is in should be wrapped round
with a wet cloth. The evaporation of this brings the contents of the
vessel almost to freezing point. The cloth should be kept wet
by adding water to it as it dries.

A very nice "cup" suitable for tennis parties may be made ii>
the following manner.

Take two bottles of Schloss Rheinhausen, one bottle of dry
sparkling Moselle, two lemons cut into slices, four bottles of soda
water, and two pounds of ice. Sweeten with ten or twelve saccharin
tabloids, previously dissolved in a little boiling water and allowed to
get cold.

It should be remembered that these beverages are quite as
pleasant to the taste as those brewed where large quantities of sugar
are used, and far more healthy to those people who prefer drinks
containing wine. In fact, made with saccharin instead of sugar^
even ordinary people w^ould find them less bilious and equally
palatable. There are very few people indeed who in the summer
do not take more sugar in some form or other than is good for
them, and congested liver, gout, headache, indigestion, and furred
tongue are the penalties they pay for it.

If anyone doubts this, let him drink a bottle of bad champagne,
or sweet sherry, and await results. Cheap wines are poison !

An extremely refreshing drink may be made by taking two
bottles of Trabener, half a gill of brandy, the strained juice of
two lemons, a sprig of borage and of mint ; these should be
allowed to stand for an hour, then strained. Having previously
dissolved six saccharin tabloids in some boiling water, and allowed
it to become cold, mix and add two pounds of ice and four
bottles of soda water. Wrap the bowl this is contained in around
with a wet cloth, as previously mentioned. The evaporation of
the water in the cloth will keep the "cup" cool, and the ice from
dissolving too rapidly.

The wines of the Moselle have the peculiar flavour of the Muscat
grape, and even sparkling Moselle may be procured of a very dry

Summer Beverages for Fat People. 1 6 1

character. This is a sine gu& non where the wine is to be drunk by
those who require a wine as free from sugar as it is possible to have
^ sparkling wine, for it must be remembered that a supplementary
quantity of liqueur is added to sparkling wines to prevent their
turning sour. This varies from one to three per cent.

To make a beverage flavoured with sparkling Moselle, take two
bottles of Zeltinger, one bottle of dry sparkling Moselle (" Non-
pareil **), two bottles of iced soda water, and the juice of one lemon.
Having previously dissolved four saccharin tabloids in a wine-
glassful of boiling water, and allowed it to get cold, mix all together
in a bowl, and serve as cold as possible.

A pleasant fruit-flavoured beverage may be made as follows : —

Macerate half a pound of fresh greengages, peaches, or apricots,
in a pint of gin ; strain by pressing through muslin. To this add two
bottles of Schloss Rheinhausen and two bottles of soda water, six
saccharin tabloids, previously dissolved in a gill of boiling water,
and four pounds of ice. This will make a pleasant beverage, and
should be sufficient for eight or ten persons.

Another pleasant drink is a bottle of Liebfraumilch or Marco-
brunner, a bottle of soda water, and a slice of cucumber. Having
previously dissolved two saccharin tabloids in boiling water, mix
this ^with the above. Ice up and serve cooled, as previously
instructed.

The best way to utilise a bottle of Schazberg is the following : —

Dissolve in some boiling water four saccharin tabloids, and slice
into it a lemon. When sufficiently cool, add the wine and a bottle
of soda water. Shave in half a pound of ice, and serve.

It may seem a far cry from luscious beverages, manipulated with
choice Rhine wines, to cold tea, lemonade, iced soda water, and other
more simple diinks affected by those who look upon alcohol in any
form as a subtle poison. But as there are large numbers of persons who
are determined enough in the interest of health to eschew intoxicants
of all kinds, it is only fair that their idiosyncrasies should be considered,
and a few beverages constructed on these lines offered for their
acceptance.

The ordinary teetotal beverages are all sweetened with sugar, and
are therefore unsuitable for fat people. What I ask these de-
scendants of Sir John Falstaff to understand is that in these days
they need not be debarred from sweet beverages, though they are
from sugar.'

* The efBcacy of sugar in promoting fatness is displayed by the change that
occurs in the condition of the negro during the sugar-making season in the

1 62 The Gentleman s Magazine.

To begin with, there is not a more refreshing drink than tea, but
the fat man should sweeten his tea on all occasions with a tabloid of
saccharin instead of sugar, if he does not want to increase the
burden that he has to carry about with him.

Where tea is drunk in large quantities, it is as well to know that
the most wholesome kind is that known as Ceylon, for this tea is
more free from tannin, and indeed is superior in flavour to the teas
of China or India. It is a difficult thing to get pure Ceylon tea, for
it is usually blended with other kinds ; indeed many of the brands
of Ceylon tea are supposed to come from estates in Ceylon, but, as a
rule, these estates do not exist. Those who are determined to have
it can get it absolutely pure from the Agra Tea Association, whose
head-quarters are at Yeovil. The tea comes direct from the estates
of Mr. H. R. Farquharson, M.P. Personally, I prefer this tea to
any I have ever tasted, and it is as cheap in price as it is luscious in
flavour — a great desideratum ; and I very much question whether
anyone who has once tasted pure Ceylon tea, would ever care to
dnnk any othcr.i

With regard to cofiee the same rules must be observed by stout
people, that is, that it should be sweetened with saccharin and
flavoured with cream — not milk.

Some people find cold tea flavoured with lemon juice a most
refreshing beverage, and this may be sweetened with saccharin and
iced in the same way as an ordinary " claret cup." Indeed, in Russia
tea is usually drunk prepared in this way.

Every house should possess a gazogene apparatus, as with one of
these machines an unlimited supply of aerated waters may always be

West Indies. The ordinary food of these people, I was informed by a plantation
proprietor belonging to Barbadoes, consists of Indian corn meal, rice, butter, and
salt, with, during a portion of the year, the sweet potato, which is grown as a
succession crop to the sugarcane. I learnt from the same source, in confirmation
of what has been mentioned by others, that during the season for gathering the
sugar cane, which extends through March, April, and May, the negroes are
noticed to grow conspicuously stouter, and that this change is attributed, and
doubtlessly correctly so, to their habit of constantly chewing pieces of the succulent
cane whilst they are working among it. — Food and Dietetics^ by Dr. Pavy.

* The harmful effects of tea depend a great deal on the way it is made. If it
is allowed to infuse too long, the tannin and other injurious ingredients of even
the best tea are diawn out, and the infusion becomes bitter and astringent and
unpleasant to the taste. To make tea properly the teapot should be warmed and
the water poured over the tea immediately it boils. Five teaspoonfuls of Ceylon
tea should be put to each quart of boiling water, and it should draw for eight
minutes. Professional tea-tasters are very particular to use only water that is
freshly boiled. — Foods Jor the Fat^ p. 47.

Summer Beverages for Fat People. 163

kept ready for use, and the soda water made by their aid is in-
expensive, and as good or nearly as good as that bought in the shops
at six times the price.

Por using with soda water, a cooling and pleasant-flavoured
portable sweetening may be made in this way. Take twenty saccharin
tabloids and dissolve them in a pint of boiling water, add to this one
ounce of citric acid and two drachms of tincture of lemon peel. When
cool bottle, and it is fit for use. One or two tablespoonfuls added ta
a tumbler of soda water will pleasantly flavour it. This " syrup " will
keep a week or more.

The essence of lemon sold by chemists may be utilised in this
way for making the basis of lemonade.

Take of citric acid three and a half drachms, essence of lemon ten
drops, four saccharin tabloids, and half a pint of boiling water. Shake.
One or two tablespoonfuls of this added to a tumbler of soda water
or iced soda water will make a lemonade.

Another easy way of making lemonade for drinking in hot
weather is to slice two lemons into a pint of boiling water, throw in six
saccharin tabloids and a grating of nutmeg. When quite cold add
a sprig of borage, two bottles of soda water, and half a pound of
shaven ice, when it is ready for use.

The further fabrication of summer drinks on these lines may be
left to the ingenuity of individuals, and I am only surprised that
some enterprising chemist has not ere this manufactured diflerent
compounds for the purpose.

Prejudices die hard, and the prejudice in favour of sugar has
been handed down to us for many generations, regardless of the fact
that to many people it is a slow poison.

To those with an hereditary tendency to obesity it is certainly so,
and the sooner such people learn this fact the better for their comfort,
yes, and even their chances of long life.

Science has done much in recent years, by the light it has thrown
on some of the laws of nature, to increase the length of life of those
who profit by its teachings, and if a knowledge of dietetics formed a
part of a " liberal education," there is no reason why the " three
icore years and ten " of the Psalmist should not be considerably
increased, while at the same time these increased years might be not
years of '* toil and sorrow," but of robust and generous health.

N. E. VORKEDAVIES.

164 The Gentleman! s Magazine,

LIFE IN AN ALGERIAN
HILL-TOIVN.

WE see plenty of Arabs and a little of Arabian life in the towns
clustering along the Algerian coast. But, to behold this
people as the^ were yesterday, are to-day, and will be to-morrow,
we must push up country to the extremest French colonial settle-
ments. One cannot help comparing these new places with similar
towns in Queensland. We have only to change the Arabs for
Australian aborigines, and it would not be difficult for a traveller to
imagine himself in Australia. The European homes are similar,
usually one-storeyed, roughly-built huts, with a few more pretentious
buildings stuck in between. The climate is much the same ; the
abundance of flowers very similar.

My head-quarters were at the town of Souk-Ahras, having a
population of about six thousand, of which five thousand were pure
Arabs. The odd thousand comprises five hundred Frenchmen, and
a mixture of about five hundred Jews, Maltese, Italians, and Spaniards.
Just as in Australia, so here, every shanty where drink is sold is
called an " hotel." The French colonists appear to live by keeping
hotels, cafds, restaurants, cigar-shops, &c. ; a few are in " business,"
such as it is. But there is practically no opening-out of new country,
and little clearing-off of primeval forests (except on the northern side
of the hills) such as we see going on in all our English colonies.
The Arabian Europeans open their shops about seven, but they close
from half-past ten to half-past two or three for dejeuner and a siesta.
Then they run on till seven in the evening — if they have any
customers. If you want to buy anything — cigars, drapery, grocery, &c.
— and the owner of the shop is not in, you have only to send the boy
off to the nearest caf^, and keep shop until he returns, and probably
the owner will come back with him, and perhaps serve you if he has
what you want.

But it is not the ways of Europeans which interest us in a place
like this. It is the life and habits and associations of the stately

Life in an AlgejHafi Hill'Tow7t. 165

figures which are moving through the streets as dignified as if they
were ancient Roman senators — or who are lying, packed like sardines
in a tin, on the causeways, nearly all of them fast asleep. Their long
grey woollen burnouses are furnished with a hood, like a monk's cowl,
which is pulled over the head during the greatest heat of the day.
The head is closely cropped or shaven, and covered with the many
folds of the turban, which latter is wound round again and again
with a brown -coloured woollen cord. The turban, therefore, makes
a capital pillow, and the Arab finds a cheap and tolerably clean bed
on every doorstep. Except when bathing— which I can readily
believe, from the strong smell of humanity among them, the town
Arabs seldom indulge in — they never seem to take off these woollen
garments. They live in them, sleep in them — sometimes actually
work in them. The garments get older and older, like our old-
fashioned buckskin breeches ; but age does not seem to wither them
very much. When these garments begin to go, they go with a run.
Here are a few ancient Arabs walking about (many of them live to
the age of a hundred years — there is no reason why they should not
live for ever if it is true that it is work and anxiety which knock a
man up) who resemble so many rag-merchants. I am very fond of
antiquities, and should much like to know the exact age of some of
these venerable garments. I feel sure they date beyond the time of
the present generation. We are told that the Children of Israel
wandered forty years in the Wilderness, and yet their clothes waxed
not old. I can readily believe the narrative now ; but it is a bad job
for the tailoring business. I have only seen one Arab tailor's shop
since I came here, and he was evidently making some new clothes
for the young Arab ** mashers."

But, if the tailor*s art is not very busy, the cord-maker's evidently
is. Some of the ragged old burnouses have been stitched and
patched over and over again, until they are like the old knife the
sailor set such store by, which had had six new blades and five new
handles, and yet was as good as ever. Here and there, stalking
majestically about, we come across fine specimens of manhood clad in
clean and tidy robes. The young Arabs of about twenty- three or
-four are most of them fine fellows ; but they are not so picturesque
as the ragged-clad, grey-bearded, and blear-eyed old men. Here
they are in hundreds — artists' models, every one of them— sitting,
squatting, standing, walking ; but chiefly squatting, and none of
them working !

Some of the younger Arabs are splendid physical specimens of
humanity. They average about five feet nine to ten — some are six

1 66 The Gentleman s Magazine.

feet in height. Their eyes are large, lustrous, and pleasant to look
at ; their fine limbs bronzed as if they had been cast in a selected
metal.

The Arab boys are everywhere, but generally where they are not
wanted, as boys are all the world over. The chief industry among
them seems to be boot-blacking, and I roughly calculated there were
six boys to every pair of European boots. They swoop down on
you like mosquitoes when you come out of your " hotel," in which
latter place your boots are not cleaned. Then you proceed to some
shady corner and hold a levee, I am not acquainted with much
Arabic, but I am fairly up in my native Lancashire dialect I have
found the latter very useful in Germany, Italy, France, Switzerland,
Belgium, Holland, and elsewhere — among beggars and scamps. So
it is here. I gravely address the Arab boys in my Lancashire dialect,
and dumbfound them, just as I have Germans, Swiss, Niggers, and
Frenchmen. It is a new language to them all — never heard since
the fall of Babel. There is an archaic sound about some of its
expressions which may be French, Dutch, German, Arabic, or
Malayan. It is a noble dialect, fully capable of expressing a stronger
feeling than you actually feel. A man who can blaspheme in the
true Lancashire dialect cannot be beaten even in the Western States
of America.

I could not have selected a better season for seeing the Arabs in
their natural work-a-day state than I did, even if I had tried. It
was the Fast of Ramadan or Ramazan. The Arabs don't work
much, and therefore have to fast much. The Fast of Ramazan,
among the Mahometans, is in commemoration of their divine
book, the Koran, having been communicated to the Great Prophet
from Heaven.

One thing must be said of these ragged, poor, idle, untaught
Arabs. They "know in whom they have believed " — or, rather, they
think they do. There is nothing in any religion more to be respected
than sincerity. Without that, the highest and most authorised form
of religion is a form only. The one thing needful is to " worship
Him in spirit and in truth."

I watch and move among my fasting Arabs in this isolated hill-
town. One of my boot-blacks, whom I was initiating into the
mysteries of the Lancashire dialect, told me on the quiet that he had
not tasted food for nearly twenty-four hours. He looked hungry
enough to eat a red-hot poker. He was at the " hungry period of
his life," fifteen or sixteen. I tempted him with a piece of French
bread ; that is like tempting a gin-drinker with a go of gin. But he

Life in an Algerian Hill-Town. 167

quietly smiled, buttoned up his ragged coat across the stomach where
the aching pain lay, and kept his " Ramazan."

Even Mahometan Arabs are only men, and the old Latin proverb
tells us that the chief tendency of mankind is to go wrong. One
day, in the town of Souk-Ahras, an Arab went wrong. The Arabs,
being Mahometans, are all total abstainers. I confess that their
being such does not recommend the practice — that is, if we are to
associate total abstinence from alcoholic liquors with their peculiar
ways of life. I dare say this particular Arab broke his pledge. That
was bad enough — but to break it during the Fast of Ramazan was
worse. He may have taken very little, perhaps not sufficient to have
made a cabman happy ; but it got into the only sort of head he
possessed. He reeled, he was drunk — during Ramazan ! Old and
young men, boys of every age and calling, immediately gathered
round him, and would have lynched him. At least three hundred
people howled and hooted after him through the stinking streets. I
formed a better idea of the Arabic language for cursing a man, on
that occasion, than I had done before. Billingsgate is nothing to it !

A native Arab policeman came up with a whip as long and strong
as an Australian stockman's. He not only cracked it as loudly, but
kept a ring within the crowd as large as that of a circus. Within
this jcharmed and protected circle the Mahometan sinner retreated
unassailed.

The requisites for the proper observance of the Mahometan fast
of Ramazan are, first, that the observer must be a genuine Mussul-
man. He must have passed the period of boyhood (fourteen years),
and be of "sound mind." The latter ought to be a matter of
universal requirement in all people who profess to worship in sincerity.
This fast requires that observers shall abstain from all kinds of
food from daybreak to sunset.

Of course, in a large Arab town like Souk-Ahras (the name in
Arabic means the " chief market "), even among the Arabs, there
are rich and poor, speculative people, and people who are hard-up.
There are Mahometan " mashers," with flowers stuck in their turbans,
and carrying cigarettes behind their ears, as if the latter were quill
pens, and poor beggars who are as badly off as the Prodigal Son —
quite as ragged and quite as lazy.

The weather here just now is what an Englishman would call
" beastly hot." In India such Englishmen would probably pass the
time of extreme heat in playing "fly-loo." The Arabs do better —
they go to sleep. I cannot conceive a more sensible thing for a
man to do on a hot day, when not allowed to eat or drink (except to

1 68 The Gentle?nans Magazine.

drink water), than to snooze the happy and unnoticed hours away
until sunset. It is related that an English. miser used to go to bed
early and rejoice because he had cheated his stomach of a meal !
The Arabs do this without rejoicing, during the forty days of the
Ramazan fast.

But, as Sam Slick says, there is a good deal of human nature in
man. I wandered round the town, and in the Arab quarter, where
the better-off fasters were fasting just about sundown. There might
be a delicate question as to the exact half-second of astronomical
time when sundown takes place. This has been settled by the Arabs
of the town subscribing five francs a day for the French battery to
fire a gun when the actual moment of sundown occurs. It was a
few minutes before that interesting period when I rambled among
the chief fasters.

Here they are, hands and feet washed (perhaps the only part of
the body that has been washed for some days), squatting on door-
steps, tables, forms. Every man has a cigarette in one hand and
a match in the other. He has had to include abstinence from
tobacco in his legitimate fast, although tobacco has come into use
since Mahomet's time. Close by him is a cup of Mocha coffee. How
tantalising its odorous vapour must be to a man who has been dream-
ing of coffee and cigarettes all day ! It is like a drill practice. The
Arabs down one side the market place and along the three others are
all in the same attitude — cigarettes in one hand and matches in the
other, and Mocha coffee close by. Then the gun fires, the matches
are lit, the cigarettes inhaled, the coffee sipped, the cous-cous ordered,
and every Mahometan thanks Allah. That short period of refresh-
ment over, cigarettes and coffee, after gun-fire is the most silent of
an Arab's life during the Ramazan fast.

From sundown to sunrise there is ample time for an empty
stomach to be filled, especially if its owner carries a full purse. Per-
haps that stomach gets over-filled, so that the fasting of neart day
comes in, not as a penal infliction, but as a stomachic rest. It is pos-
sible that indigestion may render fasting useful rather than otherwise.
Arabs, young and old, clean and dirty (but chiefly dirty), whole
and ragged — the latter preponderating — stalk about in noiseless
fashion. You cannot help being struck with their dignified gait I
was very much impressed with it, until one day the Jehu who was
•driving us with a pair of galloping horses suddenly turned the comer
of a street. We came upon a dozen stately Arabs, who scattered
themselves like a fiock of sparrows, leaving their dignity behind them
as they gathered up their ragged petticoats and fled.

Life in an Algerian Hill-Town. 169

*

The younger men seem of a very affectionate temperament.
They walk about in pairs, with joined hands or their arms round
each other's shoulders, just as I have seen affectionate lads do at
school. The men are fond of their children, and you see bronzed
Arabs of forty or fifty carrying their babies about and petting them.
Boys of ten and twelve are the handsomest human creatures I ever
saw, and contrast with the younger girls, who seem very plain-
featured indeed. I have only seen two young Arab women, and, of
course, they were swathed from head to foot in garments whose cut
and pattern 1 have never yet observed in fashion-books. I judged they
were young because their faces were covered up, except the eyes.
There are plenty of old Arab women about, but they are chiefly
Jewesses, and Mahometan women who have grown so old and
withered that to keep their faces covered is utterly unnecessary*
St. Anthony is said to have been tempted by the Devil in the shape
of a woman. I feel certain that he did not present himself in the
likeness of an old Arab woman !

Many of the oldest men are completely blind, for ophthalmia is
very common. They are striking figures, these blind old men, with
dark bronzed faces, sightless eyes, white moustachios and beard. They
are led about by their sons or friends, and gaze upwards at the
hot sun they cannot see, but whose blazing heat plainly tells them
it is in the sky. One or two are mutely begging ; they are evidently
too poor to have many friends.

The Arab caf^s are all closed during the day, and give that part
of the town where they are most abundant quite a Sundayish
appearance. The causeways in front of them are crowded with
squatting and sleeping Arabs, whether the place be sunshiny or
shady. When sundown sets in the cafes will open, their Arab
customers will waken, coffee be brewed, confusion of tongues begin,,
gambling will go on — and the easily fed and amused crowd will be
happy for five hours at a stretch.

There is one building of note in the Arab town of Souk-Ahras —
the town hall. Its architecture is of the French hotel de ville style,,
and it is said to have cost 20,000/.,' all of which was paid by the
Arabs as a tax or octroi duty on the butter, dates, vegetables, &c.,.
they bring into the town. In return for this tribute, the Arabs are
allowed to have a mosque, from whose minaret we hear daily calls
to prayer.

Outside the town, in a broken-down, wooden-paled enclosure,,
is a sight to delight the eyes of an antiquary, and one that would
make half the directors of museums in France covetous. It looks

1 70 The Gentleman s Magazine.

like a grave-yard, or rather like the back-yard of a monumental
sculptor. It is crowded with ancient Roman and Carthaginian altars
and statues (most of the latter sculptured in white marble, life-size, and
with many pretensions to artistic beauty). Many of the monuments
are engraved with Punic inscriptions — the relics of the great ultra-
Mediterranean rival of Rome. All have been brought from the
immediate neighbourhood of this hill-town, and there are many still
left. Grass and abundant weeds grow in and about this rude
** museum," which is utterly uncared for, although its contents are
archaeologically priceless. The ancient marble statues are greened
over with moss and lichen ; and the engraved altars and stones are
falling a prey to atmospheric action. No man seems to own them
or care for them ; and I^was told that half the members of what
we in England would call the " town council " of the French colonists
of this important town could neither read nor write.

J. E. TAYLOR.

171

FLOIVERS AND THE POETS.

IN the following pages an attempt is made to throw a little light
upon some references to flowers in the writings of the poets.
In spite of the untiring vigilance which commentators have brought
to bear upon the subject, there still remains in this department, as in
others, much that is obscure if not incomprehensible. The remark
applies to our earlier poets especially, and the fact is scarcely to be
wondered at when we remember how many of the popular names for
flowers have disappeared before the advance of civilisation, and how,
even of those still in vogue, many enjoy but a precarious existence
in remoter parts of the country still untouched by modernism.
Another fruitful source of confusion is the multiplicity of names given
to the same flower, and, conversely, the large number of flowers
known by the same name. The application of these names is obvious
enough in some cases : thus it is matter for surprise that the term
" yellow weed " should be given to but three plants ; so, too, the
quaint expression "son before the father" — in allusion to flowers
appearing before leaves, or younger flowers overtopping older ones —
we find used only five times. It is more remarkable to notice that
the word " water-lily " in a rustic mouth may denote one of four
flowers, and " cowslip " one of no less than nine ; and it is not clear why
there should be six kinds of " soldiers," seven of " snake-flower," six of
" beards-foot," and so on. But the converse is still more striking. Thus
it will probably be a revelation to most people that, as any reader of
the "Dictionary of English Plant Names " can assure himself, the poor
little stonecrop has to bear the burden of thirty-three aliases, while
there are no less than fifty-five for the blackberry ; these numbers are
surpassed by the wild rose and the foxglove, both of which have sixty-
one synonyms, by the hawthorn with seventy-two, and the early spring
orchis {Orchis masada) with eighty. Moreover, there are as many
as twenty wild flowers to which the word "star" is applied in some
way or another; in respect of " stars," therefore, the music-hall is a
bad second to the floral world. That this tends to throw difficulties
in the commentator's way goes without saying : Corydon may bind

172 The Gentleman s Magazine.

the sheaves with Thestylis, but all the time that slow though firmly-
gripping brain is weaving bonds of another and no less effectual kind.
Firstly, then, to attempt the solution of a mystery handed down
from Elizabethan times. In Spenser's sixty-fourth sonnet he praises
among his lady's charms

Her snowy brows like budded belamoures.

Editor after editor has allowed this word to pass without the faintest
effort to get at the poet's meaning ; in this respect comparing un-
favourably with the worthy hedge-schoolmistress, who at any rate did
succeed in making out part of the name by which the graminivorous
king of Babylon is known to history, and although she had at length
to admit a limit to her capacity, and the pupil was told to " say
* Nezzar,' and let un go," this did not happen until heroic attacks had
been delivered upon the awkward array of consonants. But is there
so much difificulty in understanding what our word means ? One
thing may be taken for granted, namely, that the belamoure has a
white flower ; we also know that Spenser, with his ready and rich
fancy, was always coining names for his characters expressive of the
peculiar trait or traits of each — Fidessa, Duessa, Sansfoy, Sansloy, and
many others will at once occur to readers of his great romance.
And now for a possible solution of the problem. He is writing the
sonnet, and pauses in search of a rhyme ; he is thinking of the snoio-
drop, and being familiar with their language from long residence among
country people, the rustic name for snowdrops, " Fair Maids," is at
once suggested ; he has already — in the " Fairy Queen "— used the
word " belamoure " with the meaning of a " fair maid " ; here is just
the rhyme he wants, and in a trice he has forged fetters which have
held the commentators of three centuries in hopeless durance. And
should it be objected that, although the word may have been come at
in the way indicated, there is yet nothing to show why some other
flower with an analogous name may not have been meant, then the
objector might fairly be asked to give an instance. Having ransacked
the " Dictionary of English Plant Names " without finding any good
alternative, we do not think much of our friend's chance of success in
his quest

Lear in his madness is presented to us

Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds,
With hardocksy hemlock, nettle, cuckoo-flowers, &c.

So the third and fourth folios, and, with the slight variant hardokes^
their two predecessors ; the quartos give hor-docks ; Staunton, Dyce,
and other editors alter hardocks to burdocks. Farmer suggested

P lowers and the Poets. 173

harlocks^ quoting a verse from Drayton where mention is made of
this flower, which has, however, remained unidentified to the present
day ; while others, more difficult to please, prefer charlock. For our-
selves, we are strongly of Dr. Prior's opinion, that the reading of the
folios should be left at peace, and that hardock is merely a local
corruption of burdock ; indeed in eddick^ still used by Cheshire folk,
we have what is plainly a half-way word.

And can anything but the burdock be meant by the hediocke of
Lyly*s curious play " A Woman in the Moon" ? He makes Pandora,
after befooling all her admirers, say to one of them who has shown
even more folly, if that were possible, than the rest —

Thy head is full of hediockes^ Iphicles,
I pray you shake them off.

Fairholt's note to this is "Hediockes :r-i.e. Hedgehogs" (!) — dark-
ness visible here and no mistake. A writer in Notes and Queries
some years ago proposed to read headache^ a country name for poppy
flowers, and this reading one might perhaps say something in favour
of if only its application could be discovered. It must frankly be
admitted, however, that if the burdock be meant, or rather the adhe-
sive frui ts or burs of that plant, the application of the word is difficult.

What we are in search of is some such expression as " to have the
head full of burs," meaning, when used of someone, that you doubt
his possession of a claim to rank with Solomon and other ensamples of
wisdom. Is there such a phrase ? If so, the liability of a heedless
person to get himself covered with burs while mooching along the
wayside would naturally give rise to it. Then there is the other word
** bur," with the sense of a whirling — Keats's " bur of smothering
fancies " at once comes to mind— and if there really be such an ex-
pression as the one we allude to the reference may originally have
been to this other word, and afterwards, by a confusion of terms, the
bur of the burdock would usurp the place of its homonym. And if
this be not the explanation of Lyly's phrase — and the similarity of
** eddick " to " hediocke " should not be lost sight of — one cannot
refrain from doubting whether this ancient crux will ever be
unriddled.

Considering now the series of terms, hardock, eddick (and per-
haps hediocke too), hordock, burdock, we are met by the fact of the
main difference between them being that the changes are rune?
upon the vowel in the first syllable of each ; hence the difficulty teit
by some in admitting the identity of the hardock and burdock will
perhaps vanish.

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1928. N

174 The Gentleman's Magazine.

We do not much like Tennyson's description of the laburnum as
" dropping wells of fire " : this we cannot help thinking untrue to
nature, and as such unworthy of so accurate an observer. Popular
nomenclature, usually fairly correct in respect of easily noticed facts,
may be taken to illustrate our objection. The laburnum b called by
rustics Goiden'C\\2i\Ti — ^just as the acacia-tree is the SOver-Chzin —
also Golden'T>ro^s and Goiden-^ho'vitx. On the other hand, in the
passage from the " May Queen,"

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,

the intense vividness of the deep yellow flowers as seen embossed
upon their background of dark green leaf is happily hit off ; and the
popular names Fire o' Gold, and the Scottish Will-i^Vtf (Wildfire)
show that our peasantry have " found and made a note of" this
peculiarity.

Spenser's astrophel (or astrofell) we agree with Nares and others,
including the authors of the " Dictionary of English Plant Names,"
in thinking to be the starwort {Aster Tripolium\ the only English
representative of the familiar true asters of our gardens. A passage
in a poem eulogistic ' of Sidney, by a contemporary of Spenser,
wherein the astrophel is mentioned, is supposed by the authors of the
" Dictionary " to point to the speedwell, one of the many " star "
flowers. This is, however, an obvious mistake, for the writer de-
scribes it as a

.... floure that is both red and blew ;

It first grows red and then to blew doth fade,

And in the midst thereof a star appeares,
As fairly form'd as any star in skyes :

That hearbe of some starlight is called by name —

which is incorrect in every particular if the speedwell be meant, but
would apply very fairly to the starwort. But we ought not to despair
of finding the word " starlight " still in use to denote a flower, and
thus of settling this vexed question, unless, indeed, it is all moon-
shine.

The musk rose of the poets can hardly be the Rosa moschata.
Keats was very fond of this flower, calling it " the sweetest flower
wild nature yields," and in one of the sonnets he says it far exceeds
the garden rose. We meet with it again in the ** Ode to a Nightin-
gale," as —

The coming musk-rose full of dewy wine,

The murm'rous haunt of flies on summer eves —

Flowers and the Poets. 175

and he tells us how Cynthia

.... lay
Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay.

It is also among the flowers called for by Milton " to strew the
laureat hearse where Lycid lies." In these, and other cases, it is
most likely that the dog-rose is meant.
The cassia of " Comus,"

Nard and cassuCs balmy smells,

is understood to be the lavender : the passages in Virgil's " Georgics "
and " Bucolics " where mention is made of this word bear out the
identification, which is one of long standing, dating from before old
Gerarde's time in fact. On the other hand, Keats's cassia is, without
doubt, the so-called acacia-tree {Rohinia Fseudacada), for he mentions

the drooping flowers
Of whitest cassia fresh from summer showers.

The word seems to have been derived from " acacia " in the same
way as " anemone " has become " an emony " — namely, by mistake
of the first syllable for the indefinite article. The cassia alluded
to by the Laureate in his sonnet " Love and Death '* —

When turning round a cassia full in view
Death ....

.... first met his sight —

is apparently the acacia-tree too; it would scarcely be one of the
many kinds of true cassia known to the botanist.

It is to be understood that the long purples woven into her
coronal by Ophelia are certainly the trusses of Orchis mascula.
There was always some little doubt about the identification until the
term " dead- men's fingers " was discovered as a local designation of
this flower. Doubts have also been expressed whether by the ^^long
purpUs of the dale " of Tennyson's fine " Dirge " this flower be
intended ; but we see no reason why Orchis mascula might not be
found upon a grassy grave. It certainly cannot be the Northampton-
shire long purples, which, as Clare's use of the word shows, is the
purple loosestrife — a stream-side plant The only alternative we can
suggest is the musk mallow, formerly much used to decorate graves;
though it must be admitted that the phrase " long purples " would
not be felicitous in this connection.

Ought we to say " tube-rose " or " tuberose " ? Some lexico-
graphers allow of a choice, but we hope Dr. Murray will be less
compliant. The plant undoubtedly reached this country vid France,

N 2

176 The Gentlemafi's Magazine.

where it is known as the tubereuse, the Spanish and Italian
equivalent being tuberosa] and this name we may conclude was
acquired from the tuberous rootstock, and not from any fancied
resemblance to the rose — of real resemblance there is none whatever.
It may be worth while mentioning here the controversy in the press
a few years back between a minor poet, the author of some pretty
verses about the tuberose, a name which he treated as a trisyllable,
and a critic who arraigned him upon the serious charge of
perpetrating a false quantity. The critic, to clinch the matter, quoted
the couplet from Shelley's " Sensitive Plant " —

And the jessamine faint and the sweet tuberose^
The sweetest flower for scent that blows.

But, even admitting Shelley's right to sit as judge of appeal in such
a cause, a cursory examination of the structure of the poem in
question will show that any of the four feet composing the verse may
be a trisyllable, and that in some few cases each is an anapaest, for
example —

And when evening descended from heaven above,
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love.

The critic's quotation is thus indecisive of the matter. But
Shelley's verdict is given, and in unmistakable terms, in the "Wood-
man and the Nightingale " —

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky
Struggling with darkness— as a tuberose
Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie
Like clouds above the flower from which they rose.

In fact, the history of this word simply typifies the popular practice
of using the second of the two names for a plant — that is, the name of
the species — without the first term, denoting the genus ; for instance,
people call the scarlet Japanese quince "japonica," dropping the
first name {Cydo?iia\ which denotes that it is a quince, and not one
of the many score plants with an equal claim to the title japonica ;
in like fashion Polianthes tuberosa becomes "tuberose"; and the
statement admits of manifold other instances.

There can be no doubt as to what Poe had in his mind's eye when
alluding — in **A1-Aaraaf" — to "the gemmy flower of Trebizond
misnamed," for the footnote reference to the intoxicating qualities of
the honey made therefrom is proof conclusive to the botanist, lliis
honey has been known for many centuries : all — and who indeed has
not? — who, with Xenophon for their guide, have taken that memorable
journey w?th the ten thousand, will remember how, when nearing

Flowers and the Poets. 177

Trebizond and home, the soldiers finding many beehives in the valley
proceeded to annex the honey, with the result that they became
intoxicated; we are also told how the greater part of the army suffered,
the ground about the camp being strewn with bodies, as if a battle
had been fought there. The example, we suspect, must have been
contagious, just as in the Indian legend the introduction of wine is
ascribed to Jamshid's wife, who thought to poison herself with the
juice of the grape, but the magical effects induced others to attempt
suicide in the same way. Aristotle informs us that the honey deprived
those of their senses who ate of it, and cured those who were already
mad — a proof this of a lurking belief in homoeopathy on the part of
the Stagyrite. Dioscorides speaks of two plants as yielding intoxicating
honey ; one, from which a more limpid kind was obtained, he calls
iEgolethron; and he refers to the second as Rhododendros — i.e. the
oleander. But the old French traveller Tournefort acquitted the
oleander of the charge, and showed that two closely related plants
are responsible for the mischief. These are a rhododendron
{R. ponticum\ now commonly cultivated in gardens, and the yellow
azalea i^A. pontica\ the species which produces those delicate
trusses so common in flower-shops during springtime. Tournefort
called both these plants Chatnarhododendros—i.e. false oleander — in
allusion to the mistake of Dioscorides, a mistake which obviously led
Poe to speak of his flower as "misnamed."

Who knows the eglamor? Readers of Browning will remember
his description of the flower with which, we are told, was linked the
name of Bordello's beaten competitor —

A plant they have yielding a three- leaved bell
Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails
Till evening ; evening gives it to her gales
To clear away with such forgotten things
As are an eyesore to the morn : this brings
Him to their mind, and bears his very name.

To all requests for information about this plant we have been com-
pelled to return a non possumus ; neither has it yet been our good
fortune to meet someone better posted up than ourselves. What is
certain is that among the several thousand Italian plant-names in
the Contessa di San Giorgio's " Catalog© Polyglotto " there is none
at all like "eglamor." But when one recalls how they did not
bring the good news from Ghent to Aix, can the charge of
unjustified scepticism be laid to one's door if the suggestion be
mooted that the flower is no less mythical than is the gallop of Dirk
and hb friends ?

178 The Gentleman s Magazine.

And has Milton in " Comus " served us in the same way, with
that stumbling-block of the commentators, haemony ? By the
general voice the question is answered in the affirmative. Thus
Professor Masson : " Milton invents this name for the prickly,
darkish-leaved plant of his fancy " ; and again, " It has been
suggested that the reference is to Haemonia, as the old name for
Thessaly, an especial land of magic among the Greeks." Looking
at the description with a botanist's eye one cannot but suspect this
idea to be correct. The plant is so common, we are told, that
" the dull swain treads on it daily with his clouted shoon " ; and yet
it does not flower in this climate — failure which would render it
liable to rapid extinction by its more highly-favoured rivals.
Nevertheless the agrimony, which was some years ago said to be
still sold in Bristol market under the name of haemony, has been
suggested ; but, inasmuch as the agrimony flowers freely and has
not prickly leaves, the suggestion may be summarily dismissed.
One may allude in passing to the Christian symbolism as would
seem read into Milton's lines by Coleridge in one of the Lay
Sermons — symbolism springing from and buttressed by the supposed
derivation of the word haemony from aT/ia and olioc.

Some misconception seems to have existed as regard's Milton's
choice of flowers for the imaginary obsequies of Lycidas. Professor
Masson says : " It is the call upon all the valleys of the landscape,
and the banks of all the secret streamlets, to yield up their choicest
flowers, and those dearest to shepherds, that they may he strewn
over the dead body " ; and in the notes to the poem he speaks of
the flowers as being "of selected hues." Selected hues? — why,
the whole spectrum is represented here ! But let us have the
passage with all its lovely music • .

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow- toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,

The glowing violet,

The musk-rose and the well-attir*d woodbine.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears :

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed.

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.

No ! The flowers are selected not for their hues^ but for their
fragrance — a great point with all nations that make funereal use of
flowers — and not only for their fragrance, but for their symbolism as
well. Thus the primrose and the crowtoe (i.e. hyacinth) have long

Flowers and the Poets. 179

*

been associated with death— the primrose especially with early
death ; and in the East the jessamine is still planted upon tombs.
As for the pink, we know that in Wales, where floral decoration of
the grave has never passed out of custom, this flower is frequently
employed. Moreover, the pansy and the violet, as symbolical of
remembrance and faithfulness, are touchingly in place, and, with its
meaning of constancy in love, the woodbine also ; while the rose,
by a common and widely-extended practice strewn over and
planted upon graves, may be looked upon as pre-eminently the
flower of the dead. We know not of any funereal symbolism
associated with either the cowslip or the daffodil. Perhaps the
cowslip, on account of its similarity to the primrose, may formerly
have done duty for it at a funeral ; but the more obvious appli-
cation is to be found in the supposed sadness of the nodding flowers,
while the corona of the daffodil suggests a receptacle for the tears
shed in memory of the departed.

SPENCER MOORE.

i8o Tlie Gentleman s Magazine.

A GREAT RAILWAY CENTRE.

A GREAT deal has been said and written concerning our rail-
ways ; but we have not yet arrived at the point where " thus
far and no farther " becomes a necessary command. One half the
world, we are assured, does not know how the other half lives : a
statement embodying a reproach to the " other half," for not supply-
ing the requisite information. In this paper I propose to afford a
few facts and figures showing how a not inconsiderable portion of
the world lives and enables others to live. Human society is held
together by mutual obligation : every man is, to a certain extent,
dependent upon his fellows, and it should be, therefore, a matter of
supreme interest to each to know what others are doing. That man
cannot be said to be well informed who is ignorant of what his
contemporaries are busying themselves about, even in the least
heroic walks of life ; nor is he a true patriot who can regard such
ignorance, either in himself or in others, with equanimity.

It is safe to affirm, however, that even in these practical and
prosaic days a large proportion of the people know more of ancient
history than of the history that is being made every day round about
them and in their midst— history in which they themselves, in all
probability, play an important, though unconscious, part. We read
the tale of Troy with delight ; >ve meditate in wonder upon the
glories of Tyre and Sidon ; but the records of present-day doings
fall flat upon our ears. The schoolboy eagerly devours the myth
that Daedalus made himself wings of wax with which to escape from
Crete, and yet remains oblivious of the fact that his neighbours are
daily engaged upon more wonderful and valuable inventions. It is
true all the world over that "distance lends enchantment to the
view," and the enchantment seems to increase in proportion to the
distance, even as the planet Venus is said to acquire greater brilliancy
the farther it leaves the earth. And yet it is true that we are living
in times with which the days of Homer and of Virgil cannot be com-
pared for importance— times in which actions far more momentous
than those recorded by Liviusand Tacitus are performed with greater

A Great Railway Centre. i8i

rapidity and followed by more weighty results. Facts and figures
are dry, I know ; but, like many other dry things, they are of inestim-
able value when rightly used and appreciated. According to the
worthy old fossil who once lectured our good friend Tony Veck, facts
and figures are of the utmost importance in this busy world, and I
am decidedly of that opinion.

I think I shall be well within the bounds of truth if I say that,
to the vast majority of the travelling public, Crewe is less a
habitation than a name. In his peregrinations from one part of
England to another by the London and North-Western Railway, or
those other systems that work in conjunction with it, the wayfarer is
occasionally informed, either by a polite official or by his ticket, that
he will travel " vici Crewe " and in the course of his journey he pro-
bably spends a few minutes on one of the several platforms at that
busy centre ; possibly he may even suffer the annoyance experienced
by the ** uncrowned king of Ireland " some short time since, and be
left behind for a night when important business awaits him at his
journey's end ; but Crewe remains a name, nevertheless — only this
and nothing more. The traveller thinks of Crewe merely as a busy
centre of converging lines ; as a place through which he must pass,
and at which he will probably have to change trains in the course of
his journey. The town of Crewe is literally and metaphorically in
the background : it has few visitors of any kind, and hardly any of
distinction. I am aware that at first sight this statement will appear
open to question. Names among the most learned and illustrious
known to the civilised world may be quoted from a certain visitors'
book within the confines of the borough. The volume contains the
signatures of kings, princes, viceroys, ambassadors, statesmen,
scientists, litterateurs — men of all nations and distinctions. In that
book may be seen the mystic characters that spell the names of
Egyptian khedivehs, Turkish pashas, Indian rajahs, Persian nobles,
and even Malagassy envoys. There, too, among a host of dis-
tinguished names is the autograph of the man whose exploits have
recently engaged the attention of the world— the intrepid Stanley;
for Crewe works was one of the last places visited by the great ex-
plorer prior to starting on his wonderful march to the relief of Emin.

But I have let the cat out of the bag in referring to Crewe works,
between which and Crewe town I draw a sharp distinction. In the
town of Crewe there is practically nothing to be seen : in Crewe
works very much may be seen and learned. The scientific man may
spend the in hole day in these great locomotive shops and go away
without seeing half that is there. Nay, one might easily spend a

1 82 The Gentleman s Magazine.

week without making a complete exploration. The stranger who goes
to Crewe to "do " the works rarely sees the town. He is conveyed
by rail from the main-line station direct into the workshops, sees what
is to be seen, signs the visitors' book, and returns as he came. He is in
blissful ignorance of Crewe, and Crewe is equally unconscious of him.
He is probably unaware even of the fact that he is for the time being
within the precincts of a borough which revels in the possession of a
Town Council of about as cantankerous a nature as the most can-
tankerous Town Council can possibly be, which is saying a great deal.
Men of world-wide fame, men whom crowds would follow in open-
mouthed wonderment were they to appear in the streets, have visited
Crewe, and the inhabitants have pursued the even — sometimes
uneven — tenor of their way sublimely unconscious of the fact.

The town itself has been somewhat waggishly, and not inappro-
priately, compared to a " heap of badly-burned bricks." Fifty years
ago there was no town at all. A farmhouse or two and a few
scattered thatched cottages occupied the site of the borough which
now boasts a population of close upon thirty thousand. A local
poet (?), describing the place as it appeared in the time of the Great
Reform Bill, refers to the Crewe of that day in lines more remark-
able for accuracy than elegance —

.... A hamlet known as Crewe,
Consisting of a house or two,

Or better termed a shanty :
A few farmhouses old and mean,
With here and there a cot, were seen,
And natives few and far between ;

For Creweites then were scanty.

So scanty were the natives of the locality in 1832 that they
mustered only 148 for the whole parish — 81 males and 67 females. In
that year the whole population was numbered, and the name, age, and
occupation of every householder is in possession of the writer. There
were then only 27 houses in the township, and, as to the inhabitants, I
have documentary evidence of the humiliating fact that of *' wholesale
traders and capitalists, clergy, office-clerks, professional and other
educated men," there were — none. Even the old gentleman who took
the census of the parish, or, as he calls it, " tjiis account above," hardly
redeems the locality from its utter lack of " other educated men " ;
for, though he carefully records the fact that Elizabeth Galley kept a
" scool," it is evident that he had never been a scholar there. If he
had been, then the old dame must have enjoyed somewhat original
notions of orthography, for the document which old Richard Sherwin

A Great Railway Centre. 1.83

— that was the functionary's name — has left behind is a curiosity in
its way.

I have mentioned these few facts in order that the revolution
wrought by the establishment of the London and North-Western
Railway Company's works may be duly appreciated. The 148
inhabitants have grown to about thirty thousand. There are a good
many — ^some may think too many — doctors and lawyers in the
town ; the clergy are well represented, in most of the familiar
denominations. Office-clerks may be counted by the score — ay, by
the hundred— while, to cap all, there is, as I have said, a full-blown
and decidedly militant Town Council. More than six hundred
trains pass daily over the spot where fifty years ago the good old
Cheshire farmer grazed his lazy cattle, and the traditional Cheshire
dairymaid milked her gentle " Blossom."

The first train passed through Crewe on the fourth of July, 1837.
Bradshaw gives the date as the sixth of July ; but Bradshaw is here
in error, as a medal struck in memory of the occasion proves. The
Grand Junction Railway, as it was then called, united London and
Birmingham with Manchester and Liverpool. It was commenced in
1835, Mr. J. Locke being the engineer, and the cost of its construction
was a million and a-half. The opening of this line really marks the
beginning of Crewe, though the practical development of this im-
portant centre did not commence till five years later— in 1842. Prior to
this — in 1 830— the Manchester and Liverpool line had been constructed
which in 1837 became amalgamated with the Grand Junction, thus
forming, with other additions, the London and North Western system.
When the Grand Junction was opened, the rate of travelling was
somewhat slower than it is now, though it was reckoned extremely
rapid at that time. From Birmingham to Wolverhampton, a distance
computed at ii-^ miles, was a journey of 40 minutes ; the distance
from the same place to Stafford, 29^ miles, was traversed in i hour
15 minutes; to Whitmore, 43^ miles, i hour 55 minutes; to Crewe,
54 miles, 2 hours 24 minutes ; to Hartford, 65^ miles, 2 hours 59
minutes ; to Warrington, 78 miles, 3 hours 34 minutes ; to Man-
chester, 97^ miles, 4 hours 30 minutes ; to Liverpool, same distance
and time. These figures are all official. When the Grand Junction
line was opened a medal was struck to commemorate the event. On
one side appeared a representation of the London and Liverpool
lines converging at Birmingham, and on the reverse the distances
and times given above, together with the times at which the various
trains started. Four first-class trains left Birmingham during the
day, the times being 7 a.m., 11.30 a.m., 2.30 p.m., and 7 p.m.

184 The Geittlemafis Magazine.

A like number also left Manchester and Liverpool at 6.30 A.M.,
11.30 A.M., 2.30 P.M., and 6.30 P.M.

But though the above figures are, as I have pointed out, official,
there is room to doubt that the distance from Birmingham to
Manchester or Liv^erpool was really covered in four hours and a-half ;
for it would be extremely dangerous to travel at the rate of more
than twenty miles per hour in the railway carriages of that day,
which resembled the modern ** swing-boat " rather than anything
else.

In 1842, when the amalgamated lines comprising the London
and North-Western system of that time were opened to the public,
the rise and development of Crewe as a railway centre commenced.
The authorities who had control of the enterprise were not slow to
take note of the advantages offered by the locality. It was seen that
several lines must converge there, and that the place would con-
sequently be a capital one for the construction and repair of loco-
motives. The Grand Junction Works were located at Edgehill,
Liverpool, and their transference to Warrington had been
contemplated. But Colonel Wilson Patten, now Lord Winmarleigh,
who then resided at Bank Hall, Warrington, refused to part with the
land necessary for the erection of the workshops, and thus another
site had to be found. Accordingly, Crewe was decided upon, and
in the following year, 1843, ^^ Grand Junction Works were removed
from Edgehill to Crewe.

At that time there were in Crewe proper only about thirty in-
habitants, the 148 given above being spread over the whole town-
ship. There were only some half-dozen houses in the vicinity of
the railway, and the Company found it necessary to commence
building operations for the purpose of accommodating the workmen
brought from Edgehill. In this way the present town, a great por-
tion of which belongs to the London and North- Western Railway
Company, was commenced, one street succeeding another in rapid
succession.

The " works " occupied between two and a half and three acres
of land, and are now known as the " Old Works." The engines
belonging to the company numbered seventy-five. Mr. F. Trevithick
was the first locomotive superintendent He was the son of the
renowned Trevithick who, in 1805, exhibited his wonderful "steam
coach " on the site of the present Euston Station. Ten years after
the settlement at Crewe, in 1853, the manufacture of rails was com-
menced there, necessitating a considerable augmentation of the staff
employed, and four years after the northern and north-eastern

A Great Railway Centre. 185

divisions of the London and North-Western system were amalgamated,
by which Crewe became also the centre of the locomotive and
carriage departments of the northern division of the line, the centre
of the southern division being Wolverton. In 1859 more accom-
modation was required at Crewe, and the carriage department was
consequently removed to Saltley, Birmingham.

In April, 1862, the northern and southern locomotive divisions
were amalgamated, and Mr. Ramsbottom, who had in the meantime
succeeded Mr. Trevithick in the capacity of locomotive superintend-
ent of the northern division, was appointed locomotive superintendent
and mechanical engineer for the entire system. In the year preced-
ing, a new " erecting shop " had been opened, at which lime the
hands employed in the Crewe works numbered 1,795. There were,
furthermore, 2,039 persons employed at the out-stations, making in
all 3,834. The 75 engines in stock had increased to 574, and the
number of miles traversed by the company's engines per year reached
9,867,827. The population of Crewe at the same date numbered
8,159. From Mr. Ramsbottom's appointment in 1862, the Wolverton
works, hitherto devoted to the construction of locomotive?, began to
be utilised for the building of carriages, and Crewe monopolised the
locomotive work. In 1853 the wapgon department had been removed
to Earlestown, and thus Crewe, Wolverton and Earlestown became
the centres for the construction of locomotives, cairiages, and waggons
respectively.

A most important branch of the Crewe works was opened in
1864 — the steel-works, a department which has since been consider-
ably extended. The old Chester line was then diverted, so that the
Chester line now runs outside the works, instead of inside, as for-
merly, the old line being utilised for private purposes, one of which
is the conveyance of visitors to and from the workshops. New shops,
called the " Deviation Works," were built in the fork formed by the
two lines, and to these the millwrights, pattern-makers, and moulders
were transferred from the " Old Works " in 1867. Three years later
a new boiler-shop and smithy were erected close to the steel-works,
where the engine- repairing shops, substituting those of Wolverton, had
been already built.

This brings us to the termination of Mr. Ramsbottom's service.
In 1 87 1 that gentleman retired from the service of the London and
North-Western Railway Company, and was succeeded by Mr. F. W.
Webb, the present locomotive superintendent.

Under the energetic superintendence of Mr. Webb the work of
consolidation has gone on. In 1874 the shops for the building and

1 86 The Gentleman s Magazine.

repairing of tenders, for painting, &c., were removed from the "Old
Works " to larger premises near the steel-works, the vacated shops
being used for the manufacture and repair of signals, which had been
previously made for the Company by contract. In 187 1, when
Mr. Ramsbottom left, the population of Crewe had grown to 17,810,
and five years after, in 1876, the workmen of the town celebrated the
completion of the two-thousandth engine constructed in the works.
When that ceremony took place, the workmen employed at Crewe
numbered 5,951, tho^e at the out-stations were 6,762 — a total of
12,713. At the same date there were 2,205 engines in stock, and the
miles covered per annum were 40,911,421.

This continued growth of the London and North Western Rail-
way works at Crewe evidently caused no little uneasiness outside,
and very naturally so. Private engineering firms began to fear a
monopoly, and in Maich, 1876, the London and North Western Rail-
way Company were served with an injunction restraining them from
manufacturing engines and rolling-stock, except for their own use'. In
consequence of this injunction the Company can neither manufacture
for sale nor hire ; they must confine their operations to their own lines
or lines worked by them, or to companies using their lines. They can,
however, let out their rolling-stock to another company in cases of
extraordinary emergency.

Having traced the progress of this great railway centre from its
commencement to 1876, I will now give some interesting figures that
will bring us down to the last two or three years. In 1881 the num-
ber of engines had increased to 2,347, and the miles covered yearly
were 45,803,381. The miles covered by the Company's locomotives
per day were 125,489, being 5,229 per hour, 87 per minute, or 1.45
for every second of time.

In the month of May, 1882, the new foundry was opened, and
was the occasion of an imposing ceremony. The engines then
numbered 2,544, and the number of employes had grown to 15,000.
The yearly mileage had increased to 46,333,026. By October of the
following year 345 additional employes had been added, and the
yearly mileage had risen to nearly 47^ millions. In September,
1 8.84, when the members of the Iron and Steel Institute were enter-
tained in Crewe Works, the employes numbered 15,776, of whom
6,395 were employed at Crewe and 8,776 at the out-stations, in
addition to 605 in the signal-department. The mileage was over
48 millions.

Two years later — August 13, 1886 — a large contingent of our
Indian and Colonial visitors spent some hours in Crewe Works, where

A Great Railway Centre. 187

Sir Richard Moon, the then chairman of the London & North Western
Railway Company, did the honours of the occasion. At that time
the capital of the company was- ;^ 110,000,000, the annual revenue
^10,000,000, and the annual expenditure ;£^5, 000,000. The total
number of persons employed by the company in its various depart-
ments numbered 60,000, of whom 16,000 were in the locomotive
departments. The length of the company's lines, taken in the aggregate,
was 2,500 miles ; the number of stations, 800. There were in use
28,000 signal -levers, and every night were lighted 13,500 signal- lamps.
The number of passengers carried annually was 60,000,000, and
33,000,000 tons of goods and minerals were carried annually. There
were 50,009 waggons, 5,000 carriages, 3,000 horses, 20 steamships,
and 2,500 engines. The total mileage of the engines for the year was
54,468,199, being an average of 149,228 miles per day, 6,218 per
hour, 104 per minute, and \\ per second To put it another way,
this was equal to the engines collectively making a trip round the
world once in every four hours.

These figures give us some idea of the work necessary to be done
in Crewe, which may be regarded as the great artery from which the
London and North-Western Railway system draws its life-blood.
The result of all the wear and tear going on unceasingly is that a new
engine is required every five days to make good the regular deprecia-
tion ; and carriages, waggons, rails, signals, and a host of other things,
have to be turned out in proportion. Bridges are made, engines for
steamships, canal-boats even, for use on the Shropshire Union Canal,
&c The works which covered 2\ acres of ground in 1843, ^ow
cover about 120 acres, about 40 acres being roofed in. Where
161 hands were employed at that time, over 6,000 are now at work ;
and the spot which then boasted a population of about 30, is a town
with not far short of thirty thousand inhabitants — a town which
gives name to an important parliamentary division of Cheshire, and
practically returns the member, Mr. W. S. B. M*Laren, a nephew
of the late John Bright.

On July 23, 1837, the electric telegraph was first used on the
line between Euston and Camden, the necessity for rapid communi-
cation between station and station having been recognised two years
earlier. In 1835 an effort was made to use semaphores, but it wa^
not successful.

It may not be out ofplace to note that the first engine that ran through
Crewe, on July 4, 1837, was driven by James Middleton, who entered
the service of the London and North Western Railway Company as a
boy. Hb first employment was the cleaning out of boilers, which were

1 88 The Gentleman s Mazdzine.

o

then too small to admit of a man getting inside. This man was the
first to carry the news of the birth of the Prince of Wales from
Birmingham to Liverpool. There was no telegraph to the latter
town, and James Middleton jumped upon his engine and drove at
the highest possible speed to Liverpool to announce the glad tidings
that an heir had been born to the English Throne. This old man,
who has continued in the service of the Company ever since, was
granted a pension some three years ago ; but, game to the last, he
expressed a wish to work a bit longer, and his wish was granted. I
believe he still runs a train on the line. In the Jubilee year the old
man was entertained at a public banquet, and introduced to Sir
Richard Moon. In the same year the 3,000th locomotive built
in Crewe Works was completed, a "compound" of the Webb type,
on the side of which the figures "3,000" occupy a prominent
position. At the present time the work of adding another thousand
to the long list is going on merrily.

Any account of Crewe and its industry would be incomplete
without mention being made of its volunteers. Of all our great
citizen army perhaps the Crewe Railway Engineer Corps is the most
novel organization. This corps, which was originated by Mr. F. W.
Webb, consists of six companies, each numbering one hundred men.
None but workmen employed in the Crewe shops are admitted,
though in the matter of officers this rule has not been rigidly adhered
to. Not a few of the Crewe w^orkmen have seen foreign service, and
a large number of them had served in various rifle volunteer com-
panies. Therefore, \vhen the Railway Engineers were organised,
there was found plenty of well -seasoned material at hand, and no
difficulty was experienced in getting suitable men. Indeed, the only
embarrassment that assailed the authorities was the duty of weeding
out the least suitable men ; for, as the full strength of the corps was
limited to 600 members, and very many more presented themselves,
some had to be refused. The result of this selection has been to
get a body of men who for physique and intelligence will compare
favourably with any volunteer corps in the country.

The duties of these volunteers consist principally of operations con-
nected with locomotive engineering. They have weekly drills within
the works, in the course of which lines of railway are laid, bridges are
constructed, and, in fact, all the multifarious operations required in
laying down a railway with its necessary rolling-stock and the work-
ing thereof are practised. The result of this constant exercise is
that a portable railway can be constructed in a marvellously short
space of time, and only actual experience on the battlefield is

A Great Railway Centre. 189

required to demonstrate the value of such an auxiliary force. There
is also an ambulance class connected with the corps, the results of
which, according to Surgeon- Major Atkinson, who instructs the
members, are very satisfactory.

The efficiency of the Crewe Railway Engineers, or, to give them
their full official title, the Second Cheshire (Crewe) Railway Engineer
Volunteers, has been remarked upon by the Duke of Cambridge,
who reviewed them at Crewe when the Queen's Park, given by the
London and North Western Company, was opened by his Royal
Highness. General Daniell also inspected the men at York, and
spoke in high terms of their smart appearance. Major L. V. Loyd,
formerly of the Grenadier Guards, and subsequently of the 2nd V.B.
Royal Warwickshire, who is a director of the London and North-
western Company, became Lieut-Colonel of the corps on its forma-
tion, but afterwards resigned ; upon which Captain E. T. D. Cotton,
who represents the Wirral division of Cheshire in the House of
Commons, was appointed to the command.

The corps numbers among its members numerous army reserve
men, and those not in the army reserve are offered facilities for join-
ing. In order to encourage these engineers to serve the State when-
ever it shall be necessary, the London and North Western Company
guarantee, to any man volunteering for active service, re-instatement
in his employment, or such other employment as he is qualified to
undertake at the expiration of such service. Every year the corps
goes into camp for a week, and quite recently a shooting-range has
been acquired in order that the men, among whom are several crack
shots, may continue firing practice.

Crewe is a town of mushroom growth, but its importance is not
to be estimated by its age. It is no stretch of imagination to affirm
that the influence of the place is felt throughout the United Kingdom
— ay, throughout that Greater Britain of which so much has been
heard within the last year or two. When the line from Crewe to
Chester was commenced, Sir William Jackson said it began in a field
and ended in the old rotten city of Chester. Crewe now covers the
field, and Chester has been galvanised into life, as Sir Richard Moon
once pithily remarked. A hundred and fifty years ago a Bishop of
Chester wrote in his diary : " Rose in good health, thanks be to God.
Provendered my nags, and foddered my cows ; returned to my closet
and, after devotions with my family, perused the journals and made
the following extracts." At that time, according to Bishop Stubbs,
the Diocese of Chester covered the whole of Lancashire and Cheshire,
a large part of Yorkshire, and portions of Cumberland and West-
voL. ccLxxi. NO. 1928. Q

I go The Gentlemafis Magazine.

moreland. *• How, then," asks the above authority, " was a Bishop
of Chester to cover the whole of his duties ? " The nags would
undoubtedly require a good deal of provendering when his lordship
made a visitation. Now, however, they are not requisite. The rail-
ways have shifted populations, compelling a division of dioceses.
The patient nag has been superseded by the impatient iron horse,
and the Bishop who found it difficult to reach the limits of his
diocese may now run up to London in order to vote upon an im-
portant ecclesiastical question in the Lords, and return the same
evening if he so desires.

Bishop Stubbs has put all this in much better form than it is here
set forth, and the facts are pretty generally known. But there are
other points which are not, perhaps, so widely appreciated. Crewe
men are very cosmopolitan. They have, in the first pla,ce, migrated
to Crewe, and now they emigrate pretty freely from the town*
Most of the older inhabitants are contemporary with, and some
older than, the town itself, and in these the " bump of locativeness "
may be somewhat developed ; but their sons are to be found wherever
the English tongue is spoken, and in many quarters of the globe
where it is not. It is scarcely necessary to say that scores of
engineers from the Crewe Works have obtained profitable berths in
the United States and in the British Colonies. Many of them run
trains in Chili and Peru, in Argentina, in Mexico, and, nearer home,
in Spain. India is also the home of some. During the course of
Indian railway development, which may be said to have commenced
with the viceroyalty of Lord Dalhousie, many men have left Crewe
Works for service in the East. Not a few of the "gaffers," as the
officials at Crewe are sometimes termed, have also received valuable
appointments abroad, one even within the last few months. Thus
the influence of these great locomotive shops continues to exert
itself silently and in various ways.

There is one striking feature about this industrial centre, and
that is the opening it oifers for real ability : the positions that may
be won by indomitable perseverance and energy — without which no
distinguished position should be expected to be won. If it were
necessary, several men could be pointed to as having commenced
their period of service in Crewe at the very bottom of the ladder
and successfully clambered to the top. It was a maxim in the
Napoleonic armies that the common soldier might become a field-
marshal — ^the possibility was there, if the necessary qualities were
forthcoming. In the United States of America the peasant may
become President : a truth that has received ample illustiation.

A Great Railway Centre. 191

Without going into particulars with respect to Crewe, it will suffice
to say that the late manager of the works, Mr. Charles Dick,
whose untimely death all parties in the town sincerely deplored,
entered the place a stranger, and commenced as an ordinary
workman. Much the same may be said of his successor in that
important office.

JOHN SANSOME.

192 The Genilctnan's Magazine.

SOME ENGLISH EXPLETIVES.

AN expletive consists of one or more words, inserted to fill up or
fill out a sentence. Its character is purely ornamental, and
its addition does not materially alter the sense of the passage, though
it may add greatly to its force. It frequently takes the form of an
expression not blasphemous — for there is seldom an intention to
blaspheme — but profane, that is, involving that thoughtless and irre-
verent use of sacred words, and especially the name of God, on
the most trivial occasions, which constitutes a breach of the Third
Commandment.

Bewhare of othis for dowte of peyn,
Amonges ffelachepp whan thou dost sytt.

A lytyl othe, this is serteyn,

May dampne thy sowle to helle pytt.

The Coventry Mysteries.

I propose to notice some expletives which were formerly much in
vogue in this country, but most of which good taste has since led us
to abandon.

The English have long been in the habit of garnishing their con-
versation with a forcible expression, which has earned for them, on
the Continent, a nickname that clings to them still. We can hardly
help admitting that they right well deserve the designation at the
present day, but we should scarcely expect to find it applied to them
as early as the reign of Henry VI. That such, however, was the case,
is clearly proved by the evidence given at the trial of *• the Maid of
Orleans," in 1429.

While Joan of Arc is preparing her successful attack upon the
English at Les Tournelles, near Orleans, the following episode takes
place : —

" Et ainsi qu'elle delib^roit de passer, on presenta k son hoste
une alose, et lors il luy dist, * Jeanne, mangeons ceste alose avant
que partiez.' * En Nom Dieu,' dist-elle, * on n*en mangera jusques
au souper, que nous repasserons pardessus le pont, et ramenerons
ung godoTiy qui en mangera sa part.' "

Some English Expletives. 193

And again, when visited in prison at Rouen by the Earls of
Warwick and Stafford, the Maid excitedly exclaims : " En Non D^,
je sgay bien que ces Angloys me feront mourir, credentes post
mortem meam lucrari regnum Franciae, sed si essent centum mille
godons, non habebunt regnum."

Those who care to refer to the Latin depositions containing the
expression in question, will find them given in " Proems de Jeanne
d'Arc," by M. Quicherat (one of the publications of the Soci^t^ de
THistoire de France), Vol. 3, pages 122 and 124. M. Quicherat
explains the term Godon as " expression populaire du 15™® si^cle,
pour designer les Anglais, de meme qu'on disait nagu^re. Us
goddem,^^

In the public accounts of the town of Orleans for the year 1439
appears an entry of payment for the making of deux godons, to be
used in the annual celebration of the fete to commemorate the cap-
ture of Les Tournelles. The sound of the word godon leads one to
the conclusion that the second syllable of the curse was pronounced
by our ancestors dom, as it still is in the North of England.

This form of imprecation occurs very rarely in Shakespeare's
plays, so far as I am aware ; and, in later literature, the name of the
Deity is more usually omitted.

Many very amusing caricatures were published in France during
the early part of the present century, representing Milord Goddam
as an extremely boorish individual, who begins or ends every sentence
with his favourite oath. Indeed, his stock of conversation is
sometimes completely exhausted after giving vent to it.

"The Vision of William concerning Pers the Plouhmon,"
written by Langland in the reign of Edward III., and commonly
called " Piers Plowman," shows us that the English of that period
thought it necessary to interlard their statements with copious
expletives :

I have no peny, quod Pers, poletes to bugg (pullets to buy),
And I sigg (say), bt my soule, I have no salt bacon,
Ne no cokeneyes (fowls), bi Crista colopes to maken.

Passus VL

And Glutton confesses [Passus V.] :

That I have trespassed with my tonge, I can noughte tell how oft,
Sworen Coddes souUy and so God me help^ and Halidom^
There no 'need ne was, nyne hundreth tymes.

We learn, too, [Passus VII.] that merchants in general fared
badly in purgatory, " for they sworen by heore soule" Examples of

194 ^^^ Gentle^nans Magazine.

the oaths used in Chaucer's day (1340-1400) will be found in "The
Reeve's Tale," where we meet with the phrases, For Goddes banes
(bones), For Crisies peyjie^ For Cristes sowle, By Goddes hart.
By Goddes sale (soul). By Goddes dignite, God wot, and Pardc
{par Dieu).

The latter oath is used by St. Joseph in the " Coventry Mysteries,"
written in the year 1468, which also contain the exclamations, The
deznl ! In the develis 7iavie, and A develys name,

" The Pardoner's Tale " and " The Shipman's Tale " of Chaucer
furnish many similar examples ; while the oaths in use among the
peasantry at a later date are well represented in " Gammer Gurton's
Needle," written in 1566, and printed in "Dodsley's Old Plays."

There is a curious old book on the French language, written by
John Palsgrave in 1530, and dedicated to Henry VIII. The title of
the work is, " L'Eclaircissement de la langue Frangaise." It has been
republished by ]M. Genin, in the series " Documents sur Thistoire de
France." Palsgrave tells us, at page 866, that the equivalent of our
oaths, by viy so^v/e, by God, was in French par Dieu, but that just as
we were in the habit of using the euphemism, by cockers body, by cocke's
flesshe, so our neighbours across the Channel exclaimed, par ie corps
bieu^par la mort bicu. To-day they say, corbleu, morbleu, &c. Pals-
grave refers also to the singular custom of exclaiming, Christ helpe !
"as we say to one whan he neseth " (sneezes). The modern expres-
sion is God bless you ! He mentions, too, the formula. So God helpe
vie (Si m'ayt Dieu\ which corresponds to the ^^ y^^ me God oi
Chaucer's time, and the 'So help me God, or Siuelp me, of the
present.

Lovers of Shakespeare will scarcely need to be reminded how
" full of strange oaths " are the pages of that author's plays. Here
are some of them : — 'Slight, " Twelfth Night," ii. 5, God's light ;
'Slid, "Merry Wives," iii. 4, God's lid; ' Odsheartlings, "Merry
Wives," iii. 4, God's heart; ' Odslifelings, "Twelfth Night," v. i,
God's life; ' Odspitikins, " Cymbeline," iv. 2, God's pity; 'Ods-
7101V71CS, " Merry Wives," iv. i, God's wounds; ^Odsbody, " i Henry IV."
ii. I, and ' Odsbodikin, or 'Odsbodkin, " Hamlet," ii. 2, God's body;
'Odst7i€, "Merry Wives," i. 4, God smite me; like the expressions,
"Strike me blind," and " Strike me dumb; " Zounds, "i Henry IV. i.,"
God's wounds; By cock, " Hamlet," iv. 5, by God; By cock andpye,
" Merry Wives," i. i. By God and the Pie. The Pie was the Or-
dinal, or Book of Church Offices, referred to in the Preface to the Book
of Common Prayer. It is said to have derived its name from the
pied appearance which the large black lettering gave to its pages.

Some English Expletives, 195

This oath probably suggested the association of bird's names in the
sign of the old tavern, which gave their name to the " Cock and Pie
Fields," Drury Lane. By my halidom^ " Two Gentlemen," iv. 2,
By my holidom or holiness. It means, too, anything holy on which
people are in the habit of taking an oath : —

Ich will that that thou suere
On auter and on messe gere,
On the belles that men ringes,
On messe book the prest singes.

Lay of Havel ok the Dane,

It does not mean "by my holy dame," as many people very
naturally suppose. God woty "Hamlet," ii. 2, God knows.
In " Havelok the Dane" it is spelt Goddot and Goddoth.
Cock's Passion, "Taming of the Shrew," iv. i, God's sufferings;
Gifds Sonties, " The Merchant of Venice," ii. 2, God's health; Good
dild you, ** Hamlet," iv. 5, God yield or grant you; Bfr lakin,
"Tempest," iii. 3, By our ladikin; By the Rood, "Hamlet," iii. 4,
By the Cross. Not to mention 'Fore God, God a mercy, Mercy on
nu. Faith, Upon my soul. By Gys, and a host of similar interjec-
tions.

In " King Henry V." iii. 2, the Irish Captain is made to say,
" Be Chrish^' " So Chrish save me." It was evidently one of Pat's
most characteristic oaths, for it occurs in the famous popular song of
" Lilliburlero," sung by the English in 1688 to ridicule the Irish. It
is printed in the "Percy Reliques," vol. 2, page 373: —

Dough, by my shoul, de English do praate,

Lilli burlero, bullen a la !
De law's on dare side and Chreish knows that,

Lilli burlero, bullen a la !
Now, now, de hereticks all go down,

LilH burlero, bullen a la !
By Chrish and Shaint Patrick, de nation's our own,

Lilli burlero, bullen a la !

James Howell, in one of his "Epistolae Ho-Elianae," dated
August I, 1628, writes: — "This infandous custom of swearing, I
observe, reigns in England lately more than anywhere else : though a
Gennan, in highest puff of passion, swears a hundred thousand sacra-
ments, the Frenchman by the Death of God, the Spaniard by His
Flesh, the Irishman by His Five Wounds, though the Scot com-
monly bids the Devil hale his Soul, yet for variety of oaths the
English roarers put down all. Consider well, what a dangerous
thing it is to tear in pieces that Dreadful Name, which makes the
Tast fabric of the world to tremble."

196 The Gentleman s Magazine.

William Congreve's play, "The Old Bachelor," is certainly a
landmark in the history of expletives. It literally bristles with oaths,
which does not surprise us so much when we find that its first
representation, on the boards of Drury Lane Theatre, took place in
1693, just after the conclusion of the siege of Namur, when our old
friend " Uncle Toby '* was wounded, and when, as he informs us,
" Our armies swore terribly in Flanders." Congreve's plays exhibit
some curiously attenuated forms of English oaths. The grand old
interjection. Zounds \ (what a sonorous ring it has), becomes ^oons ;
God's blood shortens into ^Adsbud\ ^Adsheart also occurs, and
^AdslidikinSy a variety of the Shakespearian ^Siid. Then we have
A Gad's nafne, Egad, I vow to Gad, O Gad, Gadsobs, ^Sdeath, and
its shorter form, Death, Lard, O Lord, By the Lord Harry ^ and the
puerile expression, Gad^s daggers, belts, blades, and scabbards 1
" What a dickens^^ is an old saying which we also find in
"The Merry Wives of Windsor." "I cannot tell what the dickins
his name is." Dickens is possibly a contraction of devilkins. In
Egad we notice the pronunciation of the letter "o" as "a," which
was affected at this period by the dandies and loungers who
frequented the fashionable resorts of the Spring Garden, the piazzas
of Covent Garden, and the Royal Exchange. It probably did not
extend to the lower orders of society ; for in Congreve's " Love for
Love," the old nurse says God \ and Lord ! and the young man
from sea, a God's name. The oath by God is ubiquitous in
old English literature. In the " Lay of Havelok the Dane," written
about the year 1280, in the reign of Edward the First, we meet with the
exclamation Deus several times. It is, of course, the Latin word for
God, and probably the original form of our interjection, Deuce ! In
" Piers Plowman " the English form. By God, is seen, while in
Chaucer's poems it stands side by side with the French Pardk or
Purdy, It appears in an infinite number of forms — corruptions either
intentional to avoid taking God's name in vain, or unintentional,
from ignorance of what the phrase meant. Besides the old forms,
by cock, ^ecod, and ^egad, we have the modern, by gar, by gaw^ by gcn^^
by gum, by gosh, and the negro slave's by golly,

Congreve also has O Gemini, which sounds strangely out of
date, like our by Joi'e. Tertullian tells us that the early Christians
used the old Roman oath, Mehercle (by Hercules), without knowing
what it meant. So too the mother, who, when scolding her child,
says, " plague you," or " drat you," does not know, or care to know,
that those expressions are elliptical for God plague you, and God rot
you.

Some English Expletives, 197

The sound of the first syllable of the names Gemini and Jove
explains why the modern Christians continue to swear by them. One
of Sheridan's characters, a lady, exclaims. By Gemini ! Its more
recent form is By Jimminy,

But to return to " Love for Love." Mess ! and By the Mess !
is a survival of the once common oath, By the Mass, We meet
with it in Chaucer's " Boke of the Duchesse " ; and in " Hamlet,"
iii. 2 : — " By the Mass 'tis very like a camel "; and in " Damon and
Pithias" (1571), which will be found in the collection of old plays
edited by Isaac Reed, we have the lines : —

yacke, — By the Masse, I will boxe you !
Wyll. — By cocke, I will foxe you !

Marry and Amen is a form of the old oath. By Mary, In the
"Chester Mysteries" (circ. 1450), the Patriarch Noah is made to
swear by Marye, Why not by Joan of Arc ? 2^oks means God's
looks : We find two other forms of the interjection in the play, viz.,
Gadszooks and ^Odszooks,

The exclamation. Flesh \ is a contraction of ^Odsflesh^ which
appears elsewhere as ^Odsfish, ^Odso is probably a corruption of
Godsbones. Marry come up^ like the Marry guep of " Hudibras,"
I. iii. 202, has been interpreted Mary go up, an allusion to the
Assumption of Our Lady.

Next \ve come to Sheridan's Plays. In " A Trip to Scarborough,"
(first acted in 1777) we come across some good round oaths. The ex-
quisite Lord Foppington, when trying on his new clothes, exclaims : —

Death and eternal tortures, sir ! I say the coat is too wide here by a foot.

Tailor. — My Lord, if it had been tighter, *twould neither have hook'd nor
button'd.

Lord F. — Rat the hooks and buttons, sir ! As Gad shall jedge me, it hangs
on my shoulders like a chairman's surtout.

A little later, the Fop exhibits his powers of conversation: —
" I am overjoyed that you think of continuing here, stap my vitals
(his favourite expression). For GatTs sake^ Madam, how has your
ladyship been able to subsist thus long under the fatigues of a
country-life," and, when wounded in an encounter provoked by his
own folly, cries out : — "Ah, quite through the body, stap my vitals/'^
They were very nearly stopped that time. We must not quit Sheri-
dan's works without noticing the bold Bob Acres' " genteel " style of
oath, which adapts itself to the subject for the time being under dis-
cussion:— ^^ Ods whips and wheels^ I've travelled like a comet,"
Ods blushes and blooms ; Ods (rickets ; Ods frogs and tambours ;

198 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Ods jigs afid tabors ; Ods hilts and blades ; Ods flints^ pans, and
triggers ; Ods balls and barrels; Ods bullets and blades ; Ods crowns
and laurels. His servant, on the contrary, usually swears by the Mass.

During the time of the Commonwealth, profane swearing was
vigorously suppressed, together with play-acting and other popular
amusements, which appeared worldly to the Puritan eye. We read in
" Hansard's Parliamentary History," that on June 28, 1650, a law
was made that every person styling himself a duke, marquis, earl,
viscount, or baron, who profanely cursed or swore, should forfeit thirty
shillings, a baronet or knight twenty shillings, an esquire ten shillings, a
gentleman six shillings and eight pence, and all inferior persons three
shillings and four pence. Wives and widows were to pay penalties
equivalent to what their husbands would have paid, and single women
according to their father's rank. The distinction between dukes
(especially self-styled ones) and inferior persons seems at first sight
to be out of keeping with the democratic principles of a Common-
wealth, but though the House of Lords was abolished, the nobility
were still recognised as a class, and the crude doctrine of the Equality
of Man, which was so insisted upon by the French republicans in after
times, was here conspicuous by its absence.

At the restoration of the monarchy there followed, as a natural
consequence of this system of repression, a time of unbridled licence
and of reaction in the opposite direction, when the people indulged in
strong language to their hearts' content.

At last, in the nineteenth year of King George II., a statute was
passed, which recites that " forasmuch as the horrid, impious, and
execrable vices of profane cursing and swearing (so highly displeasing
to Almighty God, and loathsome and offensive to every Christian),
are become so frequent and notorious, that, unless speedily and effec-
tually punished, (sic) they may justly provoke the Divine vengeance
to increase the many calamities these nations now labour under,"
(the calamities referred to being probably the War of the Austrian
Succession, which included the battles of Dettingen and Fontenoy,
and the Scotch Rebellion of 1745), and that, "whereas the laws now
in being for punishing those crimes have not answered the intents
for which they were designed, by means of difficulties attending the
putting such laws in execution," and goes on to provide a remedy for
this shocking state of things by enacting, that after June i, 1746, any
person convicted before a magistrate, on the testimony of one witness,
of profanely cursing and swearing, should forfeit a sum of money
proportionate to his status in the social scale. For this purpose the
British public were divided into three classes: —

So77te English Expletives. 199

(i) Day labourers, common soldiers, common sailors, and com-
mon seamen, who were to be fined one shilling for every oath.

(2) Other persons under the degree of a gentleman, who were to
pay two shillings.

(3) Persons of or above the degree of a gentleman, who were to
forfdit the sum of ?ive shillings for each oath they uttered.

For a second offence the culprit was to pay double, and for a
subsequent offence treble the penalty, which was in every case to be
applied for the benefit of the poor of the parish. The common
soldier, sailor, or seaman who could not or would not pay the pen-
alty and costs, was directed to be ** publickly set in the stocks," where
he probably exhausted his entire vocabulary of oaths in cursing the
whole tribe of " constables, petty constables, tything-men, and other
peace officers," who had brought him to that low estate.

This statute, which repealed an Act of William III. to the same
effect, and an older and still less efficient one of King James I.'s
reign, was ordered to be publicly read in church, immediately after
rooming or evening prayer, on four specified Sundays of the year.
Proceedings are now more usually taken under " The Towns' Police
Clauses Act" of the present reign, by which persons who use
profane or obscene language in any street to the annoyance of
residents or passengers, are liable to a penalty. The " bad
language '* of the present day must be characterised as obscene rather
than profane, and here it may not be out of place to mention a word,
which is often classed as profane or obscene, but which does not
prop>erly fall within either of such categories. It has been tabooed
in the " upper circles " of society as not fit for ears polite, and that
not because it is wicked, but because (much worse than wicked) it is
vulgar. Among the lower classes, on the other hand, it is so
incessantly used that it is impossible to walk from Westminster to
Whitechapel, or from Highbury to Highgate, without hearing it
repeatedly on the lips of passers by. I refer, of course, to that most

characteristic of English epithets, bloody or b , as the printer

usually prefers to spell it. Many are the derivations which have
been assigned to this word. A favourite one, that it represents a
shortened form of the asseveration By Our Lady, is a very tempting
one. It is, perhaps, as likely that the exclamation Blood 1 is a
contraction of By our Lud as that it is the equivalent of the French
Sang-dieu ; and, by analogy, the oath By our leddy would naturally
contract into bloody I But the use of the word by itself as an
interjection is so exceedingly rare that the above ingenious derivation
of the term must, I am afraid, be abandoned.

200 The Gentlevtati s Magazine,

Again, it has been often urged that it must be connected with the
once common oath, blood and wounds ! or bloody wounds ! which is
still used in Ireland, and contains (it is needless to say) a profane
reference to the ** Five wounds " of the Crucifixion.

Those v;ho support this theory adduce an alleged analogous
adjective woundy^ which is said to be still in use in some parts of the
country. The expression, woundy angry, occurs in Congreve*s
" Love for Love." The remarks which will presently be made with
regard to changes of meaning in the word bloody will apply equally
to woufidy, though the latter adjective is possibly only a corrupted
form of wondrous.

Another origin that has been suggested is, that it has reference to
the habits and customs of the " young bloods," or fashionable rowdies
of the restoration period, and that the expression, bloody drunk, is
equivalent to the proverbial saying, "as drunk as a lord." This
seems far-fetched, and not sufficient to account for the widespread
use of this qualifying particle.

But the most probable — and, at the same time most simple —
solution of the problem is that the word is nothing more than an
example of " degradation in sense " of the common English adjective,
which primarily means covered or stained with blood. It is said that
in Holland, the adjective bloedig, and in Germany blutig, are some-
times used in a sense similar to our slang term bloody or bleeding,
but it may be nothing more than a literal translation of the language
of our ** jolly jack tars."

The figurative use of the word, as meaning bloodthirsty, cruel,
hard-hearted, is to be met with very frequently in literature. Thus,
in the English Bible, we have the expressions, a bloody husband \ Saul
and his bloody house. In Shakespeare the word is often used in a
similar sense, and when so used becomes a natural term of reproach
to a person, under circumstances not necessarily involving bloodshed.
The transference of the epithet from persons to inanimate objects
follows as a matter of course.

I will endeavour to make my meaning clear by giving some
examples of the use of the word from English authors : —

In that unutterably prosy work, "Pamela ; or, Virtue Rewarded,"
written by Richardson about the year 1742, occurs the following
sentence : " He is bloody passionate, and has fought several duelsJ*
(Vol. iii. p. 397.) Here there is an obvious connection between the
words bloody and duels.

Again, a comedy, " The Man of Mode," written by Sir Geqrge

Some English Expletives. 201

Etheredge towards the end of the 17th century, and acted in 1715
at the Duke's Theatre, contains this dialogue : —

DORIMANT. — Give him half-a-crown.

Medley. — Not without he will promise to be bloody drunk.

— Act I,, Scene i.

The sense is here " outrageous," " devilish," but not necessarily
causing bloodshed.

Lastly, Swift, in his " Journal to Stella," October 5, 1711, writes :
" But it grows bloody cold, and I have no waistcoat." Here we see
the word applied to the weather. Thus, in Queen Anne's reign, the
word had dwindled down to what it continues in Queen Victoria's —
a mere intensive adjective used adverbially, having passed through
an evolution similar to that undergone by the adjectives " awful "^
and " fearful." The three examples given above are selected merely
to illustrate what were probably the successive stages of degradation
in meaning through which the word has passed, and must not be
taken to represent historically the precise sense in which the word
was generally used at the respective dates named.

Its meaning to-day is vague and colourless in the extreme.
Hamlet's "Very, very pajocke," and his "Too, too solid flesh,"
might be freely translated into modem English by the help of the
word which we have been considering, and I can only hope that vaj
somewhat laboured explanation has rendered this terrible bugbear as
harmless as was the lion, who confessed that, in spite of his san-
guinary appearance, he was only Snug the joiner after all !

THOMAS H. B. GRAHAM.

202 The Gentleman s Magazine.

THE CRY OF THE SAXON.

It was said openly that Christ and His Saints slept. — Saxon Chrofiicle.

" /^"^ HRIST and His Saints are sleeping," was the cry
v.^ With which a nation's anguish pierced the sky,
When the land groaned beneath excess of woe,
Ground to despair, eight centuries ago :
Openly cried, not whispered half in shame,
But from fierce, wild, accusing lips it came.
"There is no God to save," the Saxon said ;
" Our lands are wasted ; lost our wine and bread ;
Burned are our homesteads, few are left to weep ;
Christ and His Saints," they said, "they sleep, they sleep !

" They sleep ! Across our lands the Normans ride,
Devils, not men, in conquerors' might and pride,
Sparing nor church nor churchyard, saint nor rood.
Clothed as they are in garments all of blood.
Useless to struggle ! Hopeless to complain !
Our warriors die, our bishops curse in vain.
Desolate ground and harvestless have we ;
We till no fields — as vain to till the sea ;
Wretched men starve, their helpless orphans weep ;
The land is ruined — Christ, His Saints, they sleep."

Thus cried the Saxon. Centuries before.

Stood the fierce prophet once on Israel's shore,

Alone, and yet with boundless might endued.

Calling in scorn to the vast multitude.

** Does Baal hear ? He is a God," he said ;

" Perchance he sleeps, must be awakened ;

Or from home journeys, or in musings deep.

Sinks in a torpor more profound than sleep."

Ah ! that fierce taunt, the watchword of the fray —

Rings it not yet within our ears to-day ?

" Cry, cry aloud ! Where is thy God ? " we hear —
" Claimed as thy help in need, thy trust in fear ?

The Cry of the Saxon. 203

Sleeps He, and, slumbering with care-laden eyes,

Hears as in dreams the strife of centuries ?

Or, perchance, dead, with old hopes round His grave

Lingering as ghosts which have no strength to save ?

Or, if not sleeping, not beneath the sod,

Why comes no answer then ? Where is thy God ?

Cry out ! He is a God ! He sleeps ! " is said.

" Cry not. What profit ? Not asleep, but dead."

"Ah I " still they say, " no doubt the mourners wept

When to the gates the sad procession swept.

And the Cross-bearer, bent, with faltering breath,

Moved with slow footsteps up the road to death.

All is past now. The foe h^s worked his will ;

Now those pierced hands, that labouring breast, are still ;

And, the cross o'er, its shame and anguish past.

Leave Him alone to sleep in peace at last.

Why, as one clamouring o'er a long-closed grave,

Callest thou on a God who will not save ? "

Sleepest Thou, Master ? Through the riftless sky

Still the dim eyes would seek Thy home on high ;

Still through its doubts, its fears, its agony.

The world has raised despairing hands to Thee.

Yet evil triumphs ; yet, from strand to strand,

Cruelty fills dark places of the land ;

Till the fierce anguish, roused within our breast,

Swells like a mighty wave that will not rest.

" Carest Thou not ? We perish " — then we cry.

" Look down from heaven, and save us lest we die ! "

Ah, Lord, that questioning, born of doubts and fears,
Not for the first time echoes in Thine ears ;
Still, like the rifts of hope through depths of pain,
The wind can stir Gennesaret's waves again ;
Still the rough sailors, labouring on the sea,
Cry out, in their despair, for help from Thee ;
Still, from Thy pillow rising, as from death.
Comes the reply, " O ye of little faith ! "
The storm-clouds part ; the vessel nears the shore ;
And on our storm-tossed hearts is peace once more.

M. A. CURTOIS.

204 ^^^ Gentleman s Magazine.

PAGES ON PLAYS.

THE dramatic season has come to its end. One by one the
theatres are closing ; the curtains are being rung down for more
than their twenty-four hours' repose ; the hghts are put out ; brown
holland shrouds the spaces where men and women of late sat and
laughed or sighed as their mood and the power of the player moved
them. And we, as we note erasure after erasure in the columns of thea-
trical announcements, feel that the time has come in which, with an
approximate impartiality, it is possible to review the events of the
dramatic season and discover what was good in it. It was, in many ways,
a very remarkable dramatic season. The six months that have slipped
by since I began writing these " Pages on Plays " have been event-
ful months, fruitful months, auspicious months. The season has
seen two conspicuously successful English plays : Mr. Henry Arthur
Jones's," Dancing Girl," and Mr. Haddon Chambers's "The Idler."
It has seen the Renaissance of Pantomime in England, of the genuine
pantomime which had practically been extinct since the days of
Manager Rich, the genuine pantomime which is the direct descendant
of the Commedia dell' Arte, of the Comedy of Masks. Most
important of all, it has seen what I cannot but call the triumph of
Henrik Ibsen.

This year will certainly be remembered in dramatic annals as the
Ibsen year. A number of his plays were played in rapid succession ;
one went into the evening bill and ran for some weeks. Ibsen was
the chief topic in theatrical circles. Actors and actresses who had
never heard of the Norwegian dramatist before became excited by
the controversy and grew eager to appear in "an Ibsen play."
It got to be a kind of impression that Ibsen was so actable an
author that any one, no matter how incompetent or untried, bad
only to take him up to win immortal fame. That this was not the
case two disastrous failures showed. That Ibsen did afford excep-
tional opportunities to earnest and capable interpreters was made
clear by no fewer than four very interesting performances — " Ghosts,"
at the Royalty, under Mr. Grein*s management; " Rosmersholm "

Pages on Plays. 205

and " Hedda Gabler," at the Vaudeville ; and Miss Norreys' repre-
sentation of " The Doll's House," at the Criterion. Five of Ibsen's
most remarkable plays were thus presented to the public this year,
and four of them for the first time.

I have already given my opinions upon the merits and defects of
these Ibsen performances ; reviewing them now that the performances
can be seen more in perspective, I find little, if anything, to change.
Miss Robins's melodramatic interpretation of " Hedda Gabler " has
done exactly what I expected it would do : it has earned her an
engagement at a melodramatic theatre. She played ** Hedda Gabler"
with conspicuous ability ; but, as I thought and think,' with a false
conception of the part. Her ** Hedda Gabler " was conceived in the
Adelphi manner, and for her reward she has been translated to the
Adelphi stage. That she will do well there, that she would do well
anywhere where her special powers were given free play and full
opportunity, no one, indeed, need doubt.

Miss Norreys has not tried the " DolFs House " again in London,
though it was practically promised that she would do so. Perhaps
she was disappointed by the reception it met with, by the hilarity of
Mr. Scott, by the silence of Mr. Archer. But a serious actress should
not be diverted from a serious purpose by the playfulness of a critic
who does not love Ibsen, or by the austere disapproval of a critic who
does love Ibsen. The critics who do love Ibsen are not all of a mind,
any more than their adversaries.

There is something curious and not unpathetic about the imita.
tiveness of the British public, and of those who set themselves to
amuse the British public. Because Ibsen " caught on," to use the
colloquial expression, every actor wanted to play Ibsen. Even the
actors who are most loud in the expression of their scorn for Ibsen
were eager for a chance of distinguishing themselves in a play by the
author of " The Doll's House." In much the same way, the success
of " UEnfant Prodigue" has drowned us in a perfect flood of panto-
mime. It is all pantomime now, pantomimejor nothing. The success of
Mademoiselle Jane May and of M. Courtis has turned the heads of our
players, and we are drenched, deluged with pantomime. M. Marius
goes in for pantomime. Mr. Toole burlesques it in " Ici on (ne)
parle (pas) Frangais." Miss Norreys,' ever on the search for new
dramatic sensations, does wonderful feats of miming and dancing
in Mr. Augustus Moore's dainty " Moonflowers." Mr. Cosmo
Gordon Lennox, Mr. Charles Colnaghi, and Mrs.^^Crutchley contri-
bute their share to charity and to the popular craze in their pathetic
little " Portrait de Pierrette." What a people we are ! Panurge's

VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1928. p

2o6 The GentleiJtans Magazine.

sheep are a joke to us. I have been gravely assured that Mr.
Beerbohm Tree, unsated by many experiments, is eager to try his
hand, or rather his hands, at a pantomime performance, whether to
precede or to succeed Hamlet is not stated. It is really a pity that
we overdo a pleasant thing in this way. If a thing strikes the popular
taste, how we harp upon it and harp upon it, until at last we bore
everybody and ourselves included with the toy which so delighted us
at first ; and what in the beginning was a pretty, delicate, entertaining
phantasy, becomes as tedious as an old wife's tale, and as common
as a comic song !

At the moment when I write, one of the two chief English
successes of our season has left the stage temporarily ; when these
lines appear in print, the other will have disappeared., " The Dancing
Girl " has danced off the stage and into the provinces ; London will
know her no more till the winter season. " The Idler,'* too, has
gone its way, after having done so much to enhance Mr. Alexander's
reputation, and to encourage him in his artistic resolution to gather
about him the best dramatic company in London. For the company
at the St. James's does really appear to be a dramatic company in
the sense in which Mr. Augustin Daly's fellowship of players are a
dramatic company. They are not a collection of individual units
brought together by the chance of one moment to be dispersed by
the chance of the next moment. They appear to be a real union, a
genuine fellowship, a " Fein Collegium,'' like the brotherhood in
the German Ballad, and they work together with an artistic purpose
and sympathy which is indeed encouraging. Of course I do not
mean to say that artistic purpose, that artistic union are to be found
in the St. James's Theatre alone of all the theatres of London. The
Lyceum Theatre, the Garrick Theatre, the Haymarket Theatre, the
Criterion Theatre, the Shaftesbury Theatre, are each in their special
way centres of dramatic art. So long as the Haymarket can claim
Mr. Fred Kerr, so long as the Shaftesbury can claim Mr. Cyril Maude,
so long as the Criterion can claim Mr. George Giddens, so long as
the Garrick can claim Mr. Forbes-Robertson, so long these theatres
may maintain that their immediate principals are supported in a
manner worthy of the best traditions of the art. But for the present
there does appear to be a kind of homogeneity about the company
at the St. James's Theatre which I do not think is to be found so
conspicuously evident in any other theatre in London.

Another important event of the season has been the advent of
the French players. If there is one belief more firmly grafted into
the mind of the British playgoer than another, it is a belief in the

Pages on Plays. 207

superiority of the French play-actor and of the French play-writer
to the English play-actor and the English play-writer. Yet, no
belief is more baseless. We owe thanks to M. Mayer for helping to
disenchant the public Not to disenchant them of their admiration for
French acting, which, when honestly entertained upon due experience
and honestly expressed after due reflection, is serious enough and
sensible enough. But any impression that the French are markedly
beyond us in our capacity for dramatic expression could hardly, I
think, be seriously maintained by any one well acquainted with the
present state of our English theatres who followed the course of
M. Mayer's latest experiment of three weeks' duration. When we
think of the Lyceum Theatre, of the Garrick Theatre, of the
St. James's Theatre, of the Criterion Theatre, of the Haymarket
Theatre, and many others, and compare their powers and their
methods with the powers and the methods of the Com^die
Fran^aise, we may be pardoned for cherishing a certain insular
feeling of satisfaction. Not in the least a Pharisaical feeling that
we thank God that we are not as those are ; not in the least a
feeling that we are very much better than our French neighbours
and rivals — for, indeed, to be very much better than, or indeed at all
conspicuously better than, our French neighbours at their best would
be, to put it mildly, not without its difficulty. But where our
feeling of exultation may legitimately come in is when we assure
ourselves with all sincerity that the legend of our inferiority to
our " sweet enemy France " is the most fly-blown and grotesque
of all legends. We may assure ourselves, without the slightest
affectation, that we are as good as they. Personally, I much prefer
the modem English way of acting a modern English comedy of
manners, to the modern French way of acting a modern French
comedy o( manners. I think our people move more naturally,
speak more naturally, carry themselves with a more commendable
conformity to the carriage of the real world around them ; that they
forget their audience far more, and are far more willing to forego
their own mere personal and momentary advantage for the sake of the
truthfulness of the general stage picture. They do not address
themselves to the audience with the persistence of the French
players : they do not regard the footlights as a sort of fictitious
barrier between them and their public which it is their duty to come
dose to, and to hurl speeches across into the very hearts of their
audience, as certain of the French players— but these, indeed, are
not the best — ^are at pains to do. I should be sorry to be
thought to underrate the genius of modern France, or to under-

p 2

2o8 The Gentleman s Magazine.

estimate the magnitude of the artistic debt which we and all the
nations of the world owe to her. But I should be still more sorry
to be thought indifferent to, or inappreciative of, the dramatic genius
of our own people, and the conspicuous advance which our stage
has made within very recent years.

We have had a great deal written about the stage in the last few
days or weeks. Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, whose tireless energy can-
not be confined to the mere writing of plays, but must spend itself in
all manner of lectures, articles, and dramatic schemes, is found, in
company with Mr. Sidney Grundy, in the pages of a recent number
of the New Review expounding things'dramatic with firstly, secondly,
and thirdly. Of course, he has his hit at Ibsen. Could Mr. Jones
take up his pen without this ? I wish he could, for Mr. Jones is a
serious author, with the interests of the drama sincerely at heart, nad
does not really, I am convinced, look upon Ibsen with the frolicsome
indifference which he affects in his writings. Perhaps the most
interesting of recent contributions to dramatic literature was Mr.
Henry James's paper on " Hedda Gabler " in a previous number of
the Neiv Review, Not so much for what it said about " Hedda
Gabler," though that was fair enough and interesting enough, but
because it is portion or parcel of Mr. Henry James's new departure
as dramatic author and dramatic critic. It is interesting in this
connection to turn to certain utterances of Mr. Henry James's in his
theatrical novel, " The Tragic Muse." Here is the ideal theatrj^ of
which his hero dreams :

"He saw .... a great, academic, artistic theatre, subsidised
and unburdened with money-getting, rich in its repertory, rich in the
high quality and the wide array of its servants, and above all in the
authority of an impossible administrator — a manager personally
disinterested, not an actor with an eye to the main chance, pouring
forth a continuity of tradition, striving for perfection, laying a splendid
literature under contribution. He saw the heroine of a hundred
* situations ' variously dramatic and vividly real ; he saw comedy and
drama and passion and character and English life ; he saw all
humanity and history and poetry, and perpetually, in the midst of
them, shining out in the high relief of some great moment, an image
as fresh as an unveiled statue."

But Mr. Henry James's agreeable fancy is dashed by, to him, dis-
agreeable facts. He does not like the practical actor, whom he
represents by Dashwood :

" Dashwood knew all about the new thing, the piece in rehearsal ;
he knew all about everything — receipts and salaries and expenses

Pages on Plays. 209

and newspaper articles, and what old Baskerville said, and what Mrs.
Ruffler thought ; matters of superficial concern to Sherringham, who
wondered, before Miriam appeared, whether she talked with her
* walking-gentleman ' about them by the hour, deep in them, and
finding them not vulgar and boring, but the natural air of her life and
the essence of her profession."

Mr. Henry James may be assured, however, that an intense
interest in all the minor details of dramatic art and life is quite com-
patible with the highest belief in the dignity of the art.

It must be admitted that there is a good deal of vague talk about
the theatre just now — one might say, more than enough. Mr. Henry
James, Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, Mr. Sidney Grundy — there they are all
explaining and expounding and exhorting, and nobody is by so much
as a penny the wiser. Mr. Grant Allen rushes lightly into print as the
champion of a " Thinking-Theatre," to be instituted for the benefit
of some particular actress or some particular group of actresses.
Was Mr. Grant Allen thinking at all of that ideal theatre dreamed of
by Mr. Henry James, the description of which has been just quoted?
Whether he was or not — whether in his heart he cares a rap for
the existence or non-existence of a " thinking-theatre," he brought
down a good deal of indignation — very much as shooting brings
down rain — from the jealous guardians of existing drama, the lovers
of things as they are, who see in any suggestion that is not in absolute
accord with the traditions of Philistia an insidious attempt to spread
the plague of Ibsenism, to disseminate the poisonous doctrines of
the North. In the meantime, thank Heaven, the drama goes on,
and will go on, however the wordy battle is waged, however it rages.

Mr. Davenport Adams's interesting " Book of Burlesque " comes
to my hands appropriately enough at the very moment when the
Gaiety Theatre has closed after its long and brilliant season. If I
said a regretful good-bye to " Carmen Up to Data " I can offer
a warm welcome to Mr. Davenport Adams's volume. Here the
admirer of burlesque will find a comprehensive sketch of the history
of an enduring and amusing form of dramatic art. That we shall
always have builesque with us, in some form or another, may, says
Mr. Davenport Adam?, be accepted as inevitable. So much the
better. I will make no attempt here and now to renew the gentle
and joyous passage at arms which I had with Mr. Archer and
Mr. Walkley over "Carmen Up to Data." I do not think those two
scholarly critics quite understood my case : probably that was my own
fault. They did not seem willing to admit that one might admire Ibsen
and Verlaine and have a taste for Aristophanes, and, at the same time,

2IO The Gentleman s Magazine.

find entertainment in a Gaiety burlesque. But to any one who loves
the East and Oriental thought, dancing is a great art and a great
delight, and the Gaiety has been a very school of delightful dancing-
Kate Vaughan danced well there yesterday ; Letty Lind dances
better to-day ; no doubt some one will dance better than Letty Lind
there to-morrow. It is time for a new star to shine. Why does
not some enterprising manager induce Carmencita to come from
New York for a season ? London knows her only in Sargent's mar-
vellous portrait. It would like to look upon the real woman.

One great dramatic event is at hand, an event of the highest artistic
importance — the coming of Mr. Augustin Daly's company of comedians.
Mr. Daly's compapy holds its place in our hearts ; we look for it year
after year with ever-increasing affection ; we rejoice to recognise the
genius of Ada Rehan, and to flatter ourselves that she feels as much
at home m London as in her own New York. It would, perhaps, be
impossible to admire her more than her New York audiences admire
her, but at least we can say with honest pride that we are no jot, no,
not a hair's breadth behind them. We would keep her here if we
could — though, indeed, to do so would be a breach of the comity of
nations. Since we cannot, let us at least rejoice that she comes to us
so often across the sea ; that she will be with us so soon again.

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

211

TABLE TALK.

Efforts towards the Perfectioning of the Book.

EFFORTS for the perfectioning of the book are strenuous both
in France and Great Britain. To the progress of book
decoration in Paris I have more than once drawn attention. Beau-
tiful in many respects are the two publications which have been
issued by the Academic des Beaux Livres, which has some half-dozen
English members. Vignettes, head and tail-pieces, decorated capitals,
and the like are delightful, and type and paper are of high quality.
In the larger designs, however, which are a special feature, printing
in colour is attempted, and as this is a tentative art, the results,
though an advance upon anything yet achieved, cannot be
regarded as final What a society is doing in Paris Mr. Morris
does " off his own bat " in London. In passing from the " Abbesse
de Castro " and the " Debuts de Cesar Borgia" of the Acad^mie to
" The Story of the Glittering Plain " issued by Mr. William Morris
from his new Kelmscott Press, we pass, so to speak, from the
court of Charles II. to some abode of Puritan simplicity and
revolt. All is stern, old-world, and formal. The first page of
signature a is a blank, except for the letter. There is no title-page
in the full sense of the word, though there is a colophon. The type
is stern and dark, the capitals are conventional in design, and the
binding is spotless vellum with wash-leather thongs or laces. The
paper is hand-made, and the whole might almost be taken for an
incunable. Here the experiment is reactionary without being less
interesting. The book is accordingly at a premium. As was to be
expected, the desire for applause of the author has interfered with
the monopoly of the work, for which, perhaps somewhat ungener-
ously, the subscriber hoped. A cheaper edition, in different type
and on inferior paper, is to bring the story within reach of the literary
proletariat.

A New Mania.

I RESPECT the censure passed by Mr. Ruskin upon the applica-
tion of the word " mania " to love of books and the like, but
the term is convenient and is not really disparaging. To me — to

2 12 The Gentlejnaiis Magazine.

vary a well-known phrase first applied, I am told, to wine — all col-
lecting is good, but some is better than others. In Paris the latest
rage is for collecting the illustrated posters which, as mural decora-
tions, are striking features in our streets. I have, indeed, received a
catalogue of the prices at which they are supplied. Among modem
artists who produce these affiches or posters, Jules Chdret and
Choubrac are favourites. Their works are, I fancy, unknown in
London, but have a good deal of merit. " Glycerine Tooth-paste*'
is considered one of the best of the designs of Chdret. Another
design which stands high in public estimation is now sufficiently
familiar in London streets. This is the picture of "L^Enfant
Prodigue," which is the work of Ad. Willette. The name, half
bantering, bestowed on the new form of collection is affichomanie.

Guide-book to Books.

THE great desideratum in England is a good bibliography.
When the classified catalogue of the British Museum is issued,
a full though scarcely a perfect work of the class will be accessible.
Which generation of our descendants will be able to profit by this it
is as yet too early to say. Meanwhile, ample as are the materials
supplied by Lowndes, Watt, AUibone, the " Dictionary of National
Biography," the sale catalogues of Messrs. Sotheby & Wilkinson, and
the booksellers' catalogues, of which during recent years there has
been an inundation, publishers naturally shrink from a costly and
hazardous experiment. In the absence of complete guides, hand-
books to books are springing into vogue. Compilations of this kind
may have a moderate amount of value, but constitute, for the most
part, mere tinkering with a great subject. The most comprehensive
and trustworthy is the " Classified Guide to the Best Books " of
Mr. W. Swan Sonnenschein, of which a new edition has just seen
the light. Subsequent compilations, a batch of which are before
me, are, on the whole, delusive. What must we think of a professed
guide to books which, under Botany, does not mention " Gerard's
Herbal"; under Bibliography omits all reference to "Lowndes";
and while dealing with Heraldry is oblivious of " Guillim " ! One
may expect shortly to see Clarendon dropped from the list of his-
torians, and Pepys from that of diarists.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

September 1891.

THE TROUBLES OF AN
OXFORD BEAUTY.

By Philip Sinclair.

CLARA MOSTYN had never been so delighted as when she
received an invitation to come and make a long stay with her
aunt Catherine at Oxford ; for the girl's own home at Stokely, a
little town on the south coast of England, was neither comfortable
nor happy. Clara's father, a doctor of some talent, had died very
suddenly some years before without leaving an adequate provision for
his wife and family. Since that date, the widowed Mrs. Mostyn had
been living in very humble style at Stokely with her three daughters.
Clara, the eldest, was a very pretty girl, with a tall, well-made figure,
regular features, golden-brown hair, and large brown eyes of the kind
that look so much and mean so little. She was not a girl of strong
character or deep feelings ; but she had an instinctive craving for
ease and pleasure, and the narrowness and dulness of her present
surroundings acted on her like a slow torture. Like many other
girls in her position, she could only think of one way of escape from
her present existence. If someone, like the ever-recurring Prince
Charming of her favourite novels, would only come and marry her
and take her away to a brighter place, where every aspiration would
not be checked by wretched material cares, how happy she would be !
But there seemed no chance of such an event ever happening in
Stokely. It might have been remarked of this littld-known seaside
resort that, like the recluse in Gray's " Elegy," melancholy — of the

VOL. CCLXXL NC. 1 929. Q

214 The Gentleman s Magazine.

dull, however, not of the romantic kind — had marked it for her own.
It had a good many visitors in the summer, but these were always
invalids of the most piteous and decayed aspect. Among the
residents — shabby-genteel people, who liked Stokely because it was
cheap and healthy — eligible suitors, such as Clara's fancy pictured
them, were absolutely non-existent. Her girlhood, it is true, had
not been without its little romance. That great and wealthy corpora-
tion, the Metropolitan and Provincial Banking Company, has a
branch office at Stokely. Among th» gentlemen employed as clerks
in this establishment was a certain bashful, knock-kneed, round-
shouldered youth named Joseph Trundle. The latter had seen and
loved the soft-eyed Clara Mostyn. He used to go to the little parish
church where she sang in the choir, and stared at her so steadily
throughout the service that the most magnificent effusions of the
vicar and his attendant curates fell unheeded on his ears. At school
treats, whenever they both happened to be present, he devoted so
much attention to Miss Mostyn that the children placed under his
care would have starved had she not pointedly recalled him to his
duties. Clara very soon discovered the simple-minded Joseph's
partiality for her. But even had he been a more brilliant and better-
looking man, she would have resolutely declined his advances. For
Joseph, alas ! was poor and had no prospects, and such a match was
very far from Clara's ideas. And thus when, after some months'
vacillation, he made her an offer of his hand and fortune of ;^ 120 a
year, he was scornfully and indignantly refused. More than a year
had passed since this little episode, and it seemedasif a life of hope-
less, aching monotony lay before Clara. She was becoming fretful
and peevish, and used to wonder how long it would be before she
would sink into the dim and dreaded stage of old-maidenism.
Suddenly an event occurred, which, insignificant in itself, caused no
small flutter in the Mostyn household. Their aunt Catherine, the
late Dr. Mostyn's only sister, returned to England. This lady had
for the last seven years been resident in Bengal by the side of her
lawful spouse, Major Stuart, of the — th Highlanders. On the death
from fever of that gallant officer, his widow, a buxom woman with two
little boys, resolved to return home. After looking about a little for
a resting-place, she decided, in accordance with the advice of several
friends, to settle in Oxford.

Time was when the only society this venerable city had to offer
was composed of the university professors and their womankind.
The latter were not very numerous, for it is only recently that a
lellow of a college has been allowed to marry. At present, however,

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 515

things are completely changed. Of late years crowds of new resi-
dents, quite unconnected with the university, have appeared in
Oxford. The half-pay officer, the civilian who has earned his
pension, the retired merchant who wishes to bid adieu to the smoke
and din of the metropolis, the ex-stockbroker, and the widow whose
husband may have belonged to any one of the above denominations,
have ceased to fly to Bath, Cheltenham, and other homes of rest for
weary mortals, and have begun to turn their steps to Oxford. To
meet the requirements of this new population, the town boundaries
hare been largely extended. In place of the broad fields that used
to surround the old grey city, countless stucco-fronted "terraces,"
** gardens," and " crescents " have arisen as if by magic ; and every
road leading to the town has been lined with desirable villa residences
of the most approved description.

Now why, it behoves us to ask, has Oxford suddenly become so
popular as a residence ? The answer is mainly to be found in the
necessity imposed on every English mother of finding husbands for
her daughters. Just as the increase of population is continually
causing once unknown and barren territories to be turned into waving
fields of corn, so, as one popular resort after another becomes too
well known for the purposes of husband-hunting, new and untried
places are constantly being discovered, explored, and tested by the
anxiotjk matron. One of the last upon which she has cast her eye is
Oxford. The advantages of that city are obvious. During six
months of the year two thousand young men have to be in residence
there, in order to pursue their academical studies. They are of a
susceptible age. They come fresh from the refinements of their
homes. It is but natural that they should long for some female
society in their new abode. That of their tutors' wives and daughters
is only to be entered ver}' rarely and by special invitations. And
these, it is to be feared, are rather avoided than desired, for the family
circle of an Oxford don is, in general, far too lofty and edifying for
ordinary mortals. The result, therefore, is, that the Oxford under-
graduate is only too delighted to obtain an entree to the drawing-
rooms of the non-university or town residents. In fact, at the dances,
afternoon teas, and musical evenings, given by the latter during term
time, the male guests frequently outnumber the female in the pro-
portion of three to one. What English matron, with daughters to
provide for, would not feel raised to the seventh heaven of delight at
such a spectacle? It is, however, to be feared that its apparent
value miMt^Se discounted owing to two circumstances. In the first
plaoei wiia:eas at these entertainments the average age of the gentle-

Qa

^i6 The Gentlematis Magazine.

men present is only nineteen, that of the ladies is at least seven years
more. Secondly, the Oxford undergraduate is in reality little more
than a developed schoolboy. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred
he is solely dependent on his parents or other relatives. Intent on
the pleasures of the passing hour, he rarely ever thinks of his future
profession in life except when just on the point of leaving the
university. And, therefore, though gallant in address, magnificent in
attire, and a past master in the art of flirtation, he is very far from
being an eligible parti in the real sense of the word. And thus it
frequently happens that the gentle maidens of Oxford, after enjoying
the pleasures of society for some years without any sign of a wedding
ring appearing to illume the horizon, begin to grow rather weary ;
and the Oxford hostess learns the melancholy fact that the brilliant
youths she has been entertaining for so long without any result
resemble those politicians who, as a German writer has observed,
though always ready to be paid^ are extremely unwilling to be
bought,

Mrs. Stuart settled herself in a pretty villa known as "The
Cedars," in Chester Road. She found plenty of old Indian and
army friends in Oxford, and speedily became enchanted with the
place and the people. After some weeks' time she went down to
Stokely to get a look at her relatives — the Mostyns. She did not
fail to remark with some pleasure the great beauty and ladylike
manners of her niece Clara, who strongly reminded Mrs. Stuart of
her lost brother. Dr. Mostyn. There was something very sad in the
idea of so pretty and graceful a girl wasting her sweetness on the
desert air of such a wretched place as Stokely. Mrs. Stuart, a kind-
hearted and impulsive woman, was quite touched by it. She at once
thouglit of her own pleasant home at Oxford, of her large circle of
friends, of the many nice young men to whom she could introduce
her niece. Moreover, how pleasant it would be for herself to have
Clara as a companion, and what an element of attraction it would
add to her little parties ! The idea once conceived, Mrs. Stuart
communicated it to her sister-in-law. The latter, who did not get
on very well with her eldest daughter, readily consented. And before
many days were over the whole matter had been definitely arranged.

The preparations for Clara's departure were soon completed,
and the girl, trembling with delight and anticipation, reached Oxford
towards the end of September. It was a wonderful change from
Stokely. " The Cedars " was a very pretty and comfortable house.
Mrs. Stuart had taken a great fancy to her niece, and for the first
time since her father's death Clara began to be thoroughly happy.

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 2 1 7

It was not long before her definite entry into Oxford society took
place. Shortly after the beginning of the winter term on October 11
Mrs. Stuart gave a dance, which was attended by the usual crowd of
gushing spinsters and well-dressed hobbledehoys. Clara, who had
never seen anything grander than a dismal tea-fight at the Stokely
vicarage, was delighted at the entertainment. Her beauty and grace
made her the belle of the party. The undergraduates present were
astonished to find so fair a flower in the hortus siccus of withered
Oxford womanhood, and vied with one another in attempting to
secure her as their partner in the mazy dance. Her aunt was
delighted with Clara's success, and foresaw that "The Cedars"
would become the most popular house in Oxford. The fame of
Clara Mostyii's beauty was soon spread over the whole town. A
few days after her aunt's party she went to a dance given by ^Irs.
Catcher, an army- surgeon's widow with five daughters, who lived
opposite. Before she had been a quarter of an hour in the ball-
room, Clara could have filled her programme over and over
again, to the bitter disgust of the five Miss Catchers, good girls and
clever girls, but no beauties, who found the evening very poor
fun.

As a general rule, the richer undergraduates at Oxford, most of
whom are to be found at Cardinal College, are far too great person-
ages to take part in the pleasant but somewhat humble entertainments
given by the town residents. But Clara's success at Mrs. Catcher's
had been so klatant^ that her admirers carried the report thereof
beyond the actual circle formed by the town society and the. under-
graduates who specially frequented it. Among the persons who thus
heard of her was a certain Mr. Charles Huntington, a shining light
of the great sporting college of Brazen face. He was the only son of
the wealthy Worcestershire manufacturer and landowner, Sir William
Huntington. The gallant Charles did not give much attention to
adies' society. He was, indeed, so fully occupied with hunting,
polo, billiards, cards, and wine parties, that, though the young gentle-
man never by any chance did a stroke of work from one week's end to
another, it is difficult to see how he could have possibly found time
to spare for the courtesies of the drawing-room. But it chanced
that he heard such a glowing account of Clara from his friend and
brother sportsman, Mr. Fielding of St. Jerome's, that he was filled
with a desire to have a look at her. He, therefore, asked Fielding
to get him a card for Mrs. Stuart's next dance, which was to come
off* in a few days' time. The card was readily obtained. Mrs.
S(u^t, li]ce the QthQr Oxford matrons, had carefully studied th^

2i8 The Gentleman's Magazine.

University Calendar, and knew that the only son of Sir William
Huntington was a tremendous catch.

" The Cedars " was beautifully decorated for the night of the
dance, and the crowd was very great. Mr. Huntington arrived early,
with his stalwart person arranged with unusual care. He was at
once introduced to Clara, who of course had been carefully coached
for the part, and danced with her nearly the whole evening, with the
exception of the last three dances ; these he sat out with her in the
conservatory — a dangerous place for the susceptible ! Clara had
begun well. Wheii Huntington got back to his rooms he informed
his particular chum, Bulkeley, the great rowing man, that he,
Huntington, was " mashed."

So, indeed, it seemed. From the evening of the dance Hunting-
ton became quite an habituk of Mrs. Stuart's drawing-room. That
lady soon got to know him so well that one day at afternoon tea,
when very singularly only herself, Clara, and Mr. Huntington were
present, she waggishly asked him if he wouldn't rather have a brandy-
and-soda in place of the cup that neither cheers nor inebriates.
Huntington told all his friends of the incident. He swore that Mrs.
Stuart and her niece were the most " ripping " people he had ever
met Some of his wiser companions tried to warn him. But he
damned them for a set of impertinent fools, and told them to mind
their own business. The two ladies were quite amazed to find what
a fund of conversation he possessed when his natural bashfulness
had once worn off. He would sit by the fireside with Clara, Mrs.
Stuart writing letters at the other end of the room, and tell her how
he had gone ratting the other day with a new dog ; how many rats
the aforesaid dog had slaughtered ; how it was a good dog, but not
quite so good as one he had last term that got run over by a railway
train ; how he and Mr. Soker of Brazenface had gone a drive in his
tandem last week to Blenheim ; how many bottles of wine they had
consumed on the way ; how they had an accident driving home ;
how, the trap being smashed to pieces, they had to walk into Oxford
at 1.30 A.M., each leading one of the horses ; how his friend Bulkeley
was a good chap, but a most awful fool ; how morning chapel was
an awful bore when a man had been going it the night before ; with
many other details of the rowdy man's career.

These ingenuous confidences went on for nearly a month.
Huntington was getting deeper and deeper in the toils every day.
At last, shortly before the end of the term, while walking home with
Clara from a skating party on Port Meadow, he actually proposed,
and was immediately accepted by the delighted girl To describe

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 2 1 9

the joy of Mrs. Stuart at her niece's triumph would be impossible.
" My niece, Lady Huntington," as she would be some day, sounded
almost too beautiful to be true. She got an illustrated history of the
county of Worcestershire, in which the magnificent house of
Huntington Manor was depicted, and wondered which of the thirty-
seven large bedrooms she would have when she went to stay there.
There was a beautiful room in the western turret, overlooking the
lake, that she fixed on as her favourite. As for Clara herself, she
received congratulations without number. She wrote off a most
glowing letter to her mother at Stokely, in which she described all
the great things she would do for her younger sisters when she was
married. Huntington completely gave up his cards, his billiards, his
wine parties, everything, in order to spend his time by Clara's side.
He had never known anything so sweet as the companionship of this
lovely, pure-hearted young girl who loved him so truly. What had
he got to recommend him, he used to wonder ? For he was a simple-
minded youth in spite of his rowdy, reckless life, and very, very
young. He knows now — but we are anticipating.

Even in his highest moments of felicity there was one little point
which caused Huntington some trepidation. One night at his rooms
at Brazenface he was expatiating on the virtues of his inamorata to
his chum Bulkeley. Suddenly the latter, taking the eternal pipe out
of his mouth, remarked, "Very good, my boy; but does your
governor know about all this ? " At these words Huntington grew
pale as death. However, after a short pause, he replied that he had
not yet informed his father of his engagement, but intended to do so
on the first opportunity. Bulkeley chuckled. " I hope I shall be there
to see the row," said he. Huntington rose from his chair white with
rage, and told Bulkeley that when he wanted his opinion about his
own affairs he would ask for it, at which the sarcastic Bulkeley only
whittled. It was plain that there was a little cloud on the horizon.

Shortly before Christmas Mr. Huntington returned home. He
wrote Clara an affectionate letter announcing his arrival, and saying
that he would have something important to tell her in his next.
About a week after this Mrs. Stuart was sitting late one evening in
her private room checking the house bills. Suddenly she was startled
by a loud ring at the front door. It was opened by the maid, who
in a few moments came in and said, " Sir William Huntington is in
the dining-room, and wishes to see you at once." Mrs. Stuart put
her cap straight, and went into the room in a tremulous state of
suppressed excitement. She found herself confronted by a burly,
red-faced gentleman, who, holding in his hand a letter which the

220 The Gentlematis Magazine.

ill-fated Clara had written to Charles a few days ago, roared out,
** What, madam, is the meaning of this ? " Mrs. Stuart, intensely
surprised, for Charles had always said that his father would offer no
opposition to the engagement, gasped out that, as her niece and Mr.
Charles Huntington were engaged, there was nothing extraordinary
in their writing to one another. ** Engaged ! " screamed the baronet,
who was evidently of a choleric nature. " What the devil do you mean
by entrapping my son in this way ? " " Entrapping ! " Mrs. Stuart
broke in. " Yes, entrapping,^* replied her interlocutor, with such
emphasis that the maid, listening at the keyhole, as she subsequently
expressed herself to the cook, " felt struck all of a 'eap." " You
think youVe going to marry your penniless niece to my money, but
you won't ; just look here ! " And then, in harsh tones, he
proceeded to explain that his son had not a single shilling except
what his father gave him ; there was no entailed property in the
family, and if Charles persisted in this engagement he would kick him
out of the house. " So now," he concluded, " you know what to
expect." With these words he seized his hat and rushed out He
must have got back to Huntington Manor the next day, for the
morning after that a letter arrived in Charles's handwriting. It was
evidently written by authority. The young man merely stated that
his father declined in any way whatsoever to recognise the engage-
ment existing between him and Clara ; he had no money of his own,
and no means of making any ; he was afraid, therefore, he must ask
Clara to let him have his promise back again. Mrs. Stuart saw that
the game was up. She wrote to Charles to the effect that, her niece
being too ill to write, she was authorised to inform Mr. Huntington
that he might consider the engagement at an end.

Charles Huntington never went back to Oxford, his father
preferring the safer course of sending him on a tour round the world.
The sudden rupture of her first engagement was a terrible shock to
Clara. But Mrs. Stuart knew perfectly well that such catastrophes
were very common in Oxford. It was the splendour of the match
rather than any real sentiment that had attracted Clara, and the girl's
heart was very far from broken. Her aunt, therefore, was resolved to
try again, but be more cautious this time.

About the end of January the Easter term commenced. Mrs.
Stuart had told all her friends a judicious little story about Clara's
engagement. It had been broken off, she declared, because Mr.
Huntington was such a wild young man; his poor father had been
actually compelled to take him away from Oxford to prevent his
getting into any more scrapes! Though, of course, nobody believed

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 221

this, the number of Clara's admirers was in no way decreased. The
girl resumed her position in society as if nothing had happened to
ruffle her equanimity, and it was not long before another aspirant to
her hand appeared.

The aesthetic movement at Oxford has never had a more enthu-
siastic votary than Vivian Digby, scholar of Bruce College. His thin
figure, sallow face, and lackadaisical expression eminently fitted him
for the part of an apostle of culture. A great admirer of the works of
Gautier, Baudelaire, and others of that ilk, he himself was a poet of
no mean talent. But his effusions, which were kept locked in an
antique casket labelled " Tristia," were only shown to the initiated.
Digby had plenty of male friends of his own stamp, with whom he
would spend long hours discussing the regeneration of the British
Philistine. But what he longed for in vain was some feminine sym-
pathiser to whom he might make known the yearnings of his soul.
It is true that numerous ladies in Oxford would have been ready to
s)'mpathise with him to any extent. But these, alas ! lacked that
physical beauty without which the ideal woman of Vivian's fancy was
imperfect.

