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-"Pt  /_-i    1 


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LIBRARY  MAGAZINE 


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vo 

il.xjm:b   I. 

V 

NEW    YORK: 
AMERICAN    BOOK    EXCHANGE, 

TbIBUNE     BciLDISOy 

1880. 

Tl.4»-7. 1 


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•  .-V 


Ok 


CONTENTS. 


AbontTxKaats.    "Chninbere's  Journal," 

Jilcohol:  Its  Action  and  Uses.    J.  R  Gosquefc,        .... 
AmericQii  View  of  Americttn  Comiwtitiou.    Edwaxil  Atkinson, 
American  Churches,  Tlie  Historical  Aspect  of  the   Beau  Staulcj, 

An  Imperial  Pardon.    F.  A.  S.,    - 

Art  Education  iu  Gi-eat  Brilaiu.    Sir  Coutts  Lindsay,      -        -       . 
Aitificinl  Soinnaiiibidism.    Kichard  A.  Proctor,    -      .       .       - 
Associntiou  of  L,ocnl  .S<»ciotie8.  The.    J.  Cilftou  Ward,   • 

xVtIi(.'ism  and  the  ChuTL-h.    (i.  H.  Curtois, 

Aui'tia,  AlJrcd.   PttmiUoasc  Dirpe,     -...-.. 
Atkinson,  Jfidvrard.    An  Americiin  Viow^  of  Aiuerioan  Competition, 
Baker.  H.  Barton.     Theatrical  Makeshifts  uiul  Hlundenj, 
Bii.vne.  Thomas.    English  Men  of  Lot i  era.— Shelley,     - 

Besant,  \yalter.    Proissnrt'a  Love  ^^tory. 

J.io}rr;iphio8  of  theSc;ison.    *•  London  Society,"   .       -        -        - 

Black,  Alf^ornon.    Charles  Lnmb. 

Mackie,  John  Stuart.    On  a  lUiUcal  Reform  in  the  3Ieth(Kl  ot  Toachin 

Classical  Lanji^uages,         - 

BL'iikie,  \V.  G.      Fernev  in  Yjiltoirc'a  Time  and  Forney  To-day, 
Buchanan,  Jiobert.    Sydney  Dobcll— A  Pi'isonni  Sketch,    - 
Kunbury,  Clement,   A  Visit  to  the  Kew  Zealand  CJoy«oiT4, 
C  Icuhitinp;  liuyii.     Kichaixl  A.  Pnictor,        -'     - 
Chapters  on  Socialism.    Johu  Stuart  Mill, 
Cbaiices  olf  the  English  Openi,  The.    Francis  Ilueffer,  - 
Ciirislmns  in  ^lorocco.    C.  A.  P.  ( 'Soreello.") 
Cl.iasical  Education,  On  tjie  Worth  of  a.    Bonasoy  Price,  - 
Oibbctt,  William:  A  Biogioph);.    Thomas  II Ljhfs, 
<'o:umerci«l  Depression  ondKeclprocity.     Bon..niv  Price,   • 
Contemporaiy  iAfe  and  Thouj^J^t  in  Fnuico.    C  iloiiiKl, 
Contemporary  Life  and  Thought  in  llussia.    T.  S., 

Contentment.    C.  C.  >ni8«.r-'l  vtler, 

Cooper,  Basil  H-     Fresh  Assyriuu  Finds,        .... 

Count  Forsen, 

Coup  d'Etot,  A.       .   - 

Critic  on  the  Hearth.  The.    James  Payn, 

Cupid's  W«»rksh'»p.     Romerville  Gibney,         .... 

Ctrtcis,  G.  H.    Atheism  and  the Chureh,  •       ... 

I>:tlhis,  W-  S.     Ehti'inolo^ry. 

Befencjof  Lucknow.  The.*  Alfre<l  T'ennyson,  - 

De*pr*'z,  Frank.     TheVaqneio, 

l'ifncultitn«of  Socifdissm.  TJie.    .Fohn  Staart  >nil,     - 
Discoveries  of  Astronomers.  Tic. — IIii)parel.n.s.    Hichurd  A. 
Dri'amlantl. — A  Last  Sketch.    Julia  Kavaiii;gh. 
Enpish  Men  oi  Lettrrs. — SUolley.    T.ioin.ts  il;iyno,    - 
Ki.gli.>Ii  Opera,  The  Chances  of.    Fruuuis  iiuciicT, 

Eiitoniulogy.     V.'.  S.  Dallas.      -        - 

Ew.-iri,  Heary  C\    Tho  Kcluwlship  Shaftesbury, 
>nrmhoiis<^  I)ir«:e.  A      AllVcil  Au-Hiin.         .        -        . 
I'n-uey  in  Voltaij'o's  IMumanil  J'\'iiiry  Tu-il;iy.    W.  G.  Bhiikio, 
Furbes,  Archiboldf    PluiiiWords  About  the  Afghan  Question. 


Pi-octor 


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I»         -  CONTENTS. 

Fnxer-TyOor,  C.  C.   Cfinfeniment, 

Frciioli  ffo/els.    "  Itlaukiiowrs  EdUiburehMagsmue," 

KreDchBeuubUcanillhDCiiIhuliuCliun:E,TJie.    JoImMurler 

FreebAi«7TlnnPiiii1ii.    fiaall  II.  CiKiper,      ...---.. 

Trimda  Bud  Foea  of  Riusiii.  The.   \v;  B.  Gladstoue, 

Fruiaanrt'a  toveSwtj.    Walter  Beeiuil, 

Futuro  of  rndia,  The,    Sr  Enklus  l>eri7 

Gimauot,  J.  K    Alcohol:    lu  Aati>in  ■nd  Uwa.  ...... 

Glbnej,  Som^rviile.    Cnpid'i  Wurkahop, 

GliidsUmo,  W.  E.    Gnwee  and  the  Tmitj  of  Berlin, 

Oliidiiloiie,  W.  B.    PrubiibilitviisUioGQulBotCujiduct, 

Glodatuue,  W.  K.    The  Frlcnils  atid  Foc»  ui  RDa.'la, 

GraooaundthoTroirtjofBornii.    W.  E.  GIoUbIouo, 

GrfMB.TlieProgrMBof.    B.C.Jobb.    -  

Onmth  of  London,  Tin, 

Humlot  ■■  Mr.  Irvins-g.''    -  Temple  Bar," 

Hoppy  Vidlej.  TIio.    L.  A., 

Harrisun,  Fraderto.    OtithoChmoporBootB, 

UwlurieBt  Aspect  oTtl.o  AmtrtoiinCbunjhof,  Tlio.    Dson  ^tanler,      - 
11<>;aea  and  IIauiit«uf  thv  Ittdian  Poi'U.  Tha-GuarinL    T.  Adulpboa Trollope. 
" — '  "auuMuftUoItBluuii'w.'t8.TbB.— Torqoau  ■" "■-      -   — 


Trollope, 431 

Hughes; 


HnelTer.  Fnincls.    Tho  Channel  of  the  EoKliab  Opera, 


Jnup.  Alci.  E.     Whiter  Uom  in  Cuunlry  imd  Whiter  Mom  in  Tovn,     ■ 

Jeb6,K.O.    TbalToi.TQBiufGreco-, 

Earanagh,  Julia.    UrtumluiKl ;  A  Laat  Skotob, 

Ldimb.  Charles.    A]|»nicni  Bluek. 

Lmi^aiu^M.  Classical.   On  a  Kudical  Serorm  in  Ihe  Uetbod  oT  TenoUtiK  the. 

JohnStnartBJacliie. 

Leicester  Squara,  Some  Gossip  AUnit. 

Undaay.  airUoDtls.    A rt  Kducution  la  Great  Britain, 

Mnn»nil"8  Hymn  for  Wliitaondut.   Dean  Stunlej, 

Merivalo.HennnnO.    Tho  Koj.il  Wedding, 

Mill,  John  Stuart.    Tho  DlWcultlva  uf  SooIuUnii, 

llill,  John  Stuart.    ChaptcM  un  Buolallsm, 

Mivatt,  St.  GeoTgs.    UnlheStudjof  Natural  Hldtory, 

Moirud,  G.    CohteinporerT  Lllfl  and  Thought  in  Vruiun,  .... 

Morluj.  John.    The  Fmich  RopublluBudlheCatholhiChnrch,  . 
Mu.icalGultiuorihePresotUif.'ltie.    H  n<»itlicutc StMlium,    ■ 
Ou  a  Bodlcal  Kefarm  iu  Ihe  MelliwI  oT  'leaching  tho  Chuaioal  Lauguacca.  3o  a 

filnan  IllBokle, -       - 

On  Being  Kiioekeil  Don-n  and  Picked  Up  Aealo.— A  ConaoLitOTT  Eanj. 

Onil.o(SiolcoorBook».    Fraioric  Hamaon, 

UnthoSludTorKalimilHIxIor;.    St.  George  UlcHTt. 

llnsdoal  EilucaUun.    Buuoi;  Prii.'e,       ..... 

CriilconthoUeortb, 

The  Futnro  of  India. -       ■ 

'■BBicilshlMelioiiarr.  The.    •' Tho  Aeademf."  - 

te.  Tha.    A.  H.  BnfM. 

(oe  AtMutii  Question.    Arehibold  Furbo,         ... 

<maienlHlI>rpn.-Biiuu  andRecipnioitj.  .       .       .       .       . 

.theWartliuraUla-tiaalUdiioatloD, 

nhl«ofC'.|iilBi.t.     W.  K  Ghul.to.io, 

The.    RU.  Jehb. 

i-r-utur.  uionam.&.    ArtMclolSuninumb'diBm. 

I'ruebir,  Blcfaanl  A.    SuppoMdChuniiuaiD  the  Muon, 

rnietnr,  JlloharJ  A.    Ciflcnl-itlrig  lliij-a. 

Proctor,  lilcbant  A.    The  lilsoovcrlo  I'f  Aa'nu  Inert— Ilipparchns. 


Kwc,  Kdiriuil.    W^picruaa  Drouuitiat,    - 


CONTENTS.  T 

'BojWkl  "Weildinp,  The.  Hcrrann  C.  Morivnlo, STU 

Ivitowia,  TUo  l«'ric»nd»nn'iFi»csof     W.  K.  Gladstono,         •       •       .       -       .  19 

fviyce,  A.  H,    'rho  PlioBnlciiins  in  Greece, -:W 

Si^hoolflliip ShafUsburj.    Heiirjr C  Kwart, S504 

Schopcnhai](r^  oil  Mfii,  Boukatintl  Mnsic.    '*  Fraser^s  Mugtuinc,'*        ...  7r>) 

8iinicG«iaeii)  AlMHit  Iieic«Htcr^aare   --...>...  51 

8';ciati8m,  Obautera  on.    Julin  Stiuirt  Mill, 2.57 

S<xauii8m,  DiScaltieii  of.    John  Stuart  Mill, 38t) 

Stanley,  Dean.    MtiU8uni'8U}ran  for  TVbitsnndaj,        -       .       -       •       -       -  err? 

Stanley,  Dean.    TltoHistorical  Aspect  of  the  A  merionn  Churches,          -       -  6'Jl 

Statham,  H.  Heathcoto.    The  Musicnl  Cultus  of  the  Present  Day,       •       •       •  687 

SuppOHed  Changes  in  the  Moon.    Kii'hnrd  A.  Proctor, lit 

Sraney  Dobclh  A  P  rsonnl  Sketclt.    Bobert  Buchanan, 5'.iS 

TasBo,  TorqUato.    The  Homes  and  B  aunts  of  the  Italian  Poets.    Prances 

«            SleanorTrollopo,        .-.               4^4 

Tennraon,  Alfred.    The  Defence  of  Lucknow, 8H5 

Th  •cKoray,  RecoUectionN  of, 126 

Theatrical  Makeshifts  and  Blunders.    H.  Barton  Baker, 22 

Their  Appointed  Seasons.    J.  G.  Wood,    -       - .  603 

Thitmgh  the  Ages :  A  I^irend  of  a  Stone  Axe.  '*  New  Quarterly  Magtiahie/*  -  Hoi 

Toilers  in  FieUI  and  Factory.    '*  Time."    -               483 

T.iilers in  Field  and  Factory,  No.  II.— Chnrncteristics.    "Time,"    •       -       -  r»m 

TranAvaal,  Abontthe.  "  Chambers's  Journal." 3U0 

TruUope,  Fninccs  Eleanor.  The  Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  Italian  Poeti.— Tur- 

Sni\Uy  Tsisso, 4"4 

ope,  T.  Adolphns.    The  Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  Italian  ^oets,        -        -  STy 

Two  Modem  Jupiinese  Stories, 1()5 

*'*'^P'aIvetlere,  Adri.'in  do.    A  Woman's  Lore— A  Slavonhin  Study,  -        .       .       »  r>*j 

Taquero,  The.    Frank  Desprex, 104 

Vijat  to  the  New  Zealand  Geysers,  A.    Client  Banbury    -       -       -       •       .  7i)( 

Wafpier  as  a  Dramatist.    Edward  Rose, 4<n 

Wanl,  J.  Clifton.    The  Associatiom  of  Local  RociotieB, -  2^6 

Winter  Mom  in  Goantrr  —Winter  Morn  in  Town.    Alex.  H.  Japp,         -       -  31 

Woman's  Lot(«.  A.    A  Slavonian  Study.    Adi'ian  de  Yoiiredere,  ....  59 

Wood,  J^.  6.    Iheir  Appointed  Seasons, 603 


THS 


LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,  i879. 


THE  FUTtJEE  OF  INDIA. 

SFEcrDi4ATioN  as  to  the  political  futnre  is  not  a  very  fruitful  occupa. 
tion.  In  looMng  back  to  the  prognostications  of  the  wisest  statesmen, 
it  "Will  ba  observ'ed  that  they  vero  as  httle  able  to  foresee  what  was  to 
come  a  generation  or  two  after  their  djath,  as  the  merest  dolt  amongst 
thoir  contemporaries.  The  ^Vhig3  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  century 
thought  that  the  liberties  of  Europe  would  disappear  if  a  prince  of  tha 
Honse  of  Bourbon  were  securely  fixed  on  the  throne  of  Spain.  Th« 
Tories  in  the  last  quarter  of  that  century  considered  that  if  England 
lost  her  American  provinces  she  would  sink  into  the  impotence  of  th« 
Dutch  Republic.  The  statesmen  who  assembled  at  the  Congress  of 
Vienna  would  have  laughed  any  dreamer  to  scorn  who  should  have  sug- 
gested that  in  the  lifetime  of  many  of  them  Germany  would  become  an 
empire  in  the  hands  of  Prussia,  France  a  well-organized  and  orderly 
republic,  and  the  "  geographical  expression  "  of  Italy  vitalised  into  one 
of  the  great  powers  of  Europe.  Nevertheless,  if  politics  is  ever  to  ap- 
proacli  the  dignity  of  a  science,  it  must  justify  a  scientific  character  by 
its  ability  to  predict  events.  The  facts  are  too  complicated,  probably, 
€ver  to  admit  the  appHcation  of  exact  deductive  reasoning ;  and  in  the 
growth  of  civilised  society  new  and  unexpected  forms  are  continually 
epringing  tip;  But  though  practical  statesmen  will  not  aim  at  results 
beyond  the  immediate  future,  it  is  impossible  for  men  who  pass  their 
hves  in  the  study  of  the  difficult  task  of  government  to  avoid  specula- 
tions as  to  the  future  form  of  society  to  which  national  efforts  should  ba 
direct-jd.  Some  theory  or  other,  therefore,  itj  ahvays  present,  con- 
fcciously  or  unconsciously,  to  the  mind  of  politicians. 

With  respect  to  British  India  it  may  bo  observed  that  very  different 
views  of  policy  prevail.  Native  writers  in  the  Indian  press  view  their 
cxcJ  union  from  all  the  higher  offices  of  Government,  and  the  efforts  of 
Manchester  to  transfer  800,000^.  par  annum  raised  on  cotton  goods  to 
increased  taxation  in  India,  as  a  pohcy  based  on  mere  selfishness ;  and 
a  Kusaian  joipmal,  apparently  in  good  faith,  assured  its  readers  the 


2  THE  FUTUBE  OF  INDIA. 

other  day,  that  India  pays  into  the  British  treasury  an  aminal  tribute  of 
twenty  to  twenty-live  millions  sterling.  On  the  other  hand,  Bonie  ad- 
vanc^cd  tliinktrs  amongst  ourseivos  hold  that  India  i3  a  burden  on  our 
r^:=oarc:s,  a^^d  tho  cry  of  '*  Pei*ish  Ind^a  I"  so  far  as  relates  to  its  d  p-nd- 
cnce  on  iingJaiid,  ij  considered  to  b3  not  uusnpportHd  by  scund  r.tisoa- 
ing.  On  3  of  the  ablest  publicists  of  India,  in  a  i^ublished  Ictt-r  to  Sir 
Gcorgo  Campbell,  has  declared  his  conviction,  after  tw^enty  years*  expe- 
rience in  that  country,  that  good  governnaeut  by  the  British  in  India 
is  imx>o3sijblo. 

It  may  be  admitted  that  exaggerated  notions  as  to  the  pecimiary  value 
of  India  to  England  prevail,  and  it  must  also  be  confessed  that,  with  ail 
our  sjif-complacency  as  to  the  benefits  of  British  rule,  we  have  to  ac- 
cuse ourselves  of  several  shortcomings.  Nevertheless,  it  may  b3 
affirm  od  v/ith  confidence  that  the  national  instinct  as  to  th3  value  of  our 
possessions  in  the  East  coincides  with  the  views  of  our  most  enhghtsned 
Btat.^smen.  My  colleague,  Colonel  Yule,  has  point:^d  out,  I  think  with 
entire  j'jstice,  that  the  task  which  wo  have  proposed  to  ourselves  in  In- 
dia, unlike  that  of  the  Dutch  in  Java,  is  to  improve  and  ehvate  the  tv/o 
hundred  milHons  under  our  charge  to  the  utmost  extent  of  our  powers. 
The  national  conscience  is  not  altogether  satisfied  with  th3  mode  ia 
vt^hich  some  of  our  possessions  have  been  acquired,  but  impartial  in- 
quiry' demonstrat;3S  that  unless  a  higher  morality  had  prevailed  than  has 
ever  yet  been  witnessed  amongst  the  sons  of  men,  the  occasions  for 
conquest  and  acquisition  of  territory'  that  have  prosentrd  themselves  to 
the  British  during  the  last  hundred  years  would  not  have  been  foregone 
by  any  nation  in  the  world.  But  the  feeling  I  allude  to  quickens  tho 
s:nso  of  our  obUgations  to  the  inhabitants  of  India.  Having  under- 
taken the  heavy  task  of  their  government,  it  is  our  duty  to  demonstrate 
to  postirlty  that  under  British  rnle  we  have  enabled  them  to  advance  ia 
th3  route  of  civiHzation  and  progress.  \7o  recognise  that  in  all  proba- 
bility so  distant  and  extensive  an  empire  cannot  permanently  remain  ia 
subjection  to  a  small  island  in  the  AVest,  and  therefore  our  constant  task 
is  to  render  the  i)OpulatIon  of  India  at  some  day  or  other  capable  cf 
selx-government.  Is  such  a  problem  susceptible  of  a  favourable  solu- 
tion ?    I  propose  to  discuss  this  question  in  tho  following  pages, 

I. 

Tho  late  Sir  George  Lewis  once  observed  to  mo  that  in  his 
opinion,  it  was  labour  lost  to  endeavour  to  make  anything  of  th3 
Hindus.  They  v/ere  a  race  doomed  to  subjection  whenever  they 
ca.iie  into  collision  vrith  peoples  more  vigorous  than  themsclvcG. 
They  possessed,  in  short,  nono  cf  tho  elements  which  are  requisite 
for  self-government  Any  opinion  of  that  philosophic  obser/er  is 
entitled  to  grave  consideration,  and  undoubtedly  th?re  is  much  in 
the  history  of  the  past  that  tonds  to  justify  the  above  desponding  con- 
clusion. The  Persians,  the  Greeks,  the  Parlhians,  the  Huns,  tho  Arabs, 
the  Ghaznivides,  the  Afghans,  the  Moguls,  the  Persians  a  second  time. 


THE  FUTTJEE  OF  INDIA*  3 

md  the  British  have  Buccessfully  entered  India  and  mads  themselves 
masters  of  the  greater  part  of  it.  But  Sir  George  had  ni^ver  been  cail -d 
npon  to  make  any  particnlar  study  of  Indian  history,  nor  itid-v  J  was  it 
open,  to  him  during  the  earher  period  of  his  Hfo,  whi'jii  was  d  vot  d 
exclusively  to  study,  to  acquire  tha  knowL-dgo  of  Ir.dln  whkli  Lit  r 
erudition  and  research  have  brought  to  light.  It  is  iok>^'!>1j  that  a 
closer  attention  to  what  has  occurred  in  the  past  may  ciiauls  us  to  n*- 
gard  the  future  in*  a  more  favourable  a.spect.  It  will,  I  think,  ba  found, 
aftor  such  a  study,  that  more  intrinsic  vitality  and  greater  rocup;  rativo 
I)ower  exist  amongst  the  Hindu  race  than  they  have  bt>f  n  gtu^ rally  ac- 
credited with.  Unfortimately  the  ancient  and  copiou-s  lit.  ratur«j  of  tlio 
Hindus  presents  extremely  httle  of  historic  value.  The  tendency  of  th>^ 
Indian  mind  to  dreamy  speculations  on  the  unseen  and  the  unknown,  to 
metaphysics,  and  to  poetry,  has  led  to  a  thorough  disregard  of  the  val- 
uable offices  of  history.  Accordingly,  we  find  in  their  grt.at  epic  poems, 
which  date  back,  according  to  the  best  orientalist;^,  at  least  seven  cen- 
turies before  Christ,  the  few  historical  facts  which  are  mentioned  so  en- 
veloped in  legends,  so  encumbered  with  the  grossest  exaggerations,  that 
it  requires  assiduous  scholarship  to  extract  a  scintiiia  of  truth  from 
their  relations. 

Our  distinguished  countrymen,  Sir  Y7iUiam  Jones  and  Mr.  Cole- 
brooke,  led  the  way  in  applying  the  resources  of  European  learning  to 
the  elucidation  of  the  Sanscrit  texts.  And  the  happy  identification,  by 
the  former,  of  the  celebrated  Chandragupta  of  the  Hindus  with  the 
monarch  of  Patahpntra,  Sandracottus,  at  whose  court  Megasthenc-s  re- 
sided for  seven  years  in  the  third  century  before  Christ,  laid  ths  first 
firm  foundation  for  authentic  Indian  history.  Since  that  period  the  re- 
searches of  oriental  scholars  follov»ing  up  the  lines  laid  down  by  their 
illustrious  predecessors  ;  the  rock  inscr'plions  which  have  been  coll:ctcd 
from  various  parts  of  India,  the  coins,  extending  over  many  ages,  of 
different  native  dynasties — all  these  compared  together  enable  a  sr.id-nt 
even  as  sceptical  as  Sir  George  Lewis  to  form  a  more  favourabl'3  idja  of 
the  Hindus  in  their  political  capacity  than  ho  was  disposed  to  take. 

Early  European  inquirers  into  Hindu  antiquity,  with  the  natural  pre- 
judice in  favour  of  their  studies  in  a  hitherto  unknown  tciir;i;e,  vroro 
disposed  to  lend  far  too  credulous  an  car  to  the  ^ross  exagf^crations  and 
reckless  inaccuracies  of  the  "  Mahabh'irat "  and  kindred  works.  Ja^nos 
Mill  on  the  other  hand,  v,4io  ^yas  a  Fcsitivist  before  AucTi'te  Conito 
had  begun  to  WTite,  r  •j^ctod  v/ith  scorn  all  the*  alliisions  to  the  past  in 
th  ;so  ancient  WT:t. -rs  as  cntir.ly  fe'ralons.  Careful  schclar.:;hi-v,  h-^v/-- 
ever,  working  on  the  niat-rialo  of  the  pa<^t  whicli  cv.rj''  d>y's  discov- 
eries are  increasing,  demonstrates  that  niueh  true  hislcry  in  to  be  gath- 
ered from  the  v/orks  cf  the  Hanserit  v/rit  r; ;. 
The  cclebra^ted   gi'anlt^  roek  of   G:i*iiar-=  in  the  pcninGnli  cf  Gnr^'rat 

*  ilrh  rock  on  its  eastern  face  contains  the  clecrc"s  of  A^okii,  who  beiran  to  tva'jii 
2G?.  B.C. ;  on  the  western  f  ico  is  the  iuccription  of  IludiT.ddinan,  one  of  the  Satrap- 
fTlcrp  nnder  an  Indi.«in  Greek  dynasfy,  circa  90  B.c. ;  and  the  iiortheru  face  Drcsents 
tiu  inscription  of  Skandagupta,  340  a.d.  - 


4  THE  FUTUEE  OF  INDIA. 

presents  in  itself  an  authentic  record  of  three  distinct  dynasties  separ- 
ated from  one  another  by  centuries.  And  we  owe  to  what  may  be 
justly  called  the  genius  of  James  Prinsep  the  decipherment  of  those  in- 
scriptions of  Asoka  whix?h  have  brought  to  the  knowledge  of  Europe  a 
Hindu  monarch  of  the  third  century  before  our  era,  who,  whilst  he  has 
been  equalled  by  few  in  the  extent  of  his  dominions,  may  claim  supe- 
riority over  nearly  every  king  that  ever  lived,  from  his  tender-hearted 
regard  for  the  interests  of  his  people,  and  from  the  wide  principk  b  of 
toleration  which  he  inculcated. 

Horace  Wilson,  who  may  be  safel*"  3ited  as  the  most  calm  and  judi- 
cious oriental  scholar  of  our  times,  aaserts  that  there  is  nothing  to  shock 
probability  in  supposmg  that  the  Hindu  dynasties,  of  whom  we  trace 
vestiges,  were  spread  through  twelve  centuries  anterior  to  the  war  of 
the  Mahabharat.*  This  leads  us  back  to  dates  about  2G0O  years  b.c. 
We  have,  therefore,  the  astounding  period  of  over  four  thousand  years 
durmg  which  to  glean  facts  relating  to  the  Hindu  race  and  their  capa- 
city for  government,  such  as  may  form  foundation  for  conclusions  as  to 
the  future.  The  characteristics  which  have  most  impressed  themselves 
on  my  mind  after  such  study  of  Indian  records  as  I  have  been  able  to 
bestow  are,  first,  the  very  early  appearance  of  sohcitude  for  the  interest 
and  welfare  of  the  people,  as  exhibited  by  Hindu  rulers,  such  as  has 
rarely  or  never  been  exhibited  in  the  early  histories  of  other  cations  : 
secondly,  the  successful  efforts  of  the  Hindu  race  to  re-establish  them- 
selves in  power  on  the  least  appearance  of  decay  in  the  successive  for- 
eign dynasties  which  have  held  rule  among  them.  It  is  only  with  the 
latter  phenomenon  that  I  propose  now  to  deal,  and  a  rapid  retrospect 
may  be  permitted. 

We  learn  from  European  records  that  Cyrus  made  conquests  in  India 
in  the  sixth  century  B.C.,  and  the  famous  inscription  of  his  successor 
Darius  includes  Sind  and  the  modem  Afghanistan  amongst  his  posses- 
sions. But  when  Alexander  entered  India  two  centuries  later  he  found 
no  trace  of  Persian  sway,  but  powerful  Indian  princes.  Taxiles,  Abi- 
sares,  and  the  celebrated  Porus  mled  over  large  kingdoms  in  the  Pjin jab. 
The  latter  monarch,  v/hose  family  name  Paiu-a  is  recorded  in  the  Mil- 
habharat,  is  described  by  the  Greek  writers  to  have  ruled  over  800  cities, 
and  he  brought  into  the  field  against  Alexander  more  than  2,000  ele- 
phants, 400  chariots;  4,000  cavalrj^  and  DO,  000  foot.  Agaiust  this  force 
Alexander  was  only  able  to  bring  10,000  foct  p.nd  5,000  horse ;  but  the  bulk 
of  the  troops  wore  Macedonians,  and  th3  loader  was  the  greatest  general 
whom  the  v/orld  has  seen.  V/c  have  full  particulars  of  the  cclebrat.  d  bat- 
tle which  ensued,  and  which  ended  in  the  completa  discorcfituro  of  rriTis. 
The  conduct  of  this  Indian  king,  however,  in  the  battle  extort  d  tlio 
admiration  of  the  Greek  historians.  IIo  received  nine  woundf?  during 
the  engagement,  and  vras  the  last  to  leave  the  field,  affording,  as  Arrijiii 
ramarks,  a  noble  contrast  to  Darius  the  Second,  who  was  the  first  to  fiy 
ttmougst  his  host  in  his  similar  conflict  with  the  Greeks.     Alexander,  as 

*  JPreface  to  Vishnu  Puranau 


THE  FUTUKE  OF  INDIA.  1^ 

in  the  Macedonian  conquests  generally,  left  s«itrapfl  in  possession  of  his 
Indian  acqnisitionB.     But  a  very  few  yars  eiiKUC'ii  bpforo  wo  fn:d  a  na- 
tive of  India  had  raised  up  a  mighty  kingdoni,  and  all  tra?o  of  Gr  -  k 
rule  in  the  Punjab  disappears.     Ciiandragupta,  or  Saadni-ottns,  is  said 
by  a  Gr^ek  \vTit<:'r  to  have  s?en  Al.'xaud  r  in  p.rsou  o;i  tb  t  Iiy'.laq>:^s. 
Justin  relates  that  it  was  he  who  raisf^d  th(^  staudard  of  iud  p.-nd-noa 
before  his  fellow-countrymen,  and  succcRsfully  di-ovo  cut  Al  xandrr's 
satraps.     He  founded  the  Maurj^a  dynasty,  aud  the  vast  oxt  nt  of  tha 
kingdom  ruled  over  by  his  grandson  Asoka  is  testified  by  the  f^diota 
which  the  latter  caused  to  be  engraved  in  various  parts  of  his  domiii-ons. 
They  also  record  the  remarkable  fact  of  his  close  alliance  with  tli*^  Gro«.k 
rulers  of  Syria,  Egj^t,  Macedon,  Cyrcne  and  Epinis.     Wo  next  fhid  that 
one  of  ^nQ  Greek  princes  who  had  established  an  indcpondtnt  dynasty 
in  Bactria,  Euthydemus,  invaded  India,  and  made  sevend  conqu<  Kts,  but 
ho  also  was  met  in  the  field  and  overcome  by  Galoka,  son  of  Asoka,  who 
for  some  time  added  Cashmir  to  his  possessions.     The  Bactriau  dynasty 
was  put    an    end  to  by  Mithridates,   140  B.C.,   and  consequently  the 
Greeks  were  driven  eastwards,  and  they  planted  themselves  in  various 
parts  of  India.     We  find  clear  traces  of  them  in  Guzcrat,  v/hcro  the 
town  of  Junaghur  ( Javanaghur)  etiU  records  the  name  of  th  i  Greeks 
who  founded   the    city.       The    coins    and  inscriptions  of  the   Sinha 
nders  of  Guzerat  furnish  us  with  some  particulars  as  to  the  Greek  hold- 
ings at  this  period,  and  they  seem  to  have  extended  from  the  Jumna  on 
the  east  to  Guzerat  and  Kutch  on  the  west.     The  Macedonians  S3cm 
here,  as  elsewhere,  to  have  placed  natives  at  the  head  of  their  district 
aihninistrations,  and  the  Sinha  rulers  call  themselves  Satraps  and  Miiha 
Eajahs,  and  use  Greek  legends  on  their  coins,  but  evidently  they  soon 
a»2quired  complete  independence.      Simultaneously  or  nearly  so  with 
these  Indo-Greck  principahties,  we  find  invasions  of  India  by  the  race 
commoDly  called  Scythians,  but  more  accurately  Jutchi,   Sacne,   aud 
"WTiite  Huns.     These  also  formed  independent  kingdoms.     But  again 
native  lead»?r8  of  enterprise  arose  who  put  an  end  to  foreign  dominion. 
Tikramadit,  who  founded  an  era  57  B.C.,  and  whose  exploits  have  made 
a  deep  impression  upon  the  native  mind,  is  thought  to  bo  one  of  the 
Hindu  leaders  who  Gucceeded  in  expelling  a  foreign  dynasty.     And  it 
would  appf^ar  that  towards  the  middle  of  the  third  century  after  Christ 
all  fcTrign  dominion  had  disappeared  from  lli^  soil  of  India,  excf-pt  p  r- 
haps  some  nmall  Hittlements  of  Jutjh%  ow  i-.v^^  In  ilis  of  Ih.j  Indui ;  .'i-id 
except  t>-^  t:inportiry  oonqu:gt  cf  Sind  by  tlu  Amos  in  tJie  s  v-iifh 
c'.nt'aiy,  from  wlik-h  theyvrcrj  poon  cxp.'li«;d  by  th'^j  Sn:n.'a  r.ajivi:./!'. 
Th-cs,  dur.ng  a  pVr>d  cf  GCO  y-ars,  we  have  cncour-t  r  d  a  Kris  cf.  v^- 
VH/jion^  and  conquests  of  portions  of  Tidia  by  foreign  rul.rs,  b"c  aU 
Rncc.;ssivv,!y  drlv-^n  cut  by  ilia  ener-^y  of  natlvo  k^acl  -rs.     Tli  r  up  >.i 
f.ollorred  the  estabrsliment  of  native  dynasties  all  ovlt  lad-a.     It  we. 5 
ch:^^y  durmg  the  700  years  that  nov.^  ensued,  up  to  the  invasion  of 
Izda  \rj  "N^ahmud  of  Ghazni,  that  the  great  works  of  Sanscrit  hterature 

*  Elphmstoue,  U%%iory  of  Indickf  voL  1.  p.  511* 


6  THE  FUTUEE  OF  INDIA. 

in  poetry,  grammar,  algebra,  and  astronomy,  appeared,  Dnring  this 
period  also  the  Bajpiits,  who  have  been  well  called  the  Normans  of  tho 
Kast,  sscm  to  have  found  thoir  way  to  nearly  evf^ry  throne  in  India. 
TIiL'ir  a'jqnisition  of  po\7'  r  has  nevt^r  been  fully  tnxced,  and  probably 
til 3  uiat  "rials  are  wanting  for  any  full,  or  accurate  account  of  it ;  but  the 
subject  ir5  well  worthy  tlij  attontion  of  an  Indian  studont. 

The  MahomL'dan  conquests  which,  with  tho  fanaticism  and  savage  in- 
tolerance introduced  by  them,  commenced  a.  d.  1001,  seem  to  have 
exercised  most  depressing  effects  on  the  Hindu  mind.  But  here  again 
we  meet  with  tho  same  phenomenon.  So  soon  as  the  Mussulman  rule 
becomes  enfeebled,  a  native  chief  rises  up  who  is  enabled  to  rally  his 
countrymen  around  him  and  form  a  dynasty.  Sivaji  in  1660-80  estab- 
lished an  independency  which  his  successors,  as  mayors  of  the  palace, 
enlarged  into  a  kingdom,  out  of  which  arose  the  native  powers  of  Sindia, 
of  the  Gaekwar,  and  of  the  Bhonslas  of  Berar.  Exactly  the  same  occur- 
rence has  been  witnessed  in  the  present  century  by  the  success  of  Kan- 
jit  Sing  in  forming  an  independent  principality  in  the  Panj ab.  This 
remarkable  man,  who  was  absolutely  illiterate,  by  his  own  energy  of 
character  raised  himself  from  the  head  of  a  small  Sikh  clan  to  tho  head 
of  a  kingdom  with  a  revenue  of  two  and  a  half  millions  sterhng.*  We 
may  be  sure  that,  if  the  British  had  noi  been  in  force,  natives  of  sol- 
dierly qualities  like  Jung  Bahadar  of  Nepal,  or  TantiaTopi  of  the  muti- 
ni3s,  would  have  carved  out  in  the  present  day  kingdoms  for  themselves 
in  other  parts  of  India. 

II. 

It  may  be  thought  that  in  the  preceding  sketch  I  have  been  aiming  at 
the  conclusion  that  British  dominion  is  in  danger  of  extinction  either  by 
foreign  invasion  or  intsrnal  insurrection.  Nothing  is  more  foreign  from 
my  views.  I  firmly  beheve  that  British  rule  in  the  East  was  never  so 
strong,  never  so  able  to  protect  itself  against  all  attacks  from  witliout  or 
from  v/ithin,  as  at  tho  present  moment.  In  a  foreign  dominion  such  as 
ours,  where  unforeseen  contingencies  may  any  day  arise,  and  where  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  disaffection  must  always  exist,  constant  watchfuln^^ss 
on  the  part  of  Government  is  no  doubt  required  ;  but  this  position  is  thor- 
oughly recognised  by  all  statesmen  who  occupy  themselves  with  Indian 
afiairs.  I  do  not  for  a  moment  delude  myself  v/ith  the  idea  that  we 
hive  suficeeded  in  gainiiag  tho  aiijctions  of  tli3  natives.  No  foreign 
raltT.^  Vv'Iio  have  k:>pt  thems-lves  npp.it  as  a  s:.parato  caite  fi-om  tin 
coiKiU-r-d  n;u'on  have  succeeded  in  accomplishing  this  feat.  Thcr^^  is 
HO!ii:t]iiii^  of  incompatibility  bs-twoon  th)  EnropTan  and  Asiatic,  which 
fi^r-nis  to  forbid  ea^y  amalgamat'on.  Lord  StowtU.  in  one  of  his  fine 
ju.lc^'n ints,  has  point-^d  out  the  constant  t  rad^-ncy  of  TuropeaTDS  ip  tha 
East  to  form  tii.3in*^elves  into  stparate  communities,  and  to  abstain  from 
all  social  int^rconrr^jo  with  tho  natives  around  them,  and  he  illustrates 
his  position  with  the  happy  quotation — 

ScylllB  amara  suam  non  intermiscult  nndam. 

*  See  Aitcbesozju  Treaties,  voL  vi.  p.  IS. 


THE  FUTURE  OF  INDIA.  7 

The  V.TigiittVt  perhaps  are  dlstingmshable  among  all  European  nations  by 
the  deep-rooted  notior-^  of  self -superiority  which  thoir  insular  position 
and  great  success  in  leistory  have  engendered.  The  southern  races  of 
Europe,  the  Spanish  aiiil  Portaj^JSL-,  have  shown  no  r. lactam-  •  lo  inter- 
mix fraely  witli  the  native  r.uGs  of.  Amt,rica,  India,  and  th^-  Phirppincs, 
sa':h  as  has  alv/ays  bjen  exhibited  by  inhabiUiuts  of  the  British  Isl_s 
•when  cxpati-iatyd  to  the  East  or  West.  But  wht^re  race,  color,  religion, 
prejudice  intervene  to  prevent  social  intercourse  between  the  Eughsh  in 
India  and  the  natives,  what  a  wide  gulf  is  placed  between  them  I 

In  justice,  however,  it  must  be  stated  that,  although  the  haughtiness 
of  demeanour  and  occasional  brutality  in  manners  which  the  nristo- 
cratie  de  peau  sometimes  engenders  in  our  countrymen  are  much  to  bs 
deprecated,  the  estrangement  which  exists  in  India  between  the  English 
and  the  natives  is  not  wholly,  nor  even  principally,  attributable  to  the 
former.     A  Hindu  of  very  humble  caste  would  think  himself  polluted 
if  he  sat  do^Ti  to  dinner  with  the  European  governor  of  his  Presidency. 
In  this  instance,  as  in  so  many  others,  Hindu  opinions  have  pemieatid 
the  whole  native  community ;    and  other  races  transplanted  to  India, 
such  as  Mahomedans  and  Parsis,  are  equally  exclusive  in  their  social 
life.     When  I  was  in  Bombay  I  made  an  attempt  to  break  through  the 
barrier  which  the  latter  caste  Jiad  voluntarily  erected  for  themselves. 
Sir  Jamshedji  Jijibhai,  an  able,  self -raised  man,  was  then  the  acknowl- 
edged head  of   the   Parsi  community,  and  was  distinguished  for  his 
benevolence  and  enhghtened  views.     I  endeavored  to  persuade  him  to 
set  his  countrymen  an  example,  and  to  come  to  a  dinner  at  which  I 
would  assemble  the  chief  authorities  of  the  island ;  and  I  proposed  to 
him  as  an  inducement  that  he  should  send  his  own  cook,  who  should 
prepare  for  him  his  wonted  fare.     But  the  step  was  too  startling  a  one 
for  him,  though  I  was  glad  to  find  that  his  son,  the  second  baronet,  was 
able  to  get  over  his  prejudices  on  his  visit,  some  years  after,  to  London. 
A  ludicrous  example  of  the  same  exclusive  feehng  has  been  related  in 
connection  with  a  Governor-General.     His  lordship,  desirous  to  break 
down   any  notion  of  social  inferiority  on   the  part  of  a  distinguiyhed 
native  who  was  paying  him   a  visit,  placed  his  arm  round  his  neck  as 
they  walked  up  and  down  a  verandah  engaged  in  famil'ar  convn-ation. 
The  hfgh-bred  Oriental  made  no  sign,  but  as  soon  as  he  could  extricate 
himsolf  from  the  embraces  of  his  Excellency,  he  hastened  home  to  wath 
away  the  contamination  of  a  Mlecha's  touch. 

It  may  also  be  observed  that  thj  mutual  repugnance  of  the  tvro  races 
to  such  close  social  intercourse  as  int^^rmamage,  for  exaniple,  would 
produce,  gives  rise  to  two  excellent  results.  First,  th^re  is  every  reason 
to  suppose?,  judging  by  what  we  sne  of  the  native  Portuguese  in  India, 
that  tne  Eaghsh  and  Hindu  would  make,  in  the  language  of  l^.reedcrs, 
a  very  bad  cross ;  and  it  is  therefore  satisfactory  to  find  that  English 
rulers  in  India,  unlike  the  Normans  in  England,  or  the  Moguls  in  India, 
have  never  intermarried  with  the  natives  of  the  country.  The  second 
restdt  is  closely  connected  witii  the  first.    What  has  led  to  the  downfall 


8  THE  FUTURE  OF  INDIA. 

of  previous  foreign  dynasties  has  been  that  the  invaders  of  the  conntry 
had  become  effeminate  by  their  long  possession  of  power,  and  had  lost 
the  original  energy  and  vigour  which  had  enabled  their  predecessors  to 
gain  a  throne.  The  constant  recruitment  of  English  rulers  from  their 
^therland  wholly  prevents  this  cause  of  internal  decay  from  making  its 
fippearance  among  the  British. 

It  is  not,  then,  by  our  hold  on  the  affections  of  the  people  that  w^o 
maintain  our  dominion  in  India.  The  strength  and  probable  ondur- 
ance  of  our  rule  arc  based  on  our  real  power,  on  our  endeavours  to  do 
justice,  on  our  toleration.  The  memory  of  the  excesses  committed 
under  Mussulman  rule  has  probably  become  dim  with  the  great  bulk  of 
the  people,  but  it  is  very  vivid  among  educated  Hindus.  A  strong  con- 
^^ction  prevails  among  them  that  if  British  rule  were  to  disappear  in 
India,  the  same  rise  of  military  adventurers,  the  same  struggles  for 
power,  and  the  same  anarchy  as  prevailed  during  the  first  half  of  the 
last  century  would  again  appear.  The  latest  expr(5ssion  of  Hindu 
opinion  on  this  subject  which  I  have  met  with  is  contained  in  a  pam- 
phlet pubhshed  in  the  present  year  by  Mr.  Dadoba  Pandurang.*  Ho  is 
an  aged  scholar,  and  though  not  a  Brahmin,  well  versed  in  the  Vcdas, 
but,  above  all,  he  is  distinguished  by  his  devout  views  and  by  his  desire 
to  elevate  and  improve  his  fellow-countrymen.     He  writes :  — 

If  thcro  is  a  manifestation  of  the  hand  of  God  in  history,  as  I  undonbtedly 
believe  there  i%  nothing  to  my  imagination  appears  more  vivid  and  r'^plote  with 
momentous  events  calculated  for  the- mutual  welfare  and  good  of  both  con  itriea 
than  this  political  union  of  so  large,  important,  rich,  and  inttiresf in?  a  coun  try  a% 
Hind  in  the  further  south-east  with  a  small  hut  wisely  governed  island  of  frreat 
Britain  in  the  further  norrh-wost.  .  .  .  Let  us  see  what  England  has  dcaie  to 
India.  England,  besides  governing  India  politically,  has  now  very  wisely  com- 
menced the  Important  duty  of  educatipi?  the  millions  of  her  Indian  children,  rmd  of 
bringing  them  up  to  the  standard  of  cnliirhtenment  and  hi'j'h  civilization  whi(  h  hor 
own  have  obtain<d.  Slio  liu?  ah-e:Kly  eradicated,  I  shonld  add  here,  to  the  gre?it  joy 
of  Heaven,  several  of  the  mbst  b::rbaroua  and  inhuman  practices,  snch  us  Suttl,t 
infnnticlde,  Charak  Pnja  t  and  what  not,  which  had  for  ages  been  preval<'nt  among  a 
larfifo  jKortiou  of  the  children  of  this  her  new  acquisition.  Thtjse  practices,  which 
Ind  80  lopg  existed  at  the  dictation  of  an  indlgvnions  V)riesthood,  except  fortho 
powerful  interference  of  England  co^ild  not  have  been  abolished. 

Opinions  like  these,  I  am  persuaded,  prevail  throupfhout  the  educated 
com?nuii:ty,  and  tlio  presence  of  British  rule  amongst  them  is  recog- 
nised as  indispensably  in  thj  j^rescnt  state  of  Hindu  society. 

III. 

Vlith.  respect  to  a  successful  invasion  of  India,  it  must  bo  confessed 
that  the  English  mind  has  always  been  keenly  HuseepUble  of  alana. 
The  wide  plains  of  Illsdustan,  which  oSfor  so  ready  an  aeccss  to  ag;J^f*e^«- 
ivo  armies,  the  absence  of  fortified  places,  and  t-io  f^''^qU'".n^y  with  v.-hiL-h 
India  lias  been  won  and  lost  in  a  single  pitched  battle,  all  tend  to  en- 
courage the  belief  that  some  day  or  other  British  domination  will  be  in 

*  A  Hindu  GenVemaiVi  lUfiectiona,    Spiers,  Loi'don,  1ST3. 
.  t  Widow-burning.  J  The  Bwiug-sacrifico.^ 


THE  FUTUEE  OF  INDIA.  9 

danger  from  some  incursion  of  this  sort.  It  may  be  observed  that  for 
nearly  a  century  past  the  English  nation  has  been  Kubj«  ctod  to  pt-rrodic 
fits  of  Indian  panic.  Sir  John  Kayo,  in  his  "Ilistoiy  of  tii"  Ai^l^iii 
War,"  gtr»tos  that  in  1707  the  whole  of  India  was  ki-pt  "  la  n  ehroai'j  Ht::to 
of  nnrc'fet"  from  thj  fears  of  an  Afghan  descent  upoji  tlu'  plains  c^f  JJir- 
dustan.  In  1800  the  Emperoi  Paul  of  Kussia  and  Njii>olt'on  cone  ivtd 
*'a  mad  and  impracticable  scheme  of  invasion,"  which  greatly  iiur.as  d 
local  alarm.  In  1800  these  fears  assumed  even  larg.-r  proportions  wli;  n 
an  alliance  between  Napoloon  and  Persia  was  on  foot  with  a  view  to  th ) 
proposed  invasion ;  and  the  miasion  to  Pc  rsia  undt^r  Sir  John  Alakolin 
was  inaugurated.  In  1838  Russia  took  the  place  which  Zr-nian  Shah, 
Persia,  and  Napoleon  had  previously  occupied,  and  the  disastrous  inva- 
sion of  Afghanistan  was  commenced  by  Lord  Auckland  from  his  moun- 
tain ratrrat  at  Simla. 

Since  that  p3riod  the  suspicions  of  the  nation  have  been  coutinually 
directed  against  Bussia  by  a  small  but  able  piirty,  who,  from  th'.ir  chi-  lly 
belonging  to  tha  Presidtncy  of  Bombay,  have  been  t.  rmcd  the  Bombay 
school.  The  lata  General  John  Jacob  was  tha  originator  of  th'3  anti- 
Russian  policy  inculcated  by  them.  He  was  a  man  of  gr*  at  al»illty  and 
original  views,  and,  if  he  had  moved  in  a  widtr  spht  rt^,  he  might  havo 
kft  a  name  equal  to  that  of  the  most  illustrious  of  his  countrynicn  in 
India.  But  hi  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  on  the  barron  wast  s 
of  Slnd,  and  rai*eiy  came  in  contact  with  superior  minds.  In  isr^d  G  n- 
cral  Ja3ob  addressed  a  singularly  able  papnr  to  Lord  Canning,  tli  n 
Governor-General,  and  which  Sir  Lewis  Polly  aftir wards  j)nl)lishjd  to 
the  world.*  This  was  just  at  the  closj  of  thj  €rinioau  War,  wh  ^n 
England  was  about  to  undertake  an  expedition  against  Persia  to  rop  1 
her  aggression  on  Herat.  It  was  Jacob's  firm  conviction  that,  uiile-s 
India  interposed,  Russia,  having  Persia  comjiletely  und.T  h'.r  control, 
could,  whenever  she  pleased,  take  possession  not  onlj'^  of  H.rat,  but  of 
Candahar,  and  thus  find  an  entrance  to  the  plains  of  India,  on  which 
our  dominion  was  to  disappear.  To  thwart  this  contingtmcy,  and  r.n- 
der  the  approach  of  a  European  army  towards  our  frontier  irapossil^L^ 
he  would,  as  an  ultimate  measure,  garrison  Herat  with  twenty  thous:xnd 
troops,  but  in  the  fii*st  instance  would  occupy  Quetta.  These  proposals 
were  carefully  considered  by  Lord  Canning's  Government,  but  were  re- 
jected. 

The  same  arguments  were  brought  forward  eleven  years  later  l)y  Sir 
Bartle  Frere,  whilst  Governor  of  Boinbay,  and  were  laid  before  the 
Government  of  India.  That  Government  was  then  remarkably  strong, 
consisting  of  Lord  Lawrence,  Sir  William  Mansfield  (Lord  Sandhurst), 
Sir  Henry  Maine,  Mr.  Massey,  and  Ma jor-Generai  Sir  Henry  Durand  \ 
but  the  proposals  to  improve  our  frontier  by  extending  our  dominions 
westward,  and  by  the  annexation  of  indeijendent  foreign  territoiy,  v/cre 
nnaiiimourily  disapproved  of, 

*  Viewa  and  Opinions  of  General  John  Jacob.    LondoD^  1863, 


10  THE  FUTURE  OF  INDIA. 

About  the  same  time  that  Sir  Bartle  "FTzra  was  cndcavomring  to  stinm- 
lato  the  Government  of  India  to  occupy  Quetta,  my  distinguish<^d  col- 
league and  friend,  Sir  Henry  Eawlinson,  published  t^A^o  articles  in  tho 
*' Quarterly  Il3view,"*  in  which  he  calkd  the  attention  of  the  public 
to  the  rapidly  incr;  asing  extension  of  the  Kussian  dominions  in  the  di- 
rection of  our  Indian  frontier,  and  to  the  necessity  of  maintaining  out- 
works such  as  Herat  and  Candahar  for  the  protection- of  our  Eastern 
Empire.  But  he  raised  the  question  in  a  more  solemn  form  in  the  con- 
fidential memonindum  which  he  transmitted  to  the  Government  of 
India  in  1S68,  and  which  ho  afterwards  published  in  187"),!  with 
additional  matter,  forming  a  complete  conspectus  of  the  aggressivo 
policy  to  be  adopted  to  guard  against  a  Bussian  invasion.  The  views  of 
the  Government  of  India  on  these  papers  have  not,  I-  beUevo,  been 
given  to  the  world,  but  it  is  well  knov/n  in  Indian  circles  that  the  mas- 
terly activity  therein  advocated  did  not  find  acceptance. 

At  the  present  moment  Russophobia  is  raging  to  a  greater  extent  than 
at  any  previous  period ;  but  this  is  ground  on  which  for  the  present  I 
am  precluded  from  entering.  It  is  gratifying  to  observe,  however,  that 
in  the  great  conflict  of  opinion  which,  as  it  will  be  seen,  has  thus  been 
raging  for  the  last  forty  years,  as  to  the  best  method  of  protecting  our 
north-westsrn  frontier  from  an  invading  foe,  both  schools  have  ulti- 
mately agreed  on  one  conclusion,  namely,  that  a  successful  invasion  of 
India  by  Russia  is  in  nowise  probable.  The  one  side  would  avert  any 
possibility  of  an  attack  by  the  occupation  of  Afghanistan,  the  Sukimau 
mountains,  and  probably  the  Hindu  Kush  ;  the  other  would  husband  the 
resources  of  India,  and  not  waste  blood  and  treasure  in  anticipation  of 
a  conflict  that  may  possibly  never  occur,  and  that  certainly  never  will 
occur  without  years  of  warning  to  the  nation. 

I  cannot  puri^ue  this  interesting  question  further  at  a  moment  when 
the  whole  question  of  our  policy  on  the  Indian  frontier  is  ripening  for 
discussion,  and  when  the  materials  on  which  a  sound  conclusion  can  be 
drawn  are  not  yet  laid  before  the  public.  It  is  suffioient  for  my  present 
purpose  to  repeat  that  the  probability  of  British  dominion  in  the  East 
being  terminated  by  a  Russian  invasion  is  rejected  on  all  sides. 

IV. 

If  the  views  which  have  been  now  put  forward  are  at  all  sound,  wc 
may  p:rhaps  conclude  that  whilst  our  Indian  empire  requires  on  tlio 
part  of  its  rulers  the  utmost  watchfulness  to  guard  against  dangers  and 
contingencies  which  may  at  any  moment  arise,  yet  that  with  ordinarily 
wis3  government  v/e  may  look  forward  to  a  period  of  indefinitely  long 
dumtion  during  which  British  dominion  may  flourish.  That  sooner  or 
later  the  links  which  connect  England  with  India  will  be  severed,  all  his- 
tory teaches  us  to  expect ;  but  when  that  severance  occurs,  if  the  grow- 
ing spirit  of  philantrophy  and  increasing  sense  of   national  morality 

*  October  1365,  and  October  1860.       f  England  and  Rustia  in  the  EobU    Murray. 


THE  FUTUHE  of  IJTDIA.  11 

"which  characterise  the  nineteenth  century  continue,  wc  may  fairly  hope 
that  the  Englishman  v/ill  have  taught  tha  Hindus  how  to  f'jovem  thora- 
Balves.  It  is  Eagianci'd  task,  as  h.r..tofor6,  "to  t,  ach  otii.r  liation;^  iio-.v 
to  iivc."  A  V€ry  long  pjriod,  however,  is  required  b-jfor.^  th  t  i>  twon  ca:i 
be  fuHy  learned,  and  tlio  holders  of  Indian  BLCuritics  noid  n»t  i-  ar  that 
tha  reversionary  interests  of  th  ir  grandchildren  will  be  end  i  iu'*r  d. 
Our  rule  in  India  dates  back  little  more  than  a  century  ;  and  alilioi!.jh 
from  the  first  a  wise  spirit  of  toleration  and  an  eminent  dosiro  to  do  ju  ;- 
tice  have  prevailed,  it  is  only  within  the  last  thirty  or  forty  years  th.it 
any  serious  attempts  to  elevate  the  character  of  the  nation  have  bccu 
manifested. 

The  educational  movement,  which  is  silently  producing  prodigious 
changes  in  India,  received  its  first  impulse  from  England,  and  the  clause 
in  the  Act  of  Parliament*  which  recognised  the  duty  of  cduoatiug 
the  masses,  enabled  men  like  Lord  I\Iacaulay,  ISir  Edward  Ilyan,  and 
others,  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a  system  which  has  since  established 
itself  far  and  wide.  But  the  Court  of  Directors  never  took  ht-artily  to 
this  great  innovation  of  modern  times,  and  it  was  only  under  the  direc- 
tion of  English  statesmanship  that  the  Indian  authorities  were  induced 
to  act  with  vigour  in  this  momentous  undertaking.  Sir  Charles  V/ood's 
celebrated  minute  on  education,  in  1S58,  laid  the  foundation  of  a  national 
system  of  education,  and  the  principles  then  inculcated  have  never  since 
been  departed  from.  Some  generations  v/iU  require  to  pass  before  the 
Oriental  mind  is  enabled  to  substitute  the  accurate  forms  of  European 
thought  for  the  loose  speculations  that  have  prevailed  through  long  cen- 
turies. But  already  happy  results  are  appearing,  and  in  connection  with 
the  subject  of  this  article  it  may  be  noticed  as  a  most  hopeful  sign  of 
the  future  that  our  English  schools  are  turning  out  native  statesmen  by 
whom  ail  our  best  methods  of  government  are  being  introduced  into  the 
dominions  of  native  princes. 

The  administration  reports  of #  some  of  these  gentlemen  may  vie  with 
those  of  our  best  English  officers ;  and  the  names  of  Sir  Dinkar  Kao, 
Sir  Madava  Rao,  Sir  Salar  Jung,  and  others,  give  full  indication  that 
among  the  natives  of  India  may  be  found  men  eminently  qualified  for 
the  task  of  government.  Wittingly  or  unwittingly,  English  officials  in 
India  are  preparing  materials  which  some  day  or  other  will  form  the 
groundwork  for  a  native  empire  or  empires.  I  was  thrown  closely  into 
contact  with  the  Civil  Service  whilst  I  was  in  India,  for  I  employed  ail 
my  vacations  in  travelling  through  the  country,  mostly  at  a  foot's  pace. 
Everywhere  I  went  I  found  a  cultivated  Enghsh  gentleman  exerting  him- 
self to  the  best  of  his  ability  to  extend  the  blessings  of  civilisation — 
justice,  education,  the  development  of  ail  local  resources.  I  firmly  be- 
lieve that  no  government  in  the  world  has  ever  possessed  a  body  of  ad- 
ministrators to  vie  with  the  Civil  Service  of  India.  Nor  do  I  speak  only 
of  the  service  as  it  existed  under  the  East  India  Company,  for,  from  ail 

*  59  Geo.  III.  c  65.  8.  43. 


12  THE  FUTURE  OF  INDIA. 

-  i 

that  I  have  heard  and  observed,  competition  supplies  quite  as  good  ser- 
vants of  the  State  as  did  in  earlier  days  the  patronage  of  the  Court  of 
Dii'ectors.  The  trath  is,  that  tho  exccUenca  of  the  result  has  bsen 
attributable  in  nowise  to  the  mode  of  selection,  but  to  tho  local  circum- 
stances which  call  forth  in  cither  case,  in  the  young  Englishman  of 
decent  education  and  of  the  moral  tone  belonging  to  the  middle  classes 
of  this  couuti'y,  the  beet  quahties  of  his  nature.  But  in  these  ener- 
getic, high-principled,  and  able  administrators  we  have  a  danger  to 
good  government  which  it  is  necessary  to  point  out.  Every  English- 
man in  office  in  India  has  great  power,  and  every  Englishman,  as  the 
lato  Lord  Lytton  once  observed  to  me,  is  in  heart  a  reformer.  His  na- 
tive energy  will  not  enable  him  to  sit  still  v/ith  his  hands  before  him. 
He  must  be  improving  something.  The  tendency  of  the  English 
official  in  India  is  to  over-reform,  to  introduce  what  he  may  deem 
improvements,  but  which  turn  out  egregious  failures,  and  this,  be  it 
observed,  amongst  the  most  conservative  people  of  the  world.  Some  of  the 
most  carefully  devised  schemes  f op- native  improvement  have  culminated 
in  native  djterioration.  A  remarkable  illustration  of  this  position  is 
affordad  by  the  late  inquiry  into  the  causes  of  the  riots  among  the  cul- 
tivators of  the  Deccan.  It  has  been  one  of  the  pretensions  of  British 
administration  that  they  have  instituted  for  tho  first  time  in  India  pure 
and  impartial  courts  of  justice.  And  the  boast  is  well  founded.  In  the 
Presidency  of  Bombay  also  the  Government  has  substituted  long  leases 
of  thirty  years  on  what  may  be  called  Crown  Lands  for  the  yearly  hold- 
ings formerly  in  vogue.  They  have  also  greatly  moderated  the  assess- 
ment. The  result  has  been  that  land  in  the  Bombay  Presidency  from 
being  unsaleable  has  acquired  a  value  of  from  ten  to  twenty  years'  pur- 
chase. But  the  effect  of  these  two  measures  upon  the  holders  of  thsse 
lands  has  been  disastrous.  Finding  themselves  possessed  of  property 
on  which  they  could  raise  money  with  facihty,  they  have  indulged  this 
national  propensity  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  means;  and  the 
money-lenders  in  their  turn  drag  the  improvident  borrowers  before  a 
court  of  justice,  and  obtain  decrees  upon  the  indisputable  terms  of  the 
contract,  which  no  judge  feels  competent  to  disregard. 

Another  danger  of  the  same  sort  arises  from  the  short  term  of  office 
which  is  allowed  to  officials  in  the  highest  places  in  India.  When  the 
Portuguese  had  large  dominions  in  India,  they  found  that  their  Viceroys, 
if  permitted  to  remain  a  long  time  in  the  East,  became  insubordinate, 
and  too  powerful  for  the  Government  at  Lisbon  to  control.  They  ac- 
cordingly passed  a  law  limiting  the  tenure  of  office  to  five  years.  This 
Ihnitation  seems  to  have  been  adopted  tacitly  in  our  Eastern  administra- 
tive system,  and  has  undoubtedly  been  observed  for  more  than  a  cen- 
tury. But  the  period  of  five  years  is  very  short  to  enable  either  a  Grov- 
ernor-General,  or  Governor,  or  member  of  Council  to  leave  his  mark  oa 
tho  country  ;  and  there  is  a  temptation  to  attempt  something  dazzling 
which  would  require  for  its  proper  fulfilment  years  to  elaborate,  but 
which,  if  not  passed  at  the  moment,  would  fail  to  illustrate  the  era. 


THE  FUTURE  OF  INDIA.  18 

It  is  iiee<fleBa  to  observe  that  a  serieg  of  ill-considered  changes,  a  con- 
stent  succession  of  new  laws  to  be  followed  by  amendt  d  law:i  in  the 
next  cession,  attempts  to  change  manners  and  practices  (not  iinmonU  in 
themselves^  that  have  prevailed  for  centuri-:  s,  ail  tend  to  make  a  govern- 
ment, especially  a  foreign  government,  odious.  But  there  is  one  other 
rock  which  it  is  above  all  essential  to  avoid  \vhen  we  are  considering  the 
problem  how  best  to  preserve  the  duration  of  British  government  for 
the  benefit  of  India.  Every  ardent  administrator  desires  improvements 
in  his  own  department;  roads,  railways,  canals,  irrigation,  improved 
courts  of  justice,  more  efficient  poHco,  all  find  earnest  advocates  in  tlio 
high  plsiceB  of  government.  But  improved  administration  is  always 
costly,  and  requires  additional  taxation.  I  fear  that  those  in  authority 
too  often  forget  that  the  wisest  iTikrs  of  a  despotic  government  have 
always  abstained  from  laying  fresh  burdms  on  the  people.  It  is,  in 
fact,  the  chief  merit  of  such  a  government  that  the  taxes  ara  ordinarily 
light,  and  are  such  as  are  familiarised  by  old  usage.  New  taxes  im- 
posed without  the  will,  or  any  appeal  to  the  judgment,  of  the  people 
create  the  most  dangerous  kind  of  disaffection.  But  if  this  is  true  gen- 
erally, it  is  especially  trae  in  India,  where  the  population  is  extremely 
poor,  and  where  hitherto  the  financier  has  not  been  enabled  to  make 
the  rich  contribute  their  due  quota  to  the  revenue  of  the  country. 

It  has  been  said  by  some  that  we  have  not  yet  reached  the  limits  of 
taxation  in  India,  but  to  them  I  v/ould  oppose  the  memorable  saying  of 
Lord  Mayo  towards  the  close  of  his  career.  "  A  feehng  of  discontent 
and  dissatisfaction  existed,"  in  his  opinion,  "among  every  class,  both 
European  and  native,  on  account  of  the  constant  increase  of  taxation 
that  had  for  years  been  going  on ;"  and  he  added  :  "  The  continuance  of 
that  feeling  was  a  poUtical  danger,  the  magnitude  of  which  could  hardly 
be  over-estimated."  The  Earl  of  Northbrook  quoted  and  fully  endorsed 
this  opinion  in  his  examination  before  the  House  of  Commons  in  the 
present  year.* 

But  although  this  constant  aim  at  improvement  among  our  English 
administrators  too  often  leads  to  irritating  changes,  harassing  legislation, 
and  new  fiscal  charges  on  the  people,  causes  are  at  work  which  tend  to 
eliminate  these  obstacles  to  good  and  stable  government.  In  oiu:  experi- 
mental application  of  remedies  to  evils  patent  on  the  surface,  our  blun- 
ders have  chiefly  arisen  from  our  ignorance  of  the  people.  Institutions 
that  had  been  seen  to  work  well  in  Europe  might,  it  was  thought,  be 
transplanted  safely  to  India.  Experience  alone  could  teach  that  this  is 
often  a  grievous  error ;  but  experience  is  being  daily  alTorded  by  our 
prolonged  rule,  and  by  our  increasing  acquaintance  with  the  habits, 
wants,  and  feelings  of  the  people.  The  tendency  also  to  change  and 
improvement,  which  I  have  before  observed  upon  as  leading  to  iil-con- 
eidered  measures,  operates  hero  beneficially,  for  there  is  never  any  hesi- 
tation in  a  local  government  to  reverse  the  proceedings  of  its  pradeces- 
Bors  when  found  to  work  injuriously  for  the  community. 

•  Jiepcrt  on  East  India  PvJbUo  Work;  p.  86. 


14  THE  FUTXTBE  OF  INDIA. 

But  the  most  cheering  symptom  of  future  good  goyemment  in  India 
is  the  increased  disposition  of  British  rulers  to  associate  natives  of  char- 
acter and  ability  with  thems'lves  in  liigh  oijic(-s  of  administration.  Par- 
liament so  long  ago  as  1833  laid  down  the  principle  that  no  natiA''o  shall 
by  reason  of  his  religion,  place  of  birth,  or  colour,  be  disabled  from 
holding  any  office.  Her  gracious  Majesty  also  in  IS.'/S  proclaimed  her 
will  "  that  so  far  as  may  be,  our  subjects,  of  whatever  race  or  creed,  ba 
impartially  admitti^d  to  offices  in  our  service,  the  duties  of  which  they 
may  be  qualified  by  their  education,  ability,  and  integrity  duly  to  dis- 
charge." 

Many  obstacles  have  hitherto  prevailed,  chiefly  arising  out  of  tha 
vested  interests  of  a  close  Civil  Service,  to  prevent  full  operation  being 
given  to  a  pohcy  eo  solemnly  laid  down.  But  it  is  no  broach  of  official 
propriety  to  announce  that  Lord  Cranbrook  has  earnestly  taken  up  the 
proposals  of  the  present  Viceroy  to  clear  away  the  difficulties  which  have 
hitherto  intervemd,  and  has  sent  out  a  despatch  to  India  which  it  may 
bo  fairly  anticipated  will  meet  the  aspirations  of  educated  natives,  and 
will  greatly  strengthen  the  foundations  of  British  government  in  the 
East. 

It  will  thus  be  seen  that  several  factors  are  at  work  vfhich  cannot  fail, 
under  tlie  continued  rule  of  the  British  Government,  to  have  most  ben- 
eficial efiects  on  the  national  character  of  India.  A  system  of  education 
is  being  estabhehed  which  is  opening  a  door  for  the  introduction  of  all 
the  knov/ledgo  accumulated  in  Europe,  and  which  sooner  or  later  must 
greatly  dissipate  that  ignorance  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  so  many  ob- 
stacles to  good  government  in  the  East.  Equality  before  the  law  and 
the  supremacy  of  law  have  been  fully  brought  home  to  the  cognisance  of 
every  inhabitant  of  India,  and  they  form  a  striking  contrast,  fully  ap- 
preciated by  the  Hindus,  to  the  arbitrary  decisions  and  the  race  prerog- 
atives which  characterised  their  former  Mahomedan  rulers.  Continuous 
efforts  at  improvement  are  v»^itnessed  in  every  zillah  of  India,  and  if  they 
sometimes  fail  in  their  operation  it  is  still  patent  that  the  permanent 
welfare  of  the  people  is  the  constant  aim  and  object  of  Government. 
Moreover,  the  ready  car  tendered  to  any  expression  of  a  grievance,  the  mi- 
nute subjection  of  every  act  of  authority  in  India,  from  the  deputy  magis- 
trate up  to  the  Governor-General,  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  Home  Govern- 
ment, secure  to  the  meanest  inhabitant  of  India  a  hearing,  and  inspire 
the  consciousness  that  he  also  is  a  member  of  the  State,  and  that  his 
rights  and  interests  are  fully  recognised.  The  association  of  natives 
with  ourselves  in  the  task  of  government,  which  has  been  commenced 
in  the  lower  branches  of  the  judicial  administration  with  thp  greatest 
success,  and  which  is  now  about  to  be  attempted  on  a  larger  scale,  as  I 
have  before  noted,  is  also  a  fact  of  the  greatest  gravity.  On  the  whole, 
after  very  close  attention  to  Indian  administration  for  nearly  forty  years, 
of  which  about  twelve  were  spent  in  the  country  itself  in  a  position 
where  I  was  enabled  to  take  an  impartial  view  of  what  was  going  on 
axound  me,  I  am  of  opinion  that  a  bright  future  presents  itself,  and,  if 


THE  FUTDBE  OF  INDIA.  15 

I  coold  see  my  way  more  clearly  on  the  very  important  questionB  cf 
casta  and  of  tbe  future  rGligion  of  India,  I  should  say  a  brilliant  futures 
in  vrhich  perhaps  for  centuries  to  come  the  supremacy  of  England  will 
prodnco  the  happiest  results  in  India 

V. 

But  I  must  not  close  this  article  without  reference  to  the  very  diflvrrnt 
views  v/hich  have  been  lately  put  forth  in  this  Eeview  under  th-^  sensa- 
tional title  of  the  "Bankruptcy  cf  India."  Mr.  Ilyndman,  after  much 
study  of  Indian  statistics,  has  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  "India  has 
been  frightfully  impoverished  undv:r  our  rule,  and  that  the  process  is 
going  on  now  at  an  increasingly  rapid  rate."  Tho  rp venue  r.iisid  by 
taxation  is  about  30,000,000/.,  and  "is  taken  absolutely  out  of  (ho 
pockets  of  the  people,"  three-fourths  of  whom  arc  engaged  in  agricul- 
ture. The  increase  of  12,000,000'.  in  tho  revenue  which  lias  occurred 
between  18r>7  and  187G  "comes  almost  entirely  out  of  the  pockt  f s  of  tho 
cultivators,"  and  "the  greater  part  of  tho  increase  of  th-^  salt,  stamps, 
and  excise  is  derived  from  tho  same  source."  The  cost  of  maintaining  a 
prisoner  in  the  cheapest  part  of  India  is  rA'tft.  a  head,  or,  making  allovr- 
anco  for  children,  iCs.  ;  but  the  poor  cultivator  "has  only  31.9.  Vui.,  from 
Trhich  he  must  also  defray  the  charges  *  *  for  sustenance  of  bullocks,  the 
cost  of  clothing,  repairs  to  implements,  house,  <S:c.,  and /(;•/•  taxnlJov,'''' 

He  states  the  debt  of  India  to  be  "  enormous,"  amounting  to  220,000,- 
000^.  Bterhng,  principally  accumulated  in  the  last  few  years.  Tho  rail- 
ways have  been  constructed  at  ruinous  cost,  for  which  tho  "  unfortimato 
ryot  has  had  to  borrow  an  additional  five  or  ten  or  twenty  rupees  of  tho 
native  money rlender  at  24,  40,  GO  per  cent.,  in  order  to  pay  extra  taxa- 
tion." Irrigation  works  "tell  nearly  tho  same  sad  tab.  Here  again 
miUions  have  been  squandered — squandere'd  needlessly."  Moreover, 
tho  land  is  fast  becoming  deteriorated  or  is  being  worso  cultivated.  In 
short,  through  a  long  indictment  of  twenty-three  pages,  of  whicli  I  omit 
many  counts,  he  cannot  find  a  single  act  of  British  administration  that 
meets  his  approval.  All  is  naught.  It  is  true  that  the  Civil  Service  of 
India  is  composed  of  men  who  have  gained  their  posts  by  means  of  tho 
best  education  that  England  can  supply,  and  who  from  an  early  period 
of  manhood  have  devoted  their  lives  to  the  practical  solution  of  tho  many 
difficult  problems  which  Indian  administration  presents.  But  Mr.  Hjiid- 
man  finds  fault  with  them  aU. 

The  article  itself  is  couched  in  such  an  evident  spirit  of  philanthropy 
that  one  feels  unwilling  to  notice  pointedly  the  blunders,  the  exaggerations, 
and  the  inaccuracies  into  which  tho  v/riter  has  fallen.  But  Mr.  Hyndman 
has  entered  the  hsts  so  gallantly  with  a  challenge  to  all  the  Anglo-Indian 
world,  that  ho  of  coinse  CTipects  to  encounter  somo  hard  knocks,  writing, 
as  he  does,  on  a  subject  with  whicli  he  has  no  practical  acquaintance.  He 
has  already  received  "  a  swashing  blow  "  r^Kpoetingtho  agricultural  statis- 
tics on  which  ha  bases  the  whole  of  his  argunicnt.  On  data  supplied  to  him 
by  An  able  native  writer,  whom  I  know  intimately  and  for  whom  I  have  tho 


16  THE  F^UTURE  OF  INDIA. 

highest  respect,  he  has  drawn  conclnsions  which  are  so  manifestly  ab- 
surd, that  aU  practically  acquainted  with  the  subject  are  tempted  to 
throw  aside  his  article  as  mero  rubbish.  But  Mr.  Dadobhai,  like  him- 
self, has  no  knowledge  of  the  rural  life  of  India,  or  of  agriouiture  gen- 
erally, or  of  the  practical  business  of  administration.  Ho  1$  a  man  who 
has  passed  his  whole  hfe  in  cities,  an  excellent  mathematician,  of  un- 
wearied industry,  and  distinguished,  even  among  his  countrymen,  for 
his  patriotic  endeavours  to  improve  their  condition.  But  the  mere  study 
of  books  and  of  figures — especially  of  the  imperfect  ones  which  hith- 
erto have  characterised  the  agricultural  statistics  of  India — is  not  suffi- 
cient to  constitute  a  great  administrator ;  and  when  Mr.  Dadobhai,  after 
making  himself  prominent  by  useful  work  in  the  municipality  of  Ecm- 
bay,  v/as  selected  to  fill  the  high  office  of  Prime  Minister  to  the  Gatk- 
war  of  Baroda,  he  was  not  deemed  by  his  countrymen  to  have  displayed 
any  great  aptitude  in  statesmanship.* 

The  alarming  picture  drawn  by  Mr.  Hjnidman  on  data  thus  supplied 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  greatest  authority  in  England  on  agricul- 
tural matters ;  for  intrinsic  evidence  clearly  shows  that  the  letters  signed 
*'  C,"  which  appeared  in  the  Times  of  the  5th  of  October  and  the  Dth 
of  October,  can  proceed  from  no  other  than  Mr.  Caird.  His  refutation 
of  Mr.  Hyndman's  pessimist  views  is  so  short,  that  I  give  the  pifh  of  it 
here : — 

The  conclusions  arrived  at  are  so  startling  that  though,  like  Mr.  Ilyndman,  1  have 
never  been  in  India,  I,  as  an  alarmed  Enelishinau,  have  tried  to  test  th'.^  ytrougth  of 
the  basis  upon  which  they  rest.  The  only  dfaZ-a  I  have  at  hand  are  taken  from  the 
figures  in  the  last  year's  report  of  the  Punjab.  The  number  of  cultivated  acres 
there  agrees  with  those  quoted  by  Mr.  Hyudman — say  21,000,000  acres — and  1  adopt 
his  average  value  of  U.  14s.  per  acre. 

Thj  Government  asaessment  is  1.905,000?.,  to  pay  which  one-sixth  of  the  wheat 
crop  [the  produce  of  1,120,000]  would  have  to  be  sold  and  exported.  'J'here  would 
remain  for  consumption  in  the  country  the  produce  of  5,500,000  acres  of  wheat  and 
of  12.000  000  acres  of  other  grain,  the  two  sufficing  to  yield  for  a  year  2  lb.  p«r  head 
ptT  day  for  the  population  of  17,000,000,  which  is  more  than  double  the  weight  of 
corn  eaten  by  the  people  of  this  country.  Besides  this,  they  would  have  for  con- 
sumption their  garden  vegetables  and  milk ;  and  beyond  it  the  money  value  of 
8-15,000  acn  s  of  oil-seed,  720.000  acres  of  cotton  and  hemp,  391,000  acres  of  sugar- 

*  The  career  of  Mr.  Dadobhai  Naoroji  illustrates  in  a  remarkable  manner  the  ope- 
ration of  the  system  of  education  introduced  under  our  crovernment.  A  Parsi,  bom 
in  liombay  of  very  poor  parents,  he  received  his  education  at  the  Elphiustone  Col- 
lege, where  he  displayed  fo  much  iutelligenee  that  in  1845  an  English  gentleman, 
d.!sirou3  to  open  up  a  new  carec  r  for  educated  natives,  offered  to  send  him  to  Eng- 
land to  study  for  the  bar  if  any  of  the  wealthy  merchants  of  his  community  would  pay 
half  the  expenses.  But  in  those  days  tlie  Parsis,  like  the  Hindus,  dreaded  contact 
with  England,  and  the  offv  r  f  j11  to  the  ground.  Dddobhai  continued  at  the  College, 
where  he  obtained  employment  as  a  teacher,  and  subsequently  became  professor  of 
mathematics,  no  native  having  previously  filled  such  a  post.  In  1845  he  left  scholas- 
tics and  joined  the  first  native  mercantile  house  established  in  London.  This  firm 
commenced  with  great  success,  and  DAdobhai  no  sooner  found  himself  master  of 
5,000'.  than  he  devoted  it  to  public  objects  ili  his  native  city.  The  house  of  Messrs. 
Cama  subseoueutly  failed,  and  Dadobhai  returned  to  Bombay,  where,  as  above 
totc'd,  he  look  an  active  part  in  municipal  affairs,  and  was  subsequently  apj)ointed 
Dewau  to  the  Gaekwar.  He  is  now  canyiug  ou  business  as  a  merchant  oa  his  own 
account  in  Londaik 


THE  FUTUEE  OF  INDIA.  17 

OMie,  190,000  acres  of  iDdigo,  69,000  acres  of  tobacco,  88,000  acres  of  ppiC(»^.  dinCT, 
and  dyes,  19.000  acres  of  poppy,  and  8,800  acres  of  tea ;  the  Bgarn'pitv  Vislii  •  cf  w  iiicli, 
without  touching  the  com.  would  leave  nearly  twice  the  Govrhiiiuiit  iips»'!s-:ii»< nt. 

■Mr.  Hyndraan  has  committed  the  orror  of  aigtiin},'  from  au  ICnj,' '.hIi  iruw  v  vn'no 
at  th3  plaice  of  production  ujKin  articles  of  con^iuinption,  the  true  value  i.f  wlivn  is 
their  food-sustaining  power  to  the  people  who  coueume  them. 

When  an  argument  is  thus  found  so  compkt-ely  ptcJirr  par  Sff  husr^ 
it  is  needless  to  pursue  it  further.  But  I  couceive  that  Mr.  Hyiidin.iii, 
when  studying  tiiis  overwhehning  refutation,  must  feel  koiik what  cou- 
science-stricken  when  he  reperuses  such  seutciices  of  his  own  as  the 
following: — **In  India  at  this  time,  miUions  of  the  ryots  nr-^  growin*^ 
wheat,  cotton,  seeds,  and  other  exhausting  crops,  and  send  tliem  away 
because  these  alone  will  'enable  them  to  pay  their  way  at  aU.  Tliey  :irj 
themselves,  nevertheless,  eating  less  and  less  of  worse  food  vaAi  }\  ar,. 
in  spite,  or  rather  by  reason,  of  the  increasing  cxi)orts."  Thus  a  ItiniK  r 
is  damaged  by  finding  new  markets  for  his  produce  !  •  And  Iil-  k  -lis  his 
wheat,  which  is  the  main  produce  of  his  arable  land  in  thos(}  parts  of 
India  where  it  flourishes,  to  buy  some  cheaper  grain  which  his  huid 
does,  not  grow  I  The  youngest  assistant  in  a  collector's  cRtal)lishni«.ut 
could  inform  Mr.  Hyndman  that  the  food  of  the  agricultural  population 
of  India  consists  of  the  staple  most  suitable  to  the  soil  of  tho  district : 
in  the  Punjab  wheat,  in  Bengal  and  all  well-watered  lowlands  rico,  on 
the  tablelands  of  the  Deccan  jowi'ri  (Jiolcus  sorfihuin)  and  b'ljri  (pfft,}- 
cum  iq)icatum\  on  the  more  sterile  plateau  of  Southern  India  the  infe- 
rior grain  ragi  {fluesyne  coracauna). 

It  must  have  been  under  tho  dominion  of  the  idea  produced  by  Mr. 
Daddbhai's  statistics  as  to  the  thoroiighly  wretched  state  of  the  agricul- 
tural  population  of  India  that  Mr.  Hyndnian  has  been  led  mto  exagg.r- 
ated  statements  which  his  own  article  shows  ho  knew  to  bo  inaccurato. 
A  dreadful  case  of  misgovemment  existed  in  India,  and,  thoroughly  to 
arouse  his  countrymen  to  the  fact,  it  was  necessary  to  pile  up  tho  agony. 
Thu.s,  in  one  part  of  his  article  he  states  that  the  *'  enomioiLs  debt"  of 
India  amounts  to  :>20,0{X),000^.,  but  in  a  later  portion  he  admits  that  it 
is  only  127,000,000^.,  and  he  knows  full  well  that  the  amount  of  1(M),- 
(K)0,000/.  of  guaranteed  railway  debt  is  not  only  not  a  present  d  bt  du3 
from  Government,  but  is  a  very  valuable  property,  which  will  probubly 
bring  in  some  millions  of  revenue  when  they  exercise  their  right  of  buy- 
ing up  the  interests  of  the  several  guaranteed  companies. 

Again,  he  speaks  throughout  his  article  of  tho  excessive  taxation  im- 
posed on  the  poor,  half-starved  cultivators  ;  and  he  gives  tho  following 
table  as  showing  the  amount  "taken  absolutely  out  of  tho  j)ockets  of 
the  people :" — 

Land  revenue       -      -       -     .-       -       -       -    £21.500  000 
Excise       --------  2,500,000 

Salt 6.2.10,000 

Stamps     ---------     2,s:30.00^ 

Castpms       - 2,720,000 

He  thu=?  maintains  that  the  portion  of  tho  rent  paid  to  Govei-nment  for 
occupation  of  the  land  is  a  tax  upon  the  cultivator,  which  is  about  as 


18  THE  FUTURl*  O.F  INDIA. 

true  as  to  state  that  the  07,000,000^.  v\'  rei»tal  in  tho  United  Kingdom  is 
a  special  tax  on  the  farmers  of  this  co  virv.  The  apiount  derived  from 
excise  is  chiefly  produced  by  the  sale  v/f  fntoxicat'jig  li'^aors,  the  uso  of 
which  is  forbidden  by  tho  social  and  religious  vie  vs  or  the  cativf^s;  and 
any  contribution  to  the  revenue  under  this  head  is  .learly  a  voluntary  act 
on  the  part  of  the  transgressor.  The  revenue  .  rem  stamps  procec  da 
chiefly  from  what  may  bo  called  taxes  on  justice ;  ihey  are,  in  my  opin- 
ion, extremely  objectionable,  but  weighty  objectiv^us  may  be  ui'gtd 
against  nearly  every  tax,  and  a  large  portion  of  this  tax  falls  on  tho 
wealthier  class  of  suitors.  The  amount  contributed  by  the  population, 
under  the  head  of  customs,  although  it  may  take  money  out  of  the  pocket 
of  the  rayat,  actually  adds  to  liis  store ;  for,  unless  ho  could  buy  iu  the 
bazaar  a  piece  of  Manchester  long-cloth  cheaper  than  an  article  of  do- 
mestic manufacture,  it  is  manifest  that  he  would  select  the  latter.  Thera 
remains  only  the-  single  article  of  salt  on  which  the  cultivator  undoubt- 
edly is  taxed,  and  which  forms  the  solo  tax  from  which  he  cannot  escape. 
This  tax  also  is  extremely  objectionable  in  theory,  more  perhaps  than  in 
practice,  for  it  amounts  to  about  7^d.  per  head.  But  even  if  w^e  tako 
tho  whole  amount  of  taxation  as  shown  by  Mr.  Hyndman,  excluding  tho 
land  revenue  or  rental  of  the  land,  the  average  per  head  is  only  l.*f.  6^. , 
of  which  more  than  one-third  cai^  bo  avoided  at  the  pleasure  of  aay  in- 
dividual consumer.  It  is  not,  then,  a  misstatement  to  aver  that  tha 
population  of  India  is  more  hghtly  taxed  than  any  population  in  tho 
world  living  under  an  orderly  government. 

I  have  thus  far  thought  it  my  duty  to  expose  what  I  believe,  to  bo 
grave  errors  in  ^ir.  Hyndman's  sensational  article.  But  I  should  do  bim 
great  injustice  if  I  did  not  admit  that  he  has  brought  out  in  vi\'id  coloui's 
some  very  important  facts.  It  is  true  that  these  facts  arc  well  known  to 
Indian  aininistrators,  but  they  are  facts  disagreeable  to  contemplate,  and 
aro  therefore  slurred  over  willingly ;  but  they  have  such  important  bear- 
ing on  the  proceedings  of  Government  in  India  that  they  cannot  be  too 
frequently  paraded  before  the  pubhc  eye. 

The  first  of  these  truths  is  the  undeniable  poverty  of  the  great  bulk 
of  tlio  population.  But  hero  Mr.  Hyndman  does  not  appear  to  me  to 
have  taken  full  grasp  of  the  fact,  or  to  have  ascertained  its  causes.  Tho 
dense  population  of  India,  amounting  in  its  more  fertile  parts  to  "six  and 
s  3ven  hundred  per  square  mile,  is  almost  exclusively  occupied  in  agri- 
cultural pursuits.  But  tho  land  of  India  has  been  farmed  from  ttmo 
immemorial  by  men  entirely  without  capital.  A  farmer  in  this  country 
has  littlo  chance  of  success  unless  he  can  supply  a  capital  of  10/.  to  20^ 
an  acre.  If  Enghsh  farms  were  cultivated  by  men  as  deficient  in  capi- 
tal as  tho  Indian  rayats,  they  would  bo  all  thrown  on  the  parish  in  a 
year  or  two.  Tho  founder  of  a  Hindu  village  may,  by  aid  of  his  breth- 
ren and  friends,  have  strength  enough  to  break  up  tho  jungle,  dig  a 
well,  and  with  a  few  rupees  in  his  pocket  he  ma}''  purchase  seed  for  tho 
few  acres  ho  can  bring  under  tho  plough.  If  a  favourable  harvest  en- 
sue, ho  has  a  largo  surplua,  out  of  which  he  pays  the  jamma  or  rent 


THE  FUTUEE  OF  INDIA.  19 

to  Goverronent.  Eiit  on  the  first  failnro  of  the  periodical  rains  his 
withered  crops  disappear,  ho  has  no  capital  whorewith  to  meet  the  Gov- 
ernment demand,  to  obtain  food  for  his  family  and  Block,  or  ir*  piir-^Las^ 
seed  for  tbo  coming  year.  To  meet  all  th*.so  "wants  h  ;  jnust  Imvo  ro- 
coTirsa  to  the  village  money-lender,  who  has  alwayj  formed  ii.)  iiid>p'.n- 
Fablo  a  member  of  a  Hindu  agricultural  community  ai  tho  pIoiK  Lilian 
himself. 

From  time  immemorial  the  cultivator  of  the  soil  in  Ind'a  lia<i  liv«  d 
from  hand  to  mouth,  and  when  his  hand  could  not  supply  Lis  mouth 
from  the  stores  of  the  last  harvest  he  has  been  driven  to  the  local 
Gankar  or  money-lender  to  obtain  the  means  of  existence.  This  is  tho 
first  great  cause  of  India's  poverty.  The  second  is  akin  to  it,  for  it 
exists  in  the  infinite  divisibihty  of  property  which  arises  mider  the 
Hindu  system  of  succession,  and  which  throws  insuperable  obstructions 
to  the  growth  of  capital.  The  rule  as  to  property  in  Hindu  life  is 
that  all  the  members  of  a  family,  father,  jp.'andfather,  children,  and 
grandchildren,  constitute  an  undividt-d  j)^J^^crship,  having  equal 
shares  in  the  property,  although  one  of  them,  generally  the  eldtst,  is 
recognised  as  tlie  manager.  It  is  in  the  power  of  any  member  to 
sever  liiniself  from  tho  family  group,  and  the  tendency  of  our  Govern- 
ment has  been  to  encourage  efforts  of  what  maj*^  be  called  individual- 
ism. But  the  new  stock  is  but  the  commencement  of  another  undi- 
vided family,  so  strong  is  the  Hindu  feehng  in  favour  of  this  time- 
honoured  custom.  It  is  obvious  that  where  the  skill,  foresight,  and 
thrlftiness  required  for  the  creation  of  capital  may  be  thwarted  by  the 
extravagance  or  carelessness  of  any  one  of  a  large  number  of  partners, 
its  growth  must  be  seriously  impeded 

It  will  be  seen,  if  the  above  arguments  are  sound,  that  the  ob- 
structions which  opposo  themselves  to  the  formation  of  capital  arise 
out  of  immemorial  usages,  and  are  irremediable  by  any  direct  inter- 
ference of  Government.  But  whatever  may  be  the  causes  of  this 
national  poverty,  the  fact  is  undoubted,  and  it  cannot  be  too  steadily 
contemplated  by  those  who  desire  to  rely  on  fresh  taxation  for  their 
favourite  projects,  whether  it  be  for  improved  administration,  for  mag- 
nificent pubUc  works,  or  for  the  extension  of  our  dominions.  Mr. 
Hyndman  also  points  out  the  great  expensiveness  of  a  foreign  govern- 
ment, and  his  remarks  on  this  subject  are  undoubtedly  true.  The  high 
ealaries  requiiTed  to  tempt  Enghshmen  of  suitable  qualifications  to  expa- 
triate themselves  for  the  better  part  of  their  Uves,  and  tho  heavy  dead 
•wreight  of  pensions  and  furlough  charges  for  such  officials,  form,  no 
doubt,  a  heavy  burden  on  the  resources  of  India.  The  costliness  of  a 
European  army  is,  of  course,  also  undoubtedly  great.  But  these  are  charges 
Tvhich,  to  a  loss  or  greater  degree,  are  inseparable  from  the  dominion  of 
a  foreign  government.  The  compensation  for  them  is  to  be  found  in 
the  security  they  provide  against  a  foreign  invader  or  against  internal 
disturbances,  and  the  protection  they  afford,  in  a  degree  hithei-to  un- 
known m  India,  to  life,  property,  and  character.     But  Mr.  Hyndman*s 


20  THE  FUTURE  OF  INDIA. 

diatribes  are  useful  in  pointing  to  the  conclusion  that  all  the  efforts  of 
Government  should  be  directed  towards  the  diminution  of  these  charges, 
vvhcro  compatible  with  efficiency,  and  his  striking  contrast  of  the  homo 
military  charges  in  1802-63,  v/hich  then  amounted  to  2SL  35.,  and  now 
have  risen  in  the  present  year  to  OGL^  deserves  most  serious  considera- 
tion. 

There  is  only  one  other  statement  of  Mr.  Hyndman  which  I  desire  to 
notice.  He  declares  the  general  opinion  of  the  natives  to  be  that  life, 
as  a  whole,  has  become  harder  since  the  EngHsh  took  the  country'-, 
and  ho  adds  his  own  opinion  that  the  fact  is  so.  Mr.  Hyndman, 
as  wo  have  seen,  knows  but  Httle  of  the  actual  life  of  the  agricul- 
tural population,  and  of  their  state  under  native  rule  he  probably  knows 
less.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  fairly  represents  a  very  prevailing 
belief  amongst  the  natives.  A  vivid  indication  of  this  native  feeling  is 
given  in  the  most  instructive  work  on  Hindu  rural  life  that  I  have  ever 
met  v/ith.*  Colonel  Sleeman  thus  recounts  a  conversation  he  held  with 
some  natives  in  one  of  his  rambles  •- 

I  got  an  old  lanclo\viier  from  one  of  the  villages  to  walk  on  with  me  a  mile  and 
put  mo  ill  the  right  road.  I  asked  him  what  liad  been  the  state  of  the  country  under 
the  former  {government  of  the  Jilts  and  Mahrattas,  and  was  told  that  the  greater  part 
Vvas  n  wild  juuji^lo.  *'  I  remember,"  said  the  old  man,  "  when  you  could  not  have  got 
out  of  the  road  hereabouts  without  a  good  deal  of  risk,  I  could  not  have  vent urod 
a  liundrod  yards  from  the  village  witirout  the  chance  of  having  my  clothes  stripped 
off  my  back.  Now  the  whole  countiy  is  under  cultivation,  aiid  the  roads  arc  safe. 
Formerly  the  governments  kept  no  faith  with  their  landowners  and  cultivators,  cst- 
acting  ten  rupees  where  thejr  liad  bargained  for  five  whenever  they  foimd  their  orop3 
pood.  Cut  in  epite  of  all  tliis  zulm  (oppression)  there  was  then  more  burkul  (blcss- 
ing3  from  above)  than  now ;  the  lands  yielded  more  to  the  cultivator." 

Colonel  Sleeman  on  the  same  day  asked  a  respectable  farmer  what  he 
thought  of  the  latter  statement.  He  stated:  *'Tho  diminished  fertil- 
ity is  ov/ing,  no  doubt,  to  the  v/ant  of  those  salutary  fallows  which  the 
fields  got  under  former  governments,  when  invasions  and  civil  wars 
v*^ere  thmgs  of  common  occurrence,  and  kept  at  least  two-thirds  of  the 
land  trasie." 

The  fact  is  that,  under  an  orderly  government  like  ours,  the  causes 
alluded  to  above  as  impeding  the  growth  of  capital  become  very  mnch 
aggravatsd.  Population  largely  increases,  waste  lands  are  brought  xin- 
d^r  the  plough,  grazing  grounds  for  stock  disappear,  and  the  fallows, 
formerly  so  beneficial  in  restoring  fertility  to  the  soil,  can  no  longer  bo 
kept  free  from  cultivation.  All  these  considerations  form  portions  of 
the  very  difficult  problems  in  government  whioh  day  by  day  pressnt 
themselves  to  the  Indian  administrator.  But  does  Mr.  Hyndman  thiifk 
they  are  to  bo  solved  by  recurrence  to  the  native  system  of  govern- 
ment; by  the  substitution  of  a  local  rul«*,  sometimes  patemad,  more 
frequently  the  reverse,  for  the  courts  of  justice  which  now  administ  r 
the  law  which  can  bo  read  and  understood  by  all ;  by  civil  contracts  be- 
ing enforced  by  the  armed  servant  of  the  creditor,  instead  of  by  tlio 

*  JUfmbiM  qfjin  Indian  Qjfieial,  184^^ 


THE  FXJTUEE  OF  INDIA.  21 

officers  of  a  court  actmg  nnder  strict  surveillance  ;  by  the  land  assesS' 
ment  being  colle.cted  year  by  year  through  the  farmers  of  the  revenue 
according  to  their  arbitrary  will,  instead  of  b-jing  jniyable  in  a 
small  moderate*  sum,  uniiitei^bie  for  a  long  term  of  years?  If  ho 
thinks  this — and  his  allusion  to  the  system  of  the  non-rt- gulation  pro- 
vinces favours  the  conclusion — ho  will  not  find,  I  think,  an  tducat  d 
native  in  the  whole  of  India  v/ho  will  agree  with  him. 

There  are  great  harshnesses  in  our  nile,  therj  is  a  rigidity  and  exacti- 
tude of  procedure  which  is  often  distastsful  to  native  opinion,  th'T^  are 
patent  defects  arising  out  of  oiu:  attempts  to  administer  justic-^,  th'*re  is 
graat  irritation  at  our  constant  aiid  often  ill-conceived  expt  nm.iuts  in 
legislation,  there  is  real  danger  in  the  fresh  burdens  we  lay  upon  the 
p2ople  in  our  desire  to  carry  out  apparently  laudable  reforms.  But  with 
all  these  blemishes,  which  have  only  to  be  distinctly  p^rceiv^d  to  be 
removed  from  our  administrative  system,  the  educated  native  foels  that 
he  is  gradually  acquiring  the  position  of  a  freeman,  and  he  would  not 
exchange  it  for  that  which  Mr.  Hyndman  appears  to  desiderate. 

E.  Pebby,  in  Nineteenth  Century, 


A  COUP  D':^TAT. 

If  little  seeds  by  slow  degree 

Put  forth  their  leaves  and  flowers  unheard, 
Oar  love  had  grown  into  a  Xroc, 

And  bloomed  without  a  single  word 

I  haply  hit  on  six  o'clock, 

The  hour  her  father  came  from  town ; 
I  gave  his  own  peculiar  knock, 

And  waited  slyly,  like  a  clown. 

The  door  was  open.    There  she  stood, 

Lifting  her  mouth's  delicious  brim. 
How  could  I  waste  a  thing  so  good  ! 

I  took  the  kiss  she  meant  for  him. 

A  moment  on  an  awful  brink- 
Deep  breath,  a  frown,  a  smile,  a  tear; 

And  then,  "  O  Robert,  don't  you  think 

That  that  was  rather— cavalier  f "  [L<ynd(m  Society. 


*  So  long  ago  as  the  period  when  Colonel  Sleeman  wrote,  the  principle  was  fully 
established  as  to  the  moderation  to  bo  observed  in  the  Goverament  assessment.    Ho 


says:  "  We  may  rate  the  Government  share  at  one-flfth  as  the  maximum  and  one- 
tenth  as  the  minimum  of  the  ^ross  proAx'-;."  (Ramhlea  of  an  Indian  0/ficial,  vol.  i. 
p.  2C»1.)  In  the  Blue  Book  laid  before  Parliament  laet  Session  on  the  Deccan  riots, 
it  Mill  be  seen  that  the  Government  share  in  the  gross  produce  of  those  districts 
ivhere  a  high  assessment  was  supposed  to  have  created  the  disturbances  was  only 
oae-thirteenth. 


THEATFJCAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDEES. 

It  is  a  gonerally  received  opinion  that  all  stage  wardrobes  are  made  np 
of  tawdry  rags,  and  that  the  landscapes  and  palaces  that  look  bo  charm- 
ing by  gaslight  are  but  mere  daubs  by  day.  But  there  are  wardrobes 
and  wardrobes,  scenery  and  scenery.  The  dresses  used  for  some  great 
"  get  up  "  at  the  opara  houses,  or  at  the  principal  London  and  prcvin- 
ciai  theatres,  are  costly  and  magnificent ;  the  scenery,  although  paintt  cl 
for  distance  and  artiiicial  light,  is  really  the  product  of  artists  of  tak^i>t, 
and  there  is  an  attention  to  reality  in  all  the  adjimcts  that  would  quite 
startle  the  believers  in  the  tinsel  and  tawdry  \^ew.  A  millionaire  might 
take  a  lesson  from  the  stage  drawing-rooms  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  and 
the  Court  theatres,  and  no  cost  is  spared  to  procure  the  real  article, 
whatever  it  may  be,  that  is  required  for  the  scone.  These  minutise  of 
reahsm,  however,  are  quite  a  modern  id?a,  dating  no  farther  b^ck  than 
the  days  of  Boucicault  and  Fechter.  Splendid  scenery  and  gorgeous 
dresses  for  the  legitimate  dramas  were  introduced  by  John  Kemble,  aiid 
developed  to  the  utmost  extent  by  Macready  and  Kcan  ;  but  it  was  re- 
served for  the  present  decade  to  lavish  the  same  attention  and  expenses 
upon  the  jjetite  drama.  Half  a  century  ago  the  property  maker  man- 
ufactured the  stage  furniture,  the  stage  books,  the  candelabra,  curtaine, 
cloths,  pictures,  &c.,  out  of  papier  mache  and  tinsel ;  and  the  drawing- 
room  or  library  of  a'  gentleman's  mansion  thus  presented  bore  as  much 
resemblance  to  the  reality  as  sea-side  furnished  lodgings  do  to  a  ducal 
palace.  Before  the  Kemble  time  a  green  baize,  a  couple  of  chairs  and 
a  table,  sufficed  for  all  furnishing  purposes,  whether  for  an  inn  or  a 
palace. 

In  these  days  of  **  theatrical  upholstery,"  we  can  scarcely  realize  the 
shabbiness  of  the  stage  of  the  last  century.  There  were  a  few  hand- 
some suits  for  the  principal  actors,  but  the  less  important  ones  were 
frequently  dressed  in  costumes  that  had  done  service  for  fifty  yeans, 
until  they  were  worn  threadbare  and  frequently  in  rags.  Endeavour  to  re- 
ahsm upon  the  modern  stage  such  a  picture  as  this  given  by  Tate  Wilkui- 
son,  of  his  nppearance  at  Co  vent  Garden  as  "The  Fine  Gentleman," 
in  "Lethe."  "A  very  short  old  suit  of  clothes,  with  a  black 
velvet  ground,  and  broad,  gold  flowers  as  dingy  as  the  twenty- 
four  letters  on  a  piece  of  gingerbread;  it  had  not  seen  the  light 
since  the  first  year  Garrick  played  *  Lothario,'  at  the  theatre. 
Bedecked  in  that  sable  array  for  the  modern  *Fine  Gentleman,' and 
to  make  the  aiDpearanco  complete,  I  added  an  old  red  Burtout,  trimmed 
with  a  dingy  white  fur,  and  a  deep  skinned  capo  of  the  same  hue,  bcr- 
rowed  by  old  Giffard,  I  v/as  informed,  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  Theatre, 
to  i)lay  *£ing  Lear'  in,"    When  West  Digges  appeared  at  the  Hay - 

[221 


THEATKICAIi  MAKESHIFTS  AND  BLUXDEKS,  23 

market  as  Cardinal  Wolsey,  it  was  in  tho  identical  dress  that  Barton 
Booth  had  worn  in  Queeu  Anne's  timo :  a  close-fitting  habit  of  gilt 
leather  upon  a  biack  ground,  black  stockings,  and  bla^k  gauntlv-ts.  No 
wonder  Foote,  who  was  in  the  pit,  exclaimed,  upon  tho  appearance  of 
this  extraordinary  figure,  **A  iiomau  sweep  on  May-d:iyl"  Whjn 
Quin  played  the  youthful  fascinating  Chamout,  in  Otway's  **  Orphan," 
he  wore  a  long  grisly  half-powdered  periwig,  hanging  low  down  each 
side  his  breast  and  down  his  back,  a  huge  scarlet  coat  and  waistcoat, 
heavily  trimmed  with  gold,  black  velvet  breechc-s,  black  silk  neckcloth, 
black  stockings,  a^  pair  of  square-toed  shoes,  with  an  old-fashioned  x^air 
of  stone  buckles,  stiff  .high-topped  whit3  gloves,  with  a  broad  old 
scolloped  lace  hat.  Such  a  costume  upon  a  pL'i*sonage  not  in  liis  first 
youth,  and  more  than  inclined  to  obesity,  must  have  had  a:i  odd  eflf.ict. 
But  then,  as  is  well  known,  Garrick  plnycd  '* Macbeth"  iu  a  scarlet 
coat  and  powdared  wig;  John  Kemble  performed  ** Othello"  in  a  full 
suit  of  British  scarlet  regimentsds,  and  even  when  ho  had  gone  so  far  as 
to  dress  "Macbeth"  as  a  highlander  of  174."),  wore  in  his  bonnet  a  tre- 
mendous hearsa  plume,  until  Scott  plucked  it  out,  and  placed  an  eagle's 
feather  there  in  its  staad.  The  costumes  of  tho  ladies  were  ahnost 
more  absurd.  Whether  they  appeared  as  Komans,  Greeks,  or  females 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  they  dressed  the  same — in  the  hugo  hoop,  and 
powd  2red  hair  raised  high "  upon  the  head,  heavy  brocaded  robes  that 
required  two  pages  to  hold  up,  without  whose  assistance  they  could 
scarcely  have  moved ;  and  servants  were  dressed  quite  as  magnificently 
as  their  mistresses. 

In  scenery  there  was  no  attempt  at  **Bet§;  '•  a  drop,  and  a  pair  of 
"flats,"  dusty  and  dim  with  age,  were  all  the  scenic  accessories;  and 
tTiTO  or  threo  hoops  of  tallow  candies,  suspended  above  tho  stigc,  wero 
all  that  represented  th3  blaze  of  gas  and  Ume-hght  to  which  wo  ara 
accustomed.  Tho  candle-snuffer  was  a  theatrical  post  of  some  respon- 
sibility in  those  daj^s.  Garrick  was  the  first  who  used  concealed  Ughta. 
The  uncouth  appeai-ance  of  the  stage  was  rendered  still  worse  on 
crowded  nights  by  ranges  of  seats  raised  for  spectators  on  each  side. 
The  most  ridiculous  coittretemps  freqxiently  resulted  from  this  incon- 
pxaity.  Romeo,  sometimes,  when  he  bore  out  the  body  of  JuUet  from 
the  solitary  tomb  of  the  Capulets,  had  to  almost  force  his  way  through 
a  throng  of  beaux,  and  Macbeth  and  his  lady  plotted  the  murder  of 
Dimcan  amidst  a  throng  of  people. 

One  night,  Hamlet,  upon  the  appv-^arance  of  the  Ghost,  threw  off  his 
hat.  as  usual,  preparatory  to  the  address,  when  a  kind-hearted  dame, 
who  had  heard  him  just  before  complain  of  its  being  ^'veiy  cold," 
])icked  it  up  and  good-naturedly  clapped  it  upon  his  head  again.  A 
similar  incident  once  happened  during  the  performance  of  Pizarro. 
Elvira  is  discovered  asleep  upon  a  couch,  gracefully  covered  by  a  rich 
velvet  cloak;  Valverde  enters,  kneels  and  kisses  her  hand;  Elvira 
awakes,  ris38  and  lets  fall  the  covering,  and  is  about  to  indignantly  re- 
pulse her  unwelcomd  Tisitor,  whea  a  timid  female  Yoice  says :  '^Pleaaei 


U  THEATRICAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDEES. 

.  ma*am,  you've  dropped  your  mantle,"  and  a  timid  hand  is  trying  to 
replace  it  upon  tlie  tragedy  queen's  shoulders.  Of  another  kind,  but 
very  much  worse,  was  an  accident  that  befiil  Mr>i.  Siddons  at  lidi-n- 
burgh,  at  the  hands  of  another  person  who  falLd  to  distinguish  bot\y<-;tn 
the  refil  person  and  the  counterfeit.  Just  before  going  on  for  the  slotp- 
waiking-ocene,  she  had  sent  a  boy  for  some  porter,  but  the  cue  for  her 
entrance  was  given  before  ho  returned.  The  house  was  awed  into 
shuddering  silence  as,  in  a  terrible  whisper,  she  uttered  the  worJj 
"  Out,  out,  damned  spot !"  and  with  slow  mechanical  action  rubbed  the 
guilty  hands ;  when  suddenly  there  emerged  from  the  wings  a  small 
figure  holding  out  a  pewter  pot,  and  a  shrill  voice  broke  the  awful 
silence  with  "  Here's  your  porter,  mum."  Imagine  the  feelings  of  tha 
stately  Siddons !  The  story  is  very  fimny  to  read,  but  depend  upon  it 
the  incident  gave  her  the  most  cniel  anguish. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  the  iminitiated  outsiders  alone  we  are  indf-btcd 
for  ludicrous  stage  contretemps  ;  the  experts  themselves  have  frequently 
given  rise  to  thr^ijii.  All  readers  of  Eiia  wih  remember  th3  narn^^  of 
Bensley,  one  of  "the  old  actors  "  uj)on  whom  he  discourses  so  eloquently 
— a  grave  jprecise  man,  whose  composure  no  accident  could  ruffle,  as  tl-e 
following  anecdote  will  prove.  One  night,  as  he  was  making  his  first 
entrance  as  liichard  III. ,  at  the  DubUn  Theatre,  his  wig  caught  upon  a 
nail  in  the  side  scene,  and  was  dragged  off.  Catching  his  hat  by  the 
feather,  however,  he  calmly  r3placed  it  as  he  walked  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  but  left  his  htiir  sijiU  attached  to  the  nail.  Quite  unmoved  by  th  3 
occurrence,  he  commenced  his  sohioquy ;  but  so  rich  a  subject  coiiid 
not  escape  the  wit  of  an  Irish  audience.  "Bensley,  darlin',"  shouted  a 
voice  from  the  gallery,  "put  on  your  jaiscyl"  "Bad  luck  to  yoiu: 
pohtics,  will  you  suifer  a  U'/u'(/  to  be  hung  ?"  shouted  another.  But  the 
tragedian,  deaf  to  all  clamour,  never  faltared,  never  betrayed  the  Last 
annoyance,  spoke  the  speech  to  the  end,  stalked  to  the  wing,  detached 
the  wig  from  the  nail,  and  made  his  exit  with  it  in  his  hand. 

Novices  under  the  influence  of  stage  fright  will  say  and  do  the  most 
extraordinary  things.  Some  years  ago,  I  witnessed  a  laughable  incident 
during  the  performance  of  "Hamlet"  at  a  theatre  in  the  North.  Al- 
though a  very  small  part,  consisting  as  it  does  of  only  one  speech,  tho 
"  Second  Actor "  is  a  very  difficult  one,  the  language  being  pecuharly 
cramped.  In  the  play  scene  he  assasjJinates  the  player  king  by  pouring 
poison  into  his  ear.     The  spoech  proceding  the  action  is  as  follows : 

Thouglits  black,  haiuls  apt,  drajjs  fit,  and  time  agreeing ; 
ContLMderatu  season,  else  no  creature  8.x'i!ig ; 
'J'hou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected, 
With  He'-ate's  ban  thrice;  blasted,  thrice  infected, 
Thy  natnral  ma^ic  and  dire  property 
On  wholesome  life  usurp  imuiea:utely. 

Upon  which  follows  the  stage  direction — ^^  Pours  poison  into  h'a 
eary 

In  a  play  of  so  many  characters  as  Hamlet,  such  a  part,  in  a  second- 
daM  theatre,  can  be  given  only  to  a  very  inferior  performer.     The  ono 


THEATKIOAIi  MAKE-SHUTS  AND  BLUNDERS.  25 

to  whom  it  was  entrusted  on  the  present  occasion  was  a  novic?.  Muf- 
fl}d  in  a  black  coat  and  a  black  sioacbed  hat,  and  with  a  fact)  half  h:ddv?n 
b/  burnt  cork,  ha  looked  a  most  viliainons  villain,  as  ho  Btob  on  a. id 
•71^  d  about  in  th3  most  approved  mjlo-dramatic  fashion.  Then  ho  bo- 
j_,aii,  in  a  strong  north  country  bro^^ue, — 

Thoughts  black,  haiid^*  spt,— 
ta?n  his  memory  failf^d  him,  and  he  stuck  fast.  The  prompt(  r  whis- 
j).r.d  "drugs  fit;"  but  stags  fright  had  seized  liim,  and  he  could  not 
tili  3  tha  word.  He  tried  back,  but  stuck  again  at  the  same  j^lacc.  Ifp.If- 
a-.!02on  people  were  all  prompting  him  at  the  same  time  now,  but  all  in 
v.i'ji.  At  length  one  more  practical  than  the  rcst  whispered  angrily, 
"Pour  the  poison  in  his  ear  and  get  off."  The  suggestion  restored  a 
glimmering  of  reason  to  the  trembling,  perspn-iDg  wretuh.  Ho  could 
not  remember  the  words  of  Shakespeare,  so  he  improvised  a  hne.  Ad- 
vancing to  the  sleeping  figure,  ho  raised  the  vial  in  his  hand,  and  in  *% 
tembly  tragic  tone  shouted,  "  Into  his  ear-hole  this  I'll  power /^^ 

Seme  extraordinary  and  agonising  mistakes,  for  tragedians,  have  been 
iDp.do  in  what  are  called  the  flying  messages  in  "liichard  HI."  and 
'*  Slacbeth,"  by  novices  in  their  nervousness. mixing  up  their  own  parts 
wiih  tho  context ;  as  when  Catisby  rushed  on  and  cri'-d,  "My  lord,  the 
Duke  ol  BucktDgham's  taken."  There  he  should  have  stopped  while 
Eichard  replied,  "  Off  with  his  head  I  so  much  for  Buckingham  !"  But 
in  his  flurry  the  shaking  messenger  added,  "and  they've  cut  off  his 
h-ad!"  Yvith  a  furious  look  at  having  been  robbed  of  one-^of  his  finest 
"points,'^  the  tragedian  roared  out,  "Then,  damn  you,  go  and  stick  it 
on  again  i"  Another  story  is  told  of  an  actor  playing  one  of  the  ofiicers 
in  the  fifth  act  of  "Macbeth."     "My  lord,"  he  has  to  say,  "there  are 

t.'n thousand "     "Geese,  villain,"  inteiTupts  Macbeth.     "Ye — cs, 

my  lord  I"  answered  the  messenger,  losing  his  memory  in  his  terror. 

Eut  a  far  more  dreadful  anecdote  is  relutJd  of  the  same  play.  A  star 
■was  playing  the  guilty  Thane  in  a  very  small  company',  v/hcre  each 
nieuiber  had  to  sustain  three  or  four  di£l:fcrent  charaetc  rs.  JJuring  the 
p -rformance  the  man  appointed  to  play  the  first  murder,  r  was  taken  ill. 
There  was  not  another  to  be  spared,  and  the  only  resource  left  was  to 
s-iid  on  a  supernumerary,  supposed  to  be  iut-lligent,  to  stand  for  the 
clii.i'aeter.  '"Kotp  close  to  the  jkrijg,"  said  the  x^rompter  ;  "  Til  read 
you  the  v/ords,  and  you  can  r<'peat  them  aft;  r  me."  The  scene  was  the 
le.-equet  ?  the  supper  waj  pushed  on,  and  Macbeth,  striulng  down  tho 
B/i.e,  s.iz.d  his  arm  and  said  in  a  stage  whisper,  "  There's  blood  upon 
thy  face."  " 'Tis  Banquo's,  then,"  v.as  the  prompt.  Lost  and  bewil- 
d  vid — having  never  spoken  in  his  life  before  upon  the  stage — by  tho 
tragedian's  intense  yet  natural  tones,  tho  fellow,  Iniilaling  them  in  the 
most  confidential  manner,  answered,  ' '  Is  there,  by  God  Jr"  put  liis  hand 
up  to  his  forehead,  and,  finding  it  stained  with  pose  pink,  added,  *'  Then 
the  property  man's  served  me  a  trick  I" 

Once  upon  a  time  I  was  present  at  the  performance  of"  the  celebrated 
dog  piece,  * '  The  Forest  of  Bondy,"  in  a  small  country  theatre.    The  plot 


26  THEATEICAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDERS. 

turns  upon  a  well-kno"wn  story,  the  discovery  of  a  murder  through  the 
sagacity  of  tha  victim's  dog.     The  play -bill  descanted  most  eloquently 
upoJi  tha  \7onderful  genius  of  tiio  •'highly  traiacd"  animal,  aud  v..u-: 
Guliicicnt  to  raiso  cxpoctation  on  i"p-too.     Yft  it  had  evidently  fai]c?c^  to 
impress  th-3  public  of  this  town,  th^-ir  expcric'not'H  prob-ib-y  iiavl.ig  tju^ 
dv,red  them  sce-ptical  of  sucli  puiit-rlis,  for  tho  hou:sj  Wits  m:3„r.ibly  b.i;l. 
The  first  entrance  of  "the  celebrated  dog  Goisar,"  hov/evor,  in  atfcvudaiica 
upon  his  master,  was  greeted  with  loud  applause.     He  was  a  fine  young 
black  Newfoundland,  whose  features  v/ere  more  descriptive  of  good  nature 
than  genius.     He  sat  on  his  haunches  and  laughed  at  tha  audience,  and 
l^rickcd  up  his  ears  at  the  sound  of  a  boy  munching  a  biscuit  in  the  pit.      I 
could  perceive  he  was  a  novice,  and  that  he  would  forget  all  he  had  been 
taught  when  he  came  to  the  test.  While  Aubrey ,  the  hero,  is  passing  through 
a  forest  at  night,  he  is  attacked  by  two  rufiians,  and  after  a  desperate  co-ii- 
bat  is  killed ;  the  dog  is  supposed  to  be  kept  out  of  the  way.     But  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  fight,  Caasar,  whose  barking  had  been  distinctly 
heard  all  the  time,  nished  on  the   stage.     Far  from   evincing  any 
ferocity  towards  his  master's  foes,  he  danced  about  with  a  joyous  bark, 
evidently  considering  it  famous  fun.     Aubrey  was  furious,  and  kicked 
out  savagely  at  his  faithful  "  dawg,"  thereby  laj'ing  himself  open  to  tho 
swords  of  his  adversaries,  who,  however,  in  consideration  that  the  com- 
bat had  not  been  long  enough,   generously  refused  tho  advantages. 
**  Get  off,  you  beast !"  growled  Aubrey,  who  evidently  desirrd  to  fight 
it  out  without  canine  interference.     At  length,  when  tho  faltering  ap- 
plause from  the  gallery  began  to  show  that  the  gods  had  had  enough  of 
it,  the  assassins  buried  their  swords  beneath  their  victim's  arms,  and  he 
expired  in  great  agony ;  Cajsar  looking  on  from  the  respectful  distanco 
to  which  his  master's  kick  had  sent  him,  with  the  unconcern  of  a  per- 
son who  had  seen  it  all  done  at  rehearsal  and  knew  it  v/as  all  sham,  but 
with  a  decided  interest  of  eye  and  ear  in  tho  direction  of  the  biscuit- 
muncher.     In  the  next  act  ho  was  to  leap  over  a  stile  and  ring  the  beil 
at  a  farm  house,  and,  having  avv^akenad  the  inhabitants,  seize  a  lantern 
which  is  brought  out,  and  lead  them  to  the  spot  where  the  villaliia  have 
buried  his  master.     After  a  little  prompting  Ca:sar  leaped  the  sllle  and 
went  up  to  the  boll,  round  the  handle  of  which  vras  twisted  some  red 
cloth  to  imitate  meat ;  but  there  never  v/as  a  mor.3  matter-of-fact  dog 
than  tiil3  ;  ho  evidently  hated  all  shams,  even  a,rllstic  ones  ;  and  after  a 
sniif  at  the  red  rag  ho  wallied  oft  disgusted,  and  could  not  be  iiiducv.d 
to  go  on  again ;  so  the  people  had  to  rush  out  without  being  sumiuoned, 
caiTy  their  own  lantern,  and  find  their  v/ay  by  a  sort  of  canine  i?istinft, 
or  scent,  to  the  scene  of  tho  murder.     But  C?esar's  delinquencies  cnhni- 
natcd  in  the  last  scenf^,  where,  after  tho  chief  villain,  in  a  kind  of  lyn^h 
law  trial,  has  stoutly  assertvid  his  innocence,  tho  axgacious   "d-wvg" 
suddenly  bounds  upon  the  stage,  springs  at  his  throat,  and  puts  an  end 
to  his  infamous  career.     Being  held  by  the  collar,  and  incited  on,  in  tha 
side  scene,  Caesar's  dijep  bark  sounded  terribly  ferocious,  and  ssemad  to 
foreshadow  a  bloody  catastrophe ;  but  his  bark  proved  worse  than  hi» 


THEATEICAL'SIAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDERS.  27 

bite,  for  when  released  he  trotted  on  with  a  most  affable  expression  of 

conntsnanoe,  his  thoughts  still  evidently  bent  upon  biscuits ;  in  vain 

did  tha  villain  show  him  the  red  pad  upon  his  throat  and  iuvlt"^  lilm  to 

8:i3o  it.     Czesar  had  beon  deceived  oncj,  and  scorned  to  couaU  iiaac,'  an 

imposition.     Furious  with  passion,  thj  viUaTu  rusucd  at  hiin,  dr.  w  him 

Tip  on  his  hind  logs,  ciaspod  him  iu  his  amis,  th  ii  f.il  upon  th.i  stJi*^) 

and  writhod  in  frightful  agonies,  shrieking,  *'  Massy,  mus.-y,  tako  oil"  lao 

dawg  I"  and  the  curtain  fell  amidst  tiie  hovvls  and  iiissc-K  of  tlio  auJioTic!?3. 

Another  laughable  dog  story,  although  of  a  diffc  rent  kind,  wa ;  onuo 

delated  to  me  by  a  now  London  actor.     In  a  cerfciin  theatre  in  ono  of 

ihe  great  northern  cities  business  had  been  so  bad  for  some  time  that 

BAlaries  were  very  irregularly  paid.     It  is  a  pecuHarity  of  the  actor  that 

ho  is  never  so  jolly,  so  full  of  fun,  and  altogether  so  vivacious,  an  wlirn 

he  is  impecunious.     In  prosp'^rlty  he  is  dull  and  melancholy  ;  the  y<  1- 

low  dross  83ems  to   wt^igh  down  his  spirit,  to  stultify  it ;  empty  his 

pockets,  and  it  etheriahses  him.     At  the  theatre  in  question,  tiie  actors 

amused  themselves  if  thi^y  failod  to  amuse  tho  audi',nc3.     AttjiclKjd  to 

this   houso    was  a    mongrel  cur,   whom    some    or  th^.m  had  taught 

tricks  to  while  away  the  tedium  of  long  waits.     '*  Jack  " — such  was  his 

name — was  well  known  all  round  the  nciglibourhood,  and  to  most  of 

the  hnhttues  of  the  houso.     Among  his  oth.r  accomplishments  he  could 

simulate  death  at  command,  and  could  only  be  rocall:d  to  Hfe  by  a  crr- 

tain  piece  of  information  to  bd  prosently  mentioTud.     One  night  the 

manager  was  performing  *'The  Strang<;r"  to  about  hilf-a-dozou  pcoplr^. 

Francis  wa.3  standing  at  th^)  wing  waiting  for  his  cu*.  wh.:n  hi:i  cyo  fill 

apon  Jack,  Virho  was  standing  just  oif  the  stag 3  on  tli"!  opposit'^  sido  ;  an 

impish  thought  strack  him — ho  whistled — Jack  prick jd  up  his  car^,  and 

Francis  slapped  his  leg  and  called  him.     Ob  jdieut  to  th3  suemioas  Jack 

trotted  before  the  audience,  but  as  ha  reached  th 3  centre  of  th.)  stage 

ihe  word   '*dead!"  struck  upon  his  car.      Th3  n3xt  moment  h3v.'a3 

stretched  motionless  v/ith  his  tv/o  hind  legs  sticking  up  at  an  angle  of 

forty-fivo  degrees.     The  scene  was  tho  one  in  which  the  Stranger  r-latt^s 

to  Baron  Steinfort  the  story  of  his  wrong>?,  tind  hv)  had  come  to  the  lino, 

"My  heart  is  like  a  close-shut  sepulchre,"  v/hen  a  burst  of  iaught  r 

from  the  front  drew  his  attention  to  Jack,     Ho  saw  the  trick  that  had 

b-sen  playnd  in  an  instant.     "Get  0.%  you  bntel  "  he  growl.xl,  giving 

th3  anini'il  a  kick.     But  Jack  was  too  hi'f.::y  triln-^d  to  h3cd  BU-h  an 

admonition,  having  learned  bcforvihand  thiit  i\\t  liicki-ig  v-as  not  kj  b?.d 

a-3  tho   flogging  ho  would  g.t  for  not  p-rf.^v.r/iij  li-ri  j^art  con'-.^jtiy. 

'*Doan*t  tlia'  kick  poor  Jaci:,"  caliod  out  a  ron  ;'.i  voice,   "give  un  tho 

T:ord."     *'Ay,    ay,    give   un   tho   woi\i,"   ecuoed  half -a-doi' :n  voices. 

Th.?  inanaf;-r  ka-v/  b..ttcr  than  to  disr  ^^^ar.l  th :;  adviee  of  his  p?itrons, 

aj.'I  ground  out  bctAvecn  his  t?oth,   "II  r:'s  a  policeman  co-nlu-^."     At 

tliat  "open  Sesame"  Jack  wa.j  up  and  oix  like  a  shot.     It  murit  have 

boen  one  of  the  finest  bitJ  of  burlesque  to  have  seen  that  black-ringlet- 

wiggcd,-  sallow,-  dyspeptic,    tr;\gic-looking   individual,   repeating    tha 

dov/n's  fori^ula  over  a  mangy  cur. 


58  THEATEICAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDEES, 

The  failure  or  forgetfulness  of  stage  properties  is  frequently  a  source 
of  ludicrous  incidents.  People  are  often  killed  by  pistols  that  will  net 
fire,  or  stabbed  vv'ith  the  butt  ends.  In  some  play  an  actor  has  to  seize  a 
f dagger  from  a  table  and  stab  his  rival.  One  night  the  dagger  was  for- 
gotten and  no  substitute  was  there,  except  a  ca  'cUe^  which  the  excited 
actor  wrenched  from  the  candlestick,  and  madly  plunged  at  his  oppo- 
nents breast ;  but  it  effected  its  purpose,  for  the  victim  expired  in 
strong  convulsions.  It  is  strange  how  seldom  the  audience  perceive 
such  contretempSy  or  notice  the  extraordinary  and  ludicrous  slips  of  the 
tongue  that  are  so  frequent  upon  the  stage. 

A  playbill  is  not  always  the  most  truth-telling  pubhcation  in  the 
world.  Managers,  driven  to  their  wits'  ends  to  draw  a  sluggish  public, 
often  announce  entertainments  which  they  have  no  means  of  producing 
properly,  or  even  at  all,  and  have  to  exercise  an  equal  amount  of  inge- 
nuity to  find  substitutes,  or  satisfy  a  deluded  audience.  Looking 
.  through  some  manuscript  letters  of  E.  B.  Peake's  the  ether  day,  I  came 
across  a  capital  story  of  Bunn.  While  ha  was  manager  of  the  Birming- 
ham Theatre,  Power,  the  celebrated  Irish  comedian,  made  a  starring  en- 
gagement with  him.  It  was  about  the  time  that  the  dramatic  version 
of  Mrs.  Shelley's  "Frankenstein" — done,  I  beheve,  by  Peake  himself 
— was  making  a  great  sensation,  and  Power  announced  it  for  his  benefit, 
playing  ** the  Monster"  himself.  The  manager,  however,  refused  to 
spend  a  penny  upon  the  production.  **  You  must  do  with  what  you  can 
find  in  the  theatre,"  he  said.  There  was  only  one  difficulty.  In  the  last 
scene  Frankenstein  is  buried  beneath  an  avalanche,  and  among  the  stage 
scenery  of  the  Theatre  Eoyal,  Birmingham,  there  was  nothing  resem- 
bling an  avalanche  to  be  found,  and  the  avalanche  was  the  one  pro- 
digious line  in  the  playbill.  Power  was  continually  urging  this  difficulty, 
but  Bunn  always  eluded  it  with,  **0h,  we  shall  find  something  or 
other.'*  At  length  it  came  to  the  day  of  performance,  and  the  problem 
had  not  yet  been  solved. 

"  Well,  v/e  shall  have  to  change  the  piece,"  said  Power. 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  nonsense  !"  answered  the  manager. 

**  There  is  no  avalanche,  and  it  is  impossible  to  be  finished  without." 

"  Can't  you  cut  it  out  ?" 

"Impossible." 

The  manager  fell  into  a  brown  study  for  a  few  moments.  Then  sud- 
d-jnly  brightening  up,  ho  said,  "  I  have  it ;  but  they  must  let  the  green 
curtain  down  instantly  on  the  extraordinary  effect.  Hanging  up  in  tlia 
flies  is  the  large  elephant  made  for  '  Blue  Beard;'  we'll  have  it  white- 
washed." 

"  Vvhat?"  exclaimed  Pov/er. 

"  ^Ye'll  have  it  v.4iitc\yashcd,"  continued  the  manager  coolly ;  "  vrhat 
is  an  avalanche  but  a  vast  mass  of  white  ?  When  Frankenstein  is  to  bo 
annihilated,  the  carpenters  shall  shove  the  whitened  elephant  over  tha 
fiies — destroy  you  both  in  a  moment — and  down  comes  the  curtain," 

As  there  was  no  other  alternative,  P«wer  e'en  submitted.     Tk& 


THEATKICAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDERS.  29 

T^hitcned  elephant  was  ' '  shoved  "  over  at  the  right  moment,  the  cfT oct 
was  appaUing  from  the  front,  and  tho  cnrtain  dcsccndL:d  amidst  loud 
applause. 

Not  quite  so  successful  "was  a  hoax  perpetrated  by  Elliston,  diirinpf  Ids 
management  of  the  Birmingham  Theatre,  many  years  prvjAiou'ly.  Th  n, 
also,  business  had  been  very  bad,  and  he  was  in  great  difncuitics.  Let 
us  give  the  managers  their  due.  They  do  not,  as  a  rule,  r»>Svort  to 
Bwindles  except  under  strong  pressure ;  then  they  soothe  their  con- 
sciences with  the  reflection  that  as  an  obtuse  and  ungrateful  pubL'c  will 
not  support  their  legitimate  efforts,  it  deacrves  to  bo  bwindkd.  And  a 
very  good  reflection  it  is — from  a  managerial  point  of  vie  v/.  No  n^an 
was  more  fertile  in  expedients  than  Kobtrt  William  Ellifitcn  ;  so  aft/  r  a 
long  continuance  of  empty  benches,  tho  walls  aiid  boardings  of  tho 
town  were  one  morning  covered  with  glaring  posters  announcing  tliat 
the  manager  of  tho  Theatre  Royal  had  entered  into  an  engagement  with 
a  Bohemian  of  extraordinary  strength  and  stature,  who  v/ould  perform 
Eome  astonishing  evolutions  with  a  stone  of  upwards  of  a  ton  wei  ^ht, 
which  he  would  toss  about  as  easily  as  anotlier  would  a  tennis-lmll. 
"V>Tiat  all  the  famous  names  of  the  British  drama  and  all  the  talents  of 
its  exponents  had  failed  to  accomplish,  was  brouglit  about  by  a  stone, 
and  on  the  evening  announced  for  its  appearance  tho  house  was  crammed 
to  tho  ceiling.  The  exhibition  was  to  take  place  betv/cen  the  play  and 
the  farce,  ajid  scarcely  had  the  intellectual  audience  patience  to  listen  to 
the  piece,  so  eager  were  they  for  the  noblo  entf^rtainment  that  was  to 
follow.  At  length,  much  to  their  relief,  the  curtain  fell.  Tho  usual  in- 
tsrval  elapsed,  tho  hotise  became  impatient,  impatience  soon  mergod  into 
furioTis  clamonr.  At  length,  with  a  pale,  distraught  counteuauco,  Ellis- 
ton  rushed  before  the  curtain.  Li  a  moment  there  was  a  breathless 
silence. 

"  The  Bohemian  has  deceived  mo  !"  were  his  first  words.  "  Tlint  I 
could  have  pardoned ;  but  ho  has  deceived  you,  my  friends,  you  ;"  and 
his  voice  trembled,  and  he  hid  his  face  behind  his  handkerchief  and 
seemed  to  sob. 

Then,  bursting  forth  again,  he  went  on :  "I  repeat,  he  has  deceived 
me ;  he  is  not  here." 

A  yell  of  disappointment  burst  from  tho  house, 

"  The  man,"  continued  Elliston,  raising  his  voico,  **  of  whatever 
name  or  nation  ho  may  be,  who  breaks  his  word,  commits  an  oilenco 

v.hich "     Tho  rest  of  this  Joseph  Surface  sentiment  v.a^  drowned 

in  furious  clamour,  and  for  some  niinut  ;s  ho   could  not  ma3:e  himself 
heard,  until  he  drew  some  letters  from  his  x:)Ockct.  and  held  them  up. 

"Here  is  the  correspondence,"  he  said.  "Does  any  gcntl;  ran  h^ro 
und'^rstand  German?    If  so,  will  ha  oblige  me  by  stepping  forward  V" 

The  Birmingham  public  were  not  sti'ong  in  languages  in  those  days, 
it  would  seem,  for  no  gentleman  stepped  forward. 

"Am  I,  then,  left  alone?"  h©  exclaimed  in  tragio  accents.  "Well,  I 
viQ  translate  them  for  jou.** 


so  THEATEICAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDERS. 

Here  tliero  "^as  anothei*  uproar,  out  of  wliich  came  two  or  three 
voices,  **  No,  no."  Like  Buckingham,  he  chose  to  construe  the  t"wo  or 
thre3  itito  *' a  gi-u^ral  acclaim." 

"  Your  commands  shall  be  obeyed,"  ho  said  bowing,  and  pockctinrj 
the  correspondence.     ^^  lie  ill  iv4  read  them.     But  my  dear  patrons, 
your  kindness  merits  some  satisfaction  at  my  hands;  your  considt^ra- 
Uon  shall  not  go  unrewarded.     You  shall  not  say  you  have  paid  your 
money  for  nothing.      Thank  heaven,  I  can  satisfy  you  of  my  own  in- 
tegrity, and  present  you  vv^th  a  portion  of  the   entertainment  you  have 
paid  to  see.     The  Bohemian,  the  villain,  is  not  here.     But  the  stone  is, 
and  YOU  shall  see  it."     He  winked  at  the  orchestra,  which  struck  up 
a  lively  strain,  and  up  went  the  curtain,  disclosing  a  huge  piece  of  sand 
rock,  upon  which  was  stuck  a  label,  bearing  the  legend  in  large  letters, 
"  This  is  the  stone." 

It  need  scarcely  be  added  that  the  Bohemian  existed  only  in  tho 
manager's  brain.  But  it  is  a  question  whether  the  audience  which 
could  be  only  brought  together  by  such  an  exhibition  did  not  deserve 
to  be  swindled. 

An  equally  good  story  is  told  of  his  management  at  "Worcester.  For 
his  benefit  ho  had  announced  a  grand  display  of  fireworks !  No 
greater  proof  of  the  guUibihty  of  the  British  pubhc  could  be  adduced 
than  their  swallowing  such  an  announcement.  The  theatre  was  so 
small  that  such  an  exhibition  w^afe  practically  impossible.  A  little  before 
the  night  Elhston  called  upon  the  landlord  of  tho  property,  and  in  the 
course  of  conversation  hinted  at  tho  danger  of  such  a  display,  as 
though  the  idea  had  just  struck  him  ;  the  landlord  took  alarm,  and,  as 
Elliston  had  anticipated,  forbade  it.  Nevertheless  the  announcements 
remained  on  the  walls,  and  on  the  night  the  theatre  was  crowded.  The 
performance  proceeded  without  any  notice  being  taken  by  tho  manage- 
ment of  the  firevrorks,  untH  murmurs  swelled  into  clamour  and  loud 
cries.  Then  with  his  usual  kingly  ah*,  Elliston  came  forward  and 
bowed.  He  had  made,  he  said,  the  most  elaborate  preparation  for  a 
magnificent  pyrotechnic  display ;  he  had  left  nothing  undone,  but  at 
the  last  moment  came  the  terrible  reflection,  v/ould  it  not  be  dangerous  ? 
Tfould  there  not  be  collected  within  tho  walls  of  tho  theatre  a  number 
of  lovely  young  tender  girls,  of  respectable  matrons,  to  do  him  honour  ? 
"What  if  the  house  should  catch  fire — the  panic,  the  struggle  for  life — 
ah,  he  shuddered  at  tho  thought  I  Then,  too,  ha  thought  of  tlio  pro- 
p:;rty  of  that  v^rorthioRt  of  men,  tho  landlord — ho  r^i^h- d  to  consult  liira 
— and  ho  now  call' d  upon  him — thore  he  was,  seat  d  in  (ho  stage  box — 
to  i^ubiicly  statv?,  for  tho  satisf action  of  the  distinguiBhc:d  audienco  ha 
Ea^v■  b-for.)  him,  thfit  ho  had  forbidden  tho  performance  ItcllI  coiisidi.r- 
ations  of  naf-  ty.  TJio  landlord,  a  very  nervouf^  ir.an,  shrank  to  tho 
ba-'k  of  his  box,  scared  by  cv-  ry  cyo  in  tho  hour-:o  being  llxcd  rpou 
him ;  but  tho  audience,  thankful  for  tho  terrible  danger  they  had  es- 
caped, burst  into  thunders  of  applause. 

TLo  stories  are  endless  of  the  shifts  and  swindles  to  which  countrf 


THEATRICAL  MAKE-SHIFTS  AND  BLUNDERS.  31 

managers,  at  their  wits'  end,  have  had  to  resort  to  attract  a  sluggish 
public.  How  great  singers  have  been  advertised  that  never  htard  of 
such  ai  engagement,  and  even  forgpd  telegrams  read  to  an  t::pjctnnt 
p.jidienc;^,  to  account  lor  their  non-appf  umuci.  How  prizes  liav-  ben 
distributed  on  benefit  nights — to  people  who  gave  tii<^ni  back  a^aln. 
Row  audiences,  the  ^^ctimB  of  some  false  announcement,  have  b»cn  !•  f t 
Vr'aiting  patiently  for  the  performance  to  commence,  while  th<^  nmnagf^r 
was  on  his  way  to  another  town  with  their  money  in  liis  pocket.  But 
there  is  a  great  sameness  about  such  stories,  and  one  or  two  are  a  spoci- 
men  of  alL  H.  Babtok  Baeeb,  in  Bdr/ravla, 


L— 'WINTER-MORN  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

The  Sabbath  of  all  Nature  !    Stillness  rt'igns  • 

For  suow  has  fallen,  and  all  the  laud  is  white. 

The  cottage-roofs  slant  prey  atrafnpt  the  light. 
And  grey  the  sky,  nor  cloud  iior  blue  obtams. 

The  sun  is  moonlikc,  as  a  maiden  feigns 

To  veil  her  beauty,  yet  eenda  glances  bright 

That  fill  the  eye,  and  make  the  h^art  d«'llght. 
Expectant  of  gome  wonder.    Lengthened  trains 

Of  birds  wing  high,  and  straight  the  smoke  ascends. 
All  things  are  fairy-like ;  the  trees  empenrK^d 
With  frosty  gem-work,  like  to  trees  in  dream. 

Beneath  the  weight  the  slender  cedar  Ix'nds 
And  looks  more  ghost-like !    *'lMs  a  wonder-world, 
"Wherein,  indeed,  things  are  not  as  they  seem. 

n.-~WINTER-MORN  IN  TOWN. 

Throuqu  yellow  fog  all  tlnn£««  tnk'»  pp?ctral  shapes : 
L'imT^s  dimly  gloaiii,  and  lliro;>'j:li  tliD  waid^^w  pane 
The  light  is  shed  in  short  and  l)rokcn  lane  ; 

And  **"  darkucsj  vii^ible  "  piints,  ydwus,  and  gapes. 

From  roofs  the  water  drips,  as  from  high  capes, 

Half-freez"?  aH  it  falls.    Like  cries  oi  jjaiu 

Fog-signals  f'linlly  heard,  and  then  again 
Grave  warning  worda  to  him  who  rashly  apea 

The  skater,  nearer.    All  is  muffled  fast 
In  dense  doad  co'ls  of  vapour,  nothing  clear— 
The  world  disgui.-ed  in  umnimiug  masquerade. 

O'er  each  a  dull  thick  clinging  veil  is  cast. 
And  no  one  is  what  fain  he  would  appear : 
Vor  any  well-marked  track  on  whicli  to  tread, 

.  Alsx.  H.  Jaff,  in  Belgrcatia, 


THE  HAPPY  ViOLOT, 

A  BEMINISCENCE  OF  THE  HISiALATAB. 

The  privilege  v/hich  the  families  of  officers  in  the  service  of  the  Stato 
may  be  said  exclusively  to  possess,  of  rej)roduciiig  in  Upper  India — ^and 
especially  in  the  Himalayan  stations,  and  valley  of  Dhera  Dhoon — tha 
stately  or  cottage  homes  of  England,  is  perhaps  one,  to  a  great  extent, 
unfamiliar  to  their  relatives  at  home  ;  and  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say 
that  the  general  pubhc,  which,  as  a  rule,  considers  the  Indian  climate  an 
insuperable  barrier  to  all  enjoyment,  has  but  a  faint  idea  of  that  glorious 
beauty,  vrhich  is  no  *'  fading  flower,"  in  this  "  Happy  Valley,"  with  its 
broad  belt  of  virgin  forest,  that  lies  between  the  Himalayas  proper  and 
the  sharp  ridges  of  the  wild  SewaUc  range.  The  latter  forms  a  barrier 
between  the  sultry  plains  and  the  cool  and  romantic  retreats,  where  the 
swords  of  our  gallant  defenders  may  be  said  to  rest  in  their  scabbards, 
and  where,  surrounded  by  the  pleasures  of  domestic  life,  healtli  and  hap- 
piness may,  in  the  intervals  of  piping  times  of  p5ace,  be  enjoyed  to 
their  fullest  extent. 

In  such  favoured  spots  the  exile  from  home  may  live,  seemingly,  for 
the  present  only;  but,  in  truth,  it  is  not  so,  for  even  under  such 
favoured  circumstances  the  tie  with  our  natal  place  is  never  relaxed,  and- 
the  hope  of  future  return  to  it  adds  just  that  touch  of  pensivencss — 
scarcely  sadness — which  is  the  deUcate  neutral  tint  that  brings  out  more 
forcibly  the  gorgeous  colours  of  the  picture. 

The  gaieties  of  the  mountain  stations  of  Mussoorie'and  Landour  were 
now  appproaching  their  periodical  close,  in  the  early  part  of  October, 
when  the  cold  season  commences.  The  attractive  archery  meetii?gs  ou 
the  green  plat3aux  of  the  mountain-spurs  had  ceased,  and  balls  and 
sumptuous  dinner-parties  were  becoming  f ev/er  and  fewer ;  while  daily 
one  group  of  friends  after  another,  "with  lingering  steps  and  slow,"  on 
rough  hill-ponies  or  in  qun,int  jam-pans,  were  wending  their  way  some 
six  or  seven  thou>iand  feet  down  tlio  umbrageous  mountain-sides,  watched 
from  above  by  those  who  still  lingered  behind,  until  they  seemed  like 
toilsome  cmniL^ts  in  the  far  distance. 

Now  that  our  summer  companions  were  gone  we  used  to  while  away 
many  an  hour  with  our  glasses,  scanning  in  that  clear  atmosphere  tha 
vast  plains  str.  itched  out  beneath  us  like  a  rich  carpet  of  many  colours, 
but  in  which  forms  were  scarcely  to  be  traced  at  that  distance.  Here, 
twisted  silver  threads  represented  some  great  river ;  there,  a  sprinkhng 
of  rice-like  grains,  the  white  bungalows  of  a  cantonment;  while  occasionally 
a  sombre  mass  denoted  some  forest  or  mango  tope.  Around  us,  and 
quailing  under  fierce  gusts  of  wind  &om  the  passes  of  the  snowy  range 


THE  HAPPY  VATTiTX  » 

v^Tig  in  peaks  to  nearly  twice  tbe  altitode  of  the  Alps,  the  gnaried 
oaks,  now  denuded  of  their  earlier  garniture  oi  pacnntical  fema,  that 
•used  to  adoxn  their  mossy  branches  with  Natnre^s  own  point  ]ace,  seemed 
filmost  conscions  of  approaching  winter. 

Landour,  now  deserted,  save  by  a  few  invalid  soldiers  and  one  or  two 
residsnt  families,  had  few  attractions.  The  snow  was  lying  deep  on  the 
mountain-sides,  and  blocking  np  the  narrow  roads.  Bat  wintor  in  the 
Himalayas  is  a  season  of  startling  phenomena ;  for  it  is  then  that  thun- 
der storms  of  appallmg  grandeur  are  prevalent,  and  to  a  considerable 
extent  destructiye.  During  the  night,  amidst  the  wild  conflict  of  the 
elementa,  would,  not  unfrequently,  ba  heard  the  bugles  of  the  soldiers' 
•Sonatoriuni,  calling  to  those  who  could  sleep  to  arouse  themselYes,  and 
hasten  to  the  side  of  residents  whose  housea  bad  been  struck  by  the 
electric  fluid. 

StUl,  we  clung  to -our  mountain-home  to  the  last,  although  we  knew 
that  summer  awaited  us  in  the  valley  below,  and  that  in  an  hour  and  a 
half  we  might  with  ease  exchange  an  almost  hyperborean  climate  for  one 
\^'herd  summer  is  perennial,  or  seems  so-— for  the  rainy  season  is  but  an 
interlude  of  rcfroiiing  showers. 

At  length  an  incident  occurred  which  somewhat  prematurely  inflow 
enced  our  departure. 

As  we  wero  sitting  at  an  early  breakfast  one  morning  with  the  chil« 
dryn.  Khalifa,  a  favourite  domestic,  and  one  who  rsurely  failed  to  observe 
that  stately  decorum  peculiar  to  Indian  servants,  rushed  wildly  into  the 
room,  wiiSi  every  appearance  of  terror,  screaming,  **  Jinwiir  I  Burra 
janwar,  sahib !"  "^  at  the  same  time  pointing  to  the  window. 

We  could  not  at  first  understand  what  the  poor  fellow  meant ;  but  on 
looking  out,  were  not  a  little  disconcerted  at  the  sight  which  presented 
itself. 

Oouched  on  Uie  garden-wall  was  a  huge  spotted  animal  of  the  leopard 
species,  xt  jooked,  however,  by  no  means  ferocious,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  be  imploring  compassion  and  shelter  from  the  snowstorm.  Still, 
notwithstanding  its  demure  cat-like  aspect,  its  proximity  was  by  no 
means  agreeable.  V^ith  a  strange  lack  of  intelligence,  the  brute^  instead 
of  avoiding  the  cold,  had  evidently  become  bewildered,  and  crawled  up 
the  mountain  side.  As  we  could  scarcely  bo  expected  to  extend  the  rites 
of  hospitality  to  such  a  visitor,  the  harmless  discharge  of  a  pistol  insured 
his  departure  at  one  bound,  and  witli  a  terrific  growL 

Wild  beasts  are  rarely  seen  about  European  stations.  Those  who  like 
tiiem  must  go  out  of  their  way  to  find  them.  But  perhaps  stupefied  by 
cold  while  asleep,  and  pinched  by  hunger,  as  on  the  present  occasion, 
they  may  lose  their  usual  sagacity. 

Having  got  rid  of  our  unwelcome  visitor,  we  determined  at  once  to 
leave  our  mountain-home. 

The  servants  were  only  too  glad  to  hasten  onr  departme,  and  in  thd 


<'WUd  beast!    Big  wild  beut,  sir  r 


84  THE  HAPPY  VALLEY. 

t 

course  of  an  hour  everything  was  packed  up,  and  we  were  ready  for  tbo 
descent  into  the  plains. 

Notwithstanding  the  absence  of  a  police  force,  robberies  of  houses  are 
almost  unknown ;  and  therefore  it  was  only  necessary  for  us  to  draw 
down  the  blinds  and  lock  the  main  door,  leaving  the  furniture  to  take 
care  of  itself. 

The  jam-pans  and  little  rough  ponies  were  ready;  the  servants, 
although  shivering  in  their  light  clothing,  more  active  than  I  had  ever 
before  seen  them ;  and  in  the  course  of  another  hour  we  were  inhaling 
the  balmy  air  of  early  summer. 

The  pretty  little  hotel  of  Bajpore,  at  the  base  of  the  mountain,  was 
now  reached;  and  before  us  lay  the  broad  and  excellent  road,  shaded 
with  trees,  which,  in  the  course  of  another  twenty  minutes,  brought  us 
to  the  charming  cantonment  of  Deyrah.  All  Nature  seemed  to  be  re* 
joicing;  the  birds  were  singing;  the  sounds  of  bubbling  and  splashing 
waters  (mountain-streams  diverted  from  their  natural  channels,  and 
brought  into  every  garden),  and  hedges  of  the  double  pink  and  crimson 
Bareilly  rose*  in  full  bloom,  interspersed  with  the  oleander,  and  the 
mehndi  (henna  of  Scripture)  with  its  fragrant  clusters,  filling  the  air  with 
the  perfume  of  mignonette,  presented  a  scene  of  earthly  beauty  which 
cannot  be  surpassed. 

*  How  stupid  we  were,"  I  remarked,  looking  back  at  our  late  home, 
now  a  mere  black  speck  on  the  top  of  the  snowy  mountain  far  above — 
"  how  very  foolish  and  perverse  to  have  fancied  ourselves  more  English 
in  the  winter  up  there,  when  we  might  all  this  time  have  been  leading 
the  life  of  Eden,  in  this  enchanting  spot  I" 

"  Indeed  we  were,"  replied  my  companion.  **  But  it  is  the  way  with 
us  in  India.  We  give  a  rupee  for  an  English  daisy,  and  cast  aside  the 
honeyed  champah." 

In  India  there  is  no  difficulty  in  housing  oneself.  No  important  agents 
are  necessary,  and  advertising  is  scarcely  known.  Accordingly,  without 
ceremony,  we  took  quiet  possession  of  the  first  vacant  bungalow  which 
we  came  to,  and  our  fifteen  domestics  did  not  seem  to  question  for  a 
moment  the  propriety  of  the  occupation.  Under  our  somewhat  despo- 
tic government,  are  not  the  sahib  logf  above  petty  social  observances  ? 

While  A.  was  busily  employed  getting  his  guns  ready  and  preparing 
for  shikari  in  the  adjacent  forest  and  jungles,  which  swarm  with  pea- 
fowl, partridges,  quail,  pigeons,  and  a  variety  of  other  game,  my  first 
cara  was  to  summon  the  resident  mali  (gardener),  and  ascertain  how  the 
beautiful  and  extensive  garden  of  which  we  had  taken  possession  t  might 
be  further  stocked. 

"  Mem  sahib,  "§  said  the  quiet  old  gardener,  with  his  hands  in  a  sup, 
plicatory  position,   **  there  is  abundance  here  of  everything — aloo,  lal 

*  A  remarkable  plant.  It  is  in  constant  bloom.  On  every  spray  there  ia  a  central 
crimson  blossom,  which  only  lasts  one  day,  surrounded  by  five  or  six  pink  ones, 
Which  remain  for  many  days.  t  Dominant  class, 

)  Uou0e-rent  is  paid  monthly  in  India,  in  arrear.  §  My  lady. 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY.  85 

rag,  anjir,  padina,  bamgan,  payaz,  khiro,  shalghmn,  kobei,  ajmnd,  kbar- 
buza,  amb,  amrut,  anar,  narangi — ^'** 
' '  Stay  I"  I  interrupted ;   *  *  that  is  enongh.** 
Bat  the  old  mali  had  Bomething  more  to  add : 

'*Mem  sahib,  all  is  your  own,  and  your  slave  shall  daily  bring  his  cnSi- 
tomary  offering,  and  flowers  for  the  table ;  and  the  protector  of  the 
poor  will  not  refuse  bakshees  for  the  bearer.** 

I  promised  to  be  liberal  to  the  poor  old  man,  and  then  proceeded  to 
inspect  the  flower-garden. 

Here  I  was  surprised  to  find  a  perfect  fraternisation  between  the  trop- 
ical flora  and  our  own.  Amongst  flowers  not  unfamiliar  to  the  European 
were  abundance  of  the  finest  roses,  superb  crimson  and  gold  poincianas, 
the  elegant  hybiscus,  graceful  ipomoeas,  and  convolvuli  of  every  hue, 
the  purple  amaranth,  Sie  variegated  double  balsam,  the  richest  mari- 
golds, liie  pale-blue  clusters  of  the  plantago,  acacias,  jasmines,  oranges, 
and  pomegranates,  intermixed  with  our  own  pansies,  carnations,  cine- 
raiias,  geraniums,  fuchsias,  and  a  wealth  of  blossoms  impossible  to  re- 
member by  name. 
^'  If  there  is  a  paradise  on  earth,  it  is  this,  it  is  this  I** 
Far  more  beautiful  to  the  homely  eye  are  such  gardens  than  those  of 
Shalimar  and  Pinjore,  with  their  costly  marble  terraces,  geometrical 
walks,  fountains  and  cascades  falling  over  sculptured  slabs. 

Nor  arc  we  in  India  confined  to  the  enjoyment  of  Nature.  Artf  finds 
its  way  to  us  from  Europe,  and  literature  here  receives  the  warmest 
welcome.  Our  pianos,  our  musical-boxes — our  costly  and  richly  bound 
Illustrated  works,  fresh  from  England — the  most  thrilling  romances  of 
fiction,  and  all  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  are  regularly  accumulated  in 
these  charming  Indian  retreats,  and  keep  up  the  culture  of  the  mind  in 
a  valley  whose  "  glorious  beauty  "  is,  as  I  have  said,  no  "  fading  flower," 
but  tho  home  of  the  missionary,  and  the  resort  of  the  war-worn  soldier 
or  tmth-Ioving  artist. 

Nor  is  this  aU.  Around  Deyrah  is  some  of  the  most  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful cave  scenery,  comparatively  tmknown  even  to  Europeans ;  sucli, 
for  example,  as  the  wondrous  natural  tunnel,  whose  sides  shine  with  tho 
varied  hsauty  of  the  most  delicate  mosaics,  and  are  lit  up  by  rents  in 
tho  hill  above;  the  "dropping  cave"  of  Sansadhara,  "bosomed  high' 
in  tufted  trees ;"  and  the  strange  ancient  shrines  sculptured  in  the  ro- 
mantic glen  of  Topo-Kesur-Mahadeo. 

Of  these,  Sansadhara  has  lately  been  made  the  subject  of  a  beautiful 
photograph,  which,  however,  fails  to  convey  the  exquisite  charm  of  tho 
original ;  but  tho  natural  tunnel  and  Tope-Kesur-Mahadco  have  never 
been  presented  by  the  artist  to  tho  public,  although  tlicro  arc  nniquo 
sketches  of  them  in  the  fine  collection  of  a  lady  t  who,  as  tho  ^vilo  of  a 

•  Potato,  epinach,  fig,  miut,  egg-plant,  onion,  cucumber,  tuniip^  cabbage,  parsley, 
melon,  mango,  guava,  pomeo;ranutc,  orange, 
t  There  la  no  intentiou  of  dieparttging  Beautiful  native  art.        t  Lady  Oomm, 


m  THE  HAPPY  VALLEY. 

former  Indian  Commander-ln-OMef ,  had  opportuniliefl  afforded  to  few 
of  indulging  her  taste. 

One  might  exhaust  volumes  in  attempting  to  describe  such  scenes,  and 
even  then  f^l  to  do  them  the  faintest  justice.  The  Alps,  with  all  their 
beauty,  lose  much  of  their  grandeur  after  one  has  been  in  daily  contem- 
plation of  the  majestic  snowy  range  of  the  Himalayas,  while  the  forests 
and  valleys  that  skirt  its  base  have  no  counterpart  in  Europe.  In  these 
partial  solitudes  we  lose  much  of  our  conventionality.  The  mind  is  to 
a  certain  extent  elevated  by  the  grand  scale  on  which  Nature  around  is 
presented.  The  occasioned  alarm  of  war  teaches  the  insecurity  of  all 
earthly  happiness.  Our  life  is  subject  to  daily  introspection,  and  before 
ilie  mind's  eye  is  the  subhme  prospect,  perhaps  at  no  very  distant  pe- 
riod, of  a  Christian  India  rising  from  the  ruins  of  a  sensuous  idolatry  in 
immortal  beauty,  L.  A.,  i/i  London  Society, 


THE  PHOENICIANS  IN  GREECE. 

Herodotus  begins  his  history  by  relating  how  Phoenician  traders 
brought  " Egyptian  and  Assyrian  wares"  to  Argos  and  other  parts  of 
Greece,  in  those  remote  days  when  the  Greeks  were  stiU  waiting  to  re- 
ceive the  elements  of  their  culture  from  the  more  civilized  East,  His 
account  was  derived  from  Persian  and  Phoenician  sources,  but,  it  would 
seem,  was  accepted  by  his  contemporaries  with  the  same  unquestioning 
confidence  as  by  himself.  The  belief  of  Herodotus  was  shared  by  ths 
scholars  of  Europe  after  the  revival  of  learning,  and  there  were  none 
among  them  who  doubted  that  the  civilization  of  ancient  Greece  had 
been  brought  from  Asia  or  Egypt,  or  from  both.  Hebrew  was  regarded 
as  the  primaeval  language,  and  the  ^^rew  records  as  the  fountain-head 
of  all  history;  just  as  the  Greek  voeKulary,  therefore,  was  traced  back 
to  the  Hebrew  lexicon,  the  legends  of  primitive  Greece  were  believed  to 
be  the  echoes  of  Old  Testament  history,  fe  Otiente  lux  was  the  motto 
of  the  inquirer,  and  the  key  to  aU  that  was  dark  or  doubtful  in  the  my- 
thology and  history  of  Hellas  was  to  be  found  in  the  monuments  of  the 
Oriental  world. 

But  the  age  of  Creuzer  and  Bryant  was  succeeded  by  an  age  of 
scepticism  and  critical  investigation.  A  reaction  set  in  against  tho 
attempt  to  force  Greek  thought  and  culture  into  an  Asiatic  mould. 
The  Greek  scholar  was  repelled  by  the  tasteless  insipidity  and  barbaric 
exuberance  of  tho  East;  he  contrasted  the  works  of  Phidias  and 
Praxiteles,  of  Sophocks  and  Plato,  with  the  monstrous  creations  of 
India  or  Egypt,  and  the  conviction  grew  strong  within  him  that  the 
Greek  could  never  have  learnt  his  first  lessons  of  civilization  in  such  a 
school  as  this.  .  Between  the  East  and  the  "West  a  sharp  line  of  division 
was  drawn,  and  to  look  for  the  ozigia  of  Greek  culture  beyond  the  bound- 


THE  PHOENICIANS  IN  GREECE.  ST 

aries  of  Greece  itself  came  to  be  regarded  almost  as  sacriloge.  Greek 
mythology,  so  far  from  being  an  echo  or  caricature  of  Bibliciil  hinl^iry 
and  Oriental  mysticism,  was  pronomiced  to  be  Kelf-«\(>lv'-d  nud  inde- 
pendent, and  K.  O.  Miiller  could  deny  without  contradiction  the  Asiatic 
-origin  even  of  the  myth  of  Aphrodite  and  Adonis,  where  tho  name  of 
the  Semitic  sun-god  seems  of  itself  to  indicate  its  source.  The  Phceni- 
cian  traders  of  Herodotus,  like  the  royal  maiden  they  carried  away 
from  Argos,  were  banished  to  the  nebulous  region  of  rationalistic  fable. 
Along  with  this  reaction  against  the  Orientalizing  school  which  could 
Bee  in  Greece  nothing  but  a  deformed  copy  of  Eastern  wihdom  went 
another  reaction  against  the  conception  of  Greek  mytholog)'  on  which 
the  labours  of  the  OrientaUzing  school  had  been  based.  Key  after  tty 
had  been  applied  to  Greek  mythology,  and  all  in  vain ;  the  lock  had 
refused  to  turn.  The  light  which  had  been  supposed  to  come  from  the 
East  had  turned  out  to  be  but  a  will-o'-the-wisp  ;  neither  the  Hebrew 
Scriptures  nor  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics  had  solved  the  problem  pre- 
sented by  the  Greek  myths.  And  the  Greek  schohir,  in  despair,  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  problem  was  insoluble ;  all  that  ho 
could  do  was  to  accept  the  facts  as  they  were  set  before  him,  to  classify 
end  repeat  the  wondrous  tales  of  the  Greek  poets,  but  to  leave  their 
origin  tinexplaincd.  This  is  practicaUy  the  position  of  Grote  ;  ho  is 
content  to  show  that  all  the  parts  of  a  myth  hang  closely  together,  and 
that  any  attempt  to  extract  history  or  philosophy  from  it  must  bo  arbi- 
trary and  futile.  To  deprive  a  myth  of  its  kernel  and  soul,  and  call  the 
dry  husk  that  is  left  a  historical  fact,  is  to  mistake  the  conditions  of  the 
problem  and  the  nature  of  mythology. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  science  of  comparative  mythology 
stepped  in.  Grota  had  shown  that  we  cannot  look  for  history  in  mytii- 
ology,  but  he  had  given  up  the  discovery  of  the  origin  of  this  mythol- 
ogy as  a  hopeless  task.  The  same  comjyarative  method,  however, 
wMch  has  forced  nature  to  disclose  her  secrets  has  also  penetrated  to 
tha  sources  of  mythology  itself.  The  Greek  myths,  like  the  myths  of 
the  other  nations  of  the  world,  are  the  forgotten  and  misinterpreted 
records  of  the  beliefs  of  primitive  man,  and  of  his  earliest  attempts  to 
explain  tho  phenomena  of  nature.  Restore  the  original  meaning  of  the 
Language  wherein  the  myth  is  clothed,  and  the  origin  of  the  myth  is 
found.  Myths,  in  fact,  are  the  words  of  a  dead  language  to  which  a 
wrong  sense  has  been  given  by  a  false  method  of  decipherment.  A 
myth,  rightly  explained,  will  tell  us  the  beliefs,  the  feelings,  and  the 
knowledge  of  those  among  whom  it  first  grew  up  ;  for  the  evidences 
and  monuments  of  history  we  must  look  elsewhere. 

But  there  is  an  old  proverb  that  **  there  is  no  smoke  without  fire." 
The  war  of  Troy  or  tho  beleaguerment  of  Thebes  may  be  but  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  time-worn  story  of  the  battle  waged  by  the  bright  powers  of 
day  round  the  battlements  of  heaven ;  but  there  must  have  been  some 
reason  why  this  story  should  have  been  specially  localized  in  the  Troad 
and  at  Thebes.    Most  of  the  Greek  myths  have  a  backgrpund  in  spao^ 


»8  THE  PHCENIOIAKS  IN  OREECE. 

and  time ;  atid  for  this  background  there  must  be  some  historical  cause. 
The  cause,  however,  if  it  is  to  be  discovered  at  all,  must  be  discovered 
by  ^eans  of  those  evidences  which  will  alone  satisfy  the  critical  histo- 
rian. The  localization  of  a  myth  is  merely  an  indication  or  sign-post 
pointing  out  the  direction  in  which  he  is  to  look  for  his  facts.  If  Greek 
warriors  had  never  fought  in  the  plains  of  Troy,  we  may  bo  pretty  sure 
that  the  poems  of  Homer  would  not  have  brought  Akhilles  and  Aga- 
memnon under  the  walls  of  Ilium.  If  Phoenician  traders  had  exercised 
no  influence  on  primaeval  Greece,  Greek  legend  would  have  contained 
no  references  to  them. 

But  even  the  myth  itself,  when  rightly  questioned,  may  be  made  to 
yield  some  of  the  facts  upon  which  the  conclusions  of  the  historian  are 
based.  We  now  know  fairly  well  what  ideas,  usages,  and  proper  names 
have  an  Aryan  stamp  upon  them,  and  what,  on  the  other  hand,  belong 
rather  to  the  Semitic  world.  Now  there  is  a  certain  portion  of  Greek 
mythology  which  bears  but  little  relationship  to  the  mythology  of  the 
kindred  Aryan  tribes,  while  it  connects  itself  very  closely  with  the  be- 
liefs and  prEictices  of  the  Semitic  race.  Human  sacrifice  is  very  possi- 
bly one  of  these,  and  it  is  noticeable  that  two  at  least  of  the  legends 
which  speak  of  human  sacrifice — those  of  Athamas  and  Busiris — aro  as- 
sociated, the  one  with  the  Phoenicians  of  Thebes,  the  other  with  the 
Phoenicians  of  the  Egyptian  Delta.  The  whole  cycle  of  myths  grouped 
about  the  name  of  Herakles  points  as  clearly  to  a  Semitic  source  as  does 
the  myth  of  Aphrodite  and  Adonis ;  and  the  extravagant  lamentations 
that  accompanied  the  worship  of  the  Akhsean  Demeter  (Herod,  v.  61) 
come  as  certainly  from  the  East  as  the  olive,  the  pomegranate,  and  the 
myrtle,  the  sacred  symbols  of  Athena,  of  Hera,  and  of  Aphrodite.* 

Comparative  mythology  has  thus  given  us  a  juster  appreciation  of 
the  historical  inferences  we  may  draw  from  the  legends  of  prehistoric 
Greece,  and  has  led  us  back  to  a  recognition  of  the  important  part 
played  by  the  Phoenicians  in  the  heroic  age.  Greek  culture,  it  is  true, 
was  not  the  mere  copy  of  that  of  Semitic  Asia,  as  scholars  once  be- 
Heved,  but  the  germs  of  it  had  come  in  large  measure  from  an  Oriental 
seed-plot.  The  conclusions  derived  from  a  scientific  study  of  tho 
myths  have  been  confirmed  and  widened  by  tiie  recent  researches  and 
discoveries  of  archsBology.  The  spade,  it  has  been  said,  is  the  modem 
instrument  for  reconstructing  the  history  of  the  past,  and  in  no  depart- 
ment in  history  has  the  spade  been  more  active  of  late  than  in  that  of 
Greece.  From  all  sides  light  has  come  upon  that  remote  epoch  around 
which  the  mist  of  a  fabulous  antiquity  had  already  been  folded  in 
the  days  of  Herodotus ;  from  the  islands  and  shores  of  the  -SIgean, 
from  the  tombs  of  Asia  Minor  and  Palestine,  nay,  even  from  tho 
temples  and  palaces  of  Egypt  and  Assyria,  have  the  materials  been 
exhumed  for  sketching  in  something  like  clear  outline  the  origin  and 
growth  of  Greek  civilization.     From  nowhere,  however,  have  more  im- 

*  See  £.  Cartias :  Die  grlecliische  Gotterlehre  vom  geschichtlichen  Standpirnkt, 
in  rrewftische  JahrbwheTf  zxzfi.  pp.  1—17.    1876. 


THE  PH(ENIGIANS  IN  GBEECH  B9 

portant  revelations  been  derived  than  from  the  excavations  at  Mykenaa 
and  Spata,  near  Athens,  and  it  is  with  the  evidence  famished  by  these 
that  I  now  propose  mainly  to  deal.  A  personal  inspection  of  the  sites 
and  the  objects  found  upon  them  has  convinced  me  of  the  groimdJess* 
ness  of  the  doubts  which  have  been  thrown  out  against  tlieir  antiquity, 
as  well  as  of  the  intercourse  and  connection  to  wliich  they  testify  with 
the  great  empires  of  Babylonia  and  Assyria.  Mr.  Poole  has  lately  point- 
ed out  what  materials  are  furnished  by  the  Egyptian  monuments  for 
determining  the  age  and  character  of  the  antiquities  of  Mykcnse.*  I 
would  now  draw  attention  to  the  far  clearer  and  more  tangible  mate^ 
rials  afforded  by  Assyrian  art  and  history. 

Two  facts  must  first  be  kept  well  in  view.  One  of  these  is  the  Se. 
mitic  origin  of  the  Greek  alphabet.  '  The  Fhccnician  alphabet,  origin, 
ally  derived  from  the  alphabet  of  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  and  im^ 
ported  into  their  mother-country  by  the  Phoenician  scttltrs  of  the  Delta, 
was  brought  to  Greece,  not  probably  by  the  Phoenicians  of  Tyre  and 
Sidon,  but  by  the  Aramaeans  of  Jthe  Gulf  of  Anticch,  whose  nouns  end- 
ed with  the  same  *'  emphatic  akph  '*  that  we  seem  to  find  in  the  Greek 
names  of  the  letters,  alplui^  brpr^  f/ammn,  (gamla).  Before  the  intro- 
duction of  the  simpler  Phoenician  alphabet,  the  inhabitants  of  Asia 
Minor  and  the  neighbouring  islands  appear  to  have  used  a  syllabary  o^ 
some  seventy  characters,  which  continued  to  be  employed  in  conserva^ 
tiTe  Cyprus  down  to  a  very  late  date  ;  but,  so  far  as  we  know  at  pres 
ent,  the  Greeks  of  the  mamland  were  unacquainted  with  writing  before 
the  Aramaeo-Phoenicians  had  taught  them  their  phonetic  symbols.  Th^ 
oldest  Greek  inscriptions  are  probably  those  of  Thera,  now  Santorin, 
where  the  Phcenicians  had  been  settled  from  time  immemorial ;  and  ai 
the  forms  of  the  characters  found  in  them  do  not  differ  very  materially 
from  the  forms  used  on  the  famous  Moabite  Stone,  we  may  infer  that 
the  alphabet  of  Kadmus  was  brought  to  the  West  at  a  date  not  very  re^ 
mote  from  that  of  Mesha  and  Ahab,  perhaps  about  800  B.C.  We  may 
notice  that  Thera  was  an  island  and  a  Phoenician  colony,  and  it  certainly 
seems  more  probable  that  the  alphabet  was  carried  to  the  mainland 
from  the  islands  of  the  JEgean  than  that  it  was  disseminated  from  tha 
inland  Phoenician  settlement  at  Thebes,  as  the  old  legends  affirmed.  In 
any  case,  the  introduction  of  the  alphabet  impHes  a  considerable  amount 
of  civilizing  force  on  the  part  of  those  from  whom  it  was  borrowed ; 
the  teachers  from  whom  an  illiterate  people  learns  the  art  of  writing  are 
generally  teachers  from  whom  it  has  previously  learnt  the  other  ele- 
ments of  social  culture.  A  barbarous  tribe  will  use  its  muscles  in  the 
service  of  art  before  it  will  use  its  brains  ;  the  smith  and  engraver  pre^ 
cede  the  scribe.  If,  therefore,  the  Greeks  were  unacquainted  with 
writing  before  the  ninth  centmy,  B.C.,  objects  older  than  that  period 
may  be  expected  to  exhibit  clear  traces  of  Phoenician  influence,  though 
no  traces  of  writing. 

I  * 

•  CotUemporarif  Review,  Jaauary,  1878. 


40  THE  PHCENICIANS  IN  GREECE. 

The  other  fact  to  which  I  allude  is  the  existence  of  pottery  of  the 
same  material  and  pattern  on  all  the  prehistoric  sites  of  the  Greek 
world,  however  widely  separated  they  may  be.  We  find  it,  for  instance, 
at  Myken83  and  Tiryns,  at  Tanagra  and  Athens,  in  Khodes,  in  Cyprus, 
and  in  Thera,  while  I  picked  up  specimens  of  it  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Treasury  of  Minyas  and  on  the  site  of  the  Acropolis  at  Orchomenus. 
The  clay  of  which  it  is  composed  is  of  a  drab  colour,  derived,  perhaps 
in  all  instances,  from  the  volcdnic  soil  of  Thera  and  Melos,  and  it  is 
ornamented  with  geometrical  and  other  patterns  in  black  and  maroon- 
red.  After  a  time  the  patterns  become  more  complicated  and  artistic ; 
flowers,  animal  forms,  and  eventually  human  figures,  take  the-  place  of 
simple  lines,  and  the  pottery  gradually  passes  into  that  known  as  Corin- 
thian or  Phoeniko-Greek.  It  needs  but  little  experience  to  distinguish 
at  a  glance  this  early  pottery  from  the  red  ware  of  the  later  Hellenic 
period. 

Phoenicia,  Keft  as  it  was  called  by  the  Egyptians,  had  been  brought 
into  relation  with  the  monarchy  of  the  NUe  at  a  remote  date,  and 
among  the  Semitic  settlers  in  the  Delta  or  "Isle  of  Caphtor"  must 
have  been  natives  of  Sidon  and  the  neighbouring  towns.  After  the  ex- 
pulsion of  the  Hyksos,  the  Pharaohs  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
dynasties  carried  their  arms  as  far  as  Mesopotamia  and  placed  Egyptian 
garrisons  in  Palestine.  A  tomb-painting  of  Thothmes  III,  represents 
the  Kefa  or  Phoenicians,  clad  in  richly-embroidered  kilts  and  buskins, 
and  bringing  their  tribute  of  gold  and  sUver  vases  and  earthenware  cups, 
some  in  the  shape  of  animals  like  the  vases  found  at  Mykeme  and  else- 
v/here.  Phoenicia,  it  would  seem,  was  already  celebrated  for  its  gold« 
pmiths'  and  potters'  work,  and  the  ivory  the  Kefa  are  sometimes  made 
to  carry  shows  that  their  commerce  must  have  extended  far  to  the  east. 
As  early  as  the  sixteenth  century  B.C.,  therefore,  we  may  conclude  that 
the  Phoenicians  were  a  great  commercial  people,  trading  between  Assyria 
and  Egypt  and  possessed  of  a  considerable  amount  of  artistic  skill. 

It  is  not  likely  that  a  people  of  this  sort,  who,  as  we  know  from  other 
sources,  carried  on  a  large  trade  in  slaves  and  purple,  would  have  been 
still  unacquainted  with  the  seas  and  coasts  of  Greece  where  both  slaves 
and  the  murex  or  purple-fish  were  most  easily  to  be  obtained.  Though 
the  Phoenician  alphabet  was  unknown  in  Greece  tiU  the  ninth  century 
B.C.,  we  have  every  reason  to  expect  to  find  traces  of  Phoenician  com- 
merce and  Phoenician  influence  tiiere  at  least  five  centuries  before.  And 
Buch  seems  to  be  the  case.  The  excavations  carried  on  in  Thera  by  MM. 
Fouque  and  Gorceix,*  in  Khodes  by  Mr.  Newton  and  Dr.  Saltzmann, 
and  in  various  other  places  such  as  Megara,  Athens,  and  Melos,  have 
been  followed  by  the  explorations  of  Dr.  Schliemann  at  Hissarlik, 
Tiryns,  and  Mykenae,  of  General  di  Cesnola  in  Cyprus,  and  of  the 
Archaeological  Society  of  Athens  at  Tanagra  and  Spata. 

•  See  Fouqu(j*B  Mission  Scientifiquc  &  I'fle  de  Santorin  (Archives  des  Missloiis 
2e  B^rie,  iv.  iHQl) ;  Gorceix  in  tlie  Bulletin  de  I'Bcole  francaise  d^Ath^nes,  i. 


THE  PHCENIOIANS  IN  GEEECB.  ff 

The  accnmnlations  of  prehistoric  objects  on  these  sites  oil  tell  the 
same  tale,  the  influence  of  the  East,  and  more  especially  of  the  Phosni- 
cians,  upon  the  growing  civilization  of  early  Greece.  Thus  in  There, 
where  a  sort  of  Greek  Pompeii  has  been  preserved  under  the  lava  which 
once  overwhelmed  it,  we  find  the  rude  stone  hovels  of  its  primitive  in- 
habitants, with  roofs  of  wild  olive,  filled  vnth  the  bones  of  dogs  and 
sheep,  and  containing  stores  of  barley,  spelt,  and  chickpea,  copper  and 
stone  weapons,  and  abimdance  of  pottery.  The  latter  is  for  the  most 
part  extremely  coarse,  but  here  and  there  have  been  discovered  vases  of 
^tic  worWnship,  which  remind  us  of  those  carried  by  the  Kefa, 
and  may  have  been  imported  from  abroad.  We  know  from  the  tombs 
found  on  the  island  that  the  Phoenicians  afterwards  settled  in  Thora 
among  a  population  in  the  same  condition  of  civilization  as  that  which 
had  been  overtaken  by  the  great  volcanic  eruption.  It  was  from  theso 
Phoenician  settlers  that  the  embroidered  dresses  known  as  Therscan 
were  brought  to  (ireece ;  they  were  adorned  with  animals  and  othcF 
figures,  similar  to  those  seen  upon  Corinthian  or  Phoeniko-Greek  ware. 

Now  M.  Fr.  Lenormant  has  pointed  out  that  much  of  the  pottery  used 
by  the  aboriginal  inhabitants  of  Thera  is  almost  identical  in  form  and 
make  with  that  found  by  Dr.  Schliemann  at  Hissarlik,  in  the  Troad,  and 
he  concludes  that  it  must  belong  to  the  same  period  and  the  same  area 
of  civilization.  There  is  as  yet  little,  if  any,  trace  of  Oriental  influence ; 
a  few  of  the  clay  vases  from  Thera,  and  some  of  the  gold  workmanship 
at  Hissarlik,  can  alone  be  referred,  with  more  or  less  hesitation,  to  Phoo- 
nician  artists.  We  have  not  yet  reached  the  age  when  Phoenician  trade 
in  the  West  ceased  to  be  the  sporadic  effort  of  private  individuals,  and 
when  trading  colonies  were  established  in  different  parts  of  the  Greek 
world ;  Europe  is  still  unaffected  by  Eastern  culture,  and  the  beginnings 
of  Greek  art  are  still  free  from  foreign  interference.  It  is  only  in  certain 
designs  on  the  terra-cotta  discs,  believed  by  Dr.  Schliemann  to  be  spindle- 
whorls,  that  we  may  possibly  detect  rude  copies  of  Babylonian  and 
Phoenician  intaglios. 

Among  all  the  objects  discovered  at  Hissarlik,  none  have  been  more 
discussed  than  the  vases  and  clay  images  in  which  Dr.  Schliemann  saw 
a  representation  of  an  owl-headed  Athena.  "VMiat  Dr.  Schliemann  took 
for  an  owPs  head,  however,  is  really  a- rude  attempt  to  imitate  the  hu- 
man face,  and  two  breasts  are  frequently  moulded  in  the  clay  below  it. 
In  many  examples  the  human  countenance  is  unmistakable,  and  in  most 
of  the  others  the  representation  is  less  rude  than  in  the  case  of  the  small 
marble  statues  of  Apollo  (?)  found  in  the  Greek  islands,  or  even  of  the 
early  Hellenic  vases  where  the  men  seem  furnished  with  the  beaks  of 
bii"ds.  But  we  now  know  that  theso  curious  vases  arc  not  peculiar  to  the 
Troad.  Specimens  of  them  have  also  been  met  with  in  Cyprus,  and  in 
these  we  can  trace  the  development  of  the  owl-like  head  into  the  more 
perfect  jwrtraiture  of  the  human  face.*  In  conservative  Cyprus  there 
■       '-■■'  — ■ — — —  * 

*Se«,  for  example,  Di  Cesuola's  Cyprus,  pp.  401,  403. 


4^  THE  PHCENICIANS  JN  GREECE. 

was  not  that  break  with  the  past  which  occurred  in  other  portions  of  tho 
Greek  world. 

Cyprus,  in  fact,  lay  midway  between  Greece  and  Phoenicia,  .and  was 
shared  to  the  last  between  an  Aryan  and  a  Semitic  population.  The 
Phoenician  element  in  the  island  was  strong,  if  not  preponderant ;  Paphos 
was  a  chief  seat  of  the  worship  of  the  ^Phoenician  Astarte,  and  the  Pho9- 
nician  Kitium,  the  Chittim  of  the  Hebrews,  took  first  rank  among  the 
Cyprian  towns.  The  antiquities  brought  to  light  by  General  di  Ces- 
nola  are  of  eU  ages  and  all  styles — prehistoric  and  classical,  Phoeni- 
cian and  Hellenic,  Assyrian  and  Egj^ptian — and  the  various  styles  are 
combined  together  in  the  catholic  spirit  that  characterized  Phoenician 
art. 

But  we  must  pause  here  for  a  moment  to  define  more  accurately  what 
we  mean  by  Phoenician  art.     Strictly  speaking,  Phoenicia  had  no  art  of 
its  own ;  its  designs  were  borrowed  from  "Egjpt  and  Assyria,  and  its 
artists  went  to  school  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  and  the  Euphrates.     Tho 
Phoenician  combined  and  improved  upon  his  models ;  the  impulse,  the 
originatioil  came  from  abroad ;  the  modification  and  elaboration  were 
his  own.     He  entered  into  other  men's  labours,  and  made  the  most  of 
his  heritage.     The  sphinx  of  Egypt  became  Asiatic,  and  in  its  new  form. 
was  transplanted  to  Nineveh  on  the  one  side  and  to  Greece  on  tho  other. 
The  rosettes  and  other  patterns  of  the  Babylonian  cylinders  were  intro- 
duced into  the  handiwork  of  Phoenicia,  and  so  passed  on  to  the  West, 
while  the  hero  of  the  ancient  Chaldean  epic  became  first  the  Tyrian 
Melkarth,  and  then  the  Herakles  of  Helled.     It  is  possible,  no  doubt, 
that  with  all  this  borrowing  there  was  still  something  that  was  original 
in  Phoenician  work ;  such  at  any  rate  seems  to  be  the  case  with  some  of 
the  forms  given  to  the  vases ;  but  at  present  we  have  no  means  of  de- 
termining how  far  this  originaUty  may  have  extended.     In  Assyria,  in- 
deed, Phoenician  art  exercised  a  great  influence  in  the  eighth  and  seventh 
centuries  b.c.  ;  but  it  had  itself  previously  drawn  its  first  inspiration 
from  the  empire  of  the  Tigris,  and  did  but  give  back  the  perfect  blossom 
to  those  from  whom  it  had  received  the  seed.     The  workmanship  of  the 
ivories  and  bronze  bowls  found  at  Nineveh  by  Mr.  Layard  is  thoroughly 
Phoenician ;  but  it  cannot  be  separated  from  that  of  the  purely  Assyrian 
pavements  and  bas-rehef  s  with  which  the  palaces  were  adorned.     The 
Phoenician  art,  in  fact,  traces  of  which  we  find  from  Assyria  to  Italy, 
though  based  on  both  Egyptian  and  Assyrian  models,  owed  far  more  to 
Assyria  than  it  did  to  Egypt.     In  art,  as  in  mythology  and  religion, 
Phoenicia  was  but  a  carrier  and  intermediary  between  East  and  West ; 
and  just  as  the  Greek  legends  of  Aphrodite  and  Adonis,  of  Herakles 
and  his  twelve  laboiu'S,  and  of  the  other  borrowed  heroes  of  Oriental 
story  came  in  the  first  instance  from  Assyria,  so  did  that  art  and  culture 
which  Kadmus  the  Phoenician  handed  on  to  the  Greek  race. 

But  Assyria  itself  had  been  equally  an  adapter  and  intermediary. 
The  Semites  of  Assyria  and  Babylonia  had  borrowed  their  culture  and 
civilization  from  the  older  Accadian  race,  with  its  agglutinativ*  lan< 


THE  PHCBKIGIANS  IN  GBEECK  43 

gnage,  which  had  preceded  them  in  the  possessioii  of  Chaldea.  So 
slavishly  observant  were  the  Assyrians  of  their  Chaldean  models  that  in 
a  land  where  limestone  was  plentiful  thej  continued  to  build  theu'  pal- 
aces and  temples  of  brick,  and  to  ornament  them  with  those  columns 
and  pictorial  representations  which  had  been  &nst  devised  on  the  allu- 
vial plains  of  Babylonia.  To  understand  Assyrian  art,  and  track  it  back 
to  its  source,  we  must  go  to  the  eilgraved  gems  and  ruined  temples  of 
pnnuBval  Babylonia.  It  is  true  that  Egypt  may  have  had  some  influ- 
ence on  Asi^iian  art,  at  the  time  when  the  eighteenth  dynasty  had 
pushed  its  conquests  to  the  banks  of  the  Tigris ;  but  that  influence  docs 
not  seem  to  have  been  either  deep  or  permanent.  Now  the  art  of 
Assyria  is  in  great  measure  the  art  of  Fha3nicia,  and  that  again  the  art 
of  prehistoric  Greece.  Modem  research  has  discovered  the  prototype 
of  Herakles  in  the  hero  of  a  Chaldean  epic  composed  it  may  be,  four 
thousand  years  ago ;  it  has  also  discovered  the  beginnings  of  Greek 
cohunnar  architecture  and  the  germs  of  Greek  art  in  the  works  of  the 
builders  and  engravers  of  early  Chaldea. 

"When  first  I  saw,  five  years  ago,  the  famous  sculpture  which  has 
guarded  the  Gate  of  lions  at  Mykeme  for  so  many  centuries,  I  was  at 
once  struck  by  its  Assyrian  character.  The  Uons  in  form  and  attitude 
belong  to  Assyria,  and  the  pillar  against  which  they  rest  may  be  seen  in 
the  bas-reliefs  brought  from  Nineveh.  Here,  at  all  events,  there  was 
dear  proof  of  Assyrian  influence  ;  the  only  question  was  whether  that 
influence  had  been  carried  through  the  hands  of  the  Phoenicians  or  liad 
travelled  along  the  highroad  which  ran  across  Asia  Minor,  the  second 
channel  whereby  the  culture  of  AssyrJa  could  have  been  brought  to 
Greece.  The  existence  of  a  similar  sculpture  over  a  rock-tomb  at  Kum- 
bet  in  Phrygia  might  seem  to  favour  the  latter  view. 

The  discoveries  of  Dr.  Schhemann  have  gone  far  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion. The  pottery  excavated  at  Mykenae  is  of  the  Phoenician  type,  and 
the  clay  of  which  is  comjKJsed  has  probably  come  from  Thera.  The 
terra-cotta  figures  of  animals  and  more  especially  of  a  goddess  with 
long  robe,  crowned  head,  and  crescent-like  arms,  are  spread  over  the  whole 
area  traversed  by  the  Phoenicians.  The  image  of  the  goddess  in  one  form 
or  another  has  been  found  in  Thera  and  Melos,  in  Naxos  and  Paros,  in 
loR,  in  Sikinos,  and  in  Anaphos,  and  M.  Lenormant  has  traced  it  back 
to  Babylonia  and  to  the  Babylonian  representation  of  the  goddess  Artemis- 
Nana.*  At  Tanagra  the  image  has  been  found  under  two  forms,  both, 
however,  made  of  the  same  clay  and  in  the  same  style  as  the  figm'es 
from  MykensQ.  In  one  the  goddess  is  upright,  as  at  Mykena3,  witii  the 
polos  on  her  head,  and  the  arms  either  outspread  or  folded  over  the 
breast ;  in  the  other  she  is  sitting  with  the  arms  crossed.  Now  among 
the  gold  ornaments  exhumed  at  Mykenae  are  some  square  pendants  of 
gold  which  represent  the  goddess  in  this  sitting  posture,  t 

The  animal  forms  most  commonly  met  with  are  those  of  the  lion, 

*  GoMem  Archiologiquei  ii  3^9.     1 6ee  SohUemum's  ^cens  and  Tix^rns,  ikLSTS. 


44  THE  PH(ENICIANS  IN  GEEECE. 

the  stag,  the  bull,  the  cuttle-fish,  and  the  murex.  The  last  two  point 
unmistakably  to  a  seafaring  race,  and  more  especially  to  those  Phoe- 
nician sailors  whoso  pursuit  of  the  purple-trade  first  brought  thorn  into 
Greek  seas.  So  far  as  I  know,  neither  the  polypus  nor  the  murex,  nor 
the  butterfly  which  often  accompanies  them  have  been  found  in  Assy- 
ria or  Egypt,  and  we  may  therefore  see  in  them  original  designs  of 
Phoenician  art.  Mr.  Newton  has  pdinted  out  that  the  cuttle-fish  (like 
the  dolphin)  also  occurs  among  the  prehistoric  remains  from  lalysos  in 
Rhodes,  where,  too,  pottery  of  the  same  shape  and  material  as  that  of 
Mykenos  has  been  found,  as  well  as  beads  of  a  curious  vitreous  sub- 
stance, and  rings  in  which  the  back  of  the  chaton  is  rounded  so  a^  to 
fit  the  finger.  It  is  clear  that  the  art  of  lalysos  belongs  to  the  same 
age  and  school  as  the  art  of  MykenaB  ;  and  as  a  scarab  of  Amenophis 
in.  has  been  found  in  one  of  the  lalysian  tombs,  it  is  possible  that  the 
art  may  be  as  old  as  the  fifteenth  century  B.C. 

Now  lalysos  is  not  the  only  Rhodian  town  which  has  yielded  prehis- 
toric antiquities.  Camirus  also  has  been  explored  by  Messrs.  Biliotti 
and  Saltzmann  ;  and  while  objects  of  the  same  Idnd  and  character  as 
those  of  lalysos  have  been  discovered  there,  other  objects  have  been 
found  by  their  side  which  belong  to  another  and  more  advanced  stage 
of  art  There  are  vases  of  clay  and  metal,  bronze  bowls,  and  the  like, 
which  not  only  display  high  finish  and  skill,  but  are  ornamented  with 
the  designs  characteristic  of  Phoenician  workmanship  at  Nineveh  and 
elsewhere.  Thus  we  have  zones  of  trees  and  animels,  at1;empts  at  the 
representation  of  scenery,  and  a  profusion  of  ornament,  while  the  in- 
fiuence  of  Egypt  is  traceable  in  the  sphinxes  and  scarabs,  which  also 
occur  plentifully.  Here,  therefore,  at  Camirus,  there  is  plain  evidence 
of  a  sudden  introduction  of  finished  Phoenician  art  among  a  people 
whose  art  was  still  rude  and  backward,  although  springing  from  the 
same  germs  as  the  art  of  Phoenicia  itself.  Two  distinct  periods  in  tlie 
history  of  the  Mge&n  thus  seem  to  Ue  unfolded  before  us ;  one  in  which 
Eastern  infl.uence  was  more  or  less  indirect,  content  to  communicate 
the  seeds  of  civilization  and  culture,  and  to  import  such  objects  as  a 
barbarous  race  would  prize  ;  and  another  in  which  the  East  was,  as  it 
were,  transported  into  the  West,  and  the  development  of  Greek  art  was 
interrupted  by  the  introduction  of  foreign  workmen  and  foreign  beliefs. 
This  second  period  was  the  period  of  Phoenician  colonization  as  distinct 
from  that  of  mere  trading  voyages — the  period,  in  fact,  when  Thebes 
was  made  a  Phoenician  fortress,  and  the  Phoenician  alphabet  diffused 
throughout  the  Greek  world.  It  is  only  in  relics  of  the  later  part  oi 
this  period  that  we  can  look  for  inscriptions  and  traces  of  writing,  at 
least  in  Greece  proper ;  in  the  islands  and  on  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor, 
the  Cypriote  syllabary  seems  to  have  been  in  use,  to  be  supersedeij 
afterwards  by  the  simpler  alphabet  of  Kadmus.  For  reasons  presently 
to  be  stated,  I  would  distingiush  the  first  period  by  the  name  of  Phry^ 
gian. 

Throtij{hoat  the  wholo  of  it,  boweTdr,  the  Phoaoiciaii  trading  ships 


THE  PH(£NICIA17S  IK  GBEECE.*  45 

must  hare  formed  the  chief  medinm  of  inteircoTtne  between  Asia  azid 
Europe.  Proof  of  this  has  been  furnished  by  the  rock  tombs  of  Spata, 
which  have  been  lighted  on  opportunely  to  illustrate  and  explain  the  dis- 
coveries at  Mykensd.  Bpata  is  about  nine  miles  from  Athens,  on  the  ' 
north-west  spur  of  Hymettos,  and  the  two  tombs  hitherto  opened 
are  cut  in  the  soft  sandstone  rock  of  a  small  conical  hill.  Both  are  ap- 
proached by  long  tunnel-like  entrances,  and  one  of  them  contains  three 
chambers,  leading  one  into  the  other,  and  each  &shioned  after  the  model 
of  a  house.  No  one  who  has  seen  the  objects  unearthed  at  Spata  can 
doubt  for  a  moment  their  close  connection  with  the  Mykensean  antiqui- 
ties. The  very  moulds  found  at  Mykenis  fit  the  ornaments  from  Spata, 
and  might  easily  have  been  used  in  the  manufacture  of  them.  It  is 
more  especially  with  the  contents  of  the  sixth  tomb,  discovered  by  Mr. 
Stamataki  in  Uie  enceinte  at  Mykense  after  Dr.  Schliemann's  departure, 
that  the  Spata  remains  agree  so  remarkably.  But  there  is  a  strong  re- 
semblance between  them  and  the  Mykenaean  antiquities  generally,  in 
both  material,  patterns,  and  character.  The  cuttle-fish  and  the  murex 
appear  in  both ;  the  same  curious  spiral  designs,  and  ornaments  in  the 
shape  of  shells  or  rudely-formed  oxheads ;  the  same  geometrical  pat- 
terns ,-  the  same  class  of  carved  work.  An  ivory  in  which  a  lion,  of  the 
Assyrian  type,  is  depicted  as  devouring  a  stag,  is  but  a  reproduction  of  a 
similar  design  met  with  among  the  objects  from  Mykense,  and  it  is  in- 
teresting to  observe  that  the  same  device,  in  the  same  style  of  art,  may 
be  also  seen  on  a  Phoenician  gem  from  Sardinia.*  Of  still  higher  in- 
terest are  other  ivories,  which,  like  the  antiquities  of  Camims,  belong 
rather  to  the  second  than  to  the  first  period  of  Phoenician  infiuence.  One 
of  these  represents  a  column,  which,  like  that  above  the  Gate  of  Lions, 
carries  us  back  to  the  architecture  of  Babylonia,  while  others  exhibit  the 
Egyptian  sphinx,  as  modified  by  Phoenician  artists.  Thus  the  handle  of 
a  comb  is  divided  into  two  compartments — the  lower  occupied  by  three 
of  these  sphinxes,  the  upper  by  two  others,  which  have  their  eyes  fixed 
on  an  Assyrian  rosette  in  the  middle.  Similar  sphinxes  are  engraved  on 
a  silver  cup  lately  discovered  at  PaJestrina,  bearing  the  Phoenician  in- 
scription, in  Phoenician  letters,  **Eshmun-ya*ar,  son  of  A8hta\"t  An- 
other ivory  has  been  carved  into  the  form  of  a  human  side  face,  sur^ 
mounted  by  a  tiara  of  four  plaits.  On  the  one  hand  the  arrangement 
of  the  hair  of  the  face,  the  whisker  and  beard  forming  a  fringe  round 
it,  and  the  two  lips  being  closely  shorn,  reminds  us  of  what  we  find  at 
Palestrina ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  head-dress  is  that  of  the  figures  on 
the  sculptured  rocks  of  Asia  Minor,  and  of  the  Hittite  princes  of  Oar- 
chemish.  In  spite  of  this  Phoenician  colouring,  however,  the  treasures 
of  Spata  belong  to  the  earlier  part  of  the  Phoenician  period,  if  not  to 
that  which  I  have  called  Phrygian :  there  is  as  yet  no  sign  of  writing, 
no  trace  of  the  use  of  iron.     But  we  seem  to  be  approaching  the  close 

*  Given  by  La  Marmora  in  the  Memorie  della  Reale  Academia  delle  ScImlm  dl 
Torino  (1864),  vol.  xiv.,  pi.  8,  fig.  63. 

t  Ctiwa  in  the  JCoaumnll  &  lasfeitato  Somno^  liVib 


^6,  THE  PHCENICIANS  IN  GEEECK 

of  the  bronze  age  in  Greece — to  have  reached  the  time  when  the  lions 
were  sculptured  over  the  chief  gateway  of  Mykenss,  and  the  so-called. 
treasuries  were  erected  in  honour  of  the  dead.   • 

Can  any  date  be  aasigned,  even  approximately,  to  those  two  periods 
of  Phoenician  influence  in  Greece  ?  Can  we  localize  the  era,  so  to  speak, 
of  the  antiquities  discovered  at  Mykeiue,  or  fix  the  epoch  at  which  its 
kings  ceased  to  build  its  long-enduring  monuments,  and  its  glory  was 
teiken  from  it  ?  I  think  an  answer  to  Qiese  questions  may  be  found  in  a 
series  of  engraved  gold  rings  and  prisms  found  upon  its  site — the 
prisms  having  probably  once  served  to  ornament  the  neck.  In  these  we 
can  trace  a  gradual  development  of  art,  which  in  time  becomes  less 
Oriental  and  mora  Greek,  and  acquires  a  certain  f  acihty  in  the  represen- 
tation of  the  human  form. 

Let  us  first  fix  our  attention  on  an  engraved  gold  chaton  found,  not 
in  the  tombs,  but  outside  the  enceinte  among  the  ruins,  as  it  would  seem, 
of  a  house.*  On  this  we  have  a  rude  representation  of  a  figure  seated 
undsr  a  palm-tree,  with  another  figure  behind  and  three  more  in  front, 
the  foremost  being  of  small  size,  the  remaining  two  considerably  taller 
and  in  flounced  dresses.  Above  are  the  symbols  of  the  sun  and  crescent- 
moon,  and  at  the  side  a  row  of  lions*  heads.  Now  no  one  who  has  seen 
this  chaton,  and  also  had  any  acquaintance  with  the  engraved  gems  of 
the  archaic  period  of  Babylonian  art,  can  avoid  being  struck  by  thd 
fact  that  the  intaglio  is  a  copy  of  one  of  the  latter.  The  character- 
istic workmanship  of  the  Babylonian  gems  is  imitated  by  punches 
made  in  the  gold  which  give  the  design  a  very  curious  effect.  The 
attitude  of  the  -figures  is  that  common  on  the  Chaldean  cylinders; 
the  owner  stands  in  front  of  the  deity,  of  diminutive  size,  and  in  the 
act  of  adoration,  while  the  priests  are  placed  behind  him.  The  latter 
wear  the  flounced  dresses  peculiar  to  the  early  Babylonian  priests; 
and  what  has  been  supposed  to  represent  female  breasts,  is  really 
a  copy  of  the  way  in  which  the  breast  of  a  man  is  frequently 
portrayed  on  the  cylinders,  t  The  pahn-tree,  with  its  single  fruit 
hanging  on  the  left  side,  is  characteristically  Babylonian ;  so  also  are 
the  symbols  that  encircle  the  engraving,  the  sun  and  moon  and  Hons* 
heads.  The  chaton  of  another  gold  ring,  found  on  the  same  spot,  is 
covered  with  similar  animal  heads.  This,  again,  is  a  copy  of  early 
Babylonian  art,  in  which  such  designs  were  not  unfrequent,  though,  as 
they  were  afterwards  imitated  by  both  Assyrian  and  Cyprian  engravers, 
too  much  stress  must  not  be  laid  on  the  agreement,  t    The  artistic  posi- 

*  Schliemann :  Mycence  and  Tiryoft,  p.  530. 

t  Sec.  for  instance,  the  example  given  in  Kawlinson^s  Ancient  Monarchies  {1st 
edit.);  i.  p.  IIA,  where  the  Hoanced  priest  has  what  looks  liice  a  woman's  breast. 
Dancing  Doys  and  men  in  the  East  still  wear  these  floonces,  which  are  variously,  col- 
oured (see  Lof  tus :  Chaldea  and  Susiana,  p.  22 ;  George  Smith :  Assyrian  Discov- 
eries, p.  130). 

t  See,  for  example,  Layard :  Nineveh  and  Babylon,  pp.  6M,  C06 ;  Di  Ce&nola : 
C?yprus.  pi.  81,  No.  7 ;  pi.  32,  No.  19.  A  copy  of  tke  Mykennan  engraving  is  given  is 
Bchliemann^sHyceneeand  TifyvftrP^^^*'       --' 


f 


THE  PHCENICIAilS  IN  GREECE.  4T 

tion  and  age  of  the  other  ling,  however,  admits  of  little  doabt  The 
archaic  period  of  Babylonian  art  may  be  said  to  cloise  with  the  rise  of 
Assyria  in  the  fonrteenth  century  B.C. ;  and  thongh  archaic  Babylonian 
intaglios  continued  to  be  imported  into  the  West  down  to  the  time  of 
the  Bomans,  it  is  not  likely  that  they  were  imitated  by  Western  artists 
after  the  latter  had  become  acquainted  witih  better  and  more  attractive 
models.  I  think,  therefore,  that  the  two  rings  may  be  assigned  to  the 
period  of  archaic  Baylonian  power  in  western  Asia,  a  period  that  begios 
with  the  victories  of  Naram-Sin  in  Palestine  in  the  seventeenth  century 
B.C.  or  earlier,  and  endd  with  the  conquest  of  Babylon  by  the  Assyrians 
and  the  establishment  of  Assyrian  supremacy.  This  is  also  the  period 
to  which  I  am  inclined  to  refer  the  introduction  among  the  Phcenicians 
and  Greeks  of  the  colunm  and  of  certain  geometrical  patterns,  which 
had  their  first  home  in  Babylonia.*  The  lentoid  gems  with  their  rude 
intagUos,  found  in  the  islands,  on  the  site  of  Herseum,  in  the  tombs  of 
MykensB  and  elsewhere,  belong  to  the  same  age,  and  point  back  to  the 
loamy  plain  of  Babylonia  where  stone  was  rare  and  precious,  and 
whence,  consequently,  the  art  of  gem-cutting  was  spread  through  the 
ancient  world.  We  can  thus  understand  the  existence  of  artistic  designs 
and  other  evidences  of  civilizing  influence  among  a  people  who  were 
not  yet  acquainted  with  the  use  of  iron.  The  eariy  Chaldean  Empire, 
in  spite  of  the  culture  to  which  it  had  attained,  was  still  in  the  bronze 
age ;  iron  was  almost  unknown,  and  its  tools  and  weapons  were  fash- 
ioned of  stone,  bone,  and  bronze.  Had  the  Greeks  and  the  Phoenicians 
before  them  received  their  first  lessons  in  culture  from  Egypt  or  from 
Asia  Minor,  where  the  Khalybes  and  other  allied  tribes  had  worked 
in  iron  from  time  immemorial,  they  would  probably  have  received  this 
metal  at  the  same  time.  But  neither  at  HiKsarh'k  nor  at  Mykenae  is  there 
any  trace  of  an  iron  age. 

The  second  period  of  Western  art  and  civilization  is  represented  by 
some  of  the  objects  found  at  Mykenaa  in  the  tombs  themselves.  The 
intagUos  have  ceased  to  be  Babylonian,  and  h^ve  become  markedly 
Assyrian.  First  of  all  we  have  a  hunting  scene,  a  favourite  subject 
with  Assyrian  artists,  but  quite  unknown  to  genuine  Hellenic  art.  The 
disposition  of  the  figures  is  that  usual  in  Assyrian  sculpture,  and,  like 
the  Assyrian  king,  the  huntsman  is  represented  as  riding  in  a  chariot 
A  comparison  of  this  hunting  scene  with  the  bas-reliefs  on  the  tomb- 
stones which  stood  over  the  graves  shows  that  they  belong  to  the  same 
age,  while  the  spiral  ornamentation  of  the  stones  is  essentially  Assyrian. 
Equally  Assyrian,  though  better  engraved,  is  a  lion  on  one  of  the  gold 
pnsms,  which  might  have  been  cut  by  an  Assyrian  workman,  so  truo  is 
it  to  its  Oriental  model,  and  after  this  I  would  place  the  representation 


iAAAAfc 


48  THE  PHCENICIANS  IN  GREECE. 

of  a  straggle  between  a  man  (perhaps  Heraldes)  and  a  lion,  in  'which, 
though  the  lion  and  attitude  of  the  combatants  are  Assyrian,  the  man  is 
no  longer  the  Assyrian  hero  Gisdhnbar,  but  a  figure  of  more  Western 
type.  In  another  intaglio,  representing  a  fight  between  armed  warriors, 
the  art  has  ceased  to  be  Assyrian,  and  is  struggling  to  become  native. 
Wo  seem  to  bo  approaching  the  period  when  Greece  gave  over  walking 
in  Eastern  leading-strings,  and  began  to  step  forward  firmly  withont 
help.  As  I  believe,  however,  that  Qie  tombs  within  the  enceinte  are  of 
older  date  than  the  Treasuries  outside  the  Acropolis,  or  the  Gate  of  Liors 
whi^h  belongs  to  the  same  age,  it  is  plain  that  we  have  not  yet  reached 
the  time  when  Assjrro-Phoenician  influence  began  to  decline  in  Greece. 
The  lions  above  the  gate  would  alone  be  proof  to  the  contrary. 

But,  in  fact,  Phoenician  influence  continued  to  be  felt  up  to  the  jend  of 
the  seventh  century  b.o.  PasFdng  by  the  so-called  Corinthian  vases,  or 
the  antiquities  exhumed  by  General  di  Cesnola  in  Cyprus,  where  the 
Phoenician  element  was  strong,  we  have  nmnerous  evidences  of  the  fact 
from  all  parts  of  Greece.  Two  objects  of  bronze  discovered  at  Olympia 
may  be  specially  signalized.  One  of  these  is  an  oblong  plate,  narrower 
at  one  end  than  at  the  other,  ornamented  with  repoinse  work,  and  divi- 
ded into  four  compartments.  In  the  first  compartment  are  figures  of  the 
nondescript  birds  so  often  seen  on  the  '*  Corinthian"  pottery;  in  the 
next  come  two  Assyrian  gryphons  standing,  as  usual,  face  to  face ; 
while  the  third  represents  the  contest  of  Herakles  with  the  Kentaur, 
thoroughly  Oriental  in  design.  The  Kentaur  h.is  a  human  forefront, 
covered,  however,  with  hair ;  his  tail  is  abnormally  long,  and  a  three- 
branched  tree  rises  behind  him.  The  fourth  and  largest  com- 
partment contains  the  figure  of  the  Asiatic  goddess  with  the  four 
wings  at  the  back,  and  a  lion,  held  l)y  the  hind  leg,  in  either 
hand.  The  face  of  the  goddess  is  in  profile.  The  whole  design  is 
Assyro-Phasnician,  and  is  exactly  reproduced  on  some  square  gold 
plates,  intended  probably  to  adorn  the  breast,  presented  to  the  Louvre 
by  the  Due  de  Luynes.  The  other  object  to  which  I  referred  is  a 
bronze  dish,  ornamented  on  the  inside  with  rcpmiHfte  work,  which  at 
first  sight  looks  Egyptian,  but  is  really  that  Phoenician  modification  of 
Egyptian  art  so  common  in  the  eighth  and  seventh  centuries  B.C.  An 
inscription  in  the  Aramaic  characters  of  the  so-called  Sidonian  branch 
of  the  Phoenician  alphabet  is  cut  on  the  outside,  and  reads:  ** Belong- 
ing to  Neger,  son  of  Miga."*  As  the  word  used  for  "son"  is  the  Ara- 
iraic  bar  and  not  the  Phoenician  heri^  we  may  conclude  that  the  owner 
of  the  dish  had  come  from  northern  Syria.  It  is  interesting  to  find  a 
silver  cup  embossed  with  precisely  the  same  kind  of  design,  and  also 
bearing  an  insciiption  in  Phoenician  letters,  among  the  treasures  dis- 
covered in  a  tomb  at  Palestrina,  the  ancient  PraBueste,  more  than  a  year 
ago.  This  inscription  is  even  briefer  than  the  other:  **Eshmunya'ar 
son  of  'Ashta.,"t  where,  though  hen  is  employed,  the  father's  name  has 

•  LNGB  .  BR  .  MIQA*.  t  ASHMNYA'R  .  SNA'  SHTA. 


THE  PHCENICIANS  IN  GBEECE.'  4^ 

oa  Aramaic  form.  Hclbig  wotild  refer  these  Italian  specimens  of 
Phcemcian  skill  to  the  Carthaginian  epoch,  partly  on  the  ground  that  an 
A^can  species  of  ap^  seems  sometimes  represented  on  them;*  in  this 
case  they  might  be  as  late  as  the  fifth  century  before  the  Christian  era. 
During  the  earlier  part  of  the  second  period  of  Phaenician  influence, 
Fhoenieia  and  the  PhoBnician  colonies  were  not  the  only  channel  by 
which  the  elements  of  Assyrian  culture  found  their  way  into  the  \iest. 
The  monnments  and  religious  beliefs  of  Asia  IVIinor  enable  us  to  trace 
their  progress  from  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates  and  the  ranges  of  the 
Taurus,  through  Cappadocia  and  Phrygia,  to  the  coasts  and  islands  of 
the  .^gean.  The  near  affinity  of  Greek  and  Phrygian  is  recognized 
even  by  Plato  ;t  the  legends  of  Midas  and  Gordius  formed  part  of 
Greek  mythology,  and  -the  royal  house  of  Mykenae  was  mada  to  come 
\7ith  all  its  wesdth  from  the  golden  sands  of  the  Paktolus ;  while  on 
the  other  hand  the  cult  of  Ma,  of  Attys,  or  of  the  Ephesian  Artemis 
points  back  to  an  Assyrian  origin.  The  sculptures  found  by  Pen-ot  t 
and  Texier  constitute  a  link  between  the  prehistoric  art  of  Greece  and 
that  of  Asia  Minor ;  the  spiral  ornaments  that  mark  the  antiquities  of 
Mykense  are  repeated  on  the  royal  tombs  of  Asia  Minor ;  and  the  ruins 
of  Sardis,  "where  once  ruled  a  dynasty  derived  by  Greek  writers  from 
Ninus  or  Nineyeh,  "the  son  of  Bell,"  the  grandson  of  the  Assyrian 
Herakles,§  may  yet  pour  a  flood  of  light  on  the  earlier  history  of 
Greece.  But  it  was  rather  in  the  first  period,  which  I  have  termed 
Phrygian,  than  in  the  second,  that  the  influence  of  Asia  Minor  was 
strongest.  The  figure  of  the  goddess  riding  on  a  leopard,  with  mural 
crown  and  peaked  shoes,  on  the  rock-tablets  of  Pterium,||  is  borrowed 
rather  from  the  cylinders  of  early  Babylonia  than  from  the  sculptures 
of  Assyria ;  and  the  Hissarlik  collection  connects  itself  more  with  the 
primitive  antiquities  of  Santorin  than  with  the  later  art  of  Mykense  and 
Cyprus.  "We  have  already  seen,  however,  the  close  relationship  that 
crists  between  some  of  the  objects  excavated  at  Mykenae  and  what  we 
may  call  the  pre-Phoenician  art  of  lalysos, — that  is  to  say,  the  objects 
in  which  the  influence  of  the  East  is  indirect,  and  not  direct  The  dis- 
covery of  metallurgy  is  associated  with  Dodona,  where  the  omcle  long 
continued  to  be  heard  in  the  ring  of  a  copper  chaldron,  and  where  M. 
Rarapanos  has  foxmd  bronze  plates  with  ^e  geometrical  and  circular 
patterns  which  distinguish  the  earliest  art  of  Greece ;  now  Dodona  is 
the  seat  of  primaeval  Greek  civilization,  the  hmd  of  the  SeUoi  or  Helloi, 
of  the  Graioi  themselves,  and  of  Pelasgian  Zeus,  while  it  is  to  the  north 
that  the  legends  of  Orpheus,  of  Musseus,  and  of  other  early  civilizers 
looked  back.  But  even  at  Dodona  we  may  detect  traces  of  Asiatic  in- 
finence  in  the  part  played  there  by  the  doves,  as  well  as  in  the  story  of 
Deucalion's  deluge,  and  it  may,  perhaps,  be  not  too  rash  to  conjecture 

; J 

•  Anuali  d.  Istitnto  Romano,  1876.  t  Kratylns,  410  a, 

1  Exploration  Arch6olOffiqae  de  la  Galatie  et  du  la  Bithynie. 

ij  See  H«rodotas,  L7.  tl  Tezler :  Description  de  TAsic  Mineore,  L 1,  pL  78, . 


BO  THE  PHOENICIANS  IN  GREECE: 

that  c\  en  before  the  days  of  Phoenician  enterprise  and  barter,  an  eclio 
of  Babylonian  civilization  had  reached  Greece  through  the  medinm  of 
Asia  Minor,  whence  it  was  carried,  partly  across  the  bridge  formed  by 
the  islands  of  the  Archipelago,  partly  through  the  mainland  of  Thrace 
and  Epirus.  The  Hittites,  with  their  capital  at  Carchemish,  seem  to 
have  been  the  centre  from  which  this  borrowed  civiUzatioii  was  spread 
northward  and  westward.  Here  was  the  home  of  the  art  which  cha- 
racterizes Asia  Minor,  and  we  have  only  to  compare  the  bas-relief  of 
Pterium  with  the  rock  sculptures  found  by  Mr.  Davis  associated  with 
**Hamathite"  hieroglyphics  at  Ibreer,  in  Lycaonia,*  to  see  how  inti- 
mate is  the  connection  between  the  two.  These  hieroglyphics  were  the 
still  undeciphered  writing  of  the  Hittite  tribes^  and  if,  as  seems  pos- 
sible, the  Cypriote  syllabary  were  derived  from  ihem,  they  would  be  a 
testimony  to  the  western  spread  of  Hittite  influence  at  a  very  early 
epoch.  The  Cypriote  characters  adopted  into  the  alphabets  of  Lycia 
and  Karia,  as  well  as  the  occurrence  of  the  same  characters  on  a  hone 
and  some  of  the  terra-cotta  discs  found  by  Dr.  Schliemann  at  Hissarlik, 
go  to  show  that  this  influence  would  have  extended,  at  any  rate,  to  the 
coasts  of  the  sea. 

The  ti-aces  of  Egyptian  influence,  on  the  contrary,  are  few  and  faint. 
No  doubt  the  Phoenician  alphabet  was  ultimately  of  Egyptian  origin, 
no  doubt,  too,  that  certain  elements  of  Phoenician  art  were  borrowed 
from  Egypt,  but  before  these  were  handed  oif  to  the  West,  they  had 
first  been  profoundly  modified  by  the  Phoenician  settlers  in  the  Delta 
and  in  Canaan.  The  influence  exercised  immediately  by  Egypt  upon 
Greece  belongs  to  the  historic  period;  the  legends  which  saw  an  Egyp- 
tian emigrant  in  Kekrops  or  an  Egyptian  colony  in  the  inhabitante  of 
Argos  wera  fables  of  a  late  date.  Whatever  intercourse  existed  between 
Egypt  and  Greece  in  the  prehistoric  period  was  carried  on,  not  by  the 
Egyptians,  but  by  the  Phoenicians  of  the  Delta ;  it  was  they  who 
brought  the  scarabs  of  a  Thothmes  or  an  Amenophis  to  the  islsmds  of 
the  ^gean,  like  their  descendants  afterwards  in  Italy,  and  the  proper 
names  found  on  the  Egyptian  monuments  of  the  eighteenth  and  nine- 
teenth dynasties,  which  certain  Egyptologists  have  identified  with  those 
of  Greece  and  Asia  Minor,  belong  rather,  I  believe,  to  Libyan  and  Se- 
mitic tribes,  t  Like  the  sphinxes  at  Spata,  the  indications  of  inter- 
course with  Egypt  met  with  at  Mykenas  prove  nothing  more  than  the 
wide  extent  of  Phoenician  commerce  and  the  existence  of  Phoenician 
colonies  at  the  mouths  of  the  Nile.  Ostrich-eQgs  covered  with  stucco 
dolphins  have  been  found  not  only  at  Mykenco,  but  also  in  the  grotto 
of  Polledrara  near  Vulci  in  Italy ;  the  Egyptian  porcelain  excavated  at 
MykensB  is  painted  to  represent  the  fringed  dress  of  an  Assyrian  or  a 

*  Transactions  of  the  Society  of  Biblical  Arch*olo^y,  iv.  2, 18T6. 

+  I  have  given  the  reasons  of  my  scepticiHm  in  the  Academy ^  of  May  30, 1874. 
Brn^scli  Bejr,  the  leading  authority  on  the  geography  of  the  Egyptian  mouumeDts, 
would  now  identify  those  names  with  those  tribes  in  KolkliiB,  and  its  neighbonr- 
hood.  -  - . 


THE  PHCENIGIAHS  IN  GKEECE.  51 

Phceziician,  not  of  an  Egyptian ;  and  though  a  gold  mask  belonging  to 
Prince  Kha-em-Uas,  ana  resembling  the  famous  masks  of  Mykenie,  has 
been  brought  to  the  Louvre  from  an  Apis  chamber,  a  similar  mask  of 
small  size  \^as  disoovered  last  year  in  a  tomb  on  the  site  of  Arndus. 
Such  intercourse,  however,  as  existed  between  Greece  and  the  Delta 
must  have  been  very  restricted ;  otherwise  we  should  surely  have  some 
specimens  of  writing,  some  traces  of  the  Phoenician  alphabet.  It  would 
not  have  been  left  to  the  Aramaeans  of  Syria  to  introduce  the  **  Kadmc- 
ian  letters  "  into  Greece,  and  MykensB,  rather  than  ThebeSj  would  have 
been  made  the  centra  from  which  they  were  disseminated.  Indeed,  wo 
may  perhaps  infer  that  even  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor,  near  as  it  was  to 
the  Phoenician  settlements  at  Kamirus  and  elsewhere,  could  have  held 
but  little  intercourse  with  the  Phoenicians  of  Egypt  from  the  fact  that 
the  Cypriote  syllabary  was  so  long  in  use  upon  it,  and  that  the  alpha- 
bets s^srwards  employed  were  derived  only  indirectly  from  the  Phceni- 
eian  through  the  medium  of  the  Greek. 

One  point  more  now  alone  needs  to  be  noticed.  The  long-continued 
influence  upon  early  Greek  culture  which  we  ascribe  to  the  Phoenicians 
cannot  but  have  left  its  mark  upon  the  Greek  vocabulary  also.  Some 
at  least  of  the  names  given  by  the  Phoenicians  to  the  objects  of  luxury 
they  brought  with  them  must  have  been  adopted  by  the  natives  of  Hel- 
las. Vfe  know  that  this  is  the  case  with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet ;  is 
it  also  the  case  with  other  words  ?  If  not,  analogy  would  almost  com- 
pel us  to  treat  the  evidences  that  have  been  enumerated  of  Phasniciau 
influence  as  illusory,  and  to  fall  back  upon  the  position  of  O.  K.  MUller 
and  his  school.  By  way  of  answer  I  would  refer  to  the  list  of  Greek 
words,  the  Semitic  origin  of  which  admits  of  no  doubt,  lately  given  by 
Dr.  August  Miiller  in  Bezzenberger's  "Beitrage  zur  Kunde  der  indoger- 
iiianischen  Sprachen."*  Amongst  these  we  find  articles  of  luxury  like 
*•  linen,"  "shirt,"  '* sackcloth,"  "myrrh,"  and  " frankincense,"  "  gal- 
baaum "  and  "  cassia,"  "  cinnamon "  and  "  soap,"  "lyres "  and"  wine- 
jars,"  "balsam "and  " cosmetics,"  as  well,  possibly,  as  "fine  linen" 
and  "  gold,"  along  with  such  evidences  of  trade  and  literature  as  the 
''pledge,"  "the  writing  tablet,"  and  the  "shekel."  If  these 
were  the  only  instances  of  Semitic  tincture,  they  would  be  enough  to 
prove  the  early  presence  of  the  Semitic  Phoenicians  in  Greece.  But  we 
must  remember  that  they  are  but  samples  of  a  class,  and  that  many 
words  borrowed  during  the  heroic  age  may  have  dropped  out  of  use  or 
been  conformed  to  the  native  part  of  the  vocabulary  long  before  the  be- 
ginning of  the  written  literature,  while  it  would  be  in  the  lesser  known 
dialects  of  the  islands  that  the  Semitic  element  was  strongest.  We 
know  that  the  dialect  of  Cyprus  was  full  of  importations  from  the  East. 

In  what  precedes  I  have  made  no  reference  to  the  Homeric  poems, 
and  the  omissicm  may  be  thought  strange.  But  Homeric  illustrations  of 
the  presence  of  the  Phoenicians  in  Greece  will  occur  to  every  one,  while 

!i.PP.87»-«01(18n^. 


5t  THE  PHCENIOIAKS  IN  GEEECE. 

b<5th  the  Hiad  and  the  Odyssey  in  their  existing  form  are  too  modem  t<i 
be  quotK:5d  -svitjiout  extreme  caution.     A  close  inyestigation  of  their  lan- 
guage shows  that  it  is  the  slow  growth  of  generations ;  iEoUc  f omiulse 
from  the  lays  first  recited  in  the  towns  of  the  Troad  are  embodied  in 
Ionic  poems  where  old  Ionic,  new  Ionic,  and  even  Attic  jostle  against 
one  another,  and  traditional  words  and  phrases  are  furnished  with  mis- 
taken meanings  or  new  forms  coined  by  false  analogy.  ■  It  is  difficult  to 
separate  the  old  from  the  new,  to  say  with  certainty  that  this  allusion 
belongs  to  the  heroic  past,  this  to  the  Homer  of  Thcopompus  and  Eu- 
phorion,  the  contemporary  of  the  Lydian  Gyges.     The  art  of  Homer  is 
not  the  art  of  Mykenro  and  of  the  early  age  of  Phoenician  influence  ; 
iron  is  abready  taking  the  place  of  bronze,  and  the  shield  of  Akhilles  or 
the  palace  of  Alkinous  bear  witness  to  a  developed  art  which  has  freed 
itself  from  its  foreign  bonds.     Six  times  are  Phoenicia  and  the  Phoeni- 
cians mentioned  in  the  Odyssey,  once  in  the  Biad  ;*  elsewhere  it  is  Si- 
don  and  the  Sidonians  that  represented  them,  never  Tyre.f    Such  pas- 
sages, therefore,  cannot  belong  to  the  epoch  of  Tyrian  supremacy, 
which  goes  back,  at  all  events,  to  the  age  of  David,  but  rather  to  the 
brief  period  when  the  Assyrian  king  Shahnaneser  laid  siege  to  Tyre,  and 
his  successor  Sargon  made  Sidon  powerful  at  its  expense.     This,  too, 
was  the  period  when  Sargon  set  up  his  record  in  Cyprus,  "the  isle  of 
Yavnan  "  or  the  lonians,  when  Assyria  first  came  into  immediate  con- 
tact with  the  Greeks,  and  when  Phoenician  artists  worked  at  the  court  of 
Kineveh  and  carried  their  wares  to  Italy  and  Sardinia.     But  it  was  not 
the  age  to  which  the  reUcs  of  Mykense,  in  spite  of  paradoxical  doubts, 
reach  back,  nor  that  in  which  the  sacred  bull  of  Astarte  carried  th^ 
Phoenician  maiden  Europa  to  her  new  home  in  the  west. 

A,  H.  Satce,  in  Contemporary  Review. 

— — ^ ^ 

•  Phcenicia,  Od.  iv.  83 ;  xiv.  291.  Phamidans,  Od.  xiii.  27S ;  xv.  415.  AJ^hcerA 
dan,  Od.  xiv.  288.    A  Phoenician  tvoman,  Od.  xiv.  288 ;  II.  xiv.  321. 

t  Sidon,  Sidonia,  U.  vi.  291 ;  Od.  xiii.  28i ;  xv.  425.  Sidonians^  II.  vi.  290 :  Od.  i* 
84,  618 ;  xv.  118. 


SOME  GOSSIP  ABOUT  LEICESTER  SQUAEE. 

Is  old-world  London,  Leicester  Square  played  a  much  more  important 
part  than  it  does  to-day.  It  was  then  the  choaen  refuge  of  royalty  and 
the  home  of  wit  and  genius.  Time  was  when  it  glittered  with  throngs 
of  lace^bedizened  gallants ;  when  it  trembled  beneath  the  chariot-wheels 
of  Beauty  and  Fashion ;  when  it  re-echoed  with  the  cries  of  jostling 
chairmen  and  link-boys ;  when  it  was  trodden  by  the  feet  of  the  great- 
est men  of  a  great  epoch — Newton  and  Swift,  Hogarth,  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, and  a  host  of  others  more  or  less  distinguished.  Mr.  Tom  Tay- 
lor, in  his  interesting  work  entitled  "Leicester  Square,"  tells  us  that 
the  Ticissitudes  of  a  London  quarter  generally  tend  downwards  through 
a  regular  series  of  decades.  It  is  first  fashionable  ;  then  it  is  profes- 
Bional ;  then  it  becomes  a  favourite  locality  for  hotels  and  lodging- 
houses  ;  then  the  industrial  element  predominates,  and  then  not  infre- 
quently a  still  lower  depth  is  reached.  Leicester  Square  has  been  no 
exception  to  this  rule.  Its  reputation  in  fact  was  becoming  very  shady 
indeed,  when  the  improvement  of  its  central  indosuro  gave  it  somewhat 
of  a  start  upwards  and  turned  attention  to  its  early  history. 

Of  old,  many  of  these  grand  doings  took  place  at  Leicester  House, 
which  was  the  first  house  in  the  Square.  It  was  built  by  Robert  Sidney, 
Earl  of  Leicester,  a  staunch  Royalist,  somewhere  about  1(J36.  His  sons, 
Viscount  Lisle  and 'the  famous  Algernon  Sidney,  grew  up  less  of  Royal- 
ists than  he  was ;  and  to  Leicester  House,  with  the  sanction  and  wel- 
come of  its  head,  came  many  of  the  more  prominent  Republicans  of 
the  day,  Vane  and  Neville,  Milton  and  Bradshaw,  Ludlow  and  Lambert 
The  cream  of  history  lies  not  so  much  in  a  bare  notation  of  facts  as  in 
the  little  touches  of  nature  and  manners  which  reproduce  for  us  the 
actual  human  life  of  a  former  age,  and  much  of  this  may  bo  gleaned 
from  the  history  of  the  Sidneys.  They  were  an  interesting  family,  ahke 
from  their  rank,  their  talents,  their  personal  beauty,  and  the  vicissitudes 
of  their  fortunes.  The  Countess  was  a  clever  managing  woman ;  and 
her  letters  to  her  absent  lord  when  ambassador  in  France  convey  to  us 
many  pleasant  details  of  the  home-life  at  Leicester  House.  Still  more 
charming  is  it  to  read  the  pretty  littie  billets  addressed  to  the  Earl  by  his 
elder  girls.  Of  these  six  beautiful  daughters  of  the  house  of  Siihiey, 
four  were  married  and  two  died  in  the  dawn  of  early  womanhood.  Of 
the  younger  of  these.  Lady  Elizabeth,  the  father  has  a  touching  entry 
in  his  joumaL  After  narrating  her  death',  he  adds:  "She  had  to  the 
last  the  most  angelical  countenance  and  beauty,  and  the  most  heavenly 
disposition  and  temper  of  mind  that  I  think  were  ever  seen  in  so  young 
ft  creature." 

With  her  death  the  mezrj  happy  family  life  at  Leicester  House  drew 


54  SOME  GOSSIP  ABOUT  LEICESTEE  SQUAEE. 

to  a  close.  The  active  bustling  mother,  whose  influence  had  brought 
the  different  jarring  chords  into  harmony,  died  a  few  months  after- 
wards ;  and  the  busy  years  as  they  sped  onwards,  while  consummating 
the  fail  of  Charles  and  consolidating  the  power  of  Cromwell,  also  put 
great  and  growing  disunion  between  the  Sidney  brothers.  At  the  Res- 
toration, Algernon  was  in  exile  ;  Lord  Lisle's  stormy  temper  had  alien- 
ated him  from  his  father ;  the  EarPs  favourite  son-in-law  was  dead  ;  of 
the  three  who  remained  he  was  neither  proud  nor  fond ;  and  lonely  and 
sick  at  heart,  he  grew  weary  of  the  splendid  home  from  which  the  fair 
faces  of  his  handsome  children  had  gone  for  ever,  and  made  prepara- 
tions to  leave  it.  He  was  presented  to  Charles  11.  ;  *  and  immediately 
aft3rwards  retired  to  Penshurst  in  Kent ;  and  Leicester  House  was  let, 
first  to  the  ambassadors  of  the  United  Provinces ;  and  then  to  a  more 
remarkable  tenant,  Elizabeth  Stewart,  the  ill-fated  Princess  and  Queen 
of  Bohemia.  She  had  left  England  in  1613  a  lovely  happy  girl,  tlie 
bride  of  the  man  she  loved,  life  stretching  all  rainbow-hued  before  her. 
She  returned  to  it  a  weary  haggard  woman  of  sixty-five,  who  had 
drunk  to  the  dregs  of  every  possible  cup  of  disappointment  and  sorrov?-. 
Her  presence  was  very  unwelcome,  as  that  of  the  unfortunate  often  is. 
Charles  H.,  her  nephew,  was  very  loath  indeed  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  her  as  a  guest ;  but  she  returned  to  London  whether  he 
would  or  not,  and  Leicester  house  was  taken  for  her.  There  she  lan- 
guished for  a  few  months  in  feeble  and  broken  health,  and  there,  on 
tiie  anniversary  of  her  wedding-day,  she  died. 

The  house  immediately  to  the  west  of  Leicester  House  belonged  to  the 
Marquis  of  Aylesbury;  but  in  1008  it  was  occupied  by  the  Marquis  of 
Ca:rmarthen,  who  was  appointed  by  King  'Williaih  IH.  cicerone  and 
guide  to  Peter  the  Great  when  he  came  in  the  January  of  that  year  to 
visit  England.  Peter's  great  quahties  have  long  been  done  full  justico 
to ;  but  in  the  far-off  January  of  1698  he  appeared  to  the  English  as 
by  no  means  a  very  august-looking  potentate  ;  he  had  th"e  manners  and 
appearance  of  an  unkempt  barbarian,  and  his  pastimes  were  those  of  a 
coal-heaver.  His  favourite  exercise  in  the  mornings  was  to  run  a  bar^ 
row  through  and  through  Evelyn's  trim  holly-hedges  at  Dcptford ;  and 
the  stata  in  which  he  left  his  pretty  house  there  is  not  to  be  described. 
His  chief  pleasure,  when  the  duties  of  the  day  were  over,  was  lo  drink 
all  night  with  the  Marquis  in  his  house  at  Leicester  Fields,  the 
favourite  tipple  of  the  two  distinguished  topers  being  brandy  epiced 
v/ith  peppsr ;  or  sack,  of  which  the  Czar  is  reported  to  have  drunk 
eight  bottles  one  day  after  dinner.  Among  other  sights  in  London,  the 
Marquis  took  him  to  see  Westminster  h5i  in  full  term.  **"VVho  are 
all  these  men  in  wigs  and  gowns?"  he  asked.  "Lawyers,"  was  the 
answer.  '*  Lawyers  I"  he  exclaimed.  **  Why,  I  have  only  two  in  mj 
dominions,  and  when  I  get  back,  I  intend  to  hang  one  of  thf  m." 

In  January  1712  Leicester  House,  which  was  then  occupied  by  the 
imperial  resident,  received  another  distinguished  visitor  in  the  person 
of  Prince  Eugene,  oa&  of  tha  greatest  captains  of  the  age.    In  appear- 


SOME  GOSSIP  ABOUT  LEICESTEE  SQUARE.  65 

ance  lie  was  a  little  sallow  wizened  old  man,  with  one  shotilder  higher 
than  the  other.  A  soldier  of  fortune,  whose  origin  was  so  humble  as 
to  be  unknown,  his  laurels  were  stained  neither  by  rapacity  nor  self- 
heeking ;  and  in  all  the  yicissitndes  of  his  eventful  life  he  bore  himself 
like  a  hero,  and  a  gentleman  in  the  truest  and  fullest  acceptation  of  the 
word.  Dean  Swift  was  also  at  this  time  in  lodgings  in  Leicester  Fields, 
iioting  with  dear  acute  unpitying  vision  the  foibles  and  f aihngs  of  all 
siround  him,  and  writing  to  Stella  from  time  to  time  after  his  cynical 
fashion,  ^' how  the  world  is  going  mad  after  Prince  Eugene,  and  how 
he  went  to  court  also,  but  could  not  see  him,  the  crowd  was  so  great" 

A  labyrinth  of  courts,  inns,  and  stable-yards  had  gradually  filled  up  the 
space  between  the  royal  mews  and  Leicester  Fields ;  and  between  1680 
and  1700  several  new  streets  were  opened  through  these ;  one  reason  for 
the  opening  of  them  being  the  great  influx  of  French  refugees  into  Lon- 
don, on  the  occasion  of  the  Kevocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  in  1G85. 
Many  of  these  exiles  settled  in  and  around  Leicester  Fields,  and  for  their 
use  several  chapels  were  built  The  neighbourhood  has  ever  since  been 
a  resort  of  French  immigrants. 

In  one  of  these  streets  opening  into  Leicester  Square,  St.  Martin's 
Street,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  Uved  for  the  last  sixteen  years  of  his  life.  The 
house  in  which  he  lived  looks  dingy  enough  now  ;  but  in  those  days  it 
was  considered  a  very  good  residence  indeed,  and  Like  Leicester  House 
was  frequented  by  the  best  company  in  the  fashionable  world.  The  ge- 
nius and  reputation  of  its  master  attracted  scientific  and  learned  visitors ; 
and  the  beauty  of  his  niece,  Mrs.  Catharine  Barton,  drew  to  her  feet  all 
the  more  distinguished  wits  and  beaux  of  the  time. 

Between  1717  and  1760  Leicester  House  became  what  Pennant  calls 
''the  pouting-place  of  princes,"  being  for  almost  all  that  time  in  the  oc- 
cupation of  a  Prince  of  Wales  who  was  living  in  fierce  opposition  to  the 
reigning  king.  In  1718  the  Prince  of  Wales  having  had  a  furious  quar- 
rel with  his  father  George  I.,  on  the  occasion  of  the  christening  of  the 
Prince's  son  George  William,  left  St.  James's,  and  took  Leicester  House 
at  a  yearly  rent  of  five  hundred  pounds ;  and  until  he  succeeded  to  the 
throne  in  1727,  it  was  his  town  residence. 

Here  he  held  his  court — a  court  not  by  any  means  strait-laced ;  a  gay 
Utile  court  at  first ;  a  court  whose  selfish  intrigues  and  wild  frolics  and 
madcap  adventures  and  humdrum  monotony  live  for  us  still  in  the  spark- 
ling pages  of  Horace  Walpole ;  or  are  painted  in  with  vivid  clearness  of 
toQch  and  execution,  but  with  a  darker  brush,  by  Hervey,  Pope's  Lord 
Fanny,  who  was  a  favourite  with  his  mistress  the  handsome  accom- 
plished Caroline,  Princess  of  Wales.  Piloted  by  one  or  other  of  these 
exact  historians,  we  enter  the  chamber  of  the  gentlewomen-in-waiting, 
and  are  introduced  to  the  maids-of-honour,  to  fair  Mary  Lepell,  to 
charming  Mrs.  Bellenden,  to  pensive,  gentle  Mrs.  Howard.  We  see 
them  eat  Westphalia  ham  of  a  morning,  and  then  fr-nt  out  with  their 
royal  master  for  a  helter-skelter  ride  over  hedges  and  ditches,  on  bor- 
rowed hacks.     No  wonder  Pope  pitied  them  j  and  on  their  return,  who 


£6  SOME  GOSSIP  ABOUT  LEICESTER  SQUARE. 

should  they  fall  in  with  but  that  great  poet  himself  1  They  are  good  to 
him  in  their  way,  these  saucy  charming  maids-of-honour,  and  so  tliey 
take  the  frail  little  man  under  their  protection  and  give  him  his  dinner  ; 
and  then  he  finishes  off  the  day,  he  tells  us,  by  wafiking  three  hours  in 
the  moonlight  with  Mary  Lepell.  We  can  imagine  the  affected  compli- 
ments he  paid  her  and  the  burlesque  love  he  made  to  her ;  and  the  fun 
she  and  her  sister  maids-of -honour  would  have  laughing  over  it  all, 
when  she  went  back  to  Leicester  House  and  he  returned  to  his  pretty 
villa  at  Twickenham. 

As  the  Prince  grew  older  his  court  became  more  and  more  dull,  till  at 
last  it  was  almost  deserted,  when  on  the  14th  of  June  1727  the  loungers 
in  its  half -empty  chambers  were  roused  by  sudden  news — George  I.  was 
dead ;  and  Leicester  Souse  was  thronged  by  a  sudden  rush  of  obsequi- 
ous courtiers,  among  whom  was  the  late  king's  prime-minister,  bluff, 
jolly,  coarse  Sir  Robert  Walpole.     No  one  paid  any  attention  to  him, 
for  every  one  knew  that  Ms  disgrace  was  sealed ;  the  new  king  had  never 
been  at  any  pains  to  conceal  his  dislike  to  him.     Sir  Robert,  however, 
knew  better ;  he  was  quite  well  aware  who  was  to  be  the  real  ruler  of 
England  now ;  and  he  knew  that  the  Princess  Caroline  had  already  ac- 
cepted him,  just  as  she  accepted  La  Walmoden  and  her  good  Howard ; 
and  so  all  alone  in  his  comer  he  chuckled  to  himself  as  he  saw  the  crowd 
of  sycophants  elbow  and  jostle  and  push  poor  Lady  Walpole  as  she  tried 
to  make  her  way  to  the  royal  feet.     Caroline  saw  it  too,  and  with  a  flash 
of  half -scornful  mischief  hghting  up  her  shrewd  eyes,  said  with  a  smile  : 
"  Sure,  there  I  see  a  friend."    Instantly  the  human  stream  parted,  and 
made  way  for  her  Ladyship. 

In  1728  Frederick,  the  eldest  son  of  George  and  Caroline,  arrived 
from  Hanover,  where  he  had  remained  since  his  birth  in  1707.     It  was 
a  fatal  mistake  ;  he  came  to  England  a  stranger  to  his  parents,  and  with 
his  place  in  their  hearts  already  filled  by  his  brother.     It  was  inevitable 
that  where  there  was  no  mutual  love,  distrust  and  aUenation  should 
come,  as  in  no  long  time   they  did,  with  the  result  that  the  same  x>iti- 
ful  drama  was  played  out  again  on  the  same  stage.     In  174:3  Frederick 
Prince  of  Wales  took  Leicester  House  and  held  his  receptions  there.    IIo 
was  fond  of  gaiety,  and  had  a  succession  of  balls,  masques,  plays,  and 
supper-parties.     His  tastes,  as  was  natural  considering  his  rearing,  wero 
foreign,  and  Leicester  House  was  much  frequented  by  foreigners  of  every 
grade.     Desnoyers  the  dancing-master  was  a  favourite  habitue,  as  vois 
also  the  charlatan  St-Germain.     In  the  midst  of  all  this  fiddling  and  buf - 
foonery  the  Prince  fell  ill ;  but  not  so  seriously  as  to  cause  uneasinesb 
to  any  one  around  him ;  consequently  all  the  world  was  taken  by  sur- 
prise when  he  suddenly  died  one  morning  in  the  arms  of  his  friend  the 
dancing-master.  -  After  his  death  his  widow  remained  at  Leicester  House, 
and  like  a  sensible  woman  as  she  was,  made  her  peace  with  the  king  het 
father-in-law,  who  ever  afterwards  shewed  himself  very  kind  and  friendly 
to  her. 

In  October  17G0  George  III.  was  proclaimed  king;  and  again  a  ccow«t 


SOME  GOSSIP  ABOUT  LEIOESTEE  SQUABE.  57 

of  conrtieis  thronged  to  Leicester  HomSe  to  kiss  the  hand  of  the  new 
BOTereign.  For  six  years  longer  the  Pnnccss  of  "Wales  continued  to  live 
at  Leicester  House;  and  there  la  17G5  her  youngest  son  died,  and  ^he 
following  year  she  removed  to  Carlton  House. 

While  the  quarrel  between  George  H.  and  Frederick  was  at  its  fiercest, 
the  central  inclosure  of  Leicester  Square  was  re-arranged  very  elegantly 
according  to  the  taste  of  the  day  ;  and  an  equestrian  statue  of  George 
L,  which  had  belonged  to  the  fiist  Duke  of  Ghandos  and  had  been 
bought  at  the  sale  of  hid  effects,  was  set  up  in  front  of  Leicester  House, 
where  it  remained,  a  dazzling  object  at  first,  in  all  the  glory  of  gilding, 
which  passed  with  the  populace  for  gold ;  but  latterly  a  most  wretched 
relic  of  the  past,  an  eyesore,  which  was  removed  in  1874  in  the  course 
of  Baron  Grant's  improvements. 

Leicester  Square  had  other  tenants  beside  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  com- 
pared with  whom  courtiers  and  gallants  and  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies 
look  very  small  indeed.  HogarUi  lived  in  this  street,  and  so  did  Sir 
Joshua  Beynolds.  Hogarth's  house  was  the  last  but  two  on  the  east 
side  of  the  Square.  Here  he  established  himself,  a  young  struggliijg 
man,  with  Jane  Thomhill,  the  wife  with  whom  he  had  made  a  stolon 
^ve-match.  In  this  house,  with  the  quaint  sign  of  the  Golden  Head 
over  the  door,  he  worked,  not  as  painters  generally  do,  at  a  multitude 
of  detached  pieces,  but  depicting  with  his  vivid  brush  a  whole  series  of 
popular  allegories  on  canvas.  When  he  became  rich,  as  in  process  of 
time  he  did,  he  had  a  house  at  Chiswick ;  but  he  still  retained  the  Gol- 
den Head  as  his  town-house,  and  in  1764  returned  to  it  to  die. 

In  No.  47  Sir  Joshua  Beynolds  lived,  and  painted  those  charming 
portraits  which  have  immortalised  for  us  all  that  was  most  beautifru 
and  famous  in  his  epoch.  He  was  a  kindly  genial  lovable  man,  fond  of 
society,  and  with  a  liking  for  display.  He  had  a  wonderful  carriage, 
with  the  four  seasons  curiously  painted  in  on  the  panels,  and  the  wheels 
ornamented  with  carved  foliage  and  gilding.  The  servants  in  atten- 
dance on  this  chariot  wore  sUver-laoed  liveries ;  and  as  he  had  no  time 
to  drive  in  it  himself,  he  made  his  sister  take  a  daily  airing  in  it,  much 
to  her  discomfort,  for  she  was  a  homely  little  lady  with  very  simple 
taetcs.  He  was  a  great  dinner-  giver ;  and  as  it  was  his  custom  to  ask 
eveiy  pleasant  person  he  met  without  any  regard  to  the  preparation 
made  to  receive  them,  it  may  be  conjectured  that  there  was  often  a 
want  of  the  commonest  requisites  of  the  dinner-table.  Even  knives, 
forks,  and  glasses  could  not  always  be  procured  at  first.  But  although 
his  dinners  partook  very  much  of  the  nature  of  unceremonious  scram- 
bles, they  were  thoroughly  enjoyable.  Whatever  was  awanting,  there 
was  always  cheerfulness  and  the  pleasant  kindly  interchange  of  thought. 
In  July  171)2  Sir  Joshua  died  in  his  own  house  in  Leicester  Square*;  and 
vdthin  a  few  hours  of  his  death,  an  obituary  notice  of  him  was  written 
by  Burke,  the  manuscript  of  which  was  blotted  with  his  tears. 

In  No.  28,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Square,  the  celebrated  anatomist 
<?ohn  Hunter  lived.     Like  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day,  he  sat  to 


58  SOME  GOSSIP  ABOUT  LEICESTER  SQUABE. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  for  his  portrait ;  but  was  so  restless  and  preoccupied 
that  he  made  a  very  bad  sitter.'  At  last  one  day  he  fell  into  a  reverie. 
The  happy  moment  had  come ;  Sir  Joshua,  with  his  instinctive  tact, 
caught  the  expression  and  presented  to  us  the  great  surgeon  in  one  of 
his  most  characteristic  attitudes.  The  other  celebrated  surgeons, 
Gruickshank  and  Charles  Bell,  also  lived  in  this  Square.  The  house  in 
which  Bell  resided  for  many  years  was  large  and  ruinous,  and  had  once 
been  inhabited  by  Speaker  Onslow.  Here  he  set  up  his  Museum,  and 
began  to  lecture  on  anatomy,  having  for  along  time,  he  writes,  scarcely 
forty  pupils  to  lecture  to. 

During  all  the  later  portion  of  its  history  Leicester  Square  has  been 
famous  for  shows.  In  1771  Sir  Ashton  Lever  exhibited  a  large  and 
curious  Museum  in  Leicester  House.  In  1796  Charles  Dibdin  built  at 
Nos.  2  and  3,  on  the  east  side  of  Leicester  Square,  a  small  theatre  in 
which  he  gave  an  entertainment  consisting  of  an  interesting  medley  of 
anecdote  and  song.  In  1787  Miss  Linwood  opened  her  gallery  of  pic- 
tures in  needlework,  an  exhibition  which  lasted  fortj'-seven  years,  for 
the  last  thirty-five  of  which  it  was  exhibited  at  Savile  House,  a  building 
which  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  1865. 

After  Miss  Linwood's,  one  of  the  best  shows  in  Leicester  Square  vras 
Burford's  Panorama,  which  is  now  numbered  with  the  things  that  were, 
its  site  being  occupied  bya  French  chapel  and  school  In  1851  a  new 
show  was  inaugurated  by  Mr.  Wylde  the  geographer.  It  consisted  of 
a  monster  globe  sixty  feet  in  diameter,  which  occupied  the  central  dome 
of  a  building  erected  in  the  garden  of  the  Square.  The  world  was 
figured  in  relief  on  the  inside  of  it,  and  it  was  viewed  from  several 
galleries  at  different  elevations.  It  was  exhibited  for  ten  years,  and  was 
then  taken  down  by  its  proprietor,  owing  to  a  dispute  concerning  tho 
ownership  of  the  garden.  Out  of  this  case,  which  was  decided  in  1867, 
the  proceedings  originated  which  resulted  in  the  purchase  and  renova- 
tion of  the  garden  by  Baron  Grant,  who  having  once  more  made  it  trim 
and  neat,  h^ded  it  over  to  the  Board  of  Works. — CJiatnbers^s  JourrioL 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

A    SLAVONIAN     BTUDT. 

Thosb  races  that  have  not  undergone  the  heneficial  and  domesticating 
mflnences  of  civilisation,  and  that  are  isolated  from  the  more  coltnred 
MtioDs.  possess  to  an  excess  the  different  qualities  or  impulses  inherent 
to  our  nature.  Amongst  the  emotions  that  move  the  heart  of  man,  love 
is  certainly  the  one  that  has  the  greatest  empire  over  him ;  it  rules  the 
soul  so  imperiously  that  all  the  other  passions  are  crushed  by  it  It 
makes  cowards  of  the  bravest  men,  and  givescourage  to  the  timid.  Love 
is,  indeed,  the  great  motive-power  of  life. 

Our  passions  and  our  emotions  are,  however,  more  subdued  than 
those  of  the  semi-civilised  nations ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  we  undergo 
the  softening  influences  of  education,  and  secondly,  we  are  more  or  less 
under  the  restraint  of  the  rules  whiich  govern  society.  Besides  this,  ouf 
mind  is  usually  engrossed  by  the  numerous  cares  which  our  state  of  liv-* 
ing  necessitates ;  for  we  are  not  like  them,  contented  with  httle  ;  on  the 
contraiy,  instead  of  being  satisfied  with  what  is  necessary,  we  require 
luxuries  and  superfluities,  the  procurement  of  which  takes  up  a  consider- 
able portion  of  our  energy  and  our  mental  activity. 

The  Slavonians,  and  more  especially  those  belonging  to  the  southern 
regions,  such  as  the  Dalmatians  and  Montenegrins,  are,  as  a  general 
rule,  very  passionate ;  ardent  in  their  affections,  they  are  likewise 
given  to  anger,  resentment,  and  hatred,  the  generic  sister  passion  of 
love. 

The  Slavonian  women  are,  however,  not  indolent,  nor  do  they  ever 
indulge  in  idle  dreams ;  for  they  are  not  only  occupied  with  the  house- 
hold cares,  but  they  also  take  a  share,  and  not  the  smallest  or  the  shght- 
est,  of  those  toils  which  in  other  countries  devolve  upon  the  men  alone. 
They  therefore,  in  the  manly  labours  of  the  field,  not  only  get  prema- 
tuTfcly  old,  but  they  hardly  ever  possess  much  grace,  slendemess,  or 
delicate  complexions.  No  Slavonian  woman,  for  instance,  is  ever 
ffiif.inonne.  They,  in  compensation,  acquire  in  health,  and  i^erhaps  ui 
real  aesthetic  beauty  of  proportions,  what  they  lose  in  prettiness  or  deli- 
cacy of  appearance,  consequently  they  never  suffer  from  vapours  or  from 
the  numerous  nervous  complaints  to  which  the  generality  of  our  ladies 
are  subjected ;  the  natural  result  of  this  state  of  things  is  mens  sana  in 
corpore  sano  ;  this  is  doubtless  the  reason  why  Slavonian  women  are,  as 
a  general  rule,  fond  mothers  and  faithful  wives. 

They  are  certainly  not  endowed  with  that  charming  refinement,  the 
fnorbiclezza  of  manners  which  but  too  often  is  but  a  mask  covering  a 
morbid  selfish  disposition,  a  hypocritical  and  false  nature.     Though  igno- 


60  A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

rant,  they  are  neither  void  of  natnral  good  sense  nor  wit ;  they  only 
"want  that  smattering  of  worldly  knowledge  which  the  contact  of  society 
imparts,  and  which  but  too  often  covers  nothing  but  frivolity,  gross 
ignorance,  and  conceit.  Their  conversation  is,  perhaps,  not  peculiarly 
attractive  ;  for  being  simple  and  artless,  speech  was  not  given  to  them 
as  a  means  of  disguising  their  thoughts ;  their  hps  only  disclose  the  full- 
ness of  their  hearts.  Conversation  is,  besides,  a  gift  conferred  to  few ; 
and  even  in  our  polite  circles  not  many  persons  can  converse  in  an  in- 
teresting manner,  and  fewer  can  be  witty  without  backbiting ;  moreover, 
if  man  were  suddenly  to  become  transparent,  would  he  not  have  to 
blush  for  the  frivolous  demonstrations  of  friendship  daily  interchanged 
in  our  artificial  state  of  society  ? 

The  different  amusements  tiiat  absorb  so  much  of  our  time  and  occupy 
our  minds  are  unknown  in  Slavonian  countries  ;  the  daily  occupations 
and  the  details  of  the  toilet  do  not  captivate  the  whole  attention  ;  so  that 
when  a  simple  affection  is  awakening  in  the  heart  of  a  man  or  of  a 
woman,  it  by  degrees  pervades  the  whole  soul  and  the  whole  mind,  and 
a  strong  and  ardent  passion  usually  ensues.  Moreover,  amongst  those 
simple-minded  sincere  people  flirtations  are  generally  unknown ;  yet 
when  they  do  love,  their  affections  are  genuine ;  they  never  exchange 
amongst  each  other  those  false  coins  bearing  Oupid^s  effigy,  and  known 
as  coquetry ;  for  their  hps  only  utter  what  l£eir  hearts  really  feel.  Peo- 
ple there  do  not  deUght  in  playing  with  the  fire  of  love,  or  trying  how 
far  they  can  with  impunity  make  game  of  sentiments  which  should  be 
held  sacred.  Amongst  the  virile  maidens  of  Slavonia  many  of  them 
therefore  have  virgin  hearts,  that  is  to  say,  artless  souls,  fresh  to  aU  the 
tender  sentiments ;  the  reason  of  this  is,  that  from  the  age  of  fifteen 
they  do  not  trifle  with  their  affections  until  they  have  become  so  callous 
and  sceptical  that  marriage  is  merely  wealth  or  a  position  in  hfe.  .Men 
do  not  first  waste  away  all  the  tender  emotions  which  the  human  heart  is 
capable  of,  and  then  settle  down  into  a  manage  de  raison. 

The  foUowing  story,  which  happened  about  a  century  ago,  will  serve 
as  an  illustration  of  the  power  of  love  amongst  the  Slavonians ;  it  is,  in- 
deed, a  kind  of  repetition  of  the  fate  which  attended  the  lovers  of  Sestos 
and  Abydos.  This,  however,  is  no  legend,  but  an  historical  fact ;  the 
place  where  this  tragedy  happened  was  the  island  of  St.  Andrea,  situated 
between  those  of  Malfi  and  Stagno,  not  far  from  the  town  of  Eagnsa. 

Though  no  Musaeus  has  immortaUsed  this  story  by  his  verses,  it  is, 
however,  recorded  in  the  ^'Bevista  Dalmata"  (1859),  m  the  "  Annnario 
Spalatino"  of  the  same  year,  as  well  as  other  Slavonian  periodicals. 

The  hero  of  this  story,  whose  Christian  name  was  Teodoro,  belonged 
to  one  of  the  wealthiest  patrician  famiUes  of  Kagusa,  his  father  being,  it 
is  said,  Kector  of  the  BepubUc.  He  was  a  young  man  of  a  grave  char- 
acter,  but  withal  of  a  gentle  and  tender  disposition ;  he  not  only  poB- 
Bcssed  great  talents,  but  also  great  culture,  for  his  time  was  entirely 
given  up  to  study. 

One  day,  the  young  patrician  having  gone  from  the  island  of  St.  An- 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE.  CI 

draft,  \7l1ere  he  had  been  staying  at  the  Benedictine  convent,  to  one  of 
the  other  two  neighboring  island,  he  in  the  evening  wished  to  retaru  to 
his  abode.  He  met  upon  the  beach  a  young  girl  who  was  carrying  home 
soms  baskets  of  fish.  Having  asked  her  if  »he  knew  of  anybody  who 
would  take  him  across  to  the  island  of  St.  Andrea,  the  yomig  girl  prof- 
fered her  services,  which  the  young  and  bashful  patrician  lelnctantly 
accepted. 

The  young  girl  wa&  as  beautiful,  as  chaste,  and  as  proud  as  the  Arm- 
biata  of  Paul  Heyse ;  and  for  the  first  time  Teodoro  felt  a  new  and 
vagao  feeling  awake  in  his  bosom.  He  began  to  talk  to  the  girl,  asking 
hdr  a  thousand  questions  about  herself,  about  her  home ;  and  the  young 
girl  doubtless  told  him  that  she  was  an  orphan,  and  that  she  Hved  with 
her  brothers.  Instead  of  returning  to  his  family,  the  young  nobleman 
remained  at  the  Benedictine  convent,  with  the  purpose  of  studying  in 
reth^ment ;  his  mind,  however,  was  not  entirely  engrossed  by  his  books, 
and  hif  visits  to  the  island  where  Margherita  lived  daily  became  more 
frequent 

^^e  love  which  had  kindled  in  his  heart  found  an  echo  in  the  young 
girl's  bosom,  and  instead  of  endeavouring  to  suppress  their  feelings  they 
yielded  to  the  charms  of  this  saintly  affection,  to  the  rapture  of  loving 
and  being  loved.  In  a  few  days  their  mutual  feelings  had  made  such 
progress  that  the  young  man  promised  the  harcaHnola  to  marry  her. 
His  noble  character  and  his  brave  spirit  made  h\m  forget  that  he  could 
not  with  impunity  break  the  laws  of  the  society  amongst  which  he  lived ; 
for  that  society,  which  would  have  smiled  had  he  seduced  the  young  girl 
and  made  her  his  mistress,  would  nevertheless  have  been  scandalised  had 
he  taken  her  for  his  lawful  wife. 

Peccadilloes  are  overlooked,  and  it  is  almost  better  in  high  life  to  be  a 
knnve  than  a  fool ;  it  was,  indeed,  a  quixotic  notion  for  a  patrician  to 
marry  a  plebeian,  an  unheard  of  event  in  the  annals  of  the  aristocratic 
republic  of  Kt^usa.  The  difficulties  which  our  hero  was  to  encotmter 
were  therefore  insurmountable. 

In  the  midst  of  his  thoughtless  happiness  our  young  lover  was  sud- 
denly summoned  back  to  Ms  home ;  for  whilst  Teodoro  was  supposed 
to  be  deeply  engaged  in  his  studies  his  father,  without  the  young  man's 
knowledge,  and  not  anticipating  any  opposition,  promised  his  son  in 
marriage  to  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  friends,  a  yotmg  lady  of  great 
Wvialth  and  beauty.  This  union  had,  it  is  true,  been  concerted  when  the 
children  were  mere  babes,  and  it  had  until  then  been  a  bond  between 
the  two  famihes.  The  young  lady  being  now  of  a  marriageable  age, 
and  having  concentrated  all  her  affections  on  the  young  man  she  had  air 
ways  been  taught  to  regard  as  her  future  husband,  she  now  looked  for- 
vrjffd  with  joy  for  ^e  anticipated  event. 

Teodoro  was  therefore  summoned  back  home  to  assist  at  a  great  fes- 
tivity given  in  honour  of  his  betrotlial ;  he  at  once  hastened  back  to 
fiagusa,  in  order  to  break  off  the  engagement  contracted  for  him. 
Vainly,  however,  did  he  try  to  remonstrate,  first  with  his  father  and 


62  A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

then  with  his  mother.  He  avowed  that  ho  had  no  inclination  for  matri- 
mony, that  he  felt  no  love  for  this  young  lady,  nothing  but  a  mere 
brotherly  affection,  and  that  he  could  not  cherish  her  as  his  wife ;  ha 
found,  nevertheless,  both  his  parents  inexorable.  It  was  too  late  ;  tli3 
father  had  given  his  word  to  his  friend;  a  refusal  would  prove  an  insult, 
which  would  provoke  a  rupture  between  these  two  families ;  no  option 
was  left  but  to  obey. 

Teodoro  thereupon  retired  to  his  own  room,  where  he  remained  in  the 
strictest  confinement,  refusing  to  see  any  one.  The  evening  of  that 
eventful  day,  the  guests  were  assembled ;  the  bride  and  her  family  had 
already  arrived ;  the  bridegroom,  nevertheless,  was  missing.  This  was 
indeed  a  strange  breach  of  good  manners,  and  numerous  comments  were 
whispered  from  ear  to  ear.  The  father  sent  at  last  a  peremptory  order 
to  his  undutif  ul  son  to  come  at  once  to  him.  The  young  man  ultimately 
made  his  appearance,  attired  like  Hamlet  at  his  stepfa3ier*s  court,  in  a 
suitjOf  deep  mourning,  whilst  his  long  hair,  which  formerly  fell  in  ring- 
lets over  his  shoulders,  was  all  cHpped  short.  In  this  strange  accoutre- 
ment he  came  to  acquaint  his  father  before  the  whole  assembly  that  he 
had  decided  to  forego  the  pleasure,  the  pomp  and  vanity  of  this  world, 
to  renounce  society,  and  take  up  his  abode  in  a  convent,  where  he  in- 
tended passing  his  days  in  study  and  meditation. 

The  scene  of  confusion  which  followed  this  unexpected  dedaratiou 
can  be  imagined.  The  guests  all  wished  to  retire :  the  first  person, 
however,  to  leave  the  house  was  Teodoro,  expelled  by  his  father  and 
bearing  with  him  the  paternal  malediction.  Thiis  this  day  of  anticipated 
joy  ended  in  disappointment  and  humiliation.  The  discarded  bride  was 
borne  away  by  her  parents,  and  it  is  said  that  her  deUcate  health  never 
recovered  from  this  unexpected  blow. 

That  very  night  the  young  man  retired  to  the  Benedictine  convent 
upon  the  island  of  St.  Andrea,  with  the  firm  resolution  of  passing  his 
life  in  holy  seclusion.  When  a  few  days  had  passed,  his  love  proved, 
nevertheless,  stronger  than  his  will,  and  he  could  not  refrain  from  going 
to  see  his  Margherita,  and  informing  her  of  all  that  had  happened,  tell- 
ing her  that  he  had  been  driven  from  home,  and  that  he  had  taken  refuge 
at  the  convent,  where  he  intended  passing  his  life  in  a  state  of  holy  cel- 
ibacy. Notwithstanding  all  his  good  intentions,  the  sight  of  the  young 
girl  proved  too  great  a  temptation,  her  beauty  overcame  his  resolutions, 
and  he  swore  to  her  that  he  would  brave  his  parents'  opposition,  as  well 
as  the  anger  of  his  cast  ?,  and  that  he  would  marry  her  in  spite  of  his 
family  and  of  the  whole  world. 

He  thus  continued  seeing  this  young  girl,  till  at  last  the  fishermen,  her 
brothers,  having  found  out  why  this  young  patrician  visited  the  island 
so  oftv^n,  severe  and  jealous  like  all  their  countrymen,  they  waylaid 
him,  and  threatened  to  kill  him  if  hVwere  once  more  caught  uponth€S3 
shores.  The  prior  of  the  Benedictines,  finding  besides  that  his  prot<'(/^\ 
far  from  coming  to  seek  peace  and  tranquillity  within  the  walls  of  his 
convent,  was,  on  the  contrary,  an  object  of  scandal,  expressed  his  iuten« 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE.  63 

^'on  to  expel  him,  should  he  not  discontmue  his  viEdts  to  the  neighbour- 
ing island,  and  rsf  onn. 

Every  new  difl&colty  seemed  to  give  fresh  conrage  to  the  lovers ;  they 
would  have  fl3d  from  their  native  country  and  their  persecutors,  but 
thiy  knew  that  they  would  be  overtaken,  brought  back,  and  punished ; 
60  they  decidad  to  wait  some  time  until  the  wrath  of  their  'enemies  had 
a  jp.tsd,  and  the  storm  had  blown  over. 

As  Teodoro  could  not  go  any  more  to  see  the  young  girl,  it  was  Mar- 
gherita  who  now  came  to  visit  her  lover ;  to  evade,  however,  the  suspi- 
cion of  her  brothers,  and  that  of  the  friars,  they  only  met  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  as  they  always  changed  their  place  of  meeting,  a 
ligatid  torch  was  the  signal  whera  the  young  girl  was  to  direct  her  bark. 
Tli:r3  were  nights,  nevertheless,  when  she  could  not  obtain  a  boat ;  yet 
this  was  no  obstacle  to  her  bravo  spirit,  for  upon  those  nights,  she,  like 
Leander,  swam  across  the  channel,  for  nothing  could  daunt  this  heroic 
woman's  heart. 

These  ill-^ated  lovers  were  happy  notwithstanding  their  adverse  f  or- 
tiia3.  for  th3  sacred  fire  of  love  which  burnt  within  them  was  bliss 
enough  to  compensate  for  all  their  woes.  Their  days  were  passed  in 
anxious  expectation  for  the  hour  which  was  to  unite  them  on  the  sea- 
shore, amidst  the  darkness  of  the  night.  There  clasped  in  one  anoth- 
er's arms,  the  world  and  its  inhabitants  existed  no  longer  for  them ; 
those  were  moments  of  ineffable  rapture,  in  which  it  seemed  impossible 
to  drain  the  whole  chalice  of  happiness ;  moments  in  which  time  and 
eternity  are  confounded,  iustants  only  to  be  appreciated  by  those  who 
havo  known  the  infinite  bliss  of  loving  and- being  loved.  Their  souls 
seemed  to  leave  their  bodies,  blend  together  and  Foar  into  the  empyreal 
spaces,  the  regions  of  infinite  happiness  ;  for  them  all  other  sentiments 
passed  away,  and  nothing  was  felt  but  an  unmitigated  love. 

The  dangers  which  encompassed  them,  their  loneliness  upon  the 
rocky  shores,  the  stillness  3f  the  night,  only  served  to  heighten  their 
}oy  and  exultation,  for  a  pleasure  dearly  bought  is  always  more  keenly 
iAt 

Their  happiness  was,  however,  not  to  be  of  long  duration ;  such  f  ehc- 

iiy  'm  celestial ;  on  this  earth, 

*•  Lcs  plus  belles  choses 
Ont  le  pirc  d«8tin." 

Margherita's  brothers,  knowing  the  i)ower  of  love,  watched  their  sis- 
ter, and  at  last  found  out  that  when  the  yoimg  nobleman  had  ceased 
coming,  it  was  she  who  by  night  visited  the  Island  of  St.  Andrea,  and 
they  r38olved  to  be  revenged  upon  her.  They  bided  their  time,  and 
npon  a  dark  and  stormy  night,  the  fishermen,  knowing  that  their  sister 
vould  not  be  intimidated  iby  the  heavy  sea,  went  off  with  the  boat  and 
left  her  to  the  mercy  of  the  waves.  The  young  girl,  unable  to  resist  the 
impulso  of  her  love,  recommended  herself  to  the  Almighty,  and  bravely 
plunged  into  the  waters.  Her  treacherous  brothers,  having  watched  her 
movements^  plied  their  oars  and  directed  their  coturse  towards  the 


€4  A  WOMAlff'S  LOVE. 

island ;  they  landed,  went  and  took  the  lighted  toroh  tftSBl  the  place 
where  it  was  burning,  and  fastened  it  to  the  prow  of  their  boat ;  having 
done  this,  they  slowly  rowed  away  into  the  open  sea. 

Margherita,  as  u&ual,  swam  towards  the  beacon-Ught  of  love,  but  th^^ 
night  all  her  efforts  were  useless — the  faster  she  swam,  the  greater  wn[ 
the  distance  that  sepai^ited  her  from  that  ignis-fatuuH  hght ;  doubtlerj 
she  attributed  this  to  the  roughness  of  the  sea,  and  took  courage,  hop 
ing  soon  to  reach  that  blessed  goal. 

A  flash  of  lightning,  which  illumined  the  dark  expanse  of  the  waters, 
made  her  at  last  perceive  her  mistake  ;  she  saw  the  boat  towards  which 
Bhe  had  been  swimming,  and  also  the  island  of  St.  Andrea  far  behind 
her.  She  at  once  directed  her  course  towards  it,  but  there,  in  the  midst 
of  darkness,  she  struggled  with  the  wild  waves,  until,  overpowered  by 
fatigue,  she  gave  up  aU  hopes  of  rejoining  her  beloved  one,  and  sank 
down  in  the  briny  deep. 

The  cruel  sea  that  separated  the  lovers  was,  however,  more  merciful 
than  man,  for  upon  the  morrow  the  waves  themselves  softly  deposited 
tli9  lifeless  body  of  the  young  girl  upon  the  sand  of  the  beach. 

The  nobleman,  who  had  passed  a  night  of  most  terrible  anxiety, 
found  at  daybreak  the  corpse  of  the  girl  he  loved.  Ho  caused  it  to  be 
committed  to  the  earth,  after  which  he  re-entered  within  the  walls  of 
the  convent,  took  the  Benedictine  dress,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life 
pining  in  grief.  Adrtan  de  YAiiVEDEBE,  in  Tin9ley*8  Magazine. 


AN  mPEKIAIi  PAEDON. 

DuBiNO  a  journey  through  some  parts  of  Bussia  a  few  years  ago,  we 
engaged,  in  preference  to  the  imperial  post-chaise,  a  private  conveyance 
for  a  considerable  distance,  the  driver  being  a  Jew — generally  preferred 
in  the  East  on  account  of  their  sobriety  and  general  trustworthiness. 
On  the  road  my  companion  became  communicative,  and  entered  into 
philosophic-reUgious  discussion — a  topic  of  frequent  occurrence  among 
thcso  bilingual  populations.  After  a  somewhat  desultory  harangue,  he 
suddenly  became  silent  and  sad,  having  just  uttered  the  words :  "If  a 
Chassid  goes  astray,  what  docs  he  become?  A  meschumed,  i.e.  an 
apostate." — ** To  what  class  of  people  do  you  allude?"  I  inquired. — 
**  Well,  it  just  entered  my  head,  because  we  have  to  pass  the  house  of 
one  of  thein— I  mean  the  *  forced  ones.*  "—"Forced  I "  I  thought  of  a 
r  ^ligious  sect.  "Are  they  Christians  or  Jews ? " — " Neither  the  one  nor 
the  other,"  was  the  reply,  "but  simply  *  forced.'  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  great 
misery  and  a  great  crime !  Our  children  at  least  will  not  know  any- 
thing of  it,  because  new  victims  do  not  arise,  and  on  the  marriage  of 
these  parties  rests  a  curse — they  remain  sterile !   Bat  what  am  I  saying? 


AIT  IMPERIAL  PAKDON.  65 

It  ifi  rather  a  blessing — a  mercy  I  Should  thus  a  t**rrible  mispry  be  per- 
petuated? These  forced  people  aro  childless.  ^Vt■Li,  God  knows  bi'st. 
I  am  a  fool,  a  sinner  to  speak  about  it."  No  eutrtaty  of  niiue  would 
induce  my  Jewish  companion  to  alfoi*d  further  information  coiiceniing 
this* peculiar  people.  But  before  the  end  of  our  journey  I  heard  unex- 
pectedly more  about  this  unfortunate  class  of  Eussian  subji'cts.  We 
travelled  westward  through  the  valley  of  the  Dnitst  r,  a  district  but 
tliialy  peopled,  and  rested  at  an  inn  on  the  bordci-s  of  an  txtensivo 
forest. 

Amidst  the  raillery  going  on  in  the  principal  room  of  this  hostelry 
between  guests  of  different  nationalities,  we  had  not  ht  ard  the  noise  of 
wheels  which  slowly  moved  towards  the  house.  It  was  a  very  poor 
conveyance,  containing  a  small  cask  and  a  basket.  The  young  hostess 
arose  hastily,  and,  approaching  the  owner,  said  in  a  whispt  r,  *'  What  is 
it  yon  want?"  A  slight  paleness  overspread  her  count  nance,  and 
stranger  still  was  the  demeanour  of  my  coachman.  * '  >Sir,  sir  I  "  he 
exclaimed  loudly,  turning  towards  me,  str-^tching  out  his  liarids  as  if 
seeking  support,  or  warding  off  some  impending  danger.  *'  What  is  the 
matter  ?  "  I  rejoined,  greatly  surprised ;  but  he  merely  shook  his  head, 
and  stared  at  the  new  comer. 

He  was  an  elderly  peasant,  attired  in  the  usual  garb  of  the  country- 
people  ;  only  at  a  more  close  inspection  I  noticed  tliat  h*^  wore  a  fine 
white  shirt.  Of  his  face  I  could  see  but  little,  it  being  hidden  behind 
the  broad  brim  of  his  straw  hat. 

*'  Hostess,"  he  said,  addressing  the  young  woman,  "  will  you  purchaso 
something  of  me  ?  I  have  some  old  brandy,  wooden  spoons  and  plat»'S. 
pepper-boxes,  needle-cases,  &c.,  all  made  of  good  hard  wood,  and  v<ry 
cheap."  In  an  almost  supplicating  tone  he  uttered  these  words  veiy 
slowly,  with  downcast  eyes.  From  his  pronunciation  he  appeared  to  i33 
a  Pole. 
The  hostess  looked  shyly  up  to  him. 

"You  know  my  brother-in-law  has  forbidden  me  to  have  dealings 
with  you,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  **  on  account  of  your  wife  ;  but  to-day 
he  is  not  at  home."     After  a  momentary  silence,  turning  towards  the 
driver,  she  continued,  "Eeb  Riissan,  wiQ  you  betray  me?    You  coma 
frequently  this  way."     In  reply  he  merely  shrugged  his  should -^rs  and 
moved  away.     Turning  again  with  some  impatience  to  the  pcasai  t,  she 
said,  **  Bring  me  a  dish  and  two  spoons."     When  he  had  gone  to  fetch 
these  articles,  the  woman  once  more  accosted  my  coachman, 
"  You  must  not  blame  me ;  they  are  very  poor  people  !" 
**  Certainly  they  are  very  poor  " — he  replied  in  a  milder  tone.     **  Dur- 
ing life,  hunger  and  misery,  and  after  death — hell !  and  all  und.  served  !" 
But  tihe  man  stood  already,  at  this  utterance,  with  his  basket  in  tha 
room.     The  bargain  was  soon  concluded,  and  the  few  oopeks  paid. 
Curiosity  prompted  me  to  step  forward  and  examine  the  merchandise. 

"I  have  also  cigar-cases,"  said  the  peasant,  humbly  raisin'g  his  hat. 
But  his  face  was  far  more  interesting  than  his  wares.    You  rarely  see 

L.  M.— I.— 3. 


66  AN  IMPERIAL  PAKDON. 

Btich  features  f  However  "great  the  misery  on  earthy  this  pale,  x>aiii- 
Btricken  ccmntenance  was  unique  in  its  Mnd,  revealing  yet  traces  of 
sullen  defiance^  and  the  glance  of  his  eyes  moved  instantly  the  heart  of 
the  beholder — a  weary^  almost  fixed  gaze^  and  yet  full  of  passioiiats 
mourning, 

"  You  are  a  Pole  I**  I  observed  after  a  pause. 

**  Yes,*^  he  replied. 

"  And  do  you  live  in  this  neighbourhood  ?" 

*<  At  the  inn  ei^t  werBt  from  here.    I  am  the  keeper. '^ 

*  *  And  besides  wood-carver  ?** 

"  We  must  do  the  best  we  can,'*  was  his  reply.  "  We  have  but  rarely 
any  guests  at  our  house.'' 

**  Does  your  hostelry  lie  outside  the  main  road  ?" 

**No,  dose  to  the  high  road,  sir.  It  was  at  one  time  the  best  inn  be- 
tween ibe  Bug  and  the  Dniester.  But  now  carriers  do  not  like  to  stay 
at  our  house.'* 

"And  why  not?** 

"Because  they  consider  it  a  sin — especially  the  Jews."  Suddenly, 
with  seeming  uneasiness  and  haste,  he  asked,  "WUl  you  purchase 
anything  ?  This  box,  perhaps.  Upon  the  Hd  is  engraved  a  fine  country- 
house." 

Attracted  by  the  delicate  execution,  I  inquired,  "And  is  this  yoxn:  own 
workmanship  ?'* 

"  Yes,**  was  his  reply. 

"You  are  an  artist  1  And  pray  where  did  you  learn  wood-engrav- 
ing?" 

'  *  At  Eamieniec-PoddskL  " 

"  At  the  fortress  ?" 

"Yes,  during  the  insurrection  of  1863." 

"  Were  you  among  the  insurgents  ?" 

"  No,  but  the  authorities  feared  I  might  join  them — hence  I  and  the 
other  forced  ones  were  incareerated  in  tiie  fortress  when  the  insurrection 
broke  out,  and  again  set  free  when  it  was  suppressed." 

"  Without  any  cause  ?" 

"Without  the  shghtest.  I  was  already  at  that  time  a  crushed  man. 
When  yet  a  youth  &e  marrow  of  my  bones  had  been  poisoned  in  the 
mines  of  Siberia.  During  the  whole  time  of  my  settlement,  I  have  been 
since  1858  keeper  of  that  inn ;  I  gave  the  authorities  no  cause  for  sus- 
picion, but  I  was  a  *■  forced  man,'  and  that  sufficed  for  pouncing  upon 


me." 


"  Forced !  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  a  person  forced  to  accept,  when  to  others  free  choice  is  left — 
domicile,  trade  or  calling,  wife  and  religion." 

"Terrible!"  I  exclaimed.  "And  you  submitted?"  A  little  smile 
played  around  his  thin  Kps. 

*  *  Are  you  so  much  moved  at  my  fate  ?  We  genercdly  bear  very  easily 
the  most  severe  pains  endured  by  others." 


AN  IMPERIAL  PARDON.  67 

^^Tfaat  is  A  fiaying  of  Larochefoncanld,^^  I  said,  somewhat  sitfprised. 
"  Have  you  read  him  ?" 

'*  I  was  at  one  time  very  fond  of  French  literature.  But  pardon  my 
acrimony.  I  am  but  little  accustomed  to  sympathy,  and  indeed  of  what 
avail  would  it  be  to  me  now  !**  He  stared  painfully  at  the  ground,  and 
I  also  became  silent,  convinced  that  any  superficial  expression  of  sym- 
pathy would,  under  the  circumstances,  be  downright  mockery. 

A  painful  pause  ensued,  which  I  broke  with  the  question,  if  he  had 
worked  the  engraving  upon  the  hd  of  the  box  after  a  pattern. 

"No,  from  memory,"  was  his  rejoinder. 

"  It  is  a  peculiar  kind  of  architecture  I" 

**  It  is  like  all  gentlemen*s  houses  in  Littanen ;  only  the  old  tree  ifl 
very  striking.     It  was  a  very  old  house." 

"  Has  been  ?    Does  it  exist  no  longer  ?" 

**  It  was  burnt  down  seven  years  ago  by  the  Rusaans,  after  they  had 
first  ransacked  it.  They  evidently  were  not  aware  that  they  destroyed 
their  own  property.  It  had  been  confiscated  years  before,  and  had  been 
Crown  property  since  1848." 

**■  And  have  you  yet  the  outlines  of  the  building  so  firmly  engraved 
on  your  memory  ?" 

*'  Of  course  I  it  was  my  birth-place,  whicli  I  had  rarely  left  until  I 
was  eighteen  years  old.  Such  things  are  not  easily  forgotten.  And 
although  more  than  twenty  years  have  passed  since  this  sad  affair, 
hardly  a  day  passed  on  which  I  did  not  think  of  my  paternal  home.  I 
was  aware  of  the  death  of  my  mother,  and  that  my  cousin  was  worse 
than  dead^-perhaps  I  ought  to  have  rejoiced  when  the  old  mansion  was 
burnt  to  the  ground ;  but  yet  I  could  not  suppress  a  tear  when  the  news 
reached  me.  There  is  hardly  anything  on  earth  which  can  now  move 
me."  I  record  Hterally  what  the  unfortunate  man  related.  My  Jewish 
coachman,  not  easily  impressed,  had  during  the  conversation  crept 
gradually  nearer,  and  shook  his  head  seriously  and  sorrowfully. 