On a certain Sunday about the middle of the Easter term, Vivian
Digby happened to attend a great "function" at the well-known
church of Saint Theodosius. Miss Mostyn also chanced to be present.
She was looking exquisite that morning ; a result due partly to religious
emotion, partly to the consciousness that she was the prettiest and
the best dressed girl in church. From that day, curiously enough,
Digby's intimate friends began to notice that his poems, heretofore of
the most lugubrious character, began to assume a brighter tone.
Moreover, a fortnight after the Sunday above mentioned, Digby, who
had not been into Oxford society before, asked a friend to take him
to one of Mrs. Stuart's '*at homes." He must have paid Miss Mostyn
a good deal of attention ; for the eldest Miss Catcher, who was
present on this occasion, subsequently remarked to her sisters that
** that girl " was already making up to someone else, at which the four
junior Catchers exclaimed in chorus ** How disgusting! " From that
day the once austere Digby became quite a frequent visitor at " The
Cedars." He also managed to meet Clara out at different houses,
where he always paid her the most marked attention. The girl soon
discovered his feelings towards her, and many and long were the
conversations she had with her aunt about him. The difficulty about
Vivian Digby was this. A man of brilliant classical attainments, he
had already won numerous University prizes. It was extremely
probable, therefore, that he would spon obtain the proud position of a

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 223

it to say that, to the very end of the Easter vacation, his lot was one
of blissful contentment. But after the beginning of the summer term,
at the end of which the Final Examinations always take place, a change
began to come over Digby. In his conversations he began to drop
hints about true genius being unrewarded in this world. He also
began to cut short his visits to Clara. For, sad to say, the young
gentleman's work was in a very bad condition. The Final Classical
Schools Examination at Oxford demands even from the most gifted an
immense amount of hard and regular study. And Digby now suddenly
awoke to the fact that, owing to the way he had wasted his time over
aestheticism and love, he had scarcely read a tenth part of the neces-
sary books. What was to be done ? The examination, failure in which
meant not only the ruin of his future career, but also the loss of Clara,
would take place in two months' time. He engaged two special
tutors, and made a desperate effort to retrieve his position. But it
was too late. Nervousness and overpressure ruined his health. The
examination came, and even before the class list was published it was
known that " Digby, Vivianus, e collegio Bruciensi," the ablest scholar
of his year, had been a miserable failure. It was all up with his hopes
of a Fellowship. His tutor told him he had wasted his time and dis-
graced his college. Mrs. Stuart wrote to say that, as he had failed to
fulfil her conditions, all intimacy between him and her niece. Miss
Mostyn, must now cease; and the unfortunate young man left Oxford
for ever, to take an undermastership in a preparatory school.

Vivian Digby's downfall was rather a disappointment to Mrs.
Stuart, who had set her heart on getting into the real University
circle. But there had been no formal engagement Moreover, even
if Digby had been successful in his examination, it is rather doubtful
whether after all the course of true love would have run smoothly.

So great is the reputation of the University of Oxford that it has
of late years begun to attract students from the most distant parts of
the world. The mild Hindoo, the stalwart Australian, the wily Sclav,
and the cute Yankee have come from their distant homes to drink
of the font of classic lore beneath the shadow of St. Mary's. As a
general rule, the above-mentioned students come rather to enjoy the
social life of the place than to wrestle with the difficulties of
intellectual culture. And thus it happens that they arc apt to be^
unduly gorgeous in their surroundings and unnecessarily frivolous in
their mode of life. Among the foreign birds of passage present at
Oxford at this time was a certain dark and dashing youth named
Constantine Vasari. He was a Greek by birth, nephew of Paolo
Vasari, an eminent Italian banker and financial agent long since

k.^^

224 '^^ Gentlematis Magazine.

settled at Athens. Constantine had been sent over to England to
learn English and get some knowledge of English ways, with a view
to ultimately undertaking the foreign department of his uncle's
business. He had for this purpose been entered as an undergraduate
at St. Jerome's Hall, one of those foundations at Oxford which
require of their students little knowledge and no application. He
lived in great state in the best and largest lodgings that money could
procure. He thoroughly entered into the ways of his young English
friends. He arrayed his person in the most brilliant and best-cut
check suits that Oxford tailors could supply. He drank brandies and
sodas and smoked cigars with exemplary regularity. He drove a
tandem, kept nine fox-terriers, and garnished his conversation with
the latest and most fashionable slang. His convivial tastes and truly
Oriental hospitality would alone have secured him a host of friends.
But, being a man of varied abilities, he did not confine himself to one
circle, but took as much pleasure in talking high art with a cringing
aesthete as in discussing the odds with the smartest sportsman from
Brazen face. What wonder, then, that he was the best-known and
most popular man in Oxford!

Among Constantine's other characteristics was an intense fondness
for society. He found the pleasant, frank English girls a most
delightful change from the shy duenna-guarded jeunes filhs of
southern Europe. He rai)idly acquired the mysteries of flirtation,
and soon became such an adept in that essentially English art as to
distance even his native-born rivals. Before long no dance or
reception among the Oxford residents seemed complete without him.
He had not been long in Oxford society before, in deference to the
prevailing fashion, he enrolled himself among Miss Mostyn's
cavaliers. Vivian Digby was now nearly always locked up with his
books ; so Constantine, after a little preliminary skirmishing, found
no difficulty in becoming the most prominent of all the worshippers
who met at the well-known shrine in Chester Road.

The summer term at Oxford always concludes with a shower of
dances, concerts, picnics, garden parties, and other gaieties. A large
number of visitors, mainly consisting of female relatives of the under-
graduates, come down. The regular residents are rather apt to be
neglected during this period. Still, by coming out in new dresses,
afTccting a sudden ignorance of the locality, and getting some new and
callow youths to take them about, they manage to get mistaken for
visitors, and so see a good deal of the fun. Miss Mostyn, however,
was far too pretty and popular to be shunted during this festive
ceason, Vivian Digby's examin;ition was over, an^ th^t youn^

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 225

gentleman had disappeared, no one knew where. But Vasari gladly
seized the opportunity to take Clara to every fete and entertainment
of the commemoration week. His wealth enabled him to do the
thing in grand style ; and the value of the ball and concert tickets,
bouquets, and luncheon parties he compelled Mrs. Stuart and her
niece to accept would have kept an average working-man^s family in
good condition for twelve months. The Greek's attentions were by
no means unwelcome. Clara knew perfectly well that her stay at
Oxford could not last for ever. The affair with Digby was now broken
off. Unless she got engaged again pretty soon she would have to go.
Constantine's appearance, therefore, at this conjuncture seemed like
a godsend, and Clara was resolved not to lose the opportunity. A
girl who has had two lovers — to use a sporting phrase — gets to know
the ropes. She redoubled her powers of pleasing, she brought all her
most subtle fascinations to bear upon the enamoured foreigner, and
her endeavours received their well-merited reward when he succumbed
at a picnic at Nuneham.

Mrs. Stuart was disposed to be rather suspicious as to Vasari's
position and character. But her doubts were soon set at rest. The
papers he had with him proved that he was really and truly nephew
to Paolo Vasari, the eminent Athenian banker. He had inherited a
fortune from his late father, Francesco Vasari, Paolo's younger brother.
In a few months, as several passages in his letters showed, he was
going into his uncle's business as partner, so that eventually he would
be a very wealthy man indeed. With such credentials Constantine
was graciously accepted ; and Clara's rivals, who had just begun to
rejoice over the end of the Digby affair, were again compelled to bow
the knee.

The long vacation now ensued. Mrs. Stuart, like many of the
other Oxford residents, went away for a long visit to the sea- side.
She took Clara with her. Constantine had to pay several visits to
the continent, and also went up to Scotland about the middle of
August to get some grouse-shooting. He, however, managed to run
down occasionally to the hotel at Eastbourne, where his fianck was
staying, and his numerous letters and presents were all that the most
exacting young lady could desire.

Towards the end of September Mrs. Stuart and her niece re-
turned to Oxford for the winter term. Clara had been the belle of
Oxford society before. But the glories of the past twelve months
were utterly eclipsed by the splendours of her position as the bride
elect of the wealthy and brilliant Constantine Vasari. The latter
surpassed himself in seeking to do honour to his beautiful Clara. In

226 The GentlemafCs Magazine.

Mrs. Stuart's name he gave dances and fetes innumerable, in which
Clara was always the centre of admiration. Constantine was the beau
ideal of a lover. The alternations of courtly grace and sentimental
fervour with which he treated his inamorata contrasted so favourably
with the uncouth confidences and aesthetic banalities of her two
former admirers, that Clara grew quite fond of him, and rapidly
began to persuade herself that she was really in love. She thoroughly
enjoyed the enthusiastic homage paid to her wherever she went.
Her rivals were furious that the girl who had been jilted by young
Huntington and who had treated poor Mr. Digby so shamefully
should have carried off the best prize in the matrimonial market.
Still, they knew that the only way to be happy in this world is to take
what one can get, and stick to it, so Mrs. Stuart's invitations were
accepted more eagerly than ever.

It had been arranged that Vasari should leave Oxford for good
at the end of the winter term, and return home to make the final
preparations for his marriage, and draw up the settlements. He was
to come back to England in March, and the wedding was to take
place about the end of April or the beginning of May. With the
month of December, therefore, he began to make preparations for his
departure. The last day of his stay in Oxford he spent exclusively
in the society of Clara and her' aunt. He had a long and interesting
iete-d'teie with the former, in the course of which he described with
great eloquence the splendid life which Clara would lead, after her
marriage, in continental capitals. He made careful arrangements
about writing. The two ladies went up to town to see him off by the
continental mail. The lovers said an affectionate farewell, and Clara
watched him waving his handkerchief and smiling at her with
his handsome gleaming eyes till the train passed away into the
darkness.

It was on December iSth that Vasari had left England. Clara was
rather surprised when that month passed away without bringing a
letter or telegram from him. It seemed very strange. Up to the
middle of January, in spite of reiterated appeals sent from Oxford to
the various addresses given by him, Vasari's silence remained un-
broken. As the month of January passed away without a letter,
Clara's rivals, first in private, then quite openly, began to make
sarcastic remarks. Some suggested that Constantine had been
captured by brigands, and that old Paolo Vasari, like the wicked
uncle in " The Babes in the Wood," had refused to pay the ransom.
Others asserted that he had been chosen Prince of Bulgaria, and that
the Russian Government had refused, on any pretext whatever, to

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 227

let him marry an English lady. The Miss Catchers, on their part,
simply declared that he was a rank impostor. When February came
Mrs. Stuart still buoyed herself up with the hope that Constantine's
silence was intentional, and that he was going to suddenly reappear at
" The Cedars " at the last moment and take them all by surprise, like
Mr. William Terriss in an Adelphi melodrama. Mrs. Stuart and her
niece used to sit up late every night and keep all the lights burning,
but there came no sudden ringing at the front-door bell to disturb
their vigils. At last, when March passed away without bringing even
the ghost of a message, Mrs. Stuart's face began to grow very long.
Clara had grown too nervous and depressed to stir out of doors.
The constant inquiries and hypocritical sympathy of her friends
maddened her. Suddenly, one morning towards the end of April, a
letter, in Constantine's well-known handwriting, was handed in at "The
Cedars." Clara, with a vague presentment of evil, handed it unopened
to her aunt. Mrs. Stuart broke the seal and read as follows. The
envelope bore the Vienna postmark, but the enclosure had neither
date nor address :

" Carissima MIA, — It is with pain and regret that I indite these
lines to my sweet English lily. Our engagement, alas, can now
never be fulfilled ! A week ago I was united in marriage to my
cousin Anastasia. But to explain the concatenation of circumstances
which have brought about so dolorous a catastrophe. I come back
to Athens in December. My uncle Paolo meets me with a very
grave face. I am filled with alarm. I demand to know the worst.
He tells me. The fortune left to me by my late father has been all
lost owing to the sudden failure of the securities in which it had been
invested. Except, then, for the partnership in the bank, which depends
on my uncle's goodwill, I am ruined. I tear my hair and ask aid of
the good God ! Then my uncle, seeing my distress, continues, * My
child,' says he, * I cannot see the son of my dear brother Francesco re-
duced to extremity. I have a daughter — Anastasia — of whose future
I have been thinking much of late. She will inherit my wealth. She
loves thee dearly. Take her as thy wife and I make good the
loss of thy father's fortune at once, and thou shalt succeed me as
head of the house of Vasari.' I am thunderstruck at his proposal
I implore him to find some other means of showing his affection.
But my uncle is adamant. * The husband of Anastasia, whoever he
is, will become my son,' says he. I consider the situation. If I
refuse to accept, I am too poor even to wed thee, my angel. I think
of my father's often expressed hope that I should wed my cousin, I
yield. One cannot argue with the master of forty legions. Why

228 The Gentleman^ Magazine.

should I uselessly plunge into expressions of regret ? Of thee I only
ask one thing. In thy own goodness, Carissima, par(Jon me ! Lay
the blame of our separation not on myself, but on that cruel fate
which has ever delighted in the unhappiness of lovers ! Thou wilt
wed another, and possibly we shall meet again. Give, I pray thee, to
thy aunt the assurance of my most sincere respect, and accept for
thyself the eternal devotion of the broken-hearted Constantine
Vasari."

We will draw a veil over the consternation and bewilderment
into which this epistle threw Clara and her aunt The end was
indeed come ! V/e must, however, say a few words about the
letter itself. Alas for the deceitfulness of the human heart ! With
the exception of the one fact about his marriage with Anastasia,
Constantine's letter was a fiction from beginning to end. During
his stay in England that enterprising young gentleman had resolved
to thoroughly enter into the spirit of English life ; and while in
residence at Oxford it had occurred to him that it would be an
excellent plan, as well as a most splendid joke, to become regularly
engaged to some English girl. It was true that from his birth he
had been betrothed to his cousin Anastasia, and the idea of breaking
this arrangement never entered into his head. But what would that
matter ? He had already heard of so many of these English en-
gagements that ended in nothing. One friend of his had been
engaged three times ; another had been engaged for five years to
the girl of his heart, and had about as much chance of ever'
being in a position to marry as of becoming the Sultan of Turkey.
He reckoned up the long list of engagements that had occurred in
Oxford society during his own time. Not one in three had come to
anything. Yet no one seemed to care much ; the parties to these
affairs went their way exactly the same. There was, therefore, no
harm to be apprehended for himself Then, the advantages were
obvious. It would be grand fun doing the youthful lover ^ Vanglaise.
And then, what an insight it would give him into English life !
Possibly he would not have put his little comedy into execution
unless he had met Clara Mostyn. But she was so fascinating, so
well known, and so completely the belle of the place, that to be her
recognised fiance would not only be very pleasant, but would make
him the king of Oxford society for the time being. No danger was
to be apprehended from inquiries by his uncle. Constantine had
mentioned once or twice in his letters that he was a great admirer of
a certain English lady named Clara. But old Paolo Vasari, a wit

' The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 229

and libertine of the ultra- Parisian type, taking it for granted that it
was a married woman to whom his nephew was paying his addresses
had not been much affected thereby. Constantine had come back to
Athens in December, and had immediately set about making pre-
parations for his marriage with Anastasia. The loss of his father's
fortune existed only in his own imagination. He had been married
in April. The extraordinary delay he took in writing to Clara was
due partly to pressure of other business, partly to a wish to escape
any trouble which might tend to hinder the wedding. Once married,
he knew he could snap his fingers at the world.

Some Oxford people must have met Constantine and his wife
abroad during the Easter vacation ; for even before the fatal
letter, which had arrived three days after the summer term began,
had been many hours in Clara's hands, the news had spread all over
Oxford. It was impossible for the girl to face the storm of scandal that
arose. Mr^ Stuart had given herself tremendous airs during the last
few months. The way she had bragged of Constantine's wealth
and high European position had sickened her hearers to the death.
There is no misfortune a worldly woman dreads so much as a great
social disappointment. In her fury Mrs. Stuart vented all her rage
on Clara, and finally told the girl that, as she had made such a
bad use of her opportunities, the sooner she went home the
better.

Clara was too utterly broken-down to expostulate. The bright
hopes which had animated her on her arrival in Oxford eighteen
months ago had all been dashed to the ground. Conscience speaks
with such an extremely small voice in the breast of a modern
woman, that its whisperings are rarely heard at all. And thus
when, after her aunt's tirade, Clara retired to her room in a
paroxysm of tears, her only feeling was one of indignation at her bad
luck. It never occurred to her that to spend all her time and
energies in trying to entrap the first eligible person who crossed her
path was hardly an ideal life. None the less, as she grew calmer
her first instinct was to fly from a society which seemed to
contain nothing but selfishness and deceit, unredeemed either by
brilliant talents or external splendour. But where was she to go ?
To return to Stokely, where her last engagement had been cackled
about more eagerly than at Oxford, was impossible. She would
have to go out into some family as governess or companion. It was
a wretched fate ; still, it was the only thing to do.

Mrs. Stuart consented to let Clara remain at " The Cedars " till
she had found a situation. The next few days were spent in hunting
VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1929. ^

230 The Gentlematis Magazine.

up advertisements in the newspapers. After some searching, Clara
came on one that she thought would suit. Mrs. Grimsby, of
201 Bedford Square, London, wanted a young lady of good birth
and refined manners, as companion-governess to her two little girls.
Clara resolved to write to Mrs. Grimsby at once. An answer came
by return of post saying that Miss Mostyn might call on Tuesday
next at half-past six. Clara went up to London on the appointed
day, and drove up to Bedford Square at the fixed time. The door
was opened by a solemn butler who ushered her into a well-furnished
side-parlour. Mrs. Grimsby, a tall, gaunt matron, was sitting at a
table with several account-books before her. As Clara came in she
looked up with a pair of cold blue eyes. That one glance was
enough. Clara was far too pretty to have in the house with young
Jack Grimsby, a sprightly but somewhat weak-minded youth of
nineteen. Mrs. Grimsby found fault with every answer Clara gave
to her inquiries, and at last told her that she wouldn't suit. The
solemn butler reappeared and ushered Clara into the street It was
nearly dark, pouring with rain and blowing a perfect gale. Clara had
sent away her cab. There were no others in sight, so she started to
walk down to Holborn to get another. As the rain blew in under
her umbrella and dashed pitilessly against her skirts, the sense of her
wretched position came on her more fully than ever. In spite of all
her efforts, the tears rolled down her cheeks, and it was all she could
do to keep herself from falling on the pavement. Hardly knowing
whither she \vent, she struggled on till she was brought to a standstill
by coming full tilt against a pedestrian. The latter stopped short
and begged her pardon in the most abject terms. Something in the
voice made Clara look up. Good heavens ! It was Joseph Trundle.
Though far more independent in bearing, more manly in physique,
and better dressed, there was no doubt of its being her old lover.
He gave one look at Clara's trembling face and recognised her at
once. He saw, moreover, that she was in deep trouble. " Come out
of the rain," he said, and, taking her hurriedly extended hand, he led
her into a confectioner's shop that stood close by. Bad tea and stale
Bath buns are not very conducive to emotional confidences ; and
Clara had a distinct remembrance that the last words she had spoken
to Joseph two and a half years ago had been the reverse of polite.
But the curiously sudden way in which she had come across him,
and an instinctive knowledge that he was her only friend, deprived
her of all hesitation. She told him briefly of her life at Oxford, of
the engagement with Constantine Vasari into which her aunt had
drivenjher — possibly she was unduly hard on the aunt — and of her

The Troubles of an Oxford Beauty. 231

present unhappy situation. Simple-hearted Joseph had not got over
his first affection. Had it been otherwise, it is very doubtful whether
he could have resisted the implied appeal. She looked so bewitching
in her distress that he could scarcely refrain from seizing her in his
arms before the five waitresses. As it was, he contented himself with
giving her a brief outline of his career since they had parted. He
had left Stokely soon after she went to Oxford, and had been
transferred to another branch office of the Bank at Slowborough in
Yorkshire. Some time after his removal thither, a distant relative
whom he had not seen or heard of since his childhood had quarrelled
with his nephew and heir presumptive, and, dying soon after, had
left all his property to Joseph. The latter thus found himself in
possession of a large sum in the Funds and a half-share in a very
prosperous City business. He had readily arranged to take up the
latter, and was actually returning from his office when Clara met him.
After a short pause Joseph went on to speak of his acquaintanceship
with Clara at Stokely. For a moment the girl's heart died within her.
Was he going to say good-bye ? But this, [fortunately for her, was
very far from his intention. " In spite of all that has happened,
Clara," said he, " I am as fond of you as ever. Will you give me a
kinder answer now?" For all response, Clara put her trembling
little hand into his.

Clara was married from a private hotel in London, as both ,
Stokely and Oxford had such unpleasant associations for her. Her
husband is rather dull sometimes, but Clara has learnt to appreciate
his real worth. And, with an establishment with which even the
critical Mrs. Stuart can find no fault, Clara, if not supremely happy,
is quite content.

232 The Genileman's Magazine.

ON SOME EXTRACTS FROM
HARRIET SHELLEY'S LETTERS}

Harriefs inexperience in business matters,
" To Catherine Nugent. Lynmouth, August 5, 181 2.

"... I thank you, in Percy's name, for your kind offer of
service, though at the same time we cannot accept it. The case is
this : His printer refuses to go on with his poems until he is paid.
Now, such a demand is seldom made, as printers are never paid
until the profits arising from the work come in, and Percy agreed
with him to this effect. And as long as we staid in Dublin he wore
the mask which is now taken off."

Opinions of Miss Hiichener — and of Godwin.
" Our friend. Miss Hitchener, is come to us. She is very busy
writing for the good of mankind. She is very dark in complexion,
with a great quantity of long black hair. She talks a great deal. If
you like great talkers, she will suit you. She is taller than me or my
sister, and as thin as it is possible to be. . . . Miss Hitchener has
read your letter, and loves you in good earnest. Her own expression.
I know you would love her did you know her. Her age is 30. She
looks as if she was only 24, and her spirits are excellent She laughs
and talks and writes all day. She has seen the Godwins, and thinks
Godwin different from what he seems : he lives so much from his
family, only seeing them at stated hours. We do not like that ; and he
thinks himself such a very great man. He would not let one of his
children come to us, just because he had not seen our faces. , . . Such
excuses sit not well upon so great a literary character as he is. I
might have expected such an excuse from a woman of selfish and
narrow mind, but not from Godwin. . . ."

Vieufs on the Irish Question,

"Lynmouth, August 11, 181 2.
" My dear Mrs. Nugent, — Your friend and our friend, Bessy^ has

* Now first published in this country. The original letters are in the possetskm
of Dr. Edward Dowden.

* Eliza Hitchener, presumably.

On Some Extracts from Harriet Sltelley's Letters, 233

been reading * Pieces of Irish History/ and is so much enraged with
the characters there mentioned, that nothing will satisfy her desire
of revenge but the printing and publishing of them, to exhibit to
the world those characters which are — shameful to say — held up as
being possessed of every amiable quality, whilst their hearts are as
bad as it is possible to be. . . . Percy intends to print some pro-
posals for printing 'Pieces of Irish History,' saying that everyone,
whether Irish or English, ought to read them. We depend upon
you for many subscribers, as being upon the spot where so many of
your exalted and brave countrymen suffered martyrdom. . . . There
must be many still smarting under the wounds they have seen their
brave companions suffer — and all from this hated country of mine !
Good God ! were I an Irish man or woman, how I should hate the
English ! It is wonderful how the poor Irish people can tolerate
them ! ... . Thank God we are not all alike, for I, too, can hate
Lord Castlereagh as well as any Irishwoman. How does my heart's
blood run cold at the idea of what he did in your unfortunate
country. How is it that man is suffered to walk the streets in open
daylight ? . . . Bessy wishes much to see you. Your last letter won
her heart instantly. Reading * Pieces of Irish History ' has made
her so low-spirited. She possesses too much feeling for, her own
happiness. . . ."

Personal impressions of the Godwins,

"Lewis's Hotel, St. James's Street,

" London (no date), 181 2.
" My dear Mrs. Nugent,' — You will smile at my address, won-
dering how and where we have been during the long interval that
has taken place since the receipt of your last letter. ... I know not
how it is that whenever we fix upon any particular place of residence,
something comes to take us to another. . . . Bysshe's being a
minor lays us under many unpleasant affairs, and makes us obliged
to depend upon, in a great measure, the will of others in the
matter of raising money, without which nothing is to be done. We
have seen the Godwins. Need I tell you that I love them all ? You
have read his works, therefore you know how you feel towards the
author. His manners are so soft and pleasing, that I defy even an
enemy to be displeased with him. We have the pleasure of seeing
him daily, and upon his account we determined to settle near
London. . . . There is one of the daughters of that dear Mary

* Catherine Nugent, of Grafton Street, Dublin, unmarried, called Mrst Nugent
by courtesy only.

234 2^^^^ Gentleman's Magazine.

WoUstonecraft living with him. She is 19 years of age, very plain,
but very sensible. The beauty of her mind fully counterbalances
the plainness of her countenance. . . . She is very much like her
mother, whose picture hangs up in his study. She must have been
a most lovely woman. Her countenance speaks her a woman who
would dare to think and act for herself. I wish you could share the
pleasure we enjoy in his company. He is quite a family man. . . .
G. is very much taken with Percy. He seems to delight so much
in his society. He has given up everything for the sake of our
society.

• • • •

Later impressions of Miss Hitchener,

"Stratford-upon-Avon, November 14 (1812).

** To Catherine Nugent.

"... The lady I have so often mentioned to you, of the name
of Hitchener, has, to our very great happiness, left us. We were
entirely deceived in her character as to republicanism, and, in short,
everything else which she pretended to be. We were not long in
finding out our great disappointment in her. As to any noble dis-
interested views, it is utterly impossible for a selfish character to
feel them. She built all her hopes upon being able to separate me
from my dearly loved Percy, and had the artfulness to say that Percy
was really in love with her, and it was only his being married that
could keep her within bounds, now. Percy had seen her once before
his marriage. He thought her sensible, but nothing more. She wrote
continually, and at last I wrote to her, and was very much charmed
with her letters. We thought it a thousand pities such a mind as
hers appeared to be should be left in a place like that she inhabited.
We, therefore, were very urgent for her to come and live with us ;
which was no sooner done than we found our mistake. It was a
long time ere we could possibly get her away, till at last Percy said
he would give her ;^ 100 per annum. And now, thank God, she has
left us never more to return. ..."

The above extracts from Harriet Shelley's letters show the
extremely youthful character of the writer, and how the bride of
sixteen reflected all the moods and views of the husband of nineteen.

The letters also give some form to the shadowy personality of
Harriet, and arouse a sympathy for the ill-fated girl. Children
indeed both these were, untried, inexperienced, full of unknown and
dangerous possibilities— unfit each to be leaned upon by the other-
having none other on whom either could fully lean. The idyl is a

On Some Extracts from Harriet Shelley^ s Letters. 235

sad one, and we would not utter harsh judgments on these children
of Fate. Still, some graver thoughts are awakened. Let us briefly
recapitulate some circumstances of the story !

Shelley was a youth of nineteen, newly expelled from his Oxford
College, when he first met Harriet Westbrook, who was a companion
of his sisters, at a school in Clapham. Having failed to convince
the authorities at Oxford of the appropriateness of his religious
beliefs, Shelley was now bent on revealing his views to his sisters.
Elizabeth was the favourite disciple. In his occasional visits to
Church House, the poet met this fair, lovely girl, Harriet West-
brook, and straightway included her in his readings. Charmed with
these tender and untried minds, Shelley wrote and talked of his
success as a moral teacher to his friend Hogg— the partner of his
Oxford escapades. In time the poet conceived the idea of uniting
his favourite sister, Elizabeth, to his friend — in a relation unfettered
by the matrimonial tie. Hogg was not fastidious, but not absolutely
unmatrimonial in his views. The young Elizabeth stoutly refused
to agree to the astounding proposition, and caused her brother the
deepest chagrin and disappointment. His anger knew no bounds.
" I loved a being " — so he wrote to Hogg — " the being that I love
is not what she was ; consequently, as love appertains to mind and
not body, she exists no longer." That relieves the moral stigma.
Followed out with all unconsciousness, we may transfer this form of
reasoning to the marriage bond, and need no further elucidations
as to Shelley's conduct towards his first wife, terrible as it seems to
some of us. Meantime, having failed to influence Elizabeth, Shelley
returned with double energy to the other promising disciple. And
here he had more hope. For Harriet Westbrook was a less evenly
balanced nature ; she was not at all the gay and careless school-
girl of ordinary type. Ignorant, beautiful, and inexperienced, she
was also morbid in some of her views — ready to consider herself ill-
treated at home and at school — itself a sign of deficient moral sound-
ness, and she was quick to turn the conversation on suicide as the only
rational remedy for all woes. Shelley studied the girPs character,
found his principles easy and quick of growth in this virgin soil, and
constituted himself " Guide, Philosopher, and Friend." All-powerful
in his manhood and his beauty, he was soon the one object of life,
love, and interest in the heart of her who was to be finally moulded
by his cold and careless hands. As to the causes of the complaints
of unhappiness and injustice which fired Shelley's imagination with the
pseudo-chivalrous sentiment in these early days, they were inappreci
able when examined. Home-surrounding, not altogether congenial —

236 Th^ Gentlemuri s Magazine.

a sister, nearly twice her age ; a father, who thought she should always
be at school, and, when there, an occasional bad mark, a badge of un-
tidiness or ill-conduct hung round the throat — these things sufficed to
present the fair creature as a youthful martyr. Shelley, at war with all
laws, human and divine, sympathised wildly with the ill-used Harriet,
and fed the flame of her discontent. And in time the natural result
followed. He vowed to confound her cruel enemies, and " she did
love him that he pitied her." She loved, and he did not love — perhaps
enthusiastically pitied, we should say. After some time spent in growing
wretchedness — with no relief but the pouring out, in letters to Shelley,
of her disaffected condition — the tone of the correspondence became
so desperate as to alarm the poet. The idea of suicide again cropped
up in her letters — what other resource had she against the malice of
her persecutors ? Done into plain English, we suppose this malice
was represented by the wish of her family that she should return to
school, after the holidays, and finish her education. The ignorant
and impassioned child appealed hereupon to Shelley, who had broken
with all his own ** pastors and masters ; " she urged her misery and
uselessness as grounds for suicide, and wound up with the well-
worn lament that she had "no one to love." Alarmed at her
expresssions Shelley came to London, saw her again, found, to his
surprise, that she was deeply in love with him, and began seriously
to debate whether he should marry her or not. It seemed the only
plan to extricate her from her father's authority. The poet was rather
shaken in his anti -matrimonial prejudices at this point in his career.
The affair of Hogg and Elizabeth was not forgotten. Yet it was
apparently a struggle. " Godwin " — he says, in a letter to Hogg^
"considers marriage detestable^* and at the time of his difference
with his sister on this point, Shelley had said that marriage was " the
most horrible of all the means which the world has had recourse to
to bind the noble to itself" — he had quoted the cheap sentiment,
" Laws are not made for men of honour." No ! we agree to that,
when we have proved and known your "honourable men."
Still, the fact remains, that this young couple eloped, and were
married at the Register House, Edinburgh, on August 28, 181 1,
with such ceremony as Scotch law demanded. Now, Shelley had an
interesting friend, for whom he had a boyish admiration, dating some
time back, in the person of Miss Hitchener, the mistress of a school
at Hurstpierpoint, Sussex. This lady shared his advanced views
— for the rest, was not young nor handsome, nor particularly agree-
able. To her the young husband wrote, in the autumn following
his marriage. Of Harriet he says : " Her letters became more and

On Some Extracts from Harriet Shelley's Letters. 237

more gloomy. At length she assumed a tone of such despair as induced
me to quit Wales precipitately. ... I was shocked at the alteration
in her looks. Little did I guess its cause — she had become deeply
attached to me. ... I proposed marriage, for the reason which I
have given you, and she complied. Blame me, if thou wilt, dearest
friend — for still thou art dearest to me. ... If Harriet be not at six-
teen all that you are at a more advanced age, assist me to mould a
really noble soul into all that can make its nobleness useful and lovely."

It is, i>erhaps, not surprising, that, fortified by this encouragement,
Miss Kitchener supplemented her wedding felicitations by making
love to the poet herself. And Shelley replied in that most false
phraseology which substitutes " the union of minds — the love of a
soul for a soul," and such expressions, for the outspoken utterances
of passion. With Miss Kitchener as " the sister of his soul," and
Thomas Jefferson Kogg, the man of loose morals and flippant mind,
as " the brother of his soul " — while the hapless Karriet was only
his wife — how could happiness result? Shelley wrote to Miss
Kitchener in his first year of married life : " Were it not for the dear
friend whose happiness I so much prize, which at some future
period I may perhaps constitute, ... I might have slept in peace."
Shelley's ideals held their ground for very short periods, and their
brightness was succeeded by revulsion and disgust. This was an un-
favourable temperament for the higher exhibition of married faith.
The poet caught at each new attraction as a child might grasp at
fireflies, and almost as innocently. These, however, when caught
and retained till daylight, are reviled as ugly, ill-shaped insects.
Shelley married Karriet, believing her driven to despair by injustice,
and by want of love. (We are bound to admit that the inexperienced
girl threw herself on his protection.) He feared her being driven to
suicide from these very causes. In the end Harriet experienced the
actual ills of which the shadows had so terrified her — injustice and
want of love — and, when fairly confronted with them, she did as she
had threatened, namely, after the marriage, sought her desperate
remedy in real earnest.

Such the justice meted out by the young apostle of Freedom
and Right! It was not long before Miss Kitchener — whom Dr.
Dowden calls the " Republican Schoolmistress " — was living with the
young married pair. But a few months of closer intimacy trans-
formed Shelley's enthusiasm for her into a most lively disgust. The
rapid metamorphosis overtook her, which was apt to overtake all the
poet's cherished human ideals. Life in her presence and atmosphere
was impossible. She must go. And go she did, but not before the

238 The Gentlematis Magazine.

unhappy young wife had learned the taste of doubt, and the possibility
of hopeless misery. Miss Kitchener at length retired. She had fallen
from the lofty eminence. No longer called "Portia" by an adoring
young poet as beautiful as Eros, she was styled the "Brown
Demon," and Shelley actually offered her ;^ioo a year as an annuity
if she would go. In November 181 2 she departed, and was alluded
to afterwards by her quondam admirer as " our late tormentor and
schoolmistress."

"What," says he, a little later, "what would Hell be— were such
a woman in Heaven ? "

Neither Shelley nor Harriet was more than a child in many ways.
Yet children have griefs, have, alas ! passions ; children suffer,
children inflict intensest pain.

Shelley's idea seems ever to have been, to group together several
women who should produce a harmonious 7nise en sdne^ wherein he
might disport himself as his nature should dictate. He disregarded all
ulterior consequences, equally with the possible effect the elements thus
brought together might have on each other. Eliza Westbrook soon
became to him as odious as did the " Brown Demon." He spoke of
her as " a blind and loathsome worm," and failed to dissociate her
image from that of his fair young wife, who, as Dr Dowden says,
entered a room " like the spirit of a spring morning." In June 1813,
Harriet gave birth to a little daughter, named by the poet lanthe,
or "violet-flower." Harriet was motherly, and in a letter to Mrs.
Nugent, of Dublin, some months later, wrote : ** I wish you could see
my sweet babe ; she is so fair, with such sweet bliie eyes, that the
more I see her the more beautiful she looks." We do not fancy
Shelley in the paternal character, yet Thomas Love Peacock, his
friend and Harriet's chief advocate, says that he was "extremely
fond of his first child." He certainly hushed it to sleep with strange
and uncouth sounds. He was probably more passionately attached
to the children of his second marriage, but with these we are not here
concerned.

The autumn of 18 13 found the Shelleys travelling northwards
From Edinburgh Harriet writes' to her friend Mrs. Nugent, and we
give the letter ; the date is October 20th.

" My dear Mrs. Nugent, — My last letter was written from the lakes
of Cumberland, where we intended to stay till next spring ; but, not find-
ing any house that would suit us, we came on to this far-famed city. A
little more than two years has passed since I made my first visit here
to be united to Mr. Shelley. To me they have been the happiest and

On Some Extracts from Harriet Sheikas Letters. 239

the longest years of my life. The rapid succession of events since that
time makes the two years appear unusually long. . . . When I look
back to the time before I was married, I seem to feel that I have lived
a long time. Though my age is but eighteen, yet I feel as if I was
much older. Why are you so silent, my dear friend ? I earnestly hope
you are not ill. I am afraid it is nearly a month since I heard from
you. I know well you would write oftener if you could. What is
your employment on a Sunday ? I think, on those days you might
snatch a few minutes to gratify my wishes We think of remain-
ing here all this winter. Though by no means fond of cities, yet I
wished to come here, for, when we went to the lakes, we found such
a set of human beings living there, that it took off all our desire of
remaining among the mountains. This city is, I think, much
the best. The people here are not so intolerant as they are in
London. Literature stands on a higher footing here than anywhere
else. My darling babe is quite well, and very much improved. Pray
let me hear from you soon. Tell me if I can do anything for you.
Mr. Shelley joins me and Eliza in kind regards to you, whilst I
remain

" Your affectionate friend,

"H. S.
** Do not tell anyone where we are."

Already Harriet's childish ignorance and insouciance were giving
way befor^nevitable uncertainty and apprehension.

It was on March 24, 1814, that Shelley married Harriet for the
second time, in St. George's Church, London. It would seem that
he now was really bound to her in every sense. Yet was his life
manifestly reaching out in other directions. Supposing that Harriet
maintained such place in his heart as had ever been possible for her,
supposing even that for some time after marriage she had improved
her position with him, it is nevertheless certain that, very soon after
this second marriage ceremony, Shelley was deeply interested in
another feminine "group."

The cottage of High Elms, Bracknell, where the poet lived, was
near the house of Mrs. Boinville, the venerable and admiring lady,
with her attendant satellites. This house was a second paradise to
the poet, and one from which he was only driven by a fiery sword.
For there were claims on him which did not leave him absolutely
free to enjoy " the celestial manna of high sentiment " with that
group of whom the white-haired Mrs. Boinville was chief prophetess
dispensing potent magic in her tea-cups. Mrs. Newton, her sister,

iS40 Tke Gentleman^ s MagazifU^

with the fair Cornelia Turner made up the circle, all mysterious, all
unorthodox, all exalted in aim and opinion. Truly Shelley was, as
he said, "translated to Paradise," but it was an Eden with several
" Eves" ! It is true he had written charming lines on his sweet babe,
and on Harriet, of whom he still spoke as the partner of his thoughts
and feelings ; but as a fact, his thoughts were fettered to the Boinville
household He needed relays of feminine influences. Having given
Harriet the religious marriage, perhaps the poet thought her now
finally provided for, and was at ease among Platonics and Italian
poetry.

In April of that year the poet wrote his mysterious stanzas, which
Dr. Dowden aptly terms " a fantasia of sorrow." He bewails " the
music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile." The return
to Bracknell so soon after his ecclesiastical marriage with Harriet
seems to have been, indeed, the forerunner of increased discomfort
and separation. The marriage relation was too severely strained, and
the month of May, 1814, seems to have been spent in attempts on
Shelley's part to reconcile his now alienated wife to himself again.
Harriet must have realised that, although unable to go into ecstasies
over Wieland's " Agathon," she was at least a woman, a mother. She
could love ; she could be jealous ; she could hate. Her simple
iterated song of three notes was drowned in a Wagnerian storm of
wild and unmeasured dissonance. And when the poet turned to her
now, the angry wife could not and would not forgive him.

The thread of this sad narrative is not easy to follow ; but
Harriet had withdrawn in alienation from her husband, and in July
she was certainly living in Bath. The misunderstanding was proba-
bly not regarded by her as a perfectly hopeless and final one. What
cannot a woman forgive a man she loves ? And her extreme youth
must be remembered. Her conduct must not be canvassed as are the
arts and ^ iles of an accomplished woman of the world. Men rarely
can credit or allow for the amazing ignorance and innocence of young
girls, and, from the first, Harriet had displayed these qualities. Though
Shelley had always informed her that he thought lightly of the mar-
riage vow, the words would convey little idea to her, and it cannot be
expected that she could estimate the logical effect, on his moral con-
duct, of Godwin's pernicious doctrines ; still less could she foreknow
the peculiarities of the poetic temperament While we admit that
Shelley had been at first drawn into the fatal friendship by Eliza,
the elder sister, and that he was ready to disclaim any mere affection
for Harriet as an over-mastering element in his conduct, we yet
feel that Harriet received hard measure at his hands. Young as he

On Some Extracts from Harriet Shelley s Letters. 241

was, his knowledge immensely exceeded hers. Her obduracy at the
time of their separation cost her dear. For, added to the hopeless-
ness of reconciliation with her, the poet now cherished suspicions of
her fidelity, which grew rapidly into proportions substantial enough
for his excitable temperament, and left him defenceless against the
new influence which assailed him at this very time. For it was now that
the daughter of Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft first crossed his path.

We know how suddenly and how strongly these two natures went
forth each to the other, at first without the hope of any closer union,
and justly so ; for Shelley was a husband, his wife a prey to the
strife of conflicting passions, and not at all contemplating a final
separation from him. We feel that Godwin played a somewhat dis-
ingenuous part in the tragedy of these three young lives. For he
had a motive in believing Harriet to be unworthy, and certainly he
did not scruple to present her conduct in the worst light. Could
he have separated Mary, his daughter, from Shelley, he might have
felt no animus against Harriet ; but not being able to separate the
lovers, it was his interest to weaken the tie between Shelley and his
first wife : thus we place little faith in any of his statements.

Shelley did not wait to assure himself with certainty as to Harriet's
actual misconduct, but, coupling his suspicions with her attitude of
harsh alienation, was naturally ready to believe himself morally
emancipated from all tie to her — all tie which should bind his affec-
tions. For he still proposed to be friendly, and careful for her
welfare. Strange and incomprehensible this blindness on his part ;
utter, though possibly not uncommon, ignorance of woman's nature !
Peacock says, " I feel it due to the memory of Harriet to state my
most decided conviction, that her conduct as a wife was as pure, as
true, as absolutely faultless, as that of any who, for such conduct, are
held most in honour." And those friends who knew the Shelleys all
concur in this testimony.

At this time of anguish the young wife fell ill, and came at
much risk of health to London, at Shelley's request. The details of
what followed are not completely known to us. The birth of a child
was looked for in December, and the revulsion of feeling on the
young woman's part was naturally very terrible. Forced now to con-
sider all at an end between herself and her husband, the girl was adrift.
Knowing that Shelley could not legally contract a second marriage
at this time, Harriet may not unreasonably have looked for some re-
conciliation at a later date ; and possibly it was in this belief that she
temporised with him, now when he was about to leave her for ever.
He certainly took legal advice, and directed money arrangements to

On SofM Extracts from Harriet Shelley's Letters. 243

to be told The false doctrines therein contained have poisoned
many a young and virtuous mind. Mr. Shelley is living with Mr.
Godwin's two daughters — one by Mary Wollstonecraft, the other the
daughter of his present wife, called Clairmont. I told you some
time back Mr. S. was to give Godwin three thousand pounds.
It was in effecting the accomplishment of this scheme that he
was obliged to be at Godwin's house, and Mary was determined
to seduce him. She is to blame. She heated his imagination by
talking of her mother, and going to her grave with him every
day, till at last she told him she [was dying in love for him, ac-
companied by the most violent gestures and vehement expostula-
tions. He thought of me and my sufferings, and begged her to get
the better of a passion as degrading to him as herself. She then toid
him she would die— he had rejected her, and what appeared to her
as the sublimest virtue was to him a crime. Why could we not ail live
together ? I as his sister, she as his wife ? He had the folly to believe
this possible, and sent for me, then residing at Bath. You may suppose
how I felt at this disclosure. I was laid up for a fortnight after. . . .
He begged me to live. The doctors gave me over. They said 'twas
impossible. I saw his despair, the agony of my beloved sister, and
owing to the great strength of my constitution I lived, and here I
am, my dear friend, waiting to bring another infant into this woful
world. Next month I shall be confined. He will not be near me.
No ; he cares not for me now. He never asks after me, or sends
rac word how he is going on. In short, the man I once loved is
dead. This is a vampire. His character is blasted for ever. Nothing
can save him now. Oh ! if you knew what I have suffered, your
heart would drop blood for my miseries ....

" Adieu, my dear friend, may you be happy I is the best wish of
her who sincerely loves you. „ ^ ^^^^^^^„

We cannot wonder at the bitterness and inaccuracy of this
account of Shelley's position. The one main fact was frue — he had
deserted his wife and eloped with another.

The terrible pain and helplessness of Harriet's position caused the
distorted words in which she blames nof her husband^ but his com-
panion in flight. This injustice is easy to understand. In a succeed-
ing letter to her friend, Harriet tells of the birth of her son, towards
the end of November 1814. The child was called Charles Bysshe,
and died in 1826.

Harriet says, writing to Mrs. Nugent, — " I have seen his father :
he came to see me as soon as he knew of the event : but as for his

244 2r^^ Gentlemafis Magazine .

tenderness for me, none remains. He said he was glad it was a boy,
because he would make money cheaper. You see how that noble
soul is debased. Money now, and not philosophy, is the grand
spring of his actions. Indeed, the pure and enlightened philosophy
he once delighted in has flown. He is no longer that pure and
good thing he once was, nor can he ever retrieve himself."

These sad words describe Harriet's broken ideals. There is yet
one letter remaining, of later date, and also to Mrs. Nugent. The
date is January 24, 1815.

" My dear Mrs. Nugent, — I am sorry to tell you my poor little boy
has been very ill. He is better now, and. the first spare time I de-
vote to you. Why will you not come to England, my dear friend,
and stay with me ? I should be so happy to have you near me. I
am truly miserable, my dear friend ! I really see no termination to
my sorrows. As to Mr. Shelley, I know nothing of him. He neither
sends nor com.es to see me. I am still at my father's, which is very
wretched. When I shall quit this house I know not. Everything
gees against me. I am weary of life. I am so restrained here, that
life is scarcely worth living. How I wish you were here. What will
you do, my dear Catherine ? . . . . Do now make up your mind
at once to come and stay with me. I will do everything to make
you happy. For myself happiness is fled. I live for others. At
nineteen I could descend, a willing victim, to the tomb. How I
wish those dear children had never been born ! They stay my
fleeting spirit, when it would be in another state. How many there
are who shudder at death ! I have been so near it that I feel no
terrors. Mr. Shelley has much to answer for. He has been the
cause of great misery to me and mine. I shall never live with him
again. 'Tis impossible. I have been so deceived and cruelly treated
that I can never forget it ! Oh, no ! with all the affections warm,
a heart devoted to him— and then to be so cruelly blighted ! Oh !
Catherine, you do not know what it is to be left as I am, a prey to
anguish, corroding sorrow, with a mind too sensitive to others' pain.
But I will think no more. There is madness in thought. Could I
look into futurity for a short time, how gladly would I pierce the
veil of mystery that wraps my fate. Is it wrong, do you think, to
put an end to one's sorrows ? I often think of it — all is so gloomy
and desolate. Shall I find repose in another world? Oh, grave,
why do you not tell us what is beyond ? Let me hear from you
soon, my dear friend. Your letters make me more happy. Tell me
about Ireland. You know I love the green Isle and all its natives.

On Some Extracts from Harriet Shelley's Letters. 245

Eliza joins in kind love to you. — I remain your sincere but unhappy

friend,

" H. Shelley.
" Chapel Street."

Here we lose the thread of poor Harriet Shelley's wanderings.
We cannot trace her path from the day when she wildly left her
father's roof, to that November night in 181 6 when she sought a
final refuge in death by drowning. The flood of her young despair
overwhelmed her, and the tortured spirit sought rest.

A cloud of sorrow, of darkness deeper than sorrow, prevented
the wanderer from returning to any earthly refuge. No light that
way any more !

She had never truly lived — ^the promises seemed all unfulfilled.
Belief was shattered and gone.

ANNIE E. IRELAND.

VOL. CCLXXI. NO, J929,

246 The Gentleman's Magazine.

ZOOLOGICAL RETROGRESSION.

PERHAPS no scientific theories are more widely discussed or
more generally misunderstood among cultivated people than
the views held by biologists regarding the past history and future
prospects of their province — life. Using their technical phrases and
misquoting their authorities in an invincibly optimistic spirit, the edu-
cated public has arrived in its own way at a rendering of their results
which it finds extremely satisfactory. It has decided that in the past
the great scroll of nature has been steadily unfolding to reveal a con-
stantly richer harmony of forms and successively higher grades of
being, and it assumes that this "evolution" will continue with increas-
ing velocity under the supervision of its extreme expression — man. This
belief, as effective, progressive, and pleasing as transformation scenes at
a pantomime, receives neither in the geological record nor in the
studies of the phylogenetic embryologist any entirely satisfactory
confirmation.

On the contrary, there is almost always associated with the sug-
gestion of advance in biological phenomena an opposite idea, which
is its essential complement. The technicality expressing this would,
if it obtained suflScient currency in the world of culture, do much to
reconcile the naturalist and his traducers. The toneless glare of opti-
mistic evolution would then be softened by a shadow ; the monotonous
reiteration of " Excelsior" by people who did not climb would cease;
the too sweet harmony of the spheres would be enhanced by a dis-
cord, this evolutionary antithesis — degradation.

Isolated cases of degeneration have long been known, and popular
attention has been drawn to them in order to point well-meant moral
lessons, the fallacious analogy of species to individual being employed.
It is only recently, however, that the enormous importance of degeno-
ration as a plastic process in nature has been suspected and its entire
parity with evolution recognised.

It is no libel to say that three-quarters of the people who use the
phrase, "organic evolution," interpret it very much in this way : —
Life began with the amoeba, and then came jelly-fish, sh^ll-fish, and

Zoological Retrogression. 247

all those miscellaneous invertebrate things, and then real fishes and
amphibia, reptiles, birds, mammals, and man, the last and first of
creation. It has been pointed out that this is very like regarding a
man as the ofTspring of his first cousins; these, of his second; these,
of his relations at the next remove, and so forth — making the remotest
living human being his primary ancestor. Or, to select another image, it is
like elevating the modest poor relation at the family gathering to the
unexpected altitude of fountain-head — a proceeding which would in-
volve some cruel reflections on her age and character. The sounder
view is, as scientific writers have frequently insisted, that living species
have varied along divergent lines from intermediate forms, and, as it
is the object of this paper to point out, not necessarily in an upward
direction.

In fact, the path of life, so frequently compared to some steadily-
rising mountain-slope, is far more like a footway worn by leisurely
wanderers in an undulating country. Excelsior biology is a popular t
and poetic creation — the rea/form of a phylum, or line of descent, is
far more like the course of a busy man moving about a great city.
Sometimes it goes underground, sometimes it doubles and twists in
tortuous streets, now it rises far overhead along some viaduct, and,
again, the river is taken advantage of in these varied journeyings to
and fro. Upward and downward these threads of pedigree interweave,
slowly working out a pattern of accomplished things that is difficult
to interpret, but in which scientific observers certainly fail to discover
that inevitable tendency to higher and better things with which the
word " evolution " is popularly associated.

The best known, and, perhaps, the most graphic and typical, illus-
tration of the downward course is to be found in the division of the
Tunicata. These creatures constitute a group which is, in severdl
recent schemes of classification, raised to the high rank of a sub-
phylum, and which includes, among a great variety of forms, the fairly
common Sea Squirts, or AscidianSy of our coasts. By an untrained
observer a specimen of these would at first very probably be placed in
the mineral or vegetable kingdoms. Externally they are simply shape-
less lumps of a stiff, semi-transparent, cartilaginous substance, in which
pebbles, twigs, and dirt are imbedded, and only the most careful exa-
mination of this unpromising exterior would discover any evidence
of the living thing within. A penknife, however, serves to lay bare
the animal inside this house, or "test," and the fleshy texture of
the semi-transparent body must then convince the unscientific inves •
Ugator of his error.

He would forthwith almost certainly make a fresh mistake in his

52

248 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

classification of this new animal. Like most zoologists until a com-
paratively recent date, he would think of such impassive and, from the
human point of view, lowly beings as the oyster and mussel as its
brethren, and a superficial study of its anatomy might even strengthen
this opinion. As a matter of fact, however, these singular creatures are
far more closely related to the vertebrata — they lay claim to the quar-
terings, not of molluscs, but of imperial man! and, like novelette heroes
with a birth-mark, they carry their proofs about with them.

This startling and very significant fact is exhibited in the details
of their development. It is a matter of common knowledge that
living things repeat in a more or less blurred and abbreviated series
their generalized pedigree in their embryological changes. For
instance, as we shall presently remind the reader, the developing
chick or rabbit passes through a fish-like stage, and the human foetus
wears an undeniable tail. In the case of these ascidians, the
fertilized egg-cell, destined to become a fresh individual, takes almost
from the first an entirely different course from that pursued by the
molluscs. Instead, the dividing and growing ovum exhibits phases
resembling in the most remarkable way those of the lowliest among
fishes, the I^ncelet, or Amphioxus, The method of division, the
formation of the primitive stomach and body-cavity, and the origin
of the nervous system are identical, and a stage is attained in which
the young organism displays — or else simulates in an altogether
inexplicable way— vertebrate characteristics. It has a notochord^ or
primary skeletal axis, the representative or forerunner in all vertebrata
of the backbone ; it displays gill-slits behind its mouth, as do all
vertebrated animals in the earlier stages only or throughout life ; and,
finally, the origin and position of its nervous axis are essentially and
characteristically vertebrate. In these three independent series of
structures the young ascidian stands apart from all invertebrated
animals, and manifests its high descent. In fact, at this stage it
differs far more widely from its own adult form than it does from
Amphioxus or a simplified tadpole.

Like a tadpole, the animal has a well- developed tail which propels
its owner vigorously through the water. There is a conspicuous
single eye, reminding the zoologist at once of the Polyphemus eye
that almost certainly existed in the central group of the vertebrata.
There are also serviceable organs of taste and hearing, and the lively
movements of the little creature justify the supposition that its being
is fairly full of endurable sensations. But this flush of golden youth
is sadly transient : it is barely attained before a remarkable and
depressing change appears in the drift of the development

Zoological Retrogression. 249

The ascidian begins to take things seriously — a deliberate sobriety
gradually succeeds its tremulous vivacity. UAllegro dies away ;
the tones of II Penseroso become dominant.

On the head appear certain sucker-like structures, paralleled, one
may note, in the embryos of certain ganoid fishes. The animal
becomes dull, moves about more and more slowly, and finally fixes
itself by these suckers to a rock. It has settled down in life. The
tail that waggled so merrily undergoes a rapid process of absorption ;
eye and ear, no longer needed, atrophy completely, and the skin
secretes the coarse, inorganic-looking "test" It is very remarkable
that this "test" should consist of a kind of cellulose — a compound
otherwise almost exclusively confined to the vegetable kingdom.
The transient glimpse of vivid animal life is forgotten, and the rest
of this existence is a passive receptivity to what chance and the water
bring along. The ascidian lives henceforth an idyll of contentment,
glued, head downwards, to a stone.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Now here, to all who refer nature to one rigid table of precedence,
is an altogether inexplicable thing. A creature on a level, at lowest,
immediately next to vertebrated life, turns back from the upward
path and becomes at last a merely vegetative excrescence on a rock.

It is lower even than the patriarchal amoeba of popular science
if we take psychic life as the standard : for does not even the
amoeba crawl after and choose its food and immediate environment ?
We have then, as I have read somewhere — I think it was in an
ecclesiastical biography — a career not perhaps teemingly eventful,
but full of the richest suggestion and edification.

And here one may note a curious comparison which can be made
between this life-history and that of many a respectable pinnacle and
gargoyle on the social fabric. Every respectable citizen of the pro-
fessional classes passes through a period of activity and imagination,
of " liveliness and eccentricity," of " Sturm und Drang,^^ He shocks
his aunts. Presently, however, he realizes the sober aspect of things.
He becomes dull; hq enters a profession; suckers appear on his head;
and he studies. Finally, by virtue of these he settles down — he
marries. All his wild ambitions and subtle aesthetic perceptions
atrophy as needless in the presence of calm domesticity. He
secretes a house, or "establishment," round himself, of inorganic and
servile material. His Bohemian tail is discarded. Henceforth his
life is a passive receptivity to what chance and the drift of his pro-
fession bring along ; he lives an almost entirely vegetative excrescence

250 The Gentlemafis Magazine

on the side of a street, and in the tranquillity of his calling finds that
colourless contentment that replaces happiness.

But this comparison is possibly fallacious, and is certainly a
digression.

The ascidian, though a pronounced case of degradation, is only
one of an endless multitude. Those shelly warts that cover every
fragment of sea-side shingle are degraded crustaceans ; at first they are
active and sensitive creatures, similar essentially to the earlier phases
of the life-history of a prawn. Other Cirripeds and many Copepods
sink down still deeper, to almost entire shapelessness and loss of
organization. The corals, sea-mats, the immobile oysters and mussels
are undoubtedly descended from free-living ancestors with eye-spots
and other sense-organs. Various sea-worms and holothurians have
also taken to covering themselves over from danger, and so have
deliberately foregone their dangerous birthright to a more varied and
active career. The most fruitful and efficient cause of degradation,
however, is not simply cowardice, but that loathsome tendency that
is so closely akin to it — an aptness for parasitism. There are whole
orders and classes thus pitifully submerged. The Acarina^ or Mites,
include an immense array of genera profoundly sunken in this way,
and the great majority of both the flat and round worms are parasitic
degeneration forms. The vile tapeworm, at the nadir, seems to have
lost even common sensation ; it has become an insensible mechanism
of evil — a multiplying disease-spot, living to that extent, and otherwise
utterly dead.

Such evident and indisputable present instances of degeneration
alone would form a very large proportion of the catalogue of living
animals. If we were to add to this list the names of all those genera
the ancestors of which have at any time sunk to rise again, it is pro-
bable that we should have to write down i/ie entire roll of the animal
kingdom I

In some cases the degradation has been a strategic retrogression
— the type has stooped to conquer. This is, perhaps, most manifest
in the case of the higher vertebrate types.

It is one of the best-known embryological facts that a bird or
mammal starts in its development as if a fish were in the making.
The extremely ugly embr}^o of such types has gill-slits, sense-organs,
facial parts, and limbs resembling far more closely those of a dog-fish
than its own destined adult form. To use a cricketing expression,
it is " pulled " subsequently into its later line of advance.

The comparative anatomy of almost every set of organs in the
adult body enforces the suggestion of this ovarian history. We find

Zoological Retrogression. 251

what are certainly modified placoid fish scales, pressed into the work
of skull-covering, while others retain their typical enamel caps as
teeth. The skull itself is a piscine cranium, ossified and altered, in
the most patchy way, to meet the heavier blows that bodies falling
through air, instead of water, deliver. The nasal organ is a fish's
nasal organ, constructed to smell in water, and the roof of the mouth
and front of the skull have been profoundly altered to meet a fresh
set of needs in aerial life. The ear-drum, in a precisely similar way,
is derived from a gill-slit twisted up to supplement the aquatic internal
ear, which would otherwise fail to appreciate the weaker sound-waves
in air. The bathymetric air-bladder becomes a lung ; and so one
might go on through all the entire organisation of a higher vertebrate.
Everywhere we should find the anatomy of a fish twisted and patched
to fit a life out of water ; nowhere organs built specially for this very
special condition. There is nothing like this in the case of a fish.
There the organs are from the first recognizable sketches of their
adult forms, and they develop straightforwardly. But the higher
types go a considerable distance towards the fish, and then turn round
and complete their development in an entirely opposite direction.

This turning is evidently precisely similar in nature, though not in
effect, to the retrogression of the ascidian after its pisciform or
larval stage.

If the reader can bear the painful spectacle of his ancestor's
degradation, I would ask him to imagine the visit of some bodiless
Linnaeus to this world during the upper Silurian period. Such a
spirit would, of course, immediately begin to classify animated nature,
neatly and swiftly.

It would be at once apparent that the most varied and vigorous
life was to be found in the ocean. On the land a monotonous
vegetation of cryptogams would shelter a sparse fauna of insects,
gasteropods, and arachnids ; but the highest life would certainly be
the placoid fishes of the seas — the ancient representatives of the
sharks and rays. On the diverse grounds of size, power, and activity,
these would head any classification he planned. If our Linnceus
were a disembodied human spirit, he would immediately appoint these
placoids his ancestors, and consent to a further analysis of the matter
only very reluctantly, and possibly even with some severe remarks
and protests about carrying science too far.

The true forefathers of the reader, however, had even at that
early period very probably already left the seas, and were — with a
certain absence of dignity— acconmiodating themselves to the neces-
sities of air-breathing.

252 The Gentleman's Magazine.

It is almost certain that the seasonal differences of that time
were very much greater than they are now. Intensely dry weather
followed stormy rainy seasons, and the rivers of that forgotten world
— like some tropical rivers of to-day — were at one time tumultuous
floods and at another baking expanses of mud. In such rivers it
would be idle to expect self-respecting gill-breathing fish. Our
imaginary zoological investigator would, however, have found that
they were not altogether tenantless. Swimming in the pluvial
waters, or inert and caked over by the torrid mud, he would have
discovered what he would certainly have regarded as lowly, specially-
modified, and degenerate relations of the active denizens of the
ocean — the Dipnoi^ or mud-fish. He would have found in con-
junction with the extremely primitive skull, axial skeleton, and fin
possessed by these Silurian mud-fish, a remarkable adaptation of the
swimming-bladder to the needs of the waterless season. It would
have undergone the minimum amount of alteration to render it a
lung, and blood-vessels and other points of the anatomy would show
correlated changes.

Unless our zoological investigator were a prophet, he would
certainly never have imagined that in these forms vested the inherit-
ance of the earth, nor have awarded them a high place in the
category of nature. Why were they living thus in inhospitable rivers
and spending half their lives half baked in river-mud? The answer
would be the old story of degeneration again ; they had failed in the
struggle, they were less active and powerful than their rivals of the
sea, and they had taken the second great road of preservation —
flight. Just as the ascidian has retired from an open sea too
crowded and full of danger to make life worth the trouble, so in
that older epoch did the mud-fish. They preferred dirt, discomfort,
and survival to a gallant fight and death. Very properly, then, they
would be classed in our zoologist's scheme as a degenerate group.

Some conservative descendants of these mud-fish live to-day in
African and Australian rivers, archaic forms that have kept right
up to the present the structure of Palaeozoic days. Others of their
children, however, have risen in the world again. The gill-breathing
stage became less and less important, and the air-bladder was con-
stantly elaborated under the slow, incessant moulding of circumstances
to the fashion of a more and more efficient breathing-organ.
Emigrants from the rivers swarmed over the yet uncrowded land.
Aldermanic amphibia were the magnates of the great coal measure
epoch, to give place presently to the central group of reptiles. From
these sprang divergently the birds and mammals, and, finally, the

Zoological Retrogression. 253

last of the mud-fish family, man, the heir of the ages. He it is who ^
goes down to the sea in ships, and, with wide-sweeping nets and
hooks cunningly baited, beguiles the children of those who drove his
ancestors out of the water. Thus the whirligig of time brings round
its revenges ; still, in an age of excessive self-admiration, it would be
well for man to remember that his family was driven from the waters
by fishes, who still — in spite of incidental fish-hooks, seines, and
dredges — hold that empire triumphantly against him.

Witness especially the trout ; I doubt whether it has ever been
captured except by sheer misadventure.

These brief instances of degradation may perhaps suffice to show
that there is a good deal to be found in the work of biologists quite
inharmonious with such phrases as " the progress of the ages," and
the " march of mind." The zoologist demonstrates that advance has
been fitful and uncertain ; rapid progress has often been followed by
rapid extinction or degeneration, while, on the other hand, a form
lowly and degraded has in its degradation often happened upon some
fortunate discovery or valuable discipline and risen again, like a more
fortunate Antaeos, to victory. There is, therefore, no guarantee in
scientific knowledge of man's permanence or permanent ascendency.
He has a remarkably variable organisation, and his own activities
and increase cause the conditions of his existence to fluctuate far
more widely than those of any animal have ever done. The pre-
sumption is that before him lies a long future of profound modifica-
tion, but whether that will be, according to present ideals, upward
or downward, no one can forecast. Still, so far as any scientist can
tell us, it may be that, instead of this. Nature is, in unsuspected
obscurity, equipping some now humble creature with wider possibili-
ties of appetite, endurance, or destruction, to rise in the fulness of
time and sweep homo away into the darkness from which his universe
arose. The Coming Beast must certainly be reckoned in any antici-
patory calculations regarding the Coming Man.

H. G. WELLS.

254 ^^ Gentlematts Magazine.

IV AS LORD BEACONSFIELD THE

SUN?

A LECTURE IN THE YEAR 3000.

IT was in a state of trance or second-sight after reading certain
works on mythology, that I heard the following lecture delivered
by a learned professor about the year 3000.A.D., as distinctly as if it
had been delivered yesterday.

"In the deplorable destruction of most of the contemporary
records of the nineteenth century in England, consequent on fires
and wars and the ordinary ravages of time, it often becomes extremely
difficult to discriminate between history and mythology, or to assign
aright to fact or fiction their respective property. In this difficulty,
caused by the dearth of documents, we have no other resource than
to follow the guidance of comparative mythology, in order to separate
the mythical from the real. I propose then, gentlemen, by this
method to test some of the leading features in the legendary life of
Lord Beaconsfield, a figure that stands out prominently from the gene-
ral haze of that remote epoch, with some claims, no doubt, to hbtori-
cal reality, but with many more links with the mythical and fictitious.

That such a being never lived I would be the last to assert ; there
probably was a human personality at the bottom of the legend ; all I
say is, that mythology has so taken possession of his memory, that
for all practical purposes he is for us as purely mythical as Osiris, or
Krishna, or Herakles ; and this I hope to make abundantly clear to
you, by the scientific method that has already compelled so many
myths to surrender their secret.

Now I will call your attention first of all, gentlemen, to the fact
that Lord Beaconsfield is always represented as having been by birth
an alien and a Jew, not an Englishman. This is to me most signifi-
cant, for in the mythology of all nations, what feature of the culture
or solar-hero is more conspicuous than his coming from abroad — his
foreign origin ? Need I remind you of Viracocha or Monabozho, or
the other American culture-heroes, who were not only white like the

JVas Lord Beaconsfield the Sun? 255

Dawn, but who also came from the East. The meaning of the myth is
obvious : for who can fail to see that each day's sun starts as a new-
comer, and that the world he comes to enlighten receives him as an
alien and a stranger ? To say, therefore, that Lord Beaconsfield was
a Jew is only to say that he too came from the East : a fact which is
sometimes otherwise noted by an allusion to his Oriental imagination.

Notice next his political career, if you please ; his beginning in
feebleness and failure, his ending in power and honour. Here again
the myth is ridiculously transparent. For is not this too a character-
istic of the sun, that it rises often only to be obscured, and after a long
contest with the clouds or with rain — the damping nature of which
is so faithfully rendered by the figure of political opposition — ends
the day in glory and might and majesty, the object of universal
delight and admiration ?

The legend speaks of Lord Beaconsfield as member of Parliament
for Aylesbury, a place said to have been in those remote times the
centre of a famous cheese-making district, but of which not a trace
now remains to prove that it ever had a real existence. Gentlemen, I
unhesitatingly make so bold as to say that it never had, but that, like
Kapilavastu, the city of Buddha, its existence was purely atmospheric,
its real location in the sky. This to my mind is placed absolutely
beyond doubt by the significant allusion to the cheese. Sometimes
it is as a discus, as in the case of Krishna, sometimes it is as a wheel,
as in the wheel of the sun, turned by Buddha, that the sun is indicated ;
but the meaning is always the same, and the object is always round ;
and clearly a cheese is as well entitled as a wheel to represent both
the shape and the motion of the sun.

But, gentlemen, if there is any doubt still left in your minds, I
now come to a point which I think you will acknowledge to be
absolutely conclusive. As over against Zoroaster is set the tempter
and opponent Ahriman, as over against Buddha is set the tempter
Mara, as over against Osiris the demon god Seti, so over against
Lord Beaconsfield stands a figure, who is in constant opposition to
him, and at regular intervals either his victorious or his vanquished
foe. Both the name of Beaconsfield and that of Gladstone stand
out in bold relief from the crowd of other mythical names ot
that epoch, girt with a certain grandeur of form that can leave us in
no doubt as to their real meaning and significance. For how can
we fail to see in the one the personification of that solar light, ot
which the other, the dark night-cloud, is the bitter and persistent
opponent ; or fail to recognize, in the periodical fluctuations of their
respective fortunes, an allusion to that episode, which was of never-

256 The Gentlematis Magazine.

fading interest to our poetical ancestors, who loved to speak in terms
of political phraseology of the diurnal conquest of day over night,
and anon of the triumph of darkness over light ?

I ask your patience, gentlemen, whilst I point out to you some
of the reasons which lead me to identify the name of Gladstone
with that great Cloud- Demon, now Dragon, now Snake, of which
the mythologies of all times and people have made so much. I
call your attention to such facts as the great eloquence and per-
suasiveness attributed to him ; the great affection and admiration
for him on the one hand, so evenly balanced by the detestation
in which he was held on the other; and lastly, his love for
tree-felling. These, I take it, are the main elements in the story
of this clearly mythical character ; and I feel sure you will have no
difficulty in anticipating the solution. For what, I ask you, can
be more eloquent or persuasive than the soft splash of the rain as it
falls from the overburdened cloud on the parched and thirsty earth ?
And is not the cloud as much longed for by the agriculturist as it is
vehemently dreaded and disliked by the merchant or the mariner ?
Or, finally, what can be more conclusive than the image of the tree?
I need scarcely remind you how favourite an image in mythology is
the atmospheric tree, that tree under which Buddha is figured to have
attained to Buddhahood, of which Krishna, for the service of men,
robbed the heaven of Indra, and which in Norse mythology is so
well known to you as Yggdrasil ; but clear as is the meaning of the
tree, it yields in transparency to that of the axe, the brightly and
swiftly flashing steel, than which it would be difficult to conceive
a happier image for the bright lightning that flashes from the
thunder-cloud, and proves no less fatal to the atmospheric tree itself
than to the trees of the forests of earth. No, gentlemen, with these
indications before me I decline altogether to follow the Euhemerists
who will have it that Gladstone was no mere figure of the storm,
but a real being of human flesh and blood. No, no, gentlemen,
when a statesman fells trees with a bright axe, we know where we
are ; we can afford to smile at the modern followers of Euhemerus.

I must apologise, gentlemen, for having detained you these few
minutes over so obvious 'and essential an ingredient of our solar
myth as the Cloud-Demon. To return to our central figure. With
the key I have supplied, it is wonderful with what ease minor details
of the old myth can be made to yield up their secret. Take, for
instance, the narrative of events connected with the so-called Russo-
Turkish war, itself only another version of the same old ever-absorb-
ing story. Lord Beaconsfield, it is said, was in favour of the TurkSi

Was Lord Beaconsfield the Sun? 257

whilst his opponents sympathised with the Russians ; and one day a
large crowd of the Philo-Turk party met in a great park, whence,
rushing with enthusiasm to the great statesman's house, they picked
up on their way an Indian crossing-sweeper, dressed in a turban,
whom they raised before Lord Beaconsfield's windows as an unmis-
takable symbol of their sympathies with the Turk.

Now mythology may often seem absurd, but it has always a
meaning, and often a deep one, underlying it ; and none but the
hypercritical will say here, Why an Indian as a symbol of a Turk,
or why a turban on the head of an Indian? Then the crowd of
adherents meeting in a park — and note that the meeting significantly
purports to have been held upon a Sunday — does it not clearly point
to those Devas, or Angels of Light, who, with harmonious voices,
daily call upon the Sun to issue from his chambers to run his course ?
What more fitting than that these, in mythological language, should
be said to favour the Turk, a nation whose emblem was the Crescent,
and should hold aloft an Indian, not because he was an Indian, but
because his turban — a circular head-dress — was of quite peculiar
appositeness in the sight of that splendid luminary, whose appearance
and whose course alike are nothing if they are not circular ?

Then again, it belongs to the legend that on a certain occasion
the statesman, having to lament in public the decease of a great
warrior, delivered with great emotion a speech that a statesman of
France had already uttered over the grave of a famous soldier of that
nation. Surely never was myth more transparent than here. The
similarity of incident, here ascribed to borrowing, clearly implies
similarity of fact ; and what better image could there be of the sun
than that immemorial and beautiful image of a warrior, who, after
battling all day with the darkness and the Cloud-Demon, sinks at last,
weary but victorious, into the well-earned repose of night ; or what
finer idea could have been conceived than that of each rising sun in
succession pronouncing its benediction or funeral oration on the sun
that has preceded him and set, on the sun that, like himself, was
figured as a patriot, and whom he appropriately deplores with tears,
the tears of the dew of the morning ?

Our ancestors in the nineteenth century loved to speak in this
poetical way. To a nation of sailors, living mostly at sea in full and
daily sight of the marvellous phenomena of the heavens, such common
events as the succession of day and night, or the contest of the sun
with the clouds, presented themselves, not as ordinary matter-of-fact
events of no interest beyond the present moment, but as actual living
romances of which the details could not be too poetically portrayed,

258 The Gentleman's Magazine.

nor too frequently or lovingly repeated. Hence the wealth of incident
that astounds us ; the marvellous elaboration of detail might some-
times lead us off the right track, if we ever allowed ourselves for a
moment to forget our few guiding and simple principles. The Sun, the
Dawn, the Night, the Storm, and the Lightning, these are the elements
which everyone that diligently seeks will as certainly find throughout
every highway and byeway of comparative mythology. We have seen
how plentifully they occur throughout the great Beaconsfield legend ;
the very name betraying its meaning, for surely a sign that is set as a
beacon in a Jield has its obvious prototype in that sublime solar
beacon, that moves, majestically visible, across the azure fields of
space.

We come, gentlemen, now to the final act in this solar drama.
For there is one unfailing feature in the history of every solar hero,
and one that is always as melancholy as it is inevitable. As the sun
ultimately succumbs to night, so does the hero to death ; and the
clouds that terminate the one are not more varied or beautiful in
nature than are the manifold poetical fancies by which the hero is
figured to die. Nothing can surpass the beauty of some of these
images. Whether it be the poisoned robe that kills Herakles, the
fumes of hemlock that destroy Socrates, the fever that stays the
conquests of Alexander, the mistletoe that is fatal to Baldur, the pork
that (according to one story) proves too much for Buddha, the arrow
that fatally wounds Krishna, or lastly, the illness that carries away
Lord Beaconsfield, in each and every case there is one and the same
allusion : an allusion, beautifully imagined, delicately conveyed, but
an allusion for all that which few can misconstrue, none can mistake ;
an allusion, need I say, to the daily fate of that orb, whose daily
extinction in the West our ancestors with pitying tenderness so loved
to symbolise, by every form of decease with which they were
familiar.

I consider, therefore, that the death of Lord Beaconsfield would
alone be conclusive evidence of the essentially solar nature of that
hero; but when we take into consideration, and piece together all the
other bits of evidence that support this conclusion, I am confident that
no candid mind can make further resistance. I have, however, reserved
for my final argument that which I regard as my strongest It is clear
that a sort of cult of Lord Beaconsfield arose shortly after his death —
the mourning, of course, of the Bright Ones for their Lord, the Solar
Lord of Day— a cult which we find associated, as we find it
associated in the case of no other statesman, with honour paid to a
particular flower. That flower, gentlemen, was the Primrose, and it

TVas Lord Beaconsfield the Sun? 259

would have been impossible for the myth to have chosen a more signi-
ficant flower. You are doubtless aware that in German folk-lore, the
Luckflower which opens the way to the hidden treasures of mountains
is the primrose ; clearly the golden key that pierces the cloud-masses,
or mountains of early morning, and unfolds the dazzling jewels or
brightness of the day : therefore, nothing is more natural than to find
it associated closely with a solar hero as that hero's favourite flower.
But here the myth abandons its usual disguises, and positively betrays

•

Uself by its childish transparency, for who in the world would have
really preferred a primrose to a lily or carnation ? Need I then remind
you that nothing more closely resembles our hazy English sun than
the pale yellow primrose ; and that, as five petals belong to the
flower, so five vowels go to the name of Beaconsfield, and five pri-
mary gases to the composition of the sun ?

But the myth degenerates into positive puerility when it asserts
that on the emblem of the primrose was founded a political League,
whose object was the conservation of all political institutions at that
time in existence. Nothing of the sort, gentlemen. No political party
ever set before it so impracticable an aim. The whole story is plainly
mythical, which only makes its elucidation the more imperative
upon us. Now, when the sun has departed, what takes its place ? Is it
not the moon and the stars ? It is their permanence that is expressed
by the League, and the fixed stars are fittingly typified by the figure
of political immobility. And the primrose which; as an emblem of
the sun, was so suitable in its application to our solar hero, is no less
suitable in connection with that paler orb of night, which its colour
so closely resembles. For the primrose is a lunar as well as a solar
flower, and thus the conclusion of our myth proves as poetical as any
other part of it. The Primrose League was a mere expression of this
beautiful fancy ; its only existence was in the heavens, and, if I may so
express myself without undue levity, the so-called League was simply
moonshine."

With the laughter and cheers that greeted the termination of this
lecture my vision ended, and I became aware that I had been held
in a trance, in which the future and the present had been merged
into actual identity.

J. A. FARRER.

26o Tlu Gentleman's Magazine.

A DAY AT THE MEYDOUM

PYRAMID.

THE Nile traveller, if he has a heart, will probably at the end of
his voyage find the words " Mi Turn," or Bull-Town, written
upon it, for that glorious Meydoum Pyramid, with its three stages of
shining masonry lifting themselves to Heaven out of the brown
mound of debris at its base, haunts the mind ; and after many days
the traveller finds that none of the temples or tombs he has seen up
Nile has banished the impression made by that lonely pile, whose
triple-terraced mountainous mass of yellow stone rises from the
border of the plain of farmers' paradise, to the west of Wasta.

Whose tomb was it? That was not exactly known till quite
recently. It had been said to have been built by King Senefru,
the founder of the fourth Egyptian dynasty, about b.c. 3766, but
savants had cast doubts upon this, and it has been left for Mr.
Flinders Petrie to show, by patient ^excavation, that at any rate as
long ago as the time of Amenophis IH., and Thotmes I., and Seti L
the pyramid in question was looked upon as Senefru's building —
Senefru, " Lord of Truth," and " Maker of the Good," who was long
after his death looked upon as a god — Senefru, whose temple,
perhaps owing to this fact, still stands intact at the base of his vast
pyramid tomb to this day.*

One had often heard of the False Pyramid, as the Fellaheen call
it, Haram el-Kaddab — calling it so, because, in their ignorance of
the plan of pyramid building, they thought that these steps, which
their fathers had made to appear by a process of stripping the
pyramid of outer casing, w^ere evidence that the pyramid had never
been finished. One had thought of it as being for all this "fiadse-
ness " or unfinishedness of appearance the oldest pyramid — Sakkara's
step pyramid only excepted— standing in Egypt One had fancied

* Senefru is said by Brugsch Bey to have been the last king of the third dynistj,
date 3766, by Mariette Bey he is looked upon as first king of the fourth dyaastj,
date 4235 B.C.

A Day at the Meydount Pyyamid. 261

the men hard at work piling stone down at Meydoum, before ever
the quarrymen had been called upon to hew a block in the quarries
of Mokattam and Turra at the command of Chufu, Chafra, or
Menkaura. And so one had much wished to see this forerunner of
the pyramids at Gizeh.

Even if the pyramid of Senefru should, on nearer acquaintance,
disappoint one with the manner of its masonry, or the finish of it,
at any rate close by were Mastabas of the fourth dynasty ; there were
the tombs of Nefer Mat and Atot, his wife, with their almost unique
evidence of early Egyptian Mosaics by way of ornament, and then
side by side with these there would be visible, we hoped, the tomb
chamber in which Mariette found those two remarkable life-size
sitting statues in stone of Rahotep and his wife Nefert, whose liquid
eyes and delicate drapery and colouring are the marvel of the Gizeh
Museum.

So it needed little persuasion on the part of the great gloriously-
shining pyramid of Meydoum to call one from the Nile steamer and
bid one make one's way across the plain to its base.

We had hoped to accomplish our visit between sunrise and 3 p.m.
when we knew the solitary afternoon train would have conveyed us
from Rekkah, up through the evening lights of the rich Nile land to
Cairo, but our steamer stuck now here, now there, and it was already
half-past four when we stopped the engines off the mud village of
Rekkah, or Riggah, and with a bundle of food in our hands and a
sailor to carry a donkey-saddle, we bade adieu to our fellow pas-
sengers and pushed off for the Nile bank.

It is not so easy a matter as at first might appear, this landing
from a Nile boat on a Nile bank, for the Nile mud is as slippery as
grease, and what looks solid is found to be soft and vice versa. But
we did not mind getting in up to the knees for the sake of good
King Senefru, and struggling from the slime we got on to the hot
sand, and entering the dirty little village asked for the railway station.
We did not want a train, but we wanted donkeys, and we believed
that the station-master, who in these out-of-the-way villages is the
centre of light and learning, would be the provider of so much ass-
fiesh as would bear us to the pyramid. He could talk English a
little, we spoke Arabic a little, and at once he despatched a bare-
legged railway porter in blue blouse and red tarboosh to harry
Rekkah for donkeys. "One donkey he knew of, Allah might
give two, but of this he was not sure." Heaven smiled upon us, for
a shout was heard half a mile away, and that shout echoed another
half-mile ; there was a running together of camels and buffaloes and
VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1929. -^

56^ Ttie Centlemaii s Magaztni.

sheep in a very far-oflf field, and a little cloud of dust upon the rail'
way line embankment told us that our ass had been caught and was
coming down the six-foot at its own pace to bear the " Khawaja " to
Meydoum.

We saddled up, and the donkey's master tapping the patient
creature on the nose, for bridles are an unknown quantity in the
Meydoum donkey- world, we went back up the highway — the rail-
way line, for a quarter of a mile. We then turned into the pleasant
green fields of beans and clover, and while the larks sang, and the
paddy-birds strutted, and the kites flew high, we passed towards the
sunset and the mighty memorial tomb of Senefru.

Away to our right, as we rode over the rich plain towards the
barren desert mounds, was seen the little palm-girt village of
Ghurzeh ; on our left, to the south, like barren islands in a sea of
greener}', appeared the villages of Soft, Kafr Soft, and Haram
or Haram Soft, whilst between Kafr Soft and Haram Soft was
visible the tiny village that was the centre of the great religious
world of the fourth dynasty in this place— the Bull-Town, "Mi
Tum " — Meydoum of to-day.

It was good to hear how the old names had clung to these villages
No one would have thought, from looking upon that little village nearest
the desert, by which our path presently took us, that there had once
stood close by, a pyramid ; but as late as thirty years ago the remains
of a pyramid were visible there, and the present village is built out
of the mud bricks that the old pyramid-builders made.

We wind in and out, now west, now south, for the lands are
divided out in squares, and we go along the edges of the allotments.
Whole families are squatting by their yellow-faced, lop-eared sheep^
or their long-eared goats or grunting buffaloes. Here a tiny tot of a
child watches a tethered camel, there a little girl carefully collects
into palm basket the manurial products of the day of cattle-feeding
to take home with her flock in the evening. A slinger crouches like
a black ghoul — for he has drawn the head-shawl over his head — upon
his rough clod hillock, and in the fields men are busy with hoe or
glcbe-hatchet and creaky " shadoofs." The land of Senefru has no
rest, and since the King of Truth and Goodness entered his tomb
until this day, men plough and break the glebe and lift the shadoof
bucket, and sling the stone, and take at mom the cattle to the fields,
watch ihem through the day with greater care than they give to their
children, and bring them back at eventide.

Now, while the hoopoe calls "hut-hut" from the distance, and
the black and white kingfisher — " sick-sak" — ^poises over the vil

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. 263

ond, we pass the remains of some old offering-stool or slab used in
temple raised by the fourth dynasty men, but now cast out by the
rayside. Round the muddy pond we go, wherein the ducks dabble
nd the brickmaker dabbles too, treading the slime into paste, filled
all with the bits of chopped straw that have sunk down from farm-
ard refuse of last year. This is the village of the pyramid we spoke
•f, and brickmakers, having exhausted the fourth-dynasty supply, must
read their own mud into brickage, and put it in their little square
rood moulds and leave it to the sun.

We have now reached the edge of the plain, yellow here from the
lower of the "kabbach" or ketlock, and here is a white-domed
heyk's tomb beside a fine old " atli " or juniper tree — beneath it rest
he bones of Sheyk Ali Nurr, peace to his ashes ; on now over the
raste we go southward towards the shining terraced pyramid.

Presentiy we are aware that the great brown grey mounds upon
>ur right and left have been trenched through, pits or wells are
opened out in the midst, and what seemed just wind-blown waves of
lesert sand show themselves to be carefully built mud-brick masses.
rVe are in the burying-ground of oldest Egypt, and these are the
* Mastabas " that extend from here to the foot of the pyramid and
)n beyond it, which day by day, under the careful exploration of Mr.
Flinders Petrie, are yielding up their secrets. Now we see a tiny
ent and rough reed hut, such as the wandering bedouin might use.
That is the palatial accommodation that the brave explorer is con-
cnted with. If you go into that tiny tent you will find an old pack-
ng-case with three rough shelves in it, a couple of cups, a plate, a
(poon, a paraffin stove, a box of biscuits and some potted-meat tins,
md opposite another packing case to serve as table and chair in one.
That is Mr. Petrie's dining and drawing room. If you enter the
ittle tomb close by, where once with much lamentation and many
rakes of offering entered those who mourned for Nefer Mat, you
inll see a rude camp bedstead. There, at the end of long days of
iigging, sleeps the explorer, and the stars can look in upon him and
he first sun visit him.

I brought no cakes of offering to the tomb— half a fowl and a
)il of bread and a couple of oranges was my supply — but I found it
dl too much ; for my friend the explorer opened his tin and set his
amp a-going and gave me of his store a supper fit for Senefru ;
cnt me his own pocket-knife to eat my feast, shared his single tea-
spoon with me, and finished piling on his desert courtesy with a bit
)f crystallised ginger such as Senefru and Nefer Mit never knew. I
^roflfered my English bread in return : he haughtily refused it. What

T 2

564 The Genttematis Magazine,

was English bread to a man who can get the Arab bread thrice a
week from Wasta ? I suggested that fowl recently killed and cooked
would be a pleasant addition to his supper. He fiercely refused to
believe me. Had he not potted pilchards in abundance, and did
not Moir supply him with English or Australian lambs' tongues in
tins that were better than all the fowls of the Nile valley ? But I
anticipate.

It was enough for me to know that that tiny tent and hut of reeds
and tomb-chamber was the home of the "Khawaja," and to my
question where was he, I was told " Gedam foh fil Haram,'' which
being interpreted meant " On there beyond, near the Pyramid."

I went across the heaving billows of sand and flint, and fotind
him taking some trigonometrical measures which needed that he
should not be interrupted till the sunlight failed him, and climbing up
over the dc^bris at the base of the pyramid I wondered at its mass
and its marvellous colour.

The hawks, beloved of Senefru, Rahotep, and Nefer Mit in the
days of auld lang syne, flew out and in to their high-built eyries,
and clamoured as they flew. I looked up the eastern face of the
masonry, and noted that, for a third of its height, it had upon it a
rough facing of stone, then came tooled and smoothed orange-coloured
limestone, and then a small band of rough-hewn stone. The meaning
of this rough masonry, Mr. Petrie showed me after, was, that two
outer skins of casing, now destroyed, went upwards, the one to the
top of the rough masonry, the other to the top of the second band.
What labour had been lost here ! All that careful tooling of the
intermediate band of gloriously golden masonry had been covered
over by one of those outer casings. All honour to the men for
this waste of time, who, pending the putting on of the skin, dared to
face this wall so beautifully with their facing tools.

At my feet as I stood I noticed the solid platform blocks of lime-
stone masonry, all with a slight inward cant, whereon one of these
outer skins had been built. Going a little farther to the north side,
one could note the platform in situ wherefrom had sprung the second
outer casing, and at the opening of the pyramid vault, which was
discovered by Mariette Bey, the great trench his workmen made in
the debris beneath was still to be seen. One noticed, as one bent
forward into the opening and placed one's eyes against the lintel and
gazed upward, how, contrary to expectation, these two outermost
casings would run at an angle of 75 degrees clear to the top, beyond
and outside of the present terrace of masonry above, and give to
the six-stepped pyramid its possibility of pure pyramidal fonn.

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. 265

I do not think I could ever have realised how these pyramid-builders
built core within core, and, filling up the terrace angles, got complete
pyramid form, had I not stood upon the outer casings of this pyramid of
Senefru. I am sure I could not have got an idea of the actual mass
of ^building required, had I not realised on the spot that all that vast
mound, wherefrom the three or four central cores of the pyramid that
still remain intact arise, was nothing in the world but the remnants
of the two outer skins and the debris occasioned by the stripping off
of the upper portions of these skins, and learned that it was con-
jectured that within the last three generations no less than 100,000 tons
of material had been carted away, and that still the work of destruction
andtcarting away goes on. No " raphir " or local guardian has been
appointed. Is ;£\2 a year too large a sum to expect of the Museum
authorities towards the care of this interesting fourth-dynasty Necro-
polis ? It looks like it.

And now the great sun was collecting its fire into its bosom, and
lighting up the bastion wall of Senefru till it burnt pure gold. White
as milk is the limestone which Senefru's builders originally piled.
Yellow as orange is the limestone to-day that has been visited by
more than 5,000 years of rolling suns.

Looking upward to the vault of heaven, one noted that the deep
orange accentuated the blue of the airy pavilion above, and I thought
of Faber's lines " On the Larch in Autumn," whose tresses are much
in colour as this pyramid wall is to-day : —

There is no tree in all the forest thro'.

That brings the sky so near and makes it seem so blue.

At any rate, I never saw Egyptian sky so blue as when I looked at
sunset time up the golden wall of Senefru's pyramid.

It was plain that Mr. Petrie had been digging for the peribolos
wall, and had found trace of it on all four sides of the pyramid base.
Going round the pyramid, on the debris of the outer casing, towards
the east, one turned one's back upon the billowy purple desert, and
faced as fine a view as can be gained in Egypt, a view certainly un-
equalled as far as a Nile valley scene goes, for though the view from
the pyramid of Chufu at Ghizeh is wonderful, one is always
oppressed by the somewhat keen sense of the neighbourhood of
mighty neighbours. Here one looked out from the waist-belt of a
solitary giant of stone, and nothing dwarfed the details of the scene.

The green plain with purple streaks of yellow stretched bound-
lessly north and south, licked the desert to the west with its green
tongue, flooded with tender flood of cornland a kind of inland bay

266 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

that the great god Nile had made to the north beyond the tomb of
Sheyk Ali Nurr.

The hills Jebel es Sherki, the hills to the far east across the valley,
were white and grey, and seemed lower than the hill plateau of
Mokattam and Turra ; the Nile was unseen, but belts of palm told us
where he hid his silver head. All along at the foot of the desert
plateau whereon Senefru built his mighty tomb, ran the tiny strip of
silver canal that gave water to the thirsty villagers and parching fields.
By its banks were going homeward at the sunset flocks and herds, the
whole air was filled with the sound of labourers and laughing lads
and lasses who were picking up heart now that rest and food-time
were so near ; and mason bees who had plastered the whole side
of the eastern face of the masonry above us, added their sound
of pleasant murmuring.

The shadow of the pyramid, a cone-pointed sloping tower of
blackness, moved and stretched itself upon the vivid green. There
was no other shadow in that land. So full of peace and rest was the
scene that the men who had been long dead came out of their tombs
and Mastabas north and cast, and I seemed to see them passing up
the hollow dromos^ between the white walls Mr. Petrie has uncovered,
from the green plain towards the peribolos wall, or passing in from
the north and south to the side entrance of that avenue he has laid
bare, and so up towards the little temple of offerings for the manes
of King Senefru, and for the rest in Amenti of the founder of the
fourth dynasty.

I was very anxious to be of their ghostly company, so I went
down the shales of limestone debris to where the workmen still plied
mattock and palm-basket among the silver smoke of the rubbish they
were moving. For Mr. Petrie had determined to dig a way through
the rubbish to the eastern entrance gate of the temple, and let as
much light within the temple chamber as should serve for himself
and his photographic apparatus to put on record the graffiti of certain
scribes who had passed into that chamber in the days when Thotmes
III., and Amenophis III., and Seti I. were kings.

Mr. Petrie had finished his labours for the day, and joined me ;
and not without a proper enthusiasm and a just pride did he show
me his discovery of the oldest piece of dated masonry in Egypt, the
most complete archaic temple in the land of Nile.

For here, untouched by the hand of the spoiler, was a small
temple completely roofed in, with little forecourt, say roughly twelve
feet square, reaching to the base of the untouched outer casing of
Senefru's pyramid. On either side the doorway two milk-white

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. 267

monoliths, chipped at the base, but in situ and otherwise intact,
raised their shining height. These stelae stood about eight feet
high, by two and a half by one foot broad, and between them lay a stone
of offerings on which men had poured oil and left the fruits of the earth
in memory of their king, " The Maker of Good," who, ages after he
was laid in his sarcophagus, was looked upon as God.

I passed from the sanctuary into the chamber through the low
door, and can but describe it as a long box, twenty feet long, by about
six or eight feet broad, and five feet high, somewhat like the four
lateral chambers in the inner court of the granite temple near the
south-west side of the Sphinx at Gizeh. The chamber was built of
large blocks of limestone carefully fitted, and showing in parts that it
was still in process of being dressed down or tooled when the
craftsmen left it ; it sparkled with diamonds of salt that had worked
their way out to the surface. Passing thence by a low doorway at
the north end, one found a similar hollow box of limestone laid
parallel with the first chamber, and at the farther or south end, and
on the east side, a passage leading eastward — this, in fact, the main
entrance passage long blocked up, which Mr. Petrie's workmen were
still busy in clearing. And here, opposite this passage, and in the
panage itself, was centred the interest of the find. For about
fourteen graffiti^ some in the passage, some on the western wall of the
entrance chamber, or so much of it as could be lighted from the
entrance passage, were seen as fresh as when penned. In the
passage was one written by a scribe in the reign of Thotmes III. On
the chamber wall were others written when Amenophis III. and
Seti I. were on the throne.

One especially of the latter was of interest, for there was a long
inscription of fourteen or sixteen lines of close hieratics, whose date-
sign had been inscribed in red, and therein the word Senefru occurred
in three places, and so a vexed question was settled. This temple
was reared before the pyramid that in Seti I.'s time, at any rate,
was looked upon as the Pyramid of Senefru. Senefru was the royal
genius of this place as long ago as 1366 years b.c.

Two little drawings, roughly scrawled, adorned the wall — one of
them a disk of the sun— looking, save the mark, like a watch face,
and beside it a seated Osiris figure ; the other picture was an image
of Horus as a hawk, whose legs were long enough to have done duty
for a heron, beneath it a graffiti of the time of Amenophis III.

It looked very much as if these scribbling scribes came, as I had
come, on errand of curiosity, and had not been able to penetrate to
the second chamber or to the sanctuary between the statues. Ther«,

268 The Gentleman^ s Magazine.

perhaps, darkness reigned in their time, there debris had perhaps
fallen, and, luckily for our century and our eyes, had covered in the
shrine, where men of Senefru's day had worshipped with their faces
toward the base of the sloping pyramid. Surely the narrow area of
the inscriptions in the first chamber looks, as Mr. Petrie suggested,
much as if at the doorway light alone could penetrate the first temple
chamber, and thither only came the scrawlers of hieratics.

The light was fading fast, but Mr. Petrie showed me how he had
first come upon the outer wall of the sanctuary by driving a trench
through the debris from the south, and he also pointed out how, after
the sanctuary had been almost cleared, a strong wind rose — I do not
think the gods were angry — and cast down tons of the chip debris
from above, and gave him all his work to be done again ; but drawings
have now been made.

For the sake of travellers one could wish that a "raphir," or local
guardian, could be appointed at a pound a month, to see that this
archaic temple was not injured and that it was kept clean and clear
of rubbish ; yet I am not sure but that, perhaps, the sealing up of
Mr. Petrie's important find by the chip debris from above, will not
be the safest way of preserving that which it has so well preserved
all down the centuries until to-day. And here above our heads, as we
talked, hung the chip-sealing ; a single gun-shot fired, and all would
be reburied again.

Home we went to the tiny tent and the cup of tea — never tea,
though milk was not, tasted better — and the stars were over us as we
talked of the work done during the last months in this ancient necro-
polis.

To the east of the pyramid Mr. Petrie had investigated two
Mastabas. The outer casing of both had been unbumt Nile-mud
bricks. I measured one, and found it to be 14 x 7 x 6 inches, large bricks
weil-kneadcd with chopped straw, and tough even to-day. The inside
of one Mastabawas completely filled with chips from the debris of the
pyramid-builders, the core of the other was filled with remnants of pot-
tery from the offerings that had come to the shrineofthe pyramid temple:
But other discoveiies of interest had been made at the former
Mastaba, for at the angles Mr. Petrie had laid bare angle walls upon
which the builders had drawn, in black and red, the lines of in-
clination or angle at which they intended the Mastaba builders to
build their Mastaba's slope. I had a good look at these angle walls
early on the following morning, and was surprised at the brilliancy
of the colouring of the broad red vertical line upon the white*
comgntc4 angle wall, and noted how ^cci^rat^ tb^s^ old workmen

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. 269

were even in the matter of line drawing. They had with a fine red
double line first drawn their red vertical eye-guide, and had then
filled in the middle space of it so as to preserve in its absolute
integrity and accuracy of outline the standard upright for their line
of sight. It was not without interest to note the horizontal cross-
lines which had been drawn at intervals all the way up from the ground
to the top of the angle wall at the distance of single cubit spaces apart,
and that underneath, at one point, for the guidance of the founda-
tion-builders, had been written in red letters the note, " Under is the
good, five cubits," which meant that the rock-bed was five cubits
beneath this mark on the wall.

One sometimes talks of the want of care in foundations that the
old Nile-valley builders were guilty of, but I confess that, after seeing
this note, and observing the deep trench from which the outer lining
Mastaba wall sprang, and after looking carefully at the depth of
masonry upon which the columns of Amenophis rest in the Temple
of Luxor, one's idea of their want of knowledge of foundations has
been considerably altered, and, when one observes how cleverly the
old architects used their red paint in the*" construction " line, their
black for the " working " line, so that the eye might never hesitate
or become confused, one asks even if our own architects are wiser
than the men of old.

That evening talk in the tent was full of interest ; one learned
much, but the best thing I learned was the kind of friendly relation
existing between Mr. Petrie and his workmen. I had seen them
labouring with their palm baskets and adze-shaped hoes till after
sundown. Mr. Petrie had been late in taking observation, and so
had not given his usual signal of a whistle to the men to cease work,
but they did not cease, and I soon found that there had been established,
such relations between employed and employer as made the day's
work not slaves' labour, but the work of men who wish to serve their
master in love to the uttermost. There was a fair at some Fayum
village near, and some of the men came up to the tent very
courteously to ask for their wages and for leave to go. It was a
sight worth seeing, the patient courtesy with which they squatted, one
hand on the tent-pole, and listened to Mr. Petrie's recital of the
various amounts due for the various metres' work on the different
days. They kept nodding and saying " Eyua," as the various details
were given ; they were serving a just man, and they knew that each
evening their work had been measured and recorded. Sometimes
an extra piastre or two had been agreed upon for this or that extra
work or extra care, and the men smiled and mentioned it, and took

270 The Gent li^ man's Magazine^

their wage, saying at what hour they intended to return, but all with
such an air of confidence and pleasure in their talk as made one feel
that the curse of Eg>'pt had been lifted, and that labour and joy had
supplanted the labour and curse of the old Kourbash days.

" Well, you see," said my friend, " that I first carefully pick my
men. I then get the fathers and the children to work together.
Each hand is soon found to be better fitted for one kind of work than
another, and I change the men's work till I find each man is in the
right place, and then the whole work goes on smoothly. I have no
* reis ' or intermediate man ; I go round each day to see the men at
their various posts, and instead of massing them together at one big
job, in which they would only get in one another's way, I tell them
off to the different points of exploration, and agree to pay by the
metre and thus discount idleness." I went back in thought to that
very different method of excavation I had seen at Luxor and Kamak,
and wished devoutly the Gizeh Museum authorities would take a leaf
out of Mr. Petrie's book. Here, at the Meydoum, men and master
were, it seemed, bound by a common tie of interest which seemed of
a really personal character. There, at Luxor and Kamak, a great
cursing and swearing bully in the form of a " reis," armed with a
kourbash, hustled the children with their palm baskets of mould from
pit to bank, lashing them mercilessly at times, and flicking his
elephant-hide whip as it would seem for [)ure cruelty's sake at the
thinly clad or half-naked bodies of the poor little girls and boys, who
were in the name of Science working like slaves through heat and
dust to bring back the colossi of Ramses the Great, or the temple
of his father Seti, from the grave of centuries.

It was a sight to make any Englishman's heart boil to see the
lash, in the hand of the burly bully at the Pylon of Luxor, curl with a
crack round the leg of a lad or naked ankle of a girl, with a heavy
palm basket on their heads, as they toiled up the steep bank, and
bring the poor creatures to their knees; but when I complained I was
told " Ma alesh," "It matters not." "Mafish kourbash, shoggalu
niafish," " No kourbash, no work." I have seen the men and boys
who are working pleasantly and cheerfully for Mr. Petrie at Meydoum,
and I unhesitatingly say that he gets twice as much of actual work
done in the time as the brute who drives his gang of slaves at Luxor
and Karnak, and I know from seeing them labour at early mom to the
late eventide v.ith what interest and pleasure, I was going to say with
what pride, they work for " Khawaja Engleese," the English gentle-
man. It was refreshing to sit there in the shadow of those vast
Mastaba mounds, at the building of which we had been brought up

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. 271

to believe the land had groaned and the lash had been lifted and the
sweat of the people toiling for its princes had been taken for nought,
and to see how now men laboured with the same tools, dressed in
the same way, having much the same simple wants to satisfy, and the
same homes to come from and return to at morn and eventide ; but
a light was in their faces and a smile upon their lips, for they toiled
for honest bread at honest price, and their master was a friend.

I say this because that evening I heard a boy's voice and saw a
boy's hand thrust through the tent, and noticed Mr. Petrie solemnly
cut a bit of soap in two and give the lad half, saying, " I find there's
nothing like soap for sore heads." Presently another voice piped in
the darkness, and the same knife now dived into a pot of ointment,
and spread some carefully on a sore place near the nose of the
applicant — a dust sore, for which this ointment was a palliative.

Presently, with a low salaam, a dusky man with a dark ache in
his dusky stomach applied for cure. The paraffin lamp was kindled.
A cup of coffee was made, and therein a spoonful of pepper stirred.
The poor fellow swallowed it with a gurgle and turned to go. " God
increase your goods exceedingly ! " (Ya Kattar Allah kherak.
Katall kherak ketir) was the word of thanks ; and the grateful ones
went back to their reed huts and their burnouses and their sandy
beds for the night.

^ I did not wonder that Mr. Petrie, the wise hakim, was beloved
of his workmen. Fancy a poor sick or wounded child coming to
the Luxor bully with the kourbash, for emollient or detergent !
What a change had come over the labourers' dream here under the
shadow of the Meydoum Pyramid ! And what a different estimate
of the qualities and character of the Egyptian Fellah was this that
we gained by converse with the explorer, from the ordinary guide-
book idea that prevails with Nile travellers ! A letter received
afterwards from Mr. Petrie is so confirmatory of what we saw and
felt, that I dare to print it.*

' ** With regard to the treatment of workers, you may say that I have never found
occasion to strike man or child that was in my pay during ten years' work. This
U not from any sentimental reason (for I heartily believe in the Kurbash as a penal
measure), but simply that no one is worth employing who needs punishing. My
only penalty is inexorable dismissal, without warning. Sometimes I take a
fellow back, where it was only a squabble between workers : but never if asked to
do so.

•* For three years now I have had no overseer, or head man ; there is no one
between me and the workers; and I much prefer it. All overseers expect to get
A heavy proportion of the wages, and do get it. I believe that of every £i^qoo
•pent on works, from ;f 200 to ;f 300 goes into the pockets of men who have not the
£untest nght to it. When the railway was lately made in the Fayum the wages

272 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

Next morning we were awake with the lark ; the great sun drove
his fleecy flocks from the plains of Nile to the plains of Heaven, and
the green carpet of the valley was already alive with the shouts " of
labourers going forth into the fields " below us as we gazed.

We paid a second visit to the pyramid and the archaic temple,
towards which we saw the workmen coming from the near village, and
streaming up the slope of debris to their toil, palm-baskets and hoe
over their shoulders. One man had broken his basket handle, and
I noticed with interest his fellow labourer produce from his bosom a
bit of palm fibre in the rough, and, in less time than it takes me to
write, sit down and twist it into rope, rolling it like tobacco twist
between his clever hands into four-stranded cord.

Thence we went to see the pits to the north side of the Mastabas,
where the angle walls before described had been uncovered. These
had contained burials of the twenty-second dynasty, which varied in
depth from 6 to 30 feet. It looked as if whole families had selected
the mud walls and inner lining of the Mastaba as a kind of quarry
wherein they could with ease excavate the narrow cells for their long
sleeping. The place was many-caverned, and looked, after Mr.
Petrie's work, like a warren of some gigantic earth-burrower. Here
a whole family had been content to burrow little cells 12 feet deep
side by side ; there, and apparently in some long anterior age that
the later buriers knew nothing of, men had sunk their deep wells
and lowered the heavy stone to close the side chamber at the bottom
of the well.

were enough, but the exactions of the reises were such that few men cared to take
the work for what they got. Hence it dragged on a long time for lack of enough
labour. Probably the engineers had no idea of the cause.

'* My workmen always form my natural guards and friends; and I have never
known them steal anything. On the contrary, they will often dispute an account
against their own interest, and if accidentally paid too much in error, they will
bring me back the money and go over it. Even when any visitor gives a boy a
piastre or two for any little service, they will generally come and tell me, as a
piece of news that they like to share with me. I mention this to show you what
terms I am on with them. Yet I get work done cheaper than anyone else does»
at two-thirds of the lowest rate of government contract. So it is not merely extra-
vagant pay that they look after. I have an excellent opinion of the Egyptian when
under authority ; but he cannot stand temptation, especially long continued ;
hence it is criminally wrong to throw temptations in their way, and I am very
careful to avoid doing so.

** I always pay the men for whatever they find just what I expect they would
get from a travelling dealer. So they have no temptation to conceal anythiug.

''If you can do anything toward abolishing this horrible, effete system of leav*
ing all the management in the hands of corrupt and overbearing rtisa^ it will be
a good work, \ belipve that vQry few natives are ^ to ^ercise authority. "

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. 273

Although as at Kom es Sultan, so here, it seemed the deeper he
dug the older were the burials, not one of the least remarkable
discoveries Mr. Petrie had made was this, that side by side with one
another, and apparently buried at the same age, there appeared to
be two different races of men, or at any rate men with two different
ideas about burial. In one grave will be found men laid out full
length, in another, with equal care, the bodies of men have been
doubled up in a crouching position, knees to chin ; but these last
have always most carefully been laid upon their left side, their heads
to the north and their faces to the east. As to the men laid out
full length, these were placed sometimes in rude coffins of wood,
fragments of which remained ; the coffins had been covered with
stucco. One mummy had been found modelled as it were in pitch,
the pitch, that is, not poured over and left in a formless mass, but
carefully worked so as to cover the limbs in normal human propor-
tion. No implement, so far as I learnt, had been discovered in any of
the graves, and such fragments of pottery as appeared, resembled the
rough little offering vases one finds in such numbers at Abu Roash.
I think the Abu Roash pots are, if anything, a trifle rougher in
make, but they are of similar shape to the tiny third- or fourth-
dynasty vases discovered by Mr. Petrie at the Meydoum.

I crossed to examine the Mastabas and tombs to the north-west,
and stopped, of course, before the door of J^efer Mat's tomb, a tomb
which, since the explorer took up his quarters here, might be spoken

of as

A tomb contrived a double debt to pay,

A bed by night, a drawing-room by day.

For here Mr. Petrie was able, in the little guest chamber that Nefer
Mit planned for the mourning of his friends and relatives, to finish
the plans and put the colours to the beautiful drawings he has made
of the sculpture of the adjacent tombs.

The first thing that struck one was that the Mastaba Nefer Mat
had reared for his memorial, and for the well chamber wherein h
body rested, had apparently been finished, decorated with false door-
ways, and coated with limewash or cement, just as the inner wall of
that ancient Egyptian fortress near Abydos had been coated, and
that then an outside or masking wall had been built entirely to cover
the original Mastaba. The limestone tomb-chamber seemed to
have been excavated in the original Mastaba, and the outer lining
or casing may perhaps have entirely covered and concealed the
entrance to the tomb-chamber at some later time. Be that as it
may, I was face to face with the open tomb-chamber of a nobleman

274 ^'^^ Gentleman's Magazine.

who was probably of the household of the king who built what
Mariette Bey called " the most carefully constructed and best built
pyramid in Egypt," and I naturally expected to find that he carried
on the traditions of the great Senefru, and Erpah Nefer Mat did
not disappoint one. For here upon the outer wall, at the left hand
of the doorway, the resolute-looking man stood — square-headed,
features delicate, small beard, his hair curled after the manner of
the day, unless it was a short-frizzed wig he wore ; and not content
with the beautiful sculpturing in low relief, so characteristic of that
dawn of Egyptian art history, this man, who lived before the Gizeh
pyramids, had determined to have his image on his doorway of
brilliant mosaic, and there are the pit marks in the stone for the
colour to this day, some of them still holding the red cement or
enamel which was used for the decoration of his waist-cloth
3750 years B.C.

I had, under Mr. Grebaut's guidance, seen on a low wall flanking
the western side of the inner part of Amenophis' Hall of columns at
Luxor, rude pit marks in the stone which had doubtless been filled
once with a like enamel, but then there the pit marking was rougher,
and this enamelling that I was gazing at was more than 2,000 years
earlier in date. But it was not only the manner of enamelling that
interested one in Nefer Mat's tomb : the beauty of the stone sculpture
was for clear cutting wonderful. Nefer Mat had been father of three
sons ; there they were upon the left hand door soffit — the eldest a
man, the youngest a child. He had had a beloved wife, the Lady
Atot ; she is sculptured on the wall to the right. He had been a great
farmer, and each farm, mindful of the dead master, had sent a servant
with offerings to his tomb ; amongst them was seen the name of
Mitum, the Bull-town, so that one could turn one's head and
gaze upon the very fields that knew the lordship of Nefer Mit in the
time of the third or fourth dynasty, for there in the plain below was
to be seen the brown mud cluster of huts upon its mound that still
kept its village name of Bull-town or Meydoum.

And Nefer Mat had been a lover of sport in the days of long ago,
for here, unhooded on their several perches, immediately above the
doorway, sat, as they had sat in stone miniature for more than 5,500
years, the four favourite hawks of Erpah Nefer M&t. He had died,
one might suppose, or at any rate had prepared his tomb with thoughts
of death before him, while still in the full vigour of his active out-door
life; and he had had a wife who must have shared his love of field sports,
for on the fa9ade of the Lady Atot's tomb, about 50 feet to the
north, men are represented as spreading a large net for wild fowl

A Day at the Meydoum Pyramid. ^275

while three persons, perhaps the three sons who are sculptured on
Nefer Mat's tomb, bring the fowl they have captured to the great
hunter's dame.

I did not see the Lady Atot's tomb-chamber. The Arabs had so
ruthlessly cut it about, that Mr. Petrie had very properly filled it with
sand : but I gazed reverently in the Gizeh Museum at the marvellous
fresco of geese that Mariette brought from the interior of Lady Atot's
tomb-chamber, with the kind of wonder that one gazes at the earliest
picture of the kind in the world ; and as I gazed, I felt that Lady
Atot must not only have been as great a lover of the fowls of the farm
as she was with her husband a lover of field-sport, but that she must
have had an eye for natural history that would not allow of the draw-
ing and colouring of a single false feather by the artist she employed
for her tomb chamber's decoration.

Her artist was for all purposes of finish a Japanese. I turned to
leave Nefer Mit's tomb, but not without a wonder at the way in
which the great man had determined to tell after ages, that in the
time when Senefru was king, men could handle stone in a way tha
would severely tax all our mechanical appliances of to-day. He had
chosen that his tomb-chamber should be roofed with large slabs of
limestone. The nne exposed to view measured roughly 20 feet in
length, 8 feet in breadth, and was 3 feet thick, and weighed probably
42 tons. But what was a weight of 42 tons for a roofing-stone in the
days of the third dynasty ?

We went up over the back of the Mastaba, and visited two Mas.
taba pits that Mr. Petrie had uncovered, thence to a Mastaba farther
to the north, and intermediate between the Mastaba of Nefer Mat
and Ra Hotep of Gizeh Museum fame. Everyone who visited Bulak,
or who now visits Gizeh Museum, will remember those two almost
life-size seated statues of limestone, spoken of as the oldest portrait-
statues in stone that exist in Egypt, or, for the matter of that, in the
world.

Ra Hotep, with his right hand on his breast, his left hand on his
knee, sits naked but for his waist-cloth, bare-headed, brown of skin,
with a single jewel round his neck, side by side with his wife, the
royal Lady Nefcrt. She, fair of skin and delicately clad in fine white
linen garment, sits with folded arms. Upon her head a dainty circlet
of riband, a necklace of eight bands, the lower one with large pear-
shap>ed stones, her hair frizzed into a fine wig, and her feet bare. No
one, who has once seen Ra Hotep and his wife Nefert, forgets the
liquid, limpid, life-like eyes, eyes of quartz and rock crystal upon a
background of silver plate to give light ; and here I stood at the pit

^j6 ThB Gentlentan's Magazine.

mouth, 30 feet in depth, down which had been lowered, to their rest
in the brown mud-brick Mastaba, the bodies of Ra Hotep — son of
Senefru, as some say — and his princess-wife Nefert.

The great stone that sealed the tomb had been let down into its
place by means of ropes, coiled eighty times round its massy bulk.
The rope had perished, but the impression of the twisted palm-fibre
strands was still fresh when Mr. Petrie opened the pit. No mummy of
Ra Hotep was found, but men of Mr. Petrie's stamp are discouraged by
nothing, not even when, as in the case of the neighbouring Mastaba-
well of Ra Nefer, he finds that others have burglariously entered the
tomb from below, and long ago burrowed upward into the chamber he
with such arduous work has just worked his way down to. But it is not
only by burglars of old time that the explorer in Senefru's necropolis
to-day may be baffled, for sometimes such an untoward event happens,
as occurred in the opening of a Mastaba pit rather farther to the
north than the one of Ra Hotep. There, just as the workmen had
finished clearing out a tomb-well, and were ready to descend to the
tomb-chamber, a large black snake was seen to glide from the light
and disappear into the darkness, and, of course, till that snake was
scotched and killed — a matter of no little difficulty — no one would
venture down to prosecute the work of enquiry.

But returning from the top of the Mastaba one naturally wished
to see the tomb-chamber, or shrine itself, from which in January of
1872 Mariette Bey removed the two oldest portrait statues in the
world to which a date can be assigned. And, thanks to Mr. Petrie's
work, one could see how a little forecourt, with long low wing walls
and two white limestone pillars or stelae, stood before the entrance
to the chamber ; passing through this little forecourt, and entering
the painted and sculptured room, one noted at once the com-
parative freshness of the colours, and the hieroglyphs that stood
out in exquisite relief ; such hieroglyphs, so cleanly carved, I have
nowhere seen in Egypt.

The little room, or anteroom, that we entered, spread itself
out into two wings, right and left, and between these was a recess or
shrine. The figures in the Gizeh Museum originally stood in front
of this recess. Ra Hotep is sculptured on the left wall with his
long staff in hand, his three sons beside him. His foot is firmly
set down, and one observed an exquisite bit of sculptor's accuracy,
in the way in which the fold or crinkle of the flesh between the foot
and the big toe was expressed.

The Lady Nefert is seen long-haired, with a lily in the fillet, and

I holds one in her hand also ; but I forgot all about Ra Hotep

A Day at the Meydonnt Pyramid. 277

and his Lady Nefert, in the children whose pictures and names were
given on the jambs of the little innermost recess : Jeddah, Atori,
and Nefer Ra, the brothers ; and Neferab, Settet, and Mest, the
sisters.

How delightful it was to think of that happy family life of old,
when the father who called one daughter to his side always spoke of
her as " Sweetheart," and Sweetheart, if she talked with her sister,
always named her ** The Beloved One."

In the upper registers of the side wings were seen sculptured the
oryx, oxen, ibex ; and in the four lowfer registers of the right-hand
wing, great Ra Hotep's seal-bearer, butcher, cup-bearer, and five
servants bringing offerings were portrayed. The vases of honey
were covered with lids and sealed down tightly, and beautiful in
shape were the jars seen to be \ one as delicate as a Greek vase,
another evidently hewn out of stone. I suppose they worked with
diamond-drills, and cut the diorite with corundum into whatever
shape it pleased them, when Senefru was king, and Ra Hotep stood
as a prince among the people.

In the opposite, or left-hand, wing of the chamber representatives
from twelve farms, men and women, brought offerings ; and that
Ra Hotep encouraged handicrafts and cared for the life of the
country gentleman was evident from the fact that here, in his tomb-
chamber, were seen men working with adze and wedges shaping out
wood, boat-builders were busy, fishermen fished with nets that had
floats and sinkers, and a couj^le of men staggered under the weight
of a fish just caught as big as a John Doree. Ploughing was going
forward, herdsmen drove the calf afield, and a man was seen
coaxing a bull along.

But it was the bird life of Ra Hotep*s time that charmed me.
The great man's three hawks were there, but these were of small
account when compared with the interest of the wagtails drawn to
the life. For the wagtail befriends every Nile traveller to-day,
lights on the deck of his dahabeyah, comes into his cabin, and as
they are, in colour and dress, to-day, so I gather from Ra Hotep's
tomb they were, in the days of Senefru ; they have not changed a single
feather of their dress, and they are the beloved bird of the family of
those who dwell beside the Nile to-day as they were then. It is a
long time that separates us from that date. The Pyramids of
Gizeh had not been built when these wagtails were sculptured and
painted. Men used stone knives and horn-stone hatchets then —
witness the sculptures on the walls— and yet, as the little figure of
the fluted Doric pillar tells me, there, on the tomb chamber wall,
VOL ccLxxi. NO. 1929. U

2jS The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

at that time of day they hewed out pillars that were the forefathers of
the glory of the Parthenon, and knew how to work in high relief
their mural sculptures and hieroglyphics in style scarcely surpassed
when Hatasu was Queen ; while as to pigment, here was colour, if
anywhere, that had stood the test of time.

Yes, and it has had to stand crueller tests of late years. For an
English " Khawaja " opened this tomb-chamber for his pleasure
some five years ago, and heartlessly left it open. He had bis look,
he was satisfied, and cared not one jot or tittle what should happen
to this, the most remarkable monument of the third or fourth
dynasty handicraft in the necropolis of Meydoum. He did not
even let the Egyptian authorities know of his visit, or it b possible
that the Museum directors would have at once prevented haim by
filling the chamber, as Mariette had filled it, with the conserving
sand. He came, he saw, he went away, and after him came Arab%
who saw, but did not go away, and the result is that the splendour
of Ra Hotep's tomb-chamber is a thing of the past ; and as I left
the great brown Mastaba heaps, and, turning my back upon the
glorious Pyramid of Senefru, passed away among the green com
and blossoming beanfields towards the Nile, I did not think kindlj
of that English *' Khawaja,'' and thanked Heaven that the exploratioo
of the Necropolis of Senefru was in such tender, careful hands is
those of the patient worker it had been my very good hick to find
at work therein.

H. D. RAWNSLEV.

279

JOHN AUBREY OF IVILTS.

1626-1697.

BIOGRAPHICAL Dictionaries tell us that John Aubrey, of
. Kington, in the county of Wilts, was a learned and famous
antiquary, an intimate friend of Milton, a friend and associate of
Antony Wood, and of many other equally notable men of his time ;
and a Fellow of that Royal Society which he helped to found. He
also left behind him in the Ashmolean Museum a number of curious
and weighty manuscripts (mostly incomplete), including a History of
Wilts, a Perambulation of Surrey, an Apparatus for the lives of (sic)
certain Mathematical Writers, a Life of Hobbes, and two vols.
of Letters and Miscellaneous Papers, &c., &c. But the Dictionaries
fail to tell us that he was about as credulous an old goose as one
could hope to find out of Gotham — an inveterate, good-natured
gossip, as fond of a cock and bull story, and as certain to adorn it
{nihil tetigit quod non omavit) as the very latest editor of Mr. Joseph
Miller or Bamum. He was ready to believe the ipse dixit of any one
mortal man, woman, or child, that fell in his way, on any subject
under the sun, from a cure for the toothache to a discourse with the
Angel Gabriel.

All this, however, one has to find out for oneself, and the task is
an easy and amusing one, by simply wandering pleasantly through
one of his most characteristic books just now republished, and
rightly named " Miscellanies upon various subjects, by John Aubrey,
F.R.S." (Fifth Edition). From the brief dedication to the R.
Honble. James Earl of Abingdon, down to the last word of the
Appendix, it is the same quaint, credulous old book-worm that talks
to us — as he only could talk — revealing himself in every page. The
book comprises only 220 small octavo pages, and may be divided
into about sixteen sections relating to portents, dreams, and
apparitions, and other such topics — "the matter of the whole
collection being," as the author tells us, beyond human reach ; " we
being miserably in the dark as to the economy of the invisible world,

U2

28o The Gentlematis Magazine.

which knows what we do, or incline to, and works upon our passions,
and sometimes is so kind as to afford us a glimpse of its praescience."

The dedication bears date 1696 ; but a year before death came
to put an end to a life, the latter part of which was clouded with
misfortune, and its final words are, May the Blessed Angels, my Lardy
be your careful guardians ; such are the prayers of yr, obliged, humble
servant, John Aubrey,

The materials for a sketch of his life are but brief and scanty, and
space will permit of only an outline before dipping into the daintily
curious Miscellanies, which he regards as of such rare and spiritual
import. John Aubrey, eldest son of R. Aubrey, Esq., of Hereford-
shire, and Broad Chalk, Wilts, was born at Kington, Wilts, March
12, 1626 (the exact hour and minute being duly noted in a
mysteriously potent horoscope at p. 221), and, "being very weak
and like to dye," was baptized that very day. He lived to be three-
score and ten ; but as far as can be gathered from his own special
account of the ** Accidents of John Aubrey " seems to have had far
more than a fair share of mortal ailments and troubles, as we shall
presently see. After a short stay at the Grammar School of Yatton
Keynel, he remained for some years under the strict tuition of a Mr.
Latimer, the preceptor of Hobbes, and at the early age of sixteen
was entered a Gentleman Commoner of Trin. Coll. Oxon., where he
applied himself closely to study. Even then he had a taste for
English history and antiquities, and dabblings in science ; but with
what result — or whether he even took his degree — seems doubtful.
Had he ever become a B.A., John Aubrey is the very man never
to have omitted that appendage to his name in print, and of this
there is no trace. Be this as it may, after four years at Oxford,
where he made the acquaintance of Antony Wood, of Merton, in
April, 1646, his name appears as a student of the Middle Temple,
which pleasant retreat, however, he was shortly after forced to leave
by the sudden death of his father, which made him heir to sundry
estates in Wiltshire, Surrey, Herefordshire, and Monmouth, as well
as to a string of law-suits that worried him to the end of his life.
These law -suits, in fact, seem to have occupied a large portion of his
remaining fifty years, and to have been a constant source of loss and
misfortune, as well as trial of mind and body ; though, in the midst
of all his troubles, he managed to find time for his favourite studies —
his books on Divination, Magick, and the Invisible Powers, and his
speculations on the unseen world. He kept up an intimacy with some
of the men of science and letters of his day, and to the very last
corresponded in his own credulous fashion with a chosen few, among

John Aubrey of Wilts. 281

whom it would have been a treasure trove to find that shrewd gossip
and prince of diarists, Samuel Pepys, or that loftier and more genial
philosopher, Sir Thomas Browne, of Norwich. The three might
easily have met, and a single chapter of dialogue between such a
trio would have been of far greater worth than a ton of Miscellanies.
As to the actual details of his life, nearly all we know of them is
founded on his own curious memoranda, which he calls ** Accidents
of John Aubrey," and from which we will cull a few flowers in his
own characteristic words, from his birth in 1625 to his narrow
escape from the knife of a drunken reveller in 1680. They fill but
a few pages, and begin thus :

Born at Easton Piers, Kington, March 1626, about sun- rising ; very weak and
like to dye, and ergo Xtened that morning. Ague shortly after I was born.

Again in 1629 he had grievous ague ; then, for the next few years
sickness, vomiting, a coronall sutor of his head, a violent fever, the
most dangerous he ever had ; in 1640 "the measills — but that was
nothing," though the Monday after Easter week his uncle*s nag ranne
away with him and gave him a dangerous fall. All these calamities,
however, were survived ; and we safely reach :

1642. May 3, entered at Trinity Coll. Oxon.

1643. April and May, the small pox at Oxon ; after, left that ingenious
place, and for 3 years a sad life in the country.

1646. April. Admitted of the M. Temple, but my father's sickness and
business never permitted me to make any settlement to my study.

So passed away some five years of which little is known, and in which
perchance nothing unusual occurred, though fate had in store for him
another deadly wound, by an arrow as yet avoided, from that " keene
archer, Dan Cupid, of whom," saith wise old Burton, "may a man be
well afraide," for his next entry is :

1 65 1, About the 16 or 18 of April, I saw that ** incomparable good conditioned
gentlewoman," Mrs. M. Wiseman, with whom at first sight I was deep in love.

How his love prospered there is not a word to tell ; but, in spite of a
fall at Epsom, where he " brake one of his ribbes," and was afraid of
an " apostumation," things went fairly well with him till September
1655 or

1656. Septr. when I began my chargeable and tedious lawe suite on the entaile
in Monmouthshire; which yeare and ihe last was a strange yeare to m^j several
love and lawe suites !

Whatever John Aubrey may have studied at Oxford, he certainly
had not mastered the difficult art of spelling, though, lik^ Mr. Samuel

282 Tlie Gentleman's Magazine.

Pepys, he seems to blunder into mistakes by downright carelessness ;
and that, too, in the case of words which on the very next page he
spells quite correctly. If, however, he sins in this respect, and will
talk of " ribbes," "blew" for blue (as blew corants), "pultess" for
poultice, or a " grate plaister," he now and then borrows or invents a
new word, which for oddity of look and mystery of meaning is not
always to be matched, e.g,, " Apostumation," " Metoposcopic,"
" Kim Kara." But this by the way ; so, to return.

In 1656, we come suddenly to a mysterious entry in this form :
" December 9 Morb." ; and directly after to November 27, Obiit
Dna Kasker Ryves with whom I was to marry, to my great losse !
Two years later he was like to break his neck in Ely Minster (hoWj
he saith not), and then, still more strangely, in the next line, we come
to '^ the next day riding there (in the Minster ?) my horse tumbled
over and over, and yet, thank God, no hurt." 1659.

1 66 1. Sold my estate in Hereford ; 1662, had the honour to be elected Fellow
oftheR.S.

1664. A terrible fit of the spleen and piles at Orleans. Munday (jiV) after
Xmas was in danger to be spoiled by my horse, and same day iasio in Ustictth^
like to have been fatal. O, R, Wiseman quod I believe 1664.

As to which final, mysterious clause, if there be some doubt as to its
exact meaning, there can be none at all about the entry in the next
line, touching his first step in a new love affair. He had escaped in
safety from the charms of one fair lady, who bore the terrible name
of "Kasker Ryves," but only to fall, a few years later, into the snares
of another, equally fair, but as it seems, far more perilous, if we may
judge by his one brief ejaculation of misfortune, whether he married
her or not. All he says is :

1665. November i. I made my first address (in tn evU hour), to Joane

Sumner.

Whether Joane played him false, jilted, scorned, dallied with, or
married him, it is now impossible to say. In any case — whether his
affliction was in the bonds of courtship or the sharper torments of
matrimony — ^his note of the fact would probably have been the same^
it being the very nature of the man to chronicle his own doings or
sufferings in this brief, snappish fashion — though we may not endorse
the bitter words of his quondam friend, Antony Wood, who says of
him, "a magotie-headed, shiftless person, and sometimes little better
than crazed."

Evil days were clearly in store for him, as his own brief words
prove; for, in 1666, ''all his business and affairs ran 'Kim Kam,'
nothing tooke effect, as if I hgd been under an ill tongue * (peilia|ia

yohn Aubrey of Wilts. 283

the tongue of Joan). " Treacheries and enmities in abundance ;

1667. Arrested in Chancery Lane at Mrs. Sumner's suite ; February
24, 8 or 9 a.m. Triall with her at Sarum ; victory and j[fioo
damaged ; through devilish opposition agt. me."

Whether this "triall " was a case of breach of promise of marriage,
defamation, or slander, or what not, there is no evidence to show ;
but, however that may be, or to whom was the " victory," in July,

1668, by Peter Gale's malicious contrivance, the poor victim was
again arrested just before setting out to Winton for his " second triall,"
which detained him two hours, but did not then come off; not
indeed until March, 1669, when it lasted but an hour, and the judge,
though exceedingly made against him by a Lady Hungerford, gave a
verdict for;^3oo and a moiety of Sarum, whatever that may mean.

Then, for a time, John Aubrey had rest, and for some years
" enjoyed a happy delitescency " ; lying by, as it were, not only from
constant danger of arrest, but from perils of a far worse kind, such
as " being run through with a sword by a young Templer at M.
Burge's in the M. Temple ; " or, " being killed by William, Earl of
Pembroke (then Lord Herbert) at the election of Sir W. Salkeld for
New Sarum ; " as well as the risk of being drowned twice, and the
final peril of being stabbed by a drunken gentleman (unknown to
him) in the street of Gray's Inn Gate, in 1680.

This, the final entry in his list of " Accidents," clearly proves that
though he had come to " forty year," he was leading rather a rackety
kind of life ; and that his " delitescency " had come to an end. But
the days of hot youth gradually cooled ; once more he called himself
contently quiet ; and though now in straitened circumstances, which
made life hard, he gave himself up once more to his favourite studies,
in a world in which he said " he knew not how to live." But live he
did until 1697 (chiefly by the generous help of Lady Long, who gave
him a room in her house), when, on his way back to London, he
died at Oxford, and there, strangely enough, was buried in the church
of St Mary Magdalene, as " John Aubery, a stranger."

But as, according to another John (Bunyan) of greater fame,
" half a dozen ripe pippins may be of more goodly interest than the
crabbed tree that bare them," so are Aubrey's little " Bokes " of
greater interest than the man ; and into one of these we now propose
to dip, not in spite of so much as because of its oddly-mingled con-
tents— bearing in mind that this F.R.S. deemed " the matter of the
whole collection beyond human reach." Of the seventeen sections
of unequal length, into which his Miscellanies may be divided, the
ijrgt is " Pay Fatality, Lucky an^ Uplucky." Beginning with 14th pf

284 The Gentleman s Magazine.

the first month as happy and blessed to the Israelites, 430 years
being exactly expired on the day of their exodus, &c., he cites Dan
Horace as cursing the tree that had like to have fallen on him, Hit
nefasto te posuit ^/V— planted on an unlucky day. Having glanced
at Roman history in passing, he notes on April 6 Alexander the
Great was born ; on the same day conquered Darius, won a victory
at sea, and finally died;" felixy we may suppose, opportunitaie
mortis. On the same day his father Philip took Potidaea ; Parmenio
gained a victory, and was victor at the Olympic games. After a few
pages of this kind, he turns to his own birthday (so he says) as
November 3 (it being in reality March 12, according to his own
horoscope), " on which fell out some remarkable accidents, e^,^
Constantius, Emperor, 'worthy warrior and good man,' died on
November 3 ; as did Thomas Montacute, Earl of Salisbury ; also
Cardinal Borromeo, of famous sanctity ; no less did Sir J. Perrot,
Lord-Deputy of Ireland, son to Henry VIH. and extremely like him,
in the Tower, slain by the fatality of this day ; a remarkable man in
his lifetime."

Now, as to this remarkable Sir James, how it comes to pass that
not even his name is mentioned by Hume, or, as far as I know; by
any English historian ; or how any son of Henry VIH. could be
named Perrot and die in the Tower fifty years after his father's
death and leave no record of his fate, is a mystery hard to unraveL
But a man who muddles the date of his own birthday may be excused
for being foggy about the facts of any other hero, present or past ;
and so we must be content to know that on this same fatal 3rd of
November the Pope of Rome was banished the realm in 1535 ; the
same day 1640 began the Parliament so fatal to England ; Worcester
victory, 165 1, being also the day of Oliver Cromwell's death.

After some pages of this kind of exposition on Lucky and Un-
lucky Days, we come naturally to such things as the mystical
No. 1260, mentioned twice in Revelations (and even more famous,
we may add, down to the days of Dr. Cumming), Pope Gregory, and
the Calendar, the Julian year, and the " Old Stile ; " and, to crown
all, that in Sherborne, Dorset, the small-pox breaks out every seventh
year, and at Taunton, Somerset, every ninth year! "which the
physicians cannot master ! "

" Ostenta or Portents " opens with a sounding note of alarm from
no less a philosopher than Nicholas Machiavel : " How it comes to
pass I know not, but by ancient and modern example it is evident
that no great accident befalls a city or province, but it is presaged by
divination, prodigy, pr astrology, or some w(iy or other." In pro(»f

John Aubrey of Wilts, 285

of which grave assertion, Aubrey cites four or five strange circles and
bows of a white colour which appeared round the sun on Sunday and
divers occasions, as when peace was concluded between Robert of
Normandy and Robert of Baelaesme, in 1104 (the said Robert of
Normandy having died in 1035) \ ^^ when " at the coming in of
King Philip," two suns appeared, and a rainbow reversed ! or when,
as Cornet Joyce carried Charles I. prisoner from Holdenby to the
Isle of Wight, there was seen in the sky a re-
markable thing in this guise, distinctly seen in
the churchyard at Bishop's I^vington, Wilts,
about three o' the clock p.m., " the Isle of Wight
lying directly from Broad Chalk at the ten
o'clock point ! " Of which amazing wonder, says honest John, " we
learn a world of things from these Portents and Prodigies, &c.
.... from which indeed the whole art of divination has been com-
pounded."

From " Portents " it is but a step to '* Omens," which indeed fill
some ten pages with such choice and singular ** prodigies" as that
two eagles fought in the air, between the hosts, at Philippi ; that
Mat. Parker, seventieth Archbishop of Canterbury, in the seventieth
year of his age, feasted Queen Elizabeth on her birthday ; that a
little while before the death of Oliver, Protector, a whale came up

the Thames, feet long ! and " 'Tis said Oliver was troubled ; "

that Charles II. was crowned at the very conjunction of the Sun
and Mercury, and as he was at dinner in W. Hall " it thundered
and lightened extremely;" ami, more amazing, still, "In February,
March, and April, two ravens built their nests on the weathercock
of the high steeple at Bakwell ; " and that when Major John Morgan,
of Wells, a Royalist, lay sick of a fever, being lodged secretly in a
garret at " Broad Chalk " there came a sparrow to the window which
pecked the lead of one side of a certain lozenge therein, and " made
one small hole in it ; " but no more ever again after the Major's
recovery !

Nothing seems too trifling, too incredible, or too absurd for our
good old gossip's store-house, to be treasured as fine gold.

But, if portents and omens delight him, "dreams" are still
dearer, and afford him even more special objects of a " nimble fancy
and fond belief." He will not, he says, draw much from Cicero de
Divinatione^ but simply set down (Section VI.) " some remarkable
and divine dreams of certain excellent persons (his acquaintance)
worthy of belief." But, in spite of this admirable resolution, John
Aubrey wanders away into the days of the remote past, and prattles

286 The Gentleman s Magazine.

idly on of Hannibal, and two Arcadians, Simonides and Alexander the
Great, all worthies whom he could not have known ; and tells, in
many pages, how a slave of Pericles fell headlong from the pinnacle
of a lofty tower, was picked up for dead, but cured by the herb
mu^vort (Parthenium) revealed to Pericles in a dream by Minerva ;
and how the plague in the army of Charles V. was, in like fashion,
cured by a decoction of the dwarf thistle, " since called Caroline,"
and of a certain lewd young fellow of St. Austin's acquaintance,
who, in danger of arrest for debt, w^as warned by his father's ghost of
a certain and swift means of deliverance. Soon, however, he wearies
of classic grounds, and comes back to his own country and his own
time, where we always have him at his best. It is pleasant to know
that " my Lady Seymour dreamt that she found a nest with nine
finches ; and afterwards had nine children by the Earl of Winchel-
sea, whose name was " Finch " ; no less comforting that dates are
admirable against stone disease, similla stmilibusy so saith old Captain

Tooke of K , thus : " Take 6 or lo Date stones, Dry, Pulverise,

and scarce {sic) them ; take as much as will lie on sixpence in a
quarter of white wine fasting, at 4 p.m. ; ride or walk for an hour ;
in a week's time you shall have Ease ; in a month. Cure." What
can be more charming than the old Captain ? unless it be the
** gentlewoman who dreamt that a pultess of blew corants would cure
a sore throat, and it did so ; a pious woman, and affirmed it ! ! " It
reads like a bit out of an old cookery book — in the days when spell-
ing was an unknown art. "There are," goes on Aubrey in his
innocent way, " millions of such Dreams too little taken notice of,
but they have the truest dreams whose IX}^ house is well dignified,
7CfHch mine is not ; but must have some monitory dreams." Clearly,
however, the good old Captain Tooke, and many another of John's
acquaintance, must have been born under better auspices, and enjoyed
all the keen powers belonging to the House mystical No. IX. ; whose
visions fill the next twenty pages. Beyond a doubt, so gifted was
" Mr. Smith, the Curate of Deptford," who in 1679, being in bed
and sick of an ague, *' there came to him a vision of a Master of
Arts, with a white wand, and bade him lie on his back for three
hours, and be rid of his ague." He tried two hours — when the ague
instantly attacked him ; but became more obedient, lay supine for
three, and was perfectly cured. " All which did John Evelyn, Esq.,
shew to his fellow members at the Royal Society." An apparition
or vision of a Master of Arts must have been an unusual rarity even
in those days when intercourse between the seen and the unseen
world seems to have been so easy and so frequent, and one would

John Aubrey of Wilts. 287

like to know in what exact way a spiritual graduate managed to
reveal his distinctive rank. Possibly, he may have revealed his
presence as a visitor from another world in the same happy fashion
as did an *' apparition at Cirencester in 1670," who, being demanded
whether a good spirit or a bad ? returned no answer, but disappeared
with a curious perfume and most melodious twang " ; to the amaze-
ment of the famous astrologer, Mr. W. Lilly, who believed it was a
fairy, though Aubrey himself inclines to a higher range of being, and
caps the story with a quotation :

Omnia finierat ; tenues secessit in tutras ;
Mansit odor ; posses scire fuisse Deam^

•o aptly to the point that we pardon his credulity at once, and for-
give him for his legends of Dr. Jacob, at Canterbury ; T. M., Esq., a
widower who, after a vision of his first spouse, married two wives
since, " and the latter end of his life was uneasy."

Also, for the old lame man in Stafford who entertained a stranger
with a cup of beer, and in return was cured of his malady, " the said
stranger being in a purple-shag gown "—never before seen or known
in those parts — and vouched for by his Grace, Gilbert Sheldon of
Canterbury ; and even for old Farmer Good, at Broad Chalk, who
persisted in getting out of bed at eighty-four, and thereof died in-
continently !

In the midst of such a wilderness of trash, however, it is only fair
to note one, as good a ghost story, and as well authenticated as any
now afloat in the treasury of Mrs. Crowe's " Night Side of Nature,"
or of Daniel Home himself, having about it a singular Defoe-like
air of veracity that prevailed to make Dr. Martin Luther*s first and
able translator vouch for its truth. It must be told in Aubrey's own
words :

I Captain Henry Bell, do hereby declare to the present age, and to posterity,
that being employed beyond the seas, in state affairs, divers years together, both
by King James, and also the late K. Charles in Germany, I did hear in all
placei, lamentations made by* the destroying of Dr. Martin Luther's books, &c.,
vpoQ which divine works, the Reformation was wonderfully promoted. Where-
vpoo. Pope Gregory XIII. did so fiercely stir up, and instigate the Emperor
Rodolphus III. to make an edict, that all the aforesaid printed books should be
burned, and it should be death for any person to have or keep a copy of the same ;
— insomuch that not one of all the said books, nor one copy of the same could be
fomd, or heard of. Yet, it pleased God that in anno 1626, a German gentleman,
Caspanis Van Sparr, with whom I became famiUarly known, having occasion to
bvikl upon an old foundation of a house, and digging deep, one of the said original
books was there happily found, lying in a deep hole, wrapped in a strong linen

* By^ clearly on account ofi

288 The Gentleman s Magazine.

cloth, waxe I all over with bees wax within and without, whereby the^d book
was preserved fair without blemish. Whereupon, the foresaid gentleman, fearing
for his own safety as well as that of the book, and knowing that I had the High
Dutch tongue very perfect, did send it unto me ; related the passages of the pre-
serving and finding the same, and earnestly moved me to translate it into
English.

Whereupon I took the said book before me, and many times began to trans-
late the same, but always was I hindered therein, being called about other business
insomuch that by no possible means could I remain by that work. Then, about
six weeks after, it fell out that being in bed with my wife, one night betwixt
twelve and one o'clock, she being asleep, but myself yet awake, there appeared
unto me an ancient man, at my bedside, arrayed in white, having a long, broad
white beard, hanging down to his girdle steed, who taking me by the right car,
spake these words following : Sirrah^ unll not you take time to trans/ate that
book sent unto you out of Germany ? I will provide for you both time and place, to
do it ; and then he vanished out of my sight. Whereupon, being much affrighted, I
fell into an extreme sweat, insomuch that my wife awaking, and finding me all
over wet, she asked what I ailed ; I told her what I had seen and heanl ; but I
never did heed nor regard visions nor dreams. And, so, the same soon fell out
of my mind.

Then, about a fortnight after I had seen the vision, on a Sunday, I went to
Whitehall to hear the sermon, after which ended I returned to my lodging at
Westminster, and sitting down to dinner with my wife, two messengers did come
from the Council-board, with a warrant to carry me to the keeper of ihe Gale-
house at Westminster, tliere to be safely kept until further order from the Lords
of the Council ; which was done without shewing any cause at all,' wherefore I
was committed ; upon which said warrant I was kept there ten whole years close
prisoner ; where I spent five years about translating of the said book : insomuch
that I found the words very true which the old man in the aforesaid vision said
unto me, / will shortly provide you both place and time to translate it.

Then, after I had finished the translation, Dr. Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury,
sent unto mc in prison, ])y Dr. Bray his chaplain, ten pounds, and desired to
peruse the book ; he afterwards sent me by Dr. Bray, forty pounds. There was
also, adds Aubrey, a Committee of the House of Commons for the printing of ih's
translation, which was in 1652.

So ends the true averment of worthy Captain Henry Bell, of
whom it may be noted that no other trace is to be found by me in
the history of that stormy time, nor indeed of the precious book
itself, exce[)t that made in the introduction to the original edition of
"Luther's Table-Talk," by John Aurifaber, D.D., in which the
whole story is told at length, and Bell's special statements are
entirely corroborated. There also is found the report of the said
Committee of the House, in which they extol the captain's treatise
as " an excellent, divine work," and " give order (February 24, 1646)
for the printing thereof," *'the said Henry Bell to have the sole

• Whatsoever was pretended, says Aubrey, yet the true cause of the Captain*s
commitment, was because he was v.r|;ent for his arrears, which the Treasurer
pOHld not ptiy, apd to be freed of his clamours, clapt him into prison.

yohn Aubrey of Wilts. 589

disposal and benefit arising therefrom, for the space of fourteen
years " {pera copid) — a bit of dog Latin which must have troubled
the mind of Mr. John Aubrey. As to the " apparition itself, one
may fairly say of it, sc non vero h ben irovatOy and commend it to the
solemn scrutiny of the Psychical Society, as being worthy of a place
in their strange farrago of ghostly lore. It is something to know
that the good Captain Henry Bell was, at all events, a real bona fide
personage, that he was imprisoned, that he translated a certain divine
treatise, and was out again and at work in the world after his labours.
Nay more, he may possibly have been that " little Captain Henry
Bell," of whom says Pepys in his diary, 1666, "he did in one of the
fire-ships at the end of the day fire a Dutch ship of seventy guns.
Whereat," he adds, " we were all so overtaken with this good news
that the Duke ran off" with it to the King, who was gone to chapel,
and there all the Court was in a hubbub, &c."

And here, I regret to say, our brief glance through these pleasant
pages must draw to an end at the close of Section VH., for fear of
trespassing on our editor's precious space, though not, I trust, on the
patience of his readers. We can but say a word as to the remaining
chapters on " Voices," " Impulses," " Knockings," " Miranda,"
"Prophecies," "Magic," "Transportation by an Invisible Power,"
** Converse with Spirits," " Oracles," and "Ecstasy," &c. Through-
out them all breathes the same spirit of good-natured, gossiping
credulity, of the same simple old John Aubrey, who still prattles
on in his usual fashion about things mundane and things super-
mundane, with a calm satisfaction and untroubled belief that Messrs.
Darwin and Huxley, F.R.S., of these weary days, would regard severely
as so much bottled moonshine. The unscientific reader, as he
wanders on, will perhaps be more merciful, and smile cheerily as he
falls upon an "amazing impulse," whereby a Commoner of Trinity
College, Oxon., once on a time, riding towards the West in a stage-
coach, did suddenly tell the company, " We shall surely be robbed,"
and they were so ; that a " gentleman formerly seemingly pious " fell
into the sin of drunkenness, and " heard strange knocks at his bed's-

head ; " that Mr. B , when once riding in a country lane, had a

blow given him on his cheek or head — donor unknown; "that
there is a house near Covent Garden that has warnings," "the
Papists being full of these stories ; " that the " Prophecies of Nostra-
damus do foretel strangely, but not easily understood until fulfilled "
(he might have added, and scarcely then) ; that a fit of laughter
lOnce and again seized Oliver Cromwell just before Dunbar and
Naseby fight, of which Cardinal Mazarine did say, " he was a lucky

290 Ttie Gentleman's Magazine.

fool." If any fair reader do feel inclined towards " Magick,'' she
may be glad " to know and perceive her future husband's profession,"
when all she has to do is " to put the white of a new laid egg in a
beer glass, and expose it to the sun when he is in Leo," or if anxious
to know whom she shall marry, " lie in another county (not her own
native), knit the left garter about the right-legged stocking (let the
other garter and stocking alone), and rehearse the following verses,
at every comma knitting a knot :

This knot I knit,

To know the thing I know npt yet,

That I may see,

The man that shall my husband be,

How he goes, and what he wears,

What he does, all days and years ;

accordingly in your dream will you see him." Is any inquisitive
reader inclined to go deeper into mysteries — he may now find that
the potent spell of " Abracadabra " cureth the ague ; how He^
Rubus epitepscum never fails to cure the bite of a mad dog
(let M. Pasteur ponder this well), while, against the horrors of an
evil tongue, let the sufferer simply put a hot iron into unguentum
popn/cum, vervain, and hypericon, and anoint his backbone ! or if
in these days of east wind the miseries of tooth-ache befall him, let
him rejoice to know of a certain and swift remedy. " Take a new
nail and make the gum bleed with it, and then drive it into an oak.
This did cure William Neal, a very stout gentleman, almost mad with
pain and ready to pistoll himself." And, with this delightsome and
affecting picture of happy Mr. Neal and his safe deliverance from the
pangs of " odontalgy " we regretfully take leave of our kindly, bene-
volent old Fellow of the Royal Society, antiquary, quack, and sagCf
who in stormy, rough times gave little heed to such troubles, but
dipped into many books on many subjects, and listened with eager
ears to gossip on all things, " mundane, caelestial, or supematund,"
and believed all he heard as authentic gospel, from the " Goodwin
Sands " to talk with the " Angel Raphael." He had friends and in-
timates among the most learned men of his day, as well as some of
the most ignorant and credulous, and would probably have been as
courteously polite and attentive to the wise men of Gotham as he
showed himself in his talk with Sir William Dugdale or the R. Honble.
James Earl of Abingdon. His notes, musings, rhapsodies, and
dreams, not only give us a picture of the man himself, but more than
a glimpse of days and men, beliefs and habits, not two centuries <dd,

yohn Aubrey of Wiits. 291

and yet utterly remote from and unlike our own. He suffered much
he says " from love and lawe suites " ; as well as " treacheries and
enmities in abundance." Born in affluence, his last days were days
of hardship and poverty. But through it all he battled bravely to
content at last We should like to know more of him than we do.

B. G. JOHNS.

292 The GentlemafCs Magazine.

NOTES ON THE LIAS AND TRIAS
CLIFFS OF THE SEVERN.

When beside ihee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
While from time to time above thee flew and circled

Cheerful Pterodactyls.

Bret Harte.

I NEVER sail by the red and blue cliffs of the Lower Severn^
where the classic sections of the Lias and Trias resting con-^
formably may be studied at Westbury-on-Severn, Aust, and other
places, without thinking of Martin's well-known engraving entitled
**The Age of the Great Saurians," for there is truth in his vivid and
realistic picture, enhanced by the imagination of a Gustave Dor^.
The artist has depicted the subject in vigorous style. The orb of
light is veiled in dense mists, which nearly descend to the surface of
the curling ocean waves. The huge reptiles are struggling against
each other in the seething waters, tearing each other's throats in blind
fury, and lashing the waves with their formidable tails. In the fore-
ground is a rocky islet, where other winged reptiles are engaged in
the pleasing task of picking the eyes out from an Ichthyosaurus
stranded on the shore. It is a blood-curdling picture, appealing
strongly to the imagination — after the manner of all the work of the
artist who portrayed "The End of the World," and other terrible
subjects ; and yet, after all, the battle of the saurians may be a faithful
representation of the past geological ages by the Severn estuary.
There is many a lesson to be learned from the study of the rocks :
bones, mollusca, and insect remains abound in the various substrata,
each one possessing a definite history of its own.

One of the lowest of the many zones or subdivisions of the lias
limestones and clays — each indicated by its more or less peculiar
molluscan genera and species — is that in which Ammonites planorbis
enjoyed its horizon of life. Beneath this thin layer we find at Aust Cliff
the Penarth beds. White Lias, or Rhaetic beds, as they are variously
called, which formation links the true Lias rocks with the underlying

Notes on the Lias and Trias Cliffs of the Severn. 293

Trias, or New Red Sandstone system. At Westbury a small species
of Avicula marks the upper layers of the transitional section, but at
Aust fish-bones and insect wing-cases abound in the banks, which
gleam white in the sun from the opposite side of the river, at Beachley.
A layer not exceeding six inches in depth has furnished the fossil
remains oi Eiaterida^ox beetles of the fire-fly tribe, and the forerunners
of the dreaded wireworm (larval beetles) of our gardens : Ephcmeridtz
the descendants of which are dear to the heart of fly-fishermen;
grasshoppers, dragonflies, with many wood-eating and herb-devouring
insects. In the midst of the marine and estuarine deposits this
isolated fluviatile bed is found not only in England, but to a greater
extent in other parts of Europe, implying a terrestrial fauna of many
hundred genera.

In the limestones of purely marine origin are endless fragments
of Encrinite or " Stone Lily ** stems, and a wealth of Crinoids, which
tell of seas possessing the temperature, clearness, and phys'cal con-
ditions of the Pacific Ocean. The moUuscan genera embedded in
the rocks may be reckoned by thousands, and cycadaceous plants,
such as grow in the West Indies and the tropics, abound m a fossi-
lized state. The great reptiles, however, extending in geological
time from the Chalk to the Trias, and perhaps surviving in a single
instance in an amphibious lizard of the Galapagos Islands, attained
a maximum development in the Liassic age. Airbreathing animals
living in shallow estuaries and seas, the Ichthyosauri and Plesiosauri
ranged from eighteen to twenty-four feet in length, the structure being
specially adapted for rapid and easy movement in the water. It is thiise
gigantic creatures that Martin has delineated striving with Dinosau-
rians and Pterosaurians^ or winged reptiles, in ceaseless warfare. The
curious manner in which the fossil bodies are often discovered in
the rocks, as if " scarcely a single bone or scale had been removed
from the place it occupied during life," is suggestive of a sudden and
overwhelming death. Scores of fish and saurians must have perished
in certain areas at the same moment, through some eruption, it may
be, of volcanic mud and poisonous vapours. Sir Charles Lyell, in the
" Principles of Geology," shows that large quantities of similar mud,
with the carcases of animals, have within the recent period been swept
into the sea or river in time of earthquake in Java, about the com-
mencement of the eighteenth century. So it has been in the Lias
epoch ; the strata, with mollusca and other palaeontological records in
their separate zones, accumulating between the periods of catastrophe.
Even Lyeirssedimentarian teaching did not exclude the action of inter-
mittent volcanic agencies. With the exact succession of the Lias strata I

Y0J-. cc;-x^T. wo. 1929. ^

294 "^^ Gentlevuifis Magazitte.

am not now concerned ; it is enough to note that genera and species
varied in development, appearing and disappearing according to their
special environment. As the physical conditions changed, the depth
and density of the water altered, mud or sandy bottoms prevailed, and
climate varied, so species of living organisms flourished or decayed.
There is nothing permanent in nature ; the forces of evolution are
ceaselessly in operation as surely as the laws of gravitation govern the
course of our planet in the solar system. Either we must admit the
gradual — if generally imperceptible — modification of all forms of life
since matter was first endowed with animation in one harmonious
design, or we must accept the less comprehensive scheme of repeated
destruction, followed by a series of new creations. The alternative
is infinitely small in comparison with the grandeur of evolution, for
so comprehensive a design implies the existence of a Designer ; the
theory of natural selection does not necessarily lead to pure mate-
rialism. I am satisfied with the limitations laid down by Wallace in his
review on Darwinism. As the horse can be shown, together with
several nearly allied animals, to have been modified through the
tertiary ages, step by step, from a common ancestor having divided
iocs instead of the hoof, so the whole evidence of palaeontology,
nnpcrfect as it is, tends to reveal a like process throughout the animal
and vegetable kingdoms. Like Wallace, I am impelled to believe
that there was a period in natural development when consciousness
was bestowed on living things — even as matter was originally endowed
with vitality ; and that at a third period the special attribute of nuui-
kind was granted to a race of beings gradually modified from a lower
scale in the animal kingdom : in other words, spiritual and physical life
have not been evolved along the same plane. The reason of man can-
not prescribe the ultimate limit or source of the supernatural Creative
Power, neither can it distinguish by a hard and fast line the precise
t)eriod in the scale of life when consciousness appeared. Why then
should we seek to circumscribe the power of the Deity to confer an
imperishable soul or spirit on mankind— already differentiated from
the anthropoid apes, but proceeding from a common ancestry in the
course of a natural law of evolution ? The changing genera and
species of the Oolite and Lias fauna, exhibited in the rocks of the
C.otswold Hills and by the Lias banks of the Severn, compel us to
repudiate the idea of se])aratc creations. If the chain is incomplete
and many links are inevitably missing, each organism, in comparison
with those of other rock formations, has its indelible history engraven
within itself, speaking eloijuently of steady and incessant change, the
species flourishing or dying out according to completeness or inoom-

Notes on the Lias and Trias Cliffs of the Severn. 295

)pleteness in the environments of life : the testimony is surely there
for those who seek it. In the Trias formation, besides the ripple-
marked flagstones which tell of an ebbing and flowing tide in past
epochs — even as the sands to-day in the Severn estuary are ridged
and furrowed through the action of the waters — the impressions or
footmarks of vertebrate animals which have waded in the mud of
prehistoric ages are found, and they contain the bones of the most
ancient mammal as yet known in geological time, Microlestes antiquus.
The dental affinities and peculiarities in structure lead us to the con-
clusion that this animal belonged to a plant-eating genus of marsupials,
not unlike those described by geologists from the Purbeck strata.
The presence of a pouched mammal in beds of so remote a period
is somewhat suggestive of all quadrupeds being descended from the
Marsupialiay an inference which is strangely supported by a visit to
the Antipodes. On the isolated Australian continent almost every
mammal is a marsupial, and there is evidence that the existing forms
are of at least Secondary age. In the caves of Pleistocene, and
perhaps Pliocene periods, enormous quantities of bones have been
preserved — encrusted by stalactite formations of anterior marsupial
genera, ranging from animals as large as elephants and lions to rodents
no bigger than a rat. The same process of change, development, or
deterioration, is illustrated throughout by the record of a past fauna
whenever it is found to have existed. Hardly a pouched mammal,
except the opossum, now lingers in the world away from Australia.
Owing to peculiar physical conditions, the march of progress has in
this strange country been almost arrested. In many respects
Australia is still in the Tertiary period. Wallace has supplied a key
to this insular character of the fauna, proving that a deep-sea channel
has severed the whole continent from the Asiatic portion of the
Archipelago at least since Mesozoic times. On the other hand, in
the Purbeck age, it is practically certain that a marsupial fauna
similar to that of Australia predominated in all suitable parts of the
world, proving an ancient land connection for the dispersion of
genera which have lingered in nearly related types through the
ocean-girt Australian main. The Trias marsupials were thriving
countless years before those of the Purbeck strata, and must have
been the direct precursors of them all. Nothing can be more
striking from a geological point of view than to stand by Watts River,
in Victoria, to watch the platypus glide silently into the stream. You
are confronted with a warm-blooded mammal that lays eggs, has the
amphibious habits of a reptile, the bill of a bird, a poison gland in
the webbed ^foot, the fur of a mole, and the pouch of a marsupial.

X 2

296 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Nature was here certainly trying her hand at the production of varied
phases or types of animal life united in one species ; in the presence of
so remarkable a product, telling of a most ancient fauna, man is out
of place : geologically he has no right to co-exist with such a primeval
beast. But with the platypus still in existence, the remains of winged
reptiles in the Lias clays and the evidence of past races of marsu-
pials in Pleistocene caverns all linking the most opposite types and
families of the reigning animal kingdom, who can affirm that repeated
series of special creations are necessary to account for the vast tran-
sitional forms of life slowly developed in the course of countless
millions of years that have elapsed since an aqueous belt enveloped
our cooling planet Earth sufficiently to support incipient life.

Beneath Newnham Church, where a section of the red Trias cliff
rises abruptly from the water's edge, a thin band of gypsum (sulphate
of lime) is visible. In the heart of the Midlands valuable deposits of
this mineral are extracted from rocks of the same age and character
for the "plaster of Paris" of commerce. By the Severn it is found
only in unproductive quantities, and generally closely associated
with rock-salt or brine-springs. Higher up the Severn, the Droit-
wich salt pits have been worked since the time of the Roman occu-
pation. For many centuries a constant supply of liquid brine
literally ran to waste in the Severn from the Worcestershire springs.
As in Cheshire, the pumping of the brine from the natural subter-
ranean reservoirs in the synclinal trough of the Worcestershire red
marls is directly responsible for phenomenal changes of the land
surface in the vicinity of Droitwich. From year to year, and almost
from day to day, the most unexpected changes occur. The parish
church has split in half more than once, and the interiors of the
tombs in the churchyard are not unfrequently exposed. Twenty years
ago water ran down the main street through the town in an opposite
direction to what it does now. Sometimes the bed of the canal sinks
a few inches, or the embankment of the railway gives way ; there is
no stability in the foundations of the houses in the line of displace-
ment, and whole structures often collapse. Many a field is rendered
useless for agriculture by the subsidence of the land, and property
is seriously depreciated by the continued pumping of brine from the
saliferous marls below.

The process of extraction is not without interest. The boring
operations are commenced from the surface where there are indica-
tions of the salt-bearing strata, a shaft being sunk after the manner of
an ordinary well. In the section that I myself have seen, the upper
layers consisted of alluvial deposits of t^^ peaty black soil, whjch

Notes on the Lias and Trias Cliffs of the Severn. 297

rested on about a hundred feet of red marls, some bands of which
became hard rock, varying in different layers from deep red to
grey or even blue argillaceous marls. At the base of this stratified
but unfossiliferous rock the steel-rods stnick a hard calcareous mass,
rebounding as they came in contact with the matrix. This was an
indication that the gypsum bands had been reached, intermixed
with irregular agglomerations of rock-salt. Beneath this obstruction
the hollow reservoirs exist, the rock-salt and gypsum forming a
roof, as it were, to the caverns below. Immediately the hard mass
has been pierced a stream of the strongest brine wells forth with
such a sudden rush that men have often a difficulty in effecting an
escape to avoid disaster. The brine is of such a density that common
table-salt will not dissolve therein, and an egg will roll on the surface
of the water. The cavities at the depth of a hundred feet have been
caused by the dissolution of local areas of rock-salt through the
action of percolating water from the higher level of the Bunter sand-
stone. This accounts for the great force with which the brine rises
when the stored supply is tapped, and the subsidence of land cor-
responds very closely with the extent of the cavities from which the
salt has been evaporated. Droitwich is situated exactly in this
synclinal trough of the Trias, and consequently there is hardly a
straight wall or chimney in the lower town.

The accumulation of extensive beds of rock-salt must be attributed
to the natural process of evaporation beneath a torrid sun in the
Trias days, when a series of salt lagoons, communicating with the sea,
were dried up and encrusted with salt after the fashion of many of
the so-called Australian lakes of the present age. The borders of
the Dead Sea are now extensive salt-pans, and the water is not so
dense as the Droitwich brine. The few mollusca that are found
correspond with the brackish shells of recent salt lakes, while the
ripple marks perpetuated in the lower flagstones indicate the near
influence of the sea-tides on an expanse of muddy coast adapted for
wading and estuary-hunting animals.

I have stood by the shores of the South Australian lakes at a
season when innumerable wild-fowl congregated on the shallow
waters or by the desolate reedy marshes. At the sound of a gun the
musk ducks, sheldrake, and teal arose in dense flocks, scared by the
unwelcome shot. An osprey pursued his avocation as a flshing-hawk,
and more rarely the great sea eagle soared above. Pelicans, white-
faced herons, flocks of fat quails, and other birds arrive in due
season ; there is always something to be snared or shot. But gazing
over the broad marshes and reedy waters — most of which are salt or

298 ^>^ Centkmafis MagA^nik

brackish — I have been reminded of the Severn Trias rocks at home.
The salt areas must have been singularly like the Australian lakes
and lagoons, and the occasional glimpse at a rock wallaby is at once
suggestive of the Microlestes antiquus of ancient days. The marsupial
progression was common to both genera.

Following the course of the lower Severn through Worcestershire
and Gloucester to the coast of South Wales, there are many admir-
able sections of the red marls and blue clays through which the
ritrer has carved its course, the cliffs invariably forming the most
picturesque parts of the valley. In the present month the British
Association holds its annual meeting at Cardiff ; and for those in-
terested in geology I cannot imagine a more delightful mode of
visiting Cardiff than by going down the Severn from Stourport or
Worcester in a steam launch, with a 2 ft. 6 in. or 3 ft. draught, to the
Welsh metropolis. There are many charming little nooks by the
river-side, most seductive to those who appreciate such life. A little
below Worcester there is a pleasantly situated inn, known as " The
Ketch." From the side windows of a comfortable parlour there is an
exceedingly fine view of the windingriver, flanked by the deep-red Trias
marl on one side, with wild bits of overhanging woodlands. On the
opposite side, through tall elms, the rugged Malvern Hills can be seen,
purple in the distance. Hard by is the junction of the Teme, where
more than one 40-lb. salmon has before now been netted. Between
Worcester and Stourport lies Holt, the beau-ideal of a river-side
hamlet. Enticing little inns, indeed, are dotted all along the Severn
banks. At Kempsey and Upton there are fine old timbered houses,
relics of past centuries. At Tewkesbury, where the Avon joins,
besides the grand old Norman Abbey, is there not the " Hop Pole,"
immortalised by Dickens as the house of refreshment for Sam Welter
and Mr. Pickwick ? At Wainlode, a few miles above Gloucester,
there is again a river-side inn, near to one of the finest Liassic sections
passing into the Trias. Nowhere can sedimentary banks be studied
to greater perfection. Passing onwards from Gloucester, vii^ the
Sharpness canal to Framilode lock, we re-enter the Severn channel.
In the great horseshoe bend at Newnham is seen the celebrated Garden
Cliff at Westbury, with the flagstones at the base. Below the Severn
Bridge and Lydney there are interesting sections on one side or the
other until Aust, opposite Beachley, is reached. At the mouth ot
the Wye are limestone rocks. In the vicinity of Cardiff itself the
Rhaetic Lias is developed to a great extent. Passing through the
vicinity of the Forest of Dean and the Vale of Berkeley, the ridges
of the Oolite stretch away to the left of the Severn valley.

Notes on the Lias and Trias Cliffs of the Seve^'H. 299

gravels, the detritus of the hill -tops, are scattered through the vale, inter-
mixed with corals, Belemnitidae, casts of Trigonidse, and numerous
bivalve moUusca, which tell of a prolific marine fauna in the Oolitic
period. At least thirty feet have been worked away from the ridges
of the Cotswolds into the valley beneath.

In the full perfection of summer foliage it is a very fair
scene. The ancient Forest of Dean may be chiefly reclaimed, or
changed into smiling orchards amid the undulations of the hills ; but
there are bits of real forest worth visiting which still remain on that
heck of land between the Severn and Wye, of which the " Speech-
house ^ is the centre.

Those who wish to study the rock formation for themselves will
do well to consult the maps of the geological survey ; for it is not
intended in this article to offer an exact summary of the various
sections exposed. An indication is simply given of what may be
seen, together with some of the inferences gleaned by the writer as
he sailed or fished upon the silver Severn. The record of the rocks
may not be easy to decipher, but there is at least abundant material
to occupy the attention of thoughtful minds.

C. PARKINSON

300 Tlie Gentleman's Magazine.

SOME LONDON STREETS.

LEICESTER SQUARE at mid-day in autumn: overhead a
pitiless sky, the pavement feeling like red-hot coals, not the
merest whiff of wind.

Long ago — years have passed since then — men came out here
for cool breezes, and sat underneath the shady elms that made the
fame of Leicester Fields. Thrushes and blackbirds sang among the
trees ; roses scented the air with perfume, in far-famed gardens, those
which are now only read of, such as surrounded Savile House. Lovers
sauntered hither and thither, as they now do on Hampstead Heath ;
ladies left their sedan chairs ; coaches, six-wheeled, deposited their
burdens.

Johnson sat here. Goldsmith sat here, Sir Joshua, and Hogarth ;
the latter adorned in his scarlet rocjuelaure and well known cocked
hat. Garrick loved the shade of the trees, to which he rambled from
Adelphi Terrace, and from time to time, we read. Royal and gorgeously-
decorated caniages drove up, to set down at Leicester House. AVhat
memories there once thronged the brain of the Winter Queen, ere
she passed gladly out of life ! AV'hat burning problems here pursued
the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IL ! On one memorable
occasion, a hackney coach arrived, which came to fetch an Imperial
guest ; it conducted Peter the Great hence to Kensington — there to
make his bow to the King !

Here too were riots, those notable riots of which Burke tells the
tale so admirably : in which tumult, by the by, rails torn from Savile
House were the chief instruments of the mob. Edmund Burke,
whose letter may be remembered, graphically recounts his night watch,
when he with other gilded youths of the period spent the night in
guarding Savile House. A few brief years, and fresh scenes are
enacted, all these " noble tenants " have quitted residence : this time
it is Miss Linwood's needlework which here gathers huge crowds.
Nightly assemblies take place again, in front of the gorgeous
equestrian statue, to inspect the superb head of St. Peter, for which
^ts owner refused three thousand guineas. So the tale runs ; who in

Some London Streets. 301

these days goes mad over art needlework ? " The town was mad,"
so says the record, and Miss Linwood was voted the thing ! But
crowds did not come this way for nothing, and town grew wider this
way, trees were felled, gardens were destroyed, the rage of bVicks and
mortar began.

Savile House gardens disappeared, and with them the scent of
roses ; the old damask and maiden blush were known no more in
Leicester Square. With buildings came smoke, with smoke went country
air, the town pressed more and more westward ; and Sir Joshua's
gilded coach was built to carry him into " the suburbs." The sign
of the Golden Head in those days still flaunted over Hogarth's house,
the old dark red-brick house, with rose windows, which in our time
adorns Leicester Square, as it may have done (turn to your " Esmond ")
in the days of the wicked Lord Mohun, for this original lived close
by in Gerrard House when that duel was fought with Castlewood.
On that occasion, the chairmen were bidden to set down the gentle-
men in Leicester Fields — they were set down, and, moreover, opposite
the old Standard Tavern.

It "was midnight and the town was abed by this time, and only a few lights in
the windows of the houses ; but the night was bright enough for the unhappy
purpose which the disputants came about ; and so all six entered into that fatal
square, the chairman standing without the railing, and keeping the gate, lest any
persons should disturb the meeting.

You remember how my Lord Viscount was put to bed, and his
wound looked to by the surgeon ; and how he bandaged up Harry
Esmond's hand (who from loss of blood had fainted).

How many unchronicled encounters ended in such a way as this ?
Are men of better blood now that they do not meet at the sword's
point ? In this same square, under sunnier skies, another " tragedy "
was enacted ; we do not need Northcote to remind us of poor
Reynolds' pet canary. One day — and he says its voice was never silent
— it flew away from him for ever, vanishing among the trees " which
make Leicester Fields, and was never after brought back." Sir
Joshua's sight was dim in those days, and already going quickly.
Northcote tells pathetically of the acute sorrow which the loss of
this pet occasioned. Was it before, or after, I wonder, the arrival of
a certain sedan chair which set down at the door one Angelica
Kauffmann, at No. 47 of the Square?

She must have walked up the very same oak stairway, which you
and I may climb if we like, and turned in at the doorway of the
octagonal painting-room with its great west "light.

Did she see, I wonder, Sir Joshua standing there, with his

302 The GentiemaTis Magazine.

"handled" palette all ready? Did his hand shake a little as He
took hers — and left a kiss upon it ?

On a hot summer day, as you gaze into the room, all this rises
before you ; but a faint mist intercepts the then and now. The
room, once hung with priceless studies, has given way to a busy
auction chamber — the Painter^s Light has yielded to the require-
ments of a London sale-room. Still, as you stand on the little
landing— but a very few steps hence, you can realise yet more
forcibly another scene here enacted.

Outside the door of the little drawing-room a troubled figure
stands before you, with a light shawl wrapt about it, and a strangely
serious expression. On that landing Miss Re)molds waited, on a
very memorable occasion, as she watched Angelica emerge from the
studio and pass slowly down the stairs. In " Miss Angel," I think,
you will find her described, in the old neglige costume ; tears
gathered in the good lady's eyes when she watched Sir Joshua's face.
He worked, you remember, '* prodigiously hard " with from five to
sixteen sittings a portrait ; his income at that time must have risen
to some ;£6,ooo a year. This at the period of those noted dinners,
held in the oblong room below, where Johnson, Goldsmith, Garrick,
and Richardson were wont to foregather.

They always adjourned later on to the Turk's Head, or the Mitre;
Garrick alone, it is stated, would never enter a tavern doorway.

Northward again, passing through Lisle Street, the celebrated
abode of Bone, the enamel painter — whose prices, in these days of ill-
paid art, are apt to make one's mouth water — we come upon the
beginning of narrowed streets, dingier ways, forsaken churdiyards.
Gerrard Street lies in murky shadow, its stone-paved roadway
forsaken and desolate. Soho ! we are inclined to exclaim, has it
indeed come down to this ! Was this the abode of the Turk's Head,
surrounded by a shady garden? was this indeed the very house of 43
where Dryden lived, with his Lady Elizabeth Howard ?

The " front parlour " with windows of " wide light " was where
he loved best to sit down ; " one of a thousand such houses " you
say — but stay, the Plague must remind you.

Rogers once brought Sydney Smith here, to see this very same
place. " Well, it's exactly like every other old house I've ever seen,"
was his reported ejaculation ! There they stood together, looking
up at it, much as you see it now. I should say that in 1991,
Gerrard Street will look unaltered. Burke lived here too, for a
short space, at a time you wot well of, when Warren Hastings'

Some London Streets, 305

cause trembled in the balance, and was the one thought in all
minds.

But a stone's throw off stands ;St. Anne's, Soho — in compbment
to the Princess Anne of Denmark — its old graveyard, desolate as it
looks, is yet fruitful in memories. If you pass through the some-
what ponderous edifice till you come to the heavy southern door
you will find the churchyard confront you, well stored in moral
lessons. A certain simple unadorned monument marks the resting-
place of a king ; of course you will remember it was Theodore of
Corsica, who, freed from the King's Bench, found here at length a
home. Time passes so quickly, one may be forgiven for recalling
^ forgotten memory, or recalling for a moment the memorable oil-
man who paid the funeral expense of a king.

Hazlitt, the harsh-tongucd essayist, lies here, who died in Frith
Street, hard by ; his son. Lamb, and Coventry Patmore's father were
the witnesses of his funeral. As he lay dying, the story goes, Lamb
bent down to listen — his last words, uttered at the point of death,
were, " Well, IVe had a happy life I "

Hazlitt was a brother of the Bath miniature painter (one of
whose beautiful little drawings in my youthful days hung over the
mantelshelf of Fort's, in Milsom Street). He was twice married ; first
to Sarah Stoddart, Mary Lamb's friend, from whom he was divorced,
and then to the widow from whom he was so soon unceremoniously
separated.

Soho, of course, is redolent of Macaulay, who has associated it
for ever with Sedgemoor. Years after the battle, it is known
Somersetshire children played a game called " War." ^ The war cry
in it, as at Sedgemoor, was the old word " Soho ! '' and Soho, as
everyone knows, was the property of the Duke of Monmouth. In
" Nollekens and his Times " you can read of the pulling down of
Monmouth House — "the gate entrance of massive ironwork,
supported by stone piers, surmounted by the crest of the Duke of
Monmouth. The principal room of the first floor was lined with blue
satin, superbly decorated with pheasants and other birds in gold."

All this has given way now to a perfect medley of streets ; it is to

be regretted perhaps, but apparently the glory has departed from Soho.

• •f.....

Away southward, leaving behind you the foreign quarters of Soho

proper, a grander prospect opens before you, marked by fine streets

and busier traffic. Trafalgar Square comes into sight, with Landseer's

magnificent lions ; Thomycroft's Charles General Gordon, its base

* MacauUy's History of England^ u 614, gives an interesting reference
to this subject.

304 The Gentleman's Magazine.

thickly covered with wreaths ; fountains play and splash merrily in
the sunshine, unheard in the din of passing wheels.

In Charing Cross an equestrian statue (of Charles I.) has an
interest of its own quite apart ; for years during the Commonwealth
it lay buried ; it has a fine pedestal by Grinling Gibbons. In St.
Martin's Street, a narrow little place southward of Leicester Square,
fresh memories are awakened, for there once lived Sir Isaac Newton ;
in a house to which years after the Bumeys came. Until a recent
period, it is recorded, the observatory stood intact, when it was pur-
chased, I believe, by the ubiquitous American. Miss Burney's book
" Evelina " was written in this same house, and many a letter* she
dated from there in the years 1779-80. Mrs. Thrale, you remember,
had a habit of styling the Burneys " dear Newtonians," which explains
itself at once on identifying the house with its erstwhile inhabitant

Near here, for many a long day, WooUett came for " colouring " ;
but a few yards south of him, in Orange Street (then court), there
lived Opie the painter. Do the bells here now, as then, ring out
requiems for Nell Gwynne, who left, it is said, a legacy to St. Martin's,
to " ring out her soul to heaven."

Every street hereabout has a " natural history " of its own ; a
record which, perhaps, no city in the world could beat.

Leaving St. Martin's-in-the-Fields behind you, turn down the south
side of the Strand and pass Craven Street, of Franklin renown, till
you come to York House, not York House noiv, but simply 31 Strand;
which sacred spot once saw the birth of a Lord Chancellor, Hume's
" Great Lord Chancellor " Bacon. Here, at another page of history,
the great seal went from him ; and here — yet another tragedy —
Villiers Duke of Buckingham (Dryden's "Zimri") afterwards came to
reside. All the streets here shout out his name and glory. We
have (jeorge Street, Villiers Street, Duke Street, and Buckingham
Street, all lying in close proximity.

At the south end of Buckingham Street, you will find the last of
our old watergates ; built when the Strand really was the river strand,
arid Inigo Jones lived to immortalise it. Ftdet Coticula Crux^ runs
the motto, and the river front once led down to the water, through
whose archway streamed, with the tide, watermen in picturesque
costume. The Strand at this time " was full of pittes in which men
feared to fall, so that they ever went by water *twixt Westminster and
the Savoy." This beautiful old sculptured gateway is entirely formed of
Portland stone, the last remnant of the grandeur of old York House.

Pepys, it will be remembered, dwelt near to it, " ¥nthin a com-

* Diary and LetierSj Vol, I,

Some London Streets 305

Ibrtable apartment/' Next door dwelt, for a short space, a certain
David Copperfield ! Name after name surges up, full of pleasant
reminiscence. Peter the Great, of ship-building fame, came here
for self-instruction. In several of the old houses still you will come
on dainty wreathed ceilings, on fresco paintings, carved stairways,

fretted archway or window.

• ••••• .•

But grandest of all vistas hereabout is perhaps the '*Grey River,"
of which endless glimpses may be got from many points of view.
When evening deepens and shadows fall, a red glow comes over the
sky, below it a grey mist, shading into blue, through which fairy-like
towers and steeples stand out against the heavens. Above and below
are grey white bridges, across which the din of traffic rolls incessantly
at all hours ; underneath there laps and flows a dull leaden-coloured
river, to which puffing red-funnelled steamers constantly lend con-
trasting hues. Now and again barges, heavy laden, toil painfully up
the river, or are pulled up by steam -tugs, snorting and labouring,
swelling the tide by their motion.

On the south bank, reviving perhaps some of the memories of

old-world London, there are still clustered the shot -works, breweries,

^rehouses, timber wharves, and landing steps, then as now densely

thronged. The north bank in these days shows what has been done,

^^SLi may some day, perhaps, befall the south side : the Embank-

'^'^nt, the rigid outline lapped by the tide, the roadways tree-lined,

^"^ hurry of traffic. Below, the piers with floating decks ; above,

*"^ gardens, green grassed, from which, towards nightfall, in "smoky

^^^'^don," comes a scent of flowers on the breeze.

Bronze statues, smoke-grimed, give already an air of antiquity ;
"^^ow them play children in red, blue, and yellow, as they played in
*« days of the "Dandies."

The streets diverging off here are indeed " Old London." From
^^^ingham Street to Adam Street we come perpetually on old
'^^'^es. The Adelphi, so named from the brothers Adam, still
^^^tipies its old site ; whence it has always looked down on the
P^'^orama of the Strand. In the days prior to the Thames Embank-
"*^*^t, the streets of John, Robert, James, William, were probably
^ uiuch objects of admiration as the present buildings of the Em-
"^*^kment proper.

The great dome of St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, and Lambeth,

^'^''e too distant to dwarf them by comparison ; and how immeasurably

*^Pcrior they must haye felt to the small squalid buildings at their feet.

If you turn down Adam Street till you reach Adelphi Terrace,

^U somewhere ^bout 1760, you will gain an impression, not easily

3o6 The Gentleman s Magazine.

forgotten, of the glories and riches of London ; to me, the site con-
stitutes a far more commanding prospect than the near level of the
embankment.

Many a time Garrick's feet have passed here, when he lived in
the centre of the terrace ; though the view has changed, the house
itself is probably much as it was then. He died here, you will
remember, in 1779 ; his wife remaining in the same house till her
death in 1822. Record tells us that she never got over his loss. I
doubt, indeed, if she ever spoke of him ; his bedroom, at any rate,
was never opened from the day of his funeral to that of hers. The
story, pathetic as it is, in these days of short mournings, may find
place here : " When the door was opened, I speak here of his bed-
room, a cloud of moth flew out which had eaten all the draperies of
the room ; every article in the chamber remained as it was on the
day of his death.''

To the right of Adelphi Terrace, as you stand with your back
towards it, was Hungerford Market, and the Fox under the Hill
— a public-house Dickens mentions, where he saw the coal-heavers
dancing: you can still trace a great part of that well-known edifice,
if you too are a lover of Dickens, as indeed you cannot possibly help
being.

Along the south side of the Strand, passing the entrance to Cecil
Street, we come at length to the precincts of the Savoy, now known only
as a chapel : once the site of a great palace. What multitudes of
names surge before one connected with this great name, " throwing
back," as it does, to the Great John of Lancaster. Fresh from the
bustle of Wellington Street, Strand, where once " faire gardens lay,"
you come in this still quiet region to an old-fashioned silent church-
yard, whose walls, though exposed to both fires and tempest, have
hitherto withstood the "woes of age." Authorities tell you the
surrounding streets have raised their level with the march of centuries:
but that this old chapel flooring represents the ancient height of the
footways. Once inside it, the roar of London fades, you are again
in a University city ; such is the appearance the chapel presents to
a student of Alma Mater. Romance-land begins as you name the
Savoy, for you go back to the days of Poictiers, " when thyder" (to
the Savoy prison) " came often tyme the King and Queene on a visit
to King John of France." Here too stayed the poet Chaucer, between
those many diplomatic missions, until later and sadder times came
about, and the Palace Chapel fell in dignity to a Lazar hospital: this,
in the days of King Hal, since when it has been repeatedly restored;

Sonic London Streets. 307

on the last occasion by our present Queen Victoria somewhere about
the year 1865.

Aheady at that date the river view was fading, and is now quite
blocked out; in old days (you can still see from paintings) the
river flowed past the churchyard, or rather, perhaps, past the low
mud-banks which fronted the churchyard walls, and have now, with
recent improvements, disappeared for ever. Nevertheless, the Savoy
churchyard is a bit of old London, and much, to all intents and
purposes, as Hollar and Canaletti have shown it to us.

If you go past the east end of Somerset House, the great public
building which, says the record, '* distinguished the reign of
George HI., and cost half a million of money,'' and take the sharp
turning to your right, down the paved pathway of Strand Lane, you
will come to the oldest Roman bath known to exist in Tendon.

This is an old Roman bath built about a.d. 300, and lost sight
€>f entirely when the Romans left Britain. It was found by accident
in the days of my Lord Essex of Queen Elizabeth fame, who built
himself a beautiful white marble bath, dose to it and still extant.
The Roman bath is fed by a spring which still flows from Highgate
Hills, and falls (as the attendant will tell you) at length into the
Thames. A curious arched chamber this, formed of dark red tiles,
with layers of cement and rubble, much as the baths of Caracalla
are lined, and corresponding exactly with the remains of our old
Roman walls. There are no pipes to conduct the spring, which
rises from the very bowels of the earth, clear and unpolluted as
crystal, and icy cold in mid-summer ! If you are curious to test the
origin of the beautiful water you see before you, stir the layer of
sediment in the bath, and you will see bubbles rise. David Copper-
field, you remember, was a stern believer in the merits of this bath,
in which he was wont to indulge in " many a cold plunge." Did he,
1 wonder, attend at a certain St. Clement Danes, and sit in the
T«iy same pew (with his back to the pillar) where Samuel Johnson
once sat? I am sure, as it lies so near to the neighbourhood of
fciiown street, he must have done so, though his biographer has
^^uled to enlighten us in this particular !

Fleet Street ! with its busy traffic, its dusty roadways, and crowded
^^'osiings : its Grub Street memories, and alas, its somewhat narrowed
P'^^portions. To countrymen, it brings back at once mighty visions
^ the Temple : the antiquary dreams of the Round Church, and of
^ nailed warriors in iron coats.

3o8 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Literary men, I think, love the Temple, for joys quite apart ; and
for them, at any rate, it is peopled with a strange and medley
throng. Entered from Fleet Street by the great brick gateway, what
a curious feeling comes over him who for the first time passes its
" charmed portal " ! How sure he feels, who lives in these days, that
everything here is unaltered ! At No. 2 Brick Court, second fioor, he
remembers, Oliver Goldsmith once had rooms : and at these very
same windows, dust-dimmed, in summer evenings loved to sit. From
the distant rookery there would come a perpetual sound of kraii\
kraiv \ less objectionable this, in Blackstone's opinion, than the noise
of his turbulent neighbour's uproar.

Long since, the old sun-dial has departed with its legend " Begone
about your business." How changed is the fountain, at which John
Wesilock was wont to meet Ruth Pinch. At No. 3 of the Middle
Temple (as it now is) Lamb, you remember, was born : and under a
sycamore tree close by here, Johnson and Goldsmith used to sit.
Look for it. Alas ! in vain you do so; time has swept this away too.
Within fifty years, report says, that tree grew and flourished — it has
gone the way of the roses — it has gone the way of the rooks.

Gone too, by the way, is the Fleet Prison, which once towered
hard by ; and which you would have stumbled on as you emerged
from Fleet Street to Farringdon. There still live those who can
remember the glories of the old Fleet Prison, which was finally
abolished or removed in 1846. Are there those loo who remember
when prisoners came sailing up the river Fleet ? they did so, say old
records, by way of Whitehall. The walls of the prison are still to be
traced under Ludgate Station ; scored by marks — some say of pri-
soners' games, others (less emotional perhaps) by cart wheels ! Green
Arbour Court, which debouches out of it, has lately earned a lively
fame ; and it is hardly possible to realise that Goldsmith once in-
habited it.

" The Fleet was famous," so writes to me an octogenarian, " for
some of the most jovial Free and Easies ; they took place on Thurs-
days of every week, and were said to be delightful entertainments I
The grating where the prisoners sat was a familiar sight to me in my
youth, I can remember the rattling of the collecting box, and the
voices crying, * Pity the poor prisoners'! I could point out to you,
with the greatest ease, iron bars, marking the chapel windows ; to go
farther afield, I remember distinctly the days of the King's Bench
Prison. I could no longer take you to see some of the most promi-
nent taverns ; I could have done so readily sixty years ago ! Ix>ndon
is so rapidly changing in appearance about here, that my genera-

Some London Streets. 309

lion hardly know their way about it Boswell Court I could have
shown you, but it's all pulled down now. We used, in the days of
my youth, to talk of Chatterton, who was buried among the paupers
in Shoe Lane ; I doubt whether I could now take you anywhere near
the spot, which is of course covered by Farringdon Market."

Nevertheless, with all modern improvement, much still remains
to be seen, such as the old-world haunts of Richardson, Goldsmith,
Johnson. There is Bolt Court, where, in Johnson's day, fair gardens
and shady trees grew ; at No. 8 he lived for many years, years of
ceaseless industry. Before this, from 1747-57, he lived, you remem-
ber, in Gough Square, and wrote his Dictionary, says the record, in
a certain top attic. Boswell did not know him till '63, so could not
have visited him here ; Reynolds, Garrick, Richardson undoubtedly
did so. So, too. Goldsmith, from his chambers in Wine OflSce Court ;
the " Vicar of Wakefield " was written at No. 6 of that row. At
the time Goldsmith was in such distress Johnson took it from him
and sold it to Newbery the younger for jQ6o, " He was called away
from the Thrales," says the story, " and found Goldsmith weeping
over his bills. Johnson gave him a guinea, which he found on his
return Goldsmith had spent on a bottle of madeira he was drinking
with his landlady." This was at the old tavern still known as the
Cheshire Cheese, where you may find, if you like, the chairs
on which Johnson and Goldsmith sat ; " the room is, or was until
lately" (I quote from my octogenarian friend), "sanded as to floor,
and a most thoroughly comfortable apartment."

At Johnson's Court (No. 7) you would have found Johnson till 1770;
here Boswell dined with him on many a notable occasion. Mrs.
Villiers and Mrs. Desmoulins were also the welcome guests of this
house, which Boswell describes to us as being of very roomy propor-
tions. He has told us, too, how keenly he regretted Johnson's
departure hence to the Temple ; in his delightful pages you will find
the record of the removal.

You will find, moreover, thoughts that will people for you nearly
all the old Strand byways and passages, and will recognise that each
London street, court, alley, and tavern hereabouts, has its ghosts.

E. K. PEARCE.

VOL, CCtXXl. No. 1929.

■■ • • 1

^3*0 Tlie Genilematis Magazine.

JEAN CHOUAN: A TALE OF LA

VENDEE.

THE White were routed, Bluecoats swept the plain ;
It seemed of bullet balls a very rain ;
Behind the naked hills against the sky
Forests of pine-trees loomed mysteriously.

Under the shelter of a knoll the White
Had rallied and were counting head by head
Their numbers. Then Jean Chouan came in sight,
His long locks scattered in the wind.

" Airs right,"
They cry : " All's well— there's no one dead,
For here's the chief alive ! "

Jean silently
Stood listening to the muskets : then he said,
" All here ? Is no one missing ? "

" None."

" Then fly ! "^
Women and children panic-struck stood round.
" We must disperse, my sons — it must be so.
Fly to the woods ! "

Bewildered, not a sound
Broke from their lips.

" Back to the thickets— go ! ''
And all, like swallows fleeing from the blast.
Took flight. Jean Chouan stood apart — the last—
Then slowly followed, but he turned again
To look behind.

A cry upon the plain !
A woman in the centre of that rain
Of pitiless balls.

The fugitives are gone,
Have almost reached the woods : the chief alone

Jean Chotian : a Tale of La Vendde. 3 1 1

Stands still and listens.

On the woman flies,
Haggard and pale — her bare feet torn — she cries
In anguish, " Help — oh, help ! " in vain. So dire
Her peril in that steady, ceaseless fire,
It seemed that God alone could succour her.

Jean Chouan stands a moment thoughtful there,
Then gains a hillock on the rising ground,
In full face of the volley, with a bound.
And shouts,

" Tis I who am Jean Chouan — 1 1 "
Amidst the Blues there rose exulting cry
" Tis he 1 it is Jean Chouan ! 'tis the chie£"
And then Death changed its target.

Like a leaf
Borne by the wind she speeds in terror wild.
" On ! save yourself I " said Chouan ; " on, my child ! ^

She rushes onwards to the woods, and he,
Like pine in snow or mast of ship at sea,
Stands firm : the Blues see nothing on the heath
But him ; he looks as if in love with death.

" On, on, my girl ! good days are still in store :
You'll put the posies in your breast once more."

But still around that grand and dauntless head.
Harmless and wide, the furious missiles sped.
And in his pride of fierce disdain he drew
And waved his sword : then swift a^bullet flew
Straight to his heart.

" Ave Maria ! 'tis well,"
He said — stood still a moment — reeled and fell.

C. E. MEETKERKE.

A/Ur Victor Hugo.

12 The Gentleman's Magazine.

PAGES ON PLAYS.

THOUGH the dramatic season is over, the drama has reasserted
itself in several theatres. At the Criterion Theatre " Miss
Helyctt," decorously translated into " Miss Decima" — let me resist the
temptation to quote Quince the joiner, with his " Bless thee, how
thou art translated " — delights with the admirable acting of Miss
Nesville and Mr. David James. " Fate and Fortune," a wild melo-
drama, holds the stage at the Princess's, and gives Miss May Whitty
an opportunity of showing that she could do better in a better piece.
A melodrama of a much higher type is "The Trumpet Call,**
Messrs. Buchanan and Sims's new piece at the Adelphi, where Miss
Robins's talent is seen to more advantage than in " Hedda Gabler."
" A Pantomime Rehearsal " has been transferred from Terry's to the
Shaftesbury, and is more amusing than ever with two such actresses
as Miss Beatrice Lamb and Miss Norreys to aid its burlesque humour.
" La Cigale " still runs triumphantly at the Lyric under slightly
altered conditions, as Mr. Hayden Coffin has taken the part created
by the Chevalier Scovell. In " Theodora," at the Olympic, Miss
Grace Hawthorne thrills audiences who like their Procopius and
their Gibbon through a Sardou medium.

One of the most interesting of recent dramatic events was the
production by Mr. Alexander, on the last night of his season,
of a little one-act piece by Mr. Frith, called " Molifere." The
play, which deals with the tragic circumstances of Moli^re's death,
was gracefully written and admirably acted. There have been
plays on Moli^re before. Georges Sand wrote one in five acts,
in which she endeavoured to give a picture of Moli^re's whole
life and to clear the character of Armande B^jart. Mr. Frith, too,
had this latter aim. That Mr. Frith had not merely no historical
authority for his treatment of the closing hours of Molibre's life, but
that he actually set aside the historical certainties concerning the
death, is not a matter for which he should be reproached. He
wished to give Mr. Alexander opportunity for some fine acting, not
to dramatise a few pages from Louandre or Durand or Despois and
Mesaard. And what he wished to do he succeeded in doing, Mr.

Pages on Plays. 313

Alexander never looked more picturesque, never acted with subtler
alternations of grim humour and infinite pathos. From the first
moment when the dying man is brought in in the sedan-chair, his
ghastly face contrasting with the royal scarlet of his cloak, with the
word '*Juro" still upon his failing lips, tothelast moment of reconci-
liation with his erring, unhappy wife, the study was admirable, the
picture perfect The young actor had given his most interesting proof
of high artistic power.

But it is not so much of acted plays that I wish to speak this
month as of one unacted play which is just now attracting con-
siderable attention dans la haute dramatique. It is called "La
Princesse Maleine" and it is the work of a. young Belgian author —
Maurice Maeterlinck. I saw what I believe was the first copy which
came to London some months back ; I glanced at it, did not find it
to my liking, and laid it aside. £ut now certain leaders of the new
school of dramatic criticism — Mr. William Archer and Mr. Walkley
most notably — have laid hold of ** La Princesse Maleine " and extol
it enthusiastically. At this moment there is a movement among
certain devoted Maeterlinckists to translate the piece and put it in
some form or another upon some English stage. I do not think the
''esult would be successful. I am inclined to share Mr. ling's
^strust of the exotic geniuses that are so incessantly being discovered
^^^ us ; I decline to admit that, because I admire the dramatic
genius of Ibsen, I must therefore recognise a dramatic genius in
^olstoi or Maeterlinck, that I must rave over " The Fruits of En-
"Ehtenmenl," or " The Powers of Darkness," or " La Princesse
^aleine." Undoubtedly there is much queer distorted cleverness
^^ ** Ha Princesse Maleine." It is a nightmare play, the kind of play
^*^t one might dream of after an overstrained study of "The White
P^vil," or " Les Burgraves," or " Death's Jest-Book." There is a
uttl^ of all these, of Webster, of Hugo, of Beddoes, in it It is grim,
l5^otesque, fantastic, absurd ; I do not think it would make a possible
^^^e-play. But, as it is being talked about so much, I propose to
pve a translation of the last scene of the fifth act, which is a most
^^^ellent specimen of the peculiarities, the merits, and the defects of
^^ <irama. A wicked old king of one part of Holland, named
"Wtnar, has made war upon and killed Marcellus, king of another
^^ of Holland. Old Hjalmar has a son, young Hjalmar, who was
"^othed to the Princesse Maleine, Marcellus's daughter. When her
"^^^gdom is devastated, Maleine, like the Bailiff's Daughter of Is-
wng^ODi sets off to seek Hjalmar in company with a faithful nurse,
Vd enters the Court qf Hjalmar disguised as a waiting-maid. Vopng

314 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Hjalmar is now betrothed to Uglyane, daughter of a Queen Anne of
Jutland, who has been captured by old Hjalmar, and who exercises
a fatal influence over him. Maleine declares herself to the young
Hjalmar, who avows his intention of marrying her, after some doleful
wooing in an owl-haunted park. Queen Anne, after trying unsuc-
cessfully to poison Maleine, finally, with the reluctant assistance of
the old, doting, almost imbecile Hjalmar, strangles Maleine in her
room on a wild night of storm and heavenly portents. The scene I
am about to quote is the last scene after the murder is discovered.

Scene IV. The room of the Princesse Maleine,

(Hjalmar and the Nurse are discorjered-^the tocsin is heard ringing outside

throughotU the scene.)

The Nurse. Help ! help !

Hjalmar. What has happened ? what has happened ?

The Nurse. She is dead ! My God ! my God ! Maleine I Maleine!

Hjalmar. But her eyes are open ! . , , .

The Nurse. She has been strangled ! Her neck I her neck ! See I

Hjalmar. Yes. Yes. Yes.

The Nurse. Call ! caU ! Call out !

Hjalmar. Yes I yes ! yes ! Oh ! oh ! (Outside.) Help I help ! Strangled t
strangled! Maleine! Maleine! Maleine! Strangled! strangled! strangle<^^
Oh ! oh ! oh ! Strangled ! strangled ! strangled !

{He is heard running down the corridor and banging against the doors ^^
walls, )

A Servant {in the corridor). What is the matter ? What is the matter ?

Hjalmar (itt the corridor). Strangled ! strangled ! . . . ,

The Nurse (/w the room). Maleine ! Maleine ! Here ! here !

The Servant [entering). It is the fool ! He has been found under *^
window !

The Nurse. The fool?

The Servant. Yes ! yes ! He is in the ditch ! He is dead !

The Nurse. The window is open !

The Servant. Oh ! the poor little princess !

{Enter Angus ^ lords, ladies, domestics, waiting-women , and the seven bfgui^
with lights.)

All, What is the matter ? What has happened ?

The Domestic. The little princess has been killed ! . • • •

SouE. The little princess has been killed ?

Others. Maleine?

The Domestic Yes. I think it is the fool ?

A Lord. I said something untoward would happen. ....

The Nurse. Maleine! Maleine! My poor little Maleine ! .... Help!

A Bj£guine. There is nothing to be done !

Another B£guine. She is cold !

The Third B6GUINE. Sheisstiflfl

The Fourth B^guine. Close her eyes I

The Fifth B£guine. They are fixed !

The Sixth B£gujne. Her hands must be joined J

Pages on Plays. 315

The Seventh BfiGuiNE. It is too late !

A Lady (fainting). Oh J oh ! oh !

The Nurse. Help me to lift Maleine ! Help ! my God, my God, help me !

The Servant. She does not weigh more than a bird I

(Loud cries are heard in the corridor,)

The King (in the corridor). Ah ! ah ! ah ! ah I ah ! They have seen her I
They have seen her ! I come ! I come ! I come !

Anne (in the corridor). Stop ! stop ! You are mad !

The King. Come I come ! with me ! with me ! Murder ! murder ! murder !
(Enter the King^ dragging the Queen Anne.) She and I ! I prefer to say it at
once ! We did it together !

Anne. He is mad ! Help !

The King. No, I am not mad ! She killed Maleine !

Anne. He is mad ! Take him away ! He is hurting me ! Something
dreadful will happen !

The Kino. She did ! she di^} ! And I ! 1 1 I ! I had a hand in it
too ! ... .

HjALMAR. What? what?

The King. She strangled her ! So ! so ! See ! see ! see ! There was
knocking at the window ! Ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! I see her red mantle there
over Maleine ! See ! see ! see !

HjALMAR. How does that red mantle come there ?

Anne. But what has happened ?

HjALMAR. How is that red mantle here ?

Anne. But you see he is mad ! . . . .

HjALMAR. Answer me ! How is it here ? . . , •

Anne. Is it mine ?

HjALMAR. Yes, yours ! yours ! yours ! yours ! . . . .

Anne. Let me go ! You hurt me !

HjALMAR. How is it here ? here ? here ? — You have ? . , • ■

Anne. And after? ....

HjALMAR. Oh ! the wanton ! wanton ! wanton ! monstrous wanton ! . • . ,
There ! there ! there ! there ! there 1 (he stabs her several times with the dagger),

Anne. Oh ! oh ! oh ! (she dies).

Some. He has stabbed the queen !

Others. Arrest him !

HjALMAR. You will poison the crows and the worms !

All. She is dead ! . . . .

Angus. Hjalmar ! Hjalmar !

HjALMAR. Be gone ! There ! there ! there ! (he stabs himself with his dagger),
Maleine ! Maleine ! Maleine !— Oh ! my falher ! my father ! . . . . (he falls).

The King. Ah ! ah ! ah !

Hjalmar. Maleine ! Maleine ! Give me, give me her little hand ! — oh !
oh ! open the window ! yes ! yes ! oh ! oh ! (he dies).

The Nurse. A handkerchief ! a handkerchief 1 He is going to die !

Angus. He is dead !

The Nurse. Lift him up ! the blood is choking him !

A Lord. He is dead !

The King. Oh ! oh ! oh ! I have not cried since the deluge ! But now I
am plunged into hell to my very eyes !— But look at their eyes I They are going
Xo jump on m^ like frogs !

3i6 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Angus. He is mad !

The King. No, no ; but I have lost courage ! ... ah ! it is enough to make
the paving-stones of hell weep ! . . . .

Angus. Take him away ; he cannot gaze on that longer ! . . . .

The King. No, no ; leave me : — T dare not remain alone any more ....
where is the beautiful Queen Anne ? Anne ! . . . Anne ! . . . . She is all con-
torted !....! don't love her any more at all ! ... . My God ! how poor oue
looks when one is dead ! . . . . I should not like to embrace her any more now I
. . . Put something over her ! . . .

The Nurse, And over Maleine too .... Maleine ! Maleine ! . . . ,
Oh ! oh ! oh !

The King. I shall never embrace any one again in my life, since I have
seen all this ! . . . . Where is our poor little Maleine ? {He takes Maleinis
hand.) Ah ! she is cold as an earthworm. She descended like an angel into my
arms But it is the wind which has killed her I

Angus. Take him away ! For the love of God, take him away !

The Nurse. Yes ! yes !

A Lord. Wait an instant !

The King. Have you black plumes ? One ought to have black plumes to
see whether the queen still lives. She was a beautiful woman, you know. Do
you hear my teeth ? (^Dawn lights up the room,')

All. What?

The King. Do you hear my teeth ?

The Nurse. It is the bells. Seigneur ....

The King. But it is my heart, then I .... Ah ! I loved them well all
three ! I should like to drink a little ....

The Nurse {bringing a glass of water). Here is some water.

The King. Thank you. (He drinks cagcTly.)

The Nurse. Don't drink like that. You are in perspiration.

The King. I am so thirsty !

The Nurse. Come, my poor Seigneur, I will wipe your forehead.

The King. Yes. Ah ! You have hurt me. I fell in the corridor .
I was frightened I

The Nurse. Come, come ; let us go.

The King. They will be cold on the stones. She cried ** Mother ! " and then,
oh 1 oh ! oh !— it is a pity, isn't it? A poor young girl .... but it is the
wind .... Oh ! never open the windows ! It must be the wind , . , .
There were blind vultures in the wind to-night ! But don't let her little hands
trail on the stones .... You will step on her hands I Oh ! oh ! take care I

The Nurse. Come, come ; one must go to bed, it is time. Come, come!

The King. Yes, yes, yes; it is too warm here. Put out the light, we will
go into the garden ; it will be fresh on the lawn after the rain ! I want a little
rest .... Oh! there is the sun ! {The sun comes into the room.)

The Nurse. Come, come ; we are going into the garden.

The King. But little Allan must be shut up ! I don't want him to come
and frighten me any more !

The Nurse. Yes, yes ; we will shut him up. Come, come I

The King. Have you the key ?

The Nurse. Yes; come.

The King. Yes ; help mc , . . I have a little difficulty in walking
I am a poor little old man . . . my legs are no good any more . ♦ . l>ut my
hej^d is SQljd . . . {leaning on the nurse) I dgn't hurt you ?

Pages on Play$. 317

The Nurse. No, no \ lean heavily.

The King. One must not be angry with me, must one? 1| who am the
t)ldest, I am loth to die ... . There ! there ! now it is finished ! I am glad it
is finished, for I had all the world on my heart ....

The Nurse. Come, my poor Seigneur I

The King. My God ! my God ! she is now waiting on the quays of hell !

The Nurse. Come, come !

The King. Is there anyone here who is afraid of the malediction of the
dead?

Angus. Yes, Sire ; I . . . ,

The King. Well, close their eyes, then, and let us go !

The Nurse. Yes, yes ; come, come !

The King. I am coming I I am coming I Oh ! oh ! how alone I am going
to be now ! — behold me up to my ears in misfortune !— ^at aeventy-seven years
old ! Where are you ?

The Nurse. Here, here.

The King. You are not angry with me?— we will have breakfait* Will there
be some salad ? — I should like a little salad ....

The Nurse. Yes, yes ; there will be some.

The King. I don't know why. I am a little sad to«day. My God ! my God !
How unhappy the dead look ! . . . . (He goes ottt with the nurse,)

Angus. Another such night and we shall all be white ! (Jfhey all go out,
'with the exception of the seven biguinesy who intone the Miserere whilst placing
the corpses on the bed. The bells cease. Nightingales are heard outside, A cock
tumps up on to the window-sill and crows,)

The End.

It will be seen from this example that Maeterlinck's method is a
queer method. There is, indeed, a kind of horror in his style, a
kind of strength in its affected simplicity, in its wearisome repetitions,
in its eccentric struggle after contrast and effect But it is not an
attractive play to me ; much as I am in sympathy with the new
school of dramatic criticism, I cannot share a profound admiration
for " La Princesse Maleine."

It is scarcely by the study of exotic eccentricities such as this that
the regeneration of our drama in England is to be accomplished. Mr.
Pinero apparently thinks that the desired end is to be assisted by the
perusal of " The Fruits of Enlightenment," to the English translation
of which he has just supplied a preface. Mr. Henry Arthur Jones
thinks that it is to be done by the author-manager as opposed to the
actor-manager. He has set to work to put his conviction to the
proof. He has taken his theatre, engaged his company, written his
play, and within a few weeks London will be asked to witness the
result of Mr. Jones's new departure. In the meantime Mr. Jones's
action has aroused a stormy controversy. Mr. E. S. Willard, who
has been successfully associated with two of Mr. Jones's most suc-
cessful plays, has assailed Mr. Jones very vigorously in the columns

3i8 The GentlemaTis Magazine.

of the Pall Mall Gazette^ and in the same arena Mr. Jones has no
less vigorously retaliated. These dramatic quarrels are profoundly
regrettable. Cannot Mr. Willard and Mr. Jones differ as to the best
method of producing plays without stirring each other up with angry
insinuations and bitter retorts ? Both are able men ; each holds
high rank in his own department of dramatic art ; it is a thousand
pities that they should waste their time and their abilities in profit-
less altercation. The public wants other work from them then that

J. H. MCCARTHY.

3t9

TABLE TALK.

"Le Morte Darthur."

WITH the publication of the third volume, containing his
analyses of the early Arthurian romances, Dr. Sommer com-
pletes his edition of "Le Morte Darthur."' Another service to
English scholarship is thus rendered us by a German. Not only
does Dr. Sommer establish the place in the Arthurian cycle of
Malory's book, which has inspired Milton and Tennyson and
incurred the sanctimonious condemnation of Roger Ascham, and
supply the first thoroughly trustworthy text ; he shows also that
Malory has introduced matter not to be found in the well-known
romances of Merlin, Tristan, Lancelot, and so forth. While owning
a personal debt to Dr. Sommer for a book which I have perused with
much interest and which it is a pleasure to possess, I ask — ^Where are
our scholars, that writers such as Malory and Gower must be intro-
duced to us by foreigners ? Can it be that scholarship is deficient in
a country that can boast men such as Murray, Skeat, Furnivall, and
Mayhew, or that in this, as in other respects, Germans can live in
comfort where Englishmen, with more ambitious notions, would

starve?

Heine on Englishmen.

THE appearance of a translation of the entire works of Heine,
the first that has yet been seen in England, translated by
C G. Leland (Hans Breitmann), and published appropriately enough
by Heinemann, is in many respects of interest. Englishmen will
turn with eagerness, and unfortunately with disappointment, to
"Shakespeare's Maidens and Women," now first, so far as I am
aware, brought within their reach. Essays by Heine upon Rosalind,
Miranda, Cordelia, Desdemona ! How much is not promised I
Unfortunately, concerning these creations Heine, in what is a piece
of task-work, has scarcely a word that is new to say. For this
Englishmen will be consoled by the edifying comment that is passed
open their country and themselves. Nowhere in Heine is more
•* excellent fooling " than in the opening pages of this work. After

» David Nutt.

* «.

Dl Sentkntaiis Magazine.

_ ;:* -.v^ 1 ^^ood Hamburg Christinn who cannot

• ::c ac: that our Saviour is a Tew of kin to the

-^.•.. ^-! :>V5 who go running about the streets selling

" - iUi ' J!:::st," he continues, *' is to this excellent son

r ^-^ii^^Jirrcarc to me. It takes the heart out of

;,: ".:; /.v: is an Englishman, and belongs to the

. • :. : G'?d in His wrath ever created. ' I will

. .- \\\.\ x.iny amenities of this sort, though there is

* .; se.oct. Mr. Leland— in ver)- chivalrous st>-le,

. : -"dertakes our defence, and draws attention

\. .-N-:J:: mainly to please the French, and that

. '. r^vuntcd his opinions. It docs us good,

: .: :: ::::;e how heartily we have been disliked

:.- ; r.-::."r.5, and to learn that whilom in the

\\ v^r: icT.icd all that is beautiful and worthy

. :.,sr' rc-i " ^s that stone-coal-stinking {sfc-in-

■v.- :..\::-:^. church-going, and vilely-drunken

• • ^ *'JL> '.Mcn caused in theatrical circles

-. , • ,-. .:.::akcn against actor-managers.

. >-.:v:> XMrj. and probably from a still

..1 -;-. "^'.y of management. Occa-

. ^ -.:.x:s; v;.::c, darrick, Foote, and Bouci-

. ! -i :>:e-.*i:>!y doLibled with the dramatist.

[ .1.1S -i:: .tj:[..^rwho was not also an actor

^ . ! .v.:\ V.V.:: .^r.:Ovl with the two men under

•.:icr •- iL* '.«'n-: r.:::!icm night of Puritanism,

.-s ' i:> o: whom were dramatists while

■t-.'jr. r':c<e men were, however, the pos-

.:• :;ic Crjwr. too precious to be bestowed

.^ ivj I\.--t^ !ovcd to honour. They were

I vj ;T.i:::,uI command of the stage soon

. . -.:' 1 -i< y-«c::er:on and Hart, and, in later

-^i :""::: Actors are the most successful

.V .'-v. :n England, the only managers.

• . . :..:*.-?> have been trusted with the

, .r-.s. M. Jules Claretie is the present

■, ...vv- Germany has seen the control

. >?. s: .itvi ".',* Goethe, and the much-maligned

- ::> wU' :r.e theatres in Bergen and in

^i'
^ *•

% .

SYLVANUS URBAN,

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

October 1891.

NAMELESS.

"Stat Nominis Umbra.**

By J. Lawson.

THE time of summer was now at hand — movement of some
sort was absolutely needful.

A man does not knock about this world for twenty years to rest
content pent up in any special nook, however snug and comfort-
able.

For long flights the times were inopportune and out of joint —
nay, opportunity itself was lacking. Moreover, the year was young :
the "insect youth " still weak on wing, the "early- wailing" swallow
but just arrived, the horse-chesnuts barely in bloom, the "ruffian
blasts " of our boisterous coast not yet stowed (for good and all) in
their summer cave.

" I will hie me to the Highlands," said I. " It is but a small ven-
ture; and there will I revisit those scenes that, in days when life was
young and pleasures crowded thick, did use to charm me most."

O vain and foolish thought ! Of all the dismal failures in this
world of failures, that revisiting old haunts after long absence is
surely the dismallesL Henceforth do I utterly renounce and abjure
such fond and fatal folly.

O my coevals, remnants of yourselves !

is a pathetic wail that breaks from most of us as we near our ends.

And yet there is a certain dignity about it that is quite wanting to

jour middle-aged man's version.

His exceeding bitter cry is : " O my coevals, dumplings of your-
vou ccLxxi. NO. 1930. 2.

322 The Gentleman s Magazine.

selves ! " The shrunk shank, the lean and slippered pantaloon, are
things not too arduous to be borne with equal mind ; but who may
abide that horrid form, that lax obesity of figure ("un embonpoint
flottant," Balzac calls it) that too often afflicts him whose conscience
is easy and balance clear, between the heyday of youth and the
decrepitude of senility ?

Can it be that, not so many years back, you twined your arm
round that exorbitant waist in melting waltz ? Can it be that once,
backing your prowess against that of yonder Daniel Lambert,, dozing
over his paper by the drawing-room fire, you were beaten hollow ?

But we must not linger moralising on the threshold.

Borne on the wings of a smooth south wind, I sped northward
all a moonlight night of May ; and noon next day found me got as
far as a place that, well within my own recollection, had been
a whitewashed fishing hamlet and port of call for Hebridean
smacks.

All old landmarks were now swept ruthlessly away — a monstrous
modern ruin dominating the plain below, and rendering it ridiculous.
I fled amazed far, far away ; and turned my attention to an inn
where, in days of yore, I had gone a-fishing.

It — thank Heaven '.—remained as heretofore — solid, massive, un-
embellished, square. So lonely and open to all comers stands the
building, that I saw a dawdling beast rub his unkempt hide against
the door-post, and bless the Duke of Argyll^ ere his drover, with
uplifted ash, annexed him to the lowing kine ahead.

Here, then, w^as an ark of refuge from the flood of a too nice and
delicate civilisation ; and I entered in at its portal accordingly. The
time of tourists was not yet. A Sister of Mercy with a pretty girl of
eighteen, two Indian officers fishing, a college don and his ward, a
sick doctor from the Midlands and his little boy, made the comple-
ment of our mess that night.

A curious air of silence hung about the precincts : the people of
the house showed little care to entertain the traveller, or ease him of
his cash with grace. An incurious dulness of disposition seemed
to sit upon them like an incubus.

Two plaided shepherds, with a ghillie and boatman, talked the
harsh Gaelic of that district outside the open window, but even they
spoke with bated breath.

Next day the hush and stillness of the inn were more pronounced
than ever ; but it was the Sabbath, and much might be set down to
that.

I got back from a long and stiff climb to the top, the true top,

Nameless. 323

of a high and difficult hill — one of Scotland's most notable hills —
just in time for the table (ThSte,

The night was close and sultry ; all day there had been shifting
mists and fine drizzling rain. And now, at eventide, the breeze had
died down to a flat calm, while the drizzle had turned itself into a
downpour that forbade further going abroad.

Outside the house was a roomy porch with pillars ; and there,
our meal done, we sat or lounged about, and smoked, and did a little
feeble talk. But everything and everybody seemed weighed down
by the depressing gloom and stillness, and we lapsed into a dreary
silence.

That silence was broken by a cough of preface from behind ;
and, looking round, we beheld standing in the doorway a gaunt and
haggard female. Her eyes were hard and dry, her features lacked
expression, and all she said was this : " Would any of you gentlemen
like to take a look before the body is screwed down ? "

The look of horror — not to say terror — that came into the officers'
eyes I shall never forget.

As they sat nearest the speaker, one on either hand the door, on
them lay naturally the onus of reply ; but they were past power of
speech, and stared, with stony eyes, at the woman looming on the
steps above. I, who sat farther off, kept awed silence, while the
sick, but callous, doctor said briefly, "Is a man dead in the
house?"

The woman, seeing us thus hang back from the proffered boon,
turned on her heel with never a word, and vanished in the dark
recess of passage within.

The sick doctor sought to cheer us with professional yarns.
Weird and ghoulish enough, in all conscience, many of his stories
were, but, somehow or other, they fell flat, and on unitching ears.

With Death so near, we didn't seem much to care for him far
away.

So the doctor carried his little boy to bed ; the officers slunk
off to the bare, fireless sitting-room, and I followed quickly in their
wake. There was little or no talk between us.

Grog, we felt instinctively, was the properest support we could
have under the shock.

And it certainly is a, shock, when in a spirit of holiday-making, to
be asked if one would like to see a fellow holiday-maker screwed down.

I wasn't sorry when, ere long, the two strangers took themselves
off to speak with their ghillie, on the way upstairs, and left me to
my own devices.

z 2

324 The Gentle7nan s Magazine.

I sat by an open window, and looked out on the melancholy
night. My thoughts rushed off to days long past, and the merry
group I had once formed one of, in a Hebridean isle.

No plutocrat as yet had lighted on that happy isle. As yet no
venomous crofter had raised his crest and expanded his hood to hiss
the passer-by. All was poverty, simplicity, and peace.

For needful stores, we put our trust in Mr. Hutchinson, of Glasgow,
whose weekly packet-boat disgorged the wheaten loaf and cask of
Bass. We killed our own mutton, shot our own game, caught our

own cod or trout. Now and again, I^rd M would send us a

haunch of venison, wherewith (and added Carbost) to cheer our
hearts in time of festival. Now and again, too, did we make royster-
ing moonlight raids, in our trim gig, on some barque weather-bound
in distant loch. No exciseman was nearer hand than Inverness or
Oban— each a good hundred miles off. Kindly neighbours, as the
eve of his visitations drew nigh, would send out wary scouts to be
the heralds of his coming, and with true Christian charity blow the
horn of warning from some craggy height or pinnacle of rock.

What a hubbub and stir there was, when the bray of that horn
(louder than Alecto*s) rang through the land !

Naughty superfluities of terriers and otter-dogs were shepherded
out at hillside huts, while Her Majesty received payment of such anum-
ber as, for people in our walk of life, seemed a reasonable allowance.
Ah ! happy days of innocence and ease, passed for ever away !
What days of (perhaps, too free) hospitality they were — what inter-
change of good offices— what camaraderie — what high hopes — what
confidence in the goodwill of mankind — what boundless twfiua \

Amongst others I came across at that time was M , an old chum

at school, but long lost sight of. Poor dear M ! since last we

met, fortune had played him many a scurvy trick. Compelled to re-
nounce the profession of his choice, he had lapsed into evil courses,
and played pranks that had a spice of hereditary madness lurking in
them. He was now leading a listless life of exile, ashamed and sony,
mixing sprees and repentances in about equal quantities.

A good-natured soul as ever breathed, a boon and cheery com-
panion ; but assuredly he was born under an unlucky star.

Manifold were his scrapes, and dire the accidents that befell him.

One time my friend V and I, sitting smoking by an open win-

dow. and looking on the loch beneath, spied a man shove off from the
opposite shore and make in our direction. The loch was alive with
whales at the time — we had killed one with our rifles but the day before.
By-and-by a sportive fish bumped the fresh-tarred dingey and oveiset

Nameless. 325

her. Of course, we pulled instantly off to the rescue, and found it was

M , sitting astride the uneven keel of his craft And an awkward

time the poor fellow had of it : the swamped boat wobbling about
like a barrel, with every inclination to rid herself of her rider. We
made many efforts to accomplish his deliverance dry-shod ; but, after
all, the passage from his topsy-turvy dingey to our gig was only
effected by means of a header.

Another time a friend from Oxford swooped down upon us, and
we must needs show him the lions. Driving tandem home from a

long day*s outing, M , who was of our party, and in the back seat,

overcome by fatigue and whisky, fell sound asleep, toppled out in a
nitty bit of steep incline, and broke his arm.

Worse still, we had gone (three of us) for two days* rabbit-shoot-
ing at a far-away hut, under stupendous cliffs. A room or two super-
added made our place of occupation, and the shepherd's daughter —
a " neat-handed Phyllis " — cooked and did for us. Our stay there
done, we were packing up to be off. Men with ponies would meet us at
the head of a balloch, the way up to which, from our side, was too

steep and stony to be done except afoot. M rattled a canister

in his hand. " All but empty ; no use bothering to take it with us."
" Toss it on the fire, then ! " He took out the plug, a trickling stream
of powder fell down upon the flame, the flame leapt up the trickling
stream of powder, the canister burst, and so frightfully was poor

M 's hand shattered that there was nothing for it but amputation

of thumb and forefinger, and all that hand remained an indigo blue
to the end of his days.

In course of time, the days of our island sojourn were accom-
plished, the pleasant party broke up, and we were scattered abroad to

the ends of the earth, V going to New Zealand, I to Canada,

and M to hunt beasts in Natal. He and I were the last to part.

" Au revoir ! " he cried gaily, as his train moved on out of York
station. " We meet again ! "

"Never more," said I; "ah ! never more!" and moved sadly away.

Whilst thus dreaming the hour away in sad remembrance, a shabby
trap had drawn up at the door, and three men had entered the inn.
I gave them no particular attention. " Men for their Sabbath night-
cap of toddy, maybe."

A tiny runlet from moors above hurried past the open window
where I sat, to join a bigger stream below; and I think I found more
entertainment in watching the antics of some absurd ducklings who
ought to have been abed long since.

326 TJie Gentleman's Magazine.

The stream, now swollen by rains, ran strong ; and in vain did
these ugly ducklings, to the anguish of their reputed mother, strive
to make headway against it. Over and over they rolled ; and still,
with perseverance worthy of a better cause, stuck to their self-imposed
task, returning gallantly to the charge after each capsize, with tempers
and plumage unimpaired. By the brook-edge lay a callow brother,
flat as a pancake ; perhaps (who knows ?) sib to him " that Samuel
Johnson trod on."

I was wondering what possible motive they could have for going
by water, when they might, so much more speedily and pleasantly,
have made their way home by land, when there came a shuffling of
feet on the stairs, the pop of soda-water, silence for the space of •* a
long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether," and then the three
men, issuing from the front door, stepped into their shabby trap, the
stable-boy flicked the rug off the steaming hack, and they were
gone.

Each of them had in his hand one of those ugly black bags which,
I know not why, have Mr. Gladstone for godfather.

It must have been eleven by this, but still light enough to see
with ease.

No sooner were the men gone than a glass door, which gave
access to our room from the dark passage without, was opened, and
that awful woman stood in the gap.

Two awkward steps led down from passage to room, and the
woman a-top towered higher than ever.

At sight of mc she made a halt, and seemed uncertain what
way to go.

Feeling it incumbent on me to break the ice of silence, I asked
" if all were done ? "

" No ; a post-mortem had been ordered by the sheriff — the
doctors were just gone — the corpse laid afresh in its coffin — the lid
not yet affixed. Again she said, " Would you like to take a look before
the body is screived do7vn 1 "

The spell of her influence was upon me, like mesmeric fascination.
She beckoned with the hand. I rose and went.

Steering a devious course through many a maze of winding passage
— a step up here, another down there — we came to the chamber of
death : a miserable bare closet to die in, I thought, as ever was seen.
Scarce a bit of furniture but the bed of death, and the trestle on
which the dead lay in his open coffin.

No flowers, no candles, no crucifix ; not a note of hope or faith —
ill still blank and apathy of death I

Nameless. 327

The face was covered with a napkin ; the woman, eyes fixed on
me, withdrew it ; and I gazed, with that awe which death begets, on
the unknown.

The body was covered with a sheet ; no mark of the doctor's
horrid task offended the shrinking eye. •

The hands lay clasped upon the breast, also covered with a
napkin.

The woman, eyes still fixed on me, withdrew it.

My knees gave way for fear of what I saw ; and staggering to the
only chair, I sat upon the dead man's clothes.

" Good God ! " I gasped ; " who is he ? " and could say no more.

Brandy was at hand for those that did their offices about the
dead, and I drank without stint of what the woman poured me out.

Then I drew near and gazed again. Again I cried, " Good God !
who is he ? "

The woman, unperturbed by my agitation (I think, ignoring it),
told, in harsh dry voice, what little she knew.

" He had come by coach from some place south — Inveraray or
Lochgilphead — was going north, he said — a total stranger — no clue
to identity — no letters, no pocket-book, no name on linen — a decent
stock of money, fifteen pounds or so, in gold — to be buried early in
the kirkyard yonder — that was all."

But, God of heaven ! was it all? Whose was that blue mutilated
hand?

Greatly agitated, I begged a day's delay.

At midnight, I rode off to the nearest office, and by eight next

morning had despatched a telegram to Lord . I waited eagerly

at my post for the answer ; it came at noon :

" We know nothing— we wish to know nothing — of the man. Let
him rest."

It was ^VQ in the afternoon when I got back to the house of
death. The Sister of Mercy and the pretty girl of eighteen were gone ;
so were the college don and his ward. The Indians were out fishing ;
the doctor and his boy on an excursion. Only that hard dry woman
and I were there ; with bearers, pipe in mouth, lounging in the
porch, hungering for their load.

" You are late, sir ! " says the woman; " does the burial go on ? "

I bowed assent, and she summoned the minister. He came in
quickly, and, while he made his funeral oration by the coffin side, I
stood afar off, and, with bowed head, recited, sub silentio^ my Pater-
noster^ my Miserere and De Profundis.

Then, away with him to the graveyard, and so to rest without

328 The Gentleman's iviu^^^.

more ado ; earth shovelled briskly in to the tune of " Tullochgoram,"
and rammed down on the Nameless by hobnailed soles of strangers'
feet

That very hour I went my onward way. Men rowed me, in the
gloaming, many miles to the head of a loch. The watches of the
night were spent a foot in Scotland's wildest glen. Next afternoon
found me knocking at the gate of a great monastic pile. The
brethren received me with joy ; but the errand that had brought me
there was without accomplishment.

In one of his many fits of gloomy remorse, M had gone»

with myster>', to the mainland over against us. In those far-back
days there dwelt at that spot an old priest, who ministered to the
wants of a Catholic clan, and acted as chaplain at the big house of
the neighbourhood.

By this priest — I had it from his own lips — M had been

received into the fold. But the good father was, long since, gone
to his rest ; and the brethren could tell me absolutely nothing.

Next day I took a grateful leave of my hosts, and went a great way
off, that I might (if it were possible) leave sadness far behind.

My excursion was meant as quite a steady-going,- middlcraged
affair, with nothing loud or young-mannish about it ; and yet here
was I, of five nights out, spending but two in bed !

Of the rest, one had been passed in a train, another in the saddle^
the third on foot.

And now my sixth, spent at a decent roadside inn, was little
more to the purpose than its fellows in the way of rest

That Nominis Umbra had murdered sleep. To this very day,

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in sleep.
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep.

For what they watch I cannot tell. It may be that he whom I

saw laid to rest was a stranger to me. It may be that M ^'i

prophecy, " We meet again ! " remains to this day unfulfilled.

But I shall never shake myself free of the conviction that his gaj
words had their fulfilment when I looked on the blue, mutilated
hand o^ the Nameless,

329

m CUSTOMS OF AUSTRALIAN

ABORIGINES.

HE inferior races are being improved off the face of the earth.

It is so ever)-' where. The old giveth place to the new. The

iword, " Advance, Australia ! " has sounded the death-knell of

iborigines of the country which is fast making local history.

are passing away. This must be. The foothills have to be
len down, and left behind, if the mountain top is to be reached;
ave men always trodden so lightly as they might have done ?
\ native races must perish, we need not be in haste to kill them
Nature will do her work, if only she is left alone. Good people
lain that these aborigines have not been duly Christianised;
humanitarians that they have not been preserved, after the
m of ancient monuments. Such persons never pause to inquire
ler one or the other could have been done.
he race was a decaying one when it was discovered. Nature is
rable ; her processes may be retarded, but she will win in the

The aborigines have been well treated, with exceptions, but
conditions of life are not theirs. The vices and diseases of
iation have been too much for us and for them,
^hen Europeans first settled in New South Wales, the native
lation scarcely averaged one hundred persons to an area of two
and square miles. The country could not support a large popu-
1. There were no animals which could be domesticated, to raise
to the pastoral condition. Protracted droughts rendered food
^ater more than scarce. Now the few are almost gone. Some
)ns have become extinct. In districts where tribes once dwelt, not
igle native exists. Other tribes, which formerly numbered two
Ired souls, have dwindled down to three or four, or, it may be,

to a solitary representative. This decline has been largely
g to the practice of infanticide, loss of native rights, subversion
ibal order, and the introduction of European vices. These
ren of nature have suffered. Formerly they possessed no
icants, now drunkenness is their bane. One imported disease.

330 Tlie Gentleman s Magazifie.

which must be nameless, has desolated the tribes. Soon the place ot
this people will know them no more ; ** they will be clean forgotten,
as a dead man out of mind."

This being so, it will be wise to bestow a thought upon the lives
of these beings, who are, in some respects, so near to anthropoid
apes, and whose artistic powers are inferior to those of extinct old-
world tribes which have left us rude delineations of the chase.
Something is known about them : of their weapons, innocent of iron
previous to contact with Europeans; of their habitations, formed of
bark shealing ; of their cookery, which consists chiefly of throwing
game, in its skin, upon the fire, or the employment of red-hot stones;
of their clothing, or rather no clothing, for, as a witty Frenchman
informed a lady, " one could clothe six men with a pair of gloves."
These are familiar topics, but the natives are more than these ; yet
they may be dismissed with few words. There is a racial likeness in
all, although there are tribal differences, which when seen are readily
remembered. All have thick lips, overhanging brows, and widely
extended nostrils. They usually possess well- formed hands. Many
are weakly in appearance, having little muscular development in arms
and legs. Babes when born are nearly white ; the colour of the skin
in youth is chocolate, darkening with age until it verges upon black.
The hair is always black. The bodies of old men are especially
hairy. Women, after they have left off child-bearing, generally have
whiskers, which they recognise as a sign that they will have no more
children. Taken as a whole, these natives are a dirty, unprepossessing
race. Some writers describe them as being treacherous, cruel, and
bloodthirsty. If so, who has been to blame ? Experience has proved
that, naturally, they are kind, gentle, and not immoral.

The first Europeans who visited Australia were thought to be
" Guram," or, in the language of the Kamilaroi, " Wundah," spirits;
and the natives sought to kill them. Knowing nothing of the effects of
gunpowder, the poor creatures had no fear of guns, but would march
up to the muzzles to stop the smoke from coming out. In this
manner many were shot at Murribi. After this they watched for the
white men to kill them. The first one whom they slew they caught
while he was milking, and stuck up his body on three spears.

In common with all savage races, these people regard manhood as
the acme of perfection, and courage is the most highly prized of all the
virtues. It is amidst imposing ceremonies that the boy becomes a maOi
and is loosed from the tutelage of the women of his family and tribe.

Amongst the natives of Encounter Bay, the tribe being assembled,
candidates for manhood are placed between two fires made for the

The Customs of Australian Aborigines, 331

purpose. All hair upon the body, except that of the head and face,
is carefully singed off or plucked out, and the parts operated upon
are rubbed over with grease and ochre. The novice is not permitted
to sleep during that night, nor to eat until sunset on the following
day. During the whole of the ensuing year these young men singe
and pluck out one another's hair, and apply the prescribed unguent
and ochre. The year following they pluck out each other's hair and
beard and anoint the face. When the beard has again grown it is plucked
out a second time, after which the men are eligible for marriage.

A boy of the Dieyerie tribe undergoes during youth several
important rites. The first of these, which is performed shortly after
he is weaned, is called moodlawillpa^ and consists in the perforation
of the cartilage of the nose. This is followed, a year or so later,
by the chirrinchirrie^ or tooth extraction, which is performed as
follows. The two front incisors of the upper jaw, having been loosened
by the insertion of two sharp wedges of wood, are covered with folds
of skin, upon which a third piece of wood is placed. This is struck
with a stone, after which the loosened teeth are drawn out with the
fingers. In the boy*s fourteenth year he undergoes the rite of circum-
cision, or kurrawellie wonkanna. As soon as he has attained to virility
he is subjected to the most solemn rite of all, the willyaroo. During
the night he is removed from the camp, to which he returns at sun-
rise. Upon his arrival he is surrounded by all the men of his tribe,
except his immediate relatives. His eyes having been closed, he is
drenched with blood drawn from the veins of all the old men who
are present. This being over, deep incisions are made with a sharp
flint in his neck, breast and shoulders, to infuse courage into him.

Among the Kamilaroi the admission of youths to the rank of
manhood is termed boorrah. Meetings for this are summoned as
emergencies arise. The neophytes are instructed in the mysteries of
their supernatural beings, and religious codes are enumerated with
much solemnity. Symbols are used, rites practised, and fastings
enforced. Turruimilan^ the deity, is represented by an old man who
is learned in all laws, traditions, and ceremonies common to the
tribe, and assumes to be invested with supernatural powers. Those
who have passed through the boorrah^ as a rule, religiously observe
the moralities and spiritualities there enforced. It is here that
instruction is given in the law of consanguinity and marriage. The
infraction of these is punished by severe penalties. It is called
boorrah because the neophyte is solemnly invested with the belt of
manhood. It is unlawful to mention this rite, or the name of
Turrumulan, in the presence of women, lest evil should befall.

332 The Gentleman s Magazine.

In the Kurnai tribe these initiation ceremonies are termed
JeraeiL This tribe would appear to have ignored, to some extent,
the " class system " of the tribes ; for, so far as can be learned, the
initiated have " made men " once only in about thirty years. When
it is intended to hold an initiation service, the head-man summons
the clans by a messenger, who bears a token, such as a club or
shield, and one of the sacred "bull-roarers" (tunduti). The
purpose is carefully hidden from the women and children, except
that the old women guess, from expressions which are let fall, that
the mrarts (ghosts) are "going to kill a kangaroo." Several months
may be taken up with preliminaries, for time is of no importance
to the blacks. As a preliminary ceremony, the tutnurring (novices),
as are also their krau-un^ or tribal sisters, are drilled by the women,
led by the wife {gweraeil rukut) of the second head-man.
Meanwhile the Jeraeil ground has been prepared. At sundown
proceedings commence. The novices, attended by one of the
bullawangs^ or attendants (robin, a Kurnai ancestor), are seated,
with the k?'au-tm behind them, and their mothers, bearing staves
crowned with eucalyptus twigs, in the rear. Then the men appear.
These are smeared with charcoal and fantastically bound with strips
of white bark, pieces of which they also hold in either hand. They
approach in a series of short runs, beating the ground and crjring
" Huh ! " while the women make a drumming noise, to which the
novices sway in unison. In this manner the men claim the boys
from their mothers. The next stage is that of " laying the boys
down to sleep." This is deferred until the following day. The
arrangement is as before. The men now offer the boys rods, which
they must not touch, because these are afterwards gathered up by
the women, which would be unlawful if the tutnurring had touched
them. From the commencement of the rite there is an increasing
separation from the women, until it becomes absolute after the
sleeping ceremony. The novices are to be put to sleep as boys, to
awaken as men. They are laid in rows, within a leafy enclosure,
with their arms crossed, and a bundle of twigs for a pillow, and
covered with rugs until they can neither see nor be seen. A huge
fire is lighted at their feet, while the women make another behind
the screen of boughs. They may neither move nor speak, but, if
they require anything, must inform the bullawangs by chirping like
the emu -wren. The women, under their leader, now beat their
rods together, to the ejaculations '* Ya ! " and " Yeh ! " The men do the
same. Then both sexes march round the enclosure, continuing the
perambulation for hours. This is supposed to cast the tutnurring

The Customs of Australian Aborigines. 333

•

into the magic sleep, from which they will awaken into manhood.
The women now withdraw, for what follows is too sacred for them
to look upon. They are told that Tundun himself comes down tc
change the boys into men, and that he would slay any female who
might witness his acts. To awaken the youths from sleep, which
appears to be hypnotic, the services of the medicine-man are
requisitioned. They are then invested with the belt of manhood,
kilt, armlets, forehead band, nose-peg, necklace — in short, the male
dress. After this they are, in the language of the old men, " shown
their grandfather." For this the tuinurring are taken for a walk,
on pretence that they must be tired. Suddenly their eyes are
covered with their blankets. The old men, led by the head-man,
throw their " bull-roarers " into the air, amid shouts ; the blankets
are removed from the eyes of the boys, who are bidden to look into
the air, then lower, and finally to the tundun men. They are then
cautioned never to speak of what they have seen to women, or anyone
who is not JeraeiL After this they are carefully instructed in the
mystery of ancestral beliefs. Next they are bidden to sound the tundun
(a piece of wood, paddle-shaped, to which a string is attached), which
they do with awe. To relieve the proceedings the old men play the
" opossum game," a vestige of totem worship. The boys may now move
about with less restriction, and seek for the animals which they may
henceforth use as food. Among the rules of conduct laid down for
them to observe are : (i) to hear and obey the old men; (2) not to
molest girls or married women ; (3) to live orderly with the tribe ;
with others too numerous to mention. The next step in the initiatory
rite is called " Giving the tutnurring frogs." It means giving a food
plant which grows abundantly in the swamps. By the ensuing cere-
mony of " Seeing the ghost," in which an " old man Kangaroo "
plays a part, after certain obscene ceremonies, the neophytes are free
to eat kangaroo flesh. This is an important proceeding ; if it were
neglected the youths would never, lawfully, be able to eat the flesh
of the male kangaroo. The final act, which is designated the
"Water ceremony," is public. The mothers of the newly made
young men each have a vessel of water, from which they stoop to
drink, when their sons, with a stick, splash the water over them. The
women, in seeming anger, fill their mouths with water and squirt it
over the faces and heads of their respective sons, after which the
novices retire to the young men's camp and the women to their own.
Although this closes the ceremonial, the probation is not ended.
The young men must spend a considerable time in the bush, away
from their friends. While this is a more elaborate form of procedure

334 ^^^ Gentle7nan s Magazine.

than is adopted by some tribes, in all there is an initiatory ceremony,
without which the boys cannot be " made young men."

It is supposed that the various tribes are offshoots of one common
stock. This opinion is supported by the fact that, no matter how greatly
the languages may differ, members of one tribe can, after a few weeks'
residence, understand and make themselves understood by those of
any other tribe. The view is strengthened by the "class system."
There is no authenticated instance of any tribe being without some
" class system." Where this has been thought to be absent, it has
been owing to error on the part of observers, not to its non-existence.
Class rules are sacred. While superficial onlookers have supposed
that sexual intercourse has been promiscuous, natives have regarded
marriage as family, or even tribal, but within defined limits. To them
class rules regulate conduct. Marriage may be contracted in the
tribe, but not in the same family, or special class, in or out of the
tribe. No man may marry into his own class. The strictness with
which class laws are observed is surprising. Although the decadence
of the race has rendered observance of ancient customs difficult, any
infringement of the class system is punished with death. Even in
casual amours the law is adhered to. This is true of all tribes.
Thus, among the Kamilaroi, a man of class kubbi can only marry a
woman of class ippata. According to the theory of the system,
every kubbi is husband to every ippata^ having an admitted right to
treat as his wife any woman of that class. Among the Wailwun a
man may not take to wife a woman with a name corresp>ondiDg to
his own. Probably the prohibition of certain totem and same name
relatives to intermarry indicates an intention, at some bygone time,
to prevent consanguineous marriages. Class rights exist irrespective
of tribal locality. A man capturing a woman in war, or stealing her
from another tribe, cannot have her to wife if she belongs to a pro-
hibited class. Marriage is strictly forbidden in the line of uterine
descent, or what, by the ioiefti^ appears to be such.

It will be understood from such singular customs that the lot of
woman is an unenviable one. She is a slave. Marriage by captm'e
is common. A young man will secretly follow a tribe to which the
maiden on whom he has set his eyes belongs, until a fitting oppor-
tunity offers, when he v/ill strike her to his feet, and bear her senseless
form away to his tribe. Being thus unceremoniously introduced to
her new home, the girl is left to pine and fret until she becomes
reconciled to her husband. Frequently, when a man seeks a wife,
he will go to a camp where there are men and women, and throw in
a boomerang. If it is not thrown back, he enters and selects a wife.

The Customs of Australian Aborigines. 335

If the boomerang is returned, the wife-seeker has to fight the
" sorcerers." This is a contest in which he has to prove himself
worthy of the bride. He, armed only with a heliman^ or shield, has
to defend himself from spears which are hurled at him with force
and vengeful precision. If he succeeds in this, he must fight a
selected opponent with a waddie^ or club. This is less a trial of
defence than of endurance. When the combatant has satisfied the
demands upon his warlike powers, he obtains his bride. Among the
Wailwun it is the custom when a girl is born to give her to some man to
be his wife in due time. It is not uncommon for old men to get young
women as wives, and for old women to become the wives of young
men. The marriage ceremony is simple, if it exists. When a young man
is allowed to marry he asks the parents of the girl who was betrothed
to him in her infancy for his intended bride. They, pleased that
their early wishes are to be realised, at once arrange for the union.
The bridegroom is told by the principal old man in the camp that
he can take the girl he desires ; at the same time a piece of string,
with a knot tied in it, is given him. The mother of either the bride or
the bridegroom makes a camp for the young couple, and tells the
bridegroom to occupy it. When the bride-elect comes into the camp
she is bidden to go to her husband ; should she refuse, her relatives
use force to compel her, and the two are regarded as married. Men
are allowed to have several wives ; two or three are common. The
widow of a deceased brother may be inherited. Some of the women,
when young, are comely in form and feature, with graceful carriage
and small shapely hands and feet. The poor creatures lead a hard
life, and are subject to constant abuse and ill-treatment at the hands
of their husbands. Blows on the head with a stick are a common
mode of correction. They are sometimes speared for a slight fault,
the killing of a gin not being regarded as a grave offence.

During those periods when nature suggests a cessation of marital
intercourse women carefully seclude themselves, sleeping at separate
fires, and avoiding every kind of association with others. In 1870,
near Townsville, a gin was put to death for having gone into her
husband's mi-mi at such a time and slept in his blanket. The man
did not know until the next day that the girl had used his bed.
Upon making the discovery he slew the woman, dying himself a few
days later, solely from a dread of evil consequences resulting from
the pollution. As children are an encumbrance to wandering races,
the women frequently procure abortion, heavy blows upon the ab-
domen accomplishing their purpose. When this is not desired,
women, previous to child-birth, leave the camp in company with a

336 The Gentleman s Magazine.

female companion, and the two form a temporary settlement a few
score yards distant. This is done lest there should be a death in the
camp, as after a death an encampment is broken up. Infanticide is
a common crime. The murder of a newly-born infant is not looked
upon as a thing of any moment. Whether a child shall be killed or
not is generally decided by the mother's brother, if she has one, and
he happens to be present. If his decision is for death the little vic-
tim is despatched by a blow on the back of the head, by strangling,
or by being choked with sand. It is then buried sans ceremonie. It
is singular that, while life is so little valued at birth, if the child should
live for a few days and then die it would be lamented as if it had
been an adult. That this apparent indifference is not caused by any
lack of natural affection is shown by the attachment which parents
evince for their offspring. These are not spoiled by kindness, but
respect and obey the authors of their being. A curious custom pre-
vails among the natives of Leichard River, Carpentaria. The eldest
child is treated with much affection until the younger attains the age
of manhood. When this happens the father quarrels with his first-
born son, beats him, and drives him from the home. A month later
the outcast rejoins his tribe, but he remains a stranger to his family.
Among all the tribes sickness is met by kindly attention, by
charms, surgical appliances, and medicated baths. A large number
of plants are employed for drinks and for external application. A
broken limb is bound with bark splints ; snake-bite is treated by
scarifying and wetting the wound, and then applying a poultice made of
bruised and warmed box-bark. A common method of alleviating
pain is by bleeding. This is effected by minute cuts made with flints
or mussel-shells. Natives on Darling River believe that sickness is
caused by an enemy who makes use of charms. One of these,
yountoOy is composed of a small bone from the leg of a deceased
friend, wrapped in a piece of the sun-dried flesh of a second, and
bound with hair from a third. It is placed in the hot ashes of the
destined victim's fire, while a small splinter of the bone is cast at
him as he sleeps. At the end of five weeks it is buried beneath a
fire ; and, as it consumes, the victim sickens and dies, unless the doctor
sucks out the piece of bone which is supposed to have entered the
body. The 7ffoolee consists of an oblong piece of quartz, with a piece
of string made from opossum fur, fastened thereto with nyniaj or
black gum. The quartz, having been pointed at the person to be
killed, is supposed to have entered his body; while the string, having
been warmed, placed in human fat, and bound with a dead man's
hair, is placed in a fire, wheie it is left to consume slowly. As it

The Customs of Australian Aborigines. 337

warms and bums away the doomed man sickens and dies. Both of
these charms resemble those once common in European countries.
A disease called Tarree is common, and usually fatal. It attacks
the middle-aged and old ; a hard lump forms in the stomach, while
the rest of the body wastes ; the growth eventually causes death by
suffocation.

While the medicine-men, ** black-fellow doctors," claim the power
to heal diseases and remove spells, they are also prepared to inflict
evil for a consideration. They are not only doctors (maykeeka\ but
wizards, and adepts in magical arts. To enumerate their practices
would fill a volume. A brief notice must suffice. Undoubtedly they
understand, and make use of, the hypnotic art. Throwing the sub-
jects into a deep sleep, they will compel them to see visions, reveal
secrets, and even pine and die. The possession of some part of the
belongings of the subject expedites the magician's plan. This is less
wonderful than it appears. The imagination has greater power than
is supposed, especially over undisciplined minds. Some black seers
are popularly supposed to be able to command the elemental spirits,
fetch back departed spirits, and render ghosts visible at camp fires.
Hypnotism renders this explicable. Of the practices attributed to
these men, that of " taking kidney fat " from their victims is most
feared. Belief in their power to accomplish this prevails through
the entire continent. In innumerable instances persons have died,
believing themselves victims of this art So real does it seem, that
hypnosis is clearly at the basis of the practice. Thus, among the
Kumai, the bravin^ or wizards, are thought to cast the victims into
sleep by pointing at them with the ><?r/««^, a bone instrument made
from the fibula of a kangaroo. Among the Wotjobaluk the victim,
after being half strangled, is laid upon his back ; then the bangal^ or
wizard, gets astride of his chest, opens the right side, and extracts
the fat from the kidneys. He then joins the cuts, and, after singing
his spell, bites them to render the opening scarless. After this he
retires, and sings a magical melody which awakens the victim, causing
him to stagger, wondering how he came to be " sleeping out there."
It is believed that by partaking of a man's fat the eater acquires his
victim's strength. So also it is thought that human fat brings good
hunting, causes spears to fly true to their mark, or the waddie to deal
resistless blows.

For men who can accomplish wonders upon the human form

divine, ** rain-making " must indeed be a commonplace undertaking.

It is, therefore, not surprising to find that, throughout Australia,

wizards are credited with the possession of this power, which they

VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1930. ^ ^

338 TJie Gentleman s Magazine.

exercise in various ways — not always, it must be admitted, with satis-
factory results. In the Ta-ta-thi tribe the rain-maker uses a piece of
transparent white quartz, which he wraps in emu feathers, having
first broken off a small piece, which he spits up towards the sky.
The quartz and feathers are then soaked in water, and afterwards
carefully hidden. Among the Myappe the entrails of an opossum
are steeped in water for some days ; when decomposing they are taken
out. This, it is believed, will always cause rain. Or a native cat is
skinned and hung on a tree for the purpose.

It has been stated that the Australian tribes are wholly without
religion. This is an error. They believe that the god who comes
down at the boorrah is good and powerful ; that he saves them by
his strength ; that he is very ancient, but never grows older. The
Mycoolon tribe believe in life, after death, in Yalairy — the road to
which is the Milky Way. Here a spirit will look after them, and here
they will find trees, water, game, dogs, and their women and children.
The practice of knocking out the two front teeth is a religious one.
Those who have been so mutilated will have clear water to drink, while
others will only have muddy water. The Jump-up-white-fellow idea,
or reappearance after death as a white man, is likewise indicative of
religious faith, and belief in a life after death. The Wathi-Wathi
believe that traps are set for the spirits of bad men ; if they escape
these they fall into hell-fire. The Ta-ta-thi say that a "doctor"
once ascended into the sky, and saw a place where wicked men were
burnt. Tharamulim is believed in as the Supreme Being, but his
name is secret, and is only imparted at the initiation ceremony. The
women only know that a great spirit lives beyond the sky ; they call
him Fapang, or father. These are ancient beliefs, although a care-
less observer might deem that they had been borrowed from the white
men.

The funeral rites of the tribes further indicate the existence of a
belief that men die, not as a dog dieth. The tribes on the Page
and the Isis, when about to bury their dead, dig a round well-like
hole, in which they kindle a fire. When it is burnt, they carefully
collect the ashes on a piece of bark, and throw them out They
then inter the dead in a sitting posture. It may be this is an ana-
logous custom to that of some races which bury their dead under
the hearthstone. Whatever belongs to the deceased — weapons, rugs,
and valuables — are buried with him. Then logs are placed across
the grave level with the ground, and roofed over with bark, upon
which a mound of earth is raised. Serpentine lines are carved upon

The Customs of Australian Aborigines. 339

two trees to the north-west of the grave. They say the " black will
rise up white fellow.'' Among the Encounter Bay tribes all the
apertures of a corpse are sewn up. The person who performs this
service mns some risk if he does not provide himself with a good
string ; as, if the string should break, it is attributed to the displea-
sure of the deceased, who is supposed to make known in this manner
that he has been charmed by him. In the same manner, if the
small quill used as a needle fails to penetrate the flesh easily, the
slightest movement, caused by pressing the blunt point into the flesh,
is supposed to be spontaneous motion on the part of the corpse,
and to indicate that the sewer had caused the death. The Wailwun
make great wailing over the dead. They sometimes keep up the
nighdy lamentation for a year or longer. As a sign of mourning both
sexes plaster their heads over with mud or pipe-clay, and then gash
themselves with hatchets. At the funeral they dress themselves in
different styles, some wearing head-dresses. When a fat man dies
they place his body in a forked tree, and anoint themselves with the
grease which drops from him. They suppose that this makes them
partakers of his health, strength, and virtue. They eat the heart and
liver of the dead for the same reason. This tribe buries its dead
usually in round or oblong graves. The Kamilaroi cut figures on
the trees which grow round the graves, as marks of respect to the
dead Among the Dieyerie tribe cannibal practices of a disgusting
description are common as parts of funeral rites. The reason as-
signed is that the nearest relatives may soon forget the departed, and
not be continually crying. It is to be observed that these people do
not eat their enemies, but their friends, and that they do this ac-
corduig to a prescribed rule. This is the order in which they
partake of their relatives. The mother eats of her children, the
children of their mother. Brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law eat of
each other. Uncles, nephews, aunts, nieces, grandparents, and grand-
children do the same. But the father does not eat of his offspring,
nor the offspring of their father. In Wide Bay the bodies to be eaten
are first skinned, and the skin is wrapped round a bundle of spears
This relic is carried about with the tribe. In the native wars, in
some parts of the country, the men who are killed are eaten by their
friends. If they die from wounds during the night they are eaten in
the morning. A large hole is dug, and the body is cooked therein in
one piece. The inside is not eaten, but buried. The bones are
either buried or placed in a hollow tree. Children, too, are eaten
when they die.

A A 2

340 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

This strange race is fast disappearing. It may be that the child
is even now bom who shall hear the last aborigine chant,

'* Shield of Burree, spear and club.
Throwing stick of Berar bring;
The broad boomerang of Waroll,
Waist-belts and pendants, apron of Boodon.
Jump ! jump I use your eyes,
With the straight emu spear,**

C N. BARHAM.

341

THE TRUE HISTORY OF FOULON

AND BERTH IE R.