** Excuse  me,  Pani  Walerian,"  he  interrupted:  "**upon  my  honour, 
yours  is  a  sad  story !"  He  launched  out  into  practical  politics,  and  con- 
cluded thus: 

"  A  Pole  is  not  as  clever  as  I  am. .  If  he  (the  Pole)  was  the  equal  of 
the  Russian,  well  and  good,  fight  it  out ;  but  the  Russian  is  a  hundred 
times  stronger^  therefore,  Pani  Walerian,  why  irritate  him,  why  con- 
front him?" 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  these  remarks;  but  the  poor  '' forced 
cue"  remained  unmoved;  aud  only  after  some  silence,  he  observed, 
turning  towards  me : 

"  I  have  never  even  confronted  the  Russians.  I  merely  received  the 
panishment  of  the  criminal,  without  being  one,  or  venturing  my  all  in 
my  people's  cause.  I  was  very  young,  when  I  waa  tranq>orted  to  Sibe- 
ria—little more  than  nineteen  years  old.  My  father  had  died  early.  I 
maSiaged  our  small  property,  and  a  cousin  of  mine,  a  pretty  girl,  sixteen 
years  old,  lived  at  our  house.     Indeed,  I  had  no  thoughts  of  politics.  7 


68  X^  IMPEEIAL  PAKDOK 

is  true  I  wore  the  national  costnme,  perused  our  poets,  especially  M*ck- 
iewicz  and  SIo\Yaski,  and  had  on  the  wall  of  my  bedroom  a  portrait  ol 
Koscius7ko.  For  such  kind  of  high  trc:ason  evou  the  Russian  Govem- 
nient  woulvl  not  havo  cnislu^d  me  in  ordinary  times — but  it  was  the  yeai 
1848.  '  Kicolai  Pa vvlo witch  *  had  not  sworn  in  vain  that  if  the  whoio 
of  Europo  was  in  flames,  no  spark  should  a^^ise  in  his  empire — and  by 
strc  ams  of  blood  and  tears,  he  achieved  his  object.  Wherever  a  young 
Polish  noble  lived  who  was  suspect  :d  of  revolutionary  tendencies,  re^ 
peated  domiciliary  searches  wer<3  made  ;  and  if  only  a  single  prohibited 
book  was  found,  the  droad  fiat  went  forth,  '  To  Siberia  with  him  !* 

"  In  my  own  casj  it  came  like  a  thunderbolt.  I  was  already  in  Sibe* 
ria,  and  could  not  yet  r-^aUze  my  misery.  During  the  whole  long  joxn- 
ney  I  was  more  or  loss  dcUrious.  I  hoped  for  a  speedy  Hberation,  for  1 
was  altogether  innocent,  and  at  that  time,"  he  continued  with  a  bitter 
smile,  *'  I  yet  beheved  in  God.  When  all  hope  became  extinct,  I  began. 
madly  to  rave,  but  finally  s^jttled  down  utterly  crushed  and  callous.  It 
was  a  fearful  state — for  weeks  together,  all  my  past  life  seemed  a  com- 
plete bliink,  at  most  I  stih  remembered  my  name.  This,  sir,  is  hterally 
true  :  Siberia  is  a  very  pecuhar  place." 

The  poor  fellow  had  sunk  down  upon  a  bench,  his  hands  rested  x>o"w- 
erless  in  his  lap.  I  never  have  seen  a  face  so  utterly  worn  and  pain- 
stricken.     Af t-r  a  while  he  continued : 

'*Ten  years  had  thus  passed  away;  at  least,  I  was  told  so — I  had 
long  ceas.;d  to  count  the  days  of  my  misery.  For  what  purpose  should 
I  have  done  so  ? 

"  I  had  sunk  so  low  that  I  felt  no  pity  even  for  my  terrible  condition. 
One  day  I  was  brought  before  the  Inspector,  together  with  some  of  my 
companions.     This  official  informed  us  that  we  had  been  pardoned  on 
condition  of  becoming  colonists  in  New  Russia.     The  mercy  of  the  Cz&r 
Vould  assign  to  each  of  us  a  place  of  residence,  a  trade,  .and  a  lawful 
ivif  e,  who  would  be  also  a  pardoned  convict.     We  must  of  course,  in. 
addition,  be  converted  to  the  Orthodox  Greek  Church.     This  latter  stip- 
ulation did  but  httle  concern  us.     We  readily  accepted  the  conditions, 
for  the  people  are  glad  of  leaving  Siberia,  no  matter  whither,  even  t<> 
meet  death  itself.     And  had  we  not  been  pardoned  ?    Alexander  Niko- 
lajewitch  is  a  gracious  lord.     In  Siberia  the  mines  are  over-crowded, 
and  in  South  Russia  the  steppes  are  empty  1     Oh,  he  is  a  philanthro- 
pist !  decus  et  d^hciie  generis  humani  1     But  perhaps  I  wrong  him.  We 
entered  upon  our  long  journey,  and  proceeded  slowly  south-west.     In. 
about  eight  months  we  reached  Mohilew.     Here  we  were  only  kept  in. 
easy  confinement,  and  above  all,  brought  under  the  influence  of  the 
pope.     This  was  a  rapid  proceeding.     One  morning  we  were  driven  to- 
getui^r  into  a  large  room,  about  one  hundred  men,  and  an  equal  num- 
ber of  women.     Presently  the  priest  entered-;  a  powerful  and  dirty  fel- 
low, who  appeared  to  have  invigorated  himself  for  his  holy  work  with  a 
considerable  dose  of  gin,  for  we  could  smell  it  at  least  ten  paces  o'ff^  au^ 
^6  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  upon  his  legs. 


AN  IMPERIAL  PARDON.  C9 

*'*You  ragamtifiins  !'  ho  stammered;  *  yon  vermin  of  hnmamty  I 
you  are  to  become  Orthodox  Christians ;  but  snrejy  I  shall  not  tako 
much  trouble  with  yon.  For,  what  do  you  think  I  get  per  head  ?  Ten 
copcis,  you  vermin !  ten  cop^ks  per  head.  Who  will  be  a  misKionary 
Rt  such  pay?  I  certainly  do  it  to-day  for  the  last  time  I  Indeed,  our 
good  fatJior  Alexandi^r  Nikolajewitch  caused  one  rouble  to  be  set  in  tho 
tii.rifF ;  but  that  rascal,  the  director,  pockets  ninety  copeks,  and  leaves 
olHj  ten  for  me.  To-day,  however,  I  have  und-rtaken  yocir  conversion, 
b  -cause  I  am  told  thero  arc  many  of  you.  Now  listen  !  you  are  now 
Citholies,  Protestants,  Jews !  That  is  sad  mistake ;  for  every  Jew  is  a 
Liood-sucker,  every  Protestant  a  dog,  and  every  Cathohc  a  pig.  Such 
i:s  their  lot  in  life — but  aftcT  death  ?  carrion,  my  good  people,  carrion  ! 
And  will  Christ  have  mercy  on  them  at  the  last  day  ?  Verily  no  !  He 
\;ill  not  dream  of  such  a  thing  !  And  until  then  ?  Hell-fire  !  There- 
lore,  good  people,  why  should  you  suffer  such  torments?  Be  converted! 
Thoso  who  agree  to  become  Orthodox  Christians,  keep  silent ;  those  who 
d'mur,  receive  the  knout  and  go  back  to  Siberia.  Wherefore,  my  dear 
brothers  and  sisters,  I  ask,  will  you  become  Orthodox  Christians?'  . 
"  We  remained  silent. 

" '  Well,'  continued  the  priest,  *now  pay  attention  I  Those  who  are 
already  Christians  need  only  to  lift  up  the  right  hand,  and  repeat  after 
me  tho  cr3ed-  That  will  soon  be  done.  But  with  the  damned  Jews  one 
fcis  always  a  special  trouble — the  Jews  I  must  first  baptise.  Jews,  step 
forward  I — the  other  vermin  can  remain  where  they  now  are.'  In  this 
solemn  manner  the  ceremony  was  brought  to  a  conclusion. 

*'0n  the  day  following,"  M.  Walerian  continued,  *'the  second  act 
Tras  performed  ;  the  selection  of  a  trade.  This  act  was  as  spontaneous 
as  our  rdhgious  conversion ;  only,  some  individual  regard  became  here 
indispensable.  Three  young  Government  officials  were  deputed  to  re- 
cord our  wishes,  and  to  comply  with  them  as  far  as  the  exigencies  of  the 
case  admitted.  The  official  before  whom  I  appeared  was  very  juvenile. 
Though  externally  very  polished,  he  was  in  reahty  a  frightfully  coarse 
and  cruel  youth,  without  a  spark  of  human  f eeUng,  so  far  as  we  were 
concerned-  We  afforded  him  no  small  amount  of  merriment  This 
youth  inquired  carefully  concerning  our  wishes,  and  invariably  ordered 
the  very  opposite.  Among  us  was  a  noble  lady  from  Poland,  of  very 
ancient  Uneage,  very  feeble  and  miserable,  whose  utter  helplessness 
niight  well  inspire  the  most  callous  heart  with  rt  spoct  and  compassion. 
The  lady  was  too  old  to  be  married  to  one  of  the  '  forced  ones,'  and  was 
therefore  asked  to  state  what  kind  of  occupation  she  desired.  She  en- 
treated to  be  employed  in  some  school  for  daughters  of  military  officers, 
th?re  being  a  demand  for  such  service  ;  but  the  young  gentleman  or- 
dvired  her  to  go  as  laundress  to  the  barracks  at  Mohilew  I  An  aged  Jew 
had  been  sent  to  Siberia  for  having  smuggled  prohibited  books  across 
the  frontiers.  He  had  been  the  owner  of  a  printing  establishment,  and 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  business.  *  Could  he  not  be  employed  in 
one  of  the  Imperial  printing  offices ;  and  if  possible,'  urged  the  aged 


70  AN  IMPERIAL  PAEDON.  ^ 

man,  *  be  permitted  to  reside  in  a  place  where  few  or  no  Jews  liTed  ?* 
He  had  under  compulsion  changed  his  religion ;  to  which  he  was  yet 
fervently  attached,  and  trembled  at  the  thought  that  his  former  co-re- 
ligionists would  none  the  less  avoid  him  as  an  apostate.  The  young 
official  noted  down  his  request,  and  made  him  a  police  agent  at  Mias> 
kowka,  a  small  town  in  the  goyemment  district  of  Podolien,  almost  ex- 
clusively inhabited  by  Jews.  Another,  a  former  schoolmaster,  in  tlie 
last  stages  of  consumption,  begged  on  his  knees  to  be  permitted  to  die 
quietly  in  some  country  village.  *  That  is  certainly  a  modest  request  T 
observed  this  worthless  youth;  and  sent  him  as  a  waiter  to  a  hospital. 
Need  I  tsll  how  I  fared  ?  Being  misled,  hke  the  rest,  by  the  hypocriti- 
cal air  and  seeming  concern  of  this  rascal,  I  made  known  to  him  my  de- 
sire to  obtain  the  post  of  under-steward  at  some  remote  Crown  estate, 
where  I  might  have  as  Uttle  intercourse  as  possible  with  my  fellow-men. 
And  thus,  sir,  I  became  the  keeper  of  the  small  ion  on  a  much-frequented 
highway!" 

The  unfortunate  man  arose  suddenly,  and  paced  the  room  in  a  state 
of  great  excitement 

"  But  now  comes  the  best  of  all,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  desperate  ef- 
fort— "the  last  act,  the  choice  of  a  wife."  Again  an  internal  struggle 
overpowered  the  unhappy  narrator — a  sudden  and  heavy  tear  rolled  down 
his  care-worn  cheek,  evidently  caused  by  the  remembrance  of  this  abom- 
inable transaction.  "  It  was  a  terrible  ordeal,"  he  said.  **  Sir,  sir,"  he 
continued  after  a  momentary  pause,  * '  siuce  the  sun  has  risen  in  our  hori- 
zon, he  has  shone  on  many  a  cruel  game  which  the  mighty  of  the  earth 
have  played  with  the  helpless,  but  a  more  abominable  farce  has  hardly 
ever  been  enacted  than  the  one  I  am  now  relating — the  manner  in  which 
we  unfortunate  people  were  coupled  together.  In  my  youth  I  read 
how  Carrier  at  Nantes  murdered  the  BoyaUsts ;  how  he  caused  the 
first  best  man  to  be  tied  with  a  rope  to  a  woman,  and  carried  down  the 
Loire  in  a  boat.  In  the  middle  of  the  river  a  trap-door  was  suddenly- 
opened,  and  the  unfortunate  couple  disappeared  in  the  waves.  But 
that  monster  was  an  angel  compared  with  the  officials  of  the  Czar ;  and 
these  republican  marriages  were  a  benevolent  act  in  comparison  with 
those  we  were  forced  to  conclude.  At  Nantes,  the  victims  were  tied 
together  for  a  mutual  death;  we  for  our  mutual  lives!  .  .  .  On  a 
subsequent  morning  we  were  once  more  ushered  into  the  room  where 
our  conversion  had  taken  place.  There  were  present  about  thirty  men 
and  an  equal  number  of  women.  Together  with  the  latter  entered  the 
official  who  had  so  considerately  ordered  our  lot  as  regards  a  livelihood. 

"  *  Ladies  and  gentlemen,'  he  commenced  with  a  nasal  twang,  *  his 
Majesty  has  graciously  pardoned  you,  and  desires  to  see  you  all  happy. 
Now,  the  lonely  man  is  seldom  a  happy  man ;  and  hence  you  are  to 
marry.  Every  gentleman  is  free  to  select  a  partner,  provided  of  course 
the  lady  accepts  the  choice.  And  in  order  that  none  of  you  gentlemen 
may  be  placed  in  the  invidious  position  of  having  to  select  a  partner 
tmworthy  of  him,  supreme  benevolence  has  ordered  that  an  adequs^tQ 


AN  mPEBIAL  PARDON.  7J 

nmnber  of  ladies,  partly  from  penal  settlements  and  partly  from  honses 
of  coirection,  should,  be  now  offered  you.  As  his  Majesty's  solicituda 
for  your  welfare  has  already  assigned  you  an  occupation,  you  may  now 
follow  unhesitatingly  the  promptings  of  your  own  hearts  in  tlie  choice 
of  a  wife.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  yours  is  the  happy  privilege  to  real- 
ise the  dream  of  a  purely  sociahstic  marriage.  Make?,  then,  your  selec- 
tion without  delay  ;  and  as  ''all  genuine  love  is  inKtantauoous,  stiddcu 
as  a  Ughtning  flash,  and  soft  as  the  breezes  of  spring  " — to  uhc  the  words 
of  our  poet  Lermontoflf — I  consider  one  hour  sufficient.  Bear  also  in 
mind  that  marriages  are  ratified  in  heaven,  and  trust  implicitly  to  your 
own  heart.  I  offer  you  beforehand,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  my  con- 
gratulations.' 

"  After  this  address,  the  young  rascal  placed  his  watch  in  front  of 
him  on  the  table,  sat  down,  and  grinned  maliciously  at  our  helpless 
condition.  The  full  measiu'e  of  scorn  imphed  in  this  speech  but  few 
of  us  entirely  realised,  for  we  were  in  truth  a  curious  assembly.  The  most 
extravagant  imagination  could  hardly  picture  more  glaring  contrasts  I 
Sidd  by  side  with  the  bestial  Bessarabian  herdsman,  who  in  a  fit  of  in- 
toxication had  slain  the  whole  of  his  family,  stood  the  highly  cultiTated 
professor  from  Wilna,  whom  the  love  of  his  country  and  of  freedom  had 
consigned  to  the  mines  of  Siberia ;  the  most  desperate  thief  and  shop- 
lifter from  Moscow,  and  the  PoHsh  nobleman  who  at  the  height  of  lus 
misfortunes  still  regarded  his  honour  as  the  most  precious  freasure,  the  ex- 
professor  from  Charkow,  and  the  Cossac-robber  from  the  Don ;  the 
forger  from  Odessa,  Ac.  On  my  own  right  hand  stood  a  thief  and  de- 
serter from  Lipkany,  and  on  the  left  a  Baschkire,  who  had  been  par- 
doned at  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  though  he  had  once  assisted  in  roast- 
ing aUve  a  Jewish  family  in  a  village  inn.  A  madly  assorted  medley  of 
human  beings!  And  the  women  I  The  dissolute  female  gladly  re- 
leased from  the  house  of  correction,  because  she  still  more  depraved 
her  already  degraded  companions,  associated  with  the  unfortunata 
Polish  lady,  whose  pure  mind  had  never  been  poisoned  by  a  vulgar 
word,  and  whose  quiet  happiness  had  not  been  disturbed  by  any  pros- 
pect of  misfortune,  until  a  single  letter,  or  act  of  charity  to  an  exiled 
countryman,  brought  her  into  misery.  Pressing  against  the  young 
girl  whose  sole  offence  consisted  in  being  the  unfortunate  offspring  of  a 
mother  sent  to  Siberia,  might  be  seen  the  infamous  hag  who  had  habit- 
ually decoyed  young  girls  to  ruin,  in  whose  soul  every  spark  of  woman- 
hood had  long  been  extinguished.  And  these  people  were  called  upon 
to  marry ;  and  one  hour  was  granted  them  in  which  to  become  ac- 
quainted and  assorted!  Sir,  you  will  now  perhaps  comprehend  my 
emotion  in  relating  this  shocking  business ! 

**  I  consider  it  the  most  shocking  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  curi- 
ons  outrage  which  has  ever  been  committed."  The  ''forced"  man 
paused,  a  deadly  pallor  suffused  his  countenance,  and  his  agitation  was 
great  The  young  hostess  appeared  perfectly  stunned,  whilst  Reb 
Bussan,  the  coachman,  bent  his  head  in  evident  compassion. 


t2  AN  IMPEEIAL  PAEDON. 

AftcTawhilo  M.  Walerian  continued  in  a  calmer  mood  "Itmnst 
certainly  have  been  an  entertaining  spectacle  to  notice  the  behaviour  of 
this  ill-assorted  people  at  that  trying  hour.  Even  the  barefaced  mon- 
ster on  his  raised  dais  betrayed  a  feverish  excitement :  he  would  sud- 
denly jump  from  his  chair,  and  again  recline,  playing  the  while  ner- 
vou^y  witii  his  fingers.  I  am  hardly  able  to  describe  the  details,  being 
not  altogether  unbiassed  at  this  dreadful  hour. 

**  I  only  know  we  stood  at  first  in  two  distinct  groups,  and  for  the 
first  few  moments  after  the  official  announcement,  not  a  glance  was  ex- 
changed between  the  two  sexes,  much  less  a  word  spoken.  A  deep 
silence  reigned  in  the  room,  a  death-hke  stillness,  varied  only  by  an 
occasional  deep  sigh,  or  a  nervous  movement.  The  minutes  passed, 
certainly  not  many,  but  they  seemed  to  me  an  eternity ! 

"  Suddenly  a  loud  hoarse  voice  exclaimed,  *  Up,  my  lads !  here 
are  some  very  pretty  mates!'  We  all  recognised  the  notorious 
thief  from  Moscow,  a  haggard  withered  fellow,  with  the  ug^est  face  I 
ever  beheld.  He  crossed  over  to  the  women  and  examined  in  his  way 
which  would  be  the  most  desirable  partner.  Here  he  received  an  indig- 
nant push,  and  there  an  impudent  alluring  glance.  Others,  again — the 
better  part — recoiled  from  the  approach  of  the  brute.  He  was  followed 
by  the  Baschkire,  who  like  a  clumsy  beast  of  prey  drew  nigh,  muttering 
incoherently,  *  I  will  have  a  fat  woman;  the  fattest  among  them.* 
From  his  approach  even  the  ugliest  and  most  impudent  instinctively 
recoiled — this  wooer  was  really  too  hideous,  at  best  only  suited  to  a 
monkey.  The  third  in  order  who  came  forward  was  the  Don-Cossac,  a 
pretty  slender  youth.  An  impudent  lass  jauntily  met  him  and  fell  on 
his  neck ;  but  he  pushed  her  aside,  and  walked  towards  the  girl  who 
bad  murdered  her  child.  The  discarded  female  muttered  some  insulting 
words,  and  hung  the  next  moment  on  my  own  neck.  I  shook  her  off, 
and  she  repeated  the  attempt  with  my  neighbour,  and  again  unsuccess- 
fully. 

"Her  example  became  contagious  :  presently  the  more  shameless  of 
the  women  made  an  onslaught  on  th3  men.  Ten  minutes  later  the 
scene  had  changed.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  number  of  men 
and  women"  engaged  in  eager  negotiation — shouting  and  scolding.  The 
parties  who  had  already  agreed  retired  to  the  window-niches,  land  here 
and  there  a  man  pulled  an  unfortunate  woman,  making  desperate  eflbrts 
to  escape  from  him.  The  females  who  yet  retained  a  spark  of  woman- 
hood crept  into  a  comer  of  the  room ;  and  in  another  recess  were  three 
of  us — the  ex-professor,  Count  S.,  and  myself.  Wo  had  instinctively 
come  together,  watching  with  painful  emotion  this  frantic  spectacle, 
not  inclmed  to  participate  in  it.  To  me  at  least  the  thought  of  selecting 
a  wife  here  never  occurred. 


"*  Another  half  an  hour  at  your  disposal,  ladies  and  gentlemen,' 
exclaimed  our  oflcial  tormentor;  twenty  minutes — yet  &teen  znin- 


AN  IMPERIAL  PAEDOK  73 

"  I  stood  as  if  rootsd  to  the  grotmd,  my  knees  trembled,  my  &^tAiiou 
increased,  but  I  remained  motionless.  Indeed,  as  often  as  I  heard  the 
unpleasant  voice  of  the  official,  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head,  but  I 
advanced  not  one  step.  My  excitement  increased — profoand  disgust, 
bitter  despair — the  wildest  indignation  which  perhaps  ever  pierced  a 
poor  hnman  heart.  *No,'I  said;  'ImuHt  ass:rt  the  dignity  of  my 
manhood  I  *  I  was  determined  not  to  make  the  R8leci;ion  of  a  wife  mider 
the  eyes  of  this  man.  Another  impulse  I  could  hardly  suppress — viz. 
to  throw  myself  upon  this  imperial  delegate  and  strangle  him.  And  if 
I  finally  abstained  from  an  act  of  violence,  it  was  bjcausa  I  yet  loved 
lifa,  and  wished  not  to  end  it  on  the  gallows.  Sir,'*  continued  M. 
Walerian,  **the  source  of  great  misery  on  earth  is  this  overpowering 
instinct  of  self-preservation  ;  without  it,  I  should  be  freed  this  day  from 
all  my  misery.  Thus  I  stood,  so  to  speak,  at  bay  iu  my  comer,  using 
dl  my  efforts  to  subdue  the  evil  spirit  within  me.  My  looks  most  prob- 
ably betrayed  me — ^for  when  my  eyes  met  those  of  the  official,  I  noticed 
an  involuntary  shudder.  A  moment  afterwards  he  regarded  me  with  a 
sly  and  malignant  glance.  I  turned  aside  and  closed  my  eyes  on  this 
harassing  scene. 

**  *  Yet  five  minutes,  ladies  and  gentlemen  f  Those  as  yet  undecided 
must  speed  themselves,  and  unburden  their  heart,  or  I  shall  be  com- 
pelled by  virtue  of  my  office  to  tie  them  together.  And  although  I 
shall  do  so  conscientiously,  and  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  there  Is 
this  risk — that  you  engage  in  a  marriage  of  mere  convenience,  instead 
of  one  of  free  choice  and  inclination/ 

'*  Though  my  agitation  rjached  its  climax,  I  made  no  move.  I  con- 
sidered myself  an  accomplice  in  this  disgraceful  outrage,  if  I  within  the 
allottad  five  minutes  declared  my  heart  and  made  a  choice.  But  another 
thought  flashed  across  my  mind:  *I  may  still  be  able  to  prevent  th? 
worst.  Who  knows  with  whom  that  rascal  may  couple  me  if  I  remain 
altogether  passive  ?  Choose  for  yourself !  * — I  made  a  stop  forward — a 
mist  seemed  before  my  eyes — ^my  heart  beat  wildly — I  staggered,  I 
Bought  figures  in  order  to  distinguish  and  recot^ise  myself. 

"Sir,"  exclaimed  the  narrator  with  a  fnidden  yell,  **  what  scenes  did 
I  see  there  ?  I  am  no  coward,  but  I — I  dar  j  not  venture  to  speak  of  it. 
Thus  I  moved  forward ;  hardly  two  minutos  passed,  but  days  would  not 
suffice  to  relate  what  passed  during  these  trrri))lo  moments  through  ^ly 
heart  and  brain.  I  noticed  in  a  comer  a  fainting  woman,  a  young  and 
dilicate  creature.  I  learnt  afterwards  that  she  was  an  orphan  child, 
bom  of  a  dissolute  woman  in  a  penal  settlement.  A  coarse  fellow  with 
cunning  eyes  bent*  over  her,  endeavouring  to  raise  her  from  the  gromid. 
I  suddenly  pounced  upon  the  fellow,  struck  him  a  heavy  blow,  and 
oarricd  the  unconscious  woman  away  as  if  a  mere  child.  I  determined 
to  defend  her  to  the  last.  But  no  rescue  was  attempted,  thoii^h  the 
former  shook  his  fists  at  me,  but  had  seemingly  not  the  courage  to  ap- 
proach nearer.     Gazing  about  him,  another  female  embraced  him,  a 


74  AN  IMPEHIAL  PARBON. 

repulsive  woman.     He  Icfoked  at  her  somewhat  abashed,  bnt  soon  sub- 
mitted to  her  caresses. 

'^'Ladies  and  gentlemen!    the  allotted  hour  has  passed,'   said  the 
official.     '  I  must  beg  the   parties  to  come  forward  and  make  known 
to  me  their  choice.     This  may  be  repugnant  to  some  of  you,  but  my  du- 
ties prescribe  it.     I  especially  request  the  gentlemen  in  yonder  comer 
to  advance ' — pointing  to  myself  and  the  forger.     I  clenched  my  fists 
involuntarily,  but  stepped  forward  with  the  fainting  woman.     *  Cossacks, 
keep  your  *'  Kantschu"  in  readiness,'  said  the  official  to  the  guard  which 
surrounded  him.     Turning  first  to  me,  he  said  :   "  And  are  you,  sir,  re- 
solved to  carry  the  woman  you  now  hold  in  your  arms,  not  only  in  this 
room,  but  through  life  ?'    I  nodded  assent.     *  And  what  have  you  to 
say,  damsel  ?'     The  poor  creature  was  as  yet  unconscious.     *  She  is  in  a 
swoon,'  I  replied.     '  In  that  case  I  am  sorry,'  continued  the  official,  *  to 
have  to  refuse  in  his  Majesty's  name  my  consent  to  your  union.     In  the 
interests  of  humanity,  I  require  an  audible  yes  from  all  parties.     I  have 
watched  attentively  the  whole  proceedings,'  continued  the  official — *not 
from  mere  curiosity,  but  partly  as  a  duty,  and  partly  out  of  pure  sympa- 
thy— and  I  can  assure  you,  sir,  without  disparagement  to  your  claims, 
that  the  choice  of  the  young  lady  you  now  hold  in  your  arms  fell  not 
upon  you,  but  upon  the  gentleman  yonder,'  pointing  to  the  forger.     *It 
was  probably  the  excess  of  happiness  at  this,  selection  which  caused  her 
fainting.     For  you  there  is  waiting  an  adequate  recompense — that  ripe, 
desirable  beauty  who  now  only  reluctantly  holds  the  arm  of  your  rival. 
Therefore,  changez,  Messieurs ! '    *  Scoundrel ! '  I  exclaimed,  and  advanced 
to  s  )ize  him.     But  ere  I  could  lay  hold  of  him,  a  fearful  blow  on  my 
head  stretched  me  stunned  and  bleeding  to  the  ground.     When  I  had 
somewhat  recovered,  our  marriage  procession  was  in  progress  of  forma- 
tion.    The  woman  whom  the  official  had  assigned  to  me  knelt  at  my 
side,  bathing  my  head,  endeavouring  to  revive  me.     *!  like  you,'  she 
observed,   *  and  will  treat  you  well.*     She  raised  me  to  my  feet,  placed 
her  arm  in  mine,  and  pushed  me  in  the  ranks  of  the  procession,  which 
moved  slowly  towards  the  church.     On  our  road  a  heavy  hand  seized 
me  suddenly  by  the  collar.     *  Brother,'  grunted  a  coarse  voice  in  my 
Car,   *  your  stout  woman  takes  my  fancy.     Will  you  change  with  me  ? 
Mine  is  certainly  less  corpulent,  but  younger  in  years.' 

"It  was  the  man  behind  me — the  Baschkire.  The  female  whom  he 
.  di^tgged  along  was  a  lean,  ugly,  dark-complexioned  woman,  swooning  or 
near  a  swoon.  An  expression  of  unutterable  despair  overspread  her 
features,  rendering  them,  if  possible,  yet  more  ugly.  *  A  woman  who 
can  suffer  so  intensely  as  this  one  unquestionably  does,  cannot  be  with- 
out a  heart — is  not  altogther  depraved,  no  matter  what  cause  brought  her 
here.'  These  reflections  determined  me.  *Sh9  is  preferable  to  the 
woman  at  my  side.  Done  I'  I  whispered  to  the  Baschkire.  Just  cross- 
ing the  thr3shold  of  the  church,  a  momentary  pause  ensued,  during 
which  we  effected  the  exchange ;  not  without  a  murmur,  however,  on 
the  part  of  my  intended  wife.    But  the  Baschkire  kept  her  quiet ;  and 


AN  IMPEHIAL  PARDON.  76 

e  closer  inspection  of  her  new  partner  seemed  to  satisfy  her.  The  poor 
■tsoman  I  lid  forward  seemed  hardly  awara  of  the  exchange,  she  was  so 
entirely  absorbed  in  her  grief.  We  were  manied.  The  official  only 
aftt^rwards  became  aware  of  what  had  happened,  but  could  not  now  un^ 
do  it.    But  I  had  to  suffer  for  it — tarrible  was  the  puni-ihment." 

Not  another  word  was  uttered  by  the  tmf  ortunata  man.  Quite  over- 
come by  the  recital  of  his  cruel  fate,  he  suddenly  arose  and  left  the 
Lonse. 

On  account  of  the  approach  of  the  Jewish  Sabbath,  my. coachman 
urged  on  our  journey.  Half  an  hour  later,  we  passed  the  lonely  and 
d-solats  hostelry  of  poor  M.  Walerian,  the  exile  of  Liberia,  who  owed  so 
much  to  imperial  clemency r — ^F.  A.  S.,  in  Belgravia, 


CHRISTMAS  IN  MOROCCO. 

"To-MORROW  Christmas  for  Moros!"  said  the  gentle  Hamed,  our 
Moorish  servant,  entering  the  room  soon  after  the  bang  of  the  last  sun- 
Bet  gun  of  Ramadan  had  shaken  our  windows,  and  the  thick  smoke  of 
the  coarse  Moorish  powder  had  floated  away,  temporarily  obscjtuing  the 
gorgeous  hues  bestowed  by  the  retiring  luminary  on  the  restless  waters 
of  the  South  Atlantic. 

"To-morrow  Christmas  for  MorosI  In  the  morning  Hamed  clean 
house,  go  for  soko ;  then  all  day  no  trabally ;  have  new  haik^  new 
slippers,  walk  about  all  same  tijj(ry 

By  which  little  speech  our  faithful  attendant  meant  to  convoy  that  to- 
morrow's rejoicing  at  the  termination  of  the  long  and  irksome  fast  of 
Kamadan  was  equivalent  to  the  **  Ingleez's"  Christmas,  and  that,  after 
putting  the  house  in  order  and  bringing  the  provisions  from  the  soko^ 
or  market,  he  would  do  no  more  trahally^  or  work — the  word  being  a 
corraption  of  the  Spanish  trabajo — but  would  don  the  new  Iiaik  and 
bright  yellow  sUppers  for  which  he  had  long  been  saving  up,  and  to  the 
p'lrchase  of  Which  certain  Httle  presents  from  the  children  of  our  house- 
hold had  materially  contributed ;  and  would  be  entitled,  by  prescript- 
ive holiday  right,  to  *'take  his  walks  abroad"  with  the  dolcefar  niente 
dignity  of  a  *  j/^jr,  or  merchant. 

I  think  we  members  of  the  httle  English  community  of  Mogador — or, 
as  the  Moors  fondly  call  this  pleasantest  town  of  the  Morocco  seaboard, 
"El  Souerah,"  or  The  Beautiful — had  almost  as  good  reason  as  thi 
^loslem  population  to  rejoice  at  the  termination  of  the  great  fast.  The 
Moors  not  being  allowed,  during  the  holy  month,  to  eat,  drink,  or  smoke 
bfitwixt  the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sim — the  more  sternly  ortho- 
dox even  closing  their  nostrils  against  any  pleasant  odour  that  might 
caEually  pezfome  the  air  in  their  vicinity,  and  their  ears  against  even  tht 


76  CHBISTMAS  IN  MOROCCO. 

faintest  sound  of  music — debairing  themselveB,  in  fact,  from  whatever 
could  give  the  slightest  pleasure  to  any  of  the  senses,  a  ccnsidcrabb 
amount  of  gloom  and  UsUessness  was  the  inevitable  result. 

The  servants  in  the  various  households,  not  over  active  and  int^Ui. 
gent  at  the  best  of  times,  became,  as  the  weary  days  of  prayer  and  fast- 
ing  wore  on,  appaUingly  idiotic,  sleepy,  and  sullen,  would  do  but  litth 
work,  and  that  httle  never  promptly  nor  well.  Meals  could  not  be  re- 
lied on  within  an  hour  or  two,  rooms  were  left  long  untidy,  essential  httlv? 
errands  and  messages  unperformed,  and  a  general  gloomy  oonfusiou 
prevailed. 

Did  I,  tempted  by  the  smoothness  of  the  sea,  desire  a  httle  fishing 
cruise,  and  send  a  youthful  Moor  to  the  neighbouring  rocks  to  get  me  a 
basket  of  mussels  for  bait,  he  would  probably,  directly  he  got  outsid3 
the  town-gates,  deposit  the  basket  and  liimself  in  the  shade  of  the  hrst 
wall  he  came  to,  and  slumber  sweetly  till  the  tide  had  risen  and  covered 
all  the  rocky  ledges  where  it  was  possible  to  collect  bait.  Had  I  told 
the  youngster  over  night  that  he  must  come  out  ^o  sea  with  me  in  the 
morning,  and  take  care  that  my  boat  was  put  outside  the  dock,  so  that 
she  would  be  afloat  at  a  certain  hour,  I  would  find,  on  going  down  at 
daybreak  with  rods  and  tackle,  that  the  boat  was  high  and  dry  upon  tlia 
mud,  and  it  would  take  the  united  efforts  of  half  a  dozen  Moors  and 
myself  to  get  her  afloat  at  the  end  of  nearly  an  hour's  frantic  struggling 
and  pushing  through  mud  and  water,  necessitating  on  my  part  the  ex- 
penditure of  a  great  amount  of  perspiration,  not  a  httle  invective,  and 
sundry  silver  coins. 

And  when  we  were  fairly  afloat  my  Mahometan  youth  would  be  so 
weak  from  fasting  that  his  oar  would  be  almost  useless ;  and  when  we 
did,  after  an  hour  or  so  of  the  most  ignominious  zigzaging.  reach  our 
anchorage  on  one  of  the  fishing-grounds,  then  would  he  speedily  becom3 
sea-sick,  and  instead  of  helping  me  by  preparing  bait  and  landing  fish, 
he  would  lean  despairingly  over  the  side  in  abject  misery,' and  implore 
me  to  go  home  promptly — a  piteous  illustration  of  the  anguish  caused 
by  an  empty  stomach  contracting  on  itself. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  discomforts  under  which  we  groaned  and 
grumbled. 

From  the  evening  when  the  eager  lookers-out  from  minarets  of  mosques 
and  towers  of  the  fortifications  first  descried  the  new  moon  which 
ushered  in  the  holy  month  of  fasting,  every  sunset,  as  it  flushed  the  far- 
off  waves  with  purple  and  crimson  and  gold,  and  turned  the  fleecy 
cloudlets  in  the  western  sky  to  brightest  jewels,  and  suft'used  the  white 
houses  and  towers  of  Mogador  wiUi  sweetest  glow  of  pink,  and  gilded 
the  green-tiled  top  of  each  tall  minaret,  had  been  accompanied  by  the 
roar  of  a  cannon  from  the  battery  just  below  our  windows. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  that  ?"  asked  a  friend  of  mine,  lately  arrived  from 
England,  as  we  strolled  homewards  one  evening  through  the  dusty 
streets,  and  the  boom  of  the  big  gun  suddenly  fell  upon  his  astonished 
ear. 


CHRISTMAS  IX  MOROCCO.  77 

"Only  BUTiBst,"  I  rcjilicd 

"  QuL'er  pliico  this/'  said  J.    "  Does  tho  Brun  always  set  ^-ith  h  bang  ?** 

**  Always  auriug  Ramadau." 

"  Doos  it  risa  witli^  bang  too?  I  hato  to  be  rousod  up  early  iu  tlio 
morning  !'* 

**  No,  there  is  no  gun  at  sunrise ;  but  f  h^ro  is  a  y>-Ty  loud  o:i(  iit  about 
three  in  the  morning,  or  soinetimt^s  haif-i^ast,  or  four,  or  lat  r." 

"Shocking  nuisance!"  remarked  J.  "!My  bjdroom  winvlow's  just 
over  that  abomiuablo  batt  ry." 

The  early  morning  gun  was  a  gi\at  truil,  ccrtaliily.  I  wouM  not  have 
minded  beingj  rcGcille-  i'ly  i<in'fi(t'(t.  Hi  a  livn.hiu.iLi  v.ould  tuv.  and  th'u 
turning  comfortably  over  on  th*i  othor  wid  ^  and  goin;.{  to  sKvji  ng:iin. 

Bat  somehow  or  other  I  always  found  mys.'li  iiwiikj  half  an  hour  or 
an  hour  before  the  time,  and  then  I  cfulit  iKff  g.  t  to  siec  p  again,  l)Ut  lay 
tossing  about  and  fidgettily  listening  for  the  wy  li-known  din.  At  h  ngth 
I  would  hear  a  sound  like  the  hum  of  an  (iiorniouH  fiendish  nightmarish 
mosquito,  caused  by  a  hideous  long  tin  trumj^et,  the  shrill  whistle  of  a 
fife  or  two,  and  the  occasional  tom-toinming  of  a  Moorish  drum.  *'  Ha, 
the  soldiers  coming  along  the  ramT)arts  ;  th.-y  will  koou  tire  now." 

But  tho  sound  of  the  discord^mt  instrumc  v]ts  with  which  the  soldI*^ry 
solaced  themselves  in  the  night  for  their  ejiforci  d  abstinence  from  such 
"sweet  sounds"  in  the  day  would  continu*>,  for  a  long  tilne  bfore  the 
red  flash  through  my  wide-optn  door  would  moniv-ntririly  illumine  my 
little  chamber  on  tho  white  flat  roof,  and  then  the  horrid  bang  would 
rend  the  air,  followed  by  a  d-^nse  cloud  of  foul-sm*^  Ding  smoke  ;  and 
then  would  my  big  dog  Caisar  for  severjil  minutes  rush  frantically  to  and 
fro  upon  the  roof  in  hot  indignation,  and  utter  deep-mouthed  bark*f  of 
defiance  at  the  whito  figures  of  tho  "]\Iaglu\seui,"  as  tht^y  flitted  ghost- 
like along  tho  ramparts  below,  and  s  aort  and  pant  and  chafe  and  refuse 
to  be  pacified  for  a  long  time. 

At  ths  firing  of  the  sunset  fnin  the  Moors  were  allow(  d  to  take  a  plight 
refection,  which  generally  consisted  of  a  kind  of  gm.el.  I  have  seen  a 
Moorish  soldier  squatting  in  tho  stireet  with  a  brass  porringer  in  his  lap, 
eagerly  awaiting  the  boom  of  the  cajinon  to  dip  his  well-washed  fingtra 
in  the  mess. 

At  abc^t  9  P.M.  another  slight  meal  v/as  allowed  to  the  true  believers, 
and  they  might  eat  again  at  morning  gun-£re,  alt^r  wliich  their  mouths 
were  closed  against  all  "'fixings,   sohd  and  liquid,"  even  against  tha 
smallest  draught  of  water  or  the  lightest  pull  at  the  darling  little  pipe  o^ 
dream-inducing  kief. 

On  the  twenty-seventh  day   of  Ramadan  we   were   informed  that 
twenty-se-^en  guns  would  bo  fired  that  night,  and  that  we  had  bette 
leave  all  our- windows  open,  or  they  would  certainly  be  broken  by  tli 
violence  of  the  discharge.     This  was  pleasant ;  still  more  delightful  w 
the  glorious  uncertainty  which  prevailed  in  the  minds  of  our  informan 
as  to  the  time  at  which  we  might  expect  the  iuilietion. 

Some  said  that  tha  twenty-seven  ^runs  would  befired  bef pre^;xudni£ht 


78  CHRISTMAS  IN  MOEOCCO. 

Hamed  opined  that  the  cannonade  would  not  take  place  till  3  or  4 -a.  iff. 
Many  of  the  guns  on  the  battery  in  close  proximity  to  our  abode  were 
in  a  fearfully  rusty  and  honeycombed  condition,  so  that  apprehensions 
as  to  some  of  them  bursting  were  not  tmnatural,  and  I  thought  it  ex- 
tremely probable  that  a  few  stray  fragments  might  "  drop  in  "  on  me. 

That  night  I  burned  the  "midnight  oil,"  and  lay  reacUng  till  nearly 
two,  when  sweet  sleep  took  possession  of  me,  from  which  I  was  awak- 
ened  about  four  in  the  morning  by  a  terrific  bang  that  fairly  shook  the 
house. 

A  minute  more,  and  there  came  a  red  flash  and  another  bang,  pres- 
ently another.  Thought  I,  *'  I  will  go  out  and  see  the  show ;"  so  I  went 
on  to  the  flat  white  roof  in  my  airy  nocturnal  costume,  and  leaning  over 
the  parapet  looked  down  on  to  the  platform  of  the  battery  below.  A 
group  of  dim  white  figures,  a  flickering  lantern,  a  glowing  match,  a 
touch  at  the  breech  of  a  rusty  old  gun,  a  swift  skurry  of  the  white 
figures  round  a  comer,  a  squib-like  foimtain  of  sparks  firom  the  touch- 
hole,  a  red  flash  from  the  mouth,  momentarily  illumining  the  dark  violet 
sea,  a  bang,  and  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

Then  the  white  figures  and  the  lantern  appeared  again;  another 
squib,  another  flash,  another  bang,  Caesar  galloping  up  and  ^own  over 
the  roof,  snorting  his  indignation,  but  not  barking,  probably  because  he 
felt  "unable  to  do  justice  to  the  subject;"  and  at  length,  after  the 
eleventh  gun  had  belched  forth  crimson  flames  and  foul  smoke,  all  was 
peace,  save  a  distant  discord  of  tin  trumpets,  gonals  and  glmhris,  and  I 
returned  to  my  mosquito-haimted  couch  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Pass  we  now  to  the  eve  of  "  Christmas  for  Moros,"  and  let  ethnolo- 
gist and  hagiologist  derive  some  satisfaction  from  the  evidences  I  col- 
lected in  this  far-away  Moorish  town  that  the  gladness  of  the  Mahome- 
tan festival  does,  similarly  to  the  purer  joy  of  the  Christian,  though  in 
a  less  degree  perhaps,  incline  towards  "peace  ,and  good-will  to  men," 
charity  and  kindliness. 

As  we  sat  chatting  that  evening  round  the  tea-table,  to  us  entered 
Hamed,  bearing,  with  honest  pride  illumining  his  brown  features,  a 
great  tmy  of  richly  engraved  brass,  heaped  up  with  curious  but  tempt- 
ing-looking cakes. 

Gracefully  presenting  them  to  "the  senora,"  he  intimated  that  this 
was  his  humble  offering  or  Christmas  token  of  good-will  towards  the 
family,  and  that  his  mother  (whom  the  good  fellow  maintains  out  of  his 
modest  wages)  had  made  them  with  her  own  hands. 

The  cakes  were  made  of  long  thin  strips  of  the  finest  paste,  plentiful- 
ly sweetened  with  delicious  honey,  twisted  into  quaint  shapes,  and  fried 
m  the  purest  of  oiL  I  need  hardly  say  that  the  children  were  delighted, 
and  immediately  commenced  to  court  indigestion  by  a  vigorous  onslaught 
<m  the  now  and  tempting  sweets.  Nay,  why  should  I  blush  to  con- 
fess that  I  myself  have  a  very  sweet  tooth  in  my  head,  and  such  a  liking 
for  all  things  saccharine  that  my  friends  say  jokingly  that  I  must  be 
getting  into  my  second  childhood  ? — an  imputation  which,  as  I  am  only 


CHRISTMAS  m  MOEOCCO.  7D 

a  HtUd  on  lihe  wrong  sido  of  tliirtj,  I  can  bestr  with  equanimity.  How- 
ever,  I  firmlj^  decline  to  inform  an  inquisitive  public  how  man/  of  those 
delightful  Moorish  cakes  I  ate :  truth  to  tell^  I  do  not  remember ;  but  I 
enjoyed  them  heartily^  nor  found  my  digestion  impaired  thereby. 

We  had  a  little  chat  with  Hamed — whose  face  was  lighted  up  with  the 
broadest  of  grins  as  we  praised  his  mother^s  pastry  aud  showed  pur  ap- 
preciation of  it  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner — on  certain  matters  of 
the  J^Iahometan  religion  and  the  position  of  women  in  the  future  life. 
Some  of  the  sterner  Muslims  believe  that  women  have  no  souls ;  others 
opine  that  while  good  men  go  to  **  E'jannah^*  or  heaven,  and  bad  ones 
to  **  Eljeluimiam^''  or  hell^  women  and  mediocre  characters  are  deport- 
ed to  a  yague  kind  of  limbo  which  they  designate  as  ^*-Bah  Marokahy*^  or 
the  Morocco  Gate. 

But  the  gentle,  liberal,  and  gallant  Hamed  informed  us>  in  reply  to  an 
individual  query  with  regard  to  our  Moorish  housemaid,  that  **  if  Lan- 
inya  plenty  good,  no  tie/em  (steal),  no  drinkum  sharab  (wine),  and  go 
for scu^a  ("school,"  or  rehgious  instruction  in  the  mosque,  or  in  a 
gchoolhonse  adjoining  it),  by  and  by  she  go  for  "  Eljannaky 

I  am  hardly  correct,  by  the  way,  in  speaking  of  Lanniya  as  "house- 
wjrtJd,"  for  Moorish  maidens  and  wives  never  go  in  the  service  of  Euro- 
pean families,  being  prohibited  by  their  rehgion  from  showing  their 
iaces ;  it  is  only  widows  and  divorced  women  who  may  go  about  un- 
veiled, and  mingle  with  Christians, 

The  next  morning,  soon  after  the  last  gun  of  Eamadan  had  soimded  its 
joyous  boom  in  my  ear,  I  was  up  and  stirring,  donning  my  shooting  apparel 
and  preparing  for  an  early  coimtry  walk  with  my  faithful  four-footed 
comrade.  I  had  no  fear  of  exciting  the  fanaticism  of  the  Mushm  popu- 
lation by  going  out  shooting  on  their  holy  day,  for  there  is  not  much 
bigotry  in  Mogador, — Moors,  Christians,  and  Jews  observing  their  sev- 
eral religions  peacefully  side  by  side,  so  that  three  Sundaj^s  come  in 
every  week,  the  Mahometan  on  Friday,  the  Jewish  on  Saturday,  and 
then  ours. 

The  sun,  just  rising  from  behind  the  eastern  sand-hills,  was  gilding 
all  the  house-tops  and  minarets,  till  our  white  town  looked  Uke  a  rich 
assemblage  of  fairy  palaces  of  gold  and  ivory ;  the  smiling  sea,  serene 
and  azure,  came  rippling  peacefully  up  to  the  base  of  the  rugged  brown 
rocks,  enlivened  to-day  by  no  statuesque  figures  of  Moorish  fishermen  ; 
nor  M  a  single  boat  dot  the  broad  blue  expanse  of  the  unusually  smooth 
South  Atlantic,  of  which  the  fish  and  the  sea-fowl  were  for  once  left  in 
nndisturbed  possession. 

As  I  gazed  from  the  flat  roof  away  over  the  great  town,  I  heard  from 
many  quarters  loud  sounds  of  music  and  merriment.  As  I  passed  pres- 
ently through  the  narrow  streets,  with  their  dead  white  walls  and  cool 
dark  arches,  scarcely  a  camel  was  to  be  seen  at  the  accustomed  corners 
by  the  stores  of  the  merchants,  where  usually  whole  fleets  of  the  ' '  ships  of 
the  desert "  lay  moored,  unloading  almonds,  and  rich  gums,  and  hides,, 
and  all  the  varied  produce  of  the  distant  interior. 


80  CHEISTMAS  IN  MOEOCCO. 

Outside  the  town-gates  the  Tcry  hordes  of  semi-wild  scaven^r  do^ 
BBemed  to  know  that  the  day  was  one  of  peace,  for  they  lay  in  the  sun- 
shine, nor  barked  and  snapped  at  the  inlidel  intruder  as  he  Vaiked  over 
the  golden  sands,  along  the  edge  of  the  marshy  pool,  past  the  pleasant- 
looking  Moorish  cemetery  with  its  graceful  verdant  palm-trees,  a  calm 
oasis  in  the  sandy  plain,  and  out  across  the  shallow  lagoon  formed  by 
overflows  of  high  tides,  by  which  a  few  late  trains  of  homeward-boTincI 
camels  went  softly  stepping,  looking  wonderfully  picturesque  as  they 
inarched  through  shallow  waters  so  beautifidly  gilded  ^by  the  momirig 
sun,  thiir  drivers  doubtless  eager  to  reach  their  own  home  or  the  shelter 
of  some  friendly  village  to  participate  in  the  modest  revelries  of  the  joy- 
oiir^>  season.  How  I  wandered  along  the  shore  of  the  *'  mamy-BOunding 
B.  a,"  enjoying  a  httle  rough  sport,  and  the  blithe  companicmship  of  the 
big  doggie  ;  how  I  saw  never  a  Moor  upon  the  rocks,  but  many  Jews 
w:th  long  bamboo  rods,  busily  engaged  in* fishing  for  bream  and  bass 
and  rock-fish,  it  boots  not  to  descril>e  with  a  minuteness  which  might  be* 
wearisome  to  my  readers,  for  I  am  not  now  writing  *'  of  sport,  for  sports- 
men." 

So  let  ns  turn  homewards,  as  the  sun  is  getting  high  in  the  heavens, 
and  note  the  scenes  by  the  way. 

Yonder,  near  the  marshy  comer  of  the  plain,  haunted  by  wild-fowl, 
and  carrion  crows,  and  mongrel  jackal-Uke  dogs,  is  the  rough  cemetery 
of  the  despised  *'Jehoud,"  the  Israehtes  who  form  so  large  and  so 
wealthy  a  portion  of  the  population  of  Mogador.  Among  the  long  flat 
stones  that  mark  the  graves  of  the  exiled  sons  and  daughters  of  Israel 
th  jre  is  a  v.dnding  crowd  of  white-draped  figures,  a  funeral  procession. 
XJnwilHng  to  intrude  upon  their  grief,  I  pass  on,  casting  an  involuntary 
glance  at  the  picturesque  garb  and  wild  gesticulations  of  the  mourners 
as  the  women\s  loud  and  bitter  cry  of  **  Ai,  Ai,  Ai,  Ai !"  sounds  weirdly 
tlirough  the  air,  just  as  it  may  have  done  in  the  old  scriptural  times, 
\7l\3u  ''the  moiinicrs  went  about  the  streets"  and  gaye  unchecked  vent 
to  til  ir  grief  in  pubhc,  even  as  they  do  to  this  day. 

I]ut  as  I  neared  Morocco  Gate,  from  the  neighbouring  *'  Run- 
ning Ground"  came  very  different  sounds — a  din  of  many  drums, 
ii  !-q-aeaklng  of  merry  fifes,  the  firing  of  many  long  Moorish  guns,  th3 
sl;x.itlng  of  men  and  boys,  and  the  eerie  shrill  taghariet  of  the  Moorish 
jWoinen. 

And  as  I  passed  in  front  of  the  round  battery,  out  from  the  great  gato 
of  the  New  Kasbah  came  the  crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children  who 
ha.l  been  clamouring  joyfully  in  the  Eunning-Grouud,  a  bright  throng 
of  brown  faces  and  white  raiment,  interspersed  with  the  gay  colom^ 
X'-vvn  by  the  little  children,  and  dotted  here  and  ther.i  by  the  blood-red 
of  th:)  national  flag.  Suddenly  from  a  cannon  just  behind  mo  came  a 
cloucl  of  smoke  enveloping  me  and  the  dog,  and  a  bang  which  fairly 
Blioc-.'v  n  1.  and  then  another  and  another.  The  firing  of  the  guns  from 
thiii  bactwxy  w&s  the  spectacle  the  Moorish  populace  had  come  o\it  to 
Svje, 


CHRISTMAS  IN  MOROCCO.  81 

It  "was  an  uncomfortable  sensation  to  have  big  guns  going  off  just  be- 
hind one ;  they  were  only  loaded  with  blank  cartrklgp,  of  courKC,  biu  we 
were  qtiite  near  enough  to  be  knocktd  down  by  a  ntray  piece  of  wad- 
ding,  and  something  did  once  whistle  past  my  ear  suggrKtively. 

But  it  would  never  do  for  an  "  Ingleez  "  to  run  away  in  the  presence 
of  a  lot  of  Moors  ;  so  I  walked  calmly  across  the  sands  while  the  whole 
battery  of  guns — twelve,  I  think — were  fired,  Cajsar  meanwhile  pranc- 
ing about  majestically,  and  loudly  giving  vent  to  his  indignation  at  a, 
proceeding  which  he  evidently  considered,  as  he  always  does  the  firing 
of  any  gun  or  pistol  by  any  one  but  me,  an  express  insult  to  his  master, 
and  an  infringement  of  his  pecuhar  privileges. 

I  went  home  by  way  of  the  Watev-Port,  where  there  was  no  move- 
ment of  hghters  or  fishing-craft,  no  stir  of  bare-legged  port  r:^  and  fish- 
ermen, no  bustle  of  Jewish  and  European  merchants ;  nearly  all  the 
boats  were  drawn  up  on  the  shore,  and  those  which  remainc  d  afloat, 
Blambered  tenantlcss  on  the  broad  blue  bosom  of  the  sea.  On  rockR, 
and  in  the  pleasant  shade  of  walls  and  nrches,  a  few  figures,  in  bright 
and  gauzy  fiaiks  and  gorgeous  new  slippei's,  lounged  and  dozed,  per- 
chance tired  with  the  revelries  they  had  gone  through  since  daybreak, 
luid  recruiting  their  energies  for  frcsh  rejoicings  towards  evening, 
li^aohing  home  about  eleven,  I  rested  a  while,  deposited  my  birds  in 
the  larder,  and  then  proceeded  to  stroll  about  the  streets  and  see  how 
tlicj  populace  comported  themselves  on  this  festive  occasion.  I  was 
Rorry  to  learn  that  some  of  the  younger  and  more  fanatical  of  the  Moors 
had  baen  relieving  their  feelings  by  abusing  the  Jews,  some  of  whom 
had  had  stones  thrown  at  them,  and  their  he  ads  slightly  broken.  But 
thi8  temporary  riot  was  over,  and  now  all  was  '* peace  and  good-will," 
except  that  perhaps  there  may  have  lurked  a  little  not  unnatural  ill-feel- 
ing in  the  minds  of  the  broken-headid  Israelites,  who  could  not  help 
feeling  rather  disgusted  at  the  manner  in  which  the  Muslim  youths  had 
celebrated  '*  Christmas  for  Moros." 

As  I  passed  along  the  narrow  lane  wherein  the  soldiers  of  the  Kaid  or 
Governor,  in  the  snowiest  of  links  and  tallest  and  reddest  of  Urrbocshes, 
squatted  against  the  wall,  chatting  blithely  as  they  awaited  the  advent 
of  their  master,  a  grave  and  venerable-looking  Moorish  grandpapa,  hur- 
rj'ing  along  with  a  great  armful  of  cakes  in  one  of  the  folds  of  his  haiky 
stumbled  against  a  loose  stone  and  dropped  several  of  the  cakes. 

I  hastily  stooped  and  picked  them  up  ;  the  old  man  muttered  a  few 
words  of  blessing  upon  me,  insisted  on  my  accepting  the  dainties  I  had 
Kscued  from  the  dust,  utterly  refused  to  receive  them  back,  pressed  my 
hand,  and  hurried  on,  leaving  me  in  a  state  of  embarrassment,  from 
'nliich  I  was  opportunely  reUeved  by  the  arrival  of  a  bright-eyed  little 
Moor  of  soven  or  eight  summers,  who  was  perfectly  willing  to  relieve 
me  from  all  trouble  connected  with  the  handful  of  cakes.  Passing  into 
ihs  busy  streets  of  the  Moorish  quarter,  I  found  the  population  coming 
out  of  tho  various  mosques,  wh:ro  they  had  been  to  morning  service, 
and  now  ^oing  in  for  a  systematic  course  of  '*  greetings  in  the  market- 


82  CHEISTMAS  IN  MOROCCO. 

place,"  and  pnrchasing  of  presents.  O,  for  an  artist*s  pencU  and  eo\- 
oiirs  to  depict  the  gorgeous  costumes  of  the  town  Moors,  the  quaint, 
wild  garb  of  their  country  cousins  ^  the  gauzy  cream-tinted  haiks  from 
Morocco  i  the  rich  silken  caflauH  of  purple,  or  crimson,  or  yellow,  or 
green,  or  azure,  or  pink,  sweetly  half -veiled  by  a  fold  or  two  of  snowy 
gauze  thrown  over  them;  the  bright  red  fez  caps;  and  voluminous 
Bnowy  turbans  of  the  patriarchal-looking  old  men;  the  broad  silken 
sashes  from  Fez,  heavy  and  stiff  with  rich  embroidery  of  gold ;  the 
great  curved  daggers  in  their  richly  chased  silver  or  brass  sheaths,  sus- 
pended amid  the  folds  of  the  haik  by  thick  woolen  cords  of  gay  colours ; 
the  handsome  brown  faces,  the  flashing  black  eyes,  the  wonderful  white 
teeth,  the  sinewy  brown  bare  legs,  the  brand-new  yellow  sUppers  of  the 
merry  Moors  of  Mogador ! 

And  the  negroes,  or,  as  old  Fuller  would  quaintly  have  called  them, 
**  the  images  of  Grod  cut  in  ebony,"  how  their  honest  black  features 
glistened,  and  how  their  bright  teeth  grinned  beneath  turban  or  fez, 
or  gaudy  handkerchief  of  many  colours  1 

The  negro  servant  of  one  of  the  European  residents,  a  good-humoured 
giant  of  nearly  seven  feet,  whom  his  master  is  wont  to  describe  as  *'  his 
nigger  and  a  half,"  came  stalking  down  amongst  the  Httle  shops  and 
stalls  with  a  flaunting  bandanna  round  his  head,  a  purple  jacket,  a  most 
gorgeous  sash,  a  pair  of  green  baggy  breeches,  a  ghttering  silver-sheathed 
dagger,  and  a  most  imposing  haik^  thrown  in  toga-like  folds  over  all. 

Negro  women,  unveiled,  white-clad,  adorned  as  to  their  shiny  black 
arms  with  rude  heavy  bracelets  of  silver  or  brass,  sat  at  street-comers 
with  baskets  of  sweet  cakes  and  little  loaves  for  sale.  Veiled  Moorish 
women,  perchance  showing  just  i  one  bright  black  eye  to  tantaUse  the 
beholder,  glided  along  like  substantial  ghosts  in  the  white  raiment  which 
enveloped  them  from  their  heads  down  to  the  little  feet  shod  with  red 
or  yellow  shppers  embroidered  with  goldthread  or  bright-coloured  silks. 
Women  leachng  tiny  toddlers  of  chSdren,  httle  bright-eyed  boys  with 
crowns  shaven  all  but  one  queer  little  tufted  ridge  in  the  middle,  deftly 
curled  this  morning  by  mamma's  loving  fingers ;  foreheads  adorned 
with  quaint  frontlets,  from  which  hung  curious  ornaments  of  gold  and 
coral  and  silver,  spells  against  the  evil  eye,  talismans,  and  what  not 

Little  boys  in  beautiful  cloth  or  silken  cloaks  of  pale  blue,  or  dehcate 
purple,  or  crimson,  or  rich  green,  or  golden  yellow,  trotting  along  as 
proud  as  peacocks,  holding  by  the  hand  some  tiny  brother  who  can 
barely  toddle.  Children  who  have  just  had  new  shppers  purchased  for 
them,  and  are  carrying  them  home  in  triumph ;  children  who,  with 
funny  little  copper  coins  in  their  hand,  are  congregating  round  the  stall 
of  the  swarthy  seller  of  sweetstuffs,  who  is  ejaculating  loudly,  **  Heloua^ 
Ileloua  /"  busily  brandishing  a  feathery  branch  of  green  artim  the 
while,  to  keep  the  vagix)m  flies  off  his  stores  of  rich  dainties  composed 
of  walnut  and  almond  toffee,  pastes  made  of  almonds  and  honey  and 
sugar,  httle  brown  sugar  balls  thickly  strewn  with  cummin-seeds,  long 
sticks  of  pepperminti  and  other  delicacies  difficult  to  deiczibt. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  MOfiOCCO.  83 

As  to  the  grown-np  Moors,  never  was  seen  each  a  lumd^sliakiiig  as  is 
going  on  amongst  them*  Everybody  is  abaking  hands  with  everybody 
else,  each  wishing  the  other  the  Arabic  substitute  for  '*  A  men-y  Christ- 
mas/^ and  after  each  haudsht^dng  each  of  the  participauts  puts  his 
himd  to  his  lips  and  proceeds,  to  be  stopped  two  yards  farther  oui  for 
a  repetition  of  the  performance. 

On  we  go  through  the  meat-market,  and  note  pityingly  the  leanness 
of  the  Moors*  Christmas  beef,  which  has  just  been  butchered,  and  of 
which  an  eager  good-humored  crowd  are  buying  small  pieces  amid 
much  vociferation,  chaff,  and  *' compliments  of  the  season^*  generally. 

Then  we  come  to  the  green-grocers'  shops,  where  we  see  hugs 
radishes,  great  pomegranates,  sweet  potatoes,  and  bunches  of  fragrant 
mint  for  the  flavouring  of  the  Moors'  passionately  loved  bevetagc, 
^n-een  tea ;  then  to  the  grocers'  quarter,  where,  asking  a  grave  and  portly 
Moor  for  a  pennyworth  of  fakea  (dried  fruit),  he  puts  into  half  a  gourd* 
&ii«ril  a  pleasant  collection  of  dates,  almonds,  figs,  and  raisins,  handa 
tliem  to  us  with  benign  politeness.  Opposite  his  store  is  a  low  t^ibla 
covered  with  queer  bottles  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  filled  with  a  dubious- 
ltx>king  pink  fluid,  resembling  the  most  delicious  hair  oil,  but  appar^ 
futly  highly  appreciated  by  the  Moorish  and  Jewish  youth  who  crowd 
around. 

In  the  centre  is  a  burly  brandy-bottle,  bearing  the  well-known  label 
of  "J.  and  F.  Martell,"  now  filled  with  a  flxiid  presimiably  more  innoc- 
uous than  the  choicest  cognac ;  the  big  bottle  is  flanked  by  rows  of  httla 
medicine-vials  and  long  thin  bottles  such  as  are  used  for  attar  of  roses 
and  other  Eastern  scents ;  for  the  vendor  of  this  bright-coloured  hquor 
Joes  not  possess  cups  or  tumblers,  but  dispenses  it  in  the  httle  bottles. 
A  bare-headed  youth,  with  shaven  crown,  tenders  a  mozouiw,  receives 
a  two-ounce  vial,  en^ties  it  solemnly  amid  the  envious  looks  of  his 
comrades,  sets  it  down,  and  walks  gravely  away. 

Away  we  go  too,  Caesar  and  I,  axid  I  note  that  there  is  hardly  a  Jew 
to  be  seen  in  the  streets ;  they  are  afraid  of  stone-throwing,  and  out- 
iiirsts  of  the  slumbering  hatred  and  contempt  with  which  <£ey  are  re- 
corded by  the  orthodox  Mushm. 

As  for  Christians,  Enghshmen  especially,  they  are  much  more  toler- 
f/t-d  and  respected ;  and  I  know  that  I  may  walk  tho  town  all  day  with- 
i;ut  fear  of  molestation,  and  get  plenty  of  kindly  greetings  and  many  a 
»iuile  and  shake  of  the  hand. 

Out  of  the  busy  market,  up  the  narrow  and  shady  streets,  hearing 
^j^auds  of  the  fearsome  trumpet,  which  I  have  already  compared  to  an 
•  xaggerated  mosquito,  meeting  that  instrument  presently  at  a  comer — a 
t'  irrid  tin  thing  about  two  yards  long,  wielded  by  a  sinewy  httle  man  in 
I.  blue  tunic,  accompanying  a  gaily-dressed  boy  on  a  sleek  and  patient 
ii  jiikey.     Fifing  and  drumming  and  firing  of  guns  going  on  aU  around. 

Fierce-looking  Moors  and  Arabs  from  the  country  leaning  on  their 
long  silver-mounted  gims,  scowhng  at  the  **Kaffer,"  whom  they  have 
pcrchuice  not  seen  until  they  came  to  El  Sou^rah.     A  veiled,  but  evi- 


84  CHBISTMAS  IN  MOROCCO. 

dsntly  portly,  dame,  leading  by  the  hand  a  pretty  little  girl,  in  n  r 
skirt  below  a  rich  garment  of  lace  or  embroidery,  with  a  crimson  liocc: 
cloak  or  djel<(h  ovor  it,  rich  ornaments  on  her  smooth  brown  forth,  at 
enormous  silver  anklets,  little  bare  ftct,  dyed,  hke  htr  hands  and  lias 
of  most  of  th3  little  girls  and  many  of  the  big  ones,  a  bright  rtd  v:t 
htnna.       Little    girl    shrinks    behind    her    mothtr,    afraid    of    tL 
Giaour  or  of  his  big  dog;  the   Giaour  elips  by  with   a'emile,  di'^ 
gio   with  a  friendly   wag  of  his   tail,    and  we   go   homeward  for 
while ;    Ca?Har  to   make  a  hearty   meal  of   the  biscuits   which  hj:v 
come   all  the   way  from   England  for  him ;    his  master   to   part^l; 
of    lunch,    then   smoke  a  pipe  on  the  roof,    and  look  wistfully  oil 
over  the  bright  blue  sky,  and  let  his   thoughts  wander  far,  far  a\\ay  t 
many  a  pleasant  Christmas  in  a  pleasant  corner  of  the  fair  Western  laiiil 

"  WTiere  is  now  the  merry  party 
I  remember  lODg  ago. 
Laughing  round  the  Christmas  fireside, 
Brightened  by  its  ruddy  glow  ?" 

But  the  Moor's  Christmas  has  come  early  in  October ;  there  is  tln^ 
yet,  and  plenty  of  English  steamers  going  backwards  and  forwarii-j 
who  knows  whether  the  wanderer  may  not  yet  spend  the  next  Chii- 
mas  by  a  genial  English  fireside,  and  recount  to  prattling  childi-«  u  < 
his  knee  (others'  children,  alas  I )  the  curious  sights,  sounds,  and  scil 
of  "Christmas  for  Moros ?"  But  I  have  not  tiuite  done  with  you  }>! 
kindly  reader.  I  must  just  briefly  tell  you  how  I  went  out  again  i 
the  afternoon  with  Ca3sar  and  a  two-legged  friend,  and  found  inn 
shopping  going  on  and  more  handshaking,  and  found  the  more  foti^ 
spirits  getting  hilarious  over  green  tt  a  and  coffee  and  kkf;  how  v 
strolled  down  to  the  Water-Port  and  sat  on  the  quay,  surround*  d  1 
merry  yoimg  Moors  in  their  "  Sunday  best;"  how  my  friend  essayul 
sketch  one  or  two  of  them,  and  they  did  not  hke  it,  but  thought  sor, 
evil  spell  would  be  j)ut  upon  tliem  thereby ;  how  they  asked  us  n.fti 
questions  about  England,  and  particularly  wanted  to  know  how  n:ui 
dollars  we  possessed ;  how  my  companion  won  the  hearts  of  son  e  \ 
the  younger  members  of  the  party  by  teaching  them  how  to  wh  >: 
between  their  thumbs,  and  how  to  make  a  certain  very  loud  and  dii 
fully  discordant  screech ;  and  how  J.  and  I  finished  the  aftrmoou  1 
partaking  of  a  dehghtful  bottle  of  EngHsh  ale  iri  the  courtyard  of  a  cu 
store,  leaning  our  chairs  against  massive  stone  pillars,  and  smoking  i) 
pipe  of  peace. 

But  I  fear  the  stem  Editor  will  not  grant  me  any  more  space,  ar'l 
must  leave  at  present  the  recital  of  aU  that  I  saw  on  the  ensuing  ila 
which  the  gentle  Hamed,  if  he  were  a  little  more  closely  acquaint 
with  our  institutions,  would  call  "  Boxing-day  for  Moros." 

C.  A.  P.  (*'  Sabcelle"j,  in  London  Society, 

MOOADOB. 


THE  H0]ffl2S  AND  HAUNTS  OP  THE  ITALLVN  POETS. 

GTJAEINI. 

Pastohai.  poetiT'  had  in  Italy  a  tendency  to  a  rajjid  degeneration 
from  tho  first.  "  Decipit  cxemplnm  vitiis  imitabiL."  Tiio  eiirli.st 
*' pastorals"  were  far  from  being  without  merit,  and  merit  of  a  high 
order.  But  they  were  eminently  "vitiis  imitabiks."  Tv>'o  specimeuhi 
of  Italian  Arcadian  poetry  stand  out»  from  the  iucrodil  iy  huge 
mass  of  such  productions  still  extant,  superior  to  all  the  innumer- 
able imitations  to  which  they  gave  ris^  in  a  more  marked  d.  grc^e 
even  than  "originals"  UsujxUy  surpass  imitations  in  value.  Thos3 
are  the  **Aminta"  of  Tasso,  and  the  *' Pastor  Fido"  of  the  poet  with 
whom  ife  is  the  object  of  these  pages  to  make  the  English  nineteenth 
century  reader,  who  never  will  find  the  time  to  read  him,  in  v,om3 
degree  acquainted — Batista  Guarini.  It  would  be  diliieuit  to  Bi>/ 
which  of  these  two  celebrated  pastoral  dramas  was  received  v/itii 
the  greater  amount  of  delight  and  enthusiasm  by  tho  world  of 
their  contemporaries,  or  even  which  of  them  is  the  better  pe-rform- 
ance.  The  almost  simultaneous  production  of  these  two  mastt^rpieces 
in  their  kind  is  a  striking  instance  of  the,  one  may  almost  Bay,  epidemic 
nature  of  the  influences  which  rule  the  production  of  the  human  intel- 
lect ;  influences  which  certainly  did  not  cease  to  operate  for  many  gen- 
erations after  that  of  the  authors  of  the  "Aminta"  and  the  "Pastor 
Fido,"  although  the  servile  imitation  of  those  greatly  admired  works 
unquestionably  went  for  much  in  causing  the  overwhelming  flood  of 
pastorals  which  deluged  Italy  immediately  subsequent  to  their  enormous 
success. 

I  have  said  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  assign  a  preeminence  to  either 
of  these  poems.  But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  it  is  intended  thence 
to  insinuate  an  equality  between  the  authors  of  them.  Tasso  would  oc- 
cupy no  lower  place  on  the  ItaUan  Parnassus  if  he  had  never  written  the 
*' Aminta."  His  fame  rests  upon  a  very  much  larger  and  firmer  basis. 
But  Guarini  would  be  nowhere — would  not  be  heard  of  at  all — had  he 
not  written  the  "  Pastor  Fido. "  Having,  however,  produced  that  work — • 
a  work  .of  which  forty  editions  are  said  to  have  been  printed  in  his  Hfetime, 
and  which  has  been  translated  into  almost  every  civiHsed  language,  in- 
cluding Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew — he  has  always  filled  a  space  in  the 
eyes  of  his  countrymen,  and  occupied  a  position  in  the  roll  of  fame, 
which  render  his  admission  as  one  of  our  select  band  here  imperative. 
He  is,  besides,  a  representative  poet ;  the  head  and  captain  of  the  pas- 
toral school,  which  attained  everywhere  so  considerable  a  vogue,  and 
in  Italy  such  colossal  proportiouB. 

186] 


66    THE  HOMES  AND  HAUKTS  OE  THE  ITALIAN  POETS?.   "^ 

Guarini  was  born  in  the  year  1537  in  FerKU», — desolate,  drearyv 
shrunken,  grass-grown,  tumble-down  Ferrara,  which  in  the  course  of 
one  half -century  gave  to  the  world,  besides  a  host  of  lesser  names,  three 
such  poets  as  Tasso,  Ariosto  and  Guarini.  Ariosto  died  four  years  be- 
fore Guarini  was  bom  ;  but  Tasso  was  nearly  his  contemporary,  bein^ 
but  seven  years  his  junior. 

In  very  few  cases  in  all  the  world  and  in  all  ages  has  it  happened  that 
intellectual  distinction  has  been  the  appanage  of  one  family  for  as  many 
generations  as  in  that  of  the  Guarini.  They  came  originally  from  Vero- 
na, where  Guarino,  the  first  of  the  family  on  record,  who  was  born  in 
1370,  taught  the  learned  languages,  and  was  one  of  the  most  notable  of 
the  band  of  scholars  who  laboured  at  the  restoration  of  classical  literature. 
He  hved  to  be  ninety  years  old,  and  is  recorded  to  have  had  twenty- 
tliree  sons.  It  is  certain  that  he  had  twelve  Hving  in  1438.  One  of 
them,  Giovanni  Batista,  succeeded  his  father  in  his  professonship  at 
Ferrara,  to  which  city  the  old  scholar  had  been  invited  by  Duke 
Hercules  I.  It  would  seem  that  another  of  his  sons  mu«t  also 
have  shared  the  work  of  teaching  in  the  University  of  Ferrara? 
for  Batista  the  poet  was  educated  by  his  great-uncle  Alessandro,*and 
succeeded  him  in  his  professorship.  Of  the  poet's  father  we  only  leam 
that  he  was  a  mighty  hunter,  and  further,  that  he  and  his  poet-son  were 
engaged  in  Utigation  respecting  the  inheritance  of  the  poet's  grandfather 
and  great-uncle.  It  is  probable  that  the  two  old  scholars  wished' to  be- 
queath their  property,  which  included  a  landad  estate,  to  theii"  grand- 
son and  great-nephew,  who  already  was  manifesting  tastes  and  capaci- 
ties quite  in  accordance  with  their  own,  rather  than  to  that  exceptional 
member  of  the  race  who  cared  for  nothing  but  dogs  and  horses. 

Nor  was  Batista  the  last  of  his  race  who  distinguished  himself  in  the 
same  career.  His  son  succeeded  him  in  his  chair  at  the  university  ;  and 
we  have  thus  at  least  four  generations  of  scholars  and  professors  follow- 
ing the  same  course  in  the  same  university,  which  was  in  their  day  one 
of  the  most  renowned  in  Europe. 

All  this  sounds  very  stable,  very  prosperous,  very  full  of  the  element 
of  contentment.  And  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  great- 
grandfather, the  grandfather,  the  great-uncle,  the  son,  were  all  as  tran-. 
quil  and  contented  and  happy  as  well-to-do  scholars  in  a  prosperous 
university  city  should  be.  But  not  so  the  poet.  His  life  was  anything 
but  tranquil,  or  happy,  or  contented.  The  Uves  of  few  men,  it  may  be 
hoped,  have  been  less  so. 

Yet  his  morning  was  brilliant  enough.  He  distinguished  himself  so 
remarkably  by  his  success  in  his  early  studies  that,  on  the  death  of  hia 
great-uncle  Alexander  when  he  was  only  nineteen,  he  was  appointed  to 
succeed  him.  This  was  in  1556,  when  Hercules  II.  was  Duke  of  Fer- 
rara, and  when  that  court  of  the  Este  princes  was  at  the  apogee  of  its 
splendour,  renown,  and  magnificence.  The  young  professor  remained 
working  at  the  proper  labours  of  his  profession  for  ten  years ;  and  they 
were  in  all  probability  the  best  and  happiest,  the  only  happy  ones  of  hig 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.     87 

1^6.  Happy  is  the  nation,  it  lias  been  said,  which  has  no  history  ;  and 
mach  the  same  probably  may  be  said  of  an  individnal.  Bespectiug  these 
tin  years  of  Gaarini*s  life  but  little  has  been  recorded.  No  doubt  the 
chronicle  of  them  would  have  been  monotonous  enough.  The  same 
quiet  duties  quietly  and  successfully  discharged;  the  same  morning 
walk  to  his  school,  the  same  evening  return  from  it,  through  the  f-ame 
streets,  with  salutations  to  the  same  friends,  and  leisurely  pauses  by  the 
\7ay  to  chat,  Italian  fashion,  with  one  and  another,  as  they  were  met  in 
the  streets,  not  then,  as  now,  deserted,  grass-grown,  and  almost  weird  in 
their  pale  sun-baked  desolation,  but  thronged  with  bustling  citizens, 
mingled  with  gay  courtiers,  and  a  very  unusually  large  proportion  of  men 
whose  names  were  known  from  one  end  of  Italy  to  the  other.  Those 
Behool  haunts  in  the  Ferrarese  University  were  haunts  which  the  world- 
veary  ex-professor  must  often  throughout  the  years  of  his  remaining 
I'Jti — some  forty -five  of  them,  for  he  did  not  die  till  1C12,  when  he  was 
seventy-five — ^have  looked  back  on  as  the  best  and  happiest  of  his  storm- 
tossed  existence. 

There  is,  however,  one  record  belonging  to  this  happy  time  which 
must  not  be  forgotten.  It  was  at  ^adua,  Pa  data  la  d<4ta^  as  she  has 
V)een  in  all  ages  and  is  still  called,  Padua  the  learned,  in  the  year  ir)65. 
Guarini  was  then  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  and  had  been  a  professor 
ftt  Ferrara  fot  the  last  eight  years.  Probably  it  was  due  to  the  circum- 
f^tance  that  his  friend  and  fellow-townsman,  Torquato  Tasso,  was  then 
pursuing  his  studies  at  Padua,  that  the  young  Ferrarese  professor  turned 
his  steps  in  that  direction,  bound  "  on  a  long  vacation  ramble."  Tasso 
was  oidy  one-and-twenty  at  the  time ;  but  he  was  already  a  member  of 
the  famous  Paduan  Academy  of  the  *'  Etherials,"  which  Guarini  was 
not  And  we  may  readily  fancy  the  pride  and  pleasure  with  which  the 
younger  man,  doing  the  honours  of  the  place  to  his  learned  friend, 
procured  him  to  be  elected  a  member  of  the  **  Etherials."  Guarini 
ISO  called  nel  secolo — in  the  world),  was  II  Costante — the  **  Con- 
stant One"  among  the  "Etherials."  Scipio  Gonzaga,  who  became 
subsequently  the  famous  Cardinal,  spoke  an  oration  of  welcome  to  him 
on  his  election.  Then  what  congratulations,  what  anticipations  of  fame, 
what  loving  protestations  of  eternal  friendship,  what  naTve  acceptance 
of  the  importance  and  serious  value  of  their  Etherial  Academic  play,  as 
the  two  youths  strolling  at  the  evening  hour  among  the  crowds  of 
gravely  ckid  but  in  no  wise  gravely  speaking  students  who  thronged  the 
coloniMides  in  deep  shadow  under  ttieir  low-browed  arches,  sally  forth 
from  beneath  them  as  the  suri  nears  the  west,  on  to  the  vast  open  space 
which  lies  around  the  great  church  of  St.  Antony!  Advancing  in 
close  talk  they  come  up  to  Donatello^s  superb  equestrian  statue  of  the 
Venetian  General  Gattamelata,  and  lean  awhile  against  the  tall  pedestal, 
finishing  their  chat  before  entering  the  church  for  the  evening  prayer. 

The  "Etherials"  of  Padua  constituted  one  of  the  mnumerable 
".Academies"  which  existed  at  that  day  and  for  a  couple  of  centuries 
robsequently  in  every  one  of  the  hundred  cities  of  Italy.     The  "  Area- 


88    THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

• 

diau  *'  craze  was  the  generating  canse  of  all  of  them.  All  the  members 
were  "  shepherds  ;  "  all  assumed  a  fancy  name  on  becoming  a  member, 
by  which  they  were  known  in  literary  circles ;  and  every  Academy 
printed  all  the  rhymes  its  members  strung  together ! 

Those  must  have  been  pleasant  days  in  old  Padua,  before  the  youpg 
Professor  returned  to  his  work  in  the  neighbouring  university  of  Ferrara. 
The  two  young  men  were  then,  and  for  some  time  afterwards,  loving 
friends ;  for  they  had  not  yet  become  rival  poets. 

At  the  end  of  those  ten  years  of  university  life  he  may  be  said  to  have 
entered  on  a  new  existence — to  have  begun  life  afresh — so  entirely  dis- 
Bevered  was  his  old  life  from  the  new  that  then  opened  on  him.  Al- 
phonso  II.,  who  had  succeeded  his  father,  Hercides  H.,  as  Duke  of 
Ferrara  in  1559,  *'  called  him  to  the  court"  in  15G7,  and  he  began  )ife 
as  a  courtier,  or  a  **  servant "  of  the  Duke,  in  the  language  of  the  coun- 
try  and  time. 

Well,  in  1567  he  entered  into  the  service  of  the  Duke,  his  sovereign, 
and  never  had  another  happy  or  contented  hour ! 

The  first  service  on  which  the  Duke  employed  him,  and  for  the  per- 
formance of  which  he  seems  specially  to  have  taken  him  from  his  pro- 
fessional chair,  was  an  embassy  to  Venice,  to  congratulate  the  new 
Doge,  Pietro  Loredano,  on  his  elevation  to  the  ducal  throne,  to  which  ha 
had  been  elected  on  the  previous  19th  of  June.  On  this  occasion  the 
Professor  was  created  CavaHere,  a  title  to  which  his  landed  estate  of 
Guarina,  so  called  from  the  ancestor  on  whom  it  had  been  originally 
bestowed  by  a  former  duke,  fairly  entitled  him. 

Shortly  afterwards  he  was  sent  as  ambassador  to  the  court  of 
Turin ;  and  then  to  that  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian  at  Innspruck. 
Then  he  was  twice  sent  to  Poland  ;  the  first  time  on  the  occasion  of  the 
eloction  of  Henry  the  Third  of  France  to  the  throne  of  that  kingdom  ; 
and  tlie  second  time  when  Henry  quitted  it  to  ascend  that  of  France  ou 
the  death  of  his  brother  Charles  IX.  The  object  of  this  second  em- 
bassy was  to  intrigue  for  the  election  to  the  Pohsh  crown  of  Alphonso. 
But,  as  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  his  mission  was  unsuccessful. 

It  seems,  too,  to  have  been  well-nigh  fatal  to  the  ambassador.  There 
is  extant  a  letter  written  from  Warsaw  to  his  wife,  which  gives  a  curious 
and  interesting  account  of  the  sufferings  he  endured  on  the  journey  a'ad 
at  the  place  of  his  destination.  He  tells  his  wife  not  to  bo  discontented 
that  his  silence  has  been  so  long,  but  to  be  thankful  that  it  was  not 
eternal,  as  it  was  very  near  being  I  "I  started,  as  you  know,  more  in 
the  fashion  of  a  courier  than  of  an  ambassador.  And  that  would  have 
been  more  tolerable  if  bodily  fatigue  had  been  all.  But  the  same  hand 
that  had  to  flog  the  horses  by  day,  had  to  hold  the  pen  by  night.  Nature 
could  not  boar  up  against  this  double  labour  of  body  and  mind ;  espc^- 
cially  after  I  had  travelled  by  -Serravelles  and  Ampez,*  which  is  more 
disagreeable  and  difficult  than  I  can  tell  you,  from  the  ruggedness  no 

*  The  now  celebrated  pass  of  the  Ampezzo  between  Venice  and  Innfipnick. 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  Of  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  89 

less  of  the  conntry  than  of  tho  people,  from  the  scarcity  of  hors'^s,  tho 
miserable  mode  of  liviug,  and  tli3  wiiut  of  every  nocv^ssary.  So  liiii.h  bo 
tliit  on  reaching  Hala*  I  had  a  violout  fever.  I  eiubirkid,  h()\vev<  r, 
for  Vienna  notwithstanding.  Vv^hat  with  fever,  discouragiiu.ut,  an  in- 
Wnse  thirst,  scarcity  of  rt^inedies  and  of  medical  assiKtancvi,  bad  lod'^'- 
iiig,  generally  far  to  seek,  t  and  oft..n  infected  with  disi  as;  >,  food  d.s- 
giisting,  even  to  pei*sons  in  health,  bed  whero  you  ar  ^  smothx  r  d  in 
icathorrs,  in  a  word,  none  of  the  necessaries  or  comforts  cf  111'  > !  II  avo 
vou  to  imagine  what  I  have  siiifored.  The  evil  inereas  d;  my  Ktr  U'^ih 
.iTrew  less.  I  lost  my  apps^tite  for  everything  savv)  wine.  In  a  v/onl, 
Iitti3  hope  remained  to  me  o4  life,  and  that  little  was  o^lious  to  v.i  \ 
Tiiere  is  on  the  Danub.%  which  I  was  niivigatiiif;,  a  va  t  wl>"r'po(], 
FO  rapid  that  if  the  boatmen  did  not  avail  thoms-'lv.  s  of  tn  ^  p.sslstiinv- 1 
«if  a  great  number  of  men  belonging  to  tho  lota-lty.  kI/oimj  n.A 
pov7erful  and  well  acquainted  with  thi  dan,^.r,  wiio  i\r^  lli.  re  ton- 
.-tantly  for  the  purpose,  and  who  Ktrug^T^le  with  th  ir  o;irs  a;':*i;n- 1  T.n 
npaoions  gulf,  th.re  is  not  a  viss.  1  in  that  gr^at  rivir  v.I:!.  li  \.(»ua1  int 
l>e  engulf !.d !  Tho  place  is  worthy  of  th3  name  of  "the  Door  of 
D.^ath,"  which  with  a  notoriety  of  evil  fame  it  has  fv.in  d  for  its.  If. 
There  is  no  passeng  r  so  bold  as  not  to  pass  that  bit  of  tlio  course  of 
the  river  on  foot ;  for  the  thing  is  truly  formidable  and  t  iriblc.  ]>iit 
I  was  so  overcome  by  illness,  that  having  lost  all  sense  of  d  ui'i;  r  or  d  ^- 
s:re  to  Uvo,  I  did  not  care  to  Lave  the  boat,  but  remained  in  it,  v^'itli 
tnose  strong  men,  1  hardly  know  whether  to  say  stupidly  or  intr.  pid'y 
—but  I  will  say  intrepidl}-,  s'.nce  at  one  point,  where  I  vs'as  witixiu  an 
u<--  of  destruction,  I  Lit  no  fear." 

He  goes  on  to  tell  how  at  Vienna  a  physician  treated  him  am!ss,  and 
Eadi  him  worse  ;  how  every  kind  of  consideration,  and  his  ovv'n  dei-iro 
tofia^'e  his  life,  counselled  him  to  d  lay  there  ;  but  how  th  )  ho-iour,  the 
r.^5j)onsibility  of  the  embassy  wholly  on  his  should  rs,  his  duty  to  liis 
^f'v.Tcign  prevailed  to  drive  him  onwards.  He  fearefl,  too,  1  st  it  should 
\}i  buppos.d  at  V>'arsaw  that  he  prefen-ed  his  life  to  the  business  on 
which  hj  came,  an  accusation  which  might  have  been  mad  •  use  of  by 
nspicious  and  inahgnant  adversaries  to  deprive  him  of  all  the  credit 
cf  his  labours,  and  *Ho  snatch  from  my  Prince  the  crown  which  vv-e 
ar?  striving  to  place  on  his  head.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine,"  he  co?!- 
tinues,  **what  I  suffered  in  that  journey  of  more  than  six  hundr.d 
milu^a  from  Vienna  to  Warsaw,  dragged  rather  than  can'ied  in  carts, 
i'roken  and  knocked  to  pieces.  I  wonder  that  I  am  still  alive  !  The 
obstinate  fever,  the  want  of  rest,  of  food,,  and  of  medicine,  tho  oxces- 
fcive  cold,  the  infinite  hardships,  the  uninhabited  deserts,  were  killing 
m-i.  More  often  than  not  it  was  a  much  lesser  evil  to  crouch  by  night 
ia  the  cart,  which  dislocated  my  bones  by  day,  rather  than  to  be  sntio- 

*  TWs  must  probably  b,i  Ilall  on  tho  luu,  a  little  below  Innppruck.  Cortaiiily 
anr  Ixiat  which  he  j^ot  there  for  the  descent  of  tho  river  must  have  been  a  sufflcieutly 
luis-erable  mode  of  travel  line. 

t  Far,  that  is,  from  the  bank  of  tho  rirer,  where  he  left  his  boat  at  night 


»0    THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

cated  in  the  foulness  of  those  dens,  or  stables  rather,  where  the  dogs 
and  cats,  the  cocks  and  hens,  and  the  geese,  the  pigs  and  the  calves, 
and  sometimes  tlij  children,  kept  me  waiting." 

He  proceeds  to  toll  how  the  country  was  overrun,  in  that  time  of  in- 
terregnum, by  lawless  bands  of  Cossacks ;  how  he  was  obliged  to  travtl 
with  a  strong  escort,  but  nevertheless  was  obhged  several  times  to  devi- 
ate from  the  direct  road  to  avoid  the  Cossacks,  but  on  two  occasions  had 
very  narrow  escapes  from  falling  into  their  hands.  When  he  reached 
Warsaw  at  last,  mora  dead  than  ahve,  the  only  improvement  of  his  position 
was  that  he  was  stationary  instead  of  in  motion.  * '  The  cart  no  more  lacer- 
ates my  Umbs ! "  But  there  was  no  rest  to  l^  got.  '  ^  The  place,  the  season, 
the  food,  the  drink,  the  water,  the  servants,  the  medicines,  the  doctors,  nitn- 
tal  trouble,  and  a  thousand  other  ills  make  up  my  torment.  Figure  to  your- 
self all  the  kingdom  lodged  in  one  little  town,  and  my  room  in  the  midst 
of  it !  There  is  no  place  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  on  the  right  or  on 
the  left,  by  day  or  by  night,  that  is  not  full  of  tumult  and  noise.  Thtro 
is  no  special  time  here  destined  for  business.  Negotiation  is  going  on 
always,  because  drinking  is  going  on  always ;  and  business  is  dry  work 
without  wine.  When  business  is  over,  visits  begin ;  and  when  thts^j 
are  at  an  end,  drums,  trumpets,  bombs,  uproar,  cries,  quarrels,  fighting, 
spht  one's  head  in  a  manner  piteous  to  think  of.  Ah !  if  I  suffered  all 
this  labour  and  this  torment  for  the  love  and  the  glory  of  God,  I  should 
be  a  martyr  I"  (one  thinks  of  Wolsey  I)  "  But  is  he  not  worthy  of  tha 
name  who  serves  without  hope  of  recompense  ?" 

He  concludes  his  letter,  bidding  his  wife  not  to  weep  for  him,  but  to 
live  and  care  for  her  children,  in  a  manner  which  indicates  that  he  had 
even  then  but  httle  hope  of  returning  alive. 

We  are  nevertheless  assured  by  his  biographers  that  he  acquitted 
himself  upon  all  these  occasions  in  such  sort  as  to  give  satisfaction 
to  his  sovereign  and  to  acquire  for  himself  the  reputation  of  an 
upright  and  able  minister.  The  Italian  practice  of  entrusting  embassies 
especially  to  men  of  letters,  which  we  first  had  occasion  to  note  when 
tracing  the  vicissitudes  of  the  Ufe  of  Dante  in  the  thirteenth  centnr}', 
which  we  saw  subsequently  exempUfied  in  the  cases  of  Petrarch,  Boc- 
caccio, and  Ariosto,  and  which  might  be  further  exempUfied  in  the  per- 
sons of  many  other  ItaUan  scholars  and  men  of  letters,  still,  as  we  see, 
prevailed  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  continued  to  do  so  for  some  lit- 
tle time  longer. 

But  in  no  one  instance  of  all  those  I  have  mentioned,  does  the  poet 
thus  employed  in  functions  which  in  other  lands  and  other  tiniis 
have  usually  led  to  honours  and  abundant  recognition  of  a  more  solid 
kind,  appear  to  have  reaped  any  advantage  in  return  for  the  service  ptr- 
f ormed,  or  to  have  been  otherwise  than  dissatisfied  and.  discontented 
*<vith  the  treatment  accorded  to  him. 

It  would  have  been  very  interesting  to  learn  somewhat  of  the  impres- 
sion made  upon  an  Italian  scholar  of  the  sixteenth  century  by  the  placta 
visited,  and  persons  with  whom  he  must  have  come  in  contact  in  thosa 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAT7NTS  OP  THE  ITAMAK  POETS.    91 

transalpme  lands,  which  were  then  so  far  ofiF,  so  coniarasted  in  all  respecte 
with  the  home  scenes  among  which  his  life  had  been  passed  in  the  low- 
lying,  fat,  and  fertile  valley  of  the  Po.  Of  all  this  his  various  biogra- 
phers and  contemporaries  tell  us  no  word !  But  there  is  a  volume  of 
his  letters,  a  little  square  quarto  volume,  now  somewhat  rare,  printed 
at  Venice  in  the  year  1595.*  These  letters  have  somewhat  unaccounta- 
bly not  been  included  in  any  of  the  editions  of  his  works,  and  they  are 
bnt  little  known.  But  turning  to  this  little  volume,  and  looking  over 
the  dates  of  the  letters  (many  of  them,  however,  are  undated),  I  found 
three  written  **Di  Spruch,"  and  eagerly  turned  to  them,  thinking  that 
I  should  certainly  find  ther^what  I  was  seeking.  The  letters  belong  to 
a  later  period  of  Guarini's  life,  having  been  written  in  15IJ2,  when  he 
was  again  sent  on  an  embassy  to  the  German  Emperor.  This  circum- 
stance, however,  is  of  no  importance  as  regards  the  purpose  for  which  I 
wanted  the  letters.  I  was  disappointed.  But  I  must  nevertheless  give 
one  of  these  letters,  not  wantonly  to  compel  my  reader  to  share  my  dis- 
appointment, but  because  it  is  a  curiosity  in  its  way.  The  person  to 
whom  he  writes  is  a  lady,  the  Gontessa  Pia  di  Sala,  with  whom  he  was 
cvidentlv  intimate.  He  is  at  Innspruck  at  the  Court  of  the  Emperor 
MftYimiiian      The  lady  is  at  Mantua,  and  this  is  what  he  writes  to  her : 

"  Di  Sprnch,  Nov.  29, 1592. 
"  The  letter  of  year  niastrioos  Ladyship,  together  with  which  you  scud  me 
that  of  your  most  excellent  brother,  written  at  the  end  of  August,  reached  me 
yestarday.  at  first  to  my  very  great  anger  at  having  been  for  so  long  a  time 
deprived  of  bo  precious  a  thing,  while  I  appeared  in  fault  towards  so  distiliguished 
a  lady  i  but  finally  to  my  very  great  good  fortune.  For  if  a  letter  written  by 
the  most  lovely  flame  t  in  the  world  had  arrived,  while  the  skies  were  burning, 
what  would  have  become  of  me,  when,  now  that  winter  is  beginning.  I  can 
pcarcely  prevent  myself  from  falling  into  ashes?  And  in  truth,  when  I  think 
tiat  those  so  courteous  thoughts  come  from  the  mind  which  informs  so  lovely 
a  p.;rson,  that  those  characters  have  been  traced  by  a  hand  of  such  excellent 
Iwauty,  I  am  all  ablaze,  no  less  than  if  the  paper  were  fire,  the  words  flames, 
and  all  the  syllables  sparks.  But  God  grant  that,  while  I  am  set  on  fire  by  the 
letter  of  your  Illustrious  Ijadyship,  you  may  not  be  inflamed  by  anger  against 
me,  from  thinking  that  the  terms  in  which  I  write  are  too  bold.  Have  no  such 
doubt,  my  honoured  mistress !  I  want  nothing  from  the  flaming  of  my  letter, 
bur  to  have  made  by  the  light  of  it  more  vivid  and  more  brilliant  in  you,  the 
i)arur<d  purity  of  your  beautiful  face,  even  as  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  scii  it  at 
thi-»  distance.  My  love  is  nothing  else  save  honour;  my  flame  is  reverence; 
iiy  fire  is  ardent  desire  to  serve  you.  And  only  so  long  will  the  appointment 
jii  his  service,  which  it  has  pleased  my  Lord  His  Serene  Highness  the  Duko  of 
Mantua  to  give  me,  and  on  which  vour  Illustrious  Ladyship  has  been  kind 
enough  to  congratulate  rae  so  cordially,  be  dear  to  me,  as  you  shall  know  that 
I  am  fit  for  it,  and  more  worthy  and  more  ready  to  receive  the  favour  of 
your  commands,  which  will  always  be  to  me  a  most  sure  testimony  that  you 
t'teom  me,  not  for  my  own  worth,  as  yon  too  comteously  say,  but  for  the  worth 
vnich  yon  confer  on  me.  since  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  esteem  for  any  other  merit 

•  Lettere  del  Siguor  Cavalicre  Battista  Gnarini,  Nobile  Ferrarese,  di  nuovo  in 
q:ii-8tJ>  seconda  impressione  di  alcune  altre  accresciute,  e  dall' Autore  stesso  corrette, 
111  Agostiijo  Michele  raccolte,  et  al  Sereniss.  Si^nore  11  Duca  d'Urbino  dedicate. 
Con  Privilegio.  In  Veuetia,  MD2CV.  Appressp  Qio.  Battista  Ciottl  Senese  al  segno 
d'lla  Minerva. 

1 1  translate  literally.  Old-fashioned  people  will  remember  a  somewhat  similtt 
ue  of  the  word  "  Flame  "  in  SngUsh.  ^ 


' 


Ir 


:v 


92    THE  HOMES  AOT)  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

than  thit  which  coitk?s  to  me  from  being  honoured  by  so  noble  and  b?aiitiful  a  lady- 
I  kls-?  the  hand  of  your  Illustrious  Ladyship,  wishing  the  cuiininatioD  of  every 

ioiic.ty." 

Now,  this  latter  I  consider  to  be  avery  great  curiosity !     The  other 
two  written  from  the  same  place,  one  to  a  Signor  Bulgarini  at  Siena, 
the  other  to  a  lady,  the  Marchesa  di  Grana,  at  Mantua,  are  of  an  en- 
tirely similar  description.     I  turned  to  them  in  the  hope  of  finding  hovr 
Iimspruck,  its  stupendous  scenery,  its  court,  its  manners  so  widely  dif- 
ferent fi*om  those  to  which  the  writer  and  his  correspondents  were  used, 
its  streets,  its  people,  impressed  a  sixteenth  century  Itahan  from  the 
\  alley  of  the  Po.     I  find  instead  a  psychological  phenomeon !     Tha 
writyr  is  a  grave,  austere  man  (Guarini  was  notably  such),  celebrated 
throughout  Italy  for  his  intellectual  attainments,  in  the  fifty-seventh 
year  of  his  age,  with  a  wife  and  family  ;  he  ia  amidst  scents  which, 
must,  one  would  have  thought,  have  impressed  in  the  very  highest  de- 
gree the  imagination  of  a  poc;t,  and  must,  it  might  have  been  supposed, 
have  interested  those  he  was  writing  to  in  an  only  somewhat  less  degree, 
and  he  writes  the  stuff  the  reader  has  just  waded  through.     It  is  clear 
that  this  Itahan  sixteenth  century   scholar,   poet  and  of    cultivated 
int-llect  as  he   was,  saw  nothing  amid  the  strange  scenes  to  which 
a  hard  and  irksome  duty  called  him,  which  he  thought  worthy  of  being 
mentioned  even  by  a  passing  word  to  his  friends !     Surely  this  is  a  cu- 
rious trait  of  national  character. 

He  remained  in  the  service  of  the  court  for  fourteen  years,  employed 
mainly,  as  it  should  seem,  in  a  variety  of  embassies ;  an  employment 
which  seems  to  have  left  him  a  disappointed,  soured,  and  embittered 
man.  He  considered  that  he  had  not  been  remunerated  as  his  labour 
deserved,  that  the  heavy  expenses  to  which  he  had  been  put  in  his  long 
journeys  had  not  been  satirfactorily  made  up  to  him,  and  that  he  had 
not  ]>een  treated  in  any  of  the  foreign  countries  to  which  his  embassies 
had  carried  him  with  the  respect  due  to  his  own  character  and  to  his 
office. 

He  determined  therefore  to  'eave  the  court  and  retire  to  Padua,  a  resi- 
dence in  which  city,  it  being  not  far  distant  from  his  estate  of  Guarina, 
would  offer  him,  he  thought,  a  convenient  opportimity  of  overlooking 
his  property  and  restoring  order  to  his  finances,  which  had  suffered 
much  during  his  travels.  This  was  in  the  year  1582,  when  Guarini  waa 
in  the  forty-fifth  year  of  his  age.  It  is  not  clear,  however,  that  this  re- 
tirement was  wholly  spontaneous ;  and  the  probability  is  that  the  Duke 
and  his  ambassador  were  equally  out  of  humour  with  each  other.  And 
it  is  probable  that  the  faults  were  not  all  on  tha  side  of  the  Duke.  Thtro 
is  sufficient  evidence  that  the  author  of  the  *^  Pastor  Fido"  must  havo 
been  a  difiScult  man  to  live  with. 

The  old  friendship  of  happier  days  with  Tasso  had  not  survived 
the  wear  and  tear  of  life  at  court.  It  was  known  that  they  no  longer 
saw  or  spoke  with  each  other.  And  everybody — if  not  of  their  con- 
temporaries, at  least  of  subsequent  writers— jumped  to  the  conclusiou 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.     0? 

fl:it  tho  writer  of  the  "  Aminta"  and  the  writer  of  the  **  Pastor  Fido'* 
ii  it  hj  j  aious  of  each  othv.r.  Jealousy  th^ro  certainly  was.  But 
fi  .:iv  fr.ui-.r  aiid  moro  mortal  f^^malo  than  th,;  Mns.^  was  thj  caiisi  of  it. 
J  ■*  Abate  Sv.rassi  in  his  Hfo  of  Tas-.o  admits  that  Tasno  lirst  gave 
0  .  i.cj  to  Guarini  by  a  sonnet  in  which  ho  endeavoured  to  ahi^nat:;  tiie 
ai  ctions  of  a  lady  from  him,  by  r^pr.Kinting  him  as  a  faithless  and 
ti  kiti  lovor.  Tha  linas  in  which  Tasso  attacked  his  brother  poet  are,  it 
\L.asl  bo  admitted,  shai-p  enough  I 

Si  muove  e  pi  rn<r*rira 
Instabil  piu  che  uridu  froude  ai  vonti; 
Is'ullale,  uuir  .iiuor,  tal-i  i  tonncnti 
Soiio,  c  falso  I'altVlo  oiid'  ei  pospira. 
Insidioso  amaute,  anui  o  d.s})i«  zza 
Qu;isi  iu  im  pimto.  o  trionf  iiido  sj)ii'ga  , 

In  icmuiiuilc  spo^^lie  eiiipi  trofoi.*    .    .    • 

The  attack  was  savage  enough,  it  must  be  admitted,  and  well  calcu- 
iiittd  to  Ijave  a  lasting  wound.  Guarini  immediately  answered  the  cruel 
goinibt  by  another,  the  comparative  'v^eakness  of  which  is  undeniable. 

Qneeti  che  ind;irno  nd  alta  mira  aspira 
Cou  altxui  biafeiiii,  e  con  bu^iardi  accynti, 
Vedi  come  in  pe  Ktespo  arruota  i  d»'uti, 
Meutre  contra  ragion  meco  b'  adira. 

•  •  •  • 

Pi  dnp  fiammo  si  vanta,  e  stringo  e  pp^zza 
Pill  vo^te  an  nodo;  e  con  quest'  arti  j)iega 
(Chi  M  crederebbe  !)  a  suo  lavore  i  Dei.t   .    • 

There  is  reason  to  think  that  the  accusation  of  many  times  binding 
and  loosing  the  same  knot,  may  have  hit  home.  The  sneer  about  bend- 
ing the  gods  to  favour  him,  alludes  to  Tasso's  favour  at  court,  then  in 
the  ascendant,  and  may  well  have  been  as  offensive  to  the  Duke  and  the 
ladies  of  his  court  as  to  the  object  of  his  satire.  Both  angry  poets 
show  themselves  somewhat  earth-stained  members  of  the  Paduan 
*•  Etherials."  But  the  sequel  of  the  estrangement  was  all  in  favour  of 
tli'j  greater  bard.  Tasso,  in  desiring  a  friend  to  show  his  poems  in 
manuscript  to  certain  friends,  two  or  three  in  number,  on  whose  opinion 
he  set  a  high  value,  named  Guarini  among  the  number.  And  upon 
another  occasion  wisliing  to  have  Guarini's  opinion  as  to  the  best  of  two 
proposed  methods  of  terminating  a  sonnet,  and  not  venturing  to  com- 
municate directly  with  him,  he  employed  a  common  friend  to  obtain 

*  I  pubjoin  a  literal  prose  translation  in  preference  to  borrowinj?  a  rhymed  one  from 
aiiv  of  Tapso's  translators.  This  fellow  •'  flits  and  circles  around  more  unstable  than 
d.T  It'aves  in  the  wind.  Without  faith,  without  love,  false  are  hw  pretended  torments, 
{I'd  false  the  aft  :ction  which  prompts  his  sighs.  A  traitorous  lover,  he  loves  and 
tl."-pisf !» jilmo-it  ;»t  t!ie  same  moment,  and  in  tnumph  displays  the  spoils  of  women  as 
i:n}»ioiiP  trophi;  p." 

\  --See  how  tln't*  f tallow,  who  in  vain  aims  at  a  lofty  croal,  by  blaming  others,  and 
by  'ymg  aceenta,  8harpen«  against  hiins  'If  his  teeth,  while  without  reason  he  is  eu- 
ri.u'd  with  me.  .  .  .  Of  two  flames  he  boasts,  and  ties  and  breaks  over  and  over 
a-"  iu  rh^  same  knot :  tkud  by  thesti  arts  (who  would  believe  it  I)  bends  in  hififavoivr 
theGodaP    •    .    . 


94    THE  SOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

his  broiher-poeVs  criticism.  Tasso  had  aleo  in  his  dialogae  entitled  th 
•*  Messagero  "  given  public  testimony  to  Guarini's  high  intellectual  an 
civil -merits.  But  Guarini  appears  never  to  have  forgiven  the  offence.- 
He  never  once  went  to  see  Tasso  m  his  miserable  confinement  in  the 
hospital  of  St  Anne ;  nor,  as  has  been  seen,  would  hold  any  communi- 
cation with  him. 

fie  must  have  been  a  stem  and  unforgiving  man.  And  indeed  all  tlia 
available  testimony  represents  him  as  having  been  so, — ^upright,  honest, 
and  honourable,  but  haughty,  punctilious,  htigious,  quick  to  takt« 
offence,  slow  to  forget  or  forgive  it,  and  cursed  with  a  thin-skinned 
ajnour  propre  easily  wounded  and  propense  to  credit  others  with  the 
intention  of  wounding  where  no  such  intention  existed.  The  remainder 
of  th3  story  of  his  life  offers  an  almost  unbroken  serie>s  of  testimonies  to 
the  truth  of  such  an  estimate  of  his  character. 

It  was  after  fourteen  years'  service  in  the  courii  of  Duke  Alphonso,  as 
has  been  said,  that  he  retired  disgusted  and  weary  to  hve  in  independ- 
ence and  nurse  his  estate  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Padua.  But  the 
part  of  Gincinnatos  is  not  for  every  man  J  It  was  in  1582  that  he  retirt-d 
from  the  court  intending  to  bid  it  and  its  splendours,  its  disappoint- 
ments  and  its  jealousies,  an  eternal  adieu.  In  1585,  on  an  offer  from 
the  Duke  to  make  him  his  secretary,  he  returned  and  put  himself  into 
harness  again! 

But  this  second  attempt  to  submit  himself  to  the  service,  to  the  capri- 
ces and  exigencies  of  a  master  and  of  a  court  ended  in  a  quicker  and  more 
damaging  catastrophe  than  the  first.  In  a  diary  kept  by  the  poefs  nephew, 
Ularcantonio  Guarini,  under  the  date  of  July  13,  1587,  we  find  it  written 
that  "  the  Cavaher  Batista  Guarini,  Secretary  of  the  Duke,  considering 
that  his  services  did  not  meet  with  sufficient  consideration  in  proportion 
to  his  worth,  released  himself  from  that  servitude."  The  phrase  here 
translated  "released  himself"  is  a  peculiar  one — «i  Ikenzio — "dis- 
missed himself."  To  receive  licenza,  or  to  be  lieemiato,  is  to  be 
dismissed,  or  at  least  parted  with  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  the  em- 
ployer. But  the  phrase  used  by  the  diarist  seems  intended  to  express 
exactly  what  happened  when  the  poet,  once  more  discontented,  took 
himself  off  from  Ferrara  and  its  Duke.  He  seems  to  have  done  so  in  a 
manner  which  gave  deep  and  lasting  offence.  In  a  subsequent  passage 
of  the  above^uoted  diary  we  recid,  **  the  CavaUere  Batista  Guarini  hav- 
ing absented  himself  from  Ferrara,  disgusted  with  the  Duke,'  betook 
himself  to  Florence,  and  then,  by  the  intermedium  of  Guido  Coccapani 
the  agent,  asked  for  his  dismissal  in  form  and  obtained  it."  We  hap- 
pen, however,  to  have  a  letter  written  by  this  Coccapani,  who  seems  to 
have  been  the  Duke*8  private  secretary  and  managing  man,  in  which  he 
gives  his  version  of  the  matter.  He  was  "  stupefied,"  he  says,  **  whtu 
he  received  the  extravagant  letter  of  the  Cavaliere  Guarini,  and  begnu 
to  ti&izik  that  it  would  be  with  him  as  it  had  been  with  Tasso,"  who  by 
th»*  time  had  fallen  into  disgrace.  There  is  reason  to  think  that  he  left 
Ferrarft  secretly,  without  taking  leave  of  the  Duke,  or  letting  anybody 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETa     05 

I 

at  court  know  where  lie  had  gone.  .  He  did,  however,  obtain  his  formal 
dismissal,  as  has  been  said,  bnt  the  "Duke  by  no  means  forgave  him. 

Though  it  would  appear  that  on  leaving  Ferrara  in  this  irregnlar 
manner  he  went  in  the  first  instance  to  Florence,  it  seems  that  he  had  had 
hopes  given  him  of  a  comfortable  position  and  hcmourable  provision  at 
Tmrin.  He  was  to  have  been  made  a  Comisellor  of  State,  and  entmsted 
with  the  task  of  remodelling  the  conrse  of  stndy  at  the  imiversity,  with 
a  stipend  of  six  hundred  crowns  annually.  But  on  arriving  at  Turin 
he  found  diihcultdes  in  the  way.  In  fact,  the  angry  Duke  of  Ferrara 
had  used  his  influence  with  the  Duke  of  Savoy  to  prevent  anything  be- 
ing done  for  his  contumacious  Secretary  of  State.  Guarini,  extremely 
mortified,  had  to  leave  Turin,  and  betook  himself  to  Venice. 

His  adventure,  however,  was  of  a  nature  to  cause  great  scandal  in 
that  clime  and  time.  As  usual,  the  Italians  were  offended  at  the  '"^  im- 
prudence "  of  which  Gnarini's  temper  had  led  him  to  be  guilty,  mora 
than  they  would  have  been  by  many  a  fault  which  among  ourselves 
would  be  deemed  a  very  much  worse  one.  A  violence  of  temper  or  in- 
dignation shown  in  such  a  manner  as  to  injure  one*s  own  interests  is, 
and  in  a  yet  greater  degree  was,  a  spectacle  extremely  disgnsting  to 
ItaHan  moral  sentiment. 

The  outcry  against  Guarini  on  this  occasion  was  so  great  that  ha 
found  himself  obliged  to  put  forth  an  exculpatory  statemenL 

"If  human  actions,  my  most  kind  readers,"  he  begins,  ''always 
bore  marked  on  the  front  of  them  the  aims  and  motives  which 
have  produced  them,  or  if  those  who  talk  about  them  were  always  well 
informed  enough  to  be  able  to  judge  of  them  without  injury  to  tho 
persons  of  whom  they  speak,  I  should  not  be  compelled,  at  my  age,  and 
fiftcr  so  many  years  of  a  Hf e  led  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  often 
busied  in  defending  the  honour  of  others,  to  defend  this  day  my  own, 
which  has  always  been  dearer  to  me  than  my  life.  Having  heard,  then, 
that  my  having  left  the  service  of  His  Serene  Highness  the  Duke  of  Fer- 
rara and  entered  that  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy  has  given  occasion  to  somo 
persons,  ignorant  probably  of  the  real  state  of  the  case,  to  make  various 
remarks,  and  form  various  opinions,  I  have  d3termined  to  publish  tha 
truth,  and  at  the  same  time  to  declare  my  own  sentiments  in  the  matt:r. 

"I  declare,  then,  that  previously  to  my  said  departure  I  consigned  to 
the  proper  person  everything,  small  as  it  was,  which  was  in  my  handa 
regarding  my  office,  which  had  always  been  exercised  by  me  uprightly 
and  without  any  other  object  in  view  than  the  sarvice  of  my  sovereign 
and  the  pubhc  welfare.  Further,  that  I,  by  a  written  paper  imder  my 
own  hand  (as  the  press  of  time  and  my  need  rendered  necessary),  re- 
quested a  free  and  decorous  dismissal  from  the  Duke  in  question,  and 
?Jso,  that  I  set  forth  in  all  humility  .the  causes  which  led  me  to  that  do- 
t^rmiLacion ;  and  I  added  (some  of  the  circumstances  in  which  I  was 
compelling  me  to  do  so)  that  if  His  Serene  Highness  did  not  please  to 
give  me  any  other  answer,  I  would  take  his  silence  as  a  consent  to  my 
request  of  dismissaL    I  declarQ  further  that  the  paper  was  delivered  t^ 


96    THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

the  principal  Minister  of  his  Serane  Highness,  and  lastly,  that  my  snU 
ary  was,  without  any  further  communication  with  me,  stopped,  ard 
cancelled  from  the  roll  of  payments.  And  as  this  is  the  truth,  so  it  is 
equally  true  that  my  appointment  as  reformer  of  the  University  of 
Turin,  and  Counsellor  of  Stats  with  six  hundred  crowns  yearly,  was 
settled  and  concluded  with  His  Serene  Highness  the  Duke  of  Savoy, 
and  that  I  dechned  to  bind  myself,  and  did  not  bind  myself,  to  ask  any 
othir  dismissal  from  His  Servme  Highness  the  Duke  of  Ferrara  tha-i 
that  which  I  have  already  spoken.  And,  finally,  it  is  true  that,  as  I 
should  not  have  gone  to  Turin  if  I  had  not  been  engaged  for  that  service 
and  invited  thither,  so  I  should  not  have  left,  or  wished  to  leave  th's 
y  place,*  had  I  not  known  that  I  received  my  diRmissal  in  tlia 
maimer  above  related.  Now,  as  to  the  cause  which  may  havj 
retarded  and  may  still  retard  the  fulfillment  of  the  engagement 
above  mentioned,  I  have  neither  object,  nor  obligation,  nor  need  to 
declare  it.  Suffice  it  that  it  is  not  retarded  by  any  fault  of  mine,  cr 
dijSieuIty  on  my  side.  In  justification  of  which  I  offered  myself,  and 
by  these  presents  now  again  oficr  myself,  to  present  myself  whei\Fc- 
ever,  whensoever,  and  in  whatsoever  manner,  and  under  whatsoev_r 
conditions  anel  penalties,  as  may  bo  seen  more  clearly  s'^t  forth  in  tha 
instrument  of  agreem'?nt  s::nt  by  mo  to  His  Highness.  From  all  which, 
I  would  have  th3  world  to  know,  while  these  afiairs  of  mine  are  still  iu 
snspensioD,  that  I  am  a  man  of  honour,  and  am  always  ready  to  main- 
tain the  same  in  whatsoever  mahner  may  be  fitting  to  my  condition  and 
duty.  And  as  I  do  not  at  all  cToubt  that  some  decision  cf  some  kind  not 
unworthy  of  so  just  and  fo  maf^Danimous  a  prince  will  bo  forthcoming ; 
BO,  let  it  be  v/hat  it  may,  it  will  be  received  by  me  with  composure  and 
'■  contentm.mt;  since,  by  God's  grace,  and  that  of  the  strene  and  exalt  d 
power  under  the  most  just  and  happy  dominion  of  which  I  am  now  liv- 
ing, and  whos'^  subject,  if  not  by  birth,  yet  by  origin  and  family,  I  anuf 
I  have  a  comfortable  and  honoured  existence.  And  may  you,  my  hon- 
our d  readers,  live  in  happiness  and  contentment.  Venice,  February 
1,  1589." 

We  must,  I  think,  nevertheless  be  permitted  to  doubt  the  content- 
ment and  haj)pinesf;  of  the  l:f3  he  led,  as  it  should  seem,  for  the  next 
four  years,  at  '^  Vnico.  No  such  decision  of  any  kind,  as  ho  hc^)ed  from 
the  Duk.3  of  Savoy,  was  forthcoming.  Ho  wa=;  shunted  !  H<3  had  quar- 
x-:!!  d  with  his  own  sovereign,  and  evidently  the  other  would  have  none 
qf  him.  Th  3  Italians  of  ono  city  were  in  tlioso  days  to  a  wonderful  de- 
gree foreigners  in  another  ruled  by  a  clitTerent  government;  and  thero 
can  be  little  ck)wbt  that  Guarini  wandered  among  the  quays  and  '*  callo'* 
Of  Venice,  or  i>n,ced  the  great  piazza  at  the  evening  hour,  a  moody  ancl 
discontented  man ! 

*  It  i«  odd  that  he  ehouUl  so  write  in  a  paper  dated,  as  the  present  is,  from  Vonice. 
1  suppose  the  expression  came  from  his  feeling  that  he  was  addressing  persons  at 
Ferrara. 

t  SeoiDg  that,  as  has  been  said,  his  ancestors  were  of  Verona,  which  belonged  to 
VenicOi. 


THE  HOMES  AOT)  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETa     97 

At  last,  after  nearly  four  years  of  this  sad  life,  there  came  an  invita- 
tion from  the  Dnke  of  Alantim  proposing  that  Guarini  shotdd  come  to 
iMdntua  together  with  his  son  iUessandro,  to  occnx^y  honourable  posi- 
tions in  that  court.  The  poet,  heartily  sick  of  '*rjtiriiment,"  accepted 
at  once,  and  went  to  Mantua.  Bat  there,  too,  another  disfipj3ointment 
awaitad  him.  The  **  magnanimous  "  Duke  Alphonso  %youid  not  tolerate 
that  the  man  who  had  so  cavalierly  left  his  service  sliould  fiud  employ- 
ment elsawhere.  It  is  probable  that  this  position  was  obtained  for  him 
by  the  influence  of  his  old  friend  and  fellow-member  of  the  **  Etherials  " 
Jt  Padua,  Scipione  Gonzaga ;  and  it  would  seem  that  he  occupied  it  for 
a  while,  and  went  on  behalf  of  the  Duko  of  Mantua  to  Innspruck, 
whence  he  WTot3  the  wonderful  letters  which  have  been  quoted. 

The  Cardinal's  influence,  however,  was  not  strong  enough  to  prevail 
against  the  spite  of  a  neighbouring  sovereign.  There  aro  t^vo  Ltt'irs 
extant  from  the  Duke,  or  his  private  secretary,  to  that  saino  Coccapani 
whom  we  saw  so  scandalized  at  Guarini' s  hurried  and  informal  dt;part- 
Tire  from  Fenara,  -and  who  was  residing  as  Alphonso's  representative  &t 
Mantua,  in  which  the  Minister  is  instructed  to  reprosont  to  the  Duke  of 
Mntua  that  his  brother  of  Ferrara  "did  not  think  it  well  that  tho  for- 
mer should  take  any  of  the  Guarini  family  into  his  service,  and  when 
they  should  see  each  other  he  would  tell  hiin  his  reasons.  For  tne  pres- 
ent he  would  only  say  that  he  wished  the  Duke  to  know  that  it  would 
be  excessively  pleasing  to  him  if  the  Duke  would  have  nothing  to  say  to 
any  of  them." 

This  was  in  1593  ;  and  the  world-weary  poet  found  himself  at  fifty- 
six  once  again  cast  adrift  upon  the  v/orld.  The  extremity  of  his  disgust 
and  wearineBB  of  all  things  may  be  measured  by  the  nature  of  tho  ntzit 
step  he  took.  He  conceived,  says  his  biographer  Barotti,  that  "God 
called  him  by  infernal  voices,  and  by  promise  of  a  more  tranquil  life,  t-3 
accept  the  tonsure."  His  wife  had  died  some  little  time  before ;  and 
it  was  therefore  open  to  him  to  do  so.  Ho  went  to  Rome  accordingly 
for  the  purpose  of  there  taking  orders.  .  But  during  the  short  d.lay 
which  iiitervened  between  the  manifestation  of  his  purpose  and  the  ful- 
filment of  it,  news  reached  him  that  his  friend  and  protectress  tha 
Duchess  of  Urbino,  Alphonso's  sister,  had  interceded  for  him  with  thd 
Duke,  and  that  he  was  forgiven  !  It  was  open  to  him  to  return  to  h^s 
former  employment !  And  no  sooner  did  the  news  reach  him  than  he 
perceived  that  "  the  internal  voices  "  were  altogether  a  mistake.  God 
had  never  called  him  at  all,  and  Alphonso  had  I  All  thoughts  of  tlio 
Church  were  abandoned  on  the  instai  ts,  and  he  hastened  to  Ferrai-a,  a:> 
living  there  on  the  15fch  of  April,  1  i>l)^">. 

But  neither  on  this  occasion  was  ho  destined  to  find  the  tranquillity 
which  he  seemed  fated  never  to  attam !  And  this  time  the  break  up 
■was  a  greater  and  more  final  one  than  the  last.  Duke  Alphonso  died  in 
1597 ;  and  the  Pontifieial  Court,  v/hich  had  long  had  its  eye  on  the  po.i- 
sibility  of  enforcing  certain  pretended  clauns  to  the  Duchy  of  Ferrara, 
found  &e  means  at  Alphonso's  death  of  oustiug  his  successor  the  Duke 

L.  M— I — i. 


98    THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETSJ 

Cesare,  who  remained  thenceforward  Duke  of  Modena  only,  but  no 
longer  of  Ferrara. 

Guarini  was  once  more  adrift !  Nor  were  the  political  ahangeBin  Fer- 
rara the  only  thing  which  rendered  the  place  no  longer  a  home  for  him. 
Other  misfortnnes  combined  to  render  a  residence  in  the  city  odious  to 
him.  His  daughter  Anna  had  married  a  noble  gentleman  of  Ferrara, 
the  Count  Ercole  Trotti,  by  whom  she  was  on  the  3rd  of  May, 
1598,  murdered  at  his  villa  of  Zanzahno  near  Ferrara.  Some  attempt 
was  made  to  assert  that  the  husband  had  reason  to  suspect  that  his  wife 
was  plotting  against  his  life.  But  there  seems  to  have  been  no  fouu- 
dation  for  any  accusation  of  the  sort;  and  the  crime  was  prompted 
probably  by  jealousy.  Guarini,  always  on  bad  terms  with  his  sons,  and 
constantly  InYolved  in  litigation  with  them,  as  he  had  been  with  liis 
father,  was  exceedingly  attached  to  this  unfortunate  daughter. 

But  even  this  terrible  loss  was  not  the  only  bitterness  which  resulted 
from  this  crime.  Guarini  composed  a  long  Latin  epitaph,  in  whicli  he 
strongly  affirms  her  absolute  innocence  of  everything  that  had  been  laid 
to  her  charge,  and  speaks  with  reprobation  of  the  husband's'*^  crime. 
But  scarcely  had  the  stone  bearing  the  inscription  been  erected  than  the 
indignant  father  was  required  by  the  authorities  of  the  city  to  remove 
it.  A  declaration,  which  he  pubhshed  on  the  subject,  dated  June  15, 
1598,  is  still  extant.  *'0n  that  day,"  he  writes,  "  the  Vice-legate  of 
Ferrara  spoke  with  me,  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Father,  as  to  the  re- 
moving of  the  epitaph  written  by  me  on  Anna  my  daughter  in  the 
church  of  Sta.  Catherina.  He  said  that  there  were  things  in  it  that 
might  provoke  other  persons  to  resentment,  and  occasion  much  scandal ; 
and  that,  besides  that,  there  were  in  the  inscription  words  of  Sacred 
Scripture,  which  ought  not  to  be  used  in  such  a  place.  I  defended  my 
cause,  and  transmitted  a  memorial  to  his  Holiness,  having  good  reason 
to  know  that  these  objections  were  the  mere  malignity  of  those  who 
favour  the  opposite  party,  and  of  those  who  caused  the  death  of  my 
innocent  child.  But  at  last,  on  the  22nd,  I  caused  the  epitaph  to  be 
removed,  intimating  that  it  was  my  intention  to  take  up  the  body,  and 
inter  it  elsewhere.  On  which  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  ttiat  having  made 
my  demand  to  that  effect,  I  was  forbidden  to  do  so."  He  further  adds : 
**  Note !  news  was  brought  to  me  here  that  my  son  Girolamo,  who  was 
evidently  discovered  to  be  the  acccmiplice,  and  principal  atrocious  author 
of  the  death  of  his  raster  Anna,  received  from  the  Potesta  of  Bovigo 
licence  to  come  into  the  Polisina  with  twelve  men  armed  with  arque* 
buses.** 

All  this  is  very  sad ;  and  whether  these  terrible  suspicions  may  or 
may  not  have  lid  any  foundation  other  than  the  envenomed  temper 
generated  by  the  family  litigations,  it  must  equally  have  had  the  effect 
of  making  the  life  of  Guarini  a  very  miserable  onf ,  and  contributing  to 
his  determination  to  abandon  finally  his  native  city. 

*  Barotti  srives  it  at  length ;  bat  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  occapy  spaoe  by  re* 
prodadug  it  hera. 


THE  HOMES  AKD  HAUNTS  OP  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.     99 

More  surprising  is  it  that,  af tef  so  maaj  disgusts  And  disappoint- 
ments, he  ^onld  once  again  have  been  tempted  to  seek,  what  he  had 
never  yet  been  able  to  find  there,  in  a  court  In  a  letter  written  in 
November,  1598,  he  informs  the  Duke  Gesare  (Duke  of  Modena,  though 
no  longer  of  Ferrara)  that  the  Grand  Duke  of  Florence  bad  offered 
him  a  position  at  Florence.  And  his  Serene  Highness,  more  kindly  and 
forgiving  than  the  late  Duke,  wrote  hiim  an  obliging  and  congratoliettGry 
letter  in  the  following  month. 

At  Florence  everything  at  first  seemed  to  be  going  well  with  him,  and 
he  seemed  to  stand  high  in  favour  with  the  Grand  Duke  Ferdinand. 
But  vejy  shortly  he  quitted  Florence  in  anger  and  disgust  on  the  dis- 
covery of  the  secret  marriage  of  his  third  son,  Guarini,  with  a  woman 
cf  low  condition  at  Pisa,  with  at  least  the  connivance,  as  the  poet 
thought,  whether  justly  or  not  there  is  nothing  to  show,  of  the  Grand 
i)uke. 

After  that  his  old  friend  the  Duchess  of  Urbino  once  again  stood  his 
friend,  and  he  obtained  a  position  in  the  court  of  Urbino,  then  one  of 
the  most  widely  famed  centres  of  cultivation  and  letters  in  Italy.  And 
for  a  while  everything  seemed  at  last  to  be  well  with  him  there.  On 
the  23rd  of  February,  1603,  he  writes  to  his  sister,  who  apparently  had 
been  pressing  him  to  come  home  to  Ferrara : — "  I  should  Uke  to  come 
home,  my  sister.  I  have  great  need  and  a  great  desire  for  home ;  but 
I  am  treated  so  well  here,  and  with  so  much  distinction  and  so  much 
kindness,  that  I  cannot  come.  I  must  tell  you  that  all  expenses  for 
myself  and  my  servants  are  suppUed,  so  that  I  have  not  to  spend  a 
farthing  for  ai^thiug  in  Uie  world  that  I  need.  The  orders  are  that  any- 
thing I  ask  for  should  be  furnished  to  me.  Besides  all  which,  they  give 
me  three  hundred  crowns  a  year ;  so  that,  what  with  money  and  ex- 
penses, the  position  is  worth  six  hundred  crowns  a  year  to  me.  You 
may  judge,  ilien,  if  I  can  throw  it  up.  May  God  grant  you  every  hap- 
pinessi  Your  brother, 

B-   GUAETNI." 

But  an  would  not  do.  He  had  been  but  a  very  little  time  in  this  lit- 
tle Umbrian  Athens  among  the  Apennines  before  he  onoe  again  threw 
up  his  position  in  finger  and  disguet,  because  he  did  not  obtain  all  the 
marks  of  distinction  to  which  he  thought  that  he  was  entitled.  This 
was  in  1603.  He  was  now  sixty-six,  and  seems  at  length  to  have  made 
no  further  attempt  to  haunt  at  court.  Once  again  he  was  at  Bome  in 
1605,  having  undertaken,  at  the  request  of  the  citizens  of  Ferrara,  to 
carry  their  felicitations  to  the  new  Pope,  Paul  the  Fifth-  And  with  the 
exception  of  that  short  expedition  his  last  years  were  spent  in  the  retire- 
ment of  his  ancestral  estate  of  Guarina. 

The  property  is  situated  in  the  district  of  Lendinara,  on  ttie  fat  and 
ftrtUe  low-lying  region  between  Bovigo  and  Padua,  and  belongs  to  the 
<ommune — pariRh,  as  wo  should  say — of  St.  Beilino.  The  house,  dating 
probably  from  the  latter  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  is  not  much  mora 


100  THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

than  a  hundred  yards  or  bo  from  the  piazza  of  the  village,  which  boasts 
two  thousajid  inhabitants.  The  road  between  th^  two  is  bordered  with 
trees.  Tho  whole  district  is  as  flat  as  a  billiard  table,  and  as  prosaical  in 
its  well-to-do  fertility  as  can  be  imagined.  It  is  intersected  by  a  variety 
of  streams,  natural  and  artificiaL  About  a  couple  of  miles  from  the 
house  to  tho  south  is  the  Canalbianco ;  and  a  httie  f Eurther  to  the  north 
the  Adigetto.  To  the  east  runs  the  Scortico.  St.  Bellino,  from  whom 
the  villaga  is  named,  was,  it  seems,  enrolled  among  the  martyrs  by  Pope 
Eugenius  the  Third  in  1152.  He  has  a  great  specialty  for  curing  the 
bite  of  mad  dogs.  There  is  a  grand  cenotaph  in  his  honour  in  the  vil- 
lage  church,  which  was  raised  by  some  of  the  Guarini  family.  But  this, 
too,  hko  all  else,  became  a  subject  of  trouble  and  Utigation  to  our  poet. 
A  certain  Bald^issare  Bonifaccio  of  Bovigo  wanted  to  transport  the  saint 
to  that  city.  Guarini  would  not  hear  of  this ;  htigated  the  matter  be- 
fore, the  tribunals  of  Venice,  and  prevailed.  So  tiie  saint  still  resides 
at  St  BeUino  to  the  comfort  of  all  those  bitten  by  mad  dogs  in  thos3 
parta  The  house  and  estate  have  passed  through  several  hands  since 
that  time  ;  but  a  number  of  old  family  portraits  may  still  be  seen  on  the 
walls,  together  with  the  family  arms,  and  the  motto,  ^^Fortis  est  in 
asperis  non  turbari."  The  armchair  and  writing  table  of  the  poet  are 
also  still  preserved  in  the  house,  and  a  fig-tree  is  pointed  out  close  by  it, 
under  the  shade  of  which  the  poet,  as  tradition  tells,  wrote  on  that  table 
and  in  that  chair  his  "Pastor  Fido."  There  is  an  inscription  on  the 
chair  as  follows :  "  Guarin  sedendo  qui  canto,  che  vale  al  paragon  seg- 
gio*  reale." 

It  was  not,  however,  during  this  his  last  residence  here  that  the 
**  Pastor  Fido  "  was  written,  but  long  previously.  It  was  doubtless  hi» 
habit  to  escape  from  the  cares  of  official  life  in  Ferrara  from  time  to 
time  as  he  could ;  and  it  must  have  been  in  such  moments  that  the  cel- 
ebrated pastoral  was  written.! 

The  idea  of  a  scholar  and  a  poet,  full  of  years  and  honours,  passing 
the  quiet  evening  of  his  life  in  a  tranquil  retirement  in  his  own  house 
on  his  own  land,  is  a  pleasing  one.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  in  the 
case  of  the  author  of  the  *' Pastor  Fido"  it  would  be  a  fallacious  one. 
Guaa-ini  would  not  have  CQme  to  hve  on  his  estate  if  he  could  have  hved 
contentedly  in  any  city.  We  may  picture  him  to  ourselves  sitting  un- 
der his  fig-tree,  or  pacing  at  evening  under  the  trees  of  the  straight  av- 
enue between  his  house  and  the  village,  or  on  the  banks  of  one  of  the 
sluggish  streams  slowly  finding  their  way  through  the  flat  fields  towards 
the  Po ;  but  I  am  afraid  the  picture  must  be  of  one  **Kemote,  un- 
friended, melancholy,   slow,"  with  eyes  bent  earthwards,  and  discon- 

*  ''  Gaarini  sitting  here,  sang,  that  which  renders  the  seat  the  equal  of  a  royal 
throne." 

i  It  is  very  doubtful  and  very  tliflScnlt  to  determine  at  what  period  of  bis  life  the 
•*  Pastor  Fidb  "  was  written.  Ginguene  (Hist.  Ital.  Lit.  Part  II.  ch.  xxv.)  has  sufli- 
ciently  shown  that  the  statements  of  the  Italian  biographers  on  this  jxiiut  an?  inacca- 
rato.  Probably  it  was  planned  and,  in  part,  wiitteu  many  years  before  it  was  finished. 
It  was  first  printed  iu  1680. 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  101 

tented  mind :  *'  remote,'*  becaose  to  the  Italian  mind  all  places  beyond 
the  easy  reach  of  a  city  are  so  ;  *' unfriended,"  because  he  had  quar- 
relied  with  everybody ;  **  melancholy,"  because  all  had  gone  amiss  with 
him,  and  his  life  had  been  a  failure  ;  ^*8low,"  because  no  spring  of 
hope  in  the  mind  gave  any  elasticity  to  his  step. 

One  other  **  haunt"  of  the  aged  poet  must,  however,  be  mentioned, 
because  it  is  a  very  characteristic  one.  During  this  last  residence  at 
Gaarina,  he  hired  an  apartment  at  Ferrara,  selecting  it  in  a  crowded 
part  of  the  centre  of  the  city,  especially  frequented  by  the  lawyers,  that 
he  might  be  in  the  midst  of  them,  when  he  went  into  the  city  on  the 
various  business  connected  with  his  interminable  lawsuits.  The  most 
crowded  part  of  the  heart  of  the  city  of  Ferrara !  It  would  be  difficult 
to  find  any  such  part  now.  But  the  picture  offered  to  the  imagination, 
of  the  aged  poet,  professor,  cotirtier,  haunting  the  courts,  the  lawyers' 
chambers,  leaving  his,  at  least,  tranquil  retreat  at  St.  BelUno,  to  drag 
weary  feet  through  the  lanes  of  the  city  in  which  he  had  in  earlier  days 
played  so  different  a  part,  is  a  sad  one.  But  there  are  people  who  like 
contention  so  much  that  such  work  is  a  labour  of  love  to  them.  And 
certainly,  if  the  inference  may  be  drawn  from  the  fact  of  his  never  hav- 
ing been  free  from  lawsuits  in  one  quarrel  or  another,  Guarini  must 
have  been  one  of  these.  But  it  is  passing  strange  that  the  same  man 
should  have  been  the  author  of  the  "  Pastor  Fido." 

They  pursued  him  to  the  end,  these  litigations ;  or  he  pursued  them ! 
And  at  last  he  died,  not  at  Guarina,  but  at  Venice,  on  the  7th  of  Octo- 
ber, 1612,  where,  characteristically  enough,  he  chanced  to  be  on  busi- 
ness connected  with  some  lawsuit. 

And  now  a  few  words  must  be  said  about  his  great  work,  the 
**  Pastor  Fido."  It  is  one  of  the  strangest  tilings  in  the  range  of 
literary  history  that  such  a  man  should  have  written  such  a  poem. 
He  was,  one  would  have  said,  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  produce 
such  a  work.  The  first  ten  years  of  his  working  life  were  spent  in  the 
labour  of  a  pedagogue ;  the  rest  of  it  in  the  inexpressibly  dry,  frivolous, 
and  ungenial  routine  of  a  small  Italian  court,  or  in  wandering  from  one 
to  the  other  of  them  in  the  vain  and  always  disappointed  search  for  such 
employment.  We  are  told  that  he  was  a  punctilious,  stiff,  unbending, 
angular  man;  upright  and  honourable,  but  unforgiving  and  wont  to 
nurse  his  enmities.  He  was  soured,  disappointed,  discontented  with 
everybody  and  everything,  involved  in  litigation  first  with  his  father,  and 
then  with  his  own  children.  And  this  was  the  man  who  wrote  the 
"Pastor  Fido,"  of  aU  poems  comparable  to  it  in  reputation  the  hght- 
est,  the  airiest,  and  the  most  fantastic !  The  argument  of  it  is  as  fol- 
lows: 

The  Arcadians,  suffering  in  various  ways  from  the  anger  of  Diana, 
were  at  last  informed  by  the  oracle  that  the  evils  which  afflicted  them 
would  cease  when  a  youth  and  a  maiden,  both  descended  from  the  Im- 
mortals, as  it  should  seem  the  creme  de  Ja  creme  of  Arcadian  society 
foogOj  was,  should  be  joined  together  in  faithful  love.     Thereupon 


102  THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.    "^ 

Montano,  a  priest  of  the  goddess  who  was  descended  from  vHercxQes, 
arranged  that  his  only  son  Silvio  should  be  betrothed  to  Amaryllis,  the 
only  daughter  of  Tytirus,  who  was  descended  from  Pan.     The  arrange- 
ment seemed  all  that  could  be  desired,  only  that  a  difficulty  arose  from 
the  fact,  that  Silvio,  whose  sole  passion  was  the  chase,  could  not  be 
brought  to  care  the  least  in  the  world  for  Amaryllis.     Meantime  Mirtillo, 
the  son,  as  was  supposed,  of  the  shepherd  Carino,"fell  desperately  in 
love  with  Amaryllis.     She  was  equally  attached  to  him,  but  dared  not  in 
the  smallest  degree  confess  her  love,  because  the  law  of  Arcadia  would 
have  punished  with  death  her  infidelity  to  her  betrothed  vows.     A  cer- 
tain Oorisca,  however,  who  had  conceived  a  violent  but  unrequited 
passion  for  Mirtillo,  perceiving  or  guessing  the  love  of  Amaryllis  for 
him,  hating  her  accordingly,  and  hoping  that,  if  she  could  be  got  out  of 
the  way,  she  might  win  Mirtillo's  love,  schemes  by  deceit  and  lies  to  in- 
duce Mirtillo  and  Amaryllis  to  enter  together  a  cave,    which   they 
do  in  perfect  innocence,    and  without  any  thought  of  harm.     Then 
Jhe  contrives  that  they  should  be  caught  there,  and  denounced  by 
1  satyr ;  and  AmaryUis  is  condemned  to  die.     The  law,  however,  per- 
mits that  her  life  may  be  saved  by  any  Arcadian  who  will  voluntMily 
die  in  her  stead ;  and  this  Mirtillo  determines  to  do,  although  he  be- 
lieves that  AmaryUis  cares  nothing  for  him,  and  also  is  led  by  the  false 
Corisca  to  believe  tliat  she  had  gone  into  the  cave  for  the  purpose  of  meet- 
ing with  another  lover.     The  duty  of  sacrificing  him  devolves  on  Montano 
the  priest ;  and  he  is  about  to  carry  out  the  law,  when  Carino,  who  has 
been  seeking  his  reputed  son  Mirtillo,  comes  in,  and  while  attempting 
to  make  out  that  he  is  a  foreigner,  and  therefore  not  capable  of  satisfy- 
ing the  law  by  his  death,  brings  unwittingly  to  light  circxunstances  that 
prove  that  he  is  in  truth  a  son  of  Montano,  and  therefore  a  descendant 
of  the  god  Hercules.     It  thus  appears  that  a  marriage  between  Mirtillo 
and  Amaryllis  will  exactly  satisfy  the  conditions  demanded  by  the  oracle. 
There  is  an  under-plot,  which  consists  in  providing  a  lover  and  a  mar- 
riage for  the  woman-hater  Silvio.     He  is  loved  in  vain  by  the  nymph 
Dorinda,  whom  he  unintentionally  wounds  with  an  arrow  while  out 
hunting.     The  pity  he  feels  for  her  wound  softens  his  heart  towards 
her,  and  all  parties  are  made  happy  by  this  second  marriage. 

Such  is  a  skeleton  of  the  story  of  the  "Pastor  Fido."  It  will  be  ob- 
served that  there  is  more  approach  to  a  plot  and  to  human  interest  than 
in  any  previous  production  of  this  kind,  and  some  of  the  situations  are 
well  conceived  for  dramatic  effect.  And  accordingly  the  success  which 
it  achieved  was  immediate  and  immense.  Nor,  much  as  the  taste  of 
the  world  has  been  changed  since  that  day,  has  it  ever  lost  its  place  in 
the  estimation  of  cultivated  Italians. 

It  would  be  wholly  uninteresting  to  attempt  any  account  of  the  wide- 
spreading  literary  controversies  to  which  the  pubhcation  of  the  "Pastor 
Fido  "  gave  rise.  The  author  terms  it  a  tragi-comedy ;  and  this  title 
was  violently  attacked.  The  poet  himself,  as  may  well  be  imagined 
from  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  man,  was  not  slow  to  reply  to  his  critics,. 


THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  103 

and  did  bo  in  two  lengthy  treatises  entitled  from  the  name  of  a  contem- 
porary celebrated  actor,  '*  Verato  primo,"  and  "  Verato  secondo,"  which 
ara  printed  in  the  fonr-quarto-volume  edition  of  his  works,  but  which 
probably  no  mortal  eye  has  read  for  the  last  two  hundred  years ! 

The  question  of  the  rivaly  between  the  **  Aminta  "  of  Tasso  and  the 
"Pastor  Fido  "  has  an  element  of  greater  interest  in  it.  It  is  certain 
that  the  former  preceded  the  latter,  and  doubtless  suggested  it.  It 
seems  probable  that  Ginguene  is  right  in  his  suggestion,  that  Guarini, 
fully  conscious  that  no  hope  was  open  to  him  of  rivalling  his  greater 
contemporary  and  townsman  in  epic  poetry,  strove  to  surpass  him  in 
pastoral.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  has  at  least  equalled  him.  Yet, 
vhile  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  almost  every  page  of  the  **  Pastor 
Fido  "  indicates  not  so  much  plagiarism  as  an  open  and  avowed  purpose 
of  doing  the  same  thing  better,  if  possible,  than  his  rival  has  done  it, 
the  very  diverse  natural  character  of  the  two  poets  is  also,  at  every 
page,  curiously  indicated.  Specially  the  reader  may  be  recommended 
to  compare  the  passages  in  the  two  poems  where  Tasso  under  the 
nam3  of  Thyrsis,  and  Guarini  xmder  the  name  of  Carino  (Act  5, 
scene  1),  represent  the  sufferings  both  underwent  at  the  court  of 
Alphonso  n.  The  lines  of  Guarini  are  perhaps  the  most  vigorous  in 
their  biting  satire.  But  the  gentler  and  nobler  nature  of  Tasso  is  un- 
mistakable. 

It  is  strange  that  the  Italian  critics,  who  are  for  the  most  part  so  len- 
ient to  the  Ucentiousness  of  most  of  the  authors  of  this  period,  blame 
Guarini  for  the  too  great  warmth,  amounting  to  indecency,  of  his  poem. 
The  writer  of  his  life  in  the  French  "  Biographic  Universelle  "  refers  to 
certain  scenes  as  highly  indecent.  I  can  only  say  that,  on  examining 
the  passages  indicated  carefully,  I  could  find  no  indecency  at  all.  It  is 
probable  that  the  writer  referred  to  had  never  read  the  pages  in  ques- 
tion. But  it  is  odd  that  those  whose  criticism  he  is  no  doubt  reflecting 
should  have  said  so.  No  doubt  there  are  passages,  not  those  mentioned 
by  the  writer  in  the  "  Biographic,"  but  for  instance  the  first  scene  of 
thy  83cond  act,  when  a  young  man  in  a  female  disguise  is  one  among  a 
party  of  girls,  who  propose  a  prize  for  her  who  can  give  to  one  of  them, 
th3  judge,  the  sweetest  Idss,  which  prize  he  wins,  which  might  be 
deemed  somewhat  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  hedge  that  divides  the  per- 
missible from  the  unpermissible.  But  in  comparison  with  others  of 
that  age  Guarini  is  p]ire  as  snow. 

It  has  been  said  in  speaking  of  the  sad  story  of  his  daughter  Anna, 
that  she  was  accused  of  having  given  her  husband  cause  for  jealousy. 
It  would  seem  very  clear  that  there  was  no  ground  for  any  such  accusa- 
tion. But  it  was  said  that  the  misconduct  on  her  part  had  been  due  to 
the  corruption  of  her  mind  by  the  reading  of  her  father^s  verses.  The 
utter  groundlessness  of  such  an  assertion  might  be  shown  in  many  ways. 
But  the  savage  and  malignant  cruelty  of  it  points  with  considerable  evi- 
dence to  the  sources  of  tiie  current  talk  about  the  courtier  poet's  liceii« 
tiousness. 


104  THE  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS; 

It  is  impossible  to  find  room  here  for  a  detailed  comparison  bet^w^een 
these  two  celebrated  pastorals ;  and  it  is  the  less  needed  inasmuch  as 
Ginguene  has  done  it  very  completely  and  at  great  length  in  the  tvren- 
tj^-fifth  chapter  of  the  second  part  of  his  work. 

Guarini  also  produced  a  comedy,  the  *'Idropica,"  which  was  acted 
with  much  success  at  the  court  of  Mantua,  and  is  printed  among  his 
works,  as  well  as  some  prose  pieces  of  small  importance,  the  principal 
of  which  is  '*  II  Secretario,"  a  treatise  on  the  duties  of  a  secretary,  not 
printed  among  his  works,  but  of  which  an  edition  exists  in  pot  quarto 
(186  pages)  printed  at  Venice  in  1594.  Neither  have  his  letters  been, 
printed  among  his  works.  They  exist,  printed  without  index  or  order 
of  any  kind,  in  a  volume  of  the  same  size  as  the  *'  Secretario,"  printed 
at  Venice  also  in  1595,  but  by  a  different  printer. 

The  name,  however,  of  Batista  Guarini  would  have  long  since  been 
forgotten  had  he  not  written  the  ^*  Pastor  Fido." 

T.  Adolphus  Tbollofe,  in  Bdgra/oia.    ^ 


THE   VAQUERO.* 

Oh,  who  is  so  free  as  a  gallant  vaquero  f 
With  his  beauty  of  broDze  'neath  his  shady  sombrero  : 
He  smiles  at  his  love,  and  he  laughs  at  his  fate, 
For  he  knows  he  is  lord  of  a  noble  estate : 
The  prairie's  his  own,  and  he  mocks  at  the  great. 
»*  Ho-ho !    Hai !    Ho-ho ! 
Head  'em  off !    Tarn  'em  back  I 
Keep  'em  up  to  the  track ! 
Ho-hillo!    Ho-hillol 
Cric— crac !" 

Oh.  Boona  Lnlsa  is  proud  as  she's  fair  ; 
But  she  parted  last  night  with  a  lock  of  her  hair. 
And  under  the  stars  she  roams,  seeking  for  rest. 
While  she  thinks  of  the  stranger  that  came  from  the  West; 
And  Juan  bears  something  wrapped  up  in  his  breast — 
"Ho-ho!    Hai!    Ho-ho  I 
Head  'em  off  !    Turn  'em  back ! 
Keep  'em  up  to  the  track  1 
Ho-hiUo!    Ho-hillo! 
Cric— crac  I'" 

His  proudest  possessions  are  prettUy  placed. 

His  love  at  his  heart,  and  his  life  at  his  waist. 

And  if  in  a  quarrel  he  happen  to  fall, 

Why,  the  prairie's  his  grave,  and  his  pmicho's  t  his  pall. 

And  Donna  Luisa— gets  over  it  all ! 

*  A  CaUfomla cattle-driver.  Famished  with  revolver,  lasso,  and  long-lasbed  whip, 
these  adventurous  gentry  conduct  the  hai  '-wild  cattio  of  the  plains  over  miles  of  IhHr 
sur''aco  :  and.  with  th<»ir  gay  sashes,  hlgli  boots,  {gilded  and  belled  spurs.  and<iark, 
broad  hats  itfonibreroh),  present  a  very  picturesque  appearance.  t  .Cloak- 


THE  VAQUERO.  105 

«'Ho^o!    Hail    Ho-bo! 
Head  *em  oft !    Tnrn  'em  backl 
Keep  'era  np  to  the  track  I 

Ho-hillo!    Ho-hillo! 
Crio— cracP 

The  Padrd  may  preach,  and  the  Notary  frown. 
Bot  the  poblartas  ^  smile  aa  he  ride«  through  tne  town  S 
And  the  Padr^^  he  knows,  likes  a  kiss  on  the  sJ^, 
And  the  Notary  oft  has  a  *'  drop  in  his  eye," 
But  aU  that  he  does  is  to  love  and  to  die— 
"Ho-ho!    Hail    Ho-ho I 
Head  *em  off  !    Tarn  *em  back  I 
Keep  *em  up  to  the  track  I 
Ho-biliol    Ho-hillo! 
Crio— crac !" 

Frank  Despbez,  in  Temple  Bar, 


TWO  MODERN  JAPANESE  STOEIES. 

The  two  stories  which  follow  were  drcnlated  in  the  city  of  Yedo  some 
Tears  back,  and  show  that  the  better  educated  classes  of  Japanese  are 
keenly  ahve  to  the  absurdity  of  the  figure  cut  by  their  countrymen 
when  they  attempt  to  jump  over  five  hundred  years  in  fiye  hundred 

days. 

I.    A  BBOULAB  MISS. 

Some  six  years  back  lived  in  the  beautiful  village  of  Minoge  an  old 
lady  who  kept  the  big  tea-house  of  the  place  known  as  the  "  White 
Pine."  Minoge  is  situated  at  the  base  of  the  holy  mountain  Oyama,  and 
during  the  months  of  August  and  September  trade  in  Minoge  was 
always  brisk,  on  account  of  the  influx  of  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of 
Japan,  who  came  hither  to  perform  the  holy  duty  of  ascending  the  moun- 
tain, and  of  paying  their  devoirs  at  the  shrine  of  the  Thunder-God,  pre- 
vious to  making  the  grand  pilgrimage  of  Fuji-Yama. 

The  old  lady  was  well  off,  and  her  inn  bore  an  unblemished  reputation 
for  possessing  the  prettiest  serving-giris,  the  gayest  guest-chambers,  and 
the  primest  stewed  eels — the  dish  par  excellence  of  Japanese  gourmets — 
of  any  hosteliy  in  the  country  side.  One  of  her  daughters  was  married 
in  Tedo,  and  a  son  was  studying  in  one  of  the  European  colleges  of  that 
city ;  still  she  was  as  completely  rustic  and  unacquainted  with  the  march 
of  affairs  outside  as  if  she  had  never  heard  of  Yedo,  much  less  of  foreigners. 
At  that  time  it  was  a  very  rare  thing  indeed  for  a  foreigner  to  be  seen 
in  Minoge,  and  the  stray  artists  and  explorers  who  hai  wandered  there 
were  regarded  much  in  the  same  way  as  would  have  been  so  many  whito 
elephants. 

*  Peasant  girls* 


106  TWO  MODERN  JAPANESE  STORIES. 

It  caused,  therefore,  no  little  excitement  in  the  Yillage  when,  one  Aoe 
autumn  evening,  the  rumour  came  along  that  a  foreigner  was  making 
his  way  towarcE  the  **  White  Pine."  Every  one  tried  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  him.  The  chubby-cheeked  boys  and  girls  at  the  school  threw  down 
their  books  and  pens,  and  crowded  to  the  door  and  windows ;  the  bath- 
house was  soon  empty  of  its  patrons  and  patronesses,  who,  red  as  lob- 
Bters  with  boihng  water,  with  dishevelled  locks  and  garments  hastily 
bound  round  them,  formed  hne  outside ;  the  very  Yakunin,  or  mayor, 
sentenced  a  prisoner  he  was  judging  straight  oflF,  without  bothering  him- 
self to  inquire  into  evidence,  so  as  not  to  be  balked  of  the  sight,  and 
every  wine  and  barber's  shop  sent  forth  its  quota  of  starers  into  the  litUe 
street. 

Meanwhile  the  foreigner  was  leisurely  striding  along.  He  was  taller 
by  far  than  the  tallest  man  in  Minoge,  his  hair  was  fair,  and  even  his 
bronzed  face  and  hands  were  fair  compared  to  those  of  the  natives.  On 
the  back  of  his  head  was  a  felt  wide-awake,  he  wore  a  blue  jacket  and 
blue  half  trousers  (Anglice,  knickerbockers),  thick  hose,  and  big  boots. 
In  his  mouth  was  a  pipe — being  much  shorter  than  Japanese  smoking 
tubes — in  his  hand  a  stick,  and  on  his  back  a  satcheL 

As  he  passed,  one  or  two  urchins,  bolder  than  the  rest,  shouted  out, 
*'Tojin  baka"  (*' Foreign  beast  ")  and  instantly  fled  indoors,  or  behind 
their  mothers'  skirts :  but  the  majority  of  the  villagers  simply  stared, 
with  an  occasional  interjection  expressive  of  wonder  at  his  height,  fair 
hair,  and  costume. 

At  the  door  of  the  ".White  Pine  "  he  halted,  unstrapped  his  bundle, 
took  off  his  boots,  and  in  very  fair  Japanese  requested  to  be  shown  his 
room.  The  old  lady,  after  a  full  ten  minutes'  posturing,  complimenting, 
bowing,  and  scraping,  ushered  him  into  her  best  guest-chamber.  *  *  For," 
said  she,  "  being  a  foreigner,  he  must  be  rich,  and  wouldn't  like  ordi- 
nary pilgrim  accommodation."  And  she  drew  to  the  sliding  screens,  and 
went  off  to  superintend  his  repast.  Although  nothing  but  the  foreigner's 
boots  were  to  be  seen  outside,  a  gaping  crowd  had  collected,  striving  to 
peer  through  the  cracks  in  the  doors,  and  regarding  the  boots  as  if  they 
were  infernal  machines.  One,  more  enterprising  than  the  rest,  took  a 
boot  up,  passed  it  to  his  neighbour,  and  in  a  short  time  it  had  circulated 
from  hand  to  hand  throughout  the  population  of  Minoge,  and  was  even 
fait  and  pinched  by  the  mayor  himself,  who  replaced  it  with  the  rever- 
ence due  to  some  religious  emblem  or  relic. 

Then  the  hostess  served  up  her  banquet — seaweed,  sweets,  raw 
**tighe" — the  salmon  of  Japan — in  slices,  garnished  with  turnips  and 
horse-radish,  egg  soup  with  pork  lumps  floating  in  it,  chicken  delicately 
broiled,  together  with  a  steaming  bottle  of  her  choicest  **San  Toku 
Shin,"  or  wine  of  the  Three  Virtues  (which  keeps  out  the  cold,  appeases 
hunger,  and  induces  sleep). 

The  foreigner  made  an  excellent  meal,  eked  out  by  his  own  white 
bread,  and  wine  from  a  flask  of  pure  silver,  then,  lighting  his 
pipe,   reclined  at  fuU  length  on  the  mats,  talking  to  the  old  lady 


TWO  MODEEN  JAPANESE  STOEIES.  107 

ftnd  her  Qaee  damsels,  0  Hana,  0  Kiku,  and  O  Bin  (Miss  Flower, 
Miss  Chrysanthemum,  and  Miss  Dragon).  He  was  walking  about 
the  country  simply  for  pleasuva,  he  said — which  astonished  the 
women  greatly — he  had  been  away  from  Yokohama  three  weeks, 
and  was  now  on  his  road  to  the  big  mountain.  The  party  were 
Boon  screaming  with  laught3r  at  his  quaint  remarks  and  at  his  occa- 
sionai  colloquial  shps,  and  in  a  short  time  all  were  such  good  friends 
that  the  old  lady  begged  him  to  display  the  contents  of  his  satchel. 
**  Certainly,''  said  the  stranger,  pulUng  it  towards  him  and  opening  it. 
A  db:ty  flannel  shirt  or  two  didn't  produce  much  impression — perhaps 
wares  of  a  similar  nature  had  been  imported  before  into  Minoge — nor 
did  a  hair-brush,  tooth-brush,  and  comb ;  but  when  he  pulled  out  a 
pistol,  which  was  warranted  to  go  off  six  times  in  as  many  seconds,  and 
proceeded  to  exemplify  the  same  in  the  air,  popular  excitement  began 
to  assert  itself  in  a  series  of  **naruhodo's"  (**  really  !"  ).  Then  he 
pulled  out  a  portable  kerosine  lamp — (kerosine  lamps  are  now  as  com- 
mon in  Japan  as  shrines  by  the  road-side) — and  the  light  it  made, 
throt*ing  entirely  into  the  shade  the  native  **andon,''  or  oil  wick, 
burning  close  by,  raised  the  enthusiasm  still  higher.  Lastly  he  showed 
a  small  box  of  medicines,  *'  certain  cures,*'  said  he,  '*  for  every  disease 
known  amongst  the  sons  of  men." 

The  old  lady  and  the  maids  were  enchanted,  and  matters  ended,  after 
much  haggling  and  disputation,  in  the  foreigner  allowing  them  to  keep 
the  three  articles  for  the  very  reasonable  sum  of  fifty  dollars — ^about 
fifteen  pounds  sterling — which  was  handed  over  to  the  foreigner,  who 
called  for  his  bedding  and  went  fast  asleep. 

The  first  thing  for  the  old  lady  to  do  the  next  day  was  to  present 
herself  and  maids  in  full  holiday  costume  with  their  recent  purchases  at 
the  house  of  the  mayor.  The  great  man  received  them  and  their  goods 
with  the  dignity  befitting  his  rank,  and  promised  that  a  pubUc  trial 
should  be  m£uie  of  the  pistol,  lamp,  and  medicines,  at  an  early  date,  in 
order  to  determine  whether  they  were  worthy  to  be  adopted  as  institu- 
tions in  the  village. 

Accordingly,  by  proclamation,  at  a  fixed  date  and  hour,  all  Minoge 
assembled  m  the  open  space  facing  the  mayor's  house,  and  the  articles 
were  brought  forth.  The  pistol  was  first  taken  and  loaded,  as  directed 
by  the  foreigner,  by  the  boldest  and  strongest  man  in  the  village.  The 
first  shot  was  fired — it  wounded  a  pack-horse,  standing  some  twenty 
yards  away,  in  the  leg ;  he  took  fright  and  bolted  with  a  heavy  load  of 
wine  tubs  down  the  street  into  the  fields  :  the  second  shot  went  through 
a  temple  roof  opposite,  and  shattered  the  head  of  the  daity  in  tho 
Bhrine  :  the  third  shot  perforated  the  bamboo  hat  of  a  pilgrim ;  and  it 
was  decided  not  to  test  the  remaining  three  barrels. 

Then  the  lamp  was  brought  forth  :  the  wick  was  turned  up  full,  and 
the  village  strong  man  applied  a  light.  The  blaze  of  Hght  was  glorious, 
and  drew  forth  the  acclamations  of  the  crowd ;  but  the  wick  had  been 
tamed  up  too  high,  the  glass  burst  with  a  tremendous  report,  the 


X08  TWO  MOpEUN  JAPANESE  STORIES. 

strong  man  dropped  the  lamp,  the  oil  ignited,  ran  about  and  set  fire  to 
the  matting.  In  tsn  minutes^  however,  the  local  fire  brigade  got  the 
flames  under,  and  the  experiments  proceeded. 

The  medicine  packets  were  brought  forth.  The  first  was  a  grey 
powder.  A  man  who  had  been  lame  from  youth  upwards  was  made 
to  limp  out.  The  powder  mixed  with  water,  according  to  directions, 
was  given  him.  He  hobbled  away  in  frightful  convtdsions,  and  nearly 
injured  his  whole  Hmb  in  so  doing. 

The  second  packet  was  then  unsealed — it  contained  pills.  A  blind  man 
was  called  out — six  pills  were  rammed  down  his  throat,  and  he  was  left 
wallowing  in  a  ditch.  The  third  packet,  a  small  book  containing  sticking 
plaster,  was  then  introduced.  A  burly  peasant,  victim  to  fearful  tooth- 
ache, was  made  to  stand  forth.  The  interior  of  his  mouth  was  lined 
with  the  plaster,  and  when  he  attempted  in  his  disgust  to  pull  it  off, 
away  came  his  skin  also. 

The  medicines  were  condemned  nem.  con. 

The  foreigner  returned,  asked  how  matters  had  gone,  and  was  told  in 
polite  but  firm  terms  that  his  machines  were  not  suited  to  the  people  of 
Minoge.  Whereupon  he  returned  the  fifty  dollars  to  the  old 'lady  of 
the  *' White  Pine,"  and  went  away  laughing.  Minoge  subsided  into  its 
ordinary  every-day  groove  of  life,  and  it  was  not  tUl  some  years  after 
that  the  inhabitants  became  better  used  to  pistols,  lamps,  and  European 
medicines. 

n.    PADDLING  HIS  OWN   CANOE. 

Takezawa  was  the  head  of  a  large  silk  and  rice  house  in  Yedo.  His 
father  had  been  head,  his  grandfather  had  been  head,  his  great-grand- 
father had  been  head :  in  fact,  the  date  when  the  first  of  the  name 
affixed  his  seal  to  the  documents  of  the  house  was  lost  in  the  mists  of 
cmtiquity.  So,  when  foreigners  were  first  allowed  a  foot-hold  on  the 
sacred  soil  of  Japan,  none  were  so  jealous  of  their  advance,  none  so  ar- 
dent in  their  wishes  to  see  the  whits  barbarians  ousted,  as  the  members 
of  the  firm  of  Takezawa  and  Go. 

But  times  changed.  Up  to  the  last,  Takezawa  held  out  against  the 
introduction  of  foreign  innovations  in  the  mode  and  manner  of  conduct- 
ing the  affairs  of  the  firm ;  other  houses  might  employ  foreign  steam- 
boat companies  as  carriers  for  their  produce  from  port  to  port,  might 
import  foreign  goods,  and  even  go  so  far  as  to  allow  the  better  paid  of 
their  clerks  to  dress  themselves  as  they  liked  in  foreign  costume  ;  but 
Takezawa  and  Ck).  were  patriotic  Japanese  merchants,  and  resolved  to 
run  on  in  the  old  groove  of  their  ancestors. 

But  times  still  changed,  and  the  great  house,  running  on  in  its  solid 
old-fashioned  manner,  found  itself  left  in  the  lurch  by  younger  and  more 
enterprising  firms.  This  would  never  do.  So  Takezawa  consulted 
with  his  partners,  patrons,  cUents,  and  friends,  and  after  much  worthy 
discussion,  and  much  vehement  opposition  on  the  part  of  the  old  man, 
it  was  resolved  to  keep  pace  with  the  times,  as  much  as  possible,  with- 
out absolutely  overturning  the  old  status  of  the  house. 


.    TWO  MODEKJf  JAPANESE  STORDSa  109 

"Well,  Takezawa  and  Co.  had  still  a  very  fair  share  of  the  export  rice 
and  silk  business ;  but  their  slow,  heavy-sterned  junks  were  no  match 
for  the  swift,  foreign-built  steamers  employed  by  other  firms  ;  so,  with 
a  tremendous  wince,  and  not  without  a  side  thought  at  *'  Hara  Kiri" — 
(the  **  Happy  Despatch  ") — Takezawa  consented  to  the  sale  of  all  his 
junks,  and  the  purchase  with  the  proceeds  of  a  big  f  oriiigu  stramcr. 

The  steamer  was  bought — a  fine  three-masted,  double-funnelled  boat, 
complete  with  every  appUance,  newly  engined,  and  manned  by  Eiiro- 
psan  oSlcers  and  leading  seamen,  i'rom  the  dock  at  Yokoska,  where 
she  was  lying,  a  preliminary  trip  was  nrndo  ;  and  so  smoothly  did  every- 
thing w<^k,  and  so  easily  did  everything  seem  to  act,  under  the  guid- 
aace  oi  the  Europeans,  that  Takezawa  considered  his  own  mariners  per- 
fectly competent  to  handle  the  vessel  after  an  hour's  experience  on 
board.  So  the  Europaans  wero  disclMirged  with  six  months'  salaries — 
about  six  times  as  much  as  they  would  have  received  at  houie — and 
Takezawa  fixed  a  day  wh3n  ths  ship  should  be  rechristened,  and  should 
make  her  ixiaX  trip  undsr  Japanese  management. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  autumn — the  most  glorious  period  of  tho 
year  in  Japan — when  Takezawa  and  a  distinguished  company  assem- 
bled on  board  the  steamer,  to  give  her  a  new  name,  and  to  send  her 
forth  finally  as  a  Japanese  steamer.  The  ship  loolced  brave  enough  as 
she  lay  in  the  dock — ports  newly  painted,  brass-work  fdiining,  yards 
squared,  and  half  buried  in  bunting.  At  the  mizen  floated  the  empire 
flag  of  Japan — a  red  sun  on  a  whit 3  ground — and  as  Takezawa  gazed 
fore  and  aft,  and  his  eyes  restad  on  brightness,  cleanliness,  and  order 
everywhere,  he  wondered  to  hims3lf  how  he  could  liave  been  such  a  fool 
as  to  stand  out  so  long  against  the  possession  of  fnich  a  treasure,  merely 
on  the  grounds  of  its  not  being  Japanese.  A  fair  daughter  of  one 
of  his  partners  dashed  a  cup  of  "  sake  "  against  the  boAvs  of  the  vessel, 
and  the  newly  named  **  Lightning  Bird"  dashed  forward  into  the  ocean. 
Her  head  was  made  straight  for  Yokohama  (Takezawa  had  seen  the  En- 
glishmen at  the  wheel  manipulate  her  in  that  conrso  on  her  trial  trip,  so 
he  knew  she  couldn*t  go  wrong).  And  straight  she  went.  Every  one  was 
delighted ;  sweetmeats  and  wine  wer3  served  round,  whilst  on  the  quar- 
terdeck a  troupe  of  the  b3st  **  Geyshas  "  or  singing-girls  in  Yedo  min- 
gled their  shrill  voices  and  their  guitar  notes  with  the  sound  of  the  fresh 
morning  breeze  through  the  rigging. 

The  engines  worked  magnificently  :  coals  were  poured  into  the  fur- 
naces by  the  hundredweight,  so  as  to  keep  a  good  uniform  thick  cloud 
of  smoke  coming  from  the  funnels — if  the  smoke  lacked  intensity  for  a 
minute,  Takezawa,  fearful  that  something  was  wrong,  bellowed  forth 
orders  for  more  coal  to  be  heaped  on,  so  that  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour's, 
time  the  ** Lightning  Bird"  consumed  as  mucli  fuel  as  would  hav4 
served  a  P.  and  O.  steamer  for  half  a  day.  On  she  went,  everybody 
pleased  and  smiling,  everything  taut  and  satisfactory.  Straight  ahead 
was  Treaty  Point — a  bold  blnff  running  out  into  the  sea.  The  "Light- 
nmg  "Bircb-"  was  bound  for  Yokohama — Yokohama  lies  well  behind 


110  .  TWO  MODERN  JAPANESE  STOEIES. 

Treaty  Point — but  at  the  pace  she  was  going  it  was  Tery  apparent  that, 
unless  a  sadden  and  rapid  turn  to  starboard  was  made,  she  would  run, 
not  into  Yokohama,  but  into  Treaty  Pqint. 

The  singing  and  feasting  proceeded  merrily  on  deck,  but  Takezawa 
was  uneasy  ^d  undecided  on  the  bridge.  The  helm  was  put  hard 
a-port,  the  brave  vessel  obeyed,  and  leapt  on  straight  for  the  Hne  of 
rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  Point,  over  which  the  waves  were  breaking  in 
cascades  of  foam.  But  the  gods  would  not  see  a  vessel,  making  her  first 
run  under  Japanese  auspices,  maltreated  and  destroyed  by  simple  waves 
and  rocks ;  so,  just  in  time  to  save  an  ignominious  run  aground,  the 
helm  was  put  hard  over,  fresh  fuel  was  piled  on  to  the  furnaces,  and  by 
barely  half  a  ship's  leng^  the  '*  Lightning  Bird''  shaved  the  Point,  and 
stood  in  straight  for  Yokohama  bay. 

Takezawa  breathed  freely  for  the  moment ;  but,  as  he  saw  ahead  tha 
crowd  of  European  ships  and  native  junks  through  which  he  would  havo 
to  thread  his  way,  he  would  have  given  a  very  large  sum  to  have  had  a 
couple  of  Europeans  at  the  wheel  in  the  place  of  his  own  half-witted, 
scared  mariners. 

However,  there  was  no  help  for  it;  the  ship  sped  on,  and  the 
guests  on  board,  many  of  whom  were  thorough  rustics,  were  in 
raptures  at  the  distant  views  of  the  white  houses  on  the  Yokohama 
Bund,  at  the  big  steamers  and  the  graceful  sailing  vessels  on  all 
sides.  To  avoid  the  chance  of  a  coUision,  Takezawa  managed  to  keep 
his  steamer  well  outside  ;  they  nearly  ran  down  a  fishmg  junk  or 
two,  and  all  but  sunk  the  lightship ;  still,  they  had  not  as  yet  como 
to  absolute  grief.  Bound  they  went  for  a  long  half-hour;  many  of 
the  guests  were  suffering  from  sickness,  and  Takezawa  thought 
that  he  might  bring  -the  trip  to  an  end.  So  he  bellowed  forth 
orders  to  stop  the  engines,  and  anchor.  The  anchor  was  promptly  let 
go,  but  stopping  the  engines  was  another  matter,  for  nobody  on  board 
knew  how  to  do  so — there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  allow  the  Tes- 
sel  to  pursue  a  circular  course  until  steam  was  exhausted;  and  she 
could  go  no  farther.  It  was  idle  to  explain  to  the  distinguished  com- 
pany that  this  was  the  course  invariably  adopted  by  Europeans,  for 
under  their  noses  was  the  graceful  P.  and  O.  steamer,  a  moment  since 
ploughing  along  at  full  steam,  now  riding  at  anchor  by  her  buoy.  So 
round  and  round  went  the  '*  Lightning  Bird,"  to  the  amazement  of  the 
crews  of  the  ships  in  harbour  and  of  a  large  crowd  gathered  on  the 
*'  Bund ;"  the  brave  company  on  board  were  now  assured  that  the 
judgment  of  the  gods  was  overtaking  them  for  having  ventured  to  sea 
in  a  foreign  vessel,  and  poor  Takezawa  was  half  resolved  to  despatch 
himself,  and  wholly  resolved  never  to  make  such  an  experiment  as  this 
again.  He  cursed  the  day  when  he  was  finally  led  to  forsake  the  groove 
BO  honourably  and  profitably  grubbed  along  by  his  fathers,  and  strode 
with  hasty  steps  up  and  down  the  bridge,  refusing  to  be  comforted,  and 
terrifying  out  of  their  few  remaining  wits  the  two  poor  fellows  at  the 
wheel.     After  a  few  circles,  au  English  man-K>f-war  sent  a  steam  launch 


TWO  MODEBN  JAPANESE  STORIES.  HI 

after  ihe  **  Lightning  Bird,"  and  to  tha  intense  disgust  of  the  great 
Japanese  people  on  board,  who  preferred  to  see  eccentricity  on  the  part 
of  their  countrymen,  to  interference  by  foreigners,  but  to  the  great  de- 
light of  the  women  and  rustics,  who  began  to  be  rather  tired  of  the  fun, 
the  engines  were  stopped.  Takezawa  did  not  hear  the  last  of  this  for  a 
long,  tong  time  -,  caricatures  and  verses  were  constantly  being  circulated 
bearing  i^on  the  fiasco,  although  it  would  have  been  as  much  as  any 
man's  life  was  worth  to  have  taunted  him  openly  with  it  But  it  was  a 
salntaiy  lesson ;  and  although  he  still  kept  the  "Lightning  Bird,"  h3 
engaged  Europeans  to  man  her,  until  his  men  proved  themselves  adepts, 
and  she  afterwards  became  one  of  the  smartest  and  fastest  craft  on  the 
coast. — Belgravisu 


SUPPOSED  CHAKGES  IN  THE  MOON. 

In  this  Magazine  for  August  last  I  considered  the  moon^s  multitudi- 
nous small  craters  with  special  reference  to  the  theory  that  some  among 
those  small  craters  may  have  been  produced  by  the  downfall  of  aerc- 
lithic  or  meteoric  masses  upon  the  moon^s  once  plastic  surface.    "Whether 
it  be  considered  probable  that  this  is  really  the  case  or  not  with  regard 
to  actually  existent  lunar  craters,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  during  one 
period  of  the  moon*s  history,  a  period  probably  lasting  many  milhons 
of  years,  many  crater-shaped  depressions  must  have  been  produced  in 
this  way.     As  I  showed  in  that  essay,  it  is  absolutely  certain  that  thou- 
sands of  meteoric  masses,  large   enough   to   form   visible  depressions 
where  they  fell,  must  have  fallen  during  the  moon*s  plastic  era.     It  is 
certain  also  that  that  era  must  have  been  very  long-lasting.     Neverthe- 
less, it  remains  possible  (many  will  consider  it  extremely  probable,  if 
not  absolutely  certain)  that  during  sequent  periods  all  such  traces  were 
romoved.     There  is  certainly-  nothing  in  the  aspect  of  the  present  lunar 
craters,  even  the  smallest  and  most  numerous,  to  preclude  the  possi- 
bility that  they,  Hke  the  larger  ones,  were  the  results  of  purely  volcanic 
action ;  and  to  many  minds  it  seems  preferable  to  adopt  one  general 
theory  respecting  all  such  objects  as  may  be  classed  in  a  regular  series, 
tlian  to  consider  that  some  members  of  the  series  are  to  be  explained  in 
one  way  and  others  in  a  different  way.     We  can  form  a  series  extend- 
ing without  break  or  interruption  from  the  largest  lunar  craters,  mora 
than  a  hundred  miles  in  diameter,  to  the  smallest  visible  craters,  less 
than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across,  or  even  to  far  smaller  craters,  if  increase 
of  telescopic  power  should  reveal  such.     And  therefore  many  object  to 
adopt  any  theory  in  explanation  of  the  smaller  craters  (or  some  of  them) 
which  could  manifestly  not  be  extended  to  the  largest.     Albeit  we  must 
fv^mamber  that  certainly  if  any  small  cratars  had  been  formed  during  the 


119  8XJFF0SED  GHAKGES  IN  THE  MOOlt 

plastio  en  b^  meteoric  downfall,  and  had  remained  unchanged  after  the 
moon  solidified,  it  would  now  be  quite  imposfiible  to  diBtiugaiah  tbfise 
from  craters  formed  in  the  ordinary  manner. 

While  we  thus  recognise  the  possibilitj,  at  any  rate,  that  mnl- 
titades  of  small  Innar  craters,  say  from  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to 
two  miles  in  diameter,  may  have  been  formed  by  falling  meteorio 
masses  hundreds  of  millions  of  years  ago,  and  may  have  remained 
unchanged  even  ontil  now,  we  perceive  that  on  the  moon  later  processes 
mnst  have  formed  many  small  craters,  precisely  as  such  onaU  craters 
have  been  formed  on  our  own  earth.  I  consider,  at  the  close  of  the 
essay  above  mentioned,  the  two  stages  of  the  moon's  development  whicli 
must  have  followed  the  period  during  which  her  surface  was  wholty  or 
in  great  part  plastio.  First,  there  was  the  stage  during  which  the  crust 
contracted  more  rapidly  than  the  nucleus,  and  was  rent  from  time  to 
time  as  though  the  nucleus  were  expanding  within  it.  Secondly,  there 
came  the  era  when  the  nucleus,  having  retcuned  a  greater  share  ii  heat, 
began  to  cool,  and  therefore  to  contract  more  quickly  than  the  erust,  so 
that  the  crust  became  wrinkled  or  corrugated,  as  it  followed  op  (so  to 
speak)  the  retreating  nucleus. 

It  would  be  in  the  later  part  of  this  second  great  era  that  the  moon  (if 
ever)  would  have  resembled  the  earth.    The  forms  of  volcanic  activity 
still  existing  on  the  earth  seem  most  probably  referable  to  the  gradual 
contraction  of  the  nucleus,  and  the  steady  resulting  contractic»k  of  the 
rocky  crust    As  Mallet  and  Dana  have  shown,  the  heat  resulting  from 
the  contraction,  or  in  reality  from  the  slow  downfall  of  the  crost,  is 
amply  sufficient  to  account  for  the  whole  observed  volcanian  energy  of 
the  earth.    It  has  indeed  been  objected,  that  if  this  theory  (which  is 
considered  more  fully  in  my  ^*  Pleasant  Ways  in  Science  **)  were  correct, 
we  ought  to  find  volcanoes  occurring  indifferently,  or  at  any  rate  volca- 
nic phenomena  of  various  kinds  so  occurring,  in  adl  parts  of  the  earth's 
surface,  and  not  prevalent  in  specisl  regions  and  scarcely  ever  noUoed 
elsewhere.    But  this  objection  is  based  on  erroneous  ideas  as  to  the 
length  of  time  necessary  for  the  development  of  subterranean  changes, 
and  also  as  to  the  extent  of  regions  which  at  present  find  in  certain  vol. 
canic  craters  a  sufficient  outlet  for  their  subterranean  fires.    It  is  natiu 
ral  that,  if  a  region  of  wide  extent  has  at  any  time  been  relieved  at  some 
point,  tiiat  spot  should  long  afterwards  remain  as  an  outlet,  a  sort  of 
safety-valve,  which,  by  yielding  somewhat  more  quickly  than  any  neigh- 
bouring part  of  the  crust,  would  save  the  whole  region  from  destructive 
earthquakes ;  and  though  in  the  course  of  time  a  crater  which  had  acted 
such  a  part  would  cease  to  do  so,  yet  the  period  required  for  such  a 
cbauge  would  be  very  long  indeed  compared  with  those  periods  by 
1^  hi  eh  men  ordinarily  measure  time.    Moreover,  it  by  no  means  follows 
iUiki  every  part  of  the  earth's  crust  would  even  require  an  outlet  for 
h<^t  developed  beneath  it     Over  wide  tracts  of  the  earth's  surface  the 
mi*'  of  contraction  may  be  such,  or  may  be  so  related  to  the  the  thick- 
tk«M  ui  Uiv  cruiit,  that  the  heat  developed  can  find  ready  escape  by 


SUPPOSED  GEAKGBS  IK  THE  MOON.       118 

conduction  to  the  sarface,  and  by  radiation  tbence  into  space. 
Kay,  from  the  part  which  water  is  kuown  to  play  in  producing  Tolcauio 
phenomena,  it  may  well  be  that  in  every  region  where  water  does  not 
lind  its  way  in  large  quantities  to  the  parts  in  which  the  snbterrauean 
beat  is  great,  no  yolcanic  action  resolts.  Mallet,  following  other  ex- 
perienced Yxdcanologists,  lays  down  the  law,  **  \Yithont  water  there  can 
be  no  Tolcano;*'  so  that  the  neighbourhood  of  large  oceans,  as  well  as 
Bpecial  conditions  of  the  crust,  must  be  regarded  as  probably  essential 
to  the  existence  of  such  outlets  as  YesuTius,  Etna,  Hecla,  and  the  rest. 

So  much  premised,  let  us  enquire  whether  it  is  antecedently  Ukely 
that  in  the  moon  volcanic  action  may  still  be  in  progress,  and  afterwards 
consider  the  recent  announcement  of  a  lunar  disturbance,  which,  if 
leaily  Tolcamo,  certainly  indicates  Tolcanic  action  far  more  intense  than 
any  which  is  at  present  taking  place  in  our  own  earth.  I  have  already, 
I  may  remark,  considered  the  evidence  respecting  this  new  lunar  crater 
which  some  suppose  to  have  been  formed  during  £e  last  two  years.  But 
I  am  not  here  going  over  the  same  ground  as  in  my  former  paper' 
("Contemporary  Review"  fbr  August,  1878).  Moreover,  since  that 
paper  was  written,  new  evidence  has  been  obtained,  and  I  am  now  able 
to  speak  with  considerable  confidence  about  points  which  were  in  some 
degree  doubtful  three  months  aga 

Let  us  consider,  in  the  first  place,  what  is  the  moon's  probable  age, 
not  in  years,  but  in  development  Here  we  have  only  probable  evidence 
to  guide  us,  evidence  chiefly  derived  from  the  analogy  of  our  own  earth. 
At  least,  we  have  only  such  evidence  when  we  are  enquiring  into  the 
moon's  age  as  a  preliminary  to  the  consideration  of  her  actual  aspect  and 
its  meaning.  No  doubt  many  features  revealed  by  telescopic  scru* 
tmy  are  fuil  of  mgnificance  in  this  respect  No  one  who  has  ever 
looked  at  the  moon,  indeed,  with  a  telescope  of  great  power  has  failed 
to  be  struck  by  the  appearance  of  deadness  which  her  surface  presents, 
or  to  be  impressed  (at  a  first  view,  in  any  case),  with  the  idea  that  he  is 
looking  at  a  world  whose  period  of  life  must  be  set  in  a  very  remote  an- 
tiquity. But  we  must  not  take  such  considerations  into  account  in  dis- 
cussing the  a  priaH  probabihties  that  the  moon  is  a  very  aged  world. 
Thus  we  have  only  evidence  from  analogy  to  guide  us  in  this  part  of  our 
enquiiy.  I  note  Sie  point  at  starting,  because  the  indicative  mood  is  so 
much  more  convenient  than  the  conditional,  that  I  may  frequently  in 
this  part  of  my  enquiry  use  the  former  where  the  actual  nature  of  the 
eridence  would  only  justify  the  latter.  Let  it  be  understood  that  the 
force  of  the  reasoning  here  depends  entirely  on  the  weight  we  are  disposed 
to  allow  to  arguments  &om  analogy. 

Assmning  Uie  pl&Qeia  and  satelHtes  of  the  solar  system  to  be  formed 
in  some  such  manner  as  Laplace  suggested  in  his  **  Nebular  Hypotlie- 
gis,"  the  moon,  as  an  orb  travelling  round  the  earth,  must  be  regarded 
M  very  much  older  than  she  is,  even  in  years.  Even  if  we  accept  the 
theory  of  accretion  which  has  been  recently  suggested  as  better  accord- 
2n^  with  known  facts,  it  woi^  still  follow  that  probably  the  moon  har ' 


114  SUPPOSED  CHAKOES  IN  THE  MOON. 

existence,  as  a  globe  of  matter  nearly  of  her  present  size,  long  bef  ors 
the  earth  had  gathered  in  the  major  portion  of  her  substance.  Neces- 
sarily, therefore,  if  we  assnme  as  far  more  probable  than  either  theory 
that  the  eai^  and  moon  attained  their  present  condition  by  combined 
processes  of  condensation  and  accretion,  we  should  infer  that  the  xnoou 
is  far  the  older  of  the  two  bodies  in  years. 

But  if  we  eyen  suppose  that  the  earth  and  moon  began  their  career 
as  companion  planets  at  about  the  same  epoch,  we  should  still  have 
reason  to  beheve  that  these  planets,  equal  though  they  were  in  age  so 
far  as  mere  yean  are  concerned  must  be  very  uuequaUy  advanced  so 
far  as  development  is  conoemed,  and  must  therefore  in  that  respect  be 
of  very  unequal  age. 

It  was,  I  believe,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  who  first  called  attention  to  the 
circumstenoe  that  the  larger  a  planet  is,  the  longer  will  be  the  various 
stages  of  its  existence.  He  used  the  same  reasoning  which  was  after- 
waniB  urged  by  Buffon,  and  suggested  an  experiment  which  Buffon  was 
the  first  to  carry  out.  If  two  globes  of  iron,  of  unequal  size,  be  heated 
to  the  same  degree,  and  then  left  to  cool  side  by  side,  it  will  be  found 
that  the  larger  glows  with  a  ruddy  light  after  the  smaller  has  become 
quite  dark,  and  that  the  larger  remains  intensely  hot  long  after  the 
smaller  has  become  cool  enough  to  be  handled.  The  reason  of  the  dif- 
ference is  very  readily  recognised.  Indeed,  Newton  perceived  that 
there  would  be  such  a  difference  before  the  matter  had  been  experi- 
mentally tested.  The  quantity  of  heat  in  the  unequal  globes  is  propor- 
tional to  the  volume,  the  substance  of  each  being  the  same.  The  heat 
is  emitted  from  the  surface,  and  at  a  rate  depending  on  the  extent  of 
surface.  But  the  volume  of  the  lai'ger  exceeds  that  of  the  smaller 
in  greater  degree  than  the  surface  of  the  larger  exceeds  the  surface  of  ' 
the  other.  Suppose,  for  instance,  the  larger  has  a  diameter  twice  as  great 
as  tliat  of  the  smaller,  its  surface  is  four  times  as  great  as  that  of  the 
smaller, its  volume  eight  times  as  great  Having,  then,  eight  times  as  much 
heat  as  the  smaller  at  the  beginning,  and  parting  with  that  heat 
only  four  times  as  fast  as  the  smaller,  the  supply  necessarily  lasts  twice 
as  long ;  or,  more  exactly,  each  stage  in  the  cooling  of  the  larger  lasts 
twice  as  long  as  the  corresponding  stage  in  the  cooling  of  the  smaller. 
We  see  that  the  duration  of  the  heat  is  greater  for  the  larger  in  the  same 
degree  that  the  diameter  is  greater.  And  we  should  have  obtained  the 
same  result  whatever  diameters  we  had  considered.  Suppose,  for 
instance,  we  heat  two  globes  of  iron,  one  an  inch  in  diameter,  the  other 
seven  inches,  to  a  white  heat  The  surface  of  the  larger  is  forty-nine 
times  that  of  the  smaller,  and  thus  it  gives  out  at  the  beginning,  and  at 
each  corresponing  stage  of  cooling,  forty-nine  times  as  much  heat  as 
the  smaller.  But  it  possesses  at  the  beginning  three  hundred  and  forty- 
three  (seven  times  seven  times  seven)  times  as  much  heat  Conse- 
quently, the  supply  will  last  seven  times  as  long,  precisely  as  a  stock 
of  three  hundred  and  forfy-three  thousand  poun£,  expended  forty-mix^ 
tames  as  fast  as  '>■  stock  of  one  thousand  pounds  <mly,  would  last  seven 


SUPPOSED  CHiLNGES  IN  THE  MOON.  115 

times  as  long.'  In  every  case  we  find  that  the  dnnition  of  the  heat- 
emission  for  globes  of  the  same  material  equally  heated  at  the  outset  is 
proportional  to  their  diameters. 

Now,  before  applying  this  result  to  the  case,  of  the  noon,  we  must 
^6  into  account  two  considerations ; — First,  the  probabihty  that  when 
the  moon  was  formed  she  was  not  nearly  so  hot  as  the  earth  when  it 
first  took  planetary  shape ;  and  sQoondly,  the  different  densities  of  the 
earth  and  moon. 

Tha  original  heat  of  erery  member  of  the  solar  system,  including  tha 
Btm,  depended  on  the  giavitating  energy  of  its  own  mass.     The  greater 
that  energy,  the  greater  the  heat  generated  either  by  the  process  of 
steady  contraction  imagined  in  Laplace's  theory,  or  by  the  process  of 
meteoric  indraught  imagined  in  the  aggregation  theory.     To  show  how 
very  different  are   the  heat-generating  powers  of   two  yery  unequal 
masses,  consider  what  would  happen  if  the  earth  drew  down  to  its  own 
smrface  a  meteoric  mass  which  had  approached  the  earth  under  her  own 
attraction  only.     (The  case  is  of  course  purely  imaginoiy^  because  na 
meteor  can  approach  the  earth  which  has  not  been  subjected  to  the  far 
greater  attractive  energy  of  the  sun,  and  does  not  possess  a  velocity  far 
greater  than  any  which  the  earth  herself  could  impart).     In  this  case 
such  a  mass  would  strike  the  earth  with  a  velocity  of  about  seven  miles 
per  second,  and  the  heat  generated  would  be  that  due  to  this  velocity  only. 
Now,  when  a  meteor  stnkes  the  sun  full  tilt  after  a  journey  from  the 
star  depths  under  his  attraction,  it  reaches  his  surface  with  a  velocity  of 
U€arly  three  hundred  and  sixty  miles  per  second.    The  heat  generated  is 
nearly  fifty  times  greater  than  in  the  imagined  case  of  the  earth.  The  moon 
being  very  much  less  than  the  earth,  the  velocity  she  can  impart  to  meteoiio 
bodies  is  still  less.     It  amounts,  in  fact,  to  only  about  a  mile  per  sec^ 
ond.     The  condensing  energy  of  the  moon  in  her  vaporous  era  was  in 
like  manner  far  less  than  that  of  the  earth,  and  consequently  far  less 
heat  was  then  generated.     Thus,  although  we  might  well  believe  on  a 
piiori  grounds,  even  if  not  assured  by  actual  study  of  the  lunar  f ea- 
tmres,  that  the  moon  when  first  formed  as  a  planet  had  a  surface  far  hot* 
ter  than  molten  iron,  we  must  yet  beUeve  that,  when  first  formed,  the 
moon  had  a  temperature  very  much  below  that  of  our  earth  at  the  cor- 
responding stage  of  her  existence. 

On  this  account,  then,  we  must  consider  that  the  moon  started  in 
planetary  existence  in  a  condition  as  to  heat  which  our  earth  did  not  at- 
tain till  many  millions,  probably  hundreds  of  millions  of  years  after  the 
epoch  of  her  first  formation  as  a  planet. 

As  regards  the  moon's  substance,  we  have  no  means  of  forming  a  sat- 
isfactory opinion.  But  we  shall  be  safe  in  regarding  quantity  of  matter 
in  the  moon  as  a  safer  basis  of  calculation  than  volimie,  in  comparing 
the  duration  of  her  various  stages  of  development  with  those  of  our 
own  earth.  When,  in  the  August  number  of  this  Magazine,  I  adopted 
a  relation  derived  from  the  latter  and  less  correct  method,  it  was  because 
the  more  correct  method  gave  the  result  most  favourable  to  the  argu- 


110       SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON. 

mcnt  I  was  then  considering.  The  same  is  indeed  the  case  now.  Yet 
it  vrill  be  better  to  adopt  the  more  exaot  method,  because  the  consider- 
ation relates  no  longer  to  a  mere  side  issue,  but  belongs  to  the  very  es- 
sence of  my  recksoning. 

The  moon  has  a  mass  equal  to  about  one  eighty-first  part  of  the  earth^s. 
Her  diameter  being  less  than  the  earth^s,  about  as  two  to  seven,  the  du- 
ration of  each  stage  of  her  cooling  .would  be  in  this  degree  less  than  the 
corresponding  duration  for  the  earth,  if  her  density  were  the  same  as 
the  etith's^  in  which  case  her  mass  would  be  only  one  forty-ninth  part  of 
the  earth's.  But  her  mass  being  so  much  less,  we  must  assume  that  her 
amount  of  heat  at  any  given  stage  of  cooling  was  less  in  similar  degree 
than  it  would  have  been  had  her  density  been  the  same  as  the  earth's. 
We  may,  in  fact»  assume  that  the  moon's  total  supply  of  heat  would  be 
only  one  eighty-first  of  the  earth's  if  the  two  bodies  were  at  the  same 
temperature  throughout.*  But  the  surface  of  the  moon  is  between  one- 
thirteenth  and  one -fourteenth  of  the  earth's.  Since,  then,  the  earth  at 
any  given  stage  of  cooling  parted  with  her  heat  between  thirteen  and 
fourteen  times  as  fast  as  the  moon,  but  had  about  eighty-one  times  as 
much  heat  to  part  with  (for  that  stage),  it  follows  that  ^e  would  take 
about  six  times  as  long  (six  times  thirteen  and  a-half  is  equal  to  eighty- 
one)  to  cool  through  tiiat  particular  stage  as  the  moon  would. 

If  we  take  this  relation  as  :'ihe  basis  of  our  estimate 'of  the  moon's 
age,  we  shall  find  that,  even  if  the  moon's  existence  as  a  planet  began 
simultaneously  with  the  earth's  instead  of  many  millions  of  years  earlier, 
even  if  the  moon  was  then  as  hot  as  the  earth  instead  of  being  so  much 
cooler  that  many  millions  of  years  would  be  required  for  the  earth  to 
cool  to  the  same  temperature — making,  T  say,  these  assumptions,  which* 
probably  correspond  to  the  omission  of  hundreds  of  millions  of  years 
in  our  estimate  of  the  moon's  age,  we  shall  still  find  the  moon  to  be 
hundreds  of  millions  of  years  older  than  the  earth. 

Nay,  we  may  even  take  a  position  still  less  favourable  to  my  argument. 
Let  us  overlook  the  long  ages  during  which  the  two  orbs  were  in  the 
vaporous  state,  and  suppose  the  earth  and  moon  to  be  simultaneously  in 
that  stage  of  planetary  existence  when  the  surface  has  a  temperature  of 
two  thousand  degrees  Centigrade. 

From  Bischoffs  experiments  on  the  cooling  of  rocks,  it  appears 
to  follow  that  some  three  hundred  and  twenty  millions  of  years 
must  have  elapsed  between "  the  time  when  the  earth's  surface  was  at 
this  temperature  and  the  time  when  the  surface  temperature  was  re- 
duced to  two  hundred  degrees  Centigrade,  or  one  hundred  and  eighty 

*  To  some  this  mav  appear  to  be  a  mere  traism.  In  reality  it  Is  far  from  bejnp  so. 
If  two  globes  of  equal  mass  were  each  of  the  same  exact  temperature  throaghont, 
they  might  yet  have  very  unequal  total  quantities  of  heat.  If  one  were  of  water,  for 
instance,  and  the  other  of  iron  or  anv  other  metal,  the  former  would  have  far  the 
larger  Hupply  of  heat ;  for  more  heat  is  required  to  raise  a  given  weight  of  water  ono 
degree  iu  temperature,  than  to  raise  an  equal  weight  of  iron  one  degree ;  and  water  in 
cooling  one  degree,  or  any  number  of  degrees,  would  give  out  more  heat  than  an  equal 
weight  of  iron  cooling  to  the  same  extent. 


SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON.       117 

degrees  Pahrenheit  above  the  boiling  point.  The  earth  was  for  that 
enormood  period  a  mass  (in  the  main)  of  molten  rock.  In  the  moon's 
case  this  period  lasted  only  one«sixth  of  three  hundred  and  twenty  mil- 
lion years,  or  about  fifty-three  million  years,  leaving  two  hundred  and 
bixty-seveu  million  years'  interval  between  the  time  when  the  moon's 
Borface  had  cooled  aown  to  two  hundred  degrees  Centigrade  and  the 
latir  epoch  when  the  earth's  suzfaoe  had  attained  that  temperature. 

1  would  not,  however,  insist  on  these  numerical  details.     It  has  always 
Beemed  to  me  unsafe  to  base  calculations  respecting  suns  and  planets  on 
expariments  conductedin  the  laboratory.  The  circumstances  under  which 
the  heavenly  bodies  exist,  regarding  tiiese  bodies  as  wholes,  are  utterly 
niilike  any  which  can  be  produced  in  the  laboratory,  no  matter  on  what 
Bjale  the  experimenter  may  carry  on  his  researches.     I  have  often  been 
amused  to  see  even  mathematicians  of  repute  employing  a  formula  based 
on  terrestrial  experiments,  physical,  optical,  and  otherwise,  as  though 
th?  formula  were  an  eternal  omnipresent  reality,  without  noting  that, 
if  similarly  applied  to  obtain  other  determinations,  the  most  stupen- 
dously absurd  results  would  be  deduced.     It  is  as  though,  having  found 
that  a  child  grows  three  inches  in  the  fifth  year  of  his  age,  one  should 
infer  not  only  that  that  person  but  every  other  person  in  every  age  and 
in  every  planet,  nay,  in  the  whole  universe,  would  be  thirty  inches  taller 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  than  at  the  age  of  five,  without  noticing  that  the 
R\me  method  of  computation  would  show  everyone  to  be  more  than  flf- 
t  en  feet  taller  at  the  age  of  sixty-five.     It^ay  well  be  that,  instead  of 
three  hundred  and  twenty  millions  of  years,  tiie  era  considered  by  Bis- 
cboff  lasted  less  than  a  hundred  millions  of  years.     Or  quite  as  proba- 
bly it  may  have  lasted  five  or  six  hundred  millions  of  years.  And  again, 
instead  (^  the  corresponding  era  of  the  moon's  past  history  having 
lasted  one  sixth  of  the  time  required  to  produce  the  same  change  in  the 
earth's  condition,  it  may  have  Lasted  a  quarter,  or  a  third,  or  even  half 
that  time,  though  quite  as  probably  it  may  have  lasted  much  less  than 
a  sixth.     But  in  any  case  we  cannot  reasonably  doubt  that  the  moon 
reached  the  stage  of  cooling  through  which  the  earth  is  now  passing 
many  millions  of  years  ago.     We  shall  not  probably  err  very  greatly  in 
taking  the  interval  as  at  least  two  hundred  millions  of  years. 

But  I  could  point  out  that  in  reality  it  is  a  matter  of  small  import- 
ance, so  far  as  my  present  argument  is  concerned,  whether  we  adopt 
Bischoffs  period  or  a  period  differing  greatly  from  it.  For  if  instead  of 
about  three  hundred  millions  the  earth  required  only  thirty  millions  of 
years  to  cool  from  a  surface  temperature  of  two  thousand  degrees 
Cjntigrade  to  a  temperature  of  two  hundred  degrees,  we  must  assume 
that  the  rate  of  cooling  is  ten  times  greater  than  Bischoff  supposed.  And 
'9fe  must  of  course  extend  the  same  assumption  to  the  moon.  Now,  since 
the  sole  question  before  us  is  to  what  degree  the  moon  has  cooled,  it 
matters  nothing  whether  we  suppose  the  moon  has  been  cooling  very 
slowljr  during  many  millions  of  years  since  she  was  in  the  same  condi- 
tion as  the  e^rth  at  present,  or  that  the  moon  has  been  cooHng  ten  times 


118  SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON. 

as  quickly  during  a  teuth  part  of  the  time,  or  a  htmdred  times  as  qaickly 
during  one-hunc&eth  part  of  the  time. 

We  may,  therefore,  continue  to  use  the  numbers  resulting  from  Bis- 
choff's  calculation,  even  though  we  admit  the  probability  that  they  differ 
widely  from  the  true  values  of  the  periods  we  are  considering. 

Setting  the  moon,  then,  as  about  two  himdred  and  ^ty  millions  of 
years  in  advance  of  the  earth  in  development,  even  when  we  overlook 
all  the  eras  preceding  that  considered  by  Bischoff,  and  the  entire  sequent 
intarval  (which  must  be  long,  for  the  earth  has  no  longer  a  surface  one 
hundred  degrees  Centigrade  hotter  than  boiling  water),  let  us  consider 
what  is  suggested  by  this  enormous  time-difference. 

In  the  first  place,  it  corresponds  to  a  much  greater  interval  in  our 
earth's  history.  I>uring  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  years  the 
moon  has  been  cooling  at  her  rate,  not  at  the  earth's.  According  to  the 
conclusion  we  deduced  from  tha  moon's  relative  mass  and  surface,  she 
has  aged  as  much  during  thos3  two  hundred  and  fifty  million  years  as 
the  earth  will  during  the  next  fifteen  hundred  million  years. 

Now,  however  slowly  we  suppos3  the  earth's  crust  to  be  changing,  it 
must  b3  ad  mitt  3d  that  in  tha  course  of  the  next  fifteen  hundred  miUions 
of  years  the  earth  will  have  parted  with  far  the  greater  part,  if  not  with 
tha  whole,  of  that  inherent  heat  on  which  the  present  movements  of 
her  surface  dap  and.  We  know  that  these  movements  at  once  depen(? 
upon  and  indicate  processes  of  contraction.  We  know  that  sach  pro- 
c  3SS3S  cannot  continue  at  their  present  rate  for  many  millions  of  years. 
If  we  assume  that  the  rata  of  contraction  will  steadily  diminish — ^whicL 
is  equivalent,  be  it  noticed,  to  the  assumption  that  the  earth's  vulcaniaj' 
or  subterranean  energies  will  be  diminished — the  duration  of  the  process 
will  be  greater.  But  even  on  such  an  assumption,  controlled  by  con- 
sidaration  of  the  evidence  we  have  respecting  the  rate  at  which  terres- 
trial contraction  is  diminishing,  it  is  certain  that  long  before  a  period  of 
fiftean  hundred  millions  of  years  has  elapsed,  the  process  of  contractiou 
will  to  all  intents  and  purposes  be  completed. 

We  must  assume,  then,  as  altogether  the  most  probable  view,  that 
the  moon  has  reached  this  stage  of  planetary  decrepitude,  even  if  slij 
has  not  become  an  absolutely  dead  world.  We  can  hardly  reject  tha 
reasoning  which  would  show  that  the  moon  is  far  older  than  has  been 
assumed  when  long  stages  of  her  history  and  our  earth's  have  beea 
neglected.  Still  less  reasonable  would  it  be  to  reject  the  conclosioa 
that  at  the  very  least  she  has  reached  the  hoar  antiquity  thus  inferred. 
Assuming  her  to  be  no  older,  we  yet  cannot  escape  the  conviction  tbiit 
her  state  is  that  of  utter  decrepitude.  To  suppose  that  volcanic  action 
can  now  be  in  progress  on  the  moon,  even  to  as  great  a  degree  as  on  thj 
earth,  would  be  to  assume  that  measurable  sources  of  energy  can  pro- 
duce practically  immeasurable  results.  But  no  volcanic  changes  now 
in  process  on  the  earth  could  possibly  be  discernible  at  the  moon's 
distance.  How  utterly  unUkely  does  it  seem,  then,  that  any  volcani'' 
changes  can  bo  now  taking,  place  on  the  moon  which  could  be  recog- 


SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON.        119 

tu2ea  from  the  earths  It  seems  safe  to  assume  that  no  volcanio 
changes  at  aU  can  be  in  progress ;  but  most  certainly  the  evidence  which 
shonld  convince  us  that  volcanic  changes  of  so  tremendous  a  character 
ere  in  progress  that  at  a  distance  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand 
miles  terrestrial  telescopists  can  discern  them,  must  be  of  the  strongest 
and  most  satisfactory  character. 

Evidence  of  change  may  indeed  be  discovered  which  can  be  other- 
wise explained.     The  moon  is  exposed  to  the  action  of  heat  other  than 
that  which  pervaded  her  own  frame  at  the  time  of  her  first  formation. 
The  sun's  heat  is  poured  upon  the  moon  during  the  long  lunar  day  of 
more  than  a  fortnight,  while  during  the  long  lunar  night  a  cold  prevails 
whieh  must  far  exceed  that  of  our  bitterest  arctic  winters.     We  know 
from  the  heat^measurements  made  by  the  present  Lord  Bosse,  that  any 
part  of  the   moon's  surface  at  lunar  mid-day  is  fully  five  hundred 
degrees  Fahrenheit  hotter  than  the  same  part  two  weeks  later  at  lunar 
midnight.     The  alternate  expansions  and  contractions  resulting  from 
these  changes   of  t^nperature  cannot  but  produce  changes,  however 
slowly,  in  the  contour  of  the  moon's  surface.     Professor  Newcomb,  in- 
deed, considers  that  all  such  changes  must  long  since  have  been  com- 
pleted.   But  I  cannot  see  how  they  can  be  completed  so  long  as  the 
moon's  surface  is  uneven,  and  at  present  there  are  regions  where  that 
sarface  is  altogether  rugged.     Mighty  peaks  and  walls  exist  which  must 
one  day  be  thrown  down;  so  unstable  is  their  form ;  deep  ravines  can  be 
seen  which  must  one  day  be  the  scene  of  tremendous  landslips,  so  steep 
and  precipitous  are  their  sides.     Changes  such  as  these  may  still  occur 
on  so  vast  a  scale  that  telescopists  may  hope  from  time  to  time  to  rec- 
ognise them.     But  changes  such  as  these  are  not  volcanic  ;  they  attest 
no  lunar  vitality.     They  are  antecedently  so  probable,  indeed,  while 
Tolcanic  changes  are  antecedently  so  unlikely,  that  when  any  change  is 
clearly  recognised  in  the  moon's  surface,  nothing  but  the  most  convinc- 
ing evidence  could  be  accepted  as  demonstrating  that  the  change  w£is  of 
ToIcanic  origin  and  not  due  to  the  continued  expansion  and  contraction 
of  the  lunar  crust. 

And  now  let  us  see  how  stands  the  evidence  in  the  few  cases  which 
Eeem  most  to  favour  the  idea  that  a  real  change  has  taken  place. 

We  may  dismiss,  in  the  first  place,  without  any  hesitation,  the  asser- 
tion that  regular  changes  take  place  in  the  floor  of  the  great  lunar  crater 
Plato.  According  to  statements  very  confidently  advanced  a  few  years 
ago,  this  wide  circular  plain,  some  sixty  miles  in  diameter,  grows  darker 
and  darker  as  the  lunar  day  advances  there  until  the  time  correspond- 
ing to  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  then  grows  gradually 
lighter  again  till  eventide.  The  idea  seems  to  have  been  at  first 
tht  some  sort  of  vegetation  exists  on  the  floor  of  this  mighty  ring- 
shaped  mountain,  and  that,  as  the  sun's  heat  falls  during  the  long  lunar 
day  upon  the  great  plain,  the  vegetation  flourishes,  darkening  the  whole 
Tegion  just  as  w^e  might  imagine  that  some  far-extending  forest  on  the 
earth  would  appear  Sarker  as  seen  from  the  moon  when  fully  clothed 


120  SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IK  THE  MOON. 

with  vegetation  than  when  the  trees  were  bare  and  the  lighter  tints  of 
the  ground  could  be  seen  through  them.  Another  idea  was  that  the 
ground  undergoes  some  change  under  the  siin^  heat  corresponding  to 
those  which  are  produced  in  certain  substances-  employed  in  photo- 
graphy ;  though  it  was  not  explained  why  the  solar  rays  should  pro- 
duce no  permanent  change,  as  in  the  terrestrial  cases  adduced  in 
illustration.  Yet  another  and,  if  possible,  an  even  stranger  explana- 
tion, suggested  that,  though  the  moon  has  no  seas,  there  may  be  large 
quantities  of  water  beneath  her  crust,  which  may  evaporate  when  that 
crust  becomes  heated,  rising  in  the  form  of  vapour  to  moisten  and  so 
darken  the  crust.  Certainly,  the  idea  of  a  moistening  of  the  lunar 
crust,  or  of  portions  thereof,  as  the  sun's  rays  fall  more  strongly  upon 
it,  is  so  daring  that  one  could  almost  wish  it  were  admissible,  instead  of 
being  altogether  inconsistent,  as  unfortunately  it  is,  with  physical  pos- 
sibilities. 

But  still  more  unfortunately,  the  fact  supposed  to  have  been  observed, 
on  which  these  ingenious  speculations  were  based,  has  not  only  been 
called  in  question,  but  has  been  altogether  negatived.  More  exact  ob- 
servations have  shown  that  the  supposed  darkening  of  the  floor  of  Plato 
is  a  mere  optical  illusion.  When  the  sun  has  lately  risen  at  that  part  of 
the  moon,  the  ringed  wall  surrounding  this  great  plain  throws  long 
shadows  across  the  level  surface.  These  shadows  are  absolutely  black, 
like  all  the  shadows  on  the  moon.  By  contrast,  therefore,  the  unsha- 
dowed part  of  the  floor  appears  lighter  than  it  really  is ;  but  the  moun- 
tain ring  which  surrounds  this  dark  grey  plain  is  of  light  tint  So 
soon  as  the  sim  has  passed  high  above  the  horizon  of  this  regi<m,  the 
ring  appears  very  brilliant  compared  with  the  dark  plain  which  it  siur- 
rounds ;  thus  the  plain  appears  by  comparison  even  darker  than  it  really 
is.  As  the  long  lunar  afternoon  advances,  however,  black  shadows  are 
again  thrown  athwart  the  floor,  which  therefore  again  appears  by  con- 
trast lighter  than  it  reaUy  is.  All  the  apparent  changes  are  such  as 
might  have  been  anticipated  by  anyone  who  considered  how  readily  the 
eye  is  misled  by  effects  of  contrast. 

To  base  any  argument  in  favour  of  a  regular  change  in  the  floor 
of  Plato  on  evidence  such  as  this,  would  be  as  unwise  as  it  would 
be  to  deduce  inferences  as  to  changes  in  the  heat  of  water 
from  experiments  in  which  the  heat  was  determined  by  the  sensa- 
tions experienced  when  the  hands  were  successively  immersed,  one  hand 
having  previously  been  in  water  as  hot  as  could  be  borne,  the  other  in 
water  as  cold  as  could  be  borne.  We  know  how  readily  these  sensations 
would  deceive  us  (if  we  trusted  them)  into  the  belief  that  the  water  had 
warmed  notably  during  the  short  interval  of  time  which  had  elapsed  be- 
tween the  two  immersions ;  for  we  know  that  if  both  hands  were  im- 
mersed at  the  same  moment  in  lukewamr  water,  the  water  would  appear 
cold  to  one  hand  and  warm  to  the  other. 

Precisely  as  in  such  a  case  as  we  have  just^  considered,  if  we  were 
obliged  to  test  thewater  by  so  inexact  a  method,  we  should  make  ex- 


SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON.  121 

periments  with  one  hand  only,  and  carofolly  consider  the  condition  of 
that  hand  daring  the  progress  of  the  experiments,  so  in  the  case  of  the 
door  of  Plato,  we  must  exclude  as  far  as  possible  all  effects  due  to  mere 
contrast.  We  must  examine  the  tint  of  the  plain,  at  lunar  morning, 
mid-day,  and  evening,  with  an  eye  not  affected  either  by  the  darkness 
or  brightness  of  adjacent  regions,  or  adjacent  parts  of  the  same  region. 
This  is  very  readily  done.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  reduce  the  telescopic 
^Ad.  of  view  to  such  an  extent  that,  instead  of  the  whole  floor,  only  a 
small  portion  can  be  seen.  It  will  then  be  found,  as  I  can  myself  cer- 
tify (the  more  apparently  because  the  experience  of  others  confirms  my 
own),  that  the  supposed  change  of  tint  doc;s  not  take  place.  One  or 
two  who  were  and  are  strong  baUevers  in  the  reaUty  of  the  change  do 
indeed  assert  that  they  have  tried  this  experiment,  and  have  obtained  an 
entirely  different  result  But  this  may  fairly  be  regarded  as  showing 
Low  apt  an  observer  is  to  be  self -deceived  when  he  is  entirely  persuaded 
of  the  truth  of  some  favourite  theory.  For  those  who  carried  out  the  ex- 
periment successfully  had  no  views  one  way  or  the  other ;  those  only 
failed  who  were  certainly  assured  beforehand  that  the  experiment 
would  confirm  their  theory. 

The  case  of  the  lunar  crater  Linne,  which  somewhere  about  November 
1865  attracted  the  attention  of  astronomers,  belongs  to  a  very  different 
category.  In  my  article  on  the  moon  in  the  "Contemporary  Review  " 
I  have  fully  presented  the  evidence  in  the  case  of  this  remarkable  object. 
I  need  not  flierefore  consider  here  the  various  arguments  which  have 
been  urged  for  and  against  the  occurrence  of  change.  I  may  mention, 
however,  that,  in  my  anxiety  to  do  full  justice  to  the  theory  that  change 
has  really  occurred,  I  took  Madler's  description  of  the  crater's  interior 
as  **very  deep,"  to  mean  more  than  Mgdler  probably  intended.  There 
itj  now  a  depreission  several  hundred  yards  in  depth.  If  Madler's  de- 
scription be  interpreted,  as  I  interpreted  it  for  the  occasion  in  the  above 
article,  to  mean  a  dapth  of  two  or  three  miles,  it  is  of  course  certain 
that  there  has  been  a  very  remarkable  chanp^e.  But  some  of  the  observ- 
ers who  have  davoted  themselves  utterly,  it  would  seem,  to  the  hvely 
occupation  of  measuring,  counting,  and  describing  the  ^,ens  of  thousands 
of  lunar  craters  already  known,  assert  that  Madler  and  Lohrman  (who 
uses  the  same  description)  meant  nothing  hke  so  great  a  depth.  Prob- 
ably Midler  only  meant  about  half  a  mile,  or  even  less.  In  this  case 
tlieir  favourite  theory  no  longer  seems  so  strongly  supported  by  the  evi- 
a  nee.  In  some  old  drawings  by  the  well-known  observer  Schroter, 
the  crater  is  drawn  very  much  as  it  now  appears.  Thus,  I  think  we 
must  adopt  as  most  probable  the  opinion  which  is.  I  see,  advanced  by 
Prof.  Newcomb  in  his  excellent  "Popular  Astronomy,"  that  there  has 
b  -en  no  actual  change  in  the  crater.  I  must  indeed  remark  that,  after 
comparing  several  drawings  of  the  same  regions  by  Schroter,  Madler, 
Lohrman,  and  Schmidt,  with  each  other  and  with  the  moon's  surface,  I 
find  myself  by  no  means  very  strongly  impressed  by  the  artistic  skill  of 
any  of  these  observers.     I  scarcely  kuov/  a  single  region  in  the  mooa 


122  SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON. 

where  change  might  not  be  inferred  to  have  taken  place  if  any  one  of 
the  above-named  obsoi'vers  could  be  implicitly  reUed  upon.  As,  fortu- 
nately, their  views  diif er  even  more  widely  inter  se  than  from  the  moon's 
own  surface,  we  ara  not  driven  to  so  startling  a  conclusion. 

However,  if  we  assume  even  that  Linne  has  undergone  change,  wo 
stiH  have  no  reason  to  beheve  that  the  change  is  volcanic.  A  steep  wall, 
say  half  a  mile  in  height,  surrounding  a  crater  four  or  five  miles  in 
diameter,  no  longer  stands  at  this  height  above  the  enclosed  space,  if 
the  believers  in  a  real  change  are  to  be  trusted.  But,  as  Dr.  Huggins 
well  remarked  long  ago,  if  volcanic  forces  competent  to  produce  dis- 
turbance of  this  kind  are  at  work  in  the  moon,  we  ought  more  fr  - 
quently  to  recognize  signs  of  change,  for  they  could  scarcely  be  at  work 
in  one  part  only  of  the  moon's  surface,  or  only  at  long  intervals  of  tiiii  \ 
It  is  so  easy  to  explain  the  overthrow  of  such  a  wall  as  surrounded 
Linne  (always  assuming  we  can  rely  upon  former  accounts)  without, 
imagining  volcanic  action,  that,  considering  the  overwhelming  weight  cf 
a  priori  probability  against  such  action  at  the  present  time,~it  would  be 
very  rash  to  adopt  the  volcanic  theory.  The  expansions  and  contrac  • 
tions  described  above  would  not  only  be  able  to  throw  down  walls  of 
the  kind,  but  they  would  be  sure  to  do  so  from  time  to  time.  Indeed,  as 
a  mere  matter  of  probabihties,  it  may  be  truly  said  that  it  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly unhkely  that  catastrophes  such  as  the  one  which  have  may  oc- 
curred in  this  case  would  fail  to  happen  at  comparatively  short  int  rvali 
of  time.  It  would  be  so  unhkely,  that  I  am  almost  disposed  to  adopt  i]is 
theory  that  there  really  has  been  a  change  in  Liime,  for  the  reason  tint 
on  that  theory  we  get  rid  of  the  difficulty  arising  from  the  appai'oiit 
fixity  of  even  the  steep ost  lunar  rocks.  However,  after  all,  the  tiraa 
during  which  men  have  studied  the  moon  with  the  telescope — only  t^^  o 
hundred  and  sixty-nine  years — is  a  more  instant  compared  with  the 
long  periods  during  which  the  moon  has  been  exposed  to  the  BUii*s  in- 
tense heat  by  day  and  a  more  than  arctic  intensity  of  cold  by  night.  It 
may  well  be  that,  though  lunar  landshps  occur  at  short  intervals  of 
time,  these  intervals  are  only  short  when  compared  with  those  period^;, 
hundreds  of  milMons  of  years  long,  of  which  we  had  to  speak  a  little 
while  ago.  Perhaps  in  a  period  of  ten  or  twenty  thousand  years  we 
might  have  a  fair  chance  of  noting  the  occurrence  of  one  or  two  cata- 
strophes of  the  kind,  whereas  we  could  hardly  expect  to  note  any,  save 
by  the  merest  accident,  in  two  or  three  hundred  years. 

To  come  now  to  the  last,  and,  according  to  some,  the  most  decisive 
piece  of  evidence  in  favour  of  the  theory  that  the  moon*s  crust  is  still 
under  the  influence  of  volcanic  forces. 

On  May  19,  1877,  Dr.  Hermann  J.  Klein,  of  Cologne,  observed  a 
crater  more  than  two  miles  in  width,  where  he  felt  sure  that  no  crattr 
had  before  existed.  It  was  near  the  centre  of  the  moon*s  visible  hemi- 
sphere, and  not  far  from  a  well-known  crater  called  Hyginus,  At  the 
time  of  observation  it  was  not  far  from  the  boundary  between  the  light 
and  dark  parts  of  the  moon :  in  fact,  it  was  near  the  time  of  sunrise  at 


[SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON.  13S 

this  region.    Thns  the  floor  of  the  supposed  new  crater  was  in  shadow 
—it  appeared  perfectly  black.     In  the  conventional  language  for  such 
cases  made  and  provided  (it  should  be  stereotyped  by  selenographers, 
for  it  has  now  been  used  a  great  many  times  since  SchrGter  first  adopted 
the  belief  that  the  great  crater  Gassini,  thirty-six  miles'^in  diameter, 
was  a  new  one)  Dr.  Klein  says,  **  The  region  having  been  frequently  ob- 
served  by  myself  during  the   last  few   years,  I  feel  certahi  that  no 
such  crater  existed  in  the  region  at  the  time  of  my  previous  observations." 
He  communicated  his  discovery  to  Dr.  Schmidt,  who  also  assured  him 
that  the  region  had  been  frequently  observed  by  himself  during  the  last 
few  years,  and  he  felt  certain  that  no  such  crater,  &c.,  &o.     It  is  not  in 
the  maps  by  Lohrman  and  by  Beer  and  Midler,  or  in  SchrOter's  draw- 
ings, and  so  forth.     **  We  know  more,"  says  a  recent  writer,  singularly 
ready  to  believe  in  lunar  changes ;   **we  know  that  at  a  later  period, 
with  the  powerful  Dorpat  telescope,  Msdler  carefully  re-examined  this 
particular  region,  to  see  if  he  could  detect  any  additional  features  not 
Khown  in  his  map.     He  found  severaL  smaller  craterlets  in  other  parts  " 
(the  italics  are  mine),   "but  he  could  not  detect  any  other  crater 
in  the  region  where   Dr.  Klein  now  states  there  exist  a  large  crater, 
thongh  he  did  find  some  very  small  nills  close  to  this  spot."     "  This 
evidence  is  really  conclusive,"  says  this  very  confident  writer,  "for  it 
is  incredible  that  Miidler  could  have  seen  these  minute  hUls  and  over- 
looked a  crater  so  large  that  it  is  the  second  largest  crater  of  the  score 
in  this  region."     Then  this  writer  comes  in,   of  course,  in  his  turn, 
with  the  customary  phrases.       "During  the  six  years,  1870-1876,  I 
most  carefully  examined  this  region,  for  the  express  purpose  of  de- 
tjcting  any  craters  not  shown  by  Mfidler,"  and  he  also  can  certify  that 
no  such  crater  existed,  etc.,  etc.     He  was  only  waiting,  when  he  thus 
wrote,  to  see  the  crater  for  himself.     "  One  suitable  evening  will  settle 
the  matter.     If  I  find  a  deep  black  crater,  three  nules  in  diameter,  in 
tbe  place  assigned  to  it  by  Dr.  Klein,  and  when  six  years'  observation 
convinces  me  no  such  crater  did  exist,  I  shall  know  that  it  must  be  new. " 
Astronomers,  however,  require  somewhat  better  evidence. 
It  might  well  be  that  a  new  crater-shaped  depression  should  appear 
in  the  moon  without  any  volcanic  action  having  occurred.     For  reasons 
aircady  adduced,  indeed,  I  hold  it  to  be  to  all  intents  and  purposes  cer' 
im.  that  if  a  new  depression  is  really  in  question  at  all,  it  is  in  reahty 
only  an  old  and  formerly  shallow  crater,  whose  floor  has  broken  up, 
}-ieldmg  at  length  to  the  expansive  and  contractive  effects  above  do- 
biiTibed,  which  would  act  with  exceptional  energy  at  this  particular 
I^rt  of  the  moon's  surface,  close  as  it  is  to  the  lunar  equator. 

Bnt  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that  this  part  of  the  moon's  surface  has 
ondergone  any  change  whatever.  We  must  not  bo  misled  by  the  very 
confident  tone  of  selenographers.  Of  course  they  fully  beUeve  what 
thijr  tell  us :  but  they  are  strongly  prejudiced.  Their  labours,  as  they 
"^^u  know,  have  7iow  very  little  interest  unless  signs  of  change  should 
k  detected  in  the  moon.    Surveyors  who  have  done  exceedingly  useful 


124  SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON. 

work  in  mapping  o  region  would  scarcely  expect  the  pubjdc  to  take  mncb 
interest  in  additional  information  about  every  rock  or  pebble  exiRting  in 
that  region,  unless  they  could  show  that  something  more  than  a  mere  re- 
cord of  rocks  and  pebbles  was  really  involyed.  Thus  selenographers  have 
shown,  since  the  days  of  Schr^^ter,  an  intense  anxiety  to  prove  that  our 
moon  deserves,  in  another  than  Juliet's  sense,  to  be  called  *^  the  incon- 
stant moon."  In  another  sense  again  they  seem  disposed  to  '*  swear  by 
the  inconstant  moon,"  as  changing  yearly,  if  not  ''monthly,  in  her 
circled  orb."  Thus  a' very  little  evidence  satisfies  them,  and  they 
are  very  readily  persuaded  in  their  own  mind  that  former  re- 
searches of  theirs,  or  of  their  fellow-pebble-counters,  have  been 
so  close  and  exact,  that  craters  must  have  been  detected  then  which 
have  been  found  subsequently  to  exist  in  the  moon.  I  do  not  in  the 
sUghtest  degree  question  their  bona  fides,  but  a  long  experience  of  their 
ways  leads  me  to  place  very  Uttle  reUance  on  such  stereotyped  phrases 
as  I  have  quoted  above. 

Now,  in  my  paper  in  the  "  Contemporary  Review  "  on  this  particular 
crater,  I  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  in  the  magnificent  photograph 
of  the  moon  taken  by  Dr.  Louis  Butherfurd  on  March  6, 1865  (note  well 
the  date)  there  is  a  small  spot  of  lighter  colour  than  the  surrounding  re- 
gion, nearly  in  the  place  indicated  in  the  imperfect  drawing  of  Klein's 
record  which  alone  was  then  available  to  me.  For  reasons,  I  did  not 
then  more  closely  describe  this  feature  of  the  finest  lunar  photograph 
ever  yet  obtained. 

The  writer  from  whom  I  have  already  quoted  is  naturally  (being  a  se- 
lenographer)  altogether  unwilling  to  accept  the  conclusion  that  this  spot 
is  the  crater  floor  as  photographed  (not  as  seen)  under  a  somewhat  higher 
illumination  than  that  under  which  the  floor  of  the  crater  appears  dark 
There  are  several  white  spots  immediately  aroxmd  the  dark  crater,  h^ 
says:  "which  of  these  is  the  particular  white  spot  which  the  author'* 
(myself)  "  assumes  I  did  not  see  ?"  a  question  which,  as  I  had  made  no  as 
sumption  whatever  about  this  particular  writer,  nor  mentioned  him,  no* 
even  thought  of  him,  as  I  wrote  the  article  on  which  he  comments,  I  an* 
quite  unable  to  answer.  But  he  has  no  doubt  that  I  have  "mistaken 
the  white  spot "  (which  it  seems  he  can  identify,  after  all)  "forKlein'^ 
crater,  which  is  many  miles  farther  north,  and  which  never  does  appeal 
as  a  white  spot :  he  has  simply  mistaken  its  place." 

I  have  waited,  therefore,  before  writing  this,  until  from  my  own  oK 
servation,  or  from  a  drawing  carefully  executed  by  Dr.  Klein,  I  migh*" 
ascertain  the  exact  place  of  the  new  crater.  I  could  not,  as  it  turned 
out,  observe  the  new  crater  as  a  black  spot  myself,  since  the  question 
was  raised ;  for  on  the  only  available  occasion  I  was  away  from  homo. 
But  I  now  have  before  me  Dr.  Klein's  carefully  drawn  map.  In  this  I 
find  the  new  crater  placed  not  nearly,  but  exactly  where  Rutberfurd'a 
crater  appears.  I  say  "  Rutherfurd's  crater,"  for  the  white  spot  is  man- 
ifestly not  merely  a  light  tinted  region  on  the  darker  background  of  the 
3ea  of  Vapours  (as  the  reidon  in  which  the  crater  haa  been  found  id 


SUPPOSED  CHANGES  IN  THE  MOON.  1?5 

called) :  it  is  a  circnlar  crater  more  than  two  miles  in  diameter ;  and  the 
mdih  of  the  crescent  of  shadow  surrounding  its  eastern  side  shows  that 
in  ^larch  1865,  when  Eutiierfard  took  that  photograph,  the  crater  was 
not  (for  its  size)  a  shallow  one,  but  deep. 

Now,  it  is  quite  true  that,  to  the  eye,  under  high  illumination, 
the  floor  of  the  crater  does  not  appear  Ughter  than  the  surrounding 
region  ;  at  least,  not  markedly  so,  for  to  my  eye  it  appears  slightly 
lighter.  But  everyone  knows  that  a  photograph  does  not  show  aU  ob- 
jects with  the  same  depth  of  shading  that  they  present  to  the  naked  eye. 
A  somewhat  dark  green  object  will  appear  rather  hght  in  a  photograph, 
while  a  somewhat  Hght  orange-yellow  object  will  appear  quite  dark. 
We  have  only  to  assume  that  the  floor  of  the  supposed  new  crater  has  a 
greenish  tinge  (which  is  by  no  means  uncommon)  to  understand  why, 
although  it  is  lost  to  ordiniary  vision  when  the  Sea  of  Vapours  is  under 
full  illumination,  it  yet  presents  in  a  photograph  a  decidedly  Ughter 
shade  than  the  surrounding  region. 

I  ought  to  mention  that  the  writer  from  whom  I  have  quoted  says 
that  all  the  photographs  were  examined  and  the  different  objects  in  this 
region  identified  within  forty-eight  hours  of  the  time  when  Dr.  Klein's 
lettPT  reached  England.  He  mentions  also  that  he  has  himself  personally 
examined  them.  Doubtless  at  that  time  the  exact  position  of  the  supposed 
new  crater  was  not  known.  By  the  way,  it  is  strange,  considering  that 
the  name  Louis  Butherfurd  is  distinctly  written  in  large  letters  upon  the 
magnificent  photograph  in  question,  that  a  selenographer  who  has  care- 
fully examined  that  photograph  should  spell  the  name  Rutherford.  He 
must  really  not  assume,  when  on  re-examining  the  picture  he  finds  the 
name  spelled  butherfurd,  that  there  has  been  any  change,  volcanic  or 
otherwise,  in  the  photograph. 

In  conclusion  I  would  point  out  that  another  of  these  laborious  cra- 
ter-counters, in  a  paper  recently  written  with  the  express  purpose  of 
advocating  a  closer  and  longer-continued  scrutiny  of  the  moon,  makes  a 
statsment  which  is  full  of  significance  in  connection  with  the  subject  of 
lunar  changes.  After  quoting  the  opinion  of  a  celebrated  astronomer, 
that  one  might  as  well  attempt  to  catalogue  the  pebbles  on  the  sea-shore 
as  the  entire  series  of  lunar  craters  down  to  the  minutest  visible  with 
the  most  powerful  telescope,  he  states  that  while  on  the  one  hand,  out 
of  thirty-two  thousand  eight  hundred  and  fifty-six  craters  given  in 
Schmidt's  chart,  not  more  than  two  thousand  objects  have  been  entered 
in  the  Registry  he  has  provided  for  the  purpose  (though  he  has  been 
uany  years  collecting  materials  for  it  from  all  sides)  ;  on  the  other 
hind,  **on  comparing  a  few  of  these  published  objects  with  Schmidt's 
aap,  it  has  been  found  tJiat  some  are  n^t  in  It,'*'' — a  fact  to  which  he 
tuUs  attention,  *  *  not  for  the  purpose  of  depreciating  the  greatest  sele- 
nographical  work  that  has  yet  appeared,  but  for  the  real  advancement 
of  selenography."  Truly,  tiie  fact  is  as  significant  as  it  is  discouraging, 
^nnless  we  are  presently  to  be  told  that  the  craters  which  are  not  com- 
mon to  both  series  are  to  be  regarded  as  new  formations. 

^  KiCHASD  A.  Pboctob,  in  Belgravkk 


EECOLLECTiONS  OF  THACEEKAY. 

In  the  absence  of  any  complete  biog  nphy  of  the  late  William  Makepeace  Thacke- 
ray, every  anecdote  regarding  him  lias  a  certain  value,  in  eo  far  as  it  throws  a  light 
on  his  pergonal  chaiacter  and  methods  of  work.  Kead  in  thi*  light  a»  d  this  spirit, 
all  thetribntes  to  his  memory  are  valuable  and  interesting.  Glancing  over  some 
memoranda  connected  with  the  life  of  the  novelist,  contaii.ed  in  a  book  which  l;afi 
■come  mider  our  notice,  entitled  "Anecdote  Biographies."  we  gain  a  rt-ady  insight 
into  Ills  character  And  from  the  materials  thus  supplied,  we  now  offer  a  few  anec- 
dotes treasured  up  in  these  too  brief  memorials  of  his  life. 

Thackeray  was  born  at  Calcutta  iu  1811.  While  still  very  young,  he  was  sent  to 
England  ;  on  the  homeward  voyage  he  had  a  peep  at  the  great  Napoleon  in  hie  exilc- 
homff  at  St.  Helena.  He  received  his  education  at  'he  Charterhouse  School  and  at 
Cambridge,  leaviug  the  latter  without  a  degree.  His  fortune  at  this  time  amonnted 
to  twenty  thousand  pounds  ;  this  he  afterwards  loS't  through  unfortunate  specula- 
tions, but  not  before  he  had  travelled  a  good  deal  on  the  contiut-nt,  and  acqu;iiu!ed 
himself  with  French  and  Gorman  everyday  life  and  literature.  His  first  incV.nat.on 
was  to  f«:)31ow  the  profeesicm  of  an  artist ;  and  curious  to  relate,  he  made  overtures  to 
Charles  Dickens  to  illustrate  his  earliest  book.  Thackeray  was*  well  equipped  \x)th 
in  body  and  mind  when  his  career  as  an  author  began  ;  but  over  ten  years  of  hard 
toil  ar  newspaper  and  mugazine  writing  wer(5  undergone  before  he  became  known  ms 
the  author  of  "  Vanity  Pair."  and  one  of  the  first  of  living  novelists.  He  lectuif  d  with 
fair  if  not  with  extraordinary  success  both  in  EnglamI  and  America,  when  the  sun- 
shine of  public  favour  liad  been  secured.  His  career  of  succe-sful  novel-wririui.'- 1<  r- 
niinated  suddenly  on  24th  December  1863,  and  like  Dickens,  lie  had  an  unfinished 
novel  on  hand. 

One  morning  Thackeray  knocked  at  the  door  of  Horace  Mayhew^a  chambers  i« 
Rigent  Street,  crying  from  without :  'It's  no  use,  Horry  Wayhew  ;  open  the  door  ' 
Ou  entering,  he  said  cheerfully :  '  Well,  young  gentleman,  you'll  admit  an  old  fo;ry.' 
When  leaving,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  remarked  :  *  By-the-by,  how  stupid  I  I 
was  going  away  without  doing  part  of  the  business  of  my  visit.  You  spoke  the  otber 
(lay  of  poor  George.  Somebody— ^raost  unaccountably — has  returned  me  a  five- 
pound  note  I  lent  imn  a  long  time  ago.  I  didn't  expect  it.  So  just  hand  to  Geoige; 
and  t<'l'  lum,  when  his  pocket  will  \^ar  it,  to  pass  it  ou  to  some  poor  fell  w  of  his 
acquaintance  By-bye/  He  was  gouel  This  was  one  of  Thackeray's  delicate 
methods  of  doing  a  favour ;  the  recipient  waa  asked  to  pass  it  on. 

One  of  bis  last  acts  on  leaving  America  after  a  Iect*iring  tour,  was  to  return 
twenty-five  per  c<nt.  of  the  proceeds  of  one  of  his  lectures  to  a  young  speculator  who 
had  been  a  loser  by  the  bargain.  While  known  to  hand  a  gold  pi'^ce  to  a  waiter  wi*h 
the  rtnnark  :  *My  friend,  will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  acce  t  a  sovereign?'  he 
has  also  be  n  known  to  say  to  a  visitor  who  had  pi  offered  a  card :  '  Don't  leave 
this  bit  cf  paper;  it  has  cost  you  two  cents,  and  will  be  just  as  good  for 
your  next  call.'  Evidently  aware  that  money  when  properly  used  is  a  woiid<  rfnl 
h'^alth-res'orer,  he  was  found  by  a  friend  who  had  entend  his  bediooni  in 
Pari?,  gravely  placing  some  napoleons  in  a  pill-box  on  the  lid  of  which  was 
written :  '  One  to  be  taken  occasionally.'  When  asked  to  explain,  it  came  out 
that  these  str.mge  pills  were  for  an  old  person  who  saiil  she  was  very  ill,  and  in  dis- 
tress ;  and  so  he  had  concluded  that  this  was  the  medicine  wanted.  *  Dr.  Thack- 
eray,' he  remarked,  'intends  to  leave  it  with  ler  himself  Let  us  walk  out 
together.'  To  a  young  literary  man  afterwards  1  is  amanncnsis,  he  wrote  thus, 
on  hearing  that  a  loss  had  befallen  him  :  '  I  am  sincertly  sorry  to  hear  of  your  posi- 
tion, and  send  the  little  contribution  which  came  so'  opportunely  from  anothtr 
friend  whom  I  was  enabled  once  to  help.  When  you  are  wtll-to-do  again,  I  kno>w 
you  will  pay  it  back ;  and  I  daresay  somebody  else  will  want  the  money,  which  'm 
mt-anwliileir.ost  heartily  at  your  service.' 

When  enjoying  an  American  repast  at  Boston  In  1852.  his  friends  there,  dett-r- 
mined  to  sirrpri5»e  him  with  the  size  ot  their  oysters,  had  placed  six  of  the  3a^^c^■t 
bivalves  they  could  find,  on  his  plate.  After  swallowing  number  one  with  some  lUll'j 
difficulty,  hi*  friend  ask^  d  him  how  he  felt,  '  Profoundly  grateful.'  he  gasped  ;  •  r.iu\ 
6S  ii  I  had  ciwallowcd  a  little  baby,'    Provioris  to  u  farewell  dinner  given  by  his 

(126) 


EECOLLECTIOKS  CF  THACKEEAY.        127 

American  intimates  and  adrairers.  he  rnniarked  that  it  was  very  kfed  of  !)if  friends 
to  give  hira  a  dinner,  bat  that  each  things*  always*  Ft-t  liim  trembling.  *  Bes-ides.' ho 
rumarked  to  his  eecretary,  *  I  have  to  make  a  t«i)eocli,  and  whiit  um  1  to  say  ?  Here, 
lake  a  pen  in  your  hand  and  Bit  down,  and  111  hgj  if  I  can  hammer  out  somctbiuf?, 
lt'8  hammering  now,  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  aramini-riiig  hy-uud-by.'  Ilia  B)iort 
hP'jecheS;  when  deiivend,  were  as  chnracterietic  ;iik!  nnuiisLakabU:  as  anything  ho 
ever  wrote.    All  the  dietiucf  features  of  his  written  Btylc  were  pre^ent. 

It  is  interesting  to  remark  tlie  seutimeuts  he  entcruiiued  towards  his  p-cat  rival 
Charles  Dickens.  Aitbongli  the  lurrer  wtis  more  popular  as  a  uoveliet  tljt:n  he  eould 
ever  expect  to  become,  hv*  cxpieaped  himself  in  imuustakubie  teuub  rej^nnling  him. 
V/heii  the  conversation  tnni  d  that  wuy,  wo  would  r^uark:  'Dickeni?  is  making 
ten  thousand  a  year.  He  is  very  angry  at  me  lor  tuying  i  o ;  but  I  will  say  it,  for  itis 
true.  He  doesn't  like  me.  He  knows  that  ri  y  books  are  a  proieet  a<:ninet  hi— 
tliat  if  the  one  set  are  trne,  the  other  must  be  f:u'c?o.  Jiui  *  Pickwick"  is  an  exception; 
t  IS  a  capital  book.  It  is  like  a  glass  of  good  EugiisM  ai-.'  VViicu  '*D  mbey  and 
{^on''  appeared  in  the  familiar  p.  per  cov.n%  number  five  i  outr.hiod  tlie  episode  of  the 
death  of  little  Paul.  Thackeray  appeared  much  moved  inr.ad;ng  it  over,  and  put- 
ting  nnmb.n- five  in  his  po<'.lief,  hastened  with  it  to  tlie  o.'.itoi's  room  in  *•  Punch" 
office.  Dashin*?  it  down  on  the  table  in  ihc  presence  of  Mark  Lemon,  he  exclaimed  I 
•There's  no  writing  against  such  pow*  r  as  this;  one  has  no  chancer  I  l^ead  that 
chapter  describing  young  Paul's  death ;    it    is  uns^urpassed— it  is    stupendous  I  * 

In  a  conversation  with  nis  secretary  previous  to  his  American  trip,  he  intimated 
his  intention  of  starting  a  mairazine  or  journal  on  Ins  roturn.  to  be  issued  in  his 
owij  name.  This  scheme  evi'iitually  took  shape,  and  the  result  was  the  now  well 
known  "Comhill  Magazine.'*  This  magazme  proved  a  great  success  tlio  pale  of 
th**  first  number  beingone  hundred  and  t^n  thousand  copies.  Under  the  ixcitement 
of  this  gi-eat  success,  Thackeray  left  Lcmdon  for  Paris.  To  Air.  Finicle  th*:  Ameri- 
can publisher,  who  met  him  by  anpoiutment  at  his  hotel  in  the  liue  do  la  I*aix.  ho 
remarked:  *  London  is  not  big  enough  to  contain  mo  now,  and  I  am  obli^^ed  to  add 
Paris  to  my  residence.  Good  gracious  !•  sa-d  he,  throwing  up  hm  long;  arms, 
'^\'h!re  will  this  tromcndonscircumtion  stop?  Vn'Iio  knows  but  tha  I  shall  have  to 
fldd  Vienna  and  Rome  to  my  whereabouts?  If  the  worst  come  to  the  worst.  New 
Yorit  also  may  fall  into  my  clutches,* and  only  ti»«;  Pocky  Mountains  may  be  able  to 
stop  my  progress.'  His  spirits  continued  high  dnriiif-;  this  visit  to  Paris,  his  friend 
audi:g  that  pomo  restraint  was  neceesaiy  trTlseep  Mm  from  entering  the  jewel- 
1-Tsi'  shop^and  ordering  a- pocketful  of  diamonds  and  *  other  trifle.-*;  lor,'  said  he, 
'iiowcani  spend  the  princely  income  which  Smi.h*  allows  me  for  editing  *'Corn- 
liill/' unless  I  beg" n  instantly  somewhere!'  He  complained  too  that  ho.  could  not 
Bifvp  at  nights  'for  counting  up  his  subscribers.'  On  reading  a  crntribution  by  his 
young  daughter  to  the  ''  Corohill,'*  be  felt  much  moved,  remarking  to  a  friend  ; 
'  When  I  read  it,  I  blubbered  hke  a  chi?d ;  it  is  so  good,  so  simple,  and  so  honest ; 
add  my  little  girl  wrote  it  every  word  of  it.' 

Dickens  in  the t<Mider  memorial  whuh  he  penned  for  the  "Cornhill  Mflgazins," 
raniarks  on  his  appt'ftrance  when  they  dined  t<j<^  th-^r.  *  No  one,'  he  snyn,  '  can  ever 
liiive  i-een  him  r.ore  giiiial,  natural,  coiriial.  fiv^nh,  pnd  hon*  «tly  impulsive  tlian  I 
i'av(.' seen  l;im  ut  those  times.  No  on*  can  e  t^ccer  thaa  1  of  the  greatness  and 
goodntrss  of  the  hf.art  that  had  then  (iisrclosed  itpelt  ' 

Bfueatlj  his  *  modoslly  grand '  manner,  his  seeming  cynicism  and  bittemeps,  he 
i>ore  a  very  tender  and  loving  lieart.  In  a  letter  written  in  18*4,  andquotedin  James 
liaiinay's  nk-tch,  ho  expresses  himself  thus.  'I  hate  Juvenal,'  lie  says.  *I 
jr.ean  I  think  him  a  truculent  fellow;  and  I  love  Horace  better  than  you 
do,  and  rate  Churchill  much  lower ;  and  as  for  Swift,  you  haven't  made 
ii'C  alter  my  opinion.  I  admire,  or  rather  edndt,  his  power  as  much  aa 
yon  (io;  but  I  don't  admire  that  kind  cr  power  so  mucli  as  I  did  fifteeu 
}>ars  ago,  or  twenty  Phf  U  we  say.  Love  is  a  higher  intellectual  exercise 
tban  hatred;  and  when  yon  get  one  or  two  more  of  those  young  ones  you 
write 90  pleasantly  about,  you'll  come  over  to  the  side  of  the  kind  wags,  I  think, 
rather  tban  the  cruel  ones.'  The  path' tic  sadness  visible  in  much  that  he  wrote 
bpnu)gpartly  from  temperament  ana  partly  from  his  own  private  calamities.    Loss 


*  Of  Smith,  Eider,  &  Co. .  the  well  kuowa  .mbiishera. 


t28  KECOIiLECTIONS  OF  THACKEKAT. 

of  fortune  was  not  the  only  cause.  When  a  young  man  in  Paris,  he  married ;  and 
aft»;r  enjoying  domestic  happiness  for  several  yt  urs,  his  wife  caught  a  fever  from 
which  slie  n.,ver  nfterwurds  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to  be  with  her  hnsband 
and  children.  She  was  heiicetorth  intrusted  to  the  care  of  a  kind  family,  where 
every  comfort  and  attention  was  secured  for  her.  The  lines  in  the  ballad  of  the 
**  Bouiliabiiisse  "  are  supposed  to  refer  to  this  early  time  oi:  domestic  felicity : 

Ah  me !  how  quick  the  days  arc  flittiiig  I  . 

I  mind  me  of  a  tame  that's  gone,  - 
When  i^ere  I'd  sit  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  place — but  not  alone. 
A  fairyofung  form  wasncFtJed  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me— 

I'here's  uo  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

"^  In  dictating  to  his  amanuensis  during  the  composition  of  the  lectures  on  the 
"  Four  Georges,"  he  would  light  a  cigar,  pace  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
resume  his  work  with  increased  cheerfulness,  changing  his  position  very  frequently, 
so  that  he  was  sometimes  sitting,  standing,  walking,  or  lying  about.  His  enun- 
ciation was  always  clear  and  distinct,  and  his  words  and  thoughts  were  so  well 
weighed  that  the  pro-'ress  of  writing  was  but  seldom  checked.  He  dictated  with 
calm  deliberation,  and  shewi'd  no  lisible  feeling  even  when  he  had  made  a  humor- 
ous point.  His  whole  hterary  career  was  one  of  unremitting  industry ;  he  wrote 
slowly,  and  like  'George  Eliot,'  gave  forth  his  thoughts  in  sucli  perfect  form,  that  he 
rarely  required  to  retoilch  his  work.  His  handwriting  was  neat  and  plain,  often 
very  miuute;  which  led  to  the  remark,  that  if  all  tradts  failed,  he  would  eain  six- 
pences by  writing  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Creed  in  the  size  of  one.  Unlike  muny 
men  of  h  ss  talent,  he  looked  upon  caligraphy  as  one  of  the  line  arts.  When  ut  the 
heijrht  of  his  fame  he  was  satisfied  when  he  v  rote  six  pages  a  day,  generally  working 
during  the  day,  teldom  at  night.  An  idea  which  would  only  be  slightly  developed  in 
some  of  his  shorter  stories,  ne  treasured  up  and  expanded  in  some  of  his  larger 
works. 

While  Alfred  Tennyson  the  future  Laureate  received  the  gold  n  edal  at  Cambridge 
given  by  the  Chancellor  of  the  univergity  for  the  best  Eugheh  poem,  the  tubject  be>- 
fiig  "Timbuctoo,'' we  find  Thackeray  satiiising  the  subject  m  a  humorous  pai}er 
cafied  *'  The  Snob."    Here  are  a  few  lines  from  his  clever  skit  on  the  prize  poem  : 

There  stalk?  the  tiger— there  the  lion  roars, 
Who  sometimes  eats  the  luckless  blackamoors ; 
All  that  he  leaves  of  them  the  monster  throws 
To  jackals,  vultures,  dogs,  cats,  kites  and  crows; 
His  hunger  thus  the  forest  monster  gluts. 
And  then  lies  down  'neath  trees  called  cocoa-nuts. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Thackeray  has  hern  fr(»quently  described.    Hin  nose 
thruujsh  an  early  accident.  wa9mi-i!*liapen;  it  wa^i  broad  at  the  bridge,  and  stubby  a 
the  end.    He  was  near-sighted :  and  his  hair  at  forty  w  is  al  ready  gray,  but  masny  and 
abundant— his  keen  and  kindly  eyes  twinkled  sometiniea  through  nnd  Pomeiinie.s  over 
hiH  spectacles.    A  friend  remarked  that  what  he  •Hbouldcall  the  predominant  ex pren- 
sion  of  the  countenance  was  courage— a  readiness  to  lace  the  world  on  its  own  leims,  * 
Unlike  Dickens,  he  took  no  regular  walking  exercis*^.  and  being  regardless  of  the  laws 
of  heal  til,  eulTered  in  consequence.    In  reply  to  one  who  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  re- 
ceived the  be^t  medical  advice,  his  reply  was:  'What  is  the  use  of  advice  if  you  don't 
follow  it?    They  tell  me  not  to  drink,  and  I  fio  diink-     They  toll  me  not  to  f.moke. 
and  I  ('o  smoke.    They  vM  me  not  to  eat.  and  I  do  eat.    In  short,  I  do  everything  that  I 
am  desired  ro«  to  do— and  therefore,  what  am  I  to  expect?'     ^.  nd  so  one  morning  he 
was  found  lying,  like  Dr.  Chalmers,  in  the  sleep  of  death  with  his  arms  beneath  his 
head,  after  oaeof  his  violent  attacks  of  iUnoHs— to  be  mourned  by  his  mother  and  daugh> 
ters.  who  formed  his  household,  and  by  a  wider  public  beyond,  which,  had  learned  to 
love  him  through  his  admirable  works.— C'Aaw6cr«'«  jQurnuL 


THE 


LIBBARY  MAGAZINE. 


FEBRUARY,  1879. 


THE  FEIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA. 

-T  is  ft  common  and  a  profitable  trick  of  party  to  assume  the  mask  of 
natiooality.  It  is  safely  calculated  that  sneh  an  assumption,  saccess- 
fnlly  aohieTed,  will  disintegrat3  the  ranks  of  the  opponents;  since  it  is 
not  only  a  just,  but  an  elementary  proposition  that  the  interests  of  thi 
coTiiitrj  aT3  to  be  preferred  to  the  interests  of  party.  Upon  this  safe 
calcalation  tb'i  Tories  of  to-day,  aided  by  some  whom  accidents  or  pas- 
eiooB  have  rallied  to  their  standard,  have  been  working  steadily  for  the 
last  tTO  and  a  half  y^ars.  It  seems  that  the  game  is  nearly  played  out, 
and  th3  pratixt  wora  too  thin  to  cover  effectually  what  it  hides.  Sym- 
pathy with  Russia,  with  the  despotism  of  Russia,  with  the  bad  faith  of 
Kn^sia,  with  th3  cruelty  of  Russia,  has  been  the  charge  incessantly 
r?itirat3d  'against  the  Liberal,  party.  Not  only,  it  seems,  are  they 
enanouTjd  of  this  Power,  but  fio  enamoured  of' it  that  they  are  dispos^ 
andeag^r  to  sacrifice  for  its  sake  the  interests. of  their  country,  whicti 
ar3,  ex  neAH'Msitate  rei,  their  own  interests. 

This  filching  and  appropriation  of  the  national  credit  seems  to  be  no 
l)?tt3r  th^Ti  the  crowning  trick  of  a  party  warfare,  not  fastidious  as  tO 
th3  waapons  it  employs.  Only  on  rare  occasions  can  it  be  performed : 
at  jiiTietur3s,  namely,  when  a  foreign  country  hax)pens  to  stand  in  a 
s7iDpith3tic  rilation  to  some  cause  which  it  is  desired  to  discredit,  and 
at  th3  sam3  time  to  have,  or  to  be  capable  of  being  represented  as 
haviag,  th  3  will  and  power  to  inflict  injury  on  England.  The  second 
of  th3S3  conditions  can  b3  easily  fulfilled :  for  the  real  interests  of  the 
British  Empiri  ar j  so  widely  lodged,  that,  even  apart  from  factitious 
outgrowths  and  accretions,  they  may  come  within  arm^s  length  of  every 
gT3at  country  in  ths  world.  So  that  one  day  France,  and  another  day 
Giraiaay,  and  aaother  day  America,  have  served  the  turn  of  our  alarm- 
ists. Bat  for  tha  last  three  years  they  have  speculated  upon  Russia  as 
Bnpplying  them  with  the  best  phlogistic  to  be  had,  because  the  ques- 
tions of  the  day  have  thrown  the  public  susceptibilities  principally  into 
this  directioa.     The  Slavonic,  as  well  as  the  Christian,  sympathies  of 

(129) 
L.  M.— I.  -5. 


180  THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA. 

the  Rnssian  people  attached  them  powerfully  to  a  canso,  'which  the 
Liberals  of  England,  renounciBg  all  theological  and  ecckdaBtical  par- 
tialities in  the  case,  were  bound  to  favour  as  the  cause  of  liberty  against 
despotism,  and  of  the  sufferer  against  the  oppressor.  It  was  impossible 
for  the  British  Liberals  and  Nonconformists  to  become  the  ij^Btxumente 
of  \^ouBding  that  sacrefi  c^use,  the  cause  of  the  subject  races  of  the 
East,  through  the  sides  of  Russia.  But  the  Tories  in  general  were 
under  no  such  disability.  In  the  days  of  the  Duke  of  Wf  Uington,  Lord 
Aberdeen,  and  Sir  R.  Peel,  they  were,  for  ItiII  thirty  y(arB,  or  from 
about  1820  to  1850,  the  great  peace  party  of  this  country.  But  they 
have  unlearned  all  such  weakness,  together  with  n^any  of  the  other 
lessons  inculcated  by  those  distinguished  men ;  and  now,  on  the  high 
horse  of  national  pride,  they  are  at  once  the  cpponents  of  reform  at 
home,  aud  the  main  disturbers  of  >  the  general  peace.  Nor  docs  any 
such  tie  bind  them  as  that  which  has  bound  the  Liberal  party  to  tbe 
cause  of  subject  races :  for  who  has  ever  heard,  in  the  re^sent  history  of 
Toryism,  of  a  deed  done,  or  so  much  as  a  word^Fpoken,  for  Freedom, 
in  any  one  of  the  numerous  battles  in  which,  at  bo  many  spots  on  the 
surface  of  the  globe^  she  has  been  engaged  ? 

The  Ministry,  then,  found  an  opportunity  first  of  throwing  the  Chris- 
tifui  cause  into  Russian  hands ;  and  then,  because  the  hands  were  Rus- 
cian,  of  reviling  all,  who  refi^se4  to  surrender  it  to  the  foul  and  debas- 
ing tyranny  of  Turkey,  as  being  of  necessity  the  friends  of  Turkey's 
enemy.  The  great  Russian  bogie  was  purchased  |  and  exhibited  at 
every  fair  in  the  country.  The  game,  played  with  skill  and  during, 
was  successful  at  least  within  the  wails  of  Parliament,  where  Eom£  thing 
very  different  from  "chill  penury"  Eometimcs  freezes  "the  genial  cur- 
rent of  the  j^ouL"  The  majorities  obtained  by  tho  Government  rose  in 
ifumber ;  and,  though  the  action  of  an  opposite  feeling  in  the  nation 
has  at  last  reduced  them,  the  process  has  been  slow  and  far  from  uni- 
form. And  now,  when  tho  signs  of  change  are  fe£t  gathering  in  tho 
^y,  the  last  hope  of  a  party  bogioning  to  bo  abashed  seems  still  to  lie 
ia.  fastening  on  the  Liberals  the  idle  and  calumnious  imputation  that 
thoy  arc  in  some  special  and  guilty  sense  tho  friends  of  Russia. 

But  they  forget  that  the  opening,  which  their  g(X)d  fortune  gave 
them,  is  now  closed,  and  tliat  the  old  combination  has  given  place  to 
new.  By  arms  and  blood  (fcr  tho  British  Government  resisted  and 
broke  np  tho  European  concert  which  promised  a  milder  mcthenl),  Iho 
rpecial  aim  of  Russian  sympathies  has  been,  not  wholly  but  for  tha 
iaost  part,  attained.  Tho  Slavonic  provinces  of  Turkey  are  now, 
through  the  cHorts  and  sacrifices  of  a  singb  nation,  independent,  liko 
Gervia  and  Montenegro  ;  or  tributary  like  Bulgaria ;  or  at  the  very  least 
r-utonomous,  with  a  moro  ambiguous  freedom  like  Eastern  Roumeha. 
The  work  cf  d:liveranco  has  been  in  tho  main  accomplished.  The 
Liberala  cf  England  Btili  owo  full  justice  to  theso  gr^at  acts  of  Russia  ; 
but  they  orts  no  longer  Uablo  to  bo  charged  as  moral  partneis  in  the 
oauso ;  for  tho  cause  has  now  been  pleaded,  tho  great  Judge  has  pro. 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  T»OES  OP  :^dSIA.  181 

notmcad  His  s^mtenoe :  and  lands  and  vaces,  'Which  England  refttsred  tb 
Iib3iat9,  are  free.  Ldt  it  be  said  that  Russia  did  good  from  bad 
motives.  TUia  is  not  now  the  question.  The  Tories  and  their  adhe- 
rents have  yet  to  acquire  the  perception  of  a  fact,  firom  which  they 
yet  strive  to  turn  away  their  vision :  the  fact  that  the  alliance  betweeu 
Bassia  and  the  gr  3ttt  cansa  of  deHverance  is  no  longer  the  salient  and 
determining  point  of  the  Eastern  Qnestion.  That  alliance  has  gHdcd 
into  th3  p%Bt ;  its  fmft  is  gathered ;  and  the  position  of  Russia,  in  it? 
relatloa  r38p3Ctiv3ly  to  the  Toryism  and  the  liiberalism  of  ISngland,  is 
noloagdr  sabj3ct  to  any  disturbing  agency.  The  Russian  b^yie  is  not 
any  more  available  for  the  politi<»l  fait.  And  the  questions  can  now 
be  freely  and  exhaustively  discussed,  "who  and  what  is  Russia,  and 
which  is  the  p'lrty  that  is  best  entitled  to  fling  in  the  teeth  of  the  other 
the  chargd  of  baing  her  peculiar  friends  ? 

Who  and  what  i-t  Russia  ?  Not  the  name  of  h  complex  and  multi- 
form society  of  intricats  configuration,  such  as  is  our  own :  but  a  vast 
mass,  comparatively  inorganic,  still  nationally  young,  and  simple  in  its 
forms  of  life.  We  may  regard  Russia,  for  the  present  purpose,  as  in- 
cluding thrae  elements,  three  fbrces  only.  First  the  Emperor ;  secondly 
the  pjopU;  thirdly  th  3  offlcitU,  aristocratic  and  Uiilltary  class  ;  which 
last  may  ba  said  to  makd  up  there  what,  both  there  and  here,  passes 
nndsr  th3  name  of  '^  so^i jty.*'  Of  these  three  factors,  distinct  estimates 
have  to  bo  form  3d. 

Tha  prafrsnt  Emperor  of  Russia  has,  during  a  feign  now  approaching 
a  quarter  ci  a  century,  given  ample  evidence  of  a  just  and  philanthropic 
mind.  No  graator  triumph  of  peaceftil  legislation  is  anywhere  recorded 
tittn  the  emancipition  of  the  Russian  serfs,  which  he  has  effected.  It 
istm?  that  h3  gav3to  England  assurances  about  Khiva,  which  he  has 
baen  unable  to  fulfil.  But  the  military  measures  taken  against  tho 
Khan  appirantly  hai  in  view  the  real  necessities  of  peace  and  order  in 
thit  T3gio%  fro.-n  which  plunder  and  kidnapping  had  to  be  expelled. 
Thsre  is  little  in  thair  accompaniments,  either  of  profit  or  of  power, 
which  .would  warrant  thi  imputation  of  an  unworthy  motive.  It  is 
mori^just  to  ascribe  the  Emperor*s  original  promise- of  entire  abstantion 
to  an  honorabla  anxiety  for  the  friendship  of  England,  and  as  an  over^ 
Baiguina  exp3ct%tion,  than  to  denounce  as  fen  act  of  bad  faith  a  resort 
to  force  which  has  every  appearance  of  reason  and  of  justice.  In  th) 
great  matt  ^r  of  tha  war  With  Turkey,  I  avow  my  belief  that  the  Empe- 
ror was  pr:)nipt3d  by  motives  of  humanity,  which  drew  additional  forco 
from  tha  spacial  sympathies  of  race  and  of  religion. 

Justice  saems  to  require  a  similar  admisgion  in  regard  to  the  Rn  s'an 
pBOple.  They  are  a  peaceful  and  submissive  rase,  whose  courasre  in  tha 
fijld  is^that  of  a  detarmined  and  uncalculatinfir  obedience.  DomeRtic  in 
Mr  habits,  rural  in  their  pursuits,  and  flgliting  tha  battle  of  ordinary 
Kfeundsr  hard  conditions,  they  are  littla  oo'^n  to  th-^  evil  influences  of 
what  is  hare  termed  Jingoism :  the  conscription  has  for  them  no  charms ; 
Mid  war  summons  them  to  iittlo  else  than  privation,  wounds,  disease, 


182  THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA. 

and  death.  Ftobably  few  among  ns  are  so  biassed  as  to  donbt  that  the 
Russian  people  have  been  moved,  during  the  last  three  years,  by  a  thrill 
of  genuine  emotion  on  behalf  of  their  enslaved  and  suffering  brethren, 
rather  than  by  "  Russian  interests,"  or  appeals  to  pride,  or  tha  lust  cf 
territorial  aggrEtndisement. 

Tliat  which  reason  bids  us  to  conclude  as  to  tho  people,  wo  must  ako 
suppose  at  least  as  to  individuals  in  the  class  which  I  have  described  as 
the  third  great  moving  force,  of  the  Russian  Empire.  Of  this  type  war, 
Ccdonel  Kirieff,  who  met  and  indeed  courted  a  hero's  death  in  the  Ser- 
vian war  of  1876.  But  the  general  character  and  tendencies  of  tho 
body  are  another  matter.  The  spirit  of  aggression  has  a  natural  home 
in  the  oligarchic,  diplomatic,  and  military  class,  whose  pcrEonal  ard 
specific  leanings  it  as  strongly  favours  as  it  counteracts  the  interests  cf 
the  people.  We  have  seen  too  plainly  what,  though  with  many  hon- 
ourablo  exceptions,  are  the  tendencies  and  leanings  of  the  correspond- 
ing classes  even  among  ourselves,  where  their  sentiments  are  moi^ficd, 
and  their  action  limited,  by  free  public  discussion  and  by  popular  in- 
stitutions. It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  what  aro  the  propensities, 
and  what  the  power  of  tha  miUtary,  official,  and  aristocratic  elements 
of  Russian  society ;  what  pretexts  they  may  advance,  and  what  use 
they  may  be  tempted  to  make  of  the  huge  but  inorganic  forces  of  the 
nation,  which  lie  almost  helplessly  at  their  disposal.  It  is  not  necessary 
here  to  dwell  upon  shades  and  subdivisions  of  opinion,  or  to  distinguish 
Moscow  from  St.  Petersburg.  It  wpuld  not  be  just  to  treat  even  the 
incoiporated  influences  we  are  now  considering  as^a  mass  of  unnoixed 
eviL  But  this  class,  in  regard  to  the  ri^ts  of  other  countries  and  the 
peace  of  the  world,  is  the  dangerous  class  of  Russia;  the  class  that 
prides  itself  upon  wisdom  because  it  has  power;  the  class  that  thin^t^ 
itself  cultivated  because  it  has  leisure ;  that  includes  all  those  who  claim 
to  l6ad  the  nation  because  they  have  long  and  often  misled  it,  and  to 
think  and  act  for  it,  and  drag  it  in  the  train  of  their  thoughts  and  acts, 
because  they  Uve  upon  it.  This  class,  or  rather  this  conglomerate  of 
classes,  ever  watchful  for  its  aims,  ubiquitous  yet  organised,  standing 
everywhere  between  the  Emperor  and  the  people,  and  oftentimes  too 
strong  for  both,  is  at  work  day  and  night  to  impress  its  own  characte  r 
upon  Russian  policy.  The  Duke  of  Wellmgton  declined  to  place  confi- 
dence in  Russia ;  for,  as  he  said  with  strong  §ense  and  truth,  it  was  not 
his  business  to  place  confidence  in  foreign  Governments.  It  is  our 
business  to  judge  them  fairly,  but  to  watch  them  closely ;  and  in  our 
present  judgments  to  avail  ourselves  of  all  the  aid  that  can  be  derived 
from  the  observation  of  the  past. 

Thus  mixed  in  the  composition  of  its  political  forces,  and  having  not 
yet  emerged  from  her  despotic  institutions,  the  Russia  of  Alexaneitr 
and  of  Nicholas  was  undoubtedly  the  head  of  European  Toryism,  even 
while  Austria  was  its  right  hand.  She  was  the  greatest  and  most  im- 
portant member  of  the  Holy  Alliance.  In  the  case,  however,  of  tho 
Christian,  and  especially  the  Slavonic  Provinces  of  Turkey,  the  sympa- 


THE  FRIi:N]>S  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA.  1B8 

thies  ot  religion  and  race  traversed  the  ordinary  action  of  ihe  instincts 
of  power.  Hence  has  arisen  more  than  once  an  exceptioual  relation 
between  Eussia  and  the  liberals  of  this  country.  At  the  period,  for 
example,  of  the  Greek  Revolution,  she  and  they  fought  on  the  samo 
side.  .  At  the  epoch  of  the  Crimdan  war,  when  sha  struggled  for  th3 
power' of  au  arbitrary  interference,  and  not  for  the  relief  of  the  op- 
pressed, there  was  no  room  for  such  an  alliance.  But  in  1876,  she  was 
content  to  work  as  a  member  of  the  European  family,  in  strict  concert 
with  its  other  members.  When  the  deplorable  abstention  of  England 
from  the  performance  of  duty  broke  up  that  concert,  and  left  her  to  act 
alone,  Liberalism  could  not  on  account  of  the  instrument  condemn  the 
end,  or  desire  that  the  subject  races  of  Turkey  shotdd  remain  debased 
by  servitude,  because  the  Government  that  represented  free  England  for 
the  moment  baffled  and  befooled  every  joint  movement  to  deUverthem. 
It  was  left  to  the  despot  to  perform  the  duty  of  the  free.  But,  unless 
in  su3h  cases  of  pure  exception,  Russia  has  uniformly  and  habitually 
ranged  in  European  poUtics  with  the  antagonists  of  freedom.  Though 
I  speak  mainly  of  tiie  rv^igns  of  Alexander  and  of  Nicholas,  it  would 
probably  be  too  much  to  say  that  the  personal  change  in  the  occupancy 
of  the  throne  has  broken,  or  could  break,  the  chain  of  an  evil  traaition. 

But  that  evil  tradition,  which  places  an  insurmountable  barrier  be- 
tween  the  sympathy  of  British  Liberalism  and  the  Europeaxl  pohcy  of 
the  Czars,  has  also  entitled  that  Empire  to  the  sympathy  of  Toryism, 
and  has  earned  for  it  that  sympathy.  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that 
the  Tories  of  this  country  have  approved  of  all  the  acts  of  Russia  in 
Poland,  which  have  left  an  ineffaceable  stain  upon  the  Empire  and  tha 
age.  But  I  reckon  that,  in  every  struggle  which  has  arisen  since  the 
peace  of  1815,  the  sympathies  of  British  Toryism  have  regularly  gravi- 
tated  to  the  side  of  power,  and  therefore  to  the  side  of  Russia.  Liber- 
alism has  only  found  itself  in  any  sense  on  the  side  of  Russia  at  the  rare 
times  when  Russia  had  taken,  for  whatever  reason,  the  side  of  Liberal- 
ism. But  these  are  exactly  the  occafflons,  and  the  only  occasions,  when, 
with  an  equal  certainty  of  instinct,  British  Toryism  has  entered  the  lists 
against  her ;  and  has  thought,  by  the  loudness  and  violence  of  its 
clamours,  to  cast  into  the  shadows  of  obhvion  the  fact  that  it  had  really 
regarded  her  as  its  natural  ally.  Russia,  as  the  greatest  among  the 
standing  antagonists  of  the  Liberal  movement  in  Europe,  had  a  claim 
on  its  respect.  But  this  claim  vanished  away  when,  contrary  to  her 
wont,  she  was  breaking  chains,  instead  of  forging  them.  And  when,  in 
addition,  phantom  interests  of  England  were  brought  into  the  field,  tho 
patriotic  violence  of  our  Tories  against  Russia  became,  under  this 
double  influence,  as  hot  as  if  they  had  not  been  her  traditionary  friends. 

But  as  they  seem  to  have  themselves  forgotten  this  traditionary 
friendship,  now  unhappily  suspended,  it  may  be  well  to  run  briefly 
over  the  long  series  of  occasions,  on  which  it  has  been  manifested  and 
confirmed. 

From  the  Treaty  of  Vienna  onwards,  whenever  there  has  be^i  a 


134  THE  FBIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA. 

straggle  in  Europe  or  elsewhere,  with  the  single  exception  of  the 
Turkish  Provinces,  Bussia  has  taksn  the  side  of  English  Toryism,  and 
English  Toryism  has  taken  the  side  of.  Kussia.  The  partition  of 
Europe,  effected  at  Vienna  without  reference  to  the  feelings  of  the 
people,  was  agreeable  to  the  ideas  of  both,  and  had  a  kind  of  sanctity 
in  their  eyes.  Every  deviation  from  that  Treaty,  and  every  effort  to 
disturb  it,  were  discountenanced  by  each  in  their  several  degrees  and 
modes.  Bussia  supported  Mettemich ;  and  received  his  support  on  all 
occasions  except  when,  in  the  case  of  Greece,  she  co-operated  power- 
fully in  the  work  of  Uberation;  and  Mettemich,  it  need  ha»ily  be 
observed,  commanded  the  steady  sympathy  of  English  Tories.  In 
Italy,  Bussia  and  the  Tories  supported  the  Austrian  system.  Bussia 
eyed  askance,  and  the  Tories  abhorred,  the  foreign  policy  of  Mr. 
Canning.  Bussia  and  the  Tories  comtem plated  with  chsplea^iiTe  the 
French  Bevolution  of  1830.  Both  regarded  with  still  more  active 
displeasure  the  revolt  of  Belgium,  ^p^hich  oven  the  mild  officiid  Toryism 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  government  condemned  hi  the  Speech 
from  the  Throne  after  the  accession  of  William  the  Fourth.  In  the 
dL^cuIt  operation  of  creating  the  Belgian  kingdom,  which  was  probably 
the  crown  of  Lord  Palmerston's  diplomatic  efforts,  England,  with  the 
variable  support  of  Orleanist  France,  wrought  zealoiusly  on  its  behalf; 
but  the  Holy  Alliance,  with  tha  stdady  countenance  of  the  English 
Tories,  as  zealously  against  it.  In  Spain,  in  Portugal,  the  case  was  the 
same.  Austrianism  in  Italy,  Bussianism  in  Pcland,  whoever  heard  of 
a  Tory  effort  or  a  Tory  remonstrance  £^ainst  them  ?  If,  among  tho 
caprices  of  Fortune,  it  chanced  that  another  strain  was  heard,  as  wheu 
Mr.  Butler  Johnstone  delivered  a  maiden  speech  of  great  ability  on 
bshalf  of  the  Italian  cause,  it  was  regarded  as  an  accidental  and  youth- 
ful eccentricity,  and  did  not  serve  in  the  slightest  degree  to  colour  tho 
general  feeling  of  the  party.  Tho  climax  of  Bussianism  under  Nicholas 
was  reached,  when  he  lent  tho  might  of  his  legions  to  reinforco  the 
feebler  arm  of  Austria,  and  extinguished  in  blood  tho  piovcmcnt  of  tho 
Magyars.  But  who  has  ever  heard  of  the  sympathy  of  tho  Tory  party 
with  Hungary  when  she  was  fighting  for  her  freedom?  or  until,  within 
thes3  last  three  years,  she  took  unworthily  tho  part  cf  an'  Eastern 
oppression  tenfold  worse  than  that  which  she  hiwi  agitated  Europe  to 
overthrow  ?  In  truth,  if  there  be  one  fact  more  charly  v/ritten  than 
another  on  the  history  of  tho  last  half-century,  it  is  tho  genei'al 
sympathy  of  British  Toryism  with  that  side  in  Continental  politicL: 
which,  under  the  pretence  of  supporting  order,  ever  contended  against 
freedom  in  all  its  forms.  This  was  the  stsreotyped  taunt  of  Liberal: 
ajainst  Toryism  when  the  first  Government  of  Sir  Bobert  Peel  had 
taken  office  in  183-i-r>,  and  had  been  djfeatcd  at  the  General  Election  in 
the  three  capitals  of  the  three  companies.  It  was  embodied  m  p.  sarcastic 
paean  of  Mr.  Gisborne's  during  tho  existenco  of  that  short-lived  Goveni- 
ment.     On  its  reception,  he  said:  ^^ London,  and  Dublin,  and  Edin- 


THE  FRIENDS  AKD  FOES  OF  RUSSIA.  135 

bargh  wera  G^e^^osted ;  bnt  there  was  joy  in  St  Peiersburg,  in  Berlin, 
and  in  Vienna." 

Let  not,  then,  the  r3tiiner6  of  the  Administnition,  by  reason  of  their 
short  and  quit  3  intelligible  infidelity,  repudiate  their  brilliant  inheritanco 
as  the  representatives,  on  this  side  tiie  Straits,  of  those  who  for  sixty 
years  have  had  it  for  their  daily  and  nightly  thought  to  resist  the 
progress  of  freedom  in  Europe,  and  in  whose  eyes  even  the  worst  of  the 
thrones  of  Europe  were  as  sacrad  as  was  the  Com  Law.  It  will  assist 
ths  people  of  thiis  country  in  passing  judgment  on  the  great  question 
how  it  shall  b?  govwmed  under  the  next  ParliameAt,  if  they  bear  in 
mind  that  everywhere,  except  in  Turkey,  Russian  statesmanship  has 
headed  and  sustained  the  votaries  of  reaction,  with  the  support  and 
sympathy  of  English  Toryism.  But,  in  Turkey  alone,  she  has  de  facto 
achieved,  by  her  unaided  efforts,  a  work  of  liberation :  a*d  it  is  here, 
and  h?re  only,  that  the  Tories  of  England  have  turned  against  her. 
That  work  of  liberation,  a  great  and  signal  one,  the  Liberals  of  England 
\nSL  neither  deny  nor  forget.  But,  when  Russia  shall  return  to  her  old 
Toca&tion  in  European  politics,  thev,  under  the  compulsion  of  their  prin- 
ciples, and  in  conformity  with  theur  history,  must  maintain  against  her, 
as  W3ll  as  against  Austria  and  all  the  fo38  of  freedom,  an  opposition 
mora  scampulous  and  equitable,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  than  the  war  waged 
by  the  Tories  against  their  old  ally,  but  one  not  less  steady. 

It  may  be  ri^t  after  what  has  been  said  of  the  standing  sympathy 
between  Toryism  and  the  policy  of  the  Russian  Government,  to  produce 
Bome  print  3d  illustraltion  of  t^e  esteem  in  which  that  Government  was 
held  in  high  Tory  (juartars.  Nothing  can  be  mora  to  the  point  for  such 
&  pnrpos3  thau  th3  spaech  of  Lord  Beaconsfield  on  the  outbreak  of  the 
FTanco-Gemian  war.  That  war  was  not  aimed  at  our  interests,  or 
likjly  to  involve  us  in  its  vortex.  Nevertheless,  as  the  organ  of  the 
party,  he  advised  the  Government  of  that  day  at  once  to  join  hands 
with  Russia^  as  Ihe  b  jst  coodjutr  jss  we  could  have  at  such  a  crisis. 

An  alliance — ^I  wiTI  not  n*'»  th'*  ^^orcI  firifl-nce,  bccanee  It  mnv  ^x<*  rise  to  some 
nJ8 apprehension— J>nt  a  co'-d'al  nndenitandin^  botween  England  and  Rnsflia  to 
r^ft  JF!  pc^c«.  nt  a  tiQ»nrvl  ro-»«'V|T>'icft  of  the  position  in  which  bot»i  countries  nro 
plac?d  with  r'*isp-rt  to  th^  lHii«r  .vf»ntR  hv  the  qnarantininjr  of  th<»se  provinces  (the 
Saxon  prov*TtC'*s)  to  Prn<»^i'\  a  oorrl!:il  und3r9tnnd!n<r  nnd  co-onoratioii  between  these 
tHO  grnt  Powers  wonld  be  liable  to  no  sinister  interpretation  and  excite  no  eus- 
rr:ou.  b-cauai.  as  I  have  in«»t  said,  It,  wonM  be  a  natural  conseqnmice  of  their 
oiD^OTn«»tic  cnsrfla-^inflnt*?.  T  liope  th^r-fora  th-^re  will  be.  between  Her  Majesty^s 
Government  and  Russia,  not  a  m^^re  e^nla'  exching'*  of  platitudes  a«  to  the  advan- 
tages of  restorini;  p  'ac^  and  avprtinj?  the  horrors  of  war.  bnt  something  more.  I 
hop^  th^y  will  confer  tojj  'th  t  an^two  grnat  Powers  who  hnve  ent'*red  into  the  same 
jTipgements,  and  as  tWvO  Powers  who  thamae'vea  may  be  forced  to  take  the  part  of 
wlhgereutii.* 

A  pa«?saore  of  which  th*^  entir'*  snbst>»n?*^»  with  the  reason  alleged,  was 
raally  mu'^h  mor3  applicable  to  the  circtimstances  of  1874  than  to  the 
CM^  of  1870. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  consider  more  particularly  the  temporary  de- 

"      ■ ■ r— 

*  HanaanU  voL  cdiit  p..  1^.   Aag«6t  1, 1870. 


136       "':     THE  FEIENDS  AlsT)  FOES  OF  BUSSIA. 

f ection  of  the  Tories  from  the  Bttssiaii  camp.  They  have  nndeTtakcni 
for  this  occasion  the  role  of  enemies  of  Bussia.  Let  us  examinei  kow 
they  have  played  the  part.  Undoubtedly  they  are  able  to  allege  that 
they  have  done  much  to  affront  her  Government,  and  to  estrange  her 
people.  Not  only  is  it  probable  that  at  no  time,  without  actu^  "war, 
have  great  masses  of  hufimn  hearts  throbbed,  with  a  mor3  hostile  ex- 
citement than  of  late,  but  it  is  also  hardly  to  be  questioned  that  during 
the  Crimean  War  itself  there. was  nothing  among  us  equal  or  analogous 
to  the  fierce  and  almost  savage  antipathy  which  has  ruled  a  portion  cf 
the  nation  during  the  last  two  or  three  years.  A  phenomenon  bo  singn- 
lar  may  be  readily  explained  by  the  circumstances  of  the  two  cases. 
The  moving,  sentiment  of  the  Crimean  War  was  a  noble  indignation  at 
an  ambitious  and  overbearing  effort  of  the  Emperor  Nicholas  to  estab- 
lish an  arbitrary  power  of  sole  interference  in  the  Ottoman  Empire.  In 
a  resistance  to  that  outrage,  even  by  arms,  there  was  little  to  etir  up  the 
baser  elements  of  our  nature.  The  case  was  very  different  when,  with 
a  cynical  selfishness,  we  allowed  the  rule  to  be  laid  down  that  British 
interests,  no  less  fictitious,  or  at  least  remote,  than  they  were  obtrusive, 
were  to  be  the  rule  and  measure  of  destiny  for  the  subject  races  of  Tur- 
key. It  was  not  to  be  the  number  of  Bulgarians  massacred,  it  was  not 
to  be  the  merits  of  the  contest  between  Bussia  and  Turkey — so  we  were 
assured  by  two  successive  Ambassadors — that  were  to  determine  our 
causs,  but  the  inestimable  and  certainly  incomprehensible  British  in- 
terests which,  according  to  Sir  Henry  Layard,  were  at  some  period  cf 
the  contest  to  compel -our  interference  as  tke  defenders  ^of  the  Forte. 
Ofily  foul  watars  could  flow  from  a  source  so  polluted.  And  thercforie, 
without  doubt,  the  present  Government  and  its  followers  can  plead  that 
they  have  done  their  best  to  make  the  Bussian  people  hostile  to  ns. 
They  have  also  limited  the  b^gerent  rights  of  die  Bussian  State  by 
murking  off  Egypt  as  a  land  consecrated  to  British  interests,  which  was 
to  make  war  upon  Bussia,  but  upon  which  she  might  not  make  war  in 
return.  They  have  answered  her  promise  not  to  invade  Constantinoplo 
by  sending  a  fleet  into  its  neighbourhood.  And  they  have  flourished  in 
her  face  tiie  menace  of  their  Indian  troops  at  Malta,  of  the  great  army 
behind  them,  and  of  the  inexhaustible  recruiting  ground  from  which 
they  came.  All  this  must  be  admitted.  It  would  be  absurd  to  deny 
that  they  have  set  as  remarkable  an  example  as  is  anywhere  on  record, 
of  a  partial  and  hostile  neutrality. 