IN these days of street orators, mass meetings, Socialist tracts, and
what not, we may take for granted that our readers know well
enough who Foulon and Berthier were. " The magistrate who said
that the people might eat grass, and whose severed head, with the
mouth stuffed with grass, the people bore on a pike through Paris : " —
we have met him in the correspondence of provincial newspapers,
nay, even in a sermon preached by a young clergyman in an English
cathedral. Foulon's head, with the grass-blades sticking out from
between the teeth, and that of Berthier, with the eye knocked out —
see the rude woodcut reproduced by M. d'H^ricault — are, so to
speak, again brought forth, to be paraded as a warning to this
generation of tyrants, as to those of France a hundred years ago.
Nor is it easy to make reply. We cannot, as with many victims —
the baker Frangois, and the poor Invalide who had saved the
powder magazine — urge that these at least were innocent, that they
bore the blame rightly due to those in higher places. No. " They
were the unjustest judges, but the sentence upon them was the
unjustest that has been passed these two hundred years," must be
our only apology for Foulon and Berthier. But that this apology
can be made, and has been made by every decent Revolutionist of
the time, we trust to be able to show. And we trust, too, to show
that the carrying out of that sentence presents details so revolting, so
opposed to every tradition of Englishmen, that even a Socialist may
think twice before holding it up for imitation on this side of the
Channel.

J. R. C. Foulon, or Foullon, successive Intendant of the army,
the navy, and the finances, aged seventy-four in 1789, had been for
twenty years the man of all others hated by the Parisians. Where-
fore ? The causes are far to seek. " He possessed," writes one of the
incendiaries of the Revolutions de Paris^ "riches unheard-of inconceiv*
able^ amazingJ^ " That is not a hanging matter,'* retorts Montjoie, in

342 The Gentleman s Magazine.

the rival journal Ami du Roi^ which, moreover, combats the state-
ment. And indeed the manuscript note given by Foulon's family
to the historian Louis Blanc avers that Foulon's capital, at death,
was actually less than would have been, at compound interest, the
fortune inherited from his father. He had not been a servile
courtier. In past years he had been exiled to his estate for op-
posing the policy of Calonne, Marie- Antoinette's beloved Minister.
Among the general charges of avarice, harshness, and peculation,
we find the special ones of having dishonoured France by his cruel
counsels during the Seven Years' War, of being enriched by
monopoly and by the Famine Pact, and of having advised national
bankruptcy. But Louis Blanc himself has to admit none of these
accusations have been proved, and that even the too celebrated say-
ing, " Let the people eat grass," is disavowed by Montjoie, and is
given only as an 07i dit by the most savage of pamphleteers. How-
ever these things may be, Foulon was popularly sumamed Cotur ie
bronze, and each change of Ministry renewed the dread of seeing him
among the newly appointed. " Never fear," said a young English-
man at the Cafe de Foi, during one of these periodic panics, " it is
not M. Foulon's turn."

" How so ? " asked his eager neighbours.

" Because French finance is like the ague, there is a good and a
bad fit by turns, and now it is time there should be a good one."

Calculations were made, the Englishman was declared to be in the
right ; and, in laughing at the notion of a financial ague, the fear
vanished for a while. But it revived again, and with tenfold force,
during the agitations of the first months of the States-General. Fouloo
had been named as the adjunct of Broglie, Commander-in-chief oi
the troops which were supposed to be threatening Paris. He had,
indeed, declined the appointment, pleading his age ; but he yf^
believed still to be aiming at a place in the Ministry, and to b^
secretly counselling anti-popular measures. Two memoirs, of very
different purport, were presented by him to the King. The on^
suggested that Louis should himself lead the Revolution, outvidflS
the 1 )uke of Orleans, and winning the people's hearts by his con*
cessions to the National Assembly ; thei other, that he should nip *^
in the bud, arrest the leading Democrats, and proclaim martial li*^
until order was re-established. Had the people got wind of this *
\\ 0 shall never know. But Marie-Antoinette confided, in alarm, ^^
her lady-in-waiting, that ^L'ldame Adelaide had the imprudence ^^
have these memoirs read aloud before an audience which was sOp*
posed to be trusty; that among these was her illegitimate brother, tb^

The True History of Foulon and Berthier. 343

Count of Narbonne, known to be on intimate terms with Mme. de
Stael, and, through him, the secret may easily have worked round to
the Necker household.

Fiacre-Nicolas Berthier de Sauvigny, son-in-law of Foulon, owed
his place as Intendant of Paris to the favour, not of his father-in-law,
but of his own father, the late Intendant, and President of the Paris
Parliament. Berthier senior had been a good-natured simple man,
who made no enemies, and who was only laughed at for his nick-
name of President The Same, because, unskilled in pronouncing
judgments, he bade his secretar)^ whisper to him the right thing to
say ; and once, when the same judgment was to be pronounced on
two cases, the secretary whispered "The same," and "good M.
Berthier" repeated naively, "The same."

Berthier fils did not get off so well. Bitter complaints were
made of his harshness towards poor suitors, of his remissness in
attending to them, of his haughtiness even towards his equals. It
is his apologist Montjoie who tells, professedly from an eye-witness,
the story of the old peasant, poorly but decently dressed, who in the
early months of 1789 entered Berthier's cabinet to ask a favour.

" Grant this, monseigneur, and it will be the joy of my old age.
Restore me my son, who has been drawn for the militia."

Berthier replied dryly, " That cannot be."

"Monseigneur, I bring you his ransom," drawing out some
crown-pieces.

" That cannot be," reiterated Berthier, with a forbidding gesture.

" It is very little, I know ; but, on my honour, it is all I can
spare."

" That cannot be."

" Monseigneur, I have seven children ; fate has been very hard
on me, it has struck the best and strongest, the stay of his family ;
restore him to us, I pray you."

"I cannot."

Then (but this part of the story has a suspicious look of being
made after date) the old man drew himself up, and with an accent
of suppressed fury, pronounced, " Well ! my son must go ; but
you, ruthless man, heart of steel, soul of bronze, you, a father
yourself, receive the curse of a father. God*s hand is on you,
your end shall be terrible, you shall die in the Place de Gr^ve, and
that at no distant season."

Thus, all minds were ready to take alarm at the news that
Berthier was named Intendant of the " Counter-revolutionary "army;
and every wild tale against him received a ready credence. He had

344 ^^ Gentleman s Magazine.

given orders, it was said, to mow down the green com for forage foi
the cavalry, he had drawn up secret lists of proscription against th<
" friends of the People," he had distributed powder and shot to thi
camp at Saint-Denis. It seemed confirmation of these suspicion
that, at the very moment before opening fire on the Bastille, a courie
was captured with despatches for Berthier, and with one also for th«
governor of the Bastille, De I^unay. The latter was opened
it counselled resistance. The besiegers judged that Berthier's letter
would be to the same effect ; in their eyes, the men were all in cm
plot, and deserved to die together.

At seven o'clock that same evening — the very time that D<
Launay's head was being carried through the streets on a pike—
Berthier cheerfully entered the King's apartment. " Well, M. Ber
thier," said the King, with his usual insouciance^ " what news ? Wha
is doing at Paris ? how about the troubles ? "

Berthier, either really blind, or with that " ostrich-policy ** whicl:
was to be the bane of all parties in turn, replied, " ^Vhy, Sire, all goes
fairly well ; some slight movements have been promptly repressed,
and nothing has come of them." Others, however, were more iiau:-
seeing. The daughters of the two doomed men had long been
urging their respective fathers to quit the Court. On the night ol
the 15th, Berthier found it convenient to be summoned on urgent
business to Mantes. And the next day bells were rung and mass
was sung for Foulon, and a funeral was conducted with all the
splendour befitting an Intendant. "We have frightened him to
death," wrote exultantly Camille Desmoulins to his father ; and the
people, at the Palais-Royal, blessed its enemy for having for once
shown tact, and removed himself from the world so conveniendy.
But had they had among them the wise kinsman of Glenara to "dream
of the shroud," they would have known that " empty that shroud and
that coffin did seem." Or, at least, that the contents were a log, or,
according to another version, the body of a valet of Foulon^ who
had died very opportunely, and who, so said the newspapers when the
trick was discovered, would have marvelled much to see the pomp of
his burial.

Meanwhile, the living Foulon lay hidden at the chiteau of his
friend M. de Sartines at Viry, near Fontainebleau ; while Berthier,
still nominally busied on State affairs, went on to Meaux, then to the
house of his married daughter at Soissons, and finally, on the morn-
ing of Saturday, July 18, to Compi^gne. As his cabriolet entered
the town, he was recognised by two masons at work on a house-front
Descending from their scaffolding, they arrested him then and there.

The True History of Foulon and Berthier. 345

And Berthier submitted at once, without even demanding their

irarrant Fatal docility ! lamented his friends ; but probably the

event would have been the same in any case. In a moment the

toosin was ringing, the guard had turned out, the Municipality had

talceii its seats at the Hotel de Ville, and Berthier was brought before

it. He was put under ward, with twenty-four men in his chamben

#rhile the Municipal Council despatched a letter "not to the Court

or ^lie Parliament, which would have condemned this irregularity,"

but: ^o a body in itself irregular, the Assembly of the Electors of Paris

sittiir^g at the Hotel de Ville, informing them that the inhabitants of

Coricipibgne had arreste# Berthier, "x«r U bruit que la capitaU U

fi^^odt chercher^^ and asking for further orders.

The Parisian Electors, much perplexed, probably each man

^^» talcing, with the Mayor Bailly, that "there was danger for Berthier

^'^ t^xinging him to Paris, danger for us in releasing him," listened in

^•^^^ to the report of the irritation at Compi^gne, recapitulated the

g^oiands of complaint, and finally decreed to send a troop of four

l^ors^^tnen from each district " to place the prisoner in safety." Two

^^^otors, Andr^ de la Presle and Etienne de la Riviere — the latter

s^grnatised by Montjoie as " an obscure lawyer, overwhelmed with

<^cbts," and (this certainly unjustly) " with the bearing and the soul of

* F^olice agent " — accompanied the band to give a show of legality,

^«ile three others went to Berthier*s hotel in Paris, to place seals on

"*^ papers. The troop, 240 in all— too large, as men afterwards

'^^^^gnised, to get the prisoner away quietly, too small really to pro-

^^^^ liim — " marched as if to victory." At every stage there was

^^ Same question, " Whither go you ? " — " To fetch the ex-Inten-

*'^^*' — "We will come with you," and soon the number of the

^^*^nteers equalled, nay, overpowered, the original force. The

"^tnandant, d'Ermigny, judged it wise to make his troop halt some

^e leagues short of Compibgne, but he could not get rid of the

'^Mteers ; and it was at the head of these men, all incensed against

^^^ier, that the Electors, at two in the morning, entered the Hotel

^ille at Compibgne, and were introduced to the room where the

^^ched Berthier was lying awake on his bed, in the midst of dice-

P*^ying, smoking, drinking, and all the riot of a guard-chamber. He

^^ and dressed, and got into d'Ermigny's cabriolet, the Compibgne

P^^d accompanying them for the first stage ; and the troop retraced

^« tnarch, the volunteers flowing in as before.

Almost simultaneously, a like scene was being enacted at Viry.

That same day, July 21, M. de Sartines' valet ran to Grappe, the

Ullage syndic, displaying triumphantly a letter which had just been

346 The Gentleman s Magazine.

handed in to the address of M. Foulon. Grappe straightway sounded
the tocsin, and having gathered together some National Guards, he
entered M. de Sartines* park, and found there an elderly gentleman
taking an evening walk.

" What do you here?" demanded Grappe.
" I am taking the air."
" Your name ? "
" I am named Foulon."

" You are indeed he whom we seek." Straightway the old man
was seized, struck at, spat upon, his hands were bound, and he was
fastened to the tail of a cart. A garland of fettles was flung round
his neck, with a truss of hay behind and a bunch of thistles before,
while his captors, laughing, thrust grass-blades into his mouth, bidding
him taste and see how he liked it. " How he sweats ! " they cried,
as the heat of the July night told on him ; and they rubbed his face
with nettles. In this wise they dragged him on foot all the long five
leagues to Paris, and at four in the morning of July 22 deposited him
at the house of the Elector Acloque, in the Faubourg Saint- Marcel.
His faithful servant had followed him all the way, and had received
some of the blows that were meant for his master.

About the same hour, Lally-ToUendal, at Versailles, was startled
from sleep by the sound of sobs and wailing. He opened his
curtains, and beheld a young man, death- pale, who, throwing himself
on the bed, faltered through his tears, " Ah, Monsieur, you have
spent fifteen years in defending the memory of your father. Save the
life of mine 1 " It was Berthier's son. Lally's filial heart was
touched ; and as soon as possible he presented the youth to the
Duke of Liancourt, President of the National Assembly. But un-
luckily that day there was no sea?ice. Application was then made to
the King, who dictated a letter of indemnity for Berthier. " Vain
intervention ! Louis XVI. had already ceased to be king."

The Parisian Electors, already embarrassed, and dreading the
arrival of Berthier, were doubly perturbed at having Foulon thrust
on their hands before five in the morning. They procrastinated,
deferred matters to the sitting of the General Assembly at nine ; and
when that hour came, they hurriedly decreed to send all political
prisoners tothc Abl)aye Saint-Germain to await trial. The Mayor Bailly
was for transferring Foulon thither at once, but others, unwisely, ad-
vised waiting for the shades of night. Foulon was therefore detained,
first in the public hall of the Hotel de Ville, and was afterwards — on
account of a woman's coming in and uttering threats and curses
against him — secretly removed to a private chamber, and placed

The True History of Foulon and Bertkier. 347

under guard of four sentries. His servant remained with him, and
likewise his son, who had hastened thither on hearing of his arrival.
Meanwhile Lafayette and Bailly, more than ever alarmed for Berthier,
sent orders to his conductors to halt for the night at Bourget, and to
make their entry into Paris in the calm of the morning.

At noonday Bailly was called from his committee-room by the
voice of the people crying for Foulon. Standing on the terrace-steps,
at the head of all the priests among the electors, he delivered a
harangue in favour of moderation, of respecting the law, the safeguard
of innocence ; he expressed certainty that Foulon would be proved
guilty, but said that until that was so, neither he, the Mayor, nor they,
the people, had the right to be his executioners. This seemed to
appease those within hearing, but from the distance there still came
the cry, ** He is judged ! Hang him ! Hang him ! " Lafayette had
already been sent for. But he was going his rounds, and could not
be found immediately. Meanwhile, a fresh deputation went down,
and returned in terror. " We shall all be massacred ! They think
we have let M. Foulon escape ! Where is he ? We must show him
to the people."

The Electors rushed to the hall where they had last seen Foulon.
He was not there. "Where is he?" they cried, and, like men distraught,
they ran here and there, opened this door and that, and at last found
the room where he had been consigned with his son and servant.
Young Foulon, thinking the end was come, burst out crying and
weeping, while the servant, his long- sustained courage all at once
forsaking him, fell on his knees, and with clasped hands faltered,
" For God's sake, gentlemen, spare a poor serving-man ! I am
innocent, I swear I am innocent. For mercy, get me out of this,
remove me from my master." Then, emptying his pockets, " Here,
gentlemen, there are four louis, a crown-piece, and my gold watch.
If I must die, I pray that these may be conveyed to my wife."

The trembling servant was got away, and Foulon was forced to
show himself at the window overlooking the Place. A cry of savage
joy arose, and next moment the barriers were forced, the sentries
were repelled, and a furious multitude filled court, stairs, and hall,
each man crying " Give us M. Foulon ! " An Elector, La Poize,
made himself heard : " Gentlemen, every criminal ought to be judged
and condemned by justice. I trust I see here no executioner."

" Yes ! let him be judged on the spot, and hanged ! "

Another Elector, Osselin, sprang on the bureau : " Gentlemen,
no one can be judged without judges. Let us send M. Foulon
before the tribunals."

348 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" No, no ! Judged — ^judged on the spot, and hanged ! "

" Then you must name judges."

" We have no right to do so. Do you name the judges."

" It was a piteous spectacle," wrote Bailly afterwards, " ourselves
catching at every pretext to gain time, and this overwhelming
multitude doing all it could to hasten matters." Two unwilling
priests heard their names called out. " But those are not enough,"
said Osselin \ " there should be at least seven judges." Five more
names were added. " Now you want a recorder." " That shall be
you ! " " And an attorney to pronounce the accusation." " M.
Duveyrier ! "

The Elector Duveyrier rose obediently, and asked, in due form,
of what crime they accused M. Foulon.

" He has oppressed the people, he has said it might eat grass, he
has tried to make a bankruptcy, he is in the Court plot, he has bought
up wheat ! "

Still another delay was attempted. The two priests first named
demurred, pleading their office. " They are right," cried some voices.
" No, no ! " cried others, " they dally with us 1 The prisoner is
escaping, we must see him ! " And they rushed forward, brandishing
their bare arms, shaking their fists, making the gesture of cutting a
throat, and thundering at the door of Foulon's chamber.

" For mercy, gentlemen, a word, only one word 1 " cried an Elector.
" Name four men among yourselves to guard M. Foulon, and make
them swear they will do him no harm."

Everyone volunteered. The four nearest the bureau were
accepted. The door was opened, and they rushed into Foulon's
chamber. The rest kept up the cry, "Well ! why do you delay?
pronounce your judgment ! " and the Electors, fearing for their
lives, awaiting Lafayette "as a becalmed ship awaits the wind,"
gained a minute or two by proposing to choose two more judges in
the place of the defaulting cur^s.

" MM. Bailly and de Lafayette ! "

Bailly blessed himself ever afterwards that he was absent A
substitute was found for him : the Electors refused to accept any for
Lafayette — the only man who might possibly curb this fury. The
cries redoubled — " Bring forth M. Foulon ! "

" But you will maltreat him ! "

" No, no ; you shall see we will not ! " And the ringleaders,
intertwining their arms, cleared a space. Foulon, with his son by his
side and his guards around him, walked forth with firm step, and
climbed to the low chair that had been set for him on the bureaa

The True History of Foulon and Berthier. 349

" You seem very calm, monsieur ? " remarked an Elector. " Calm ! "
replied Foulon. " Guilt alone, monsieur, can trouble the countenance.**
In the midst of cries, " Hang him ! Hang him ! " of offers, unheeded,
from sundry Electors, to stand as hostage, the welcome sound was
heard, " Room for Lafayette ! " At the sight of the great man, the
storm sank as by a spell. I^fayette was able to speak for half an
hour, in words that have been commended or censured as conciliatory
or the contrary. " I have never respected this man, I consider him
as a great scoundrel. But he has accomplices : he must reveal them.
I am about to send him to the Abbaye, there to undergo judgment,
and condemnation to the infamous death which he has merited." '

Thunders of applause followed. ** M. de Lafayette speaks well I "
cried two of Foulon's self-chosen guards, leaping on the bureau.
"To prison with him!" Foulon, thinking himself saved, joined,
according to one version, in the applause ; others say he himself tried
to speak and move the people. Whatever it was, it had a contrary
effect to what he intended. " They understand each other ! " so rose
the murmur. " There is treachery ! " A well-dressed man advanced
to the bureau — " What need is there to judge a man who has been
judged these thirty years ? " Then, with a new cry, " Here comes the
Palais-Royal ! the Faubourg Saint- An toine ! " a new crowd rushed
in, sweeping before it the old crowd, the Electors, and ever>'thing,
upsetting Foulon's chair and dragging him away, just as Lafayette
gave the unheeded order, " Take him to prison."

What followed, historians have shrunk from telling. The old man
was forced to the lamp-iron at the corner of the Place de Gr^ve, there
made to kneel and beg pardon of God and the King, to kiss the
hand of one of his captors ; and then, while mud and stones rained
upon him, a noose was slipped over his neck. An unskilled
executioner, fumbling with the cord, kept him swinging some minutes
before he could even get his feet off the ground. At last it was
effected. The cord broke, and Foulon fell on his knees. Remaining
thus, he raised his tear-stained eyes, and uttered his last appeal for
life — "I have but a few years to live: let me spend them in a
dungeon." No use ; the cord was hastily spliced, and the victim was
hauled up again. Again the splicing gave way — " Ah I it is too
much ! " cried an assistant, drawing his sabre. " Put him out of his
misery."

" No, no ; we must fetch a new cord." This was done, and the

' This is the substance of the harangue as reported in the newspapers. A
softer version was published by the Electors a year later, but was suspected of
being a "cooked* production.

350 TIte Gentleman s Magazine.

victim was kept alive for another quarter of an hour of outrage and
mockery. This third effort was successful ; and the corpse was cut
down, to be instantly seized upon, stripped, mangled in the most
revolting manner, the head was lopped off with a sabre, and the teeth
forced asunder for a mouthful of grass to be thrust in, while the body
was dragged by a cord in the gutter. The Electors first learned what
had happened by a man coming in with Foulon's gold snuff-box and
silver-buckled shoe, and demanding a receipt for them. Others, with
that ostentation of honesty which the Revolutionists affected, followed
with hat, gloves, handkerchief, two watches, scent-bottles, an empty
purse (this looked a little suspicious), and another containing eleven
louis, two six-sou pieces, and a silver medal.

This was the first news to greet Bailly when he came out of his
committee-room at ^s^ in the evening. Bad enough, but there was
more to follow. The Elector La Presle, one of those charged to
conduct Berthier, came in fear and trembling to announce that it had
been quite impossible to obey the order to sleep at Bourget. The
volunteer guards had usurped the command ; and Berthier, escorted
by an overwhelming crowd, was on his way, and might be expected at
the Hotel de Ville in a few hours.

That journey had been a long slow agony for all concerned in it
All the way the road was lined with peasants, men, women, and
children, crying ** Hang him ! " Fists were shaken, sticks brandished,
and loaves of black bread were thrown into the carriage, with cries,
*' There, wretch, see what thou makest us eat ! " Weary as men and
horses were, no halt was practicable before arriving at Louvres, about
two in the afternoon. And scarce had Berthier been conveyed to a
private chamber, when he was dragged down again by a furious mob,
crying " Quick, to Paris ! Let us get there by daylight ! " He was
forced into the cabriolet, from which the hood had been broken.
D'Ermigny mounted, and **let himself be led," while La Riviere,
" devoting himself on one altar with the victim,'' took his seat in the
carriage beside the prisoner. The cries and the insults continued,
and in the midst of it all, Bailly*s letter arrived, with the order to halt
at Bourget. La Riviere read it aloud to the prisoner, who took some
comfort from it, and begged him to thank AL Bailly and the
Electors for the pains they took for his safety.

A ruffian, with " eyes starting from his head, hair standing on
end," pressed through the throng, and crying, " Let me drink his
blood ! " aimed a sabre cut at the prisoner. La Riviere threw himself
before him. ''Down! get down, Elector!" cried the crowd, and
several muskets were levelled at the cabriolet. Berthier joined his

The True History of Foulon and Berthier, 351

voice to those *of his enemies. " Why should there be two murders?
Save yourself, monsieur ; let me perish alone." " I think/' he added
later on, " they are irritated to see me without a cockade. Pray lend
me yours." The Elector did so, but as Berthier fixed it to his hat, it
was torn from him and trampled under foot. Another was handed
to La Rivibre, with orders not to part with it. " Then let us take our
hats off," said Berthier ; and they remained bareheaded in a
drizzling rain. By six o'clock they reached Bourget, and the postilion
was turning into the inn yard, but the escort forced him to keep the
straight road, and pointed bayonets at him when he tried to dismount.
" No, no ; time presses, thou must go to Paris ! " Hereabouts, it
seems, an attempt was made in the prisoner's favour. A m,an in the
Arquebusiers* uniform, with a fairly numerous following, tried to
break through the crowd ; but he was recognised as an enemy and
was driven back.

At La Villette, Berthier was dragged from the carriage by two
of the original escort, and flung backwards and forwards between
them like a shuttlecock, while others cut and broke the roof of the
carriage till little remained but the seat. The prisoner was then
allowed to get back. The rain increased. " Hat on ! " cried the
people to La Riviere, but he obeyed them not — Berthier's life was
safe so long as he could not be distinguished from his companion.
As they drew near Paris, the cries changed. " Here he comes, the
wretch, the aristocrat, the accapareur^ the flour-merchant ! Hang
the scoundrel ! A la lanterne / " "I swear to you," said Berthier,
putting on his most touching air, " that I have never bought or sold
a grain of wheat." " Oh ! the wretch ! " cried his adversaries ;
" look at him, he can still smile ! "

At the Barri^re Saint- Martin was, perhaps, the worst humiliation
of all. The gateway was blocked by a cart loaded with staves
rudely inscribed : " He has robbed France and the King."
" He has devoured the substance of the People." " He

HAS been the slave OF THE RICH AND THE TYRANT OF THE

POOR.'* " He has drunk the blood of the widow and the
ORPHAN." "He has cheated the King." He has betrayed
HIS COUNTRY." The people yelled for Berthier to get in. The
Elector pleaded for his own sake : he was bound to remain by the
prisoner, " and truly, I should not care to be seen entering Paris in
that vile cart." The assistants therefore contented themselves with
carrying the staves alongside of the carriage, and keeping two
bayonets pointed at the prisoner's breast. When the barrier was
opened, there came forth a procession. First, a troop of women,

352 The Gentleman s Magazine.

singing and dancing to military music ; then men in civilian dress,
crowned with laurel and bearing torches ; soldiers, five hundred in
number, from all regiments. ^ Music, drums, flags, naught is lacking
to the cortege ; it appears a triumph. Doors, windows, balconies are
filled ; all rejoice at the sight of a hated enemy." ' The party
which was carrying Foulon's head tried to present it to his son-in-law,
but could not come at him for the press. La Riviere saw them,
and tried to divert his companion's attention. The movement had
a contrary effect " ^\'hat is," asked Berthier, " that frightful mass
of bloody flesh I see in the distance ? "

" It is the head of De Launay,'*' replied the Elector, considerately.

Berthier believed him, but from that moment his countenance

changed, and as they passed a church, he said to his companion,

"I should think these outrages without parallel, save that Jesus

Christ has suffered worse. He was a God ; I am but a man."

The courier whom Lafayette had sent with an order to convey
Berthier at once to the Abbaye, could not even make his voice heard,
nor would the escort have heeded it It was now a quarter to nine,
and for an hour the Mayor and Assembly at the Hotel de Ville had
heard the cries, "Berthier is coming I*' La Riviere, at the
prisoner's request, procured him a glass of lemonade, and then
deposited him in the chamber where Foulon had been, and where
Foulon's son was waiting in fear till he could venture to creep home
under cover of darkness.

Lafayette had filled the hall and the terrace with National
Guards armed with bayonets. Berthier, escorted by a selection of
these, was brought before the Assembly. He entered with the step
and the countenance of a man wearied out, but with studied
unconcern, his right hand in his breast, and his left in his waistcoat
pocket. The Mayor addressed to him a few questions for form's
sake.

" Have you aught to say in your defence? "
" I have not yet heard of what I am accused."
"Where have you been since the 12th instant ? "
Berthier recapitulated his movements.
" What has become of your papers ? "

" I have only a kind of address on me," and he drew it from his
l)ocket. " The papers relative to my administration ought to be in
my bureaux ; my portfolio is in my servant's hands, and I know not
where he may be. But may I observe that I have passed three or

' Newspaper Rcvolittions dc Paris (hostile to Berthier), which gives a picture
••f the procession.

The True History of Foulon and Berthier. 353

four nights without sleep, having a guard day and night in my
room ? I beg you to allow me to take some rest."

Bailly dared not let him out of his sight. A few more minutes
were taken up with the reading of the proems- verbal of the munici-
pality of Compibgne. But then came the same cries as those of the
morning, " The Faubourg Saint- Antoine ! the Palais-Royal ! " The
same crowd burst in, forcing the guard, pressing every one towards
the bureau. Bailly saw the prisoner turn pale. For himself, he faltered,
" Messieurs— the result — our deliberations of the morning — We must
transfer him to the Abbaye.*'

" Yes, yes ! " cried the Electors.

Bailly gave the order, adding, " The guard is answerable for his
safety to the nation and to the town of Paris." Berthier walked un-
molested towards the door. On the threshold he turned to La Riviere:
" I am going to prison, and I have no money." The Elector handed
some louis to him — with a sigh, for too well he foresaw that the
doomed victim would never more need money. And perhaps by
this time Berthier knew it too. At the sight of the sea of furious faces
he recoiled. ^^Mon DieUy mon Dim !'^ he said, " this people is strange
{bizarre) with its cries ! "

As he spoke, he was seized and dragged to the lantern. Wrenching
a musket from one of his guards, he struck wildly right and left with
the butt end. It was in vain : he was disarmed, thrown, trampled on,
the cord was passed round his neck. The bystanders heard his last
appeal for life, for a legal trial. " Save me, my friends; I promise you a
million." Soldiers of the Royal-cravate regiment held him down by
the head , arms and legs, while one of them, with his cutlass, slashed
the struggling body asunder, and then, with the aid of a comrade,
hacked off the head. A man in civilian dress, thrusting his arm into
the open wound, tore forth the still-beating heart, and throwing it to
another man wearing a dragoon's helmet, who in the scuffle had fallen
across the body, said to him : " Dragoon, justice is done. Carry them
this heart." The helmet- wearer set off at full speed and, followed
by a hundred accomplices, burst into the hall where the Electors
were still assembled, and held out to them his ghastly trophy. " Behold
the heart of Berthier ! " At the sight, one Elector fainted ; others,
sickening, averted their heads, or remained as if paralysed. " Deliver
me," cried Lafayette, " from a charge where I am forced to be the
witness of such horrors ! "

Such is the history of the " Justice of the People," as recorded by
the most calm and moderate of writers. We have left out twenty
atrocities, as insufficiently authenticated, though they come to us less

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1930. B B

354- Tf^ Gentleman s Magazine.

from the party which shuddered at the deed than from that which
gloried in it. One abomination, however, is attested on the authority
of thirty witnesses— that the ruffian who carried Berthier*s heart, ran
with his prize from the Hotel de Ville to the Caf^ de Foy, where he
squeezed it into a tumbler of brandy, tossed off the infernal mixture,
and then, with gor)- lips, trolled out the pop^ular air, " Non, il n'y a pas
de bonne fete ou le coeur n'entre pas ! "

Chateaubriand has recorded, in his florid style, the revulsion of
feeling produced in him — an enthusiastic youth, hitherto ardent for
the new ideas — by the sight of the two pale heads borne on pikes.
Berthier's body was dragged in the street by the light of torches, to
the cry, " Here comes M. Berthier ! Here comes the ex-Intendant ! "
and it was thus seen, and his decease solemnly certified, by a com-
missioner summoned for the purpose by a creditor of Berthier's.
Next morning, when the deed was made known in the National
Assembly, there was one thrill of horror, real or affected. I^lly-
Tollendal renewed and obtained his proposal for a solemn Address
from the Assembly to all good citizens, inviting them to peace and
order, and to the insuring of a legal trial to all accused persons.
Mirabeau despatched his celebrated " Nineteenth Letter to his Con-
stituents," deploring the excesses, and urging that steps should be
taken to restrain them, but at the same time advancing the dangerous
plea that there had been a " Court plot," and that, if it had triumphed,
greater slaughter would have been made than had now been made
in repressing it. " Is the blood which has been shed so very pure ? "
asked the eager young Protestant, Barnave, from Grenoble — words
which gained him the surname of "Tiger Barnave" for the rest of
his life, and many a taunt and bitter allusion which may puzzle rea-
ders who know him only from Lamartine, where he appears as play-
mate to the little Dauphin on the return from Varennes. Lafayette
duly sent in his resignation of " a command in which I am powerless
to enforce obedience." But, since he confided to Bailly — and Bailly
has naively recorded it — that he had not the least expectation of being
taken at his word, there seems some ground for Montjoie's sarcasms
about the " solemn farce," the circular letter sent to the districts as a
hint to them to reply with petitions, the President of the Electors
privately called out of the hall to rush back and horrify his colleagues
with the dreadful news that their protector was going to leave them,
and then the kneeling at the Commandant's feet, the tears, the em-
braces, the promises from the districts to behave better in future,
and the final yielding of the eulogised Commandant to "gentle vio-
^f^nce.' — " Well played," comments the bitter narrator, ** but what

The True History of Foulon and Berthier. 355

good will it do to two bereaved families ? " In truth, little was done
for them. The suggestion of some newspaper, that the nation should
adopt Berthier's eight children, seems to have passed unheeded.
While pamphlets swarmed, each more vile than another— " The Truss
of Hay, or the Tragic Death of a new-made Minister;" "The Last
Will and Testament of Judas-Ravaillac-Cartouche de Foulon ; "
" The Tom Papers " (an allusion to some documents which Foulon
was alleged to have torn up with his teeth when arrested);
" Procession, Requiem, and Burial of the High and Mighty Seigneurs
Foulon and Berthier, suddenly dead in the Place de Grbve;" "The
Tyrants Destroyed," an appeal to the example of Samuel and Agag;
" Les Enrages aux Enfers," a dialogue, Lucan-fashion, of Foulon and
Berthier with the victims of the taking of the Bastille — while the
tree in the Palais-Royal, already placarded with " The Crimes of Fou-
lon and Berthier," now displayed the " new and impromptu " epitaph :

Ci-git Foulon, ci-glt Berthier,
lis sent morts sans b^nitier —

while in the print-shops the " Patriot Calculator," in National
Guard's uniform, contemplated with pleasure five severed heads
ranged on his desk, and calmly noted down, " From 20 take 5 ;
there remain 15 " ' — while Revolutionist journals bade all accom-
plices of Foulon and Berthier " find legs to escape the lantern," and
Camille Desmoulins portrayed the "Traitor Marquis" ferried to
hell, to meet on the brink Desmes, the noted poisoner, with the rope
round his neck, and Foulon, Berthier, and others, carrying their
heads on pikes. Saint Denis fashion — while the milliners' shops
bloomed with ribands r<^«/<r«rj<7«^^^ Foulon — a few sober historians,
Rabaut Saint-Etienne, Moleville, and the " Two Friends of Liberty,"
deplored " a deed worthy of South Sea Islanders," and urged, in
phrases borrowed from Mirabeau, that ^^ society will be dissolved \i
mob-law is allowed to continue," for " in the midst of anarchy even
the despot appears as a saviour." Respectability, when it is allied
with ruffianism, must prove that it is respectability by lifting up its
eyes and its hands in horror, but it dares not effectively rebuke or
restrain its ally, and it rarely cares to put itself to expense beyond the
aforesaid hand and eye-lifting, which comes cheap.

In one pamphlet, gravely satirical, the " Executeur des Hautes-
CEuvres " solemnly resigns his function in favour of five hundred
amateurs, and rejoices that the illiberal prejudices against his trade
are giving way, and that an " Act of Liberty," or of the Lantern, will

I The libels of the past month had devoted twenty heads to the popular

B B 2

356 The Gentleman's Magazine.

hitherto be as honourably esteemed as an auto-da-fi in Spsun. And
in truth, these, the first executions made in cold blood, first awakened
the love for executions. A workman asked how the day had gone
would reply, " Indifferent well ; the Lantern has never stirred."
Passers through the Place de Grfeve became used to the sight of a
man astride the lamp-iron, calling to a half-shocked, half-amused
audience, " For God's sake ! bring me an aristocrat Fm in a hang-
ing mood ! " Bailly has recorded his disgust at meeting a band of
street boys carrying on spits the heads of two cats, which, he judged,
had not died a natural death ; and it was perhaps under his influence
that the Chronique de Paris inserted the tale of the little girl who,
seeing such a troop enter the courtyard, ran screaming to Papa, lest
they should attack her Minet. Every possible excuse was made for
the People. Garran-Coulon, of the Electoral Assembly, did his best
to demonstrate that there had been a plot, and to find proof of it in
the formal demands and receipts for powder and ball that composed
the bulk of the ex- Intendant's correspondence ; and a suggestion was
put forward — to be much combated by the Royalist journals — that
the agitation against the two victims was really got up by their aris-
tocratic accomplices, dreading the revelations which might be made
in the event of a legal trial. Especial horror was felt for the "can-
nibal dragoon," and, to palliate his conduct, it was averred that he
had his father to avenge, slain by Berthier (When ? and how ? asks
the journal Impartial), His comrades, it was added, eager to wash
the stain from their regiment, drew lots to challenge and fight
him in turn, and they slew him the same night But all this is
mythical. The man was captured six months later, and turned out
to be no dragoon at all, but a professional cook, whose skill in carving
had brought him into request at popular executions, and who had
picked up a helmet dropped by one of the Prince of Lambesc's
dragoons in the Tuileries gardens. When arrested, he expressed
much surprise. " Why, gentlemen," he said, " I am a very good
citizen ; it was I who cut off De Launay's head, and who carried
Berthier's heart on a sabre," and he added that he had written to
several National Deputies requesting a medal for his services in
ridding the world of a monster. Interrogated, he said nothing about
the blood-drinking, but owned that he had carried Berthier's heart
through the streets, that he had remarked " that this action was not
universally approved," and that, finally, after supping with his com-
rades at a restaurant, with the heart on the table before them, he had
thrown it from the window to the populace, who were calling for it
The man who actually struck the death-blow was never j(}entified.

The True History of Foulon and Berthier. 357

Jourdan Coupe-t&te claimed the honour, and, in his turn, demanded
a medal ; but he was not one who would scruple to accept a laurel
or two more than were righlly due to him.

In considering this, as almost every other crime of the Revolution,
we aie divided between wonder at the fury of the lawless side, and
at the utter weakness and inefficiency of the law-abiding. It is the
same story as that of the September massacres ; while unarmed
prisoners are being slaughtered in the streets, a batch of Municipals
solemnly walk out to remonstrate with the slaughterers, and in a
minute or two as solemnly retire, " having found their own lives in
danger." Bailly, almost before he has time to be shocked at the
" terrible news " of Foulon's murder, feels his heart leap at the
thought, " Anyhow J was not there " {Jt inapplaudis de ne >n'y lire
pas IrouvS), and, even while taking such steps as he can with safety
for the protection of Berthier, his attitude is that of a Pilate, anxious
above all to wash the stain of blood from his own hands. " All that
human power could do was done to save Foulon and Berthier,"
writes some memoirist, as if human power ever could avail aught
against superhuman frenzy. Superhuman devotion in man or
woman — it is more usual in woman — may prevail, and effect the
rescue of an Abb6 Sicard, or of the father of a Mile. Calotte or a
Mile, de Sombreuil ; and, at the least, it wins the admiration even of
the sbyers, and possibly softens their hearts for another occasion.
Had the philanthropic and learned Bailly shown half the vigour of
his brother-Mayor of Versailles, who, on the day of the massacres,
ran out and guarded with his body the cart that carried the prisoners ;
had one Elector of all that assembly but said plainly that he would
not see a vile deed done, that for love, not of those who deserved
t^;al punishment, but of the law which was violated in punishing
tbem illegally, and of the people which dishonoured itself by
violating the law, he would defend with his life the cause of justice,
then, possibly, the tide of fury might have been turned, and two
oppressors might have gone to their graves with the execration they
:rited, and would not have been transformed into almost martyrs,
victims of an inexcusable frenzy. And the defenders of the law
would have reaped the benefit in the end. Bailly, Osselin, and

1 . doubtless many another in that Assembly, if we had the patience to
t their names in the records of the Revolutionary Tribunal,

^fdl victims in their turn to " the vengeance of the people." As for

*?Tiger " "he wept when Foulon's son sought him out and

lim 0 —the conciliatory one — of the memoirs offered
for the guidance of the King. But remorse came

358 The Gentleman's Magazine.

too late. The time was drawing near when Bamave was himself to
be condemned as an aristocrat. As the cart conveyed him to the
scaffold, two middle-aged, respectably-dressed men barred its
passage. " Barnave," said they, in low distinct tones that were
heard through all the shouts of the crowd, " is the blood that will be
shed to-day so very pure ? "

E. PERRONET THOMPSON.

1

59

THE GRINDSTONE THEORY OF
THE MILKY JVA Y.

^^HE original conception of the " grindstone " or " disc theory "
of the Milky Way, although usually attributed to Sir William
Herschel, is certainly due to Thomas Wright of Durham, who first
published the theory in the year 1750 in a work entitled "An
Original Theory or New Hypothesis of the Universe, founded upon
the Laws of Nature, and solving by Mathematical Principles the
General Phaenomena of the Visible Creation ; and particularly The
Via Lactea. Comprised in Nine Familiar Letters from the Author to
his Friend." This work is very rare. Even the great library of the
Poulkova Observatory, Russia, does not possess a copy, and t
appears from the writings of Kant, Struve, and Arago that neither of
them had seen an original copy of Wright's work. On the title page
of the copy belonging to the Library of the Royal Astronomical
Society (from which the extracts in the following pages are quoted)
there is a manuscript note by Professor De Morgan (author of " The
Budget of Paradoxes "), in which he says that he had only seen three
copies of the work, one of which " had an ingenious attempt to alter
MDCCL into MDCCC, which could only be detected by looking
through the back of the page " — an attempt probably made by some
unscrupulous person to try and prove that Wright's views were not
published till 1800, or a date subsequent to the appearance of Sir
W. Herschers earlier papers.

Thomas Wright was born on September 22, 171 1, at Byer's
Green, near Durham, and died at the same place on February 25,
1786. He seems to have been an observer especially of comets,
and a computer of their orbits. He published some other works,
and acquired such a reputation by his writings on navigation that in
1742 he was offered the professorship of navigation in the Imperial
Academy of St Petersburg.

In the seventh letter of the work referred to Wright says : " Let
Of itnagtne a vast infinite Gulph, or Medium, every Wav extended like

360 The Gentle^naii s Magazine.

a Plane, and inclosed between two Surfaces, nearly even on both
Sides, but of such a Depth or Thickness as to occupy a Space equal to
the double Radius, or Diameter of the visible Creation, that is to take
in one of the- smallest Stars each way, from the middle Station,
perpendicular to the Plane's Direction, and, as near as possible,
according to our Idea of their true Distance ; " and again, " If your
Opticks fail you before you arrive at these external Regions, only
imagine how infinitely greater the Number of Stars would be in these
remote Parts, arising thus from their continual crowding behind one
another, as all other Objects do towards the Horizon Point of their
Perspective, which ends but with Infinity. Thus, all their Rays at
least so near uniting, must meeting in the eye appear, as almost, in
Contact, and form a perfect Zone of Light ; this I take to be the real
Case, and the true Nature of our Milky JVay" Here we have the
" disc theory *' clearly propounded.

Herschel was, however, the first to put this theory to the test of
observation. Let us consider the principle on which his observations
were based. If we suppose the stars to be uniformly scattered
through a space extending to the same distance in all directions,
with the observer's eye placed nearly in the centre, it is evident that
the number of stars visible in the field of the telescope directed to
different portions of the stellar vault would be nearly the same for
every position of the telescope. But let us suppose that the stars are
equally distributed, not in a sphere, but in the form of a cylindrical
disc — like a grindstone — of a small thickness in comparison with its
diameter. In this case —if the stars near the borders of the disc are
within the range of our telescope — there will be seen in the direction
of the diameter of the disc a very large number of stars, and in that
of the thickness, or axis of the disc, a comparatively small number.
In other directions the number visible will be proportional to the
length of the visual ray. It follows, therefore, that an enumeration
of the stars visible in various directions would enable us to determine
the exact form of the stellar stratum, and also the position of the
observer in the interior of the disc. For, as the volumes of spheres
vary as the cubes of their radii, the number of stars visible in any
two directions would be proportional to the cubes of the distances
to which the stratum extended in the two directions. For example^
if in the field of view of the observing telescope ten stars are counted
in one direction and eighty in another, the length of the visual rays
will be as one to two (or as the cube roots of one to eight). From
the observed numbers, and a comparison between the area of the
field of the observing telescope and the total area of the star sphere.

The Grindstone Theory of the Milky Way. 361

the length of the visual ray, compared with the mean distance of
stars of the first magnitude, may also be computed.

In pursuance of this method Sir W. Herschel undertook a series
of "gauges," or counts of stars, visible in different portions of the
sky with a reflecting telescope of i8-8 inches aperture. The
magnifying power used was 157, and the diameter of "the field of
view " about fifteen minutes four seconds of arc, or about half the
moon's apparent diameter. It may be shown that the area of this
field of view is equal to that of the whole celestial sphere divided by
833,000. It would, therefore, be necessary to count this immense
number of fields in order to " gauge " the whole visible heavens.
HerschePs gauges number about 3,400, so that in reality he examined
only a small fraction of the celestial vault. The number of stars
visible in these gauges range from o to 588. This latter number,
large as it is for so small a field of view, would give for the whole
heavens — if equally rich — a total of 489,804,000 stars, a number
which, although absolutely large, must be considered as comparatively
small if we consider space as infinite in extent.

HerscheFs gauges were made along a great circle of the celestial
sphere at right angles to the course of the Milky Way. This section
was inclined at an angle of 35 degrees to the celestial Equator. It
intersects the Milky Way at right angles, and passes close to the
Galactic poles. On one side of the star sphere it cuts the Milky Way in
the two branches in Aquila, and at the opposite side in the southern
portion of Monoceros near Canis Major. Herschel found the greatest
diameter of his stellar stratum to have an extension of 850 times the
mean distance of stars of the first magnitude ; the thickness at
right angles to the diameter of the disc — or in the direction of the
poles of the Milky Way — being 155 of the same units. In this
hypothetical disc the sun is not quite centrally placed either in the
direction of the thickness, or in that of the diameter of the disc. In
the direction of the thickness he found an extension of 75 units
towards Coma Berenices, or Northern Galactic pole, and 80 units
towards Cetus, or the Southern pole. In the direction of the diameter
the maximum extension is in the direction of Aquila, where we have
distances of 497 and 420 units. Between these two branches lies a
void gulf, of which the nearest point to the sun is at a distance of
220 units. In the opposite direction the extreme distance of the
borders of the disc is at 352 of the same units, in that portion of
the Milky Way above Canis Major.

Herschel estimates the average distance of stars of the sixth
magnitude — about the limit of ordinary eyesight — to be twelve times

362 The Gentleman s Magazine.

the average distance of stars of the first magnitude. Now, with a
" light ratio " of 2-512, I find that the average distance of stars of the
eighth magnitude will be 30*14 units of the adopted scale, the distance
of ninth magnitude stars 4776, and of tenth magnitude stars 7572
of the same units. From this it follows that a telescope which shows
stars to the tenth magnitude only should suffice to pierce tnl
thickness of the stellar disc in the direction of the North
pole. As this is probably not the case, it would seem that H
assumed dimensions are too small. Assuming his figures, howev?
let us consider how the " disc theory " agrees with observation,
the late Mr. Proctor has shown, the stars visible to the naked eye alone
show a marked tendency to aggregation on the Galactic stream. My
own investigations on the subject confirm the correctness of this
conclusion. Now, as the average naked eye can only penetrate to a
small distance in any direction of the disc, we should find the number
of naked eye stars nearly the same in all directions, with of course
a nebulous background. There seems, therefore, no reason why the
naked eye stars should be more numerous in the direction of the
Milky Way than in any other direction. It may, however, be objected
to this argument that the tendency of the lucid stars to crowd on the
Milky Way is not sufficiently well marked to warrant us in drawing
any decided conclusion from their apparent distribution over the
celestial vault. Let us, therefore, consider the observed distribu-
tion of stars to the eight and ninth magnitudes, of which the limit in
distances fall well within the thickness of the hypothetical disc.
Struve found that for the hours VI. and I. of Right Ascension the ratio
of stellar density is about 3 to i for stars to the ninth magnitude, in-
cluded in a zone from 15° North Declination to 15° South Declination.
Argelander^s maps show that for a distance of 30° on each side of
the centre line of the Galactic zone the stars to the eighth magnitude
inside these limits are more numerous than those outside in the ratio
of about 2 to I. For stars of the ninth magnitude this ratio is
nearly 2^ to i.

Adopting Struve's method of counting the stars in a zone from
-f 15° to —15° of Declination, I have made a careful enumeration of
the stars to the eighth magnitude inclusive, as shown in Harding's
charts, which are fairly complete for stars of that magnitude, at least
in the selected zone. The results I have found show that the maxi-
mum number of stars occurs in the hour XVIIL to XIX. (Milky Way),
where the number contained in the zone is 611, and the minimum
in hour I. to II^ where the namber is 275. This gives a ratio of 2*22
to !• Another "^"'""'» oocun in hour VL to VIL (Milky Way),

\

The Grindstone Theory of the Milky Way. 36

where the number is 601. The average for the whole zone is about
436 stars per hour of Right Ascension ; the average for the hours
V. to VIII. being 543, and for the hours XVIII. to XXL, 581. We
see, therefore, that the stars down to only the eighth magnitude show a
strongly marked tendency to aggregation on the Milky Way stream.

These results are quite inconsistent with the "disc," or "grindstone"
theory of the Milky Way. As the stars are, by this hypothesis, supposed
to be uniformly distributed throughout every part of the disc, and as
the limiting distances for stars of the eighth and ninth magnitudes fall
well within the boundaries of the disc, there is clearly no reason why
stars of these magnitudes should not be quite as numerous in the direc-
tion of the Galactic poles as in that of the Milky Way itself. We see,
therefore, that the disc theory fails to represent the observed facts, and
that Struve and Proctor were fully justified in their opinion that the
theory is wholly untenable and should be abandoned. These views
are of course strengthened by the fact that the disc theory was aban.
doned by Herschel himself in his later writings. In his paper of
1802 he says: "For though our sun, and all the stars we see, may
truly be said to be in the plane of the Milky Way, yet I am now
convinced by a long inspection and continued examination of it,
that the Milky Way itself consists of stars very differently scattered
from those which are immediately about us." And in his paper
of 1 8x1 he says : "An equal scattering of the stars may be admitted
in certain calculations ; but when we examine the Milky Way, or
the closely compressed clusters of stars of which my catalogues
have recorded so many instances, this supposed equality of scattering
must be given up." In his paper of 181 7 Herschel expresses his
opinion that although a large number of stars visible in the field of
view of the gauging telescope would generally indicate a great exten-
sion of stars in the line of sight, these " gauges " in reality point more
directly to the relative condensation of the stars in space, and show
the varying richness of star distribution in different regions of the
heavens. Here we have the fundamental assumption of the theory
abandoned by the author himself.

The "disc theory" of the Milky Way has — like many other
errors — persistently held its ground in astronomical text books, and
it certainly does seem strange that the opinions held by Herschel
when, as Proctor says, "his labours were but beginning, should be
adopted by ftMB||^onomers in preference to those which were the
fruits of hifl ence." ^

/ y

J J. ^LU^RD GORE.

/

/

/

3^364 The Gentleman s Magazine.

/

IVILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
NA TURALIST.

IT is one of the properties, so general as to be almost worth calling
a differentia^ of the Anglo-Saxon race to take kindly to what is
loosely styled " natural history." What manner of history that may
be which is " unnatural," or " not of Nature," in one or other of her
thousand aspects, no mortal has yet discovered or shall discover.
In our popular phraseology, meanwhile, we are pleased, without much
show of either reason or consistency, to narrow down the term within
limits which, in truth, are wide enough, but yet fall far short of the
whole significance of the words themselves. Greek and Latin writers
were fond of the grammatical figure whereby the part is substituted
for the whole ; we in these days seem to prefer the converse method,
and wastefully employ, in many instances, " the whole for the part'*
It is in this spirit of limitation that by " mathematics " we are ac-
customed to indicate only one small branch of the Tree of Knowledge;
by " music," only one of the arts with which the Sacred Nine were
identified. With us to-day the lawyer is the only recognised
** solicitor," the funeral-furnisher the sole authorised "undertaker";
none other is suffered to usurp these titles, solicit he never so wisely,
undertake he never so much or so expensively. So it is also with
our " natural histor>'," which, as we understand it, signifies the
inquiry into the characteristics and economy of the animal world, as
represented by fowl of the air and beast of the field, by thing creep-
ing and thing swimming, by whatever, in short, has a conscious life,
man himself alone being excepted. This of all histories it is that
commands a never-failing quota of students, the only one, indeed,
upon which we as a nation seem to enter with a congenital en-
thusiasm. We do not necessarily make a labour or a parade of it,
wear)'ing ourselves and our neighbours with minute subdivisions and
scientific classifications ; that must ever be the privilege of the few.
But we, most of us, are aware of an instinctive leaning to at any rate
a rough-and-ready acquaintance with the subject. It is but seldom
that an English boy does not evince, in one direction or another, a

\

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 365

decided taste for historical studies of this character. And we carry it
with us blithely, often as the sole remnant of our blitheness, into the
dreary region of middle life, where it helps mercifully to beguile the
dead level of that particular mill-round to which destiny or despera-
tion has chained us. There is, too, a special vitality attaching to the
literature of natural history. Humes and Gibbons have their little
day and give place to others, but we never grow tired of such books
as " White's Selbome " (of which last year was the centenary), or
" The Gamekeeper at Home."

Little apology, then, is needed for drawing attention to the
Shakespearean treatment of so favourite a study. Such attention has
already in some measure been drawn by the publication of Mr.
Harting's work on " The Ornithology ofShakespeare," which renders
it unnecessary in these pages to devote any specific consideration to
feathers. But fur, scales, and other integuments remain to us.
Accustomed though we be to think and boast of our great dramatist's
encyclopaedic genius, we cannot without close survey adequately
realise the meaning of our own words. To " tell a hawk from a
heronshaw " were perhaps no great feat even for an amateur natural-
ist in Elizabethan days ; but to have something to say about almost
all the British birds at that time identified is a little remarkable in
one whose allusions to ornithology were meant to be merely paren-
thetical. That the same lay mind should also have been able to
introduce shrewd comments on the great majority of quadrupeds
then known to exist in this and other countries, together with frequent
notes on the fishes, insects, reptiles, and crustaceans, is enough to
stagger all save the most loyal believer in the unity of Shakespearean
authorship.

That all our so-called domestic animals should be mentioned
passim is only what we might reasonably expect. The faithful
enumeration, however, of all, or nearly all, the varieties is worth
noticing. Under the head of cattle, for instance, we find not
merely the bull, caw, ox, and calf, with the metaphorical mooncalf
("Tempest," ii. i, and iii. 2), but also kine, steer, heifer, and neat
(still current in Suffolk and perhaps in other counties). " Neat's
tongue " is more than once employed as a term of abuse, as, e.g, by
Falstaff in " Henry IV.," Part I. ii. 4 ; and the same word is
turned to account in one of Shakespeare's many freaks of paronomasia.
Leontes says (" Winter's Tale," i. 2) :

Come, captain,

We must be neat ; not neat, but cleanly, captain ;
And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf
Are all call'd neat.

366 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" Neat's leather," again, is twice used in a quasi -proverbial sense,
first by Stephano (" Tempest," ii. 2), who describes Caliban as " a
present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's leather," and secondly
by a cobbler in the opening scene of " Julius Caesar," where, in
essaying to satisfy the angry Tribune Marullus on the score of his
character and means of decent livelihood, he protests : " As proper
men as ever trod upon neat's leather have gone upon my handywork."
It \^*as, no doubt, a common idiom in Shakespeare's day. " Sheep "
(sometimes also " sheeps ") as a generic term occurs frequently ; and
we need not be ver>' close students to mark here and there the more
particular "wether," "ewe,'' and "ram," as well as, of course,
" lamb " and *Mambkin." "Bell-wether," in a tropical sense, we may
read in one of FalstafTs extravaganzas (" Merr)' Wives of Windsor,"

iii. 5).

When first, and why, the eminently sagacious ass was selected as
a type of doltishness it were doubtless no easy matter now to deter-
mine ; but the choice was a singularly bad one. Of patient endurance,
its really distinguishing characteristic, it would have furnished a far
happier illustration, for, deixind upon it, maugre the seeming paradox,
the ass is no fool. The popular prejudice, however, three centuries
ago, decided otherwise, or perhaps was inherited from yet more
remote generations, and has been faithfully handed down without
change to our own times. Pons asinontm is probably the most
widely known shred of Anglo-Latin that British scholarship, if indeed
it be of our own devising, has yet accomplished — and the most inane.
The only ass spoken handsomely of or to in Shakespeare's p1a>-s is
Bully Bottom in that guise ; while, on the other hand, the opprobrious
application of the name meets us at every turn. " What an ass art
thou 1" heartily ejaculates Speed to Launce ("Two Gentlemen of
Verona," ii. 5) ; ** Preposterous ass I" cries Lucentio, seeking to drown
Hortensio's music ; even Caliban thus reproaches himself ("Tempest,"

^*" *) *• What a thrice-double us

Was I, to take this drankard for a god,
And worship this dull fool !

Antipholus of Ephesus says blandly to Dromio, " I think thou art
an ass," which provokes the retort (" Comedy of Errors,"' iii. 1) :

Harry, so it doth appear,
the wffODgt I suffer, and the bloirs I bear.
I aid kid[, being kick*d ; and being at that pass,
»ip from ny hcdi« and beware of an an.

often, some eight times in all. In

William ShakespearCy Naturalist. 367

" Henry VI. " (Part II. iv. i) Suffolk objects that " the honourable
blood of Lancaster " should be shed by one who had kissed his hand,
held his stirrup, and " bareheaded plodded by my foot-cloth mule."
Shylock, again, argues that the Jew's pound of flesh is as much his
own as the " asses, dogs, and mules " which Christians buy and count
their own property. But it has never been a prevalent beast of bur-
den in these realms. En revanche^ the horse is abundantly recog-
nised. Everyone remembers Richard's despairing cry, " A horse !
a horse ! my kingdom for a horse ! " (" Richard III.," v. 4), but a fine
simile in "Measure for Measure," i. 2, is possibly not quite so
familiar. Claudio, lamenting the severity of " the new deputy now
for the Duke," wonders whether the strictness of the new regime be
due to

the fault and glimpse of newness,
Or whether that the body public be
A horse whereon the governor doth ride,
Who, newly in the seat, that it may know
He can command, straight lets it feel the spur.

We read, too, of "unback'd colts" (" Tempest," iv. i), of the
" malt-horse," a term applied contemptuously to a dullard ("Comedy of
Errors," iii. i), of "hobby-horses" ("Much Ado About Nothing," iii.
2), "hackneys" (" Love's Labour Lost," iii. i), and the Duke says of
Touchstone, " He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the
presentation of that, he shoots his wit." We may even trace a few of
the expressions which we still use to distinguish the colour of the
animal. A groom in "Richard II.," v. 5, speaks of the day "when
Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary," and Edgar, in "King Lear," iii.
4, complains of the foul fiend, who made him ** proud of heart, to
ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inch'd bridges."

But of all animals employed in the service of man none is noticed
more frequently than the dog. The mere enumeration of the various
species is remarkable from its fulness. There are two passages, one
in " Macbeth," iii. i, the other in " King Lear," iii. 6, in which
a catalogue of breeds is given. The two together probably exhaust,
or nearly so, the list of dwellers in Elizabethan kennels :

(i) As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are clept
All by the name of dogs.

(2) Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel, grim,
Hound, or spaniel, brach, or lym,
Or bob-tail tike, or trundle-tail.

Some few of these are still extant, notably the mongrel and the cur,
and the names of others, now obsolete or otherwise designated,

368 The Gentlematis Magazine.

explain themselves. Brack Professor Skeat defines to be "a kin
hunting-dog," which no doubt is true, as far as it goes — though t
after all, is no great distance. The word occurs again in "The T
ing of the Shrew," i. i, where we have " brach Merriman," and
huntsman is charged to " couple Clowder with the deep-mou
brach " ; and also in " Henry IV.," Part I. iii. i, where Hot
would rather hear " Lady, my brach, howl in Irish," than the lady
in Welsh. " Lady, the brach," is to be found, too, in " King Lc
i. 4, on which passage Mr. Aldis Wright has a note to the effect
" a brach was a bitch hound " — but how does this agree with bi
^mvjian'i — " Cotgrave (Fr. Diet.) ^ Brogue ^ a kind of short-ta;
setting-dog ; ordinarily spotted, or partie-coloured.' " The pre
identity is a matter for "the fancy" to determine. A lym
lyam) was a bloodhound, said to have been so called from the "le:
or leash with which he was held ; but the derivation sounds a 1
feeble, for at that rate all dogs h eld in leash would be " lyi
and the bloodhound is certainly mentioned in his own name, a
" Henry IV.," Part II. v. 4. The spaniel^ or Spanish dog, and
cringing ways were evidently well known. "I am your spaniel," i
Helena ("Midsummer Night^s Dream," ii. i),

and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you :
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me ; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

"Where's my spaniel Troilus ?" cries Petruchio (" Taming of
Shrew," iv. i), while Proteus, speaking of Silvia (" Two Gentler
of Verona," iv. 2), declares that

notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love.
The more it grows, and fawneth on her stilL

Falconry has long ceased to be reckoned among our popi
pastimes ; though not actually extinct it has become so limited
exceptional that perhaps not one sportsman in a thousand has <
seen it in operation. But coursing survives, and in some favox
districts is practised as ardently as ever it was. The many alius:
in Shakespeare to the greyhound prove conclusively that in his
the sport of hare-and-hounds was well patronised. "I see
stand," says the king (" Henry V.," iii. i), " like greyhounds in
slips, Straining upon the start." Edward and Richard are like
("Henry VI.," Part III. ii. 5) to "a brace of greyhounds Having
fearful flying hare in sight." Fvjn in " Coriolanus" (i. 6) the sii

«

William ShakespearCy Naturalist. 369

of " a fawning greyhound in the leash " is introduced, and the " two
brace of greyhounds " sent to Timon of Athens (i. 2), though a
remarkable present in the circumstances, may be noted as another
instance of British sports transferred by a stroke of the dramatist's pen
to classical soil, for coursing, as we understand it, can scarcely have
been known to either Greek or Roman. " How does your fallow grey-
hound, sir?" asks Slender (" Merry Wives of Windsor," i. i) ; "I heard
say he was outrun on Cotsall ;" and Benedick declares that Margaret's
wit is "as quick as the greyhound's mouth— it catches" ("Much Ado
About Nothing," v. 2). We may further observe that literary fox-
hunters seldom describe what they elegantly style " a real good thing"
wittiout (perhaps unwittingly) drawing upon Shakespeare for one of
their commonest phrases. " The music of my hounds," and " the
nausical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction" are both from
^MJdsummer Night's Dream," iv. i. Even the humble beagle finds
ice in the list Sir Toby Belch, in his cups, it is true, pays Maria
compliment of comparing her to " a beagle, true-bred."
Xaunce's " Crab, my dog," though he be, as his master thought,
sourest-natured dog that lives," a grievous disappointment to
who had " brought him up of a puppy," having " saved him from
ning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went
^Q it," will never be forgotten. His pedigree is not given, but per-
haps we shall be doing him no great injustice if we range him among
^^ **curs," or "curtals " ("Comedy of Errors," iil i). Wemayhope,
^^^^> that Launce himself was never called upon to undergo either of
^"^ trials suggested in the lines (Id, v. i) :

The venom clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.

finally, let us note the figurative value of the animal in the three

ixie metaphors, "let slip the dogs of war" ("Julius Caesar," iii.

'^» ** dog-weary " ("Taming of the Shrew," i v. 2), and Sir Andrew

^^^e-cheek's " I am dog at a catch " (" Twelfth Night," ii. 3). When

*[^ i^ said and sung we shall probably not quarrel with Pistol's dictum

**^t "Hold-fast is the only dog" (" Henry V.," ii. 3) worth owning.

l^rom the dog the transition is natural and easy to the " harmless,

^^^^ssary cat "(" Merchant of Venice," iv. i), to which there are

^^ral allusions of a more or less compromising character. It is

^^U known that " Care killed a cat " (" Much Ado About Nothing,"

.' ^); but even that unhappy end sounds preferable to the method

^^Uniated by Benedick, who, when Don Pedro predicts that he will

^^e day abandon his celibate principles, incontinently cries, "If I do,

, ^^g me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot at me" {Id, L i ). There is an

k VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1930. C C

370 The Gentleman s Magazine,

uncomfortable ring, too, in Bottom's declaration that he " could play
Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split " (" Midsum-
mer Night's Dream," i. i). What exactly was the predicament in
which "the poor cat i' the adage" found herself we can but conjecturCi
But the saying, " as vigilant as a cat to steal cream " (" Henry IV.,"
Part I. iii. i), possibly affords some clue to the various straits in
which feline existence has constantly been exhibited. "As a cat
laps milk" ("Tempest," ii. i) is another Shakespearean idiom to
indicate extreme facility. On the whole, we may fairly assume that
"the ramping cat" (" Henry IV.," Part I. iii. i), whether "graymalkin"
("Macbeth," i. i), or "gib" (" Hamlet," iii. 4) has ever had— in this
country, at least — a troublous career, and even the post-mortem
honours accorded to the race have never been on a par with those
voted to deceased tabbies by the ancient Egyptians.

With the goat and the pig the catalogue of domestic animals — of
domestic quadrupeds, at any rate — comes to an end. Falstaff
denounces Evans as a " Welsh goat " ("Merry Wives of Windsor," v. 5);
" I will fetch up your goats, Audrey," says Touchstone (" As You Like
It," iii. 3); and " gall of goat " is one of the ingredients of the
witches' cauldron (" Macbeth," iv. i). The line "Some men there
are love not a gaping pig" (" Merchant of Venice," iv. i) comes with
special force from Shylock's lips, and contains one of the three
references to the beast under that title. The alternative synonymSi
however, are to be met with pretty often. Queen Margaret, in the
course of a curiously withering diatribe, applies to Gloster the not
too flattering sobriquet of " thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting
hog," and the expression " a hog in sloth " occurs in " King Lear,"
iii. 4. Again, " how like a swine he lies ! ^ is said, with much truth,
of the intoxicated tailor, Christopher Sly (" Taming of the Shrew,*
Induction), while " pearl enough for a swine," may be read in "Love's
Labour Lost," iv. 2.

It must be admitted, then, that Shakespeare has dealt on the
whole very handsomely by the tenants of stall, stable, kennel, and
sty. Not only are they all mentioned by name, but of several of
them the salient features are noticed in a manner which marks the
careful observer. We have now to examine his attitude with regard
to animals fera natura. Here, too, shall we discover a breadth of
view and a shrewdness of perception which cannot but arouse our
respectful astonishment and admiration. We can point to scarcely
one British quadruped — those species, of course, being excepted which
have been distinguished and classified since his era — of which he has
not something to say and something worth saying. Nor is his range

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 371

limited by either "British" or "quadruped." The entire animal
world, as known in his time, is his " oyster."

To begin, however, with our indigenous varieties, and taking them
in the order adopted by Professor Bell in his standard work on the
subject, we come first to the cheiropterous bat. The most superficial
reader of Shakespeare must needs be familiar with Ariel's song, and
the line, "On the bat's back I do fly." The same .play mentions
*' bats " among the " charms of Sycorax " (i. 2), and also furnishes us
with an allusion to the still extant sport of "bat-fowling" (ii. i).
The witches in " Macbeth " included " wool of bat " in their phar-
macopoeia, among other more or less nauseous ingredients. For a
picturesque image of the night-watch we have, " Ere the bat hath
flown His cloistered flight " (Id. iii. 3), and the old English
nomenclature is preserved in Titania's words, " Some war with rere-
mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats."
** Reremouse " is said to survive to this day in some of the westem
counties. The " thorny hedgehog," with his synonyms of " hedgepig "
and " urchin," was evidently no favourite at the time when these plays
were written. Lady Anne uses the word as a term of abuse in her
violent altercation with Gloster (" Richard III.," i. 2); Caliban com-
plains of being " frighted with urchin shows," and of the spirits which,
in all manner of shapes, never leave pursuing him, sometimes in the
guise of apes, sometimes ("Tempest," ii. i)

like hedgehogs, which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount
Tht ir pricks at my footfall.

Few even of professed naturalists have ever heard the voice of
this little animal ; but it did not escape the ear of the all-observing
playwright, who in the sentence " and thrice the hedge-pig whined "
(" Macbeth," iv. i), is held by competent judges to have expressed as
nearly as maybe the mixture of grunt and squeak which constitutes the
phenomenon. His notes on the mole, or mold- warp (" Henry IV.,"
Part I. iii. i), are equally suggestive of careful observation. No one
who has lived at the distance of half a dozen miles from Charing
Cross can have failed to notice that " the blind mole casts copp'd
hills towards heaven " ("Pericles," i. i), but the pen of none but a
naturalist could have written, " Pray you, tread softly, that the blind
mole may not hear a footfall " (" Tempest," iv. i), for its remarkable
hearing powers are to this day unknown to the vulgar. Hamlet's
** Well said, old mole ! can'st work i' the earth so fast ? a worthy
pioneer," may also be fairly cited as the words of one who had
evidently seen with his own eyes something of that marvellous

c c 2

372 The Gentleman s Magazine.

swiftness which here furnishes so apt a simile. To object that he
habitually speaks of the creature as " blind " is only to say that he
lived before the days of scientific zoology, and that he took for
granted what, even in this epoch of enlightenment, probably
nineteen out of every score of English folk are likewise content to
accept without question. Both otter-hunting and badger-baiting must
have been practised in Shakespeare's time, but not more than a
single reference to either beast is to be extracted from his dramas.
Sir Toby Belch employs the old title of the latter in a vituperative
vein, " Marry, hang thee, brock" ("Twelfth Night," ii. 5), while the
former is decried by Falstaff as being "neither fish nor flesh"
(" Henry IV.," Part I. iii. 3). The weasel, on the other hand, whose
name is the next on our list, is honoured with several " mentions,"
none of them, however, strictly " honourable." " A weasel hath
not such a deal of spleen as you are toss 'd with," says Lady Percy
to her husband in " Henry IV.," Part I. ii. 3. " As a weasel sucks
eggs," is the phrase in which Jaques expresses his own adroitness
in sucking " melancholy out of a song " ; " as quarrelous as the
weasel " is a comparison used by Pisanio in " Cymbeline," iii. 4,
and, again, in " Henry V.," i. 2, we read :

For once the eagle, England, being in prey,
To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot
Comes sneaking, and so sucks her princely eggs ;
Playing the mouse in absence of the cat,
To tear and havoc more than she can eat.

Another member of the Muslelada family, the fitchew, more com-
monly known as the polecat, is mentioned by one or other of those
names some five times. " Polecats ! there are fairer things than pole-
cats, sure ! " says Mrs. Quickly, and " you polecat ! " in an objurgatory
sense appears in the next scene of the same comedy (" Merry Wives
of Windsor," iv. 2). The word does not occur in any other play.
"Fitchew," however, we find in " Troilus and Cressida," v. i, and in
" King Lear," iv. 6 ; from the lips of Cassio, too, proceed the words,
" *Tis such another fitchew ! marry, a perfumed one 1 " which reminds
us of a third name— that of foumart — in which this animal rejoices.
The wild cat was certainly much commoner three centuries ago in this
country than it is now. It is the only species of the Felida indi-
genous to Britain, and is on the high-road to extinction. In the
dense woods of Warwickshire, however, Shakespeare may well have
seen it. The expression " your cat o' mountain looks " seems to argue
that he was no stranger to its physiognomy. This is to be read in
" Merry Wives of Windsor," ii. 2, and Shylock's remark, " he sleeps

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 373

by day more than the wild cat," also betrays some knowledge of its
habits. Katherine the Shrew is compared to a wild cat (i. 2), and
the curious phrase " more pinch-spotted than pard or cat o* moun-
tain " is put into the mouth of Prospero (" Tempest," iv. i), to be
explained perhaps no one precisely knows by what ingenious
hypothesis.

Those who are curious in such matters can no doubt discover the
date of the first fox-hunt, as that sport is now understood, in this
country. We read in Shakespeare of falconry, coursing, and the
chase of the stag, but the brave tod-hunter was as yet uncreated, or
his exploits were not glorious enough to lend the poet so much as a
metaphor. The fox is mentioned, it is true, many times, but never
as an object of pursuit. Helena says of Hermia (" Midsummer
Night's Dream," iii. 2) that " she was a vixen when she went to
school," and the epithet is still occasionally applied to womankind.
The usurer's gown was " furred with fox and lamb skins " (" Measure
for Measure," iii. 2). Most of the allusions, however, bear reference
to vulpine craft and cunning. Thus Gloster says (" Henry VI.,"
Part in. iv. 7) :

But when the fox hath once got in his nose
HeUl soon find means to make the body follow.

Wolsey is described as "this holy fox "("Henry VIII.," i. i); the
expression " fox in stealth " is used in " King Lear," iii. 4 ; and
Gremio warns his hearers that " an old Italian fox is not so kind "
(" Taming of the Shrew," ii. i ). These are only a sample of many such
figurative applications of Reynard's widely recognised idiosyncrasies.

Queen Mab's chariot was " an empty hazel nut, made by the
joiner squirrel," and " the squirrel's hoard " was offered by Titania to
Bottom, who, in his then condition, had a preference for " a bottle of
new hay " or " a handful or two of dried peas." We find the name
of the shadow-taiPs little cousin, the dormouse, only once in the
whole Shakespearean range, and then not in a literal sense. " To
awake your dormouse valour " (" Twelfth Night," iii. 2) is, neverthe-
less, an idiom which clearly proves that the writer was well aware of
the natural history of Myoxus avellanarius.

To " mice and rats and such small deer " there is no lack of
reference. "Not a mouse stirring," is the soldier's reply to his
officer's inquiry whether he has had a "quiet guard " (" Hamlet," 1. i).
" I never killed a mouse nor hurt a fly," declares Marina in " Pericles,"
iv. I, and a few scenes above are the lines —

The cat, with eyne of burning coal,
Now couches *fore the mouse's hole.

374 The Gentkynans Magazine.

*• The ver)' rats instinctively have quit it," is said of a rotten vessel
like to sink (" Tempest," i. 2). A time-honoured, though utterly
cruel, method of getting rid of superfluous rodents of this species is
referred to in *' Measure for Measure," L 2, where we read —

Our natures do pursue.
Like rats, thai lavin do\Mi iheir proper bane,
A thirsty evil ; and when we drink we die.

^' There be land-rats and water-rats," argues Shylock (" Merchant of
Venice," i. 3) ; "Take these rats thither to gnaw their gamers"
( " Coriolanus," i. i), says Marcius ; "I have seen the time," boasts
Shallow, " with my long sword I would have made yon four tall
fellows skip like rats" ("Merrj' Wives of Windsor," ii. i). The hare
as a symbol of timidity is mentioned more than once, the coursing pro-
pensities of the age making it no doubt one of the best known of the
British fauna. Other peculiarities are noted by Portia, who says,
*' Such a hare is madness, the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good
counsel, the cripple" (** Merchant of Venice," L 2), and by Edgar
("King Lear," iii. 4), who attributes to "the foul fiend Flibberti-
gibbet" the power of making, among other mischief, "the hare-lip."
The rabbit comes in for some little notice, and chiefly under his
alternative title of cony. " Cony-catching " is spoken of as a kind of
last resource for the destitute, much as we in these days speak of
*' sweeping a crossing." " I must cony-catch, I must shift," says
Falstaff at a time of special impecuniosity. " Cony -catching rascals,"
too, is a phrase which even now may be heard in some counties,
where the time of the rural Bench is mainly occupied in award-
ing condign penalties to those who have rashly trespassed in
pursuit of poor Bunny. He was evidently considered a worthy
denizen of the larder, for Moth speaks of "a rabbit on a spit" as a
familiar spectacle ("Love's Labour Lost," iii. i), and in "Taming
of the Shrew," iv. 4, we read of one to whom a strange experience
befel "as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit."

The three species of the genus Cenus which occur within these
realms are all represented in this wonderful encjxlopaedia. We may
take it that the red deer was in Shakespeare's mind's eye when he wrote
the Tyrtaean lines uttered by Talbot (*' Henry VL," Part L iv. 2) :

If we be English deer, be then in blood :
Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch ;
IJut rather moody-mad, and desperate stags.
Turn on the bloo<ly hounds with heads of steel,
And make the cowards stand aloof at hay.

On the other hand, the " poor sequestered stag,'' which so moved the
heart of Jaques, the "sobbing deer" to which we owe one of the

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 375

most pathetic pictures in all poetry, clearly belonged to a herd of
fallow deer, described in the same passage as " poor dappled fools."
"Pricket,'' the techniqal term for a two-year-old buck of this species,
is found in " Love's Labour Lost," iv. 2, where also (v. 2) we read,
"Whip to our tents, as roes run over land." This third and least
species is referred to once again in the phrase " fleeter than the roe "
(" Taming of the Shrew," i. 2). It is scarcely necessary to add that
the terms buck, doe, hart, hind, are found too often to need any
special mention of chapter and verse.

When we turn from native to exotic zoology the same catholicity
awaits us. Wild-beast shows were no doubt to be seen in England
from time to time in the reign of Queen Bess, and Shakespeare
must have studied them with extraordinary diligence, or his many
happy descriptions and criticisms would never have occurred to him.
Quadrumana he deals with by name of ape, monkey, and baboon,
the first title being by far the most frequent " Apes that mow and
chatter at me and after bite me," says Caliban, and again (" Tempest,"
iv. i), "apes with foreheads villanous low." In "Merry Wives"
we have both "John ape " (iii. i) and " Jack-an-apes " (iv. 4), and
in " Cymbeline," ii. 2, the well-known " O sleep, thou ape of
death." An excellent simile, too, is Falstaff's "Or else you had
looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons." A curious
converse of the Darwinian theory is suggested by Apemantus ;
"the strain of man's bred out," he says, "into baboon and monkey."
Proceeding in alphabetical order we are next met by the bear.
Bruin is one of Shakespeare's favourites — for literary purposes, at any
rate — and appears in various situations, though almost always with a
bad character. The frequent " baiting " to which he was subjected
is brought to our notice in many passages, in none, perhaps, more
forcibly than " Henry VI.," Part II. v. i :

Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,
That with the very shaking of their chains
They may astonish these fell lurking curs.

Noteworthy and suggestive idioms are also the " cub-drawn bear,"
the "head-lugg'd bear" ("King Lear," iii. i and iv. 2), "as ugly
as a bear " (" Midsummer Night's Dream," ii. 2). " Bear-herd " and
" bear-ward " pleasantly remind us that in one respect at least we
are less bearish than our fore-bears ; " the rugged Russian bear "
(" Macbeth," iii. 4) is likewise of some interest to us in this age.
Nor must we take our leave of Bruin without referring to the obscure
lines in "Julius Caesar," ii. i, where, inter alia mirabilia, we are
told that bears " may be betrayed with glasses." There is reason

376 The Gentleman s Magazine.

to believe that this hints darkly at the horrible practice of blinding
the animals reserved for subsequent " baitings." The boar is another
favourite. Petruchio, describing a stormy sea, says that he saw it
"rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat" ("Taming of the
Shrew," i. 2) ; in " Cymbeline," ii. 5, lachimo is compared to " a
full-acom'd boar, a German one " ; while in " Antony and Cleopatra,"
ii. 2, we read of "eight wild boars roasted whole at breakfast."
Of the civet we can trace scarcely any direct mention from the
zoological point of view; but its use is sufficiently indicated in " As
You Like It," iii. 2, " The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet,"
and Touchstone enters into some particulars as to the source whence
the perfume is derived. Hence another designation of the animal, viz.
" musk-cat " (" AlFs Well That Ends Well," v. 2). " Thou owest the
cat no perfume," says Lear (iii. 4), and again (iv. 6), " Give me an
ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination."
From the civet to the camel is a far cry, but not too far for
Shakespeare, who could not have expressed the raison cPHre of the
Ship of the Desert more adequately or more succinctly than he does
in the words, " a drayman, a porter, a very camel " (" Troilus and
Cressida," i. 2), or have paraphrased the Bible text more neatly
than in " Richard IL," v. 5 :

As thus, — **Come, little ones ;" and then again, —

** It is as hard to come, as for a camel

To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.**

A modern writer has described the elephant as "a square
animal with a leg at each corner and a tail at both ends"; a
shrewder, and at the same time truer, remark is that of Ulysses
("Troilus and Cressida," ii. 3), "The elephant hath joints, but none
for courtesy : his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure." He
is also, as we are informed in "Julius Cxsar," ii. i, sometimes
" betray 'd with holes," a phrase which the commentators explain by
referring to a passage in Pliny which deals with the method of
capture adopted in Africa. " The Elephant," as the sign of an inn,
occurs in " Twelfth Night," iii. 3.

The ferret is mentioned in " Julius Caesar," i. 2, in the course
of a not too complimentary allusion to the greatest of Roman

orators :

And Cicero
Ix)oks with such ferret and such fiery eyes.
As we have seen him in the Capitol,
iieing cross'd in conference by some senators.

ipposed

\

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 2m

none of the sweetest, despite his affectation of mirth, serves Rosah'nd
as a pleasant simile in one of her flirtations with Orlando. " I will
laugh," she says, " like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to
sleep."

It would have been a sad blot on Shakespeare's scutcheon had
he treated our patron beast with scant ceremony. Happily the
allusions to the " King of Beasts " (" Richard II.," v. i) are plentiful
and eulogistic enough to satisfy the cravings of the most ardent
Jingoism. What can be more gratifying than Bottom's dictum,
" for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living " ?
Again, " this grisly beast, which lion hight by name," is held forth to
us as one which, even when weakened by our common enemy, is
by no manner of means to be trifled with (" Henry VI.," Part II.

V ^^ *

' ^' ' Of Salisbury, who can report of him ?

That winter lion, who in rage forgets
Aged contusions, and all brush of time,
And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,
Repairs him with occasion.

too, in " Richard II.," v. i :

The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage

To be o'erpower'd.

Speed, observing a change in his master's demeanour, rallies him
with many smart quips, reminding him how he was wont, when he
walked, "to walk like one of the lions " ("Two Gentlemen of Verona,"
ii. i), no doubt shaking as he went "the dewdrop from his mane"
(" Troilus and Cressida," iii. 3), d, la Kenealy. Let us notice also
such phrases as " the kingly lion," " as valiant as the lion," and
sundry other sentiments flattering to leonine pride, while we mark
the fate of him who " once did sell the lion's skin, while the beast
liv'd " (" Henry V.," iv. 3). The leopard, with its aliases of pard
and panther, was evidently no stranger, menagerie-wise, in Britain,
but Shakespeare is drawing the long bow when he represents it, as
he does in "Titus Andronicus," ii. 2, as haunting the neighbour-
hood of the Tiber ; Marcus was certainly exaggerating the capabili-
ties of his hunt when he said, ** I have dogs, my lord, will rouse the
proudest panther in the chase." " Bearded like the pard " is familiar
to those who have never read a line of any drama, for, like so much
of Shakespeare, it has passed into the idioms of the language.
"Wert thou a leopard," says Timon to the churlish philosopher,
" thou wert german to the lion, and the spots of thy kindred were
jurors on thy life."

378 The Gentleman s Magazine.

The " meddling monkey " has an American cousin which may
fairly be called the "nimble marmoset," but when Caliban offers
("Tempest," ii. 2) to give instruction in the art of capturing that
animal, he, or his creator, was probably thinking of the modest
" marmot," for American " notions " had not yet begun to that
extent to invade Europe. Oberon, on the other hand, is well
within his rights in mentioning the "ounce," which had long been
known to the naturalist world, if, as has been suggested, it be Pliny's
panthera. This, however, is perhaps the first recorded mention of it
under that title ; Milton has it in " Paradise Lost," iv. 344.

The "fretful porpentine " of "Hamlet," i. 5, is paralleled in
" Henry VI.," Part H. iii. i, a passage not quite so hackneyed, where
Jack Cade is mentioned as having

fought so long, till that his thighs with darts
Were almost like a sharp-quill'd porpentine.

And Ajax uses the word in an opprobrious sense in addressing the

vile Thersites (" Troilus and Cressida," ii. i). The "arm'd

rhinoceros " we find noticed but once, and then in the same line

with the "Hyrcan tiger" ("Macbeth," iii. 4). This, however, is

only one of many references to the tiger, for which a good word is

never spoken. His implacable nature is frequently cast in his teeth.

None save Orpheus, with his "golden touch," could " make tigers

tame " (" Two Gentlemen of Verona," iii. 2), and Troilus, when he

wishes to express an impossible thing, says, " When we vow to weep

seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers "(" Troilus and Cressida,**

iii. 2). York upbraids Queen Margaret with "O tiger's heart

wrapp'd in a woman's hide " ; Henry, addressing his friends before

Harfleur, invites them to assume for the nonce the characteristics of

the brute whose sole title to our admiration seems to lie in his skin

(" Henry v.," iii. i) :

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility ;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger, &c.

Lastly, there is the equally disreputable wolf, of whom, too, many
hard things are said. He is accused (especially the Irish variety,
" As You Like It," v. 2) of " behowling the moon" ; we are warned
to give him a wide berth even when we catch him asleep (" Henry
IV.," Part II. i. 2) ; he is greedy (" King Lear," iii. 4) ; treacherous
(" Henry VI.," Part I. i. 3) ; and, in short, the tiger and he. Anodes
ambo, may fitly be regarded as the Ishmaels of the animal world.

Verily an imposing array of four-footed beasts have we here I

William Shakespeare, Naturalist, 379

Noah's Ark itself can scarcely have presented a better or fuller
record. Nor do birds and quadrupeds alone represent the museum
of Shakespearean natural history. We must explore the regions of
herpetology and entomology, and enumerate the denizens of brook
and river, before we can be fairly said to have exhausted the bill of
fare which is spread before us. All our British reptiles, for example,
are faithfully passed in review. Our one poisonous snake is men-
tioned nearly a score of times by one or other of its well-known
names. " Sometime," says Caliban (" Tempest," ii. 2), " am I all
wound with adders, who with cloven tongues do hiss me into
madness " ; Timon of Athens speaks of " the black toad and adder
blue " ; " It is the bright day," Brutus tells us (" Julius Caesar," ii. i),
** that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking " ; "I am
no viper," runs the riddle in " Pericles," i. i, alluding to an ancient
superstition, " yet I feed on mother's flesh which did me breed."
The witches use " toe of frog " in their vile concoction, and " the
swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, and the wall-newt " all played
a part in " poor Tom's " daily menu. To the glow-worm there are
at least four highly poetical references. Titania commands her
fairies to steal the honey-bags of the humble-bees for tapers " and
light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes." " Fare thee well at once,"
says the Ghost in " Hamlet " (i. 5) :

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near.
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire.

Here, however, there are two slighjt errors, according to the views of
more modern naturalists ; it is only ^^ female that exhibits the light,
and Gilbert White observes that "these little creatures put out
their lamps between eleven and twelve, and shine no more for the
rest of the night." In " Pericles," ii. 3, we read, " like a glow-worm
in the night, The which hath fire in darkness, none in light." We
cannot wonder that Shakespeare is guilty of entertaining a super-
stition still current in most country districts ; the " eye-less
venom'd worm " mentioned in " Timon of Athens," iv. 3, and
the "blind worm's sting" (" Macbeth," iv. i), are, of course, Ubelson
an utterly harmless reptile. Equally libellous is the expression
"lizard's dreadful stings " (" Henry VI." Part III. ii. 2), as applied to
any member of the LacertadcR family that can have come under his
notice. The phrase "gilded newt" ("Timon of Athens," iv. 3),
betrays an observant eye, for the animal thus designated is no
favourite with the vulgar, and by the majority of those who are aware
of its existence is probably regarded with downright aversion. In
all the many passages in which mention is made of the toad this

380 The Gentleman s Magazine.

hardly- used creature is invariably spoken of in terms of undisguised
loathing. His very name is frequently used by Shakespeare's charac-
ters as a term of abuse, " Thou toad, thou toad ! " cries the Duchess
of York (" Richard III.," iv. 4), addressing the fratricide, who is in
another place also appropriately styled " this poisonous hunch-
backed toad " (i. 3). In fact, the only words not contumelious that
are uttered concerning him are those in which he is credited with,
despite his ugliness and venom, the ownership of " a precious jewel
in his head " ("As You Like It," ii. i). Mr. Wright, in his note on
this line, gives, as far as it is known, the history of the so-called toad-
stone (batrachites\ and the curious confusion of ideas which for many
centuries identified it with a supposed substance in the animal's
brain, whereas it owes its name merely to a similarity in shape
or colour. The Scandinavian equivalent of toad, anglicised
as the diminutive "paddock," is found in "Macbeth," i. i, and
" Hamlet," iii. 4.

If we except Cleopatra's "aspic " (" Antony and Cleopatra," v. 2),
there is no mention of any other particular species of Ophidia than
the adder or viper, already noted. But there are many happy
memoranda on snakes and serpents in general. Especially may we
cite the three fine lines in " Henry VI.," Part II. iii. i:

Or as the snake, rolled in a flowering bank,
With shining checker'd slough, doth sting a child,
That for the beauty thinks it excellent.

The lines immediately preceding these are interesting as preserving
for us an ancient myth : they tell of the " mournful crocodile," who
" with sorrow snares relenting passengers." It is again alluded to in
" Othello," iv. I, where the Moor protests that " if the earth could
teem with woman's tears. Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile."
It is a little remarkable that " an alligator stufFd " formed part of the
stock-in-trade of the apothecary in " Romeo and Juliet," v. i. It is
possible that Shakespeare may have seen one in the same condition,
but we know that the first living specimen brought to this country was
exhibited in the year 1751. So, at least, says the Gentlematis
Magazine of that date, but whether referring to the American or to
the Old World variety we cannot now determine. The name
" alligator " (Spanish, el lagartOy the lizard par excellence) cannot in
the Elizabethan age have been long given to the cayman by American
voyagers.

The eccentricities, real and supposed, of the chameleon are duly
recorded. " Ay, but hearken, sir," says Speed (" Two Gentlemen of
Verona," ii. i), " though the chameleon Love can feed on air, I am

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 381

one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat."
And in the same play (ii. 4), in answer to Silvia's question, " Do you
change colour ? " Valentine breaks in with " Give him leave, madam,
he is a kind of chameleon." It is a boast of Gloster's (" Henry VL,"
Part III. iii. 3) that he " can add colours to the chameleon," and the
Prince of Denmark replies to the King's ** kind inquiries " that he
fares " excellent, i' faith of the chameleon's dish : I eat the air,
promise-crammed" (" Hamlet," iii. 2).

Of fresh-water fishes we find the pike, also called luce (" Merry
Wives of Windsor," i. i) ; minnow ("this Triton of the minnows,"
" Coriolanus," iii. i) ; trout ("the trout that must be caught with
tickling," " Twelfth Night," ii. 5); tench (" Henry IV.," Part I. il i) ;
loach {Ibid.)] dace (" If the young dace be a bait for the old pike,"
Id, Part II. iii. 2); carp ("All's Well That Ends Well," v. 2); and
gudgeon ("Merchant of Venice," i. i, "fool-gudgeon"). We
notice also the cod and salmon (" to change the cod's head for the
salmon's tail," "Othello," ii. i) ; mackerel ("Henry IV.," Part I.
ii. 4) ; dolphin (" Midsummer Night's Dream," ii. i) ; dogfish
("Henry VI.," Part I. i. 4) ; stockfish ("Measure for Measure,"
iii. 2) ; eel ("Pericles," iv. 2) ; herring (** King Lear," iii 5) ; whale
("What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil
in his belly, ashore at Windsor? " " Merry Wives of Windsor," ii. i),
and pilchard ("Twelfth Night," iii. i). Nor is it necessary to read
far without coming upon the oyster, shrimp, prawn, mussel, cockle,
or crab. All, indeed, is fish that comes to his net Not even the.
humble barnacle is overlooked. "We shall lose our time," says
Caliban ("Tempest," iv. i), " and all be turn'd to barnacles."

Entomology is a very modern science, and we cannot expect
Sliakespeare to show acquaintance save with broad genera. These^
however, he faithfully enumerates, and sometimes gives us a species
to boot. Apiculture may probably have been practised in some of
the Warwickshire villages ; at any rate, his bee-similes are as precise
as they are poetical. Two passages of this nature are specially
notable, in " Henry IV.," Part II. iv. 4, and " Henry V.," i. 2 :

(i) When, like the bee, tolling from every flower
The virtuous sweets,

Our thighs pack'd with wax, our mouths with honey,
We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,
Are murder*d for our pains.

(2) For so work the honey bees,

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach
The act of order to a peopled kingdom :

382 The Gentleman's Magazine.

They have a king, and officers of sorts ;

WTiere some, like magistrates, correct at home,

Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad,

Others, like soldiers, ajrmed in their stings,

Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds ;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent royal of their emperor :

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold,

The civil citizens kneading up the honey,

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad -eyed justice, with his surly hum.

Delivering o'er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone.

The " red-hipped humble-bee " also coraes in for a fair share
attention, as in "Troilus and Cressida," v. 5, "full merrily t1
humble-bee doth sing." The economy of the ant has been left fc
Sir John Lubbock to elucidate, and Shakespeare knew about th ^
little prodigy only what he had learnt by his own observation an^ ^
Solomon's. "We'll set thee to school to an ant," says the Foc^^
(" King Lear," ii. 4), " to teach thee there's no labouring i' the winter^ "
Caterpillars and their voracious propensities are several times
mentioned, and certain royal favourites are even styled figuratively
" the caterpillars of the commonwealth " (" Richard II./' IL 3). A
few centuries ago there were probably more varieties of British
butterflies than we can claim in these days, and perhaps bo3rs treated
them no more kindly then than now. Some incident must have
suggested the behaviour of that cruel little boy, the son of Coriolanus,
of whom Valeria says, " I saw him run after a gilded butterfly ; and
when he caught it, he let it go again ; and after it again ; and over
and over he comes, and up again ; it catched again ; or whether his
fall enraged him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth, and tear it ;
O ! I warrant, how he mammocked it ! " Of moths mention is made
in the metaphorical "moth of peace " in " Othello," i. 3, and the "old
mothy saddle," in " Taming of the Shrew," iii. 2, and thrice or four
times beside. The crickets, moreover, which "sing at the oven's
mouth " (" Pericles," iii. i), are often pressed into dramatic service ;
so are " injurious " wasps, "weaving " spiders, " shard-borne " beetles^
and many other members of the insect kingdom, including the
" small grey -coated gnat," and, once or twice, the scorpion and locust

Finally, if this long array of genuine animals and animalculse be
yet not long enough, we may, with a little patience, produce a
respectable list of quotations in which divers mythical monsters are

William Shakespeare, Naturalist. 383

named. We may point, for instance, to " the death-darting eye of
cockatrice " (" Romeo and Juliet," iii. 2) ; " they grew like hydras^
heads" (" Henry IV.," Part I. v. 4) ; "a clip-wing'd^r/j??«" {Id. iii. i);
" huge leviathans " (" Two Gentlemen of Verona," iii. 2) ; " come not
between the dragon and his wrath" (" King Lear," i. i); " now I will
believe that there are unicorns" ("Tempest," iii. 3).

All great poets or Makers have been, and must ever be,
naturalists, in the sense that they draw from Nature's inexhaustible
and perennial fount their truest similes, metaphors, and imagery of
every kind. And naturalists, in the narrower sense that we have here
sought to illustrate, they have also, for the most part, ever been —
witness Virgil, Dante, Chaucer, Wordsworth. But for number of
species quoted and shrewd adaptation of their several characters
Shakespeare sX.znds facile princeps among his kind. Shakespeare the
philosopher, the moralist, the historian, the antiquary, the wit — we
know him in all these rdles, and excellent he is in each one of them,
yet in none more catholic, wiser, or more true than when he plays
the many-sided part of Shakespeare the Naturalist.

ARTHUR GAVE.

384 The Gentleman s Magazine.

JEROME CARDAN.

FOR some reason or other, Jerome Cardan's name has never
gained the notoriety which, for good or evil, has been granted
to Raymond LuUy or Nostradamus, to Paracelsus or Cornelius
Agrippa, and to other dealers in what we rate as uncanny learning.
Many readers know Paracelsus and Agrippa, at least by report, but
not one in ten has ever heard of the great Milanese doctor and
mathematician, in a certain way the most interesting figure in the world
of learning before the true dawn of science. It is possible that the
whim of the romancer has much to answer for in this. In youth we
have most of us been fascinated by some tales of wonder in which
Paracelsus, with his elixir of life, and Agrippa, with his magic mirror,
have worked their spells ; but no story-teller has ever chosen Cardan
as his theme, and yet there is no lack of romantic interest either in
the annals of his life or in the character of his work. In his day
astronomy was closely interwoven with astrology, and chemistry with
alchemy, so his striving after true science was very naturally marred —
a romancer might say adorned — by the fanciful incrustations of the
false ; but with all this, his writings show less of the rank luxuriance of
expression which was the fashion of the age, than those of the masters
above named. Certain of the beliefs he held were as foolish as those
favoured by contemporary theosophists, and many of his prescrip-
tions as a physician are as marvellous as any to be found in Pliny or
♦* The Anatomy of Melancholy " ; nevertheless, one has always the
sense, in considering his work, that one is in the company of a man
who was feeling his way toward the goal and the clear heaven of
positive science, baffled though he was by mists and false lights which
have no terror for the more fortunate investigators of our own time.
Cardan was born in 1501, and, like several other distinguished men
of his age, was of illegitimate birth. His mother, the mistress of
one Fazio Cardano, a jurist of Milan, fled from that city, then
ravaged by the plague, to Pavia, and there her child was bom. His
father, who was then nearly sixty years of age, recognised his son at
once, and, as soon as he was old enough, employed him to carry
his books and papers about the city. Sicknesses much graver than

Jerome Cardan. 385

the maladies of childhood tormented him all through his early
years, and once he fell from a high ladder and almost cracked his
skull. Fazio, though he seems to have been a selfish old profligate,
did not neglect the boy's teaching. He grounded him thoroughly
in arithmetic and geometry, and the eagerness with which the pupil
threw himself into his work showed that the master had specialised
in the right direction. Before he was eighteen Jerome wrote a
treatise on calculating the distances of the stars one from another, a
forerunner of the great work which his mature brain afterwards
produced, and which has handed down his name to the practical
mathematicians of our own time.

In his restless youth, while chafing under the shame of his birth,
and the feeling that he was treated as the servant rather than as the
son of Fazio, Jerome unhappily turned his mathematical talents
to other uses than the compilation of astronomical treatises. He
sought the gaming table, and calculated to a nicety the chances of
the cards and dice. His fate was the usual one of those who play
by a system, and the taste for gambling, thus fostered, proved a bane
to him through life. At home the temper of Fazio, never of the
best, had become almost insupportable through the weight of age
and infirmities, and quarrels, frequent and violent, arose between
him and Clara, the boy's mother. The house became a hell to the
sensitive and discontented youth ; and at last, largely from the
persuasion of Agostino Lanizario, a friend who had spoken in high
terms of Jerome's youthful treatise, Fazio consented that the boy
should go as a student to Pavia. Under his father's tuition,
Jerome's time had been so fully occupied with mathematics that his
Latin studies had gone to the wall, and it was only after he had been
some time at Pavia that he was able to write the learned language
with facility. There is nothing to show that he ever thought of
following mathematics as a profession, in spite of his great pro-
ficiency. At the end of his first year at Pavia he determined to
take up medicine, and the next year he went to Padua, where he
studied under Cartius, the most famous physician of the time,
gaining his doctor's degree in his twenty-fifth year. This honour
was not conferred upon him without opposition, advanced partly on
account of his illegitimate birth and partly from his gambling habits
and contentious temper. His life at Padua was wild and dissolute,
but the affection and self-denial of his mother — Fazio died in 15,24
— kept him supplied with funds. After he had gained his doctor's
degree he settled as a practising physician at 5acco, a small country
town, and for five years he managed to subsist on the miserable

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1930. ]) jj

386 The Gentle^nan s Magazine.

fees he gained there, having plenty of time on his hands for studies
outside his profession. During his residence at Sacco he met and
married Lucia Bandarini, the daughter of an officer in the service of
Venice.

It is a hard matter nowadays to realise what were the general

•

conditions of life in Cardan's time. The changes in every grade of
society have been immeasurable, and in every walk of science and
learning, but nowhere greater than in medicine, and in the status
and character of its professors. It is now a science which grows
year by year with an increased vigour, having its roots settled in
truths fairly well ascertained. Then it was an art, fanciful and
experimental. The qualified physicians, as a rule, treated their
patients according to some imperfect theory, derived from the
writings of the ancients or of the Spanish Moors. It was essentially
the age of the empiric, and the clever quack was often a safer man
than the orthodox practitioner. The former depended solely upon
his experience, which might, and often did, lead him to correct
diagnosis, whereas his qualified rivals, despising the new light which,
even prior to the rise of the great Bolognese anatomists, had here
and there been cast upon their art, and relying on the maxims and
nostrums of generations of men as blind as themselves, dosed their
unhappy patients with remedies the description of which tends to
make works of ancient medicine very diverting reading. Into the
sleepy world of mediaeval medicine Cardan entered with all the zeal
of an innovator. His reputation had preceded him to Sacco^ and
he found many patients, though the fees were very scanty. With
these, and with the money with which his mother continued to
supply him, he gambled and feasted, more sua, whenever he was not
writing or engaged in his profession. In 1529 he made an attempt
to gain admission to the Milanese College of Physicians, and, having
been rejected, chiefly on account of his illegitimate birth, he re-
turned to Sacco, where he continued to live the same careless, not
unhappy, life until the increased charges incident on his marriage
drove him again to attempt the inhospitable gates of the Milanese
College. He was again rejected. There was nothing to be done
but to seek a pittance by practising in some country town, so he
betook himself, with his wife, to Gallarate, a town twenty-five miles
from Milan, to make a further trial of penury. At length the last
coin was spent. Starvation was before him, so again he retreated to
Milan, this time to seek admission to the paupers' hospital. But
this crowning misery and humiliation was spared him. A certain
nobleman of literary taste, Archinto by name, had taken up

Jerome Cardan. 387

astronomy as a pastime, and Cardan had already done some jackal's
work for him. Archinto now came to the rescue. There happened
just then to be vacant in Milan a lectureship in geometry and
astronomy, and to this Cardan, by his patron's influence, was ap-
pointed.

Though the stipend attached to this post was a very meagre
one, the wolf was at least driven from the door, and Cardan was
enabled to throw himself into his work with a will. Since the
college would not give him a licence, he determined to brave it, and
practise medicine without one. He seems to have worked some
notable cures, a fact in itself sufficient to give fresh ofience to the
privileged faculty ; but the interloper was not content with first
defying and then worsting his enemies on their own ground, for
he next set to work to write a treatise in which he showed that
the existing practice of physic was entirely wrong and noxious.
The book sold rapidly. It naturally kindled against him a hatred
amongst the orthodox practitioners more bitter than ever, but by
way of recompense it brought his name as a physician prominently
before the public notice. In these troublesome days he employed
his leisure time in writing his treatise on " Consolation," the only
one of his works which has ever been translated into English ; and
in the course of his irregular practice in medicine he came under
the notice of Francesco Sfondrato, a noble of Cremona, and a man
of parts and influence. Sfondrato's son had been in a piteous state
of mind and body ever since his birth, and had grown worse rather
than better under the treatment of two of the recognised Milanese
doctors. The report of Cardan's skill came to the father's ears,
and he insisted that this man, in spite of his unauthorised position
in the medical world of Milan, should be called in. The physicians
protested, but the father was firm. Cardan came, followed his
own course, cured the child, and secured Sfondrato's friendship and
protection from that hour. Very soon afterwards, by his patron's
influence, he was duly admitted to the college. His practice as
a physician grew rapidly and he seemed at last on the road to
assured fame and fortune.

For the next five years Cardan, though his patients came in
flocks, neglected the study of medicine for that of mathematics, and
often, it is to be feared, for his pet vice of gambling. But he worked
hard, and in 1545 he published the book upon which his modem
reputation rests, " The Book of the Great Art," a treatise on algebra
which at once placed him at the head of contemporary mathemati-
cians. The main interest of the book lies in the fact that in it he

D D2

388 The Gentleman s Magazine.

expounds the rule for the solving of cubic equations. The rule itself
was not his own discovery ; it was first formulated at the beginning of
the century by Scipio Ferreo, and Niccolo Tartaglia, a mathemati-
cian and a contemporary of Cardan, in a tournament of problems
with one Antonio Fior, a pupil of Ferreo, likewise fathomed it.
The report of this new light thrown upon his favourite science soon
came to Cardan's ears, and he at once set to work to apprehend it ;
but it evaded his efforts. By a correspondence with Tartaglia, and
by the embassy of his friend Antonio, he endeavoured to worm the
secret out of his rival, but Tartaglia was reluctant to part with it
for any reward which Cardan could offer. At last, in 1539, while
Tartaglia was staying in Cardan's own house in Milan, he consented
to disclose his secret, his host having sworn on the Gospels that he
would religiously keep it. But Jerome Cardan was not the man to
let the burden of a promise lie heavy upon him when he saw the
chance of profit in getting rid of it. He unblushingly made
Tartaglia's secret the fcasis of his book, the publication of which gave
rise to one of the prettiest literary quarrels of an age peculiarly rich
in such phenomena.

According to the utterances of certain of his contemporaries —
as well as of Naudeus, the first recognised critic of his work — this
was not the first nor the only time that Cardan was guilty of oblique
dealing. Before he had been called in to prescribe for young
Sfondrato he had laid claim to several marvellous cures of consump-
tion— a disease then, as now, particularly rife in North Italy. His
enemies declared that amongst the sick who had come to him
there were many who were suffering merely from some trifling
affection of the chest, and that it was only with such as these,
whom he must have known to be only slightly afflicted, that his
treatment had any permanent result ; but we must remember that
professional jealousy is not an exclusively modem weakness, and
that diagnosis in those days was no easy matter. In some instances
Cardan may have begun his treatment under false impressions \ he
admits indeed that he was buoyed up by fallacious symptoms of
amendment in certain of the cases which came to a faUl end — no
marvel, considering the deceptive character of pulmonxuy disease —
and, with regard to one or two, traces the patient's subsequent death
to reckless imprudence.

In 1546, when Cardan was raised to assured &me, he lost his
wife, with whom he had lived with great happiness. He was left
with three young children to care for, and though passionatdy
attached to them, he seems to have used little more discretion in

Jerome Cardan, 389

their management and education than Fazio had used with regard to
his own. His repute was now spread abroad, far beyond the limits
of Milan, or even of Italy. At Sfondrato's suggestion Pope Paul III.
invited him to settle in Rome, and, shortly after, Christian III., King
of Denmark, wrote offering him the post of court physician, but
both these proposals he declined. He was hard at work on his
great book "De Subtilitate," which, taken with his " De Varietate,"
may be regarded as a complete compendium of contemporary
knowledge. It is indeed a sort of sixteenth -century " Enquire
AVithin." Speculations on the Cosmos and the management of
washerwomen both fall within its survey. It tells how to cure
smoky chimneys, how to raise sunken vessels, and how to make
writing ink. He gives a complete history of palmistry, and explains
how it is that flints give out sparks when struck, why the earth is
higher than the sea, and how it is that mountains are formed.
In the obscurer paths of knowledge he tells how the eye of a black
dog, held in a man's hand, will keep all .the other dogs of the
neighbourhood from barking, and gives charms for the cure of
headache, and directions for exorcising all sorts of demons. He
relates also how a certain presbyter, Restitutus by name, was able to
become as one dead whenever he liked. Whether he could project
his body along an " astral current " is not stated. Cardan also
claims for himself the power of passing beyond sense into ecstasy
at will, of seeing what he wished to see with his eyes, and of knowing
the future from his dreams and from the marks on his finger nails.
In one chapter he breaks out into praise of the wool and sheep of
England, and tells his readers that the sheep in England drink only
of the dews of heaven, because other water is hurtful to them. In
many parts of England shepherds are still of Cardan's opinion, and
keep their flocks upon the waterless uplands all the summer,
maintaining that sheep thrive best with no other moisture than the
dew and the juices of the grass. Another statement of his, that the
moist grass of the English pastures is full of worms, and therefore
unhealthy, may point to some early epidemic of liver fluke, like that
which has wrought such havoc during the last decade. The air,
he adds, is full of crows which feed upon the worms, and there are
no serpents on account of the bitter cold.

Cardan was destined to see in his lifetime this land of snakeless,
wormy pastures, and rigorous sky. In 1551 a letter came to him
from Cassananti, the Italian body physician of Hamilton, Archbishop
of St Andrews, requesting him to travel as far as Lyons, where the
Archbishop would meet him and consult him as to his failing health.

3 go Tlie Gentleman's Magazine.

Cardan at once set out, but on reaching Lyons at the time appointed
found no Archbishop. He found, however, crowds of patients and
reaped a golden harvest of fees. At last Cassananti himself appeared,
bearing many apologies and explanations from his patron, who, from
the cares of State and weak health, had found himself unequal to so
long a journey. Cassananti begged the illustrious physician to return
with him to Scotland, but Cardan, in spite of the magnificent fee
offered, hesitated to undertake this voyage " in ultimos Britannos,"
At last he consented and set out with Cassananti for Paris.

Arrived there he was cordially welcomed by the leading literati
of the day, and requested by King Henry H. to remain as court
physician; but service of this kind w^as not to his taste, and he pressed
on to Scotland, where he remained some ten weeks in charge of
Hamilton's case, and so well did his regimen succeed that he worked
a complete cure. Such details of treatment as moderate diet, free-
dom from worry, fresh air, plenty of sleep and exercise, and cold
baths, no doubt helped the patient on towards recovery ; but it may
be doubted whether he could have been much relieved by such
remedies as "an ointment to be applied over the shaven crown,
composed of Greek pitch, ship's tar, white mustard, euphorbium, and
honey of anathardus ; to be sharpened, if need be, by blister fly."
But one way or another Cardan cured his patient ; to small purpose,
as it turned out, since he was afterwards hanged in full canonicals at
Stirling, for alleged participation in the Regent Murray's murder.

On his homeward journey Cardan tarried several weeks in London,
and was called in to prescribe for the young king, Edward VL, whose
weak frame had just been sorely tried by an attack of small-pox;
but the courtiers seem to have been more anxious to hear what
Cardan the astrologer had to say about the probable duration of the
boy-king's reign, and the future course of politics, than what Cardan
the physician could do to heal the royal invalid. Sir John Cheke,
the most learned Englishman of the age, was Cardan's host, and the
relations of the two scholars seem to have been most gracious and
pleasant. Cardan speaks of the king as a marvellous boy, the master
of seven languages, and well skilled in dialectics and graceful ac-
complishments. The royal horoscope which he drew was not a
conspicuous success, as the following extract will show : " At the age
of twenty-three years nine months and twenty-two days languor of
mind and body will afflict him. At the age of thirty-four years five
months and twenty days he will suffer from skin disease and a slight
fever. After the age of fifty-five years three months and seventeen
days various diseases will fall to his lot." Perhaps Cardan, in fore-

Jerome Cardan. 391

shadowing such length of days to the young king, may have borne in
mind the untoward fates of the soothsayers who predicted speedy
death to Diocletian and Galeazzo Sforza, and determined not to
shorten his own term by the character of his vaticinations.

It was scarcely Hkely that an observer, as acute and industrious
as Cardan, should enter and leave a strange country, even then re-
garded with a certain horror-stricken curiosity by the polished Italians,
without forming and recording his impressions of the land and its
inhabitants. He writes: " The English are much like Italians in face
and build. They are large-chested, but paler in colour than we are.
Some are of great height. They are polite and hospitable to foreigners;
but they are to be dreaded in their anger, which is very easily aroused.
They are good fighters, but too rash in battle ; greedy also in the
matter of food and drink, but still, far less greedy than the Germans.
They are prone rather than prompt to lust, and there are many great
intellects amongst them, as Duns Scotus and Suiseth. In their
manner of dress they imitate the Italians, and they boast that they
are more nearly allied to us than to any other foreign nation, though
in their aspect they rather resemble the Germans, the French, or the
Spaniards. Certain it is that all the barbarians of Europe love the
Italians more than any race amongst themselves. We were all nearly
killed in Belgium because I had with me a youth who looked like a
Spaniard. But these strangers perhaps do not know our wickedness.
The English are faithful, liberal, and ambitious. But as for fortitude,
the things done by the Highland Scots are the most wonderful. They,
when they are led to execution, take a piper with them, and he, who is
often himself one of the condemned, plays them up dancing to their
death. I wondered much, especially when I was in England, and
rode about on horseback in the neighbourhood of London, for 1
seemed to be in Italy. When I looked among the groups of English
sitting together I completely thought myself to be amongst Italians.
They were like, as I said, in figure, manners, dress, gesture, but
when they opened their mouths I could not understand so much as
a word, and wondered at them as if they had been my countrymen
gone mad and raving. For they inflect the tongue upon the palate,
twist words in the mouth, and maintain a sort of gnashing with the
teeth."

Before Cardan crossed the Alps on his homeward journey another
offer came to him from the King of France, and Charles V., who
was then engaged in the disastrous siege of Metz, also courted his
services ; but, swayed perhaps by a love of independence, perhaps
urged on by home-sickness, he steadily refused all overtures and set

392 The Gentleman s Magazine,

his face southward. On his return to Milan in 1553 he found him-
self at the summit of his fame, the recognised head of his profession,
the man who could afford to decline the patronage of all the crowned
heads of Europe. His income was large, and he gave full rein to
his love of pleasure and surrounded himself with all the objects of
luxury that money could buy ; but he lived as busy a life as ever. He
still kept adding to the literature of his craft; he maintained an active
correspondence with men of science in all parts ; and he usually had
two or more pupils under his care. A safe and honourable future
seemed to be in store for him ; but his worst stroke of evil fortune
was yet to fall.

The calamity which blighted and ruined the residue of his days
took its origin from his own neglected hearth. The home life of men
who give themselves up entirely to the outer world, or to the pur-
suit of literary or scientific fame, is often unsatisfactory. Cardan, as
soon as he put aside his books, sought his relaxation away from
home, and threw himself into feverish pleasures, of which gambling
perhaps was the least reprehensible, giving but little heed to his chil-
dren's training. After his wife's death the household seems to have
gone its own way, and Gianbattista, the eldest boy, though studious
and of good parts, fell into bad courses, and ultimately married a
woman of infamous character. By way of atoning for his laches in
the matter of/personal care, Cardan wrote a long string of maxims
for his children's guidance, persuading himself that these would serve
as well as that parental sympathy and wholesome correction which
he found no time to give. He was terribly shocked when the ill
effect of his neglect was brought home to him in Gianbattista's
marriage, and cut off all intercourse with him. The match turned
out worse even than Cardan's worst fears had reached. After a year
or two of misery the wretched Gianbattista determined to get rid of
his wife by poison, and he did his work so clumsily that suspicion at
once fell upon him and his brother Aldo. They were brought to trial
and convicted. Aldo was pardoned, but Gianbattista died a felon's
death in prison.

Cardan, in spite of his bizarre character, was capable of deep
affection, and he seems to have been warmly attached to his unworthy
son. (}rief for the loss of his child, and shame for his crime, dealt
him a blow from which he never recovered. He was at this time
again a professor at Pavia. His foes, who had been abashed by his
brilliant success, had ceased their assaults, but now that calamity
and disgrace had fallen upon him they returned to the attack. Old
scandals were raked up, and charges of an infamous nature were

Jerome Cardan, 393

made against his present life. So bitter and persistent was their
animosity that his position at Pavia became intolerable, and he
applied to Cardinal Borromeo to use his influence to procure him a
chair at the University of Bologna. But his enemies would not even
allow him to depart in peace, and they intrigued so successfully that
the Cardinal's influence, powerful as it was, was for a time unavail-
ing. At last, in 1562, the affair was settled, and Cardan escaped
from the living torture of his life at Pavia.

At Bologna, under the protection of such men as Borromeo,
Morone, and Alciat, Cardinals and cultured litterateurs^ the load of
Cardan's misfortune was lightened, but the memory of disgrace still
clung to him. His life was marred by continual wranglings with his
brother professors, wranglings probably caused by his own contentious
disposition, now aggravated tenfold by the bitterness of his lot
Aldo, the son who had escaped the gallows, was a perpetual trouble
to him through ill conduct. In 1570 another stroke of evil fortune
befell him. He was suddenly arrested and cast into prison on some
unknown charge, and, after some months' detention, was released
only on condition that he would publish no more books and resign
his chair.

There is some obscurity as to the cause of this imprisonment.
Pius v., the last of the canonised popes, was then ruling. He was
a man of austere character, and had given strict orders that no
physician should attend a patient who had not confessed to a priest.
Cardan probably, willingly or unwillingly, had disregarded this com-
mand, and, in consequence, was made to feel the correcting hand of
the Church. There was also a story that he had offended piety by
casting the horoscope of Jesus Christ. Pius, though a severe dis-
ciplinarian in discharging what he deemed to be the bounden duty
of the Head of the Church, was by no means merciless when the
offender had made due submission. He gave a sufficient pension to
the old man, now beggared, broken in health, and almost maddened
by misfortune and petty annoyances, and the last five years of
Cardan's life as the pensioner of the Pope in Rome were at least
free from outward troubles. He occupied them chiefly in writing
his autobiography, " De Vita Propria,*' a work which is surpassed
only by the incomparable self-picture of Cellini, and died in 1576,
aged 75 years. His body lies buried in the church of San Marco at
Milan.

In the whole course of literary history there have been few
writers so prolific as Cardan. In his last years he burnt no fewer
than a hundred and seventy manuscripts, leaving even then at his

n

94 T/ie Gentleman s Magazhie.

death a hundred and eleven, besides a hundred and thirty-one
printed books, behind him. So versatile and so industrious a brain
was only possible in such an age and environment as the one he
lived in. In the present day, when specialism is rampant, and all
investigation contracted into the narrowest of channels, it is scarcely
likely that we shall ever see, combined in one personality, the greatest
mathematician and the greatest physician of the age : to say nothing
of the possessor of such vast stores of knowledge as we find collected
in the " De Varietate" and the "De Subtilitate." Viewed with
the eye of utilitarianism, Cardan is simply the author of a lot of
obsolete works of a pseudo-scientific character — a description which
may perhaps in the future be applied to certain of our illuminati of
to-day ; but to the historian of learning he must always be as interest-
ing a figure as the early Sienese masters are to the historian of art
In the confused jumble of " De Varietate " and " De Subtilitate "
one may detect the working of a powerful mind stretching after, and
at times almost reaching, a conception of those scientific principles
the formulation of which, in our own time, has conferred world-wide
fame on the men whose names are associated therewith. His
writings are full of strange guesses about the sympathy between the
heavenly bodies and the physical frame of man, not only general,
but distributive. The sun, according to his contention, was in har-
mony with the heart, the moon with the animal juices, and the whole
mass ruled by the properties of numbers. But he gets on firmer
ground when he lays down that all creation is in a state of progressive
development, and that all animals were originally worms. That he
believed in astrology, and wrote treatises on it, is no proof of weak-
ness or superstition. He cast numerous horoscopes, and held that
men might read the future in dreams ; and Kepler and Melanchthon
kept him company in this respect. Religion probably had little hold
over him ; but there was in his nature a strong craving after the
supernatural. All through his long life evidences of it appear. As
a child his niglits were full of waking dreams. He tells how strange
shapes, knights in armour, ladies on horseback, careered round his
bed, and of a red cock which crowed at him with a human voice.
Mysterious rappings and knockings disturbed him while he was a
student at Pavia, and he subsequently learned that, at the same
liour, his friend Galeazzo Rosso died. A portent of the same kind
heralded the deaih of his mother in 1537. Once he dreamt that he
was in Paradise, the companion of a lovely girl, and a few days
afterwards he saw her standing at her father's door at Sacco. It was
the same Lucia Bandarini who afterwards became his wife. Another

Jerome Cardan. 395

omen that he records is one which marked the baptism of his ill-
fated son. At the very moment when the name " Gianbattista "
was given to the infant a huge wasp flew into the room and, after
buzzing about with a great noise for a few seconds, disappeared
mysteriously in the curtains — a warning, as all present agreed, that the
boy's life would be short, and cut off" by violence. At the very same
hour in which Gianbattista was strangled in prison, a red mark,
which had shortly before appeared on the father's finger, glowed with
blood and fire and then vanished. Perhaps the strangest of all his
supernatural beliefs was that he was attended by a familiar spirit, like
the Demon of Socrates. It was not till after Gianbattista's death
that he became thoroughly possessed by this infatuation ; so perhaps
it may be attributed in some measure to the overthrow of his mental
balance in the shame and sorrow of those terrible days. No doubt
this chimera had its origin in a similar belief which his father Fazio
professed to hold. In " De Subtilitate," Book XIX., Cardan gives
an account of the raising by his father of seven demons in Greek
attire, who gave him some interesting information as to the nature of
spirits. They themselves were spirits of the air, and excelled men as
much as men excelled horses, as they spoke of lives of six or seven
hundred years' duration. At the time he wrote this Cardan evidently
did not regard a familiar spirit as a belonging of much use, for he
remarks that his father was no wiser or happier than men who
went about the world without one.

Cheiromancy had as great a charm for him as it seems to have
for certain contemporary seekers after new sensations. He held the
hand to be the instrument of the body, as the tongue is that of the
mind, and in "De Varietate " he gives a long description of its parts
and of their significance. He shows by the terms he employs how
closely, in form at least, the old mythology was mixed up with the
pseudo science of the time. The thumb is given to Mars, and in its
lines we read of battles, fires, and amatory desires. The index is
given to Jove, and rells of priesthood and honour. The middle finger
to Saturn, and on it is written the record of pain, disease, toil and
captivity. The ring finger is the Sun's, and Venus rules over the
fifth, and marks upon it the soft pleasant things which suit her god-
head. The hypothenar, the part between the little finger and the
wrist, is ruled by the moon and refers to perils by water, and the
thenar, at the base of the forefinger, to those by fire. The line run-
ning beside the stethos or ball of the thumb is the line of life, and
those across the middle are the lines of the brain and of Venus.
Another nmning from the base of the middle finger towards the

396 The GentlemafCs Magazine.

wrist, is the "soror vitae," and they who have this line strongly
marked are fated to all sorts of ill.

Looking at this curious outcrop of wasted effort, in connection
with such monumental works as the " Book of the Great Art," it seems
more reasonable to admire the industry and versatility of the author,
than to ridicule his tendency towards what we now rate as supersti-
tion. It is only by considering his work as a whole that we shall be
able to understand the cause of his great and wide popularity as a
writer. The " Book of the Great Art " appealed to high mathemati-
cians alone; but his strange olla podridaoi ^c\tn\.\fic and familiar truths,
his dreams and visions, his signs and tokens, set forth in a style
which is certainly attractive when compared with that of his con-
temporaries, made him popular with many who had no claim to be
classed among the lettered. He was, in fact, not too far over the
heads of his public, and they read with eagerness and sympathy the
writings of a man who was the first physician of the age, and at the
same time a believer in those fascinating mysteries of heaven and
earth — the occult sciences, as we call them — to which they themselves
gave full credence. Any estimate of his character drawn from his
works must be largely conjectural. The chief characteristic of " De
Vita Propria " is its extreme sincerity ; but the writer, as pictured by
his own pen, is such a very chameleon that one is puzzled to say
under which semblance the real man is to be found. At the end of
the book are the usual obituary paragraphs in praise of the author —
including one from his great antagonist Julius Caesar Scaliger — written
in terms which the biographer should no more trust than the asper-
sions of his foes while living.

The sinister influences which ruled his birth, and the unseemly
domestic conditions under which his Hfe was passed, might well have
produced efi*ects even more oblique and whimsical than any which
appear in his life and character. It is certain that he was capable
of strong and deep affection. In spite of the hard usage he got
from Fazio, it is difficult to find a harsh word in any of his writings
against his father. At the end of his time at Pavia and during his
life at Bologna he is constantly chiding at the wicked men and the
cruel fate which robbed him of his sweetest son. That he was
" immoderate incontinens " in any vice there is nothing to show.
He was a gambler all his life, and loved good wine and the company
of his fellows ; but in the record of his choicest pleasures there is
inevitably a jarring note of cynicism, the cry of a man for whom the
world held nothing worth having, one who had turned aside curiously
to test this or that so-called delight, and detect and demonstrate its

Jerome Caraan. 397

worthlessness. It is fortunate that he lived in an age when men
thought more of the legacy of work which a writer left to posterity
than of his likes and dislikes, his foibles and fancies, and did not
set themselves, as they do in modem times, to fashion motives of
their own for every recorded action and to blacken or whitewash his
name according to the brief they may hold ; otherwise the monument
of controversial biography which would have been piled around his
ashes would possibly have exceeded in bulk that which has been,
and is being, poured forth in respect to poets and historians whose
memory might very well be preserved to us in their undying work.

W. G. WATERS

398 The Gentleman's Magazine.

THE ENGLISH SPARROW.

L—A SKETCH,

By John Watson, F.L.S.