But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  rendering  service  which  neither  can  nor 
even  ought  to  eUdt  gratitude ;  as  managing  friendship  in  a  way  which 
injures  friends,  and  as  indulging  jealousy  and  emnity  in  a  way  which 
serves  those  very  purposes  of  our  enemies  that  are  most  alien  to  our 
taste.  It  was  by  friendship  of  this  kind  that  the  friends  of  the  British 
Throne  brought  it,  under  Charles  the  First,  to  its  ruin ;  that  the  enemies 
of  American  freedom,  a  century  ago,  stimulated  the  colonies  to  fight  for 
and  achieve  an  independence  of  which  they  had  never  dreamed;  that 
the  opponents  of  Beform  in  Parliament,  by  an  indiscriminate  resistance, 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES,  OF  BUSSIA.  18T 

TOUBed  ihe  determination  for  comprehensive  change/  and'  by  av  obsti- 
nate fltroggld  raisad  the  movement  to  an  impetus 'which  gave  to  Liberal- 
ism its  trinmph  for  forty  years.  The  services  conferred  in  both  these 
two  cases  were  as  real  and  important  as  they  were  nnintentionaL  And 
in  this  most  true,  though  not  a  httle  strange  sense  it  is,  that  the  Tory* 
ism,  and  the  l^ory  Government  of  the  last  three  years  have  befriended 
Bossia,  and  have  conferred  on  her  advantages,  which  the  pohcy  of  Lib- 
eralism would  have  kept  wholly  out  of  her  reach.  Indeed,  it  is  to  be 
added  <hat  the  standing  hostility,  represented  in  the  language  of  the 
ftmbassadors  and  followers  of  the  Ministry,  has  iu  the  case  of  the  Min- 
istry  itself  been  crossed,  and  streaked  as  it  were,-  by  veins  of  peculiar* 
intimacy,  and  by  acts  of  association  so  close  and  suspicious,  that  noth- 
ing less  tiian  a  large  unexhausted  stock  of  reputation  as  good  Kussio- 
batsrs  could  have  made  it  safe  to  ventore  on  them. 

In  1855  Bussia  obtained  possession  of  Ears.  Under  the  peace  of 
Paris,  in  18.56,  she  had  to  surrender  it.  As  a  result  of  the  war  which 
British  policy  threw  upon  her  hands  in  1877,  she  has  now  incorporated 
it  in  her  Empire,  together  with  Batoum  and  an  adjoining  range  of 
coontiy.  In  1855,  Bussia  held.  Bessarabia  to  the  Danube,  and  rsmked 
as  one  of  the  River  States,  hsr  frontier  meeting  that  of  Turkey.  In 
1856,  she  was  compelled  to  recede  from  the  Dimube  and  the  Turkish 
frontier ;  and  the  Bsssarabian  district  fronting  the  stream  was  placed,  as 
a  part  of  the  PrincipahtidB,  under  free  institutions.  In  1878,  not  simply 
as  the  result  of  the  present  war,  but  with  the  direct  assistanco  of  the 
British  Government,  Bussia  has  returned  to  the  Danube  and  is  again  a 
Elver  State.  The  portion  of  Bessarabia,  which  for  twenty  years  had 
tnjoyed  free  and  popular  government,  together  with  the  rest  of  Bou- 
mania,  has  been  replaced  under  despotic  institutions.  And  though 
Bossia  doss  not  touch  the  Turkish  ^ntier,  because  the  Dobrudscha, 
now  made  part  of  Boumania,  intervenes,  this  is  by  no  act  of  the  British 
Government,  but  by  tha  concession  of  Bussia  itself  to  Boumania:  a 
gift  ungr<Mnously  given,  and  reluctantly  received. 

It  is  necessary  a  Uttle  to  unfold  this  topic  by  an  illustration.  In 
1870,  the  Bussian  Government  took  advantage  of  tho  Franco-German 
War  to  declare  the  Czar  emancipated  from  that  article  of  the  Treaty  of 
Paris,  which  limited  his  right  to  maintain  ships  of  war  on  the  Euxine. 
The  British  Government  examined  the  reasons  alleged  in  justification  of 
the  step,  and  found  them  inadequate.  Ou  its  invitation,  the  Powers 
met  at  a  conference  in  London.  All  of  them,  including  Turkey,  were 
willing  that  Bussia  should  be  released  from  the  stipulation :  but  she 
was  required  to  accept  the  releasa  at  their  hands,  and  to  admit  the  bind- 
ing force  of  the  Treaty  by  signing  a  Protocol,  which  declared  it  to  be  a 
principle  of  European  law,  that  no  Power  could  be  liberated  from  the 
obligations  of  a  treaty  but  by  the  consent  of  the  rest 

This  was  habituaUy  called  by  the  Tories  tearing  up  the  Treaty  of 
Paris.  Unhappy  treaty  of  Paris  I  Though  torn  up  in  1871,  it  was 
Bttficiently  in  force  in  1878  to  enable  those,  who  had  declared  it  to  be 


138  THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  BUSSU* 

torn  up  seven  years  before,  to  keep  Europe  for  montitis  cm  iihe  verge 
and  in  the  ex|)8ctation  of  war,  in  order  (as  was  said)  to  compel  Bnssia 
to  place  her  rights  as  a  beUigerent  in  subordination  to  it.  But  it  was 
not  sufficiently  in  force  to  prevent  those,  who  had  thus  depreciated  and 
afterwards  thus  exalted  it,  from  truly  tearing  it  up  themselves,  when 
they  proceeded  to  obtain  possession  of  a  Turkish  island,  and  to  estab- 
lish separate  rights  of  government  over  the  whole  of  A»atic  Turkey 
by  the  Anglo-Turkish  Convention,  although  the  main  object  of  the 
Treaty  of  Paris  had  been  to  declare  the  integrity  of  Ottoman  ttrritory, 
and  to  prevent  all  separate  intermeddling  between  the  sovereign  and  lus 
subjects. 

It  has  been  the  habit  of  Toryism  to  charge  upon  the  late  adminis- 
tration the  responsibihl^  of  having  brought  about  the  change  effected 
in  1871.  The  trath  is  that  of  all  the  great  Powers  none  had  less  to  do 
with  it  than  England.  '  It  was  Germany  which  proposed  the  Confer- 
ence, that  is  to  say  the  concession;  and  Austria  had  in  1859,  and  agson 
in  1869,  offered  to  take  the  initiative  in  effecting  the  tklteration.'*'  The 
British  Government  had  never  uttered  a  syllable  upon  the  subject  But 
what  would  their  position  have  been,  and  what  would  have  been  said 
of  their  responsibility,  if  a  writer  in  the  Foreign  Office  had  surrep- 
titiously brought  about  the  disclosure  of  a  Granville-Bnumow  agree* 
ment  duly  signed,  and  couched  in  the  following  tcrmii  ? 

The  (Jovemment  of  her  Britannic  Majesty  wonlrl  have  to  express  its  profound 
regret  in  the  event  of  Rnesia's  insisting  definitely  upon  tlio  abolition  o/ t'lc  JiMck 
Sea  clause.  As,  however,  it  is  sufflcienujr  established  that  the  other  signatariefi  to 
the  Treaty  of  Paris  are  not  ready  to  sustain  by  arms  the  restriction  on  the  naval  forc^ 
o/Rustiia  stipulated  in" that  Treaty,  England  does  not  find  herself  pnfflciently  inter- 
ested in  this  question  to  be  authorized  to  incur  alone  the  reepoustbility  of  opposing 
herself  to  the  change  proposed ;  and  thus  she  binda  herself  not  to  dispute  thu 
decision  in  this  sense. 

The  qualification  is  added  further  on  : 

If,  after  the  articles  have  been  duly  discussed  in  Congress,  Bnssia  persists  in  main- 
taining them.t 

Now  this  is  the  identical  clause  of  the  Salisbury- Schouvaloff  agreement 
on  the  Bessarabian  question,  with  the  substitutioa  only  of  l^e  words 
*'  abolition  of  the  Black  Sea  clause  "  for  "rstrccesjion  of  Bessarabia,^* 
and  ^^restriction  on  the  naval  force  of  Bussia''  for  '^delimitation  of 
Bessarabia. '* 

It  is  possible,  I  admit,  that,  even  if  the  British  Government  hod 
played  an  EngUsh  part  at  the  Congress,  and  had  stoutly  maintained  the 
Boumanian  cause,  our  Plenipotentiaries  might  not  have  succeeded  in 
carrying  the  votes  of  a  majority  of  the  Powers  against  Bussia  already 
in  possession,  and  bent  on  the  attainment  of  her  end.  But  our  trad- 
itions would  not  have  been  broken :  our  honour  would  have  been  with- 
out a  stain :  we  should  have  been  no  parties  to  an  act  of  gross  and 

*  La  Russie  ct  la  Twrquie^  par  D3  Bonhkarow,  pp.  241-3. 
^  Muy  30. 1878.    From  thu  ZVmM,  June  16, 1828. 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  KXTSSIA,  1» 

tjT&i»i(ms  ingratitade :  we  shotild  hard  had  no  share  in  the  eTil  work 
of  han^ng  baok  an  European  population  from  institutions  of  freedom 
to  institutions  of  despotism.  Whereas  we  gave  a  previous  pledge  to 
Tofce  with  Bussia  unless  we  could  convince  her  in  the  discussion.  What 
vonld  be  thought  of  the  int3grity  of  a  member  of  Parliament  who,  pro- 
fessing attachment  to  a  given  cause,  agreed  in  secret  with  the  opposite 
side  to  vote  against  it  unless  he  could  convince  them  by  his  speech  in  the 
debate?  Such,  how  aver,  was  the  anti-national  course  adopted  by  the 
Government.  So  they  played  into  the  hands  of  Bussia :  nay,  entered 
into  a  conspiracy  with  her  against  freedom,  for  which  she  bnd  some 
Bort  of  excuse  in  tha  wound  ad  prid3  of  her  recollections  of  1856,  but 
they  had  no  shrad  or  shadow  of  any  excusa  at  all. 

And  what  was  the  motive  for  this  unheard-of  proceeding?  Un- 
happily it  is  not'  difficult  to  divine.  No  State,  approaching  a  many- 
headed  negotiation,  can  lay  equal  stress  on  all  its  points.  It  must 
snirand  jr  some,  in  ordar  to  gain  the  others :  it  must  give  here,  that  it 
may  take  there.  On  this  giving  and  taking  principle,  the  cause  of 
liberty  was  abandoned  in  Boumania,  in  order  that  the  cause  of  liberty 
might  be  defeated  in  South  Bulgaria.  Bussia  was  the  enemy  of  free- 
dom aniong  ihe  Bonmans,  where  freedom  clashed  with  her  own  tsrritorial 
aggrandisament.  She  was  its  friend  in  South  Bnlgaria,  now,  by  no 
"vnll  of  hers,  re-baptised  as  Eastern  Boumelia.  Here  ail  the  better  parts 
of  her  composition  were  in  play :  the  upright  and  benevolent  character 
of  her  Monarch,  the  strong  blood  sympathies  of  the  Bussian  masses,  the 
natoral  and  humane  r avulsion  against  the  abominations  of  1876.  The 
great  object  of  the  British  Plenipotentiaries  was  to  restore,  or  to  be  able 
to  say  that  they  had  restorad,  Southern  Bulgaria,  under  its  new  name, 
to  tha  direct  role  of  ths  Sultan.  To  attain'  this  object  they  applied  all 
their  strength,  concentrated  upon  it.  For  this  tliey  threatened  war. 
But,  in  forcing  ux>on  Bussia  such  an  tmaoceptable  damand,  it  was  neces- 
sary, under  the  iron  prasidenoy  of  Prince  Bismarck,  to  make  some  con- 
cession to  Bussia  elsewhere.  Thus,  then,  as  I  have  said,  the  cause  of 
hberty  wa";  abandoned  in  Boumania,  in  order  that,  as  an  equivalent  to 
ns,  the  canso  of  liberty  might  b^  defeated  in  South  Bulgaria.  Bussia 
^Fas  allowed  to  win,  where  she  was  Freedom^s  enemy,  in  order  that  sho 
might  ba  made  to  lose,  whare  she  was  Freedom's  friend. 

Such  was  the  prime  achievem  ent  of  the  peace-with-honour  process. 
It  was  undoubtedly  a  great  triumph  over  liberty.  But  was  it  a  great 
triumph  over  Russia  ?  It  wounded  her  only  in  the  best  of  her  desires 
and  Rympathies.  She  was  pledged  to  Slav  liberation ;  and  at  one  point 
of  tha  compass  at  least,  and  on  the  scene  of  the  chief  Bulgarian  hor- 
rors, Slav  liberation  was  hemmed  in,  was  mutilated.  Russian  humani- 
ty, if  the  sceptic  will  graciously  allow  that  suph  a  quality  exists,  was 
wouuded;  the  Russian  aggrandisement  had  been  promoted.  We 
baulked  and  defeated  Russia  in  what  she  sought  on  behalf  of  oppressed 
and  suffering  humanity ;  in  what  concarned  our  own  pcide  and  power 


140  THE  FEISNDS  AND  F(HB  OF  EUSSIA. 

we  suffered,  and  not  only  snjffored^  bni  effectually  helped  her  to  get  her 
way. 

In  tmth,  by  this  soverance  of  the  Valley  of  the  Maritza  from  the  sis- 
ter district  of  Korthem  Bulgaria,  we  actually  ministered  to  the  pride 
and  power  of  Russia,  by  creatihg  on  her  behalf  the  strongest  tempta- 
tion, and  the  most  susceptible  material,  for  intrigue  to  be  carried  on  at 
pleasure.  In  Hberated  countries,  such  as  Bulgaria  beyond  the  Balkans, 
there  will,  without  doubt,  subsist  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  towards  the 
emancipating  State.  Even  so  France  stood  well  with  the  United  Statrs 
of  America  after  the  War  of  Independence.  To  this  sentiment  of 
gratitude  a  certain  pohtical  influence  may  be  annexed.  But  the  limits 
of  such  an  influence  are  supplied  and  prescribed  by  the  nature  of  the 
case  itself.  We  may  have  heard  of  a  free  people  which  has  sur- 
rendered its  freedom  into  the  hands  of  a  liberator  from  within.  But 
who  ever  heard  of  u  free  people  that  gave  away  its  freedom  to  a  foreign 
State  that  had  set  it  free  ?  It  may  be  that  there  is  an  old  age  for  liberty, 
as  well  as  for  individual  men,  when  it  is 

**  In  second  childishuesa  and  mere  oblivion."' 
and  when  thcs?,  who  have  enjoyed  it  long,  and  have  been  corrupted  by 
the  wealth  and  x>ower  it  brought  them,  have  degenerated  in  the  quaU- 
ties  necessary  for  its  defence  as  well  as  for  its  acquisition,  and  have  let 
it  slip  from  their  possession.     But  the  first  draught  at  least  is  too  sweet 
for  the  cup  to  be  dropped  out  of  tiie  land.     The  way  to  keep  down 
Bussian  influence  over  Bulgarians  is  to  develop  Bulgarian  freedom  to  the 
fulL     The  way  to  help  and  perpetuate  Bussian  influence  is  to  establish 
sharp  contrasts  between  the  brethren  in  blood,  who  dwell  on  the  two 
sides  of  the  Balkans ;  so  that  Bussia,  pointing  to  the  past,  will  be  ena- 
bled plausibly  to  assert  that,  as  she  was  the  only  Power  that  lifted  the 
Northerns  from  the  slough  of  despond  to  the  high  aiiy  ground  of  free- 
dom, so  she  is  still  the  only  Power  to  whom  the  Southerns  can  look  to 
raise  them  also  to  the  level  of  their  happier  brethren.     There  could  be 
no  device  more  favourable  to  the  future  intrigues  of  Bussia  than  a  Bul- 
garia, however  named,  pining  in  substantial  servitude  by  the  side  of 
another  Bulgaria  substantially  free.     The  freedom  of  the  North  is  al- 
ready her  work :  let  her  not  be  in  a  conoitiOn  to  point  to  servitude  in  the 
South  and  say,  "  This  is  the  work  of  England." 
Meantime,  it  is  already  found  that  in  the  emancipated  Bulgaria  peace 
9  and  goodwill  are  following  in  the  train  of  freedom.     A  letter  of  the  9th 
of  December  from  a  person  of  the  highest  authority  runs  as  follows : 
**  In  Bulgaria  everything  is  quiet.     The  Turks  of  all  the  regions  about 
Schumla,  Varna  and  Bustchuk,  Ac,  have   returned  to  their  homes. 
They  are  not  only  unmolested,  but  seem  to  have  aU  the  rights  of  the 
Bnlgarians,  and  to  be  well  contented." 

Thus  far,  then,  we  have  found  that  when  Toryism  detected  Bussia  in 
the  act  of  promoting  freedom  in  the  East,  and  turned  against  her,  it  did 


^ 


THE  FRIENDS  AOT)  FOES  OF  BUSSIA.  141 

more  fior  lier  by  its  hostility  timn  it  seems  ever  to  liave  effected  by  its 
friendship,  and  pnt  her  in  Uie  way  of  securing  an  addition  of  territory 
and  a  vast  increase  of  influence. 

But  its  relations  with  Enssia  tonched  other  points.  Petitions  were 
prcsentad  to  the  Congress  at  Berlin,  which  alleged  thf^t  the  most  fright- 
ful safferings  had  been  endured  by  the  Mohammedan  popxlIatio^  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Maritza  at  the  hands  of  the  Russian  soldiery  and  of  the 
Bulgarians.  .Undsr  the  authority  of  the  Congress,  the  Ambassadors  at 
Constantinople  instituted  an  inquiry  by  an  IntemationAl  Commission. 
The  British  Ambassador  appointed,  as  the  British  member  of  the  Com- 
mission, Consul  Fawcett,  well  known  as  a  thorough  partisan  in  the  East- 
em  Question.  There  were  four  members,  however,  whose  impartiality 
might  be  presumed ;  those  appointed  for  Germany,  Austria,  France  and 
Italy.  These  four  were  equally  divided.  But  the  French  and  ItaHan, 
together  with  the  British  and  Turjcish  Commissioners,  delivered,  in  the 
strange  form  of  identic  notes,  a  Report  which  to  a  considerable  extent 
adopted  the  statements  set  forth  in  the  evidence,  particularly  as  to  a  vast 
and  undiscriminating  slaughter  at  Harmanli  of  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren, stated  by  Mr.  Fawcett  to  be  60, 000 in  number;  which  it  appeared 
to  charge  upon  the  Russian  army.  The  signing  Commissioners  recom- 
mended the  adoption  of  measures  to  relieve  the  affliction  of  the  refugee 
population  by  restoring  them  to  their  homes.  And  the  Government 
have  declared  in  the  House  of  Commons  that  Uiey  gave  credence  to  the 
statenients  of  their  Commissioner. 

Into  that  portion  of  the  question,  which  affects  the  conduct  of  the 
fiossians,  I  do  not  ei\ter,  beyond  stating  that  in  my  opinion  Ministers 
wera  bound  in  duty  either  to  acquit  that  brave  and  usually  humane 
trmy  of  the  charge,  or  to  condenm  them,  and  protest  against  their  con- 
duct. They  have  done  neither.  What  is  more,  they  seem  to  have 
suffered  the  statements  which  excited  pain  and  sympathy  in  this  country, 
as  well  as  those  which  have  stirred  indignation,  to  remain  in  silent 
neglect  from  the  end  of  August,  when  the  reports  were  sent  in,  onwards 
through  the  months  of  September,  October,  and  Nov^ember ;  although 
their  attention  was  drawn  to  the  subject  by  the  protest  of  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury, and,  to  my  knowledge,  by  other  and  more  direct  means.  But  it 
remained,  strange  to  say,  unnoticed  in  the  speeches  of  Lord  Mayor's 
Bay,  and  again  unnoticed  in  the  Speech  from  the  Throne.  Both  Uiese 
remarkable  omissions  were  made  the  subject  of  public  animadversion, 
the  latter  of  them  in  the  House  of  Commons.  At  length,  after  regard- 
ing the  case  with  apparent  indifference  for  three  and  a  half  months,; 
Ministers  announced,  on  Friday,  December  13,  that  they  would  proposo 
<i  public  grant  for  the  relief  of  the  sufferers  in  the  Bhodope  district. 
The  amount,  it  was  understood,  was  a  sum  of  50,000^.  It  was  proper 
to  suppose  that,  after  so  prolonged  a  period  of  consideration,  the  act 
was  d'ehberate  and  determined.  But  the  intention,  brought  to  light  in 
the  announcement  of  the  13th,  was  strangled  in  that  of  the  15th.  No 
sabstitate  is  offered  for  the  measure,  and  we  axe  left  to  interpret  the 


143  TBB  FBISNDS  AND  FOE&  OF  BUSSIA.  ^ 

wiiole  proceeding  Bfiwe  may.  The  muttered  disAffectiezi  of  eapporten 
is  iindetstood  to  Imve  caused  tbe  withdrawal.  But  what  other  explana- 
tion can  be  given  of  the  inaction,  so  strangely  prolonged  in  the  f^e  of 
the  rosponsibilitieB  implied  by  the  inquiry,  except  it  bo  a  morbid  and 
undue  d^erence  to  Kussia,  and  an  unwlUingnees  to  wound  her  euscep- 
tibilitieB  in  a  c^se  where  only  the  interests  of  humanity,  and  not  the 
higher  and  moro  sacred  obligations  of  ^'British  interests,"  ara  con- 
cerned? 

But  I  haya  yet  to  stato  r,  more  singular  instance  of  deference  to 
Bussia,  and  of  that  kind  of  deference  which  in  the  more  plain-Epckon, 
though  assuredly  not  less  courteous,  days  of  Parliamentary  practice 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  described  as  truckling. 

During  the  existence  of  the  lata  Administration,  a  wis2,  pacific,  and 
friendly  negotiataon,  due  to  the  forethought  and  Initiative  of  tord 
Clarendon,  was  instituted  with  Bussia>  to  promoto  tho  tranquiilt/  cf 
Central  Asia,  and  to  insure  a  good  understanding  between  tho  two 
Empires  in  that  portion  of  tho  world.  It  was  an  essential  part  of  this 
understanding,  and  was  so  recorded  in  many  avowals,  that  Eussia  Khculd 
abstain  from  all  endeavors  to  exercisa  influence  in  Afcghanistan ;  \7l1ila 
England,  on  the  other  hand,  was  to  use  her  best  cjEPorts  for  inducing 
tho  Ameer  to  fulfil  the  duti?s  of  good  neighbourhood  to^vards  Ms 
northern  neighbours,  who  were  tho  neighbours,  on  tho  other  side,  of 
Bussia.  "While  the  lata'  Government  eubsistcd,  (his  covenant  was  ob- 
served 6n  both  sides  with  fidelity  and  advantage  j  and  although  Iho 
friend^  htiBta  of  General  Eauffmann  to  tho  Ameer  Shcro  AU.  wero 
somewhat  officious,  they  had  not  been  deemed  to  give  occasion  for  com- 
plaint do*vii  to  the  time  when  Lord  Northbrook  gave  up  tho  viccroyalty 
of  India- early  in  1876. 

But  a  new  epoch  arrived  when  the  British  Government,  in  violation 
of  tho  fifty-fifth  section  of  tho  Indian  Government  Act,  brought  a  hand- 
ful of  Indian  trocps  to  Malta,  at  an  enormous  charge,  without  tho 
knowlsdgo  or  consent  of  Parliament.  Tho  measuro  is  now  known  to 
have  been  preceded  by  preparations  made  in  India  for  moving,"  through 
AUghanistan,  against  tho  Asiatic  territories  of  Russia.  Of  small  mili- 
tary significance  in  itself,  it  was  obviously  intended  as  a  Etratagem  to 
mislead:  to  inspire  the  perfectly  untrue  beUcf  that  tho  180,000  men, 
who  form  our  Indian  Army,  could  bo  withdrawn  from  India,  as  cur 
home  Army  can,  in  caso  of  need,  be  safely  withdrawn  from,  tho  United 
ICingdom,  and  could  thus  be  mado  available  in  om'  European  vrarg. 
The  ulterior  aim  of  all  this^  of  course,  was  to  intimidate  Bussia,  and  to 
strengthen  tho  hands  of  the  Government  in  giving  effect  to  tho  Turkish 
and  anti-liberal,  propensities  which  it  indulged  at  Berlin,  and  which  it 
embellished  with  the  misused  name  of  "  British  interests." 

.There  probably  never  was  a  measure  of  such  large  and  varied  indirect 
operation,  which  was  adopted  with  such  an  intoxicated  thoughtlessness. 
Against  all  the  cautions  which  the  sagacity  of  statesmanship  would  have 
suggests  tQ  any  preyioos  Govcnun.ciziti  the  ledtage-^ffect  of  ibjA  ounout 


THE  FRIKKDS  AKB  FOEB  OF  BUSSIA«  143 

twp  de  the/Hre  osmed  ih«  da^.  It  implied  ft  ndieal  change  in  ihe  eon- 
e^ption  and  use  of  the  Indian  Ann^,  wh|ch  np  to  that  time  might  have 
been  best  defined  by  ft  negatiye :  it  was  not  an  Enropean  Army.  The 
effect  ojfL  the  peace  <^  the  countay  of  a  proh>nged  or  extenslTe  abstrac- 
tion of  its  defenstTe  force,  its  military  police,  was  not  worth  considering. 
The  aojbhonty  of  the  Parliamentary  inqniry,  which  had  pronounced 
against '  measures  of  t^is  kind,  was  qnietiiy  overlooked.  l%ere  was  no 
examination  of  the  probable  results  on  the  contentment  of  India,  when 
6he  shonld  find  herself  saddled  with  ttke  liabiliiy  to  proTide  men  fbr 
wars  from  which  she  could  deriye  no  advantage ;  or  on  the  soldiery, 
who,  upon  a  footing  of  itif eriofity  to  their  comrades,  were  to  fi^t  iii 
climates,  and  amid  races  and  associations,  wholly  strange  to  their  expe- 
rience. Thd  cantemptnous  forgetf^ess  of  all  these  subjects  was 
remarkable.  But  they  were  questions  of  the  future.  The  Government 
also  foxgot  tbe  most  obvious  sugge^ti6n  of  the  present ;  namely,  that 
tiie  game  was  a  game  which  two  eouM  plfiv  at. 

A3  to. tile  mode  of  playing  it,  the  skin  of  Bussia  appean  to  have  been 
more  coxkspicTioos  than  her  generosity.  It  was  natural  enough  that  sho 
should  prepare  to  threaten  British  India  through  Affghanistan;  and, 
when  wd  had'  brought  an  earnest  of  the  power  of  India  into  Europe, 
should  indicate  that  thefo  was  also  a  possii^e,  though  a  very  uninviting, 
way  fi^m  Europe  towards  India.  But  we  must  suppose  that  the  design 
of  Buffiia,  in  ^us  diractdng  her  troops,  was  much  less  military  than 
poUticai.  She  knew  with  whom  ^e  ^^'f  dealing :  and  sought  to  act 
OQ  the  Ipnid  suseeptibiHties  of  the  British  Gkrvemment,  bo  as  to  draw 
it  into  some  fals'j  stop. 

It  is  probable,  indeed,  that  Bussia  was,  through  her  agents,  lesd 
aoaware  than  was  the  British  Parliament,  with  how  singular  a  perversity 
the  Indian  Qovemment,  impelled  from  home,  had,  ever  since  the  year 
1876,  been  preparing  combustible  material,  to  which  she  might  at 
pleasure  apply  the  match.  During  more  than  two  y^ars.  the  unfor- 
toaate  Ameer  of  Affghanistan  had  been  made  tha  butt  of  a  series  of 
measures  alternating  between  cajolery  and  intimidation,  Down  to  th  j 
time  of  Lord  NorthbrooVs  departure,  he  Icne^,  from  ft  long  experience, 
that  he  bad  fkst  friends  in  the  Ticetoys  of  India  r  and  with  a  short- 
sightednesB  of  petty  craft  sufficiently  Asiatic,'  he  endeavoured  to  extort 
from  their  good-will  everything  he  thought  it  could  be  mad  3  to  yield  in 
one-side^  larg'^sses  of  men,  money,  and  engagements.  He  knew  W4 
woe  jef^us  of  the  independence  of  Affghanistan,  and  he  strove  to  turn 
this  jealousy  to  aeoount  for  his  personal  and  dynastic  views.  He  desired 
to  nukke  us  parties  in  determining  the  question  of  succession  to  his 
throne :  as  if  we  had  not  learned  by  sor^  experience,  in  the  case  of  Shah 
Soojidi,  the  fc^y  of  our  choosing  a  sovereign  for  that  country ;  and  to  ^ 
obtain  ftom  us  guarantees  for  his  security,  which  were  not  to  be  ) 
dependent  on  his  conduct.  Of  the  wise  and  necessary  refusal  to  enter 
into  sueh  entangling  stipulations,  he  more  or  less  made  a  grievance. 
Ha  UktfwiM  i^okoaed^  a^pe&Mt  u»  a  friendly  leemonstrance  of  L(tod  Korth- 


J 


144  THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA. 

brook's  against  his  most  impolitio  and  vindictiyo  aeyerity  towatds 
eon  Yakoob  Khan,  together  \7itl1  one  or  two  minor  matters,  and  mA  a 
complaint  that  we  had  not,  as  arbiters  in  tho  case  of  Seistan,  decided 
according  to  the  view  which  he,  one  of  tho  parties,  entertained.  GClicro 
was  not  any  evidence  of  serious  meazung  in  his  attempts  to  maka  a 
market  of  these  complaints.  He  exhibited  to  us  no  hostility.;  for  it  was 
not  a  hostile  act  to  restrain  the  movement,  in  tho  interior  of  his 
dominions,  of  the  subjects  of  a  Power  which  had  crueUy  and  wantonly 
desolated  the  country,  "v^thin  the  memory  of  many  living  Ajfghascr.  In. 
1874,  Sir  R.  Pollock  had  an  opportunity  of  learning  througlf  a  con- 
fidential channel  the  stat^  of  his  feelings  toward  us ;  and  herciq)Gii  lie 
acquamted  tho  Government  of  India  that  they  wera  in  no  rcexJect 
altered  for  the  wprao.  AH  tho  Ameer  had  done  was  to  try,  lito  a  epoiicd 
child,  to  get  aa  much  as  ho  could  out  of  our  good- nature, , and  to  lay 
greater  burdens  on  the  willing  horse.  He  littlo  knew  what  a  prico  lie 
would  have  to  pay  for  his  incliscretibn. 

In  X87G.  XiOrd  No^brook  withdrew ;  and  the  new  Viceroy  began  too 
faithfully  to  givo  effect  to  tho  new  ideas  propagated  from  home.  The 
Ameer  had  asked  engagements,  which  impHed  a  greater  intiioacy  of 
relations.  Tha  present  Grovemment,  through  Lord  Lytton,  declared  ita 
readiness  partially  to  meet  his  views  in  these  respects ;  but  combined 
vith  tho  concession  a  variety  of  stipulations,  which  aro  recorded  in  tho 
drafts  given  to  guido  Sir  Lewis  Pelly  in  his  Peshawur  ncgotiatioxus,  and 
which  would  have  placed  his  independence  entirely  at  our  mercy.  The 
ordinary  salutations  of  international  intercourse  would  net  suffice.  The 
British  Government  was  determined  on  nothing  less  than  embiaeizigr 
the  Ameer:  but  with  .an  embrace  that -strangled  him.  lu  the  fore- 
g^und  of  these  counter-demands,  there  £tood  one  stipulation  which  we 
made  preliminary  and  indispensable,  tiiat  he  should  admit  British 
officers  i^to  his  dominions  as  Residents  at  various  points.  To  any 
plan  of  this  kind  it  was  well  known  that  he  objected, and  Lord  Lawrencd 
has  shown  how  reasonable  his  objections  were;  not  only  because  he^ 
could  not  answer  for  the  good  treatment  of  our  officers  by  his  own 
people,  but  because  as  often  as  he  turned  his  eyes  towards  India,  he  saw 
m  scores  of  cases,  that  where  Englishmen  came  in  at  que  dpcr,  there 
and  then  the  independence,  of  Asiatic  sovereignty  went  out  at  the  other. 

The  papeiis,  so  long  unduly  withheld  from  Parliament,  cover  an 
extended  field ;  in  which  those,  for  whom  it  is  needful  to  ditrken  or 
evade  the  i$sue,  can  discover  plenty  of  bye-paths  in  which  to  dirport 
themselves.  But  the  whole  affair  is  summed  up  and  brought  to  a  head 
in  the  detailed  conferences  of  Sir  Lewis  Pelly  with  the  Ameer's  Minister 
at  Peshawmr  during  the  early  part  of  1877.  Here  both  parties,  fully 
provided  with  instructions,  declared  in  the  most  authentic  manner  the 
minds  and  intentions  of  their  principals.  And  here  the  Ameer  dis- 
covered, when  too  late,  that  the  little  grievances  which,  with  a  childish 
craft,  he  had  magnified  or  pretended,  nad  brought  upon  him  counter* 
eiactionS)  which  he  regarded  as  fatal  to  himself  %n4  to  his  conntiy. 


THE  FRIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  RUSSIA.  14*^ 

Extorttoner  against  extortioner,  the  strong  one  znost  pveyail,  and  the 
weak  one  must  go  to  the  waIL  His  Minister  attempted  ta  ezecnte  hig 
change  of  front ;  but  it  was  too  late.  Producing  the  grieyanoes  of  the 
Ameer,"*  he  carefully  excluded  from  them  all  reference  to  the  unreason- 
able expectations  about  the  succession  and  the  guarantee.  Assured 
that  those  forgotten  and  fictitious  wants  would  be  supplied,  he  camo 
face  to  face  with  what  was,  to  him,  the  most  real  and  most  terrible  of 
all  exactions,  the  admission  of  British  functionaries;  and  without  this, 
he  was  told,  he  could  not  move  a  step  in  the  negotiations.  Not  only  so, 
butt  that  the  promises  given  by  Lord  Mayo  and  by  Lord  Northbroo^, 
unless  he  complied  ^th  the  demand  would  bo  withdrawn. 

It  is  not  often  that  diplomatic  conferences  have  a  pathetic  aspect. 
But  of  the  very  few  that  have  read  theso  Papers,  hardly  any,  I  should 
thiak,  can  withhold  an  emotion  of  pity  from  iho  clover,  but  over* 
matched,  representative  of  the  Ameer. 

Kowhera  is  moro  conspiououslyexhlbitodthj  unquestioned  possession 
of  ths  gianVs  strength,  and  tho  cynical  determination  to  us3  it  liko  a 
giant.  Again,  and  again,  and  again,  the  Asiatic  Ikivoy  entreats  Sir  Lewia 
PeQy  to  withdraw  the  stipulation,  which  ha  ddclar^  to  bo  fraught  with 
fatal  peril  to  his  country.  All  that  the  Ameer  desires  is  to  bo  let  alone, 
and  to  rest  upon  the  Treaties,  together  with  the  promises  of  Lord  Mayo 
and  Lord  Korthbrook.  The  agreement  at  UmbaUa,  says  iho  Minister 
(p.  205),  is  sufficient  so  long  as  the  Queen  will  let  it  remain  intact  and 
^able.  *'  TiH  the  time  of  the  daparturo  of  Lord  Northbrook^  that  prc« 
vious  coursd  continued  to  bo  pursued"  (p.  206).  "Lord  Northbrook 
l^t  the-  ffiendship  without  change,  in  confonuity  with  the  conduct  cf 
hi& predecessors "  (p.  208).  The  Ameer  dssirad  only  "that  tho  usual 
friendship  should  remain  firm  upon  Iho  f or=iier  footing  "  (p.  211).  His 
former  fears  of  Russia  had  disappeared ;  Lord  Northbrook  "hiid  thor- 
oughly reassured  him "  (p.  211).  The  sham  or  petty  gnevances  havo 
been  put  out  of  view:  his  desire  only  is  that  the  Viceroy  will,  "with 
great  frankness  and  sincerity  of  purpose,  act  in  conformity  with  the 
course  of  past  Viceroys*'  (p.  213).  But  that  is  exactly  what  Lord  Lyt- 
ton  will  not  do.  Wmle  Parliament  was  assured  at  homo  that  there  was 
no  change  in  Indian  policy,  the  trumpery  complaints  put  forward  from 
time  to  time  by  the  Ameer,  so  long  as  he  thought  his  standing  ground 
was  safe,  were  now  mado  to  rls3  in  judgment  against  him.  Under  the 
pretext  of  drawing  the  bonds  of  friend£&p  closer,  ho  was  required  first 
and  foremost  to  concede  the  admission  of  British  Residents  whoso  pres- 
ence the  Minister  stated,  eleven  times  over,  would  be  dangerous  or  oven 
fatal  to  his  independence.  On  his  refusal,  ho  was  told  that  ho  must 
stand  alone,  andthat  he  was  no  longer  to  invoke  the  assurances  cf  the 
former  Viceroys.  But  English  support  was  to  him  as  tho  air  he 
breathed,  and  the  threat  of  its  withdrawal  was  used  as  an  in&trument  of 
tortoie.     In  this  singular  negotiation,  tha  ruler  of  a  thin  and  poor 

*  Papers,  p.  9(M.  t  Pcpcrs,  p.  819. 


Ae  THE  PltlENDB  AND  FOES  OP  RUSglA. 

x^otuxtain  poptdation  in  Vain  straggleB  through  his  Minister  fo  coj^-mtil 
the  agent  of  an  empire  of  three  hundred  miliidns.  Before  this  agent  he 
cowers  and  crouches,  like  a  spaniel  ready  bound  and  awaiting  the  knife 
of  the  ▼irisector.  It  is  no  wonder  if  the  Minister  died  of  it.  At  any 
rate  he  died  within  a  few  days  after  the  repulss.  The  Ameer,  hopeless 
and  helpless,  stood  utterly  aghast.  He  sent  off  a  new  Agetit  (p.  171), 
to  continue  the  conferances,  and,  as  was  believed,  to  face  all  the  future 
perils  of  the  reqidred  conoessions  rather  than  incur  the  present  desola- 
tion of  the  withdrawal  of  the  English  alliance.  But  the  Viceroy  ad- 
visedly put  an  end  to  th«  Whole  buraneiw.  because  the  Ameer  (ihftf.)  had 
not  shown  an  **  eagerness"  to  concede  the  t';rms  which  he  conceived  to 
bo  pregnant  with  the  ruin  of  his  house  and  his  country. 

Such  was  the  mode  in  which  the  present  Minierters  pursued  what  they 
constantly  announced  as  their  policy ;  to  have,  namely,  on  th€ii^|rontief 
a  strong  and  friendly  Affghanistan  as  a  barrier  against  ilnssia.  Wishing 
him  t©  be  strong  and  friendly,  they  did,  and  they  still  are  doing,  every- 
thing which  cobld  make  him  weak  and  hostile.  He  stood  between  the 
two  great  Empires,  like  a  pipkin  (to  use  Lord  Lylton'»?  simile)  between 
two  iron  pots.  He  had  not  substantive  strength  suffi/nent  for  self-sup- 
port, in  his  kingdom  at  once  turbulent  and  wtak.  H^  required  to  lean 
on  some  one ;  and  we  acquainted  him  that  he  should  not  b^  aQowed  to 
loan  on  us.  Thus  it  was  that,  while  we  were  in  disturbed  relations  with 
Bussia  as  to  European  politics,  we  laid  open  for  her,  as  f^r  as  policy 
could  lay  it  open,  the  way,  tlm>ugh  Affghanistan,  to  our  Eastern  pos- 
sessions. 

Accordingly,  Bussia  did  not  trust  to  her  military  measures  only,  but 
detarmined  io  commit  tho  unfortunate  Ameer,  whom  w©  had  tliown, 
CO  to  speak,  ksto  her  hands.  Her  advances  in  03ntral  Asia  have  been 
put  forward  as  tho  excuse  for  our  pressure  upon  tha  Ameer.  But  she 
has  made,  so  far  as  we  aro  informed,  no  advances  at  all  since  the  annex- 
ation of  Khokand  in  1875  :  and  that  advance  has  been  far  more  than 
compensatad  by  tho  establishment  of  the  Persian  authority  at  Merv, 
which  has  stopped  her  only  practicable  road.  However,  we  kindly 
opened  for  her  a  diplomatic  path ;  and  she  bogan  to  press  upon  tho 
Ajneer  the  roception  of  a  Bussian  Mission.  To  such  a  Mission  tho 
Amccr  showed  a  great  repugnance.  But  in  Juno*  ho  was  duly  informed 
by  General  Kauffmann  Uiat  the  misoion  must  be  received.  And  wo 
have  the  efhrontery  (for  it  is  no  hci)  to  maka  this  complaint  agains  j 
him,  that,  when  ho  was  deprived  of  all  promises  of  support  from  us, 
and  cast  into  utter  isolation,  ho  did  not  bid  dofiancd  to  Kussia  also  by 
refusing  to  her  I^voy  an  entranco  into  his  dominions. 

But  the  Bussians,  while  they  deprived  the  Ameer  of  choice  in  tho 
matter,  proceeded  like  men  in  their  senses,  and  did  not  disgrace  him 
in  the  sight  of  his  own  subjects.  Time  was  allowed  for  his  decision. 
Leaving  Tashkend  in  the  end  cf  May,  General  StoletoJS  waited  *^for  a 

*  CcutTLl  Afiioix  Papers,  I^o.  1,  ii,  IdO. 


THE  VSiJBmm  AND  FOE»  OF  RUSSIA.  147 

iQonth"  ai  the  teny  oter  the  Oxns  tratU  the  Affgban  Bek  unrlyecl  who 
yrsa  to  be  his  eaeort*    He  croBsed  it  apparently  in  the  beynning  cf 
July ;  and  cmly  seaohed  CabiU  (the  exapt  day  is  anoertain  f)  in  tho  cud 
of  &e  month.    Now  compare  with  this  deferential  caution  our  method 
of  proceeding.    On  the  14th  of  August  the  Viceroy  writes  an  imperloui 
letter  to  the  Ameer^  ^rtoally  commanding  him  to  receive  an  RnglirCi 
Mission.     Its  delivery  is  deiayed«  by  the  death  of  tho  Amur's  favorite 
son,  unid  the  12th  of  September  (p.  237).    Sir  Neville  Chamberlaia 
arrived  at^  Peahawur  (p.  23S)  on  the  aome  day ;   and,  with  a  gross 
indecency,  of  which  th3  whole  blame  belongs  to  his  suparior^  he  pro- 
ceeded, before  thero  could  be  any  reply  fspm  the  Ameer,  to  communi- 
cate directly  with  his  ^arvants.     He  was  authorised  at  onco  to  acqusont 
the  Hustafi  ('J)'(L)  tl^at  **  the  refusal  ctf  the  free  passaga  v/ould  bring 
iDAtters  to  an  issuo;'*  and  on  the  15th  of  September  (p.  240.)  Sir  Neville 
Cbamberlain  domEuided  from  the  Commandant  of  the  Fort  of  All 
Mnsjed  ^'  a  dear  reply''  whether  he  was  prepared  to  *' guarantee  the 
Bafe^  of  tiid  British  Mission''  or  not,  as  ^^  I  ^annot  delay  my  depaxture 
from  Peshawur*"    In  ^kse  of  refusal  or  dels^y,  he  would  act  iadspend* 
(Qtly.    The  Ameer^  thus  disgraced  in  the  sight  of  his  own  servants  and 
people,  wocdd  not  (apx>arently)  have  sent  instructionB  if  he  could,  but 
certainly  could  not  if  he  would.     These  are  hi0  words,  reported  by  our 
own  native  Agent  (p*  241);  *^Itis  as  if  they  were  come  by  force.     I 
do  not  agpre^b  to  the  Mission,  coming,  in  this  manner;  ajod,  until  my 
oSccrs  have  received  ordezp(  from  .me«  how  can  the  Hissiou  come  ?    It 
i$  as  if  they  wish  to  disgrace  me."     On  the  21st  the  Mission  was  refused 
a  passage  by  the  AJS^ghan  officers,  for  ihe  insulted  Ameer  had  sent  them 
Lo  iDstroetiona  to  grant  it.     Thus  was  got  up  by  us  the  ^'aiFront" 
Trbich  is  pat  f oirward  in  justification  of  a  war  as  f  ooUsh  as.  it  is  iniquit- 
oQs,  and  as  iniquitous  as  it  is  foolish.     The  case  is  completed  when  we 
imd  that  the  Ameer  hod  actuall;|r  intimated  (p.  242)  that  he  would 
receive  the  Mission  in  a  short  time  (p.  242):  that  our  Agent  recom* 
mended  ''that  the  Mission  should  be  held  in  abeyance  "  (p.  241),  as  the 
Busaian  Mission,  we  have  seen,  with  a  studious  respect  for  appearances, 
waited  a  whole  month  on  the  Oxus ;  and,  finally,  tiiuit  our  Prime  Minis- 
ter  declared  the  object  of  our  proceeding  was  to  obtain  a  scientific 
frontier. 

Thus  far  we  have  been  contemplating  a  pitiless  display  of  I^Iight 
against  Kght.  Wo  shall  now  see  how  the  genuine  buUy  can  crouch 
before  his  equaL  Five  days  after  the  Viceroy  addressed  his  high- 
handed letter  te  the  Ameer,  the  Foreign  Secretary  despatched  to  St. 
Petersburg  the  expression  of  a  categorical  *'  hope  **  of  tl^  Briti^  Gov- 
munent,  equivalent  to  a  demand,  that  the  Bussian  Mission,  as  incon- 
Eistent  with  the  understanding  between  the  two  countries,  would  be  at 
once  withdrawn  fromi  CabuL$    Until  the  8th  of  September,  the  Bussian 

■  I  >  _  I  in  ■■    I  ;     H       I  ^1    I  I      .  I       ii.i      II        I  II— li—i™    I    I  ll 

•OeatnlAsiaaPapers^Ko.  2,p.l4.  tCovap.  pp.18, 14».ll^  <* 

t  Ceiitral  Agi^  P*peK9»  No.  1,  Pr  IfiO. 


148  THE  FBIENDS  liND  FOES  OP  BUSSIA. 

Foreign  Office  managed  to  shift  off  its  reply;  and  then  unswered  th&t 
r.3  a  mission  of  simple  courtesy,  it  was  witiiin  the  onderstanding.  In 
this  roply  the  present  Ministers  appear  at  onoe  to  have  acqoiesced.  Iso 
notice  is  taken  ol  it,  except  in  a  letter  to  the  Indian  Office  from  the 
Forsign  Office,  whereat  is  complacently  treated  as  fihowing  that  tbo 
understanding  with  Bnssia  has  *'  recovered  its  -validity."  The  Mission, 
of  which  the  immediate  witbdravral  had  been  desired,  was  justified  by  a 
shallow  and  transparent  pretext;  This  pretext  was  accepted  Tho 
Mission  was  not  withdrawn,  but  the  jdemand  was.  I  do  not  know 
where  to  find,  in  onr  modem  history,  sach  an  example  of  nndne  and 
humiliating  submissipn  to  a  foreign  GoYemment 

But  when  the  facts  became  known  by  the  publication  of  the  papers 
on  the  SOth  of  Noyember,  it  was  at  once  declared,  on  the  part  of  the 
late  Government,  that  a  Russian  Mission  at  Cabul  was  a  departure  from 
the  agreement  at  which  the  two  States  had  arrived,  and  that,  however 
it  might  be  justified  when  their  relations  were  disturbed,  it  could  cot 
otherwise  be  justified  at  aU.  Under  the  ccmp^^lsdon  created  by  this 
declaration,  the  Ministry  has  changed  its  course.  On  tiie  18th  of 
December  it  at  length  announced  that,  T.'hen  they  learned  the  Eussian 
envoy  had  left  Oabul,  they  supposed  the  Mission  had  'gone  too.  And 
yet  they  well  knew  enough  that  the  two  things  are  perfectly  distinct: 
that,  for  example,  at  the  dose  of  the  Conferences  of  Constantinople, 
every  Foreign  l^Onister  left  the  Porte,  and  every  Mission  remained. 
Having  accepted  the  hollow  excuse  of  the  Bussian  Government,  they 
presented  one  as  hollow  for  themselves  to  Parliament  and  their  countrj-. 
But,  under  compulsion,  they  now  state  they  do  not  acquiesce  in  the 
continuance  of  a  Bussian  Mission  at  Cabtd.  It  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  Bassia  will  relieve  them  from  their  embarrassment  by  bring- 
ing her  compliments  to  a  close,  and  allowing  the  Mission  to  pack  up 
and  depart.  Not  improbably  she  may,  if  she  thinks  its  presence  there 
might  render  it  more  difficult  for  her  to  act  upon  her  plan  of  leaying 
the  Ameer  to  shift  for  himself  under  the  difficulties  in  which  she  has 
helped,  for  her  own  purposes,  to  place  him.  But  how  are  we  to  escape 
from  the  facts,  that  she  has  declared  a  mission  of  courtesy  to  be  within 
the  Clarendon  understanding ;  that  her  declaration  has  been  receiTed 
without  protest  for  three  months ;  and  from  the  apparent  consequence, 
^hat  she  has  obtained,  by  the  act  of  the  present  Ministers,  a  presump- 
tive title  to  send  a  "  mission  of  courtesy  "  to  Cabul  when  and  as  often 
as  she  pleases  ? 

We  have,  then,  sufficiently  established  the  following  propoatious  :— 

1.  The  British  Tories  are  the  traditional  and  natural  allies  of  Bussis, 
in  the  policy  of  absolutism  which  she  commonly  has  followed  in  Con> 
tinental  affairs. 

2.  They  only  depart  frOm  her  when,  in  the  case  of  Turkish  oppres- 
sion, she  departs  from  herself,  and  is  found  fighting  on  the  side  of  free- 
dom and  humanity.  '  ... 

8.  In  thus  departing,  they  have  so  macnaged  their  resistante,  that 


THE  FBIfiNDS  AK0  FOES  OF  BUSSIA.  149 

they  have  j^jed  her  game,  f oxtiiled  her  pontioii,  and  h-ombled  their 
couatry  before  her. 

When  oar  rojstsriiig  pohttcians  begin  their  preparations  for  the 
coming  Election,  ttfese  propoedtions  may  afford  them  some  instmction ; 
and  may  render  a  degree  cif  aid  to  the  people  In  answering  tiie  great 
qnastion  thej  mUi^t  then  ahswer,  tefiet/ter  the  premut  mods  f «  the  fnods 
m  which  thff  whh  ths  country  t)be  governed. 

They  wlH  not,  indeed,  lack  instmction  from  other  souroes.  In  vain 
do3S  tiie  Minister  of  Finance  escape  for  the  hoar  the  payment  of  his 
just  debis  by  postponing  them  as  private  spendthrifts  nse  to  do;  by 
"spreading"  them  over  fntnre  years ;  and  by  borrowing  the  money  of 
imporerished  India,  in  which  bat  a  year  ago  we  were  told  that  1,400,000 
pereoDS  died  of  famine,  nntil  the  GoTemment  can  make  np  its  mind 
vhethsr  the  war,  which  they  hope  is  nearly  oonohided,  be  one  which 
shoold  be  paid  for  by  England,  or  by  its  Eastern  dependency,  or  by 
both.  So  stands  the  child  before  its  doso  of  physic,  and  stmg^es  for  a 
few  moments  to  pat  off  swallowing  the  draught ;  which  will  be  all  the 
bitterer  the  long3r  it  is  delayed.  Und^r  the  pressure  of  a  yast  ezpendi- 
tnra.  and  in  the  thickened  and  nnwholesome  atmosphere  of  a  blustering, 
tnrbolent,  and  vacillating  foreign  policy,  trade  and  industry  obstinately 
refuse  to  revive,  and  suffering  stalks  through  the  land  in  forms  and 
tneasores  unknown  to  our  m<>dem  experience.  In  the  scnreness  of  this 
pTdssnrd  it  is,  and  it  was,  almost  forgotten  that  through  the  various 
departments  of  public  action  reform  and  improvement  stagnate.  But 
tlierd  is  one  subject  which  not  even  now  can  be  dropped  from  view.  I 
uean  the  war  that  has  been  not  proclaimed,  indeed,  but  established  in 
th^  country :  the  silent  but  active  war  against  Parliamentary  Gk)veni- 
meDt 

The  majority  of  the  present  House  of  Commons  has,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  indicated  its  readiness  to  offer  up,  at  the  shrine  of  the 
GoTemment  which  it  sustains,  the  most  essential  rights  and  privileges 
vHch  it  holds  in  trust  for  the  people.  The  occupation  and  administra- 
tion of  new  territories,  intended  and  admitted  to  involve  large  military 
(barge ;  the  assumption  of  joint  governing  rights,  under  circumstances 
of  almost  hopeless  difficulty,  over  a  range  of  territory  which  found  room 
^or  S3Teral  of  the  greatest  empires  of  antiquity ;  the  establishment  of 
new  pohcies,  and  Sie  development  of  them  into  wars  abhorrent  to  their 
coQntrymen ;  all  these  things  have  been  effected  under  the  cloak  of 
(deliberate  and  careful  secrecy,  which  has  been  maintained  with  evident 
intention,  and  even  with  elaborate  contrivance,  to  exclude  the  Parlia- 
ment and  the  nation  from  all  influence  upon  the  results.  The  greatest 
encouragement  has  been  afforded  to  a  renewal  of  these  experiments ; 
for  when  at  length  they  have  become  known,  they  have  been  accepted 
in  Parliament  v^th  greedy  approval,  with  that  eagerness  to  be  immo- 
^ed  which  even  an  Ameer  of  Affghanistan  failed  to  show. 

^hen  at  length  the  House  of  Commons  is  allowed  or  invited  to  dis- 
^the  great  acts  of  the  Groveznment,  information  of  vitaj  importance 


150  THE  FEIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  EUSSIA,  * 

to  a  jxuigineut  upon  them  is  still  withheld.  TbnS)  at  the  close  of  last 
July,  on  the  motion  of  Lord  Hartington,  they  debated,  with  the  TreBty 
of  Berlin,  the  Anglo^Turkieh  Convention.  Jji  that  OonTention,  heeides 
the  giros9  breach  of  the  Treaty  of  Paris  in  'whidt  it  'was  based,  the 
secrecy  and  haste  with^rhich  it  was  concluded — because  of  the  fear,  ^s 
Mr.  Bourke  candidly  declared,  that,  if  time  and  publicity  were  given, 
the  Sultan  would  refuse  to  sign— and  the  onerous  and  hardly  conceiv- 
able eingagenbents  for  the  defence  and  government  of  the  whole  of 
Asiatic  Turkey,  there  was  one  other  essential  considc ration :  its  ten- 
dency to  disturb  our  good  understanding  with  friendly  Powers,  and 
especially  with  France.  The  wrong  done  to  France  by  the  Convention 
was  strongly  insisted  on  in  the  debate.  But  it  seemed  almost  frivolous 
to  dwell  upon  this  topic  in  its  several  branches,  when  France  herself 
was  mute.  And  mute  the  House  was  Allowed  to  euppose  her.  Net 
until  we  had  passed  weU  into  the  Parliamentary  recess,  a  Correspond- 
ence was  published  from  which  it  had  appeared  that  France  had  taken 
the  alarm,  and  that,  on  the  21st  of  July,  Mr.  Waddington  had  addressed 
to  the  British  Government  a  despatch  of  expostulation  and*  remon- 
strance, the  existence  of  v/Mch  was  carefully  concealed  from  Parliament 
during  the  debate. 

It  is  not^  hov/over,  over  the  War-making  and  Treaty-making  powers 
alone  that  the  majority  of  the  present  House  of  Commons  havo  dx>ne 
Tihat.in  them  lay  to  forego  their  controL  Even  on  their  exdusive  tax- 
ing privileges,  and  on  their  legislative  powers,  they  seem  to  set  no 
higher  value.  On  the  evening  of  the  17th  of  December,  they  voted 
that  the  revenues  of  India,  or  rather  the  money  of  India,  for  there  is  no 
revenue  of  the  year  applicable  for  the  purpose,  should  be  applicable  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  the  Affghan  "War.  Under  the  authority  of  that 
vote,  and  of  the  corresponding  vote  in  the  Housa  of  Lords,  the  moneys 
of  India  may  l>e  so  apphed  without  any  limit  either  of  time  or  cf 
amount-  Should  tho  expenses  rise  beyond  those  of  the  first  Affghan 
Tv'ar,  which  is  6txt:d  to  have  cost  thirty  millions ;  should  the  s  ries  of 
operations  last,  a3  they  then  lasted,  over  some  four  years.  Parliament 
has  no  moro  to  say  to  it;  (ho  Houses  havo  parted  with  their  power, 
once  for  all,  into  tho  handa  of  the  Executive  Government. 

But  this  is  not  all.  In  this  unfaithfulness  to  India  (for  such  it  s;cmL; 
Is  in volvGcl  an  abdication  of  the  Parliamentary  control  over  British  en 
pendlturo.  Per  it  was  declared  on  the  part  of  the  Government,  by  th"» 
leader  cf  tho  Houso  of  Commons,  that  they  could  not  as  yet  make  vp 
their  mind  whether  any,  or  if  any,  what  proportion,  of  the  chargo  cf 
tho  war  should  be  d  of  rayed  by  the  Imperial  TreaEury ;  but  that  they 
would  do  EO  hereafter.  The  vote  of  Tuesday  night  was  therefcro 
passed,  in  order  to  constituts  in  the  Government  an  authority  for  an 
cxpenditura  on  the  Affghan  War  without  any  Umit  of  time  or  of 
amount,  and  this  under  full  notice  that  an  imknown  proportion  of  that 
expenditure  might  hereafter  be  demanded  of  them  from  the  purse  of 
<^3  English  pecplo.    About  as  well  might  tho  House  cf  Commons,  in- 


THK  l'ltIE3n)S  AND  FOfiS  OF  BtiS^fA.  \lil 

stoAd  of  TOting  fhd  Army  Estiinatds  from  year  to  year,  Btmply  conftldtato 
a  power  of  charge  in  the  name  of  the  Administration ;  and  then  wait 
until,  in  some  ^tore  year,  it  shonld  be  called  upon,  when  tho  money 
had  been  Bpen%  to  set&e  the  aooottnt  in  the  lump  by  a  vote  of  ratifica- 
tion. • 

Not  less  remarkable  Is  the  disrespect  exhibited  by  tho  presdut  Gov- 
cmment  to  the  legiedatiTe  office  of  the  Lord»  and  Commons  of  tho 
Fnitsd  Kingdom.  Of  this  Sir  Alexander  Qotdon«  on  tho  13th  of 
Decemb^,  pointed  oat  in  his  place  in  Pariiam«iit  the  following  note* 
worthy  instance : — 

On  the  28th  of  February,  1876,*  Lord  8alisbary  instraoted  Lord 
Lytton  as  follows : — 

The  Qaeen's  ns^nmption  of  the  Iniperinl  title  in  relation  to  her  Mcjaety's  Indian 
'objects,  fendatoritifl,  and  allied,  will  now  for  the  flrst  time  coopplcoonsly  transfor  to 
hor  ladfan  domintoDt  \o  form  us  well  m  fn  fact  the  cmpreme  ambority  ot  the  Indian 
Enipiru.  /^  irtU  therefore  be  <ms  qf  your  tarlioit  duties  ta  nUi/y  tn  the  Amur  q/ 
Afgluinisian  and  the  Khan  of  Khelat  your  aasumpUon  of  the  viceregal  op.cc  undef 
th^s-"-  mw  eondUions^ 

Now  the  Qnsen  assumed  the  dignity  of  Emx^ress  of  'India  under  tho 
Royal  Titles  Act  of  1876.  At  the  time  when  the  Ministry  gave  these 
presumptuous  instructions,  that  Act  had  not  passed.  Even  of  the  Bill, 
the  House  of  Lords  had  had  no  cognisance  whatever ;  and  the  House  oif 
Clommons  had  expressed  no  judgment  on  its  merits,  which  were  much 
contested.  It  had  just  been  brought  in,  on  the  21st  of  February.  It 
vas  not  read  a  second  time  till  the  9th  of  March.  It  did  not  receive 
the  Koyal  ass3nt  till  the  27th  of  April,  two  months  after  Lord  Salisbury 
M  written  to  Lord  Lytton  his  instructions  for  acting  upon  it.  It 
must  indeed  be  gratifying  to  those  members  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
who  confide  in  the  wisdom  of  the  Grovemment,  to  witness  the  recipro- 
cal confidence  which  that  Grovemment  reposes  in  their  docility. 

Domestic  policy,  then,  as  well  as  foreign,  and  that  which  Ues  deeper 
ihanany  policy,  the  essential  principle  of  ParUamentary  government, 
will  have  to  b3  considered  and  determined  at  the  coming  Election  by 
the  nation.  But  one  word  more  as  regards  that  foreign  policy.  The 
The  standing  motto  of  Liberalism  is  friendship  with  every  country ;  as 
it  was  indeed  of  Toryism,  until  the  new-fangled  Toryism  of  the  day, 
not  less  turbulent  than  it  is  superstitious,  came  into  v/3gue.  Liberalism 
bas  disapproved,  and  must  disapprove,  that  antagonism  to  freedom 
which  has  commonly  marked  the  continental  policy  of  Kussia,  almost 
chough  not  quite  aS  much  as  that  of  Austria ;  a  State  which,  unlike 
lUa,. has  perhaps  never  once  been  led  astray  by  any  accident,  into  a 
snnpafhy  with*  external  freedom.  But  the  braggart  language,  the 
unseemly  suspicions,  the  one-sided  moral  laws,  Sie  fierce  national 
antipathies,  which  so  many  writers  among  us  have  been  labouring  to 
cherish,  are  as  truly  alien  to  the  spirit  of  true  Liberalism,  as  is  tyranny 
itselt    Kot  only  is  the  true  fraternity  of  nations  a  great  article  of  the 

*  A%haii  Papers,  p.  166, 


152  THE  PEIENDS  AND  FOES  OF  EUSSIA. 

liberal  creed,  but,  as  a  creed  cf  justice,  it  reqnirea  that  the  proceedings 
cf  Govemmenta,  and  of  despotic  as  well  as  free  ^rovemments,  should 
be  received  and  judged  in  a  spirit  cf  equity  no  kss^than  of  caution.  It 
further  demands  that,  in  Iho  administration  cf  oui*  foreign  affairs,  and 
•  in  tho  firm  dafence  ef  our  interests  as  well  as  pur  honour,  neither 
wonaanish  alarais  at  every  rustling  breeze,  nor  ra  mean  and  selfisli 
egotism,  should  ba  su^ered  to  preTail.  Probably  if  Liberal  writers  and 
statesmen  wero  called  upon  to  declaro  whiit  Foreign  "Minister,  "vh?s 
peiiod  cf ,  policy  abroad,  they  thought  to  be  the  very  best  iinages  cf 
principles  truly  English,  they  might  point  to  the  period  and  the  persou 
of  Mr.  Oasuung.  I  have  sordy  shaken  ^e  nerves  of-  some  by  holding 
that  we  ought  to  imitate  Kussia  (as  I  would  imitate  ^ho  worst  Govern- 
ments, either  foreign  or  domestic,  that  history  could  produce)  in  its 
good  deeds.  It  seems  that  even  a  truism,  which  is  all  but  vapid,  can 
terrify  the  morbid  mind.  But  I  must  add  another  truism,  at  the  rlsli 
of  exciting  similar  terror.  In  determining  what  deeds  of  Bussia,  or 
any  other  country,  are  good,  and  what  are  bad,  we  must  be  governed  by 
the  same  rules  of  evidence,  and  the  same  laws  of  justice,  as  we  apply  in 
considering  our  own.  What,  for  the  happiness  of  mankind,  requires, 
both  here  and  elsewhere,  to  be  exorcised,  is  that  spirit  of  unconsidering 
selfishness  which,  and  which  almost  alone,  makes  this  smiHng  world 
into  a  world  of  woe.  As  to  the  disregard  of  our  true  British  interests, 
which  is  often  so  freely  charged,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  weigh  and 
confute  the  imputation,  when  so -much  as  a  single  case  can  be  gathered 
from  the  page  of  history,  in  which  a  coimtry  has  been  injured  through 
a  mere  deficiency  of  regard  to  its  own  welfare.  It  is  the  excess  ,of  that 
sentiment,  involving  as  it  always  involves  its  misdirection,  which 
through  all  generations  has  marred  the  fairest  prospects  of  humanity  : 
and  which  yet  will  mar  them. 

W.  E.  GiiABSTONB,  in  Nineteenth  Century. 
Pbcxmbeb,  22, 1878. 


ENGLISH  MEN  OF  I^TTEBS. 

BHEXLET. 

It  wotild  hAve  been  nothing  yery  extraardinary  thotigli  Shellejr  had 
been  still  alive ;  so  far,  that  is,  as  a  man  and  his  human  life  maybe  judged 
from  an  oidinaiy  estimate.  Had  he  been  liying  now,  the  poet  Would 
haye  been  considgpably  younger  than  many  people  one  knows,  whos? 
y3ars,  moTeover,  do  Qot  of  themselves  neoessaiily  indicate  a  speedy  tiloes 
of  life.  Shelley  would  have  been,  by  this  time,  on  old  man,  certainlT, 
but  he  would  not  have  been  much  older  than  Mr.  Garlyle,  who  can  stiU 
travel  to  Scotland  when  he  is  inclined,  or  write  lexers  to  the  newspapers 
on  current  politics.  Then  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  one,  whose 
vigorous  manhood  wlu3  contemporary  with  Shelley^s,  passed  away  in  the 
g&ad  and  interesting  Barry  Cornwall.  Mr.  B.  H.  Home  is  still  active, 
though  full  of  years,  and  both  Mr.  P.  J.  Bailay  and  Sir  Heniy  Taylor 
virtually  belonged  to  the  generation  that  knew  Shelley.  He  would  have 
been  eighty-five,  or  rther^y,  had  he  lived  to  the  present  year,  which 
indeed  has  ssen  David  Leong'  pass  away  at  just  &&t  patnarchal  ago. 
Yet  it  is  wearing  on  to  sixty  years  since  Shellay's  tragic  end,  while  bio- 
graphers and  critics -have  long  been  busy  with  himself  and  his  writings, 
and  the  antiquaries  are  now  engaged  with  probable  relics  of  his  furni- 
ture. 

For  over  half,  a  century,  then,  the  question  has  been  agitated  as  to 
6heUey*s  place  as  a  poet.  It  has  generally  been  allowed  that  he  was  a 
man  of  no  ordinary  power ;  while  a  few  nave  studied  him  faithfully, 
and  a  majority,  as  usual,  has  given  a  verdict  in  utt sr  ignorance  of  tho 
merits  of  tide  case.  He  has  been  overrated  and  he  has  been  underrated, 
belauded  and  maligned,  feared  and  worshipped,  and  misrepresented. 
As  usual,  thos3  who  condemn  him  most  readily,  and  most  thoroughly, 
are  those  that  know  least  about  him ;  while  it  must  be  added  that  among 
big  warmest  admirers  are  tho83  whose  admiration  is  challenged  by  the 
wrong  things,  or  is  pitched  in  a  falsetto  key.  All  this  indicates  that 
there  must  be  something  mora  than  ordinary  about  Shelley — something 
that  raises  him  quit3  out  of  and  above  the  crowd  of  human  agents,  and 
Eomething  that  makes  him  peculiar  even  among  English  men  of  letters. 
It  is  not  a  common  thing  to  find  a  number  of  able  thinkers  puzzling 
themselves,  and  starting  theories,  and  making  mistakes  soon  to  be  recti- 
fied—condemning, and  praising,  and  excusing,  and  expounding — all  in 
connection  with  a  mere  soldier  in  life's  great  battle,  who  has  fought  the 
nsual  fight  and  got  done  with  ft.  Shelley  must  have  been  an  uncom- 
mon man  before  his  personality  should  postulate  such  an  uncommon 
interest,  and  give  rise  to  so  much  criticism,  at  once  tentative,  warm,  and 
contradictory.  We  seem  to  have  got  at  the  right  distance  frdm  him  to 
warrant  something  like  a  definite  estimate  of  his  vital  worth :  of  what 
he  was  in  himself,  and'  what  he  did  for  1  teratm'o.     Yet,  as  has  already 

*  C1S3) 


154  '  ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

been  said,  tho  poet,  in  the  matter  of  length  of  years,  might  still  have 
been  with  ns  ;  and  it  is  ol  fact  that  Captain  Trelavny,  who  was  one  cf 
the  close  companions  of  his  last  days,  is  not  only  still  olive,  but  has  this 
year  re-written  the  book  containing  his  impressions  of  Shelley  and 
Byron. 

At  the  very  outset,  then,  the  diffieulty  meets  us,  as  to  whether  it  is 
altogether  fair  to  judge  of  Shelley  from  what  it  was  given  him  to  do  in 
his  short  span  of  thirty  yeaa».  When  we  think  of  wha^other  eminent  men 
might  have  been  had  they  died  so  young — Chaucer,  Milton,  Wordsworth, 
Scotty  oven  Shakspeare  himself — ^wo  arc  inclined  to  pause  before  givmg 
judgment.  Chaucer,  without  his  ^*  Canterbury  Tales;'*  Milton,  witli 
no  *^ Paradise  Lost;**  Thomas  Carlylo,  merely  as  a  translator  and  bio- 
graphical essayist,  xfen  ind3ed  but  striplings  compared  v/ith  the  men 
whan  displa3ring  their  full  complemect  of  results.  Had  Shelley,  too, 
lived  even  to  tho  throescorj  ycara  of  Chaucer,  what,-  with'fiis  cnormons 
assimilative  faculty,  his  singular  introspective  power,  his  strength  of 
creative  energy,  might  he  not  have  done?  Judging  from  **  Prometheus 
Hinbound  "  and  tho  *  ^  Cend, "  it  seems  not  an  unfair  inference  to  make  that 
Chelley,  with  matmrod  and  disciplined  experience,  had  it  in  him  to  stand 
abreast  of  the  foremost  Elizabethans.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  it 
is  impossible  to  overlook  the  nature  of  his  unique  development,  as  far 
as  it  went.  He  defies  any  convenient  theory  of  averages ;  he  wiU  not 
brook  to  be  judged  in  relation  to  an  ordinary  criterion.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible to  consider  him  middle-aged,  in  some  respects,  while  just  emerg- 
ing from  his  teens,  and  to  aver  that  his  intellectual  maturity  wasreachtd 
and  over  bsforo  his  early  death.  Shelley,  at  twenty-two,  had  spiritual 
Insight  and- grasp  of  understanding  that  might  have  served  a  superior 
nature  at  forty ;  and  Shellsy,  at  tv/enty-nino,  was  as  far  from  concen- 
tration  of  purposo,  from  sanity  cf  outlook,  and  from  practical  sagacity 
as  any  schoolboy  not  utilised  by  Lord  Macaulay. 

On  the  score  of  gr.^t  personal  intensity  and  rapt  enthuaasnl  for  his 
ideal,  of  a  certain  frenzy  of  Platonic  santiment,  and  of  bright  and  pnre 
melodious  oipression,  Shelley's  death,  before  reaching  the  ordinary 
years  of  maturity,  was  a  gr,::at  Wow  to  tholiteratura  of  his  country ;  bnt 
m  BO  far  as  ho  secmad  likely  to  add  dignity  to  the  national  poetry,  io 
furnish  frash  aesthetic  mat&rial,  or  to  contribute  a  new  impulse  to  socml 
rogeneration,  the  poet  seemed  to  have  done  his  best  and  his  worst.  Aa 
a  v/orker  in  poetic  transcendentalism  he  had  probably  not  reached  per- 
fection ;  as  an  individual  he  might  have  grown  and  expanded  for  tho^o 
about  him  and  directiy  couQemed  with  his  character  and  conduct,  while 
it  is  hardly  probable  tiiat  his  general  influence  would  have  gained  by 
bngth  cf  days.  Even  on  the  **  unworldly  "  hypoth?6is  of  his  admirer--, 
this  seems  a  perf ectiy  legitimate  conclusion  to  draw ;  for,  if  a  man  at 
thirty  has  no  better  sociological  theories  than  Shelley  had,  when,  in- 
deed, is  ho  likely  to  have  them?  The  truth  appears-  to  be,  that  if  f:^^ 
poet  is  not  to  be  charged  with  moral  insanity,  he  must  be  let  oS  wit!) 
social  puerility  aiid.  a  marvellous  poetic  licence.     ]^.  Symonds,  froiA 


ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTERS.  155 

the  lofty  ffisthetioal  Btasdpoint  he  takes,  along  with  other  devotees,  be- 
wails toad  eondemns  the  attitude  of  some  of  the  leading  cn'tios  among 
Shelley's  contemporaries,  but  in  doing  so  he  overlooks  the  fact  that 
critics,  eren  when  considering  poetry,  deal  with  assumed  human  beings, 
and  not  with  essential  or  possible  demigods.    How  should  a  *  *  Quarterly  " 
BeTiewer,  in  reading  ^*  Queen.  Mab  "  or  **Laon  and  Oythnia,*'  be  in  a 
ppsition  to  know  that  the  author  ^ss  not  amenable  to  average  social  law, 
to  say  nothing  of  civilization  or  common  decency  ?     It  is  all  very  well 
after  the  lapse  of  sixty  years  to  reduce  moral  chaos  within  the  elastic 
str3tch  and  grasp  of  a  fine  frenzy  ;  it  is  quite  a  different  thing  to  fef  1 
that  it  nMiy  taint  existing  conditions  to  the  core.    Were  it  not  that  ideal- 
ism, even  of  the  kind  in  which  Shelley  ravels,  stands  so  greatly  in  need 
of  commonplace  material  and  outward  8ymb<^,  it  might  be  possible  for 
happy  majorities  to  rejoice  in  it ;  but  as  matters  stand  there  is  no  de- 
nying that  it  is  quite  beyond  the  &3Bthetic  attainment  of  the  aventge  Eng- 
lishman. And  thus  if  Sh3ll3y's  suj^am  3  reverence  for  liberty  was  Ukely  to 
dsvelope  in  the  direction  it  had  steadily  held  for  years,  there  seems  no 
harshness  to  his  memory  in  saying  that  th3  world  had  quits  enough  of 
it.    As  a  social  reformer  tha  poit  was  not  likely  to  have  much  success, 
even  if  privileged  with  a  lengiU  of  days  that  would  have  classed  him 
With  ths  old3st.  patriarch.     In  /o  far  as  hs  advocated  a  theory  of  liberty, 
Shelley  may  safely  be  put  to  '>ae  sida  a j  tmprofitable,  and  what  remains 
of  him  for  considjration  will  be  tha  Bf )  h.7  l.d  and  the  poetry  he  wrote. 
Now  both  aro  so  bound  ux>  with  his  theories  that  it  is  difficult  to  con« 
&id9r  thsm  apart.     It  is  not  possible,  for  instance,  to  dv^fend  his  treat- 
ment of  his  first  wif 3,  and  ther3  ^r3  features  in  all  his  Lading  poems 
which  would  seem  to  bo  beyond  the  r^ch  of  even  the  tend«rest  genftr- 
osity.    Mr.  Symonds,  tW>agh  an  ardent  admirer,  is  not  quite  a  blind 
davotse  of  th3  poot,  pjid  he  is  willing  to  admit  that  extraordinary  en«. 
thusiasm  ^nd    imperfect  exparience   may  have  induced    outrageous 
'blunders.     In  referance  to  th3  painful  circumstances  connected  with 
Harriet,  he  looks  from  a  mush  loftier  and  manlier  standpoint  than,  for 
example,  Mr.  W.  M.  Hosatti,  whos3  attempted  palhation  of  the  poet's 
conduct  is  nothing  short  of  vulgar  bravado ;  but  Mr.  Symonds,  also,  is 
jnst  too  anxicas  to  overlo<^  the  patmt  fajts  of  the  case.     He  is  very 
hopeful  that  a  statement  yet  to  be  mad 3  will  shed  an  entirely  new  light 
upon  the  mattar,  if  not,  indeed,  wholly  exculpate  the  apparenfly  erring 
husband.     An  ordinary  onlooker  cannot  but  wond?r  that  such  extenu- 
ating account  has  not  been  mads  long  ere  now.    Harriet  could  hardly  be 
madj  WOIS3  thai  partial  biographers  have  alriady  made  her,  and  there 
is  certainly  room  for  brightening  the  .memory  of  Shelley.      In  a  word, 
if  such  things  in  the  liv3s  of  great  men  are  to  be  discussed  at  ail,  they 
must  be  brought  to  th3  bar  of  common  sans  3,  and  estimated  according 
to  recognised  social  law.     Little  good  can  be  done  by  such  criticisms  as 
those,  on  tb.d  one  hand,  of  Dr.   Johnson  and  De  Quincey  rosp  acting 
Milton  and  Goethe,  or  those  of  Mr.  Swinburne  and  Mr.  Michael  Bosatti 
touching  K^  rdu  and  Shelley,'  on  the  oth^.     Readers  of  what  th3  poets 


15<5  ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTEES. 

have  left  wonld  rather  dispense  -with  emoh  special  pleading,  ancl^  inc!t:d 
(were  it  possible),  forget  fiie  untoward  facto  altogether.  Mr.  Bymonds, 
in  his  narrative,  has  succeeded  in  fairly  establishing  one  thing,  and  that 
is,  that,  so  far  as  can  be  made  out,  the  first  Mrs.  Shelley  wua  not  an 
unworthy  wife  of  her  extraordinary  husband.  He  has  also  shewn  that, 
through  the  poef  s  incessant  quest  aft^  a  Fair  Ideal,  even  the  second 
wife  was  perilously  near  a  crisis.  But  the  poeVs  mind  was  disabusedin 
time,  and  circumstances  favoured  a  return  to  comparative  sauity. 

All  this  would  not  be  worth  dwelling  on  at  all,  were  it  not  connected 
more  or  less  intimately,  with  Shelley's  poetry.  For,  after  all,  that  is 
the  main  thing  about  the  man  of  vital  interest  to  this  and  all  coming 
generations.  If  he  has  left  anything  worth  reading ;  if  it  is  safe  to  read 
it ;  if  our  wives  and  sistsrs  could  profit  by  the  study  of  it,  as  well  a3 
ourselves ;  if,  in  short,  he  has  contributed  to  literature  anything  that  is 
worth  preserving,  then  by  all  means  let  due  credit  be  given.  We  are 
probably,  at  present,  just  too  much  inclined  to  philosophise  Over  our 
men  of  letters.  Esthetic  criticism  is  prone  to  discover  what  was  ne>er 
from  the  first  in  tha  writer's  intention:  it  starts  with  a  theory,  and 
speedily  turns  out,  by  a  process  of  ingenious  reconciliation,  a  beautiful 
symmetrical  unity.  This  habit  has  become  so  inveterate,  that  there 
seems  a  risk  of  great  ancients  shading  oS  into  sun-myths,  and  criticiEni 
toning  down  into  a  system  of  ideas.  Now  Shelley  would  make  a  prime 
sun-myth,  and  his  poems  could  b^made  to  encompass  him  with  varyicg 
degrees  of  splendour,  till  the  aggregate  glory  would  be  cf  a  kind  not  to 
be  approached  by  ordinary  methods  cif  interpretaticn.  Meanwhile, 
howevel",  there  arj  rcad«.rs  of  verse  to  whom  sueh  «esthetical  consider- 
ations are  unpalatabb,  and  there  are  very  many  others  to  whom  they 
are  as  nothing  and  vanity.  What  is  to  be  done  with  these  in  presence 
of  work  Uke  Shelley's  ?  They  will  undoubtedly  come  to  the  conclusicu 
that  his  tone  is  oft-times  depraved,  and  his  etlucs  unwholesome,  and  it 
will  be  extremely  difficult  for  even  the  ablest  apologist  to  prove  them 
wrong.  Mr.  Symonds  says  that  tho  poet's  theories  about  individual 
liberty  took  such  hold  of  him,  that,  in  his  ardent  advocacy,  he  went  to 
the  extremes  that  in  his  heart  of  hearts  ho  had  no  desire  to  defend. 
That  may  have  been,  but  if  it  is  the  case  it  simply  c  mphasiscs  the  chargj 
of  puerility  and  inexperience  that  comes  so  readily  to  Land  against 
Shelley.  If  he  was  so  innocent  as  not  to  know  that  others  besides  hiv2- 
self  took  an  interest  in  social  problems,  then  perhaps  he  was  warranted 
in  giving  poetic  shape  to  thoughts  that  wHl,  on  the  first  blush,  challeng: 
the  contempt  they  deserve.  Some  of  his  finest  poetry  is  so  sadlv 
tainted  that  it  will  not  bear  reading  except  by  professed  Btudents  of 
verse,  while  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  it  is  quite  an  education  in  numberj 
to  listen  to  his  firm  well-defined  beat,  and  an  elevation  of  soul  to  bj 
held  spell-bound  by  his  harmonies.  Let  any-one  read,  for  instance,  tliJ 
first  fifteen  stanzas  of  the  first  canto  of  the  **Beyolt  of  Islam,"  and  eaj 
whether  the  man  that  provided  such  work — such  a  sweep  of  landK^pe, 
such  depth  of  colour,  suoh  ease  and  breadth  of  detail  and  distance  cf 


ENOUSH  MEN  OF  LETTEBS.  157 

perspective — were  or  were  not  a  poetical  soaker  of  wholly  exoeptional 
calibre  and  resource ! 

*'  And  now  Ms  Kkc  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flate ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  voice, 

That  bids  tbe  lieavens  be  mute !  ** 

But  let  tihe  same  reader  advance  throagh  the  poem,  and  the  likelihood 
will  be  that,  if  he  appreciates  the  poetic  beauty  aright,  he  will  regret 
that  it  shonld  have  been,  through  moral  perversity,  little  other  than 
thrown  away.    It  is  a  pity  that  so  much  of  Shelley*s  poetry  should  illus- 
trate the  incongruous  union  of  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast.      For,  what- 
ever  a  poet  may  be  advocating,  he  is  fully  entitled  to  his  own  opinion 
so  long  as  he  does  not  insult  the  native  dignity  of  manhood.     The  day 
has  gone  past  for  ^ondamning  a  man's  philosophy  of  SBsthetics,  simply 
because  ha  is  of  a  different  political  creed  from  Ms  critic,  but  the  time 
is  surely  yet  far  distant — nay,  hopelessly  remote,  when  he  shall  bo  hailed 
as  a  public  bsnefaotor  who  shall  glorify  Gatilline*s  young  men,  or  advo- 
cate the  luiiversal  reign  of  Girco.     At  this  point,  then,  it  is  necessary  to 
draw  a  sharp  lin3  in  referenca  to  Shelley.     Mr.  Symonds  acknowledges 
this,  and  what  he  says  is  very  much  to  the  point.     He  carefnUy  dis- 
tinguishes Ids  purely  poetical  quality,  from  his  attitude  as  a  theorist, 
though  indeed  he  is  somswhat  lenient  in  his  d  tailed  criticism.     But 
few  will  demur  such  a  general  estimate  as  the  following,  when  they  re- 
call the  lyrical  of  the  **^Thj  Skylark''  and  *'The  Cloud,"  of  the  "Ode 
to  th3  West  Wind,*'  and  the  **  Lines  Written  amon^  the  Euganean  Hills," 
as  well  the  majesty  of  movement  that  characterises  the  larger  works, 
apart  from  the  question  of  their  substantial  and  theoretical  vcdue.    '*  In 
range  of  power,"  says  Mr.  Symonds,  **h9  was  also  conspicuous  above 
the. rest     Not  only  did  ha  write  the  best  lyrics,  but  the  best  tragedy, 
the  best  translations,  and  the  best  familiar  poems  of  his  century.     As  a 
Batirist  and  humorist,  I  cannot  place  him  so  high  as  some  of  his  ad- 
mirers do ;  and  the  purely  polemical  portions  of  his  poems,  those  in 
which  he  puts  forth  his  antagonism  to  tyrants  and  religions,  and  custom 
in  an  its  myriad  forms,  seem  to  me  to  degeneratD  at  intervals  into  poor 
rhetoric."    In  the  "  Adonais,"  which  is  in  many  respects  so  tender  and 
sweet  and  touching,  there  is  much  that  draws  one  to  SheUey  in  an  atti- 
tude of  respectful  affection.     There  is  singular  pathos— a  nota  that 
reaches  the  finer  chords  of  emction—is  that  implied  wail  for  sympathy 
that  strikes  through  tha  stanzas  on  Himself. 

"  'Midst  others  of  less  note  came  one  frail  form, 

.A  phantom  among  men,  companionlesa 
As tne last clond  of  an  expirinsstonn 

Whose  thouder  is  its  knell.    He,  as  I  gaess. 

Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness. 
Actaeon-like ;  and  now  he  fled  astray 

With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wildemesG, 
And  his  own  thoughts  along  that  rugged  way, 
Piusaed  like  raging  hounds  their  father  and  thoif  prey.** 

Thoicas  Bay2^,  iii  St,  Jamst^  MosffaiinOm 


THE  GBOWTH  OF  LONDON. 

'  London, — the  opulent,  the  magnificent,  the  illnstrioas ;  or  the  equalicl, 
the  mean,  the  degraded,  regarded  now  from  the  standpoint  of  St. 
Jameses  and  now  from  that  of  St  Giles's, — though  oft  described,  isya 
indescribable.  No  other  city  in  the  world  has  ever  beheld  the  tamj 
vast  concentration  of  interests,  the  same  aggregate  of  wealth,  the  Bam  3 
triumphs  of  civilisation.  As  a  distinguished  French  writer  has  remarked, 
if  we  enter  London  by  water,  we  see  an  accumulation  of  toil  and  Vrork 
which  has  no  equal  on  this  planet.  The  intellect  of  Greece  and  th: 
power  of  Boma  find  hero  their  modern  rival  developments.  **  Paris,  bv 
comparison,  is  but  an  elegant  city  of  pleasure;  the  Seine,  with  iU 
quays,  a  pretty,  serviceable  plaything.  Marseilles,  Bordeaux,  Amster- 
dam, famish  no  idea  of  such  a  mass.  From  Greenwich  to  London  tlio 
two  shores  are  a  continuous  wharf :  merchandise  is  always  being  pikii 
up,  sacks  hoisted,  ships  moored ;  ever  now  warehouses  for  copper,  beer, 
ropework,  tar,  chemicalg.  Docks,  timber  yards,  calking^  basins,  and 
shipbuilders*  yards,  multiply  and  increaso  on  each  other.  On  the  left, 
there  is  the  iron  framework  of  a  church  being  finished,  to  be  sent  to 
Lidia.  The  Thames  is  a  mile  broad,  and  is  but  a  populous  street  of 
vessels,  a  winding  workyard.  Steamboats,  sailing  vessels,  ascend  and 
descend,  come  to  anchor  in  groups  of  tv/o,  three,  ten,  then  in  long  files, 
then  in  dense  rows ;  there  are  fivo  or  si^  thousand  of  them  at  anchor. 
On  the  right,  the  docks,  like  so  many  intricate  maritime  streets,  disgorgo 
or  store  up  tho  vessels.  If  we  get  on  a  height  we  see  vessels  in  the  dis- 
tance by  hundreds  and  thousands,  fixed  as  if  on  the  land ;  their  masts  in 
a  line^  their  slender  rigging,  mak3  a  spider  web  which  girdles  the  horizon. 
If  we  enter  one  of  these  docks,  the  impression  will  be  yet  more  over- 
whelming ;  each  resembles  a  town ;  always  ships,  still  more  ships,  in  a 
line  showing  their  heaclj ;  their  wide  sides,  their  copper  chests,  like  men 
Btrous  fishes  under  their  br^astplato  of  scales. "  As  far  as  the  eye  can  see 
London  looms  before  us,  colossal,  sombre  as  a  picture  by  Rembrandt. 
*'  Tha  universe  tends  to  this  centre.  Like  a  heart  to  which  blood  flows, 
and  from  which  it  pours,  monev,  goods,  business  arrive  hither  from  tho 
four  quarters  of  tho  globe,  and  now  thence  to  the  distant  poles."  London 
is  tho  eye  of  tha  world.  Begarded  from  a  myriad  aspect,  it  still  otgt- 
awes  U3  by  its  unreaUsable  dimensions.  It  is  the  city  of  extremes — tho 
home  of  tha  obscure  and  the  great ; — ^it  ministers  to  the  humility  of  tla 
one  and  affords  ooope  to  the  loftiest  ambition  of  the  other.  '^'iMitn 
n  man  ia  tired  of  London,*'  said  Dr.  Johnson  on  one  occasion  to  Boswell, 
^'  ho  is  tired  of  lifo  ;  for  there  is  in  London  all  that  life  can  afiord.'* 
And  again ; — '*  Cir,  if  you  wish  to  have  a  just  notion  of  the  magnitude  of 
this  city,  you  must  not  bo  Eatisfied  with  seeing  its  gfeat  streets  and 

(158) 


THE  GBOWTH  OF  LONDON.  16» 

tiqnares,  but  mxist  Bnrvej  tbc  innumerablo  littlo  lanes  and  oouxts.  It  as 
not  in  the  showy  eTolutions  of  buUduigs,  bat  in  the  mukiplicity  of 
human  habitations  which  are  crowded  together,  that  tho  wonderful  im- 
menisity  of  London  consisti;;."  Charles  Lamb,  writing  to  V/ordsworth, 
said : — "  I  have  passed  all  my  days  in  London,  until  I  have  formed  as 
many  and  as  intens3  local  attstchmenta  as  any  of  your  moimtalneers  can 
have  done  with  dead  natoro.  I  often  ched  t'cara  in  iho  motley  Strand 
from  fnlness  of  joy  at  so  much  lif  o«"  CoTTpcr  also,  in  hi^  quiet  retird* 
Dent  at  Olney,  asked : —  i 

Wharo  Imis  FloasiiTe  snch  a  flcM, 
So  rich,  f^o  thi-ougiid,  fo  drained,  bo  well  capidltd. 
As  Loudon— opnfnut.  enlarged,  and  still 
IncreaeiDg  Loudon  ? 

Ilera,  indaed,  is  a  boundless  field  for  tiio  arohzeologist,  the  num  of 
letters,  the  historian,  the  antiquarian,  and  other  investigators  in  a 
thousand  fields  of  knowledge.  It  is  the  London  of  Ghauoer^  Shakspeare, 
Milton«  and  Johnson  ;^  the  London  cf  kings  and  statesmen ;  the  London 
of  po3ts»  philosophers,  merohants,  philanti^ropists,  martyrs,  and  patriots. 

Such  ar3  a  few  general  and  abstract  views  from  the  limitless  variety  ^ 
which  might  be  taken  of  this  mighty  centre  of  the  universi.  Nor  are  the 
aetnil  and  concreta  facts  which  have  b3en  compiled  upon  the  magnitude 
cf  London  less  surprising,  and  they  will  enable  us  to  term  a  more .  ade- 
niiat3  conception  of  the  city.     From  the  computations  of  authorities,  it 
appears  that  London  (with  all  itd  suburhs)  covers  within  the  fifteen 
miles^  radius  of  Charing  Cross  nearly  seven  laundrcd  equnre  miles.     It 
uimibers  within  thesa  boundaries  over  four  millions  of  inhabitants.     It 
contains  mora  couutry-born  persona  than  tho  counties  of  Devon  and 
Gloueestsr  combined,  or  thirty-saven  per  cent,  of  its  entlr  j  population. 
Every  four  minutes  a  birth  takas.  plasd  ia  1-ij  metropolis,  and  every 
sii  minutes    a  daath.     Within  th3  ciralo  already  named  there  are 
ail3d  to  tll*3  population    two  huadrid   and    fiva  p3rson3  every  day, 
and  B3venty-five    thou^nd    annually.     London  hai    seven   thousand 
miles  of    streets,  and  on    an    average   twenty-eight   miles    of  new 
Ktr^ets    are    opened,    and   nin^    thousand    new  hous'^a   built,    every, 
year.    .One   thousand    ves83l8  and  nine    thousand  sailors  are  in    its. 
port  every  day.     Its  crime  is  also  in  proportion  to  it^  extent.     Seventy- 
three  thousand  persons  aT3  annually  taken  into  custody  by  the  police, 
and  mprd  than  one-third  of  all  the  crime  in  the  country  is  committed 
within  its  borders.     Thirty-eight  thousand  p-^rsons  are  annually  com- 
mitted for  druokenness  by  its  magistrates.     The  metropolis  comprises 
lOQsiderably  upwards  of  one  hundred  thousand  foreigners  from  every 
(joarter  of  the  globe.     It  contains  more  Roman  Catholics  than  Borne 
itsilf,  more  Jews  than  the  whole  of  Palsstine.  mora  Irish  than  Belfast, 
more  Scotchmen  t!:2an  Aberdeen,  and  more  Welshmen  than  Cardiff.    Its 
)>eershops  and  gin  palaces  are  so  numerous,   that  their  frontages,  if 
pHced  side  by  side,  would  str  ^tch  from  OharinjT  Cross  to  Chichester,  a 
distance  of  si^ty-two  miles.    If  all  the  dwellings  in  London  could  thus 


160  THE  GBOV7TH  OF  LONDON. 

LxiTc  tlicir  frontagas  placed  Bids  bj  rade,  they  would  extetid  beyocd  the 
citj  cf  Yodc     London  has  sufficient  panpeis  to  occupy  every  botiRe  in 
Brighton.     The  society  which  advocates  the  ceseation  of  Bonday  labour 
wHl  bd  astonished  to  learn  that  sixty  miles  of  shops  are  open  every  Sun- 
day.    With  regard  to  churches  and  chapels,  the  Bishop  of  Ix>ndon,  ex. 
amined  before  a  Committee  of  the  House  of  Lcrds  in  the  year  1840, 
Gaid : — "  If  you  proceed  a  mile  or  two  eastward  of  Ct  Paul's,  you  will 
find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  a  population  the  most  wretched  and  desli- 
tute  of  mankind,  consisting  of  artificers,  labourers,  beggars  acd  thieve r . 
to  the  amount  of  300,000  or  400,000  souk.     Throu^cui  this  rntL.^ 
quarter  ther3  is  not  more  than  one  church  for  every  10,000  ixJiabitants 
and  in  two  districts  there  is  but  one  church  for  4i>.(.C0  eouIs."     In  ISSJ* 
Lord  John  Russ3U  stated!  in  Parliament,  that  London,  with  thirty-fcn 
parishes,  and  a  population  cf  1.1 70,  COO,  had  church  accommodation  fo . 
only  101,000,     These  and  other  rtatistics  furnished  ltd  to  the   **  Metro 
polls  Churches  Fund,"  established  in  18oG,  which  has  been  followed  Vr 
the  Bishop  of  London's  Fund.     It  is  still  computed,  however,  that  ^'  < 
least  one  thousand  new  churches  and  chapels  are  required  in  the  metre. . 
polls. 

London  was  inwalled  in  the  year  SCG  a.  n.  Such  is  the  date  assigne/ 
by  Stow,  who  says  that  the  walls  were  built  by  Helena,  mother  of  Con 
stantine  the  Gireat ;  and  it  is  now  generally  accepted  that  the  work  wa" 
accomplished  in  the  fourth  century.  '  These  walls  were  upwards  of  tM  < 
miles  in  circumference,  and  were  marked  at  the  principal  points  by  th< 
gr:at  gates  of  Aldgate,  Bishopsgate,  Cripplegate,  Aldersgate,  and  Lnd 
gate.  Fragments  of  the  old  walls  are  still  to  be  seen.  Modem  Londoii 
was  built  at  an  elevation  of  15  feet  higher  than  the  London  of  th^ 
Bomaus.  Within  the  space  of  thirty  years  no  fewer  than  two  thousand 
Boman  coins  have  been  r-^covered  from  the  bed  of  the  Thanhs.  Bag- 
ford  says  there  was  a  temple  of  Diana  on  the  south  side  of.  St  Paul's. 
"With  regard  to  the  gates  of  London,  it  appears  that  Ludgato  was  taken 
down  and  rebuilt  by  Elizabeth  at  a  cost  cf  1,500^.  As  the  other  gates  be- 
came dilapitatad,  they  wer^  pulled  down  and  the  materials  sold.  Thus, 
when  Aldgate  was  demolished,  the  materials  were  sold  for  157Z.  10«. ; 
tho83  of  Ludgate  fetched  148?.  ;  and  those  of  Cripplegate  91^. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  London  does  not  appear  in  Dofjiesffay  Book 
This  r3Cord — which  is  so  accurate  with  regard  to  other  towns  and  cities 
—only  mentions  a  vineyard  in  Holbom  belonging  to  the  Crown,  and 
ten  acr*^8  of  land  near  Bishopsgate  belonging  to  the  Dean  and  Chapt*^r 
of  St.  Paul*8.  The  account  of  Middlesex,  however,  is  complete  :  asd 
from  this  and  other  circumstances  it  has  been  naturally  conjectured  that 
a  distinct  and  independent  survey  of  London  was  made,  which  has 
b'jen  lost  or  destroyed,  if  it  does  not  exist  among  the  unexplored  ar- 
chives of  the  Crown.  We  get  a  graphic  picture,  nevertheless,  of  early 
London  in  the  pages  of  the  monk  Fitz-Stephen.  William  Btephanides, 
or  Fit7-.8tephen,  a  monk  of  Canterbury,  was  bom  in  London.  He  lived 
in  the  reigns  of  King  Stephen,  Henry  II,,  and  Eichard  I.,  dying  in  the 


THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON.  IGl 

year  1191,     He  wrote  a  description  of  his  native  city  in  Latin.     **  Lon- 
don," he  remarks, /'like  Borne,  is  divided  into  wards;  it  has  annnal 
Bheriffs  instead  of  oonsals;  it  has  an  order  of  senators  and  inferior 
magistratss,  and  also  sewers  and  aqueducts  in  its  streets ;  each  class  of 
suits,  whether  of  the  deliberative,  damonstrative,  or  judicial  kind,  has 
its  appropriate  pkice  and  proper  court ;  on  stated  days  it  has  its  assem- 
bliea     I  think  that  there  is  no  city  in  which  morj  approved  customs 
are  observed — ^in  attending  churches,  honouring  God's  ordinances,  keep- 
ing festivals,    giving  alms,  raceivijig  strangers,   confirming  espousals, 
contracting  marriages,  celebrating  weddings,  prc'paring  entertainments, 
welcoming  guests,  and  also  in  the  arrangement  of  the  funeral  ceremoniis 
and  the  burial  of  the  dc^ad.     The  only  inconveniences  of  London  aro, 
the  immoderate  drinking  of  foolish  persons  and  the  frequents  fires. '* 
The  6am3   chronicler,   detailing   the  sports  pursued  in   grounds  and 
marshes  now  dens3ly  peopled   with    hihabitaiits,   says:-^"  Cytherea 
leads  the  dances  of  the  maidans,  who  merrily  trip  along  the  grounl 
beneath  the  uprisen  moon.     Almost  on  every  holiday  in  wiut  r,  bef  or  i 
dinner,  foaniing  boars  and  hug3-tusked  hogs,  intended  for  bacon,  fight 
for  their  lives,  or  fat  bulls  or  immense  boars  are  Imited  %vitli  dog3. 
When  that  great  marsh  which  washes  the  walls  of  the  city  on  the  nortli 
side  is  frozen  over,  the  young  men  go  out  in  crowds  to  divert  thomselvoa 
upon  the  ice.     Some  having  increased  their  velocity  by  a  run,  placing 
their  feet  apart,  and  throwing  their  bodies  sideways,  slide  a  graat  way  ; 
otheiB  make  a  seat  of  large  pieces  of  ice  like  miUstones,  and  a  gr^iiit 
munber  of  tbem,  mnning  before  and  holding  each  other  by  the  haiicT, 
draw  one  of  their  companions  who  is  seated  on  the  ice  ;  if  at  any  tim  3 
they  slip  in  moving  so  swiftly,  they  all  fall  down  headlong  tog  2 the  ~. 
Others  are  more  expert  in  their  sports  upon  the  ice,  for,  fitting  to  a„  1 
binding  under  their  feet  the  shin-bones  of  soma  animal,  and  taking  i  1 
their  hands  poles  shod  with  iron,  which  at  times  they  strike  agjiinst  t"L  > 
ice,  they  are  carried  along  with  as  great  rapid" ty  as  a  bird  flying,  cr  a 
bolt  discharged  from  a  cross-bow.    Sometimes  two  of  the  skater.^,  havin;; 
placed  themselves  at  a  great  distance  apart  l^y  mutual  agraemei:^,  con.o 
together  from  c^posite  sidefiT;  they  meet,  raise  their  poles,  and  fitr:2:3 
each  other ;  either  one  or  both  of  them  fall,  not  without  some  bodily 
hnrt :  even  after  their  fall  they  are  carried  along  to  a  great  distanc  3 
trom  each  other  by  the  velocity  of  the  motion ;  and  whatever  part  of 
their  heads  comes  in  contact  with  the  ice  is  laid  bare  to  the  very  i±z.'S^ 
Very  frequently  the  leg  or  arm  of  th3  falling  party,  if  ho  chance  to  l:g-t 
npon  either  of  them,  is  broken.     But  youth  is  an  ago  eager  for  glcrj 
and  desirous  of  victory,  and  so  young  men  engage  in  counterfeit  battles 
that  they  may  conduct  themselves  mor  j  valiantly  in  real  ones.     Most  of  1 
the  citizens  amuse  themselves  in  sporting  with  merlins,   hawks,   and 
other  birds  of  a  Uke  kind,  and  also  vath  dogs  that  hunt  in  t'lo  woods. 
The  citizens  have  the  right  of  hunting  in  IViiddlesex,  Hertfordshire,  all 
the  Chiltems,  and  Kent  as  far  a3  tho  River  Cray."      Such  v/cro  tli© 
^creations  of  Londoners  nearly  s'vii  centuries  ar;o. 

L.  M  — I.— 6. 


162  THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON. 

The  first  circmnBtantial  mention  of  the  rights  of  the  city  of  Liondon 
is  m  a  charter  of  Henry  L  Some  of  these  privileges  have  since  been 
modified :  as,  for  example,  the  exemption  of  the  citizens  from  going  to 
-war;  their  freedom  from  all  tolls,  duties,  and  customs  tbronghont  the 
realm ;  and  the  privilege  of  hunting  in  C^ltre,  Middlesex,  and  Surrey, 
which  was  compounded  for  by  "a  day's  frolic  at  Epping.**  Other 
rights  have  been  lost  entirely,  as  that  of  summary  execution  against  the 
goods  of  debtors  without  the  walls.  The  citizens,  however,  continued 
to  be  exempted  from  having  soldiers  or  any  of  the  king's  livery  quar- 
tered upon  them.  Henry  I.  sold  to  the  citizens  of  London,  for  an 
annual  rent  of  300^.  in  perpetuity,  the  shrievalty  of  Middlesex.  At  that 
time,  com  sufficient  for  a  day's  consumption  of  one  hundred  persons 
could  be  purchased  for  one  shilling,  and  a  pint  of  wine  was  sold  at  the 
taverns  for  one  penny,  with  bread  for  nothing !  Prices  have  since  gone 
up  forty-fold,  and  the  value  of  gold  has  declined;  so  that  the  300^.  of 
Henry's  time  was  equal  to  a  sum  of  not  less  than  12,(X)0^.  at  the  present 
day. 

If  the  city  has  grown  rapidly,  the  cost  of  civic  entertainments  can 
'scarcely  be  said  to  have  done  so,  notwithstanding  that  the  city  banquets 
of  our  own  day  are  famous  for  their  prodigality.  All  through  their 
long  and  chequered  history  the  citizens  of  London  have  never  appa- 
rently lost  their  appetites^  as  the  stories  of  their  sumptuous  feasts 
testify.  Before  turtle  was  known,  lusciously  dressed  eels,  a  dish  fit  for 
an  alderman,  cost  about  5^.,  which  was  equal  to  80^.  of  present  money, 
la  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  wine  at  the  annual  Spitol 
feast  cost  the  sheriffs  600^.  In  13G3,  Henry  Picard,  ex-Lord  Mayor  of 
London,  entertained  splendidly,  and  at  enormous  expense,  at  his  house 
in  Cheapside,  Edward  IH.,  King  John  of  France,  King  David  Of  Scot- 
land, and  the  King  of  Cypros.  In  1554  the  expense  of  feasting  in  the 
city  had  become  so  great  that  the  Corporation  passed  a  bye-law  to 
restrain  it.  Perhaps  the  most  costly  banquet  ever  given  in  the  city  was 
lliat  of  Juno  18y'  1814,  when  the  Begent  was  entertained,  together  with 
the  Emperer  of  Russia  and  the  King  of  Prussia.  .  The  expense  of  the 
banquet  was  25,000^.,  and  the  value  of  the  plate  used  was  2()0,000i?. 

TLe  chief  officer  of  London  under  the  Saxons  was  the  portreeve. 
Tlio  Normans  introduced  the  word  maire  from  major,  but  we  do  not 
hear  of  a  mayor  until  Henry  II. 's  time.  His  qualifications  consist  in 
being  free  of  one  of  the  city  companies,  in  having  served  as  sheriff, 
and  in  being  an  alderman  at  ihe  time  of  his  election.  The  word  *■*■  alder- 
man," as  is  genei^ly  known,  is  derived  from  the  title  of  a  Saxon  noble- 
man. Both  the  country  and  London  itself  made  great  strides  in 
prosperity  during  the  fifteenth  century.  In  1534,  Henry  VIIL  began 
the  paving  of  London,  the  reasons  assigned  being  that  the  streets  were 
"very  uoyous  and  foul,  and  iia  many  places  thereof  very  jeopardous  to 
all  pGoi)lo  passing  and  repassing,  as  well  on  horseback  as  on  foot" 
Houies  and  strocta,  wit-i  tlieatres,  gambling-rooms,  beer-gardens,  Ac, 
incrcasad  rapidly.     Bcf  oro  EHzabetli's  time  the  houses  of  the  country 


THE  GBOWTH  OF  LONDON.  IC'5 

gentry  were  litiiie  more  than  straw-thatched  cottages,  plastered  with  the 
coarsest  day,  and  lighted  only  by  ^jallises.  Bnt  the  writer  records  ai 
improvement  Tisible  in  1580.  Sj^eaking  of  the  honses,  he  says,  "hov.-- 
beit  snch  as  be  laitelie  bnilded  are  commonlis  either  of  bricke  or  hard 
stone,  or  both;  their  roomes  large  and  comelie,  and  honses  of  oSfico 
farther  distant  from  their  lodgings."  The  old  wooden  honses  wer3 
covered  with  plaster,  "  which,  beside  the  delectable  whitenesse  of  the 
stnffe  itselfe,  is  laied  on  so  even  and  Bmoothlie,  as  nothing  in  my  judg' 
ment  can  be  done  with  more  exactnesse."  Glass  began  to  be  employed 
foj  windows,  the  bare  walls  were  covered  with  hangings,  and  stoves 
were  used.  A  qnaint  old  chronicler  notes  three  great  changes  which 
took  place  in  the  farm -honses  of  the  time  of  Henry  VIIL  "One  is, 
the  multitude  of  chimnies  lately  erected,  whereas  in  their  yottng  daies 
there  were  not  above  two  or  three,  if  so  manie,  in  most  nplandishe 
townes  of  the  realme.  The  second  is  the  great  (although  not  generall) 
amendment  of  lodging,  for  oar  fothera  (yea  and  we  oorselyes  also)  have 
lien  foil  oft  npon  straw  pallets,  on  rongh  mats  covered  oaelia  with  a 
sheete,  under  coverlets  made  o^  dagswain,  or  hop-bazlote^  and  a  good 
round  log  under  their  heads  instead  of  a  bolster  or  pillow.  If  it  were 
so  that  the  good  man  of  the  house  had  within  seven  years  after  his 
marriage  purchased  a  matteres  or  flocke  bed.  and  thereto  a  sack^  of 
chftlfe  to  rest  his  head  upon,  he  thought  himself  e  to  be  as  well  lodged 
as  the  lord  of  the  towne.  Pillowes  (said  they)  were  thought  meet  onehe 
for  women  in  childbed.  The  third  thing  is  the  exchange  of  vessell,  as 
of  treene  platters  into  pewter,  and  wodden  spoones  into  silver  or  tin ; 
for  so  common  was  all  sorts  of  treene  stuff  in  old  time,  that  a  man 
should  hardlie  find  four  peeces  of  pewter  (of  which  one  was  peradven- 
ture  a-salt)  in  a  good  faacmei's  house.** 

Aggas^s  pidonak  map  of  London  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  does  not 
show  a  great  inerease  beyond  the  early  boundaries,  but  within  the 
actual  limits  ^ere  was  a  considerable  advance  both  in  the  number  of 
houses  and  of  population.  Indeed,  the  fear  of  London  beooming  an 
overgrown,  unwieldlj,  and  unmanageable  capital 

Moved  the  Ptont  heart  of  EnsrlanfTs  qneen, 
Tfaongh  Pope  and  Spaniard  conld  not  trouble  It. 

In  the  year  1580  Elizabeth  issued  a  proclamation  for  storing  the  exten- 
sion of  London  by  new  buildings.  This  proclamation,  datsd  at  Nonsuch, 
July  7,  gave  curious  grounds  for  the  arbitrary  step.  It  set  forth  the 
great  inconveniences  which,  had  arisen  from  the  vast  congregations  of 
people  in  London,  greater  still  being  likely  to  follow,  viz.,  want  of 
victuals,  danger  of  plagues,  and  other  injuries  to  health.  She  therefore 
or(3ered  that  no  further  buildings  be  erected  by  any  class  of  people  within 
the  limits  of  the  city,  or  within  three  miles  from  any  of  its  gates ;  that 
tiot  raoTci  than  on?  faniily  should  live  in  one  house,  and  that  suc^  fami- 
lies should  not  t%\  ^  inmat  "S.  The  Mayor  and  Corporation  were  called 
upon  to  disp  rs  j  all  such,  and  to  sand  thom  away  down  to  their  proper 


16 1  THE  GROWTH  0?  LONBOJH. 

placeo  in  the  country.  She  was  also  afraid  cf  the  decay  of  the  cotmtry 
aad  of  the  provincial  towns  through  the  growth  of  London.  The  pro- 
claination  p.cldrd  that,  amongst  other  miEK;hief8,  her  Majesty  considered 
the  epir  t  of  gain  p\^nf  rated  by  nuch  a  gr.at  city  one  of  the  most  Sirions, 
and  declared  that  ''a'i  particular  persons  are  bound  by  God*8  lawesand 
man's  to  forbcaro  irom  their  particular  and  extraordinarie  lucre.**  What 
would  haTC  been  good  Queen  Bi-i;s's  opinion  of  the  weidthy  and  gigaDtic 
city  in  the  latt€  r  half  of  this  nineteenth  century  1  The  Stuarts  also 
issued  fri^quent  and  stringent  orders  against  the  growth  of  the  city ;  hut 
they  were  completely  ineffective,  and  suggest  only  a  comparison  with 
the  commands  of  Canute  to  the  sea.  Yv' o  further  read  in  Clarendon,  in 
connection  with  this  subject: — "By  thfe  incredible  increase  of  trade, 
which  the  distraction  of  other  countries  and  the  peace  of  this  brought ; 
and  by  the  great  license  of  resort  thither,  it  was,  since  this  King's  access 
to  the  Crown,  in  riches,  in  people,  in  buildings  marvelloudy  increased, 
insomuch  as  the  suburbs  were  almost  equal  to  the  city ;  a  reformation 
of  which  had  been  often  in  contemplation,  never  pursued ;  wise  men 
foreseeing  that  such  a  fulness  could  not  be  there  without  an  emptiness 
in  other  places ;  and  whilst  so  many  persons  of  honour  and  estate  were 
BO  dehght3d  with  the  city,  the  government  of  the  country  must  be 
neglected,  besides  the  excess  and  Ul-husbandry  that  would  be  introduc€d 
thereby.  But  such  foresight  was  interpreted  a  morosity,  and  too  great 
an  oppression  upon  the  common  liberty,  and  so  little  was  applied  to 
prevent  so  growing  a  disease."  Wei-e  Clarendon  now  living,  he  would 
see  a  population  increas':d  five  or  sixfold  both  in  town  and  country,  & 
fulness  in  London  without  an  emptiness  in  the  provinces,  and  the  govern- 
ment of  the  country  by  no  means  neglected.  But  we  gather  from  other 
sources,  in  addition  to  the  writings  of  the  royalist  historian,  how  greatly 
the  fears  of  an  overgrown  London  had  sprt-ad  at  the  commencement  of 
the  seventeenth  centiuy.  The  Lansdowne  MSB.  record  (Ifill)  "a  brief 
discovery  of  the  pifrpreHUtiui  of  new  buildings  near  to  the  city,  with  the 
means  how  to  restrain  the  same,  and  to  diminish  those  that  are  already 
iucreaSv^d,  and  to  r.^move  many  l«wd  and  bad  people  who  harbour  them- 
selves ntar  to  the  city,  as  desirous  only  of  the  spoil  thcrtof."  Some 
years  lat  .r,  in  chiving  evidence  before  the  House  of  Commons,  one  Ser- 
3  ant  Maynard  wild : — "This  building  is  the  ruin  of  the  gentry,  and  ruin 
of  religion,  having  so  many  thousand  people  without  churches  to  go  to. 
Th-^  enlarging  of  London  mak(  s  it  filled  with  lacqueys  and  pages."  And 
in  the  cours?  of  the  same  inquiry,  Mr.  Garroway  deposed: — **  It  is 
worth  the  honour  of  the  House  to  have  these  immense  buildings  sup- 
pres.«5ed.  Hie  country  wants  tenants  ;  and  here  are  four  hundred  soldiers 
that  keep  alehouses,  and  take  them  of  the  brewers ;  and  now  they  are 
come  to  be  PraBtorian  Guards.  That  churches  have  not  been  propor- 
tionable to  housr^R.  has  occasioned  the  growth  of  popery  and  atheism, 
and  pnt  tnif»  r  4igion  out  of  the  land.  The  city  of  London  would  not 
admit  rar^  artists,  as  painters  and  carvers,  into  freedom  ;  and  it  is  their 
own  fault  that  they  have  diiven  trade  out  of  London  into  this  end  of  ih« 


THE  GROWTH  OF  LOKDON.  165 

town,  and  filled  the  great  honses  with  shops.''  Edmund  Wallf'r,  ths 
poet,  accoitnts  for  the  great  influx  of  people  into  London  in  his  own 
time  hj  the  operation  of  an  Act  for  the  settlement  of  the  poor,  rjccntly 
passed.  "  The  relief  of  the  poor,"  he  remarks,  "  ruins  the  nation.  By 
the  late  Act  they  are  hunted  like  foxes  out  of  parishes,  and  whither 
must  they  go  but  where  there  are  houses?"  (meaning  to  London). 
"We  sh^  shortly  have  no  lands  to  hve  upon,  the  charge  of  many 
parishes  in  the  country  is  so  great."  It  was  a  general  complaint  againit 
the  Aet  that  it  thrust  all  peopls  out  of  the  country  to  London.  Writing 
npon  the  condition  of  things  which  existed  earlier  in  the  century,  Hal- 
lam  said: — ^^"The  rapid  incr^aso  of  London  continued  to  disquiet  tho 
Court  It  was  the  stronghold  of  poHtical  and  religious  disedfection. 
Hence  the  prohibitions  of  erecting  new  houses,  which  had  begun  under 
Elizabeth,  were  continually  repeated.  They  had,  indeed,  some  laudablo 
objects  in  view — to  render  tho  city  more  healthy,  cleanly,  and  magnifi- 
cent, and  by  prescribing  the  general  use  of  brick  instead  of  wood,  as 
\7ell  as  by  improving  the  width  and  regularity  of  the  streets,  to  afford 
the  bist  security  against  fires,  and  against  thos3  epidemical  diseases 
which  visited  the  matropolis  with  unusual  severity  in  the  earlier  years 
of  this  reign"  (Charles  L).  "The  most  jealous  censor  of  royal  en- 
croachments will  hardly  object  to  the  proclamations  enforcing  certain 
regulations  of  polica  in  some  of  those  alarming  seasons."*  A  commis- 
sion was  grant2d  to  the  Esurl  of  Arundel  and  others,  dated  May  80,  1625, 
to  inquire  what  houses,  shops,  &c. ,  had  been  built  for  ten  years  past, 
especially  since  th3  last  proclamation,  and  to  commit  the  offenders.  It 
rjcit3s  the  carj  of  Elizabeth  and  James  to  have  the  city  built  in  a  uni- 
form manner  with  brick,  and  also  "to  cloar  it  from  undertenants  and 
base  p30ple  who  Hve  by  begging  and  stjaling."  The  proclamation  en- 
joining all  persons  who  had  residences  in  the  country  to  quit  the  capital 
and  repair  to  them,  app.ars  also  to  have  been  enforced.  Bushworth 
states  that  an  information  waB  laid  and  exhibited  in  ths  Star  Chamber 
against  seven  lords,  sixty  knights,  and  one  hundred  esquires,  besides 
many  ladies,  foe  disobeying  thv3  kiug^s  pix)clamation,  either  by  continuing 
ra  London,  or  returning  to  it  after  a  short  absence. 

The  most  admirable  description  of  London,  however,  in  the  seven- 
t?enth  century,  is  to  ba  found  in  the  pages  of  Macaulay.  This  historian 
has  made  a  digest  of  all  the  authorities  upon  the  subject,  and  tho  result 
is  a  graphic  account  of  tha  growth  of  London,  with  its  condition  in 
1685.  The  chief  points  of  this  d  ascription  we  shall  venture  to  summa- 
rise or  extract.  In  writing  the  sacond  volume  of  his  'History,*  thirty 
years  ago^  Macaulay  observed : — *'  The  position  of  London  relatively  to 
the  other  towns  of  the  empire  was,  in  tha  time  of  Charles  11. ,  far  higher 
than  at  present.  For  at  present  the  population  of  London  is  little  more 
than  six  times  the  population  of  Manchost -r  or  of  Liverpool"  This 
position  of  things  has  been  reversed  slnco  Maaaulay  wroto.    Since  1845 

•  ConstUutimal  History  of  England,  chap.  viii. 


16G  THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON. 

the  popiilatioii  of  London  has  gone  up  from  nearly  two  millions  to  «mie 
four  millions — a  rate  of  increase  not  observed  by  any  other  town  in  the 
kingdom ;  so  that  at  the  present  mc-ment  the  metropolis  has  returned 
to  the  position  it  occupied  before  Charles  II. 's  time,  relatively  to  ths 
f  other  towns  of  the  empire.  At  this  latter  period  the  populaao^  of 
''  London  was  r-.ore  than  seventeen  times  the  population  of  Bristol  or  of 
Norwich.  "It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  other  instance  can  be 
mentioned  of  a  great  kingdom  in  which  the  first  city  was  more  than 
;  fieventeen  times  as  large  as  the  sacond.  There  is  reason  to  beUeve  that 
in  1685  London  had  been,  during  about  half  a  century,  the  most  popu- 
lous capital  in  Europe.  The  inhabitants,  who  are  now  (18 1:7)  at  least 
iiinete3n  hundrad  thousand,  were  than  probably  littb  more  than  half  a 
milUon.  London  had  in  the  world  only  one  commercial  rival,  now  long 
ago  outstripped,  the  mighty  and  opulent  Amsterdam.  English  writers 
boasted  of  the  forest  of  masts  and  yardarms  which  covered  the  river 
from  th3  Bridge  to  the  Tower,  and  of  the  stupendous  sums  which  were 
collected  at  tha  Custom  House  in  Thames  Street.  Thcrj  is,  indeed,  no 
doubt  that  tha  trade  of  the  metropolis  than  bore  a  far  greater  propor- 
tion than  at  j^resent  to  the  whole  trade  of  the  country ;  yet  to  our  gene- 
ration th3  honast  vaunting  of  our  ancestors  must  appear  almost  ludi- 
crous. The  shipping,  which  they  thought  incredibly  great,"  appears 
not  to  have  exceeded  saventy  thousand  tons.  This  was,  indeed,  then 
more  than  a  third  of  the  whole  tonnage  of  the  kingdom,  but  is  now 
less  than  a  fourth  of  the  tonnage  of  Newcastle,  and^is  nearly  equalled 
by  the  tonnage  of  tho  steam  vessels  of  the  Thames.'  The  customs  of 
Lon^n  amounted,  in  1G85,  to  about  three  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
pounds  a  y3ar.  la  our  time  tha  net  duty  piid  annually,  at  the  same 
place,  exceeds  ten  millions."  This  refers  to  the  year  1845 ;  but  since 
that  timv5  tha  customs  of  the  port  of  London  have  enormously  increased, 
though  not  in  proportion  to  the  increase  of  the  manufactures  and  gen- 
eral produca  of  tha  country.  With  rogard  to  tha  city  itself,  "whoever 
examines  tho  maps  of  London  which  were  published  tov/ards  the  close 
of  tha  reign  of  Charlas  11. ,  will  see  that  only  tha  nucleus  of  the  present 
©apital  then  existed.  The  town  did  not,  as  now,  fada  by  imperceptible 
degrees  into  the  country.  No  long  avenues  of  villas,  embowered  in 
lilacs  and  laburnums,  extended  from  the  great  centre  of  wealth  fend 
civilisation  al-noKt  to  the  boundaries  of  Middlesex,  and  far  into  the 
heart  of  Kent  pad  Surr^sy.  In  tho  east,  no  part  of  the  immense  line  of 
warahouses  aud  artificial  lakes  which  now  stretches  from  the  Tower  to 
Blackwall  h&d  even  been  projected.  On  the  west,  scarcely  one  of  those 
stately  piles  o^  building  which  are  inhabited  by  lb")  noble  and  wealthy 
was  in  exi^iitpuco;  and  Chelsea,  which  is  now  peopled  by  more  than 
f  3rty  thousand  human  baings,  was  a  quiet  country  village  with  about  a 
thour-aud  inhabitants.  On  the  north,  cattle  fed,  and  sportsmen  wan- 
dara\3  v  itli  dogs  and  guns  over  the  site  of  the  borough  of  Marylebonc, 
and  o^e^  far  the  greater  part  of  the  space  now  coverv.d  by  tho  boroughs 
of  liaF.bury  and  tho  Tower  Hamlets.     Islington  wan  almost  a  tolitude  j 


THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON.  167 

ani^  poets  loved  to  contrast  its  silence  and  repose  with  the  din  and  tur- 
moil of  the  monster  London.  On  the  south  the  capital  is  now  connected 
^Ith  its  suburb  by  several  bridges,  not  inferior  in  magnificence  and 
^olid'ty  to  the  noblest  works  of  the  Caesars.  In  1()85,  a  single  line  of 
irre^ar  arches,  overhung  by  piles  of  m^an  and  crazy  housjs,  and  gar- 
L-sbad.  after  a  fashion  worthy  of  the  naked  barbarians  of  Dahomej^, 
rith  scores  of  mouldering  h  ads,  imped'^d  the  navigation  of  the  river." 
London,  at  the  period  of  the  Restoration  was  built  for  the  most  part 
of  wood  and  plaster,  the  few  bricks  that  were  used  being  very  ill  baked. 
The  city  was  consequently  a  ready  prey  for  the  flames,  and  we  may 
gather  som9  idea  of  the  terrible  ravages  of  the  Gr  ^at  Fire  from  contem- 
porary records.  It  broke  out  at  one  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  Sep- 
tember 2,  16G6,  and  raged  for  nearly  four  days  and  nights.  It  began  at 
the  house  of  Farriner,  the  king's  baker,  In  Pudding  Lane,  near  New 
Fish  Street  Hill.  It  spread  with  great  rapidity,  and,  the  Ix>rd  Mayor 
deoliaing  to  follow  the  advice  tendered  him  to  pull  down  certain  houses 
to  pravent  th?  flames  extending,  the  fire  soon  r.ach  d  London  Bridge. 
Evelyn,  describing  this  tremendous  conflagration,  states  that  **  all  the 
skie  was  of  a  fiery  aspect,  like  the  top  of  a  burning  oven,  the  light 
seen  above  forty  miles  round  about.  Above  ten  thousand  houses  all  in 
one  flame;  the  noise  and  cracking  and  thunder  of  the  impetuous 
flames,  y-  shrieking  of  women  and  children,  ye  hurry  of  people,  ye 
fall  of  towers,  houses,  and  churches,  was  like  an  hideous  storme,  and 
the  air  all  about  so  hot  and  inflam'd  that  at  last  one  was  not  able  to 
approach  it,  so  that  they  were  forc'd  to  stand  still,  and  let  the  flames 
bmm  on,  wch  they  did  for  neera  two  miles  in  length  and  one  in  bredth. 
The  clouds  of  smoke  were  dismall  and  reached  upoji  computation 
neere  fifty  miles  in  length."  Thousands  of  p^^ople  fled  to  the  fields  of 
Islington  for  security.  "I  went,"  says  Evelyn,  on  another  occasion, 
''towards  Islington  and  Highgate,  where  one  nii^ht  have  seen  two 
hundred  thousand  people  of  all  ranks  and  degr.^es,  dispersed  and  lying 
a'ong  by  their  heapes  of  what  they  could  save  from  th^  fire,  deploring 
their  losses,  and  though  ready  to  perish  for  hunger  and  d3stitution,  yet 
not  <isking  one  penny  for  rolief,  which  to  me  appeared  a  stranger  sight 
than  any  I  had  yet  beheld."  Pepys,  who,  as  Clerk  of  the  Acts  of  the 
Kavy,  lived  in  Seething  Lane,  Crutched  Friars,  has  also  left  a  vivid 
account  of  the  fire.  With  his  usual  love  of  the  curious,  he  adds  : — "It 
is  observed,  and  it  ip  true,  in  the  late  Fire  of  London,  that  the  Fire 
bpmed  just  as  many  parish  churches  as  there  were  hours  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end  of  the  Fire  ;  and  next,  that  there  were  just  as  many 
churches  left  standing  as  there  were  taverns  left  staniing  in  the  rest  of 
the  City  that  was  not  burned,  b'^^ing,  I  think,  thirteen  in  all  of  each  ; 
which  is  pretty  to  observe."  The  London  Gazette  of  Sept.  8,  1()(K>, 
gires  the  Umits  of  the  Great  Fire  as  follows : — **  At  the  Temple  Church, 
near  Holbom  Bridge,  Pye  Corner,  Aldersgate,  Cripplegate,  near  the 
lower  end  of  Coleman  Street,  at  the  end  of  Basingall  Street,  by  the 
Postern ;  at  the  upper  end  of  Bishopsgate  Street  and  Leadenhall  Street,^ 


168  THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON. 

at  the  Standard  in  ComhiU,  at  the  Church  in.  Fenchurch  Street,  near 
Clothworkers'>Hall,  in  Mincing  Lane,  at  the  middle  of  Mark  Lane,  and 
at  the  Tower  Dock."  Nearly  five-sixths  of  the  whole  city  were  con- 
sumed ;  the  ruins  covered  43G  acres ;  of  six-and-twenty  wards  fifteen 
were  utterly  destroyed,  and  eight  others  shattered  and  half  burnt; 
eighty-nine  churches  were  destroyed,  four  of  the  City  Gates,  Guildhall, 
many  public  ^tructurss,  hospitals,  schools,  libraries,  a  great  number  of 
stately  edifices,  13,200  dwelling  houses,  and  460  streets.  Various  esti- 
mates have  been  formed  of  the  p<^cuniary  loss  sustained,  a  pamphlet 
published  in  1667  stating  it  to  be  7,385,000^.  ;  but  othfr  acco.unts  give 
a  total  of  ten  millions  sterling.  It  is  marvellous  that  not  more  than  six 
persons  lost  their  lives  in  the  fire,  one  of  thf  se  b«  ing  a  watchmaker  of 
Shoe  Lane,  **  who  would  not  1'  ave  his  house,  which  sunk  him  with  the 
ruins  into  the  cellar,  wh'^re  his  bones,  with  his  keys,  wtro  fouud."  The 
loss  of  life  contrasts  favourably  with  that  of  the  fire  of  1 212,  which 
until  Charles  H/s  reign  was  known  as  the  Grrat  Fire  of  London. 
The  Woverley  Ghrovklc  reports  that  this  conflagration  broke  out  in 
fiouthwark,  when  a  groat  part  of  Ix)ndon  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Bridge,  with  the  Southwark  Priory,  was  burnt  down.  Three  thousand 
bodies,  hcJf  burned,  were  found  in  the  river  Tharaf  s,  b^sidrs  those  who 
peiished  altogether  by  the  flames.  Multitudes  of  p(  ople  rushed  to  the 
rescue  t»f  the  inhabitants  of  houses  on  the  Fridge,  and  while  thus  en- 
gaged the  fire  broke  out  on  the  north  side  also,  and  hemmed  them  in, 
making  a  holocaust  of  those  who  were  Dot  killed  by  leaping  into  the 
Thames.  The  next  great  fire  in  the  city  aft'r  that  of  \QQiQ  occurrtd  in 
1748,  when  200  houses  wrre  burnt;  but  a  fire  broke  out  in  1794  at 
Ratcliffe  Cross,  by  which  C30  houses  ard  an  East  India  warehouse 
were  destroyed,  the  loss  being  1,000,000^.  One  of  the  greatest  fires 
during  the  present  century  was  the  conflagration  in  Tooley  Street  in  the 
year  1861,  by  which  property  was  destroyed  to  the  extent  of  half  a 
million  sterling. 

Notwithstanding  the  ravages  of  the  Great  Plague,  which  destroyed 
68,596  people,  and  the  terrible  calainity  of  the  Great  Fire  in  the  year 
ensuing,  London  speedily  arose  aj.aiu  like  a  phoenix  from  its  ashes. 
Though  the  style  of  building  was  vastly  improved,  unfortunately  the 
old  narrow  and  cramped  streets  were  pre  served.  But-many  magnificent 
mansions  were  reared  in  the  busy  and  contracted  thoroughfares  of  the 
city ;  for  the  m'-rchant  prince  lived  where  ho  garner  d  his  wealth. 
''London  was  to  the  Londoner  what  Athens  was  to  the  Athenian  of  the 
age  of  Pericles,  what  Florence  was  to  the  Florentine  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  Th3  citizen  was  proud  of  the  grand  ur  of  his  cdty,  punctilious 
about  her  claims  to  respect,  ambitious  of  her  offices,  ard  zealous  for  her 
franchises."  But  almost  all  the  noble  families  of  England  had  long 
migrated  beyond  the  walls.  *'The  district  where  most  of  their  town- 
houses  stood  lies  between  the  city  and  the  regions  which  are  consid  r^d 
as  fashionable.  A  few  great  men  still  retained  their  hereditary  hotels  ?n 
ilie  Strand,    The  stately  dwellings  on  the  south  and  west  of  Lincoln's 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  LOKBON.  169 

Inn  Fields,  the  Piazza  of  Corent  Garden,  Sonihampton  Square  (which 
is  now  called  Bloomsbary  fqvaxe),  and  King's  Square  in  Boho  Fieldti 
(which  is  now  called  Boho  Square),  were  among  the  layoarite  spots. 
Foreign  piinoes  were  carried  to  see  Bloomsbmy  Square  as  one  of  the 
wonders  of  England.  .  .  .  Golden  Square,  which  was  in  the  next 
generation  inhabited  by  lords  and  ministers  of  state,  had  not  yet  been 
bc^gan.  Indeed,  the  only  dwellings  to  be  seen  on  the  north  of  Picca^ 
diUy  were  three  or  four  isolated  and  almost  rural  mansions,  of  which 
the  most  celebrated  wm  the  costly  pile  erected  by  Clarendon,  and  nick^ 
named  Dunkirk  House.  It  had  been  purchased,  after  its  owner^s  down- 
fall, by  the  Duke  of  Albemarle.  The  Clarendon  Hotel  and  Albemarb 
Street  still  pres;irve  the  memory  of  the  site.''  What  is  now  the  gaycF^ 
and  most  crowded  ^art  of  Begent  street  was  in  the  time  of  Charles  IL 
a  complete  solitude,  where  a  rambler  might  sometimes  have  a  shot  at  a 
woodcock.  General  Oglethorpe,  who  died  at  a  great  age  in  1785,  boasted 
that  he  had  shot  birds  here  in  Queen  Anne^s  reign.  The  Oxford  roail 
on  the  north  ran  between  hedges,  and  the  occasional  residences  to 
be  met  with  were  regarded  as  being  quite  out  of  towxu  The  centre  of 
Lmcoln's  Inn  Fields  was  i:a  opsn  space,  where  a  disorderly  rabble  con- 
gregated  every  evening,  whilj  St.  Jameses  Square  was  a  receptacle  for 
oil  kinds  of  oifal  and  £lth.  The  houses  in  London  were  not  numbered, 
and  the  walk  from  Charing  Cross  to  Whitechapel  lay  through  an  endless 
BOooeBsion  of  ^aracens'  Heads,  Boyal  Oaks,  Blue  Boars,  and  Golden 
Lambs,  which  disappeared  when  they  were  no  longer  required  for  tho 
dirbction  of  the  people.  In  the  evening  it  was  not  safe  to  walk  abroad 
in  the  city.  Besides  the  emptying  of  pails  and  the  shooting  of  rubbish 
from  th3  uppar  windows  upon  tho  passengers  beneath,  thieves  and  rob- 
bers plied  their  trade  wit^  impimity,  and  bands  of  **  gentlemen  '*  ruffians 
paraded  the  str^ibts,  annoying,  insulting,  and  injuring  the  peaceably- 
disposjd  citizens.  TJutil  the  last  year  of  the  reign  of  Charles  U. ,  tho 
strjets  of  London  were  not  lighted.  At  this  time  one  Edward  Heming 
obtained  letters  pat3nt,  conveying  to  him,  for  a  term  of  years,  the  ex- 
ciQdive  right  of  lighting  up  London.  '*He  undertook,  for  a  moderato 
couaid^ration,  to  piase  a  light  before  every  tenth  door,  on  moonless 
nignts,  from  Michaelmas  to  Lady  Day,  and  from  six  to  twelve  of  tho 
clock.*'  The  friends  of  improvement  extolled  Heming  as  ono  of  tho 
gr.atest  benefactors  of  his  species,  regarding  the  inventions  of  Archi- 
medes as  very  trifling  matters  *'■  compared  with  the  achievement  of  tho 
man  who  had  turned  the  nocturnal  shiades  into  noon-day."  There  wero 
others,  however,  who  strenuously  opposed  this  innovation,  just  as  in 
later  days  (as  we  are  reminded)  there  were  people  who  opposed  vaccina- 
tion and  railways. 

It  should  not  be  forgotten — though  it  is  a  point  which  has  frequently 
escaped  attention,  and  is  not  mentioned  by  Macaulay  and  others — that 
to  no  single  cause  can  tho  growth  of  London  bo  pioro  legitimately 
assigned  than  to  improved  methods  of  locomotion.  London  would  as 
ywt  iuv J  occupied  a  position  very  inferior  to  that  it  now  enjoys  had  i*" 


170  THE  GBOWTH  OF  LONDON. 

increase  in  population  depended  chiefly  upon  the  increase  of  families 
resident  within  its  borders.  When  the  journey  from  distant  parts  of 
the  country,  to  the  metropolis  was  rendered  comparatively  easy  and  inex- 
pensive, people  flocked  thither,  but  the  influx  bor«  no  proportion  what- 
ever to  the  numbers  of  persons  who  have  migrated  to  London  from  the 
provinces  since  the  introduction  of  railways.  If  we  glance  at  the  means 
of  locomotion  in  1685,  we  shall  appreciate  the  vast  strides  that  have 
been  made.  Hardly  a  single  navigable  canal  had  been  projected,  and 
the  Marquis  of  Worcester  was  suspected  of  beiog  a  madman  for  having 
constructed  a  rude  steam-engiae,  called  a  fire-v/ork,  ' '  which  he  pro- 
nounced to  be  an  admirable  and  most  forcible  instrument  of  propulsion." 
The  highways  were  in  a  terrible  condition.  Pepys  and  his  wife,  travel- 
ling in  their  own  coach,  lost  their  way  between  Newbury  and  Reading. 
Subsequently  they  lost  their  way  near  Salisbury,  and  were  in  danger  of 
having  to  pass  the  night  on  the  Plain.  Passengers  had  to  swim  for  their 
lives  when  the  floods  were  out  between  Ware  and  London.  *'  The  great 
route  through  Wales  to  Holyhead  was  in  such  a  state  that,  in  1685,  a 
Viceroy,  going  to  Lreland,  was  five  hours  in  travelling  fourteen  miles, 
from  Saint  Asaph  to  Conway.  Between  Conway  and  Beaumaris  ha 
was  forced  to  walk  great  part  of  his  way  ;  and  his  lady  was  carried  iu  a 
litter.  His  coach  was,  with  much  difficulty,  and  with  the  help  of  many 
hands,  brought  after  him  entire.  In  general,  carriages  were  taken  to 
pieces  at  Conway,  and  borne,  on  the  shoulders  of  stout  Welsh  peasants, 
to  the  Menai  Straits.  In  some  parts  of  Kent  and  Sussex  none  but  the 
strongest  horses  could,  in  winter,  get  through  the  '  bog,'  in  which  at 
every  step  they  sank  deep.  The  markets  were  oftsn  inaccessible  during 
several  months."  The  chief  cause  of  the  badness  of  the  roads  was  found 
in  the  defective  operation  of  the  law.  The  inhabitants  of  every  parish 
were  bound  to  repair  the  highways  which  passed  through  it ;  and,  as 
Lord  Macaulay  observes,  this  was  especially  hard  upon  the  poor  parishes. 
In  many  instances,  in  fact,  it  was  a  sheer  impossibility.  The  Great 
North  Boad  traversed  very  poor  and  thinly-inhabited  districts ;  but  upon 
these  districts  chiefly  fell  the  burden  of  the  maintenance  of  the  road, 
and  not  upon  the  wealthy  and  populous  districts  at  its  extremities,  viz., 
London  and  the  West  Eiding  of  Yorkshire.  Changes  were  slowly 
inaugurat:d,  till  now  Great  Britain  is  intersected  in  every  direction  by 
upwards  of  thirty  thousand  miles  of  good  turnpike  road.  Besides  the 
Rtajo  v/ajgons  in  us 3  in  Charles  11. 's  time,  there  were  horses  and 
coaches  for  the  wealthier  classes.  The  cost  of  conveying  goods  wa3 
enormous.  "From  London  to  Birmingham  the  charge  was  71.  a  ton; 
and  from  London  to  Exeter  121,  a  ton.  The  cost  of  conveyance 
amounted  to  a  prohibitory  tax  on  many  articles."  It  was  twenty  times 
as  groat  as  the  charge  for  conveyance  made  at  the  present  day. 
Journeys  to  London  from  the  country  were  a  very  expensive  as  well  as 
a  tjdious  affair.  In  1GG9  the  University  of  Oxford  established  a 
"Flying  Coach,"  whose  first  journey  to  London  was  regarded  with 
great  anxiety  by  the  University  authorities.     At  c*::  ia  Iho  i^iorring  on 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  LONDON.  171 

the  first  day  it  Isf t  All  Souls*  College^  and  at  seyen  in  the  evening  the 
Yery  adTentupous  gelitleinen  vho  travelled  by  it  safely  reached  their 
destination  in  London.  **  The  ordinary  day's  journey  of  a  flying  coaeh 
was  about  fifty  miles  in  the  sum-nrr ;  but  in  the  winter,  when  the  ways 
were  bad  and  the  nights  long,  little  more  than  thirty.  The  Chester 
coach,  the  York  coach,  and  the  Exeter  coach,  g-neraUy  reachsd  London 
in  four  days  during  the  fine  season,  but  at  Christmas  not  till  the  sixth 
day."  Yet  these*"  coaches,  which  to  us  ara  the  reverse  of  '*  flying,'* 
proved  a  great  temptation  to  people  in  the  country  to  make  the  journey 
to  London.  In  the  year  1672,  though  only  six  stage  coaches  wero  going 
constantly  throughout  the  country,  a  curious  pamphLt  was  written  by 
oje  John  Cresset,  of  the  Charter  House,  in  favour  of  their  suppression. 
Amongst  other  reasons  which  the  writer  gives  against  their  continuance 
is  the  extraordinary  one  following  1—7'*  These  stage  coaches  make  gentle- 
men come  up  to  London  upon  very  small  occasion,  which  otherwise 
t  icy  would  not  do  but  upon  urgent  necessity  ;  nay,  the  conveniency  of 
the  passage  makes  their  wives  often  come  up,  who,  rather  than  come 
such  long  journeys  on  horseback,  would  stay  at  home.  Here,  when 
they  come  to  town,  they  must  presently  be  in  the  mode,  get  fine  clothes, 
go  to  plays  and  treats ;  and  by  these  means  get  such  habit  of  idleness 
and  love  of  pleasure  that  thay  ar3  uneasy  ever  after." 

It  will  now  be  interesting  fo  note  with  what  rapidity  the  several  divi* 
Bions  of  the  metropohs,  which  once  formed  a  portion  of  the  quiet  forest 
of  Middlesex,  have  become  populated,  and  tha  abodes  of  the  teeming 
millions  of  the  London  of  the  present  day.  Fitzsttphen,  from  whom 
we  have  already  quoted,  describing  the  suburbs  at  the  close  of  the  twelfth 
century,  says  :-t-"  Theraara  cornfields,  pastures, and  delt^ctable  meadows, 
intermixed  with  pleasant  streams,  on  which  stands  many  a  mill  whose 
clack  is  grateful  to  the  ear.  Beyond  them  a  forest  extends  itself,  beau- 
tified wifii  woods  and  groves,  and  full  of  the  lairs  and  coverts  of  beasts 
and  game,  stags,  bucks,  boars,  and  wild  bulls."  These  wild  bulls  were 
probably  buffaloes,  or  an  animal  resembling  the  beasts  of  Andalusia, 
remarks  one  commentator ;  but  another  and  more  probable  supposition 
is  that  they  were  of  the  same  kind  as  the  ancient  British  race,  which 
Sir  Walter  Scott  tells  us  in  the  "  Bride  of  Lammermoor  "  ranged  in  the 
old  Caledonian  Forest ;  and  of  which  species  herds  still  remain  in  the 
parks  of  Chartlay,  in  Staffordshire,  and  Chillingham,  in  Northumber- 
land. From  the  spot  now  busy  with  the  feet  of  Londoners  bent  upon 
commercial  enterprises,  the  warriors  of  Hastings,  Crecy,  and  Agincourt 
cut  their  bows  which  dealt  destruction  to  the  Frenchmen.  To  us,  their 
successors,  it  seems  impossible)  to  realise  that  flowers  were  once  plucked 
from  the  thickets  of  the  Strand  and  from  the  gardens  and  meadows  of 
St.  Pancras. 

Roger  of  Wendover  states  that  in  the  thirteenth  century  Hampstead 
H^ath  was  the  resort  of  wolves,  and  was  as  dangerous  to  cross  on  that 
account  at  night  as  it  was  for  ages  afterwards — and  in  fact  almost  down 
to  eur  own  times —fBom  highway nien.     Matthew  Paris  says  that  not 


172  THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON. 

only  did  wolves  abound  on  the  Heath  in  his  time,  but  wild  boars,  deer, 
and  wild  bulls,  the  ancient  British  cattle ;  so  that  neither  the  wolf's  bead 
tax  of  King  Edgar  in  Wales,  nor  the  mandates  of  Edward  I.  in  England, 
had  anythmg  liie  accomplished  the  extirpation  of  the  wolf  in  England. 
Eitzstephen,  in  his  Survey  of  London  so  late  as  1182,  and  Juliana  Bcr- 
nejrs  stiil  later,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI. ,  fifteenth  century,  assert  (tho 
latter  in  the  "Boke  of  St.  Alban's")  that  the  wolf  and  wild  boar  still 
haunted  the  forests  north  of  London.  At  the  commencement  of  tho 
nineteenth  century,  highway  robberies  wero  of  tolerably  frequent  occur- 
rence round  and  about  the  Heath.  A  good  story  is  told  of  the  Sheridans, 
which  illustrates  the  condition  of  the  Heath  in  the  last  century.  Tom 
Sheridan  was  recommended  by  his  distinguished  father  (who  was  tired 
of  his  son^s  extravagance  and  impecuniosity)  to  **go  and  try  the  trade 
of  highwayman  on  Hampstead  Heath.*'  Tom,  who  was  aware  of  hia 
father's  dimculties  in  the  management  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  repUed : — 
*'I  have  done  so,  but  I  made  a  bad  hit;  I  stopped  a  caravan  full  of 
passengers  who  assured  me  they  had  ret  a  farthing  amongst  them,  for 
they  all  belonged  to  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and  could  not  get  a  singb 
penny  of  their  salary  1 " 

The  River  of  WeUs,  which  commenced  at  the  foot  of  the  Hampstead 
Hills,  ran  between  Pond  Street  and  Kentish  Town  to  Pancras,  and  then 
by  several  meanders  through  Battle  Bridge,  Black  St  Mary's  Hall 
(where  also  there  was  a  epring),  and  thence  to  Tummill  Street,  Field 
Lane,  and  Holborn  Bridge  to  Elect  Ditch.  Of  this  river,  tradition  saith, 
according  to  Nordcn,  "that  it  was  once  navigable,  and  that  lighters  and 
barges  used  to  go  v-p  as  far  as  Pancras  Church,  and  that  in  digglrg 
anchors  have  been  found  within  these  two  hundred  years."  Kiibum 
was  quite  a  soUtary  place  in  Henry  I.'s  time,  and  old  Kiibum  Priory 
was  made  over  to  three  maids  of  honour  to  the  Queen.  Centuries  later, 
that  is  in  1685,  Enfield,  now  hardly  out  of  sight  of  the  smoke  of  the 
capital,  was  a  region  of  twenty-five  miles  in  circumference,  in  which 
deer,  as  free  as  in  an  American  forest,  wandered  by  thousands.  The 
last  wild  boars,  which  had  been  preserved  for  the  royal  diversion,  and 
had  been  allowed  to  ravage  the  cultivated  lands  with  their  tusks,  were 
slaughtered  by  the  exasperated  peasants  during  the  license  of  the  Civil 
War.  The  last  wolf  that  roamed  this  island  was  slain  in  Scotland  a 
short  time  before  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles  H.  King  Henry 
Yin.  had  hunting  grounds,  where  stand  now  some  of  the  most  populous 
parts  of  the  metropolis.  One  of  his  proclamations  runs : — "Forasmuch 
as  the  King's  most  royall  Ma^^e  ig  much  desirous  to  have  the  game  of 
hare,  partridge,  pheasant,  and  heron,  preserved  in  and  about  his  honour, 
att  his  palace  of  Westminster  for  his  owne  disport  and  pastime ;  that  \s 
to  say,  from  his  said  palace  of  Westminster  to  St.  Gyles-in^he-Fields, 
^  and  from  thence  to  Ii^ngton,  to  our  Lady  of  the  Oke,  to  Highgate,  to 
Homsey  Parke,  to  Hampstead  Heath,  and  from  thence  to  his  said  palace 
of  Westminster,  to  be  preserved  for  his  owne  disport,  pleasure,  and 
recroAc'on,"  &c.     There  were  penalties  for  killing  game  within  theM 


THj:  GROWTH  OF  LONDON.  173 

precincts.  It  is  cnrious  to  r?ad  of  tho  king  BportiQ':^  over  tlio  "  Rolitary 
and  woodland  districts  of  Highgnto,  Hampstcad,  Islington,  &r>."  Queen 
Elizabeth  frequented  Islingtou  and  Highgatc  to  hunt  iiud  Lawk  in  tho 
vast  woods  around.  She  took  up  her  quarters  at  Canonbury  Tower, 
and  her  courtiers  had  houfts  around  it,  amid  woods  and  gardrns.  Sir 
Walter  Kaleigh^s  remains  to  thi  4  day  as  the  Piod  Bull  public-house  at 
Islington.  *  Belsize  House,  Hampstead,  was  formerly  in  a  splendid  park. 
As  lata  as  the  year  1772,  on  Monday,  June  7,  tho  appearanc  >.  of  nobility 
and  gentry  at  Belsizvj  was  go  gr^^ut  that  tliey  r  3ckonod  between  tliree 
and  four  hundred  coaches;  at  whicli  time  a  wild  doer  was  huntod  down 
and  killed  in  the  park  beforj  tha  company — which  gave  thr^^e  hours* 
diversion.  Thero  were  many  highwaymen  at  Belsizo  a  century  ago,  and 
visitors  returning  to  London  at  night  ran  grjat  r:r.k  of  having  their 
carriages  stopped,  and  being  themselves  plundered,  in  districts  which 
vere  fiien  very  lonely.  During  Elizabeth's  r^iign,  tho  Lord  Mayor  of 
London,  Sir  John  Spencer,  was  lain  in  wait  for  by  Dunkirk  piratps,  on 
the  moors  betwixt  Ms  place  of  business,  St.  Helen's  Place,  Bishopsgato, 
and  Canonbury  Tower.  A  storm  fortunatc^ly  prevented  his  lordship 
from  travelling  to  his  country  seat.  His  journey  lay  through  the  dis- 
tricts which  are  now  Hoxton  and  Islington  (amongst  the  most  populous 
of  parishes),  and  this  will  sufficiently  demonstrats  the  nature  of  the 
changes  which  have  taken  place  in  that  neighbourhood  in  the  space  of 
three  centuries  only. 

Entertaining  details  are  preserved  respecting  Kentish  Town,  Isling- 
ton, Clerkenwell,  and  other  places  north  of  the  Thames,  which  show  tho 
recent  surprising  growth  of  these  places.  In  the  middle  of  last  century, 
for  example,  Kentish  Town  was  a  retired  handet  of  about  one  hundred 
houses,  detached  from  each  other,  on  tho  road  side.  By  1795  it  had  in- 
creased one-half.  Therj  were  also  forty-eight  houses  on  the  l^Iarquis  of 
Camden's  estate,  whero  the  populous  district  of  Camden  Town  now 
stands*  Horace  "Walpole,  writing  on  June  8,  1791,  says : — "  There  will 
soon  be  one  street  from  London  to  Brentford ;  ay,  and  from  London  to 
every  village  ten  miles  round  1  Lord  Camden  has  just  let  ground  at 
Kentish  Town  for  building  fourteen  hundred  houses — nor  do  I  wonder ; 
London  is,  I  am  certain,  much  fuller  than  ever  I  saw  it.  I  have  twice 
this  spring  been  going  to  stop  my  coach  in  Piccadilly,  to  inquire  what 
was  the  matter,  thinking  there  was  a  mob.  Not  at  all — it  was  only  pas- 
sengers." In  the  year  1251  there  were  only  forty  houses  in  the  whole 
pansh  of  St.  Pancras;  in  May,  1821,  these  had  increased  to  nearly  iten 
thousand  houses,  with  a  population  of  71,838.  In  18G1,  the  population 
of  St.  Pancras  (including  Kentish  Town  and  Camden  Town)  was  198,788 ; 
jn  1871  it  had  swollen  to  221,594.  Islington,  till  a  very  recent  period, 
was  a  village  standing  isolated  in  open  fields.  YvTien  * '  Domesday  Book  " 
was  compiled  the  population  consisted  of  only  twenty-seven  household- 
ers uid  tiieir  families,  chiefly  herdsmen,  shepherds,  &g.  At  this  time 
there  were  nearly  one  thousand  acres  of  arable  land  alone  in  Islington. 
The  maps  of  Ch^^xles  II/s  time  &kow  Islington  to  b©  almost  a  solitude ; 


174  THE  GEOWTH  OF  LONDON. 

and  Cowley,  in  his  poem  "  Of  Solitude,"  thus  refers  to  the  village,  in 
apostrophising  **the  monster  London  "  : — 

liCt  bnt  thy  wicked  men  from  ont  thee  go. 

And  all  the  fooJs  that  crowd  tbee  so, 
Ev  u  then,  who  dost  thy  millions  bOaBt, 

A  village  less  than  Islington  will  grow, 
A  solitude  tilmottt.- 

Through  Islington  runs  the  New  Eiver,  the  great  work  of  Sir  Hugh 
Myddelton.  Sportsmen  wandered  with  dogs  over  the  site  of  the  borough 
of  Marylebone  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and  also  over  the  greater  part 
of  the  space  now  occupied  by  Finsbury  and  the  Tower  Hamlets.  Mary- 
lebone was  originally  called  Tyburn,  and  the  manor  was  valued  at  fifty- 
two  shillings  in  **  Domesday  Book."  Marylebone  Park  was  a  hunting 
ground  in  the  reign  of  Queen.  Elizabeth ;  and  in  16()0  the  ambassadors 
from  Russia  rode  through  the  city  to  enjoy  the  sport  in  the  fields  there. 
In  1739  there  were  only  677  houses  in  the  parish ;  in  1795  the  number 
had  gone  up  to  6,200;  and  in  1861  to  16,370.  Clerkenwell  is  another 
parish  which  has  grown  with  amazing  rapidity.  In  Queen  EUzabeth's 
time  there  were  a  shepherd's  hut  and  sheep  pens  near  the  spot  on  which 
the  Angel  Inn  now  stands — yet  London  now  presents  no  denser  spot,  or 
one  more  thronged  at  certain  hours  of  the  day.  In  the  year  1700  the 
Angel  Inn  stood  in  the  fields.  In  the  meadows  between  Islington, 
Finsbury,  and  Stoke  Newington  Green,  the  archers  used  to  exercise 
their  craft.  In  Henry  II. 's  time  challenges  were  issued  from  the  city 
to  **  all  men  in  the  suburbs  to  wrestle,  shoot  the  standard,  broad  arrow, 
and  fliglit  for  games  at  Clerkenwell  and  Finsbury  fields."  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  present  century  the  ( )ld  Ked  Lion  Tavern  in  St  John  Street 
Boad,  the  existence  of  which  dates  as  far  back  as  1415,  stood  almost 
alone ;  it  is  shown  in  the  centre  distance  of  Hogarth's  print  of  "  Even- 
ing." Several  eminent  persons  frequented  this  house  :  among  others, 
Thomson,  the  author  of  '*  The  Seasons ; "  Dr.  Johnson,  and  Oliver  Gold' 
smith.  In  a  room  here  Thomas  Paine  vrrote  his  notorious  work,  "The 
Rights  of  Man."  The  parlour  of  the  tavern  is  hung  with  choice  impres- 
sions of  Hogarth's  plates.*  The  whole  district  is  now  a  most  populous 
one — in  fact,  as  thickly  peopled  as  the  other  portions  of  Clerkenwell. 
In  1745,  Sadler's  Wells  was  regarded  as  a  country  resort,  and  it  is  thus 
described  in  a  poem  published  at  this  period : — 

Herds  aronnd  on  herhcgc  green, 
And  bleating  flocks  are  sporting  seen  ; 
While  PhoBbus  with  his  brightest  rays 
I     •  The  fertile  soil  dot.li  seem  to  praise ; 

And  zephyrs  with  their  erentlest  gales. 
Breathing  more  sweet  than  flowery  vales, 
Which  give  new  health,  and  heat  repels — 
Such  are  the  joys  of  Sadler's  Wells. 

The  population  of  Islington  has  increased  by  wonderful  strides.  In 
tho  census  of  1851  it  stood  at  95,154 ;  ten  years  later  it  had  advanoed  to 
155,341 ;  and  in  1871  it  had  reached  213,749.     It  may  be  mentioned,  in 

«  rinks's  il'LU-y  of  Glcrlcnxccll,  18C5, 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  LONDON.  175 

coxinectioii'withthe  parisliof  Islington,  that  Mrs.  Foster,  grand-daughter 
of  Milton,  lived  here,  cmd  died  in  poverty  May  9,  1754,  wherenpon  th ) 
family  of  Milton  became  extinct.  Chelsea  is  another  parish  which  had 
extended  with  great  rapidity.  In  the  ,last  centnry  it  was  a  village  of 
only  three  hundred  houses,  but  dw^ellings  now  extend  from  Hyde  Vark 
Corner  away  beyond  Chelsea  Bridge.  Sir  Thomas  More»  the  Duchess  of 
Mazarin,  Turner  the  painter,  and  many  other  distinguished  individuft!i 
have  resided  in  Chelsea.  It  was  in  a  meanly-furnished  house  in  Cheyn  \ 
Walk  that  there  died,  on  August  30,  1852,  John  Camden  Neild,  who 
bequeathed  500,000?.  to  Queen  Victoria.  Kensington — so  charmin^lr 
described  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  **  Old  Court  Suburb  " — is  anoths^r  parisli 
which  has  completely  sprung  up  of  recent  years ;  or  rather,  as  Mr.  Timba 
observes,  the  district  has  been  built  over  in  two  distinct  movements,  on  3 
from  1770  to  1780,  and  the  other,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  fifty  years, 
V^gimiing  in  1825,  and  being  still  in  progress.  Some  id3a  of  tho  growth 
of  Kensington  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  in  1861  tho  population 
was  only  118,950,  wheraas  in  1871  it  had  f  cached  283,088.  No  other 
pdrish  in  London  exhibits  such  an  enormous  increase  in  the  same  space 
cf  time.  We  have  included  in  Kensington  (following  the  official  tables) 
Paddingion,  Kensington  proper,  Hammersmith,  Brompton,andFulham. 
The  district  of  Bolgravia  only  dates  from  1825.  Formerly  it  was  a 
marshy  tract,  bounded  by  mud-banka,  and  partly  occupied  by  market 
gardens.  Paddington,  in  Henry  VIII. 's  time,  had  only  a  population 
of  100  persons ;  a  century  later  in  owned  300 ;  in  1811,  the  number  had 
risen  to  4,609 ;  from  1831  to  1841  the  inhabitants  iucreased  at  the  rate 
of  one  thousand  per  annum,  and  from  1841  to  1851  at  the  rate  of  two 
thousand  annually.  In  1861  the  population  was  75,807.  Two  centuries 
ago  it  was  merely  a  forest  village.  Westminster,  at  the  time  of  tha 
compilation  of  "Domesday  Book,"  was  a  village  with  about  fifty  holders 
of  land,  and  **  pannage  for  a  hundred  hogs."  Part  of  its  site  was  for- 
merly Thorney  Island.  By  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  it  had  become  united 
to  London.  We  cannot  linger  over  its  progress  or  its  fascinating  history. 
Crossing  the  river  we  come  to  Southwark,  with  which  Lambeth  is  Aow 
united.  The  population  of  this  latter  parish  in  1861  was  162,044,  and 
in  1871  208,032.  Wandsworth  shows  a  proportionate  rise  in  population 
during  the  same  period,  the  numbers  being — 1H61,  70,483;  and  1871, 
125,050.  The  population  of  Camberwell  likewise  increased  by  40,000 
persons  during  the  same  time. '  Kensington  and  Southwark,  two  of  the 
most  ancient  of  London  suburbs,  have  progressed  m  like  proportion. 
The  most  populous  of  all  the  London  parishes  is  St.  Pancras,  to  which 
we  have  ahready  referred,  and  which  includes  one-third  of  the  hamlet  of 
Highgate,  with  the  hamlets  of  Kentish  Town,  Battle  Bridge,  Camden 
Town,  Somers  Town,  to  the  foot  of  Gmy^s  Inn  Lane;  also  "part  of 
a  house  in  Queen  Square,"  all  Tottenham  Court  Itoad.  and  the  streets 
west  of  Cleveland  Street  and  Rathbone  Place.  ,In  1503,  the  church  of 
St.  Pancras  stood  **all  alone  ;  "  and  yet  three  centuries  and  a  half  later, 
as  we  gather  from  an  assessment  to  the  property  tax  under  Schedule  A, 


176  THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON: 

the  schedule  for  the  annual  value  of  land  in  this  parish  (including  th^ 
houses  built  upon  it,  the  railways,  &c.)  gave  the  sum  at  3,798,521^. 
But,  in  truth,  wherever  we  turn  our  eyes  upon  this  vast  panorama  of 
human  life,  we  perceive  similar  evidences  of  rapid  and  prodigious 
growth. 

Although  the  records  of  this  country  have  no  equal  in  the  civilised 
world,  as  Sir  Francis  Palgrave.  remarks,  we  have  no  accurate  account) 
of  the  population  of  London  previously  to  the  census  of  1801.     Observa- 
tions, however,  were  made  at  various  periods  which  enable  us  to  form  a 
tolerably  correct  idea  of  the  advance  in  population,  both  of  London  and 
the  country  at  large.     At  the  Conquest,  Uie  whole  population  of  England 
was  calculated  at  only  2,000,000,  or  thereabouts.     In  1377,  the  last  year 
of  the  great  monarch  Edward  III.,  the  population,  as  ascertained  by  the 
Capitation  tax,  had  only  advanced  to  2, 290,000 — an  increase  of  not  more 
than  300,000  people  in  the  course  of  three  centuries.     "With  "Wales,  the 
population  only  reached  2,500,000.     London  at  this  period  only  boasted 
of  35,000  inhabitamks !     Irr  1575,  the  population  of  these  realms  was 
about  5,000,000,  and  the  metropolis  did  not  number  more  than  150,000 
souls.     Yet  England  was  then  at  her  zenith  as  a  naval  power,  and  it  was 
the  age,  moreover,  of  Spenser  and  Shakspeare.  '  A  map  of  London  and 
Westaninster  in  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  6h.ows  on 
the  east  the  Tower,  standing  separated  from  liondon,  and  Finsbury  and 
Spitalfields  with  their  trees  and  hedgerows  ;  while  on  the  west  of  Temple 
Bar  the  villages  of  Charing,  St.  Griles's,  and  other  scattered  hamlets  are 
aggregated,  Westminster  being  a  distinct  city.     In  1662  and  1665,  the 
population  of  England  and  Wales  was  calculated  by  the  hearth  tax  at 
6,500,000.     In  1670,  Sir  Matthew  Hale  calculated  it  at  7,000,000;  but 
Haydn's  "Dictionary  of  Dates  **  states  that  in  the  year  1700  it  was 
found  by  official  returns  to  be  only  6,475,000.     London  and  its  suburbs, 
in  1687,  had,  according  to  Sir  William  Petty,  a  population  of  696,000  ; 
but  Gregory,  ten  years  later,  made  it  only  630,000  by  the  hearth  tax. 
Sir  William  Petty,  writing  in  1683,  maintained  (after  deep  study  of  the 
matter)  that  the  growth  of  the  metropolis  must  stop  of  its  own  accord 
before  the  year  of  grace  1800 ;  at  which  period  the  population  would,  by 
his  computation,   have   arrived  at   5,359,000.     But  for  this  halt,   he 
further  maintained  that  by  the  year  1840  the  population  would  have 
r'sen  to  upwards  of  ten  mfllions !     It  is  not  a  little  strange  that  in  1801, 
nftr^r  the  first  actual  census  had  been  taken,  the  population  of  London 
"•as  discovered  to  be  no  more  than  864,845 — including  Westminster, 
Fouthwark,  and  the  adjacent  districts.     In  1841,  however,  the  number 
had  gone  up  to  1.873,000,  thus  showing  upwards  of  a  million  increase 
in  forty  years.     In  1851,  the  population  had  further  grown  to  2,361,640 ; 
v-'hW^  in  1861  it  had  risen  to  2,803,034.     Of  this  number  2,030,814  were 
in   fh-^.   ponnty  of  Middlesex.     According  to   the   Registrar-Generars 
^abl  p  of  Mortality,  the  population  of  London  in  1871  was  3,251,804. 
Th'^  tr.tal    yfent  of  London  was  75,362  acres  ;  the  number  of  houses  in- 
habited, 417,767;  uninhabited,   32,320;   and  houses  building,    5,104. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  LONDON.  177 

Taking  the  Metrox>olitan  and  City  of  London  Police  Districts,  tho  popu- 
lation of  London  in  1861  was  3,222,720 ;  and  in  1871  it  had  gone  up  to 
3,883,092.     The.  whole  population  of  Lancashire  at  the  latter  period, 
including  Liverpool,  Manchester,  Bolton,  Salford,  &c.,  was  only  2,818,- 
901 ;  and  the  whole  population  of  Scotland  was  littlo  more  tlian  this, 
being  but  3,358,613.     A  conception  of  the  vast  extent  of  London  may 
be  gained  from  the  following  figures  : — In  1871,  the  East  Riding  of 
Yorkshire  had  a  population  of  269,505  ;  York  city,  43,796  ;  the  North 
Riding,  291,589;  the  West  Riding,  1,831,223;  Lincohishire,  436,183; 
Staffordshire,  857,233— giving  as  tho  aggregate  for  the  whole  of  these 
populous  districts  3,729,479  souls — ^a  number  below  the  population  of 
London^done.     Or  take  another  calculation.     In  1871,  the  population 
of  Bedfordshire  stood  at  146,256;  that  of  Berks  at  196,445;  Bucks, 
175,870;  Cambridgeshire.  186,363  ;  Cheshire,  661,131 ;  Cornwall,  362,- 
098;  Cmnberland,  220,245;  Derbyshire,  880,538;  Devonshire,  600^814; 
Dorsetshire,  195,544;  Durham,  685,045;  Hereford,  125,364;  and  Rut- 
land, 22,070.     Here  we  have  a  list  of  thirteen  coonties,  yielding  an 
aggregate  population  of  3,857,785 ;  or,  25,307  persons  below  the  popu- 
lation of  the  metropolis.     An  estimate,  based  upon  the  Metropolitan 
and  City  of  London  Police  Districts,  gives  thd  population  of  London  ia 

1878  as  four  millions  and  a  quarter. 

OornhiU  Magazine, 


A  FARMHOUSE  DIRGE. 

X. 

Will  yon  walk  with  me  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  to  visit  the  farmer's  wife, 
Whose  daughter  lies  in  the  churchyard  now,  eu0ed  of  the  ache  of  life  ? 
Half  a  mile  by  the  winding  lane,  another  half  to  the  top : 
There  you  may  lean  o'er  the  gate  and  rest ;  she  will  want  me  awhile  to  stop, 
Stop  and  talk  of  her  girl  that  is  gone,  and  no  more  will  wake  or  weep. 
Or  to  listen  rather,  for  sorrow  loves  to  babble  Its  pain  to  sleep. 

u. 

How  thick  with  acorns  the  ground  is  strewn,  rent  from  their  cups  and  brown  I 
How  the  golden  leaves  of  the  windless  elms  come  sinrfy  fluttering  down  I 
The  brionv  hangs  in  the  thiunlug  hedge,  as  rubset  as  harvest  coru, 
The  straggling  blackberries  glisten  jet.  the  haws  are  red  on  the  thorn  ; 
The  clematis  smells  no  more  but  lifts  its  gossamer  weight  on  high  ;■*- 
If  you  only  gazed  on  the  year,  you  would  think  how  beautiful  tas  to  die. 

III. 
The  gtream  scarce  flows  underneath  the  bridge ;  they  have  dropped  the  sluice  of  the 

The  loach  bask  deep  in  the  pool  above,  and  the  water-wheel  is  still. 

The  meal  lies  quiet  on  bin  and  floor ;  and  here  where  the  deep  banks  winO, 

The  water-mosses  nor  sway  nor  bend,  so  nothing  seems  left  behind. 

if  the  wheels  of  life  would  but  soiuetimw  stop,  and  the  grinding  awhile  would 

'Twer*  80  sweet  to  have,  without  dying  quite,  ju»t  a  sp:jU  of  autumn  peace. 


178  ™~  A  FABMH0X7SE  DIBGR 

IV. 

Cottages  fonr,  two  new,  two  old,  each  with  its  clambering  rose : 

Lath  and  piaster  and  weather>tile  these,  brick  faced  with  stone  are  those. 

Two  crouch  low  from  the  wind  and  the  rain,  and  tell  of  the  humbler  days. 

Whilst  the  other  pair  stand  up  and  stare  with  a  self-a«serting  gaze ; 

But  I  warrant  you  *d  find  the  old  as  snug  as  the  new  did  you  lift  the  latch. 

For  the  human  heart  keeps  no  whit  more  warm  under  elate  than  beneath  the  thatdir 

V. 

Tenants  of  two  of  them  work  for  me,  punctual,  sober,  tnic ; 

I  often  wish  that  I  did  as  well  the  work  I  have  got  t  o  ('.o. 

Think  not  to  pity  their  lowly  lot,  nor  wished  that  their  ihoujrhts  coared  higher ; 

The  canker  comes  on  the  garden  rose,  and  not  on  tho  wilding  brier. 

Doubt  and  gloom  are  not  theirs,  and  so  they  but  work  and  love ;  they  live 

lUch  in  the  only  valid  boons  that  life  can  withhold  or  give. 

VI. 

Here  is  the  railway  bridge,  and  see  how  straight  do  the  bright  lines  keep, 

With  pleasant  copses  ou  eitiher  Bide,  or  pastures  of  quiet  sheep. 

The  big  loud  city  lies  far  away,  far  too  is  the  cliff-bound  shore, 

But  the  trains  that  travel  betwixt  them  seem  as  if  burdened  with  their  roar. 

Yet,  quickly  they  pass,  and  leave  no  trace,  not  the  echo  e*en  of  their  noise : 

Hon't  you  think  that  silenco  and  stillness  arc  tho  sweetest  of  all  our  joys  ? 

VII. 

Lo  I  yonder  the  Farm,  ai^d  rnese  the  ruts  that  the  broad-wheeled  wains  have  worn. 

As  they  bore  up  the  hill  tho  fa<j:gots  sere,  or  the  mellow  shocks  of  corn. 

The  hops  are  gathered,  tho  twiyted  bines  now  brown  on  the  brown  clods  lie, 

And  nothing  of  all  man  sowed  to  reap  is  seen  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky. 

Year  after  year  doth  tho  hiirve?t  come,  though  at  summer's  and  beauty's  cost : 

One  can  ou^  hope,  when  our  lives  grow  bare,  some  reap  what  our  hearts  have  lost. 

VIII. 

And  this  is  the  orchard, — small  and  rude,  and  uncared-for,  but  oh !  in  spring, 
fiow  white  is  the  i^iope  with  cherry  blooui.  and  the  nightingales  sit  and  sing  I 
You  would  think  that  the  world  hud  grown  young  once  more,  had  forgotten  death 

and  fear. 
That  the  neai-est  thing  unto  woe,  on  earth,  was  the  smile  of  an  April  tear ; 
That  goodness  and  gladness  were  twin,  were  one : — The  robin  is  chorister  now : 
The  russet  fruit  ou  the  ground  is  piled,  and  the  lichen  cleaves  to  the  bough. 

IS. 

fWill  you  lean  o'er  the  gate,  while  I  go  on  ?    Yon  can  watch  the  farmyard  life, 
The  beeves,  the  farmer's  hop^,  and  the  poults,  that  gladden  his  thrifty  wife ; 
Or,  turning,  gaze  on  the  busy  weald, — you  will  not  be  seen  from  here, — 
"Till  your  thoughts,  like  it,  grow  blurred  and  vague,  and  mingle  the  far  and  near. 
Grief  is  a  flood,  and  not  a  spring,  whatever  in  grief  we  say ; 
And  perhaps  her  woe,  should  she  see  mc  alone,  will  run  more  quickly  away. 
.  %  «  •  . 

1. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come  this  morning,  ma'am.    Yes,  Edith  at  last  Ima  gone ; 

To-morrow  'a  a  week,  ay,  just  as  the  sun  right  into  her  window  shone ; 

Went  with  the  night,  the  vicar  says,  where  endeth  never  the  day ; 

But  she 's  left  a  darkness  behind  her  here  X  wish  she  had  taken  away. 

She  is  no  longer  with  us,  but  we  seem  to  be  always  with  her, 

In  the  lonely  Ded  where  we  laid  her  last,  and  can't  get  her  to  speak  or  stir. 


A  FAEMHOUSE  DIEGE.  179 


"  Yes,  I  'm  at  work ;  tie  time  I  wae.    T  8bon)d  have  1x»^ti  beforp  j 

But  this  is  the  room  where  she  lay  bo  etfll,  ere  they  ctirried  her  past  the  door. 

I  thought  I  never  coald  let  her  go  where  it  seeing  80  lonely  of  nights ; 

But  now  I  am  scrabbiiig  and  dusting  down,  and  setting  the  place  to  rights. 

All  I  have  keptj«re  the  Bowers  there,  the  last  that  sto<w  by  her  bed. 

I  suppose  I  most  throw  them  away.    She  looked  much  fairer  when  elie  was  dead. 

3. 

"  Thank  yon,  for  thinking  of  her  so  mach.    Kiod  thongbC  is  the  trocst  friend, 

I  wish  yon  had  seen  how  pleased  she  was  with  the  peaches  yon  used  to  send. 

Slie  tired  of  them  too  ere  the  end,  so  she  did  with  uH  we  tried  ; 

But  she  liked  to  Jook  at  them  all  the  same,  so  we  set  them  down  by  her  side. 

Their  bloom  and  the  flush  upon  her  cheek  were  alike,  I  used  to  say ; 

Both  were  so  smooth,  and  soft,  and  round,  and  both  iiavo  faded  away, 

4. 

"  T  never  could  tell  yon  how  kind  too  wcrv  the  ladies  up  at  the  hall ; 

Every  noon,  or  fair  or  wet,  one  of  them  ns«l  to  call. 

Worry  and  work'Seeins  ours,  but  yours  plunsaiif  and  easy  days, 

And  when  aU  goes  smooth,  the  rich  and  poor  have  different  lives  and  ways. 

Sorrow  and  death  bring  men  more  close,  'tis  ioy  that  puts  us  apart; 

Tis  a  comfort  to  think,  though  wu  ^re  severed  so,  we  Te  all  of  ns  one  at  heart. 

6. 

"  She  never  wished  to  be  smart  and  rich,  as  so  many  in  these  days  do, 

?Jor  cared  to  go  in  op  market  days  to  stare  at  the  gay  and  new. 

She  liked  to  remain  at  liorae  and  pinck  the  white  viok'ti*  do^-n  in  the  wood; 

She  Mid  to  her  sisters  before  she  died,  *  *Ti»  so  easy  to  be  good/ 

She  must  have  found  it  so,  I  think,  and  that  was  ttie  reason  why 

God  deemed  it  ue««diti«l  to  leave  her  here,  so  took  hei-  up  to  the  sky. 


"The  vicar  says  that  he  knows  she  is  there,  and  surely  she  ought  to  be ; 
Bat  though  I  repeat  the  words,  'tis  bard  to  believe  what  one  does  not  see. 
They  did  not  want  me  to  gd  to  the  grave,  but  I  could  not  havs  kept  away, 
And  whatever  I  do  I  can  only  see  a  coffin  and  churcbyard  clay. 
Yes,  I  know  it 's  wrong  to  keep  lingering  there,  and  wicked  and  weak  to  fret ; 
Aod  that  'b  why  I  'm  hard  at  work  again,  for  it  helps  one  to  forget. 

T. 

"  The  young  ones  don't  seem  to  fnkm  to  work  as  their  mofhors  and  fathers  did. 

We  never  were  asked  if  we  fiked  or  no,  but  had  to  obey  when  bid. 

There 's  Bessie  wont  swill  the  dairy  now.  nor  Richard  aill  home  tiie  cows, 

And  an  of  th^m  cry,  '  How  can  yon.  mother  7'  when  I  carry  the  warfi  to  the  sown 

Edith  would  dmdge,  for  always  jDealh  the  hearth  of  the  hefpfullest  robs. 

Bat  she  was  so  pretty  I  could  not  bear  to  set  her  on  dirty  jobs ! 

8. 

**!  don't  know  how  it  11  be  wnth  them  when  sorrow  and  loss  nre  theirs, 

Por  it  isn't  likely  that  thev  11  cscatH?  their  pack  of  worrits  and  cares.  i 

They  say  it 's  an  age  of  progress  this,  and  a  sight  of  f hfnes  improves,  } 

Bat  sickness,  and  age,  and  l)ereavement  seem  to  wnrV  hi  the  same  old  groovea 

Pine  they  may  grow,  and  that,  but  Death  as  lief  tnke«  ♦^he  rnoth  as  the  gmb. 

^'^ben  their  dear  ones  die,  I  suspect  they  11  wish  they  'd  u  floor  of  their  own  to  wcnh. 


180  A  PABMHOUSE  BIBGE. 

0. 

"  Some  day  they'll  have  a  homo  of  their  own,  mnch  grander  than  this,  no  donht,  '  * 
But  poJieh  the  porch  as  you  wilJ  you  can't  keep  doctors  aud  coffins  ouL 
1  've  done  very  well  with  my  fowls  this  year,  but  what  are  pullets  aud  eggs. 
When  the  heart  in  vsiin  at  the  door  of  the  grave  the  return  of  the  lost  one  begs? 
The  rich  have  leisure  to  wail  aud  weep,  the  poor  haven't  time  to  be  sad  : 
If  the  cream  hadn't  been  Bo  coutrairy  this  week,  I  think  grief  would  have  driven  me 
mad. 

10. 

*'  How  does  my  husband  bear  up,  yon  apk  ?    "Well,  thank  you,  ma'am,  fairly  well ; 

For  he  too  is  busy  just  now,  you  see,  with  the  wheat  and  the  hops  to  sell : 

It 's  when  the  work  of  the  day  is  done,  and  he  comes  indoors  at  nights. 

While  the  twilight  hangs  round  the  window  pants  before  I  bring  in  the  lights,  • 

And  takes  down  his  pipe,  aud  says  not  a  word,  but  watches  the  faggots  roar — 

And  then  I  know  he  is  thinking  of  her  who  will  sit  on  his  knee  no  more. 

11. 

• 

*'  Mast  yon  be  going  ?    It  seems  so  short.    But  thank  you  for  thlnldng  to  come ; 

It  does  me  good  to  talk  of  it  all,  aud  criief  feels  doubled  when  dumb. 

An'  the  butter  'a  not  quite  so  good  this  week,  if  you  please,  ma'um,  you  must  not 

mind, 

And  I  '11  not  f orcet  to  send  the  ducks  and  all  the  eggs  we  can  find ; 

I  've  scarcely  had  time  to  look  round  me  yet,  work  gets  into  such  arrears. 

With  only  one  pair  of  hands,  aud  those  fast  wiphigaway  one's  tears. 

12. 

"  Ton  've  got  some  flowers  yet,  haven't  you,  ma'am?  though  they  now  must  be  going 

fast. 
We  never  have  any  to  speak  of  here,  and  I  placed  on  her  coffin  the  last ; 
Could  you  spare  me  a  few  for  Sunday  next  7    I  should  like  to  go  all  alone, 
And  lay  them  down  on  the  little  mound  whore  there  isn't  as  vet  a  stone. 
Thank  you  kindly,  I'm  sure  they  '11  do,  aud  I  promise  to  heed  what  you  say ; 
I  '11  only  just  go  aud  lay  tUeui  there,  and  then  I  will  come  away." 


Come,  let  ns  go.    Yes,  down  the  hill,  and  home  by  the  winding  lane. 
The  low-lying  fields  are  suffused  with  haze,  as  life  Is  suffused  with  pain. 
The  noon  mists  gain  on  the  morning  sun,  so  despondency  gains  on  youth ; 
We  grope,  and  wrangle,  and  boast  but  Death  is  the  only  certain  truth. 
O  love  of  life  I  what  a  fooHsh  love  I  we  shouW  weary  of  life  did  it  last. 
While  it  lingers,  it  is  bat  a  little  thing ;  'tis  nothing  at  all  when  past, 

zi. 

The  acorns  thicker  and  thicker  lie,  the  brlony  limper  grows,         .,  ,  ,,  _^  , 

There  are  mildewing  beads  on  the  leafless  brier  where  once  smiled  the  sweet  dog- 

rose 
You  may  sec  the  leaves  of  the  primrose  push  through  the  litter  of  soddfen  ground ; 
Their  pale  stars  dream  in  the  wintry  womb,  and  the  pimpernel  sleepeth  sound. 
They  will  awake ;  Bhall  we  awake  t    Are  we  more  than  Imprisoned  breath  ? 
When  the  heart  grows  weak,  then  hope  grows  strong,  but  stronger  than  hope  iS 

Death. 

"Alfbsd  Austin,  in  Contemporary  Sevieu, 


DREAMLAND.    A  LAST  SKETCH. 

Thsbs  is  an  old,  a  yer/  old  and  beantiful  Bimilo  which  wo  are  all 

familiar  with.     I  do  not  sappose  anyone  knows  who  first  ventured  upon 

it,  or  to  which  special  poet  or  philosopher  it  belongs.     In  tnilh,  it  is  bo 

tht9  that  neither  dead  nor  living  wonld  care  to  claim  it     I  conf  cbs  I 

like  it,  as  I  lika  many  old-fashioned  things.     It  is  simply  this :  life  is  a 

mountain  up  which  the  traveller  must  cUmb.     The  path  is  ragged  and 

sharp,  bnt  tha  summit  must  be  reached.     In  youth  Wo  go  up  hid,  ardent, 

joyous^  and  imagining  a  wonderful  world  beyond  that  stoop  paak  in  tlio 

blue  sky.     As  we  reach  it,  panting  and  rather  worn  with  tlie  journey, 

our  ardour  flags,  and  so  does  hope.     We  begin  to  suspect  that  down 

hill  may  be  like  tip  hiU,  worse  perhaps,  and  without  tho  enchantment 

of  desire  to  lure  us  on.     When  we  stand  on  the  topmost  cmg  wo  plant 

onr  flag  and  cry  hurrah  I     But  are  we  so  glad,  so  very  glad,  after  all  ? 

I  doubt  it.     There  are  many  winds  up  there ;  snow  hides  in  tho  clefts  ; 

it  is  evening,  too,  grey  evening,  lone  and  chill ;  the  darkness  d3epsns 

around  us  as  we  go  down,  and  at  the  foot  of  tho  mountain  black  night 

lies  in  wait  for  us.     Soma  divine  heavenly  stars  pierce  that  gloom,  and 

^7^  know  that  a  pure  morning  and  a  glorious  day  lie  beyond  it,  but  wo 

also  know  that  to  reach  these  we  must  pass  through  the  night,  and  I 

have  found  no  heart,  however  brave,  whom  that  thought  did  not  appal  1 

Very  few  people  say  so,  however.     It  is  amazing  how  limited  is  tho- 

nmnber  of  men  and  women  who  fear  death.     A  week  ago  I  was  in  a 

village  by  the  seaside.     Cholera  suddenly  appeared  amongst  us,  and, 

monster-like,  devoured  a  few  victims.     Everyone  packed  up  and  fled, 

soms  in  the  grey  morning,  some  in  the  night,  but  no  one  acknowledged 

fear:  business,  the  weather,  &c.,  Ac,  summoned  them  all  away,  and 

cholara  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  departure.     Be  it  so.     I  confess  I 

felt  eztremdy  uneasy,  and  though  I  took  my  three  days  to  pack — I  am 

a  m^thodicfid  old  maid,  and  cannot  do  with  less — I,  too,  left,  only  I 

never  denied  my  real  motive  for  doing  so;  to  that  bravery,  such  as  it  is, 

I  lay  daim.     But  to  return  to  my  simile. 

For  the  last  few  years  I  have  been  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  :  that 
u  to  say,  I  know  exactly  the  down-hill  road  which  Ues  before  me,  and 
take  no  delight  in  the  prospect.  Far  pleasanter  do  I  find  it  to  look  back 
tipon  the  r(»d  which  brought  me  up  here.  How  calm,  how  simny  were 
the  early  hours  of  that  long  ascent.  No  wonder  that  in  all  autobio- 
graphy so  large  a  space  is  given  to  childhood.  Its  few  years  generally 
fill  pages,  whereas  lines  are  often  made  to  comprise  the  events  of  later 
life.  The  writer  who  has  lingered  over  the  loss  of  a  tame  bird,"  and  if 
yoQ  are  at  all  tender-hearted,  made  you  shed  foolish  tears  thereby,  tells 
you  in  a  breath  that  he  married  a  charming  girL  lost  her  at  the  end  of 


182         DREAMLAND.  A  LAST  SKETCH. 

Beyen  years,  and  took  a  second  '^fe  when  he  was  out  of  monmingf.  I 
believe  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  shtin  reading  all  such  piodnc- 
lions  unless  they  relate  to  great  public  events,  dramas  of  history,  and 
BO  forth.  They  sadden  me  dreadfully ;  I  like  novels  a  great  dt3al 
better. 

My  first  were  fairy  tales,  of  course.  The  very  spot  where  I  read  them 
is  delightful  to  remember.  My  parents  were  poor,  or  thought  them- 
B  elves  BO,  and  accordingly  carried  their  poverty  to  the  Continent,  as  was 
Iho  fashion  of  those  remote  times.  They  took  up  their  abode  in  a  quaint 
Lttlo  Fronch  town,  half  town,  half  village,  which  lay  hidden  in  a  nook 
cf  the  Norman  coast,  and  there  spent  years,  always  talking  of  a  going 
home  which  came  not.  My  father  was  a  great  sportsman,  and  gamo 
was  abundant  in  our  neighbourhood.  My  dear  mother  hated  change, 
nnd  I  believe  liked  dating  her  letters  from  the  Chateau  de  Gravilles ;  so, 
what  with  game,  cheapness,  and  a  little  innocent  vanity,  we  made  our- 
B3lves  a  new  homo  and  were  forgottsn  in  the  old  one. 

Gravilles  wai  a  dear  old  place.  It  had  one  long  sunny  street  with 
ctono  houses,  all  unlike  each  other,  but  all  dehciously  uncomfortable. 
I  thought  them  mansions  in  those  days,,  and  the  rickety  old  chateau  we 
lived  in,  with  its  dingy  rooms,  its  court,  its  garden  and  orchard  was  a 
palaco  in  my  eyes.  La  one  of  its  upper  rooms  on  a  sunny  May  morning, 
v,ith  bird3  singing  in  the  garden  below,  and  the  green  boughs  of  a  young 
poplar  quivering  close  to  the  open  window,  I  read  my  first  fairy  tale, 
bless  3d  be  the  day,  the  spot,  and  the  hour.  The  story  was  '*Tho 
Bleeping  Beauty  in  the  Wood,"  poetry,  love,  and  romance  all  in  one. 
Well,  I  maintain  it  without  fear,  there  is  nothing  like  fairy  tales.  They 
are  just  enough  like  life  to  attract,  for  they  deal  with  men  and  women, 
nnd  they  are  too  unlike  it  not  to  charm  for  ever.  Here  aro  no  oppressed 
innocents  sinking  hopelessly  under  the  weight  of  their  sorrows ;  no  tri- 
umphant ■svrongdoers  for  whom  retribution  shall  be  put  off  till  the  next 
world.  Wo  can  take  up  a  fairy  tale  in  most  deUghtful  security  con- 
cerning its  ending,  and  perhaps  its  great  attraction  is  that  it  never  dis- 
appoints or  deceives  us.  The  brutal  giant  is  always  conquered,  the 
malicious  fairy  is  always  defeated,  the  innocent  beauty  is  always  deUv- 
cred,  and  the  brave  knight  or  chivalrous  young  prince  is  ever  blest  in 
love  and  war. 

How  far  it  may  be  wise  to  present  such  views  of  life  to  little  men  and 
women,  I  cannot  say.  I  am  an  old  maid,  and  know  nothing  about 
children,  or  rather  about  education ;  but  I  do  not  mind  confessing  that 
I  fell  desperately  in  love  with  the  prince  who  woke  the  sleeping  beauty. 
I  daresay  I  should  have  identified  myself  with  that  persecuted  young 
princess  if  I  could  at  all  have  fancied  myself  sleeping  for  so  many  sum- 
mers and  winters,  but  that  was  out  of  the  question.  I  was  a  lively, 
wakeful  child,  and  that  long  nap  was  a  little  too  much  for  me.  Besides, 
I  was  fair-haired  and  fickle,  and  soon  forgot  the  prince  for  another,  tho 
lover  of  Cinderella.  These  princes  are  all  so  much  alike,  all  so  young, 
so  handsome,  so  chivalrous,  and  so  faithful,   that  it  really  iams/t  eae^y, 


DEEAMLANB.  A  LAST  SKETCR         133 

especially  for  a  young  inexperienced  person,  to  know  one  from  the  other. 
I  confess  their  identity  bewildered  me,  and  I  am  afraid  to  add  that  I  was 
in  love  with  them  all. 

My  brother  John  liked  the  princesses,  bat  was  not  a  bit  more  faithful 
to  them  than  I  was  to  the  princes.  Each  had  her  tarn,  howerer,  till 
Cinderella  came  and  ruled  them  aU  with  her  little  glass  slipper.  Dear 
John  I  He  reminded  me  of  that  time  in  his  last  letter:  the  letter  he 
wrofce  to  me  the  night  before  his  ship  was  lost  on  the  Irish  coast.  Oh  I 
how  strange  and  dreary  it  was  to  road,  **  Do  you  romember  Cinderella?' 
and  to  know  that  the  young  hand  which  had  traoi^d  these  words  wcl 
lying  cold  and  nerveless  fathoms  deep  in  the  pitiless  sea. 

My  father  never  recovered  the  blow,  and  from  that  day  forth  my  dear, 
gentle  mother  became  fretful  and  irritable.  I  was  seventeen  then,  and 
was  left  to  myself  and  to  my  grief.  The  grief  I  survived,  but  my  own 
companionship  left  some  deep  traces  in  my  lif o. 

I  had  entered  Fairyland  in  childhood,  and  I  am  not  at  all  certain  that 
this  pleasant  country  is  the  right  place  for  youths ;  but  very  sure  am  I 
that  Dreamland,  which  had  my  next  visit,  is  the  last  spot  I  would  take 
my  daughter  to,  if  I  had  one,  which,  boing  an  old  maid,  is  not  the  case, 
yon  see.  But  the  worst  of  Dreamland  is  that  no  one  takes  you  to  it. 
You  go  to  it  of  your  own  accord,  and  its  boundaries  are  so  fine  that  they 
are  crossed  before  you  know  anything  about  it.  Some  people  have 
never  visited  that  country,  they  say,  but  that  I  dany.  To  think  of  the 
futnre  is  to  go  to  Dreamland  straight 

Well,  few  people  can  lead  long  Uves,  I  suppose,  and  not  look  back  to 
the  past  and  read  there  with  some  wondor  how  they  imagined  that  their 
fatore  which  has  since  become  anothe]^past.  These  two  are  so  unlike, 
you  see  :  the  imagination  and  the  fulfilment  The  sorrows  are  never 
those  we  dreaded ;  no  mor3  than  the  blessings  ara  those  we  longed  and 
prayed  for.  For  my  part  I  very  well  remember  the  time  when  twenty- 
five  was  to  be  the  vanishing  point  of  my  little  perspective  of  a  life. 
Beyond  these  remote  years  I  md  not -go.  This  goal  was  to  be  my  renting 
plBMse.  Between  that  and  the  eighteen  of  my  beaming  I  placed  events, 
adventures,  sorrows  and  joys  more  than  I, could  number.  These  seven 
years  were  a  long  gall  3ry  with  niches  on  either  side,  and  every  niche  had 
its  story.  There  was  the  niche  of  love,  of  course,  and  the  niche  of  vain- 
glory, and  the  niche  of  sacrifice  and  that  of  sorrow  ;  and  in  the  last  of 
all  I  saw  mvself  sitting,  a  calm  worn  woman  of  twenty-five,  looking  at 
Hfe  with  folded  hands  and  pitying  eyes,  and  a  heart  set  on  the  better 
world  and  the  better  part  After  reaching  this  bourne  I  was  to  enter  a 
Bort  of  spiritual  monastery.  I  accordingly  closed  its  gates  upon  myself, 
and  did  not  even  seek  to  imagine  what  kind  of  a  life  I  might  lead  behind 
them.  I  doubt  if  youth  ever  really  conceives  age.  To  me  I  know  that 
wrinkles  and  silver  hair  were  dimly  remote :  I  could  not  go  beyond 
Wenty-five. 

Now,  of  course,  all  this  seems  very  absurd,  and  yet  there  was  but  one 
folly  in  it:  I  was  in  too  great  a  hurry.     My  conception  of  a  life  was  a 


184         DBEAMLAND.  A  LAST  SKETCH. 

pretty  true  one ;  but  I  mistook  the  proportions  in  which  all  theso  things 
were  to  come  to  past).  Most  of  the  nichea  I  had  filled  up  remained 
vacant,  or  very  nearly  so,  but  other  niches  unsuspected  by  poor  mo  ap- 
peared as  I  went  on  my  Journey.  The  niche  of  love  was  inexoi'abl:- 
closed,  and  that  of  money  cares  most  unexpectedly  opened.  Some  other 
mistakes  I  found  that  I  had  committed.  For  instance,  twenty-five,  in- 
stead of  a  resting  place,  proved  the  threshold  Of  a  life.  I  was  never 
more  restless  than  at  that  time,  which  I  had  fancied  so  serene  and.  bo 
calm.  Indeed,  finding  that  I  had  been  all  wrong,  and  that  this  was  not 
the  goal  of  life,  I  gently  pushed  it  back  to  thirty,  and  bmlt  another 
gallery  more  sober  and  with  fewer  niches  in  it  than  the  first.  And  wer  • 
Siey  filled? — never.  Troubles  which  I  had  not  conceived  came  and 
took  hold  of  me.  My  dreams,  nOt  very  roery  ones,  however,  melted  on.' 
by  one  before  the  chill  breath  of  life.  And  thirty  found  me  contented 
enough,  and  happy  enough  too ;  but  oh  I  how  unlike  the  woman  of 
twenty-five  whom  the  girl  of  eighteen  Ijad  imagined. 

What  that  woman  is  now  matters  very  little.  I  have  ceased  to  look 
forward,  and  I  take  life  as  a  sort  of  dailv  bread ;  but  sometimes  I  cannot 
help  sighing  when  I  look  back  and  think  of  my  shortcomings.  For  yon 
see  I  was  young,  and  I  worshipped  heroism  and  goodness  in  those  days , 
and  being  a  vain  and  silly  creature,  as  most  girls  are,  I  mada  a  pretty 
little  image  of  myself  and  set  it  up  for  domestic  adoration.  I  was  to  bo 
generous,  oh !  so  generous.  I  was  to  be  good,  not  in  a  foolish  common- 
place sort  of  way,  but  after  a  noble  fashion.  Then  I  was  to  be  heroic. 
Not  that  I  was  to  do  such  wonderful  things — I  had  a  grain  of  sense  left 
— but  great  duties,  or  great  sufferings,  or  great  trials  were  to  como  in 
my  way,  and  I  was  to  take  and  accept  them  grandly.  To  go  amongst 
the  heathen,  be  tied  to  a  stake  and  die  singing  God's  praises  with  the 
flames  risiag  around  me,  would  have  been  the  very  summit  of  my  am- 
bition if  I  could  have  looked  so  high ;  but  to  be  candid,  I  could  not — I 
was  afraid  of  the  fire.  Some  other  things,  however,  I  felt  quite  equal 
to.  We  all  know  how  Foetus,  fearing  to  die,  was  addressed  by  his  wife, 
Arria :  how  she  stabbed  herself,  then  handed  him  the  knife,  and  uttered 
the  words,  **  Foetus,  it  does  not  hmi."  Well,  that  I  could  have  managed 
very  well.  I  will  venture  to  say  that  it  was  quite  in  my  way,  only  we 
have  no  tyrants  now-a-days  who  compel  us  to  commit  suicide.  I  had 
also  my  doubts  about  Foetus.  Ho  was  weak  and  pusillanimous,  and  was 
it  neeciful  that  I  should  kill  myself  in  order  to  set  him  an  example.  I 
only  mention  this  instance  to  give  the  standard  of  my  heroism.  I  was 
equal  to  death,  to  a  noble  one  of  course,  but  not  to  pain. 

Now,  if  any  giggling  schoolgirl  reads  this,  I  know  what  she  thinks  of 
me.  I  know  she  tiiinks  she  is  not  and  never  could  be  so  foolish.  That 
may  be,  child ;  you  hve  in  a  wiser  age  than  was  mine,  and  as  your  age 
is  so  you  are — ^a  coolheaded  young  lady  who  talks  slang  and  scorns 
romance.  That  may  be,  child,  that  may  be ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what 
you  do  and  what  I  never  did.  You  build  up  your  little  castle  m  the  air 
about  Mr.  Johnson.    He  half  squeezed  your  hand  last  night,  and  forth- 


DBEAMLAND.     A  LAST  SKETCH.  ,  185 

« 

with  70a  are  arrayed  in  white,  and  the  orange-blossom  nods  on  jonr 
brow,  and  you  are  spending  yonr  honeymoon  by  the  lakes.  My  dear 
child,  better  dream  o£  being  Arria  or  Joan  of  Arc  herself  than  this. 
You  see  when  dreams  belong  wholly  to-  Dreamland  they  lose  half  their 
mischievous  power.  Of  course  thjy  are  very  foolish,  and  a  terrible  loss 
of  time,  but  they  have  this  great  salve — they  lead  to  nothing.  Th3 
dream  which  weaves  itself  around  reality,  in  which,  with  time,  reality 
gets  so  blended  that  the  dreamer  cannot  well  tell  which  is  which,  is 
partly  and  simply  psstilential.  That  grain  of  sense  to  which  I  have 
alluded,  and  a  spark  of  prudence  with  it,  saved  me  from  this.  Of  course 
I  too  had  my  temptations,  and  sometimes  they  took  tho  fascinating 
aspsctof  Mr.  Johnson,  and  sometimes  they  did  not.  But  no  sooner 
did  my  careless  foot  tread  on  th3  sorpent-  than  I  started  back  amazed 
aad  frightened.  I  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  Poetus  himself,  though 
he  was  but  a  poor  thing,  rather  than  indulge  in  so  dangerous  a  pastime. 
It  was  all  very  well  to  play  with  fancy  in  her  fair  Eden,  but  I  knew  it 
would  never  do  to  treat  these  flowery  plains  as  if  they  were  this  firm 
stony  earth  of  ours.  I  knew  a  dream  was  a  dream,  so,  though  Mr. 
Johnson  did  sqneeze  my  hand  sometimes — ^and  he  did,  whatever  you 
may  thiak — I  looked  at  him  with  a  prudent  eye,  and  mads  no  god  of 
that  young  gentleman ;  and  perhaps  that  was  why  my  nicho  of  lovo 
was  never  fiUed  up,  but  remained  cold  and  vacant.  Once  indaed — 
but  I  shall  say  naught  about  that  now,  it  having  nothing  to  do  with 
I^reauiland.  ^ 

I  do  not  mean  to  add  much  concerning  my  sojourn  in  that  country. 
^ly  excursions  to  it  grjw  fewer  as  years  crept  upon  me,  and  have  now 
ceased  entircily.  Sometimes  I  try  to  go  back  to  that  pleasant  region, 
bnt  I  cannot.  Formerly  it  was  all  cl^ar  and  open :  a  word,  a  look,  a 
^e  in  a  book,  a  cloud  in  the  sky  would  take  me  to  it,  swift  as  the  wiag 
of  any  bird.  Now  aU  that  is  altered.  A  thorny  forest  lies  between 
Dreamland  and  me,  and  beyond  that  I  know  that  there  are  hea^^  iron 
gates  locked  and  barred — gates  which  are  ever  closed  on  fad^d  faces  and 
white  locks.  There  is  no  help  for  it ;  the  evil,  if  evil  it  be,  must  bo 
borne  patiently ;  but  when  the  sense  of  my  powerlessness  presses  upon 
tne,  when  I  feel  that  never  again  must  I  indulge  in  foHy,  but  am  doomed 
to  wisdom,  I  think  of  dear  John,  who  went  down  with  his  Dreamland 
full  upon  him. 

JxTLiA  Kavanagh,  in  t/ie  Argosy, 


.'X,  .».*> 


CONTEMPOSAEY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FBANOE. 

Pabis,  December  15fA,  1878. 

SuMM ART.— Political  Review  :— The  Exhibition— The  Grand  Manoeuvres— Foreign 
Politics— Internal  Condition— Finance— Public  Works— Progress  of  Public  In- 
struction—Reactionary  Opposition  in  the  Countrv  find  the  Senate — Election  oic 
three  permanent  Senators — Powerlesauess  of  thj  Right— The  Sjuatorlal  Elections 
of  January  5— Moral  Ruin  of  the  Men  of  May  16— D -•ath  oi  M.  Dnpauloup— Elec- 
tion of  M.  Taiue  to  the  French  Academy— Future  Dangers— Divisions  of  the  Re- 
publican Party- Difficulty  of  M.  Gambetta's  jiosltion— Incompatibility  of  ParlLi- 
meutarism  with  a  Centralized  Ripublic— Establish ineut  of  New  Museums.  Liti  n:- 
ture : — Gift  Books:  Axuxumn  et,  Nicolette^  translated  and  illustrated  by  Bidu  r 
Correjtp&ndance  de  Eng.  Delacroix ;  Theuriet^  Souh  Bois ;  Stapfer,  tihdkineare  c  t 
VAntiquite.  Erudition :  Port,  Dictionnaire  Hitftorique ;  Doaen,  Le  Psautier 
Huffvenot.  History:  Mhrntiren  de  Bern! a:  Sorel,  La  Ouestion  d'Orient:  Broglif\ 
Le  Secret  du  Roi;  Lom^uie,  Le.t  Mirabeau.  Philosophy:  Caro,  Le  I*esi>imiviue. 
Theatre :  Polyeiicte^  by  Gounod  ;  Lea  Amavtt  de  Verone^  by  Marquis  divry  ;  Ltz 
Mort  Civile,  hjM,  Giacometti.  Election  of<M.  Massenet  at  the  Acad^iuio  des 
Beaux  Ajrts. 

The  year  1878  has  boen  a  fortunata  year  for  France,  doubly  so  as 
compared  with  tli3  year  1877  of  mournful  memory,  when  the  cnmiual 
fatuity  of  a  small  knot  of  drawing-room  politicians  all  bat  dragged  thv:^ 
country  into  a  civU  war.  Kot  that  Francvi  has  escaped  the  effect  of  tlij 
political  disturbances  and  tli3  economical  uneasiness  that  reigned  cls.- 
v/here,  nor  that  shs  can  hop  3  to  traad  honceforward  in  smooth  paths, 
but  considering  tho  comparatively  short  pi:irlod  that  has  elapsed  since 
the  fall  of  the  Empir j  and  tho  peace  of  Frankfort  she  may  well  expc  ri- 
cnce  a  feehng  of  pridj  and  satisfaction.  The  success  of  the  Univvrsal 
Exhibition  has  oxcaedcd  all  anticipation.  More  than  sixteen  millions  of 
visitors,  recaipts  exceeding  half  a  miUion  pounds  sterhng,  £he  Exhibi- 
tion of  18G7  outdono  in  every  way,  the  industrial  and  artistic  forces  of 
the  country  seen  to  bo  not  only  unimpair^d  but  greater  than  before,  the 
Republican  Government  receiving  a  ircsh  act  of  recognition  from  the 
foreign  princes  who  came  to  partak3  of  its  hospitality  and  festivities, 
the  general  and  spontaneous  enthusiasm  with  which  the  whole  popula> 
tlon  celebrated  this  grand  undertaking,  symboUcal  of  peace  and  indus- 
try,— all  has  h?lp3d  to  mako  1878  the-fir^t  happy,  date  for  France  since, 
the  fatal  dates  IJ^  70-71. 

Tha  peace  j  y  j  had  a  miUtary  interlude.     Tho  military  manoeuvret 
that  took  placj  oa  su^h  a  brg3  seals  iu  the  month  of  September  wertl 
the  first  in  which  tlij  reserve  forces  took  part,  and  in  spite  of  the  maDj| 
wants  and  shortcomings  still  apparent,  especially  in  the  military  admiur 
^  istration  and  the  commissariat,  a  notable  improvement  was  nianiftBt 
and  both  bearing  and  discipline  were  exemplary.     It  is  hard  as  yet  ta| 
say  what  the  result  of  the  military  reforms  would  be  in  the  field,  bat 
a  means  of  national  education  the  excellence  of  the  new  system  has  beei 
proved  beyond  a  doubt. 

(186) 


ft     CONTEMPOBABY  LIFE  AlW  THOUGHT  IN  FBANCE.    187 

Looking  at  other  couDtri^s,  Cie  Frencli  have  more  than  ono  reason  to 
be  satisfi^  with  their  actual  position.  There  was  nothing  very  flattcr- 
iDg,  certainly,  to  the  natiosAl  pride  in  the  part  taken  by  France  in 
the  Berlin  Congress.  After  playing  a  leadmg  part  for  so  long  to 
eome  down  to  that  of  confidant,  after  being  a  preponderant  power  in 
Europe  to  have  lo  content  herself  with  being  official  adviser  and  medi- 
ator, might  well  at  certaia  momenis  appear  hard.  But  by  the  frasik 
and  digmfied  manner  in  which  he  accepted  it,  il.  "Waddington  cbvated 
the  part  that  was  assigned  to  France,  and  made  it  serve  for  the  defenco 
of  certain  general  intarests  of  civilization  and  liberty  cf  conscienc3  and 
of  the  rights  of  a  State  which  the  other  powers  wonld  havo  willingly 
disregarded,  namely,  Greece.  Thus  without  any  show,  but  at  the  sams 
time  honourably,  IVance  has  resumed  her  place  in  the  councils  cf 
Enrope,  and  having  come  to  th«  Congress  without  advertising  any 
claims  and  without  secret  ambitions,  she  came  away  with  clean  hands, 
guiltless  of  usurpation  or  bargains  of  any  kind,  and  with  a  heart  freo 
from  regret  or  deception. 

Comparing  her  internal  condition  with  that  of  other  States,  she  has 
no  grounds  to  ba  discontented  with  her  lot.  England  is  under£;oing  a 
crisis  that  imp3d:is  her  commercial  transactions ;  she  is  undertaking  th3 
responsibility  of  r  jf orms  in  the  East  which,  to  judge  from  former  expe- 
rience, would  S3  3m  impossible ;  her  honour  is  pledged  for  the  support 
of  a  power  that  seems  doomed  to  perish ;  she  is  engaged  in  a  war  in 
the  far  East  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  eitlier  the  end  or  tho 
consequences.  Bussia,  at  the  last  extremity  of  her  resources,  is  obhged 
at  all  costs  to  carry  on  the  work  she  has  undertaken,  and  in  so  doing 
spare  neither  men,  money,  nor  violence;  she  is  divided  between  a 
Government  that  clings  to  a  superannuatsd  despotism,  a  ravolutionary 
party  that  disowns  its  country,  exalted  patriots  who  cherish  Panslavist 
chimeras,  and  impotent  Liberals  who  condemn  everything,  hope  for 
little,  and  do  nothing.  In  Germany,  the  industrial  crisis  is  occasioning 
misery  amongst  the  people  and  a  deficit  in  the  budget,  the  Government 
\^Tings  from  the  Chambers  a  discontented  adherence  to  iniquitous  l^ws 
that  are  applied  with  a  violence  ani  an  arbitrariness  worthy  of  tha 
Second  Empiro.  In  Austria  tho  occurrences  in  Bosnia  have  exhibited 
in  a  scandalous  light  the  hopeless  antagonism  that  separates  the  two 
parties  in  the  Empire.  In  Italy,  as  in  Spain,  people  are  seeking  in  vain 
for  the  elements  of  a  majority  capable  of  guidhig  the  country.  Finally, 
eyeiywhere,  in  Bussia,  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  attempts,  as  stupid  as 
they  were  criminal,  on  the  Mves  of  the  reigning  powers  have  revealed 
the  disturbed  state  of  men^s  minds  and  the  serious  nature  of  the  econo- 
mical and  political  uneasiness  that  prevails. 

The  only  warlike  contest  France  is  at  present  engaged  in  is  the  Eanak 
rising  in  New  Caledonia.  Marshal  MacMahon  can  manifest  the  most 
^interested  sympathy  with  the^  sovereigns  whose  lives  have  been 
threatsned,  and  for  the  last  year  the  agreement  that  has  reigned  between 
the  Ministry,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and  the  country  has  been  well- 


188    CONTEMPORAKY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FEANCEw     ^  « 

I 

nigh  perfect.  Akhough,  like  all  other  countries,  France  Buffens  from 
the  commercial  crisis  caused  by  the  protective  system  of  the.  tfnited 
Btates,  the  war  in  the  East,  and  t^e  famine  in  China,  she  is  undiBlLtrbed 
by  social  questions.  The  strikes  have  all  come  to  a  peaceful  teimina- 
tion,  and  the  interdict  put  upon  the  "Workmen's  Congress,  iniquitous  in 
itself  and  justifiable  solely  on  grounds  of  international  prudence,  occa- 
sioned no  disturbance. 

In  spite  of  the  enormous  increase  in  the  expenses  and  the  taxes,  tho 
Budget  shows  a  considerable  surplus,  which  has  justified  the  issue  of 
fvesh  stock, — viz.,  the  New  Three  per  Cent., — with  a  sinking  fund  to 
redeem  it  in  seventy-five  years.  This  loan  is  int^nded  to  meet  the  ex- 
penses necessitated  by  the  vast  plans  of  M.  de  Freycinet.  This  intelli- 
gent, audacious,  and  indefatigable  minister  wishes  to  improve  all  onr 
ports,  as  well  as  to  complete  the  network  of  our  railways  and  canalF. 
As  regards  the  army  and  navy,  the  Chambers  have  nfever  haggled  over 
miUions,  nor  has  a  dissentient  voice  ever  been  raised  on  that  point. 
But  it  is  especially  in  connection  with  pubUc  instruction  that  important 
progress  has  been  made.  Tho  reports  and  statistics  recently  publish  :d 
by  M.  Bardoux  on  elementary,  secondary,  and  higher  instruction  are  a 
striking  proof.  In  Paris  alono  the  elementary  schools  contain  60,(!( ') 
.pupils  more  than  they  did  ten  years  ago,  and  new  schools  are  still  in  ccurfie 
of  erection.  M.  Bardoux's  law  relating  to  the  higher  elementary  schools 
will  realize  a  plan  dating  from  1833,  and  will  admit  of  raising  the  lev*. I 
of  the  instruction  of  a  considerable  portion  of  the  lower  classes.  As  to 
the  higher  instruction,  175  new  professorships  have  been  created  within 
the  last  ten  years,  lecturers  have  obtained  fellowships  at  almost  all  the 
Faculties,  and  300  yearly  scholarships  r.ro  distributed  amongst  poor 
students.  The  higher  education  budget,  which  was  S, 895,000  francs  in 
1868,  is  9,165,330  francs  in  1878,  an  increase  that  has  taken  place  within 
the  last  three  years.  The  present  state  of  our  higher  instructioD,  no 
doubt,  is  far  from  answering  to  the  wishes  of  the  more  enfightentd 
friends  of  education.  Largo  universities  with  an  iridc  pendent  life  of 
their  own,  like  tho  German  universities,  Etill  remain  to  be  founded,  to 
become  great  centres  of  scientific  hf o  aad  production ;  but  yre  are  on 
the  right  road,  and  M.  Bardoux's  report  shows  that  the  central  adminis- 
tration has  a  correct  understanding  of  tho  country^s  needs. 

There  are  dissentient  voices,  no  doubt,  and  certain  important  elements 
.  of  society  which  have  not  given  in  their  adherence  to  the  present  Gov- 
ernment. The  ecclesiastical  edtabhshmenta  of  education  contain  a  grtat 
number  of  pupils ;  at  the  new  CathoUc  universities  the  numbers  are 
rapidly  increasing,  and  the  direction  there  given  to  study  threatens  th«i 
unity  of  the  national  life.  A  rector  of  the  Lyons  Academy,  ^.  Dareete, 
was  even  lately  seen  reserving  his  favours  for  the  CathoUc  tmiversitj', 
and  doing  his  best  to  prevent  the  opening  of  the  faculties  of  the  Statti 
from  being  celebrated  with  the  due  solemnity  and  splendour.  Too 
many  of  the  members  of  the  magistracy  make  no  attempt  to  conceal 
their  hostility  to  tho  existing  institutions,  and  now  and  then  evenTentan 


CONTEMPOBABT  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FEANCE.    l89 

to  oppose  them  by  a  partial  or  Jesuitical  adniinistration  of  the  laws. 
Hitherto  it  has  been  in  the  Senate  that  these  reactionary  elements  have 
found  their  support.  The  feeble  majority  the  Kight  showed  at  the  time 
of  its  formation  has  considerably  increased  since  then,  owing  to  tha 
d^ath  of  a  number  of  permanent  Bepublican  members,  and  to  the  com- 
pact entered  into  by  the  Orleanist,  Legitimist,  and  Bopapartist  parties  to 
name  in  turn  a  candidate  designated  by  each  of  the  tluree ;  a  pleasure 
they  enjoyed  for  the  last  time  on  November  15.  Though  the  candidates 
of  the  Left,  MM.  Andre,  Montalivet,  and  Gresley,  were  men  of  known 
moderation,  the  Orleanists  and  Legitimists  preferred  to  vote  for  M.  da 
Vallee,  a  decided  Bonapartist,  and  the  Bonapartists  for  M.  d'Hausson- 
rille,  one  of  the  most  violent  opponents  of  the  Empire.  As  for  the 
Legitimist  candidate,  M.  Baragnon,  his  opinions  could  hurt  no  one ;  for 
he  was  once  a  Bepublican,  and  will,  if  occasion  require,  become  a  Bona- 
l^rtist.  This  abnormal  state  of  things,  in  which  those  who  call  them- 
selves conservateurs  are  seen  to  reject  men  of  recognized  moderation 
and  merit,  simply  from  a  wish  to  overthrow  tho  existing  political  regimey 
cannot  last  long.  The  days  of  the  reactionary  majority  in  the  Senata 
are  numbered.  The  elections  which  will  renew  a  third  of  the  225  re- 
movable members  of  the  Senate  take  place  on  January  5,  and  the  result 
of  the  voting  can  alrsady  with  certainty  be  foreseen  from  the  nomina- 
tion of  the  delegatas  of  the  communes,  who  form  the  chief  part  of  the 
electoral  senatorial  body.  On  the  Bight,  a^  on  the  Left,  it  is  estimated 
that  aftar  the  elections  the  Bepublicans  will  have  a  majority  in  the 
Sanats  of  from  ten  to  fifteen.  In  the  debates  on  the  verification  of  the 
powers  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  the  Bight  has  moreover  received 
some  hard  hits  which  have  brought  final  discredit  upon  it.  The  auda- 
city with  which  M.  do  Fourtou  dared  to  apologiza  for  the  Government 
of  May  16,  and  expresses  his  regret  for  their  not  having  been  able  to 
carry  their  lawlessness  and  violence  still  furthsr,  has  awakened  the  recol- 
lection of  that  painful  time  when  a  coup  d'61'ft  was  hourly  expected. 
The  discussion  on  M.  Decaze^s  electiqii  dealt  a  final  blow  to  the  men  of 
May  16.  The  facts  that  cam  3  out  then  were  so  outrageous  that  the 
Conservatives  themselves  did  not  venture  to  defend  them,  and  more 
than  half  of  them  by  their  abstention  ratified  the  vot3  of  invalidation 
pronounced  by  the  Chamber.  It  was  indeed  unheard  of  that  a  Minister 
of  Foreign  Affairs  should  clandestinely  beg  for  the  votes  of  the  separatist 
party  in  the  Maritime  Alps,  whilst  M.  de  Broglie,  the  Minister  of  Jus- 
tice, should  in  turn  institute  and  suspend  proceedings  against  a  notary, 
according  to  whether  he  was  opposing  or  supporting  the  official  candi- 
^te.  Burlesque  incidents,  such  as  that  of  the  fire-engine  sent  in  hot 
haste  to  Puget-Theniers  by  the  Ministry,  mingled  with  these  shameful 
and  guilty  acts. 

Oiier  blows  besides  these  feV  upon  the  reactionary  party.  By  giving 
it,  in  spite  of  M.  de  Falloux's  prudent  warnings,  the  watchword  Gontre- 
Rirohitlouj  M.  de  Mun  Jias  rendered  it  easy  for  the  peasants,  who  owe 
•Ttiiything  to  the  Bevolution,  to  oppose  aU  the  Legitimist  candidates; 


190    CONTEMPORAKY  LIFE  AND  THOtJGHT  IN  FRANCE. 

and  the  Gomte  de  Ghambord,  by  congratulating  M.  de  Mun  on  his  frark^ 
ness,  and  adding  that  **God  must  reign  as  master,  in  order  that  ht 
might  reign  as  king,"  destroyed  the  last  hopes  of  his  party  by  this  pro- 
fession of  theocratic  faith.     Finally,  one  of  the  authorised  heads  of  the 
senatorial  Bight,  whose  fi^ry  clericaJism  had  become  a  link  between  tho 
Tarious  reactionary  parties,  and  who,  at  the  same  time,  .was  the  only 
really  eminent  man  the  higher  clergy  possessed,  Monseigneur  Diipan- 
loup,  is  dead.    The  son  of  a  serving-maid  at  an  inn,  never  having  known 
who  was  his  father,  he  raised  himself  to  the  see  of  Orleans  by  his  o\^n 
Unaided  merit.     His  talents  as  an  administrator,  and,  above  all,  as  a 
teacher,  his  activity,  his  beneficence,  his  ready  pen  and  fervid  eloquence, 
and,  lastly,  his  liberal  ideas,  assigned  him  a  distinctive  place  anroiigKt 
the  French  clergy.     The  seminaries  he  directed  were  in  the  full  tide  of 
prosperity ;  his  great  work  on  education  was  appreciated  even  outRid' 
Catholic  circles :  somo  years  ago  Xiiberals  of  every  shade  8poi:e  of  bin: 
with  unvarying  respect;   Eome  few  fanatical  Ultramontane s  alcne  darul 
to  altack  him,  and  alone  abused  him  after  his  death.     But  frcm  abi.iit 
1860  onwards,  M.  Dupanloup's "  liberalism  was  seen  to  wane,  ard  th. 
ieaven  of  fanaticism  rose  in  lum.    He  defended  the  Syllabus,  and  levelletl 
attacks  as  unjust  as  they  were  wanting  in  good  taste  against  MM.  B£r  jtu, 
Taine,  and  Maury.     The  Vatican  Council  and  the  establishment  of  iht 
Bepublic  quenched  a  liberalism  lacking  both  soundness  and  depth.     He 
was  the  head  of  tha  clerical  party  in  the  National  Assembly  and  tht 
Senate,  and  with  him,  as  with  most  of  the  men  of  that  party,  the  reli- 
gious question  became  one  of  political  domination.    He  showed  it  by  his 
zeal  in  supporting  M.  Taine's  candidature  at  the  French  Academy,  ontr 
as  zealously  opposed  by  him.     He  forgot  that  he  had  resigne  d  his  ovn , 
seat  at  the  Academy  on  account  of  the  nomination  of  M.  Littre,  who  of 
all  freethinkers  in  France  has  invariably  paid  the  greatest  deference  to' 
Catholicism ;  whilst,  in  his  **  Philosophes  du  XIX.  s.,"  M.  Taine  went  so| 
far  as  to  ridicule  even  supematuralism  itself.     But  what  mattered  suptr- 
naturalism  to  M.  Dupanloup  then !     M.  Taine  had  written  a  volume  on 
the  Revolution  which  furnished  the  reactionary  party  with  arms;  tLut 
was  enough.     Foxtune  favoured  M.  Taine  in  the  death  of  M.  Dupann 
loup  before  he  could  re-enter  the  Academy  to  vote  for  a  freethinkt  r^' 
He  was  elected,  not  as  before,  by  the  coterie  that  wished  to  place  hi: 
in  M.  Thiers'  seat,   but  by  the  Academicians  of  all  parties,  who 
homage  in  him  to  one  of  our  best  writers  and  most  vigorous  thinkers. 
After  taking  joyous  and  grateful  leave  of  the  year  just  expired,  is 
with  confidence  unmixed  that  we  greet  the  opening  year  ?.    We  thii- 
not.     The  Republican  party  in  France  le^ais  too  much  to  a  somewbf 
superficial  optimism  that  yields  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  moment, 
is  apt  to  forget  past  mis^rtunes,  and  not  foresee  future  dangers. 
the  midst  of  the  Exhibition  rejoicings,  it  apparently  had  no  thought  f 
the  defeats  of  eight  years  ago,  and  what  they  cost ,  it  congratulatt 
itself  with  frivolous  pride  on  giving  aJ/'/e  in  the  gallery  Vhere' the  Kin 
of  Prussia  was  crowned  Emperor  of  Germany,  and  Was  on  the  vei^d 


CONTEMPOKAKY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FEANCR    101 

celebrating  as  a  national  glory  the  gigantic  lottery  of  twslvo  millions, 
honourable  no  doubt  in  its  object,  but  productive  of  tho  basest  covc- 
tongneas,  and  the  occasion  of  the  most  deplorable  stock-jobbing.  Wo 
mnst  look  facts  in  the  face  with  a  more  manly  gaze,  and  recognize  that 
not  until  after  the  5th  of  January,  and  not  until  tlio  Republican  party 
are  in  actual  possession  of  power,  will  the  real  difficulti?*  and  tho  real 
dangers  begin.  At  present  the  representatives  of  the  Left  form  a  very 
KinaJl  proportion  of  the  ministry,  whose  members  b  along  chiefly  to  tho 
L  tit  Centre,  some  having  even  once  formed  part  of  V2.0  Right  Centre. 
It  is  an  open  secret  that  with  the  first  months  of  tlio  opening  year  the 
ministry  will  fall  asund3r,  that  M.  Dufaure,  M.  Bardoux,  and  M.  Leon 
Say,  wSl  have  to  withdraw  on  account  of  being  in  more  or  less  open 
disagreement  with  M.  Grambetta,  and  that  a  homogeneous  ministry  cf 
dements  of  the  pure  Left  will  have  to  be  formed.  The  present  state  of 
things,  in  which  M.  Grambetta  is  the  head  of  tho  ministr}'',  the  prop  of 
the  ministry,  and  at  the  same  time  its  intended  successor,  cannot  long 
continue.  It  is  necessary  that  M.  Gambetta,  or  at  any  rata  hh  party, 
possessed  as  they  ar^of  the  real  power,  should  also  bear  its  responsi- 
bility and  burden.  Nor  is  that  burden  a  light  one.  Is  tho  Left  capable 
of  directing  the  government  alone  ?  Will  it  find  the  necessary  men  to 
fill  the  important  posts  ?  Will  it  inspire  sufficient  tionfidenco  to  obtain 
a  large  majority  in  the  Chambers,  and  such  as  to  enabla  tho  country  to 
attend  to  its  business  with  socuriiy  ?  All  will  depend  on  tho  attitude  of 
the  present  head  of  tho  majority,  M.  Gambetta,  and  tho  manner  in 
which  the  parties  grouio  themselves.  Two  things  are  possible.  Either 
the  Left  wi^  continue  allied  to  tho  Extreme  Left, — in  which  case  tho 
L'rft  Centre  will  b3  thrown  back  upon  tho  Right,  and  it  is  easy  to  forc- 
s?e  that  the  Government  wilj  again  find  itself  in  inextricable  difficulties, 
for  a  Right  majority  will  immiediately  ro-form  itself  in  tho  Sanato ;  or 
else  it  will  s^parat)  from  tho  Extreme  Left  to  consolidate  it:i  union  with 
th?  L^ft  C)ntr3, — in  which  caso  th3  mod?rato  element!  of  the  Right 
will  rally  round  ta.3  grjat  Republican  party,  which  will  bo  the  truo 
representation  of  tho  country.  In  this  caso  th3  poaccful  and  orderly 
development  of  th3  R-pubhcan  Grovemment  may  bo  hoped  for.  But 
the  second  alt  ^rnatlvo,  it  must  bo  owned,  is  tho  l3ss  hkoly.  Tho  very 
absorbing  and  ruling  psrsonality  of  M.  Gambetta  has,  in  spite  of  his 
gr^at  intellectual  capaoities  and  parsonal  charm,  alienated  a  great  part 
of  the  moderato  Left  from  him ;  and  if  ho  has  won  new  sympathies,  it 
is  rather  in  the  ranks  cf  th3  Right  It  is  impossible  that  ho  should 
remain  aloof  from  pow3r  and  govern  France  as  President  of  the  Budg3t 
'ommittee ;  but  hai  he  ministarial  aptitudes ?  will  he  bo  able  to  control 
I  t2rap3rament  that  led  him  in  1871  to  commit  such  grave  faults  ?  will 
h^  bring  the  necessary  prudence  and  discernment  to  bear  on  his  choico 
of  men  ? — a  choice  on  which  the  worth  and  the  success  of  a  Government 
in  a  great  measure  depend.  Finally,  what  will  be  the  new  ministry's 
proeramme  of  reform?  Hitherto  the  popular  democratic  mass  has  given 
ibe  Govemmexit  credit  up  to  the  moment  when  the  obstacles  raised  by 


192    CONTEMPOrw.\IlY  LIF2  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FRANCE. 

the  reactionary  majority  in  tho  Sonato  shoulS  be  removed  ;  but  the  time 
for  action  has  como.  Much  will  b 3  demanded  of  M.  Gambetta  becansa 
ho  has  promised  much ;  it  is  the  lot  of  all  who  pass  from  opposition  to 
power.  If  they  do  nothing,  they  are  accused  of  having  combated  abuses 
merely  because  they  did  not  benefit  by  them.  If  M.  Gambetta  is  to*^ 
zealous  a  reformer,  h3  will  loss  partisans  on  the  moderate  Left ;  if  too 
moderata  a  one,  he  will  lose  them  on  th^  advanced  Left.  What  is  to  be 
hoped  is  that  <the  moderate  party,  not  being  called  to  a  direct  share  in 
power,  will  not  adopt  a  negative  and  hostile  attitude  towards  the  new 
ministry,  but  will  form  a  large  balancing  party,  prepared  to  support  or 
even  take  the  initiative  in  all  wise  reforms,  but  powerful  enough,  through 
its  union  with  the  Right,  to  arrest  and  annihilate  the  ministry  of  the 
Left  should  it  embark  on  dangerous  courses.  What  must  also  be  hopt  d 
is,  that  M.  Gambetta  will  not  allow  the  struggle  against  the  clergy  to 
divert  him  from  meeting  the  need  for  social  reforms  which  exists 
amongst  a  portion  of  the  people.  Religious  strifes  in  which  the  indivi- 
dual conscience  comes  into  play,  lilways  lead  governments  further  than 
they  intend. 

Lastly,  besido  thesa  secondary  difficulties,  which  may  with  wisdom 
bo  averted,  there  is  %  fundamental  difficulty  arising  out  of  the  very 
nature ^of  our  constitution.  Parliamentary  government  is  all  but  incom- 
patible with  a  centralized  administration  like  ours.  The  ministers  de- 
pending on  the  deputies,  and  the  life  of  the  whole  country  depending 
on  the  ministries,  the  ministers  spend  their  whole  time  in  conff  rrii^^: 
with  the  deputies,  listening  to  tiieir  demands  and  complaints,  and 
attending  their  proteges^  and  no  time  is  left  for  serious  business.  It 
would  require  superhuman  energy  to  resist  these  calls,  and  the  minister 
possessed  of  it  would  risk  the  loss  of  his  office.  For  parhamentary 
governments  to  work,  a  wide  decentralization  is  necessary,  as  also  that 
the  ministers'  powers  should  be  political  and  not  administrative.  Bnt 
is  such  dacentralization  possible  ?  It  would  present  great  inconvenience  s 
now,  when  the  country  has  still  to  be  educated,  and  the  struggle  agairst 
the  encroachments  of  clericalism  is  always  on  the  verge  of  breaking  out. 
There  is  tha  great  danger.  Republican  parhamentary  government, 
owing  to  the  tyranny  of  the  deputies  over  the  ministers,  runs  the  risk 
of  ending  in  favouritism,  general  impotency,  and  disorder. 

Whilst  awaiting  what  the  future  has  in  store  and  hoping  that  our  fears 
may  not  be  realized,  we  may  regard  ^vith  satisfaction  what  the  year  1878 
has  brought  us.  All  that  the  Universal  Exhibition  called  into  being  has 
not  disappeared.  Not  to  mention  the  Palace,  which  will  continue  to 
crown  the  hill  of  the  Trocadero,  several  new  museums  are  to  grow  out 
of  the  vast  temporary  museum  in  the  Champ  da  Mars ;  an  educational 
museum,  to  include  everything  connected  with  schools  and  teaching 
that  the  Exhibition  contained ;  an  ethnographical  and  anthropological 
museum,  to  provide  these  new  studies  with  the  scientific  elements  of 
comparative  observation.  There  is  a  talk  of  organizing  an  enormous 
industrifd  museum  in  the  galleries  of  the  Champ  de  l£urS|  where  the 


/     CONTEMPORABT  UFE  AND  THOUGHT  HI  ITvANCIi    193 

machines  vonld  be  seen  at  work.  Th'*  Centml  Union  of  Art3  ha0 
op^jned  a  museom  of  iudustrial  art,  in  tho  Pavilion  de  Flore,  on  the 
laodjl  of  the  Kensington  Museum.  Finally,  JvL  Viollet  le  L)uo  has 
started  a  plan  for  a  popular  theatre,  with  very  low  entrance  fees,  whera 
iae  actors  and  actresses  of  the  subsidized  theatres  would  play  the  best 
pieces  and  opczas  in  their  repertoire.  The  Ministar  of  Finanoe  gram* 
1)1^  a  little  in  subdued  tones  at  the  Bepublic^s  tendency  to  do  grand 
things  rapidly  and  on  an  extensive  scale ;  what  he  wants  to  do  is  to 
liquidati  the  debt,  pay  the  Hank,  aad  convert  tiie  stock,  but  neither  the 
optimists  of  the  Budget  ComiiMSsion  nor  >L  de  Freycinet  see  things  in 
tiiat  light,  and  have  no  hesitation  in  engaging  the  anticipated  surplus  of 
future  budgets  in  advance. 

The  intellectual  and  artistic  activity,  suspended  as  it  was  by  the  tur- 
moil  of  the  Exhibition  and  the  distractions  of  the  summer  season,  is 
greater  than  ever  now  that  the  gatas  of  the  Champ  de  Mai-s  are  shut.  I 
am  not  speaking  merely  of  the  necessarj'  periodical  activity  displayed  in 
tile  production  of  handwme  and  charming  illustrat*'d  books.  Aiid  yet 
one  of  the  pleasures  of  the  season  is  to  turn  over  these  beautiful  speci- 
mens of  the  printer's  art,  to  look  at  the  engravings  entrusted  to  excellent 
artists,  of t3n  accompanied  by  letterpress  of  an  intrinsic  value.  Every 
publishing  firm  has  its  specialty  and  its  own  particular  public.  For 
beautifnl  pubUcations  of  the  more  soUd  kind  the  firm  of  Hachette  stands 
first  They  pubhsh  this  year  a  new  volume  of  Elisee  Rcclus'  grv?at  geo- 
graphical work,  **La  Terre  et  les  Hommes,"  devoted  to  Bflgiiim,  Hol- 
land, and  the  British  Isles;  the  first  volume  of  M.  Duruy's  ''Histoire 
des  Bomains;"  the  first  volume  of  **La  Suisse,"  by  M.  Gourdault, 
most  splendidly  and  carefully  illustrated;  magnificent  illustrations  of 
**Ariosto*'  by  Gustave  Dor6;  and,  lastly,  the  pearl  of  gift-books  this 
season,  *' Aucassin  et  Nicoletts,"  translated  and  adorned  with  etchings 
by  the  great  draughtsman  Bida  This  novel,  or,  as  M.  Bida  calls  it, 
this  *'Ohantefable,"  half  prose,  half  verse,  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the 
French  literature  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Never  has  love  been 
expressed  in  so  touching,  so  original,  and  so  pure  a  manner.  M. 
Bida,  a  man  of  most  cultivated  mind  as  well  as  an  artist  of  high 
aims,  whose  illustrations  of  the  Bible  surpass  anything  ever  yet 
attempted  in  that  line,  has  shown,  in  a  twofold  way,  his  profound 
undarsianding  of  the  ancient  text  by  a  translation  half  verse,  half 
prose,  retaining  with  certain  liberties,  the  naif  grace  of  the  original, 
and  by  drawings,  which  seem  living  images  in  their  plastic  reality, 
of  Au^assiu  the  young  Count  of  Baaucaire,  and  his  love  Nicolette,  the 
Saracen  slave.  M.  Quantin,  long  contented,  before  becoming  a  pub- 
lisher, with  being  the  best  printer  in  Paris,  has  placed  himself  from  the 
first  on  a  level  with  the  best  by  his  fascinating  recollections  of  the 
"Petits  Gonteurs  Fran9ais"  (Boufflers,  Voisenon),  little  classical  mas- 
terpieces (La  Princesse  de  Cloves,  "Adolphe,"  **  Valerie"),  and  his 
luniature  editions  of  ancient  novels,  **  Cupid  and  Psyche,"  **  Daphnis 
And  Ghloe/'  which  are  marvels  of  grace  and  good  taste.    To  these  be 

U  M.— I.— 7. 


194    COKTEMPOBAEY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FBANCE. 

has  this  year  added  a  collection  of  nnpnblished  letters  of  the  deepest 
interest:  '  *  Correspondance  de  E.  Delacroix,"  edited  by  Th.  Burty, — 
ft  Bort  of  biograpliy  of  the  painter  as  furnished  by  his  letters,  through 
v/iiich  we  form  an  intiinato  acquaintance  with  the  simple,  loyal,  and 
Gomewhat  melancholy  nature  of  this  great  artist.  Seldom  has  a  man  of 
l^onius  carried  sincerity,  freedom  from  personal  pre-occupations  an-.l 
petty  vanities,  the  wide  and  eclsctic  appreciation  of  everything  that  is 
beautiful,  the  absence  of  all  exaggeration  and  emphasis,  so  far.  Thv 
two  ItiitiTS  on  the  English  school  of  painting  and  Bennington  aro 
amongst  the  most  interesting.  What  he  said  of  the  English  paintt-rs 
twenty  years  ago,  of  their  conscientiousness,  their  impulsive  origuial- 
ity,  their  psychological  penetration,  is  true  to  this  day.  At  M.  Germtr 
raiilcre's  we  find  scientific  works ;  at  M.  Plon's  books  of  traveL  >1. 
Iletzel  is  the  young  people's  favourite.  He  enchants  them  with  the 
iuexhaustible  magic  lantern  of  Jules  Verne,  whose  "  Capitaino  de  Qniuzj 
Ans"  is  as  exciting  as  his  "Capitaina  Hatteras,"  and  his  **  Enfants  da 
Capitaiue  Grant."  He  tftinsports  them  into  Bussia  with  his  **  Marous- 
sia,"  illustrated  by  the  last  drav/ings  of  the  excellent  Alsatian  artl:-t, 
Th<k)phile  Schuler.  Froelich  continues  his  series  of  children's  book?, 
the  charm  and  truth  of  which  are  such  that  they  delight  tho-^tnoth-Ts 
even  more  than  the  children.  Those  who  want  pretty  editions  of  tli:> 
classics  of  the  seventeenth  century  go  to  Jouaust ;  those  who  waut 
modern  poetry  find  it  at  Lemerre  and  Fischbacher's,  dressed  in  sucb 
elegant  garb  as  to  predispose  them  to  admiration.  M.  Mame  and  aI. 
Pahne  address  themselves  especially  to  the  Ultramontane  connection  ; 
and  the  firm  of  Firmin  Didot  itself  seems  desirous  of  giving  a  Catholio 
colour  to  its  larger  illustrated  works,  such  as  '*Les  Femmcsdansia 
Society  Chrotiennc,"  by  M.  Dantier,  which  far  from  rival  those  of 
Hachette. 

These  gift-books,  however,  represent  only  a  small  part  of  tha  literarv 
activity  that  shows  itself  every  year  as  winter  conicS  on.  The  books 
that  are  read,  and  are  worth  reading,  are  not  always  the  handsomest,  or 
finest  impressions.  Often  even  pubhshers  are  a  triflo  careless  as  rogarda 
those  which  are  sure  to  make  their  way  by  themselves.  This  is  not  Vi  ^ 
time  of  yf  ar  that  noveUsts  choose  for  pi'oducing  their  most  cherish  d 
works.  They  prefer  spring  or  summer,  when  the  attractions  of  tb* 
B^adon  ar3  over,  and  thoir  female  readers  have  quiit  and  leisure.  TU- 
return  of  the  fine  weather,  the  reawakening  of  natnr*?,  arou'o  a  desire 
for  poc  tioal  emotions,  and  lend  them  a  peculiar  charm.  Winter  is  tb-? 
tima  for  serious  reading,  in  the  long  fireside  evenings,  when  the  \yiT^d  is 
raging  outside.  Hence  it  comes  that  most  of  the  books  published  at 
the  beginning  of  the  winter  are  of  the  serious  and  solid  kind.  One  nov- 
elist-poet only  has  ventured  to  bring  out  a  book  of  the  spring-time  class 
just  when  everybody  are  making  themselves  snug  within  doors.  Und*^ 
the  title  "Sous  Bois"  (Charpentier),  A.  Theuriot  has  collected  some 
short  pieces  expressing  aore  intensely  than  any  of  his  former  productions 
his  prof ouad  sympathy  with  a  country  life.   If  you  wish  to  console  your* 


CONTEMPOEABT  IJFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FRANCE.    195 

self  for  the  inclemencies  of  the  season,  and  reawaken  delicions  memories 
of  days  far  from  the  stir  and  din  of  towns  in  the  free  healthy  atmosphere 
of  the  real  comitry,  read  over  again  **  En  For6t"  and  '*La  Chanson  dii 
Jardinier."  Yon  will  find  yonrself  making  lovely  excursions  along  tho 
banks  of  the  Meuse,  through  the  dense  forests  of  tha  Argonne.  ilhi- 
mined  at  evening  by  the  bright  light  of  the  glass-works,  with  ioTcr.s 
and  sturdy  companions.  At  the  same  time,  in  his  essay  on  popular 
Bongs,  M.  Thenriet  teaches  you  the  treasures  of  unconscious  poetry  and 
artless  and  profound  sentiment  contained  in  these  ruKtic  vfrs^s,  hi- 
therto so  little  known,  which  the  peasants  themselves  are  bcginnicg  to 
forget 

Pure  literature,  literary  criticism,  is,  it  has  been  already  remarked, 
very  much  neglected  in  these  days  in  France.  The  daily  prrss,  it  is 
trae,  still  has  among  its  writers  two  critics  of  the  higliest  order,  M. 
Schererof  the  2'cmps,  and  M.  Colani  of  the  I-epvhMqve  Fraijcnisr;  but 
whatever  savour  their  articles  may  possess,  even  v.  hen  collected  in 
volumes,  like  M.  Scherer*s  "Etudes  sur  la  Litt^rature  Contempcraine" 
(o  vols.,  Lfcvy),  these  disconnected  sketches,  designed  for  an  inattentive 
and  mixed  public,  limited  by  the  very  size  of  the  pap(  r,  cannot  rank 
"with  works  of  a  less  fleeting  nature,  thought  out  and  written  at  loipure, 
in  which  the  general  ideas  present  themselves,  not  in  the  shape  of  bril- 
liant assertions,  but  borne  out  by  facts  and  rcaponing.  It  Reems  as  if 
those  who  have  the  talent  necessary  to  undertake  Ruch  works  were  led 
by  the  daily  press  and  the  reviews  to  confine  themselves  to  incomplete 
and  rapid  essays.  The  exception,  if  any,  to  this  rule  is  some  professor 
in  the  provinces,  whom  Paris  has  not  spoiled,  who,  in  his  isolation,  has 
time  to  read,  think,  and  write,  with  sufficient  sequence  to  compose  a 
work.  Thus  unquestionably  one  of  cur  most  distlnguishtd  men  of 
letters  is  M.  Stapfer,  professor  of  foreign  literature  at  Grenoble.  And 
yet,  though  possessing  all  the  qualities  calculated  to  please, — wit,  taste, 
a  lively  and  delicate  style,  very  varied  literary  attainments,  acute 
moral  and  psychological  appreciation, — his  books,  "  Laurence  Sterne  " 
and  the  **Causeries  Parisiennes,"  have  not  met  with  the  success  they 
deserve.  The  world  finds  it  difficult  to  believcthat  vou  can  be  a  writer 
of  any  value  if  they  have  not  seen  your  name  in  the  papers  or  the  re- 
views, and  the  serious  class  of  readers  has  neglected  lit- ratiire  for  eru- 
dition. M.  Stapfer's  now  book,  "Shakespeare  (t  1' Antiquity,"  is  pure 
to  be  more  successful  than  its  predecessors,  because  it  treats  of  a  great 
X)oet  admired  by  the  whole  world,  about  whom,  in  France  at  l«:at;t, 
people  do  not  know  much,  and  whom  M.  Stapfer  has  here  treated  from 
an  original  point  of  vievr,  and  also  because  without  mailing  a  parade  of 
enidition  he  has  givsn  it  a  larger  place  than  before.  But  it  is  r.ot  to 
thin  the  book  owes  its  value.  In  tho  retirement  oi  a  pi'ovincial  town, 
m  the  isolation  of  solitary  study,  M.  Stapfer  could  not  know  everything ; 
with  no  one  to  revise  his  work,  he  has  overlooked  some  errors.  Now 
and  then,  too,  he  has  let  his  pen  mn  on  too  complacently,  as  if  giving 
himself  up  to  the  delights  of  a  talk.     But  tho  real  value  of  his  book 


19(5    CONTEMPOEAET  LIFE  AlTD  THOUGHT  IN  FEANCB. 

Bccms  to  mo  to  lio  in  his  nioral  and  psychological  appreciation  of  Ehato- 
tpearo's  plays.  By  confining  himself  to  the  study  of  a  portion  only  c2 
the  great  dramatist's  •work,  and  that  not  the  most  important,  he  hr.3 
been  ablo  to  analyse  it  with  exlremo  minntias,  and  render  an  accnratj 
account  to  himself  of  the  mcda  in  which  Shakespeare  worked  and  trarin- 
formed  the  materials  ho  derived  from  tradition.  It  is  in  the  works  cf 
the  second  order  that  the  true  character  of  men  of  genius  can  cf  t'-,n  b . 
be st  appreciate d.  They  are  more  accessible  from  the  secondary  slJ.i 
than  from  that  cf  their  masterpieces,  which  silence  criticism  by  tii: 
cnthus:as.n  thty  excite,  and  which,  moreover,  the  admiration  of  post  r- 
iiy  has,  so  to  speak,  consecrated  and  transfigured.  In  devoting  himself 
exclusively  to  thoso  of  Shaktspearo's  plays  whose  subjects  are  boiTowtd 
from  c:a.^8ical  antiquity,  IvI.  Stapfer  has  been  able  to  determine  his  r^al 
plac3  in  the  Itenaissan^o,  whosa  exaggerations  and  prejudices  he  sac- 
cjedjd  in  r.  j-  cting  and  avoiding;  to  show  what  his  historical  and  lit.^- 
rary  attaimndnts  werv%  the  simplo  [rood  faith  with  which*  he  aecc  pt*  d 
th«  traditions  cf  Plutarch ;  and  at  Iho  same  time  the  powerful  psj-cho- 
logical  dLsigns,  thc^  strong  instinct  of  the  hving  realities  and  thj  dni- 
matieal  logic  with  which  he  animated  thf  se  imperfect  documents,  ard 
produced  works  wliieh,  in  spiti  of  ail  anachronisms,  all  incohcreucits, 
and  all  odditi-  s,  are  yet  profoundly  lioman,  profoundly  English,  and 
profoundly  human.  Perhaps  the  b-  st  chapter  of  the  volume  is  that  ca 
Troilus  and  Cr^'ssida.  M.  btapl^r  hIiows  pt  rfoctly  how  the  conceptim 
til  3  middli  agjR  had  of  the  Trojan  War,  violently  taking  part  with  thj 
Trojans  against  the  Gr  ;tks  has  found  its  most  vivid,  poetically  fivx- 
ta-tie,  aid  striking  utt'ranc 3  in  Shak.sp' are's  pioce.  Vv'o  look  impr.. 
ti  .ntly  for  M.  h'.tapf  r's  sjcond  volume,  in  which  he  is  to  iv:itt  of  tii^ 
r  lation  and  the  dltlVr.mces  cf  th3  Shakespearian  and  the  anci  it 
drama.  Th3  English,  so  d-^eply  v^rsfid  now  in  Shakespearian  erudi- 
tion, will,  we  think,  forgive  the  French  critic  a  f  w  <rrors  of  ditail,  r.\ 
coasid  ration  of  tli^  lofty  iiit  lligjuco  and  thj  calm  fairness  with  whi^h 
h ;  CO  nm  uts  on  th  -i  po  t's  work. 

It  lit  raturj  b  ;  so  n  \vir\t  n-  glxt.d  r.t  pr ^s^nt  in  Franc,  it  is  not  so 
witii  history.  Nev  r  hi?  it  bun  i^^ori  etudit  d,  and  the  discover!,  s  y  t 
to  b  ;  mad  s  oven  r  lativi  to  th )  cpoebs  apparently  the  best  known,  arj 
sn-pvlsing-  Onj  would  almost  b)  ineiintd  to  think  that  the  whole  cf 
h- story  oucjfht  to  be  racast,  tbat  thoH>  who  have  hitherto  attempted  kinro 
hstori^al  syiith^sjs  have  bnen  too  hasty,  and  that  ev.^ry  fact  ought  fir^t 
to  bj  subj  !ct  d  to  th3  most  minute  cr'tical  inveptigation.  The  archiv  a 
hav )  many  surpria  s  in  stor^  for  us  still,  a  proof  of  which  is  to  bp  s.  <  n 
ii  th)  coLnmniar^^  drawn  fron  th^m  by  M.  Luce  for  the  edition  (^ 
Froissart  w'l'-^h  he  is  p'lbiishing  ukI  r  ths  auspices  of  th-i  Rocit't'  d' 
l'Hif:to"r  3  d^  France.  Th*^  r-^v.  n  volumes  already  issu'^d  do  not  rorppr*^-  • 
nior^  thi'i  Book  I.,  but  th'^  txt  is  nTonpani'd  by  rxplftv.atm- a-  1 
cm  T>d\tory  ■Dot'^s  so  copious  and  comt)!  tp  that  th^  whol  ^  of  the  hlRtrry 
of  the  fourteenth  century  seems,  as  it  wcr^,  renovated  therel)y.  TLii.i 
he  has  done  justice  on  the  legend  according  to  which  Charles  Y.  waa 


'      CONTEMPOEABT  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FRANCE,    wr 

supposed  to  have  declared  war  on  Edward  IIL  by  sending  one  of  his 
scdiions  to  him ;  the  truth  being  that  Edward  III.  dechned  a  present 
of  Trine  Charles  Y.  had  sent  hiiu  at  the  moment  when  hoHtilitics  were 
beginning  again,  and  out  of  this  fact  the  legend  grew.  It  is  no  less 
important  to  study  local  history  in  its  detaOs,  for  the  general  history  of 
a  country  results  from  all  the  local  forces  combined,  and  though  by  fol- 
lowing merely  the  great  pohtical  facts  and  the  actions  of  the  central 
power  the  effects  may  be  ascertained,  the  causes  remain  imdiscovered. 
I'  is  through  local  and  provincial  history  that  social  history,  the  most 
interesting  of  all,  is  learnt.  Works  of  this  kind  have  greatly  multiphed  of 
late  years,  thanks  more  especially  to  the  numerous  learned  societies  ex- 
isting in  the  departments.  But  none  of  them  can  compare  with  the  one 
M.  Celestin  Port,  archivist  at  Angers,  has  just  completed:  "Dicfcion- 
naire  Historique  de  Maine  et  Loire."  He  has  devoted  long  years  to  it, 
ransacking  all  the  archives,  all  the  libraries  of  the  department  and  of 
the  neighbouring  departments,  visiting  ail  the  communes,  and  not  leav- 
ing a  single  historical,  htarary,  or  archsBological  question  unexplored. 
More  than  one  article  of  this  dictionary  is  in  itself  a  book,  and,  strange 
to  say,  this  immense  erudition,  all  this  dust  of  the  archives,  has  in 
nowise  overwhelmed  M.  Port.  His  dictionary  is  written  with  spirit,  in 
in  the  most  lively  and  original  language,  and  is  deUghtful  reading. 
When  we  have  encyclopaedias  of  this  kind  for  each  one  of  the  depart- 
ments it  will  be  easy  to  write  a  general  history  of  France.  Again  it  is 
by  minute  study  of  detail  that  M.  Douen,  in  his  book  on  *'Lo  Psautier 
Huguenot "  (Fischbacher),  throws  vivid  light  on  the  origin  and  deve- 
lopment of  Protestantism  in  France.  The  Psalms  were  one  of  the 
ciuef  forces  of  the  Eeformation ;  they  animated  the  Calvinist  soldiers  to 
the  fight;  they  sustained  the  martyrs  at  the  stake;  they  were  the  very 
Boul  of  public  as  of  family  worship.  To  find  out  how  the  French 
Psalter  was  composed,  to  what  tunes  these  simple  and  heroic  verses 
wore  set,  and  what  tunes  were  written  expressly  for  them,  closely  to 
study  Marot  and  Goudimel,  two  of  the  creators,  one  of  modem  poctr\% 
the  other  of  modem  music,  is  to  study  the  Reformation  from  one  of  its 
moKt  intimate  and  beautiful  sidos.  M.  Douf'n  has  done  his  work  with 
extreme  conscientiousnees,  and  Marot  is  exalted  and  ennobled  by  tbg 
light  he  throws  upon  him.  Besides  the  court-poet  and  the  valet  of 
Francis  I.,  with  whom  we  were  already  acquaiTited,  v/o  find  a  serious 
and  religious-minded  man  who  conscientiously  and  bravely  took  his  part 
in  the  work  of  the  "Reformation. 

The  attention  of  historians  has,  however,  of  latf',  he^ry  iv.vnod.  I^rr  to 
thp  middle  ae^os  and  the  sixteenth  cmtm-y  than  to  t^^e  eijjht-^r-nth.  rf  all 
epochs  the  most  int^reatin?  to  us  as  being  the  Rourcc  of  nil  tb^^  questions 
now  ajntating  Frano.-^  and  Europe;  the  one,  t/>o,  abont  which,  pt-i'hapR, 
we  know  l-a-it,  as  far,  at  any  rate,  as  thp  v^rrr^  of  I>cir!p.  XV.  ^s  con- 
CTn^d.  owinpj  to  our  attention  having  hithv^rto  boon  chiefly  confined  to 
the  brilliant  and  frivolous  outside  of  things,  the  life  of  the  salons,  and 
of  literazy  circles.    Voltaire,  Diderot,  Grimm,  Mme.  du  Deffand,  Mme« 


198    CONTEMPORAEY  LIFE  AKD  THOUGHT  IN  FEANCE. 

d'Epinay  have  absorbed  onr  gaze  ;  the  lives  and  work  of  the  ministers, 
of  Fleury,  Machanlt,  Choisenl,  Maupeou  is  still  in  shadow.  Hencefor- 
ward, through  M.  Masson's  two  volumes  of  "Memoircs  and  Lettres  du 
Cardinal  de  Bemis "  (Plon),  one  minister,  at  least,  will  become  well 
known.  Francois  Joachim  de  Pierre  enjoyed,  until  now,  rather  a  poor 
reputation.  Ho  was  looked  upon  as  an  abbe  of  the  boudoir  and  the 
bedchambf.r,  of  light  morals  and  wit,  a  coiner  of  insipid  rhymes,  pro- 
moted without  reason  by  the  favour  of  Mme.  de  Pompadour  to  the 
Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  chiefly  responsible  for  the  alliance  of 
France  with  Maria  Theresa,  an  alhance  out  of  which  the  disastrous 
Seven  Years'  War  arose.  It  has  even  been  said  that  it  was  to  revenge 
himself  for  an  epigram  of  Frederick  II.  *s,  on  his  literary  productions, 
that  Bemis  broke  off  the  Prussian  alliance.  The  memoirs  and  letters  of 
Bemis  reveal  him  in  quite  another  light  The  lively  frivolous  man  we 
expected  does  not  appear;  he  has  wit  no  doubt,  but  above  all  gocd 
sense,  observation,  and  prudence.  As  regards  his  relations  with  Mme. 
de  Pompadour,  we  are  not  quite  prepared  to  bcheve  him  when  ho  pre- 
tends to  have  only  consented  with  difficulty  to  being  presented  to  the 
favom-ite,  and  that  he  yielded  in  order  to  exercise  a  wise  and  healthy 
influence  over  her ;  but  on  the  question  of  the  Austrian  allr'aoce  he  is 
entirely  exculpated.  Not  a  doubt  remains  but  that  it  was  Frederick 
who  took  the  initiative  in  the  rupture  with  France,  by  being  the  firpt  to 
make  overtures  of  alhance  to  England;  and  yet  Bemis  withstood 
Austria's  offers ;  he  was  even  simple-minded  enough  to  believe,  after 
the  alhance  with  Maria  Theresa  was  concluded,  that  Frederick  could 
not  adhere  to  it ;  finally,  in  1758  he  lost  his  place  because  he  wanted  io 
take  advantage  of  the  first  successes  to  make  peace.  Hitherto,  even  in 
France,  people  beUeved  the  version  given  by  Frederick  IL  in  his  Me- 
moirs. But  that  great  man,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  practice  the 
principles  of  Machiavelli,  whilst  refuting  them  in  his  writings,  after 
beating  France  and  Austria  in  the  battlefield,  succeeded  besides  in 
attachmg  all  the  blame  possible  to  them  in  the  eyi?6  of  posterity  by  what 
he  wrote.  The  hatred  and  contempt  inspired  by  the  Government  of 
Louis  XV.  gave  credit,  in  France,  to  all  Frederick  II. 's  accusations  :  but 
the  time  has  come  for  criticism  to  resume  her  rights.  It  does  not  follow 
that,  like  M.  Masson,  we  must  make  a  great  minister  and  a  profouiid 
politician  out  of  Bcrais.  Ho  was  ill-preparrd  for  the  difficult  functions 
he  ha:l  to  fulfil :  if  ho  blamed  the  Austrian  alliance,  it  w*\s  he  who  con- 
clu:l'd  ?t;  the  paH  ho  played  as  counsellor  to  Mme.  de  Pompadour  c.id 
not  lead  to  the  reform  of  any  abuso ;  and  after  having  been  deceived  Ly 
Cho^^!  ul  he  romalncd  his  friend.  H^  was  a  man  of  sagacious  mind,  but 
of  T'O  frrat  capncity,  and  of  weak  character. 

Th  f  S^von  Years'  War,  which  brouejht  Russia  and  Austria  into  oolli- 
slon  with  Prussia,  was  to  be  the  starting  point  of  an  alliance  between 
the  three  States,  an  alliance  that  after  the  lapse  of  a  century  still  exists, 
notwithstanding  all  the  changes  the  map  of  Europe  has  undergone.* 
This  alliance  was  the  work  of  Frederick  n.,  and  M.  Sorel  has  jnst  given 


r     CONTEMPORARY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FRANCE.    199  ^ 

an accQimt  of  its  origin  in  an  admirable  book,  ''La  Question  d^Orient 
au  XVHL  8. :  Les  Origines  de  la  Triple  Alliance "  (Plon).     Frederick 
saw  that  Russia  and  Austria  were  on  the  point  of  being  drawn  into  a 
fatal  contest  for  tho  succession  of  tha  Ottoman  Einpire,  and  that  on  the 
other  hand  th3  rivalry  between  Prusaia  and  Au'itria  in  Germany  would 
remain  in  the  acuta  staga  and  imx>ed3  Prussia's  development,  unless  it 
were  made  the  instrument  of  Russian  greatness,  which  was  likewise  a 
danger  to  her.     He  saw  that  the  partition  of  Poland  would  be  the  solu- 
tion of  all  these  difficulties.     As,  with  his  impious  cynicism,  he  ex- 
pressed  it,  "It  will  unite  the  throe  religions,  Greek,  Catholic^  and  Cal- 
vinist;  for  wa  shall  partake  of  one  eucharistio  body,  which  is  Poland, 
and  if  it  be  not  for  the  benefit  of  our  souls,  it  will  surely  be  greatly 
to  the  benefit  of  our  States."     It  was  in  fact  the  compUclty  of  the 
tbree^tates  that  bound  them  indissolubly  together.    Russia  checked  her 
advances  in  the  east,  haying,  of  necessity,  to  occupy  herself  with  Poland, 
and  left  Prussia  to  unite  her  possessions  in  the  northeast  with  those  in 
the  west,  by  making  herself  mistress  of  the  lower  course  of  the  Vistula ; 
Austria  left  off  watching  Russia  in  the  east,  and  gave  up  her  claims  on 
Silesia.     It  is  from  the  partition  of  Poland  and  the  alliance  of  the  three 
courts  of  Austria,  Prussia,  and  Russia,  that  international  and  modem 
poiitics  date.     The  conse(^uences  are  visible  now,  and,  as  M.   Sorel 
eloquently  demonstrates,  ad^  beginning  to  turn  against  the  authors  of 
that  glaring  iniquity.     The  Polish  question  seems  exhausted,  but  the 
Eastern  question  is  making  rapid  strides  towards  a  solution.     Once 
solved,  the  Austrian  question  wiU  begin  to  unfold  itself,  and  then  Prussia 
and  Russia  will  remain  face  to  face.     M.   Sorel  has  not  treated  this 
deeply  interesting  question  solely  as  a  diplomat,  but  as  a  psychological 
historian  as  well,  and  has  produced  finished  portraits  of  the  three  chief 
actors  in  the  drama  :  Catherine  II.,  who  behaved  with  an  unscrupulous- 
ncss  truly  imperial,  and  an  immodesty  truly  epic,  conquering  and 
Bnnexing  on  a  grand  scale,  as  if  by  right  of  nature,  in  the  name  of  holy 
Russia;  Frederick,  harsh  and  persevering,  mingling  the  cynicism  of 
Mephistopheliau  irony  with  his  passion  for  the  greatness  of  his  country ; 
Maria  Theresa,  weak  and  greedy,  devout  and  ambitious,  full  of  scruples 
to  which  she  iiaid  no  heed — "always  weeping  und  always  talking." 

"  God  is  too  high  and  France  is  too  far  oif,"  Haid  the  Poles  more  than 
oaee  in  their  misfortunes.  France,  in  fact,  always  Bympathized  with 
ta.-.in,  but,  whether  from  weakness,  powerhssnc&s,  or  incapacity,  that 
sympathy  remained  a  barren  one,  and  rather  harmful  than  useful. 
Striking  examples  of  this  are  to  be  found  in  M.  de  Brogiie's  new  book, 
*'  Le  Secret  du  Roi"  (2  vols.,  Levy).  It  was  well  known  for  some  time 
past  through  M.  Boutaire's  publication,  **  La  Correspondance  Secrete 
de  Louis  XV.,"  that  that  indolent  and  vicious  king  had  kept  up>,  side  by 
side  with  the  official,  a  secret  diplomacy,  the  threads  of  which  he  held 
in  his  own  hand,  and  by  means  of  which  he  now  and  then  pursued  dif- 
ferent aims  from  those  of  his  ministry.  But  the  essential  documents, 
the  letters  of  the  Comte  de  Broglie,  the  chief  agent  and  the  soul  of  this 


200    OONTEMPORABT  LIFB  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FBANCE. 

secret  diplomacy,  "^erd  wanting.  The  present  Dnc  de  Broglie,  the 
grand-nephew  of  the  Comte  de  Broglie,  thanks  to  the  Yoluminona 
archives  of  his  family,  as  also  to  the  Archives  of  Foreign  Affairs  and  of 
the  Ministry  of  War,  has  been  able  to  give  a  complete  history  of  that 
carious  diplomatic  episode,  which  he  has  recounted  with  brilliant  and 
forcible  vivacity.  He  places  the  part  Louis  XV.  played  in  its  true  light. 
M.  Boutaire  was  very  near  making  him  pass  for  a  great  politician 
thwarted  by  his  ministers,  and  trying  to  take  his  revenge  onknowu  to 
them ;  M.  de  BrogUe  shows  him  to  have  been  merely  a  blase  looker-on, 
seeking  distraction  of  a  refined  kind,  incapable  of  following  out  an  idea, 
and  meanly  sacrificing  his  confidants  as  soon  as  the  secret  was  discov- 
ered. We  experience  a  certain  deception  in  reading  these  two  volumts, 
from  seeing  the  many  negotiations  that  miscarried,  the  magnificent  plans 
that  did  not  weigh  a  straw  in  the  destinies  of  Europe.  It  is  painf  ixl  to 
see  this  Penelope's  web  alternately  made  and  unmade.  The  bock  is  of 
immense  importance  as  regards  knowledge  of  Louis  XV.  and  his  Govern- 
ment, but  throws  no  light  on  what  really  guided  the  politics  of  Europe. 
Yet  this  Comte  de  BrogUe  was  a  man  of  rare  understanding,  impelled 
by  obedience  to  the  King,  ambition,  and  love  of  intrigue  to  accept  a 
thankless  and  undignified  part  Poland  was  the  centre  of  his  projects, 
from  the  moment  when  he  laboured  to  get  the  Prince  de  Conti  elected 
king  up  to  that  in  which  he  endeavoured  to  enlist  the  adventurer  Du- 
mouriez  to  his  ideas.  He  cherished  dreams,  it  is  said,  of  changing  the 
anarchical  constitution  and  making  it  the  pivot  of  a  French  policy. 
These  chimeras,  blent  with  profound  insight  and  just  intuitions,  ended 
in  the  most  absolute  nothingness  and  the  craellest  mortification. 

If  M.  de  Broglie's  book  draws  a  sad  picture  of  monarchical  Franco 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  that  given  by  M.  de  Lomenic's  **  Mirabeau" 
(Dentre)  is  not  more  seductive,  but  is  perhaps  more  instructive.  The 
Mirabeau  family  is  not  oifly  interesting  on  account  of  the  great  revolu- 
tionary tribune,  but  because  all  its  members  were  powerful  and  original 
individuohties:  the  grandfather,  Jean  Antoinc,  and  the  grandmother, 
who  died  insane ;  the  bailiif  uncle,  a  man  of  great  intelligence,  and  ad- 
mirable rectitude,  who  would  have  made  an  excellect  Minister  of  tho 
Marine;  the  other  uncle,  who  became  (councillor  to  the  Margrave  of 
EajTeuth,  after  being  repudiated  by  his  family  owing  to  his  having 
married  beneath  him ;  lastly,  the  Marquis,  fathf  r  of  the  great  Mirabeau, 
tho  philosopher,  philanthropist,  economist,  and  author  of  "L'Ami  dtn 
Hommes,"  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  types  of  the  reforming  noLihtj 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  a  true  symbol  of  the  disorder  then  provaJLhig — 
at  outrageous  war  with  his  wife,  by  whom  he  had  had  eleven  children  ; 
at  war  with  his  son,  against  whom  he  took  out  lettres  dc  cachet^  whilst 
thundering  against  the  abuses  of  authority — a  strange  example  of  th? 
influx  of  democratic  ideas  into  a  feudal  brain.  AVo  must  read  M.  do 
Lomenio^s  book  to  understand  the  state  of  intellectual  and  administr^ 
tivQ  anarchy  into  which  Franco  had  sunk.   It  likewisQ  gives  aumy  ixxtez- 


'•*     CONTEMPORABT  LIFE  AOT)  TBOVQBT  IN  FRANCE.    201 

eeimg  detail?  concerning  the  navy,  the  Otder  of  Malta,  and  tho  f eudiil 
righte  in  the  eighteenth  centuTy. 

Let  those  who  wish  to  console  themselves  for  these  too  highly-colonrftd 
pictures  read  th^.  **L2ttre8  de  la  Princesse  de  Oonde  an  Marquis  de  la 
Gervaisais  "  (Didier),  pnblished  by  M.  P.  Viollet,  gennino  letters  ot  the 
same  period,  forming  the  purest  and  most  touching  novel  imaginable. 
This  last  heiress  of  the  great  name  of  Gonde  had  fallen  in  love  with  a 
young  gentleman  of  elevated  and  original  mind  and  precocious  mnturity. 
She  yielded  to  the  charm  of  this  inclination  till  the  consciousness  of  the 
obstacle  the  prejudices  of  her  rank  would  interpose  between  her  and  the 
one  she  loved  constrained. her  to  give  him  up.  She  renounced  the  world, 
and  retired  to  the  cloister.  This,  again,  is  a -sad  example  of  the  barbar- 
ism  of  the  social  condition  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  but  here  at  Itast 
are  souls  of  almost  ideal  nobility  to  admire.  These  letters  are  love  melo- 
dies, of  incomparable  innocsnco  and  artlessness,  and  at  the  same  time  of 
pOvRsionate  depth. 

The  philosophical  publications  this  year  were  ftir  from  beincr  as  im- 
Dortant  as  the  historical  ones.  Translations  continue  to  be  made  of  tho 
English  philosophers,  who  at  present — Herbert  Spencer  more  especially 
— exercise  an  unquestionable  ascendency  over  French  thought.  In  proof 
of  which  we  have  only  to  read  M.  Ribot's  exoclient  **  Kevue  Philosophi- 
que  "  (Germer  Baillore).  The  works  of  Germany,  in  the  meantime,  are 
not  treated  with  indifference,  especially  those,  very  numerous  in  these 
days,  in  which  philosophy  is  based  on  the  sciences,  on  physiology  and 
physics  Tbu*=t,  whilst  M.  Liard  has  studied  "Les  Logiciens  Anglais 
CoQtemporains"  (G.  Baillere),  M.  Ribot  has  complet^jd  a  work  on  the 
*'PsychoIogues  Allemands  Oontemporains "  (G.  Baillere),  and  M.  Bou- 
tronz  has  tn\nslated  "  L'Histoire  de  la  Philosophie  Ancienne,"  by  Zeller, 
and  has  headed  the  first  volume  by  a  remarkable  preface.  Lastly,  tha 
several  varieties  of  p»?s.simism  continue  to  excite  curiosity,  rather  liter- 
ary, it  is  true,  than  philosophical.  The  fact  is,  it  is  difficult  to  take  it 
Bsriously  and  as  an  explanation  of  the  world,  even  with  men  like  Scho- 
penhauer and  Hartmann.  Pessimism  is  a  feeling,  a  temperament ;  it 
may  produce  a  religion,  like  Buddhism,  but  will  never  bo  a  rational 
doctrine.  In  France,  moreover,  amidst  a  gay,  active,  sensible,  and 
volatile  people,  pessimism  can  never  strike  root  even  as  a  passing 
fashion.  To  us  it  seems  like  a  disease.  M.  Caro  has  studied  it  from 
this  point  of  view  in  "Le  Pessimisme  CJontemporain "  (Hachette),  a 
ch*inning  book,  wherein  he  more  particularly,  and  with  reason,  devotes 
himself  to  bringing  out  the  moral  and  psychological  causes  of  pessimism 
in  Laopardi,  Schopenhauer,  and  Hartmann;  and  shows,  with  some 
cleverness,  that  the  poet  Leopardi  was  the  truest  philosopher  of  tho 
three,  because  he  neither  sought  the  origin  nor  the  remedy  of  the  ill 
from  which  he  suffered.  The  modem  philosophical  systems,  which  all 
more  or  less  disturb  the  notion  of  free-will,  oblige  us  to  revise  our  ideas 
on  the  morals  of  its  rational  foundations.  The  preoccupation  has  in- 
spired M.  Gmyaa  with  a  remarkable  work  on  '*La  Morale  d'Epicure 


202    CONTEMPORAEY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  PEANCBJ 

dans  ses  Rapports  avec  les  Systemes  Modemes,"  in  which,  for  the  firsi 
time  in  France,  the  Epicurean  system  has  been  fairly  judged. 

During  the  whole  exhibition  season  the  theatres,  sure  of  full  houses, 
did  not  go  to  the  expense  of  bringing  cut  any  new  pieces.  They  were 
content  with  their  old  repertoire.  Only  now  are  they  beginning  to 
shako  off  their  inertia  and  to  produce  some  novelties.  The  t>j>era  stt 
the  example  with  Gounod's  "  Polyeucte,"  promised  and  looked  for  long 
ago.  This  work,  to  which  the  composer  attached  great  importance,  has 
been  much  talked  of  for  some  time.  Strange  stories  were  current  of 
the  adventures  of  the  score, — of  its  having  been  left  in  London  in  tho 
hands  of  a  lady  of  some  notoriety,  who  wotdd  not  return  it,  and  of  H, 
Gounod  having  in  consequence  entirely  to  rewrite  it.  After  the  semi- 
fiasco  of  **  Cinq  Mars"  a  brilliant  revenge  was  looked  for ;  but  in  vain. 
Mile.  Krauss's  admirable  dramatic  talent,  Lasalle*s  fine  voice,  the  won- 
derful scenery,  the  dazzling  "inise  en  scene  of  tho  fttc  of  Jupiter,  and 
some  pieces  of  a  lofty  inspiration  make  **Polyeucto"  a  spectacle  worth 
seeing ;  but  for  one  who  bears  the  name  of  Gounod,  and  has  written 
** Faust,"  **Eomeo,"  "MireiUe,"  **Sapho,"  a  succes  d'csHme  is  not 
enough.  The  subject,  moreover,  was  not  suited  to  the  musician's  pecu- 
liar genius.  Ho  fancies  that  because  he  has  a  mystical  side  to  his  naturo 
he  is  fitted  to  write  rehgious  music,  alid  in  the  case  of  lyrical  religious 
music,  if  he  had  to  express  personal  emotions,  he  would  perhaps  be 
right.  But  he  is  incapable  of  the  great  dramatic  objectivity  which  a 
subject  at  once  rehgious  and  antique  demands.  It  would  require  the 
genius  of  a  Gluck,  and  no  one  is  less  hke  Gluck  than  M.  Gounod.  TTo 
are  indebted  to  him  for  some  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrical  efi'usions,  the 
most  dehcious  cooings  and  warblings  in  modtrn  music,  but  his  essen- 
tially personal  and  subjective  style  lacks  variety,  and  almost  everything 
he  has  produced  since  he  wrote  "Faust"  recalls  without  equalling  it 
He  moreover  committed  the  inistake  of  treating  as  an  opera,  and  one 
suited  to  the  traditional  formulas  of  the  Grand  Opera  of  Paris,  a  subject 
better  fitted  for  a  kind  of  oratorio.  The  result  is  a  species  of  contradic- 
tion that  annoys  and  shocks  the  spectator. 

Notwithstanding  the  serious  reserves  we  make  with  referenca  to  Gou- 
nod's latest  work,  we  cannot  follow  those  who,  at  his  exi)ense,  praised 
the  Marquis  d*Ivry*s  "Amants  de  Verone."  Thg  difference  between  tha 
inspiration  of  a  Gounod,  original  as  it  invariably  is,  and  tho  makc-np 
talent  of  a  skilful  and  learned  amatem*,  is  all  in  all.  The  success  of  the 
**  Amants  do  Verone"  at  the  Salle  Ventadour,  proclaimed  by  the  singer 
Capoul,  who  is  himself  the  lessee,  was  due,  in  great  measure,  to  Ca- 
poul's  own  talent,  which  excites  veritable  enthusiasm  in  a  portion  of  tlia 
public,  more  especially  the  female  public,  and  to  the  charms  of  MBe. 
Heilbronn.  It  was  due  also  to  the  Marquis  dTvry's  many  personal 
relations,  to  the  Salle  Ventadour  having  become  a  fashionsble  rendez- 
vous, and  finally  to  the  attraction  exercised  by  the  divine  subject  of 
Komeo  and  Juliet  itself,  so  often  experimented  upon  by  musicians  since 
the  da^  wl^eu  ^h^espeare  made  it  the  gospel  of  young  and  passioimte 


CONTBMPOEABY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  FEANCE.    203 

love.    But  no  masic  will  ever  be  vrorthy  of  Shakespeare^s  verses ;  them 
and  them  only  will  lovers  read  and  repeat  again  and  again. 

An  interesting  attempt  made  at  the  Odron  by  M.  Vitu  to  adupt  an 
Italian  piece  of  M.  Giacometti's,  *'  La  Mort  Civile,"  to  tho  Frtnch  stagf», 
is  deserving  of  notice.  Both  in  Franco  and  Italy  Salvini  owtjd  one  of  his 
great  successes  to  this  piece.  -  A  Sicilian  paiuttr  has  carried  oil  a  young 
girl  and  married  her;  in  a  fray  ho  has  killed  his  wife's  brother,  who 
wanted  to  take  her  back  to  her  parents,  and  has  been  coud&nmid  to  the 
galleys.  At  the  end  of  a  year  he  escapes  and  finds  his  wife  hving  as 
governess  in  the  house  of  a  charitable  doctor,  who  has  adopted  the 
painter's  daughter  and  gives  her  out  to  be  his  child.  The  girl  herself 
believes  the  doctor  is  her  father.  The  painter,  mad  with  jealousy  and 
lore,  wants  at  first  to  take  back  both  wife  and  daughter,  but  vanquished 
by  the  greatness  of  soul  of  his  wife,  who  has  herself  renounced  a 
mother's  rights  for  the  sake  of  her  daughter's  happiness,  he  condemns 
and  kills  himself.  The  piece  is  naif  and  naively  treated.  Some  Parisian 
critics  were  astonished  at  its  success,  and  recalled  the  failure  of  an 
analogous  piece  by  Itl.  Edmond,  "L'Africain."  But  that  piece  wanted 
sincerity  and  conviction ;  you  were  conscious  of  a  substratum  of  Parisian 
bragging  in  it.  **La  Mort  Civile,"  on  the  contrary,  is  unskilfully  con- 
structed, but  the  sentiments  are  true  and  human.  The  scene  in  which 
the  painter  makes  his  wife  confess  that  she  loves  the  doctor,  though  she 
baa  never  let  him  see  it,  is  admirable  in  its  pathos ;  and  when  she  bids 
her  daughter  kneel  down  at  the  feet  of  her  d3ang  father,  and  call  him 
father  because  he  had  had  a  daughter  who  resembled  her  and  whom  ha 
passionately  loved,  not  an  eye  remained  dry.  The  great  success  of  '*La 
Mort  Civile  "  proves  that  abiUty  is  not  so  necessary  on  the  stage  as  is 
Bnpposed ;  that  the  essential  thing  is  to  be  human  and  true.  A  common 
coloured  engraving  that  is  true  in  sentiment  is  often  more  touching  than 
the  production  of  the  most  delicate  brush  if  it  be  affected  and  false. 

The  artistic  world  has  been  somewhat  excited  lately  by  M.  Massenet's 
nomination  to  tho  musical  section  of  the  Academie  des  Beaux  Arts.  M. 
Massenet's  competitor  was  M.  Saint-Saens,  and  in  the  eyes  of  musiciajis 
the  lattar  ought  to  have  been  preferred.  He  is  M.  Massenet's  superior 
both  as  regards  the  number  of  his  works,  and  the  power  and  loftiness  of 
his  inspiration.  But  M.  Massenet  is  more  popular;  his  '*B,oi  de  La- 
hors"  has  been  played  at  the  Opera;  he  is  an  amiable  man,  and  his 
romances  have  had  the  run  of  all  the  salons.  And  whilst  M.  Saint- 
Saens  had  all  the  musicians  of  the  Academy  on  his  side,  M.  Massenet 
had  all  the  remainder,  the  painters,  sculptors,  engravers,  and  architects. 
No  doubt  he  too  deserved  admission  to  the  Institute,  but  the  author 
of  "Samson  and  Dalila,"  the  "Rouet  d'Omphale,"  "Phac'tou,"  "  La 
Jennesse  d'HercoIe,"  '^  Let  Danse  Macabre,"  should  have  entered  before 
hiai» 

G.  MoNOD,  in  Contemporary  Beviczo. 


THE  SCHOOL-SHIP  SHAFTESBURY. 

What  has  happened  to  the  London  street  Arab  ?  Is  he  going  the  way 
the  Mohicans,  and  the  Cheroquees,  and  other  wild  tribes  ?  No :  he  is 
going  a  much  better  way.  He  is  being  turned  into  a  civilised,  respect- 
able, and  useful  member  of  society.  Like  the  Bed  Indians,  he  is  being 
'* improved  off  the  face  of  the  earth;"  liut  in  his  case  it  is  happily  by 
transformation,  not  by  extermination.  He  is  certainly  not  so  conspic- 
uous a  feature  of  London  street  Ufe  as  he  used  ta  be.  The  watchman^s 
buU'e-eye  searches  in  vain  many  of  the  dark  comers  where  he  used  to 
crouch  at  night.  He  is  by  no  means  so  frequent  a  visitor  to  the  police- 
court.  The  cells  reserved  for  his  occasional  occupation  in  the  gaols  are 
to  a  large  extent  vacant.  From  the  stipendiary  lAagistrate  down  to  po- 
licemaa  X,  all  metropolitan  authorities  agree  that  the  street  Arab  prom- 
ises soon  to  become  one  of  the  vanishing  curiosities  of  the  old  world. 
For  instance,  it  was  stated  by  Sir  Charles  Heed  in  his  speech  on  the 
te-ass'jmbling  of  the  School  Board  after  the  midsummer  recess,  that 
•^rhoreas  the  number  of  juvenilo  prisoners  in  th^'  county  gaol  at  Newing- 
^n  had  boen  three  hundred  and  sixty-seven  in  1870,  it  had  fallen  last 
year  to  one  hundred  and  forty-six.  And  this  is  not  an  accidental  or  an 
uxcej^tional  diminution.  Therj  has  been  a  constant  and  gradual  de- 
creasc3 ;  and  the  rv.port3  of  Colonel  Henderson  are  to  the  same  effect 

To  what  happy  influeijce  is  this  change  due  ?  Do  we  already  behold 
^he  fulfihnont  of  those  prophecies  so  boldly  made  at  the  advent  of 
jchool  boards,  that  reading,  writing,  and  arithmttic  would  be  the  anti- 
slote  to  every  poison  in  our  civilisation  ?  Scarcely.  There  has  been  a 
good  doal  more  than  the  j>roverbial  **  three  K's"  at  work  in  this  field. 
\Vhatever  success  may  be  fairly  claimed  here  has  been  due  to  one  par- 
ticular provision  of  thd  Elementary  Education  Act,  which  gave  new  life 
to  older  methods  of  benevolont  work.  Industrial  schools  had  done 
much  good  service  before  school  boards  came  into  existence,  but  like 
many  oth^r  charitable  institutions  they  were  greatly  cramped  for  want 
of  means.  Now  the  Act  of  1870  gave  power  to  school  boards  both  to 
build  industrial  schools  for  themsolves,  and  to  subsidize  other  institu- 
tions of  tha  kind.  The  London  Board  has  availed  itself  of  both  powers. 
It  has  now  two  industrial  schools  of  its  own,  and  has  made  contribn- 
tlons  to  almost  every  such  school  in  England  in  order  to  secure  places 
for  its  stroet  Arabs.  The  number  of  boys  disposed  of  in  this  way  has 
bocn  3,8G7,  while  altogether  between  seven  and  eight  thousand  have 
boon  tskkcn  off  the  streets.  The  time  elapsed  is  yet  too  short  to  judge 
of  the  effect  which  the  training  received  may  have  upon  the  future 
charactt^r  and  career  of  this  juvenile  multitude  ;  but  the  effect  of  their 
exodus  upon  the  London  streets  and  prisons  is  unmistakably  evident 

(204) 


THE  SOHOOL-SHIP  SHAFTESBURT.  235 

But  it  is  of  ono  part  oaly  of  this  great  work  that  we  propose  jo  speak 
now.     For  many  reasons  a  seafaring  life  offers  special  advantages  to 
tiieso  rescued  boys.     "NYo  give  no  opinion  as  to  tiie  desirability  of  such 
a  life  in  generaL     But  where  one  great  danger  to  the  youth  Laving 
Echool  is  the  risk  of  entanglement  in  the  bad  associations  of  earlier 
days,  or  where  a  lad's  chief  temptations  arise  from  exuberant  animal 
cpirits  and  a  bold  adventurous  temper,  he  may  do  many  worse  things 
than  go  to  sea.     Now  there  are  of  course  many  such  boys  among  the 
fdousands  taken  off  the  streets  by  the  London  School  Board.     And  the 
best  school  for  them  is  a  floating  school,  where  they  may  not  only  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  order  and  discipline  necessary  on  board  ship,' 
bat  may  also  receive  elementary  instruction  in  practical  seamanship, 
riany  such  floating  industrial  schools  exist  round  the  coast.     But  aft.r 
eveiy  available  place  had  been  occupied  in  them,  many  promising  boys 
had  to  bo  sent  to  institutions  less  fitted  for  them.     This  led  those  mem- 
bers of  the  Board  who  give  themselves  more  especially  to  industrial 
school  work,  to  consider  the  expediency  of  establishing  a  school-board 
chip  in  the  Thames.     Apphcation  was  accordingly  made  to  the  Govcm- 
ment  for  the  grant  of  a  disased  ship  suitable  for  the  purpose.     Most  of 
the  school-ships  previously  in  existence  had  been  in  the  days  of  their 
youth  frigates  or  line  of  battle-ships.     Thus  the  earlier  part  of  their 
career  was  passed  in  serving  Great  Britain  by  the  destruction  of  her 
enemies,  while  their  tranquil  old  ago  is  passed  in  serving  her  by  the 
salvation  of  her  children.     The  former  service  may  have  been  neces- 
sary ;  but  surely  few  would  deny  that  in  this  case  the  words  of  the 
Preacher  are  singularly  fuKilled,   **  better  is  the  end  of  a  thing  than  the 
beginning  thereof."     But  the  School  Board  were  elisappointed  in  tlieir 
application.     Tho  Government  had  no  suitable  chip  to  disposj  of  in 
such  a  manner;  and  the  Board  were  obliged  to  lock  clsewh  r\     An 
old  serew-steamcr  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Ln%  uisu'tabb  for 
the  new  line  of  traffic  throu<];h  the  Gu^z  Caual,  v;a3  nuv  rtis.d  for  tiId 
about  this  time,  and  a  thorough  inspection  Lhow.d  h  r  to  b)  w.ll 
adapted  to  tho  obj:)ct  in  view.     Aft-r  n-id.r^olng  Ihj  nuc  ssary  r.lt  r?.- 
tions  and  repairs,  she  was  moor:d  in  a  b  rlh  sp  cially  clr  d^;  d  for  h.  r, 
off  Grays.     Her  former  name  vraa  tlij  Ii'uhin^  but  w'.V.i  a  natural  and 
pbasaut  recognition  of  th/freat  s  rviecs  rend  red  by  Lord  Shaft  sbuzy 
to  the  class  of  poor  and  ne^l  :cted  boys,  she  v.-a^  r  naLncd  after  him. 

It  was  a  bright  autunii  djiy  when  the  pr  s  ct  writ  r  joined  a  f'w 
friends  bent  on  seeing  thi^j  new  life-boat —for  fraeli  indjid  she  is.  Ihe 
part  of  the  London,  Tilbury,  and  Southend  Railway  which  pass  3 
through  East  London  does  not  afford  much  scop  3  for  pictur.  squ :  obs  r- 
vations,  wh.^ther  under  a  bright  autumn  puu  or  any  oth  r  kind  of  light. 
But  it  gives  many  a  glimps?  of  squalid  mis  ry  and  huira-i  n;td;  it 
sijg^vsts  many  a  dim  persp  ♦ctive  of  dirk  cxp  ri -uc  ■,  which  formed  oi;r 
best  pr;'paration  for  thi  visit  we  were  to  make.  From  th  se  grimy 
laass,  flanked  by  staring  pubiic-hous  s,  Tki  Satan's  sentinv-l-box' s  to 
guard  against  tdl  invasions  of  heavenly  inHu^ncwS,  many  a  boy  is  drivwn 


206   ;  THE  SCHOOL-SHIP  SHAFTESBURY. 

forth  by  ill-nsago,  neglect,  and  starvation,  to  pick  np  his  living  as  best 
he  may.  On  the  ether  hand,  even  the  best-disposed  parents  in  snch 
regions  find  an  almost  insuperable  difficulty  in  keeping  their  boys  from  ' 
evil  influences  that  sweep  them  away  from  home  controL  Indeed, 
family  life  is  impossible  nndcr  the  conditions  imposed  by  necessity  on 
many  of  tho  London  poor ;  and  one  of  the  most  promising  reforms  of  , 
the  present  day  is  the  improved  system  of  erecting  workmen's  dwellirj^s 
.  in  blocks,  by  which  the  economy  of  land  enables  the  builder  to  give 
better  accommodation  for  the  same  rent.  But  at  present  we  have  to  do 
not  with  radical  reforms  (properly  so  called)  which  go  to  the  root  of 
tho  evil,  but  only  with  one  which  seeks  to  nip  it  in  the  bud,  just  where 
a  naughty  boy  is  begimiing  to  turn  into  a  vicious  and  criminal  man. 

The  prospect  brightened  across  the  Essex  marshes,  where  the  gr^y 
green  of  tho  autumn  grass  was  dotted  with  dull-red  cattle,  and  touched 
with  a  chilly  sunshine..  And  when,  towards  Grays,  the  river  opened 
full  in  view,  all  eyes  were  sc-arching  for  the  object  cf  our  visit,  as 
though  tho  carHest  glimpse  of  it  was  a  matter  not  lightly  to  be  tacri- 
ficcd. 

**  There  she  is  I"  cried  a  friend; — **  there,  near  the  ExmouthP'*  Be 
it  observed  that  the  ICxmotith  is  a  workhouse  ship ;  that  is,  she  tak^  s 
from  various  Unions  the  boys  thought  best  adapted  for  a  sailor's  life. 
This  is  the  ship  v.hose  predecessor  was  burnt  some  years  ago,  when  the 
steadiness,  eliscipline,  and  even  heroism  of  the  boys  excited  universal 
sympathy  and  admiration.  How  much  better  off  are  these  boys  than  in 
the  depressing  atmosphere  of  a  workhouse  I  It  is  not  inappropriate 
that  the  school-board  ship  should  be  so  near  to  a  sister  vessel  cngagt  d 
in  so  similar  a  work.  But  while  our  friend  is  bidding  us  observe  tho 
long,  shapely  hues  of  the  S/iaftcsbtn?/  contrasted  with  the  bluff  propor- 
tions of  her  consort,  and  is  explaining  the  advantages  involved  in  her 
iron  construction — all  previous  school-ships  being,  wo  believe,  of  wood 
— the  train  stops  at  tho  station  and  we  dismount.  Tho  captain  and  oce 
of  the  officers  are  there  to  meet  us,  distinguished  by  their  naval  uniform. 
And,  indeed,  smarter-looking  officers  are  i)robably  not  bo  met  with  in 
the  navy  than  these  of  the  Shaftesbury,  It  might  have  been  supposed 
that  a  body  elected  like  the  School  Board  would  have  been  less  free  than 
the  committee  of  a  volunt;iry  society  to  givo  moral  and  religious  corsid- 
erations  their  full  weight  in  selecting  men  for  this  philanthropic  wort 
Experience,  however,  so  far  does  not  justify  such  a  fear.  "While  insist- 
ing upon  seamanlike  experience  and  skill,  the  Board  has  charly  been 
guided  in  its  selection  by  evidence  of  previous  interest  in  Christian  work 
on  the  part  of  tho  candidates,  and  of  a  disposition  to  regard  as  a  sacred 
trust  the  office  that  they  sought. 

At  the  landing-place  wo  found  the  ship's  cutter  awaiting  us,  manned— 
if  the  expression  be  not  inappropriate — by  ten  or  a  dozen  boys  in  thf  ir 
blue  jackets  and  sailor's  hats.  On  the  first  glauce  it  seemed  impossiblo 
to  believe  that  these  smart-looking  lads  had,  ouly  a  few  months  before, 
been  waifs  and  strays  on  the  streets.     But  a  closer  inspection  showed 


THE  SCHOOL-SHIP  SHAFTESBTJEY.  207 

♦>,.♦  t1,6  ttaces  of  neelect  and  miflery  -were  not  yet  whoUy  effaced,  Md, 
flf^th"  ladling  of  the  oare  as  we  ptished  olf  proyed  that  they 
l^^a^M  thfraTmaterial  for-  Bailors.     I'et  the  cheerfol  eneip 
•^  wh^h  ^v  scrambled  the  boat  along-so  to  speak-showtd  at  Icabt 
""'^  rC^t  Sd^nghood.     We  first  puUed  alongside  the   tend.r 
c ^Tr^^^gg^d '«»«1  attach^  to  the  6uojM>uryforH.^ 
■'tt  SIxerSg  the  boys  in  the  actual  duties  of  a  voyage,  by  suort 
S^  to  the  m^f  the  river.     We  then  dropped  down  to  th.  school- 
SS,  and  r^^ding  the  -mi^nion-ladder  lo^d  mrn^lve^on  a^^^^^^ 
* '    ^4.  -i^^T,  «on  fAPt  lon<y.  with  a  breadth  or  do  teet  a-  tne  oroaucbt 
n^^'^  ^deckhl^tea^^d^cl,  in  adapting  the  ship  to  her  present 
^T^'^v^^:ydde  ha'tehes,   lltted  with  broad  ladders  hte 
^^  of  S  we  could  see  the   «am  deck,  where  *«  loess^ab  es 
w,Te  being  rapidly  cleared.     Beneath  tliat  agam  is  the  domuorj   v^h 
beds  for  three  hundred  and  fifty  boys,  only  »^°'^' ^f^?  A^.^^^l.^, 
been  admitted  at  the  time  of  our  visit.     On  the  "'f^^^^^'L  l.^w 
rooms  with  aU  needful  apparatus  for  instruction      ^^  ?^/^„%?,7P;°g 
deck,  and  resting  on  the  ^ncrete  which  forms  *e  baUast  is  t^^«i^ 
ing  apparatus,  sioure  from  dangers  of  fire,  smce  it  h^  n°f '"g  f?°^,^» 
but  the  iron  ^.amework  of  the  vessel.     At  the  same  doP^th  re  is  a^O 
a  baud-room  for  the  noisy  and  necessarily  discordant  P«^t'°o  "^J^® 
tyros  of  the  band.    But  indeed  some  of  the  latter  ^»d  aj^^^^y  made 
pro<TeBS  enough  to  strike  up  a  Uvely  march  as  we  made  our  appearance 
on  deck,  whUe  the  boys  not  otherwiao  on  duty  paraded  past  us. 

As  wo  have  already  said,  there  is  not  much  at  first  sight  to  distinguish 
these  lads  from  any  other  young  sailor-boys ; .  but,  as  we  Fck  "P  ^"'^ 
■nation  about  their  individual  histories,  our  interest  and  our  sympathy 
are  vastlv  deepened.     There,  for  instance,  woi^e,  aged  twelve,  ^par^ 
enUy  hejdthy,  hapPT.  ^.nd  innocent- looking.     Surely  such  a  boy  would 
have  done  v^ry  weU  at  an  ordinary  day-school  ?    Such  is  our  inexpen- 
euoed  imnression;  but  that  only  shows  how  httte  we  know  about  it. 
This  very W  was  picked  up  a  few  montlis  ago,  wandermg  homek^  n 
SouthwSk  at  two  rfolock  i/the  morning.     He  was  I'.'Jf-^'^r'ed  and  m 
a  deplorable  con,Mtion  of  rags  and  filth.     The  ^l^^^.^  wf  for 
found  out  Us  father;  but  there  was  no  use  m  sending  him  home,  for 
t!i3  latter  had  no  control,  was  in  ill-health,  and  had  not  s««°  ^f  ^  fo' 
a  quarter  of  a  year.    Here  is  another,  whose  father  is  a  6ol^«t?"^];^^; 
^Ith  pay  at  the  rate  of  thirty  shiffings  a  week.  _  Of  course  such  a  fattier 
is  raqlS^ad  to  make  a  proportionate  contribution  Awards  the  cost  of 
keeping  the  boy  on  the^ship.     But  some  wiU  perhaps  ^"^^"^  *^*,n 
community  ouiht  to  be  bukened  with  no  part  of  *e  expense  insucn  a 
case.    Yet  after  all,  is  the  community  quite  blameless  ?    The  ^tn  1^^ 
certain  bad  elements,  for  a  long  time  neglected  and  even  fostered  bythe 


208  THE  SCHOOIi-SHiP  SHAFTESBUEY. 

fatlier^s  casaal  earnings  as  a  laborer.  They  have  come  down  in  the 
world,  by  whose  fault  we  know  not,  or  whether  by  unavoidable  misfor- 
tune. But  the  next  generation  seemed  bent  upon  going  a  great  dea] 
lower.  The  boy  being  perhaps  of  a  lively,  adventurous  disposition,  and 
having  no  attractions  at  home,  bacame  ringleader  of  a  little  gang  who 
are  described  as  a  great  annoyance  to  the  shopkeepers  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. They  would  hang  about  the  doors  watching  their  opportunity, 
or  making  it  by  the  disturbance  they  created,  and  then  they  wonld  run 
off  with  anything  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  Thus  the  lad  Tf as  in  a 
fair  way  to  become  a  burglar.  He  is  now,  thank  God!  in  a  fair  way  U>{ 
become  an  honest  sailor.  Here  is  a  fourth  case,  in  which  the  par  nts 
despairing  of  the  boy's  future  were  willing  to  pay  jfive  shillings  a  week 
to  any  school  that  would  take  him ;  and  did  so  for  six  months  while  h^ 
remained  in  an  industrial  school.  But  not  being  sent  there  by  order  of 
a  magistrate,  he  was  removed  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  for  a  year 
was  worse  than  ever.  He  sought  the  companionship  of  thieves,  ran 
away  from  home  for  days  together,  and  world  then  be  pulled  out  of 
some  dust-bin  or  cellar-area  by  the  police.  He  is  now  here  by  order  of 
a  magistrate,  and  he  will  not  find  it  easy  to  evade  the  custody  of  the 
School  Board. 

Enough — we  have  no  space  to  describe  other  cases ;  and,  indeed,  they 
are  all  very  much  alike.  These  boys  were  the  pregnant  germs  of  crime 
and  disorder  for  a  coming  generation.  They  have  been  removed  from 
the  evil  influences  that  surrounded  them ;  and  it  is  fomid  that  good  is 
not  wholly  blighted  within  them.  They  can  be  obedient,  obliging,  kind 
one  to  another,  faithful  to  Uttle  trusts.  And  it  is  not  too  much  to  ex- 
pect that  as  good  influences  have  been  substituted  for  iU,  ih'3  better 
nature  will  be  strengthened  by  a  few  years*  discipline,  so  that  it  will 
bear  the  stress  of  life.  From  the  heart  we  pray  Cfod  grant  it.  For  the 
parting  cheer  of  those  boys  rings  in  our  ears  still ;  and  it  has  a  tone  of 
confidence  and  hope. 

HxNBY  0.  EwABT,  in  Sunday  Magazine. 


ON  BEING  KNOCKED  DOWN  AND  PICKED  UP  AGAIN. 

▲  OONSOLATOBY  ESSAY. 

m 

A  OEBEAT  deal  of  hnman  Hfe  consists  in  the  simplo  operations,  men- 
tioned in  our  title,  of  being  knocked  down  and  picked  up  ngain.  Tlu's 
is  a  process  constantly  going  on,  both  in  a  physical  and  a  metaphorical 
sense.  Life  is  full  of  ups  and  downs.  Properly  speaking,  we  raniiot 
have  the  one  without  the  other,  as  we  cannot  liave  up-hill  without  down- 
hilL  Naturally,  we  prefer  the  **up  "  to  the  *'down,"  and  would  proba- 
bly prefer  knocking  down  other  people  to  the  converBc*  optmtion  of 
being  knocked  down  ourselves.  The  pjentleman  who  com  mitt;  d  suic^^id."", 
on  the  high  ground  that  he  objected  to  the  absurd  and  constantly  recur- 
ring practice  of  dressing  and  undressing,  ought  to  luive  more  of  thoso 
serious  ups  and  downS  of  life,  which  have  sometimes  been  enougli,  with 
a  better  ^ow  of  reason,  though  not  with  the  reality  of  it,  to  drive  better 
people  to  self-destruction.  If  one  were  using  a  Butleriau  mode  of  argu- 
ment, it  would  be  proper  to  say  that  this  uncertainty  is  so  certain,  that 
want  of  uniformity  so  uniform,  that  they  are  part  of  the  very  plnn  and 
sfcracture  of  human  life.  To  be  always  **up"  would  be  son 'C  tiling 
monstrous  and  abnormaL  When  Amasis  of  E^rypt  found  that  the  iBiand 
despot  Polycrat3S  was  always  suoccKsf ul,  that  v.-hon  he  cast  hi'^  prict  Ic  ss 
ring  into  the  sea  it  was  brou^rht  back  in  the  fish  cnpturcd  by  the  fish*  r- 
man,  he  renounced  all  friendship  with  him.  Ho  knew  that  it  foreboded 
no  luck  at  the  last.  And  ha  ingiiuiously  ar«;ucd  that  if  he  mad*'  a  friend 
of  Polycrates  he  would  certainly  have  to  endure  consid^  niMo  mental 
anguish  through  the  misfortunes  which  would  happen  to  his  fi-i  nd. 
He  used  rather  a  pretty  expression,  indicating  that  hfe  was  a  kind  of 
tracery,  a  blending  and  interlacing  of  shadow  and  t.nnshino.  Of  course 
this  way  of  looking  at  human  hfe  might  be  treated  on  the  method  either 
of  weeping  or  laughing  philosophers.  Most  Sc^nsible  men  aro  cod  tent 
to  take  together  the  rough  and  smooth,  the  bitter  and  sweet.  They 
know  that  these  things  make  the  man  and  the  athlcto.  Bcaunarckais 
beautifully  says  in  his  **Memoirs:"  "The  variety  of  pains  and  plea- 
sures, of  fear^  and  hopes,  is  the  freshening  breez(i  that  fills  the  sails  of 
the  vessel  and  sends  it  gsflly  on  its  track."  I  heard  a  man  say  once,  that 
he  had  had  great  trials^  and  with  the  blessing  of  heaven  he  hoped  to  have 
some  more  of  them.  It  was  a  bold  expression,  perhaps  an  overbold,  but 
Btm  he  saw  into  the  kernel  of  this  mystery  and  problem  of  reverse  and 
misfortune.  Sometimes  the  knockdowns  are  so  continuous  and  so  Etun- 
lang,  that  they  tax  all  our  philosophy  to  understand  them,  or  even  be 
patient  about  them. 
Let  us  &Bt  look  at  the  plain,  prosaic,  practical,  and  somewhat  pugilis* 

—  —         -7  ^209) 


210  OK  BEING  KNOCKED  DOWN 

tic  force  of  tbo  expression.  The  earliest  education  of  an  ancient  race 
consisted  in  shooting,  riding,  and  speaking  the  truth.  I  am  afraid  that 
the  last  item  is  very  much  falling  out  of  the  modern  fashionable  curri' 
adrcm.  Wo  may  faike  the  intermediate  department  as  an  iliustratior. 
Wo  must  all  have  our  tumbles.  Every  man  learns  to  rids  through  a 
process  of  tumble  continually  repeated.  Who  ever  Itamed  to  ride  exc?pfc 
through  continual  falls,  or  to  fence  except  through  continual  buffeting:;  I 
The  other  day,  I  was  reading  Mr.  Smiles's  **Lifo  of  George  Moore." 
\t  is  a  little  too  much  of  the  Gospel  according  to  Hard  Cash.  Jlr. 
Moore  had  neither  chick  nor  child,  and  he  invested  a  large  portion  of 
his  wealth  in  philanthropic  and  religious  munificence,  which  yielded 
him  immense  social  returns.  Bishops  and  judges  flocked  around  tho  dr;- 
goods  proprietor,  who  seemed  made  of  money,  who  bled  gold  at  cvciy 
pore.  I  do  not  say  that  he  was  not  a  good  and  sincere  man,  but  tho 
worship  of  the  golden  calf  was  comically  mixed  up  with  tho  whole  of 
it.  But  how  this  man  George  Moore  v/orked  in  order  to  accumulata 
money  He  had  for  a  partner  a  man  called  Copestake.  Ho  led  the 
wretched  Copestake  an  awful  life.  Copestake  worked  away  in  a  little 
room  over  a  trunk-shop.  For  many  years  together  he  never  took  a 
day's  holiday.  He  went  through  awful  anxiety  in  providing  fundj  for 
the  enterprising  Moore,  Mi\  Moore  worked  quite  as  hard.  He  spent 
the  week  in  very  sharp  practice,  and  on  tho  Lord's  Day  ho  balanced 
his  accounts.  "I  never  took  a  day," he  says,  **for  tho  first  thirteen 
years  during  which  I  had  to  travel."  All  this  work,  in  tho  long  run, 
did  not  fail  to  act  injm:iouBly  upon  his  health.  Lawrence,  tho  great 
surgeon,  gave  him  some  sensible  advice  :  **  You  had  better  go  down  to 
Brighton,  and  ride  over  the  downs  there  ;  but  you  must  take  caro  nol 
to  break  your  neck  in  hunting."  And  now  Mr.  Moore  had  to  learn  tha 
acrobatic  art  of  tumbling.  He  had  to  combine  tho  two  objects  of  learn- 
ing to  ride,  and  of  not  breaking  his  neck.  Li  a  sort  of  way,  ho  was 
constantly  being  knocked  down  and  picked  up  agaia.  Dr.  Smiles  re- 
cords the  Gilpin-like  adventures  of  his  monetary  hero.  **  He  had  some 
difficulty  in  sticking  on.  He  mounted  again,  and  pushed  on  nothing 
daunted.  Wherever  a  jump  was  to  be  taken,  he  would  try  it.  Over  ha 
went.  Another  tumble  !  no  matter.  After  a  desperate  run  he  got  seven 
tumbles."  Mr.  Moore  thus  sums  up  his  experience :  "  Whatever  other 
people  may  say  about  riding  to  hounds,  I  always  contend  that  no  man 
ever  rides  bold  unless  he  has  had  a  few  good  tumbles."  This  had  been 
identically  his  experience  as  tho  Napoleon  of  commercial  travellers. 
Lector  herievole^  we  must  learn  to  tumble  gracefully.  Half  the  art  of 
the  bicychst  is  to  learn  how  to  tumble.  We  must  become  used  to  being 
knocked  down,  and  even  appreciate  it — hke  the  eels,  which  aro  said  to 
have  a  partiality  for  the  process  of  being  skinned — and  learn  to  come  up 
smiling,  after  a  sponge,  for  the  next  roimd. 

How  often  we  find  a  man  saying,  "I  was  fairly  knocked  down.  I 
bore  a  good  deal  as  I  best  could,  but  the  last  straw  breaks  the  earners 
back.     The  fatal  letter  came.     The  fatal  telegram  came.     It  told  tlid 


AND  PICKED  UP  AGAIN.  211 

bitterest  troth.  It  confirmed  the  worst  fears,  I  was  knocked  down.*' 
Wo  havo  heard  of  persons  who  have  had  the  very  worst  tidings.  They 
have  died  upon  the  spot  The  f eebio  h?art  has  given  way.  The  o^  cr- 
wrought  brain  has  given  way.  Tho  blow  was  so  bLarp  aud  buddv-ii,  that 
Done  other  was  ever  rcquirvd  by  tho  Fates.  Tho  victim  was  hiaiiglitiivd 
"wliera  he  stood.  *'  If  thou  faint  in  the  day  of  adversity  thy  strength  is 
but  small,"  and,  alas,  the  strength  has  becu  small  indcLd. 

Thus  it  may  bo  in  many  cases.  But  it  is  not  so  in  tho  case  of  thoeo 
Trbo,  in  ths  struggla  for  existence,  are  destined  to  survive,  and  who 
"rise  refulgent "  from  the  stroke.  "With  stricken  hearts  and  wandering 
tz'ts  they  contrive  to  pull  themselves  together.  Look  at  military  his- 
tory. The  whole  story  of  success  in  war  consists  in  the  cajmcity  of  men 
boing  knocked  down  and  picking  themselvt  s  up  afterwards.  This  is 
ihe  moral  of  that  famous  seventh  book  of  Thucydides,  which  Dr.  Ar- 
nold loved  so  much,  which  sliowed  how  tho  invaded  became  the  invad- 
ers, and  the  Athenians  were  overcome  on  their  own  element.  This  is 
lh3  way  by  which  the  Romans  obtained  tho  Bupr^rimacy  of  the  world. 
Englishmen  have  never  known  when  they  have  been  beaten.  Prussia 
became  the  steel  tip  of  tho  German  lance  through  a  series  of  knock- 
do  vrns.  Head  Carlyle  or  even  Macaulay's  short  essay,  to  see  how  Fred- 
crick  the  Great  lost  battle  after  battle,  campaign  after  campaign,  beforo 
ho  consolidated  his  glory  and  his  kingdom.  See  again  how,  when 
Prussia  was  brought  to  tho  lowest  point  of  humiHation  in  tho  Kapole- 
onic  wars,  at  that  very  point  the  star  of  the  nation  began  to  rise.  Thero 
is  a  proverb  to  tho  effect  that  Providence  is  always  on  tho  side  of  tho 
big  battalions.  This  is  not  always  tho  case,  as  witness  the  fields  of 
Marathon  and  Mongarten  and  Momt.  It  is  quito  conceivable  that  there 
have  been  times  in  a  nation's  history  when  a  defeat  has  been  more  valu- 
able than  any  victory,  when  tho  knockdown  has  been  essential  to  any 
getting  up  worthy  of  the  name,  when  iho  disaster  has  laid  deep  and 
fina  the  foundations  of  future  victory.  I  am  ono  of  those  EDglishmcn 
"w^ho  are  never  tired  of  reading  about  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  I  can 
hardly  tell  how  books  have  been  written  from  the  stately  Bimplicity  of 
tae  "Wellington  despatches  to  tho  misleading  legends  of  M.  Thicra.andM. 
"Victor  Hugo.  What  has  imprtjssedme  most,  has  been  the  awful  reticence 
of  the  Drie  of  "Wellington,  the  way  in  which  he  held  batik  the  impas- 
Eiva  masses  that  seemed  doomed  for  massacre,  whether  forming  square 
or  deploying  into  line,  m  both  a  moral  and  a  military  sense  submitting 
to  be  knocked  over  until  the  hour  comes  to  bo  "up  and  at  them." 

"\7e  BOO  this  law  pervading  all  history.  "When  Troy  fell,  according  to 
tl-'i  "Virgilian  legend,  its  banished  citizens  rrarcd  a  mightier  city  on  tho 
Tiber.  "When  monarchy  was  threatened  in  Portugal  it  revived  in 
Brazil.  Great  Britain,  compa69:d  by  inexorable  limits  at  homo,  revives 
beyond  the  seas  in  tho  Greater  Britain  which  girdles  the  globe  wher- 
ever tho  English  tongue  is  spoken.  Pitt  thought  the  Ftar  of  England 
Tras  lost  in  tho  lii,rco  light  of  tho  sun  of  Austcrlitz,  and  had  rolled  up 
iho  map  of  Europe  in  dospair ;  but  only  a  short  time  beforo  he  had  met 


212  ON  BEING  KNOCKED  DOWN 

at  the  honso  of  a  common  friend  -^itli  a  yonng  officer,  tliat  Arthur  T7cl. 
lasley  of  whom  we  have  just  spoken,  destinod  to  pluck  the  eye  out  cf 
the  French  eagle  which  had  soared  and  screeched  above  so  many  a  r  d 
battle  plain.  How  oftsn  has  the  country  "been  in  dang^^,"  "brour^ht 
to  the  brink  of  ruin,"  **  going  to  the  do^s."  And  what  has  been  eald 
of  the  country  has  been  said  pretty  well  of  every  family  that  goes  to 
make  up  fhe  country.     But  somehow  men  keep  on. 

The  getting  up  again  is  the  rule  through  all  our  modem  life.  Vf'e 
turn  the  shattered  Une,  fill  up  the  breach,  if  necessary  march  to  tlis 
-ainparts  over  the  bodies  of  our  slain  comrades.  If  there  is  an  explo- 
sion in  a  pit  we  cl  ar  away  the  debris^  human  and  mineral,  and  the  ci- 
cavation  is  rvmwv;d.  If  an  opera-house  is  burned  down  we  build  up 
another.  If  a  railway  scheme  collapses,  if  there  is  really  anything  to  go 
upon  it  surely  revives  again.  When  old  St.  Paul's  was  burnt  down  it  is 
said  that  a  single  column  survived,  on  which  was  engraven  the  word 
**■  Resurgam."  Which  thing  was  an  allegory  ;  we  do,  in  fact,  rehearse 
our  Resurrection  whenever  with  fortitude  and  unconquerable  purpose 
we  look  forward  to  it.  Road  such  stories  of  heroism  as  we  find  in 
mod-^rn  exploration,  in  Governor  Eyre's  walk  across  the  Continent  of 
Australia,  for  instance.  Look  again  at  the  wonderful  narratives  of  ex- 
ploration in  Africa,  from  the  north,  from  the  south,  from  the  east,  fi*oni 
the  west.  We  Englishmen  played  the  first  part,  but  a  very  good  B^^coni 
has  baen  scor^^d  by  Germany.  English  people,  howevf  r,  are  hardly  ac- 
quaintsd  with  the  work  of  Nachtigal  and  Schwoinfurth,  Rolfs  and 
Kraph.  The  great  merit  of  Stanley  is  that  he  never  knew  hims  If  con- 
quer d  ,•  as  often  as  he  was  knocked  down  he  picked  himself  up  again. 
Thos3  fight.^.  day  and  night,  with  som  ^  thirty  tribes  of  savagos,  and  wors3 
fights  witl  I  som  » thirty  raging  whirlpools  of  waters,  are  fine  txa-^ples  of  ia- 
doinitable  pluck.  But  in  the  whole  history  of  human  activity,  in  every  d  - 
partnaent  in  life,wh3rjver  there  is  true  vital'ty,  tlj '  knockdown  is  rath  r 
disciplinary  and  restorative  than  any  absolute  d  f <  at.  How  oft:n  ia 
youthful  d^^ys  we  heard  the'  story  of  tho  d.f.^at^d  Scottish  kin<?  \rho 
watch;^d  ihi  spil^r  that  failed  half  a  dozen  times  b'^fore  it  arhi.^v.  d  it^ 
obJ3ct,  a'ld  so  took  hmrt  of  grar^i  and  provrd  a  conqueror  at  last.  Tl:"it 
is  Mi^  rno'^t  ct^obrited  spidir  in  all  ontomoloc'v.  In  commercial  history, 
"'Iiic'h  lb  minds  with  so  many  roaterials  of  adventm-e  and  romance,  w^ 
^  '  th3  c  s  •  of  good  and  honourable  men  who  hav)  been  plainly  for?  d 
'i;'  t'l^  f  t  s  to  give  in,  who  have  had  to  endur-^  the  los^  of  prop,  rty, 
"   A  I  hat    f'l  more  precious  and  valuable  commodity,  crd't;  and  y 

1  ^'  ^i  h  s^  men  have  sinefularlv  r'^trieved  their  shatt'^red  fortune 
1  1  'U  It  a-^  "r-»at  houR'^s  on  ^  firm  and  durable  basis.  Look  acra'n  at 
t  L  li  sLn  y  of  invt^ntions  Every  ereat  invention  has  onlv  b'^^n  p  r- 
f  t  2  h',  r  seated  eli«ar>pointment  and  through  lonsr  proc«<?s'^«!  of  r^p  r. 
in  •  t  »  al'nn^s'5  and  -natience  are  r^w  th'*  main  chara'^ter'stic**  '^^  ♦i^^ 
sci  '^t'fie  i.-n<\  ^-^ll^aonhic  temper.  Tt  ^xpect*^  disapnomtrarnt*?,  and  it 
pf'»t'5  \}y  :r .  and  V'^owq  fhat  they  are  instniments  of  ndvanc*  a^d  ^'■ana 
of  Tvilfictition.  The  rocord  of  all  success  is  simply  the  record  of  £ttiliire& 


AND  PICKED  UP  AGAIN.  218 

Alchemy  gave  ns  chemiKtry,  and  astrology  gave  ns  astronomy.  Men 
wanted  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  Provid^nco  gave  broad,  Iko  traJ 
bread  of  scientifio  discovery  and  solid  advances  ia  tlio  realm  of  irntuiv. 
The  same  thing  is  constantly  to  be  seen  in  science.  If  science  BUHLaij  ; 
a  defeat  it  is  only  a  provisional  defeat.  The  dc  feat  itself  is  a  step  tov.-arcls 
victory.  Every  scientiiic  man  moves  &lo^vly  from  point  to  poirt  search- 
ing into  that  "wisdom  which  has  been  hidden  that  vro  iy  teareliing 
migLt  find  it  out, 

I  was  reading  in  a  book  of  travels  the  other  day  Fome  thing  about  Tr. 
CcUig  Browne,  the  well-!:noTvn  inventor  of  chlorodyne.  Ho  \sai  a 
Etaff-doctor,  nnattached,  and  was  determined  to  Vtrebt  from  bare  malLi* 
Bome  secret  that  should  prove  useful  and  lucrative.  His  first  cxpcrl- 
nent  was  quite  unsuccessful.  He  had  an  idea  which  came  to  nothin;^ , 
but  which  may  yet  be  developed,  of  having  chest-protectors  which 
Ehould  be  filled  with  inflated  air,  and  thus  protect  the  che^t  from  the 
cuter  air.  The  inventor  is  dcscribsd  as  "busily  employed  cutting  out 
Etrlps  of  macintosh  with  a  huge  pair  of  scissors,  end  gluing  them 
together  with  some  preparation  which  he  was  heating  over  Ihc  fire  in  a 
pipkin,  the  whole  room  being  strewn  v/ith  his  materials,  and  the  fumi- 
lure  in  a  general  state  of  stickiness."  Mr.  Lucas  says  in  his  work 
("Camp  Life  and  Sport  in  South  Africa "),  "Ho  went  on  I  know  to 
many  other  ventures  before  he  hit  upon  his  grand  discovery  of  chloro- 
dyne, which  ought  to  have  made  his  fortune.  V»liether  it  turnt  d  out  to 
bo  of  any  substantial  benefit  I  do  not  know.  "Wo  can  venture,  however, 
to  give  a  little  light  upon  this  inquiry.  After  many  ch«  mibts  had 
declljed  having  anything  to  do  with  tho  venture,  one  was  found  suCl- 
ciently  enterprising  to  take  the  matter  m  hand,  and  we  bt  lieve  tLat  tlio 
inventor  and  the  chemist  who  gave  currency  to  tho  invcidicn  now 
share  some  ten  thousand  a  year  between  them.  Mutatis  rrmtnhdip^ 
tl\e  same  story  may  be  told  of  the  great  majority  of  successful  men. 
Most  of  them  will  probably  say  that  taking  their  failures  with  th>  !r  tiic - 
cesses  they  have  been  almost  as  much  indebted  to  tho  one  as  to  the 
other. 

"No  mntter;  he  who  oMmhs  must  connt  to  fnll, 
Aiid  each  new  fall  will  prove  him  cliuil>L  i^;  sdn. 

It  is  to  be  observed  fiat  the  condition  of  riocoss  is  that  7"^  Icep  on 
at  it.  **It*8  dogged  that  dots  it,"  as  one  of  Mr.  Trollop. 's  homely 
charactf^rs  justly  observes.  No  limit  is  to  be  placf  d,  as  lorg  as  life 
la«ts.  to  the  power  of  recuperation  and  tho  capacity  of  a(  tion.  TI13 
old  legend  is  constantly  being  exemplified,  that  men  as  tht  y  fall  Lies 
t:!:.ir  moth'^r  earth,  and  rise  strengthened  by  tho  cmbrac.  "NVh  :i 
?h  ridan  failed  in  ppeaking  in  the  House  of  CommouR,  ht^  said  that  h  ? 
b^:  w  he  had  it  in  him,  and  was  determined  that  it  Khould  come  cut.  A 
ptlil  j?reater  man  than  Sheridan,  Lord  Beaeonsfifld,  made  a  y  t  n  cr^ 
conspicuous  failure,  which  he  has  r  dressed  with  far  more  splendid  fu  - 
cesses.  We  think  of  poor  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  old  ag*",  ovr- 
vhdmed  with  debts  which  he  had  net  himsolf  incurred,  and  nobly 


214 '  ON  BEING  KNOCKED  DOWN 


clearing  them  off  at  the  rate  of  ten  thousand  a  year  by  his  pen.  I  do 
not  know  whether  he  formally  cleared  off  the  debt^  but  he  standi 
acquitted  in  thy  last  verdict  of  his  generation. 

Perhaps,  my  young  friend,  you  have  had  Bonio  terrible  knoclidown. 
You  really  think  that  you  must  lie  on  the  ground,  and  lot  any  ono 
trample  on  you  who  has  a  fancy  for  that  operation.  You  havo  been 
refused  by  the  girl  of  your  heart.  Your  right  wing  is  broken,  and  you 
will  never  bo  able  tolly  as  long  "as  you  live.  It  may  or  may  not  be  a 
very  serious  matter.  Only  this  I  say,  that  I  know  many  men  who 
would  very  gladly  have  been  refused  if  they  knew  all  which  they  came 
to  know  afterwards.  I  know  many,  too,  who  when  they  sec  their  old 
loves  rejoice  exceedingly  that  that  tremendous  knockdown  blov/  of  a 
rejection  was  duly  administered  to  them.  You  have  been  dismissed 
from  a  situation,  or  you  have  lost  some  appointment  for  which  ycu 
have  been  trying.  These  are  truly  serious  thmgs,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
underrate  their  gravity.  Still  the  v/orld  is  a  wide  one,  and  there  is 
plenty  of  space  to  allow  you  a  perch  in  it.  I  have  an  idea  that  if  a  man 
does  not  get  on  in  one  place,  it  is  just  a  sign  that  he  will  get  on  better 
in  another.  If  he  does  not  succeed  in  one  j^rofession,  it  is  because  he 
is  better  adapted  for  something  else.  Perhaps  you  have  been  plucked 
at  college.  This  is  no  doubt  a  serious  matter,  but  still  not  so  serious  as 
it  was  in  my  time.  There  are  so  many  more  examinations,  and  the 
standard  of  the  examinations  is  so  much  raised.  The  young  men,  who 
used  to  be  in  disgrace  and  despair  at  the  pluck  in  my  time,  now 
take  the  matter  with  callous  coolness.  Very  good  men  have  been 
plucked,  and  followed  up  their  pluck  with  a  first  class.  I  indorse 
the  old-fashioned  theory,  that  no  one  is  bom  into  the  world 
without  having  a  place  assigned  to  him  which  will  give  him 
a  hvelihood  and  credit.  Then,  again,  the  extreme  case  arises 
of  impaired  health,  and  the  enforced  shutting  up  of  the  ordi- 
nary avenues  of  distinction.  This  blow  seems  of  a  decidedly  knock- 
down character.  But  it  is  not  necessarily  so.  Some  of  the  greatest  of 
this  world's  children  have  been  invalids.  Macaulay  draws  a  fine  con- 
trast between  that  ^^  asthmatic  skeleton"  William  III.  and  the  crooked 
humpback  who  led  the  fiery  onset  of  France.  How  nobly  Alexander 
Pope  sang  througjj^out  **  that  long  disease  his  life."  That  amiable  and 
clever  novelist  Mr.  Smedley  wrote  charming  stories  descriptive  of  that 
active  existence  in  which  he  himself  could  teke  no  part.  When  limited 
by  corporeal  barriers,  the  mind  has  always  seemed  to  work  with  greater 
sbrengftii  and  freedom.  Thrown  upon  itself,  it  seems  to  gather  up  its 
resources  with  a  firmer  grasp.  Some  of  the  loftiest  thoughts  and  love- 
liest pictures  and  sweetest  songs  have  come  from  those  for  whom  the 
world  seemed  to  have  no  place. 

The  moral  hiptory  of  the  phrase  might  be  written  at  great  length.  I 
do  not  know  whether  biography  would  help  us  very  much,  because 
biography  is  tainted  with  insincerity  and  onrsidedness.  In  these  days 
every  eminent  man  has  his  biography  written,  in  which  he  is  repre- 


^_.  AKD  PICKED  UP  AGADT,  215 

sente^  as  a  fanltless  monster,  and  f onner  intimates  smile  at  tho  impos- 
ture U]X)n  the  pnbiic.  But  look  at  the  biographies  of  those  men  who 
Lave  solemnly  nnveilcd  the  secrets  of  their  lives,  and  have  shown  how 
they  have  struggled  against  tha  mast?ry  of  some  overwhelming  vioo. 
Weak  natures  that  swim  with  the  stream,  which  have  nevc^r  sought  to 
counteract  the  imperious  tendencies  of  evil,  can  hardly  nndorstand  the 
terrific  life-long  conflicts  of  many  natures,  the  repeated  knocksdown, 
the  despair,  the  apathy,  the  remorse,  and  then  once  more  the  rising  up 
again,  the  renewed  conflict,  and  perhaps  the  renewed  defeat,  or  the 
ultimate  victory,  won  with  such  scars  and  haunted  with  such  memories. 
There  has  been  what  a  recent  author  happily  calls  a  **  black  drop  in  the 
blood" — some  defect  of  nature,  some  taint  of  character,  some  transmit- 
ted or  acquired  evil.  And  how  to  exorcise  this  evil  principle  has  been 
UiD  terrible  life-long  problem.  Ton  see  this  conflict  in  tho  writings  of 
the  greatest  saints,  such  as  Augustine  and  Luther  and  Calvin ;  in  those, 
too,  who  are  all  other  than  saints.  It  is  like  the  picture  of  the  Devil 
playing  with  a  man  at  chess  for  his  soul ;  it  is  Fanet  and  Mcphistopheles 
over  again.  Our  Laureate  traces  this  out  in  his  conception  of  Lancelot, 
his  awful  conflict  with  the  tyrannous  passion  which  overwhelmed  him : 

**  Hip  honour  rooted  in  di^honc-ur  stood. 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  hmi  falseJy  true." 

"We  remember  the  final  despairing  soliloquy  heralding  the  dawning  of 
the  better  mind : 

*'  So  mnsed  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain, 
!Not  knowing  he  ehouid  die  a  holy  man." 

And  this  is  seen  in  some  moro  of  Alfred  Tennyson's  delineations.  King 
Arthur  reproaches  the  faithless  knight  Sir  Bedevero  that  he  had  twice 
failed,  knocked  down  by  the  force  of  temptation,  and  recognises  that 
he  may  yet  rise  again  : 

"  Thou  wonldPt  hetray  mo  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  hist  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl. 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet  for  a  man  may  fail  iu  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  tliee  hence ; 
But  if  tJiou  epare  to  fling  Excalibnr, 
I  will  aiise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Here  the  wise  and  mercifid  king  recognises  the  possibility  of  a  man 
being  knocked  over,  and  yet  being  picked  up  again.  And  we  are  re- 
minded of  Him  who  said,  **  Sin  no  more,  lest  a  worse  thing  come  unto 
thee.'' 

Let  us  look  a  little  at  the  process  of  being  picked  up  again.  As  a  rule 
a  man  is  left  to  gather  himseK  together  as  he  may,  to  pick  himself  up 
as  he  best  can.  As  a  rule  no  wretch  is  so  forlorn  that  he  has  not  some 
friend  who  wiU  act  as  a  **  Judicious  Bottleholder,"  will  plant  him  on  his 
feet  again,  and  whisper  the  consolatory  remark  that  he  should  go  in 
and  win.  Probably,  however,  he  is  left  alone  on  the  spot  where  he 
"vpas  prostrated.  If  he  writhes,  wriggles,  and  makes  contortions,  this 
win  be  a  source  of  considerable  gratification  to  the  bystanders.     Thin 


216     ON  BEING  KNOCKED  DOWN  AND  PICKED  UP  AGAIN.       " 

will  be  a  favourable  opportunitj'  for  administering  a  British  kick  to  tlM 
recumbent  form.  A  celebrated  writer  concludes  the  preface  to  his  work 
by  the  remark :  *'  Should  the  toe  of  any  friendly  critic  be  quivering  in 
his  boot  just  now,  I  would  respectfully  submit  that  there  could  not  pos- 
sibly occur  a  better  opportunity  than  the  present  for  kicking  me  df 
Ti'ivo,  as  I  have  been  for  months  very  ill,  and  am  weary  and  broken.'* 
Some  other  pickings-up  are  thrillingly  interesting.  The  soldier  waking 
from  his  swoon  on  the  battlefield  under  the  quiet  stars,  recognises  his 
wound,  and  tries  to  stagger  to  his  feet.  It  is  an  even  chance  whether 
he  is  helped  by  surgeon  or  comrade,  or  knocked  on  the  head  by  seme 
camp  follower  for  the  sake  of  the  piUage.  As  we  go  along  the  ^"aysid*  s 
of  the  world,  we  constantly  meet  with  those  who  are  robbed  and 
wounded  and  lying  half-dead,  and — the  heavens  be  thanked! — it  may 
often  happen  that  a  good  Samaritan,  in  some  guise  or  other,  is  coming 
in  the  very  direction  where  ho  is  most  wanted.  I  know  that  pub- 
lic opinion  in  the  present  day  is  strongly  in  favour  of  letting  the 
wounded  traveller  alone,  and  of  watching,  with  enlighti^ntd  curi' 
osity,  whether  he  wiU  pick  himself  up  or  bleed  away.  The  kindly 
race  of  the  Samaritans — I  who  T^Tit^  these  lines  know  it  well — have  not 
yet  been  improved  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  There  are  still  good  men 
and  women  who,  like  Howard,  tread  '*an  open  but  unfrfquented  path 
to  immortality."  They  are  '*  angels  unawares."  They  adorn  humanity. 
Thsy  keep  alive  in  man  the  seeds  of  ^  oodncss  and  the  hopes  of  htaven. 
There  is  no  nobler  sight  in  the  world  than  a  good  man  commg  to  the 
help  of  a  good  man.  He  will  first  satisfy  himself  about  the  necessity 
before  he  inquires  about  the  goodness.  He  wiU  not  depute  his  personel 
duties  towards  the  suffering  to  th3  tender  mercies  of  a  Charity  Organisa- 
tion Society.  As  he  cannot  go  to  heaven  by  proxy,  he  will  think  that 
he  cannot  do  his  work  on  earth  by  proxy.  If  I  see  a  fellow-soldier 
overthrown  in  the  dust  and  turmoil  of  this  battle  of  life,  I  will  not  leave 
him  to  pick  himself  up,  but  I  will  try  and  pick  liim  up  myself.  I  will 
ease  him  of  his  accoutrements,  I  will  bring  him  a  morsel  of  my  bread, 
and  water  for  his  feet,  and  he  shall  rost  within  the  shadow  of  my  tent. 
His  lot  may  have  been  mine  yesterday,  and  may  be  my  child's  to-mor- 
row. 

There  are  just  a  few  good  people  who  actually  go  about  the  world 
picking  people  up  whom  they  find  upon  the  ground.  For  my  part,  1 
prefer  the  adventures  of  the  Brothers  Cheeryble  to  those  of  Haromi 
Alraschid.  This  can  necessarily  happen  to  ve^ry  few  of  us.  It  is  much 
if  we  can  now  and  then  help  a  man  on  the  roadside ;  it  is  given  to  few  to 
go  out  and  search  for  them.  The  secret  of  Rousseau's  influence,  as  M. 
liouis  Blanc  pointed  out  at  his  centenary  lately,  was  that  he  took  the  side 
of  the  nmes  d^mnees  of  the  earth,  the  poor,  the  weak,  and  the  suffering. 
What  the  two  Frenchmen  hinted  sentimentally,  there  are  many  who  have 
carried  out  practically.  Such  lives  leave  a  luminous  track  behind  them, 
and  remind  us  of  those  Arms  of  infinite  pity  and  power  which  are  ever 
irtxetched  forth  to  arise  and  bless  us.  London  Society. 


ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHUECH. 

OaiNiA  EXEUNT  IN — ThboiiOgiam.  No  branch  of  science  appears  to 
cousider  itself  complete,  nowadays,  until  it  has  issued  at  last  into  the 
Taxed  ocean  of  theology.  Thus,  Biology  writes  **Lay  Sermons"  in 
Professor  Huxley;  Physics  acknowledges  itself  almost  Christian  in 
Professor  Tyndall ;  Anthropology  claims  to  be  religious  in  Mr.  Darwin ; 
and  Logic,  in  Mr.  Spencer,  confesses  that  **a  rehgious  system  is  a 
normal  and  essential  factor  in  every  evolving  society.'**  It  is  only  the 
second-rate  men  of  science  who  loudly  vaunt  their  ability  to  do  without 
r^^ligion  altogether,  and  proclaim  their  fixed  and  unchangeable  resolve 
for  its  entire  suppression.  As  well  resolve  to  suppress  the  Gulf  Stream 
or  the  eccentricity  of  the  earth's  orbit  I  If  the  horizon  of  man's 
tkought  is  bounded  on  all  sides  by  mystery,  it  is  in  simple  obedience  to 
the  law  of  his  nature  that  ho  gives  some  shape  to  that  mystery.  It 
were  mental  cowardice  to  shrink  from  facing  it ;  it  were  positive  iraba- 
cility  to  declare  that  the  coast-ling  between  known  and  unknown  had 
uo  shape  at  alL  Granted  that  the  lino  be  a  slowly  flucituating  one,  and 
that  conquests  here  and  losses  there  reveal  themselves  in  cours<^  of  timo 
and  one  day  become  ** striking"  to  the  commonest  observer,  does  that 
lact  acquit  of  folly  the  Agnostic  statement  that — now  and  hero — there 
is  no  thinkable  line  at  all,  no  features  to  be  described,  nothing  to  sketch, 
no  appreciable  curves  and  headlands,  no  conception  possible  which  shall 
mtjgrate  (for  practical  utility)  that  great  Beyond  whose  boundaries,  on 
tiie  hither  side  at  least,  are  known  to  us  ?  Mon  who  can  only  attend  to 
one  thing  at  a  time,  and  whose  "one  thing"  is  the  field  of  a  micros- 
cope or  **  the  anatomy  of  the  lower  part  of  the  hindmost  bone  of  the 
sfcull  of  a  carp,"t  may  perhaps  escape  the  common  lot  of  manhood  by 
ceasing  to  be  **men,"  in  any  ordinary  sense  of  tlie  word.  But  for 
people  who  live  in  the  open  air  and  sunshine  of  common  life  th^re  is 
the  same  necessity  for  a  religion  as  there  is  xf or  that  mental  map  of  our 
^thereabouts  that  we  all  carry  with  us  in  our  brains.  Let  any  one  recall 
his  sensations  when  he  has  at  any  time  been  overtaken  in  a  fog  or  a 
saow-storm,  and  when  all  his  bearings  have  been  blotted  out,  then  he 
win  raadily  understand  the  need  which  all  men  feel  for  a  theology  of 
some  kind,  and  he  will  appreciate  what  the  old-school  divines  meant 
when  they  said  that  *.*  Theology  was  the  queen  and  mistress  of  the 
Bcienoes,"  harmonizing  and  gathering  up  into  architectonic  unity  all  the 
multifarious  threads  that  the  subordinate  sciences  had  spun. 

L  One  is  driven,  nowadays,  to  repeat  both  in  public  and  private  theso 
Tery  obvious  reflections,  owing  to  the  extraordinary  persistence  with 

•  Spencer:  Sociology  (Tth  ed.  18T8),  p.  8 '3. 

t  Cr.  Mivart :  Oontemporary  Evoiutiou  (1876),  p.  134. 

(217) 


218  ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH. 

"ivliicli  certain  philosophers  think  fit  to  inform  us  that  we  arc  all  maloDg 
a  great  mistake  ;  that  we  can  do  very  well  without  a  religion ;  and  that, 
though  it  is  tiiiG  **man  cannot  live  by  brcp.d  mono,"  but  must  htr.\» 
idf::iSj  yot  the  creed  by  whicih  ho  ma,y  Vti7v'  VT-cjlniako  Kiiilt  to  iiv3  is  v.'iF 
— *' SoiiETHiNO  IS."*  I:i  poiut  of  brevity  thtnc  i^  ii-'.^  little  to  do^•■^.:^ 
The  Aposti'ris'  Cr.  cd  is  prolix  by  coiijp^visou,  h^v''  aUhoiiirh  we  ii:^  'i 
fairly  take  exception  to  **some-thuig,"  as  embodj'ing  two  v«  r'/cc'ii'-'r  r-- 
acts  of  the  imagination  and  therefore  capable  of  further  logical  **  puri- 
fication," it  were  ungenerous  to  press  the  objection  too  far.  This  creed 
is  purer  than  that  of  Sb^uss  :  "  Wo  believe  in  no  God,  but  only  in  a 
Belf -poised  and  amid  eternal  changes  constant  universum."!  It  is  wider 
than  that  of  Hartmann  :  **  God  is  a  personification  of  force.  "J  It  is 
simpler  than  that  of  Matthew  Arnold :  God  is  "a  power,  not  our- 
selves, that  makes  for  righteousness. "§  It  is  more  intelligible  than  that 
of  J.  S.  Mill:  "a  Being  of  great  but  limited  power,  how  or  by  what 
limited  we  cannot  even  conjecturp," — a  notion  found  also  in  Lucre  tins 
and  in  Seneca.  ||  It  is  more  theological  than  that  of  Professor  HuxL  y  : 
**The  order  of  nature  is  ascertainable  bv  oiu*  faculties,  and  our  vohtion 
counts  for  something  in  the  course  of  events. "f  It  is  similar  to  that  cf 
the  ancient  Bruhmans :  "That  which  cannot  be  seen  by  the  eye,  but bv 
which  the  eye  sees,  that  is  Brahma  ;  if  thou  thinkt  st  thou  canst  know 
it,  then  thou  knowest  it  very  little  ;  it  is  reached  only  by  him  who  says. 
*  It  is !  it  is  !'  "**  And  considering  that  this  formula  is  very  nearly  what 
is  said  also  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Chun^h,  what  better  jvrm^in  con- 
C'Ordi(e  between  science  and  theism  could  wo  require  ?  For  instance, 
Clemens  Alexandrinus  (a.d.  200)  echoes  St.  Paul's  **  Know  Him,  sayest 
thou  !  rather  art  known  of  Him,"  v.nth  the  confession  *'  We  know  cot 
what  He  is,  but  only  what  He  is  not ;"  Cyril  of  Jerusalem  (a.d.  S.'iO) 
Bays,  **To  know  God  is  beyond  man's  pov/ers;"  St.  Augustine  (a.d. 
400),  "Rare  is  the  mind  that  in  j>pcakiiig  of  God  knows  what 
it  m^eans ;"  John  of  Damascus  (a.d.  800),  "What  is  the  substance  of 
God  or  how  Ho  exintn  in  all  things,  wo  are  agnostics,  and  cannot  say  a 
word;"  and  in  the  middle  ag;S,  Duns  Scctns  (x.d.  1300),  "Is  God  ac- 
cessible to  our  r:ar>on  ?    I  hold  that  He  h  not."  ft 

It  seems  then  there  is  a  consensus  nn^ov-g  ?i]l  competent  persons,  who 
have  ever  thought  deeply  on  tho  subj.}ct,  that  llif  real  r.ature  of  that 

•rhvfjVns:  Ernminnnonof  ThHs-i  (1??T"^.  ]v  142:— '-Wbnt  -wfis  the  cP-^-Tit-;! 
€u^pt.ince  of  th.it  i.iita*;i?t:c]  th;iory?  Apoar'ntly  it  wiirt  th"  Haiv  ptatenient  ot  'n'-^ 
"uulliijjkuhlo  fact  tliut  Soiuothing  lA.  1  Ik-  essence  of  AtiKMSiii  I  fi;ke  to  wimiai  in  t'  o 
fiii-'iv!  dogma  of  e:  lt-oxiht.iuc'}  i:s  its/^if  lurtlci  nf  to  roiif«»iinl-!  a  theory  of  tliiLj^-." 

V Str:iu8:5 :  DvT  ulto  imd  dor  ij:.'ne  Giiaibo  (,;h  ed.  1ST3).  n  1 1<J. 

t  tli.rniiaim  :  Qott  iind  Natiirwisseni-chatt  {-Mid  ed.  18»2),  p.  14. 

§  M.  Arnold  :  Literature  and  Dogina,  p.  JJOrt. 

fj  J.  S.  ^iiJ :  IZaa^ya  on  ICtillgioa,  p.  124.  Cf.  L'jcretioa,  vi.,  aod  Seneca,  5at. 
Q'a.  i.  1 . 

H  Hnxlcr :  Lay  Sennons. 

••  T!i«  Upanishad :  ap,  Clarke's  Ten  Great  Keliglonfi,  p.  84. 

tt  Gal.  TV.  9 ;  Clem.  Alex.,  Strom,  v.  U ;  Cyr.  Jer.,  Cot.  LQCt.  jd.  S ;  Aug.,  Confeaf. 
ilil.  11 ;  Joh.  Dafli.,  Do  Fide  Orthod.  i.  3;  Dona  Scotua,  In  Sent.  i.  3. 1. 


AimEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH.  519 

Power  which  underlies  all  existing  things  is  absolutely  nnknown  to  man. 
And  it  is  allowable,  therefore,  in  the  last  resort  to  fall  back  upon  Rpi- 
noza's  word  "  sub-stanco ;"  and  to  accept — if  charity  bo  reqiizro — r.r?  llio 
common  basis  for  theological  reunion,  the  Agnostic  formula,  **bomo- 
thing  Is." 

But  then,  unl2ss  some  means  be  found  for  instantly  paraiTriiDir  tiio 
restless  energy  of  human  inquiry,  the  next  question  is  iuevitabl.^ — 
]\'}iat  is  that  Something  ?  What  are  its  qualities,  its  attributes  ?  Uotv 
are  we  to  conceive  of  it  ? 

"Existence,"  is,  after  all,  only  on©  of  our  three  necessary  forms 
of  thought :  "Space"  and  "Time"  are  also  necessary  to  our  thinkinf;. 
And  it  is  in  vain  for  pure  Logicians  to  put  on  papal  airs,  to  forbid  the 
qoeBtioD,  to  cry  Hofi  possumus,  and  to  stifle  all  free  thinking.  It  is  use- 
less to  say,  **  We  have  already,  with  razors  of  the  utmost  fineness,  spht 
and  respUt  every  emergent  phenomenon  ;  we  have,  by  assiduous  devo- 
tion to  the  one  single  and  undisturbed  function  of  analysis,  examined 
eyery  possible  conception  that  man  can  form,  and  have  discovered 
everywhere  compound  notions,  ideas  that  are  "impure"  and  capable 
of  further  logical  fissure :  salvation  is  only  possible  by  the  confession  that 
'Something  Is  ;^  there  rest  and  be  thankfull"  It  is  all  of  no  avail. 
Kaiuram  expdlas  furea — she  is  sure  to  return  in  armed  revolt,  and  to 
demand,  Who  told  thee  that  thou  wast  thus  nakedly  equipped?  Beason 
is  one  thing ;  but  imagination  is  also  another.  If  analysis  is  a  power 
of  the  human  mind,  so  also  is  synthesis.  If  you  cannot  think  at  aU 
without  using  the  one;  neither  can  you  without  employing  tho 
other.  Take  for  instance  a  process  of  the  "purest"  mathematics, 
—"twice  six  is  twelve ;"  you  were  taught  that  probably  with 
an  abacus,  and  the  ghost  of  the  abacus  still  lingers  in  your 
brain.  "The  square  of  the  hypothenuse  :"  you  sav/  that  once  in 
a  figured  Euchd,  and  you  learnt  thereby  to  form  any  number  of  sim- 
ilar mental  figures  for  yourself.  No  :  you  may  call  the  methods  by 
wliich  mankind  think  "impure,"  or  attach  to  them  any  other  deroga- 
tory epithet  you  please ;  but  mankind  will  darido  you  for  your  pain^, 
and  will  reply.  "The  philosopher  who  will  only  breathe  pure  oxygen 
will  die ;  he  that  walks  on  one  leg,  and  decUncs  to  use  the  other,"^  will 
cut  but  a  sorry  figure  in  society ;  he  that  uses  only  one  eye  will  never 
got  a  stereoscopic  view  of  anything.  Use,  man,  the  comp^wd  instru- 
ment of  knowledge  your  nature  has  provid<?d  for  yon,— and  xr^v.  will 
both  Si^e  and  hve."  Why,  even  so  dct.rmiDr-d  a  lodcian  as  "PhyRi- 
<Ti?"  is  obliged  sometimes  to  admit  thnt  "this  fn/mhalic  method"  of 
reasoaiug  is,  from  the  nature  of  the  rasp.  tbe  only  method  of  sfi'^ntifij 
rsasoning  which  is  available."*  And  Profpssor  TVudaU,  in  tb^^  Novf^m- 
ber number  of  another  Bevicw,  aftrr  complaining?  thpt  "it  is  a-^ftinst 
th3  mythologic  scenery  of  religion  that  science  entftrs  her  protest,  ""finds 
himself  also  obliged  to  mythologize ;  for  he  adds  (seven  pages  further 

^ — ^ -  -  

*  Examination  of  Theism,  p.  84. 


220  ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHUSOH. 

on),  "IIow  are  "we  to  figure  this  molecular  motion?  Suppose  the 
leaves  to  be  shaken  from  a  birch-tree.  .  .  .  and,  to  fix  the  idea,  8up- 
pose  each  leaf,"  &c.     And  so  Pi*ofessor  Cooke  writes : — 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  those  Tvho  regard  the  wave-theory  of  light  as  an  estab- 
lished principle  of  gcience.  .  .  There  is  something  concerned  in  the  phenomena  of 
light  which  has  definite  dimensions.  We  represent  these  dimecsions  to  onr  imagi- 
nation as  wave-lengths ;  and  we  shall  find  itdij^icuU  to  think  clearly  upon  the  subject 
without  the  aid  of  tiiis  wave-theoij."* 

In  short,  it  is  obvious  that  without  the  help  of  this  mythologic,  poetic, 
image-forming  faculty  all  our  pursuit  of  truth  were  in  vain.  And  there- 
fore, starting  from  the  common  basis  of  a  confession  that  ^^sometidng 
is,"  we  are  more  than  justified,  we  are  obeying  a  necessary  law  of  our 
nature,  in  asking  what  that  eternal  substratum  of  existence  is,  and  with 
what  morphologic  aid  the  Imagination  may  best  present  it  for  our  con^ 
templation. 

But  here  the  pure  logician  may  perhaps  retort,  *'  You  foi^et  that  the 
conceptions  men  form  of  things  are,  at  their  .very  best,  nothing  more 
than  human  and  therefore  relative  conceptions.  A  fly  or  a  fish  probably 
sees  things  differently.  And  an  inhabitant  of  Mercury  or  Saturn  might 
form  a  conception  of  the  universe  bearing  HtUe  resemblance  to  yours. "t 
Quite  true ;  but  logicians  there,  too,  would  probably  be  heard  to  com- 
plain that,  coloured  by  Satumian  or  Mercurian  relativities,  truth  was 
sadly  impure,  and  was,  in  fact,  attained  by  no  one  but  themselves.  Nay, 
in  those  other  worlds  priests  of  Logic  might  be  found  so  wn^>ped  in 
superstition  as  to  launch  epithets  of  contempt  on  aU  who  approached  to 
puncture  their  inflated  fallacies ;  and  who  devOuUy  believed  that  a  Syl- 
logism did  not  contain  a  pctitio  prindpii  neatly  wrapped  up  in  its  own 
premises,  and  an  induction  was  not  an  application  of  a  pre-existing 
general  idea  but  a  downright  discovery  of  absolute  truth.  If  from  such 
afflictions  we  on  Earth  are  free,  it  is  because  the  common  sense  of  man- 
kind declares  itself  strenely  content  with  the  relative  and  the  human ; 
because,  while  fully  aware  (from  our  schoolboy  days)  that  all  our  facul- 
ties— reason  among  the  rest — are  limited  and  earthly,  we  have  faith 
that  "all  is  well"  in  mind,  as  it  certainly  is  in  matter;  and  because  we 
smile  at  the  simplicity  of  our  modem  Wranglers  who  can  only  analyze 
down  as  far  as  "Something,"  when  their  Buddhist  masters  two  thou- 
sand years  ago  had  dug  far  deeper, — viz.  to  Nothinq  : — 

I  "  The  mind  of  th^  Fsnpremo  P^ddhn  in  swift,  onlok,  piercinjP' :  "bpconp**  he  is  'n- 
flniteiy  'pnre.'  TsirwiHia  is  Mio  dfStniction  of  ail  the  elements  of  exisrpnrH.  1'h-^ 
being'who  is  'pnriflod  '  Icnowsthat  th*^ro  i<^  no  Ego.  no  Fe\f  :  all  the  nfillcrious  c<  n- 
noctod  witli  pxi«t.]ice  nro  ovccomo  :  all  tho  principles  of  existence  are  annibilaf:  d  : 
and  that  cnniliilntion  is  N1rv.'ana."+ 

*  Tookp  :  The  Now  Chemi'^trv  (4th  ed.  18TS).  p.  22. 

t  Phvou-ns  (n.  14R>  rifV^s  this  logical  hohhy  far  beyond  the  confln/»s  of  th«  pnb- 
llrne.  TT-^  d'nn^nfi-=?  of  tbf^  Thoi«t  to  show  that  his  ''  God  Is  something  more  than  a 
mpre  Oi'no"!  A<ront  which  is  *  absolute'  in  the  protcgquely-restricted  senso  of  heiojj 
independent  of  one  petty  race  of  creatnree  with  an  ephemeral  ezpeiittnce  of  wiiat  i* 
goinsr  on  in  one  tiny  corner  of  the  universe," 

t  Hardy :  Eastern  Mouachism,  p.  291.  ^ 


ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH.  221 

The  Churchman,  therefore,  holds  himself  so  far  jnstifictl  in  cLiiming 
tiie  modem  Atheist  as  his  ally.  They  are  at  least  travelling  both  to- 
gether on  the  high-road  which  leads  from  a  destructive  Nihilism  towards 
a  constnictiye  religion.  Only  the  Atheist  has  thought  it  his  duty  to  go 
back  agaia  to  the  beginning,  and  to  measure  indastriously  the  saiiie 
groimd  that  the  Chnrch  had  gone  over  just  two  thousand  tour  hundn:d 
years  ago,  when  the  great  ''  Something  is "  addre8st«d  itself  to  man 
tkroQgh  Moses  in  the  word  "I  am"  or  Jehovah  (Absolute  Exist- 
ence).* 

Bat  perhaps  the  pure  logician  may  attempt  anoth  t  r  j^Iy.  Finding 
us  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  by  hearing,  ouce  a;?ain,  the  familiar 
truth  that  all  our  faculties  ara  limited,  he  may  att  »mi)t  to  shatter  our 
serenity  by  an  announcement  of  a  more  novel  kiud.  He  may  say,  Not 
only  is  the  imagery  with  which  you  clothe,  represHiit.  and  conceive  the 
S-lf-existent  merely  rolativo  and  human,  but — far  more  damning  fact- 
it  is  all  a  developifl^nt  It  has  all  grown  with  tli?  t^rowth  of  your  racs. 
Environment  and  heredity  have  siipplipd  you  with  all  j'our  forma  of 
tboaght.  Even  your  "  conseienco  is  nothing  moro  than  an  organized 
IxKiy  of  certain  psychological  elements  which,  by  long  i-.ih-^rltancs  have 
come  to  inform  us  by  way  of  intuitive  feeling  how  avo  should  act  for  the 
benefit  of  society,  "f 

Be  it  so.  The  proof  has  not  yet  been  made  oi't.  But  since  thes3 
evolution-doetrines  are  (as  Dr.  N^wma  i  wonl.l  say)  **in  the  air,"  it  is 
more  consonant  to  the  ruling  id  as  which  at  present  dominate  our 
imagination  to  conceive  thin^  in  thi-i  way.  Ind  v-d,  to  a  lar^o  and 
iacrs^ing  number  of  Churchmen  th-3  CYoIutlon-hypotlir:?:q  appears,  not 
only  profoundly  interesting,  but  probably  tiiio.  T'\ey  Had  thera 
notiiing  to  shako  their  faith,  and  a  good  d^al  t.)  confirm  it.  JIan  is 
what  he  is,  in  whatever  way  ho  may  have  becomo  bo.  And  how  Atheists 
can  persuade  themselves  that  this  beautiful  th'^ory  of  the  Divine  mithod 
helps  their  danial  of  a  deity,  th  3  mod eri  school  of  throlor^ians  is  ct  a 
loss  to  understand.  For  tKe  cosmic  force  whom  Christians  worship  has, 
from  the  very  beginning,  been  represented  to  ther^T,  not  as  a  fickle,  but 
as  a  continuous  and  a  law-abiding  enerpfy.  "TIj  Fattier  workcth 
hitherto,"  said  Christ.  **  Not  a  sparrow  fallcth  to  tlio  ground  "  v/ithout 
His  cognizance.  "The  very  hairs  of  your  head  arj  all  numbered." 
"In  Him  we  live  and  move  and  havo  our  bcin^."  J."*;ctoriil  exT)roG- 
cioas,  no  doubt.  But  what  worla  coiild  rncro  cl  arly  ind'cato  tlio 
cnhroken  continuity  of  can >atiou  ill  natiiro  t'.ian  V.izao  te::tj  from  t!io 
Christian  Scriptures  ?  And  it  is  surely  the  est  ^bli::]rnent  of  a  continu- 
ous, as  distinct  from  an  interm:tt:nt,  a^eney  in  iintura  vrhieli  forins  tho 
l-ading  jwint  cf  interest  both  to  science  and  tD  t'le  Cliurch,  at  the  pre- 
Kontdaj,  as  against  a  shallow  Do:3m.  If,  Ihr  rcfor?,  inau'j  iiua-lnctlve 
tii  moral  faculties,  as  wo  know  them  no^^',  ari  a  d.v.lcpinczt  frozi 
former  and  lower — yea,  oven  from  eava^jo,  from  bestial,  ii-oia  octerlnj 

■'  ■  .    ■  1.  — —  1 

•  Exod,  vl.  3  t  Physicus,  p.  31. 


222  ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURGH. 

—antecedents,  what  is  that  to  ns  ?  Of  man's  logical  powers  the  self- 
same  thing  has  to  be  said.  Vfhy  then  should  logic  give  itself  such 
mighty  airs  of  superiority  and  forget  its  equally  humble  origin  ?  How 
does  it  affect  the  truthfulness  in  relation  to  man,  and  the  trustwortld- 
ness  for  all  practical  purposes,  of  our  imago  forming  faculties,  that  it  is 
v/hat  it  is  only  after  long  evolution,  and  that  the  race  had  a  fatal 
period  as  well  as  the  individual  ? 

The  upshot,  then,  of  the  whole  discussion  ^s  surely  this.  The  Abso- 
lute is  confessedly  inconceivable  by  man.  All  our  mental  facultit:s  are 
in  the  same  category ;  they  are  all  finite,  relative,  imperfect.  But  tiitn 
they  are  suited  to  our  present  development  and  environment.  Faith  in 
them  is  therefore  required,  and  a  bold  masculine  use  of  them  ail.  For 
in  nature,  as  in  grace,  *'  God  hath  not  given  us  the  spirit  of  fear,  but  of 
power  and  of  love  and  of  a  sound  mind."*  If,  then,  there  are  ques- 
tions into  which  mere  analytic  reasoning  cannot  enter,  if  logic  is  power- 
less, for  instance,  before  a  musical  score,  and  is  struck  dumb  before  the 
self-devotion  of  Thermopylae,  or  the  unapproachable  self-sacrifice  oi 
Calvary,  by  what  right  are  we  forbidden  to  employ  these  other  faculties 
which  help  us,  and  whose  constructive  help  brings  joy  and  health  and 
peace  to  our  minds  ?  Tha  many-coloured  poetical  aspect  of  things  is, 
assuredly,  no  less  "pure"  and  far  more  interesting  than  the  washed- 
out  and  colourless  zero  reached  by  interminable  analysis.  The  coloured 
sunHght  is  no  less  **pure,"  and  it  reveals  a  great  deal  more  of  truth, 
than  '*  tha  pale  moon's  watery  beams."  And  so  we  venture  to  predict 
that  a  constructive  Christianity  which  reveals  the  cosmic  force  anel 
imity  to  the  millions  of  men,  will  ever  hold  its  own  against  a  merely 
destructive  Buddhism,  whether  ancient  or  modem;  and,  long  after 
pure  logic  has  said  its  last  word  and — with  a  faint  cry,  "  Something  per- 
haps is" — has  evaporated  into  Nirwana,  will  continue  its  thrice-blessed 
efforts  to  rear  a  palace  of  human  thought,  will  handle  with  reserve  and 
dignity  the  best  results  of  all  the  sciences,  and  will  integrate  (with 
courage  and  not  despair)  the  infinite  contributions  of  all  phenomena 
into  a  theology  of  practiced  utihty  to  the  further  evolution  of  the  human 
race. 

For  evolution  there  has  certainly  been.  And  in  spite  of  all  that  has 
been  said  to  tho  contrary,  f  the  moral  atmosi)here  which  has  from  aga 
to  ago  rendered  mental  progress  possible  has  been,  for  the  most  part 
cn{];endercd  by  religion,  and  above  all,  by  the  confidence,  peace,  and 
brotherhood  preached  by  the  Christian  Church.  No  doubt  religion  v:as 
cradled  amid  pross  siiporstilions  ;  and  only  by  great  and  perilous  transi- 
tions has  it  advancvid  from  tho  lov/cr  to  the  hicjhor.  It  vras  a  great  stp 
_____ 

+  Drapn* :  Tho  Conflict  bat\roon  Sclenco  mid  Religion.  New  York.  1873.  Tl-.is 
otlicrw!-e  ndmirMblo  work  Ih  disiij^ired  throughout  by  u  prejudice  against  reliirii'i'i 
a3  a  fuctor  ia  humau  prorrogs,  which  is  almost  childish.  The  learned  author  gurrly 
f orjeta  hia  own  words  " No  one  can  spend  a  large  part  of  his  life  in  teachiig 
BcioncG,  without  partaking  of  that  love  of  impartiality  and  truth  which  phiiosopby 
incites.^'    (P.  is.) 


^  ATHEISM  AlTD  THE  CHUEOH.  228 

from  the  Fetish  and  the  Teraphim  to  tlie  a-niTnal  and  p Jint  symbols  of 
Egypt  and  Assyria.  It  was  another  great  step  to  Baal,  llio  blazing  sun,' 
r.nd  Moloch,  vrielder  of  drought  and  cnnstrokn,  and  A.^ni,  f^icnc'ly  com- 
rvJj  of  the  hearth.  But  when  astronomy  and  pl'j'slcs  Il?A  r.:ach  :d  Eiif- 
^2ient  growth  to  master  all  these  wond^rn,  and  to  pn:dict  l!i3  noLilicofi 
and  the  eclipses,  then  tho  fulness  of  times  had  come  onca  more ;  and 
no-v7  the  greatest  religions  transition  was  accomplished  that  tho  Lnman 
rr«ce  has  ever  seen — a  transition  from  tho  physical,  and  tho  bmtal,  and 
Caq  astral  to  the  hnman  and  the  moral,  in  man's  search  after  a  true  (or 
liio  to  him  truest  possible)  representation  of  the  infinite  forces  at  play 
ground  him.  In  Abraham  tho  Hebrew — tho  man  who  mado  tho  graat 
transition — this  important  advance  is  typified  for  the  Semitic  races  ;  for 
ethers,  the  results  only  are  seen  in  tho  Olympian  conceptions  of  Hesiod 
and  Homer.  For  hero  wo  have,  at  last,  the  nature-forces  presided  over 
and  controlled  after  *a  really  human  fashion.  Crude,  and  on'y  semi- 
moral,  after  all,  as  was  this  earliest  humanizing  effort ;  still  human  it 
wa?, — ^not  mechanical  or  bestiaL  And  it  opened  tho  way  for  Socrates 
to  bring  down  philosophy,  too,  from  heaven  to  earth,  for  Plato  to  dis- 
cuss the  mental  processes  in  man,  and  apply  them  (writ  large)  to  the 
processes  of  nature,  and  for  Moses  to  elaborate  with  a  divine  sagacity  a 
completely  organized  society,  saturated  through  every  fibre  with  this 
one  idea, — the  xmi ty  of  all  tho  nature-forces,  great  and  small,  and  their 
government,  not  by  haphazard,  or  malignity,  or  fato,  but  by  what  wo 
men  call  liAW.  "  Thou  hast  given  them  a  law  which  shall  not  bo 
broken."  For  this  word  "law"  distinctly  connotes  rationality.  It 
implies  a  quality  akin  to,  and  therefore  expressible  in  terms  of  human 
reason.  Its  usage  on  every  page  of  every  book  of  science  means  that ; 
and  repndiates  therefore,  by  anticipation,  the  dismal  invitations  to 
scientific  despair  with  which  tho  logicians  a  outrance  aro  now  so  press- 
ingly  obliging  us. 

This  grand  transition,  then,  once  made,  all  else  became  easy.  The 
Imman  imagination,  tho  poetic  or  plastic  power  lodged  in  our  brain, 
after  many  failures,  had  now  at  last  got  on  the  high  road  which  led 
straight  to  the  goaL  Eodemplion  had  como  ;  it  only  needed  to  bo  un- 
folded to  its  utmost  capabihties.  Bull  fate,  dumb,  Buiien,  and  imprac-- 
tieable,  had  been  renounced  as  infra-human  and  unworthy.  Let  stoclia 
and  stones  in  tho  mountains  and  the  forests  bo  ruled  by  it ;  not  free, 
glad,  and  glorious  men  I  .  Brute,  bestial  instinct  also  had  been  re- 
nounced, as  contemptiblo  and  undivine  in  the  highest  degree.  And 
BO,  at  last,  tho  culminating  point  was  attained.  The  human-divine  of 
Asiatic  speculation,  and  the  divinely-human  of  European  philosophy, 
met  and  coalesced ;  and  from  that  wedlock  emerged  Christianity.  Tho 
"Something  is"  of  mere  bald  analytic  reasoning  had  become  clothed 
by  the  imagination  with  that  perfect  human  form  and  character  than 
vhich  nothing  known  to  man  is  higher ;  and  that  very  manhood,  which 
is  nowadays  so  loudly  asserted  by  Positivists  and  Atheists  to  be  the 
most  diyine  thing  known  to  science,  was  precisely  the  form  in  which 


224  ATHEISM  AKD  THE  CHUKCH. 

the  new  religion  preached  that  the  groat  exterior  existence,  the  Some- 
thing Is,  the  awful  "I  am"  can  alono  ba  presented  intelligibly  to  man. 
For  "No  man  sliall  sae  Jehovah  and  Hve,"  says  the  Old  Testament: 
'*N"o  man  hath  seen  God  at  any  timo,"  says  thj  Now  Testament ;  the 

Son  of  Man,  who  is  ei^  rov  7:o?L:tov  rov  Ttarpot — projected  on  the 
bosom  of  the  absoluto  "I  am'' — Ho  hath  declared  Him. 

Of  this  language  in  St.  John's  Gospel,   it  is  obvions  that  Hegel's 
doctrine — echoed  afterwards  by  Comte  and  the  Positivists, — ^is  a  sort 
of  variation  set  in  a  lower  key.     In  humanity,  said  he,  the  divine  idea 
emerges   from   the    material   and   the  bestial  into  the  self-conscious. 
Humanity  presents  us  with  the  best  we  can  ever  know  of  the  divine. 
In  "the  Son  of  Man  "  that  somethino  which  lies  behind,  and  which  no 
man  can  attain  to,  becomes  incarnate,  visible,  imaginable.     But  it  can- 
not surely  be  meant  by  these  philosophers  that  in  the  sons  of  men 
taken  at  JiapJiazard  the  Divinity,  the  great  Cosmic  Unknown,  is  best 
persented  to  us.     It  cannot  possibly  bo  maintained  that  in  the  Chinese 
swarming  on  their  canals,  m  the  hideous  savages  of  Polynesia,  or  in 
the  mobs  of  our  great  European  capitals,  the  **  Something  is  "  can  be 
effectively  studied,  idealized,  adored.     No,  it  were  surely  a  truer  state- 
ment that  humanity  concentrated  in  its  very  purest  known  form,  and 
refined  as  much  as  may  be  from  all  its  animalism,  were  the  clear  lens 
(as  it  were)  through  which  to  contemplate  the  groat  Cosmic  Power  be- 
yond.    It  is  therefore  a  son  of  man,  and  not  the  ordinary  sons  of  men, 
that  we  require  to  aid  our  minds  and  uplift  our  aspirations.     Mankind 
is  hardly  to  be  saved  from  retrograde  evolution  by  superciliously  looking 
round  upon  a  myriad  of  mediocre  realities.  .  It  must  be  helped  on,  if 
at  aU,  by  a  new  variety  in  our  species  suddenly  putting  forth  in  our 
midst,  attracting  wide  attention,  securing  descendants,  and  offering  an 
ideal,  a  goal  in  advance,  towards  which  effort  and  conflict  shall  tend. 
\7e  must  be  won  over  from  our  worldly  lusts  and  our  animal  propen- 
sities by  engaging  our  hearts  on  higher  objects.    \Jc  must  learn  a  lesson 
in  practical  morals  from  the  youth  who  is  redeemed  from  rude  boyhood 
end  coarse  selfishness  by  love.     Tie  must  allow  the  latent  spark  of 
moral  desire  to  be  fanned  into  a  flame  and,  by  the  enkindling  admira- 
tion cf  a  human  beauty  above  the  plane  of  character  hitherto  attained 
by  man,  to  consume  away  the  animal  dross  and  prepare  for  new  environ- 
ments that  may  bo  in  store  for  us.     Y«liat  student  does  not  know  how 
the  heat  of  love  for  truth  not  yet  attained  breaks  up  a  heap  of  preju- 
dices and  fixed  ideas,  and  gives  a  sort  of  molecular  instability  to  tlio 
mind,  preparing  it  for  the  most  surprising  transformations  ?    "Who  has 
not  observed  the  development  of  almost  a  new  eye  for  colour,  or  a  new 
ear  for  refinements  in  sound,  by  the  mere  constant  presentation  of  a 
higher  jesthetlo  ideal  ?     And  just  in  the  same  way,  who  that  knows 
anything  of  mankind  can  have  failed  to  perceive  that  the  only  Buccees- 
f  ul  method  by  which  character  is  permanently  improved  is  by  em- 
ploying the  force  of  example,  by  accumulating  on  the  conscience  reite- 
jated  touches  of  a  new  moral  cclour,  and  by  bringing  to  bear  from 


ATHEISM  XSV  THE  CHUKCH.  225 

alfove  the  power  of  an  acknowledged  ideal,  and  (if  possible)  froia 
around  Ae  simnltaneous  influence  of  a  similarly  affected  environment  ? 
Baptize  now  all  these  truths,  translate  them  into  the  ordinary  current 
language  of  the  Church,  and  you  have  simply  neither  more  nor  less 
than  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.  And  as  carbon  is  carbon,  whether  it 
be  presented  as  coal  or  as  diamond,  so  are  these  high  and  man-redeem- 
ing verities, — about  the  inscrutable  "lam,"  and  His  intelligible  pro- 
s  intment  in  a  strangely  unique  Son  of  Man,  and  the  transmuting  agency 
of  a  brotherhood  saturated  with  His  Spirit  and  pledged  to  keep  His 
presence  ever  fresh  and  effective — ^verities  istill,  whether  they  tfl^e  on 
homely  and  practical,  or  dazzling  and  scientific  forms.  And  the  foolish 
man  is  surely  he  who,  educatsd  enough  to  know  better,  scorns  the  lowly 
foroi,  and  is  pedantic  enough  to  suggest  the  refinements  of  the  lecture- 
room  as  suitable  for  the  rough  uses  of  everyday  life.  A  man  of  sense 
will  rather  say.  Let  us  by  aU  means  retain  and — with  insight  and  trust 
— employ  the  homely  traditional  forms  of  these  sublime  truths  :  let  us 
forbear,  in  charity  for  others,  to  weaken  their  influence,  and  so  to  cut 
away  the  lower  rounds  of  the  very  ladder  by  which  we  ourselves 
ascended :  and  let  us  too,  in  mercy  to  our  own  Ifealth  of  character,  de- 
cline to  stand  aloof  from  the  world  of  common  men,  or  to  relegate 

away  among  the  lumber  of  our  lives  the  sTtf^a  qyoavavra  avvFroKnv 
that  we  learnt  of  simple  saintly  lips  in  childhood.  Eather,  as  the  Son 
OF  Man  hath  bidden  us,  we  will  **  bring  out  of  our  treasures  things  both 
new  and  old;  **  will  remember,  as  Aquinas  taught,  that  "  nova  nomina 
astiquam  fidem  de  Deo  significant  ;*'  and  will  carry  out  in  practice  that 
word  wen  spoken  in  good  season,  "  It  is  not  by  rejecting  what  is  formal, 
but  by  interpreting  it,  that  we  advance  in  true  spirituality."*. 

n.  On  the  other  hand,  if  men  of  science  are  to  be  won  back  to  the 
Church,  and  the  widening  gulf  is  to  be  bridged  over  which  threatens 
nowadays  the  destruction  of  all  that  We  hold  dear, — it  cannot  be  too  often 
or  too  earnestly  repeated,  The  Church  must  not  part  company  mth  tha 
world  she  is  eommissioned  t^)  enangdize.  She  must  awake  both  from  her 
Henaissance  and  her  Mediaeval  dreams.  To  turn  over  on  her  uneasy 
conch,  and  try  by  conscious  effort  to  dream  those  dreams  again,  when 
dayHght  is  come  and  all  the  house  is  fully  astir,  this  surely  were  the 
height  of  faithless  folly.  An  animating  time  of  action  is  come,  a  day 
raqniring  the  best  exercise  of  skill  and  knowledge  and^  moral  courage. 
Shall  we  hear  within  the  camp,  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  a  treasonable 
whisper  go  round,  "By  one  act  of  mental  suicide  we  may  contrive  to 
escape  all  further  exertion ;  science  is  perplexing,  history  is  full  of 
daubts,  psychology  spins  webs  too  fine  for  our  self-indulgence  even  to 
think  of.  Why  not  make  believe  very  hard  to  have  found  an  infallible 
oracle,  and  determine  once  for  all  to  desert  our  post  and  *  jurare  in 
verba  magistri  ?  * "  It  is  true  that  history  demonstrates  beyond  a  doubt 
that  Jesus  and  His  apostles  knew  nothing  of  any  such  contrivance. 
Fat,  never  mind  I     "A  Catholic  who  should  adhere  to  the  testimony  of 

•  The  Patiene*  <rf  Hopei,  p.  70. 
L.  M.— I.— «. 


226  ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH. 

Jiistory,  when  it  appears  to  contradict  the  Church,  would  b^  £<?•  ff  r.  ^ 
merely  of  treason  and  heresy,  but  of  apostasy."*  Yes,  ok  tr^»o»x  to 
Rome,  but  of  faithful  and  courageous  loyalty  to  Chribt-  *  *  I  am  th& 
truth,"  said  Christ.  **The  truth  shall  make  you  free."  Epfxkk  tlio 
truth  in  love,  prove  all  things,  hold  last  that  which  is  true,  said  Hi.-, 
apostles.  How  can  it  ever  be  consonant  to  His  will  that  the  membtis 
of  His  brotherhood  should  conspire  together  lo  make  beheve  that  whiii 
is  black  at  the  bidding  of  any  man  on  earth  ?  The  Church  of  Englard, 
at  any  rate,  has  no  such  treason  to  answer  for.  Her  doctrinal  canoni^, 
by  distinctly  asserting  that  even  '*  General  Councils  may  err  and  hav  -. 
erred,"  and  by  a  constant  appeal  to  ancient  documents,  uiiivcrj-ally 
ftccepted,  but  capablo  of  ever-improvinjj  interpretation,  have  avirtid 
the  curse  of  a  stcriio  traditionalism.  Ko  new  light  is  at  any  time  iLr.L- 
cessible  to  her.  Every  historicr.1  t"-uth  is  treasured,  every  Uterary  tli^- 
cuBsion  is  welcome,  every  B::ientilio  cUscovcry  finds  at  last  a  place 
amid  her  system.  Time  and  i:5atienc3  rro,  of  course,  required  to  rv.- 
arrange  and  harmonize  all  thinfii  together,  nev/  r.nd  eld ;  and  a  claim  :s 
rightly  made  that  new  "traths"  should  Crjt  bo  substantiated  as  suth, 
bafore  they  are  incorporated  into  so  va^t  and  widespread  an  engine  ct 
popular  education  as  here.  But,  with  this  proviso,  *'  Theology  acctp ts 
every  certain  conclusion  of  physical  science  as  man'rt  unfolding  of  Gca  .> 
book  of  nature."  t  It  is,  therefor  %  n^.ost  unwise,  if  any  of  her  ckrc^* 
pose  themselves  as  hostile  to  new  discoveries,  whether'in  history,  liteja- 
ture,  or  science.  It  may  be  natursl  to  take  up  such  an  altitude ;  and  a 
certain  impatienco  and  resentment  at  the  manner  in  v/hich  these  things 
are  often  paraded,  in  the  crudest  forms  and  before  an  xmprepared  pub- 
lic, may  be  easily  condoned  by  all  candid  men.  But  tiich  an  attitndo 
of  suspicion  and  hostihty  between  "things  old"  and  '* things  new"' 
goes  far  bsyond  the  commission  to  **  banish  and  drive  away  all  straDg: 
and  erroneous  doctrines  contrary  to  God's  word."  For  this  commissiou 
^ requires  proof,  and  not  surmise,  that  they  are  erroneous;  and  tho 
'Church  has  had  experience,  over  and  over  again,  how  easy  and  hew 
disastrous  it  is  to  banish  from  the  door  an  unwelcome  {jufest,  who  wa?, 
perhaps,  nothing  less-  than  an  angel  in  disguise.  The  story  of  Gahlto 
^7ill  never  cease,  while  the  v/orld  lasts,  to  cause  the  enemies  of  iho 
Church  to  blaspheme.  Yet  of  late  years  it  has  been  honestly  confcps-d 
by  divines  that  "the  oldest  and  the  youngest  of  the  natural  sciences 
astronomy  and  geology,  so  far  from  being  dangerous,  .  .  sfCLi 
}")rovid3ntially  destined  to  engage  the  present  century  so  powerfully, 
that  the  ideal  niaiesty  of  infinite  time  and  endless  space  might  count-  r- 
aot  a  low  and  nanxDw  materiahsm."  t 

This  expv^rience  ought  not  to  be  thrown  away.  Ko  one,  who  l.a^ 
paid  a  serious  attention  to  the  progress  of  the  modem  sciences,  t  a  i 
cntortain  a  doubt  that  all  the  really  substantiated  discoveries  whicii 


•  A^be  Martin  :  "  Coptciirporr.ry  Review,"  December,  1S78,  p.  54. 

•t  Dr.  Puscy :  University  Scrr^cn,  Novcaiber,  1873.       +  Kalisch :  On  Oefnesis,  p.  43, 


ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH.  22T 

haro  been  supposed  to  contravene  Christianity  do  in  reality  only 
deepen  its  pTofimdity  and  emphasize  its  indispensable  necessity  for 
num.  ITcvcr  before,  in  all  the  history  of  mankind,  has  the  Deity 
geemcd  bo  awful,  bo  remoto  from  man,  so  mighty  in  the  tremendon-i 
forces  that  Ho  wields,  so  majestic  in  the  permanence  and  tranquility 
cf  His  resistless  "will.  Never  before  has  man  realized  his  o^^ti  excessive 
fnnallnefis  and  impotence ;  his  inability  to  destroy — mnch  more,  to 
cTeai2 — one  atom  or  molccnle ;  his  dependence  for  life,  for  thonght.  for 
cliaraeter  even,  on  the  material  environment  of  which  he  once  thought 
himself  tho  master.  .  The  forces  of  nature,  then,  have  become  to  him 
cccQ  more,  as  in  tho  infancy  of  his  race,  almost  a  terror.  And  poised 
rrd^TET,  for  a  few  eventful  hours,  between  an  infinite  past  of  which 
h:  tzows  aiitdo  and  an  infinite  future  of  which  he  knows  nothing, 
L:  b  tompted  to  despair  of  himself  and  of  his  little  planet,  and  in 
chilclisli  petulance  to  complain,  "  My  whilom  conceit  is  broken ;  there 
13  nothing  dso  to  livo  for."  And  amid  these  foolish  despaira,  a  voice 
i:  Iiecrd  which  cays,  **  Have  faith  in  God  I  have  hope  in  Christ !  have 
Icvo  to  man  I  knowledge  of  this  tremendous  substratum  of  all  being 
it  in  not  for  man  to  have :  his  knowledge  is  confined  to  phenomena 
and  to  very  human  (but  suificient)  conceptions  of  the  so-called 
hwR  by  whkh  they  all  cohere.  But  these  three  qualities  are  moral,  not 
bt:Il:ctu£U,  virtues.  For  the  Church  never  teaches  that  God  can  be 
ncicntifically  known;  she  never  offers  certainty  and  sight,  but  only 
'"hop.-!,"  innnany  an  ascending  degree  :  she  does  not  say  that  God  is  a 
man,  a  parson  like  ona  of  us, — that  were  indeed  perversely  to  misunder- 
stanj  licr  subtle  terminology, — but  only  a  MAN  has  appeared,  when  the 
time  vos  ripe  for  him,  in  whom  that  awful  and  tremendous  Existence 
bsBliowtt^is  something  of  Iiis  ideas,  has  mado  intelligible  to  us  (as  it 
vcre  by  a  'Word  to  the  listaning  car)  what  we  may  venture  to  call  His 
"mind"  towards  us,  and  has  invited  us — by  the  simple  expedient  of 
[giving  our  heart'a  loyalty  to  this  most  lovable  Son  of  man — to  rrach  cut 
peacefully  to  higher  evolutions,  and  to  commit  that  indestructible  forcp, 
oorLifa,  to  Him  in  sarene  well-doing  to  the  brothfrhood  among  whom 
His  gpint  works,  and  whose  welfare  He  accounts  His  own. 

Is  not  this  At/ma?it2i/i5' of  tho  great  Existence,  for  moml  and  prac- 
tical utility,  and  this  utterance  (so  to  speak)  of  yet  another  crtativo 
TCrd  in  the  ascending  scalo  of  continuous  development,  ard  this 
^milisinfj  of  His  sweet  beneficent  Spirit  in  a  brotherbocd  as  wide  pa 
the  woyld,  precisely  the  i^iigion  most  adapted  to  accord  with  modcri 
ecisnce  ? 

lot  no  one  can  listen  to  ordinary  sermons,  no  one  can  open  popular 
Iwks  of  piety  or  of  doctrine,  without  feeling  the  urgert  nerd  thfrf  hi 
among  Churchmen  for  a  higher  appreciation  of  the  maj?  stic  ii  finitnde 
of  God.  It  is  true  that,  in  these  cases,  it  is  the  multitude  and  i.ot  the 
liighly-cducated  few  who  are  addressed;  and  that,  even  among  that 
multitude,  there  are  none  so  grossly  ignorant  as  to  compare  the  Trinity 
to  "three  Lord  Shaftesburys,"  and  not  many  so  childish  as  to  picture 


f2S  ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH. 

"  one  Almighty  descending  'into  hell  to  pacify  another.**  *  Such  x^^tn* 
lance  is  reserved  for  men  of  the  highest  intellectual  gifts,  who— wliether 
purposely  or  ignorantly,  it  is  hard  to  say — have  stooped  to  provide  their 
generation  with  a  comic  theology  of  the  Christian  Church.  But,  after 
all,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the  shadows  of  a  welUloved  past  are 
lingering  too  long  over  a  present  that  might  be  bright  with  joyous  sun- 
shine ;  that  the  subtleties  of  the  schoolmen  are  too  long  idlowed  to 
darken  the  air  with  pointless  and  antiquated  weapons ;  that  the  Renais- 
sance, with  its  Uterazy  fanaticism,  still  reigns  over  the  whole  domain  of 
Christian  book-lore ;  and  that  the  crude  conceptions  of  the  Ptolemaic  as- 
tronomy have  never  yet,  among  ecclesiasties,  been  thoroughly  dislodged 
or  replaced  by  the  &r  more  magnificent  revelations  of  tiie  modem  telc- 
8cx)pe.  It  U  not  asserted  that  no  percolation  of  *^  things  new  "  is  going 
on.  It  is  not  denied  that  as  in  the  first  century  a  chai^  in  ideas  about 
the  priesthood  carried  with  it  a  change  in  the  whole  religious  system  of 
which  that  formed  the  axis,t  so  now  a  change  in  ideas  about  the  earlL's 
position  in  space  demands  a  very  skilful  and  patient  readjustment  of  all 
our  connected  ideas.  But  such  a  readjustment  of  the  old  S^nitic  faith 
was  effected,  in  the  first  eentury,  by  St.  Paul ;  find  there  is  no  reason  to 
think  that  the  Church  is  unequ^  to  similar  tasks  now.  And  iii  ihls 
country  especially  there  is  an  established  a^  organized  "Ecclesiii 
docens  "  which  probably  never  had  its  equal  in  all  Church  history  fcr 
the  literary  and  scientific  eminence  of  its  leading  ^embers.*  For  6iic2i 
a  society  to  despair  of  readjusting  its  theology  to  contemporary  science, 
or  idly  to  stand  by  while  others  effect  the  junction,  were  indeed  a  di:- 
graceful  and  incredible  treason ;  so  incredible  that — ^until  it  bo  provtu 
otherwise — no  amount  of  vitux>eration  or  unpopularity  should  indue  ^ 
any  reflecting  Englishman  to  render  that  work  impoesible  by  aUovin;; 
his  Church  to  be  trampled  down,  and  its  time-honoured  framework  to 
be  given  up  as  a  spoil  to  chaos. 

But  there  is  yet  another  element  in  this  question,  which  binds  tlio 
Church  of  Christ  to  give  to  its  solution  the  very  closest  and  most  bid  - 
fatigable  attention.  It  is  this :  that  from  every  science  thero  cris  -> 
nowadays  a  cry  h'ke  that  addressed  to  Jesus  himstPilf  when  on  earth  :— 
*'Lord,  help  mo  I  "  It  is  not  as  if  Atheism  were  satisfied  with  itscir. 
In  th9  pages  of  the  '* National  Reformer"  and  similar  organs  of  aggrcs. 
sive  free-thought  we  are  amused  with  the  buoyant  audacity  of  Ih  > 
**  young  idea."  Yet  even  there  we  find  many  a  passage  which  calb 
forth  the  sincerest  sympathy.     Take,  for  instance,  the  following: — 

"  There  are  few  rpflnctive  persons  wbo  have  not  been,  now  nnrl  a^hi.  imprrssod 
with  awe  aa  thoy  look'id  back  on  the  papt  of  bamaDity.  ...  It  la  then  that  wv  seo 
the  CTandest  illuptrations  of  that  nnendhig  necessity  under  wbich,  it  wonJd  f'ui. 
man  labours,  the  necessity  of  abandoning  ever  and  again  the  heritage  of  his  far],'  '■•. 
...  of  continually  leaving  beljind  him  the  citadel  of  faith  and  pftaco.  raised  by  t!. . 
piety  of  the  past,  for  an  atmosjjhere  of  tumult  and  denial.  ,  .  .  Whatever  may  K"--; 
present  conclnsions  about  Christianity,  we  cannot  too  often  remember  that  it  l;iJ 
D3en  one  of  tho  most  important  fnctorg  in  the  Hf«^  of  mnnkJnd.^t 

•  M.  Arnold :  Literature,  Ac.  (18T3),  p.  806.    Sncncer :  Sociology  (Tth  ed,  18TS)  p. 
S06.  t  Heb.  vll.  18.  ;  Bradlaugh'a  "  National  Reformer,"  October  6, 1373. 


ATHEISM  AOT)  THE  CHUROM.  22§ 

This  is  totzefaiag  enough — ^though  perhaps  the  stolid  aggressiYeness 
which  knowS)  as  yet,  no  relentings  is  really  a  far  more  tragic  spectacle. 
But  there  are  other  lamentations,  uttered  of  late  yei^B  by  distiugaished 
Atheists,  which  might  move  a  heart  of  stone,  much  more  should  stir  tho 
energies  of  every  Christian  teacher — ^himself  at  peace — to  seek  by  ar.y 
sacrifice  of  Mb  own  ease  or  settled  preconceptions  an  ^'eirenicon,"  9 
method  of  conciliation,  an  opening  for  a  mutual  confession  of  neediest 
estrangement  and  provocation. 


"Does  that  new  philosophy  of  hlPtory  which  elostroys  the  Christian  philosophy' 
of  it  afford  an  adequate  basis  for  such  a  reconstruction  of  the  idtjjil  as  is  i-eqaired ! 
Candidly,  we  ninst  reply,  'Not yet,*  .  .  .  Very  far  are  we  from  bihig  thj  first  wb< 
ttave  experienced  the  agony  of  diacovered  delueion.  ,  .  .  Well  may  despair  almoi t 
FH23  on  one  who  has  been,  not  in  name  only  .bat  in.  very  truth,  a  Christian,  when 
tlut  incarnation  which  had  given  him  in  Christ  an  everliving  brother  and  friend  is 
found  to  be  but  an  old  myth  [of  Osiris]  with  a  new  life  in  it."  • 

**  The  most  serious  trial  through  which  society  can  pusa  is  encountered  in  tho 
exuviation  of  its  religious  restraints."  t 

"Never  in  the  history  of  man  has  so  terrific  a  calamity  befallen  the  race,  a"  that 
which  all  who  look  may  now  b.-hold  advancing  as  a.  deluge,  hija-.k  with  dcsirnction, 
resistless  in  mi^ht,  uprooting  our  most  cherished  hopes,  cugnlfing  our  most  prc!ciouj 
creed,  aud  burying  our  highest  life  in  mindless  desolation.  The  floodgates  of  infi- 
dality  are  open,  and  Atheism  overwhelming  is  upon  ns.  .  .  .  Wan  has  btcom<>, 
in  a  new  sense,  the  measure  of  the  universe ;  and  in  this,  tho  kteet  and  most 
appalling  of  bis  soundings,  indications  are  retm'ued  from  the  infiuito  voids  of  spaco 
and  time  that  his  intelligence,  with  all  its  noble  capacities  for  loveund  udoiation,  ia 
yet  alone — destitute  of  kith  or  kin  in  all  this  universe  of  being.  .  .  .  Forasmuch 
as  I  am  far  from  being  able  to  agree  >vith  those  who  afllrm  that  the  twilight  doctrine 
of  the  '  new  faith '  is  a  desirable  substitute  for  the  waning  splendour  of  '  the  old,'  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that,  with  this  virtual  negation  of  God,  the  universe  to 
me  has  lo»t  Ife  soul  of  loveliness.  And  wlien  at  times  I  think,  as  think  at  times  I 
iQQSt,  of  the  appalling  contrast  between  the  hallowed  glory  of  that  creed  which  once 
was  mine  and  the  lonely  mystery  of  existence  as  now  I  find  it, — ^at  such  times  I 
Bhall  ever  feel  it  impossible  to  avoid  the  sharpest  pang  of  Mhich  my  nature  is  sus- 
ceptible." t 

It  is  well  that  Churchmen  should  be  aware  of  this  state  of  things ;  and 
espscially  that  the  clergy,  when  they  are  tempted  to  have  their  fling 
(sjcure  ftx)m  all  reply)  against  the  so-called  **  infidel,"  should  bear  in 
mind  how  often  the  bravery  of  defiant  arrogance  is  a  mere  mask  to 
cover  a  sinking  heart.  For  pity^s  sake,  therefore,  as  well  as  for  their 
own  sake,  the  clergy  should  guard  against  two  gross  but  common  mis- 
takes: (1)  tho  mistake  of  abusing  modern  science,  and  depreciating  itci 
tmquestionablo  difficulties  in  relation  to  the  established  theology ;  (2) 
the  Btifl  more  fatal  blunder  of  trusting  to  worn-out  tactics  and  to  ttia' 
"artillery"  of  Jonathan  and  David  for  the  reduction  of  these  modem 
earthworks.  "To  the  Greeks  became  I  as  a  Greek,"  said  St,  Paul. 
And  so  must  the  minister  of  Christ  in  these  days  make  up  his  mind  to 
Mng  home  the  Grospel  to  his  own  countrymen,  with  all  their  faults  and 
peculiarities ;  and  to  tho  Englishmen  of  the  nineteenth  century  must 
■     ■  -  ■  I  .  ,  ■  1^ 

•Stnart  Glennie :  In  the  "Morning  Land"  (18T3),  pp.  29,  8TS,  431. 
t  Draper :   Science  and  Religion  (P th  ed.  18. 8,  p.  328. 
tPhysictiB :  On  Theism,  pp.  51,  63, 114. 


230  ATHEISM  AND  THE  CHURCH. 

become  an  Englishman  of  the  nineteenth  century,  that  he  "  may  by  al: 
means  save  some.' 

But  no  success  will  be  obtained,  unless  Churchmen  will  remeni])rr 
that  tha  vast  domains  recently  conquered  by  science  are  (practicaiiy 
speaking)  assured  and  certain  conquests.  They  are  no  encrcachme^.^ 
but  a  rightful  "  revindication"  of  scientific  territory.  And,  accepted  in 
a  friendly  spirit,  harmonized  with  skill  and  boldness,  and  cocstcrat-vJ 
(not  cursed)  in  the  [Master's  name,  they  bid  fair  to  become  a  new  realm 
whereon  His  peace-bringing  banner  may  bo  right  royally  imfolded,  aLd 
where,  even  in  our  own  day,  the  beginning  of  a  permanent  unity  may 
cartainly  bo  effected.  And  this  must  be  attempted  by  a  brave  aid 
tailing  proclamation  of  the  great  Christian  doctrines, — that  the  awfnl 
6?lf-existent  "  I  AM  "  is  none  other  than  "  our  Father  in  heaven  ,"  that 
Christ,  the  blameless  Son  of  man,  is  the  best  image  of  His  person  ;  and 
that  His  pure  Spirit,  brooding  over  the  turbid  chaos  of  human  socitty. 
offers  the  surest  means  and  pledge  of  a  future  Cosmos,  where  '*life'' 
may  perhaps  transcend  these  baffling  veils  of  space  and  time,  and,  in 
forms  '*  undreamed  of  by  om'  philosophy,"  display  the  boundless  riches 
cf  nature  and  of  God. 

G.  H.  CuETEis,  in  Contemporary  Reticle. 


tTEENEY  m  VOLTAIBE'S  TIME  AND  FERNEY  TO-DAY. 

T7ttv.v  Voltaire  had  to  lo  we  Germany,,  and  was  looking  around  him 
for  another  place  of  abode,  some  citizens  of  Geneva  inviti  d  Lim  to  that 
city,  and  m:ido  a  proposal  for  facilitating  the  printing  o*  his  book.-, 
perhaps  it  wad  the  convenl  nee  of  being  near  a  printing- ;j>'-sss  that  kd 
him  to  accept  tlio  offer.  T  jltaire  was  rich,  and  had  aii  .ye  to  all  the 
amenities  cf  Vl2j  ttnd  choo*  tng  two  beautiful  situations,  ^?  acquired  oi:e 
house  near  Geneva,  And  f^.'Othtr  near  Lausanne.  It  w//  r. narked  tli;it 
ho  was  the  Urst  Romua  ^.atholic,  if  he  could  b3  cal?»J  such,  that  bad 
r-cquired  ostabHshmentis  in  theso  cantons  sinco  the  (V.j's  of  Calvin  an  1 
Swingle.  Voltaire,  however,  did  not  makj  either  t/i  these  houses  l.:"'- 
permanent  residence.  Thero  runs  into  th3  canton  of  Geneva,  close  to 
the  town,  a  tongno  of  French  territory,  in  the  Pay/  de  Gex,  now  cnlkd 
tho  Department  i'Ain.  At  Fernry,  in  this  part  ^jI  Franco,  four  milt  s 
from  Ganeva,  Voltaire  purchased  a  piece  of  land,  and  built  the  chatuui 
which  still  bears  his  name.  The  Pays  do  Gex  had  been  made  a  wiklt  r- 
nesg  at  the  rovocation  of  tho  Edict  of  Nantrs.  The  Protestants  ^  ho 
v/erj  onco  numorous  in  it  had  been  dvagonnaded,  bui'nt.  or  baniFhal, 
and  half  the  country  had  bcjome  a  marsh,  spreading  pestil^tial  exhala- 
tions round.  It  hal  been  a  /project  of  Voltaire's  to  settle  in  some  such 
wilderness,  in  order  to  recVj  -a  it.   Fcmey  suited  him  adicurably  for  this 


FERNEY  IN  VOLTAIRE'S  TIME.  231 

purpose.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  und3r  the  auspices  of  Voltaire  it 
v/hoily  changed  its  external  character.  In  place  of  a  wretched  woodju 
Lanltit,  wh^ro  eig.ity  povorty-striolr-n  pcasauts  diiiggd  out  thnr  oxibt- 
ciic^,  Prirney  became  a  thriving  village  of  tv/elvi3  huadr.d  inhaMtaiits, 
living  coinfortably  in  hous  s  of  ntone.  Voltaira  did  a  ^:  at  d-al  in  thj 
^7a7  of  building  houses,  setting  up  industries,  and  funu-jhing  employ- 
ment for  the  p.oplo.  It  was  one  of  his  b-ttjr  qualities  that  he  had  a 
fiTv^at  int'T^st  in  the  progress  of  humanity,  and  liked  to  see  human 
brings  fiilfilling  comfortably  the  functions  of  life. 

More  than  this — Voltaire  actually  built  a  church  at  Ferney.  It  exists  at 
Vii:  present  day,  although  it  is  not  us^d  for  worship.  He  who  had  allliis 
life  scoSfed  and  snetr^d  at  Christianity,  and  had  applied  to  our  most  bL  ssed 
Lord  and  Saviour  an  epith  t  which  mak.s  us  shnd.Ir  aft  r  more  than  a 
bundr.  d  y<-artj,  actually  built  a  church  for  Roman  Catholic  use  I  Per- 
l:ap.-3  he  did  it  with  a  measur3  of  sincerity,  for  Voltaire  was  n.^ver  an 
r.thii^t,  and  not  only  maintained  th^  being  of  God.  but  h  .'Id  that  r  Jigion 
^Tfis  so  n-^c ?ssary  for  men,  that  if  th: re  were  not  a  God,  it  would  ba 
n:c3ss.\ry  to  invent  0.13.  Thj  little  church  b^ars  to  this  day  the  inscwp- 
iioTi— '♦D.^o  or  exit  Voltaire"  (Voltaire  built  this  to  God).  lie  used  to 
i:ik3  his  visitors  to  see  it,  and  to  r.-ad  the  inscription.  He  told  tlvjm 
that  the  chureh  vras  dedicated  to  God,  as  the  common  F.ithtT  of  all  ni  ^n. 
Th 3  simplicity  of  the  inscription  dr.;w  attintlon,  and  it  was  remui-kc'd 
that  it  was  p  .^rhaps  thi  only  church  d  ^dicat -jd  to  God  alone.  But  dovoufc 
Lien  could  not  but  recoil  from  the  easy  funiliarity  with  which  the  £.am9 
that  is  above  every  na  n3  was  coupled  with  Voltaire's,  as  if  Voltaire  had 
plajid  God  U-id-r  -an  obligation  to  him.  la  Voltairo's  intjntio/i,  tha 
charjh  was  a  sort  of  d  fistic  monmaent,  a  protest  again -t  thj  Trinity,  a 
protest  against  Christianity.  That  it  should  have  bjen  given  over  to  the 
iloman  Catholics  was  probably  becau3  3  in  no  other  way  would  it  havo 
b^enused  by  the  peopls.  Voltaire  seems  to  have  desir^jd  the  credit  of 
laaking  provision  for  all  their  wants;  and  in  ordjr  to  gain  this  reputa- 
tion, he  ga/o  them  a  bu'lding  inv/hich  they  v»^cre  to  be  trained  in  all  tha 
!  ip:rstitiou3  beliefs  and  magical  praeticjs  for  which  ho  cherished  bo 
profound  a  contempt. 

Th3  Chat  eau- Voltaire  is  in  excellent  presrrvation  at  the  present  time, 
r.ii  visitors  are  ^hown  the  grounds  and  gard3n.  a  tree  plauted  by  Vol^ 
tiir:,  and  within  the  chat3au,  his  sxlon  and  b?d?hamb,T.  These  last 
"r:  very  much  as  he  l?ft  them.  Perhaps  the  feature  that  most  F.trikes  fx 
^tniig_r  is  the  voluptuous  character  of  tli3  paintings,  the  marked  pre^ 
oiuinance  of  the  nude.  We  see  the  sympatiiy  oi  this  great  uubjliever 
rith  that  taste  in  art,  go  prevalent  in  France,  vv^hich  shows  at  the  Ijast  a 
^Tait  of  moral  delicacy  in  the  artist,  arid  tends  to  IowcT  the  moral  tone 
cflh3  p:Ople.  Tvro  inscriptions  have  been  plaeed  in  the  salon  that 
rath.rb3wiid3r  the  stranger— "Mes  manes,  sont  consoles,  puisqu3  mon 
coiiir  est  an  niiiien  de  vous."     "  Bon  esprit  est  partout,  ct  son  ca^ur  eet 

"  By  a  poetical  liction  they  repr3sei:t  tli3  heart  of  the  gr^at  wrii^- 
fti  Btiil  hovering  about  the  place,  while  his  spirit  spreads  ov^r  the  vorit^ 


i 


?82  FERNET  IN  VOLTAIRE'S  TIME. 

The  last  part  of  Uie  statement  is  tme — ^his  spirit  did  ^read  over  the 
woild,  long  after  his  shrivelled  form  became  dnst.  And  this  makes  the 
place  remarkable  stilL  It  is  touching  to  be  in  the  Tcry  chambers  where 
one  who  did  so  much  to  discoontanance  Christianity  lived  and  slept  It 
is  strange  to  think  of  the  man  living  and  working  here,  who  looked  on 
the  Bible  as  the  great  foe  to  human  well-being  and  progress,  and  believed 
that  in  another  century  it  would  be  well-nigh  a  forgotten  book.  The 
influences  that  went  out  from  Femey  in  those  days  were  not  slight  or 
slender  forces,  but  served,  in  a  very  marked  degree,  to  swell  the  tide  of 
unbelief  which  rose  in  France  to  such  a  disastrous  height,  and  spread  to 
80  many  countries  besides. 

But  time  brings  about  remarkable  chango&  Within  a  stonecast  from 
the  Chateau-Yoltaird  rises  now  a  Protestant  church,  and  at  its  side  the 
modest  manse  of  M.  Pasquet,  pastor  of  the  Reformed  Church  of  Fer- 
ney.  We  have  said  that  after  the  dragonnades  and  the  revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Nantes,  Protestantism  was  well-nigh  burnt  out  of  the  Pays 
da  G3X.  In  Voltaire's  time  it  had  no  church  or  school,  or  visible  repre- 
sentation whatever.  But  towai-ds  the  end  of.  last  century,  it  began 
timidly  to  lift  up  its  head.  In  1795,  a  few  years  after  the  Revolution, 
Protestant  worship  was  established.  More  than  twenty  years  later  a 
school  was  added,  and  in  1819  a  pastor  for  the  whole  Pays  de  Gex  \va8 
officially  appointed  and  recognised.  In  1825  a  church  was  built  at  Fer- 
ney.  In  1830  and  1851  two  stations  were  set  up,  Gex  and  Divonne, 
and  occasional  worship  was  held  in  them.  In  1852  a  new  start  ^as 
mads,  and  the  work  of  reparation  was  extended  to  other  places  beyond 
the  Pays  da  Gex.  But  we  believe  we  may  say  that  it  is  since  the 
appointment  of  M.  Pasquet,  some  twenty  years  ago,  that  the  work  of 
evangelisation  has  made  by  far  the  greatest  progress.  Rousing  the 
corigregation  of  Ferney,  the  pastor  has  found  among  its  earnest  people 
many  valuable  helpers  in  the  great  work  which  he  has  undertaken. 
We  need  not  enter  into  all  the  dates  and  details  of  progress,  which  can 
hardly  be  appreciated  when  the  geography  of  the  district  is  unknown. 
It  may  be  enough  to  state  that,  as  the  result  of  the  labours  of  M.  Pas- 
quet and  his  friends,  there  are  now  in  the  district  around  Femey  eight 
stations  provided  with  churches  and  schools,  and  with  either  pastors  or 
evangelists,  while  in  Ferney  itself  there  are  two  orphan  asylums  for 
Protestant  children,  who  were  either  quite  destitute  or  were  in  the 
midst  of  pernicious  moral  influences,  one  for  boys  and  the  other  for 
girls,  the  number  of  inmates  being  seventy  in  all.  Besides  ail  this, 
libraries  have  been  estabhshed,  and  the  labours  of  the  colporteur  and 
tha  Bible-woman  are  employed  according  as  means  are  found,  or  opt  n- 
ings  occur ;  the  whole  of  this  machinery  being  carried  on  under  the 
personal  superintendence  and  responsibility  of  M.  Pasquet,  and  at  an 
annual  outlay,  for  which  he  alone  has  to  provide,  of  about  two  thrns- 
and  pounds  sterling.  It  is  not  merely  because  the  results  already 
secured  are  most  gratifying,  that  this  enterprise  has  a  claim  on  the 
sympathy  of  the  Christian  world,  but  also  because  it  has  in  it  such  a 


FEB3SEI  m  TOI/TAIEFS  TTMT^  280 

'  >-^  -  ,*  ^ 
spirit  of  life,  fio  mtich  of  the  promise  and  potency  of  divine  inflnenoe, 
that  if  duly  sustained  and  developsd,  it  cantlot  fail  to  be  attended  with 
the  most  important  results.  Ever  since  we  became  acquainted  with  the 
work  of  M.  Pasquet,  we  have  had  a  strong  desire  to  publish  a  short 
notice  of  it,  partly  on  its  own  account,  and  partly  because,  having  Fer- 
ney  for  its  centra,  it  illustrates  the  quiet  but  wonderful  way  in  which 
the  Lord  bringeth  to  nought  the  counsel  of  the  ungodly,  and  shows  the 
everlasting  vitality  and  enduring  power  and  freshness  of  His  own 
Word. 

It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  vindicate  M.  Pasquet  from  the  charge 
of  being  a  mere  proselytiser,  ono  who  tries  to  build  up  his  own  Church 
at  the  expense  of  others  which  he  ought  to  let  alone.  Apart  from  all 
oth^  considerations,  M.  Pasquet's  mora  immediat3  object  is  to  gather 
together  the  scattered  atoms  of  Protestantism  which  survive  tho  perse- 
cution of  centuries,  and  to  show,  under  the  very  shadow  of  Voltaire's 
chateau,  the  mighty  power  of  the  faith  of  Christ,  not  only  to  counter- 
act unbelief,  but  to  renew,  purify  and  elevat3  tho  whole  Kfo  and  nature 
of  man.  • 

Where  a  whole  community  ara  substantially  of  the  same  creed,  with 
churches,  schools,  hospitals,  and  other  institutions  all  moulded  by  its 
influence,  people  can  have  little  conception  of  the  difficulties,  tempta- 
tions, and  embarrassments  Of  scattered  Protestants,  living  as  bare 
raiits  in  the  midst  of  communities  thoroughly  moulded  by  &e  Church 
of  Rome.  The  natural  tendency  for  such  scattered  rismnants  is  to 
dwindle  from  age  to  age,  and  finally  to  disappear;  because,  as  they 
recedj  from  the  time  when  they  made  their  great  stand,  tha  difficulties 
jmd  inconveniences  of  their  position  multiply,  the  zeal  of  succeeding 
generations  becomes  colder,  and  tho  opportunity  is  apt  to  be  taken  of 
any  excuse  that  offers  to  give  up  the  contest  and  accept  tho  inevitable. 

In  the  face  of  such  considerations  and  influences,  tho  tenacity  which 
has  often  been  shown  by  scatterod  Protestant  families,  and  even  the 
representatives  of  families  once  Protestant,  is  very  wonderful,  and  so 
is  their  readiness  to  respond  to  efforts  made  to  provide  them  with  a 
scriptoral  worship,  and  the  earnest  preaching  of  the  word  of  God. 

But  apart  from  this,  any  one  who  considers  the  absoluta  and  utter 
feebleness  of  a  Protestant  pastor  to  contend  against  the  tremendous 
social  influence  of  the  Koman  Catholic  Church,  will  smile  at  the  very 
idea  of  an  attempt  by  the  former  to  make  converts  otherwise  than 
through  the  self-commending  power  of  what  he  teaches.  If  the  Pro- 
testant pastor  has  not  got  a  message  that  will  go  to  the  heart  of  his 
hearers,  he  acts  the  part  of  a  fool  in  going  among  Boman  Catholics,  and 
trying  to  induce  them  to  follow  him ;  and  very  soon  indeed  he  will  be 
convinced  of  his  folly.  If  he  has  a  message  which  sticks  to  the  con- 
sciences of  his  hearers,  and  moves  their  hearts,  that  message  must  have 
bsen  given  him  by  the  Lord  of  all,  and  he  woiild  be  only  a  coward  and 
traitor  i^,  entrusted  with  such  a  gospel,  the  reproach  ef  seeking  to  oro- 


2p4  FEKNSY  IN  VOLTAIEE'S  TEME. 

selytise,  or  any  other  reproach,  should  hinder  him  from  making  it 
known. 

The  fcuilJes  tolantc,\  or  fly-leaves,  which M.  Pasqnet  issues  from  time 
to  time,  to  let  his  friends  know  what  is  going  on,  are  too  brief  and  frag- 
mentary to  furnish  anything  like  a  detailed  account  of  his  work.  If 
these  notices  were  more  eiaborat3  and  artistic,  it  would  be  easier  for  ns 
to  place  our  readers  en  rapport  with  the  operations  in  L*Ain ;  but  the 
docuaisnts  are  really  on  this  account  more  trustworthy,  because  they 
arc  so  palpably  genuine,  and  written  without  any  idea  of  making  a 
coidciir  de  rose  representation.  We  can  easily  understand,  too,  that 
well  watched  as  M.  Pasquet  and  all  his  agents  are,  it  would  not  be  very 
wise  for  them  to  go  much  into  detail,  or  to  bring  into  too  conspicuous  a 
position  their  humble  friends  who  are  asking  the  way  to  the  blessings 
of  salvation. 

Some  of  the  reports  give  us  a  vivid  idea  of  the  prejudices  that  are 
often  entertained  with  respect  to  Protestants,  and  the  bad  character 
which  is  given  to  the  Reformers.  The  old  tricks  here  are  not  quite 
worn  out.  But  we  confess  we  were  hardly  prepared  to  find  a  Roman 
Cathoho  nobleman,  who  has  written  a  violent  pamphlet  against  the 
work,  undertake  the  defence  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition,  and  deliber- 
ately maintain  that  in  saving  Spain  from  the  wicked  schism  of  Luther, 
it  had,  in  spite  of  some  excess  :s,  proved  a  great  blessing  to  that  coim- 
try.  It  is  rather  amusing  to  find  the  Protestants  treated  as  allies  of  Bis- 
marck, that  modern  AttUa,  who,  having  already  dragged  Alsace  and 
Lorraine  into  th3  German  Empire,  is  preparing  to  do  the  same  with  thu 
Protestant  cantons  of  Switzerland,  and  if  Gex  aid  Nantua  should  be- 
come Protestant;  would  doubtless  engulf  them  in  the  same  scheme  of 
spoliation.  It  is  a  handy,  and  in  many  cases  a  too  successful  reproach 
to  denounce  every  active  Protestant  as  a  Prussian,  or  as  an  agent  of  Bis- 
marck, or  at  the  least  a  restless  person,  who  seeks  to  destroy,  public 
tranquility  and  order.  We  cannot  doubt,  however,  that  these  silly  and 
ignorant  cries  will  soon  die  av/ay,  especially  under  the  influence  of  the 
much  more  ample  toleration  which  the  French  Government,  now  so 
happily  estabhshed,  accords  to  the  meetings  and  general  operations  of 
evangehsm. 

In  the  work  of  evangelisation,  two  very  opposite  classes  come  athwart 
the  agents  of  M.  Pasquet, — ignorant  Catholics,  and  free-thinking  ouv7'i- 
era  of  various  orders.  There  is  something  quite  naive  in  the  remarks  of 
the  former  when  some  unknown  fact  is  presented  to  them.  **  So  it  was 
not  Jesus  Christ  that  instituted  the  rosary  ?"  is  often  the  remark  made 
when  a  true  view  enters  the  mind  of  what  our  Lord  really  taught  as  to 
the  nature  of  prayer.  We  find,  however,  the  ouvri'r  class  much  mere 
inchned  to  free-thinking  than  to  superstition.  "Every  day,"  says  a 
new  agent  at  Nantua,  "since  my  arrival  I  have  had  (fiscussions  with 
materialists,  pantheists,  positiviste,  rationalists,  or,  as  they  call  them- 
selves, free-thinkers  of  every  description.  The  unbelievers,  however, 
are  not  at  rest.     It  is  often  from  them  that  requests  come  for  meetings 


FEBNEY  m  VOLTAIRE'S  TIME.  23« 

in  wliich  religious  questions  ar3  freely  handled,  and  discussion  on  them 
allowed  Thass  aP3  sometimes  very  largely  attaudad.  But  is  do3s  not 
follow  that  all  who  attend  tham  are  earnest  about  religion,  for  they  oftsn 
resist  priTate  dealings,  and  they  seem  to  like  such  meetings  rather  as 
means  for  opening  the  minds  of  the  people  on  general  subjects,  than  as 
affording  tha  trua  solution  of  It's  qwstloas  religieuaeH.''' 

Ganeraliy  thera  is  great  ignorance  of  the  gospel  and  of  the  Bible. 
Bat  when  persons  are  induced  to  listen  and  to  read,  the  first  impression 
is  commonly  that  of  surprise.  The  notion  of  a  free  salvation  is  a  very 
striking  one.  It  affords  a  great  contrast  to  the  religion  d'nvfivit — tha 
raligion  of  money,  to  which  they  have  been  accustomed.  And  the  les- 
sons of  the  New  Testament  are  often  as  comforting  as  they  are  arrest- 
ing. The  fourteenth  chapt3r  of  St.  John  seems  to  make  a  gr  jat  im- 
pression. The  notion  of  the  Saviour  preparing  mansions  for  his  paople 
in  heaven,  and  coming  again  to  receive  them  to  Himself,  is  at  once 
striking  and  refreshing.  The  desire  to  know  more  of  a  book  that  mak3S 
such  striking  communications  and  revelations,  naturally  springs  up  in 
the  hsart  Sometimes  the  lessons  are  made  vital  by  the  po^/er  of  the 
Spirit,  and  in  su3h  cas3s  we  need  not  wonder  that  no  power  could  in- 
duce the  owners  to  give  up  the  book. 

We  have  intiresting  scenes  in  some  of  ih^^Q  feuiUcs  volants.  *'  The 
other  day,"  says  one  of  the  agents,  *'I  went  to  a  large  steam-power 
manufactory  with  a  large  bundle  of  tracts,  which  were  distributed,  I 
might  say  pulled  away,  in  an  instant.  Then  the  wife  of  a  stoker  begg3d 
me  to  converse  with  her  husband.  I  went  below,  and  found  a  sort  of 
Vulcan  feeding  a  f urna30  from  two  great  heaps,  one  of  wood,  the  other 
of  coaL  Between  the  shovelings  we  had  a  most  interesting  conv3rs?> 
tion,  for  the  man  is  intalligent,  educated  too,  a  hot  republican,  greatly 
disgusted  with  the  teachings  of  Rome,  seeking  for  the  truth  without 
knowing  where  to  find  it,  and  asking  me  what  I  thought  of  the  Chris- 
tianity of  CabeL  I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  point  him  to  the  true  soureo 
of  light,  the  Word  of  God,  and  offered  him  a  New  Testament,  v/hich  ho 
gladly  accepted. 

"  Another  time  I  went  to  a  large  flour-mill.  Feeling  tired,  I  sat  down 
on  the  trunk  of  some  trees  at  a  httle  distance  from  the  factory.  V/hen 
I  was  observed  I  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  groat  numl^er  of  worlr- 
p3ople,  of  all  ages  and  of  both  sexes.  I  had  soma  illustrated  tracts.  I 
showed  them,  and  asked  one  of  the  people  to  read  out  one  of  th3m.  I 
was  fortunate  in  my  choice,  for  he  was  an  overseer,  and  he  did  his  task 
admirably ;  reading  in  an  int3lligent  and  almost  solemn  tone.  It  was  an 
iutsresting  subject  for  a  painter,  as  well  as  a  Christian,  tho  group  of 
p3ople  in  many  different  attitudes  and  costumes,  in  a  fine  natural  situa- 
tion, surrounding  a  man  of  tall  stature,  who  was  reading  to  them  tho 
earnest  exhortation  and  pressing  appeals  of  divine  graced  I  sent  a 
Gospel  to  one  of  the  managers,  and  the  other  day  he  came  to  ask  me  if 
th3  pastor  might  not  come  and  give  them  a  sermon  at  the  factory." 

Besidas  providing  the  labours  of  pastors,  evangelists,  and  colporteurs. 


g3S  '    FERNET  IN  VOLTAIRE'S.  TIME. 

it  is  a  part  of  M.  Pasqnot's  plan  to  bring  occasionally  on  the  scene  soma 
person  of  high  repute^,  that  the  people  may  hear  confirmed  from  his  lips 
the  lessons  addressed  to  them  by  the  more  ordinary  run  of  agents. 
Among  the  men  of  mark  who  have  been  brought  thus  on  the  scene,  is 
the  venerable  and  learned  Professor  Rosseeuw  St.  Hilaire.  The  sub- 
J3ct  on  which  he  spoke  successively  at  Bourg,  Nantua,  and  Oyonnas, 
was  th3  moral  elevation  of  France.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  on  such  a 
EubJGct,  and  from  the  mouth  of  such  a  speaker,  the  address  was  calcu- 
lated to  promote  the  cause  of  evangelical  belief  among  the  p8opL\ 
Everywhere  there  were  crowded  assemblies,  and  at  Oyonnax,  where 
there  v^as  an  attendance  of  one  thousand  two  hundred,  the  speaker  was 
obliged  to  speak  from  a  balcony  in  a  public  square  to  the  great  mnlti- 
tudes  assembled  to  hear  him.  Everywhere,  too,  the  audience  showed 
itself  in  the  main  in  sympathy  with  what  was  said.  The  jcnmal  of 
Bourg,  that  of  Nantua,  and  even  the  journal  of  Lyons  itself,  gave  an  ac- 
count of  tho  meeting,  and  spoke  most  favourably  and  eulogistically  of 
tlie  address  of  the  speaker.  After  having  said  that  M.  Rosseeuw  St. 
Hilaire  had  shown  in  tha  gospel  the  trua  means  of  elevation,  quoting  in 
support  the  nations  of  strongest  faith,  such  as  England,  America,  Hol- 
land, &c.,  the  writer  added — **  M.  St.  Hilaire,  as  every  one  knows,  is  an 
orthodox  and  enthusiastic  Protestant.  His  vindication  of  Protestantism, 
before  an  overwhelming  Catholic  audience,  was  made  with  tact  and  care 
not  to  hurt  the  sensibilities  of  any.  The  audience,  composed  of  all 
classes  of  society,  numerous,  attentive,  and  sympathetic,  applauded 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  which  comports  with  their  constitutional  cold- 
ness, and  two  Catholic  priests,  who  had  taken  part  in  the  meeting,  wera 
able,  without  surprising  or  hurting  the  feelings  of  any  one,  to  go  and 
congratulate  this  man,  so  profoundly  religi^ous,  on  the  ardour  and  sin- 
cerity with  which  he  had  upheld  the  faith.'* 

The  general  results  of  such  operations  as  these  are  apparent  in  Ibe 
increasing  number  of  stations  and  schools  which  have  been  established 
in  the  neighbourhoods  where  they  are  carried  on.  Occasionally  an  Ap- 
plication for  Protestant  worship  will  come  from  a  large  number  of  per- 
sons, but  this  may  result  from  local  irritation,  rather  than  love  of  the 
(;ospel.  It  is  more  interesting  and  satisfactory  to  hear  of  individca] 
cases  of  conversion.  A  free-thinker,  for  example,  comes  to  one  of  tha 
agents  and  says,  "I  was  an  utter  unbeliever,  but  that  is  past,  for  now 
I  cannot  but  believe.  Up  to  the  present  time  I  thought  of  Jesus  as  a 
great  man,  the  most  perfect  of  philosophers,  but  since  Sunday  morn- 
ing, when  I  read  some  verses  in  the  tsnth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew,  and 
from  all  that  I  have  read  and  heard  since,  I  am  constrained  to  adop^ 
another  opinion.'* 

Among  Roman  Catholics,  fear  of  death  is  common,  and  the  priest 
and  the  last  sacraments  are  eagerly  sought.  In  these  notices  we  find 
some  where  the  fear  of  death  has  been  quite  overcome,  and  the  services 
and  sacraments  of  the  priest  dispensed  with,  because  without  them  the 
dying  person  had  all  that  he  required.  -^ 


WSmfEX  IS  VOLTAIEE'S  TDflS.  237 

Tkos,  in  the  yery  ciiscle  of  which  Voltaire  was  once  the  centre,  an^ 
vkerehis  inl^uence  was  so  great,  the  old,  old  story  continues  to  repeat 
f.5e]f.  The  gospel  of  Jesns  Christ  again  shows  itself  to  be  the  power 
of  Grod  unto  salvation,  and  gives  fresh  evidence  of  that  eternal  fresh- 
ness which  smiles  at  the  efforts  of  unbelievers,  and  appears  in  all  the 
vigoor  of  jouth  when  their  works  are  covered  with  the  dust  and  rust 
of  decay. 

That  there  is  a  golden  opportunity  now  for  sowing  the  good  seed  is 
abundantly  evident  At  the  present  moment  the  opportunity  is  better 
than  ever.  It  seems  to  us  a  great  duty  of  the  Christian  Church,  when 
Providence  raises  up  men  like  ML  Pasquet,  of  wonderful  energy  and 
&ith,  and  great  power  of  organizing  Christian  labour,  to  supply  cheer- 
folly  and  abundantly  the  means  of  prosecuting  the  work.  These  apos- 
tolic men  are  but  rare  gifts  of  the  great  Head  of  the  Church.  AVhile 
they  are  in. the  prime  of  their  strength,  they  should  receive  all  due  en- 
comagdment  and  material  help  ;  the  utmost  should  be  made  of  them  ; 
&ey  ^ould  never  be  left  to  lament  the  opportunities  they  had  to  ne- 
glect, the  openings  they  were  obliged  to  pass  by,  the  hungry  and  thinty 
multitudes  to  whom  they  might  have  given  the  bread  and  water  of  life, 
if  only  they  had  been  furnished  with  a  little  more  of  this  worid*s  meang. 
Bev.  Professor  W.  G.  Blaieis,  D.D.,  in  Sunday  Magazm^ 


THE  BISCOVEBIES  OF  ASTBONOMKRS. 

HXPPAXOHtJS. 

'  The  first  astronomer  of  whose  work  and  thought  we  have  trustworthy 
record,  Hipparchus,  deserves  to  be  ranked  among  the  greatest  of  all 
who  have  studied  the  heaven&  I  am  not  sure,  indeed,  but  that  when 
his  kibours  are  considered  with  due  reference  to  his  opportunities,  we 
should  not  assign  to  Hipporchus  the  highest  place  among  all  a-^trono- 
mers.  Almost  every  astronomical  discovery  in  the  two  thousand  years 
wbichhave  passed  since  his  time,  may  be  traced  directly  or  indirectly 
to  him.  Yet  we  hear  far  less  of  his  woik,  in  most  of  our  books  on 
iwstronomy,  than  of  the  work  of  others  far  inferior  to  him.  We  see  the 
hypotheses  which  he  devised  not  only  attributed  to  others,  but  con- 
temptuously dealt  with,  as  though  they  had  retarded  instead  of  initiated 
the  progress  of  astronomy.  I  hope  in  the  brief  account  which  I  am 
about  to  give  of  the  general  nature  of  the  researches  and  labours  of 
Hipparefaus  to  do  something  towards  giving  him  that  position  among 
those  who  study  astronomy  from  without  which  he  has  long  deservedly 
held  among  the  j»ofessed  students  of  the  science. 
S^sMf  to  imd«r^taa»d>the  gEeataess  pfHippagohuft  w  an  a«tronoxncr| 


238  THE  DIGCOTEEIES  OF  ASTRONOMEES. 

we  innst  oonRider  what  astronomy  was  before  his  time.  I  donbt  not 
that  if  a  full  account  of  the  laborious  work  of  Chaldfean,  Egyptian, 
Indian,  Chinese,  and  other  ancient  astronomers  had  reached  cur  time, 
we  j^hould  find  many  among  them  who  well  deserved  to  rank  among 
g^eat  discoverers ;  for  an  immense  amount  of  work  had  to  be  accom* 
plished  to  place  astronomy  in  the  position  which  it  occupied  when 
Hipparchus  began  his  work.  Yet  if  we  rightly  i^prehend  what  that 
position  was,  and  consider  what  astronomy  became  when  the  labours  of 
Hipparchus  had  produced  their  full  effect,  or  rather  their  first  fruits, 
we  shall  appreciate  to  some  degree  the  importance  of  his  researches. 

I  will  not  here  discuss  the  history  of  astronomy  before'  the  time  cf 
Hipparchus.  It  would  occupy  too  much  space,  and  would  be  outside 
of  my  subject.  It  would  also  lead  us  to  the  discussion  of  many  doubt- 
ful and  difficult  questions.  But  the  position  of  the  science  Ix  fore  the 
days  of  Hipparchus  can  be  fairly  well  ascertained  from  the  account 
which  Ptolemy  has  given  of  the  labours  of  his  great  predecessor. 

Astronomers  had  ascertained  the  general  motions  of  the  sun  and 
moon,  and  of  all  the  heavenly  bodifes  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  They 
knew  that  the  earth  is  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  stellar  sphere,  on 
the  concave  surface  of  which,  in  appearnvci\  the  stars  are  set  in  ap- 
parently unchanging  groups, — the  constellations.  They  had  learned 
that  this  hollow  sphere  is  seemingly  carried  round  once  a  day,  as  if 
turning  on  an  axis.  This  motiou  of  rotation  they  had  found  to  be  abso- 
lutely uniform. 

Further,  by  long-continued  and  careful  observations  they  had  found 
that  the  sun  i^pears  to  circuit  the  st&}laT  sphere  on  an  unchanging  path 
once  a  year.  I  sprak  of  a  year  as  thougb  this  measure  of  time  and  that 
occupied  by  a  revolution  of  the  sun  arounc?  the  stellar  sphere  were  not 
necessarily  identical,— for  this  reason,  that  the  year  in  common  accept- 
ance means,  and  ever  has  meant,  the  cycle  .o*  the  seasons.  This  cycle 
we  now  know  indeed,  to  be  brought  about  ly  the  sun's  motion  round 
the  stellar  sphere  on  an  inclined  path,  which  bi^'tgs  him  in  midsunimtr 
nearer  than  at  any  other  time  to  the  visible  pole  oi'  the  heavens,  and  in 
winter  nearest  to  the  unseen  pole.  But  the  coi"!ioit*ezice,  or  rather  th** 
exceedingly  close  approach  to  coincidence  between  the  year  of  season/" 
and  the  period  of  tiie  sun's  circuit  of  the  stellar  sjhar';,  was  in  reality 
one  among  those  earlier  discoveries  by  astronomers,  o*'  whose  history 
ve  know  so  little. 

The  moon  had  been  found  in  like  manner  to  circuit  tb*?  stel!ar  sphcri* 
v/  the  same  direction  as  the  sun,  m6ving  on  a  path  somi'^hat  inclined 
9o  his,  in  a  period  (variable  somewhat  in  length)  of  abov^i  27^  days, 
.lalled  a  sidereal  lunar  month.  The  ancient  astronomers  ha-l  also  in 
determining  the  general  laws  according  to  which  eclipses  of  ti.'e  sun  and 
/Doon  rrcnr.  ascertained  th'^  gpneral  laws  of  thf  moon's  moti"*n,\  a^.(^ 
hnd  fou'id  that  her  path  among  tha  pfnrs  is  not  unv-hanging  llk»  t-: 
sun's.  WHhin  certahi  limits  of  incliration  this  path  undergoes  conrta  t 
changes,  the  points  where  it  crosses  the  son's  path  shifting  constani-^j, 


THE  DISCOVEKIES  01'  ASTKONOMEEG.  239 

kot  always  in  one  direction,  yet  always  with  a  balanc3  of  motion  in  ohj 
diiectiDn.  If  theso  points  wera  fixed,  the  son  would  of  conrso  pasi 
laem  at  intervals  of  half -a-year.  When  he  was  passing  then,  or  witliln 
I  certiin  distance  from  them,  echpses  of  tho  Bim  and  moon  ttoc!.! 
Dccnr,  so  that  at  intervals  of  six  months  eclipso  seasons,  bo  to  call  them, 
B^ould  recur.  But  the  ancients  foimd  that  tho  avera^o  interval  s^paraU 
tng  eclipse  months  is  only  about  173^  days,  instsad  of  haLr-a-ycar,  ci* 
182|  days ;  .which  shows  that  these  points  whcrj  thj  laoon'a  trail: 
cro383B  tha  Ban's  ara  (on  tho  whob)  constantly  moving  to  meet  Ciy 
advancing  snn,  or  are  constantly  moving  backwtuxl^j. 

Th3  earlier  astronomers  had  also  learned  much  about  the  motions  cx 
the  five  planets  or  wandering  stora  linown  to  them.  I  ought  perhaps  t  j 
say  the  five  other  planets,  for  they  called  the  sun  and  moon  planet", 
because  th^,s3  bodies  moved  among  the  stars.  They  found  that  tuj 
plaaets,  though  on  th3  whole  advancing,  are  moving  the  same  way 
round  as  tha  sun  and  moDa,  yet  at  r^gulai'ly  recurring  epochs  csase  thuj 
to  advance,  travel  backwards  for  awhile,  and  ceasing  to'  travel  back- 
wards, begin  again  to  advance, — making  always  a  much  longer  journey 
lerwarls  than  backwards,  as  they  advance  on  a  path  showing  a  serieti 
of  loipj  and  twistings  of  a  most  complicated  nature. 

Noi  to  03cupy  mora  spac )  than  can  be  spared  with  the  account  of 
li^hat  tb  3  astronomers  bsfora  Hipparchus  had  disoovered,  let  it  stiffic j 
to  say,  that  th^y  had  in  a  general  way  determined  the  periods  of  th3 
Btia'a  and  moon's  motions  and  of  the  planetary  revolutions,  and  had 
r.'cogaizod  the  regular  recurrence  of  certain  changec  in  the  distances  of 
s^,  moon,  and  planets,  indicating  peculiarities  in  then*  paths  which 
might  (as  they  judged)  admit  of  being  explained,  but  which  certainly 
none  among  thsm  h^d  succeeded  in  interpreting. 

It  is,  however,  neces'sary  to  notice  that  more  than  a  century  beforj 
th^  time  of  Hipparchus  th3  Alexandrian  School  of  Astronomy  had  been 
faanded  by  Ptoltjmy  Soter,  one  of  Alexander's  general*?,  who  reigned 
over  Egypt  after  the  d3ath  of  Alexander.  His  son,  Ptolemy  Philadel- 
ptus,  gavo  to  the  astronomers  of  this  school  a  large  edifice  containing 
aa  observatory  and  the  celebrated  library  formed  by  Dimetrius  of  Pha- 
los.  Here  AristiUus  and  Timocharis  made  their  observations,  and  to  this 
sihool  also  belonged  the  well-known  asti*onomers  Aristarchus  of  Samoa 
and  Eratosthenes.  The  latter  was  the  first  successful  measurer  of  our 
earth's  globe,  and  has  b-'^en  called  the  Father  of  Chronoloi5:y. 

According  to  Strabo,  Hipparchus  was  born  at  Nicaea,  in  Bithynia.  Al- 
thongh  we  know  neither  the  year  of  his  birth  nor  of  his  death,  it  is  certainly 
known  that  his  labours  were  in  progress  during  the  thirty-five  years 
following  160  B.C.  Probably  his  first  observations  were  made  in  Bithy- 
nia. But  it  is  certahi  that  he  afterwards  continued  his  work  at  Rhodes. 
It  has  been  supposed  by  some  that  ho  also  observed  for  some  time  at 
Alexandria ;  but  although  Ptolemy  refers  to  the  views  of  Hipparchus 
fsspecting  observations  made  at  Alexandria,  he  nowhere  says  that  Hip^ 
parchus  himself  observed  there. 


^ 


210  '  THE  DISCOVERIES  OF  ASTRONOMERS. 

From  among  the  many  services  rendered  to  astronomy  and  to  mathe- 
matics by  Hipparchus,*  1  propose  here  to  consider  three  only :  fizst,  his 
determination  of  tlie  langtli  of  the  year ;  secondly,  his  disooveiy  of  that 
mighty  motion  of  the  rotational  axis  of  the  star  sphesTQ  which  gives  rlsa 
to  what  is  technicaily  called  the  procession  of  the  equinoxes ;  8^  tliird- 
ly,  his  investigation  of  the  motions  of  the  smi  and  moon.  All  three 
were  noblo  achievements;  all  three  were  based  on  exact  observation; 
-but  they  were  exceedingly  diversa  in  character.  Thefirstwasatziamph 
I  of  mensmrational  astronomy ;  the  second  revealed  the  existence  of  con- 
Btant  mutation  where  everything  had  seemed  fixed  and  unchanging ; 
the  third  revealed  order  and  regularity  really  existing  among  movements 
apparently  most  complicated  and  perplexing. 

The  year  had  been  supposed  in  the  time  of  Hipparchus  to  last  ex- 
actly 8G5  days  C  hours.  It  is  indeed  probable  that  the  ancient  Chal- 
daean  astronomers  had  made  more  exact  determination  of  this  important 
time-measure.  But  it  is  certain,  that  tho  astronomers  of  tha  Alexan- 
drian school  had  regarded  3G6\  days  as  the  true  length  of  the  year  of 
seasons.  Hipparchus  was  the  first  to  recognize  from  direct  observation 
of  the  sun  that  tho  year  is  somewhat  less  than  $0i)^  days  in  length. 
Aristarchus  of  Samos,  in  tho  year  281  b.c.,  had  observed  as  closely  as 
he  could  the  time  when  the  sun  reached  his  greatest  range  north  of  the 
celestial  equator,  or  made  his  nearest  approach  towards  tha  visible  pole. 
In  other  words,  Aristarchus  had  timed  to  the  best  of  his  ability  the 
summer  solstice  of  the  year  281  b.o.  Hipparchus,  in  the  year  134  b.c. 
or  nearly  a  century  and  a  haJf  later,  made  a  similar  observation.  By 
dividing  the  time  between  the  two  epochs  into  as  many  parts  as  thera 
were  years  in  the  interval,  he  inferred  that  three  hundred  years  contain 
109,574  days,  instead  of  109,575  days,  as  they  would  if  ayear  lasted  ex- 
actly 365^  days.  This  made  the  length  of  the  year  SG5  days-5  hours  />.> 
minutes  12  seconds.  The  result  is  not  strictly  correcL  Three  hundred 
years  contain  in  reality  about  109, 572|  days.  But  the  correction  made 
by  Hipparchus  was  important  in  itself,  and  still  more  as  showing  the 
necessity  for  further  observation. 

Hipparchus  himself  recognized  tho  probabiHty  that  his  determination 
<*«f  the  length  of  the  year  would  require  correction ;  and  the  way  in 
which  he  showed  this  involved  the  recognition  of  two  most  important 
{principles. 

In  the  first  place  Hipparchus  observed  that  the  correctness  of  his  es- 
Umate  depended  mainly  on  the  length  of  time  which  had  elapsed  be- 
tween his  own  observation  and  that  made  by  Aristarchus.  The  errors, 
whatever  they  might  be  which  Aristarchus  and  he  himself  might  have 
Xnade  in  determining  the  true  epochs  of  the  solstices  they  resj>ectively 
observed,  combined  to  produce  a  certain  error  in  the  total  estimated  in- 
terval between  the  two  solstices.  This  error  might  be  large  in  itsell  If 
one  observation  had  been  made  at  the  summer  solstice  of.  one  year,  and 
the  second  at  the  summer  solstice  of  the  next  year,  the  intervail,  instead 
of  being  a  true  year  of  365  days  5  hours  48  minutes  49  seconds,  might 


THE  DISCOVERIES  OP  ASTRONOMERS.  241 

be  a  day  or  so  too  lonp;,  or  a  day  or  so  too  short     Hipparclias  hiznsfilf 
acknowledged,  that  his  error  in  determining  the  time  of  the  solstice 
might  amoont  to  a  quarter  of  a  day.     Aristarchas  might  have  made  a 
similar  error,  or  a  hunger  one.     Snppose,  however,  the  errors  in  the  two 
observations  to  have  been  each   half   a   day  in    length,   and    such 
Hiat   either   both   seemed    to    shorten  the  interval   (the   furst  being 
too    late,   the    second    too    early),     or    both    to    lengthen    it  {i^e 
first  being   too  early,  the  second  too   late).     Then    if    the  interval 
bad  been  but  a  single  year,  the  measure  of  the  year  would  have  been  a 
day  too  short  or  a  day  too  long.     But  the  interval  between  the  two 
observations  being  in  reality  147  years,  an  error  of  a  day  in  determin- 
ing this  interval  would  correspond  onlj  to  an  error  of  1-147  of  a  day 
for  each  year,  or  not  quite  ten  minutes.    As  the  error  actually  amounted 
to  little  more  than  six  minutes,  we  see  that  the  actual  error  as  between 
the  observationg  of  Aristarchus  and  Hipparchus  amounted  to  not  much' 
more  than  half  a  day.     The  result  is  creditable  to  both  astronomers. 
We  must  be  careful  not  to  assume,  as  some  have  done,  that  the  error 
lay  in  the  observation  of  Hipparchus.     It  arose  from  the  ccmpariaon 
between  his  observation  and  that  made  by  Aristarchus,  and  most  prob- 
ably  the  largest  part  of  the  error  was  in  Uie  work  of  the  earlier  observer. 

Hipparchus,  in  measuring  the  year  in  this  manner,  recognized  the 
imporiant  principle  (one  of  the   fundamental   principles  of  modem 
astronomy),  that  the  wider  apart  two  observations  are  for  determining 
such  a  period,  the  smaller  is  tiie  resulting  error  in  the  determination  of 
the  period  itself.     But  he  clearly  perceived  also  that  the  observation  of 
Bolsdoe  is  not  a  satisfactory  method  for  determining  the  length  of  the 
year.     He  only  selected  this  method  at  first  because  he  had  no  other 
way  of  dealing  wdth  a  long  period.     If  we  consider  what  the  summer 
solstice  of  the  sun  reaUy  means  we  shall  perceive  why  the  moment  of 
its  occurrence  cannot  be  accurately  determined.     As  midsummer  ap- 
proaches, the  sun  passes  farther  and  farther  north  from  the  celestial 
equator,  but  with  a  constanUy  diminishing  motion', — just  as  towards 
noon  the  end  of  the  hour  hand  of  a  clock  jpasses  higher  and  higher, 
but  more  and  more  slowly,  (so  far  as  height  is  concerned).     At  the  true 
midsommer  solstioe  the  sun  is  at  his  farthest  north,  just  as  the  end  of 
the  hour  hand  of  a  clock  is  at  its  highest  at  true  noon.     Kow  it  is  clear 
tbat  if  we  had  no  other  way  of  telling  the  moment  of  true  noon  than  by 
noting  when  the  end  of  the  hour  hand  was  highest,  we  should  be  apt  to 
make  a  mistake  of  several  seconds  at  least,  because  of  the  small  change 
which  takes  place  in  this  respect  near  the  hour  of  noon.     Or  suppose  a 
horizontal  line  traced  on  a  clock  face  at  exactly  the  level  reached  by  the 
end  of  the  hour  hand  at  twelve,  and  that  we  were  to  determine  the  hour 
by  noting  when  ihe  end  of  the  hour  hand  exactly  reached  this  level,  it  is 
clear  that  the  slow  change  of  height  would  cause  our  estimate  to  be, 
very  probably,  erroneous.     On  &.e  other  hand,  suppose  a  horizontal 
line  across  a  clock  face  at  the  exact  level  of  the  end   of    the  hour 

band  at  three  and  at  nine ;  then  we  E^ould  be  able  very  readily  to  de- 


2i2  THE  DiS(;ovEKiES  OF  ASTiiONo:\rr:nf;. 

termino  when  it  was  three  or  nine,  by  noting  when  the  end  of  the  hour 
hand  passed  this  level, — for  the  end  crosses  this  level  at  right  angles. 
In  other  words,  becaas3  tlu  height  of  the  hour  hand  is  chiiuging  most 
fiiiickly  near  three  and  at  nine,  and  least  quickly  near  twelve  and  six,  wj 
could  much  mpr;i  exactly  tinia  th3  hours  thrje  and  nine  by  noting thj 
height  of  th3  houi*  hand's  end,  than  v/e  could  time  six  or  twelve.  Ko.v 
in  mucjh  the  same  way  spring  and  autumn  are  the  seasons  when  tho 
uia's  midday  height  is  changing  most  rapidly  from  day  to  day.  It  i^i 
'  th3n  much  easier  to  det3rminj  exactly  when  ho  is  on  the  celestial  equa- 
tor, or  th3  true  epo^h  of  either  the  vernal  or  the  autumnal  equinox, 
than  to  datermino  either  when  ho  is  farthest  north  or  farthest  south  ex 
the  equator,  or  th3  true  epoch  of  the  winter  or  the  summer  solstico. 

Hipparchus  clearly  perceived  this  point.  In  other  words,  he  clearly 
reco3[mzod  the  principle,  a  most  important  one  in  observation,  that  th) 
best  opportunity  for  a  time  observation  is  obtained  when  the  body 
observed  is  most  rapidly  changing  as  rc:spects  that  particular  circura- 
stauco  which  is  to  ba  noted  (iu  this  case  the  distance  of  the  observed 
body  from  the  equator  or  from  tho  visible  pole  of  th3  heavens.)  Tho 
principle  is  simple  enough,  and  seems  obvious  enough  when  explained ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  Hipparchus  was  the  first  definitely  to  indicate  its 
nature  and  to  apply  it  in  astronomical  observation.  He  timed  tho  sun's 
passages  of  the  c3lestial  equator  during  a  period  of  thirty-three  years. 
From  these  obssrvations  he  deducted  the  same  value  for  the  length  of 
the  year  as  from  tho  solstitial  observations,  though,  as  ah'eady  men- 
tioned, these  covered  a  period  of  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  years,  or 
nearly  five  times  as  long. 

It  should  be  adddd  that  although  Hipparchus  himself  (through  no 
fault  of  his  own)  was  prevented  from  determining  the  year  exactlj',  yet  the 
mod3rn  estimats  owis  it^  aoeuraey  to  his  observations.  It  is  from  a 
comparison  of  more  observations  of  equinoxes  by  him  with  recent  ob- 
servations that  we  have  been  able  to  infer  tho  length  of  the  year  within 
a  second  or  so  of  its  true  length. 

The  second  graat  discovery  of  Hipp'&rchus  was  a  very  remarkablo 
one.  Tho  first  related  to  a  period  which  has  elapsed  more  than  two 
thousand  times  since  Hipparchui  dealt  with  it ;  the  second  relates  to  a 
period  of  which  not  one-twelfth  part  has  elapsed  since  his  time, — th-o 
tremendous  precessional  period  of  nearly  25,909  years. 

Although  we  cannot  see  the  stars  around  the  sun  in  th*e  daytime,  we 
know  that  his  course  carries  him  along  a  definite  track  among  the  stars. 
Careful  observations  enable  the  astronomer  to  determine  the  exact  posi- 
tion of  the  various  stages  of  the  sun's  course, — his  equinoxes,  his  sols- 
tices, and  the  limits  of  the  twelve  equal  divisions  called  signs.  Until 
the  time  of  Hipparchus,  it  was  supposed,  at  least  by  the  astronomers 
of  the  Greek  school,  and  certainly  at  the  beginning  of  his  career  it  was 
believed  hy  Hipparchus  himself,  that  the  positions  of  the  equinoxes 
and  solstices  are  unchanging.  In  other  words,  it  was  believed  that 
when  the  sun  reaches  a  particular  point  in  his  track  among  the  stftrs, 


THE  DISCOVERIES  OF  ASTROKOMEES.  243 

epring  'begins ;  whon  ho  is  at  another  point  we  have  midflrnnmcr,  at 
another  aatumn,  and  at  aaoth:r  midwinter,  for  all  time. 

^^pp^chas,  not  long  after  his  obsarvations,  bogan  to  etispect  that  tho 
position  of  ihesd  stages  in  th3  sun's  track  is  not  unchanjjinj.  Hi  fouaJ 
taat  according  to  Timocharia,  who  had  observed  about  a  contur/  nud  a 
kdf  before  Mis  time,  the  bright  star  Spica  was  eight  d:groes  behind  tho 
aatumnal  equinoctial  point  of  his  tima,  about  23  J  ycari  n.  c.  I  say  6j- 
/'  indj  meaning  that  tho  suuhad  traveled  eight dagroes  past  Ppica  wh  jn  ha 
reached  the  equinoctial  point.  But  Hipparchus  found  that  in  his  own 
rj2i3,  and  espdcially  from  120  to  125  b.  c,  when  he  carefully  ntudied 
tais  particular  subject,  th3  star  Spica  was  only  about  six  digraes  from 
ihe  equinoctial  point.  At  firjt  he  supposed  that  possibly  the  stars  along 
Hi  zodiac — the  zone  centrally  traversjd  by  tha  sun — might  b3  shifting 
1  lo'dy.in  a  direction  opposite  to  that  of  the  sun's  motion.  Ho  thought 
lliis  unlikely,  however,  because  if  certain  stars  changed  in  position 
>7hild  other  stars  retained  their  position,  the  constellations  would  bs 
v-liangcd.  On  comparing  tho  positions  of  stars  outside  this  zone  with 
tie  positions  which  carUer  observations  assigned  to  such  stars,  he  found 
tjat  they  also  partake  in  the  change,  as  he  had  anticipated. 

The  nature  of  the  change  thus  discovered  is  often  misunderstood. 
Coma  little  attention  is  required  on  the  student's  part  clearly  to  appre- 
li^nd  it  The  stars  themselves  are  not  affected  by  any  change  so  far  as 
lais  shifting  of  the  equinoctial  points  is  concerned.  The  position 
if  the  sun's  course  among  the  stars,  again,  remains  (so  far  as  this  mo> 
tioa  is  concerned)  altogether  unaltered.  What  changes,  is  the  position 
cf  ths  polar  axis,  about  which  the  entire  stellar  sphere  seems  to  rotate. 
Tli3  equator,  or  circle  midway  between  the  poles  of  rotation,  changes  in 
position,  of  course,  as  they  change.  These  poles,  which  Ue  2^^  degrees 
from  the  unchanging  poles  of  the  ecliptic,  travel  round,  retaining  this 
distance  almost  unchanged,  each  completing  a  circuit  in  about  25,900 
years.  As  a  consequence,  the  celestitd  equator,  retaining  its  inclination 
to  the  ecliptic  almost  unaltered,  shifts  romid  so  that  its  points  of  inter- 
s3ction  with  the  ecliptic  make  (each)  a  complete  circuit  in  a  direction 
contrary  to  that  of  the  sun's  motion,  in  the  same  enormous  period  of 
time. 

Hipparchus  only  indicated  so  much  as  this,  all  but  the  true  period, 
^hich  his  observations  did  not  enable  him  to  determine  exactly.  He 
showed  that  such  and  such  a  change  takes  place  in  the  position  of  the 
polar  axis  of  the  stellar  sphere,  and  therefore  of  the  equator,  the  tropics, 
colures,  and  so  forth, — all  the  circles,  in  fact,  which  are  determined  in 
position  by  the  poles  of  the  diurnal  celestial  rotation.  He  left  later 
astronomers  and  mathematicians  to  determine  whether  the  change  is  due 
to  movements  reaUy  affecting  the  star  sphere,  or  to  a  change  in  the  posi- 
tion of  the  earth  herself.  And  it  was  left  to  still  more  profound  re- 
B^^arch  to  determine  how  the  actual  movement  to  which  the  changfi  is 
due  is  brought  about.  But  it  was  a  noble  discovery,  in  the  days  of  Hip- 
puchus,  to  show  that  what  had  been  regarded  aa  altogether  unchanging. 


Stii  THE  DISGOVESIES  OF.  ASIBONOHERS. 

iho  roiatioBid  motion  of  the  sphere  of  the  so-called  fixed  stars,  is  in  re- 
fility  subject  to  slow  yet  constant  change.  "Whether  we  consider  the 
x-itercst  which  the  phenomenon  possessed  in  this  respect,  or  the  impres- 
r  ive  thoughts  suggested  by  the  tremendous  time-interval  necessary  for 
\.AQ  completion  of  the  precessional  circuit,  we  recognise  hi  this  discov- 
ery an  achievement  which  marks  an  epoch  in  the  progress  of  astronomy. 
Trozi  the  time  when  Hipparchus  had  established  the  law  of  this  great 
precessional  change,  astronomers  found  a  new  and  deeper  significMice  in 
the  celestial  motions.  They  saw  that  the  apparent  motions,  even  though 
unchanging  to  all  appearance,  for  hundreds,  or  even  (to  ordinary  obs^rr- 
vation)  for  thousands  of  years,  are  in  reality  affected  by  continual  fluc- 
tuations, scarce  perceptible  in  one  sense,  but  only  because  they  are  so 
stupendous,  that  compared  with  the  periods  required  for  their  develop- 
ment the  duration  of  the  astronomer's  life  seems  but  a  mere  instant. 

The  third  and  greatest  work  of  Hipparchus  is  so  important  that  it  will 
require  a  chapter  to  itself. 

BicHABD  A.  Pbogtob,  in  The  Day  of  IU*L 


COUNT  FEBSEN. 


ItEADEBS  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  delightful  novel  of  ''  The  Abbot  **  wil^ 
recollect  now  Mary  Stuart,  imprisoned  in  the  island  of  Loch  Lieven,| 
found  her  consolation  in  the  knowledge  that  a  band  of  trusty  &ien(~ 
were  plotting  her  deliverance;  how  Hg^ts  wero  seen  flitting  on 
mainland,  signalling  that  the  fiery  Seyton  and  the  devoted  Douglas  wci 
on  the  eve  of  accomplishing  their  design.    Ab  with  Mary  Stuart,  so  wit 
Marie  Antoinette.     The  unfortunate  Queen  of  France,  surrounded 
gaolers  in  comparison  with  whom  the  savage  Scotch  of  the  sixteen  1 
century  were  miracles  of  kindness  and  mercy,  yet  knew  this;  that  th( 
was  one  friend  whose  only  thought  in  life  was  to  free  her  from  the  toi 
with  which  she  was  encompassed,  a  man  of  unbounded  daring,  ai 
possefsel  of  that  much  rarer  quality,  infinite  discretion,  without  tl 
least  thought  of  self,  except  to  keep  himself  free  from  the  slightest  tail 
of  dishonour.     Everybody  who  peruses  his  Memoirs  *  must  agree  thi 
the  age  of  chivalry  was  not  dead  that  produced  a  hero,  san^  peur  et  m/| 
reprocke^  like  the  gallant  Fersen. 

The  CJount  Jean  Axel  de  Fersen,  of  an  illustrious  Swedish  familj 
was  bom  on  the  4th  of  September,  17r>6.     His  father,  Field-Marshal 
Fersen,  took  an  active  part  in  politics  during  the  reign  of  Gustavti 
The  young  Count,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  was  sent  with  a  tutor  on  a  coi 

*  PnbTiihed  at  Paiis  from  papeiain  poesesaon  of  Ooont  Feisea'A  nq^ew. 


COUKX  FSBfi£K.  H5 

tinental  toiir  of  la&g  dxci^tion.  He  Tinted  Italy  and  Switssedaad,  where 
lie  had  the  honour  of  an  interview  with  Yoltaire. 

It  was  not  till  his  ninet^nth  year  that  he  first  appeared  at  the  Court 
of  Versailles.  He  early  attracted  the  attention  of  the  DauphineBB,  and 
it  is  evident  that  Marie  Antoinette  became  very  much  intertssted  in  the 
handsome  young  Swede.  Count  Person  mentions  in- his  journal  that  he 
was  present  at  Uie  ball  of  **  Madame  La  Dauphiae,**  which  commenced 
at  the  sensible  hour  of  flye,  and  finished  at  half -past  nine.  And  the 
Count  relates  how  at  a  masked  ball  at  the  Opera  House  the  Dauphiness 
engaged  him  a  long  time  in  conyersatiou  without  his  at  first  recognising. 
her.  On  Count  Fersen  leaving  Paris  for  London,  the  Swedish  ambassa* 
dor  thus  writes  to  the  King  of  Sweden : 

"The  TOtrag  Cotrnt  Fersen  is  abont  to  leaye  Paris  for  London.  He  is  (of  all  the 
Swedes  who  have  been  here  in  my  time)  the  one  who  has  been  the  best  received  in 
the  great  world.  The  royal  family  have  shown  him  much  attention.  He  conld  not 
possibly  have  conducted  himself  with  more  discretion  and  good  sense  than  he  has 
Bhown.  With  his  handsome  person  and  his  talent  (I'esprU),  he  could  not  fail  to 
succeed  in  society,  and  that  he  has  done  so  completely  your  Majestv  will  be  pleased 
to  hear.  That  which  above  all  makes  M.  de  Fersen  worthy  of  the  distinction  shown 
him  is  the  nobility  and  elevation  of  his  character." 

The  Count  on  his  arrival  in  England  was  presented  at'  Court,  visited 
Hanelagh  and  other  sights  i>f  London.     His  account  of  Almack's  is  as 

follows : 

"  Thursday,  19th  May  17T4.— I  have  l)een  presented  to  the  Queen,  who  is  veiy 
gracioxis  and  amiable,  bat  not  at  all  pretty.    In  the  evening  I  was  taken  by  Comte 

to  *  Almack's/  a  subscription  ball  which  is  held  durine  the  winter.    The  room 

ui  which  they  dance  is  well  arranged  and  brilliantly  lighted.  The  ball  is  supposed 
to  begin  at  ten  o'clock,  but  the  men  remain  nt  their  clubs  until  half  past  eleven. 
Dnring  this  time  the  women  are  kept  waiting,  seated  on  sofas  on  either  side  of  the 
great  gallery  in  great  fonnality ;  one  ^vould  fancy  oneself  in  a  church,  they  look  so 
eerioQS  and  qmet,  not  even  talking  amongst  themselves.  The  supper,  which  is  at 
twelve  o'clock,  is  very  well  served,  and  somewhat  less  dull  than  the  rest  of  the  enter- 
tainment. I  was  placed  by  the  side  of  Lady  Carpsuter,*  one  of  the  handsomest 
girls  in  London  ;  she  was  Very  agreeable,  and  conversed  a  great  deal.  I  had  occa- 
sion to  meet  her  again  some  davs  later,  when,  to  some  civil  remark  1  addressed  her 
with,  she  did  not  -even  .reply.  It  surprises  one  to  see  yoimg  girls  talking  unreserv- 
edly with  men,  and  going  about  by  themselves ;  I  am  reminded  of  Lausanne  in  this, 
where  also  they  enjoy  complete  liberty." 

The  Count  returned  to  Sweden  in  the  beginning  of  1775.  He  had 
akeady  entered  the  French  service  in  the  regiment  Royal  Baarriere.  La 
Sweden  he  became  an  officer  in  a  cavahy  regiment,  and  soon  attained 
the  rank  of  lieutenant-colonel.  He  remained  in  Sweden  some  time, 
joining  in  the  pursuits  and  amusements  of  the  young  nobility  at  the 
gay  court  of  Gustavus  m.  In  1778  he  proceeded  on  another  voyage, 
•^^3  passed  thrae  months  in  London,  from  whence  he  proceeded  to 
^^ris,  arriving  tlbere  in  the  dead  season.  Afterwards  he  went  on  a  visit 
*o  tho  camp  of  t^»e  Count  de  Broglie  in  NoVmandy,  and  inspected  the 
aoMBtery  of  La  Trappe,  of  which  he  gives  some  mteresting  details. 

•  Probably  La^yAUneria  Carpenter,  daught»Ci?lvI«fd'TjrcWMt     ^ 


2*6  COUNT  FERSEN. 

In  the  winter  he  again  appeared  at  the  French  Court  He  writes  to 
his  father : 

*'  Last  Tuesday  I  went  to  Versailles  to  bo  presented  to  the  royal  family.  Th<» 
Qaeen,  who  is  cbarmiug,  exclaimed,  *  Ah  I  au  old  acqaaiiitance  I '  The  rest  of  the 
royal  family  did  not  eay  a  word." 

The  Count  writes  again : 

**  The  (^accn,  who  is  the  handson^st  and  the  most  amiable  princess,  lias  orr-n 
had  the  Iiiiidues.^  to  inquire  after  me.  She  asked  Creutz  why  I  did  nut  come  to  h  r 
'j'3a'*  oil  Saiiddyn,  and  on  hearing  that  I  had  b^en  oue  day  when  il  did  not  take 
place,  she  mad ;  u  khid  o!  apology. 

"  The  Queen  treats  me  always  with  great  courtegy.  I  often  go  to  pay  my  respects 
(au  jju),  and  on  every  occasion  she  addresses  mo  with  some  words  of  kinduc^^. 
As  thsij  had  spokon  to  her  about  my  Swedish  nuifcrm,  she  expressed  a  ereat  wish  to 
sue  me  iu  it,  and  I  am  to  go  full  dret-sed,  not  to  Court,  but  to  see  the  Queen.  She  is 
ths  most  amiable  princess  that  I  Lnow." 

In  society  as  well  as  at  Court,  Count  Fersen^s  success  was  coicpl^t''. 
In  M.  Geffroy's  '  Gustave  III.  et  la  Cour  da  Frange,'  thsra  are  many 
anecdotes  respecting  it.  But  of  course  triumph  begets  envy,  and  th* 
favourites  of  Marie  Antoinette,  whose  relations  with  her  were  quite  as 
innocent  as  those  of  Count  Fersen,  began  spreading  malicious  reports 
about  their  new  rival. 

M.  Geffroy  in  his  work  thus  describes  the  state  of  affairs : 

"  Ou  Fersen 's  return  to  Fr«uco,  his  favour  at  Court  was  so  great  thai  ii  couid  not 
fail  to  be  much  remai'ked.  It  was  in  the  year  1779,  and  we  know  that  the  wicked 
suspicions  raised  ngainst  Marie  Antoinette  had  not  waited  for  the  fatal  cffair  of  \W 
necklace  before  attacking  her  as  Sovereign  and  Woman.  Fersen  was  received  iu 
the  Queen's  intimate  circle ;  the  admission  extended  to  Stedingk  t  was  supposed  to 
be  a  blind,  to  conceal  the  much-desired  presence  of  liis  friend.  They  brought  up 
against  the  Q  is  ?n  tha  sin  dl  p  irtijs  glvju  by  Mesdamas  de  LambuUe  and  de  Polignac, 
in  their  npartments,  to  which  Fersen  was  admitted :  they  sp<fl£e  of  meetinps  jui.l 
prolonged  interviews  at  the  masked  balls,  (bals  de^  l'di>era),  of  looks  intercnanp-d 
when  other  intercourse  was  wanting  at  the  *  soire  'S,  intiines,'  at  Trianon.  Tn  y 
declared  that  the  Queen  had  boen  seen  to  look  expressively  jit  Fersen,  whilst  singing 
the  impassioned  lines  from  the  opera  of  *  Didou : ' 

*  Ah  I  que  je  fus  bien  inspirfee 
Quand  J3  vous  recus  dans  ma  com*' 

—to  seek  bis  eyes  and  ill  conceal  her  feelings  towards  him.  Nothing  moro  wn^ 
wanting  than  to  add  publicly  the  name  of  the  young  Count  to  those  with  which 
Calumny  hoped  henceforth  to  ailn  herself  against  Marie  Antoinette." 

A^ain,  in  a  secret  despatch  addressed  to  Gustavus  m.  by  the  Count 

ds  Creutz,  t  we  find  an  account  of  Fersen's  attitude  in  the  situation  that 

was  made  so  difficult  for  him. 

« 10th  April  1779— I  must  confide  to  your  Majesty  thnt  the  young  Count  FoT«»-n 
has  been  sd  well  received  by  the  Queen,  as  to  give  umbrage  to  many  persons :  I 
must  own  to  thinking  that  she  has  a  ereat  preference  for  him;  I  have  seen  nidicii- 
tions  of  it  too  strong  to  be  doubted.  The.  modesty  and  reserve  of  young  Fersan  a 
conduct  have  been  admirably  and  above  all,  the  step  he  has  taken  in  going  to 

•  The  grames  plaved  at  the  "  jeu  de  la  Reino  "  were  quiiUBC,  tedards,  and  trictrac* 
t  Count  Fersen's  friend  and  travelling  companioo. 
t  Thd  Swedish  ambaBsadM. 


COUNT  FERSEN.  247. 

Aaierica  fs  to  l)e  commended ;  in  absenting  himself  ho  escapes  all  danger,  bat  It 
evidently  r^qHir^d  apownr  of  self-coraMiaml,  beyond  hij  yo:U'3,  to  overcome  bxic^i  an 
Lttmctiou.  Tho  Qaeen  has  foJlowetl  him  with  hrr  eyoa  (luil  of  tjar»)  dnrin^ij  th  » 
Ja^tdayd  precedin;^  his  going  away.  I  iniplor.-?  your  Majosty  to  keep  t'.iis  socrc  t  on 
h.r  account,  and  o;i  that  ot*  *S>uatour'  Foraju.  When  th.j  mwd  of  the  Count*  j 
(L-parture  was  Icuown,  ail  tho  favountea  were  delighted.  The  Duchesa  of  Fitz- 
Jain-s  3aid  to  him,  'What!  racnsienr,  you  abandon  your  conqnes'?*  =  If  I  had 
niAb  one,'  he  replied,  '  I  shouM  not  liavT  abandoned  it.  I  p;o  nw.\y  irvC,  and  unfor- 
t:uitely  without  leaving  any  regrets.'  Your  MajjPty  will  auieo  th^it  this  was  eai'l 
with  a  wistlom  and  prudence  marvellous  in  on^  so  young.  But  th  ^  Qneen  is  nior.; 
r>«ervEd  and  cautious  tiian  formerly.  The  King  not  only  couBUlts  all  her  wlshe?, 
lit  lakes  purt  in  her  pursuits  and  ainuacmeuta." 

Count  Fersen  accompanied  tho  Froncli  army  to  America  as  aidc-do- 
c^.mp  to  Goneral  RochaJibaau.  and,  owing  to  his  tabnta  and  his 
knowledge  of  tho  English  language,  ho  was  mado  tho  intermediary  of 
communication  between  Washington  and  tho  French  commander.  HLs 
litters  from  America  do  not  show  much  appreciation  of  the  peoplo  ho 
assistod  to  free.     But  then  allies  always  speak  ill  of  one  another. 

Tho  Count  v/iit:3 : 

''Money  ia  in  all  their  actions  the  first  obj"(ct,  and  their  only  thought  is  how  fo 
rain  it.  E^'ery  ouo  is  for  himself,  no  one  for  the  public  good.  The  inhabitant  i  or* 
111 '  co.ist,  ev<ra  the  best  Whigd,  supply  tho  English  fleet,  anchored  in  Gardner's  Bay, 
v'ifi  provisions  of  a'l  kinds,  because  they  pay  them  well ;  they  fl^'cce  us  without 
CtMiipnuction :  everything  ij  an  exorbitant  price;  in  all  the  deulin|;s  we  have  had 
v.ith  them  they  have  treated  us  more  like  enemies  than  friends.  TheTr  covetousueea 
i'  nncqualletl,  money  is  their  god ;  virtue,  honour,  all  that  is  nothing  to  them  in  com- 
{v^risou  with  this  precious  metal.  Not  but  what  there  are  some  estimable  p^^op! » 
r.uijiig  tbeni,  t!?cre  nre  rniiiiy  who  are  noble  and  generous,  but  I  speak  of  tho 
Latloa  in  senjrai,  whlc'i  eoci.."3  to  lue  to  be  more  Dutch  tlum  Englisli."- 

The  Ccaiat  was  presont  at  tho  siurender  of  Lord  Comwallis  a':  York 
ToTrn,  which  Tirtually  ended  the  war,  and  returned  to  Franco  after  tho 
conclusion  of  th^  psacj  of  1783.  Ho  still  remained  in  the  Swedish 
R:mo9,  although  at  tho  request  of  Gustavus  III.  ho  received  tho  ap- 
pointment of  Colonel  Proprietor  of  thi  regiment  of  Royal  Sucdois  in 
the  service  of  France.  Tho  Count  henceforth  passed  hi3  time  between 
thb  t^o  countri  3s. 

In  1787  ho  again  visited  England,  and  thero  i;)  a  curious  account  of  a 
fracas  that  took  plaoo  bctv/-eca  Lady  Clermont,  tho  friend  of  Mario 
Antoinetto  and  th )  Prince  of  Vales  at  a  London  assembty,  respecting 
Count  Ferson.  Th?  Princo's  conduct  with  rospect  to  tho  Count  does 
not  tend  to  tho  credit  of  tho  *' first  gentleman  of  Europe."  The  insinu- 
iitious  against  tho  Quoen  of  Franco  concerning  her  relations  with  tho 
tigh-minded  Swedish  nobleman  wo  believo  aro  utterly  groundless. 
There  is  not  a  particlo  of  trustworthy  evidence  that  the  Queen  ever  in- 
fringed upon  the  duties  of  a  wife  and  a  mother.  Count  Ferssjx  wag 
only  her  friend  and  servant,  moro  devoted  in  the  dark  winter  of  adver- 
fiity  than  in  the  sunny  days  of  regal  grandeur  and  prosperity.  The 
Diike  de  Levis,  in  his  Memoirs,  describes  him  as  one  ' '  who  had  moro 
judgment  than  wit,  who  was  cautious  with  men,  reserved  towards 
women,  whoso  air  and  figure  were  those  of  a  hero  of  romance,  but  not 
of  a  French  romance,  for  ho  was  not  sufficiently  light  and  brilliant." 


248  COUNT  FERSEN. 

In  Wrftxall  there  is  the  following  graphic  aoconnt  of  the  scene  wo 
have  mentioned : 

"  As  Lady  Clermont  enjoyed  bo  distinguished  a  place  in  jrario  Antoinette's 
esteem,  it  was  natural  that  slie  ahoukl  eudjavoauto  transfuse  into  thy  Piiuce'a  miu.l 
feelings  of  attachment  and  resptjct  for  the  French  Queen  similar  to  those  with 
which  she  was  hersL'lf  imbued.  Making  allowaiice  tor  the  difference  of  atxes,  tliero 
seemed  to  be  indeed  no  inconsiderable  degr^ie  of  resemblance  between  their  disp^-i- 
tious.  Both  were  indiscreet,  unguarded,  and  ardent  dvivotees  of  pleasure.  But  llse 
'Duke  of  Orleans,  irritated  at  her  sucaossful  x)ppositiou  to  the  marriage  of  hie 
daughter  with  the  Count  d'Artoia'  eldest  son,  t  ad  already  preposseesed  tlie  Priiicc 
of  Wales  in  her  disfavour.  He  was  accustomed  to  speaii  of  her,  on  the  Duke's 
report,  as  a  woman  of  licentious  life,  who  cliauged  her  lovers  according  to  her 


or  elevated  sentiments.  About  this  time  Count  Fersen,  who  was  wcil  known  to  b..* 
highly  acceptable  to  Mario  Antoinette,  visited  London :  bringing  letters  of  miro- 
duction  from  the  Duches:je  de  Polignac  to  many  persons  of  distinction  here,  and  m 
particular  for  Lady  Clermont.  Desirous  to  show  him  the  utmost  attention,  and  to 
present  him  in  the  best  company,  soon  after  his  arrival  she  conducted  him  in  h:r 
o\vn  carriage  to  Lady  William  Gordon's  assembly  in  Piccadilly,  one  of  the  niof  r 
distinguished  in  the  metropolis.  Sh^  had  scarcely  entered  the  room,  and  iiind-' 
Count  Fersen  known  to  the  principal  individuals  of  both  sexes,  wlien  the  Prince  cf 
Wales  was  announced.  I  shall  recount  the  sequel  in  Lady  Clermont's  own  word^  to 
me,  only  a  short  time  subsequent  to  the  fact. 

"  *  His  Royal  Highness  took  no  notice  of  me  on  bis  first  arrival ;  but,  in  a  ft^w 
minutes  afterwards,  coming  up  to  me,  "  Pray,  Lady  Clrrmont,"  said  he,  **i9  that 
man  whom  I  see  here  Count  Fersen,  the  Queen's  favourite?''  "The  gentleman  t.» 
whom  your  Royal  Highnef^s  alludes  is  Count  Fersen ;  bu%  so  fcir  trom  being  :i 
favourite  of  the'Queen,  he  has  not  yet  been  presented  at  Court.  "— *•  Q— d  d — n  n-.e'." 
exclaimed  he,  *•  you  don't  imagine  I  mean  mi/  mother  f " — "  Sir,'*  I  replied,  "  wlu  !i- 
ever  you  are  pleased  to  use  the  word  qiu&n  withont  any  addition,  I  shall  always  un- 
derstand it  to  mean  my  queen.  If  yon  speak  of  any  other  queen  I  munt  entnat 
that  you  will  be  good  enough  to  say  the  queen  of  France  or  of  Spain.'/  The  Priuce 
made  no  reply,  but,  after  Saving  walked  once  or  twice  round  Count  Fereen,  retuni- 
ing  to  me,  "  He's  certainly  a  very  handsome  fellow,"  observed  he.  "Shall  I  ha^e 
the  honour,  sir,"  said  I,  "  to  present  him  to  you  ?"  He  instantly  turned  on  his  hw'. 
without  giving  me  any  answer:*  and  I  soon  afterwards  quitted  Lady  William 
Gordon's  nouse,  bringing  Count  Fersen  with  me.' " 

In  1788  Connt  Fersen  retnmed  to  Sweden  and  accompanied  his 
sovereign  on  his  campaign  against  Enssia,  which  ended  so  nnfor- 
tunataly,  owing  to  tha  disaffection  of  tho  Finnish  troops.  Ho  ako 
was  with  Gtlstavus  at  Gothenbnrg  when  besieged  by  tho  Danes.  Tn^ 
King  was  only  saved  from  destruction  by  the  conduct  of  Hugh  El.i  t, 
then  ministar  at  Copenhagen,  who  crossed  the  wat°r  aad  prevailed  cm 
the  Danish  commander  to  accept  a  truce.  Count  Fersen  then  retunif^l 
to  France,  and  we  are  now  approaching  the  most  interesting  part  of  h**^ 
career.  He  was  now  appointed  the  seor  t  envoy  of  Gustavns,  to  watcb 
over  his  interests  at  the  Court  of  Versailles.  The  opening  scenes  of  th 
French  Revolution  naturally  filled  his  mind  with  dismay.  Talleyraiil 
used  to  say  that  those  who  were  not  in  society  before  -1789  could  liot 
realise  **la  douceur  do  vivre."    Its  utter  destruction  mnst  liavo  b'cn 

*  The  Prince  afterwards  made  a  most  graceful  apology  to  Lady  Clermont  for  bin 
conduct  to  her. 


OOUNT  FBESEK.  M9 

appalHsgto  one  of  iia  brightest  ornAmexits.    The  eomit  was  present  at 

the  dreadful  scenes  of  the  5th  and  6th  of  October  at  Versailles,  aud  ac- 
companied the  King  and  Queen  when  they  were  dragged  in  triiunph  to 
Paris  by  the  victorious  populace. 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  that  the  whole  of  the  joomal  of  the  Count 
Fersen  from  1780  until  June  1791  was  destroyed  by  the  friend  to  whom 
it  was  confided  on  the  eye  of  the  flight  to  VarenneSt  Fortunately  there 
is  in  the  ''Auckland  Memoirs"  an  account  of  this  eventful  enterprise 
which  we  believe  we  can  stats  was  drawn  up  by  Lord  Auckland  himself, 
when  ambassador  in  Holland,  from  information  derived  from  Count 
Fersen  and  his  confederate,  Mr.  Quintin  Craufurd,  who  was  Lord  Auck- 
land's friend  and  correspondent^ 

The  following  is  the  account  given  in  the  Auckland  papers : 

"From  inrelligcnce  coramnnicatod  to  tho  Qacen,  on  th^  7th  of  October,  1789,  the 
cUy  after  the  royal  family  had  b3«n  brought  from  Versailles  to  Paris,  she  fhonght 
§om:;  attempt  on  her  life  was  sti'l  intended.  That  cveuingr,  after  slic  Itad  retired  to  her 
npartmeut,  she  called  Madame  de  Tonrzel  to  her,  and  bjjid,  *  If  yon  should  hear  aEy 
noise  in  my  room  iu  tha  night,  do  not  }o83  any  time  in  coming  to  see  what  it  is,  but 
carry  the  Dauphin  immediately  to  the  arms  of  his  father.'  Madame  de  Tou'*zel, 
Uithed  in  tears,  told  this  circunnstance,  two  days  afterwards,  to  the  Spanish  ambas- 
sador, from  whom  I  learnt  it. 

"  The  Count  de  Fersen  was  the  only  person  at  Paris  to  whom  the  King  at  this 
time  gave  his  entire  coufldcuc^.  He  went  privately  to  the  palace  by  means  of  ono 
of  those  passports  that  were  given  to  some  of  the  houseliold  and  others  who  were 
eopposed  to  nave  business  tlxire,  and  had  therefore  liberty  to  enter  at  all  hours.  He 
saw  their  Maj->sties  in  thq  King's  closet,  and  by  his  means  their  correspondence  was 
carried  on,  and  the  King's  intentions  communicated." 

For  a  long  tJmo  the  King  had  determined  to  escape  from  Paris,  and 
Coimt  Fersen  arranged  with  the  most  consummate  etill  all  the  details  of 
this  enterprise.  He  had  two  friends  in  whom  he  trusted  implicitly :  Mr. 
Quintin  Craufurd,  an  EngUsh  gentleman  well  known  in  Parisian  society, 
and  Mrs,  Sullivan,  who  resided  in  Mr.  Crauford's  house,  and  was  after- 
wards known  as  Mrs.  Craufurd.  Fersen  had  the  greatest  contempt  'for 
the  levity  of  the  French  character,  and  seems  to  think  that  the  moment 
a  Frenchman  is  in  possession  of  a  secret  he  writes  about  it  or  confides 
it  to  his  mistress.  Three  of  the  garde-de-corpa,  however,  were  called 
in  to  assist  in  the  final  arrangements.  The.  Count  had  procured  a  pass- 
port in  the  name  of  a  *' Baroness  de  Korff,"  and  had  ordered  a  travel- 
ling coach  in  her  name.  Madame  de  Tourzel*  was  to  personate  Ma- 
dams de  Korff  travelling  with  her  family  to  Frankfort.  Count  Fersen 
assumed  the  whole  responsibility  of  the  safe  conduct  of  the  royal  party 
as  far  as  Chalons.  After  that  the  Marquis  de  Bouille,  who  commanded 
the  troops  on  the  eastern  frontier,  was  charged  lo  protect  the  travellers 
by  escorts  of  cavalry. 

The  night  of  the  20th  of  June  was  finally  selected  for  the  attempt  at 
escape,  and  the  travelling  carri«^;e  was  placed  at  Mr.  Quintin  Craufurd's 
hooso,  and  a  little  before  midnight  Fersen's  coachman,  a  Swede,  who 

!■  I        ■  ■       ■  ■ 

*  Govcrnees  of  the  children  of  Fraac«i  ^ 


250  COUNT  FEESEN. 

did  not  talk  French,  and  one  of  the  garde-do-corps,  motmtsd  as  poslil- 
ious,  took  the  coach  with  its  four  Norman~  horszs,  and  a  saddla  hors  ~, 
and  halted  on  the  road  near  the  Barriere  St.  Martin,  with  ordars,  in  car,.? 
of  seeing  any  one,  to  move  forwards  and  roturn  again  to  their  Btatioii^ 
Count  Fersen  went  to  see  the  King  on  the  evening  of  the  20th,  and  th  .^ 
King  determined  to  depart,  although  ha  thought  some  suspicions  vrcr  ' 
entertained.  Count  Fei*sen  departed,  and  at  the  appointed  time  arrived 
with  a  job  coach  and  horses  which  he  had  purchased. 

The  follov/ing  is  the  account  of  the  escape  as  related  by  Lord  Auc li- 
land: 

Tlie  Dauphin  was  pnt  to  bad  at  the  n^ual  hour,  hut  nbont  half  pastolevon  o'd(>«:Iv  * 
Madame  de  Tourzol  woke  him  and  dressed  him  in  girl's  clothes.  About  the  s.r  ..^ 
time  Fer.^eii,  dress .'d  and  acting  as  a  coachman,  came  with  the  other  coach  to  tb  • 
court  at  thoTailerijs  calloA  La  Cour  d3S  Princes,  afl  if  to  wait  for  fome  one  who  v.  :i^ 
in  the  palace.  He  stopped  at  the  apartment  of  the  Due  d:;  Villiquier,  that  i.i*  n 
coramunicalion  with  tiie  one  above  it.  Soon  nfr.T  lie  arrived,  Madame  de  Tonr/  '. 
came  out  with  the  two  cliildren.  Fers  'u  put  thom  into  the  carriaijii.  Neither  uf  tl;  • 
children  e poke  a  word,  but  he  observed  that  Madame  Koyal»;  was br.thed  in  tr..*-. 
She  had  aU  along  shown  great  senpibility,  and  a  decree  of  prud.iuco  and  understamta.^ 
b^iyolld  what  mi^ht  b ;  exp  'Ctod  from  her  years.  Fersen  drove  at  a  coranioii  j^nco  i  < 
the  Petit  Can'ouascl,  and  stopp.^  near  the  house  that  was  formerly  inhabited  by  t?.  - 
Duchess'^  de  la  Valliere.  Neither  that  house  nor  the  houses  near  it  have  a  conrt  t  < 
admit  carriag.^s,  and  it  is  counuon  to  see  them  waitinpr  in  the  street  there.  Mad  r... « 
Elisabeth  came,  attend  'd.  by  one  of  her  gentlemen,  who,  as  eoon  as  he  pnt  her  in  th  • 
coach,  lett  her.  The  Kin;^  cams  next ;  he  had  a  round  brown  wig  over  Isis  ha.r.  .•. 
greatcoat  on,  and  a  stick  in  his  hand.  He  was  followed  at  some  uistiince  by  on  ^  »•: 
the  garde-de-corps.  They  waited  for  the  Queen  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour.  Tlie  K'n:: 
began  to  be  approhan&ive,  and  wanted  to  go  back  to  look  for  her,  but  Fers^L-n  rii - 
Buaded  him.  While  they  waited  for  the  Que^n,  Lafayette  passed  twice  in  his  c  .:- 
rlage,  followed  by  two  dragoous,  one 3  in  going  to  the  liiu  de  Ilouore,  and  ajr;  i.i  hi 
returning  from  it.  On  seeing  him  the  King  showed  some  emotion,  but  not  of  ic;.r, 
and  said,  loud  enough  for  Forsen  to  hear  him,  *  Le  scelerat !' 

*'  The  Queen  at  last  ari'ived,  followed  by  the  other  gHnl(i-d!»-coi*ps.  She  hnd  bc' 11 
detained  by  unexpectedly  finding  a  sentinel  at  the  top  of  the  staii-s  Slie  was  to  desc* ;  J 
by.  He  was  walking  negligently  backwards  and  forward.-i,  and  ringing,  'i  1:  • 
Queen  at  last  observed  that  as  he  went  forward  from  the  stair,  the  ]>ler  of  ;'n  n'^''.'. 
must  prevent  him  from  seeing  her.  She  took  that  opportunity  quickly  to  de-cenl 
without  noise,  and  made  signs  to  the  garde-de-corps  to  do  the  same.  As  sooji  A-f 
the  Queen  was  in  the  carriage,  the  two  garde-d'v>corps  got  up  beliind  it,  and  Fersta 
drove  away." 

Mr.  Croker,  in  his  "Essays  on  the  French  Revolutio-^,"  originaKy 
published  in  the  **  Quarterly  Review,"  observes  "that  tha  journey  i- 
Varonnes  is  an  extraordinary  instance  of  the  difficulty  of  ascertainin  ' 
historical  truth.  There  have  been  pubHshed  twelve  narratives  by  cy  - 
witnesses  of,  and  partakers  in,  these  transactions,  and  all  these  narn- 
tives  contradict  each  other  on  trivial,  and  some  on  more  ess:-Dti:il, 
points,  but  always  in  a  wonderful  and  inexplicable  manner."  In  th: 
a3count  by  Madame  Royale,  it  is  positively  etated  that  the  Queen  con- 
ducted th9  children  to  the  carriag3.  This  ass8i*tion  very  much  exercis  d 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Croker,  and  it  now  appears  it  was  incorrect,  for  th  • 


•  Madame  Royale  glvei  the  time  as  half  past  ten,  and  wa  think  thia  was  :je 
real  time. 


COUNT  FEESEN.  251 

journal  o2  Count  Fersen  of  the  20th  gives  the  same  account  of  the  order 
h  which  the  royal  family  escaped  as  Lord  Auckland.' 

In  one  of  the  accounts  it  is  stated  that  Count  Fersen  did  not  know 
ibo  Btreetd  of  Paris,  which  seems  very  unlikely ;  but  it  appears  that 
such  was  the  Count's  caution  that  he  first  drove  to  Mr.  Craiifurd'^s 
Lons9,  to  see  if  the  travelling  carriage  had  started,  and  then  drove 
rapidly  to  the  Barrierj  St.  Martin.  In  the  statement  by  Madame 
lioyale,  it  is  averred  that  Count  Fersen  took  leave  of  the  royal  family 
theri?,  and  this  account  is  adopted  by  Mr.  Croker  j  but  it  is  an  error, 
for  both  Count  Fersen  and  Lord  Auckland  agree  that  it  was  at  or  near 
Bondy  that  the  parting  took  place.  It  will  bo  seen  that  the  King  re- 
fused to  allow  Fersen  to  accompany  the  royal  family  in  their  flight. 
We  think  that  if  he  had  consent  3d,  the  escapa  might  have  been  effected. 
All  that  was  wanted  was  a  cool  head  in  danger,  and  that  was  lament. 
ably  wanting. 

This  is  from  the  Auckland  MSS.  : 

"  When  they  came  to  the  other  coach,  the  one  that  brought  the  roynl  family  from 
Paris  \v.i8  driven  to  some  distance  and  overtiimed  into  a  ditch.  They  got  into  the 
travelling  coach.  Pereen  rode  before  and  ordered  post-hcrses  at  Boudy.  It  i"  com- 
niOD  for  persons  who  live  at  Pari*  to  come  the  fii-st  stajre  with  their  own  horses. 
The  post-horses,  on  showing  the  iMSspurt,  were  therefore  iriven  witliout  any  hesita- 
tion. Two  of  the  garde-de-corps  niounte<l  on  the  seat  of  the  coach,  the  other  went 
before  as  a  coarier.  The  coachman  was  sent  on  with  the  coach-horses  towards 
Brus3els,  and  Fersen  accompanied  the  royal  family  abont  three  mile-*  beyond  Bondy, 
wliC'D  be  quitted  them  to  go  to  Mousv  and  from  tiienco  to  Montm^dy.  Thon«:h  he 
pre«g>dthe  King  very  much  to  permit  him  to  go  along  with  him,  he  popitiveiy  re- 
ni?ed it, saying,  ' If  you  should  oe  taken  it  will  be  impossible  for  mc  to  save  you; 
l>"#iiles.  you  have  papers  of  importance.  I  therefore  conjure  you  to  get  out  of 
FraQco  as  fast  aa  you.  can.'  He  joined  his  own  carriat^e  that  was  waiting  for  him 
[jcar  Bonrgotte,  and  arrived  at  Mons  at  two  iu  the  morning  of  the  '22ud,  without 
u.oling  With  an^  Eort  of  interrupt  ion." 

The  following  account  from  the  journal  of  Count  Fersen  was  written 
in  pencil  on  scraps  of  paper,  but  it  will  be  seen  that  with  the  exception 
of  some  diiference  in  time  it  agrees  substantially  with  Lord  Auckland's 

paper. 


(l  A1 


2") 0). 

/'  Conversation  with  the  King  on  wh:it  he  wished  to  do.  Both  told  me  to  proceed 
^Ifcont  delay.  We  agreed  upon  the  honsG,  »fc'j.,  &c.,  so  that  if  they  were  8topp»ul  I 
-fconld  go  to  Brussels  and  act  from  thbre.  &c.,  <fcc.  At  partincr  the  King  said  to  me, 
'M.  de  Fersen,  whatever  happens  to  me  I  shall  never  forget  all  that  yon  have  dono 
iw  me.'  The  Queen  wept  bitterly.  At  6  o  clock  I  kft  lier ;  she  went  out  to  walk 
with  the  children.  No  extraordinary  precantions.  I  returned  home  to  finish  my 
hUairs.  At  7  o'clock  went  to  Sullivan  to  see  if  th^  carriage  had  been  sent ;  returned 
home  agiun  at  8  o'clock.  I  wrote  to  the  Queen  to  change  the  'rendezvous'  with 
Vie  waiting-woman,  and  to  Instruct  them  to  let  me  know  the  exaet  hour  by  t^he 
turde-de-corps ;  take  the  letter  nothing  moving.  At  a  quarter  to  9  o'clock  tho 
pirdes  join  me  ;  they  give  me  the  letter  for  Mercy.*  I  give  them  instructions,  rc- 
tiini  home,  send  off  my  horses  and  coachman.  Go  to  fetch  the  carriage.  Thought 
Had  loi't  Mercy's  letter.  At  quarter  past  10  o'clock  in  tlie  Cour  des  Princes.  At 
qoaitcrpast  11  the  children  taken  out  with  difficulty.    Lafayette  passed  twice.    At 

,*  Formerly  Austrian  ambassador  at  the  Court  of  Versailles. 


252  COUNT  PERSEK. 

a  quarter  to  13  Madatrte  Elisabeth  came,  then  the  'King,  then  the  Qneen.  Start  at  IJJ 
o'clock,  meet  the  carriage  at  the  Barriere  8t.  Martin.  At  half  past  one  o'clock  reach 
Boudy,  take  post ;  ut  thi-ee  o'clock  I  leave  theui,  taking  the  by-road  to  Boorj^etie.'^* 

On  arriving  at  Monsthe  Count  wrote  to  his  father  a  letter  acquainting 
him  with  the  trinmphant  success  of  his  attempt. 

All  had  gone  weP  when  the  directions  were  in  the  hands  of  the  brave 
and  cautious  Swedish  officer,  but  the  moment  the  French  commanders 
took  the  affair  into  their  own  hands  at  Chalons,  everything  was  lo^t 
through  their  levity  and  want  of  common-sense.  Baron  de  Gognelat. 
an  engineer  officer  who  superintended  the  details  of  the  expedition  from 
Ch^ons,  already  had  given  offence  to  the  inhabitants  of  &t»  Mcnehould. 
and  had  quarrelled  with  Drouet,  the  postmaster  there,  through  etoploj-- 
ing  another  man's  horses  which  were  cheaper  to  take  his  own  carriage 
back.  The  Due  de  Choiseul,  who  commanded  the  first  detachment  at 
Somme-Velle,  near  Chsilons,  because  tho  traveUing  carriage  was  late,  re- 
treated not  by  the  main  road,  where  tho  royal  family  could  have  over- 
taken him,  but  across  a  country  he  did  rot  know,  and  he  did  net  arrive 
at  Varennes  till  after  tho  arrest  of  tho  royal  family,  having  previously 
gent  a  message  to  the  other  commander  that  the  "treasure"!  would  net 
arrive  that  evening.  On  the  carriage  arriving  at  St.  Menehculd,  the 
commanding  officer  of  tho  hussars  there  foolishly  went  to  Epeak  to  the 
King,  who  put  his  head  out  of  th3  window  and  was  instantly  recognised 
by  Drouet,  who  immediately  aft^r  the  departure  of  the  King  rode  off  to 
Varennes  and  procured  his  arrest.  Everything  there  was  in  confusion. 
The  young  Count  de  Bouillc  was  in  bed;  his  hussars  with  their  horses 
unsaddled.  The  Due  de  Choiseul,  tho  Count  de  Damas,  arrived  with 
men  enough  to  rescue  the  prisoners,  but  nothing  was  done.  The  Kirg 
would  give  no  orders,  and  the  officers  were  afraid  of  responsibility. 
Count  de  Damas  told  Mr.  Charles  Koss,  the  editor  of  the  Cornwall i^ 
Correspondence,  "that  he  asked  leave  of  the  King  to  charge  with  the 
men  the  mob  who  interrupted  him.  The  Queen  urged  him  to  doit,  but 
Louis  would  take  no  responsibihty,  and  would  give  no  order  till  it  \^ as 
too  late.  M.  de  Damas  added  he  had  ever'  since  regretted  not  acti£g 
without  orders."  The  Count  de  Bouille  fled  from  Varennes  to  acquaint 
his  father,  who  was  at  the  next  station.  Dun,  with  the  misfortune  that 
had  befallen  the  King.  The  Marquis  hastened  with  the  Royal  AUemand 
regiment  to  rescue  tho  royal  family,  but  he  arrived  too  late.  They  had 
already  left  for  Paris,  escorted  by  the  National  Guard. 

It  was  at  Arlon,  on  his  journey  to  Montmedy,  the  fortress  on  the 
French  frontier  where  the  King  intended  to  set  up  his  standard  if  suc- 
cessful in  his  attempt  at  escape,  that  Count  Fersen  heard  the  news  of 
the  failure. 

The  Count  writes  in  his  journal : 

•  A  village  on  the  high-road  to  Mons. 

t  The  pretext  for  presence  of  the  troops  was  that  they  were  to  eflcort  tretsore  to 
the  army. 


COUNT  FERBES.  2SS 

"  Le  98.~FfBe  weather,  cold.  Arrired  at  Arlon  at  eleven  o*tlock  in  .tbe  ereolng. 
FooDd  BonUl^  leanit  tbat  the  King  was  taken ;  the  detachments  not  done  th^ 
duij.    The  King  wanting  in  reaolutiou  and  head.  * 

The  Coimt  now  took  np  his  residence  at  Brossels,  where  hewas  jained 
by  his  friend  Craufurd,  and  henceforth  employed  his  whole  time  until 
the  exeoationof  th^^  Quaen  in  attempting  to  save  her.  Although  well 
knowing  the  fate  that  would  await  him  if  discovered,  he  wished  to  retom 
to  Paris.    His  correspondence  with  Marie  Antoinette  was  constant. 

Here  is  a  letter  from  her,  written  on  the  29th  of  June  : 

"  I  ezlBt.  .  .  .  How  anxions  T  hayo  been  abont  yon,  and  how  I  grieve  to  think  of 
all  jon  mnnt  have  suffered  from  not  hearin.^  6t  ns  t  Heaven  grant  that  tbifl 
letter  majr  reach  you !  l>ou*c  write  to  me,  it  wonld  only  endanger  ns,  and  above  all. 
doa't  retom  here  andcr  any  pretext  It  is  known  that  yon  attempted  onr  eseape,  and 
all  woald  be  lost  if  yon  were  to  appear.  We  are  gn^^cd  day  and  night.  No  matt«r 
....  Keep  yonr  mind  at  <>a8e.  Nothing  will  hnppen  to  me.  The  AsecmUy  wishes 
to  deal  gently  mth  us.    Adion.  ...  I  cannot  write  mon}.  .  .  ." 

The  Field-MaTshal  de  Fersen  was  yery-  anxious  that  his  son  should 
now  return  to  his  own  country,  where  a  great  career  awaited  him,  but 
the  Count  refused  to  entertain  the  idea.  Count  Person  wiites  from 
Menna,*  August  1791 : 

"SOth  Attgust.^The  confidence  with  which  the  Klne  and  Qncen  of  France  havio 
honoared  me  impose  npon  me  the  daty  of  not  abandoning  them  on  this  occasion, 
and  of  servhig  them  whenever  in  fntnre  it  is  possible  for  me  to  be  of  nse  to  them.  I 
shoakl  deserve  all  cen-^ure  were  I  to  do  otherwise.  I  alone  have  been  admitted  into 
tbeir  confidence,  and  I  may  stilLfrom  the  knowledge  I  have  of  their  po!>ition.  their 
fc^timents.  and  the  affairs  of  Prance,  he  of  s  jrvice  to  them.  I  should  reproach 
injrself  eternally  as  having  helped  to  bring  them  into  their  present  disastrous  posi- 
tioD  without  having  used  every  means  in  my  power  to  release  them  from  it.  Such 
coDdact  would  be  unworthy  of  your  son,  and  you.  my  dear  father,  whatever  It  may 
cost  yon,  would  not  you  yourself  disapprove  of  it?  It  would  be  inconsistent  and 
ticUe.  and  is  far  from  my  way  of  thinking.  As  1  have  mixed  myself  np  in  the 
caa^,  I  will  go  on  to  the  end.  I  shall  then  nave  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with, 
iDd  if  I  do  not  mioc«ed~4f  this  unhappy  prince  finds  himself  forsaken,  I  shall,  at 
lea^t,  have  the  consolation  of  having  doue  my  duty,  and  of  having  never  betrayed 
the  confidence  with  which  ho  has  honored  me!'* 

Baron  de  Stael,  then  Swedish  ambassador  at  Paris,  who  through  his 
wife  was  suspected  of  intriguing  in  favour  of  the  new  order  of  things, 
fisems  to  have  endeavoured  on  aJl  occasions  to  counteract  the  efforts  of 
bis  former  friend.  It  is  singular  that  Gustavus,  a  fanatical  adherent 
of  the  French  royal  family,  should  have  allowed  him.  to  remain  in  his 
service. 

Count  Fersen  writes  to  Marie  Antoinette : 

"Stagi  says  dreadful  thines  of  me.  He  has  corrupted  my  coachman  and  taken 
him  into  his  service ;  which  has  annoy trd  me  very  much.  lie  has  prejudiced  many 
persons  agaii^t  me,  who  blame  my  conduct,  and  say  that  in  what  T  have  done  I  have 
been  gnided  solely  by  ambition,  and  that  I  have  lost  you  and  the  King.  The  Spanish 
ambassador  and  others  are  of  this  opinion ;  be  is  at  Lonvain,  and  has  not  seen  any 
one  here.— They  are  right ;  I  had  the  ambition  to  serve  you,  and  I  shall  all  my  life 
lament  my  not  having  succeeded ;  I  wished  to  repay  in  some  part  the  benefits  whiclr 

.  *  The  Count  went  to  Vienna  to  induce  the  Emperor  Leopold  to  assist  faissister. 


354  COUNT  FERSEN. 

it  has  been  so  delightful  to  me  to  receive  from  you,  and  I  hoped  to  prove  that  it  is 
possible  to  be  attachtnl  to  persona  like  yourself  without  intertfBted  motives.  The  re>t 
of  my  conduct  should  have  shown  that  this  was  my  sole  ambition,  and  that  the 
honour  of  having  served  you  was  my  best  recompense." 

Connt  Fersen  remained  at  Brussels,  and  nnmerotis  plans  for  the  relief 
of  the  royal  family  were  engaged  in  by  his  advice.  In  February,  171^2, 
he  determined,  in  spite  of  the  extreme  danger,  to  proceed  to  Paris  to 
see  again  the  King  and  Queen.  He  departed  from  Brussels  on  Sunday 
the  12th,  and  arrived  in  Paris  on  Monday  evening. 

There  is  the  following  entry  in  his  journal : 

"  "Went  to  the  Queen.  Passed  in  my  usual  way,  afraid  of  tho  National  Guanls. 
•  Did  not  see  the  King. 

*'  Le  14,  Tuesday.— Saw  the  Kin^  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening:,  he  does  not  wis!i 
to  escape,  and  cannot  on  account  of  the  extreme  watchfulness  ;  but  in  reality  he  hts 
scruples,  having  so  often  promised  to  remain,  for  he  i3  an  '  honest  man.'  " 

Count  Fersen  had  a  long  conversation  with  the  Queen  on  the  sam^^ 
eyening,  in  which  they  talked  about  the  details  of  the  journey  from 
Varennes,  and  the  Queen  related  what  insults  they  had  received  :  how 
the  Marquis  de  Dampierre,  having  approached  the  carriage  at  St.  Mtnc- 
hould,  was  murdered  in  their  sight,  and  his  head  brought  to  tiie  car- 
riage ;  how  insolently  Pttion  behaved,  who  asked  her  for,  prttendini^ 
not  to  know,  the  name  of  the  Swedj  who  drove  thsm  from  the  palace, 
to  whom  Marie  Antoinetta  answered  ' '  that  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
knowing  the  names  of  hackney  coachmen." 

Count  Fersen  remained  in  Paris  till  the  21st,  v/hen  with  his  companion 
he  left  for  Brussels,  where  he  arrived  on  the  23d.  They  were  arrebttd 
several  times,  but  got  through  by  informing  the  guards  that  they  wtrj 
Swedish  couriers.  On  the  subject  of  the  flight  to  Varennes  we  g'.\-^ 
one  more  extract.  Just  before  the  execution  of  the  Queen,  Droutt. 
commissary  of  the  Convention,  was  arrested  by  the  Austrians  in  attempt- 
ing to  escape  from  Maubeuge.  He  was  brought  to  Brussels,  and  Coiuit 
Fersen  went  to  see  him. 

"  Sunday,  fith  October. — Dronct*  arrived  at  11  o'clock.  T  went  with  CoV.nf! 
Harvey  to  see  him  in  the  prison  of  St  Elizabeth.  He  is  a  man  of  from  S3  to  24  yorr^  - : 
age,  MX  feet  high,  and  good-lookiug  enough  if  he  wore  not  so  great  a  ecouudrel.  H  • 
tad  irons  on  his  hands  and  feet.  Vv'e  asked  him  if  ho  were  the  postmaster  of  Sj.ini 
^Itnehonld  who  had  stopped  the  King  at  Varennes :  ho  said  that  h«  had  bttn  ; 
Varenui'S,  but  that  it  was  not  he  who  had  arrested  the  King.  We  nskod  hiin  'i  li  • 
^'JLd  Lft  Maubeug.?  from  fear  of  being  take  n.  He  f  aid  No.  but  to  execute  a  comn.  •=- 
fion  with  which  he;  was  charged.  He  kept  hii  coat  clos* d  to  prevent  the  chain,  \\  j.  I. 
led  from  his  right  foot  to  his  left  hand,  heiiig  neen.  The  night  of  this  iufann  •  - 
villain  incensed  ine,  and  the  elfcrt  that  I  made  to  refrtjin  from  speaking  to  hiu:  [  \ 
consideration  for  the  Ahbe  de  Li.nou  and  Count  Fitz-Jamtt)  {iffecttd  me  paiulu  }. 
Anoihvr  oflic.-r  who  wus  taken  wi:li  hi.n  Uiihitained  that  the  (|Uv-en  was  in  no  i't- 

f;er,  that  sho  was  very  well  treated,  :;r.d  had  ev  ryiliin^  Aw  could  wi-  h  The  pooanr^r  '-. 
low  Jhey  lie  ! — An  Englishman  arrivi-d  in  8\v:tz.  liand,  ."jid  t  e  had  paid    5  loin.-  r  • '" 
allowed  to  enter  the  phcon  wluro  t'ae  C^iiucn  was  ;  ho  carried  in  u  jug  of  walcr— iL- 


•  Droaet  was  the  postmaster  at  St,  Mcnchculd,  not  the  postmaster's  sau,  as  ta 
generally  btlievtd.    liu  was  aft-rwaids  cxclia'jged. 


COUNT  FERSEN.  255 

rcora  is  UDd'^r^romirl.  nnd  contain?  only  a  poor  b«d,  n  table,  nml  one  clioir.  He  found 
rhe  Q.n««u  seattid  with  her  fac-?  Ijuried  in  hor  h'lnds — her  head  whh  covered«>rith  two 
hiiidsyrchiefs.  and  sho  wa^  extr^jniely  ill  dresfted ;— she  did  not  even  look  np  at  him, 
aDflof  cimrs^lt  W.13  nndoratool  that  hs  nhonkl  not  epeak  to  her.  What  a  horrible 
Btoo' •  i  aJi%olu5  to  iaqalro  into  the  trutU  of  it." 

The  Ccrn^.t  nGvcr  saw  Marie  Antoinette  again,  but  he  still  contrived  to 
correspond  with  h^t  until  her  removal  to  the  Conciergerie.  Then  all 
hop?  seemed  over. 

Count  Fersen^s  sufferings  were  extreme  during  the  period  of  nppro- 
hsnsion  before  the  Queen's  execution.  He  attempt :'d  in  vain,  through 
Count  Mercy,  to  pravail  on  the  allies  to  march  on  Paris.  But  the  Aus- 
trians  wero  mor  3  intsnt  on  seizing  the  French  fortress 3S,  and  the  English 
on  th?  siege  of  Dunkirk,  than  in  making  a  desperate  campaign  on  behalf 
of  the  royal  family.  These  aro  the  last  accounts  in  Count  Fersen's 
journal  r^jspacting  th3  Queen. 

"Earj  ars  PonT^  partirn^ara  abont  ths  Qnsen.  Her  roon;  Tras  the  third  door  to 
tlprJL'iTt.  on  entering.  opposit<i  to  that  of  Custine  :  it  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
look'^Hl  !i>to  a  conrt  which  was  filled  all  day  with  priHoner.s.  who  through  the  window 
lookixi  at  and  insulted  the  Qu'jen.  H^r  room  wa^  small,  dark,  aud  f  .tid ;  thcrj  was 
ivMth  T  stov '.  nor  fireplac  ? ;  in  it  ther^  were  three  beds  :  one  for  the  Queen,  another 
for  th^  w  )man  who  Sirv-xi  her,  and  a  third  for  the  tA^o  gendarmes  who  never  left  the 
looii.  The  (^'leen  8  bed  was,  like  the  othewi,  made  of  wood;  it  had  a  palliaSvse,  a 
in.artr'3^^.  and  one  dirty  torn  blanket,  which  had  long  been  used  by  other  prisoners ; 
the  s'la't*  w^ri  coarse,  unbleHCh'd  linen  ;  there  wer^^  no  curtains,  only  an  old  screen. 
The  Qi-'on  w :)r ;  a  kind  of  black  ppencer  (' caraco '),  her  hair,  cut  short,  was  quito 
^rey.  She  ha  I  becoim  83  thin  as  to  be  hardly  recognizable,  and  so  weak  she  could 
sc*»roely  sfand.  She  wore  three  rings  on  her  fingars,  but  not  jjwellcd  one?.  TUo 
woin HI  who  waitei  on  h'»r  was  a  kind  of  tishwife.  of  whom  eho  ir.ado  great  com- 
p'aints  The  soldiers  told  Michonis  thai  she  did  not  eat  enough  to  ker'p  her  alive  ; 
Th'^Y  said  that  her  food  was  very  bad.  and  they  showed  him  a  Htale,  skinny  chicken. 
Baying  'This  chicken  has  been  served  to  Madame  for  four  diys,  and  she  has  not 
enHi  it.'  The  eendirmes  complained  of  their  bed.  thoufch  it  was  just  thtj  same  as 
the  Qaeen's.  The  C>U5en  always  slept  dressed,  and  in  bhick,  expecting  every  mo- 
neat  to  be  raarderea  or  to  to  be  lf3d  to  torture,  and  wishing  to  b3  prepared  for  either 
Id  mourning.  Michonis  wept  a«j  he  spoke  of  the  weak  state  of  the  Queen's  health, 
find  h^  saia  that  he  had  only  b3an  able  to  get  the  black  spencer  and  some  necessary 
linen  for  the  Q'leeu  from  the  Temple,  after  a  deliberation  in  Council.  These  are  the 
Biul  details  he  gave  ins." 

Marie  Antoinette  was  executed  on  the  16th  of  October,  1793.  It  was« 
int  till  four  days  afterwards,  on  the  20th,  that  the  news  arrived  at  Brus- 


Bls. 


Tli3  following  are  extracts  from  Count  Ferssn^s  journal. 

/'Sujdav,  Octol>er  20th.— Orandmnlso^i  tells  ms  that  Ackerman,  a  banker,  rc- 
''•'vd  abtter  from  hi^  correspond -^nt  in  Pm^.  tellin?  him  that  the  sentence  agiinst 
t  '^  Q'i;>en  had  been  p  iP«»ed  th^  evening  before  ;  th'it  it  was  to  have  been  earned  into 


^'•-•oij  luai  luiB  execmme  crime  was  commiitea,  ana  JJivine  vcugeauce  has  n:    buret  4 

DDon  these  monsters  I  f 


256  COUNT  FEESEN. 

"Monday,  21st.—I  can  think  of  nothiuff  but  my  loss;  it  i? dreadf al  to  haxe no 
actnal  details,  to  think  of  her  alone  in  her  TaPt  moments  without  consolation,  wjtb- 
ont  SI  crentur3  to  speak  to,  to  whom  to  express  her  last  v»iehes ;  it  is  horrible  Those 
hellish  UiOiistere  !    No,  without  revenge  on  them  my  heart  will  never  be  satiefled." 

Gustavus  III.  had  fallen  by  the  hands  of  an  assassin  at  a  masked  halL 
The  King  of  France  had  already  been  beheaded,  the  Prmcesse  de  Lam- 
balle  mnrdered  by  the  mob  of  Paris  in  a  manner  too  horrible  to  relate. 
and  now  the  Queen,  who  trusted  him  and  him  alone,  had  been  dragged 
in  a  cart  with  her  hands  tied  behind  her  to  the  place  of  execution  and 
subjected  to  the  insults  of  a  brutal  popujaco.  What  alieTiation  could 
there  be  to  a  blow  hke  this  ?  Coimt  Ftrsen  was  soon  recalled  to  Sweden 
by  the  Regent,  and  henceforth  he  interested  himself  mainly  in  the  af - 
fairs  of  his  country.  He  was  much  in  the  confidence  of  the  young 
King  Gustavus  IV.,  and  on  that  unfortunate  monarch's  expulsion  from 
the  throne,  Count  Fersen,  then  the  chiff  of  the  nobility  and  Graud 
IMarshal,  stall  remained  an  adherent  of  the  House  of  Vasa.  This  was 
the  cause  of  his  disastrous  end.  Count  Fersen,  whilst  assisting  at  thn 
funeral  of  Prince  Charles  of  Holstein,  who  had  beenseJected  to  succeed 
to  the  throne  of  Sweden,  was  murdered  in  the  most  cowardly  and  cmel 
manner  by  the  mob  of  Stockholm.  His  last  words  were  an  appeal  to 
God,  b'fore  whom  he  was  about  to  appear,  to  spare  his  assassins,  and 
this  happened  in  1810,  on  the  twcniieth  of  Jun>',  the  annivezBary  of  his 
daring  enterprise.  Temple  Bar. 


THE 

LIBEART  MAGAZINE. 

MARCH,  1879. 


CHAPTERS  ON  80CIAZJB1L 

PRKLTMrNABY  NOTICE. 

It  was  in  the  jeax  1869  thai,  impres83d  with  the  degree  in  which  even 
dimng  the  last  twenty  years,  whan  the  world  seemed  so  wholly  occu- 
pied  with  other  matters,  the  sociiUist  ideas  of  speculative  thinkers  had 
spread  among  the  workers  in  every  civilised  country,  Mr.  Mill  formed 
the  ddfdgn  of  writing  a  book  on  Socialism.     Convinced  that  the  inevit- 
able tendencies  of  modern  society  must  be  to  bring  the  questions  in- 
volved in  it  always  mora  and  mora  to  the  front,  hs  thought  it  of  great 
practical  consequence  that  they  should  be  thoroughly  and  impartially 
considered,  and  the  lines  pointed  out  by  which  the  best  specuktively- 
tested  thdories  might,  without  prolongation  of  suffering  on  the  ona 
hand,  or  unnecessary  disturbance  on  the  other,  be  applied  to  the  exist- 
ing ordar  of  things.     He  therefore  planned  a  work  which  should  g3 
e^ustively  through  the  whol3  subject,  point  by  point ;  and  the  fionr 
chapters  now  printed  are  the  first  rough  drafts  thrown  down  towards 
the  foundation  of  that  work.     These  chapters  might  not,  when  tb3 
work  came  to  be  completely  written  out  and  then  re- written,  according 
to  the  author's  habit,  have  appeared  in  the  present  order  •  they  migLt 
faaye  been  incorporated  into  different  parts  of  the  work.     It  has  not 
been  without  hesitation  that  I  have  yielded  to  the  urgent  wish  of  th^ 
editor  of  this  Beview  to  give  these  chapters  to  the  world ;  but  I  have 
complied  with  his  request  because,  while  they  appear  to  me  to  possess 
great  intrinsic  value  as  well  as  special  application  to  the  problems  now 
forcing  thei^selves  on  public  attention,  ^hey  will  not,  I  believe,  detract 
even  from  the  mere  literary  reputation  of  their  author,  but  will  rather 
form  an  example  of  the  patient  labour  with  which  good  work  is  dons. 
Janvarjf,  187*.  HsLEN  TAYliOB. 

INTBODTJCTOBT. 

In  the  great  country  beyond  the  Atlantic,  which  is  now  weU-n'jjh  the 
fflost  powerful  country  in*  the  world,  and  will  soon  b3  indisputably  so, 
manhood  suffrage  prevails.  Such  is  also  the  political  qualification  of 
^nmoe  since  1848,  and  has  become  that  of  the  German  OonfederatioUy 

(257) 


2S8  ^  _        CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIAMSBL 

thongh  not  of  all  the  Beveral  stateB  camposing  it^  In  Great  Britain  the 
suffrage  is  not  yet  bo  widely  extended,  but  the  last  Kefozm  Act  admitted 
within  what  is  called  the  pale  of  ihe  Constitution  so  large  a  body  of 
those  wholive  on  weekly  wages,  that  as  soon  and  as  often,  as  ihjese  Bhail 
choose  to  act  together  as  a  ciass,  and  exert  for  any  comnkOD.  object  Ui^ 
whole  of  the  electoral  power  which  our  present  inistitutknis  give  them, 
they  will  exercise^  though  not  a  complete  ascendancy,  a  Tery  great  in. 
fluence  on  legislation.  Now  thesd  are  the  very  class  which,  in 
the  Tocabnlary  of  the  higher  ranks,  aaro  ssad  to  hare  no  stake  in 
the  country.  Of  course  they  have  in  reality  the  greatest  stake, 
since  their  daily  bread  depends  <hi.  its  prosperity.  But  they  are 
not  engaged  (we  may  call  it  bribed)  by  any  peculiar  interest  of  their 
own,  to  the  support  of  property  as  it  is,  least  of  all  to  the  support  of 
inequaUties  of  property.  So  far  as  their  power  reaches,  or  may  here- 
after  reach,  the  laws  of  property  have  to  depend  for  support  upon  con^ 
eiderations  of  a  public  nature,  upon  the  estunate  made  c(  their  condn- 
civeness  to  the  general  welfare,  and  not  upon  motives  of  a  mere  p^r. 
sonal  character  operating  on  the  Tnin/la  of  thoso  who  have  control  oxer 
the  Gkyvemment. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  greatness  of  this  change  is  as  yet  by  no 
means  completely  realised,  either  by  those  who  opposed,  or  by  tiiosa 
who  effected  our  last  constitutional  reform.     To  say  the  truth,  ttie  per- 
ceptions of  Englishmen  are  of  late  somewhat  blunted  as  to  iho  tendrn- 
cics  of  political  changes.     They  have  seen  so  many  changes  made,  from 
which,  whilo  only  in.  procpect,  vact  expectations  were  entertained,  bota 
of  evil  and  pf  good,  while  tho  results  of  either  kind  that  actually  fc!- 
lowed  seemed  far  short  of  what  had  been  predicted,  that  they  havj 
come  to  feel  as  if  it  were  the  nature  of  pohtical  changes  not  to  fiLl-l 
expectation,  and  have  fallen  into  a  habit  of  hsiIf-unconsciouB  belif 
that  such  changes,  when  they  take  place  without  a  violent  revoluticn, 
do  not  much  or  permanently  disturb  in  practico  the  course  of  tiii:    ? 
habitual  to  the  country.     Tins,  however,,  is  but  a  BnpcrQcial  view  cii'.  r 
of  0x0  past  or  of  thj  future.     Tho  various  reforms  of  the  last  tv.  j 
generations  have  been  at  least  as  fruitful  in  important  c<mseqnenc  s 
as  was  foretold.     The  predictions  were  often  erroneous  as  to  tl- ' 
suddenness  of  the  eliccts,   and  sometimes  even  cs  to  the  kind  cf 
effect.     We  laugh  at  the  vain,  expectations  of  those  who  thought  th-.t 
CathoUc  emancipation  would  tranquillise  Ireland,  or  recancilo  it  to 
British  rule.     At  the  end  of  the  first  tan  years  of  the  Iteform  Act  cf 
1832,   few  continued  to    think    either   that  it  would  remove  even' 
important  practical  grievance,   or  that  it  had    opened  the  door  to 
xmiversal  suffrage,     fiut  five-and-twenty-years  more  of  its  operation 
have  given  scopo  for  a  large  development  of   its  indirect  working, 
which  is  much  moro  momentous  than  the  direct.     Sudden  effects  in 
history  are  generally  siiporficial.    .Causes  which  go  deep  down  into 
tho  roota  of  futiiro  evert  i  produce  the  most  serious  parts  cf  their  effttt 
only  clowly,  and  have,  tlicrefore,  time  to  become  a  part  of  tho  faTnili.iT 


CaaAFTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.  259 

oelsr  of  things  before  geneml  attention  is  called  to  the  changes  they  ar« 
proda<Hng ;  since,  when  the  changes  do  become  evident,  they  are  often 
not  seen,  by  eaxaory  observers,  to  be  in  any  pecoliar  manner  connected 
with  the  caose.  The  remoter  consequences  of  a  new  political  fkct  are 
seldom  nndenitood  when  they  oocnr,  except  when  they  have  been  ap- 
preciated beforehand. 

This  timely  appreciation  is  particnlarly  easy  in  respect  to  the  tenden. 
cies  of  the  change  made  in  onr  institations  by  the  Keform  Act  of  1867. 
The  great  increase  of  eleotosal  power  which  the  Act  places  within  the 
reach  of  the  working  classes  is  permanent^  The  ciivunistanees  which 
bave  cansed  them,  ^os  far,  to  make  a  vefy  limUed  use  of  that  power, 
are  easentiaUy  temporary.  It  is  known  even  to  the  most  inobser^'ant, 
that  the  working  cesses  have,  and  are  likely  to  have,  pohtical  objects 
which  ooncCTn  them  as  woridng  classes,  and  on  which  they  believe^ 
lightly  or  wvon^y,  that  the  interests  and  opinions  ci  the  other  power- 
fnl  dasses  are  opposed  to  theirs.  However  mnch  their  pnssnit  of  these 
objects  may  be  for  the  preset-retarded  by  want  of  Sectoral  organiza- 
tion, by  dissensions  among  themselves,  or  by  their  not  having  rednced 
as  yet  thdr  wishes  into  a  sufficiently  definite  practical  shape,  it  is  as 
certain  as  anything  in  politics  can  be,  that  they  wiU  before  long  find  the 
metms  of  nwlrtng  their  collective  electoral  power  effectively  instm- 
mental  io  the  promotion  of  their  collective  objects.  And  when  they  do 
so,  it  will  not  be  in  the  disorderly  and  ineffective  way  which  belongs  to 
B  people  not  habituated  to  the  use  of  legxd  and  constitutional  machinery, 
nor  will  it  be  by  the  impulse  of  a  mere  instinct  of  levelUng.  The  in<- 
stnunents  wHi  be  the  press,  publio  meetings  and  associations,  and  the 
retoxn  to  Parliament  of  the  greatest  possible  number  of  persons  pledged 
to  the  political  aims  of  the  working  classes.  The  political  aims  will 
themsslves  be  detsrmined  by  definite  political  doctrines^  tor  politics 
are  now  scientaficaUy  studied  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  working 
dassea,  and  opinions  conceived  in  the  -special  Interest  of  those  classes 
are  oi^^anized  into  systems  and  creeds  which  lay  claim  to  a  place  on  the 
platform  of  politicsd  philosophy,  by  tho  same  right  as  the  systems 
elaborated  by  previous  thinkera.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that 
all  reflecting  persons  should  take  into  early  consideration  what  these 
popular  politicaT  creeds  are  likely  to  be,  and  that  every  single  article  of 
them  should  be  brought  under  the  fullest  light  of  investigation  and  dis- 
cnsaon,  so  that,  if  possible,  when  the  time  shall  be  ripe,  whatever  is 
rght  in  them  may  be  adopted,  and  what  is  wrong  rejected  by  general 
consent,  and  that  instead  of  a  hostile  conflict,  physical  or  only  moral, 
between  the  old  and  the  new,  the  best  parts  of  both  may  be  combined 
in  a  renovated  social  fabric.  At  the  ordinary  pace  of  those  great  social 
c!ianges  which  are  not  effected  by  physical  violfTice,  we  have  before  us 
an  interval  of  about  a  generation,  on  the  due  employment  of  which  it 
Spends  whether  the  arcommodation  of  social  institutions  to  the  tdtered 
t-:t)  cf  htt^xnn  so^nly,  shall  b.^  the  work  of  wise  foresight,  or  of  a 
con£!i:t  of  op»x)sito  prejudices.     The  future  of  mankind  will  be  gravely 


r 


260  CHAl-TERS  OiT  SOCIALISM. 

imperilled^  if  great  questions  ara  l?ftto  ba  fought  over  between  ignorant 
cliaage  and  ignorant  opposition  to  chango. 

And  tha  discussion  that  is  now  required  is  one  that  must  fy  down  to 
the  very  first  principles  of  existing  society.  Tho  fundamental  doctripcs 
which  were  assunitd  as  incontcBtahle  by  former  generations,  aro  now  put 
again  on  tht  r  trial.  Until  tho  present  ag^,  tl:e  institution  of  properly 
in  the  shapo  in  which  it  has  been  handed  dowp.  from  the  past,  had  not, 
except  by  a  few  speculative  writers,  been  brought  seriously  into  question, 
because  the  confiicta  of  the  past  have  always  been  conflicts  between 
classes,  both  of  w  ich  had  a  stake  in  €x3  existing  constitution  of  pro- 
p:rty.  It  will  not  be  pohsiblo  to  rp  on  longer  in  tins  manner.  When  tho 
discussion  includes  classas  who  have  next  to  no  property  of  their  own, 
and  ara  only  intorested  in  the  institution  so  far  as  it  is  a  public  benetlt, 
'ttiey  will  not  allow  any  tiling  to  be  taken  for  granted — certainly  not  the 
principle  of  private  property,  the  legitimacy  and  utility  of  which  arj 
denied  by  many' of  the  reasoners  who  look  out  from  the  standpoint  oi 
the  working  classes.  Those  (lasses  will  certainly  demand  that  the  Enl> 
ject,  in  all  its  part  j,  shall  be  reconsidered  from  the  foundation ;  that  ril 
proposals  for  doing  without  th3  inst'tuticn,  and  all  modes  of  modifying 
it  which  have  tho  appaaranco  of  being  favourable  to  the  int.reet  of  tlij 
working  class38,  shall  r«3ceivo  the  fullest  consideration  and  discussion 
before  it  is  decided  that  the  subject  must  remain  as  it  is.  As  far  as  HAi 
country  is  concerned,  the  dispositions  of  the  working  classes  have  as  yet 
manifested  themselves  hostile  only  to  certain  outlying  portions  of  tlie 
proprietary  sy8t^-'m.  Many  of  them  desire  to  withdraw  questions  of 
wages  from  the  freedom  of  contract,  which  is  one  of  the  ordinary  attri- 
butions of  private  property.  The  more  aspiring  of  them  dany  that  land 
is  a  proper  subject  for  privata  appropriation,  and  have  commenced  aD 
agitation  for  its  resumption  by  the  State.  With  this  is  combined,  in  tha 
speeches  of  some  of  the  agitators,  a  denunciation  of  what  they  temi 
usury,  but  without  any  definition  of  what  they  mean  by  the  name ;  and 
the  GTy  does  not  seem  to  b  3  of  home  origin,  but  to  have  been  caught  up 
from  the  iut'ircoursj  which  has  recently  commenced  through  the 
Labour  Congress  ?s  and  th.i  International  Society,  with  the  continental 
Ho^ialisLa  who  object  to  all  interest  on  money,  and  deny  the  legitimacy 
of  deriving  an  incom  3  in  any  form  from  property  apart  from  labour. 
Tiiis  doctrine  does  not  as  yet  show  signs  of  being  widely  prevalenJ 
in  Great  Britiiin,  but  the  soil  is  well  prepared  to  receive  the  seeds  of  thia 
description  which  are  widely  scattered  from  those  foreign  countries 
where  large,  general  theories,  and  schemes  of  vast  promise,  instead  ot 
inspiring  distrust,  are  essential  to  the  popularity  of  a  cause.  It  is  in 
France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland  that  anti-property  doctrines  in  th> 
widest  sense  have  drawn  large  bodies  of  working-men  to  rally  roond 
them.  In  these  countries  nearly  all  those  who  aim  at  reforming  society 
in  the  interest  of  the  working  (Masses  profess  themselves  Socielists,  a 
designation  under  which  schemes  of  very  diverse  character  are  com- 
prehended and  confounded,  but  which  implies  at  least  a  remodeUisg 


CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.  261 

generally  sppi'bachmg  to  abolition  of  the  institation  of  i»iTate  prop* 
eity.  And  it  would  probably  be  found  that  even  in  England  the  more 
prominent  and  active  leaders  of  the  working  classes  are  usually  in 
their  private  creed  Socialists  of  one  order  or  another,  though  being, 
like  most  English  politicians,  better  aware  than  their  Continental  breth- 
ren  that  g^t  and  permanent  changes  in  the  fundamental  ideas  of  man- 
kind are  not  to  be  accomplished  by  a  coup  de  main^  they  direct  their 
practical  efforts  towards  ends  which  seem  within  easier  reach,  and  are 
content  to  hold  back  all  extreme  theories  until  there  has  been  experience 
of  the  operation  of  the  same  principles  on  a  partial  scale.  "While  such 
continueR  to  be  the  character  of  the  English  working  classes,  as  it  is  of 
Englishmen  in  general,  they  are  not  likely  to  rush  headlong  into  the 
retMess  extremities  of  somectf  the  foreign  Socialists,  who,  even  in  sober 
Switzerland,  proclaim  themselves  content  to  begin  by  simple  subver- 
sion, leaving  the  subsequent  reconstruction  to  take  care  of  itself;  and 
by  subversion  they  mean  not  only  the  annihilation  of  all  government, 
but  getting  all  property  of  all  kinds  out  of  the  hands  of  the  possessors 
to  be  used  for  the  general  benefit;  but  in  what  mode  it  will,  they  say, 
be  time  enough  afterwards  to  decide. 

The  avowal  of  this  doctrine  by  a  public  newspaper,  the  organ  of  an 
association  ^La  Solidaritc,")  published  at  Neuch&t^l),  is  one  of  the 
the  most  curious  signs  of  the  times.  Thd  leaders  of  the  English  work- 
ing men — whose  delegates  at  the  congresses  of  Geneva  and  Bale  contri- 
bated  much  the  greatest  part  of  such  practical  common  sense  as  was 
shown  there — are  not  likely  to  begin  deliberately  by  anarchy,  without 
having  formed  any  opinion  as  to  what  form  of  society  E^iould  be  estab- 
lished in  the  room  of  the  old.  But  it  is  evident  that  whatever  they  do 
propose  can  only  be  properly  judged,  and  the  grounds  of  the  judgment 
mads  convincing  to  the  general  mind,  on  the  basis  of  a  previous  survey 
of  the  two  rival  theories,  that  of  private  property  and  that  of  Socialism, 
one  or  other  of  which  must  necessarily  fumish  most  of  the  premises  in 
the  discussion.  Before,  therefore,  we  can  usefully  discuss  this  class  of 
questions  in  detail,  it. will  ba  advisable  to  examine  from  their  foundations 
tiie  general  questions  raised  by  Socialism.  And  this  examination  should 
be  made  without  any  hostile  prejudice.  However  irrefutable  the  argu> 
mentsin  favour  of  ,tiie  laws  of  property  may  appear  to  those  to  whom 
tiiey  have  the  double  prestige  of  immemorial  custom  and  of  personal 
interest,  nothing  is  more  natural  than  that  a  working  man  who  has  be- 
gnn  to  speculate  on  politics,  should  regard  them  in  »  very  different  light. 
Having  after  long  struggles,  attained  in  some  countries,  and  nearly  at- 
tained in  others,  the  point  at  which  for  them,  at  least,  there  is  no  fur- 
ther progress  to  make  in  the  department  of  purely  political  rights,  is  it 
possible  that  theless  fortunate  classes  among  the  ^'  adult  males"  should 
sot  ask  themselves  whether  progress  ought  to  stop  there  ?  Notwith- 
st^ding  all  that  has  been  done,  and  all  that  seems  hkely  to  be  done,  in  i 

the  extension  of  franchises,  a  few  are  bom  to  great  riches,  and  the         | 
naay  to  a  penaiy,  made  only  more  grating  by  contrast.    Ko  longer  e^-        ■ 


262  C3HAPTEBS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

riaved  or  made  dependent  by  force* of  law,  the  great  majority  ace  aa  by 
force  of  poverty ;  they  are  still  chained  to  a  place,  to  an  occapation, 
and  to  conformity  with  the  will  of  an  employi;r,  and  debarred  by  the 
accident  of  birth  both  from  the  enjoyments,  and  from  the  jnental  ftnd 
moral  advantages,  which  others  inherit  without  exertion  and  independ- 
ently of  desert.  That- this  is  an  evil  equal  to  almost  any  of  tMtoe  against 
which  mankind  have  hitherto  struggled,  |he  poor  are  not  wrong  in  be- 
lieving. Is  it  a  necessary  evil  ?  'Ihey  are  told  so  by  those  who  do 
not  feel  it — by  those  who  have  gained  the  prizes  in  the  lottciy  of 
life.    But  it  was  also  said  that  slavery,  that  despotism,  that  all  the 

grivileges  ai  otigarchy  were  necessary.  All  the  suooessi/e  steps  that 
ave  b^en  made  by  the  poorer  classes,  partly  won  from  the  better  feel- 
ings  of  the  powerful,  pcurtly  extorted  from  their  fears,  and  partly  boaght 
with  money,  or  attained  in  exchange  for  support  given  to  one  section  of 
the  powerfal  in  its  quarrels  with  another,  had  the  strongest  prejudices 
opposed  to  them  beforehand ;  but  their  acquisition  was  a  sign  of  power 
gained  by  the  subordinate  dl£^sses,  a  means  tO  those  classes  of  acquiring 
more  ;  it  conseqnently  drew  to  those  classes  a  certain  share  of  the  respect 
accorded  to  power,  and  produced  a  corresponding  modification  in  the 
creed  of  society  reelecting  them ;  whatever  advantages  they  succeeded 
in  acquiring  eame  to  be  consider4;d  their  due,  whSe,  of  those  which 
thoy  had  not  yet  attained,  they  continued  to  be  deemed  unworthy. 
The  clasfiies,  therefore,  which  the  system  of  society  makes  subordinate, 
have  little  reason  to  put  faith  in  any  of  the  maxims  which  the  same 
system  of  society  may  have  established  as  principles.  Considering 
that  the  opinions  of  mankind  have  been  found  so  wonderfully  flex- 
ible, have  always  tended  to  consecrate  existing  facts,  and  to  declare 
what  did  not  yet  exist,  either  pernicious  or  impracticable,  what  assur- 
ance have  those  classes  that  the  distinction  of  rich  and  poor  is 
grounded  on  a  more  imperative  necessity  than  those  other  ancient 
and  long-established  facts,  which,  having  been  abohshed,  are  now  con- 
demned even  by  those  who  formerly  profited  by  them  ?  This  cannot  be 
taken  on  the  word  of  an  interested  party.  The  working  classes  are  en- 
titled to  claim  that  the  whole  field  of  social  institutions  ^ould  be  re-«x- 
amlned,  and  every  question  considered  as  if  it  now  arose  for  the  first 
time ;  with  the  idea  constantly  in  view  ih&t  the  persons  who  are  tx>  be 
convinced  are  not  those  who  owe  their  ease  and  importance  to  the  pres- 
ent system,  but  persons  who  have  no  other  interest  in  the  matter  than 
abstract  justice  and  the  general  good  of  the  community.  It  should  be 
the  object  to  ascertain  what  institntioiis  of  property  would  be  estab- 
lished by  an  unprejudiced  legislator,  absolutely  impartial  between  the 
possessors  of  property  and  the  non^'possessors ;  and  to  defend  and 
justify  them  by  the  reasons  which  would  really  influence  such  a  legis- 
lator, and  not  by  such  as  have  the  appearance  of  being  got  up  to  make 
out  a  case  for  what  already  exists.  Such  rights  or  privileges  of  pro- 
perty  as  will  not  stand  this  test  will,  sooner  or  later,  have  to  be  given 
'     An  impartial  hearing  ought,  moreover,  to  be  given  to  all  objeoii 


CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.  2«S 

tions  agiunst  property  itself.  AH  evils  and  inconyenienceB  attachmg  .to 
the  institiition  in  its  best  form  ought  to  be  frankly  admitted,  and  tho 
best  remedies  or  palliatiTes  applied  which  human  intelligence  is  able  to 
devise.  And  all  plans  proposed  by  social  reformers,  nnder  whatever 
name  designated,  for  the  purpose  of  attaining  the  benefits  aimed  at  by 
the  histitation.  of  property  without  its  inconveniences,  should  bo  cxaiu- 
ia^  with  the  same  c&udoar,  not  prejulged  as  absurd  or  impracticable. 

fiOCXililSI  OBJECTIONS  TO  THE  PBESENT  OBSEB  OF  80CXETT. 

As  in  all  proposals  for  chaaoge  there  are  two  elements  to  be  considered 
—that  which  is  to  be  changed,  and  that  which  it  is  to  be  changed  to — so 
in  Socialism  oonaiddred  generally,  and  in  each  of  its  varieties  taken 
Bepaxately,  there  ard  two  parts  to  be  distinguished,  the  one  negative  and 
cntical,  Uke  other  constructive.  There  is,  first,  the  judgment  of  ^o- 
cialiBm  on  existing  institutions  and  practices  and  on  their,  results ;  and 
Bdcondly,  the  various  plans  which  it  has  propounded  for  doing  better. 
In  the  former  all  the  different  schools  of  Socialism  are  at  one.  They 
agree  almost  to  identity  in  the  faults  which  they  find  Y^ith  the  econom- 
ic order  of  existing  society.  Up  to  a  certain  point  also  they  entertain 
the  same  general  conception  of  the  remedy  to  be  provided  for  those 
f&nlts ,  but  in  the  details,  notwithstanding  this  general  agreement,  there 
is  a  wide  disparity.  It  will  be  both  natural  and  convenient,  in  attempt- 
ing an  estimate  of  their  doctrines,  to  begin  with  the  negative  portR>n 
which  is  common  to  them  all,  and  to  postpone  all  mention  of  their  dif- 
ferences until  we  arrive  at  that  second  part  of  their  undertaking,  in 
which  al<me  they  s^ously  differ. 

This  first  part  of  our  task  is  by  no  means  difficult ;  since  it  consists 
only  in  an  enumeration  of  existing  evils.  Of  these  there  is  no  scarcity, 
and  most  of  them  are  by  no  means  obscure  or  mysterious.  Many  of 
ihem  are  the  veriest  commonplaces  of  moralists,  though  the  roots  even 
of  these  he  deeper  t^n  mor^dists  usually  attempt  to  penetrate.  So  va- 
rious are  they  that  the  only  difficulty  is  to  make  any  approach  to  an 
exhaustive  catalogue.  We  shall  content  ourselves  for  the  present  with 
mentioning  a  few  of  the  principal  And  let  one  thing  be  remembered 
by  the  reader.  Wh^i  item  af tdr  item  of  the  enumeration  passes  before 
him.  and  he  finds  one  fact  after  another  which  he  has  been  accustomed 
to  include  among  the  necessities  of  nature  urged  as  an  accusation 
against  social  institutions,  he  is  not  entitled  to  ciy  unfairness,  and  to 
protest  that  the  evils  ^mplained  of  are  inherent  in  Man  and  Society, 
and  are  such  as  no  arrangements  can  remedy.  To  assert  this  would  be 
to  beg  the  very  question  at  issue.  No  one  is  more  ready  than  Socialists 
to  admit — they  affirm  it  indeed  much  more  decidedly  than  truth  war- 
rants—that the  evils  they  complain  of  are  irremediable  in  the  present 
conatitation  of  aociety.  They  propose  to  consider  whether  some  other 
form  of  society  may  be  devised  which  would  not  be  liable  tc  those  evils, 
or  would  be  liable  to  them  in  a  much  less  degree.  Those  who  object 
to  the  present  eider  of  society,  considered  as  a  whole,  and  who  accept 


2G4  CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

IIS  an  alternativo  the  possibility  of  a  total  change,  have  a  right  to  set 
down  all  the  evils  which  at  present  exist  iu  socit ty  as  part  of  their  caso, 
whether  thsse  are  apparently  attributable  to  social  arrangements  or  not, 
provided  they  do  not  flow  from  physical  laws  which  human  power  is  not 
adequate,  or  human  Imowledge  has  not  yet  learned,  to  counteract. 
Moral  evils,  and  such  physical  evils  as  would  bo  romedied  if  ail  persons 
did  as  they  ought,  arj  lairly  chargcablo  against  the  state  of  society 
which  admits  of  them  ;  cud  aro  valid  as  arguments  until  it  is  shown 
that  any  other  state  of  society  would  involve  an  equal  or  greater  amount 
of  such  evils.  In  the  opinion  of  Socialists,  the  present  arrangements 
of  society  in  rospect  to  Property  ^d  the  Production  and  Distribution  of 
Wealth,  arc,  as  means  to  the  general  good,  a  total  failure.  They  say 
that  thcrj  is  an  enormous  mass  of  evU  wliit>h  llicso  arrangements  do  net 
succeed  in  preyenting ;  that  the  good,  cith.r  moral  or  physical,  which 
they  realiso  is  vvretchedly  small  compared  v/ith  the  amount  of  exertion 
employed,  and  that  even  this  6.naU  amount  of  good  is  brought  about  by 
means  which  are  full  o:!  pernicious  consequences,  mond  and  physical. 

First  aniong  existing  social  evils  may  be  mentioned  the  evil  af  Pov- 
erty. The  institution  of  Property  is  upheld  and  commended  prin- 
cipally as  being  the  means  by  which  labour  and  frugality  are .  in- 
sured their  reward,  and  mankind  enabled  to  emerge  from  indigence. 
It  may  be  so;  most  Sociahsts  allow  that  it  has  been  so  in  earlier 
periods  of  history.  But  if  the  institution  can  do  nothing  more  or  better 
in  this  respect  than  it  has  hitherto  done,  its  capabihties,  they  aHirm,  axd 
very  insignificant  What  proportion  of  the  population,  in  the  most 
civUised  countries  of  Europe,  enjoy  in  their  own  persons  anything  worth 
naming  of  the  benefits  of  property?  It  may  be  said,  that  but  for 
property  in  the  hands  of  their  employers  they  would  be  without  daily 
bread ;  but,  though  this  be  conceded,  at  least  their  daily  bread  is  pli 
that  they  havs ;  and  that  often  in  insufficient  quantity^  almost  always  of 
inferior  quality ;  and  with  no  assurance  of  continuing  to  have  it  at  all ; 
an  immense  proportion  of  the  industrious  classes  being  at  some  period 
or  other  of  their  lives  (and  ail  being  liable  to  become)  dependent,  at  kast 
temporarily,  on  legal  or  voluntary  charity.  Any  attempt  to  depict  the 
mis3ries  of  indigence,  or  to  estimate  the  proportion  of.  mankind  who  iu 
the  most  advanced  countries  are  habitually  given  up  during'  their  whol<3 
existence  to  its  physical  and  moral  sufferings,  would  be  superfluous  here. 
This  may  be  left  to  philanthropists,  who  have  painted  th'^s*?  miseries  in 
colours  sufficiently  strong.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  condition  of  num- 
bers in  civilised  Europe,  and  even  in  England  and  France,  is  mora 
wretched  than  .that  of  most  tribes  of  savages  who  are  known  to  us. 

It  may  be  said  that  of  this  hard  lot  no  ono  has  any  reason  to  complain, 
because  it  befalls  those  only  who  are  outstripped  by  others,  from  in- 
f  t^riority  of  energy  or  of  prudence.  This,  even  were  it  true,  would  be  a 
very  small  alleviation  of  the'  evil.  If  some  Nero  or  Domitian  were  to 
r.^quire  a  hundred  persons  to  run  a  race  for  their  lives,  on  condition  that 
the  fifteen  or  twenty  who  came  in  hindmost  should  be  put  to  death,  it 


CHAPTEBS  OK  SOCIALISM.  ,-       265 

iroQla  not  he  any  dit&inTition  of  the  injustice  that  the  strongMit  or 
lumblest  would,  except  through  some  untoward  accident^  be  certain  to 
escape.  The  midery  and  the  crime  wotild  be  tbat  any  were  pat  to  death 
at  aU.  So  in  the  economy  of  society ;  if  there  be  any  who  suffer  physi* 
cal  priTfltion  or  moral  degradation,  whose  bodily  necessities  are  either  not 
satisfied  or  satislicd  in  a  manner  which  only  brutish  creatures  can  be  con- 
tent with,  this,  though  not  necessarily  the  crime  of  society,  is  pro  tnnto  a 
failure  of  the  social  arrangements*  And  to  an^sert  as  a  mitigation  of  the 
evil  that  those  who  thus  v^et9XQ  the  weaker  members  of  the  community, 
mor&Uy  or  physically,  ia  to  add  insult  to  misfortune.  Is  weakness  a 
justification  of  sufii'ering?  Is  it  not,  on  the  contrary^  an  irresistible 
claim  upon  every  hximan  being  for  protection  against  suffering?  If  Uie 
minds  and  feelings  of  the  prosperous  were  in  a  right  state,  would  they 
accept  theit  prosperity  if  for  the  sake  of  it  even  one  person  near  them 
was,  for  any  other  cause  than  voluntary  fault,  excluded  from  obtaining 
a  desirable  existenbe  ? 

One  thing  there  is,  which  if  it  could  be  affirmed  truly,  would  relieve 
flocifll  mstitutions  from  any  share  in  the  responsibility  of  these  evils. 
Since  the  human  race  has  no  means  of  enjoyable  existence,  or  of 
existence  at  aU,  but  what  it  derives  from  its  own  labour  and  abstinence, 
there  would  be  no  ground  for  complaint  against  society  if  every  one  who 
was  willing  to  undergo  a  fair  share  of  this  labour  and  abstinence  could 
attain  a  fair  share  of  the  fruits.  But  is 'this  the  fact?  Is  it  not  the 
reverse  of  the  fact  ?  The  reward,  instead  of  being  proportioned  to  the 
labour  and  abstinence  of  the  individual,  is  almost  in  an  inverse  ratio  to 
it;  those  who  receive  the  least,  labour  and  abstain  the  most  Even  the 
idle,  reckless,  and  ill-conducted  poor,  those  who  are  said  with  most  jus- 
tice to  have  themselvefc  to  blame  for  their  condition,  often  undergo  much 
more  and  severer  labour,  not  only  than  those  who  are  bom  to  pecuniary 
independence,  but  than  almost  any  of  the  more  highly  remunerated  of 
those  who  earn  their  subsistence  ;  and  even  the  inadequate  self-control 
exeroised  by  the  industrious  \)00y  costs  them  more  sacrifice  and  more 
effort  than  is  almost  ever  required  from  the  more  favoured  members  of 
society.  The  very  idea  of  distributive  justice,  or  of  any  proportionality 
between  success  and  merit,  or  between  success  and  exertion,  is  in  the 
present  state  of  society  so  manifestly  chimerical  as  to  be  relegated  to  the 
regions  of  romance.  It  is  true  that  the  lot  of  individuals  is  not  wholly 
independent  of  their  virtue  and  intelligence ;  these  do  really  tell  in  their 
favour,  but  far  less  than  many  other  things  in  which  there  is  no  merit  at 
all.  The  most  powerful  of  all  the  determining  circumstances  is  birth. 
The  great  majority  are  what  they  were  bom  to  be  Some  are  bom  rich 
without  work,-  others  are  bom  to  a  position  in  which  they  can  become 
rich  hy  work,  the  great  majority  are  bom  to  hard  work  and  poverty 
throughout  life,  numbers  to  indigenoe.  Next  to  birth  the  chief  cause  Of 
success  in  life  is  accident  and  opportunity.  When  a  person  not  bom  to 
riches  succeeds  in  acquiring  them,  his  own  industry  and  dexterity  hav 
({encsall  J  cmrtrihrated  to  the  resn^:  but  industry  and  dexterity  wot 


26«  CHAPTBBS  ON  SOCIALlSSt  ; 

not  hard  sniffiood  unless  thero  had  been  also  a  ccmaaaeioiOQ  of  ocedsiaos 
and  chances  "which  falls  to  the  lot  of  only  a  smaH  nnmber^  If  peisons 
are  helped  in  their  worldly  career  by  their  virtues,  so  are  they,  and  per- 
haps quite  as  often,  by  their  vices :  by  sevility  and  sycophancy,  by  likrd- 
haarted  aod  close-fisted  selfishness,  by  the  permitted  hea  and  tricks  of 
trade,  by  gambling  speculations,  not  seldom  by  downright  knavery. 
Energies  and  talents  are  of  much  more  avail  for  suooess  in  life  thsn 
virtues ;  but  ii  one  man  succeeds  by  employing  energy  and  talent  in 
something  generally  useful,  another  thrives  by  exercising  the  same 
Qualities  in  out-gdneralling  and  ruining  a  rivaL  It  is  as  mueh  as  any 
moralist  ventures  to  assert,  that,  other  circumstant^es  being  given^  honesty 
is  the  best  policy,  and  that  with  parity  of  advantages  an  honest  petson 
has  better  chances  than  a  rogue,  j^ven  this  in  many  stations  and 
oircnmstances  of  life  is  questionable ;  anything  more  than  thi^  is  out  of 
the  question,  tt  cannot  be  pretended  that  honesty,  as  a  means  of  suc- 
cess, tells  for  as  much  as  a  difference  of  one  single  step  on  the  social 
laddar.  The  connection  between  fortune  and  conduct  is  mainly  this, 
that  there  is  a  degree  of  bad.  conduct,  or  rather  of  some  kindd  of  bad 
conduct,  which  suf&ces  to  ruin  any  amount  of  good  fortone ;  but  tho 
converse  is  not  true :  in  the  situation  of  most  people  no  degree  what- 
ever of  good  conduct  can  be  counted  upon  for  raising  them  in;  the 
world,  without  the  aid  of  fortunate  accidents. 

These  evils,  then — great  poverty,  and  that  poverfy  very  little  con- 
nected with  desert—nare  the  first  grand  failure  of  the  esistai^  arrange- 
ments of  society.  The  second  is  human  misconduct ;  crime,  viee,  and 
folly,  with  all  the  sufferings  which  follow  in, their  train.  For,  nearly 
all  the  forms  of  misconduct,  whetiier  committed  towards  oarselves  or 
towards  others,  may  be  traced  to  one  of  three  causes :  Povw^  and  its 
temptations  in  the  many ;  Idleness  and  dSscmm'ement  in  the  few  whose 
circumstances  do  not  compel  them  to  work ;  bad  educaticm,  or  want  of 
education,  in  both.  The  first  two  must  be  allowed  to  be  at  least  failures 
in  the  social  arrangements,  the  last  is  now  almost  xmiversally  fkdmitted  to 
be  the  fault  of  those  arrangements — ^it  may  almost  be  said  the  crime.  I  am 
speaking  loosely  and  in  the  rough,  for  a  minuter  analysis-of  the  sonvoes  of 
faults  of  character  and  errors  of  conduct  w<Hild  establish  far  more  con- 
cluMvely  the  filiation  which  connects  them  with  a  defective  oxganization 
of  society,  though  it  would  also  show  the  reciprocal  dependence  of  that 
faulty  state  of  society  on  a  backwsurd  state  of  the  human  mind. 

At  this  point,  in  the  enumeration  of  the  evils  of  society,  the  mere 
levellers  of  former  times  usually  stopped :  but  their  more  far-eighted 
successors,  the  present  Socialist,  go  farther.  In  their  eyes  the  very 
foundation  of  human  life  as  at  present  constituted,  the  very  prmoiple 
on  which  the  production  and  repartition  of  all  material  products  is  now 
carried  on^  is  essentially  vicious  and  antUsocial.  It  is  the  principle  of 
individuahsm,  competition,  each  one  for  himself  and  against  all  the 
rest.  It  is  grounded  on  opposition  of  interests,  not  harmony  of  inter- 
^  eats,  and  luider  it  evexy  one  is  required  to  find  his  place  by  a  BtroggU^ 


CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.  267 

by  pnshing  oihers  back  or  being  pnshed  back  by  them.  Socialists  oon« 
adsr  tiiis  system  ojf  private  var  (ps  it  m&j  bo  termed)  between  eycry 
one  aztd  every  ono,  c^ccially  fatal  in  an  economical  point  of  view  and 
in  amoraL  Morally  consid.red,  its  evib  arc  obvioiis.  It  is  th'o  parent 
of  envy,  hatred,  and  all  uncharitableness  r  it  makes  eveiy  one  tli3  natu- 
ral enemy  of  all  others  who  crosj  his  path,  and  every  onc^s  path  is  con- 
stantly liabla  to  be  crossed.  Under  tho  pr3s?nt  system  hardly  any  one 
can  gain  except  by  the  loss  or  disappointment  of  ono  or  of  many  others. 
In  a  wellMM>nstitated  community  every  one  would  be  a  gainer  by  ever^i 
other  pcrson^s  soocessful  exertions ;  whilo  now  we  gain  by  each  other's 
los3  and  loso  by  each  other's  gain,  and  our  grjat.":t  gains  come 
from  Va2  worst  EOnrco  of  all,  from  djath,  tli3  d:ath  of  those  who 
OTj  nearest  and  should  be  daarsst  to  us.  In  its  purely  economical 
operation  tho  principle  of  individual  competition  receives  as  un- 
qualified condemnation  from  the  social  reformers  as  ia  its  moral.  In 
the  competition  of  labourers  they  see  the  cause  of  low  wages ;  in 
the  competition  of  producers  the  cause  of  ruin  and  bankfuptcy; 
And  both  evilsy  they  aifivm,  tend  .constantly  to  increase*  as  popuhw 
tioaand  wealth  make  progress;  no  person  (they  conceive)  bding  bene* 
fitted  extsept  the  great  proprietors  of  laud,  the  holders  of  fixed  money 
incomes,  and  a  few  great  capitalists,  whosj  wealth  is  gradually  enabling 
them  to  undersell  all  other  producers,  to  absorb  tha  wholj  of  tho  opera- 
tions of  industry  into  their  own  sphere,  to  drive  from  the  market  all 
employers  of  labour  except  themselves,  and  to  convert  tho  labourers 
into  a  kind  of  slaves  or  serfs,  dependent  on  them  for  the  means  of  sup- 
port^ and  oompelled  to  accept  tiiese  on  such  tarms  as  they  choose  to 
offer.  Society,  in  short,  is  travelling  onward,  according  to  these  specu- 
latam,  towards  a  new  feudality,  that  of  the  great  capiteJists. 

As  I  shall  have  ample  opportunity  in  future  chapters  to  state  my  own 
opimon  on  these  topics,  and  on  many  others  connected  with  and  subor- 
dinate to  them,  I  shall  now,  virithout  further  preamble,  exhibit  the  opin- 
i(ms'Of  distinguished  Socialists  on  the  present  arrangements  of  society, 
in  a  selection  of  passages  from  their  published  writings.  For  the  pres- 
ent I  denre  to  be  oonsidered  as  a  mere  reporter  of  the  opinions  of 
others.  Hereafter  it  will  appear  how  much  of  what  I  cite  agrees  or 
differs  with  my  own  sentiments.  , 

The  elettresi,  the  most  compact,  and  the  most  ixrecise  and  specifio 
statement  of  the  case  of  the  Socialists  generally  against  the  existing 
Older  of  society  in  the  economical  department  of  human  affairs,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  uttle  work  of  M.  Louis  Blanc,  Organisation  du  Travail. 
My  first  extracts,  therefore,  on  this  part  of  the  subject,  shall  be  taken 
from  that  treatisd. 

*'  Competition  is  for  the  people  a  17818111  of  extermination.  Ib  ih«  poor  man  a 
member  of  society,  or  an  enemy  to  it  T    We  ask  for  an  answer. 

"  AU  nronnd  him  he  finds  the  soil  preoccupied.  Can  he  cultivate  the  earth  for  him- 
self? Ko ;  for  the  ri^ht  of  the  first  occupant  has  become  a  right  of  property.  Can 
kbfiftther  the  fruits  which  the  liaud  of  Qod  ripens  on  the  path  of  man  7    Ko ;  for. 


aes    >^  .     CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

like  the  soilt  the  fruits  have  been  appropri^tted.  Can  be  hunt  or  fish  ?  No ;  for  7bi4 
is  a  right  which  is  dependeut  npou  the  govern  meut.  Can  he  draw  water  from  a 
spring  ^iclosed  in  a  field  ?  No ;  for  the  proprietor  of  the  field  is,  in  virtue  of  his 
right  to  the  field,  proprietor  of  the  fountain.  Can  he,  d}ing  of  hanger  and  tliirst, 
stretch  out  his  hands  for  the  charity  of  his  f ellow-ci-eature@  ?  No ;  for  there  am  laws 
against  begging.  Can  he,  exhausted  by  fatigue  and  without  a  refuge,  lie  down  to 
Bleep  upon  the  pavement  of  the  streets  7  No ;  for  there  are  laws  sgaiust  vagaI)on- 
dage.  Can  he,  flying  from  the  cruel  native  land  where  everything  is  denied  him« 
seek  the.  means  of  living  far  from  the  place  where  life  was  given  him  7  No ;  for  it  is 
not  permitted  to  change  your  country  except  on  certain  conditions  which  the  poor 
man  cannot  ftdfil. 

•'  What,  then,  can  the  unhappy  man  do  7  H3  will  say.  *  I  hav«  hands  to  work  with 
I  have  intelligence,  I  have  ^outh,  I  have  strength ;  take  all  this,  and  in  retoru  give 
me  a  morsel  of  bread.'  This  is  what  the  workmg  men  do  say.  But  even  here  the 
poor  man  may  be  answered,  *  I  have  no  work  to  eive  yon.'    What  is  he  to  do  then  7  " 

*•  What  is  competition  from  the  point  of  -view  of  the  workman  .7  It  is  work  pot  up 
to  auction.  A  contractor  wants  a  workman ;  three  present  themselves.— How  much 
for  your  work  7 — Half-a-crown :  I  have  a  wife  and  children.— Well ;  and  how  much 
for  you  7— Two  shillings :  1  have  no  children,  but  1  have  a  wife.— Very  well ;  and  now 
how  much  for  yours?  One  and  eightpeUce  are  enough  forme ;  J  am  ^ngle.  Then 
you  shall  have  the  work.  It  is  done :  the  bargain  is  struck.  And  what  are  the  other 
two  workmen  to  do 7  It  is  tx>  be  hop3d  tifcjy  will  die  guietlt  of  hunger.  But  what  if 
they  take  to  thievinjg?  Never  fear ;  we  have  the  jjolice.  To  murder  7  We  have  got 
the  hangman.  As  lOr  the  lucky  one,  his  triumph  is  only  temporary.  Let  a  fourth 
M'orkman  make  his  appearance,  strong  enough  to  fast  every  other  day,  and 
his  price  will  run  down  still  lower :  then  there  wiU  be  a  new  outcast,  a  new  recruit  for 
the  prison  perhaps  I 

**  Will  it  be  said  that  these  melancholy  results  are  exaggerated ;  that  at  all  events 
they  are  only  possible  when  there  is  not  work  enough  for  the  hands  that  seek  em- 
ployment 7  but  I  ask,  in  answer,  Does  the  principle  of  competition  contain,  by  chance, 
within  itt«elf  any  method  by  which  this  murderous  disproportion  is  to  be  avoided  7 
If  one  branch  of  industry  is  in  want  of  hands,  who  can  answer  for  it  that,  in  the 
couf  nsfon  created  by  univsrsal  competition,  another  is  not  overstocked  7  And  if,  out 
of  thirty-four  millions  of  men,  twenty  are  really  reduced  to  theft  for  a  living,  this 
would  sufflce  to  condemn  the  principle. 

**  But  who  is  BO  blind  ail  not  to  seo  that  under  the  system  of  unlimited  competition, 
the  continual  fall  of  wages  is  no  exceptional  circumstance,  but  a  necessary  and  gen- 
eral fact  7  Has  the  population  a  limit  which  it  cannot  exceed  7  It  is  possible  for  us 
to  say  to  tffdnstry— inaustry  given  up  t-o  the  accidents  of  individual  egotism  end  fer- 
tile in  ruin— can  we  say,  ^  This  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  f&rther7'  The  ix>palation 
increases  constantly ;  tell  the  poor  mother  to  become  sterile,  and  bla8pb«me  the 
God  who  made  her  fruitful,  for  if  you  do  not  the  lists  will  soon  become  too  xiarrow 
for  the  combatants.  A  machine  is  invented :  command  it  to  be  broken,  and  ana- 
thematise science,  for  if  you  do  not,  the  thousand  workmen  whom  the  new  ma- 
chine deprives  of  work  will  knock  at  the  door  of  the  neighboni'ing  workshop,  and 
lower  the  wages  of  their  companions.  Thus  systematic  lowering  of  wages,  ending 
in  the  driving  out  of  a  certain  number  of  workmen,  is  the  inevitable  effect  of  unlim- 
ited competition.  It  is  an  industrial  svstem  by  means  of  which  the  working  rlsnnnr 
are  forced  to  exterminate  one  another.^' 


w 


'If  the^  is  an  undoubted  fact,  it  is  that  the  increase  of  population  is  much  mors 
rapid  among  the  poor  than  among  the  rich.  According  to  the  StatisUcB  cf  Buroptcn 
PvBvMtUm,  the  births  at  Paris  ait  only  one-thirtynsecond  of  the  popolatioB  in  the 
rich  quarters,  while  in  the  others  they  rise  to  one-twenty-sixth.  This  disiwoportion 
is  a  general  fact,  and  M.  de  Sismondi,  in  his  work  on  Political  BconotnT,  has  ex- 
plained it  by  the  impossibiUtv  for  the  workmen  of  hopeful  prudence.  Those  only 
who  feel  themselves  assured  of  the  morrow  can  regulate  the  number  of  their  children 
according  to  their  income ;  he  who  lives  from  day  to  day  is  under  the  yoke  of  a 
mysterious  fatality,  to  which  he  sacrifices  his  children  as  he  was  sacrificed  to  it  him- 
self. It  is  true  the  workhouses  exist,  menacing  society  with  an  inundation  of  b^ 
gars— what  way  is  there  of  escaphig  from  the  cause  T    •   •    .    .    It  is  ctow  tlMt  any 


OHAPTE]^  OK  SOCIALISM.  269 

society  whexe  tihe  roeanfB  of  enlieistciicc  Increase  less  rapidly  than  the  irambers  of  tb« 

popalation,  la  aflOcietj  on  the  brkik  of  tax  abyM '  Competition  prodneeB 

<lestitation ;  this  is  a  ftict  shown  by  statistics.  Destitution  is  feartally  wonfic ;  this 
is  shown  by  statistics.  The  fruittiilut'ss  of  the  noor  tiirows  npon  society  nnhappy 
cre^res  wiio  iiave  need  of  work  and  cauDOt  find  it ;  this  U  shown  by  statistics.  At 
this  point  society  is  reduced  to  a  choice  lietwcen  kilUiig  the  poor  or  TTiAfTifi».iyiitig 
tliear  grutnitoosly — ^between  atiocfty  or  folly." 

So  much  for  tlio  poor.     We  now  pass  to  the  zzuddle  classes. 

"According  to  the  political  ec-onomists  of  the  sch-^ol  of  Adam  Smith  and  L^on 
Sav,  ehgtqmets  is  the  word  in  which  may  be  summed  up  the  advantages  of  oulim- 
itoi  oompetitiim.  But  why  persist  in  cousidering  the  *M.cct  of  cheapnes-t  witli  a 
vi«vr  ODiy  to  the  momentary  advantage  (#  the  cousamer  t  Cheapness  is  advantage- 
008  to  tlie  consttmer  at  the  cost  of  iucrodacing  tl)e  seeds  of  ruinous  anarchy  among 
the  producers.  Cheauness  is,  eo  to  speak,  the  tiammcr  with  which  the  rich  aiuoujj 
the  producers  crash  their  poorer  rivals.  Cheapness  is  tlie  trap  iuto  which  the  daring 
speculators  entice  the  liaro-workere.  Cheapue-B  is  the  sentence  of  dtiatli  to  the  pro- 
ducer OB  a  small  scale  who  has  ho  money  to  invest  iu  the  purcuase  of  iiiacUiuery 
that  his  rich  rrrat&cau  cHfriiy  praiure.  Ciienpuets  is  tlic  givat  iiislrument  iu  the 
bauds  of  monopoly ;  it  abK>rbs  tLe  sniall  maimfacturer,  cht3  nnnll  shopkeeper,  the 
small  projector ;  it  is,  in  one  word,  the  destruction  of  the  middle  dassed  for  the  ad- 
vautage  of  a  few  industrial  oligarchs. 

••Ought  we,  then,  to  cousiav.r  cheapness  as  acurep?  No  one  woe  Id  attempt  to 
nudutain  sach  aa  absurdity,  but  it  is  the  specialty  of  vrrong  principles  to  turn  good 
ioto  eiii  and  corrupt  a]l  things.  Lmlcr  the  system  of  competitiou  cheaimess  is  onlj 
a  pretrldoaal  and  fatiacioua  advantai^.  It  la  maintained  only  so  loog  as  there  is  a 
struggle;  no  sooner  have  the  rich  competitors  diiveu  out  their  poorer  dvala  than 
nrices  rise.  Competition  leads  to  moiiopoiy,  for  the  same  reason  clieaimdss  leads  to 
Ligh prices.  Thus,  what  has  been  madu  use  of  as  a  weapon  iu  the  contest  between 
the  producers,  sooner  or  Hdet  becomes  o  caose  of  impoverish ineut  among  the  con- 
sumers. And  if  to  this  cause  we  add  the  others  we  nave  already  enumerated,  first 
among  which  must  be  ranked  the  iuordinirte  increase  of  the  popnlat  on,  we  shall  be 
•competed  to  n^cog.ise  the  impoveriahuient  of  the  mass  of  the  consumers  as  a  di- 
rect cousequencc  of  coinpetitirn. 

•*  But,  on  the  other  hand,  this  ve'y  competition  which  tends  to  dry  up  the  sources 
of  demandr  niiges  production  to  over-supply.  The  confusion  product  d  by  the  uni- 
vorea]  struggle  prevents  eacit  producer  from  knowing  the  (>t4itii  o£  the  market.  He 
mast  woik  In  the  dark  and  trut*  to  chance  for  a  f do.  Why  eliould  he  check  the 
8ni)ply,  especial !y  as  he  can  throw  any  loss  on  tlie  workman  whose  wages  are  so  pre- 
emiaeutly  liable  to  rise  aud  fall  ?  Even.wheu  production  is  CJorJcd  on  at  a  loss  the 
mannfactarers  still  often  carry  it  on,  because  they  will  not  let  their  machinery,  &c., 
staacf  idle,  or  risk  the  loss  of  raw  material,  or  lose  their  customers :  and  because 
productive  indnstiy  a«  carried  on  under  the  compj^titive  sj'steui  being  notiilng  else 
than  a  game  of  chance,  the  gambler  will  not  lose  his  chance  of  a  lucky  stroke. 

"Thns,  and  we  cannot  too  often  insist  upon  it,  competitiou  necessiuily  tends  to 

iDcrease  supply  aud  to  diminish  consumption ;  its  tendency  therefore  is  precisely  the 

opposite  of  what  Is  sought  by  icouomic  science;  hence  it  is  not  merely  oppressive 

but  foohilh  as  well.** 

•  •••••• 

"And  in  all  this,  in  order  to  avoid  dwelling  on  truths  which  have  become  com- 
womdaces  tod  sound  declamato' y  from  their  very  troth,  we  have  said  nothing  of 
the  frightful  moral  corruption  which  hidustry,  organized,  or  more  properly  speakmg 
diaorganiEed  as  it  is  at  the  present  dav,  has  introduced  among  the  middle  classes. 
ETcrgiing  has  1)ecome  venal,  and  competition  invades  even  the  domidn  of  thought. 

"The  factory  crushing  the  workshop;  the  showy  establishment  absorbing  the 
bumble  shop ;  the  artisan  who  is  his  own  master  replaced  bv  the  day-labourer ;  cul- 
tivation by  the  plough  superseding  that  by  the  spade,  and  bringing  the  poor  man's 
fl"M under  disgraceful  homage  to  the  money-lender;  bankruptcies  multiplied ;  man- 
ttfacturing  industry  transformed  by  the  ill-regulated  extension  of  credit  iuto  a  sys* 

^^— —^  -  I,  -     -  1     ■-  -  —     -         ■    ■     ■■  I  —  ■■    ^— M^ 

•  See  Louis  Blauc^  "  Organisation  da  Travail,"  4m©  •ditiott,  pp.  6, 11,  €8,  ST. 


270  OHAFTWS  ON  SOOIAUSlll. 

tern  €3i  gsmblfng  where  no  one,  not  eyen  tbe  rogne,  can  be  sore  of  winniDg;  in  abort 
A  vast  oout'aslOD  calculated  to  arooee  jeaiouey,  luUlrast,  uud  hatred,  aua  to  stifitd, 
little  l>y  little,  all  geueruas  a=«i)lratious,  ail  faith,  se  f-aocriflce,  aud  poetry — ^^>iit:h  iii  the 
hideous  tjut  ouly  too  faithful  piciure  of  the  reaulus  obtained  hy  the  appIicatio&  ot 
the  |Hrinc»pl«;  of  coiapetitiou/*  V 

The  Fourierists,  through  their  principal  organ,  M.  Ck>nsidera[it,  enn 
xnerate  the  evils  of  the  eidsting  civilisaeion  in  the  following  order : — 

1.  It  employs  an  enormous  quantity  of  labour  and  of  human  powep 
unproductively,  or  in  the  work  of  ddstruction. 

"  In  the  first  place  there  is  the  army,  which  in  France,  as  in  all  oMier  coantiieSy  ab> 
porbs  tbe  heulthieBt  aud  etmugost  men,  a  larg:  .number  of  the  most  talented  and  iu- 
telligeut,  aud  a  couei-ierablo  j>;irt  of  the  public  roveuue.  ,  .  ,  The  t;xi8ting  stjiw 
of  society  develops  in  its  impure  .itmoHpUere  innumerable  outcasts,  whos?  abonr  ii 
uot  merely  unproductive,  but.  uo<uaily  destrnctivc;  adventurers,  prostitutes,  pfu|>.e 
with  no  acknowledged  means  uf  living,  beggars,  co-victs,  swindlerd,  tuieves,  aud 
others  whotte  number  tends  rather  lo  iucreaso  than  to  diminlBti 

**  To  t  le  list  of  unproductive  lal)oiir  fostered  by  our  i-tate  of  Society  must  be  addjd 
that  of  the  judicature  aud  of  the  bar,  uf  the  courts  of  law  and  'magisti-ates,  the  (lO- 
lic3,  gaolers,  exccatiouers,  &c. — functions  iudispousabie  to  ihj  state  of  society  as 
it  is. 