AUTOCRAT of the tiles and lord of the thatch, the sparrow,
in his long intercourse with man, has developed the largest
brain in bird-dom. For reckless audacity and presumptive impudence,
the British sparrow has only a single compeer — the British boy.
Thoroughly cosmopolitan, the sparrow is a democrat among birds.
He follows man and his attendant weeds to the uttermost parts of
the earth ; and at any given portion of the habitable globe, within ten
minutes of the unfurling of the British flag, perches authoritatively
on the flagstaff". For hard-headed shrewdness, practically illustrated
and successful, commend us to the sparrow. His keen perception
into men and things — his scientific diagnosis of the genus homo — are
among his ruling traits. Multiplying inordinately, the sparrow is as
hardy as prolific Essentially a creature of circumstance, he is at
once ubiquitous and pertinacious. Playing, as some say, a question-
able part in the economy of nature, he plays a very certain part in
the economy of our spouts. Rearing his callow brood he is actively
insectivorous, and confers incalculable benefit upon the agriculturist;
but, as harvest wanes, he becomes recklessly gramnivorous, and
anon, by a sudden transition, as omnivorous as mankind itselC With
digestive organs the capacity of which may well be envied, the
sparrow gulps down pieces of food amounting to a twentieth part of
its own weight, and deems white lead a palatable luxury. The smell
of gunpowder in the air, without the accompaniment of shot, is
deemed more alarming than dangerous, and periodical explosions are
but the means of transferring its affections from an empty stook in
one part of the field to a full one in another. The moral of "Damn
that boy, he's asleep again," has long been a pointless joke among
sparrows, and the only sound his rattle conveys is an unpleasant
association of the coming of the reaper. With an ever-active brain,

The English Sparrow. 399

and surviving as the fittest, no cunning engine has yet been devised
which was greatly destructive to sparrows, and the various machina-
tions of these, as handed down by inherited instinct, are probably
better known to the orthodox sparrow than to man himself. The
pitiable personation of Hobbs, intended to act as a scarecrow, is only
recognised by the sparrow as affording a happy hunting-ground for
insects ; and having served this end is ripped up and disembowelled,
its internal economy being torn out to make way for a brood of
young sparrows, thereby adding insult to injury in the basest and
most fraudulent fashion. The sparrow is in short, to paraphrase
Bacon, " a wise thing for itself, but a shrewd thing for everybody
else." Bold, active, and vivacious, its distribution is as wide as that
of the Englishman. Patronising art, science, and law, the sparrow
breeds and broods in the temples dedicated to their shrines, and in
one European capital has unwittingly attempted to destroy the balance
of justice by constructing her nest in one of the pans held by the
blind emblem of that inestimable virtue. In other instances, the
sparrow has shut out the sight of an emperor, built her nest in the
outstretched palm of a great warrior, and, radical as the bird is,
chirrups beneath and occupies the thatch of the lowliest peasant
husbandman.

I I, —FOR THE PROSECUTION,
By Charles Whitehead, F.L.S., F.G.S.

Darwin, in his "Animals and Plants Under Domestication," has
this passage : " From a remote period, in all parts of the world,
man has subjected many animals and plants to domestication
and culture. Man has no power of altering the absolute conditions
of life, he cannot change the climate of any country, he adds
no new element to the soil ; but he can remove an animal or plant
from one climate or soil to another, and give it food on which
it did not subsist in its natural state." Man has consciously and
intentionally improved many species of animals, with enormous
advantage to himself. Unconsciously, and without intention, he has,
by action or inaction, increased the numbers of certain species, and
diminished the amount of others. P'or example, the wholesale
slaughter of hawks, owls, jays, magpies, stoats, and weasels has
tended to produce alarming quantities of rats and mice, the balance
of nature having been deranged by the volition of gamekeepers.
Rabbits were introduced into Australasian countries whose climatic

4CXD The Gentleman s Magazine.

and other conditions are expressly suitable for their propagatioiiy and
natural checks against this in the shape of carnivorous enemies arc
wholly absent. The consequences to the owners of sheep-runs and
cattle-ranges are simply disastrous ; the rabbits defy all efforts to keep
them down.

By means of international trade and commerce great changes
have been brought about, both in the animal and vegetable kingdom.
Thus the native New Zealand rat has been completely extirpated by
the large brown rat brought to this island in European vessels. Dr.
Wallace mentions in his work, entitled " Darwinism," that the original
New Zealand rat was introduced by the Maoris from their home in
the Pacific. He . also remarks that in New Zealand a native fly is
being supplanted by the European house-fly, and that in Australia
the imported hive-bee is exterminating the small stingless native bee.

In the vegetable kingdom, two or three species of thistles well-
known in Europe, notably the "Canada thistle," have been naturalised
in the United States and Canada, and have become so general and
troublesome that laws against this and other weeds have been pro-
mulgated in many of the states and provinces. Hundreds of square
miles of the plain of La Plato, Dr. Wallace says, are " now covered
with two or three species of European thistle, oflen to the exdusion
of almost every new plant, but in the native countries of these thistles
they occupy, except in cultivated or waste ground, a very subordinate
part of the vegetation. The common sow-thistle has spread over
New Zealand in a remarkably short time, having been introduced with
English farm seeds."

Various other weeds have been brought from Europe to America
and Australasian lands, such as the common bird-weed.

The wholesale spreading abroad of weeds has been caused by
the unconscious act of man, and without his special interference.
In the same way many injurious insects have been distributed
throughout the world, to the great inconvenience and loss of the
cultivators of the soil. But with regard to the introduction of
rabbits into Australasian colonies, this was done consciously and
with open eyes. In the same way the sparrow was introduced
into America and the Australasian countries, though the fatal con-
sequences of this colonisation were not in any degree expected by
those who thought it would be very pleasant to hear the fiimiliar
chirp of the lively bird in the homes of the United States and
Australasia.

In Great Britain the action of man, both conscious and unoon-
scious, has occasioned an undue development of sparrows in these

The English Sparrow. 401

late years, to the great injury of farm and garden produce. Our
forefathers were wiser in their generation, and kept sparrows
down by means of parochial bye-laws, whose carrying out was
charged impartially to the accounts of parish rates, and in many
cases to the church rates. In old churchwardens' books at the
beginning of this century entries of this kind are commonly
found : " To Joe Willett for 4 Dozen & 4 Sparrows, u. i^/." Both
taking the eggs and killing the young of sparrows were religiously
enjoined upon the youths of former days, and these birds were kept
well under. Churchwardens no longer have rates to spend, and
bird-nesting does not occupy the minds and hands of boys in these
regenerate or degenerate days of School Boards. After the com-
pulsory payment of church rates was abolished, sparrow clubs were
formed in the principal corn-growing parishes ; but most of these have
fallen into desuetude, and sparrows now increase without let or hind-
rance. The consequence of this is that they are so abundant as
to be sources of infinite injury to cultivators of all kinds. In the last
two or three seasons sparrows have visited corn-fields in some dis-
tricts from the end of July to December in flocks of thousands,
as they always congregate for a period at the end of a breeding
season, and have cleared the ears of grain. Sparrows propagate
in an exceedingly rapid ratio, so that checks of some kind are
absolutely necessary in order to keep them in proper bounds, and to
obviate the injury to corn crops of all kinds, which becomes more
serious year by year. While collecting information, lately, concerning
the Hessian fly and its action upon corn crops, we were in many cases
met with the following response : " Yes, there are some pupae of the
Hessian fly to be found, but the harm done by this insect is far less
than that caused by those confounded sparrows." As a good deal of
com was much laid this season by the heavy rains, the sparrows were
able to get the grain easily, although, as is well known by observers,
they have a way of getting it out from the ears of upstanding crops.
A com farmer, living near a large town, stated lately that they seem
to come out from the towns for the summer. " I see them in flocks
of many thousands just when the corn is filling, and they keep at it as
long as there is any left in the fields." I have seen fields of wheat,
barley, and oats, with scarcely a corn left in the ear for twenty yards
round the field. Two or three small farmers this year have had men
lending the fields. True, the cost of men and gunpowder is nearly
as much as the damage, as they had to fire off every ten minutes,
and the sparrows get so used to it that they quietly go into the
middle of the fields. One man, who had thirty acres of com, put the
VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1930. £ E

402 The Gentleman's Magazine.

damage done by the sparrows at ;£2o. Another said they had eaten
at least eight bushels per acre in an eight-acre field. Farmers in
many cases declare that they must make a raid upon the sparrows
in self-defence, and talk ominously of poison in the coming winter.

Sparrows also injure farmers by eating the seed of TrifoUum
incarnatumy which is sown before the plundering sparrow gangs are
broken up, and is generally put in broadcast and merely rolled in, so
that much of the seed is exposed. And no one can estimate the
enormous amount of injury caused by sparrows in picking out the
buds of fruit trees during winter, not only in gardens and orchards,
but also in fniit pkmtations away from houses and buildings. They
are particularly fond of the buds of gooseberries and red-currant
bushes, and of cherry and pear trees. Peach trees also suffer from
their depredations. As an excuse for this mischief, it is alleged that
it is done to get at insects in the buds. Sparrows have been closely
watched at this work, with the result of proof that there were no
insects present ; the damage having been done, as it appeared in
some cases, for mere wanton destruction, and in others for the
sake of the green sweet buds as pleasant food. In hard winters,
when other food is scarce, fruit trees and other trees suffer exceed-
ingly from the attacks of sparrows. When peach blossoms are
unfolding, sparrows may often be noticed picking off the flowers
and buds, apparently for amusement This is firequently attributed
to the action of frosts. Just as the buds of black-currant bushes
are un folding, sparrows frequently attack them and pull the blos-
soms to pieces, although there are no signs of insects within. It
appears to be mere mischief. In the United States the destruction
of buds and blossoms of fruit and other trees is recognised as most
serious, and admitted without argument even by the sparrows' friends.
There are still a few who believe that the bird, in destroying buds, is
only seeking insects within.

Fruit is also damaged by sparrows. Ripening figs and plnms
seem especially grateful to their tastes. Apples, too, suffer from their
repeated pecks. Peaches also, and pears on walls, are often noticed
to have holes in them, which are set down to mice or insects. If they
are watched it will be frequently found that sparrows cause the harau
Vegetable gardeners know to their cost what terrible mischief
sparrows occasion to peas throughout the season, from the time when
the first leaves appear to the last picking of pods. Young lettuces
and early cabbages are ravaged, the slugs being often falsely accused.
Beetroot leaves in early stages are nipped off. Spinach is devoured
when the leaves are young and tender. In short, unless the habits

The English Sparrow, 403

and destructive ways of these birds are carefully noted, no one can
have a conception of the losses they cause in kitchen and market
gardens, as well as in flower gardens, in taking seeds and in picking
off the first leaves of young plants. For example, it is difficult to
get mignonette where sparrows abound. Many other flowers are
attacked in their early stage by these ubiquitous and almost
omnivorous depredators. The almost unmixed evil wrought by
house-sparrows has been clearly brought before cultivators by the late
Colonel Russel of Romford, by Mr. Champion Russel, and ofttimes
and in characteristically vigorous terms by Miss E. Ormerod, who in
her thirteenth report on Injurious Insects, says : " The observations
of the sparrow nuisance, as it is well described, continue to show the
same points which are observed year by year, namely, loss from
depredations of this bird on fruit trees, buds, &c., to fruit farmers ;
on young crops or vegetables, as peas, &c., in gardens ; and deplorable
losses where the birds flock to the corn in autumn."

All the offences of the house-sparrow cited above are fully and
completely recognised by American, Canadian, and Australasian cul-
tivators. The United States ornithologist. Dr. Merriman, in a long
and elaborate report to the Minister of Agriculture, 1888, formulates
a fearful indictment against the " English sparrow," as it is styled,
which was first settled in the country in 1853. At this time it has
spread over thirty-seven states and six territories, having first invaded
the larger cities, then the smaller cities and towns, then the villages
and hamlets, and finally the populous farming districts. As the towns
and villages become filled to repletion the overflow moves off into
the country, and the sparrow's range is thus gradually extended.
Occasionally, however, it is suddenly transported to considerable
distances by going to roost in empty box-cars and travelling hundreds
of miles. When let out again it is quite as much at home as in its
native town. In this way it reached St. John, New Brunswick, in
1883, on board the railway trains from the west. In like manner
another colony arrived March i, 1884, in grain cars from Montreal.
Similarly it has arrived at a number of towns in the United States.
It is calculated that in fifteen years from 1870 the new territory in
the United States invaded by the English sparrow amounted to
516,500 square miles, and that the total area now occupied there is
much over 885,000 square miles.

In Canada it occupies considerably over 160,000 square miles.
Its rapid spread and increase create consternation in agricultural and
horticultural circles. At the annual meeting of the Entomological
Society of Ontario, the well-known president, Mr. J. Fletcher,

E E 2

404 The Gentleman s Magazine.

remarked that "a subject demanding immediate attention at the
hands of economic entomologists, as one of the influences which
materially affect the amount of insect presence, is the great and rapid
increase in the numbers of the sparrows. Introduced into Canada but
a few years ago, it has already increased in some places to such an
extent as to be a troublesome pest, and steps should be taken at once
to exterminate the audacious little miscreant." Professor Saunders, late
presidentof the Ontario Entomological Society, said at the same meeting
that " the extermination of the English sparrow would be a great
boon to Canada," and the Minister of Agriculture for Ontario stated
that " this destructive bird was no longer under the protection of the
Act of Parliament respecting insectivorous birds, and that every one
was at liberty to aid in reducing its numbers."

Australasian cultivators are much alarmed at the increase of the
house-sparrow. Agricultural and horticultural societies are taking
strong action against it, while entomologists equally denounce it.
In a paper read before a congress of Agricultural Bureaux, Mr. F. S.
Crawford, a skilful entomologist, divided the various pests of cul-
tivators of the soil into two classes, the free and parasitic; and placed
among " free animal pests " rabbits, sparrows, locusts, some beetles,
certain grubs of beetles, and a few caterpillars. Prizes are offered
by many societies in Australia for the largest number of heads of
sparrows and of sparrows' eggs.

Besides the direct injuries of house-sparrows, they entail indirect
harmful consequences by driving away useful insectivorous birds.
They are pugnacious and numerous, so that other birds cannot exist
near them. They have been aptly termed " ruffians in feather. **
Swallows and martins are routed from their accustomed haunts and
nesting-places. Many a householder will remember that a few years
ago swallows' nests were regularly made in comers of their houses,
whereas lately it has been quite exceptional to see a nest It is not
alleged that the diminution in the number of swallows is due
altogether to sparrows ; but it is certain that they have prevented
swallows from nesting as of old upon buildings, and probably in
many cases have prevented them from building at all. Swallows are
admittedly the most valuable friends of the cultivator. Their food is
altogether of insects, including midges and the Hessian fly,
cecidomyida of all kinds and other aphides, turnip flee beetles, and
such like devastators of crops. Their large decrease is a national
calamity. Colonel Russel suggests that the greater prevalence of the
wheat midge, Cecidomyia tritici^ is due to this cause, and it is not by
any means unlikely that the frequent occurrence of hop blights from

The English Sparrow, 405

aphides in the last ten years is attributable to the comparative scarcity
of swallows, as aphides migrate in the winged form from trees of the
prunus tribe, especially damsons, to the hop plants, and from the hop
plants again to the damsons. There are two distinct migrations of
winged aphides through the air, to accomplish this giving great oppor-
tunities to swallows. With regard to other birds useful to cultivators,
such as fly-catchers, water-wagtails, and others, they are all driven
away by sparrows, which do not tolerate other birds near their homes.
And with respect to aphides, it may be said here in looking on
the blackest side of sparrows, that they are exceedingly fond of the
larvae of the Coccinellidae, which are the great devourers of aphides
in all stages. The same complaint is made of the sparrow in the
United States and Canada — that it drives away insectivorous insects,
and disdains to eat them itself. No less than seventy kinds of birds
are said to be molested by the sparrow in the United States, the
majority of which are species which nest about houses, farms, and
gardens, and are decidedly beneficial to the farmers and gardeners.

Now, looking upon the other side of the picture, in what way do
sparrows profit anything or anybody ? Do they benefit those who
cultivate the land by reducing the number of insects injurious to
crops ? They undoubtedly take some insects to their young ones ; it
is believed that this is because other suitable food for the brood is
not forthcoming. Several who have watched these birds hold that
small caterpillars and larvae are given, among many other things, to
the young birds in their early stages. Small beetles, red spiders,
and small flies are also found in the maws of young sparrows. It has
been noticed that the caterpillars are always smooth ; hairy caterpillars
are not eaten by sparrows at any time. Colonel Russel states that he
once examined in Essex the stomachs of forty-seven nestling spar-
rows, and only found the remains of six small insects in the entire
lot, the crops in most cases being filled with green peas and greens.
That sparrows have no appreciable efiect upon aphides is proved
over and over again, by the fact that these insects have swarmed upon
plum, damson, and other trees close to where hundreds of sparrows
have been born and bred. Aphides upon roses in gardens near the
nesting -places of many sparrows are never touched by these birds ;
and in the recent visitations of caterpillars upon fruit trees of various
kinds, the attack has been as virulent in gardens, orchards, and fruit
plantations hard by the breeding and roosting-places of hundreds of
spkarrows as in localities far from their usual haunts. Sparrows may
be seen in large flocks in corn-fields after the harvest, and close to
turnips infested with aphides, but they utterly disregard this kind of

4o6 The Gentleman s Magazine.

food. It is well known that they wull not look at pea or bean aphides,
nor at the weevils which sometimes swarm upon pea and bean
haulm, though directly peas are formed they attack the pods. Miss
Ormerod says, in her seventh yearly " Report of Observations of In-
jurious Insects : " " I have not received from any quarter a single
trustworthy observation of sparrows feeding regularly upon insects.
Nobody doubts, however, that they can and do sometimes take them
in special circumstances."

Professor Riley, the entomologist of the Department of Agricul-
ture in the United States, made a most exhaustive report upon the
insectivorous habits of the sparrow, after long and careful investi-
gation, and his conclusion is that we are justified in concluding
that the bird will exceptionally feed upon any insects ; but I am
strongly inclined to believe that the deductions made from my own
observations will hold very generally true, and that in cases where
injurious insects have been fed upon it is not by virtue of any insec-
tivorous habits or preference, but by mere accident. Dr. Lintner,
the entomologist of the New York State, has arrived at practically
the same conclusion as to the naturally gramnivorous or vegetarian
characteristics of the sparrow, and of its uselessness as an insect
destroyer. The verdict of another able economic entomologist Mr.
Fletcher, of Ontario, is that although during the breeding season they
do destroy many soft- bodied insects as food for their young, this good
ofiice is by far outweighed by the harm they do in driving away truly
insectivorous birds, and by their direct ravages upon grain crops.

There is a more weighty argument against the usefulness of the
sparrow, and directly demonstrating its destructiveness, in the fieict
that most of the laws of the various states of America, framed to
protect sparrows, have been repealed, and regulations of cities to
the same effect have practically become dead letters. Bounties have
been offered by some towns and counties in the United States. In
Michigan State one halfpenny per head is paid for " English spar-
rows." If there were any good in these birds it is quite certain that
such practical people as the Americans would not set their faces so
steadily against them, and take such active steps by means of poison,
trapping, netting, and shooting to decrease their numbers.

Canadians have also ceased tOi protect sparrows, and now are
compassing their destruction in every possible way. Australian and
New Zealand farmers and gardeners are offering rewards and prizes
to those who kill the largest number of sparrows, and produce the
greatest quantity of their eggs, as fatal experience has taught them
that they are unmitigated evils.

The English Sparrow. 407

They have been compelled, moreover, to poison them by whole-
sale. ** Their most successful method is that of placing poisoned
wheat in a bag with chaff, and allowing it to leak over a tail of a cart
along the road." The sparrows are destroyed by the bushel.

British cultivators have waged war in a half-hearted way against
these enemies for a long while. They say now that the time has
arrived when prompt and drastic measures must be taken to reduce
the number of sparrows, and that they intend to avail themselves of
all legal means to accomplish this. Seeing there is such a consensus
of opinion on the part of the agriculturists and horticulturists of at
least half the inhabited world with regard to the mischievous and
destructive nature of sparrows, the feeble voices of bird-lovers
and humanitarians, who urge that they should be allowed to in-
crease and multiply at their will and pleasure, will hardly be
listened to.

III.— FOR THE DEFENCE.

By Rev. Theodore Wood.

Author of *• Our Bird Allies," *' Our Insect Allies," &c. &c.

If among the feathered inhabitants of our islands there be a bird
with a bad character, that bird is most undoubtedly the common
house-sparrow. From all quarters there rises up a chorus of execration
against it Farmers and gardeners unite in abusing it. They accuse
it of numberless crimes. They regard it as a monster of iniquity.
They freely advocate its partial or even complete extermination. And
by organised as well as by individual efforts that policy has been largely
carried into effect. We hear of " Sparrow Clubs " which pay so much
per head for the birds themselves, and so much per dozen for their
eggs. We read of farmers who scatter poisoned grain in severe
weather — a sort of refinement of cruelty — with the result of destroying
not sparrows alone, but numbers of other small birds with them.
We all know the fruit-grower who cannot believe that his garden or
his orchard is in safety unless it is incessantly promenaded by a man
with a gun. And still the cry is for further slaughter. Is this slaughter
necessary?

In order to answer that question, we must glance for a moment
at the various counts upon which the sparrow is arraigned.

I. It is accused of stealing corn, alike from the field, the rick,
and the poultry-yard ; and a well-known Cheshire agriculturist — Mr.

4o8 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Bell — has lately estimated the annual loss of wheat due to the
attacks of sparrows in England alone at ;£2,o89,353.

2. It is further accused of shelling.out growing peas from their
pods, and in many cases even of destroying the plants themselves
almost immediately upon their appearance above the ground.

3. It is also said to damage crocuses, primroses, and other garden
plants, by plucking the blossoms or tearing them to pieces, apparently
out of wanton mischief.

4. It is charged with driving martins from their nests, and so
expelling strictly insectivorous birds from districts in which their
services are especially valuable.

Besides these, there are one or two minor counts of no practical
importance.

This indictment appears sufficiently formidable. But the case
for the defence must be set against it, and this consists of three
contentions.

1. That some of the above accusations aretoeatly exaggerated.

2. That others are totally untrue. 4

3. That the undeniable mischief, large as it is, of which the
sparrow is at times the cause, is more than counterbalanced by the
services rendered by the bird in other ways.

Let us examine these three contentions in turn.

Taking the average price of wheat at 30J. per quarter, Mr. Bell's
estimate requires us to believe that 1,392,904 quarters of this
grain alone, or 313,404 tons, are annually swallowed by English
sparrows. In other words, these birds dispose of nearly one-sixth of
all the wheat grown in England. Prodigious 1 The statement is
absurd on the face of it. Probably Mr. Bell, like many fanners
before him, has based his calculations upon the amount of damage
wrought in one particular field — a damage which is often very great,
and also most deceptive. For sparrows are by no means equally
distributed over all parts of our corn-growing districts. They con-
gregate near trees or houses, or in such other spots as may be
convenient for nesting and shelter, and never travel far afield in search
of food ; so that their mischief is concentrated upon a comparatively
small area of ground. Thus certain fields in the neighbourhood
of trees or buildings may be systematically robbed of a large pro-
portion of their produce, while others, at a little distance, as invariably
escape. Clearly, then, it is misleading and unfair to take a particular
field as a sample, and to build up a startling array of figures upon the
exceptional basis which it affords.

Much of the evidence against the sparrow on this paificular

The English Sparrow. 409

count, again, has been furnished by the examination of the crops of
slaughtered specimens. This evidence, at first sight, may seem
unexceptionable ; but it is weak and deficient in this respect, that
although it may establish the fact that sparrows feed largely upon
corn, it altogether fails to show where that co.rn comes from. Now,
a sparrow may frequently obtain a hearty meal of corn without
robbing the farmer or the poultry-keepier at all. At harvest time, for
instance, and during the gleaning season which succeeds it, a large
quantity of grain lies scattered upon the ground, perfectiy useless to
the farmer, quite beyond the power even of the gleaners to gather
up. In devouring this grain the bird is performing not a mischievous
but a positively beneficial act, since if allowed to remain it would
shortly sprout, and tend to exhaust the land. Yet, if a sparrow,
having feasted upon such grain, be shot and opened, the contents of
his crop are brought forward as undeniable evidence that he has been
robbing the farmer !

Sparrows extract a considerable amount of grain, too, from horse-
droppings ; and they also devour no small quantity which has been
brought out from the ricks, not by the birds themselves, but by rats.
So that even though sparrow after sparrow may be examined, and
found to contain grain, it by no means follows that that grain has
been stolen from the farmer.

On the count of destroying garden flowers, the sparrow must
plead guilty. It is a crime of comparatively modern development,
and seems to have originated in the desire to obtain certain small
insects which tenant the flowers in question.

The accusation of stealing peas and destroying the plants may be
met by a flat denial.

Farmers and gardeners commonly attribute the chipped leaves of
young bean and pea plants to the beak of the sparrow. In reality,
however, the injury is due, not to the bird at all, but to the small
Sitanes weevils, which are so terribly destructive to many leguminous
plants. This may readily be proved by experiment On a warm
spring evening, let the investigator examine a few rows of young peas
or beans by the aid of a bulFs-eye lantern. He will find the edges of
the leaves thronged by these little beetles, all busily feeding upon
them. Now let him remove the insects from a leaf or two, and he
will see that the margins are chipped away, even down to the
midrib, in exactly the manner attributed to the beak of the sparrow.

But it will be objected that sparrows visit pea and bean fields in
multitudes. No doubt they do ; but they go for the sake, not of the
plants themselves, but of the weevils which are attacking and

41 o The Gentleman s Magazine,

destroying them. So that their errand, in reality, &r from bdif ol
a mischievous character, is a highly benefidal one.

Some five years since I had a remarkable illnstntionctf tbis£ict
In my own garden, near Broadstairs, were several long rom of
'* telephone " peas. Of all the garden owneis of the n^hbonriiood,
I alone took no pains to prevent the visits of spanow5» iriiicli were
allowed free and undisturbed access to every part of the garden, and
took the fullest advantage of their opportunities. On visiting the
rows, indeed, I frequently disturbed a flock of twenty or thirty
sparrows from among them. Yet I lost neither a plant nor a pod,
while none of my neighbours succeeded in growing a crop of even
average yield. The iasX was that the Sitones weevib were unusually
abundant in that season, and that the sparrows had removed them
from my rows, while in those of my neighbours, from which the
birds were excluded, the insects were able to carry on their mis-
chievous operations unchecked.

In order to put this matter quite beyond dispute, I killed half a
dozen of the birds and opened them. In five out of the six the
crop contained a number of the dead weevils, while in the gizzard were
vestiges of others. In none of these was there anything of a vegetable
character. In the crop of the sixth, which had apparently but just
arrived, was a single grain of corn, probably extracted — ^tbe month
being May— from some horse-droppings in the neighbourhood.

Against the great amount of mischief which is undoubtedly com-
mitted by the sparrow, must be set the very great services which it
renders by the destruction of mischievous insects.

This is notably the case during the breeding season, which extends
over a period of some ten weeks. The young sparrows are quite
unable to digest a vegetable diet, and are fed entirely upon insects.
Actual experiment has shown that these — consisting for the most
part of highly injurious grubs— are brought to the nest at the rate of
40 per hour. Assuming that the sparrow works for only twelve hours
in the day — an estimate far below the mark — we still have a total of
480 insects per day, 3,360 per week, and 33,600 in the course of the
breeding season destroyed by each pair of birds ! And this cal-
culation does not take into account those which are devoured by the
parent birds themselves. Of the value of the sparrow as a grub
destroyer I have again had practical experience. There is a large
kitchen and fruit garden in North Kent in which sparrows are not
only tolerated, but encouraged. The walls of the house and stabling
are covered with ivy and creepers, in which they nest in hundreds.
The garden, however, is bordered on two sides by an extensive

The English Sparrow. 411

orchard, devoted partly to apple trees and partly to gooseberries
and currants, which are also grown largely in the kitchen-garden.
And throughout the spring and summer that orchard is patrolled by
gunners, with instructions to shoot every sparrow that they see.

Now on the doctrine accepted by farmers, the orchard ought to
bear plentifully, while the kitchen-garden should be stripped of its
produce. But, as a matter of fact, the exact opposite is regularly the
case. The gooseberry and currant bushes are stripped of their foliage
by saw fly and currant moth grubs and caterpillars, while the apple
trees are similarly damaged by the larvae of the lackey moth, and
the fruit return is hardly ever sufficient to cover working expenses.

But in the kitchen -garden matters are very different. The goose-
berry and currant bushes are literally laden with fruit More than
half a ton of jam is annually made from the produce of the latter
alone, puddings, &c, for a school of thirty boys are manufactured
three or four times a week, a large quantity of fruit is given away,
and yet at the end of the season a considerable amount invariably
remains ungathered. So, too, with the gooseberries, while the lackey
caterpillar is almost unknown upon the apples. Surely this may be
regarded as a practical commentary upon the value of the sparrow
as an insect destroyer. I may further refer to the fact that in Maine
and Auxerre, some five-and-thirty years since, sparrows were wholly
exterminated in accordance with Government edict. In the following
season even the foliage of the trees was almost wholly destroyed by
caterpillars. Perhaps, too, I may be permitted to quote the follow-
ing, which appeared two years since in the Kentish newspapers, and
carries with it great weight owing to the source from which the main
statement emanates. I looked for some weeks for a contradiction,
which, however, never appeared :

" An almost unprecedented attack of maggot has taken place in
the Kentish fruit plantations, and nut and apple crops have been in
many instances grievously damaged if not destroyed. Planters are
making vigorous efforts to fight the pest ; but the grubs are so
numerous that hitherto they have defeated all attempts to get rid of
them. The increase of insects is said by the farmers to be due to
the scarcity of sparrows, owing to the wholesale slaughter of the birds
which has been carried on in the district"

The terrible havoc wrought by sparrows in Australia and North
America, often brought forward as an argument for the extermination
of the bird, has no bearing upon the " Sparrow question " in Qreat
Britain. The bird in those countries has been introduced by man,
and change of climate implies a corresponding change of food. The

412 The Gentleman s Magazine.

sparrow as a British bird, on every principle of justice, must be judged
by its doings in Great Britain alone. And weighing its services as
a whole against its mischief, similarly considered, the unprejudiced
observer can hardly deny that the former largely predominate.

IV,— IN AMERICA,

By G. W. Murdoch, Lhte Editor of The Farmer^

Exactly forty years ago what is properly termed the "English
sparrow " {Passer domesticus) was introduced into the United States
of America as an ornithological experiment. From the Pacific to
the Atlantic the great problem noiv is how to exterminate the bird.
Under what circumstances and through the agency of what courses
has such a revolution in public opinion taken place with regard to the
habits of one of the most familiar birds in existence ? We use the
word familiar advisedly, for wherever man congregates in families,
tribes, or communities, there will be found the sparrow living and
thriving, impudently audacious and quite familiar to an almost
irritating degree. The sparrow has never been a much valued bird.
It is not of handsome plumage. He has no compensating attractions
as a musician, and there is not much in him as a bird for the pie-dish.
In Scriptural days of old it was asked, " Are not five sparrows sold
for two farthings ? " thereby implying that the bird was of trifling
money value. It is true that we find the Psalmist saying, " I watch
and am as a sparrow that sitteth alone upon the housetop," but the
bird to which the repentant king compared himself was not our
familiar Passer domesticus^ but a thrush or Passer solitarius^ a very
different kind of bird. But even before 1850, when the first common
sparrow was transported or rather carried to America, the character
of the bird as a friend or foe of the farmer and the gardener was in
question. The verdict against him was of the Scotch judicial order,
" not proven," and a good many are still of opinion that the verdict
should remain standing, while a few regard the bird as a pest, and on
the other hand not a few as a blessing.

Let us glance for a moment at the experience of the United
States during the forty years the birds have bred and extended them-
selves. The story has been admirably told in a report just issued
from the Ornithological Section of the Agricultural Department at
Washington. It consists of over four hundred closely-printed pages,
and relates to an enormous mass of direct evidence as to the habits

The English Sparrow. 413

of the birds, and is therefore an invaluable, and, as far as it goes,
valuable basis for inductive generalisation. In the first place we
notice the remarkable adaptability of the sparrow to all conditions or
human life. Wherever man migrated and settled, there went the
sparrow and thrived. The bird is at home in the scorching southern
states, and he can make himself quite comfortable in the extreme
north-west.

"The marvellous rapidity," says Mr. Merriman, the eminent
American ornithologist, " of the sparrow's multiplication, the surpris-
ing swiftness of its extension, and the prodigious size of the area it
overspreads, are without parallel in the history of any bird." The
facts in support of this statement are overwhelming, and need not be
recapitulated. Just a few words here about the phenomenal fecundity
of the sparrow. ** It is not unusual," adds Mr. Merriman, ** for a single
pair in the latitude of New York, or further south, to rear between
twenty and thirty young in the course of a year." Assuming the annual
produce of a pair to be twenty-four young, of which half are females
and half males, and assuming further for the sake of compilation
that all live together with their offspring, it will be seen that in ten
years the progeny of a single pair would be 275,716,983,698. But
for practical purposes if we allow three years as the maximum of a
sparrow's life, and allowing twenty as a maximum of annual births
for each pair, the fecundity is enormous. Now it has been stoutly
argued by the " friends of sparrows " that at least during breeding
time they feed their young on insects, in most cases on injurious insects,
and as a consequence they do incalculably more good in that way
than evil by the destruction of ripening or ripe grain. Of course
there are useful and in fact beneficent insects, and the aforesaid
friends of the sparrow have not at all times differentiated between the
two classes in their inductions. Important evidence on the subject
was taken by the Wild Birds Protection Committee of the British
House of Commons in 1873. Some of the facts therein, even in
detail, are certainly of a most important character as bearing on the
good character of the sparrow.

For instance, Mr. Henry Myers, one of the largest market
gardeners in the neighbourhood of London, was examined with the
following result :

" I believe you were led at one time of your life to reconsider your
opinions about birds ? — I suppose I have been in my time one of the
greatest of sparrow destroyers. You have the blood of a great many
sparrows on your head? — I had a sparrow club at one time; I
thought they were injurious birds. We killed them until scarcely

414 The Gentleman s Magazine.

one could be found on the premises. Did you derive valuable
results from that course ? — No ; on the contrary, we were eaten up
with blight. Will you be kind enough to tell the committee what
was your experience after so destroying the sparrows? — After the
sparrows became almost extinct we found blight of various kinds
very much increase upon us, and it has done so ever since I am
glad to say sparrows are becoming more common with us now ; this
year our trees are comparatively free from blight. The committee
will draw their own inference, but those were the facts. As the birds
have increased you have suffered much less from insects, you say?
— Yes, especially this year. Are you in the way of noticing the
habits of the sparrows when they are in your garden ? — To say that
the sparrows do no damage would be wrong, but there is no doubt
that they do a larger proportion of good than they do harm."

Mr. James Bell, gardener to the Duke of Wellington, at Strath-
fieldsaye, m Hampshire, gave most important evidence of a similar
character, his observations extending to the habits of sparrows, wrens,
robins, &:c. The following is part of his evidence :

" Does the sparrow give you any trouble ? — The only thing that
I know against the sparrow is that after the peas come in about this
season they are very destructive to the green peas ; they p>eck the
pods and destroy the peas. Now I will put the same question to
you that I put to another witness. If you were a market gardener,
depending for your livelihood on the growth of the fruit, should you
protect the birds or not ? — I certainly would, because I would rather
lose some fruit than have the whole of the crops destroyed by insects
and caterpillars. You think the greatest danger is on the side of the
insect than the bird ? — Yes, undoubtedly. They come in shoals ;
you may manage the insects in a very small garden, but you cannot
manage them in an acre or two of fruit trees. It is within your
experience that where birds are encouraged insects are kept down ?
— I always find that we never have insects to an extent to damage
the crops seriously where there are plenty of birds."

Mr. Merriman, in his report, has not scrupled to quote largely
from the'above, his sole object being to get at " the bottom facts "
relating to the habits of sparrows. Summing up the vast amount of
evidence taken all over the United States, the following are the
general conclusions. With regard to injury to buds, blossoms, &c.,
584 rei)orts were sent in ; of these 265 alleged positive damage of
varying kind and degree, 12 were indeterminate, and the remaining
307 were favourable to the bird. The compiler, however, points out
that the greater part of the favourable reports (294) have little

The English Sparrow. 415

weight, being brief monosyllabic negatives written in reply to the
schedule questions, without anything to indicate the extent or close-
ness of the writers' observation. Almost all reports agree that
considerable injury is done by the filthy habits of sparrows about
houses, and where there are ornamental trees. Grapes are grown
extensively in the open in America, and the evidence is clear that
sparrows are beginning to find out the value of this fruit, and consume
it greedily. It is also credited with much damage to apples
and other kinds of fruit, the young seeds of many kinds of green
vegetables, plants, &c. The most valuable portion of the report,
however, refers to the elaborate facts to be found in the tables of
food as shown by dissections of stomachs. In all and from every
part of the country, and at all seasons of the year, 636 stomachs of
sparrows were examined minutely, many of them within an hour and
a half after death. The net result was that wheat was found in 22
stomachs ; oats in 327 ; com (maize) in 71 ; fruit seeds in 57 ; grass
seeds in 102 ; weed seeds in 85 ; undetermined vegetable matter in
219 ; bread, rice, &c., 19 ; noxious insects, 47 ; beneficial insects, 50 ;
insects of no economic importance in 51. Having these hard facts
before us, the general verdict against the sparrow must be rather
decisive, and that too without taking into account its impudent and
most disastrous interference with the breeding of other and un-
doubtedly beneficent birds, such as martins, &c

THE BALLAD OF THE HULK,

BY the flat bank, dim in the waning light.
On land-locked waters, by a stagnant shore
Lies the huge hulk : no longer winged for flight,
But bare, dismasted, ne'er to travel more.

The sad red evening glares on the dull stream.
While one star quivers palely in the blue \

And, deathful as a sleep without a dream.
Fold the wild wings that once so strongly flew.

Thin mists are rising on the river's face.
And slowly grows the shadow of the night ;

Darkness glooms round the melancholy place ;
The great dim wreck begins to fade from sight

Oh, what a change ! tho' now forlorn, supine,
A nobler craft hath never ruled the sea ;

She lived long years upon the surging brine.
And moved in beauty — noble, strong, and free.

A ship's existence is a fight with death :
She swims on a vast widespread watery grave ;

The dangers round her, stirred by tempests' breath,
Might sometimes half appall e'en seamen brave.

What dark depths fathomless beneath her keel !

Ocean's great plain hides awful secrets drear :
Fair women and brave men alike may feel

Their bark surrounded by a haunting fear.

From the wild wave shall rise — how many dead !

Who perished whelmed beneath the mighty mai'
No tombs can mark where ocean's acres spread,

And yet the sea her dead shall yield agaia

Her graves too vast for any stone to mark,
Too shifting for record of any tomb :

Her dead drop deeply into shadows dark,
And disappear into unfathomed gloom.

The Ballad of the Hulk. 417

Through day and night, 'neath tropic stars and suns.
Through many a year, through many a fearful gale,

A precious freight of twice a thousand tons
The great ship carried 'neath her towering sail.

Bravely for years and years, through strife sublime,
The conquering bark pursued her wild career ;

But e'en her strong frame must succumb to time,
And its last vestiges must disappear.

Daemonic strength, transcending human force.
Resides in mountain billow and mad wind,

Which leap and rush upon their reckless course.
And pity not — insensate, ruthless, blind.

Among the noblest shows on all the earth
A fairer sight, indeed, there scarce could be

Than, fleetly sailing in her stately mirth,
That royal vessel on the tossing sea. .

In splendour her proud flags triumphant fly, ' ' ^

Flutt'ring and streaming in the joyous breeze \

Or one in sadness drooping half-mast-high.
To tell that death can strike upon the seas.

Day after day, week after week, they roam,
The wanderers o'er that changeful ocean plain ;

The far wide fields of furrow and of foam
Spread ceaselessly upon the lonely main.

Her tall trucks reel against the sky of noon,
When bright the sun or fresh the lively breeze ;

Or sway beneath great stars and wading moon.
When tempests vex the fierce unfeeling seas.

In tropic calms the high black gleaming side

Rests on its shadow on the water's gleam,
Rocks gently on the softly heaving tide.

Till ^hip and ocean blend into a dream.

Then, tall sails stretching to her topmost spires,
While argent moonshine blanches each sail white,

Round the dark hull flash phosphorescent fires,
Till night is peace, and loveliness, and light

High on the swaying yards the sailors swing,
When the broad swelling sails are reefed or furled,

As growing winds begin to hiss and sing,
And rising billows with wild rage are curled.

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1930. |r Y

4i8 The Gentleman s Magazine.

The warrior ship awakens for the strife ;

While plunging seas remorseless strike her bow,
Her quivering frame becomes instinct with life,

And scatters the wild waves that beat her prow.

The proud bark welters on the lifting swell,
And plunges madly through each watery crest ;

E'en the worst gale that e'er on ocean fell
Shall find the lofty vessel at her best.

The roaring hurricane fills all the night,
While the mad sea leaps upward to low clouds ;

Green rushing waters on lined decks alight,
And hoarse winds whistle thro' the reeling shrouds.

And human drama plays its living part
Beneath the soaring of the triple mast ;

Love shall begin in many a gentle heart —
Love born at sea, and long on land to last

Pale cheek and wistful eye are wanly there.
Sad sickness seeking from the seas relief.

The ship bears love, and hope, and joy, and care ;
And the high bulwarks hold both mirth and grie£

Strange constellations gleam in stranger skies,
The ocean pathway ever leads to change ;

Far lands grow nearer to expectant eyes.
Taught by the sea to look for all things strange.

Land ho ! and faintly, a low bar of purple cloud,

They see the shore at which they fain would be.
Welcome is land unto that weary crowd,
Pent for so long upon the climbing sea.

Wave-wearied passengers, with gladsome breast,

Will change the narrow deck for ampler space ;
They upon Australasian shores will find their rest

But she must soon her trackless way retrace.
She has retraced it — and for the last time ;

Her ocean labours all at length are past :
Closed is for ever her career sublime ;

To this pathetic end she comes at last.
Her life of strife, of joy and pride, is o'er.

Never again shall she float fair and free ;
Rotting beside the muddy river shore,

Never again the ocean shall she see.

TA0 Ballad «f ^ Hulk. 419

Her timbers strained, her worn sides wan and dim,

But showing yet the beauty of her lines.
Never did statelier ship on ocean swim,

And still her record bright in memory shines.

Her glory and her dangers both are past.

And only silence sounds her parting knelL
Of many foncies full, we look our last :

Pathetic is our sad, our proud — farewell !

H. SCHUTZ WILSON.

FF a

420 TJie Gentleman* s Magazine

PAGES ON PLAYS,

THE month would be somewhat uneventful were it not for the
one great event of the advent of the Daly Company. A very
poor piece of work by a man who has done much good work — Mr.
Wills — " A Royal Divorce," at the Olympic, might be forgiven for
its infidelity to history : it could not be forgiven for its tediousness*
At Drury Lane, Sir Augustus Harris inaugurated his knighthood
with an exciting naval melodrama, "A Sailor's Knot," by Mr. Pettitt,
set in the stirring times of the struggle with Napoleon. At the
Avenue a rival, and by no means a dangerous rival, to " UEnfiant
Prodigue " was brought forward in a new pantomime called " Yvettc,''
which was much too long and rather dull. " Arrah-na-Pogue " has
been revived at the Princess's ; and Miss Minnie Palmer shakes her
short skirts through " My Sweetheart " at the Vaudeville.

But the great event of the month has been the reappearance in
London of the Daly Company. It is now seven years since this
company first came to London and played for a season at Toole's
Theatre. They did not then create the attention they deserved.
Some of those who saw them appreciated their excellence ; the
majority of critics did not recognise the importance of the event ; I
did not happen to see them at all. This was in 1884. Two years
later they came again, in 1886, this time to the Strand Theatre; and
this time I saw them once, when they were playing the piece with
which they opened this season at the Lyceum, " A Night Off" I
was immensely amused, so was all London. This time the company
were beginning to be better understood — to be more appreciated.
Again they went away ; again they returned, two years later, in 1888.
This time they played at the Gaiety, beginning with that delightful
piece, " the dear, the for-ever remembered " play, " The Railroad of
Love." The performance was a revelation. It showed me that in
Miss Ada Rehan the stage boasted an actress with a variety of
emotional expression that was almost unequalled — that was certainly
unsurpassed. The light-hearted trifling of the witty, pretty widow,
Valentine Osprey, was interpreted by Miss Rehan with a comedj

Pages on Plays. 421

•

4^at can only be called exquisite. But suddenly, in the midst of
the dainty mirth, the bright, delicate humour, there came a Iovq
scene — the now famous door scene — which was played with an
appealing tenderness, with a living poetry that made it one of the
most beautiful things I had ever seen on the stage. And when
this scene was followed by another, in which an episode of farce was
endowed with a passion and fire and pathos that elevated it to the
<lignity of the highest art, I recognised at once that in Miss Rehan
I was beholding one of the great actresses of our age.

What " The Railroad of Love " revealed and suggested •* The
Taming of the Shrew " confirmed. The play is not a wholly pleasing
one ; it does not stand high on the list of the Shakespearean plays ; it
js generally looked upon and generally played as if it were a mere
whirling farce. But Miss Ada Rehan's Katherine was a great crea-
tion— it might almost be called a great tragic creation. Who that
saw it will forget her first appearance in the comedy, that fierce rush
4ipon the stage, that splendid pause of baited fury? Everything
about her, the flame-coloured hair, the flame-coloured garments,
suggested passion ; here at this moment the passion of a wrath that
was almost animal in its ferocity, and yet a passion capable of heroic
expression, capable of being developed into the noble passion of love.
The spectator sees from the first moment that the metamorphosis of
Kate is no grotesque impossibility, no result of barbarous subjuga-
tion. That splendid flame-coloured creature, who might have come
from the most brilliant canvas of the brilliant Veronese, had somcr
thing in her of the divine Italian Juliet — something of the imperial
Egyptian Cleopatra. I saw it again and again, learning with every
fresh occasion some new lesson in the power and beauty and magic
of dramatic art interpreted by a true artist : it was a lesson of the
highest kind, it was an artistic pleasure not to be surpassed.

" The Taming of the Shrew " was Miss Rehan's triumph of that
season ; two years later, in 1890, she returned again to London
for a further triumph in "As You Like It" I had seen quite a
number of Rosalinds, but here I saw the nearest approach to my
ideal of the Witch of Arden Wood. In that book of Thfophile
Gautier's which Mr. Swinburne has called " the golden book of spirit
and sense, the holy writ of beauty," there is an exquisite description
of an ideal performance of " As You Like It." The play seems to
have enchanted Gautier, and he wrote about it with all the impas-
^oned enthusiasm which he gave to everything that appealed to his
Grecian sense of beauty. The performance which the poet had de-
scribed Miss Rehan helped me to realise. This radiant daughter of a

422 The Gentlemafts Magazine.

banished duke who is all as witty and twice as gracious as Beatrice,
who wanders in the woodland like a returned Dryad, who loves and
makes love with such sweet serene audacity, lived and moved in
Miss Rehan's creation. It would be rash to say that it was a finer
performance than her Katherine ; but it was as fine, worthy to stand
by its side, the second picture in a splendid gallery of Shakespeare's
womanhood. Might not that Rosalind, one asks again, play Juliet?
Could not that magnificent Katherine make a no less magnificent
Cleopatra ?

There is one part which Miss Rehan has played which, amongst
all her wide ranges of creations, I may perhaps be permitted to feci
some special regret at not having seen. It is only a small part, but
it is a part that I can well imagine her playing to perfection — the part
of Xantippe in a version of Theodore de Banville's gracious little one-
act comedy, "La Femme de Socrate," which I was privileged to
write. It was produced at Daly's Theatre in New York in the
October of 1888, and it was not possible for me to be in New York
at the time and so I have never seen it. But where imagination
might fail to present to me a picture of Miss Rehan as Xantippe,
assistance comes in the description of her acting given by the
accomplished New York critic, Mr. William Winter. In a very rare
and beautiful book, "A Daughter of Comedy," of which only a
hundred and thirteen copies arc in existence, a book privately prints,
in which Mr. AVilliam Winter has traced the brief and brilliant record
of Miss Rehan's artistic career, I find the following pages, which I
must permit myself the pleasure of quoting :

" Miss Rehan wore a robe of golden silk, and her noble and
spirited head was crowned with an aureole of red hair. Xantippe,
resentful of the scornful composure of Socrates, scolds and storms
till, in the tempest of her passion, she is suddenly thrown into a
syncope, whereupon she is thought to be dead. But while she is
recovering from this swoon she hears the sorrowful, affectionate
protestations of love that are uttered by her husband, and, perceiving
then his sincerity, devotion, and sweetness, and her own unwoman-
like violence and acrimony of temper, she changes from a shrew
to a meek and loving woman. Miss Rehan acted this part in a strain
of passionate impetuosity and at times with fine sarcasm. Her
elocution was uncommonly sweet. Her action was marked by
incessant and piquant variety. She flashed from one mood to
another and placed many phases of the feminine nature in vivid
contrast. The embodiment was one of sumptuous personal beauty,
and, after the storm of shrewish rage and turbulent jealousy had

Pages on Plays. 423

spent its force, this portrayal closed with the suggestion of a lovely
ideal of nobility and gentleness. When there is a close correspond-
ence between the temperament of the actor and the temperamen*-
of the part that is represented a greater freedom of expression is
naturally reached. That correspondence existed in the culminating
passage of this play between Miss Rehan and the conquered
Xantippe, and her success was triumphant. In dealing with the
shrewish action of the part she obeyed the same subtle impulse that
she has wisely followed in her treatment of Shakespeare's Katherine.
The dress was made to harmonise with the spirit of its wearer : her
shrew is red-haired, high coloured, and like a scorching flame."

But if Miss Rehan is the chief attraction of the Daly Company,
she is admirably supported. In Mrs. Gilbert the stage possesses one
of the most charming old ladies who have ever trod the boards. In
all the whimsical parts she plays she shows such a subtle blend of
humour and of tenderness as is not surpassed by any other actress.
And what Mrs. Gilbert is amongst old ladies, Mr. James Lewis is
amongst old men. I am speaking, of course, of both of them in the
parts they play, which are always old parts : personally they are both
perennially young. For a grotesque humour, which while farcical is
always human, Mr. Lewis is not to be surpassed. As for Mr. John
Drew, he is one of the best of living young actors. He is to the
American stage what Noblet is to the French stage ; but he can do
things that, as far as I know, Noblet cannot do. For, while John
Drew can play the dashing young gentleman of farcical comedy to
perfection, he can also perform such parts as Orlando and Petruchio
with great power and vitality. Ada Rehan and John Drew, Mrs*
Gilbert and James Lewis, these indeed form a quadrilateral of which
any manager might be proud, even that greatest of all managers who
founded the Theatre Illustre and who wrote " Tartuffe." London
has learned to love this quadrilateral as fondly as New York loves
them, and welcomes them every year with, if possible, a warmer than
the last welcome.

What must be regarded as an important dramatic event is the
publication of the first volume of the plays of Mr. Henry Arthur
Jones. England has long been reproached for the decadence of her
dramatic literature. Authors who have striven to improve the literature
of the drama have been reproached for not giving their productions
to a wider public than the play-going public, to the reading-public.
The answer has always come pat. While an English dramatic author
is popular, he naturally looks to the United States for a share of his
reward. That share he could only obtain, until lately, so long as he

424 The Gentleman s Magazine.

kept his play in manuscript, or at least kept it unpublished But
with the recent alteration in the law of American copyright, certain
of our English dramatists have shown themselves eager to invite the
study and the criticism of the reading as well as of the play-going
public, and Mr. H. A. Jones and Mr. Pinero, two of our most
conspicuous dramatists, have proceeded to publish their plays. Mr.
Jones has led off with the publication of " Saints and Sinners." *

Mr. Henry Arthur Jones takes himself very seriously, and he is
quite right as a conscientious dramatist to take himself and his art as
seriously as possible ; but it may be questioned whether he does not
take the new American copyright Act too seriously, and does not
prophesy too remarkable results from its existence. Mr. Jones
considers that it is the duty of all self-respecting dramatists at once
to publish their plays in book form, as the majority of French drama-
lists do, and have done for many a long year. It remains to be seen
whether he and Mr. Pinero, and the other dramatists who may follow
their example and rush into print, will not find reasons — merely mer-
cantile reasons — for regretting their action. America is a large
country, swarmed over by travelling companies too numerous and too
fleeting to be affected by any copyright law. An author, or his
agents, will perhaps only learn of an unauthorised performance of
his play in some distant part of the country days after it has taken
place. Meanwhile the players have gone elsewhere, to play and dis-
appear again before the law could be enforced. And this will be
taking place all over the country — at least such is the opinion
expressed to me of a great authority on American theatrical affairs.
But however that may be, and however sorry I shall feel for either
Mr. Jones or Mr. Pinero if they find their printed texts lightly pirated,
I cannot but rejoice that they have come to the determination to
print their plays.

For, after all, it is only by a study of its text that a play can be
finally judged. A piece of dramatic work may, for many reasons — an
individual actor's skill, lavish mounting, spectacular effect — take the
taste of the town and prove a great commercial success, although the
artistic worth of the work may be poor indeed. On the other hand,
a play may be excellent literature and yet fail — for want of the right
iictor, for want of spectacular effect, for many reasons — to take the
taste of the town. The only way to pronounce critically upon a play,
upon a dramatic author's work, is to read it. But this has been
impossible in the case of the contemporary stage in England. In
France anyone who likes can make himself familiar with the plays

* London : Macmillan & Co.

Pages an Plays. 425

of Dumas //r, with the majority of the plays of Sardou, with th6
plays of Lemattre, of Becque, of Bergerat, of all the dramatic writers,
successful or unsuccessful. In Denmark everyone can buy the play&
of Ibsen, of Jonas Lie, of Bjomson, of Heiberg, and the rest
Spanish pla3rs are sold in Spain; Italian plays in Italy ; every European
country publishes its new plays, except England '

It would almost appear as if there were something in the modern^
English mind hostile to the reading of plays ; for it does not quite
do to say that most of our acting plays are not good enough to print.
If there existed a public eager to read plays, as such a public exists
in Paris, in Berlin, in Madrid, in Rome, plays would soon be written
that were worth their reading. Plays are published in Paris almost
as largely as novels, and the effect of this great publicity has been to
make the French drama a very skilful drama. It has to run the
gauntlet of so much criticism that it must, perforce, be careful — must
needs do its best. But in^England few people care to read plays ;
few people, except professional or amateur actors, buy Lacy's theatrical
library ; even Shakespeare and Sheridan are not so intimate a part
of popular reading as Moli^re and Corneille are in France. It may
be that this will change. Perhaps Mr. Henry Arthur Jones is the
pioneer of a new movement which will multiply the production of
playbooks. Personally I hope so \ there are few pleasures more
delightful to my mind than the reading of playbooks. Here again
our debt to Ibsen must be recognised. The increase of public
interest in the drama during the last year or two has largely been
aroused by the controversy over Ibsen and Ibsen's method.

Since I wrote these lines a new play has been added to the
English repertory of the Daly Company. This new play is " The
Last Word," one of those bright, humane, living adaptations from
the German of which Mr. Daly possesses the secret — adaptations
which have all the freshness and all the charm of brilliant original
comedies. "The Last Word" is a comedy of the school of
"The Railroad of Love," that is to say, it is a comedy which, while it
sparkles with humour, has at the same time a serious note and touches
graver chords than the mere string of mirth. Like " The Railroad
of Love," which I consider one of the most charming comedies I
have ever seen, "The Last Word" affords to Miss Rehan op-
portunities for displaying the extraordinarily wide and varied power
of her genius. Cousin Val of " The Railroad of Love " was one of
those enchanting creations, like Diana Vernon and Bathsheba Bold-
wood in fiction, whom the appreciative observer must, whether he will
or no, fall helplessly in love with, and the Baroness Vera in " The

426 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Last Word" is the heart's sister of Valentine Osprey. I declare
that I cannot say which I like the best Memory, carrying me back
to the two triumphant scenes in " The Railroad of Love," calls upon
me to declare for Cousin Val, but the immediate moment, with its
living, thrilling picture of the beautiful Russian woman, so noble, so
courageous, so divinely playful, so humanly passionate, makes me
ready to swear like a new Quixote that the Baroness Vera is the
peerless among womankind. Then I remember that the Baroness
Vera and Valentine Osprey are the same, and that both are of one
blood with Rosalind and Katherine, and all other feelings are
absorbed in the one sense of warm gratitude to the genius that has
made all these enchanting women live and move for me,

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

4^7

TABLE TALK.

Sir Walter Scott.

THE publication of " The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, 1825-32/' »
draws fresh attention to a figure always pleasant to con-
template. That Scott's comments^ outspoken though never unamiable,
upon his acquaintance or neighbours should have delayed the
appearance of these revelations until those with whom they dealt
had pasted beyond the reach of censure is of course natural. It is a
matter upon which the present generation is to be congratulated.
While, moreover, another work of the same class, the revelations of
Talleyrand, to which the world has looked forward with eager antici«^
pation, has produced little except disappointment, Scott's Journal,
which stole into existence with no preliminary fanfare, has been
greeted with general delight Curious proof how keen interest
is aroused is supplied in the fact, for such it is, that the *' Life of
Scott," by Lockhart, in ten volumes uniform with the favourite edition
of the Waverley novels, though previously one of the commonest of
books, has sprung into demand and is now not easily obtainable. As
is natural, the perusal of these delightful experiences and comments
has given the reader a taste for more pabulum of the same class.
Not easily does one tire of such a record as is supplied of a life of
generous self-abnegation and heroic self-sacrifice.

Scott as seen in his Journal.

MANY men have sought to give their fellows or their successors
an insight into their lives, to paint themselves for posterity as,
in their own conceit, they should be seen. Jean-Jacques was of course
the first to determine upon showing himself to the world in his true
colours, with all his faults, infirmities, and crimes upon his head. How
much vanity, self-esteem, and desire for approbation underlies
Rousseau's exposure of meanness and baseness I will leave others
to decide. Rousseau's successors went beyond him, and some
sufficiently nauseating exhibitions of moral disease saw the light
in the eighteenth century. A world, the taste of which is healthy
in the main, quits these unpleasant revelations, and prefers an
analysis of something less revolting. Pepys is confidential enough,
and opens out some queer comers of his personality. Everybody
pardons, however, if he does not love, the confiding gentleman whose

* EdiDburgb : David Douglas,

428 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

cypher has yielded up its mystery, and who would be greatly
astonished if, from the shades he inhabits, he could contemplate the
interest he inspires. In letters, a nature so sweet as that of Dorothy
Osborne or so cynical as that of Walpole attracts or amuses. Scott's
Journal, however, stands alone in conveying to us the picture of a
man as we would have him, with the qualities that inspire and the
infirmities that endear. Healthy, virile, strong under defeat, modest
in triumph, as far removed from cant as he is from libertinism, he
supplies us with that robust virtue which, as opposed to valetu-
dinarian virtue, is, as Macaulay says, what the world wants. Scott
is the most many-sided man since Shakespeare, and may challenge
comparison with Goethe. Few will read his confessions and revela-
tions without the desire to lead a nobler life.

Scott's Last Words.

NOT at all the sort of dying speech which the world loves to
hear is that of Scott. In these days, indeed, one hesitates to
hold it up before a world little disposed to reverence. Declining to
allow his daughters, who had watched long and were fatigued, to be
aroused, Scott, when dying, said to his son-in-law — " Lockhart, I may
have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good man — be
virtuous — be religious — be a good man. Nothing else will give you
any comfort when you come to lie here." " Pietistic cant," says the
reader, with a shrug of his shoulders. " Not so," I answer. I could
■ find more than one "ancient Roman" who would accept and approve
such teaching.

Eccentricities of Holiday-making.

NOW that what has been called the shrinking of the world
is in progress, and a ride across a continent may be ac-
complished on a bicycle, people make resolute efforts to give a
character to holiday pursuits. One pleasantly novel experience is
chronicled in " Two Girls on a Barge," by V. Cecil Cotes.* This is
the record of a slow, meditative holiday tour from London to
Birmingham by two young girls who had fitted up a barge for resi-
dential purposes. With short trips of the kind I am familiar, having
several times, on a specially chartered barge, descended the Thames
or ascended the Medway. A quiet indolent progress through the
locks of a canal and by primitive villages is an unknown (and hitherto^
I suppose, unrecorded) experience. With its innumerable and dever
designs and its pleasant style of narrative, this record of domestic,
but not wholly unad venturous, travel is to be commended as delight-
ful reading. svlvanus urbak.

» Chalto & Win^ui.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

November 1891.

A SPIRITUAL FAILURE.

By T. Sparrow.

Chapter I.

LADY LISLA DRUMMOND was an enigma.
She was young, good-looking, and had plenty of money;
therefore she was courted and worshipped as a goddess by mammon.
The worship she accepted indifferently, the courtship she coldly re-
pelled She did not eschew society, she was always mindful of its
claims ; yet many wondered why she went so assiduously to balls,
concerts, and theatres, when the only effect they had on her was to
deepen the look of proud languor that marred the classic stillness of
her face.

She was by no means a blue-stocking, and took but a vague
interest in politics. Art she tolerated in her boudoir, in the shape
of undraped deities of either sex, smiling at her from panel pictures
or gracefully posed on antique pedestal. To the muse of poetry she
occasionally succumbed, and light literature she skimmed in the
ordinary orthodox way ; but that which she added to her store of
knowledge may have benefited herself, it certainly did not benefit
anyone else. Conversation she had little, originality she had none.
If she had been a " nobody^' she would have been voted " com-
monplace " in spite of her Grecian head and perfect hands. As she
was a " somebody," she was called an "anomaly," which is a very
useful sort of word. It may mean so much, and it may mean
nothing at all

But the living statue woke into life at last, and in this wise.
Lady Lisla was present one afternoon at a literary "At Home,"
where a fair Socialist, to prove her Democratic principles, collected

VOU CCLXXI. NO. 193 1. G G

430 The Gentleman's Magazine.

round her all the aristocrats she knew, or could get her friends to
bring. These, with a shabby journalist or two, and a couple of shy
girls who were proudly introduced as " contributors to magazines "
(one had written a poem in the Family Herald, the other was writing
one) were the company which figured in the ladies' papers later as
" the brilliant literary assemblage."

Lady Lisla had come because it was so much easier to say "yes"
than ** no " to the pressing solicitations of pretty Blanche Des-
mond; but having come, she thought her duty ended with her
presence, and lay back on a terra-cotta lounge perfectly passive.
Her attention was arrested by a voice and a very peculiar voice.

Now we have all our little idiosyncrasies, however we may pride
ourselves to the contrary. Some go wild after painting, some are
fascinated by lovely eyes, some by a winning manner, and some by a
fetching dress. Lady Lisla was susceptible on one point, and that
was voice. Every voice affected her pleasantly or unpleasantly —
mostly the latter. Some people she could like when they were silent ;
the generality she only endured from the moment they began to
speak. She had a very nervous organisation, though, being perfectly
healthy, she was not aware of it ; and this highly-strung sensitiveness
culminated in an extreme sensibility of the aural organs. This
nerve- affection is not very common, thank heaven, for it is the cause
of much suffering, and the remedy has yet to be found.

The owner of the voice which had roused Lady Lisla from her
apathy was a man of about fifty, with a commanding presence and a
well developed brow. His tones were singularly calm and resonant, as
if he were accustomed to hold an audience in attentive thrall. The
self-restraint in them, also the quiet force, appealed irresistibly to
Lady Lisla, and motioning to her hostess she asked to be introduced
to him.

Poor Mrs. Desmond looked horribly perplexed.

** The truth is," she began in a hesitating sort of way, " he is not
one of us — he is a Roman Catholic priest."

"Does that matter?'- asked Lady Lisla indifferently.

Mrs. Desmond's brow cleared when she saw how the awful news
was received.

*' Not but that he is a very clever man," she rattled on nervously.
" Quite a gentleman, and so polished. He was at Cambridge, and
then went abroad, and while at Rome got captured I believe. His
family move in very high circles, or you may be sure I would not
have asked him here."

This was rather strong from an advanced Socialist, but perhaps

A Spiritual Failure. 431

politeness with them as with others condones little variations from
truth.

"Do you really wish to know him? He will be flattered, I am.
sure."

Lady Lisla merely bowed her head, and Mrs. Desmond fluttered
off to execute her guest's wish. In a few moments she returned with
the gentleman, whom she introduced as Father St. Aubyn. If the
worthy cleric were flattered there was nothing in his manner to show
it, as with perfect ease he uttered the ordinary nothings in anything
but an ordinary way.

Lady Lisla was attracted. Her cool languor gave way to interest
She liked to hear the clear, incisive voice, the trenchant, crisp little
sentences, the meaning of which went further than the ear, and
seemed to pierce the mind with a pleasant sting. Father St. Aubyn
was a clever man, and not only was he clever himself, but he had the
rare gift of making his listener feel that he was clever also. This is
the highest kind of cleverness, and was the cause of Father St.
Aubyn's popularity. Lady Lisla felt she had never lived till now.
He understood her, and took for granted that she could understand.
When he said at parting, "I hope that we shall meet again some
day," it was not the smile which accompanied the words that made
her blush like a very schoolgirl, it was not the keen steadfast look
he bent upon her from the depth of his clear dark eyes, it was the
consciousness in her own heart that she wanted to see this man
again as she had never wanted to see man before.

From the moment they played at amateur Socialism in a London
drawing-room, life became a difl"erent thing for Lady Lisla. Her
mental inactivity was at an end. She was capable of thinking, he
had implied it ; so she dared to reason, dared to read.

A great deal of women's intellectual torpor arises from a want of
^nist in their own powers ; they are timid from heredity, from circum-
stances, from fear of ridicule.

Hitherto Lady Lisla had dragged through life a smiling automaton,
nothing more. Now all her pulses were quickened into being, and
the mental intoxication which resulted was almost delirium at
times.

She met him constantly in society, and intuitively yielded more
and more to his subtle influence. Though he never attempted to
dictate, and never addressed more than a few sentences specially to
her, it was the chance word here and there that guided her awakening
intellect, that told her what books to read, what views to adopt, what
side to jtake on a social question. And when, later, he would quietly

432 The Ge^iilemafi s Magazine.

appeal to her opinion before a number of people, and she would
first nervously, and then with more confidence announce her ideas,
she was often rewarded by an instantaneous flash from those in-
scrutable eyes which made her tingle all over with the joy of being
understood.

In time the silent cold woman became a brilliant speaker, a
concise writer, and a woman who interested clever men by the
originality of her thoughts and the gentle intense way she had of
expressing them. The great blue eyes would sparkle, the tremulous
colour come and go, her beautiful hands clasp and unclasp, as her
low earnest voice thrilled through the coldest member of her
audience.

And he, the cause of it all, smiled to himself, well pleased. At
last society began to talk, as society always will. Why would Lady
Lisla never marr>'? And why did she always outshine herself when
that good-looking cleric was present ?

In due time Lady Lisla heard, as the victim always does hear,
remarks which are pointed but not pleasant. The result was not
what it would have been a year ago. Then, she would have listened
in scornful apathy, hardly grasping the significance of the rumour.
Now, a vivid crimson mantled her delicate cheeks, though she onlf
tightened her lips expressively. But she thought and thought to
some purpose.

He was only her intellectual friend : there was only between thein
a camaraderie of spirit which flushed her brain with vigour and
stimulated her reasoning faculties. She was grateful, only grateful)
and was she going to shun him because of a wicked whisi)er ?

No ; and the graceful head was thrown back, and the graceful
form sprang to its feet, quivering in every nerve — with gratitude.

He had never been to visit her; she lived alone with a com-
panion, and had met him so frequently at friends' houses, that toasU
him to call had not entered her head.

But society drives many people to desperation, and is the remote
cause of many a crime.

Lady Lisla drove to where Father St. Aubyn lived, and after teH
minutes' interview with him, during which he was cool and conven-
tional as usual, and she was curiously flushed and excited, she drove
home and wrote notes of invitation to a large dinner she was going
to give. Acceptances poured in, and as Lady Lisla read the ^'
fumed billets, her eyes sparkled mischievously, almost as if she were
a girl.

A Spiritual Failure. 433

The night came, and with it the guests.

The hostess received them, looking the personification of loveliness,
in the palest of pale pink silk, and a strange lustre in the feverishly
bright eyes. Father St. Aubyn took her in to dinner, and, as in duty
bound, was by her side most of the evening.

Her delicate witchery was at its height. The statue that men
had been accustomed to admire and ignore was a thrilling, throbbing
Venus now. And they hung around it spell-bound.

It was a triumph from first to last, but like every other triumph
had to be paid for dearly.

They had all gone ; the last smile had been smiled, the last hand-
clasp had been given, and Lady Lisla was alone, amongst that blaze
of lights and that wealth of flowers.

She was pale now, pale to the very lips. The soft sad eyes gazed
straight before her, looking at truth steadily, and with self-scorn.

Presently, she crouched down on the ground in front of the fire,
and shaking her hair over her like a veil, buried her face in her
hands. Long-drawn sobs came from that prostrate form : at times
the tiny hands were clenched and raised, at times they beat help-
lessly against the floor. Her anguish was voiceless save for one
bitter cry :

** My God, I thought I knew everything, and I did not even know
myself."

And the same night, at the same hour, Leslie St. Aubyn was
holding bitter commune with himself. His strong smooth face was
troubled, and the usually calm eyes had a puzzled expression in them,
half pain, half bewilderment.

He stood at his open window, and let the sharp night- wind play
on his brow. Stars, like brilliants shaken from God's finger, glittered
in the broad blue sky, and the gentle rustle of the trees in the
Square soothed the watcher's perturbed thoughts. His stern serenity
gradually returned, and the fathomless eyes lost that wavering ex-
pression so unusual in them.

"God, I can do it," was his unspoken thought, as he gently
closed the window ; ** for a moment only was my heart afraid. My
strength is stayed on Thee."

Chapter IL
Lady Lisla was going to be married " at last."

We all know wbic^h sex added th^ twp fjn^l worcls ; but when ^

434 2^^^ Gentleman's Magazine.

pretty woman gets to be thirty and remains unwedded, she must
expect remarks to be critical if not kind.

" It was the result of that dinner party," said a dowager sagely.
" Anyone could see, she laid herself out to captivate that night.*'

" Yes, it was the result of that dinner-party," repeated Lady Ljsla,
when the pithy judgment was echoed back to her; and then she
clasped her hands together on her knees and gazed straight before
her, as she had a habit of doing now.

Htx fiance was Sir Everard Everleigh, a heavy brutish sort of
man, not young, not good-looking, and more plentifully endowed
with money than with wit.

" What made you choose him ? " asked outspoken Floss Rivers, ad-
justing her pince-nez to survey the slim incarnation of cream lace and
blue ribbons reclining before her in an attitude of extreme languor.

" He does as well as anyone else," was the listless reply. " After
all, a husband is only an adjunct nowadays to a woman's life, and an
adjunct which need not interfere much with the ordinary tenor of it"

Jolly Floss Rivers was vulgar enough to whistle.

Lady Lisla had evidently developed, and developed to some
purpose. But Floss was wise enough not to enter into an argument.
She herself was burdened with a partner who had marred her life's
happiness at every step. Only her animal spirits, and only her
animal love for her children, preserved her within the pale of
respectability. She was a woman who could hate and laugh, who
could appreciate humour while her heart was breaking, and who
would say carelessly and wickedly, as she trimmed her cigarette with
a penknife, " There is one quality which theologians have forgotten
to attribute to the Almighty, and that is sarcasm. He is terribly
sarcastic ; once grasp that, and you get the clue to much that has
hitherto been put down to his Satanic Majesty." She saw now that
there were hidden depths in her friend's character, depths never
meant to be fathomed by the world at large ; she saw, and held her
tongue.

To no one did Lady Lisla reveal her second visit to Father St
Aubyn— this time at night, and this time on foot

Is it not Madame de Sevigne who says, " It is a terribly iomeiy
thing to have a soul."

Lady Lisla was awaking to the consciousness that she was not
only an animate thing, she was an intelligent being — she could think,
and because she could think, the whole range of thought was open
to her. 'i'he magnificence and loneliness of this idea appalled her.
Its potentialities were so immense. And it was this sharpened power

A Spiritual Failure. 435

of reasoning which made the question of marriage so complex to
her. Its possibilities were enormous; they made her colour and
shiver from head to foot, yet she must not shrink if the general
welfare required it of her.

When Sir Everard proposed, her perplexities increased. What
had been merely an intricate problem viewed at a distance, suddenly
became of palpitating immediate interest.

In her trouble she thought of Father St. Aubyn ; surely he would
advise, he would know what was strong and sensible and direct.
The very sound of his wonderful voice, in her over-wrought state,
would be soothing ; and Lady Lisla, acting on the impulse which
attracted her magnetically towards the man of brilliant intellect and
impassive heart, crept from her own house like a guilty thing, glided
through the back streets and was ushered into his presence tremb-
ling at her boldness.

To give birth to a human being is an awful responsibility, but to
give birth to a soul is more solemn still, unless one can foster it with
parental care, and guide it from adolescence into maturity.

Father St. Aubyn had deliberately quickened Lady Lisla's intellect
into being ; but to guide her further would be to break his vows, un-
less she believed as he believed. Elation at their spiritual conquests
lis the one laudable pleasure of a celibate clergy, but Father St. Aubyn
had wider views than most of his brethren. He never urged or
argued or coerced apparently. Could he help those eyes which
were so penetrating because so passionless ? Could he help those
low trenchant tones which, without the words sometimes, carried
conviction to the most incredulous ? Where personal influence and
spiritual supremacy merge into one harmonious whole is a point that
can never be defined.

Father St Aubyn pitied — almost pitied — the beautiful, tremulous
creature who stood before him under the one gas-burner in that
bare, unfurnished room, telling with quivering lips and tearful eyes
her doubts, her fears, her love-trouble, ending plaintively, with quite
a tragic gesture :

" Father, tell me what I ought to do."

Was this the calm Lady Lisla who spoke so eloquently on ques-
tions political and social ? After all, he thought critically, she was
but a woman in embryo ; in mind she had begun to live, in heart she
was yet a child.

Strung up as she was to the very height of nervous tension, his
first few cold words were like ice to her fevered heart.

"Fm honoured, deeply honoured, Lady Lisla, that you have

436 The Gentleman* s Magazine.

sought my advice, but, really, this is a subject entirely beyond me.
Marriage" (with a slight smile) '* is an affair of the heart, is it not?
Have you no lady-friend who would counsel you in this matter?"

She bowed her head, and the big tears slowly dropped on to her
ungloved hands. It was so disappointing to expect a friend, and to
find a stone.

'' I thought,'' she gasped nervously, *' that Catholic priests always
helped about such things."

" Catholic priests help Catholics," he corrected gently, " but out-
siders— that is a very different thing."

The slight emphasis on the word outsiders was meant to draw.
He felt he won or lost her to his faith that night.

But Lady Lisla had only developed in parts : she had grown
rationally, but not spiritually ; she felt in no need of a creed, she
wanted a human friend. She stood silent ; there was disappoint-
ment in her heart, there was disappointment also in his.

<* I should think," he said at length, in even, measured tones, ''iD
you have to do is to question your own heart. If you love him, take
him; if you don't, leave him alone."

And that was the end of all her fine theories about transcenden-
talism, the improvement of the human species, the survival of the
fittest, the widening of women's sphere— all to end in the meie
vulgar solution of love.

Her edifice crumbled about her ears, and mental stupor was the
immediate result. She felt powerless to speak. All the pointed
sentences she had so carefully rehearsed, the neat refutations to witft
she imagined would be his line of argument (for she had a vigoe
idea that men of whatever sect advocated matrimony generally), si
completely vanished from her mind. She had nothing to say, snd
she did not know what to do. She was weary, body and mind, sod
was only conscious of a wild desire for someone to take her future is
their own hands, and do with it what they would.

Her disconsolate attitude perhaps touched him, for his voice hid
a kinder tone in it as he said :

" I am afraid I have been of no help, Lady Lisla. Tell me, vbit
do you want me to do ? "

Her tears fiowed faster from sheer disappointment She felt lil^
a silly schoolgirl.

" I want you to decide for me," she said in a low voice.

Almost a look of contempt passed over the strong, masterful if^
as he quietly asked :

'*Is the gentleman suitable in age, position, igid birth?"

A Spiritual Failure. 437

" Yes/'

« He is rich ? "

" Yes."

" A good reputation ? "

The full red lips curled.

" As good as his fellows,"

The questioner hesitated a moment

" You care for him ? "

A mutinous quiver of the lips — that was all.

He hesitated again.

*• You care for no one else ? "

Two soft shy eyes were raised to his, then the eyelids hid their
beauty. There was silence deep as the grave, broken by Father St.
Aubyn at length.

" As you have asked me," he began abstractedly, " I should say
marry, by all means. You will probably be happier, and feel life
more full. After all, employment is what we each require, whether
rich or poor : the thing is to find employment of .a congenial kind.
Yes, marry," his manner getting more authoritative; " it is the best
thing for you."

" I will," came from her lips almost as a vow, and then she took
her leave.

** She is lost to us," was Father St. Aubyn*s comment as he
courteously put her into a hansom, '* but at least I did my duty.
What weak fools most women are ; it is not creed they want, it is
gush," and with a satirical smile he went indoors.

So there was a grand wedding : and the society papers were full
of the beauty of the bride and the wealth of the bridegroom. Father
St. Aubyn was invited to the breakfast, but was unexpectedly called
out of town.

A prolonged honeymoon was succeeded by a round of visits, and
then the newly-married pair settled down in Eaton Square.

Dinner succeeded dinner, fete followed fete, people shook their
heads, and said ''Such extravagance could not last. Had Lady
Lisla lost her head ? "

She spoke no more at public meetings, she headed no longer
public charities, she read no more rational books ; her character
seemed changed wholly and entirely. She lived only for present
enjo3rment, and cared not what she did so long as she drowned
thought Father St Aubyn she sometimes saw, but her set was not
his set now. Her husband she openly scorned, and treated with
undisguised contempt

438 The Gentlemaii s Magazine.

At last the crisis came. A covert sneer, an open quarrel, dignity
forgotten, hatred uppermost, words said that should never have been
thought, and the insulted wife left her intoxicated husbanci, vowing
she would never see him more. In broad daylight she crossed the
threshold of her home, a stranger, and worse than a stranger. She
called a hansom, and told the driver to go where he liked. In-
stinctively, across her whirl of passion and fury came the memory
of the man with the imperturbable face and adamantine manner.
Surely, he would be kind to her now. Was not her marriage his
doing, was he not responsible for its unholy issue ? So she drove to
his dwelling, and was face to face with him once more ; not a blush-
ing timid creature this time, but a bitter outraged wife. There were
no tears, no stammering now. She told him plainly and hardly how
things had happened, then held herself erect, waiting for him to
speak.

'* I am much distressed," he said ; " how can I help you ? Why
have you come to me ? "

Her passionate eyes flashed. Her heart was throbbing with mad
insensate misery, and her whole being was craving for one word of
sympathy.

" I thought," she replied distantly, " you might be able to tell me
v/here I could go. I will never go back to him."

" Never is a long day," he said quietly, so quietly ; " the whole of
time does not contain it. When you are calm, your own reason will
tell you that it is to your home and to your husband you must
return."

" Never," she repeated hotly, clenching her little white fist.

" We will see," he said softly but firmly, and never relaxing from
his cold reasoning tone, he showed her how she owed it to morality,
to society, and to her own self-respect to endure the inevitable, and
to endure it bravely.

And she who was hungering for some one to respect, some one to
believe in, drank in every word, and promised to obey.

" I may come and see you again ? " she asked humbly, as she
rose to go.

" I leave England to-morrow for many years," he replied, with no
inflection of regret in his voice ; he had schooled himself too well.

Well-trained in obedience to his Church was Father St. Aubyn ;
but in his heart was an unacknowledged wish that he had not to
relinquish the work which now lay passive in his hands.

" Go home now," he said, with a shade more feeling, " and believe
me you will never regret having done so."

A Spiritual Failure. 439

Her eyes were dry, but her heart was heavy, as she once more
ascended the staircase of her home. She was met by frightened
servants, who told her Sir Everard had died in a fit of apoplexy soon
after she had left the house.

" He told me to endure, to bravely endure," was the one thought
vividly present to her mind during the trying days which followed
and the early period of her widowhood ; and it was the same thought
which made her force herself to take up again literature, philanthropy,
and the fine arts, till she was spoken of everywhere as one of the
women of the period, till she was run after by the best and the
greatest, and was honoured by the public with a distinction seldom
conferred on her sex — a memorial statue while living. Yet, would
he who was the immediate cause of setting that splendid brain to
work, would he have been satisfied with the result ? I fancy not ;
because she was a spiritual failure, if a social success.

440 The Gentlematis Magazine,

THE
JOURNAL OF RICHARD BERE}

IN the course of a search amongst the Sloane MSS. at the British
Museum for a document of an entirely different character recently,
I chanced upon a manuscript which so far as I have been able to
discover has never yet been described in print or received the
attention it appears to deserve. It is a long narrow book like an
account-book, in the Sloane binding, containing two hundred and
forty-four pages of closely-cramped and crowded little writing in
faded ink on rough paper, recording the daily — almost hourly — move-
ments of a man for eleven years, from the ist of January, 1692-3, to
the middle of April, 1704. It is written in Spanish, Englishman's
Spanish, full of solecisms and English idioms, but fair and fluent
Castilian for all that, and the diarist, thinking no doubt his secrets
were safe in a language so little known at the time, has set down for
his own satisfaction alone, and often in words that no amount of
editing would render fit for publication, the daily life of one of the
dissolute men about town, who roistered and ruffled in the coffee
houses and taverns of London at the end of the seventeenth century.
• Few men could hope to possess the keen observation and diverting
style of Samuel Pepys, or the sober judgment and foresight of stately
John Evelyn, and this last contemporary diarist of theirs certainly
cannot lay claim to any such qualities. He rarely records an
impression or an opinion, and as a rule confines himself to a bald
statement of his own movements and the people he meets day by day ;
but still, even such as it is, the diary is full of quaint and curious
suggestions of the intimate life of a London widely different from
ours. The familiar names of the streets, nay the very signs of the
taverns, are the same now as then, but in every line of the fading
brown ink may be gathered hints of the vast chasm that separates
the busy crowded life of to-day from the loitering deliberation with
which these beaux in swords and high-piled periwigs sauntered

» Sloane MS., 2727, Pnt. Mus,

The Journal of Richard Bere. 44 1

through their tavern-haunting existence. It strikes the imagination,
too, to think that the man who thus sets down so coarsely and frankly
the acts of his life must have listened, with however little apprecia-
tion, to the luminous talk of wondrous John Dryden at Will's coffee
house, most certainly knew the rising Mr. Addison, and probably
met Matthew Prior at his old home at the "Rummer" tavern, which
the diarist frequented.

There is nothing in the manuscript directly to identify the
writer, and probably the indirect clues furnished by references to his
relatives have never before been followed up to prove exactly who
the author was. The task has not been an easy one, and has started
me on more than one false scent ending in a check, but at last I
stumbled on evidence that not only absolutely identified the diarist,
but also explained many obscure passages in the manuscript.

From the first page to the last the writer refers to Danes Court,
near Deal, as the home of his brother, and he himself passes the
intervals of his dissolute life in London in visits to his Kentish
kinsman. Now Danes Court had been for centuries in the possession
of the ancient family of Fogge, and I at once concluded that the
writer of my diary was a younger member of the house. Indeed,
encouraged therein by Hasted, the great authority on Kentish history,
I went so far as to establish to my own entire satisfaction that the
diarist was a certain Captain Christopher Fogge, R.N., who died in
1708, and was buried in Rochester Cathedral, and I was confirmed
in this belief by the fact that the wind and weather of each day is
carefully recorded as in a sailor's log-book. But somehow it did not
fit in. Constant reference is made to a brother Francis, and no
amount of patient investigation in county genealogies and baptismal
certificates could unearth anyone named Francis Fogge. So I had
to hark back and try another clue. Brother Francis was evidently a
clergyman and a graduate of King's College, Cambridge, and towards
the end of the diary the author visits him at the village of Prescot,
near Liverpool

Sure enough the rich living of Prescot was in the gift of King's
College, Cambridge, and further inquiry soon showed that a certain
Francis Bere, M.A., was rector from 1700 until his death in 1722.
This, of itself, was not much, but it led to further clues, which proved
the monumental Hasted (" History of Kent ") to be hopelessly wrong
about the Fogge pedigree and the ownership of Dianes Court, and
the whole question was settled more completely than I could
have hoped by the discovery, in the "Transactions of the Kent
Archaeological Society for 1863," of a copy of the copious

442 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

memoranda in the old family Bible, written by the stout cavalier,
Richard Fogge, and his son John, with the notes attached thereto by:*
Warren, the Kentish antiquary in 171 1, in which the family history?
is made clear. This was good as far as it went, and proved the sur^
name and parentage of the author of the diary, but did not identify:
him personally. Certain references in the manuscript, however,
sent me searching amongst the Treasury papers in the Record Office,.
and there I found a set of papers written in the same cramped
finnicking hand as the diary, which set my mind at rest, and proved
beyond doubt or question who was the methodical rake that
indiscreetly confided the secret of his '* goings on " to the incomplete
oblivion of the Spanish tongue. The writer of the diary was one
Richard Bere, whose father was rector of Ickenham, near Uxbridge, and
who was born at Cowley, near there, on the 28th of August, 1653. His
sister Elizabeth had married, in 1679, John Fogge, who subsequently
succeeded to the Danes Court estate, and on the fly leaf of the Fogge
family Bible referred to, John Fogge, who was evidently proud of the
connection, sets forth that his wife's grandfather had been '* Receiver
General of ye Low Countries ; her uncles, one of them was in a
noble imploy in ye C Clarke's office, ye other being one of ye
clarkes of ye signet to King Charles II., a man acquainted with all
Xtian languages. Ye other now alive is rector of Bendropp in
Gloucestershire, who has an Estate. Her mother was one of ye
family of Bland, of London, eminent merchants at Home and
Abroad." Richard Bere was born only a year after his sister, so
that the statement as to her relatives will hold good for him alsa
He had been collector of customs at Carlisle, but apparently had
allowed his Jacobite leanings to be too evident, and had been
dismissed from his office a short time before he began the diary,
leaving his accounts at Carlisle still unbalanced and in arrear. How
he learnt Spanish I do not know, but he had evidently been in
Spain before his appointment to Carlisle, probably in the navy, or in
some way connected with shipping, as in addition to the careful
noting of the wind and weather all through the diary, he shows great
interest in the naval events of his time. His uncle's remarkable
proficiency in " all Xtian tongues '' may also perhaps partly explain
his own knowledge of the Spanish language. His family in old times
had been a wealthy and powerful one, seated at Gravesend, Dartford«
and Greenhithc in Kent, but had lost its county importance long
before the date of the diary. The widow of one of hb undeSi
however, still lived at Gravesend at the time he wrote, and one of
his father's sisters, who had married a man named Childs, also lived

The Journal of Richard Bere. 443

in the neighbourhood, and on her husband's death went to live with
her niece at Danes Court.

The diary commences on the ist of January, 1692-3, when Bere was
living at Mr. Downe's in London ; but the detailed entries begin on
the 9th of the month, when he went by tilboat from Billingsgate to
Gravesend. Here, after visiting his aunt Bere and his kinsman
Childs at Northfleet, he slept at the inn, and started the next
morning in a coach to Canterbury. The next day he continued his
journey to Danes Court on a hired mare, and then after a few days'
rest, " without seeing anybody," begins a round of visits and carouses
with the neighbouring gentry. All the squires and their families for
miles round march through the pages of the diary. Mr. Paramour,
of Stratenborough, Mr. Boys, of Betshanger, " my uncle Boys," who
was probably Christopher Boys, of Updowne, uncle by marriage to
John Fogge," my uncle Pewry," who was rector of Knowlton, but whose
relationship with the diarist is not clearly discoverable, Mr. Burville,
rector of the Fogge church of Tilmanston, and a host of other
neighbours come and go, dine and drink, often staying the night, and
in a day or two entertain John Fogge and his brother-in-law in
return. The latter records the fact, but unfortunately does no more,
and little is gathered of the manner of their lives at this period of
the diary, except that they did a prodigious deal of visiting and
dining at each others* houses. One of the most constant visitors to
Danes Court is the aged Lady Monins, of Waldershare Park, the
widow of the last baronet of the name ; and Richard Bere appears to
be as often her guest at Waldershare. The round of dining and
visiting is broken in upon by a visit on horseback with brother
John Fogge to the assizes at Maidstone, where the latter has
a lawsuit which he loses, and Richard returns to Danes Court
alone, leaving his defeated brother at Canterbury. On the 12th of
April the diarist records that he first saw the swallows ; and
on the 20th, as instancing the uneventful life in this remote
part of the country, it is considered worth while to register
the fact that "whilst I was digging in the garden with Carlton
a man passed on horseback." A few days afterwards neighbour
Carlton's daughter is married, and then " my nephew Richard was
first sent to school at Sandwich, Timothy Thomas being master."
Richard, the heir of Danes Court, was about twelve years old at the
time, and, as we shall see later on, turned out badly and completed
the ruin of the fine old family, of which he was the last male repre-
sentative in the direct line. Timothy Thomas, who was a dis-
tinguished scholar and M.A. of Sidney-Sussex College, Cambridge^

444 ^'^^ Geittlemaiis Magazine.

was head master of the Sandwich Free School and brother to the
rector of St. Paul and St. Mary, Sandwich. He seems to have
been always ready for a carouse at the hostelry of the "Three Kings**
at Sandwich or elsewhere, with the father or uncle of his pupil.

On the 28th of April " the fleet entered the Downs, the wind
blowing a gale at the time. A ship called the Windsor was lost. I
to Deal to see the ships, and saw five ensigns." Small details of
ablutions — rare enough they seem nowadays — bed-warming and
quaint remedies for trifling ailments sound queerly enough
to us coming faintly across the gloom of two centuries, but in the
midst of the chronicle of this small beer of visits paid and received,
of the stomach-ache and so on, brother John receives a writ, and we
feel that we are witnesses of the process by which all this feasting and
revelry is completing the ruin of the grand old family that once
owned broad lands and fat manors all over Kent, which founded
hospitals and colleges and was closely allied to the regal Plantagenets,
but whose possessions had even now shrunken to one poor mansion
house of Danes Court and the few farms around it. John Fogge's
father Richard, whose pompous Latin epitaph is still in Tilmanston
Church, written by his eldest son Edward, and scoffed at in the
family Bible by the degenerate John, had been true to the King's
side during the civil war. His near neighbour. Sir John Boys of
Betshanger, had hunted and harried the cavalier and sacked his
house after the mad Kentish rising of 1 648, and had frightened his
favourite child to death ; and for the whole of the Commonwealth
period poor Richard had been plundered and well-nigh ruined. His
sons Edward and John had been captured at sea by the Dutch, and
Christopher had been taken prisoner by the Turks, and all three had
had to be bought off* with ransom. Stout old Richard Fogge there-
fore had left Danes Court sadly embarrassed at his death in i68a
His eldest son Edward died soon after, and John Fogge, the brother-
in-law of our diarist, was rapidly continuing the ruin at the date of
the diary. By the 30th of May Richard Bere had had enough of Danes
Court, and started to Canterbury " with my brother's horse and
servant, and so to Northfleet, where I visited my kinsman Childs."
He mounted his horse at ^\'^ o'clock in the morning, and arrived at
Northfleet at five in the evening, staying on the way only a short
time at Canterbury to rest and drink with friend Best, at whose house
he always alights when he passes through the ancient city. The
distance by road is a good fifty-five miles, so Richard no doubt
thought he had earned his night's rest at uncle Childs' before
starting, as he did next day, by tilboat to London. The first

The Journal of Richard Bere. 445

thing he did when he arrived was to " drink with Higgs,"and send for
Benson to meet him at Phillips' mug-house. Benson appears to have
been a humble friend or foster-brother, as Bere calls Benson's father
" my father Benson," who went on all his errands, pawned his
valuables, and faced his creditors. When Benson came they started
out together and took a room, where they both slept, " at the sign of
the * Crown,' an inn in Holborne," and the record thereafter for some
time consists mainly of such entries as " Dined with Sindry at
the * Crown,' and drank with him all the afternoon and evening at
Phillips'. Slept at Mrs. Ward's." "Dined with Dr. Stockton,
Haddock, and Simpson at the * Pindar of Wakefield.* " " Dined at the
sign of the 'Castle,' a tavern in Wood Street, with many friends from the
North ; drank there all the afternoon, and all night drinking with
usual friends at Phillips'," only that these daily entries usually
wind up with the record of a debauch which need not be described,
but which Richard does not hesitate to set down in such cold blood
as his orgie has left him.

He appears to have had as a friend one Westmacott, who was a
prison official, and a standing amusement was apparently to go and
see the prisoners, who sometimes fall foul of Westmacott and his
friend and abuse them. Richard also has a quaint way of drawing a
miniature gallows in the margin of his manuscript on the days that he
records the execution of malefactors. On the isthof June, for instance,
after giving his usual list of friends ^nd taverns, he writes : " Seven
men hanged to-day; fine and warm. Drinking at Philipps' at night;
Westmacott there again." A day or two afterwards the bailiffs walk
in during his dinner at the tavern and hale his boon companion,
Pearce, off to jail ; but Richard thinks little of it, for he goes off to
drink straightway with Colonel Legge, and then passes a merry
evening with Dr. Stockton and Mr. Rolfe at the sign of the " Ship,"
near Charing Cross.

On the 29th of June, " a new sword-belt, some woollen hose, and
a rosette for my hat," were bought ; and soon after he leaves his
lodgings at Mrs. Ward's, and thenceforward seems to sleep in taverns
or inns for some time, very often winding up the entries in the diary
by confessing that he was " drunk," or " very drunk."

On the i8th of July he visits "the house of the Princess of Denmark
with Mr. Wooton," and thence goes to see a fashionable friend of his
called Captain Orfeur, who had a fine house at Spring Gardens,
where he meets his brother, and they all make a night of it at the
" Ship." By the beginning of August it is not surprising that he is
ill, and decides to visit his brother Francis in the country. On the

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 193 1. H H

446 The Gentlematis Magazine.

3rd he takes horse to Biggleswade and thence to Oundle, " where I
met my brother and Mr. Rosewell** (he was a Fellow of "King's,"
and apparently a great friend of Francis Bere*s). "Dined at Cald-
welFs, and slept at the sign of the * Dog.' "

He stays at the " Dog " at Oundle for some days, still ill, and
visits Northampton, where he is struck with the curious church, town
hall, prison, and courts of justice, and slept at the " George." From
there he rides to the " Angel " at Wellingboro', and so home to
London by Dunstable, where he stays at the "Saracen's Head,"
Watford, Rickmansworth, and Uxbridge, where he puts up at the
" Swan." Being now well again, he recommences the old round of
the " Horns," the "Red Cow," the "Mermaid," the "Crown," and
so on, usually winding up with a roaring carouse at Philipps', and
occasionally relieved by trips to Islington-wells to walk in the fields
with friend Stourton, who lives near there, and who later on becomes
his inseparable companion. To illustrate the methodical character
of this roistering blade, it is curious to note that as he could not well
carry his cumbrous diary with him on his journey to Oundie, he has
made his daily entries on a small loose leaf, and has afterwards care-
fully transcribed them in the book, the loose leaf, however, being
also bound up with the rest. On the reverse side, in English,
Richard has copied the following couplet of Lord Thomond's, which
seems to have struck him : —

Whatever Traveller doth wicked ways intend,
The Dcvill entcrtaines him at his journey's end ;

and to this he adds several little remedies which some travelling
companion seems to have told him on the road. He scrupulously
records the fact that the day is his birthday on each succeeding sSth
of August, and the occasion appears to be an excuse for a burst of
deeper drinking than ever ; but on this first birthday mentioned in
the diary, 1693, he is evidently getting hard up. He lodges with a
man named Nelson, who ceaselessly duns him for his rent, and we
soon learn that the faithful Benson has pawned his two rings for
eighteen shillings. On the 27th September his friend Dr. Stockton
tells him " that Mr. Addison told him that I lost my place because I
was against the Government, and was foolish enough to talk about it,
which," says indignant Richard, " is a lie."

It sounds curious nowadays to read that he and his firiends,
Westmacott and others, sometimes walk out in the fields to shoot
with bows and arrows, and usually return thence to the " HoIe*in-
the-Wall " to pass the evening.

The Journal of Richard Bere. 447

As a specimen of the entries at this period, I transcribe that for
the 30th of September, 1693, at least so much of it as can well be
published. " With Metham and Stourton to the City, and dined at
the * Ship ' in Birchin Lane. Vickers there, and we went together to
the Exchange and met Mr. Howard ; with him to the * Fountain,' Mr.
Coxum there. At five o'clock went to Sir James Edwards', and drank
there two flasks of wine. Then to the * King's Head,' where I left them
and went to Mr. Pearce's house, and received ten pounds. Found
Stourton very drunk. Went and paid Jackson and Squires. Slept
at Pearce's — drunk myself"

With the ten pounds received from Mr. Pearce Richard seems
to have set about renewing his wardrobe, and duly records the
days upon which his various new garments are worn. On the 26th
of October "A spin, the tailor, brought my new white breeches in
the morning, and we went out to drink at the * Bull's Head ' in Mart
Lane." On the 2nd of November he recites the names of six taverns at
which he drank during the day, namely the " Bull's Head," the " Red
Cow," the "Ship," the "Horns," the "Cheshire Cheese," and the
"Crown," and on the 7 th of the same month a dreadful thing happens to
him. The constables walk off his dulcinea, Miss Nichols, to jail, and
Richard is left to seek such consolation as he can find at the "Chequers,"
the "Three Cranes," and the "Sugar Loaf." The next day he seeks out
his friend Westmacott at the "King's Head," and is taken to the prison
to see the incarcerated fair one. Whilst there, he " meets the man who
has done the mischief" But he winds up at the "Sugar Loaf," in White-
friars, and Phillips' mug-house, and is carried home thence in a coach
too much overcome by his grief and potations to walk. On the 14th,
after several more visits to the prison, he bewails that he can do
nothing for Nichols, and on visiting a Mrs. Hill, that kind matron tells
him that his great friend, Dr. Stockton, had told her that " I had
squandered all I had over a worthless wench, and thought now to live
at the expense of my friends;" but the entry, unfortunately, winds up
with the words : "Borrowed two pounds of Simons on my watch."
After this, Richard thinks that quiet Danes Court might suit him for a
time, and starts the next day, the 15th of November, as before to
Gravesend by the tilboat, and after a duty visit to his relatives, stays two
nights at the sign of the "Flushing," and dines there merrily with "a
clergyman named Sell and another good fellow from the North." The
same companions and others go with him in the coach to Canterbury,
where he stays at the "Fleece," gets gloriously drunk, and is cheated
out of half-a-crown ; and lies in bed until mid-day next morning, his
piece, Jane Fogge, who liv^d with the Bests at Canterbury, coming

WH2

448 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

to visit him before he was up. In the afternoon he continues his road
more soberly to Danes Court on a hired horse, and the old round of
visiting and feasting begins afresh. On the ist of December he meets
parson Burville, of Tilmanston, and drinks Canary wine till he is
drunk. On the 12th Captain Christopher Fogge meets his brother
John at a friend's house, and they quarrel; uncle Childs dies, the cat
is drowned in the well, three East-Indiamen captains dine at Danes
Court, Ruggles' wife is confined, and the daily small events of a re-
mote village happen and are recorded much as they might happen to*
day. Uncle Boys had a kinsman, presumably a brother, Captain Boys,
R.N., who was Constable of Walmer Castle, where he lived, and
Richard and his friends often go there to dine and visit the ships in
the Downs. On the 26th of February, 1694, they all go to dinner on
board the Cornwall^ and *' they gave us a salute of seven guns."
They all went back to the castle to sleep, and John Fogge made a
bargain with his weak-witted younger brother William about Danes
Court, presumably with regard to his reversionary interest or chaige
upon the property. But whatever it was, it did not matter much, for
William Fogge died soon after. On the 25th of March, after going to
Betshanger church and to the rectory to see Thomas Boys, ''Ruggles
threw a poor boy out of the cart and seriously injured him," and on
the next day a curt entry says : " The poor lad died at nine o'clock
this morning, and was buried in the evening," but not a word about
any inquiry or the punishment of the offending Ruggles.

But after five months Richard sighs again for the taverns of Fleet
Street, and on the 4th of April, 1694, returns to London by the usual
road by Canterbury and Gravesend, and again haunts the taverns and
night-houses of the metropolis. He tries hard to borrow money from
his friends, and is evidently getting anxious about his customs
accounts left in arrear at Carlisle. He is a pretty constant visitor to
Whitehall about a certain petition of his, which petition, although he
often mentions it in his diary, he of course does not describe or ex-
plain in a document written for his own eye alone. I have, however,
been fortunate enough to find the actual document itself in the
Treasury papers at the Record Office, with all the voluminous reports
and consultations founded upon it during the seven years it lingered
in the Government offices. It appears that in August, 1689, the Eail
of Shrewsbury, Secretary of State, had addressed a letter (the
original of which is attached to Richard Beres' petition) to the Mayor
or Collector of Customs of Carlisle, directing them to provide
for the maintenance of certain "papist Irish soldier prisoners'* who
were to be kept in the castl^ there. The mayor refused to find the

The Journal of Richard Bere. 449

money, and Richard Bere, as Collector of Customs, had to do so,
expecting to be reimbursed out of the secret service fund as pro-
vided by the Secretary of State. The prisoners were kept at Carlisle
until December, 1690, and Richard spent ^^74 4r. on their, main-
tenance. He was soon after suddenly dismissed from his post, and
was unable to balance his accounts for want of this money, and
shortly before beginning the diary had presented his petition to the
Lords of the Treasury for the reimbursement of the sum, or at least
that it should be handed to the Receiver-General of Customs on his
account. But whilst the petition was lying in the pigeon-holes in
one office, another office was only conscious that Richard was
behindhand in his accounts, and on the i ith of May, 1694, there is an
entry as follows in the diary : " Alone to dine at the * Spotted Bull.'
TTien to Phillips', where one Petitt told me about the tolls of Carlisle,
and said that the bailiffs from Appleby had a warrant to arrest me."
Richard did not wait long for the bailiffs, and in less than a week
had signed and sealed a bond, apparently for borrowed money to
settle his toll accounts, bought a horse and a Bible, had gone to West-
minster Hall " about his brother's affairs," and started off for Carlisle.
He rode through Oundle, where the Rev. Francis Bere appeared to
be living, and so by Stamford, Grantham, Newark, Doncaster, Ferry-
bridge, and Appleby to Carlisle. Two days before he arrived at the
city some choice spirits came out to meet him, and a host of friends
received him with open arms after his ten days' ride. He dines
fourteen times with Dick Jackson, drinks often and deeply with the
Mayor of Carlisle, collects money owing to him, buys a fine new
periwig of Ned Haines, and a new sword, settles up his accounts of
tolls, and begs a holiday for the schoolboys, whom he treats all round,
and winds up in a burst of jubilation by receiving a present of two
kegs of brandy from his friend Bell, which had not paid much to the
king probably, and of which, no doubt, the late collector and hts
jovial companions gave a very good account. And then, after a six
weeks' stay at Carlisle, he wends his way back to London again by
the same road, his horse falling lame at Stamford, and the rider
having to post from Grantham to Ware, and thence to London by
coach. He alights at the " Bell," in Bishopsgate Street, where Benson
soon seeks him with fresh clothes and a sedan chair, and takes him
to his old quarter of London again.

But poor Richard's prosperity is of short duration. The bor-
rowed money soon comes to an end, with the able and constant
assistance of a certain Catherine Wilson, who has now supplanted
the vanished Nichols, and by the beginning of September (1694)
Benson is taking one article after the other to the pawnshop, and

450 The Gentlemafi s Magazine.

bringing back sums which Richard regards as very unsatisfactory
in amount. On the 6th of that month he attends what must have
been rather a curious marriage at the church of St George's,
Bloomsbury, where one of Catherine Wilson's companions named
Early was married '^ to a young man named James Carlile, between
nine and ten in the morning." The whole of the party adjourn
to the fields, and at one o'clock return to drink at the " Feathers "
in Holborn, '^ but the knavish constables disturbed us and we went
to Whitefriars ; at two I went to seek Benson, but he could onlj
bring me 5^. on my pistols." With this sum Richard finds his
way back to Whitefriars, where he remained drinking till evening
with the " newly married pair, Catherine Wilson, a gentleman and
his wife, and a marine." He then attends a coffee-house, and
winds up with a carouse at the " Rising Sun." The unfortunate
bridegroom soon disappears from the diary, but the "bride"
takes part in the drinking bouts for some time to come. By the
middle of October Richard has apparently come to the end of his
tether, and, after borrowing a half-crown on his knives, quarrels
and separates for a time from Catherine Wilson ; but brother
Francis and sister Fogge are appealed to for money, and when it
arrives Catherine is to the fore again. A great scheme is hatched
about this time with a Captain Sales and Mr. Butler, apparently
relating to the tobacco duties, and the Commissioners of Customs
and other officials are being constantly petitioned and visited. Some*
times the tobacco business is considered hopeful, and sometimes the
contrary, but on the 7th of January, 1695, it looks very bright when the
T^ords of the 'I'reasury and the Commissioners of Customs sitting
together at Whitehall receive Richard and his two friends, who lay
the case before them, but " Mr. Culliford spoke against us,* and
nothing was decided ; so the trio and others who joined them go to
the ** Rummer " tavern at Charing Cross, and drink confusion to Mr.
Culliford. A day or two days after this "a knave came to betiay
me to the baililTs," and poor Richard and his friend Sales seek the
shady retreat of a tavern in Fulwood's Rents. For the next few
days he dodges the bailiffs from tavern to tavern, and sleeps at BcD
Court, Whitefriars, and elsewhere. The "knavish bailiffs" e¥ai
follow friend Sales in the hope of tracking Richard. On the 14th of
January the faithful Benson brings his clothes to the new lodging 10
Whitefriars, and Richard ventures out "to the * Anchor' in Coleman
Street, about the business of Andrew Lloyd and the widow. Then
the ' St. John the Baptist's Head ' in Milk Street, where I found Butkr
meeting the citizens about the tobacco business." A few days after,

The Journal of Richard Bere. 451

the business of " Andrew Lloyd and the widow " is settled somehow
at the " Mermaid " in Ram Alley, and on the 26th Benson pawns all
Richard's silver for J[^^ 7^., and Richard slips out of Whitefriars at
night, sleeps at the " Star," and escapes to the quiet of Danes Court,
where the bailiffs cease from troubling and the spendthrift is at rest.
On the 2nd of February, 1695, scapegrace little nephew Dick
Fogge comes home with a story that the small-pox had appeared at the
school at Sandwich, " but it is all a lie," and the youngster is led
back ignominiously the next day by his father and Tim Thomas the
schoolmaster, and when John Fogge returns to Danes Court he
brings news that the French are capturing English boats in the
Channel Richard is still uneasy in his mind, for on the 15 th of
February he dreams that the bailiffs have caught him at last, and soon
afterwards begins seriously to put his Customs accounts in order.
Then early in April he starts for London again, but as soon as he
was on board the tilboat at Gravesend he caught sight of a bailiff
ashore seeking him. It takes four hours to reach London, and the
city is in a turmoil, for during the night " the mob knocked down a
house in Holbom." He takes a room at the " Green Dragon " for a day
or two, and the next night the mob burn down two houses in the
Coal Yard, Drury Lane. A false friend named Fowler accompanies
him in his search for lodgings, which he eventually takes at the house
of a cheesemonger named Tilley in Fetter Lane, and also goes with
him to the Custom House " about my accounts," and then on Uie
1 3th of April, after carousing with him half the day, " the hound
betrayed me to the bailiffs," and poor Richard is caught at last. He
is at once haled off to a spunging-house, called the " King's I^ead," in
Wood Street, and the first thing the prisoner does is, of course, to
send for Benson, who comes with Sales and other friends, and they
have a jovial dinner of veal with the keeper. The next day Benson
brings some money, and Richard holds a perfect levkc of friends.
Some of them go off to soften the creditors, in which they fail, and
others to apply for a writ of habeas corpus. A good deal of dining
goes on .at the spunging-house, but on the i6th the carouse is cut
short by the removal of Richard to the Fleet. He has a good deal
of liberty, however, for he still occasionally haunts the taverns in
Fleet Street, probably under the ward of a keeper. Brother Francis
is appealed to daily by letter, and pending his reply all the old boon
companions come in and out of the prison, dine there, drink there, and
get drunk in the vaults, Benson and Catherine Wilson coming every
day with clothes, books, and comfort. At the end of the month of May
the parson brother, Francis, arrives, and after a month of negotiatioa

452 The Gentleman's Magazine.

at the Custom House and 'the law courts, and much drinking and
dining as usual, a bond is signed and sealed at the " Three Tuns "
tavern, " Sales standing my friend," and Richard Bere is free again.

But imprudent Richard, after a sharp fit of the gout, soon falls into
his old habits again, and on the 6th of September confesses that he
got into a row at the " Dog " tavern in Drury Lane "about drinking
the Prince of Wales' health," an indiscreet thing enough considering
that his Custom House accounts were still unsettled, and his own
petition to the Treasury unanswered On the ist of July, whilst he and
his friend Sales are dining at the " Crown," the constables walk Sales
off to prison, " and then go to the * Globe ' tavern and arrest his land-
lady, and Andrew Lloyd the author." And so the diary goes on ;
his accounts still unpaid, but Richard full of the tobacco business,
with petitions to the king and interviews with Treasury officials.
Then there is some great Irish wool scheme, which necessitates much
dancing attendance on the Duke of Ormond, but does not seem to
result in much. His boon companions evidently do not think much
of his chance of recovering anything from the Treasury, for " they
made me promise B. Skynner a new wig if ever I received i^y £ta ¥»
on the king's order."

However much Richard may drink, he is frugal enough in his
eating, for from this period to the end of the diary he constantly
records that for days together he has eaten nothing but a little bread
and cheese, and the " one poor halfpennyworth of bread to all this
intolerable amount of sack," is as applicable to Richard Bere as it was
to the fat knight. And he needs to be sparing in his expenditure,
for he is poor enough just now, notwithstanding his drinkings with
the Duke of Richmond's steward, with Stourton at the " Rose ** in
Pall Mall, and his visits to Lord James Howard in Oxenden Street,
for he is reduced to pawning his new lace ruffles for six shillings,
and Benson could borrow nothing on his new wig, for which he
had just paid (or not paid) 35J. to Rolfe, the barber. But Benson
pawns his linen for loj., and brother Francis sends funds, so after
borrowing nine shillings and sixpence on " my Bezoar stone," and
going to the Temple to receive " my pension," Richard starts on
the I St of September, 1696, by hoy for Sandwich. The voyage b
long and tedious, the weather being bad, but after a day and a night
at sea they drop anchor, and Richard solaces himself with punch
and good fellowship at the "Three Kings " at Sandwich.

On his arrival at Danes Court " John gives me a bad account of my
nephew Richard, who went back to school to-day." But John certainly
does not set his son a good example, for he soon breaks out himsdfy

The Journal of Richard Bere. 453

and on the 21st of October, "after dining with my aunt," threatens
to cut his wife's throat. For months after this the diary constantly
records that " John came home raving drunk ; " " John from
Sandwich to-day, very violent ; " " John mad drunk all day ; " " To
Tilmanston church twice, John there raving drunk," and so on. On
Christmas Day, 1696, Richard, who as befits a parson's son, is all
through an indefatigable church-goer, takes the sacrament at
Tilmanston church, as he generally does on special days, John
through all the Christmastide remaining drunk as usual. On the
1 8th of January, 1697, he gives his wife a black eye, and the next
day it is Richard's turn, and he goes on a great drinking bout with
Captain Whiston, and " got drunk and lost my white mare," whereupon
the immaculate "John is very angry with me." On the loth of
February nephew Richard runs away from school again, and gets
soundly whipped by his father, who remains drunk all the month. On
the 15th of March tidings comes to Danes Court that the master has
been lodged in Dover jail, and his wife and her brother start off next
morning to find him. He has escaped somehow, and gets back to
Danes Court mad drunk just as his household are returning from after-
noon service at Tilmanston church. This goes on all March, and on
the 26th John borrows money from an attorney, named Lynch, and
seals a bond at Danes Court conveying all his goods to the lender
as security, " being rabid drunk at the time." A few days afterwards
" the bailiffs nearly took John, but he escaped by the quickness of
his mare." Echoes of more important events occasionally reach
Danes Court. On the 6th of April, 1692, news comes that the
French have taken Jamaica, and that they have captured a merchant
fleet and convoys off Bilbao. Soon after we hear of " French pirates
infesting the Downs, and they had taken two of our ships," but the
domestic troubles of the old Kentish manor house occupy most of
the diary at this period : incorrigible young Richard runs away from
school again and cannot be found for days ; with some difficulty drunken
John's accounts with Hill and Dilnot, of Sandwich, are arranged, but
on the 24th of April he is lodged in jail at Canterbury on another
suit, and is only released by more borrowing from Lynch, and at
once goes back to his drunken career again. An entry on the 29th of
April, 1697, gives another inkling of Richard's Jacobite leanings.
" Walking to Eythorne I met Petitt the parson and Captain March.
We drank together and went to Walker's, where a Mr. Kelly defended
the bad opinion that it was lawful for people to rise against the king
if he violated his coronation oath."

All through May John continued drunk, and one day falling foul

454 T^ Gentlematts Magazine.

of his brother-in-law, calls him a scurvy knave, and threatens to
kick him out of his house. So Richard, having worn out his wel-
come at Danes Court, starts for town again, taking with him
nephew Dick, who has just run away from school once more for the
last time.

He lodges henceforward at Stokes* in Short's Gardens, and pays
ten shillings a month for his room. Every morning two or three
taverns are visited with Stourton, Churchill, and others, where
unfortunately they are sometimes imprudent enough to drink deep
to the health of King James. Metheglin and mum are occasional
drinks, but brandy the most usual, and black puddings seem a
favourite dish for dinner. On the 19th of October, 1697, peace is
proclaimed with France, and on the i6th of the following month the
king enters the city in state, and on the 2nd of December the peace
rejoicings were crowned by a great display of fireworks, and a
banquet given by the Earl of Romney to the king. Richard's peti-
tion after fiw^t years' waiting is favourably reported upon by the Com-
missioners of Customs, and during all the winter he haunts Whitehall
and the ante-room of Lord Coningsby to get the recommendation
carried out by the Treasury. But one obstacle after the other is
raised, the papers are sent backwards and forwards, and it is fujly
two years longer before Richard at last receives his money. On the
2nd of December, 1697, he records the consecration of St. Paul's, and
on the 15 th of February, 1698, he attends his first service in the Cathe-
dral, "from thence to the Temple Church, and so to the 'Trumpet,
where I supped on black puddings and cheese. Home at eight,
when my landlady besought me to pay the rent." On the i8th of April
he sees Prince George, and on the i6th of May visits the ship
Providence from New England, and thence to the " Dolphin " tavern
until three in the morning. On the 9th of June, apparently fired by
the example of some of the wits he meets in the coffee houses of
Coven t (iarden, or in his favourite promenade at Gray's Inn
Gardens, he records the fact that he wrote some satirical veiscs.
The next day a fine new suit of clothes comes home, and he dons
them with great pride. But alas ! a sad thing happens. Drinking
at the " Sun " with his friends, some of the latter *• threw some beer
over my fine garments," much to Richard's disgust The quaint
little gallowses on the margin are pretty frequent now, and the names
of the wretches who are hanged are often given. On the 29th of June,
1698, Richard visits the Duke of Norfolk at St. James's House with
his friends Stourton and Orfeur. "Thence to St. James's Park, -to
see a race between two youths, where I met Churchill"

The Journal of Richard Bere. 455

Richard becomes certainly more respectable as he gets older, and
beyond a slight flirtation with his landlady, Mrs. Stokes, of Short's
Gardens, we hear little of his gallantries henceforward. He is
certainly more prosperous, too, in some mysterious way, owing to a
voyage he makes, apparently in an official capacity, from Gosport to
Flanders, for which a sum of ninety-five guineas is handed to him.
He says nothing of his adventures in Flanders, where, however, he
only lands at Ostend for a few days from his ship the Good Hope,
The voyage, however, is evidently an important one for him, as he
has spoken of it on and off for many months, and takes a special
journey to Cambridge to see brother Francis before setting out. On
the 19th of October, 1698, he anchors in Dover Roads on his return,
and goes thence to Danes Court, where he stays over Christmas, and
returns to London in January, 1699. ^^s friend Churchill has now
taken the Treasury matter in hand, and after many months of hope
deferred Richard Bere gets his ;^74 4^. at last in October. But
Churchill wanted paying, and on the morrow of the payment
" Churchill came to me drunk, and quarrelled with me because I
would not give him the money he wanted." I suspect the money
was all sp)ent long ago, for Richard has often enough gone into the
city to borrow five or ten pounds " on the king's order." He is
very methodical about money matters, too, for all his apparent
improvidence. He has a boon companion named Henry Johnson,
who during the autumn and winter of 1699 drank mainly at his
expense. Every penny thus spent is noted against the date in the
diary, and a neat account of the whole, headed " Expenditure on
account of Henry Johnson," is bound up with the diary. From this
it appears that Johnson consumed over seven pounds worth of
brandy at various taverns with Richard in about five months. On
the 2 7th of January, 1700, Richard visits the Duke of Norfolk ; but it is
rather a falling off* to be told that he goes straight from the Duke's to
eat black puddings at Smith's. In July of the same year he goes to
see a witch called Anna Wilkes, a prisoner in the Marshalsea, and
the same day he learns in the Tilt Yard that his boon companion
Stourton is made Deputy Governor of Windsor. On the 30th of
July the young Duke of Gloucester dies, and one day next week
Richard, after drinking punch with Mr. Van Dyk, tries to see the
body of the young prince at the lying in state, but fails. His brother
Francis is in town about the first fruits and fees of his new fat living,
and Richard is his surety for £,^% is, Sd, to the king, and when
Francis has got comfortably settled in his new rectory in July, 1701,
Richard takes the ship Providence for Liverpool to visit him. They

iL-it 1 :*:r:r..^"-: i: ztz 'strt l^- i^itz he zrrives a gentleman comes
-. - i : i: i ir. i irr. .ir.iti : - 1: :::_-=: TrLzzis has married his (the
ier.:".e.~i-- f i.r.-:. ~-r:i_::r. J^:^iri :s nuch surprised, and
7.::-.- :".v : :r:;~f tiT.r r.- : -= f:: r. :_= rt^ ::r.r-ec::on. There are
iTti: h:.:: ■.r.V.i -: I :;f:::. i-r.i. 7. rLiri .? .r-h:? clement He dines
1- i ::L.-:Mit5 '^.:-- frr: :i ■ ::: z. >.? : ::i:.t: < ^'.cbe-:enants to the
rlir". .: 1 -::, -"- I*-': - ^.z" ^=:? ir_-.: c:-f:i":ly. breaks his nose,
1::-:= :..5 l..:f. ir.I -..:-;■ _--i 5 .- :. f ;^i5 -n^ith a good many of
h = ::.:- if. :.:^:: I-l.r^ "-:. i^ III ir.i =r:ys i::n-.5e:f greatly. It
if : : 'zt r.::-:i :!-i: :..:? ::::r.^:5 :>:i:= ^e-.rr-llv sr.jived him durinir
!' . f :::.■. »I r. :- 1 : ::■. ::'"_:= : - : :. >!.- j ""•" .. i2-."> ieaih is recorded,
ir.L i. .T. :.:'::: :.-= i :.- 5: :i.-:-f :; l.:-i:- :/ r:cu. laking up his
: :.-:r:5 :.: :r::"-:-f f •*- . :: f -i:i.-5. iri.r. Ir. :r.e ::i::umn he goes
:. I i-.jf r..-:. • ;..:- ." " l:.;. -5 5: .. -S-^Ily crunk ; and in
«'::::t: :f \:.:.\ ■ a: :. :: .i: .." :r^ir: :?: -; h-rrens to Richard
1 .:^ . r. : . ; :-i .:" : :.: :. -.:" h. '..r::? zr.-j aged Lady Monins
:.: ■ 'i. i-f" 2:,. -.-.:- -:. .-. :..:. f..- :: I ircf ^J : izi. His sister, Mrs.
j: . j>i. -f ■ :'.-. r.r.: : .-.".i -:z . .^ - :-. 1 jii Mr-.r.j :> a certain Lucv
1 . r. ■ :i? :::.:.: ■; :: i::^^"-:^: ::" Ti;. ::-" r.ys. :r.e constable of
'•'.'„.-. j : C-=:li. A::-.: j..r.">:. ?. :>.-:i. -i^rh: "STjis :hen 49 years of
:L-:r. --...f; =:=! s::"; -.rif :: 1: e :: i::s yz-nz luiy, and the next

.. ..... . ... rr>i

^:./ .J tl:::-? : ;. ::::: :-;:: .:v ?;-: -^r - :;.n-ir .:ve .etter. Ihe
r..i i.:.. r. ::". r^ '....:'•. f.-if ...:i z". --.f"ir r.e\: CJ.y. and a fcf
J'..? ..■.:-:•:.: I- ::.:■..? >.-:ft".:" :: '..?: 2-1:?. ^:::::e 11 I'anes Court.

V. . ^ ....."■-. Tv - • :> ..-- ^ — ..-. — .? ..C 5s«i^ >, InaKLS

m '
« w-» >■• « • •

..!>.. ^ -.. ........ ■■^.*. .: ..•:.• ....c^..^.-^C\.X ..c/lC^ laKCs

:".-:i :.: -:zr. 1 .ir.rf J:_:: .■r.i '•".'::; j;^ :^> .i:e : :ir.i en the Sth of
N\^.;::.; -: : ..;;. y f :.-. :-...5 :: iir.-.i- :: ^: r.::::e :."^ Walmer Castle.
I: .5 '■;: ._.:. ." :.z 1 :..: ::.:.:. b-: fhe c-L'-ti :o say good-bye to
M:-. :.::^^ .".: 1 .:r^f C:-::. -r.i. cf crurse. Mr. Richard Bere

.. ■... .. .... ••.... ..^. ._ ''.....C. **C P.Cw...CU|

h. f..v>. •■:: :::;.::.■ i.::h ::h-.:. ..r.i 5:".er.:r.'.v r:jn*.:scd to marn* no

- ■ ■ ■ ^

L-L j".5r. " \^ :: :"... : :.:. :: '. czz.r.'szz he aziir. ^:i5 :j Waldershare,

■*•»•■ m ^ J- - - ««•. H^ M^- «»,•>« •»^;a* « ^-■_^- >««« ^ ^ m ^|^ ^* * ^ £ ^ ^ ^^^\* Cl^f 1

*••. ..^« — C..«.«. ■^.••» ..'«.. ^.•tt..««^..-''.n* •*« >^« «..W ^»W**» *"— ^' ft A OkAaClf

'^ — - r\>.^ — .- ? ... r?. ^-.... ... ^r.-— .r\. i c>. iv.Lnaru

~->-<-— - .- -u-- — .... •• ;...r. ...... X..-W* i30 > w./ lA'IU

-■« ... . . • «.

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&,.w... .2 ... .... ......>...> .1..M C.^c**..^.;r. «>..«« .«.«...£« ACk.wIa s.iu

57 ee- w i:. •:"::: i .-.r.i f.rviri hd'.v.ecr. L:r.ion and Walmer.
Kichuri is cir-.r ::.:■.: a: 1 . :i 2\"u".e:s .V:.:/. ar.i a: last en the
zy.h c: Murch. I'zi, K:.h.;:i .s :n:r.i-ccd ::? ihe all-powerful

The Journal of Richard Bere. 457

Lord Godolphin, who promises him a good office, upon the strength
of which he " borrows another ;^5 of Gawler." But Richard com-
plains of lameness on the very day that he saw Godolphin, and the
next entry in the diary is carefully traced with a trembling hand at
the bottom of the page nearly three months afterwards. Richard
had fallen ill of gout, fever, and rheumatism, and had not left the
room for ten weeks, " attended by Mr. Sheppery of Drury Lane, my
surgeon Mr. Williams, and my housekeeper Mrs. Cockman." In
July he was well enough to go to Danes Court, and on the nth of
August visited Waldershare with his sister. There, walking in the
grotto, he again pledged his troth to Lucy Boys. On the 2nd of
September Lucy Boys came to dine at Danes Court, and the vows
were repeated. On this occasion Miss Boys showed her sincerity
by handing to Richard " 95 guineas, one pistole, and six shillings in
silver," presumably for investment or expenditure on fitting up a
home. Soon afterwards Lord Poulet came and took his wife's
grandmother away on a visit to Hinton, where she died in six weeks.
Richard Bere returns to London a happy man, but in a few weeks
his lady love herself comes on a visit to Lord Poulet, and then, on
the 20th of November, a great change comes over the tone of the
entries. "The strumpet Boys came to London. I saw her at
Lord Poulet's, and gave her five guineas, besides five guineas I gave
her on the 26th to go to the Exchange, five guineas more I paid on
her account at Mr. Stow's, and another ten pounds on account of the
slut." Another entry on the 30th is still more disheartening. " I
went to see the slut Boys at Lord Poulet's, and the baggage denied
ever having promised to marry me at all, and now she has gone and
married a stuttering parson called Woodward." Then Lord Poulet
said he had never promised to do anything for him, and " treated
me vilely," and the whole romance was ended.

At this time there are two entries in English as follows :
"November 27, 1703. From 12 a clock in ye morning till 7 was ye
most violent storm of wind y* ever was known in England, and ye
damage done at land and sea not to be estimated."

" On ye 15th, 16th, and 17th of January, 1703-4, was a very violent
storm, which forced back ye fleet bound to Lisbon w**» ye Archduke
Charles, under Rooke, separating them, and did a great deale of
damage."

In March, 1704, Richard is evidently making great preparations
for another sea voyage. He often visits Bear Quay, and is much in
the city. Trunks and new clothes seem to be bought now without
much difficulty, and Benson's services are not apparently so needful

458 The Gentlemaii s Magazine.

for raising the wind. Richard's friend, old Mrs. Feltham, who
keeps a shop in the Exchange, invites him to come and see her and
drink mum, in order to ask him about making her son purser.
Richard seems also to have quite a friendly correspondence with the
" stuttering parson Woodward,'* and one is tempted to believe that
Lord Poulet may after all have done something for the jilted lover.
Richard's circumstances must be a good deal changed, for he can
afford to leave twenty guineas with T. Bell to keep for him when he
departs for Danes Court, after a merry dinner at the " Blue Posts ** in
the Haymarket (which he quaintly translates as " los Postes ceruleos
en la Feria de feno ") with Churchill and others. On the 23rd of
March, 1704, he starts for Danes Court, and there the usual life of
visiting and feasting is recommenced. On the nth of April, 1704,
there is an entry to the effect that he went to visit Lady Barret, and
wrote to Mr. Woodward, and then the curtain drops and all is
darkness, which swallows up Richard Bere and all his friends for
ever. Where he went and what became of him I have been unable
to discover, and the transient gleam thrown across his trivial history
by his own folly, in writing down his most secret actions in a
language known to many, will in all probability be the only light
ever thrown upon his life. John Fogge died soon after, but his
widow, Richard Bere's sister, lived at Danes Court in straitened
circumstances for many years after. Warren, the antiquary, writing
in 171 1 (Fausett MS. Kent Archaeological Society), deplores that the
once fine estate was reduced even then to about fifty pounds a year
only, and says that it was uncertain whether any male heir was
living— thus soon had scapegrace nephew Dick drifted away from
his friends. Warren says that he had been last heard of at Lisbon
some years before, but on his mother's death he turned up a common
sailor, sold Danes Court to the Harveys in 1724, married a certain
Elizabeth Rickasie, a sister of St. Bartholomew's Hospital at Sand-
wich, and died on board the fleet at Gibraltar in 1740, leaving, ^ys
Hasted, an only daughter, married to a poor shepherd named Cock,
and living in a lowly hovel near the manor-house of which her
ancestors had for centuries been masters.

MARTIN A. S. HUME.

459

THE THEOLOGY
OF MR. SfVINBURNE'S POEMS.

IT may be safely said that at the present time Mr. Swinburne is
one of the very foremost figures in the world of English letters.
There is one great poet who has a place apart on our national
Helicon ; but if his splendid achievements and the dignity of years
have made the name of Tennyson too august for comparison or
rivalry, it is certain that there is no other living master of the lyre
who can be matched against Mr. Swinburne. In some respects,
indeed, he not only overtops all his contemporaries, but stands
without a parallel in the whole range of our literature.

In the mere matter of quantity it would be hard to name any one
who has outdone this last of our great living singers. His first
important book was published in 1865, and since then he has
produced a dozen or so volumes of prose, and more than twenty of
verse. And this wonderful profuseness never has (at least as regards
the poetry) to serve as excuse for any artistic shortcoming. In all
the mighty mass of Mr. Swinburne's verse there is hardly a feeble
or halting line ; and not even his most prejudiced or his boldest
detractors can deny that he is a perfect and consummate master of
the technique of his art.

And though in our time there are many who have doubled the
parts of poet and critic, yet of all these labourers in two fields there
is not one — not even Matthew Arnold — who has discharged the
humbler of his functions to such good effect as Mr. Swinburne. Mr.
Swinburne's prose essays, in spite of some occasional extravagance,
are inspired throughout with the choicest and most subtle insight,
and the best of them are masterpieces of constructive or interpreta-
tive criticism.

It must be admitted that Mr. Swinburne has up to the present
gained no very large share of public favour. For those who delight
in Mr. Lewis Morris or Sir Edwin Arnold, Mr. Swinburne is little
more than a name. The test of numbers is emphatically against

460 The Gentleman's Magazine.

him, and the few editions of " Atalanta in Calydon," or " Poems and
Ballads," make a very poor show against the imposing figures of
"The Epic of Hades" or "The Light of Asia." And we may
discern sufficient signs of this plentiful lack of popularity, or signs at
least of imperfect acquaintance with the poet's many gifts, in the
criticism which gives such a disproportionate attention to certain
aspects of his earlier work. Mr. Swinburne has been the most
profuse and prolific of poets ; volume has followed volume faster than
criticism or even gratitude could say its word of greeting ; and still,
in spite of everything he has written since, he is to the great mass of
the reading public known chiefly as the author of the first series of
" Poems and Ballads," as the poet of " Dolores " and " Anactoria."
Yet, except by their rhythmical beauty, these early poems are not
very distinctly representative of Mr. Swinburne. They illustrate
certainly the poet's daring and his fiery impatience of the proprieties ;
they are wonderful and beautiful poems ; but that they should have
condemned their author for so long to the eminence of leadership in
some supposed "Fleshly School of Poetry," can only be made
intelligible by supposing that the poet's nobler and manlier strains
have failed to catch the public ear to anything like the same extent
This way of looking at his work does great injustice to Mr.
Swinburne. In spite of the too fervid efflorescence of " Poems and
Ballads," Mr. Swinburne is at the heart of him " a sage and serious
poet," very much in earnest about the doctrine he has to deliver.
Against the erotic extravagance of " Poems and Ballads" we may set
some lines from " Marino Faliero," which are in truer accord with
the poet's real feeling : —

Life is brief —

the duke says —

brief and void

Where laughing lusts fulfil its length of days,

And naught save pleasure born seems worth desire ;

IJut long and full of fruit in all men's sight,

Whereon the wild worm feeds not, nor the sun

Strikes, nor the wind makes war, nor frost lays hold,

Is the ageless life of honour, won and worn

With heart and hand most equal, and to time

Given as a pledge that something bom of time

Is mightier found than death, and wears of right

God's name of everlasting.

Even in "Poems and Ballads" the dominant note is really exactly
what is sounded in the opening lines of this fine passage. Beneath
all the passion of these poems there lies the conviction that the

The Theology of Mr. Swinburne's Poems. 46 1

dubious paths of desire lead to no good issue, the sad consciousness
that " the end of all these things is death."

Sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell,
But now with lights reverse the old hours retire
And the last hour is shod with fire from hell.
This is the end of every man's desire.

Indeed, Mr. Swinburne's poetry is so far from being over sensuous
that the restricted nature of his popularity is largely due to the
abstract character of his themes. He is too philosophical — one
might say metaphysical — a poet to suit the public taste. In very
much of what he has written there is a want of concrete human
interest. The subjects

that touch him are unmating things,
Oceans and clouds and night and day.
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs.

He is at times a poet of Nature, but of elemental Nature ; his
landscapes, as in "A Forsaken Garden," or " In the Salt Marshes,*"
are pictures of the simple forces of the earth, of sea, and sun and
rain, and wind and wave. And behind all there loom in gigantic
outline the great Eternal ideas, the monadic conceptions. Time and
Change, Life, Death, Fate, and Man and God.

What Mr. Swinburne has written of Shelley may most fitly and
fully be transferred to a great deal of his own work. Referring to
the lines written among the Eugenaean hills, he says —

" It is a rhapsody of thought and feeling coloured by contact
with Nature, but not born of the contact ... A soul as great as the
world lays hold on the things of the world ; on all life of plants, and
beasts, and men ; on all likeness of time and death and good things
and evil. His aim is rather to render the effect of a thing than a
thing itself ; the soul and spirit of life rather than the living form, the
growth rather than the thing grown. And herein he, too, is un-
approachable."

In taking even a brief glance at the religious or theological
conceptions which have inspired a great deal of Mr. Swinburne, it is
not difficult to see that there is considerable difference between the
earlier and the later work. There has not been sudden conversion,
or any slow conversion, any choosing of fresh flags or new faiths ;
the change shows itself rather in an altered emphasis and a shifting
of the point of view. That there is a change of feeling, if not of
position, will be evident to anyone who will compare " Ilicct " or

VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 193 1, I \

462 The Gentlematis Magazine.

"The Garden of Proserpine" with "On the Verge" or "A
Dialogue."

One may, in fact, distinguish three distinct stages in the
development of Mr. Swinburne*s theological ideas. The first is
represented by " Atalanta in Calydon " and the first series of " Poems
and Ballads."

This is the period of pessimism and gloom and despondency.
" Poems and Ballads " is a very beautiful, but not at all a cheerful
book. The erotic poems are like all the rest, steeped in the prevailing
gloom. In all their sweet music there is hardly a happy note.
Where they are not concerned with monstrous perversities of passion,
they are lyrics, not so much of love, as of " love's sad satiety," of the
weary parting of those who once were glad to meet

I^ve grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful,
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

In " Atalanta in Calydon," Venus Anadyomene is hymned by the
chorus in strains of very dubious praise —

Bitter thou wast from thy birth,
Aphrodite, a mother of strife.

Love is regarded as in itself evil, and the last addition to the sum of
human miseries.

And, in general, in so far as these early poems are concerned
with a philosophy of life, they paint it in very dark colours. The
poet looks out on all creation' and proclaims that it is not good but
evil. It is not merely that he is dissatisfied with the existing
conditions of things, with " all the oppression that is done under the
sun;" his bitterness springs from a deeper source; it is the ven*
constitution of the Universe that he condemns. Not "man's
inhumanity to man,'' but " the mystery of the cruelty of things" fills
him with aversion and a passionate sense of injustice. Man is
unhappy, not through any fault or feebleness of his own, but because
the gods are evil and have willed that it should be so. It is because
the Supreme Powers are malevolent that the lot of man is hopeless.

For none shall move the most high gods

Who are most sad, being cruel ; none
Shall break or take away the rods

Wherewith they scourge us, not as one

That smites a son.

This feeling finds its grandest and loftiest expression in that
magnificent chorus in "Atalanta in Calydon," which for majesty of

The Theology of Mr. Sivinbume's Poems. 463

imical movement and fiery vehemence would have sufficed alone
ve its author a place in the front rank of poets. This splendid
ige — I mean of course the chorus which begins, " Who hath

1 man speech ? " — sets us thinking of Milton and the rebellious
itence of his apostate angel, or of the great speech with which
>ound and tortured Prometheus calls earth and sea and sky to
iss what he suffers at the hands of the gods. The same sense
ipeless struggle against Almighty power is common to all ; the
\rchangel and Aeschylus's Titan are more colossal figures, but
Swinburne's chorus seems to me to express a sadder and more
*tic hopelessness. Its despairing impiety is certainly inappro-

2 to any Greek chorus, and is in striking contrast to the spirit
verence and unshaken faith which inspired the great Greek
dians. But any sense of inappropriateness is lost as soon as we
nder ourselves to the majestic march of these tremendous
s. There is no question of ancient or modem. Pagan or
itian ; it is the voice of universal humanity we hear, of unre-
-ate humanity, hopelessly at war with the awful Powers who
I its destiny. And this great note has never been struck with a
r more wonderful. The chorus is a long one, but the march of
/er flags or falters. Through all its glowing verses the passion
sns till we reach the final outburst,

Yea, with thine hate, O God, thou hast covered us.

so the great impeachment waxes and grows —

Thou hast sent us sleep, and stricken sleep with dreams,

Saying, Joy is not, but love of joy shall be ;
Thou hast made sweet springs for all the pleasant streams ;

In the end thou hast made them bitter with the sea —

: last the climax is reached —

Lo, with hearts rent and knees made tremulous,
Lo, with ephemeral lips and casual breath,
At least we witness of thee ere we die
That these things are not otherwise, but thus ;
That each man in his heart sigheth, and saith
That all men, even as I,
All we are against thee, against thee, O God most high.

lonjoined with these despairing views of life is the poet's firm
: in the finality of Death. This is asserted and reasserted with an
5t theological dogmatism. Life is so dreary that men may well
lad to have done with the foolish business and be at rest,
h is the one consoler, the one refuge from all ills. These are

II 2

464 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the views which in " Poems and Ballads " find such a passionate
and powerful expression as is shown in verses like these : —

From too much love of living.

From hope and fear set free.
We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be.
That no life lasts for ever.
That dead men rise up never.
That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

In what I call the second period of Mr. Swinburne's poetry we come
with some suddenness upon a remarkable change of spirit " Song^
before Sunrise" was published in 1871, only five years after "Pocmi
and Ballads," but the contrast between the two books in everything
but in the fervour and faultlessness of the verse is enonnom
Instead of the " soft Lydian measures " of the earlier volumes, Mr.
Swinburne gives us in " Songs before Sunrise " bold and Tyrtan
strains. In the " Prelude " to this wonderful book Mr. Swinburne
announces the change that has come over his singing —

We too, have twisted in our hair
Such tendrils as the wild Loves wear —

for the future he is the laureate of Liberty.

In "Mater Triumphalis" some glowing and sonorous ^txiek
announce his new position —

I am thine harp between thine hands, O mother.
All my strong cords are strained with love of thee.

We grapple in love and wrestle, as each with other
Wrestle the wind and the unreluctant sea.

I have no spirit of skill with equal fingers

At sign to sharpen and to slacken strings^
I keep no time of song with gold -perched singen

And chirp of linnets on the wrists of kings.

I am thy storm-thrush of the days that darkeny

Thy petrel in the foam that bean thy bark
To port through night and tempest ; if thou hearken,

My voice is in thy heaven before the lark.

The religious ideas imbedded in this period of Mr. Swinbumc'i
poetry commence with the flat negation of all recognised deitiei
The poet proclaims his emphatic denial of all theological system in
general, and of Christianity in particular. In his attitude towaids
the prevailing religion Mr. Swinburne differs in some respect V0T
widely from most of the poets of the time. There is pleiity rf
scepticism among those whose business it is to make versesi botttii

The Theology of Mr. Swinburne's Poems. 465

jnerally scepticism of the reluctant and sorrowful order. We have
)undant lamentation for expiring faith or over-faith already dead,
Lit not yet decently buried and done with.

We are souls bereaved
Of all the creatures under heaven's high cope ;
We are most hopeless who had once most hope,
And most beliefless who had once believed.

D Clough wrote in his " Easter Day," and the melancholy strain is
:hoed and re-echoed in contemporary poetry. But Mr. Swinburne
2ver strikes this lugubrious chord. He has no hesitation, no back-
ard glances, no retrospective regrets. He seems to have been born
1 unbeliever rather than to have become so. The thought of the
>ming Twilight of the Gods arouses only a cry of exultation.

His hostility to Christianity is emotional rather than intellectual.
: has nothing to do with the rise of the critical school of theology.
1 Browning and Matthew Arnold, in Clough and many a minor
>et, we can see the influence of Baur and Strauss and Zeller, but
le cannot tell whether Mr. Swinburne has ever read the " Leben
isu " or concerned himself with the date of the Fourth Gospel.

And so it is that his attitude is an extreme one. He keeps right
1 the hard, flat, high road of total and entire disbelief, and never
rays into any of the by-paths of compromise. Mr. Swinburne
>es not share the national fondness for middle courses, for mediat-
g between opposing principles and adjusting their claims to some
actical issue. He has himself spoken with some tinge of contempt
' the " semi-Christianity " of " In Memoriam," and the " demi7semi
hristianity of Dipsychus " ; but one cannot fail to notice how much
ore the hesitating and moderate tone of these poems is in harmony
ith the habits of English thought than the rigid unbending non
'ssumus of ** Before a Crucifix."

Mr. Swinburne, indeed, in his attitude towards religious matters
ems to be more French than English, or at least continental rather
an insular. This is evident, not only in his hatred of crompromise
id in his carelessness about practical issues, but in other ways too.
jth him, as with most foreign Radicals, religion and politics are
•nnected by a close mental bond— are regarded, we may say, as
flerent aspects of one subject. Englishmen for the most part put
wide gulf of division between these two themes and apply very
BTerent principles to the working out of each. We have sturdy in-
(vators in politics who are in religion the staunchest of conserva-
'es, men who are ready at a moment's notice to break up the empire

reconstruct the constitution, who are yet rigid zealots for the

466 The Gentleman's Magazine.

strictest letter of the law or the traditions of the elders, republican
bibliolaters, and Sabbatarian anarchists.

Another foreign note may be detected in Mr. Swinburne's
apparent indifference to those forms of faith which prevail in his own
country. He hardly seems to notice any of them ; Christianity is
for him represented almost exclusively by the Roman Catholic
Church. It would be too much to say that he has never realised
English Protestantism at all \ perhaps it is in disdain that he has
passed by its many diversities and its general spirit of opportunism,
and aimed his hardest blows at the Church which has hardly yet
learnt to trim its sails to the varying winds of the modern spirit.

But in this second period of Mr. Swinburne's poetry there is
something more than the passionate assertion of unbelief. In such
poems as " Hertha," "The Litany of Nations," "Hymn of Man,"
and " The I^st Oracle," we have two positive principles set forth in
the most splendid and most sonorous verse. These two incipient
creeds may be named as Pantheism and the " Worship of Humanity."

In " Hertha," the island -dwelling, Teutonic deity whom Tacitus
understood to be Mother Earth, is identified with Nature in the
widest sense, with the general constitution of things, now no longer
regarded as evil. The poem opens with the most unmistakable
Pantheism, and the barrenness and bleakness of this conception of
deity is quite lost sight of in the extraordinary rush and lyric power
of Mr. Swinburne's verse. " Hertha" is really a most wonderful poem
— metaphysics are transmuted into poetry by the sheer force and fer-
vency of the poet's genius. Few subjects, for example, could seem
more unpromising for poetic treatment than the identity of subject
and object in the All. Yet this is what Mr. Swinburne makes of it : —

Beside and above me

Naught is there to go ;
Love or unlove me,

Unknow me or know,
I am that which unloves me and loves ; I am stricken and I am the blow.

I the mark that is missed

And the arrows that miss,
I the mouth that is kissed
And the breath in the kiss,
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul, and the body that It.

But this Pantheistic conception of God is elsewhere identified
with Humanity. This doctrine is set forth with much clearness in the
"Hymn of Man"—

< God, if a God there be, is the substance of men which is man '-^

The Theology of Mr. Swinburne's Poems. 467

where the conditional clause strikes one as very curious. This
definition of Deity is expanded a little further on in the same poem.

Not each man of all men is God, but God is the fruit of the whole ;
Indivisible spirit and blood, indiscernible body from soul.
Not men's but man's is the glory of godhead, the kingdom of time,
The mountainous ages made hoary with snows for the spirit to climb.
A God with the world inwound whose clay to his footsole clings;
A manifold God fast-bound, as with iron of adverse things.

In " The Last Oracle " we have a different aspect of the same
idea. This splendid poem is a Hymn to Apollo, who is here con-
sidered as the embodiment of man's intellect, of the light and life
that is incarnate in humanity. And so Apollo is celebrated as the
first and the oldest of gods —

Shining son of God, the son of Time they called thee,
Who wast older, O our Father, than they knew.

The growth and decay of religions are but the varying records of
the mind of humanity —

Divers births of many Godheads find one death appointed.

As the soul whence each was born makes room for each,
God by god goes out, discrowned and disanointed,

But the soul stands fast which gave them birth and speech.

It needs hardly be pointed out that that way of looking at things
is not, on the prosaic level at least, exactly consistent with the Pan-
theism of " Hertha."

We distinguish sharply between Nature and Man — •*Unfiihlend
ist die Natur," says Goethe in one of his noblest poems — where the
hardness and indifference of outside things is contrasted with the
tenderness and justice which are perceptible only in man. And
sometimes Mr. Swinburne takes this view and shows us his earth-
bom Deity struggling with Nature.

Men are the heart-beats of men, the plumes that feather his wings.
Storm-worn, since being l)egan, with the wind and thunder of things.
Things are cruel and blind ; their strength detains and deforms,
And the wearying wings of the mind still beat up the stream of their storms.

But there are other passages, e.g, the last verse of " Hertha," where
Man and Nature are identified in the poetic cultus.

Mr. Swinburne's "Worship of Humanity" is certainly widely
different from Comte*s. The divinity of the French philosopher is
a sort of Deus ex machindy brought in to help on the tragedy of
human history to some happy ending. But Mr. Swinburne has no
xitilitarian aims, and there seems nothing unreal or artificial in his

468 The Gentlematis Magazine

worship. It is indeed astonishing to see what fervid adoration this
enemy of all the gods of tradition brings to his own shadowy divinities.
As a worshipper he is no less vehement than as an iconoclast ; there
are passages in the " Hymn of Man " and other poems which equal
the intensity and energy of even his fiercest denunciations. Still, in a
general view of Mr. Swinburne's work of this period, one might
perhaps be disposed to say that the source and fount of these anti-
theological strains is political rather than religious ; that it is

The phantom of a Christless cross
Shadowing the sheltered heads of kings,

rather than with any particular quarrel with Christianity itself that
has stirred up such a vast amount of poetic wrath.

However that may be, I cannot help digressing here for a mo-
ment to remark that Mr. Swinburne in politics as in religion shows
a remarkable aloofness from the ordinary current of thought in this
country. He is not an English politician, but a revolutionary of the
pure Continental type. He is quite unpractical in his views ; he has
nothing to say to our numerous and many " questions " and " causes."
He belongs to the high orthodox school of abstract republicanism,
and these things do not concern him.

Perhaps the real result of all his political poetry is a little vague.
Indignation against kings never made finer or more musical verses,
but one can hardly help asking what it is that the poet expects his
republics to accomplish. Shelley seems to have believed that the
overthrow of dynasties and the downfall of religions would transfbnn
the earth to a terrestrial paradise ; but this child-like faith is beyond
the utmost compass of anyone at the present day, and Mr. Swinburne
hardly seems to expect much from the possible future decapitation or
deposition of kings.

He has perhaps come nearest to the modem democratic spirit in
that magnificent outburst which closes " The Litany of Nations^"

In Mr. Swinburne's more recent poetry we find a notable change
in the setting forth of his religious ideas. We have no more deny-
ing and defying of the gods ; the iconoclastic fury seems to have
spent itself,^ the storm of the poet's indignation has subsided, and a
calm and courageous tranquillity has taken the place of the restless
passion of " Songs before Sunrise." Poems like " The RecaU," "A
Dialogue," breathe a calmer spirit ; there is no change of flags ; there
is still the same enemy, but the hostility is not so bitter. At times

1 It appears with full force in the poems oc the "Armada"; bat thii) it

to me, is a reversion to an earlier type.

The Theology of Mr. Swinburne^ ^ Poems. 460

it almost seems as if one might make peace, as if one could wish for
an end of the conflict, could be content to

Rest, forget, be reconciled.

Some lines which belong to " In the Salt Marshes " may be taken to
show this softened mood. The sight of the grey church towers rising
above the flat level of a dreary landscape suggests thoughts which are
very different from those which some years before had been called
forth by a roadside crucifix.

Far, and far between, in divers orders,

Clear grey steeples cleave the low grey sky ;

Fast and firm as time-unshaken warders,
Hearts made sure by faith, by hope made high.

These alone in all the wild sea-borders
Fear no blast of days and nights that die.

All the land is like as one man's face is,
Pale and troubled still with charge of cares,

Doubt and death pervade her clouded spaces :
Strength and length of life and peace are theirs ;

Theirs alone amid these weary places.

Seeing not how the wild world frets and fares.

These verses, which are a splendid expansion of Wordsworth^s famous
line, would have seemed strange if they had come from Mr. Swinburne
thirty years ago.

The question of a Future Life is perhaps the chief topic dwelt on
in the religious poetry of this third period. Mr. Swinburne's attitude
had now become one of calm and solemn surprise ; there is no
passionate " yearning after immortality," but neither is there the con-
sohng assurance of annihilation which was so strongly marked in the
early poetry.

Pre-eminent in this division of his poetry stands that noble and
majestic poem which is entitled " On the Verge." It would be
diflScult to praise this splendid production too highly. For loftiness
of tone and grave, austere beauty I do not know what poem of equal
length we could match against it The poet's eye gazing over the
waste of waters passes at once in rapt contemplation to " the line of
of life and time's evasive strand," to the ultima linea rerum^ and no-
where is the eternal question of man's destiny proposed with a grander
or more sublime vehemence, nowhere is the blank no-answer set
forth with a more impressive spendour.

F'ricnd, who knows if death indeed have life, or life have death for goal ?
Day nor night can tell us, nor may seas declare, nor skies unroll
What has been from everlasting, or if aught shaU alway be.
Silence answering only strikes response reverberate on the soul
From the shore that hath no shore beyond it set in all the

470 The Gentlemans Magazine.

I have spoken of the French accent discernible in much of Mr.
Swinburne's poetry and of his extreme position, but on both points
a certain reservation must be made. Nothing that he has given us
shows the slightest sympathy with that absolute nihilism that is some-
times heard from the Gallic lyre. A book like (for example) M. Jean
Richepin's " Les Blasphemes " is utterly and entirely alien to the
enthusiasm and lofty tone of our English poet, who could never,
under any conceivable circumstances, have polluted his pen with
anything like that sonnet entitled " Tes Pere et M^re." The two
men differ by the whole firmament ; M. Richepin ostentatiously
seeks by his ruthless analysis to violate all imaginable sanctities ;
Mr. Swinburne fights under a flag and has a faith and worship of
his own.

And in this, too, he may be contrasted with those one or two
poets in his own country who have travelled yet further along the
dubious paths of disbelief and doubt. James Thomson is the one
whose name rises first, and though, of course, this most unhappy of
our singers is very far from reaching the poetic stature of Mr. Swin-
burne, yet he was a poet of genuine inspiration, and his chief work
will have a place of its own in our literature. " The City of Dreadful
Night " is perhaps the most melancholy poem in our language ; one
dreary atmosphere of gloom enshrouds it all ; no ray of light or hope
breaks the monotory of its despair. Nothing can be in more forcible
contrast to the firm and unshaken courage of Mr. Swinbume^s
maturer mood. The greater poet, too, when under the influence of
Baudelaire had his period of gloom, but it was not the appalling
blackness which hangs over the " City of Dreadful Night," and
the pessimistic mood did not last long. Mr. Swinburne was too
great a poet to dwell long in the tents of Kedar. The sheer force of
genius saved him from a despairing nihilism. He is an audacious
unbeliever in existing creeds, but he does not love to look on the
mean side of things; there is a limit which his poetical instinct
forbids him to ; ass, a point where

Imagination resolutely stays
The tide of ill.

And it is just this heroic gratitude of soul which is the most precious
(juality of Mr. Swinburne's poetry, considered in its inner or spiritual
side. Certainly in its external and purely artistic aspects no praise
can be too high for it. The perfect and varied beauty of Mr. Swin-
burne's verse must be a source of pure delight to all those who have
any feeling for the charm of rhythmical movement.

The Theology of Mr. Swinburne^ s Poems. 47 1

Here there is room for no difference of opinion, but there will be
some who can carry their admiration of the poet no further. For
them not all the beauty or the lyric fervours of his verse can in any
way compensate for the bleak hardness of the doctrine expounded.
And there will be others who will feel that, in these days of mournful
subjectiveness and sorrowing scepticism, the largest debt of deepest
gratitude is due to those poets who strengthen the feeble knees and
help men to some share of happy confidence in the ultimate consti-
tution of things. For those poets who " are very sure of God " are
the true messengers of comfort, the divine singers

Whose music is the gladness of the earth.

But even if Mr. Swinburne can claim no seat among this sacred
choir, he has still his own high and peculiar praise. He has handled
his lofty themes with the most splendid strength and the most
courageous sincerity of soul. In his poetry we discern the energy
of a fiery and indomitable spirit, grappling unaided with the problem
of man*s destiny, gazing undismayed into the mystery which walls
about our life. And through all his heart is still high and his courage
undaunted. Amid all the lamentations over the routed legions and
captured standards of Faith he has not despaired of the republic of
man, nor listened to the devil's advocate preaching the unprofitable
doctrine of darkness.

ROBERT SHINDLER.

472 The Gentleman's Magazine.

AMONG THE ALGERIAN HILLS.

ONE can hardly realise the keen delight of rambling in and
about and over the hills which rise in imposing undulations
from the Algerian table-land. Summer was late the season I was
there. The winter was the coldest and longest that had been known
for years. This was all in my favour. Flowers bloomed and birds
sung a month later than usual. Some of the hills rise in solemn,
stately, almost pyramidal, fashion. You can see at a glance they
are of a different geological structure from the adjacent stony billows,
and have no genetic affinity with them. They possess a different
mountain architecture. Is it that they have been sculptured in
another manner, or with a different set of tools ? No; there is only
one set of denuding agencies — that of solar energy operating through
the atmosphere ; perhaps operating in spite of it. The secret of the
contrasted shapes of this crowd of hills — as well as of the wonderful
resemblances of the two groups to each other— is that they are com-
posed of different kinds of rock-forming materials.

The most prominent of the solitary pyramidal mountains near
Souk Ahras are Djebel Tarja and Djebel Degma. The latter is the
more imposing. It is cut in halves completely, as by that magic
wand which "cleft Eildon Hills in three." You ramble over the
hot, bald, stony outcrops — the latter often as regular as stone stairs.
The heat is that of a furnace, for you get it directly from the son,
and also reflected from the white Hmestones. The eyes blink, the
forehead wrinkles into a neuralgic headache, the lurking rheumatism
of years past is unloosed, and plays pandemonium in the muscles of
your arms.

All on a sudden there is a fresh gust, as if the gates of Paradise
were opened ! Nobody has exactly described, from personal experi-
ence, what the effect of opening the aforesaid gates is like ; but I
am safe in using the idea as a figure of speech for the sudden and
joyous relief produced by the cool inburst of fresh and moving air.
We had reached the great gorge that cleft Djebel Degma in twain.
The cool currents of air came from the valley of the Mejerda, a

Among the Algerian Hills. 473

thousand feet below us. We shelter beneath a solitary wild fig-
tree, in its shade — a shadow as black as ink when contrasted with
the vivid sunlight reflected from the white rocks. Beneath us is a
precipice. Before us, at a distance of not more than a mile as the
crow flies, is the grand vertical section of Kef Degma. The lime-
stone beds composing it stand almost on end — plainly speaking of the
mighty forces which have upheaved these rocks since their compara-
tively recent formation. Allowing the eye to run along that clean-cut
escarpment, it looks like a geological diagram— as indeed it is. In
the very middle of the section you plainly see a dislocation or break
in the continuity of the strata. They are cracked right through,
from top to bottom. On one side the beds lean at a clearly-defined
angle, on the other at quite a different one.

We put on a pipe and discuss the situation — anything to prolong
the cooling rest ; for this mighty ravine has to be descended and
ascended, and there are several miles of hot travelling besides before
we can partake of dejeuner — the first meal of the day. Hitherto, all
has been done on the cup of black coffee and munch of dry sour bread
we got at four in the morning. Hunger gives way to thirst in its ideal
pleasures. You imagine clear, cool, crystal fountains, and how nice
a deep, deep draught of the water would be with a dash of rough
wine in it ! But the pipe is the grand solace. We are joined by
two or three Arab youths who are keeping their mountain sheep and
goats. One wonders why they are required to keep them, until a
series of black shadows traverse the light in the valley. They are
those of a couple of hungry eagles hovering about for a bit of lamb
for lunch. Half a score of smaller shadows represent the ravens on
the same tack.

The soft-eyed youths linger at a respectful distance, and listen
with intent ears to the conversation of the pith-helmeted Frankish
strangers.

Here and there amid the aridity of these hills, at their bases,
we see patches of dark-green sward, perhaps marked additionally by
a clump of trees. These are natural springs of water — the sources
of the P>ench colonists, the ains of the Arabs. Many Arab names of
places begin with Ain^ to denote the presence of natural waters.
We make for one of these. It is an ideal spot for a lunch or a
picnic. There are four or ^\^ flourishing trees, now in the meridian
of their early summer foliage. It is just the place for a mid-day rest,
and we camp here, light a fire, and cook our victuals. The clear,
cool water is delicious. Not less so is the green shade. Four of
the trees are wild pears, over which a wild vine has climbed and

474 ^'^^ Gentlemans Magazine.

thro\vTi its abounding leafage outside theirs. Never was there found
a more delightful spot whereon to break a hungry man's fast — never
a fast that was more enjoyably broken. The overflow waters of the
spring form a miniature pool in the deep grass a few yards away,
where huge frogs are barking like dogs.

On another occasion we found a convenient cave in which to
breakfast. The coolness and gloom were deliciously comforting, and
the sight of the fine river Mejerda, flowing sinuously amid rosy
thickets of flowering oleanders and through the green plains on its
way to Tunis, was one of the most impressive scenes of its kind I
ever beheld. The cave bore unmistakable evidences of being
visited by jackals, although I was told that these animals are not so
numerous as formerly. There are panthers and wild boar still
abounding in the neighbouring forests. Formerly, in the memory
of living colonists, lions paid occasional visits to this district, and one
of my companions (an Alsatian settler) had killed one hereabouts
some years ago.

The shadow of a great rock in a wear)' land is a blessing, whether
you have the wherev/ithal to breakfast or not. You must creep
somewhere out of the hot, blazing sunshine, and keep there till long
after the meridian. Work and walking are both impossible between
eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon. One day we
were admitted by the kindly Arabs at Djebel Tarja to the
marabout's house. The prophet was absent, but his carpet was on
the mud floor, and this was all the furniture in the place. Even the
walls were merely mud-dried. There were no windows or wndow-
places. We cooked our victuals outside, so as not to defile the
place -for they were sausages ! That cool, gloomy hut was a real
resting-place, and the doorway served as a framework to the glowing,
almost dazzling, landscape of billowy corn-fields outside.

In the earliest ])art of one lovely morning we passed through an
Arab cemetery. It is a touching sight to witness an Arab funeral
The body is borne, swathed in its burnous, by the nearest relations.
The mourners are all male, and they follow it up the hill in irregular
but silent habit. On their return, however, they rend the air with
their cries and lamentations. Death is always a solemn thing ; but
it never appears more solemn than when we meet it on sunny, flower-
clad hills, and with the joyous blue sky looking on. We individually
come and go and replace each other, like the circulating atoms in
some vast and long-lived organism — the Organism of Humanity !

These Arab cemeteries are of the simplest and rudest A fc*"
stones piled one above another mark the resting-places of the

Among the Algerian Hills. 475

common dead. A few coloured rags in addition indicate where a
sheikh or a marabout lies buried. Some of the latter die in the
odour of much sanctity. For generations tradition keeps up the
memory of their piety. They are canonised in the hearts of the men
who renew the orange-coloured strips which mark their rank year
after year. These marabouts' tombs are generally on the tops of the
hills, and sometimes the pile of stones is large enough to form a
landmark.

Passing through one of the Arab hill-side cemeteries, I saw an
open grave. It was about four feet deep, and cut rudely after the
outlines of a human body, just as if a man had lain down and some-
body had chalked out his shape on the ground. The grave had
evidently been dug some time, and perhaps the digger had enjoyed
selecting his own final resting-place, and was now waiting in some
adjacent camp until Allah saw fit to close it.

Not far away, on the same hill-side, we blundered into a series of
pits, some of them six feet deep. These are the Arab silos, where
their corn is stored. The same silo-pits had been used for centuries,
for the practice is not the new thing some modern agriculturists
imagine. Perhaps King Pharoah's corn warehouses during the
seven years of plenty were of this character.

The hill Arabs must be more industrious than the town Arabs —
or rather, their cast-off wives must be. Corn follows us up nearly
to the crest of the highest hills, about 4,000 feet above the sea.
It is as clean as any well-kept English wheat- field— better than
most. The other day I rambled among splendid wheat-fields, where
the wheat was rapidly ripening unto harvest. Nothing but wheat
and oats were visible along the lengthened, undulating mountain
slopes, where the wind rippled them into rhythmic undulations of
greyish -green waves. I looked for mildew, smut, and rust ; but only
found a few smutted ears near the path, where the young plants had
been trodden upon and weakened early in life. I did not see a
score of smutted ears all the time I was out, and not a trace of rust
or mildew.

And yet this country has been sown with the same crops con-
tinuously, year after year — wheat and oats (oats for horses and wheat
for men) — for generations untold ! The Arab memory is a good
and safe one for traditions. The Arabs have been in the country
for nearly a thousand years. During the whole of that time these
hill- sides have been cultivated for wheat and oats — wheat and oats
every year, without cessation. Further back still, in the dim
perspective of ancient history, this country was not only the

476 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" granary of Rome," but of its rival, Carthage. Further back yet,
the more ancient Phoenicians got their corn hereabouts.

The entire country through which I moved is thronged with
ancient Arab, older Roman, and still older Punic monuments-
statues, altars, inscriptions. Far beyond the period of either written
or traditional history — beyond that of either Aryan or Celtic in-
vasion— the Neolithic men were here ! I visited their dolmens and
charmed stone circles at a spot which also commanded, within
range of unassisted vision, relics of Roman encampments and of
ancient, but more recent, Arab settlements.

Taking all these things into consideration (as I did, on the actual
spot, where imagination assists the judgment, and judgment the
imagination), I concluded it would not be assuming too much to
declare that these Algerian corn-growing lands have been more or
less continuously cultivated for two thousand years at least. Few
things have surprised modem agriculturists more than the fact that
Sir John Lawes has been growing the same crops in the same soils
at Rothamstead for about a quarter of a century. Compare this
with the historic examples just mentioned. Remember also the
wonderful absence of smut and other well-known cereal parasitic
diseases. And if you could only see this last and latest crop growing
in the thin soils which supported and fed two thousand ancestral
crops— how strong in haulm, and note the particular bluish-green
colour which denotes vigour — bearing ears of wheat from seventy to
eighty grains per head, you could not help wondering at the fact,
and marvelling still more at the cause.

Is it surprising, therefore, that a poor intellectual spectator like
myself should be burdened with an extra-scientific conundrum?
One could not help feeling that a correct explanation of the facts
observed would be of scientific and therefore of agricultural value.
How was an individual, crippled for time and opportunity, to get at
it ? I give my own experiments and conclusions for what they are
worth, and shall be very glad to exchange them for better.

The Algerian wheat-cultivating soils are not like those of Midland
England or of the Eastern counties — the results of the surface
weathering, of rich sub-soils such as the boulder clays or drift beds,
where we find commixed mineral ingredients, derived from all kinds
of rocks. On the contrary, the Algerian soils are only a few inches
in thickness. The plough which furrows them is really only a soil-
scratching machine. You see the Arabs carrying the slim wooden
ploughs on their shoulders, or across the saddles of the horses they
are riding, and which horses will shortly be pulling the soil-soratcber^

Among the Algerian Hills. 477

about. The latter is merely a wooden shoe tipped with iron.
Ransome's patent ploughshares are really a very old and geo-
graphically widespread idea modernly expressed.

Whence have the above soils been derived? From the wash
and weathering of the upper parts of the hills and mountains. There
they rise, in bald, precipitous crests, hardly supporting a wild plant on
their terribly hot upper surfaces. The sun's heat falls upon them
and expands the surface particles from their cohesive attraction. The
latter fall down as dust, the rains wash them to the lower slopes, and
thus add new fertility to the old soils. Year after year this has gone
on, and must go on until these picturesque and rugged mountain
crests are entirely reduced to powder, the powder converted into soil,
the soil into the substance of wheat, the wheat-food into men's
actions and thoughts. Thus, from the mineralogical and inorganic
conditions of Nature, we find transitions to the organic, intellectual,
and even spiritual development of mankind !

In Nature's chain whichever link you strike,
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.

All this is feasible, and even partly scientific — but it is not enough.
We chemically analyse this wonderful soil (which perhaps of old was
deemed possessed of mystic properties, as indeed it is). That test
is sufficient — the soil contains from 3 to 4 per cent, of natural
phosphate of lime ! Here is the secret of the strong crops of growing
wheat and oats, and of the consequent absence of cereal epidemic
diseases, such as smut and mildew. The plants are healthy and
well fed. But whence came the phosphates, and how were the same
soils capable, year after year, of growing the same bountiful crops ?
Again the geologist and chemist find the " Open sesame." The upper
part of the hills (limestone especially, but also sandstone) contain
extensive and rich beds of phosphate of lime. It has been from the
continuous weathering and degradation of these rocks that the
corn-growing soils lower down have been replenished and fertilised
year after year, for perhaps more than twenty centuries.

J. E. TAYLOR.

Vol. ccLxxi. no. 1931. K K

478 The Gentlemmis Magazine,

THE GREAT TALKERS OF THE
FRENCH REVOLUTION.

In Two Parts. — Part I.

THE bloody drama of the French Revolution will not soon fade
from the minds of men. Even in our own day a lively
interest is felt in its surprising incidents, its romantic episodes, its
terrible catastrophes, and both the novelist and the dramatist have
recognised the profound human sentiment which it involves. Every
fresh work which throws light on its causes or effects, or brings more
conspicuously forward the principal characters which figured in its
tragic scenes, is eagerly welcomed. I think it may be asserted with
truth that English students feel a deeper curiosity about Mirabeaa,
Robespierre, and Danton than even about their contemporaries of
our own race, Burke, and Fox and Pitt. Hitherto, however, the
writers attracted by this great subject have devoted their efforts in
the main to studies of its startling events, its historic consequences,
the nature and extent of its influence, its moral and political aspects,
or they have dwelt upon the character and career of its statesmen
and soldiers, its leaders of j)arties, its victims and its martyrs ; and
very little has been said upon itshterary relations, upon its poets and
journalists, and more particularly those on the anti-revolution sidd
Yet literature was greatly concerned in its inception and development.
It was born among epigrams ; it grew up among jests and satires,
repartees and boutades. Even when the guillotine was busiest, the
wits could not be silenced. A strange spectacle ! this intellectual
effervescence and efflorescence at a time when the pillars of the
social edifice were crumbling about men*s ears ! Lemercier gave up
writing tragedies, it is true, because tragedy, he said, had taken to
the streets ; but he did not give up writing in the newspapers, and
when the philosophers abandoned their metaphysics they compiled
*' Almanachs."

These " Almanachs " were a power in the land. As a recent
writer remarks, they furnished a means of propaganda, a machineiy

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 479

of war for or against the new regime. Those on the royalist side —
on the side of the counter-revolution — were very superior to their
adversaries in wit, humour, and literary form, and no doubt helped
very largely to foster and sustain a revulsion of feeling against the
sanguinary despotism of the Terror. But some of the Revolutionary
brochures were not wanting in force and a certain brutal strength.
Among the former the most widely popular seem to have been the
" Almanach des Grands Hommes," the " Almanach de Coblentz,"
the " Almanach des Gens de Bien," and the " Almanach Royaliste ;"
chief among the latter were the " Almanach des Honnetes Gens," by
Sylvain Mardchal, and the " Almanach du P^re Gerard/' by Collot
d'Herbois. The last of these pamphlets (for such they really were)
was the " Almanach du XIX® Si^cle."

The Revolution, as it flourished in the salons and clubs of Paris,
has recently been portrayed by M, du Bled in his charming and
gracefully-written volume, " I.es Causeurs de la Revolution," which
has had the honour of being crowned by the Acad^mie Frangaise.
M. Victor du Bled is well known by his articles in the Revue du
Monde, and by his interesting and valuable " Histoire de la Monarchic
de Juillet," as a lively and elegant as well as an exact writer, and his
latest contribution to the literature of the Revolution will not fail to
support his reputation. It presents a picture at once curious and
useful of the intellectual conditions of French society during that
memorable epoch ; while the variety of the names, the contrasts and
opposition of the characters, engage from first to last the attention
of the reader. M. du Bled's sympathies are entirely with the op-
ponents of the Revolution, however, and he has nothing to say of
the " causeurs " on the opposite side — of Tallien, Madame Roland,
Danton, Camille Desmoulins, and others ; but he probably argues that
they were too vehement in their methods, too irregular, and too much
in earnest to be ^^ causeurs'* in the true sense of the word. I^t us
take his book as he has written it, and let us be thankful for it, as a
fascinating memorial of a social phase which has passed away for
ever, but must always, as I have said, retain its attraction for the
student.

Foremost among the Great Talkers of the Revolution we must
place Count Anthony de Rivarol. He died in 1801, before he was
fifty, but he contrived to live a life of extraordinary fulness. He
wrote a learned " Discourse on the Universality of the French
Language"; he translated the "Inferno,"* he had some brief ex-

* The translation is not a success. Dante does not accommodate himself
easily to the French dress.

K K 2

480 The Gentleman's MagA2tHe.

perience as a soldier; he filled the "Journal Politique National"
with brilliant criticisms, which, from their profound sagacity and the
terse precision of their style, induced Burke to compare him to
Tacitus ; he was alternately philosopKer, polemist, and pamphleteer;
he defended the Monarchy with all his intellectual resources, though
no one saw more keenly the corruption of the Court and the use-
lessness of the aristocracy on which it leaned ; he was at one time the
principal causeur in the salons^ and by his epigrammatic utterances
did much to inspire French poetry with a new spirit, and to deliver
it from the rhetorical fetters under which it had almost perished ;
and he died at Berlin in 1801 as the representative of Louis XVIII.
During the last years of the eighteenth century he shared the realm
of conversation with Madame de Stael. To some extent we must
include him among those whom Shelley has happily termed the
"inheritors of unfulfilled renown;" he could have done so much
more than he had the time or the inclination to do ; of his real
and various intellectual gifts he has left us little more than the
tradition.

Chenedolld, who knew Rivarol thoroughly, thus describes hb
conversational powers. He plunged at once, he says, into one of his
truly prodigious monologues, taking for his thesis this, that the poet
is but a savage, full of genius and animation, to whom all ideas aie
present in images. The savage and the poet go round the circle^
both speak only in hieroglyphs, with this difference, that the poet
revolves in an orbit of much more extended ideas. And he pro-
ceeded to expand this text with an abundance of thoughts, a wealth
of views so subtle and so profound, a luxury of metaphors so brilliant
and so picturesque, that one listened to him wondering. He passed
on to another thesis, that " Art ought always to furnish itself with an
object, an aim, should recede incessantly, and put the infinite
between the artist and his model." This new idea was developed
with elocutionary spells of a still more astonishing character ; they
were truly the words oifeerie . . " I was all ear," says Ch6nedoI14
" to listen to those magical phrases which fell in sparkling fiashesi
like showers of precious stones, and were uttered, moreover, with all
the charm of a most melodious and penetrating voice, an organ of
the greatest variety, singularly subtle and enchanting."

Speaking of Delille, Rivarol depicted him as a nightingale, whose
brain was in his throat. Of Bufifon, he said that his style had pomp
and amplitude, but was diffuse and " pasty " — you could always see
the folds of Apollo's robe floating in it, but often the god himself
was not there. Of the younger Bufifon, that he was the poorest

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 481

chapter of hU father's natural history. The head of Mirabeau, he
said, was but a great sponge, always swollen with the ideas of others.
His reputation was due to the fact that he had invariably written
upon subjects palpitating with the interest of the moment His
brochures he described as fire-ships launched into the middle of a
fleet ; they set it on fire, but did not consume it Rivarol hated
Mirabeau. The great orator having imitated in the tribune the
famous gesture of the statue of Chatham, and introduced the
pleasantry of a child into one of his speeches, Rivarol exclaimed,
" What are we to think of the eloquence of a man who steals his
gestures from the dead and his bons mots from childhood ? " At the
close of a literary discussion between the two, Mirabeau said with a
sneer, " You are a droll kind of authority, and ought to remember
the difference there is between your reputation and mine." " Ah,
Monsieur le Comte," replied Rivarol softly, " I should never have
ventured to say that to you ! " Mirabeau, he said, was capable of
everything for money, even of a good action.

Once at table Rivarol made a blunder, which every person
present exclaimed against. "How is it," he said, "that I never
utter a foolish thing but that some one cries *Stop thief! '"

In the presence of an Abb^, nicknamed Abb^ Roul^, because he
had made a vow to keep his hair rolled up until the counter-revolu-
tion, Rivarol was censuring a certain measure and its authors — " If
they had had a little sense," said he, " they would have avoided this
fault." " Sense ! Sense ! " cried the Abb^. " It is sense — it is F esprit
— which has ruined us." " Then, Monsieur," retorted Rivarol, " why
have you not saved us ? "

Rivarol was a frequent contributor to that extraordinary work,
" Les Actes des Apotres." Eleven volumes, each of between six
and seven hundred pages, teeming with invectives, personal attacks,
calumnies in verse and prose, with portraits bordering on carica-
tures, with pleasantries which amount to insults, with smiles which
change into grimaces ; original always and often diverting ; some-
times eloquent and profound, but too frequently just as frivolous,
cynical, and even obscene ; adapted to the appetite of the crowd
rather than to the taste of the few. "A debauch of satires, an orgie
of personalities " ; comedies and tragi-comedies ; dialogues, farces,
burlesques, allegories, apologues, impromptus, sonnets, distichs,
vaudevilles, parodies ; all freely relieved by puns and jests — such
were the " Actes des Apotres," which Rivarol and his colleagues
continued for two years in daring disregard of the police and the
populace — replying with open defiances to revolutionary brutalities \

482 The Ge7ttlemans Magazine.

opposing pens to pikes, and imagining that with their penny thunder-
bolts {foudres d deux sous) they could withstand the advance of an
irresistible movement. The "Actes des Apotres" is the typical
journal of the reaction, just as the "Vieux Cordelier" of Camille
Desmoulins is the most characteristic voice of the popular Revolu-
tion. It is the protest of Aristocracy against Democracy.

According to contemporary authorities, the Apostles (there were
twelve chief contributors) celebrated once a week (like the gentlemen
on the staff of Mr. Punch), a Diner Evangelique, at the restauratear
Map's, in the Palais Royal. They talked and talked ; then wrote
down their talk at the end of the table. The number, thus
improvised, was conveyed to a secret press, and afterwards sold by
the publisher Gattey.

Here are some of the mots and maxims of Rivarol, thrown into
that aphoristic form the French delight in : —

" The female devotee believes in the devotees ; the sceptic in the
philosophers ; both are equally credulous."

"The poets have more deeply interested us by investing the
gods with human weaknesses than if they had invested them with the
perfections of the gods."

" Man is the only animal which kindles fire ; it is this which has
given him the empire of the world."

" Nothing astonishes when everything astonishes ; that is the
condition of infants."

"When one is right twenty-four hours before one's fellows, one is
accused for twenty-four hours of having no common sense."

" A man's greatness is like his reputation ; it lives and breathes
on the lips of others."

" Why men of the world are as a rule mediocre-minded and
crafty is because they occupy themselves much with men and little
with things."

" There are people who get nothing out of their wealth but the
fear of losing it."

"Out of ten persons who speak of us, nine disparage us,
and often the only one who says anything in one's favour says it
badly."

" The passions have a reasoning and interest, a logic which
philosophy does not sufficiently mistrust."

"When we cannot make men afraid we must make them
ashamed."

" Man passes his life in reflecting upon the past, incomplaiiuQgof
the present, and in trembling for the future."

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution, 483

"The people, in the services which one renders to them, will
not suffer prudence, and do not pardon repentance.'

" Favour the people who sacrifice their rhetoric to their patriot-
ism, and, having the talent of speaking, have the humanity to hold
their tongues."

" Contempt ought to be the most mysterious of our sentiments."

I pass on to the Abb^ Maury (1746 — 18 17). At the age of
nineteen, richer in hope and ambition than in worldly goods, the
future Abb^ set out from Avallon to seek his fortune in Paris. On
the way he fell in with two young men bound on the same errand
They soon exchanged with each other their youthful confidences.
Portal, the physician, wanted to become a fellow of the Academie des
Sciences ; Treilhar d aspired to the dignity of the magistracy ; and the
Abb^ saw himself already his majesty's chaplain. When in the
neighbourhood of the great city they heard the deep peal of the
cathedral bell, and immediately their imaginations were all afiame.
" Do you hear that bell ? " says Treilhard to Maury; " it says that you
will be archbishop of Paris." " Probably," replied Maury, " when you
shall be in the cabinet." " And what am I to be ? " asked Portal.
"Oh, you? you," they rejoined, "will be chief physician to the
king." Fortune took them at their word, and obligingly fulfilled
their ambitious anticipations.

In Paris the intellectual energy of Maury soon made itself felt.
At the age of twenty-six, for his Eloge on F^nelon, he was rewarded
with the appointment of vicar-general to the Bishop of Lemberg ;
after enjoying various other preferments he became preacher to the
Court. Once when preaching before Louis XVI. he surveyed the
administration, the financial condition of the country, and the chief
political questions, so widely and so well that the king smilingly
observed, " It is a pity ! If the Abb^ had but said a little about
religion he would have touched upon everything ! " On another
occasion, following in the steps of Bourdaloue, he dwelt so severely on
the vices of the nobles and the faults of royalty itself that his auditors
were visibly displeased, observing which, he adroitly added, "Thus
speaks St. Chrysostom." This put matters right ; his hearers were
willing to admire in a father of the Church that which they had
considered impertinent in a petty abb^.

When the States-General were assembled in 1789, Maury was
sent up as a clerical deputy from the circle of P^ronne, and defended
the cause of the Crown, which was also that of the Church, with
unfailing vivacity and courage. He displayed an equal courage, and
even greater mental alertness, as a member of the National Assembly;

484 The Gentlematis Magazine.

but there was little of the priest in his speeches or his actions, and it
times he would seem to have been hampered by his sacerdotal robei
As an orator he was almost the equal of Mirabeau ; and in debate
few have exceeded him in readiness of repartee, in coolness, in the
immediate detection of the weak points of an adversary's attack. To
Mirabeau, who boasted that he would hurl his arguments back upon
himself and shut him up in a " vicious circle," he replied, "What!
are you going to embrace me ? " A more famous proof of hii
readiness is his retort on the brutal Parisian mob which hunted him
through the streets of Paris with the shout, " A la lanteme! " "And
when you have hung me h la lanteme will you see any better?" A
retort which saved his life. On one occasion a wretch armed with a
cleaver pursued him, but without recognising him, saying, " Where ii
that Abbe Maury ? I will send him to say mass in hell ! " The
Abb^ stopped, and, seizing his pistols, said, " Yes, but you shall come
and serve me there ; see, he^e are my cruets " (the two vessels for the
water and the wine). The populace applauded heartily ; and he
walked off triumphant. Some of those terrible market women, the
dames de la halle^ were "cheeking " him good-humouredly : "You speak
like an angel. Monsieur TAbbe, but spite of it all you are a fooL'
" Quite right, mesdames ; but one does not die for that ! "

In the tribune he exhibited the most undaunted composure, in
spite of the vehement interruptions of his adversaries, the yelb and
cries of those whom popularity-hunters designate "our masten."
" Obtain me a hearing," he shouted to Mirabeau, across the tempes-
tuous sea of heads, " if you believe you can really triumph over my
principles, for in the midst of this tumult you triumph only over my
lungs." Mirabeau, shaking his fist at him, vociferated, "There is the
greatest rogue I know ! " " Oh, Monsieur de Mirabeau,** rejoined
Maury, " you forget yourself."

On the dissolution of the National Assembly, he left France and
retired to Rome, where the Pope loaded this brave and eloquent dfr
fender of the privileges of the Crown and the Church with well-merited
honours. He was made Archbishop of Nicsa, and in 1796 receiwd
a Cardinal's hat. But the atmosphere of Rome did not suit him,
and when Napoleon was reconciled to the Holy See, Maury made
his submission, returned to France, and in 181 1 was preferred to the
archbishopric of Paris. It was an inevitable result that on the !«*>■
ration of the Bourbons he should fall into disgrace. He fled again
to Rome, where he was imprisoned, and deprived of his cardinalatfi
and where he died in 18 17. His "Essais sur TEloqnence dc I»
Chaire " is ^ work of great ability, and contains much just and feiici-

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 485

tous criticism on the great French preachers, Fl^chier, Bridaine,
Bossuet, and Bourdaloue.

Maury seems to have had a strong attraction for Sainte-Beuve,
who has taken him as a subject of his rare critical powers in his
" Causeries du Lundi," and his " Nouveaux Lundis," as well as in his
" Portraits." The reader should also consult Poujoulat's " UAbbd
Maury, sa Vie et ses CEuvres."

Of the Abb^ Delille (1738-1813), the translator of Virgil, we
read that when the Revolution first broke out he remained in Paris,
but eventually lost patience, and for this reason, says a raconteur :
He met in the Rue du Roi a representative of the people, named
Canelon, who began to lament his misfortune in being unable to get
a week's holiday. " The Convention has but three orators," he said,
" and I am one of them." " It is impossible to live any longer in
such a country," cried Delille, and fled from Paris, crossed the
Channel, and took refuge in England, where he remained until the
fall of the Directory.

This is a good story, but, like many other good stories, it is not
true. When the revolutionary hurricane broke over France, and
tumbled down all the institutions in which the poet delighted, he was
haled before one of the revolutionary tribunals, but his life was spared
at the instigation of a journeyman mason, who ingeniously suggested
that as poets would be needed to celebrate the victories of the Re-
public, it was advisable to keep one alive. In 1793, when the Con-
vention had rehabilitated the Supreme Being, and decreed a f(§te in
His honour, Delille was ordered to write a congratulatory ode. He
obeyed, but when reading it to Robespierre he was peremptorily cut
short, his verses sounding like sarcasm in the Dictator's sensitive ears.
The poet then retired to St. Di^, and translated the " -^neid " ; after-
wards to Basel, and w/j- translated Milton. He produced also some
original poems, which were worse even than his translations. Napoleon
at a later period invited him to his Court, but the septuagenarian
poet shrank from its glare and glitter : " I have ceased to live," he
pleaded ; " I am but a spectator of life."

In his later years his menage was superintended by a woman whom
he at first called his niece, afterwards his wife. She watched over
his interests with as much avidity as if they had been her own. The
Paris booksellers, more prodigal than their confreres in London,
paid for bad poetry, and this affectionate housewife locked Delille up
in his chamber every day until he had turned out thirty lines, at six
francs per line, plus thirty sous for the " niece." One day, when
gome members of the poetic fraternity were with hip, she heard him

486 The Gentleman s Magazine.

reciting verses. Immediately she turned them out, protesting that
they had come to steal his couplets and sell them to the publishers.
On another occasion when, I suppose, he had neglected his daily
task, she threw at his head a ponderous quarto. The AbW picked it
up and said, mildly, " Madame, cannot you be content with an
octavo ? "

Delille was a better talker than poet, and his repartees are much
subtler than his verses. He was walking with some ladies in the
Champs Elysees on the day of that fantastic revolutionary "function,"
the Champ de Mars Federation (July 14, 1790). It was suffocatingly
hot, and one of the ladies exclaimed, "Oh, if some good fie would
send us refreshments ! " " Madame," said the Abbe, " address
yourself to the/V des ratiofis'^ (federation).

Charles Brifaut, calling upon him with two fair English admirers,
said, " Here is a deputation from France and England come to
salute Virgil and adore Milton." "Ah," replied he, "you are as
charming as the first, and as blind as the second." He was reciting
a passage from his poem on " Imagination." A person present in-
terrupted him at a certain line, with the remark, " That is Bemardin
de Saint-Pierre's." "What matters?" rejoined Delille, with vivacity.
" That which has been said only in prose has not been said at all."

In reference to the boastful, swaggering revolutionary leaders, he
told the following story :

" You remind me of an anecdote of a very simple Sicilian, who
was informed that the Viceroy had just died. *Good heavens!*
said he, * the Viceroy dead ! What a misfortune ! What will become
of us ? ' The next day another piece of bad news was brought to him.
* What, the archbishop dead ! ' He fell into despair, looked upon
himself as lost, and saw no hope of safety for unhappy Sicily. Then
on the third day came tidings of the death of the Pop>e. He turned
pale, his arms dropped by his sides, he could not utter a word.
Closing his shutters and drawing his curtains, he went to bed, and
expected the world's end. Twenty- four hours passed, and he heard
the sound of a vermicelli mill. * What ! ' he cried, * the viceroy
dead, the archbishop dead, the Pope dead, and they are making
vermicelli ! It cannot be possible ! ' To satisfy himself, he drew
aside his curtains, opened the shutters, and looked out into the
streets. The carts and carriages were going to and fro, and pur-
chasers were streaming into his neighbour's shop as usuaL Then he
reflected, and eventually observed, * Well, it seems as if, after all,
those personages who have just died were not indispensable.'"

To Naigeon, the author of the " Dictionary of Atheists," he

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 487

administered a sharp reproof. Naigeon had quoted a couple of
lines from Delille's poem on the Colibri :

Gai, vif, prompt, de la vie aimable et fr^le esquisse,
£t des dieux, sHls en ont^ le plus charmant caprice,

(And of the gods, if they have any, the most delightful fancy), alter-
ing the latter so as to read —

Et des dieux, /// en csty le plus charmant caprice,

(And of the gods, if there be one, &c.) And along with a copy
of his Dictionary he sent to the Abbd a formal brevet d^Athee, The
Abb^ replied : " My dear confrere, if you see in my verses what is
not there, and do not see in heaven what tSy the fault is not mine."

Simon Nicolas Henri Linguet (i 736-1 794) obtained at the
Parisian bar a brilliant reputation as an advocate, but raised about
his head a swarm of hornets by the publication of his " Theory of the
Civil Laws." He left Paris for awhile ; on his return he resumed
work as a journalist, but " the irascible adust little man," as Carlyle
calls him, placed himself in the power of his enemies by his bitter
paradoxes and an irony almost as savage as that of Swift. For
writing that "bread was a dangerous and pernicious invention " he was
brought before the revolutionary tribunal, was condemned to death,
and guillotined on the 27th of June, 1794.

He had a fine and biting wit, and scores of epigrams could be
selected from his writings and conversations.

"Liberty," he said, "for three-fourths of mankind is only the
right to die of hunger."

" It is never with folios that men have broken up into sects and
committed massacres. Let them write, but prevent them from
speaking, and States will always be at peace."

" The ' right of war ' demands the gratitude of those who might
be killed or robbed with impunity, when it is exercised in moderation.
This reminds me of the story of the good priest who, passing through
a street in Paris, was deluged with boiling water from a window.
Having wiped and dried himself as best he could, he tottered home.
At the sad sight of his swollen and half- flayed face, his mother and
his housekeeper cried out, * Good heavens ! what did you do to the
wretches ? ' * I thanked them.' * Thanked them ? And for what ? '
* Because they had not thrown the saucepan ; or, instead of scalding
my head they would have broken it.'"

" We are told of two birds, one of which fishes for his prey, and
preserves it in a big pouch which Nature has given to him, the other
which has only a pointed bill as his resource, harasses the opulent

488 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

fisher, and pecks at him incessantly until he is forced to open his
pouch and throw out a portion of the booty. Here you have an
exact picture of the English ministry and what is called the Opposi-
tion."

A specimen of his repartees : A Madame de Betbune brought
an action against the Mar^chal de Broglie, and, inspired by Linguet,
pleaded her cause with great eclat and success. Meeting the advocate
on the following day, in an antechamber, "Monsieur Linguet," said the
Marshal, in a significant tone, '^ allow Madame de Bethune to speak
to-day as she usually speaks and not as Monsieur Linguet makes her
speak, or you will have to reckon with me ; do you understand,
Monsieur Linguet?" "Monseigneur,*' replied Linguet, "you have
long since taught the Frenchman not to fear his enemy." Could
there be a happier instance of the soft answer that tumeth away
wrath ?

** If you drive the bishops from their palaces, they will take refuge
in the huts of the poor whom they have nourished. If you deprive
them of their crosier, their cross of gold, they will take a cross of
wood. It is a cross of wood which has saved the world."

These words — among the finest, says Du Bled, ever addressed to
a political assembly — are engraved on the tombstone of the Comte
de Montlosier (i 755-1838) at Randanne. Montlosicr was one of the
great talkers of the Revolution— one of its most vehement and
determined adversaries — a man of enthusiastic and fiery temper, who
fought for his ideas like a tigress for her young — " in whom fermented
the Gallican leaven, a Jansensist, and an aristocrat," always loyal to
the traditions of the Church and the Crown, though favourable to the
ideal of constitutional liberty. His intellectual gifts were many, and
so were his acquirements. He was conversant with theology, public
law, geology, agriculture, mesmerism ; but if he knew a good deal,
he knew nothing profoundly, having spread his efforts over too wide
a field, and failed to master the all-important science of giving to
one's ideas the cohesion and the logical method which alone renders
them efifectivc.

Driven from Paris by the excesses of the Revolution, he entered
into Germany, and afterwards into England, where he resided for
seven years, and was received on the friendliest terms by Burke, Fox,
and Pitt. He associated there with the royalists — Malouet, the
Chevalier du Panat, Lally, Cazales, and Rivarol, the last of whom,
writing to one of his friends, says : '* You are not acquainted with
Montlosier ; he loves wisdom foolishly, and moderation immoderately.''
He founded the Courricr (ie Londres^ to which his brilliant writing

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 489

soon gave importance. By the way, being admitted to an audience
of the Comte d'Artois (afterwards Charles X.) the latter, before all his
guests, exclaimed : •* Well, Monsieur de Montlosier, how about your
journal? It has sometimes a good many foolishnesses. '^ The reply
was unexpected : " I hear them so often that it is very possible one
escapes me now and then."

Montlosier's political views, which I may briefly sum up as
those of an aristocratic constitutionalist and a liberal churchman,
were no more popular under the Bourbons than they had been
under the Republic or the Empire. A man of unquestionable
piety, he was strongly opposed to the claims of the sacerdotal party,
which he denounced at all times with unsparing vigour. As early
as 1826, or fully ten years before his disgrace, he had expressed his
views on the subject to the historian M. de Barante : " The priests
look upon themselves as God ... is it fitting that such pretensions
should be raised in these times ? They will perish, and will make the
king perish with them. I desire that this people should give them-
selves to God, but I would rather they should give themselves to
the Devil than to the priests . . . The French may undergo every
kind of slavery but this, which they will never undergo ; it will
render the reigning family odious, and bring down upon it the
curse of the Stuarts."

Louis Philippe made him a peer of France ; and he lived in
tranquil retirement at Randanne until his death in December,
1838. On his deathbed he maintained the same independent
attitude towards the ecclesiastical authority which had distinguished
him during life. The last offices of the Church were denied to him
unless he signed a written retractation of his opinions. He would
not consent. ** God is just," he said, " and I can dispense with
prayers refused to me under such conditions. Let my body be
carried to the little mortuary mansion which is now ready at
Randanne ; let a cross be planted there to show that I wished to
die in the Catholic faith. The poor women as they pass by will
perform their reverences, and their prayers will suffice me."

Louis XIV. asked Cardinal de Sanson where he had obtained
his knowledge of politics. " Sire," replied the diplomatic prelate,
•* when I was Bishop of Digue, and running to and fro with a
dark lantern to find a Maire for the town of Aix." "And, in
effect," says M. Victor du Bled, " politics are composed of suc-
cessive apprenticeships, in which the knowledge of small affairs
leads to the comprehension of the great ; and undoubtedly the
miniature revolutions of that republic of Geneva which Voltaire pre-

490 The Gentlematis Magazine.

tended to dust all over with white powder when he shook his peruke^
helped the great Royalist publicist, Mallet du Pan (i 749-1800), to
understand the moral, the means, and the aim of the French
Revolution." "It is a noble spectacle," says an authority, "and
well fitted to elevate the sentiment of human dignity — that of this
Genevan republican — a royalist in France, a minister in partihus of
the moribund monarchy, caring for absolutely nothing but his
conscience, and truth, and logic ; who, whether he writes in his
Mercure Britannique^ whether he corresponds with his friends or
with the European cabinets, whether he addresses himself in his
pamphlets to the people, the kings, or the kmigres^ dissects men
and events with the skill of a consummate political surgeon ;
diagnoses the disease,, and indicates the remedy; who, by the
firmness of his intellect, his proud independence, and his un-
blemished probity commands universal respect. Consulted, if not
listened to, by the princes, he shows himself in the full force of the
word the historian ct la jourficc^ a pioneer historian, anticipating very
often the judgment of posterity. Dying in want, poor and worn
out, his soul blighted by so many failures, but always £iithful to its
ideal-combatting in the breach to the last sigh ! "

Mallet du Pan was about thirty years of age when he betook
himself to London, and for some time assisted Linguet (of whom
I have already spoken) in the publication of Les Annahs Poiiiigues,
But the two men were ill-adapted to work in collaboration, and
!Mallet du Pan, going back to his native Geneva, began an active
literary career as editor of the Mcnioires Politiques, Drawn to
Paris as the centre of the intellectual movement which was then
stirring the hearts and minds of men, he continued his journal
under the title of the Jcmrnal Historique ; and by his incisive and
steady eloquence and his firm proclamation of opinions, by his
political sagacity and his insight into the hearts of men, soon made
himself a power. He espoused the cause of the king and of con-
stitional monarchy with equal courage and loyalty, and I^uis XVL
confided to him an important mission to the courts of Berlin and
St. Petersburg. But events rushed onwards with such fatal haste
that his diplomacy was doomed to failure, and he himself was
impelled to seek refuge in Switzerland, while all his property in
l*aris was confiscated. Eventually he was driven for security to
London, where he started the Mercure Britannique^ and died in
!May 1800, of disease and disappointment — which was the cauae^
perhaps, of the disease.

I turn to M. Malouet, a man of singular moderation and

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 491

integrity, who met with the ill-fate that generally attends such
men in restless and disturbed times — all parties disowned him.
The kmigres hated him as a Jacobin. The Jacobins mistrusted
him as the accomplice or dupe of the Court ; and at a later time
Napoleon censured him as an ideologist, because he refused to
abandon his long-cherished ideal of a constitutional monarchy.
Meanwhile, all respected his incorruptibility, his administrative talents
(displayed in several important offices), his heroic firmness, and in-
flexible moderation. In the Constituent Assembly he defended with
the noblest fidelity the King, the Crown, and the public liberty. As
Burke said of him, he was the last who watched by the bedside of
the expiring monarchy — which might have been saved if he could
have breathed into the monarch his own constancy of soul and tenacity
of purpose.

He took refuge in England until the storms of the Terror had spent
themselves, and Napoleon had restored to France the gifts of law and
order. As commissary-general of the navy he did good service to the
Emperor; and, as councillor of state, better service by the frank
honesty of his criticisms ; until, for too openly and strongly protesting
against the Russian Expedition, he was disgraced and banished. He
was appointed Minister of the Marine on the restoration of Louis
XVHL, but held office only a few months, dying on the 6th of
September, 1814.

Jean Joseph Mounier was another of those sparkling "ideologists "
who hoped to raise on the crumbling foundations of the old despotism
a conslitutional monarchy like that of England, with two legislative
chambers and a responsible executive. At the outset of his career
he had sought to enter the army ; but finding himself baffled by the
obstacles which the prejudices of the aristocracy threw in the way, he
turned to the legal profession, in which his rise was extraordinarily
rapid. He was scarcely twenty-five when he was appointed
juge royal at Grenoble ; and in the six years that he held office only
one of his judgments was appealed against. In 1788, prior to the
momentous convention of the States-General at Versailles (the initial
stage of the Revolution), the States -General of Dauphind met at
Vizille ; and there, under the impulse and guidance of Mounier,
discussed some of those great political problems which had begun to
agitate the public mind. By the power of his oratory and his
philosophical grasp of principles, he carried with him in one common
action the noblesse^ the clergy, and the third estate. The path of
legal resistance was distinctly traced out ; the ministry were
forewarned that the absolute pleasure of the sovereign would no

49^ l'^ Gentlematis MagdziHi.

longer be accepted as a substitute for law ; that the people had their
rights and were resolved to reclaim them ; and that representation
must precede taxation ; but all this was accompanied with a scni-
pulous regard for the honour, and even the prerogatives, of the
Crown. These constitutional ideas were rapidly accepted by the
conscience of the nation, so that it was said, ** Dauphin^ rules
France and Mounier rules Dauphin^."

On the convocation of the States-General in 1789, Mounier was
unanimously elected a member. In that assembly he pursued the
same path of equity, favouring liberty, but dreading revolution and the
chaos which he foresaw would attend upon it. Of the National
Assembly, which grew out of the States-General, through the
persistency of the third estate, mainly led by Mounier, in refusing to
the noblesse and the clergy the privilege of a separate veto, he was
elected — this young provincial lawyer (he was only thirty or thirty-one
years old) — president on the 28th of September ; and in this position
was called upon to face the earliest outbreak of the revolutionaiy
tempest. What followed the reader knows from the histories.
Mounier showed energy, resource, coolness ; but the elements were
unchained, and swept him off his feet The monarchy fell ; and
Mounier, with his dreams of constitutional government rudely
shattered, retired to Grenoble in January 1790. He was not safe
there, and crossed the Alps into Savoy. Thence he proceeded to
England. In 1802 he leturned to France, and was made a Councillor
of State. In the opening days of 1806 he closed a career which had
been marked by a brief period of extraordinary splendour. " He was
an honest man," said Napoleon, when informed of his death. Not a
bad epitaph as times go !

The next name brought before us by M. Victor du Bled is that of
the novelist, poet, and man of letters — Jean Fran9ois Marmontel—
who was born in the summer of 1723, and died on the last day of
1 799 ; so that he lived through three-fourths of that memorable
eighteenth century, which will always have such an attraction for the
historian and the philosopher. He was a young man of twenty-two,
when, with fifty crowns in his pocket, he started from Clermont to
proceed to Paris, his soul kindling with ambitious hopes. On the
way he translated Pope's " Rape of the Lock "; and on his arrival in the
capital sold the translation for a hundred crowns. This was his
first publication (1746). Like many of the singing brotherhood he
experienced at first the pangs of disappointment and privation ; but
he found a powerful friend in Voltaire, who literally forced upon
the public his poem in honour of Louis XIV. after the battk

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 493

of Fontenoy), and recommended him to write for the stage.
Marmontel, however, had no dramatic genius ; and the three
tragedies which he perpetrated, and was lucky enough to get pro-
duced, are inconceivably dreary. In one his heroine is Cleopatra,
and he turns the famous Queen of Egypt into a talkative French-
woman, for whom Mark Antony would never have lost a world !
He was not much more successful with his operas ; and as for his
odes and heroic poems, his contemporaries would have none of them,
and posterity has approved their decision. No French critic, so far
as I am aware, has shown any desire to rummage among the shreds
and tatters of dead literature in which they lie imbedded. It is not
to be wondered at, perhaps, that the needy man of letters, in these
untoward circumstances, accepted the patronage of Madame de
Pompadour, one of whose frailties was the desire to pose as a kind
of beneficent Muse towards bad poets, who repaid her alms with
complimentary stanzas and fulsome dedications. Marmontel did not
find a secure foothold in the literary demesne until he began his
" Contes Moraux " (some of which sadly belie their title) in the
Mercure in 1756. They were published complete in 1761, and at
once established his reputation as an ingenious raconteur^ with
abundant fancy and humour, and as a writer of pure and elegant
French. More; they secured him in 1763 one of iht fauteuils oi
the Academy. His ** Bdlisaire," published in 1767, obtained imme-
diate popularity, and in our English schools long rivalled in popularity
as a class-book F^nelon's "T^ldmaque." But his most important, if
not his most readable work, is "The Elements of Literature,"
which contains a good deal of sound and felicitous criticism.

Marmontel was a member of the National Assembly in 1 789. His
sympathies were necessarily with the old regime^ but with a soupfon
of liberality. He was not of the stuff of which martyrs are made, and
retiring from Paris, concealed himself until the whirlwind of the
Terror had raged away its fury.

If the " Elements of Literature " be his most important work, his
most agreeable is his " Mdmoires," in which he reflects himself— his
enjoyment of life, his keen perception, his volatile wit, his intellectual
Sybaritism — with charming vivacity. But he does more ; he sketches
the ** Men I have known " with equal fidelity and grace. Statesmen,
courtiers, men of letters, the women of the salons — ^Voltaire, Rousseau,
the Abb^ Maury, Vauvenargues, Necker, Calonne, Madame Geoffrin,
Madame de Tencin — all flit through his animated pages in their
habits as they lived — sometimes, perhaps, with a touch of caricature
or a sally of bitterness— which is very improper, no doubt, but makes
vo;,. ccLxxi. NO. 1931. L L

494 ^^ Gentlemaiis Magasme.

his book all the pleasanter reading. Of comse it is fall of tneodotOi
and no one tells an anecdote better than MarmonteL There are a
couple about the poet Panard — a reckless wcxshipper ol BuffdHM ai
well as the Muses, who proved his confidence in his friends by alkm-
ing them to support him. Once when Marmontel was compiliiig
the Mercure for the month, he bethought himself that he would
like to brighten its pages with some pretty veises, and hastened to
Panard to procure what he wanted. "Look," said his friend, **iii
that wig-box yonder." Marmontel did so, and found it crammed
with dirty scraps of paper, on which the poet had scribbled hit
rhymes. Observing that nearly all of them were stained with wine^
Marmontel commented on the accusing circumstance. ''Take them,
take them as they are," said Panard ; " that is the seal and stanp
of genius."

Meeting him soon after the death of his friend Galet, Marmookd
expressed his S)'mpathy with him in his affliction. " Ah, sir," be
replied, '* my sorrow is indeed very true and very deep at parting villi
a friend who had shared my life for thirty years ! On the promenade
— at the spectacle — in the cabaret we were always together, and
now I have lost him ! I shall sing with him and drink with him no
more ! I am alone in the world, and know not what will become of
mc." And while he spoke the tears ran down the good man's cbecbi
After a moment he added, " You know that he died in the Temple?
I have been there to weep and lament over his grave. But what a
grave ! Sir, would you believe it ? They have buried him wider a
spout — him who, from the time he reached the years of discietioi^
never drank a drop of water ! "

Marmontel was a gay and easy talker, and held his own in Ae
most intellectual circles in Paris. As much may be said of the Abb6
Morellet, who resembled him in the lighter elements of character as
well as in literary taste, but was capable, as his "Cri des FamiDes'
shows, of striking a deeper and more sympathetic note^ and in Ui
satire was more serious as well as more caustic. Such, indeed, «ai
the sharpness of his irony and the severity of his sarcasm Aat
Voltaire (whom he visited at Femey in 1775), nicknamed lus
'* Mords-les," or Bite V;;/. His life was busied with much gRver
issues than any which Marmontel took up ; he sought to modify the
terrible penalties then inflicted for the lightest offences ; he attadoed
the monopoly of the French East India Company ; he rendered im-
portant services in those complicated negotiations between Engjtani
France, and the United States, which terminated the War of
Independence. During the Revolution he wrote several palitiGri

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 49^

pamphlets ; but he was then an old inan, and though he lived through
the Napoleonic period and saw the restoration of the Bourbons, the
latter years of his life were comparatively undistinguished. He died
in January 181 7, aged 92,

His "M^moires" are more agreeable than those of Marmontel,
and his " Gallery of Portraits " is fuller. It includes Madame de
Boufflers, Madame Geoffrin, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, Buffon,
Rousseau, theTrudaines, the d'Holbachs, LaHarpe, Beccaria, Arnault,
Brienne, the Abbd Rajmal, Chamfort, Condorcet, Malesherbes,
Ganick, and Franklin. These names are sufficient to assure the
reader of the variety and richness of the plats the good Abb6 has
served up for him. Anecdotes are as plentiful as in the " M^moires "
of .Marmontel. Here is one, which has appeared under several
disguises : '' A peasant's curious idea of pleasure was to listen to the
doctors disputmg in Latin at the University. When asked what
amusement he could find in listening to a discussion in an unknown
tongue, since the value of the arguments must necessarily escape him,

* Oh,' cried he, * I don't go by what they say — I am not such a fool. I
watch who first puts the other in a rage, and I know that he has the
better of it.' "

Here is another and a less familiar one : '' When the Deputies
gave their votes for the punishment of Louis XVI., many of them
said < Death,' with some qualifying speech, or phrase of explanation,
or recommendation 4;o mercy ; but on its coming to the turn of the
Abbd Sieyfes, he jerked out, ^La mort sans phrases^ Death without
phrases. Sieybs was afterwards sent to Berlin, as French ambassador,
and the king pressed one of his ministers to show him some attention.

* No,' said the minister, * et sans phrased "

An English translation of Marmontel's "M^moires" was published
about 1831-32. A new edition of Morellet's appeared in 1821, in
two volumes.

The three greatest figures which stand out on the blood-red
canvas of the Revolution are those of Mirabeau, Robespierre, and
Napoleon. With the two latter I have here no concern ; and with
Mirabeau, that man of colossal genius and tempestuous life, I have
no space to deal. How many ordinary lives did he not contrive to
press into his short span of two-and-forty years (1749-91) ? What a
crowded, restless, passionate, and kaleidoscopic career did he not
contrive to work out between that stormy youth, with its dark shadow
of parental tyranny, and that premature death, which sounded the
tocsin of the French Monarchy ! One needs a certain amount of
audacity to embolden one to lay hold on so Titanic a character, and

L L 2

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Im» i*)mu<( wKh RtMMl lip*, mk) twcpt iuoqalck foretthiaen C
kttr<l«Mt Im-I nil* ..ili*f ynn r

Miiil Kr«>n( men arc remembered by Iheir achicwcmcoti. tft .
(lie itiiiiMlni f'lttuno of Mlrabcau to be remembered by the »
Hii'iiti i>t|iai>iiii| lit tiliii,

ft litlllUiit mlkcf : (cric. incisive, epigrammatic. H«
ii|> It (unit in It «ii)j:t« itbtuc He baptized La FifM
''(i**m(l«.«-lVi*»v«vll." Ne<k«-w« "«e*od! behind lime.- "
vlv*»Mr«» \*vt rwtKh «K • "Btttw* (rf ipca, with the Uijw rf
> tNttW tMinH

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 497

paroquets." The deputies of the National Assembly were "wild
asses, whom Nature had endowed with no other faculty than that of
kicking and biting." He said of Bamave that '' he was a fine tree
which would one day become a ship's mast" Of Robespierre, " he
will go for, for he believes all he says." Of Pastoret, "he has a fox's
brain in a calfs head."

Some of his maxims are as pointed as arrows :

" The people are never called upon to be grateful, because one is
never out of their debt"

" The/^/ au feu is one of the bases of empires."

" It is more important to impose upon men habits and manners
than laws and tribunals."

" The silence of peoples is the lesson of kings."

He was no believer in the claptrap of equality. When the
Assembly had prohibited the use of titles, his valet addressed him
one day as " Monsieur " — and nothing more. " Rascal ! " cried
Mirabeau, " know that to thee I shall always be * Monsieur le
Comte.'"

The fret and fever of his existence wore him out while he was
yet in the prime of manhood — only forty-one. But it is no light task
to lay hands upon the revolutionary spirit, to curb it, and guide it in a
given course ; and labour of all kinds, incessantly prosecuted, ex-
hausted him, body and soul. " Had I not lived with him," says
Dumont, " I never should have known what a man could make out
of a single day; how much might be accomplished in a period of twelve
hours. A day for this man was more than a week or a month is
for others. The mass of things which he kept going simultaneously
was prodigious ; from the conception to the execution not a moment
was lost." "Monsieur le Comte," said his secretary, on one occasion,
"what you demand is impossible." "Impossible!" he exclaimed,
starting from his chair, " never name to me that beast of a word {Ne
mi dites jamais cette bite de mot),^*

In his last hours he was still Mirabeau — the Titan Mirabeau —
with all his intellect aflame, expressing himself in words which glowed
with lava-heat. He was never more Mirabeau than on that strange
death-bed over which France hung weeping and despairing, as over
the ruin of her hopes. Hearing the report of a cannon, he suddenly
burst out, " What ! are those already the obsequies of Achilles ? "
Later he said, " I carry in my heart the death-dirge of the monarchy;
its remains will now be the spoil of the factions." Yet again, to a
friend who was sustaining him, " Aye, support that head ; would
I could bequeath it to thee." And gazing forth on the young April

498 The Gentlefndn's^ Magazine. ^' •^'

morning, with its sky full of the light 6f the ris^h sun, he sighed: "If
that be not God yonder, it is at lea)st his cousin gennan." By-and-bj
the disease mastered the faculty of speech ; the dying giant, still
unconquered, made sighs for pen and paper, and scrawled an im-
passioned request for opium to end his agonies. The physician
shook his head. ^^ Dormir!^^ (To sleep) he wrote, and pointed
with appealing finger to the terribly significant word. A few minutes^
and the rest he sought came to him. Standing at thefbotofhts
bed, the doctor murmured, " // ne souffreplus " (He suffers no more^
All was over — the suffering and the battle.

W. H. DAVENPORT ADAUS.

\To he concluded^

499

TfVO PRIMITIVE RELICS OF
LONDON HISTORY.

ALL London history is not centred in the City, nor does all
its earliest stages cluster round London Stone. Very much
has been written about this famous monument of the past, and quite
lately Mr. Grant Allen has summed up what I and others have had
to say about it. I think, perhaps, this particular stone may now be
said to have been restored to its rightful place in London history,
and if any new facts are at some future time forthcoming about it, they
will most probably find a place in the story Mr. Grant Allen has so
skilfully pieced together from fragments hitherto considered almost
unreadable.

' But there are at least two other stones connected with the history
of London which deserve some little attention, and which, in their
way, are as important to London as the famous palladium in Cannon
Street. In these two cases, however, the investigation begins with
the fact that the stones themselves no longer exist. That they did
exist we shall see presently, but the hand of Time has dealt hardly
with them and has swept them away from our midst

The most interesting point about them is, perhaps, that they were
not situated in the City. They belong, in fact, to the area lately trans-
formed into the new county of London, and I think it will be found
that they form a not unimportant element in the earliest history of
this new county. I am one of those who believe in the practical value
of old landmarks in the history of local institutions, and I think that
the Londoners of the new county may be just as proud of the part
their ancestors played in English histor)' as the Londoners of the old
and famous city. These other stones, then, whose history vies with
that of London Stone, were respectively situate, the one in the
Strand, just opposite Somerset House, the other at Westminster —
not the stone brought from Scotland, and about which so much has
been written and imagined, but a genuine London konigstone, king-
stone, whose connection with the later history of the nation has quite
obscured its earlier origin.

500 The Gentleman's Magazine.

I take up the story of the Strand stone first, because it is short
and to the point, and because it helps towards elucidating the more
difficult story of the Westminster stone.

It commences with Stow's note about its condition in 1598. He
mentions " one large middle row of houses," stretching west from
Temple Bar "to a stone cross, now headless, by or against the
Strand." Its sorry condition in the sixteenth century foreshadows its
total disappearance later on, and so we turn from the monument itself
to its associations.

First, as to its site. It is placed in such close proximity to the
Church of St. Clement Danes, with its traditional connection with
the Danish conquerors of London, that there seems but little needed
to confirm it as one of the landmarks of the Danish settlement here.
In Dublin, where there was a Danish settlement in the heart of the
city ; in Rochester, where there was a similar settlement near the
castle, the influence of Danish institutions has imprinted a lasting
mark on the history of the municipality, and in each case the centre
of interest is at the ancient meeting-place of the community— the
thing-moot, as it was called in Dublin until historical times.

This interesting fact suggests that we might search for some
evidence as to the meeting-place of this Danish community<in
outer London. Everyone has heard of the Maypole in the Strand,
and it is curious to observe that May Day and the Maypole are
both connected with the yearly gathering of the free community
among our Scandinavian ancestors. But there is something closer
than this to connect this stone in the Strand with one of the
ancient meeting-places, law-courts, or thing-moots of our ancestors.
We find that rents were paid on this stone cross, and rents in
early days were paid to manorial courts, rather than to individoal
landlords. Thus Walter le Brun, farrier, in the Strand, had a
piece of ground in the Strand in the parish of St. Clement, and
he rendered six horse-shoes for it. This rent was paid formally
"at the stone cross," and examples occur in our early recoidi
both in the reign of Edward I. and Edward II. The point I
am anxious to bring out here is that the property whose rent
was paid " at the stone cross " was property situated always in
the parish of St. Clements, and the legitimate inference is that
this stone cross was the central meeting-place of the commonity
where all public business was transacted.

Nor is this all. Stow assures us that he had read '' that in the
year 1294, and divers other times, the justices itinerants sate
without London at the stone cross over against the Bishop of

Two Primitive Relics of London History. 501

Coventrie's house, which was hard by the Strand." Stow's reading
was quite accurate. In the " Chronicles of the Mayors and Sheriffs
of London," under the year 1274-5, is an entry that upon the
octaves of St Martyn (November 11) "the justiciars in Eyre sat
at the cross of Saint Peter," an entry that is corrected in 1293
to "la croisse de Piere," the stone cross, and not the cross of
St. Peter. Thus, from perfectly authentic records we learn that the
stone cross in the Strand, opposite to the present Somerset House,
was the central meeting-place for legal and semi-legal matters, and it
is a thought worth bearing in mind that not a stone's-throw from
this ancient spot are now situated the stately Law Courts of the
Kingdom.

I want to dwell upon the fact that this primitive method of
conducting things legal was prevalent in London during the reign
of Edward L and Edward IL; probably long afterwards. We are
so accustomed to think of things in the past just as we observe
them to be in the present, that it is sometimes difficult to quite
understand that the people of the thirteenth century in outer
London had not got out of their old-fashioned method of holding
courts in the open air. In the country the practice was continued
until almost within the memory of our grandfathers in innumerable
places, and the subject makes a very interesting chapter in the history
of early institutions. But in London, besides this general interest, it
has a special interest ; because it illustrates a very curious subject in
our national history, and takes us to another stone, similarly used,
and situated at Westminster.

This stone at Westminster has become obscured by the famous
coronation stone which Edward I. brought from Scotland.
There are two facts about this coronation stone which interest us in
our quest for the other stone. The first is the assigned reason for
its being brought to London, "as a sign,*' says the chronicler
Hemingford, " that the kingdom had been conquered and resigned."
Now my point is that the people understood this sign — this piece
of legal folk-lore as we may perhaps be permitted to call it.
That they did so is incidentally proved by the fact that when
Edward II. concluded his treaty with the victorious Scots, he stipu-
lated that the ancient coronation stone was to be given up, but, " the
people of London would by no means whatever allow it to depart
from themselves." So that it comes to this : Edward I. knew
that his fetish symbol of conquest would be understanded ot
the people, and they, faithful to their old traditional ideas, kept
this symbol in their midst.

502 The Genttematis Magazine.

Did then the people of England, like the people of Scotland
and of Ireland, elect their monarchs on a stone ? We know of the
Anglo-Saxon practice and of its whereabouts — at " Klingstone " in
Surrey. But we know nothing of a stone at London prior to the
Scottish coronation stone. And yet such a stone existed, and its
history is more remarkable than that even of the famous coronation
stone.

It is significant that we commence with the Danish occupation
of London in our search for this stone. The election of kings in
Denmark was commonly held in this solemn manner : the nobles
agreed upon some convenient place in the fields, where, seating
themselves in a circle upon so many great stones, they gave their
vote. This done, they lifted their newly-elected monarch upon a
stone higher than the rest, and saluted him king.

Now I am going to suggest that " a convenient place in the
fields " near Danish London was in the isle of Thomey, at present,
as we all know, the site of Westminster. Worsaae, the Danish
scholar, who has examined all the evidence as to the Daiush
occupation of England, says that Canute had a castle at Thomey,
and the name preserved in "Tothill"* Street is indicative of eariy
Danish occupation.

Edward the Confessor we know was there, and built his palace ;
but in his third charter to the Abbey a bull of Pope Nicholas II.
is inserted, which contains a clause alluding to the ancient seat of
the kings at Westminster. "Sedes" is the Latin word used for
seat, and it does not mean seat in our modem sense of a habitation,
but literally a seat, a sitting place, the same word being used by the
chroniclers in describing the stone seat of Scone upon which the
kings were crowned. This then gives us the first hint of there
being an old king's stone at Westminster before Edward I. brought
the Scottish stone there. The details of the coronation ceremony
supply with absolute certainty the evidence that this stone was in the
great hall, which, indeed, was probably built on this site by the
second Norman king, so as to cover the coronation seat of the
sovereigns. Thus, at the coronation of all the later kings, from
Richard III. back to Edward, the ceremony commenced at "the
stone " in Westminster Hall by the king being lifted thereon !

* It is worth noting, perhaps, that this name was preserved for Londonen bf
the late Mr. W. J. Thorns. A few years ago it was proposed by the Metro-
politan Board to abolish the name and substitute some other for it, bat Hl
Thorns called upon the authorities at Spring Gardens, and never rested until he
persuaded them not to obliterate so historical a London landmark.

Two Primitive Relics of London History, '503

This stone was twelve feet long and three feet broad, and from the
peculiar dignity attached to it at the coronation it was called the
" King's Bench." Like other king's stones some remarkable legal
customs were performed there, including the swearing-in of officers ;
and there the Lord Chancellor "anciently sate," says Dugdale,
"and held his court." Stow says, "that at the upper end of
Westminster Hall was a long marble stone and a marble chair,
where the kings of England formerly sat at their coronation dinners,
and at other solemn times the Lord Chancellor."

It would be tedious to go through all the minute antiquarian
points which I have collected to prove that in the " King's Bench "
at Westminster — the stone from which the court of that name was
called — we have in London a true konig's stone of our own, on
which our kings were crowned, and on which they or their
chancellor sat to administer justice. But perhaps the few notes
here given will be sufficient for the purpose, especially when it is
added that one chronicler records the fact that Edward L
did not dedicate the Scottish stone for the coronation of English
sovereigns, but "directed it to be made the chair of the priest
celebrant."

G. LAURENCE GOMME.

504 The Gentleman's Magazine.

KINGFISHERS.

THE last winter wrought dire havoc among our feathered
friends ; and spring came and went, with the brooks and
watercourses unenlivened by the darting presence of " the sea-blue
bird." For, with the hands of the milliner and collector already
heavy upon it, the kingfisher has been unable to withstand this addi-
tional blow of fortune, and is now actually a rare bird. That rarity
in this case may not prove to be the precursor of extinction is
devoutly to be wished. Should the kingfisher be lost to us, we
should miss not only the most brilliant, but also one of the most
interesting of our native birds, for its position in northern bird-life
is a rather isolated one ; the head-quarters of the family are in the
eastern tropics, where the steaming forests bring forth food in
abundance, lizards, frogs, and huge gorgeous butterflies, broad of
wing as bats. And this is the diet favoured by a large section of thb
beautiful tribe of birds, though in more languages than one the name
bestowed on them indicates proficiency in the " gentle craft ; " and
it is really applicable to many species, especially to the most familiar
of all. Yet, as it is an unusual thing for a land-bird to get its living
from the water, the primitive kingfisher doubtless preyed, as so many
do now, on anything it could snap up ; until, urged no doubt by
necessity, some members of the family took to a fish regimen. And
these had the best chance of surviving in the more northern regions
of the world, where in winter insects and reptiles are conspicuous by
their absence. Even as it is, with the ponds frozen, and the fish
hiding away at the bottom of the streams, the poor kingfisher has a
hard time of it, and often cold and hunger are too much for him,
and he is found frozen stiff on his perch ; for he has not the tireless
wings of the gull and gannet, which enable those hardy birds to range
over miles of water in search of food ; and his little weak feet unfit
him for " footing it" afield in search of what fare he might find on land.
Thus he is reduced to sitting on a perch and watching for his prey,
and in a hard winter the watch is apt to be a fatally long one. Not
but that he occasionally takes his prey on the wing^ hovering like a

Kingfishers. 505

miniature hawk over the water, into which he drops like a stone when
he has marked his victim, which is borne ashore, knocked against a
stone or branch, and swallowed whole. And his black and white
relative, the Nile kingfisher, frequently fishes from the air at sea,
swooping into the surf as boldly as any sea-fowl, and retiring to the
rocky shore when tired. Our familiar bird, too, is not unfrequently
to be seen by the sea-side, especially when hard weather locks up the
inland waters ; and the classical writers seem to look upon it as a
shore-haunting bird. To them it was the halcyon, the sea-brooder,
for whose sake the rough mid-winter sea was stilled for two weeks,
the famous halcyon days, in the first seven of which the bird built its
floating nest, hatching and rearing its brood in the remaining seven.

For the story went that Alcyone, seeing the drowned corpse of
her beloved husband Ceyx, who had gone to consult an oracle, cast
up on the shore, threw herself into the sea in despair, and that the
pair were changed into birds, who bore the name of the devoted wife,
and evermore stilled for a season the waves, which had dealt by them
so cruelly when in human form.

As a matter of fact, however, it must be confessed that the
nesting of the kingfisher is sadly prosaic A hole in a bank forms
the halcyon's humble dwelling, and the nest is composed of fish-
bones, which the birds eject after digesting the flesh. The eggs,
however, are very beautiful, the yolk within giving an exquisite flush
to the smooth white shell. But from them are hatched uncommonly
ugly young birds, at first naked, but soon, owing to the sprouting
quills which cover them, bearing a distinct resemblance to young
hedgehogs. They are extremely voracious, and their abode is
malodorous to a degree. However, when they leave it, which they
do not till they are well-fledged, they are little inferior in beauty to
their parents.

The nest is often made at some distance firom water, though in
its ordinary flights the kingfisher keeps pretty close to that element,
even preferring to shoot under a bridge rather than over it, and too
often encountering a net in the archway. Now and then, however,
the bird may be seen flying overland, well above the trees, and no
doubt in this way it discovers the out-of-the-way ponds at which it
sometimes appears, greatly to the astonishment of some people, who
seem to think that the bird has some mysterious power of its own
to detect water. But mystery seems destined to hang about the
kingflsher, and it is a familiar bird in other legends than those of
Greece ; witness the belief, to which Shakespeare and Marlowe
allude, that a dead kingflsher, hung up in a room, will serve as a

5o6 The Gentlematis Magazine.

weathercock, pointing with its bill in the direction of the wind ; it is
even added, that the dried body will continue to moult every year as
though still alive.

Then there is the German story, that the kingfisher, then a plain
grey bird, was let out by Noah from the ark, when the dove returned
baffled from her weary search for land ; and the tale goes on to tell
how the bird, exulting in her liberty, flew sq high that her back was
dyed in heaven's own blue, and she thought to reach the sun ; but,
beaten back and scorched in the breast by the glare as she drew
near, she turned her flight earthwards, and after refreshing herself by
several dips, looked for the ark. But behold ! she had been gone so
long that meanwhile the waters had subsided, Noah and the beasts
had gone out of the ark, and it had been broken up ; and to this
day, the homeless fisher, still wearing the blue and orange colours
won on her adventure, seeks her old abode and master wherever
the waters linger.

Then, too, what of the singing power which the old writers
give to the halcyon ? No one ever hears it sing nowadays ; but
more than one foreign species is said to sing, and possibly our
bird once had a musical gift, which it has lost in the course of ages.
If it still retains its powers, it must be less persecuted before there
is a chance of proving them.

But one might fill a volume with the various stories, legends,
and theories which attach to this little bird. Its relatives, though
numbering over sixscore, have been rather neglected, as a rule.
There is a story told, however, about the North American belted
kingfisher— a larger bird than ours, grey and white, but of similar
habits. This is to the effect that it received the white collar
which now adorns it as a reward from one of the Indian gods,
to whom it had rendered some service ; but that the slight crest
on its head was caused by a ruffling of the feathers consequent
on an attempt of the spiteful deity to wring the bird's neck as he
was thus rewarding it ; an attempt from which it escaped with
difficulty, and, we should think, was more careful in future
after laying a celestial being under an obligation.

It is rather a difficult matter to draw a line between the various
fishing kingfishers, such as those above mentioned, and the om-
nivorous section of the family (which are often called kinghunters),
for some'of these closely resemble the common kingfisher both in
form and plumage, and some frequently catch fish, such as the New
Zealand kingfisher. This bird, by the way, at one time got into
sad disgrace for destroying the young of the common spanowt

Kingfishers. 507

about the introduction of which some trouble had been taken. The
colonists are not so anxious for the sparrow's company now, and
the kingfisher can bolt as many fledgelings as it pleases, without
fear of calling down public indignation on its head. Quite as
omnivorous as this bird is the only member of the kinghunter faction
which has attained to any distinction. This is the laughing jack-
ass, who, though he has become known to the civilised world in too
enlightened an age to be surrounded by a mythical atmosphere,
is nevertheless a personage of repute. In appearance, though there
is an evident family resemblance between the two, he presents some-
what of a contrast to his small relative of our islands. Nearly as
big as a rook, he is clad in soft loose plumage of sober brown and
white, the family blue only cropping up, faint and silvery, on his
wings. His bill is shorter and stouter than the spear-like weapon of
his congener, and he rejoices in a fine black-barred tail, which occa-
sionally erects itself in a ridiculous way, as if it acted independently.
His usual expression is one of preoccupied wisdom, as he sits motion-
less, with puffed-out feathers, on his perch ; but let anything edible
"turn up" below, and this feathered Micawber is down upon it
with a promptitude which belies his usual air of philosophic ab-
straction. In taste he is not fastidious ; lizards, frogs, *' mice, rats,
and such small deer," are all welcome, and his expertness in destroy-
ing snakes has naturally endeared him to serpent-hating humanity.
Neither does he despise the humble earthworm, in procuring which
his bill does good service as a pickaxe. His movements are not
replete with the poetry of motion ; he hops, as Buckland well ex-
presses it, with a peculiar high action, like a London street sparrow,
and his flight is as sober and heavy as our bird's is swifl and flashing.
He does not seem to care for water as a beverage, but rejoices, as so
cynical a philospher should, in his tub, splashing in and out with an
energy few land-birds can equal.

But of course the great eccentricity of this Australian wag is his
peculiar voice, which really does resemble a loud coarse laugh ; and
with this music he is wont to salute the neighbourhood so regularly
at daybreak, noon, and nightfall, that one of his local names is the
"bushman's clock." He also, however, laughs at other times if the
occasion seems to him to warrant an outburst of hilarity, and is re-
ported to be immoderately amused whenever any travelling catastrophe
happens in the bush. Now and then, his burst of merriment is heard
from a chimney-pot in the suburbs of some Australian town, with,
we should imagine, somewhat disconcerting effects to the unaccus-
tomed listener. When one watches him, too, pinching and hammer-

5o8 The Gentleman s Magazine.

ing his unlucky prey, chuckling softly the while, his humour appears
of a decidedly practical kind. His heart, however, is far from being
as hard as his beak : on a cold day at the 2k>o the writer has seen the
philosopher allowing a smaller companion of his prison to nestle in his
thick plumage ; and in his native wilds he has the reputation of being
an excellent husband and father, defending his nest, in the hole of a
tree, with a fury which renders it necessary to be careful in en-
croaching on his rights. Altogether, in spite of, or even because of, his
uncouthness of voice and appearance, he is a very attractive bird,
and it is pleasant to know that his fellow-countrymen appreciate him.
It is to be hoped that his small kinsman will in future meet with
better treatment at our hands, and that we are not destined to be
robbed by wanton persecution of the only bird which lends a ray of
tropical brightness to our cold northern isles.

FRANK Fimr.

509

VICTOR HUGO'S LYRICS.

"/""^'EST toujours un bonheur quand les hommes qui ont le don
v.^ de la muse reviennent k la po^sie pure — aux vers."
These words, with which Ste-Beuve prefaced hfa review of " Songs of
Twilight," will doubtless meet with sympathy from a good many
people, who are not ashamed to confess that they find something
akin to relief in turning from splendid tragedy and stupendous fiction
to softer strains.

The vague idea entertained of Victor Hugo— suggested by his
robust personality, the strong fibre of hb genius, his immense power
of invention, his force of expression — is so at variance with the
tender and delicate grace of his lyrics, that surprise is, perhaps, the
next sensation we experience when the verses, published during
his career as a dramatic author, are set side by side with Htmani
and Les Misirables; and, although /?r(^ is the word which fits him
best, it is in these that we learn the real mould of his mind ; it is
here we have his habitual reflections on life and its deep mysteries—
his romantic, even fantastic melancholy — his tendency as a moralist

But the contrast is more superficial tjian real : he is always the
same Hugo — the righter of wrong — the champion of the weak — the
dreamer ; and, as he says of his own work, '* It is always the same
thought with other cares, the same wave with other winds, the same
life with another day."

No more than truth was said of him by a writer in Blackwood's
Magazinty that his equal had yet to be found in France, or on our
own side of the Channel. The grand colossal form still stands alone,
and the epoch that bred so many exceptional men can boast no
nobler one.

Hugo was a true son of the Revolution, owing to his uncompro-
mising will, his vigorous vitality, his advanced ideals. There was
inspiration in ioutes cesfolies trempies de sang^ and he remarked with
a touch of vanity, which in these days of literary detraction b called
characteristic, that the greatest poets have appeared after the greatest
public calamities.

VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1931. If M

510 The Gentleman's Magazine.

But in whatever age he might have been bom, the man of whom
it was told that he knew neither pretence nor littleness, and whose
strongest feeling was a genuine love of mankind, could not be other-
wise than notable. His was the leading voice in the dnack^ where
the young and fervent apostles of the new school used to assemble
during the summer evenings of 1827, in the pleasure-gardens of
la mbre Saquet, to discuss questionsof contemporary art and literature.
It was an ideal rhinion^ full of sound sense and charming illusionii
where Dumas, De Vigny, Nodier, the sculptor David, Rabbe the
historian, Thdophile Gautier, De Musset, developed the doctrines
which Voltaire had already sketched, when he turned his sarcasms
against the minor arrangements of the classic stage, and there was no
dissentient voice when "notre grand Victor," as they called him,
summed up the question by saying that true artistic power could not
any longer remain in subjection to abstract and arbitrary rules. It
was a struggle for the very life and soul of poetry in which the
Romanticists were engaged, and how the fight was fought and won
is now a twice-told tale.

In the midst of shattered beliefs and broken idols Hugo's greit
characteristic, the master passion of mercy, came into play.

He wrote the Dernier Jour c^un Condamni^ a terrible picture of
mental and physical agony, which effected in some degree a commn-
tation in the criminal law of France. It appeared to him an anomaly
that society should commit in cold blood the very same act which it
condemned ; he declared that the penalty of death was the especial
and eternal mark of barbarism ; and when John Brown, of Harper^
Ferry, was condemned, he predicted that the " murder " would make
a rent in the Union and finally split it asunder.

A few lines, written at the time of an execution in Jersey, gne
strong expression to these feelings :

They came to me and said, <* Two brigs went down
Upon the rocks at Hangman's Hill last night."
I shook my finger at that murderous height
And answered them, '* Your ghastly gibbets frown
Above the deep, and you would have the sea
Look upon human souls more pitifully.
You set a bad example, sowing death
Upon your hills, and in the self-same breath
You marvel that the rocks, which man depraves,
Should teach their savage secret to the waves."

The poet's exile at Jersey, which he has described as uneidyUiiA
pleine mer, became a fruitful source of inspiration. The savage rocb
and caverns, the sea so full of storms, and, inland, the luzurioiis

yictor Hugds Lyrics. 511

fetation, the exquisite gardens — were scenes of perpetual enchant-
lent, and for the work which was his life he had uninterrupted leisure.

It was here he wrote Lcs Chdtiments^ levelling his vengeful
lunders against the authors of the coup ^itat

The book was forbidden in France, but found its way there under
le most extraordinary disguises, sometimes hidden in a box of sar-
ines, a hank of wool, in dresses, in boxes of jewelry — the more
was hunted down the more thoroughly it was disseminated.

In the "divine fury" of his verse he draws a parallel between
le two Napoleons ; the one in whose very fall there is the grandeur
f a setting sun ; the other lashed so furiously under his satire that
: carried terror even into the Tuileries. The denunciation was
■rrible, and here is one of the transcendent effects, of which no other
rriter has shown himself capable.

The expiation of the first Napoleon is not found in the retreat
rom Moscow, nor at Waterloo — but in the coup d^Stat^ when he is
upposed to be disturbed in his tomb by a voice, revealing that his
lame is being used as a pretext by intriguers to dishonour France.

Les Chdtiments procured for him a second exile. He was expelled
rom Jersey, but in the sister island he was received with the utmost
mthusiasm, and at Hauteville House he remained happily installed
or many years.

In 1859 his name was not excluded from the general amnesty, but
le refused to owe anything to a Government he despised, and his
etum at last was melancholy rather than triumphant Paris was
>esieged, and he was heard to exclaim on re-entering the city and
)assing by troops of wounded and harassed soldiers, whilst tears ran
lown his cheeks; •* Would to God I had never come back, if it is
>ut to see France dismembered and reduced to what she was under
L.ouis Treize! "

But as soon as his arrival was made known an immense crowd
:ollected to welcome him : he had not been forgotten ; and fifteen
rears after, a still greater concourse gathered round his bier under
he Arc de Triomphe, where his funeral obsequies took place with
ilmost royal magnificence.

Many of those who stood there must have been reminded of his
)wn pathetic stanzas when Napoleon's body was brought from St
Helena. The same sad lines may well apply to the poet himself :

The clouds that dimmed your glory fleet away,
Like mists before the fair awakening dawn ;
History gilds you with a lustrous ray
And hues of mom ;

11113

512 The Gentlemafts Magazine.

Your name mounts upward — but you take no heed,

There is no light within your dwelling-place ;
You only feel the grave-worm come to feed
Upon your face !

Hugo's first volume of poems, " Odes et Ballades," although pro-
ducing some sensation, was speedily eclipsed by more important
work. It was a new declaration of war against arbitrary rules, for he
maintained that it was by no means the form of the ode itself which
rendered it unfit for any but worn-out mythological subjects, but
that the poets that employed it were in fault, since they elected to
remain within the prescribed limits. Poetry was then, as now, not
much in demand, and booksellers were disinclined for unremunerat-
ive ware. It was not till his name had become famous that he
published " Les Orientales " and " Les Feuilles d'Automne," which
contain some of his loveliest and best known lyrics, among them
the ** Pri^re pour tous."

These two volumes, with ** Chants du Crdpuscule " and " Con-
templations," form a satisfying autobiography.

In the " Orientales "there is the glowing imagery of early youth;
in ** Les Feuilles d'Automne," a maturer life ; in " Chants du
Crdpusculc," the twilight of the mind.

It was also the twilight of society — an intermediate state. Hugo
was himself comparatively at rest.

He was no longer the favoured poet of the miscalled Restoration,
and had not yet become the poet of democracy.

He was waiting, " neither among those who affirm or deny, but
among those who hope." This hopefulness was one of his most
distinguishing traits. Unlike many men of poetic temperament, no
note of complaint or dissatisfaction with life was ever heard to
escape him, and, politically speaking, it was his firm belief that
crimes and follies were necessary phases through which mankind
must pass to reach the light. He dreamed of a sihie pur et pacifiq^
and although the selfish aims of "givers of place, receivers of place,
intrigue, coterie and lottery " met with his supreme contempt, and
the revolt of the insurrectionist with fear, he lived in expectation of a
bright future for France, and was often heard to repeat, " We shall
one day have a Republic, and when it comes it will be good."

There was nothing of a dreamer (a word he often applied to him-
self) in this excessive optimism ; it was identified with a strong
determination to accept nothing less than perfect liberty. Twice he
refused the proffered amnesty, and twice replied that he would never
return during the existence cf the Empire. If there remained only
one to protest, he would be that one !

Victor Hugo's Lyrics. 513

Had it not been for this decision it is very probable that many of
Hugo's most exquisite lyrics would never have seen the light, for it is to
his tranquillity at Hauteville House that we owe the vivid scenes of
earth and sky which deepen our sense of life. He was an eyewit-
ness of all the moods of the sea; the rocks, the plains, the streams —
the song of birds are all at his command. His love of nature was a
passion, and in the turmoil of social and political life he must have
lost some of the richest sources of poetry. In " Choses du Soir "
there is a series of pictures — word-painting in the highest sense of
the term — one verse for each, framed in the wild refrain so charac-
teristic of Breton ballads.

The grey mist on the moorland — the cattle that come to the
drinking-place— the lonely cutters far out at sea — with the sombre
suggestion :

The wind says to-morrow— ^t water now ; —

the churchyard frowning on the height contrasted with the primrose
bed in depth of woods, and the question :

Whence doth God find the blackness shed
On broken hearts and the falling night ? —

and then the change of key, the sudden unexpectedness in which the
poet is so strong :

Behind the windows where lamps are lit,
The rosy heads of the babes asleep.

Subtle and penetrative fancy vibrates through themes the most
diverse— in the foundering of a ship at sea and in lines to a drop of
dew. We feel it when he seeks the unfathomable side of things, and
we feel it in a love-song.

But of love-songs there are not many that deserve the name.
They never sound quite seriously, although a few in the first volume
of "Contemplations" are graceful and delicate in sentiment. " Vieille
Chanson du jeune Temps," " Lise," " La Cochinelle," are light and
poetically suggestive; but the only one which pretends to real
feeling ends with the thought that, as soon as all hope is over,
forgetfulness is the better plan.

The following verses, from " Chants du Crdpuscule,'* may serve to
show what the giant's power could be in this direction, if he chose to
wield it :

The summer night that veiled us yesterday,

Beneath the beauty of its myriad stars,
Was worthy thee, so freed from bonds of clay,

So distant from the world of strife and jars.
So rich in dews of peace and ecstasy^
For thee apd me,

514 The Gentleman^ s Magazine.

I was beside thee full of joy and flame,
For all my soul was mirrored in thine eyes ;

I read there every fancy as it came,
Without a word that dared a thought disguise ;

The dreams beginning in that heart of thine
Found rest in mine.

And I thanked God, whose infinite mercy spread

Above, around, such perfect harmony ;
Who such delight, such tranquil bliss had shed,

Such tender gladness on the night and thee,
And made, to rest my weary wandering feet.
You both so sweet.

" Les Contemplations " were published from Jersey in 1856.
Hugo has described them as memoires d^une dme. It is the record
of five-and-twenty years — impressions, realities, dreams, reminis-
cences. "The Hfe of a man," he says, "yes, and the lives of other
men. Who can boast of living a life solely his own ? The destiny
is the same — the history of one is the history of all."

The two volumes, Then and Now, contain, as he repeats, "the
gathered waters of his life." The first dates from the early years of
his domestic life in Paris — youthful loves and happy days — illusions,
retrospections ; and he touches, rather vaguely, on a line of thought
which no pen but his own could bring within the range of verse :
the great principle of unity — classing the daisy with the sun — "for
the daisy, too, has rays." The second volume has a sadder tone.
" Trois Ans apr^s," wTitten after the death of his daughter, is perhaps
the one note of revolt in all his writings ; his grief is very bitter, but
it is very real, and is followed by a still more pathetic resignation,
as in the whole course of his thought he is swayed by the conviction
of the justice of inexplicable laws.

His imagination naturally dwells on other worlds, where all will
be explained. The far-reaching fancies which may be called the
philosophical part of his work found a severe and somewhat ran-
corous critic in the Revue des deux Mondes. It was said that, though
the emotional verses were fair enough, the author's attempts to define
the destiny of man could only provoke a smile ; and in a later work
Jules Lemaitre supports the opinion by saying that, if the genius of
Victor Hugo is to be defined by what really belongs to it, his philo-
sophical ideas must be left out altogether.

But it is much more true to say that the poet's imagination, sur-
passing the limits of pure reason, is not to be confined by logical
secjuences ; it is of its very nature vague, for it reaches in its suWimc
and distant flights to the unseen and undiscoverable.

Victor Hugo's Lyrics. 515

The '*L^gende des Slides" appeared in Paris in 1859. He
called it a dead leaf from a fallen tree, but the tree had never before
put forth such magnificent branches. It is no less than the history
of humanity under all its aspects : religion, philosophy, science,
extending from the days of paradise to the last day — a grand pro-
cession of the most striking figures in all ages. The old Hebrew
pastorals in all their Oriental glow ; the fall of Rome ; Islam ; the
reign of kings and heroes ; the days of chivalry, tyrants, monsters,
victims — ^the whole romantic past revives at the magician's touch.

Eviradnus, " the true and gentle knight," is one of his best crea-
tions, for he maintained that the legendary is as true as the historic
aspect of life, and he has spent all the richness of his imagination on
these great Paladins, warring single-handed against a world of
injustice and corruption. We have their type in Eviradnus :

His hoary head
Bore weight of many years, but he was still
Renowned above his peers : his blood was shed
Unstinted for the right — the scourge of ill.
No evil deed had ever stained his life,
Nor thought that was not loyal, pure, and fair —
And ready in his hand for worthy strife.
His sword, as stainless, glittered in the air.
A Christian Samson, bursting at a blow
The gates of Sickingen in flames — who rent
And ground beneath his heel the monument
Of vile Duke Lupus, and the statue bore
From Strasburg to the bridge by Danube's shore.
And flung it in the stream. Shield of the oppressed—
Strong— and the friend of all the weak, bis breast
Full of a splendid pity — such the knight
And champion Eviradnus. At the flight
Of fast increasing years he laughs : shall he —
Who if the world entire against him stood
Would not ask quarter — quail before the flood
Of fleeting time ? All aged though he be,
He comes of a grand race I On wild hill-side.
Amid the feathered tribe, not least in pride,
Stands the old Eagle I

The accessories of these austere figures complete the impression
of their grandeur, and no history of the Middle Ages could bring the
past time back so well as the weird description of the ruined keep of
Corbus, the great desolate hall, with its grim and ghostly guard of
iron knights and iron steeds.

Coming down to our own days, the same touch, full of contrasts,
full of surprises, is to be found in homelier scenes. There is hardly

5i6 The Gentleman s Magazine.

a line in " Poor People " that is not a gem. Jeannie is the heroine
of the poet*s heart, the very incarnation of love and pity.

The noble figure of the Royalist chief, Jean Chotian, may well
stand side by side with Eviradnus. His band was routed by the
Republican soldiers and fled to the woods. The chief alone remained,
when a woman, who had been unable to keep up with the fugitives^
was seen in the middle of the plain raked by a file of musketry.
Jean Chouan mounts a hillock on the rising ground in full face of
the volley, and shouts —

** 'Tis I who am Jean Chouan! "
And then dicUh changed his target I

In " Civil War " a child saves his father, a police sergeant, from
the hands of an infuriated mob ; the love and courage, the protectioD

of the little helpless fellow in his cry —

** Father ! they shall not do you any harm,**

softens even their savage breasts, and they release him.

Most tender, most pathetic of all is the story of little Paul. It is
very simple, but contains the sum of all a child's joys and sorrows.

His mother gave him life and left him.

The sadness and the mystery of this is dwelt upon with the same

feeling of wonder and pity in " Poor People," when the fisherman

says :

" Well— *tis no fault of mine, *tis God*s affair !
Why take the mother from these bits of things ?
Tis far beyond our poor imaginings —
Perhaps the scholars know ! **

But little Paul finds all a mother's tenderness in his grand-
father, who takes him to his own home, where the love between the
old man and the child is painted with a sweetness and simplicity
reminding us of some of our own earlier poets in smooth and per-
spicuous expression, before verse had become the vehicle of abstruse
reflection and doctrine.

But the grandfather dies :

Amongst the hills
A little churchyard opened. Summertide
And murmuring breezes, little tinkling rills
Filled with their gladness all the smiling plain.
And slowly — slowly — came the funeral train.
The road was bright with flowers : they looked so gay,
It seemed as if they loved the black array.
All in their best, the villagers drew near.
And little Paul walked, too, behind the bier.
It was a mournful and deserted place, ^'J

Victor Hugds Lyrics. 517

With crumbling walls — nor tree nor flower to grace

The grass-grown graves : a spot where, if God will,

Cold Death can sleep in peace : the child, quite still,

Watched with attentive air : at three years old

Life is a vision, like a tale that's told,

Or like a pageant to expectant eyes.

The night descends before the stars arise ! '*

His father comes and takes little Paul away. He has married
again, and the new mother,

Tender to her own, was harsh to him.
He uttered no complaint, but one wintry night, when snow was on
the ground, he was searched for in vain. Through darkness he had
made his way to the grave where he knew very well his only friend
was lying. But though

He called and called and wept,
it was in vain.

And since he could not stir that slumber deep^
Wretched and weary ^ he too fell asleep.

Their thoughts, their ways, are drawn with heartfelt, almost rever-
ential tenderness. The poet's love of children taught him the secret
of such verses. He calls himself ** un grandpfere hchappe^ passant
toutes les homes," and the George and Jeanne of " L'Art d'etre
Grandp^re " are little less illustrious than the poet himself.

In the " Quatre Vents de TEsprit " we again find the greatest
charm in the lyric book ; but in the epic filled by one subject — the
Revolution — there is perhaps the grandest and the most character-
istic of his works. It has been called " la vision d'une apocalypse
historique." Master of all that is colossal and fearful— in the
passing of the statues, as in pictures of feudal times, he mingles the
fantastic and the superhuman. The touch is wild and forcibly
dramatic .

The Henri Quatre, in bronze, of the Pont-neuf, is called by a
voice from above —

** See if your son is in his place, ^^

The statue descends from his pedestal and takes his way to the
Palais Royal, where he pauses before the marble statue of Louis
Treize, with the same message. The two pass on till they stand
before another king —

" N'ay, not a King^ a Cod J*

Louis Quatorze descends also, and the three statues march on to
the Tuileries, and stand appalled before the guillotine ;

O horror 1 in the dark and desolate square,
Instead of crowned trinmphal statue there|

5i8 The Gentlemafis Magazitu.

Instead of sceptredi well-beloTed king,
A hideous menacing appalling thing;
Two blackened posts upheld a triangley
From which a ladder trembled — and beneath
There seemed to yawn a pit as dark as death.
The hideous vision stood a monster there,
Crimson as carnage, black as funeral palL
It seemed the door of one vast sepulchre
Apart— aloof— betwixt mankind and all
That God keeps secret I fearfid threshold I gate
Of nothingness, of direful gloom and hate.
Above— the hand that traced them who could mi
Two lurid numbers shimmered —

'93-
A recent critic speaks of Victor Hugo as a poet of more imagina-
tion than tenderness, pointing out a few verses in ^ Toute la Lyre *
as exceptional. W^ quote them as expressing the most heutfelt
emotion, but not by any means as standing alone in this

You said " I love you"; prodigal of sighs,

You said it o'er and o'er. I nothing said.
The lake lies still beneath the moonlit skies —

The water sleeps when stars shine overhead.

For this you blame me, but love is not less

Because its whisper is too faint to hear.
The sudden sweet alarm of happiness

Set seal upon my lips when you were near.

It had been best had you said less— I more I

Love's first steps falter and he folds his wingi.
On empty nests t he garish sun-rays pour —
Deep shadows fall about the brightest things I

To-day — (how sadly in the chestnut tree
The faint leaves flutter and the cold wind sighs I)— -

To-day you leave me 1 for you could not see
My soul beneath the silence of my eyes.

So be it, then--we part : the sun has set
Ah ! how that wind sighs— how the dead leaves fidi I

Perhaps to-morrow, whilst my cheek is wet^
You will have gay and careless smiles for all I

The sweet '* I love you," that must now go by
And be forgotten, breaks my heart to-day I

You said it, but you did not feel it — I
Felt it without a word that I could say.

The attempt to bring the worlds of thought in Victor Hugo's
within ordinary limits must necessarily be a failure ; the field is too
vast to be explored with criticism laudatory or otherwise. The only
possible thing is to point the way — to bid to the feast

CSCIUA B.

519

THE CUTTING-OUT OF THE

" HERMIONE."

ON September 22, 1797, embers from the mutiny at the Nore,
which had been put down in the previous June, burst into
flame on board H.M. 32 -gun frigate Hermione^ then cruising off
the west end of Porto Rico, in the West Indies. The crew rose,
murdered their captain, three lieutenants, the purser, engineer,
captain's clerk, one midshipman, the boatswain, and the lieutenant
commanding the marines, and carried the ship into the hostile
Spanish port of La Guayra, on the neighbouring coast of South
America, the governor of which place, though apprized of the
circumstances by the British commander-in-chief of the Leeward
Islands station, received the blood-stained prize and ordered her to
be fitted for sea as a Spanish national frigate.

The Hermione was a ship of 915 tons. Whilst in the British
service she had mounted twenty-six 12-pounders on the main-deck
and twelve carronades, probably 24-pounders, on the quarter-deck
and forecastle, total thirty-eight guns. On either side, from the
quarter-deck to the forecastle, and on the same level as these, ran a
boarded passage called the gangway, but this was not armed or pro-
tected by a bulwark. In refitting her, the Spaniards placed two
more guns on the two foremost ports of the main-deck, hitherto
empty, and, by cutting ports for them, established four additional
guns, or carronades, on the quarter-deck and forecastle. They also
increased her complement from 220 men to 321, added a detach-
ment of soldiers and artillerymen, numbering seventy-two, and gave
the command of the frigate thus " strongly armed and manned " to
Don Raymond de Chalas.

In September 1799, Sir Hyde Parker, commander-in-chief at
Jamaica, received intelligence that the Hermione was at Puerto
Cabello, west of La Guayra, and was about to proceed to Havana
through the channel which separates Cape San Roman on the main-
land from the island of Aruba. Captain Edward Hamilton, com-

520 The Gentlematis Magazine.

manding H.M. 28-gun frigate Surprise^ offered, if the admiral
would add a barge and twenty men to his force, to cut her out
But Sir H. Parker thought the service too desperate, and refused.
Next morning, however, the Surprise was detached with sealed
orders to the east end of Jamaica, and on arriving there Captain
Hamilton found directions to proceed off Cape Delia Vella, 100
miles west of Cape San Roman, and to remain on the watch, as long
as wood and water lasted, in order to intercept and capture the
Ifermione,

The Surprise was a vessel of 579 tons. She had once been the
French 24-gun corvette Unite^ and, when captured on April 20, 1796,
by H.M. frigate Inconstant y had mounted in all thirty-two guns. On
being fitted out in the British service, she was made a 28-gun
frigate, and armed with twenty-four carronades, 3 2 -pounders, on her
main-deck, and eight carronades, i8-pounders, with two, or possiUy
four, long 4 or 6.pounders on her quarter-deck and forecastle, total
at the most thirty-six guns. Her net complement, like that of her
class, was 197 men and boys.