"Al-*o  people  of  what  U  called  '  good  society ' ;  those  who  pass  their  lives  in  doing 
nothing;  idlers  of  till  ranks. 

"Also  the  numberless  custom-boose  officials^  tax-gatherers,  balU&,  exoBo-vaen  ; 
in  sliort,  all-  tliat  army  of  men  which  overlooks,  brings  to  aiccoiint,  taked,  but  pro- 
duces nothing. 

"Also  the  labours  of  sophists,  philosophers,  metaphysicians,  political  men*  work- 
ing in  mistak  n  directions,  who  do  notluug  to  advance  science,  and  produce  nothing 
but  disturbance  aud  sUirile  discussions;  the  verbiage  of  advocates,  pleaders^  wit- 
nesses, &c. 

'*Aud  finally  all  tbe  operations  of  commerce,  from  those  of  the  baokerB  «nd  brok* 
ere,  down  to  those  of  the  grocer  behind  his  counter."  t 

Secondly,  they  assert  that  even  the  industry  and  powers  which  in  the 
present  system  are  devoted  to  production,  do  not  jncodaoe  more  than  a 
^mall  x)ortion  of  what  they  might  produce  if  better  employed  and  di- 
rected-:— 

"  Who  with  any  good-will  and  reflection  will  not  see  how  ranch  the  want  of  cohe- 
rence—the disorder,  the  want  of  combination,  the  parcelling  out  of  labour  and  leav- 
ing it  wholly  to  individual  action  without  any  organization,  without  any  lares  or 
general  views— are  cansee  which  limit  the  possibilities  of  production  and  destmv,  or 
at  least  waste,  our  means  of  action  ?  Does  not  disorder  give  birth  to  poverty,  as 
order  aiid  good  management  give  hirth  to  riches?  Is  not  want  of  combtoatioii  » 
pource  of  weakness,  aa  combination  is  a  source  of  strength  ?  And  who  can  say  that 
Industry,  whether  agiicultural,  domestic,  manufacturing,  scienliflc,  artistic,  or  com- 
mercial, is  organized  at  the  present  day  either  in  the  state  or  in  municipaliilBS 7  "Who 
ran  say  that  :ili  the  work  which  is  carried  on  in  any  of  these  departments  is  ejcecot«d 
in  subordination  to  nny  reneral  views,  or  with  foresight,  economy,  and  oitlerT  Or, 
lignin,  who  can  say  that  it  is  possible  in  our  present  state  of  society  to  develope,  by 
n  good  edacation.  all  the  faculties  bestowed  by  na'ure  on  each  of  Its  members;  to 
employ  each  one  in  functions  which  he  would  like,  which  he  would  be  the  roo<e:Ji»- 
ble  of,  and  which,  therefore,  ho  could  cany  on  with  the  greatest  advantage  to  him- 
self and  to  others?  Has  it  even  been  so  much  as  attempted  to  solve  the  DroWfina 
presented  by  varieties  of  character  so  as  to  regulate  and  harmonize  the  varieties  of 

•See  Louis  TPanc,  "Organisation  du  Travail,>»  pp.  68— Gl,  65— ^4aie  Edition. 
Pans,  1845. 

4  Ree  Conaid^ranW  '*  I>e«thi6e  Sodale,"  tome  i.  pp.  86,  S6, 37,  Sme  6d^  Paris,18ia 


OHAFTEBS  OK  80GIALIS1I.  STl 

«Bp\>]nnent8  in  «oeordance  witb  nahirml  sptitodee  7    Alas  1    Tbe  Utopia  of  ti«e  mott 

iRleut  phibuithropists  is  to  teach  reading  aud  writing  to  tweaty-ftvtj  iniiiioaa  of  tha 
Frnnch  people  I  And  iu  the  preeeut  Ktate  of  tliinga  we  moj  deiy  tbeui  to  encceod 
creninihati  • 

*'  And  IB  it  not  a  strange  spectacle,  too,  and  one  whlrh  cries  out  in  oondenuMttioi 
of  as,  to  aee  this  atate  of  SvMueLy  wti.ru  tbe  8oli  i:*  badly  cultivated,  and  t^oratUuiet 
Eot  caifivated  at  all ;  where  man  is  ill  lodged,  ill  c)othe<i,  aud  yet  where  wiiole  masses 
are  continaaJy  iu  need  ot  woric,  aud  piiiiug  in  uutjory  becuii»e  thi^  canuot  fljid  itf 
Of  a  truth  we  are  forced  to  ackuuwledge  that  if  the  uutioua  are  poor  and  starving  It 
is  MOt  b^caase  nature  has  deiii  .d  the  meaus  of  producing  wealth,  hue  bccuu>«  of  tlie 
aiiarchy  and  disorder  in  our  e'.uploymeut  of  those  means  ;  in  other  words,  it  is  be- 
cause socie^  is  wrotcheoly  coustiruced  and  lul>our  auorgNnizcd. 

"But  this  is  not  all,  aud  you  will  have  bat  a  faint  conctptionof  tbe  evil  if  yon  do 
not  consider  that  to  all  the^ie  vices  of  society,  which  dry  up  the  soaicesof  weattli 
and  prosperity,  must  be  added  the  struggle,  the  discord,  the  war,  iji  ehi/rt,  under 
m-MV  names  and  many  forms  which  society  cherishes  aud  caitivates  between  the  in* 
dividpals  that  compose  it.  These  struggle:*  and  discords  correspond  to  radical  oppo- 
Bitioas— dcep>seat<}d  antinomies  betwei'U  the  various  iutercets.  Exactly  in  so  fur  as 
yoa  are  able  to  establish  clasSvS  aud  categories  within  the  nation;  in  so  far,  also* 
7K>a  will  have  opposition  of  interests  aud  iut«mnl  warfare  tither  avowed  or  secret, 
even  if  you  take  into  consideration  the  indutitrial  system  only."  * 

One  of  the  leading  idaas  of  this  school  is  the  wastefnlness  and  at  the 
same  time  the  immorality  of  the  existing  arranfirements  for  distributing 
the  pirodnce  of  the  oottntrj  among  the  various  cousomers,  the  enormous 
fRipeijAxnty  in  point  of  number  of  the  agents  ct  distribution,  the  mer- 
dnnts,  dealers,  shopkeepers  and  their  ixmumerable  emploTts,  and  the 
depraving  chaiactor  of  such  a  distribution  of  ocoupationii. 

"It  is  evident  that  ihe  interest  of  tho  trader  is  opposed  to  that  of  the  consnmer 
tad  of  the  prodooer.  Has  be  not  bought  cheap  and  nndervalue<i  as  much  as  possible 
m  ail  his  dealings  with  the  prodacer,  the  very  same  article  which,  vaunting  its  ex- 
cellence, he  sells  to  yoa  as  dear  as  he  can?  Thus  the  interest  of  the  commercial 
body,  collectively  and  indlvidaally,  is  contrary  to  that  of  the  producer  aud  of  the 
coBsomur— Ui«t  is  to  say,  to  the  interest  of  tbe  whole  body  of  society.' 

•  •  »•.•  •  «  •  •  • 

"The  tracer  is  a  go-between,  who  profits  by  th*^  general  anarchy  and  the  non-or- 
ganiaition  of  Industry.  The  trader  bays  np  products,  he  buys  up  everything;  he 
owns  and  d*»tain8  everything;,  in  such  sort  that : —  «.  u  *u 

"Istly.  He  holds  both  Prodnrtion  and  Consumption  utider  hift  yokey  because  both 
mart  come  to  hira  either  Anally  for  the  products  to  be  consnm  d.  or  atflrrtforthe 
raw  materials  to  be  worked  np.  Commerce  with  all  *tB  niptliods  of  bujring.  and  of 
Mining  and  lowerini;  prices.  Its  innumerable  devices,  and  its  holding  everything  m 
the  hands  of  middle^rhtn.  levies  toll  right  and  left :  it  despotically  gives  the  law  to 
Production  and  Consumption,  of  which  it  ought  to  be  onlv  the  subordinate. 

"2iJily.  Tt  robs  society  by  its  enormmui  pr<)/S«8— profits  levied  upon  the  consnmer 
md  the  producer,  and  altogether  ont  of  proportion  to  the  services  rendered,  for 
which  a  twentieth  of  the' persons  actnidly  employed  would  be  suiHcient. 

'•Srdly.  It  robs  society  by  the  subtraction  of  its  prodnctive  forces;  taking  on 
from  prodnctive  labottr  nin«'teen-twentieth8  of  the  agents  of  trade  who  are 
mere  parasites.  Thus,  not  only  doe<«  commerce  rob  society  by  ''PP^9P*i,  ^  ^5° 
exorbitant  share  of  the  common  wealth,  bnt  also  bv  considprsblv  diminlOTlng  ths 
productive  enerey  of  the  hnman  beehive.  Th-^  great  majoritv  of  traders  would  re- 
mm  to  productive  work  if  a  rational  system  of  commercial  organization  were  8Ul> 
ititutcd  for  the  inextricable  chaos  of  the  present  state  of  things. 

**4thly.  It  robs  society  by  the  ndtiHteraMon  of  products,  pushed  at  tbe  present  day 
beyond  all  bounds.  And  in  fact,  if  a  hundred  grocers  establish  themselves  in  a  town 
where  before  there  wore  only  twenty.  It  is  plain  that  people  will  not  begin  to  cob 

*8ee  *'^»e»ttti^  Sodalei"  par  Y.  Conaid&tuit,  tome  L  pp.  88-40; 


1 


Vn  '  OHAPTEKS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

same  flye  tfanes  as  many  groceries.  Herenpon  the  handfed  vfrtuons  grocers  Darn  to 
dispate  between  them  the  profits  which  before  were  honestly  made  by  the  tweutr  ; 
competition  obliges  Uiem  to  make  it  ap  at  the  expense  of  the  c«»isnmer,  either  by  rui&' 
ing  the  prices  as  sometimes  happens,  or  by  adulterating  the  goods  as  always  hiippeus. 
In  BQch  a  state  of  tilings  there  is  an  end  to  good  faith.  Inferk»r  or  adnlteratedgoods 
are  sold  for  articles  of  good  quality  whenever  the  crednlons  customer  is  not  too  t  x- 
perlenced  to  be  deceiveii.  And  when  the  castomer  has  been  thoroughly  impos.~d 
npon,  the  trading  conscience  consoles  -iti^elf  by  saying,  *  I  state  ray  jwice ;  people 
can  take  or  leave ;  no  one  is  obliged  to  buy.'  The  losses  imposed  on  the  cousamers 
by  the' bad  quality  or  the  adulteration  of  goods  are  incalculable. 

"5thly.  It  robs  src'ety  by  cuxuanvtlaUons^  artificial  or  not.,  in  conseqttenee  of  which 
Tast  quantities  of  sroods,  collect'id  in  one  place,  are  damaged  and  destroyed  for 
want  of  a  sale.  Fourier  (Th.  des.  Quat  Moav.,  p.  334,  1st  ^.)  saysr  *The  fnnda- 
mental  principte  of  the  coulmra'ciai  systems,  that  of  Itavtng  full  Liberia  to  ike  mer" 
€hants,  gives  them  absoiat3  right  of  property  over  the  goods  in  which  they  deal ; 
they  have  the  right  to  withdraw  them  altog^her,  to  withhold  or  even  to  barn  ^ein, 
AS  ham)eiied  nKKe  than  once  with  the  Oriental  Company  of  Amsterdam,  which  pul>> 
Hcly  buiiit  stores  of  cinnamon  in  order  to  raise  the  price.  What  it  did  with  dnixa- 
mon  it  wonld  have  done  with  cwn ;  bat  for  the  fear  of  being  stoued  by  the  populace, 
it  wonld  have  bi«mt  some  corn  in  oitler  to  sell  the  rest  at  foor  times  its  value.  In- 
deed, it  actually  is  of  daily  occorrence  in  port,  for  provisioua  of  grains  to  be  thrown 
into  the  sea  liecanse  the  merchants  have  allowed  them  to  rot  while  waiting  fbr  a  liae. 
I  myseSf,  when  I  vros  a  clerk,  have  had  to  superintend  these  infamous  proceedingr, 
and  in  one  day  caused  to  be  thrown  into  the  sea  some  forty  thousand  bushels  of  rice, 
which  might  have  b?en  sold  at  a  fair  piMfit  had  the  withhoider  been  less  greedy  o€ 
pain.  It  Is  society  that  hears  the  cost  of  this  waste,  which  takes  place  duly  luidef 
shelter  of  the  philosophical  maxim  of  fUU  liberty  for  IhemerchantsJ 

"  6thly.  Commerce  robs  society,  moreover,  by  all  the  loss,  damage,  and  waste  that 
follows  from  the  extreme  scattering  of  products  in  miHionB  of  shope,  and  by  the 
multipllcatiou  and  complieatioB  of  carriage. 

•*  Tthly.  It  robs  society  by  shameless  and  unlimited  nsttfy—nBory  tXjBCikLtely 
appalling.  The  trader  carries  on  operations  with  fictitlOTB  capita],  much  higher  In 
amonnt  than  his  real  ca^^taL  A  trader  with  a  capital  of  twehe  handred  poimlfts 
will  carry  on  operations,  by  means  of  bills  and  credit,  on  a  scale  of  foor,  eight,  or 
twelve  thonsaud  pounds.  Thus  he  draws  from  capital  tohieh  he  does-  not  poaaesg, 
usurious  interest,  ont  of  all  prop(Mrtion  with  the  capital  he  actoally  owns. 

*^*8thly.  It  robs  society  by  innumerable  bankruptcies,  for  the  daily  aoddents  of 
our  commercial  system,  political  events,  and  any  kind  of  disturbance,  must  usher 
In  a  day  when  the  trader,  bavins  incorred  obligations  beyond  his  means,  is  no 
longer  able  to  meet  them ;  liis  f aSnre,  whether  fraudulent  or  not,  most  bs  a  severe 
blow  to  hn  creditors.  The  b:inkruptcy  of  some  entails  that  of  others,  so  that  bank- 
ruptcies follow  one  upon  another,  causing  widespread  ruin.  And  it  is  ^ways  the 
prod-icer  aid  the  consumer  who  suffer ;  for  commerce,  considered  as  a  whole,  does  not 
produco  woalrh,  and  invests  very  little  in  proporti  u  to  the  wealth  which  passes 
throu'^h  its  hands.  How  many  are  the  mannfactures  crushed  by  these  blows  I  how 
many  fertile  soorces  of  wealth  dried  up  by  these  devices,  with  all  their  disastrous 
cons^uences ! 

*•  The  producer  foraishes  the  goods,  the  consumer  the  money.  Trade  ftiniishet 
credit,  founded  on  little  or  no  actual  capital,  and  the  different  members  of  the  com* 
mei-clal  body  arc  in  no  way  responsible  for  one  another.  Thia,  in  a  few  words,  is 
the  whole  theory  of  the  thing. 

"9fhly.  Commerce  robs  society  by  the  independenee  apd  frreepentibilitjf  "which. 
permits  it  to  buy  at  the  epochs  when  the  producers  are  fcM-oed  to  sell  and  compete 
with  one  aaot^ier.  in  order  to  procure  money  for  their  rent  and  necessary  exp^isea 
of  production.  When  the  markets  are  overstocked  and  goods  cheap,  trade  pur- 
chases. .  Then  it  creates  a  rise,  and  by  this  simple  manoravre  despolla  both  pro- 
ducer and  consumer. 

•'  lOtbly.  It  robs  8oci'>ty  by  a  considerable  drcmrittg  of  of  capital,  which  will  re- 
tum  to  pi-odactlvo  industry  when  commerce  plays  its  proper  subordinate  part,  and  is 
only  an  jjgency  carrying  on  transactions  1)etween  the  producers  (more  or  less  dis»- 
tai»t)  a; id  the  groat  centres  of  consumption— the  commuuistic  societies.  Thus  the 
€ai>ital  engaged  in  the  speculatioiiB  of  commerce  (which,  small  as  it  is,  «om{»axed  to 


CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM,    i  273 

4be  Immense  weaKh  which  iMesee  through  its  hands,  consists  nevertheless  of  sami 
eDormons  in  themselves),  woold  return  to  HtUnalate  production  if  commerce  was 
deprived  of  the  intermediate  property  in  goods,  and  their  distribatiou  became  a 
nutter  of  administrative  organisation.  Stock-jobbing  is  the  most  odioos  form  ot 
this  vice  of  commerce.  ^  _.  ,      .  « 

"  llthly.  It  robs  society  by  themonopoligbig  or  baying  up  of  raw  materials.  •  For,' 
says  Fourier,  <Th.  des.  Quat.  Mouv.,  p.  86»,  1st  ed.),  *  the  rise  in  price  on  articles 
that  are  bought  ap»  is  b<»iie  ultimately  by  the  coDsamer»  ahhough  in  the  first  place 
by  the  mauufacturera,  who,  being  obliged  to  keep  up  their  ebtablishments,  must 
make  pecuniary  sacrifices,  and  mannfacture  at  small  profits  in  the  hope  of  better 
days ;  audit  is<rften  long  before  they  can  repay  themsulvoti  the  rise  in  prices  which 
the  mon(q;x>lisQr  has  compelled  them  to  support  in  the  first  instance ' 

"In  short,  all  these  vices,  besides  many  others  which  I  omit,  are  multiplied  by 
the  extreme  con^Iicarion  of  mt^rcautile  afiaii-a ;  tor  products  do  not  pass  once  only 
through  the  greedy  clutches  o£  commeice ;  there  are  some  which  pass  and  repass 
twenty  (^  tiiirty  times  bef^  reaching  the  consoraer.  In  the  first  placet  the  raw 
material  passes  tluongh  the  gras^  of  commerce  before  reaching  the  manofacturer 
who  first  works  it  up ;  then  it  returns  to  commerce  to  be  sent  out  again  to  be  woned 
up  hi  a  second  form ;  and  so  on  tmtil  it  receives  its  finsl  shape.  Then  it  oasses  into 
the  hands  of  merchants,  who  sell  to  the  wholesale  dealers,  vnd  these  to  the  gr«it  re- 
tai]  dealers  of  towns,  and  these  again  to  the  littJe  dealers  and  to  the  country  shops ; 
and  each  time  that  it  changes  hands  it  leaves  something  behind  it 

".  .  .  .  One  of  my  friends  who  was  lately  exploring  the  Jura,  where  mncft 
wori^g  in  metal  is  done,  had  occasion  to  enter  the  house  of  a  peasant  who  was  a 
mADofactarer  of  shovels.  He  asked  the  price.  *  Let  us  come  to  an  understanding, 
answered  the  poor  labourer,  not  an  economist  at  all,  but  a  man  of  common  sense ; 
'  I  sell  them  for  Bd,  to  the  trade,  which  retails  them  at  Is.  8d.  in  the  towns.  If  you 
could  find  a  means  of  opening  a  direct  commonicatlon  between  the  workman  and 
the  consumer,  von  might  liave  them  for  Is.  2(1.,  and  we  shoq^d  each  gain  60.  by  tho 
bansftctian.'"* 

To  a  similar  effect  Owen,  in  the  "  Book  of  th«  New  Moral  World," 
part  2,  chap.  ill. 

"The  principle  now  in  practice  is  to  induce  a  lai^  portion  of  society  to  devo*o 
their  Htm  to  distribute  w^th  upon  a  lar?e,  a  medium,  and  a  small  scale,  and  to 
have  it  conveyed  from  i^lnce  t^  place  in  larger  or  smaller  quantities,  to  meet  the 
means  and  wantaof  various  divisions  of  society  and  iudividnuls,  as  they  are  now 
situated  in  cities,  towns,  villages,  and  country  places.  This  piindple  of  distribution 
makes  a  class  in  society  whose  business  it  Is  to  tniy  from  i»ome  parfk'S  and  to  aeU  to 
others.  By  this  proceeding  they  are  placed  under  circumstances  which  induce  th^m 
to  endeavour  to  buy  at  what  appears  at  the  time  a  low  price  in  the  market,  and  to 
Bell  again  at  tlie  greatest  permanent  profit  which  they  can  obtain.  Their  real  object 
beiug  to  get  as  much  profit  as  gain  between  the  seller  to,  and  the  buyer  from  them, 
as  can  be  effected  in  their  trtuisactions. 

"  There  are  innumerable  errors  in  principle  and  evils  hi  practice  which  necessarily 
proceed  from  this  mode  of  distributing  the  wealth  of  society. 

"  Ist.  A  general  class  of  distributors  is  formed,  whose  intcrost  ^p  nepnrnfM  from, 
and  apparently  opposed  to,  that  of  the  indivldnai  from  whom  they  buy  and  to  whom 
they  sell. 

"2nd.  Three  classes  of  distributors  are  made,  the  sroaTl,  the  medinra,  and  the 
lar^  hnvers  and  sellers ;  or  the  retailers,  the  wholesale  dealers,  and  the  extensive 
merchants. 

*  3rd.  Three  classes  of  buyers  thus  created  constitute  the  small,  the  medium,  and 
the  large  purchasers. 

"  By  this  arrangement  into  various  classes  of  hnvers  and  sellers,  the  parlies  are 

\1  trained  to  l»sm  that  they  have  separate  and  opposing  interests,  and  different 

raMB  and  stations  in  soofetv.    An  inequality  of  feelio^'  and  condition  is  thusTcreated 

ind  maintained,  with  all  the  servility  and  pride  which  these  unequal  arrangements 

*  Sc«  ConBid6rant, "  Destin^e  Sociate,"  tome  i.  pp.  4S-61, 8me  6diUon,  Paris.  l$4a 


I 


«74  CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

are  sitre  to  prodnc*.    Tlie  paiHes  nt^  rq^Iarly  traloed  in  a  genera]  syitdm  of  deee^ 
tion,  in  order  thai  they  may  be  the  more  ^aoccpsfol  in  buying  oheap  and  aelUngdear. 

"  The  emaller  sellera  aoqoire  habits  of  injnrlone  idleuees.  woitiii^  often  for  boom 
for  cnatomers.  And  this  evil  is  exparieuced  Co  a  oooBiderable  eacteut  even  aoKHigst 
the  class  of  wholesale  dealers. 

"There  are,  also,  by  this  arrangeraeut,  rcany  more  ept«blishmeDtB  for  selling 
than  are  necessary  in  the  village's,  tov^iis,  and  cities ;  and  a  very  laj^  capital  i«  thra 
wrsted  wi(  hont  benefit  to  society  And  from  their  number  opposed  to  each  other  ail 
over  the  country  to  obtain  caetomen*,  they  endeavour  fo  anaersell  each  otiier.  and 
^c  therefore  continaaily  endeavouring  to  injare  the  producer  by  the  catablisfament 
of  vrhat  arc  called  cheap  shope  and  warehouses;  and  to  8iipt>ort  tbeir  character  the 
mast«ir  or  his  servaiits  most  be  continnaliy  on  the  watch  to  boy  bargains,  tliat  in,  to 
proem  e  wcalt/h  for  less  than  the  cost  of  its  prod  action. 

'  Tlie  dLstribntors,  small,  medium,  and  large,  have  all  to  be  pnpported  by  the  pro- 
dacers,  and  the  greater  the  nnmber  of  the  tonncr  eompared  with  the  latter,  the 
creator  will  be  the  burden  which  the  prodac^r  h&s*  to  sastain ;  for  aa  the-  uomber  of 
distribatore  increases,  the  aocamalation  of  wealth  moBt  decrease,  and  more  rnoBi  be 
required  from  tlie  prodaoer. 

**  The  distributors  of  wealth,  tinder  the  present  system,  are  a  dead  weight  upon 
the  Jirodncers  and  are  roost  active  denioralisers  of  society.  7'heir  dcnenoent  con- 
dition, at  the  commencement  of  their  task,  teLchesor  irdact«  them  to  ue  servile  to 
their  customers,  and  to  contlnoe  to  be  eo  as  lung  as  tliey  are  accijmuIatiDg  wealth 
by  their  cheap  buying  and  dear  selling.  But  when  they  have  eernrt-d  sufficient  to  be 
what  they  imagine  to  be  an  independence—to  Hve -without  business— they  are  too 
often  filled  With  a  most  ignorant  pride,  and  become  insolent  to  their  dependents. 

*•  The  arrangement  is  aitogeCher  a  most  improvident  one  for  society,  wlKtf«  in- 
tere^t  it  is  to  produce  the  grtatest.  amount  of  wealth  oi.  the  best  qualities ;  while  the 
existing  system  of  distributiou  is  not  only  to  witlidraw  great  unmbersfrora  pro- 
ducing to  become  distributors,  bat  to  add  to  the  cost  of  the  consumtr  all  tlie  t-zpei.se 
of  a  most  wasteful  and  extravagant  distribution ;  the  distribution  costing  to  the  cco- 
Bumer  many  times  the  price  of  the  original  cost  of  the  wealth  purchased. 

**Then,  by  the  position  in  which  the  seller  is  placed  by  iiis  creaUd  desire  for  itbIu 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  comp;^ition  he  meets  with  from  oppoueiits  selling  f  iitiikir 
productions  on  the  otlio',  be  is  strongly  teuipted  to  deteriorate  the  articles  which  he 
nas  for  sale ;  and  when  these  are  provisions,  either  of  home  pioduction  oar  of  fon'i|:n 
importation,  the  eifocts  upon  the  health,  and  consequent  comfort  aiid  happiness  of 
the  cou;>umers,  are  often  most  injurious,  and  pitxluctive  of  much  premature  death, 
especially  among  the  woridng classes,  Asho,  in  this  respect,  are  }K-^hap6  made  to  be 
the  greatest  sufferers,  by  putxshasing  the  inferior  or  low-piiced  articles.    .... 

**  The  expense  of  thus  distributing  we^iith  in  Great  Briti.iu  and  Ireland,  faiclndirc 
transit  from  place  to  place,  and  all  the  agents  directly  and  indinxstly  engaged  in  this 
deportment,  is  perhaps,  littl^j  short  of  one  hundred  millions  annually,  without  tak  ug 
Into  conaideratiou  the  deterioration  of  the  Quality  of  many  of  the  ai tides  consti- 
tuting this  wealth,  by  carriage,  aud  by  l)eii)g  aivlded  into  small  quantities,  and  kept 
in  improper  stores  and  phic<'S,  in  which  the  atmosphere  is  unfavorable  to  the  keep- 
ing of  such  artideft  in  a  tolerably  good,  and  much  less  in  the  best,  condition  for  use." 

In  farther  ainstnition  of  the  contrariety  of  interests  between  pereon 
and  person,  daas  and  clasB.  which  pervades  tiie  present  confititotku  of 
society,  M.  Oonsiderant  adds : — 

"  If  the  wine-growers  wish  for  free  trade  this  freedom  ruins  the  producer  of 
com.  the  manufacturers  of  iron,  of  rioth.  of  cotton,  and— we  are  compelled  to  add— 
the  smnggier  and  the  cnsttHns*  officer.  If  it  is  the  interest  of  ttie  consumer  that 
machines  should  be  invented  which  lower  prices  by  renderlTiff  production  less  costly, 
these  same  maoblnes  throw  out  of  work  thousands  of  workmen  who  do  not  kuow 
how  to,  and  cannot  at  once  fir.d  other  work.  Here,  then,  again  is  one  of  the  in- 
numerable vt'ciotis  etreles  of  civilization  .  .  .for  there  are  a  thousand  fact:? 
which  prove  cumulatively  tbat  In  our  existing  social  system  the  introduction  of  any 
good  brings  always  along  with  it  some  evil. 

"  In  short,  tf  we  go  lower  down  and  come  to  vulgar  details^  we  find  that  it  is  the 
interest  of  toe  tailor,  the  diotmaker,  and  the  hatter  that  coatBi  shoes,  and  haU 


^       CHAFFERS  ON  SOCXAIiIgll.  375 

vbould  be  S'^ntt  worn  out ;  that  tbe  glazier  profits  \n  tbe  lian-etorms  Which  lireAk 
wiudowi ;  t&at  tbe  masou  aud  Kbe  architect  yt-oOt  by  flroa;  Uie  kiw^or  la  euncbed  bjr 
kw-aaitfl ;  Um  doctor  hf  diaeaao ;  ttie  wiutHuUer  by  drnokeoucefi ;  the  prodtitut«)  by 
dtftMactery.  And  wbat  a  dusaatoi*  would  it  be  iur  tikc  juii]{<M,  ibu  poilce,  and  tbe 
gio^ert,  as  well  aa  for  tlie  burriatera  and  tbo  Bolicit<M-is  aud  ml  tU^  kkwyera  ciurkH,  il 
crimes,  oJSencea,  and  law-auita  were  all  at  once  to  come  to  un  end  1"* 

Tbe  i(dlowi&g  i&  oue  of  tha  fMd\n»\  poiate  of  tiiis  school : — 

^  Add  to  an  this,  that  civilieation,  wbicb  sowa  diaseneioii  and  war  on  erery  Fide'; 
which  amploya  a  gr  at  part  o£  ita  powers  in  miprodiictiTe  labonr,  or  even  in  dcetroc- 
1400; -which  ftirtbermore  diiiiluii^bea  the  public  weuith  by  the  uiinenesaary  friction 
and  discord  it  Introdnces  into  iudoAtry ;  add  to  ail  thin,  I  say,  th^t  tbis  same  pociai 
fystein  has  for  its  sp^icial  cbaracturk»ties  to  prudocc*  a  ri'pnjfuauce  tor  work — a  (UbguHt 
for  iabonr. 

"  Bveryirher3  yon  he^ir  the  labourur,  tbe  artisan,  the  clork  coinpktin  of  his  poeltioa 
and  Ins  occnp>)t.ioD,  while  they  long  for  tbo  time  wbou  JlKiy  can  retire  from  work  iu>- 
poe«d  upon  them  \rr  i>M»wify.  To  be  rcpuifn^nt.  to  have  for  its  motive  and  pivot 
notliii^  iMit  the  ftiaf  of  starxation.  is  tlie  great,  Uie  fatal,  cbaracteristi'-  of  cinlised 
hboar.  The  citrilis^d  worktnan  is  ooDdeinned  to  peual  a  rvitiide.  Ho  long-  as  pro- 
dnctive  laboor  is  so  orgjnjzd  thar  iii^tvnd  of  b».ing  afsocitited  witli  pJeaKnre  it  is 
associared  wHb  iwiti.  wvairiuess  and  dislike,  it  will  always  happen  that  all  wlL  ovoid 
it  who  are  able.  VVitb  fdw  exoeptious,  iboaa  oiily  will  eonsent  to  work  who  are  conv 
pelted  to  it  by  want,  a.nice  tiw  most  nnnierons  chiSBes,  the  artificers  of  social 
wyaJtb,  tbe  actfre  and  dJr  ?ct  crrf.Vors  of  all  comfort,  and  luxury,  wiil  ahmy*  he  am- 
d^nio(^  to  touch  dtwoly  on  poverty  'ind  hmipr;  ther  will  always  Ix?  the;  sl.iv  8  to 
i^orance  and  degradatioa;  tliey  will  oootinne  to  be  aiwars  that  hajp:  herd  of  nit^re 
beasts  of  burden  wlioin  we8»}ill-i»rowii,  decimated  bifdSpeaae.  bowed  down  hi  the 
great  workshop  of  society  orcr  the  p)oii<?b  or  orer  the  conntcr,  that  fbey  may 
prepare  tbe  delicate  food,  and  tbe  sanapttioini  enfoyments  of  tlie  upper  and  idle 
dashes. 

"  So  long  as  do  method  of  atti-actiirp  labonr  has  been  devis  -d,  H  wtt)  coTitinne  to 
be  true  thit  •  there  nftiist  l>e  laany  poor  iu  order  fhaf  tb^re  may  be  a  fe^r  rich ;'  a  raenn 
•nd  hateful  saying;  whic'i  wo  bear  every  dajr  quoted  as  ai>  (eternal  trnth  f  oin  the 
moaths  of  people  who  cidl  tbemaelres  Cbrk>tiaus  or  (ihiiopoptiers !  It  is  very  oaay  to 
anderstaad  Uud  of^iee-^on,  trickery,  and  especijiJIy  poverty,  arc  the  pennanent  aad 
fatal  appsinage  of  ev<'ry  stat;  of  society  charact/^rized  by  tbe  dinllke  of  work,  for.  in 
tins  case,  there  is  notbini;  bnt  poverty  that  will  force  men  to  labour.  And  the  pio'jf 
of  tbtols,  that  If  every  one  of  all  tbe  workers  wen»  to  beconio  poddenly  ricii,  r.iitO- 
teeo-twentietba  of  all  the  work  now  done  wocdd  bo  ahaudODud.'H 

In  fhe  aprmaa  at  the  FoTmeristSy  the  tendency  of  the  prwent  order 
of  society  is  to  a  concentration  of  wealth  in  the  hnndn  erf  a  compara- 
tiroly  few  immensely  rich  indiTidnals  or  companies,  and  the  redufition 
of  all  thj  rest  of  the  cominnnity  into  a  oomplet'^  dependeiKie  oxk  them. 
This  was  tinned  by  Fouri'^r  la  fc(fd/(lHe  wdvfftrieUe. 

"This  fendalisra."  aiys  M.  Consld5raT?t.  **wo»iTd  hw  cowtftrrtrKT  ««  soon  Kt.  tha 
/  rgspst  part  of  the  itidiistrial  and  terriroral  proiierty  of  th*^  o.vion  belougrs  t"  t 
minority  which  abporhp  alT  its  reveniT'^s.  wl^le  the  frmat  majoritv-  chained  to  tiie 
work-bendi  or  labooring  on  the  soil,  mnst  be  content  to  gnaw  the  pittance  which  Is 
cast  to  them.''t 

This  disastions  result  is  to  be  brought  abont  partly  by  the  mere 
progress  of   cornpetition,  as  sketched  in  onr  previons  extract  by  M. 

Lonii  Blanc ;  assisted  by  the  progress  of  national  debts,  which  M.  Con- 

■^^ 11 

•  Cousid^nint,  *'  Destinfeo  Sodale,"  tome  i.,  pp.  fiO,  <J0. 
t  €k>nsid^rant,  "^  r>e8tfai^  SoHale,''  tome  i.,  pp.  00,  OL 
t  **  Dealing  Sodale,"  toiue  L,  p.  13^ 


ft9  OHAPTEBS  OK  SOClAUSll 

sidtrant  regards  as  mortgages  of  the  whole  land  and  oapital  of  th^ 
country,  of  which  *U  s  capitalistes  prSteurs  "  become,  in  a  greater  rdA 
greater  measure^  co-proprietors,  receiying  without  labour  or  risk  an  in- 
creasing portion  of  the  revenues. 

TEX  BOCOjUJST  OBJEGTXOMB  TO  THX  PBBSBNT  OfiDSB  09  SOCIETT  SXAMZHSD. 

It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  the  considerations  brought  to  notice  in 
the  preceding  chapter  make  out  a  frightful  case  either  against  the  exist- 
ing order  of  society,  or  against  the  position  of  man  himself  in  this 
world.  How  much  of  the  evils  should  be  referred  to  the  one,  and  how 
much  to  the  other,  is  the  principal  theoretic  question  which  has  to  be 
resolved.  But  the  strongest  case  is  susceptible  of  exaggeration ;  and  it 
will  have  been  evident  to  many  readers,  even  from  the  passages  I  have 
quoted,  that  such  exaggeration  is  not  wanting  in  the  representations  of 
tike  ablest  and  most  candid  Socialists.  Though  much  of  their  allegations 
is  unanswerable,  not  a  little  is  the  result  of  errors  in  political  economy ; 
by  which,  let  me  say  once  for  all,  I  do  not  mean  the  rejection  of  any 
practical  rules  of  policy  which  have  been  laid  down  by  political  econo- 
mists, I  mean  ignorance  of  economic  facts,  and  of  the  causes  by  which 
the  economic  phenomena  of  society  as  it  is,  are  actually  determined. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  unhappily  true  that  the  wages  of  ordinary 
labour,  in  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  are  wretchedly  insuf&cdent  to 
supply  the  physical  aud  moral  necessities  of  the  population  in  any 
tolerable  measure.  But,  when  it  is  further  alleged  that  even  this  in- 
sufficient remuneration  has  a  tendency  to  diminish ;  that  there  is,  in  the 
words  of  M.  Louis  Blanc,  vne  Inisss  omtinue  de»  salfiires  ;  the  assertion 
is  in  opposition  to  all  accurate  information,  and  to  many  notorious  facts. 
It  has  yet  to  be  proved  that  there  is  any  country  in  the  civUised  world 
where  ike  ordinary  wages  of  labour,  estimated  either  in  money  or  in 
articles  of  consumption,  are  declining ;  while  in  many  they  are,  on  the 
whole,  on  the  increase ;  and  an  increase  which  is  becoming,  not  slower, 
but  more  rapid.  There  are,  occasionally,  branches  of  industry  which 
are  being  giadually  superpeded  by  something  else,  and,  in  those,  until 
production  accommodates  itself  to  demand,  wages  are  depressed;  which 
is  an  evil,  but  a  temporary  one,  and  would  admit  of  great  alleyiation 
even  in  the  present  system  of  social  economy.  A  diminution  thus  pro- 
duced of  the  reward  of  labour  in  some  particular  employment  is  tho 
effect  and  the  evidence  of  increased  remuneration,  6r  of  a  new  source 
of  remuneration,  in  some  other;  the  total  and  the  average  reniuneia* 
tion  being  undiminished,  or  even  increased.  To  make  out  an  appear- 
ance of  diminution  in  the  rate  of  wages  in  any  leading  branch  of  indus- 
try, it  is  always  found  necessary  to  compare  some  month  or  year  of 
special  and  temporary  depression  at  the  present  time,  with  the  average 
rate,  or  even  some  exceptionally  high  rate,  at  an  earlier  time.  The 
vieissitades  are  no  doubt  a  great  evil,  but  they  were  as  frequent  and  as 
severe  in  former  periods  of  economical  history  as  now.  The  greater 
ijpde  of  the  transactions,  and  the  greater-  numbex^of  persons  involyed  ia 


CHAJPTEES  ON  BOCUUSM.  27T 

Mch  flnctnAtion,  may  make  the  flucteation  appear  ^[leater,  but  ihoagh 
&  ]ai:ger  population  affords  more  sufferers,  the  evil  does  not  weigh 
heavier  on  each  of  them  individually.  There  is  much  evidence  of  im- 
provement)  and  none,  that  is  at  all  trustworthy,  oi  deterioration,  in  the 
mode  of  living  of  the  labouring  population  of  the  countries  of  Europe ; 
when  there  is  any  appearance  to  the  contrary  it  is  local  oi^  partial,  and 
can  always  be  tiaced  either  to  the  pressure  of  some  temporary  calamity, 
or  to  some  bad  law  or  imwise  act  of  government  which  admits  of  being 
corrected,  while  the  permanent  causes  all  operate  in  the  direction  of  im- 
p/ovement. 

M.  Lotus  Blanc,  therefore,  while  showing  himself  much  more 
enlightened  than  the  older  school  of  levellers  and  democrats,  inas- 
mudi  as  he  recognises  the  connection  between  low  wages  and  tho 
over  rapid  increase  of  population,  appears  to  have  fallen  into  the 
Bame  error  which  was  at  ilrst  committed  by  Halthus  and  his  ioU 
lowers,  that  of  supposing  that  because  population  has  a  greater 
power  of  increase  tnan  subsistence,  its  pressure  upon  subsistence  must 
r>e  alwavs  growing  more  severe.  The  difference  is  that  the  early 
Malihusians  thought  this  an  irrepressible  tendency,  while  M.  Louis 
Blanc  thinks  that  it  can  be  repressed,  but  only  under  a  system  of 
Communism.  It  is  a  great  point  gained  for  truth  when  it  comes  to 
be  seen  that  the  tendencv  to  over-population  is  a  fact  which  Com- 
munism, as  well  as  the  existing  order  of  society,  would  have  to  deal 
XTith.  And  it  is  much  to  be  rejoiced  at  that  this  necessity  is  ad- 
mitted by  the  most  considerable  chiefs  of  all  existing  schools  of 
Socialism.  Owen  and  Fourier,  no  less  than  M.  Louis  Blanc,  admitted 
it,  and  claimed  for  their  respective  systems  a  pre-eminent  power  of 
dealing  with  this  difficulty.  However  this  may  be,  experience  shows 
that  in  the  existing  state  of  society  the  pressure  of  population  on 
enbsistence,  which  is.  the  principal  cause  of  low  wages,  though  a 
great,  is  not  an  increasing  evil ;  on  the  contrary,  the  progress  of  all 
that  is  cbU  civilisation  has  a  tendency  to  diminish  it,  partly  by  the 
more  rapid  increase  of  the  means  of  employing  and  maintaining 
labour,  partly  by  the  increased  facilities  opened  to  labour  for  trans- 
porting itself  to  new  countries  and  unoccupied  fields  of  employment, 
and  partly  by  a  general  improvement  in  the  intelligence  and  pru- 
dence of  the  population.  This  progress,  no  doubt,  is  slow ;  but  it  is 
much  that  such  progress  should  take  place  at  all,  while  we  are  still  only 
in  the  first  stage  of  that  public  movement  for  the  education  of  the  whole 
people,  which  when  more  advanced  must  add  greatly  to  the  force  of  all 
the  two  causes  of  improvement  specified  above.  It  is,  of  course,  open 
to  discussion  what  form  of  society  has  the  greatest  power  of  dealing  suc- 
cessfully with  the  pressure  of  population  on  subsistence,  and  on  this 
qnestion  there  is  much  to  be  said  for  Socialism ;  what  was  long  thought 
to  be  its  weakest  point  will,  perhaps,  prove  to  be  one  of  its  strongest  But 
it  has  no  just  claim  to  be  considt  red  as  the  sole  means  of  preventing  the 
ge&exal  and  growing  degradation  of  the  mass  of  mankind  through  th« 


ST8  CHAPTEBS  ON  SOCIALISM: 

peculiar  tendency  of  i)OTerty  to  produce  over^population.  Society  &a  t4 
present  constituted  is  not  descending  into  that  abyss,  but  gradoallY, 
though  slowly,  rising  out  of  it,  and  this  improvement  is  likely  to  be  prc- 
gressive  it  uad  laws  do  not  interfere  with  it. 

Next,  it  must  be  observed  that  Socialists  generally,  and  even  the  most 
enlightened  of  them,  have  a  very  imperfect  and  one-sided  notion  of  tlij 
operation  of  competition.  They  see  half  its  effects,  and  oveiiook  the 
other  half ;  they  rogard  it  as  an  agency  for  grinding  down  every  one's 
remuneration — for  obliging  every  one  to  accept  less- wages  for  his  labour, 
or  a  less  price  for  his  commodities,  which  would  be  toie  only  if  every 
one  had  to  dispose  of  his  labor  or  his  commodities  to  some  great  monop- 
olist, and  the  competition  were  all  on  one  side.  They  forget  that  con:- 
E?tition  is  the  caus6  of  high  pricas  and  values  as  well  as  of  low  ;  that  tb3 
uyers  of  labour  and  of  commodities  compete  with  one  another  as  well 
as  the  sellers ;  and  that  if  it  is  competition  which  keeps  the  prices  of 
la'jour  and  commodities  as  low  as  they  are,  it  is  competition  winch  pre- 
vents them  from  falling  still  lower.  In  troth,  when  competition  is  perfectly 
frae  on  both  sides,  its  tendency  is  not  epecially  either  to  raise  or  to  lower 
the  price  of  articles,  but  to  equalise  it ;  to  level  inequalities  of  remuner- 
ation, and  to  reduce  all  to  a  general  average,  a  result  which,  in  so  far  as 
raalised  (no  doubt  very  imporf ectly),  is,  on  Socialistic  principles,  desir- 
able. But  if,  disregarding  for  the  time  that  part  of  the  effects  oi  com- 
petition which  consists  in  keeping  up  prices,  we  fix  our  attention  on  its 
effect  in  keeping  them  down,  and  contemplate  this  effect  in  reference 
solely  to  the  interest  of  the  labouring  classes,  it  would  seem  that  if  com- 
petition keeps  down  wages,  and  so  gives  a  motive  to  the  labouring 
classes  to  withdraw  the  labor  market  from  the  full  influence  of  competi- 
ticn,  if  they  can,  it  must  on  the  other  hand  have  credit  for  keeping 
down  the  prices  of  the  articles  on  which  wages  are  expended,  to  the  grjat 
advantage  of  those  who  depend  on  wages.  To  meet  this  oonsideration 
Socialists,  as  we  said  in  our  quotation  from  M.  Louis  Blanc,  are  reduced 
to  affirm  that  the  low  prices  of  commodities  produced  by  competition  are 
delusive,  and  lead  in  the  end  to  higher  prices  than  before,  because  when 
the  richest  competitor  has  got  rid  of  all  his  rivals,  he  commands  the  mar- 
ket and  can  demand  any  price  he  pleases.  Now,  the  commonest  experience 
shows  that  this  state  of  things,  under  really  free  competition,  is  wholly 
imagina^'y.  The  richest  competitor  neitht  r  does  nor  can  get  rid  of  all 
his  rivals,  and  establish  himself  in  the  exclusive  possession  of  the  mar- 
ket ;  and  it  is  not  the  fact  that  any  important  branch  of  industry  or 
commerce  formerly  divided  among  many  has  become,  or  ^ows  any  ten- 
dency to  become,  the  monopoly  of  a  few. 

The  kind  of  policy  described  is  sometimes  possible  where,  as  in  the 
case  of  railwavs,  the  only  competition  possible  is  between  two  or  three 
great  companies,  the  operations  being  on  too  vast  a  scale  to  be  within 
the  reach  of  individual  capitalists ;  and  this  is  one  of  the  reasons  why 
businesses  which  require  to  be  carried  on  by  great  joint-stock  enter- 
prises caxmot  be  trusted  to  competition,  but,  when  not  reserved  by  th« 


CHAPTSES  on  SOCIALISM.  *79 

Siaio  to  itself  ooglit  to  bo  canied  on  woidet  conditions  prescribed,  and, 
from  time  to  tunc,  vaxied  by  ih«  State,  for  the  ptirpoee  of  innnring  to 
the  pnblio  a  cheaper  supply  of  its  wants  than  would  be  afforded  by  pri- 
Yate  interest  in  the  abs^use  of  soffident  competition.  Bnt  in  the 
ordinaiy  braaches  of  industry  mo  one  rich  competitor  has  it  in  his 
power  to  dri^e  out  all  the  smaller  ones.  Some  businesses  show  a  ten- 
dency to  pass  out  of  the  hands  of  many  small  producers  or  dealers  into 
B  sma21ernu]:]^i>er  of  larger  ones;  but  the  cases  in  which  this  happens 
are  those  in  which  the  possession  of  a  lander  capital  permits  the  adoption 
of  more  poweiful  maehShery,  more  eiHcient  by  more  e:!cpen8iye  pro* 
ceBB€8,  or  a  bstt«  cnganis^  and  moro  eoonomiod  mode  cf '  carrying  op 
business,  and  thus  exAbies  ihe  large  dealer  legitimately  and  permanently 
to  BQpply  the  commodity  cheaper  thaa  can  be  done  on  the  small  scalo ; 
to  the  great  adTantage  of  the  consumers,  and  therefore  of  the  labouring 
clafiges,  afnd  diminishing,  pratanfoy  that  waste  of  the  resources  of  the 
cozomuniiy  so  much  complained  of  by  Socialists,  the  unnecesfary  mul- 
tiplication of  mere  distrilxitors,  and  of  the  various  other  classes  whom 
Pourier  calls  the  pansiteB  of  indostiy.  V/hen  this  change  is  effected, 
the  larger  capitalists,  either  individual  or  joint-stxx^k,  among  which  the 
business  is  chvided^  are  Seldom,  if  ever,  in  any  considerable  branch  of 
oommeroe,  so  few  as  that  oompatiiion  shall  not  continue  to  act  between 
them ;  so  that  the  saying  in  cost,  whidi  enabled  them  to  undersell  the 
small  dealers,'"  oontiniiesafterwanls,  as  at  first,  to  be  passed  on,  in  lower 
piices,  to  their  custoxoers.  The  operation,  thereft>rc,  of  competition  in 
keei»ng  dorwn  the.  prices  of  commodities,  including  those  on  which 
^rages  are  expendiea,  is  not  illusive  but  real,  and,  we  may  add,  is  a 
gzowing,  not  a  declining,  fact 

But  there  are  other  reif>ects,  equally  important,  in  which  the  charges 
brought  by  Socialists  agamst  competition  do  not  admit  of  so  complete 
aa  answer.  Competition  is  the  best  security  for  cheapness,  bnt  by  no 
means  a  eecnrity  for  quality.  In  former  times,  when  x>roducers  and 
consumers  Were  less  numerous^  it  was  a  security  for  both.  The  market 
was  Qoi  large  enough  nor  ihe  means  of  publicity  sufficient  to  enable  a 
dealer  to  majie  a  fortune  by  continually  attracting  new  customers:  his 
saeeess  depended  on  his  retaining  those  that  he  had ;  and  when  a  dealer 
furnished  good  articles,  or  when  he  did  not,  the  fact  was  soon  known  to 
those  whom  it  coocemed,  and  he  acquired  a  character  for  honest  or  dic- 
hoaest  dea&ig  ot  more  importajioe  to  him  than  the  gain  that  would  be 
made  by  cheating  casual  purchasers.  But  on  the  great  scale  of  modem 
transactions^  with  ^e  great  multiplication  of  comx>etition  and  the  im- 
mense increase  in  the  quantity  of  business  competed  for,  dealers  are  so 
little  depend^it  on  pexstiatient  customers  that  character  is  much  less 
eseential  to  them,  while  there  is^Jsq  far  ttss  certainty  of  their  obtaining 
the  duoacter  they  deserve.  The  low  prices  which  a  tradesman  advern 
tises  are  known,  to  a  thousand  for  one  who  has  discovered  for  himself 
or  leacned  froBi  oi&en,  that  thebad  quality  of  the  goods  is  more  than 
M  eqidvalent  far  their  cheapness;  while  at  the  same  time  the  much 


280  CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.    . 

greater  f ortnnes  now  made  by  some  dealers  excite  the  enpidit  *  of  all  - 
and  the  greed  of  capid  gain  substituteB  itself  for  the  modest  desire  U> 
make  a  Uving  by  their  bmness.    In  this  manner,  as  wealth  increasts 
and  greater  prizes  seem  to  be  within  reach,  more  and  more  of  a  gam- 
bling spirit  IS  introduced  into  commerce ;  and  where  tbis  prevails  not 
only  are  the  simplest  maxims  of  prudence  disregDrded,  bntmll,  even  the 
most  perilous,  forms  of  pecuniary  improbity  receive  a  ternbie  stimulnB. 
This  ifi  the  meaning  of  what  is  called  the  intensity  of  modem  competi- 
tion.    It  is  further  to  be  mentioned  that  when  this  intensity  has  reached 
a  certain  height,  and  when  a  portion  of  tild  producers  of  an  article  or 
the  dealers  in  it  have  resorted  to  any  of  the  modes  of  fraud,  such  as 
adnlteration,  giving  short  measure,  &c.,  of  the  increase  of  which  thero 
is  now  so  much  complaint,  the  temptation  is  immense  on  these  to  adopt 
the  fraudulent  practices,  who  would  not  have  originated  them;  for  the 
public  are  aware  of  the  low  prices  faUaoiously  produced  by  the  firauds, 
but  do  not  find  out  at  first,  if  ever,  that  the  article  is  not  worth  the 
lower  price,  and  they  will  not  go  on  paying  a  higher  price  for  a  better 
article,  and  the  honest  dealer  is  placed  at  a  terrible  disadvantage.    Thus 
the  ^frauds,  begun  by  a  few,  become  customs  of  the  trade,  and  the 
morality  of  the  trading  classes  is  more  and  more  deteriorated. 

On  this  point,  therefore,  Socialists  have  really  made  out  the  existence 
not  only  of  a  great  evil,  but  of  one  which  grows  and  tends  to  grow  with 
the  growth  ox  population  and  wealth.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that 
society  has  never  yet  used  the  means  which  are  already  in  its  power  of 
grappling  with  this  eviL  The  laws  against  commercial  f^uds  are  vf  rr 
defective,  and  their  execution  still  more  sa  Laws  of  this  description 
have  no  chance  of  being  really  enforced  unless  it  is  the  special  duty  of 
some  one  to  enforce  them.  They  are  epecially  in  need  of  a  public 
prosecutor.  It  is  still  to  be  discovered  how  fto  it  is  possible  to  repress 
by  means  of  the  criminal  law  a  class  of  misdeeds  which  are  now  seldom 
brought  before  the  tribunals,  and  to  which,  when  brought,  the  Judicial 
administration  of  this  country  is  most  unduly  lenient  The  most  im- 
portant class,  however,  of  these  frauds,  to  the  mass  of  the  people,'iho6e 
which  affect  the  price  or  quality  of  articles  of  daily  consumption,  can  be 
in  a  ^eat  measure  overcome  oy  the  institution  of  co-operative  stores. 
By  this  plan  any  body  of  consumers  who  form  themselves  into  an  asBo- 
ciation  for  the  purpose,  are  enabled  to  pass  over  the  retail  dealers  and 
obtain  their  articles  direct  from  the  wholesale  menshauts,  or,  what  is 
better  (now  that  wholesale  co-operative  agencies  have  been  establishcdl 
from  the  producers,  thus  freeing  Uiemselves  from  the  heavy  tax  now 
paid  to  the  distributiug  classes  and  at  the  same  time  eliminate  the  usual 
perpetrators  of  adulterations  and  other  frauds.  Distribution  thus  be- 
comes a  work  performed  by  agents  selected  and  paid  by  those  who 
have  no  interest  in  anything  but  the  cheapness  and  goodness  of  the 
article ;  and  the  distributors  are  capable  of  being  thus  reduced  to  the 
numbers  which  the  quantity  of  work  to  be  done  really  requires.  The 
difficulties  of  the  plan  consist  in  the  skill  and  trostworthiness  required 


GHAFTEBS  ON  SOGIALISIL  281 

in  ib§  managers,  and  the  imperfect  nature  of  the  control  irhich  can  h% 
exercised  over  them  by  the  body  at  large.  The  great  success  and  rapid 
^ro^h  of  the  sysfcexn  prove,  however,  that  these  difflcnlties  are,  in  soma 
tolerable  degree,  overcome.  At  ail  events,  if  the  beneficial  tendency  of 
tha  competition  of  retailers  in  promoting  cheapness  is  foregone,  and 
has  to  be  replaced  by  other  securitiae,  thd  mischievous  tendency  of  the 
sima  compatitioQ  in  deteriorating  qu'Uity  is  at  any  rate  got  rid  of;  and 
th3  prospirity  of  the  co-operative  stores  shows  that  this  benefit  is  ob- 
t  linjd  not  only  without  detriment  to  chaapness,  but  with  gr  jat  advantage 
to  it,  sinos  thai  profits  of  tha  concerns  enable  them  to  return  to  the  con- 
su  H3IB  a  larga  percentaga  oo  the  price  of  every  article  supplied  to 
thjHL  So  far,  tharefora,  as  this  dass  cf  evils  is  concerned,  an  etfectual 
rsmady  is  already  in  oparatioa,  which,  though  suggested  by  and  partly 
groondid  on  socialistic  principbs,  is  consistent  with  the  existing  con- 
Btitotion  of  property. 

With  regard  to   those   greater   and   more   conspicuous  economical 
frauds,   or   malpractices    equivalent   to    frauds,    of   which   so    many 
daplorabla   cas3S  have   become   notorious — committed  by  merchants 
and  bankers   betwaen.  themselves    or  between   them  and  those  who 
have  trusted  th^m  with  money,  su  ^h  a  remedy  as  above  described  is 
not  available,  aud  tha  only  resourr^es  which  the  present  constitution 
of  society  affords  against  tbamare  a  stamer  reprobation  by  opinion,  and 
a  more  efficient  reprission  by  tha  law.     Neither  of  thess  remedies  has 
hal  any  approach  to  an  effictuil  trial.     It  is  on  thi  occurrence  of  in- 
solvensies  that  thess  dishonest  pra'^ticss  usually  come  to  light;  the  per- 
petrators taka  their  place,  not  in  the  clais  of  malefactors,  but  in  that  of 
insolvent  debtors ;  and  th^  lavs  of  this   aud  other  countries  were  for- 
uQ3rly  so  saTig3  against  ?i'n;5l5  insolv^rny,  that  by  o?ie  of  those  r<3ao- 
tioas  to  which  th3  opinions  '^f  mankind  ar3  liablo,  insolvents  came  to  be 
r^garled  miinly  as  objeot*?  of  compassion,  and  it  S'^'^med  to  be  thought 
thatth)  hand  both  of  law  aid  of  public  opinion  could  hardly  press  too 
lightly  upoa  th3Ti.     By  an  error  in  a  contrary  diroctiou  to  the  ordinary 
00  3  of  our  law,  which  in  the  punishment  of  offences  in  general  wholly 
neglects  the  question  of  reparation  to  the  sufferer,  our  bankruptcy  laws 
Lav*  for  some  time  treat  ^d  the  recovery  for  creditors  of  what  is  left  of 
th3ir  property  as  almost  the  sole  object,  scarcely  any  importance  beihg 
att"i:;hed  to  the  punishment  of  the  bankrupt  for  any  misconduct  which 
does  not  directly  interfere  with  that  primary  purpose.     For  three  or 
four  years  past  there  has  been  a  slight  counter-reaction,  and  more  than 
oae  bankruptcy  act  has  been  passed,  somewhat  less  indulgent  to  the 
bankrapt;  but  the  primary  object  regarded  has  still  been  the  pecuniary 
iatirest  of  the  creditors,  and  criminality  in  the  bankrupt  himself,  with 
the  exception  of  a  small  number  of  well-marked  offences,  gets  off  al- 
most wiSi  impunity.     It  may  be  confidently  affirmed,  therefore,  that, 
at  Idast  in  this  country,  society  has  not  exerted  the  power  it  possesses 
of  making  mercantile  dishonesty  dangerous  to  the  perpetrator.     On  the 
loatrary,  it  is  a  gambling  trick  in  which  all  the  advantage  is  ou  the  side 


J82  CEtAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

of  the  trickster :  if  the  trick  succeeds  it  makes  his  f ortone,  or  preserrefl 
it;  if  it  fails,  he  is  at  most  reduced  to  poyerty,  which  was  perhaps  al- 
ready impending  when  he  determined  to  ran  the  ohance  and  he  is 
classed  by  those  who  have  not  looked  closely  into  the  matter,  and  even 
by  many  who  have,  not  among  the  infamous  but  among  the  unfortunat .. 
Until  a  more  moral  and  rational  mode  of  dealing  with  culpable  insol- 
vency has  been  tried  and  failed,  commercial  dishonesty  caonot  be  ranked 
among  evils  the  prevalence  of  which  is  inseparable  from  commezcial 
competition. 

Another  point  on  which  there  is  much  mis^prehension  on  the  pari 
of  Socialists,  as  well  as  of  Trades  Unionists  and  other  partisans  of  La- 
bc^'  against  Capital,  relates  to  the  prc^ortions  in  which  the  produce  cf 
the  country  is  really  shared  and  the  amount  of  what  is  actually  divert  d 
from  those  who  produce  it,  to  enrich  other  persons.  I  forbear  for  th  i 
present  to  speak  of  tha  land,  which  is  a  subject  apart.  But  with  respect 
to  capital  employed  in  business,  there  is  in  the  popular  notions  a  gr.ut 
deal  of  illusion.  When,  for  instance,  a  capitalist  invests  ^20,000  in  hli 
business,  and  draws  from  it  an  income  of  (suppose)  £2,000  a  year,  tl.) 
common  impression  Ih  as  if  he  was  the  beneficial  owner  boUi  of  Ui'j 
j£20,000  and  of  thj  X2,U0(),  while  the  labourers  own  nothing  but  thJr 
wages.  Tho  truth,  however,  is  that  he  only  obtains  the  jC2,000  oa 
condition  of  applying  no  part  of  the  £20,000  to  his  own  use.  He  hcs 
the  legal  control  over  it,  and  might  squander  it  it  if  he  chose,  but  if  ho 
did  he  would  not  have  the  £2,000  a  year  also.  As  long  as  he  derives  an 
income  from  his  capital  he  has  not  the  option  of  withholding  ii  froji 
the  use  of  others.  As  much  of  his  invested  capital  as  consists  of  buili- 
ings,  machinery,  and  other  instruments  of  production,  are  applied  to 
production  and  ar3  not  applicable  to  the  Kupport  or  enjoyment  of  any 
one.  Wh^t  is  so  applicablf^  (includiug  what  is  laid  out  in  keeping  np  or 
renewing  hie  buildings  and  instruments)  is  paid  away  to  labourers, 
forming  their  remuneration  and  th/^ir  share  in  the  division  of  the  pro- 
duce. For  all  personal  purposes  they  have  the  capital  and  he  has  but 
the  profits,  which  it  only  yields  to  him  on  condition  that  the  capital  itst  If 
is  employed  in  satisfying  not  his  own  wants,  but  those  of  laboorers. 
The  proportion  which  the  profits  of  capital  usually  bear  to  the  capital 
itsolf  (or  rather  to  the  circulating  portion  of  it)  is  the  ratio  which  th:* 
capitalist's  share  of  the  produce  bears  to  the  aggregate  share  of  the  Li- 
bourers.  Even  of  his  own  share  a  small  part  only  belongs  to  him  iw 
the  owner  of  capital.  The  portion  of  the  produce  which  falls  to  capitd 
merely  as  capital  is  measured  by  the  interest  of  money,  since  that  is  all 
that  the  owner  of  capital  obtains  when  hf".  contributes  notlxing  to  pro- 
duction except  the  capital  itself.  Now  th^  interest  of  capital  in  the  pub- 
lic funds,  which  are  considered  to  be  the  best  security,  is  at  the  pi^s.i  t 
prices  (which  have  not  varied  much  for  many  years)  about  three  and 
one-third  per  cent  Even  in  this  investment  there  is  some  litUe  risk-^ 
risk  of  repudiation,  risk  of  being  obligeil  to  aeU  out  at  a  low  price  in 
some  commercial  ericas. 


CHAPTERS  OS  SOOIALIBM.  M8 

Efltimatiiig  these  zisks  at  ^  per  cent.,  the  remaining  8  per  oeni. 
may  be  eonsidered  as   the   remimeiation   of   capital,  apiurt    from 
insaranoe  against  loss.     On  the  secoiity  of  a  mortgage  I  per  oent. 
is  generally  obtained,  bat  in  this  transaction  there  are  considerably 
greater  risks — the   nncertainty   of   titles   to   land    under    our    bad 
Eystem  of  law;    the   chance  of  having   to  realise  the  security  at  a 
great  cost  in  law  charges ;  and  liability  to  delay  in  the  receipt  of  the 
iuterest,  even  when  the  principal  is  safe.     When  mere  money  inde- 
pendently of  exertion  yields  a  larger  income,  as  it  sometimes  does, 
lor  eiample,  by  shares  in  railway  or  other  companies,  the  surplus  is 
hardly  ever  an  equivalent  for  the  risk  of  losing  the  whole,  or  part, 
of  the  capital  by  mismanagement,  as  in  the  ease  of  the  Brighton  Rail- 
way, the  dividend  of  which,  after  having  been  6  per  cent,  per  annum, 
sunk  to  finom  nothing  to  1^  per  cent. ,  and  shares  which  had  been  bought 
at  120  could  not  be  sold  for  more  than  about  43.     Whc^n  money  is 
lent  at  tibe  high  rates  of  interest  one  occasionally  hears  of,  rates  only 
given  by  spendthrifts  and  needy  persons,  it  is  because  the  risk  of  loss  is 
80  great  thai  few  who.possess  money  can  be  induced  to  lend  to  them  at  aU. 
So  little  reason  is  there  for  tiie  outcry  against  '*  usury"  as  one  of  the 
gnevoQs  burthens  of  the  working  dassfs.     Of  the  profits,  therefore, 
which  a  manufacturer  or  other  person  in  business  obtains  from  his  capi- 
tal no  more  than  about  3  per  cent  can  be  set  down  to  the  capital  itself. 
If  he  were  able  and  willing  to  give  up  the  whole  of  this  to  his  labourers, 
who  sfaieady  share  among  ttiem  the  wh<4e  of  his  capital  as  it  is  annually 
reprodnoed  from  year  to  year,  the  addition  to  their  weekly  wages  would 
be  inconsiderable.     Of  what  he  obtains  beyond  8  per  cent,  a  great  part 
is  msonaioe  against  the  manifold  losses  he  is  exposed  to,  and  cannot 
Eafeiy  be  applied  to  his  own  use,  but  requires  to  be  kept  in  reserve  to 
cover  those  losses  when  they  occur.     The  remainder  is  properly  the 
remuneration  of  his  skill  and  industry — the  wagesof  his  labour  of  superin* 
tendence.    Ko  doubt  if  he  is  very  successful  in  business  these  wages  of 
his  are  extremely  liberal,  and  quite  out  of  proportion  to  what  the  same 
skill  and  industry  would  coihmand  if  offered  for  hire.     But,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  runs  a  worse  risk  'than  that  of  being  out  of  employment ; 
tbat  of  doing  the  work  without  earning  anything  by  it,  of  having  the 
bbour  and  anxiety  without  the  wages.     I  do  not  say  that  the  drawbacks 
balance  &6  privileges,  or  that  he  derives  no  advantage  from  the  posi- 
tion w];^ch  makes  Mm  a  capitalist  and  employer  of  labour,  instead  of  a 
ckilled  superintendent  letting  out  his  sf  rvices  to  others ;  but  the  amount 
of  his  advantage  must  not  be  estimated  by  the  great  prizes  alone.     If 
we  subtract  from  the  gains  of  some  the  losses  of  otliers,  and  deduct 
from  the  balance  a  fair  compensation  for  the  anxiety,  skill  and  labour  of 
loth,  grounded  on  the  market  price  of  skilled  superintendence,  what  re- 
nuuns  will  be,  no  doubts  considerable,  but  yet,  when  compared  to  the 
entire  capital  of  the  country,  annually  reproduced  and  dispensed  in 
vagea,  it  is  very  much  smaller  than  it  appears  to  the  popular  imagina- 
)m'f  aad  were  the  wholo  of  it  added  to  the  share  of  the  labourers  it 


384  CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

wotild  make  a  less  addition  to  that  share  than  -vfould  be  made  by  any  im. 
portant  invention  in  machinery,  or  by  the  suppression  of  unnecessary 
distribntors  and  other  ^'parasites  of  industry."  To  complete tiie  esti- 
mate, however,  of  the  portion  of  the  produce  oi  industry  which  goes  to 
remunerate  capital  we  must  not  stop  at  the  interest  earned  out  of  the 
produce  by  the  capital  actually  employed  in  producing  it,  but  most  in- 
clude that  which  is  paid  to  the  former  owners  of  capital  which  has  been 
unproductively  spent  and  no  longer  exists,  and  is  paid,  of  course,  out 
of  the  produce  of  other  capital  Of  this  nature  is  the  interest  of 
national  debts,  which  is  the  cost  a  nation  is  burthened  with  for  past  dif- 
ficulties and  dangers,  or  for  past  folly  or  profligacy  of  its  rulers,  more 
or  less  shared  by  the  nation  itself.  To  this  must  be  added  the  interest 
on  the  debts  of  landowners  and  other  unproductiye  oonsumers ;  except 
so  far  as  the  money  borrowed  may  have  been  spent  in  remunerative  im- 
provement of  the  productive  powers  of  the  land.  As  for  landed  pro- 
perty itself — the  appropriation  of  the  rent  of  land  by  private  individual? 
— I  reserve,  as  I  have  said,  this  question  for  discussion  hereafter;  for 
the  tenure  of  land  might  be  varied  in  any  manner  considered  desirable,  all 
the  land  might  be  declared  the  property  of  the  State  without  interfer- 
ing with  the  right  of  property  in  anythmg  which  is  the  product  of  hu- 
man labour  and  abstinence. 


It  seemed  desirable  to  begin  the  discussion  of  the  Socialist  question 
by  these  remarks  in  abatement  of  Socialist  exaggerations,  in  order  thit 
the  true  issues  between  Socialism  and  the  existing  state  of  society  might 
be  correctly  conceived.  The  present  system  is  not,  as  many  SocialLt^ 
believe,  hurrying  us  into  a  state  of  g9neral  indigence  and  sivery  from 
which  only  Soci^sm  can  save  us.  The  evils  and  injustices  suffered  nu- 
der  the  priSJnt  system  are  great,  but  they  are  not  increasing;  on  th3 
contrary,  tht3  general  tendency  is  toward  their  slow  diminution.  More- 
over the  inequalitias  in  the  distribution  of  the  produce  between  capital 
and  labour,  however  they  may  shock  the  feeling  of  natural  justice, 
would  not  by  their  mere  equalisation  afford  by  any  means  so  large  a 
fund  for  raising  the  lower  levels  of  remuneration  as  Socialists,  and  many 
besides  Socialists,  are  apt  to  suppose.  .  There  is  not  any  one  abuse  or 
injustice  now  prevailing  in  society  by  merely  abohshing  which  the  hn- 
man  race  would  pass  out  of  suffering  into  happiness.  What  iuncuHj- 
bent  on  us  is  a  calm  comparison  between  two  different  systems  of  so- 
ciety, with  a  view  of  determining  which  of  them  affords  the  greatest  rt- 
Bources  for  overcoming  thef  inevitable  difficulties  of  life.  And  if  we  find  tli^ 
answer  to  this  question  more  difficult,  and  more  dependent  upon  int<^I- 
lectual  and  moral  conditions,  than  is  usually  thought,  it  is  satisfactory 
to  reflect  that  th^re  is  time  before  us  for  the  question  to  work  itself  oit 
on  an  experimental  scale,  by  actual  triaL  I  believe  we  shall  find  that  no 
other  test  is  possible  of  the  practicability  or  beneficial  operation  of  So- 
oialist  anangements ;  but  thiat  the  inteUeotual  and  moral  grounds  of 


•  OONTIBNTMENT.  285 

Kwrf^ialiRm  deserve  the  most  atteniiTe  stody,  as  affording  in  many  cases 
tw«  gaiding  principles  of  the  improyements  necessary  to  giye  the  pres- 
ent eooDomic^stem  of  society  its  best  chance. 

JoBv  Stuabs  Mif^  in  Fortnightly  Mtvicw, 


CONTENTMENT. 


"▲a  iMTlnC nothing,  and  yetpoMeasinsall  ttalBai**' 

A  enuBj  door,  low  moanioe  in  the  wind. 

The  beat  and  patter  of  the  driving  rain. 
Thin  drifts  of  melting  snow  npon  tne  floor, 

Forced  through  the  patch  npon  the  broken  pane.  ' 

One  chair,  a  little  foar-locgcd  stool,  a  box 
Spread  with  a  clean  wmte  cloth,  and  frugal  fare,— 

This  is  the  home  the  widow  an^  her  lad. 
Two  hems,  and  his  grey  cat  and  kittens,  share. 

'*  Ben,  it 's  full  time  thee  was  in  bed,"  she  saysy 

Drawiug  her  furrowed  hand  across  his  lo<dc8. 
'*  Thee 's  warmed  th'  toeH  enough,  the  fire  won^t  last. 

Pull  to  th'  coat— I  '11  put  away  the  box. 

•*  Then  pay  th'  prayerft— that  *s  right,  dont  pass  *em  by, 
The  time 's  ill  raved  that 's  saved  from  God  above, 

And  doan't  forgit  th'  hymn — ^thee  never  has, 
And  clioose  a  one  th'  father  nsed  to  love. 

"  Now  lay  'ee  down — bore,  rfve  the  straw  a  tofffi. 

Don't  git  beneath  the  whider — ^mind  the  snow— 
I  like  that  side — I  '11  cover  'ee  jnst  now. 

The  boards  is  by  the  fire — they  'ro  warm,  I  know.' 

No  blanket  wraps  the  lithe  half-naked  limbs, 

But  love,  that  teaches  birds  to  rob  tbeir  breast 
To  warm  their  younglings — love  devises  means 

To  shield  this  youugiiug  from  the  bitter  east. 

The  warm  boards  laid  about  the  weary  child. 

He  turns  a  smiling  face  her  face  towards — 
**  Kother,"  he  says,  soft  pity  in  his  tone, 

**  Wkat  do  the  poor  boys  do  that  liave  no  boards  ?" 

C.  (X  Fraseb-I'ttubr,  in  The  Day  ^  Am! 


THE  ASSOCIATTON  OP  LOCAL  SOCTETTES. 

Local  Societies :  What  is  their  aim  and  what  purpose  do  ihey  serve  ? 
How  may  this  aim  be  most  surely  gained  ?  How  can  this  purpose  be 
most  effectively  earned  out  ?  These  are  questions  which  naturally  arise 
when  considering  the  subject  of  local  societies. 

The  nun  of  eyeiy  local  society  should  be  to  raise  the  intc-lk ctcal  status 
of  the  locality.  The  pvrpose  to  do  so  in  that  way  most  genr rally  ustful. 
It  is  the  mind  of  the  community  which  has  to  be  raise d'by  affcctirg  the 
minds  of  the  individuals.  Individual  n'inds  art  to  be  affected  by  con- 
tact with  material  surroundings.  These  surroundings  irfluence  us  tia-ciigh 
the  powers  of  observation,  hence  conjnl and  occfjraU  ihsdratiov  nniist 
exist  among  the  members  of  a  sociesty  fulfilling  its  prcpcr  functioiis. 
The  greater  the  number  of  members  exercising  such  otservaticn  the 
greater  the  usefulness  of  the  society.  It  is  ahrost  needless  to  instacce 
other  mental  qualities  as  necessary  for  success,  because  experience  shows 
that  when  once  the  observing  frculty  has  received  its  due  share  of  at- 
t  ntion,  the  power  of  using  the  observations  made  follows  in  duecenise. 
The  faculty  of  observation  n  ust  be  drawn  cut  and  cultivated  by  ecDtact 
with  matter  in  relation  to  man,  ar.d  by  contact  with  matter  col  side  red 
apart  from  man  as  existing  in  a  state  of  nature.  And  just  as  it  is  in  p  ort- 
ajit  that  in  the  culture  of  the  individual  a  one-sidedness  Kbculd  be  f^pec- 
ially  avoided,  so  in  raising  the  culture  of  a  community  it  is  c  qualJy  im- 
portant that  opportunities  or  suggestions  for  mental  irrprovt  me  nt  ^//^ 
rovvd  should  be  afforded-  Hence  we  are  inclined  to  tbirk  it  advitable 
that  especially  in  the  case  of  small  ccuntry  tcwrs  sciertflic  studies,  or 
suggestions  for  such,  should  proceed  from  the  sttme  platform  as  these 
studies  which  are  often  spoken  of  as  more  purely  lite  rary.  Of  ccnrse 
hteraturp  includes  the  records  of  science,  but  still  for  general  purpcFfs 
the  meaning  is  clear  when  a  literary  institute  or  Society  is  spoken  of  as 
distinguished  from  a  scientific.  Among  the  lower  types  of  animals  there 
is  a  want  of  specialisation  of  parts ;  very  different  functions  may  be 
performed  by  the  same  part  of  the  whole  of  the  body ;  in  the  higher, 
specialisation  prevails,  each  functioi;i  has  its  own  organ,  and  the  function 
is  pertormed  more  efficiently.  In  large  towns  science  may  be  purFUtd 
apart  from  general  literature,  and  even  each  special  science  may  stand 
on  its  own  platform,  but  in  small  towns  this  is  out  of  the  question,  and 
I  believe  unadvisable,  for  the  over-performance  of  one  function  in  tie 
lowly  organised  society  is  checked  by  the  claim  of  the  general  body. 
Moreover,  the  tastes  of  a  community  being  naturally  various,  it  becomes 
essential  to  present  intellectual  food  of  various  kinds.  Hence  we  cannot 
but  think  that  small  local  societies  should  be  both  literary  and  scientific. 
The  two  aspects  of  culture  will  support  and  strengthen  each  other,  and 
(286) 


THE  ASSOCIATION  OF  LOCAL  SOCEETIEa  287 

the  introdactioii  of  a  new  clique,  or  party,  or  sect  be  avoided.  For  it 
must  be  remembered  Chat  one  of  the  diutluct  collateral  advantages  of 
such  socioties  is  that  a  common  platform  is  providad  upon  which  msn 
of  all  political  or  religious  beliefs  can  stand  and  work  toguthor.  No  one 
who  is  acquainted  with  the  social  conditions  of  our  small  towns  can  un- 
derrate the  importance  of  this. 

But  how  are  such  societies  to  work  ?  I  would  reply,  fzx>m  within, 
outwards.  Not,  iu  th>3  fir  jt  place,  by  calling  in  extraneous  help,  by  en- 
gaging eminent  men  to  givj  courses  of  locturas,  but  by  arousing  tha 
spirit  of  inquiry  and  ob.servation  amongiit  the  townsfolk.i  Let  but  a 
few  natives  come  forward  with  short  papers  on  any  subjects  with  which 
thiy  may  ba  espaclally  aaquaint id,  the  subjects  boing  treated  in  such  a 
way  as  to  elicit  a  disjussioa  or  inquiries,  a  spirit  of  int. rest  will  soon 
bs  aroused,  and  minds  put  into  a  proper  attitude  for  the  reception  of 
tmths  bsf ore  quite  unknown  to  thorn,  and  for  the  prosecution  of  some 
special  subject  as  a  study.  In  practice  I  would  strongly  advisvj  the  fol- 
lowing course  to  be  pursued  by  any  embryo  literary  and  scientiiic  society. 
Have  two  class 38  of  meetings :  ou3  the  ordinary  we  tin^f,  at  which 
mombvjrs  alone  (and  therefore  townsfolk)  should  read  short  papers,  upon 
which  a  discussion  should  afterwards  be  encomTiged ;  and  publir.  lec- 
tures^ given  mainly  by  non-resid^ntEi,  and  to  which  the  general  public 
should  be  admitted  on  the  payraant  of  a  small  fee.  At  the  ordinary 
meeting  the  local  talent  and  observation  is  drawn  out^  and  at  the  public 
licture  new  sabjects  are  introduced  to  the  notice  of  members.  At  the 
former,  notices  of  local  phenomena  and  history,  or  the  occasional  orig- 
ioal  investigations  of  members,  are  recorded ;  at  the  latt'^r,  new  lines 
of  thought  are  often  indicated,  or  systematic  instruction  given  in  some 
oni  subject 

A  society  established  on  some  such  basis  is  then  in  a  position  to  en- 
coaragi  the  collection  of  objects  of  WM  natural  history,  to  establish  a 
//C/e^musBum,  and  carry  out  field  excursions  during  the  summer  months. 
Moreover,  the  exp  >rience  of  many  years  past  has  shown  me  that  the 
life — and  therefore  the  growth  of  culture — in  such  a  society  is  far  greater 
than  in  those  cases  where  only  a  yearly  course  of  lecturer  is  organised, 
the  grjater  pai't  of  them  being  given  by  strangers.  Next  comes  the 
oft  rep3at3d  question,  But  how  loag  will  such  a  society  last?  Many  are 
riady  to  say.  We  have  tried  some  such  plan,  and  success  has  attend'  d 
our  efforts  for  one  or  two  years,  and  then  the  society  has  died  out  On 
this  part  of  the  subject  a  few  words  will  now  be  said,  and  the  remarks 
mide  are  founded  upon  experience  gleaned  amidst  the  practical  working 
of  local  societies  in  Cumberland  during  the  past  nine  years. 

How,  then,  can  permanence  be  ensured?  In  a  small  town  or  district 
local  resources  and  talent  are  apt  to  become  exhausted  or  unavailable. 
.\  time  will  surely  come  when  the  int?ll8ctual  movement  will  wane  and 
the  society  be  on  the  brink  of  non-existence.  But  the  very  usefulness 
of  such  a  moyament  must  consist  in  its  stability ;  there  should  be  a 
growth,  not  a  bare  existence.    To  insure  this  stability  I  suggested  some 


288      "     THE  ASSOCIATION  OF  LOCAL  SOCIETIES. 

years  ago  that  the  four  Rocieties  then  existing  in  the  Lake  District  and 
West  Cumberland  should  be  united  for  general  purposes,  while  each 
society  should  ri3tain  its  individuality.  After  many  preliminary  diffi  • 
culties  were  overcome,  the  uiiion  was  effected,  and  smce  that  time  each 
society  has  grown  stronger,  four  new  societies  have  been  formed,  and 
the  total  number  of  members  increased  from  a  few  hrmdred  to  nearly 
1,200. 

The  objects  to  be  attained  by  this  association  of  societies  are  as  fol- 
lows:— 1.  Increased  strength  to  be  derived  from  mutual  help,  encour- 
agement, and  a  spirit  of  honest  emulation.  2.  The  uiiion  affords 
greater  facihtics  towards  publishing  transactions  and  securing  the  servi- 
ces of  eminent  lecturers.  3.  An  annual  meeting  of  the  associated  soci- 
eties affords  aia  opportimity  for  the  discussion  of  principles  of  working 
and  promotes  the  general  life.  4.  The  annual  meeting  being  held  in  a 
fresh  town  each  year  helps  to  keep  the  country  alive  to  the  Association 
work,  and  encourages  the  formation  of  new  societies. 

The  constitution  of  the  Cumberland  Association  is  as  follows : — The 
president  to  be  a  man  of  local  note  and  high  culture,  and  to  serve  for  a 
period  not  greater  than  two  y^ars.*  Tho  Presidents  of  individual 
societies  to  be  vice-presidents  of  the  Association.  The  council  of  the 
Association  to  consist  of  two  delegates  from  each  society,  chosen  annu- 
ally. The  treasurer  and  secretary  (honorary)  to  be  one  and  the  same 
person,  and  fully  acquainted  with  the  county  in  all  its  aspects. 

The  working  of  the  Association  is  carried  on  thus :  The  Association 
secretary  keeps  a  record  of  all  papers  and  lectures  brought  befon^  the 
individual  societies.  Before  the  commencement  of  each  wint  ir  session 
he  communicates  with  all  the  local  secretaries,  and  from  his  know- 
I'^dge  of  available  intellectual  stores  in  the  county,  helps  each  in  th 3 
drawing  up  of  the  winter  programme  in  whatever  direction  htlp  may 
be  specially  needed.  It  is  his  duty  also  to  help  forward  the  establish- 
ment of  local  classes  where  such  are  possible.  At  a  council  meeting 
held  in  the  autumn  some  public  lecturer  is  decided  upon  who  shall  go 
the  round  of  the  associated  societies  during  the  winter,  and  a  grant 
is  made  towards  his  expenses  from  tho  Association  funds  (of  which 
anon),  the  rest  being  made  up  by  each  soci^^ty  served. 

The  annual  meeting  takes  place  at  Easter  or  in  May,  and  lasts  two  or 
three  days.  The  Association  President  d-^livers  his  annual  address,  re- 
ports from  the  several  societies  are  read  and  discussed,  original  papere 
are  read,  lectures  given  by  one  or  more  eminent  men,  and  field  excur- 
sions made. 

At  the  close  of  each  winter  session  the  local  secretaries  send  into  th'i 
Association  secretary  any  papers  which  have  been  selected  by  the  local 
committees  as  worthy  of  publication.  If  the  Association  council  ap- 
prove Uiese  papers  they  are  published  in  the  Transaciiom  at  the  Asso- 


*  The  Lord  Bishop  of  Carlisle^  acted  as  president  for  two  yearSj  and  L  Fletcher, 
IC.P.,  F.R.Sm  '^  Qow  in  his  second  year  of  presidency. 


THE  ASSOCIATlt)N  OP  LOC.y[i  KOCILTIES.  2et) 

dation  expense.  The  funds  of  the  Association  or:  gnlbored  thns :  Each 
society  pays  an  annual  capitation  grant  of  Gr/.  p^r  head  on  all  its  mtir- 
bers.  There  is  also  a  class  of  Association  membors,  rcsidiDg  at  a  dis- 
tance from,  and  not  belonging  to,  any  local  Fociety.  vho  pay  an  aiiniml 
Eubscriptlion  of  r>x,  and  are  virtually  considerv^d  members  of  all  the 
societies,  and  have  the  privileges  of  such.  The  ^J'rohsactioi.s  are  sold 
to  the  societies  and  Association  members  at  the  price  of  1.^.,  the 'public 
being  charged  2s.  6d.  Some  of  the  societies  purchase  copies  to  the  full 
nuaiber  of  their  members,  and  present  them,  othcre  take  only  a.limittd 
number  of  copies  (determined  by  the  local  society  committee)  and  re- 
sell tc  those  of  their  members  who  care  to  possess  them.  In  this  way 
the  greater  part  of  an  edition  of  800  copies  of  the  Annual  Trai  roc- 
t'loM  is  disposed  of.  Authors  are  allowed  extra  copies  of  their  own 
papsrs  at  a  moderate  charge,  and  when  all  expenses  are  met,  a  fair  bal- 
ance is  left  to  carry  on  to  Qie  next  year. 

It  should  be  noted  that  of  the  eight  societies  in  Cumberland,  now  as- 
sociated, the  local  annual  subscriptions  of  members  in  each  «ociety  is 
generally  55.;  in  oneLcase,  however,  it  is  3s.  6rf.,  and  in  another  2*'.  6(f. 
Is  it  aiTile  of  the  Association  that  members  going  from  one  society  to  an- 
other to  afford  help  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  various  programmes,  should 
have  their  expenses  paid  by  the  society  helped.  Such  is  the  general  con- 
stitution and  mode  of  working  of  the  Cumberland  Association,  which  has 
nndoubtedly  succeeded  in  its  aim,  so  far  as  the  keeping  up  of  existing 
societies  and  the  formation  of  new  ones  is  concerned.  The  **Annucd 
Transactions,"  too,  include  many  papers  of  local  value,  and  some  of 
general  interest,  while  among  the  eminent  men  who  have  kindly  come 
forward  to  lend  their  services  at  the  Annual  Meetings,  are  the  Astrono- 
mer Koyal,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Prof.  Shairp,  Prof.  Wm.  Knight,  and  I. 
Fletcher,  M.P.,  F.K.S.  At  present,  however,  the  Association  is  but  in  its 
infancy,  and  may  be  considered  more  or  less  of  an  experiment,  yet  that 
some  such  method  of  union  is  desirable  amongst  local  societies  in 
the  various  counties  or  districts  of  England  few  will  deny.  Time  will 
show  how  the  system  may  be  improved  and  varied  to  suit  special  circum 
stances,  but  I  cannot  but  think  that  the  plan  of  association  to  carry  out 
hrger  objects  of  the  societies,  and  the  annual  meeting  of  the  associated 
societies  in  successive  towns  of  a  county,  must  economise  labour  and 
promote  the  healthy  culture  of  the  county  in  which  the  work  is  carried  on. 

Amongst  the  difficulties  presenting  themselves  in  the  early  days  of 
the  association,  the  following  occurred.  For  several  previous  years  a 
Cnmberland  and  Westmoreland  Antiquarian  and  Archasological  Society 
had  flourished,  and  it  was  feared  that  the  new  County  Association  would 
chsh  with  its  existence.  The  Antiquarians  thought  it  best  not  to.  amal- 
gamate with  the  associated  society,  its  constitution  being  in  many  points 
different  from  theirs,  but  it  was  resolved  that  whenever  papers,  bearing 
on  local  antiquarian  or  archaeological  subjects  were  read  before  any  of 
the  associated  societies,  these  papers  should  be  offered  by  the  Association 
oooncil  to  the  Antiquarian  and  Archaeological  Society  for  publication  in 

L.  M.— I.— 10. 


290    .  EADIC.vL  REFORM  Df  THE  METHOD  0:7 

tlit^ir  Trrinsn"tions  if  deoraed  worthj.  Moreover,  Komo  of  thyoSicere 
of  the  Association  are  active  niemi)er3  of  the  Ai-chicological  Society, 
and  so  far  from  there  being  any  antagonism,  the  two  decidedly  h'^Ip  o;.- 
anoth.-r  for\'.':ird  in  the  generad  work  of  gleaning  local  knowledge^  ani 
diifiLrfiiig  culture. 

As  hoa.  secretarv  of  the  Cumberland  Association,  I  should  feel  v^rv 
grateful  for  any  hints  or  suggestions  from  the  readers  of  Natur!-'.  Vv'aat 
is  wanted  in  every  county  is  more  culture,  and  that  carried  on  in  a  Jtd' 
turcU  way,  and  with  a  true  love  of  nature  in  all  her  aspects., 

J.  Clistox  Y/aed,  in  I^ature, 


I 


ON  A  RADICAL   REFORM  IN   THE  lilETHOD   OF  TEACHING 

THE  CLASSICAL  LANGUAGES. 

The  old  feud  between  the  Humanists  and  Realists  has  broken  out 
in  a  new  form  Greek,  it  appears,  is  to  be  extruded  from  the  uuivcn  - 
ti'3S ;  at  least  that  academical  platform  is  to  b 3  shaken  from  und  r  it> 
feet,  and  that  badga  of  privilege  is  to  bo  torn  from  its  breast,  which  for 
many  years  have  given  it  a  secure  position  in  the  palaestra  where  tliv 
youth  of  Gr.^at  Britain  have  been  trained  to  the  highest  functions  of  in- 
telloctual  manhood.  Not  a  few  persons — even  thosa  who  have  no  par- 
ticular intjrcst  in  or  sympathy  with  Hellenic  learning — ^will  look  on  tLi< 
changad  position  of  the  most  aristocratic  of  traditional  scholastic  stncli :-> 
with  unaffected  sorrow ;  neveithaless,  they  will  say,  the  thing  must  b^' 
done;  times  are  changed,  and  we  most  change  with  them;  the  nio^t 
reputabli  rospectabilitics,  when  their  day  comes,  must  die,  and  t^.'^ 
claims  of  t\i3  past,  however  venerable,  must  yield  to  the  urgent  deman  .-> 
of  the  prcs  nt. 

To  uudir.stand  this  matt'^r  properly,  we  must  S3e  clearly  that  it  is  r.f* 
Grjck  m-Tjly,  as  Greek,  that  is  call-.d  before  the  bar  of  public  opinio:., 
but  GrjL'k  as  the  highafitfor:n  of  classical  culture ;  Greek  as  the  goM  > .' 
which  Latin  is  the  silver  and  the  copper  cuiTency.  The  raal  question  i  . 
can,  not  Greek  simply,  but  Greek  and  Latin  as  an  intimatrlyrelat'dj*!/' 
closaly  interlacing  whol.'\  stand  in  the  same  relation  to  the  culture  of  t^.  • 
eightaeuth  century  that  th^y  did  to  the  culture  of  th?  sixteenth  c  ''- 
tury  ?  and  the  answer  is  plainly  en oup:h  that  thoy  cannot.  New  u.- 
cumstances  have  arisen,  new  tasks  are  to  ba  p -rforrnHd,  new  tools  ar- 
to  be  providid,  new  training  is  necessary.  Whoever  denies  thisisbli:.! 
both  before  and  b  hind ;  great  change's  cannot  take  place  in  socii'y 
without  corresponding  changes  taking  place  in  the  three  great  organs  ff 
social  life,  the  State,  the  Church,  and  the  School.  In  the  sixteenth  c»-n. 
tury  Latin  was  the  only  key  to  knowledge,  while  Greek,  with  the  dis- 
advantage of  a  narrower  range  of  currency,  held  the  proud  position  of 


TEACHING  CLASSICAL  LANGUAGES.  201 

the  Bnpremo  court  of  appeal  in  aU  important  matters  of  t^icolo;-,',  pliil- 
osophy,  literature,  and  science.  Latin  in  the  day .s  of  Calvin  and  Uoorga 
Buchanan  was  as  necessary  to  the  exercise  of  any  iutellec^tuai  inliULneo 
among  educated  men,  as  English  is  to  a  Skye  croftur,  if  he  wouLl  do 
business  in  any  market  outside  his  native  village,  or  as  French  is  to  a 
Russian  diplomatist,  if  he  would  make  his  voice  heard  with  cii'oct  at 
Berhn  or  Constantinople.  And  this  diminished  iniluence  of  tlie  cla;i:: i- 
cal  languages,  as  against  the  rich  growth  and  influence  of  modem  cul- 
ture, is  asserting  itself  more  and  more  every  day,  and  will  continue  to 
assert  itself.  In  tho  faco  of  this  fact,  the  inculcators  of  clasrslcai  lord 
at  school  and  college  must  in  the  nature  of  things  abato  th(^ir  demands 
considerably ;  and,  if  they  wish  to  make  this  abatement  less  serious, 
they  must  by  all  means  in  the  first  place  change  their  tactics,  and  im- 
prove their  drill.  In  other  words,  whatever  loss  in  certain  directions 
may  fall  to  the  higher  Enghsh  culture  froni  the  extrusion  or  subordin^i- 
tion  of  one  or  botii  of  the  classical  languages  from  school  or  college, 
may  be  reduced  to  its  minimum  by  a  d?xt?rous  change  of  front  and  an 
improved  practical  drill.  That  such  a  tactical  reform  in  the  method  of 
teaching  the  classical  languages  is  both  necessary  and  practicable,  and 
with  a  view  to  impending  dangers  imperiously  urgent,  it  is  the  object  of 
the  following  remarks  shortly  to  set  forth. 

Everybody  complains  of  the  length  of  time  occupied  in  tho  study  cr 
pretended  study  of  the  classical  languages,  and  of  the  monopoly  of 
cersbral  exercitation  claimed  by  classical  teachers ;  not  a  few  persons 
also  complain  that  with  aU  this  sway  of  grammatical  discipline  the  lan- 
guages are  actually  not  learned,  or  learned  so  ineflfectually  as  to  bo 
readily  forgotten.      Thcs3  complaints  are  just ;  and  the  cause  of  tho 
tmprofitable  consumption  of  time  complained  of  is,  to  a  considerable 
extent  demonstrably,  the  prevalence  of  false  and  prrverse  methods  of 
teaching.     It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  a  young  man  of  common  abil- 
ities, placed  in  the  colloquial  atmosphere  of  some  German  school  or 
family,  will  acquire  a  greater  famiUarity  with  the  German  language  in 
rix  months  than  is   commonly  acquired  of  Greek,   according  to  our 
usual  scholastic  method,   in  as  many  years.      Hov/  is  this  ?     Simply 
because  tha  young  man  rcsid2nt  in  the  country,  breathing  the  atmos- 
phere, and  submitted  continuous!}^  to  the  action  of  the  straDge  sounds 
which  he  wishes  to  appropr'at-*,  learns  the  foreign  language  according 
to  the  method  of  Natur:) ;  while  your  classical  toachf^r  in  one  of  our 
grat  English  ^s-^hools  s^ts  that  method  flatly  at  d-ifiance,  and  substi- 
tats  for  it  artiflcial  methods  of  his  own,  which  have  no  gcvm.  of  healthy 
vitality  in  them,  and  from  which  no  vigorous  growth,  luxuriant  blos- 
'    ^  or  rich   fruitage  can  proceed.      Let  us  analyze   the  method  of 
^'atu^e,  and  see  wherein  it  consists.     It  consists  in  the  constant  repe- 
titon  of  certain  sounds  in  direct  connection  with  certain  interesting 
objects,  and  in  the  direct  motion  of  the  mind  and  the  tongue  on  tho 
Difttirials  thus   supplied  by  the   constant  exercise  of  the  ear  and  the 
eye,     Observe    here    particularly,-  also,   that    the    organs   primarily 


292  RADICAL  REFORM  IN  THE  MilTHOD  OF 

employed  by  Nature  in  the  acquisition  of  language  are  the  ear  and  the 
tongue  ;  and  that  the  eye  and  the  mind  respond  to  or  accompany  the 
action  of  those  organs,  iu  connection  with  interesting  objects  full  of  life 
and  color,  and  not  with  uninteresting  subjects  it  may  be,  or  indifferei.t, 
certainly  not  always  interesting  subjects  in  grey  books.  Kow 
contrast  this  with  some  sahent  points  of  our  scholastic  practice.  "VS'cr.id 
it  be  believed ? — we  do  not  appeal  to  the  car  in  many  cast s  at  all ;  Ir.t 
we  teach  raw  boys  to  commit  to  memory  rules  about  how  the  ear  oviiiht 
to  be  used,  and  then  allow  them  systematically  to  violate  these  niks 
whenever  they  open  their  mouths — the  teachers  themselves  showiii,' 
the  example,  by  habitually  disowning  their  own  principles  in  the  vt  rv 
act  of  their  inculcation.  Worse  than  this,  a  painful  process  is  reguljir  y 
gone  through,  according  to  old  and  orthodox  practice,  of  writing  v£i>  '^. 
or  concatenating  strings  of  words  that  sound  Uke  verses,  not  by  iLo 
witness  of  the  ear — which  is  the  special  guide  in  all  rhythmical  c  ex- 
position-— but  iu  accordance  with  a  rule  inculcated  with  the  har-h 
assiduity  of  continuous  intellectual  toil,  but  whose  existence  is  altogeth*  i* 
ignored  except  on  the  dead  leaves  of  a  sheet  of  paper.  The  perversity  (.  i 
tills  method  is  only  equalled  by  the  loss  of  time  which  its  operation  cauf  i  '^, 
To  say  bonus  and  heney  habitually,  and  then  be  compelled  to  write  vei^/  -^ 
on  the  principle  that  we  ought  to  say  Idnus  and  bene,  while  we  still  t:o 
on  Baying  bonvs  and  &6wr,  is  a  method  of  proceeding  to  inculcate  tl.-^ 
elements  of  human  utterance  of  which  the  most  rude  savage  is  t< .) 
inteUigent  to  comprehend  the  absurdity.  And  if  Latin  vocohzatioii  /? 
treated  in  this  unwholesome  fashion  by  drill-masters  of  Latin  vt  r^ -. 
Greek  accents  have  fared  ev<  n  worse.  From  an  imaginary  difficulty  ji 
pronounning  Greek  words,  with  both  accent  and  quantity  observed,  o.  r 
classical  teachers  have  taken  the  liberty  of  transferring  the  whole  Bvst* .  i 
of  Latin  accentuation,  inherited  through  the  Roman  Church,  to  Grt^k 
words  which  -ye  know  were  and  are  accented  on  a  totally  diffcn  1 1 
principle ;  and  in  this  way,  after  ten  years  devoted  to  minute  study  •  f 
Greek  books,  an  accomplished  Oxonian  or  Cantabrigian  Hellenist  ::'' 
rendered  himself,  or  rather  been  sj-stematically  made,  utterly  incap:il  i'' 
of  speaking  a  single  centenceof  intellif^ible  Greek  to  any  Greek-spt  liki  .: 
person  whom  in  his  Mediterranean  travels,  or  nearer  home  in  Londou  <  r 
Liverpool,  he  may  chance  to  encounter.  And  here  again,  to  crown  thi^ 
absurdity  with  a  proportionate  loss  of  brain  and  time,  the  unfortuEate 
young  Hellenist  is  to  torture  his  memory  with  abstract  rules  aboiit  a 
system  of  Intonation  doomed  to  remain  for  ever  as  dead  in  the  rual 
experience  of  the  learner  as  a  brown  mummy  in  the  British  Museum ! 
So  much  for  the  ear,  to  whos""  p(  rverse  witness  of  course  the  tonjii' 
must  correspond  in  such  wise  that  in  our  scholastic  practice  it  is  seldtm 
or  never  exercised  except  in  connection  with  a  dead  book,  a]":.rt 
altogether  from  the  direct  interest  and  the  vivid  impression  of  immdi- 
ately  siirrounding  objects.  The  direct  action  of  the  mind  also  on  Ibo 
object,  through  the  direct  instrumentality  of  the  tongue,  is  altogctbtr 
left  out  of  view.     Your  classical  scholar  never  thinks  in  the  langua^o 


TEACHINa  CLASSICAL  LANGUAGES.  293 

which  he  -pretends  to  understand ;  that  which  he  ought  to  have  com- 
msnced  with  as  an  inseparable  element  in  the  method  of  Nature,  after 
tan  years'  study  ha  will  not  even  attemp^.  He  can  neither  readily 
understand  what  is  spoken  to  him  in  the  language  which  he  knows,  nor 
can  ha  utter  his  thoughts  readily  when  ho  is  called  on  to  speak.  He  can 
neither  think  nor  hear  nor  speak  in  the  language  which  he  professes  to 
understand.  All  his  linguistic  knowledge  hes  stored  \vp  in  the  shapo  of 
grammatical  rules  apart,  to  be  consulted  slowly,  when  need  may  be,  Uko 
a  lawyer's  books,  not  ready  for  action  like  the  swift  steel  of  an  expert 
swordsman.. 

In  opposition  to  this  stranga  tissue  of  absurdities  and  perversities, 
in  which  our  indoatrinators  of  the  classical  tongues  have  entangled 
themsalves,  we  must  recur  at  once  to  the  natural  method,  commencing 
not  with  abstract  rules  and  paradigms,  but  with  living  practice  from 
which  the  rules  are  to  be  abstracted  and  the  paradigms  gradually 
built  up.  The  essential  elements  of  this  reform  are  a  speaking  teacher, 
witU  a  correct  elocution,  and  a  collection  of  interesting  objects  on 
which  the  thinking  and  speaking  faculty  of  the  learner  shall  be  regularly 
and  continuously  exercised.  And  let  no  man  say  that  this  is  learning 
language  like  a  parrot  and  not  like  a  man.  A  certain  exercise  of  the 
parrot  fa3ulty  there  must  necessarily  be  in  all  learners  of  languages 
according  to  all  methods;  but  a  parrot,  at  all  events,  being  an  un- 
reasoning animal,  is  exempted  from  tho  absurdity  of  repeating  sounds 
which  are  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  rules  about  sounds  which  in 
theory  it  acknowledges.  There  is  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  the 
ignoring  of  the  rule,  because  you  commence  with  thinking  and  speaking 
the  thing  which  the  rule  inculcates.  And  as  for  the  paradigms, 
they  will  be  learn3d*limb  by  limb  in  tho  train  of  a  vivid  practice  mora 
easily  and  mora  expeditiously,  and  not  less  accurately,  tlim  separately 
or  with  an  inferior  amount  of  practice.  When  I  commence  my  Latin 
lesson  by  saying  to  a  boy,  Vides  spleudidum  solem  f  to  which  he  replies, 
thinking  and  speaking  from  the  first  in  Latin,  Video  splendidum  solem, 
I  tsash  him  that  m  in  Latin  is  the  sign  of  the  objective  case,  and  that 
active  verbs  govern  the  objective,  as  scientifically  and  much  more 
eff:icfcively  than  if  I  had  made  him  first  con  up  the  system  of  complete 
mles  and  paradigms,  and  then,  after  six  months,  set  him  to  spell  out 
his  ralos  and  paradigms  wholesale  out  of  a  dead  book.  A  good 
8y3t3m  of  trashing  according  to  the  method  of  Nature  implies  a 
graduated  Si;ries  of  rules  and  paradigms,  increasing  regularly  in 
difficulty  and  complexity,  as  practice  becomes  more  expert.  But  in 
all  castas  the  practice  should  precede  the  rule.  Tho  use  of  lanGruaisfo  is 
an  art  in  the  first  start,  as  in  its  highest  culmination  ;  a  science  like  law 
and  architecture,  only  in  a  second  and  subsidiary  way,  for  the  sai:e  of 
giving  a  firmer  grasp,  and  securing  a  more  consistent  application  of  the 
materials  which  a  rich  and  various  practice  supplies. 

Observe  now  how  the  method  here  indicated  will  work  in  practice.    I 
denuffid  for  the  fair  operation  of  the  natural  method  two  hours  a  day 


294  RADICAL  REFORM  IN  THE  METHOD  OF 

of  direct  teacliing  at  least,  and  as  many  additional  hours,  say  t^^o  Of 
three  more,  as  the  learner  can  spare ;  and  with  a  pupil  willing  to  Lam 
— for  this  must  be  assumed  as  the  typical  case  under  all  methods— I 
guarantee  that  he  shall  kafrn  as  much  Greek  in  six  months,  as  under  lii  j 
ordinarj'-  scholastic  method  he  may  often  learn  in  six  years.  At  all 
events  I  guarantee  to  turn  the  learner  out  with  double  the  amount  of 
available  Greek  in  half  the  time.  Well,  the  first  of  these  two  hours  i^ 
to  bo  si)ent  in  a  deft  linguistic  fence  in  the  conversational  method,  wiili 
direct  reference  to  interesting  surrounding  objects,  such  as  objects  of 
natural  history,  art,  and  archaeology,  pictures,  drawings,  &c.,  and  if  tliJ 
weather  permit  the  hour  might  bo  silent  in  the  fields,  with  a  hving  de- 
scription of  trees,  plants,  birds,  mnning  rivers,  wimpUng  brooks,  farm- 
houses, old  castles,  and  modem  mansions,  ail  in,  situ,  as  the  botanists 
say.  After  this  exercise,  say  in  the  forenoon,  an  afternoon  hour  is  to 
be  devoted  to  reading  and  analysing  such  books  as  to  the.  ago  and  char- 
acter  of  the  generality  of  tho  pupils  might  be  most  acceptable ;  and 
along  with  this  might  be  taken  regularly  a  short  sentence  of  Greek  to 
be  turned  into  English  on  the  spot,  written  down  and  kept  in  a  book  fcr 
the  sake  of  formal  accuracy,  and  as  an  easy  introduction  to  longer  exer- 
cises in  writing  and  composition.  For  accuracy  of  course  is  always  to 
be  aimed  at  in  every  department  of  good  teaching ;  only  it  is  contrary 
to  nature  to  smother  all  fluency  in  a  punctilious  anxiety  to  be  accurate ; 
and,  to  use  a  homely  illustration,  we  must  have  our  nails  first  and  thca 
pare  them. 

Now  note  some  consequences  which  will  naturally  flow  from  the  carry- 
ing out  of  this  method. 

(1.)  If  the  main  thing  to  be  attended  to  in  the  first  place  is  the  sub- 
stitution of  weU-exercised  Uving  functions  for  th«  knowledge  of  dead 
rules  and  tho  conning  of  dead  books,  the  learners  must  congregato 
under  one  teacher  only  in  such  numbers  as  admit  of  their  being  daily 
put  through  individual  drill ;  and  this  cannot  be,  in  my  opinion,  to  any 
purpose  if  there  itre  more  than  a  score  or  five-and-twenty  in  a  class. 
The  success  of  the  exercise  depends  altogether  on  the  frequency  with 
which  certain  sounds  in  interesting  connection  with  certain  objects  are 
repeated,  not  merely  in  the  presence  of,  but  by  the  hving  organs  of  tlio 
learner  j  and  therefore  wo  may  assuredly  say  that  the  crowding  together 
of  some  hundred  or  two  hundred  young  men  of  all  degrees  of  age  and 
preparation  into  one  class-room  for  an  hour  or  two  a  day,  as  a  palaBstra 
for  learning  tho  Greek  language,  is  one  of  tho  most  prominent,  if  not 
the  most  radical  of  tho  reasons,  why,  as  Sydney  Smith  said,  Greeknev.r 
yet  marched  in  great  force  beyond  the  Tweed.  This  is  a  method  of  teach- 
ing Greek  which  can  boast  of  only  one  virtue,  viz.,  cheapness ;  a  virtiio 
for  which  the  Scottish  people  for  the  last  two  centuries  in  all  scholastic 
and  academical  matters  have  always  shown  a  very  nice  tasta  and  a  very 
subtle  appreciation. 

(2.)  Note  especially  how  admirably  the  method  of  teaching  Greek 
\>j  conyersatioxml  descriptions  of  objects,  whilo  it  immensely  increast.3 


__        TEACmNG  CLASSICAL  LANGUAGES.  295 

the  rocabulary  of  the  learner,  and  expedites  the  amotmt  of  necessary 
repetition,  tends  to  break  down  that  wall  of  partition  wh  ch  has  been 
artificially  piled  up  betwixt  classical  scholars  and  the  devotees  of  the 
physical  sciences.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  at  least  B-jven-tenths  of  the 
technical  phraseology  used  in  natural  history,  anatomy,  and  medicine 
are  pure  Greek ;  and  how  useful  must  it  be  for  any  student  of  the  lan- 
guage of  Aristotle,  Theophrastus,  Hippocrates,  and  Dioscorides,  to 
vhatever  other  object  his  philological  studies  may  be  tending,  to  be 
able  in  the  course  of  his  linguistic  progress  to  get  a  firm  hold  of  ihat 
miiversal  language  of  science,  without  some  inkling  of  which  technical 
langnage  will  always  be  more  or  less  misty,  r.nd  the  exercise  of  memory 
on  the  vocabulary  of  natural  science  more  or  less  painful.  I  need 
Bcarcely  add  that  Archaeology  also,  the  ftur  sister-science  of  Philology, 
\nll  come  in  for  her  righteous  share  of  attention  in  the  schools,  the 
moment  that  the  descriptive  method  gives  to  objects  their  natural 
prominence  in  a  scientific  course  of  linguistic  training. 

(3.)  I  have  made  no  distinction  in  these  remarks  between  living  and 
dead  languages,  a  difference  which  some  teachers  imagine  to  be  of  vital 
importance  in  the  method  of  teaching.  But  this  is  a  mistake.  The 
conversational  method  is  the  most  natural,  and  therefore  the  best,  in 
both  cases;  only  some  persons  in  learning  modem  languages  collo- 
quially have  no  further  object  in  view  than  to  bandy  light  prattle  deftly 
at  a  railway  station  or  a  dinner  table,  as  the  nei  d  may  be ;  whereas  to 
the  scholar  who  studies  Greek  in  order  to  make  himself  familiar  with 
Christian  theology  in  its  early  stages,  or  with  Hellenic  philosophy  in  its 
best  models,  conversation  in  the  Greek  tongue  is  a  means  to  an  end  ; 
always,  however,  the  best  means,  at  once  the  most  expeditious  and  the 
most  effective,  and  infinitely  more  natural,  rational,  and  easy,  than  forc- 
ing a  series  of  painfully  constrained  syllables  into  the  compass  of  six 
iambi,  contrary  to  the  witness  in  many  cases  of  the  composer's  ear. 
"What  the  conversational  method  achieves,  with  signal  success  beyond 
rJl  other  methods,  is  familiarity ;  and  without  this  familiarity  a  cer- 
t^  strangeness  and  a  feeUng  of  exertion  will  always  attach  to  the  use 
of  a  foreign  language,  which  will  cause  it  to  be  learned  with  pain 
and  forgotten  with  ease.  Another  difference  between  living  and 
dead  languages,  so  far  as  the  teaching  is  concerned,  lies  in  the  fact 
that  in  the  former  the  speaker  is  always  found  ready  at  our  call,  while 
in  the  lattsr  he  requires  to  be  produced  by  training  ;  that  is,  ho 
must  teach  himself,  of  course,  before  he  attempts  to  teach  others ;  but 
in  this  there  can  be  no  practical  difficulty  to  the  accomplished  scholar, 
as  walking  upon  the  plain  ground  of  common  colloquy  must  always  be 
a  much  easier  achievement  than  darujing  upon  the  tight-rope  of  artificial 
meters ;  and,  as  Greek,  though  a  dead  language  in  one  sense,  is  a  living 
language  in  another,  any  person  or  company  of  persons  who  wished  to 
acquire  fluency  in  modem  Greek  expression,  merely  for  the  purpose  of 
liolding  converse  with  the  living  Greeks  on  conamercial,poUtical  and  social 
iQatteis  generally,  might  hire  the  services  of  a  living  Greek  for  the  pur- 


296  RADICAL  REFORM  IN  THE  METHOD  OF 

pos9,  and  learn  the  language  of  Plato  precisely  as  he  learns  thnt  of 
Gosthe  or  Moliere.  And  there  cannot  be  any  doubt  that  it  would  he  a 
wise  thing  in  our  merchants  and  our  Government  to  have  a  regular 
training-school  of  modern  Greek  attached  to  the  universities,  the  com- 
mercial guilds,  or  the  foreign  office ;  it  is  impossible  to  say  how  muck 
commaroial  traasaotions  and  diplomatic  difficulties  might  ba  smoothed 
if  John  BaU  would  condoscend  to  come  down  from  his  dignilied  throue 
of  dumb  ciassicality,  and  speak  in  a  fraternal  way  to  the  numerous 
Greeks  with  whom  he  may  come  in  contact  in  Alexandria,  Cairo, 
Bewout,  Smyrna,  Cyprus,  and  other  corners  of  the  Mediterranean, 
where  tha  Union  Jack  flaunts  with  most  recognized  respect,  and  the 
national  Shibboleth  "All  right"  most  frequently  answers  to  his  call 

(4.)  With  regard  to  Greek  specially  if  should  be  noted  further  that 
the  colloquial  style  »,  beyond  aU  others,  the  national  style ;  the  style 
of  Plato,  of  Lucian  and  of  Aristophanes.  To  comnaence  with  colloquy  in 
this  languaga  is  to  render  ear  and  tongue  familiar  from  the  very  be- 
ginning with  the  style  of  the  most  perfect  masters  in  the  classical 
use  of  that  most  perfect  of  languages. 

(5.)  In  applying  the  principles  of  educational  method  here  laid  down 
to  our  present  school  and  university  system,  two  important  modifica- 
tions would  be  required.  In  the  first  place,  no  young  person  during 
his  school  career  should  be  expected  in  the  regular  routine  of  the  school 
to  learn  more  languages  than-  one,  besides  his  mother-tongue,  and  this 
one  might  either  be  Latin  or  Greek  amongst  the  ancient,  French  or 
German  amongst  the  mod3rn ;  a  restriction  which  seems  necessary,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  make  room  for  other  and  equally  important  subjects 
at  present  too  often  neglectad  or  unduly  subordinated  in  our  schools; 
and  on  the  other,  to  give  to  th'3  learner  that  sense  of  progress  and  power 
over  a  strange  instrument  which  he  never  acquires  while  painfully  foot- 
ing his  way  through  half-a-dozen  unfamiliar  paths,  rough  with  stones 
below,  and  bristling  with  thorns  on  both  sides.  I  have  known  schools 
of  no  moan  repute,  in  which  boys  are  taught  a  little  Latin,  a  little  Greek, 
a  little  French,  and  a  little  German,  all  at  the  same  time  (to  make  a 
respectable  show  perhaps  to  the  public!)  and  which  generally  ends  in  a 
great  deal  of  nothing.  The  ancient  Romans  contented  themselves  with 
two  languages,  Greek  and  their  mother-tongue,  but  they  knew  boih 
thoroughly,  and  used  them  with  efficiency ;  we  modern  Romans  pretend 
to  learn  half-a-dozen,  and  know  how  to  use  none.  In  the  second  plare, 
considering  the  double  relationship  of  this  country  to  a  rich  store  pf 
inherited  ancient  learning  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  large  environment  of 
existing  European  and  Asiatic  influences  on  the  other,  it  should  be  pro- 
vided in  our  general  university  scheme,  that  no  person  shall  receive  a 
poU  degree  without  showing  a  fair  proficiency  in  two  foreign  languages, 
one  ancient  and  one  modem,  with  free  option.  Under  such  a  scheme 
as  this,  and  with  a  radically  reformed  system  of  linguistic  indoctrination, 
I  have  not  the  slightest  fear  that  Greek  would  continue  to  hold  up  its 
bead  above  all  other  languages,  ancient  or  modem,  proudly,  like  Aga- 


TEACHING  CLASSICAL  LANGUAGES.  297 

menmon  among  the  chiefs.  In  fact  it  wonld  be  no  appreciable  loss  to 
the  highest  culture  of  this  oonutry  if  two-thirds  of  those  who  now  pass 
through  a  compulsory  grammatical  drill  in  two  dead  languages,  entered 
the  stage  of  actual  life  without  the  knowledge  of  a  siugle  Greek  lette^r : 
while  the  remaining  third,  who  did  study  Greek  according  to  the  natural 
method,  would  know  it  at  once  free  fiom  the  narrow  formalism  that  too 
often  cleaves  to  the  present  system,  and  accompanied  with  a  kindly 
iutimacy,  a  human  reality,  and  a  vivid  aj^reciation,  to  which  the  scho- 
lastically-traincd  Hellenist,  according  to  our  perverse  practice,  will 
naturally  remain  a  straugcr. 

John  Sttjaet  Blaceie,  in  Contemporary/  Review. 

[P.  S.— It  may  be  as  -well  to  ohst'rve  for  the  Piiko  of  oltir^ctors,  tliat  nothing  con- 
tainid  iu  this  papt-r  is  iiitcuded  in  the  eiiphrrst  di  irrecio  (liscoarage  any  of  thoi?e 
highest  exercises  in  Latin  and  Greek  composition,  vin'thc-r  prose  or  verso,  to  wh.ch 
hoDors  are  jnstly  given  in  our  nniversities.  On  the  contrary,  thea  •  excercipef  will  be 
facilitated  in  no  pmall  degree  by  the  rich  materials  which  a  well-graduated  practice 
of  ear  and  toi.'gne  inronnection  with  interesting  objects  will  supply.  'J  Le  whole 
drift  of  thv'se  remarks  is  simply  to  say,  that  familiarity  with  any  lanuuaire  us  a  living 
doxterity  of  ear  and  tongue,  in  the  order  of  nature,  ajways  precedes  ihe  scientific  ana- 
tomy of  tliat  langnsgc  in  prammar  and  comparative  philolosn^',  and  mu»t  always  do 
60  In  any  art  of  teaching  which  shall  do  the  greatest  amount  of  efiicieut  work  in  tho 
least  possible  time.    It  mnt=t  also  be  borne  in  mind,  what  has  been  t<»o  «r('neral]y  for- 


gotten, that  all  men  who  learn  Greek  and  Latin  are  not  destined  to  be 
aad  it  isnnwise  to  submit  to  a  curiously  minute  philOiOgical  training 
of  students  who  desire  only  the  human  culture,  the  ajt«thetical  polish,  and 
discipline  which  a  fumUiar  agqauhitauce  with  a  foreign  language  is  so  well  calcula- 
ted to  afford.  J.  S.B.] 


ihiloloiT'Ts  ; 

arge  classes 

the  healthy 


ON  THE  WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

"What  is  the  worth  of  a  classical  education  ?  Why  should  boys  spend 
80  many  years  on  the  study  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  languagLS  ?  What 
results  are  obtained  to  compensate  for  so  much  time,  labour,  and  expense 
consamed  on  such  an  occupation?  Is  it  mere  routine,  or  is  it  the 
recognition  of  solid  and  sufficient  advantages  derived  from  it,  which 
makes  so  many  generations  of  Englishmen  persist  in  bestowing  this 
traimng  on  their  sons  ? 

These  are  questions  of  the  highest  moment,  and  they  were  very  dis- 
tinctly raised  by  the  appointment  of  a  Royal  Commission  to  report  on 
the  education  imparted  by  our  public  schools.  Much  has  been  said  in 
the  way  of  reply  in  the  Report  of  the  Commissioners  and  elsewhere, 
but  the  subject  is  far  from  being  exhausted.  It  will  easily  bear  a  few 
more  words;  all  the  more  so  because  a  clear  and  succinct  answer,  such 
an  answer  as  England  in  the  nineteenth  century  is  entitled  to  demand, 
has  not,  as  far  as  I  know,  been  given  to  this  inquiry.  The  question  is 
stiD  heard  on  every  side,  **  What  is  the  use  of  making  a  boy  waste  so 
many  years  on  Greek  and  Latin  ?"  and  it  is  anything  but  easy  to  refer  » 


298  WOETH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

parent  who  puts  it,  if  ignorantly,  at  any  rate  honestly,  to  such  a  state- 
ment as  ought  to  satisfy  him  in  the  choice  of  his  son's  studies.  It  is  no 
reply  to  say  that  there  is  no  education  so  good  as  tliat  of  pubhu  schools, 
and  that  Greek  and  Latin  are  the  chitf  staple  of  that  education;  fortlie 
question  still  recurs,  ' '  Why  should  the  public  schools  insist  on  the  study 
of  the  classics  ?"  May  not  the  sceptical  parent  complain  with  much  force 
that  if  he  cannot  do  bttttr  than  send  his  boy  to  a  public  school,  it  is  very 
hard  that  he  should  be  compelled  to  purchase  that  advantage  at  the  cobt 
of  a  mischievous  waste  of  time  and  energy?  It  is  not  enough  to  say, 
as  is  so  commonly  said,  that  the  best  and  ablest  men  in  England  are 
trained  at  pubUc  schools,  and  thence  to  argue  that  the  c  ducation  muet 
be  excellent ;  there  would  be  a  sad  illicit  process  in  this  reasoning. 
The  course  of  education  adopted  at  public  schools  must  be  defended  on 
its  own  merits,  if  it  is  to  be  defended  successfully;  otherwise  the  great 
men  that  have  issued  from  their  wails  might  be  turned  into  a  justifica- 
tion of  every  conceivable  abuse.  On  the  vciy  face  of  the  inquiry,  the 
classics,  or  Greek  at  kast,  arc  not  needed  for  direct  application  to  some 
positive  want  of  society.  Ko  one  is  required  to  speak  or  to  write  in 
these  languages;  their  virtues,  whatever  they  may  be,  are  expended  on 
the  general  form.ation  of  the  boy's  mind  and  character,  not  on  supplying 
him  with  knowledge  demanded  by  any  calling  in  hfe  ;  and  consequently 
the  burden  of  proof  Hes  plainly  on  the  system  which  imposes  on  then- 
sands  of  English  boys — not  selected  boys,  but  the  general  mass  of  the 
sons  of  the  upper  classes — the  study  of  dead  languages,  and  with  the 
certainty,  moreover,  as  demonstrated  by  experience,  that  a  veiy  few 
only  of  these  students  will  ever  acquire  any  but  the  most  meagre  ac- 
quaintance with  these  tongues. 

Is  such  a  case  capable  of  being  defended?  •  I  think  that  it  is.  I  hold 
that  the  nation  judges  rightly  in  adhering  to  classical  education:  I  am 
convinced  that  for  general  excellence  no  other  training  can  compete 
with  the  classical.  In  sustaining  this  thesis,  I  do  not  propose  to  com- 
pare here  what  is  called  useful  education  with  classical,  much  less  to 
endeavour  to  prescribe  the  portion  of  each  which  ought  to  -be  combined 
in  a  perfect  system.  "Want  of  space  forbids  m«  to  examine  here  a 
problem  involving  so  much  detail.  Let  it  be  tak^n  for  granted  that 
every  boy  must  bs  taught  to  acquire  a  certain  definite  amoimt  of  know- 
ledge positively  required  for  carrying  on  the  business  of  life  in  its  sevtral 
callings;  and,  if  so  it  be,  let  it  be  assumed  that  there  is  a  deficiency  of 
this  kind  of  instruction  at  the  public  schools.  Let  that  defect  be  re- 
paired by  all  means  :  let  Eton  and  Winchester  be  forced,  by  whatever 
means,  to  put  into  every  one  of  their  scholars  the  requisite  quantity  of 
arithmetic,  modem  languages,  geography,  and  physical  science.  The 
adjustment  of  this  quantity  does  not  concern  us  now :  let  us  recognize 
its  necessity  and  importance.  Let  all  interference  of  Greek  and  Latin 
with  this  indispensable  qualification  for  after-life  be  forbidden  ;  but  K't 
us  at  the  same  time  maintain  that  both  things  may  go  on  successfnliV 
together.     The  problem  before  us  here  is  of  a  different  kind     The 


WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAIi  EDUCATION.  299 

edacation  of  the  boys  of  the  tipper  classes  is  necessarily  composed  of 
two  parts, — general  training,  and  special,  or,  as  it  is  called,  nsiful, 
training, — the  general  development  of  the  boy's  faculties,  of  the  whole 
of  his  natnre,  and  the  knowledge  which  is  needed  to  enable  him  to  fx^T- 
form  certain  specific  functions  m  life.  Of  those  two  departments  of 
education,  the  ^g3ne^al  far  transcends  in  importance  the  special :  and 
finally  I  maintain  that  for  the  carrying  out  of  this  education,  the  Greek 
and  Latin  languages  are  the  most  efficient  instruments  which  can  be 
applied. 

Their  chief  merits  are  four  in  number. 

I.  In  the  first  place,  they  are  languages :  they  are  not  particular 
Bciences,  nor  definite  branches  of  knowledge,  but  literatures.  In  this 
respect  high  claims  of  superiority  have  been  advanced  for  them  on 
the  ground  that  they  cultivate  the  taste,  and  give  great  powers  of 
expression,  and  teach  a  refined  use  of  words,  and  thus  impart  that 
refinement  and  culture  which  characterize  an  educated  gentleman. 
But  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  too  much  stress  has  been  laid  on  this 
particulM*  result  of  classical  training.  In  the  first  place  it  is  realized 
only  by  a  very  few,  either  at  school  or  college:  the  vast  bulk  of 
English  boys  do  not  acquire  these  high  accomphshments,  at  least 
before  their  entrance  on  the  real  business  of  hfe.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  great  development  which  civihzation,  and  with  it  general  inteUi- 
gence,  have  made  in  these  modern  days,  produces  in  increasing 
numbers  vigorous  men  who  have  acquired  tiiese  powers  in  great 
eminence  without  the  help  of  Greek  or  Latin.  The  Senate,  the  bar, 
and  many  other  professions,  eihibit  men  whose  gifts  of  expression, 
Vigour  of  language,  neatness  as  weU  as  force  in  the  use  of  words,  and 
discrimination  of  all  the  finer  shad3S  of  meaning,  are  fully  on  a  par 
with  those  of  men  who  have  been  prepared  by  classical  and  academical 
training.  A  Bright  and  a  Cobden  are  good  set-offs  against  a  Marquis 
of  Weliesley  or  even  a  Lord  Derby,  and  with  this  advantage,  more- 
over, that  the  growth  of  modem  England  is  sure  to  to  furnish  an  ever- 
expanding  supply  of  men  of  the  former  class.  There  has  been  a  vast 
amount  of  exceflent  veriting  in  France  put  forth  by  men  who  knew 
nothing  of  Greek,  and  often  very  Httle  Latin ;  and  there  has  been 
equally  an  incredible  quantity  of  bad  writing  in  Germany,  which  has 
flowed,  or  rather  been  jerked  out  of  the  pens  of  men  whose  heads  were 
stuffed  with  boundless  stores  of  classical  learning.  The  educational 
value  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  something  immeasurably  broader  than  this 
single  accomplishment  of  refined  taste  and  cultivated  expression.  The 
problem  to  be  solved  is  to  open  out  the  undeveloped  nature  of  a  human 
being ;  to  bring  out  his  faculties,  and  impart  skill  in  their  use ;  to  set 
the  seeds  of  many  powers  growing ;  to  teach  as  large  and  as  varied  a 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  both  the  boy's  own  and  the  world's  about 
bim,  as  possible ;  to  give  him,  according  to  his  circumstances,  the  larg- 
est practicable  acquaintance  with  life,  what  it  is  composed  of ,  morally,  in- 
tellectually, and  materially,  and  how  to  deal  with  it.     For  the  perform- 


/ 


800  WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

anee  of  this  great  work,  what  can  compare  with  a  language,  or  rather 
with  a  literature  ?  not  with  a  language  carried  to  soaring  heights  of  phil- 
ologj'-,  for  then  it  becomes  a  pure  science,  as  much  as  chemistry  or  asfax)- 
nomy,  but  with  a  language  containing  books  of  every  degree  of  Tariity 
and  difficulty.  Think  of  the  many  elements  of  thought  a  boy  comes  in 
contact  with  when  he  reads  Caesar  and  Tacitus  in  succession,  Herodotus 
and  Hcmjr,  Thucydidcs  and  Aristotle  :  how  many  ideas  he  has  perforce 
acquired ;  how  many  regions  of  human  life — how  many  portions  of  his 
own  mind — he  has  gained  insight  into  ;  with  how  extended  a  familiarity 
with  many  things  he  starts  with,  when  the  duties  of  a  profession  call 
on  him  to  concentrate  these  insights,  these  exercised  and  disciplined 
faculties,  on  a  single  sphere  of  action.  See  what  is  implied  in  having 
read  Homer  intr iligently  through,  or  Thucydides,  or  Demosthenes; 
what  light  will  have  been  shed  on  the  essence  and  laws  of  human  exis- 
tence, on  political  society,  on  the  relations  of  man  to  man,  on  human 
nature  itself.  What  perception  of  all  kinds  of  truths  and  facts  will 
dawn  on  the  mind  of  the  boy ;  what  sympathies  will  be  excited  in  him ; 
what  moral  tastes  and  judgments  established ;  what  a  sense  of  what  he, 
as  a  human  being,  is,  and  can  do ;  what  an  iiiid&rstanding  of  human 
life.  Eveiy  glowing  word  will  call  up  a  corresponding  emotion ;  every 
deed  recorded,  every  motive  unfolded,  every  policy  explained,  will  be 
pregnant  with  instruction ;  and  that  instruction  must  be  valued,  not 
only  by  its  use  when  apphed  to  practice,  or  by  the  maxims  or  rules 
which  it  lays  down  for  human  action,  but  infinitely  more  by  the  general 
acquaintance  with  human  natura  which  it  has  generated,  by  the  readi- 
ness for  action  which  it  has  produced  in  a  world  now  become  familiar, 
by  the  consciousness  it  has  brought  out  of  the  possession  of  faculties, 
and  the  tact  and  skill  it  has  created  for  their  use.  Knowledge  is  not 
abihty,  cram  is  not  power,  least  of  all  in  education.  A  man  may  be 
able  to  count  accurately  every  yard  of  distance  to  the  stars,  and  yet  be 
most  imperfectly  educated  ;  he  may  be  able  to  reckon  up  all  the  kings 
that  ever  reigned,  and  yet  be  none  the  wiser  or  the  more  efficient  for  liis 
learning.  But  the  unfledged  boy,  who  starts  with  a  mind  empty, 
blank,  and  unperceiving,  is  transformed  by  passing  through  Greek  and 
Latin :  a  thousand  ideas,  a  thousand  perceptions  are  awalcened  in  him, 
that  is,  a  thousand  fitnesses  for  life,  for  its  labours  and  its  duties. 

But  is  he  able  to  reason  ?  asks  the  mathematician.  Can  he  correctly 
deduce  conclusions  from  premises  ?  Can  he  follow  out  step  by  step  a 
chain  of  sequences  ?  Can  he  push  his  principles  to  just  results  ?  He 
can,  and  necessarily  must,  if  he  has  honestly  worked  through  his  books, 
if  he  has  been  properly  handled  by  a  competent  teacher,  if  his  progress, 
step  by  step,  has  been  challenged  and  justified.  Let  it  be  gladly  ac- 
knowledged that  every  large  exercise  of  thought  has  its  true  and  intrin- 
sic advantages :  and  the  patient  investigator  of  natural  or  mathematical 
science  unquestionably  uses  and  cultivates  powers  which  are  amongst  the 
most  valuable  accorded  to  humanity.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  no  one  fam- 
iliar with  education  can  have  failed  to  perceive  what  immense  stores  ot 


WOBTH  OP  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION.  801 

arithmetio  and  algebra  and  the  calculi  may  be  piled  up  without  calling 
forth  scarcely  a  single  conscious  effort  of  ratiocination ;  how  completely 
the  advance  has  been  obtained  by  quickness  of  intelligence,  sharpness 
of  observation,  and  dexterity  in  the  use  of  expedients.  Excellent  and 
valuable  qualities,  be  it  cheerfully  granted ;  but  still  not  quEilities  im- 
plying powers  of  sustained  reasoning.  George  Stephenson,  in  working 
his  way  to  vhe  safety-lamp,  and  many  a  gardener  aud  sailor,  have  over 
and  over  again  displayed  capacities  for  reasoning  which  all  but  the  high- 
est mathematicians  might  envy.  The  opportunities,  the  demands  for 
reasoning,  in  a  real  and  sound  study  of  the  classics  are  absolutely  end- 
less, and  in  no  field  ht&  a  teacher  such  i,  range  for  forcing  his  disciples 
to  think  closely  and  accurately,  lio  doubt  a  huge  amount  of  continu- 
ous thought  is  needed  by  the  mathematical  or  astronomical  discoverer  ; 
but  this  is  a  professional  quality,  and  it  is  very  questionable  whether  it 
exceeds  in  severity  the  demands  made  on  the  advocate  or  the  moral 
philosopher.  The  question  here  raised  is  that  of  educational  value ; 
and  I  confidently  assert  that  for  the  purposes  of  making  a  youthful  stu- 
dent think  long  and  accurately,  and  of  forcing  upon  him  the  percep- 
tions of  the  efficiency  and  the  results  of  right  reasoning,  no  better  tool 
can  be  applied  than  a  speech  in  Thuc^'dides,  a  discussion  in  Aristotle, 
or  a  chapter  in  the  Epis^es  of  St.  Paul. 

But  is  it  so  in  practice  ?  it  will  be  asked.  Do  boys  realise  all  these 
fine  things  ?  How  many,  as  they  emerge  from  Eton  or  from  Oxford, 
would  venture  to  be  judged  by  such  a  test  ?  Is  it  not  notorious  rather 
that  the  great  portion  of  either  public  school  boys  or  undergraduates 
know  Httle  of  the  classics  they  have  spent  years  upon,  and  can  hardly 
be  said  to  possess  any  real  knowledge  of  any  kind  ?  Can  this  be  called 
education  ?  Many  answers  can  be  given  to  this  reproach.  First  of  all, 
it  is  quite  its  easy  to  teach  ihi^  classics  badly  as  anything  else,  and  there 
is  an  immense  quantity  of  bad  teaching  of  the  classics  in  England.  A 
glaring  proof  of  this  is  found  in  the  great  difference  which  separates 
school  from  school,  and  the  proportioDate  difference  in  the  quaUty  of 
the  products.  Then,  though  it  is  true  that  few  of  the  many  submitted 
to  ckssical  training  iDecome  scholars,  in  the  full  sense  df  the  "#ord,  it 
does  not  at  all  follow  that  they  have  gEiined  liothing  from  their  study  of 
Greek  and  Latin ;  just  the  contrary  is  the  truth.  The  test  of  educa- 
tional success  is  not  solely  or  even  chiefly  the  amount  of  positively 
accurate  and  complete  knowledge  which  has  been  acquired;  but  the 
eitent  to  which  the  faculties  of  the  boy  have  been  developed,  the  quan- 
tity of  impalpable  but  not  the  less  real  attainments  he  has  achieved,  and 
his  general  readiness  for  life,  and  for  his  action  in  it  as  a  man.  Most 
unquestionably  English  education  tnight  be  and  ought  to  be  a  great  deal 
better  than  it  is ;  but  would  the  result  have  been  more  satisfactory  if 
the  boys  of  England  had  never  touched  Greek  or  Latin,  and  had  been 
brought  up  either  in  the  study  of  modem  languages  or  of  chemistry, 
astronomy,  or  mathematics  ?  This  is  the  true  issue,  the  true  question 
to  be  debated.     Each  of  these  two  methods  would  probably  have  yielded 


802  •  \yOBTH  OF  A  J3LASSI0AL  EDUCATION. 

a  larger  product  of  positive  knowledge,  or,  at  least,  of  what  is  caH  d 
useful  information  though  even  that  is'not  absolatdy  certain.  Htu1 
boys  were  entirely  to  linig  asid.  their  Greek  and  Latiu  books,  em' 
surrounded  by  French,  German,  and  mathematical  ma.t.rs,  most  of  ih  m 
would  become  tolewaly  famihar  with  these  modern  tougues,  and  a  v,  . 
tarn  amount  of  mathematical  and  natural  science  would  be  foimd  in  th-n 
also,  ^ut  would  the  gam  thus  made  have  compensated  for  th  ■  Ifw 
incurred?    It  must  not  be  said  that  the  knowledge  would  have'b.^n 

»if^  "Tu"-^  ^'"^'  ^"°''''^'  "*  *^"^  '"^'»''t  I  «*»rted  with  the  admission 
that  for  the  purposes  of  a  satisfactory  education  a  fitting  portion  of 

Orttr^r''';^*'''  knowledge  ought  to  be  combined  with  the  s^d"  « 
Si  !L  K  ^ff-  .^*  '"  °"  *'^-  "^'^■^«*  l'«y°^'i  this,  en  the  general  trL- 
mg  and  broad  development  of  the  human  being,  that  the  dispute  tm^- 

and  FntliV^  °^  the  matter  I  am  profoundlf  convinced  th^at inSl^d 
and  English  men  would  be  enormous  losers.     On  modem  lanmias^s  ■« 

roortiit"?t  win"".;''  r^'  ^»f-'  -°-  -"  '^»  -id  presTn UyTaS  iV^ 
stndf  of\anm7^.  «  f  "T-    ''*'  °'  ""  ^'"^'^'^  *"  *'«  derived  from  t!..> 

to  be  obvious  at  oncefha^ittl^rf  ^..e'J*  -J^^^^^^^^^ 

v^lopT  rd'o'nrhr/'TT?^  "'^  y''""''^  ^*"«  absolut^y tld^! 
of  intellect  w^Mtfh!.  ""**  there  would  be  any  gain  in  the  e/paasioa 
perXtionsdT:    l!''L''°y  ^'^^^^J'^^  """^^  out%mptyof  countl..s 

coniaTr:ni:?rrtrr^i;t^rtLf??htTai^^^^^^^ 
x^^TK^^ft^  I  hoid'fhL^r  fi^^rLTpScM 

tect  wTtS  ?he  hShlf  '"'^m'  to,^^^°P^°ed  out  and  tnuned  int^  con- 
Xa^K  bv  m.?„s'^f  Pr"'^%  '*^-^^-'"'*  "'  greatness.  The  rule  of 
^ter  k  tooToftvTo^^  5"  "l^d'ocrity  is  to  me  purely  detestable.    No 

tTbfpk^  fn  fheZnif'^A'l^^  *^"*  ^'  "  ^''P'""^  °*  ^eing  understood, 
Bchc^hr^ter     TW=  of  ^e  young :  no  man  too  high  to  be  fit  for  a 

?hXS  Les  andThl*™''"''","?^'"*'^  '"*''«  ^'^^  universities  of 
fromaN^ahX^  ^    it  has  received  m  our  own  days  worthy  homi'-e 

mZ  M^nTfiZ^T^^-^  '^^'  ^^""^^  ^^'  excellence-the  lofti.;, 
more  vanea,  and  richer  the  influences  brought  to  bear  on  the  rnn.i..- 

dnSnTfor  eaZ?  "'1?'"^  '""^  ^'««-  A  g^eaT^tor  Sds  in 
the  ^'ffLnce  U  In  V  T*^  times  more  powerful  than  an  inferior  cm. : 
awaklirr^  tL'  w W  •  ""'  '°,  ^^'"'-  ^  ™"d  of  the  first  orir 
on»  «f  L         J      ^'^°  """^  ""der  Its  sway  far  many  more  ideas  thvj 

^  lower  defcf  thr^'?.  *^^°l  ^"'^  g^^"^'*'  tr^tC^h  stlem 
iMO  lower  depths  of  the  spirit  of  the  recipient,  kindles  a  mow  fsrrid 


WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION.  308 

enthusiasm,  calls  forth  a  more  ardent  huitation,  and  reveals  things 
mown  only  to  its  own  genius.  The  society  of  the  best  and  greatest 
meu  is  the  most  powerful  educator  down  to  the  end  of  hfe:  it  never 
aases  to  train  and  to  influence:  and  if  it  moulds  elderly  men,  how 
much  more  youths  when  the  mind  is  moru  suscvpti'jle  of  impressions 
and  tljie  character  more  ready  for  imitation  ?  Every  parent  wishes  the 
best  companions  for  his  son,  and  on  that  principle  the  greatness  of  the 
dassJcal  writei-s  acquires  unspeakable  importance.  In  no  language  can 
an  equal  numbrr  of  writers  of  the  very  tirst  eminence  be  brought  to 
bear  on  the  formation  of  a  youthful  mind  as  in  Greek.  In  poetry, 
history,  philosophy,  politics,  page  upon  page  of  the  most  concentrated 
force,  of  the  tti-sest  expression,  of  the  richest  eloquence,  of  the  nicest 
and  most  subtle  discrimination,  of  the  widest  range  and  variety,  strike 
successive  blows  on  the  imagination  and  the  thinking  faculty  of  the 
impressible  student ;  they  disclose  to  him  what  hmiian  natmre  is  capable 
of,  what  is  waiting  to  be  called  forth  in  the  boy's  own  si3irit,  the 
heights  which  others  have  reached,  the  thoughts  and  feelings  he  may 
Lmseif  create — in  a  word,  all  the  wondrous  powers  of  the  human 
intellect,  all  the  noble  emotions  of  the  human  soul.  What  more 
direct  and  more  efficient  remedy  against  one  of  the  most  common  and 
most  damaging  weaknesses — onesidedncss?  Where  can  a  boy  be 
initiated  into  so  many  things,  catch  so  many  vistas,  acquire,  if  not  a 
profound,  yet  a  most  valuable  and  most  fruitful  famiharity  with  so 
many  provinces  of  manly  thought  as  in  the  study  of  Homer,  ^schylus, 
and  Sophocles,  Aristotle  and  PJato,  Herodotus  and  Thucydides,  Aristo- 
phanes and  Demosthenes?  These  men  have  been  the  fouudei-s  of 
civilization ;  they,  have  hewn  out  the  roads  by  which  nations  and 
individuals  have  travelled  and  travel  still :  the  Greek  type  is  the  form  of 
the  thought  of  modem  Europe :  their  writings  on  most  vital  points 
are  fresh  and  living  for  us  now.  And  no  more  decisive  proof  can  be 
given  of  tlieir  genius,  or,  in  other  words,  of  their  greatness.  Homer 
and  Thucydides  are  wonderful  reading  for  us  now ;  and  upon  that  single 
trnth  the  issue  of  this  transcendent  question  might  be  staked. 

Nor  must  we  leave  altogether  unnoticed  the  beauty  of  form  which 
distinguishes  these  undying  writings.  They  were  composed  in  days 
yh^in  there  was  no  press ;  when  manuscripts  were  costly,  rare  and 
difficult  of  multiplication ;  when  writers  were  far  more  Ust^ned  to 
than  read ;  and  wh'^n  consequently  grace  of  language  and  attractive- 
nass  of  the  form  itself  were  mattei-s  of  extreme  importance.  The 
vf  ry  structure  of  the  language,  which  admitted  of  such  a  large  trans- 
pojiition  of  the  words  of  a  sentence,  prompted  care  and  skill  in  the 
elaboration  of  the  style.  It  would  be  untrue  to  assart  that  modem 
languages  do  not  also  exhibit  exquisite  gra(;es  of  form  ;  but  they  are 
rare  compared  with  the  mass  of  writing,  and  they  are  not  appreciated 
by  the  many  readers.  Many  is,  the  book — nay,  of  such  is  the  majority 
— wliich  is  greedily  read  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  the  charm  of  com- 
position ;  but,  in  ancient  times,  an  ill-written  book  would  have  found 


304  WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

it  difficult  to  catch  readers.  But  even  supposing  it  not  to  have  been 
so  m  fact,— as  Horace  would  seem  to  hint,— stiU  it  remains  true  that  it 
would  be  probably  impossible  to  bring  together,  in  any  modem 
language  an  equal  number  of  books  which  combine  beautv  of  art  and 
composition  with  exceUence  of  matter  in  the  same  deRree  as  those 

WrLL!fl«  rt  ''^'^'^'-  ??^.  *^l  "^'*?^^"  «^  «^«^  educational 
mstruments  is  a  heavy  .weight  m  the  scale  in  favour  of  classical 
education.  .     v««m^*i 

UI  This  consideration  brings  us  to  the  third  head  of  merit  which 
may  be  claimed  for  classical  education,  and  merit  of  the  very  first 
order  It  IS  Greek  and  Latin  are  dead  languages  :  they  are  not  ^^oktn 
tongues  Tho  hteratures  they  contain  belong  to  the  past;  the  nations 
to  which  they  belong,  the  societies  of  which  they  speak,  the  social  and 
political  feelings  they  paint,  have  passed  away ;  and  these  are  very 
great  matters  indeed  for  the  purposes  of  education.  Living  langnages 
are  learnt  by  the  ear;  they  are  imbibed  without  thought  or  effort; 
they  need  awaken  little  raflaction  or  judgment ;  their  possession  does 
not  necessarily  imply  any  great  development  of  mind  or  soul.  Many  a 
stupid,  dull  httle  boy  can  speak  two  or  three  languages  if  he  has  had  as 
many  nurses  ^  and  his  intellectual  faculties  may  have  been  but  shghtly 
caUed  into  exercise  by  the  process  of  acquisition.  A  proposition  in 
i.uchd  can  do  more  good,  educationally,  than  many  days  spent  in  catch- 
ing a  foreign  tongue  orally.  There  is  a  want  of  difficulty,  an  absence 
of  effort,  a  lack  of  compulsion  on  the  mind  to  bring  its  resources  into 
action,  which  renders  Hving  languages  a  tool  of  small  value  and  effi- 
ciency m  opening  out  the  understanding.  They  faU  to  do  the  work 
required.  They  may  enable  a  lad  to  hve  comfortably  in  France  or 
Germany ;  they  may  powerfully  aid  him  to  get  his  bread  in  emplov- 
ments  for  which  thei  power  of  speaking  a  foreign  language  may  bo 'a 
strong  recommendation;  they  may  give  him  what  is  termed  useful 
knowledge.  Lord  Clarendon  attached  much  importance  to  young  men 
destined  for  diplomacy  being  taught  to  speak  French  easily  and  grace- 
fully ;  but  this  is  a  professional  accomplishment— the  useful ;  it  is  not 
that  general  education  which  we  are  here  discussing.  As  was  said  be- 
forv?  there  ought  to  beaa  adequate  amount  in  all  training  of  these  useful 
qualifications  ;  but  what  is  now  contended  for  is  that  there  ought  to  be, 
that  there  must  be,  the  general  culture  ako ;  and  that  this  general  cultnre. 
i^^  .  ?  1  development  of  a  boy's  whole  nature,  is  incomparably  better 
ellectcd  by  the  dead  languages,  by  Greek  and  Latin,  than  by  anything 

The  difficulty  involved  in  1-arning  a  dead  lan^age  is  an  excell^^nt 
l:aturem  this  discipline.  Such  languages  must  be  learnt  by  rule.  They 
call  on  the  mind  to  perceive  the  relations  of  grammar  at  the  very  outsot 
A  ornek  or  Latm  sentence  is  a  nut  with  a  Ftrong  shell  concealing  the 
I'^^y'^T""'  ^T"^^'  d'^manding  reflection,  adaptation  of  means  to  end, 
^T,'i/''''T'".  I.  ''^  R-^^-ition.  and  the  educational  value  resides  in  the 
^n.u  p.iid  m  th3  puzzlj.     Euch  a  sentence  compels  a  boy  to  think, 


WOBTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION.  30« 

whether  he  is  toiling  at  the  first  page  of  the  Delectus,  or  on  the  airy 
heights  of  Plato,  and  that  is  the  solution — the  Q.E.D.  of  thu  problem. 
His  Acuities   are   always   strongly  exercised.     The   necessity  to  have 
many  tools  in  his  workshop,  and  to  employ  many  trials  and  much  skill 
in  their  application,  grows  with  every  step  of  advance  gained.     And 
what  are  these  tools?  what  these  resources  of   thought?  what  th^^so 
appUcations  of  nfental  power  and  acquired  knowledge  which  are  over 
S2t  in  motion  in  the  study  of  a  classical  author?     They  range  over 
eveiy  part  of  the  student's  intellectual  being  ;  each  nccnuiulattd  force, 
or  fact,  as  it  is  acquired,  becomes  in  time  an  instrument — a  n(.>coRsary 
and  indispensable  instrument — for  achieving  new  conquests,  for  master- 
ing greater  authors  and  harder  writings.     The  mind  under  training, 
whether  it  animates  the  Uttle  urchin  in  the  second  form,  or  holds  tho 
ambition  which  gazes  on  university  honours,  ay,  or  is  evea  tlie  deposi- 
tory of  the  lore  of  a  Greek  professor,  is  compelled  at  all  moments  to 
perform  acts  of  perception  and  judgment,  to  observe  distinctions,  to 
discriminate  and  to  select.     It  appeals  to  the  Lexicon,  but  only  to  find 
an  array  of  meanings,  shades  of  signification,  and  to  encounter  the 
perplexities  of  a  choice,  which  cannot  bo  made  without  mental  effort 
—that  is,  without  mental  progress.     In  a  modem  language,  the  familiar 
sound  of  the  accompanying  words,  the  accustomed  flow  of  th^  usual 
thought,  the  similarity  of  th3  expression  to  the  forms  of  one's  own  na- 
tive tongue,  render  the  task  of  compreheusion  easy.     But  in  a  dead 
language^  where  all  is  Strang 3,  where  association  does  not  instantly  and 
unconsciously  bring  up  the  sense  of  each  single  word,  where  the  mode 
of  thinking  is  unfamiHar,  where  tho  Hnks  that  bind  many  words  into  one 
sentence  have  to  be  sought  in  unusual  terminations  and  distances  of 
seyeral  lines,  and  then  only  by  carrying  in  the  intellect  the  laws  of 
grammar  and  of  logic,  to  study  and  to  master  the  thoughtand  the  expres- 
sions o^  a  great  writer  is  a  truly  educational  process,  leaving  the  mind, 
on  its  final  success,  stronger,  more  able  to  use  itself,  richer  in  new  in- 
sights, new  perceptions,  fitter  for  yet  more  powerful  exercise.     Nor- does 
the  difficulty  dwell  in  the  strangeness  of  the  words  alone.     Mnny  things 
must  be  had  recourse  to,  many  resources  of  knowledge  called  inlo  help, 
before  the  understanding  can  grasp  the  sense,  not  only  of  a  Tliu  yJides, 
or  a  Tacitus,  but  also  of  a  CaBsar  or  a  Xenophon.     The  genenl  character 
of  the  subject  written  about,  the  scope  of  a  large  paragraph,  RC(iuaint- 
ance  with  history,  with  geography,  with  endless  details  of  many  arts 
and  sciences,  the  laws  of  politics,  the  principles  of  moral  life,  all  muct 
be  brought  to  converge  on  the  opposing  obstacle  before  its  resistance 
can  be  overcome. 

And  here  it  is  also  where  the  greatness  of  the  classical  writers  pro- 
duces its  richest  fmits.  The  mind  of  the  student  is  compelltd  to  dwell 
on  every  utterance,  to  examine  minutely  everj'"  expression,  to  master  ita 
intrinsic  meaning,  and  then  its  relation  to  its  companions  in  the  Sentence, 
to  reflect  whether  the  suggested  translation  will  meet  the  requiramenta 
of  the  reasoning,  of  the  general  purport  of  the  context,  of  the  broad 


806  WOETH  OF  A  CIASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

aim  and  complex  thongbt  of  the  writer.  Compare  the  putting  of  an 
English  boy  through  Burke  and  through  Thucydides :  and  see  the  differ- 
ence. How  much  of  Burke  will  inevitably  be  missed,  how  much  fail  to 
be  noticed  and  to  produce  effect,  simply  through  the  facility  of  apprj- 
hension.  The  lad  will  run  through  Bui'ke  swiftly,  and  gather  httle :  but 
his  course  through  Thucydides  will  be  long,  laborious,  full  of  pains  and 
difficulties,  but  also,  proportionately,  full  of  profound  impressions  maJu 
on  the  mind,  full  of  reward  and  acquired  power.  The  world  exclaimK, 
Why  waste  so  much  time  on  a  single  book  'i  The  gain,  bo  it  answered, 
may  be  measured  by  the  time  expended.  Thero  is  hardly  a  point  wliicii 
more  urgently  requires  to  be  impressed  on  those  who  inquire  into  clas- 
sical education,  than  the  immense  productiveness  of  the  length  of  time 
during  which  the  student  is  compelled  to  linger  on  the  words  of  a  grt^at 
classic.  E^n  were  all  other  points  equal,  this  consideration  alone  cou- 
fers  a  most  real  superiority  on  the  classics  in  the  province  of  educa- 
tion. 

It  is  idle,  therefore,  to  assert  that  the  study  of  the  classics  is  a  waste 
and  a  failure  solely  because  most  youths,  nay,  all  youths,  are  unable  ut 
last  to  do  more  than  understand  a  few  selected  Greek  and  Latin  authois 
— because  not  one  possesses  anything  approaching  that  familiarity  will 
those  languages  which  would  enable  him  to  read  at  once  any  book  writ- 
ten in  them,  as  a  man  who  has  learnt  the  French  or  German  tongue— i-r 
because  the  majority  of  boys  learn  so  miserably  little  Greek  and  Latin. 
that  for  very  shame  it  is  impossible  to  call  them  scholars.  The  true  l-^t 
of  the  education,  the  result  by  which  it  must  stand  or  fall,  is  the  geut  r.J 
condition  of  mind  which  thos3  boys  have  obtained  when  their  schooliiii^ 
is  over.  If  positive  knowledge  were  mad 3  the  standard — if  the  qu's- 
tion  to  be  asked  is,  *'  What  can  a  boy  do  at  the  end  of  the  process  r' 
then  no  one  could  bo  called  educated*  by  the  side  of  the  artisans  ai:l 
manufacturers,  the  navigators  and  the  carpenters  of  England.  These  m«  n 
possess  direct  and  prcclical  knowledge :  they  can  build  and  sail  shfps,  ina'»  • 
watches  and  steam-engines :  but  would  they  on  that  account  be  tcnui-d 
educated  ?  How  many  of  the  uppor  classes  in  any  nation  can  perfonn 
specific  functions  of  this  kind  ?  Skill  and  cultivated  talent  is  not  educa- 
tion, but  something  to  be  added  to  education,  a  superstructure  to  hi 
raised  on  the  founc'atiDu  and  by  the  help  of  the  general  education. 

But  on  the  other  hini  it  is  a  most  lamentable  fact,  whicji  must  bo 
honestly  acknowledged,  that  the  schools  and  colleges  of  England  full 
painfully  short  of  whnt  the  nation  has  a  right  to  expect  of  them  in  tlr 
matter  of  classics.  Classical  education  is  tT^e  best  education :  but  it  may 
be  inadequately  given,  bo  taught  by  incompetent  teachers,  by  meaun  of 
slovenly  and  inefficient  processes,  and  with  results,  in  the  majority  of 
cases,  discreditably  small.  To  praise  classical  education  must  not  be  un- 
derstood as  praising  English  schools,  or  their  general  standard  of  Jit- 
tainment,  or  the  state  in  which  ** pass-men"  are  turned  out  at  th^ 
universities.  It  may  be  perfectly  true  that  our  classical  schools  are  atl  r 
all  the  best  schools,  and  yet  it  may  bo  equally  true  that  they  can  and 


WOETH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION.  807 

wight  to  do  a  TTast  deal  more  than  they  accomplish.     On  this  point  I  shall 
Bay  mor6  on  the  fovirth  and  next  head.    - 

Bnt  we  must  not  oiuit  to  notice  one  advantage  more,  derived  from  the 
deadness  of  the  clayweal  languages,  which  poBsesses  the  highest  educa- 
tional value.  Kot  only  are  the  languages  dtad,  but  also  the  societies  to 
which  they  belong.  The  modem  has  inherited  many  individual  ele- 
ments of  the  ancient  world :  but  the  Greek  and  Latin  nations,  as  such, 
4  have  passed  away.  This  fact  enables  both  pupil  and  teacher  in  the  edu- 
cational process  to  study  classical  writings  without  wakening  up  interest, 
the  prejudices,  or  the  passions  of  modem  life :  and  it  affords  an  incom- 
parable facility  for  examining  and  apprehending  first  principles.  Even 
tlie  fairest  and  most  impartial  teacher  would  find  it  a  hard  matter  to 
go  through  Burke  in  a  schoolroom  without  some  Liberal  or  Con- 
servative bias,  some  association  with  n^odera  politics,  some  hanker- 
ing to  inculcate  principles  which  he  thinks  Falutaryfor  the  future 
conduct  and  happiness  of  his  disciples.  The  latter  will  be  also 
in  a  still  more  unfavourable  position :  most  boys  have  enlisted 
themselves  on  one  political  side  or  other;  and  the  feehngs 
would  be  too  keen  and  too  passionate  to  admit  of  a  calm  and 
Ecnh-al  study  of  the  primary  truths  of  political  or  social  life.  How  dif- 
ferent is  it  when  it  is  Thucydides  cr  Tacitus  that  is  elweit  upon  ;  how 
ready  is  the  mind  then  to  follow  the  great  historian  in  his  profound 
description  of  human  action  and  human  motives,  as  displayed  on  an 
arena  entirely  severed  from  modem  life.  He  is  thus  open  to  perceive 
and  ready  to  appreciate  the  fundamental  principles  of  social  organiza- 
tion. His  mind  is  sufScieutly  free  not  only  to  learn  the  primary  truths 
of  civilised  hfe,  but  also  to  imbibe  the  spirit  of  a  statesman  or  a 
philosopher,  to  weigh  conflicting  considerations,  to  stud}'  tendencies 
and  results,  to  test  causes  by  their  results,  or  to  trace  bad  effects  to 
their  causes.  Studies,  thus  calm  and  philosophical,  ranging  over  such 
^ide  areas,  and  diving  into  such  depths,  are  scarcely  possible  for  the 
young  with  any  writings  linked  with  their  own  times  ;  and  I  attribute 
to  this  eminent  advantage  much  of  the  superiority  of  view,  perception 
of  first  principles,  and  general  absence  of  bigotry  and  narrow-mind- 
edness, which  so  commonly  distinguish  classically-educated  men. 

IV.  The  last  merit  to  be  claimed  on  behalf  of  classical  education  is 
the  field  which  it  opens  to  the  action  of  the  f-^acher,  the  close  contact 
^hich  it  establishes  between  the  mind  of  the  boy  and  the  mind  of  his 
inaster,  the  power  with  which  it  enables  the  whole  nature  of  the 
^acher,  his  character  and  mtellect,  to  influence  and  mould  the  nature  of 
^iie  pnpil.  This  is  the  greatest  work  in  education— the  development  of 
"ne  hui —  ■^'*       ■•■•—- 

flings : 
<:t  ap 

;hooIs  are  mainly  to  be  attributed7  The  pnbiicfeeli'ri^^'rrth^^^  county 
Tl  "1^  '•^cognize  the  extreme  value  of  the  specific  gift  of  teaching, 
even  though  it  was  .so  conspicuously  iUustrated  by  the  life  of  Dr. 


308  WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

Arnold.  Both  tb.Q  public  and  schools  ara  contant  if  mastsrs  ars  men 
of  high  classical  attainment,  if  thsy  havo  obtained  distinguished  honours 
at  the  universities,  if  they  can  construo  any  bit  of  Gr3ck  or  Latin,  if 
th^y  tur;i  out  a  good  supply  of  special  boys,  who  carry  orf  in  abiin. 
dunca  open  scholarships  and  prizes.  These  are  esteemed  good  scho.il- 
masters,  and  their  schools  [arc  lifted  up  on  the  "wave  of  pubHc  admira- 
tion. A-id  yrt  for  all  that,  they  may  bo  in  fact  radically  bad  school- 
masters, and  the  successes  achieved  by  their  eminent  pupils  may  fur- 
nish but  a  most  scanty  justification  of  the  general  results  of  their  school-. 
Thiy  may  be  totally  wanting  in  the  true  gift  of  teaching :  and  a  ells';!. 
cal  education  is  bux  a  lame  affair  for  the  mass  of  boys  without  a  real 
teacher. 

And  in  what  does  tli  :>  gift  of  teaching  consist  ?  Assuredly  not  in  tin 
possession  of  a  larj^o  body  of  solid  learning ;  that  is  the  smallest  r.nd 
least  important  qualifiL'ation  for  educating  youth.  It  consists  infinit  h* 
more  in  the  power  of  sympathy,  the  ability  to  place  one's  self  in  th3 
exact  position  of  th3  learner,  to  see  things  as  he  sees  them,  to  feel  tho 
diflficuUi-'S  exactly  as  he  feels  them,  to  understand  the  precise  point  at 
which  the  obstacle  bars  the  way,  to  be  able  to  present  the  solution  pr> 
cisely  in  the  form  which  will  open  the  understanding  of  the  pupil,  ani 
enable  him,  in  gathoring  the  new  piece  of  knowledge,  to  comprelieuJ 
its  nature  and  its  value.  Such  a  teacher  will  take  the  mind  of  the  boy 
as  his  starting  point — and  will  just  keep  ahead  of  his  intellectual  stat  •. 
80  as  to  furnish  him  with  such  matter  only  as  he  will  be  able  to  assimi- 
late ;  his  questions  will  just  range  above  his  level,  but  yet  not  out  of  his 
reach ;  above  all  he  will  feel  the  true  essence,  the  one  function  of  liis 
task,  to  make  the  boy's  mind  act  for  itself,  and  the  teadier's  oiS<- 
to  consist  merely  in  assisting  the  pupil  to  think  and  to  understand.  TLi^ 
is  a  work  of  sympathy,  of  love,  of  a  genuine  delight  in  the  pleasure  of 
teaching,  a  deUght  which  finds  its  gratification  in  perceiving  that  tli' 
pupil  has  taken  in  and  truly  apprehended  the  knowledge  tlmt  was  r<  t 
before  him.  Then  as  the  mind  of  the  learner  grows  in  strength,  otlitr 
powers  of  the  true  teacher  will  come  into  play.  He  will  seek  to  impart 
something  higher  than  accurate  information  rightly  apprehended.  He 
will  awaken  the  perception  of  broader  relations ;  he  will  suggest  priL- 
ciples  and  generalizations  ;  he  will  so  handle  his  own  stores  as  to  let  the 
pupil  catch  first  glimpses,  then  successively  clear  outlines  of  the  ulti- 
mate form  in  which  his  own  knowledge  has  finally  settled  down ;  whilst 
the  charmed  disciple  is  brought  to  r.^joice  in  his  own  strength,  to  fttl 
that  he,  too,  has  the  power  of  grasping  high  and  broad  truths,  t>  look 
with  awe  at  first  at  the  heights  which  the  teacher  has  succeeded  in 
reaching,  and  at  last  to  become  conscious  that  he,  too,  may  crown  them 
also,  and  even  rise  above  them.  All  this  and  much  more  lies  inaclassioil 
education,  in  the  wide  ranges  of  Greek  and  Latin  writers,  in  their  poetry, 
their  history,  their  moral  and  pohtical  philosophy.  It  lies  scattered  in  rich 
profusion  in  the  verses  of  a  Homer  and  an  ^schylus,  the  speeches  of  a 
Pericles,  the  pohtical  and  moral  studies  of  an  Aristotle,  the  orations  of  & 


WOETH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION.  ^    809 

CScero  and  a  Demosthenes,  and,  bo  it  added,  in  the  sacred  works  of  the 
Greek  Scriptures.  As  I  hare  already  pointed  out,  the  deadness  of  these 
ancient  tongues  confers  a  vast  additional  force  on  the  procef>s.  The 
fitudant  is  compalled  to  travel  slowly ;  he  is  driven  to  probs  the  inner 
mind,  the  real  thought,  of  his  author  ;  he  is  forced  to  sjek  a  rendering 
vhich  will  fit  in  with  the  context,  and  with  the  goneral  course  of  tha 
argument,  and  he  must  thus  of  necessity  master  th3  bearing  and  sig- 
nificance of  the  feehng  or  the  argument.  Vv'hat  can  be  con- 
ceived more  truly  calcuJatsd  to  bring  out  every  clement  of  his 
own  nature  ?  How  is  it  possible  to ,  devise  a  mora  efficient 
machinery  for  enabling  the  mind  of  a  teacher  in  all  its  fulness 
to  act  on.  the  expanding  faculties  of  a  disciple  ?  And  thus  at 
last  we  reach  the  cuhninating  point  of  a  classical  education,  that  there  is 
no  man  so  great,  if  only  he  is  endowed  with  the  true  faculty  of  t  .aching, 
\rho  may  not  find  it  a  field  worthy  of  his  noblest  powers.  Successful 
generals  and  prominent  statesmen  easily  command  the  admiration  of 
mankind.  They  dazzle  by  the  apparent  size  and  magnituda  of  the 
effecte  they  produce.  To  have  defeated  a  large  army,  to  have  guidtd 
the  destinies  of  an  imperial  State,  affect  directly  the  lives  and  positions 
of  millions :  the  man  that  wield  such  powers  must  be  the  loftiest  of 
mankind.  Yet  is  it  so  in  truth  ?  If  we  think  only  on  what  man  is,  if  we 
Kflect  that  the  form  and  colour  of  both  individual  and  social  lif <  must 
absolutely  depend  on  the  minds  and  characters  of  the  men  who  compose 
it,  is  it  trua  that  statesmen  and  generals  determine  tha  course  and  hap- 
piness of  humanity  in  a  higher  degree  than  thosa  who  form  and  construct, 
as  it  were,  humanity  itself  ?  No  one  doubts  that  the  public  schools  and 
the  universities  of  England  produce  wide  and  lasting  effects  on  her 
national  character.  That  great  writers  move  the  thoughts  and  opinions 
of  many  generations  is  a  simple  truism.  No  one  contests  that  noble  and 
powerful  natTires  amongst  the  Uving  mightily  affect  all  who  come  within 
the  reach  of  their  influence.  Is  it  too  much  to  say  that  a  great  teacher, 
or  mther  a  mass  of  great  teachers,  may  still  mora  profoundly  direct  and 
shape  minds  at  ages  when  docility  and  impressiohableness  are  the  seed- 
bed supplied  by  nature  ?  Have  an  Abelard  and  an  Arnold  told  httle 
upon  mankind  ? 

These  remarks  are  made  under  the  feeling  that  Englishmen  are  not 
Bnfficiently  alive  to  the  immense  and  the  decisive  importance  of  the 
fjpecial  qualities  of  a  true  teacher.  It  would  be  enormously  better  for  a 
boy  to  be  trained  by  a  real  teacher  with  small  learning  than  by  a  man  of 
great  attainments  and  no  power  to  influence  others.  No  doubt,  in  the  case 
of  the  young  as  well  as  of  the  old,  a  human  being  can  do  the  most  for 
himself;  but  the  presence  of  a  spirit  capable  of  stimulating  and  guiding 
makes  an  incredible  difference  in  the  work  which  a  boy  or  a  man  will 
do  for  himsalf.  Jt  is  much  to  be  regretted  thai  the  Commission  on  the 
Public  Schools  did  not  take  up  this  great  matter  and  enhghten  the 
country  on  the  cardinal  importance  of  demanding  good  teachers.  A 
hundred  faults  might  be  forgiven  to  Eton  or  any  other  pubUc  school, — 


810  WORTH  OF  A  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

to  Oxford  or  to  Cambridge, — if  only  the  fmidamental  truth  were 
recognized  that  the  primary  element  of  education  is  the  teacher,  and  if 
as  a  consequence  of  that  recognftion  a  grtat  teacher  were  demanded  and 
appreciated  by  the  public  with  the  same  earnestness  and  discernment  as 
a  great  barrister  or  a  great  physioion. 

BoNAMT  Pbice,  in  Conicmpoi'ary  Bemw. 


CHARLES  LAAIB. 


The  following  new  and  characteristic  anecdotes  of  Charles  Lamb  are 
well  worth  preservation.  They  formed  a  part  of  the  ample  recoUectionB 
of  the  late  Mr.  John  Chambers,  of  Lee,  Kent. 

Mr.  Chambers  was  for  many  years  a  colleague  at  the  East  India 
House  of  Charles  Lamb,  of  whom  he  had  a  keen  appreciation  and  wann 
admiration.     He  himself  is  referred  to  in  the  Essay  by  Elia  on  .*'Tiie 

Superannuated  Man"  under  the  letters  Ch ,  as  **diy,  sarcastic,  and 

friendly,"  and  in  these  words  Lamb  accurately  defines  his  character. 
They  probably  worked  together  in  the  same  room,  or — in  India-house 
language — "compound,"  a  term  which  Lamb  once  explained  to  mean 
*' a  collection  of  simples."  Chambers  was  the  youngest  son  of  the  Vicar 
of  Badway,  near  Edgehill,  to  whom  Lamb  alludes  in  his  letter  given  at 
page  307,  vol.  ii.,  first  edition  of  Talfourd's  *'  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb* 
(Moxon,  1837).  He  was  a  bachelor,  simple,  methodical,  find  pxmctnal 
in  his  habits,  genial,  shrewd  and  generous,  and  of  strong  common  sense. 
He  lived,  after  his  retirement  from  active  duty  in  the  East  India  Com- 
pany's Civil  Service,  at  a  snug  cottage  on  the  Eltham  Hoad,  near  London, 
"with  garden,  paddock  and  coach-house  adjoining,"  and  delighted  to 
gather  round  him  a  small  circle  of  intimate  friends,  to  whom,  over  a 
glass  of  **  Old  Port,"  he  would  relate,  as  he  did  with  a  peculiar  indescrib- 
able dry  humour,  his  experiences  of  men  and  things,  and  especially  his 
reminiscences  of  the  East  India  Company  and  of  Charles  Lamb.  He 
always  spoke  of  Lamb  as  an  excellent  man  of  business,  discharging  the 
duties  of  his  post  with  accuracy,  diligence,  and  punctuality.  Chambers 
died  on  the  3d  September,  1862,  aged  73.  It  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  of 
all  the  stories  he  related  of  Lamb  these  alone  are  now  remembered,  and 
for  the  first  time  written  down  by  their  hearer.  The  circumstances 
under  which  they  were  told,  the  humour  of  Mr.  Chambers,  and  the  run- 
ning commentary  with  which  he  always  accompanied  any  allusion  to 
L:imb,  are  wanting  to  lend  them  the  interest^  vividness,  and  charm  of 
their  actual  narration. 

1.  Lamb,  at  the  soHcitation  of  a  City  acquaintance,  was  induced  to  go 
to  a  public  dinner,  but  stipulated  that  the  latter  was  to  see  him  safely 
home.     When  the  banquet  was  over,  Lamb  reminded  his  friend  of  their 


GHABLES  LAMB.  811 

agreement.  "Bu£  where  do  you  live?"  asked  the  latter.  ** That's 
your  affair,"  said  Lamb,  "you  undertook  to  see  me  home,  and  I  hold 
you  to  the  bargain."  His  friend,  not  liking  to  leave  Lamb  to  find  his 
way  alone,  bad  no  choice  but  to  ^ke  a  hackney  coach,  drive  to  Islington, 
where  he  had  a  vague  notion  that  Lamb  resided,  and  trust  to 
inquiry  to  discover  his  housa.  This  he  accomplished,  but  only  after 
some  hours  had  baen  thus  spent,  during  which  I^imb  drily  and  persist- 
ently refused  to  give  the  sUghtest  clue  or  information  in  aid  of  his  com- 
panion. 

2.  Lamb  was  one  of  the  most  punctual  of  men  although  he  never  car- 
ried a  watch.  A  friend  observing  the  absence  of  this  usual  adjunct  of  a 
business  man's  attire^  presented  him  with  a  new  gold  watch  which  he  ac- 
cepted and  carried  for  one  day  only.  A  colleague  asked  Lamb  what  had 
become  of  it.  **  Pawned,"  was  the  reply.  He  had  actually  pawned  the 
watch  finding  it  a  useless  incumbrance. 

;i  On  one  occasion  Lamb  arrived  at  the  office  at  the  usual  hour,  but 
omitted  to  sign  the  attendance  book.  About  mid-day  he  suddenly 
pansed  in  his  work,  and  slapping  his  forehead  as  though  illuminated  by 
retnroing  recollection,  exclaimed  loudly:  "Lamb!  Lamb!  I  have  it  j" 
and  rushing  to  the  attandance  book  interpolated  his  name. 

4.  On  another  occasion' Lamb  wa^  observed  to  enter  the  office  hastily, 
and  in  an  excited  manner,  assumed  no  doubt  for  the  occasion,  and  to  leave 
by  an  opposita  door.  He  appeared  no  more  that  day.  He  stated  the 
next  morning,  in  explanation,  that  as  he  was  passing  through  Leaden- 
hall  Market  on  his  way  to  th3  office  he  accidentally  trod  on  a  butcher's 
heeL  "I  apologised,"  said  Lamb,  "to  the  butcher,  but  the  latter  re- 
torted :    *  Yes,  but  your  excusss  won't  cure  my  broken  heel,  and 

me,'  said  he,  seizing  his  knife,  *  I'll  have  it  out  of  you.'  '  Lamb  fled 
from  the  butcher,  and  in  dread  of  his  pursuit  dared  not  remain  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  at  the  India  House.  This  story  was  accepted  as  a  humor- 
ous excuse  for  taking  a  holiday  without  leave. 

.5.  An  unpopular  head  of  a  department  came  to  Lamb  one  day  and  in- 
quired, '*Pray,  Mr.  Lamb,  what  are  you  about?"  "Forty,  next  birth- 
day," said  Lamb.  **  I  don't  like  your  answer,"  said  his  chief.  "  Nor  I 
your  question,"  was  Lamb's  reply. 

Algesnon  Bulge,  in  MacmUlan's  Magazine, 


CONTEMPOEABY  LIFE  AND  ^THOUaHT  IN  RUSSIA. 

St.  Peteesburg,  January  14iA,  1879. 

POLITICAL  AGITATION  AMONG  THE  BTUDENlS. 

The  event  of  the  day  is  the  political  agitation  among  the  students. 
These  disturbances  have  been  very  much  exaggerated  in  the  reports,  Eot 
only  abroad,  but  also  in  Russia  itself.  Down  to  the  present,  at  any  rat--, 
there  is  nothing  in  them  at  which  to  be  seriously  frightened.  Their  worst 
aspect  is  the  wrong  the  actors  in  the  disturbances  do  themselves;  instead 
of  devoting  the  precious  time  of  youth  to  earnest  studies  they  ore  biL«;y 
trying  to  solve  problems  beyond  their  powers.  For  this  wild  end  thev 
risk  every  day  seeing  the  doors  of  tha  universities  closed  to  them,  an  J 
I  cing  denied  their  career.  But  youths  do  not  much  trouble  themseh  ts 
with  thoughts  of  the  future,  and  the  spirit  of  camaradeine  easily  draws 
Ihem  away  to  any  folly.  Unfortunately  for  Russia,  this  feeling  does  not 
confine  its3lf  within  the  limits  of  one  school  or  university,  but  has  spread 
till  it  has  attained  tho  proportion  of  a  general  solidaritif  among  the  Btn- 
dents  of  the  whole  country.  Whenever  a  disturbance  arises  in  any  one 
of  the  schools,  bo  it  in  the  south,  the  west,  or  the  east  of  Russia,  djputi:s 
are  sent  to  other  universities  and  a  concrrted  action  is  planned. 

The  first  impulse  of  tlio  recent  troubles  was  given  at  the  Veterinary 
Institute  of  Kharkow,  and  it  may  bo  aa  well  to  go  a  littlo  into  tho  dctaib 
of  what  is  known  of  the  occnrrcnco. 

The  official  report  of  the  case  is  somewhat  puzzling.  It  states  that  on" 
of  the  professors,  byname  Jouravsliy,  in  order  to  further  th3  progrcs:;  c: 
his  pupils,  instituted  evening  lessons  for  t!ioso  v/ho  wished  them.  The  d.!- 
igent  students  welcomed  the  innovation,  but  the  lazy  ones  felt  dissatisfic! 
at  it.  The  professor  received  several  anonymous  letters,  containi'jj 
threats  which  v/"cro  to  bo  carried  out  in  ca33  ho  did  not  immediately  pivj 
up  these  lessons;  which  were  avowed  to  bo  mortifying  to  grown-iip 
Btudents,  since  they  put  them  on  the  same  IcvlI  with  pupUs  of  second^-rv 
schools.  Ho  showed  the  letters  to  tho  studonts  favourable  to  his  metliod, 
and  they  begged  him  to  f;o  on,  not  paying  any  attention  to  them.  Th<^n 
the  opposition  had  recov-i-so  to  violent  measures.  Assembling  in  f^:?.* 
numbers  at  the  next  public  lesson  of  Jouravsky,  they  interrupted  him, 
making  a  dreadful  noiso.  At  last-they  drove  him  out  of  tho  room.  The 
authorities  naturally  interfered  and  arrested  tho  culprits,  who  wore 
brought  before  tho  University  Court. 
^  Y/hen  things  had  gone  as  far  as  this  the  students  of  tho  University 
sided  with  their  fellows — the  Vcterinaries.  Further,  an  unfortunate  clr- 
cumBtanco  occurred  serving  to  fan  tho  flame, — tho  offended  professor 
wr-3  admitted  anong  the  jiid^ea  to  v;hom.  tho  caso  was  eubsiittcd.  Tliii 


CONTfi^OBAEY  LIFE  AKD  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA.       313 

seemed  so  unfair  to^the  accused  that  everybody  was  shocked.  The 
authorities  sought  to  excuse  the  irregular  proceeding  by  alleging  that 
Joaravsliy  alone  could  give  them  all  the  particulars  oi  the  alinir.  But 
sijcli  an  explanation  was  felt  to  be  uuFatisiactory.  The  professor  ought, 
1.0  doubt,  to  have  appeared  as  a  witnt bs,  but,  being  a  party  conct  I'ucd, 
he  had  no  right  to  sit  as  judge,  and  the  students  wt  re  not  to  blame  in 
protesting  against  it.  .Nevertheless  the  fact  of  being  right  in  th(ory 
ilid  not  help  them  in  practice.  Their  petitions  and  meetings  had  for 
tLeir  only  result  the  increasing  of  the  number  of  the  arrested,  and  the 
dofeing  the  doors  of  the  University  of  Kharkow  against  the  innocent  as 
veil  as  the  guilty. 

But  here,  before  going  further,  it  should  be  added  that,  side  by  side 
vdth.  this  official  cause  of  discontent,  there  exists  another  secret  one, 
T^hich  is  really  still  moro  sad  than  the  first.  This  is  the  old,  deeply- 
rooted,  national  hatred  between  Bussians  and  Poles,  which  time. 
liifherto,  has  been  unable  to  cure,  and  the  traces  of  which  are  very 
eas3y  to  be  found  in  the  provinces  Of  the  west.  Professor  Jouravsky  is 
a  Pole,  and  the  Bussians  on  that  score  nourished  a  bad  feeling  against 
him,  seizing  the  first  pretext  to  offend  him. 

As  soon  as  the  agitation  had  reached  its  height,  and  the  UniversHy 
"^as  closed,  deputies  from  the  students  were  sent  to  Moscow  nnd  St. 
Petersburg  asking  for  assistance.  At  Moscow  the  students  were  not 
disposed  to  mix  themselves  in  the  affair,  but  at  St.  Petersburg  the 
youths  showed  a  more  lively  intere^  in  the  movement.  Supported  by 
the  students  of  the  Mcdico-Chirurgical  Academy — who  are  known  to 
ftand  always  at  the  head  of  every  i*evolutionary  agitation — the  leaders 
diew  up  a  petition  to  the  Cesarcvitch.  On  the  JJOth  November  (old 
rtylc)  they  assembled  in  groat  numbera  and  proceeded  to  the  Anitchkow 
Palace.  As  that  day  was  the  jubilee  of  tho  Technological  Institute,  it 
roo  £t  first  thought  that  the  procession  was  bringing  their  congratula- 
tions on  that  occasion,  and  the  policemen  accordingly  let  it  pass.  How- 
cv  r,  as  the  line  kept  increasing  in  number,  and  was  seen  taking  an- 
clli.  r  cirection,  the  police  graw  anxioua,  and  its  head,  General  Zourof, 
vciit  m  pcrcon  to  parley  Viith  the  procession.  Being  very  politely 
L-ki^a  what  they  v/antod  a:id  whero  ihcy  wen  poinr',  they  answered  that 
IJT  purposed  to  present  to  the  hrir  of  tlio  throne  a  petition  in  favour 
cf  Ci  Ir  fellow-studints  of  Kharkov,'.  To  Ihiw  Zourof  rc]-»Ii«.d  that  the 
time  vras  ili-chosen  for  going  in  imiltilndes  to  the  Anitchkov,-  Palace, 
II1.3  Grand  Duchess  then  lying  in  childbed,  and  the  Gnicd  Duke  boing 
dsent  from  tovrn.  These  arguments  provallnd,  and  the  deputation 
consented  to  entrust  the  prefect  with  its  petition  .nnd  to  separate. 

Ileanwhila,  hov/ever,  tho  police,  frightened  at  this  stream  of  students 
pouring'  incessantly  townv*%ard,  fancied  they  could  stop  it  by  discon- 
necting the  bridges  on  the  Neva  which  join  the  scholastic  quarters  with 
the  central  streets.  The  University,  as  well  as  the  Medico-Chirurgical 
Academy,  lies  on  the.  left  side  of  the  river,  and  once  the  bridges  are 
separated  commumcation  between  them  and  the  other  parts  is  cut.    In 


SU      CONTEMPORABT  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RtJSSIL 

this  way  the  procession,  which  had  passed  over  to  the  right  side,  ccnld 
receive  no  more  reinforcements,  but  it  was  also  made  impossible  for  it 
to  return  home, — without  mentioning  the  inconvenience  caused  bjsuch 
a  measurj  to  the  peacuable  citizens.  In  fact,  while  Zourof  was  r«f- 
quiring  from  the  young  men  he  parleyed  with  the  promise  to  go  hoiiv?, 
his  subordinates  were  taking  pains  to  hinder  thein  from  keeping  th-.it 
pledge.  Very  soon  a  sort  of  panic  seized  the  whole  town,  and  the  most 
incredible  tales  circulat  )d  through  it  during  that  day  and  on  the  day 
following.  It  was  said  that  the  students  had  openly  revolted,  that  shots 
had  been  heard,  and  that  a  fight  was  going  on  in  the  streets.  In  reality, 
nothing  more  than  what  is  above  related  had  occurred,  and,  as  soon  as 
the  bridges  were  put  in  order,  the  students  willingly  dispersed. 

But  on  tha  n  ^xt  day,  a  much  more  serious  event  took  place  at  tli2 
Medico-Chirurgical  Acai3my.  The  young  men  assembled  there,  wish- 
ing to  know  ih3  r  )sult  of  their  petition  to  the  heir  of  the  throne.  H<?ar- 
ing  that  General  Zourof  was  paying  a  visit  to  their  directors,  they  se'^t 
a  deputation  to  him,  bigging  for  an  answer.  Zourof,  who,  in  his 
fright,  had  UQd3rtal£3n  an  irregular  mission,  not  having  the  right  to 
present  such  petitions  to  members  of  the  Imperial  family,  was  puzzlJ 
what  to  do  next.  However,  he  went  to  the  students  and  made  theiu 
soma  vague  excus3s,  alleguiqf  th*\t  the  Cesar evitch  had  not  yet  givrj 
any  answer,  a  ad  that  th3  r^ply  would  be  immediately  communicated  to 
them  as  sooa  as  it  was  given.  The  students  contented  themselves  witb 
these  assurances  and  withlrew.  But  on  reaching  the  street  they  were 
instantly  surround  ?d  by  a  mob  of  their  fellows,  who  had  been  waitins: 
for  them,  and  wanted  to  hear  the  news.  The  police,  afresh  alarmed 
ordered  them  to  disp3rs3,  and  as  they  did  not  obej'-  quickly  onongli. 
troops  were  suinmoaed.  When  they  saw  themselves  being  pusb-d 
about  by  the  military  force,  which  does  not  feel  gi-aeiously  disj'>o<  d 
towards  rioters,  they  really  revolted,  and  with  the  cry,  **  A  I'rest  us  «''.'" 
turned  back  to  the  Academy,  crowding  the  halls  and  the  passages.  One 
hundred  and  forty-two  of  them  were  arrv^stod,  while  in  the  fight  whi'-'i 
ensued  many  were  severely  wounded  and  bruised.  It  is  true  that  tb.^ 
oSaeial  report  flatly  contradicts  this  last  part,  denying  both  the  fight  aivJ 
the  rumour  of  there  being  any  wounded,  but  eye-witnesses  persist  i^ 
affirming  the  correctness  of  the  rumour,  evon  naming  the  surgeons  wlio 
were  told  oif  for  dressing  the  wounds  of  the  prisonf-rs.  At  any  nt  . 
the  whole  towa  talked  about  these  things  as  of  facts  beyond  doubt,  a:.d 
the  official  statement  found  but  few  belif'vrTs. 

After  this  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  University  gr-^w  worse,  and  tb.  • 
rector  felt  obliged  to  put  a  stop  to  the  meetings  h*  Id  there,  which  w  r 
becoming  more  and  more  loud  and  frequent.  Though  the  ]^ofes>'T 
Beketof  (who  is  actually  the  rector)  has  always  been  one  of  the  mo-t 
popular  men  among  the  students,  being  known  for  his  liberal  views  and 
his  humane  treatment  of  the  young  men,  his  exhortations  this  tini> 
were  useless.     It  is  even  reported  that  in  their  excitement,  the  jowig 


CONTEMPORARY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA,      815 

men,  forgettiiig  all  tliey  owed  him,  not  only  were  deaf  to  his  voice,  but 
insnlted  him.    True  this  is  denied  by  the  professors. 

The  last  event  of  this  scries  of  troublea  is  tha  surprising  doraonsti-a- 
tion  made  some  days  ago  by  the  students  of  the  Boads  and  Communica- 
tions Institute.  The  school  had  always  enjoyed  the  fame  of  being 
inaccessible  to  poUtical  agitation.  This  favourable  circumstance  was 
held  to  be  a  special  merit  of  the  actual  Minister  PoBsi^t,  within  whosj 
province  the  school  was  included.  His  friends  proclaimed  as  loudly  im 
tiiey  could  that  personal  influence,  or  the  lack  of  it,  has  much  to  do 
with  all  such  disturbances,  and  that  good  pedagogues  know  how  to  pre- 
vent them.  They  refused  to  recognize  iir  these  movements  the  char- 
acter of  a  moral  epidemic, — which  they  clearly  are, — and  ascribed  them 
all  to  the  awkwardness  of  the  chiefs.  Now  that  the  epidemic  has 
gained  access  to  their  ovra  sanctuary,  they  must  at  last  see  that  it  really 
eiist<].  The  students  of  the  Institute  went  in  their  turn  to  the  Minister, 
and  presented  a  petition,  the  contents  of  which  are  but  imperfectly 
known.  General  Possitt  explained  to  the  deputies  the  illegaKty  of  their 
proceeding.  These  deputies  again  boasted  of  having  spoken  rudely  to 
their  chief. 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  the  Government  naturally  thought  of 
new  measures  of  repression.  But  all  that  its  represGutatives  could  de- 
vise was  the  issuing  of  a  proclamation  applying  the  articles  of  the  penal 
code  which  concern  meetings  and  riots  in  the  streets  to  the  school 
buildings,  and  ordering  the  police  to  assist  the  school-directors  at  their 
request  in  restoring  order  in  the  halls.  How  far  such  a  measure  will 
prove  effective  it  is  not  easy  to  say.  It  is  the  old  story — while  every- 
body agrees  that  something  must  be  done,  nobody  knows  what  courso 
to  take,  and  only  criticises  somebody  else.  Happily  calm  is  nearly 
restored  now;  but  in  the  beginning  of  tliese  troubles  the  panic  was 
great  For  a  week  or  more  every  mention  i'l  tho  newspapers  was  for- 
bidden, and,  as  always  happens  in  such  cases,  the  talf^s  spread  through 
the  town  were  much  worse  than  the  reality.  Since  official  reports  have 
been  issued,  the  public  feehng  has  grown  more  rational,  and  people 
have  ceased  to  expect  every  day  a  revolution. 

DISCOVEBT  OF    "tHE  HOBSE." 

In  my  last  letter  I  gave  a  full  account  of  the  hunt  for  the  assassins  of 
General  Mesentzef.  Since  that  time  the  search  has  been  crowned  with 
just  one  success,  which  at  first  sight  was  full  of  promise.  This  was  the 
capture  of  the  horse,  the  identical  steed,  which  had  carried  the  mur- 
derers out  of  reach.  It  was  found  in  one  of  the  St.  Petersburg  Tattor- 
sall's,  where  it  had  been  stabled  for  the  whole  winter.  The  story  is 
tsld  differently,  but  the  version  most  current  is  tho  following :  Among 
ethers  arrested!,  was  a  suspicious  individual  who  affirmed  himself  to  bo 
a  peasant  named  Joukovsky,  from  the  province  of  Viatka;  but  a  bill 
was  found  in  his  pocket  for  the  keeping  of  a  horse  and  a  cab  at  the 
Xattersall's,     On  hia  being  confronted  with  the  master  and  the  grooms  of 


81G      CONTEMPORABY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA. 

that  establishment,  they  reco^tiized  him  to  be  the  coachman  of  a  gen- 
tleman to  whom  belonged  the  carriage  they  had  in  keeping.  They  said 
that  the  vehicle  had  been  in  their  custody  for  several  months,  and  that 
every  day  it  had  been  taken  out  for  driving  by  this  pretended  coachman, 
"whose  awkwardness  had  always  shocked  them.  In  the  evenings  he 
always  brought  it  back.  On  the  4th  August  the  grooms  observed  that 
the  steed  came  back  particularly  tired,  but  they  did  not  think  any  more 
about  it.  Since  that  date  nobody  had  claimed  the  horse,  nor  paid  for 
it,  and  the  eye-witnesses  who  saw  the  cab  of  the  murderers  profess  that 
the  carriage  and  the  horse  are  undoubtedly  the  Rame. 

This  revelation  was  interesting  at  first,  but  it,  alas!  did  not  go  further, 
and  the  hope  of  its  leading  to  the  capture  of  the  assassins  has  again 
faded.  The  detectives  and  the  magistrates  are  quite  sure  of  the  horse's 
,  identity,  but  imhappily  it  does  not  speak,  and  nothing  is  to  be  gaintd 
by  their  unsupplemental  knowledge.  As  to  Joukovsky,  he  denies  everj' 
connection  with  the  crime,  and  no  real  proofs  are  brought  against  liiin. 
The  murderers  are  most  likely  far  oat  of  reach,  safely  hidden  in  foreign 
countries ;  and  if  the  horse  could  apoak,  he  very  likely  would  tell  hk 
judges  as  much,  advising  them  to  let  alone  a  search  so  desperate  as  tliii^ 
has  become. 

A  NEW  M025THLY  PAPEE  OP  THE  BEDS. 

However,  along  with  the  capture  of  the  horse,  the  police  rejoiced  in 
another  discovery,  still  more  important.  -At  last,  the  printing  office  of 
the  revolutionary  party  was  found,  and  this  mysterious  press,  which  had 
given  so  much  annoyance  to  the  Government,  was  to  be  effectually 
stopped.  The  official  triumph  was  immense,  and  for  some  days  this 
event  became  the  favourite  talk  of  the  circles  more  or  less  behijad  the 
scenes  in  State  secrets.  Such  things,  naturally,  do  not  get  into  the  daily 
papers,  but  they  quietly  spread,  and  everybody  soon  knew  that  the  Btd^ 
were  deprived  of  their  means  of  propaganda.  The  general  astonish- 
ment was  all  the  greater  when  a  few  days  later  a  new  pubhcation  from 
the  same  quarter  suddenly  saw  the  light.  This  time  it  was  not  a  pro- 
clamation or  a  pamphlet  that  the  party  issued,  but  the  first  number  of  a 
monthly  paper,  named  "Zemlia  i  Volia"  (Country  and  Liberty).  Tho 
confiscation  of  their  printing  office,  and  the  loss  Of  their  compositors, 
seemed  to  have  had  no  deteriorating  influence  upon  this  pubhcation :  on 
the  contrary,  the  sheet  ehowed  a  manifest  improvement  over  the  pn  - 
ceding  ones.  It  was  written  in  a  much  better  stylo,  printed  with  miuli 
greater  care,  and  its  contents  displayed  a  variety  of  subjects  much  be- 
yond that  to  which  the  public  of  this  party  had  been  accustomed.  Be- 
sides the  usual  political  and  social  lead'-rs,  it  contained  poetry  (of  a  sar- 
castic kind,  in  which  the  Emperor  and  his  agents  were  laughed  at),  a 
feuiUeton,  the  chronicle  of  the  day,  and  advtrtisementa.  On  the  tir^t 
eheet  appeared  the  cost  of  subscription,"  with  the  information  added  that 
the  money  was  to  be  paid  to  the  persons  known  by  the  readers,  a  noti- 
fication which  is,  perhaps,  the  most  carious  thing  in  tho  pa|)er.    Tho 


CONTEMPORARY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA.      317 

leading  articles  show'  coolness  and  modemtion  compa^^d  with  other 
writings  of  the  kind.     In  them  the  proceedings  of  tlio  (Tovernniciit,  as 
well  as  those  of  their  own  party,  aro  closely  discussed,  and  a  sort  of  tnico 
is  proposed  under  certain  conditions.     Violence,  it  is  prv.te!id.  d,  is  re- 
pulsive to  the  revolutionists,  and  they  only  resort  to  it  in  extreme  ca3es. 
In  fact,  as  we  have  before  explained,  political  questions  and  forms  of 
goYemment  are  nearly  indifferent  to  this  party, — their  aim  being  a 
purely  social  and  economical  one.     What  they  profess  to  want  is  nothing 
short  of  the  increasing  of  the  happiness  of  mankind  b}'  an  equal  distri- 
bution of  riches  and  the  emancipation  of  the  labourer  from  the  capitalisjt. 
If  the  Russian  Government  will  let  them  quietly  pursue  this  propaganda, 
not  annoying  tham  by  arrests  and  persecutions,  they  promise  in  their 
turn  not  to  recur  to  open  rebellion,  nor  to  political  murdei's.     The  latter, 
thoy  assert,  do  not  enter  into  their  programme,  but  they  are  obliged  to 
defend  themselves  when  they  are  athicked,  and  that  is  the  only  mode  of 
revenge  open  to  them.     With  respect  to  a  Constitution  being  granted, 
it  would  do  them  more  harm  than  good,  and  they  have  no  reason  to  wish 
for  one  :  the  majority  of  the  repr  ssntatives  would  belong  to  their  foes, 
and  they  would  lose  the  friends  whom  they  find  nowadays  among  tho 
party  of  the  discontented.     A  good  deal  of  satire  is  expended  on  the  ex- 
istence of  their  underground  press,  c'f  spite  its  interdiction.     They  tell 
the  reader  to  be  on  his  guard,  for  he  has  become  a  great  criminal  by  only 
psmsing  their  pages,  and  warn  liim  that  he  is  going  to  commit  a  still 
heavier  sin  if  he  advises  any  friend  to  look  into  the  paper  and  convmce 
hnnself  of  the  absurdities  preached  there.     It  will  be  interesting  to  see 
if  the  paper  will  really  appecir  with  the  promised  punctuahty,  and  how 
long  it  will  last. 

ADMINISTBATIVE  CHANGES. 

A  new  and  important  change  in  the  administration  took  place  last 
month.  The  Minister  of  the  Interior,  General  Timaschef,  has  resigned 
his  post,  and  been  temporarily  succeeded  by  his  adjunct,  Makof.  When  I 
tried^in  my  first  letter  to  sketch  the  political  parties  now  in  existence  in 
Russia,  I  marked  out  the  Minister  Timaschef  as  one  of  the  firmest  props 
of  the  Conservatives,  or,  to  put  it  better,  of  the  Reactionaries,  and 
nothing  occurred  subsequently  to  change  his  mind.  He  remained  true 
to  his  views,  and  to  the  last  continued  to  persecute  liberty  of  thought 
and  of  the  press.  He  belonged  also  to  the  old  military  school  of  the  Em- 
peror Nicholas ;  he  had  been  educated  in  the  Pago  Corjis,  and  he  con- 
sidered the  most  severe  disciphne  as  offering  the  greatest  benefit  for 
mankind.  All  that  tended  to  lessen  or  mitigate  the  d-^spotic  power  of 
the  monarch  and  his  functionaries  was  viewed  by  him  as  a  serious 
danger  for  both  the  State  and  the  people,  and  he  did  all  in  his  power  to 
stop  this  bad  tendency  of  our  age.  However,  in  spite  of  aU  his 
measures  the  Reds,  far  from  being  crushed,  pursue  their  activity,  and  if 
the  censorship  succeeds  in  silencing  liberal  views,  it  endeavours  in  vain 
to  stop  the  reyolatioiiary  propaganda  flourishing  by  means  of  the  under- 


ai8      CONTEI^IPORAEY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA. 

hand  press.  Disgusted  with  these  failnres,  General  Timaschef  preferred 
leaving  his  post.  In  such  cases  a  ready  pretext  is  always  furnished  by 
a  plc'a  of  bad  health,  and,  speaking  generally,  there  is  hardly  a  minister 
who  resigns  for  any  other  cause.  We  shall  not  be  taxed  with  exaggt-ni- 
tion  by  well-informed  persons,  if  we  affirm  that  in  our  period  thera 
hardly  has  been  a  minister  less  popular  than  General  Timaschef,  and  that 
this  f  ocling  towards  him  was  shared  by  his  colleagues  of  the  Cabio(  t. 
The  Liberals  saw  in  him  one  of  their  worst  foes,  the  Press  knew  that  li o 
was  bent  on  giving  it  the  least  freedom  possible,  and  the  bureaucradad 
hierarchy  often  found  him  unpleasant  and  exacting  in  his  ways.  Everrono 
criticized  and  blamed  his  acts,  for  he  had  but  few  partisans.  Neverthe- 
less, when  it  became  known  that  he  had  resigned,  the  members  of  tho 
Cabinet,  in  company  with  other  high  functionaries,  made  him  an  ex- 
traordinary ovation.  They  went  in  a  body  to  his  house  to  give  him  a 
solemn  farewell  and  to  express  then*  grief  at  his  leaving  his  office.  General 
Timaschef  could  not  help  being  touched,  and  he  answered  in  the  sanio 
style.  The  event,  which  was  meant  by  its  authors  to  remain  private, 
get  speedily  into  the  papers,  and  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  unusual 
honour  has  been  paid  to  a  very  unpopular  minister.  As  to  his  succes- 
sor, it  is  not  quite  certain  if  Makof  will  retain  the  post,  or  if  he  is  only  a 
bird  of  passage.  He  is  comparatively  young  for  such  an  office,  and  there 
are  other  candidates  with  better  claims  to  it.  Among  them  the  late  Minis- 
ter of  Justice,  Count  Pahlen,  and  the  actualGeneral-Govemor  of  Bulgaria. 
Prince  Dondoukof  Korsakof,  are  often  named,  but  the  Emperor*^ 
mind  being  closed  to  the  public,  conjectures  have  no  solid  grounds  to 
rest  upon.  In  his  views  Makof  is  much  more  a  Conservative  than  a 
Liberal,  and  we  do  not  think  that  the  cause  of  liberty  and  of  progress 
would  be  much  furthered  under  his  administration.  If  his  tendencies 
had  been  otherwise  he  could  not  have  achieved  such  a  brilHant  career  un- 
der the  protection  of  Timaschef.  However,  being  younger  and  a  trr.e 
bureaucrat  by  nature,  he  wiU  show  himself  more  flexible  than  the  ad- 
herents of  the  old  despotic  school,  and  if  the  wind  turns  to  another 
quarter,  he  will  easily  follow  the  new  direction.  Generally  speiik- 
ing,  personal  changes  exercise  much  less  influence  in  autocratic 
govei-nments  than  might  be  supposed.  Things  go  on  pretty  much  the 
same  despite  the  opinions  of  the  chiefs,  and  as  soon  as  a  man  has  at- 
tained the  post  of  minister,  he  looks  down  from  it  on  the  nation  with 
nearly  the  same  eyes  as  his  predecessor.  Therefore,  this  chanc^, 
though  very  interesting  to  the  Russian  bureaucracy,  is  not  of  much  im- 
port to  tho  nation  at  large,  and  outside  St.  Petersburg  people  care  bu| 
little  for  it. 

BECENT   CBIMTNAIi  TBIAIiS. 

The  number  of  criminal  cases  which  have  lately  been  tried  bpfor^  onr 
courts  asks  notice  on  several  grounds.  Some  of  the  cases  deei)ly  :if- 
fected  the  public  mind,  disclosing  as  they  did  social  sores  of  differti  t 
kinds,  as  well  as  the  dark  side  of  our  modem  civilization.    The  pess'^ 


CONTEMPORARY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA.      819 


\ 


mists,  who  are  every  day  mcreasing  in  nTunber,  gladly  seized  the  new 
weapons  furnished  to  them  by  this  series  of  crimes,  hoping  to  silence 
their  few  adversaries,  the  optimists,  and  never  was  the  old  theme  of 
human  perversity  so  publicly  discussed  as  during  that  time. 

The  characteristic  feature  of  all  these  cases  lay  in  the  fact  that  they 
took  place  in  the  refined  circles  which  are  supposed  to  be  beyond  the 
temptations  of  vulgar  crime.  The  general  opinion  prevalent  in  the 
educated  classes  is  Utat  the  penal  code  is  exclusively  made  for  low  people, 
and  everybody  is  surprised  to  see  it  needed  in  the  upper  classes.  Among 
the  trials  three  are  particularly  curious,  as  giving  a  true  picture  of  man- 
ners and  modem  life. 

The  first  is  that  of  a  lady  named  Goulak-Artemovsky,  accused  and 
convicted,  of  forgery.  The  story  of  this  lady,  now  sentenced  to  ban- 
ishment in  Siberia,  is  very  instructive.  Having  lost  her  husband  and 
possessing  only  a  small  fortune,  she  could  not  resign  herself  to  the  hum- 
ble life  she  had  thenceforward  to  lead.  She  was  pretty,  inleUigent,  had 
most  fascinating  manners,  and  a  great  supply  of  energy ;  she  thought 
that  these  endowments  were  sufficient  to  help  her  to  a  brilliant  career, 
and  she  determined  to  step  out  of  obscurity  and  play  a  prominent  part 
in  the  world.  She  knew  that  the  display  of  riches,  a  house  furnished 
with  taste  and  luxury,  and  presided  over  by  a  charming  mistress,  will 
always  gain  a  welcome  from  society,  never  too  eager  to  scrutinize  the 
sources  of  display.  Her  salon  soon  became  known  in  St.  Petersburg, 
and  if  the  ladies  belonging  to  the  aristocracy  were  slow  in  accepting 
her  invitations,  the  genUemen  had  no  such  scruples.  She  knew  how 
to  make  them  feel  at  their  ease,  and  to  amuse  them.  Play,  music,  ex- 
cellent suppers,  and  so  on,  awaited  them  at  her  house,  and  she  could 
soon  boast  of  the  easiness  with  -^i^hich  she  caught  and  also  kept  her 
bmis.  « 

But  this  was  only  the  first  step.  It  was  not  er  ough  to  have  learned  how 
to  open  a  grand  house  ;  the  chief  problem  was  how  to  procure  the  neces- 
sary means  for  going  on  at  that  rate  ;  and  there  our  lady  began  to  use 
her  wits.  The  high  functionaries  whom  she  enticed  to  her  house  were 
meant  not  only  to  flatter  her  vanity  by  their  presence,  but  to  be  of  prac- 
tical use.  A  gentleman  has  seldom  the  courage  to  refuse  the  favours  a 
nice  lady  asks  him  after  a  fine  supper,  and  public  business  is  more  quickly 
decided  in  a  salon  than  in  the  office.  Thus  Mrs.  Artemovsky  undertook 
the  management  of  private  business- which  requLr':'d  the  sanction  of  the 
Grovemment,  and  naturally  received  large  fees  from  the  parties  con- 
cerned. In  Russia  the  regulation  and  the  interference  in  private  affairs 
by  the  State  are  still  very  great,  and  nearly  every  commercial  under- 
takmg  needs  the  consent  of  the  Administration.  To  obtain  it,  people 
instead  of  taking  the  straight  way,  which  is  very  long,  resort  to  secret 
paths,  which  are  much  shorter.  Interest  plays  i\iQ  leading  part  in  such 
things,  and  every  one  is  intent  on  gaining  a  private  interview  to  ask  for 
fui  exception  in  his  favour.  Secret  agente  are  in  great  request,  and  there 
is  nothing  extraordinary  in  finding  women  among  them.    The  lady  yn 


820      CONTEMPORARY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  tW  UtTSSIA. 

Bpeak  of  had  great  ability  for  such  work,  and  at  her  trial  she  boasted 
before  the  court  of  the  many  affairs  she  had  managed  snccessfuUy,  and 
the  profits  she  had  made  out  of  them. 

Unhappily  for  her,  the  gains  did  not  grow  as  fast  -as  her  expensive 
■wants,  and  she  '^ras  obhged  to  add  new  sources  of  revenue.  After  ac- 
cej^ting  the  office  of  a  secret  agent,  she  undertook  that  of  a  banker,  dis- 
counting fictitious  bills.  She  proceeded  in  the  following  manner :  Young 
men,  quite  destitute  of  means,  but  having  rich  parents,  were  induced 
or  bribed  to  put  their  names  to  bills  for  considerable  amounts,  whicli 
were  afterwards  presented  to  their  fathers,  accompanied  by  a  threat  of 
impending  imprisonment  for  debt.  In  most  cases  the  fathers  found 
themselves  obhged  to  pay,  or  to  make  an  agreement  with  the  creditors. 
One  of  these  young  men  appeared  at  the  bar  as  a  witness,  and  his  tes- 
timony was  very  characteristic.  Questioned  by  the  judges,  he  con- 
fessed openly  that  his  debts  amounted  to  nearly  one  inillion,  while  his 
property  was  estimated  at  three  roubles/  It  was  indeed  sold  for  one. 
He  had  not  the  least  idea  of  the  number  of  bills  he  accepted,  and  never 
looked  at  their  sum  ;  he  generally  did  it  out  of  complacency,  though  he 
sometimes  got  a  small  sum  for  it — a  hundred  roubles,  for  instance.  He 
had  nothing  to  lose,  and  felt  indifferent  to  the  embarrassments  to  which 
his  old  father  might  be  subjected. 

Simultaneously  with  these  performances,  the  lady  sought  the  acquaint- 
ance of  rich  men  whom  she  could  take  advantage  of.  With  that  pur- 
pose she  invited  Nicholas  Pastoukhof  to  call  on  her,  and  soon  made  a 
conqiftst  of  him.  Pastoukhof  belonged  to  the  tradesman  class.  He 
had  a  large  fortune,  but  lacked  the  education  customarily  given  in  the 
upper  plasses,  and  by  nature  was  very  timid.  At  the  start  he  dared  not 
refuse  any  proposals  made  to  him  in  the  fashionable  drawing-room  of 
his  hostess,  and  he  lost  eighteen  thousand  roubles  at  cards.  Later,  he 
fell  in  love  with  the  charming  widow,  and  asked  her  hand  in  marriage. 
She  declined  his  offer,  unwilling  to  lose  her  independent  station  and  her 
liberty  by  becoming  the  wife  of  a  merchant.  She  did  not  want  to  break 
with  him,  but  her  disappointment  was  bitter  when  she  saw  him  com- 
pletely  estrange  himself  from  her,  and  when  she  was  not  admitted  to  him 
during  a  long  illness.  1 1  ended  in  his  death,  and  after  her  refusal  she  never 
saw  him  again.  But  as  soon  as  he  was  dead,  she  hastened  to  send  to  his 
brothers  bills  amounting  to  the  sum  of  fifty-eight  thousand  roubles, 
Vhich  she  pretended  were  for  money  she  had  lent  him.  She  was  so  sure 
that  the  brothers  of  the  deceased,  who  enjoyed  the  fame  of  generous 
and  honorable  men,  would  not  begin  a  scandalous  process  for  such  a 
trifle,  that  she  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  of  copying  Pastoukhof  s 
signature,  and  put  it  down  in  another  hand-writing.  This  time  she  was 
mistaken  in  her  calculations.  The  Pastoukhofs,  who  knew  the  bad  in- 
fluence she  had  exercised  over  their  brother  and  the  grief  she  had  cansc-d 
him,  refused  to  be  her  dupes,  and  declared  that  the  name  on  the  bills 
was  forged.  The  case  was  brought  before  the  court,  and  the  lady 
oould  not  prove  her  innocence,  despite  the  interest  she  exoited  and  the 


CONTEMPOBABY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  BUSSIA.       821 

witnesses  who  deposed  in  her  favour.  The  signatures  had  not  tha 
fiiightest  resemblance  to  the  hand-writing  of  tho  deceased,  and,  besides 
this,  it  was  proved  that  he  never  gave  bills,  having  at  his  disposal  an 
much  ready  money  as  he  wanted.  She  was  x^ronoimced  guilty,  and  her 
dazzling  career  came  to  an  abmjjt  close. 

The  second  notable  case,  tritd  afc  tho  court  cf  Kbarkow,  has  mora 
uiiD  one  point  of  resemblance  to  the  first,  tliougii  the  crime  com- 
mitted was  much  heavier.  The  Doctor  KovaitcUoukof,  one  of  the  best 
physicians  of  that  town,  was  treacherously  murdered  last  winter. 
After  being  missed  three  days  his  corps  3  was  found  locked  up 
in  the  room  of  an  hotel,  whither,  it  becamo  known  ho  had  bee:i 
summoned  to  assist  a  travelltr,  who  had  likewiso  disappeared. 
Though  the  traveller  had  taken  thi  name  of  Baron  Stengel^ 
the  police  soon  discovered  him  to  bo  no  other  than  Gregory  Beeobrasof, 
a  member  of  the  aristocracy,  and  son  to  a  highly-honoured  senator. 
The  criminal  was  arrested  at  St,  Petersburg,  whtro  he  had  thought  him- 
self in  safety ;  and,  after  some  vain  attempts  at  denial,  confessed  hia 
deed. 

His  career  is  much  the  same  as  that  of  a  great  number  of  men  be- 
longing to  his  station  in  life.     Accustomed  from  his  infancy  to  luxury, 
and  having  no  notion  of  work  or  self -constraint,  ho  supposed  that  ready 
money  ought  always  to  be  suppHed  to  a  gentleman,  and  that  it  was  un- 
becoming for  ono  to  have  to  calculat  3  hisi  expenditure.     At  tho  end,  hin 
father's  fortune,  when  divided  between  him  and  his  eldrr  brothers,  fell 
below  his  expectations,  and  ho  quickly  expended  his  funds.     After  that, 
being  unablo  to  work,  and  knowing  only  tha  military  servic3  in  th  \ 
guards,  which  requires  moro  money  than  itr«. pays,  ho  naturally  resorted 
to  borrowing.     He  kept  up  tho  practice  a^j  long  as  it  availed,  but  there 
came  a  time  when  no  more  loans  v/ere  to  be  had,  and  the  situation  grew 
critical.     His  creditors  pressed  upon  him,  and  his  ordinary  resources 
were  quit?  exhausted.     Ho  had  attained  tho  ago  of  forty-eight,  and  ha 
was  w^ary  of  tlie  life  h  j  led ;  it  was  high  timo  to  put  an  end  to  it, 
"While  in  this  frame  of  mind  ha  met  in  thj  Crimea  a  handsome  woman. 
Learning  that  she  was  tho  wifo  of  Doctor  Kovaltchoukof,  and  that  8h« 
did  not  live  "with  her  husband,  ho  remembered  having  heard  in  passing 
through  Kharkow  that  tho  doctor  v/as  a  rich  man  and  an  usurer.     Thihi 
was  enough  for  him  ;  ho  soon  formed  a  plan  for  restoring  his  fortunes. 
First  of  all  ho  sought  the  lady  and   easily  won  her  good  graces.     As 
she  iotended  to  retiurn  to  St.  Petersburg,  he  claimed  tho  privilege  of  ac- 
companying her.     On  tho  road  they  got  so  weP  acquainted  that  when 
they  reached  the  capital  her  gallant  knight  proposed  to  stop  at  the  sam-3 
hott'l,  taking  there  one  apartment.     At  the  inn  they  were  supposed  to 
be  a  married  couple  and  the  truth  did  not  come  out  till  later. 

Thi5  intimacy  set  up,  Besobrasof  thought  that  it  was  time  to  removo 
the  obstacle  which  hindered  his  r^arriage,  and  he  went  to  Kharkow, 
boughc  an  axe,  and  with  it  killed  tho  unfortunate  doctor.  However, 
befoie  '^erpetratiug  tha  act,  ho  remembered  that  he  held  no  promise  oi: 

L.  M.-I  —11 


822      CONTEMPOKAEY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA. 

xnariiekge  from  the  woman  ho  was  going  to  make  a  widow,  and  he 
imagined  that  it  would  be  a  clever  way  of  securing  her  consent  to  com- 
promise her.  Accordingly  he  despatched  to  her  a  mysterious  telegram 
under  a  false  name,  informing  her  "that  the  deed  had  "been  put 
off,  but  would  be  accomphshed  the  next  day."  It  had  in  part  the  efltcr 
he  expected,  for  as  soon  as  he  was  arrested  for  the  crime  a  strong  sua- 
picion  fell  also  on  the  widow  of  the  deceased ;  she  was  apprehended  is 
her  turn,  and  accused  of  participation  in  the  crime. 

During  the  trial,  however,  her  innocence  was  proved   beyond  any 

^ doubt.     One  of  its  strongest  evidences  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  had  no 

.'inheritance  to  expect  after  her  husband's  death.     His  fortune,  uiucL 
fimaller  than  was  supposed,  had  been  bequeathed  to  his  children  by  an- 

,  ot^er  marriage,  and  she  perfectly  knew  it.  Why  then  should  she  con- 
trive to  murder  her  husband,  who  never  interfered  with  her  behaviour. 

.  and  lived  some  hundred  of  miles  from  her  ?  But  the  clearer  her  inno- 
cence appears,  the  more  unaccountable  is  the  cri6ae  of  Besobrasof .  ^Ve 

■  see  in  it  a  striking  instance  of  the  giddiness,  and  of  the  complete  al>- 
sence  of  reflection,  which  are  fostered  by  the  education  given  to  our 
upper  classes.  This  man  shows  the  same  inability  in  the  planning  of 
crim^  as  in  the  management  of  his  whole  life.  He  thinks  that  if  he  1ms 
gained  nothing  in  the  right  path,  he  has  only  to  step  out  of  it  to  grow 
rich.  He  beheves  that  a  murder  must  solve  the  problems  which 
harass  him,'  and  he  forgets  even  to  obtain  the  necessary  information  bt*- 
fore  resortmg  to  it.  He  does  not  know  Kovaltchoukof 's  fortune — ho 
only  vaguely  heard  about  it,  and  he  equally  omits  to  ask  if  the  lady 
v/iU  marry    him  when    a  widow.      The    same    childish  giddiness  w 

.  seen  in   tiie  means  he  employs  to  hide  himself.      Besobrasof  clearly 

thought  himself  A^ery  clever  because  he   gave   at  the   hotel  a  false 

name,  and,  after  having  slain  his  victim,  locked  the  door  of  his  rooai, 

taking  the  next  train  for  St.  Petersburg.     He  forgot  the  existence  of 

.  photographs,  and  did  not  suppose  that,  his  connection  with  the  db- 

,  ceased's  wife  being  known,  the  police  would  instantly  suspect  him.    He 

.rconunits  this  dreadful  crime  with  the  only  result  of  finishing  his  unhappy 

life  in  the  mines  of  Siberia,  and  dishonouring  a  name  of  which  Lis 

family  had  till  then  been  over-proud.     (This  branch  of  the  Besobrasof^ 

are  not  related  to  another  Besobrasof,  member  of  the  Russian  Academy 

of  Science,  and  known  throughout  Europe  as  a  poUtical  economist. ) 

If  the  two  CEises  of  which  we  have  spoken  have  a  likeness  from  ari/?- 
ing  in  the  same  social  circles,  and  being  prompted  by  the  same  motivs 
of  cupidity,  the  third  case  presents  a  somewhat  different  aspect 
Greedmess  plays  no  part  in  it,  though  the  tableau  de  genre  it  discloses 

■  is  no  less  sad. 

A  youth  of  seventeen,  named  Nicolas  Fosnansky,  son  of  a  colonel  of 
gendarmes,  died  suddenly  last  spring  without  any  serious  disease  bavint,' 
preceded  his  death,  and  the  French  governess  of  the  family.  Marguerite 
Jujean,  was  charged  with  having  poisoned  him.  This  event  frightened 
the  higher  society  terribly ;  all  families  keeping  govemessea  could  find 


CONTEMPOEABY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA.      828 

no  expressioiis  strong  enough  for  their  indignation.  They  expected  this 
monster  of  a  criminal  to  undergo  an  exemplary  punishment,  and  only 
grieved  over  the  abohtion  of  the  penalty  of  death,  which  ought  to  be 
in^cted  in  tlie  case.  Their  astonishment  and  anger  were  proportion- 
ately great  when  the  impatiently  expected  trial  finished  by  the  acquittal 
of  ike  foreigner  who  had  so  in^mously  abused  the  trust  committed  to 
her.  However,  the  reading  of  the  report  of  the  trial  soon  dispelled  this  ^ 
feeling.  I 

The  story  it  disclosed  was  as  follows  : — The  family  life  of  the  Pons-  f 
oanskys  was  unfortunately  of  a  type  not  uncommon  in  Russia.  The  ( 
father  W3^  completely  absorbed  by  his  official  duties,  hunting  after  ^ 
Nihilists,  and  not  caring  in  the  least  for  what  was  going  on  in  his  own 
house ;  the  mother  thinking  only  of  amusements,  passed  her  mornings 
in  making  calls  and  her  evenings  at  theatres,  parties,  and  clubs ;  the 
children  were  abandoned  to  the  caro  of  hired  servants  and  governesses. 
The  eldest  son,  Nicolas,  laboured  under  the  additional  disadvantage  of 
not  being  his  mother's  favourita.  Endowed  with  a  lively  fancy  and  a 
pracocious  wish  to  learn  things  beyond  his  age,  he  had  nobody  to  coun- 
sel him,  and  to  give  a  good  direction  to  his  ambitious  designs.  At  the  time 
the  French  governess  entsred  their  hous3  he  was  fourteen,  and  his  in- 
tellectual and  moral  growth  had  attained  an  unhealthy  development. 
Marguerite  felt  a  profound  pity  for  him,  and  offered  him  her  friendship, 
^hich  he  gladly  accepted.  But  she  lacked  the  seriousness  of  mind  and 
tho  sound  knowledge  which  would  have  been  necessary  to  rule  his  un- 
staady  ideas,  and  thehr  friendship  changed  into  love.  The  feeling 
between  a  woman  of  forty  and  a  boy  of  sixteen  could  not  be  of  long 
duration.  It  passed,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  sheer  disgust  of  life  in 
tha  boy's  mind.  Nothing  can  be  sadder  than  the  expressions  of  it  found 
in  ths  diary  of  the  boy  read  before  the  court.  The  political  and  social 
quBstions  which  he  treats  and  solves  according  to  the  Radical  doctrines 
do  not  make  so  deep  an  impression  on  the  reader  as  the  avowal  of 
ath3ism  which  he  adds  to  them,  and  tho  expression  of  his  sorrow  for 
th3  faith  ho  has  lost.  He  writes,  that  he  does  net  believe  any  more  in 
God,  nor  in  man,  and  especially  not  in  women.  Such  confessions  com- 
ing from  a  boy  of  his  age,  tsU  eloquently  the  sorrowful  story  of  his 
childhood  and  his  adolescence. 

When  he  died  suddenly  during  the  night,  aft«r  an  illness  which  gave 
no  idea  of  danger,  and  which  had  been  noticed  only  by  the  governess, 
nobody  at  first  thought  of  ascribing  it  to  foul  play.  But  somp  days  later, 
his  father  learned  that  a  political  denunciation  had  been  handed  in  at 
thi  83CT3t  police  against  the  boy,  and  he  recognized  the  handwriting 
to  h2  of  Marguerite  Jujean.  That  was  enough  to  arouse  suspicion. 
From  that  moment  the  parents  believed  that  he  had  porishsd 
by  poison,  and  that  jealousy  prompted  the  governess  to  give 
it  to  him.  The  corpse  was  submitted  to  a  close  autopsy,  and  some 
traces  of  morphia  were  found.  Then  it  was  stated  that  th^  governess 
had  been  near  him  ou  the  evening  before  his  death,  and  had  even 


'VJi:      COJNTJiailPORAJRY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  BUSSIA.. 


*/^: 


brought  him  liis  physic,  asking  others  not  to  go  into  his  room,  but  let 
him  sleep.  These  were  the  charges  brought  agaiust  her,  and,  as  "was 
fjaid  before,  the  jury  did  not  find  them  sufficiently  made  out  for  a  ver- 
dict of  guilty.  There  were  no  proofs  of  the  jealousy  which  alone  coTild 
have  actuated  her  to  such  a  crime,  and,  indeed,  was  it  likely  that  a 
woman  of  forty  would  kill  a  boy  out  of  jealousy?  The  indignation 
with  which  the  public  at  first  heard  of  the  supposed  crime  turned  gra- 
dually from  the  foreign  governess  towards  the  parents,  especially  to  tlic 
laother.  Why,  people  asked,  did  she  keep  for  years  a  person  whom  sho 
linew  to  be  in  love  with  her  son,  and  entrust  to  her  the  care  of  her  chil- 
dren ?  If  she  did  it  only  to  be  at  hberty  to  amuse  herself,  and  to  lea/i 
pwU  easy  life,  she  had  no  moral  right  afterwards  to  complain  of  the  for- 
eigner, whom  she  kept  because  she  was  cheap.  Perhaps,  this  case  will 
Bsrve  as  a  losson  for  other  famiUes,  and  that  is  the  only  comfort  to  be 
derived  from  it. 

A  SCANDAL  IN  THE  PEESS. 

Our  publicfets  have  accustomed  us  to  view  their  frequent  changes  of 
opinion  without  very  Uvely  surprise,  but  the  palm  of  such  mobihty  un- 
doubtedly belongs  to  Katkof,  the  editor  of  T/ifi  Moscow  Gazette,  One 
never  knows  what  he  will  say  next,  nor  what  cause  he  may  defend. 
One  may,  however,  be  sure  that  whatever  be  the  subject  he  chooses  be 
will  treat  it  with  fire,  not  sparing  his  anger  against  his  adversaries. 
During  the  last'faw  yeai's,  thj  public  has  seen  in  him  a  great  many  of 
lh3Sv3  metamorphoses,  and  has  learned  at  last  to  discover  a  connection 
l)2tween  them  and  the- personal  mutatiouii  of  ministers  or  other  higli 
functionaries.  At  the  bottom  of  what  seemed  inexpUcable  to  thos3  wJio 
had  not  the  key  of  the  riddlo,  lay  a  very  plain  rule  of  conduct,  ho 
lon^  a3  a  minister  gratified  Katkof  and  proved  useful  to  liini,  his  poli- 
tics wero  unconditionally  apj)roved  in  the  columns  of  27ie  Moscow  Chi- 

From  the  moment  the  Ramo  minister  became  guilty  of  some  psrsoijal 
oirence,  or,  more  certainly  still,  if  he  resigned  his  portfolio  into  <iis- 
tastoful  hands,  his  acts  met  with  nothing  in  those  pages  but  the  sever.  ?t 
blame.  Nevertheless,  there  had  existed  hitherto  a  fev/  departments  as 
to  wiiich  Katkof  r:::!mained  true  to  his  primitive  programme,  and  ouv  of 
these  was  the  economical  domain.  He  had  shown  himself  from  tli?  b > 
f  jinning  an  adherent  of  sound  principles  in  political  economy,  and  li  ul 
iird^ntly  preached,  among  other  things,  the  restoration  of  the  met/illic 
currency.  No  organ  of  our  press  has  lavished  so  much  eloquence  nrt>ii 
this  subject  from  the  epoch  of  the  Crimean  war  down  to  last  year,  cA 
none  has  accumulated  such  a  heap  of  logical  proofs  and  arfiruni' i'-; 
demonstmting  the  harm  of  over-issues  of  paper.  The  bosom  friend  oi 
Katkof,  his  best  contributor,  and  co-editor  of  The  Moscoio  Genet f".  th'* 
deceased  Leontief,  specially  devoted  himself  to  the  working  out  of  thrsi' 
problems,  and  put  his  name  to  the  discussions.  A  good  stata  of  th*j 
finances,  according  to  his  opinion,  was  not  attainable  so  long  as  tiio 


OONTEMPORAKY  LIFE  AND  THOUGHT  IN  RUSSIA.      825 

metallic  CTUrency  was  not  restored,  and  the  price  of  paper  money  re- 
mained subject  to  continual  fluctuation^.  When  the  Minister  of  Finance 
again  had  recourse  to  these  means  of  filling  the  treasury  exhausted  by 
the  expenses  of  the  last  war,  Katkof  criticized  him  severely,  asserting 
that  any  other  course  would  have  been  preferable,  and  tliat  loans,  either 
foreign  or  domestic,  and  the  increase  of  taxes,  are  less  injurious  to  the 
country  than  the  over-filling  of  the  market  with  paper. 

It  is  only  a  few  months  since  that  time,  but  there  has  occurred  a 
change  in  the  administration  of  finances,  General  Greig  succcf  ding  to 
Uentsm  in  that  post.  Suddenly,  without  the  least  warning  or  prepara- 
tion, Tlie  Moscow  Gazette  made  a  prodigious  leap  from  one  extreme  to 
the  other.  It  put  forward  a  new  view,  declaring  that  the  war,  bo  far 
from  having  been  tuinous  to  the  country,  had  promoted  its  prosperity*, 
and  this  thanks  to  the  issue  of  paper  monty.  The  export  trade  has 
increased,  industry  and  trade  flourish,  and,  if  the  exchange  is 
against  us,  and  our  rouble  undsrvalued  abroad,  that  has  no  influence 
whatever  on  our  domestic  transactions,  and  it  is  absurd  to  care  for  such 
a  trifle.  Russia  clearly  wanted  the  supplies  of  paper  money  which  the 
needs  of  the  war  caused  to  be  issued,  and  thtre  is  no  call  to  Ltop  them 
because  they  are  disadvantageous  to  those  who  travel  in  foreign  coun- 
tries, or  who  want  to  buy  foreign  goods. 

Such  views,  appearing  in  the  columns  of  Katkof  s  organ,  caused  aa 
much  surprise  as  anger.  There  ersued  violent  polemics,  which  are  far 
from  being  ended,  and  the  whole  St.  Petersburg  press  joins  in  the  com- 
bat. Katkof  s  irritation  is  growing  worse  every*  day,  and,  according  to 
his  custom,  he  has  transferred  the  fight  from  the  domain  of  thtor}'  to 
that  of  personal  attack.  Abandoning  principks,  he  has  declared  war 
against  the  economists  as  a  body.  To  hear  him,  Ku&^ia  never  counted 
more  bitter  and  dangerous  foes  than  the  men  of  science  v/ho  warned  her 
against  economical  fallacies,  and  our  Government  committed  the  gross- 
est errors  when  it  paid  attention  to  their  voice.  In  holding  such  lan- 
guage, Katkof  seems  to  forget  his  own  past,  or  else  he  deliberately 
throws  mud  on  the  best  part  of  his  former  career.  Among  the  ccono- 
lo'sts  he  now  injures  his  best  friend  occupied  the^  firnt  place  ;  and  such 
a  defection  is  really  a  thing  not  often  seen.  What  would  the  deceased 
Leontief  say  to  it,  if  he  could  come  back  to  life  for  a  moment  ?  With 
what  feelings  would  he  look  upon  such  black  treason  ? 

"While  everybody  is  wondering  at  such  an  audacious  turning  round, 
•Bome  persons  search  for  the  cause  of  it.  It  may  be  a  wish  to  please  the 
Emperor,  whose  mind  is  troubled  by  the  financial  difficulties  of  the  mo- 
raent,  and  who  is  glad  to  be  told  that  the  war  has  not  impoverished  but 
enriched  the  nation.  Also,  it  may  be  the  desire  to  attract  attention,  to 
gain  popularity  among  the  tradesmen,  with  whom  this  theory  is  a  fa- 
vourite one,  and  to  increase  the  number  of  his  readers.  Neither  of 
these  motives  does  honour  to  Katkof,  and  even  if  he  gains  subscribers, 
that  will  be  a  poor  compensation  for  the  respect  he  loses. 

T.  S.,  in  Contempm^ary  Review^ 


WILLIAM  COBBETT :  A  BIOGRAPHY.  ♦ 

This  book  is  so  Tvell  put  together,  and,  on  the  whole,  brings  oat  tho 
figure  of  one  of  the  sturdiest  EngUshmen  of  our  grandfathers'  time  ^o 
fairly  and  clearly,  that  it  is  matter  of  real  regret  to  come  upon  passa-;  j 
after  passage  of  involved  and  slovenly  writing,  in  which  it  is  difiieult  lu 
get  at  tho  author's  meaning.     For  instance ; — 

"  The  scenery  ronnfl  Farnham  is  not  iu  itselC  nniqno ;  so  far  that  any  welVctiltivr.tr! 
English  river-valley  i.s  like  almost  auy  otlicr,  with  its  low  hills  crowned  along  la  Ir 
siimimts  with  tho  tvideuce  of  prosperous  farming.  But  from  the  top  of  one  ct  t':-  -: 
eminences  the  eve  hoou  discovers  certain  characteristics  which  compel  a  deep  i...- 
presslon  upon  the  mind  of  singularity  and  beauty  "  (vol.  i..  p.  .1). 

Or  again,  in  tho  description  of  Cobbett's  mind  at  the  ago  of  twenty  :— 

"  Not  so  high,  but  as  vet  to  be  infinitely  dark  as  to  any  purpose ;  a  healthy  Bpirit  H 
a  healthy  body,  there  stood,  working  as  hard  and  as  cheerily  as  ever,  but  n  adj  i  ■ 
the  first  impulse— whi^h  impulse  came  in  no  uncommon  way,  in  uo  more  roi;  i:.:.^ 
Btylc  than  that  which  sets  a  baL  rolling  on  the  impact  of  the  foot "  (vol.  i.,  p.  2i,. 

Or  again,  in  the  passage  on  the  modem  press  (vol.  il,  p.  292):  "Thcw 
is  no  space  for  mutual  rocriminationp;,  with  ostentation  of  *  private  wuv.' 
and  elaborate  political  and  literary  reviews,  if  even  the  taste  for  dirt- 
throwing  had  not  vanished."  In  future  editions,  which  we  hope  m:;y 
be  called  for,  the  author  should  revise  his  own  part  of  the  narrative  on 
the  model  of  the  tsrse  and  simple  English  of  the  st^ug  and  brave  inau 
whom  he  understands  so  well,  and  whose  unique  figure  and  career  h3 
has  done  so  much  to  bring  again  vividly  before  a  new  generation. 

A  short  outline  of  the  career  of  Wiliiam  Cobbott  as  given  in  these  vol- 
umes will,  we  think,  justify  us  in  calUng  it  unique.  Ho  was  bom  in 
1702  at  Farnham,  the  third  son  of  a  small  farmer,  honest,  industrions, 
ind  frugal,,  from  whom,  as  his  famous  son  writes,  "if  he  derived  no 
honour,  he  derived  no  shame,"  and  who  used  to  boast  that  he  had  four 
boys,  the  eldest  but  fifteen,  who  did  as  much  work  as  any  three  men  in 
the  parish  of  Farnham.  "When  I  first  trudged  afield,"  William  wrif^^. 
"with  my  wooden  bottle  and  satchel  slung  over  my  shoulder,  I  wa-5 
bardly  able  to  climb  the  gates  and  stiles."  From  driving  the  small 
birds  from  the  turnip-seed  and  rooks  from  the  peas,  he  rose  to  weeclihc: 
wheat,  ho3ing  peas,  and  so  up  to  driving  the  plough  for  'M.  a  day,  wbicu 
paid  for  the  evening  school  where  he  learned  to  road  and  write,  getTi^::^ 
in  this  rough  way  the  rudiments  of  an  education  over  which  h^  rejoi(\  i 
as  he  contrasts  it  triumpliantly  with  that  of  the  "frivolous  idiots  ih"  * 
fcre  turned  out  from  Winchester  and  Westminster  Schools,  or  from  thos  • 
dens  of  dunces  called  Colleges  and  Universities,"  as  having  given  him 

*  By  Edward  Smith.    (Sampson  Low  &  Co.) 
•       (326) 


WILLIAM  COBBETT  J  A  BIOGBAPHY.  a2f 

the  alality  to  become  "one  of  the  greatest  terrors  to  one  of  tho  greatest 
and  most  powerful  bodies  of  knaves  and  fools  that  were  ever  permitted 
to  afflict  tiiis  or  any  otn^^r  country." 

At  eleven  he  was  empioj^ed  in  clipping  the  box-edgings  m  the  gardens 
of  Famhani  Castle,  and,  htaring  irom  one  of  the  gardentrs  of  tha 
glories  of  Kew,  he  staitcd  lor  that  place  with  Is.  1-^U.  in  his  pocket, 
od.  of  jvhich  sum  he  spent  in  buying  *  *  ISwift's  laie  of  a  Tub."    The  book 
produced  a  ''  birth  of  intellect "  in  the  little  rustic.     He  carried  it  with 
liim  wherever  he  went,  and  at  twenty-lour  lost  it  in  a  box  which  f  «-ll 
overboard  in  the  Bay  of  i'undy,  a  ' '  loss  which  gave  me  greater  pain 
than  I  have  ever  felt  at  losing  thousands  of  pounds "  (p.  15).     He  re- 
turned home,  and  continued  to  work  for  his  father  till  1782,  attending 
fairs   and    hearing    Washington's    health    proposed    by    his    father 
at  farmers'    ordinaries.     .  In    that    year    he    went    on    a    visit    to 
Portsmouth,   saw    the    sea    for    the    first   time,    and    was  with   dif- 
ficulty  hindered   from    taking    service   at    once    on    board    a   man- 
of-war.      He   returned  home  **  spoilt  for  a  farmer,"   and    next   year 
started  for  London.     Ho  served  in  a  sohcitor's  office  in  Gray's  Inn  for 
eight  months  (where  he  worked  hard  at  grammar),  then  enlisted  in 
the  54th  regiment,  and  after  a  few  weeks'  clrill  at  Chatham  embarked 
for  Nova  Scotia,  where  the  corps  were  serving.     Here  his  temj)erat3 
habits,  strict  performance  of  duty,   and  masterly  ability  and  intelli- 
gence, raised  him  in  httle  more  tlian  a  year  to  the  post  of  sergeant- 
major  over  the  beads  of  fifty  comrades  his  seniors  in  service.     His  few 
Bpare  hours  were  spent  in  hard  study,  especially  in  acquiring  a  thorough 
mastery  of  grammar.     He  had  bought  Lowth's  Grammar,  which  ho 
wrote  out  two  or  three  times,  got  it  b}^  heart,  and  imposed  on  himself 
the  tassk  of  "iiaying  it  over  to  himself  every  time  he  was  posted  sentinel. 
When  he  had  thoroughly  mastered  it,  and  could  write  with  ease  and 
correc^aefiS,  he  turnod  to  logic,  rhetoric,  g^^ometry,  French,  to  Vauban's 
fortification,  and  books  on  military  exercise  and  evolutions.     In  this 
war,  by  the  year  1791,  when  the  54 th  Vv'a^j  recalled,  he  had  become  the 
novt  trusted-  man  in  the  regiment.     Tho  colonel  used  him  as  a  sort  of  • 
K/,voiid  adjutant :  all  the  paymaster's  accounts  were  prepared  by  him  ; 
tfj  coached  th3  oJScers,  and  used  to  make  out  cards  with  the  words  of 
lommand  for  many  of  them,  who,  on  parade,  as  ho  scornfully  writes, 
"  were  commanding  me  to  move  my  hands  and  feet  in  words  I  had 
i^ught  them,  and  were  in  everything  except  mere  authority  my  infe- 
riors, and  ought  to  have  been  commanded  by  me  "  (p.  46).     Notwith-  • 
rtanding  the  masterfulness  already  showing  itself,  Cobbett  was  a  strictly 
ubedient  soldier,  and  1-ft  th3  army  with  the  offer  of  a  commission,  and 
iie  highest  charact3r  for  ability  and  zeal. 

No  sooner,  however,  was  his  discharge  accomplished,  than  he  set  him- 
celf  to  work  to  expose  and  bring  to  justice  several  of  the  officers  of  his 
regiment  who  had  systematically  mulcted  the  soldiers  in  their  companies 
of  their  wretched  pay.  His  thorough  knowledge  of  the  regimental  ac- 
counts made  him  a  formidable  accuser ;  and,  after  looking  into  the  mat- 


ABOUT  THE  TRANSVAAL. 

In  1876  the  President  of  the  late  Transvaal  Bepublic  of  Sonth  Africa 
established  a  Volunteer  corps  as  a  protection  against  the  inroads  of  the 
Kaffirs  upon  the  frontier  farmers.  This  corps  consisted  principally  of 
men  of  European  birth,  and  was  the  first  body  of  foreign  troops  ever 
employed  by  the  Bepubho.  The  corps,  which  has  since  been  disbanded, 
went  under  the  name  of  the  Lydenberg  Volunteers,  and  its  first  leader  was 
a  Captain  Von  Schlieckman,  a  young  and  brave  German,  who  had  for- 
merly been  in  the  Prussian  army.  The  book  which  we  are  about  to  notice, 
which  is  entitled  "The  Transvaal  of  To-day"  (Blackwood and  Sons),  is 
by  the  captain  of  this  corps,  Mr.  Alfred  Aylward,  who  succeeded  to  th3 
command  on  the  death  of  Captain  Von  Schlieckman,  an  event  which 
happened  very  shortly  after  the  formation  of  the  company.  Our  author 
is  a  decided  partisan  of  the  Boers,  as  hs  has  no  wish  to  conceal :  and 
that  he  understands  the  people,  no  one  who  rsads  his  book  caii  fail  to 
admit. 

The  Boers  of  South  Africa,  a  Butch  colony,  may  bo  Rtyled  the  largest 
land-owning  peasantry  in  the  world.  Travellers  in  the  Transvaal  who 
expect  to  find  wealthy  proprietary  farmers  and  high  farming,  uca  cer- 
tain to  be  disappointed.  The  Boers  have  been  a  people  continually  oa 
"  trek  "  or  travel  since  th'3  beginning  of  tlieir  settlement  in  Africa.  Thk 
*'  trek,"  the  marching  out  in  search  of  new  territory,  was  in  a  great  de- 
gree the  result  of  circumstances ;  but  it  was  not  favourable  to  an  ad- 
vanced method  of  farming.  Considering  the  difficulties  which  ih.^ 
Butch  farmers  had  to  contend  with — the  continual  wanderings,  tL' 
fights  with  natives,  the  sickness  and  the  suffering  which  they  have  pass-d 
through,  we  should  rather  commend  the  progress  they  have  made,  than 
blame  and  chide  them,  as  has  been  done,  for  such  of  their  ways  of  life; 
as  seem  primitive  and  behind  the  times. 

A  Boer's  homestead  in  respect  of  neatness  and  general  appearance, 
would  not  satisfy  an  Englishman's  ideas ;  but  the  farmers  of  the  Trans- 
vaal have  had  much  to  overcome  in  the  construction  of  their  houses 
and  steadings,  and  are  now  making  great  improvements  in  these  matt-r-'. 
There  are.  some  twenty-five  thousand  farms  in  the  territory ;  but  a  grt-ftt 
deal  of  the  land  included  in  this  computation  is  barren  and  irreclaim- 
able. Wheat  is  an  uncertain  crop  in  the  Transvaal,  being  subject  to  ru^t 
in  the  summer  season,  and  only  profitably  cultivated  as  a  winter-crop 
under  irrigation.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  summer  is  the  rainy 
season.  A  large  proportion  of  the  land  will  produce  Kaffir-corn,  maizf', 
pumpkins,  mealies,  imphi — a  species  of  sorghum  or  sugar-^ane — pota- 
toes, and  the  like,  in  abundance. 

Our  author  tells  us  that  the  Boers  are  in  many  respects  a  fine  race. 
.  (830) 


ABOUT  THE  TRAl^SVAAL.  S81 

T&ll  and  stalwart  in  appearance,  simple  in  their  manners,  and  domesti- 
cated and  home-loving  in  their  affections,  they  have  clung  steadfastly  to 
the  old  ways  and  the  old  fashions  of  the  people  from  which  they  are 
sprang.  For  a  long  period  brought  into  continual  contact  with  a  sur- 
rounding and  ever-pressed  barbarism,  it  speaks  much  for  them  that  they 
have  retained  their  adherence  to  morality  and  virtue.  They  are  l«w- 
loviEg  and  law-abiding,  faithful  husbands  and  kind  fathers.  Travellers 
iu  the  TransvEwl,  so  long  as  they  carry  with  them  the  evidence  that  they 
are  not  worthless  tramps  and  adventurers — a  somewhat  numerous  class 
in  I  he  country — are  sure  of  a  kindly  welcome  at  the  home  of  a  Boer 
farmer,  with  entertainment  in  proportion  to  the  host's  condition  and 
means. 

The  Boers  have  been  fortunate  in  their  conjugal  relations.  Captain 
Avlward  speaks  in  terms  of  high  praise  of  the  women,  and  justly. 
Throughout  all  the  toils,  perils,  and  privations  of  the  Transvaal  settle- 
ment, when  the  great  **trek"  commenced  from  the  Cape  Colony,  the 
voraon  were  the  faithful  and  devoted  companions  of  their  husbands. 
At  this  period,  many  of  them  performed  deeds  of  true  courage,  '*  carry- 
i!.?the  bullet-bags,  replenishing  the  powder  flasks,  removing  the  wounded, 
irlnging  water  to  the  thirsty,  and  food  to  the  hungry,  in  many  desperate 
and  fatal  engagements."  Faithful  wives,  gentle  nurses,  and  prudent 
counsellors,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  Boers'  wives  attained  great  in- 
fluence with  their  husbands,  an  influence  which  has  had  grand  effects. 

As  many  of  our  readers  will  remember,  the  charge  was  frequently 
brought  against  the  Boers,  at  the  time  of  our  annexation  of  the  Transvaal 
RepubHc,  that  slavery  wns  practised  among  them.  This  accusation 
Captain  Aylward  denies  ;  and  it  must  be  admitted,  does  much  to  refute. 
^\^len  so  gTRve  a  charge  is  made  against  a  people,  it  is  but  justice  to 
y<iT  their  defence.  During  his  residence  of  ten  years  in  South  Africa, 
our  author  heard  of  but  one  case  of  slavery,  and  that  was  in  BritiRh  ter- 
ritory; and  Mr.  Fronde  in  his  "Leaves  from  a  South  African  Diary" 
j^ives  it  as  his  opinion  that  "the  whites  (Boers)  were  much  more  in  the 
position  of  slaves  to  the  Kaffirs,  than  the  blacks  were  to  them."  The 
tnith  in  this  matter  seems  to  be  (hat  in  the  earUer  days,  numbers  of  the 
ratives  came  of  their  own  free-will  among  the  Boers,  or  placed  their 
obildren  under  their  care  in  seasons  of  war  and  famine.  Thus  many 
1  licks  grew  up  from  childhood  among  Boers'  famihes,  to  whom  they 
r-ndored  free  and  willing  P'^rvice.  There  are  few  farmers'  houses  with- 
("vA  coloured  servants  acting  in  some  capacity  or  other,  the  women  as 
iu-!oor  domestics,  the  men  as  wagon-drivers,  ploughmen,  and  herds. 

The  men  have  bits  of  land  of  their  own,  often  with  houses  and  orchards 
on  them,  are  entirely  free  to  come  and  go  as  they  please,  are  industrious  and 
well-behaved ;  and  often  so  attached  to  the  famihes  they  serve,  that  they 
rre  prepared  at  any  moment  to  fight  in  defence  of  their  flocks  and  herds. 
It  is  a  curious  circumstance  also  that,  while  such  are  the  relations  be- 
twpen  the  Boers  and  the  peaceful  native  population,  the  condition  of 
matters  between  the  blacks  and  the  English  colonists  is  by  no  means  so 


d32f  ABOUT  THE  TRANSVAAL. 

satisfactory.  The  latter  do  not  yet  seem  to  hare  learned  the  knack  of 
propitiating  and  wiiiiiitj.^  the  confidence  of  the  people,  and  yet  it  is  by 
th-j  English  chii^fly  that  the  charges  of  slavery  and  cruelty  have  been 
brought  against  tha  Boers. 

Living  in  a  country  in  which  game  is  plentiful,  the  Boer  farmer  is 
usually  a  sportsman.  For  big  game,  the  low  country  and  Bushveld  is 
that  part  of  the  Transvaal  which  the  hunter  must  seek.  Lions  are  still 
plentiful ;  but  elephants  and  buffaloes  are  rapidly  becoming  scares.  In- 
daed,  as  the  country  has  become  more  si3ttled,  a  great  diminution  in 
almost  all  varieties  of  game  has  occurred,  and  still  continues.  Tlii.s 
saems  to  bs  da?  not  entirely  to  the  gun  and  other  modes  of  destroyiui; 
wildcriatures.  Birds  arj  seldom  shot,  and  yet  all  kinds  of  birds  arj 
disapp  taring  as  fast  as  tha  largar  animals.  A  very  remarkable  chan-?^ 
in  the  saasoas  has  been  going  on  in  the  country  ;  and  as  a  result  of  thi.5 
cUmatic  changa,  the  springs,  rivers,  and  water-pools  have  become  mujii 
smaller,  in  some  cases  failing  altogether.  To  this  cause  the  decrease  in 
the  animals  of  the  country  may  be  in  part  attributable.  Captain  Ayl- 
ward  a  :l  visas  all  sportsman  purposing  to  make  South  Africa  their  field  of 
oparations,  to  losa  no  tim } ;  for  at  tha  present  rate  of  dacrease,  wild  ani- 
mals, with  tha  exception  of  springboks  and  blesboks,  will  have  ceased  to 
exist.  Sportsman  will  find  much  useful  information  and  suggestion  in 
regard  to  sport  in  South  Africa  in  this  book. 

Saakas  are  among  the  pasts  of  South  Africa,  being  frequently  the 
causa  of  u  aplaasant  excitement ;  for  though  usually  shy  and  retiriuj]:, 
they  are  apt  to  retire  into  inconvenient  places.  A  stranger  may  lio 
down  on  the  grass  for  a  few  moments,  and  rise  up  to  discover  a  saako 
reposing  on  his  shirt.  The  most  deadly  is  the  imamba  ;  but  there  are 
several  other  species  which,  though  of  emaller  size,  are  not  less  danger- 
ous. 

Captain  Aylward  tells  a  droU  story  of  a  rencontre  between  a  Bushman 
and  a  lion.  The  narrator  was  acquainted  with  the  man,  and  has  no 
doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  story.  The  Bushman  while  a  long  way  from 
his  home  was  met  by  a  Hon.  The  animal,  assured  that  he  bad  his  victim 
completely  in  his  power,  began  to  sport  and  dally  with  him  with  felin" 
joco5ity  which  tha  poor  little  Bushman  failed  to  appreciate.  Tha  lioa 
would  appear  at  a  point  in  the  road  and  leap  back  again  into  the  junu'l  •. 
to  reappear  a  little  farther  on.  But  the  Bushman  did  not  lose  hi^ 
^  presence  of  mind,  and  presently  hit  upon  a  device  by  which  he  inii^nt 
possibly  outwit  his  foe.  This  plan  was  suggested  by  the  lion's  own  cou- 
duct.  Aware  that  the  brute  was  ahead  of  him,  he  dodged  to  the  rijjlit, 
and  feeling  pretty  sure  of  the  lion's  whereabouts,  resorted  to  the  conr<  j 
of  quietly  watching  his  movements.  When  the  lion  discovered  that  the 
man  had  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  path,  he  was  a  good  deal  ptr- 
plexed.  He  roared  with  mortification  •  when  he  espied  the  Biishmiu 
peeping  at  I  dm  over  the  grass.  The  Bushman  at  once  changed  his 
position,  while  the  lion  stood  irresolute  in  the  patli,  following  with  his 
eye  the  shifting  black  man. 


ABOUT  THE  TRANSVAAL.  338 

In  another  moment  the  little  man  rustled  the  reed?,  Vanished,  and 
shewed  again  at  another  point.  The  great  brute  was  at  first  confused, 
<md  then  alarmed.  Jt  evidently  began  to  dawn  upon  him  that  he  had  mis- 
teken  the  position  of  matters,  and  that  he  was  the  hunted  party.  The 
Bushman,  who  clearly  recognised  what  was  passing  in  his  enemy's  mind, 
did  not  pause  to  let  the  lion  recover  his  startled  wits.  Ho  began  to 
steal  gradually  towards  the  foe,  who  now  in  a  complete  state  of 
doubt  and  fear,  fairly  turned  tail  and  decamped,  leaving  the  plucky  and 
iugemous  little  Bushman  master  of  the  situation. 

A  reference  to  a  map  of  Souther  African  will  shew  that  tho  Tranpvaal 
territory  is  flanked  by  a  range  of  mountains  known  as  tho  Prakensber^^ 
and  Lobembo  Mountains.  The  whole  country  to  tho  right  of  thesii 
langes  and  north  of  Natal  is  Kaffirland.  To  tho  cast  and  south-east  of 
the  Transvaal  lies  tho  territory  of  tho  Zulus,  or  Kaffirs  proper ;  whil'j 
north,  west,  and  east  is  the  country  of  the  Bechuana  race.  The  Trans- 
vaal is  thus  hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by  Kaffir  triben. 

Thd  name  of  Zulus  has  recently  become  sufficiently  familiar  to  us. 
They  are  credited  with  being,  an  extremely  brave  and  formidable  raco 
of  savages.  They  are,  while  we  write,  united  under  one  king,  and 
have  a  settled  government,  which  Captain  Aylward  says  may  bo  best 
described  as  a  * '  despotism  tempered  by  polygamy. "  He  asserts  that  both 
their  numbers  and  their  military  prowess  have  been  greatly  exaggerated ; 
that,  contrary  to  common  report,  they  have  been  almost  invariably  van- 
quished by  the  Boers  whenever  the  two  have  met  on  equal  terms,  and 
tiiat  far  too  much  stress  has  been  laid  upon  the  importance  and  influence 
of  the  Zulu  nation  in  South  African  affairs.  He  describes  them  as  an 
utterly  impracticable,  polygamous,  and  pagan  race,  which,  while  other 
KafiSr  people  have  been  civilised  and  Christianised,  liave  resisted  all  at- 
tempts in  this  direction.  No  authenticated  instance  did  Captain  Ayl- 
vard  ever  meet  with  of  a  genuinely  converted  Zulu,  and  his  assertion 
on  this  point  he  supports  by  the  testimony  of  more  than  one  missionary, 
both  Protestant  and  Catholic.  The  Zulus  stand  much  lower  in  his  opin- 
ion, in  every  respect,  than  in  that  of  some  who  have  written  on  South 
African  subjects,  but  with  less  practical  experience  than  our  author.  He 
styles  the  Zulu  the  ^*bogy  "  in  South  African  aiffairs. 

According  to  Mr.  Froude,  *'  the  Transvaal  llcpnblic  is  tho  Alsatia  of 
Africa,  where  every  runaway  from  justice,  every  broken-down  specula-  ( 
tor,  every  reckless  adventurer  find3  an  asylum."  There  certainly  ex-,  j 
JKts  in  the  Transvaal  a  large  class  of  needy  and  unscrupulous  persons 
who  are  a  plague  to  the  land — loafers,  penniless  speculators,  land-job-" 
bew,  and  others  of  that  unprofitable  and  mischievous  genus  who  are  in 
a  chronic  state  of  "waiting  for  something  to  turn  up,"  except  when  they 
are  engaged  in  some  scheme  more  actively  prejudicial  to  their  neigh- 
bours. 

In  regard  to  the  resources  of  our  late  annexation  in  Africa,  Captain 
Aylward's  declaration  is  that  they  have  been  greatly  overstated.  Farm- 
ing does  not  hold  out  promises  of  either  large,  or  rapidly  amajssed  f o'*- 


«34  ABOUT  THE  TRANSVAAL. 

tunes ;  bnt  the  indastrions  man  who  possesses  energy  and  habits  of 
thrift  may  fairly  expect  to  leave  to  his.  family  the  means  of  keeping 
themselves  in  comfort  and  plenty,  as  prosperous  peasant-proprietors  or 
second-class  graziers.  If  the  settler  be  an  Englishman,  hemnsf  be  pre- 
pared to  regard  himself  bjb  a  Boer,  to  Uve  the  life  which  Boers  live,  to 
look  upon  l£e  country  as  his  home,  as  they  do,  and  to  cherish  no  desire 
of  ultimately  returning  to  England  with  a  large  fortune.  Himself  and 
his  children  may  have  health  and  happiness,  lands  to  hold  sad  till, 
horses  to  ride,  plenty  to  occupy  their  hands,  and  not  much  of  an  excit- 
ing kind  to  exercise  their  minds ;  a  life  quiet  to  monotony,  but  cheerful 
enough  for  all  that  in  which  it  is  jwssible  to  Uve  a  good,  useful,  and 
contented  life.  This  is  a  general  outline  of  the  condition  of  a  farmer 
in  the  Transvaal ;  an "!  with  this  the  intending  settler  must  rest  .satisfied. 
In  regard  to  pastoral  pursuits,  there  are  fair  openings  for  sheep-farmtrs 
on  the  Transvaal  Highveld  and  on  the  plains  of  the  Free  State.  As 
compared  with  the  large  sheep-farming  districts  of  our  Australian  colo- 
nies, the  African  sheep-runs  must  take  a  decidedly  second  place.  And 
as  a  grazing  country,  the  Transvaal  is  passable  and  no  more. 

Much  exaggeration  has  been  indulged  in  on  the  subject  of  Uie  mineral 
resources  of  South  Africa.  Nothing  that  should  legitimately  have  been 
called  gold  "fields"  have  existed  therei  Small  "diggings"  there  have 
been,  meriting  no  bigger  name  than  "placers"  or  "pockets,*'  each  of 
which  could  be  worked  out  by  properly  organised  companies  in  a  short 
space.  Iron,  coal,  and  copper  have  aU  been  found  in  the  Transvaal,  but 
are  not  at  present  of  the  least  practical  value,  nor  can  be  until  the 
country  is  opened  up  by  railways — if  that  ever  comes  about  The  con- 
clusion of  the  whole  question  of  the  Transvaal's  resources  seems  to  be 
what  has  been  already  indicated — namely,  that  for  a  long  time  to  como 
at  least,  this  region  of  South  Africa  must  be  "  the  mother  of  flocks  and 
herds,"  a  land  nourishing  and  producing  a  respectable  and  well-to-do 
race  of  peasant-farmers,  owning  the  fields  they  occupy.  This  is  a  state- 
ment which  ought  to  be  reiterated,  as  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  by  all 
intending  settlers  in  the  territory,  and  all  interested  in  the  future  of  the 
Transvaal. 

The  subject  of  our  recent  annexations  in  South  Africa  is  of  great  im- 
portance ;  but  without  entering  further  into  the  question  of  the  attitudo 
which  Great  Britain  has  thought  fit  to  assume,  we  are  doubtful  if  the 
annexation  has  met  with  the  approval  of  the  Boers  themselves.  It  is 
certain  that  to  a  very  large  proportion  of  them  the.  step  has  broaght 
nothing  but  bitterness  and  discontent. 

The  book  which  we  have  had  under  notice,  and  which,  it  will  b-^ 
gathered,  touches  on  a  large  variety  of  South  African  questions,  put] 
strongly  before  the  reader  the  grounds  which  the  Boers  have  for  com- 
plaint and  dissatisfaction.  Much  has  been  written  on  the  other  side  c: 
the  question,  and  it  is  theref ere  but  justice  that  the  Boers  should  hav ' 
secured  an  advocate.  The  present  volume  is  full  of  information  nrd 
interest,  and  though  avowedly  champipwng  our  »QW  eubjecfei  agasiifit  Ci. 


ABOUT  THE  TEANSVAAL.  835 

seyeial  chaa-ges  from  time  to  time  brought  agaiost  them,  is  'written  in 
the  main  in  a  foir  and  impartial  spirit.  As  it  is  the  work  of  one  long 
and  closely  acquainted  with  his  subject,  it  is  a  valoable  contribution  to 
oar  knowledge  of  South  Africa  and  South  African  affairs,  and  we  shall 
be  prepared  to  hear  that  it  has  met  with  considerable  attention. 

Chamberif^  Jaumal,    . 


I       AN  AMEEICAN  VIEW  OF  AMERICAN  COMPETITIOK. 

The  competition  between  the  United  States  and  the  mannfacturing 
nations  of  Europe,  and  especially  Great  Britain,  for  the  leading  places 
m  supplying  with  machine-made  fabrics  those  nations  that  do  not  yet 
use  modern  machinery  is  a  subject  that  just  now  excites  great  interest. 
It  is  not  only  important  in  reference  to  the  peculiar  circumstances  of 
the  present  time,  but  much  more  important  when  we  consider  the  mo- 
mentous oonssquences  that  might  follow  the  establishment  on  the  part 
of  the  United  States  of  a  permanent  manufacturing  supremacy.  If  any 
Buch  permanent  change  is  indicated  by  existing  circumstances,  th.i 
cause  for  it  must  be  looked  for  in  radical  and  important  differences  in 
the  competing  nations,  and  not  in  any  temporary  and  abnormal  circum- 
Btances  peculiar  to  the  present  time. 

It  is  some  of  these  psrmanent  differences  which  we  will  more  espe- 
cially consider  in  the  present  paper.  In  comparing  our  power  to  com- 
p3t9  with  England  we  may  claim  advantages  of  one  kind,  and  with  tho 
nations  of  Continental  Europe  advantages  of  another,  in  some  respects 
of  a  different  order.  In  competition  with  England  it  is  often  claimed 
that  our  chief  advantage  lies  in  a  certain  alleged  versatility  and  power 
of  adapting  means  to  ends,  and  in  great  quickness  of  perception  on  the 
part  of  working  people  in  respect  to  the  aidvantages  to  be  gained  by  the 
adoption  of  new  processes  of  inventions.  If  we  have  this  advantage, 
there  must  be  special  causes  for  it  in  the  influences  that  are  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  operatives  and  artizans  who  do  the  work,  for  a  very  large 
portion  of  them  are  foreign-born  or  are  the  children  of  foreign  immi« 
grants. 

Why  should  they  work  with  any  more  zeal  or  judgment  here  than  in  the 
countries  whence  they  have  come  ?  Why  are  Irish  and  French  Canadian 
factory  hands  to  be  relied  on  for  more  steady  work,  larger  product,  bet- 
ter discipline,  and  more  cleanly  and  wholesome  conditions  of  hfe,  than 
the  operatives  of  England,  Belgium,  and  Germany  ?  To  the  writer  it 
appears  evident  that  these  advantages,  so  far  as  they  exist,  are  due  main- 
ly to  the  f  oUowing  circumstances — 

First  Our  system  of  common  and  purely  secular  schools,  attended  by 
the  children  of  rich  and  poor  alike. 


I 


^"^^^  AN  AMEllICAN  VIEW 

peconcl.  Manhood  Suffrage.  * 

'^'hird.  Tha  easy  acquisition  of  land. 

of ^^n'^Ml^^'i""  ^^''^.^ ""'  T'''^  f"^"^  ^"'^«  ^°^'"°^^  ^y  ^^«  estabUshment 
i-?fl^u  ^^"^^  tnrougbout  the  manufacturing  States. 

r.vo^r  1    •    ^,^f^«^  «i^  a  standing  army  and  the  application-  of  the 
r^v  enud  derived  from  taxes  on  the  whole  to  useful  purposes 

In  respect  to  the  first  of  these  influences,  the  piblic  school  srst-^m 
theior.ign  observer  generally  t^es  notice  only  of  the  quality  of  "the 
i.^.truction  given,  and  though  he  may  find  something  to  prais3,  he  finds 
.dso  much  to  criticise  ;  he  finds  in  many  cases  the  instruction  bad  and 
Ui^  ,6uojdcts  o.LdU  ill-chosen,  and  he  wonders  at  tho  misdirection  of  a 

I  f^lf^f   ''''?     ?^-!^  i'?"''^  ^''''^  ^^^^y  applied.     What  he  fails  to  notice 

.18  tnat  th3  school  ite.lf,  entirely  apart  from  its  insti-uction,  is  tha  prcat 

c.uucator  of  the  children  who  attend  it.     The  school  is,  first  of  alj,  x^o 

lospectcr  of  per^sons;  the  stupid  son  of  a  rich  man  ltd  in  every^  class  hy 

t^ie  son  of  a  mechajuc  cannot  in  aftsr  life  look  down  on  him  as  au  iu- 

lerior,  whatever  tha  conventional  position  of  the  two  may  be.     Or  if  th^ 

nch  man  s  son  have  brains  as  well  as  fortune,  the  poor  man's  son  c^ri 

never  aitribute  to  tortune  only  the  lead  that  he  may  take  in  aff^r  Tfe. 

-|he  school  IS  thoroughly  democratic,  and  each  pupil  learns  in  it  that  it 

depends  oa  himsilf  alone  what  plac^e  he  may  take  in  after  life,  and  that 

although  society  may  be  divided  into  planes,  there  is  no  system  of  cast^ 

and  no  barrier  m  the  way  of  social  success,  except  the  wait  of  character 

iind  abuity  to  attain  it.     The  associations  of  the  common  school  utterly 

ul7!n^   ^^y^^:^?  ^'^^  «^rvility  in  the  relation  of  cla«?es  in  aftr.r  life, 

md  although  It  is  sometimes  made  a  little  too  manifest  that  **  one  ni«n 

lln^.^        as  aaotlnr,  and  a  little  batter,''  on  the  part  of  those  who  nn 

XfL  ^r./^^""  •'^''"''1^^  '"^  ^^'^  ^^^^  ^  ^is3»  r-^  o^  the  whole  tha 
relation  of  tlie  various  classes  which  must  in  the  nature  of  things  ahvavs 

and  everywhere  exist,  is  that  of  mutual  respect,  and  anvthing  lika  tLe 
old-woi^d  distinctions  of  caste  and  rank  would  seem  about  as  absnid  to 
<>ne  as  to  tha  other.  The  common  school  is  the  solvent  of  race,  creed, 
iiationahty,  and  condition.  '         ^ 

Americans  note  with  amazement  the  difficulties  which  occur  in  Ene- 
land  on  sectarian  grounds  in  the  estabhshment  of  secular  schools.  Th^ 
.;cliool  commutees  wi«i  us  are  apt  to  include  members  of  every  denom- 
ination and  usually  the  clerg>^men  of  each  dsnomination  serve  their 
1^.?^  T"  the  town  where  ths  present  writer  lives  there  are  about  eleven 
Hundred  pupils  m  the  free  schools  which  are  supervised  by  a  committee 
of  mne  meinbers.  On  the  present  committee  are  the  clergymen  of  the 
Lmtarian,  Episcopal,  and  Swedsnborgian  societies,  and  amona  the  hj 
3  members  are  members  of  the  Orthodox,  Baptist,  and  GathoUc  Societies, 
he  absence  of  sectarian  prejudice  was  lately  illustrated  in  a  notable  way 
m,^L  T^'  ^Ijssoari.  One  of  the  principal  Baptist  churches  was 
!Z^  '  .^®  ""^^  ^y  ^^^  P^*°^  received  offers  from  eight  Chtistian 
congregations  of  several  denominations  to  use  their  ch^hes  half  of 
each  Sunday,  but  all  these  were  declined  in  favour  of  the  offer  of  the 


OF  AMERICAN  COMPETITION.  SOT 

Jews,  whose  Babbi  rirged  the  usa  of  their  synagogue  on  the  grotind  that 
bis  own  congregation  did  not  need  it  on  Sunday  ut  all ;  and  in  the  Jew- 
ish Synagogue,  on  the  following  Sunday  and  since,  the  worship  of  the 
God  of  Jew  and  Gentile  has  been  conducted  under  Christian  forms. 

In  another  way  the  discipline  of  the  schools  affects  the  processes  of 
manufacture.  In  the  schools,  cleanliness,  order,  and  regular  habits  are 
enforced,  with  deference  to  the  teachers  and  respect  for  authority ;  and 
in  these  later  years  coupled  with  the  teaching  of  music  and  drawing  in 
all  the  principal  towns  and  cities.  ^Vllen  chUdien  thus  trained  are  re- 
moved to  the  mill  or  the  workshop,  habits  of  order  and  clcaulincsK, 
with  some  aesthetic  taste,  are  already  established.  Nothing  strikes  an 
American  manufacturer  with  so  much  surprise  as  the  extreme  untidi- 
ness of  tha  large  textib  mills  of  England,  and  the  dreariness  of  the  fac- 
lory  towns.  In  this  respect,  however,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
managers  of  the  New  England  mills  are  greatly  aided  by  the  absence  of 
smoke,  the  coal  commonly  used  being  anthracite.  !RIuch  suii^rise  is 
often  expressed  by  our  foreign  visitors  at  the  amount  of  decoration  per- 
mitted in  the  fitting  of  stationary  and  locomotive  engines,  and  in  much  of 
oar  machinery,  but  bad  as  the  taste  displayed  may  sometimes  be,  it  is  never- 
theless a  fact  that  such  engines  or  iiiivchines  are  better  cared  for  and  kept 
in  better  rejjair  than  wiiere  no  individuality,  so  io  speak,  is  permitted.  On 
one  of  our  great  railways  the  attempt  was  not  long  since  made  to  dis- 
patch the  locomotives  as  they  ha])pencd  to  uirive  at  the  central  station, 
Bometimes  with  one,  and  sometimes  with  another  engine-driver ;  but 
the  immediate  and  great  increase  in  the  rejiair  account  caused  the  cor- 
poration to  return  very  soon  to  the  customary  plan  of  giving  each  driver 
Lis  own  locomotive  with  w^ch  ho  may  be  identifit  d. 

The  instruction  of  the  school  also  gives  every  pupil  a  superficial 
knowledge,  if  no  more,  of  the  geography  and  resources  of  the  country, 
which  the  universal  habit  of  reading  newspapers  keeps  up.  Hence 
I  omes  the  almost  entire  absence  of  any  fixed  character  in  the  labour  of 
the-  country — every  boy  beheves  that  he  can  achieve  success  somewhere 
i-h?  if  not  at  home.  No  congestion  of  labour  can  last  long — the  war 
and  the  succeeding  railway  mania  combined  concentrated  population  at 
ceilain  points  to  a  greater  extent  than  ever  happened  before,  and  it  has 
taken  five  years  to  overcome  the  difficulty  ;  but  withm  these  five  years 
i\  milhon  new  inhabitants  in  Texas,  half  a  million  in  Kansas,  and  pro- 
bably a  million  and  a  half  added  to  the  population  of  Nebraska,  Col- 
orado, Minnesota,  and  the  far  north-west  indicate  that  the  evil  has  al- 
ready found  a  remedy. 

It  is  already  apparent  that  a  very  shght  increase  in  the  demand 
for  skilled  workmen  in  certain  branches  of  employment  would  not 
easily  be  met  in  the  eastern  states  except  by  drawing  upon  England 
and  Germany.  During  the  years  of  depression  the  cessation  of  rail- 
"^^ay  building,  and  the  use  of  the  excess  of  railway  plant  existing  in 
1573,  has  caused  the  dispersion  of  a  large  portion  of  the  trained 
tiechanics  and  artizans  who  then  did  the  work  of  supplying  this  de- 


338  AN  AMEBICAN  VIEW 

mand ;  but  these  are  not  the  men  who  have  crowded  the  eastern  cities 
and  caused  the  apparent  excess  of  labourers  out  of  work — such  men 
have  gone  back  to  the  land,  or  in  the  new  States  and  territories  have 
found  other  ways  in  which  to  apply  their  skill  and  energy,  and  they 
will  not  return.  It  may  be  that  the  greatest  dknger  to  the  manufactur- 
ers of  England  will  not  be  in  our  competition  in  the  sale  of  goods  in 
neutral  markets,  but  in  our  competition  for  the  skilled  workmen  and 
artizans  who  make  these  goods,  when  we  again  oflfer  them  equal  or 
higher  wages  and  better  conditions  of  life  in  the  work  that  will  very 
soon  need  to  be  done  to  supply  the  mcreasing  demand  in  our  own  coun- 
try. 

The  Patent  system  may  here  be  cited  also  as  a  factor  in  our  industrial 
system.  It  has  been  carried  to  an  almost  absurd  extreme,  so  that  it  is 
not  safe  for  any  one  to  adopt  a  new  method,  machine  or  part  of  a 
machine,  and  attempt  to  use  it  quietly  and  without  taking  out  a  patent, 
lest  some  sharp  person  seeing  it  in  use  and  not  published,  shall  himself 
secure  a  patent  and  come  back  to  the  real  inventor  with  a  claim  for  roy- 
alty. 

Manhood  suffrage,  subject  n^  it  is  to  great  abuses,  and  difficult  as  it 
has  made  thj  problom  of  tlu  self-government  of  great  cities  where 
voters  do  not  meet  each  other,  as  in  the  town  meeting,  face  to  face,  but 
where  the  powers  of  government  are  of  necessity  delegated  to  men  of 
whom  the  voters  can  have  little  personal  knowledge,  yet  works  dis- 
tinctly in  the  drectlon  of  the  safety,  stability,  and  order  of  the  com- 
munity. Outside  of  two  or  three  of  the  veiy  largest  cities,  where  there 
ara  concentrated  gi*eat  masses  of  ilhterato  foreign -horn  citizens,  it 
would  be  d^fp-cult  to  find  a  case  of  serious  abu^  of  the  power  of  taxation 
except  in  the  south  since  the  war,  wher<^  the  evil  is  now  mainly  abated. 

The  writer  of  this  paper  lives  in  a  small  but  very  rich  town  contain- 
ing about  s3V9n  thousand  people,  adjacent  to  a  great  city :  in  this  town 
one  half  of  thi  voters  pay  only  a  poll-tax,  having  no  property  of  their 
own  liable  to  taxation,  and  of  tlie  poll-tax  payers,  again,  a  very  larg-5 
portion,  if  not  a  majority,  aro  of  Irish  birth  or  extraction.  The  town 
has  been  guilty  of  many  acts  of  extravagance  during  these  late  years  of 
delusive  prosp-'rty,  and  is  burthened  with  a  heavy  debt ;  but  not  a  sin- 
gle one  of  these  acts  of  extravagance  has  ever  originated  with  the  x)oll- 
tax  payers ;  they  may  have  sustained  such  measures,  but  they  have  been 
led  into  them  by  men  of  property  and  influence.  One-fourth  part  of 
the  population  of  Massachusetts,  the  manufacturing  stsite  par  exr-ellencf, 
are  foreign-bom,  mostly  Irish  and  French  Canadians,  yet  nowhere  is 
property  more  safe,  state  and  municipal  credit  higher,  or  elections  more  or- 
derly and  more  free  from  violence.  To  the  man  who  thinks  he  can  correct 
Vie  abuses  under  which  he  suff  trs,  or  supposes  that  he  suffers,  by  his  ballot, 
any  other  method  seems  beneath  his  Agnity,  and  violent  acts  like  the 
riots  in  Pennsylvania  a  year  or  two  since  excite  Httle  general  tmeasiness, 
because  it  ia  felt  that  there  must  have  been,  as  indeed  there  were,  spe- 


OP  AMEKIC.iN  COMPETITION.  83^. 

cial  and  local  causes  for  them,  even  though  snch  causes  may  not  be 
positively  or  publicly  defined. 

The  easy  acquisition  of  land  throughout  the  country  under  simple 
forms  of  conveyance  registered  in  every  county  gives  a  motive  to  eco- 
nomy, and  induces  habits  of  saving  that  are  of  supreme  iniportauce  in 
their  effect  on  society.  In  the  town  to  which  the  writer  has  referred, — and 
in  which  he  himself  can  remember  the  coming  of  the  iirst  Iri&ihmau,  who 
became  a  landowner, — out  of  about  one  thousand  owners  of  real  estate 
orer  two  hundred  are  of  Irish  birth  or  extraction.  The  ricL^st  one 
among  them  came  from  Ireland  in  184G,  a  steerage  pas<)eugur.  lie  now 
pays  taxes  on  property  of  the  value  of  fifty  thouBand  dolkurs,  almost  ail 
in  real  estate ;  his  son  is  superintendent  of  the  repairs  of  highways 
and  one  of  the  most  efficient  members  of  the  school  committ«3e. 

During  the  last  thirty  years  the  factory  poi)ulatioa  of  New  England 
lias  passed  through  three  phases.  First  came  the  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  the  New  England  farmer,  but  as  the  sewing-machine  and  oih<tt 
inventions  opened  new  demands  for  women's  work,  women  of  Ameri- 
can birth  passed  out  to  easier  or  better-paid  employments,  wiiile 
the  men  took  up  other  branches  requiring  more  individual  skill 
Th?ir  places  were  taken  mainly  by  Irish,  with  a  few  Gjrmfins  and 
English;  but  the  Irish  saved  their  earnings,  and  as  the  New  England 
yeomen  emigrated  to  the  richer  lands  of  the  great  West,  they  j)ass8d  out 
of  the  mills  to  buy  up  the  deserted  farms  of  the  poorer  North-eastara 
Statss,  where  by  their  psrsistent  industry  and  manual  labour  th^y 
achieve  success  and  gain  a  position  which  satisfies  th?n.  but  with 
which  the  native  New  Englander  is  no  longer  contented.  Thf»ir  placos 
in  the  miUs  are  now  being  more  and  more  taken  by  the  French  Cana- 
diaiis,  who  in  their  new  conditions  and  surroundings  show  little  of  the 
Etolid  and  unprogressive  character  which  have  kept  them  so  loner  con- 
tented on  their  little  strips  of  land  on  the  St.  Lawrence  River.  In  tho 
very  air  they  breathe  they  seem  to  imbibe  a  new  and  restless  energy, 
while  the  intelligence  shown  by  their  children  in  the  schools  augurs  well 
for  their  future  progress.  On  the  whole,  the  simplicity  of  our  system 
of  land  tenure,  and  the  ease  with  which  small  parcels  may  be  obtained, 
must  be  rated  among  the  most  important  factors  in  considering  our  pos- 
Bible  advantage  over  other  countries. 

Next  in  our  list  comes  the  savings-bank.  In  187.'>,  out  of  the 
1.052,000  inhabitants  of  Massachusetts,  720,000  were  depositors  in 
Favings-banks  to  the  amount  of  238,000,000  dollars  (£49,000,000). 
During  the  late  years  of  depression  the  deposit  has  decreased  some- 
what in  amount,  but  the  decrease  has  been  chiefly  owing  to  the 
withdrawal  of  money  for  other  investment,  especially  in  United  States 
bonds.  There- have  been  some  failures  of  banks  and  some  losses,  as 
might  well  have  been  expected,  but  they  have  been  less  than  in  any 
other  nranch  of  business,  and  the  savings-bank  system  stands  firmly 
based  on  well-earned  confidence,  and  offers  an  easy  means  of  saving 
t2ie  smallest  sums  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  State. 


MO  AN  AMERICAN  VIEW 

To  these  causes  of  quick  adaptation  to  any  conditions  that  may  arise, 
or  to  any  necessity  for  the  application  of  new  methods  or  devices,  may 
be  added  the  custom,  which  has  almost  the  force  of  law,  of  an  equ  U 
distribution  of  estate  among  the  children  of  the  testator.  Tooln  t'>'h<i-i 
V)lto  can.  nm  tlicm  is  the  unwritten  law,  and  neither  land  nor  capital  can 
remain  long  in  the  possession  of  him  who  cannot  direct  or  use  tii -u 
wisely.  Liberty  to  distribute  is  esteemed  as  important  a  factor  in  oui- 
body  politic  as  liberty  to  accumulate,  even  though  the  liberty  may  somt- 
times  lead  to  the  apparent  waste  of  great  fortunes. 

'Finally,  it  must  be  held  that  our  freedom  from  the  blood-tax  of  ^ 
standing  army,  and  the  fact  that  the  proceeds  of  taxation  are  on  tb- 
whole  usefully  and  productively  expended  are  among  our  greatest 
advantages,  and  this  is  asserted  with  confidence,  notwitstandiu^r 
the  misgovemment  of  some  great  cities  and  of  several  of  th 
Bouthern  States.  What  are  these  failures  but  proofs  of  the  general 
confidence  of  the  people  in  local  self-government?  Great  frauds 
and  great  abuses  can  only  happen  where  integrity  is  the  common  n;le  ; 
where  each  man  distrusts  his  neighbom*,  or  each  town,  city,  or  Staf 
distrusts  the  next,  the  opportunity  for  fraud  or  breach  of  trust  cannot 
occur.  The  use  of  inconvertible  paper-money  during  late  years  h;i< 
not  been  without  its  necessary  malign  result  upon  the  cliaracter  of  thv 
people,  and  the  newspapers  are  filled  with  the  fraud  and  corruption  tb;-t 
have  come  to  hght,  but  no  newspaper  has  ever  yet  recorded  one  fact 
that  offsets  many  frauds.  In  the  great  Boston  fire  one  of  the  Boston 
banks  lost,  not  only  every  book  of  account,  but  every  security  anl 
note  that  was  in  its  vaults,  amounting  to  over  twelve  hundred  aiil 
fifty  thousand  dollars.  On  the  morning  after  the  fire  its  officers  had  no 
evidence  or  record  by  which  any  of  the  persons  or  corporators  wb" 
owed  it  money  could  be  held  to  their  contracts,  yet  within  a  very  short 
time  duplicate  notes  were  voluntarily  brought  ui  by  its  debtors,  many  of 
whom  knew  not  whether  they  could  ever  pay  them,  because  the  fire  hal 
destroyed  their  own  property,  and  the  ultimate  loss  of  that  bank  froiu 
the  burning  of  its  books  and  securities  was  less  than  ten  thousand 
dollars. 

Our  army  is  but  a  border  police,  and  although  its  officers  are  held 
in  honour  and  esteem,  military  Ufe  is  not  a  career  that  very  many 
seek,  and  as  time  goes  on  it  will  become  less  and  less  an  occupati<va 
to  be  desired.  Although  officers  of  the  army  have  several  times  b.^-u 
the  candidates  whom  poUtical  j)arties  have  found  it  expedient  to  adoj  t 
for  the  highest  executive  offices,  army  influence  in  legislation  has  bet  a 
very  slight,  and  any  attempt  to  increase  it  is  more  a  cause  of  jealousy 
and  suspicion  than  of  favour.  If  the  Indian  question  were  not  at  on*  ■. 
the  shame  of  all  our  past  administrations,  and  the  problem  most  diflLmt 
of  solution  among  all  that  are  now  pressing  upon  us,  it  is  doubtful  if  orr 
army  would  consist  of  more  than  its  corps  of  trained  officers  with  a  f'W 
Boldiers  to  keep  our  useless  old  forts  in  repair.  Thus  we  are  spared  not 
only  the  tax  for  its  support,  but  the  worse  tax  of  the  withdrawal  of  its 


OF  AMERICAN  COMPETITIOIT. '  8« 

members  from  useftil  and  prodtictiTe  pursuits.  It  is  in  this  respect  that 
we  ciaim  our  greatest  advantage  over  the  nations  of  Continental  Iluropo. 
What  have  we  to  fear  from  the  competition  of  Germany,  if  wo  really 
undertake  to  beat  her  in  the  neutral  markets  which  wo  can  reach  a3 
readily  as  she  can  ?  For  a  httle  while  the  better  instruction  of  her  mer- 
chants in  her  technical  and  commercial  schools  may  givo  her  advantag:^, 
but  that  can  bd  overcome  in  a  single  generation,  or  aj  soon  aa  the  need 
is  felt  with  us,  as  it  is  now  beginning  to  bo  felt;  after  wo  shall 
have  supplied  our  present  want  of  technical  education,  the  mero  diiicr- 
ence  between  the  presence  of  her  great  army  on  her  soil  and  it  j  neccG- 
sary  support,  and  the  absence  of  such  a  tax  on  ns,  will  constitute  tho 
difference  on  which  modern  commerce  tm*ns,  when  the  traCiG  of  tho 
■world  turns  on  a  half  a  cent  a  yard,  a  cent  a  bushel,  or  a  haKpenny  a 
pound  on  the  great  staples ;  no  nation  can  long  succeed  in  holding  tho 
traffic  that  is  handicapped  with  a  standing  army.  Tho  protection  of 
Germany  from  our  competition  in  neutral  markets  may  bo  offset  in  our 
yet  more  dangerous  competition  for  men.  The  German  already  knows 
Texas,  and  in  the  one  blook  of  60,000  square  mUes  of  land  by  which  tho 
State  of  Texas  exceeds  tho  area  of  tho  German  Empire,  we  offer  room 
aud  healthy  conditions  of  Hfo  for  mi'dions  of  immigrants,  and  on  that 
single  square  of  land  if  they  come  in  sufficient  numbers  they  can  raiso 
as  much  cotton  as  is  now  raised  in  tho  whole  south,  that  is  to  say  5,000,- 
000  bales,  and  as  much  wheat  as  is  now  raised  in  the  whole  north,  that  is 
to  say,  400,000,000  bushels,  and  yet  subsist  themselves  besides  on  what 
is  left  of  this  little  patch  that  will  not  be  needed  for  these  two  crops. 

It  will  be  obvious  that  even  tho  least  imaginative  cannot  but  bo 
moved  by  the  influences  that  havo  been  designated,  and  that  versa- 
tility and  readiness  to  adopt  every  labour-saving  device  will  not  only 
be  promoted,  but  absolutely  forced  into  action  when  such  vast  areas 
are  to  be  occupied,  and  when  even  tho  dullest  boy  is  educated  in  tho 
belief  that  he  also  is  to  be  one  of  those  who  are  to  build  up  this 
nation  to  the  full  measura  of  its  high  calling.  We  may  not  dare  to 
boast,  in  view  of  all  we  havo  passed  through,  but  we  know  that 
slavery  has  been  destroyed,  and  that  the  nation  hves  stronger,  truer, 
and  more  vigorous  than  ever  before.  We  know  that  it  has  been 
reserved  for  a  Democratic  Republic  to  be  the  first  among  nations  that, 
having  issued  government  notes  and  made  them  legal  tender,  has  re- 
sumed payment  in  coin  without  repudiation  or  reduction  of  the  promise. 
We  know  that  we  have  paid  a  third  of  our  great  national  debt  already, 
and  that  the  rest  is  now  mainly  held  by  our  own  citizens.  We  know 
that  within  the  lives  (^f  men  of  middle  age  now  living  the  nation  will 
number  one  hundred  millions,  and  that  in  whatever  else  we  may  bo 
found  wanting,  we  cannot  long  be  kept  back  in  our  career  of  material 
prosperity,  which  shall  be  shared  with  absolute  certainty  by  every  ono 
who  brings  to  the  work  health,  integrity,  and  energy. 

If  there  is  any  force  in  this  reasoning,  our  competition  with  other 
maaufactoxing  countries  in  supplying  neutral  markets  with  manufac- 


$42  AN  AMEEICAIT  VIEW 

tured  goods  will  not  be  compassed  by  low  rates  of  wages  paid  to  ora 
factory  operatives  or  to  the  working  people  engaged  in  our  metal 
works  and  other  occupations,  but  first  by  obtaining  and  keeping 
such  an  advanced  position  in  the  application  and  use  of  improved 
tools  and  machinery  as  shall  make  high  wages  consistent  with  a  lo\v 
cost  of  production;  secondly,  by  our  ability  to  obtain  the  raw  m;v 
terials  at  as  low  or  lower  cost.  Every  employer  knows  that  amon^ 
employees  Vv-ho  are  -paid  by  the  piece,  it  is  the  operative  that  gain.- 
the  largest  earnings  whose  production  costs  the  least,  because  undci 
the  control  of  such  operatives  the  machinery  is  most  effectively  gmtlc<3 
during  worldng  hours.  As  it  is  with  single  operatives,  so  is  it  vviti 
large  masses — if  well  instracted  and  working  under  the  incentives  to  in- 
dustry and  frugality  that  have  been  named,  their  large  product  v.iil 
oam  for  them  ample  wages,  and  yet  result  in  low  cost  of  labour  to  iiir: 
employer.  Such  workmen  never  have  any  **  blue  Monday."  The  work- 
man who  in  this  country  habitually  becomes  intoxicated  is  soon  dis- 
charged, and  his  place  is  filled  by  one  who  respects  himself  and  values 
liis  place  too  much  to  risk  his  position  in  dissipation. 

Competition  with  England  in  supplying  the  markets  of  Ash, 
Africa  and  South  America  with  cotton  goods  is  now  perhaps  ILa 
best  criterion  by  which  to  gauge  our  ability  to  compete  in  othtr 
branches  of  manufacture.  It  has  boon  often  assumed  in  EnglauJ 
that  the  increasing  shipments  of  cotton  goods  from  this  country  hav'3 
been  forced  by  necessity,  and  merely  consisted  of  lots  sold  below  cost 
as  a  means  of  obtaining  ready  money ;  but  there  is  no  ground  whatever 
for  this  general  assumption,  even  though  some  small  shipments  may 
have  been  mad 3  at  first  with  this  view.  Our  export  of  cotton  fabrics 
amounts  cs  yet  to  but  seven  or  eight  per  cent,  of  our  production, 
and  is  br.t  a  triflo  conipared  to  that  of  Great  Britain;  but  it  is  5ot 
made  at  a  loss,  and  it  constitutes  a  most  important  clement  in  Cm 
returning  prosperity  of  our  cotton  mills.  The  goods  exported  ar^ 
mostly  made  by  strong  and  prosperous  coiporations,  paying  regular  divi- 
dends. They  consist  mainly  of  coarse  sheetings  and  drills,  and  are  f^^M 
by  the  manufacturers  to  merchants,  who  send  them  to  China,  Africa,  ai-d 
South  America  in  payment  for  tea,  silk,  ivory,  sugar,  gums,  hides,  ar.-i 
wool.  They  are  not  made  by  operatives  who  earu  less  than  the  rec-ut 
or  present  rates  of  wages  in  England,  but  in  most  departments  of  th' 
mills  by  those  v/ho  earn  as  much  or  more.  This  competition  had  b(  en 
fairly  begun  before  the  late  war  in  this  country,  but  it  is  now  continuf-d 
under  better  conditions.  The  mills  of  New  England  are  now  relatively 
much  nearer  the  cotton  fields  than  they  were  then,  owing  to  thron^'h 
connections  by  rail.  Prior  to  1860  substantially  all  the  cotton  weut  to 
the  Beaports  of  the  cotton  States,  and  from  there  the  cost  of  moving  it 
to  the  North  or  to  Liverpool  varied  but  little ;  but  at  the  present  diy  '^ 
large  and  annually  increasing  portion  of  the  cotton  used  in  the  Nortb  is 
bought  in  the  interior  markets  and  carried  in  covered  cars  directly  to  iLf 
mills,  where  the  bales  are  delivered  clean,  and  much  more  free  from 


_^-      OP  AMERICAN  COSiPEnTION.  §48 

damage  and  waste  than  those  which  are  carried  down  the  Southern  rivers 
on  boats  and  barges,  dnniped  upon  the  wharves,  and  then  comprtssedto 
the  utmost  for  slupment  by  sea. 

And  since  large  and  increasing  quantities  of  cotton  are  not  only  tak- 
ing the  inland  routes  by  rail  for  use  in  Northern  mills,  but  also  for  ship- 
ment  to  Liverpool  from  New  York  and  Boston,  it  must  be  in  the  nature 
Oi  things  that  those  who  buy  in  New  York  and  Boston  will  have  an  ad- 
vantage in  price  about  equal  to  the  cost  of  shipment  to  England,  with 
insurance  and  other  necessary  charges  included.  This  advantage  can- 
not be  less  than  a  farthing  or  half-cent  per  pouiid,  and  the  factory  that 
uses  cotton  in  the  manufacture  of  coarse  and  medium  goods,  such  as 
are  wanted  in  the  markets  named,  at  half  a  cent  a  pound  advantage  in 
the  price,  can  pay  twenty  per  cent,  higher  wages  and  yet  land  the  goodn 
other  things  being  equal,  in  neutral  markets  at  the  same  cost  with  its 
foreign  competitors  why  pay  the  higher  price  for  cotton. 

Again,  in  one  of  ihe  largest  mills  in  tl^is  country,  more  than  one-half 
of  whose  products  now  go  to  China  and  Africa,  the  improvements  and 
changes  in  machinery  since  1860  have  given  the  following  result :— In 
1860  the  average  year's  product  of  one  operative  was  5.317  lbs.  of  cloth, 
and  the  average  earnings  of  women  in  the  mill  were  J*8. 26  per  week. 
In  1878  the  average  year's  product  was  7,1)23  lbs.  cloth,  and  the  average  of 
women^s  earnings  $4.34  per  week.  It  may  also  be  considered  that  the 
gold  dollar  of  1878  will  buy  1.5  to  20  percent,  more  of  the  commoelities 
in  common  use  than»  the  gold  dollar  of  1860.  In  that  facte.ry  the  aver- 
age year's  work  of  one  operative  will  give  about  1,COO  Chinamen  5  lbs. 
or  16  yards  each  of  cotton  drill,  and  the  entire  cost  of  labour  in  making 
the  drill,  including  all  payments  made,  from  the  agent  who  controls  the 
factory  down  to  the  scrub  who  washes  the  floor,  is  about  one  and  a 
(juartflr  cents  a  vard. 

This  includes  the  cost  of  stamping  and  packmg,  the  custom  of  this 
country  being  to  conduct  all  the  processes  of  manufacture  and  the  pre- 
paration of  the  cloth  for  the  market  in  the  same  establishment.  The 
standard  printing  cloth,  twenty-eight  inches  wide,  the  fabric  more  largely 
produced  than  any  other,  is  made  at  a  laboiu*  cost  of  less  than  one  cent 
a  yard,  including  also  all  the  salaries  and  wages  paid  and  the  cost  of 
packing.  It  will  therefore  be  apparent  that  the  reason  why  our  exports 
of  manufactured  cotton,  and  for  similar  reasons  of  other  goods  and 
wares,  do  not  increase  more  rapidly,  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  excess  of 
cost  or  in  any  fault  in  quality,  but  in  the  simple  fact  that  during  the 
fifteen  years  of  war,  inflation,  railway  mania,  and  municipal  extrava- 
gance that  preceded  the  hard  times  from  which  we  are  just  emerging, 
little  or  no  attention  was  or  could  be  paid  to  foreign  markets,  and  the 
very  habit  of  foreign  commerce  was  lost.  The  ways  and  means  of  com- 
merce cannot  he  improvised  in  a  year,  or  in  five  years,  but  the  founda- 
tions have  lately  been  laid,  and  our  competition  may  soon  become  even 
more  serious  than  it  now  is,  unless  the  increasing  demand  of  our  home 
markets  for  the  products  of  our  mills  shall  again  absorb  all  that  we  can 


344  AN  AMEEICAN  VIEW 

make.     Whether  or  not  we  are^  ready  to  build  mills  of  any  kind  for  the 
purpose  of  supplying  foreign  markets  is  a  question  that  the  future  only 
.can  determine. 

It  may  here  be  propar  to  say  that  perhaps  the  migration  of  indus- 
trial cantres,  so  ably  treated  in  a  recent  number  of  the  "Fortnightly  Ka- 
view,"*  is  not  to  bcj  eithjr  promoted  or  prevented  by  the  possession  of 
great  deposits  of  coal  and  n-on.  May  it  not  be  true  that  as  less  and  Ivss 
power  is  raquirid,  as  maohinary  is  simplilied  and  mads  to  run  with  L.s.^ 
friction,  aid  as  improvements  arj  made  in  the  combustion  of  coal  to 
the  utilisation  of  a  largar  portion  of  the  force  contained  in  each  ton,  the 
mere  proximity  of  coal  and  iron,  and  the  mere  i^ossession  of  Qi-s- 
crude  forces  will  not  suai33,  but  that  the  control  of  great  branohss  of 
industry  will  depend  on  what  may  be  called  finer  points.  It  is  not  very 
many  years  since  a  young  man  cam?  to  New  England  from  the  far  wtk 
to  visit  the  works  wh  3r9  ploughs  wer a  made  :  he  told  the  New  England 
craftsman  that  th^y  did  not  fully  understand  the  nature  of  the  pi-airie 
soil,  that  they  had  noi;  calculated  the  true  curves  of  least  resistance, 
and  that  he  intend  3d  to  estabhsh  a  plough  factory  on  the  Mississippi. 
They  did  not  mu3h  fear  his  competition,  but  now  his  great  factory, 
employing  huadrjds  of  workm3n,  furnishes  ploughs  even  for  Eastjra 

US3. 

^    The  recent  period  of  depression  has  taught  the  lesson  of  economv 
m  JiU  nmnufa^tures,  and   the    northern  or  manufacturing  stat<^s  si-e 
just  ready  to  bagm  work  under  the  conditions  of  a  sound  currency 
aad  a  system  of  taxation  which,  though  yet  onerous  and  unfit  in  many 
ways,  IS  but  a  light  hurfci.u  compared  ta  what  it  has  been.     The  coun- 
try IS  fairly  launched  upoi  th3  discussion  of  economic  questions,  a  dis- 
cussion which  will  not  end   until  the  system  of  national  taxation  best 
fatted  to  our  new  coiiditiois    shall  have  been  adopted.     Our  friends 
abroad  must  not  expect  great  and    revolutionary-  changes  in  the  matt.^i 
of  taxatioa.     No  oppressive  duty  on  food  con)p;i8  action,  and  there  are 
no  advocates  for  i-ash  or  rapid   changes.     Whether  right  or  wrong  in 
principle,  our  system  now  iu  force  ^vas  adopt-d  to  meet  the  emcrReuev 
of  war  aad  our  industry  has  bee-i   more  or  less  moulded  by  and  to  if. 
Almost  all  sources  of  direct  taxation  are  absorbed  by  the  Stat-s  as  ih-^n 
own  sources  of  revenue,  and  the  national  revenue  must  of  necessity  be 
drawn  mainly  from  duties  upon  imports.  It  would  seem  that  the  exn-rier-e 
of  nations  during  the  last  five   years  has  proved  that  neither  prot-ctiou 
nor  free  trade  have  availed  much  to  prevent  disaster,  and  iierhaps  from 
this  conyiGtion  it  now  happens  that  there  is  less  discussion  on  these  dis- 
puted theories  than  there  was  ten  years  since,  but  rath-r  an  earnest 
d3sir3onthe  part  of  almost  all  m-^n,  whatever  their  convictions  may 
be,  that  contention  shaU  be  avoided,  and  that  whenever  the  r-form  of 
our  war  tarift  is  fairiy  undertaken,  it  sliaU  be  entered  upon  with  care 
and  deUberation,  and  proceed  with  as  much  regard  to  caution  in  making 

•  1^  ••  Jbrtnlghtly  Kcview  "  for  December,  ISTs!  ' 


OF  AMERICAN  COMPETITION.  846 

changes  as  was  had  in  England  in  the  conduct  of  the  great  reforms  be- 
gun in  1842  under  the  sagacious  leadership  of  Sir  Robert  Peel. 

It  maj^  also  be  well  for  our  English  friends  to  consider  that  according 
to  their  present  theory  the  removal  of  duties  on  imports  enabled  them 
to  manufacture  at  lees  cost  and  greatly  enlarged  their  markets.  If  such 
was  the  effect  of  the  gradual  and  cautious  method  of  change  adopted  at 
the  instance  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  first  apphed  to  the  materials  which 
entered  into  the  processes  of  English  manufacture,  what  might  be  th3 
effect  of  the  same  method  in  our  case  ?  If  we  begin  by  abatmg  tho 
duties  on  materials,  whila  moderately  reducing  those  on  finished  products 
which  must  be  kept  at  a  revenue  point  in  almost  any  case,  may  not  our 
competition  become  greater  rather  than  less  ?  If  it  is  becoming  serdouH 
while  we  are  handicapped  according  to  the  Enghsh  theory  by  a  very 
\n^h  -war  taHif,  what  may  it  bo  when  by  common  consent  without  con- 
tention it  is  modified  and  reduced  in  a  judicious  way,  and  one  carefully 
considered  so  as  not  to  cause  disaster  by  too  radical  changes  ?  That  such 
must  be  the  method  of  cliange  all  are  now  agreed,  to  whatever  school 
they  belong. 

In  reading  articles  written  in  England  regarding  the  effect  of 
tariff  legislation  in  the  United  States,  it  frequently  appears  to  be  tho 
opinion  of  the  writers  that  the  people  of  this  country  have  made  a 
mistake  in  undertaking  any  branch  of  manufacturinsf  industry,  and 
that  they  would  have  been  much  more  prosperous  had  they  confined 
their  attention  mainly  to  agriculture  :  conversely  that  the  manufactures 
of  the  United  States  would  cease  to  exist  if  they  were  not  sustained  by 
a  very  high  and  in  many  respects  prohibitive  tariff.  An  example  of  this 
method  of  reasoning  is  found  in  the  reprint  of  a  series  of  otherwisa 
very  able  articles  by  Mr.  A.  J.  Wilson,  under  the  titlo  of  the  "Re- 
sources of  Foreign  Countries."  Mr.  Wilson  says:  "  There  is  no  use  in 
denying  the  plain  fact  that  the  States  have  succeeded  by  their  high- 
tariff  policy  in  diverting  a  considerable  part  of  tho  industrial  energies 
of  the  community  from  the  pursuits  natural  to, -and  most  profitable  in, 
R  new  country,  to  the  highly  artificial,  and,  for  America,  mostly  very  ex- 
pensive industries  of  long-settled  and  civilised  nations.  Were  the  shel- 
tsring  tariff*  swept  awa3%  it  is  very  questionable  if  any,  save  a  few  spe- 
cial manufacturf s  of  certain  kinds  of  tools,  machinery,  railway  cars  and 
fimcy  goods,  and  a  few  of  the  cruder  manufactures,  could  maintain 
their  ground." 

It  probably  escaped  Mr.  Wilson's  notice  that  a  nation  that  had 
pafiscd  til  rough  a  popular  national  election  under  tho  m.ost  exciting  con- 
ditions possible,  such  as  the  last  election  of  President,  without  an  act 
of  violence  in  the  whole  land,  had  a  sort  of  claim  to  be  called 
civilised ;  but  apart  from  this  unconscious  slip  of  the  pen  tho  whole 
assumption  may  be  questioned.  The  fallacy  lies  in  the  common 
unthinking  habit  of  confining  the  term  manufactures  to  the  product  of 
great  textile  factories,  iron  mills,  and  metal  works.  It  is  not  even  neces- 
s&ry  to  remind  w ritera  as  able  as  Mr.  Wilson  that  the  war  of  the  Revo- 


84e  AN  AMERICAN  VIEW 

lution  was  greatly  promoted  by  the  attempt  of  Great  Britain  to  prevent 
the  establisliment  of  iron  and  steel  works  and  manufactures  of  wool  iu 
the  American  colonies ;  but  we  may  admit  that  if  the  sheltering  tariff 
were  suddenly  swept  away,  great  disaster  might  ensue  to  special  branches 
of  industry  that  have  undoubtedly  been  developed  or  promoted  b}' its 
enactment.  Even  then  the  vast  pi-oportion  of  our  manufactures  would 
remain  unimpaired,  and  the  industries  banned  by  "sweeping"  changrs 
such  as  not  even  the  most  pronounced  believers  in  ultimate  free  toide 
would  now  dream  of  proposing,  could  only  be  retarded  in  their  dcvd- 
opment.  It  cannot  be  assumed  by  any  observant  man  that  cur  vaat 
fields  of  adjacent  coal  and  iron  could  long  remain  unused.  Even  in 
these  last  three  or  four  years  of  extreme  depression,  a  large  number  of 
new  furnaces  have  been  constructed  and  put  in  blast  in  the  Hockir':? 
Valley  of  Ohio,  and  the  production  of  the  best  iron  is  increasing  with 
great  rapidity  at  that  point.  Neither  can  it  be  assumed  that  with 
our  advantage  of  position  in  respect  to  the  production  of  cotton  n-A 
food,  we  could  be  prevented  from  at  least  manufactming  the  coar>^'^ 
and  medium  goods  that  constitute  far  more  than  one-half  of  ih^ 
world's  demand  for  cotton  fabrics  ;  or  that  a  people  whose  ancept(  rs 
had  clothed  themselves  in  homespun  woollen  cloth,  could  long  be  jir  - 
vented  from  applying  machinery  to  at  least  the  common  fabrics  tbf.t 
serve  the  purposes  of  the  million. 

Apart  even  from  these  special  branches,  we  should  surely  retain  or-r 
work  in  steel  wares,  for  which  we  even  now  import  a  part  of  the  nw 
material,  and  yet  send  the  finished  product  back  to  Sheffield  to  be  sold: 
we  should  retain  our  great  manufacture  of  leather  and  all  its  producis: 
of  iron  wares  of  every  name  and  nature  ;  of  all  the  products  of  wood  in 
which  we  excel ;  of  all  the  tools  and  machinery  of  agriculture  and  of  t^' 
railway  service  ;  of  all  the  fittings  for  the  building  of  houses ;  of  ( loU:- 
ingi  of  carriages  and  waggons ;  in  shoii;,  of  all  the  lesser  branches  'f 
manufacturing  and  mechanical  industry  which  may  not  impose  upon  th- 
imagination  by  the  magnitude  of  the  buildings  in  which  they  are  con- 
ducted, but  yet  give  employment  to  millions  where  the  operatives  in  tl.^ 
special  branches  to  which  the  term  manufactures  is  apt  to  be  limit  1 
can  be  counted  only  by  hundreds  of  thousands.  The  time  has  gone  I  y 
for  anyone  to  divam  of  relegating  the  people  of  this  country  to  tbj 
single  pursuit  of  agriculture  under  any  possible  pohcy,  or  even  to  jl.e 
crude  forms  of  manufacture.  Foreign  nations  can  never  again  supj'iy  ^•'5 
with  any  large  proportion  of  the  staple  goods  or  wares  that  constitr.t' 
the  principal  part  of  our  use  of  manufactured  articles.  Goods  Tvlii'  't 
t'.epend  upon  fashion,  fancy,  and  style,  and  articles  of  comfort  <'r 
Jaxury  that  we  can  afford  to  buy  abroad,  we  shall  import  in  e>^r-"i- 
creasing  quantities  as  our  means  of  payment  increase  with  ourretmn'-u" 
prosperity,  and  we  shall,  doubtless,  continue  to  collect  a  large  rev»ii'">- 
from  them.  It  may  also  be  considered  that  the  repugnance  to  dii>  •  t 
taxation  is  so  great  that  even  if  it  were  generally  admitted  that  iiKlir  ■'- 
taxation  was  much  more  costly,  the  majority  of  the  people  would  ti2 


,^^      OF  AMERICAN  COMPETITION.  347 

choose  to  indulge  in  the  luxnry  of  the  indiract  method,  and  can  afford 
to  do  so  if  they  so  choose. 

It  is  beginning  to  ba  perceived  that  not  only  tha  great  moral  curse  of 
Klavery  has  been  removed,  but  that  in  that  removal  perhaps  the  greatest 
inJcstrial  revolution  ever  accomplished  has  happened.  NVliatever  may 
have  been  tha  abuses  of  the  ballot  granted  to  the  negro  up  to  this  time, 
it  has  yet  so  far  protected  him  that  the  incentive  to  labour  has  not  been 
wanting,  and  th*3  mere  fact  that  th^  last  eight  crops  of  cotton  raised  by 
free  labour  exceed  the  nine  antj-war  crops  of  slavery  is  alone  proof  suf- 
ficient of  tha  advance  in  tha  production  of  wealth  that  has  already  en- 
sued. Eaferancj  has  already  baon  made  to  the  rapid  progress  of  Texas, 
but  Georgia  invites  tiia  immigrant  to  eaoitr  conditions  of  life.  The  up- 
jjer  pine  lands  of  tha  great  Stata  ara  now  to  be  bought  by  the  hundi\  d 
thousand  acres  at  half  a  dollar  to  a  dollar  an  acra,  tha  true  country 
for  the  abundant  production  of  wool  where  no  winter  sheltar  for 
shaep  is  needed  and  where  all  the  conditions  of  health  exist.  The  al- 
most unknown  valleys  that  lie  between  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  latei*al 
ranges  of  Virginia  and  North  Carolina  otfer  honipsfor  hardy  men,  nearer 
th:-  centre  of  civilization  than  th3  far  wtst.  but  passed  by  until  now 
b^causa  of  tha  cursa  of  slavery.  If  the  woll-trained  tenant  farmers  oi? 
Great  Britain  who  are  now  8urrand3ring  their  far  :i3  should  turn  their 
attention  to  tha  opportunitias  offer  ad  in  many  parts  of  Virginia,  they 
would  find  that  it  needs  only  brains  and  industry  to  put  that  great  Stita 
ones  more  on  the  list  among  tha  rich  and  prosperous  communities. 
Land  can  be  bought  in  fea  simpb  for  a  fraction  of  the  annual  rent  of  an 
Enghsh  farm,  while  its  proximity  to  the  north  gives  assurance  of  ready 
markets  for  its  products. 

May  it  not  perhaps  be  in  the  order  of  events  that  our  competition  with 
England  in  supplying  neutral  markets  witli  manufactured  goods,  will  be 
warded  oft*  by  the  home  demand  on  our  mills  and  workshops  to  supply  the 
needs  of  one  of  the  great  tidal  waves  of  population  that  saems  about  to  be 
directed  upon  our  shores  from  foreign  lands,  and  that  this  gr jat  cycle  of 
change,  which  began  in  our  war  of  18C1,  will  be  endad  upon  the  same 
soil  by  the  incursion  of  a  gr^-at  industrial  army  devoted  to  the  arts  of  paace 
to  whom  that  war  has  opaned  tha  way  by  destroying  slaverj'.  When  this 
country  wa^  cursed  by  slavery  it  was  natural  that  thos  3  whoboast;.d  at  all 
should  boast  too  much  of  our  alleged  gr  'atness,  while  thos'3  who  like  a 
f^eat  Southern  statasraan  then  ''dreaded  the  futura  of  our  country 
when  they  reraombered  that  God  was  just,"  k  ^pt  silent.  Now  we  make 
no  boast,  but  only  mark  tha  fact  that  evou  abundanca  may  cea^i^  to  bo 
a  blessing  whan  it  cannot  raach  thosa  who  n?  h1  it.  We  are  set-king  t » 
cure  evils  that  war  had  left  behind,  and  now  thut  we  stand  once  moro 
upon  the  firm  ground  of  a  sound  curranc}'  and  f  '*'\  that  we  havehamed 
the  true  lesson  of  economy  and  thrift,  we  look  with  sadness  at  tha  dis- 
tress in  other  Lmds  and  hope  that  we  may  help  to  ramova  it. 

Edward  Atkinson,  in  Fortnightly  Review, 
BcsTONi  Massachusetts,  January,  1879. 


ABTIFICIAL  SOMNAMBULISM. 

Batheb  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  two  Americans  visited 
London,  who  called  th-.  mselves  Professors  of  Electro-Biology,  and 
claimed  the  power  of  **  subjugating  the  most  determined  wills,  para- 
lysing the  strongest  muscles,  preventing  the  evidence  of  the  senst^s, 
destroying  the  memory  of  the  most  famihar  events  or  of  the  most  re- 
cent occurrences,  inducing  obedience  to  any  command,  and  making  an 
individual  believe  himself  ti-ansformed  into  any  one  else."  All  this  aud 
more  was  to  be  effected,  they  said,  by  the  action  of  a  small  disc  of  zinc  and 
copper  held  in  the  hand  of  the  *'  subject,"  and  steadily  gazed  at  by  him, 
*'  so  as  to  concentrate  the  electro-magnetic  action."  The  pretensions  of 
these  professors  received  before  long  a  shock  as  decisive  as  that  which 
overthrew  the  credit  of  the  professors  of  animal  magnetism  when  Ilav- 
garth  and  Falconer  successfully  substituted  wooden  tractors  for  tie 
metallic  tractors  which  had  bj^n  cupiDOJwd  to  convey  the  magnetic  fluid. 
In  1851,  Mr.  Braid,  a  Gcotch  surgeon,  vrho  had  witnessed  Bome  of  th3 
exhibitiona  of  the  electro-biologists,  conceived  the  idea  that  the  phen- 
omena wcro  not  due  to  any  special  quahties  possessed  by  the  discs  of 
zinc  and  copper,  but  simply  to  tli3  fixed  look  of  the  "  subject"  aud  liio 
entire  abstraction  of  his  attention.  The  same  explanation  applied  to 
the  so-called  ' '  magnetic  passes  "  of  the  mesmerists.  The  monotonous 
manipulation  of  the  operator  produced  the  same  effect  as  the  fixed  staij 
of  the  "subject."  Hj  showed  hj  his  experiments  that  no  magnetiser, 
>vith  his  imaginary  secret  agents  or  fluids,  is  in  the  least  want2d ;  but 
that  the  subjects  can  place  themselves  in  the  same  condition  as  the  sup- 
posed subjects  of  electro-biological  influences  by  simply  gazing  fixedly 
at  some  object  for  a  long  time  with  fixed  attention. 

The  condition  thus  superinduced  is  not  hypnotism,  or  artificial  somnam- 
bulism, properly  so  called.  The  "electro-biological"  condition  may  h^ 
regarded  as  simply  a  kind  of  reverie  or  abstraction  artificially  produced. 
But  Braid  discovered  that  a  more  perfect  control  might  be  obtained ovtf 
*'  subjects,"  and  a  condition  resembling  that  of  the  sleep-walker  artificiAl- 
Iv  induced,  by  modifying  the  method  of  fixing  the  attantion.  Instead  of 
directing  the  subject's  gaze  upon  a  bright  object  placed  at  a  confiidonib! 3 
distance  from  the  eyes,  so  that  no  effect  was  required  to  concentrat) 
vision  upon  it,  he  placed  a  bright  object  somewhat  above  and  in  front 
of  the  eyes  at  so  short  a  distance  that  the  convergence  of  their  axes  upon  it 
was  accompanied  with  suffieient  effect  to  produce  even  a  slight  amouLt 
of  pain  The  condition  to  which  the  * '  subjects  "  of  this  new  method  w.r  * 
reduced  was  niarkedly  different  from  the  ordinary  "electro-biologicai" 
state.  Thus*  on  one  occasion,  in  the  presence  of  800  persons,  fourtw'^a 
men  were  fxi^erimented  upon.  "  All  begsm  the  experiment  at  tlie  Ba»« 
(348) 


ABTIFICIAL  SOMNAMBULISM.  349 

tiine;  the  former  with  their  eyts  fixed  upon  r  projecting  cork,  placed 
k'curely  on  their  foreheads ;  the  others  at  their  own  wiil  gazed  steadily 
at  certain  points  in  the  direction  of  the  audience.  In  the. course  of  ten 
juinutts  the  cyehds  of  these  ten  pfcrbons  iiad  involuntarily  closed.  With 
tome  consciousness  reniamed;  others  were  in  catalepsy,  and  entirely  in- 
fcciidbie  to  being  stuck  with  uetdlt  s ;  and  othtrs  on  awakening  knew 
Lbsolutoly  nothing  of  what  had  taken  jilace  during  their  sleep."  The 
otbtr  four  simply  passed  into  the  ordinary  condition  of  electro  biolcgised 
"fcubjects/*  retaining  the  recollection  of  idl  that  happened  to  them  while 
in  tho  stat  J  of  artificial  abstraction  or  reverie. 

Dr.  Carpenter,  in  that  most  interesting  vvork  of  his,  *'  Mental  Physi- 
ology," thus  describes  the  state  of  hjpnotibui : — '*  Ihe  procebs  is  of  the 
tmie  kind  as  that  employed  for  the  induction  of  the  *  biological'  state; 
tlio  only  difference  lying  in  the  grttittr  inteiiaity  of  the  ^a^e,  and  in  the 
more  complete  concentration  of  will  upon  the  direction  of  the  eyes, 
wliich  the  nearer  approximation  of  the  object  requires  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  convergence.     In  hypnotism,  as  in  ordinary  somnambul- 
iMn,  no  remembrance  \7hatcvcr  is  preserved  in  the  wakiLg  ptate  of  any- 
tLiug  that  may  have  occmi\  d  during  its  continuance  ;  although  the  pre- 
vious train  of  thought  may  bo  taken  up  anel  continued  uninterruptedly 
en  the  next  occasion  that  tho  hypnotism  is  iuduceel.     And  when  the 
}i'ir.d  is  not  excited  to  activity  by  the  Kt!n:uir.s  of  external  impressions, 
tU;  hj-pnotised  subject  rppears  to  be  profoundly  awieep  ;  a  state  of  com- 
pel t3  torpor,  in  fact,  being  Vtf.ufiUy  the  fii*st  result  of  the  process,  and 
i.L'V  knibs^ejucnt  manifectation  of  activity  being  procurable  only  by  the 
j  ix'.mpting  of  the  operator.     The  hypnotised  bTil)j:'el,  too,  rarely  opens 
i.is  eyes  ;  his  bodily  movemcntiJ  r.ro  usually  slow  ;  his  mental  operations 
:•'  ouire  a  considerable  time  in  their  pcrfcrniance  ;  and  there  is  alto- 
r  «hcr  an  appearance  of  heaviness  about  him,  which  contrasts  strongly 
\  J^l  the  comparatively  wide-awake  Bir  of  him  who  has  not  passed  be- 
.'^wl  the  ordmary  *  biological'  state." 

^.  e  must  note,  however,  in  passing,    that  the  condition  of  com- 
Tvij  hypnotism   had  been   obtained  in  several    instances  by   some 
.  f  the  earher  experimenters  in  animal  magnetism.     One  rcmjirkable  in- 
Ijiiice  was  communicated  to  the  surgical  ScCtion  of  the  French  Academy 
.11  April  IG,  1821),  by  Jules  Cloquet.     Two  meetings  were  entirely  de- 
cs t:d  to  its  investigation.     The  following  account  presents  all  the  chief 
•oints  of  Iha  case,  surgical  details  being  entirely  omitted,  however,  as 
.>t  necessary  for  our  prasc-nt  pui-posa  : — A  lady,  aged  sixty -four,  con- 
j  -Ited  M.  Cloquet  on  April  8,  1S20,  on  account  of  an ulcemted  cancer  of 
1  ^  right  breast  which  had  continu:.d,  gradually  gi'owing  woi-se,  during 
V'Hil  years.     M.  Chapelain,  the  i)hysician  attending  the  lady,  had 
J  laguetiaed"  her  for  some  months,  i)roducing  no  remedial  effects,  but 
'  •  I3'  a  very  profound  sleep  or  torpor,  during  which  all  sensibility  seemed 
>  l>^  n,nnihilated,  while  ths  ideas  retained  all  their  clfamess.      He  pro- 
r>sed  to  M.  Cloquet  to  operate  upon  her  while  she  was  in  a  state  of  torpor, 
'u  di.  the  latter,  cousidermg  the  operation  the  only  means  of  saving  her 


S56  ARTIFICIAL  SOMNAMBULISM. 

life,  consented.  The  two  doctors  -^o  not  appear  to  have  been  troubled  by 
any  scruples  as  to  their  right  thus  to  conduct  an  operation  to  which, 
when  in  her  normal  condition,  their  patient  most  strenuonsly  objected. 
It  sufficed  for  them  that,  when  they  had  put  her  to  sleep  artificially,  ehe 
could  be  persuaded  to  submit  to  it.  On  the  appointed  day,  M.  Cloqiu  t 
found  the  patient  ready  **  dressed  and  seated  in  an  elbow-chair,  in  th? 
attitude  of  a  person  enjoying  a  quiet  natural  sleep."  In  reality,  how- 
ever, she  was  in  the  somnambulistic  state,  and  talked  calmly  of  th^ 
operation.  During  the  whole  time  that  the  operation  lasted — from  tc-u 
to  twelve  minutss— she  continued  to  converse  quietly  with  M.  Cloqii-t, 
*'  and  did  not  exhibit  the  shghtest  sign  of  sensibility.  There  was  no  mo- 
tion of  the  limbs  or  of  the  features,  no  change  in  the  respiration  nor  iii 
the  voice  :  no  emotions  even  in  th3  pulso.  The  patient  continued  in 
the  same  state  of  automatic  indifference  and  impassibility  in  which  sh> 
had  been  some  minutes  before  the  operation."  For  forty-eight  hoiir-; 
after  this  the  patient  remained  in  tha  somnambulistic  state,  showing  no 
sign  of  pain  during  the  subsequent  dressing  of  the  wound.  When  awak. 
oned  from  this  prolonged  sleep  she  had  no  recollection  of  what  had  passed 
in  the  interval;  **but  on  being  informed  of  the  operation,  and  seeii .: 
her  children  around  her,  she  experienced  a  very  lively  emotion,  whii  ii 
the  *  magnetiser '  checked  by  immediately  setting  her  asleep."  Certeinl;: 
none  of  the  hypnotised  "  subjects"  of  Mr.  Braid's  experiments  showr  i 
more  complete  abstraction  from  their  normal  condition  than  this  lady ; 
and  other  cases  cited  in  Bertraud's  work,  *'Le  Magnctisme  Aniin  1 
en  France  "  (182G),  are  almost  equally  remarkable.  As  it  does  E<'t 
appear  that  in  any  of  these  cases  Braid's  method  of  produeir^ 
hypnotism  by  causing  the  eyes,  or  rather  their  optical  axes  to  be  con- 
verged upon  a  point  was  adopted,  we  must  conclude  that  this  pan  tf 
the  m3thod  is  not  absolutely  essential  to  success.  Indeed,  the  cirouc^- 
stance  that  in  some  of  Braid's  public  experiments  numbers  of  th^ 
audience  became  hypnotis'id  without  his  knowledge,  shows  tliat  th  ■ 
more  susceptible  "subjects  "  do  not  require  to  contemplate  a  point  n-.-.r 
and  slightly  above  the  eyes,  but  may  be  put  into  the  true  hypnotic  st  .t  • 
by  methods  which,  with  the  less  susceptible,  produce  only  the  eiean>- 
biological  condition. 

It  will  be  well,  however,  to  inquire  somewhat  carefully  into  tlii'? 
point.  My  present  object,  I  would  note,  is  not  merely  to  indicate  I'e 
remarkable  nature  of  the  phenomena  of  hypnotism,  but  to  consiiier 
these  phenomena  with  direct  rv='ference  to  their  probable  canse.  It  nny 
not  be  possible  to  obtain  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  them.  But  it  » 
better  to  view  them  as  phenomena  to  be  accounted  for  than  merely  ,* 
surpri^jiug  but  utterly  inexplicable  circumstances. 

Now,  v/e  have  fortunately  the  means  of  determining  the  effect  of  t'lc- 
physical  relations  involved  in  these  experiments,  apart  from  those  which 
are  chiefly  due  to  imagination.  For  animals  can  be  hypnotised,  and 
the  conditions  necessary  for  this  effect  to  be  fully  produced  have  betii 
iittcertained. 


AKTIFICIAL  SOMKAMBUUSM.  Ul 

The  most  familiar  experiment  of  this  sort  is  Hometimcs  known  as 
Kircher^s.  Let  the  feet  of  hi  hen  be  tied  together  (though  this  is  not 
necessary  in  all  cases),  and  the  hen  placed  on  a  level  surlace.  Then  if 
the  body  or  the  hen  iq  gently  pressed  down,  the  head  txteuded  with 
the  beak  pointing  downwards,  touching  the  surface  on  which  the  hen 
Etands,  and  a  chalk  mark  is  drawn  slowly  along  the  surface,  from  the  tip 
of  the  beak  in  a  hue  extending  directly  from  tne  bird's  eye,  it  is  found 
that  the  hen  will  remain  for  a  considei-able  time  perfectly  still,  though 
left  quits  free  to  move.     She  is,  in  fact,  hypnotised. 

V/e  have  now  to  inquire  what  parts  of  tiie  process  just  described  are 
effective  in  producing  the  hypnotic  condition^  or  whetlitr  all  ar^  essen- 
tial to  success  in  the  experiment. 

In  the  first  place,  the  fastening  of  the  feet  may  be  dispensed  with. 
Bat  it  has  its  influence,  and  makes  the  experiment  easier.     An  explana- 
tion, or  rather  an  iilustration,  of  its  effect  is  afforded  by  a  singulai*  and 
interesting  experiment  devised  by  Lewissohn  of   Berhn : — If  a  frog 
is  placed  on  its   back,   it  imme<£ately,    when   the   hand  which  had 
held    it    is    ramoved,    tarns    over    and    escapes.      But    if   the    two 
fore-legs    ara    tied    with    a    string,    the    frog,    when    placed   on    its 
back,  breathes  heavily  but  is  otherwise   quit  3   motionLss,  and  does 
not    make    tha    least    attempt    to   escap'^,    even  wh.n    th-3    experi- 
menter tries  to  move  it.     **It  is  as  though,"  says  Cz?rrDak,  describing 
the  experiment  as  performed  by  himself,  '*its  small  amount  of  rcason- 
iug  power  had  been  charmed  away,  or  els3  that  it  slept  with  open  cyos. 
Now  I  press  upon  the  cutaneous  nerves  of  the  frog,  while  I  loosen  and 
remove  the  threads  on  the  fore-legs.     Still  the  animal  remains  motion- 
less upon  its  back,  in  consequence  of  some  remaining  after-effect :  at 
last,  however,  it  returns  to  itself,  turns  over,  and  quickly  escap'^s. 

Thus  far  the  idea  suggested  is  that  the  animal  is  so  affects  d  by  the 
cutaneous  pressure  as  to  suppose  itself  tied  and  therefore  unable  to 
move.  In  other  words,  this  experiment  suge^ests  that  imagination  acts 
on  animals  as  on  men,  only  in  a  different  degree.  I  may  cite  here  a 
ciuious  case  which  I  once  noticed  and  have  never  b.^en  able  to  under- 
stand, though  it  seems  to  suggest  the  influence  of  imagination  on  an 
animal  one  would  hardly  suspect  of  being  at  all  under  the  influence  of 
any  but  purely  physical  influences,  bearing  a  noise  as  of  a  cat  leaping 
down  from  a  pantry  window  which  looked  out  on  an  enclosed  yard,  I 
went  directly  into  the  yard,  and  there  saw  a  strange  cat  running  off  with 
a  fish  she  had  stolen.  She  was  at  the  moment  leaping  on  to  a  bin,  from 
the  top  of  which,  by  another  very  easy  leap,  she  coidd  get  on  to  the 
vrall  enclosing  the  yard,  and  so  escape.  With  the  idea  rather  of 
fnghteningher  than  of  hurtincf  her  Cdoes  one  missile  out  of  a  hundred 
flung  at  cats  ever  hit  them  ?)  I  threw  at  the  thief  a  small  piece  of  wood 
psrhich  I  had  in  my  hand  at  the  moment.  It  struck  the  wall  above  her 
I  list  as  she  was  going  to  leap  to  th<i  top  of  the  wall,  and  it  fell,  without 
louching  her,  between  her  and  the  wall.  To  my  surprise,  she  stood 
^>*;rfectly  still,  looking  at  the  piece  of  wood ;  her  mouth,  from  which 


852  ARTIFICIAL  SOMNAMBULISM. 

the  fish  had  fallen,  remaining  open,  and  her  whole  attitude  expressing 
Blupid  wonder.  1  make  no  doubt  I  could  -have  taken  her  prisoner,  or 
struck  her  heavily,  if  I  had  wished,  for  she  made  no  effort  to  escape, 
until,  with  a  parlour  broom  which  stood  by,  I  pushed  htr  along  the  top 
of  the  bin  towards  the  wail,  on  which  she  seemed  suddenly  to  aroii5«  ■ 
herself,  and  Itaping  to  the  top  of  the  wall  she  .made  off.  My  wife  wit- 
nessed the  last  scene  of  this  curious  little  comedy.  In  fact,  it  was 
chiefly,  perhaps,  because  she  pleaded  for  mercy  on  "the  poor  thing"  tLf^ 
the  soft  end  of  the  broom  alone  came  into  operation ;  for,  though  net 
altogether  agreeing  with  the  Count  of  Kousillon  that  anything  can  I" 
endured  before  a  cat,  I  did  net  at  the  moment  regard  that  particular  (;.i 
with  special  favour. 

The  extension  of  the  neck  and  deprcEsicn  of  the  head,  in  tlj""* 
experiment  with  the  hen,  have  no  special  signilicance,  for  Czemr.k 
has  been  able  to  produce  the  same  phenomena  of  hypnotism  with- 
out them,  and  has  failed  to  produce  the  hyprotic  effect  on  pigeon- 
when  attending  to  this  point,  and  in  other  respects  proceeding  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  the  same  way  as  with  hens.  **  With  the  hens,''  he  siiv-, 
*'  I  often  hung  a  piece  of  twine,  or  a  smssll  piece  of  wood,  directly  over 
their  crests,  so  that  the  end  fell  btfore  the:'r  eyes.  The  hens  net  only 
remained  perfectly  motionless,  tut  closf  d  their  eyes,  and  slept  with  thr.v 
heads  sinking  until  they  came  in  contact  with  the  table.  Btfore  falli  ■( 
asleep,  the  hens'  heads  can  be  either  pressed  down  or  raised  up,  fiL-i 
they  will  remain  in  this  position  as  if  they  were  pieces  of  wax.  TLat 
is,  however,  a  symptom  of  a  cataleptic  condition,  tuch  as  is  seen  in 
human  beings'  under  certain  pathological  conditions  of  the  nen-oiis 
system." 

On  the  other  hand,  repeated  experiments  convinced  Czermak  that  tl;o 
pressure  on  the  animal  as  it  is  held  :s  cf  primary  importance.  It  is  fre- 
quently the  case,  he  says,  that  a  hen,  wluch  for  a  minute  has  been  in  -a 
motionless  state,  caused  by  simply  extending  the  neck  and  d-- 
pressing  the  head,  awakes  and  flies  away,  but  on  being  can^'ni 
again  immediately,  she  can  be  placed  once  more  in  the  conditi<i. 
of  lethargy,  if  we  place  the  animal  in  a  squatting  position,  ai.i 
overcome  with  gentle  force  the  resistance  of  the  muscks,  l-y 
firmly  placing  the  hand  upon,  its  back.  During,  the  slow  and 
measured  suppression,  one  often  perceives  an  extremely  remarkable  p> 
sition  of  the  head  and  neck,  which  are  left  entirely  free.  The  htad  r^*- 
mams  as  if  held  by  an  invisible  hand  in  its  proper  place,  the  neck  btii.^^ 
stretched  out  of  proportion,  while  the  body  by  degree^  is  pushed  down- 
wards. If  the  animal  is  thus  left  entirely  free,  it  remains  for  a  mimit" 
or  so  in  this  peculiar  condition  with  wide-open  staring  eyes.  *'  Htr-. 
as  Czermak  remarks,  "the  actual  circumstances  are  only  the  effect  of 
the  emotion  which  the  nerves  of  the  skin  excite,  and  the  gentle  fore » 
which  overcomes  the  animal's  resistance.  Certainly  the  creature  a  ebon 
time  before  had  been  in  a  condition  of  immobiHty,  and  might  have  r- - 
tained  some  special  inclination  to  fall  back  into  the  same,  although  the 


AOlTIFIOIAIi  SOMNAMBULISM.  853 

awakening,  flight,  and  racaptura,  toT[?th^r  with  th^  r'frjshmcnt  given 
to  the  nervous  system,  ar^  iat?riii  *fii*it3  circarnKtHiivVS.''  Siiuilir  exp^i- 
riuiints  ara  best  mada  upon  Hma'A  ba-as.  Now,  it  i-.  w.Jl  kiiowu  tc>  bird- 
faci-*ro  that  goldfinches,  c.?.n:irv-bird^,  <fcc.,  can  b*  :\v\d  •  to  r»Tiiaiu  mo- 
tionless for  somo  time  by  si  jip.y  hoMmg  them  limply  l-ir  a  .uoiii.  ut  aud 
t.K'!i  lotting  them  go.  ''Ht.*,  in  my  liaud,"  said  Oz  r«i.5k.  in  his  k'c- 
t.irj.  ''is  a  timid  bird,  jnst  brou^^lit  tvo:n  market,  it  i  piac'  it  on  in 
bi'jk,  and  hold  its  head  witu  my  IcCt  hand,  koepinj^  it  still  for  a  fow 
8iC3ad3,  it  will  Hi  pjrf.>ctly  motionless  after  I  iiavt;  r"inov»*d  my 
hands,  as  if  chariued,  brjathiiig  heavily,  and  ^vithout  making 
any  attempt  to  chaiga  iU  position  or  to  fly  away."  ('*Two  of 
tJ3  birds,"  says  the  report,  ".were  trc'ated  in  thin  manner  without 
effect ;  but  thi  third,  asisiia,  f  ^U  into  a  sleeping coiulitiou,  Jindr.Miiainxl 
co:npl?t3ly  imnovabl?  o*i  its  bajk,  until  pushed  with  a  j/lnsj  tui'O,  wh;u 
it  awoki  aad  fl2W  actively  around  thi  room."^ 

Also  whin  a  bird  is  in  a  sitt'iig  position,  and  tli->  hrad  is  pvess.d 
slightly  back,  the  bird  f'llls  iuto  n  sUeping  comiiti(»u,  ov.'U  thouLjh  ti»3 
eyes  hai  b  ?3n  op3n.  "  I  h  \V3  oil  i  \  notictxl,"  say.-i  Cz  'nuiak,  **  tLit  tba 
birdiUid-T  thjsj  cir^nii'Sti  ic  j  (.kw?  their  eyo-.  for  a  fev/ minateo  or 
even  a  qii.\rtjr  of  an  hoar,  a  id  nr.)  mora  or  iss  fust  I'sl'j.p." 

Lastly,    as   ti   th3    ciialk-liu)    ii    Kircbtr's    exp  riiiitnit.     Czermak 
found,  as  alrjaiy  sii.i,  t'lit  pig!0.ii  d3  not  b-comci  molioiiless,  as  hap- 
pens to  hens,  if  merely  h?ld  tirniy  iii  tha  Land,  and  their  li  ads  and 
necks  pressed  gently  on  th3  table.     Nor  can  th  -y  be  Hypnotised  like 
small  birda  in  thi  exp3riment  last  mentioned.     **  That  is,"  he  says, 
**I  held  them  with  a  thumb  placed  on  each  side  of  the  h  ad,  wliioli 
I  bent  over  a  littl3,    while    the   other    baud    hv4d  the  bL^ly   gently 
pressed  down  upon  the  table;    bat   even  this  trcatni.nt,   whioh   Li^ 
Kuch  an  effect  on  little  bird^,   did  not  8?em  to  Kucoeed  at  lir<st  M'iili 
the  pigeons :    almost  always  th^.y  flow  away  as  soon  as  I   Lilj.rat  i 
them  and  entirily  removed  my  hands,"     But  ho  pr.^s:  iitly  noiioed  that 
til  3  short  tim3  during  which  thi  piLjeons  remained  quiit  l^n<^th{'ajd  con- 
siderably when  the  linger  only  of  the  hand  which  h  Id  tho  li'iid  was  re- 
moved.    Benioving  the  hand  holding  the  body  mad  3  no  dilorence,  but 
rx?taining  the  other  hand  near  the  bird's  head,  the  hand mak^  all  the  dif- 
ference in  the  world.     Pursuing  the  line  of  research  thus  indicated, 
Ozermak  found  to  his  astonish .nent  that  the  fixing  of  thn  pigeon's  look 
on  the  finger  placed  before  its  eyes  was  the  s  ^crc^t  of  the  matt  t.     Ii 
order  to  determine  the  quest'on  still  more  ch^nrly,  he  trii^d  the  expori- 
iiient  on  a  pigeon  which  he  had  clnsp^d  firmly  by  the  body  in  his  left 
liand«  but  whose  neck  and  headw.-re  perfectly  fr-^e.     *'  I  h'ld  onelingor 
of  my  right  hand  steadily  b^^fore  the  top  of  itsbt-ak, — and  wluit  did  I  see? 
The  first  pigeon  with  which  I  mp.de  this  attempt  reniiiin  d  rii^id  and 
inotionles.s,  as  if  bound,  for  sev 'nil  minutes,   before  tho  out^tr.^cli  d 
forc'finger  of  my  right  hand  I     Yes,  I  could  take  my  loft  ha-i:!,  with 
-which  I  had  held  the  bird,  and  again  tou'^h  thj  pigeon  without  wokingit 
ixp ;  the  anlHial  remained  in  the  same  i:>osition  while  I  held  my  outstretched 

L.  M.— i— 12. 


854  AETIFICIAL  SOMNAMBULISM. 

finger  still  pointing  toward  the  beak."  '*  The  lectdrer,"  sajs  the  report, 
*' demonstrated  this  experiment  in  the  most  soccessfnl  manner  with  a 
pigeon  which  was  brought  to  him»** 

Yet  it  is  to  be  noticed  that  among  animals,  as  among  men, 
different  degrees  of  sabjectLvity  exist.  *' Individual  inward  raktionn," 
says  Czermak,  *^  as  well  as  outward  conditions,  must  necessarily  exer- 
cise Bome  disturbing  influence,  whether  the  animal  will  give  itsef^  up  to 
the  requisite  exertions  of  certain  parts  of  its  brain  with  more  or  less  in- 
clination or  otherwise.  We  often  see,  for  example,  that  a  pigeon  en- 
deavours to  escape  from  confinement  by  a  quick  turning  of  its  head 
from  side  to  side.  In  following  these  singular  and  characteristic  moTc- 
ments  of  the  head  and  neck,  with  the  finger  held  before  the  bird,  ono 
cither  gains  his  point,  or  else  makes  the  pigeon  so  perplexed  and  excited 
that  it  at  last  becomes  quiet,  so  that,  if  it  is  held  firmly  by  the  body 
and  head,  it  can  be  f  oreed  genUy  down  upon  the  table.  J&  Schopen- 
hauer says  of  sleeping,  *  The  brain  must  bite.*  I  will  also  mention 
here,  by  the  way,  that  a  tame  parrot,  which  I  have  in  my  house,  can  bo 
placed  in  this  sleepy  condition  by  simply  holding  the  finger  steadily  be- 
fore the  top  of  its  beak." 

I  may  cite  here  a  singular  illustration  of  the  effect  of  perplexity 
in  the  case  of  a  creature  in  all  other  respects  much  more  naturally 
circumstanced  than  the  hens,  pigeons,  and  small  birds  of  Czermak's 
experiments.  In  the  spring  of  18i>9,  when  I  was  an  undergradii£t3 
at  Cambridge,  i  and  a  friend  of  mine  were  in  canoes  on  the  part 
of  the  Cam  which  flows  through  the  College  grounds.  Here  ther3  ar: 
many  ducks  and  a  few  swans.  It  occurred  to  us,  not,  I  fear,  from  any 
special  scientific  spirit,  but  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  to  inquire  whetb  r 
it  was  possible  to  pass  over  a  duck  in  a  canoe.  Of  course  on  the  approacli 
of  either  canoe  a  duck  would  try  to  get  out  of  the  way  on  one  sido  c  r 
the  other ;  but  on  the  course  of  the  canoe  being  rapidly  chai^;ed,  t- ' 
duck  would  have  to  change  his  course.  Then  the  canoe^s  courso  wou^  I 
again  be  changed,  so  as  to  impel  the  duck  to  try  the  other  side.  T.. ) 
canoe  drawing  all  the  time  nearer,^and  her  changes  of  course  beingmaiio 
very  lighUy  and  in  quicker  and  quicker  alternation  as  she  approaehi  J, 
the  duck  would  generally  get  bewildered,  and  finally  would  allow  thj 
canoe  to  pass  over  him,  gentiy  pressing  him  under  water  in  its  oouisc. 
The  process,  in  fact,  was  a  sort  of  exceedingly  mild  keel-hauling.  Tli3 
absolute  rigidity  of  body  and  the  dull  stupid  stare  with  which  some  of 
the  ducks  met  their  fate  seems  to  me  (now  :  I  was  not  in  1859  familiar 
with  the  phenomena  of  hypnotism)  to  suggest  that  the  effect  was  to  bo 
explained  as  Czermak  explains  the  hypnotism  of  the  pigeons  on  which 
he  experimented. 

We  shall  be  better  able  now  to  understand  the  phenomena  of 
artificial  somnambulism  in  the  case  of  human  beings.  If  the  cir- 
cumstances observed  by  Eircher,  Czermak,  Lewissohn,  and  othere, 
suggest,  as  I  think  th3y  do,  that  animal  hypnotism  is  a  form,  of 
the  phenomenon  sometimes  called  fascination,  we  may  be  led  to  regard 


ABTTElOIAIi  SOMKAMBTTUSM.  snr, 

the  possibilitj  of  artificial  somnambulism  in  men  ad  a  smrviyal  of  a  pro- 
perty playing  in  all  probability  an  important  and  valuable  part  in  the 
economy  of  animal  life.  It  is  in  this  direction,  at  present,  that  the  evi- 
dence seems  to  tend. 

The  most  remarkable  circumstance  about  the  completely  hypnotised 
subject  is  the  seemingly  complete  control  of  the  will  of  the  '*  subject" 
and  even  of  his  opinions.     Even  the  mere  suggestions  of  the  operator, 
not  expressed  vert>ally  or  by  signs,  but  by  movements  imparted  to  the 
body  of  the  subject,  are  at  once  responded  to,  as  though,  to  use  Dr. 
Garth  Wilkinson's  expression,  the  whole  man  were  given  to  each  per- 
ception. Thus,  ^'if  the  hand  be  placed, '^  says  Br.  Oai^>enter,  '*upon  the 
top  of  the  head,  the  somnambulist  will  frequently,  of  his  own  accord, 
draw  up  his  body  to  its  fullest  height,  and  tlm>w  his  head  slightly  back ; 
bis  coontenance  then  assumes  an  expression  of  the  most  lofty  pride, 
and  his  whole  mind  is  obviously  possessed  by  that  feeling.     When  the 
first  action  does  not  of  itself  call  forth  the  rest,  it  is  sufficient  for  the 
operator  to  straighten  the  legs  and  spine,  and  to  throw  the  head  some- 
what back,  to  arouse  that  feeling  and  the   corresponding  expression 
to  its  fullest  intensity.     During  the  most  complete  domination  of 
this  emotion,  let  thu  head  be  bent  forwai-d,  and  the  body  and  limbs 
i;enl]y  flexed ;  and  the  most  profound  humility  then  instantaneously 
t  iki  8  its  place."    Of  couise  in  some  cases  we  may  well  beUcve  that  tlie 
(zprcssions  thus  described  by  Dr.  Carpenter  have  been  simulated  by 
the  snbjuct.     But  Ihtre  can  be  no  reason  to  doubt  the  reality  of  the 
cperatuPs  control  in  many  cases.      Dr.  Cat-pent'  r  says  that  )  e  has  n'  t 
cnlybeenaneye-witne  s  of  them  on  various  occasions  buttli -the  rices 
full  r  liance  on  the  testimony  of  an  inteUigenl  friend .  who  submitted  him- 
self to  Mr.  Bra  d's  manipulations,  but  retained  sufficient  selt-coi  scii  us- 
iiess  and  voluntary  p  W(r  to  endeav^SS:  t>>  txercise  some  resistance  t') 
their  influence  at  the  time^  and  subsequently  to  retrace  his  course  of 
thought  and  fe  ling.     "  Thjs  gentieman  declaxes,"  says  Dr.  Carpenter, 
'^that,  although  accustomed  to  the  study  of  charat  ter  ard  to  self -obser- 
vation, he  couUl  not  h:ive  couceived  that  the  whole  mental  state  should 
have  undergone  so  instantaneous  and  complete  a  metamo '  phosis,  as  he  re- 
members it  to  have  done,  when  his  head  and  body  were  bent  forward  in 
the  attitude  ot  humility,  after  having  been  drawn  to  their  full  height  in 
that  of  self-esteem.'* 

A  mo >t  graphic  description  of  the  phenomena  of  hypnotism 
is  given  by  Dr.  Garth  VVilliinson: — "The  preliminary  state  is 
that  of  abstraction,  produced  by  lixed  gaze  upon  some  unexciting 
and 'empty  thing  (for  poverty  of  object  engenders  abstraction), 
end  this  abstraction  is  the  logical  premiss  of  what  follows.  Abstrac- 
tion tends  to  become  mora  and  more  abstract,  narrower  and  narrower ; 
it  tends  to  unity  and  afterwards  to  nullity.  There,  then,  the  patient  is, 
at  the  summit  of  attention,  with  no  object  left,  a  mere  statue  of  atten- 
tion, a  listening,  expectant  life ;  a  perfectly  undistracted  faculty,  dream- 
ing of  a  lossening  and  Icsseninf;  mathematical  point :  the  end  of  his 


336  AETIFICIAJL  SOMNAMBULISM. 

mind  slmri>ened  away  to-  nothing.  What  happens  ?  Any  sansation  that 
itup-'iiis  is  met  by  Huh  brilliant  attention,  and  receives  its  diamond  glai-e ; 
i}jx'A%  pjroeivttl  vviki  a  iorce  of  leisuro  of  wljich  our  diKtract-jd  Me  ai- 
loi'il.-i  O'ily  th.j  rudi:njuts.  -  Ext.jrii:d  inSuences  ar«3  tiensatdd,  sympii- 
lalscd  witii,  to  iiii  LXtiviOidniaiy  degree  ;  iiiirmonious  music  sways  the 
body  into  gr^ocs  tiu'  moHt  aiivcung;  dltsccrd^  jai*  it,  as  tUougii  they 
would  tear  it  lit.d)  ii-cm  ii>iio.  Ooau  ;!^d  h.  at  arjpjrccivcdwithsiuiiLu' 
exaltation;  so  uiso  suic-j-iB  and  toucnvS.  in  short,  the  whUe  man  up- 
p'''.i/j':<  to  be  fflf^i  1 1''>  '<!c.  i  "[itVyjiptiuii.  IJie  body  trembles  Mk3  down  witli 
tU  ;  wafts  of  th.;  at  mospli^-re  ;  tnj  world  piiiys  upon  it  a-s  upon  a  spirit- 
ud  instrument  hiijly  airaned," 

This  stata,  which  may  b^  called  thD  Jiatm-al  hypnotic  stat?, 
may  be  artiliciidiy  n^odiiied,  "  Thj  power  of  Biiggestiou  over  tli3 
patient,"  says  Dr.  v>'rta  Nv'ilkinson,  "is  oxccBsivo.  If  you  say, 
'What  aniimd  is  it?'  tnj  pati-'ufc  v/ill  ttli  you  it  is  a  lamb,  or  a  Ab- 
bit,  or  any  otlur,  'L>jjs  ho  see  it?*  'ics.'  '  V/hat  animal  is  it 
fiowV  putting  d^pffi  and  gloom  inu)  the  ton:  of  tunc^  and  thereby 
suggesting  a  diifji'jnc.'..  'Oh!'  with  a  shudder,  'it  is  a  wolf!' 
'What  colour  is  it?'  still  glooming  the  phrasa.  'Black.'  'What 
colour  is  it  now?'  giviiig  th>  ii'xri  a  cheerful  air.  'Oh I  a.  beautiful 
blue!  '  (rather  an  unusual  colour  for  a  wolf,  I  would  siigg^st),  spokon 
with  the  utmost  ddigat  (and  no  wonder!  espocially  if  the  hypnotic  sub- 
ject werj  a  natui'dist).  And  so  you  lead  tha  subject  through  any 
dreams  you  pbas),  by  variationj  cf  questions  and  of  inflections  of  th3 
voice  ;  and  h    *^^v  d'.ul  fnU  all  as  rcal.''^ 

We  have  seen  hov  tli3  patient' 5  mind  can  be  influenced  by  changing 
the  posture  of  his  body.  Dr.  AViikinson  gives  very  remarkable  evi- 
dence on  this  point.  "Doubls  lii3  list  and  puU  up  his  arm,  if  you 
dare,"  he  says,  of  the  subject,  "  for  you  will  have  the  strength  of  yoiu* 
ribs  rudely  t^  it  !d.  Put  him  on  his  knees  and  clasj)  his  hands,  and  tho 
saints  and  d^vot^es  of  tii3  artists  will  pal  a  before  tho  trueness  of 
liis  d3vout  a 'tings.  Tlais3  his  head  while  in  prayer,  and  his 
lips  pour  fortii  cxulthig  glorificp»tions,  as  he  sees  heaven  opened, 
and  the  mst-i  >sty  of  God  raising  him  to  his  place;  then  in  a 
m:>m3iit  d^prjss  tho  head,  and  he  is  in  dust  and  ashes,  an  un- 
v/ortiiy  siiun^r,  with  the  pit  of  hall  yawning  at  his  feet.  Or  con:- 
pr  S-;  th !  io.'.hoad,  so  as  to  wrinkle  it  vs  rti::ally,  and  thoniy- 
twth^l  clouds  contract  in  from  the  vrry  horizon"  (in  the  Fnbject':i 
i -laginatioa,  it  v^^iil  be  understood):  "and  what  is  remarkabk',  th: 
s  n  dl.est  p"inch  and  wrinkle,  snrdi  as  will  lie  bct.w«M?n  your  nip]>iug  wii's, 
is  ^uiliciut  nil  'I  r<is  to  crystallise  the  man  into  that  shaiu-,  and  to  iii.ik-' 
liru  i'M  ijr'.i\)(K\v\ff,  as.  HGfain.  the  smalL'st  expansion  in  a  moment  hri.ij-'-^ 
tn  •  o-j,>po;ii.:/'  ;-:t'"'.t\  -.villi  )i  niil  breathing  of  d  li^^h*-" 

Some  will  p^'rliaps  think  tho  neT.t  instanc^^  th  »  most  r<^markabL''  ci 
all,  Yj-rf(H*Aly  n:duT\l  tliouLrh  one  lialf  of  the  pi-formanc^  may  huv 
been.  The  said ^^ct  being  a  young  lady,  the  o]>eritor  asks  whfther  ^b'; 
or   another  is  the  prettier,  raising  hjr  head  as  he  puts  the  qudStioiL 


ARTEPICIAL  somnambulism.  857 

"Observe,"  says  Dr.  Wilkinson,  "the  inexpressible  hantetur,  and  the 
puff  sneers  let  oif  from  th^'  lips  "  (see  Darwin's  treatise  on  the  *' Expres- 
sion of  the  Emotions,"  plate  IV.  1,  and  plate  V.  1)  **  which  indicate  a 
conclusion  too  certain  to  need  utterance.  Depress  the  head,  and  repeat 
the  question,  and  mark  the  self-abasement  with  which  she  now  says 
'She  i-Vj'  as  hardly  worthy  to  make  thti  comparison." 

In  this  state,  in  fact,  **  whatever  posturti   of  any  passion  is  induced, 
the  passion  comes  into  it  at  once  and  dramatises  the  body  accordingly.'' 

It  might  seem  that  there  must  of  necessity  be  some  degree  of  exag-* 
gtration  in  this  description,  simply  becauso  the  power  of  adequately 
expressing  any  given  emotion  is  not  possessed  by  alL  Some  can  in  n 
moment  bring  any  expression  into  the  face,  or  even  simulate  at  once  the 
cipreasion  and  tho.  aspect  of  another  person,  while  many  persons,  prob- 
ably most,  possess  scarcely  any  power  of  the  sort,  and  fail  ridiculously 
even  in  attempting  to  reproduce  the  expressions  corresponding  to  the 
commonest  emotions.  But  it  is  abundantly  clear  that  the  hypnotised  sub- 
j  :ct  possesses  for  the  time  being  abnormal  powers.  No  doubt  this  is 
dui  to  the  circumstance  that  for  the  time  being  '*  the  whole  man  is  given 
to  eajh  perception."  The  stories  illustrativ«)  of  this  peculiarity  of  the 
lypnotisjd  state  are  so  remarkable  that  thay  have  been  "rejected  as  ut-^ 
t  r!y  incr.dibl  J  by  many  ^^  ho  are  not  acquainted  with  the  amount  of 
cv":Lncj  we  have  on  this  point. 

'ill)  instances  abov3  cit^d  by  Dr.  Garth  Wilkinson,  remarkable 
t'longj  tb  y  may  be,  ars  surpassed  altog:tli(r  in  interest  by  a  case 
^.liich  Dr.  Carpenter  hiontions, — of  a  factory  g'rl,  whose  musical 
pow.rs  hfid  rjccivcd  littb  cultivation,  and  who  could  scarcely  speak 
Lor  own  lai:guag3  correctly,  who  ncvcrtli'  l-^ss  exactly  imitated  both. 
the  words  and  tho  musio  of  vocal  p.rformances  by  Jenny  Lind. 
pr.  Carp3nt^r  was  assurjiT  by  witnesses  in  whom  he  could  placa 
implicit  rjlianco,  that  this  girl,  in  the  liypuotis  d  state,  followed 
the  Swedish  nightingals's  songs  in  diff*  rirnt  languages  "so  instactane- 
ously  and  corractly,  as  to  both  words  and  music,  that  it  was  difficult  to 
distinguish  the  two  voices.  In  ord  r  to  t?st  the  powers  of  the  som- 
nambulist to  the  utmost,  Mademois.-^U ■!  Lind  extemporised  a  long  and' 
elaborats  chromatic  excrcis?,  which  tho  girl  imitate  d  with  no  less  pre- 
cision, though  in  her  waking  state  she  durst  not  even  attempt  anything 
of  the  sort." 

The  exaltation  of  the  senses  of  hypnotisod  subjects  is  an  equally 
yonderful  phenomenon.  Dr.  Carpenter  relates  many  very  remarkabld 
instances  as  occurring  within  his  own  exp  rionce.  He  has  *' known  a 
yonth,  in  the  hyprxotised  state,"  ho  says,  **  to  find  out,  by  the  sense  of 
PTiiell,  the  owner  of  a  glove  which  was  placed  in  his  hand,  from  amongsti 
a  party  of  more  than  sixty  p^rsoi.^.,  scenting  at  each  of  them  one  after 
th(j  other,  until  he  came  to  tho  right  individual.  lu  another  case,  the 
owner  af  a  ring  was  unhesitatingly  found  out  from  among  a  company  of 
twelve,  the  ring  having  been  withdrawn  from  the  finger  before  the* 
•omnambule  was  introduced."    The  sense  of  touch  has,  in  other  cases, 


868  —       ARTIFICIAIi  SOMNAMBULISM. 

been  singularly  intensified,  insomnch  that  slight  differences  of  heat; 
wliich  to  ordinary  feeling  were  quite  inappreciable,  would  be  at  once 
ddtacted,  while  such  difEerences  as  can  be  but  just  perceiyed  in  the 
ordinary  state  would  produce  intense  distress. 

In  some  respects^  the  incre-ase  of  muscular  power,  or  rather  of  the 
power  of  special  muscles,  is  even  more  striking,  because  it  is  commonlj 
supposed  by  most  persons  that  the^muscular  power  depends  entirely  on 
the  size  and  quality  of  the  muscles,  the  state  of  health,  and  like  oondi- 
tions,  not  on  tha  imagination.  Of  course  every  one  knows  that  the 
muscles  are  capable  of  greater  efforts  when  the  mind  is  much  excited  by 
fear  and  other  emotions.  But  the  general  idea  is,  I  think,  that  whatever 
the  body  is  capable  of  doing  undar  circumstances  of  great  excitement, 
it  is  in  reality  capable  of  doing  at  all  times  if  only,  a  resolute  effort  is 
made.  Nor  is  it  co  nmoaly  supposed  that  a  very  wide  difference  exists 
batween  the  greatast  efforts  of  tiis  body  under  excitement  and  those  of 
which  it  is  ordinarily  capable.  Now,  the  condition  of  the  hypnotised 
subject  is  certainly  not  one  of  excitement  The  attempts  which  he  is  di' 
rected  to  maka  are  influenced  only  by  tha  idea  that  he  can  do  what  ha  is  told, 
not  that  he  mtu<t  do  so.  When  a  man  pursued  by  a  bull  leaps  over  a  wall 
which  undar  ordinary  conditions  he  would  not  even  think  of  climbing, 
we  can  understand  that  he  only  does,  because  he  must,  what,  if  he  liked, 
he  could  do  at  my  time.  But  if  a  man,  who  had  been  making  his  best 
efforts  in  jixmping,  cleared  only  a  height  of  four  f«!»et,  and  pre63nUy,  being 
told  to  jump  ovar  an  eight  feet  wall,  clear  ad  that  height  with  apparent 
eas3,  we  should  ba  disposad  to  regard  the  f  aab  a3  savouring  of  the  minu 
culous. 

Now,  Dr.  Carpenter  saw  one  of  Mr.  Braid's  hypnotised  sabjeots— a 
maa  so  remarkable  for  the  poverty  of  his  physic^  development  that  he 
had  not  for  many  years  ventured  to  lift  up  a  weight  of  twenty  pounds 
in  his  ordinary  stata — take  up  a  quarter  of  a  hundredweigfat  upon  his 
little  fingar,  and  swing  it  round  his  head  with  tha  utmost  apparent  ease, 
on  baing  told  that  it  was  as  light  as  a  feather.  '*  On  another  oocasion 
he  lift  ad  a  half-huadr  ad  weight  on  the  last  joint  of  his  f6re-flnger,  as 
high  a3  his  kaae.^'  Th  j  p  3rsoQal  character  of  the  man  placed  him  above 
all  suspicion  of  deceit,  in  the  opinion  of  those  who  best  knew  him  ;  and, 
as  Dr.  Carpenter  acutely  remarks,  **the  impossibility  of  any  trickery  in 
such  a  case  would  be  evidant  to  the  educated  eye,  since,  if  he  had 
practised  such  feats  (which  very  few,  even  of  the  strongest  men,  conld 
accomplish  without  practice),  the  effect  would  have  made  itself  visibie 
in  his  muscular  davelopment."  "Consequently,"  he  adds,  **wh6n  the 
same  individual  afterwards  declared  himself  unable,  with  the  greatest 
effort,  to  lift  a  handkarchief  from  the  table,  after  having  been  aasored 
that  he  could  not  possibly  move  it,  there  was  no  reason  for  questioning 
the  truth  of  his  conviction,  based  as  this  was  upon  the  same  kind  of 
suggestion  as  that  by  which  he  had  been  just  before  prompted  to  what 
seemed  an  otherwise  impossible  action. 

The  explanation  of  tlus  and  the  preceding  cases  cannot  be  nustaksn 


ABTEFIOUL  SOMKAMBULIBM.    ^  85» 

by  pliysiologisis,  and  is  very  important  in  its  bearing  on  tbe  phenomena 
of  hypnotism  geneially,  at  once  involTinpfan  interpretation  of  the  whole 
Bdries  of  phenomena,  and  saggesting  other  relations  not  as  yet  ilfus- 
trated  experimentally.  It  is  well  known  that  in  onr  ordinary  nsa  of 
any  moRcies  we  employ  hxA  a  small  part  of  the  mnsde  at  any  given  mo« 
meot  What  the  mnscle  is  actaaliy  capable  of  is  shown  in  convnlsive 
contnictions,  in  which  far  more  force  is  put  forth  than  the  strongest  ef- 
fort of  the  will  could  call  into  play.  We  explain,  then,  the  seeming  in- 
iKase  of  strength  in  any  set  of  mu^Ies  during  the  hypnotic  state  as  dua 
to  the  conoentration  of  the  sabject*s  will  in  an  abnormal  manner,  or  to 
&n  abnormal  degree,  on  timt  set  of  mnscles.  In  a  similar  way,  th3 
great  increase  of  cediain  powers  of  perception  may  be  explained  as  du3 
to  the  eoncentiation  of  the  will  npon  the  corresponding  parts  of  tho 
Berrons  sjnstem. 

In  like  manner,  the  will  may  be  directed  so  entirely  to  the 
operations  necessary  for  the  ]>erformance  of  dlfSlcult  feats,  that  tho 
hypnotised  <»:  somnambnlistio  subject  may  be  able  to  accomplish 
what  in  his  ordinary  condition  would  be  impossible  or  even  utterly 
appalling  to  him.  Thus  sleex^walkers  (whose  condition  precisely  re- 
sembles that  cf  the  artificially  hypnotised,  except  that  the  suggestions 
they  experience  come  -from  contact  with  inanimate  objects,  instead  of 
being  aroused  by  the  actions  of  another  person)  *^can  clamber  walls  and 
roofs,  traverse  narrow  planks,  stap  firmly  along  high  parapets,  and  per- 
form other  feats  which  tiiey  woxdd  shrink  from  attempting  iu  their  waking 
state."  This  is  simply,  as  Dr.  Carpenter  points  out,  bvjcause  they  ara 
ii(4  distrOfCted  by  the  sensj  of  danger  which  their  vision  would  call  up, 
from  concentrating  their  exdusive  attention  on  the  guidance  afforded 
hj  their  moscular  sense." 

Bat  the  most  remarkablo  and  suggestive  of  all  the  facts  known  rsBpoct- 
ing  hypnotism  is  the  influence  which  can  by  its  means  bo  brought  to 
bear  upon  special  parts  or  functions  of  the  body.  "Wo  know  that  imagi- 
nation will  hasten  or  retard  certain  processes  commonly  regarded  as  invol- 
Tintary  (indeed,  the  influence  of  imagination  is  itself  in  great  degree  invoU 
imtary).  We  know  further  that  in  some  cases  imagination  wiU  do  much 
mora  than  this,  as  in  the  familiar  cases  of  the  disappearance  of  warts  under 
the  supposed  influence  of  charms,  the  cure  of  scrofula  at  a  touch,  and 
hnndreds  of  well-attested  cases  of  so-called  miraculous  cures.  But  although 
ihe  actual  cases  of  the  curative  influence  obtained  over  hypnotised  pa- 
tients may  not  be  in-'veality  more  striking  than  some  of  these,  yet  t&ey 
Bre  more  sn^estive  at  any  rate  to  ordinary  minds,  because  they  are 
known  not  to  be  the  result  of  any  charm  or  miraculous  interference,-  but 
to  be  due  to  simply  natural  processes  initiated  by  natural  though  unfa- 
miliar means. 

Take,  for  instance,  such  a  case  as  the  following,  related  by  Dr.  Car- 
penter (who  has  himself  witnessed  many  remarkable  cases  of  hypnotic 
cure)  :w-««  A.  female  relative  of  Mr.  Braicl*swas  the  subject  of  a  severe 
zheumatic  fever,  daring  the  couzBe  of  which  the  left  eye  became  sen- 


SCO  ABTEFICIAL  SOMNAMBULESM.  V 

onsly  implicated,  so  that  after  the  inflammatory  action  had  pa£8ed  away, 
there  weib  an  opacity  over  more  than  one  half  of  the  cornea,  which  not 
only  prevented  distinct  vinion,  but  occasioned  an  annoying  disfigure- 
ment. Having  placed  herself  under  Mr.  Braid's  hypnotic  treatment  lor 
the  relief  of  violent  pain  in  her  arm  and  shoulder,  she  found,  to  the 
surprise  alike  of  herself  and  Mr.  Braid,  that  her  sight  began  to  ini. 
prove  very  perceptibly.  The  operation  was  therefore  continued  daily ; 
and  in  a  very  short  time  the  cornea  became  so  transparent  that 
close  inspection  was  required  to  discover  any  remains  of  the 
opacity."  On  this,  Carpenter  remarks  that  he  has  known  other 
cases  in  which  secretions-  that  had  been  morbidly  suspended,  have 
been  reinduced  by  this  process;  and  is  satisfied  that,  if  applied 
witb  skill  and  discrimination,  it  would  take  rank  as  one  of  the  niOFt 
potent  methods  of  treatment  which  the  physician  has  at  his  commaDd 
He  adds  that  "the  channel  of  influence  is  obviously  the  system  of 
nerves  which  regulates  the  st?cretions — nerves  which,  tiaough  not  midir 
direct  subjection  to  the  will,  are  peculiarly  affected  by  emotionai 
ctates." 

I  may  remark,  in  passing,  that  nerves  which  are  not  ordinarily 
trndcr  the  influence  of  the  will,  but  whose  ofiice  would  be  to  direct  mus- 
cular movements  if  only  the  will  could  influence  them,  may  by  persis- 
tent attention  become  obedient  to  the  wilL  When  I  was  Jast  in  New 
York,  I  met  a  gentleman  who  gave  me  a  long  and  most  interesting  ac- 
count of  certain  experiments  which  he  had  made  on  himself.  The  ac- 
count was  not  forced  on  me,  the  reader  must  understand,  but  was  elicited 
by  questions  suggested  by  one  or  two  remarkable  facts  which  hehadcasn- 
aUy  mentioned  as  falling  within  his  experience.  I  had  only  his  own 
word  for  much  that  he  told  me,  and  some  may  perhaps  consider  tliat 
there  was  very  little  truth  in  the  narrative.  I  may  pause  here  to  make 
some  remarks  by  the  way,  on  the  traits  of  truthful  and  untrutbiul 
persons.  I  believe  very  slight  powers  of  observation  are  nectSEary 
to  detect  want  of  veracity  in  any  man,  though  absence  of  veracity 
in  any  particular  story  may  not  be  easily  detected  or  establish,  d.  I  am 
not  one  who  believe  every  story  I  hear,  or  trust  in  every  one  I  luett 
But  I  have  noticed  one  or  two  features  by  which  the  habitual  ttlltrof 
untruths  may  be  detected  very  readily,  as  may  also  one  who,  without 
tilling  actual  falsehoods,  tries  to  heighten  the  effect  of  any  story  he  may 
have  to  tell,  by  strengthening  all  the  particulars.  My  experience  in  this 
rrspect  is  imlike  Dickens's,  who  believed,  and  indeed  found,  that  a  man 
v/hom  on  first  seeing  he  distrustpd,  and  justly,  couiel  explain  away  tlio 
t'.nfavourable  impression.  * '  My  first  impression, "  ho  says,  *  *  about  such 
].oople,  founded  on  face  and  manner  alone,  was  invariably  true ;  my  mi*^ 
lake  was  in  suffering  them  t-o  come  nearer  to  me  and  explain  themseh*  s 
away."  I  have  found  it  otherwise ;  though  of  course  Dickens  wasripl-t 
r.Loiit  his  own  experience :  the  matter  depends  entirely  on  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  the  observer,  i  have  often  been  deceived  by  face  andexpr  f- 
sicn :  never,  .to  the  best  of  my  belief  (and  belief  in  this  case  is  not  mcra. 


ARTIFICIAL  SOMNAMBTTLtSSl    *  _      8r/l 

'  opinion,  but  is  based  on  results),  by  manner  of  speaking.  One  peculiarity 
I  have  never  found  wanting  in  habitually  mendo^noua  persons — a  certain 
intonatioa  which  I  cannot  deficribe,  but  recognise  in  a  moment,  suggestivo 
of  the  weighing  of  each  sentence  as  it  is  being  uttered,  as  though  to  con- 
sider how  it  would  tell.  Another,  is  a  peculiarity  of  manner,  but  it  only 
shows  itself  during  speech ;  it  is  a  sort  of  watchfulness  often  disguised 
under  a  careless  tone,  but  perfectly  recognisable  however  disguised. 
Now,  the  gentleman  who  gave  me  the  experience  I  am  about  to  relate, 
conveyed  to  my  mind,  by  every  intonation  of  his  voice  and  every  pecu- 
harity  and  change  of  manner,  tne  idea  of  truthfulness.  I  cannot  convey 
to  others  the  impression  thus  conveyed  to  myself :  nor  do  I  expect  that 
others  will  share  my  own  confidence  ;  I  simply  state  tho  caso  as  I  kuo\7 
it.  and  as  far  as  I  l^ow  it.  It  will,  however,  bo  seen  that  a  part  of  iho 
evidence  was  confirmed  on  the  spol 

The  conversation  turned  on  the  curability  of  constmaption.  Ily  in* 
formant,  whom  I  will  henceforth  call  A.,  said  that,  thou^;li  ho  could  not 
assert  from  experience  tiiat  consxmiptiou  was  curable,  ho  brlievcd  that  ia 
many  cases  where  the  tendency  to  consumption  is  inheritrd  and  the  con- 
sumptive constitution  indicated  so  manifestly  that  under  ordinary  condi- 
tions the  penon  would  before  long  be  hopelessly  consumptive,  an  entiro 
change  may  be  made  in  the  condition  of  the  body,  and  the  person  becomo 
strong  and  healthy.  He  said :  *^  I  belong  myself  to  a  family  many  of 
whosa  members  have  died  of  consumption.  My  father  and  mother  both 
di  'd  of  it,  and  all  my  brothers  and  sisters  save  one  brother ;  yet  I  do  not  look 
coiLsumptive,  do  I  ?^*  and  certainly  he  did  not.  A.  then  took  from  a  pocket- 
boc-k  a  portrait  of  his  brother,  showing  a  young  man  manifestly  m  very 
I  rid  ht  alth,  looking  worn,  weary  and  emaciated.  From  the  same  pocket- 
l)ook  A.  then  took  another  portrait,  asking  if  I  recognized  it.  I  saw  here 
again  a  worn  and  emaciated  face  and  figure.  Tho  picture  was  utterly 
unlike  the  hearty  well-built  man  before  me,  yet  it  manif »^stly  r(  presented 
no  other.  If  I  had  been  at  all  doubtful,  my  doubts  would  have  been 
removed  by  certain  peculiarities  to  which  A.  called  my  attention.  I 
asked  how  the  change  in  his  health  had  been  brought  about.  He  told 
ms  a  very  remarkable  story  of  his  treatment  of  himself,  part  of  which  I 
omit  because  I  am  satisfied  he  w^  certainly  mistaken  in  attributing  to 
that  portion  of  his  self -treatment  any  part  of  tho  good  result  which  he 
had  obtained,  and  that  if  many  consumptive  patients  adopted  the  remedy, 
a  large  proportion,  if  not  all,  would  ine\1tably  succumb  very  quickly. 
1"he  other  portion  of  his  account  is  all  that  concerns  us  here,  being  all 
tlat  illustrates  our  present  subject.  He  said :  "I  determined  to  exerciso 
every  muscle  of  my  body ;  I  set  myself  in  front  of  a  mirror  sjid  concen- 
trated my  attention  and  all  the  power  of  my  will  on  the  muscle  or  set  of 
mnscles  I  proposed  to  bring  into  action.  Then  I  exercised  those  muscles 
in  every  way  I  could  think  of,  continuing  tho  process  till  I  had  used  in 
sncceSsion  every  muscle  over  which  the  will  has  control.  While  carry- 
ing out  this  system,  I  noticed  that  gradually  the  will  acquired  power  over 
moscles  which  before  I  had  been  quite  unable  to  move.     I  ma^  say,  iiu 


362  ARTIFICIAL  S0MNAJkCBULIS81    ^ 

• 

deed,  tliat  every  set  of  musdes  reoognised  by  anatomists,  except  tbosd 
bdlon^ng  to  lutemal  organs,  gradueJly  came  under  the  control  of  my 
will."  Here  I  interrupted,  asking  (not  by  any  means  as  doabting  hi^ 
veracity,  for  I  did  not) :  ^^  Can  you  do  what  Dmidreary  said  he  thought 
some  fellow  might  be  able  to  do?  can  you  waggle  your  left  ear." 
^^  Why^  certainly,''  he  replied ;  and,  turning  the  left  side  of  his  head  to- 
wards me,  he  moved  his  left  ear  about ;  not,  it  is  true,  waggling  it,  but 
.  drawing  it  up  and  down  in  a  singular  way,  which  was,  he  said,  tiie  only 
oxercisa  he  ever  gave  it.  Ho^  said,  on  this,  that  there  ace  many  other 
.  inuscles  over  which  the  will  has  ordinarily  no  <x>ntrol,  but  may  be  made 
to  obtain  control;  and  forthwith,  drawing  tke  cloth  of  his  troupers 
rather  tight  round  the  right  thigh  (so  that  the  movement  he  was  about 
to  show  might  be  discernible)  he  made  in  succession  the  three  muscles 
of  the  front  and  inner  side  of  the  thigh  rise  about-  half  an  inch  along 
some  nine  or  ten  inches  of  their  length.  Now,  though  these  muscles 
are  among  those  which  are  governed  by  the  will,  for  they  are  used  in  a 
variety  of  movements,  yet  not  one  in  ten  thousand,  perhaps  in  a  million, 
can  move  them  in  the  way  described. 

How  far  A.'s  system  of  exciting  the  muscles  individually  as  well  as  in 
groups  may  have  operated  in  improving  his  health,  as  he  supposed,  I 
am  not  now  inquiring.  What  I  wish  specially  to  notice  is  the  influence 
which  the  will  may  be  made  to  obtain  over  muscles  ordinarily  beyond  its 
control  It  may  be  that  tmder  the  exceptional  influence  of  tiie  imagina- 
tion, in  the  hypnotio  condition,  the  will  obtains  a  simiLir  control  for  a 
while  over  even  those  parts  of  |he  nervous  system  which  appertain  to  the 
so-called  involuntary  processes.  In  other  words,  the  case  I  have  cited 
may  be  regarded  as  occupying  a  sort  of  middle  position  between  ardin- 
ary  cases  of  muscular  action  and  those  perplexing  cases  in  which  the 
hypnotio  subject  seems  able  to  influence  pulsation,  circulation,  and  pro- 
cesses of  secretion  in  the  various  parts  or  organs  of  his  bod^. 

It  must  be  noted,  however,  that  the  phenomena  of  hypnotism  are  solely 
due  to  the  influence  of  the  imagination.  The  qnasi-scientiflo  explanations 
which  attributed  them  to  magnetism,  elecfaricity,  some  subUe  ammal 
fluid,  some  occult  force,  and  so  forth,  have  been  as  completely  nega- 
tived as  the  supernatural  explanation.  We  have  sern  that  painted 
wooden  tractors  were  as  effectual  as  tiie  metal  tractors  of  the  earlier 
mesmerists ;  a  small  disc  of  card  or  wood  is  as  effective  as  the  disc  of  zino 
and  copper  used  by  the  electro-biologists ;  and  now  it  appears  that  the 
mystical  influence,  or  what  was  thought  such,  of  the  opezatiaii  is  no 
more  essential  than  magnetic  or  electric  apparatus. 

Dr.  Koble,  of  Manchester,  made  several  experiments  to  determine 
this  point.     Some  among  them  seem  absolutely  decisive. 

Thus,  a  friend  of  Dr.  Noble's  had  a  female  servant  whom  he  had  fre- 
quently thrown  into  the  hypnotic  state,  trying  a  variety  of  enMriments, 
many  of  which  Dr.  Noble  had  witnessed^  Dr.  Noble  was  at  length  told 
that  his  friend  had  suoceeded  in  magnetising  her  from  another  room 
and  without  her  knowledge,  with  some  other  stories  even  more  marvel- 


ARTIFICIAL  SOMNAMBULISM.  863 

Ions,  circnmBtantially  related  hf  eye-witnemes,  *'  amongst  others  by  the 
medical  attendant  of  the  family,  a  most  respectable  and  intelligent 
friend^'  of  Dr.  Noble*s  own.     As  he  remained  unsatisfied,  Dr.  Noble 
ns  QTited  to  oome  and  jndge  for  himself,  proposing  whatever  test  he 
pleased.     **Now,  had  we  Tisited  the  honse,"  he  says,  "we  should  have 
felt  dissatisfied  with  any  resxdt,"  knowing  **  that  the  presence  of  a  vis- 
itor or  the  occurrence  of  anything  unusual  was  sure  to  excite  expecta- 
tion of  some  mesmerit}  process.^'     **  We  therefore  proposed/*  he  pro- 
ceeds, '^that  the  experiment  should  be  carried  on  at  our  own  residence ; 
and  it  was  made  under  the  following  circumstances  :—The  gentle- 
man early  one  evening  wrote  a  note,  as  if  on  business,  directing  it 
to  ourselves.      He    thereupon  summoned  the   female    servant    (the 
mesmeric  subject),  requesting  her  to  convey  the  note  to  its  destination, 
and  to  wait  for  an  answer.     The  gentleman  himself,  in  her  hearing, 
ordered  a  cab,  stating  that  if  any  one  called  he  was  going  to  a  place 
named,  but  waiis  expected  to  return  by  a  certain  hour.     Whilst  the 
female  servant  was  dressing  for  her  cirand,  the  master  placed  himself 
in  the  vehicle,  and  rapidly  arrived  at  our  dwelling.     In  about  ten 
minutes  after,  the  note  arrived,  the  gentleman  in  the  mean  time  being 
secreted  in  an  adjoining  apartment,  we  requested  the  young  woman, 
¥ho  had  been  shown  into  our  study,  to  take  a  seat  whilst  we  wrote  the 
answer;  at  the  same  time  placing  the  chair  with  its  back  to  the  door 
leading  into  the  next  room,  which  was  left  ajar.     It  had  been  agreed 
tliot  after  the  admission  of  the  girl  into  the  place  where  we  were,  the 
magnetiser,  approaching  the  door  in  silence  on  the  other  side,  should 
commence  operations.     There,  then,  was  the  patient  or  ** subject,** 
placed  within  two  feet  of  her  magnetiser — a  door  only  intervening,  and 
that  but  partially  closed — ^but  she,  all  the  while,  perfectiy  free  from  all 
idea  of  what  was  going  on.     We  were  careful  to  avoid  any  unnecessary 
conversation  with  the   girl,   or  even  to   look   towards  her,  lest  we 
shonld  raise  some  suspicion  in  her  own  mind.     We  wrote  our  letter 
(as  if  in  answer)  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  once  or  twice 
only  making  an  indilferent  remark ;    and  on  leaving  the  room  for 
a  light  to  seal  the  supposed  letter,  we  beckoned  the  operator  away.    No 
effect  whatever  had  been  produced,  although  we  had  been  told  that 
two  or  three  minutes  were  sufficient,  even  when  mesmerising  from  the 
drawing-room,  through  walls  and  apartments  into  the  kitchen.     In  our 
own  experiment  the  intervening  distance  had  been  very  much  less,  and 
only  one  solid  substance  intervened,  and  that  not  completely ;  but  here 
we  saspect  was  the  difference — t?ie  ^subject*  «vm  unconscious  of  the 
magnetism^  and  ecppeeted  noMng^ 

In  another  case  Dr.  Noble  tried  the  converse  experiment,  with  equally 
convincing  results.  Being  in  company  one  evemng  with  a  young  lady 
Bald  to  be  of  high  mesmerio  susceptibility,  he  requested  antf  received 
permission  to  teei  this  quality  in  her.  In  one  of  the  usual  ways  he 
*' magnetised^*  her,  and  having  so  far  satisfied  himself,  he  **  demagnet- 
ized** her.     He  next  proceeded  to  "hypnotise**  her,  adopting  Mr. 


364:  ABTIFICIAL  SOMITAMBULISM. 

Braid^s  method  of  directing  the  stare  ^at  a  fixed  point.  "ThoresoH 
varied  in  no  respect  from  that  which  had  taken  place  in  t!i3  foregoing 
experiment ;  the  duration  of  the  process  was  the  same,  and  its  intensity 
of  effect  neither  greater  nor  less."  **De-hypnotisationI"  again  restored 
the  yomig  lady  to  herself.  **  And  now,"  says  Dr.  Noble,  "  we  reqijestcd 
our  patient  to  rest  quietly  at  the  iire-place,  to  think  of  just  what  slio 
liked,  and  to  look  where  she  pleased,  excepting  at  ourselves,  wJio  re- 
treated bohind  her  chair,  saying  that  a  new  mode  was  about  to  be  tri:}d, 
and  that  h^r  turning  round  would  disturb  the  process.  We  very  com- 
posedly took  up  a  volume  which  lay  upon  a  table,  and  amused  our- 
selves with  it  for  about  five  minutes;  when,  on  raising  our  eyes,  'vrs 
could  see,  by  the  excited  features  of  other  members  of  the  party,  that 
the  young  lady  was  onca  mora  magnetised.  We  were  informed  by  thos3 
who  Imd  attentively  watched  her  during  the  progress  of  our  little  ex- 
periment, that  all  had  been  in  every  respect  just  as .  before.  The  lady 
herself,  before  she  was  undeceived,  expressed  a  distinct  consciousness 
of  having /<;^^  our  unsp.en  passda  et reaming  down  the  neck.*'' 

In  a  similar  way,  Mr.  Bertrand,  who  was  the  first  (Dr.  Carpenter  telLj 
as)  to  undertake  a  really  scientifio  investigation  of  the  phenomena  of 
mesmerism,  proved  that  the  su^  posed  effect  of  a  magneti&td  letter  from 
him  to  a  female  somnambule  was  entirely  the  work  of  her  own  lively 
imagination.  He  magnetised  a  letter  first,  which  on  receipt  was  placed  at 
his  suggestion  upon  t£e  epigastrium  of  the  patient,  who  was  thrown  into 
the  magnetic  sleep  with  all  the  customary  phenomena.  He  then  wrot? 
another  letter.  wMch  he  did  not  magnetise,  and  agcdn  the  same  effect  vri3 
produced.  Lastly,  he  sat  about  an  experiment  which  should  determine 
the  real  state  of  tiie  case.  *'I  asked  one  of  my  friends,'*  he  says,  *'to 
write  a  few  lines  in  my  place,  and  to  strive  to  imitate  my  writing,  so 
that  those  who  should  read  the  letter  should  mistake  it  for  mine  (I 
knew  he  could  do  so).  b..>  did  this ;  our  stratagem  succeeded ;  and  tlia 
sleep  was  produced  just  as  it  would  have  been  by  one  of  my  own  let- 
ters." 

It  is  hardly  nec3ssary  to  say,  perhaps,  that  none  of  the.  phenomena 
of  hypnotism  require,  as  indeed  none  of  them,  rightly  understood,  sn  :- 
gest,  the  action  of  any  such  occult  forces  as  spiritualists  believe  in.  0 j 
the  other  hand,  I  believe  that  many  of  the  phenomena  recorded  by  spirit- 
ualists as  having  occmred  under  tiieir  actual  observation  are  very  rewliiy 
to  be  explained  as  phenomena  of  hypnotism.  Of  course  I  would  not  u  r 
a  moment  deny  that  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  much  grosser  forms  of 
deception  are  employed.  But  in  others,  and  especially  in  those  wli-rt) 
the  concentration  of  the  attention  for  some  time  is  a  ^necessary  preliui- 
inary  to  the  exhibition  of  the  phenomena  (which  suitable  *' subjects" 
only  are  privileged  to  see),  I  regard  the  resulting  self-deception  as  hyp- 
.  no  tic.     ' 

We  may  regard  the  phenomena  of  hypnotism  in  two  aspects- 
first  and  chiefly  as  illustrating  the  influence  of  imagination  on  tue 
functions  of   the  body  i   secondly  as  showing  under  what  ■  conditioDS 


AllTHflCLVL  SOMNAMBULISM.  86& 

# 

the  ima^nation  may  be  most  readily  bronght  to  boor  in  producing 
sucii  iii2iiciico.      lliese    plienomtua  deserve  fax  cl(»tjer  aoid  at  th3 
tme  (ime  far  wider  attsntioa  than  they  have  yet  received.     Doubt  has 
been  linown  npon  them  because  they  have  been  associated  "with  false 
llieories,  and  in  many  cafles  with  fraud  and  delusion.      Eut,   rig^htly 
viewed,  they  are  at  once  instructive  and  valuable.     On  the  one  hand 
Ijey  throv  ii^t  on  e6me  of  the  most  interesting  problems  of  mental 
physiology;  on  the  other  they  promise  to  alford  valuable  means  of  cur- 
ing certain  ailments,  and  of  inliuoncing  in  use '  il  ways  certain  pow.ra 
a-d  fuictions  of  the  body.    All  that  is  necessary,  it  Bhould  seem,  to  fi>vp 
bpnotio  researches  their  full  value,  is  that  all  association  of  tii';S3 
pirJy  mental  phenomena  with  charlatanry  and  fnind  should  bo  p.b- 
npUy  and  definitely  brok-n  o^r.    Those  who  inali-  iimetical  a|->licaLlcn 
of  the  phenomena  of  hypnot'/ji-Q  phould  not  only  tlivcst  their  ov;n  minds 
of  all  idea  that  some  occult  and  ai  it  were  cxlra-nalural  force  is  at 
,\!0t\,  but  should  encourage  no   b  lief   in  su-h  force  in  those  on 
vhom  the    hypnotic  method    is  employed.     'ih?ir  infiuenco  on  the 
patient  wiH  not  be  lessened,   I    believe,   by  th3    fii'Jest   knowledge 
on  flie  patient's  part  that  ail  which  is  to  happen  to  him  is  purely 
natural—- that,  in  fact,  advantage  is  simply  to  bo  taken  of  an^  observed 
property  of  the  imagination  to  obtain  an  iiilluenco  not  oth-^rwiso  attain- 
able over  the  body  as  a  whole  (as  when  the  so-called  mngnetio  sleep 
is  to  be  produced),  or  over  special  parts  of  the  body.     "\>'h^  ther  ewivan- 
tage  might  not  be  taken  of  other  thnn  the  curativ(xinfluences  of  hypnotism 
is  a  question^yhich  will  prdbably  havo  occurred"  to  some  who  r.iay  have 
followed  the  curious  accounts  given  in  the  preceding  pa«rs.     If  special 
powers  may  bo  obtained,  eveu  for  a  short  time,  by  the  Ir/piiotised  sub- 
ject, these  powers  might  be  systematically  used  for  other  purposes  than 
mere  experiment.     If,  again,  the  rep-tuion  of  h^rpnotlc  curative  pro- 
cesses eventually  leads  to  a  complete  and  lasting  change  in  the  condition 
of  certain  parts  or  organs  of  the  body,  the  repetU^'ou  of  the  exercise  of 
fipecial  powers  during  the  hjninotic  state  may  Rf t'  r  a  whi]  ^  1  ad  to  the 
definite  acquisition  of  sneh  powers.     As  it  nov.-  appari  that  the  hyp- 
notic control  may  be  obtained  vrithoiTt  avty  c;n'ort  on  tho  pp.rt  of  the 
operator,  the  effort  formerly  supposed  to  b^^  r  qn'r  d  b'^nrr  y.nvohr  im- 
aj^inary,  :^nd  the  hypnotic  state  being  in  fart  rea-VIv  n^tainabV  v.'ithont 
p.ny  operation  what^'ver,  we  s'^em  to  reco£nii«e  possib^r.ties  which,  duly 
(bveloped,  might  be  found  of  extreme  valne  +o  ihe  Innnan  rnce.^    In 
fine,  it  wouk'  seem  that  man  possesses  a  power  wliich  haj  hitherto  lain  al- 


accomplished  by  persons  who,  in  the  ordinary  staxO;  are  quite  incapable 
of  Buch  achieTements.  Bichaed  A.  Peoctob,  in  Belgravia, 


THE  PEOGRESS  OP  GREECE, 

"  A  STRtTGGLE,  equal  in  duration  to  the  war  which  Homer  snng,  and 
in  indiyidual  vaiour  not  perhaps  inferior,  has  at  last  drawn  to  a  glorioii£ 
close;  and  Greece,  though  her  future  dtstiuy  be  as  yet  obecure,  has 
emerged  from  the  trial  regenerate  and  free.  Like  the  star  of  Merope. 
all  sad  and  lustreless,  her  darkness  h  s  at  length  disappeared,  and  hci 
iCuropeMn  sisters  haste  to  greet  the  returning  brightness  of  the  beautifd 
and  long-lost  Pleiad."  These  ara  the  closing  words  of  a  book  \fhi(h, 
since  the  appearance  of  I'iulay^s  work,  has  probably  had  few  EBglifch 
readers,  Emerson's  "History  of  Modem  Creece ;"  when  they  w<n 
written  in  1830  Capodistria  was  still  President  of  the  new  State,  and 
three  years  were  yet  to  pass  before  King  Otho  shouid  arrive  at  Kauplia^ 
During  the  half -century  which  has  nearly  elapstd  sirce  then,  "the  En-, 
ropean  sisters"  have  not  always  been  so  gracious  to  "the  long-lc^t 
Pleiad;"  indeed  they  have  bometimes  been  on  the  verge  of  hinting  li^t 
\he  constellation  which  they  adorn  would  have  been  nearly  as  bnlliaDt 
without  her.  But  at  least  thtro  can  no  longt  r  be  any  excuse  for  all*  girg 
that  Greece  has  been  a  failuro  without  examining  the  farts.  Htr  record 
is  beforo  tho  world.  The  necessary  statistics  are  easy  of  access  to  any 
one  who  may  desire  to  fcr::i  an  independent  judgment  Ihe  last  few 
years  have  been  especially  fTtile  in  v.orks  replete  with  information  on 
the  political,  social  and  economical  condition  of  the  eoui^ry.  Among 
these  may  b3  mentioned  the  work  of  M.  Moraitir'P,  **Xa  Gr^ce  telle 
qu'elle  est ;"  the  work  of  M.  Mansolas,  *'  La  Greer  A  i'  Fxpcsition  Univer- 
s?lle  de  Paris  en  1878:"  the  essay  cf  M.  Tomtasis,  "la  Grece  eocs 
l3  point  de  vue  aigricole ;"  and  an  interesting  littie  book,  full  of 
ir.foriration  and  of  acute  criticism,  by  Mr.  Tuckerman,  fonp<riy 
Minister  of  the  United  States  at  Athens,  "  The  Greeks  of  To-day." 
It  is  often  instructive  to  compare  Mr.  Tuckerman's  observations 
with  those  made  more  than  twenty  years  ago  by  his  couutrymanr 
Mr.  H.  M.  Baird,  who,  after  residing  for  a  year  at  Athens  and  travelling 
both  in  Northern  Greecp  and  in  the  Morea,  emboditd  the  results  in  h'S 
"Modem  Greece."  Lastly,  Mr.  Lewis  Sergeant,  in  bis  "New  Greece," 
has  essayed  a  double  task — to  show  statistically  how  f.»r  Greece  has  ad- 
vanced,  and  to  show  historically  why  it  has  a<Jvarcf  d  no  further.  De- 
tailed criticism  would  be  out  of  place  here.  Mr.  Sergeant's  book  can- 
not fail  to  be  useful  in  making  the  broad  facts  concerning  Greece  better 
known  to  the  British  public.  It  is  the  only  compendium  of  recent  in- 
formation on  Greece  which  exists  in  English ;  and  we  welcome  it  ac- 
cordingly. 

In  the  following  pages  only  a  few  of  the  salient  points  in  the  condi- 
tion of  modem  Greece  can  be  noticed.      The  facts  and  views  presented 
(366) 


THE  PBOGKESS  OF  GBEEC5E.  867 

i?ri  are  darived  both  from  study  aud  from  personal  observation.     They 

rj  tifered  merely  in  the  hope  that  soma  rjad:!r8  may  bj  indaced  to 

tk  ioUar  sonroes  of  knowlcjdge  regarding  a  people  who,  by  gonerai 

7Qseni,  ard  destined  to  play  a  part  of  increasing  importance  in  tha 

The  piosperity  of  Greece  mnst  always  depend  mainly  on  agricul- 
re.  }fo  qnestion  is  more  vital  for  Grdece  at  this  moment  than  that  of 
■ogaising  ths  causes  which  have  checked  progress  in  this  direction, 
J  doing  what  can  be  done  to  remove  them.      It  was  with  agricnltur9 

with  evjry  othir  forin  of  national  effort  in  the  newly  estaU- 
3d  kingdoji;  it  had  to  bagin  almost  at  the  begiuiung.      The  Tnrkj 

left  the  laal  a  wild3ra3sJi.  The  Egyptian  troops  in  the  Pelopon- 
13,  aftar  barning  the  olives  and  other  inflammable  trees,  had  cut  down 
levrhioh,  lik)  tae  fig-traes,  could  less  easily  bo  destroyed  byfira. 
rj  wa?  sear jaly  a  family  in  the  country  which  had  not  lost  some  of 
nmbers.  The  Greek  peasant-/  was  too  poor  and  too  wretched  to 
at  more  than  a  bara  subsistenoi  br  the  rudest  methods  of  hus- 
1-/.  It  sh3ald  navar  ba  forgotten  m  estimating  what  Greece  has 
in  this  deportment,  as  in  others  during  the  last  forty  years,  that  in 
irlisr  part  of  this  pariod  progress  wa3  necessarily  very  slow.  Tho 
v^orkirs  had  to  oonj tract  everything  for  themselves,  or  even  to  nn- 
i  work  of  the  past  before  they  could  get  a  clea.  start     Hence, 

the  rata  of  recent  progress  is  found  to  have  been  rapid,  the  fa- 
ble inferin^a  is  strengthenad.  Including  both  the  Ionian  and  the 
1  islands,  the  Kingdom  of  Greece  contains  about  fourteen  millions 
half  of  acres.  Nearly  one-half  of  this  total  area  is  occupied  by 
I.  marshes,  or  rooky  tra(3ts,  aud  is  not  at  present  susceptible  of 
tion.  An  inquirer  who  ask3  what  proportion  of  tho  total  area  is 
y  under  cultivation  is  surprised  at  first  sight  by  the  discrepancy 

different  answers  Thus,  to  take  two  extremes,  M.  Mansolas 
nearly  one-third,^'  Mr.  Tuckerman  says  **  one-seventh,**  though  it 
»d  remembarad  that  Mr.  Tuckerman  is  writing  six  years  earlier 
.  Miansolas.  Tha  chief  source  of  such  discrepancies  is  that  tha 
Bstimates  include  the  fallows,  while  the  lower  exclude  them.  M. 
>is,  who  has  written  specially  cm  Greek  agriculture,  is  probably 
.uthority  on  this  point.  According  to  him,  one-fourth  of  tha 
ia  is  aader  cultivation ,  but  of  this  nearly  one-half  is  always 

BTenoe  not  much  more  than  one-seventh  of  the  total-  area  is 
ive  at  any  given  time.  One-fourth,  therefore,  of  the  territoiy 
light  ba  cultivated  is  not  under  cultivation  at  alL  But  it  is 
:>ry  to  learn  from  M.  Mansolas  that  some  500,000  acres  hava 
msfht  under  cultivation  within  the  last  fifteen  years.  The  pop- 
•f  the  Kingdom  is  about  a  million  and  a  half.  It  is  computed 
J.  one-tliird  to  one-fourth  of  this  population  is  engaged  in  agri- 
:>r  pastoral  pursuits.  The  increase  since  1830  has  been  large  in 
aple  agricultural  products,  and  in  some  it  has  been  remarkable. 
Lvatioii  of  olives  has  increased  about  three-fold  since  1830;  of 


868  THE  PEOGRESS  OF  GREECE.     ^ 

figs,  six-fold ;  of  cur^jits,  fifteen-fold ;  of  vines,  twentj'-eight-fold.    The 
progress  of  the  ciinimt  tradu  has  been  tolerably  steady  since  1858.    M. 
Ivloraitinis  puts   tiio  area  occupied  by  cun-aait-vines  at  nearly  40,0(K5 
acres ;  M.  Mansolas,  at  even  a  higher  figure.     The  average  yearly  pro 
auction  of  curmnts,  before  the  Greek  War  of  Independence,  -was  about 
ten  million  pounds  weight.     It  has  lately  risen  to  upwards  of  a  hundred- 
and-fif  ty  million  pounds  weight.     The  produce  from  arable  land  is  stated 
to  have  increased  fifty  per  cent,  in  the  last  fifteen  years. 

Creditable  progress  has  been  made,  then,  by  Greece  in  all  the  chitf 
branches  of  her  agriculture;  iii  some  branches^  even  great  progress. 
And  yet  competent  observers  are  generally  agreed  that  Gre^  agricul- 
turo  is  still  very,  far  from  doing  justice  to  the  natnial  resoorces  of  tho 
country.  The  causes  of  this  defect  deserve  the  earnest  attention  of  all 
v/ho  viish  to  see  the  prosperity  of  Grreece  set  on  a  firm  basis.  Mr.  Ser- 
geant touches  on  every  one  of  the  separate  causes :  but  he  doesnot  pre- 
sent tliem,  perhaps,  quite  in  the  connection  or  in  the  proportions  beet 
fitted  to  make  the  general  state  of  the  matter  clear.  "Wsuit  of  capital  ii 
unquestionably  the  great  want  of  all  for  Greek  agricultoze.  But,  if 
r.biiudant  capital  were  forthcoming  to-morrow,  it  would  still  have  to  con- 
t  :nd  with  a  STJCcial  set  of  dimculties  created  by  the  want  of  capital  at 
(lio  critical  moment  nearly  fifty  years  ago.  After  the  War  of  Inde- 
pendence the  Greek  lands  fhich  the  Turks  had  left — on  receiving  a 
largo  compensation  at  the  instance  of  the  Powers — ^became  the  propert? 
cf  ViiQ  Greek  k  tato.  Few  wealthy  purcha=ers  were  found.  P^  of  the 
land  wa^j  (p-antod  by  the  Government  ia  small  lots  to  peasant  holder?, 
subject  to  taxes  on  the  produce.  A  great  part  was  left  on  the  hands  of 
the  Go vemnic  nt  and  remained  unproductive.  The  system  of  smaii  hold- 
ings, the  pci'te  cuUurCy  has  la;oted  to  this  day, — ^the  partition  of  land 
being  especially  minute  in  the  mountainous  districts  and  in  the  ^gcan 
islands.  This  system  has  been  a  constant  bar  to  the  introduction  of 
scientific  farming.  The  average  agriculturist  has  been  too  poor  and  too 
i-;norant  to  attc;ript  it.  The  mode  of  taxation — a  modification  of  th  7 
del  1  ayah  system — is  such  that,  as  Jilr.  Tuckerman  says,  "the  husband- 
in  an  Einlei'S  delay  in  bringing  his  crop  to  market, — loses  by  deprecin- 
I'.cn  v.hile  awaiting  the  tax-gatherer's  arrival, — ^and  finally  in  the  tax  t? 
V.  nich  it  is  subjected."  The  importance  of  encouraging  better  methot!  ? 
CI  farming  has  been  recognised  from  the  earliest  days  of  Greece.  Cap  '^- 
t''Jstria,.  when  President  of  the  Republic,  founded  ia  1831  an  Agriculturcl 
r-chool  at  Tirynth.  This  was,  on  the  whole,  afailure,  and  was  closed  in 
ISG.").  **Itwas  replaced,"  JTr.  Sergeant  says,  **by  a  more  techniail 
\"3hcol,  which  seems  to  have  had  no  better  fortune  than  its  predecessor." 
1  r.  Mansolas,  however,  gives  a  somewhat  more  encouraging  accoxmt  cf 
t  '13  new  institution,  and  it  may  be  hoped  that  it  V/'ili  yet  d3  good  work. 
?^'t  the  ca;^e  of  Greece  is  widely  dlferent  from  that  of  a  country  in 
v'l'V'h  the  laud  is  occupied  chiefly  by  an  educated  class  of  lar.'^e  or  co;> 
fiid"'- i])V>  lmd-ho]dew.  In  Greece  ep.ch  several  holder  of  one  or  t'"o 
acre's  ha:i  to  bo  converted  to  gcientllo  farming  before  agriculturdr:. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  GREECE.  869 

)rm  can  make  vay.  And  the  natural  conservatism  of  an  agRcultiiRj 
opulation  is  intensified  by  the  fact  that  in  thtisa  matters  every  mim 
IS  hitherto  been  his  own  uiaeter,  with  no  <^bligatiou  btyond  the  jny- 
lut  of  his  taxes  to  the  State.  It  is  not  evtu  the  amoition  of  the 
lasant  farmer  to  get  as  much  out  of  the  land  as  he  can.  The  difficul- 
6  rf  coiamtinication  limit  his  market,  and  he  is  usually  content  if  ho 
Q  satisfy  the  wants  of  his  household,  with  perhaps  a  narrow  margin  of 
Jilt.  Tradition  and  the  inflxit  nee  of  climate  combine  to  make  thes  J 
nts  few  xmd  simple,  and  so  to  restrict  the  amount  of  energy  employe  d. 
Greece,  as  elsewhere,  it  is  in  one  sense  a  misfortime  that  the  peas- 
17  are  contented  with  so  little.  Again,  tho  population  of  Greece  ij 
1— excluding  the  Ionian  Islands,  it  has  been  computed  at  fifty-eight 
lie  square  mile — and  tho  system  of  small  holdmgs  iucrc  uses  the 
rth  of  agricultural  labour.  The  destruction  of  the  forests  in  Greece 
been  due  mainly  to  tho  long  mirestrained  rccklt  ssn.  ss  of  the  peafi- 
i  and  to  the  depredations  of  tho  wandering  slit  ph^rds  with  their  flocks 
roats.  The  destruction  of  tha  forests  has  in  turn  injured  the  climate 
helped  to  dry  up  the  rivers.  The  Gretk  government  has  not  been 
Qsible  to  these  evils,  but  it  has  had  to  contend  against  deeply- 
ed  pre judices and  traditions — those,  namely,  which  were  engendered 
nrkish  role.  Good  results  may  be  anticipated  from  a  law  lately 
d,  which  penrfts  the  tax-paying  tenant  of  public  land  to  buy  it 
the  State,  and  to  pay  the  purchase-money  by  infitalmenls  spread 
c'r^hteen  years.     This  should  tend  to  bring  in  a  better  class  of  agri- 

.-ts,  and  also  by  degrees  to  enlarge  the  cultivated  area. 
e  want  of  roads  in  Greece  has  been  an  obpfacL  to  agricultural  in- 
7,  as  to  enterprise  of  every  kind.  Seaboard  towns  sometimes  im- 
litir  wheat  when  there  ij  an  ampl-!  supply  at  a  distance  perhaps  of 
's  journey  inland,  simply  because  tho  traiiKport  by  mules  or  hers:  ;j 
!  be  too  expensive.  Mr.  Tuckcrman  coii^putes  that  there  ar.^  abont 
r'-'ilrcd  miles  of  "good  highwny  *  in  Greece  Proper  ;  and  if  by 
i"  is  naeant  "thoroughly practicable  lor  carriages,"  this  ifperh.iiig 
r  from  the  mark.*  The  fact  ii  that  there  has  b'  <  n  no  grvat  de- 
fer roads  on  the  part  of  tho  unambitious  agricultural  clasp,  and 
)nntTy,  with  its  already  h  avy  burdens,  has  felt  no  sufficiently 
incentive  to  proceed  vigorously  with  a  work  of  such  heavy  cost* 
inking  is  exj^ensive  in  a  country  so  full  of  rocky  tracts  and  inter- 
by  frequent  chains  of  hills  :  the  average  cost  for  Greece  has  been 
tvd  at  600?.  a  mile.  The  pressure  which  must  ultimately  compel 
to  complete  her  road-system  will  come,  not  from  the  agricul- 
I  Tit  from  commerce.  Already  the  exigencies  of  the  currant  trad  o 
3  silk  trade  are  beginning  to  open  up  the  Morea.  Last  summer, 
J  from  Xjaconia  into  Messenia,  I  came  on  the  still  unfinished  ror.d 

■^•rrcant  Bfate?,  cm  official  anthority,  th.it:  "tho  roads  of  the  maicland  h-v3 
'^;:it  J  1-11 '^ia  cf  i.CO,i/3J  Idloiactros.V    A.euU  Sa3  kiiometres.  92Zmefyre8:  i.o. 


THE  mOGRISS  OF  CKEECE.  871 

g^bt  future  for  Greek  commeroe,  and  already  the  pvedtciion  has  been 
;om0  meosiiro  fnl filled.  Kcxt  to  agriculture,  the  moinBtay  of  Greece 
ler  merchant  marine  trading  with  Turkey  and  the  ports  of  the  Le« 
t.  In  1821  Greece  had  only  about  450  Teasels;  the  nnmber  in  1874 
i),202,  representing  an  aggregate  burden  of  2(>&,077  tons;  and  the 
chant  marine  of  Greece  ranks  in  the  scale  of  importance  as  the 
nth  of  the  world. 

he  questi<m  of  national  education  has  from  the  fin>t  days  of  recov- 
freedom  engaged  the  most  earnest  attention  of  the  Greek  pt^ople. 
^ion  is  for  tibe  Greeks  of  to-day,  not  merely  what  it  is  for  every 
sed  nation,  the  necessary  .basis  of  all  worthy  hope;  it  is,  further, 
arest  pledge  of  their  unity  as  a  peopld  both  within  and  without  the 
darios  of  the  present  Kingdom ;  it  is  the  practical  yindication  of 
oldest  birthright;  it  is  the  symbol  of  the  agencies  which  wrought 
partial  deliverance ;  it  is  tho  living  witness  of  those  quaUties  and 
traditions  on  which  they  found  their  bgitimata  aspimtioni»  for  tho 
i.  During  three  centunes  and  a  half  of  Tui^ish  rule  tho  Greek 
tality  was  preserved  from  efEaoement  by  the  studies  which  fostered 
goage  and  its  religion ;  and,  when  the  earliest  hopes  of  frdcdoui 
to  be  felt,  the  first  sure  promise  of  its  approach  was  the  fact  that 
Btndies  had  been  enlarged  and  had  received  a  new  impulse.  Ko- 
rack  the  true  note  in  tiie  prefaca  to  his  translation  of  Beccaria 
Crimes  imd  Punishments,*'  which  he  dcdicatad  in  1802  to  tho 
republic  of  the  lonians.  "  Ton  aro  now,"  ho  said,  addressing  tho 
IS  youth  of  Greece,  **  the  instructors  and  teachers  of  your  country, 
!  time  is  fast  approaching  when  you  will  be  called  upon  to  become 
'givers.  Unite,  then,  your  wealth  and  your  exertions  in  her  be- 
jice  in  her  destitution  she  can  boast  no  public  treasury  for  the 
[ion  of  her  children ;  and  forget  not  that  in  her  brighter  days 
lacation  was  a  public  duty  entrusted  to  hpr  rulers. "  If  ever  there 
ase  in  which  the  deliverance  of  a  people  was  directly  traceable 
wakening  of  the  national  inlblligence,  that  case  was  the  Greek 
Independence.  No  people  could  have  a  more  cogent  practical 
than  the  Greeks  have  for  believing  that  knowledge  is  power ; 
7  do  not  value  it  only  or  chiefly  because  it  is  power.  The  love 
ledge  is  an  essantial  part  of  the  Greek  character, — an  instinct 
leir  historical  traditions  strengthen,  indeed,  bnthfrve  not  created. 
e  war,  when  the  troubled  period  of  Capodistria^s  Presidency  had 
Eice  to  settled  institutions,  one  of  the  first  grsat  tasks  taken  in 
s  that  Cff  thoroughly  organizing  public  instruction.  M.  BumouTs 
quoted  by  Mr.  Sergeant,  that  public  instruction  was  '^almost 
'ent "  in  Greece  in  1833,  is  true  in  a  s«nse,  but  needs  qualifica- 
is  true  that  there  was  no  complete  or  uniform  system  of  pub- 
action ;  in  the  political  situation  of  the  Greeks  before  the 
I  a  thing  had  not  been  posrable.  On  the  other  hand,  many 
of  sach  a  system  had  been  supplied  by  the  strenuous  efforts 
many  particular  oentees  of  Greek  Uf  e  during  a  long  series  of 


870  THE  PROGEESS  OF  OrjEECE. 

whicli  is  being  made  from  Kolamata  to  Tripolitzo,  and  followed  it  for 
Bomo  way.  A  few  more  such  first-rate  highways  wonld  be  tto  greatest  of 
boons  to  the  coontiy.  There  ii^  still  no  continnons  road  between  Kala- 
2nata  and  Patras ;  there  is  nothing  worthy  to  be  called  a  road  between 
Tripolitza  and  Sparta.  The  poet  tells  us  that,  when  Apollo  passed 
from  Delos  to  Delphi, 

The  children  of  Hephsestna  were  his  guides, 
Clearing  tho  tmiglorl  i)ath  boforo  tho  gocl, 
Making  u  wild  land  smooth ; 

and  every  modem  tourist  will  echo  the  wish  that  the  rising  Polytechnic 
School  of  Athens  may  produce  some  more  *^i*oacInuikrig  sons  of 
Hephsestus.'*  But  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  infer,  from  the  deficiency 
of  roads  which  is  still  felt,  that  Greece  has  been  inactire  in  pnbhc 
works.  Some  dozen  harbours  have  been  constructed  or  restored,  light- 
houses  haye  been  erected  at  ail  the  dangerous  points  in  the  Greek  seas, 
drainage  works  have  been  executed  in  st-vexal  places,  eleven  new  citica 
have  arisen  on  ancient  sites,  more  than  forty  towns  and  more  than  six 
hundred  villages  have  been  rebuilt  since  the  war. 

The  manu&cturing  industries  of  .Greece  have  made  r9.pid  progress 
within  the  last  few  years.     According  to  M.  Moraitinis,  the  PeirsBUS*  did 

.  not  contain  a  single  steam  manufactory  in  1868.  It  has  now  more  than 
thirty  such  establishments  ;  and  the  kingdom  contains  in  all  no  less  than 
112  steam  factories.  Most  of  these  have  been  estabhshed  within  the  last 
tin  years.  There  are,  besides,  about  700  factories  which  do  not  use  steam. 
The  number  of  artisans  employed  is  about  25.000,  and  the  annual  pro- 
ducts represent  a  value  of  about  six  millions  sterling.  At  the  Great  Ex- 
hibition of  1851  Greece  was  represented  by  thirty-six  exhibitors.  At 
Paris  last  year  it  was  represented,  according  to  the  list  of  M.  Mansolas, 
by  583.  He  notes  the  progress  of  cotton-spinning,  whic^since  1870  has 
diminished  the  importation  of  that  article  by  nearly  two-thirds.  The 
export pf  Greek  wines  has  also  increased  very  largely.  The  first  build- 
ing that  the  traveller  sees  as  he  enters  modem  Spaoia  is  a  silk  manu- 
factory, and  the  large  mulberry  plantations  in  the  valley  of  the  Eurotas 
attest  the  growing  importance  of  this  industry.  Though  Government 
patronage  has  never  been  wanting,  the  rapid  progress  of  recent  years  has 

^een  due,  M.  Mansolas  thinks,  chiefly  to  private  enterprise  and  to  the 
power  of  association.  This  power  is  gradually  overcoming  the  ob- 
stacles long  presented  by  a  thin  population,  by  the  want  of  capital,  by 
the  absence  of  machinery,  and  by  the  slender  demand  for  luxuries.  It  is  a 
good  sign  that  whereas  in  1845  Greece  was  importing  twice  the  value 
of  her  exports,  the  ratio  of  imports  to  exports  has  lately  been  less  than 
three  to  two.     Forty-seven  years  ago  Lord  Palmerston  predicted  a 

•  Sixty  yean  ago  the  PelrsBus— Porto  Leone,  under  the  Turks— had  well-nigh 
ceased  to  he  even  a  port.  The  traces  of  Its  ancient  dignity  were  few  and  modest. 
There  was  a  piece  of  deal  boarding,  projecting  a  few  feet  into  the  sea.  to  serve  as  a 
landing  stage  f or^mall  boats ;  and  there  was  a  wooden  hut  for  a  guard. 


THE  PnOGRi:SS  OF  CKEECE.  871 

rright  fntnre  for  Greek  commerce,  and  already  the  pvedtciion  lias  been 
1  some  measure  fulUllcd.  Kcxt  to  agricultoro,  the  mainstay  of  Greece 
s  her  merchant  marine  trading  with  Turkey  and  the  ports  of  the  Le- 
rint  In  1B21  Greece  had  only  about  4oO  vessels;  the  number  in  1874 
vas  5,202,  representing  an  aggregate  burden  of  25G,077  tons;  and  the 
merchant  marine  of  Greece  ranks  in  the  scale  of  importance  as  the 
;:venth  of  the  world. 
The  question  of  national  education  has  from  the  firitt  days  of  recov- 
red  freedom  engaged  the  most  earnest  attention  of  the  Greek  people. 
Education  is  for  tibe  Greeks  of  to-day,  not  merely  what  it  is  for  every 
ivilised  nation,  the  necessary  baaiB  of  all  worthy  hope ;  it  is,  further, 
he  sorest  pledge  of  their  unity  as  a  peoplo  both  within  and  without  the 
)oandarios  of  the  present  Kingdom ;  it  is  the  practical  yindication  of 
acir  oldest  birthright;  it  is  the  symbol  of  the  agencies  which  wrought 
jeir  partial  deliverance ;  it  is  the  living  witness  of  those  qualities  and 
liose  traditions  an  which  they  found  their  bgitimata  ospirationi}  for  tho 
atnre.  During  three  centuries  and  a  half  of  Tui^ish  role  tho  Greek 
lationality  was  preserved  from  efltaoement  by  the  studies  which  fostered 
ts  language  and  its  religion ;  and,  when  the  earUest  hopes  of  f  rdcdom 
Kgxa  to  be  felt,  the  &rst  sure  promise  of  its  approach  was  the  fact  that 
uose  studies  had  been  enlarged  and  had  received  a  new  impulse.  Ko- 
'v^s  struck  the  true  note  in  the  preface  to  his  translation  of  Beccaria 
*  On  Grimes  and  Punishments,*'  which  he  dcdicatsd  in  1802  to  tho 
oang  republic  of  the  lonians.  "  Ton aro  now,"  h3  said,  addressing  tho 
ladious  youth  of  Greece,  **  the  instructors  and  teachers  of  your  country, 
»at  the  time  is  ^ast  approaching  when  you  will  be  called  upon  to  become 
i?r  lawgivers.  Unite,  then,  your  wealth  and  your  exertions  in  her  be- 
uJf,  since  in  her  destitution  she  can  boast  no  public  treasury  for  the 
nstniction  of  her  children ;  and  forget  not  that  in  her  brighter  days 
beir  education  was  a  public  duty  entrusted  to  hpr  rulers.  *'  If  ever  there 
vat;  a  case  in  which  the  deliverance  of  a  people  was  directly  traceable 
0  the  awaleening  of  the  national  inlelligence,  that  case  was  the  Greek 
'Var  of  Independence.  No  people  could  have  a  more  cogent  practical 
Jason  than  the  Greeks  have  for  believing  that  knowledge  is  power ; 
nt  they  do  not  value  it  only  or  chiefly  because  it  is  power.  The  love 
'f  knowledge  is  an  esssntial  part  of  the  Greek  character, — an  instinct 
vhich  their  historical  traditions  strengthen,  indeed,  but  have  not  created. 
^r  the  war,  when  the  troubled  period  of  Capodistria's  Presidency  had 
nven  place  to  settled  institutions,  one  of  the  first  grsat  tasks  taken  in 
laad  was  that  of  thoroughly  organizing  public  instruction.  M.  Bumouf  s 
emark,  quoted  by  Mr.  Sergeant,  that  public  instruction  was  '^almost 
ion-existent"  in  Greece  in  1833,  is  true  in  a  s^nse,  but  needs  qualifica- 
ioii.  It  is  true  that  there  was  no  complete  or  uniform  system  of  pub- 
ic instruction;  in  the  political  situation  of  the  Greeks  before  the 
^'Bx  such  a  thing  had  not  been  possible.  On  the  other  hand,  many 
elements  of  such  a  system  had  been  supplied  by  the  strenuous  efforts 
oiade  at  many  particular  centres  of  Greek  life  during  a  long  series  of 


872  THE  PROGRESS  OF  GREECE. 

j'oars.  In  fact  the  tradition  of  Greek  culture  had,  under  the  hrayiopt 
discouragements,  been  i)r^s3rved  unbroken  from  the  conquest  of  Ctui- 
stantinople,  though  it  wjih  only  in  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century  that  a  fevf  of  the  schools  began  to  be  prosperous  or  famniis. 
Among  these  were  the  lyccums  of  Bucharest  in  Wallaohia  and  YasKi  in 
Moldavia,  which  had  been  protected  by  a  series  of  Phanariot  Hospodiirs : 
the  schools  of  Janina  in  Epirus,  which  had  owed  much  to  the  bene  li- 
cence of  the  brothers  Zosima,  *'the  Medicis  of  Modern  Greece;  "  th-:- 
gymnasium  x>f  Symma,  the  College  of  Scio,  the  Greek  College  at  Odess^n, 
and*many  more  of  nearly  equal  repute.  By  1815  almost  every  Gret-k 
community  had  its  school.  Ten  years  of, war  and  confusion  intermpt.  d 
the  work.  But,  in  ISH'S  there  were  still  the  materials,  however  scattered 
or  imperfect,  with  which  to  begin ;  and  there  was  a  spontaneous  public 
sympathy  with  the  object — a  sympathy  which  the  successful  strnggl*^ 
for  freedom  had  helped  not  a  little  to  quicken.  Under  the  system  of 
pubUc  instruction  adopted  in  modem  Greece,*  three  successive  grades 
of  schools  lead  up  to  the  university :  (1),  the  Demotic  or  Primary  Na- 
tional Schools  ;  (2),  the  Hellenic  Schools,  secondary  grammar-Schools : 
(3),  the  Gymnasia^  higher  schools  of  scholarship  and  science,  in  which  the 
range  and  the  level  of  teaching  are  much  the  same  as  in  the  German  gym- 
nasium, or  in  the  upper  parts  of  our  pubUc  schools.  From  the  Gym- 
nasium the  next  step  is  to  the  University  of  Athens.  In  all  three  grad-  -^ 
of  schools,  and  also  at  the  University,  instruction  is  gratuitous.  Witii 
regard  to  the  Primary  Schools,  Mr.  Sergeant  writes:  **  Elementary  edu- 
cation in  Greece,  in  addition  to  being  gratuitous,  is  compulsory — at  Ka'^t 
in  theory.  Children  are  compelled  by  law  to  attend  the  primary  schools 
between  the  ages  of  seven  and  twelve  years"  (p.  r^S).  M.  Mansolas  sjiviJ 
(p.  36),  *•  between  the  ages  of  five  and  twelve;"  and,  after  adding th;it 
there  is  a  small  fine  for  each  day  of  the  child's  absence,  adds  the  im- 
portant remarks,  ^^hut  this  principle  has  hen  hardly  ever  applie(K''^ 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  whether  compulsion  has  been  thiN 
absent  because  it  has  been  found  Unnecessary,  or  because  it  has  b<.'«-ii 
thought  undesirable.  So  far  as  personal  observation  enables  me  t'> 
jndg3,  I  should  be  disposed  to  doubt  whether  these  words  of  Mr.  Tntk- 
ennan's  can  be  accepted  without  reservation : — "It  may  safely  bo  n^- 
S:3rted  that  no  man,  woman  or  child  born  in  the  kingdom  since  tl:  ^ 
organization  of  free  institutions  \i.  e.  say  since  18?,^]  is  so  deficient  in 
elementary  knowledge  as  not  to  be  able  to  read  or  write."  fiowev'  r 
that  may  be,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  primary  education  in  Gre^  i  • 
has  made  extraordinary  progress  since  1833 — such  progress  as  oou.  \ 

*  The  chief  organizer  of  Una  system  was  George  Gennadins.  the  father  of  ri  ■■ 
present  Minister  of  Greece  in  Er)j^l;ind,  andadescpnaant  of  GennadiusScliolarir-^j  ■  • 
flrr^t  Patriarch  of  Con«tnntinop1e  after  the  Turkish  conqaest.  George  Geniiadius' v  - 
studying  in  Germany  when  the  Greek  Revolntion  broke  out.  He  serv«»d  in  th-  v  .: : 
lie  was  a  prominent  speaker  in  tho  assemblies;  and  on  the  settlement  of  the  ^:"*  ■ 
lie  devoted  his  life  to  public  education.  Many  of  the  Bishopg  and  Srho'r.r*  . 
Greece  have  been  his  pupils ;  and  the  memory  of  his  unselfish  energy  is  still  held  lu 
deseryed  bonoor. 


THE  PEOGRESS  OF  GEEEOE.  373 

bave  bsen  made  only  where  the  love  of  knowledge  was  an  in£tinct  of 
the  people — and  that  at  the  present  time -Greece  can  compar.»  favorably 
in  this  respect  with  any  country  in  the  world.*  Tht;  gi-owth  of  the 
higher  schools  and  of  the  University  has  not  been  kss  remarkable. 
Within  five-aad-twenty  years  the  number  of  the  "Hellenic"  schools  h*i3 
bjen  nearly  doubled ;  that  of  the  Gymnasia  has  been  nearly  trebled ; 
and  the  total  numbers  of  pupils  have  grown  in  corresponding  ratio. 
la  181^1  the  University  of  Athens,  then  recently  founded,  had  2D2  stu- 
u'Qts;  in  1872  it  had  1,244.  A  few  yearijf  ago  it  was  estimated  that 
a  ymt  81,000  parsons — that  is  about  one-eightoenth  of  the  entire  popu- 
Litioa — was  under  instruction  in  Greece,  either  at  public  or  at  pri- 
vate establishments.  The  sum  spent  by  Greece  on  pubhc  in- 
straction  is  rather  more  than  5  per'  cent,  of  its  totol  expen* 
diture  —  a  larger  proportion  than  is  devoted  to  the  same  pur- 
pose by  France,  Italy,  Austria,  or  Germany.  When  Mr.  Tuckermau 
claims  for  Greeca  that  '^  she  stands  fbrst  in  the  rank  of  nations — not  ex- 
(•'•ptiag  the  United  States— as  a  tfelf-idacaUd  people,"  the  claiin,  rightly 
understood,  is  jusjt.  It  means,  fii-st,  that  nowh  re  else  does  tho  Stat  a 
sp'ud  so  large  a  fraction  of  its  disposable  revenue  on  public  education ; 
s:(30Qdly,  that  nowhere  else  is  there  such  a  spontaneous  pubUc  desire  to 
profit  by  the  educational  advantages  which  the  State  affords. 

Closely  connected  with  the  progress  of  the  higher  education  in  Groece 
is  a  phenomenon  which  every  visitor  observes,  which  almost  every  writer 
oa  Greece  discuss  3s,  and  which  has  hitherto  remained  an  unsolved  prob- 
lem of  modern  Greek  society.  This  is  the  disproportionately  large 
number  of  men  who,  having  received  a  university  education,  become 
lawyers,  physicians,  joUTnaUsts,  or  politicians.  M.  Mansolas,  after  ob- 
s.-rv'ing  that  the  '^  dominant  caUing  "  in  Greece  is  that  of  the  agricul- 
turiat,  assigns  the  second  place  to  ^'  the  class  of  men  who  exercise  the 
li!)eral  professions,  of  whom  the  number  is  excessive  relatively  to  the 
r.st  of  the  population."  Mr.  Sergeant  quotes  on  this  subject  part  of  a 
Rt^port  drawn  up  in  1872  by  Mr.  Watson,  one  of  our  Secretaries  of  Le- 
gation at  Athens.  "  While  ther3  is  felt  in  Greece,"  Mr.  Watson  says, 
"  a  painful  dearth  of  men  whose  education  has  fitted  them  to  supply 
K0IU3  of  the  multifarious  material  wants  of  the  country — such,  for  in- 
staace,  as  surveying,  farming,  road-making,  and  bridge-bmlding — there 
is,  on  the  other  hand,  a  plethora  of  lawyers,  writers,  and  clerks, 
v.ho,  in  the  absence  of  regular  occupation,  become  agitators  and 
coffee-house  poUticians."  As  lately  as  last  June  the  Correspond- 
ent of  the  **  Times"  at  Athens  wrote  as  follows: — ''Public  life  is 
b-^ra  the  monopoly  of  the  class  exercising  the  so-called  hberal 
professions  —  of  advocates  and  university  men,  whose  name  is 
1  f^ioa, — an  upper  sort  of  proletariate,  divided  into  two  everlast- 
ingly antagonistic   factions   of    placemen  and  place-hunters."      It  is 

*Tii  1^35  there  were  about  70  primary  schools,  with  less  timn  7.000  pcholars ;  in 
^^5.  aT)out  450  schools,  with  36,000  BChoUirs ;  in  1874,  about  1,130  schools,  with  70,OU) 
BclioUrt.  . 


874  THE  PROGBESS  OF  GREECE. 

easy  to  assign  one  set  of  causes  for  this  state  of  things.  "Where  a 
school  and  nniyersity  education  is  offered  free  of  charge  to  a  people  of 
keen  intellectual  appetite^^it  is  natural  that  an  unusu^y  large  propor- 
tion of  persons  should  go  through  the  university  course ;  and  vhere,  as 
in  Greece,  agriculture  is  under  a  system  which  gives  little  scope  to  the 
higher  sort  of  intelligence,  while  there  is  neither  public  nor  private  cap- 
ital enough  to  provide  employment  for  many  architects  or  civil  en- 
gineers, it  is  natural  that  an  unduly  large  proportion  of  university 
graduates  should  turn  to  one  of  the  hberal  professions,  or  to  some  call- 
ing in  which  their  literary  training  can  be  made  available.  Mr.  Tuck- 
erman  has  described  vividly  the  process  by  which  the  ^*  coffee-house 
politician  '*  is  developed.  A  young  man,  of  somewhat  better  birth  than 
the  agricultural  labourer  or  the  common  sailor,  finds  himself  at  eighteen 
a  burden  on  a  household  which  is  hardly  maintained  by  the  industry  of 
his  father.  If  he  followed  in  his  father^s  steps,  his  lot  would  be  to  till 
the  soil  for  what,  when  rent  and  taxes  have  been  paid,  is  little  more  than 
a  bare  liveliho  d,  or  perhaps  to  subsist  on  the  salaiy  of  a  'small  pubhc 
office.  But  the  boy  has  been  at  a  school  of  the  higher  grade,  and,  with 
a  natural'  taste  for  learning,  has  conceived  the  ambition  to  make  some- 
thing  better  of  his  life  than  this.  What,  then,  is  he  to  do?  He  would 
be  glad  to  get  a  clerkship  in  one  of  the  commercial  houses  of  Athens, 
Patras,  or  Syra ;  but  there  ar3  hundreds  of  applicants  whose  chances 
arc  better  than  his.  Even  if  he  could  afford  to  tcy  his  fortune  in  a  for- 
eign country,  the  risk  would  be,  in  his  case,  too  great.  Athens,  tho 
busy  centre  cf  so  many  activities,  is  his  one  hope.  Surely  there  ho  will 
lind  something  to  do.  Ho  makes  his  way  to  Alliens,  attends  the  Univer- 
sity, and  becomes  interested  in  his  studies.  His  years  of  university  lifo 
arc  made  tolerably  happy  by  tho  comxDanionship  of  fellow-students  whos^ 
situation  resembles  his  own.  Literary  and  political  discussion,  enjoyed 
over  the  evening  coffee  and  cigarette,  comes  to  be  his  chief  delight.  At 
last  ho  takes  his  dagree.  He  must  choose  a  profession.  The  Bar 
is  already  overcrowded.  A  perpetual  series  of  epidemics  would  be  re- 
quired to  provide  moderate  occupation  for  half  of  the  physicians.  He 
has  not  patience  to  undertake  the  duties  of  a  schoolmaster  among 
the  Greeks  of  Turkey.  It  remains  that  he  should  be  a  politician.  He 
writes  for  the  newspapers,  and  awaits  the  moment  when  his  x>&rty  shall 
hold  its  next  distribution  of  loaves  and  fishes.  He  receives,  perhaps,  a 
small  post,  or  some  other  reward.  Thenceforth  he  is  devoted  to  bis 
new  career.  Through  years  of  plenty  and  years  of  leanness,  he  is  content 
to  wait  on  the  revolutions  of  the  pohtical  wheel  If  it  is  suggested  to 
him  that  this  is  an  unsatisfactory  life,  his  answer  is  simple :  Can  yea 
show  me  a  better? 

Such  cases  may  be  common,  and  may  help  to  explain  why,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  overstocked  liberal  professions,  there  should  be  a  large  num- 
ber of  party  writers  and  place-seekers.  But  the  continued  over-supply 
in  all  these  careers  would  still  remain  inexplicable  if  we  confined  our  viev 
to  the  Kingdom  of  Greece.     The  clue  is  to  be  found  in  the  relations  ex- 


THE  PEOGRESS  OF  GEEECR  87.^ 

istiiig  between  tree  Greece  and  that  which  is  fltill  emphaticany  "  cn-> 
fdared"  Greece—^  6 ot;A;;^'£AAa?.  The  Kingdom  of  Greece  offers  a 
miiveisity  education  free  of  charge  not  only  to  its  own  subjects  but 
tlsotothe  Greek  subjects  of  the  Porte.  As  to  the  measure  in  which 
be  ranks  of  UxuTersity  men  at  Athens  have  been  swelled  by  Greek  sub- 

cts  of  Turkey,  an  interesting  piece  of  eyidence  will  be  found  in 
fr.  H.  M.  Baird^s  **  Modem  Greece."  Mr.  Baird  attended  claeses 
t  the  Unirersiiy  of  Athens,  and  ^  became  intimately  acquainted 
ith  its  life  and  working.  **  It  is  a  circumstance  well  worth 
le  noticjng,"  he  writes,  **  that  rather  fn</re  than  mie-half  of  the  ma- 
iculated  students  are  from  districts  under  the  rule  of  the  Sultan/* 
bus  Athens  is  a  focus  of  intellectual  life  not  only  for  the  Kingdom  of 
reece  but  for  the  Greeks  of  Turkey ;  and  the  abready  redundant  sup- 
7  of  lettered  men  is  further  increased  by  an  influx  from  abroad. 
mee  the  social  equililmum  of  Greece  is  deranged  in  a  manner  to  which 

other  country  presents  a-  parallel.  In  other  countries  the  law  of  sup- 
r  and  demand  rou^ily  suffices  to  maintain  a  natural  balance  between 
^  number  of  those  who  engage  in  productive  industries  and  the  num- 
'  of  those  who  embrace  the  liberal  professions  or  seek  office  from  the 
te.  In  Greece  this  is  not  so.  The  population  of  Greece  is  a  million 
[  a  half.  The  number  of  Greeks  in  Turkey  is  about  five  millions. 
ODg  these  five  millions  there  are,  of  course,  many  who  desire  a  po« 
al  or  official  life.  They  cannot  have  this  under  conditions  which 
T  can  accept  in  Turkey.  They  are  therefore  driven  to  seek  it  in 
ece.  Educated  men,  or  men  desirous  of  education,  throng  into  the 
fdom  of  Greece  from  Epirus,  Thessaly,  Macedonia,  Thrace,  Crete, 
unfortunately  there  is  no  reciprocity.  The  industrial  populations 
bose  provinces  are  not  at  the  disposition  of  Greece.     '!P$us  the  bal- 

of  occupation  is  destroyed.  "Five  competitors  at  l^ist,"  says  M. 
litinis,  "dispute  each  public  office."  He  anticipates  cm  objection. 
lis  invasion  from  without — this  plethora  of  applicants,  so  trouble- 
!  in  its  effects—could  not  free  Greece  stop  it  ?"     **  Ko,"  he  answers, 

evil  is  unavoidable.  Greece  has  the  duty  of  receiving  all  her 
ren  who  come  to  her  from  without.  To  repel  them  would  be  £^ 
3n  against  kinship;  it  would  be  to  deny  the  past  and  to  blight  the 
e  :'  it  would  be^  also,  to  forego  the  precious  aid  of  devoted  patriot- 
nd  of  Taluable  ability." 

.  Watsan,  in  the  Beport  already  noticed,  points  out,  indeed,  that 
letbora  of  academically-trained  men  is  not  an  tmmixed  eviL  * '  Un- 
edly, "  lie  says,  "it  confers  considerable  advantages  on  the  Levant  in 

al Manyprovincesof  the  Ottoman  Empire  are  indebted  to 

atfi  of  learning  in  Athens  for  a  supply  of  intelligent  doctors,  divines, 
rs,  chemists,  clerks."     "The  rdle  of  Greece  m  the  contemporary 

M.  Xienormant  writes,  "closely  resembles  its  r^f)  in  antiquiW.  .  .  . 
[eUenic  race  represents  the  motive  power  in  the  Ottoman  Empire, 
enty-two  centuries  ago,  it  represented  it  in  Persian  Asia."  It  may 
be  urged,  as  Mr.  Sergeant  well  urges,  that  the  very  existence  of 


876  THE  PEOOEESS  OF  GEEECHE.    * 

this  so-called  ''over-education"  is  a  proof  of  the  fitness  of  Greece' to 
perform  the  part  of  a  civilising  power  in  the  East.  It  may  also  be  said 
that  the  general  influence  of  high  education  widely  diiiuotd  has  dcFi.* 
much  to  Laven  Greek  life  with  the  spait  of  order,  iuduslry  and  Htis- 
tained  effort.  Mr.  Serg<;ant's  remarkiJ  on  thia  point  arj  illustrated  by 
the  testimony  of  foreign  observerd  to  the  decorous  behaviour  of  tii^ 
Athenian  population  on  occasions  which  in  most  other  capitals  would 
scarcely  fail  to  evoke  some  popular  turbulence,  or  even  to  lot  loose  tlie 
passions  of  a  mob.  In  the  crisis  of  the  revolution  under  the  formtr 
reign,  which  resulted  in  King  Otho  signing  the  constitutional  decret^, 
the  whole  population  of  Athens  was  in  the  streets.  '*  Eor  an  entire  diy 
the  open  space  in  front  of  the  palace  was  filled  -with  ah  excited  and  de- 
termined people  and  a  rovoltid  soldiery.  All  poUce  surveillance  was 
suspended;  man  of  the  lowest  clasi  paraded  the  streets  with  loaded 
arms,  and  the  largest  opportunity  for  Ucense  and  lawlessness  wji-^ 
afforded :  yet  not  a  gun  was  fired,  nor  a  stone  raised,  nor  was  even  a 
flower  plucked  from  the  public  gardens."  The  Greek  capital,  in  this 
instance,  only  reflected  the  normal  character  of  the  Greek  people; 
there  is  plenty  of  popular  enthusiasm  ;  but  there  is  no  rowdyism. 

It  seems  probable  that  the  largj  davelopm-ent  of  manufacturing  in- 
dustry and  comjii3rce  in  Greec3  during  the  last  few  years  will  tend  grsiJ- 
ually  to  diminish  th3  pressure  of  candidatis  for  the  learned  or  ht.rarr 
callings,  by  sho'>ying  man  wharo  th^y  n;ay  find  a  si^here  of  honoural)!'? 
exertion  without  p  3r;nanently  leaving  the  country.  In  fact  the  intilli- 
g3nt  enterprise  and  power  of  combinatio  i  which  have  lately  been  exhib- 
it jd  in  this  field  go  far  to  prove  that  it  has  already  become  attractive  to 
men  of  educatioa.  Thus  new  banks  have  been  established ;  'a  new  steam 
navigation  company  for  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Black  Sea  has  been 
formed,  undc^r  thi  Greek  flag,  by  Greek  capitalists;  and  the  rights  of 
the  Franco-Italian  company,  which  sine 3  1865  had  worked  the  mints  of 
Laurium,  have  bjen  purciiased^by  a  new  company  composed  chiefly  of 
Greeks.  Projects  have  been  entertained  for  lines  of  railway  from 
Athens  to  Patnis,  and  from  Patras  to  Pyrgos  on  the  north-west  coast  of 
Morea.  A  correspondent  quoted  by  Mr.  Tuckerman  confirms  the  vicw 
indicated  above.  "These  private  undertakings,  "he  writes,  "including 
mining  and  railway  operations,  have  already  begun  to  produce  most 
satisfactory  results,  not  merely  as  regards  the  social,  but  also  as  regards 
the  political  condition  of  the  country.  It  is  thus  tiiat  we  have  latt  ly 
witnessed  quite  an  unpreced^^nted  phenomenon,  A  large  number  of 
clerks  aud  othor  employ h  of  the  Civil  Service  are  sending  in  their  resit,'- 
nations,  and  are  accepting  posts  in  these  new  establishments  at  rates  of 
remun  jration  even  lower  than  the  Government  salaries,  preferring  tlie 
stability  and  hope  of  advancement  offered  them  by  private  enterprise  to 
the  torturing  and  ruinous  uncertainty  with  which  they  held  officta  de- 
pendent on  the  arbitrary  will  of  each  successive  minister.  In  this  new 
movement  I  see  the  solution  of  one  of  the  great  difficulties  this  country 
has  been  labouring  under — the  fight  for  public  offices." 


THE  PBOGHESS  of  GREECE.  877 

It  iff  on  opinion  which  is  often  heard  in  Greece,  both  from  nntives 
and  from  foreign  residents,  that  permanence  in  the  Civil  SL-rvice  ap- 
pomtments  would  do  much  to  steady  the  politics  of  the  country ;  otherw, 
again,  say  that  this  is  made  virtually  impossible  by  univerwil  suffriigo, 
once  the  majority  will  always  prefer  the  chances  afforded  by  n  frequf  ut 
ri?di8tribution  of  many  smaU  prizes.     lu  England  there  nrj  about  llfty- 
two  electors  to  every  thousand  mhabitants ;  in  France,  with  uiiivi  rs.il 
Riffrago,  there  are  207 ;  in  Greece  no  f  Aver  than  JUL     It  is  not  ?worthy 
tbatM.  Moraitinis — an  unquestionably  iutelhgent  friend  of  pro^TtBK  in 
Greece— api>ears  to  regard  wiiversal  suffrage  as  being,  for  Greece,  an 
institution  of  doubtful  expediency,  and  even  goes  so  far  as  to  euggt  nt 
that  the  constitution  "might  and  should  be  modified*'  in  the  direction 
of  withdrawing  the  suffrago  from  those  "who,  having  r-othiug  to  pre- 
serve, are  ready  to  bU  their  conscience"  (p.  5G9).     But  wo  are  con- 
cempd  with  Greece  and  its  constitution  as  they  now  are.     On  tlie  n:ft:n 
point  there  is  little  difference  of  opinion.     The  great  need  of  all  for 
Greece,  if  Greece  is  to  go  on  prospering,  is  that  politics  should  ccrk^  to 
b3  a  game  played  between  the  holders  and  seekers  of  office,  and  tliat  all 
local  or  personal  interests  whatsoever  should  be  uniformly  and  strad!l7 
subordinated  to  the  public  interosts  of  the  country.     Before  this  can  bo 
thoronghly  secured  two  thinp,s  must  come  to  pass.     First,  adcquata  out- 
l.ts  must  be  found  for  the  energies  of  the  educated  clasj]  v/ho  hnvo  hitli- 
crto  been  driven  into  maldng  politics  a  livehhood  :  this,  as  we  Imvo  booh, 
Las  in  a  certain  mc  asuro  been  accomplished  already,  and  therj  s-^ems 
rason  to  hope  that  the  growing  material  prosperity  of  Grt  oc3  will  l)y  d  :- 
f,T^*^s  provida  a  complrto  Boliition.     Secondly/,  the  Greek  pcopb  iiivjt 
bring  a  sound  and  vigoroas  public  opinion  to  bear  on  iDiiblic  alTairs — 
not  by    fits  and    starts,    bi:t  steadily.     It  has  b.-^cn    said,  with   tco 
laueh  truth,    that  Greece  has  br>en  a    nation    of    cpiiiions    witho'ct 
a  public  opinion.     The  free  (growth  and  effective  oxpr.^ssion  of  public 
opinion  has  bc?en  eh  eked  Vj  too  ir:ucli  centrahsatlon, — by  the  tendency' 
of  many  administrations  to  regard  a  close  bureaucracy  as  the  only  shJ- 
trfor  authority.     Th^ro  can  bo  no  vitality  of  public  opinion  withcr.t 
diilusion  of  power;  but  hitherto  the  average  Greek  voter  in  the  prov- 
i'^c-  s  has  been  controlL^'d  by  no  real  S'^nse  of  personal  responsibility  to 
tlie  country.     Public  meetings  ifor  the  discussion  of  propos:  cl  mcaf  iir.  .1 
Iv:q  been  raro  cut  of  Athons.     iVlong  with  excessive  cntraiisaticii 
fucthcr  cause  has  been  at  work — the  tendency  of  the  Greek  charactir 
fa  Rct  the  interests  of  a  district  or  a  town  above  the  gene  nil  interests  of 
ihe  nation.     This  ** particularism" — scarcely  loss  marked  to-day  than 
i:i  the  Greek  commonwealtlis  of  old — may  bo  traced,  now  as  form(  rlj', 
■1  some  measure  to  the  physical  configuration  of  the  country,  an  el  to 
th.want,  still  seriously  f  It,  of  easy  communication      The  olvl  Greek? 
b'ltl  common  national  characteristics,  but  never  formed  a  nation ;  tho 
Urreks  of  to-day  arj  a.  nation,  with  a  strong  national  sentinidit,  but 
'Tlthout  a  suffici'^ntly  energetic  unity  of  national  purpose.     Nothinrr  l^ii^t 
5uch  unity  of  purposo  can  enforce  those  reforms  wliich  tho  country 


878  THE  PROGRESS  OF  GREECE. 

most  needs— ^^rcforms  of  principle,  not  of  detail, — tke  choice  of  publr 
men  on  the  pubhc  grounds  of  character  and  fitness,  the  jnanagement 
of  the  finances  with  nndeviating  regard  to  the  thorough  re-estabiifeh- 
ment  of  the  national  credit.     There  Jbaye,  indeed,  been  critical  momentB 
when  the  public  opinion  of  Greece  has  asserted  itself  in  such  qucstioiis 
with  decisiye  result.     The  successful  protest  of  1875  against  nunisterlal 
infringements  of  the  constitution  has  been  the  most  recent  example ; 
and  M.  Moraitinis  may  justly  argue  that  a  maturity  of  political  educn- 
tion  is  proved  by  the  disciplined  loyalty  with  which,  at  that  crisis,  all 
classes  united  to  uphold  the  constitution  by  constitutional  means.     The 
same  general  characteris  ic  appeared  also  in  the  crisis  of  1848  and  1862; 
and  it  was  better  marked  in  IHGi  than  in  1848,  and  in  1875  than  in  18(;2. 
But  then,  as  M.  Moraitinis  udds,  when  the  danger  is  past,  public  opin- 
ion goes  to  sleep  again,  *^and  individual  interests  resume  Uieir  asceLd< 
ancy.*'     What  is  wanted  is  that  pub  ic  opinion  should  be  always  vigilaLt. 
Ko  impartisil  observ  r  ca  i  rcfu-c  t'>  admit  that  Grnoe  ha*^  a'r    dy 
d'me  much,  and  is  now  v\  a  'air  w:  y  to  do  more     Few,  \  robab^y,  wonld 
deny  that  from  the  outset  she  ^  as  h  id  to  contci^dwiih  giave  d££culti«.8 
not  of  her  owu  maki»>g.     In  the  firt  p^ac**  it  is  <  n'y  sirce  the  beLin- 
ning  of  the  present  reign,  that  is,  s"n'  v  18fi3,  that  (Sreece  has  been  iu 
the  full  practical  enjoyment  of'  c<  nstit'  t  onal  liberty.     Secondly,  Gre<  ce 
begin  life  not  only  as  a  poor  country,   in  v-hich  the  first  elemtnts  oi 
prosperity  ha  1  to  ba  crcat  d  anew,  but  a  country  loaded  with  dtbt  Ur 
loan**  of  which  only  a  fraction  had  tvcr  been  applied  to  her  beu*  fit. 
Those  wIk)  wish  to  r^nd  t  e  whol  •  :  tory  of  the  Greek  Loans  in  the  li^ht 
of  contemporary  documents  may  be  r  f.rr<  d  to  a  recent  pamphlet  ou 
the  subject,  consieting  of  extracts  from  theErglish  newspapersandpiri- 
dicals  of  the  day,  p'lt  togeth  r  without  comment*    Among  other  fatta 
which  dksjrve  to  be  rai-re  g  nerally  known,  it  will  be  found  that,  of  the 
s  cond  loan  of  1,200  000/,  all  that  ever  reach<  d  Greece  was  the  amount 
of  209,000^.     Lastly,  th'  ra  has  be«  n  t'»at  most  serious  and  permanent 
obstacle  of  all,  the  original  d«'f  cct  of  a  bad  frontier.     It  has  been  alrtatiy 
ohown  how  this  has  affected  the  balance   of  social  and  pohtical  life 
in  Greece.     The  dibmma  raised  by  that  ill-judi^ed  limitation  of  the 
new    kingdom  could    not    be    expressed   more    clearly  or  concisely 
than  in  the  words  of   the  late  Edgar    Quinet.t     "I  am  afrad,"  he 
wrote  in  1857,  *'  that  the  artificial  boundaries  of  the  new  State,  and  the 
conditions  imposed  upon  it,  may  have  the  effect  of  hindering  its  develop- 
ment.    Hence,  a  false  positi'  n  for  the  Gr<*eks,  and  a  perpetual  tempta- 
tion to  get  out  <  f  it.     If  they  stretch  out  their  hands  to  their  brethren 
who  are  still  under  the  yoke,  they  rouse  the  anger  of  their  protectors; 
if  they  resign  themselves  to  remaining  where  they  are,  they  are  reduced  to 
a  hopeless  phffht, — w^'th  no  outlets,  no  commerce,  no  relations;  and 
their  brethem  accuse  them  of  betriyaL" 

•  The  Greek  Loans  0/1824  and  182\    London  :  H.  S.  King.    1878L 
t  Preface  to  La  Grcce  moflcrene  ct  tea  rapports  avec  VAntiqviU,  ^ 


THE  PROGBESS  OF  GEEECE.  879 

An  intereei^g  document  in  illtusfcration  of  this  view  has  lately  been 
giten  fo  the  woild.     In  Febroary,    1830,   Piinoe  Leopold  of  Saxe« 
Goboig  accepted  the  Crown  of  Greece,  offered  to  him  in  a  joint  note 
from  Lord  Aberdeen  apd  the  French  and  Russian  Ambassadora  in  Lon- 
don ;  bat,  after  some  negot  ations,  he  finally  declined  it  in  May  of  the 
same  year.   An  Athenian  newspaper  has  now  printed  the  letter,  hitherto 
aapnblished,  which  Leopold  addressed  to  Gluurles  X.  of  France  on  May 
23M,  1880, —two  days  after  his  final  decision.     In  this  he  stated  tha 
reasons  for  his  resolve.     Piominent  among  thdm  is  this  cousideratioii — 
that  a  new  rolt^r  of  Greeca  would  begin  his  work  at  a  hopeless  disad* 
vantage  if  h3  were  regarded  by  the  Greek  nation  as  a  party  to  the  dis- 
astrons  truncation  of  the  t3rritory.      By  the  Treaty  of  Adrianopl  •  (Sep« 
tember,  1829),   the  boundary-Una    of    Greece  had  been  drawn  from 
near  the  entrance  of    the   Golf  of  Yolo  on  the  east  to  the  Gulf  of 
Arta  on  the  west     But  by  a  new  decision  of  the  Power-;  (February 
drd,  1830)  a  large  slice  was  cut  off.     Leopold  does  justice  to  the  natural 
feeling  which  would  make  it  a  bitter  sacrifice  for  the  Greeks  to  leave 
their  brethren  ih  continental  Hellas — as  well  as  in  Crete,  Samos,  and 
elsewh9re— under  that  yoke  which  all  alike  had  striven  to  shake  off , 
aad  he  hopes  that  Charles,  "  with  the  magnanimity  which  distingui^ies 
kim,"  will  appreciata  this.     He  held  that  in  tiie  narrow  limits  now  im- 
posed on  tiie  couatry — ^the  t  rritory  adjacent  to  the  Gulfs  of  Volo  and 
A.rta  being  cut  off —it  could  not  be  thoroughly  prosperous.     The  truth 
of  L3opold^s  fordcait  was  rjcogois^d    at  ttie  Berlin  Congress  last  yeaf 
by  31  Waddingto.i. 

The  paople  of  Graoce  are  industrious,  singulariy  temperate,  with  a 
strong  regard  for  tha  ties  of  tha  family,  and  with  the  virtues  which  that 
imj^ies;  thjy  have  pro V3d  at  more  than  one  trying  conjuncture  that 
thjy  have  learned  th3  bsaons  of  constitutional  freedom  ;  and  they  pos- 
S2S3  a  versatile  int9)lig)uc3  which  justly  entitles  them  to  be  regarded  as 
tha  giftad  ra3e  of  South-Eistam  Europe.  Men  of  all  parties  and  opin- 
ioas  are  interastad  in  for Jiing  a  true  judgment  of  what  the  Greeks  can 
or  canaot  ashieve.  So  loug  as  their  character  and  capacity  are  imper- 
fictly  or  insorractly  estimated  in  tnis  country,  a  necessary  element  of 
every  *  Eastern  Question"  wiU  be  taken  at  an  erroneous  value, 
and  the  margin  of  possible  miscalculation  will  be  so  far  in- 
creased. If,  as  now  seems  not  impossible,  some  means  should 
hi  davised  of  sending  young  Englishmen  from  our  universities 
to  pursue,  studies  in  Greece,  it  may  be  predicted  that  the  good 
results  will  not  be  confined  to  the  world  of  letters.  Englishmen 
who  have  resided  in  Greece,  and  who  have  lived  in  converse  with  its 
people,  will  gradually  help  to  diffuse  a  better  knowledge  of  them  in  this 
country,  and  with  a  better  knowledge,  a  kindar  spirit, — such  a  knowl- 
edge and  tque  as,  through  similar  intercourse  with  Greece,  are  already 
more  general  in  France  and  Germany  than  they  are  in  Enirland.  It 
will  become  more  usual  to  recognise  fairly  how  much  the  Greeks  have 
done  and  are  still  doing,  how  much  they  have  had  to  suffer,  what  diffi- 


880  THE  PROGRESS  OF  GREECE. 

culties  they  have  overcome,  and  with  what  disadvantages  they  are  Btill 
C(  intending  :  to  distingaish  between  ambitions  which  deserve  to  be  rt> 
proved  and  those  aspirations  for  a  free  development  of  national  life 
which  no  people  can  renounce  without  losing  self-respect  and  forfeiting 
the  good  opinions  of  those  who  retain  it ;  and  to  consider  whether  the 
only  manifestations  of  friendship  which  Greece  may  reasonably  expect 
from  the  leaders  of  European  civilization  are  those  in  which  our  friends 
(with  the  honourable  exception  of  France)  have  hitherto  been  principally 
zealous, — the  offices  of  candid  remonstrance  and  veiled  repression. 

£.  0.  Jebb,  in  MacmiUana  Magazine. 


MR.  IRVING'S  HAMLET. 

"We  intend  to  give  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  a  few  words  on  Mr. 
Irving's  Hamlet ;  and  as  this  periodical  does  not  habitually  deal  witli 
living  actors,  since  we  do  not  consider  ourselves  the  channel  for  such  a 
purpose,  they  shall  be  brief.  But  Mr.  Irving  is  no  ordinary  ai  tor. 
Setting  aside  his  genius,  his  industrious  care  in  everything  he  under- 
takes, we  associate  him  with  the  possible  renovation  of  our  theiitr,.-. 
He  has  pandered  to  no  low  tastes,  but  recalls  and  rtv.ves  the  traditiouU 
stage  of  the  Kembles  and  of  Macready. 
■  The  first  thing  we  notice  in  his  Hamlet  is  that  there  is  no  seeking  af- 
ter an  immediate  effect.  Hamlet  comes  in  with  the  rest  of  the  Court, 
and  seats  himself  somewhat  listlessly  by  the  side  of  the  Queen.  Tberj 
is  in  his  aspect  a  profound  melancholy,  which  seems  to  search  for  tho 
unknown  and  the  unseen.  His  eyes  look  far  away  from  the  scene  before 
him,  and  in  their  deep  gaze  there  is  a  restlessness  which  shows  that  fmiu- 
let's  will  is  already  puzzlod.  In  the  first  speeehes,  ho  exhibits  a  grief  aJ 
the  more  impressive  for  its  weariness  and  helpUssnesa ;  whilst  m  tlij 
soliloquy  which  follows  them,  there  is  a  docp  tjudomcsa  in  Hamlet's  n- 
coUeetion  of  his  father,  his  voice  dwelling  on  the  words,  ''So  loving  tj 
my  mother,  that  he  might  not  betoeni  the  winds  of  heaven  visit  her  facj 
too  roncjbly, "  as  if  he  were  unwilling  to  quit  that  recollection  for  tb 
one  which  supplants  it  of  the  Queen's  inconstancy.  It  is  to  be  noUJ 
that  in  his  preK.^ut  performance  Mr.  Irving  has  needlessly  changed  "  bt- 
teem"  to  'Met  ♦■'en." 

la  the  ''Must  I  remember?"  we  nolo  a  foretasto  of  the  protest 
against  fute,  in  which  he  afterwards  indulges.  In  tho  comparison  be- 
tween his  father  and  uncle,  "But  no  luore  like  my  father  thau  I  t.> 
IfercuhH,"  he  pans,  s  a  moment  before  tho  last  word,  as  if  B^tking  f  r 
ft  Hiniil.'  and  thus  sustains  the  spontani'ous  air  which  distinguishes hixd^ - 
liviry  throu^lioat.  Ic  has  been  thought,  and  nut  unnaturally,  thattli, 
dropping  of  tho  voice  and  manner  in  the  last  line,  "But  break,  my 
heart ;  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue,'*  is  weak  and  ineffective.  Ineflfectiv ) 
it  is  in  the  sense  of  missing  a  stage  effect :  but  in  its  weaknees  lies  iU 


MB.  lEVING'S  HAMLET.     .  881 

consonancy  "with  Mr.  Irving's  conception;  it  is  an  expression  of  the 
E^me  sense  of  weariness  and  subjugation  to  fate  which  is  found  in  the 
ttirlitr  speeches. 

'liic  entrance  of  Horatio  and  Marcellus  brings  a  welcome  change  to 
Haaikt's  mood.  He  receives  his  old  friends  with  a  courteous,  but  rj- 
Etraiuedf  affection ;  a  touch  of  irony  comes  into  his  tones  and  look  as  ho 
Fays,  "We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep,  ere  you  depart,"  and  deepens  to 
8  bitter  scorn  upon  the  words,  *'  Ihrift,  thriit,  Horatio."  As  he  recahs 
Us  father's  image,  he  loses  himself  for  a  while  in  reverie,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  hold  the  memory  lougt^r,  so  that  he  does 
Lot  at  first  take  in  the  meaning  of  Horatio's  words,  but  answers  absently, 
"Saw?  Who?"  Horatio's  reply  rouses  him  at  ouch,  and  the  han4 
which  before  served  to  conceal  the  actual  world  from  his  consciousness 
bcL-ms  now  to  help  him  in  concentrating  his  attention  upon  it.  Through 
the  remaind',T  of  the  scene  he  is  nervous  and  restless  ;  he  walks  to  ;  nd 
fro  in  excitement,  and  stops  to  question  Horatio  and  Marcellus  further. 
"  Tht'U  saw  you  not  his  fuce,"  he  says  with  an  air  of  disappointed  con- 
viction ratlier  than  of  inquiiy.  In  tiio  las^t  spc'euh  tiiorc  soou.s  a  certain 
cxuitation  at  having  found  a  chance  cf  breaking  by  action  the  passive- 
iits8  cf  his  misery. 

The  beginning  of  the  platform  scene  is  fiinly  imbued  with  a  feel- 
ing of  high-strung  expectation,  wiiich  st  ^  ks  r.  n.  f  in   talk  that  may 
distract  attention  from  the  thing  expccttcl  natil  it  comes.     The  rcst- 
1-fs  fic-arcliing  mind  of  Hamlet,  once   start  d  upon  the  subject  taken 
up  moTfcly  as  a  pastime,  is  beginning  lo  fonow  it  further,  when  all 
ciher  thoughts  aro  stayed  by  the  tnlniuce  cf  Ihu  Ohost.     At  this  point 
i.ir.  Irving  seems  less  lortunato  in  his  cone<})t  ion  and  ix^tution  than  else- 
v.hcro.    Men  are  not  the  Lks  horriti*  d  at  an  evtntiull  of  dr^ad,  because 
tii(y  have  oxpoetLd  it.     Lid  Jcd  the  suppressed  ug  ny  ot  fearful  waiting 
:^  apt  to  burst  forth,  when  it>  caus;i  U  rv^elu  il ;  but  tbo  emotion  thus 
j.v.akened  docs  not,  or  upon  tlie  at  g^  bhouiJ  net,  siiow  itself  in  the 
iU'id  Ml  feebleness  of  voico  andaspctt,  which  Mr  Irviuij^  here  represents. 
1 1:  i\^  should  be  less  of  terror  thun  of  awe  in  Hunil  t's  bearing  at  the 
(.iiosi's  appearance.     Mr.  Irving's  tottering  frame  luid  hjmds  clutching 
af  the  air  have  more  of  mere  physical  fear  than  of  the  uwe  which  should 
ttrike  Hamlet.     The  breaking  away  from  his  companions  is  finely  man- 
i  -,'.(1.  but  thero  is  a  certain  want  of  force  in  tlio  exit  of  the  Prince,  with 
fiow  dragging  steps,  followed  by  the  trailing  of  his  .>■  word's  point  on  the 
[Tomid. 

The  Rame  tone  of  weakness  used  to  be  kept  up  through  the  intcr- 
'i  V,-  with  the  Ghost.  Even  now  the  act  or  crouches  on  tho  ground; 
i'  f^  ^.li'B  TiTiablo  to  hold  up  ha  hoad,  the  hmpn^ss  of  his  attitude  ar.d 
!-  \riiig  f:ijg^tsts  physical  rath<  r  than  rnontal  diHturbance.  He  has 
:  mv  iu.-;torxl  the  previously  omitted  wild  f«nd  whirling  v.-ords  addrt6s<.d 
'  >  the  follow  in  the  ceUerago.  but  there  is  a  certain  want  of  the  spirit 
('t  over-strung  excitement  of  which  these  wor.ls  are  the  indication. 
Vr  h.ra  ono  expects  wild  mirth  one  finds  hysterical  depression.     On  the 


882  ME.  mVING'S  HAMLET. 

other  hand,  nothing  conld  be  better  than  the  changing  intonation  and 
gesture  of  Mr.  Irving's  Prince  as  he  indicates  to  his  comrades  the 
forms  of  dubions  speech  which  they  are  not  to  employ,  and  there  is  an 
overpowering  despair  in  the  arms  lifted  to  heaven  and  the  appeal  of  the 
voice  as  he  cries  out  upon  the  spite  of  fate.  In  the  scene  with  Polonius, 
the  next  in  which  Hamlet  appears,  the  satire  of  the  speech  is  so  bitiivi^ 
that  some  critics  have  complained  of  its  rudeness  ;  and  the  same  forc.^ 
of  satire  is  pres3nt,  though  veiled  with  a  lighter  manner,  in  the  dialog:!:- 
with  Rossncrantz  and  Goildsnstern.  In  the  description  of  his  sinking 
of  spirit  h3  is  carried  away  so  that  he  forgets  the  presence  of  his  com- 
panioas,  aad  when  he  turns  and  sees  the  empty  smile  npon  Bosen- 
crantz^s  face  his  momentary  burst  of  irritation  seems  the  reaction  of  a 
mind  brought  down  from  th3  contemplation  of  noble  things  to  thnt 
which  is  mean  and  bas3.  In  the  words,  ^'  He  that  plays  the  king  shall 
be  welcome,"  the  d3pth  of  his  secret  thought  is  shown  for  a  moment, 
bat  it  gives  plajd  iustdiatly  to  a  pleasanter  mood,  broken  once  again  by 
the  rdferen33  to  his  Uacl3  bsiug  king  in  Denmark. 

A  rar3  art  is  exhibit3d  in  the  mockery  with  which  Hamlet  tells 
Bosencrautz  aad  Guild  3nst3rn  that  he  is  but  mad  north-north* west, 
aud  in  th3  fia3  biatir  with  which  he  greets  Polonius.  The  mentioa 
of  Ophelia  ssems  to  wake  in  him  a  crowd  of  varying  emotions,  which, 
kept  and3r  while  h3  greets  the  players,  find  some  expression  as  he  calls 
for  **a  passionate  8p3eoh."  Ths  quickness  with  which  Hamlet's  emo- 
tions and  parcdptioQS  shift  and  change,  the  habit  of  introspection  whieii 
in^^kes  him  a  double  psrsonality,  looking  on  at  his  own  emotion  ad>1 
comn  mtiug  upon  it  as  sooa  as  it  has  found  a  form,  is  perhaps  rendered 
b3tt3r  than  anywhere  else,  in  th3  speech  beginning  with,  **0  what  a 
rogu9  a'ld  peasant  slave  am  I. "  He  rises  to  a  climax  of  rage  as  he  cries, 
*'0  vengeance,"  and  then  the  reaction  comes  suddenly ;  the  passion dits 
and  gives  place  to  the  habit  of  meditation  which  ever  interposes  between 
Hamlet's  dasirjs  and  his  actions,  and  he  speaks  of  the  empty  bravery  of 
his  wards  as  if  thsy  were  those  of  another.  From  consideration,  emo- 
tion is  again  arousBd;  the  notion  already  suggested  of  turning  the  play 
into  an  instrumsnt  for  his  purpose  takes  possession  of  his  mind,  and  a^ 
the  curtain  falls  he  is  already  composing  the  speech  which  he  designs  t*) 
ins3rt.  Mr.  Irving's  action  here  of  resting  his  tablets  against  a  pilLir 
and  hastily  writing,  as  if  afraid  to  lose  his  ideas  before  he  could  bind 
th3m  in  words,  is  striking  and  impressive. 

On  Hamlet's  next  appearance,  he  enters  with  the  air  of  one  lost 
in  thought,  and  seating  himself  on  a  chair  in  the  centre  (f  th: 
hall  speaks  out  his  thoughts  as  they  follow  each  other  in  the  speech , 
*'  To  b3  or  not  to  be."  Throughout  this  speech  thero  is  a  depth  of  bijV 
rjring,  of  pain  that  struggles  for  freedom  and  can  find  none,  expTei»->i 
in  th3  actor's  tones,  such  as  to  make  his  grief  common  to  all  who  \u  .ir 
him.  He  has  a  command  of  pathos  which  sometimes  misleads  him  in:  > 
too  much  tearfulness ;  but  here  there  is  no  fault  to  find ;  there  is  th  - 
truth  of  sorrow  so  profound  that  th3  disturbanca  of  Hamlet's roverul\' 
Ophelia's  entrance  comes  as  a  relief.     The  dialogue  with  Ophelia  is  full 


MR.  mVING'S  HAMLET.  883 

of  a  tendemesfi  which  he  dares  not  indnlge.  As  he  asks  ' '  Are  yoa  boil- 
ed ?"  he  forces  himself  to  think  of  his  mother  and  her  dishonour,  and 
tn  torn  love  to  bitterness.  After  he  has  detected  Polonins  spying  his 
actions  from' behind  the  tapestry  he  changes  the  maddening  excitement 
which  agitates  him  to  the  semblance  of  real  madness,  and  rushes  from 
Ophelia,  as  if  half  to  persuade  her  of  his  disordered  intellect,  and  half 
because  he  fears  that  if  he  stays  his  resolution  will  yield  to  his  emotion. 
It  is  a  fine  touch  of  Mr.  Irving's  by  which  he  makes  Hamlet  stoop 
and  kiss  Ophetia's  hand  just  after  one  of  his  bitter  speeches.  The 
discourse  to  the  players  is  the  very  essence  of  grace  and  humour, 
neither  too  familiar  nor  too  haughty,  and  the  sudden  change  from 
that  to  the  deep  feeling  of  the  address  to  Horatio  is  a  good  instance 
of  the  actor's  just  conception  of  Hamlet's  changing  moods,  beneath 
which  one  thought  is  ever  working.  Here  Mr.  Irving,  with  his  finely 
modulated  tones,  shows  fully  how  Hamlet  was  troubled  by  his  restless 
nators,  and  turned  for  rest  to  his  idaal  of  Horatio,  which  probably  dif- 
fered somewhat'  from  the  real  Horatio.  For  the  secret  of  Horatio's 
seemiog  in  suffering  all  to  suffer  nothing  may  have  lain  in  his  possessing 
a  temperament  of  blunter  sense  than  Hamlet's. 

Throughout  the  play  scene  Mr.  Irving  exhibits  Hamlet  gradu'illy 
worked  up  to  more  and  more  excitsment.  Ho  jests,  partly  for  form's 
Fike,  partiy  to  keep  some  guard  over  himself,  with  Ophelia,  but  by  the 
time  tiiat  the  murderer  delivers  lifs  speech,  ho  is  so  passionately  eager 
that  he  repeats  the  words  under  his  br?ath,  drawing  himself  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  King  until  he  rises  with  the  words,  "What!  frighted 
mth  false  fir3 !  "  and  as  tha  King  bavas  th3  hall  f\\h  into  the  empty 
Ihrone  with  a  wild  cry  of  exultation.  In  tho  following  scene  with 
the  recorders  the  over-strung  excitoment  of  Hamlet  is  rendered  with 
a  singular  force.  It  is  so  great  that  ho  is  no  longer  at  tlio  troublo  of 
concealing  in  any  wa}'^  his  contempt  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstem. 
The  Bcom  in  his  face  and  voice  as  hs  compares  Rosencrantz  to  a 
sponge  is  withering.  (The  speech  ending  **  Sponge,  you  shall  b9 
(Iry  again,  you  shall,"  is  rostorod  by  Mt.  Irv:ng  to  its  place  in  ths 
Crst  folio  of  1603.)  Tho  passion  displayed  as  Hamlet  says, 
"Though  you  can  fr_t  mc,  yet  you  cannot  play  upon  mo,"  and  fling?? 
t je  broken  r3cord<;r  over  his  shoulders  is  int  inso ;  and  as  elsswhero 
it  is  changed  immediately  for  an  extravagant  bantering  courtesy  to  Po- 
bnius,  as  ho  enters  with  the  Queen's  m  ssago.  In  *  *  They  fool  me  to 
the  top  of  my  bent,"  a  note  of  pathos  is  struck  again ;  and  the  actor's 
tones  in  the  concluding  hues  of  the  sc^iloquy  foreshadow  tho  tragedy 
'  hich  is  to  come.  He  formerly  played  the  scene  with  the  King  at  his 
p^iyars,  which  has  gmerally  baen  omitted,  and  played  it  finely,  repro- 
'>  -nting  Hamlet  in  a  stata  of  excitsment  which  would  naturally  stay  him 
from  killing  the  King  unawares  without  any  excuse  of  instant  provoca- 
tion, and  would  make  him  long  for  some  such  occasion  as  he  hopes  he 
has  found  in  the  following  scene  with  the  Queen.  Tho  i>resent  omis- 
sion is  to  be  deplored. 

In  the  closet  scene  Mr.  Irving  finds  a  wide  field  for  tho  exerciso  of 


384  mX.  IRVING'S  HAI^ILET. 

his  power  of  interpret  mg  tho-pof  t's  thought.  He  enters  with  an  air  of 
fixed  and  steady  resolve,  which  he  sustains  until  it  is  broken  through  by 
the  slaying  of  Polonius,  when  his  pent-up  agitation  finds  expression  iii 
the  cry  of  question  which  hopes  for  the  answer  that  it  is  the  King 
whom  he  has  killed. "  It  may  be  doubted  whether  he  is  right  in 
having  no  visible  p  rtraits  of  the  two  kings  upon  the  scene,  to 
that  he  points  bis  mother's  attention  to  a^r-drawn  pictures  only. 
or,  as  he  suggests  in  a  r  cent  paper,  to  j^icturcs  on  the  fcurtli 
wall  of  the  room  ;  but  there  can  belittle  doubt  that  in  his  addrtFs 
to  the  Queen  there  is  a  torrent  of  indignation,  of  scathing  truth,  of  ii- 
resistible  appeal  to  her  shame,  before  which  one  expects  to  see  h-r 
utterly  borne  away.  At  the  second  visitation  of  the  Ghost  the  actor's 
vehemence  is  changed  to  an  awe  which  has  in  it  something  appaliirx'. 
The  consternation  of  his  intent  eyes,  hushed  voice,  and  rigid  figin\' 
communicates  itself  to  his  audience.  He  f peaks  the  words  of  comfort 
to  his  mother  enjoined  by  the  spirit  and  the  questions  which  folio- 
them  mechanically  as  one  in  a  dream.  As  the  vision  passes  out  itt 
the  portal  his  faculties  are  suddenly  freed,  and  his  tones  carrj'^  a  wholj 
tragedy  of  longing  and  regret  as  he  exclaims,  "My  father  in  his  habit 
as  he  lived."  The  tenderness  of  his  final  speech  to  the  Queen  is  admir- 
able in  itself,  and  in  its  contrast  to  the  earlier  part  of  the  scene. 

Ill  Mr.  Irving's  performance,  ITamlft's  v.o-at  npp'  .•  i  nvco  is  in  the  chnrchv^ni, 
wliere  the  jeetiiip  with  the  grMvc-clJtrJT^r  and  the  FadiiPFP  iii'dcrhiijr  it  are  viven  wi'ii 
nn  excellent  pnicionsness.  When  hj  has  delivrixd  thtr  void.-.  '  Kow  get  ycu  to  n  y 
lady's  chamber  and  tell  her.  let  her  pnint  nii  Inch  thkk,  to  tl:iB  fjivor.r  hbe  ii  r.>' 
come;"  he  pan?fs  a  monicit  bofore  payirg  ''Mrke  her  Irrgli  at  that."  Both  i;  • 
ynnf^a  and  final  words  are  oloqnmt  in  pathos.  On  firft  recrgnipirg  I«(!t(  8  "  a  m.  ly 
noble  youth,*' the  actor  with  flno  prrce'ption  ii  dicates  that  f.  \agnc- teiror  ari8<^iu 
Hamlet's  mind,  and  one  might  exp'^ct  tins  to  b<^  followed  by  eonieihingn.  ere  of  vil  - 
mence  in'his  declanition  of  himp<'lf.  *'  Tbi*^  is  T.  TT;imlet  the'Dane."  a*i  fi  in  t!'<^  stri:,'.'  ' 
with  LaerteP,  in  wh'ch  he  enfrages  v.ithont  I-^  aping  into  the  grave.  The  'ntfinistioi:  :\\  il 
action  as  he  scornfully  quits  the  scene  ;!ro  howi  wr  ;  dmirrbk-.  So  is  thi  tinecon'o.r 
of  the  scene  with  Oisric.  where  one  may  note  tie  wctuv  an.usentnt  wiili  wMth  i.j 
turns  to  Horatio,  fs  Osnc  prattles  h's  foolish  words.     Yet  n  ore  jdmin.bU'  is  tin-  »s- 

Eression  of  foreboding  and  the  tender  foitow  of  the  fo  'r  wirg  ppcf  cbes,  1 1  e  .-i'  r.r 
as  tlse  faculty  of  conc«'ntrat.ing  into  Ji  few  words  m\  mi  onnt  of  pathos  wliii  h  m;  •>•  -^ 
a  deep  impiv-sion.  Much  imagination  rnd  thoui'l  t  V'c  <  onv«  y*  d  in  his  f\)\  akini:  if 
**  If  it  be  now,  'tis  not  to  come ;  if  it  be  not  to  com  \  :>  w  1!  be  now ;  if  it  Ih'  nui  v."\-<, 
yet  it  will  come  :  the  readiness  is  a'l."  With  the  h-  t  vouls.  he  lays  hi;->  hand  n-i  f- 
euringly  on  Horatio's,  but  the  infinite  sadness  cf  lis  Fuiilc  and  voice  belies  the 
action. 

His  courteous  gaiety  reappears  in  the  fencinjT  scene :  1'^  bMlnnces  his  foil  anfl  tnkps 
hjp  position  with  a  confidence  which  is  jippjirrnt  until  tli*  fital  passes  are  ixchnnii"!. 
Yet  und'T  his  light  demeanour  one  sees  tlntt  the  prcpbrtic  tense  of  evil  is  with  liini 
still,  and  that  tliere  is  not  more  surprise  at  the  disecvd-  d  treachery  than  relief  :it 
finding  the  moment  for  his  vengeance  come  at  )H.«t.  He  ru-shes  upon  ths-  King.  (\r:>z* 
liim  from  his  place,  and  having  stabbed  him  wirb  passioi'ate  bcorn  with  the  unh:tiil 
sword,  stagg''rs  to  Horatio's  !=up])ort,  from  wliirh  littvlmr  >'])ent  his  hiFt  stivuirtli  in 
wresting  the  poisoned  cnp  from  liim.  he  snks  gradually  to  the  ground.  Inhif'ly.: .' 
wordsthereis  adecp  tcMidnrnos-i.and  when  \\  iili  n  ra];t  look  lie  leaves  .'^peech  f<»r!«il<-i  •■  ■ 
with  grief  at  his  de'jith  is  mingled  thankfn!n(  fh  that  he  has  at  last  n)Und  rest.  Tb' 
rctor  has  the  rare  power  of  carrying  the  s'ju'ctator's  mind  with  his  into  the  Court  at 
El-'inore,  so  that  while  one  looks  and  hears,  it  is  not  a  piece  of  acting  tliat  U  Iniii: 
witnessed,  it  is  Hamlet  himself  who  lives  and  dies  before  one's  eyes :  the  coolne.-.-if 
f.fter-r  fl  y1io)>  finds  points  in  the  actor's  rendering  to  discuss,  to  praise,  to  Mui"  5 
bat  wMile  the  pluy  is  going  on,  one  forgets  tbe  player,  and  remembera  only  the  Prince. 

Ikimple  Bar. 


THE 


LIBRARY  MAGAZIIsTE. 


APRIL,  1879. 


DEDIOATOBY  POEM  TO  THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that,  which  lived 
True  life,  live  on— and  if  the  fatal  kiss, 
Born  of  tme  life  and  love,  divorce  thee  not 
From  earthly  love  and  life — if  what  we  call 
The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from  out 
This  ebadow  into  Substance — then  perhaps 
The  mellow'd  murmur  of  the  people's  praise 
From  Uiine  own  State,  and  all  our  breadth  of  realm, 
Where  Love  tmd  Louging  dress  thy  deeds  in  light, 
Ascends  to  thee ;  and  thio  March  morn  that  sees 
Thy  Soldier-brother's  bridal  orange-bloom 
Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of  thy  grave, 
And  tliine  Imperial  mother  smile  again. 
May  send  one  ray  to  thee  I  and  who  can  tell — 
Thou— England's  England-loving  daughter— thou 
Dying  so  English  thou  wonldst  h&ve  her  flag 
Borne  on  thy  cofl^-^where  is  he  can  swear 
But  that  some  brokcu  gleam  from  our  poor  earth 
May  touch  thee,  while  remembering  thee,'!  lay 
At  thy  pale  feet  this  balkid  of  the  deeds 
Of  England,  and  her  baimer  in  the  East  ? 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 

I. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  Banner  of  Britain,  hast  thoa 

Flojited  in  conquering  battJe  or  flapt  to  the  battle-cry  ! 

Nt'Vc-r  \\ith  mightier  glory  than  when  he  liart  rear'rt  thee  on  high 

Flying  at  top  oit  the  roofs  in  the  ghsstly  siege  of  Lucknow — 

Sijot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyam,  but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 

Aud  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

II. 

Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the  hold  that  we  held  vrtth  onr  llv<»-» 
Women  and  children  among  us,  God  help  them,  oar  children  and  wivcai 

(886) 
L.  M,— L— 13. 


S8€  THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 

Hold  it  we  might— and  for  fifteen  days  or  for  twenty  at  most. 

*  Never  surrender,  I  cliurge  j  ou,  but  every  man  die  at  hie  post  I* 
Voice  of  tlie  dead  wliom  we  loved,  oiir  Lawrence  the  Ijest  of  the  brave ; 
Cold  were  his  brows  yvhvn  we  liiss'd  him — ^e  laid  him  that  night,  in  hisgnTB. 

*  Every  man  die  at  liis  poi?t !'  and  tliei  e  liaii  d  on  our  honses  and  halls 
Death  from  their  riflt'-bullets,  and  death  from  their  cannon-liallg, 
Death  in  onr  innennost  chamber,  and  dcatli  at  our  slight  barricade, 

Death  while  we  Btood  with  tlie  musket,  and  death  while  we  stoopt  to  the  q)ftdl| 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  tx)  ilie  wounded,  for  often  tltere  fell 
Striking  the  hospital  wall,  cra!?hii)g  thro'  it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
Death— for  their  spies  were  among  ns,  their  marksmen  were  told  of  onr  best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro'  the  brain  that  could  think  for  the  rest ; 
Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreht  ads,  and  bullets  would  rain  at  our  feet— 
Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the  rebels  that  girdled  us  round — 
'Death  at  the  glimpjo  of  a  linger  from  over  the  breadth  of  a  street. 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  moeque  and  the  palace,  and  deatJi  in  the  gronod! 
Mine  7  yes,  a  mine  I    Countermine  I  down,  down  1  and  creep  thro'  the  bole  I 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand !    You  can  hear  him — the  nmrderoos  mole. 
Quiet,  ah  I  quiet— wait  till  the  point  of  the  pickaxe  be  thro'  I 
Click  with  the  nick,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  again  than  be/ore— 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the  dark  pioneer  is  no  more ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  onr  banner  of  England  blew. 

m. 

Ay,  bnt  the  foe  spmng  his  mine  many  times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  flay 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground  thunderclap  echo'd  away. 
Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur  like  so  many  fi(?nds  in  their  bell- 
Cannon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on  volley,  and  veil  upon  yell — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  delences  our  myriad  enemy  fell. 
What  have  they  done  ?     Where  is  it  ?    Out  yonder.    Guard  the  Redan ! 
Storm  at  the  Water-gate  1  sto-  m  at  the  Bailey-gatc  I  storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all  round  ns,  as  ocean  on  every  side. 
Plunges  and  heaves  at  a  bank  that  is  daily  drown'd  by  the  tide — 
So  many  thousands  that  if  tl»ey  be  bold  enough,  who  shall  escape? 
Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  thoy  shall  know  we  are  soldiers  and  menl 
Keady  !  take  aim  at  their  leaders — their  masses  are  gapp'd  with  our  grap»— 
Backward  they  reel  like  tlie  wave,  like  the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Flying  and  foil'd  at  the  lart  by  the  haiidfnl  they  could  not  subdue ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

IV. 

Handful  of  men  ns  \rc  were,  we  were  English  in  heart  and  in  limb. 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure. 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  garrison  hung  bnt  (-n  him ; 
Still— could  we  watch  at  all  points  ?  we  were  every  day  fewer  and  fewer. 
There  was  a  whit^per  among  us,  but  only  a  whisper  that  past : 
'Children  and  wives — if  the  tigers  leap  into  the  fold  unawarea — 
Every  man  die  at  his  post — and  the  foe  may  outlive  us  at  last — 
Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they  love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs  I* 
Koar  upon  roar  in  a  moment  two  mines  by  tlie  enemy  sprung 
Clove  into  perilous  chFsmsour  walls  and  our  poor  palisades. 
Riflemen,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sr.re  that  your  nnnd  is  as  tme  I 
Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  beiter  aim'd  are  your  flank  fusillades — 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from  the  ladders  to  which  tliey  had  cIudr 
IVice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shelter  we  drive  them  wilh  haud-grena«fi 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

Then  on  ODOther  wild  morning  another  wild  earthquake  ont>tore 
Ciean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or  twelve  good  paces  or  more. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW.  «87 

FiflemeDf  higlron  Ihe  roof,  hidden  there  from  the  light  of  the  Fun— 

One  has  leapt  up  on  the  breach,  crying  ont :  *  Follow  me,  follow  me  I  '— 

Kark  him— he  ralle  !  then  another,  and  him  too,  and  down  jroes  he. 

Had  they  been  bold  enon^h  then,  who  can  tell  bnt  the  traitorn  bad  won  7 

Boarditfgsjiud  raiters  and  doors— an  «'nibia8ure  I  nuikc  way  for  the  gun  I 

>'ow  double-charpe  it  with  gi-ape !    It  is  cliarjred  and  wo  ftn*,  and  they  run. 

Praise  to  our  Indian  brolhers,  and  let  the  diirk  fiice  liav!"  bi-*  due ! 

Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who  fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few, 

FoQght  with  the  braveet  among  ns,  and  drove  them,  and  smote  them,  and  dew, 

That  ever  upon  the  topmoet  roof  oar  banner  in  India  blew. 

TI. 

Men  will  forget  what  we  Buffer  and  not  what  we  do.    We  can  fight ; 

Bnt  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  sentinel  all  thro'  the  night — 

Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies,  their  lying  alarms. 

Bogles  and  drums  in  the  darkuese,  and  shontiuuH  and  soundings  to  arms, 

Ever  the  labour  of  fifty  that  had  to  be  done  by  five, 

l\er  the  marvel  among  us  that  one  sliould  be  left  alive, 

Ever  the  day  with  Its  traitorous  death  from  the  loop-holes  around, 

Ever  the  night  with  its  cofflnless  corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 

Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a  deluge  of  cataract  skies, 

Stench  of  old  offal  decajdng.  and  infinite  torment  of  flies. 

Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing  over  an  English  field, 

Cholwa,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  woimd  mat  tcould  not  be  heai'd. 

Lopping  away  of  the  liuib  by  the  pitif  ul-pittiiese  knife,— 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain,— for  it  never  could  save  uk  a  life. 

Valour  of  delicate  women  who  tended  the  hospital  bed, 

Hont)r  of  women  in  travail  among  the  dying  and  deaa, 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and  never  a  moment  for  grief, 

Toil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering  hopes  of  relief, 

Davelock  bafl9ed,  or  beaten .  or  butcher'd  for  all  that  we  knew — 

Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  coming  down  on  the  still-ahatter'd  walls 

l^iillionsof  musket-bullets,  and  thoufwnds  of  cannon-balls — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

VII. 

Hark  cannonade,  fusillade !  is  it  true  what  was  told  by  the  scout  T 

Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their  way  thro'  the  fell  mutineers  I 

Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing  again  in  our  ears  I 

All  on  a  sudden  the  gairison  utter  a  jtibilant  shout, 

Bavelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer  with  conquering  cheers, 

Forth  from  their  holes  and  their  hidings  our  women  ana  children  come  out, 

Blessing  tlie  wholesome  white  faces  of  Havelock's  good  fusiloers. 

Kissing  the  war-harden *d  hand  of  the  High'andf  r  wot  with  their  tears ! 

Dance  tx)  the  pibroch  ! — saved  !  we  are  pav«l  I— is  it  yon  ?  is  it  you  ? 

Saved  by  the  valour  of  Havelock  saved  by  the  bleeping  of  Heaven ! 

'Hold  it  for  fl[fteen  days  V  we  have  held  it  for  eighty-seven  ! 

And  ever  aloft  ou  the  palace  roof  the  old  banner  o*!  Enghind  blew. 

Alj'BEd  Tekkysom,  in  T/ie  Nineteenth  Centurp. 


CHAPTERS   0»    SOCIALISM. 


THE   DIFFICUIiTIES   OF  EOdAUSLL 

AifONO  those  1^0  call  themselves  Socialists,  two  kinds  of  persona 
may  bai,  distinguished.  There  are,  in  the  first  place,  those  whose  plaiin 
for  a  new  order  of  society,  in  which  private  property  and  individu::! 
competition  are  toba  superseded  and  other  motives  to  action  substitutt-d, 
are  on  the  scale  of  a  village  community  or  township,  and  would  be  a;- 
phod  to  an  entire  country  by  the  multiphcation  of  such  self-acting  uuits ; 
of  this  charaetsr  are  the  systanis  of  Owen,  of  Fourier,  and  the  mcr  • 
thoughtful  and  philosophic  SociaUsts  generally.  The  other  class, -wii  3 
ar3  more  a  product  of  tii3  Continent  than  of  Great  Britain  and  may  be 
called  thj  revolutionary  Sociahsts,  propose  to  themselves  a  much  bokiLr 
stroke.  Their  scheme  is  the  management  of  the  whole  productive  re- 
sources of  the  country  by  one  central  authority,  the  general  governmtrDr. 
And  with  this  view  som  j  of  them  avo>7  as  their  purpose  that  the  work- 
ing classes,  or  somebody  in  their  behalf,  should  take  possession  of  all 
the  property  of  the  country  and  adiiiinistcr  it  for  the  general  benefit 

Whatever  be  the  difueuities  of  the  firat  of  these  two  forms  of  Social- 
ism, the  second  must  evidently  involvo  the  same  difficulties  and  many 
more.  The  former,  too,  has  tha  grjat  alvantage  that  it  can  be  brougl.t 
into  operation  progressively,  and  can  prove  its  capabihtics  by  trial  It 
can  be  tried  first  on  a  select  population  and  extended  to  others  as  thtir 
education  and  cultivation  permit.  It  need  not,  and  in  the  natural  ordtr 
of  things  would  not,  become  an  engine  of  subversion  until  it  had  sho'.^a 
itself  capable  of  being  also  a  means  of  reconstruction.  It  is  not  so  wiiii 
the  other :  the  aim  of  that  is  to  substitute  the  new  rule  for  the  old  at  Jk 
single  stroke,  and  to  exnhaug3  the  amount  of  good  reaUsed  under  th:: 
present  system,  and  its  large  possibilities  of  improvement,  for  a  pluE|.'(? 
without  any  preparation  into  the  most  extreme  form  of  the  problem  of 
carrying  on  the  whole  round  of  the  operations  of  social  life  without  ^bj 
motive  power  which  has  always  hitherto  worked  the  social  machinery. 
It  nuist  be  acknowledged  that  those  who  would  play  this  game  on  tb  - 
strength  of  their  own  private  opinion,  unconfirmed  as  yet  by  any  exp  ri- 
mental  verification — who  would  forcibly  deprive  all  who  have  no%*'  fl 
comfortable  phj^sical  existence  of  their  only  present  means  of  prestjrvi'  : 
it,  and  would  brave  the  frightful  bloodshed  and  misery  that  would  ens'.'  * 
if  th>3  att'iinpt  was  resisted — must  have  a  serene  confidence  in  tbc-ir  '»'»'i 
wisdom  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  recklessness  of  other  people's  suSf.rl:  > 
onthi  other,  which  IlobcKpiciTe  and  St.  Just,  hitherto  the  typirtVil- 
stiTic.'s  of  those  united  attributes,  scarcely  came  up  to.  Neverthflcia 
this  seheme  has  great  elements  of  popularity  which  the  more  cautioos 
(388) 


GHAPTEBS  ON  SOOIAUSM.  889 

and  reasonable  form  of  Socialism  has  not;  bccanse  what  it  prof  esses  to 
do  it  promisee  to  do  quickly,  and  holds  out  hope  to  the  enthusiastic  of 
seeing  the  whoIt3  of  their  aspirations  reahsed  in  their  own  time  and  at  a 

blow. 

The  peculiarities,  however,  of  tho  revolutionary  form  of  Focialism 
\d]l  be  most  conveuiently  examined  after  the  considerations  common  to 
loth  the  forms  have  been  duly  weighed. 

The  produce  of  tho  world  could  not  attain  anything  approaching  to 
its  present  amoimt,  nor  suJ)port  anything  approaching  to  the  present 
tiuinber  of  its  inhabitants  except  upon  t<vo  conditions :  abundant  and 
costly  machinery,  buildings,  and  other  instruments  of  production;  and 
the  power  of  undertaking  long  oprrations  and  waiting  a  considerable 
time  for  their  fruits.  In.  other  words,  there  must  be  a  large  accumula- 
tion of  capital,  both  fixed  in  the  implements  and  buildings,  and  circu- 
lating, that  is,  employed  in  maintaining  tho  labourers  and  tlicir  families 
daring  the  time  which  elapses  before  the  productive  opemtions  are  com- 
pleted and  the  products  come  in.  This  necessity  depends  on  phynical 
laws,  and  is  inherent  in  the  condition  of  human  life  ;  but  thcso  requi- 
E"tts  of  production,  the  capital  fixed  and  circulating,  of  tho  country  (to 
\7hieh  has  to  be  added  the  land  and  all  that  is  contained  in  it)  may 
cither  be  tho  collective  property  of  those  who  use  it,  or  may  belong  to 
individuals  ;  and  the  question  is,  which  of  these  arrangements  is  most 
conducive  to  human  happiness.  Yfhat  is  characteristic  of  Socialism  is 
the  joint  ownership  by  aR  the  members  of  the  community  of  the  in- 
instruments  and  means  of  production,  which  carries  with  it  the  conse- 
quence that  the  division  of  the  produce  among  the  body  of  owners 
niust  be  a  public  act,  perfoi-mcd  according  to  rules  laid  down  by  tho 
community.  Sociahsm  by  no  means  excludes  private  ownership  of 
articles  of  consumption;  the  exclusive  right  of  each  to  his  or  her 
share  of  the  produce  when  received,  cither  to  enjoy,  to  f;ivc,  or  to 
exchange  it.  Tho  land,  for  example,  might  be  whoUy  the  property  of 
tliG  community  for  agricultural  and  other  productive  purj^jor.es,  and 
night  bo  cultivated  on  their  joint  account,  and  yet  the  dwelling 
ascigned  to  each  individual  or  family  as  part  of  their  remuneration 
might  be  as  exclusively  theirs,  while  they  continued  to  fulfil  their 
Ehare  of  the  common  labours,  as  any  one's  house  novtr  is;  and  not 
the  dwelling  only,  but  any  ornamental  groimd  which  tho  circum- 
stances of  the  af'sociation  allowed  to  bo  attached  to  tho  honso  for 
pTirposcs  of  enjoyment,  Tho  dislinctlvo  feature  of  Socialism  ^i?  net  lliat 
til  lLing3  aro  in  com:j^on,  but  thtit  product  1  on  i.-i  only  carried  en  upon 
th:j  common  a<'count,  and  that  tho  in.  truments  vt  jirocluction  aro  h.-Id 
£3  common  propcri}'.  The  pradlcah'-liij  then  of  rocia-lism,  on  tho  Bcdo 
cf  }Ir.  0"\*'cr-'3  or  la.  Fourier's  villages,  adinlls  of  no  dlspui3.  7.'ho  at- 
t  -mpt  to  inanago  tho  whole  prccl.ustion  of  a  nalloii  \ . j  one  cciitr;il  organi- 
zati  n  is  a  totally  different  matter;  bub  a  mixed  af^iculturai  aiid  manu- 
facturing association  of  from  two  thousand  to  four  thousand  inhabitants 
TUidcr  any  tolerable  circumstances  of  soil  and  ilimato  would  be  easier  to 


a90  CHAPTEES  ON  SOCIALISM. 

manage  than  many  a  joint  stock  company.  The  <}uestion  to  be  eon- 
sidertS  is,  v/heUier  this  joint  management  is  likely  to  be  as  efficient  and 
successful  as  the  managtments  of  private  industry  by  private  capital. 
And  this  question  has  to  be  considered  in  a  double  aspect;  the  efficiency 
of  the  directing  mind,  or  minds,  and  that  of  the  simple  m  orkpeople. 
And  in  order  to  state  this  question  in  its  simplest  form,  'we  will  suppose 
the  form  of  Socialism  to  be  simple  Communism,  i.  e.  equal  division  of 
the  produce  among  all'  the  sharers,  or,  according  to  M.  Louis  Blanc's 
still  higher  standard  of  justice,  apportionment  of  it  according  to  differ- 
ence of  need,  but  without  making  any  difference  of  reward  according 
to  the  nature  of  the  duty  nor  according  to  the  supposed  merits  or  ser- 
vices of  the  individual.  There  are  other  fonns  of  Socialism,  particu- 
larly Fourierism,  which  do,  on  considorations  of  justice  or  exp«iiency, 
allow  differences  of  remuneration  for  different  kinds  or  degrees  of  service 
to  the  community ;  but  the  consideration  of  these  may  be  for  the  present 
postponed. 

The  difference  between  the  motive  powers  in  the  economy  of  society 
tinder  private  property  and  under  Communism  would  be  greatest  in  the 
case  of  the  directing  minds.  Under  the  present  system,  the  direction 
being  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  person  or  persons  who  own  (or  are 
personally  responsible  for)  the  capital,  the  whole  benefit  of  the  difference 
between  the  best  adminipti*ation  and  the  worst  under  which  the  business 
can  continue  to  be  carried  on  accrues  to  the  person  or  persons  who  con- 
trol the  administration ;  they  reap  the  whole  profit  of  good  management 
except  so  far  as  their  self-interest  or  liberahty  induce  them  to  share  it 
with  their  subordinates :  and  they  suffer  the  whole  detriment  of  mis- 
management except  so  far  as  this  may  cripple  their  subsequent  power 
of  employing  labour.  This  strong  personal  motive  to  do  their  very  lo'^t 
and  utmost  for  the  efficiency  and  economy  of  the  operations,  would  n<  t 
exist  under  Communism  ;  as  the  managers  would  only  receive  out  of  tie 
produce  the  same  equal  dividend  as  the  other  members  of  the  association. 
\Vhat  would  remain  would  be  the  interest  common  to  all  in  so  managirf? 
affairs  as  to  make  the  dividend  as  largo  as  poseible ;  the  incentives  of 
public  spirit,  of  conscience,  and  of  the  honour  and  credit  of  the  mana- 
gers. The  force  of  these  motives,  especially  when  combined,  is  gr»ut. 
But  it  varies  greatly  in  different  persons,  and  is  much  greater  for  somo 
purposes  than  for  others.  The  verdict  of  experience,  in  the  imperfect 
dcfTee  of  moral  cultivat^'on  which  mankind  have  yet  reached,  is  tliat  tho 
molIvG  of  conscience  and  that  of  credit  and  reputation  save  wien  th«y 
arc  of  some  strength,  are,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  much  stronp^ras 
restraining  than  as  impelijng  forces — are  more  to  be  depenflled  on  f^  r 
preventing  wrong,  than  for  calling  forth  tho  fullest  energies  in  the  pnr- 
suit  of  ordinary  occupations.  In  the  case  of  most  men  the  only  indnoe- 
ment  which  has  been  found  sufficiently  constant  and  unflagging  to  over- 
come  the  ever  present  influence  of  indolence  and  love  of  case,  and  induce 
men  to  apply  themselves  unrelaxingly  to  work  for  the  most  part  in  itself 
ilall  ftud  imeg^eitiDg;  is  tho  prospect  of  bettering  their  own  coooomio 


OHAPTEBS  OH  SOCIALISM.  Ml 

co&ditiofi  and  tha^of  their  family ;  and  the  cloeer  the  connection  of  6Terj 
increase  of  exertion  with  a  corresponding  increase  of  it8  fruits,  the  more 
powerful  is  this  motive.     To  suppose  the  contrary  would  be  to  imply 
that  with  man  as  they  now  ane,  duty  and  honour  are  more  powe^ul 
principles  of  action  than  personal  interest)  not  solely  as  to  special  acts 
and  forbearances  respecting  which  those  sentiments  have  been  exception- 
ally cultivated,  but  in  the  regulation  of  their  whole  lives ;  which  no  one 
I  suppose,  will  affirm.     It  may  be  said  that  thig  inferior  efficacy  of  pnblio 
and  social  f eeUngs  is  not  inevitable — is  the  result  of  imperfect  educa* 
tion.    This  I  am  quite  ready  to  admit,  and  also  that  there  are  even  now 
many  individual  exceptions  to  the  general  infirmity.     But  before  thesa 
exceptions  can  grow  into  a  majority,  or  even  into  a  very  large  minority, 
much  time  will  be  required.     The  education  of  human  beings  is  one  of 
the  most  difficult  of  all  arts,  and  this  is  one  of  the  points  in  which  it  has 
hitherto  been  least  successful ;   moreover  improvements  in  general  educa- 
tion are  necessarily  very  gradual,  because  the  future  generation  is  ed- 
ucated by  the  present,  and  the  imperfections  of  the  teachers  set  an  in- 
vincible  limit  to  the  degree  in  which  they  can  train  their  pupils  to  bo 
better  than  thems  Ives.    We  must  therefore  expect,  unless  we  are  operat- 
ing upon  a  select  portion  of  the  population,  th&t  personal  interest  will 
for  a  long  time  be  a  more   effective   stimulus  to  the  most  vigorous  and 
careful  conduct  of  the  industrial  business  of  society  than  motives  of  a 
higher  character.     It  will  be  said  that  at  present  the  greed  of  personal 
gaui  by  its  very  excess  counteracts  its  own  end  by  the  stimulus  it  gives 
to  reckless  and  often  dishonest  risks.     This  it  does,  and  under  Commun- 
ism that  source  of  evil  would  generally  be  absent.    It  is  probable,  indeed, 
that  enterprise  either  of  a  bad  or  of  a  good  kind  would  be  a  deficient 
element,  and  that  business  in  general  would  fall  very  much  under  the 
dominion  of  routine ;   th'*.  rather,  as  the  performance  of  duty  in  such 
communities  has  to  be  enforced  by  external  sanctions,  the  more  nearly 
each  parson^s  duty  can  be  reduced  to  fixed  rules,  the  easier  it  is  to  hold 
him  to  its  performance.     A  circumstance  which  increases  the  proba- 
bility of  this  result  is  the  limited  power  which  the  managers  would 
have  of  independent  action.     They  would  of  course  hold  their  authority 
from  the  choice  of  the  community,  by  whom  their  function  might  at 
any  time  be  withdrawn  from  thera ;  and  this  would  make  it  necessary 
for  them,  even  if  not  so  required  by  the  constitution  of  the  community, 
to  obtain  the  general  consent  of  the  body  before  making  any  change  in 
the  established  moda  of  carrying  on  the  concern. 

The  diffioulty  of  persuading  a  numerous  body  to  make  a  change  in 
their  ao3ustomed  mode  of  working,  of  which  change  the  trouble  is 
oftc:n  ^«at,  and  the  risk  more  obvious  to  th*^.ir  minds  than  the  advan- 
tage!, would  have  a  great  tendency  to  keep  things  in  their  accustomed 
track.  Against  this  it  has  to  be  set,  that  (rhoioe  by  the  persons  who  are 
directly  interested  in  the  sucoess  of  the  work,  and  who  have  practical 
knowledge  and  opportimities  of  judgment,  might  be  expected  on  the 
averagd  to  produce  managers  of  greater  skill  than  the  cluuices  of  bizib«. 


S92  CHAPTEES  ON  SOCIALISM. 

•which  now  so  often  determine  "who  shall  be  the  owner  of  the  capital 

This  may  bo  true ;  and  though  it  may  be  replied  thSt  the  capitalist  by 
inheritance  can  also,  hke  the  community,  appoint  a  manager  mor^ 
capable  than  himself,  this  would  only  place  him  on  the  same  levtl  cf 
advantage  as  the  comnlunity,  not  on  a  higher  leveL  But  it  ma^t  I  >? 
said  on  the  other  side  that  under  the  Communist  system  the  persons 
mo$t  qualified  for  the  management  would  be  likely  very  often  to  brjg 
back  from  undertaking  it.  At  present  the  manager,  even  if  he  be  a 
hired  servant,  has  a  very  much  larger  remuneration  than  the  other  p.^r- 
fons  concerned  in  the  business;  and  there  are  open  to  his  ambition 
higher  social  positions  to  which  his  function  of  manager  is  a  steppiuf^- 
stone.  On  the  Communist  system  none  of  these  advauta^^es  would  be 
possessed  by  him;  he  could  obtain  only  the  same  dividend  out  of  tlie 
produce  of  the  community's  labour  as  any  other  member  of  itz  he 
would  no  longer  have  the  chance  of  raising  himself  from  a  receiver  of 
wages  into  the  class  of  capitalists;  and  while  he  could  be  ianovay 
better  off  than  any  other  labourer,  his  responsibihties  and  anxieti'S 
would  be  so  much  greater  that  a  large  proportion  of  mankind  would  ho 
likely  to  prefer  the  less  onerous  position.  This  difficulty  was  forts-^Hii 
by  Plato  as  an  objection  to  the  system  proposed  in  his  Eepubhc  of  coi:i- 
munity  of  goods  among  a  governing  ^cbiss ;  and  the  motive  on  whicli  ho 
reUed  for  inducing  the  fit  persons  to  talvo  on  themselves,  in  the  absenco 
of  all  the  ordinary  inducements,  the  cares  and  labours  of  govcmmert, 
was  the  fear  of  being  governed  by  worse  men.  This,  in  truiii,  is  tlio 
motive  which  would  have  to  be  in  the  main  depended  upon ;  the  p*  r- 
Bons  most  competent  to  the  management  would  bo  prompted  to  wad-  r- 
take  the  ofuce  to  prevent  it  from  falling  into  less  compttent  lianJ... 
And  the  motive  would  probably  be  effectual  at  times  when  there  was  an 
impression  that  by  incompetent  management  the  affairs  of  the  commu- 
nity were  going  to  ruin,  or  even  only  decid'dly  deteriorating.  But  ti's 
motive  could  not,  as  a  rule,  expect  to  be  called  into  action  by  the 
less  stringent  inducement  of  merely  promoting  improvement ;  unless  iii 
the  case  of  inventors  or  schemers  eager  to  try  eonie  device  from  whicli 
they  hoped  for  great  and  immediate  fi-uits ;  and  persons  of  this  kind  are 
very  often  unfitted  by  over-sanguine  temper  and  imperfect  judgment 
for  the  general  conduct  of  aH'aii's,  while  even  when  fitted  for  it  they  ari 
precisely  the  kind  of  persons  against  whom  the  averago  man  is  apt  co 
eiit;  rtain  a  i)r*^iudice,  and  they  would  oft^n  bo  unable  to  ovoreoin^  ti  > 
preliminary  dlfiiciilty  of  pei-suading  the  commimity  both  to  adopt  ih-  • 
project  and  to  accept  tli-in  as  managers.  Communlrftio  mauagviu'^' t 
would  thus  be,  in  all  probability,  Um  fl^vouraMB  than  private  mana"  - 
mont  to  that  striking  out  of  new  paths  and  maknig  immediate  KaTl":-'  ^ 
for  distant  and  uncertain  advantages,  which,  though  seldoin  uuutt 'i:il  I 
with  risk,  is  generally  indi-ponsablo  to  great  improvemcnta  in  i'.) 
economic  condition  of  mankind,  and  even  to  keeping  up  the  existin:,' 
state  in  the  face  of  a  continual  increase  of  tho  number  of  juoutlis  U 
J^  fed. 


CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.  898 

TTe  have  thus  far  taken  acconnt  only  of  the  operation  of  motiveir 
upon  the  managing  minds  of  the  association.  Let  us  now  consider  how 
the  case  stands  in  regard  to  the  oi*dinary  workers. 

These,  nnder  Communism,  would  have  no  interest,  except  their  eLare 
of  the  general  interest,  in  doing  their  work  honestly  and  energetically. 
Bnt  in  this  respect  matters  would  be  no  worse  than  they  n(  w  are  in 
regard  to  the  great  majority  of  the  producing  classes.  These,  being 
raid  by  fixed  wages,  are  bo  fai  from  having  any  direct  interest  of  their 
own  in  the  eflBiciency  of  their  work,  that  they  have  not  even  tliat  share 
in  the  general  interest  which  every  worker  would  have  in  the  Com- 
munistic organization.  Accordingly,  the  inefficiency  of  hired  labour, 
the  imperfect  manner  in  which  it  calls  forth  the  real  capabilities  of  the 
labourers,  is  matter  of  common  remark.  It  is  true  that  a  character  for 
being  a  good  workman  is  far  from  being  without  its  value,  as  it  tends 
to  give  him  a  preference  in  employment,  and  sometimes  obtains  for  him 
higher  wages.  There  are  also  possibilities  of  rising  to  the  position  of 
foreman,  or  other  subordinate  administrativo  posts,  which  are  not  only 
more  highly  paid  than  ordinary  labour,  but  Bomt  times  open  the  way  to 
nlterior  advantages.  But  on  tho  other  side  is  to  be  set  that  under  Corar 
mnnism  the  general  sentiment  of  the  community,  composed  of  tho 
comrades  under  whose  eyes  each  person  works,  woiild  be  sure  to  be  in 
favour  of  good  and  hard  working,  and  unfavourable  to  laziness,  careleES- 
nefis,  and  waste.  In  the  present  system  not  only  is  this  not  the  case, 
hilt  the  pubhc  opinion  of  the  workman  class  often  acts  in  the  vf  rj'  oppo^ 
Bite  direction :  the  rules  of  some  trade  societies  actually  forbid  their 
members  to  e;xceed  a  certain  standard  of  efficiency,  lest  they  should 
diminish  the  number  of  labourers  required  for  the  work  ;  and  for  the 
Fame  reason  they  often  violently  resist  contrivances  for  economising 
labour.  The  change  from  this  to  a  state  in  which  every  person  would 
have  an  interest  in  rendering  every  other  p  rson  as  industrious,  skilful, 
and  careful  as  possible  (which  would  be  the  case  under  Communism), 
would  be  a  change  very  much  for  the  better. 

It  is,  however,  to  be  considered  that  tho  principal  defects  of  the 
present  system  in  respect  to  the  efficiency  of  labour  may  be  corrected, 
and  the  chief  advantages  of  Communism  in  that  respect  may  be 
obtained,  by  arrangements  compatible  with  private  property  andJndiVi- 
dnal  competition.  Considerable  improvement  is  already  obtained  by 
pi^ce-work,  in  the  kinds  of  labour  which  admit  of  it.  By  this  tho 
workman's  personal  interest  is  closely  connected  with  the  quantity  of 
work  he  turns  out — not  so  much  with  its  quality,  the  security  for 
which  stili  has  to  depend  on  the  employer's  vigilance  j  neither  docs 
piece-work  carry  with  it  the  public  opmiou  of  the  workman  class. 
Vthich  is  often,  on  the  contrary,  strongly  opposed  to  it,  as  a  means  of 
Cas  they  think)  diminishing  the  market  for  labourers.  And  there  is 
roally  good  ground  for  their  dishke  of  piece-wprk,  if,  as  is  alleged,  it  m 
a  frequent  practice  of  employers,  after  using  piece-work  to  ascertain 
ihe  vtmpst  which  a  good  workman  can  do,  to  £ix  Uie  jpricc  of  piec§« 


«94  CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

work  so  low  that  by  doing  that  utmost  he  is  not  able  to  earn  more  thia 
tliey  would  be  obliged  to  give  him  as  day  wages  for  ordinary  work.   ' 

But  thero  is  a  tar  more  complete  remedy  thau  piece-work  for  the 
disadvantages  of  hired  labour,  viz.  what  is  now  caked  industriai  part- 
nership—the admission  of  tn»3  whole  body  of  labour«irs  to  a  participiv- 
tion  in  the  prohts,  by  distributing  among  ail  v/ho  share  in  the  work,  in 
the  form  of  a  pcroentaga  on  tiiuir  tarnings,  t.je  whole  or  a  fixed  portion 
of  the  gains  after  a  certajn  remuneration  has  been  allowed  to  the  cap- 
itaUst.  This  plan  ha«^  been  found  of  admirable  efficacy,  both  in  tlus 
country  and  abroad,  li  has  enlisted  the  sentiments  of  the  workmen 
on  the  side  of  the  moKt  cartful  regard  by  all  of  them  to  the  general  in- 
terest of  the  concrrn  •,  and  by  its  joint  effect  in  promoting  zealous  exer- 
tion and  checking  waeto,  it  has  very  materially  increased  the  renianera- 
tion  of  every  description  of  labour  in  the  concerns  in  which  it  has  betn 
adopted.  It  is  evident  that  this  system  admits  of  indefinite  extension 
and  of  an  ir,definite  increase  in 'the  share  of  profits  assigned  to  iha 
labourer^  p^iort  of  that  which  would  leave  to  the  managers  less  than  tlu 
needful  de*^ee  of  personal  interest  in  the  success  of  the  concern.  It  is 
even  Jikely  that  when  such  arrangements  become  common,  many  of 
these  concerns  would  at  some  period  or  another,  on  the  death  orr^tirc- 
mert  of  the  chiefs,  pass,  by  arrangement,  into  the  state  of  purely  co- 
op*3raUve  associations. 

It  thus  appears  that  as  far  as  concerns  the  motives  to  exertion  in  tho 
general  body,  Communism  has  no  advantage  which  may  not  be  reachtd 
under  private  property,  while  as  respects  the  managing  heads  it  is  at  a 
considerable  disadvanttige.  It  has  also  some  disadvantages  which  stem 
to  be  inherent  in  it,  through  the  necessity  under  which  it  hes  oi  de- 
ciding in  a  more  or  less  arbitrary  manner  questions  which,  on  Ibo 
present  system,  decida  themselves,  often  badly  enough,  but  l]x)-:- 
taneouslj'. 

It  is  a  simple  rule,  and  under  certain  aspects  a  just  ono,  to  give  equal 
payment  to  ail  who  share  in  the  work.  But  this  is  a  very  imperfect  jiw- 
tice  unless  the  work  also  is  apportioned  equally.  Now  the  many  dlner- 
ent  kinds  of  work  required  in  every  society  are  very  unequal  in  hard- 
ness and  unpleasantness.  To  measure  theso  against  one  another,  so  a^ 
to  make  quality  equivalent  to  quantity,  is  so  difficult  that  Commuiiibi? 
generally  propose  that  all  should  work  by  turns  at  every  kind  cf 
]  »bour.  But  this  involves  an  almost  complete  sacrifice  of  the  economij 
rd vantages  of  the  division  of  employments,  advantages  which  are  indited 
frequentiy  over-estimated  (or  rather  the  counter-considcratiQns  are 
under-estimated)  by  political  economists,  but  which  are  nevertheless,  h 
the  point  of  view  of  the  productiveness  of  labour,  very  considerabl.\ 
for  me  double  reason  that  the  co-operation  of  employment  enables  tliu 
WOfk  to  dist^bute  itself  with  some  regard  to  the  special  capacities  and 
qnalifications  of  the  worker,  and  also  that  every  worker  acquires  great*,  r 
liill  and  rapidity  in  one  kind  of  work  by  confining  himself  to  it  The 
lurangement,  tlwreforO|  which  is  deemed  indispensabld  to  a  just  distribu- 


CHAPTEES  ON  SOCIAIJSM.  39S 

to  woald  probably  be  a  very  considerable  disadyantago  in  respect  of 
production.     But  farther,  it  is  stiil  a  very  impcrl'oct  Btaudard  of  justice 
to  demand  the  same  amount  of  work  from  evtry  one.     People  have 
unoqual  capacities  of  work,   both  mentally  and  bodily,  and  what  is  a 
liglit  task  for  one  is  au  insupportable  burthen  to  another.     It  is  neces- 
sary, therefore,  that  tuer^  should  be  a  dispensing  power,  an  authority 
competent  to  grant  exemptions  from  the  ordinary  amount  of  work,  and 
to  proportion  tasks  in  some  measure  to  ctipabilities.     As  long  as  there 
are  any  lazy  or  selfish  persons  who  like  better  to  be  worked  for  by  others 
^han  to  work,  there  will  be  frequent  attempts  io  obtain  exemptions  by 
favour  or  fraud,  and  the  frustration  of  these  attempts  will  be  an  affair 
Df  considerable  difficulty,  and  will  by  no  means  be  always  successlul. 
These  inconveniences  would  be  little  felt,   for  some  time  at  least,  in 
communities  composed  of  select  persons,  earnestly  desirous  of  the  suc- 
cess of  the  experiment;  but  plans  for  the  regeneration  of  society  must 
consider  average  human  beings,  and  not  only  them  but  the  large  resi- 
duum of  persons  greatly  below  the  average  in  the  personal  ami-  social^ 
virtues.     The  squabbles  and  ill-blood  which  could  not  fail  to  be  engen- 
dered by  the  distribution  of  work  whenever  such  persons  have  to  be 
dealt  with,  would*  be  a  great  abatement  from  the  harmony  and  unani- 
mity which  Communists  hope  would  be  found  among  the  members  of 
their  association.     That  concord  would,  even  in  the  most  fortunate  cir- 
cumstances, be  much  more  hable  to  disturbance  than  Communists  sup- 
pose.   The  institution  ^^rovjdes  that  there  shall  be  no  quarreUng  about 
material  interests;  individualism  is  excluded  from  that  department  of 
affairs.     But  there  are  other  departments  from  which  no  institutions 
can  exclude  it :  there  will  still  be  rivalry  for  reputation  and  for  personal 
power.     When  selfish  ambition  is  excludod  from  the  field   in  which, 
with  most  men,  it  chiefly  exercises  itsi  If,  that  of  riches  and  pecuniary 
interest,  it  would  betake  itself  with  greater  intensity  to  the  domain  still 
open  to  it,  and  we  may  expect  that  the  struggles  for  pre-eminence  and 
for  influence  in  the  management  would  be  of  great  bitterness  when  the 
personal  passions,  diverted  from  their  ordinary  channel,  are  driven  to 
leek  their  principal  gratification  in  that  other  direction.     For  these 
various  reasons  it  is  probable  that  a  Communist  association  would  fre- 
quently fail  to  exhibit  the  attractive  picture  of  mutual  love  and  unity  of 
will  and  feeling  which  we  are  often  told  by  Communists  to  expect, 
but  would  often  be  torn  by  dissension  and  not  unfrcqucntly  broken 
by  it. 

Other  and  numerous  sources  of  discord  are  inherent  in  the  necessity 
which  the  Communist  principle  involves,  of  deciding  by  the  generiJ 
voice  questions  of  the  utmost  importance  to  every  one,  which  on  the 
present  system  can  be  and  are  left  to  individuals  to  decide,  each  for  his 
own  case. .  As  an  example,  take  the  subject  of  education.  All  Social- 
ists are  strongly  impressed  with  the  all-importance  of  the  training  given 
to  the  young,  not  only  for  the  reasons  which  apply  universally,  but  be- 
•sose  their  ddmnads  b^ng  mu<2h  greater  than  those  of  any  other  system 


896  CHAPTEES  ON  SOCIALISM. 

Upoa  tiie  intelligence  and  morality  of  the  individual  citizen,  they  >iav* 
even  more  at  stake  than  any  other  societies  on  tlie  excellence  ot  th^r 
educ;a,tional  arrangements,  i^ow  under  Communism,  these  arrange/nef  ts 
wouli  have  to  bi  made  tor  every  citizen  by  the  collective  body^  siirca 
ludividaal  parents,  supposing  them  to  prefer  some  other  modo  ot  aiu- 
cating  their  children,  would  have  no  private  means  of  paying  for  it, 
&nd  would  be  limited  to  what  they  could  do  by  their  own  personal  teach- 
ing and  influence.  But  every  adult  member  of  the  body  would  Lave 
fcn  equal  voice  in  determining  the  collective  system  designed  for  the 
benefit  of  all.  Here,  then,  is  a  most  fruitful  source  of  discord  in  every 
association.  All  who  had  any  opinion  or  preference  as  to  the  education 
thay  would  desire  for  their  own  childreif;  would  have  to  irely  for  their 
chance  of  obtaining  it  upon  the  influence  they  could  exercise  in  the 
joint  dicision  of  the  community. 

It  is  n  3odliisg  to  specify  a  number  of  other  important  questions  afifect- 
ing  the  mode  of  employing  the  productive  resources  of  the  association, 
the  conditions  of  social  life,  the  relations  of  the  body  ■«  ith  other  asso- 
*  ciations,  etc.,  ou  which  difference  of  opinion,  often  irreconcilable, 
would  be  likaly  to  aris3.  But  even  the  dissensions  which  might  be  ex- 
pected would  be  a  far  less  evil  to  the  prospects  of  humanity  than  a  de- 
lusive unanimifcy  produced  by  the  prostration  of  all  individual  opinions 
and  wishes  befors  the  decree  of  the  majority.  The  obstacles  to  human 
progression  are  always  great,  and  require  a  concurrence  of  favourabb 
circutnstanoes  to  overcome  them;  bub  an  indispensable  condition  of 
their  being  overcornj  is,  that  human  nature  should  have  freedom  to  ex- 
pand spontaneously  in  various  directions,  both  in  thought  and  practice ; 
that  people  should  both  think  for  themselves  and  try  experiments  for 
themselves,  and  should  not  resign  into  the  hands  of  rulers,  whether  act- 
ing m  the  name  of  a  few  or  of  the  majority,  the  busuiess  of  thinking 
for  them,  and  of  prescribing  how  they  shail  act.  But  in  Conmmnist 
associations  private  hfo  would  be  brought  in  a  most  unexampled  degree 
within  the  dominion  of  public  authority,  and  there  would  be  less  scopa 
for  the  dBvelopment  of  individual  character  and  individual  preferences 
than  has  hitherto  existed  among  the  full  citizens  of  any  state  belonging 
to  the  progressive  branches  of  the  human  family.  Already  in  all  soci- 
eties the  compression  of  individuality  by  the  majority  is  a  great  and 
growing  evil ;  it  would  probably  be  much  greater  underCommunism, 
except  so  far  as  it  might  be  in  the  power  of  individuals  to  set  bounds  to 
it  by  selecting  to  belong  to  a  community  of  persons  like-minded  wiUi 
themselves. 

From  these  various  considcisations  I  do  not  seek  to  draw  any  infer- 
ence ai^ainst  the  possibility  that  Communistic  production  is  capable  of 
being  at  some  future  time  the  form  of  society  bost  adapted  to  the  wants 
and  circumstances  of  mankind.  I  think  that  this  is,  and  will  long  be, 
an  op^^n  question,  upon  which  fresh  light  Avill  continually  be  obtained, 
both  by  trial  of  the"  Communistic  principle  under  favourable  circum- 
■toaoes,  aad  by  tiie  Tjnproyemonts  which  will  bd  gradoailj  •Secifid  ii 


GHAPTEBS  ON  SOCIALISM.  897 

woddng  of  the  existing  system,  that  of  private  o-wnership.  The 
one  certainty  is,  that  Commnmsm,  to  be  Bacctssttil,  requires  a  high 
standard  of  both  moral  and  intellectnal  education  in  uli  the  members  of 

the  commtmity— moral,  to  qualify  them  for  doing  their  part  honestly 
and  energetically  in  the  labour  of  life,  under  no  inducement  but  their 
share  in  the  general  interest  of  the  association,  and  their  feelings  of 
duty  and  sympathy  towards  it ;  intellectual,  to  make  them  capable  of 
estimating  distant  interests  and  entering  into  complex  considerations, 
sufficiently  at  least  to  be  able  to  discriminate,  in  these  matters,  good 
counsel  from  bad.  Now  I  reject  altogether  the  notion  that  it  is  impos- 
^ble  for  education  and  cultivation  such  as  is  implied  in  these  things  to 
be  made  the  inheritance  of  every  person  in  the  nation ;  but  I  am  con- 
^nced  that  it  is  very  difficult,  and  that  the  passage  to  it  from  our 
present  condition  can  only  be  slow.  I  admit  the  pica  that  in  the  points 
01  moral  education  on  Vv'hicli  the  success  of  Communism  depends,  the 
present  state  <f  society  is  demoraHsing,  and  that  only  a  Communistio 
association  can  effectually  train  mankind  for  Commur.ism.  It  is  for 
Communism,  then,  to  prove,  by  practical  experiment,  itn  power  of 
^ving  this  training.  Experiments  alono  can  fIiow  whether  there  is  m 
yet  in  any  portion  of  the  population  a  sufficiently  high  level  of  moral 
lultiYalion  to  make  Communism  succeed,  and  to  give  to  the  next  gen- 
eration among  themselves  the  education  neceRsary  to  keep  up  that  high 
level  permanently.  If  Communist  associations  show  thn.t  they  can  bo 
durable  and  prosperous,  they  will  multiply,  and  will  probably  bo  adopted 
by  successive  portions  of  the  population  of  the  more  advanced  countries 
as  they  become  morally  fitted  for  that  mode  cf  life.  But  to  force  un- 
prepared populations  into  Commucist  societies,  even  if  a  political  revo- 
lution gave  the  power  to  make  such  an  attempt,  would  end  in  disap- 
pointment. 

If  practical  trial  is  necessary  to  test  the  capabilities  of  Communism, 
it  is  no  less  required  for  those  other  forms  of  Socialism  which  reco^iza 
the  difficnlties  of  Communism  and  contrive  means  to  surmount  them. 
The  principal  of  these  is  Fouricrism,  a  system  which,  if  only  as  a  speci- 
men of  intellectual  ingenuity,  is  highly  worthy  of  the  attention  of  any 
student,  either  of  society  or  of  the  human  mind.  There  is  scarcely  an 
objection  or  a  difficulty  which  Fourier  did  not  foresee,  and  against  which 
be  did  not  make  provision  beforehand  by  self-acting  contrivances, 
grounded,  however,  upon  a  less  high  principle  of  distributive  justice 
than  that  of  Communism,  since  ho  admits  inequalities  of  distribution 
and  individual  ownership  of  capital,  but  not  the  arbitrary  disposal  cf  it. 
The  great  problem  which  ho  grapples  with  i3  hovr  to  make  labour  at- 
tractive, since,  if  this  could  be  done,  the  principal  difficulty  of  Socialism 
sTOuld  be  overcome.  He  maintains  that  no  kind  of  useful  labour  is  ne- 
cessarily or  universally  repugnant,  unless  cither  excessive  in  amount  or 
devoid  of  the  stimulus  of  companionship  and  emulation,  or  regarded  by 
mankind  with  contempt.  The  workers  in  a  Fouricrist  village  are  to 
dass  themselves,  spontaneously  in,  groups,  each  group  undertaking  a 


f 
I 

I 
t 


898  CHAPTEES  ON  SOCIALISM. 

different  kind  of  work,  and  the  same  person  may  be  a  member  Iwt  onlj 
of  one  group  but  of  any  number ;  a  certain  minimum  having  first  betn 
set  apart  for  the  subsistence  of  every  member  of  the  community,  whe- 
ther capable  or  not  of  labour,  the  society  divides  the  remainder  of  the 
produce  among  the  different  groups,  in  such  shares  as  it  finds  attract  to 
each  the  amount  of  labour  required,  and  no  more ;  if  there  is  too  great 
a  run, upon  particular  groups  it  is  a  sign  that  those  groups  are  over-re- 
munerated  relatively  to  others  ;  if  any  are  neglected  their  remuneration 
must  be  made  higher.  The  share  of  produce  assigned  to  each  group  is 
divided  in  fixed  proportions  among  three  elements — labour,  capital  and 
talent ;  the  part  assigned  to  talent  being  awarded  by  the  suSrages  of 
the  group  itself,  and  it  is  hoped  that  among  the  varieties  of  human  ca- 
pacities all,  or  nearly  all,  will  be  qualified  to  excel  in  some  group  or  other. 
The  remuneration  for  capital  is  to  be  such  as  is  found  sufl&cient  to  indues 
savings  from  individual  consumption,  in  order  to  increase  the  conmiou 
stock  to  such  point  as  is  desired.  The  number  and  ingenuity  of  the 
contrivances  for  meeting  minor  difficulties,  and  getting  rid  of  minor  in- 
conveniences, is  very  remarkable.  By  means  of  these  vari<  us  provi- 
i^jions  it  is  the  expectation  of  Fourierists  that  the  personal  inducemects 
to  exertion  for  the  public  interest,  instead  of  being  taken  away,  would 
bo  made  much  greater  than  at  present,  since  every  increase  of  the  ser- 
vice rendered  would  be  much  more  certain  of  lea(£ng  to  increase  of  re- 
ward than  it  is  now,  when  accidents  of  position  have  so  much  influence. 
The  efficiency  of  labour,  they  therefore  expect,  would  be  unexamplwi, 
while  the  saving  of  labour  would  be  prodigious,  by  diverting  to  useful 
occupations  that  which  is  now  wasted  on  things  useless  or  hurtful,  and 
by  dispensing  with  the  vast  number  of  superfluous  distributors,  the 
buying  and  selling  for  the  whole  commimity  being  managed  by  a  single 
agency.  The  free  choice  of  individuals  as  to  their  manner  of  life  would 
be  no  further  interfered  with  than  would  be  necessary  for  gaiuing  the 
full  advantages  of  co-operation  in  the  industrial  operations.  Altogether, 
the  picture  of  a  Fourierist  community  is  both  attractive  in  itself  and  re- 
quires less  from  common  humanity  than  any  other  known  system  of 
Socialism  ;  and  it  is  much  to  be  desired  that  the  scheme  should  have 
that  fair  trial  which  alone  can  test  the  workableness  of  any  new  Bcheme 
of  social  life.* 

The  result  of  our  review  of  the  various  difficulties  of  Socialism  h  *? 
led  us  to  the  conclusion  that  the  various  schemes  for  managing  the  pn*- 
ductive  resources  of  the  country  by  pubHc  instead  of  private  age  my 

•  The  principles  of  Fourieiism  are  clearly  pet  forth  and  powerfully  defftidwi  "i 
the  various  writings  of  M.  Viotor  Consid6rant,  especially  tliat  eufitltd  "  La  Dwtii.t  • 
Sociale  \"  but  the  curious  inquirer  will  do  well  to  study  them  in  the  writings  of  F<ti.- 
rier  himself ;  where  he  will  find  unmistakable  proofs  of  penius,  mixed,  however,  vii.'j 
the  wildest  and  most  unscientific  fancies  respecting  the  physical  world,  and  mnch  in- 
teresting: but  rash  speculation  on  the  past  and  future  history  of  humanity.  It  is  vm- 
per  to  arid  that  on  some  important  social  questions,  for  instance  on  marriage,  Foa- 
rier  had  peculiar  opinions,  which,  however,  as  he  himself  dfclaree,  arc  qoltt 
independent  of,  and  separable  from,  tke  princ^les  of  his  indujstrial  s^sten. 


CHAPTEBS  ON  SOCIALISM.  89t 

bAT6  a  case  for  a  trial,  and  some  of  them  may  eventually  establish  their 
claims  to  preference  over  the  existing  order  or*  things,  but  that  they  ara 
at  pr-isent  workable  only  by  the  elite  of  mankind,  and  have  yet  to  prove 
tlijir  power  of  training  mankind  at  large  to  the  state  of  improvement 
which  they  presuppose.     Far  more,  of  course,  may  this  be  said  of  the 
Liore  aiubitious  pian  which  aims  at  taJdng  possession  of  the  whole  laud 
aad  capital  of  the  country,  and  beginning  at  once  to  administer  it  on  the 
public  account.     Apart  ftom  all  consideration  of  injustice  to  the  present 
possessors,  the  very  id 3a  of  conducting  tho  whole  industry  of  a  country 
by  direction  from  a  singld  centre  is  so  obviously  chimericid,  that  nobody 
ventures  to  propose  any  mode  iu  vhich  it  should  be  done ;  and  it  can 
banily  b3  doubtsd  that  if  the  revolutionary  Socialists  attained  their  im- 
mediate objrfct,  and  actually  had  the  wholo  property  of  the  country  at 
thair  disposal,  they  would  find  no  other  practicable  mode  of  exercising 
thair  power  over  it  than  that  of  dividing  it  into  portions,  each  to  be  made 
over  to  th3  ad-ninistration  of  a   small  Socialist  community.     The  pro- 
blam  of  management,  which  wo   have  seen  to  be  so  difficult  even  to  a 
select  population  well  prapared   beforehand,  would  be  thrown  down  to 
be  solved  as  best  it  could  by  aggregations  united  only  by  locality,  or 
takea  indi33riminat9ly  from  tho  population,  including  all  the  malef ac- 
tors, all  th3  idlest  and  most  vicious,  the  most  incapable  of  steady  indus- 
try, forjthougafc,  or  self-control,  and  a  majority  who,  though  not  equally 
digrai3d,  arj  yat,  in  th3  opinion  of  Sociahsts  themselves,  as  far  as  re- 
gartU  th3  qiiilities  essential  foi  the  success  of  Socialism,  profoundly  de- 
mDnIi83d  by  the  existing  state  of  society.     It  is  saying  but  little  to  say 
thifc  taa  introiaction  of  Socialism  under  such  conditions  could  have  no 
cldst  but  disastrous  failmre,  and  its  apostles  could  have  only  the  conso- 
lation tha   the  order  of   society  as  it  now  exists  would  have  perished 
first,  and  all  who  banefit  by  it  would  be  involved  in  the  common  ruin — 
a  consolation  which  to  some  of  them  would  probably  be  real,  for  if  ap- 
pBarances  can  be  tmsted  tha  animating  principle  of  too  many  of  the  re- 
volutionary Socialists  is  hate ;  a  very  excusable  hatred  of  existing  evils, 
which  would  vent  itself  by  putting  au  end  to  the  present  system  at  all 
costs  even  to  those  who  suffer  by  it,  in  the  hope  that  out  of  chaos  would 
ari83  a  b3tt3r  Kosmos,  and  in  the  impatience  of  desperation  respecting 
any  more  gradual  improvement.     They  are  unaware-  that  chaos  is  the 
very  most  unfavourable  position  for  setting  out  in  the  construction  of  a 
Kosmos,  and  that  many  ages  of  conflict,  violence,  and  tyrannical  op- 
pression of  the  weak  by  the  strong  must  intervene ;  they  know  not  that 
they  would  plunge  mankind  into  the  state  of  nature  so  forcibly  described 
by  Hobbas  {Leviathan,  Part  I.  ch.  xiii.),  where  every  man  is  enemy  to 
every  man : — 

"  In  such  condition  there  is  no  place  fo^  industry,  bscauee  the  fruit  thereof  is  un- 
certain, and  consequeDtly  no  cultore  of  the  earth,  no  navigation,  no  use  of  the  com- 
maditiei  that  m«y  oe  import^l  by  sea,  no  commodious  building,  no  instruments  of 
moving  and  renaoving  such  things  as  require  much  force,  no  knowledge  of  the  face  of 
the  earth,  no  account  of  time,  no  artB,  no  letters,  no  society ;  and,  which  is  worst  of 
slL  continual  fear  and  dangbr  bf  violent  death ;  and  tho  life  of  man  solitary,  po«r« 
wely,  limtish  and  short  *  •         .   .     , 


i 


400  CHAPTEBS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

If  the  poorest  and  most  wretched  members  of  a  so-called  ciTilised  soci- 
ety are  in  as  bad  a  condition  as  every  one  would  be  in  that  worst  form 
of  barbarism  produced  by  the  dissolution  of  civilised  life,  it  does  not 
follow  that  the  way  to  raise  them  would  be  to  reduce  all  others  to  the 
same  miserable  state.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  by  the  aid  of  the  first  who 
have  risen  that  so  many  others  have  escaped  from  the  general  lot,  and 
it  is  only  by  better  organization  of  the  same  process  that  it  maybe  hoped 
in  time  to  succeed  in  raising  the  remainder 

j      I  THE  IDEA  or  PBIVATE  PBOPEBTY  NOT  FIXED  BUT  YABIABLE. 

•  The  preceding  considerations  appear  to  show  that  an  entire  renova- 
tion of  the  social  fabric,  such  as  is  contemplated  by  Socialism,  estabUsh- 
ing  the  economic  constitution  of  society  upon  an  entirely  new  basis,  o  her 
than  that  of  private  property  and  competition,  however  valuable  as  aa 
ideal,  and  even  as  a  prophecy  of  ultimate  possibilities,  is  not  available  as 
a  present  resource,  since  it  requires  from  those  who  are  to  carry  on  the 
new  order  of  things  qualities  both  moral  and  intellectual,  which  require 
to  be  tes'.ed  in  all,  and  to  be  created  in  most ;  and  this  cannot  be  done 
by  an  Act  of  Parhament,  but  must  be,  on  the  must  favourable  supposi- 
tion, a  work  of  considerable  time.  For  a  long  period  to  come  the  prin- 
ciple of  individual  property  will  be^in  posses  ion  of  the  field;  and  even 
if  in  any  country  a  popular  movemeht  were  to  place  Socialists  at  the 
head  of  a  revolutionary  government,  in  however  many  ways  they  might 
violate  private  property,  the  institution  itself  would  survive,  and  would 
either  be  accepted  by  them  or  brought  back  by  their  expulsion,  for  the 
plain  reason  that  people  will  not  lose  their  hold  of  what  is  at  present 
their  sole  reliance  for  subsistence  and  security  until  a  substitute  for  it 
has  been  got  into  working  order.  Even  those,  if  any,  who  had  shared 
among  themselves  what  was  the  property  of  others  would  desire  to  keep 
what  they  had  acquired,  and  to  give  back  to  property  in  the  new  bands 
the  sacredness  which  they  Lad  not  recognised  in  the  old. 

But  though,  for  these  reasons,  individual  property  has  presumably  a 
long  term  before  it,  if  only  of  provisional  existence,  we  are  not,  there- 
fore, to  conclude  that  it  must  exist  during  that  whole  term  unmodified, 
or  that  all  the  rights  now  regarded  as  appertaining  to  property  belong  to 
it  inherently,  and  must  endure  while  it  endures.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
both  the  duty  and  the  interest  of  those  who  derive  the  most  direct  benefit 
from  the  laws  of  property  to  give  impartial  consideration  to  all  propo- 
sals for  rendering  those  laws  in  any  way  less  onerous  to  the  majority. 
This,  which  would  in  any  case  be  an  obligation  of  justice,  is  an  injuno 
tion  of  prudence  also,  in  order  to  place  themselves  in  the  right  against 
the  attempts  which  are  sure  to  be  frequent  to  bring  the  Socialist  forma 
of  society  prematurely  into  operation. 

One  of  the  mistakes  of  tenest  committed,  and  which  are  the  sources  oi 
the  greatest  practical  errors  in  human  affairs,  is  that  of  supposing  that 
the  same  name  always  stands  for  the  same  aggregation  of  ideas.  Ko 
word  has  be^en  the  subject  of  moro  of  this  kind  of  misunderstandlPg 


CHAPTEBS  ON  SOCIALISM.  401 

than  the  word  property.  It  denotes  in  every  state  of  society  the  largest 
powers  of  exclusive  use  or  exclusive  control  over  things  (and  somctimt  p, 
Tmforfcnnately,  over  persons)  which  the  law  accords,  or  which  custom,  in 
that  state  of  society,  recognises ;  but  these  powers  of  exchisive  use  and 
control  are  very  various,  and  differ  greatly  in  different  countries  and  in 
different  states  of  society. 

For  instance,  in  early  states  of  society,  the  right  of  p-  operty  did  not 
include  the  right  of  bequest.     The  power  of  disposing  of  property  by 
will  was  in  most  countries  of  Europe  a  rather   late   inntitution ;  and 
long  after  it  was  introduced  it  continued  to  be  lunited  in  favour  of  what 
were  called  natural  heirs.     Where  beO[uest  is  not  permitted,  individual 
property  is  only  a  life  interest.     And  in  fact,  as  has  been  so  well  and 
fully  set  forth  by  Sir  Henry  Maine  in  his  most  inRtniclivo  work  on 
Ancient  Law,  the  primitive  idea  of  property  was  that  it  belonged  to  the 
family,  not  the  individual     The  head  of  the  family  had  th3  manage- 
ment and  was  the  person  who  renlly  exercised  the  proprietary  rights. 
As  in  other  respects,  so  in  this,  he  governed  tlie  family  with  nearly  des- 
potic power.     But  he  was  not  free  so  to  exercise  his  power  as;  to  defeat 
the  co-proprietors  of  tho  other  portions ;  he  could  not  so  dispos  •  of  the 
property  as  to  deprive  them  of  the  joint  enjoyment  or  of  the  succession. 
By  the  laws  and  customs  of  some  nations  the  property  could  not  be 
alienated  without  the  consent  of  the  male  children ;  in  other  cases  tho 
child  could  by  law  demand  a  division  of  the  property  mid  the  assignment 
to  him  of  his  share,  as  in  the  story  of  the  Trodigal  Son.     If  tha  asso- 
ciation kept  together  after  t^o  death  of  the  head,  some  other  member 
of  it,  not^  always  his  son,  but  often  the  eldest  of  tho  family,  tho  strongest, 
or  the  one  selected  by  the  rest,  succeeded  to  tho  management  and  to  tlio 
managing  rights,  all  the  others  retaining  theirs  as  beforo.     If,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  body  broke  up  into  separate  families,  each  of  llicso  took 
away  with  it  a  part  of  the  property.     I  say  the  property;  not  the  in- 
heritance,-because  the  process  was  ii  mere  continuance  of  existing  rights, 
not  a  creation  of  new ;  the  manager^s  share  alone  lapsed  to  the  associa- 
tion. 

Then,  again,  in  regard  to  proprietary  rights  over  immovables  (the 
principal  Mnd  of  property  in  a  rude  age)  these  rights  were  of  very 
varying  extent  and  duration.  By  tho  Jewish  Law  property  in  immov- 
ables was  only  a  temporary  concession ;  on  the  Sabbatical  year  it  re- 
turned to  the  common  stock  to  be  redistributed  ;  thor.gh  wo  may 
surmise  that  in  the  historical  times  of  the  Jewish  state  tiii«  nilo  nmy 
have  been  successfully  evaded.  In  many  countries  of  Asia,  befcro 
European  ideas'  intervened,  nothing  existed  to  which  tho  cxpres.sion 
property  in  land,  as  we  understand  the  phrase,  is  strictly  api)Hcabb. 
The  ownership  was  broken  up  among  several  distinct  parties,  v/lioso 
rights  were  determined  rather  by  custom  than  by  law.  The  govern- 
ment was  part  owner,  having  the  right  to  a  heavy  rent.  Ancient  idea9 
and  even  ancient  laws  limited  tlie  government  share  to  some  particulai: 
Inction  of  the  gross  produce,  but  practically  there  was  no  iixed  limit. 


402  CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM. 

The  gOYfirnment  might  make  dver  its  share  to  an  individual,  who  tben 
became  possessed  of  the  right  of  collection  and  all  the  other  rights  of 
the. stale,  but  not  those  of  any  private  person  connected  with  the  soil 
These  private  rights  were  of  various  kinds.  The  actual  cultivators,  or 
such  of  them  as  had  been  long  settled  on  tne  land,  had  a  right  to  retain 
possession ;  it  was  held  unlawful  to  evict  them  while  they  paid  the  rent 
— ^a  rent  not  in  general  fixed  by  agreement,  but  by  the  custom  of  the 
lieighbourhood.  Between  the  actual  cultivators  and  the  state,  or  thd 
substitute  to  whom  tho  state  had  transf  rred  its  rights,  there  were  inter- 
mediate-parsons  with  rights  of  various  extent..  There  were  officers  of 
governmant  who  collected  the  state's  share  of  the  produce,  sometimes 
for  large  districts,  who,  though  bound  to  piy  over  to  government  all 
they  coUectad,  after  deducting  a  percentage,  were  often  hereditary  offi- 
cers. There  were  also,  in  many  cases,  village  communities,  consisting 
of  the  reputed  descendants  of  the  first  settlers  of  a  village,  who  shared 
among  themselves  either  the  laud  or  its  produce  according  to  rules 
estabUshed  by  custoaa,  either  cultivatiag  it  themselves  or  employing 
others  to  cultivate  it  for  them,  and  whos3  rights  in  the  land  approached 
nearer  to  those  of  a  landed  proprietor,  as  tmderstood  in  England,  than 
those  of  any  other  party  conoeraed.  But  the  proprietary  right  of  the 
village  was  not  individual,  but  collective  ;  inalienable  (the  rights  of  in- 
dividual sharers  could  only  be  sold  or  mortgaged  wiUi  the  consent  of 
the  community)  and  governed  by  fixed  rules.  In  mediaeval  Europe 
almost  all  Ian  I  was  held  from  the  sovereign  on  tenure  of  service,  either 
jnilitfiry  or  agricultural ;  aad  ia  Great  Britain  even  now,  when  the  ser- 
vices as  well  as  all  th:)  reserved  rights  of  the  sovereign  have  long  since 
fallen  into  disuse  or  been  commuted  for  taxation,  the  theory  of  the  law 
does  not  acknowledge  a  i  absolute  right  of  property  in  land  in  any  in- 
dividual ;  the  fullest  landed  proprietor  known  to  the  law,  the  freeholder, 
is  but  a  ^^  tenant"  of  the  Crown.  In  Kussia,  even  when  the  cultivaton 
of  the  soil  ware  serfs  of  the  hiuded  proprietor,  his  proprietary  right  in 
the  land  was  limited  by  rights  of  theirs  belonging  to  them  as  a  collective 
body  managing  its  own  affairs,  and  with  which  he  could  not  interfere. 
And  in  most  of  the  countries  of  continental  Europe  when  serfage  was  abol- 
ished or  went  out  of  use,  those  who  had  cultivated  the  Iwid  as  serfs 
remained  in  possession  of  rights  as  well  as  subject  to  obligations.  Th) 
great  land  reforms  of  Stein  and  his  successors  in  Prussia  consisted  in 
abolishing  both  the  rights  and  the  obligations,  and  dividing  the  hoA 
bodily  between  the  proprietor  and  the  peasant,  instead  of  leaving  each 
of  them  with  a  limited  right  over  the  whole.  In  other  cases,  as  in  Tu.^ 
cany,  the  metayer  farmer  is  virtually  co-proprietor  with  the  kndlorJ, 
since  custom,  though  not  law,  guarantees  to  him  a  permanent  possei^- 
filon  and  hahf  the  gross  produce,  so  long  as  he  fulfils  the  customar/ 
conditions  of  his  tenure. 

Again,  if  rights  of  property  over  the  same  things  are  of  different 
extent  in  different  countries,  so  also  are  they  exercised  over  different 
things.    In  all  countries  at  a  former  time,  and  in  isoma  countries  Btili. 


CHAPTERS  ON  SOCIALISM.  408 

the  right  of  property  extended  and  extends  to  the  ownership  of  human 
heingB.  There  has  often  been  property  in  pubhc  trusts,  as  in  judicial 
•ffices,  and  a  Tast  multitude  of  others  in  l-'niuce  b(  fore  the  Kevoiution ; 
ihcre  are  still  a  few  patjnt  othces  iu  Grtat  Briuiin,  tnough  1  b»  ii(  vo 
they  will  cease  by  operation  of  law  on  tho  death  ol  tho  jjr.'scnt  holdt^rs; 
%ad  we  are  only  now  abolishing  property  in  army  rank.  Pubhc  bodies, 
constituted  and  endowed  for  public  pui'poscs,  still  claim  the  same 
inviolable  right  of  property  in  their  estates  which  individuals  have  in 
theirs,  and  though  a  sound  political  morahty  does  not  acknowledge  this 
claim,  the  law  supports  it.  We  thus  s^e  that  the  right  of  property  is 
differently  interpreted,  and  held  to  be  of  diff<^rtnt  extent,  in  different 
times  and  places ;  that  the  conception  entertained  of  it  is  a  varying 
conception,  has  been  frequently  revised,  and  may  admit  of  still  further 
revision.  It  is  also  to  ba  noticed  that  tho  revisions  which  it  has  hitherto 
undergone  in  the  progress  of  society  have  generally  been  improvements. 
^Vhen,  therefore,  it^s  maintained,  rightly  or  wrongly,  that  some  change 
or  modification  in  the  powers  exercised  over  things  by  tho  persons 
legafly  recognised  as  their  proprietors  would  be  beneficial  to  the  public 
and  conducive  to  the  general  improvement,  it  is  no  good  answer  to  this 
merely  to  say  that  the  proposed  change  conflicts  with  tho  idea  of  pro- 
perty. The  idea  of  property  is  not  some  one  thing,  idc^ntical  through- 
out history  and  incapable  of  alteration,  but  is  variable  hke  all  other 
creations  of  tho  human  mind;  at  any  given  time  it  is  a  brief  expression 
denoting  the  rights  over  things  conferred  by  tl)o  law  or  custom  of  some 
given  society  at  that  time ;  -but  neither  on  this  point  nor  on  any  other 
his  the  law  and  custom  of  a  given. time  and  place  a  claim  to  bo  stereo- 
typed for  ever.  A  proposed  reform  in  laws  or  customs  is  not  neces- 
sarily objectionable  because  its  adoption  would  imply,  not  the  adapta- 
tion of  all  human  affairs  to  the  existing  idea  of  property,  but  the 
Adaptation  of  existing  ideas  of  property  to  the  growth  and  improvement 
of  human  affairs.  This  is  said  without  prejudice  to  tho  equitable  claim 
of  proprietors  to  be  compensated  by  tho  state  for  such  legal  rights  of  a 
proprietary  nature  as  they  may  bo  dispossessed  of  for  the  public  advan- 
tage. That  equitable  claim,  the  grounds  and  tho  just  limits  of  it,  are  a 
cnbject  by  itself,  and  as  such  will  be  discussed  hereafti  r.  Under  this 
condition,  however,  society  is  fully  entitled  to  abrogate  or  alter  any 
particular  right  of  property  which  on  sufficient  consideration  it  judges 
to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  public  good.  And  assuredly  the  terrible  caso 
"Which,  as  we  saw  in  a  former  chapter,  SociaUsts  are  able  to  make  out 
igainst  the  present  economic  order  of  society,  demands  a  f uU  considera- 
tion of  all  means  by  which  the  institution  may  have  a  chance  of  being 
Visde  to  work  in  a  manner  more  benefioial  to  that  large  portion  d 
«9cie^  yrbick  At  present  enjoys  the  least  share  of  its  direct  benefits. 

-^  .   JiaoK  Stuabt  Mill,  in  FortnigMly  J^eview, 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON. 

The  book  season  has  been  very  remarkable  for  the  number  and  vari- 
ety of  biographical  works.  We  hardly  remember  for  many  years  past 
such  ail  influx  of  biographies.  Perhaps  it  is  somewhat  under'the  mark 
if  we  put  down  the  number  of  such  works  as  being  at  least  fifty.  From 
this  mass  of  recent  literature  we  select  for  brief  discussion  a  few  "v^hich 
seem  distinctly  to  predominate  over  their  fellows  in  importance  and 
interest. 

The  biography  which  is  in  every  way  the  most  careful  and  elaborate 
of  the  present  season,  and  which  has  the  highest  positive  value,  is  un- 
doubtedly Prof (  ssor  Seeley's  life  of  the  German  statesman  Stein.*    Pro- 
fessor Seeley  is  the  author  of  **Ecce  Homo,"  a  work  which  elicited  a 
volume  of  essays  from  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  gave  its  author  the  Chair  of 
History  at  Cambridge,  in  succession  to  Charles  Kingsley.     He  has  no\r 
vindicated  the  selection  by  issuing  a  huge  work,  which  is  in  form  a  bi- 
ography, but  in  reality  a  history.     We  must,  however,  warn  our  rea- 
ders that  it  is  anything  but  amusing.  It  is  a  work  which  was  very  much 
wanted,  and  which  will  be  of  matchless  value  to  every  student  and  po- 
litician.    For  to  understand  the  German  Empire  of  to-day  we  must  un- 
derstand that  historical  Prussia  of  the  Napoleonic  age,  of  which  Stein 
was  a  central  figure.     The  personal  character  of  Stein  is   a  very  inte- 
e^ting  one ;  but  it  is  not  presented  with  that  amount  of  literary  art  of 
v.'hich  it  is  fairly  suscr^ptible.     Ho  was  a  thoroughly  hon^  st  man.    Such 
a  judge  as  TV.   A.  Humboldt  felt  an  infinite  regard  and  love  for  liim, 
and  speaks  of  his  conversation  as  full  of  force  and  fire.     We  especially 
like  him  in  his  autobiography  and  in  his  letters    to  his  wife.    Mr. 
Reeley  bri7:!fi:s  out  gi-aphically  that  order  of  German  imperial  kniglit' 
hood  to  wliieh  St^in  belonged,  which  made  him  a  virtual  sovereign  ovo 
Lis  own  narrow  domain.     He  was  a  petty  sovereign,  only  owning  thi 
suzerainty  of  the  emperor;  and,  indeed,  he  was  legally  eligible  for  th.^.l 
I'lrone.     There  are  many  incidental  points  of  great  interest,  such  as  tht, 
r-  l;itions   of   Gel-many   and  England,    and  the   relations  of  Hanover 
to\vards  l)oth.     His    "Emancipating  Edict"  was  the  great  means  of 
r.^f^t  ncrating  Germany.     In  the  langrsigo  of  his  monumental  epitaph. 
Mil  stood  erect  when  German  bowrd  the  knee.'    lie  was  one  of  tl a 
freate^t  factors  in  the  overthrow  of  Kapoleon.     We  think  that  Profo- 
Ror  Seeley  has  made  an  artistic  mistake  in  excluding  the  brilliant  nam- 
tiv3  of  the  invafiion  of  Rome  by  the  allies.     Stein  administered  tho 
Tr .nch  territory  in  his  day  as  Bismarck  did  in  1871.     He  was  strongly 
ill  favour  of  Alsace  and  Lorraine  being  taken  from  France  and  erected 

♦'""Life  aTvrTimes  of  Stein  J^ByjrilTSeeley,  ;d,A.    (Cauobridge;  at  Uw  Vw* 
VGTfiitT  PresB.)  


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON.  iOS 

into  a  separate  principality.  The  work  illustrates  the  cgntimiity  of  his- 
tory, and  enables  us  to  understand  the  correlation  of  historical  epochs. 
The  War  of  Liberation  must  be  combined  with  any  just  view  of 
the  last  war.  Compared  with  such  a  writer  as  Macaulay,  Professor 
Seeley  is  dull;  but  compared  with  tiie  German  writers  who  have 
written  about  Stain,  h3  is  Macaulay  himself.  Just  as  tiie  French  likj 
to  get  their  ideas  of  Comte,  not  from  Comte  himsolf,  but  from  a  tran  •- 
litioa  of  Harriot  Martineau's  version  of  his  writings,  so  we  expect  tb  ••;; 
Profes.5or  Seolay's  work  wUl  be  translated  into  German,  and  suiD^rsode 
Pdi'thBS  and  other  writGrs. 

From  a  biography  of  St3in  to  a  biography  of  Bi-marck  is  a  most  na- 
tinl  transition.    Cirtaiuly  there  aro  abundant  materials  in  ^existence  for 
a  biography  of  ths  German  Chancellor.     It  has  b^en  part  of  tho  man's 
juthod  and  charact3r  to  let  his  whol ".  nature  ba  known  with  candour, 
or  at  least  the  app3aran33    of  candour.     In  addition  to  the  various 
"Lives"  in  existence,  and  his  letters  to  his  wife  and  sisters,  we  have  now 
an  account  of  his  sayings  and  doings  in  tho  Franco-German  war.* 
Dr.  Bosch's  work  has  received  an  extraordinary  amount  of  popularity  on 
the  Continant,  and  we  are  glad  to  welcome  an  excelUmt  Encrlish  transla- 
tion.   Dr.  Busoh  considers  hi-i  hero  a  second  Luther.     He  rather  re- 
miads  us  of  him  in  his  "  Table  Talk,'*  but  a  more  complete  parallel 
will  be  found  in  Oliver  Cromwell.     We  have  a  wonderful  series  of  Bis- 
marck's personal  escapes.     He  seems  to  have  borne  a  charmad  life. 
Hi  had  some  of  the  very  narrowest  escapes.     His  vitahty  is  astonishing. 
H3  talks  without  the  slightest  reserve  of  everybodv  and  everything. 
Among  innumerable  presents  ho  receives  a  cask  of  Vienna  beer  and  a 
trout-pie,  which  set^  him  talking  of  his  own  streams  at  Varzin ;  ho  tells 
how  he  had  caught  a  five-pound  trout  in  a  pond  only  supplied  by  a  few 
little  streams.     He  is  essentially  a  country  gentleman.     His  daughter 
says  that  his  real  passion  in  life  is  for  turnips.     Nevertheless  the  blood 
and  iron  are  everywhere    prevalent.      He  never  scruples  to  express 
ferocious  thoughts  in  ferocious  language.     At  Paris  he  is  in  favour  of 
bombardment ;  he  is  in  favour  of  a  storm.     He  thinks  that  tho  people 
brought  down  with  their  balloons  should  be  shot  as  spies.     Some  of  his 
granhic  poiiraiture  is  admirably  done.     Here  is  his  portrait  of  Thiers  : 
"Ho  is  an  able  and  likeable  man,  witty  and  ingenious,  but  with  hardly 
a  trace  of  diplomatic  quality — too  sentimental  for  business.     Beyond 
question  he  is  a  superior  kind  of  man  to  Favre ;  but  he  is  not  fit  to 
piake  a  bargain  about  an  armistice — barely  fit  to  buy  or  sell  a  horse. 
He  is  too  easily  put  out  of  countenance ;  ho  betraj^s  his  feelings ;  he 
lets  himself  be  cut.     I  got  ail  sorts  of  things  out  of  him ;  for  instanco, 
<hat  they  have  only  three  or  four  weeks'  provisions  not  used."     Later 
-.13  Rays  of  Thiers :    "He  has  a  fine  intellect,  good  manners,  and  can  tell 
a  story  very  agreeably.     I  am  often  sorry  for  him,  too,  for  he  is  i:i  a 
bad  position."    He  gives  a  description  of  the  Empress  Eugenie :    "  Yery 

•  "Biamarck  in  tho  Franco-Qcrmau  War,"  1870-71.    Translate^  jErom  tho  Genaaa 
of  I>r.  Moritsi  Bn.sc]i.    (MaCmillan.) 


40«  BIOGRAPHIES  OP  THE  SEASON. 

beantiful,  not  over  middle  height ;  with  much  natural  intelligenee  hM 
little  acquired  leamiDg,  and  few  interests  in  intellectual  matters.'*  It 
seems  that  she  had  once  taken  him,  with  other  gentlemen,  through  her 
rooms,  and  even  into  her  sleeping  apartment ;  but  he  had  nowhere  setn 
a  book  or  even  a  newspaper.  He  has  something  to  say  about  oiir 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  speaks,  we  are  sorry  to  add,  in  no  veiy  friendiv 
way  of  England:  "B.  told  me  a  number  of  amusing  stories  of  the 
English  court,  especially  of  the  Prince  of  Wales— a  plea.sant  persona^' , 
which  is  a  hopeful  fact  for  the  future,  and  may  ho  be  found  to  agr"> 
with  his  disagreeable  countrymen.'  There  is  a  very  amusing  account 
of  Bismarck's  stay  at  Ferrieres,.  Baron  Rothschild's  seat.  The  oiJ 
house-steward  swore  that  there  was  not  a  drop  of  wine  in  the  place. 
But  it  turned  out  that  there  were  17,000  bottles  in  the  house.  Dr. 
BuRch  does  not  see  why  the  Bothschilds  should  have  been  let  off  the  re- 
quisition, but  they  are  privileged.  We  know  that  they  send  any 
amount  of  Inggaga  across  the  frontiers,  and  it  is  never  searched.  Bis- 
marck's criticism  on  Bothschild's  chateau  was :  **  Everything  dear,  bnt 
little  that  is  beautiful,  and  still  less  comfortable." 

There  is  a  curious  blending  of  the  ludicrous  and  the  serious  in  thJs 
work,  which,  indeed,  is  a  reproduction  of  Bismarck's  character.    Th^ 
Prince  is  a  great  eater.     He  gives  a  recipe  for  cooking  oysters,  brit 
makes  a  radical  mistake  in  supposing  that  oysters  ought  to  be  cooked  fit 
all.     He  does  not  seem  to  have  been  a  good  sportsman.     Ho  only  killnl 
one  pheasant,  though  he  wounded  several,  and  Moltke  does  not  apptar 
to  have  done  much  better.     Moltke,  it  seems,  invented  a  new  dnnk.  a 
sort  of  punch  made  with  champagne,  hot  tea,  and  sherry,  which  most 
people  will  think  spoils  three  good  things.     Then  we  suddenly  pass  to 
the  most  serious  matt«^rs.     Coming  to  these  serious  things,  we  see  Bis- 
marck at  his  best.    "If  I  were  no  longer  a  Christian,  I  would  not  remain 
an  hour  at  my  post.     If  I  could  not  count  upon  my  God,  assuredlv  I 
should  not  do  so  on  earthly  masters.  .  .  .    Why  should  I  disturb  mystlf 
and  work  unceasingly  in  ibis  world,  exposing  myself  to  all  sorts  of  vexa- 
tions, if  I  had  not  the  feeling  that  I  must  do  my  duty  for  God's  sake  ? 
If  I  did  not  believe  in  a  divine  order,  which  has  destined  this  German 
nation  for  something  good  and  great,  I  would  at  once  give  up  the  busi- 
ness of  a  diplomatist,  or  I  would  not  have  undertaken  it.  Take  from  me 
this  faith,  and  you  take  from  me  my  fatherhind.     If  I  were  not  a  pooii 
believing  Clnristian,  if  I  had  not  the  supernatural  basis  of  religion,  yfi 
would  not  have  had  such  a  Chancellor."     One  of  the  books  about  hiri 
makes  him  complain  that  God  is  "very  capricious."    Like  other  abh 
men,  he  laments  tliat  he  is  not  allowed  to  have  his  own  autocratic  ways. 
He  puts  down  his  glass  of  beer  with  a  sigh,  and  says,  * '  I  wished  once  mor» 
to-day,  as  I  have  often  wished  before,  I  could  say  for  even  five  minutes, 
this  is  to  be  or  is  not  to  bo.  One  has  to  bother  about  whys  and  wherefores 
to  convince  people,  to  entreat  them  even,  about  the  simplest  matt'  rs. 
What  a  worry  is  this  eternal  talking  and  begging  for  things  I  "    He  doe« 
poi  wish  that  any  son  of  his  should  ercr  grow  rich  upon  tJxe  Stock  £x- 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON.  407 

chniigQ.  He  only  tried  his  Itick  once,  and  then  he  lost  He  rays  that 
since  he  went  into  public  life  he  has  always  been  in  difficnlties.  Certainly 
he  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men  that  ever  lived.  People  U6<:d  to 
consider  him  a  fool,  but  his  foolery  'was  tlie  most  subtle  and,  extraordi- 
nary statesmanship  the  modem  world  has  known.  lie  has  endorsed  and 
consummated  the  policy  of  Stein. 

To  these  two  German  biographies  we  add  a  third  of  a  German  cha- 
racter.    For  a  biography  at  once  bo  intere>ting  and  instructive  as  that  of 
the  Baroness  Bu?  sen,*  by  Mr.  J.  C.  Hare,  wo  must  flo  back  to  his  former 
work,  the  "Memorials  of  a  Quiet  Life."     In  each  case  Mr.  Hare  would 
be  the  first  to  acknowledge  that  it  is  not  so  much  his  own  literary  work- 
manship, as  the  immense  interest  of  the  subject  and  heroine,  tliat  hap 
dchieved  such  a  just  popularity.     His  has  been  a  singularly  good  fortune 
to  be  brought  into  close  companionship  with  such  noble  women,  and 
tLus  to  have  had  sur^h  'splendid  opportunities.     The  Baroness  Buuscn's 
life  of  the  Baron  is  well  known  to  our  readers,  and  was  fully  rtiviewed 
in  the  "  Piccadilly  Papers  "  on  its  first  appearance.     It  will  be  found  that 
the  interesting  vein  of  anecdote,  dealing  with  sovereigrs  :  nd  ntatcsmen, 
-was  not  exhausted  in  the  first  great  work.    ^r.  Hare  very  rightly  goes 
fnlly  info  the  ramifications  of  the  family  history,  which  brings  many 
high-souled  men  and  womed  before  us.     The  match  with  Bunsen  w:'8  a 
love-match.     He  was  but  a  )X)or  man,  and  straituess  of  means  seems  to 
have  been  a  burden  under  v/hich  the  Bunsens  struggle  d  more  or  less 
through  ihe  larger  part  of  thoir  lives.     The  great  Niebuhr  strongly  ad- 
vised the  match.     He  would  give  any  daughter  of  his  own  to  a  man  like 
Bunsen ;  there  yflm'^  in  his  character  and  position  a  greater  guarantee  of 
happiness  than  could  be  foimd  in  mere  rank  or  w  alth.      Xhe  young  girl 
had  left  hei  home  in  Fouth  Wale k'  for  a  season  on  the  Continent,  and  she 
never  saw  it  again  for  three-and-twenty  years.     The  young  scholar  she 
married  became  an  ambassador  at  the  Court  of  London,  a  peer  of  Prus- 
Bia,  a  close  personal  friend  of  his  scvorHgn's.     Such  a  pair  seemed  to 
touch  the  summits  of  human  life.     Whatever  places  were  fairest  and 
pleasantest  on  this  earth  they  saw ;  wnatever  people  were  best  worth 
knowing  they  knew ;  whatever  interests  wore  highest  they  had  their  full 
Fhare  in  them.     There  is  much  of  the  deepest  interest  in  the  crowded 
list  of  illustrious  names;    much  also  in  the  development  of  gracious 
natures,  and  the  progress  in  wisdom  and  goodness.    The  Baroness  beauti- 
fully says ;   "The  i^moval  of  all  embarrassment  in  circumstances  is  one 
of  those  things  for  which  I  dare  not  ask  in  prayer.     I  can  ask,  and  do, 
that  I  and  mine  may  be  provided  for  in  the  future,  as  we  have  been  in 
the  past,  with  all  that  is  needful :  relief  icill  come.  ipJi^n  it  is  good  for  w^." 
Among  the  crowd  of  letters  there  are  none  that  please  us  better  than 
those  which  she  writes  to  "my  own  mother ;  "  and  those  again  which,  as 
a  wise  and  tender  mother,  she  writes  to  her  own  children.     The  finest 
of  these  letters  touch  the  noblest  and  most  elevating  subjects,  which  no 

*'*Life  and  Letters  Qf  £^ces  I^aronces  Bunsen,''    3y  Au£[iutus  ^,  C,  B««^ 
(Daldy^Idiirter&CD,) 


■408  BIOGRAPHIES  OP  THE  SEASON. 

amount  of  fasliion,  business,  or  amusement  ever  long  banished  from  tilt 
inmost  thoughts  oi'  the  Bunsens.  We  have  marked  many  passages  of 
great  tenderness  and  wisdom  which  might  well. be  commended  to  tlia 
notice  of  all  young  ladies.  Many  are  the  wis;}  hints  which  the  Baroness 
gives  to  her  daughter ;  and  indeed  all  readers  may  profit  by  the  wisdom, 
t3ndernes3,  and  culture  which  pervade  these  fascinating  volumes. 