Four anxious weeks Captain Hamilton watched iox^t Hermumi^
then his provisions began to fail. Tormented by the doubt that she
might have eluded him in the night, he resolved, before returning to
Jamaica, to ascertain if the frigate was still in Puerto Cabella On
October 21, in the evening, the Surprise^ arriving oiT the harbour,
discovered the Hermione moored head and stem between two strong
batteries situated one on either side of the entrance, and said to
mount 200 guns in all, with her sails bent and ready for sea.

Captain Hamilton stood within gun-shot of the enemy, and con*
tinued off and on for three days. No word of his intention did he
imi)art to any ofRcer of the ship. He thought, wrote, and planned.
On the evening of the 24th, after dinner, he detailed to the officen
present the design he had formed, and desired them to second his
wishes when he should address the ship's company. After quarters
all hands being sent aft. Captain Hamilton addressed the crew, and,
reminding them of the frequent successful enterprises they had
undertaken, concluded nearly thus : '* I find it useless to wait any
longer ; we shall soon be obliged to leave the station, and that
frigate will become the prize of some more fortunate ship than the
Surprise, Our only prospect of success is by cutting her out this
night."

Three ringing cheers convinced Captain Hamilton that his men
would follow him, and were eager for the service, and he continaed:
'' I shall lead you myself, and here are the written orders for the n

The Cutting-out of the '' Hennioner 521

boats to be employed, with the names of the officers and men to be
engaged on this service."

At half-past seven the boats were hoisted out, the crews mustered
and all prepared. Every man was dressed in blue, and no white was to
be seen. The pass- word was "Britannia," the answer "Ireland." The
boats were to proceed in two divisions, the boarders taking the first
spell at the oars, relieved as they got near by the regular crews. The
first division consisted of the pinnace, launch and jolly-boat. In
the pinnace were the captain, with Mr. John Maxwell, the gunner,
one midshipman, and sixteen men. The launch, under the orders
of the first lieutenant, Mr. Wilson, contained one midshipman and
twenty-four men. In the jolly-boat were one midshipman, the
carpenter and eight men. These were to board on the right or
starboard side, which faced towards the land — the pinnace at the
gangway or midship, the launch at the bow, the jolly-boat at the
quarter or near the stern. A platforni had been constructed over
the launch's quarter, and three men were told off with sharp axes to
stand on this and cut the bower cable. The crew of the jolly-boat
were to cut the stern cable and send two men aloft to loose the
mizen-topsail. The second division, consisting of the gig, the
black cutter, and the red cutter, were to board on the larboard side,
or that which faced the sea. In the gig were sixteen men under the
orders of Mr. John McMullen, the surgeon. These, boarding at
the bow, were to detach four men aloft to loose the fore-topsail, taking
good care to cut the buntlines and clewlines, and to fast the sail
well clear of the top rim. The black cutter, under the command
of Lieutenant Hamilton (no relation to the captain), with the acting
marine officer, M. de la Tour du Pin, and sixteen men in all, were to
board on the larboard gangway. The red cutter, under the com-
mand of the boatswain, and containing likewise sixteen men, was to
board on the larboard quarter. The boats of each division were to
be connected by a tow-line.

I The concluding orders to the force were that, in the event of
reaching the ship undisturbed, only the boarders were to board ;
the other hands remaining in the boats and taking the ship in tow
by hook-ropes provided for the purpose. Should, however, the
enemy be prepared, all were to board. Lastly, the Hermione^s
quarter-deck was to be the rendezvous of all the parties.

"Such,'' says James (whose account we are following), "were the
orders of Captain Hamilton— clear, impossible to be mistaken, and
yet not so conclusive as to have rendered a failure impossible ; nay
a circumstance did arise which nearly frustrated the whole."

522 The Gentlematis Magazine.

Captain Hamilton, leading in the pinnace at 8 P.M., kept his
night-glass fixed on the Hermione^ and by its aid steered direct for
her. But when within a mile, two gunboats, each armed with a long
gun, discovered and attacked the advancing boats. Captain
Hamilton, disdaining the attempted interruption, and too hastily
concluding that all his force was animated by the same spirit as
himself, merely cut the tow to accelerate his progress, and giving
three cheers dashed on to the Hemiione, But some of the boats —
particularly, it would seem, the launch and the red cutter — ^began
engaging the gunboats.

The firing aroused the crew of the Hermtone^ lights were shown,
and the ship's company were beat to quarters. As the pinnace
crossed her bows, to get to its station at the starboard gangway, a
shot was fired from the frigate's bow, which fortunately passed over*
head. A moment after the rudder of the pinnace was caught by a
rope which trailed from the vessel to her mooring. The coxswain
reported the pinnace aground ; but Captain Hamilton knew thb to
be impossible, as the Hermione was evidently afloat, and seizing the
truth, bade him unship the rudder. The boat was thus released,
but her way had been stopped and she lay with her oars foul with the
frigate close under her starboard cathead and forechains. In this
predicament Captain Hamilton, seeing no other boat approaching
and despairing of a surprise, should he resume his course to his
proper station amidships, gave the order to board where they were.
The crew obeyed instantly, but the captain, essaying to climb by the
anchor, which had been weighed that very day and hung still wet and
muddy from the cat and shank painter, slipped and was falling had
he not seized and clung to the foremost lanyard of the foreshrouds.
His pistol went off in the struggle, but he recovered himself and
gained the deck. No one was there. The forecastle was empty,
whilst the foresail, lying athwart the ship over the forestay ready for
bending and hauling out to the yardarms, screened the daring
Englishmen from the remainder of the vessel

Advancing, sixteen in all (for two remained in the boat with the
midshipman), to the break of the forecastle, they were astonished to
find the crew of the Hennione at quarters on the main-deck, engaged
in firing the great guns at some objects which their fears had
magnified into two frigates advancing to attack them, and all uncon-
scious of the foe overhead. Not so the officers and men who
manned the quarter-deck ; for these, as soon as Captain Hamilton's
party advanced by way of the starboard gangway, came resolutely to
meet them. The combat was obstinate, and the English wen

The Cutting'Out of the '' Hermioner 523

checked. At this conjuncture Captain Hamilton, looking round,
observed the surgeon, Mr. McMullen, with the crew of the gig
boarding on the port or seaward bow. He at once directed the gunner
to take command and maintain the position they had won on the
starboard gangway, while he himself went back, joined the surgeon's
party, and led it along the port gangway straight for the quarter-deck.

Of the Spaniards found there, some escaped down the after-ladder,
some jumped overboard, and the remainder were killed or left for
dead ; but the surgeon and his men, forgetting in their eagerness the
order to rendezvous on the quarter-deck, went after the Spaniards
on the starboard gangway, thus placing them between two fires, from
which they suffered severely. Still, they succeeded in forcing back
the gunner's party, and even gained possession of the forecastle,
driving their opponents on to the larboard gangway.

Captain Hamilton remained alone on the quarter-deck, awaiting
the arrival of those who had not yet boarded. Four Spaniards stole
up. One felled him with the butt-end of a musket, the musket itself
being broken by the blow ; the others stabbed him, as he lay bruised
and senseless on the combing of the after hatchway, with pike and
sabre in both thighs. A moment more and he must have perished,
when two or three men from the jolly-boat, boarding on the star-
board quarter, arrived on the scene, rescued their commander, and
again cleared the quarter-deck.

The situation was now critical in the extreme. Precious minutes
had passed, and the crews of one, two, and eventually three boats,
boarding at the extremities, had encountered as yet, and with incom-
plete success, only the quarter-deck party. The mass of the Spaniards,
deprived it is true of their officers, were still intact upon the main-
deck, and were rapidly awakening to the position of affairs overhead.
A series of desperate attempts on their part to gain a footing on the
quarter-deck by means of the after-hatchway was now with difficulty
resisted by Captain Hamilton (who had recovered his senses), and
the few men who had joined him. Had any such attempt been
made at the fore-hatchway it must have succeeded.

Other matters too were adverse. It is true that when the surgeon's
party boarded the two men nominated for the purpose had duly
loosed the fore-topsail, and, in like conformity with instructions, of the
eight men in the jolly-boat, two from among the contingent of boarders
had gone aloft and loosed the mizen-topsail, whilst the carpenter
himself, with the men who did not board, had succeeded in cutting
the stern moorings ; but, owing to the failure of the launch, the moor-
ing at the bow was still uncut. Consequently the Htrmionc was by

524 The Gentlemmis Magazine.

this time, under the influence of the land breeze, beginning to cant
with her head towards the land.

But now, i.e. some ten minutes after the commencement of the
action, reinforcements arrived and turned the scale. The black
cutter, under Lieut. Hamilton, with M. De la Tour du Fin and his
marines on board, had reached the ship at about the same time as
the surgeon ; but, attempting to board at the larboard gangway, they
had been repulsed by the crew on the main-deck, fighting through
the ports. Then they had rowed round and essayed the starboaxd
gangway, but had failed there likewise. Now again returning to the
larboard gangway, probably at a moment when the attention of the
Spaniards had been diverted from the ports to what was going on
inside the ship and over their heads, they succeeded. Almost at the
same moment the launch and the red cutter, which had been detained
in combat with the Spanish gunboats, arrived, and their boarders
scaled the bulwarks of the Hermione^ the one set on the starboard
bow and the other on the larboard quarter. A moment more and
the stubborn band of Spaniards on the forecastle were killed, forced
below, or hurled overboard, whilst the marines forming, marched to
the quarter-deck and poured a volley down the after-hatchway.

The wounded captain kept, as always, his post of direction and
command upon the quarter-deck, and the fore cable being now
at length secured, Maxwell the gunner and two of his men, all three
too severely hurt for further combat, crawled aft to the wheel and
steered. Then the marines boldly charged down the hatchway
among the surging Spaniards and plied them hotly with the bayonet
The surgeon and his party followed, and the crews of the launch and
red cutter, remaining above, poured down volleys of musketry.
About sixty Spaniards retreated to the cabins under the quarter-deck
and surrendered ; the doors were closed on them and the prisoners
secured. Fighting still continued on the main-deck and under the
forecastle, but by now the towing boats were at work, the fore-topsail
filled, and the ship moved towards the open sea, and, to quote the
words of James, ** Those can best comprehend the feelings of Captain
Hamilton and his few brave companions . . . when the Hermiont was
standing out of Puerto Cabello, who have been engaged in enterprises
of this sort, and who have had their exertions crowned with success."

The resistance continued until, by tow and sail, the Hermiant had
got half a-mile from the batteries. These, while the firing continued
and it was uncertain who had possession of the ship, withheld their
fire. At length, " after dreadful slaughter," the combat ceased 00
board, and at once the batteries opened. But the light wind failed

The Cutting-out of the ^^ Hennioner 525

to clear away the smoke, and the aim was uncertain; moreover, the
guns were loaded chiefly with grape. Still the effect was serious,
the main and spring stays were shot away, so that, as the swell was
heavy, the mainmast had to be secured, the gaff came down, and
one 24-pounder shot passed through the hull under water, and obliged
the captain to rig the pumps, and subsequently to heel the ship.
Then, whilst they were still under the fire of the batteries, the Por-
tuguese coxwain of the gig, towing at the larboard bow, who spoke
Spanish, reported that he heard resolutions being made to blow up
the frigate, and it became necessary to fire a few musket-shots down
the hatchway to restore quiet. By one o'clock in the morning all
opposition had ceased on board, and by two o'clock, nearly two hours
after the commencement of the action by the boarding of the captain
in the pinnace, the ship was out of gunshot, and the capture com-
plete. Then Lieut. Hamilton and the towing crews, who for nearly
all that time had been at work, and exposed for a part of it to the
enemy's cannon-balls and grape, were called alongside, and stepped
for the first time on board the captured Hermione,

" In effecting this surprising capture," says the naval historian,
"the British sustained so comparatively slight a loss as 12 wounded,
including Captain Hamilton . . . and Mr. Maxwell, the gunner (dan-
gerously)." Of their 365 in crew the Spaniards had 1 19 killed and 97
wounded, most of them dangerously. The survivors were afterwards
put on board an American schooner, and landed at Puerto Cabello."

Such is the story of the capture of the Hermione^ a capture gener-
ally regarded as the most dashing feat of the British navy. It was
heroic in its conception, in its execution, and in the circumstances
surrounding it, and it sent a thrill throughout England. It is pleasant
to record that Captain Hamilton, who was knighted, distributed ;^5oo
of his share of the prize-money among the crew, that the lieutenants
of the ship presented a sword to Mr. Maxwell, the gunner, and that
the surgeon was allowed to share prize-money with officers of that
rank. The Hermione was immediately restored to the navy under
her former rating, but received a new name, the Retribution,

Captain Hamilton, returning home for the cure of his wounds in
a Jamaica packet, was captured by a privateer and conveyed to Paris,
and, when there, was taken particular notice of by Buonaparte.

I regret that I can find no record of any reward or honour con-
ferred on De la Tour du Pin, the officer of marines who led the
charge down the fore-hatchway. Though his men failed twice to gain
the deck, yet by perseverance they arrived in time and turned the scale
in a doubtful combat. Fleetwood h. pellew.

VOL. ccLxxr. NO. 193 1. 1^ N

526 The Gentlematis Magazine.

A SONG OF DAVID.

THE twilight slants along the wall,
And fills the palace room :
But where the shadows deepest fall,
He sleeps— enfolded by the gloom —
The people's chosen, Saul.

No dreamless sleep has closed his eyes,

To bring a dreamless rest ;
About him sights of terror rise,

And, brooding dark, the Spirit-guest
Who mocks him where he lies : —

The stars are wan, the moon blood-red

O'er far Gilboa's height ;
And birds of prey, with circlings dread,

Keep awful watches through the night,
Among the scattered dead.

Lo, while beneath the Spirit's wing
He bowed his shuddering soul,

A sound of sweetness touched the King;
And, as the music low-struck stole,
A voice began to sing. —

Goodly to look at, stout and fair.

As all afire he stands :
The moonlight on his auburn hair,

The shepherd-harp swept by his hands
Pours music on the air ! —

A Song of David. 527

The songs the quiet waters hear,

Where green the pastures lie :
When, listening, heaven and earth are near,

And up and down the shining sky
The Sons of God appear ! —

He sings of God, the Friend of man.

Who feeds the waiting land :
He sings of Love's eternal plan

To mould and move with saving hand.
Since first the earth began.

" Come hither, shepherd lad, to me ;
Thy songs such gladness tell,
Those shapes of ill no more I see,
While at thy lips, refreshed and well,
I drink new strength from thee !

" Sweeter than Bethlehem's waters deep,
By thirst-worn hearts desired.
Thy words immortal healing keep :
And in thine eyes, thou God-inspired,
The thoughts of ages sleep ! "

Still on the echoing years they fall.

Those heaven-sent songs of love ;
And still, as in the days of Saul,

Sick hearts, refreshed, are drawn above.
And purer joys recall.

GEORGE HOLMES.

K N 2

:;2S The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

PAGES ON PLAYS.

THE naturalistic movement in the modern drama has made two
recent manifestations. The first was the production of
Mr. Henr\- James's "The American" at the Opera Comique on
Saturday, September 26 ; the second was the production of an
En^'-ish version of Emile Zola's dramatisation of " Th^rfese Raquin"
a: the Royalty Theatre on Friday, October 9. Each of these per-
formances was heralded by rumours of their momentous significance
to the drama : from the one and from the other, according to their
admirers, the dramatic sal\*ation so long looked for might be con-
fidently expected.

*• Th^rese Raquin " I knew, and I was not hopeful. " The
American " I only knew of as a brilliant novel. I cordially hoped
that Mr. Henr\* James might be able to make it into a brilliant stage
play. It is undoubted that we are sadly in need of some good
1 lavs, that the cr\' for a drama which shall be literature and not a
mere machine-made entertainment is a genuine cry, and represents
an honest desire. It seemed highly probable that Mr. Henry James
mi^ht i^o something to meet this want — to answer this honest desire.
He is a careful obsener of human nature ; he has studied life under
many conditions, in many places ; he is the master of a finely appre-
ciative English prose ; he is analyst, psychologist, realist — in a word,
he would seem to be quite modern. It looked more than likely that
Mr. Henry James, if he wrote a play at all, would write a play
that would be very actual, very unconventional, very original in its
method.

Perhaps it is not a little surprising to find Mr. Henry James
thinking of writing a play at all. I imagined that Mr. Henry James
was not attached to the theatre ; that he resembled in that, as in
other particulars, M. Guy de Maupassant, who made it his boast
that he had not been to the theatre thirty times in his life, and that
he disliked all its works and pomps. When M. Guy de Maupassant
after this confession dramatised his little story "L'Enfanl" as
** Musotte," it was not wonderful to find that it did not provcagreaf

Pages on Plays. 529

success. No man deserves to succeed, no man does succeed, in an
art which he does not love. Mr. Henry James's clever story, " The
Tragic Muse," betrayed too keen an appreciation of the inevitable
drawbacks of dramatic life, too delicate a sensitiveness regarding its
many disagreeable and unlovely associations, to allow his readers to
think of him as a man naturally drawn to the drama. But since he
had determined to make the experiment, it might be confidently
assumed that the experiment would be an interesting one.

M. Emile Zola, who is a wild critic, sometimes makes very
sensible if somewhat obvious remarks, and one of these remarks is
that it is highly injudicious to dramatise a novel. M. Zola is right,
although on the very face of this declaration he proceeded to
dramatise one of his own novels. The dramatisation of a novel is
always a thankless task. The conditions which govern the two
arts are so widely different that the oiiginal story is only a trammel
to the worker in the new method. Certainly, of all Mr. Henry
James's stories, " The American " would seem to be the most suit-
able for stage purposes. It is not, like so many of his stories, a
mere study of a section of life ; it does not end in an interrogation
on a door step ; it has a beginning, a middle, and an end, just
for all the world like any other workaday romance that ever was
written.

But the worst of it is that when " The American " gets on to the
stage all that was melodramatic in the story comes brutally to the
top, while the delicate analysis, the subtle study of character which
made the charm of the story, that are the very essence of work by
Mr. James, seem to vanish almost entirely. " The American " is, in
certain instances, well played ; it might be said to be well written if
it were the work of a new hand, but the characters, if they were
played never so well, are not the characters that we knew and liked
in the book, and the language of the play does not reach the level of
the language of the story. Take Newman himself, who is in Mr.
James's story such an interesting study of a peculiar type of
Transatlantic evolution, the strong man who has made many
fortunes, who is capable of .a great love ; the new world almost at its
best contrasted with the old world almost at its worst. On the stage
he becomes an impossible figure cursed with an appalling catch-
word, " That's what I want t'see," which suggests rather the Variety
stage than a modern realistic comedy. The stage Newman makes
his first appearance in an amazing costume of brown velveteen coat
and buff overcoat, which recalls rather the garb of a travelling show-
man than the costume of an American millionaire. Yet this get-up.

530 The Gentleman s Magazine.

which resembles nothing which I have ever seen any American wear
is not intended to mark Newman's ignorance of the customs of the
world, for in the next act he makes his appearance in faultless
evening dress that w^ould qualify him for admission into the ranks of
the Four Hundred and the society of the illustrious McAllister,
Then he falls in love with the sister of a young man whom he has
just met, because he hears that she is of ancient lineage, and because
he seems to have set his heart — and a very snobbish heart, it must be
confessed — upon marrying what he would call a " high-toned lady."
He talks of the woman he has never seen as he might of some
trotting horse whose fame had reached him through the columns of
the Ne7u York Clipper, Is this our old friend Newman of the book?
Surely not. To do Mr. Compton justice, he plays the part set down
for him as well as it could be played. He is consistent from start to
finish ; we may not like the type, but Mr. Compton plays it so well
as almost at moments to make us like him and forgive him his
catch-word. Think of it ! Henry James with a catch-word !

Mr. Henry James was more fortunate in his women than in
his men, with the exception of Mr. Compton. Miss Bateman, re-
turning to the stage after a long absence, made a grimly impressive
representation of the wicked old woman whose blood and traditions
have not prevented her committing a murder, quite in the spirit of
the vwycn age. Miss Elizabeth Robins made Claire — the Claire of
the play, not of the novel, be it understood — exceedingly charming,
sympathetic, gracious in her helpless submission to the inexorable
conditions of her life. Miss Robins is an actress who pK>ssesses in a
very remarkable degree the pow^r of interesting those who study her
work. She went entirely wrong in her treatment of Hedda Gabler, and
yet her ver}' error was interesting ; she attracted where she could not
convince. As Claire in " The American" she is much more successful
As the part is written for the stage it is a somewhat incomprehensible
part. It is hard to understand the condition of mental subservience
to which the stern influences of her life had reduced the young and
bcaiitirul woman whom Newman loves. But Miss Robins suggests
tlic subservience, the helpless hopelessness of the character very
delicately, very appealingly. Miss Dairolles was admirable as the
vivacious vicious little girl Noemie. Miss Louise Moodie was an
excellent Mrs. Bread. And that is all the acting of which anything
commendatory can be recorded.

If Mr. Henry James's play failed to add another triumph to the
cause of the realistic drama, so in no less a degree did M. Zola's
" Thcrbse Raquin." M. Zola has constituted himself, as it were^ the

Pages an Plays. 531

apostle of naturalism on the stage. He has written essay after essay
to show that all the old fonns of the drama are played out ; that all
the dramatists of the time are hopeless artificers working with worn-
out materials under impossible conditions ; that it is the duty of
the age to produce the scientific drama which shall, in some inex-
plicable manner, be at once Balzac and Darwin — the Human
Comedy and the doctrine of Evolution rolled into one. And as an
example of what the new drama ought to be, M. Zola has written
several plays which so far the public have declined to accept. Of
these plays "Th^r^e Raquin," which was first played in Paris in
1873, ^^ jus^ \^txi put before English audiences, in the first
instance under the auspices of Mr. Grein, whose Independent
Theatre gave us "Ghosts," and then for a short run at the same
theatre under the management of Mr. Herbert Basinge.

Of course it does not in the least follow, because an author
cannot write good plays, that therefore his theory of the drama
should be a wrong theory. I do not think that M. Zola can write
good plays, but I think that there is a great deal of truth in much
that he has written about the condition of the drama both in Eng-
land and in France. What I do justly blame him for is posing as
the prophet of the new school when his play is cast in the most
old-fashioned mould.

It is easy enough to condemn M. Zola out of his own mouth.
Some years ago, when Catulle Mend^ wrote his "Justice," the per-
formance of which was, if I remember rightly, prohibited on this side
of the Channel, M. Zola criticised it with the frankness which
characterises all his criticisms. M. Catulle Mend^s, said M. Zola,
" does wrong to trifle with reality. He should have dressed his
characters in doublets and hose, and then all would have been for-
given to him. But to deal with modern life like a lyric poet is a serious
offence." Do not these words apply to another besides M. Catulle
Mend^s? Might they not be directly addressed to M. Zola himself,
who has lent a kind of lyrism to realism, and who has presented us
with characters who would have been far more comfortable in
doublets and hose than in modern garb ? It is not by the calling of
certain puppets by commonplace names, dressing them in contem-
porary costumes and setting them in sordid surroundings, that the
naturalistic drama is necessarily to be created. That is all a matter
for the scene-painter and the property-master. The business of the
realistic dramatist is to make his people seem real, not to take the
fantoccini of " Les Burgraves " and of " Angelo," dress them in
modem clothes, nickname them with modem names, and make them

532 The Gentleman s Magazine.

play out the old old business of 1830, under the roof of a squalid shop
in Paris, instead of under the brilliant skies of an Italian hill dty or
a Spanish university town.

I was surprised to find that my friend Mr. Walkley, who belongs,
with Mr. William Archer and one or two other young writers, to a
little group among the dramatic critics whose work goes by the title
of the "New Criticism" — I was surprised, I say, to find that
" Spectator" appears to be as it were taken in by the obvious device
of M. Zola. This is what he says : — " It is a study, in short, in
morbid psychology. When a Sophocles or a Shakespeare gives us
such a study, the result is terrible enough. But the actors are high
and mighty personages, mythical heroes, or semi-mythical kings and
queens. They talk in blank verse. There is an atmosphere of
poetry, which — in the last analysis— means unreality, about the whole
It was so long ago — as the old lady said in the familiar anecdote—
and let us hope it is not true. But Zola's personages are like our-
selves. They talk every-day pedestrian prose like ourselves. The
poetry, the unreality, has gone. We know that it is true. ITie
result is a hundredfold more terrible."

But is it really a hundredfold more terrible ? Is not this judgment
a result of the confusion caused by M. Zola's ingenious trick ? Are
these people a bit the more real because they are labelled modem,
and dressed in moleskin or nankeen, and roofed by a roof in the
Passage du Pont Neuf ? Mr. Walkley appears to think they are.
" The people are petty bourgeois^ with the petty thoughts of the
bourgeois and their petty ways. The women are plainly dressed, the
men clumsily rigged out by cheap tailors. There is nothing of the
fine sentiments of the mythical heroes, nothing of the purple and fine
linen of the semi-mythical kings and queens. A set of vulgarians,
you say, people who eat peas with their knife? Quite so. But
Zola's point is that the most poignant tragedy may be found in the
most vulgar environment."

If this be so, it is a point scarcely worth making. Who has ever
failed to be aware that poignant tragedy might be found in a vulgar
environment ? The question is whether the decoration transmutes
the leaden method of the old romanticism into the gold of the new
naturalism ; whether M. Zola has done anything beyond altering the
surroundings ; whether his people are themselves new ?

Mr. Walkley finds " Th^T^se Raquin " true to life, free from stage
tricks. Does he really consider that the whole episode of the blue
prince is true to life, or anything better than a fantasy piece in the
Dickens manner, as improbable as anything in the fairy tales of

Pages on Plays^ 533

fiction? Does he think that there is nothing artificial in the scene in
which the old paralysed woman proceeds to indict the murderers, and
the rest of the characters stand conveniently or inconveniently with
their backs turned, in order to allow Th^rfese and Laurent to go
through a series of gaspings and clutchings of the best Bowery or
Victoria style, which have betrayed their guilt to the eyes of the most
inexperienced person ? M. Zola is not to be greatly blamed for this
sort of thing. It is convenient, on the stage, for a large number of
persons, quite suddenly, to turn aside in an unmeaning silence while
the principal characters have their innings of tragedy and remorse
all to themselves. It is quite right from the conventional point of
view that there should be a grotesque love story of the fairy-tale
type introduced to point the contrast with the guilty passion of the
murderous adulterers. But when an author is as conventional as
M. Zola is, let him not claim commendation for his astonishing
originality, for his scorn of all those old stage devices and dodges of
which he makes so liberal a use. And let not earnest critics endorse
with their approval so barefaced a claim to originality.

Some of the impassioned admirers of *' Th^r^se Raquin '* have
rushed into print to champion their heroine and her author d
outrance. The effort scarcely calls for serious comment. The
impassioned admirers are in a frenzy because any one presumes not
to admire as passionately as they do their favourite author. They
talk wildly of their play as appealing only to "those who are
interested in literature." Clamour of this kind is unmeaning. What
law has been promulgated that beings interested in literature must
necessarily be interested in M. Zola and his English translators?
AVhat Prophet has amplified the code to condemnation of all who
are not interested in M. Zola and his translators ? By the Beard of
the Prophet, what bosh is this ? For mine own poor part, I have
read all that the excellent Zola has written — fiction, criticism, and
even what he is pleased to call drama — with all the care they deserve,
and I still remain "interested in literature ;" and I still decline to
regard " Therfese Raquin " as a dramatic masterpiece, or as anything
else but an intolerably long, pompous, and tedious piece, constructed
on the most old-fashioned lines out of the most old-fashioned
materials, and as conventional as the conventional can be. Zola's
fault — and the fault of his English following in making a fuss about
this absurd play — naturally provokes uncomplimentary comment, at
which the English following are surprised and indignant

The only other novelties to record are Miss Bessie Hatton*s ex-
ceedingly clever performance in Mr. Hatton's ingenious version of

534 ^'^ Gentlematis Magazine.

" The Prince and the Pauper," and Mr. Clyde Fitch's " Pamela's
Prodigy," at the Court Mr. Clyde Fitch is a young American
writer with considerable daring, for he describes his piece as a
" lively " comedy. As a rule, descriptions of this kind are best left
to the public to allot If this example were to be followed generally,
the result would be somewhat grotesque. However, perhaps Mr.
Fitch's idea is that any comedy in which Mrs. John Wood appears
must be lively. Liveliness is Mrs. John Wood's characteristic, but it
is a liveliness which is rather monotonous and which sometimes palls.
That is the penalty of the conventionally comic. There comes a
time when the antic ceases to entertain, when the grimace no longer
amuses.

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY

535

TABLE TALK.

Progress of the Bull-Fight in France.

MORE than once I have been charged with exaggeration in
dealing with the influence of the bull-fight in France.
Again and again I have been told that my fears were visionary, and
that the horrors witnessed on the other side of the Pyrenees were
not to be feared on this. Yet, slowly and surely the prophecies I
uttered are being fulfilled. Let one who still doubts meditate on the
following, which I take from the Parisian correspondence of the
Daily Telegraph : "If Parisians, through humane considerations, are
spared the spectacle of the slaying of bulls in the arena of the Rue
Pergolbse, there is no such squeamishness manifested at the sight of
taurine blood by the inhabitants of the town of Dax, near Bordeaux.
This small place in the Department of the Landes' promises to rival
if not surpass the Spanish city of San Sebastian as a centre of such
scenes of slaughter. One bull butchered lately caused the matador
so much trouble as to make him hew it with his sword. Despite the
terrible wounds, the goaded animal managed before giving its last
gasp to disembowel three horses with its horns. The arena presented
a horrible appearance, and not a single protestation was made by the
public — the police authorities of the locality remaining quite indif-
ferent to the bull-fighting. On the first day of the so-called * fetes '
five bulls were killed, but at yesterday's proceedings six of the
animals were despatched, one being literally hacked to bits. Minuto,
the matador, and his colleague Guerrita were the heroes of the day
after their sanguinolent exploits." Horrors quite as bad as these I
have not seen even at San Sebastian. A heavy price will some day
be exacted for this concession to the ferocious tastes of the south.

Author-Managers.

AUTHOR-MANAGERS such as Killigrew, D'Avenant, and
others with whom I have previously dealt, stand on a diffe-
rent footing from Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, whose forthcoming
occupancy of a theatre has raised afresh the question of what is the
best management. In some cases the men named were selected, on
account of their literary position, to control an existing institution,
and to place a literary cachet upon an undertaking. Mr. Jones, on
the other hand, avowedly takes a theatre for the purpose of mounting

■

536 The GentletnarLS Magazine.

his own pieces. In so doing he has had, so far as I am aware, but
one predecessor whose name in the full sense survives. In February
1847 Alexandre Dumas p^re opened the Theatre Historique, a '
new edifice, with "La Reine Margot," by himself and Auguste
Maquet. A curious illustration of what is to be expected under
such conditions was afforded in the opening venture, which, j
beginning at six o'clock in the evening, lasted until three in the <
following morning, drawing from Gautier the suggestion that to the I
next announcement of fifteen tableaux, &c, should be appended— .
entremclcs de collations. In June followed " Intrigue et Amour," a
translation by the manager of Schiller's " Kabala und Liebe," and C
in August " Le Chevalier de Maison- Rouge," in which Dumas was \
once more assisted byMaquet. Just before the end of the year a
translation of " Hamlet," by Dumas and Paul Meurice, which had
previously seen the light at the theatre of Saint-Germain-en-Laye,
was produced. February 1848 saw the unprecedented experiment
of producing " Monte Cristo " in two parts, occupying for per-
formance two consecutive nights. This, even in the case of a writer
so fertile and brilliant as Dumas, was too much for the public, and the
next pieces to be tried were " La Maratre," of Balzac, and ** Le
Chandelier," of Musset. In the February of 1849 Dumas gave his
own "Lajeunesse des Mousquetaires.*' "LeComte Hermann,"
" Urbain Grandicr," and *' La Chasse au Chastre," all by Dunias,
followed, and the experiment collapsed. No want of novelty
attaches to the programme, and the three names — Dumas, Balzac,
and Musset — need only the addition of Hugo to be in their class the
foremost of the day. None the less, the result was disaster.

Actor %\ Author.

THESE things are not mentioned with a view to discourage Mr.
Jones. He may, and I trust will, show a self-control which will
be the more welcome and commendable in an author since it has not
previously been exhibited. The crucial difficulty of the case is not,
however, met by an experiment of this class. Instead of an actor
bidding for the centre of the stage or picking all the gems of dialogue
out of other parts to cram them into his own, we have now to fear
the author sparing us no word of his eloquence or his wit. Of the
t^vo dangers the latter is the more to be dreaded, since, while the risk is
equally great, the consequences are more deadly. Actor-management
has worked fairly well in the past. I'he hope of the stage lies not
in substituting one vanity for another, but in obtaining a management
strong enough to hold its own and to say, " A plague o' both your

houses." SYLVAJfUS URBAK,

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

December iSqi,

MRS. H IB BERT.

By M. F. W. Cross.

•* As a yacht driven by a favouring breeze carries a wreath of sparkling foam

before her.**

" T T ZHY should you go to Europe ? " asked the doctor. " Do you

V V feel as if you needed a change ? " he said, with an effort
adopting a professional tone.

**Well, yes, I think I do," answered a comely widow, with a
sweet determination on her beautiful Ups. There followed an uneasy
silence between the two as they sat facing one another on either side
of a bright wood fire in the city of New York.

"Yes, I guess I'll go," she went on in dulcet accents. " I need
some distraction after all I have gone through with the loss of my
poor Tim." The doctor gave a quick, furtive look at the rounded
smooth outlines of the charming face and figure. He bent over the
fire, reconstructing the glowing logs with unsteady fingers.

" Well, selfishly," he said, looking into the flames, " I wish you
wouldn't go."

" But you are so unselfish," she cooed softly.

" Am I ? " he queried, with a somewhat dull, wistful intonation.

** Why, certainly ; you have been ever so good a friend to me,"
she answered heartily, as, rising, she put her cool, soothing hand in
his, just not long enough, however, to allow him time to put his other
hand over it.

She did not re-seat herself, but having looked in a business-like
way at the clock, began methodically folding up her work.

VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1932. Q Q

538 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" I suppose it is getting late," he said, rising reluctantly.

" I think it is," she assented with decision, while she helped him
into his great coat.

On the following evening, when he called again, she informed
him that she had taken her passage for Europe.

"Well, you're the boss," he remarked, shrugging his shoulders.

" Yes, I guess I've gotten to look out for myself now poor Tim's

gone."

" I'll wait for you till you come back," were his last words to her,
as he saw her off on the steamer.

" Well, that's real kind ; for my part I'll make no promises," she
answered, laughing gaily.

Then from the deck she waved to him for a moment — but only
for a moment — her little embroidered handkerchief, and that duty
over, with delighted relief she set to work at the serious business of
installing herself comfortably in her state-room.

"Naturally she does not wish to tie herself so soon again,"
soliloquised the doctor, as he trudged back through the sloppy
streets to his dismal consulting room. " I must first make a name
for myself— work, work, work, grind hard, live low, and think high—
and — who knows — perhaps in the end I shall die in the prime of
life like poor Tim, and she will marry someone else."

The doctor, like other wise men, was subject at times to unwise
infatuation, and to its dull reaction of desperation.

Mrs. Hibbert certainly did not want to tie herself, all she wanted
was to have " a good time " — a real good time in Europe. She was
a sensible woman, and knew that she lacked the necessary training
for the " good time," therefore she formed the resolution to study
the languages, the arts, the manners, and the customs of the
countries she visited — to associate only with the cultivated and
high-minded— to amalgamate the good and reject what was evil
She meant to polish herself like a shining corner stone, and to spend
wisely and discreetly the money w^ith which " poor Tim " had endowed
her. She was quite well aware that there were problems in life that
she should probably never fathom — the extremes of joy and of
woe, of wealth and of poverty ; she had fringed the outside rims of
these extremes, and did not mean, if she could help it, to penetrate
further into their mysteries ; nor had she any rash desire to push her
unmerited way to the front ; she " wished no human thing to suflfer
ill " — all she wanted was free play to work up to the length of her
tether, and not to be hampered nor to be hindered from taking the
goods the gods had provided her.

Mrs. Hibbert. 539

Tim Hibbert had kept at high tension a dry goods store, and
had been known throughout the length and breadth of New York as
the soul of disinterestedness and honour. The store had been so
well conducted and financed, that poor Tim had died from sheer
overwork. As he grew rich, his wife always described him as a
dry goods merchant \ after his death, she designated herself, with
modest briefness, as the widow of a merchant (dry goods left out).

Mrs. Hibbert, after a year's sojourn on the continent, arrived
in London just as the season had commenced, putting up at a private
hotel in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly. She had begun her good
time in Paris armed with excellent introductions from her New York
doctor, who himself had passed some years in this American heaven,
among the scientific luminaries that circulated round Charcot and
Pasteur. The only fault that Mrs. Hibbert's Parisian acquaintances
found with her was, that she devoted too much time to study.

" You express yourself with facility in our tongue, what more do
you want ? " they asked.

" I want your accent undiluted with the American twang, and,
more than that, your rapidity of enunciation. I want to think in
your tongue, feel with you, see things from your pointof view, in
fact, be a part of you as long as I remain with you."

^^ Madame, vans Ues une belle Ame,^ was the admiring response
of her somewhat mystified interlocutor.

Mrs. Hibbert, among other things, had learnt to take compli-
ments for exactly as much as they were worth ; they were the wreath
of foam that naturally arose to the surface as she cut through the
waves. She did not hurry through life, she had time for everything, .
rising early in the morning and retiring to rest not too late at night.

" I think people lose a great deal of energising time by waiting
for their hot water in the morning," was a remark she presented in
French to one of her numerous admirers.

" You have reason, madame ; pour ma part, jt me savonne le
soir,'^ he replied with a bow.

Among her other avocations, Mrs. Hibbert did not neglect the
great and mystic art of Parisian dressing. She went to the root of
the matter, and gave her serious attention to it, finding the learning
of it almost as difficult, as complicated, and as engrossing as the
language. When she quitted Paris for Florence, the only introductions
she accepted were to a reliable linguistic professor and to a benevo-
lent cicerone, whose enthusiastic devotion to art and art-lovers had
secured for him the honorary distinction of art-guide of the first
standing. Though Mrs. Hibbert's self-imposed rigorous rigimt had

oba

540 The Gentlematis Magazine.

tempered and toned down to a nicety the abrupt independence of
her American manner, yet " cheerfulness was always breaking in,"
she could not keep it out. Her real modesty made her sanely aware
of her own limitations, and open-minded enough to admire superiority
in others.

In Paris she had been specialised as croquante, in Italy as molto
simpatica^ and now in England a beardless boy was enthusiastically
describing her to a sceptical relative as " simply a dear."

" Now come, uncle, step out, I must introduce you to her right
away, as she says ; we are within a stone's throw of her hotel, one of
those quiet, modest little places just up here." And in a coaxing
manner Mr. Harry Vane guided his uncle's footsteps in the right
direction.

" Fve spoken to her about you," he went on, "and she says she
will be very happy to receive you."

" Did she really ? " laconically queried Mr. Amhurst.

" Now look here, uncle, if you go in that frame of mind, it's not
the least use introducing you," exclaimed the boy pettishly ; "she's a
rara avis^ and you must mind your P's and Q's, I can tell you ; she
expects it, she's used to homage, and somehow, instinctively, one
doffs one's hat first go off."

The elder man looked down affectionately into the eager young
face, and good-humouredly allowed himself to be led, while he gave
a paternal pat to the shoulder that kept knocking up against his own.

" Mr. Henry Vane and Mr. Amhurst," aanounced the waiter,
flinging open the door of a snug little sitting-room, perfumed with
growing plants, in the " quiet, modest little place " described above.

" Well, this is real good of you ! " exclaimed a lovely woman,
emerging from behind a table piled high with bonnets of all shapes
and sizes. With both hands she warmly greeted the beaming youth.
turning at the same time a sunny, interrogative glance towarcs li.e
elder man. " And this must be the omniscient uncle," she added,
without pausing for a formal introduction.

**You have divined rightly, madame," answered Mr. Amhurst, as
he bowed solemnly over the jewelled hand.

"Well, Harry, you've just come in the nick of time, for I stand
greatly in need of unbiassed judgment about these bonnets. For the
last half hour I've been trying on one after another, but I can't come
to a decision."

" I think, before giving a judicial opinion, it will be necessary
for you to repeat the performance," declared Mr. Amhurst, fore-
stalling his nephew,

Mrs. Hibbert. 541

" Oh, don't ask me to do that again," she cried, smoothing down
her rippling hair, Tm just dead beat with trying on."

" I'd take the black one, you can't go wrong there," pronounced
the nephew promptly and emphatically.

"That's all you know" shs said, regarding him with mild,
maternal toleration. ** Tve already got two black ones, and what I
want is one to match a dove- coloured costume that Worth has just
sent me."

"Well, won't this one do?" suggested Mr. Amhurst, as with
the air of an expert he extricated one from the heap.

At this sample of his omniscience she looked hopelessly. " Why,
you are worse than your nephew ; the one you have selected is
mauve, it would simply kill the dress."

" I give it up," Amhurst exclaimed, dropping his eyeglass, de-
spondently.

" I guess you don't take an interest in dress," said Mrs. Hibbert,
seating herself resignedly on the sofa. " Now, tell me what your
interests are ? " she interrogated, turning towards the uncle her
dimpled chin. "As for that young man," she ran on (pointing to
the nephew), " at any rate I know what he does not take interest in,
and that is French grammar."

" By the way," broke in Amhurst, omitting to enlarge upon him-
self, "Harry's family owe you a debt of gratitude for your insisting
upon his sticking to the said grammar."

" Well, I did what I could. Having the same professor in Paris,
I naturally took an interest in his progress, and in the end he did
progress, he caught on, I will say that for him." Here she laid for
a moment a caressing hand on the young man's sleeve.

He had edged himself close beside her on the sofa, and was
glancing alternately with bright eyes from her to his uncle.

" But you don't mean to say that you absolutely like the grammar
yourself?" questioned Mr. Amhurst, roused.

" Why, certainly not ; but it is a means to an end."

" I wish we all had your wisdom."

" It is not because I am wise, far from it, but I know what I want,
and I have learnt that we can only have the best things by taking a
great deal of trouble, and exercising much self-control."

Up went the eyeglass again. "And do you find the time pass
pleasantly here ? "

To the lad's quick, sensitive ear there seemed a somewhat
patronising ring in this next question. But Mrs. Hibbert answered
radiantly, " Yes, indeed I do, I find the hours all too short I was up

542 The Gentleman's Magazine.

and out at sunrise this morning on Westminster Bridge, because 1
wanted to realise Wordsworth's poem, but I had great difficulty in
rousing in my PVench maid an equal enthusiasm, she don't like walk-
ing in the early mornings in London — she thinks there is no beauty
except in Paris : but the sight of the misty dawn, and the tender colour-
ing of the sky, and the vastness of it all, surpassed my expectations.'*

** And all that mighty heart was lying still," he murmured, looking
straight into her liquid eyes.

Blushing a little, she continued almost shyly : " In America we
get nothing quite like it — there is no nuance in my country, and
they say " (here she dimpled) " that there is the same want in its
inhabitants."

" You stand out cleav, bright, and untarnished, like the noonday
sun."

" I don't know about that," she demurred, " we have our
reservations."

Young Vane thought it high time now to break in upon his
uncle's inquisitiveness.

" Now, Mrs. Ilibbert, I am going to ask you to do me a high
honour—a great favour ; I want you to come and pay a visit to
Oxford. Next week is Commemoration, and I have arranged a whole
programme of entertainments for every day of the week, you must
let me * run ' you while there."

She raised regretful eyebrows.

"Now don't deny me, please."

" Indeed, dear Harry, I should have Hked nothing better, but I
am engaged to spend next week touring with some friends round
about Warwickshire ; we are to visit Stratford-on-Avon, Kenil worth,
and all sorts of places that I have dreamed of since my childhood
I am very sorry to disappoint you, and very much touched by your
having thought of me."

" Oh, hang it ! " the boy exclaimed in despair, " for without you
I shall certainly not put in a show at Commemoration,"

"Well, it's very kind and good of you to have planned such a
treat for me. And the week following you go on your reading tour?**

" Yes, worse luck ! " he ruefully exclaimed.

*' Nonsense," she replied severely, or as severely as her rosy lips
permitted. " When your family allows you all these educational
advantages, the least thing you can do is determinately to profit by
them."

" Hear^ hear 1 " approvingly echoed Mr. Amhurst, clapping his
hands.

Mrs. Hibbert. 543

" Now, uncle, don't you go and range yourself on her side, it's
bad enough to have one of you pitching into me. And so you
really can't come," he sighed, in a lachrymose tone.

** No, I can't come," she echoed with a very fair mimicry of his
intonation. " I mean, however, to visit both your Oxford and Cam-
bridge before I leave this country."

" But I shall not be there."

" Nevertheless, the Universities will not on that account be sub-
merged, I reckon."

" Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, I did not expect such cold-bloodedness from
you." To atone for her heartlessness she rewarded him with an
especial repentant smile.

"What day did you say you were going to Warwickshire?"
asked Mr. Amhurst, prosaically.

"On Monday."

" Ah, well, I shall be seeing you before then," he added casually,
as he rose to take leave.

Mrs. Hibbert at once returned without loss of time to the complex
question of the bonnets. " I think, after all," she inwardly soliloquised,
" the black lace one, with a dove's wing — a real dove's wing — will
after all be the best."

" Now, uncle, I trust to you to keep her cooking for me, for I

mean to pop the question as soon as I get finished with these d

examinations," said Master Harry as the two in the street linked arms
again.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, you young beggar, for I mean to
marry her myself."

The boy gave a delighted, triumphant laugh. " Bravo ! " he cried,
" all I want is to keep her in the family. I was quite sure you and
she would get on like a house on fire, but I did not count upon the
flames igniting so quickly. Heighho ! " he continued, in a tragic
tone, " I suppose that it is to be age before merit, and the weakest go
to the wall ; anyhow, as she says, it's well for you that you have such
a devilish clever nephew to hunt up for you just the right article, for
now acknowledge, uncle, that I have a ^ntflaire^ and that I know a
hawk from a heron. Just isn't she a topper ? "

"Does she teach you all these elegant modes of expression? '*

" On the contrary, she stamps them out whenever she can."

" I think she is a thoroughly good woman, she won't do you any
harm, and that's saying a great deal for me."

"And you don't call her handsome?" expostulated the boy in a
disappointed tone.

544 '^^ Gentleman s Magazine.

" Handsome ? No," pronounced the other deliberately; " I don't
think I should exactly apply that word."

"You surely admit that she is better looking than Lady Catherine?"

" I think Catherine would be generally considered the hand-
somer," the uncle replied judicially.

'* But, by the way, in this little arrangement, how about Lady
Catherine ? " queried the incorrigible youth. " What do you say to
swapping, uncle ? "

" What do you know about Lady Catherine, you young scape-
grace ? This much I will confide to you, her ladyship won't look at
me, and if she won't look at me, she certainly will have nothing to
say to you. But to return to our American, and to descend to
practical particulars — who is she ? "

*' The widow of a New York merchant."

" And who killed the merchant ? "

" He died from overwork."

"How do you know?"

" She told me that was what the doctor said. She often refers to
* poor Tim.' "

" And who is this doctor?"

" A well-known man in Paris and New York, who, when Mrs.
H. came over the ocean, provided her with introductions to some of
the best people in Paris — myself among the number. And I can tell
you my old Professor thought no end of her, not only for her
accomplishments, but above all because she was une femme serieuseJ*

" And is the New York doctor old or young ? "

" Old, I should judge, by the reverential way she quotes him."

" Has she a family ? "

" She has a brother somewhere out * West.'"

"And why has she left her own country?"

" For the purpose of distracting her mind after the loss of * poor
Tim.' "

" And what does she mean to do here ? "

" Have a good time. Now don't be afraid, uncle," the boy went
on, his eyes twinkling, " she's not on the marry, and another great
advantage is that she doesn't weigh upon you, she paddles her own
canoe — ' runs ' herself, in fact."

" Ah, exactly. Well, my dear boy, I only hope you will answer
your examination questions as clearly and promptly as you have
answered mine."

" I will if they lead up to so interesting a subject." Upon which
the two laughingly parted.

Mrs. Hibbert. 545

Mr. Amhurst proceeded in a meditative mood towards his abode
in Curzon Street. Arrived in his sultry sitting room, he went straight
up to the mirror, took off his hat, and passed his fingers critically
through his rather scant locks. He had good eyes, though they
were somewhat short sighted, and he had a good mouth, though
it was hidden by a moustache slightly grizzled. Nevertheless our
hero looked very discontentedly at himself. " I wonder what she
thought of me — omniscient uncle, indeed I She is quite capable of
wiping me clean off from the tablets of her memory once my back
is turned. By jove, she is a beautiful woman ! handsome is scarcely
the word for her." He sank down dreamily in an armchair, pulled
out a cigar, but forgot to light it. His eyes closed, but he did
not sleep. " I guess I feel dead beat," he murmured, with a soft
twang. The cabs outside rattled and paused, the evening papers
were hoarsely shouted. " Goodness ! " he suddenly exclaimed, shaking
himself, " I ought to have been with my relatives an hour ago. I
was asked to tea : well, can*t be helped — important affairs detained
me." He took up his hat, and without again glancing at the mirron
hurried out. A hansom whirled him in ten minutes to a palatial
residence in a palatial square. " Wait for me," were his orders to
the coachman. A languid hum of voices, mingled with the faint
aroma of tea and hot cake, met him as he ascended the stairs.
" These confounded * At homes M " he growled sotto voce^ as he
followed the deliberate steps of the portentous butler.

A girl, who was sitting with her back to the drawing-room door,
turned her swan-like neck as he entered, and giving him her hand,
murmured reproachfully, "I asked you to come at fi\t,^^

** I knew the crowd would be thinning off about this time,
Catherine," he answered, meaning to be kind, not cruel. Her face
brightened.

A lady, whose chatter the new comer had interrupted, now
resumed the thread of her discourse.

" And so I find that being on a committee is an excellent way of
keeping oneself in touch with things and people."

Catherine listened, or listened not, with lack-lustre eyes. Amhurst
had glided on.

** Take some tea ? " asked a stalely dowager, as he advanced to
pay his respects.

" I am afraid it is not cool enough for me, aunt ; I like things
either very hot or very cold."

** I shall certainly not send for more, poor Pumel has been
run off his feet this afternoon. He looked daggers at me when I

546 The Gentleman's Magazine.

asked for another plate of muffins just now, and he hasn't brought
them.''

" Pumel is the only person you're afraid of, aunt."

" I don't admit that, but I certainly could not get on without
him. By the way," she continued, in a business like manner, reach-
ing out her hand towards a table near, to possess herself of a memo-
randum book, "are you engaged for the evening of the 31st ?"

" I am afraid I am."

"If so, then we will make it the ist, when some friends of
Catherine's are com in' to dinner, and I particularly want you to
meet them. Shall I put you down then the ist, at 8 o'clock?
Remember, 7.45, for your uncle is very particular about time."

Amhurst ruminated an instant, but seeing no loophole of escape,
he answered with a bow, "Shall be- charmed."

" And about this fancy ball ? " she went on, with poised pencil
and careworn brow.

"Good-bye, dear Lady Harpington," interrupted a bevy of
rustling ladies, upon which our hero slid modestly into the ante-
room. For a propitious moment he was securely button-holed by a
club acquaintance ; the two men stood discussing the weather in
low, guarded diplomatic accents, then the door being opened, the
wily diplomates, under cover of fresh arrivals, simultaneously slunk
out.

" Well, that's over ! " ejaculated Amhurst, as he slammed dose
the door of his hansom. " Edwards' Hotel," he shouted abstractedly
through the hole in the roof. " No, no " — frowning, and with height-
ened colour—" I mean Curzon Street." Foolish fellow ! he
forgot that there was yet the evening to get through, and then the
long hours of night, and afterv^^ards the languid morning. At break-
fast on the following day he was heavy-eyed and irritable. At noon
he felt a little better, after a light lunch, a heavy cigar, and a
profound meditation. At 2.30 he made un bout de toilette^ trying
on all the ties in his drawer. Eventually the floor of the dressing
room was strewn with discarded ties and gloves. At 3 o'clock he
was in his hansom, and some ten minutes after was in Edwards'
Hotel. This time he did not call out to the driver that vindictive
"Wait forme."

" Well, this is really friendly, but, oh, I'm so sorry ! " exclaimed
Mrs. Hibbert, as, dressed for walking, she met Mr. Amhurst on the
threshold of her sitting-room. "This lady and I," she went on,
indicating a bright looking girl, with a drawing portfolio under her
arm, " are going through the different schools of painting in your

Mrs. Hibbert. 547

National Gallery. She is giving me most valuable instruction^ and
as her time is precious, we have to keep strictly to hours."

"It doesn't matter in the least, I can look in again," answered
Mr. Amhurst with an impatient glance at the obstructive young
lady.

" Well, if that won't put you out in any way, it would give me
real pleasure to see you soon again," and, nodding kindly to him, she
passed serenely down the stairs. On the door step he stood watching
her threading her way among the crowd with calm, queenly step^
Her dress of sombre hue fitted her figure like a glove.

It soon came to be an established custom with Mr. Amhurst to
drop into Edwards' Hotel, and pass there the twilight hour before
dinner in Mrs. Hibbert's society. It was so convenient, so pleasant,
so unexacting. Like bathing in the pure waters of Lake Leman, it
was tranquillising, and at the same time exhilarating. She did not
bother him with invitations, nor ask for tickets* nor introductions,
nor for his official escort She had no arrihres-pens^eSy she was not
scheming, therefore she was not distraite. She loved to listen, and
she loved still better to talk. She enjoyed laughing at Mr. Amhurst,
and took in very good part when the laugh was turned against her-
self. She in no way relaxed her rigorous scheme of self-improve-
ment—she ** would not be laughed out of that anyhow," she
declared. Her morning hours were either spent at the British
Museum, following a systematic course of instruction given by
peripatetic lecturers, or else in the different picture galleries,
attended by her enthusiastic girl-guide. But in the late afternoon
Mr. Amhurst found her invariably reposing in her chaise longue^
with hands folded piously. From her coign of vantage she gently
drew him out on politics, on agriculture, on English literature, on
finance, on socialism, on fin-de-sikle. And in return she imparted
to him unstintingly her impressions, fleeting and fixed. Sound or
unsound, crude or canny, these impressions of hers always interested
and roused him, for they were evolved out of her own self-con-
sciousness— they were the outcome of a clear, detached observation ;
they were not ideas gathered second hand, or dished up with stale
London sauces. They showed a mind unbiassed, unprejudiced,
unsophisticated. At times her frankness and truthfulness almost
jarred upon him, and yet be felt she had — as she expressed it — her
reservations. " What do you say to coming to the opera to-night ?
I have two tickets," he suggested one afternoon, with careful
carelessness.

"You are very kind," she answered, with grateful emphasis,

548 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" but I have just written to accept a seat in a box belonging to some
friends of your nephew."

" Ah, the Exmoors."

" No ! It is to Richmond I go with them."

He paused, dumbly exasperated, expecting her to say more, but
she passed on placidly to some other theme.

"Dear Aunt," Mr. Amhurst scribbled off in a passion, "if you
and Catherine care to go to the opera to-night, or could benevolently
dispose of the enclosed tickets, I should remain as ever your obliged
and obedient nephew." He took for himself another stall ticket,
but did not occupy his seat. Going about like a private detective,
with hat well over his eyes, and opera glass raised, he haunted the
doorways and open vistas belonging to the various tiers opposite
the box owned by Lord Allingford. He wanted to observe Mn
Hibbert from all points of view — to observe, but not to be observed
observing. And from all points of view Mrs. Hibbert looked lovely
— no, handsome was certainly not the epithet to apply to her.
Her low black dress showed up to advantage the dazzling whiteness
of her arms and neck. She wore no ornaments save a single star of
diamonds in her hair. Quiet, and absorbed in the music, she sat
beside the white-haired old lord, who from time to time turned
his least deaf ear deferentially towards her. They were both
engrossed in the cantatrice, and gave the audience only the bene6t
of their intent and well contrasted profiles. In the rear of the box
was the old man's buxom granddaughter, nibbling chocolate in com-
pany with a gay cavalier. Mr. Amhurst returned home in an agitated
frame of mind.

The next day was the start of the fours-in-hand in Hyde Paik.
Our hero, with other idlers, was meditatively leaning over the
palings killing time until his hour — the twilight hour — should arrive.
The coaches were assembling, but the best turn out had yet to come.
Everyone was awaiting it impatiently, the horses were champing,
pawing, and eager to be off. However, here at last, turning the
corner in grand style, appear the shining bays. The roof of the coach
is already filled up with gay dresses and bright faces, only the seat
next the whip is vacant. And now a quiet little brougham comes
trotting up, and is brought to a standstill close beside the great
coach. From out the brougham emerges firstly a miniature dove
kid boot and a gleam of dove silk hose, then a shaded dove dress
and black bonnet with poised wing, and lastly a black parasol, with
dove-tinted ribbon streamers, held daintily in dove-gauntleted hand.
Colonel Mowbray, the owner of the coach, throws the reins to the

Mrs. Hibbert. 549

grooms, and whisks himself off his high perch, alighting on the ground
in time to steady the ladder for this dove-like apparition to mount.

" I don't feel quite like climbing so high," exclaimed Mrs. Hibbert,
with a little timid laugh, as she shyly glanced upwards.

" You'll feel very like it once youVe seated, I assure you," urged
the Colonel encouragingly.

The ladies from the roof looked down in chill silence, while the
black -coated crowd about the railings clustered more closely.

" Who is she ? " "'Pon my word ! " " By jove ! " " Like the
dove returning to the ark ; Mowbray's is the hand stretched out to
receive it. " " Lucky dog ! " " What nationality ? That costume is
not English." ** Why, she's unique ! " " See, the Prince is actually
looking back at her ! " Mrs. Hibbert once seated, closed her grey
feathers about her, and remained for a time mutely still. At last
she gasped, " It quite takes my breath away."

** What does ? the furore you have created ? "

" Ah, you should not laugh at me, you see it's all so new to me —
I mean the magnificent horses, and the way you manage to steer
your way, and the bright colours, and those beds of scented flowers,
and the well groomed crowd — it's all so typically English, it's just
splendid. And it's ever so kind of you to have given me this treat."

" I am only too much honoured," answered the whip, turning
from his horses to take in more closely the exquisite details of the
dove-coloured costume. " It is a sight no American ought to miss,"
he added, almost severely.

" I am real glad I've come then."

"Of course you've got your trotting horses," he gallanily
admitted.

" That's so."

" But this sort of turnout is brought to perfection only in
England ; in France, for instance, the horses may be as good,
the driver better "

** Impossible ! " she laughed.

" But there is always some slovenliness— a want of finished detail
in the thing as a whole," he concluded, passing his lash caressingly
over the sleek backs of his team.

" I reckon you're right," she said, looking up into his face with
genuine admiration.

** Dear Father," Mr. Amhurst wrote in a tempest, " I wonder if
you would mind my bringing down a small party at the end of the
week to Hangingshaw? The fact is that Master Harry when in
Paris made the acquaintance of an American widow lady — a culti-

55" ^<^ GcKcI^mans Magazine.

Ti:ii u:i Lz:frf<rj:=^ v:~i-i. who has had a most beneficial
t: -';.^:^ : r-^r :-c :•: -. ie^r.-^ liim wiui his nose to the grindstone,
I-t: i: 1 i jc:Lzi:i fr:z: :"ie :r.v: lines. The young beggar has now
i::.': :~ :- .* ? :;Mi_-.: :::ir. le^"-^ her on my hands in London.
A'i 1 :;-:! :*i: ::.e :.it 'j niijih: show her some hospitalit}' in
--;:."? ::- *;- r^-^ ::' :^: -. ::c:cil. I think I could count on my
I--: »-l J-i-^r.-e r»f -; ::" :he Tciny ^:he former hinting to me
:^c ::^::: i-. :m: ^-: T=-ir.:ei 2 few days of pure air without
:*; :•::.";: :: :7«;r_r.c -t her c-sr. Surrey shanlv), I would look
.: :?; :: r^r ~:r. :^ r»iii.:-^. Now if all this will bore you
••;■■ '•-:.*. I :— ~ iJ-5-"->" :^; -:y wiiow to Wentworth, but as our
**c,x* -> > 5::r-.c-jl mi :he crunry so typically English, I think it
-*:. i re rrrre Lielv :r interest ir. intelligent American than the

vrrJL Tr-jtir^ the got:t is keeping in abeyance

1 « -

ti-.-T. ::" ■:>: J-r.u" the iV.Irwir.g : "My dear boy, by all
'r:-.":c t^i" v.-..;:-.T j.r.i the rest of the trail. Anything that
'. . » t: '.-> 1 1>.= .".trestril haV.s will rejoice the heart of your

»^ • • « 4

*•■ *

> *»

■■ y <. i^v the - M^ 'K"hy r.rt runish Master Harry's desertion

» i. V \:ur5i-:"? Vou know I have alwavs
^' : :.\L s-.'jccd in keeping your nose to the
i >t:.r.je trv^ni the frivolities. But I suppose
\ . .• . ;r>..:.^: v.ursc'.t t>o v '.i :l lird to be caught by that lime."

" L ;.: tVi* <>:-;\ v.h::: .^re cut cr.zTugements/'said Lady Harpington,
::< >>i^ :x.-.hevt . -t he: h-r.i> towards the detestable little note-
S. V A".h,::^: w.:> r.rt ir. her i:ood graces at piesent, conse-
..:.": V >' ' .' T ; c J '. V i r > : r. v : : a t : ." r. with a mi xlu re of severity and
-.<■ : . V *At."., hs:5:i:< t~:> Ar.tcrican woman, who else are you
^^ . ♦ :.^ h.xw: : " >h.^ .\><cvh rx^carding hini sternly over her high nose.
■ .Vc'\ I ;."..^j,;ht o: a>k:r.i: Fhil Lambert for one ; I know he is

a i^.x,.. — » '■ • *• • V -i.««-^ • ».«^ »-

" She h.i> hv :'..^ :v..Mr.> a jrcat admiration for him," pronounced
her h\ivi:h.'\ ** I surrosc* she continued, with asperity, "we

" I ar.i sure she w:'.'. be ceh^hted if you can find time to do so,
. . • , . - •«

V... _... . •..,. .. •No.-^.'H • ■^••" •*» T"*\* AVIV

• What Hibbcrt is she ? Is she one of the Philadelphia
H.bb^r:? : the father is ir.inister a: Berlin?"

"This *.adv :s widow of a New York merchant.'*

* Ah, then, your uncle will doubtless know who she is. I
wi'.l make a note about asking him. And is she settled in London? '

Mrs. HibberL 551

" No, she is only on the wing."

" Still, if we are to meet at Hangingshaw we had belter call."

" I am sure she will be charmed," responded" in flat tones the
dutiful nephew.

" And about the day ? " Here the engagement book was again
brought into requisition. " Let me see — Hangingshaw, from Saturday
till Monday ; then shall I put down Thursday for making this call ? "

"I am sure that will do very well," he said, rising with alacrity
to take leave, " she is always in from five to seven."

"Those late hours, however, would not at all suit me,"
declared the imperious dowager. "You had better call for us at
3.30, and tell her my visit will take place at 3.45."

" All right, aunt," and Mr. Amhurst impatiently seized his hat.

" Stop a moment ! we are havin' an evenin' party on the
nth, and I hope I may count upon you."

" I really can't tell what my engagements are so far ahead," he
answered irritably.

"Well, when you get home put down the nth, for the evenin',
and don't be late," she said, with stern dignity.

Mr. Amhurst did not negleci to give Mrs. Hibbert an initial
histrionic presentation of his aunt, for by this time the two had
become very intimate. Mrs. Hibbert had laughed, but at the same
time she had scolded him.

" It doesn't seem quite kind to laugh at your elderly relations,"
she had remonstrated.

" Wait until you see her."

" Why, you quite alarm me."

" Yes, I guess you'll quake," he drawled, with a twang.

" Well, I suppose she won't kill me."

" No, but she may wound you."

"Anyhow, you're near by to support me if I fall," she laughed,
dimpling.

" Yes, ril support you through thick and thin, you bet ! "

" I suppose it's a fellow feeling that makes me wondrous kind
towards your aunt, for you spare no one in your mimicry, and I
feel it's particularly hard upon me, for I have taken as much pains
to cultivate your English accent as I took to learn the French one."

" Well, as regards the English accent, you have signally failed to
catch on," he said, shaking his head hopelessly, while he regarded
her with delighted eyes.

" No doubt you are right," she went on seriously ; " in fact, the
longer I live in London, the more I feel my deficiencies — ^tte low

552 The Gentlematts Magazine.

tones and staid bearing of Englishwomen seem to be bora with

them."

" Wait till you see my aunt, and hear the way she pierces your
ear with her ^-less words."

" I was thinking more of the young girls, but the old faces, too,
have their typical loveliness, like the pictures of the Dutch school
in your National Gallery ; there is about them a generous repose,
breadth, and nobility. Now our aged faces are apt to be too
sharp, the eyes are bright and restless, but the features are haggard
and lined, and our old ladies dress their hair as if they were still
young — the lack of nuance is shown even in their coiffure."

" Wait till you see my aunt's headgear."

" Oh, mercy ! how you frighten me."

** I do it with a purpose. It is because I want to get you into
the right state of mind for this visit of ceremony. Remember, it is
an important event, a signal and significant move ; you are going to
be, as it were, introduced for the first time into the family — into my
family."

" Gracious ! you take my breath away," she cried, pressing her
fair hands to a supposed quickly beating heart.

She would fain have kept to generalities. He had been leaning
against the mantelpiece, but now he came and sat on the sofa beside
her.

" I do wish you would be serious, Mrs. Hibbert."

Lightly she answered, ** I will try, my friend, if you on your part
will not take yourself and your relations so very solemnly. I expect
to see a strong family resemblance between you and your aunt, for
anything more sententious than this prologue of yours I have
rarely heard." She could not help rippling with laughter, though
his brow was furrowed with frowns. " You are not really angry?"
she asked at last, with penitent air.

"There's a time to laugh and a time to cr>'," he said, with a
rebuke in his voice.

" And we are here to-day and off to-morrow," she mimicked, in
dolorous accents.

" I want you to be here always," he murmured sentimentally.

" Your wanting it will not, alas ! make me immortal."

" You know I don't mean in that sense."

" It seems to me," she said, rising, " that what you want is
your dinner, for your conversation to-day is not so bright as usual;
in fact, it is what you P2nglish would call *dry.'"

" I am hurrying on matters too quickly, I am forcing her hand.

Mrs. HibberL 553

What is to become of me, what shall I do ! " groaned Mr. Amhurst,
as back in Curzon Street he flung himself heavily into his armchair.

" I suppose you do a great deal of shopping here? " questioned
her ladyship, looking above Mrs. Hibbert at the ceiling.

" No, I don't think I have entered a shop since I came to London.
I get all my things from Paris; and you, do you shop much?"
sweetly asked our American in her turn.

Lady Harpington dropped the tortoise-shell eyeglass which she
was raising from her girdle, and looked fixedly across the room at
Mr. Amhurst.

" Mamma has things sent to her from the shops, her time is
very much occupied ; she does not give much thought to dress,"
answered Lady Catherine.

"And how do you manage to pass the time? I thought
Americans were never happy unless they were shoppin*," resumed her
ladyship, after a pause.

" Well, I owe a great deal to your family," declared Mrs. Hibbert
cordially ; " both your nephew and grandnephew have been very kind
and helpful to me, and I have a few other English friends, whose
hospitality has made my sojourn in England extremely pleasant."

" I heard that you had the box seat on Colonel Mowbray's
coach the other day," continued the old lady severely.

"And you, I suppose you are quite tired of coaching?" in her
turn queried Mrs. Hibbert.

Again the lorgnette was dropped, and again irate eyes were
turned towards Mr. Amhurst. " I don't think mamma was ever on
a coach in her life," replied Lady Catherine.

For a moment the fair brows of the hostess contracted, as she
tried to conjecture what felicitous subject she could introduce that
would help to cement together the rough edges of her party.

" I suppose your ladyship is much occupied with religion ?" she
tentatively hazarded.

The hand that held the poised eyeglass trembled ominously.
Mr. Amhurst coughed, he dared not laugh. Lady Catherine was
again heroically prepared to fill in the breach, when the door opened,
and the waiter announced " Mr. Silas P. Hopkins."

" Why, I declare, is it really you, brother 1 Come right in ! "
exclaimed Mrs. Hibbert, dropping into her national accent, while
she warmly embraced an oudandish looking old man of the sea.

" Well, I guess it's no other than Silas P. Hopkins from Bethlehem,
'Frisco." Then oblivious of the company, he put his hands on his

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1932. p p

554 '^^^ Gentleman's Magazine.

sister's shoulders and went on brokenly : " Sis, I don't deser\'e this
welcome— I am a bird of ill omen — I bring you bad news."

" From New York ? " she asked, with white parted lips.

" No, no, from Trisco," he answered dejectedly. " Your money,
which I invested in those mines, all Tim's savings, have been swept
clean away — the mines have turned out a swindle."

" Poor Silas, poor Silas ! how you raust have suffered !" she
murmured soothingly, as she rained down upon his bent head a
shower of soft kisses.

**But, my poor girl, it's you who are the chief sufferer."

" Do I look like it ? " she asked, with brave radiance.

" Well, it's. a dizzy world this," exclaimed the old man, shaking
his head in a perplexed way ; " neither you nor the doctor seem to
realise the position. When I told him the disaster, all he remarked
was, * I'm glad I am not in the same boat ; luckily for me I've been
coining this year ; ' however, his egoism stopped there, for he said he
would go to Europe with me, as he has been commissioned to
investigate the Koch cure, and he has done everything he could to
take my mind off the subject ; but it's no use, I can think of nothing
else. I left him to do the Custom House business in Liverpool, for
I felt if I did not unburden myself to you right away, I should
burst."

** Poor Silas, poor Silas ! " reiterated Mrs. Hibbert as she gently
drew her brother down on the sofa, and clasping the weather-beaten
hands in her own, she added comfortingly : " You must remember
that you did not want the responsibility of the money, it was I who
had such belief in those mines."

" But that does not make the loss the less, my poor child."

" Dear brother, nothing much matters as long as we love one
another. I have paid up as I have gone along, and I am strong
enough to be able to reef in my sails at a moment's notice"

" You're a true American, Sis ! " he exclaimed, his dim eyes
kindling.

After seeing his aunt and cousin to their carriage, Amhurst did
not return to the hotel. It was not because he did not wish to go
back ; on the contrar)^, it was pain and anguish to deny himself.
Yet he felt it a duty — a duty he almost owed to his country— to
think out the subject of Catherine, or rather to pause and consider
before taking an irrevocable step. There was his cousin with her
fifteen thousand on the one hand, and, on the other hand, there was
Mrs. Hibbert minus her twenty thousand. Catherine was distinctly
the more distinguished looking of the two, and she was a good girlf

Mrs. Hibbert. 555

and during this afternoon visit had borne herself with dignity, and
she was not insistent hke her mother.

As he pondered over the subject, and weighed well the advantages
of the cousinly connection, and the satisfaction it would afford his
family and friends — yea, even his enemies — his step gradually lost
its elasticity, the spring of his imaginings ran down like clock-work,
his face assumed a prosaic, bored expression, and his low whistling
ceased. " No, hang it, I can't ! " he exclaimed aloud.

" I did not ask for a copper, your honour," responded close at
his elbow a roguish little crossing-sweeper.

Amhurst pulled himself together and shut his mouth, but opened
his purse. The child's grateful beaming face acted like a pick-me-up.
" The darling ! " he murmured, not, however, to the Crossing-sweeper.

Meanwhile Catherine, with her chill manner and correct bearing,
locked out both* the one arid the other from li'er room that* night.
By the side of a \o^ sofa, at the foot of her bed, she sunk down,
flinging out tense arms over the cool chintz cover. " Make me
worthy of him, make me worthy of him 1 " she moaned. She did not
sob or cry out, no tears fell from the strained, pained eyes. She
only stretched herself writhingly, and with low reiteration she went
on, " Make me worthy of him — take away all bitter feelings against
this other woman — guide me — help me — raise me up — make me
worthy of him — or — or — if it must be so, make her worthy of him."
Pityingly she kissed her rounded white arms, which had grown chill
in the wan moonlight. Then shivering she rose, undressed, and lay
down in bed with wide open eyes, waiting in passive patience for
the morning.

On the following day she was herself again, with her head poised
proudly on her swan-like neck, and the conventional gravel well
raked over last night's trodden ground.

Long before his accustomed hour, Mr. Amhurst knocked at the
door of the sitting-room in Edwards' Hotel. Mrs. Hibbert was alone,
and standing somewhat like a ghost in the middle of the room, robed
in a loose white gown. There was a subtle change in her whole
appearance, her face was pale, and her eyes seemed as if tears had
faded them. Amhurst had never known her look so touching or
so loveable. A certain grave dimness had come over the glittering
brilliance of her beauty.

" Ah, it is you," she exclaimed, somewhat confused. There was
the least httle trace of worry in her tones. '* Now you are here, I
will not turn you away, but as you came in I was just thinking I
would go to bed to get a rest until dinner, when the doctor returns.

1' P2

556 The Gentleman s Magazine.

The fact is, he and I sat up talking till late last night, and I feel quite
a sick woman now."

She turned an appealing face to her guest, meaning him to take
upon himself his own dismissal. But he, man-like, full of his own
intents and purposes, looked on her fragility only from a pictorial
point of view. Besides, he liked her this way better than all other
ways, better than in her flawless beauty, or in her faultless self-control,
or in her moneyed serenity. It made him feel at once more at his
ease, more master of the situation. He gently led her to her
chaise-longue.

"I am so grieved that you should be weary, for I want you to
give me a hearing," he said, as he drew in a chair close beside her.

She could hear his breath coming fast, and his eyes, fixed upon
her, pained her like a burning-glass.

" Oh, I have given you hearings enough," she answered lightly.
" Let us put off this grand peroration of yours," and she made an
effort to rise from the chair.

" But, Mrs. Hibbert, you must hear me," he cried, taking strong
possession of her hands.

*' No, no, no, not to-day," she urgently protested.

*' I cannot wait any longer," he said desperately.

Bursting into tears, she forcibly withdrew her hands from his
clasp.

" My darling," he murmured, " from the first day I saw you I
loved you, you surely knew it."

*' No, indeed, indeed : do stop, Mr. Amhurst, and let me
speak."

*' No, let me finish. I want you to consent to be my wife. I
want you to go to Hangingshaw to-morrow as my fiande. Make me
suj.rcmely happy by saying yes ! " And he looked brightly up into
her distressed face.

*' Oh, Mr. Amhurst, I am so sorry — so grieved. I surely have
never given you any idea that I could love you, or ever marry you. I
would not for the world give you pain — but I am engaged — engaged
to the doctor. We had it all out last night. I have been in cor-
respondence with him ever since I left the States. At first his letters
only agitated and unsettled me ; I was not then capable of appre-
ciating them. But gradually, as I saw more of other men, and other
ways, and other modes of thinking, I came to think differently of
both him and his letters ; until at last the American mail day was a
date always marked with a white cross in my calendar. But I am
talking too much about myself ! "

Mrs. Hibbert, 557

" No, no, go on," he sighed, bending his head to kiss her hand.

"Then all my energies became concentrated in making myself
worthy of him, worthy of his disinterested attachment. I tried to
raise myself up out of my littleness. And now, how I love him, oh,
how I love him ! " She buried her face in her hands, and the hot
tears trickled through her slender fingers.

" And does he find you improved ? '* he asked prosaically, scarce
knowing what he said.

" Well," resumed Mrs. Hibbert, regaining her serenity, " he has
not stated it ; it was mostly fault-finding last night," she said humbly,
shaking the dewdrops from her soft shining eyes, while she packed
her handkerchief into a little damp ball. " For instance," she went
on, " he showed me how wrong it was for me to tell you that my late
husband — poor Tim— was a merchant, instead of a storekeeper. He
said I ought to be proud of him and his calling. Well, I am proud
of Tim and of the good name he left behind him, but I can*t feel
just like being proud of the store ; but I mean to work out that
and olher things, and in the meantime I apologise to you for having
given you an incorrect idea of my exact position."

" Oh, Mrs. Hibbert," interposed he, with a protesting wave of the
hand, " those things don't matter."

" Yes, but the doctor says they just do matter ; for if one is slip-
shod over small things, one will never be earnestly accurate over the
great questions. He says there is no use in education if it does not
help one to live up to a high standard."

A firm, quick, decided step was heard coming up the stairs.

** Here he comes ! " and the tears were hastily mopped up.
" Now '' (in a quick friendly whisper), " lift up your head, and look
spry, for I have told him that you are just lovely."

Mr. Amhurst did lift up his head, though he signally failed to
look either spry or lovely.

The conquering hero came into the room very modestly, very
shyly, very quietly. After the introduction he shook hands with
Amhurst, fixing upon him at the same time observant, experienced
eyes. Then with a quick turn to Mrs. Hibbert, who sat paling ^nd
flushing on the sofa, he said abruptly, " You look a real sick woman,
you had better go and rest in your room. WeVe come down upon
her too suddenly ; we've upset her," he explained to Amhurst, con-
tritely.

" Well, aint you gone yet ? " he asked with a laugh, his full lips
wavering a little, as he delightedly looked down upon her hanging
hoveringly on his arm.

558 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" I will go as soon as you have thanked this good friend here for
his own, and his nephew's kindness to me ; it is mostly owing to
them that I have had such a good time while in England."

** Sir, I do indeed thank you, and if you ever visit the States, I
hope you will not forget to look up this lady in my house," said the
doctor.

" I say, old fellow," called out Amhurst, stopping a man who was
hurrying down the steps of a club, " you asked me the other day if I
would go with you to the Caucasus. I said no then, but now I say
yes, if you still hold to your plan."

" Well, you need not look so tragic over your affirmative."

" Provided," went on our hero, frowning, " there is no other
fellow going with you."

" Zounds ! I should as soon think of asking any one but yourself
to accompany me as I should think of proposing to a casual way-
farer to come and pray with me."

" All right ! when do you start? "

" To-morrow morning at seven sharp."

" Well, then, I'm your man."

Upon which the two separated. Is it not Georges Sand who says
that all our grand travelling is simply a cowardly running away?

Among the letters Mr. Amhurst wrote before leaving was an
apologetic one addressed to Hangingshaw : " Dear Father," it began,
** I am off to the Caucasus with a friend. My party has fallen
through. Aunt Harpington, on second thoughts, declined. I am
apt, you know, to count my eggs before they are hatched " (this was
meant to throw dust in his father's eyes ; but the old gentleman,
though gouty, was quick-witted).

" Depend upon it the American widow has thrown him over," he
dryly remarked, as he threw the letter across the breakfast-table to
his wife.

" But, my dear, this seems an allusion to Catherine."

The husband looked over his glasses with affectionate toleration
at his handsome white-haired spouse. It had never been a detri-
ment in his eyes that she was somewhat " slow at the uptak*," " it goes
with qualities that dovetail into my deficiencies," was his private
theory.

Mr. Amhurst did, in the course of time — time the great healer —
pay a visit to the United States, and was hospitably entertained m
New York at the house of its most celebrated physician, whose
charming wife supplied him with valuable statistics for his ponderous

Mrs. Hibbert 559

volume on the American Republic. Catherine in the course of time
— time the great healer — married Phil Lambert. Master Harry, to
the surprise of his family, took a first class at Oxford — a standing
which he modestly declared he owed entirely to the stimulating
influence of a fair American. Amhurst, when not collecting
American statistics, passes penitentially all his disengaged evening^
in the company of his old Aunt Harpington.

560 The GentlenMtis Magazine.

ANURADHAPURA :
A PRE-CHRISTIAN CITY.

AMONG the many scenes of interest to the traveller in Ceylon,
none is more startling than to find himself amid the ruins of
the far-famed pre-Christian city Anuradhapura, the once mighty
capital of the isle.

These ruins are totally unlike anything which I have seen in
other countries. For my own part, the feeling they inspire is not so
much admiration as wonder and bewilderment as one wanders in
every direction, walking or riding, only to come to more and more
and more ruins — ruins wrought by war and by ruthless treasure-
seekers, but far more extensively and effectually by the silent growth
of vegetation, which, fastening into every neglected crevice, has over-
thrown massive masonry, which, but for these insidious parasites,
might have defied time. Two characteristics are specially striking —
the incalculable multitude of tall monoliths, not rude stone monu-
ments, but accurately hewn pillars of stone or granite, which in some
cases must evidently have supported roofs, or some sort of building ;
while a great number, capped with a beautifully sculptured crown,
form the ornamental surroundings of the Cyclopean dagobas,^ or
relic-shrines, which are the most prominent features of the whole
place. These are gigantic masses of solid brickwork, built in the
form of a bell, and crowned with a sort of spire called a Tee, which
symbolises the honorific umbrella. These huge piles are estimated
to contain millions of cubic feet, and somewhere near the summit of
each a secret chamber was constructed, wherein was deposited some
worshipful fragment of Buddha himself, or of one of his saints,
surrounded by costly offerings. The means of access to this chamber
was known only o the priests, but it is recorded in the Book of the
Chronicles of Ceylon, the Maha-wanso, that when about B.C. 161
King Dutugemunu had built the Ruanweli, or "Golden Dust,"
dagoba, he ascended to the summit by means of a temporaiy

' From datti^ a relic, and gabbhan, a shrine ; or from dtha^ the body, tnd
goka^ that which preserves.

Anuradhapura : a pre-Christian City. 561

winding staircase, and thence descended into the sacred chamber,
wherein he deposited the precious casket containing the relic, what-
ever it was, and various other treasures.

Of course, in exploring any scene of ancient historic interest, it is
essential to have gathered previously as much information as possible
regarding it, for nowhere does the eye so truly see what it brings the
capacity for seeing as in visiting the ruined cities of bygone ages.
This is certainly true of this labyrinth of ruinous brickwork and
sculptured stones, so bewildering till one begins to get something
like a clue to its main features. In point of fact, most of what
remains of the once mighty city of Anuradhapura, the magnificent,
lies buried beneath from six to fifteen feet of soil, waiting for a whole
army of excavators to come and supplement the feeble force now
workmg for Government. And yet, although the forest now over-
grows the whole plain, so that the only break in your long ride is an
occasional open tract, where fine old trees grow singly, as in an
English park, enough remains above ground to enable you to recall
vivid visions of the past. For a space of sixteen square miles, the
somewhat scrubby jungle, stunted by the prevalence of droughts, is
but a veil for the masses of masonry and brickwork ; a wilderness of
granite pillars, with richly carved capitals and flights of steps, some
covered with intricate carving, as perfect to-day as when, two thousand
years ago, they were trodden by the unsandalled feet of reverent
worshippers or busy merchants. The designs of the stairs are
beautiful ; on either side supported by rich scroll patterns and
graceful figures, overshadowed by the seven -headed cobra supposed
to be the emblem of vigilance, while the huge semicircular stone
which forms the lowest step (commonly called " a moonstone ")
generally represents a sacred lotus blossom, round which circle rows of
horses, elephants, bullocks, and the invariable geese held sacred by all
ancient nations. These stones are peculiar to Ceylon, and, strange
to say, no two of them are exactly alike in arrangement of detail.

Broad roads have been cleared through the dense jungle, embrac-
ing the chief points of interest, and, as you ride slowly along these or
any of the innumerable pilgrim paths which here intersect the forest,
you see on every side the same wilderness of hewn stones, heaped
up in dire confusion, all overturned by the insidious growth of
vegetation, and at last you emerge at some huge bathing tank, all of
carved stonework ; or it may be on the brink of a great artificial lake
formed by an embankment of cyclopean masonry. Or else you find
yourself m presence of some huge figure of Buddha — perhaps reclining
in the dreamless repose of Nirvana, perhaps sitting in ceaseless

562 The Gentleman's Magazine.

contemplation of the lovely forest — a mighty image of dark stone
brought from afar at some remote time when worshippers were legion.

Now, perhaps a handful of flowers or some ashes of burnt cam-
phor tell of some solitary villager who has here offered his simple
prayer. Or the object which suddenly presents itself to your sight
may be one of the gigantic dagobas, of which I have already spoken
— one of many similar buildings which lie scattered in various parts
of Ceylon in the silent depths of vast forests, which now cover the
sites where once stood busy, populous cities.

It is recorded in the ancient chronicles that on great festivals
these dagobas were festooned from base to summit with endless
garlands of the most fragrant and lovely flowers, till the whole building
resembled some huge shrub in blossom. Others were literally buried
beneath heaps of jessamine. One of the relic shrines which was thus
adorned, the Jetawanarama, towered to a height of 316 feet. Though
no reverent hands now garland this desolate shrine, kind nature still
strews it with fairest blossoms, and has covered it right up to the
summit with trees of largest growth, all matted together with beauti-
ful flowering creepers. These have now been in a measure cleared
away, so as to reveal the form of the gigantic dome, capped with t
ruinous red spire, four storeys high, circular on a square base. Tall
monoliths and sculptured figures at the base of this huge mass of
masonry afford the eye a standard by which to estimate its height
My own feeling, as I sat at work sketching it, as in duty bound, was
of amazement that any human beings could have constructed an
object so oppressively large, useless, and hideous.

The oldest and most venerated of all these great buildings is the
Thuparama dagoba. It was built by King Dewananpia Tissa, " The
Delight of the Gods," who ascended the throne B.C. 307, and, having
obtained possession of Buddha's right collar-bone, proceeded to build
this wonderful shrine for its reception. (I cannot refrain from
remarking how culpably careless were poor Prince Gautama's
cremators! The dagoba at Kala-wewa purports to contain his
jaw-bone, while another at Bintenne was erected B.C. 164, to contain
a bone from his thorax.) The height of the Thuparama dagoba is
about 63 feet.

The slim monolithic columns all round it are peculiarly elqiuit,
though unmeaning except as ornaments. A similar arrangement of
three rows of pillars of equally delicate workmanship^ numberiif
respectively 20, 28, and 40, surround the Lankarama, which is a
smaller but very fme dagoba of unknown date. It is attributed to
King Maha Sen, who succeeded to the throne A.D. 275, and whoy
having in the earlier years of his reign adopted a creed known to

Anuradhapura : d^ pre-Christian City. 563

orthodox Buddhists as " the Wytulian heresy " (supposed to have
been Brahminical), had done all in his power to suppress Buddhism
and destroy its monuments ; but, finding that the inevitable result
would be to raise a general rebellion, he recanted and became a zea-
lous Buddhist, not only rebuilding all the monuments and priests'
houses which he had destroyed, but building new ones to outvie
those of his predecessors.

The chief of these is the Jetawanarama, which, though not originally
quite so large as the Abayagiria, was 316 feet high, and is still 249 feet,
with a diameter of 360. Sir James Emerson Tennant calculated that
even now it measures twenty millions of cubical feet, giving sufficient
material to raise eight thousand houses, each with twenty feet front-
age, which would form thirty streets half a mile in length, and would
construct a town the size of Ipswich or Coventry, or form a wall one
foot in thickness and ten feet in height reaching from London to
Edinburgh ! Now this mountain of brickwork is covered to the
very summit with large trees of such frugal habit as apparently to live
on air, for they surely can find no subsistence in the crumbling bricks.

Those slim columns with the ornamental crown which never sup-
ported anything are most puzzling, no one having any idea why
they were erected. The only rude parallel which occurs to me as
possibly throwing light on the subject, is a custom which prevails in
certain tribes in the Kassia Hills, on the confines of Upper India,
where a cromlech is erected over the ashes of the dead, whose spirits
are invoked by the living. Should the prayers thus offered be
granted, a great monolith is erected close to the tomb in acknow-
ledgment thereof, and in due course of time these multiply, so that
some favoured tombs are surrounded with a large group of such
tributes of gratitude. It is just possible that this rude phase of
ancestpr worship may give us the clue to the more elaborate produc-
tions of a highly civilised race, whose object was equally the invocation
of the dead. Whatever the meaning that may have once attached
to them, it is now utterly forgotten even by the priests.

As regards the dagobas themselves, there are now two classes :
first, those that were built as depositories for sacred relics (these in-
clude all the Cyclopean buildings) ; and secondly, a multitude of small
ones, which were merely hollow, circular domes, built over a lower square
chamber which was the receptacle for the ashes of some cremated
monk or nun. Apparently the only means of access to this chamber
beneath the square platform was by a square opening beneath the
dome ; but when once the dome had been erected, the living might
no more enter the chamber of the dead. Within the chamber, at
the four corners, forming a sort of octagon, were stone-slabs bearing

564 7"i5^ Gentleman's Magazine.

the name of the dead and a short catalogue of his or her good deeds,
together with a representation of Buddha's feet, the trident, the sun
and moon, and other Buddhistic emblems.

Unfortunately, at Anuradhapura most of these tomb dagobas
have been destroyed by sacrilegious treasure-seekers.

Though the dagobas in this place are specially interesting as being
the largest and oldest in Ceylon, the same form is reproduced in many
more modern cities, and in connection with Buddhist temples all
over the isle— all built on the same pattern, namely, a circular build-
ing on a square platform.^

At Chi-Chen in Central America there are ancient buildings
which in size, form of dome, and the ornamental tower or Tee on
the summit, are said to be apparently identioil with those of Ceylon.
It would be interesting to know whether they have also the square
platform.

It is worthy of note that the commonest type of grave all over
North China, from Shanghai to Peking, simply consists of a
circular earthen mound erected on a square platform of earth, the
mound being generally crowned by a spire or nob. These are made
in miniature for the very poor, very large for the wealthy, and
Cyclopean for emperors. This combination is the mystic symbolism
which to the Chinaman represents the dual principle in nature. The
square is the feminine symbol, and represents the Earth. The circle
suggests the male principle, and symbolises Heaven. The same
principle is worked out in the construction of the great temples of
Heaven and Earth at Peking.^

It is interesting and curious to fmd this ancient symbolism
revered and perpetuated by the professors of a creed to which such
details are certainly foreign. The external square was repeated by
an internal pillar which marked the exact centre of the dagoba — in
the case of the tomb dagoba the pillar was sometimes square, some-
times circular. It was about a foot square, and rose about four feet
- above ground, and on it rested the casket containing the ashes of
jaifv-* dead. Such caskets were generally miniature dagobas of the
a bom bell shape,
abo^t^ the construction of the gigantic relic shrines it appears that

-* The Thuparama and Laukarama dagobas are apparently exceptions to this
though r though the tall circular spire rests on a square platform on the sammit
three re ^i?^^'^» ^^^ great massive buildings are raised on circular mounds,
resnectiveii^'^"'''^""'^ ''' C/z/V/a, by C. F. Gordon Gumming, vol. ii., pages

11 K ' 3^^" ^^^ ^^^^ " ^'^ Ground Plan of the Temple of Heaven," and
smaller but Vt^t^temples," in Meeting the Sun, by Will. Simpson, F.R.G.S.
King Maha Sen, & Co. Pages 176 and I90>i93.

having in the earlic

Anuradhapura : a pre-Christian City. 565

in the first place the exact centre was marked by an upright monolith
accurately squared, and placed so as to have the four sides true to
the points of the compass. The squares of the platform and outer
wall were then marked out ; also the true circle for the dagoba ; and
the whole was built up solidly — no chamber of any sort till the
appointed height was reached, perhaps fifteen feet from the summit.
But so soon as the central square pillar was built up, another was
placed on the top of it, ** truly perpendicular, and securely fixed in
position by mortise and tenon." Thus it was carried right up from
the base to a height of from 200 to 400 feet to the relic-chamber,
which was formed as a perfect square facing the cardinal points ;
and here, as in the tomb dagobas, this stone pillar projected about
four feet through the floor ; it was overlaid with gold and supported
a circular golden tray, on which was laid the casket cpntaining the
precious relic, which may have been only a hair from a saint's eye-
brow, or a revered toe-nail, but was probably accompanied by
treasures of very much greater interest, which fully accounts for the
anxiety of ruthless marauders to pillage these depositories.

Here, for example, is a list published by Mr. Wickremasinghe of
the various objects enshrined in a dagoba at Hanguranketa : " Two
gold chains and two medals studded with valuable gems, 1 60 silver
images, 199 bronze images, 604 precious stones, 2,000 uncut stones,
and many other objects, including two boards for binding a book, of
silver and gold studded with gems ; five books of the Vinaya Pitaka
written on silver plates ; seven books of the Abhidharma Litaka on
silver plates, as also a number of other books ; one book written on
900 copper plates each three spans long, and extracts from various
religious books written on 37 plates of gold, each plate weighing hvo,
English sovereigns."

Of the gigantic relic dagobas there are seven within the limits
of Anuradhapura itself, without reference to those at Mehintale and
elsewhere in the neighbourhood. These seven are —

Supposed

oriKinal

height

Present
height

Diameter
at base

Date begun

ft.

ft.

ft.

I. Thuparama

62 i
82I

59

B.C. 307

2. Mirisawetiya .

164

B.C. 164

3. Ruanweli

270

189

379

B.C. 161

4. Abayagiria

• 405

231

325

B.C. 89

5. Jetawanarama

316

249

360

A.D. 302

6. L^nkarama

ZA

44

Unknown

7. Sela Chaitiya .

20

Too ruinous to ascertain

B.C. 119

566 The Gentleman s Magazine.

The latter, though generally known by this name, which means
" The Stone Temple," is properly called the Lajjika-vihara, having
been built by King Lajjitissa. Though small and in very ruinous
condition, it is deemed very sacred, and its stone carving and stair-
ways are considered very fine.

Of the other dagobas which are scattered about in the jungle, I
may mention the Kiri Wihara (" Milk Temple "), which is so entirely
buried beneath encroaching earth, that its existence is only known
by the tradition which declares it to lie buried beneath a huge grassy
mound.

All the dagobas at Anuradhapura are built of brick, ahd
perhaps their erection here was suggested by the fact of finding
building material in such abundance, in the form of beds of clay
ready for the manufacture of millions of bricks— though, strange to
say, the ancient chronicles relate how, to facilitate the building of the
Ruanweli dagoba, one of the gods created the requisite quantity of
bricks at a place sixteen miles distant, but there is no record of their
having been miraculously transported to the spot.

Of course, in viewing these ruinous red mounds it requires an
effort of imagination to picture them as they appeared when so
thickly coated with chunam as to resemble huge domes of polished
cream-coloured marble. This chunam was still in use when the
oldest European bungalows were built, and gives their pillared
verandahs a delightfully cool appearance ; but this manufacture
is a lost art, though it is known that chunam was a preparation of
lime made from burnt oyster-shells mixed with the water of cocoa-
nuts and the glutinous juice of the fruit called Paragaha.^

Of vanished glories, one of the chief must have been the Monara,
or Mayura-paya, i.e. the " Peacock Palace of the Kings," so called
not only from the brilliancy of the colours with which it was painted
externally, but also from the abundance of precious stones, gold and
silver, employed in its decoration. It is described as having been a
building three storeys high, with ranges of cool rooms underground.
Whatever may still remain of it is all underground, buried beneath
a grassy mound ; but round it, as if keeping sentry round the 10^
palace, stand a circle of fine stone pillars with beautifully sculptured
capitals. But the crowning marvel of Anuradhapura was the Lowa-
maha-paya, or ** Great Brazen Palace," a monastery built by King
Dutugemunu about b.c. 164, for the accommodation of one thousand
priests, or rather monks, for such they were. It was nine storeys
high, probably pyramidal, so that the top storey was much smaller than

* Dillena uentata.

Anuradkapurd : a pre-Christian City. 567

the lowest. The latter was built up from a foundation supported by
sixteen hundred granite pillars, all of which the Rajavali implies were
covered with copper. Each priest had his own little dormitory, and (as
no great man could possibly allow his inferior to sit higher than him-
self) the poor old priests of highest rank had to occupy the upper-
most rooms, just under the roof with its glittering brazen tiles — ^rather
warm quarters on a hot summer's day !

A most interesting account of this palace and its various apart-
ments has been preserved in the Maha-wanso, which is the book ot
ancient national chronicles. In one great hall were golden pillars,
supported by golden statues of lions and elephants, while the walls
were inlaid with flower-patterns of costly gems, and festoons ot
pearls. In the centre stood a magnificent ivory throne of wondrous
workmanship, for the high-priest, while above it was the white
chatta or umbrella, the Oriental type of sovereignty. On either side
of this throne there were set a golden image of the sun, and a silver
one of the moon ; and the whole palace was richly carpeted, and
full of luxurious couches and divans. Amongst the curious statistics
of the " Great Brazen Palace, '^ we hear of a stone canoe, twenty-five
cubits long, made to contain some special drink for the thousand
priests— a very jovial species of punch-bowl ! A huge hollowed
stone, 63 feet long, 3^ feet broad, and 2 feet 10 inches in depth,
was pointed out to us among the ruins of this great monastery as
having been used for this purpose, while another hollowed block
of granite, 10 feet long, 2 feet deep, and 6 feet wide, lying near the
Jetawanarama, was shown as that wherein the daily allowance of rice
was measured out. Certainly the proportion of sack was largely in
excess of the solids.

Minute details are given of the daily rations provided for all
these priests of the king's bounty, as also of the vessels of sugar,
buffalo butter, and honey provided for the builders, whose work, how-
ever, did not prove enduring, for in the following reign this " Tower
of Babel " had to be taken down, and it was rebuilt only seven
storeys high. Two hundred years later these were reduced to five
storeys, and seventy years afterwards, in a.d. 240, it must have been
entirely rebuilt, as the reigning monarch changed the position of the
supporting pillars. When (a.d. 275) King Maha Sen succeeded to the
throne, full of iconoclastic zeal, he demolished this lofty " Clergy,
house " as well as many more buildings connected with Buddhism,
and used them as quarries for the erection of new shrines for the
images supposed to have been sanctioned by " the Wytulian heresy."
But when he threw over his new love to return to the old, he rebuilt

568 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the " Brazen Temple " and all else that he had destroyed. Unfortu*
nately some of the i,6oo granite monoliths had been broken, so to
make up the number a certain number were split. This was done by
boring holes in the stones and therein driving wooden wedges, on to
which water was poured to make the wood swell, a simple but effec-
tive device, which was first adopted in England about two thousand
years later.

How strange it is to think that when our ancestors sailed the
stormy seas in their little skin-covered wicker boats, or paddled
canoes more roughly hollowed from trees than those quaint out-
riggers which here excite our wonder, Ceylon was the chief centre of
Eastern traffic, having its own fleet of merchant ships, wherein to
export (some say) its superfluous grain — certainly other products—
to distant lands. Possibly its traffic may even have extended to
Rome, to whose historians it was known as Taprobane, and of whose
coins as many as eighteen hundred of the reigns of Constantine
and other emperors have been found at Batticaloa. Think, too,
that while Britons wore a full dress of only woad, and lived in wattle
huts, these islanders had vast cities with stately palaces and other
great buildings, and monuments whose ruins, even now, vie in
dimensions with the Egyptian Pyramids. Besides these massive
ruins, and this endless profusion of sculptured granite columns and
noble stairs which once led up to stately temples, how poor and
mean do all ^ the modern temples appear, with their wooden pillan
and walls of clay, the work of pigmy descendants of giants I

Here, four hundred years before the birth of Christ, all that
constituted Eastern luxury reigned supreme. Great tanks watered
beautiful gardens, and in the streets busy life fretted and toiled.
Allowing largely for Oriental exaggeration, we can form some idea
of the greatness of the city from the native annals, which tell how,
including these tanks and gardens, it covered two hundred and fifty-
^ six square miles, the whole of which was enclosed by a strong outer
wall, which was not completed till the first century after Christ
From the north gate to the south gate measured sixteen miles, and
the old chronicles tell us that it would take a man four hours to
walk from the north to the south gate, or across the city from the
rising to the setting sun. The writer enumerates the principal streets,
and it gives a strangely familiar touch to hear of Great King Street,
while Moon Street reminds us of the planet worship of the early
Singhalese. Moon Street consisted of eleven thousand houses^
many of which were large beautiful mansions two storeys high. There
wjre lesser streets without number, bearing the name of the caste

Anuradhapura : a pre-Christian City. 569

or profession of its inhabitants. All were level and straight ; the
broad carriage-way was sprinkled with glittering white sand, while
the foot-path on either side was covered with dark sand. Thus the
foot-passengers were protected from the dangers of the swift riders,
chariots, and carriages. Some carriages were drawn by four horses.
There were elephants innumerable, rich merchants, archers, jugglers,
women laden with flowers for temple-offerings, and crowds of all sorts.
Not only had they cunning craftsmen of all manner of trades, but the
most minute care was bestowed on such practical matters as the
sanitation of their cities. Thus, in Anuradhapura there was a corps
of two hundred men whose sole work was the daily removal of all
impurities from the city, besides a multitude of sweepers ; one
hundred and fifty men were told off to carry the dead to the ceme-
teries, which were well cared for by numerous officials. "Naked
mendicants and fakirs," " castes of the heathen," and the aboriginal
Yakkos and Nagas, i.e. the demon- and snake-worshippers, each had
distinct settlements allotted to them in the suburbs.

Within the city there were halls for music and dancing, temples of
various religions (all of which received liberal support from the earlier
kings), almshouses and hospitals both for man and beasts, the latter
receiving a special share of attention. One of the kings was noted
for his surgical skill in treating the diseases of elephants, horses, and
snakes ; another set aside rice to feed the squirrels in his garden, and
a third devoted the produce of a thousand fields to provide for the
care of sick animals. At every comer of the countless streets were
houses for preaching, that all the passers-by might learn the wisdom
of Buddha, whose temples then, as now, were daily strewn with the
choicest flowers, garlands of jessamine, and the fragrant champac-
blossoms, and beautiful white and pink water-lilies (the sacred sym-
bolical lotus). On all great festivals the streets were spanned by
arches covered with gold and silver flags, while in the niches were
placed statues holding lamps or golden vases full of flowers. At a later
date the records of Pollonarua are almost identical with these.

Yet ere long both these cities were doomed to be forsaken. The
huge tanks which watered the gardens and irrigated all the land
were left to go to utter ruin, and for centuries all has lain hushed
and still. When foreigners invaded the isle it was the policy of the
Kandyans to keep the interior inaccessible, so there were only diffi-
cult paths through dense jungle ; consequently, although Knox had
written of the wonderful ruins through which he had passed when
making his escape from his long captivity in Kandy, they continued
unknown till they were rediscovered by Lieut. Skinner, about 1833,
VOL. ccLxxi. NO. 1932. Q Q

570 The Ge^itlemaris Magazine.

when surveying for his great work of road-making. At that time
the site of the great city was the haunt of vast herds of elephants,
sambur and fallow deer, buffalo, monkeys, and jackals. Porcupines
and leopards sought shelter among the ruins, the tanks were alive
with pelicans, flamingoes, and other aquatic birds, and large flocks
of pea-fowl sought refuge in the cool shade, or sunned themselves
in the green glades where once were busy streets. Of course, with
the return of so many human beings, these shy creatures have
retreated to more secluded hiding-places. Here and there, on the
outskirts of Anuradhapura, there are great heaps of stones— huge
cairns— to which, even to this day, each passer-by must, without
fail, add a stone, though the people have long since utterly forgotten
what event they commemorate.

Imagine such a fate as this creeping over the great capitals
where a hundred and sixty-five successive kings reigned in all the
pomp and luxury of an Oriental Court. Their history has been
handed down to us in the Mahawanso, or " Genealogy of the Great,"
that precious manuscript to which frequent reference is so necessary
to a right understanding of events in Ceylon. Its first section,
which was compiled about the year a.d. 470, from native annals,
treats of the Great Dynasty — />. the kings who reigned from 543 k.c.
to 301 A.D. — after which comes the history of those who are classed
as tlie Sulu-wanse, or " Lower race," although that list includes the
great King Prakrama Pahu, by whose orders the work was com-
pleted up to his time — ue, 1266 a.d. Finally, it was carried on to
the year 1758 a.d. by command of the last King of Kandy, all
compiled from authentic native documents. Being written in Pali
verse, none but the most learned priests could possibly read it, and,
as a matter of fact, no one seems to have been able to do so when
in 1826 Mr. Turnour, of the Ceylon Civil Service, set himself to
master this terribly difficult task, and with marvellous patience and
ingenuity succeeded in so doing. Xherein we obtain the clue to
what at first seems such a mystery — how a race which produced
work so wonderful as these great cities, a people so powerful and
in some respects so wise as those old Singhalese — themselves, we must
remember, conquerors from Northern India — should have been
driven from province to province till all their old power and energy
seems to have died out.

The mischief seems to have begun when the King of Anuradha-
pura first took into his pay mercenary troops from Malabar. These
were the Tamils, whose descendants remain to this day. They
rebelled, slew the king, and held the throne for twenty ycais.

Anuradhapura : a pre-Christian City. 571

Driven from the island they returned, and again held it for forty
years. Once more they were expelled, and once more fresh hordes
poured in from Malabar, and landing simultaneously on all parts of
the island, again took possession of the capital, where some settled,
while others returned to the mainland laden with plunder. During
all these years an ever-returning contest was maintained between the
Buddhists and their Brahmin invaders. There was the usual pulling-
down and building-up of temples, so that by a.d. 300 the native
records declare that the glory of the city was utterly destroyed,
and the royal race of Children of the Sun had been exterminated.
Nevertheless it continued to be a great powerful town, enclosed by
•strong walls.

The struggle with the Malabars continued till about a.d. 726,
when the kings forsook Anuradhapura, and made Pollonarua, farther
to the south, their capital, and more beautiful than the old city.
Still the Malabars pushed on, and overran every corner of the
island. At len£th, a.d. 1155, a mighty king arose, by name Prak-
rama Bahu, who with a strong hand delivered his country, and driv-
ing out the invaders, established peace and security. He rebuilt
the temples of Buddha, and made or restored fifteen hundred tanks,
and canals without number, to irrigate and fertilise the thirsty land.
Yet thirty years after the death of this great, good man, his family
had become so utterly weak through their incessant quarrels, that
the Malabars once more returned and seized the tempting prize*
And so the story of strife continued till in 1505 the Portuguese
came, and then followed the further complications of the struggles
between Portuguese and Dutch, and later, the French and English
took their turn as disquieting elements.

But the consequence of all these fightings was the removal of the
seat of government from one part of the isle to another, so that in
many a now desolate jungle there still remain some ruins of ancient
cities which successively claimed the honour of being the capital for
the time being. The oldest of these was Tamana-nuwara, which was
the capital of Wijayo the Conqueror, B.C. 543. His successor founded
Oopatissa-nuwara, callingit after himself. Then Maagamaand Kellania
had their turns before Anuradhapura asserted its supremacy. With
the exception of eighteen years when Kaasyapa (the parricide and
suicide) lived on the fortified rock of Sigiri, and one year when King
Kaloona removed the capital to Dondra, or Dewa-nuwara, the " City
of the Gods," and likewise committed suicide, Anuradhapura reigned
supreme for 1,353 years, when it was abandoned in favour of Pollo-
narua ; three hundred years later Anuradhapura became the capital

QQ2

572 The Gentlematis Magazine.

during one stormy reign, and Roohoona, Kalu-totta, and Kaacha*
ragama were each the royal home for a brief intervaL Then came
the reign of the great King Prakrama, when the glory of Pollonama
was at its height, and continued the capital during the seventeen
changes of sovereignty which followed in the twenty years after his
death. From 1235 to the end of the century Dambadiniya was the
chief city, then PoUonarua had another turn. After this, Kuru-
negalla, Gampola, Sengada-galla-nuwara, Kandy, and Cotta were
successively the royal head-quarters. Now one after another of these
great cities has fallen into comparative neglect, and several into total
obUvion. Giant trees have overgrown both palaces and markets;
beautiful parasitic plants have loosened the great blocks of stone,
and the dark massive ruins are veiled by lovely creepers and all
the wealth of tropical greenery, through which, as they did so
recently in Anuradhapura, bears and leopards roam undisturbed,
while birds of all glorious hues flit through the foliage. Only at the
time of certain great festivals do devout pilgrims still wend their way
through the silent depths of these dark forests, to do homage at
these shrines, and the stillness of night is broken by their pious
ejaculations as they circle round the huge relic shrines.

At the time of our visit to Anuradhapura, the pilgrims had
assembled in vast numbers to celebrate the festival of the mid-
summer new moon, and their simple camps — yellow tents of great
taliput palm leaves, of which each pilgrim carries one section, to
act as sunshade or umbrella — formed a very picturesque feature in
the scene. Half a dozen pieces of leaf, supported by sticks, form
the slight shelter which is all they need. (Many carry one of the
tough fibrous sheaths, which has enveloped the young flower of
the areca palm, and which serves as a simple rice plate, while an
ingeniously folded Palmyra palm leaf forms an excellent water-
bucket.) With reverent steps they trod the green forest glades,
marking the course of the main streets of the holy city, and
guided by yellow-robed Buddhist priests. Many of the pilgrims
carried small flags and banners, and one group carried a miniature aA
containing a golden lotus blossom to be offered to the sacred Bo tree.
The ark, I may observe, holds the same place of honour in Ceylon
as it does in many other nations. To all travellers in the
Himalayas, the ark veiled with curtains, within which is concealed
the idol most deeply reverenced, is a familiar object — an ark
which is carried on staves through the forests, with music and
dancing, and which, both in its proportions and in all the
monies connected with it, bears a strange affinity to the

Anuradhapura : a pre-Christian City. 573

ark of the Israelites.* We find it again in the churches of
Abyssinia and in the Buddhist temples of Japan ; and here in
Ceylon, every important dewali (that is, every Malabar temple)
has an ark precisely similar to that of the Himalayas, the sacred
objects, which are so jealously concealed from the gaze of even
devout worshippers, being in this case the mystic arrows of the
particular god or deified hero there held in reverence. Once a
year, at a great full- moon festival, this ark is borne forth on its
staves, and carried in sunwise circuit round the temple, amid
great rejoicing. That tiny ark, containing the mystic lotus blossom,
was not the only link we noticed to the customs of far distant
lands. At the entrance to the Wata Daghe at Pollonarua lies a
stone precisely similar to the Clach Brath at St. Oran's Chapel
in lona,* with a row of hollows, worn by the continual action of
stone or crystal balls, which the passers-by turned sunwise to bring
them luck. And here, in Anuradhapura, are three stone bulls,
which women who have not been blessed with offspring also drag
round sunwise, that they may insure the speedy birth of an heir.
One of these seems to have formerly revolved on a pivot, but now
main force does all.

Certainly the most venerated objects of superstition are not often
impressive to the eye, and these are three insignificant little animals,
measuring respectively 3 feet 6 inches, 2 feet 9 inches, and i foot 7
inches. They lie on the turf beneath a great tree — a curious fore-
ground to a most picturesque pilgrims' camp of yellow palm-leaves
like gigantic fans, banked up with withered boughs ; women and
children busy round their camp fires, and beyond the curling blue
smoke rise the pillars of the Brazen Palace. Thousands of these
primitive tents were scattered about in groups in the park-like grounds,
and I had the good fortune to witness a very striking scene on the
night of our arrival, when all night long, by the light of a glorious
full moon, great companies, guided by bare-armed and bare-footed
yellow-robed priests, circled round the Ruanweli dagoba, shouting
Saadhu ! (the Buddhist form of All hail !). But in making their
circle they kept their left side towards the relic shrine, which in sun-
lore all the world over is the recognised form of invoking a curse
instead of a blessing. But on the beautifully sculptured " moon-
stones " at the base of the great temple and palace stairs, all the

* See In the Himalayas^ by C. F. Gordon Cumming, published by Chatto &
Windus, pages 361-371, 436.

* See In the Hebrides^ page 72, by C. F. Gordon Cumming, published by
Chatto & Windus.

574 The Gentleman s Magazine.

animals, elephants, oxen, horses, lions, and sacred geese, have their
right side towards the central lotus blossom, so they are making the
orthodox sun-wise turn.

Just beyond these bulls are forty rows of roughly-hewn stone
pillars, which even now stand twelve feet above the soil, and are
doubtless sunk to a depth of many more — a strange and unique sight.
In each row there are forty of these granite monoliths, making six-
teen hundred in all ; some have fallen, some are half buried among
the ruins, but there they are, and these are all that now remain above-
ground to mark the spot where the stately Brazen Palace once stood
with all its crowds of learned priests. Of course there is not a
vestige of the copper which once covered the pillars, nor of the
resplendent brazen tiles. I was told a legend — whether authentic or
not I cannot say — that the final destruction of this grand building
was due to fire kindled by a queen who, when sore beset by Malabar
armies, and seeing no hope of escape from beleaguering foes, re-
solved that at least they should not enjoy the pillage of the palace,
and so caused all her most precious possessions to be brought here
and heaped together, and having with her own hands set fire to this
costly funeral pyre, thereon sought death. Now the desolate ruins are
forsaken alike by priests and worshippers. I wandered alone through
the labyrinth of grey pillars where only a flock of shaggy long-legged
reddish goats were nibbling the parched grass, just as I have seen
British sheep finding greener pasture beneath the shadow of the
mighty rock temple of our own ancestors at Stonehenge.

C. F. GORDON CUMMING.

575

A COMMONPLACE-BOOK.

THE man who keeps a commonplace-book too often resembles
the dog which carefully buries a bone for future use, yet
seldom or never returns to dig it up ; and it is positively pathetic to
think of the intellectual dainties which probably lie buried in many
a pale and faded volume of this class.

I propose then to dig up some of the old bones which are to be
ound in a repository of this kind which lately came into my hands,
and to serve up to the reader — if I can catch him — a few curious
odds and ends from this source, a few literary or linguistic morsels,
which I hope may not prove altogether insipid. Of course they lay
claim to no sort of originality, and to but little even of research ; yet
I am not without hope that some of them may be new to many
persons, many of them to some.

What may be called international proverbs, or sayings in various
languages expressing the same or nearly the same sentiment, is a
branch of folk-lore now tolerably familiar to scholars and linguists.
But — perhaps fortunately — not all people are linguists or scholars ;
and in any case I think I can produce some examples of such
proverbs which may be found not uninteresting and not altogether
hackneyed.

Our " Out of the frying-pan into the fire " is not badly expressed
in German by reference to what may be called the opposite
element : "Aus dem Regen in die Traufe kommen " — said of one
who, in seeking shelter from a shower of rain, takes up his position
under a spout from a roof, and so, instead of escaping a wetting,
catches a ducking. The Italian saying on the point is on all fours
with our own : **Cader dalla padella nella brace " — to fall from the
pan into the coals.

" Let sleeping dogs lie " is found nearly word for word the same
in Italian : " Non molestar il can che dorme." But that sprightly
language has another and sufficiently picturesque proverb to express
the same idea : " Non stuzzicare il vespaio " — stir not the wasps* nest.
The Germans convey the same caution by a slightly different

576 The Gentleman's Magazine.

formula: "Was dich nicht brennt das blase nicht" — fan not the
flame which burns thee not.

I do not at this moment remember any English proverb touching
the folly of discarding the essential along with the non-essential, the
valuable with the worthless, although doubtless such an aphorism
may exist in our language , but the idea is happily expressed by
the German saying : " Man darf nicht das Kind mit dem Bade
ausschiitten" — when you throw away the contents of the baby's
wash-tub, don't throw away the baby too.

The German

Wer will haben gute Ruh,

Der hor und seh und schweig dazu —

he who would have good rest, let him hear and see and hold his
tongue— has a neat enough analogue in the Italian

Vedi, odi e taci,
Se vuoi viver in pace-
see, hear, and be silent, if thou wouldst live in j)eace.

" People who live in glass houses should not throw stones " is
almost word for word the same in German — I wonder which is the
original and which the copy : " Wer im Glashaus sitzt soil keine
Steine werfen." So with another well-known and wholesome piece
of advice : " Schuster, bleib bei deinem Leisten," or " Sutor ne supra
crepidam " — "Shoemaker, stick to thy last "

" III weeds grow apace " is well represented both in German and
in Italian : "Unkraut stirbt nicht" — the worthless weed dies not ;
and " La maP erba vien su presto" — evil vegetation comes up quickly.
"Still waters run deep" is a shade more picturesque in the lively
Italian : " Acqua quieta rovina il ponte" — 'tis the quiet stream which
saps the bridge.

Weather proverbs of course abound in all languages, but they
also abound in diversity. Instead of our saying about St Swithin,
the Italians hold that whatever the weather may happen to be on
April 3, such weather will continue for forty consecutive days ; and
they express the superstition in a sort of jingling rhyme of the sort
dear to the genius of their language, but more than usually defiant
of strict grammar in its structure :

Terzo Aprilante
Quaranta di durante.

It seems to be the fate of most popular delusions to be swept
away by the relentless besom of scientific observation. Thus, I

A Commonplace- Book. 577

believe, it has been demonstrated by a long series of meteorological
records that the St Swithin forecast is all nonsense ; and similarly
with the Italian saying as to April 3, governing the weather for the
forty following days, which has been found to have absolutely no
foundation in fact. In like manner the venerable delusion to the
effect that the moon influences the weather, though it dies hard
among old-fashioned and ignorant people, is pretty nearly exploded
among the well-informed.

Many more instances might be cited of popular fallacies demo-
lished by science, yet emulating the cat in tenacity of life, especially
in minds of an antiquated and superstitious cast. Take, for example,
the custom of sprinkling salt on the table-cloth when wine — especially
red wine — has been spilt upon it. Chemists know that this custom
is ridiculous, since no acid contained in any known wine is suffi-
ciently energetic to separate the chlorine and the sodium which
together compose the salt, and thereby release the former and enable
it to act upon the stain. Nevertheless the custom holds its own, and
is devoutly believed in by many, if not most, persons, on the principle,
probably, of Tertullian's " credo quia impossibile," and no amount of
argument or demonstration will avail to wean them from the time-
honoured and cherished fallacy. What a collection might be made
of the popular delusions which in all countries and in all ages have
clustered round the single subject of domestic salt

But to return to weather proverbs. Some of these are distinctly
founded on actual probabilities, and are, pro tanto^ entitled to some
respect. Take, for instance, those regarding Candlemas, which are
found in many languages. Thus the Scotch say :

If Candlemas-day be dry and fair,
The half of winter^s to come and mair ;
If Candlemas-day be wet and foul,
The half of winter's gane at yule.

And very similarly the Italians say :

Per la candelora,

Se nevica o se plora,

Deir invemo siamo fuora.

Ma s*^ sole o solicello,

No' siamo a mezzo il verno — ,

at Candlemas, if it snows or rains, we are out of winter ; but if there
be sunshine, or even a glimpse of it, we are in mid-winter.
Hudibras tells us that

They who write in rh3rine still make
Th^ one verse for the other's 8a)cCt

578 The Gentlematis Magazine.

and considering the liberties taken with the language in the first two
of the above lines in order to produce a rhyme — candelara being
violently twisted into candelora, and a rare verb, plorare (to weep),
being taken instead of piovere (to rain) — it seems strange that the
proverb-monger or manufacturer was not more successful in the
endings of the two last lines, which are at once rugged and
unrhymed.

Many are the sayings in many lands on this subject of Candlemas
and the weather ; but they may be here summed up by the old dog-
Latin distich, or canine couplet :

Si sol splendescat Maria purificante,

Major erit glacies post festum quam fuit ante.

The whole of this body of belief on the subject is obviously only in
consonance with the prosaic probability that unseasonable weather
at one time of the year will be followed by unseasonable weather
later on, and consequently that if it be warm and fine in winter, it
will probably be bad at a subsequent period, on the principle that a
certain amount of bad weather is likely to occur in the year ; as the
French say :

Si I'hiver ne fait son devoir
Aux mois de d^cembre et Janvier,
Au plus tard 11 se fera voir

En fevrier ;

and the Italians

Carnevale al sole, Pasqua al fuoco;
Carnevale al fuoco, Pasqua al sole —

Carnival in the sun means Easter at the hearth, but Carnival by the
hearth means Easter in the sun.

In this country we generally hold that a halo round the moon is
a sign of approaching rain. The Italians, however, draw a very
important distinction in this matter. They say that such a halo
indicates coming rain only if it describes a wide circle extending far
beyond the moon ; but that if the circle is small and close to the
moon, it is a sign that rain is not at hand. Thus :

Cerchio lontano, acqua vicina ;
Cerchio vicino, acqua lontana.

And truly I think the Italians are right in this matter. I well
remember during an Indian famine our hopes of rain were constantly
being raised by haloes round the moon ; but no rain came. The
haloes were small in diameter and close to the satellite.

Among sayings regarding weather and climate, I may note that of
the Spaniards touching the climate of Midrid, which they, justly or

A Commonplace-Book. 579

unjustly, consider to be deceitful above all things and desperately
wicked. As thus: '*£! aire de Madrid no apaga una cerilla, pero
quita la vida d un hombre '' ; or in another and rhyming form :

EI aire de Madrid es tan sutil
Que mata a un hombre,

Y no apaga a un candil —

the air of Madrid is so treacherous that it will not extinguish a taper,
and yet it will extinguish a man's life. The Madrilenos also thus
proudly and flatteringly describe their climate :

Tres meses inviemoy

Y nueve meses de infiemo —

three months winter and nine months hell.

In this connection it may not be out of place to cite a somewhat

startling Italian saying as to the tertian ague, to the effect that it will

actually invigorate a. young man, though it will cause the knell to toll

for an old one :

La febbre terzana
I giovani li risana,
Ed ai vccchi
Fa suonar la campana.

Travellers in Germany and Switzerland must be familiar with the
quaint sententious inscriptions so often to be seen on houses in those
countries, and presenting a curious medley of combined piety and
prudence— for example :

Kirchengehen saumet nicht,
Armengeben armet nicht,
Wagenschmieren hindert nicht —

church-going delays not, almsgiving impoverishes not, wheel-greasing
hinders not The first of these hnes reminds one of the sentiment
which is put in the mouth of one of Sir Walter Scott's characters —
was it the worthy Abbot Boniface ?: '' Meat and mass never hindered
work."

Here is another of these solemn wise saws :

Denken, dann sagen;
Wagen, dann wagen ;
Leicht ist zerbrochen,
Doch langsam gebaut —

first think, then speak ; ponder first, and venture last ; 'tis easy to
dismember, but hard to construct — the whole of which, but especially

580 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the last sentence, might well be commended to those restless and
mischievous politicians who talk so glibly of pulling to pieces the
British constitution and dismembering the British empire.

But some of these mural legends are occasionally horribly and in-
decently selfish, like that sometimes seen on wooden buildings in the
Tyrol, which are, of course, very liable to be destroyed by fire :

Ach! heiliger Sanct Florian,
Behiit mein Ilaus,
Ziind des Nachbars an —

Ah ! holy St. Florian, protect my house, and burn my neighbour's
down. St. P'lorian, as many people know, was the patron saint of
Poland, and, in default of fire insurance companies, he is regarded in
various countries as the protector against what the disciples of Pennia-
linus love to call " the devouring element."

The German equivalent of " Don't halloo till you're out of the
wood " is " Den Tag nicht preise bevor der Abend kommt," being
almost identical with crusty and sententious Solon's caution to poor,
rich, gay Croesus : " Call no man happy till he is dead." And the solemn
Don has not failed to point the cheerful sentiment, and improve the
occasion with his " Hasta el fin nadie es dichoso."

** The pot calls the kettle black " is expressed a whole shade more
graphically in Italian, thus : " La padella dice al paiuolo, tirati in Ht,
che tu mi tingi " — the frying-pan says to the kettle, Get out, lest thou
soil me. And the Italians have another good enough saying about
the frying-pan : "Aver un occhio alia padella e uno al gatto " — to have
one eye on the frying-pan and one on the cat, to denote simultaneous
attention to two different things.

Here is a curious German saying, for which I do not recall any
equivalent in English : " Die Frau kann mit der Schiirze mehr zum
Hause hinaustragen als der Mann mit dem Heuwagen hinein" —
the goodwife can carry more out of the house with her apron than
the goodman can carry in with his hay-wagon — to denote the
potentialities of female extravagance ; as the Italian proverb has it,
" La donna savia rifi la casa, e la matta la disfk."

Many are the sayings, in many tongues, as to the supposed
unluckiness of Friday; but the Italians, in one of their quaint
jingling proverbs, pay Tuesday the compliment of inclusion in
the prejudice :

Ne di Venere ne di Marte
Ne si sposa ne si parte —

wed not nor set forth upon a journey on Friday or on Tuesday,
How did the Tuesday come in ?

A Ccmmonplace-Book. 581

For "Nothing venture nothing have " the Italians have another
of their somewhat grammatically-strained jingles : '' Chi non risica
non rosica " — who risks not eats not.

As to the cap fitting, the Germans have " Jedem Narren gefallt
seine Kappe" — every fool is ple.ised with his cap; though this saying
may also be employed to mean that every fool is given to over-riding
his, hobby, like the Spanish " Cada loco con su tema." The first of
these two senses is tersely rendered by the French " Qui se sent
morveux qu'il se mouche."

The overweening self-satisfaction ridiculed by our saying to the
effect that " Some people's geese are all swans " is well mocked by
the German "Was dem Einen eine Eule ist dem Andern eine
Nachtigal " — what is to one but an owl, is to another a nightingale.
Also the following, with a rhyme :

Fangt Einer einen Spatz f in Mai,
Und denkt es sei 'nc Nachtigal,
Sag's ihm bei Leibe nicht —

if one should catch a sparrow and fancy it is a nightingale, on thy

peril undeceive him not.