"We  now  take  up  two  scientific  biographies.     The  subject  in  each  cas? 
is  a  distinguished  Scots  ma  a.      Yvith  the  steadiness  of  a  man  who  is 
making  triumphant  progress  in  his  profession,  Dr.  Smiles  perseveres  in 
his  chos3n  path  of  industrial  biography.      He  has  all  those  advantagt^s 
of  print,  pap3r,  and  pictorial  illustration  which  render  his  vohiraes  veri- 
table licre-a  (U  luv\     It  is  a  gracious  and  useful  work  which  Dr.  Smiles 
hai  set  hiras3lf  in  this  work,*  as  in  his  last  book  on  Mr.  Edwards,  to 
take  up,  "the  obsoure  and  simple  annals  of  tho  poor."   He  has  skilfully 
included  in  this  work  soini  account  of  Mr.  Poach,  who,  in  wild  out-of. 
the-way  corners  of  Cornwall  aud  Scotland,  has  done  steady  and  adoiir- 
able  work  in  natural  science.     Ther3  are  also  many  int:rosting  di  ta'k 
respecting  Hugh  Miller.   Wa  abstain  f>-om  going  into  full  deta'ls  of  Dick's 
life,  becau^j  Dr.  Smibs'-i  work  has  already  obtained  a  very  wide  circula- 
tion and  popuhrity.     Di3k  is  a  remarkabl3  instance  of  high  thinking 
and  poor  living.     He  fouad  his  own  happiness  and  exceedingly  gr.at 
reward  in  stu  lying  and  deciphering  the  splendid  page  of  God's  Word  as 
revealed  in  His  works.     In  many  Scottish  eyes  that  watched  him  he 
seamed  sadly  unorthodox  in  his  views;  but  the  love  of  truth  and  know- 
ledge  mu=5t  have  been  ifin  acceptable  form  of  worship.     Though  a  poor 
man,  too,  he  had  an  amount  of  theological  books  that  would  do  cred't  to 
many  a  curate  or  minister,  whether  plar'ed  or  "ctickit"  of  tho  KirL 
Dick  thoroughly  indorsed  the  feeling  of  Linnaeus,  when  ho  (LimnciiO 
laid  his  hand  on  a  bit  of  moss,  and  said,  *'  Under  this  palm  is  materal^ 
for  the  study  of  a  lifetime."  No  matter  of  intellectual int  rr j^t  v.a?5  forcigr-i 
to  the  mind  of  tiiis  wonderful  baker.     The  plaster  w  Us  of  his  bak-iy 
were  his  canvas,  which  he  covered  with  his  firm,  correct  drawings.    His 
last  days  were  very  melancholy,  but  Ihey  wcr3  checrrd  by  his  indomit- 
able love  of  Nature,    "  I  think  myself  blest  if  I  can  find  one  moss  in  tb? 
week."     Dr.  Smiles  gives  a  touching  account  of  the  ejectment  of  tlio 
Highlanders  from  their  homes  by  the  great  Scottish  dukes  ;  but  wc  l)'- 
lieve  tho  fact  is,  that  the  great  Scottish  proprietors  are  now  anxious  to 
keep  the  men  at  homo  or  to  bring  them  back.     Dr.  Smiles's  hero  Bho  ^s 
us  a  wonderful  example  of  p  Tseverance,  modesty,  and  devotion  totrjlh 
— moral  qualities,  which  in  the  long-run  beat  any  intellt  ctual  qualities— 
and  he  may  also  arotise  the  valuable  and  improving  suspicion  that  those 
who  prid3  themselves  on  their  culture  and  refinement  may  bo  loss  natu- 
rally noble,  less  truly  educated,  than  many  of  the  poor  aroimd  us,  who 
are  **  God's  creatures"  as  much  as  ourselves. 

Wo    are  ghd  that   Mr.  Stevenson,  the  fjreat  Scottish   engineer,  has 

*  "  RolxTt  Dick,  Baker,  of  Thurso,  Geologist  aud  Botanist."    By  Samuel  SmiH 
LL.D.    (Murray.) 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON.  409 

found  a  biographer  in  his  son,  whose  handsome  volume*  possesses  both 

a  sdentilic  value  and  also  a  considerable  amount  of  ^ttn^'nil  interest. 
t^t. Vinson  was  the  Smtaton  of  Scotland.  His  l>ell  liock  Liyhtbouse  is 
tb  gr. at  monument  of  bis  gcniuH  in  Scotland;  and  the  Nvolf  Eock 
I  ighilioii-^e  on  the  CorniFh  ccast  is  also  his.  His  appointment  under 
tiij  Hl  ottish  Lighthouse  Board  gave  iiim  this  special  direction  for  his 
ciigineoriiig  abi  ity.  On  one  occasion  ho  lived  four  months  in  a  tent  on 
a  d  solate  island.  A  careful  study  of  the  Eddy  stone  prepared  him  for 
t!i°  Bell  Eock.  A  whole  fleet  of  vessels  -perished  in  a  December  storm 
wliicb  might  have  been  eaved  by  a  lighthouse ;  and  it  was  this  disaster 
frhich  produced  the  ennobling  Act  of  Parhament  wh'ch  at  la-t  achieved 
th:.s  great  northern  lighthouse.  Thero  is  ciways  a  peculiar  fascination 
aljout  the  story  of  a  lighthouse ;  and  the  account  of  the  Inchcape  or 
Bell  Eock  with  which  the  curious  legend  is  connected  and  the  Hght- 
h  use  Stevenson  built  is  full  of  thrilling  interest  This  waK,  however, 
only  one  department  of  his  industiial  career.  Roads  and  railways,  har- 
bours and  rivers,  bridges  and  ferries,  all  received  his  clostst  attcj  tion  ; 
ftnd  his  own  wi-itings  on  scientific  Bubjects  have  perpetuated  the  know- 
ledge of  his  methods  and  results.  We  could  have  wished  that  there  had 
been  more  personal  details  of  his  career,  but  we  have  not  much  beyond 
lu5 catalogue  of  virtues  and  the  assurance  that  "few  men  had  mora 
solid  grounds  than  ho  for  indulging  in  the  pleasing  reflection  that  both 
in  his  pubHc  and  private  capacity  he  had  consecrated  to  beneficial  ends 
every  talent  committed  to  his  trust." 

We  pass  on  nov/  to  an  example  of  literaty  biography.  Mr.  Dobell'a 
is  rather  a  pathetic  listory.f  He  was  in  his  way  a  genuine  poet  and  a 
niau  of  kmily  nature.  Ho  did  not  do  the  work  of  the  Muses  slackly, 
though  neither  the  state  of  his  health  nor  his  business  surroundings 
could  have  been  much  m  his  favour.  He  was  a  member  of  a  large  wine- 
Kcrcliant's  firm  at  Cheltenham,  and  appears  to  have  been  possessed  of 
good  business  quahties.  From  a  verj^  early  age  he  had  a  genuine  lovo 
cf  literature  and  great  powers  of  -expression.  Tho  first  part  oi'  the 
^ork  is  occupied  with  a  very  pretty  account  of  his  courtship  cf  tho 
young  lady  whom  he  afterwards  married,  a  bit  of  neat  poetr3r  quite  as 
pr.tty  in  its  vnr/  as  anything  which  ho  ever  v/rote.  A  five  years'  court- 
Blipcaiueto  an  end  by  a  mamage  v/he  n  he  v»'as  only  twenty.  Soon 
aft:rho-c7rotG  his  earliost  poem,  *'  The  Bonian,"  and  intellectually  this 
potin  v/as  hid  high-wat.  r  mark.  It  was  a  decided  and  deserved  literary 
Bu:  cess.  V/o  think  it  rather  unfortunate  for  his  genius  that  he  met  se- 
veral Scottioh  g3ntienicn,  such  as  George  Gilfillan  and  Alexander  Smith, 
^ho  flattered  him  to  the  top  of  his  bi'nt,  and  possibly  imparted  to  him 
a  kind  of  exaggerated  sca^-consciousness.  Without  doubt  h?  possessed 
a  remarkably  lovable  and  refined  nature.     His  travel  letters,  though 

^*  "Life of  Robert  Stevenson,  Civil  Engineer."    By  Pavid  Stcvciieon.    (Adam  & 
Charies  Black.) 

^  t "  The  life  and  Letters  of  Sydney  DotoelL"    Edited  by  B.  J.    Two  vols.    (SmitlJt 
.iSWer&Co.) 


410  BIOGEAPHtES  OF  THE  SEASON. 

going  over  hackneyed  ground,  are  full  of  feeling  and  poetical  obscrra- 
tion.  The  most  interesting  refer  to  Scotland,  the  Ide  of  Wight,  and 
the  south  of  France.  Some  of  his  morceuux  are  iuteresting,  snch  as 
liis  account  of  Mr.  Tennyson,  we  might  also  say  of  "I>r."  Emily  Blaik- 
well,  and  especially  of  Charlotte  Bronte.  There  is  an  intellectual  po^tr 
and  moral  beauty  about  the  life  which  to  many  readers  will  be  mere 
attractive  than  his  writings. 

Two  works  present  themselves  for  notice  in  legal  biography.  Mr. 
O'Flanagan,  who  has  already  done  a  great  dtal  in  Irieh  kgal  bic  graph  y, 
has  given  us  a  pleasant  chatty  volume  on  the  Irigh  lar,*  As  he  poiLis 
out,  the  most  renowned  Irishmen  of  modem  times  have  becntarr  httis. 
and  a  book  with  such  a  title  arouses  hvely  expectations.  The  volTiiLe 
is  partly  original  and  partly  a  compilation.  His  own  circuit  is  the  mcrv? 
pleasing  and  also  the  more  Original  part  of  the  work.  Such  a  sketch, 
for  instance,  as  that  of  "Whiteside,  who  was  continually  being  pilttd 
against  his  quiet,  icy  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Kapier,  is  both  amusing  Pid 
authentic.  On  the  other  hand  the  pketch  of  Eichard  Lalor  Shcilis 
meagre  and  defective.  The  sketch  cf  I  ord  Chief  Justice  Blackburn  is 
very  short.  The  advicr>  given  to  a  certain  Lord  Lieutenant  was  '*K(«p 
a  good  cook  and  feast  Lord  Blackburn."  Another  piece  of  good  advice 
is  quoted,  given  by  an  attorney  to  a  man  who  had  received  a  pubh'c  ap- 
pointment :  "  Do  as  liitle  in  your  cflfice  as  ever  ye  can,  Ind  do  that  Htt^^' 
well.''''  We  thought  that  we  had  exhausted  everything  that  cculd  be  Fuid 
about  Curran  and  O'ConneU,  but  our  author  has  Ftill  some  fresh  storits 
to  tell  us.  Of  course  such  a  book  would  be  incomplete  without  a  notice 
of  John  Fitzgibbon,  Earl  of  Clare.  A  ludicrous  incident  happened -to 
him  which  could  have  happened  nowhere  out  cf  Ireland.  He  EecttiKtil 
a  prisoner,  a  man  of  good  family,  to  fine  and  imprieonment,  ard  on  L's 
release  from  imprisonment  the  man  challenged  the  judge  to  f  ght  adntl. 
It  is  said  that  the  learned  judge  actually  took  the  advice  of  a  military 
friend  on  the  point  whether  he  ought  to  fight  ( r  not ;  but  his  frif rd 
ruled  that  words  spoken  in  the  disciiarge  of  an  official  cluty  could  not  t'^ 
a  proper  cause  for  a  hostile  meeting.  There  is  a  gord  story  told  of  tLr.t 
eminent  judge,  Lord  GuiUamore.  A  stupid  jiu-y  had  acquitted  a  ti;:!:- 
wayman,  an  old  offender,  whose  guilt  was  perfectly  obvious.  **  Is  tlur*- 
any  other  indictment  against  this  innocent  man  ?"  inquired  the  jndp'  v  f 
the  Crown  solicitor.  "No,  my  lord."  "Then  tell  the  gaoler  rot  to  I- 1 
liim  loose  till  I  get  half  an  hour's  start  of  him,  for  I  had  rafJitr  ;• ' 
mc(t  Idm  on  the  road^  There  is  one  anecdote  %7hich  will  l«e  p  ad  \  ' 
much  appreciation  bygentlemen  of  the  long  robe.  A  noble  d'Cii^,  ll\:  1:- 
ing  that  the  counsel's  fee  had  not  been  marked  Mifiicienfy  hif  h  1  y  1  - 
attorney,  sent  the  learned  gentleman  a  gold  snulT-box  and  a  l-r:  <'•■  ' 
pounds.  The  volume  ojicrs  with  the  dark  story  cf  the  (rial  cf  Jt'i 
Kingsborough  for  the  murder  of  Colonel  Fitzgerald — a  most  remarkfillf 
Btory  of  forensic  romance. 

•  "  The  Irish  Bar :"  comprising  onccdoteB,  ^cii-mots,  and  l>!ogiaphlcal  eketchcfl. 
By  J.  Eoderick  OTlanagan.    (Sampson  Lo^  aud  Co.) 


BIOQBAFHIES  OF  THE  SEASON.  411 

We  are  glad  to  welcome  a  memorial  volnme  respecting  Kr.  M.  D. 
HiH,  best  known  as  * '  the  Becordar  of  Birmiugliam. "  it  is  to  bo  lamented 
that  a  man  of  snoh  rare  abilities  did  not  attaui  to  a  higher  judicial  posi* 
tion;  but  few  judges  and  jurists  have  proved  themselves  such  a  living 
power  in  the  improved  administration  of  the  criminal  law.  He  hiid  the 
good  fortune  to  become  engaged  to  a  sansibla  young  lady,  Miss  Buck- 
nail,  and  his  letters  to  her  aro  perfect  models  of  this  kind  of  writing. 
Mr.  Hill  ]3ad  some  success  both  in  Parliament  and  at  the  bar ;  he  pos- 
Bsssed  a  great  variety  and  versatility  of  gifts ;  he  was  the  contemporary, 
on  equal  terms,  of  many  of  tho  most  celebrated  men  of  his  6i\y ;  but  he 
finally  settled  into  the  groove  of  philanthropy,  tempered  by  literature. 
Hs  took  a  leading  part  in  the  Prison  Congrass,  which  was  held  in  Lon- 
don—last year  it  was  at  Stockholm — ^and  he,  if  any  man,  thoroughly 
understood  the  troublesome  convict  question.  People  learned  to  look 
out  for  Mr.  Hill's  charges  to  tha  grand  jury  of  the  Birmingham  sessions, 
as  the  best  manifestoes  of  humanitarian  principles  in  the  treatment  of 
criminals.  He  was  admirably  seconded  by  Mary  Carpenter ;  and  most 
of  our  modern  improvements  are  indirectly  due  to  him  and  th-^  othor 
disciples  of  Jeremy  Bentham.  There  is  rather  a  paucity  of  interesting 
psiBonal  matter.  The  account  of  his  first  interview  with  Benthani  is 
good.-  De  Quincey  teUs  an  amusing  story  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hill.  The 
Hon.  Mrs.  M.  used  to  sum  up  the  story  of  her  marriage  thus:  "  Yes ; 
the  colonel  and  I  had  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  between  us  when  I 
married — ^just  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  ;*'  and  then,  after  a  little 
pause,  she  added, with  a:i  air  of  indifference,  "  Yes,  just ;  I  had  ninety- 
nine  and  the  colonel  had  one.''  It  is  to  be  wished  that  there  was  a 
larger  amount  of  ana' in  this  biography.  It  certainly  gives  us  a  most 
favourable  idea  of  Mr.  Hill's  goodness  and  intellectual  powers. 

Two  political  biographies  shall  b3  tiiken— one  a  foreign  and  one  a 
home  subject.  Those  who  study  the  politics  of  Central  Asia,  which  are 
daily  assuming  enlarged  importance,  will  read  with  considerable  in- 
straction  and  interest  Mr.  Boulger^s  **Life  of  Y'akooh  Beg."*  Our 
friends  who  study  the  penny  dailies  must  take  care  not  to  confound  for 
a  moment  the  Yakoob  Beg  of  this  book  with  the  Yakoob  Khan  of  Af- 
ghanistan correspondents.  Our  Yakoob  Beg  of  the  volume  before  us 
was  a  soldier  of  fortune,  who  in  a  wonderful  manner  constructed,  by 
sheer  force  of  genius,  a  personal  role  for  a  Kpace  of  a  dozen  years,  which 
then  came  to  nothing,  after  the  fashion  of  so  many  Oriental  Govcrn- 
nienta.  The  subject  is  interesting,  and  mij^ht  serve  for  a  romance,  only 
we  must  warn  our  readers  that  the  author  has  carefully  eliminated  well- 
nigh  all  the  interest  and  romance  of  his  subject.  Mr.  Boulger  is  a 
member  of  the  Royal  Asiatic  Society,  and  he  seems  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  all  his  readers  are  considerably  Asiatic  in  their  tastes  and  informa- 
tion. He  brings  out  the  attitude  of  tho  throo  contending  powers  in 
Asia,  the  British,  the  Bussian,  the  Chinese      TVo  cannot  agree  with  Mr. 

~  ,  _  .       _  _         -  .1  -  — - 

*  "  Life  of  Yakoob  Beg,  Atballk  QazL  and  SadaalcL  Amccr  o£  Kasbear."   Xiy  J}t 
CJJoDlgw.^iAlkjn&Co.)  -  ^-  • 


412  BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON. 

Boulgerthat  "  of  these  Chma  is  in  many  respects  the  foremost,"  Either 
Kussia  or  England  is  far  more  than  a  match  lor  China,  while  from  the 
solidarity  of  her  power  and  disinterestedness  of  her  aims  the  Empire  of 
India  stands  foremost  on  the  Asiatic  map.  Bussia  gained  more  from 
China  in  commercial  matters,  through  friendship,  than  we  gained  through 
our  three  victorious  wars.  Eussia,  however,  has  lost  the  friendship  of 
China,  which  might  be  worth  many  provinces  to  her,  by  -anjnstly  retain- 
ing possession  of  Kuldja ;  which  is  of  course  so  much  to  the  good  as  re- 
gards British  interests.  Yakoob  was  an  Enghsh  aUy  of  ours,  but  wo  do 
not  seem  to  have  taken  much  pains  to  cultivate  his  good  graces.  On 
the  marriage  of  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh  he  had  the  impudence  to  seed 
his  congratulations  to  the  Czar,  "  saying  that  he  had  heard  that  the  sou 
of  his  good  ally,  the  Queen  of  England,  was  about  to  wed  the  daughter 
of  his  friend  the  Czar,  and  that  he  hastened  to  send  him  congratulations." 
No  reply  was  vouchsafed  to  this  communication  of  Yakcoh  Beg.  Ke 
found  that  he  was  leaning  on  a  I.roken  reed  when  he  trusted  us  agairt^t 
Russia,  just  as  Yakoob  Khan  experienced  the  same  thing  when  hv3 
trusted  Russia  against  us.  Yakoob  Beg,  the  first  of  the  Central  Asiatic 
powers,  Vas  overthrown  at  last,  and  the  Chinese  reconquered  Kashgar. 
Wherever  they  conquer  they  turn  the  wilderness  into  a  garden,  but  they 
always  conquer  with  ruthless  cruelty.  The  chapter  which  our  politi- 
ticians  will  read  with  most  interest  is  the  concluding  one  on  "The  Cen- 
tral Asian  Question."  We  quite  agree  with  Mr.  Boulger  that  English 
Governments  "have  never  understood  the  vitality  of  Chinese  institu- 
tions;" but  when  he  argues  that  the  British  Empire  would  necessarily  go 
down  before  a  combination  of  China  and  Russia,  we  must  venture  to 
express  our  dissent  from  him. 

WiUiam  Cobbett  had  in  every  respect  such  a  thorough  and  vigorous 
nature — with  all  his  Radicalism  he  was  so  true  a  patriot,  with  all  his 
asperity  he  had  such  a  kindly  nature — that  it  was  well  worth  while  to 
gather  up  a  formal  biography  of  his  life  and  his  works.  Mr.  Smith's 
main  justification  of  his  undertaking*  will  be  that  he  has  obtained  some 
new  letters  and  reminiscences.  His  most  formidable  rival  is  "William 
Cobbett  himself.  That  racy  autobiography  must  necessarily  leave  ik 
dissatisfied  with  any  other  biography.  The  ethical  value  of  Cobbett's 
life  was  very  great.  When  seventy  j^ears  old  he  could  write  :  "  I  hnv-^ 
led  the  happiest  life  of  any  man  that  I  have  ever  known.  Never  did  I 
tnow  one  single  moment  when  I  was  cast  down ;  never  one  momont 
when  I  dreaded  the  future."  Even  when  he  was  imprisoned  formany 
months  he  passed  the  time  very  happily.  It  is  v/orth  while  to  niapi  r 
such  an  extraordinary  life.  As  a  private  soldier  he  studied  military 
science  as  if  bent  on  a  field-marshal's  hato-n.  In  America  he  was  iut'-'- 
p:Ll]y  English  amnng  the  Iiepublicans.  When  ho  came  homo  evrrv- 
thing  seemed  dwarfed.  "  When  I  returned  to  England  the  trees,  tii" 
Jhedges,  even  the  parks  and  woods,  seemed  so  Mnall.     It  made  nie  l8Uj,^h 

*  "  Wimam  Cobbett;  a  Biography."    By  Edward  Smith.    Two  vola.    (Samj^on 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON.  418 

to  hear  little  gutters  that  tcould  jump  over  callod  rhcrs.  The  Thames 
was  bat  a  creek.  Everything  was  so  pitiiiiily  BianlL"  For  all  that,  ho 
fouad  his  trae  home  in  England.  Most  of'  tne  reforms  which  he  advo- 
cated have  now  passad  into  law.  But  at  the  same  time  it  must  bj  ro- 
memberad,  in  justica  to  the  Government  of  that  day,  that  perhaps  the 
time  was  not  coma  when  they  migtit  be  adopted  with  safety.  He  v/aa 
el83fc3d  a  mambar  of  the  first  reiormed  Faniiimcut,  but  too  lat:'  not 
long  surviving.  Ha  was  one  of  tuj  raciost  of  wntirs  and  houestc-k  of 
mea.  Graviha  niantiona  him  as  ona  of  t]i2  "few  bad  chanicters"  who 
nadbaan  raturnad,  but  his  reputation  will  stand  hjr>h  r  than  Grevill  's 
'  As  aa  exa  nple  of  what  wa  may  call  -  stili"  bio^-ipliy,  %t^  can  heartily 
coaiaiana  tue  naamoir  oi  tha  lat3  Mr.  Hod-.on,  rrovost  of  Eton,  by  his 
SOIL*  Mr.  Hodgson  has  his  own  niche  in  lit(,rarv  Ii^^tory  throu-li  his 
m\j  aad  mtansa  friand^hip  with  Byron.  Hodgson  was  the  best  friend 
of  his  bast  mojient^.  There  is  a  cerfiin  amount  of  cri.crinal  maltor 
r^paefaug  Lord  aad  Lady  Byi-on.  Lord  BjTon  <,:iin.s,  and  his  wife  be- 
comis dapraciat3d  m  tha  estnnata  of  those  i^a^cs.  Slio  s:cms  to  have 
baea  uulovmg  aad  unforgiving ;  and  the>..-  voluin  .r  -iv-  us  another  in- 
Btaa^s  of  tha  abrupt  unf aeUng  way  in  which  she  could  terminate  the 
neadmip  of  years  at  her  own  caprice.  When  Hod-.son  wanted  to 
mny  frae  from  dabt  Byron  msisted  on  giving  him  a  thousand  pounds. 
\vnat  a  contrast  thara  was  between  the  two  friends !  The  one  led  a  hf e 
fffl.    '"i'r/^°^'?.?'''\.  "^^  P°^^'    r,2holaT,   and  divine,  discharging  every 

Won  i?  ""t^^  ^^^^'*^  ^""'^  "^^^^'^^^'  ^^d  d^-mg  f^U  of  ^ycars  and 
tooars;  the  othar,  8  3lf.consa.-nvl   by  his  own  passions  and  his  own 

!K  I'a^I^'  ^^^®*^^?  ^^^  tha  moral  nature  of  Byron,  that  he  was 
able  to  fiad  this  closa  amnity  to  his  friend.  But  Hodgnon  was  in  trutk 
m.  most  mtarastmg  aad  charming  of  man.  Every  one  1-. )vod  him,  from 
toa  Tihagars  of  Bakewall  to  his  gr_^at  nei-hbours  m  their  ''dukeries." 
ine  late  Duke  of  Devonshira  writes  to  him:  '^On  Monday  I  goto 
Woburn  for  the  royal  visit  thare.  The  Queen  boasted  to  me  in  London 
uT^f^^^^^^^yo^^  and  told  of  your  reception  of  her."  Againhe  wi-ites : 
)in  K  J^x®®^  ^^^^  ^^^^  picture  directly  at  ChatsxNorth,  and  called  her 
^usband  to  coma  back  and  look  at  it."  The  last  Duke  of  Devonshire 
Wsars  m  a  very  amiabla  light  in  these  pages  ;  he,  is  full  of  kindness, 
^e  wntas  a  capitallettar,  and  is  altogether  a  higher  style  of  character 
man  most  of  his  contemporaries  tor)k  him  to  be.  AVhen  Hodgson  mar- 
ried a  sacond  tune— It  was  to  a  daughter  of  Lord  Denman's-the  dulie 
ii.  1  f'u?'''*^.'^''?  ^^^^  ^°''  ^'^  honeymoon,  and  when  ha  wanted  sea 
mo.i?J  ^^'^  ^?r  ^""^^^  ^^  ^T^  ^^^^'^'  ^^righton  :    -  You  are  by  no 

kl^o  VrT  ^^"^^  ^'''^^  '?"^  y^^  "^y  5  y'''''  ^^-^^'^  ^'tay  as  long  as  it 
18  agreeable  to  you  to  remain  by  the  seaside.  If  I  should  take  it  into  my 

kt  "Tt*  i""  ?S^^  Brighton  I  should  like  so  much  to  find  yoii 
walu  ^"i  J  Bhonld  have  my  bedroom  and  library  as  usual,  and  you 
wodd  not  be  m  the  least  disturbjd/^^The  Duke  tdls^  the  death  of  a 


414  BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  SEASON. 

friend,  Lady  Elizabeth,  who  died  after  f onr  days*  ilhiess  in  consequence 
of  eating  ices  at  a  ball.  Other  interesting  anecdotes  might  be  gathered 
Mrs.  Leigh,  Lord  Byron's  sister,  describes  a  party  at  the  house  of  a 
lady  whom  Dickens  subsequently  immortalized  in  the  character  of  Mis. 
Leo  Hunter.  Sir  Joseph  i*axton  was  originally  chosen  by  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  from  a  row  of  village  lads  brought  before  him  as  candi- 
dates for  a  place  in  the  gardens  at  Chatsworth.  Wo  have  a  striking 
sentence  relative  to  the  character  of  the  late  Lord  Denman.  When 
Empson,  the  editor  of  the  "Edinburgh  Bevi§w,"  was  dying,  he  saiJi, 
"  Send  my  love  to  Denman  ;  and  tell  him  that  I  do  not  forget  how  long 
I  Uved  under  the  shadow  of  his  noble  nature."  Late  in  life  Lord  Mel- 
bourne gave  Hodgson  the  Provostship  of  Eton.  As  his  carriage  first 
drove  through  t^e  Playing  Fields  he  exclaimed,  "  Please  God,  I  will  do 
Komethiug  for  these  poor  boys."  The  Provost  certainly  set  his  mark  on 
Eton.  He  abohshed  the  Monten — apparently,  however,  to  the  Queen's 
regret — among  other  reforms,  restored  the  collegiate  church,  established 
the  school  hbrary,  and  introduced  the  study  of  naodem  languages.  He 
had  a  perpetual  fountain  of  wit  and  humour,  and,  as  Byron  prophesied, 
he  rhymed  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  His  last  word  was  **  charming."—- 
London  Society » 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.* 

It  is  the  fashion  for  those  who  have  any  connection  with  letters,  in 
the  presence  of  thoughtful  men  and  women,  eager  for  knowledge,  and 
anxious  after  aU  that  can  be  gotten  from  books,  to  expatiate  on  the  in- 
finite blessings  of  hteraturo,  and  the  miraculous  achievements  of  Hie 
press  :  to  extol,  as  a  gift  above  price,  the  taste  for  study  and  the  love  of 
reading.  Far  be  it  from  mo  to  gainsay  the  inestimable  value  of  good 
books,  or  to  discourage  any  man  from  reading  the  best ;  but  I  often 
think  that  wo  forget  that  other  side  to  this  glorious  view  of  hteraturo  :— 
the  misuse  of  books,  the  debihtating  waste  of  life  in  aimless  promiscu- 
ous vapid  reading,  or  even,  it  may  be,  in  the  poisonous  inhalation  of 
mere  literary  garbage  and  bad  men's  worst  thoughts. 

For  what  can  a  book  be  more  than  the  man  who  wrote  it  ?  Tiio 
brightest  genius,  perhaps,  never  puta  the  best  of  his  own  soul  into  liis 
printed  page ;  and  some  of  the  most  famous  men  have  certainly  put  tn  • 
worst  of  theirs.  Yet  are  till  men  desirable  companions,  much  less  teat!  - 
ers,  fit  to  be  Ustened  to,  able  to  give  us  advice,  even  of  those  who  c  t 
reputation  and  command  a  hearing?  Or,  to  put  out  of  the  qufst'c-i 
that  writing  which  is  positively  bad,  are  we  not,  amidst  the  multiplitii.'" 
of  books  and  of  writers,  in  coutinual  danger  of  being  drawn  off  by  wli;i: 
Is  stimulating  rather  than  soUd,  by  curiosity  after  something  accideut&Ily 

*  A  Lectoru  given  at  the  London  Institution.  , 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  415 

itotoricms,  by  what  hajs  no  inielligible  thing  to  recommend  it,  except 
that  it  is  new  ?  Now,  to  Btuff  our  mindH  with  what  is  simply  trivial, 
fdmply  turious,  or  that  which  at  best  has  but  a  low  nutritive  powtT,  thlB 
is  to  close  our  minds  to  what  is  solid  and  enlarging,  and  Fpiritually  sus^ 
taiiiing.  Whether  our  neglect  of  the  great  books  conies  irom  our  not 
rtoding  at  all,  or  from  an  incorrigible  habit  of  reading  the  httle  books, 
it  ends  in  just  the  same  thing.  And  that  thing  is  ignorance  of  all  the 
greater  literature  of  the  world.  To  neglect  all  the  abiding  parta  of 
knowledge  for  the  sake  of  the  evanescent  parts  is  really  to  know  nothing 
worth  knowing.  It  is  in  the  end  the  Bame  thing,  whether  we  do  not 
nse  our  minds  for  serious  study  at  all,  or  whether  we  exhaust  thvjn  by 
an  impotent  voracity  for  idle  anddtbultory  ''information,"  as  it  is  called 
—a  tlung  as  fruitful  as  whistling.  Of  the  two  plans  I  prefer  this  former. 
At  least,  in  that  case,  the  mind  is  healthy  and  open.  It  is  not  gorge^i 
and  enfeebled  by  excess  in  that  which  cannot  nourish,  muck  less  enlarg«( 
and  beautify  our  nature. 

But  there  is  much  more  than  this.  Even  to  those  who  resolutely 
avoid  the  idleness  of  reading  what  is  trivial,  a  dif&culty  is  presented,  » 
difficulty  every  day  increasing  by  virtue  even  of  our  abundance  of  books, 
WTiat  are  the'subjects,  what  are  the  class  of  books  we  ore  to  read,  in 
what  order,  with  what  connection,  to  what  ultimate  nse  or  object  ? 
Even  those  who  are  resolved  to  read  the  better  books  are  embarrassed  by 
a  field  of  choice  practically  boundless.  The  longest  life,  the  greatest 
industry,  the  most  powerful  memory,  would  not  FufSce  to  mak*^^  us  profit- 
from  a  hundredth  part  of  the  world  of  bt'Oks  before  us.  If  the  great 
Newton  said  that  he  seemed  to  have  been  all  his  life  gathering  a  few 
ghells  on  the  shore,  whilst  a  boundless  ocean  of  truth  still  lay  beyond 
and  unknown  to  him,  how  much  more  to  each  of  us  must  the  sea  of 
literature  be  a  pathless  immensity  beyond  our  powers  of  vision  or  of  reach 
—an  immensity  in  which  industry  itself  is  useless  without  judgment, 
method,  discipline ;  where  it  is  of  infinite  importance  what  we  can  learn 
and  remember,  and  of  utterly  no  importance  what  we  may  have  once 
looked  at  or  heard  of.  Alas  I  the  most  of  our  reading  leaves  as  little 
mark  even  in  our  own  education  as  the  foam  that  gathers  round  the  keel 
of  a  passing  boat !  For  myself,  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  most  useful  part 
of  reading  is  to  know  what  we  should  not  read,  what  we  can  keep  out  from 
that  small  cleared  spot  in  the  overgrown  jungle  of  **  information,"  the 
comer  which  we  can  call  our  ordered  patch  of  fruit-bearing  knowledge. 
Is  not  the  accumulation  of  fresh  books  a  fresh  hindrance  to  our  real 
Imowledge  of  the  old  ?  Does  not  the  multipUcity  of  volumes  become  a 
bar  upon  our  use  of  any  ?  In  literature  especially  does  it  hold — that 
we  cannot  see  the  wood  for  the  trees. 

A  man  of  power,  who  has  got  more  from  books  than  most  of  his 
contemporaries,  has  lately  said:  "Form  a  habit  of  reading,  do  not 
mind  what  you  read,  the  reading  of  better  books  will  come  when  yon 
have  a  habit  of  reading  the  inferior."  •  I  cannot  agree  with  him.  I 
think  a  habit  of  reading  idly  debilitates  and  corrupts  the  mind  for  all 


416  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

wholesome  rending  ;  I  think  the  habit  of  reading  wisely  is  one  of  the 
most  difficult  habits  to  acquire,  needing  strong  resolution  and  infinit? 
pains ;  and  I  hold  tho  habit  of  reading  for  mere  reading's  sake,  instead 
of  for  th-;  sal:  3  of  the  stuff  we  gain  from  reading,  to  be  one  of  the 
worst  and  common' st  and  most  un^vholesome  habits  we  have.  Why  do 
we  still  sufT'  r  tiu  traditional  hj'pocrisy  about  the  dignity  of  literature, 
literature  I  mean,  in  tli3  gross,  which  includes  about  equal  parts  of 
what  is  us3f  ul  and  v/hnt  is  useless  ?  Why  are  books  as  books,  writers 
a3  writers,  raadvri  as  readers,  meritorious  and  honourable,  apart  from 
any  good  in  them,  or  anything  that  we  can  get  from  them?  "Why  do 
we  pride  ours3lvea  on  our  powers  of  absorbing  print,  asourgrandfa&ers 
did  on  their  gifts  in  imbibing  port,  when  we  know  that  there  is  a  mod3 
of  absorbing  print  which  makes  it  impossible  we  can  ever  leam  any- 
thing good  out  of  books  ? 

Our  stately  Milton  said  in  a  passage  which  is  one  of  the  watchwords 
of  the  English  race,  *'  as  good  almost  kill  a  Man  as  kill  a  good  Book.'' 
But  has  he  not  also  said  that  he  would  "have  a  vigilant  eye  howBook^^s 
demeane  themselves  as  well  as  men,  and  do  sharpest  justice  on  them  as 
malefactors"?  .  .  .  Yes  I  they  do  kill  the  good  book  who  deliver 
np  their  few  and  precious  hours  of  reading  to  the  trivial  book ;  th»  y 
make  it  dsad  for  them ;  they  do  what  lies  in  them  to  destroy  "th* 
precious  Ufe-blood  of  a  master  spirit,  imbalm'd  and  treasured  up  on 
purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life  ;"  they  *'  spill  that  season'd  life  of  man 
proserv'd  and  stor'd  up  in  Bookes."  For  in  the  wilderness  of  books 
most  men,  certainly  all  busy  men,  must  strictly  choose.  If  they  satu- 
rate their  minds  with  th3  idler  books,  th3  **  good  book,"  which  Milton 
calls  "an  immortality  rather  than  a  life,"  is  dead  to  them :  it  is  a  book 
sealed  up  and  buried. 

It  is  most  right  that  in  the  gi'eat  rer.ublic  of  letters  there  should  be  a 
freedom  of  inter-'ourse  and  a  spirit  of  equality.  Every  reader  \7ho 
holds  a  book  in  his  hand  is  free  of  th-*  inmost  minds  of  men  past  and 
present ;  their  lives  both  within  and  without  the  pale  of  their  utter-'d 
thoughts  are  unveiled  to  him  ;  he  needs  no  introduction  to  the  grcat<^^t ; 
he  stands  on  no  ceremony  with  them  ;  he  may,  if  he  be  so  minded, 
scribble  "  doggrol"  on  his  Shelley,  or  he  may  kick  Lord  Byron,  if  ln2 
please,  into  a  corner.  He  hear^  Burko  perorate,  and  Johnson  dogma- 
tise, and  Scott  tell  his  border  tales,  and  Wordsworth  muse  on  the  bill- 
side,  without  the  leave  of  any  man,  or  the  payment  of  any  toll.  In  tbj 
republio  of  hitters  there  are  no  privileged  orders  or  places  reservt  d. 
Eveiy  man  who  has  written  a  l)Ook,  even  the  diligent  Mr.  Whitaker,  is 
in  one  sense  an  author ;  "a  book's  a  book  although  there's  notbi"^' 
(n't;"  and  every  man  v.lio  can  decipher  a  penny  journal  is  in  c-:* 
aense  a  reader.  And  yonr  "general  reader,"  like  the  gravedigger  ii 
Hamlet,  is  hail-fellow  with  all  the  miphtydead;  he  patis  the8knll')f 
the  jester;  batters  the  cheek  of  lord,  lady,  or  courtier;  and  uses  "im- 
perious Caesar "  to  teach  boys  the  Latin  declensions. 

Bmt  this  noble  equahty  of  all  writers— of  all  writers  and  of  all  reade* 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OP  BOOKS.    '  41f 

—has  a  periloos  side  to  it  It  is  apt  to  make  us  indiscriminate  in  thd 
t-ooks  we  ready  and  somewhat  contemptuous  of  the  mighty  men  of  the 
past.  Men  who  are  most  observant  as  to  the  friends  they  make, 
or  the  conversation  they  join  in,  are  carelessness  itself  as  to  the 
books  to  whom  they  entrust  themselves  and  the  printed  language  w^ith 
T^hich  they  saturate  their  minds.  .Yet  can  any  friendship  or  society 
be  more  important  to  us  than  that  of  the  books  which  form  so  large 
apart  of  our  minds  and  even  of  our  characters  ?  Do  we  in  real  life  take 
any  pleasant  fellow  to  our  homes  and  chat  with  some  agreeable  rascal 
by  our  firesides,  we  who  will  take  up  any  pleasant  fellow's  printed 
memoirs,  we  who  (leUght  in  the  agreeable  rascal  when  he  is  cut  up  into 
pages  aud  bound  in  caJf  ? 

1  have  no  intention  to  moralise  or  to  indulge  in  a  homily  against  the 
reading  of  what  is  deUberately  evil.  There  is  not  so  much  need  for  this 
DOW,  and  I  am  not  discoursing  on  the  whole  duty  of  man.  I  take  that 
jmrt  of  our  reading  which  is  by  itself  no  doubt  harmleys,  entertaining, 
and  even  gently  instructive.  But  of  this  enormous  mass  of  lite?rature 
how  much  deserves  to  be  chosen  out,  to  be  jDreforrcd  to  ail  the  gri  at 
books  of  the  world,  to  bo  set  apart  for  those  precious  hours  v/hich  are 
all  that  the  most  of  us  can  give  to  solid  reading  ?  The  vast  proportion 
of  books  are  books  that  v/e  shall  never  be  able  to  read.  A  serious  per- 
centage of  books  are  not  worth  reading  at  all.  The  really  vital  books 
for  us  we  also  know  to  be  a  very  ti'ifling  jwrtion  of  the  whole.  And  yet 
wc  act  as  if  every  book  were  as  good  as  any  other,  as  if  it  were  merely 
a  question  of  order  which  we  take  up  first,  as  if  any  book  were  good 
enough  for  us,  and  as  if  all  were  alike  honourable,  precious,  and  satisfy- 
ing. Alas !  books  cannot  be  more  than  the  men  who  write  them,  and 
as  a  large  proportion  of  the  human  race  now  write  books,  with  motives 
and  objects  as  various  as  human  activity,  books  as  books  are  entitled  a 
priori^  until  their  value  is  proved,  to  the  same  attention  and  respect  as 
bouses,  steam-engines,  pictures,  fiddles,  bonnets,  and  other  thoughtful 
or  ornamental  products  of  human  industiy.  In  the  shelves  of  those 
libraries  which  are  our  pride,  libraries  public  or  private,  circulating  or 
very  stationary,  are  to  be  found  those  great  books  of  the  world  raH 
V antes  in  gurgite  vaHo^  those  books  which  are  truly  "  the  precious  life- 
blood  of  a  master  spirit."  But  the  very  familiarity  which  their  mighty 
fame  has  bred  in  us  makes  us  indifferent ;  we  grow  weary  of  what  every 
one  is  supposed  to  have  read,  and  we  take  down  something  which  looks 
a  little  eccentric,  or  some  author  on  the  mere  ground  that  we  never 
heard  of  him  before. 

Thus  the  difficulties  of  literature  are  in  their  way  as  great  as  those  of 
the  world,  the  obstacles  to  finding  the  right  friends  are  as  great,  the 
peril  is  as  .great  of  being  lost  in  a  Babel  of  voices  and  an  evf  rchanging 
mass  of  beings.  Books  are  not  wiser  than  men,  the  true  books  are  not 
easi<  r  to  find  than  the  true  men,  the  bad  books  or  the  vulgar  books  are 
not  less  obtrusive  and  not  less  ubiquitous  than  the  bad  or  vulgar  every- 
where ;  the  art  of  right  reading  is  as  long  and  difficult  to  learn  as  the 

L.  M.— r.— 14. 


418  ON  THE  CHOICE  OP  BOOKS. 

art  of  right  living.  Those  who  are  on  good  terms  "with  ihe  first  author 
Ihey  met  t  run  as  much  risk  as  men  who  surrender  their  time  to  the  fir.-t 
jasstr  in  the  street,  for  to  be  open  to  eveiy  book  is  for  the  most  part  to 
l^jain  as  Utile  as  possible  from  any.  A  man  aimlessly  wandering  alcur 
in  a  crowded  city  is  of  all  men  the  most  lonely;  so  he  who  takes  vj) 
only  the  books  that  he  ** comes  across,"  is  pretty  certain  to  meet  lut 
few  that  are  worth  knowing. 

Now  this  danger  is  one  to  which  we  are  specially  exposed  in  ihis  age. 
Our  high-pressure  hfe  of  emergencies,  our  whirling  industrial  crganiza- 
tion  or  disorganization,  have  brought  us  in  this  (as  in  most  Ihings)  Iht^ir 
peculiar  difficulties  and  drawbacks;  In  almost  everything  vsist  cpportr.ri- 
lics  and  gigantic  means  of  multiplying  our  products  bring  with  them 
new  perils  and  troubles  which  are  often  at  first  neglected.  Our  tvcc 
cities,  where  wealth  is  piled  up  and  the  requirements  and  appliances  of  life 
crtcnded  beyond  the  dreams  of  our  forefathers,  seem  to  breed  in  them- 
selves new  forms  of  squalor,  disease,  bU<iht8,  or  risks  to  life  sueh  ss 
we  aro  yet  unable  to  cope  with.  So  the  ercrmcus  multiplicity  of  medei  u 
books  is  not  altogether  favourable  to  the  knowing  of  the  best.  I  hsUn 
with  mixed  satisfaction  to  the  paeans  that  they  ehant  over  the  works  tLr:t 
issue  from  the  press  each  elay,  how  the  locks  poured  fcrth  frem 
Paternoster  Row  might  in  a  few  years  be  built  into  a  pjTf.mid  tbht 
would  fill  the  dome  of  St.  FauPs.  How  in  this  mountain  of  hte ratiire 
am  I  to  find  the  really  useful  book  ?  How,  when  I  have  found  it,  oi.d 
found  its  value,  am  I  to  get  others  to  read  it?  How  am  I  to  keep  my 
head  clear  in  the  torrent  and  din  of  works,  all  cf  wbieh  distract  my  atten- 
tion, most  of  which  promise  me  romcthing,  whilst  ro  few  fulfil  ttat 
promise?  The  Nile  is  the  source  of  the  Egyptian's  bread,  and  withe  in 
it  he  perishes  of  hunger.  But  the  Nile  may  be  rather  too  hberal  in  Lis 
flood,  and  then  the  Egyptian  runs  imminent  risk  of  drowning. 

And  thus  there  never  was  a  time,  at  least  during  the  last  twohurdre  d 
years,  when  the  eT-fficulties  in  the  way  of  making  an  eflBcient  u^e  cf 
books  were  greater  than  they  are  to-day ,  when  the  obstacles  were  ire  re 
)rcal  between  readers  and  the  right  1  ooks  to  read,  when  it  was  practi- 
cally so  troublesome  to  find  out  that  vthich  it  is  of  vital  impor'aBce  <o 
know;  and  that  not  by  the  dearth,  but  by  the  plethora  of  prirtid 
matter'.  For  it  comes  to  nearly  the  Fame  thing  whether  we  are  actually 
debarred  by  physical  impopsibility  frcm  getting  the  right  beck  into  cir 
hand,  or  whether  we  are  choked  off  from  the  right  book  by  thecblir.- 
sive  crowd  of  the  wrone:  books ;  f6  that  it  needs  a  strong  character  crd  a 
resolute  system  of  reading  to  keep  the  head  cool  in  the  stoim  of  litera- 
ture around  us.  We  read  nowadays  in  the  market-place — I  wculdrHtL<r 
say  in  some  large  steam  factory  of  letter-press,  where  damp  fhect8  ci 
new  print  whirl  round  us  perpetnally — if  it  be  not  rathe?  feme  cojVy 
book-fair  where  literary  showmen  tempt  us  with  performing  dolls,  nid 
the  fjongs  of  rival  booths  are  stunning  our  ears  fre^m  mom  till  nipht. 
Contrast  with  this  pandemonium  of  Leipsic  and  Paternoster  Bow  tie 
eubhme  picture  of  our  Milton  in  his  early  retirement  at  Horton,  wheu, 


OK  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  4l9 

fflogiiig  over  his  coming  flight  to  the  epio  heaven,  practuring  hifi(  pinions, 
as  he  tells  Diodati,  he  consumed  Ave  yean  of  BoUtode  in  reading  over 
the  whole  of  the  ancient  writers : — 

"  Et  totom  rapinnt,  me,  mea  vita,  UbrL" 

y^o  now  reads  the  whole  of  the  ancient  writers  ?  Who  systematioallj 
reads  the  great  writers,  be  they  ancient  or  modem,  whom  the  con- 
sant  of  ages  has  marked  oat  as  classics;  typical,  immortal,  peenliar 
teachers  of  our  race  ?  Alas !  the  ^*  Paradise  Lost"  is  lost  again  to  us 
b^nsath  an  inundation  of  graceful  academic  verse,  sugary  stanzas  of 
ladylike  prettiness,  and  ceaseless  explanations  in  more  or  less  readabla 
pros3  of  what  John  MUfcon  meant  or  did  not  mean,  or  what  he  saw  or 
did  not  see,  or  why  Adam  or  Satan  is  like  that,  or  unlike  the  other.  Wo 
read  a  perfect  library  about  thd  *'Paradisj  Lost,"  but  the  ^'Paradisj 
Lost"  itself  we  do  not  read. 

I  am  not  presumptuous  enough  to  assert  that  the  larger  part  of 
modern  literature  is  not  worth  reading  ip.  itself,  that  the  prose  is  not 
readable,  entertaining,  one  may  say  highly  instructive.  Nor  do  I  pre- 
tend that  tha  ver33s  which  we  read  so  zealously  in  place  of  Milton's  are 
not  good  verses.  Oa  tha  contrary,  I  think  them  sweetly  conceived,  as 
musical  and  as  graoaful  as  the  verse  of  any  ag3  in  our  history.  I  say  it 
emphatically,  a  great  deal  of  our  modem  literature  is  such  that  it  is  ex- 
caedingly  diffisult  to  resist  it,  and  it  is  undeniable  that  it  gives  us  real 
information.  It  ssems  perhaps  unreasonable  to  many,  to  assert  that  a 
dacent  readable  book  which  gives  us  actual  instruction  can  be  otherwise 
tiian  a  useful  companion,  and  a  solid  gain.  I  dare  say  many  people  are 
ready  to  cry  out  upon  ma  as  an  obscurantist  for  venturing  to  doubt  a 
genial  confidance  in  all  literatura  simply  as  such.  But  the  question 
which  weighs  upon  ma  with  such  really  crushing  urgency  is  this : — what 
are  tha  books  that  in  our  little  remnant  of  reading  time  it  is  most  vital 
for  U3  to  kaow  ?  For  the  trua  use  of  books  is  of  such  sacred  value  to  us 
that  to  ba  simply  entertained  is  to  cease  to  be  taught,  elevated,  inspired 
by  books ;  merely  to  gather  information  of  a  chance  kind  is  to  dose  the 
mind  to  knowledge  of  the  urgent  kind. 

Every  book  that  we  take  up  without  a  purpose  is  an  opportunity  lost 
of  taking  up  a  book  with  a  purpose — every  bit  of  stray  information 
which  we  cram  into  our  heads  without  any  sensa  of  its  importance,  is 
for  the  most  part  a  bit  of  the  most  useful  information  driven  out  of  our 
heads  and  choked  off  from  our  minds.  It  is  so  certain  that  informa- 
tion, i.e.  the  knowledge,  tha  stored  thoughts  and  observations  of  man- 
kind, is  now  grown  to  proportions  so  utterly  incalculable  and  prodi,";!- 
ous,  that  even  the  learned  whose  lives  are  given  to  study  can  but  pic!i 
up  some  crjjmbs  that  fall  from  the  table  of  truth.  They  delve  and  tend 
hut  a  plot  i!i  that  vast  and  teeming  kingdom,  whilst  those,  whom  active 
life  leaves  with  but  a  few  cramped  hours  of  study,  can  hardly  come  to 
k|iow  the  very  vastnei^  of  the  field  before  them,  or  how  infinitessimally 
small  is  the  comer  they  can  travorse  at  the  best.    T7e  know  sJl  is  not 


420  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

of  equal  value.  We  know  that  books  differ  in  Talue  as  muck  a^ 
diamonds  differ  from  the  sand  on  the  seashore,  as  much  as  our  Jiving 
.friend  differs  from  a  dead  rat.  We  know  that  much  in  the  myriad- 
peopled  world  of  books — very  much  in  all  kinds — is  trivial,  enervating, 
inane,  even  noxious.  And  thus,  where  we  have  infinite  opportunities 
of  wasting  our  efforts  to  no  end,  of  fatiguing  our  minds  without  enrich- 
ing them,  of  clogging  the  spirit  without  satisfying  it,  there,  I  cannot  but 
think,  the  very  infinity  of  opportunities  is  robbing  us  of  the  acttuil 
power  of  using  them.  And  thus  I  come  often,  iu  my  less  hopeful  moods, 
to  watch  the  remorseless  cataract  of  daily  literature  which  thunders 
over  the  remnants  of  the  past,  as  if  it  were  a  fresh  impediment  to  the 
men  of  our  day  in  the  way  of  systematic  knowledge  and  consistent 
powers  of  thought :  as  if  it  were  destined  one  day  to  overwhelm  the 
great  inheritance  of  mankind  in  prose  and  verse. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  a  very  young  man  at  college,  that  a  youth, 
in  no  spirit  of  paradox  but  out  of  plenary  conviction,  undertook  to 
maintain  before  a  body  of  seoous  students,  the  astounding  proposition 
that  the  invention  of  printing  had  been  one  of  the  greatest  misfortunes 
that  had  ever  befallen  mankind.  He  argued  that  exclusive  rehance  on 
printed  matter  had  destroyed  the  higher  method  of  oral  teaching,  the 
dissemination  of  thought  by  the  spoken  word  to  the  attentive  ear.  He 
insisted  that  the  formation  of  a  vast  literary  class  looking  to  the  making? 
of  books  as  a  means  of  making  money,  rather  than  as  a  social  duty,  had 
multiplied  books  for  the  sake  of  the  writers  rather  than  for  the  sake  of 
the  readers ;  that  the  reliance  on  books  as  a  cheap  and  common  re- 
source had  done  much  to  weaken  the  powers  of  memory  ;  that  it  de- 
stroyed the  craving  for  a  general  culture  of  taste,  and  the  need  of  artis- 
tic expression  in  all  the  surroundings  of  life.  And  he  argued  lastly, 
that  the  sudden  multiplication  of  aU  kinds  of  printed  matter  had  been 
fatal  to  the  orderly  arrangement  of  thought,  and  had  hindered  a  system 
of  knowledge  and  a  scheme  of  education. 

I  am  far  from  sharing  this  immature  view.  Of  course  I  hold  the  in- 
vention of  printing  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  momentous  facts  in 
the  whole  history  of  man.  Without  it  universal  social  progress,  tnie 
democratic  enlightenment,  and  the  education  of  tlie  people  would  have 
been  impossible,  or  very  slow,  even  if  the  cultured  few,  as  is  likely, 
could  have  advanced  the  knowledge  of  mankind  witliout  it.  We  pl»u*» 
Gutemberg  amongst  the  small  hst  of  the  unique  and  special  benefactors 
of  mankind,  in  the  sacred  choir  of  those  whose  work  transformed  tii-* 
conditions  of  life,  whoso  work,  once  done,  could  never  be  repcatttl 
And  no  doubt  the  things  which  our  ardent  friend  regarded  as  so  fatil 
a  disturbance  of  society  were  all  inevitable  and  necessary,  part  of  t': ' 
great  revolution  of  mind  through  which  men  grew  out  of  the  medieval 
incompleteness  to  a  richer  conception  of  life  and  of  the  world. 

Yet  there  is  a  sense  in  which  Ihis  boyish  anathema  against  printinij 
may  bo  true  to  us  by  our  own  fault.  We  may  cr^te  for  ourselves  thf.« ' 
very  cvUs.     For  this  I  hold,  that  the  art  of  printing  has  not  been  a  gift 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  421 

wholly  unmixed  with  evils ;  that  it  must  be  used  wisely  if  it  is  to  be  a 
boon  to  man  at  all ;  that  it  entails  on  us  heavy  responsibilities,  resolu- 
tion to  us*  it  with  judgment  and  self-control,  and  the  will  to  resist  its 
temptations  and  its  perils.  Indeed  wo  may  easily  so  act  that  we  may 
make  it  a  clog  on  th3  progress  of  the  human  mind,  a  real  curse  and  not 
'a  boon.  The  power  of  flying  at  will  through  space  would  pr  'bably  ex- 
tiagiiish  civilisation  and  society,  for  it  would  release  us  from  the  whole- 
Bome  bondage  of  localities.  The  power  of  hearing  every  word  that  had 
ever  been  uttered  on  this  planet  would  annihilate  thought,  as  the  pow- 
er of  knowing  all  recorded  facts  by  the  process  of  turning  a  handle 
would  annihilate  true  science.  Our  human  faculties  and  our  mental 
forcss  are  not  enlarg3d  simply  by  multiplying  omr  materials  of  know- 
ledge and  our  facilities  for  communication.  Telephones,  microphones," 
paatoscopes,  steam-pr3S53S,  and  ubiquity -engines  in  general,  may,  after 
all,  leave  ths  poor  huinaa  brain  panting  and  throbbing  under  the  strain 
of  its  appliances,  and  g3t  no  bigger  and  no  stronger  than  the  brains  of 
the  men  who  heard  M0333  spea'<,  and  saw  Aristotle  and  Archimedes 
poudiring  over  a  Tew  worn  rolls  of  crabbed  manuscript.  Until  some 
new  Newton  or  Watt  can  invent  a  raachins  for  magnifying  the  human 
mind,  every  fr3sh  apparatus  for  multiplying  its  work  is  a  fresh  strain 
on  the  mind,  a  new  r3alm  for  it  to  order  and  to  rule. 

And  so,  I  say  it  most  coafid3ntly,  tJie  first  intjlloctual  task  of  our  age 
is  rightly  to  ord3r  and  mak3  sirviceablj  the  vast  realm  of  printed  mate- 
rial whicli  four  centuries  have  swept  across  our  path.  To  organize  our 
knowledg3,  to  syst3matis  3  our  reading,  to  save,  out  of  the  relentless 
cataract  of  ink,  th3  immortal  thoughts  of  the  greatest— this  is  a  neces- 
sity unless  th3  produstive  ingenuity  of  man  is  to  lead  us  at  last  to  a 
msasurslsss  and  pathless  ch  aos.  To  know  anything  that  turns  up  is,  in 
the  infinity  of  knowl3dg3,  to  kaow  nothing.  To  read  the  first  book  wo 
com3  across,  in  the  wikbrness  of  books,  is  to  learn  nothing.  To  turn 
over  the  pag3S  of  tan  thousand  volumes  is  to  be  practically  indifferent 
to  all  that  is  good. 

Jut  this  warns  me  that  I  am  entering  on  a  subject  which  is  far  too 
big  and  solemn  for  us  to  touch  to-night.  I  have  no  pretension  to  deal 
with  it  as  it  needs.  It  is  plain,  I  think,  that  to  organize  our  knowledge, 
even  to  sy3t3matis3  our  reading,  to  make  a  working  selection  of  books 
for  general  study,  really  implies  a  complete  scheme  of  education.  A 
scheme  of  education  ultimat3ly  implies  a  system  of  philosophy,  a  view 
.of  man's  duty  and  powers  as  a  moral  and  social  being — a  religion,  .in 
fact.  B3fore  a  problem  so  great  as  this,  on  which  a  general  audience 
has  suah  different  ideas  and  wants,  and  diffei-s  so  profoundly  on  the 
very  premises  from  which  we  start,  before  such  a  problem  as  a  general 
theory  of  education,  I  prefer  to  retire.  I  will  keep  silence  even  from 
good  words.  I  have  chosen  my  own  part,  and  adopted  my  ©wn 
teacher.  But  to  ask  men  to  adopt  the  education  of  Auguste  Comte,  ia 
almost  to  ask  them  to  adopt  Positivism  itself. 

Nor  will  I  enlarge  on  the  matter  for  thought,  for  foreboding,  almost 


422  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

for  despair,  that  is  presented  to  us  by  the  fact  of  our  familiar  literary 
ways  and  our  recognized  literary  profession.  That  things  infinitely 
trifling  in  themselves;  men,  events,  societies,  phenomena,  in  no  v. ay 
otherwise  more  valuable  than  the  myriad  other  things  which  flit  arouiid 
us  hke  the  sparrows  on  the  housetop,  should  be  glorified,  magnified,  aud 
perpetuated,  set  under  a  hterary  microscope  and  f  ocussed  in  the  blaze  of 
a  hterary  magic-lantern — not  for  what  thej^ar^ in  themselves,  but  solely 
to  amuse  and  excite  the  world  by  showing  how  it  can  be  done — all  this 
is  to  me  so  amazing,  so  heart-breaking,  that  I  forbear  now  to  treat  it,  as 
I  cannot  say  all  that  I  would. 

I  pass  from  all  systems  of  education — from  thought  of  social  duty, 
from  meditation  on  the  profession  of  letters — to  more  general  audligbt'  r 
topics.     I  will  deal  now  only  with  the  easier  side  of  reading,  with  mat- 
ter on  which  there  is  some  common  agreement  in  the  world.     I  am  vt  r>' 
far  from  meaning  that  our  whole  time  spent  with  books  is  to  be  givin 
to  study.     Far  from  it.     I  put  the  poetic  and  emotional  side  of  htcni- 
ture  C'3  the  most  needed  for  daily  use.     I  take  the  books  that  seek  to 
rouse  the  imagination,  to  stir  up  feeling,  touch  the  heart ;  the  book-;  cf 
art,  of  fancj^  of  ideals,  such  as  reflect  the  delight  and  aroma  of  lit"t\ 
And  here  how  does  the  trivial,  provided  it  is  the  new,  that  which  abm-^ 
at  us  in  the  advertising  columns  of  the  day,  crowd  out  the  immortal 
poetry  and  pathos  of  the  hmnan  race,  vitiating  our  taste  for  those  exq  li- 
sito  pieces  which  are  a  household  word,  and  weakening  our  mental  rtlisii 
for  the  eternal  works  of  genius  I     Old  Homer  is  the  very  fountain-hta^i 
of  pure  poetic  enjoyment,  of  all  that  is  spontaneous,  simple,  native,  aui 
dignified  in  Ufe.     He  takes  us  into  the  ambrosial  world  of  heroes,  oi 
human  vigour,  of  purity,  of   grace.     Now  Homer  is  one  of  the  t*  w 
poets  the  life  of  wliom  can  be  fairly  preserved  in  a  translation.     Mist 
men  and  women  can  say  that  they  have  read  Homer,  just  as  most  of  u^ 
can  say  that  we  have  studied  Johnson's  Dictionary.     But  how  few  of  ns 
take  him  up,  time  after  time,  with  fresh  delight !  How  few  have  even  r  !i>i 
the  entire  Iliad  and  Odyssey  through !    Whether  in  the  resounding  liii'  s 
of  the  olil  Greek,  as  fresh  anel  ever-stirring  as  the  waves  thattnmbL  on 
the  seashore,  filhng  the  soul  with  satisfying  silent  worn.,  r  at  its  rest!(-> 
unison  ;   w  hether  in  the  quaint  Hues  of  Chapman,  or  the  clarion  conyl- 1-> 
of  Pope,  or  the  closer  versions  of  Cowper,  Lord  Derby,  of  Philip  V\  cr^ 
ley,  or  even  in  the  new  prose  version  of  the  Odyssey,  Homer  i?  .Kv.;.  ^ 
fresh  and  rich.     And  yet  how  seldom  does  one  find  a  friend  spd  'doua.I 
over  the  Greek  Bible  of  antiquity,  whilst  they  wade  thorough  ^m  ris 
of  magazine  quotations  from  a  petty  versifier  of  to-day,  and  •'  j  an  iti' • 
vacation  will  graze,  as  contentedly  as  cattle  in  a  fresh  meadow,  tb  otigb  tb  • 
chopped  straw  of  a  circulating  library.     A  generation  which  ^11  listt  n 
to  "Pinafore"  for  three  hundred  nights,  and  will  read  M.  Z(  ^a's  seven- 
teenth romance,  can  no  more  read  Homer  than  it  could  read  i  cmieifon': 
inscription.     It  will  read  about  Homer  just  as  it  will  read  ab  at  a  ciiuii- 
form  inscription,  and  will  crowd  to  see  a  few  pots  which  priybably  cami) 
^m  the  neighbourhood  of  Troy.     But  to  Homer  and  the  piimeval  typo 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  42S 

of  heroic  man  in  his  beauty,  and  his  simpleuess,  and  jojoosnesSy  thd 
cultured  generation  is  really  dead,  as  completely  as  some  spoiled  beauty 
of  the  ball-room  is  dead  to  the  bloom  of  the  heather  or  the  waving  of 
tke  daffodils  in  a  glade. 

It  is  a  trus  psychological  problem,  this  nausea  which  idle  culture  seems 
to  produce  for  ail  tiiat  is  manly  and  pure  in  heroic  poetry.  One  luiows 
-at  least  every  schoolboy  has  known — that  a  passage  of  Homer,  roUiug 
along  in  the  hexameter  or  trumped  out  by  Pope,  will  give  one  a  hot  glow 
of  pleasure  and  raise  a  finer  throb  in  the  pulse ;  one  knows  that  Homer 
is  tiie  easiest,  most  artless,  most  diverting  of  all  potts ;  that  the  fiftieth 
reading  rouses  the  spirit  even  mo  e  than  tiie  first — and  yet  we  find  our- 
selves (we  are  all  alike)  painfully  p-ha-ing  over  some  new  and  uncut 
lailey-sugar  in  rhyme,  which  a  man  in  the  street  asked  us  if  we  had 
read,  or  it  may  be  some  learned  lucubrati*  n  about  the  site  of  Troy  by 
some  one  we  chanced  to  meet  at  dinner.  It  is  an  unwritten  chapter  in 
the  history  of  the  himian  mind,  how  this  literary  prurience  after  new  print 
unmans  us  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  old  songs  chanted  forth  in  the  sun- 
rise of  human  imagination.  To  ask  a  man  or  won)an  who  spends  half 
r.  lifetime  in  sucking  magazines  and  new  potms  (o  r^ad  a  book  of  Homer, 
would  be  like  asking  a  buti'-htr's  bjy  to  whistle  '"Adelaida."  The  noises 
raid  sights  and  talk,  the  whirl  and  volatility  of  hfe  around  us,  are  too 
ttroni^  for  us.  A  society  which  is  for  ever  gossiping  in  a  sort  of  per- 
p.  tnal  "drum,"  loses  the  very  faculty  of  caring  for  anything  but  "early 
copies  "  and  the  last  tale  out.  Thus,  like  the  tares  in  t':ie  noble  parable 
of  the  Sower,  a  pti-petual  chatter  about  books  chokes  the  seed  which  is 
fcown  in  the  greatest  bocks  in  the  world. 

I  speak  of  Homer,  but  fifty  other  great  poets  and  creators  of  eternal 
kauty  would  serve  my  argument»as  well.  Take  the  latest  perhaps  in 
the  s  ries  cf  the  world-Wide  and  immortal  poets  of  the  whole  human 
race — Wait*,  r  fcscott.  YVo  all  read  Scott's  romances,  as  we  have  all  read 
Hume's  History  of  England,  but  how  often  do  we  read  them,  how  zeal- 
ously, vtith  what  sympathy  and  imderstanding  ?  I  am  told  that  the 
kst  discovery  of  modem  culture  is  that  Scott's  prose  is  commonplace ; 
that  the  young  men  at  our  universities  are  far  too  critical  to  care  for 
his  artless  sentences  and  flowing  descriptions.  They  prefer  Mr.  Swin- 
burne, Mr.  Mallock,  and  the  Euphuism  of  young  Oxford,  just  as  somo 
people  prefer  a  Dresden  Shepherdess  to  the  Cai'yatides  of  the  Eric- 
Iheum,  pronounce  Fielding  to  be  low,  and  Mozart  to  be  passe.  As  boys 
love  lollypops,  so  these  juvenile  fops  love  to  roll  phrases  about  under 
the  tongue,  as  if  phrases  in  themselves  had  a  value  apart  from  thoughts, 
feelings,  great  conceptions,  or  human  sympathy.  For  Scott  is  just  one 
of  the  pocts  (we  may  call  poets  all  the  great  creators  in  prose  or  inverse) 
of  whom  one  never  wearies,  just  as  one  can  listen  to  Beethoven  or 
■V7atch  the  sunrise  or  the  sunset  day  by  day  with  new  deUght.  I  think  I 
can  read  the  "Antiquary,"  or  the  "Bride  of  Lammermopr,"  "Ivanhoe," 
"Quentin  Dur^-ard,"  and  "Old  Mortahty,"  at  least  once  a  year  afresh, 
Ifow  Scott  is  f  perfect  library  in  himself.     A  constant  reader  of  ro- 


424,  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

manoes  would  find  that  it  needed  months  to  go  through  even  the  best 
pieces  of  the  inexhaustible  painter  of  eight  full  centuries  and  every  typ3 
of  man,  and  he  might  repeat  the  process  of  reading  him  ten  times  in  a 
lifetime  without  a  S3ns3  of  fatiguj  or  sameness.  The  poetic  beauty  of 
Scott's  creations  is  almost  the  least  of  his  great  qualities.  It  is  the  uni- 
v.ersality  of  his  sympathy  that  is  so  truly  great,  the  justice  of  his  esti- 
mates, the  insight  into  the  spirit  of  each  age,  his  intense  absorption  of 
self  in  the  vast  epic  of  human  civilisation.  What  are  the  old  almanacs 
that  they  so  often  give  us  as  histories  beside  these  living  pictures  of  the 
ordered  succession  of  ages  ?  As  in  Homer  himself,  we  see  in  this  prose 
Iliad  of  modern  history  the  battle  of  the  old  and  the  new,  the  heroic 
defence  of  ancient  strongholds,  the  long  impending  and  incTitable 
doom  of  mediaeval  life.  Strong  men  and  proud  women  struggle  against 
the  d3stiny  of  modern  society,  unconsciously  working  out  its  ways,  un- 
dauatedly  defying  its  power.  How  just  is  our  island  Homer!  Neither 
Greek  nor  Trojan  sways  him  ;  Achilles  is  his  hero  ;  Hector  is  his  favour- 
ite; h3  loves  the  couacils  of  chiefs  and  the  palaee  of  Priam  ;  but  the 
swine-hard,  the  chariotaer,  the  slave-girl,  the  hound,  the  beggar,  and 
the  herdsman,  all  glow  alike  in  the  harmoniou3  colouring  of  his  peopled 
epic.  We  S3e  the  dawn  of  our  English  nation,  the  defence  of  Christsn- 
doai  aifxiast  the  Koran,  tha  graee  and  the  terror  of  feudalism,  the  rise 
of  mDijrrehy  out  of  baronies,  the  rise  of  parUanients  out  of  monarchy, 
th3ris3of  ial'jstry  out  of  sirfaga,  the  pathetic  ruin  of  chivalry,  the 
spieniid  diath-struj^le  of  Catholicism,  the  sylvan  tribes  of  the  moun- 
t-iin  (rem  iiits  of  oar  pre-historic  forefathers)  beating  themselves  to 
pi3e3s  ajiiQ3t  ta3h%ri  aivanee  of  modern  industry  ;  we  see  the  grim 
A3rois  n  of  th  3  Bible-martyrs,  the  catastrophe  of  feudalism  overwhelmed 
by  a  pra3tic.T.l  a^3  which  knew  little  of  its  graces  and  almost  nothing  of 
jits  virtu  3S.  Sueh  is  Seott,  who  we  may  say  has  done  for  the  various 
pha33s  of  modern  history  what  Shakes [)eare  has  done  for  the  manifold 
typjs  of  human  character.  And  this  glorious  and  most  human  and 
m^st  histDrical  of  po3t5,  without  whom  our  very  conception  of  human 
d3velopin3nt  would  have  ever  been  imperfect,  this  manliest  and  truest 
aad  wid3st  of  romancers  we  neglect  for  some  hothouse  hybrid  of  psych- 
ological analysis,  for  the  wretched  imitators  of  Balzac  and  the  jackan- 
apes phrasemongering  of  some  Osric  of  the  day,  who  assures  us  that 
Scofct  is  an  absolu^te  Philistine. 

In  spea:iing  with  enthusiasm  of  Scott,  as  of  Homer,  or  of  Shake- 
speare, or  of  Milton,  or  of  any  of  the  accepted  masters  of  the  world,  I 
have  no  wish  to  insist  dogmatically  upon  any  single  name,  or  two  or 
three  in  particular.  Our  enjoyment  aud  reverence  of  the  great  poets  of 
the  world  is  seriously-  injured  nowadays  by  the  habit  we  get  of  singling 
out  some  particular  quality,  some  particular  school  of  art  for  intemper- 
ate praise  or,  still  worse,  for  intemperate  abuse.  Mr.  Ruskin,  1  sup- 
pose, is  answerable  for  the  ta-te  for  this  one-sided  and  spasmodic  criti- 
cism ;  and  every  young  gentleman  who  has  the  trick  of  a  few  adjectives 
prill  languidly  vow  that  Marlowe  is  supreme,  or  Murillo  foul.    It  is  the 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  42l» 

mark  of  rational  criticism  as  well  as  of  healthy  thought  to  maintaiii  an 
evenness  of  mind  in  judging  of  gre^t  works,  to  recognize  great  quali- 
ties in  due  proportion,  to  f ot  1  that  defects  are  made  up  by  beauties,  an^ 
beauties  are  often  balanced  by  weakness.  The  true  judgment  impHes  a 
weighing  of  each  \\ork  and  tuch  workman  as  a  whole,  in  relation  to  th-? 
sum  of  human  cultivation  and  tiie  «:radual  advance  ol  the  movement  of 
ages.  And  in  this  u^atter  we  shall  usually  find  that  the  world  is  right, 
the  world  of  the  modern  centuries  and  the  nations  of  Europe  togethtr. 
It  is  unlikely,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  that  a  young  person  who  has  hardly 
ceased  makmg  Latin  verses  will  be  able  to  reverse  the  decisions  of 
the  civilised  world ;  and  it  is  even  more  unlikely  that  Milton  and 
Moliere,  Fielding  and  Scott,  will  ever  be  displaced  by  a  poet  who  has 
nnaceountably  lain  hid  for  one  or  two  centuries.  I  know,  that  in  the 
style  of  to-day,  I  ought  hardly  to  ventiu*e  to  address  you  about  poetry 
unless  I  am  prepared  to  unfold  to  you  the  mysterious  bcautits  of  some 
unknown  g-  nius  who  has  recently  been  unearthed  by  the  Children  of 
Light  and  Sweetness.  I  confess  I  have  no  such  discovery  to  announce. 
I  prefer  to  d^ell  in  Gath  and  to  pitch  my  tents  in  Ashdod ;  and  I  doubt 
the  use  of  the  shng  as  a  weapon  in  modem  war.  I  dechno  to  go  into 
hyperboUc  eccentricities  over  unknown  geniuses,  and  a  single  quality  or 
power  is  not  enough  to  arouse  my  enthusiasm.  It  is  possible  that  no 
master  ever  painted  a  buttercup  like  this  one,  or  the  fringe  of  a  robe 
like  that  one  ;  that  this  poet  has  a  unique  subtlety,  and  that  an  undeli- 
nable  music.  I  am  still  unconvinced,  though  the  man  who  cannot  see  it, 
we  are  told,  shQuld  at  once  retire  to  the  place  where  there  is  wailing 
and  gnashing  of  teeth. 

I  am  against  all  gnnshing  of  teeth,  whether  for  or  against  a  particu- 
lar idol.  I  stand  by  the  men,  and  by  all  the  men,  who  have  moved 
mankind  to  the  depths  of  their  souLs,  who  have  taught  generations,  and 
formed  our  life..  If  I  say  of  Scott,  that  to  have  drunk  in  the  whole  of 
his  glorious  spirit  is  a  Hberal  education  in  itself,  I  am  asking  for  no  ex- 
c'.usive  devotion  to  Scott,  to  any  poet,  or  any  school  of  poets,  or  any 
age,  or  any  country,  to  any  style  or  any  order  of  poet,  one  more 
tihan  another.  They  are  as  various,  fortunately,  and  as  many-sided  as 
human  nature  itsolf .  If  I  delight  in  Scott,  I  love  Fielding,  and  Rich- 
ardson, and  Sterne,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Befoe.  Yes,  and  I  will  add 
Cooper  and  Marryat,  Miss  Edgeworth  and  Miss  Austen — to  confine  my- 
self to  those  who  are  already  classics,  to  oiu:  own  country,  and  to  one 
form  of  art  alone,  and  not  to  venture  on  the  ground  of  contemporary 
romance  in  general.  What  I  have  said  of  Homer,  I  would  say  in  a  de- 
gree but  somewhat  lower,  of  those  great  ancients  who  are  the  most  ac- 
cessible to  us  in  English — J5schylus,  Aristophanes,  Virgil,  and  Horace. 
^Vhat  I  have  said  of  Shakespeare  I  would  say  of  Calderon,  of  Moliere, 
of  Comeille,  of  Bacine,  of  Voltaire,  of  Alfieri,  of  Goethe,  of  those  dra- 
matists, in  many  forms,  and  with  genius  the  most  diverse,  who  have  so 
steadily  set  themselves  to  ideaUse  fiie  great  types  of  public  life  and  of 
the  pl^es  of  human  history.     liet  us  all  b aware  lest  worship  of  th« 


42(5  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

idiosyncrasy  of  our  peerless  Shakespeare  blind  us  to  the  value  6f  the 
great  masters  who  in  a  different  world  and  with  different  aims  have 
presented  the  development  of  civilisation  in  a  series  of  dramas,  where 
the  unity  of  a  few  grtat  types  of  man  and  of  society  is  made  paramoimt 
to  subtlety  of  character  or  brilhancy  of  language.  What  I  have  said  of 
Milton,  1  would  say  of  Dante,  of  Ariosto,  of  Petrarch,  and  of  Tasso : 
nor  less  would  I  say  it  of  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer,  of  Camoens  ar.{i 
Spenser,  of  Eabelais  and  of  Cervantes,  of  Gil  Bias  and  the  Vicar  or 
\vakefield,  of  Byron  and  of  Shelley,  of  Goethe  and  of  Schiller.  Kor 
let  us  forget  those  wonderful  idealisations  of  awakening  thought  and 
primitive  societies,  the  pictures  of  other  races  and  types  of  life  rtmoved 
from  our  own:  all  those  primaeval  legends,  ballads,  songs,  and  tales, 
tliose  proverbs,  apologues,  and  maxims,  which  have  come  down  to  Ua 
from  distant  ages  of  man's  history— the  old  idylls  and  myths  of  the  He- 
brew race  ;  the  tales  of  Greece,  of  the  Middle  Ages  of  the  East;  the 
fables  of  the  old  and  the  new  world ;  the  songs  of  the  Nibeluugs ;  the 
romances  of  early  feudahsm  ;  the  Morte  d'Arthur ;  the  Arabian  Nights ; 
the  Ballads  of  the  early  nations  of  Europe. 

I  protest  that  I  am  devoted  to  no  school  in  particular :  I  condemn  no 
school;  I  reject  none.  I  am  for  the  school  of  all  the  great  men;  and  I 
am  against  the  school  of  the  smaller  men.  I  care  for  AVordsworth  as 
well  as  for  Byron,  for  Bums  as  well  as  Shelley,  for  Boccaccio  as  well  as 
for  Milton,  for  Bunyan  as  well  as  Rabelais,  for  Cervantes  as  much  an 
for  Dante,  for  Corneille  as  well  as  for  Shakespeare,  for  Goldsmith  as 
well  as  Goethe.  I  stand  by  the  sentence  of  the  world ;  and  I  hold  tiat 
in  a  matter  so  human  and  so  broad  as  the  highest  poetry  the  judgment 
of  the  nations  of  Europe  is  pretty  well  settled,  at  any  rate  after  a  cen- 
tury or  two  of  continuous  reading  and  discussing.  Let  those  who  \^'ill 
assure  us  that  no  one  can  pretend  to  culture  unless  he  swear  by  Fra 
Angelico  and  Sandro  Botticelli,  by  Amolpho  the  son  of  Lapd,  or  the 
Lombardic  bricklayers,  by  Martini  and  Galuppi  (all,  by  the  way,  admi- 
rable men  of  the  second  rank)  ;  and  so,  in  literature  and  poetry,  tLcre 
are  some  who  will  hear  of  nothing  but  W«  bster  or  Marlowe ;  Blake, 
Herrick,  or  Keats  ;  William  Langland  or  the  Earl  of  Surrey ;  Heine  or 
Omar  Kayam.  All  of  these  are  men  of  genius,  and  each  with  a 
special  and  inimitable  gift  of  his  own.  But  the  busy  world,  which  does 
not  hunt  poets  as  collectors  hunt  for  curios,  may  fairly  reserve  theso 
lesser  lights  for  the  time  when  they  know  the  greatest  well. 

So,  I  say,  think  mainly  of  the  greatest,  of  the  best  known,  of  those 
who  cover  the  largest  area  of  human  history  and  man's  common  na- 
ture. Now  when  we  come  to  count  up  these  names  accepted  by  the 
unanimous  voice  of  Europe,  we  have  some  thirty  or  forty  names,  aiid 
amongst  them  are  some  of  the  most  voluminous  of  writers.  1  have 
been  running  over  but  one  department  of  hterature  alone,  the  poetic. 
I  have  been  naming  those  only,  whose  names  are  household  words  with 
us,  and  the  poets  for  tlie  most  part  of  modem  Europe.  Yet  even  here 
we  have  a  list  which  is  usually  found  iu  not-  less  than  a  hundred  vol* 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OP  BOOKS.  i2f 

nines  at  least.  Now  poetry  and  the  highest  kind  of  romance  are  ex- 
actly that  ordar  of  literature,  which  not  only  will  bear  to  be  r<3ad  mauy^ 
timas,  but  that  of  which  the  true  value  can  only  be  gained  by  frequ  nt," 
and  indi'ed  habitual  reading.  A  man  can  hardly  ba  said  to  know  the 
12th  Mass  or  tha  9th  Symphony,  by  virtue  of  having  onca  heard  them 
played  tan  years  ago ;  ha  can  hardly  be  said  to  take  air  and  exercise  be- 
cause he  took  a  country-walk  oncj  last  autumn.  And  so,  he  can  hardly 
be  said  to  know  Scott,  or  Shakespsare ,  Moliere,  or  Cervantes,  when  he 
onca  read  th3m  sins 3  th^  close  of  his  school  days,  or  amidst  the  daily 
grind  of  his  professional  life.  Tha  immortal  and  universal  po?ts  of  our 
rac9  are  to  bi  r3ai  and  re-reai  till  their  music  and  their  spirit  are  a 
pirt  of  oar  nature  ;  they  are  to  be  thought  over  and  '^•gr'^^ted  till  we  live 
in  tha  world  th3y  created  for  U3;  they  are  to  be  read  devoutly,  as  do- 
Tout  man  real  their  Bible  and  fortify  their  hearts  with  psalms.  For  as 
the"  old  Hebr  w  singer  heard  tha  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  their 
maker,  and  the  firmament  showing  his  handiwork,  so  in  the  long  roll 
of  poatry  we  see  transfigured  the  strength  and  beauty  of  humanity, 
tha  joys  and  sorrows,  the  dignity  and  struggles,  the  long  life-history  of 
our  common  kind. 

I  h  ive  Slid  but  little  of  the  more  difficult  poetry,  and  the  religious 
meditations  of  the  great  idaalists  in  prose  and  verse,  whom  it  needs  a 
coaeantratad  study  to  master.  Some  of  these  are  hard  to  all  men,  and 
atallsaasons.  The  Divine  Comedy,  in  its  way,  reaches  as  deep  in  its 
thoaghtfulness  as  Descartes  himself.  But  these  books,  if  they  are 
difficult  to  all,  are  impossible  to  the  gluttons  of  the  circulating  library. 
To  thasa  munchers  of  vapid  memoirs  and  montonous  tales  such  books 
ara  closad  indaed.  The  power  of  enjoyment  and  of  understanding  is 
withered  up  w.thin  them.  To  the  besotted  gambler  on  the  turf  tha 
lonsly  hillsida  flowing  with  heather  grows  to  be  as  dreary  as  a  prison  ; 
and  so  too,  a  man  may  listen  nightly  to  burlesques,  till  ff'ide  io  inflicts 
on  him  intolerable  fatigue.  One  may  be  a  devourer  of  books,  and  be 
actually  incapable  of  reading  a  hundred  lines  of  tha  wisest  and  most 
baautiful.  To  read  one  of  such  books  comes  only  by  habit,  as  prayer 
is  impossible  to  one  who  habitually  dreads  to  be  alone. 

Inanage  of  steam  it  saems  almost  idle  to  speak  of  Dante,  the  most  pro- 
found, th  '.most  meditative,  the  most  prophetic  of  all  poets,  in  whose  epic 
the  panorama  of  mediaeval  life,  of  feudalism  at  its  best  and  Christianity 
at  its  best,  stands,  as  in  a  microcosm,  transfigured,  judged,  and  mea- 
sured. To  most  men,  the  **  Paradise  Lost,"  with  all  it -» mighty  music  and 
its  idyllic  pictures  of  human  nature,  o'f  our  first-child  parents  in  theii 
nated  purity  and  their  Mwakening  thought,  is  a  serious  and  ungrateful 
txisk— not  to  be  ranked  with  the  sim^Dle  enjoyments ;  it  is  a  possession 
to  ba  acquired  only  by  habit.  The  great  religious  poets,  the  imagina- 
tive teachers  of  the  heart,  are  never  easy  reading.  But  the  reading  of 
them  is  a  religious  habit,  rather  than  an  intellectual  effort.  I  pretend 
not  to-night  to  be  dealing  with  a  matter  so  deep  and  high  as  religion,  or 
indeed  with  education  in  the  fuller  sense.     I  will  say  nothing  of  that 


428^  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

side  of  reading  which  is  really  hard  study,  an  effort  of  duty,  luatter  of 
meditation  and  reverential  thought.  I  need  speak  not  to-night  of  such 
reading  as  that  of  the  Bible ;  the  moral  reflections  of  Socrates,  of  Aris- 
totle, of  Confucius;  the  Confessions  of  St.  Augustine  and  the  City  of 
God ;  the  discourses  t  f  St.  Bernard,  of  Bossuet,  of  Bishop  Butler,  of 
Jeremy  Taylor :  the  vast,  philosophical  visions  that  were  opened  to  the 
eyes  of  Bacon  and  Descartes ;  the  thoughts  of  Pascal  ami  Vauvenargues, 
of  Diderot  and  Hume,  of  Condorcet  and  de  Maistre ;  the  problem  of 
man's  nature  as  it  is  told  in  the  "  Excursion,"  or  in  *' Faust,"  in  *'  Cai:)," 
or  in  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress;"  the  imsearchable  outpouring  if  the 
heart  in  the  great  mystics,  of  many  ages  and  many  races ;  be  the  mystic- 
ism that  of  David  or  of  John ,  of  Mahomet  or  of  Bouddha  ;  of  Fene- 
lon  or  of  Shelley. 

I  pass  by  all  these.     For  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  use  of  bookt? 
in  our  leisure  hours.     I  will  take  the  books  of  simple  enjoyment,  books 
that  one  can  laugh  over  and  weep  over ;  •  and  learn  from,  and  lair^U 
and  weep  again ;  which  have  in  them  humor,  truth,  human  nature  in 
all  its  sides,  pictures  of  the  great  phases  of  human  history ;  and  withal 
sound  teaching  in  honesty,  manliness,  gentleness,  patience.     Of  sikIj 
books,  I  say,  books  accepted  by  the  voice   of  all  mankind  as  matoh- 
less  and  immortal,  there  is  a  complete  library  at  hand  for  every  man,  in 
his  every  mood,  whatever  his  tastes  or  his  acquirements.    To  know  merely 
the  hundred  volumes  or  so  of  which  I  have  spoken  would  involve  the 
study  of  years.      But  who  can  say  that  these  books  are  read  as  they 
anight  be,  that  we  do  not  neglect  them  for  something  in  a  new  cover,  or 
which  catches  our  eye  in  a  library  ?     It  is  not  merely  to  the  ii  lie  and  un- 
reading  world  that  this  complaint  holds  good.  It  is  the  insatiable  readirs 
themselves  who  so  often  read  to  the  least  profit.     Of  course  they  ha\  e 
read  all  these  household  books  many  years  ago,  read  them,  and  judgtd 
ihcm,  and  put  them  away  forever.     They  will  read  infinite  dissertations 
about  these  authors;  they  will  write  you  essays  on  their  works  ;  thtv 
will  talk  most  learned  criticism  about  them.     But  it  never  occurs  to 
them  that  such  books  have  a  daily  and  perpetual  value,  such  as  the  de- 
vout Christian  finds  in  his  morning  and  evening  psalm  ;  that  the  music 
Df  them  has  to  sink  into  the  soul  by  continual  renewal ;  that  we  have  to 
live  with  them  and  in  them,  till  their  ideal  world  habitually  surrounds  ns 
in  the  midst  of  the  real  world ;  that  their  great  thoughts  have  to  stir  us 
daily  anew,  and  their  generous  passion  has  to  warm  us  hour  by  honr; 
!  just  as  we  need  each  day  to  have  our  eyes  filled  by  the  light  of  heaven, 
and  our  blood  warmed  by  the  glow  of  the  sun.     I  vow  that,  when  I  see 
men,  forgetful  of  the  perennial  poetry  of  the  world,  much-raking  in  a 
litter  of  fugitiy^e  refuse,  I  think  of  that  wonderful  scene  in  the  ''Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  were  the  Interpreter  shows  the  wayfarers  the  old  man 
raking  in  the  straw  and  dust,  whilst  he  will  not  see  the  Angel  who  oSers 
him  a  crown  of  gold  and  precious  stones. 

This  gold,  refined  beyond  the  standard  of  the  goldsmith,  these  pearls 
of  great  price,  the  united  voice  of  mankind  has  asisured  us  are  found  in 


OK  THE  GHOIG£  OF  BOOKS.  429 

those  immorfal  works  of  OTery  ag&  and  of  every  race  whoce  names  are 
bonsehold  words  throughout  the  world.  And  we  shut  our  eyes  to  them 
for  the  sake  of  the  straw  aud  litter  of  the  nearest  hbrary  cr  bookshop. 
A  lifetime  will  hardly  suffice  to  know,  as  they  ought  to  be  known,  these 
gr^t  masterpieces  of  nionV  genius.  How  many  of  us  can  name  ten 
men  who  may  be  said  entirely  to  know  (in  the  sense  in  which  a  thought- 
Inl  Christian  knows  the  Psalms  and  ike  Epistles)  even  a  few  of  the 
greatest  poets  ?  I  take  them  almost  at  random,  and  I  name  Hcmer, 
.cEschylus,  Aristophanes,  Virgil,  L)ante,  AriostOf  Shakespeare,  Cervantes, 
Calderon,  Comc-iiie,  Moliere,  Milton,  Fielding,  Goethe,  Scptt.  Of  course 
every  one  has  read  these  poets,  but  who  really  knows  them,  the  \ihole 
of  them,  the  whole  meamug  oif  them  ?  .  They  are  tco  often  taken  **  as 
Rad,"  as  they  say  in  the  railway  meetings. 

Take  of  this  inunortal  choir  tlie  hvehest,  the  easiest,  the  most  fami- 
liar, take   f <  r  the   moment    the    three  —  Cervantes,   Aloliere,  Field- 
ing.   Here  we  have  three  poets  who  unite  the  profoundest  insight  into 
iniman  nature  with  the  most  inimitable  wit :   *'  Pensercso"  and  .*'L' Al- 
legro" in  one ;  "sober,  steadfast,  and  demure,"  and  yet  with  **  Laughter 
holding  both  his  sides."     And  in   all  three,  different  as  they  are,  is  an 
ULfathomable  pathos,  a  brotherly  pity  for  all  human  weakness,  sponta- 
neous sympathy  with  all  human  gcodness.     To  know  "Don  Quixote," 
that  is  to  follow  out  the  whole  mystery  of  its  double  world,  is  to  know 
the  very  tmgi-comedy  of  human  life,  the  contrast  of  the  ideal  with  the 
real,  of  chivalry  with  good  sense,  of  heroic  failure  with  vulgar  utility, 
of  the  past  with  the  present,   of  the  impossible  eublime  with  the 
possible    commonplace.      And   yet    to    how  many    reading    men    is 
"  Don  Quiitote"  little  more  than  a  book  to  laugh  over  in  boyhood  I     So 
Moliere  is  read  or  witnessed ;  we  laugh  and  we  praise.     But  how  little 
do  we  study  with  insight  that  elaborate   gallery  of  human  character; 
those  consunomate  types  of  almost  every  social  phencmenon  ;  that  ge- 
nial and  just  judge  of  imposture,  folly,  vanity,  affectation,  and  insin- 
cerity ;  that  tragic  pictmre  of  the  brave  man  fccm  out  of  his  time,  tco 
proud  and  too  just  to  be  of  use  in  his  a^e  !     "Was  ever  truer  word  £aid 
than  that  about  Fielding  as  **  the  prose  H'  mer  of  human  nature  ?"  And 
yet  how  often  do  we  forget  in  **  Tom  Jones"  the  beauty  of  unselfishness, 
the  well-spring  of  goodness,  the  tenderness,  the  manly  healthiness  and 
heartin(  ss  underlying  its  frohc  and  its  satire,  because  we  are  absorbed, 
it  may  be,   in  laughing  at  its  humour,  or  are  simply  irritated  by  its 
grossness!     Nay,  "Robinson  Crusoe"   contains  (not  for  boys  but  for 
taen)  more  religion,  more  philosophy,  more  psychology,  more  political 
economy,  more  anthropology,  than  are  found  in  many  elaborate  treatises 
on  these  special  subjects.     And  yet,  I  imagine,  grown  men  do  not  often 
read  "Robinson  Crusoe"  as  the  article  has  it,  "  for  instruction  of  life 
and  ensample  of  manners."     The  great  books  of  the  world  we  have  once 
rtad ;  we  take  them  as  read ;  we  believe  that  we  read  them  ;  at  least, 
we  believe  that  we  know  them.     But  to  how  few  of  us  are  they  daily 
mental  food !     For  once  that  we  take  down  our  Milton,  and  read  a  book 


43a  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

of  that  "  voice,"  as  Wordsworth  says,  **  wliose  sound  is  like  the  sea" 
we  take  up  fifty  times  a  magazine  with  something  about  Milton,  or 
about  Milton*8  grandmother,  or  a  book  stuffed  with  curious  facts  about 
the  houses  in  which  he  lived,  and  the  juvenile  ailments  of  his  first 
wife. 

And  whilst  the  roll  of  the  great  men  yet  unread  is  to  all  of  us  so  long, 
whilst  years  are  not  enough  to  master  the  very  least  of  them,  we  are  in- 
cessantly searching  tha  earth  for  something  new  or  strangely  foi^otten. 
Brilliant  essays  ara  for  ever  extolling  some  minor  light.  It  becomes  the 
fashion  to  grow  rapturous  about  the  obscure  Elizabethan  dramatists ; 
about  the  nota  of  refinement  in  the  lesser  men  of  Queen  Anne ;  it  is 
pretty  to  swear  by  Lyly's  "Euphues"  and  Sidney's  **Arcadia;"  tovannt 
Lovelace  and  Hsrrick,  Marvell  and  Donne,  Kobert  Burton  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne.  All  of  them  are  excellent  men,  who  have  written  de- 
lightful things,  that  may  very  well  be  enjoyed  when  we  have  utterly 
exhausted  the  best.  Bat  when  one  meets  bevies  of  hyper-aasthetic  young 
maidens,  in  lask-a-daisioal  gowns,  who  simper  about  Greene  and  John 
Ford  (authors,  let  us  tru^t,  that  they  never  have  read)  one  wonders  if 
thay  all  know  **L3ar"  or  ever  heard  of  "  Alceste."  Since  to  nine  out 
of  tan  of  the  '*  genaral  readers"  the  very  best  is  as  yet  more  than  they 
have  managed  to  assimilate,  this  fidgeting  after  something  curious  is  a 
little  premature  and  perhaps  artifi  cial. 

For  this  r  a.^oa  I  stand  amazed  at  the  lengths  of  fantastic  curiosity  to 
which  p  arsons  far  from  learned    have  pushed  the  mania  for  collecting 
rare  books,  or  prying  intoout-of-  the-way  holes  and  comers  of  literature. 
They  conduct  themselves  as  if  all  the  works  attainable  by  ordinary  dili- 
genee  were  to  them  sucked  as  dry  as  an  orange.     Says  one,  "I  came 
across  a  very  curious  book  mentioned  in  a  parenthesis  in  the  'Eeligio 
Medici,'  only  one  other  copy  exists  in  this  country."    I  will  not  men- 
tion the  work  to-night,  because  I  know  that,  if  I  did,  to.morrow  moniing 
at  least  fifty  libraries  would  be  ransacked  for  it,  which  would  be  unpar- 
donable waste  of  time.     **I  a-n  bringing  out,"  says  another,  quite  sini- 
ply,  **  the  lives  of  the  washerwomen  of  the  Queens  of  England."    And 
when  it  comes  out  we  shall  have  a  copious  collection  of  washing-books 
some  centuries  old,  and  at  length  understand  the  mode  of  ironing  a  niff 
in  the  early  mediaeval  period.     A  very  learned  friend  of  min '.  tMnks  it 
perfectly  monstrous  that  a  public  library  should  be  without  an  adequ«ite 
collection  of  works  in  Dutch,  though  I  believe  he  is  the  only  frequenter 
of  it  who  can  read  that  language.      Not  long  ago  I  procured  for  a  Bu<- 
sian  scholar  a  manuscript  copy  of  a  very  rare  work  by  Greene,  th?  con- 
temporary of  Shakespeare.     G-reene's  "  Funeralls"  is,  I  think,  as  dis- 
mal and  worthless  a  set  of  lines  as  one  often  sees;  and  as  it  has  slnm- 
beredfor  nearly  three  hundred  years,  I  should  be  willing  to  let  it  be  its 
own  undertaker.     But  this  unsavoury  carrion  is  at  last  to  be  dug  out  of 
its  grave,  for  it  is  now  translated  into  Eussian  and  published  in  Moscow 
(to  the  honour  and  glory  of  the  Bussian  professor)  in  order  to  deli^^bt 
and  inform  the  Muscovite  pubUc,  where  perhaps  not  ten  in  a  millioa 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  481 

can  as  much  as  read  Shakespeare.  This  or  that  collector  again,  with 
the  labour  of  half  a  lifetime  and  by  means  of  half  his  fortune,  has 
amassed  a  hbrary  of  old  plays,  every  one  of  them  worthless  in  diction, 
in  plot,  in  sentinient,  and  in  purpose ;  a  collection  far  more  stupid  and 
aninteresting  in  fact  than  the  burlesques  and  pantomimes  of  the  last 
fifty  years.  And  yet  this  insatiable  student  <»f  old  plays  will  probably 
know  less  of  Moliere  and  Alfiieri  than  MoUere^s  housekeeper  or  AMeri's 
valet,  and  possibly  he  has  never  looked  into  such  poets  as  Calderon  and 
Vondel. 

Collecting  rare  books  and  forgotten  authors  is  perhaps  of  all  the  col- 
lecting manias  the  most  foohsh  in  our  day.  There  is  much  to  be  said 
for  rare  china  and  curious  beetles.  The  china  is  occasionally  beautiful, 
imd  the  beetles  at  least  are  droll.  But  rare  books  now  are,  by  the 
Dature  of  the  ease,  worthless  books,  and  their  rarity  usually  consists  in 
this:  that  the  printer  made  a  blunder  in  the  text,  or  that  they  contain 
something  exceptionally  nasty  or  silly.  To  affect  a  profound  interest 
in  neglected  authora  and  uncommon  books  is  a  sign,  for  the  most  part — 
not  that  a  man  has  exhausted  the  resources  of  ordinary  literature — but 
that  he  has  no  real  respect  for  the  greatest  prodiictions  of  the  greatest 
men  in  the  world.  This  bibUomania  seizes  hold  of  rational  beings  and 
BO  perverts  them,  that  in  the  sufferer*s  mind  the  human  race  exists  for 
the  sake  of  the  books,  and  not  the  books  for  the  sake  of  the  human 
race.  Therf*  is  one  book  they  might  read  to  good  purpose — the  doings 
of  a  great  book  collector  who  oncehved  in  LaMancha.  To  the  collector, 
and  sometimes  to  the  scholar,  the  book  becomes  a  fetich  or  idol,  and  is 
worthy  of  the  worship  of  mankind,  even  if  it  cannot  be  the  slightest 
use  to  anybody.  As  the  book  exists,  it  must  have  the  compliment  paid 
it  of  being  invited  to  the  shelves.  The  *' hbrary  is  imperfect  without 
it,"  although  the  library  will,  so  to  speak,  stink  when  it  has  got  it.  The 
great  books  are  of  course  the  common  books,  and  these  are  treated  by 
collectors  and  librarians  with  sovereign  contempt.  The  more  dreadful 
an  abortion  of  a  book  the  rare  volume  may  be,  the  more  desperate  is 
the  struggle  of  hbraries  to  possess  it.  Civilization  in  fact  has  evolved  a 
complete  apparatus,  an  order  of  men  and  a  code  of  ideas  for  the  express 
purpose,  one  may  say,  of  degrading  the  great  books.  It  suffocates  them 
nnder  mountains  of  little  books,  and  gives  the  place  of  honour  to  that 
which  is  plainly  literary  carrion. 

.  Now  I  suppose,  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  lies  that  rattle  and  restless- 
ness of  life  which  belongs  to  the  industrial  maelstrom  wherein  we  ever 
revolve.  And  connected  therewith  comes  also  that  literary  dandyism 
which  results  from  the  pursuit  of  letters  without  any  social  purpose  or 
any  systematic  faith.  To  read  from  the  pricking  of  some  cerebral  itch 
rather  than  from  a  desire  of  forming  judgments ;  to  get,  like  an  Alpine 
club  stripling,  to  the  top  of  some  unsealed  pinnacle  of  culture ;  to  use 
books  as  a  sedative,  as  a  means  of  exciting  a  mild  intellectual  titillation, 
instead  of  as  a  means  of  elevating  the  nature ;  to  dribble  on  in  a  perpe* 
tual  literary  gossip  in  order  to  avoid  the  effort  of  bracing  the  mind  to 


432  ON  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

thiuk — siicb  i8  our  habit  in  an  age  of  utterly  chaotic  cdncatioD.    Ve 
read,  as  the  bereayed  poet  made  rhymes — 

"  For  the  rnqnict  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  iu  measured  language  lies ; 
^bc  had  iiiL'cliaD.c  exeic^bo. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  iiuiiiblLg  pain." 

We,  for  whom  steam  and  electricity  have  done  almost  everything  excf pt 
give  us  bigger  brains  and  hoartjs,  who  have  a  new  invention  ready  lor 
every  meeting  of  the  Koyal  Institution,  who  want  new  things  to  tnik 
about  faster  than  children  want  new  toys  to  break,  we  cannot  take  ui) 
the  books  we  have  seen  about  us  since  our  childhood :  Milton,  or 
Moiiero,  or  Scott.  It  feels  hko  donning  knee-breeches  and  buckles,  to 
read  what  everybody  has  rtad,  that  everybody  can  read,  and  which  onr 
'Very  fathers  thought  good  entertainment  scores  of  years  ago.  Hani- 
woikcd  men  and  over-wrcught  women  crave  an  occupation  which  shall 
free  them  from  their  thoughts  and  yet  not  take  them  from  their  world. 
And  thus  it  comes  that  we  need  at  least  a  thousand  new  books  evm' 
season,  whilst  we  have  rarely  a  spare  hour  left  for  the  greatest  of  all. 
But  I  am  getting  into  a  vJn  too  serious  for  our  purpose  :  education  is 
a  long  and  thorny  topic.  I  will  cite  but  the  words  on  this  head  cf  the 
great  Bifchop  Butler.  *'The  great  number  of  books  and  papers  of 
amusement  which,  of  one  kind  or  another,  daily  come  in  one's  way, 
have  in  part  occasioned,  and  most  perfectly  fall  in  with  and  htmionr. 
this  idle  way  of  reading  and  considering  things.  By  this  meai-s  time, 
even  in  Kolitude,  is  happily  got  rid  of,  without  the  pain  of  attentiori  : 
neither  is  any  part  of  it  more  put  to  the  account  of  idleness  one  ( an 
scarce  forbear  saying,  is  spent  with  less  thought,  than  great  part  of  that 
which  is  ppent  in  reading."  But  this  was  written  exactly  a  century  and 
a  half  ago,  in  1721);  since  which  date,  lit  us  trust,  the  multiplicity  of 
print  and  the  habits  of  desultory  reading  have  considerably  abated. 

A  philosopher  with  whom  I  hold  (but  with  whose  opinion  I  have  no 
present  intentibn  of  troubling  you)  has  propose  el  a  method  of  dealing 
with  this  indiscriminate  use  of  books,  which  I  think  is  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. He  has  framed  a  short  collection  cf  bocks  for  constant  and 
general  reading.  He  put  it  foi*warel  '*with  the  view  of  guiding  the 
more  thoughtful  minds  among  the  people  in  their  choice  for  constant 
use."  He  declares  that,  *'both  the  intellect  and  the  moral  character 
suffer  grievously  at  the  present  time  from  irregular  reading."  It  was 
not  intended  to  put  a  bar  upon  other  reading,  or  to  supersede  special 
study.  It  is  designed  as  a  type  of  a  healthy  and  rational  syllabtis  of 
essential  books,  fit  for  common  teaching  and  daily  use.  It  presents  a 
working  epitome  of  what  is  best  and  most  enduring  in  the  literatnre  of 
the  world.  The  entire  collection  v/ould  form  in  the  shape  in  which 
books  now  exist  in  modem  hbraries,  something  hke  five  hundred  toI- 
umes.  They  embrace  books  both  of  ancient  and  modem  times,  in  all 
the  five  prAicipal  languages  of  modem  Europe.  It  is  diyjlded  into  four 
BMtions ;— Poetry,  ^oience,  itietory^  Religion, 


ON  THE  CHOICE  OP  BOOKS.  433 

The  principles  on  what  it  i3  framed  are  these  :  First  it  collects  the 
bi-st  ill  all  the!  threat  dcpartmonts  of  human  thought,  so  that  no  part  of 
eda3atioa  shall  be  wholly  wanting.  Next  it  ])\its  together  the  greatest 
books,  of  uoivdrsal  and  permaiiout  value,  and  the  greatest  and  the  most 
enduring  only.  Next  it  measurcJH  the  greatut^BS  of  books  not  by  their 
brilliancy,  or  even  their  learning,  but  by  thcsir  power  of  presenting  some 
typical  ciiapter  in  thought,  some  dominant  phase  of  history  ;  or  else  it 
measures  tham  by  their  power  of  idjahsing  maa  and  nature,  or  of  giving 
harmony  to  our  moral  and  intdlldctual  activity.  Lastly,  the  test  of  the 
gaa^ral  valui  of  books  is  the  permanent  relation  th^y  btar  to  the  com- 
iiiou  civilisation  of  Europ3. 

Sam 3  such  firm  foot-hold  in  the  vast  and  increasing  torrent  of  Hter- 
aiuio  it  is  certainly  ur^jut  to  find,  unless  all  that  is  great  in  Uterature  is 
to  ba  borna  away  in  tha  flood  of  books.  With  this  we  may  avoid  an  in- 
tjraimabla  wandsring  over  a  pathless  waste  of  waters.  Without  it,  we 
niiy  raad  everythiug  and  kio  ,v  nothing  ;  wo  may  be  ctu'ioas  aboutany- 
t'iing  that  chauoes,  a  ad  indifferent  to  everj'thing  that  profits.  Having 
sash  a  catalogue  b3fore  our  eys,  with  its  perpetual  warning — non  miiltu 
L'd  multiitn — wo  shall  sae  how  with  our  insatiable  consumption  of  print 
we  wander,  like  uuclassid  spirits,  rdund  the  outskirts  only  of  these  Ely- 
siaii  fields  where  tha  great  daad  dwell  and  hold  high  converse.  As  it  is 
we  hear  but  in  a  faint  echo  that  voice  which  cries  : — 

"Onorate  Taltlssimo  Poeta: 
L'ombra  sua  torna,  ch'^ra  dipartita." 

We  need  to  ba  ramindad  every  day,  how  many  are  the  books  of  in^ 
imitable  glory,  which,  with  all  our  eagerness  after  reading,  we  have 
ndver  taken  in  our  hands.  It  will  astonish  most  of  us  to  find  how  much 
of  our  very  industry  is  given  to  the  books  which  leave  no  mark,  how 
often  we  rake  in  tha  Utter  of  the  printing-press,  whilst  a  crown  of  gold 
and  rabies  is  offered  us  ia  vain. 

Fbedebic  Harrison. 


HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS. 

TORQtJATO    TASSO. 

A  cuRTTNo  line  of  deep  blue  waters,  fringed  with  mild  white  foam, 
softly  laves  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  on  which  Sorrento  sits  and  smiles 
dreamily  amid  her  orange  grovt  s  in  the  dreamy,  orange-scented  air. 
Yondt  r,  across  the  hquid  plain,  rises  Capri.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  bay  a  tuft  of  vai)Our,  White  and  S(.ft  as  a  plume,  waves  above  Vesu- 
vius' awful  crest.  The  mountains  behind  Sorrento  are  furrowed  with 
deep  narrow  gorges,  down  which  many  a  torrent  plunges  toward  the  sea, 
overshadowed  by  luxuriant  bowers  of  foliage,  and  sometimes  murmur- 
ing a  deep  hold  don  to  the  sound  of  voices  chanting  the  htany  of  the 
Madonna  in  a  wayside  chapel,  or  the  sharp  janiile  of  bells  that  call  to 
worship  from  some  crumbling  tower.  Sails,  white,  brown,  or  red  as 
autumn  leaves,-  are  wafted  over  the  wonderful  turquoise-tinted  Mediter- 
ranean that  quivers  under  the  sunlight  with  that  exquisite  tranolar  della 
manna  which  greeted  Dante's  eyes  \\  hen  he  issued  from  the  nvra  inoritt, 
— the  dark,  d<  ad  atmosphere  of  eternal  gloom.  Half -naked  fishermen 
stretch  their  brown  sun-bak»  d  limbs  on  the  brown  sun  baked  shore.  Soft 
island  shapes  swim  on  the  sea-horizon  veiled  in  silver  haze,  and,  over  all, 
the  sky  of  Southern  Italy  sperads  an  intense  delight,  an  ecstasy  of  bine ! 

Sky,  sea,  islands,  silvery  vapour,  shadowy  gorge,  and  groves  of  burn- 
ished greenery  studded  with  g<  Iden  globes,  are  not  different  at  this  day 
from  what  they  were  v  hen  Tasso's  eyes  first  opened  on  them  more  than 
three  centuries  ago.  Nature  here,  like  some  Southern  Circe,  daughter 
of  the  Sun-god  and  a  nymph  of  Ocean,  smiles  in  eternal  youth,  and 
steals  away  the  hearts  of  all  men  who  behold  her. 

That  sparkling  sea,  that  crystal  sky,  those  evergreen  gardens,  with 
their  background  of  mountains,  were  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  Torquato 
Tasso  in  his  earliest  years.  lie  was  bom  in  Sorrento  on  the  11th  day  of 
March,  1544,  a  season  when,  in  that  southern,  sheltered  spot,  the  tepid 
air  is  full  of  perfume  and  all  the  sweetness  of  the  spring.  Torqaato'a 
father  was  himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  fame — Bernardo  Tasso,  author 
amongst  other  things  of  a  poem  in  one  hundred  cantos  on .  the  subject 
of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  which  is  his  best  known  work.  Bernardo  Tasso 
belonged  to  an  ancient  and  noble  family  of  Bergamo,  where  he  himself 
was  bom;  his  wife,  Porzia  dj'  Kossi,  was  a  Neapolitan  of  Pistojesa 
lineage. 

The  instanceR  nre  innumerable  of  the  transplantation  of  Italian  fami- 
lies from  one  part  of  the  paninsula  to  another.  From  Dante  to  Gnarinii 
the  history  of  an  Italian  man  of  kttcrs  almost  invariably  includ«  s  a 
scries  of  r^irrrations  from  city  to  city  and  from  court  to  court  and  iu 


HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POETS.        43^i» 

tLatword  "  court  "Hjes  the  explanation  of  most  of  the  migrations.  The 
mimerous  Italian  potentates  and  princes,  big  and  little  (many  of  them 
Tery  little,  if  their  magnitude  be  measured  by  the  size  of  the  territory 
they  ruled  oTer!),  vied  with  each  other  in  "  patronising "  the  Muses. 
And  in  order  to  do  so  efficaciously,  it  was,  of  course,  necessai'y  to  btbtow 
some  patronage  on  the  poets  and  artists  whom  the  Musts  deigned 
to  inspire;  those  goddesses  being,  indeed, .  urpatronib  able  except  by 
deputy  I  One  may  serve  Calliope  or  Polyhymnia  in  ones  cm  n  person,  but 
one  cannot  patronise  them  eave  in  somebody  else's !  Ibis  being  so, 
poets,  philosophers,  painters,  sculptors,  and  hueh-hke  folks,  vvere  in 
grt at  request  amongst  sovereign  rulers,  and  wandered  from  court  to 
court  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Italy,  from  Turin  to  Salemo, 
from  the  Mediterranean  to  the  Adriatic  shores.  It  is  strange  and  eome- 
what  sad  to  observe  that  the  result  of  all  this  sovereign  patronage,  how- 
ever agreeable  and  flattering  it  may  have  been  to  the  Immortal  Nine, 
was  in  nearly  every  case  to  embitter  and  oppress  the  souls  of  the  patron- 
istii— Dante's  fiery  pride,  Petrarch' s  lofty  sweetness,  TasEo's  romantic 
enthusiasm,  Guarini's  worldly  culture — none  of  these  so  widely  difi'e rent 
qnalities  of  these  so  widely  different  men  availed  to  mitigate  the  sor- 
rovs,  disillusions,  and  mortifications  to  which  the  favour  and  familiarity 
of  the  great  exposed  them  one  and  all.  An  irritable  gei  us,  these  poets, 
truly !  And  we  may  believe  that  the  f  overeign  patrons  had  their  trials, 
too,  of  a  serio-comic  and  not  intolerable  kind. 

But  neither  for  young  Torquato  nor  for  his  parents  had  the  inevitable 
ti  I  e  of  sorrow  and  persecution  arrived  when  he  was  staring  with  calm 
hhy  eyes  at  the  blue  gulf  of  Sorrento,  or  conning  his  first  lessons  at  his 
mother's  knee  upon  the  shores  of  exquisite  Parthencpe.  He  lived  the 
first  years  of  his  life  in  Naples,  amidst  all  the  luxuriant  images  of  natural 
beauty  which  abound  there,  and  which,  it  cannot  be  doubted,  made  an 
ineffaceable  impression  on  his  tender  mind.  There  is  something  pa- 
th- tic  as  well  as  a  little  ludicrous  in  reading,  on  the  authority  of  a  grave 
and  learned  biographer,  that  at  three  years  old  Torquato  was  so  passion- 
ately fond  of  study  that  he  would  willingly  have  passed  his  whole  day 
in  school  had  he  been  let  to  do  so.  He  had  a  tutor,  one  Don  Giovanni 
d\\ngeluzzo,  to  whose  care  Bernardo  confided  him  during  an  absence  ot 
the  latter  from  Italy,  and  this  tutor  wrote  to  the  absent  father  wondroua 
accounts  of  the  child's  genius  and  thirst  for  learning !  Luckily  for  Tor- 
quato, he  had  a  loving  mother  to  prevent  him  from  becoming  an  odious 
little  prodigy  of  a  pedant,  and  to  keep  the  bloom  of  childhood  from 
being  quite  rubbed  off  her  tender  little  blossom  by  the  zealous  masculine 
raanipulfttion  of  the  learned  Don  Giovanni.  How  beloved  this  loving 
mother  was  by  her  boy,  and  how  fondly  and  fervently  he  kept  her  me- 
mory in  his  heart,  is  proved  by  the  following  touching  lines  written 
years  afterwards  to  record  his  final  parting  with  her,  which  took  place 
when  he  was  not  yet  ten  years  old : 

Me  dal  sen  della  madre  empia  f ortuna 
Pargoletto  divelse.    Ah  di  qne'  baci, 


m  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF  j       ~^ 

Ch'ella  hagnd  di  lagrime  dolenti.  '^^ 

Con  sospir  aii  rimoiiibi'a;  e  degii  ardenti 
Pregiii  one  sen  portar  i'aiii-e  tugaci, 
Che  10  non  dovca  giunger  piu  voito  a  volto 
Fra  quelle  braccia  accoito 
Con  nodi  cosi  stretti  u  si  teuaci. 
Lasao  !  i'  seguii  con  mal  sicure  piants, 
(^oal  Ascanio  o  Camilla^  il  padi'o  errante. 

WHch  may  ba  faithfully,  if  roughly,  translated  as  follows  » 

Me  from  my  mother's  breast,  a  little  child, 
Harsh  fortune  tore.    Ah,  of  tier  kisses  bathed. 
In  tears  of  sorrow,  oft  with  sighs  I  dream,  '* 
And  of  her  ardent  prayers,  dispersed  in  air ; 
For  nevermore,  ah  i  never  face  to  face 
Within  those  arms  was  I  to  be  enfolded 
In  an  embrace  so  clinging  and  so  close. 
Alas !    With  childish  footsteps  insecure 
I  followed,  like  Ascanias  or  Camilla, 
M^  wanderiujT  sj:e. 

Yes,  thoss  years  of  happy  study  in  the  light  of  mother's  eyes,  and  tho 
warmth  of  mother's  fond  einbrac3s,  came  to  an  untimely  end.     Littlo 
Torquato  was  really,  it  should  seem,  a  wonderfully  precocious  child, 
even  when  a  du3  grain  of  salt  is  added  to  the  statements  on  that  head 
of  his  precsptors.     He  was  sent  before  he  had  completed  his  fourth 
year  to  a  sshool  kspt  by  certain  Jesuit  Fathers,  who  had  then  but  newly, 
and  with  cautiouj  modisty,  s::t  up  a  little  church  and  schools  in  a  some- 
what obscuro  street  of  Naples,  call  d  Via  djl  Gigante.*    The  Tassos 
then  were  inhabiting  th3  Palazzo  d3  Gambacorti  (an  ancestral  inherit- 
ance), and  from  ths  pila33  to  tha  schools,  the  future  singer  of  *' Jeru- 
salem Delivered"  trotted  daily  i^i  qu3st  of  knowledge.     It  is  related  thii5 
such  was  the  child's  passionate  thirst  for  learning,  that  he  often  rose  be- 
fore daylight,  iuipatient  to  b3  gone  to  his  teachers  ;   and  that  on  more 
than  one  oeeasion  his   mother  was  constrained  to  send  servants  with 
lighted  torches  to  accompany  him  through  the  still  dark  and  silent  city. 
The  Jesuits  were  proud  of  their  raarveUous  young  pupil.     With  their 
accustomed  asuteness  of  judgment,  they  doubtless  perceived  that  here 
was  a  genius  of  no  common  sort,  and  it  is  possible  that  some  among 
them  may  have  looked  forward  to  enlisting  the  fiery  soul  of  Torquato 
under  the  banner  of  ths  militant  company  of   Jesus.     His  confessor— 
the  confessor  of  an  infant  of   eight  years  old! — considered  his  intelli- 
gence and  his  behaviour  sufficiently  mature  and  serious  to  warrant  liii 
receiving  the  sacrament  of  the   Holy  Communion  at  that  tender  age. 
At  seven  he  had  "  perfectly  learned  the  Latin  tongue,  and  was  well  ad- 
vanced in  Greek,"  and  had  composed  and  publicly  recited  orations  in  ■ 
prose  and  several  poems.  ' 

■  ■■IIIH.—  -■  ■■■■  ■  11  MI^M-  ■  ■■■■         — ^-^  ■      ■      I  M       I     ■»  ■     II  I  * 

•  The  above  dates  are  given  on  the  anthor.'ty  of  Mariso.  a  contefmporary  and  friond 
of  the  poet;  but  Tiraboschi  (.Lett.  It.,  vol.  vii.  book  3)  observes  that  it  13  certaiu!y 
ascertained  that  the  Jesiiira  were  not  ihtroducsd  into  Naples  before  A.D.  1652,  and 
that  consequently  Tasso  must  have  been  at  least  seven  years  old  when  he  bqgan  to 
iCreqaent  their  schools :  a  much  more  creditable  statement  than  Mauso^s. 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  •  4ar 

But  now,  as  I  have  said,  these  pleasant  days  of  study  and  love  at 
home  and  praise  abroad  were  to  eud  tor  Uttie  Torqoato,  and  in  this 
way :  His  lather,  Bernardo,  was  the  secretary  and  iriend  and  faithiul 
ndnerent  of  Ferrante  Sanseverino,  i-riuce  of  Salerno.  Now,  Don  Pedro 
di  Toledo,  Viceroy  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  in  Naples,  desired  to  in- 
troduce into  that  city  the  tribunal  of  the  Holy  Inquisitiou,  (Ui^  uso  di 
^p(if/na,  ''after  the  custom  of  Spain,"  as  one  of  his  biographers  says, 
iind  the  city  of  Naples  ungratef  uiiy  opposed  the  bestowal  of  this  bless- 
ing with  might  and  main.  So  strong  was  the  feeling  of  the  Neapoli- 
tdcsin  the  matter  that  they  sent  the  Prince  of  Salei^io  to  the  Emperor 
as  iheir  ambassador,  to  plead  with  his  JMajesty  against  the  pious  project 
of  Toledo.  Bernardo  Tasso  accompanied  the  prince  his  master  on  this 
embassy,  which  took  place  in  the  year  1547.  It  was  successful,  and  the 
prince,  on  his  return  to  Naples,  was  received  with  the  utmost  enthusi- 
asm by  his  fellow-citizens,  and  with  scarcely  concealed  hatred  and  spits 
by  Toledo,  who  could  not  forgive  him  for  having  baulked  his  design. 
But  Prince  Ferrante's  triumph  was  short-lived.  Toledo  filled  the  mind 
of  Charles  V.  with  suspicious  and  prejudices  against  his  powerful  sub- 
ject; and  possibly  not  the  least  efficacious  of  the  viceroy's  arguments 
was  the  possibility  held  out  to  Charles  of  reclaiming  for  the  imperial 
crown  the  customs  dues  of  Salerno,  which  had  hitherto  enric.ied  the 
prince's  revenue.  We  are  not  now  concerned  to  follow  the  windings  of 
this  story  of  court  treachery  and  tyranny  alP  uso  di  JSpagna;  for  our 
present  purpose  it  suffices  to  say  that  the  Prince  of  Salerno  was  driven 
from  his  country,  and  that  Bernardo  Tasso  followed  his  master's  fallen 
fortunes  into  France.  On  leaving  Naples,  where  he  left  his  wile,  he 
took  with  him  Torquato,  who,  incredible  as  it  seems,  is  stated  on  grave 
fiuthority  to  have  been  involved,  child  as  he  was,  in  the  odium  with 
which  Toledo  and  his  party  covered  the  Prince  of  Salerno  and  his  ad- 
herents. In  the  year  1552  the  eaid  prince  and  all  who  had  followed 
him  were  publicly  declared  to  be  rebels,  and  the  sentence  included  Ber- 
nardo and  Torquato  Tasso. 

The  scene  now  changes  for  our  young  poet.  His  father  carried  him 
to  Rome  and  there  left  him  under  the  charge  of  one  Maurizio  Cattaneo, 
whilst  he,  Bernardo,  accompanied  the  Prince  of  Salerno  to  France. 
Cattaneo  was  a  gentleman  of  Bergamo  long  settled  in  Homo,  where  he 
enjoyed  considerable  favour  at  the  Papal  court,  and  especially  from  the 
Cardinal  Albani,  whose  secretary  h3  v/as  during  many  years.  He  was 
'jound  to  the  Tassos  not  only  by  ties  of  friendship  but  of  some  distant 
tindred,  and  he  seems  to  have  fulfilled  his  charge  towards  the^boy  with 
ahiost  pat  rnal  affection.  Torquato  loved  and  honoured  his  memory 
aJl  his  life,  and  has  dedicated  one  of  his  dialogues  to  him,  giving  it  the 
name  of  "Cattaneo."  Uneler  this  good  man's  care  Torquato  remained 
nntil  he  had  completed  his  twelfth  year.  Meanwhile  his  only  sister, 
Cornelia,  who  had  remained  with  her  mother  at  Naples,  was  married  to 
a  nobis  gentleman  of  Sorrento  named  Marzio  Sersale ;  and  very  shortly 
after  the  marriage  her  mother  died.  Bernardo  felt  his  wife's  loss  deeply. 


m  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF 

They  had  been  a  very  affectionate  and  faithful  conple,  and  Bemardo'^^ 
grief  was  of  course  aggi'avated  by  bis  having  been  absent  from  Porzia 
in  hfer  last  moments.  In  his  sonow  and  lonehness  he  resolved  to  s£nd 
for  Torquato  itf  rejoin  him.  It  must  be  explained  that  Bernardo  Tasso, 
after  his  patron's  final  ruin,  had  retumea  from  I  ranee  to  Italy,  and 
taken  refuge  at  the  court  of  Gughelmo  Gonzaga,  Duke  of  Mantua,  who 
had  invittd  him  and  received  him  very  honourably.  So,  after  some 
f cur  years  passed  in  the  Eternal  City,  which  years  were  chiefly  spent  in 
assiduous  study,  Torquato  took  leave  of  his  kind  pr«.ceptor,  Maurizio 
Cattanco,  and  departed  for  Mantua. 

Among    Iho   mcst  indehble  impressions    left  on    our    p'  et  by  his 
stay  in  Rome   appears   to  have   been   that  of  a   ccrtfiin  courtly  and 
almost   chivalrous   tone    of   manners  which   is  said  to  have   distin- 
guished  Maurizio   Cattaneo.      The    latter   seems,    too,    to  have   con- 
cerned himself  with   the   physical,    as   well    as    moral^  and  mental, 
education   of   his  pupil.      Torquato    Tas   an  adept  in   most  of    th^ 
knightly    exercises    cf    the    day."     "When    he   rejoined  his  father  at 
Mantua,  he  was  tali  for  his  years,  handsome,  ard  strong ;  and  a  pro- 
digy of  education  according  to  the  standard  cf  the  times,  having  fully 
com  letcd  a  course  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  Languages,  rhetoric,  potlrj'. 
and  logic.      His  father  was,  very  raturally,  filh  d  with  joy  aud  pride  at 
the  boy's  attainments,  and  although  he  had  sent  for  him  with  the  inten- 
tion of  keeping  him  as  a  companion  in  his  widowed  life,  yet  he  shortly 
sent  him  to  the  University  of  Padua,  there  to  pursue  the  study  of  the 
law,  in  company  with  Scipio  Gonzaga  (aftenvards  Cardinal),  a  kinsman 
of  the  reigning  Duke  of  Mantua,  and  within  a  year  or  two  of  Torqua- 
to*s  own  age.     The  two  lads  fell  into  a  great  friendship,  lived  durirj? 
Iheir  student  days  in  the  closest  intimacy,  and  preserved  their  mrttniJ 
attachment  through  life.     There,  in  the  stately  and  learned  ( ity,  Tosso 
passed  five  years  of  his  existence,  still  so  brief,  but  already  chequered 
with  many  vicissitudes.     State!}'",   sleepy  old  Padua,   as  it  is  now.' — 
with  its  great  silent  spaces  which  the  sunshine  reigns  over  victoriously : 
its  narrower  streets  full  of  welcome  shade  in  the  spring  and  summer 
anel  autumn  days ;  its  wide  picturesque  piazza  all  ablaze  on  market- 
days  with  fruits  and  flowers,  amongst' which  the  vivid  yellow  floweis 
of  the  pumpkin  bum  like  flames;  its  glimpses  of  red  oleander  blosFoius 
and  polished  dark  green  foliage  peeping  over  garden  walls ;  its  w!d^ 
silent,    dreamy  churches,   and  its  haunting  memories  cf  a  rplctdid 
past! 

Padua  was  still  splenriid  in  the  middle  cf  the  sixteenth  century,  vLen 
Torquato  Tasso,  and  Scipio  Gonzaga,  and  many  another  youth  )iii;s- 
trious  by  birth  or  genius,  paced  its  academic  haUs.  Her 3  Torqcato, 
not  yet  tamed  seventeen,  passed  a  public  examination  in  canon  and 
civil  law,  philosophy,  and  theology,  "  with  universal  eulopy  and  aston- 
ishment of  that  learned  university,'*  as  a  contemporary  writer  quaintly 
declares.  Dut  in  the  following  year,  when  Torquato  was  but  eighteen, 
the  eulogy  and  astonishment  were  BtJH  further  intensified  by  the  pabU- 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS  ^9 

cation  of  the  heroic  poem  called  **Itinaldo."  It  was,  indeed,  a  mar- 
Teiious  production  fot  a  youth  of  his  age,  and  in  the  words  of  his  friend 
aad  biogi-aphdr  Manso,  a  brilliant  dawn  which  ijresagtjd  the  rising  of 
that  fall  sun  of  genius  to  ba  displayed  later  in  th )  epic  of  **  Jerusalem 
Deliver jd."  The  po3m  was  d3dicated  to  the  Cardinal  Lnigi  d'Est-^ 
brother  of  the  reigning  Dok^  Alfonso  If.,  and  pubUshed  under  the  aus- 
pices of  his  Eaiin3n.J9.  This, was  the  tir.^t  link  in  th-3  chain  whicli 
wund  Tasso  to  th3prin3jly  hou5j  of  E-jte,  to  their  glory  and  his  sorrow 
asitprovad.  B^rairdo,  although  naturally  proud  of  his  son's  genius, 
S2ems  to  hav3  look  3d  withsomj  discontent  upon  th3  lad's  devotion  tj 
poetry.  H3  himself  was  a  poet,  and  the  Muso  had  not  bjttercjd  his  for- 
tuaes ;  and  he  had  thought  to  giv j  young  Torquato  a  career  which 
openad  up  a  prosp3ct  of  worldly  success,  riches,  aad  a  sohd  position — 
namely,  the  profession  of  th3  law.  But  let  th3  good  Bernardo  rough- 
hew  his  ends  as  Gar3f  ally  ai  h3  might,  th3  divinity  called  poetry  shaped 
them  far  otherwi83  than  ha  intandad.  It  is  an  old  story.  Boccajcio 
and  Petrarch  furnishad  examples  of  tho  imperious  and  irrresistibla  fore  3 
of  inborn  genius  to  break  through  any  bonds  of  calcukiting  prudence. 
And  long  before  thektiine  the  Romaa  Ovid  sang,  undsrgomg  th3  same 
struggle  against  parental  authority : 

Nee  me  verbosas  loggs  odlscors,  noc  me 

Ingrato  vose.n  proatituisij  f jro. 
Mortale  est  quod  qua3ri3  opiu  ;  mihi  fama  pcrcnnij 

Qaaeritor  ut  toto  sem^^r  in  orbe  couai*. 

teo,  like  Ovid,  cho^e  **  undying  famo"  rather  than  the  weary  but 
profitable  labour  of  studying  **  verbose  laws."  The  one  languished  i.i 
a  horrible  exile,  the  other  was  imprisoned  as  a  maniac.  Rarely  do  ^s 
the  implacable  divinity  confer  her  sovereign  favours  save  in  exchang ) 
for  the  very  life-blood  of  h3r  votaries;  but  p3rhap4  even  among  th) 
tragic  annals  of  poats  th9r3  is  no  record  more  steeped  in  sadness  thaa 
that  of  the  life  of  Torquato  Tasso. 

A3  yet,  however,  h3  is  surrounded  by  the  rosy  light  of  the  lucente 
nrom  ;  youth  and  hop  3  animate  his  breast,  praise  is  meted  to  liim  in 
no  stinted  measure,  friendship  holds  his  hand  in  a  firm,  cordial  grasp, 
and  the  clouds  that  are  to  dirksn  the  meridian  and  the  evening  of  his 
iiy4  cast  no  shade  upon  th3  brightness  of  the  morning. 

So  great  was  the  reputation  of  the  "  Rinaldo"  that  the  University  of 
BelogQa  invited  the  youthful  poet  to  visit  that  city,  conveying  the  flat- 
tiring  request  through  Pier  Donato  Cesi,  then  vice-legate,  and  after- 
w^ards  legate  at  Bologaa,  and  Cardinal.  Torquato  went  to  Bologna  and 
there  pursued  his  studies,  and  even  read  and  disputed  publicly  in  the 
schools  on  various  subjects,  and  especially  on  poetry.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  recalled  thence  at  the  instance  of  Scip'o  Gonzaga,  at  that 
tinnBheadof  the  Academy  of  ihe  *'Etherials"  of  Padua — one  of  the 
numberless  institutions  of  the  kind  whieh  sprang  up  in  Italy  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  Scipio  is  said  to  have  been  jealous  of  Bologna's  having 
po&ssssion  of  the  rising  genius  instead  of  Padua ;  and  moreover  to  have 


440  HOMES  AND  HAtJKTS  OF 

desired  Tasso's  return  to  the  latter  place  from  motives  of  personal  at- 
tachment to  him  Certain  it  is  that  Tasso  did  retnrn  to  Padua,  whtre 
ho  was  received  with  great  honour  by  the  "Etherials,"  amongst  whom 
he  assumed  the  name  of  "Pentito,"  or  "  the  repenting  one."  This 
singular  choice  of  an  appellation  is  explained  by  Manso  to  mean  tbiit 
Tasso  repented  the  time  he  had  spent  in  the  study  of  law.  But  Tira- 
boschi  reveals  a  bit  of  secret  history  which  Manso  cither  did  not  know 
or  chose  to  suppress,  and  which  shows  that  vexations  and  niortilications 
were  not  spared  to  the  young  poet  even  in  thesj  early  days  of  his  f amo. 
Tiraboschi  possessed  a  long  letter  written  bj'  Tasso  to  the  vice-U.j^atJ 
Cesi,  above-mentioned,  from  which  it  appears  that  the  poet  during  kw 
Btay  in  Bologna  was  accused  of  being  the  author  of  certain  HbjlloiH 
verses,  and  that  his  dwelling  was  consequently  starched  by  the  birrl 
(officers  of  the  law,  in  such  evil  repute  that  their  title  is  a  t^rm  cf  re- 
proach in  Italy  to  this  day),  and  his  books  and  papers  carried  off,  anJ 
that  this  was  tiie  true  cause  of  his  quitting  Bologna.  Tasso  indignantly 
defends  himself  against  the  charge,  and  complains  with  much  spirit  to 
the  legate  of  the  injurious  treatment  he  suffered.  **  Why,"  says  ln' 
among  other  things,  "  were  the  birn  sent  to  my  rooms  on  a  slight  and 
unreasonable  suspicion,  my  companions  insulted,  my  books  taken  away  r 
Why  were  so  many  spies  set  to  work  to  find  out  where  I  went?  T\'Ly 
have  so  many  honourable  gentlemen  bocu  examined  in  such  a  strange 
fashion?"  H(i  demands  moreover,  to  bj  allowed  to  come  to  Bolognii. 
and  justify  himself  before  some  wise  and  impartial  judge,  'which,  Low- 
ever,"  says  Tiraboschi  quietly,  *'  does  not  appear  to  have  been  granteil 
to  him."  The  letter  bears  date  the  last  day  of  February  ir}CA,  and  was 
written  from  Castelvetro,  at  that  time  a  feudal  tenure  of  the  Counts 
Kangoni  w'thin  the  territory  of  Modena. 

Tasso  was  thus  within  a  few  days  of  having  completed  his  twentieth 
year  when  he  left  Bologna. 

During  his  second  sojourn  in  Padua  he  appears  to  have  sketched  out 
the  first  plan  of  his  great  epic,  the  ''Jerusalem  Delivered,"  which  h  • 
intended  from  the  first  to  dedicate  to  Duke  Alfonso  d'Este,  sovereign  of 
Feirara.  In  the  year  1/565  he  was  formally  invited  by  the  duke  to  tako 
up  his  abode  at  the  court  of  the  latter.  Chambers  were  provided  for 
him  in  the  ducal  palace,  "and  all  his  wants  so  considrr^d,  as  that  h- 
should  be  able  at  his  leisure,  and  free  from  care,  to  serve  the  Muse  hoU 
by  contemplation  and  composition  :  the  which,  in  truth,  he  did.  by  pro- 
ceeding with  the  poem  of  the  "Jerusalem  Delivered,"  and  writing  tlios- 
earlier  rhymes  and  dialogues  in  prose  wliich  wera  the  first  to  be  beh-M 
with  eagerness  and  astonishment  by  the  world."  (Manso:  "Lifeoi" 
Torquato  Tasso.") 

If  ever  ghosts  walked  in  the  sunlight,  I  think  they  would  choose  th  ■ 
long,  sunny,  grass-grown  silent,  slowly  crunibling  streets  of  Fcrrara  icr 
such  wanderings.  The  chang'  s  there  for  the  last  three  centuries  or  sn 
have  been  brought  about,  not  so  much  by  the  advent  of  new  tilings,  as 
by  the  lading  and  decay  of  the  old.     Like  an  antique  an-as  sorely  pri-yed 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS;  441 

upon  by  moth  and  dust,  FeiTara  yet  preserveB  a  faint  and  colonrl^ss 
image  of  the  olden  time ;  and  her  aispect  appeals  to  the  fancy  with  all 
that  pathos  which  belongs  to  things  once  stately  and  noble,  now  rotting 
in  oblivion  and  decay.  As  Browning,  in  his  poem  entitled  "A  toccata 
of  Galuppi,"  speaks  of  the  fair  Venetian  dames  who  used  to  listen  to 
that  quaint  music,  toying  with  a  velvet  mask  or  cb-inking  in  soft  sounds 
of  courtship  covered  by  the  tinkle  ol  the  harpsichord,  and  exclaims, 
with  the  sensitivetess  of  a  poet — 

What'8  become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  lull !  lid  bnisli  their  boBOjns? 
I  feel  chiliy  and  grown  old  I 

Focnc  may  feel  chilly  in  the  ^llnr.y  ttreets  of  F^rrara.  thinkirg  of  all 
these  brave  figures,  shining  with  beauty,  valour,  splendour,  and  genius, 
^hioh  used  to  pace  them,  and  have  marched  across  the  iDi-minated  disc 
of  this  life  into  the  fathomless  shadow  of  the  dread  b(  yond. 

Duke  Hercules,  the  immediate  predecessor  of  Tasfo's  patron,  AlfcEEo 
n..  had  beautified  and  extended  his  city  very  greatly.  In  his  time  and 
ncdcr  his  auspices  a  whole  new  quarter  sprang  up,  enclosed  by  an  ex- 
tecded  circuit  of  walls  fortified  accrrding  to  the  military  eci(  nee  of  that 
day.  He  caused  a  number  of  new  streets  to  be  planned,  and  ecmpelled 
the  monks  of  various  religious  houses,  fu(  h,  for  example,  as  the  Mon- 
astery of  St.  Catherine,  of  the  >Egels,  and  of  the  Carthusians,  to  sell  cr 
Ifct  on  lease  their  lands  which  borderc  d  on  the  new  streets,  in  order  to 
have  stately  mansions  constructed  on  them.  In  this  way,  in  the  Via 
degliAngeli  alone  there  arose  four  or  five  truly  magnificent  palaces, 
besides'othf  r  handsome  edifices ;  and  of  these  palaces  the  visitor  to  Fer- 
nurawifl  probably  remember  most  vividly  the  Palazzo  de  Diamanti,  so 
called  because  the  whole  of  its  facade  is  covered  with  massive  stone- 
vork,  each  block  of  which  is  cut  in  face  ts,  like  the  turf  ace  of  a  precious 
Ftone.  This  splendid  building  existed,  then,  in  Tasto's  time ;  lut  when 
he  first  saw  it,  it  was  not  yet  completed.  It  belonged  to  the  Cardinal 
Lnigi  d'Este,  to  whom  it  had  b<  en  bequeathed  by  Dulg»  Hercules,  to- 
gether with  a  sum  of  money  to  finish  it.  And  the  Cardinal  finished  it 
accordingly  in  15(>7 — that  is  to  say,  two  years  after  TasFO  first  went  to 
r':side  at  the  court  of  Fen-ara.  The  city  was  then  a  brilliant  scene,  the 
resort  of  the  most  famous,  talented  and  ilhistricus  Italians  of  the  day. 
Beauty,  rank  and  genius  figured  on  that  stage.  The  first  parts,  the  lead- 
ing personages  in  the  drama,  were  admirably  filled;  even  tragic  elements 
were  not  wanting  to  complete  the  interest  and  prevent  ary  chance  of  a 
lEonotony  of  cheerfuln  ss!  A  gi-eat  poet  Bufi"ering  from  hcpeless  love  and 
forcibly  imprisoned  amongst  maniacs,  for  instance,  must  have  been  a 
thrilling  incident.  As  to  the  choral  masses  in  the  background,  the 
crowd  which  figured  in  dumb  show,  the  populace,  in  short,  they  suffered 
a  good  deal  from  pestilence  and  famine  in  those  days ;  both  which 
scourges  fell,  of  course,  more  heavily  on  the  poor  than  on  the  rich.  Eut^ 
Btill  it  appearr>  that  Alfonso  II.  did  his  best  for  them  according  to  his 
conceptions  of  his  duty.     The  population  of  the  city,  according  to  a 


443  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS'  OF 

censug  taken  in  1592  by  command  of  Pope  Clement  VIII.  soon  aftei 
the  death,  of  Duke  Alfonso,  amounted  to  41,710  souls,  exclusive  of  ec- 
clesiastics, foreigners,  and  Jews ;  including  those  categories,  it  reached 
to  over  50, 000.  The  number  of  inhabitants  in  Ferrara  in  the  present 
yaar  is  bafc  30,000  I 

Iq  th3  yaar  1570  (according  to  Tiraboschi  and  Rosini,  1572  according 
to  MiusD)  Ta530  accompanied  the  Cardinal  Luigi  d'Este  on  an  embassy 
with  wliioh  ths  lattar  was  charged  by  Pope  Gregory  XIII.  to  the  court 
of  Charbs  IX.  of  Franoa.  There  the  poet  was  loaded  i^-ith  flattery 
and  hoaDurs,  the  king  himself  particularly  dalightlng  to  distinguish 
him  for  the  reason,  as  it  is  alleged  by  contemporary  biographers,  th-xi 
Txs3D  had  paid  saoh  a  splendid  tributa  to  the  valour  of  the  French  nv 
ti3a  in  his  graat  poam  of  '*  G3offr3d3,"  Thus  it  would  seem  that  tb^ 
'•Jerusalem  Djlivarid"  wa3  origiaaily  destined  to  bear  the  na^n?  of 
GDdfrsy  d?  BDiilloa,  and  also  that  it  was  far  enough,  advanced  at  tli- 
parioi  of  Tasio's  visit  to  Franaa  t^  allow  of  a  portion  of  it  having  b> 
coai3  kiDv^a  to  th3  world,  at  least  to  the  little  world  of  courtiers  wlio 
sanmiiii  th3  p33t. 

BitTa333  did  not  ram  am  very  long  in  Fran33.     WitVia  a  t7r?k^- 

moit^  h3  r3tarn3d  to  Farrara,  drawa  thitli3r  by  aa  irrosisbibb  attr^^ttu 

— hij  uahippy  aad  misplaoai  pas^ioa  for  tha  Da3h3S3  Elaoaora  d'Er.\ 

It  appaars  clearly  fro ai  the  post's  owi  word^  thit  ha  bacanaf  lati^'J- 

cally  eaamourad  of  tha  prinoas^'s   porfcriit    bafor3  ha  had  saan  h^r:  for 

oa  his  first  arrival  in  Farrara,  dariag    the  fastivities  oa  th.3-0  33i-»"oa  o' 

th3  m\ma3;3   of  Daka  Alfoaso  with  Bvrbara  of  A'i^t'.'U,    Eleonora  wis 

too  iniispDSsd  to  leava  bar  rooai.      But  vary  soon  his  love  ceasad  to  b* 

maraly  af  iata^tic  draam,  aad  baaama  oaly  too  serious  aud  fervent.    <^.i 

har  part  tha  priuaass  was  toaahed  aad  flatterad  by  tha  adoration  of  tli* 

greatest  post  of  his  day,  who  was  at  tha  sama  tim3  a  vary  accoaiplish  -.1 

cavalier.     Sha  ssams  to  have  had  aa  insatiable  app3tita  for  his  hoTiu'\ 

his  praisas,  conveyed  in  imaiortxl  versa,  and  his  raspactful  worship  '>f 

har  at  a  distaaaa.     But  ths  bsat  testimony  of  tha  most  illustrious  Itilii  i 

commantators  saems  to  exaluds  tha  idea  that   the  princess  so  dero?u-i 

f roai  har  rank  as  to  retura  Tasso's  love  like  a  woman  of  a  less  illustrious 

bread,  or  a?  ha  vary  csrtainly  dasirad   that  she  should  return  it.     S<;.i- 

dils  of  a  muah  graver  kind  than  a  lo/e  intrigue  between  an  unmarri  -^ 

priaa3S3  anl  a  poat  warJ  rife  enough  in   that  time  and  place  to  nnV- 

saah  a  suspicioa  neither  straaga  nor   improbable.     But  various  ciren n- 

staa3es  minutaly  search  ad  for,  sift  ad,  and  collated,  concur  to  show  thas 

thara  is  no  ground  for  darkening  Eleonora's  maiden  fame. 

But  sha  caaaot,  I  fear,  ba  acquitted  on  a  diflferent  count,  that,  nani-'Iy. 
of  a  cold,  h ard,  and  unwomanly  indifference  to  the  terrible  misfortni  > 
which  fell  upon  Torquato  Tasso  for  love  of  her.  During  his  Ion?  auu 
horrible  imprisonment  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna,  she  vouchsaf .  d  n  t 
reply  to  his  heartrending  appeals  to  her  for  m*  rcy ;  nor,  so  far  a^^  is 
kaowQ,  did  she  make  one  effort  to  intercede  with  the  duke  her  brotli'  r 
for  his  release.     It  is  true,  however,  and  may  be  pleaded  as  an  extcuu- 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  4*3 

itiug  circumstance  that  to  have  done  so  might  hare  endangered  her 
o\^ii  position  in  her  brother's  court,  and  might  eve;i  have  rirsnlted  in 
her  own  imprisonment  in  some  dull  cloister,  which  Madonna  Eleonora 
would  have  iound  a  dreary  exchange  for  her  briUiant,  luxurious,  iiat- 
tertd  existence  in  Ferrar.i.  Let  the  excuse  count  for  what  it  is  worth, 
bnt  after  reading  the  earUer  story  of  Tasso's  intei  course  with  her,  the 
biaok,  implacable  silence  with  which  she  received  his  cries  from  prison 
chills  and  oppresses  one  after  three  centuri*  s. 

Mtet  his  rctiu'n  from  France  Tasso  continued  to  work  at  the  **  Geru- 
salemme  Liberata,"  and  product;  also  a  very  different  species  of  poem  in 
the  charming  dramatic  pastoral  of  "Aminta,"  which  has  furnished  the 
model  for  innumerable  other  dramas  of  tha  same  kind.  It  was  repr^?- 
8£ut.d  for  the  first  time  in  Ferrara,  in  the  year  1578,  with  great  pomp 
and  splendour..  Afterwards  it  was  played  at  Florence,  the  scenery  and 
decorations  being  xmder  the  direction  of  the  celebrated  architect  Bon- 
taltnti.  It  was  received  with  universal  applause,  and  no  sooner  was  it 
printed  than  it  was  translited  into  several  European  Languages.  The 
L'nchess  of  Urbino  (Lucrezia,  sister  of  Alfonso  andT  Eleonoi-a  d'Este) 
seat  for  the  poet  to  her  court,  in  order  that  he  might  read  it  to  her  him- 
stlf;  and  he  spent  some  pleasant  and  ti'anquilnionthswith  this  princess, 
partly  at  Urbino,  and  partly  in  a  country  scat  near  to  it.  He  rettimed, 
in  company  with  the  Duchess  Lucrezia,  to  Ferrara,  and  not  long  after- 
wards made  part  of  the  Fuito  of  gentlemen  who  accompanied-  the  reign- 
ing Duke  Alfonso  when  the  latter  went  into  the  Venetian  Provinces  to 
meet  Henry  III.  of  France,  who  had  then  newly  succeeded  to  that 
throne,  on  h»8  way  from  Poland.  Theri3  was  a  great  gathering  of 
grandees  at  Venice,  and  lat?r  at  Ferrara,  whither  the  Duka  invited 
Henry  III.,  the  Cardinal  of  San  Sisto  (nephew  of  Pope  Gregory  XIII.), 
Duke  Emanuel  Phiiibertof  Savoy,  Duke  Guglielmo  Gi)nzaga  of  Mantua, 
and  many  other  notable  and  puissant  seigneurs,  to  accompany  him. 
The  great  heats  (it  was  the  month  of  July  under  an  I'alian  sun),  or  ths 
fatigues  of  the  journey,  or  the  much  banqueting  in  Vi  liice,  or  all  three 
causes  combined,  gave  our  Tasso  a  quarttin  fcver,  accompanied  by  so 
great  a  languor  and  weakness  as  to  compel  him  to  renounce  all  studious 
application  for  a  time.  His  health  was  not  fully  re-estabhshed  until  the 
spring  of  1575,  in  which  year  he  had  the  stitisfaction  of  completing 
Ills  great  poem  of  the  "Jerusalem  Delivered." 

And  respecting  the  completion  of  this  fine  work,  certain  facts  have 
to  be  recorded,  which  it  is  well  to  warn  the  reader  are  facts  :  for  here 
the  authentic  narrative  takes  upon  itself  an  air  of  impertinent  irony, 
which  might  well  be  attributed  to  the  innocent  transcriber  of  historic 
evf'iits  as  a  flippant  attempt  to  hold  up  to  ridicule  the  whole  race  of 
critics !  than  whom  no  variety  of  the  human  species  are  less  mirth- 
inspiring  to  a  righ' -minded  author. 

Tasso,  then,  distrustful  of  his  own  powers,  thought  fit  to  submit  his 
ypt  unpublished  epic  to  the  judgment  of  various  learned  men  of  letters, 
whoi  although  it  does  not  appear  that  they  have  ever  produced  any- 


444  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF 

thing  themselves  which  posterity  delights  to  hononr,  yet  had  a  great 
reputation  in  their  day  as  holding  the  secret  of  the  only  authentic  road 
by  which  to- reach  readers  in  centuries  yet  unborn.  Unfortunately,  it 
turned  out  that  these  erudite  persons  ditfered  in  opinion  among  thtin- 
selves  to  a  degree  quite  fatally  confusing  to  the  minds  of  those  who 
consulted  them,  tor  example,  it  may  interest  readers  of  the  "Jtru- 
salem  Delivered,"  whether  in  the  original  or  in  Fairfax's  translation,  to 
know  that  several  critics  considered  that  the  protagonist  too  manifestly 
eclipsed  all  the  secondary  heroes  of  the  poem ;  that  Scipio  GTonzaj^n 
pronounced  the  episode  of  Ermin'a  too  improbable;  that  Sperone  Hp-.- 
roni  found  the  "unity  of  action"  defective  ;  that  another  objected  to 
the  descriptions  of  Armida  and  her  enchanted  garden  as  too  glowing; 
and  that  bilvio  Antoniano  wished  that  not  only  all  the  enchfljitmtLt>, 
but  all  the  love  scenes  of  whatever  nature,  should  be  ruthlessly  cut  out 
altogetlier.  Moreover,  the  episode  of  Sofronia  and  Olindo,  now 
deemed  one  of  the  most  touching  and  beautiful  in  the  v>  hole  pot  u', 
very  narrowly  escaped  excision,  t>ecause  the  otherwise  conflicting  cri- 
tics were  nearly  tmanimous  in  condemning  it.  Fortunately  ferns  vt 
these  later  times,  Tasso,  after  undergoing  a  great  deal  of  annoyaucr. 
and  many  struggles  with  his  better  judgment,  resolved  to  pay  as  iirtl  - 
heed  to  his  censors  as  possible.  His  dilemma,  however,  is  one  wLn  b 
will  recur  again  and  again;  for  the  ideal  concej  tions  of  a  great  gtiiir.> 
will  always  be  so  far  above  and  beyond  his  performance  as  to  w.ik  • 
the  suggestion  of  amendments  in  the  latter  seem  very  possible  to  hiui. 
But  the  discontent  and  diffidence  of  an  extraordinary  mind  as  to  its  cviii 
work  is  a  very  different  matter  from  the  power  of  an  ordinary  mind  u 
better  it. 

The  anxiety  and  curiosity  with  which  the  publication  of  the  "Jen- 
salem  Delivered "  was  expected  indirectly  caused  Tasfio  endless  pu:.. 
and  mortification,  for  the  cantos  were  seized  upon  one  by  one  as  ti  -y 
were  finished,  and  before  the  poet   had  time  to  revise  or  reconsid-r 
them,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand  until  they  reached  some  yu  - 
lisher  of  the  day  who  gave  them  to  the  press  full  of  errors  and  evi;. 
witli  huge  gaps  here  and  there  of  an  entire  stanza.     Manso  says  t."...t 
the  MS8.  of  his  poem  were  got  from  Tasso  in  this  fragmentary  man- 
ner partly  by  the  importunity  of  friends,  partly  by  the  commards  i ' 
his  sovereign  masters.      Alas,  poor  poet!      Then,  too,   there  assiiM«>i 
him  a  furious  warfare   waged  by   the    Academicians  of  the  G^a^..l 
against  the  "  Jerusalem  Liberated."     This  critical  body  was  not  exen  i : 
from  the  destiny  which  appears  to  afflict  all  similar  institutions,  nauiely, 
a  strange  adjustment  of  the  focus  of  their  "mind's  eye,"  which nak  - 
them  unable  to  perceive  genius  at  a  lesser  distance  than  one  or  no 
centuries  back.     One  of  their  number,  a  Florentine,  Lionardo  Salviati. 
published  a  pamphlet  in  which  he  pronounces  Tasso  inferior  not  cn'v 
to  Ariosto,  which  might  be  a  tenable  opinion,  but  to  Bojardoand  Piilfi' 
Upon  which  one  of  Tasso's  biographers  mildly  observes  that  this  i&  a 
judgment  "most  unworthy  of  one  who  had  the  reputation  of  Being 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  ,  Vi 

} 
learned  in  the  Greek^  Latin,  and  Italian  literatures,  and  of  a  first-rate 
critic' (m?i  cHuo  diprim^  (fi'dine)^  And  he  shbjoins  farther  on,  "H 
criticisms  dictated  by  a  spirit  of  party  serve  to  retard  the  justice  due 
to  an  original  writer,  the  lattir  can,  however,  easily  console  himself  by 
the  certain  hope  of  occupying  that  place  in  the  temple  of  glory  which 
posterity,  severe  and  infallible  in  ite  judgments,  will  assign  to  him." 
A  comfortable  doctrine  of  the  all-the-same-a-hundred-years-hence  pat- 
tern with  which  certain  minds  "  easily  console  themselves**  for  the 
misfortunes  of  other  people  ! 

Some  time  before  the  completion  of  his  great  poem  Tasso  had  the 
grief  of  losing  his  father.  Bernardo  Tasso  had  continued  uninterrupt- 
edly in  the  service  Duke  Guglielmo  Gonzaga,  and  di^  on  September 
i  1569,  at  a  place  called  Ostia,  on  tha  Po,  of  which  town  he  was  go- 
vernor. Torquato  hastened  tj  his  father,  attended  him  lovingly  in  his 
last  illnesd,  and  after  his  daath  consecrated  some  of  his  finest  verses  to 
his  memory. 

And  now  follow  thickly  on  each  other's  heels  misfortune  after  mis- 
fortune,  mor.ificatioa  after  mortification,  treachery  after  treachery. 
Envy,  hatred,  malic3,  und  all  thiuncharitableness  which  haunt  a  court, 
mada  Torquato  Tasso  the  chief  mark  for  their  poisoned  shafts ;  he  stood 
high  enough  above  the  crowd  to  b  j  well  aimed  at  Guarini  (the  author 
of  the  "  Pastor  Fido")  set  up  to  be  his  rival  not  only  in  poetry  but  ia 
the  good  graces  of  thi  Princess  Eleonora,  and  Guarini  was  a  man  who 
might  well  make  the  lover,  if  not  the  poet,  jealous.  In  157»>  i'iisso  vi- 
sited th3  court  of  Urbino,  and  refrained  during  several  months  from 
ViTitmg  to  Eleonora;  stnd  that  his  silence  was  due  to  the  pain  and  indig- 
cation  he  felt  at  seeinij  (or  fancying  he  saw — the  effect  on  his  mind  was 
the  same)  a  rival  preferred  to  himself  by  a  lady  whom  he  had  so  long 
and  devotedly  served,  is  abundantly  set  forth  by  Professor  Kosini.  But 
the  proofs  ha  has  p^iently  accumidated  are  far  too  voluminous  for  even 
a  portion  of  them  to  be  given  hero ;  and  I  advise  any  reader  who  is  in- 
terested in  the  subject  to  con-ult  Rosini's  "Saggiosugli  Amori  di  Tor- 
qaato  Tasso,'*  inserted  in  the  seventeenth  volume  of  the  Pisan  edition  of 
Tasso's  works  published  by  Niccolo  Caparro.  Envy,  base  intrigues,  and 
the  blackest  treachery,  prepared  and  forged  the  first  link  in  the  chain  of 
misery  with  which  henceforward  Tasso  was  bound.  Towards  the  close 
of  the  year  1576  (when  Tasso  wa3  thirty-three  years  old)  a  gentleman  of 
the  court  of  Ferrara,  his  trusted  and  cherished  friend,  with  whom,  in 
the  words  of  Manso,  "ha  had  held  all  things  in  common,  even  his 
thoughts,"  betrayed  certain  secrets,  which  Tasso  had  confided  to  him,  to 
th3duk3.  These  "secrets"  appear  to  have  been  love  verses  addressed 
to  th^  Duchess  Eleonora,  without  any  superscription,  or  else,  in  several 
cases,  with  a  misleading  one,  such  as  * '  verses  written  for  a  friend  to  his 
mistress  "  and  so  forth.  The  poems  which  are  still  extantlare  very  im- 
passioned, and  such  as,  when  addressed  by  a  subject  to  a  woman'of  El- 
fcondra's  rank,  were  certain  to  excite  the  haughty  indignation  of  a 
despotic  prince.     By  way  of  examx:)le  it  may  suffice  to  indicate  Sonnet 


$4$  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF 

185,  the  dialogae  entitled  "Dubbio  Sciolto"  (Eime,  yoI.  ii.  p.  119),  and 
the  sounets  numbered  25S  and  ^59. .  Tasso  meets  this  false  friend  in  the 
coiuityard  of  the.  ducal  palace  in  Ferrara,  upbraids  him  with  his  treiwihery, 
and,  infuriated  by  the  cynical  coolness  of  his  betrayer,  strikes  him  cm 
the  face.     A  duel  ensues,  in  which  Tasso  (who  was  a  fine  swordsman  i^ 
manifestly  getting  the  best  of  it,,  when  two  brothers  of  his  adversary 
£ome  up.     All  three  attack  Tasso,  who  vaiorously  defends  himself,  ard 
in  the  midst  of  a  great  tumult  tho  combatants  are  finally  separated  by 
the  populace.     It  does  not  appear  that  any  immediate  punishment  was 
inflicted  on  Tasso,  but  on  the  1 7th  of  June  in  the  follow. ng  yea?-  Cir>77 1 
he  was  arrested  on  the  accusation  of  having  drawn  a  dagger  on  a  servau: 
in  the  apartments  of  the  Duchess  of  Urbino.     He  was  imprisoned  in  '\ 
room  of  the  palace  looking  upon  the  interior  courtyard.     But   aft  i 
about  ten  days'  confinement  he  w»s  not  onty  liberated,   but  the  Diik  * 
carried  him  with  him  on  a  visit  tc  xiis  ducal  villa  of  Belriguardo,  whcr  • 
Tasso  passed  nearly  a  fortnight  in  the  intimate  companionship  of  bi^ 
Bovereign.     But  now  mark  the  change,  sudden  and  terrible  as  a  clap  or 
thunder  from  a  serene  sky.     On  July  11  Tasso  is  s>,nt  back  under  giinrl 
to  Ferrara,  where  he  is  shut  up  in  tlio  monast-^ry  ol  Gan  Francesco,  -m.  ! 
declared  by  the  duke's  secretary  to  be  a  confirmed  maniac!  (pazzj  sp"'' 
€ialf>.)    Now,  it  is  to  be  particularly  observed  that  \i\i-  to  that  ITtli  oi 
June,  on  which  day  he  was  arrested  for  threatening  the  servant  (as  it  \< 
said),  no  hint  or  suspicion  appears  to  have  been  rife   that  Torqunt) 
Tasso  was  not  compLtely  sane.     He  walked,  as  Tennyson  phras<  s  it, 
*' with  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies,"  but  not  even  the  fer- 
tility in  lying  of  envious  courtiers  had  as  yet  invented  th3  accusation  o- 
madness  against  him.     No;  this  is  only  launched  after  the  fortnii'  t 
spent  in  intimate  seclusion  with  Duke  Alfonso  at  Belriguardo.     'iii 
explanation  given  of  this  strange  fact  by  Bosini  reposes  upon  a  mass  o: 
evidence  which  neither  time  nor  space  permit  us  to  examine  btr. . 
Told  with  brevity  and  inevitable  completeness,  it  is   this:  that  tli 
duke,  being  still  doubtful  as  to  the  truth  of   the  accusations  agaii>t 
Tasso  (which  accusations  were  simply  that  he  had  not  only  lov;d  tb 
Princess  Eleonora,  but  aspired  and  dosired  to  be  lov<  d  by  her  in  rdurr, 
and  had  written  verses  strongly  implying  that  he  was  so),  was  dtt  r- 
mined  to  examine  into  the  matter  for  himself;  that  for  tliis  purpt'i-. 
and  unddr  the  guise  of  sovereign  grace  and  favour, -he  carried  Ti>>,i 
Avith  him  to  a  retired  country  house,  and  there  subjected  the  unhapjy 
poet  to  a  kind  of  moral  torture  or  question,  as  appears  very  ckar-y 
from  the  lines  addressed  by   Tasso  about  this  timo  to  the  spirit  of 
Alfonso's  father,  the  great  Duke  Hercules : 

Alma  grnnde  d'Alclde.  io  po  che  miri 
J/anyro  rigtyr  d  'lUi  real  tiia  prole! 
Che  con  inmHtxi  aiti  nMi,  e  parole. 
Tiar  da  me  cerca  onde  con  me  B'adirl. 

(Great  soul  of   Alcides,  I  know   thou  dost  behold  the  harsh  rig^nr 
of  thy  royal  scion,  who   with  unusual  arts,   and    acts,  and  words, 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  44f 

leeks  to  dr^w  from  me  that  which  inflames  his  wrath  against  me.)  That, 
liaviiig  satidied  himself  os  to  the  existence  of  the  poet's  prestimptnous 
jassion,  AlfonEO  propcs  d  to  him,  as  the  only  method  by  which  he 
could  escape  draw mg  worse  evils  on  himself — and,  what  was  iiiliuitely 
more  important  in  Alfonso  d'Estt's  eyes,  nToid  raisuig  any  Fcandal 
ftgftinst  the  Princess  Kkonora — to  feign  madness  I  Extraordinary  and 
incredible  as  such  a  theory  appears  at  first  sight,  there  are  Tit\i  rthekss 
a  hundred  circimistanceB,  anit  a  hundred  passages  in  the  writings  of  the 
ciiha  py  poet,  which  tend  strongly  to  confirm  its  being  the  true  one. 
PtrLaps  the  most  remarkable  of  aU  these  occurs  in  the  famous  Utter 
addressed  by  Tasso  to  the  Duke  of  iJrbino.  In  this  he  Kays  that,  in 
order  to  regain  the  duke's  (Alfonso's)  good  graces,  he  did  not  Ihir.k  it 
Fhawtful  "  to  be  the  third  with  Brutus  and  Solon."  Kow,  of  Sblcn 
Plutarch  relates  tliat  he  dtliberated  to  feign  himself  out  of  his  senses, 
and  his  servants  spread  the  report  throughout  the  <  ity  that  he  had  gone 
Bad:  and  Brutus  is  represented  by  livy,  rT  ind^f  ftjiajartvft  ad  imito- 
tiuuLHi  i,tukiU(B,  Surely  this  is  very  striking  and  remarkable!  And 
^Lit  follows  in  Tasso's  letter  is  not  less  so.  He  says  : — *'  I  hoptd  thus 
liy  this  confession  of  madness  to  open  so  large  a  road  to-the  benevo- 
Ituce  of  the  duke,  as  that,  with  time,  the  opportunity  should  not  fail 
lae  cf  undeceiving  him  and  others — if  any  others  there  were  who  held 
w  false  and  unmerited  an  opinion  of  me."  Under  what  conceivable 
circumstance  could  it  open  a  way  to  the  benevolence  of  the  dnke  for 
Ta?i)0  to  confess  himself  mad,  save  on  the  hypothesis  that  the  duke 
dirired  him  to  appear  so ! 

However,  Torquato,  either  finding  himself  unable  to  loep  up  the 
ignoble  comeely,  or  f taring  that  even  the  reputation  of  madness  might 
i^ct  avail  to  secure  him  from  worse  treatmeut,  fled  from  the  Monastiry 
cf  San  Francesco  a  few  days  after  his  incarceration  there,  namely,  on 
•Inly  20,  1577.  He  departed  alone  and  on  foot,  and  at  length,  alter  a 
journey  made  in  the  midst  of  unspeakable  trouble  of  mind  and  hard- 
'•bip*  of  body,  he  reached  Eome,  where  he  remained  a  short  time  in  the 
l:ou8e  of  his  old  friend  and  tutor,  Maurizio  Cattaneo.  But  here  anxie- 
fiesand  suspicions  continued  to  torment  him.  He  seems  to  have  been 
l^aunted  by  tKe  f.ar  of  being  poisoned.  Nor,  when  we  r».meii)bcr 
Ijie  frequent  instances  in  which  this  sovereign  receipt  for  getting 
yid  of  a  dangerous  foe  or  a  troublesome  friend  had  been  applied 
in  Italy,  can  we  set  down  Tasso's  fear  as  the  mtre  figment  of  a 
disfased  brain.  The  poet's  heart  turned  longingly  towards  the  home 
cf  his  childhood,  and  towards  his  sister  Comeha,  sole  survivor  of  his 
family.  But  the  decree  of  the  Neapolitan  government,  which  pronounced 
liim  and  his  father  rebels,  had  never  been  repealed,  and  his  paternal 
estates  were  still  confiscated.  Tasso  was  an  outlaw  in  his  native  land. 
fertheloBs,  the  longing  to  revisit  Sorrento  and  to  see  his  sister 
^&me  irresistible,  and  he  resolved  to  gratify  it  without  revealing  his 
purpose  to  any  one.  Having  gone  on  a  pleasure  excursion  to  Frascati, 
^  Bet  off  ihence  on  foot,   seoretly,  and  quite   alone,  to   make  the 


448  HOIMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF 

romantic  journey  which  has  been  ^so  often  celebrated  by  pen  and 
penciL 

We  can  fancy  we  see  the  solitary  figure  traversing  a  lonely  path  at 
the  foot  of  thd  mountains,  towards  Villetri,  as  the  summer  evenii^u' 
closjs  in.  Bihind  hiai  ara  the  rugged  hills  mantled  in  purple  shadow, 
home  and  cradle  of  the  great  Latin  people  whose  story  has  filled  ev«.ry 
gorga  and  crowned  every  peak  of  them  with  immortal  memories,  ia 
front  stretches  the  mysterious  and  quiet  Campagua  towai*ds  the  unqui-i 
and  mysterious  saa.  On  the  horizon  Kome  sits  brooding  on  her  bevtu 
hills,  but  the  great  dome  of  St.  Peter's  doss  not  yet  loom  in  supreiu  • 
majjstj'  above  the  city.  It  is  still  unfinished,  the  drum  of  the  cup- 1: 
alon J  bjiug  as  yet  completed.  The  soil  is  strewn  with  colossal  fr.ii;- 
m^nts  of  a  colossal  past ;  mighty  receptacles  of  dead  ashes  and  hviL^t 
wat3rs,  the  tombs  and  aqueducts  glimmer  white  through  the  brid 
southern  twilight.  All  is  stil),  silent,  forlorn ;  only  at  intervals  souio 
savagj  buUalo  rais2s  his  sullen  front  from  tha  coarse  herbage  at  tb ; 
tiuwoatad  sound  of  a  footstap,  or  a  wild  bird  flutters  with  swift  scar.  1 
flight  across  tha  waudarar's  path.  Infinita  sadness  on  the  vast  dim 
plain,  intiaitj  saiaess  in  tha  poet's  heart— poor  weary  human  heart, 
tuftiiag  from  th3  crual  glitt3r  of  courts  and  the  vaia  glories  of  public 
pra'.s3,  with  a  sick  yearning  for  love,  and  truth,  and  p:>aco! 

Near  Vellatri,  Tasso  changad  clothas  with  a  shepherd,  in  whose  caT:^'- 
that3h3d  hut  ha  passed  tha  night,  and  next  morning  pursued  his 
journay.  After  four  days  of  toils  >ma  travel  he  reached  Gaeta,  nearly 
spant  with  fatigU3,  and  her  a,  by  good  chance,  he  found  a  bark  of  Sor- 
rento about  to  return  to  that  port  without  touching  at  Naples.  lu 
company  with  a  nuinbar  of  humble  passengers— peasants,  fishermei., 
and  tha  liks — h3  embarked  in  h3r,  and  aftir  a  prosparous  voyage,  si!- 
ing  all  night  upoa  tha  calm  summar  sea,  he  reached  Sorrento  and 
land  3d  th^ra  at  suarisa.  He  went  at  once  to  his  sister's  housa.  Si;.- 
had  marriad,  tha  reader  will  remember,  Marzio  Sersale,  a  noble  cavah-r 
of  Sorrento,  and  was  now  a  widow  with  two  sons.  Torquato  found  h-  r 
alona,  and,  feigaing  to  be  a  messenger  from  her  brother,  gave  her  s<) 
lamentable  an  account  of  his  state  and  his  fortunes  that  the  pix>r 
woman,  overcome  with  grief  and  agitation,  swooned  away. 

If  Tasso's  object  had  baen  to  .Mscertain  his  sister's  true  8entiuieiii>5 
towards  him,  he  had  certainly  attained  it.  He  hastened  to  reassure  h  t 
as  soon  as  she  recovered  consciousness,  and  by  degrees  i:3vealed  hims*  If 
as  the  long-absent  brother  whom  she  so  tanderly  loved,  and  told  her  v',l 
the  particulars  of  his  flight  from  Ferrara,  and  its  cause.  He  conjurr-d 
her  to  keep  his  presance  in  Sorrento  secret,  and  she  promised  to  ohry 
him,  only  making  an  exception  in  favour  of  her  sons,  Antonio  and  Ah  >- 
sandro,  to  whom  she  confided  that  the  poorly-clad  and  wretched-lookiuj: 
massenger  was  no  other  than  their  illustrious  uncle,  with  whose  fame  aU 
Europa  was  ringing.  To  the  world  she  gave  out  that  a  cousin  of  hirs 
from  liargamo  was  come  to  visit  her. 

And  now  fortune,  weary  of  tormenting  her  victim,  allowed  Torquato  to 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  44'J 

enjoy  three  months  of  peaoe  and  rest  amidst  the  devoted  affection  of  his 
family  and  the  exquisite  beautie«  of  that  lovely  spot.  His  two  nephews 
v^ere  his  constant  companions  in  many  an  excursion  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  from  the  Hps  of  the  eldest  of  them,  Antonio,  the  Marchese 
ManBO  gathered  the  foregoing  particularK  of  Tasso^s  flight  and  arrival  at 
Sorrento,  which  he  records  in  his  biography  of  the  poet.  But  Tasso  had 
not  been  there  above  three  months  before  there  arrived  missives  urging 
him  to  return  to  the  Court  of  Ferrara.  He  himself  states  dintinctly  that 
Madonna  £leonora  wrote  to  persuade  him  to  go  back.  But  for  a  time 
he  resisted,  although  his  passion  for  the  princess  was  by  no  means 
quenched  even  by  the  ** heroic"  method  (as  Italian  doctors  phrase  it) 
taken  by  Dnke  Alfonso  to  cure  him  of  any  over- weening  attachment  to 
the  house  of  Este.  He  caused  his  sisttr  Ck)melia  to  reply  to  the 
princess's  letter  for  him,  imploring  her  Highness  to  permit  her  to 
retain  her  brother  with  her  yet  a  wtalc  after  so  long  an  absence,  and 
appealing  to  her  Highness's  coLvipassion  in  moving  terms.  Tasso 
himself  also  wrote  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Ferrain,  and  to  Lucrezia 
Duchess  of  Urbino,  in  the  same  sense,  none  of  these  great  pcrnonages 
answering  his  letttrs  except  Madonna  Eleonora,  ^ho  wrote  a.G:aiD, 
wging,  nay,  commanding  him,  in  the  most  pereiiiplory  tonus,  to  rftura 
to  her  brother's  court.  This  fact,  it  will  at  once  be  i:»ercoived,  is  vtry 
important,  inasmuch  as  it  proves  that  tlicre  was  great  anxiety  at  th  ? 
Court  of  Ferrara  to  get  Tasso  into  their  power  again ;  and  also  that  an 
appeal  from  Eleonor^ was  deemed  the  most  efl&cacious  means  for  attain- 
ing that  object — as,  in  fact,  it  proved  to  be.  Tasso  could  not  resist  the 
influence  of  the  princess.  But  at  the  monient  of  setting  out  from  Sorr  nto 
he  said  to  his  sister,  that  '*he  was  going  to  submit  himself  to  a  voluntary 
imprisonment."  A  remarkable  phrase,  all  the  circumstances  consi- 
dered !  He  reached  Home  early  in  the  spring  of  1578,  and  there  fell 
sick  of  a  tertian  fever,  of  which  he  was  not  yet  wholly  cured  when  hi 
set  out  again  in  company  with  the  Oavaliere  Gualengo  (ambassador  of 
Dnke  Alfonso  in  Home),  and  finally  arrived  in  Ferrara  about  the  end 
of  H^Iarch,  or  a  Utile  later. 

A  series  of  disappointments  and  mortifications  awaited  him  here.  The 
duke  appeared  to  treat  him  with  cool  contempt;  he  was  denied  access 
to  him  and  to  the  princesses ;  and  not  only  so,  but  was  frequently  re- 
pulsed by  the  servants  with  insolence  and  indignities.  But  the  real  k^ y 
of  the  enigma  is  contained  in  the  following  passage  from  the  previous^ 7 
quoted  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino : — *^ He"  (the  duke)  **  would  fa:i\ 
have  had  me  aspire  to  no  praise  of  intellect,  to  no  fame  of  letters,  jitkI 
that  amidst  ease  and  comfort  and  pleasures  T  should  lead  a  soft  and  liixnr - 
ous  Ufe,  passing,  hke  an  exile,  firom  honour,  from  Parnassus,  the  L;^- 
ceum,  and  the  Academy,  to  the  school  of  Epicurus,  and  especially  Id 
Ihatpart  of  his  school  which  neither  Virgil,  nor  Catullus,  nor  Horac?, 
nor  Lucretins  himself  ever  frequented."  In  a  word,  the  duke  havin^'^ 
declared  him  mad,  insisted  that  he  should  continue  to  pass  for  such,  on 
pain  not  only  of  losing  his  sovereign  favour  but  of  being  severely  pun* 

L.  M— 1.-15. 


450        ^  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OF 

ished.  There  is  no  other  expLination  of  these  words.  Tasso's  original 
claim  to  the  duke's  laTOur  was  his  genius;  and  his  genius  only.  The 
diike  had  invited  him  to  his  court,  and  had  shown  him  hononr  there, 
solely  bccanse  he  was  acknowledged  to  be  a  man  of  snch  eminence  tiiat 
his  fame  would  shed  a  new  Instre  even  on  the  illnstrions  house  of  Est.'^. 
The  greater  the  poet,  the  greater  the  patron  1  And  now  Uiis  same  D  ko 
Alfonso  desires  ta  stifle  Tasso*s  genius,  to  smother  his  writings,  to  dni^ 
him  from  Parnassus  down  to  '^Epicurus*  sty."  He  is  to  lead  n  mtniv 
animal  life,  well-fed,  well-ck>ibed,  weD-lodged,  and  all  that  the  good 
duke  asks  in  return  is  the  sacrifice  of  his  genius,  his  fame,  his  heart, 
Iiis  mind,  and  his  soul !  Unreasonable  and  irritable  poet !  Will  it  be 
believed  that  Tasso  found  the  bargain  intolerable,  and  once  more  fitd 
from  his  benefactor? 

He  fled  to  Mantua,  to  Venice,  to  Urbino,  to  Piedmont,  wandering 
from  court  to  court,  and  finding  mostly  but  cold  comfort ;  for,  as  ho 
piteously  says  in  the  of  ten-quoted  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino,  "interest 
and  the  desire  to  be  pleasing  to  princes  shut  the  door  against  compas- 
sion." An  exception  must  be  made  to  this  statement  in  favour  of  Charks 
Emanuel,  Prince  of  Piedmont,  who  received  Tasso  with  the  honours  due  to 
his  merit,  and  offered  him  the  same  brilliant  position  that  he  had  enjoytd 
at  first  at  the  court  of  Ferrara,  if  he  would  enter  his  service.  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  Alfonso  spared  no  effort  to  recover  the  fugitive.  He  sent  a 
gentleman  after  him  to  Pesaro  to  persuade  him  to  go  back,  and  other  teiip- 
tations  were  not  wanting.  In  an  ode  addressed  to  the  Princesses  of  F<  r. 
rara,  the  poet  says  himself  that  he  was  **  deluded  "  by  false  promis-  <5. 
But  the  main  accomplice  in  seconding  the  duke's  desire  was  in  Tjtsso's 
own  breast — his  unconquerable  passion  for  Eleonora,  and  yearning  ta 
see  her  agaim  In  brief,  despite  the  "  strong  dissuasions"  of  the  Prince 
of  Piedmont  and  other  gentlemen,  Tasso  returned  once  more  to  fat^l 
Ferrara  on  February  21,  1579,  and  two  days  after  was  arrested  on  ft 
charge  of  having  uttered  *' false,  insane,  and  audacious  words  agairst 
the  duke,"  and  imprisoned  in  the  madhouse  of  St.  Anna. 

And  here  the  unhappy  poet  remained  for  seven  years ;  seven  years  of 
misery  such  as  few  human  beings  have  been  subjected  to.     Despite  wl-nt 
has  been  said  in  mitigation  of  the  horrors  of  his  imprisonment,  it  is  l"!t 
too  clear  that  it  was  hard  and  cruel  and  harsh  beyond  measure.    T.i»"(  '^ 
own  words  on  this  subject  are,  alas !  too  explicit  to  be  mistaken.    Htai't- 
rending,  in  truth,  are  the  terms  in  which  he  laments  and  complains  to  th  ^ 
deaf  ears  of  his  former  patrons.  To  the  Duchess  Margueri  ta  Gk)nzaga.thinl 
wife  of  Alfonso,  he  speaks  of  making  his  "  gloomy  cell"  resound  with 
weeping.     In  a  letter  to  Gonzaga  he  says  that,  *'oppr^8S'*d   by  th-^ 
weight  of  so  many  afflictions^  he  has  abandoned  all  thought  of  plorr 
and  honour;  "  that  *'  tormented  by  thirst,  he  envies  even  the  condit'on 
of  the  I  rutes  who  can  freely  quench  theirs  at  rivers  and  fountains :" 
and  that  * '  the  horror  of  his  state  is  aggravated  by  the  squalor  of  Ijis 
hair  anl  bcai-d  and  clothes,  and  the  sordidness  and  filth  which  he  ws 
around  him."    Still  more  horrible  are  certain  phrases  which  occnr  in 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  451 

his  "Discourse"  to  Scipio  Gonzaga.     Here  he  says,  **I  do  not  refuse 
to  suffer  this  punishment,  but  it  hurts  me  that  an  unwonted  severitj  is 
used  towards  me,  and  that  a  new  method  of  ca<;  ligation  is  invented  for 
ms ;"  and  after  those  last  dreadful  words  follows  a  blank  filled  up  with 
asterisks.    The  same  thing  occurs  again  and  again  in  the  course  of  this 
"Disoorso,"  and  the  reason  is  that  Sandelli,  who  first  published  it, 
deemed  it  prudent  to  suppress  certain  phrases  and  statements  which 
^oald  have  furnished  too  tremendoog  an  indictment  against  the  '*  mag- 
nanimous" Alfonso  d'Este,  and  others  of  his  house.     The  original  MS. 
from  which  Sandelli  printed  his  version  of  the  Discourse  has  eluded 
the  most  zealous  search,  and  in  all  probability  was  purposely  destroyed. 
A    cell,    lighted    only    by    one    small    grated    window,    has   for 
generations  been  shown  to  visitors  in  the  hospital  of  Santa  Anna  as 
the  place  of  Tasso's  imprisonment.     A  gloomy  and  terrible  place  indeed 
for  sach  a  man  to  pass  seven  years  of  his  life  in  I     Of  late  it  has  become 
the  fashion  to  deny  the  authenticity  of  **  Tasso*s  prison,**  as  the  cell  is 
called.    Tou  are  told  that  the  poet  never  lived  there ;  that  he  had  ex- 
cellent light  and  airy  rooms  in  another  part  of  the  hospital — what  part 
is  not  knowii — and  that  the  compassion  excited  by  the  view  of  the  cell 
is  quite  superfluous.     Even  the  guardian  who  now  ehows  it  to  the 
stranger  (I  revisited  Ferrara  in  the  lata  autumn  of  187()),  although  he 
clings  to  the  statement  that  Tasso  was  veritably  confined  within  those 
narrow  massive  walls,  declares  that  in  the  poet* s  time  there  was  a  largei 
window  looking  on  the  courtyard,  and  plenty  of  light  and  air.     Now,  foi 
my  own  part,  I  see  no  reason  whatever  to  doubt  that  tradition  is  in  this, 
as  in  so  many  similar  cases,  a  trustworthy  guide.     The  aspect  of  the 
cell  agrees  perfectly  with  that  which  Tasso  himself  says  of  his  prison. 
It  does  not  agree  with  that  which  courtly  gentlemen  writing  within  the 
times,  and  by  no  means  beyond  reach  of  the  influence  of  the  house  of 
Este,  have  said  of  it.     The  reader  is  at  liberty  to  choose  between  these 
conflicting  statements. 

Here,  then,  idghed  and  wept,  and  perhaps  raved,  in  the  bitter  de* 
spair  and  indignation  of  his  soul,  Torquato  Tasso,  an  honourable  gen- 
tleman, a  failiful  friend,  and  incomparably  the  greatest  poet  of  his 
day.  To  punish  him  for  the  crime  of  loving  his  sister,  Duke  Alfonso 
gave  him  obloquy  in  exchange  for 'glory,  solitude  for  the  brilliant  soci- 
ety of  a  court,  &nd  instead  of  the  sound  of  lutes  and  harmonious  voices, 
the  clanking  of  chains  and  the  howls  of  maniacs.  I  cannot  presume 
to  decide  whether  or  not  there  were  some  morbid  strain  in  Tasso^s  in- 
t -llect  befor3  h^  entered  St.  Anna,  but  that  he  did  not  become  a  fren- 
zi  >d  lunatic  bafore  he  left  it  seems  to  me  to  indicate  a  most  amazing 
force  of  mind. 

It  is  a  sickening  task  to  con  over  the  numerous  appeals  which  the 
^vretched  prisonpr  mads  to  the  outside  world  for  help.  He  petitioned 
the  princesses,  the  Du^e  of  TTrbino,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Mantua, 
various  persons  at  the  court  of  the  Emperor  Rudolph  and  at  that  of 
Pope  Gregory  ZIIL,  the  Dukes  of  Savoy  and  Tuscany,  and  the  su- 


452  HOMES  AND  HAUNTS  OV 

preme  cotmcU  of  the  city  of  Lis  ancestors,  Bergamo,  to  intercede  "with 
liis  princely  gaoler.  The  good  citizens  of  Bergamo  did  in  truth  accede 
to  his  prayer.  His  petition  (a  very  touching  one)  was  read  in  the  coun- 
cil amidst  tears  of  pity.  Thoy  sent  a  special  ambassador  to  Alfonso  to 
beg  him  to  release  Tasso,  and  the  duke  received  the  ambassador  very 
graciously,  and  promised  to  fulfil  his  request,  and  the  poor  prisoner  was 
BO  elated  with  hope  at  the  report  of  this  princely  promise  (stiunge  that  he 
should  have  believed  it  even  then!)  as  to  be  in  hourly  expectatioa  of 
release  for  several  days !  And  tlfbn — and  th  n  he  was  plunged  back 
again  into  the  gloom  of  despair,  and  months  and  years  passed  by  aad 
found  him  still  in  his  dungeon. 

At  length  he  left  it,  with  spirits  shattered  and  body  enfeebled.  The 
chief  instrument  of  his  release  was  the  Abbat'i  Angelo  GriJlo,  whose 
name  should  be  km  iwn  and  honoured  for  this  good  work.  The  abbate 
importuned  the  Emperor  and  the  Pope,  and  all  the  great  ones  of  th© 
earth  whom  he  thought  likely  to  assist  his  object.  And  finally,  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  l^bG,  and  ^e  forty-second  of  his  age,  he  was  allowed 
to  quit  the  sccno  of  r>o  much  misery  and  degradation.  Ferrara  was 
holding  high  festival  on  the  occasion  of  the  nuptials  of  Oesare  d'Este 
with  Virgini  i  de  Medici ;  amongst  the  guests  gathered  there  was  young 
Vincenzo  ^onzago,  Prince  of  Mantua,  the  sou  and  heir  of  Guglielmo 
Bernardo  Tasso's  old  patron.  This  youth,  induced  by  the  zeahms 
representations  of  the  Abbate  Grillo,  begged  and  obtained  from  Alfonso 
the  permission  to  carry  Tasso  with  him  to  Mantua,  on  condition,  how- 
ever, of  keeping  him  there  under  strict  supervision.  After  a  time  this 
was  relaxed,  and  he  was  free  to  go  whither  he  would,  except  back  to 
Ferrara. 

Little  is  to  be  said  here  of  the  remaining  years  of  our  poet's  life.  He 
revisited  Naples,  made  a  brief  sojourn  in  Florence,  and  finally  came  to 
Bome,  whither  he  was  invited  to  receive  the  laurel  crown  in  the 
Capitol.  But  a  pale,  inexorable  band  writhheld  the  wreath  from  those 
worn  temples.  Tasso  came  to  Bome  but  to  die.  He  took  up  his 
abode  among  the  monks  of  Sant*  Onofrio,  the  monastery  which  stand 
on  the  Janiculum  and  dominates  the  city  and  the  winding  course 
of  the  Tiber  for  many  a  mile.'' 

In  the  convent  garden  an  ancient  eak-tree  stood  up  to  the  year  1842, 
which  tradition  said  had  been  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  poet.  It  was 
greatly  injur  d  by  a  storm  in  that  year,  but  something  of  it  still  re- 
mains. There  remain,  too,  the  grand  outlines  of  the  Sabine  and  Alban 
Hills,  on  which  his  eyes  must  often  have  rested,  looking  from  that  lofty 
garden  terrace  on  to  the  superb  panorama  it  commands.  The  sunset  light, 
too,  was  not  different  three  hundred  years  ago.  Often  he  must  have  Kit 
in  its  rosy  glow  whilst  the  spring  was  smiling  around  him,  and  thought 
of  the  f HHt-coming  moment  when  for  him  the  sunshine  and  the  sceut  of 
violets  and  the  song  of  birds  should  be  no  more.  He  died  on  April  2.'j, 
IniJo,  aged  lifty-one  years.  The  symboHo  crowning  in  the  Capitol  wad 
destined  not  to  be,  yet  none  the  less  do  the  voices  of  famo  and  potsteo^ 


THE  ITALIAN  POETS.  4;J3 

axrard  Torqttato  Tasso  a  high  place  among  the  immortal  bards  :  Di8 
miscent  mperis.  He  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  Monastery  of  Sant'  Onofrio, 
where  a  tasteless  monument  has  been  erected  over  his  tomb»  and  where 
Ms  chamber,  and  a  crucifix  and  other  objects  used  by  him,  are  pointed 
out  to  the  visitor.  In  a  corridor  upon  which  this  chamber  opens  there 
is  a  fresco  on  the  wall  by  lionardo  da  Vinci,  a  lovely  Madonna  and 
child,  with  the  donor  of  the  picture  kneeling  b(  fore  her ;  and  on  this 
fine  work,  full  of  the  intens  serious  sentiment  which  distinguishes 
Lionardo,  the  poet's  eyes  mnst  often  have  rested  sympathetically.  Per- 
haps those  last  days,  during  which  his  tide  of  life  was  ebbing,  were  not 
among  the  saddest  he  had  known.  Poor,  vexed  spirit !  "After  life*s 
fitful  fever  he  ^eeps  welL" 

Fbances  Eleanob  TboliiOfb,  in  Bdgrcma,   I 


CUPID'S  WORKSHOP. 


▲  BATiT.AT>  IN  THE  OIiD  SlTZIilL 

I)«ep  within  my  ladye'B  eyee 

Little  Cupid's  workshop  hes ; 

There  with  many  subtle  arts 

'Shapeth  he  his  barbed  darts —  * 

Darts  to  suit  the  young  and  old, 

Darts  to  suit  the  shy  and  bold, 

Th-rtB  that  pierce  and  wound  full  sore, 

Darts  that  scratch  and  nothing  mora.  » 

None  can  pass  my  ladye  by 
But  the  gcyd  within  her  eye 
Scdzes  on  tlio  fleetins  chance. 
And,  beneath  a  furtive  glance. 
Shoots  a  dart,  direct  ana  true,  ' 
From  thoee  eyes  of  heaven's  bine* 
Those  who  feel  the  pleasant  pain 
Linger  to  be  pierced  again, 

IShonld  the  heart  be  cold  and  stem. 

And  the  baffled  arrow  turn, 

Cupid  still  doth  persevere, 

And  distils  a  pearly  tear, 

Whose  brightest  gleam  the  heart  doth  melt; 

Then  the  stab  is  sharply  deall^ 

And  the  victim  feels  the  thrall 

Which  my  ladye  casts  o'er  all." 

SoXEBViLLX  GiBKEY,  in>  Ttntteff't  MagagkM 


PLAIN  WOBBS  ABOUT  THE  APGHAN  QUESTIOK 

Mandelay,  Feb.  10. 
This  gtrange  sequestered  capital,  which  happens  at  the  present  wri- 
ting to  be  my  temporary  place  of  sojourn,  is  in  the  outermost  ripple 
of  the  great  world's  pooL  The  news  of  important  events  comes  to 
it  like  a  half -dead  echo,  that  dies  altogether  after  a  sentence  or  two 
of  listless  comment.  Last  night  I  was  dining  in  the  society  of  a 
little  knot  of  Frenchmen,  who  have  drifted  for  various  causes  into 
this  outlandish  place,  and  there  came  to  us  by  a  telegram  (in  Bur- 
mese) the  tidings  of  Marshal  MacMahon's  resignation  and  M,  Grevy's 
election.  "Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  cried,  with  a  flash  of  faded  radiancy, 
a  white-haired  captain  of  cavalry,  whqse  regiment  I  saw  ride  out  of 
Metz  to  lay  down  its  arms  lefore  the  conquering  Germans;  **ah,  the 

food  time  reapproaches!  The  next  President,  look  you,  will  be  the 
rince  Imperial;  and  from  President  he  wiUi)lossom  into  Emperor; 
and  then  I  will  go  back  to  France! "  "  O  droll  visionary,"  responded 
aclose-cropped  engineer,  "who  had  been  a  communard,  "while  Grm- 
bctta  lives,  how  imbecile  to  prate  of  Eadinguet's  brat! "  The  subject 
diopped,  and  the  interrupted  ccnversation  recommenced  about  the 
**King-woon  Menghyr's"  2:oo€y  and  the  Burmese  pnma  donna, 
•^yin-doo-Mal^." 

As  for  myself,  a  football  of  jcurralisro,  a  shuttlecock  of  Bellona, 
who  in  nine  years  have  made  six  campaigns  and  three  visits  to  India, 
the -links  between  home  associations  and  myself  haye  of  necessity 
tut  feeble  hold.  But  there  is  one  link  that  still  endures  bright  and 
strong— the  link  that  binds  me  to  friendships  that  I  know  are  recipro- 
cal. By  devious  tracks  and  with  many  delays,  the  Worid  drifts  out 
to  this  corner  of  quaint  semi-larbarism,  and  in  its  columns  I  read 
how  its  Conductor  had  mapped  out  fcr  himself  a  new  enterprise. 
My  acquaintance  with  him  was  born  in  a  "Vienna  attic  years  ago,  and 
my  love  for  hjm  and  his  has  ever  since  been  part  of  my  life.  The 
impulse  was  natural,  then,  which  prompted  me  straightway  to  sit 
down  and  indite  an  article  for  the  new  venture,  in  the  desire  that  1 
might  testify  in  the  spirit  to  hearty  interest  in  the  birth  of  Timey  and 
to  cgrdial  wishes  for  its  lusty  life. 

We  got  such  a  bellyful  of  Afghanistan  in  1843,  that  ever  since,  till 
lateW,  we  have  been  suffering  under  the  nightmare  thereof.  AVhen 
Pol  lock  turned  his  back  on  the  ugly  crags  of  the  Khybur,  we  cicstd 
tLe  page  of  Afghanistan,  and  dropped  the  book  into  the  boundarj- 
ilvulct  by  Hurri-Singh-Ki-Bourj.  It  was  well  to  banish  the  black 
xiiemoiy  of  it,  when  as  yet  tlie  Punjaub  was  under  Sikh  sway,  and 
while  our  frontier  station  was  Loodianah.  But  the  condition.,  radi* 
(454) 


PLAIN  WOBDS  ABOUT  THE  AFGHAN  QUESTION.      U5 

cally  altered  when  we  annexed  the  Punjaub,  and  our  border  crossed 
'  the  Indus  and  stretched  up  to  the  foot  of  the  fore-hills.     Then  the 
I  Afghans  became  our  neighbours;  and  even  if  there  had  been  no  re- 
'  gion  and  no  eventualities  on  the  further  side  of  Afghanistan,  it  be- 
hooved us,  as  a  matter  of  the  merest  common  sense,  to  renew  rela- 
■  tions  with  them,  and  to  take  measures  for  knowing  and  maintaining 
'  an  accurate  knowledge  of  all  matters  concerning  them.    What  words 
could  be  found  strong  enough  to  describe  her  fatuity,  if  France,  as  a 
consequence  of  the  disasters  of  1870-1,  had  raised  up  a  dead  wall  of 
demarcation    between   herself  and   Germany,    utterly  refusing  to 
acquire  any  intelligence  of  the  doings,  the  ideas,  the  designs  of  the 
latter  country,  prohibiting  her  citizens  from  visiting  it — all,  in  short, 
but  ignoring  its  existence — while  France  lav  freely  open  to  German 
inquisition?    And  yet  our  "frontier  policy,    from  the  annexation  of 
the  Punjaub  till  Lord  Salisbunr  became  Secretary  for  India  in  1874, 
was  an  almost  exact  parallel  of  such  fatuity  as  this! 

The  man  who  is  chiefly  responsible  for  this  obstinate  and  wanton 
"  don't  know,  won't  know,  and  musn't  know  "  caricature  of  a  policy 
is  Lord  Lawrence.  To  the  late  Sir  John  Kaye  we  owe  the  erection 
and  worship  of  a  number  of  sham  idols,  oi  whom  the  biggest  and 
the  shammcst — ^to  coin  a  word — is  "  John  Lawrence  of  the  Punjaub." 
Why,  if  **  John  Lawrence  "  had  had  his  wav,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for 
stout-hearted  Sydney  Cotton,  steadfast  Herbert  Edwardes,  and  valiant 
John  Nicholson,  all  the  trans-Indus  territory  would  have  be^n  aban< 
doned  by  our  troops  and  people  when  the  great  Mutiny  broke  out.  The 
more  one  studies  the  story  of  that  time,  the  more  apparent  does  it  be- 
come that  Sir  John  Lawrence  was,  in  the  main,  the  mere  formal 
sanctioner,  and  that  often  after  the  event  of  his  energetic  and  stubborn- 
souled  subordinates*  acts.  The  men  *  *  of  the  Punjaub  "  in  India's  hour 
of  need  were  such  doers  and  darers  as  I  have  named,  with  Robert 
Montgomery  and  Frederick  Cooper  added  to  the  list.  Lawrence  was 
a  signer  and  assenter,  not  a  doer  and  darer. 

The  special  weakness  of  Indian  officials  is  a  blind  worship  of  the 
Juggernaut  of  routine.  Very  often  the  man  who  is  the  creator  of 
the  routine,  and  who  therefore  ought  to  know  that  it  is  no  god,  but 
his  own  handiwork,  is  its  most  abandoned  devotee.  In  the  language 
of  Scripture,  he  "  worshippeth  the  work  of  his  own  hands; "  and  his 
faith  in  it  adheres  long  after  it  has  become  untimely,  and  may,  in- 
deed, have  become  pernicious.  As  likely  as  not,  the  creator  of  .the 
routine  is  the  creator  of  a  school  as  well.  The  <mUus  of  his  policy  is 
taken  up  by  his  disciples;  and  because  it  was  the  policy  of  their 
master,  they  swear  by  it  and  cling  to  it,  walk  in  its  ways,  and  count 
an  impugner  of  its  wisdom  or  of  its  timeliness  as  a  rank  heretic  and 
irreverent  revolutionary.  Lawrence,  when  he  came  to  the  Punjaub, 
found  the  flag  flying  on  which  was  inscribed,  "  No  intercourse  with 
Afghanstan.*'  It  had  been  a  good  motto;  but  the  banner  had 
lialliards;  Lawrence  cut  them,  and  nailed  it  to  the  mast  of  his  policy 


45«        PliACff  WtmDS  ABOUT  THE  AFGHAN  QUESTION. 

for  all  time  to  co<ne.  His  young  men  ranged  themselves  tinder  it 
when  they  joined  the  ranks,  and  looked  upon  it  as  a  sacred  thing, 
whose  fitness  and  appropriateness  was  not  to  be  questioned:  at  liome 
the  Liberal-party  adopted  it  with  a  whole  heart. 

So  there  befell  us  the  disgrace,  which  would  be  ridiculous  were  it 
not  so  utterly  miserable  and  humiliating,  that  when  the  inevitable 
abandonment  of    the  non-intercourse  policy  came,  and  we  had  to 
invade  Afghanistan,  nobody  knew  an3rthing  of  the  resources,  roads, 
and  characteristics  of  the  region  ten  miles  beyond  our  great  canton- 
ments of  Pesbawur.    At  the  beginning  of  the  present  war  apre'^is 
was  printed  by  the  Quartermaster-General's  department,  purporting 
to  summarise  what  was  known  about  the  road  through  the  Kliybur, 
between  Jurarood  and  Jellalabad.     It  may  be  said  of  this  compila- 
tion that  it  told  scarcely  anything,  and  that  what  it  did  tell  proved 
to  be  imif  ormly  and  flagrantly  wrong.     Cm*  knowledge  of  Aighan- 
istan  might  have  been  ample,  had  our  authorities'  chosen  to  acquire 
it,  or  allow  it  Jbo  be  acquired.     The  objection  of  the  Afghan  rulers  to 
receive    official    residents    hardly    existed,    even    in    name,    until 
the  Ameer  Shere  Ali  became    alienated    by   the  chicane  of    our 
selfish  ''heads  I  win,  tails  you  lose"  treatment  of  him.     Old  Dost 
Mahomed  in  1857  maAe  no  bones  about  allowing  "British  officers 
with  suiUtible  establishments  and  orderlies"    to   be   "deputed  to 
Cabul,  or   Kandahar,    or    Balkh,   or  all  three    places;"  and  the 
Lumsdens,  in  virtue  of  the  treaty   of  which   this  was  a  clause, 
actually  went  to  Kandahar.    But  they  were   recalled  when  the 
special  matter  which  brought  about  Uie  od  hoc   departure  from 
the  Lawrentian  policy  was  no  longer  urgent.    The  evidence  is  over- 
whelming that  at  Umballa,  in  1869,  Shere  Ali  would  have  been  will- 
ing to  accept  British  residents  if  Lord  Mayo  had  been  allowed  to 
make  the  request.    I  have  good  authority  jf or  affirming  that  there  is 
a  document  in  the  archives  of  the  Foreign  Office  at  Calcutta,  in 
which  is  minuted  the  assurance  on  the  part  of  Noor  Mahomed  Shah, 
the  Ameer's  envoy  sent  to  Simla  in  1873,  tlmt  his  master  was  williui^ 
to  consent  to  the  presence  of  British  officers  in  Afghanistan.    But  if 
the  Ameer  had  entertained  on  objection  to  their  presence,  surely  it 
would  have  been  wise  to  be  urgent  and  peremptory  for  overruling  the 
same,  when  all  circumstances  were  favourable  to  the  effort,  our  hands 
elsewhere  unhampered,  and  the  Ameer  squeezable  under  pressure, 
not  having  yet  become  arrogant  because  of  our  long-continued  pusil- 
lanimitv,  nor  dazzled  by  the  chimera  of  Russian  support.     Not  less 
surely  it  was  the  very  anti-climax  of  obstinately  intentional  purblind- 
ness  that  prohibited  unofficial  travellers  from  exploring  Afghanistan 
at  their  own  risk  and  on  their  own  responsioility.     If  the  enterprise 
was  dangerous,  that  was  their  affair;  but  that  Englishmen  could 
travel  in  Afghanistan  without  being  maltreated  was  proved  by  the 
journeys  of  Slacgregor  and  Lockwood,  of  Pelly  and  March.    But  the 
urohibitioii  was  stern.     Whe^«  iu  India  in  1873,  X  conceived  the  do* 


TL&m  WORDS  ABOUT  THi:  AJGHAK  QUSSTIOK.      46T 

sign  of  retomiDg  through  Afghanistan,  and  infoimally  aaked  if  thcira 
would  be  aay  objection,  I  was  infonned  that  leave  was  not  to  be 
procured.  "  Then  I  will  go  wit^hout  leave/'  I  said.  The  reply  was 
that  I  should  be  pursued  and  brought  back  by  cavalry  if  my  de- 
pariure  were  discovered. 

The  history  of  the  relations  between  Bhere  All  and  ourselves  di- 
rides  itself  into  epochs.  As  regards  him  the  epochs  are  three:  the 
epoch  of  his  tolerable  friendliness;  the  epoch  of  his  surliness;  and 
the  epoch  of  his  alienation.  As  regards  our  policy  the  epochs  are 
four:  ttie  epoch  of  the  Lawrence  policy;  the  epoch  of  the  Mayo 
policy,  warm  and  genifd  compared  with  the  former,  but  under  pro- 
test from  the  powers  at  home,  and  frosted  by  the  Lawrentiah  bias  of 
the  Duke  of  Argyll ;  the  epoch  of  the  Northbrook  policy,  on  the 
old  placidly  native  Lawreutian  lines;  and  the  Lytton  epoch,  im- 
bued with,  and  dictated  by,  the  more  .peremptory  spirit  of  Lord 
Salisbury. 

Shere  All  began  his  reign  genially  enough.  He  avowed  his  de- 
tenniaation  to  "  follow  the  lamlable  example  of  his  father  in  main- 
taining strong  ties  of  amity  and  friendship  with  the  Britii^  Govern- 
ment." "John  Lawrence  of  the  Puniaub " waited  silently  for  six 
months,  and  then  sardonically  wished  him  a  **  strong  and  united  go* 
vernment."  Li  1867  the  same  Viceroy  recognised  the  rebel  Mahomed 
Azim  Khan.  He  dies,  and  his  brother,  another  rebel  suc- 
ceeds him.  whose  accession  the  bland  Viceroy  calls  an  "auspicious 
evenf  Shere  All  regains  his  throne,  takes  no  umbrage  at  the 
Viceroy's  aflfability  to  the  rebels,  and  applies  for  a  meeting  to  **  show 
his  sincerity  and  firm  attachment "  to  the  Government  which  had 
CiUed  the  accession  of  his  enemy  an  **  auspicious  event."  The  Viceroy 
of  course  "congratulates  him  on  his  success '* — another  "auspicious 
event.  ^'  The  other  day  our  resident  here  at  M&ndelay  was  urging  cm 
the  Burmese  Ministers  the  necessity  for  consenting  to  the  admission 
of  a  guard  of  British  troops  for  the  presidency.  They  were  bent, 
m7re  siw,  on  procrastination.  They  urged  on  him  the  necessity  for 
preliminary  settlement  of  four  grand  cardinal  principles:  and  what 
do  you  think  these  were?  "  Cordiality,  brotherly  love,  charity,  and 
mutual  confidence  I  **  Lord  Lawrence  tenders  Shere  Ali  similar  useful 
platitudes.  He  recommends  to  his  notice  "the  excellent  virtues, 
kindness,  foresight,  and  good  mana^ment."  He  gives  him  six  lakhs 
and  40(K)  guns ;  but  before  the  meeting  could  be  acceded  to,  he  writes 
home,  "  We  must  wait  and  see  whetlier  Abdul  Rahman  or  any 'other 
chief  prove  victorious.  **  In  which  event,  of  course,  the  man  sub- 
sidlsea  and  congratulated  might  go  to  the  devil.  This  is  Lord 
Lawrence's  notion  of  fulfilling  his  own  postulate  in  a  letter  to  tho 
Ameer:  "  Of  course  it  is  essential  that  both  parties  should  act  with 
sincerity  and  truth,  so  that  real  confidenoe  may  exist  between  tliem.' 
If  the  Liberal  Government  had  not  tied  Lord  Mayo's  hands — ii 
hulli^,  indeed,  that  sti*aightforward  and  light  thinking  Viceroy  ^^ 


458    plain;  woeds  about  the  Afghan  questiok. 

■yrinmng  Shere  All's  heart  by  being  cordlalrto  him — ^we  should  have 
secured  and  retained  that  potentate's  friendship,  and  have  had  freely 
granted  to  us  the  run  of  his  country,  which  impending  complica- 
tions made  so  essential.  As  it  was,  while  Lord  Mayo  lived  the 
Ameer  lay  under  the  spell  of  his  genial  mastery.  But  Russia  was 
looming  large  over  against  him,  and  he  felt  himself  between  the 
hammer  and  the  anvil.  Some  real  assistance  and  firm  assurance 
from  us.  would  have  even  then  boimd  him  to  us.  But  to  Lord 
Mayo  had  succeeded  Lord  Northbrook,  an  honourable  and  upright 
man,  but  cold,  stiff,  unsympathetic,  and  bound  by  antecedents  and 
personal  conviction  to  the  ielly-flsh  policy  of  the  Gladstone  Govern- 
ment. To  the  Ameer's  pleaoing  for  effective  backing  up  by  us 
against  Russian  aggression  Lord  Korthbrook's  chilling  response  was, 
that  in  certain- eventualities,  and  on  certain  conditions,  "probably  the 
British  Government  would  afford  the  Ameer  assistance  in  repelling 
an  invader."  This,  to  use  a  slang  phrase,  was  '*not  good  enoueh.' 
The  Ameer  saw  further  and  clearer  into  the  Riissian  designs  £an 
did  Lord  Northbrook  and  his  Council.  So  late  as  the  beginning  of 
1876  that  worshipful  sanhedrim  remained-  besotted  with  incredulity 
that  "  Russian  interference  was  a  probable  or  near  contingency,*'  and 
saw  no  reason  to  ''  anticipate  that  the  Russian  Grovernment  would 
deviate  from  the  policy  of  non-interference  so  recently  declared.' 
The  Ameer  knew  better  three  years  earlier.  In  1873  he  already  had 
recognised  the  imminent  prospect  of  Russian  aggression ;  and  whether 
he  was  right  let  any  one  judge  who  has  read  Sir  H.  RawKnson's 
article  in  the  Wtneteenth  Ceniwy  of  December  last,  in  which  the  pro- 
jects of  Russia  from  1873,  and  her  actual  movements  in  1877,  are 
detailed. 

We  had  sickened  him  at  last  by  dint  of  our  repellent  i)olicy;  and, 
recognising  his  inability  to  hold  his  own  for  himself,  Shere  Ali  went 
over  to  the  other  side,  whose  emissaries  had  for  years  been  whisper- 
ing at  his  elbow.  He  is  no  dodger,  this  poor  shuttlecock  of  successive 
Viceroys.  Having  .thrown  himself  into  the  other  camp,  he  did  not 
dissemble  his  disgust  and  alienation.  There  was  sometning  of  king- 
liness  in  his  contemptuous  refusal  to  touch  the  money  we  offered  to 
him  at  the  end  of  a  very  long  pole.  He  ignored  alike  Lord  North- 
brook's  proposal  to  sena  a  surveying  officer  into  Afghanistan — a  slight 
which  that  Viceroy  accepted  without  a  murmur  of  remonstrance— 
and  his  piteously  limp  suggestion  that,  although  the  Ameer  had  not 
expressea  it,  he  no  doubt  felt  re^et  at  **his  inability  to  welcome 
servants  of  the  Queen."    Shere  Ah,  in  fine,  had  **  cut  us." 

Lord  Salisbury  became  Secretary  of  State  for  India.  Kow 
Lord  Salisbury  is  a  statesman,  and  yet  further  he  is  a  Briton. 
There  is  no  flabbiness  about  him.  He  saw  the  imbecility  of  allow- 
ing Afghanistan  to  remain  a  sealed  book  to  us.  He  ordered  Lord 
Northbrook  to  "  procure  the  assent  of  the  Ameer"  to  the  establish- 
ment of  British  residents  in  Afghanistan.    Lord  Northbroolc  pro- 


PLAIN  WORDS  ABOUT  THE  AFGHAN  QUESTION.       459 

tested  in  a  letter  that  is  a  masterpiece  of  bigoted  purblind  fatuity. 
By  arguments  that  are  as  contemptible  as  the  deprecation  of  the 
Amee?8  disaffection  is  abject,  the  Viceroy's  letter  urges  that  the 
"  time  was  unsuitable  ;"  U^ey  were  *'  mere  vague  rumours  "  only  as  to 
the  Ameer*s  dalliance  with  Russia  ;  and  Sir  Richard  Pollock's  keen- 
ness of  insight  was  happily  exemplilicd  4n  his  quoted  "conviction 
that  no  unfavourable  change  whatever  had  occurred  in  the  disposi- 
tion of  his  Highness."  Lord  Salisbury  read  tlie  signs  of  the  times 
better;  he  brushed  awa^  Lord  Northbrook's  remonstrances,  and  pe- 
remptorily instructed  him  "to  find  some  occasion  for  sending  a  mis- 
sioato  Cabul."  Lord  Northbrook's  conduct  now  was,  in  plain  Ian 
guage,  insubordinate.  A  victim  to  the  double  hallucination  that  the 
Ameer  had  not  been  made  our  enemy,  and  that  a  Russian  pledge  to  a 
non-extension  policy  was  not  a  grim  joke,  he  repeated  his  expostula- 
tions, and  in  perhaps  the  weakest  document  ever  printed  in  a  Blue- 
book  he  pleaded  that  the  whole  question  might  be  reconsidered. 

But  liis  time  was  up,  and  his  successor  chosen.  Lord  Salisbury 
let  Lord  Northbrook  slide;  and  the  instructions  which  Lord  Lytton 
took  out  with  him  directed  the  new  Viceroy  to  find  occasion  for  a 
temporary  mission  as  a  prelude  to  permanent  British  agents.  If  Lord 
Ilartington  meant  in  anj^  other  than  a  political  sense  his  remark  that 
"Lord  Lytton  was  everything  that  a  Viceroy  ought  not  to  be,"  ho 
achieved  a  miracle  of  succinct  definition.  Aiming  seemingly  at  the 
proud  role  of  petit  maitre,  Lord  Lytton  only  succeeds  in  being  a  j)eiit 
crew,  with  a  dash  of  the  satyr  and  a  mild  infusion  of  the  secondhand 
Jesuit.  In  his  public  capacity  he  is  frequently  ridiculous;  he  is 
crude,  rash,  and  impulsive ;  but  he  is  laudably  under  discipline  to 
the  orders  of  his  superior,  and  has  the  faculty  of  writing  extremely 
able  depatches.  His  communication  of  May  1877  is  the  model  of  a 
modern  state  paper.  It  recapitulates  the  negotiations,  or  rather  fail- 
ure of  negotiations,  with  the  Ameer  since  his  accession  to  office,  and 
brings  the  liistory  of  events  down  to  the  abrupt  arrestment  of  the 
Peslmwur  Conference,  on  the  death  of  the  Ameer's  envoy. 

When  it  was  written  the  Ameer  was  almost  undisguisedly  our 
enemy.  He  had  not,  indeed,  wholly  thrown  off  the  mask,  or  alto- 
gether interrupted  relations;  but  he  was  arming,  and  he  was  lie  with 
iiaufmann  up  to  the  hilt.  Pacific  efforts  had  been  exhausted, 
and  there  remained  but  the  expedient  of  threatening  the  Ameer 
with  actual  hostilities,  as  the  consequence  of  continued  refusal 
on  his  part  to  receive  a  mission.  But  Lord  Salisbury  doubtless  felt 
that  there  is  a  time  for  everything  under  the  sun.  Europe  was  in 
the  throes  of  a  difficulty,  the  likeliest  outcome  of  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  very  many  people,  would  be  a  European  war.  England 
was  temporising,  if  not  vacillating;  and  Lord  Beaconsfield  had  not 
hardened  his  heart  to  confront  and  confound  Russia.  I  think, 
speaking  for  myself,  that  the  Secretary  of  State  was  wrong  in  thd 
^ine  he  took.    He  accepted  the  statm  quo.    The  Ajneer  was  to  be 


460      PliAIN  WOKBS  ABOUT  THE  AFGHAN  QUESTION.     ^^ 

left  for  A  time  "  to  reflect  on  the  knowledge  he  had  gained."  We  let 
him  rest;  but  we  also  left  unattained  the  safety  and  serenity  of 
India.  For  the  attainment  of  these^  a  knowledge  of  events  in  Af- 
ghanistan was  surely  more  essential  now  than  ever  previously;  to 
the  acquisition  of  that  knowledge  the  establishment  of  envoys  was 
essential;  the  consent  of  the  ruler  of  Afghanistan  was  essential  to 
that  establishment.  Was  it  not,  then,  an  error  of  judgment  to  leave 
the  Ameer  in  a  distinctly  and  increasingly  dangerous  attitude  of 
''isolation  and  scarcely  veiled  hostility,"  at  a  time  when,  not  having 
fallen  entirely  under  the  spell  of  Russian  encouragement,  plain 
speaking,  to  be  followed  by  acts,  would  probably  have  Jied  him  to 
reconsider  his  decision? 

A  year  elapsed:  a  Russian  mission  reached  Cabul.  With  the 
consent  of  the  Secretary  of  State,  Lord  Lytton  had  commis- 
sioned Sir  Neville  Chamberlain  to  be  the  head  of  an  opposition 
mission,  and  was  hurrying  forward  his  preparations.  This  haste 
was  a  grave  error;  and  another  and  yet  graver  error  underlay  it 
There  was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  Ameer  would  refuse  to 
accept  the  mission.  He  had  declined  a  mission  already,  when  as  yet 
he  had  not  been  hand  and  glove  with  the  Russians.  It  was  the  con- 
viction of  most  sagacious  Anglo-Indians  that  Shore  Ali  was  prepared 
to  go  the  length  ot  affronting  us.  Sir  Neville  Chamberlain  from  the 
first  was  almost  destitute  of  hope.  Now  in  the  event  of  such  a  posi- 
tive affront  as  the  refusal  to  admit  the  mission,  the  bolt  of  retribution 
should  have  sped  swift,  sure,  decisive.  But  Lord  Lytton  would  have 
no  bolt  ready  to  his  hand.  The  carrying  out  of  the  projected  camp 
of  exercise  at  Hassun- Abdul,  only  three  marches  behina  Peshawur, 
would  have  furnished  no  ground  for  the  charge  that  he  was  holding 
out  an  olive-branch  with  one  hand  while  the  other  held  a  club  behina 
his  back.  But,  whether  out  of  over-confidence  or  out  6f  quioxtry  I 
know  not,,  he  had  the  strongest  faith  in  the  acceptance  of  the  mis 
sion.  Lord  Lytton  countermanded  the  Hassim- Abdul  gathering  of 
soldiers. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that,  when  the  mission  was  ignominiously 
stopped,  our  condition  in  India  resembled  that  of  a  turtle  suddenly 
turned  over  on  its  back.  Then  it  was  that  Lord  Ljtton  and  his 
advisers  lost  their  heads.  Lord  Lytton  is  a  civilian  pure  and 
simple;  the  effort  to  rise  to  the  conception  of  him  in  uniform  is  frus- 
trated by  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  But  there  were  soldiers  in  coun- 
cil with  him — or  whose  council  was  at  his  disposal— who  could 
scarcely  have  been  ignorant  of  the  abyss  of  unpreparedness  into 
which  anxiety  for  economy  had  plungea  the  Indian  military  esta- 
blishments on  their  peace  footing.  There  is  no  evidence  that  ne  sub- 
^  mitted  his  projects  to  the  home  authorities,  or,  indeed,  that  to  this 
day  do  these  know  anything  of  them.     He  had,  in  fact,  pledged 

^  himself  to  **  no  hostile  action  without  full  previous  communicatioxL" 

'  What  he  actually  did  was  this: 


;..    PLAIN  WORDS  ABOUT  THE  APGHAN  QUESTION.       461 

« 

Imlnediately  after  the  repulse  of  Sir  Neville  Chamberlain's  mis- 
sion in  the  beginning  of  September  last,  the  Viceroy  issued  orders 
through  the  regular  channel,  the  Commander-in-Chief,  to  Brigadier- 
General  R6ss,  commanding  at  Peshawur,  to  go  and  drive  1  he  Ameer's 
garrison  out  of  All  Musjid,  and  hold  that  place.  Pesliawur  is  the 
most  important  cantonment  on  tlie  north-western  froiitier  of  India; 
its  normal  garrison  consists  of  some  six  battalions  of  infantry,  three 
regiments  of  cavalry,  and  three  batteries  of  artillery.  It  summer 
Peshawur  is  a  pestilential  station,  the  demon  of  fever  has  full  sway, 
jind  last  year  he  was  more  than  ordinarily  fell.  It  is  customary 
during  that  period  to  send  away  from  it  to  healthier  outlying  places 
all  the  troops  that  can  be  spared.  Brigadier-Grcneral  lloss  is 
a  soldier  who  has  shown  his  capacity  again  and  again,  and  special 
circumstances  made  him  now  exceptionally  eager  to  distinguish 
himself  «te|^iurther.  He  got  his  orders,  and  he  promptly  mustered 
Ms  available  strength.  He  found  that,  when  he  left  behind  only 
three  hundred  men,  chiefly  convalescents,  to  overaw^e  the  most  turbu- 
lent city  of  Upper  India,  in  which  disaffection  was  known  to  be  rife, 
there  was  forthcoming  for  the  prescribed  enterprise  a  force  barely 
one  thousand  strong,  in  whose  ranks  were  many  men  whose  efficiency 
fever  had  deteriorated.  Not  less  morally  than  physically  brave.  Gene- 
ral Ross  rightly  thought  it  his  duty  to  represent  tbc  great  risk  of  dis- 
aster w^hich  offensive  operations  of  an  indefinite  character,  with  this 
handful  of  virtually  unequipped  soldiers,  would  entail.  Ilia  arguments 
were  too  cogent  to  be  disregarded,  and  the  crazy  scheme  was  aban- 
doned, 

Tet  €ie  Vtceroy^ — **in  CouncU"  as  is  Uie  tcclinical,  thourjji  mo4ly 
empty,  term — stiU  hankered  after  a  coup.  In  tJw  exjiecfation  tliai 
the  home  authorities,  m  tJie  ontconu  of  the  imperaling  Cabinet 
CouTwil,  would  pronatince  for  immediate  IwstlUtics,  orders  from 
Simla  were  issued  in  the  third  treek  of  October  to  tlie  principal 
commissariat  officer  of  Pesliawur,  that  he  should  have  ready  by  tlie  first 
week  of  Nommber  supplies  for  six  thousand  men  for  seven  days,  atul  ade- 
guate  transport  for  the  advance  of  the  detachment  to  Dakka.  The  rash' 
ness  of  a  design  to  launch  six  tJimtsand  vnen  forty  miks  in'o  a  difjicvlt 
a nddistiirbed  region  with  but  seven  days'  supjky  in  hand  meds  no  expo- 
sure; hut  death  was  dealt  it,  not  from  remorse  at  the  folly  of  it,  but  by 
orders  from  home  of  a  contrary  tenor,  and  by  tlvc-  rej/ort  of  tlie  commis- 
sariat officer  that  adequate  transport  could  not  be  procured  on  such  slwrt 
notice. 

These  foTtunoMy  abortive  struggles  to  compass  premature  hostilities  are 
now  for  ^  first  time  made  public.  The  Indian  Government  has  a  posi- 
tive genius  for  unscrupulous  contradiction  ;  but  I  am  prepared  to  prom 
tlie  truth  of  what  I  have  written. 

While  working  after  this  fashion  on  his  account,  Lord  Lytton  was 
pleading  vehemently  with  Lord  Cranbrook  for  sanction  for  an  im- 
mediate declaration  of  war.     The  Blue-book  contains  but  a  selection 


462      PLAIN  WOBDS  ABOUT  THE  AFGHAN  QUESO^ON.    . 

from  the  telegraphic  correspondence;  but  the  Blue-book  fumisbeg 
convincing  proof  of  the  Viceroy's  urgency.  His  messages  contain 
such  expressions  as  these:  "  Any  demand  for  apology  would,  now,  in 
my  opinion,  be  useless,  and  only  expose  us  to  fresh  insult,  while 
losing  valuable  time."  "  We  urgently  request  immediate  sanction  to 
measures  stated  above,"  viz.  immediate  active  offensive  steps.  Kor 
did  he  confine  his  urgency  to  the  official  and  constitutional  channel. 
It  18  not  generally  knawn,  but  it  is  netertlielesa  truCy  tliat  the  Viceroy  of 
India,  following  the  eosampU  of  Colonels  Mansfidd  and  WeUedey  in  tlie 
recent  Russo-Tiirkishwa/r,  has  maintained  direct  communicaiion  on  the 
Anglo-Afghari  imbroglio  with  lier  Majesty  the  Queen.  Hoic  co/pious  anA 
detailed  this  must  have  been  may  be  judged  from  tlie  fact  that  a  intifjlt:. 
telegram  from  tJie  Viceroy  to  the  Queen,  at  an  important  and  difficult 
crisis y  was  so  long  that  tlie  cM  of  it  was  eleven  hundred  rupees.  Who 
paid  for  it — whetlier  tlie  Sovereign  or  tlie  Viceroy y  England  or  In^ia — 
/  hnow  not ;  but  I  do  know  that  it  cost  what  I  have  stated.    '*  ' 

At  this  momentous  conjecture,  Lord  Beaconfield*s  Cabinet  dis- 
played statecraft  of  a  very  high,  because  very  difficult,  character. 
The  Viceroy  was  clamouring  for  an  immediate  declaration  of  war. 
Behind  him  stood  ranged  the  chief  military  authorities  of  our  Indian 
Empire;  men  who  might  well  be  assumed  to  know  that  subject 
which  was  j)ar  cxceller*ce  their  own — the  condition  of  India*s  mili- 
tary establishments.  A  poor  paper-stainer  like  myself  need  feel 
no  shame  that  he  followed  the  lead  of  experts  so  eminent.  Bui 
if  the  Viceroy  had  got  his  way,  there  would  have  ensued  an  ignoblf 
interval  of  abstract  inoperative  hostility,  wliile  the  army  was  daubing' 
on  its  war  paint,  and,  like  Mr.  Winkle,  getting  ready  to  begin.  For  It 
is  not  to  be  deemed  that,  even  on  the  expiry  or  the  time  which  the  prC' 
sentation  of  the  ultimatum  gave  for  preparation,  the  columns  were  so 
deficient  of  complete  equipment,  that,  for  instance,  the  chief  commis- 
sariat office  of  the  Peshawur  column  put  on  record  a  demi-official 
repudiation  of  responsibility  if  ^e  end  of  the  term  of  grace  given 
should  be  the  signal  for  immediate  advance.  That  state  of  unpre- 
paredness,  in  the  consciousness  of  which  the  authorities  in  India  bad 
light  hearts,  the  Cabinet  at  home  was  most  solemnly  sensible  of. 
How,  I  know  not;  whether  of  their  own  knowledge,  or  because  of 
the  counsels  of  wise  and  conversant  soldiers  that  were  doubtless  at 
their  disposal.  To  make  time  for  getting  ready  they  prescribed  tiie 
expedient  of  the  ultimatuna;  and  so  brought  about  the  valuable 
result,  that  our  nakedness  was  not  uncovered  before  a  jibing  world. 
The  ultimatum  was  simply  a  device  to  gain  time;  the  hms pmmkJitm 
a  vciQTQfacon  de  parUr.  But  there  was  a  fine  ring  of  magnanimity  in 
the  expedient;  and  there  was  the  off — very  off — chance  that  the 
Ameer  would  realise  the  situation,  and  save  us  the  cost  of  a  war.  In 
the  actual  issue,  it  achieved  for  us  the  edat — a  little  hollow,  it  is  true 
— under  the  appearance  of  dashing  promptness,  of  beginning  war  on 
the  very  stroke  of  the  clock.  Of  the  conduct  and  results  of  that  war, 
*^T«tt  has  not  come  to  speak.  Archibald  Forbes,  in  Time, 


XV. 


FRESH  ASSYRIAN  FINDS ; 

TBIUHPHAL  BKONZE  GATES  OF  SKALMANESER  THE  GREAT. 

The  opening  of  a  new  chapter  in  tlie  stirring  history  of  Assjoian 
discovery  cannot  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  any  who  are  in. the 
slightest  degree  interested  in  the  culture  of  the  Old  East,  and  least  of 
all  to  intelligent  and  reverential  students  of  Holy  Writ.  We  none  of 
us  need  to  be  reminded  that  our  religion,  although  meant  for  all 
nations,  is  of  Oriental  origin,  and  that  even  the  New  Testament, 
whose  very  language  is  Greek  or  Western,  whence  we  are  daily 
learning  it,  is  best  read  and  understood  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun. 
Most  would  acknowledge  that  in  no  other  light  is  it  intelligible  at  all. 
In  like  manner,  the  Author  of  our  faith  and  His  apostles  were  all  of 
them  Jews,  the  flower  of  God's  chosen  people,  with  whose  annals,  as 
recorded  in  the  Old  Testament,  those  of  the  great  empires  on  the 
Euphrates  and  the  Tigris  are  for  hundreds  of  years  together  inextri- 
cably interwoven.  The  astute  kingcraft  of  the  Pharaohs  was  the 
first  to  espy  and  make  the  most  of  the  opportimitv  created  by  the 
disruption  of  the  Hebrew  monarchy  on  the  death  oi  Solomon,  and  in 
the  fifth  year  of  the  wise  king's  foolish  son  Shishak  sacked  Jerusa- 
lem. In  a  hieroglyphical  inscription  on  what  is  known  as  the  porch 
of  the  Bubastite  Fharaohs<  at  Thebes,  Shishak,  who  was  the  founder 
of  that  dynasty  of  Egyptian  kings,  has  taken  care  to  record  that  con- 
quest. His  son  and  successor,  Osorkon,  has  with  good  reason  been 
identified  with  Zerakh  the  Ethiopian,  mentioned  in  the  second  book 
of  Chronicles  (xiv.  9),  whose  huge  invading  host  of  Cushites  and 
Libyans  was  hurled  back  by  Rehoboam's  pious  grandson  Asa. 
Osorkon  is  barely  named  in  the  contemporary  Egyptian  records,  and 
had  they  been  as  communicative  as  they  are  silent  about  the  events 
of  his  reign  we  should  hardly  have  found  them  chronicling  this 
crushing  defeat.  It  is  worth  noting,  however,  that  for  more  than  a 
century  and  a  half  afterwards  the  Pharaohs  wisely  let  the  Hebrews 
alone,  and  that  the  next  time  the  great  southern  monarchy  is  seen 
interesting  itself  in  its  Palestinian  neighbours  it  is  as  their  friends  and 
allies.  It  was  thus  that  Sabaco,  the  So  of  the  Bible,  encouraged 
Hoshea  of  Israel  to  shake  off  the  Assyrian  yoke,  and  to 
spurn  paying  tribute  any  longer  to  Shalmaneser  IV.,  and  that 
he  bravely  but  unsuccessfully  fought  with  that  king's  suc- 
cessor, Sargon,  to  ward  off  Samaria's  doom.  Thus  too  the  Pharaoh 
Tirhakah  marched  to  the  relief  of  Hezekiah — whom  Sennacherib  had 
shut  up  in  Jerusalem,  "like  a  bird  in  a  cage,"  as  he  boasts  in  his  in- 
scription— and  by  the  rumour  of  his  approach  performed  the  part 
assigned  to  him  by  Providence  in  compelling  the  Assyrian  to  raise 
^63; 


464      ^       ^ FEESH  ASSYKTAN  FINDS. 

the  siege.    The  reader  hardly  needs  to  be  reminded  how  marvellonsly 
the  Bible  accounts  of  these  great  events  have  been  confirmed  to  the 
letter,  as  well  as  illustrated  and  supplemented,  by  the  contemporary 
cylinders  and  tablets  unearthed  by  our  Bottas  and  Layards  and  in- 
terpreted by  the  daring  erudition  of  many  an  ffidipus,  such  as 
Hincks,  Norris,  Fox,  Talbot,  and  George  Smith  amongst  the  dead, 
with  their  survivors  Oppert  and  Rawlinson  of  the  first  generation  of 
^Assyriasts,  and  Sayce  and  Schrader  of  the  second.     Since  Esarha^- 
^'don,  who  succeeded  his  father  Sennacherib,  includes  ''Manasseh, 
King  of  Judah,"  in  a  list  of  twenty-two  of  his  vassalB  which  has 
come  down  to  us,  he  has  been  reasonably  recognized  as  the  unnamed 
King  of  Assyi-ia  mentioned  in  2  Chron.  xxxiii.  11 — 18.     There  we 
read  that  on  account  of  the  worse  than  heathen  sins  of  Hanasseh  and 
his  people,  **  the  Lord  brought  upon  them  the  captains  of  the  host  of 
the  King  of  Assyria,  which  took  Manasseh  among  the  thorns,  and 
bound  him  with  fetters,  and  carried  him  to  Babylon.    And  when  he 
was  in  affliction,  he  besought  the  Lord  his  God,  and  humbled  himself 
before  the  God  of  his  fathers,  and  prayed  unto  him  :  and  he  was  in- 
treated  of  him,  and  heard  his  supplication,  and  brought  him  agimi  to 
Jerusalem  into  his  kingdom.     Then  Manasseh  knew  that  the  Lord  he 
was  God."    If  nownve  turn  back  to  Tiglath-Pileser  II.,  the  immedi- 
ate predecessor  of  Shalmaneser  IV.,  who  began  the  siege  of  Samaria 
which  Sargon  ended,  and  with  it  the  kingdom  of  Israel,  we  have  in 
unbroken  sequence  no  fewer  than  five  successive  kings  of  Assyria 
whose  autograph  annals  record  their  contact,  almost  always  their 
collisions,  with  seven  Hebrew  kings.     Five  of  the  seven — ^namely 
Mcnahcm,  Pekah,  and  Hoshea  of  Israel,  with  Azariah  and  Ahaz  of 
Judah — are    repeatedly    spoken    of   by  Tiglath-Pileser   in  his  in- 
scriptions   as    his    contemporaries,    with    the    exception    of    the 
first,    whom    the    fragments    as    yet   foimd   mention   but    once. 
It  seems  at  first  sight  that  to  this  single  mention  of   Menahem 
by  Tiglath-Pileser,  whose  annals,  imder  his  eighth  year  (b.  c.  738),  sav 
expressly  that  he  took  tribute  of  the  King~  of  Samaria  so  named, 
there  is  nothing  to  answer  in  the  Bible.     On  the  other  hand,  we  read 
in  2  Kings  xv.  19  that  **Pul  the  King  of  Assyria  came  against  the 
land :  and  Menahan  gave  Pul  a  thousand  talents  of  silver,  that  his 
hand  might  be  with  him  to  confirm  the  kingdom  in  his  hand."    For- 
merly it  v; as  always  thought  that  Pul  must  have  been  Tiglath-Pileser's 
predecessor.     But  since  the  discovery  and  decipherment  of  the  cunei- 
form inscriptions  the  opinion  has  been  growing  that  these  are  but  two 
names  of  one  and  the  same  Assyrian  monarcli.     It  may  be  remarked 
that  whether  we  fall  in  with  this  view  or  not  the  chronological  diffi- 
culty of  making  Menaham  contemporary  with  Tiglath-Pileser  will 
remain.     Hence  we  need  feel  the  less  repugnance  to  accept  the  identi- 
Cctition,  wliich,  besides  being  supported  by  the  authority  of  profound 
Ab:-yri()logists,  like  Professor  Schrader  of  Berlin  and  Professor  Sayce 
of  Oxi'ord,  at  once  enables  us  to  see  in  Mcuaham's  tribute  to  Ti^^ktli* 


FRESH  ASSYRIAN  FINDS.  46ft 

parser  the  thousand  talents  of  silver  which  the  Bible  says  he  gave  to 
Pul.  This  Ninevite  king  with  a  twofold  name  would  thus  Le  the 
earliest  of  the  series  mentioned  expressly  in  tiie  Hebrew  recouls,  A 
far  older  sovereign  of  Assyria,  however,  and  one  whose  ccl quests 
raised  the  great  empire  on  the  Tigris  to  the  highest  pitch  of  glory, 
speaks  of  two  kings  of  Israel  in  his  annals  with  whom  he  was  suc- 
cessively brought  into  contact.  This  is  Shalmaneser  11. ,  who  reigned, 
according  to  the  cuneiform  astronomical  canon,  from  B.  c.  860  to  b.  c. 
^2o.  It  was  he  who,  to  hand  down  his  name  to  future  ages,  reared 
on  high  in  the  midst  of  his  new  capital  Calah,  where  the  moimd  of 
>'imrod  now  marks  the  site,  the  famous  black  cl  elisk  brought  by 
Layard  to  this  country,  and  which  is  now  in  the  Fritish  Museum.  On 
it  are  five  lines  or  rows  of  sculptures,  representing  the  triLutcs  ren- 
dered to  their  conqueror  by  the  different  sulgngatcd  ccuntries,  with  ac- 
companying legends.  The  inscription  annexed  to  the  second  row  of 
bas-reliefs  was  deciphered  by  the  late  learned  Dr.  Bincks,  and 
independently  of  him  by  Sir  Henry  Kawlinson.  Both  found 
it  to  contain  the  name  of  Jehu.  It  reads:  "I  received  trib- 
ute from  Jehu,  son  of  Omri;  silver,  gold,  gold  in  plates,  zvkfit 
of  gold,  gold  cups,  gold  CeJami,  sceptres  which  are  in  the 
hand  of  the  king  and  Idellium.'*  The  late  V.y  George  Irmith 
riterwards  recognised  in  the  annals  of  Shalmancstr  II.,  ti  giHved  en 
one  of  Layard's  bulls,  a  further  record  of  the  same  fact,  \\ hich  at  the 
same  time  it  dates  in  the  conqueror's  eighteenth  year,  B.C.  843. 

Meanwhile  Professor  Oppert,  of  Paris,  had  already  brought  to 
light  a  synchronism  of  Shalmaneser  II.,  in  his  sixtieth  year,  n.c.  8n5, 
with  Benhadad  of  Damascus  and  Ahab  of  Israel,  pre  decessors  re- 
f^pectively  of  Hazael  and  Jehu.  This  was  in  the  far  more  detailed 
annals  of  the  Assyrian  king  found  at  Kurkh,  the  modern  name  given 
to  some  important  ruins  on  the  ri<rht  bank  of  the  Tigris,  twenty  miles 
from  Diarbekir,  which  are  thought  to  rei)resent  the  city  Karkathio- 
kerta  of  the  classical  geographers.  Under  that  year  the  Assyrian 
autocrat  boasts  of  having  shattered,  by  a  crushing  defeat  at  Karkar 
on  the  banks  of  the  Orontes,  a  Syrian  league  cf  twelve  members 
which  had  been  foimed  against  him.  Benhadad  brought  into  the 
field  1,200  chariots,  with  as'many  other  warlike  equipages,  and  20,- 
000  men;  Irkhuleni  of  Ilamath,  who  ruled  also  over  Karkar,  Farga, 
Ada,  &c.,  had  700  chariots,  an  equal  number  of  reserve  carriages, 
and  10,000  men;  Aliab,  2,000  chariots  and  10,000  men.  There  was 
even  an  Egyptian  contingent  of  l,0CO  men,  besides  1,CC0  fighting 
camels  from  Arabia.  The  other  members  of  the  league  sent  from 
200  to  500  warriors  each,  and  from  10  to  SO  chariots,  if  any.  Shal- 
maneser says  he  poured  over  them  a  deluge  like  the  Air  God,  and 
slew  14,000  of  their  troops,  destroying  them  from  Karkar  to  Gilzau, 
so  that  there  was  no  room  on  the  battlefield  for  their  corpses,  which 
were  tumbled  into  the  Orontes,  and  choked  up  its  waters. 

The  above  slight  sketch  of  the  relations  between  the  twofold 


466  FKESH  ASSYBIAl^  FINDS. 

Hebrew  monarchy,  from  Ahab's  elder  contemporary  Asa  downwards, 
and  the  Assyrian  empire,  always  implacable,  save  when  s#othed  by 
fiiavish  submission  and  heavy  tribute,  may  seem  to  give  undue  pro- 
minence to  ShaJmaneser  II.  and  his  victory  at  Karkar.  But  the 
reader,  it  may  be  hoped,  will  hardly  think  so  any  longer  when  told 
that  by  far  the  most  remarkable  of  the  latest  finds  brought  by  Mr. 
Hormuzd  Rassam  from  the  Tigris  valley  to  enrich  the  British 
Museum  is  a  magnificent  and  altogether  unique  historical  monument 
belonging  to  this  great  king  of  kings— nothing  less,  in  short,  than  a 
colossal  pair  of  gates  from  his  palace,  plated  with  noble  bronzes 
illustrative  of  the  battle  in  question,  amongst  the  other  glories  of  his 
reign.  Of  the  circumstances  under  which  the'discovery  was  made, 
and  of  the  monument  thus  rescued  from  oblivion,  a  brief  account 
must  now  be  given. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  1877  that  the  Trustees  of  the  British  musemn, 
having  resolved  on  the  resumption  of  Mr.  George  Smith's  renewed 
exploration  of  the  Assyrian  mounds,  entrusted  the  enterprise  to  Mr. 
Rassam.    Many  years  before  he  had  been  successfully  engaged  in 
the  same  work  under  the  direction  of  Sir  Henry  Rawlinson,  and  ac- 
cordingly the  results  to  which  he  could  point  on  his  return  in  the 
following  autumn  not  only  fully  justified  the  confidence  with  which 
he  had  fdready  been  honoured,  but  led  to  his  being  sent  out  again, 
after  a  rest  of  a  few  weeks,  armed  with  far  larger  powers  and  a 
widely  extended   commission.      He  had  naturally,  following  Mr. 
George  Smith's  lead,  begun  with  ransacking  once  more  the  debris  of 
the  royal  libraries  in  the  Kouyunjik  moimd, where  Nineveh  once  stood, 
opposite  the  site  of  the  modern  Mosul.     The  fresh  search  was  re- 
warded by  the  recovery  of  about  1,500  new  cuneiform  fragments, 
most  of  which  are  sure  to  be  found  to  fit  others  already  in  the  British 
Museum.    In  a  corner  of  Asstfrbanipal'a  library  Mr.  Kassam  found  a 
beautiful  decagonal  cylinder,  inscribed  with  the  annals  of  that  king 
down  to  his  twentieth  year,  each  of  the  ten  faces  running  to  a 
hundred  and  twenty  lines.     Proceeding  to  Nimroud,  a  score  of  miles 
down  the  Tigris,  he  reopened  the  trenches  abandoned  by  Sir  A.  H. 
Myard  thirty  years  before,  and  brought  to  light  portions  of  the 
•palace  of  Asslirnazirpal,  the  father  of  Shalmaneser  II.,  as  well  as  the 
temple  of  Istar,  the  Assyrian  Venus.     It  was  during  his  excavations 
here  that  tidings  reached  Mr.  Rassam  which  awakened  his  keenest 
interest.    At  the  mound  of  Balewat,  about  nine  miles  to  the  north- 
east of  Nimroud,  some  Arab  ^avediggers,  in  plying  their  calling, 
had  unearthed  a  number  of  ancient  bronzes.   By  an  extraordinary  co- 
incidence, it  so  happened  that  several  years  before  he  had  come  into 
possession  of  a  couple  of  Assyrian  bronze  fragments  of  just  the  same 
kind,  which  had  been  found  at  this  very  spot,  and  two  or  three 
other  pieces  had  been  bought  by  a  French  archaeologist,  M.  Schlum- 
ber^er,  of  Paris.    The  latter  were  shown  in  the  Trocad^ro  at  the  late 
Pana  Exposition,  and  were  described  by  M.  Lenormant  in  tht 


FKESH  ASSYRIAN  FINDS.  467 

'Uevue  Arcliaeplogiquc. *  They  join  Mr.  Rassam's  pieces,  of  wliich  an 
account  was  given  some  time  ago  by  >lr.  W.  St.  (;had  Boscaweu  be 
fore  the  Society  of  Biblical  ArcUaeoiogy,  as  we  are  reminded  in  tliQ 
paper  read  before  the  same  learned  body  by  >ir.  I'heopbilus 
G.  Pinches,  which  is  the  groundwork  of  the  present  article.  It  may 
l»e  imagined,  therefore,  how  eager  Mr.  Hassam  was  for  closer  ac- 
quaintance with  an  old  friend.  Taking  with  him  a  large  staff  of  hi^ 
workmen  he  lost  no  time  in  making  his  way  to  Balawat,  and  though 
annoyed  at  times  by  riots  amongst  the  Arabs  for  disturbing  a  Moslem 
cemetery,  succeeded,  partly  by  good  temper  and  partly  by  making 
llie  best  use  of  the  Sultan's  firman,  in  making  extensive  excavations 
( a  the  hitherto  virgin  site.  The  mound  may  be  described  as  pretty 
::c!irly  rectangular  in  shape,  and  its  comers  may  be  said  in  a  general 
^*ay  to  be  turned  towards  the  four  cardinal  points  of  the  compass. 
It  represents  an  ancient  Assyrian  city,  which  before  the  reign  of 
Assnrnazirpal,  father  of  Shalmaneser  II.,  was  known  by  the  name  of 
lihanita.  Though  very  near  to  Kineveh,  tlie  old  Assyrian  capital,  it 
had  been  taken  and  held  by  the  Babylonians  durin<]^  the  long  period 
of  the  rival  empire's  political  decline.  But  when  Assurnazirpaf  came 
to  the  throne,  which  he  held  from  b.  c.  885  to  b.  c.  8G0,  he  soon 
showed  himself  a  great  warrior,  not  only  by  expelling  the  invaders 
from  his  countrj'-,  but  by  the  recovery  of  long-lost  conquests  reviving 
its  ancient  glories.  He  ruled  from  the  Zagros  mountains  and  the 
Armenian  lake  Van  as  far  as  the  Lebanon  range  and  the  SjTian 
coasts  of  the  31editerranean.  Aramaea,  Mesopotamia,  and  Babylonia 
he  brought  under  his  yoke.  To  the  recovered  city,  now  marked  by 
the  ruins  at  Balawat,  he  gave  the  name  of  Imgur-Bcli,  "the  fortress 
of  Bel,"  and  "with  the  stones  of  a  deserted  palace  built  a  temple  to 
the  war-god,  Makhir,  or  Adar,  as  the  name  is  read  by  some,  near  the 
city's  north-eastern  wall.  These  facts  arc  recorded  on  alabaster  tab- 
lets which  Mr.  Bassam  found  in  a  coffer  made  of  the  same  material, 
deposited  beneath  the  altar  of  the  temple  itself.  They  shed  a  fresh 
and  welcome  ray  of  light  on  the  period  of  decay  which  preceded  the 
rclgn  of  this  monarch,  and.whichhas  always  been  one  of  the  darkest 
in  As^ian  hi^ory.  In  the  opposite  or  "western  half  of  the  Balawat 
pound  were  laid  bare  four  stone  platforms,  marking  the  sides  of  an 
irregular  square.  It  was  here  that  the  bronze  fragments  had  been 
lighted  on  by  the  Arab  gravediggers,  and  by  further  and  more  sys- 
tematic excavations  round  these  platforms,  carried  on  with  the  ut- 
most care,  immense  plates  of  that  metal,  covered  with  historical 
oas-reliefs  in  repousse  work,  were  taken  out  bodily.  The  most 
perfect  specimens  were  8^  feet  long  by  about  1  foot  broad, 
the  historical  representations  ranging  in  an  upper  and  a  lower  tier. 
The  subjects  treated  on  these  plates  are  Shalmaneser*s  battles, 
sieges,  trmmphal  processions,  the  tortures  inflicted  on  his  prisoners, 
acts  of  royal  worship,  and  his  marches  through  difRcult  countries — 
over  hill  and  down  dale,  as  well  as  across  the  Tigris  and  other  dan- 


4G8  FRESH  ASSYRIAN  FINDS. 

f  ercus  rivers,  both  out  and  home.  It  was  not  until  their  arrival  at 
ti.e  British  Museum  that  these  bas-reliefs  were  recognized  as  having' 
originally  ornamented  an  immense  pair  of  rectangular  folding  gatt',s 
probably  of  cedar,  each  leaf  being  about  22  feet  high,  6  feet  brDad, 
and  3  inches  thick.  The  height  was  deduced  from  the  length  of  tlic 
two  strips  of  bronze  edging  found  with  this  set  of  bas-rcliti-. 
which  it  was  seen  must  have  been  nailed  upon  those  portions  of  tlu 
gates  where  they  clipped,  and  which  ai'c  technically  called  tlu- 
** styles."  The  '* style"  bronzes  are  inscribed  with  a  hlstoiy  in 
duplicate  of  the  first  nine  years  of  Shalmaneser's  reign,  these  in- 
scriptions on  the  vertical  edgings  thus  furnishing  the  text,  to  whicli 
the  chasings  on  the  fourteen  riliem,  seven  for  each  leaf,  nailed  liori- 
zontally  across  the  gates  at  equal  distances,  add  most  artistic  and  tell- 
ing illustrations.  Ilie  doorposts  were  cylindrical,  and  about  a  fn.  ■ 
end  a  quarter  in  diameter,  as  is  inferred  from  the  existing  bulge  of 
several  of  the  best-preserved  horizontal  plates,  v/Iiich  at  that  end  arc 
shaped  like  a  drum.  Between  the  inner  edge  of  the  drum  and  tlie 
style  the  distance  is  4 J  feet,  as  measured  in  the  writer's  presence 
by  th€  British  Museum  expert,  Mr.  Ready,  who  was  the  first  to 
identify  as  a  pair  of  gates  this  unique  and  grand  Assyrian  monu- 
ment— which,  added  to  the  diameter  of  the  drum,  gives  a  total 
breadth  of  six  feet  for  each  leaf,  as  above.  The  posts^  were  sho<l 
with  pivots,  on  which  the  gates  turned  in  sockets,  being'  held  up  at 
the  top  by  strong  rings  fixed  in  the  masonry.  'I^he  pivots  are  at  the 
Museum,  but  the  sockets  and  rings  are  unfortunately  missing. 

The  inccription  on  the  "styles,"  although  fuller  for  the  period  it 
embraces  than  tlie  other  great  historical  texts  of  Shalmaneser  II. ,  is 
found  to  be  very  carelessly  engraved,  besides  neglecting  the  strict 
chronological  order  of  events.  As  yet  it  has  been  only  very  partially 
translated.  Of  the  horizontal  chased  bands  a  large  proportion 
arc  in  a  sadly  fragmentary  state.  The  subjects  are  nearly  always 
indicated  by  short  legends  accompanying  the  pictures.  Thus 
the  titles  of  a  couple  of  plates,  which  at  the  date  of  the 
visit  spoken  of  above  to  the  British  Museum  were  likely  to 
be  soonest  added  to  the  four  already  on  public  view,  consist  of  but 
a  few  words  put  into  the  triiunphant  king's  mouth.  On  the  upper 
band  of  the  fi^rst  plate  he  says,  *  *  The  city  Amh  of  Arame  I  captured.  *' 
on  the  lower  band,  "Thecitv  ....  (name  undeciphered)  of  Arame 
son  of  Gusl  I  captured."  /fhe  legends  of  the  other  bronze,  relatini: 
to  the  same  Armenian  war,  are  for  the  upper  and  lower  tiers  respect- 
ively, **  The  capital  of  Arame  of  the  people  of  Ararat  I  captured"— 
"  The  tribute  of  the  Gozanians."  To  the  same  war  belongs  one  of 
the  four  bronze  bas-reliefs  already  publicly  shown.  Over  the  upper 
tableau  we  read,  "An  image  of  my  Majesty  over  against  the  sea  m' 
the  land  of  Nairi  (the  modern  Lake  Van)  I  setup,  victims  to  mygo<l'J 
I  sacrificed;"  over  the  lower,  "The  city  Saguni  of  Arame  kin^  itf 
Ararat  I  captured."    Over  the  representation  of  captives  coming  be- 


F:;E3H  ASSYEIAN  finds.  4C9 

fore  the  king  in  a  rocky  country,  given  on  tho  upper  band  o2  another 
CI  the  four,  there  is  uo  legend;  m  the  lower  tiie  king  vSays,  *'lho 
r  yal  city  of  Rizuta  I  captured — ^in  the  fire  I  burnt."  Ihc  other  two 
both  belong  to  the  great  Syrian  war  in  which  the  Benhadad  and 
Ahab  of  tlie  Bible,  with  their  allies,  were  so  signally  defeated.  On 
Dith  bands  of  the  one  bronze  is  read  the  legend,  **The  tribute  of 
S^ngara  of  the  Carchemishians  I  received,"  and  in  both  instances  it 
urmounts  a  representation  of  the  city  Carchemish,  tjiken,  however, 
from  different  points  of  view.  It  will  be  remembered  that,  accord- 
hg  to  the  Kurkh  inscription,  8angara,  king  of  Carchemish,  was  a 
Rember  of  the  Syrian  League.  Another  prominent  leader  was  tho 
ilamathite  King  Urkhileni,  and  to  the  loss  of  three  of  his  cities  the 
bas  rehefs  on  the  last  of  the  four  horizontal  plates,  first  shown  at  the 
3Iuseum,  refer.  The  upper  row  is  superscribed,  *'  The  city  Parga  of 
Urkliileni  of  the  Hamathites  I  captured,"  and  in  the  same  line,  V*  The 
city  Ada  I  captured."  Beneath  either  legend  is  depicted,  int^esame 
noble  style  of  art  characteristic  of  the  monument  throughout, 
tlie  beleaguering  of  the  walls  by  the  Assyrian  hosts,  and  from 
tlie  arrangement  of  the  scenes  to  right  and  left  of  Shal- 
maneser's  camp  it  is  thought  that  the  two  sieges  must  have 
been  going  on  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Parga,  to  the  left, 
seems  to  have  been  the  stronger  of  the  two,  since  it  is  attacked 
by  the  battering-ram,  which,  armed  with  its  formidably  pointed 
bead,  is  seen  advancing  up  the  slopes  of  the  hill  crowned  by  the  bat- 
llemented  towers.  On  the  other  side  a  strong  body  of  archers  pro- 
tected by  an  immense  covering  shield  are  drawing  the  bow  against 
the  garrison.  The  chariots  with  their  prancing  horses  and  exulting 
warriors  seem  to  have  cleared  the  way,  like  cavalry  in  the  times  be- 
fore artillery  superseded  its  functions,  for  these  decisive  operations. 
hi  the  siege  of  Ada  the  King  himself  shoots  the  arrow  against  it.  The 
legend  over  the  lower  row  of  bas-reliefs  reads,  "  The  city  Karkar  of 
Urkhileni  of  the  Hamathites  I  took."  It  was  near  this  important 
city  on  the  river  Orontes,  which  has  been  identified  with  Aroer,  that 
as  will  be  recollected,  the  decisive  battle  of  the  campaign  was  fought. 
Here  then  we  have  for  the  first  time  before  our  eyes  m  a  contempo- 
rary work  of  art  the  very  scene  and  catastrophe,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
tragedy  in  which  Ahab  and  Benhadad  were  conspicuous  actors.  The 
drama  has  its  beginning,  middle,  and  end.  In  one  Assyrian  tent  wo 
eee  the  inaugur^ion  of  the  siege  with  religious  rites,  whilst  in  an- 
other  goes  forward  the  work  of  the  commissariat  department.  One 
woman  before  her  kneading-trough  is  making  loaves  for  the 
troops,  which  a  second  bakes  in  a  round  field-oven,  whilst  a  third 
piles  them  up  in  a  field  overtopping  their  heads.  The  beleaguering 
army  is  depicted  with  great  spirit,  both  in  the  moment  of  its  being 
led  forth  in  bounding  chariots  to  the  assault,  and  as  it  returns  in 
triumph  to  the  royal  pavilion,  in  which,  as  the  centre  of  the  whole 
Tepreseutation,  we  seem  to  hear  Shalmaneser  from  his  throne  antics 


470  rRH^-R  ASSYRIAN  FINDS. 

pating  Caesar's  "boast,  "I  came,  I  saw,  I  conquerccl/*  Guarded  by 
their  conquerers,  and  introduced  by  court  olricials,  envoys  of  hi jli 
rank,  who  have  lied  from  th^e  burning  city,  present  to  the  king  thi  ir 
tribute  of  gold,  silver,  copper,  changes  of  raiment,  and  horses,  whil' 
a  long  file  of  wretched  captives  brings  up  the  rear.  To  the  extreniL' 
left  is  seen  Karkar  in  flames.  Alike  as  a  work  of  high  art,  such  a- 
could  hardly  have  been  looked  for  from  Assyria  in  the  ninth  century 
before  the  Christian  era,  and  for  its  interesting  association  with  th- 
history  of  Biblical  personages,  it  will  be  owned  on  all  hands  to  be  i\ 
most  striking  tableau. 

Basil.  II.  Cooper,  in  Sundai/  Magazine. 


ENTOMOLOGY. 


**I  8H0TTLD  ha*  forgot  it ;  I  should  certainly  ha'  forgot  it,"  was  the 
exclamation  of  Mr.  Samuel  Waller  on  a  well-known  occasion ;  and  ir 
was  the  same  phenomenon  which  acted  thus  upon  the  mind  of  that 
distinguished  character  that  recalled  to  the  recollection  of  the  pres.  ut 
writer  an  almost  forgotten  intention  to  say  a  few  words  in  praise  of  tb> 
study  of  Entomology.  I  can  hardly  hope  to  produce  anything  at  all 
equal  to  those  flowers  of  eloquence  which  bloomed  in  Mr.  Weller's  vji- 
lentine  under  the  ganial  influence  of  **  nine-penn'orth  of  brandy-aD'l- 
watsr,  luke  ;"  but  the  spring  of  the  year  seems  to  be  a  peculiarly  aj>- 
prDpriate  season  for  the  publication  of  a  plea  for  entomology,  a  de- 
partment of  natural  history  the  scientific  importance  of  which  seeiu** 
hardly  to  be  sufficiently  recognised,  and  I  must  trost  to  the  good  natnr 
of  the  reader  to  forgive  any  deficiencies  that  may  be  apparent  in  tL 
present  article  under  the  comparison  that  I  have  so  injudiciouslj 
provoked. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  there  were  few  indications  of  spring  in  tb.- 
weather  at  the  time  when  the  shopwindows  this  year  displayed  thcs 
tempting  absurdities,  which,  we  may  presume,  a  good  many  people  fiii-l 
pleasure  in  sending  to  each  other,  seeingj  that  their  deliveiy  lead^*  to 
the  practical  result  of  a  great  increase  in  the  postman's  labour;  bnr 
on  the  other  hand,  the  matter  to  which  I  wish  to  direct  the  read  -r  •» 
attention  has  its  interest  at  all  periods  of  the  year,  although  there  is. 
perhaps,  a  special  fitness  at  the  present  season  in  delivering  a 
lecture  on  the  study  of  entomology.  For  while  it  is  quite  true  thit 
even  in  winter  many  exceedingly  mteresting  insects  are  to  be  in-: 
with,  generally  by  hunting  them  up  in  their  places  of  conce«iI- 
ment  among  moss,  under  the  bark  of  trees,  under  stones.  niiJ 
in  other  recondite  places,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  entomo!.»- 
gist's  great    harvest  ib  to  be  reaped  during  the  othei  three  seasons 


ENTOMOIiOGT.  471 

of  the  year,  and  it  is  certainly  adyantageons  for  the  beginner 
to  commence  hia  researches  at  a  time  when  the  abundance  of 
inject  life  surrounding  him  in  aU  directions,  and  forcing  itself,  as  it 
vt^re,  upon  his  notice  in  all  his  walks,  offers  a  constant  succession  of 
objects  of  interest  In  the  spring,  when  aU  nature  wakes  from  the 
torpor  of  winter,  this  is  especiidly  ttie  case.  With  the  first  days  of  sun- 
Bhine  thousands  of  insects  make  their  appearance — the  solitary  bees 
and  sandwasps  are  to  be  seen  emerging  from  the  galleries  in  which  they 
have  passed  their  early  stages,  or  flying  busily  about  the  flowers  and 
hoTenng  over  the  banks  of  sand  or  clay  in  which  they  are  about  to 
bmiow  and  deposit  their  eggs;  the  brilliant  tiger-beetles  flit^ about 
sandy  lanes  and  commons,  sparkling  in  the  sunlight  like  hTing  eme- 
ralds ;  the  field-paths  glitter  in  the  morning  with  the  small  carnivorous 
beetles  commonly  known  as  '*  sonshiners,"  whose  place  is  taken  in  the 
eTening  by  their  larger  relatives,  the  great  ground  beetles  {Carabu^) ; 
plenty  of  that  multitude  of  beetles  of  various  groups  which  deposit 
their  eggs  in  tiie  droppings  of  horses  and  cattle  are  seen  flying  steadily 
through  the  air ;  on  the  surface  of  still  waters  the  whirUgig-beetle  is 
eujoymg  his  mystic  circular  dance,  while  from  time  to  time  tiie  water- 
beetles  come  quietly  up,  and,  after  applying  their  tails  for  a  moment 
to  the  surface,  in  search  of  air^  plunge  down  again  into  the  depths ;  or 
the  water-boatman  (Notonectd)  hangs  for  a  short  time  in  a  similar  po- 
sition, with  his  long  oar-like  legs  outspread  ready  for  action  on  the 
least  alarm;  and  even  a  few  early  butterflies,  the  beautiful  *' Brim- 
stone "  especially,  flutter  gaily  through  the  air.  On  a  fine  day  in  spring 
or  early  summer  the  entcmologist  perhaps  of  all  men  in  this  blasi  nine- 
teenth century  realises  most  fuUy  the  charm  of  old  Izaak  Walton's 
pastoraL  Entomology  may  not  improperly  be  denominated  the  modem 
"Contemplative  Man's  Becreation." 

It  is  unnecessary,  and  would  lead  me  too  far,  to  expatiate  on  the 
iasect  phenomena  Of  the  summer  and  autumn — on  the  succession  of 
new  forms  which  replace  or  mingle  with  those  of  the  springtide, 
and  keep  the  interest  of  the  entomologist  alive  untQ  quite  late  in  the 
year.  But  there  is  one  point  which  I  would  urge  upon  the  beginner  in 
the  study  of  insects,  and  that  is  to  yield  to  that  instinct  which  is  sure 
to  prompt  him  at  first  to  collect  and  gain  some  knov^ledge  of  aU  the 
forms  which  attract  his  attention,  before  sitting  down  to  the  special 
investigation  of  some  one  department  which  is  almost  equally  certain  to 
be  the  result  of  his  further  progress.  It  is  only  by  this  means  that  the 
^ill  benefit  of  the  study  which  it  is  my  desire  to  recommend  to  the 
reader  can  be  obtained. 

It  is,  perhaps,  hardly  necessary  at  this  time  of  day  to  vindi- 
cate the  study  of  entomology,  or  indeed  of  any  branch  of  zoology, 
^m  the  charge  of  being  merely  the  amusement  of  contempti- 
bly frivolous  minds.  A  century  ago  such  a  notion  was  by  no 
means  uncommon;  and  although  some  writers  of  that  age  occa- 
sionally touched   upon   subjects  of   natural  history,   this  wafi(  dono 


472  EHTOMOLOGY. 

'with  a  tone  of  consoious  superiority,  which  sounds  aliuost  as  if  tho 
gentlemen  in  questicm  felt  tlutt  they  were  patronising  Katore  by  con- 
descending to  take  any  notice  of  her  produotioixs.     The  entcnnologiat. 
especially,  was  always  somewhat  of  an  object  of  pity,  a  sort  of  harml.s^ 
lunatic.     Dr.  Johnson,  we  may  fancy,  would  place  him  just  a  step  oi 
two  higher  than  that  young  man  who  was  last  heard  of  "  running  abou: 
town  shooting  cats ;  "  with  others  he  was  a  virtuom,  and  we  all  kno 
pretty  well  what  that  term  indicated ;  and  even  Richardson,  the  mil : 
idol  ()f  the  tea*table,  refers  to  natural-history  pursuits  in  a  fashion  whic^ 
may  be  taken  to  indicate  pretty  clearly  the  estimation  in  which  th<* 
were  held  in  his  day.     Lady  G. ,  Sir  Charles  Ghrandkeon^s  sister,  writes 
her  husband :    '^He  will  give  away  to  a  mrtuoso  friend  his  collection  c 
moths  and  butterflies :  I  once,  he  remembered,  rallied  him  upon  th^u 
*Andbywhat  study,'  thought  I,  *wiitthou,  honest  man,  supply  th- 
place?    If  thou  hast  a  talent  this  way,  pursue  it;  since  perhaps  tb" 
wilt  not  shine  in  any  other.*    And  the  best  of   anything,  you  know. 
Harriet,  carries  with  it  the  appearance  of  excellence.     Nay,  he  wou^  i 
also  part  with  his  collection  of    shells,  if  I  had  no  objection.     '1 
whom,    my  lord?'      He  had    not  resolved.       *Why,    then,    only  a- 
Emily  is    too    httle  of   a    child,  (!)  or    you    might    ^re    them  t) 

her.' He  has  taken  my  hint,  and  has  presented  his  collet- 

tion  of  shells  to  Emily ;  and  they  two  are  actually  busied  in  admirii.. 
them;  the  one  strutting  over  the  beauties,  in  order  te  enhance  tL 
value  of  the  present;  the  other  curtseying  ten  times  in  a  minute,  ti* 
show  her  gratitude.  Poor  man  I  when  his  mrtttoso  friend  has  got  h'-^ 
butterflies  and  moths,  I  am  afraid  he  must  set  up  a  turner's  shop  f>>:' 
employment."  There!  isn't  the  badinage  d3lightful?  And,  as  if  i> 
point  ike  moral,  *^  a  flne  set  of  Japan  china  with  brown  edges  "  is  spoktu 
of  in  the  same  letter  in  terms  of  appreciation,  although  the  fossineBs  ff 
my  Lord  Q.  in  connection  therewith  receives  a  stroke  or  two.  T\v- 
gentle,  moral  Bichardson  evidently  thought  entomologists  a  somewhr. 
contemptible  race,  as,  at  a  later  period,  did  that  redoubtable  satirist. 
** Peter  Pindar,"  whose  descriptions  of  Sir  Joseph  Banks  in  pursuit  o* 
the  ''Emperor  of  Morocco,"  and  boiling  fleas  to  ascertain  whether  th^y 
were  lobsters,  are  pretty  well  known. 

If  we  consider  the  origin  of  this  contempt,  which  undaubtedly  «^*^ 
comparatively  recent  timi^>s  did  pursue  the  unfortunate  entomologist  «^' 
may  pretty  safely  refer  it  to  two  causes :  in  the  first  place,  the  ignorance '  i 
all  natnral-history  matters  which  must  have  prevailed  in  a  society  in  whi<  h 
Oliver  Goldsmith  shone  as  a  naturalist ;  and  in  the  second  to  the  fat. 
that  most  of  the  entomologists  of  the  time  wera  really  mere  coIJ-'<*- 
tors  of  insects  as  pretty  things,  to  whom,  therefore,  the  term Tirt't-^ * 
was  peculiarly  applicable.  But  the  mere  collecting  of  insects  is  bup  ''•; 
at  least  as  good  as  any  other  manifestation  of  the  ccxeoethfs  eodigttf  i 
which  is  so  general  an  affection  of  humanity,  and  which  leads  to  tli  • 
accumulation  of  books  in  good  bindings,  of  coins  and  medals,  <^  ehirA 
statues,  and  other  works  of  (u-t,  by  people  who  haT«  no  true  aj^precui* 


ENTOMOLOGY.  478 

* 

tlon  of  their  vahie.  Even  •the  making  of  hniAxir&y  piciores  seesiB  to  be 
almost  as  intellectiiai  an  employment  as  the  oollectmg  of  postage-stamps, 
vhich  has  been  proseonted  with  considerable  zeal  by  a  good  many 
people  in  the  present  day.  To  this  general  ridicule  we  must,  I  think, 
add,  in  the  case  of  entomology,  that  the  practical  collecting  of  insects 
for  amusement  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  sport,  and  therefore  con- 
Wmptible,  because  the  game  was  so  smedl ;  just  on  the  same  principle 
that  the  quiet  angler  is  looked  down  upon  by  those  who  love  **the 
coyse  of  faoaudys,  the  blastes  of  homys,  and  Uie  scrye  of  foulis,  that 
liuiiterB,  fawkeners,  and  foulers  make/'  according  to  Dame  Juliana  Ber- 
uei^.  Althongfa  the  marked  feeling  here  alluded  to  is  happily  extinct, 
its  effects,-  no  doubt,  to  some  extent  survive,  and  it  may  be  due  to  them 
tiiBt  professed  zoologists  at  the  present  day  unquestionably  know  less 
of  iDfyccis  than  of  any  other  class  of  animals. 

Nowadays  it  will  hardly  be  formally  denied  that  all  branches  of 
catnral  histoiy  are  well  worth  studying ;  and  it  is  the  object  of  the  pr<^- 
sent  article  to  show  that  entomology,  however  it  may  have  been  nia- 
iigned  in  the  ]>ast,  presents  certain  advantages  to  the  intending  student 
which  may  well  give  it  in  many  cases  a  preference  over  other  depart- 
nienis  of  zoology.  It  has  already  been  stated  that  cutomoloirical  re- 
Bfarches  may  be  carried  on  all  the  year  round,  and  it  n.ay  be  added  that 
theie  is  no  locality  in  which  they  cannot  bo  pursued — a  matttr  of  no 
small  consequence  to  that  great  majority  whose  connections  or  avoca- 
tions tie  them  down  more  or  less  to  one  spot.  Even  in  the  heart  of 
large  cities  some  representatives  of  most  of  the  orders  of  insects  may  bo 
m^t  with ;  and  subur'>an  gardens,  if  at  all  favourably  placed,  may  fur- 
nish quite  a  large  collection  to  those  who  work  them  syRtematically. 
The  hte  .Mr  James  Francis  'Stephens  used  to  relate  that  he  had  obtained 
o\f-T  2,0<M)  species  of  insects  in  the  little  garden  at  the  back  of  his  house 
in  Foxley  Jioad.  Kennington.  Short  excursions,  which  the  custom  of 
Saturday  h&lf-holidays  renders  particularly  easy,  will  enable  the  ento- 
mologist who  is  condemned  to  a  town  life  to  have  many  opportunities  of 
adding  to  his  stores  both  of  specimens  and  of  knowledge,  whilst  the 
r«^dent.in  the  country  may  find  fresh  objects  of  interest  in  whatever 
direction  he  tur;  s. 

Further,  the  means  of  procuring  these  objects  are  very  simple  and 
inexpensive.  The  student  of  marine  zoology  may  be  left  out  of  the 
qnestioD,  because  a  seaside  remdence  is  more  or  less  essential  for  his 
pursuits ;  but  even  he  cannot  do  very  much  practically  without  dredg- 
isg,  which  is  a  troublesome  and  expensive  operation.  On  the  other 
bnd,  the  ornithologist  must  either  buy  his  specimens,  or  drag  his  gun 
a- cut  with  him  wherever  he  goes,  on  the  chance  of  falling  in  with  some 
d  sirable  species ;  the  representatives  of  other  classes  of  animals  than 
t'in:ls  and  insects  in  inland  situations  in  this  country  are  too  few  to  en- 
^U?.  them  to  come  into  competition  with  the  latter.  The  entomologist 
*  ^juires  only  a  net  or  two  and  a  few  pillboxes  and  bottles,  all  of  which 
^  can  cftrry  in  his  pockets,  to  set  him  up  iu  his  poisuit ;  and  when  h« 


474  ENTOMOLOGY. 

brings  home  bis  prizes  be  wants  only  two  or  three  papers  of  pins,  a 
few  pieces  of  cork,  and  a  close-fitting  box  or  two  lined  with  cork,  for 
the  preparation  and  preservation  of  bis  specimens.  No  doubt,  with  Li^ 
progress,  the  appliances  made  nse  of  by  the  entomologists  will  incrtaM- 
in  number  and  complexity ;  but  the  student  of  most  other  branches  of 
zoology  must  either  skin  and  stuff  his  specimens  or  preserve  them  ii: 
spirit  or  some  other  fluid,  and  his  collections  will  in  consequence  co^t 
more  and  occupy  much  more  space. 

As  the  characters  upon  which  insects  are  dasafied  are  nearly  all  ex- 
ternal— that  is  to  say,  derived  from  parts  which  may  be  investigatwl 
without  destroying  the  specimens — their  systematic  study  is  very  casilv 
pursued,  whilst  their  small  size,  by  enabling  a  large  number  of  spoci-  s 
to  be  brought  together  within  a  very  limited  space,  affords  peculiar  fK- 
cilities  for  the  comparison  of  characters,  and  for  the  recognition  of  tl.  i 
agreements  and  differences  presented  by  the  members  of  the  san^i 
group.  If  the  entomologist  chooses  to  go  further,  and  to  investiptit/i 
the  anatomical  structure  of  the  objects  of  his  study,  their  smaDness  ii>:iv 
at  first  sight  seem  to  be  an  obstacle  in  his  way,  but  this  is  soon  fi  ti 
over,  and  it  then  becomes  an  advantage,  seeing  that,  owing  to  it,  to  1. 
researches  may  be  carried  on  anywhere,  without  the  necessity  of  dexoi- 
ing  a  special  apartment  to  the  purpose,  which  can  hardly  be  disptr.st.; 
with  in  the  case  of  vertebrate  animals.  Moreover,  as  the  hard  parte  <  f 
insects  are  nearly  all  outside,  their  anatomy,  which  is  x)erhaps  the  p.o^t 
interesting  of  all,  may  be  studied  with  the  greatest  ease,  and  in  fact  ti  • 
most  instructive  parts  of  the  morphology  of  insects  are  those  which  it .-? 
essential  for  the  student  to  know  in  order  to  understand  their  classific  .- 
tion.  Thus,  for  example,  the  investigation  of  the  structure  of  tl 
mouth  in  insects  of  different  orders  will  give  the  student  a  clearer  id  \ 
of  the  meaning  of  the  term  Jimnoloffp^  and  ol  the  changes  which  tl. 
same  parts  may  undergo  in  animals,  than  could  be  famished  him  1  y 
any  other  examples ;  aud  the  series  of  modifications,  occurriiTg  not  olIv 
in  the  various  types,  but  even  in  the  same  individuals,  al  differt-Li 
stages  of  their  development,  is  most  striking  and  instructive. 

Again,  these  developmental  stages,  the  transformationB  or  metamrr- 
phoses  of  insects,  some  knowledge  of  which  is  also  necespaiy  for  tb- 
comprehension  of  the  classification  of  these  animals,  furnish  a  studv  •  5 
nevpr-ceasing  interest,   partly  for  its  own  sake,  partly  aa  giving  th- 
student  a  clear  conception  rf  the  phenomena  of  metamor*  hosis,  whi' " 
plays  so  important  a  part  in  other  departments  of  zoology,  and  pan  - 
from  the  views  which  it  opens  up  as  to  the  natural  history  of  in>«  >  * 
and  their  complex  relations  to  the  world  outside  them.     Here  the  pfl'-.i- 
sitism  of  so  many  insects  in  their  preparatory  stages  may  especially  1 
cited,  as  affording  an  endless  and  most  instructive  subject  of  invefiti  ti- 
tion;  and  the  whole  series  of  phenomena  comprised  in  the  hfe^histrr* 
of  insects  affords  an  easily  studied  representation  of  the  graat  system  •-( 
checks  and  counterchecks  which  pervades  all  nature  in  the  destruction 
of  herbiverous  by  camiverous  animals,  of  the  latter  by  other  camivortt, 


ENTOMOLOGY.  476 

iiK{ofl>otnbypazaflites.  Indeed,  no  other  class  of  animals  exhibits 
these  inter-relations  and  mntoal  reactions  between  different  organiHrns  bo 
clearly  and  so  mnltifarionsly  as  the  insects.  Besides  the  ordinary  di- 
tision  into  herbivorous  and  carnivorous  forms,  we  find  many  of  both 
^es  restricted  to  one  particular  article  of  diet,  or  to  nourishment  d&- 
hved  from  a  very  few  species  nearly  aUied  to  each  other ;  in  their  modes 
of  activity  insects  reproduce  those  of  all  other  classes  of  animals,  com- 
bined wiUi  a  few  peculiar  to  themselves ;  the  insidious  phenomena  of 
paraffltism  are  displayed  by  them  with  a  perfection  of  distinctness  such 
as  we  meet  with  nowhere  else ;  and  their  influence  is  <  xerted  in  a  thou- 
sand ways  for  the  modification  of  other  organisms  with  which  they  are 
brought  into  contact.  Thus,  according  to  Mr.  Darwin's  theory,  which 
Ie  adopted  by  a  great  many  naturalists,  the  action  of  insects  is  of  the 
utmost  importance  in  the  fertilisation  of  flowering  plants, — nay,  as  an 
extension  or  corollary  of  this  view,  we  find  some  who  are  prepared  to 
maintain  that  insects  are  the  cause  of  the  development  and  beautiful 
coloration  of  flowers.  All  these  different  aspects  of  the  relations  of 
insects  to  the  world  outside  them  open  up  an  infinity  of  paths  for  in- 
vestigation, each  of  them  leading  to  most  interesting  and  important  re- 
salts,  and  calling  for  an  exertion  of  the  powers  of  observation  which,  as 
a  mere  mental  training,  cannot  but  produce  the  most  beneficial  re- 
Eolts.  Moreover,  so  much  remains  to  be  done  in  most  of  these 
fields  of  research,  that  almost  every  earnest  worker  may  look 
forward  to  the  probability  of  ascertaining  some  previously  un- 
known facts  of  more  or  less  importance — a  hope  which  is  not 
inthout  its  influence  upon  most  minds.  By  the  knowledge  of 
the  facts  involved  in  the  recognition  of  this  general  system  tho 
entomologist  may  often  render  important  services  to  the  farmer  and 
the  gardener,  and  thus  give  a  direct  practical  value  to  his  studies. 
Kearly  every  production  of  the  field  or  ib.e  garden  is  subject  to  the  at- 
tacks of  insects,  which,  in  case  of  their  inordinate  increase,  may  easily 
cause  very  great  damage  to  the  crops,  or  even  destroy  them  altogether. 
In  the  face  of  such  enemies  the  cultivator  is  often  quite  helple^  and 
not  unfrequently  mistakes  his  friends  for  his  foes,  ^attributing  the  mis- 
chief produced  by  concealed  enemies  to  more  prominent  forms,  which 
are  re^y  doing  their  best  for  his  benefit.  In  such  cases  the  entomolo- 
gist may  step  in  to  the  assistance  of  his  neighbour,  indicate  to  him  tho 
real  cause  of  tho  damage,  and  in  many  instances  the  best  itemedy,  and 
the  best  time  to  employ  it. 

The  asserted  influence  of  insect  agency  upon  the  forms  and 
colours  of  flowers,  referred  to  above,  leads  to  other  considerations 
which  may  serve  to  give  additional  importance  to  the  study  of  en- 
tomology. For  while  it  is  believed  that  plants  and  flowers  are 
modified  by  the  nnconsdous  influence  of  insects,  it  is,  on  tho 
other  hand  at  least  equally  certain  tiiat  the  insects  will  undergo 
Modifications  in  their  turn :  and  there  seems  to  be  some  reason  to 
Klieve  that  the  great  and  burning  question  as  to  the  origin  of  species. 


476  ENTOMOLOGY. 

or  distinct  form  of  animajs  and  plants,  by  evolntioii — that  fa  to  bat, 
the  modification  of  organisms  under  the  influence  of  external  cauK* -s, 
assisted  by  the  survivid  of  those  best  adapted  to  the  prevailing  condi- 
tions— will  finally  be  fought  out  upon  entomological  grounds.  In  this 
respect  the  careful  observation  and  comparison  of-  the  insect-faunas  of 
scattered  islands  of  common  origin  cannot  but  lead  to  most  interesting^ 
results ;  as  may,  indeed,  be  seen  from  the  brilliant  researches  of  Mr. 
Wallace  upon  the  butterflies  of  certain  islands  in  the  Eastern  Archipelago, 
and  from  the  elaborate  investigations  of  the  lato  Mr.  Vernon  Wollastoii 
upon  the  beetles  of  the  Atlantic  islands.  In  the  case  of  the  Cht>'^ 
Verde  islands  the  last-mentioned  distinguished  entomologist,  althotii; : 
a  staunch  anti-evolutionist,  was  compelled  to  admit  that  he  did  iv^^ 
beheve  all  the  closely  related  permanent  forms  which  he  felt  hims*!! 
compelled  to  describe  as  speoies  really  owed  their  existence  to  distinct 
acts  of  creation. 