Our " Cut your coat according to your cloth " is somewhat

amplified— or shall we say diluted ? — by the German saying on the

point :

Wer sich nicht nach der Decke streckt,
Dem bleiben die Fiisze unbedeckt —

literally, he who stretches himself not in proportion to his coverlet,
leaves his feet exposed. So with our— or Napoleon's — saying about
washing dirty linen at home, which is not improved upon by the
German :

Wer da bauet an der Strassen

Musz die Leute reden lassen.

To indicate inequalities of fortune, the Germans say :

Der Eine spinnt die Seide ;
Der Andere tragt sie zum Kleide.

Which reminds one of a specimen of " Baboo English " which occurs
in Lady Dufferin's book on India : "The rich man welters in crim-
son, while the poor one snorts on silk." Though what the latter
clause of this dictum was intended to mean by the eloquent Baboo
it would be hard to say.

That tall men are not always the cleverest is well expressed by
the following German saying : " Hauser mit vielen Stockwerken

582 The Gentleman's Magazine.

pflegen im obersten schlecht bewohnt zu sein" — ^houses of many
storeys are wont to be poorly inhabited in the top storey. Also,

Grosz sein thut es nicht allein,
Sonst holte die Kuh den Hasen ein —

size is not everything, otherwise the cow would catch the hare.'

" Hell is paved with good resolutions " is well represented, rather
than directly expressed, by the following Italian saying : " Del senno
di poi son piene le fosse " — the ditches are full of after- thoughts. For
calling a spade a spade the Italians say : '* Chiamar la gatta gatta e
non micia." "A bird in hand," &c., figures in German as " Ein
Sperling in der Hand ist besser als zwei auf dem Dache " ; and still
more effectively in Italian : " Meglio un novo oggi che una gallina
domani " — better an egg to-day than a hen to-morrow.

" Murder will out " is somewhat ponderous and lengthy in German:

Es ist Nichts so fein gesponnen,
£s kommt endiich an die Sonncn.

But then it boasts the glory of a rhyme.

I do not remember any German or Italian saying corresponding
to ours as to speech being silver but silence golden. Molifere, how-
ever, has the idea in his " Qui parle seme, qui ecoute moissonne."

The familiar truth expressed by our proverb as to the impossi-
bility of making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, or of changing one's
nature, whether inborn or inbred, has of course been represented in
many languages. There is the well-known and well-worn line in the
epistles of Horace :

Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque rccurret ;
and his famous second epode, with its concluding lines :

Ilaec ubi locutus fenerator Alfius,

Jam jam futurus rusticus,
Omncm redegit Idibus pecuniam,

Quaerit Kalendis ponere.

The Spaniards express the idea by the following proverb :

La mona aunque se vista de seda,
Mona se queda —

the ape, even if clad in silk, remains an ape. And Sheikh Sadi
has a Persian couplet to much the same effect :

Akibat goorgzada goorg shavad,
Garcheh ba admi boozoorg shavad —

the wolf-cub, though it be reared among men, turns out in the

» So Bacon— ** My Lord St. Albans said that wise nature did never put her
precious jewels into a garret four stories high ; and therefore that exceeding tall
men had ever very empty heads." And Fuller—" Often the cock-loft is empty
in those whom nature hath built many stories high.**

A Commonplace-Book. 583

end but a wolf. Although, on the principle, probably, that no rule
is without its exception, the same poet elsewhere advances a case to
show the very opposite :

Sug i ashab i kahaf roze chand
Pei i nekan girift, adam shud —

in allusion to Katmir, the faithful hound which accompanied the
Seven Sleepers, and which eventually as a reward was promoted to
manhood and admitted to Paradise.

" Do at Rome as the Romans do " is expressed in Italian by no
reference to Rome, but simply by " Paese dove vai usa come trovi " ;
and, to much the same purport: "Quando si ^ in ballo bisogna
ballare '* — when you are at a ball you must dance. " Brevity is the
soul of wit" is tersely rendered by " Ogni buon giuoco dura poco'* ;
which, however, is also used to repress exuberant or ill-timed or
unduly prolonged jesting. Somewhat akin to our "Diamond cut
diamond" is the Italian "Duro con duro non fa buon muro."
*' One swallow does not make summer " figures as " Un fiore non fa
primavera " — a single flower does not make spring. " A cat may
look at a king " is less pithy in Italian : ** Anco ai tapini b dato
guardare alle stelle " — even the lowly may look at the stars.

"Strike while the iron is hot" has two representatives in Italian,
one of them similar to ours : " Bisogna battere il ferro fin ch'fe caldo" ;
and the other with a different idea : " Aspettar la palla al balzo " —
watch for the ball at the hop. " Six of one and half a dozen of the
other " is expressed in Italian by two diverse sayings : " Se non ^
lupo ^ can bigio " — if it is not a wolf, it is a grey dog ; and another
of curious tenor : " Se non ^ zuppa ^ pan moUe " — if it is not soup,
it is soft bread, which does not seem to make much sense, at least
to our minds ; nevertheless, it is the equivalent of our saying just
quoted. It should be noted, however, that both of these Italian
sayings are always used in a contemptuous and depreciatory sense.

" Solvitur ambulando " is denoted in Italy by " Per via s^aggiust
la soma " — the load fits, or settles itself, by the way. Our ** Much
cry and little wool " has two forms in Italian : " Molto fumo e poco
arrosto "— much smoke and little roast meat ; and " Assai pampani
(second * a ' short) e poca uva " — plenty of leaves, but few grapes.
Much diversity of opinion or of wishes is indicated by " Chi la
vuole a lesso e chi arrosto " — one wants boiled, another roast.

Some German youth hater must have invented the harsh saying :
" Jugend hat keine Tugend "-—youth is destitute of virtue ; but there
is pith as well as good jingle in their " Eile mit Weile"— ;/5v//>ia/^«/^.

584 The Gentleman's Magazine.

" Unverhofill kommt oft " is pretty much the same as the French
saying : " Rien n'arrive que Timpr^vu." Our jingling proverb —

Needles and pins,
Needles and pins,
When a man marries
His sorrow begins —

figures more tersely, certainly more grimly, in German as "Ehe-
stand ist Wehestand " — matrimony is misery.

There would seem to be a considerable consensus of opinion
among mankind to the effect that domestic visits ought to be brief.
There is the old Scotch saying : " Rest day— dress day — press day,"
to denote that a visit ought ordinarily to be restricted to three dear
days — extendable, possibly, to a fourth. On the first, the visitor
should have a quiet time for repose after his journey ; on the second,
a party should be given in his honour; on the third, he ought to
be pressed to stay another day. Similarly the Orientals say : " Mih-
mani ka shart teen din talak hai " — the bounds of hospitality extend
to three days. The German proverb on this point is still less generous,
if not positively churlish : " Dreitagiger Gast wird eine Last "—the
guest who stays three days becomes a nuisance ; while it is said there
is a Chinese aphorism which would tend to show that the Celestials,
whatever their other virtues may be, are certainly not " given to hos-
pitality." lam not familiar with the Chinese language, but I believe
the genial sentiment in question runs to the effect that " when
the guest is gone the host is glad."

Of course there are sundry sayings in sundry tongues illustrative

of the importance of punctuation. Most people have heard of the

various villainous oracular responses which hinge on this point, such

as the pattering

Ibis, rodibis, non morieris in bello,

with its sense fatally inverted by the transposition of the second
comma, and the shameful deception of poor Croesus by the juggling
fiends of Delphi ; although, truly, this latter was not effected by any
shabby trick of mere punctuation. The Italians have a more
modern example of the thing in their saying : "Perun punto Martin
perse la cappa " — Martin lost his prior's hood by a comma, slnoe^
instead of writing on the convent door :

Porta patens esto, null! claudatur honesto

(let this door be open, let it be closed to no good man), he wrote :

m

Porta patens esto nulli, claudatur honesto,

which, unfortunately, meant the very reverse.

A Commonplace-Book. 585

Another and somewhat fresher example of equivoque, though not
dependent on punctuation, will be in the recollection of some people
as having been ascribed to the third Napoleon. It is somewhere said
that on his famous — or infamous — Second of December, St Arnaud
asked him for instructions as to how he should deal with the " in-
surgents." Napoleon had a very convenient cough, and for reply
he ejaculated between its paroxysms, "Ma sacr^e toux !"— oh, this
blessed cough of mine ! — which, however, was interpreted as **Mas-
sacrez tous ! " — kill them all I

Spanish proverbs are quaint and forcible. A good Spanish equi-
valent of " Give a dog a bad name and hang him," though inverse
in its sense, is: "Cria buena fama y echate d dormir" — get a
good name and then you may go to sleep. The following, too,
is a good Spanish saying : ** Sabe mas el loco en su casa que el
cuerdo en la agena " — the fool knows more in his own house
(that is, about his own affairs), than the sage does about other
people's business. That good cheer alleviates distress is well ex-
pressed by " Losduelos con pan son menos" — which verity is borne
out by the wise counsel of canny Ulysses to hotsplir Achilles in the
nineteenth book of the *' Iliad," to the effect that it is ill fighting
on an empty stomach.*

Another Spanish wise saw is " Mai de muchos consuelo de
tontos " — the calamity of many is the comfort of fools ; an allusion to
that strange perversity of our fallen nature, by the operation of which,
according to La Rochefoucauld and others, we sometimes take a sort
of pleasure in the misfortunes of our neighbours — the "Schadenfreude "
of the Germans, the liri^aipeicaKia of Aristotle, and the »:a#co;(a^roc of
Hesiod.

" In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man (what Carlyle
rather affectedly calls the Arimaspian) is king " seems to have been
either translated from the Spanish to the English, or vice versa: " En
la tierra de los ciegos el tuerto es rey." The folly of weak vessels
contending with their betters is well set forth by " Si da el cintaro en
la piedra, o la piedra en el cintaro, mal para el cintaro" — whether the
pitcher comes in contact with the stone, or the stone with the pitcher,
it fares ill with the pitcher. Our "Tell that to the marines " the Don
renders by " A otro perro este hueso " — offer that bone to another dog.
" Misfortunes never come singly" is in Spanish : " Un ruin ido, otro

vhcriat vrpvvt trporl "Wioy vTas ^Kx^^Sn't &C.

fliad x\%, 155, &c.

VO;-. CCI.XXI. NO. 1932, J^ R

586 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

venido" — one evil gone, another corae on.* And here is one other
Spanish proverb, which I cite on the ground that it is superior to ours
on the same subject. We say that the scalded cat avoids the fire ;
but the Spaniards, with undoubtedly greater pith, say: " El gate escal-
dado del agua fria huye " — the scalded cat dreads even cold water.

" One good turn deserves another " has two versions in German :
" Eine Liebe ist der andern werth," and, more picturesque, " Wascht
eine Hand nicht die andere?" — doth not the one hand wash the
other ? " Well begun is half done " appears in German as " Frisch
gewagt ist halb gewonnen "; in Italian, "Tuttosta nel principiare,"
and, of course, in the well-worn French phrase, " Ce n'est que le
premier pas qui coute." To denote confusion worse confounded
the Germans say, " Man weiss nicht wer Koch und wer Kellner seL"
" New brooms sweep clean " is nearly the same in German : "Neue
Besen (besoms) gut fegen."

On the much bewritten theme of the alleged mutability of women—
the " Varium et mutabile semper femina " of Virgil — the Italians have,
as might be expected, sundry sayings, such as :

La donna h la luna,

Oggi serena, domani bruna —

woman is like the moon, to-day bright, to-morrow dark. Also, " \a
donna ^ un barometro che segna sempre variabile " — woman is a bare?
meter, which always marks change.

They indicate the power of the sex by saying " L'uomo fc un nome
in caso accusativo retto dal verbo attivo donna" — man is a noun in
the accusative case governed by the active verb woman. And they
have a pithy rhyming saw as to the condition of the ben-pecked :

In quella casa e poca pace,
Dove gallina canta e gallo tace —

' Of course, to Englishmen, the most familiar and famous saying on this snbject

is Shakespeare's :

When sorrows come, they come not single spies.
But in battalions. — IlanUet iv. 5.

Then, in the beautiful lament of Briseis for Patroclos :

• . « £5 /not Scxcrat icaicby /k kcucoS cuci /

liiaJxxx. 29a

And

cTcpa 8* iup'' iriptov

KOJch. Kcucau Kvptl.

Euripides, Hecuba^ 688.

And again,

Tb*i Troades^ 59Xt

A Commonplace-Book. 587

there is little peace in that house where the hen crows and the cock
is mute.

What the Greeks called fiefxyl^tfiotpiay or dissatisfaction with one's
lot — the " Qui fit, Maecenas," &c., of Horace — must surely be the
subject of many sayings in many tongues ; and yet the sole one
bearing on the point, in modern languages, which now occurs to me
is the French one : " Quand on n'a pas ce qu'on aime, il faut aimer
ce qu'on a." Of course the ever pertinent Horace has his

Invidus alterius macrescit rebus optmis ;

and elsewhere,

and,

Optat ephippia bos, piger optat arare caballus ;

Quodque aliena capella gerat distentius uber
Tabescat, &c. ;

while Ovid in the same vein sings,

Fertilior seges est alienis semper in agris,
Vicinumque pecus grandius uber habet.

Travellers in Italy are often sorely puzzled by the words, "F.E.R.T.
— F.E.R.T. — F.E.R.T.'' which are seen on the rims of Italian coins,
and also on the collar of the Order Of the Annunziata, and elsewhere.
The mysterious monosyllable is composed of the initial letters of the
sentence, " Fortitudo ejus Rhodum tenuit " — his valour preserved
Rhodes — which was said of Amadeus V. of Savoy, in reference
to his undaunted defence of Rhodes against the Turks in the
thirteenth century. Flippant young Itahans, however, Florentine
mashers, and others of that kidney, occasionally make merry with a
jocular rendering of the four letters, thus : "Femina erit ruina tua "
— a drollery akin to that of the London alderman who interpreted
the letters S. P. Q- R. as meaning ** Small profits and quick returns.'

Readers of Italian must know the curious word "busillis," some-
times spelt " busilis " — meaning a great diflRculty, a OTix, a poser or
puzzler ; yet it is not Italian, and even Italians are sometimes ignorant
of its genesis, which latter is distinctly interesting. The word occurs
in the thirteenth chapter of the " Promessi Sposi," where the grand
chancellor, Antonio Ferrer, rescues the Vicario di Provvisione from
the howling mob of Milan in the famous episode of the bread riots.
When Antonio bids the trembling Vicario to run the gauntlet through
the surging crowd from his house to the carriage, he says in his
native Spanish : *' Aqui esta el busilis ; Dios nos valga ! " — here's the
difficult point, or the point of danger, God help us! The expression
often occurs too in modern Italian, in the newspapers, and in con-

RR 2

588 Tlie Gentleman s Magazine.

versation : " Qui fe il busillis " — here's the rub. It is said to be derived
from the following circumstance. A young candidate for the priest-
hood being under his examination for holy orders was required, among
other tests, to read an old Latin manuscript in which, after the manner
of these exhilarating documents, there were no stops, and the words
were run into one another in a highly aggravating way. In this
cheerful paper there occurred the words " in diebus illis " ; but un-
fortunately the first part of the word "diebus" ended a line — thus,
** indie " — and the following line commenced with the remaining
syllable of that word carefully run into the succeeding word — thus,
" busillis." All went smoothly enough with our young friend till he
came to this formidable point. He translated " in die " fairly enough,
though in this instance wrongly, " nel giorno " — in the day ; but of
** busillis" he could make neither head nor tail, and he finally threw
up the sponge, exclaiming : " Quel busillis e un punto assai oscuro e
difficile " — this " busillis " is a most obscure and difficult point.
Well, if not true, it is well enough found. Anyhow, the word is now
well rooted and vigorously established in the national speech.

Here is a very good mot of Giusti's in ridicule of that profuse
bestowal of decorations which prevails in Italy ; or which, if it no
longer prevails there, certainly characterised the foundation of the

young kingdom :

In tempi barbari e piii fcroci

S'appiccavan i ladri in sulle croci ;

In tempi men barbari e piu leggiadri

S'appiccano Ic croci in petto ai ladri.

In barbarous days and ruder times
The rogues were hung on crosses;
In these degenerate mawkish days
On rogues are hung the crosses.

And, cipropos of the same thing, it is said that Victor Emmanuel,
if any of his counsellors ventured to protest against the bestowal of a
decoration on a person destitute of claims, was wont to say with a
shrug: " Un sigaro o una croce non si nega a nessuno" — no one
could grudge a cigar or a cross to anybody.

The following is a good specimen of the once celebrated political
utterances of Pasquino and ^larforio— those quaint and pungent
Fescennine verses in which the Roman vox populi used to find
expression. It is cited in his " Ricordi '' by Massimo d'Azeglio, as
having been pronounced in reference tp the death of Pgpe Leo XII.;

Tre danni ei facesti, O Padye S&Dto;

I'rinu accctlare il manto,

K poi di campar tanto,

Morir di Carncvftle per w«w pitiito«<

A Commonplac^'Bdok. 589

three wrongs thou didst to us, O holy father : first in assuming the
purple at all , then in living so unconscionably long, and lastly in
dying in mid- Carnival in order to be mourned.

The following excellent squib on Papal infallibility appeared in Sir
Frederick Pollock's reminiscences. It has probably not been seen
by everybody ; and, in any case, it is good enough to brave the
reproach of being crambe repetita:

Quando Eva morse e morder fece il porno,
Iddio per salvar Puomo si fece uomo;
Ma il Vicario di Cristo Pio Nono
Per far uomo schiavo si fece Dio.

Which I shall leave the reader — if any reader gets so far — to translate
for himself, or to get translated.

So with William Barnes's clever tetraglot epigram :

Se I'uom che deruba un tomo
Trium literarum est homo,*
Celui qui d^robe trois tomes
A man of letters must become.

And now I'll wind up this rambling " omnium -gatherum " with a
very neat French pun, which occurs I know not where :

Ce gage d'amiti^ plus qu'un autre me touche,

Un serrement de main vaut dix serments de bouche.

PATRICK MAXWELL

' The Romans called a thief a man of three letters — f-u-r.

590 The GentleiJians Magazine.

GOETHES MOTHER.

1 731-1808.

WHOSE heart does not throb at the sound of the word mother?
Are not our finest and most unselfish feelings awakened when
we are reminded of the days in which our mother nursed us with
tender care and love ? Yes, we know it is our mother who gives the
impress of her soul not only to our youth, but to our whole life ;
from the cradle to the grave. It is, therefore, always interesting to
trace the influence which great men have received from their mothers.
But it is doubly interesting to observe this motherly influence in
Goethe, because both the son and the mother were great in mind
and spirit We are told that one of her admirers, after a lengthened
interview with her, exclaimed, " Now I understand how Goethe has
become the man he is ! " In fact, no less a man than her son him-
self has borne witness to and given acknowledgment of the influence
which, besides grandparents and father, his mother more especially
exercised upon him, in an incomparably beautiful poem, of which
the translation is as follows : —

My father^s stature I possess,

Life's sober government,

My darling mother's cheerfulness.

Her fabulistic bent.

My grandsire's weakness for the fair

At times of me takes hold,

With grandam the delight I share

In ornament and gold.

Since, then, those elements do all

In that complex unite.

How much that is original

Remains in the whole wight?

It is the purpose of this paper to sketch the prominent features
of the character of that " cheerful darling mother " of the greatest
German poet.

We have hitherto only known Goethe's mother firom the little her
son has told us of her in his autobiography, '' Truth and Fictioii»*

Goethe s Mother. 591

and in a few of his letters to his friends ; from what relations and
acquaintances have remarked about her, and lastly from some
fragments of her own letters published twenty years ago by Keil.
But recently, besides those to the Duchess Anna Amalia, all the
existing letters which she wrote to her son, Christiane and her
grandson Augustus have been published by the Goethe Society
in Weimar. These letters have been lying in the original manu-
script in the Goethe archive in Weimar, the treasures of which
are being brought to daylight by degrees, since the demise of the
two grandsons and last descendants of Goethe a few years ago. The
elder of these grandsons, Walter von Goethe, was chamberlain at the
Weimar court, and a musical composer ; the younger, Wolfgang
Maximilian von Goethe, was secretary of legation, and a poet The
greatness of their grandfather, however, weighed oppressively upon
them ; the world only acknowledging one great Goethe, did not
appreciate their rich talents, in consequence of which they became
melancholy. Although Goethe has burned the letters written to him
by his mother and others before 1792, for he himself tells us in his
diary, " before my journey to Switzerland (1797), I burned all letters
directed to me since 1772, from a decided disinclination to the
publication of the quiet course of friendly communication ; " yet,
fortunately, sufficient of his mother's letters have been preserved,
which form a rich source whence we are able to draw a lovely picture
of the character of the poet's mother.

Goethe once said, letters are of great value because they retain
the originality of the writers. Certainly nothing reveals the character
better than the intimate communications between one member of the
family and another. In these the finest chords let their true and
delicate notes resound. And what hearty sounds re-echo from all
the letters of Goethe's mother. But nowhere has she shown herself
so thoroughly frank and natural as in these letters to her son and his
family. P>om them we receive the genuine impressions of her soul
and imagine we hear the sweet-sounding words of her lips. Goethe
has established a monument to his pious relative, Fraulein von
Klettenberg, in an essay entitled " Confessions of a Beautiful Soul,"
which forms the sixth book of his " Wilhelm Meister's Apprentice-
ship." He also wished to erect a monument to his mother, " who
excelled other women," as he said in the last books of his auto-
biography. Unfortunately he was not spared to carry out this wish.
It is true her image hovers before his mind in the shrewd, sensible
housewife of his epic idyl " Hermann and Dorothea," in the
Elizabeth of his drama " Goet2 von Berlichingen," and other female.

592 The Gentleman's Magazine.

figures of his poetical works. But in her letters his mother has raised
a monument to herself more enduring than one made of iron or
marble. We may give these letters the title, " Confessions of a
Cheerful Soul." She has often signed herself " Frau Aja Wohl-
gemuth," for ** Wohlgemut" — good-tempered — was her nature, and
" Aja " she was once called by the Counts Stolberg, two brothers
and friends of her son, because as Aja, in the legend of the four sons
of Haimon, she offered them excellent wine in silver cups.

Catherine Elizabeth Textor, this interesting and noble figure in
German literature, was born in 1731, and was the elder daughter of
the Mayor of the free imperial city of Frankfurt-on-Main. She was
only seventeen and a half years old when she was married to the
imperial councillor and doctor juris Johann Kaspar Goethe, who
was twenty years her senior. Frau Rat, as she was thenceforth
called, was active and vigorous, bright and pretty, of slender form,
with brown hair and dark lustrous eyes with a penetrating glance
which her son inherited from her. The whole expression of her
face betrayed benevolence and yet shrewdness and knowledge of
character ; she was at once grave and cheerful, dignified and simple.
The celebrated Kaulbach has portrayed her most faithfully in his
picture, " Goethe on the Ice," as with motherly pride she watches
her son, who is skating away with her mantle over his shoulders of
which he has playfully robbed her. Her husband was of a serious
disposition, truthloving and upright, but formal and pedantic, who
in his domestic circle carried on a somewhat autocratic regimen.
Elizabeth had accepted him, without much love, on the advice of her
parents, who wished her to be married to this much respected and
wealthy imperial councillor. At first the household management
was left to the care of her aged mother-in-law, who, being of a
benevolent nature, soon became attached to and befriended her
daughter-in-law, thus helping to make her new home happy. She is
the grandmother who as C^ethe tells us, gave him and his sister
Cornelia many presents, especially the famous puppet-show with
which she surprised them on the Christmas Eve of 1753, and
" which created a new world in the house." The pedantry of the
imperial councillor caused his young wife many an uncomfortable
hour. He not only made her practice the piano and singing, but
also spelling, notwithstanding which she never learnt to write quite
orthographically. She recognised, however, in all this his honest
love towards her, and responded to his feeling with sincere afrection
and respect : for nature had endowed her with a warm and noUe
heart, a cheerful mind, a powerful imagination, vivid mother-wit|

Goethe s Mother. 593

and above all with a joyous trust in God. She was the delight of
children, the favourite of poets and princes, and beloved of all who
came into contagt with her, Wieland, the greatest poet of his time,
who travelled from Weimar to Frankfurt on purpose to make the
acquaintance of Frau Rat, praises her as the dearest of all mothers,
the queen among women, and the crown of her sex. The Duchess
Anna Amalia considered the day on which she received a letter from
her as a day of rejoicing. Genial as she was, she became the good
genius sent from heaven to her husband. Once, through her tact
and cheerfulness, she actually prevented serious mischief which
threatened her husband in consequence of his abrupt behaviour to
the king's lieutenant. Count Thorane, who was quartered in Goethe's
house in the Seven Years* War in 1759.

With the birth of her son Wolfgang her life's joy and happiness
really began. She became the playmate of this son, and with him
she once more enjoyed her childhood. " I and my Wolfgang," she
said, "have always held fast to each other, because we were both
' young, and not as many years apart as Wolfgang and his father,"
She was her son's first and best teacher, as every mother should be.
He praises her tact in educating children in his autobiography,
where he relates the following: "The old, many-cornered, and
gloomy arrangement of the house was moreover adapted to awaken
dread and terror in childish minds. Unfortunately, too, the principle
of discipline that young persons should be early deprived of all fear
for the awful and invisible, and accustomed to the terrible, still
prevailed. We children, therefore, were compelled to sleep alone,
and when we found this impossible, and softly slipped from our beds
to seek the society of the servants and maids, our father, with his
dressing-gown turned inside out, which disguised him sufficiently for
the purpose, placed himself in the way and frightened us back to our
resting places. The evil effect of this anyone may imagine. How
is he, who is encompassed with a double terror, to be emancipated
from fear ? My mother, always cheerful and gay, and willing to
render others so, discovered a much better pedagogical expedient.
She managed to gain her end by rewards. It was the season for
peaches, the plentiful enjoyment of which she promised us every
morning if we overcame our fears during the night. In this way
she succeeded, and both parties were satisfied." In another
direction her influence upon her son was even still greater. For
she transmitted to him her love of story telling, and in cultivating
his imagination in a most original way she laid a good foundation
for the development of his poetical genius. She would relate to him

594 ^^^ Gentleman s Magazine.

a tale, leaving its completion to the following day. Then Wol%ang
would use his own imagination, and confide in his grandmother how
he thought the tale would end. The latter again told his mother,
and so^ to the boy's delight, she would let it end as he had imagined.
This loving interest in his education was not only with him at home,
but accompanied him to the university and a good way along his
glorious career; and after the early death of her daughter, 1777,
and of her husband, 17S2, her love was concentrated in her son,
who became her comfort, her joy, and her just pride. When he was
taken away from her to Weimar, in 1775, by the Duke Karl August,
her unselfish love becomes apparent in the charming letters which
she wrote to him and his dear ones. We can imagine that she did
not like her son to live at such a distance from her, notwithstanding
the liberal conditions that the duke granted him, and the bright
prospects that were in store for him. She therefore writes to tell
him what his genial friend War Councillor Merck, the prototype of
his Mephistopheles, had said to her : " You should try all means to
get him back agai(i ; the infamous Weimar climate is certainly not
good for him. He has accomplished his principal business, for the
duke is now as he ought to be. Let another do the remaining
disagreeable work : Goethe is too good for it." Being afraid her son
was not well, she becomes restless, until she receives a letter from
him which tells her that he is all right, whereupon she answers :
" One word instead of a thousand. You must know best what is for
your benefit. As I have control over my affairs, and am able to
supply you with the means of leading a quiet and comfortable life,
you can easily imagine how it would grieve me if you were to
spend your health and strength in the duke'S service. The
shallow regret afterwards would certainly not make me fat
I am no heroine, but with Chilian* I consider life a line thing.
On the other hand, to tear you away from your present occupation
would be equally unreasonable. Now you are your own master.
Prove all things and hold fast what is good." When the French
armies had overrun South Germany, in 1 797, she writes : " We live
quite undisturbed and are in hopes of remaining what we are. I for
my own part am quite contented, and let things which I cannot alter
go their own way. Weimar is the only place in the wide world from
whence my peace could be disturbed ; if my dear ones there are well,
the right and left banks of the Rhine may belong to whomever
they please ; that does not affect my sleep nor my appetite, and if I
only receive good news from you from time to time, I shall be of

' Kilion Brastflesk, a writer of meny comedies.

Goethe s Mother. 595

good cheer, and shall in truth be able to sing all my remaining
days : * Enjoy life while the lamp is still aglow, pluck the roses ere
they fade.'"* In the beginning of 1801, when Goethe had recovered
from a serious illness, she sends him the following characteristic
letter : " Dear Son, — Your recovery, and moreover a letter by your own
hand, have made me so happy that I write to you by return of post.
The sixth of February, when I received your dear letter, was a
day of rejoicing, of prayer and thanksgiving for me. I could not
possibly keep this great happiness to myself. I went to Syndicus
Schlosser's in the evening, communicated the cause of my glad-
ness to them, and received their hearty congratulations. Our whole
town was alarmed at your illness, and as soon as your recovery was
announced, newspapers poured into my room, everyone wishing to
be the first to bring me the glad tidings. Only God knows what I
felt I suppose you have forgotten the verse you found the first
day of your arrival at Strasburg, with your health still in a precarious
state, when you opened the little book which Councillor Moritz had
given you as a keepsake. You wrote to me saying you were deeply
moved. I remember it exactly, it was a quotation from Isa. hv. 2, 3 :
* Enlarge the place of thy tent, and let them stretch forth the curtains
of thine habitations ; spare not, lengthen thy cords, and strengthen
thy stakes ; for thou shalt spread abroad on thy right hand and the
left.' Blessed be the Lord, who has strengthened the stakes again
and lengthened the cords anew. Once more, sincere thanks for
your dear letter. Do let me know from time to time how you are.
Love to my dear daughter and Augustus, and the Lord further
strengthen you, which is the daily wish and prayer of your joyful
loving mother, Goethe."

This great love towards her son is also transferred to Christiane,
to whom she writes the most affectionate letters. After the terrible
days following the battle of Jena (October 22, 1806), when Christiane
behaved so bravely, he was religiously married to her. He com-
municated this to his mother, whereupon she replies: "For your new
state of marriage I send you my heartiest congratulations, and wish
you all blessing. In this you have acted according to my heart's
wish. The Lord keep you ! I herewith send you my sincere
motherly blessing ; for the bfessing of the mother establisheth the
houses of the children. You must content yourself with this wish
for the present, as I can do no more in these troublous limes ;
but have patience, the cheques which I have received from the
Lord will be duly honoured ; this is as certain as that now, while

' The first lines of a popular German song.

596 The Gentleman's Magazine.

I write this, the sun is shining. Depend upon it, you shall be
satisfied with your portion. Give my affectionate love to my dear
daughter, tell her that I love, esteem, and honour her, and would
have written to her myself if we were not in a continuous hurly-
burly." '^Fo her grandson Augustus, she, the delight and favourite of
children, writes most loving letters, couched in words suitable to the
understanding of a child. She encourages him to send her descrip-
tions of what he has seen ; and when he does this in his childlike
way, she has many words of praise for him. To the boy, five years
old, she writes : " Dear Augst., — It is very praiseworthy of you to
have written such a sweet dear little letter to your grandma. I never
thought that you were already so clever .... As a reward for your
beautiful letter, I will send you some sweets. You must study very
well, and become very clever ; you will soon grow big, and then you
can bring me the * Journals ' and * Mercuries ' yourself. Good bye ;
give my love to father and mother. — ^Your aflfectionate grandma,
Elizabetha Goethe." When Augustus is seven years old, she writes:
" Whenever I receive such a well and distinctly written exercise book
from you, I rejoice that you are so clever to describe things in so
orderly and lucid a manner." Then, after exhorting him to be an
obedient boy and to pray to God to keep father and mother in good
health, she continues : " Your dear father has never given me trouble
and sorrow, therefore the dear God has blessed and raised him above
many, many others, and has made him great and renowned ; so that
all good people truly esteem him. Now, my dear Augst, I am sure
you will exert yourself to the utmost to follow your dear father's good
example, and become equally good." When Augustus, after having
paid her a visit in Frankfurt in 1805, left for Weimar, she gave him
the following characteristic testimonial : " I, the undersigned, publidj
acknowledge by this letter that Julius Augustus von Goethe, the
bearer of this, has behaved so wdl and exemplary during his staj
here that he appears to have inherited the ring in the fable in
Nathan the Wise " (by Lessing) " which makes him who possesses it
the beloved of God and man. That this is the case with the above*
mentioned J. A. von Goethe, certifies herewith his loving grand-
mother, Elizabeth Goethe."

She takes the most lively interest in the literary products of her
son ; the seed she has sown in his youthful soul now bears rich
fruit. She longs for each of his works, and when she receives
one she first reads it by herself, then once more with her friends
in a literary circle where the dramatic works are read in parts and
their merits discussed. She notices that her son has adopted some

Goethe s Mother. 597

c f her peculiar expressions in his writings. On the other hand,

she is so familiar with his works that she often quotes passages

from them in her conversations and in her letters. Once she

writes : " Yes, dear Augst, if I knew where to find Doctor Faust's

mantle, I would come to see you." Another time (October 10,

1805) she says: "About twenty years ago Mephistopheles sang in

Dr. Faust,

The dear old Roman realm,
How does it hold together ?

At present one may justly ask this question : The prince electors and
the princes run to and fro, the world is upside down, palaces and
thrones do slope their heads to their foundations, all is turning like
a whirligig, the time is out of joint. One does not know with whom
to side ; but everything will be set right again, for the dear Father
above wisely prevents the trees from growing into heaven." Her
interest increases as more works arrive from Weimar. When she
had received the poems she wrote (April 17, 1807): "I read the first
volume of the lyrical poems over and over again. The three riders
who come forth from under the bed, in the * Wedding Song,' I see
bodily; *The Bride of Corinth,' 'The Bayadere,' the (original)
beginning of the * Sea Voyage ' — * For days and nights my ship stood
frighted,' * The Magician's Apprentice,' the * Ratcatcher,' and all the
other poems make me inexpressibly happy." Not content with what is
sent her, she repeatedly asks her son to forward new poems. She tells
him, " You do a good work to send me new products ; there is a
great literary dearth here, and your fountain with its fulness of water
will quench my thirst." "We thank God," she continues, "for the
crumbs that fall from your table." She is quite taken up with
" Wilhelm Meister," for which she sends her hearty thanks, saying
"that was once more a joy for me; I felt thirty years younger, saw
you and the other boys making preparations for the puppet-show in
the third story, the elder Mors whipping Elise Bethmann, and other
reminiscences. If I could fully describe my feelings, you would
greatly rejoice at having caused your mother to enjoy such a happy
day. Also the romances which Reichardt has set to music gave me
great pleasure, especially the one beginning with the words —

What hear I sound outside the gate,
What voices on the bridge ?

which I sang the whole day. Once more, then, my very best thanks."
But, above all, she loves the epic idyl, " Hermann and Dorothea ; "
she feels it is a reflection of her own soul, and she writes : " It is a
jii^stQrpiece without equal. I carfy it ^ith pie as % caf does jier

598 The Gentlejnatis Magazine.

kittens. Next Sunday I shall take it with me to Stock's ; they will jump
for joy. Our senior minister, Dr. Hufnagel, has married a couple
with the words with which Hermann and Dorothea were united,
saying that he knew no better wedding address. He considers that
all who do not possess it, and do not carry it about with them, are
Hottentots." She is greatly pleased each time she hears that her
son has gone to Jena, in order to be in the company of Schiller.
For he once told her that there his literary products ripen. Thus
she writes : " I rejoice that you are in and about Jena again ; there
another * Hermann,' or some such work, will no doubt be produced"
It is interesting to know what she thinks of Schiller; she writes:
" Remember me to Schiller, and tell him that I esteem him highly ;
I love his writings, for they are and remain to me a true comfort.
You and Schiller have given me an extraordinary pleasure by your
not replying to the twiddle-twaddle which the Berlin critics brought
forward against you. Let them go to the wall. You did right, and
I hope you will continue to ignore them. Your works will remain
for eternity, whilst their poor stuff is nothing but rubbish ; it tears
whilst one holds it in one's hand, and is not worth binding." Schiller,
who, like all others, was charmed with his friend's mother, once
writing about her, said : " We found her simple hearty nature most
interesting." Her high opinion of her son's worth is also shown after
her removal from the house in the " Hirschgraben " to that of the
"Golden Fountain," when she writes: "In the reading-room >-our
bust is put up between those of Wieland and Herder, three names
which Germany will always mention with reverence." She little knew
how much greater her son would be considered by posterity than
the two poets whom she thought his equals. Her love and respect
for him do not, however, prevent her from criticising him some-
times. Thus she warns him not to let his writings be printed in
Latin types, saying : " Now a word as to our conversation when
you were here, concerning the Roman characters. I will explain
to you what mischief they do to the general reader. They are like
an aristocratic pleasure garden which nobody but noblemen and
people with stars and orders may enter. Our German letters are
like the Prater" (the well-known public park presented to the
town of Vienna by Joseph 11.) "over the gates of which the
Emperor had inscribed, *For All People.' If your works had
been printed in these odious aristocrats, they would not have
become so popular, with all their excellence. Tailors, seamstresses,
servants, all read them, and everyone finds something suitable in
them. Enough : they walk with the Jena ' Literary Kews»' Dr.

Goethe's Mother. 599

Hufnagel, and others pell mell in the Prater, enjoy themselves,
bless the author, and cheer him. . . . Remain then faithful to
German habits, to German letters ; for if Roman letters continue,
within fifty years German will be neither spoken nor written, and
you and Schiller will become classic authors like Horace, Livy,
Ovid, and the others, for where there is no language there is no
people. How the professors will pluck you to pieces, interpret,
and drum you into the heads of the scholars. Therefore speak,
write, and print in German as long as it is possible." *

The glorious works of her son surround also the mother with a
halo in which many would like to bask. She becomes not only a
centre of adoration, which is due to the mother of Goethe, but is
often troubled for recommendations to her son by people who
travel to Weimar. Students, teachers, actors, opera singers, and
others come to her with the same request. Once Goethe, having
found these intruders too many, complained to his mother that she
had not the courage to refuse anyone ; he said that whilst she
saved those people a box on the ear, they got a hole in the head.
But the goodness of her heart and the pleasure to serve others are
indefatigable, and she expects the like of her son. There comes an
innkeeper, and begs her to ask her son to help him to recover the
money somebody owes him who has wealthy brothers in Weimar.
She humorously writes : " If you can be of any assistance to your
countryman in this affair, he will relate it to the 'burgher captains,'"
(allusion to a Frankfurt local comedy of this title) " and that class
of people who drink wine at his inn will praise their gracious
countryman." Above all, the professors who pass through Frankfurt
visit Frau Rat Concerning these visits she writes her son an
original and characteristic letter in October 1807: "This autumn
fair was rich in professors. As a great part of your renowned name
is reflected upon me, and these people imagine I have con-
tributed something to your great talent, they come to have a good
look at me. Then I do not put my light under a bushel, but on a
candlestick. Certainly I assure the people that I have not con-
tributed in the least to what made you a great man and poet,
for I never accept the praise which is not due to me. More*-
over, I well know to whom praise and thanks are due, for I

* The good Frau Rat was not aware that what she called German were
originally Latin letters, and had only received their elaborate shape from the
monks of the middle ages. In spite of hers and Prince Bismarck's predilection
for the so-called German types, I think it would be better if the Roman characters
s'upersie^ed the German) both io schools and practical life*

6cx) The Gentlemafis Magazine.

have done nothing towards the natural growth of the germs
from which you were developed in your mother's womb. Per-
haps a grain of brain more or less, and you might have become
quite an ordinary man, and wherein there is nothing, nothing
can come out ; for however much you may educate, all the
educational institutions of Europe cannot bestow talent or genius.
I grant they may produce good and useful men ; but here we speak
of extraordinary ones. Therein good Frau Aja gives glory and
honour to God, as is just and right. Now to my light which I
placed on the candlestick, and your professors like to behold. The
gift with which God has endowed me is, to give a vivid description
of things of which I possess a knowledge, whether great or small,
truth or fiction. As soon as I enter a social circle, all become joyous
and cheerful whilst I relate. Thus I talked to the professors, and
they went away contented ; that is my whole art. Yet another thing
belongs to it ; I always show a friendly face, which pleases people
and costs no money, as said your late friend Merck," Among her
prominent qualities we find a sense for order and business.
" Everything beautiful in its time *' may serve as her motto. Regu-
larly as the autumn returns she sends chestnuts and Indian corn
and other seasonable fruits to her dear ones in Weimar, and as soon
as November draws to a close she despatches the box with Christmas
presents. We can still see from the three stout quarto volumes
preserved in the Goethe archive, how well she kept her household
accounts, a habit which she acquired from her orderly husband. In
a letter to Freiherr Von Stein she says : " Order and composure are
my principal characteristics. Hence I despatch at once whatever I
have to do, the most disagreeable always first, and I gulp down the
devil without looking at him. When everything has resumed its
proper condition, then I defy r.r.yor.e to surpass me in good humour."
Being of a practical and economical nature, she also had a capacity
for business, which is shown by the way she sold her house in the
Hirschgraben, and the wines stored up in its cellars, at the highest
price, after the death of her husband. When Goethe intended to
buy a very large estate, she dissuades him : " For," she says, " you
are no agriculturist, you have other favourite occupations, and will
easily be imposed upon. If you wish to have an estate, must it be one
for such an enormous price ? When you were here you spoke of a
much smaller one, but one for 45,000 Reichsthaler' made mefeel quite
dizzy. Once more, do as you like, but don't yield to useless regret
^hen the thing is done." She is active and industrious, always busy,
' ^i) obsolete German poin, ii) vjilue about 31, 61^,

Goethe's Mother. 60 1

and cannot lay her hands idly in her lap. She is sixty years old,
and still finds something to do. She has four hobbies, as she herself
relates : " Firstly, making Brussels lace, which I have learned in my
old days, and which gives me childlike pleasure ; secondly, piano-
playing, then reading books, and lastly chess, a game which I had
given up, but have lately taken to again." She reads the best
authors, whereby she gains considerable knowledge ; is acquainted
with ancient and modern literature ; quotes chapter and verse from
the Bible, her favourite book, and even understands the Hebrew
text Once she corrects liUther's translation. This makes the
Lord say to Cain : "Why do you disguise your face?" But she
found out that according to the Hebrew original it is "Why
is thy countenance fallen" (as the English version has it). She
often alludes to Greek history and mythology, and is familiar
with Shakespeare and the modern poets, and with delight quotes
from her great son's writings. She dislikes the common pleasures of
the senses, more especially the banquettings which were in vogue.
" The god of most of my countrymen," she writes, " is their belly ;
they are veritable epicures. The finest academy for painting and
drawing might be built for the money spent on these carousals,
which resemble ennui like one drop of water the other." And yet in
spite of her dislike of such social gatherings, all people, high or low,
find her interesting. In a modest way she describes herself in a letter
to her daughter-in-law, " I am," she says, " thanks be to God, very
well. I do not understand how it is, but I am loved, esteemed, and
sought after by so many people that I am often a riddle to myself
and do not know what they admire in me ; enough it is so, and I
enjoy this human goodness, thank God, and spend my days in con-
tentment." In July 1799 the King and his celebrated consort.
Queen Luisa of Prussia, came to Frankfurt. The latter sent her bro-
ther, the Hereditary Prince of Mecklenburg, to Frau Rat to invite her
to visit ths Queen. Frau Rat reports to her son as follows : " The
prince came about noon and dined with me at my small table. At
six o'clock he drove me to the Taxische Palace in the royal carriage,
two lackeys standing behind us. The Queen conversed with me of
former times, remembered the pleasure she had in my former house
the good pancakes, &c. Dear me, what effect such things have upon
people ! This visit was at once reported in all coffee and wine
houses, in all large and small societies. During the first few days
nothing else was talked of but that the Queen had invited Frau Rat
lor a visit through the Hereditary Prince of Mecklenburg. You can
imagine how I was questioned to tell all that had been transacted ;

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 1932. S S

6o2 The Gentlemafts Magazine.

in one word I had a nimbus round my head which became me
well."

In June 1803 she was again invited by the Queen to Wilhelmsbad,
and, after describing her reception, she continues: "When I was in
full glee, who came in ? Our Duke of Weimar ! God, what joy
that was for me ; oh, how well and affectionately he spoke of yon ! I
thanked him with fervour for the kindness he had shown you during
your last serious illness. He said, with emotion, that you had done
the same to him ; all those thirty years you and he had been attached
to each other. I was so excited that I could have laughed and cried
at the same time. Whilst I was in this mood the Queen called me
into another room, the King also came in ; the former opened a
case, and — now astonish ! — taking out a costly necklace, she fastened
it round my neck with her own hands. Touched to tears, I could
hardly thank her sufficiently. ... It is impossible to tell you all that
happened on that glorious day. Enough. I anived home in the
evening happy and elated."

The letters from which we have quoted show us her simple,
joyous, and affectionate nature — the cause of her popularity. Wc
will now mention some of those expressions of hers which sonnd
like sentences of pleasant proverbial wisdom, and to which wc can
apply the verse, " she openeth her mouth with wisdom, and the
teaching of kindness is on her tongue." Once she says :. " I am
well and content, and bear with patience what I cannot alter."
Another time : " As we are not able to stop the spokes of the whed
of fortune, and are powerless to retard its motion, it would be folly
to cry over it Oh, there are still many joys on God's earth, if one
only understands to seek them ; and if one does not despise small
mercies, one is sure to find them. How many joys are spoiled,
because people mostly look above them, and ignore what is below ?*
This sentiment she calls "a sauce of Frau Aja's cookery." "Saacd
and profane authors," she says, " exhort us to enjoy life. The former
say : * He that is of a cheerful heart hath a continual feast ' (Ptoverfas
XV. 15), and in Gcctz von Berlichingen (by Goethe) we read, * cheer-
fulness is the mother of all virtues.' " " Would to God," she remaiks,
" I could make all mankind joyous and contented ; how happy I
should feel ! I love cheerful people ; if I were a sovereign, I woold
imitate Julius Caesar, and only have happy faces at my court For,
as a rule, those people are good whose conscience makes them
happy. I fear persons with downcast brow, they remind mc of
Cain." In a charming letter to Frau von Stein, she says : "God has
given me grace to make all happy who come to me^ of whatfCfcr

Goethe's Mother. 603

ranic, age, or sex. I am fond of people, and everyone feels that
immediately. I pass without pretension through the world, and that
gratifies men. I never act the moralist towards anyone always seek
out the good that is in them, and leave what is bad to Him who
made mankind, and who knows best how to round off the angles. In
this way I make myself happy and comfortable. ... I enjoy' life
while its lamp is still aglow, seek no thorns, and catch the small
joys ; if the door is low, I stoop down ; if I can remove the stone
out of my way, I do so ; if it is too heavy, I go round it ; and
thus every day I find something which gladdens me ; and the
comer-stone, the belief in God, makes my heart glad and my
countenance cheerful."

From this, her happy nature, arises her calmness and fearlessness.
In spite of the continuous war troubles and the presence of hostile
soldiers quartered in her house, she keeps up her spirits and is of good
courage. Her son inherited this Olympian calm from her and his
dislike of unnecessary agitation and emotion. Amid the roar of
cannon at the bombardment of Verdun his mind is occupied with
the study of colours. Her sunny nature shrank from storms. " I
hate perturbation of mind," she said, "more than all the sansculottes
in the grand French army, who could not disturb one of my nights'
rests. I have, thank God, never been timid, and now I do not wish
to grow so ; we must wait and see ; in the meantime we will accept
the good days and not grieve before the time : one moment may
change all. Fear is infectious like influenza, and always makes the
plural out of a singular ; it still does as it did four thousand years
ago (2 Kings vii. 6) when the Syrians said : * Lo, the King of Israel
hath hired against us the kings of the Hittites and the kings of the
Egyptians.' They said kings instead of king, their fear hnagining
the danger to be greater than it really was. In order, therefore, not
to let my head be turned, I avoid having cowardly fear as my com*
panion. It is a common place where every goose and every hare-
brained fellow may contribute his mite of tittle-tattle. As a child to
whom the nurse has told a ghost story is afraid of a white sheet on
the wall, so people here believe everything, if it is only sufficiently
terrible, but whether it is true or not they do not investigate.*
Then continuing, she gives an amusing incident of fear. "Frau
Elise Bethmann came in hot haste and breathless into my
bedroom in the night of January 3 (1795), crying, *Dear Raetin,
I must acquaint you with the great danger threatening us.
The enemy are bombarding Mannheim with fiery balls. The
commander of the town has said that he cannot hold but

SS2

6o4 The GeiUleman's Magazine.

any longer than three days.* ... I remained quite calm, and
coolly asked, * How can they bomoard Mannheim ? For they have
no batteries ; do they shoot from over the low banks of the Rhine?
In this case the balls will be cold before they have passed the
broad river, and what the commander intends to do he will
scarcely make public. Whence docs your correspondent know
this ? Write him he is a coward.' " All these great traits of
character had their origin in her firm belief in God. Her son said
of her in a letter to Zelter, January 9, 1824 : " In every one of her
letters is seen the character of a woman who in an Old Testament
fear of God has spent a useful life, full of trust in the unchangeable
national and family God." She herself writes, in one of her re-
markable letters to her son, in 1806 : "This trust in God has ne\-er
left me in the lurch, and this faith is the sole source of my contin-
uous cheerfulness. In the present state of affairs a great support is
necessary. Upon whom else shall one rely? Upon our crowned
heads? They give one, indeed, little comfort. I am not deceived,
for I have not placed my trust upon them. With my Monarch
neither capital nor interest is lost. He is my true support"
And now only one more passage from a letter to her daughter-in-
law. " You see," she says, " from this that grandmother still enjoys life,
and why should I not be happy on CJod's beautiful earth ? It would
be base ingratitude for all the benefits which He has granted me
during my life ; and in praising and thanking God I will spend my
remaining days until the curtain falls." Yes, until the curtain of this
happy life's drama fell, and even when dying this great woman pre-
served her calm and religious mind and her joyous humour, the
faithful and comforting companions of her life. When upon her
express wish, the physician had told her the time that death might
enter, she ordered everything for her funeral with great exactness,
and even settled the sort of wine and the size of cakes for the
refreshment of those who should accompany her to the grave.
According to a not improbable legend, a friend thinking, no doubt,
that the illness of Frau Rat was not serious, sent her an invitation on
the morning of her death, to which the dying lady replied, as a last
revelation of her happy nature : " Frau Rat cannot come : she is busy
dying." Thus she departed, calm and fearless in death as she was
in life. But although death removes also the great ones from the
midst of mankind, there is no annihilation in this removal, for the
remembrance of their character and their deeds is immortal. In this
sense Frau Aja Wohlgemut is not dead. Her life's memory remains
with future generations, and the picture of her character will num

Goethe s Mother. 605

the aesthetic and ethical interest of man. In her are fulfilled the
concluding words of the greatest work of her great son : —

All things transitory,
But as symbols are sent ;
Earth's insufficiency
Here grows to event ;
The indescribable,
Here it is done.
The woman-soul leadeth us
Upward and on 1

JOSEPH STRAUSS,

6o6 The Gentletnaiis Magazine.

THE GREAT TALKERS OF THE
FRENCH REVOLUTION,

In Two Parts. — Part II.

IF one might venture to compare Mirabeau to a tameless, fierce,
and masterful tiger, Talleyrand might surely be likened to a
cat — ^a cat sleek and wary, supple of movement, vigilant of eye,
always slipping out of difficulty and danger. While the tiger Ms
with a spring and a bound upon his adversary, and rends him with
cruel talons, the cat scratches and bites, dealing wounds that fester
and inflame, though they are not absolutely fatal. And while
Mirabeau, tiger-like, stood in the forefront of combat, and frustrated
his foes with strokes that stunned them, Talleyrand, cat-like^ hid
himself in corners and secret nooks, darting out stealthily as
opportunity served, to mark with poisoned claws some unsuspecting
antagonist. But perhaps I should apologise to the cat for a
comparison that is no compliment : the cat is not unsusceptible of
affectionate impulses, and has been known to cling to its master or
mistress with touching fidelity ; whereas Talleyrand was dead to all
such feelings — to every feeling but that of self-interest — ^he was so
bloodless, so self-absorbed, so wholly a creature of the intellect. He
had not only no passions, he had even no prejudices. AVhen one
recalls that he was in succession Minister of the Directory, of the
Empire, of the Restoration, of the July Monarchy, one readily
understands his character ; no elaborate analysis of it is needed.

Talleyrand has been defined as intellect made man — intellect
raised to the fourth power — because in him this faculty dominated
over all others. He was gifted with nearly every phase of it, except
the imaginative ; with observation, irony, diplomacy, administratire
capacity, the intellect of silence, the intellect of the situation, the
intellect of the day and of the to-morrow, the charm, the subtlety,
and the sang froid of intellect. As a master of words, as a sayer of
good things, he has hardly been equalled. His career began with a
bon mot) his speeches are made up of mots^ and in the

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. €07

embarrassing conjunctures he extricated himself from his difBculty,
or put the laughers all on his side by some prompt and lively repartee.

He was present in the circle of Madame du Barry when its
habitues were relating their affairs of gallantry. Perceiving that he
kept a rigid silence, the favourite said to him, " And you, Monsieur
TAbb^, you say nothing ? " " Alas ! madame, I was making a
melancholy reflection." " And what was it ? " " That in this city
of Paris, madame, it is easier to gain women than abbeys." The mot
was repeated to Louis XV., and procured the young Abb^ deP^rigord
his first preferment.

After the campaign of Dresden, Napoleon perceiving him (he was
then Prince of Benevento) at his lev^e broke out violently : " Why
have you come here ? To show me your ingratitude ? You affect to
belong to a party of opposition ? If I were dangerously ill I would
take care that you died before me." Talleyrand, with infinite grace
and composure, replied : " I have no need, sire, of such a warning to
address to Heaven the most ardent wishes for the prolongation of
your Majesty's days."

His face was like a mask, impassive, inscrutable ; and to the
violent outbursts of the Emperor he opposed this inflexible visage
and an immovable silence. On one occasion, however, when
descending the stairs one day, after experiencing a scene of thisjcind,
he was moved to whisper to his neighbour : " What a pity that so
great a man should have been so badly brought up ! " Marshal
Lannes declared that if, while speaking to you, he was kicked in
the back, his face would show no sign of the injury offered to him.

"I admire," said Louis XVIH., "your influence overall that has
taken place in France. How did you contrive to break down, in the
first place, the power of the Directory, and, later, the colossal power
of Bonaparte ? " " Egad, sire, I assure you I have had no part in
such matters ; but there is something inexplicable in me that brings
misfortune to the governments which neglect me."

After his speech against the war with Spain in 181 8, all Paris
concluded that he would be deprived of his offices, and probably sent
into exile. "Are you not thinking," said the King, "of going into
the country ? " " No, sire ; at least not until your Majesty goes to
Fontainebleau, when it will be my duty to accompany you." " No,
no, that is not what I mean ; I ask if you are not about to retire to
your estates ? " " No, sire." " Ah ! well, tell me, how far is it from
Paris to Valen^ay?" "Sire, it is — fourteen leagues farther than
from Paris to Ghent" (the royal refuge previous to the Restoration) —
a menace which Louis understood : and Talleyrand remained.

608 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

It was inevitable that the utterer of so many boHS mots should
gain the reputation of some which were not really his own. And
sometimes their makers purposely fathered them upon him in
order to ensure them a ready currency. Thus, Harel, in the Xain
Jaune^ ascribed to him the famous phrase, " La parole a ^t^ donnee
^ rhomme pour d^guiser sa pens^e " (Speech was given to man to
disguise his thoughts). Afterwards he wished to reclaim it, but with
scant success.

From M. de VitroUes Talleyrand borrowed the happy phrase,
" The beginning of the end." And from the Chevalier de Panat he
adopted his epigrammatic criticism on the impolitic conduct of the
emigres after the Restoration : " They have learned nothing, and for-
gotten nothing."

Of the celebrated epigram on the judicial murder of the Due
d'Enghien, " It is worse than a crime, it is a blunder," Talleyrand's
paternity is doubtful ; but we may assign to him the emphatic advice,
" No zeal " {Point de zcle) : though Lord Chesterfield, it is true^
advised one of his friends, " Moderation, and no vivacity ! "

It is said that the Director Rewbell, in a fit of rage, flung an ink-
stand at Talleyrand's head, exclaiming, " Vile hnigriy your mind is as
crooked as your feet" The witty cripple soon toolc his revenge.
"How are things going? "said Rewbell, one day. " Crossways, ffi
you jr^," replied Talleyrand. Rewbell squinted

Talleyrand's mots under the Empire and after the Restoration,
like those of the Revolution, have stood the test of time — ^the best
of all touchstones. " Good taste," he said, speaking of Napoleon,
" is his personal enemy ; he would destroy it, if he could, by cannon-
shot."

" He will end," he said, on another occasion, " by disgusting me
with those circular forms for which I have had all my life such a
predilection." " How so ? " " By his cannon-balls."

He left the marks of his claws upon Maret, Due de Bassana ** In
all the world," said he, " I know but one man stupider than Maret."
" And who is he ? " " The Due de Bassano." After the disasters
of the Russian expedition, he exclaimed, " They said that all the
material was lost, and here is Maret back again ! "

In recommending a candidate for employment, the man's friend
remarked, " Everybody must live." " I do not see the necessity,**
replied Talleyrand. [But this answer had already been given bv
M. D'Argenson to the Abbd Desfontaines, and Piron has verified it.]

One of his favourite targets was M. Simonville, a man dis-
tinguished by his colossal greed and selfishness. " How is Simoa-

The Greai Talkers of the French Revolution. 609

ville ? " he asked, one day, of a common friend. " Oh, very welli
monsdigneur, he is even growing fatter." " Simonville growing fat?
I cannot understand it." "Why not, monseigneur ? " "No, I can't
understand what interest Simonville has in growing fat ! "

Another time, somebody observing, "At least, in the Upper
Chamber there are consciences." "Yes," replied Talleyrand, "a
good many. Simonville has two."

Who can forget his audacious speech to Madame de Stael, who
was suspected of having painted herself as the heroine in her romance
of " Delphine," and Talleyrand in the character of the greedy and
artificial Madame de Vernon ? " They tell me that both you and I
are in the book, madame, disguised as females,^^

It is a well-worn story how that he, when seated between the De
Stael and Madame R^camier, behaving with his accustomed gallantry,
but betraying his partiality towards the latter, replied to Madame de
StaeFs embarrassing question — " If we two fell in the water, mon-
seigneur, whom would you first assist ? " " Oh, madame, you know
how to swim ! "

This, says M. du Bled, is a charming reply, but not equal to that
of a Bavarian Count to a beautiful Madame de V., with whom he
was greatly smitten. " If your mother and I," said she, " fell into
yonder river, whom would you succour first ? " " My mother," he
answered, but, looking with emotion at Madame V., he added, "To
save you first would be to save myself."

"Do you know," said Talleyrand, referring to his inseparable
friend and confident Montron, " do you know why I like him ? It
is because he has so few prejudices."

(When Madame Hamlin reproached Montron with his devotion
to Talleyrand, the former replied, " Who would not love him ? He
is so vicious.")

The Abb^ Desrenaudes refused him a vote on the ground that
his conscience was opposed to it. "We don't ask you for your
conscience," explained Talleyrand, " but for your vote."

At one of the first sittings of the Constituent Assembly, when
its members were preparing to elect a president, Mirabeau led off
the debate, and indicated to his colleagues the qualifications in cha-
racter and capacity which the office required, in such wise that it was
impossible not to recognise himself in the portrait he was tracing.
"There is only one detail wanting to complete M. de Mirabeau's
sketch," observed Talleyrand — " that the president should be pock-
marked." [Mirabeau had suffered severely from small-pox.]

When Charles X. said that for a king who was menacecl therQ w§8

6io The Gentleman's Magazhu.

no choice between the throne and the scaffold, " Your Majesty/' he
said, "forgets the post-chaise/' To a person who asked him his
opinion on a certain subject, he said, " I ? Oh, I have one in the
morning and another in the afternoon, but I have none at all in the
evening."

When his friend Montron was taken ill, and replied to his in-
quiries, " Mon amije sens les toiirmens de Venfer " (My friend, I feel
the torments of hell), Talleyrand replied, " Quoi/ dejdf" (AVhat !
already ?) [But this repartee is much older than Talleyrand's time.]

Of a certain lady, whose dress, or want of it, provoked remark,
he observed : " Out) elle est belle^ trts belle ; mats^pourla toilette^ ctla
commence trop tard etfinit trap toty

., Sidney Smith tells us that, talking in Talleyrand's presence to his
brother Bobus, who was just beginning his career at the bar, he said,
" Mind, Bobus, when you are Lord Chancellor I shall expect one
of your best livings." " Yes, my friend," rejoined Bobus, "but first
I shall make you commit all the basenesses of which priests are
capable." " What an enormous latitude ! " {Quelle latitude inorme /)
cried Talleyrand, shrugging his shoulders and throwing up his hands.
. The following anecdote is told by the late Lord Bailing and
Bulwer:— For several days Talleyrand saw, without recognising him,
a well-dressed person, who stood bare-headed and bowed very low
as Talleyrand mounted the steps of his coach. " And who are you,
my friend ? " he said at last. "I am your coachmaker, monseigneur."
" Ah, you are my coachmaker; and what do you want, my coach-
maker?" "I want to be paid," said the coachmaker, meekly.
" Ah, you are my coachmaker, and want to be paid ; you shall be
paid, my coachmaker." "And when, monseigneur ? ** "Hum,"
answered the statesman, looking at him closely, and settling himself
comfortably in his carriage, "you are very curious! "

Statesmen and wits leave their characters behind them to be the
playthings of opposing critics — shuttlecocks which they bandy to and
fro (} leur grc. Over the grave of a man like Talleyrand the voice of
dispraise will be louder than that of panegyric. Chateaubriand said
of him: "Had he been a plebeian, poor and obscure, with only his
immorality and his drawing-room wit, we should never have heard of
him" — which I take leave to doubt. "Strip off the degraded bishop,
the debased grand seigneur^ and the married priest, and what
remains ? His reputation and his successes have belonged to these
three depravations." But this seems sorry criticism. What is the
use of talking of what Talleyrand would have been if he had not

in Talleyrand ?

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 6 1 1

Madame de Stael, who did not (and had no reason to) love him,
compares him to those little toy-men we give to children. With their
head3 o£cork and limbs of lead, you may upset or reverse them, and
they always find their feet*

Mignet's judgment is more favourable. " Napoleon," he says,
"had the genius of action; Talleyrand that of counsel. The one
projected everything that was grand, the other avoided whatever
was dangerous; and the creative passion of the one was happily tem-
pered by the slow circumspection of the other. It is probable, or at
least possible, that, if Napoleon would have more frequently adopted
his advice, he would have escaped his worst calamities; but then, had.
he done so, he would not have been Napoleon ! " I confess I have little
patience with these assumptions of historians, which always proceed
on the untenable ground that if somebody had not been somebody,
then, &c.

Says M. Adolphe Thiers: — " M. de Talle3n-and had a moral merit,
that of loving peace under a master who loved war, and of allowing
him to see it. Gifted with an exquisite taste, with unfailing tact, and
a useful indolence, he could render real service to the State only by
opposing to the First Consul's affluence of words, of pen, and of action
his perfect moderation as well as his penchant for doing nothing.

Says Sainte-Beuve: — "The moral problem which the personality
of Talleyrand involves, in so far as it is original and extraordinary,
rests wholly upon the singular and unique combination of a superior
intellect, a clear good sense, an exquisite taste, and a consummate
corruption, covered by disdain, lamer-aller^ and indifference." Again,
in a severer mood, he calls him a diminutive of Mazarin : " He is
only a finer edition," he adds, " more elegant, and embellished with
taste, of the Abb^ Dubois."

Talleyrand was a man of his epoch; he was made by the age
which he helped to make. This may seem a paradox ; but I think the
reader, on reflection, will perceive that it is the expression of an obvious
truth. Finally, we may say of him that he had many ideas and no
(Convictions; a good deal of wit, but not a particle of imagination.

Among the Great Talkers of the Revolutionary period I must pass
over, from want of space, the Marquis de Boufflers( 1738-18 15), who
wrote gay Verses and gayer tales, wasting upon trifles' an intellect
capable of better work, and, with a heart full of generous sympathies,
doing nothing to make the world better; and Comte Alexandre de

' The Chevalier de Bonnard caUs them :

Ces jolis riens,
Que ttt produis avec ai8ance»

6i2 The Gentleman^ Magazine.

Tilly (1764-1816), who wrote bitterly in the "Actes des Apotres,**
served Louis XVI. with more honesty than most of his fellows, was^
afterwards Chamberlain to the King of Prussia, and terminated by his
own unhappy hand a life which had made gaming and gallantry its chief
occupations. His scandalous ** Mdmoires " glitter with flashes of a
keen and often cynical wit — with mordant sketches of some of the
principal performers in the strange drama of his time — with lively
anecdotes and livelier repartees. Then there are the two S^gurs :
Comte Louis-Philippe de Segur, who died in 1830, aged seven ty-seveni
and his brother, Vicomte Joseph- Alexandre, who died in 1805, aged
only forty-nine. Both were men of talent, men of honour, and fine
talkers. The Vicomte wrote some pleasant things in prose and verse:
comedies, proverbes, novels, chansons^ operas. H is principal work is
" Les Femmes," published in 1802. Not a few of his songs are
bright with witty intention ("Le Temps et L' Amour," for instance,
which is well known); but he could also strike with success a senti-
mental chord. I venture to quote a specimen:

Vous me qiiittez pour aller a la gloire,
Mon triste coeur suivra partout vos pas.
Allez, volez au iemi)le de memoire,
Suivez I'honneur, mais ne m'oubliez pas.

A vos devoirs comme a ramour fidele,
Chcrchez la gloire, c^vitcz le trepas ;
Dans les combats oil I'honneur vous appellc,
Distinguez vous ; mais ne m'oubliez pas.

Que faire, helas ! dans mes peines cruelles ;
Je crains la paix autant que les combats :
Vous y verrez tant de beautes nouvelles;
Vous leur plairez ; mais ne m'oubliez pas.

Oui, vous plairez et vous vaincrez sans cessc ;
Mars et I'Amour suivront parlout vos pas.
De vos succcs gardez la douc^ ivrcsse ;
Soycz heureux ; mais ne m'oubliez pas.

In default of a better, the reader will accept, perhaps, the following
halting version :

You leave me, dear, to follow Glory's ways,
My sad heart still shall, constant, share thy lot : '
(jo, go, and seek the wreath of human praise ;
Seek honour's meed ; but oh, forget me not I

To duty as to love thou'lt faithful be ;
Glory pursue, but shun the common lot ;
On battle-fields where Honour Summons thcc
Distinction win ; but oh, forget m^ not {

The Great' Talkers of the French RevoltUtoii. 613

Alas for me ! since in my sufferings dire
Peace do I fear not less than war, I wot.
New beauties thou wilt everywhere admire,
And they will smile ; but oh, forget me not !

Yes, thou wilt conquer always, for *tis meet
Both Mars and Love should constant share thy lot.
Of thy success the intoxication sweet
Joyous preserve ; but oh, forget me not !

The Comte Louis Philippe plied a more serious pen, and published
a " History of the Reign of Frederick William II., King of Prussia";
"A Historical Decade, or Review of Europe from 178610 1796";
" Contes Moraux et Politiques "; and " Pensdes, Maximes et
Reflections." A distinguished statesman and diplomatist, he was
reconciled to the Empire, and accepted office under Napoleon as a
senator and councillor of State and Grand Master of the Ceremonies.
But the Vicomte remained unmoved by the Imperial blandishments,
and refused the colonelcy of a regiment which was offered to him.
He dubbed his brother Sdgur le Ceremonieux^ adding, with a certain
maliciousness, " I am S<5gur sans cercmonie,^^

But his brother had quite as lively a wit. In 1789, while at
Vienna, he dined with Prince de Kaunitz, who suddenly broke out
against the Marquis de Noailles : " I have received, Monsieur TAm-
bassadeur, the latest news from France, where they are plundering
and massacring more than ever ; all heads are turned topsy-turvey ;
the country is given over to madness and frenzy." The ambassador
was silent, as befitted his dignity; but S^gur, younger and more
impatient, could not restrain his anger." " It is true, my prince, that
France just now is suffering from a very severe fever. It is said that
the malady is contagious, and that it came to us from Brussels."
[Belgium had recently rebelled against the yoke of Austrian domi-
nation.]

In 1792, when he was at the court of Berlin, the King questioned
him abruptly : "Do the French soldiers continue to refuse all dis-
cipline ? " Sogur's reply was felicitous: "Sire, our enemies shall
judge of that."

Napoleon, on one occasion, reproached his Grand Master of the
Ceremonies with being behind time. " Sire," said he, bowing, " I
could undoubtedly offer your Majesty a million of excuses; but just
now one is not always able to make one's way in the streets. I had
the misfortune to get involved in a ruck of kings (un embarras de
rois)^ and could not extricate myself easily; that, sire, was the cause
of my want of punctuality." Everybody smiled at this delicate bit of
flatter)', remembering that at that moment there were six kings in Paris.

6 14 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

Of the court of Louis XVI., and of French Society, at the moment
when the tocsin of the Revolution first alarmed the world, vividly-
coloured are the pictures presented in th^ "Souvenirs et Portraits"
of the Due de L^vis (i 755-1830). Moreover, he tells some good
stories and preserves some choice repartees. He tells us that at
Lausanne he met with a philosophical boatman, who, after the Due
had dilated on the new theories of liberty and equality, replied, by
showing in one hand a silver coin, and with the other pointing to the
spire of the village church : " Liberty," said he, " is in my purse, and
equality in the graveyard."

He reclaims for the Marquis de Bi^vre a famous old quip, which
our English jest-books dishonestly attribute to one and another of
our wits. Louis XV. asked him to make a pun. " On what subject,
sire ? " " Never mind what; on me, if you like." " Your Majesty
is no subject."

Someone said to him : " Let us make a pari (a bet)." " Sir,
remember that Paris was not made in a day."

In 1785, the ciel^ or roof, of M. de Calonne's bed gave way, and
fell upon the slumbering minister. When M. de Bi^vre was told of
the occurrence, "Juste ciel! " he exclaimed.

One day he said he had seen some oysters traversing the Palais
Royal (the royal palate !).

Next steps forward another of the old nobility, the Due de Brancas-
Lauraguais (1733-1821), whose eighty-eight years of life covered the
most stirring period of French History— the reigns of Louis XV.
and XVI., the Revolution, the Directory, the Consulate, the Empire,
and the Restoration. Du Bled describes him as one of the greatest
originals of his time; the en/an f terrid/e of the nodiesse^ incapable of
yielding to any kind of discipline; a faithless husband, a faithless lover;
greatly smitten with every novelty; a disciple of Locke; associated by
successful experiments with the most illustrious chemists of the age,
Rouelle, Darcet, and Lavoisier; the author of a tragedy of " Jocasta,"
of which the wits said that what it presented most clearly was the
enigma of the Sphinx; a generous and magnificent character; an
intellect bold and inquisitive; a ready epigrammatist;' imprisoned four
times; five times an exile on account of his pamphlets against the
edicts of 1 766 and 1 770; a lover of liberty, even of its chimeras; and
the perpetual assailant of the governments he preferred as well as of
those he detested. It was on his return from one of his exiles that

* Discontinuing his visits to Madame de Beauhamais, where the dinnen
T, but, on the other hand, scandal wa;> plentiful, he said, ** I am wcarj of
my neighbour on dry bread."

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 615

Louis XV. addressed him: "What have you done in England,
Monsieur de Lauraguais?" "Sire, I have learned to think {penser)\
" What, horses ? " replied the King, quibbling on the word pansevy
" to groom," which, as the well-instructed reader knows, is identical in
sound with/<f«jer, "to think. "

The Due was a warm admirer of our English Constitution, and
urged Louis XVL to adopt it in France.

The story of Lafayette is well known. If it be not, the fault
does not rest with the gentlemen of the pen, for it has been told over
and over again, and generally with an enthusiasm and in a spirit of
panegyric which, I confess, seem to me something extravagant
There are the original " M^moires et Correspondance," in six volumes,
published by his family ; there are Rdgnault Warin's " M^moires pour
servir \ THistoire de La Fayette " ; there is Chateauneufs sketch
" Le G^ndral La Fayette " ; and there are sketches and studies by
Lamartine, Sainte-Beuve, De Lom^nie, Saint- Marc Girardin, Thiers,
Mignet, and others. All these show him as one and the same. The
fanatic of an idea, a transcendental egotist, an eighteenth-centUry
Don Quixote, a man who was equally capable of the greatest
absurdities and the finest actions, the Grandison of the Revolutfon,
a hero among fine gentlemen, and a fine gentleman among heroes.
When the Revolution sank bleeding and exhausted at the feet of
Napoleon, Lafayette still maintained his exalth devotion to liberty.
He refused the dignity of senator and the embassy to Washington,
preferring to pose before men as a prophet of the divine doctrme
of freedom — " a copy, precious and almost unique, without blot and
without errata, and for epigraph the Victrix causa diis placuiiJ* Yet
the genius of the great conqueror dazzled him. He admired him
profoundly, though it is true he did not envy him, beiieraig
himself to be inspired by a much nobler and loftier ambition.
Napoleon understood him thoroughly, in his weakness as well as his
greatness ; and recognised that the best way of preventing himirom
undertaking an open opposition was by indulging his vanity in the
opposition of the Ute-cL-Ute, One day he discussed with him fais
intentions respecting the rehabilitation of the priesthood. " Lafayette
interrupted Jiim to say, with a laugh, * Confess that your only object
is to break the little phial' (used in the coronation ceremdmal).
* You laugh at that little phial, and I also,' replied Napoleon ; * but,
believe me, it is important to us at home and abroad to make the
Pope and all those people declare against the legitimacy of the
Bourbons.'"

Another time, when the First Consul sought to tickle his vanity

6i6 The Gentleman^ Magdziiic.

by turning the conversation upon Lafayette's campaign in Atnericai
Lafayette cut it short by the terse observation, that the greatest
interests of the universe were decided there by affairs of patriots.
He was less on his guard against another and subtler kind of flattery,
when the Imperial cajolcr reminded him of the hatred he had in-
spired in the breast of kings and the European aristocracy. And the
incurable simplicity of " the master of the ceremonies" of the Revo-
lution was only too apparent when he replied to Napoleon, " A free
government and you at the head of it ; that is my ideal ! " Liberty,
despotic order, and military glory combined — what an impossible
dream ! Lafayette was half conquered, but recovered from the
spell when Napoleon made himself Emperor. Then he retired to
his estate, and shut himself up in a seclusion of silent and passive
disapproval. Napoleon did not cease to watch him. " Everybody
is reformed," said he, "except one man — Lafayette. He has
never receded one inch. You see how tranquil he is ; yes, but I
tell you that he is quite ready to begin again." **The silence of my
retreat," remarked Lafayette, " is the maximum of my deference. I am
like the child who is obstinate in not saying A, for fear he will after-
wards be obliged to say B." And with Napoleon a man had to go
to the last letter of the alphabet.

Of Louis, Comte de Narbonne(i 725-1813), oneneed notsaymuch.
He was a great noble, a royalist, and a man of letters, who, by the
common consent of his contemporaries, was capable of doing great
things, but found few opportunities. One remembers him chiefly
for the prompt courage and resolution with which he and his thirty
dragoons secured the escape of Mesdames the King's aunts in '91,
and for the patriotism with which he accepted the Ministry of War in
'92. Through the help of Madame de Stael he escaped to England
at the beginning of the Terror, disguised in valet's clothes, and settled
down among his books in the happy valley of Mickleham, until
Napoleon reconstructed French society, when he returned to France,
and accepted some important diplomatic missions under the Empire.
He was a refined talker, and Na])oleon enjoyed his conversation,
which he knew how to flavour with a delicate fragrance of compli-
ment. On his return from an embassy to Vienna, the Emperor
blurted out, ** Well, what say they of Bautzen ? What say they of
Lutzen ? '' For an emperor to put a question is one thing ; for a
courtier to reply to it quite another ; but Narbonne was equal to the
difficulty. "Ah, sire,'' he replied, "some say that you are a god,
others that you arc a devil ; but everybody is agreed that you are more
than man 1 *' His mother, the Duchcsse de Narbonne, had remained

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 617

a fervent Bourbonist. The Emperor knew this, but was not much
concerned. "Ah 9a! my dear Narbonne," said he, with a smile,
**it is not good for my service that you should see your mother too
often ; I am assured that she does not love me." " It is true, Sire ;
as yet she has got no further than admiration."

He accompanied Napoleon on his mad plunge into the Russian
wastes— a madness which he had vainly endeavoured to prevent He
did not long survive the disasters in which it involved the Empire.

The Comte Beugnot was a political Vicar of Bray. His method
was that of Sosia — he devoutly admired his Amphitryon for the time
being. He was always faithful to success — a loyal follower of the
man in possession ; and felt an equal pleasure when Napoleon pinched
his ear or Louis le Desir^ smiled upon his flatteries. For he was
wanting neither in intelligence nor in political foresight, and after he
had taken care of his own interests, was not above looking after the
interests of his country. The fact was that during the Terror he
had been imprisoned as "a suspect" in the Conciergerie ; and the
experience was crushing enough to deprive him of all elasticity of
soul and independence of mind.

In his capacity of fervent royalist he invented for Louis XVIIL,
on his restoration, the famous mot — " No more divisions ! Peace
and France ; at last I see her again ! And nothing is changed except
that there is one Frenchman more ! " His, too, was the ingenious idea
of warning Blucher, when he proposed to blow up the Pont de Jdna,
that if he carried out his idea the King would take his stand upon the
bridge and be blown up with it. His, too, the ingenious inscription
engraved under the statue of Henri IV. — " Ludovico reduce,
Henricus redivivus."

One day, after the Restoration, the Comte de Marcellus proposed
to the Chamber of Deputies to set up above the tribune an image
of Christ, as a witness of justice, reverence, and faith. Beugnot
immediately rose and said : " I desire to support the proposition
of our pious and honourable colleague, while I beg leave to move an
amendment quite in harmony with it. I pray the Chamber to order
that beneath the statue shall be inscribed in letters of gold the words
of pardon which He spake when dying — * Father, forgive them ; for
they know not what they do I ' "

With this sufficiently sarcastic speech I take leave of Beugnot,
who died in 1835, ^g^^ seventy-four.

In the same year, at the age of eighty-four — most of these survivors
of the Terror seem to have enjoyed a remarkable longevity — died
Rcederer, a man of energetic capacity, economist, journalist, historian,

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. I93J. J i;-

6i8 The Gentleman's Magazine.

administrator, playwright — whose most interesting book for us of the"
present day is his " Histoire de THotel Rambouillet " — ^which, by the
way, he attempted to revive on his estate of Bois-RousseL In the pre-
vious year died Arnault, the dramatist and satirist (at the age of sixty-
eight), who expressed his mordant wit in his " Fables," and sketched
his contemporaries with an incisive pencil in his " Souvenirs d'un
Sexag^naire." One of his minor poems, ** La Feuille," is found in most

French anthologies :

De ta tige detachcc,
Pauvre feuille dess^chee, &c.

Of his repartees here are two or three specimens. One of his
professors at Suilly interrupted him in the midst of his companions :
" Ah, well, are you seeking a subject for an epigram?" " I have found
one," said Arnault, looking at him fixedly, like the well-known
Ancient Mariner in Coleridge's poem.

His friend, General Leclerc, once accosted him very cavalierly
in a salon : " Thou here — thou who thinkest thyself a poet after
Racine and Corneille ! " " And thou here," replied Arnault, " who
callest thyself a general after Turenne and Conde ! "

His opinion of Louis XVIIL, and his successor Charles X., is
neatly expressed in the following epigram : —

Quoi qu*on pense, et qu'on puisse dire,
Le regnc des Bourbons me cause de reffrou
J*ai vu le roi, le pauvre sire !
J'ai vu Monsieur, vive le roi !

This is untranslatable.

Of Jules Michaud (i 767-1837), the author of the " Histoire des
Croisades " and " Correspondance d'Orient," M. du Bled succinctly
says that the Revolution made him a journalist, exile rendered him a
poet, a preface to a romance set his foot in the paths of history, and
nature created him a Great Talker. Thus one man in his time plays
many parts ; and Michaud played his to the satisfaction of his
audience— or, rather, we should say, to that of posterity, for, consider-
ing that this impassioned royalist was eleven times imprisoned, twice
condemned to death, and executed in effigy on the Place de Grbve,
we must admit that a good many people were at one time prejudiced
against him. You see, they had never heard him talk ! His conver-
sation was delightful, its charm was irresistible, it combined the
seriousness of the thinker with the polish of the man of the world,
and abounded in that flexibility and that epigrammatic point whidl
fircn) peculiarly French characteristics.

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution 619

Who has not enjoyed that charming story, the " Meunier de Sans*
Souci"of Andrieux? — Fran9ois Guillaume Jean Stanislaus Andrieux
to give him all his names. How skilful the versification ! the style,
how strongly individual ! the humour, how delicate and refined ! It
is founded on the old anecdote of the honest miller who refused to
sell his mill to Frederick 11. of Prussia, and when threatened with
confiscation, thanked heaven that there were judges at Berlin. The
King, however, when he learned all the facts, showed a laudable
desire not to interfere with his humble neighbour's landmarks.

II mit TEurope en feu, ce sont U jeux de prince :
On respecte un moulin, on vole une province.

This little apologue is treated with infinite grace. As much may
be said of the other stories, fables, and romances, which will be found
in his "CEuvres Choisies," edited by Charles de Rozan. The dramatic
verve and spirit of Andrieux are equally undeniable ; and his comedies
of " Les Etourdis " and " La Comedienne " still retain an honoured
place on the French stage. Andrieux began life as an advocate and
a politician, but was strongly opposed to the Napoleonic r^gime^ and
his public career being abruptly terminated by the Imperial tyranny
he devoted himself to literary pursuits. At the Restoration he was
appointed to a chair in the College de France, in 1816 was admitted
to a seat among the Forty, and closed a happy and not unprosperous
life in 1833, at the age of seventy-four.

M. Legouv^ furnishes an amusing sketch of Andrieux as a lecturer.
" The day I was present," he says, " he arrived a little late, and
explained that the fault was his housekeeper's. She had allowed the
milk for his cofiee to boil over, and wasted a quarter of an hour in
seeking a fresh supply. Thereupon he plunged into a thousand
details of domestic economy; of household management, of the cuisine,
of the linen -presses — the whole blended with a sketch of the domestic
virtues after the manner of Xenophon's * Economics.' He discoursed
to us at length upon his cat, and dprqpos of his cat upon Aristotle,
and d prof OS of Aristotle upon natural history. Facts led to reflec-
tions, reflections were linked to narratives, and the nanatives were
delicious."

One day, at the height of the dispute between the so-called
Classicists and Romanticists, he lectured upon Racine and Comeille,
censuring those who sought to give to the one a pre-eminence over the
other, and demonstrating that they had equal titles to the public
admiration. And he concluded thus : " One ought to say, * I love

QornQilJe ^nd I lov^ I^acine^' a§ one says, * I Jove papa and I Iqvq

620 The Gentlematis Magazine.

mamma.* " The lecture was at an end, and loud applause rose on
every side, when the Professor, who was about to quit the platform,
halted as if lost in thought, and, returning a few steps, added : Yet I
think that Comeille will be mamma !

Both power and pathos are visible in the tragedies of N^pomuc^ne
Lemercier (i 779-1840), in "Clarissa Harlowe," and "Le Invite
d'Ephraim," nor is intellectual vigour wanting in the " Agamemnon,"
the "Frdddgonde," and the " Pinto "; but in M. Lemercier's work is to
be observed a want of human interest as well as of artistic unity, and
I suppose it has little chance of obtaining a permanent position in
French dramatic literature. His work resembles his character, which
was fragmentary — governed by impulses, inharmonious; a bizarre
mixture of the great and the little. Talleyrand thought him the
most brilliant talker of his time— but that is not a reputation which
avails much with posterity.

Here are two anecdotes which illustrate his ready coolness.

One day, at the Thdatre Fran^ais, an officer planted himself
right in front of him, and refused to move when he was courteously
entreated.

" Sir 1 " said Lemercier, " I have told you that you prevent me
from seeing the stage, and I order you to get out of my way."

"You order me 1 Do you know to whom you are speaking?
To a man who has carried the colours of the army of Italy ! "

" Very likely : an ass carried Jesus Christ."

A duel ensued, in which the officer was wounded in the arm.

To a friend who was much agitated when one of his plays was
hissed, " Be calm, my friend," said he ; " you will have many more
hisses before long."

He was a profound admirer and a close personal friend of
Napoleon, until he seated himself on the Imperial throne, when
Lemercier boldly said to him : " You amuse yourself in re-making
the bed of the Bourbons. Well, I predict you will not lie in it ten
years."

This bold speech cost him the imperial favour, and the perform-
ance of his plays was prohibited. Lemercier made no complaint,
but preserved a dignified silence. In 1812, as a member of the
Institute, he was compelled to present himself at the Tuileries. As
soon as the Emperor perceived him, he went straight up to him : "Ah,
well, Lemercier, when will you give us another of your fine tragedies ?"
" Sire, j'attends," was the reply— which, on the eve of the campaign
against Russia, sounded like a prophety.

The last of th$ Great Talkers of the Revolution to whom I wish

The Great Talkers of the French Revolution. 621

to direct the reader's attention is Jean Francois Ducis (1733-1816),
the dramatic poet. The intellect of Ducis was first stimulated into
activity by his perusal of Shakespeare ; of whom he became a
devoted admirer and an earnest student — seeking to make him known
to the French by ingenious adaptations, in which he retained the
original names and plots, and even whole scenes of his dramas, but
imposed the classic forms sanctioned by the example of Comeille,
Racine, and Voltaire. This has been called profanation by some
severe critics ; but I see no reason to doubt that^Ducis acted in perfect
good faith, and honestly chose a course which he thought would
reconcile his countrymen to the novelty of the Shakespearean methods.
In the same way he served up Euripides and Sophocles. That he
was capable of a tolerably strong flight of his own may be seen in
his tragedy of " Albufar," which, however, on its first representation,
was not successful.

Though Ducis made no conspicuous figure in the political world,
he was at bottom a republican idealist, or a republican with ideals
(whichever the reader prefers). He was a profound lover of freedom,
and could not restrain his indignation at the tyranny of the Terror.
Writing to a friend, he breaks out into a storm of passionate eloquence :
" Why speak to me of writing tragedies ? Tragedy stalks through
the streets. If I set my foot outside my door I stand ankle-deep in
blood. I find it hard to shake the pollution off my shoes when I
return ; I say, like Macbeth, * This blood will not out.' Farewell, then,
to tragedy ! I have seen too many Atreuses in sabots to dare to put
them on the stage. It is a rude drama this, in which the people play
the tyrant. My 'friend, its denouement can take place only in hell.
Believe me, Vallin, I would give half of what remains to me of life
to pass the other half in some corner of the world where Liberty does
not appear in the guise of a blood-boltered Fury."

Campenon relates a pretty anecdote in illustration of Ducis's pious
devotion to our great poet : " I shall never forget," he says, "a visit
I paid to him at Versailles one cold January day. I found him in
his bcd-chambcr, mounted on a chair, and busily engaged, with a
certain pomp, in arranging about a bust of the English ^schylus an
enormous clump of laurel, which had just been brought to him. * I
am at your service immediately,* he said, as I entered, and without
disturbing himself ; but perceiving that I was somewhat surprised —
' Do you not see that to-morrow is the feast of Saint William, the
patron saint of my Shakespeare?' Then, steadying himself on my
shoulder while he got down, and having studied the effect of his
posy, the only one undoubtedly which the season had been able

622 The Gentleman's Magazine.

to offer him, ' My friend/ he added, with a countenance the et-
pression of which is still present to my mind, ' the ancients crowned
with flowers the fountains from which they refreshed themselves,' "

From the preceding pages it will appear that even during the
storms of the Revolution and the excesses of the Terror the liberal
arts and graces flourished with a wonderful vigour of life, and that both
in literature and society the French genius maintained its vivacity,
its ilan^ and its refinement.

W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

6»3

THE NAMING OF OUR
FORE FA THERS.

THERE may not be much in a name when it is once settled,
stereotyped, and familiar ; but from the manufacture of English
surnames — those of northern England especially — there are some
very curious ideas to be derived and inferences to be drawn. The
methods of the Red Indian prevailed in England in the days of the
Plantagenets. Our forefathers of the non -territorial grade owed their
cognomina to the most diversified of incidents : incidents of change
and decay, of servitude and degradation, of mirth and laughter, of
savage irony and mocking jest. Envy and malice account for some
of these names, contempt and bitterness for others. When we read
of Adam Wadinlof, a bachelor who lived at Anston near Doncaster,
we clearly meet with a victim of unrequited affection — " wode," or
mad, with his passion ; yet in its gratification the possible ancestor
of a dean of the Church. When we encounter Agnes Crostkalf
we most probably have a petulant young damsel who sulks and
considers herself wronged and neglected by everybody. Thomas
Lady, of Snaith, is another character of derision and the very opposite,
we. may presume, of Miss Crostkalf ; to his friends he has been a
finicking sort of person, or, as the old country people still describe
such, a Miss Nancy — seeking the admiration of all.

The most complete catalogue of mediaeval names ever published
is that supplied by the Poll Tax for Yorkshire, levied in 1379 — when
England claimed to be in the front rank of civilisation, and actually
after France had been conquered by men named in the fashion
adopted by savages. As a picture of folk -life the Roll is absolutely
unique, entirely without a rival in instruction. Its general view of
association and the ordinary modes of life is most excellent. Its
lights and shades of village thought and speech are marvellous. For
instance, Robert Thombarne, married and with a family, was de-
nominated in a manner which adds dignity to human ingenuity.
Beyond recording him the Roll gives us the names of the stock of
the men who won Crecy and Poictiers, and in doing so raises the

624. The GefUleniafis Magazine.

heartiest of laughter at the thought of the roll-call of those intrepid
warriors. Fancy the captor of the King of Bohemia being called
Bill at-'t-Kirkehende, and the Prince of Wales having the feathers
presented to him by Bob Brewhouse — both names being actualities.
Think of the Gallic air resounding in the moment of victory with the
heroic names of John Tup, William Nog, Thomas Prop, William
Calfe, Robert Tewer {fewer being a word expressing violent energy),
William Bug, John Stoute, Symon Tredhard, William Charity, John
Nuttebrowne, Adam Haksmall, William Snatchberd, and John
Spylwede — the last a botch of a tailor who spoilt weeds^ or garments !
Yet these are the very names of the men themselves, or of their sons ;
and more than one of the names must have sounded above the
din of battle ere England could claim the glory their owners won
for her.

The rank and file of the population of all degrees below the
baronage are named in detail in this curious record ; not, as we
sec, in sonorous terms or in syllables that stamp the caste of Vere de
Vere. The Bullcalves and Otecakes of Shakespeare's days have
their ancestral existence in this Roll. They were not the sneering
designations of the fat knight's wit, they were the very names of his
father's playfellows. Thomas Hulet — whose name must be translated
The Owl— and Robert Hatter (not an ancient member of the house of
Lincoln and Bennet, aiier being the north-country word for a viper),
natives of Armyn, were scarcely likely to be of gentle blood, any more
than their neighbours, William Raton, William Faysand, or William
Thecar — the thatcher. Woodcraft or field life gave the proud denomi-
nations of their ancestral houses — " Who drives fat oxen needs himself
be fat." Gentle blood had left them to deal with themselves in matters
personal, with a very suggestive result. He was evidently a man of
worldly knowledge and slyness of thought, if not of courtly attainments,
who named Robert Hardfysshe, of Newton. Such men were amply
abundant, as the stock of Hardfysshes, Tuplambs, Lawdogs, and the
like bears witness. These rude ideas, then the stock of men's minds^
are yet living and speaking in this quaint catalogue, which is much
more eloquent than any learned dissertation on the social history of
the Middle Ages. The uncouth names are now history speaking in
the moments of its birth and life ; as such they have become valuable
to an extent never dreamt of by the "publicans and sinners " of the
Exchequer who extorted the groats that were the tax of a peasant

The thing which most strikes the student of this curious list is the
almost complete want of nominal evidence of the men ** whose
sires came over with the Conqueror," as the pedigree-makers delight

The Naming of Our Forefathers. 625

in saying. Pedigree-men become sadly baffled by the silence of

this tax-gathering. So far as traces of the cadets of great houses in

grandeur of nomenclature are concerned it might be argued that

as a class there had been no such men. The representatives of

half a dozen of the great old names exhaust the list, and prove at

the same time the repeated iniquities of the descent of lands. The

very highest name of the English baronage during the reign of

Edward Longshanks, the great Plantagenet, was that of the

De Laci, of Pomfret, whose heiress married Thomas Plantagenet,

Earl of Lancaster, the male line of her house being worn out, it was

said. It was only that reputed absence of a male heir which allowed

her to inherit. Yet we find a squire and a few peasants bearing

that name and still living about the confines of the great estates.

Robert Lasey and Margaret his wife were peasants paying their

groat as tax and living in Skelbrook. William and John Lasey with

their wives and families were living in Carleton, near Selby ; but

they also were peasants, and though they bore the old name, which

spared them a nick-name, they only paid a groat as tax ; and, being

poor, evidently could put forth no legal evidence that ihey were

rightfully descended from the grand old race, and so the mighty

barony passed, by a monstrous fraud and a very bad woman, to a

king's grandson, and they were left to herd with the Hatters and

Hulets with whom they had intermarried.

William Saynte-Poule and Matilda his wife, bearing one of the

names of the royal house of France, were peasants also living in

Skelbrook. William de Qwyntyn and Joan his wife — greasy Joan

who keeled the pot, and attended to the hogs, not clad in fine

raiment and attending upon a queen's bower — though they had the

name that came over to Senlac and glory, were likewise peasants

in Rawcliffe, having Robert Ffoghell — the Fowl — Richard Badger,

and Richard Charyte for their neighbours. A queer association

this for Norman blood ! A gamekeeper named after his trade, a

vassal who had to be named from the beast that his lord hunted,

and a foundling whose infantile misery became his manhood's

distinction were the equals and associates of mighty barons. The

bitterness of the old lines —

When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman ?

would find a resting-place over many a hearth. The disinherited
patrician and the nameless rustic had to ponder over their sorts and
conditions in a wrong they could feel, and we may guess their
reflections.

626 The Gentleman's Magazine.

But the vicissitudes of feudal life had in store even a keener
degradation than the mere wrongs of power or the hardships of
peasanthood. An incident which relates some of them is a startling
phase of change unsuspected by the believers in chivalry, the
inalienable birthright of hereditary supremacy, and the unalterable
superiority of blue blood. Henr}' Shyrwood, a cattle-jobber of Egburgh,
and a plebeian to the core, who had a kinswoman or namesake,
Margaret Shyrwood, an " osteler," had for a servant John de
Qwarine, whose name proclaims him of the stock of the De Warren,
Earl of Surrey, once lord-paramount hereabouts, and actually an
inheritor of the blood of the Conqueror 1 What a change since the
days of Senlac and the dog-hood of the Saxon ! The Sherwood
peasant who sold cattle, without afterwards washing his hands in
rose-water, it may be assumed, was as wealthy as a squire ; he had
a train of servants named in the tax-lists, equal to the best of them,
the chief of which servants was this descendant of the house of
Surrey. The grandfather or great-grandfather of the serving-man
was doubtless a knight and pink of chivalry when the chief of his
house, John de Warren, was actually Longshanks's viceroy in Scot-
land. There had only two generations elapsed since that was a
fact ! Who then need be vassals in Egburgh when a cattle-jobber
was the headman, and had such a groom? Not Margaret the
Tapster, forsooth ; for she too was opulent, having also a train of
servants, men and maids, to do her bidding. The men who won
INIagna Charta were Yorkshiremen ; this cattle-jobber and tapster
were the children of them, and the Norman Earl's imp did their
bidding and took wages. Gurth the thrall of Cedric the Saxon had
fed his pigs in the very woods whence this cattle-jobber drew his
oxen ; he was avenged in this case by a double vengeance. The
unsparing rapacity of the tax-gatherer has revealed to us this fact ;
so we may forgive him the degrading actualities which surround the
names of Hulet and Hatter, or the coarseness that assailed the
Crostkalf.

The Church has afforded us a few curious names — some of them
racy, some suspicious. Simon del Nounes, of Werdelay, was but a
chattel of the White Ladies of Arthington. They had gained by deed
granted the power of disposing of such and all their following. We
are, however, apt to wonder at the position of " Cecilia famuli vicarii,"
of Dorrington, thus delicately recorded by the courtly tax-gatherer.
The times were those, we know, when the priests were celibate, always
having as a reward the handsomest nieces in the village Cecilia might
be such a niece, but the tax-man has omitted so to call her, and her

The Naming of Our Forefathers. 627

memory has to suffer from the neglect. Roger Parsonson, living at
Badsworth,' hard by, and having kindred Parsonsons in a score of other
places, is rather an unfortunate existence, and would have been much
better as Parson -nephew. So might William Nunneson, of Linton, have
been identified, instead of being one of the saddest of all facts, not
being a solitary instance of the name, which to-day survives as Nan-
son. Justice, however, declares that the nuns were not more
accountable for the spread of population than the monks. William
Mone, the carpenter of Selby — seat of one of the greatest Benedic-
tine abbeys — is possibly one whose ancestry the fashionable pedigree-
men would not care to illustrate ; but these monks were always very
unsatisfactory fellows, and so we will dismiss this man who bears their
precise name. William Atte Wykers, of Fryston, is more colourless,
as also is the maiden Joan Prest of the same place ; but there may
even lurk about their existence and ancestry a suspicion which is
much better consigned to charitable oblivion. John Person, of
Hambleton, is a more agreeable fact, for we may regard him as a
species of " local brother," nicknamed probably because he was apt
" to preach a little " ; John Archedeken, of Fenton, is another good
joke, being surpassed only by Henry Cardynall, of Snaith, and the
frequent members of the supreme house of Pope. We may now guess
why the mediaeval clergy always adopted a territorial designation.
Their sense of the ridiculous, or of some other emotion, blushed at the
names of their forefathers. To have called a rector Peter Spylwede, an
abbess Catherine Nunsedoghter, and an abbot Symon Slambehynd
— actual names — would have been to have rendered them contempti-
ble to posterity. They were sufficiently wise to look far ahead of
their day and generation.

The old sea-dogs of Viking invasion left some mark on popular
nomenclature, but not to the extent we might have expected.
Richard Brande, of Ackworth; the TJtreths, of the Selby district;
Emma Cutwolf, of Weston; Isabella Hardenute, of Tadcaster; Ketill
and Dunstan, also of Selby, and others of the old names still cling-
ing about the water-lines are sufficiently palpable evidences ; but, in
the main, the name-features are sadly changed. Their compatriots
came to be known by local cognomina as " of that ilk " — Hugh de
Saurby, Agnes de Byrom, and John de Okilsthorp, for instance,
whose residences are all of Norse foundation. The old Christian
names, too, are sadly changed ; here and there we find Sigretha,
Rohesia, and Hawysia among the females \ but in the bulk the
Norman names prevail, and Alice and Cecily and Matilda, Johanna,
Idonia, and Constantia are the most familiar. They afford queer com-

628 The Gentleman s Magazine.

binations at times. Adam Dobson is a passable man, but his sister,
Agnes Dobdoghter, is rather strangely designated. Alan Pringle
would make a first-rate name for the hero of a novel ; but that same
man's remote ancestor, Alan Prynkale, though a fact, would not be
either heroic or taking.

The continued existence of the Celt is also here and there dis-
covered. In William Waleys, of Ackworth, we have him undefiled,
somewhat to the dispjiragement of Scottish claims, I take it ; the
name actually blossoms into Le Walensis when the scribes of the
Church get hold of it. Howen Cropure and Jude his wife, and
John Walet — the little Welshman — of Stanley, and Elena Wales, of
Sharston, are evidences of their race, as also is Alice Mab, of Drax.
An ill-flavour perhaps accompanies her name, for the north-country
worb viab^ although coming direct from the Celt, had got to mean a
slattern. There is an old district of Leeds called Mabgate ; it is held
to have been the road along which the Celtic- Mabs — 3'oung men —
came down from the hills into the town. But there is another fact
connected with this Mabgate. At the town end of it there once
was a garrison of Norse soldiers stationed in the north hall ; and
censorious people are apt to say that these dandy miliiaires^ famous
enough for their gallantries, attracted Mabs of the other sex, who
for their sakes became slatterns — and something worse.

Then, again, in the fanciful distribution of names we have the
occurrence of the sentimental. Richard Jolyman, of Stubbes Walden,
if named by the men, presents himself to us as a neighbour with
whom one would go smoke a pipe ; but if his name sprang from
feminine appreciations, we shall have to regard him as the village
Adonis. William Selyman, of Fryston, was obviously less fortunate.
It is to. be feared that, whether named by male or female, his position
in the rank of intellect was not high. Fortunately for human
constancy and female peace of mind, the Trewlofs are many. Roger
Fawul, of Burgwaleys, is a double enfeuie^ having his opposite, we
think, in Richard Parlebcne — the silvery-tongued-— of Hillam. John
Holdshrcwe, of Stanley, was clearly a man commiserated by his
neighbours, the name of his wife, Agnes, being a misnomer. Simon
Kochiile was a joke which now defies interpretation, as Professor
Pillman, his worthy namesake, has since done. Richard Gudlad, of
Brayton, and his neighbour Richard Gemme, of Hirst, are like the
almshouses at Rothwell, " marks of a better age." John Raysyn, of
Ouston, and Symon de Cokschaghe, of Rawcliffe, are incomprehen-
sibles, whose legacies posterity appears to have declined.

Trades, of course, are prolific of designationSi and furnish us

The Naming of Our Forefathers. 629

with an insight into the composition of a village community. Tailors,
smiths, shoemakers, and carpenters were everywhere ; weavers
( Webster5\ fullers ( Walkers\ and other clothworkers were frequent;
lawyers and doctors were few, so we may take it the villages were
happy and healthy, and could afford their jests and nick-names with-
out fear of action for libel. The " great middle class " had also
established a footing ; the higher traders, such as Robert Wulchapman,
of Wakefield, marchaund, being carefully recorded, for they fre-
quently pay a tax equal to that of a squire— which is no unimportant
fact in the commercial history of England. The officials of the great
men, also, duly present themselves, like William Stuard, of Snaith,
the form of whose name is not less welcome than his existence. He
has most probably been a Dispensator or steward of the great house
of Laci ; and by the translation of his official name as " Stuard "
strikes a very violent blow at the statement that the royal house of
Scotland, who spran|jf"from Dispensatores^ gained the form of their
name " Stuart " from the pronunciation of their allies, the French.
Their first ancestor, who lefc Yorkshire as a FitzAlan, most probably
carried it thence with him.

Vulgar nick-names are common enough. Thomas Bagger, of
Snaith, for instance, would not be regarded as a man desirable for
high society, his name being certainly not of the territorial order.
William Halymanne, of Glass-Houghton, may have been a truculent
wretch not unlike the gentleman spoken of by the W^ife of Bath.
Margaret Pepir may be left to the imagination of hen-pecked
husbands. Custancia Sorowles must have been a sunny-faced girl,
worthy of " John Sorowles Felix," her father. Robert Sercote, of
Womersley, doubtless owes his name to service under " Thomas
Neumarche, Chiualer," and the gorgeous trappings of knighthood —
like the heralds of modern judges. William Shaket, of Castleford,
was a gentleman whose raison dctre is not very plain ; Thomas
Smalcher, of Teuton, a man whose ancestry is not obvious — he, at
least, would be a difficult subject for the pedigree-man. Hugh
Redeberd, of Sicklinghall, was evidently a curiosity in his village.
Cecilia Levebarne was a cruel social blemish ; and John Tyngler, of
Thorner, a person whose modern vocation would be writing penny
dreadfuls. Matilda Candelmes, of Garforth, was an ecclesiastical
creature worthy of study. Robert Swepstake, of Barwick, is an early
evidence of the iniquities of the horsey tribe. John Croukeshag and
John Pyntylwag, both of Ilkelay, are etymological curiosities, rivalled
only by Thomas Fyndeyryn, of Leeds — possibly one who occasionally
"found iron" in the bellpits of that town. Adam Myryman, of

630 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Bingley, might be a clown, or he might be the s^prant of strange
persons ; but who Henry Capiman of that town was it is best to
imagine. There were distinguished foreigners then in Bingley —
perhaps with a circus — as Matilda Mylan, and John Cecily, and
Matilda de Parys testify ; and, if Matilda Blawer be allowed to put in
her evidence, there were strange " goings on " there : sufficient, indeed,
to account for the Myrj'man. Imagination seems to have exhausted
itself about Shadwell, where clowns and distinguished foreigners
would not go to the rescue. The chief resident, a carpenter, had to
be called Richard ye Elder, and one of the peasants had to be satis-
fied with the name of Thomas Japhup. That name was as the
pillars of Hercules — tie plus ultra \

After considering these illustrations we need no longer ask " What's
in a name ?" The life of a nation is in it : its struggles, its wrongs,
its bitterness, its scoffs, its ignorance, and its shortcomings. The
name is a clear description of the state of civilisation to which the
named had arrived. The most peculiar lesson, however, that these
illustrations convey is the fact that, within a century, nine-tenths of
the uncouth names had vanished. The man and his representatives
had not vanished : it was the name only. It went because men had
come to know that it was often an absurdity, more often a mockery;
Men had begun — not, indeed, "to think for themselves": they had
long done that — but to act upon their own thoughts, to the trouble
and dismay of their betters. Edward III. would fain regulate the
nation's apparel according to the ranks of society. He passed an
Act of Parliament to that effect Knights and nobles were to be
clad in one fashion, serfs in another. But the severe penalties the
Act imposed upon those who violated it prove that from its initiation
it was only a futile effort of impotence. It was at the very time
when the descendant of Gurth the Swineherd tore off the collar
of his thraldom that he gave] to oblivion the miserable patronymics
of his forc-clders.

W. WHEATER.

V \

631

)

THE SUPPLIANT.

I.

THE night was dark, and knew no star,
The rain had put them out ;
The door was shut with bolt and bar :
A beggar stood without.

II.
Long time he sued nor would depart,

Though all his suit was vain,
With tones that seemed to pierce the heart

Like infant's cry of pain.

III.
At length the bolt was backward drawn

Amid a sound of tears ;
He entered in like light at dawn,

With step that no man hears.

IV.

The house changed hands that fateful night ;

With strange and sudden thrill,
Its firm foundations owned the might

Of an all-conquering will.

V.

The day relumes its golden torch

In dawn without a cloud ;
Without, the roses in the porch

Unfold, the birds sing loud.

VI.

Within, the cloak of rags slips down

That hid his purple wing ;
Love stands revealed in starry crown,

A suppliant ? Nay, a King !

I3A* J, POSTGATE.

Pages on Plays. 633

the producdon" of ''The Crusaders." It may not be so ingeniously

constructed as " The Dancing Girl." I say it may not be, for I am

not at all prepared to admit definitely that it is not ; but, as a study

of human nature, of human character, as an impulsive force in

dramatic art, it is far and away superior to its predecessor. I have not

felt so much encouragement with regard to the immediate future

of our drama as I felt after seeing " The Crusaders " for long enough,

not since the first time I saw " The Doll's House " performed at the

Novelty Theatre some two years ago. "The Crusaders" marks a

r 3 distinct advance in our dramatic art ; it is a result of the new forces

I at work upon the theatre both from within and from wit&out, and in

Zi welcoming it I find it not a little difficult to keep my words restrained

^ within the limits of a prudent appreciation. Valuable in itself,

=: ** The Crusaders '' is more valuable still as the herald, as the prophet,

- : of better things to come.

2 If it be admitted, as it surely must be admitted, that the drama
~ has a right to concern itself with the serious problems of its time,
~ then Mr. Jones's play has a more genuine reason for existence and a
more earnest purpose than any play which has been put upon the stage
since " Hedda Gabler/' If there is one problem which more than
another is forcing itself upon the attention of aU thinking men and
women in this phase of our civilisation, it b the problem of how. to
deal with the poor of our great city. Let me not here be misunder-
stood. Ixt me not be supposed to lay down the doctrine that the
only business of art in general, and of the drama in particular, is to
deal with social problems. The first business of a work of art is to
be artistic ; if it is not that, all the morality, all the philanthropy, all
the philosophy under the sun will not save it from condemnation. But
it is because Mr. Jones's play deserves to be regarded as a work of
art that its attitude towards certain great social questions, towards
certain moods of modem thought, calls for such close consideration,
such thankful recognition. In Ingarfield and in Una Dell Mr. Jones
has seized upon two types of those who in the highest sense are
heroes of the struggle for life, because their struggle for life is not for
themselves, but for those, the many and the unhappy, whose part iu
the struggle is so piteous, whose lot seems so hopeless. In Cyntliia
Greenslade Mr. Jones has had the daring to draw a certain type of
modern woman as she really is, and the result crowns the couiage
with success. She is a real woman, vital as the women of Ibsen are
vital. She is not an admirable woman, but one need not be
assumed to range with Schopenhauer in his scorn of women if
one accepts the fact that all women are not admirable. Even the
ipost enthusiastic disciple of Mr, John Stii9rt MiU'a theories witt)

VOL. CCLXXI. NO. 193^, y y

634 ^'^^ Gentleman s Magazine.

regard to women would be prepared to concede so much. . Around
these three figures, the man who is almost a hero, the woman who is
quite a hero, and the woman who is not heroic at all, Mr. Jones has
grouped a number of admirable mundane studies. The Scribes and
the Pharisees of a waning age are very skilfully portrayed ; the un-
compromising pessimism of Mr. Jawle — a pessimism profounder than
Schopenhauer's, profound as Hartmann's, profound as Bahnsen's — is
in excellent contrast with the worldly optimism, or at least iaissez^
faire-h?n of Lord Burnham and his rogue of a son. The best play
we have had for a long time was as well played as it deserved. Miss
Winifred Emery, Miss Olga Brandon, I^dy Monckton, Mr. Lewis
Waller, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Mr. Kemble, Mr. Weedon Grossmith may
all be heartily and largely praised. It is to be regretted that Miss
Winifred Emery's health did not allow her longer to enjoy her success
as Cynthia Greenslade. She was ordered abroad, and her place has
been taken by Miss Maude Millett.

" As You Like It."

THE great success of " The LastWord,"as played by Mr. Augustin
Daly's company at the Lyceum, has been in some respects a
cause of sorrow to the London playgoer. For the London playgoer
looked fonvard, with this year's visit of Mr. Daly's com panj', to seeing
several old dramatic friends, and at least one notable new one. We
wanted to have " The Railroad of Love " again, and, of course, we
wanted the ever-enchantirg " Taming of the Shrew," but most of all
we wanted to see " The School for Scandal," with Miss Ada Rehan as
Lady Teazle. But " The Last Word" was such a success — and, con-
sidering the way in which Miss Rehan played the Baroness Vera Von
BourancfT, it is not surprising — that the limited period of Mr. Daly's
season ran out, and only left him time for a brief revival of " As You
Like It." But brief though the revival was, it shoi^ed that the enthu-
siasm for Miss Ada Rehan's Rosalind is as keen as ever amongst us.
Those who loved her Rosalind last year loved it more than ever this
year ; those who, fortunately unfortunate, saw it this year for the first
time, caught the fever of admiration as hotly as the rest. Rosalind
came and went in a rapture of praise to which it would be hard to
add worthy words. For myself it is enough to say that Miss Rehan
realised Rosalind to mc as she has hitherto only been realised in the
pages of a printed book, the ''golden book of spirit and sense" of
Theophile Gautier. She was Rosalind, and words can say no more.
For her fellow-players they all worked well for the sweet idyll. Mr.
John Drew was as gallant ati Orlando a$ heart of maifl CQuld^dcsii

Pages on Plays. 635

Mr. James Lewis was full of a quaint, dry, restrained humour as
Touchstone. Mr. Clarke was a sound Jacques, and Mr. Wheatleigh
a dignified banished Duke. Surely the part of Celia must be one of
the most unsatisfactory parts to play in all the range of Shakespearean
drama. Though she is on the stage from first to last, from first to last
also she is overshadowed by Rosalind — she is always in attendance
upon the Witch of Arden, and always in the background. Yet it
must be recognised that Miss Adelaide Prince made a most charming
Celia, that she gave life and colour to a character which a less gifted
actress would have left lifeless and colourless, and showed in a small
part gifu of acting which deserve a greater opportunity.

" Lord Anerley."

I AM at a loss to understand why Mr. Alexander elected to put
" Lord Anerley " upon the stage. The youngest of our actor-
managers, Mr. Alexander has shown himself to be one of our ablest,
most energetic ; in what must be called a very short space of time
he has gathered about him a highly efficient company, well quali-
fied for the production of artistic work. Why has he given to
such a company such a play as " Lord Anerley " ? " Lord Anerley "
is not a good play ; it is difficult to see how, under the conditions,
it could be a good play. For it is avowedly inspired by a novel by
Arthur Arnould called " Le Due de Kandos," which novel was
dramatised in Paris some ten years ago. The original play was a
sufficiently dismal performance ; the wildest kind of wild melodrama,
conventional to the n*** power, with all the old clichies, all the old
ficelles^ all the old irucs. What might pass muster, however, in Paris,
upon the planks of an inferior theatre, is hardly the sort of thing one
expects to see served up upon the stage of a first-rate London theatre,
with the assistance of a first-rate London company. It would be well-
nigh impossible to do what the authors of " Lord Anerley " have tried
to do— convert " Le Due de Kandos" into a possible English play.
The old, old murder, the eld, old personation, the old, old villain, the
old, old passionate Spanish dancing-girl, the old, old comic lover and
his lass, the old, old angelic being who converts the personator, worst
of all, the old, old detective — every one of these events and individuals
has its part m the bewildering medley of " Lord Anerle3\" The
company, of course, plays well — the St Jameses company always has
played well under Mr. Alexander's management — but the task of
triumphing over the ** Due de Kandos " is too hard for them : it is a
hopeless task. It is hard to see so sound and artistic an actor as
Mr. Waring wasting his genuine gifts in the galls^nt effort to makfs

636 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

something new out of the most old-fashioned of stage villains. It is
to Mr. Waring's honour that in one strong moment of fierce emotion
he actually succeeds in carrying his audience away with him, and
making them forget for the moment the terrible old type with which
they are brought face to face. It is hard, too, for so clever a young
actor as Mr. Webster — and so clever a young actor must surely be
ambitious — to be compelled to play the part of the amiable love-
making imbecile once again, and in a worse form than usual. Mr.
Webster can do good work, and will do good work, but it is a pity
to see him thrown away upon this kind of thing. It is hard to see
such fine acting as Mr. Alexander's and Miss Marion Terry's
squandered tragically upon the kind of words they are made to say,
the kind of deeds they are compelled to do. Mr. Arthur Bouchier
is, perhaps, to be the most congratulated of all the company, for he
has one exceedingly effective little bit of acting in the first act, and
then — as he is assassinated — he is relieved from the trial and the
tedium of taking any further share in the performance. The point
that interests me is to see how far the public really like crude melo-
drama of this sort on a stage where crude melodrama of late years
certainly has not found a home. So many of us have been talking
of and hoping for the good time coming for our drama that it is not
a little disappointing to us to find an actor and manager on whom we
relied offering us " Lord Anerley " for artistic entertainment. The
spirits that were so greatly cheered by " The Crusaders " on the
Monday night of one week were certainly deeply dashed by the
production of " Lord Anerley " on the Saturday night immediately
following. Everyone wishes Mr. Alexander well ; he has done much
in his short time of service for the stage : but in the interests of
English art it would be impossible to wish that the English public
could possibly enjoy or admire such an adaptation of '' Le Due de
Kandos."

Mr. Henry Irving on Acting.

IT would be impossible in any glance at the drama of the month
to avoid noticing the very remarkable speech made by Mr*
Henry Irving in inaugurating the session of the Edinburgh Philo-
sophical Institution in the early part of last month. At the opening
of his address Mr. Irving pointed out that, of all the arts, none
required greater intention than the actor's craft. Throughout it was
necessary ** to do something," and that something could not fittingly
be lefl to chance or the unknown inspiration of a moment. Poetry
painting, sculpture, music, architecture, all have a bearing on their
tiipe, and beyond it ; ^nd the actor, though his knowl^ge ma^ ^

Pages on Plays. 637

and must be, limited by the knowledge of his age, so long as he
sounds the notes of human passion, has something which is common
to all the ages. If he can smite water from the rock of one hardened
human heart, surely he cannot have worked in vain. All this, if not
exactly new, is certainly true. Perhaps the most valuable part of the
address was when Mr. Irving proceeded to contend that the theatre,
in addition to being a place of amusement, was a living educational
power. How many are there, he said, who have had brought home
to them in an understandable manner by stage plays the costumes,
habits, manners, and customs of countries and ages other than their
own. Not only must the actor's dress be suitable to the part which
he assumes, but his bearing must not be in any way antagonistic
to the spirit of the time in which the play is fixed. The free bearing
of the sixteenth century is distinct from the artificial one of the
seventeenth, the mannered one of the eighteenth, and the careless
one of the hineteenth. And the voice must be modulated to the
vogue of the time. The habitual action of a rapier-bearing age is
different to that of a mail-clad one — nay, the armour of a period
ruled in real life the poise and bearing of the body ; and all this
must be reproduced on the stage, unless the intelligence of the
audience, be they ever so little skilled in history, is to count as
naught. It cannot, therefore, be seriously put forward, in the face of
such manifold requirements, thai no art is required for the represen-
tation of suitable action. It is not surprising to find that this line of
thought soon led Mr. Irving to the name of Diderot.

The whole question raised by Diderot, in his famous " Paradoxe
sur le Comddien," and in his less-known but admirable " Essays upon
Dramatic Poetry," is unfortunately too grave to be entered upon here
at sufficient length. Let me then say that the truth lies between
Diderot and Talma, between the followers of Diderot and Mr.
Henry Irving. Neither is right absolutely or absolutely wrong. It
depends so much upon the individuality of the particular actor.
To the public at large the result obtained is the only important
matter. The public docs not care whether the actor does or does
not feel the emotions he portrays so long as he compels the public to
feel them. And the best method for making the public so feel, after
all, every actor must find out for himself. There is no other way.
Finally, said Mr. Irving, in the consideration of the art of acting, it
must never be forgotten that its ultimate aim is beauty. Truth itself is
only an element of beauty, and to merely reproduce things vile and
squalid and mean is a debasement of art. There is apt to be such a
tendency in c^n age of peace, and n^en should carefully w^tch it^

638 The Gentleman s Magazine.

manifestations. A morose and hopeless dissatisfaction is not a part
of a true national life. This is hopeful and earnest, and, if need be,
militant. It is a bad sign for any nation to yearn for, or even to
tolerate, pessimism in their enjoyment ; and how can pessimism be
other than antagonistic to beauty? Life, with all its pains and
sorrows, is a beautiful and a precious gift ; and the actor's art is to
reproduce this beautiful thing, giving due emphasis to those royal
virtues and those stormy passions which sway the destinies of men.
Thus every actor who is more than a mere machine, and who has
an ideal of any kind, has a duty which lies beyond the scope of
his personal ambition. The whole scheme of the higher drama is not
to be regarded as a game in life which can be played ivith varying
success. Its present intention may be to interest and amuse, but its
deeper purpose is earnest, intense, sincere.

These last and very interesting words of Mr. Irving's give
opportunity for much consideration and much discussion.

Other Plays.

SOME other plays call for brief comment. After the disastrous
failure of " Pamela's Prodigy," a failure which reflected far more
severely upon Mrs. John Wood than upon Mr. Clyde Fitch,
" Aunt Jack," Mr. Lumley's amusing farce, has been revived at the
Court Theatre. The piece is as funny as ever, but it is not nearly so
well played. Miss Ethel Matthews looks exceedingly pretty, and
Mr. Giddens drolls audaciously in his merry way ; but the absence
of Mr. Weedon Grossmith from the part of Juffin is not com-
pensated for at all. At the Globe Theatre Mr. Mortimer has
brought out his very amusing "Gloriana," a version of the very
amusing Palais Royal success of some nine years back, Chivet and
Duru's " Le True d'Arthur." It is a wildly improbable farce ; but
its wild improbabilities are vastly diverting, and that, in the days that
pass, counts for much. In " The Planter," at the Prince of Wales's,
Mr. William Yardley has made a laughable version of a laughable
French fantasy, and Mr. Horace Sedger has put it upon the stage
with a beauty and fidelity of detail which call for the wannest praise.
" After Dark " has been revived at the Princess's, and there have
been no fewer than two burlesques of the " Dancing Girl," one at the
Royalty and one at the Prince of Wales's. Mr. Henry Arthur Jones
ought to be " a prood man the day."

JUSTJN HyNTLY M^^RTHY,

639

TABLE TALK.

Promised Additions to Pepys.

IT is good news to all lovers of literature that an enlarged edition
of Pepys is promised by Mr. H. B. Wheatley. That portions of
Pepys are unfit for publication is well known, and the fact has stirred
a good deal of curiosity. There are not wanting those who would
like to see a limited edition of the perfect work issued in some such
form as the Villon Society publications or Burton's "Arabian Nights."
It is doubtful whether the University authorities would permit this.
Difficult as it is to believe in Pepys confiding to the diary anything
totally unfit for perusal, I do not advocate this scheme, having but
little sympathy with the taste for prurient detail. When, however,
the all but complete diary to which Mr. Wheatley is pledged sees the
light, it would still for historical purposes be well to have in one
or two great libraries copies of the suppressed passages, to prevent
the risk of destruction. This is said, supposing, as I have a right to
suppose, that interest of some sort, personal, biographical, or literary,
attends them. Pepys, I take it, was not the man to write down
obscenity for the simple sake of gloating over it.

A Domestic Interior from Pepys.

IT is apparent, meanwhile, that the previous editors of Pepys
have been too squeamish. Roughly speaking, a fifth of the
diary remains unpublished. If only for the light it casts upon
Pepys himself— one of the most delightful of personalities — this
should be published. Most appetising are the specimens Mr.
\Vheatley has afforded. A fair portion of these is occupied with
domestic troubles, of which our diarist seems to have had a
large, if well deserved, share. It is sad to find a man of Pepys's
gallantry to the sex treating his wife after the fashion of Sganarelle,
who in " Le Mddecin malgrd lui " addresses his spouse, " Ma petite
femme, m'amie, votre peau vous d^mange \ votre ordinaire. . . .
Doux objet de mes voeux, je vous frotterai les oreilles," and who
fulfils his ungentle menaces. Here is a parallel scene from
Pepys : "Going to bed betimes last night, we waked betimes, and
from our people being forced to take the key to go out to light
a candle I was very angry, and began to find fault with my wife
for not commanding her servants as she ought Thereupon, she
giving me some cross answer, I did strike her over her left eye
such a blow as the poor wretch did cry out, and was in great
pain ; but y^t her spirit was ;5uch as to endeavour to bite and scratch

640 The Gentlemafis Magazine^

me. But I crying with her made her leave crying and search for butter
and parsley, and friends presently with one another; and I up, vexed
at my heart to think what I had done, for she was forced to lay
a poultice or something to her eye all day, and is black, and the
people of the house observed it." In the fact recorded in the
last sentence appears to lie the sting. Oh ! ungentle Mr. Pepys !
Times were, however, different then and long after. Do we not in
the next century read of Frederick William of Prussia chastisini-
with his stick his daughter Wilhelmina, the intended bride of a
Prince of Wales ?

A "Pentateuch of Printing."

ONLY within recent days has bibliography been treated in England
from the point of a science in which exactitude is indispensable.
Much pleasant gossip concerning books is to be found in the writings
of men such as Ames and Dibdin. It has been reserved for modem
days to substitute realism for romance in the treatment of the book.
Among those who have rendered highest service in this respect is
William Blades, the man to whom, after Henry Bradshaw, bibliography
is most indebted. Both men are now dead, but their influence survives,
and it will no longer be possible for second-hand information or
guess-work to win acceptance as erudition. Blades, however, " though
dead yet speaketh," and a posthumous work from him, though
lacking something more than hJs finishing touches, is sure of a
welcome. Such appears in "The Pentateuch of Printing, with a
Chapter on Judges," ^ which, with a biographical sketch of Blades,
has just seen the light. The title of this is somewhat fanciful, but
the analogy is fairly borne out. In the Genesis of Printing
Blades treats of block-books, and enters into the vexed question
of the claims of Gutenberg and Coster. Exodus shows the distri-
bution of printing through the various countries ; Leviticus declares the
laws necessary to be observed in the manufacture of a book ; Numbers,
not too happily, adumbrates the greatest printers, and Deuteronomy,
or second birth, shows the regenerative influences introduced by
recent discoveries, including steam. A chapter on Judges professes
to be no more than a sketch of the bibliography of printing. It
supplies, however, a series of title-pages in facsimile. The new
volume, which is profusely illustrated, will find a warm welcome.
It contains a valuable list of Blades' contributions to. periodical
literature, and a selection with explanations of the Latin names, of
towns employed by the early printers, which will be of service tp
those who do not possess the " Typographical Gazetteer " of Cqttori,