One  of  the  most  curious  phenomena  the  full  recognition  of  whi(  b 
we  owe  to  the  promulgation  of  the  doctrine  of  evolution  is  the  Tnimif  - 
or  imitation  of  one  orf;;auifim  of  the  general  characters  of  another,  ot 
of  some  inanimate  object,  instances  of  which  arc  tolerably  nnmeron><. 
Here  again  insects  hold  the  first  place.  The  subject  was  fiist  k[^ 
preached  in  a  philosophical  maimer  by  Mr.  Bates,  who  found  in  tb  • 
V  alley  of  the  Amazon  whole  groups  of  butterflies  which  imitated  m<>>t| 
closely  the  form  and  coloration  of  other  species  belonging  to  quitt^  a 
distinct  sub-family.  Mr.  Bates  discovered  tiiat  the  imitated  forms  wer- 
endowed  with  certain  properties  which  rendered  them  disagreeable  to 
insectivorous  birds,  and  hence  concluded  that  these  mimetic  reKdu- 
blances  in  general  were  acquired  by  a  process  of  selection  for  protectivo 
purposes.  Many  other  instances  of  the  same  kind  have  since  b^-t-u 
detected  in  various  parts  of  the  world,  and  they  are  by  no  means  dt  ii- 
cient  even  in  this  country. 

In  the  preceding  rapid  and  very  imperfect  sketch  I  have  endeavonr  J 
to  indicate  the  more  important  of  the  manifold  pleasures  and  adva**- 
tages  which  the  study  of  entomology  offers  to  its  votaries,  even  Hny*. 
posing  them  to  pursue  it  as  a  mere  amusement  But  even  in  connecti'  s 
with  this  method  of  study  it  has  been  pointed  out  that  certain  philoso- 
phical notions  will  crop  up,  such  as  the  homology  of  the  parts  of  tr.-* 
mouth  in  biting  and  sucking  insects,  the  phenomena  of  tiie  metam<^r. 
hoses-and  of  parasitism,  the  dose  inter-relation  of  diverse  organiKii)-. 
a  id  the  question  of  the  origin  of  species.  The  influence  of  such  studv  - 
in  training  the  mind  to  habit?  of  observation  such  as  involve  the  cl  • : 
appreciation  of  evidence  has  also  been  mentioned  as  a  great  and  imp)?, 
tant  educational  advantage. 

There  is  yet  another  side  to  the  question.  In  these  days  of  crir.. 
petitive  and  other  examinations,  and  of  wide^read  seience-tearhii  j, 
great  numbers  of  students  learn  more  or  less  of  what  is  oaUed  soolo!.-? 
from  lectures  and  text-books,  their  object  being  in  most  oases,  periiAps 
cnly  to  pass  what  they  call  an  ^*  exam."     By  this  mesDa  a  oeiteui 


ENTOMOLOGY.  477 

amonnt  of  morphological  knowledge  gets  crammed  into  their  heads, 

hM  of  the  practical  application  of  this  they  are  as  innocent  as  the  babe 

mibom.    For  the  due  comprehension  even  of  the  principles  of  zoology 

it  is  essential  that  the  student  should  possess  something  more  than  i\ 

mere  book-knowledge,  often  merely  of  structural  details ;   and  an  ac, 

qniiintanee  with  those  principles  is  becoming  d&y  by  day  more  necespary, 

as  natmul-history  considerations  are  assuming  a  more  and  more  prorai, 

nent  position  in  our  general  philosophy.     How  is  this  to  be  attained? 

It  is  manifestly  impossible  for  anyone  who  does  not  devr»te  himself 

entirely  to  zoological  pursuits  to  make  himself  practically  acquainted 

with  the  whole  animal  kingdom  ;  he  must  perforce  confine  his  nttt  ntion 

njore  or  less  to  some  special  group,  and  extend  the  knowledge  of  the 

principles  and  method  of  zoology  thus  acquired  to  the  formation  of  a 

general  conception  of  ihe  whole.     I  have  already  indicated  that,  from 

the  ease  with  which  it  is  followed,  and  th6  total  absence  of .  restriction 

as  to  locality,   the  study  of  entomology  presents  special  advantages ; 

and  iu  other  respects,  if  pursued  in  no  contracted  spirit,  its  influence  on 

the  mind  of  the  student  will  be  at  least  equally  beneficial  with  that  of 

any  other  branch  of  natural  history.  Popular  Science  Beviem 


ART-EDUCATION  IN  GEEAT  BRITAIN. 

"Whoevkr  explores  a  mountain-pass  must  necessarily  often  look 
back.  From  the  vantage-ground  he  has  gained  the  climber  measures 
bis  advance,  taiing  note  of  his  point  of  departure  the  better  to  guide 
his  future  ascent.  He  looks  down  on  the  country  he  has  already 
;raversed ;  he  marks  the  spot  where  he  diverged  from  the  true 
^oiu-se,  the  swampy  land  that  appeared  likely  to  bar  all  progress,  the 
orrent  that  he  forded  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  Par  beneath  him,  in. 
ignificant  because  of  their  distance,  lie  the  many  obstacles  which 
vere  once  so  formidable.  His  breath  grows  more  and  more  regular 
v'ith  the  momentary  repose  ;  then,  glancing  up  at  the  towering 
fcaks  through  which  he  must  still  force  his  way,  he  tightens  his  belt 
y  a  hole  or  two,  and  springs  forwards  with  a  fresh  impulse.  But 
iippose  him  to  be  not  alone  in  his  quest ;  nay,  rather  one  of  a  mul- 
tude  striving  in  the  same  direction  ;  not  engaged  in  a  race  to  gain 
:ie  liighest  mountain-peak,  where  one  alone  can  come  off  victor,  but 
tnicrgling  across  a  barrier  which  bars  the  path  to  a  land  where  there 
i  ample  room  for  all  to  live  in  honour  and  prosperity  ;  he  must 
rievously  regret  that  his  own  efforts  will  be  of  no  benefit  to  others, . 
cd  that  a  combination  of  all  did  not  lighten  the  general  task. 

A  similar  reflection  must  have  forced  itself  on  the  mind  of  many 
a  English  artist  midway  in  his  profession.    Looking  ba<;k  on  hia 


478  ABT  EDUCATION  IN  GREAT  BBriAlN. 

career,  he  must  regret  years  lost  whilst  obscurely  labouring  at  the 
elementary  stages  of  his  profession,  when  he  might  have  been  guided 
onward  with  expedition  and  certainty  by  those  already  familiar  with 
the  road,  or  aided  by  a  causeway  of  education  constructed  so  as  tti 
smooth  all  difficulties  except  those  incident  to  the  journey  and  his 
own  incapacity  for  the  effort.  In  this  age  of  organisation,  when  men 
work  less  and  less  by  their  sole  hand,  and  combine  more  in  every 
pursuit  in  life,  it  seems  strange  that  art  throughout  its  branche- 
should  in  this  country  have  a  strong  bias  in  the  contrary  direction. 
During  the  great  period  which  culminated  in  the  lienaissance,  art 
was  among  the  most  highly  trained  and  organised  of  all  huniai 
pursuits.  Almost  as  much  may  be  said  of  the  continental  school 
.at  the  present  day.  We  produce  a  surprising  number  of  original 
thinkers,  but  are  a  source  of  perplexity  to  our  brothers  on  the  Con 
tinent,  who  admit  that  we- have  many  artists  through  natural  a]Ml 
tude,  but  deny,  and  with  reason,  that  we  have  any  national  schonl. 
The  English  are  becoming  in  the  year  1879  a  highly  educated  rae»\ 
Schools  are  endowed  for  all  classes  and  every  profession;  the  higher 
mathematics  will  soon  be  as  familiar  as  the  alphabet,  and  the  thuniS 
of  labour  must  ere' long  grow  intimate  with  the  leaves  of  the  Gre«k 
Testament.  The  schoolmaster  inflates  our  progeny  to  gigantic  pr.>- 
portions,  whilst  we  creep  feebly  about  among  our  offspring's  feet. 
So  be  it;  let  art  share  in  the  coming  benefits;  let  the  young  artist 
claim  his  place  among  the  intellectual  giants  thus  matured;  I 
challenge  the  divine  instinct  of  this  generation  to  organize  his  effort's, 
and  devise  a  scheme  for  his  scientific  instruction. 

In  art,  as  in  every  other  branch  of  education,  there  are  two  chiif 
modes  of  instruction  open  to  a  people.  Either  the  nation  undertak»'s 
the  duty,  through  its  Government,  and  acts  by  endowed  schools  and 
colleges,  tested  by  public  examination  (the  Government  becoming  re- 
sponsible for  the  result);  or  professions  gradually  crystalise  into  cor- 
porate bodies,  undertake  their  own  trainmg,  and  supply  the  instruc- 
tion necessary  for  their  advance,  In  this  country  it  has  been  a  pr-^- 
blem  which  of  these  two  modes  is  the  better  fitted  for  art;  neith  r 
system  has  obtained,  and  art-education  has  fallen  betwixt  two  stools. 

A  little  more  than  a  century  ago  a  body  of  English  artists  peti- 
tioned their  monarch,  who,  at  their  request,  constituted  a  Ro}mI 
Academy  of  Arts.  Their  first  President  was  a  man  of  genius,  an«l 
among  them  were  men  of  great  worth  and  talent.  The  constitute 'U 
of  the  Academy  was  so  framed  as  to  give  the  members  several  privi- 
leges, as  well  as  academic  honours,  for  which  they  undertook  corn'< 
ponding  duties.  They  bound  themselves  to  become  the  accreditt  1 
exponents  of  the  art  of  their  coimtry;  yearly  to  place  the  best  art  i'-ii 
works  before  the  public,  and,  above  all,  to  conduct  a  national  school 
of  art  by  academic  teaching.  They  were  to  replenish  their  body  l»v 
election  from  among  the  most  worthy  aspirants  for  the  honour*  if 
the  Academy,  and  thus  to  remain  in  harmony  with  their  professiou 


AET  EDUCATIOK  IN  GBEAT  BRITAIN:  170 

and  with  the  nation.  .As  is  usual  with  corporations,  the  honours  anc! 
privileges  grew  to  be  more  insisted  on  than  the  duties  they  under- 
took^ and  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  A  body  corporate  is  always 
jealously  alive  to  its  own  side  of  the  bargain,  whilst  tlie  public  often 
grows  indifferent  to  the  service  for  which  it  has  stipulated  at  the 
time  of  creation.  For  half  a  century  after  the  Academy  had  received 
\\s  charter^  the  nation  was  occupied  in  anything  rather  than  art  and 
artists;  the  genius  of  the  race  was  bent  on  war,  politics,  and  trade,  and 
turned  a  di^ainful  eye  towards  tUe  adornment  of  life.  During  that 
period,  the  Royal  Academy,  although  retaining  its  honours  and 
privileges,  performed  but  the  semblance  of  its  duties;  it  prospered, 
and  was  well  satisfied,  and  so  was  the  public.  Years  advanced,  and 
in  their  train  followed  success  in  war,  increase  of  liberty,  wealth  and 
well-being  before  unheard  of;  and  with  these,  an  interest  in  all  con- 
nected with  art  again  revived.  The  Royal  Academy  found  itself 
suddenly  brought  to  a  reckoning  by  the  pubUc  for  the  neglect  of  its 
duties,  but  time  had  sanctified  its  vested  rights;  the  foundation  of  its 
house  had  petrified,  and  no  storm  could  shake  the  structure. 

Probably,  had  the  attention  of  tlie  nation  been  turned  towards  the 
fine  arts  whilst  the  Acamedy  was  still  young  and  in  a  plastic  condi- 
tion, a  school  of  art  worthy  of  the  British  nation  might  have  been 
developed.  But  indifference  on  one  side  engendered  neglect  on  the 
other;  who  shall  say  that  the  Royal  Academy  is  more  to  blame  than  ' 
the  nation,  because  it  has  not  succeeded  in  the  principal  object  for . 
which  it  was  constituted?  The  school  was  starved  and  neglected, 
and  grew  to  be  a  cripple  whilst  still  in  arms;  both  parents  were 
equally  neglectful,  and  both  to  blame. 

The  renewed  interest  of  the  nation  was  first  appreciated  by  the 
authorities  of  8outh  Kensington.  Sir  Henry  Cole,  taking  the  first 
of  the  tide,  with  a  splendid  audacity  rode  on  the  back  of  his  depart- 
ment over  the  whole  Empire;  the  force  of  the  sustaining  stream 
must  have  been  prodigious,  and  so  was  the  energy  of  the  man  who 
took  the  lead.  Schools  of  art  were  established  from  one  end  of 
Great  Britain  to  the  other;  India  was  invaded,  and  our  farthest  colo- 
nies were  impregnated  with  South  Kensington  ideas;  but  art  did  not 
benefit  in  proportion.  The  endeavours  of  the  department  were  di- 
rected to  the  advancement  of  manufactures  through  the  assistance  of 
art,  and  it  cemented  an  alliance  of  the  two ;  but  a  school  of  art  in 
the  higher  sense  was  not  within  the  scheme  of  the  department,  or  if 
it  were,  it  withered  before  it  grew  to  any  fair  proportion. 

These  efforts  are  worthy  of  consideration,  and  were  made  at  differ- 
ent times  and  in  opposite  directions :  one  by  the  agency  of  a  corpo- 
rate lx)dy,  the  other  through  a  department  of  the  Government;  the 
one  untimely  crippled  through  want  of  vitality,  the  other  diverterl 
into  side  channels.  Nevertheless,  tliey  have  not  been  without  excel- 
lent results;  the  creation  of  a  Royal  Academy  was  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  importance  of  rrt  by  the  body  politic,  and  the^  honours 


,  480  AKT  EDUCATIOlN  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

accorded  to  its  members  by  the  Oown  placed- all  artists  on  a  hi^^her 
social  level  than  they  had  hitiierto  held.  South  Kensington  and  its 
numerous  dependencies  brought  art  and  manufacture  into  a  close 
alliance,  but  has  neither  succeeded  in  giving  art  a  proper  school,  nor 
in  obtaining  for  artists  that  status  in  society  that  they  hold  in  other 
countries. 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  isolation  of  the  English  artist  as  com- 
pared with  his  brothers  on  the  Continent,  wc  have  only  to  look 
over  the  catalogue  of  the  different  sections  of  the  Fine  Arts  in 
the  Universal  Exhibition  held  at  Paris  last  year.  Glancing  down  the 
list  of  the  French  exhibitors,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  remarking  the 
constant  recognition  of  their  merit  by  the  State,  and  the  honours  th(y 
achieve  in  their  career.  On  examination,  one  is  struck  by  the  nu^n- 
ber  of  men  whose  early  promise  has  been  fosterfed  byt  he  State,  wh.i 
have  studied  at  Rome  in  the  Academy,  and  whose  works  have  hevn 

gurchased  for  the  nation.  The  catalogue  runs  somewhat  thus;  "  E. 
llanc,  born  at  such  a  town,  studied  at  such  a  local  scliool,  becam  > 
pupil  under  such  a  painter,  won  such  and  such  medals,  is  of  sucli  n 
rank  in  the  Let^ion  of  Honour."  Here  is  a  brief  epitome  of  Ji'  ^ 
success,  of  equal  signilicance  to  himself  as  to  the  public.  He  is  n-.  t 
only  aclaiowledged  as  an  honour  to  his  profession,  but  to  his  country: 
further,  it  appears  that  he  is  one  of  a  brotherhood  who  have  studicl 
under  some  acknowledged  master,  and  who  are  bound  by  ties  oi 
scholarship  to  each  other. 

Turning  to  the  English  section,  name  follows  name,  v.-iihr'T:r. 
any  illustration  w^hatever,  excepting  the  occasional  R.A.  or.  A.Ii.A.. 
that  is  well  understood ;  so  many  names  to  so  many  works,  and  all 
is  told.  It  may  be  urged  that  Englishmen  do  not  care  for  tlr- 
recognition  of  their  merit  by  the  State,  and  are  satislied  with  tl:  * 
solid  rewards  of  their  profession;  that  they  despise  the  bit  of  ribbi.n 
so  eagerly  sought  for  by  a  French  citizen,  and  think  it  unbecomii.'T 
and  frivolous.  But  although  an  inch  of  colour  at  the  button-holj 
may  offend  the  sobriety  of  our  race,  can  it  be  doubted  that,  weii^ 
some  mode  adopted  by  which  the  nation  were  to  mark  its  approval  t;f 
excellence,  either  in  art  or  science,  it  would  be  eagerly  sought  for  1 
It  would  imply  honour,  and  that  is  a  nobler  incentive  than  gain. 

It  would  be  unreasonable  at  the  present  time   to  endeavour  to 


working  order.  Also  the  genius  of  the  race  is  closely  inten^'ovcn 
with  its  growth,  and  sanctifies  with  its  glory  the  system  it  has  hclpcl 
to  create.  lather  let  us  consider  how  our  present  system  mav  be 
developed  in  new  directions,  so  as  to  give  us  all  that  we  can  desire- 
better  instruction,  honour,  and  contmued  prosperity.  Let  education 
fitand  foremost  in  this  trio,  and  be  our  first  appeal  to  the  Royal 
Academy.     It  is  bound  by  the  terms  of  its  charter  to  fulfil  this  duty; 


AET  EDUCATION  IN  GREAT  BRITiON.  4»1 

it  includes  most  of  the  celebrated  artists  of  the  nation,  and  is  the 
only  body  in  the  realm  which,  by  its  wealth  and  position,  has  the 
power  to  undertake  &uch  a  duty,  and  above  all  because  nobl^ftse  obUr/e. 
It  is  possible  that  some  among  its  number  may  consider  the  present 
i^rhools  of  the  Academy  sutiicient  to  redeem  all  their  pled<z:c's  to  the 
nation.  With  tliem  thee  can  be  no  dispute;  we  liuve  to  deal  with 
tje  brain  of  the  Academy,  and  to  that  we  appeal.  Although  most  of  its 
members  are  anxious  to  do  nobly  by  the  nation,  they  nTay  find  their 
action  shackled  by  those  who  wish  to  keep  the  even  tenor  of  their 
fid  v.'ay.  If  it  be  not  a  haven  wlicre  the  wicked  cease  from  trou- 
liliug  and  the  weary  are  at  rest,  then  v.iiat  good  shall  their  lives  do 
unto  them  ?  The  vis  viiw  of  the  institution  has  of  late  received  a 
fresii  impulse,  and  with  it  a  fresh  development  may  probably  follow. 

There  is  one  means  by  which,  in  any  case,  those  who  desire  to  as- 
sist English  art  may  help  the  advance  of  a  new  era.  They  may  in- 
duce her  chief  men  tc  form  schools  of  their  own,  and  tri^nsmit  their 
art  and  their  reputation  to  a  younger  generation.  All  great  artists 
liave  done  this  in  past  times,  and  do  so  still  on  the  Continent. 
Were  half  a  dozen  masters  of  our  own  nation  to  undertake  the  task, 
a  wonderiul  progress  would  coon  be  apparent ;  brotherhoods  would 
spring  up,  and  with  them  a  keener  rivalry  in  all  excellence.  Men  fit 
to  head  the  chief  sections  of  thought  would  take  the  lead,  and  the 
next  generation  of  students  would  find  itself  under  trained  leaders, 
t^uppose  that  such  men  as  Millais,  Watts,  Burne  Jones,  Sir  F. 
Leighton,  Poynter,  Hook,  and  others  were  to  gather  round  them  a 
number  of  sympathetic  students,  is  it  not  evident  that  the  mass  of 
knowledge  which  they  have  accumulated  would  fructify  in  the 
miads  of  others,  and  not  expire  with  their  own  lives  ? 

ilas  for  the  inowledge  that  has  died  out  with  Reynolds,  Consta- 
ble, and  Crome!  Each  might  have  instructed  a  succession  of  great 
painters,  whose  education  would  have  redounded  to  their  glory. 
\Vhat  of  Turner,  who  lived  the  intimate  crony  of  Nature  for  sixty 
years,  and  learned  from  her  fresh  secrets  day  by  day?  What  a 
storehouse  of  knowledge  came  to  naught  at  his  death!  Have  we  not 
lost  enough?  Let  this  isolation  be  abandoned.  Remember  how  the 
old  Italian  artists  lived  and  died  amidst  their  schools;  how  know- 
ledge was  accumulated  and  kept  alive  through  a  thousand  channels; 
how  new  alfluents  joined  to  widen  the  swelling  river  of  Italian  art, 
till  it  has  flooded  the  whole  of  Europe  with  its  glory. 

A  future  no  less  great  may  be  in  store  for  the  art  of  England. 
It  springs  from  the  loins  of  a  race  that  dominates  the  world,  sections 
of  which  will  probably  form  half  a  dozen  great  nations,  and  civilise 
a  third  part  of  the  earth.  What  a  field  in  which  to  fructify;  what 
an  Empire  to  influence!  Such  need  be  no  dream  of  ambition;  it  is 
the  Ijirthri^ht  of  all  living  Englishmen.  Here  the  artist  has  a  more 
open  area  tor  success  than  those  who  would  achieve  fame  in  other 
fields  of  thought.   In  all  other  efforts  our  race  can  point  to  a  supreme 

L.  M.-  I.— 16. 


482  AET  EBUCATIOK  IN  GREAT  BEITAm, 

mind.    Bacon,  Shakespeare,  Locke,  and  other  giants  standr?  fort!i; 


gi 

that  may  become  an  oak.  Thus  I  fear  that  many  small  diiliOuIii^^ 
may  deter  our  masters  from  taking  on  themselves  duties  to  wlii-  :• 
they  are  unaccustomed,  although  it  were  the  only  mode  of  insuriii^ 
a  great  future.  Among  the  chief  is  the  los3  of  time,  and  the  coi:- 
sequent  h)ss  of  profit;  and  if  artists  will  not  sacrifice  some  porti  i 
of  these,  then  would  our  acorn  be  crushed  at  ouce.  I  will  n^t  i. 
lieve  that  art  alone,  among  the  liberal  professions,  i.i  so  ign  >  '/ 
selfish.  Artists  will  do  what  the  members  oi  other  i)roxessiuii>  un- 
dertake, ard  will  devote  a  certain  portion  of  their  time  for  the  ?:>■'•'. 
cf  the  commonwealth.  If  they  do  not  gather  quite  so  great  rk.it-, 
they  will  reap  the  more  honour,  and  obtain  an  infiuence  ^.•nich  ni;  y 
reward  them  in  man}*^  unexpected  ways. 

The  same  difiiculty  meets  us  in  another  guise.  It  is  urged  t!i  • 
the  pupils  themselves  may  forsake  their  master  to  make  proti»  "i 
their  immature  knowledge.  This  is  very  seldom  the  case  in  otiiv' 
countries,  and  I  cannot  believe  that  English  Students  are  less  aJiv  ■ 
to  their  own  honour  and  their  true  interests  than  those  of  rjih*  i- 
races.  Another  difiiculty  appears  to  be  the  limited  size  of  cvj 
studios,  and  the  consequent  difiiculty  of  accommodating  j)iiiM-. 
This  may  be  surmounted  by  the  payment  of  such  a  bonus  lo  i. 
master  as  will  enable  him  to  procure  his  pupils  the  very  sir.i;  • 
accommodation  that  is  required.  Every  new  procedure  ia  life  inh- 
entail  a  readjustment  of  its  surroundings;  but  1  see  no  gik'  ;' 
diificulty,  if  the  will  to  act  be  only  present.  Let  but  half  a  (i«./t . . 
let  but  only  two  inaugurate  the  work,  and  a  new  epoch  Will  da>uL 

If  the  leaders  of  the  profession  arc  to  accept  Dew  duties,  let  v 
Government  revise   the  teaching  of  its  schools.     Lcl  Nnith  K 
/  sington  and  its  numerous  afiiliations  offer  the  m^cano  of  a  real  ! " 
paration  for  the  higher  branches  of  art.  and  fit  pupils  for  the  ii. 
advanced  tea<  hing  thi.t  will  open  to  them.     The  scholars  of  a  n;.'.-    ' 
ought  to  be  gi'ouuded  in  the  grammar  of  their  profession.  A  pr«'ir^^  : 
does  not  teach  the  syntax,  but  deals  with  the  literature  lie  pr..fe>-.  • 
liCt   the  Government  recognise   excellence    in  art,  and  give  it  r. 
lionourable  distinction.     The  absence  of  some  aeknowledgmea:  * 
merit   is   a  great  defect  in   our  body  politic,  and  tends'to  iii.  \ 
wealth  the  only  measure  of  success.     The  often -quoted  sentim'!'. 
that  duty  is  an  all-in-all  reward  to  onr  race,  is  put  forth  as  an  .:: 
cuse  for  ignoring  those  Avho  deserve  public  distinction  in  iinoll'i    ■ 
life.     Were  it  the  custom  of  the  country  to  leave  merit  uninnr-   : 
in  all  professions  and  in  every  rank,  under  the  plea  that  all  Eiii:^:-  • 
men   do  their  duty,  and  are   therefore   equally  meritorious,  tin  r 
would  be  a  fine  flavour  of  honourable  pride  in  the  myth;  but  th^f  - 
no  longer  our  belief.      The  nation  distributes  honours,  and  g:vui 


&BT  EDUCATION  IN  GEEAT  BKITAIN.  483 

decorations;  but  they  are  all  given  to  officials  (that  is,  to  those  who 
serve  the  Government  or  the  Crown  in  one  capacity  or  the  other): 
those  men  who  serve  their  country  no  less  in  an  unofficial  capacity 
art  ignored. 

Finally,  in  this  country  the  source  of  all  progress  must  he  in  the 
cCorts  ot  the  leaders  of  the  people,  and  not  in  their  Government, 
It  is  to  them  I  make  my  chief  apjxial;  'tis  they  who  must  move,  and 
the  Government  will  be  moved.  The  time  is  ripe ;  the  art  of  the  day 
i.  mil  of  promise;  young  men  hold  the  most  prominent  places;  there 
lire  no  giant  names  to  overshadow  future  merit,  no  malign  influences 
to  impede.  The  Royal  Academy  possesses  a  President  worthy  of 
tiiat  illustrious  body;  let  them  take  "the  direct  forthright "  and  show 
tije  way;  let  all  jxjtty  jealousies  lie  prostrate.  The  rest  of  the  pro- 
f  >sioii  must  follow,  and  will  follow  to  such  good  purpose  tiiat,  cen- 
turies hence,  when  England's  art  has  spread  over  the  whole  earth, 
tue  present  generation  shall  be  remembered  as  the  foster-mother  of 
iti  mature  glory.  Coutts  Lindsay,  in  Time. 


TOILEBS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTOEY. 

No.  L    Exodus. 

It  was  Arctic  weather  in  the  county  of  Kent  in  the  month  of 
January  in  this  present  year.  A  thinly-powdered  snow,  like  the  frost 
on  the  figures  of  a  Twelfth  "ight  cake,  lay  adust  on  the  rich  brown 
eurtli  of  the  hop-fields.  The  tall-hop-poles  stacked  about  the  fields 
Misjgested  the  notion  of  a  vast  encampment  deserted  by  its  troops. 
The  cowls  and  sloping  sides  of  the  local  "  oasts'*  ;:resented  to  fancy 
the  vision  of  a  Brobdingnagian  monastic  priesthood  turned  out  of 
liouse  and  home,  and  grown  stony  with  the  cold.  The  fields  were 
Hnpty  and  silent,  and  in  the  distance  Canterbury  Cathedral  lifted 
\U  towers  into  the  blue,  and  offered  a  quiet  invitation  from  these 
'f'liely  spaces.  As  I  moved  forward  to  accept  that  silent  call,  I  came 
upon  an  aged  man,  who  stood  at  the  edge  of  a  forest  of  bare  hop- 
poles,  looking  idly  down  their  geometrical  perspectives.  The  old 
man,  though  bent,  was  sturdy.  His  hands  and  his  face  were  gnarled 
^vith  years  and  weather,  and  his  cheek  was  streaked  with  rose,  like 
the  skin  of  a  ripe  apple.  There  was  a  certain  dull  dignity  about 
him— I  cannot  describe  it  better — which  I  have  found  notuncommon 
ainongst  the  more  elderly  workers  in  the  fields,  and  a  certain  bowed 
sadness  with  it  which  enlisted  liking  and  respect. 

He  gave  me  a  cheerful  "  Good-day"  in  answer  to  my  salutation, 
and  we  fell  into  talk  together.  I  offered  the  very  obvious  statement 
lliat  there  was  not  a  jnreat  deal  being  done  there.     "No,"  he  said. 


484        "^        TOILEES  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTORY. 

**  very  little;  more  the  pity."  I  supposed  the  men  were  on  strike 
**No,"  he  answered,  **  not  on  strike.  Locked  out."  What  was  the 
difference  between  being  locked  out  and  being  on  strike?  The  aged 
man  paused  on  liis  staff  to  accost  me,  and  said  he  didn't  rightly  know. 
But  how  he  looked  at  it  was  this.  AVheu  the  men  wanted  more 
wages,  and  the  masters  wouldn't  give  it,  and  the  men  stood  out  for 
it,  then  it  was  a  strike.  When  the  masters  wanted  to  drop  the 
men's  wages,  and  the  men  wouldn't  stand  it,  and .  the  ma«;ters 
wouldn't  give  more,  why  then  they  were  locked  out.  Was  ho 
locked  out?  Why,  yes,  he  was,  he  answered,  with  a  sort  of 
reservation  in  his  air,  as  though  he  were  not  altogetiier  sure,  ami 
would  rather  not  commit  himself.  The  amount  in  dispute  in  \\U 
case  was  eighteenpence  a  week.  He  believed  it  was  less  with 
some  and  more  with  others.  Was  it  w^orth  while,  I  asked  him.  to 
stand  out  for  that?  "Ah,"  he  said,  gravely  plodding  along  be<i(k* 
me,  "eighteenpence  is  the  price  of  a  quarter- bushel  o'  wheat.  That -^ 
how  we  look  at  it.  It  ud  pay  a  man's  rent,  nigh  on,  eighteenpence  a 
week  ud.  Why,  it  don't  cost  me  that  for  firing."  Eighteenpence  a 
week  began  to  take  an  aspect  of  importance.  But  had  not  tin* 
farmers  lost  money  lately?  Could  they  afford  to  pay  more  than  tluy 
offered?  He  shook  his  hcfid  and  turning  on  me  with  a  slow  ami 
bovine  observation,  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  give  me  his  confidence 
or  not,  he  said,  with  great  seriousness,  tluit  times  was  changed,  antl 
follvs  changed  with  'em.  How  changed?  He  shook  his  head  again. 
"  They  live^  more  expensive  and  extravagant.  They  holds  tlnir 
heads  higher.  It's  been  a  rare  lime  for  gettin.T^  on  since  I  remcDitM  r. 
Look  at  the  town  there.  Everybody's  got  on  besides  we."  jVIeuni'  .' 
the  agriculturiil  labourers.  ** ";  es.  The  labourers  is  where  tiny 
allays  was.  Everybody  else  is  got  on  like,  and  lives  more  exl)eu^ivc 
and  extravagant;  all  but  the  labourers." 

But  surely,  I  reminded  him,  he  mast  be  able  to  remember  far 
worse  times  than  this — when  he  was  a  boy,  for  instance?    AVoll.  v**-. 
he  admitted,  witli  a  wslow  and  thoughtful  gravity,  he  was  old  enouc'i 
to  remember  when  Boneyparty  died.     Bread  was  dear  and  w:il-'  ^ 
was  low,  but  that  was  along  of  the  war  and  the  com-laws.  ai.  I 
made  no  sort  of  count  with  these  times.     He  stopped  to  fill  his  pii  ■ . 
and  told  me,  whilst  he  fumbled  over  mv  tobacco-pouch,  with  iii^ 
stick  under  one  arm,  that  to  his  mind  fingland  was  over-gro^vt  1. 
and  it  was  no  sort  o*  good  for  a  working-man  to  think  of  st.i}iT : 
in  it — not  if  he  wanted  to  be  better  off  than  his  father  had  been  ?• 
fore  him.     Striving  to  test  the  old  man's  political  economics.  I  a^'  •  '. 
him  w^hy  a  man  should  wish  to  bo  better  off  than  his  fathirl:  ; 
been,     lie  smiled  quietly  at  this,  and    shook  his  head,   like  i  • 
rural  philosopher  he  was.     "Don't  you  think,  sir,  as  you*d  Ivf. r 
ax  my  master  that  afore  you  axes  me?"    I  persisted  there  mi.-t 
always  be  master  and  servant,  labourer  and  farmer.      "Ah."  '" 
answered,  "  but  you  mustn't  tell  me  as  us  can't  have  a  shout  for  ii, 


TOILERS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTOKY.     ^"'^      485 

about  who*s  a-going  to  he  man  and  whose  a-going  to  be  master." 
Ay,  but  how  about  his   pastors  and    masters,  and  tlie  place  to 
which  it  pleased  Providence  to  call  him?    He  smiled  attain,  half  in 
enjoj-ment  of  his  pipe,   I  fancy,   and  half    in  enjoyment  of  his 
rejoinder,     "  It's  a-pleasing  Providence  to  call  one  o*  my  sons  to 
Noo  Zealand  nex'  week.     He'll  have  his  opportoonity  theer  as  he 
can't  get  it   here,  never.     England's   over-growed.     No.     I    don't 
say  it's  nobody's   fault   particular.     The    country's  over-growed. 
I've  been  working  on  the  land  fifty  year,  and  wheer  am  I  now? 
I'm  a  working  on  the  land  now,  or  leastways  I  should  be  if  I  wasn't 
locked  off  of  it."    Was  he  himself,  I  asked,  going  to  New  Zealand? 
"^0,  sir,"  he  answered;  "I  be  too  old.     I've  got  one  son  theer,  as 
went  out  a-emigrating  four  year  ago.     An'  I've  got  another  as  is 
going  along  with  Mr.  Bimmons  nex'  week — him  and  his  wife.    No, 
sir,  1  sha'nt  attempt  for  to  go  out  theer  after  'em,  not  at  my  time  o' 
life.    I  shall  put  my  old  bones  down  in  7ni/  own-born  parish,  /  sliall. " 
I  am  not  willingly  unmindful  of  the  home-made  pathos  of  these  peo- 
ple, who  never  read  one  sentence  of  sentiment  in  their  lives,  and  who 
are  ignorant  of  all  written  poetry  outside  Bible  and  Hymnal  and 
Church-service.    Yet  I  ventured  to  follow  my  companion's  thoughts 
a  little  further.    It  was  hard,  I  said,  to  part  with  his  children.     He 
smiled  again  slowly — a  ruminant  smile,  as  if  a  bullock  should  un- 
bend from  his  common  gravity.     *  He  ain't  no  chicken,  my  son  ain't. 
He  can  take  care  o*  himself." 

We  came  together  to  tlie  old  man's  house,  one  of  three  cottages, 
built  of  mellow  brick  and  cloaked  in  the  upper  part  with  wood  after 
the  quaint  architectural  fashion  of  the  county.  It  had  a  little  gar- 
den, then  frost-bound  and  powdered  lightly  with  thin  snow,  but 
looking  orderly,  and  as  if  it  could  be  prosperous  in  the  more  genial 
seasons  of  the  year.  In  the  kitchen  sat  an  old  woman,  beside  a  small 
but  sufficient  fire,  clicking  a  set  of  knitting-needles.  In  a  recess, 
agninst  the  whitewashed  wall,  with  an  old  copy  of  the  *  *  South- 
Eastern  Gazette"  between  it  and  the  whitewash,  hung  a  part  of  a 
flitch  of  bacon,  with  a  bit  of  lath  to  keep  the  string  which  sup- 
ported it  from*slipping.  The  unclothed  deal  table  with  its  red  legs 
was  as  clean  as  the  snow  which  lay  upon  the  fields  outside,  and  the 
floor  and  the  walls  and  the  hearthstone,  and  the  one  tin  candlestick 
wliich,  side  by  side  with  a  great  lump  of  rock-glass,  ornamented  the 
mantelpiece,  were  as  clean  as  the  table.  The  old  woman  dusted  a 
rhair  for  me,  and  would  not  sit  down  again  until  I  was  seated.  The 
:>ld  man  and  I  resumed  our  talk,  and  at  the  first  mention  of  New 
Zealand  his  wife  stopped  the  knitting-needles,  above  a  pendent 
lalf-yard.  of  gray  stocking,  and  asked  if  I  had  been  there.  I 
mswered  "No,"  and  then  she  questioned  me  as  to  what  I  knew 
ibout  it.  When  I  had  sufficiently  exposed  my  ignorance  to  myself, 
md  had  told  her  what  little  I  could,  she  wiped  her  eyes,  and  said 
he  hoped  the  poor  creeturs  'ud  do  well  there.    But  she  didn't  know 


iSe       ~^       TOILERS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTORY. 

rightly,  so  she  said,  poor  soul,  about  Mr.  Simmons;  and  I  believe 
that  if  anybody  had  assured  h'^r  that  the  pmpose  of  the  Union 
Secretary  was  to  sink  the  emigrating  five  hundred  in  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  she  would  have  gone  olf  on  foot  to  Biddenden  at  once,  to 
warn  her  son  against  him.  Some  folks  said,  so  she  told  me,  thai 
Mr.  Simmons  sold  the  men  and  women  he  took  out;  but  I  dis- 
missed that  preposterous  trouble.  Like  a  woman — always  more  o].'-^n 
to  religious  comfort  than  a  man — she  laid  bare  the  simple  hopes  bhe 
had  of  seeing  George  again,  "in  Canaan,"  which  was  evidently  a 
much  more  real  place  to  her  than  New  Zealand.  There  occurred 
to  me  some  memorable  words:  '*My  household  gods  plant  a  terrible 
lixed  root,  and  are  not  rooted  up  without  blood.  They  do  not  >v{l- 
lingly  seek  Lavinian  shores."  It  became,  in  the  face  of  this  one  old 
woman's  homely-troubled  faith  and  tears,  not  altogether  easy  to  think 
that  a  wrong-headed  system,  or  a  charlatan's  meddling,  or  an  un- 
avoidable fate  was  bringing  about  this  Exodus  from  Kent  and  Sus- 
sex, and  grieving  five  hundred  households.  It  seems  not  unlikely 
that  it  may  be  England's  trouble  yet,  as  well  as  a  mere  household 
sorrow;  and  it  behoves  all  concerned  to  think  very  honestly  whidi 
of  those  three  causes  has  sent  the  Kentish  agitators'  boasted  eiiilit 
thousand  from  English  shores.  Mr.  Simmons,  editor  of  the  "  Kiht 
and  Sussex  Times,"  and  General  Secretary  of  the  Labourer's  Union, 
charges  the  Exodus  to  the  wrong-headedness  of  the  farmers  and 
landlords;  the  farmers  and  landlords  for  the  most  part  charge  it  t») 
the  interested  meddling  of  Mr.  Simmons  ;  and  some  political  econo- 
mists go  with  my  old  labourer  in  the  belief  that  ' '  this  country  is 
over-gro  wed. " 

Before  I  left  the  old  labourer,  I  got  from  him  his  son's  name  and 
address ;  and  finding  that  *  *  George  "  lived  in  a  part  of  the  county  v.hi.  ii 
I  was  bound  to  visit,  I  made  a  note  of  him,  and  in  due  time  call.d 
upon  him.  On  the  night  on  which  I  drove  over  from  Ileadcorfi, 
the  snow  lay  deep  upon  the  ground  and  made  heavy  going  It-r 
the  horses,  and  the  snow  came  down  like  a  cloud  and  made  it  ratlur 
cold  going  for  the  outside  passengers.  My  fellow-outsider  umi  1 
met  at  the  Railway  Inn  and  w^aited  for  the  coach  together,  and  Kll 
into  talk  about  the  strike.  That  was  the  title  he  gave  it.  "  Call  if  i 
lock-out,  if  you  like.  I  call  it  a  strike,  and  I  call  it  a  criminal  loi.y 
too.  I  knov/  three  men  in  the  county  who've  gone  bankrupt  i:.;-: 
year.  I'm  living  on  my  own  means  now,  and  farming  at  a  lo.ss.  I 
don't  believe  a  man  in  Ivent  has  made  farming  pay  this  three  year.>. 
As  for  the  men,  they  never  were  so  well  oG.  in  this  world  as  iht  v 
are  in  Kent  this  minute.  Why,  only  nine  or  ten  years  ago,  tiit  y 
used  to  have  to  put  in  three  days'  work  and  a  half  to  get  the  co^t  *•( 
a  bushel  of  wheat.  They  can  earn  a  bushel  of  wheat  in  two  days 
now."  A  trifle  of  exaggeration  there,  I  ventured  tc  hint.  "Wrli. 
that's  putting  it  roughly.  Say  two  days  and  a  half.  At  that  nite 
five  days'  work  a  wetik  produces  as  much  food  as  seven  days  could 


TOILERS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTORY.  487 

have  done  ten  years  ago.  Now  look  you,  my  rent  hasn't  been 
changed  for  eighty  years — rent  of  my  farm,  I  mean — good  yearn  and 
bad  years  have  been  all  one  to  the  landlord.  Witu  good  years  I 
launched  out  a  bit.  Now  IVe  got  to  draw  my  horns  in  nvd  re- 
trench. The  talk  about  agricultural  distress  and  agricultural 
wa^es  is  enough  to  make  a  man  sicit  if  lie  Ivuows  an5'tiiing  about 
the  question.  Look  at  my  carter  now.  I  pay  him  seventeen 
shillia^^  a-week.  H3  livas  rent  free  with  his  bit  of  garden,  and 
I  give  iiim  manure  for  his  garden,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing."  I  made 
some  timid  overture  towards  tha  discovery  of  what  "  all  tiiat  sort  of 
thing  "might  include;  but  my  interlocutor  was  in  a  great  heat  by 
this  time,  and  anathematised  agricultural  discontent  with  great  fluency 
until  the  coach  cams,  when  he  mounte  I,  and  took  refuge  from  the 
storm  in  silence  and  an  enormous  maitiji*. 

I  had  a  talk  with  tha  driver  of  th3  coach,  to  whom  I  appealed  as  an 
unprejudiced  observer;  but  beyond  the  statement  of  his  own  griev- 
ances I  secared  nothing  by  that  motioa.  "/be  bad  enough  olf  for 
anything,"  said  this  Uiiprajiidioii  observer;  and  beyond  that  hypo- 
thesis, and  a  fluent  and  discursive  enlargement  upon  it,  he  declined 
to  venture,  until  the  coach  stopped,  when  he  ottered  what  he  sup- 
posed to  be  a  hint,  in  the  obssrvation  that  "  this  was  the  sort  o'  nignt 
when  a  drop  o'  sammat  warm  'ain't  hurt  a  man,  /;;/  Qeora^cl" 

I  found  the  intending  emi-^rant  next  morning  half  a  mile  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  straggling  villa?3,  and' found  him  as  ready  to 
talk  as  any  mm  I  ever  met.  Pie  knew  all  about  New  Zealand,  and 
hal  recent  Iett3r3  from  his  brother  there,  painting  all  things  f')ul£ur 
d'  ror3.  I  had  not  talked  with  him  lon-^  before  I  discovered  that 
he  was  a  democrat  with  very  decided  political  ideas.  He  had  had 
boms  schooling,  and  read  the  papers.  I  think  I  coul  1  even  name 
the  particular  weekly  print  ha  favoured.  I  have  seen  much  matter 
in  its  columns  in  my  time  of  which  his  speech  reminded  me.  He 
was  dead  set  a^iinst  what  he  described  as  the  Holy  Garchy  of  the 
landlords.  *'Tne  farmers  think  as  they  can  crush  the  Union;  but 
they'll  find  thel?  mistake  out  afore  long.  They'll  find  out  as  the 
Unloa'll  crush  them.*'  Then  what  would  happen?  Wli}^  then 
they'd  come  to  their  senses.  But  if  all  the  farmers  were  crushed, 
who  would  employ  the  agricultural  labourers?  O,  the  land  would 
come  into  the  hands  of  the  people,  and  men  would  farm  for  them- 
selves. **  We  shall  have  to  learn  cociperation,  sir.  If  the  governing 
classes  only  acted  fair,  there'd  be  no  need  for  anybody  to  emigrate. 
There's  land  enough,  and  more  than  land  enough,  to  keep  all  the 
tnen  in  England.  Look  at  the  wastes  as  your  lords  and  dukes 
keep3  to  shoots  over.  Why,  pretty  near  every  bird  they  shoot  robs 
one  man  of  his  plot  o*  ground.  Look  at  the  Prince  o'  Wales,  and 
what  hs  does  for  a  living.  Look  at  the  Civil  List,  and  the  people 
us  lives  on  the  poor.  O  yes;  England's  a  very  good  place  for  a 
man  as  has  got  a  park  to  live  in;  but  it's  no  place  for  a  poor  man. 


488  TOILEKS  IN  FIELD  AND  FAOTOBT. 

sir,  as  is  a  bit  handy  with  his  hands  and  wants  to  get  on  in  life  It 
ain't  the  farmers'  fault  so  much  as  it  is  the  landlords'  and  the  go- 
verning classes'.  Why,  look  about  here.  Look  at  Lord  Holmesdale, 
the  biggest  landlord  in  Kent,  drawing  thousands  an'  thousands 
a  year  out  o'  the  land.  We've  had  bad  years  here;  but  do  you 
think  as  my  lord's  took  a  i^enny  off  the  farmers'  rents  ?  Not  *he ; 
nor  wouldn't.  Catch  him  at  it!  Catch  any  of  the  farmers  asidag 
him!  They  know  better.  I  never  quarrelled  with  my  bread-and- 
butter  here,  but  I  waited  for  my  chance  to  go;  and  now  I've  got  it, 
and  I'm  going.  There's  nothing  to  satisly  a  man's  heart  in  this 
country.  You  can  grind,  grind,  grind,  while  the  drones  live  on  liio 
sweat. of  your  brow,  and  tell  you  you're  lucky  when  the  parish  biuics 
you.  I'm  going  to  a  country  wheer  I  can  hold  my  head  up  lik<  ?, 
man."  And  so  on,  in  the  like  turgid  manner,  expressing  many  dee-v 
rooted  and  genuine  discontents.  "Did  you  ever  ccc 'em  bleed V. hur^Lj 
for  the  blind  staggers?  Well,  England's  got  the  "blind  staggers  now, 
and  tills  emigration's  a-blceding  lier.  It'll  cure  her.  O,  never  you 
fear,  it'll  cure  her;  but  it'll  take  tlic  best  blood  out  of  her.  Suppose 
all  the  working  men  took  the  tip  and  emigrated,  wlieer  would  llie 
landlords  be  then,  with  their  Prince  o'  Wales — eh?"  And  so  on 
again.  I  have  heard  many  scores  of  men  talking  in  this  di..- 
loyal  and  passionate  rtrain  within  the  last  half  year.  I  have  heard 
many  hundreds  applaud  such  talk.  There  is  room  enough  in  the 
country  for  the  political  schoolmaster  to  move  in,  and  sulky  fire 
enough  for  this  man's  favourite  broadsheet  to  fan  to  dangerous  name. 
He  came  to  a  milder  mood  after  a  time,  and  spoke  with  natuml 
regret  about  parting  with  his  father  and  mother.  There  are  grave- 
yards in  Kent  and  Busscx  as  elsewhere;  homesteads  endeared  by 
many  experiences;  ties  of  coimtry  and  kindred.  The  agricultural 
Jjriton  leaving  home — the  real  man,  that  is,  who  has  grit  in  him— 
makes  no  sentimental  proclamation  of  his  sorrow.  Theprobabilitirs 
are  that  such  pathetics  as  mud  find  a  way  out  of  him  will  come  forth 
clothed  with  curses,  and  that  his  favourite  substantive  will  be  u^<u 
with  shocking  frequency,  i  confess  that  I  liked  this  man  the  better 
in  this  connection,  because  he  cursed  a  little  and  vv-as  very  vulgar. 

I  asked  him  to  formulate  his  complaint.  lie  had  his  formula  ready, 
and  it  came  to  this.  That  if  a  man  wanted  to  buy  a  bit  of  land  in 
England  he  had  to  pay  nearly  as  much  to  be  allowed  to  buy  it  as  he 
had  to  pa}'^  for  the  land  itself.  That  if  he  got  the  land  in  that  part 
of  the  country,  either  for  his  own  or  by  rental,  it  incurred  a  tiiii-'; 
and  if  hops  were  grown  upon  it,  an  extraordinary  tithe  of  eightceu 
shillings  and  tenpence  an  acre. 

That  this  tithe  v/ont  to  the  support  of  men  who  made  it  the  syste- 
matic business  of  their  lives  to  be  hard  and  oppressive  with  the  p(»«^r. 
and  who,  when  they  held  the  civil  power,  as  they  often  did,  exercised 
it  with  a  cruel  rigour.  That  freedom  of  speech  was  only  possible  to 
him  at  his  own  personal  peril;  that  he  himself  suffered  for  it  heavily; 


TOILEES  m  YIELD  AND  FACTOET.  480 

and  that,  politically,  he  was  "  a  serf."  That  the  laws  of  primogeniture 
and  entail,  and  those  relating. to  the  transfer  of  hind,  amouutt  d  together 
to  a  dishonest  appropriation  of  his  birthright  as  a  man.  That  landlords 
preserved  game;  and  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure  of  killing  Fcme- 
thing,  kept  or  laid  bare  great  spaces  of  land,  and  so  crowded  ycor 
men  out  of  their  native  country.     He  wound  up  this  geneial  indict- 
ment by  a  quotation  from  Scripture:  *MVoe  unto  tlicm  thjit  join 
house  to  house,  that  lay  field  to  held,  till  there  be  no  place,  Ihnt  they 
may  be  placed  alone  in  the  midst   of  the  earth."    I  made  inquiries 
about  him  afterwards.     The  farmer  who  had  employed  him  until  the 
beginning  of  the  strike  summed  up  his  belief  in  him  thus:  "  He's  a 
pretty  goodish  man  to  have   about,  handy  and  sober  and  that,  but 
he's  a  wrong-headed  fool  of  a    feilow — Communi^t,  it's  my  belief." 
To  this  the  farmer  added  that   "live  and  let  live"  was  Ms  motto: 
and  that  these  here  Radicals  was  radicalous.     Then,  in  the  belief 
that  he  had  made  a  pun,  the  farmer  blushed  and  chuckled,  and 
looked,  in  a  comfortable   self-gratulatory  ^\\\y,  c^hiimcd  of  himself. 
Getting  back  to   Canterbur}-,   and  there  putting  myself  into  the 
hands  of  a  clear-headed  young  gentleman  from  the  northern  part  of 
this  island,  who  has  made  it    l?is  business  to  mnster  this  whole 
question  from  his  own  standpoint,    I  was  conveyed  to  a  certain 
public-house  in  that  venerable  citj^  a  house  from  fhe  wliitewashed 
wall  whereof  a  very  flat  white  lion   glared  vtiguely  en  the  street. 
This  house  was,  and  is,  the  rendezvous  of  tl:e  Ircktd-out  labourers 
in  that  part  of  the  county.     There  sat  on  the  table  in  the  c(mmon 
room  a  heavy-looking  man,  whose  clothes  wrinkled  upon   him  in 
folds  of  rhinoscerine  weight  and  thickness.     He  swung  his  corduroy 
legs  there  and  stared  wtth  a  disconsolate  face  into  an  empty  beer- 
mug.     There  were  seven  or  eight  other  people  scattered  alout  in  the 
fcemi-darkness  of  the  place;  but   this  cne  figure  was  in  broad  light, 
and  looked  remarkably  misenible.     Being  asked  if  he  would  drink, 
the  man  cheered  up;  and  having  been  supplied,  entered  into  speech 
with  us.     Was  he  one  of  the  labourers   on  strike?    He  examined 
that  question  in  the  froth  on  the  top  of  his  m.ug;  he  looked  for  an 
answer  to  it,  with  the  mug  at  his  lips,  en  the  ceiling.    He  regarded 
it  in  the  flake  of  froth  which  dripped  down  the  cutside  of  the  ex- 
hausted measure.    He  threw  the  question  out  of  window,  and  sur- 
v€*yed  it  with  ^is  head  on  one  side,  as  though  it  had  been  spread  on 
the  wall  opposite.     Then  he  rubbed  his  head  slowly,  as  if  to  excite 
his  intellectual  faculties  by  friction.     Finally  he  responded:  "  No,  I 
bean't  on  strike;  I  be  locked-out,  I  be."    Kot  a  Kentish  man  evi- 
dently.   His  tongue  bcwrayeth  him.    **  Wat's  the  differ  betwigst  bein' 
locked-out  an'  bein'  on  the  strike?    Well— got  a  pipe  o'  bacea,  meas- 
terV — ^thenky! — I  doan't  muddle  about  them  things."     Having  hard 
times  iust  now?     ''Why,  no.  sir,  naht  particeler."     Getting  money 
from  the  fund,  perhaps?    "Why,  yis,  but  naht  a  lot  o'  that  noyther. 
How  much?    He  extracted  an  answer  to  this  problem  by  dint  of 


490  TOILEKS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTOEY. 

rubbing  an  uplifted  eyebrow  vrith  his  thumb-nail.  "  Fifteen  bob  a 
week  strike-pay  we  gets."  But  I  had  thought  he  was  not  on  strike. 
lie  lield  ocular  consultation  with  the  authority  at  the  bottom  of  the 
empty  mug"  for  half  a  minute,  and  then  came  down  upon  us  with 
the  aspect  of  one  who  elucidates.  "That's  what  they  calils  it— 
strike-pay."  How  much,  I  asked  him,  would  he  be  able  to  earn  at 
work?  "  Wh3^  fifteen  bob  a  week,"  he  answered,  with  sulky  anger. 
Then  he  got  as  much  for  doing  notliing  as  he  could  get  for  workinii? 
"No,  I  doan't;  I  gets  extras  when  I  be  at  work."  How  much  in 
extras?  "Well,  sir,  sometimes  us  gets  so  much  and  sometimes  n-? 
doesn't."  Did  he  like  his  holiday?  "No,  I  doan't;  my  hands  is 
empty.  I  wahnts  a  pick  or  a  shool  or  somethin'  for  to  put  into  'em. 
You  b'leeve  me,  sir,  us  is  reglar  mizzable.  Us  ain't  got  notbin'  to 
do.  Us  cahn't  llli  usses  hands,  an'  us  cahn't  drink  ahl  day,  be- 
cause us  cahn't  affard  it."  More  pathetics.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
me  until  now  that  these  people  did  not  in  some  measure  enjoy  their 
well-paid  idleness.  But  here  I  thought  on  the  blankncss  of  the  pros- 
pect. No  chess,  no  billiards,  no  books,  no  journals,  no  piano,  iio 
club,  no  conversation;  nothing  to  think  about;  nowhere  to  go;  noth- 
ing to  do ;  no  spare  monej^  to  spend.     A  blank  prospect ! 

We  fell  to  talk  al)out  the  country  and  its  interests.     Was  there  any 
patriotism  extant  here?    Had  they  any  iii-will  to  England  that  they 

were  going  to  leave  her?     "  England  b d!"  said  one,  and  tiie 

others  raised  a  sympathetic  murmur.     "  Ah,"  said  a  little  man  from 
the  corner,  with  a  sage  nod  of  the  head,  "  preaps  they'll  be  a- wanting; 
us  to  fight  the  Roosians  by  and  by."     Well,  come  now,  he  surely 
wouldn't  be  glad  of  that?    He  wouldn't  like  to  see  his  own  side 
beaten?     "I  don't  say  as  I  should,"  he  responded;  " leastways,  not 
altogether.     But  it  ud  serve  'era  right  to  get  a  licking  for  their  pains. 
AVhat  do  tli£y  want  to  go  a-turning  the  Bone  and  Sinni  out  o'  the 
country  for?"    ^Vho  was  to  blame  for  that?     "  Why  not  us  bcan't/' 
said  the  heavy  man  who  sat  upon  the  table.     "  Nor  yet  the  farmers." 
said  a  third.     Who  then?     "  Why  the  landlords,"  said  a  fourth  from 
k  dark  corner.     "  An'  the  parsons,"  said  the  man  on  the  table,  launch- 
ing into  unreportable  invective.     I  may  say  here,  generall3%  that  I 
have  found  the  mention  of  a  parson  act  as  a  more  or  less  powerful 
irritant  upon  the  nerves  of  alrtaostall  the  agricultural  labourers  I  hiive 
freely  talked  with.     Excepting  some  two  or  three  cases  in  which 
clergymen  have  misused  their  powers  as  guardians  of  the  poor  an<i 
as  magistrates,  I  am  without  reasons  for  this  curious  despite  and  ha- 
tred.    But  that  it  does  exist,  I  know ;  and  it  is  a  matter  about  which 
almost  anybody  who  has  real  acquaintance  with  rural  life  will  talk, 
with  contrastea  sympathy  here  and  abhorrence  there. 

I  could  find  m  the  depth  of  winter,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
struggle  between  money  and  muscle,  no  signs  of  poverty  amidst  tlie 
labourers  of  Kent  and  Sussex.  Yet  to  the  eyes  of  the  intending 
emigrants  and  many  others,  those  pleasant  counties  were  at  best 


TOILERS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTORY.  491 

but  a  sort  of  Goshen,  in  a  land  pitcli-dark  elsewhere,  and  flmitt/?n 
—could  you  only  believe  the  delegates — with  more  and  heavier 
plagues  than  Egypt  knew.  There  were  reasons  for  going  which  I 
nave  had  no  time  to  indicate,  some  of  them  the  stupidest  or  most 
trivial  imaginable.  But  whoever  thought  about  it  at  all  amongst  the 
emigrants  seemed  to  have  resolved  on  this  step-as  a  sort  of  self-helpful 
protest  against  the  land-laws  and  the  clergy.  Let  the  delegates  say 
what  they  will,  these  men  and  .women  were  well-fed,  well-housed, 
well-clothed.  Few  need  fly  from  Kent  to  escape  poverty,  of  the 
griDdiDg  hungry  sort  at  least;  and  the  labourers  of  the  west  would 
tliiak  Sussex  a  paradise. 

On  the  28th  of  January  last  departing  Israel  assembled  in  Egypt, 
and  met  its  Moses  at  the  8kating-kink,  at  Maidstone.  At  night  the 
great  building  was  filled  with  a  moving  crowd  of  men  and  women — 
for  the  most  part  intending  emigrants  and  their  friends.  The 
general  air  was  one  of  cheerful  alacrity.  The  first  tug  of  parting 
was  already  over,  and  the  last  w^as  waiting  at  Plymouth,  with 
the  big  ship  which  would  by  and  by  drop  down  into  unknown  seas 
with  half  this  crowd  in  company.  Strolling  through  the  place, 
reading  the  declamatory  banners,  and  catching  spoken  fragments  of 
hope,  and  good-bye,  and  brag,  and  despondency,  I  lighted  on  a 
chirpy  little  man,  with  blije  eyes  and  a  fresh  complexion,  and  a  gor- 
geous neckerchief  of  Turkey  red,  and  with  him  and  a  pale-faced 
chum  of  his  struck  up  a  conversation.  There  was  a  hectic  certainty 
of  success  expressed  in  the  little  man's  speech.  *'  Yes,"  he  said, 
"I'm  a-going  to  do  well  in  Noo  Zeahm.  I  know  all  about  planta- 
tions, an'  I  shall  have  plantations  o'  my  own  in  a  'ear  or  two.  It's 
the  beautifuUest  work  as  is,  an'  I  know  all  about  it.  O,  yes,  I've 
been  pretty  well  off  in  England,  but  I  shall  be  better  off  in  Noo 
Zealun.  I'll  tell  vou  why.  I'm  a-going  there  to  shake  weights  off  of 
viy  shoulders.  I  m  going  to  shake  the  Queen  off  of  my  shoulders. 
An'  the  Prince  o'  Wales.  An*  the  R'yal  Fam'ly.  An'  the  Chancel 
Thicks  Chequer'  (so  he  named  that  high  functionary).  An'  the  Na- 
tiomal  Debt.  An'  the  tithes,  an'  the  taxes,  an'  the  poor's  rates,  an' 
the  parsons,  an'  the  wuU  lot  on  'em.  I'm  a-going  to  start  fresh,  / 
am.  No  fear  o*  me.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  Noo  Zealun."  '*  Let's 
hope  so,"  said  the  pale-faced  chum.  "I  ought  to  do  pretty  decent, 
lean  turn  my  hand  to  nigh  .a'most  anythin'."  They  w^ere  both  a 
little  wistful,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  New  Zealand  prospects 
"were  somewhat  nebulous  to  look  at. 

The  whole  meeting  held  but  little  anger  or  bitterness,  and  not 
one  sign  of  urgent  poverty.  The  old-fashioned  agricultural  dress 
was  no  more  to  be  seen  than  the  Adamic  fig-leaf.  The  men  woie 
tweed  or  broadcloth  coats,  and  the  women  had  each  some  copy  oT 
the  finenesses  of  the  town.  A  wonderful  collection  of  metallic  bui- 
terflies  and  beetles  might  have  been  made  from  their  bonnets.  But 
it  is  of  course  unnecessary  to  insist  on  the  fact  that  no  outward 


492  TOILEES  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTOEY. 

Sressure  of  common  discomfort  had  brought  about  this  movement. 
lOt  even  the  inward  pressure  of  common  discontent  could  alone 
have  stirred  this  body  of  men  to  action.     Public  opinions  are  not 
available  as  motive  forces.     They  grease  the    wheel,    but    some 
notable  person  must  set  his  shoulder  to  it    and  keep    it    going. 
Here,    in    Kent  and    Sussex,    the    notable    person  is  Mr.   Alfrtrl 
Simmons.     This  man  has,  by  his  own  showing,  moved  the  wheel 
to  such  purpose  that  he  has  rolled  more  than  eight  thousand  jwople 
out  of  this  country  to  look  for  a  better.     He  is  an  important  factor 
in  this  question,   and  it  is  worth  while  to  look  at  him..    When 
he  arose  to  address  the  assembly  at  the  Kink,  the  careless  buzz 
which  had  accompanied  the  other  speakers  ceased  at  once.      The 
scattered  crowd,    moving    in    vague   individual    orbits,    suddenly 
grew  compact  and  still.      The    deliverer  and  law-giver   had   hl^ 
last  word  to  say  on  the  edge'of  the  wilderness.     It  ?i?emed  to  me  a 
very  poor  last  word — an   egotistic  narrow-minded   talk.      It  wa:* 
chiefly  about  himself  and  his  being  misrepresented.     He  prayed 
that  any  later  man  who  should  rise  up  to  do  good  to  the  people 
might  meet  more  Christian   charity  than  he  had  met  with.     Ihe 
scoffers  say  that  Mr.  Simmons's  advocacy  has  made  him  well-to-do. 
Mr.  Simmons  repudiated  with  scorn  the  allegation  that  he  had  made 
money  out  of  the  labourers.     Yet  rumour  credits  him  with  some  ad- 
vance in  wealth  and  social  position  since  he  first  consecrated  hiniKlf 
to  his  present  office.     There  is  no  accusation  in  this  commoD  belief. 
The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire — occasionally.     Why  not  the 
labourer's  advocate? 

Next  morning  the  little  Israel  marched  out  of  Egypt  with  bag  and 
baggage.  The  procession,  led  by  a  body  of  handbell-ringers,  walked 
to  thestation  amidst  multitudinous  farewells.  There  were  good-byes 
of  all  sorts  at  the  railway  station.  There  were  good-byes  said  by 
parting  lovers  pretty  sure  to  meet  again,  and  lovers  not  so  certain. 
There  were  good-byes  of  old  folks  to  broad-built  sons  and  daughter^, 
whom  they  w^ould  see  no  more,  and  chubby  grandchildren,  who  here 
went  out  of  life  for  ever,  except  as  shadows.  Father,  and  mother,  and 
sturdy  chum ;  and  apple-cheeked  sweetheart,  heavy  with  much  weep- 
ing; and  long,  brown,  Sussex  furrow;  and  pleasant  orchard  of  old 
Kent, — good-bye ! 

Do  these,  who  leave  us,  push  ungratefully  aside  the  motherly 
arms  of  the  land  which  nurtured  them,  and  would  fain  hold  them 
still?  Or  has  she  been  careless  of  their  well-being?  Or  has  her 
wide  bosoni  no  longer  any  room  for  them.  These  questions  are  the 
legacy  the  emigrants  bequeath  us.  Titnc. 


WAGNEE  AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

TSE  influence  of  Wagner  on  musio,  and  esperially  on  the  mnsical 
drama,  has  now  been  very  great  for  something  like  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury ;  and  the  growth  and  changes  of  his  reputation  throughout  this 
time  haye  been  extremely  curious.  Almost  as  soon  as  he  was  famous 
he  became  a  mark  for  ridicule,  and  in  some  countries — notably  in  Eng- 
land— he  was  ridiculed  before  he  was  known  ;  while  in  France  he  has 
been  hooted  down,  partly  from  a  false  feeling  of  patriotism,  and  has 
never  had  a  chance  of  being  fairly  judged.  Then,  when  we  in  England 
had  heard  his  greatest  works — "Lohengrin,"  "Tannhauser,"  the  "Fly- 
ing Dutchman" — ^more  or  less  well  done,  and  had  thus  some  genuine 
knowledge  of  him,  there  was  a  certain  reaction,  both  from  the  ridicule 
and  the  praise,  and.  while  his  satirists  were  forced  to  admit  his  real  dra- 
matic power,  his  admirers  found  an  insufficiency  of  beauty  in  much  of 
his  work,  and  often  something  to  object  to  even  in  liis  beauties.  Then 
it  became  the  fashion  among  both  classes,  to  say  that  he  was  greater  as 
a  dramatic  poet  than  as  a  musician  ;  and  this  opinion  is  perhaps  just 
now  the  popular  one  among  those  who  take  most  interest  in  his  work. 

K  this  be  so,  it  is  surely  wrong  that,  while  so  much  has  been  written 
of  his  music,  and  of  the  general  effect  of  his  works,  there  should  have 
been  no  critical  examination — ^in  England  at  all  events — of  his  special 
dramatic  faculty :  no  review  of  his  collected  stage  works,  which  might 
note  their  charactaristics,  their  merits  and  failings,  and  might  esti- 
mate the  share  that  his  powers  as  a  dramatist  has  had  in  raising 
him  to  his  present  fame.  Of  course,  one  cannot  exactly  compare  his 
dramatic  genius  to  his  musical  genius,  as  one  cannot  compare  Beethoven 
to  Shakespeare,  but  one  may  perhaps  discover  whether  they  go  hand  in 
hand,  each  helping  and  suiting  the  oiher,  or  whether  either  does  all  the 
work,  and  carries  its  weaker  brother  along  with  it. 

That  Wagner  deserves  the  most  careful  and  thorough  criticism  is,  I 
think,  unquestionable.  He  has  done  a  great  work  for  the  operatic  stage, 
not  merely  in  his  abolition  of  the  commonplace  recitative,  and  other 
absurd  conventionalities,  but  in  his  entire  reform  of  the  language  and 
style  of  plot  of  musical  plays.  If  we  compare  his  libretti  with  those  of 
Scribe,  ot  the  best  of  his  contemporaries,  we  find  an  astonishing  differ- 
ence. As  a  rule,  though  Scribe's  plots  were  finer  than  those  of  the 
average  librettist,  and  his  construction  was  good,  his  language  was  want- 
ing in  poetry  and  distinction,  and  his  stwies  were  those  of  ordinary 
plays,  by  no  means  specially  and  exclusively  suited  for  music.  Of  all 
faults,  these  are  the  ones  with  which  Wagner  can  least  be  charged :  there 
can  be  no  question  that  the  legends  of  the  "Flying  Dutchman,"  of 
"  Tannhauser/'  of  the  "  WalkUre,"  are  distinctively  adapted  for  the  lyrio 

(493) 


494  WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

stage — as  are  (by  exception)  those  of  **  Der  Frieschntz  "  and  of  'Tanst, 
and  88  is  not,  for  exan^ple,  that  of  '*  FideHo."  There  isnoivant  of  poet2 
in  him-^rather,  perhaps,  a  want  of  prose  of  life,  common  sense  ao 
steady  strength. 

£Qs  work  bears,  indeed,  a  strong  likeness  to  certain  schools  of  paintii 
and  poetry  now  fashionable  in  England — to  the  productions  of*  Bun 
Jones  and  of  Swinburne.  Like  theirs,  his  technical  knowledge  is  ve 
great ;  like  them,  he  avoids  as  the  one  deadly  fault  commonplaceuei 
of  style  ;  and  hke  them  he  often  chooses  subjects  interesting  rather 
minds  trained  to  art  than  to  the  mass  of  mankind — to  a  certain  extcu 
perhaps,  he  holds  the  creed  of  **  for  art's  sake,"  though,  like  most  w 
profess  it,  he  loses  no  chance  of  exemplifying  his  own  ultra-mode 
system  of  morals. 

Now  it  must  be  noticed  that  this  addressing  a  small  selected  audience 
is,  if  not  absolutely  a  new  thing  in  the  history  of  dramatic  art,  at  all 
events  a  thing  opposed  to  all  traditions  of  the  tiieatre.  Of  all  the  arts, 
the  stage  has  ever  been  the  most  democratic,  has  appealed  to  the  -^-idtst 
audience.  Raffaelle  and  Tuiiier,  Beethoven,  and  even  Handel,  are  little 
known  except  to  the  tolerably  educated  classes;  but,  to-day,  as  three 
hundred  years  ago,  every  imwashed  boy  who  can  get  together  sixpence 
has  some  knowledge  of  Shakespeare,  has  heard,  it  may  be  in  a  bam,  the 
roarings  of  some  lusty  Othello  :  and  were  not  .SJschylus  and  his  younger 
brethren  the  birthright  of  every  citizen  of  Athens?  So  it  has  been  a 
necessity  that  the  drama  should  always  be  the  simplest,  the  most  readily 
enjoyed  of  arts ;  the  scholarly  exercises  of  Bach  and  the  w^ild  fancies  of 
Blake  have  alike  no  parallel  on  the  stage,  and  the  intolerance  of  a  mixed 
lELudience  has  given  rise  to  that  curious  hybrid — which  has  no  fellow  in 
any  other  art — the  poet's  *'play  for  the  closet,"  to  be  read  not  acted. 

Note  the  universal  human  interest  of  all  Shakespeare's  greatest  trage- 
dies— jealousy,  ambition,  ingratitude,  reyenge,  are  passions  felt  alike  in 
Seven  Dials,  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  in  Athens ;  and  he  htts  set  them 
forth  in  their  barest  and  plainest  forms.  The  case  of  the  great  Greek 
dramatists  is  almost  stronger,  for  they  took  stories  familiar  to  each  person 
in  their  audience,  and  often  connected  with  his  deepest  hopes  aud 
fears ;  Galderon  in  his  finest  plays,  addressing  a  Spanish  audience,  ap- 
pealed most  of  all  to  the  great  characteristic  quality  of  the  Spaniara«^ 
of  his  day — superstition ;  and  Moli^re  lashed  savagely  the  pests  of  all 
ages — hypocritical  priests,  quack  doctors,  misers,  and  libertines. 

The  dcuiger  and  the  drawback  of  this  is  evident — in  appealing  to  the 
crowd,  it  is  yery  difficult  not  to  sacrifice  something  of  the  re^pect  of 
the  scholar.  None  but  the  greatest  stagcpoets  have  succeeded  in  win- 
ning  the  suffrages  both  of  the  many  and  of  the  few  ;  and  it  is  perhaps 
this  peculiar  difficulty  which  gives  to  the  drama  its  supremacy.  No- 
thing must  be  too  great  or  too  little  for  the  dramatist ;  his  mind  most 
be  at  once  strong  and  refined,  his  imagination  must  be  immense  and 
yet  perfectly  healthy.  A  good  high-class  play  must  be  powerful,  com- 
plete, coherent,  clear,  not  overlong,  sympathetic,  wholesome,  varied 


WAGNEE  AS  A  DRAMATIST.  495 

and  yet  harmonious  in  style,  poetic  yet  practicable,  with  sofficient  inci- 
dent and  with  sufficient  thopgbt. 

If  it  requires  some  knowledge  and  Rome  critical  power  to  deter- 
Dnine  to  what  extent  an  ordinary  tragedy  or  comedy  possesses  these 
•^uaMcatious,  it  is  incomparably  more  difficult  to  estimate  the  lite- 
rary aud  dramatic  Talue  of  a  drama  written  for  music,  and  to  be  judged 
di-st  of  aU  by  its  suitability  to  a  musical  setting.     The  complex  in- 
ddent  and  the  subtle  thought  of  the  Shakespearian  drama  would,  no 
doubt,  be  entirely  out  of  place  on  the  lyric  stage,  where  all  should  be 
simple,  clear,  and  massive ;  and  where,  probably,    general  types  of 
humanity,  and  oven  ideals,  ought  to  take  the  place  of  the  intensely 
individuiilised  characters  of  English  tragedy  and  comedy.     It  would  bo 
nnfair,  and  indeed  absurd,  to  judge  "Wagner  by  the  standard  of  Shake- 
speare ;  a  better  comparison  is  with  the  Greek  tragedians,  to  whom  he 
is  as  like  in  some  respects  as  he  is  singularly  unlike  them  in  others. 
Take  the  one  tiilopy  of  -Slechylus  which  we  know ;  in  many  ways  "Wag- 
Dcr  seems  to  have  followed  its  manner  and  tried  to  reproduce  its  effects. 
There  is  the  wonderful  picture  of  its  opening — the  solitary  sentinel,  ap- 
pealing to  the  s  ars,  the  only  companions  of  his  yearlong  watch ;  the 
lower,  the  dark  sky,  the  sleeping  city ;  and  then  the  bursting  forth  of 
tho  signal  flame  from  the  distant  peak.     Then  come  th^-  gathering,  the 
v/t  looming  homo  of  the  king ;  and  then  the  triumphant  proclamation  of 
his  murder  by  Clytemnestra  to  the  shuddering  citizens,  which  closes  the 
first  part  of  the  trilogy.     In  the  second  part,  the  Chi>tphor8e,  are  many 
resemblances  to  "Wagner — he  would  probably  have  gloried  in  setting  to 
music  the  madness  of  Orestes— and,  in  the  third,  the  sleep  of  the  Furies 
may  be  taken  as  the  prototype  of  the  grandest  things  that  Wagner  has 
done,  of  the  Dutchman's  phantom  crew,  the  revels  of  the  Venusberg, 
aijd  the  meeting  of  the  "Walkuren ;  while  the  pursuit  of  Orestes,  the 
curious  gradual  chango  of  scene  and  flight  to  Athens,  and  even  the 
Gomewhat  lame  conclusion  of  the  assembled  citizens,  have  all  a  Hkeness 
to  the  style  of  the  German  melodramist. 

Of  his  utter  alienation,  on  the  other  hand,  from  the  Greek  sp'rit,  it  is 
almost  superfluous  to  speak ;  and  what  little  it  is  necessary  to  say  on 
this  point  will  be  implied  in  the  following  pages — for,  when  is  is  shown 
how  absolutely  and  unceasingly  self-conscious  is  the  genius  of  Wagner, 
Lis  unlikeliness  to  the  Greek  tragedians  is  surely  sufficiently  demon- 
strated. 

What  Wagner  himself  would  probably  consider  the  great  distinction 
between  his  work  and  that  of  his  predecessoys — Greek,  English,  or 
German — is  the  fact  that  with  him  the  opera  is  professedly  a  combi- 
nation of  all  the  arts :  music,  the  drama,  and  painting  have  each  their 
share — and  it  may  be  said  that  in  his  latest  work  their  shares  are  al- 
most equal:  at  Bayreuth,  in  the  **Nibelungen"  tetralogy,  the  scenery 
played  nearly  as  important  a  part  as  the  singers.  This  characteristic 
has  grown  as  his  genius  has  developed — his  theory  has  been  formulated 
and  perfected  gradually.    Music,  he  says,  was  not  made  to  live  alone. 


496  WAGNER  AS  A  BBAMATIST. 

I 

not  "CSit rsKSe'' tStf  "^^^k"""^  ■'  '^^  ^«g"«  ^oes 
clad,  walks'  o'er  thTlsHf '  yon  hirif  II  *^' H™'  ^"^t'^tle 
with  Beethoven,  the  so'^ds'^  bW^ftTi^'^e'^^v  w"fl.«'"^"' 
and  passmg  storms,  or  show  our  eyes  with  T^er  fh7'Ju  gathering 
of  thj  mists  and  stream  which  -nrro^^,;  J„  „,t^    I    ■"  ^^  colouring 

jTi^fsS'eh^^SrfhtetdS^^^^^^ 

ties,  and   tL4  who^a   p^cuIHri  t    g^^J^^  ^ '=°'^<l°er  their  pecrUari- 

^^^^^j^S^^-^^^^  oi 

A  brief  chronolosical  sk-^t-h  of  f>i^  /i^or„„*- 
tb )  fir.t  published," 'Rienzf,"  to  ''pl™M"'f  """iJ^?  1  ^"^^^^ ^=" 
yet  oaly  partly  composed  mavh^l/tl^C:'  .?  ^^"'^  "*«  ""S""  "^  as 
liis  mindf  but  the  stories  oThib?,^^^^''  *''"  8™^^  ""^  ''^^^S^  <* 
iu  Eiigland-to  aU  who  take  anv  fnfl  T'^  T"  """^  «>  ^'^^'y  J^'™ 
may  b3  very  briaf  j^  a  prlx  toTlr  *'''  '"f'-that  the  sketch 
OWQ  account  of  the  unpubUsM  yoreion'  of  .?'m*^"°''  ?""?  P"^  °^  *''« 
reaiy  in3ntioned-in  which    wiThf!.  °^  ''¥«?3ure  for  Measure"  al- 

po^'.rfa.  grasp  of  dr^^^fsituTtltV^  nlctw.  ^""""''^^'^  ^ 
As  a  promis3  of  th^  hor«aff  ^«  u  •    x    •;     -^  ^luticeaoie. 

be  wrot^  this  ''litsye"bo?"%''-^!Vlr  T^'''..\'*^*  Wagnerwhen 
und.r  the  influence  of  the  "  Toun^Euroo?  -JZt  "^  ^'^  .^^-apletely 
he  uirn-jd  Shakespeara's  serionVrfnJ;"  *^  ^"°°'  *"  morals,  and  that 
snality  at  the  expfusTof  ^sc  °tWs1.^  Ti'°  **  ""'"^  gMfication  of  sen- 
German  governor  Priedrt^h    fo  •^''°  ^*";"*  '«  laidinPalenno;   a 

reforms  of  ShSpS  Ingefo  'SJe^  °"'  °  *^'  ^i?«'«  "^""^  «>« 
8cap3graee,  Lucio,  is  about  to  h.  J  ^'^P'^  fumble,  and  a  young 
ClaudTo  being  1-d  to  nriso^  i?  •  1  •  u\  "'''"^'  ^''''a  •'e  sees  his  friend 
iUicit  loye  aff^iiTwith^  deatr  ^itrf  ^^  'T^^^  ""  °^^  "^^  P"=i«»^g 
Claudio-his  sist^risabilt  m„  Jk  ir!""*  •""  °°«  ^J-^^ce  °f  «»vini 
Goyernor's  hearted  Wif^?  *    able  to  soften  with  her  pleading  Z 

She  has  ?2entrred''rconreK°afo^"°'''!?^^^^^^^ 
shows  her  talking  with  anotW  n^  ^  ^J* '.  """^  "'^  ««<»°''  scene 
her  the  stonr  of  hershame  W  ^"t'-  ^F;'^^  who  confides  to 
of  Palermo.  When  a  few  mom™f«w"''T"''!  V  **"«  ?'««««*  Governor 
this  hypocritical  governor  is  atout  ton";,  ^^^^  \"*™  '~'°  ^""^  ^ 
^^t.  With  death,^  her  Z^^l.*^^^  Z^^'^^^'^^ 


WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST.  497 

knows  no  bomids ;  but  she  unliesitatinglj  resoWes  to  see  Friedrich, 
md  win  Clandio's  pardon  from  him. 

Tbe  third  scene  begins  with  a  burlesque  trial  (by  Brighella,  chief  of 
ilie  police)  of  breakers  of  the  new  laws ;  then  Frit drich  comes,  and  is 
tbout  to  try  Claudio,  when  his  sister  demands  a  private  interview.    Her 
pleadings,  as  in  Shakespeare's  play,  m  ve  the  stvi-n  Governor  to  love  ; 
Lud  in  the  end  he  olfers  to  save  her  brother  at  the  price  of  her  disho- 
nour.   When  she  understands  him,  she  furiously  throws  open  the  win- 
dow and  summons  the  people  to  an  exposure  of  his  hypocrisy.     The 
crowd  is  rushing  in,  wlien  Friedrich,   iu  a  few  quick  sentences,  con- 
Tincesher  that  if  he  contradicts  her — if  he  says  that  she  had  tried  unsuc- 
cessfully to  bribe  him — he,  and  not  she,  will  be  believed.     She  is  silent : 
till,  as  the  Governor  is  about  to  pass  sentence  on  her  brother,  the  me- 
mory of  Moriana^s  story  suggests  to  her  a  stratagem.     She  proclaims  to 
all,  assuming  the  gayest  manner,  that  a  festival  is  in  store  for  them — 
that  Friedrich's  severity  was  a  mere  pretence,  to  heighten  the  Burprise 
of  a  carnival  in  which  he  will  himself  take  the  merriest  part.     He  is 
about  to  reprove  her  sternly,  when  in  a  whisper  she  excites  him  to 
feverish  joy  by  promising  that  on  the  following  night  she  will  grant  all 
liis  wishes.     This,  amid  general  excitement,  closes  the  first  act. 

The  second  commences  with  the  scene  between  Isabella  and  Claudio,  as 
in  Shakespeare  ;  then  Isabella  instructs  Mariana  in  her  plot,  and  shocks 
even  the  reckless  Lncio  by  telling  him  that  she  must  yield  to  Friedrich's 
love— a  consummation  which  he  vows  at  all  hazards  to  prevent.     In  the 
final  scene  at  a  pleasure  garden  where  Isabella  has  made  an  appointment 
Tvith  Friedrich.  she  finds,  to  her  horror,  that  he  has  played  her  false — has 
Ffill  sentenced  her  brother  to  death.     Friedrich's  real  motive  has  been  a 
perverted  conscientiousness — '*one   hour  on   Isabella's   breast;    then 
death  to  himself  and  to  Claudio  by  the  same  law."  that  is  what  he 
looks  forward  to — but  Isabella,  seeing  in  his  action  only  a  fresh  hypo- 
crisy,  denonnces  him   to  the   disaffected  people.      Lucio,    however, 
thiuking  she   has  really  yielded  to  the  Governor,  tells  the  crowd  to 
give  no  heed  to  her — when  a  comic  cry  for  help  is  heard,  and  Brighella 
rushes  in,  with  the  masked  Friedrich  and  Mariana,  whom  he  has  ar- 
rested.    At  this  moment  the  return  of  the  king  is  announced,  and 
Triedrich,  gloomily  asking  for  death,  is  told  by  the  released  Claudio 
that  their  crime  is  no  longer  to  be  punished  capitally.     Of  course,  he 
marries  Mariana,  and  Lucio  Isabella,  and  all  ends  happily. 

The  admirable  construction  of  this  story,  the  swift  and  dramatic 
fiction,  need  hardly  be  pointed  out ;  nor  the  fact  that,  except  perhaps 
in  Iho  sensuousness,  there  is  hardly  anything  in  it  which  reveals  to  us 
tbe  presence  of  Wagner,  as  we  know  him  from  later  works.  Like 
almost  all  his  plays,  however,  it  opens  remarkably  well — with  a 
picturesque  and  spirited  group:  so  begin  "Rienzi,"  "-Tannhauser," 
''Lohengrin,"  and  the  **Meistersinger."  It  is  perhaps  also  worth 
noticing  that  Wagner  has  chosen  for  adaptation  nearly  the  least  pleasant 
in  story  of  all  Shakespeare's  come  lies. 


498  WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

The  "  Liebesverbot  ^*  failed,  from  inBufficient  rehearsal  and  other 
causes,  and  has  never  been  reproduced ;  *  but  his  next  work,  "Rienzi," 
acted  at  Dresden  in  October,  1842,  was  greatly  successful,  and  won  him 
disciples  and  admirers  all  over  Germany.  The  opera  was  distinguished 
from  most  of  its  contemporaries  by  its  breadth  of  purpose,  and  in  many 
parts  of  its  music  the  Wagnerian  style  was  already  distinctly  perceptible ; 
but  the  story,  founded  on  rtal  history — as  interpreted  in  Bulwer's 
novel — differed  altogether  in  tone  from  his  later  legendary  plots. 

The  first  emd  second  acts  were  completed,  music  and  words,  early  in 
1889,  and  between  them  and  the  rest  of  the  play,  written  after  the  first 
enthusiasm  was  past,  tliere  is  a  very  perceptible  difference.  As  a  fact, 
the  plot  of  the  novel,  amply  sufficient  in  the  earher  part,  fails  towards 
the  tnd  in  tUe  coherence  and  strength  needed  for  the  theatre ;  but  this 
fault  of  beginning  far  better  than  he  ends  is  a  very  common  one  with 
Wagner,  as  with  many  poet-dramatists.  •  In  "Tannhauser,  "Lohen- 
grin," "Tristan,"  the  opening  gives  a  splendid  promise,  which  is  not 
altogether  fulfilled,  and  which  causes  some  feehng  of  disappointment. 
The  jJoetry  of  situation  with  which  the  drama  opens  is  not  always  fol- 
lowed by  suflScient  poetry  of  event,  and  we  miss  the  crtscendo  neces- 
sary on  the  stage,  where  simple  beauty  should  lead  up  to  powerful 
interest. 

That  Wagnrr  has  the  gi-cat  dramatic  secret  of  knowing  where  to 
begin  is  as  plain  in  "Rienzi"  as  in  any  of  his  later  poems.  As  the 
curtain  rises,  Orsini  and  other  nobles  of  his  faction  are  seizing  and  car- 
rying away  Irene,  when  they  are  attacked  by  Colonna  and^  his  parti- 
sans, and  a  fight  commences.  The  priests  interfere  in  vain,  but  Rienzi 
appears  and,  supported  by  the  people,  stops  the  tumult.  He  confides 
Irene  to  the  care  of  Adriano,  and  the  first  of  Wagner's  many  love-duels 
takes  place — ending,  as  usual,  in  a  mute  ecstatic  embrace.  Then  (afttf 
one  of  those  daybreak  effects  of  which  the  poit  is  so  fond)  the  people 
elect  Rienzi  tribune,  and  the  curtain  falls  on  their  acclamations.  The 
second  acl^  begins  with  the  beautiful  chorus  of  the  Messengers  of  Peace; 
then  the  nobles  plot  against  the  new  tribune,  ard  Adi-iano  feels  that  he 
must  be  unfaithful  to  either  his  father  or  his  friend.  Then,  after  Ri- 
enzi has  received  the  ambassadors  of  many  lands,  a  grand  ballet  takt  s 
place,  in  which  is  represented,  in  elaborate  pantomime,  the  siory  cf 
Lucvetia !  As  it  ends,  the  treacherous  nobles  stab  Rienzi,  who  issavtd 
by  his  secret  coat  of  mail.  The  traitors  are  doomed  to  death ;  but. 
after  a  a  long  struggle,  Rienzi,  at  the  intercession  of  Adriano,  commits 
his  one  act  of  unwisdom,  and  spares  them.  As  the  curtain  falls  for 
the  second  time,  they  swear  to  be  faithful  to  him  and  to  the  state. 

These  two  acts  are  full  of  incident  and  movement,  the  remaining 
three  disconnected  and  thin.  In  Act  III.  Rienzi  is  fighting  the  nobles, 
and  conquers  them,  killing   Colonna ;  in  Act  IV.  Adriano,  to  revenge 

*  It  was  played  for  the  fl""!  and  last  time  at  Magdeburg  in  1836,  and  wa8  Wagner's 
Fecond  opera.  His  first,  "  Die  Feen"  (never  acted)  was  a  versiou  of  Carlo  Goui'« 
**  Serpent  Woman.** 


WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST.  49d 

Ms  father's  death,  stirs  tip  the  discontented  x>eople ;  Rienzi  winH  them 
hack,  but  in  the  end  is  cxcommnnicated  by  the  Church  ;  and  in  Act  V* 
Adrianc  and  Irene  part  fmally,  and  then  perish  with  Bieuzi  in  the  bnm^ 
ing  Capitol. 

'Phis  libretto  has  great  merits  and  great  faults,  but  neither  ar^^  dis- 
tmctiTely  "Wagnerian,  except  perhaps  the  strong  and  simpl  •  construc- 
tion of  the  early  nets,  the  fine  choice  of  scene  throucifhout,  and  the  mis- 
take of  giving  so  prominent  a  pLice  to  a  character  so  vacillating  oa  Adri- 
ano  is  here   made.     "Wagner's  chief  people  ar3  indeed   very  s.-ldom 
heroic— Tannhauser  is  far  from  an  estimable  person  ;  Seuta  is  untrue  to 
Erik,  her  first  love;    Elsa  -wants  faith;  Tr.stan  is  f also  to  his  friend; 
Adriano  not  to  be  relied  on,  and  the  people  in  *' Parsifal"  by  no  m*  ans 
*' nice."    His  n< tminal  heroes  arc  generally  mere  lay  figures — Lohengrin, 
even  the  Dutchman,'  nay,  Tannhauser  himself,  mak3  very  littb  indi- 
vidual impression  on  us,  while  Siegfried,   though  distinct  enough,  is 
little  more  than  a  jolly  boy,  quite  unworthy  of  his  T/alkuro  bride.     On 
the  other  hand,   Senta,  Elsa,  Elizabeth,  and  Brunnhilde,  have  each  a 
rare  charm,  a  distinct  and  cspeci-il  beauty. 

The  stride  from  *'Rienzi"  to  the  "Flying  Dutchman"  h  very  groat, 
though  tha  one  was  first  performed  within  a  month  or  two  of  tho  other. 
Journeying  to  England,  the  ship  which  carried  "Wagner  was  kept   at 
sea  mora  than  three  weeks  by  contrary  winds,   cud  once  the  captain 
was  compelled  by  a  storm  to  put  into  a  Norwegian  port.     On  board, 
■^Vaguer  heard  liie   legion   of  Ahasuerus  (as  Heine  calls  Iho   Dutch- 
man) and,    fascinated  by   it,   he  determined  to  use  it  as  an  opera; 
nor  can  one  imagine  a  subject  more  suited  to  his  peculiar  genius.     Ho 
treats  it,  one  may  say,  in  its  most  elementary  form,  with  scarcely  any 
complication  of  plot — with  none,  in  fact,  except  tho  introduction  of 
another  lover  for  the  girl,  a  mistake  in  every  way.     In  the  first  act  the 
Dutchman  meets  tho  captain  of  a  Norwegian  vessel  blown  out  of  its 
course  in   a  storm,  and  offers  to  wed  his  daughter — which  offer  is 
greedily  accepted  by  Daland  (the   Norwegian),  whoso  love  for  gold 
perhaps  scarcely  harmonises  with  the  tone  of  the  story ;    in  the  second 
act,  Senta,  laughed  at  by  all  her  companions  for  her  devotion  to  tho 
portrait  of  the  Dutchman,   meets  and  loves  the  original,    throwing 
over  her  betrothed,  Erik ;    and  in  the  last,  through  a  misunderstjmd- 
ing,  the  Dutchman  thinks  that  she,  too,  is  faithless ;   he  departs,  and 
she  wildly  leaps  into  the  sea;    then  in  a  moment  the  vessel  disap- 
pears, and  the  Dutchman  and  his  saviour,  the  faithful  girl,  are  seen 
transfigured  above  the  waves. 

Here,  for  once,  "Wagner  gives  us  an  opera  solely  depending  on  the 
music,  and  the  weird  tone  of  the  story ;  and  here  he  has — also  for  once 
—felt  that  so  simple  a  plot  must  be  developed  briefly :  the  **  Flying 
Dutchman"  is  really  a  short  opera.  It  is  purely  "Wagneresque,  and  its 
effect — though  sometimes  obtained  by  means  too  obvious — is  very  strik- 
ing; the  force  of  "local  colour"  could  hardly  go  farther  than  in  tho 
pilot^B  song,   the  spinning-chorus  (with  its  imitative   "Summ'  und 


500  WAGNEB  AS  A  DEAMATIST. 

bramm*  da  gates  Badohen,^^)  or  the  sailors'  chorus — evidently  a  remic* 
iscence  of  the  English  voyage  : 

Hussassnhel 
Klipp'  und  Sturm  draua — 
Yollohohe  I 
Lachea  wir  ana ! 

■  One  can  hear  the  windlass,  the  sailors'  cries,  the  pltmging  of  the 
Vessel,  as  later  one  sees  the  red-brown  sails,  the  phantom  lights,  the 
ghostly  crew  and  ship,  in  the  chorus — 

Yohohoel  Yohohoel  Hoe  I  Hoe  I  Hoel 

Huih — ssa  1 
Nach  dem  Land  treibt  der  Stnim 

Huih — ssa !  * 

But  the  ** Flying  Dutchman"  does  not  show'ns  Wagner  fnlly  de- 
veloj  I — it  is  a  transition  opera.  The  story  is  weird,  but  it  is  perfectly 
human ;  it  is  even  one  which  other  dramatists  have  used.  The  incident^ 
are  thoroughly  tragic,  and  the  tsndency  to  introduce  the  lighter  as  v^eU 
as  the  graver  events  of  legend  among  situations  of  the  deepest  human 
interest  is  not  yet  apparent.  In  **  Tannhauser"  what  one  may  call  th-^ 
fairy-tale  element  begins — the  bringing-in  of  the  blossoming  cress  has  a 
strange  effect  amid  scenes  of  death  and  despair :  still  odder  seems  th^; 
visible  transformation  of  the  magic  swan  in  "Lohengrin:"  while  iu 
the  **Nibelungen"  tetralogy  we  are  in  sheer  fairy-tale,  among  talkini: 
birds  and  magic  helmets,  intermingled  with  an  occasional  flash  of  savage 
human  passion  Uke  that  in  the  hut  of  Hunding, 

**Tannhaus3r"  was  produced  two  years  aft?r  the  *'  Flying  Dutch- 
man " — in  1845.  As  a  poem,  it  stands  very  high  indeed  among  Wacr- 
ner's  works ;  but  it  is  essentially  a  poem,  a  legion,  rather  than  a  staee 
play.  It  contains  many  fine  situations,  but  hardly  one  of  them  has  the 
full  effect  on  the  stage  it  would  seem  to  deserve,  and  all  are  quite  at  the 
mercy  of  the  scene  painter ;  the  vulgar  mounting  of  the  play  at  Co  vent 
Garden  three  years  ago  entirely  spoilt  it — and  his  constant  dangt-r 
would  S8em  to  tell  against  Wagner's  theory  of  a  combination  of  arts. 
An  independent  art  is  much  safer;  and,  while  "Macbeth '*  and  ** KiBii 
Lear"  may  gain  as  much  from,  good  scenery  as  "Lohengrin"  ami 
"Tannhauser,"  they  lose  comparatively  little  by  bad. 

The  first  act  of  this  play  is,  indeed,  nothing  but  Tannhauser's  chang- 
ing mind,  as  shown  in  the  varying  scenery  which  works  upon  it.  Wagut  r 
describes  this  scenery  very  finely  and  very  minutely  in  his  stage  direc- 
tlous^  and  it  is  almost  doubtful  whether  any  painted  pictures  could  cail 
up  so  surely  and  so  exactly  as  poetical  words  the  ideas  he  wishes  to 
convey.  Eloquent  stage  directions  are,  indeed,  a  bad  sign ;  they  arf . 
to  begin  with,  false  art — a  play  is  essentially  a  thing  to  be  seen  and 

•  It  is  worth  noticing  "by  how  much  less  obvious  (and  more  artistic)  meanfl  Shake- 
epeare  gets  these  effects  of  local  colour :  thus,  though  the  witches  have  ft  i*ff»gn«y>  of 
taeir'own,  it  is  not  one  of  coined  words  like  Yohohe,  &c 


•WAGNER  AS  A  DEAMATIST.  501 

keard,  not  read.  Bnt  here,  as  in  other  things,  Wagner  seems  greedily 
to  attempt  to  combine  all  claims  to  glory ;  and  this,  like  his  other  cha- 
racteristics, grows  upon  him  from  play  to  play.  * 

The  splendid  story  on  which  "  Tannhaustr  "  is  founded  is  well  known 
—and  is  told,  almost  perfectly,  in  the  overture,  one  of  Wagner's  grand*  i 
est  achievements ;  the  conclusion  to  the  legend  formed  by  the  miracle 
of  tlie  flowering  cross  is,  I  believe,  entirely  Wagner's  addition — I  do 
not  know  that  the  two  stories  have  ever  been  combined  before.  Taking 
the  whole  as  a  legendary  poem,  the  effect  is  good  ;  but  the  second  story 
is  quite  undramatic — it  is  certainly  not  one  of  the  few  miracles  suited 
for  theatrical  representation.  Yet  the  pilgrims  chanting  on  their  way 
to  Rome  add  another  to  the  rich  contrasts  of  this  work,  perhkps  the 
most  varied  and  vivid  in  colouring  of  its  author's  creations. 

At  the  beginning,   *  *  the  scene,"  he  tells  us,   "  represents  the  interior 
of  the  Hill  of  Venus  (the  Hoerselbtrg,  near  Eiseuach).   At  the  back  is  a 
vast  grotto,  which,  bending  to  the  right,  seems  to  be  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance.   In  the  remotest  part  of  the  background  is  a  blue  lake,  in  which 
Daiads  are  bathing,   and   en  its  high  banks  sirens  repose.     In  front 
Venus  lies  on  a  couch;    before  her,  almost  kneeling,  his  head  on  her 
breart,  is  Tannhauser.     All  the  grotto  glows  with  a  rosy  light.      The 
middle  is  occupied  by  a  group  of  dancing  nymphs;  on  rocks  which 
jut  out  from  both  sides  of  the  grotto  lie  pairs  of  lovers ;  they  come  one 
after  another  to  join  the  dance  of  the  nymphs.     A  troop  of  bacchantes 
comes  from  the  background,  whirled  in  a  disordered  and  noisy  dance ; 
with  maA  gestures  they  pass  through  the  groups  of  nymphs  and  lovers, 
swiftly  throwing  them  into  confiision.      To  the  sounds  of  the  dance, 
which  grows   wilder  and  wilder,    ihtro  answers  like   an  echo,   from 
the  background,  the  sirens'  song,   "Come  from  the  shore,  come  from 
the  land,  whither  in  the  arms  of  burning  love  a  fiery  delight  shall  as- 
suage your  longings !  "    Forming  a  passionate  group  the  dancers  stop, 
and  give  ear  to  the  song.    .Then  the  dance  revives,  and  reaches  the 
wildest  impetuosity.     At  the  height  of  this  bacchant  fury,  a  sudden 
languor  makes  itself  felt  on  every  side.     The  pairs  of  lovers  withdraw 
httle  by  little  from  the  dance,  and  lie  on  the  rocks,  as  in  a  delicious  ex- 
haustion.    The   troop  of  bacchantes  disappears  in  the   background, 
whence  spreads  a  vapour  which  grows  denser  and  denser ;  in  front  also 
a  cloudhke  vapour  decends  and  veils  the  sleeping  figures.    At  last  Venus 
and  Tannhauser  are  alone  left  visible,  while   the   song  of  the  sirens 
echoes  far  away.    Then  comes  the  scene  in  which  Tannhauser  expressep 
his  longing  to  return  to  earth,  and  Venus  tries  every  way  to  detain  him 
at  her  side  ;  at  length  his  insistance  prevails,  though  she  tells  him  that 
only  in  returning  to  her  will  he  find  peace  and  safety — and  when  he  de- 
clares that  his  safety  is  in  the  Virgin,  a  terrible  peal  of  thunder  is  heard, 
Venus  disappears,  and  Tannhauser  suddenly  stands  alone  "in  a  beautiful 
valley,  the  blue  sky  above  him."  On  the  right,  at  the  back,  is  Wartbiu-g ; 
on  the  left,  far  away,  the  Hoerselberg.     A  mountain-path  on  the  right, 
half-way  up  the  valley,  leads  to  the  loreground,  where  it  branches  off  $ 


502  '  WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

near  this  is  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  up  to  which  a  little  projecHoT: 
in  the  hillside  leads.  From  the  heights,  ou  the  left,  the  tinklmg  of 
sheepbells  is  heard ;  on  a  high  peak  a  shepherd  boy  sits,-  singing  ami 
playmg  on  a  pipe. 

In  describing  ail  this,  the  poet  can  convey  to  ns  exactly  what  b- 
means ;  should  he,  in  such  a  case,  trust  to  scene  painter  and  dancvr-. 
to  do  as  much  ?     Assuming  that  the  play  was  mounted  with  a  true  f e-  '.- 
ing  of  its  poetry,  the  effect  would  no  doubt  be  charming ;    but  ev.  :i 
than,  would  it  not  lose  rather  than  gain,  if  we  compared  it  with  tL 
ideal  awakonad  in  us  by  reading  the  book?     Of  t'le  third  act,  with  i*^ 
journeying  pilgrims,  its  weary  return  of  Tannhauser  to  the  foot  of  th 
Venusbjrg,  and  its  miracle  of  the  budding  cross,  the  same  may  sur  \y 
be  said;  and  even  the  Tournament  of   Song  is  bettor  fitted  for  d  - 
Bcription  than  for  the  stage — the  thing  which  gives  dramatic  spirit  t.» 
the  scBue,  Tannhaussr's  gathering  feeling  and  impetuous  outburst ■.  ii 
favour  of  the!  less  pure  form  of  love   being,  at  all  events  in  its  pr  s  i : 
subtle  and  elaborataly  worked-out  form,  hardly  suited  for  the  spok  ::. 
and  not  at  all  for  the  musical,  drama.     Yet  the  effect  of  the  opv^nir  : 
and  of  th3  final  situation  of  this  scene  is  very  striking;  and  Vmr.-  ~ 
perhaps  in  no  opera  a  grander  expression  of  pure  joy  than  the  chorus  ■ : 
minstrels  and  ladies  as  they  enter  the  Hall  of  Contest — it  is  likt-  tli- 
song  of  a  lark  circling  upwards,  pouring  out  unrestrained  its  meoo- 
*'  Tannhauser"  is  full  of  pictur.^sqiie  situations,  but  they  are  notaUg'^'l 
stage  situations,  and  th^  story,  as  a  whole,  has  not  the  compression  ai.a 
strength  needed  for  the  theatr  •. 

In  this  respect  his  next  op^ra  was  much  stronger,  and  it  has  n-- 
cordiugly  proved  of  all  his  works  the  most  effective  on  the  fitai: 
Ther3  is  probably  no  more  perfect  act  on  the  lyric  stage  than  the  Jir  : 
of  "Loh?ngrin;"  the  story  is  striking,  compact,  andstately,  andisworl- 
ed  out  with  an  admirable  clearness.  The  rest  is  perhaps  not  so  po.!.i 
the  second  aot  contaiTis  only  one  incident — Ortrud's  sudden  burs'  <  * 
pride  on  the  cathedral  st  'ps — and  that  is  in  no  way  neci'ssary  to  t: 
story;  and  similarly  the  incident  brought  in  to  relieve  the  ovcT-'-;. 
plicity  of  the  last  act — Telramund's  attack  on  Tjohengrin — has  no  r  ^t: 
what-3Vfr.  This  is  a  characteristic  of  many  poets  who  attnnpt  • 
write  plays  suited  for  the  stage  ;  they  introduce  a  good  d»al  of  ait^ 
but  it  is  action  dragged  in  at  random,  and  is  no  indispensable  r^sii  *  - : 
th'^'  plot. 

Yet  "Lohengrin"  is  dramatically  the  best  of  Wagner's  operas,  nni  v 
it  U'Md  hardly  b3  said,  incomparably  superior  to  the  ordinary  libr. : 
All  Wagner's  works  are,  indeed,  those  of  a  poet,  and  of  a  man  with  n.  : 
unquestionable  dramatic  instinct ;  and  there  is  not  one  in  which  tr^.s  -, 
at  Ijast,  of  a  very  high  order  of  power  may  not  be  found.  Only  it  m':4 / 
ba  doubted  whether  his  genius  is  of  that  complete  and  sound  or  i  r 
which  alone  can  produce  a  thoroughly  satisfactory  work.  If  it  b\  i:  I 
if  h  i  have  written  any  one  thing  wholly  successful,  this  is  cdtxiiirj 
<' Jjohengrin." 


WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST.  608 

A  feature  in -this  opera  very  characteristic  of  its  author  is  the  sight- 
effect,  followed  by  daybreak,  m  the  second  act.  The  long  and  gloomy 
dialogue  between  Ortrud  and  Telramund  is  carried  on  in  a  darkness  only 
relieved  by  the  gleam  of  the  illuminated  palaca-windows  ;  later  on,  tha 
diiwu  comes  gradually,  and  sunrise  is  announce(i  by  trumpets  answering 
from  tower  to  tower ;  then,  when  the  day  has  fully  broken,  the  bridal 
procession  mounts  the  cathedral  steps.  The  effect  is  a  fine  one,  though 
11  is  perhaps  too  much  and  too  often  relied  on  by  Vv'agner ;  there  is 
such  a  dawn  in  the  first  act  of  "Rienzi,"  and  there  are  scenes  in  almost 
eU  his  plays  which  depend  a  great  deal  upon  their  "night-feehng" — or 
their  dawn  or  sunset  f eehng — for  their  effect.  This  is  particularly  no- 
ticeable in  the  **  Walkure,"  the  "  Meistersinger,^'  and,  above  all,  **  Tris- 
tan and  Isolde" — *' Lohengrin's"  successor,  though  not  produced  till 
fifteen  years  later — in  which  the  very  backbone  of  the  second  and  third 
acts  is  the  contrast  between  the  poetry  of  night  and  of  day. 

As  this  is  perhaps  the  least  known  in  England  of  Wagner's  operas, 
except  the  "Meistersinger"  it  may  bo  worth  while  to  give  a  brief  sum- 
mary of  the  story  of  its  first  act — the  rest  may  be  dismissed  in  a  word  or 
two.     The  groundwork  of  the  plot  is  of  course  the  old  Arthurian  le- 
gend.    Tristan  of  Cornwall  slew  Morold,  the  lover  of  Isolde,  princess  of 
Cornwall ;  yet  afterwards,  Tristan  falling  wounded  into  her  hands,  she 
spared  him,  and  even  by  her  care   and  nursing  healed  his   woimd. 
Some  time  after,  he  came  as  Embassador  from  King  Marke  of  Cornwall, 
to  demand  Isolde's  hand  for  his  master ;  and  he  is  returning,  with  her 
on  board  the  vessel,  as  the  opera  begins.     She  is  bitterly  indignant  that 
he  should  make  her  another's  wife — nor,  indeed,  is  it  quite  clear  why 
he  has  done  so.     He  keeps  aloof  from  her,  and  when  she  sends  for  him 
will  not  come.     Exasperated,  she  orders  her  old  servant  Brangasne,  who 
is  cunning  in  all  magic  drinks,  to  prepare  a  poison  for  him ;  and  at  last, 
as  they  near  land,  Tristan  comes  to  speak  to  her,  and  she  gives  him  the 
cup,  which  he  drinks,  beheving  in  his  heart  that  it  is  poisoned.     Before 
he  has  di'ained  it,  she  snatches  it  from  him,  and  drinks  off  the  remain- 
der—determined that  they  shall  die  together.     But  it  is  not  a  poison ; 
Bragasne's  courage  had  failed  her,  and  she  brewed  instead  a  love-potion. 
Tills  works  at  once ;  the  lovers  rush  into  each  other's  arms ;  and  when  the 
biiip  reaches  land,  and  the  king's  arrival  is  proclaimed,  it  is  almost  un- 
consciously that  Isolde  lets  Brangaene  clothe  her  in  her  royal  robe.     As 
the  shout  of  the  sailors  welcomes  King  Marke,  his  bride  falls  sanseless 
to  the  ground. 

Hardly  anything  could  be  stronger  than  this  act,  though  it  is  very 
long;  nothing  could  well  be  weaker  than  its  successor,  of  which  the 
only  action  is  the  discovery  by  Marke,  at  the  end,  of  his  wife's  infidel- 
ity. The  act  is  entirely  filled  with  the  development  of  a  somewhat 
strained  poetic  antithesis  between  night  and  day :  sheltering  night  being 
the  friend  of  love,  glaring  and  pitiless  day  its  foe.  The  expression  of 
love  throughout  this  act  is,  as  in  most  of  Wagner's  work,  sensual  in  the 


504  WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

extreme ;  he  seems,  indeed,  to  be  like  his  own  bard  Tannhatiser,  inca 
pable  of  singing  the  pi-aise  of  any  but  the  most  earthly  passion. 

The  third  act  is  better  than  the  second,  but  is  far  from  strong. 
Tristan  is  dying  all  through  it,  and  when  the  end  comes,  and  he,  his 
faithful  squire,  Kurwenal,  Isolde,  and  the  traitor  Melot,  all  die,  one  can- 
not but  feel  it  a  relief.  The  excess  of  talk  over  action  has  come  to  a 
climax,  in  this  play,*  as,  indeei',  Wagner  avows  in  a  defence  of  tJie 
growing  length  (and  diminishing  incident)  of  his  works.  In  his  early 
operas,  he  says,  he  allowed  for  the  frequent  repetition  of  words  com- 
mon in  lyric  dramas ;  later,  "the  wholes  extent  of  the  melody  is  indi- 
catad  beforehand  in  the.airangement  of  the  words  and  verses."  Ht» 
chooses  legendary  plots,  he  tells  ur,  because  '*  the  simple  nature  of  tli(  ir 
action  renders  unnecessary  any  painstaking  for  the  purpose  of  ex;  lau- 
ation  of  the  course  of  the  story  ;  the  greatest  |  ossible  j  ortion  of  th-^ 
]ioem  can  l)e  devoted  to  the  ]  ortrayal  of  the  inrier  motives  of 
the  action."  When  ho  composed  "Tristan"  his  theories  were  |  er- 
fected,  and  he  a' sorl»ed  himself  "with  conij  lete  confidence  "^n 
the  dei  ths  of  the  inmost  ]  rocesses  of  (he  soul,  and  ftarltssly 
drew  from  th  s  inmost  centre  of  the  world,  the  r  outward  forms."' 
This  view  of  the  duties  of  a  dramatist — if  to  a  slight  extent  to  be  paral- 
leled in  some  works  of  the  Greek  tragedians — will  generally  be  consi  I- 
ered  a  wrong  and  r.n  impracticable  one  ;  its  curious  opposition  to  ti.e 
tendency  of  modern  philosophy  is  worth  noticing — the  great  musical  re- 
former and  innovator  would  seem  to  hold  reactionary  views  in  science. 

Three  years  after  "Tristan  and  Isolde"  was  produced  Wagner's  one 
comic  opera,  "  The  Master  Singers  of  Nuremburg."     This  he  holds  the 
most  likely  of  his  works  to  please  in  England ,  probably  because  bn- 
mour  and  common  sense  are  generally  supposed  to  some  extent  to  co 
together.     But  Wagner's  humour  is  so  exceedingly  German,  and  is  a,'- 
companied  by  such  a  minimum  of  common  sense,  that  I  fear  an  English 
audience  would  hardly  be  reconciled  ly  it  to  an  opt  ra  chiefly  concenK. I 
with  the  difference  between  two  schools  of  poetry,  and  exactly  half  ft"^ 
long  again  as   "Tristan  and  Isolde."    Not  that  the  "Meistersingtr" 
has  not  its  merit-; — in  "local  colouring"  it  is  charming,  and  in  iudicn- 
tion  of  dramatic  position ;  and  the  life  of  a  German  town  in  the  ^T^y. 
cheery  days  of  Hans  Sachs  is  pleasantly  painted.     Some  isolated  I'i'  - 
tures  are  especially  quiet  and  true,  as  the  sunny  Sunday  morning  of  ili" 
third  act  with  the  poet-shoemaker  reading  his  big  Bible ;  but  thts*^  or- 
dinary merits  of  Wagner  are  here  opposed  to  more  than  his  orditHn- 
defects  of  over-length,  want  of  invention  of  incident, and  of  what  I  iriy 
call  s'urdmess — strength  and  conmion  sens? — of  plot     These,  and  tl'- 
sense  of  humour  which  prevents  absurdity,  are  great  necessities  in  a 
dramatist ;  and  unfortunately  Wagner  has  them  not. 

A  fault  from  which  the  "  Meistersinger, "  perhaps  from  th^  naturv^  of 
its  story,   is  comparatively  free,  is  one  very  usual   with  W^agner— a 

*  Which  is  as  a  matter  of  fact,  jslmost  Wajruer's  last— the  gi'catcr  poitiou  of  the 
•*  Nlbelungen"  tetralogy  was  composed  before  it. 


•WAGNEK  AS  A  DRAMATIST.  W5 

constantly  strained  feeling,  a  never-ceasing  tension,  snch  as  is  admir- 
ably exemplified  in  the  works  of  those  poets  and  artists  whose  likeness 
to  our  German  composer  we  have  a  ready  noticed:  Swinburne,  Bumo 
Jones,  and  the  like.  It  is  the  absolute  opposite  of  the  quiet  ease  of 
Walter  Sc':tt,  of  Haydn,  of  the  Dutch  paiutcrs;  it  is  feverish,  effective, 
exciting,  in  the  end  extremf^ly  wearying ;  it  is  like  the.  cKctric  light, 
always  brilliant,  dazzling,  and  tlie  same,  compared  with  the  tranquil 
and  yet  constantly  varying  daylight ;  and — to  quote  a  critic  who  sets 
Ct^rvantes  above  Hugo — it  "  wants  dulness,  which  all  great  works  must 
have  their  share  of." 

The  grtkud  performance  of  the  "Nibelimg^n"  tetralogy  at  Bayreuth, 
in  1876,  was  so  fully  noticed  at  the  time  by  English  journalists  that  any 
recapitulation  of  the  drama's  plot  would  be  superfluous.  One  cannot 
but  think  that  a  work  of  such  enormous  length,  filling  four  long  even- 
ings, ought  to  b3  upon  a  subject  of  the  highest  and  (may  I  not  say, 
ih'  re/ore  ?)  the  most  tragic  interest,  as  is  the  ^schylean  triology,  un- 
less, indeed,  it  bo  purely  an  hist-  irical  series,  to  be  judged  rather  as  a 
Bort  of  dramatic  panorama  than  a  play.  This  Wagner's  poem  of  course 
is  Dot;  and  the  interest  excited  by  that  which  is  nominally  the  maiu- 
spring  of  the  story — the  fati'  of  the  gods — is  very  languid.  To  begin 
with,  it  is  not  at  all  clearly  set  before  one ;  the  gods  afe  not  present  at 
the  conclusion,  and  the  etfect  it  will  have  upon  them  is  by  no  means 
evident.  The  I'giit  fairy-tale  tone  of  a  great  deal  of  the  story — especi- 
ally in  the  Prelude  and  in  the  Second  Day — is  no  doubt  intended  as  a 
relief  to  the  tragic  incidents ;  but  I  think  the  whole  would  gain  greatly 
if  the  story,  instead  of  being  rvlieved  by  the  introduction  of  these  pas- 
sages, were  shortened  by  their  omission — which  would  at  all  events 
reduce  the  four  evenings  to  tlirve 

As  a  fact,  however,  tlie  main  plot  of  the  poem  is  the  fate,  not  of  the 
gods,  but  of  Brunuhilde ;  this  is  what  must  catch  the  attention  of 
every  audience,  as  of  every  reader,  who  cannot  but  feel  that  the  play 
proper  is  contained  in  Acts  II.  and  III.  of  the  "  Walkure,"  the  end  of 
"Siegfried,"  and  the  **  Gotterdammerung":  in  considerably  less,  that 
is  to  say,  than  one-half  of  the  tetralogj' ;  and  that  all  which  does  not 
closely  concern  Brunn'dlde  is  really  episodic.  This  applies  especially 
to  the  one  powerful  act  devoted  to  the  history  of  *'Siegmund"  and 
'"Sieglinde,"  whoss  Very  strength — superb,  though  feverish  and  un- 
healthy— is  its  worst  fault,  as  it  directs  the  interest  of  the  audience  into 
a  wrong  channel,  which  leads  nowhere.  But  it  must  be  said  that 
Brunuhilde  is  a  magnificent  picture — a  thing  which  has  a  place  apart, 
of  its  own,  in  literature  ;  which  we  meet  now  for  the  tirst  time  and  can 
ntvtr  forget.  The  whole  effect  of  the  Walkuren,  shouting  from  rock 
to  rock,  galloping  on  their  wild  horses,  is  unique  and  grand. 
That  this  effect  is  to  some  extent  obtained,  as  in  the  '*  Flying  Dutch- 
man," by  too  obvious  means  is  tru^. ;  there  is  more  than  enough  of 
''Hoyotoho!  Hoyotoho  !  Heiaho!" — but  this,  and  an  accompanying 
consciousness  of  the  effect  lie  is  producing,  is  a  constant  characteristic 


506  WAGNEP-.AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

of  Wagner.     So,  too,  is  a  certain  straining  after  originality,  an  attempt 
to  be  unlike  other  people,  which  t^o  often  produces  mei*e  eccentricitj'. 

Something  like  die  ovtr-easy  effects  of  local  colour  just  mentiontd 
is  the  expedient  used  by  "VVaguer  in  tliis  play,  as  in  ''Tristan,"  of  caus- 
ing love  by  a  potion— a  dramatic  cffoct,  powerful  indeed,  but  dangerous 
from  the  extreme  ease  with  which  it  can  be  employe,  d  to  bring  about  a 
telling  situation.  And,  in  the  last  placo,  as  we  liave  the  "Nibeluog  u" 
drama,  the  curious  want  of  humour  of  the  German  intellect  must  hi 
noticed — is  not  the  effect  absolutely  funny  of  Brunuhilde's  hplf-utt  n  d 
request  to  "VVotan,  which  her  words  latei-  on  to  Siegfried  full^  explain, 
that  she  may  marry  only  Sieghnde's  child,  who  is  not  to  be  bom  for 
many  months,  a'sd  who  may  surely  turn  out  to  be  a  girl ! 

^nch.  scenery  as  is  requirf  d — and  has  once  been  obtained — for  th- 
"King  of  the  Nibelungen,"  was  certainly  never  heard  of  before  the 
d'lys  of^agner.  The  first  scene,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Jiuine:  Bruiiii- 
hild-'ti  resting-place,  ringed  round  with  fira  ;  the  final  tableau,  wh»^n  the 
flaming  funeral  pile,  on  which  rest  Siegfried,  Brunnhilde,  and  h.  r 
horse,  is  covered  by  the  sudden  overflowing  of  the  Hhine.  upon 
whose  waters  float  the  three  river  maidens,  Woglinde,  Wellgundo.  a\v! 
Flosshilde  :  nil  these  things  are  the  nearest  approach  to  the  impossi^  \  ■ 
"which  mortal* scene-painter  has  yet  proved  possible.  The  eLomx^u^ 
expense  of  such  scenery  must  always  be  a  bar  to  the  production  of  i\\ ' 
plays — the  audience  at  Bayreuth  had  to  pay  very  dearly  for  its  f(''ir 
evenings,  and  Tv^agner's  tendency  to  appe^  to  the  few  rather  than  to 
the  many,  already  noticed,  was  thus  further  illustrated.  This  will;;! 
addition  to  the  difficulty  of  worthily  producing  a  great  opera  seems  u 
mistake.  It  will  never  be  too  easy  to  obtain  an  iutciUigent  choni-',  a 
etrong  band,  and  fine  singers  who  are  a 'so  fine  actors;  why  mak-  :i 
a'so  a  necessity  to  secure  a  painter  of  genius  and  to  pay  very  hi^i;\v 
for  his  work?  It  is  right  that  a  great  play  should  give  great  opportu- 
nities for  scenery — "Agamemnon,"  "Macbeth,"  "Faust,"  do  tbib— 
but  it  should  never  be  really  dependent  upon  anything  but  its  meritij 
and  its  actors  ■• 

To  pass  to  Wagner's  latest- written  opera.  In  "  Parsifal,"  it  iiyc.< 
be  said,  his  eccentricities  are  carried  to  their  extreme,  liis  redeem'^.i,' 
qualities  hardly  appear.  The  hero — the  Percival  of  th3  Arthurian  1  - 
gend — is  &  youth  of  perfect  purity,  and  of  ignorance  as  perfect ;  t!:.' 
chief  and  concluding  incident  of  the  first  act  is  the  holy  supper  of  tb  j 
knights  of  the  Sangrail,  which  he  watches  with  no  apparent  inter  st— 
but  which  (it  would  seem)  inspires  him  to  attack,  alone  and  unaid  «1. 
the  castle  of  a  magician,  Klingsor,  who  has  obtained  possession  of  tJ ' 
Sacred  Spear,  the  touch  of  which  alone  can  cure  the  KingAmfort-; 
(Arthur,  the  only  king  associated  in  our  minds  with  the  Holy  Grnil,  i^ 
not  mentioned  by  Wagner).  To  defend  himself  Klingsor  sends  friih 
beautiful  and  alluring  maidensr— "in  lightly  thro wn-on  gamients,  ip 
though  waked  from  sleep'  — and,  after  their  failure  to  entrap  raisifa;, 
one  Kundry,  a  strange,  dark  woman,  who  "was  once  Herodias."    Ibi* 


WAONER  AS- A  DKAMATIST.  BOY 

person  is  m  the  power  of  KKngsor,  but  it  is  tmwillingly  that  she  does 
liis  wort ;  yet,  when  she  sets  herself  to  it,  she  certainly  leaves  no  stone 
uutumed,  and  it  is  after  a  scene  which  (one  would  hope)  could  not  pos- 
fiibly  be  acted  upon  any  stage  that  Parsifal  triumphs.  Then  Klingsor 
liiaiself  attacks  the  hero,  hurling  the  spear  at  him — but,  by  a  miracle, 
it  rests  swinging  in  the  air  over  the  head  of  Parsifal,  who,  taking  it  in 
his  hand,  makes  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  it,  and  in  a  moment  all  the  en- 
cliant;^d  garden  disappears,  the  maidens  turn  to  faded  flowers  scattered 
on  the  ground,  and  Kundry  only  remains,  kneeling  in  agony  at  tho 
Toung  hero's  feet. 

In  the  last  act  this  strange  female,  who  speaks  throughout  it  not  a 
single  word,  except  the  one  exclamation,  *'Dicnen!  dienen!"  be- 
gins her  expiration  by  parodying  the  Magdalene's  act,  washing  the 
feet  of  Parsifal  and  wiping  them  with  her  hair;  and  Parsifal  heals 
the  wound  of  Amfortas,  touching  it  with  the  sacred  spear.  This  is 
rially  the  whole  story,  which  is  iiUed  up  with  elaborate  details  concem- 
ing  the  Grail  and  the  ceremonies  attending  Holy  Communion— and  with 
ctrtain  other  details  into  which  it  is  as  well  not  to  go.  Anything  at 
once  so  flimsy,  so  offensive,  and  with  such  pretence  of  depth,  so  essen- 
tially shallow,  could  hardly  have  been  anticipated  by  Wagner's  most 
rancorous  opponent ;  while  his  firmest  friend  can  find  to  admire  in  it 
noihing  but  a  certain  poetical  tone,  a  remnant  of  the  old  power  of  ap- 
propriate colouring. 

Here  ends  the  list  of  Wagner's  published  operas.  Of  the  purely  liter- 
ary merits  of  their  style  I  have  said  nothing,  leaving  it  to  German  critics 
to  estimate  their  worth  as  Gennan  poetry ;  Iheir  verdict,  as  a  rule,  is 
not,  I  believe,  very  fav^ourable,  and  indeed  some  Englishmen  have 
ventured  to  characterise  his  verses  as  "detestable  doggrel ;  "  though  the 
general  poetical  tone  of  his  writing — the  broad  charm  of  his  conceptions 
— is  usually  allowed.  Of  the  practical  success  of  his  plays  on  the  stage, 
one  can  also  hardly  speak — it  is  impossible  to  say  how  far  the  music 
L^.s  helped  or  harmed  it ;  and  lastly,  it  is  not  worth  whiL*  to  do  more 
than  mention  his  reported  renunciation  of  his  earlier  operas — a  man 
must  be  judged  by  his  works,  not  by  his  own  opinion  of  them.  Of 
Wagner's  writing  as  compared  'o  his  music — their  relative  values,  and 
the  proportion  they  bear  to  each  other — I  wnll  only  j-ay  that  they  seem 
to  ma  smgularly  alike.  The  question  is  of  course,  one  into  which  only 
professed  musicians  can  properly  enter. 

Ther3  is  no  need  to  sum  up  what  has  been  here  said  of  W^agner's 
m?rlts  and  faults  as  a  dramatist ;  the  characteristics  of  each  ploy  have* 
h.icn  so  much  the  same,  except  in  so  far  as  certain  tendencies  have 
f^^-own,  constantly  and  Btrongl}^  throughout  the  series — from  **Eienzi" 
to  "Parsifal."  There  was  improvement  up  to  a  certain  point — to  the 
production  of  "Lohengrin" — after  which,  increase  of  bulk  has  gone 
on  in  inverse  ratio  to  that  of  merit.  V/agner  makes  the  great  mistaka 
of  wilfully  running  counter  to  the  opinions  and  feelings  of  the  grea\ 
juajority  of  people,  ahke  in  art  and  in  morals ;   and^  as  has  been  said 


508  WAGNER  AS  A  DRAMATIST. 

often  enough,  the  world  is  cleverer  than  any  one  man  in  it.  The  affec- 
tation of  smgalarity  is  really  a  confession  ot  inferiority.  Yet,  when  wa 
look  through  the  hsts  of  poets  who  have  written  for  the  stage,  the  number 
whose  works  have  proved  to  possess  the  power  of  really  movmg  the 
crowds  of  men  and  women  who  fill  our  theatres  is  so  very  small  that  to 
have  succeeded  as  well  as  Wagner  is  hardly  the  lot  of  one  true  poet  in  a 
thousand.  Of  modern  writers  whom  have  we  whose  work  rank-  hi^h 
with  the  scholar,  and  can  also  win  favour  on  the  public  stage  ?  Be- 
sides Wagner,  perhaps  only  one  living  man,  the  brilliant,  flashy,  en- 
thusiastic, intensely  "theatrical"  poet  of  the  Parisians,  Victor  Hugo— 
with  whom  as  a  comrade  essentially  like,  in  spite  of  all  his  French  un- 
likeness,  I  leave  the  ultra-German  Richard  Wagner. 

Edwabd  Rose,  in  Fraaer^a  Magazine^ 


THE  ROYAL  WEDDING. 

Yid&  The  Times,  March  14,  1879. 

I^M  a  reporter,  bound  to  do 

Reporter's  duty ; 
111  lanjrua^e  beautiful  all  through 

I  sing  of  Beauty. 

And  he  who  thinks  these  words  of  mine 

Something  too  many. 
Let  him  refl(;ct— for  every  line 

I  get  a  penny. 

I  sing  of  how  the  Red  Prince  took 

His  pretty  dauirhter, 
To  marry  her  to  Connaught's  Book 

Across  the  water. 

Oh,  bright  was  Windsor's  quaint  old  toWDy  " 
Decked  out  with  bravery : 

And  blessed  Spring  had  ne'er  a  frown 
Or  such-like  knavery. 

The  sea  of  legs  before  the  gate 

And  round  the  steeple. 
In  short,  the  marvellously  great 

Amount  of  people, 

Instead  of  treading  upon  toes 

And  dresses  tearing, 
Was  (as  a  royal  marriage  goes), 

I  thought,  forbearing. 

The  churrh-bells  rang,  the  brass  bands  played. 
The  place  was  quite  full, 
I       •■  Before  the  Quality  had  made 

The  scene  delightful. 


THE  ROYAL  WEDDING.  M 

Thejr  camq  from  Paddiugton  by  Bcorea^ 

'Jaid  rasticb  pioiigluug, 
And  wometi  buddJcd  at  tbe  doors, 

And  iuiants  buwiiig. 

While  condescension  on  their  part 

We  quite  expected, 
On  oais,  us  nsiial,  England's  heart 

Was  much  afEected. 

Whene'er  we  welcome  Hank  and  Worth 

From  foreign  lauds,  it 
Becomes  a  wunder,  how  on  earth 

That  organ  stands  it  I 

•  •  •  •  •  i> 

The  Berkshire  Vohmteers  in  grey, 

(Loyd  Lindsay,  Colonel), 
And  the  bold  Kifles  hold  the  way, 

With  Captain  Bumell. 

To  guard  St.  George's  brilliant  naye. 

Believe  me,  no  men 
Could  properly  themselves  behave 

Except  the  yeomen. 

Spring  dresses  came  " like  daffodils 

Before  iho  swallow," 
On  ladies'  pretty  forms  (with  bills, 

AlttsI  to  follow). 

Their  beauty  "  took  the  winds  of  March*' 

(Which  in  my  rhymes  is 
A  theft :  the  metaphors  are  arch, 

But  they're  the  Times'ft). 

Sir  Elvey  played  a  solemn  air; 

I  sent  H  wish  up ; 
Pour  Bishops  cuine  to  join  the  pair, 

And  one  Aichbishop. 

Nine  minor  parsons  after  that 

To  help  them  poured  in. 
One  strauge-n  smed  man  among  them  sat& 

The  Rev.  Tahonrdin. 

But  oh  I  how  this  "  prolific  pen'* 

Of  mine  must  falter, 
When  I  describe  the  noblemen 

Before  the  altar  I 

There  was  the  Lady  Emly  King- 

scote,  like  a  tulip ; 
The  Maharajah  Duleep  Singh, 

And  Mrs.  Dulecp. 

The  gallant  Teck  mi^ht  there  be  seen 

With  sword  imd  buckler, 
His  Mary  in  a  dark  sa^e  green, 

And  Countess  Puckler. 

Count  Schlippenbach,  the  Ladies  Schli*- 

fen  and  De  Grnnne, 
And  other  names  that  seem  to  me 

A  little  fuuuy, 


no  THE  KOYAL  WEDDING. 

Though  from  his  years  thu  child  vvaB  wanil« 

Prince  Albert  Victor 
Looked,  iii  iiis  uavui  uuiforiii, 

A  pi:rt'ect  pictur. 

The  Marchioness  of  Salisbury 

1  woudered  at  in 
Keseda  veivei  aiaped  with  my- 

OfiOtis  eaim. 

Park  amethyst  on  jnpes  of  pcnlt 

Wore  the  li'dncteses ; 
And  ostrich  featljers  seemed  to  mcult 

From  half  the  dresses. 

Beal  diamonds  were  as  thick  as  pcaa, 
And  sham  ones  thicker— 

Till  overcome,  your  special  flees 
To  aek  for  liquor ! 


The  show  is  o'er :  by  twos  and  twos 

I  see  them  fleetinjr  off. 
^iOrd  BeaconsfiHd,  the  Daily  News, 

And  Major  VietingholE. 

A  he  happy  coup'e  lead  the  way, 
For  life  embrrkinir ; 

Then  Cai)taiD  Eg^erton  and  La- 
dy Adela, — Larking. 

X.«^isa  Mnrjtaret !  to  thee 

Be  grief  a  stranger, 
Aiul  may  thy  husband  never  be 

A  Coiiuaught  Ranger. 


\ 


Xt  in  the  blush  of  mutual  hopej^ 

And  fond  devotion. 
You're  honeymooning  on  the  slopen, 

Fve  not  a  notion. 

)3nt  this  T  feel,  that  for  your  true 

And  honest  passion. 
All  sober  folks  wish  well  to  you 

In  manly  fashion. 

Whilfc,  for  your  chroniclers,  I  know, 

Hogiiante  V.R., 
Froui  east  to  west  'twere  hard  to  shew 

Such  men  as  we  are ! 

Hebman  C.  ^erivale,  in  the  Univerafty  Magazint, 


ABOUT  LOCUSTS.  .  -^    ^U 


.^' 


ABOUT  LOCUSTS. 

From  a  resident  in  Smyrna  we  have  received  the  following  interest- 
ig  communication  regarding  these  Eastern  pesi««,  the  locnsts.  He  thus 
rites  :  'In  the  month  of  May  1878  I  went  by  rail  to  a  village  situated 
x)nt  five  miles  from  the  town  of  Smyrna.  On  one  part  of  the  line 
lera  is  an  incline,  which  I  noticed  we  were  ascending  at  an  unusually 
w  rate  of  speed,  and  the  engine  was  pufi&ng  and  labouring  in  a  most 
Qaccoiintable  manner.  On  looking  out  of  the  window  to  ascertain 
ly  caase,  I  perceived  that  the  ground  was  literally  covered  with 
casts ;  and  scarct  ly  a  minute  had  elapsed  ere  the  train  ceased  to  move, 
wiug  to  the  rails  having  become  wet  and  slippery  from  the  number  of 
icse  insects  that  had  been  crushed  on  the  hne.  Sand  was  thrown  on 
ic  rails,  and  brooms  were  placed  in  front  of  the  locomotive,  by  which 
leauR  the  train  was  again  set  in  motion ;  and  we  finally  reached  our 
estination  in  thirty-five  instead  of  fifteen  minutes,  the  usual  length  of 
le  journey.  On  tntering  the  village,  I  called  at  a  friend's  house,  and 
rand  the  Inmates  assembled  in  the  garden,  drawn  up  in  battle-array, 
rmed  with  brooms,  branches  of  trees,  and  other  implements  of  destruc- 
on,  waging  war  againsi  their  unwelcome  visitors  the  locusts,  which,  it 
ppears,  had  scaled  the  outer  walls  of  the  premises,  taking  the  place  by 
5s:\ult,  and  were  committing  sad  havoc  on  every  green  t'ling  to  be 
5uud  in  the  garden.  The  united  efforts  of  the  hous  hold,  however, 
•ere  powerless  against  their  enemies,  which  were  momentarily  increas- 
3g  in  number ;  so  they  were  compelled  to  beat  an  ignominious  retreat, 
n(\  seek  refuge  in  the  house. 

'I  now  propose  to  give  some  account  of  the  nature  and  habits  of 
hrse  insects,  which  may  possibly  not  be  tminteresting  to  European 
>  aders.  Locusts  are  first  seen  towards  the  end  of  April  on  the  slopes 
»f  the  hills,  where  the  eggs  of  the  females  had  been  deposited  the  pre- 
ious  autumn.  "When  bom  they  ai*e  about  the  size  of  ants,  but  develop 
n  a  wonderfully  short  time  to  their  full  size.  Early  in  May  they  are 
iifiiciently  strong  to  travel  all  day  on  foot,  collecting  together  at  night 
n  dense  masses.  At  sunrise  they  recommence  their  march — their 
leads  invariably  turned  to  the  south — devouring  every  green  herb  that 
;omes  in  their  way,  grass  especially  being  their  favourite  food.  In  the 
car  of  these  advancing  armies  others  are  following,  which  subsist  on 
s^bat  is  left  by  their  more  fortunate  compnnipns  of  the  advanced  guard. 
Fowfirds  the  end  of  May  locusts  are  sufficiency  developed  to  take  short 
3ights  on  the  wing,  and  wherever  ihey  alight  woe  betide  the  unfortu- 
aat^  owners  of  the  property  !  In  June  and  July  they  rise  to  a  consid- 
erable height  in  the  air,  their  infinite  numbers  occasionally  darkening 
thf}  sun.  As  at  this  season  of  the  year  there  is  no  more  grass  in  the 
plains  and  the  com  has  been  harvested,  the  vineyards  are  unmercifully 
attack  d  as  well  as  the  leaves  of  trees ;  and  when  hard  pressed  for  food, 
ven  the  bark  of  trees  is  not  spared  by  thrs  '  voracious  insects.  Locusts 
i.e  off  ia  August ;  but  before  this  occurs  the  lemales  bore  holes  in  tho 


ei2  ABOUT  LOCUSTS. 

ground  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills,  sufficiently  large  to  insert  their 
bodies ;  then  the  males — I  am  assured  by  eye-witnesses — cut  off  their 
wives'  heads;  and  thus  the  eggs  which  are  contained  in  the  females' 
bodies — averaging  about  seventy  in  number — are  preserved  against  the 
inclemencies  of  the  winter  season. 

It  occasionally  happens  that  locusts  disappear  for  a  number  of  years 
in  succession ;  it  is  therefore  presumed  that  in  seasons  of  scarcity  tht  y 
are  compelled — before  the  breeding  season — to  take  long  flights  in  searcii 
of  food ;  and  when  this  occurs,  millions  of  th«  ir  dead  are  found  on  tho 
shores  of  the  sea,  and  the  effluvia  from  their  bodies  often  occasion  great 
sickness.     In  the  year  1832  locusts  lay  two  feet  deep  in  the  Bay  of 
Smyrna.     Shipping  and  typhus  and  other  fevers  became  so  prevalent 
in  the  town,  that  many  famiUes  in  a  position  to  leave,  took  refuge  in 
country  villages.     With  a  proper  government,  this   Eastern  piague 
could  by  degraesbe  done  away  with ;  but  the  Turks  leave  everything  to 
Fate ;  and  although  occasional  orders  are  given  by  the  governors  in  the 
interior  for  their  destruction  when  they  first  aijpear  in  the  spring,  only 
half -measures  are  taken,  and  little  is  gained  by  these  futile  attempts  to 
destroy  them.     In  former  times,  Cyprus  was  annually  devastated  by 
locusts ;   but  of  late  years  this  great  infliction  has  almost  ceased  to  be  a 
source  of  anxiety  to  its  agricultural  population,  owing  to  the  intelli- 
gence of  a  European  who  holds  property  on  the  island,  and  who  in- 
vented the  following  simple  method  of  destroying  them  in  their  infancy, 
which  has  been  already  alluded  to  in  public  journals. 

*  Locusts,  as  mentioned  before,  are  bom  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills, 
and  when  they  are  sufficiently  developed  to  commence  their  work  of  de- 
struction, descend  into  the  plains  in  long  and  regular  columns,  never 
deviating  from  their  path.  Anticipating  this  method  of  progression, 
trenches  are  dug  at  the  base  of  these  hUls  ;  and  when  the  locusts  are 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  pits,  they  are  inclosed  between  two  long  strips 
of  canvas  placed  perpendicularly  in  parallel  lines  leading  to  the  moutLa 
of  the  pits.  A  piece  of  oilcloth  is  then  spread  on  the  ground,  extend- 
ing a  few  inches  over  these  trenches  in  a  slanting  position,  over  which 
the  locusts  continue  to  advance,  and  are-precipitated  into  these  traps  in 
innumerable  quantities,  and  immediately  destroyed.  If  the  Turkish 
government  followed  the  example  set  them  by  the  inhabitants  of  Cypms, 
Asia  Minor  would  soon  be  free  of  locusts;  but  as  there  is  but  litUe 
chance  of  this  being  the  case,  we  must  expect  a  yearly  increase  of 
these  insects,  and  trust  to  natural  causes  for  their  destruction.* 

—Ghambers'a  JoumaL 


1?HS  ^ 


LIBRARY  MAGAZINE 


MAY,    1879. 


PBOBABUJTT  AS  THK  GUIDB  OF  OOITDTTOT. 

Thd  docbrine  of  Bishop  Bntlei;  in  tha  lAtroductiom  to  his  AsMhgg^ 
with  regard  to  pxobable  eTidence,  lies  at  the  root  of  his  entire  aign- 
ment;  for  br  the  analog7  which  he  seeks  to  establish  between  natural 
religion  and  that  which  is  revealed,  he  does  not  pretend  to  supply  a 
demonstratiye  proof  of  Christianity,  but  only  such  a  kind  and  such  an 
amount  of  presmnptions  in  its  favonr  as  to  bind  human  beings  at  the 
least  to  take  its  claims  into  their  serious  oonsideration.  This»  he 
urgeSk  they  must  do^  provided  only  they  mean  to  act  with  regard  to 
it  upon  those  principles,  which,  in  all  other  matters,  are  regarded  as 
the  principles  of  common  sense.  It  is  therefore  essential  to  his  purpose 
to  show  what  are  the  obligations  which,  as  inferred  &om  the  tmiyersal 
pnctiee  of  mei^  probable  or  presnmptiye  eyidenoe  may  entaiL 

Bst  indeed  the  snttfect-matter  of  this  Introduction  has  yet  a  far 
wider  scope.  It  embraces  the  rule  of  ^ust  proceeding,  not  only  in  re- 
gard to  iJie  examination  of  the  pretensions  of  Christianity,  but  <ilso  in 
regard  to  tha  whole  conduct  of  life.  The  former  question,  great  as 
it  is,  has  no  practical  existence  for  the  yast  majority,  whether  of  the 
Christian  world,  or  of  the  world  beyond  the  preeinet  of  the  Christian 
profession.  It  is  only  releyant  and  material  (except  as  an  exercise  of 
Boimd  philosophy)  to  three  descriptions  of  persons;  those  whom  the 
Gospel  for  the  firet  time  solicits;  those  who  haye  fallen  away  from  it; 
and  those  who  are  in  doubt  concerning  its  foundation.  Again,  there  aro 
portions  of  these  classes,  to  whose  fiftkfces  of  mind  other  modes  of  address 
may  be  more  suitable.  But  eyer^  Christian,  and  indeed  eyery  man 
owning  any  kind  of  moral  obliganon,  who  may  once  enter  upon  any 
speculation  oonoeming  the  groundi  which  lead  men  to  act,  or  to  refrain 
from  acting,  is  concerned  5n  the  highest  degree  with  the  subject  that 
Bishop  Butler  has  opened  incidentally  for  uie  sake  of  its  relation  to 
his  own  immediate  purpose. 

The  proposition  of  Bishop  Butler,  that  probability  is  the  guide  of 
life,  is  not  <me  inyented  for  the  purposes  of  his  argument,  nor  held  by 
belioyexB  fdone,    YoltaJre  has  used  nearly  the  same  words; 


BU         PBOBABTT.TTY  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  CONDUCT. 

Presqne  tonto  -la  tIo  hnmtdno  ronle  gnr  des  probability  Toot  ce  qxd  n'est  pas 
dtiioontre  aizx  j^uz,  oa  rccxmnix  poar  vr^  pf^r  ies  parties  ^rfdemmeof  intSresseei)  a  lo 
jiier,  n'cst  tout  aa  plus  que  pruoable.  .  .  .  L  incertitude  £tant  presqae  tuujours 
lo  partake  do  ITiomme,  tous  vous  determiaeriez  trds-rarement,  si  Toua  attendiea  uno 
demonstration.  Cepeodant  i)  faat  prendro  ua  ])arti :  et  ii  ne  fant  pas  le  prendro  nu 
hasur^.  11  est.  don^  neoessaire  k  notro  natui'e  faible,  aveugle,  tai\)uai3  aigcttc  a 
ren-edr,  d'^tudler  lea  piobabUil?6s  aveo  autaiit  de  ioiif*  que  fioo^  appreacma  l  arith- 
n.^tique  et  la  g^oOLtitne.  * 

Yoltaiie  wrote  this  paBsage  in  an  Essay,  not  on  reli^on,  but  on 
judicial  inquirieB;  ^  and  the  st^iem^it  of  piinciple  which  it  propounds 
is  perhaps  on  that  aooount  even  the  inbt6  Valuable. 

If  we  oonrader  sabjectiyely  the  reasons  upon  which  our  judgments 
rest,  and  the  motiTes  of  our  praolicai  intentions,  it  may  in  strictness 
be  said  that  absolutely  in  no  case  haye  we  more  than  probable  evi- 
dence  to  proceed  upon-;  sjince  there  is  slw&js  room  for  the  entrance  of 
error  in  that  last  operataon  of  the  percipient  faculties  of  men,  by  which 
the  objective  becomes  subjective;  an  operation  antecedent,  of  neces- 
sity, not  only  to  action  or  decision  upon  acting,  but  to  the  sti^?  at 
wmch  the  jrarception  becomes  what  is  sometimes  called  a  'st^te  of 
ooBsdoiasneBS.  *' 

But,  setting  aside  this  consideration,  and  speaking  only  of  what  is 
objectively  presented  as  it  is  in  itself,  a  very  smaQ  portion  indeed  of 
the  subjectrmatter  of  prftctioe  is  or  can  be  of  a  demoi^tiative,  or  neces- 
sary, character.  Moral  action  is  conven^ant  almost  wholly  with  probar 
ble  evidenca  So  that  a  right  undeirstanding  of  t^e  proper  modes  of 
dealing  with  it  is  the  foundation  of  all  ethi(»l  studies.  WiUiout  this, 
it  must  either  be  diy  and  barren  dogmatism,  or  else  a  mass  of  floating 
(juicksanda  Duty  may  indeed  be  done,  witiiout  having  been  studied 
in  the  abstract;  but,  if  it  is  to  be  studied,  it  must  be  studied  under  its 
true  laws  and  conditions  as  a  sdence.  Kow,  probability  is  the  nearly 
universal  form  or  condition,  under  whic^  these  laws  are  applied:  and 
therefore  a  sound  view  of  it  is  not  indeed  ethical  knowledge  itsetC  but 
is  the  orgamny  by  means  of  which  it  is  to  be  rightly  handled.  He  wlio 
by  his  writings  both  t^M^es  and  inures  men  to  tne  methods  of  hand- 
hng  probable  or  imperfect  evidence,  gives  them  exerdfie,  and  by  eier- 
cise  strength^  in  the  most  important  of  aU  those  rules  of  daiJ^  lifo 
which  are  oozmecied  with  the  intellectaal  habits. 

Different  totas  of  error  eoncendng  probable  ovidenoe  have  pro- 
duced in  some  oases  moral  laxity,  in  others  scrupulosity,  in  others  un- 
belief. 

To  begin  with  the  last  named  of  these.  It  is  a  common  form  of  hi- 
lacy  to  suppose  that  imperfect  evidence  cannot  be  the fooRdation  of  an 
obtigation  to  religious  belief,  inasmuch  as  behe^  although  in  its  in- 
fancy it  ma^  Ml  sboft  of  intellectual  conviction,  tends  towards  that 
character  in  its  growth  and  attains  it  when  mature.  Sometimes,  in- 
deed, it  is  aeeumed  by  the  controversiaiist^  that  belief^  if  genuine,  is 
— — — -  -  -  •  ■  -         - 

'*  '£s8ai  sur  lea  probabHitSs  en  fait  de  Jnsttoe.*— IToritv  (Ito,  GoneTa*  1777),toL 
xxvi  .  p.  4.'>7. 
«  Nineteenth  Oentiiry,  supra,  pp.  G06-7. 


PEOBABnJTY  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  CONDUCT.         515 

essentially  absolute.  And  it  is  taken,  to  be  a  yiolation  of  the  latrs  of 
the  biunaa.  mind  that  proofs  wldch  do  not  exclude  doubt  should  be 
held  to  warrant  a  p^teuasion  which  does  or  may  exclude  it  Indeed, 
the  celebrated  argument  of  Hume,  against  the  credibility  of  the  mira- 
cles, involyed  the  latent  aasumptiim  that  we  have  a  right  to  claim 
demonfitrative  eTidenoe  for  every  proposition  which  demands  our 
assent.  From  this  assumption  it  pxooeeds  to  deny  a  demonstratiye 
character  to  any  pzoo&,  except  those  supplied  by  our  own  experience. 
And  the  answer,  which  Paley  has  made  to  it,  rests  upon  the  proposi- 
tion that  the  testimony  adduced  is  suoh  as,  aooording  to  the  common 
judgment  and  practice  of  men,  it  is  rational  to  believe,  while  he 
passes  by  without  notice  the  question  of  its  title  to  the  rank  of  specu- 
lative certainty./ 

Next,  with  regard  to  the  danger  of  scrupulosity.  This  has  perhaps 
been  less  conspicuous  in  philosophical  systems  than  in  its  effect  on 
the  pra(^ical  coaiduct  of  life  by  individuals.  There  are  persons,  cer- 
tainly not  among  the  well-tcainedand  well-informed,  who  would  attach 
a  suspidon  of  dishonesty  to  any  doctrine  which  should  give  a  wanant 
to  acts  of  moral  choice  upon  evidenoe  admitted  to  be  less  than  certoin. 
Their  dispositicm  is  deserving  of  respeet^  when  it  takes  its  rise  from 
that  simple,  unsuspecting  confidence  in  the  strength  and  clearness  of 
tmthj.whioh  habitual  obedience  engendeos.  It  is  less  so  when  we  see 
in  it  a  timidity  of  mind  which  shrinks  from  measuring  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  charge  that  it  has  pleased  Ood  to  lay  upon  us  as  moral 
agents,  and  will  not  tread,  even  in  the  path  of  duty,  upon  any  ground 
that  yields  beneath  the  pressure  of  the  foot.  The  desiro  for  certainty, 
in  tlus  form,  enervates  and  numaufl  the  character.  Persons  so  affected 
can  scarcely  either  search  for  duties  to'  be  done,  or  accept  them  when 
offered  and  almost  forced  upon  their  notice.  As  a  speculative  system, 
this  tendency  has  appeared  among  some  casuists  of  the  Church  of 
Borne,  and  has  been  condemned  by  Pope  Innocent  XI. 

The  position  of  many  among  her  divines  with  reference  to  the  dan- 
ger of  moral  laxity  opens  much  graver  questions.  The  Provincial  Let- 
ters of  Pascal  gave  an  univeisal  notoriety  to  the  doctrine  of  ProbabU- 
ism.  Setting  apart  the  extremes  to  which  it  has  been  carried  by  indi- 
viduals, we  may  safely  take  the  representation  of  it,  as  it  is  supplied 
in  a  MauTia]  published  for  the  use  of  the  French  clergy  of  the  present 
day.  According  to  this  work,  it  is  allowable,  in  matters  of  moral  con- 
duct^ that  i^  of  two  opposite  opinions,  each  one  bo  sustained  not  by  a 
Blijght  but  a  solid  probability,  and  if  the  probability  of  the  one  be  ad- 
mittedly more  solid  than  that  of  the  other,  We  may  follow  our  natural 
liberty  of  choice  by  acting  upon  the  less  probable.  This  doctrine,  we 
are  informed,  had  been  taught  before  1667,  by  159  authors  of  the 
Soman  Church,  and  .by  multitudes  since  that  date.  It  appeals  to 
etaud  in  the  n^ont  formal  contradiction  to  the  sentiments  of  Bishop 
Sutler,  who  la3'S  it  down  without  hesitation  that  the  lowest  presump- 
tion, if  not  nentr.iliBcd  by  a  similar  presumption  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  the  smallest  real  and  dear  excess  of  presumption  on  the  one  side 


61G  PROBABILITY  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  CONDUCT.       - 

over  tho  presumptions  on  the  other  side,  determines  the  reason  in 
matters  of  speculation,  xmd  absolutely  binds  conduct  in  matter  of 
practico. 

Such  being  tho  scope  of  the  subject,  and  such  the  dangers  to  which 
it  stands  related,  let  us  now  proceed  to  its  examination. 

First  we  have  to  inqruire,  what  is  probabiUiy?  Probability  may  he 
predicated  whenever,  in  answer  to  the  question  whether  a  paiticalar 
proposition  be  true,  the  affirmative  chances  predominate  over  the  neg- 
ative^ yet  not  so  as  (virtually)  to  exclude  doubt  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  improbability  may  be  predicated,  wheneverthe  negative  chances 
predominate  over  the  affirmative,  but  subject  to  the  same  reservation 
that  doubt  be  not  precluded.  For,  if  doubt  be  preduded,  then  cer- 
tainty, affirmatively,  or  negatively,  as  the  case  may  be,  must  be  predica- 
ted. In  mathematical  hmguage,  certainty,  affinnati^p  or  negative,  is 
the  limit  of  probability  on  Sie  one  side,  and  of  improbabiU^  on  the 
ether,  as  the  circle  is  of  the  ellipse.  ^ 

Bui  the  sphere  of  probability,  according  to  Bishop  Butler,  indndcs 
not  only  truths  but  events,  pael  and  future;  and  it  likewise  compre- 
hends questions  of  conduct^  whidi  may  be  said  to  form  a  class  apart, 
both  txojxk  truths  and  from  events:  whereas  the  definition  here  ^ven 
turns  simply  upon  the  preponderance  of  chances  for  the  truth  or  mlse- 
hood  of  a  pro{)osition.    How  shall  we  broaden  that  definition? 

The  answer  is  that  truths,,  events  past  and  future,  and  questions  of  con- 

•The  relatMnaof  probabflUieB  amonj*  ibemselves  may  ho  most  cleaily  cxpresied  by 
mathematioai  symbols.  Let  a-  represent' tho  affirmative  aide  of  the  propositioQ  tu  be 
tried,  b  tbe  aegativ^  aod  lot  tho  evidenice  be  exactly  balonoed  b^weea  than. 
Then 

6 
Let  the  eTitlence  so-prvpoaHefaUt  on  tbe  afSxmative  side  that  oat  of  one  bnndred  and 
one  eases  preseBtlug-  tho  same  phouomeoa,  in  one  hvudied  it  vtMsdd  bo  tme*    Thus  the 
expression  ia 

0    100 
a  s  b  SB  100  t  1,  /,  -= — =100. 

5     1 

A  prnin»  let  tbe  eridenee  be  sneb  tbat  oat  of  one  bnndred  and  one  cawu  prewntlng  sim- 
ilitv  pbenoraentit,  in  one  kmkbrod  the  proposition  wodd  tarn  (Hit  to  be  false;  then  the 
ex}>ressk»tt  beeumea 

a     1 
a  tb  ttl  1 100,  .*.-= — . 

b    100 
AjhI  it  is  ekmr  tbat^ 

1 .  Wiieu  tbe  seeond  side  of  this  equation  consists  of  an  int^er  or  an  improper  fine- 
tix>n,  tlie  {Mropositkm  ia  probable. 

•J.  As  tlie  uainer:  I  tor  becomes  indefinitely  ereat  It  represents  probability  cpproaeb' ' 
ing  to\vnn}»  certnbitT.    This  it  never  can  aueqoately  express :  bat  uuiixra  limit  can 
bo  pLieed  ii})oii  th(^  otWanoes  whicb  may  bo  made  towards  it. 

'.\.  When  the  accoud  tilde  of  this  equation  consists  of  a  proper  iraction,  the  prope- 
sit  ion  i.^  iinproiiablc. 

'  4.  A  5  tho  denominator  becomes  indefinitely  great,  it  Teprcsents  improbability  ap> 
prnnching  townrds  uogative  certainty,  or,  as  it  is  sometimes,  perliups  imioupet^, 
colled,  impussibilJty. 


PBOBABILITT  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  OONDTJOT.         517 

[-act,  may  all  be  accnratel  j  reduced  into  the  form  of  propositions,  tme  or 
alse,  by  the  use  of  their  respective  symbols:  for  tne  nrst,  the  symbol 
9;  for  the  second,  Juis  hem  or  trifl  6e;  and  for  the  third,  ougttt  to  be.  In 
»ne  or  other  of  these  forms,  every  conceivable  proposition  can  be  tried 
D.  respect  to  its  probability. 

It  is  necessary  ahft)  to  observe  npon  an  ambigtdty  in  the  use  of  the 
erm  probable.  It  has  been  defined  in  the  sense  in  which  it  is  opposed 
o  the  term  improbable;  but,  in  a  discussion  on  the  character  of  prob- 
ble  evidence,  probable  and  improbable  propositions  are  alike  inclnd- 
d.  When,  for  this  purpose,  we  are  asked,  what  does  probability  des- 
gnate?  the  answer  is,  that  which  may  or  may  not  be.  "We  have  no 
eord  exclusively  appropriated  to  this  use.  ui  the  Greek,  Aristotle 
'onveniently  designates  it  to  ivSexoiievov  oAAwc  cx«i*',  as  opposed  to  to 
Zvyarov  oAAws  cx««>'. '  Somctlmes  this  is  called  contingent,  as  distin- 
pushed  from  necessary  matter;  and  safely  so  called,  if  it  be  always 
x)me  in  mind  that  we  are  dealing  with  |>ropo8itions  with  certain  in- 
itnmients  supplied  by  human  language,  ana  adapted  to  our  thoughts, 
)iit  not  with  things  as  they  are  in  themselves;  that  the  same  thing  may 
X3  subjectively  contingent  and  objectively  certain,  as,  for  example,  the 
juestion,  whether  ^ch^a  person  as  Homer  has  existed:  which  to  us  is 
i  subject  of  probable  inquiry,  but  in  itself  is  manifestly  of  necessary 
natter,  whether  the  proposition  be  true  or  fabe.  So,  again,  in  sx>eak- 
ng  of  future  events,  to  call  them  contingent  in  any  sense  except  with 
regard  to  the  propositions  in  which  we  discuss  them,  is  no  leas  aneribr; 
because,  whether  upon  the  Christian  or  the  necessita^an  hypothesis, 
:iitnre  events  are  manifestly  certain  and  not  contingent;  it  remaining 
\R  a  separate  question  whether  they  are  so  fixed  by  necessity  or  as  the 
Dflfepring  of  free  volition.  It  may  be  enough^  then,  for  the  present  to  ob- 
serve that  the  'probable  evidence*  of  Bishop  Butler  reaches  over  the 
whole  sphere,  of  which  it  is  common  to  speak  as  that  of  contingent 
matter;  and  that  the  element  of  uncertainty  involved  in  the  phrase  con- 
cerns not  the  things  themselves  that  are  in  question,  but  only  the  im- 
perfection of  the  present  means  of  conveying  them  to  us.  To  the  view 
of  the  Most  High  God,  who  knows  all  things,  there  is  no  probability 
and  no  contingency,  but  '  all  things  are  naked  and  open  tmto  the  eyes 
of  Him,  with  whom  we  have  to  do.* 

In  His  case,  and  in  every  case  of  knowledge  properly  and  strictly  so 
called,  the  existence  of  the  thing  known  is  perceived  without  the  inter- 
vention of  any  medium  of  proof.  But  evidence  is,  according  to  our  use 
of  the  term,  essentially  intermediate ;  something  apart  both  from  the 
percipient  and  the  thing  perceived,  and  serving  to  substantiate  to  the 
former,  in  one  degree  or  another,  the  existence  of  the  latter.  Thus 
we  speak  of  the  evidence  of  the  senses,  meaning  those  impressions 
upon  our  bodily  organs  which  are  made  by  objects  visible,  audible, 
and  the  like.  These  respectively  make,  as  it  were,  their  .assertions 
to  us;  which  we  cross-examine  by  reflection,  and  by  comparison  of  the 
Bcveral  testimonies  aifecting  the  same  object.  And  with  regard  to 
things  incorporeal,  in  the  sphere  of  the  probable,  it  seems  that,  in 


618  PBOBABnJTY  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  CONDUCT. 

like  manner,  the  impresfiions  they  produce  npon  our  mental  facilities, 
acting  without  the  agency  of  sense,  are  also  ^rictly  in  the  nature  of 
evidence,  of  presumption  more  or  less  near  to  demonstration,  concern- 
ing the  reality  of  what  they  represent,  but  subject  to  a  aimilar  process 
of  verification  and  correction. 

The  whole  notion,  therefore,  of  evidence  seems  to  belong  essentially 
to  a  being  of  limited  powers.  For  no  evidence  can  prove  anything 
except  what  exists,  and  all  that  exists  may  be  the  object  of  direct' per- 
ception. The  necessity  of  reaching  our  end  through  the  circuitous 
process  implies  our  want  of  power  to  go  straight  to  the  mark. 

And  it  further  appears  that  the  same  idea  implied  not  only  the  limita- 
tion of  range  in  the  powers  of  the  being  who  makes  use  of  evidence, 
but  likewise  their  imperfection  even  in  the  processes  which  they  are 
competent  to  perform.  The  assurance  possessed  by  such  a  being  can- 
not Be  of  the  nigh<est  order,  which  the  laws  of  the  spiritual  creation,  so 
far  as  they  are  £iown  to  us,  would  admit.  However  truly  it  may  he 
adequate,  and  even  abundajit,  to  suBtein  his  mind  in  an^  particular 
conviction,  it  must  be  inferic»r  to  science  in  its  proper  signification, 
that  of  simple  or  absolute  knowledge,  which  is  the  certain  and  exact, 
and  also  conscious  coincidence  of  the  intuitive  faculty  vrith  its  proper 
object.  For  it  is  scarcely  conceivable  that  any  co^cumuhttion  of  proofs, 
each  in  itself  short  of  demonstration,  and  therefore  including  materials 
of  unequal  degrees  of  solidity,  should,  when  put  together,  form  a  whole 
absolutely  and  entirely  equivalent  to  the  single  homogeneous  act  of 
pure  knowledge. 

The  same  conclusion,  that  imperfection  pervades  all  our  mental  pro- 
cesses, at  which  we  have  arrived  by  a  consideration  of  their  nature, 
we  may  also  draw  from  the  nature  of  the  faculties  by  which  they  are 
conducted.  For  there  is  no  one  faculty  of  any  living  man  of  wnich, 
8|£3aking  in  tho  sense  of  pure  and  ri^id  abstraction,  we  are  entitled  to 
say  that  it  is  infallible  in  £tny  one  of  its  acts.  And  no  combination  of 
fauibles  can,  speaking  always  in  the  same  strictness,  make  up  an  infal- 
lible; however  by  their  independent  coincidence  they  m^^j  approxi- 
xnate  towards  it,  and  may  produce  a  result  which  is  for  us  indistinguish- 
able from,  and  practicaUy,  therefore,  equivalent  to,  it. 

Certainly  that  which  is  fallible  does  not,  therefore,  always  err.  It 
may,  in  any,  given  case,  pei^orm  its  duty  perfectly,  and  as  though  it 
were  infallible.  The  falhbility  of  our  faculties,  therefore,  may  not  pre- 
vent bur  having  knowledge  that  in  itself  is  absolute.  But  it  prevents 
our  separating  what  may  be  had  with  such  knowledge  from  what  we 
grasp  witii  a  hold  less  firm,  lii  any  survey  or  classification  of  what  we 
have  perceived  or  concluded,  since  the  faculty  which  discriminates  is 
faUible,  the  reservations,  which  its  imperfection  requires,  must  attach 
to  the  results  we  attain  by  it.  So  that,  although  we  might  have  this 
Ibiowledge,  if  we  consider  knowledge  simply  as  the  exact  coincidence 
of  the  percipient  faculty  with  its  proper  objed^,  we  could  not  make  oar- 
selves  conscious  of  the  real  rank  of  that  knowledge  in  a  given  oaae;  we 
could  not  know  what  things  they  are  that  we  th.us  know,  nor  oodbo* 
mtly  could  we  argue  from  them  as' known. 


y^OBABIUTY  AS  THE  GUIDll  OF  CONBUCT.  510 

<  Since,  then,  nothing  can  be  known  exoepii  whsA  eiielia,  nor  known 
otherwise  thaji  in  the  exact  manner  in  which  it  exists,  knowledge,  in  its 
scientific  sense,  can  only  be  predicated — ^fiist,  of  perceptions  which  are 
abeolntely  and  exactly  true,  and  secondly,  hy  a  mind  which  in  the  same 
sense  knows  them  to  be  absolutely  and  exactly  true.  It  seems  to  fol- 
low, that  it  is  only  by  a  license  of  speech  that  the  term  knowledge  can 
be  predicated  by  ns  aa  to  any  of  our  perceptions.  Assnming  that  our 
faculties,  acting  faithfully,  are  capable  in  certain  eases  of  oonyeying  to 
us  scientific  knowledge,  still  no  part  of  what  is  so  conveyed  ean  stand 
jn  review  before  our  consciousness  'mth  the  certain  indefectible  marks 
of  what  it  is.  And  »nce  there  is  no  one  of  them,  with  regard  to  which 
it  is  abstractedly  impossible  that  the  thing  it  represents  should  be 
ctherwise  than  as  it  is  represented,  we  cannot,  except  by  such  license 
of  speech  as  aforesaid,  categorically^. j)redicate  of  an^r  one  .of  them  that 
precise  correspondence  of  the  percipient  faculty,  with  the  thing  per- 
ceived, which  constitutes  knowledge  pure  and  simple. 

It  is  desirable  that  we  should  fuHy  realise  this  truth,  in  order  that  we 
may  appreciate  the  breadth  and  solidity  of  the  ground  on  which 'Bishop 
Bntler  has  founded  his  doctrine  of  probable  eiddenoe.    We  ought  to 
perceive  that,  observing  his  characteristic  caution,  he  has  kept  within 
limits  narrower  than  the  groimd  which  the  laws  of  the  human  mind, 
viewed  through  a  medium  purely  abstract,  would  have  allowed  him  to 
occupy.    His  habit  was  to  encamp  near  to  the  region  of  practice  in  all 
his  philosophical  inquiries;  to  appease,  and  thus  to  reclaim,  the  con- 
temptuous infidelity  of  his  age.    A  ri^id  statement  of  the  whole  ease 
concerning  our  knowledge  would  prcmably  have  startled  those  whom 
he  sought  to  attracts  and  nave  given  them  a  pretext  for  retreating,  at 
the  ver^  threshold,  from  the  inquiry  to  which  he  invited  them.    Con- 
siderations of  this  kind  are,  indeed,  applicable  very  generally  to  the 
form,  in  which  Bishop  Butler  has  propounded  his  profound  truths  for 
popular  acceptation.    But  it  is  manifest  that,  if  he  even  understated  the 
case  with  regard  to  probable  evidence,  his  argument  is  corroborated  by 
taMng  into  view  all  that  residue  of  it,  which  he  did  not  directly  put 
into  requisition.    He  was  engaged  in  an  endeavour  to  show  to  those, 
who  demanded  an  absolute  certainty  in  the  proems  of  religion,  that  this 
demand  was  unreasonable;  and  the  method  he  pursued  in  this  demon- 
stration was,  to  point  out  to  them,  how  much  of  their  own  doily  con- 
duct was  paJpably  and  rightly  founded  upon  evidence  less  than  certain. 
The  unreasonableness  of  such  a  demand  becomes  still  more  glaring  in 
the  eyes  of  persons  not  under  adverse  prepossession,  when  we  find  by 
reflection  that  no  one  of'  our  convictions,  or  perceptions,  can  in  strict- 
ness be  declared  to  possess  the  character  of  scientifio  knowledge. 
Because,  if  such  be  the  case,  we  cannot  rebut  this  consequence:  that, 
^ven  if  a  demonstration  intrinsically  perfect  were  presented  to  us,  the 
possibility  of  error  would  still  exist  im  the  one  link  remaining;  namely, 
that  subjective  process  of  our  facultioe  by  which  it  has  to  be  appropri- 
ated. This  (so  to  speak)  primordial  element  of  uncertainty  never  could 
he  eliminated,    except  by  the  gift  of  inenability  to  the  individual 


620         PKOJ^ABIIiITy  AB  THE  GXJIDB  OF  CONDUCT. 

nundi  Bat  awik  a  gift  'wonld  aiooimt  to  a  fandamental  change  in  the 
laws  of  oox  natijre.  And  again,  sncH  a  cliange  would  obviouSy  dislo- 
cate the  entire  conditions  qf  the .  inqniiy  before  ns,  which  appears  to 
turn  npen  the  cxedibilXty  of  revealed  rehgion  as  it  is  illustrated  by  its 
Buitablttiess  to-^wh^t  ?  not  to  an  imaginably  and  unrealised,  but  to  the 
actual,  experienced  condition  of  things. 

To  the  conclusion  that  scientific  loxowledge  can  neyer  be  oonsciotiBly 
entertained  by  the  individual  mind,  it  is  no  answer,  nor  any  valid 
objectipnt  to  urse  that  such  a  doctrine  unsettles  the  only  secure  foun- 
dation  on  .i^hioh  we  can  build,  destroys  mental  repose,  and  threatens 
oonfasiooL  For,  even  if  a  great  and  gnevous  fault  in  the  condition  of 
the  world  were  thus  to  be  exposed,  we  are  not  concerned  here  with  the 
question  whethecr  our  state  is  one  of  abstract  excellence,  but  simply  wi<^ 
tk^  £acts  o£  it».6uch  as  they  are. .  We  cannot  enter  into  the  question 
whether  it  is  abstractedly  best  that  our  faculties  should  be  uable  to 
error.  That  is  one  of  the  original  conditions  under  which  we  live.  No 
objeetioa  oan  be  diawn  from  it  to  an  argument  in  favour  of  revelation, 
unless  it  can  be  shown  either,  jOlrst,  that,  on  account  of  liability  to  error, 
they  become  practically  useless  for  the  business  of  inquiring,  or  else, 
secondly,  that  the  materials  to  be  examined  in  the  case  of  Bevelation 
are  not  so  fairly  cognisable  by  them  as  the  mat'^als  of  other  examina- 
tiouB,  which,  by  the  common  judgment  and  practice  of  mankind,  they 
are  found  to  be'competent  to  conduct  and  determine. 

But  the  state  of  things  around  us  amply  shows  that  this  want  of 
scientific  certainty  is  in  point  of  fact  no  reproach' to  our  condition,  no 
practical  defect  in  it.  B&her  it  is  a  law,  which  associates  harmonionsly 
with  the  remaindor  of  ite  laws.  The  nature  of  our  intelligence,  it  is 
evident,  makes  no  demand  for  such  assurance;  because  we  are  not 
capable  of  receiving  it.  Nay,  we  cannot  so  much  as  arrive  at  the  notion 
of  it^  without  an  enort  of  abstraction.  Our  moral  condition  appears 
still  less  to  crave  anything  of  the  kind.  If  we  allow  that  sin  is  in  the 
world  (no  matter,  for  the  purpose  of  this  argument,  how  it  came  there), 
and  that  we  are  placed  tmder  the  dominion  of  a  moral  Governor  who 
seeks  bjr  disciplijie  to  improve  His  creatures,  it  is  not  difficult  to^  give 
reasons  in  support  of  the  proposition  that  intellectual  inerrability  is  not 
suited  to  such  a  state.  One  ^uch  reason  we  may  find  in  the  recollec- 
tion that  the  moral  trainii^g  of  an  inferior  by  a  superior  either  essen- 
tially involves,  or  at  the  least  suitably  admits  of,  the  element  of  trust 
Now  the  region  of  probable  evidence  is  that  which  gives  to  such  an 
element  the  freest  scope;  because  trust  in  another  serves  to  supply, 
within  due  limits,  the  shortcomings  of  direct  argumentative  proof;  and 
when  such  proof  is  ample,  but  at  the  same  time  deals  with  materials 
which  wears  not  morally  advanced  enough  to  appreciate,  trust  (as  in  the 
case  of  a  child  before  its  parents)  fulfils  for  us  a  function,  which  could 
not  otherwise  be  discharged  at  alL  I  must  not,  however,  attempt  to 
discuss,  at  any  rate  on  the  present  occasion,  the  suh^ect,  a  wide  and 
deep  subject^  of  the  shares,  and  mutual  relations,  of  intoUectual  and 
moral  forces  in  the  work  of  attaining  truth. 


PBOBABUJTY  AS  THE  GOTDB  OF'OOHDUOT.         521 

PaBBing  oju  then,  from  the  snbject  of  scientlfio  eertai&ty,  let  tii  olv 
ier?e  ihat  the  region  next  below  this,  to  which  nil  the  pfO|KMition0 
entertained  in  the  hnman  mind  belong,  is  divided  piincipallT  into  two 
parts.  The  higher  of  these  is  that  of  what  is  oommonlT  oftUed  tieo»« 
my  matter:  and  certainly  would,  in  its  ordinary  sense,  do  predicated 
of  aUthat  lies  within  its  range.  That  is  to  say,  certainty  ^th  a  rel»* 
tion  to  onr  nature:  a  certainty  subjectiyely  not  defectire:  a  oettainty 
which  fixes  our  perceptions,  conclusions,  or  convictions,  In  such  a  frame 
as  to  render  them  immovable:  a  certainty  not  merely  which  is  tmat* 
tended  with  doubt,  but  which  excludes  doubt,  which  leaves  no  avail- 
able room  for  its  being  speculatively  entertained,  whidi  -makes  it  on 
the  whole  irrational,  n  ith  this  certainty  We  hold  that  bodies  fall  b^ 
the  force  of  gravity;  that  air  is  rarefied  at  great  altitudes;  that  the  limit 
of  human  age  established  by  all  modem  experience  is  not  very  greatly 
beyond  a  century;  that  the  filial  relation  entails  a  duty  of  obedience. 
The  certainty  repudiated  in  the  antecedent  argument  is  onlj  that  of 
the  Stoical  •perception.*  In  the  words  of  the  Academical  philosophy, 
'Nihil  est  emm  auud,  ^uamobrem  nihil  perd^  mihi  posse  videatur, 
nisi  ^uod  perdpiendi  vis  ita  definitur  a  otoicis,  ut  negent  <][iiidquam 
posse  percipi,  nisi  tale  verum,  quale  falsun^  esse  non  possit.'^  But 
certainty  of  an  order  so  high,  ta  to  make  doubt  plainly  irrational, 
applies  to  various  classes  of  our  ideas. 

TMb  is  the  region  of  the  ivumrrbv  of  Aristotle,'  and  the  fiicnlties 
employed  in  it  are  chiefly,  according  to  him,  rd/^^  for  principles, 
htov^iuf  for  inferences  from  them.  It  has  been  defined  as  the  region 
of  the  Vemui\ft  in  the  modem  German  philosophy,  as  the  Beaoon  by 
Coleridge.  It  seems  to  be  largely  recognised  by  the  mdM  famous 
Bchools  of  the  ancients.  It  contains  both  simple  ideas,  and  demon- 
strations from  them.  It  embraces  moral,  as  well  as  other  metaphysical, 
entities.  It  had  no  place  in  the  philosophy  of  Locke.  As  regards  the 
distinction  of  faculty  between  Beason  and  TJndeTstanding,  Vanmr^ 
and  Verstand,  I  am  not  inculcating  an  opinion  of  my  own,  but  simply 
stating  one  which  is  widely  current. 

The  lower  depcurtment  is  that  in  which  doubt  has  its  proper  place, 
and  in  which  the  Work  of  the  understanding  is  to  compare  and  to  dis- 
tinguish;  to  elicit  appro;cimations  to  unity  from  a  multitude  of  particu- 
lars, and  to  certainty  from  a  combination  and  equipoise  of  prestmip- 
tions.  It  is  takeil  to  be  the  province  of  all  thpse  faculties,  or 
habits,  of  which  Aristotle  treats  under  the  several  designations  of 
^/ximfo-tf,  T«x>^»  fv^ovAia,  <rvV«rtf,  yi'wfii),  and  others;^  of  the  Verstand  of  the 
Germans,  of  the  Understanding  according  to  Coleridge.  It  embraces 
multitudes  of  questions  of  speculation,  and  almost  all  questions  of 
practice.  Of  speculation:  as,  for  example,  what  are  the  due  defini- 
tions of  cases  in  which  verbal  untruth  may  bo  a  duty,  or  in  which  it  is 
light  to  appropriate  a  neighbor's  goods.    Of  practice,  because  every 

«Cie.i)»J^v.S5.  •Hih.KUom.xLZ.fL  •JW«iTL«,«. 

^£th.  NuKwi.  b.  tU  4,  Z\  9, 10, 11. 


52$1         PBOBiiBIIITir  AS.  THE  GUIDE  OF  COITOUCT. 

qtiestion  of  pzactice  is  embedded  in  detaala:  if,  for  examplo,  we  admit 
diat  it  is  riglit  to  give  alms,  we  have  to  decide  whether  the  object  u 
good,  and  whether  wo  can  afford  the  sum.  Because,  even  whepa  the 
principles  are  ever  so  absolute,  simple,  and  tinconditionecU  they  can 
rarely  oe  JLollpwed  to  conclusions,  either  in  theory  or  praetioe,  without 
taking  into  view  many  particulais,  with  various  natures^  and  Tazious 
degrees  of  evidence.    This  is  the  region  of  probable  evidence. 

The  highest  works  achieved  in  it  are  those,  in  which  the  combina- 
tions it  requires  are  so  xapid  and  so  perfect,  that  they  ave  seen  like  a 
wheel  in  very  rapid  revolution,  as  undivided  wholes,  not  as  ass^nbla- 
gcs  of  parts;  in  a  word  that  they  resemble  the  objects  of  intuitidn. 
Towards  this,  at  the  one  end  of  the  scale,  there  may  be  indefinite  approxi- 
mation: and  below  these,  there  are  innumerable  descending  degrees  of 
evidence,  down  to  that  in  which  the  presumption  of  truth  in  any  given 
proposition  is  so  fednt  as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible. 

From  what  has  now  been  said,  it  ia  manifest  that  the  province  of 
probable  evidence,  thus  maarked  ol^  is  a  very  wide  one.  3ut,  in  £vct, 
it  is  still  wider  than  it  appears  to  be.  For  mcmy  truths,  wlnoh  axe  the 
objects  of  intuition  to  a  well-cultivated  mind  of  extended  soope^  are 
by  no  means  such  to  one  of  an  inferior  order,  or  of  a  leas  advanced  dis- 
cipline. By  such,  they  can  only  be  readbed  through  oircuitoua  pro- 
cesses of  a  discursive  nature,  if  at  all.  In  point  of  ract  th^e  appear  to 
be  many,  who  have  scarcely  any  clear  intuitions,  any  peroeptionB  of 
truths  as  absolute^  self-dependent^  foid  unchanging.  If  so,  then  not 
onl^  all  the  detailed  or  concrete  questions  of  life  and  practice^  to  which 
the  idea  of  duty  is  immediately  applicable,  for  aU  minds,  but  likewise 
the  entire  operations  of  some  minds^  are  situated  in  the  region  of  prob- 
able evidence. 

The  tastes  of  many,  and  the  understandings  of  some,  will  suggest 
that  this  qualified  mode  of  statement  is  disparaging  to  the  dignity  of 
conclusions  belonging  to  religion  and  to  duty.  But  lot  not  the  sugges- 
tion be  hastily  entertained.  It  is  in  this  field  that  moral  elements  most 
largely  enter  into  the  reasonings  of  men,  and  the  discussion  of  their 
legitimate  place  in  such  reasonings  has  already  been  W€kived.  Fortho 
present  let  it  suffice  to  bear  in  mind  that  there  is  no  limit  to  the 
strength  of  working,  as  distinguished  from  abstract,  certainty,  to  which 
probable  eyidence  may  npt  lead  us  along  its  gently  ascending  pal^s. 

There  is,  uierefore,  a  kind  of  knowledge  of  which  we  are  incapable: 
namely,  that  which  necessarily  imj^es  tn^  existence  of  an  exactly  cor- 
responding object. 

There  is  a  kind  of  knowledge,  less  properly  so  called,  which  makes 
doubt  irrational,  and  which  may  often  be  predicated  in  a  particular 
case,  whether  it  be  by  an  act  of  intuition,  or  by  a  prooeas  of  demon- 
stration. 

There  is,  thirdly,  a  kind  of  m«atal  assent,  to  which  also  in  oonunon 
speech^  but  yet  less  properly,  ^e  name  of  knowledge  is  fToqu^tfy  ap- 
plied. It  is  generioaily  infenor  to  knowledge,  but  apiaoaciiea  and  even 
touches  it  at  points  where  the  evidence  on  which  it  rests  io  in  its  high- 


PROBABILITY  A3  THE  GUIDE  OF  C0KDUC5T.         623 

H  degrees  of  forco:  descending  below  thia  to  thai  point  of  the  scale 
nt  which  positive  and  negative  presnmjptions  are  of  equal  weight  and 
the  mind  is  neutraL  There  is  a  possibility  that  the  very  same  subjecfc- 
mal^er  which  at  one  time  lies,  for  a  particnlar  person,  in  the  lower  of 
these  regione^  may  at  another  time  reside  in  the  higher. 

The  mode  in  wnich  the  understanding  performs  its  work  is  by  bring- 
mg  together  things  that  are  like,  and  by  separating  things  that  are 
unlike.  To  thifl  belong  its  various  processes  of  induction  and  di^ 
ooiirse,  of  abstraction  and  generalisation,  and  the  rest.  Therefore 
Bishop  Butler  teach^  that  the  chief  elementof  probability  is  that  which 
is  expressed  '  in  the  word  Ukely,  i  e.,  like  some  truth  or  true  event.' 

The  form  of  assent,  which  belongs  to  the  result  of  these  processes, 
may  p^ropcrly  be  termed  belief.  It  is  bounded,  so  to  speak,  Dy  know- 
ledge on  the  one  hand  where  it  becomes  not  only  plenary,  so  as  to  ex- 
clude doubt,  but  absolute  and  self-dependent,  so  as  not  to  rest  upon 
any  support  extrinsic  to  the  object.  It  is  similarly  bounded  on  the  other 
side  by  mere  opinion;  where  the  matter  is  very  disputable,  the  pre- 
Biunptions  faixrt  and  few^  or  the  impression  received  by  a  slight  process 
and  (as  it  were)  at  haphazard,  without  an  examination  proporti<med 
to  the  nature  ot  the  object  and  of  the  faculties  concerned.  Of  course 
no  reference  ishere.made  to  tlie  ca^e  in  which,  by  a  modest  or  lax  form 
of  common  speechi  opinion  is  used  as  synonymous  with  judgment. 
Opinion,  as  it  has  now  been  introduced,  corresponds  with  the  86^a  of 
the  Greeks,  and  approaches  to  the  signification  in  which  it  is  used  by 
St.  Augustine,  who,  after  commending  those  who  know,  and  those  w^-io 
rightly  inquire,  proceeds  to  say:  'tria  sunt  alia  hominum  genera,  pro- 
fecto  improbanda  ac  detestanda.  Unum  est  opinantium;  ia  est  eorum, 
qui  se  arbitrantur  scire  quod  nesdunt'*^ 

It  may  indeed,  or  may  not,  be  convenient  to  attach^  the  name  of  be- 
lief to  such  judgments  as  are  formed  where  some  living  or  moral  agent, 
and  his  qu^ties,  enter  into  the  medium  of  proof;  inasmuch  as  in  such 
cases  there. is  a  power  to  assume  false  appearances  which  complicates 
the.case:  and  inasmuch  as  the  process  must  be  double,  first  to  estab- 
lish the  general  credibility  of  the  person,  then  to  receive  his  particular 
testimony.  This  seems,  however,  ^nore  properly  to  bear  the  name  of 
faith,  with  which  belief  is  indeed  identical  in  the  science  of  theology, 
bnt  not  in  common  speech.  For  faith  involves  the  element  of  trust, 
which  essentially  requires  a  moral  agent  for  its  object  Apart  (torn  any 
technical  sense  which  the  word  may  have  acquired  in  theology,  and 
more  at  large,  human  language  warrants  and  requires  our  applying  the 
Bame  of  belief  to  all  assent  which  is  given  to  propositions  founded 
upon  probable  evidence. 

li,  theni  it  be  allowable,  and  it  is  not  only  allowable  but  inevitable, 
to  collect  the  laws  of  the  human  intelligence  by  the  observation  of  its 
rrooessos,  which  ih  fact  grows  to  be  an  induction  from  universal  pro-c- 

*S.  Ang.  l>e  XTtUitate  Credendi,  c.  xL 
•With  Biskop  rcaison.    On  the  dreed.  Art.  I.  socl.  1. 


624         PROBABILITY  AS  THE  GtJIDE  OF  COKDUCT. 

ticei  it  is  manifest  that  we  are  so  constituted  as  td  yield  osaent  to  pro- 
positions having,  various  Mnds  and  degrees  of  evidence.  We  ^p»e  to 
some  as  immediate*  and  (to  our  apprehensions)  necessary:  to  some  as 
necessary  but  not  immodiato:  to  sometis  originally  neitiicr  ncccsBarr 
nor  immediate,  but  as  presozxting  subsequently  a  certainty  and  solidity 
not  distinguishable  from  that  which  appertains  to  the  former  classes. 
Again,  we  yield  our  assent  to  others  of  a  different  class,  which  falls  into 
sub-classes.  These  have  various  degrees  of  liltelihood  in  sulrject-matter 
infinitely  diver«fied;  some  of  them  bo  high  as  to  Exclude  doubt,  Bomo 
admitting  yet  greatlv  outweighing  it  by  positive  evidence,  some  nearly 
balanced  between  tne  affirmative  and  tne  negative:  but  in  all  cases 
with  a  prepK>nderance  on  the  former  side.  All  these  are  formed  to 
attract  legitimatjp  assent,  according  to  the  laws  of  our  intellectual  con- 
stitution; whi6h  has  universal  truth  for  its  object,  and  affirmation  and 
rejection  for  its  office.  With  other  processes,  such  as  assent  given  under 
blmd  prejudice  against  probability,  or  purely  arbitrary  conjecture,  or 
the  mMsi'truthfi  pf  the  imagination,  we  have  in  this  place  notmng  to  do. 

Tne  doctrine,  that  we  are  bound  bv  the  laws  of  our  nature  to  follov 
I>robablc  truth,  rests  upon  the  most  secure  of  all  grounds  for  prac- 
tical purposes,  if  indeed  the  consent  which  accepts  it  is  in  truth  bo 
widely  spread  in  the  usual  doings  of  mankind,  that  it  may  well  bo 
termed  universal.  The  very  circumstance  that  there  are  exceptions 
confirms  the  rule,  provided  it  may  be  maint^ned  that  the  exceptions 
are  of  a  certain  kind.  For  instance,  if  there  be  a  practice  invariable 
followed  by  those  who  are  known  to  bo  wise  in  kindred  subject-matter, 
it  is  very  doubtful  whether  this  can  bo  said  to  derive  any  positive  con- 
firmation from  the  concurrent  course  of  those  who  ore  known  to  be  of 
an  opposite  character.  Again,  if  there  be  an  universal  a^ement  con- 
cerning any  proposition  among  those  who  have  no  sinister  bias,  the 
fact  that  others  who  are  known  to  have  such  a  bias  differ  from  them 
does  not  impair  their  authority,  but  even  appears  rather  taconstitute  an 
additionaT  evidence  of  its  being  in  the  right.  Kow.this  is  exactly  tbo 
kind  of  consent,  which  may  justly  be  said  to  obtain  among  men  with 
regard  to  the  following  of  probable  truth.  For  every  one  acts  upon 
afarmative  evidence,  however  inferior  to  certainty,  unless  he  be  either 
extremely  deficient  in  common  understanding,  or  so  biassed  the  other 
way  by  ma  desires  as  to  be  incapable  of  an  upright  view  of  the  case 
before  him.  Even  the  last  named  class  of  excepted  instances  woal  1 
generally  take  the  form  rather  of  an  inabili^  under  the  circumstances 
to  perceive  the  evidence,  than  of  a  denial  of  its  authority. 

fiut  thd  doctrine  itself  appears  to  be  as  irrefragably  established  in 
theoretic  reasoning,  as  it  is  in  the  practice  of  mankind.  We  may, 
however,  distinguish  those  propositions  whicb  are  abstract,  from  sncfa 
as  entail  any  direct  consequences  in  our  conduct.  With  regard  to  the 
'  former,  suspension  of  judgment  is  allowable  in  all  cases  where  serioni; 
doubt  appears  before  examination,  or  remains  i^er  it.  Whether  Bom  • 
was  built^753  yeam  before  our  Lord,  whether  King  Charles  the  Fin't 
wrote  tuo  £ikin  BasUike,  whether  Caligula  made  his  horse  a  Consul, 


\rbe&a  St  Panl  Ticdied  Britidi3,--iliaBe  are  questions  wMch  prosent 
no  such  evidence  as  (o  bind  oar  judgment  either  way,  and  any  decis- 
ion ve  may  form  about  them  has  no  bearing  on  our  conduct.  But  to 
doubt  vbether  the  empire  of  the  Gaoeam  existed,  or  whether  King 
Chades  was  beheaded*  or  perhaps  vhethcr  he  said  'remember'  to 
Bishop  Juxon  on  the  scaffold,  or  whether  Michael  Angelo  painted  the 
'Last  Judgment'  in  the  Sifiina  Ghapel— this,  after  the  question  had 
02»9r-been  presented  fairly  to  our  minds,  would  be  a  violation  of  the 
laws  of  our  mtelleotual  nature.  It  would  be  in  any  case  a  foUy,  and  it 
would  even  i)e  asin  if  moral  elements.*weTe  involved  in  the  judgment, 
for  instance  if  the  disbelief  arose  &om  a  spirit'  of  opposition  and  self- : 
reliance^  predimosing  us  unfavorably  to  conclusions  that  others  have 
established,  and  that  hAve  obtained  general  acceptance. 

At  the  leasts  I  say,  it  would  be  a  violation  of  tne  law  of  our  intel- 
lectual nature^  if  the  one  obligation  of  that  nature  is  to  recognise  truth 
wheresoever  it  is  fallen  in  witn,  and  to  assent  to  it^    Tha  enect  of  tho 
obligation  cannot  be  oonfined  to  cases  of  immediate  or  intuitive 
loiowledge.    Por  in  the  ^rst  place  this  would  be  to  cast  off  tho  chief 
eubject>matterof  our  understanding  or  discursive  faculty.    If  we  ad- 
mit the  current  defiiution  of  the  term,  it  would  even  be  to  leave  all 
that  organ,  in  which  the  mind  chiefly  energises;  without  an  office,  and 
therefore  without  a  lawful  place  in  our  nature.    But»  in  the  second 
]>lace,  let  ua  observe  how  tho  denial  of  all  assent  to  probable  oonclu- 
aons  will  comport  with  our  general  obligations,    A  great  mass  of  facts 
from  some  history  are  before  us.    There  may  be  error  here  and  there 
in  paiticu^ira^  but  their  genen^  truth  is  unquestioned;  and  upon  a 
given  poini  token  at  random,  the  chances  are  probably  a  hundred  to 
one  Of  more  that  it  is  true.    Of  two  persons  with  a  hundred  such  facts, 
independent  of  one  another,  before  him,  one^  acting  upon  the  ordinary 
role,  receives  them;  and  he  has  the  truth  in  ninety-nine  cases  conjoined 
with  error  in  one:  the  other  has  neither  the  one  erroz;  nor  the  ninety- 
nine  truths;  his  understanding  has  refused  its  wor^  and  lost  its  re- 
ward in  the  ninety-nine  casos»  for  fear  of  the  failure  in  the  one.    And 
feather  we  are  to  remember  that  the  error  in  the  one  is  material  only, 
notfbrmaL    It  has  not  of  neceanty  an^  poisonous  quality.    It  is  more 
like  a  small  portion  of  simply  innutntious  food  received  along  with 
the  mass  of  what  is  wholesome.    The  case  ha^  indeed  here  been  put 
upon  tfaehypothesis  of  very  high  probability.    What  shall  we  say  to 
propositions,  of  which  the  evidence  is  less  certain  ?    The  answer  is,  that 
noUnecan  be  drawn  in  abstract  argument  between  them:  that  the 
obligation  which  attaches  to  the  former  attaches  to  the  latter:  that  it 
must  sub»si^  so  long  as  there  remains  any  preponderance  of  affirma- 
tive evidence^  which  is  real,  and  of  such  a  magnitude  as  to  be  appre- 
ciable by  our  faculties.    But  at  the  same  time^  although  this  be  true  in 
the  cases  where  it  is  neceesary  for  us  to  conclude  one  way  or  the  other, 
it  is  not  apphcable  to  the  multitude  of  cases  where  no  such  necessity 
exists.    Som^imes  a  total  suspen^on  of  judgment,  sometimes  a  pro- 
visional assent,  consciously  subject  to  futuro  coircction  upon  enlarged 


625         PROBABIUTX  AS  THE  GUIDE  OP  CONDUCT. 

«xperi$n<;e,  are  tbe  remedies  offered  to  onrsneed,  and  very  extended 
indeed  is  their  scope  and  use  with  prudent  minds.  Of  conise  it  re- 
mains true  that  the  understanding,  when  it  has  to  choose  the  objects  of 
its  own  activity,  may  justly  select  those  on  which  a  competent  certainty 
is  attainable,  instead  of  stimulating  a  frivolous  and  barren  curiosity 
by  employing  itself  on  matters  incapable  of  satisfactory  determination 
by  such  means  as  are  ordinarily  at  our  command. 

Whether,  then,  we  look  to  the  constitution  of  our  nature,  and  the 
ii\ri  provided  for  it  to  work  upon,  together  with  the  inference  arising 
from  the  combined  view  of  tne  two;  or  whether  we  regard  the  actual 
results  as  realised  in  the  possession  of  truth;  we  find  it  to  be  a  maxim 
sustained  by  theory,  aa  well  as  by  the  general  consent  and  practice  of 
men,  that  the  mind  is  not  to  be  debarred  from  assent  to  a  proposition 
with  which  it  may  have  cause  to  deal,  on  account  of  the  circumstance 
that  the  evidenceforitisshortof  that  which  is  commonly  called  certain; 
and  that  to  act  upon  an  opposite  principle  would  be  to  contravene  the 
law  of  1  ir  intellectual  nature. 

But  now  let  us  deal,  so  far  as  justly  belongs  to  the  purpose  of  this 
paper,  with  that  part  of  the  subject-mattei:  of  human  inquiry  where 
moral  ingredients  are  essentially  involved.  For  hitherto  we  have 
spoken  only  of  such  kind  of  obligation  as  may  attach  to  geometrical 
investigations,  in  which  usually  the  will  has  no  concern  either  one  way 
or  the  otherl 

With  regard  to  moral  science  properly  so  styled,  whether  it  be  con- 
versant with  principles,  ^hen  it  is  called  ethical,  or  whether  it  be_  con- 
cerned with  tneir  application  to  particulars,  when  it  becomes  casuistry, 
although  the  whole  of  it  is  practical,  as  it  aims  to  fix  the  practical 
judgments  and  the  conduct  of  all  men,  yet  obviously  the  whole  can- 
not oe  said  to  be  practical  in  regard  to  each  individual  For  the  ex- 
perience of  one  person  will  only  raise  a  part,  perhaps  a  very  small  j^art, 
of  the  questions  which  it  involves.  So  far,  then,  es  moral  inquiries 
properly  belong  to  science  and  not  to  life,  they  are  pursued  in  the  ab- 
stract and  they  are  subject  to  the  general  laws  of  intellectual  inquiry 
which  have  already  been  considered;  only  with  this  difference,  that 
our  judgments  in  them  are  more  likely  to  be  influenced  by  the'stato  of 
our  affections  and  the  tenor  of  our  lives,  by  our  conformity  to,  or  alien- 
ation from,  the  will  of  God,  than  where  the  matter  of  the  propositions 
themselves  had  no  relation  to  human  conduct. 

But,  for  the  government  of  life,  all  men,  though  in  various  degrees, 
require  to  be  supplied  with  certain  practical  judgments.  For  there  is 
no  breathing  man,  to  whom  the  alternatives  of  right  and  wrong  are  not 
continmdly  present,  s  To  one  they  are  less,  perhaps  infinitely  less  com- 
plicated than  to  another;  but  they  pervade  the  whole  tissue  of  every 
human  life.  In  order  to  meet  these,  we  must  be  supplied  with  certain 
practical  judgments. '  It  matters  not  that  there  may  nave  existed  jpar- 
ticular  persons,  as  children,  for  instance,  who  have  never  entertained 
these  judgments  in  the  abstract  at  all;  nor  that  many  act  blindly,  and 
at  haphazard,  which  is  simply  a  contempt  of  duty;  nor  that  there  may 


PBOBABILIT7  AS  THE  GXTIDE  OP  CONDUCT.         G27 

be  ano&er  dass,  into  whose  oompoedtioim  by  long  use  some  of  them 
are  so  ingruned  that  thejr  operate  with  the  laui^ty  and  certainty  of 
instinct.  Setting  these  asidc»  it  remains  true  of  all  persons  of  devel- 
oped miderstcoKung  that  there  are  many  questions  bearing  on  practice, 
with  regard  to  which,  in  order  to  discharge  their  duty  rightly,  they 
mask  have  conclusions,  and  these  not  necessarily  numerous  in  every 
case,  but  in  every  case  of  essential  importance,  so  they  may  be  termed 
'a  savour  of  life  unto  life,  or  a  savour  of  death  unto  death.' 

Kow  it  is  in  this  department  that  the  argument  for  the  obligation  to 
follow  probable  .evidence  is  of  the  greatest  force  and  moment.  It  has 
been  seen,  how  that  obligation  may  be  qualified  or  suspended  in  the 
pmsuit  of  abstract  truth;  so  mndix  so,  that  even  the  contravention  of  it 
need  not  involve  a  breach  of  moral  duty.  But  the  case  is  very  different 
when  we  deal  with  those  portions  of  truth  that  supply  the  conditions 
of  conduct.  To  avoid  all  detail  which  may  dissipate  the  force  of  the 
main  considerations  is  materiaL  Let  it  therefore  be  .observed  that 
there  is  one  proposition  in  which  the  whole  matter,  as  it  is  relevant  to 
human  duty,  may  be  summed  up:  that  all  our  works  alike,  inward  and 
outward,  great  and  smaJl«  ought  to  be  done  in  obedience  to  Qod,  Now 
this  is  a  proposition  manifestly  tendered  to  us  by  that  system  of  reli- 
^on  which  IS  called  Christiamty,  and  which  purports  to  be  a  revelar 
tion  of  the  Divine  will.  It  is  the  first  and  great  commandment  of  the 
Gospel,  that  we  shall  love  God  with  the  whole  hea^  and  mind,  and 
Bonl,  and  strength;'^  and  whatsoever  we  do,  we  are  to  do  aU  to  the 
glory  of  God.  ^  ^  And  as  every  act  is,  ceteris  paribusi,  determined,  And 
is  at  the  very,  least  in  Skil  cases  qualified,  by  its  motive,. this  proposition 
concerning  an  universal  obedience  as  the  ground  and  rule  of  conduct, 
is  of  all  propositions  the  one  most  practical,  the  one  most  urgently  re- 
quiring affinnation  or  denial  accoroMg  as  the  evidence  may  be  in  favour 
of  or  against  its  truth. 

We  seem,  then,  to  have  arrived  at  this  point;  the  evidences  of  religion 
relate  to  a  matter  not  speculative,  not  in  abstract  matter,  which  we  may 
examine  or  pass  by  according  to  our  leisure.  It  is  either  true  or  false: 
this  on  aU  hands  will  be  admitted.  If  it  be  false,  we  are  justified  in 
repudiating  it^  so  soon  as  we  have  obtained  proofs  of  its  falsity,  such 
as  the  constitution  of  our  minds  entitles  us  to.  admit  in  that  behalf. 
Bat  we  are  bound  by  the  laws  of  our  intellectual  nature  not  to  treat  it 
as  false  before  examination.  In  like  manner,  by  the  laws  of  our  moral 
nature,  which  oblige  us  toady ust  all  our  acts  according  to  our  sense 
of  some  standard  of  right,  and  wrong,  we  arenot  less  stringently  bound 
to  use  every  effort  in  coming  to  a  conclusion  one  way  or  the  other  re- 
specting it:  Inasmuch  as  it  purports  to  supply  us  with  the  very  and 
original  staxidard  to  which  that  sense  is  to  be  referred,  through  a  suf- 
ficient Bevelation  of  the  will  of  God,  both  in  its  detail,  and  especially 
in  that  with  which  we  are.  now  concerned,  the  fundamental  principle 
of  a  daim  to  unlimited  obedience,  admitting  no  exception  and  no 
qualification.       ■ -      

"  St.  Mark  xiL  30,  St  ^nke  xt  27.  "  St.  Tanl,  1  Cor.  x.  81. 


528  PEOBABILITY  AS  TEE  QUIDE  OF  COt[DVCr. 

The  moxiiQ  tiblai  duiBtiaxut^r  is  a  maHer  2iot  absfasact,  httbreteieble 
i^oughoui  to  himu^i  action,  is  not  an  important  only,  bat  a  TJtal 
part  of  the  demonstration,  that  we  are  bannd  by  the  Isnws  d  onmatnre 
to  gire  a  hearing  to  its  ciaima  We  shall  tiberefore  do  well  to  BubataB^ 
tiate  it  to  oht  conscionsnesis  by  some  fxurthei  meirtiea  of  its  peoticiilaEs. 
Let  US  then  recoUect  that  we  nave  not  mere^  the  general  principle  of 
doing  all  to  the  glory  of  God,  declared  by  it  in  general  terms:  butthis 
is  illustrated  by  reference  to  the  eommoa  actions  of  eating  and  dznsk- 
ing.  * '  'Whether  we  eai  or  drink,  or  whotsoeveir  we  do^'  thns  \\s&  pas- 
sage runs,  'let  ns  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God.'  Kow  sorely,  oneBhoiild 
have  said,  if  any  acts  whatever  coiud  have  been  exoo^t  from  the  de- 
mands of  this  comprehensive  law,  they  should  have  been  those  Inno- 
tion»  of  animal  Mfe^  respecting  which  as  to  their  snbste&ee  wohaveno 
free  ciM»Ge»  since  they  are  am<mg  the  absolute  oonditions  of  our  phy- 
sical existsmca  And  by  ^e  nnb^ever  it  mighl  ooBststently  be  argued 
thaty  inasmnt^  as  food  and  drink  are  thns  necessary,  it  is  inrpoeaUeto 
conceive  that  anjr  qnesMon  relaloig  to  the  d^rent  kinds  of  fiiera  (im- 
less  oonneeted  with  their  several  optitiides  ibr  maintaining  life  and 
h^althv  whieh  i»not  at  aH  in  the  Apostle's  Tiew>  can  be  €i  any  moral 
moment  Bat  the  allegation  of  Scripture  is  directly  to  a  oontrory 
effect:  and  apprises  us  t^iteven  saeha  matter  as  eatingorrefiEaumig 
tram,  meat^  hieuB  a  spiritoal  chaxaeter.  ^  ^  'He  that  eate^  eateth  to  the 
Lord,  for  he  givelh  God  thanks;  and  he  that  eatetfa  not,  to  the  lined  he 
eateth  not»  and  giveth  God  tbanka  For  none  of  ns  iivetb  to  himself^ 
and  no  man  dietiti  to  himself'  Not  only  where  a  special  sernple  may 
be  raised  by  the  facts  of  idol  worship;  not  only  in  the  avcviaanee  of 
pampered  tastes  and  gross  excesses;  bat  in  the  simple  aet  of  taking 
food,  the  religions  sense  has  a  placeu  Themaintezmnoe  of  itfe^  though 
it  is  a  necessity,  is  also  a  duty  and  a  l^essing. 

And  to  the  Same  effect  is  the  declaration  of  our  Lord:  'Bat  I  say 
imto  yon  that  every  idle  word»  that  men  sbaU  s]peak^  they  shall  give 
acoonnt  therec^  in  the  day  of  jndgment. '  *  *  O^ie '  idle  wesd  '^  is  peihaps 
the  very  slightest  and  earliest  form  of  vohzntary  action.  CJonsider  the 
fertnity  of  fiie  mind,  and  the  rapidity  of  its  movements:  how  maajr 
.thou^is  paiss  over  it  without  or  against  l&e  wiU;  how  easily  they  find 
their  way  into  the  idle,  that  is^  not  the  misehievoiis  oriB-inteinded,  but 
merely  me  unoonsidered  word.  80  lightly  and  easily  is  it  bom,  that 
the  very  forms  of  ancient  speech  seem  to  designate  itaa  if  it  were  self- 
created,  and  not  the  offitpsing  of  a  mental  act»  ^  ^ 

and  as  we  say,  'such  and  such  an  expression  escapedhim/  Thns  then 
it  appears  that,  at  the  very  first  and  lowest  stage  of  scarcely  voluntuy 
action,  the  Almighty  Grod  puts  in  His  claim.  In  thisway  He  aoqnainte 
ns  that  everything,  in  wmch  our  fEtculties  can  consciouslv  be  made 
ministers  of  good  or  evil,  shall  become,  a  subject  of  reddening,  doubt* 

»»  i:t.  Paul,  1  Cor.-  X.  31.       "  Rom,,  xiv.  6.      »*  Matt.  xiL  3d.      "  JliadL  It.  330. 


PIfiDBAfilLITY  AS  THE  GUIDB  OF  OOKBX^Cfr.         629 

ifleft^ef  jusittfi^  iintheriy  reckoning,  in  the  great  acootmt  of  ihe  day  of 

if^urthvar,  it  appears  that  there  are  many  acts,  of  which  the  external 
farm  must  be  the  same,  whether  they  are  done  by  Christians,  or  by 
otheis;  as  for  instance  those  Tety  acta  of  fiatisfying  hnnger  and  thirsty 
of  vhifih  we  hapre  spoken.  If  these,  then,  are  capable,  as  has  been 
shown,  of  being  borong^ht  nnder  the  law  of  duty,  a  different  character 
most  attach  to  them  in  oonseqnence;  they  must  be  influenced,  if  not 
intrinsicaily,  jet  at  least  in  their  rela^on  to  dbmething  else,  by  their 
being  refrared  to  that  fltandard.  The  foim  of  &e  deed,  the  thing  done, 
the  «pavM«*  is  perhaps,  as  we  have  aeen,  the  sAme;  but  the  action,  the 
exercise  of  the  mind  in  ordering  or  doing  it,  the  ,irpa^if,  is  different. 
It  diffieiB^  for  example,  in  tiie  motiye  of  obedience;  in  the  end,  which 
is  the  glory  of  God;  in  the  temper,  wMch  is  that  of  trust,  humility,  and 
thankfulness.  -  Acoordingly,  it  appears  that  Christianity  aims  not  only 
at  adjusting  our  acts,  but  also  our  way  of  acting,  to  a  certain  standard ; 
that  it  reduoes.ihe  whole  to  a  certain  mental  habit,  and  imbues  and 
pervades  the  whole  with  a  certain  temper. 

Not  therefore  at  a  yentute,  but  with  strict  reason,  the  assertion  has 
been  made,  that  the  questiun,  whether  Christianity  be  true  or  fedse,  is 
the  most  practical  of  all  questions;  because  it  is  trntt  question  of  prac- 
tice which  encloses  in  itself,  and  implicitly  determines,  every  other:  it 
supplies  tiie  fundamental  rule  or  principle  (  Orandsatz)  of  every  decision 
in  detaiL  And,  consequently,  it  is  of  all  other  questions  the  one  upon 
^hich  those^  who  have  not  already  a  conclusion  ayailable  for  use,  are 
most  inexorably  bound  to  seek  for  one.  And,  by-further  consequence, 
it  is  also  the  ouestion  to  which  the  duty  of  following  affirmative  evi- 
dence, even  although  it  should  present  to  the  mind  no  more  than  a 
probable  character,  and  should  not,  ab  initio,  or  even  thereafter,  eztin^ 
guish  doubt,  has  the  closest  and  most  stringent  application. 

Now  the  foregoing  argument,  it  must  bo  olJscrved,  includes  and 
decides  the  question  n>rwnat  is  commonly  called  the  doctrin^J  partof  the 
Christian  reUgion;  for  those  objective  facts,  which  it  lays  as  the  foun- 
dation of  its  system,  and  which  are  set  forth  in  the  historical  Creeds  of 
the  Catholic  Church.  It  is  not  necessary  here  to  enter  upon  the  inquiry 
how  (at  the  internal  evidence  about  suitableness  to  our  state,  v/hioh  the 
nature  of  those  facts  offers  to  us,  may  constitute  a  part  or  a  proof  of^  or 
an  objection  to,  the  truth  of  the  Chnstian  Bevelation.  I  have  not  in 
any  manner  prejudged  that  question  by  the  foregoing  observations;  I 
have  shown  its  claims  to  nothing  (where  there  is  no  conviction  already 
formed)  but  to  a  hearing  and  an  adjudication.  In  those  claims  the 
docbdnal  part  of  the  Bevelation,  that  which  is  distinct  from  the  law  of 
duty,  has  a  ftiU  and  coequal  share  with  the  moral  part.  The  Christian 
system  neither  enjoins  nor  owns  any  severance  between  the  two. 
Being  inseparably  associated,  and  resting  upon  the  testimony  of  pre- 
cisely the  same  witnesses,  they  on  that  account  stand  in  precisely  the 
same  authoritative  relation  to  our  practice.  Accordingly,  when  we 
accept  or  reject  the  Christian  lav/  of  duty  as  such,  wo  accept  or  rcjcat 


632         PaOBABnjTY  AS  THE  GUIDE  OE  CONDUCT. 

ter  hdweTer  great  or  6»alL  Tho  law,  therefore,  of  credibiUi^  bo6  no 
more  dependenoe  upcm  the  magnitude  of  the  questions  tried  than  havo 
the  numbers  on  tho  aritlimctical  scalo,  which  calculate  for  motes  nni 
for  mountains  with  exactly  tho  same  propriety.  At  cither  extremity, 
indeed,  the  nature  of  our  fneulties  imposes  a  limit:  practically  nxunbeis 
are  bounded  for  us:  we  eazmot  emjdoy  them  to  count  tho  sands  of  the 
Boashore,  nor  again  by  any  fraction  c£m  we  express  tho  infinitcfiimd 
,  segments,  into  which  space  is  capable  c^  being  divided.  And  just  so 
in  the  case  before  ns.  -  if  the  objection  be  that  the  proportion  of  nffirm- 
ative  ond  negative  evidence  upon  any  ^iven  question  approaches  so 
nearly  to  equality  as  to  bo  indistinguishable  from  it,  and  i^  when 
•the  whole  elements  of  the  cose  ore  taken  into  view,  this  can  bo  mode 
good  as  their  general  result,  the  obligation  of  credibility  may  cease 
and  determine. 

But  indeed  the  objection  may  even  be  inverted.    When,  as  here,  the 
matter  in  question  is  very  great,  the  evil  consequences  of  a  contraven- 
tion of  the  law  of  piobability  are  enhanced.    It  is  not  necessary  to 
maintain  that  any  essential  diff<Mrence  in  the  obligation  to  follow  the 
apparent  truth  is  thus  produced:  but  it  is  manifest  that  the  larger  and 
more  serious  the  anticipated  results,  the  more  natural  and  beooming, 
to  say  the  least,  is  it  for  us  to  realise  beforehimd  our  position  and 
duties  with  regard  to  the  question,  and  by  a  more  vivid  consciousness 
to  create  an  enhanced  and- more  sharply  defined  sense  of  our  responsi- 
bility.   So  that  both  the  danger  and  the  ^It  of  refusing  to.  applv  to 
the  evidences  of  religion  the  some  laws  of  investigation,  which  we  obev 
in  all  other  departments  of  inquiry  and  of  action,  are  not  mitigated, 
but  aggravated,  in  the  de^ee  in  which  it  mav  be  shown  tliat  the  mat* 
ter  at  issue  transcends  in  its  importance  all  those  which  are  ordinarily 
presented  to  us.    IHirther.    The  most  reasonable  presumptions  are 
positively  adverse.    If  we  admit  that  man  by  &ee  will  and  a  depraved 
affection  fell  away  from  Qod,  which  is  the  representation  addressed  to 
us  by  the  Gk>spel,  nothing  can  be  more  consistent  with  it^  than  that  he 
should  be  brought  back  to  God  bv  ways  which  give  scope  for  the  exeiv 
cise  of  will  and  affection,  and  for  their  restoration^  through  exercise,  to 
health.    But  Burelv  it  ie  plain  that  this  scope  is  far  more  largely  given, 
where  the  proof  of  revelation  involves  moral  elements,  and  grows  in 
force  along  with  spiritual  discernment,  than  if  it  had  the  rigour  of  a 
demonstration  in  geometry,  of -which  the  issue  is  accepted  without  any 
appeal,  either  to  affecUon  or  volition,  in  the  appreciation  and  accept- 
ance of  the  steps  of  the  process.    And  yet  more  spedficallv.    It  it  he 
true  that  we  are  to  be  birousht  bock,  as  the  Gospel  aa,y^  by  a  divuie 
training  to  the  image  of  God,  if  that  which  is  crooked  ia  to  be  made 
straight  and  that  which  is  feeble  strong,  bv  the  agency  of  a  Perfect  on 
a  fallen  being,  nothing  can  be  more  agreeable  to  our  Knowledge  of  onr 
own  stato  than  the  beSef  that  such  a  process  would  be  best  conducted 
in  the  genial  climate  and  atmosphere  of  a  trustful  mind;  that  reliance 
or  faith  (always  being  reasonable  reliance  or  faith)  in  another  wonM 
greatly  aid  our  weakness;  that  we  should  realise  in  the  ooncreto  divine 


FEOBABHITT  as  the  guide  of  CONDXTOT.         633 

qnalitiw  beftnra  we  oan  oomprehend  them  in  the  abetnet.  Bat  this 
fiuth  eeseatially  inTobres  the  idea  of  what  we  hsre  called  probable  evi- 
denoe:  for  it  is  '  the  sabstonce  of  things  hoped  for,  the  evidence  of 
things  not  seenf  and  *thatwhioh  a  man  seeth  why  doth  he  yet  hope 
for?** 

Moreover,  it  is  necessary  to  comment  upon  the  declaration  of  Bishop 
Bntler,  that  in  numberless  instances  a  man  is  called  upon  to  act  againBt , 
probability,  and  would  bo  thought  mad  if  ho  declined  il  The  mean-  ^ 
ing  is,  that  we  may  be  bound  by  duty,  or  led  by  prudence,  in  obedi-^ 
enee  to  a  more  oomprehensiTe  computation  of  good  and  evil,  of  benefit 
and  loss,  to  act  in  opposition  to  that  particular  likelihood  which  lies 
nesftest  at  hand.  To  take  an  example  in  moral  subject*matter.  We  are 
bonnd  to  avoid  occasions  of  anger;  and  yet,  for  the  vindication  of  truth, 
itmay  be  a  duty  to  enter  into  debates,  which  we  know  from  experience 
will  stir  our  passions  more  or  less.  If  we  look  merely  at  the  likelihood 
of  that  excitement,  we  ought  to  refrain:  but  if  we  look  miwards  to  the 
purpose  in  view,  it  makes  the  other  scale  descend.  Again,  in  a  matter 
of  worldly  prudence.  The  merchant  hears  of  a  valuable  natural  pro- 
duct on  the  coast  of  Africa.  The  chances  are  estimated  by  him  to  be 
tvo  to  one  against  his  finding  it  on  the  first  attempt ;  but  when  he 
finds  it,  the  gain  will  repay  tenfold  the  expense  of  the  voyage.  It  may 
be  prudent  in  such  a  man  to^auip  and  send  his  vessel,  though  the 
likelihood  of  its  failure  be  twofold  greater  than  the  chance  of  its  suc- 
cess. So  that  coses,  which  apparentlv  depart  from  the  law  of  probabil- 
ity, do  in  fact  only,  when  we  include  a  greater  range  of  calculation, 
illustrate  its  comprehensiveness  and  universality. 

It  may  be  that,  despite  of  all  reasoning,  there  will  be  pain  to  manv  a 
pious  mind  in  followmg,  even  under  the  cuidanoeof  feshop  Butler, 
the  course  of  an  argument  which  seems  all  alon^  to  grant  it  as  possi- 
ble, that  the  argument  in  favour  of  the  truth  of  Divine  Bevelation  may 
amount  to  no  more  than  a  qualified  and  dubious  likelihood.  But  as, 
when  the  net  of  the  fisherman  is  east  wide,  its  extremitv  must  lie  &ir 
from  the  hand  that  threw  it,  so  this  at^ument  of  probability  aims  at 
including  within  the  alle^ance  of  religion  those  who  are  remote  from 
anything  like  a  normcd  fiuth.  It  is  no  mere  feat  of-  logical  aims ;  it  is 
not  done  in  vain  glory,  nor  is  it  an  arbitrarv  and  gratuitous  experi- 
ment, nor  one  disparaging  to  the  majesty  ana  stren^h  of  the  OospeL 
The  Apostle,  full  of  the  manifold  girts  of  the  Spirit,  and  admitted  al- 
ready to  the  third  heaven,  condescended  before  the  Athenians  to  the 
elementary  process  of  arguing  from  natural  evidences  for  the  being  of 
God.  The  Gospel  itself  alone  can  fit  us  to  appreciate  its  own  proom  in 
all  their  force.  It  is  addressed  to  beings  of  darkened  mind  and  alien- 
ated heart.  The  light  of  truth  indeed  is  abundant ;  but  the  clouded  and  , 
almost  blinded  eye  can  admit  no  more  than  a  faint  glimmering.  But 
if  even  that  faint  glimmering  be  suffered  to  enter,  it  will  train  and  fit 
the  organ  that  it  has  entered  to  receive  more  and  more;  and  although  1 

^•Heb.  zL  h 


SBi     c    PBOBABUJTF  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  COITOUCT. 

at  iMb  tlie  alcaj  of  the  Lord  could  eoarc^  be  discerned  in  tbe  twi* 
light  Uttle  Bhort  of  night  itself,  yet  by  such  degrees  as  the  growth  of 
the  capacity  oUows,  it  'sMaethxaore  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day.** ' 

It  is  a  deeply  important  question,  ivhether,  and  how  for,  the  law  of 
probable  evidence  governs  the  means,  by  which  provision  has  been 
made  for  our  acooptaoGo  of  GhirisUan  doctrine.  This  ia  a  great  eontro- 
Torted  question  of  Theology,  which  it  could  not  but  be  adyanta^eous 
to  discuss  in  the  light,  tranquil  as  it  is,  supplied  by  the  philo$ophy  of 
Butler.  It  cannot  now  be  attempted,  however  well  it  may  deserve  a 
Bcparnte  efBatt*  For  the  present,  it  only  remains  to  deal  with  a  qurs- 
tlon  belon^ng.to  thier^ion  of  Ethies;  For  the  doetrine  of  Hxe  au- 
thority of  probable  evidence  in  practical  subjeot^atter  is  impugned 
not  only  by  those  who  require  absolute  certainty  in  lieu  of  it,  but  like- 
wise by  those  who  permit  and  wammt  moral  action  against  pxobahil* 
i ty .    These  ore  the  teachers  of  what  is  callecl  Probabilifmi. 

Prob^bilism  is  by  no  me<»i$  the  un^v^ersal  or  compulsory  doctrine  of 
the  Boman  theologians.  It  has  been  combatted  even  by  Gonzalen,  a 
Jesuit,  and  a  General  of- the  Order.  ^^  It  is  confronted  by  a  system 
called  3Piobabiliorismi  which  teaches- that,  whenin^oubt  among  sev^ 
end  nlbemntivcs  of  condnet,  w^  are  bound  to  choose  that  which  has  the 
greatest  likelihood  of  being  right.  .  And  there  is  a.]fiOf  it  appears,  a  rigid 
8(diool  of  those  who  pass  by  the  name  of  Tutiorists.  These  hold  that 
even  such  likelihood  is  insufficient  and  that.certali^ty  is  required  as  a 
warrant  for  our  acts.  But  the  popular  doctn^te  seems  to  be  that  of 
PfobabiHsm.  It  would  bo  wrongto  assort  that  it  is  a  doctrine  con- 
sciously held  and  taught  for  purpose^  adverse  to  morality  or  honour. 
AVithout  venting  any  siieh  calumny,,  lot  us  regard  it  purely  in  the  ah- 
stract^  and  not  as  having  beccm^o  parasitical  tea  particular  Church. 
fVnr  mv  own  part  I  know  not  how,  when  it  po  contemplated,  to  escape 
from  tno  imprBsaon,  that  when^  closely  scmtixu8f>d  it  will  be  found  to 
threaten  the  very  first  principles  of  morals ;  or  to  deny  that,  if  nnivez^ 
eaily  received  and  appUed,  it  would  go  far  to  destroy  wihatever  there  is 
of  substance  In  moral  obligation*  . 

The  essence  of  the  doctrine  is,  the  liceose  to  choose  the  less  pro- 
bable. Is  ,it  not,  thexi,  obvious  in  the  first  place  that  it  overthi9WB  the 
whole  authority  of  ptobable  evidence  ? .  No  probabilist»  it  must  be  8up< 
posed,  could' adopt  and  urge  the  argument  of  Bishop  Butler's  Analogy 
for  the  truth  of  Bevelation,  For  his  opponent  would  at  once  reply  by 
the  plea  tlmt  there  are  certain  real  and  unsolved  difficulticB  about  the 
theory  of  religion;  that  these  constituted  a  solid,,  even  if  an  inferior, 
probability;  and  that  he  could  not,  ^n  the  principled  of  Probabilism,  be 
blamed  for  vindicating  the  right  of  his  natural  freedom  in  following 
the  negative.  If  the  view  here  taken  of  the  range  and  title  of  probable 
evidence  be  correct,  it  is  fearful-  to  think  what  must  be  the  ultimate 
effects  upon  human  knowledge,  belief,  and  action  of  any  doctrine 

**  Acts  xrii.  94. 

*•  liuviffnuu,  De  V  Existence  et  deVInstUut  des  JSauitea,  p.  84. 


FBOB&BILrDr  AS  TEE  GtltDlE  OF  CCfSDVCT.  535 

^biclv  saps  ox  OY€at&a6wB  itt  title  to  GOtr  obedience.  I  ssy  tlie  ultimate 
effects:  for,  when  thought  moves  onlj  within  prescribed  limits,  a  long 
time  may  elapse  before  the  detail  of  a  proeess  is  evolved,  and  it  is  the 
ultimate  effeoti  in  moral  quentions,  which  is  the  true  effect.  It  would 
even  seem  as  if  any,  who  are,  consciously  or  unconsciottsly,  impairing 
the  authority  of  probable  endence,  must  also  be  clearing  the  ground 
for  the  fell  swoop  of  unbelief  in  its  deso^it  up6n  the  earth. 

Next,  we  are  surely  justified  in  beino  to  the  last  degree  suspicious  of 
a  doctxlne,  which  sets  up  the  liberty  of  man  as  being  not  only  a  condi- 
tion of  all  right  moral  judgmesit,'  but  a  positive  ingredient  in  the  claim 
.  of  one  alternative  to  be  preferred  over  another;  an  element  of  such 
consideration,  as  to  give  the  prepond^rainoe  to  what  would  otherwise 
be  the  lighter  scale.  Duty  is  that  which  binob.  Surely,  if  there  is  one 
idea  more  pointedly  expressiye  than  another  of  the  character  of  the 
ethical  teaching  of  Ob^ostiaaDLi^,  if  there  is  one  lesson  more  pointedly 
derivalde  than  another  from  the  ccAktempbltion  of  its  inodel  in  our 
Blessed  Lord,  it  is  the  idea  and  the  lesson  that  -We  are  to  deny  the 
cifdm  of  mei^  human  wiU  to  be  a  serious  ground  of  mor^  action,  and 
to  reduce  it  to  its  proper  function,  that  of  uniting  its^with  the  will  of 
God.  This  function  is  one  of  BUboidination:  one  whi^  msmifisstl^  it 
never  can  perform,  so  long  a«  it  is  to  be  recognised  as  somethu^r 
entitled  to.opezvte  in  determinihg  moral  choice,  and  yet  extrinsic  and 
additional  to^  and  thereforetsepaxate  from,  His  commandi^. 

Again,  what  can  be  mate  unnatural,  not  to  say  more  revolting,  than 
to  set  up  ft  system  of  rights  or  privileges  in  moral  action,  aparfc  from 
duties?    How  can  we,,  without  departing  ix^iA  our  integrity  before 
God,  allege  the  right  o^  our  sntTlral  freedom  as  sulGLCing  to  counterbal- 
ance any,  even  the  smallest  likelihood  thit  His  will  ibr  tis  lies  in  a 
particular  direction^?    Scripture,  surely,  gives  no  warrant  for  such  a 
theory;  nor  the  sense  of  GhristiAn  tradition;  nor  the  worthier  sdiools 
of  heathen  philosophy.    Is  it  not  hard  to  reeondle  the  bare  statement 
of  it  with  the  common  sense  of  duty  and  of  honesty,  aa  it  belongs  to 
our  race  at  large  ?    And  more.    Is  it  possible  to  go  thus  fa^,  wiuiout 
going  much  fuirth^?    It  is  granted  and  taught,  not  indeed  that  where 
there  is  an  overwhdming,  yet  where  there  is  a  sensible  and  appre- 
ciable superiority  of  hkeUhood  in  favour  of  one  alternative  against 
another,  therct  on  account  and  in  virtue  of  our  inclination  for  that 
which  has  the  weak^  evidehoe,  we  nu^  choose  the  latter  with  a  safe 
conscience.    That  is. to  say,  eliminating,  or  excluding  from  the  ease, 
that  portion  of  likebhood  which  is  common  to  botii  alternatives,  there 
remains  behind  on  the  one  side  not  a  great  but  an  appreciable  proba- 
bility:  on  the  other  a  simple  predilection ;  and  shall  the  latter  be 
declared  by  a  lE^em  of  Ghtistian  ethics  to  outweigh  l^e  former  ?  How 
is  it  possible,  either,  firstly,  to  establish  the  right  "^  mere  wUl  to  be  set 
against  pffe6unipti<ma  of  duty?  or,  secondly,  when  once  that  right  has 
been  azsogsted,  to  limit,  by  any  other  iheoi  ah  arbitrary  rule,  the 
quantity  ef  sueh  presumptions  of  duty,  which  may  be  thus  out- 
weighed?    If  an   ordinnry  inelinatioh  may  outweigh  so  much  of 


636         VROBJlSLUTY  AS  THE  GUIDE  01  CONDUCT. 

ftdvezse  preBmnption  of  dufy,  jdaj  not  a  Inas  tenfold  and  twen^old 
Btrongei  outweigh  a  little,  ox  a  good  deal,  move?  And  then,  where  is 
this  slippery  process  to  temiinate?  Wheve  is  the  cdue  to  ibis  laby- 
rinth ?  What  will  be  the  iight«t  and  whafc  the  aflaumptions,  of  inclina- 
tion in  this  matter;  when  it  haa  been  stimmlated  by  the  ooontenance  of 
authority,  and  when  through  indulgesLoe  it  has  become  ungovevtiabld? 

But»  as  our  sense  of  the  obUgatioafi  oi  human  relationship,  tiiough 
lower,  is  also  less  impaired  than  that  of  our  duty  towards  God,  let  ns 
illustrate  the  oase  by  reference  to  this. region.    Will  a  license  to 
follow  the  less  pxobable  altematiye  bear  examination*  when  it  is 
applied  to  the  relative  obUgations  vhioh  nnite  man  with  man?    An 
enemy  brings  me  tidings  thai  an  aged  parent  is  in  prison  and  at  ^e 
point  of  death,  without  solace  or  support.      The  same  person  has 
before  deceived  and  injured  me.    It  is  psobable  that  he  may  be  doing 
BO  ^ffain :  so  probable  that  if  he  had  oommuni<^ted  any  piece  of  mere 
inteuigence,  not  involving  a  question  of  conduct,  it  would,  upon  the 
whole,  have  appeared  most  safe  not  to  believe  the  statement    Liet  it 
then  even  be  more  likely  that  he  now  speaks  fiUsehood  than  truth 
Will  that  warrant  me  in  Jramaining  where  I  am,  or  is  it  posrable  to 
treat  with  neglect  a  eall  which  may  reveal  the  want  and  extremity 
of  a  parent,  without  an  evident,  gross,  and  most  culpable  breach  of 
filial  obliffation?    The  answer  womd  be  No ;  and  it  would  be  imme- 
diate and  universal    And  yet  the  ease  here  put  has  been  one  not  of 
greater  but  of  inferior  likelihood.    How  then,  we  niay  ask,  by  the 
argument  d  fortUm,  is  it  possiUe  to  apply  to  the  regulation  of  our 
relations  towards  God  a  theory  which  explodes  at  the  first  instant 
when  it  is  tested  by  perhaps  the  deepest  among  aU  the  original 
instincts  of  our  nature  ?       , 

It  is  indeed  true  that  the  doctrine  of  Probabilism  is  guarded  by  two 
conditions.  The  first  is,  that  it  is  to  apply  only  to  questions  of  right, 
not  to  those,  as  I  find  it  expressed,  where  both  fact  and  right  are  in- 
volved. The  question  of  the  validity  of  a  sacrament  is  not  to  be  tried 
by  it;  and  *  de  meme,  un  m^ecin  est  tenu  de  donner  les  remedes  les 
plus  ^prouv^s,  et  un  j  uge  les  decisions  los  plus  sores. '  ^  ^  But  this  ree* 
ervation  appears  rather  to  weaken,  than  to  strength^!,  the  case.  Is  it 
not  sometimes  difficult  to  decide  on  the  validity  of  a  sacred  rite?  Bo 
the  judge  and  the  physician  never  doubt?  Whj  are  the  rules  for  the 
investigation  of  truth  which  bind  them,  otherwise  than  obligatory  on 
other  personal  conduct?  Is  not  the  foundation  of  duty  to  otneis 
strictly  and  immutably  one  with  the  foundation  of  duty  to  our  own 
selves?  Again,  obligation  to  a  fellow*creature  cannot  be  stronger  tlum 
obligation  to  our  Father  in  heaven;  therefore,  if  the  liberty  of  a  man  is 
a  good  plea  against  a  doubtfUl  command  of  God,  why  may  it  not 
equally  warrant  a  doubtful  wrong  to  a  patient  or  a  suitor?  if  it  be  good 
in  that  part  of  our  relations  to  God,  which  embraces  the  immediBto 

oommunion  of  the  soul  with  Him,  why  not  also  in  that  other  part»  when 

■  .11         ...      .  ,        ■ 

^*  Manuel  de*  Oonfe9$eur$,  p.  74. 


FBOBABELTTY  AS  THE  GUIDE  OF  CONDUCT.  537 

the  interconrse  is  thiongh  the  medium  of  holy  rites?  It  is  not  diffionlt 
to  see  that  neither  the  ChoK^,  nor  civil  society,  oould  bear  withoot 
deiangeknent  the  appli<3atkm  of  JProbabilism  to  the  reUitianB  between 
L  them  and  the  individtiaL  Bnt  Uicn  it  is^  more  than  ever  difficult  to 
:  conceive  how  snob  a  reloKation  of  the  moml  law  is  to  be  justified,  and 
that,  moreover,  m  the  department  of  conduct  which  is  inward,  in 
which  we'  are  our  own  jndges,  and  in  which,  therefore,  we  may  even 
have  need  to  be  aided  ag^dUst  tOTiptation  by  a  peoolior  strictness 
of  rule. 

The  other  limitationf  of  the  doctrine  »,  that  the  probability  we  are  to 
follow^ -though  inferior  to  that  of  the  competing  akematiycy  must  be 
intrinsieally  a  solid  one:  and  must  not  be  glaringly,  though  it  may  be 
sensibly,  inferior  to  the  opposing  argument  'Quoique,  comparatiy&* 
ment  k  la  probability  oontraire,  la  votre  soit  inf^neure,  il  fimt  qu'ello 
soit,  abeolument  pariant,  graTc,  et  solide,  et  digne  d'un  homme  pru- 
dent; comme  une  montagne  relativement  k  une  autre  peut  etre  plu3 
petite,  mais  ndanmoins  etre  en  soi,  et  absolument,  uno  assez  ^pnando 
masse  pour  m^riter  le  nom  de  montagna'  '^  And  this  doctrine  is  sup- 
ported by  the  yery  strange  reason, '  ^  that  it  is  more  easy  to  determine 
whether  the  probability  in  fitTOur  of  a  given  altematiye  belong  to  the 
class  of  solid  or  of  faint  and  inadmissible  probabilities,  than  whether 
it  be  greater  or  less  fhon  the  probability  in  myour  6f  some  other  alter- 
natiye.  This  proposition  is  one  which  requires  to  borrow  support,- 
rather  than  one  wnich  can  afford  to  lend  it.  To  me  it  has  the  sound  of 
egre^ous  paradox.  Howeyer  difficult  it  may  sometimes  be  to  compare 
the  reaisons  adducible  in  support  of  opposite  altematiyes,  the  line  be* 
tween  them,  it  is  eyident,  can  rarely  be  finer  and  more  hair*drawn  thou 
that  which  is  to  distinguish,  in  the  technical  order,  the  general  traits 
of  a  &int  from  those  of  a  Bolid  probability. 

Bat  upon  the  doctrine  itself  lot  me  record,  in  concluding^  these  three 
remarks.  In  the  first  place,  the  casos  are  innumerable  in  which  there 
is  evidence  in  favour  of  a  given  albcmativo,  which  would  amount  to  a 
Eolid,  aye  a  very  solid  probability,  if  it  stood  alone:  if  it  were  not  over- 
thrown by  eviaence  on  the  opposite  side.  But  if  we  are  to  regard  it 
absolutely,  and  not  relatively,  we  must  on  this  account  fall  into  c(m- 
stant  error.  Secondly:  to  know  that  our  duty  is  to  follow  the  safest 
and  bo^t  alternative,  is  at  least  to  possess  a  detorminate  rule,  and  one 
eminently  acceptable  to  a  sound  conscience;  one  which  gives  us  a 
single  and  intelligible  end  for  our  efforts,  though  the  path  of  duty  is 
not  always,  even  for  the  single  cyo,  easy  to  discern.  It  becomes  a 
tangled  path  indeed,  with  the  aid  of  Probabilism,  which  requires  the 
decision  of  at  least  two  questions:  first,  whether  the  altemative  wMchj 
it  is  meant  to  follow  has  a  solid,  not  a  feeblo,  probability  in  its  favour; 
secondly,  whether  the  altemative  to  be  discnrded  bos  a  notable  and 
couBpicuous,  or  only  a  limited  and  moderate,  superiority  over  it.  For 
the  step  cannot,  by  hypothesis,  be  taken  until  both  these  questions 

,  -  I  I  I        _  ■  _  _  ~       I — -     -       -  -r- " — ■ — ■ — — • — — ,— r Tm~ 1 — w^ 

*^Manwl  dc9  Cwnfetteurs,  p.  75.  ■*  IWd.  p.  W. 


533  PEOBABIUTY  A3  THU  GT7IDU  QJ  CO^UCT.  - 

have  been  determined.  In  the  third  place,  it  10  painfol  to  xooollact 
that  -when  we  ore  deaUng"  with  the  mofiit  difficult  parts  of  duty,  those 
which  we  transact  within  OQiselves,  iAiB  appetite  for  seif-indnJgence 
Bhonld  be  pampered  by  enoQaxag^ment  itom  wiUxpnt.  We  are  already 
apt  enough  to  conjure  into  solid  probabilHies  the  verieet  phantasms  of 
the  mind,  provided  only  they  present  an  agreeable  appearanoe.  Here 
is  a  premium  set  upon  this  process  alike  dimgerons  a^  allaiing.  The 
kno^m  subtieiy  of  those  mental  intto^ections  oa^onses  maiiy  fc^lnxes 
in  those  who  do  not  create  their  own  embarrassments;  but  lor  those 
who  do,  such  a  system  appears  oapaUe  lOf  oolQtaitt^  err»j  whi^  might 
have  been  blaiaeless,  wnh  the  davker  hues  of  wilfulness  fimd  goiiu 

W;  E.  GiiADsroKS. 


SYDNEY  DOBBLL. 

A  PEOtSONAXj  BKBTCS. 

In  the  winter  of  1860,  os  I  sat  alone,  writing,  in  what  Dayid  Gray 
described  as  the   *^dear  old  ghastly   bankrupt   garret   at  Ko.   GB.** 
Lucinda  from  the  kitchen  came  panting  upstairs  with  a  card,  on  which 
was  inscribed  the  name  of  *' Sydney  Dobell;"  and  in  less  than,  five 
minutes  afterwards  I  was  conversing  eagerly,  and  fajoe  to  face,  with 
the  man  who  had  been  my  first  friend  and  truest  helper  in  the  great 
world  of  letters.     It  was  our  first  meeting.     David   Gray,  whom 
Dobell   had  assisted  with  a  caressing  and  angelic  patience^  never 
knew  him  at  all,  but  was  at  that  very  moment  lying  sick  to  death 
in  the  little  cottage  at  Merkland,  pining-  and  hoping  against  hope  for 
such  a  meeting.     "How  about  DobeU?"   he  wrote  a  little  later,  in 
answer  to  my  anziounoement  of  the  visit.     *'Did  your  mind  of  itself, 
or  even  against  itseli^  recognize  through  the  clothes  a  rmm—a  pod  t 
Has  he  the  modesty  and  moke-himseliTat-home  manner  of  Milnes?** 
What  answer  I  gave  to  these  eager  inquiries  I  do  not  remember,  nor 
would  it  be  worth  recording,  for  I  myself  at  that  time  was  only  a  boy, 
with  little  or  no  experience  of  things  and  men.    But  even  now,  across 
the  space  of  dull  and  sorrowful  years,  comes  the  vision  of  as  sweet 
and  shininga  face  as'  ever  brought  joy  and  comfort  this  side  of  the 
grave ;  of  a  voice  musical  and  low,  ''excellent"  in  all  its  tones  as  the 
voice  of  the  tenderest  woman;. of  manners  at  once  manly  and  caressin^t 
bashful  and  yet  bold,  with  a  touch  of  piteous  gentleness  which  told 
a  sad  tale  of  feeble  physical  powers  and  the  tortured  sense  of  bodily 
despair. 

I  saw  him  once  or  twice  afterwards,  and  had  a  glimpse  of  that 
feUow-eufferer,  his  wife.  He  was  staying  with  some  Mends  on  the 
hills  of  Hampstead,  and  thither  I  trudged  to  meet  him,  and  to  listen 


io  his  f^>asi:UzKg  poetitf  apeeoh*  I  teeall  now,  with  a  onriotui  sanBe  of 
pain,  that  1117  strongest  feeling  Aonceming  bim,  at  that  time,  was  a 
feeling  of  wonder  at  the  gos8amei4iko  fraliness  of  his  physique  and 
the  almost  morbid  refinement  of  his  conversation.  These  two  charao- 
teiistics,  which  would  be  ill-comprehended  b^  a  boy  in  the  rude  flush 
of  health  and  hope,  and  with  n  certain  audacity  of  physical  well-being, 
stmck  me  stnngely  then,  and  came  back  upon  my  heart  with  terriblo 
meaning  now.  CkHnbined  with  this  feeling  of  wonder  and  pity  was 
blended,  of  necessity,  one  of  fervent  gratitude.    Some  little  time 

Erevioiiif  to  our  first  meeting,  I  had  come,  a  literary  adventurer,  to 
ondon ;  with  no  capital  but  a  sablime  seU-«ssuraace  which  it  has 
taken  many  long  years  to  tome  into  a  certain  obedience  and  acquies- 
cence.   About  the  same  time,  David  Gray  had  also  set  foot  in  the 
great  City.    And  Sydney  Bobell  had  helped  us  both,  as  no  other 
HTing  man  could  or  would.    For  poor  Gray's  wild  yet  gentle  dreams, 
and  for  my  coarser  and  less  conciliatory  ambition,  l|e  had  nothing  but 
wordB  of  wisdom  and  gentle  r^monstrantfie.    None  of  our  folly  daunted 
him.    He  wrote,  with  the^h^art  of' an  angel,  letters  which  might  have 
tamed  the  madness  in  the  heart  of  a  deviL    He  helped,  ho  warned, 
he  watched  ns,  with  unweaerying  core.    In  the  midst  of  his  own 
solemn  sorrows,  which  we  so  little  understood,  ho  found  heart  of  grace 
to  sympaihisa  with  our  wild  straggles  for  the  unattainable.    At  a 
period  when  writing  -was  a  torture  to  him, .  ho  devoted  hours  of 
corresp»ndenoe  to  the  guidance  and  instruction  of  two  fellow-creatures 
he  haidndver  seen.    To  receive  one  of  his  gnvjious  and  elaborate 
epistles,  flni^ed   with  the  painful  care  which  this  lordly  martyr 
bestowed  on  the  most  trifling  thing  he  did,  was  to  be  in  communi- 
eation  witiL  a  spirit  standing  on  the  very  heights  of  life.    I,  at  least, 
little  comprehended  the  blossing  then.    But  it  eaiuo,  with. perfect 
consecration,  on  David  Grab's  dying  bed  ;  it  made  his  last  days  bliss- 
ful, and  it  helped  to  close  his  eyes  in  peace. 

No  one  who  knew  Sydney  Dobell,  no  one  who  'hbd  'ever  so  brief  a 
glimpse  of  him,  con  read  without  tears  the  simple -and  beautiful  Me- 
moriols^  now  just  published,  of  his  gracious,  quiet  and  uneventful  life. 
Predestined  to  physical  martyrdom,  he  walked  the  earth  for  fifty 
years,  at  the  bidding  of  what  to  otir  imperfect  visidn  seems  a  pitiless 
and  inscrutable  Destiny.  Why  this  divmely  gifted  being,  whose  soul 
seemed  all  goodness,  and  whose  highest  song  would  have  been  an  in- 
estimable gain  to  humanity,  should  have  been  struck  doWn  again  and 
again  by  blows  so  cruel,  is  a  question  which  ntic^  the  very  core  of 
that  tormenting  conscience  which  is  in  ua  aU.  Ill-lnek  dogged  his 
footsteps;  Sicfaiess  encamped  wherever  he  found  a  home.  His  very 
goodness  and  gentleness  seemed  at  times  his  bane.  At  am*  age  when 
other  men  are  revelling  in  mere  existence  he  was  being  taught  that 
mere  existence  is  torture.  We  have  read  of  Christian  martyrs,  of  all 
the  fires  through  which  they  passed;  but  surely  no  one  of  them  ever 
fought  with  such  tormenting -flames  as  did  this  patient  poet^  whose 
hourly  cry  "wqa  of  the  Idn4nefl8  and  goodness  of  God.    From  first  to 


540  Sia)NEY    DOBELL. 

last,  no  irord  of  anger,  no  nttezanoe  of  fierce  arraignment,  passed  7U 
lips. 

"Tbeb<»tofincn 
That  e'er  Trore  earth  iibout  him  was  a  sufferer — 
^  The  first  trae  Geutlomau  thut  urer  lived." 

And  like  that  "best  of  men,"  Sydney  Dobell  tronbled  himself  to 
make  no  complaint,  bnt  took  the  cnp  of  sorrow  and  drained  it  to  the 
bitter  dregs.  Such  a  record  of  such  a  life  stope  the  cry  go.  the  yery 
lips  of  blasphemy,  and  makes  us  ask  ourselves  if  that  life  did  not  pos- 
Bess,  direct  from  Gk>d,  some  benediction,  some  comfort*  unknown  to 
us.  So  it  must  have  been.  '*  Looking  up/'  as  a  writer*  on  the  subject 
has  beautifully  put  it,  "  he  saw  the  heavens  opened."  Those  paretic 
glimpses  seemed  comfort  enough. 

Boubtless  to  some  readers  of  this  magazine  the  very  name  of  Sydney 
Dobell  is  unfamiliar.  To  all  students  of  modem  poetry  it  is  of  opurse 
more  or  less  known,  as  that  of  one  of  the  diief  leaiolerB  of  the  school  of 
verse  known  by  its  enemies  as***  the  Spasmodic."  With  Philip  frames 
Bailey  and  Alexander  Smith,  Dob^  rmgned  for  a  lustrum,  to  tne  great 
wonder  and  confusion  of  honest  folk,  who  pinned  their  faith  on  Ten- 
nyson's *  Gardener's  Daughter 'and  Longfellow's  'Paalm  of  Life.*  His 
day  of  reign  was  that  of  GiMUan's  'Literary  Portraits,*  and  of  thQ  lurid 
apparition,  StanjanBigg;  of  the  marvellous  monologue^  and  the  invoca- 
tion without  an  end;  of  the  resurrection  of  a  Drama  which  had  never 
lived,  to  hold  high  jinks  and  feasting  with  a  literary  Myoednua  who 
was  about  to  die.  It  was  a  period  of  poetic  incandescenoe;  new  sans, 
not  yet  spherica^  whirling  out  hourly  before  the  public  gaze^  and  van- 
ishing instantly  into  space,  to  live  on,  however,  in  the  dusky  chronol- 
ogy of  the  poetio  astronomer,  GilfiUan.  The  day  passed,  &e  aohool 
vanished.    Where  is  the  school  now  ? 

!  * '  Where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear  ?'* 

Yet  they  who  underrate  that  school  know  little  what  real  poe^  i& 
It  was  a  chaos,  gruited;  but  a  chaos  capable,  luider  certain  condi^ons; 
of  being  shaped  into  such  creations  as  would  put  to  shame  many 
makers  of  much  of  our  modem  verse.  As  it  is,  we  may  discover  in 
the  writings  of  Sydney  Dobell  and  his  circle  solid  lumps  of  pure  poetic 
ore,  of  a  quality  scarcely  discoverable  in  modem  literature  una  side  of 
the  Elizabethan  period. 

Sydney  Dobell  was  bom  at  Cranbrook,  in  Kent,  on  April  5,  1821 
Both  on  the  paternal  and  maternal  side^  he  was  descended  from  people 
remarkable  for  their  GhriBtian  virtues  and  strong  religious  instincts-, 
end  from  his  earliest  years  he  was  r^;arded  by  his  parents  as  having 
"a  special  and  even  apostoUo  mission."  The  story  of  his  child-life, 
indeed,  is  one  of  those  sad  records  of  unnatural  precocity,  caused  by 
a  system  of  early  forcing,  which  have  of  late  years  become  tolerably 
foiniliar  to  the  pubHo.    fie  seems  never  to  have  been  strong,  and  hu 

*  Matthew  Browse,  in  the  Contemporary  SevimOn 


nattnally  feeble  oonstitntion  was  nndeimixied  by  habits  of.  introspeo- 
tion.  It  is  poinfally  toncbing  now  to  read  the  extracts  from  his 
father's  note-book,  full  of  a  quaint  Puritan  simplicity  and  an  over-mas- 
tering spiritual  faith.    Here  is  one  : 

"I  nsed  frequently  to  talk  to  him  of  how  delightful  and  blessed  it  wgnld  be  if  any 
ebild  would  resolTo  to  live  as  pure,  virtuous,  and  holj  h  hfc,  as  dedicated  to  the  vr'm 
and  Kenice  of  Ood,  as  Jesus.  I  used  to  say  to  hitn  that  if  one  ooold  ever  bo  fouud 
agrain  trho  vns  spotless  and  holy,  it  was  with  me  a  pleasing  speculation  and  hope  that 
EQch  a  character  miirht,  eren  in  this  life,  be  culled  ns  a  special  instrument  of  our 
HeaTenJy  !E*ather  fur  some  great  purpose  with  His  Chnrok,  or  with  the  Jews." 

The  seed  thtra  sown  by  the  zealous  parent  bore  fruit  afterwards  in 
a  disposition  of  peculiar  sweetness,  yet  ever  consoious  of  the  prero- 
gatives and  prejudices  of  a  Christian  warrior.  Out  of  the  many  who 
are  called^  Sydn^  Dobell  believed  himself  specially  chosen,  if  not  to 
fulfil  any  divine  mission  "with  the  Ohurch  or  with  the  Jews,"  at  least 
to  preach  and  sing  in  the  God-given  mantle  of  fire,  whi<^  men  call 
genius.  Jn  his  leading  works,  but  eq[>ecially  in  'Balder,'  he  preached 
genius-worship;  of  all  fonns  of  hero-worship,  devised  by  students  of 
German  folios,  the  most  hopeless  and  the  most  hope-destroying. 
Thenceforward  isolation  became  a  habit,  introspection  an  intellectual 
duty.  With  all  his  love  for  his  feUow-^nen,  and  all  his  deep  sympathy 
with  modem  progress,  he  lacked  to  the  end  a  certain  literary  robust- 
ness, which  only  comes  to  a  man  made  fully  conscious  that  Art  and 
Literature  are  not  life  itself,  but  only  Life's  humble  handmaids.  He 
was  too  constantly  overshadowed  with  his  mission.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, that  very  mission  became  his  only  solace  and  comfort)  when  his 
days  of  literary  martyrdom  came.  He  went  to  the  stake  of  cxiticism 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  almost  disaiming  his  torturers  and  executiozv- 
ers. 

When  Sydney  was  three  years  old,  his  father  failed  in  business  as 
a  hide-merchant,  and,  removing  to  London,  started  as  a  wine-merchant. 
"About  this  time,"  says  the  biographer,  ** Sydney  was  described  as  of 
ver^  astonishing  understanding,  as  preferring  mental  diversion  to 
eatmg  and  drinMng,  and  very  inventive  with  tales."  Strange  moods 
of  sorrow  and  self-pity  began  to  trouble  his  life  at  the  age  of  four. 
At  eight,  it  was  recorded  of  him  that  he  **had  never  been  known  to 
tell  on  untaruth."  From  seven  years  of  age  he  inxitated  the  paternal 
habit,  and  used  *' little  pocket-books,"  to  note  down  his  ideas,  his  bits 
of  acquired  knowledge,  his  simple  questions  on  spiritual  subjects. 
For  example :  "Eeport  of  the  Controversy  of  Porter  and  Bagot  Mr. 
Porter  maintains  that  Jesus  Christ  lived  in  heaven  with  God  before  the 
beginning  of  the  world."  At  the  age  of  ten,  he  was  an  omnivorous 
reader,  and  the  habit  of  verse-writing  was  growin»  steadily  upon  him. 
I  know  nothing  more  pitiful  in  literature  than  the  story  of  his  pre- 
cocity, in  all  its  cruel  and  touching  details.  At  twelve  years  of  age  he 
was  sufficiently  matured  to  fall  in  love,  the  object  of  his  passion  being 
Emily  Fordham,  the  lady  who  only  nine  years  afterward  became  his 
wife.    By  this  time  his  father  had  removed  to  Cheltenham,  and  had 


642  SYDNEY    DOBELL. 

set  tip  in  bnsiness  there.  Sydney  and  tlie  rest  of  the  children  still 
remained  at  home,  and  thns  missed  all  the  invigorating  influences  of 
a  public  school;  for  the  father  belonged  to  the  seet  of  Separatists, 
which  holds  as  cardinal  the  doctrine  of  avoiding  those  who  hold  ad- 
verse, or  di^erent^  religious  views. 

The  account  of  that  dreary  life  of  drudgery  and  over-work  at  Chel- 
tenham may  be  sadly  passed  over;  it  is  a  life  not  good  to  think  ofi  and 
its  few  gleams  of  sunshine  are  too  faint  and  feeble  to  detain  the  reader 
long.  From  the  date  of  his  removal  to  Cheltenham  he  acted  aa  his 
father^s  clerk.  The  account  of  the  period  extending  from  his  twelfth 
year  to  the  date  of  his  marriage  is  one  of  h^rd  xmcbngenial  toil,  varied 
by  scripturfr-readings  of  doubtful  edification,  cmd  a  jxis^^^^  morbid 
and  almost  pedantic  in  the  old-fashioned  ^uaintness  of  its  moodf;. 
The  biographer's  record  may  form,  as  we  are  told,  "a  one-sided  and 
painfal  picture,"  but  we  suspect  that  it  is  a  true  one,  truer,  that  is  to 
say,  than  the  idea  in  its  author's  memory  of  "light,  buoyant,  various, 
and  vigorous  activity.**  The  truth  is,  the  parents  of  the  poet  blun- 
dered in  blindness,  a  blindness  chiefly  due  to  their  remarkable  religi- 
ous belief.  His  father' especially,  despite  all  his  kindness  of  heart, 
was  strenuous  to  the  verge  of  bigotry.  One  can  scarcely  remark  with- 
out a  smile  the  inconsistency  with  which  one  who  was  "a  publican,' 
and  by  profession' a  vendor  of  cdnvivial  and  intoxicating  liquors*  heM 
aloof  fiOm  the  non-elect  among  his  fellow-creatures.  "E^isiness  is 
not  brisk,"  he  wrote;  "I  can't  account  for  it,  except  as  usual,  in  our 
retired  life  and  habits.**  The  idea  of  a  sad-eyed  Separatist  dealing  in 
fiery  ports  and  sherries,  shutting  out  the  world  and  yet  lamenting 
when  ** business  was  not  brisk,"  is  one  of  those  grim,  cruel,  heart- 
breaking jokes,  in  which  Humanity  is  so- rich,  and  of  which  the 
pathetic  art  of  the  humourist  offers  the  only  bearable  solution 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  "Sydney  Dobell  was  married  to  an  invalid  like 
hiiiiBelf,  and  one  like  himself  of  a  strong  Puritan  bias.    The  humour- 
ist must  help  ns  again,  if  we  are  to  escape  a  certain  feeling  of  nausea 
at  the  details  of  this  courtship  and  union,  with  its  odd  glimpses  of 
personal  yearning,  its  fervent  sense  of  the  "mission,**  and  its  dreary 
scraps  from  the  Old  Testament.    The  young  couple  settled  down 
together  in  a  little  house  at  Cheltenham;  and  thotrgh  for  a  time  they 
avoided  all  society  and  still  adhered  to  the  tenets  of  the  elect,  this 
was  the  beginning  of  a  broader  and  a  healthier  life.    All  might  per- 
haps have  been  well,  and  the  poet  have  cast  quite  away  the  cloud  of 
his  early  traiiiing,  but  for  one  of  those  cruel  accidents  which  make 
life  an  inscrutable  puzzle.    Just  as  Sydney  Dobell  was  beginning  to 
live,  just  as  his  mind  was  growing  more  robust,  and  his  powers  more 
coherent  and  peaceful,  he  was  struck  by  rheumatic  fever,  caught  during 
a  temporary  removal  to  a  Devonshire  farmhouse.    As  if  that  were  not 
enough,  his  wife,  always  frail,  broke  down  almost  at  the  same  time. 
Prom  that  time  forward,  the  poet  and  his  wife  were  fellow-sufferers, 
each  watching  by  turns  over  the  attacks  of  the  other.    It  may  be  said 
without  ezf^geration,  that  neither  enjoyed  ono  day  of  thoroughly 


SZDNEX    DOBELL.  64$ 

buoyant  physical  health.    Still,  they  had.  a  certam  pensile  happiness, 
relieved  in  the  hiiBband's  cose  by  bursts  of  hectic  excitem^ent. 

By  this  time,  when  Dobell  wus-  four-and-twenty  years  of  afi^e,  the 
great  wave  of  '48  had  risen  and  fiallen,  and  its  inflnence  was  still  felt  in 
the  hearts  of  men.  It  was  a  time  of  revolutions,  moral  as  well  as  po- 
liticaL  Dobell,  like  manjr  another,  felt  the  earth  tremble  under  him; 
watched  and  listened,  as  if  for  the  signs  of  a  second  Advent  Then, 
like  others,  he  looked,  across  France,  towards  Italy.  Tl;tus  the  *  Bo- 
man'  was  planned;  thus  he  began  to  write  for  the  jounuils  of  advanced 
opinion.  He  had  now  a  wine  business  of  his  own  and  had  a  pleasant 
country  house  on  the  Gotswold  Hills.  Having  published  a  portion  of 
the  *  Boman '  in  Tcafs  Magazine^  he  was  led  to  correspond  with  the 
then  Aristarchus  of  the  poetic  firmament^  the  Eev.  George  Gilfillan. 
GilfiUan  roundly  hailed  him  as  a  poetic  genius,  and  he,  not  ungrato- 
ful,  wrote:  "If  in  ofler-jeais  1  should  ever  be  called  *  Poet,*  you  will 
know  that  my  success  is,  in  some  sort,  your  work."  Shortly  after  this, 
he  went  to  Ijondon  and  interviewed  Mr.  Carlyle.  "We  had  a  tough 
argument,"  he  wrote  to  Gilfillan,  "whether  it  were  better  to  have 
learned  to  make  shoes  or  to  have  written  *Saitor  Kesartus.' "  At  the 
beginning  of  1850  he  published  the  *  Boman.'  This  was  his  first  great 
literary  performance,  and  it  was  tolerably  successful:  that  is  to  say,  it 
received  a  good  deal  of  praise  from  the  newspapers,  and  circulatea  in 
BinoU  editions  among  the  general  pubbc.   • 

The  subject  of  this  dramatic  poem  was  Italian  libertjr,  and  the  work 
is  full  of  the  genius  and  prophecy  of  1848.  The  leading  character  is 
one  Vittorio  Santo,  a  missionary  of  freedom,  who  (to  quote  the  author's 
own  arguinent)  "  has  gone  out  disguised  as  a  monk  to  preach  the  cause 
of  Italy,  the  overfJirow  of  the  Austrian  domination,  and  the  restora- 
tion of  a  great  Boman  Bepublic."  Santo,  in  the  course  of  the  poem 
delivers  a  series  of  splendid  And  almost  prophetic  sermons  on  the- 
heroic  life  and  the  great  heroic  cause.  As  an  example  of  Dobell's 
earlier  and  more.rlietorical  manner,  I  will  transcribe  the  following  pow- 
erful lines: 

••  I  pniy  ^oa  lirttoa  hovr  T  lovo  1  my  raothor. 
And  joQ  >\  i  J  AVKcp  with  uio.    Slio  loved  mo,  nnrst  mo 
And  lc«l  my  s  )til  >v  illi  liixlit.    Moniiii;^  uud  oveu 
Pniying',  1  sent  tint  8«nil  into  her  oyos. 
Anil  know  what  honvon  wjw  thon^li  I  wna  a  ohild. 
I  ^ow  in  Btatuiu  uud  sVe  grew  in  (^oodiiesi). 
1.  was  a  p:mre  cliihl ;  lookin  j:  on  hvv  tuught  ine 
Toluvv  Ihu  beautiful:  uud  I  had  thoughts 
OfPanidiKO.  u-hen  other  men  havehHrdly 
Lootcod  oQt  of  dotnv  on  oarth.    ( Alaa !  alas ! 
Thiit  I  ka\  o  aUo  ICMrned  to  look  on  oarth 
When  oth<M'  men  see  heaven  )    I  toiled,  but  evea 
As  I  became  m.a'c  holy,  ahu  Acemeil  holier; 
Even  as  when  cliiubing  mountain-tops  the  sky 
Grows  ampler,  Higher,  pnrer  aa  yo  rise. 
Let  me  befievo  no  mure.    !No.  do  not  nsk  ma 
How  I  repaid  my  mother.    O  thou  Haiiit, 
That  luukcst  ou  luo  day  uud  uighl  I'l'uiu  hoaroa. 


BU  SYDNEY    IK)BELIi. 

And  smilcst.    I  liavo  pivt3n  tlicc  tears  for  tears, 
Angoish  for  aiifniisli,  vroii  for  woo.    Jf'orgive  me 
If  iu  the  apiri^  of  ti)cffal)lc  {lennnco 
In  woriU  1  \raken  op  the  frnilt  that  sleeps. 
Let  not  the  sound  afflict  thine  heaven,  or  colonr 
l%at  pale.  tear-Uotted  record  which  the  angels 
Keep  of  my  sins.    We  left  her,  I  and  all 
'The  brothers  that  her  milk  bad  fed.    We  left  her— 
And  strange  dark  robbers  with  unwonted  names 
Abused  her!  bound  her!  pillaged  her!  profaned  her  I 
Bound  her  clasped  hands,  and  gagged  the  trembling  lips 
That  prayed  for  her  lost  children.    And  wo  stood 
And  sne  knelt  to  us,  and  we  saw  her  kneel. 
And  looked  upon  her  coldly  and  denied  her  1 
«  *  «  * 

Ton  are  my  brothers.    And  my  mother  was 

Tonrs.    And  eaeh  man  amongst  you  day  by  dar 

Takes  bowing,  the  same  price  that  sold  my  mother. 

And  does  not  blush.    Her  name  is  Rome.    Look  pound 

And  see  those  featui*e8  which  the  sun  himself 

Can  hardly  leave  for  fondness.    Look  upon 

Her  mountain  bosom,  where  the  very  sky 

Beholds  with  passion ;  and  witii  the  last  proud 

Imperial  sori'ow  of  d^ected  empiife 

She  wraps  the  purple  round  her  outraged  breast, 

And  even  in  fetters  csuinot  bo  a  slave. 

Look  on  the  world's  best  gloty  and  worst  shame." 

The  'Boznan*  is  fall  of  this  kind  of  fervour,  and  is  maintained 
throTigbout  at  a  fine  temperature  of  poetic  eloquence.  Its  effect  on  the 
ardent  YOuth  of  its  generation  mu§|  nave  been  considerable.  Perhaps 
now,  when  the  stormy  sea  of  Italian  politics  has  settled  down,  it  may 
be  lawful  to  ask  oneself  how  much  reality  there  was  in  the  battl&Hiongs 
and  poems  that  accompanied  or  preluded  the  tempest.  It  is  quite  con- 
ceivable, at  least,  that  a  man  may  sing  very  wildly  about  **  Italy  "  and 
"  Bome  "  and  "  Freedom  "  without  any  definite  idea  of  what  ho  means, 
and  without  any  particular  feeling  for  human  nature  in  the  concrete. 
This  was  not  the  case  with  Dobell;  every  syllable  of  his  stately  sonj; 
came  right  out  of  his  heart.  For  this  Christian  warrior,  like  many 
another,  was  just  a  little  too  fond  of  appeals  to  the  sword;  just  a  littlo 
too  apt  to  pose  as  "  an  Englishman  "and  a  lover  of  freedom.  Ho  who 
began  with  the  sonorous  cadence  of  the  *  Koman  *  wroto^  in  his  latter 
moods,  the  wild  piece  of  gabble  called  'England's  Day.'  The  *Boman,' 
however,  remains  a  fine  and  fervid  poem,  worthy  of  thrico  the  fame 
it  is  ever  likely  to  receive.  What  Mazzini  wrote  of  it  in  1851  may 
fully  be  remembered  at  this  hour,  when  it  is  pretty  well  forgotten: 

•'  Ton  have  written  about  Romo  as  I  \rocld.  had  I  been  bom  a  poet.  And  irliot  ro»i 
(lid  write  flows  from  the  soul,  the  all-loviug,  thu  all  ombruciiig,  tho  prophet  soul.  It  ii 
the  only  trno  source  cf  real  inspiration." 

Meantime  the  air  was  full  of  other  voices.  Carlylo  was  croaking  and 
prophesying,  with  a  strong  Dumfriesshire  accent.  Bailey  had  amazed 
the  world  with  'Festus,'  a  colossal  Conversationalist^  by  the  side  of 
whom  his  quite  clerical  and  feebly  genteel  Devil  seemed  a  pigmy.  Gil- 
fillan  had  opened  Lis  wonderful  Pie  of  *  Literary  Portraits,  containing 


SYDNEY    DOBELL.  >  ..  .  ^     546 

more  Bxrarms  of  poetical  blackbirds  tlian  the  world  knew  how  to  liBten 
10.  Mazzini  was  eloquent  in  reviews,  George  Dawson  was  stumping 
the  provUices  jwid  converting  the  bourgeoisie. 

"  The  world  \rtt3  iirnitlnfr  for  that  trumpet-blast, 
Ti)  T\*hich  Hnuiftnity  should  rise  nt  hi^t 
Out  ot  a  tliousaud  {^nivcH,  and  claim  its  throno." 

It  was  a  period  of  prodigious  ideas.  Every  literary  work  was  macro-^ 
cosmic  and  colossal  Every  poet,  under  his  own  little  forcing  glass, 
reared  a  Great  Poem — a  sort  of  prodigious  pumpkin  which  ended  in 
utter  unwieldiness  and  watcrinesa.  No  sort  of  preparation  was  neces- 
sary either  for  the  throne  or  the  laurel.  Kings  of  men,  king-hating, 
sprang  to  full  mental  light,  like  fungi,  in  ^  nighb.  Quiet  tax-paying 
people,  awaking  in  bed,  heard  the  Chival/y  of  Itabour  passing,  with 
hollow  music  of  fife  and  drum.  But  it  was  a  grand  time  for  all  tho 
talents.  Woman  was  awaking  to  a  sense  of  her  mission.  Charlotte 
Bronte  was  ready  with  the  prose-poem  of  the  century,  iRIrs.  Browning 
was  touching  notes  of  human  pathos  which  reached  to  every  factoiy  in 
the  world.  Compared  with  our  present  dead  swoon  of  Poetry,  a  swoon 
scarcely  relieved  at  all  by  the  occasional  smelling-salts  of  strong 
aesthetics,  it  was  a  rich  and  golden  tima  It  had  its  Dickens,  to  make 
every  home  happy  with  the  gospel  of  plum-pudding;  its  Tennyson,  to 
sing  bcatitiful  eon^  of  the  middle-class  ideal,  and  tho  comfortable 
clerical  sentiment;  its  Thackeray,  to  relieve  the  passionate,  overcharged 
human  heart  with  the  prick  of  cynicism  and  the  moisture  of  self-pity. 
To  be  bom  at  such  a  time  was  in  itself  (to  parody  the  familiar  expres- 
sion) a  liberal  education.  We  who  live  now  may  well  bewail  the  gen- 
eration which  preceded  us.  Some  of  the  old  deities  still  linger  with 
ns,  but  only  "m  idiocy  of  godhead,"  nodding  on  their  mighty  seats. 
The  clamour  has  died  away.  The  utter  sterility  of  passion  and  the 
hopeless  stagnation  of  sentiment  nowadays  may  be  guessed  when  some 
little  clique  can  set»up  Gautier  in  a  niche:  Gautier,  that  hairdresser's 
dummy  of  a  stylist,  with  his  complexion  of  hectic  pink  and  waxen 
white,  his  well-oiled  wig,  and  his  incommunicable  scent  of  the  barber's 
shop.  What  an  apotheosis !  After  the  prophecies  of  '48;  after  tho 
music  of  the  awakening  heart  of  Man;  after  Emerson  and  the  newly 
risen  moon  of  latter  Platonism,  shining  tenderly  on  a  world  of  vacant 
thrones ! 

Just  as  the  human  soul  was  most  expectant,  just  as  the  Revolution 
of  '48  had  made  itself  felt  wherever  the  thoughts  of  men  were  free,  the 
Sullen  Talent,  tired  of  the  tamo  eagle  dodge,  perpetrated  his  coup  d^tat, 
stabbed  France  to  the  heart  with  nis  assassin's  dagger,  and  mounted 
livid  to  his  throne  upon  her  bleeding  breast.  It  is  very  piteous  to  read, 
in  Dobell's  biography  and  elsewhere,  of  the  utter  folly  which  recognised 
in  this  moody,  moping,  and  graceless  ruffian  a  veritable  Saviour  of  So- 
ciety. The  great  woman-poet  of  the  period  hailed  him  holy,  and  her 
great  husband  aj^proved  her  worship.  Dobell  had  doubts,  not  many, 
of  Napoleon's  consecration.    But  Hobert  Browning  and  Sydney  Dobell 

L.  M.-I.-18. 


646  SYDIJEY    DOBELL. 

both  lirecl  to  recognise  v^  tlio  lesser  Napoleoji,  not  only  the  assassin  of 
Franco  political  and  social,  but  the  destroyer  of  literary  manhool  all 
over  the  world.  Twenty  years  of  the  Second  Empire,  twenty  years  of 
%  festering  sore  which  contaminated  all  the  civilization  of  the  earth, 
were  destined  to  follow.  We  reap  the  result  ctill,  in  a  society  given 
over  to  luxury  and  to  gold;  in  a  journalism  that  has  lost  its  manhood, 
and  is  supported  on  a  system  of  indecent  exposure  and  blackmail;  in  u 
literature  whose  first  word  is  flippancy,  whose  last  wor  1  is  prurience, 
and  whose  victory  is  in  the  orgies  of  a  naked  Dance  of  Death. 

Be  all  that  as  it  may,  those  were  happy  times  for  Sydney  DobelL 
tn  one  brief  period  of  fiterary  activity,  he  wrote  nearly  all  the  works 
Which  are  now  associated  with  his  name.  To  this  period  belongs  his 
masterly  review  of  *  Currer  Bell,*  a  model  of  what  such  criticism  should 
be.  The  review  led  to  a  correspondence  of  singular  interest  between 
Miss  BrontS  and  DobelL  "You  think  chiefly  of  what  is  to  be  don*^ 
and  won  in  life,"  wrote  Charlotte;  "I,  what  is  to  be  suffered.  ...  If 
ever  we  meet,  you  must  regard  me  as  a  grave  sort  of  elder  sister."  By 
this  period  the  fountain  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  genius  was  dry;  she 
knew  it,  though  the  world  thought  otherwise,  and  hence  her  despair. 
She  had  lived  her  life,  and  put  it  all  into  one  immortal  book.  So  she 
sat,  a  veiled  figure,  by  the  side  of  the  urn  called  *  Jane  Eyre.*  The 
shadow  of  Death  was  already  upon  her  face. 

Dobell  now  began  to  move  about  the  world.  Ho  went  to  Switzer- 
land, and  on  his  return  he  was  very  busy  with  his  second  poem, 
'Balder.'  "While  labouring  thus  he  first  heard  of  Alexander  Smith,  and 
having  read  some  of  the  new  poet's  passages  in  the  -Eb^ecKc  JRevieic, 
wrote  thus  to  GilfiUan:  "But  has  he  [Smith]  not  published  alraidv. 
cither  in  newspapers  or  periodicals?  Curiously  enough,  I  have  the 
strongest  impression  of  seeing  the  best  images  before,  and  I  am  seldom 
mistaken  in  these  remembrances.'*  This  was  ominous,  of  course,  of  what 
afterwards  took  place,  when  the  notorious  charge  of  plagiarism  was 
made  against  Smith  in  the  Athenceam.  Shortly  afterwards  he  became 
personally  acquainted  with  Smith,  and  learned  to  love  him  welL  He 
was  now  nimselfi  however,  to  reap  the  bitters  of  adverse  criticism  in 
the  publication  of  his  poem  of  *  Balder.'  In  this  extraordinary  work, 
the  leading  actors  are  only  a  poet  and  his  wife,  a  doctor,  an  artist,  an  1 
a  servant.  It  may  be  admitted  at  once  that  the  general  treatment 
verges  on  the  ridiculous,  but  the  work  contains  passages  of  unequalled 
beauty  and  sublimity.  The  public  reviews  were  adverse,  and  even 
2:>ersonal  friends  shook  their  heads  in  deprecation.  At  the  time  of 
publication  he  was  in  Edinburgh,  having  gone  thither  to  consult 
Dr.  (afterwards  Sir  James)  Simpson  on  the  illness  of  his  wife,  and 
there  he  was  to  remain  at  bay  during  all  the  barking  of  the  journals. 
A  little  cold  comfort  came  from  Charlotte  Bronte. 

•'There  is  power  in  that  character  of  Balder,*'  she  wrote,  "and  tome,  accrtAia 
horror.  Did  you  mean  it  to  embody,  nlonjr  with  force,  many  of  the  special  defeet* 
of  the  nrtistio  character  ?  It  scorns  to  mo  that  those  defects  were  never  thrown  out 
iu  stronger  lines." 


_  '   SYDNEY    DOBELL.  ^     5471 

Despite  the  ill-sticcess  of  hia  second  book,  Bobell  spent  a  vcty 
happy  season  in  Edinburgh.  If  not  famous,  he  was  at  least  notorious, 
and  was  well  enough  in  h^th  to  ci^joy  a  little  social  friction.  Alexander 
Smith,  the  secretary  of  the  University,  was  his  bosom-friend;  and 
among  his  other  companions  were  Samuel  Brown,  Blackie,  and  Hunter 
of  Ciaigcrook  Castle.  "Smith  and  I,"  he  wrote,  " seem  destined  to 
Le  social  twins."  Just  then  there  appeared  in  Blackwood^ s  Maaadne 
the  somewhat  flatulent  satire  of  'Firmilian,' written  at  high  jinks  by 
the  local  Yorick,  Professor  Aytoun.  The  style  of  Dobell  and  Smith 
was  pretty  well  mimicked,  and  the  scene  in  which  Gilfillan,  entering 
as  Apollodorus,  was  killed  by  the  friei;ds  thrown  by  Balder  from  a 
tower,  was  really  funny..  The  poets  satirised  enjoyed  the  joke  as 
oauch  as  anybody,  but  they  little  guessed  that  it  was  a  joke  of  a  very 
fatal  kind.  From  the  moment  of  the  appearance  of  the  "spasmodic 
iatirc,  the  so-called  spasmodic  school  was  ruined  in  the  eyes  of  the 
general  publia  A  violent  journalistic  prejudice  arose  against  its 
bllowers.  Even  Dobell's  third  book,  'England  in  Time  of  War,' 
itough  full  of  fine  lyrics,  entirely  failed  to  reinstate  the  writer  in 
)ublic  opinion.  He  was  classed,  though  in  a  new  sense,  among  the 
'illustriously  obscure,"  and  he  remained  in  that  category  until  the 
lay  he  died. 

Perhaps  the  pleasantest  of  all  his  days  were  those  days  in  Edinburgh, 
rlien,  in  conjunction  with  Smith,  he  wrote  a  series  of  fine  sonnets  on 
he  war,  which  won  the  warm  approval  of  good  judges,  like  Mr. 
ennyson.  There  was  something  almost  rapturous  in  Smith's  opening 
jnnet  to  Mfs.  Dobell — 

"And  if  wo  sinfr,  I  and  that  d«nrcr  friend, 
Take  Vum  our  music.    He  dwells  in  thy  lifrht, 
Suiumer  and  spring,  blue  day  and  starry  night.*' 

A  friend  wrote  that  he  could  love  "Alexander"  for  that  sonnet; 
id,  indeed,  who  could  not  love  him  for  a  thousand  reasons  ?  The 
ory  of  Smith's  martyrdom  has  yet  to  be  told — nay,  can  never  be 
•Id  this  side  of  the  grave.  But  let  this  suffice — it  'joas  a  martyrdom, 
id  a  tragedy.  How  tranquilly,  how  beautifully,  Smith  took  the 
justice  and  the  cruelty  of  the  world,  many  of  us  iinow.  Few  know 
le  rest.  It  was  locked  up  in  his  ^eat,  gentle  hear-:. 
When  I  have  mentioned  that,  immediately  after  the  War  Sonnets, 
rdney  Dobell  issued  independently  his  volume  of  prose,  'England 

Time  of  War,'  his  literary  history  is  told.  Though  ho  lived  on  for 
(Other  quarter  of  a  century,  he  never  published  another  book.  Three 
>rk8,  *TheBoman,'  'Balder,'  and  'England  in  Time  of  War,'  formed 
o  sum  total  of  his  contributions  to  literature  while  alive;  and  all 
109  were  written  at  one  epoch,  in  what  Smith  called  "the  afberswell 

the  revolutionary  impulse  of  1848."    For  the  last  half  of  his  life 

\  was  almost  utterly  silent,  only  an  occasional  sonnet  in  a  magazine, 

a  letter  in  a  journal  on  some  political  subject,  reminding  the  public 

at  ho  still  lived.    Of  this  long  silence  we  at  last  know  the  pathetic 


648    V__       __^       SYDNEY    DOBELL. 

cause.  Sickness  pnrsnocl  him  from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  lionr, 
making  strenuons  literary  effort  impossible.  Never  was  poet  so 
unlucky.  Eead  the  whoi3  heart-rending  story  in  his  biography;  I 
at  least  cannot  bear  to  linger  over  these  toiiures.  He  had  to  i-^ht 
for  mere  breath,  and  he  had  little  strength  left  him  to  reach  out  hands 
for  the  laurel.  How  meekly  he  bore  his  martyrdom  I  havo  already  sidd. 

"When  I  met  him  in  1860,  ho  had  the  look  of  one  who  might  not  live 
long,  a  beautiful  far-off  suffering  look,  wonderfully  reproduced  in  ilie 
exquisite  pictv*ro  by  his  younger  brother,  an  engraving  of  which  faces 
the  title-page  of  his  biography.  Many  years  later,  not  long  indeed 
before  his  death,  he  sent  me  a  photograph  with  the  inscription  "  Co,i- 
vakscens  conixdescenti"  but  all  photographs  reproduce  the  man  but 
poorljr,  compared  with  the  picture  of  which  1  have  spoken.  Evtn 
then,  in  the  joyfulness  of  his  eager  heart,  he  thought  himself  *'ci:>ii- 
valescent,"  and  was  looking  forward  to  busy  years  of  life.  It  was  not 
to  be.  No  sooner  was  his  gentle  frame  reviving  from  one  luckless 
accident,  than  Fate  was  ready  with  another.  '•  The  pity  of  it,  the  pity 
of  it  r*  It  is  impossible  to  think  of  his  sufferings  without  wondering 
at  the  firmness  of  his  faith. 

When  Death  came  at  last,  after  years  of  nameless  torture,  only  a  few 
cold  paragraphs  in  tho  journals  told  that  a  poet  had  died.    The  Dtsj- 
lect,  which  had  hung  like -a  shadow  over  his  poor  ruined  life,  broo.kd 
like  a  shadow  on  his  grave.    But  fortunately  for  his  fame,  ho  left  reliv- 
tives  behind  him  who  were  determined  to  set  him  right,  once  and  for 
ever,  with  posterity.    To  such  reverent  care  and  industry  wo  owe  t!i2 
two  volumes  of  collected  verso,  the  exquisite  volume  of  prose  memor- 
anda, and  lastly,  the  beautiful  Life  and  Letters.     Thus,  although  only 
a  short  period  has  elapsed  since  DobcU's  death,  though  it  seems  only 
yesterday  that  the  poet  lay  forgotten  in  some  dark  limbo  of  i)oetic  fail- 
ures, the  public  is  already  aware  of  him  as  one  of  the  strong  men  of  his 
generation,  strong,  too,  in  the  sublimest  sense  of  goodness,  couk^jg, 
and  ail  the  old-fashioned  Christian  virtues.    He  would  have  been  rec- 
ognized, perhaps,  sooner  or  later,  though  I  havo  my  doubts;  buttbrit 
he  ha*!  been  recognized  so  soon  is  due  to  such  love  and  duty  as  are  the 
crown  and  glory  of  a  good  man's  life.    The  public  gratitude  is  due  to 
those  who  have  vindicated  him,  and  made  impossible  all  mistakes  as  to 
the  strength  of  his  genius  and  the  beauty  of  his  character.    His  music 
was  not  for  this  generation,  his  dream  was  not  of  this  earth,  his  iin^d 
consecration  was  not  to  be  given  here  below. 

•' Ycx  not  his  ghost :  O  let  him  pass !  he  hates  him  much 
That  would  upon  tho  ruck  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  louger.'' 

But  henceforth  his  Immortality  is  secure.    He  sits  by  Shelley's  side,  in 
the  loneliest  and  least  accessible  heaven  of  Mystic  Song. 

BoBEST  BucHANiN,  in  Temple  Bar, 


TOmEBS  m  PIELD  AND  FACTOET. 

No.    n.    CKAILiCTEEISTICS, 

En  whatever  mood  the  old  year  1873  went  out  of  life  In  other  parts 
the  world,  he  made  a  sturdy  ftght  for  it  in  Gloucestershire. 
lore  the  tragic  time  of  his  rule  ended  as  became  a  tragedy,  and  on 
p  last  day  of  his  monarchy  the  skies  rained  and  hailed  and  the 
nd  blew  forionsly.*  The  Severn  had  flowed  over  its  valley,  and  the 
Ikv  lake  on  either  side  the  highway  ww  Btung  every  now  and  then 
to  a  shivering  frenzy  by  the  hail  and  wind.  Benoath  the  tempest 
0  rich  waving  lands  looked  storilo,  and  hero  and  there  the  soaked, 
1  chilly  hinds  came  plashincj  down  the  road,  and,  butting  at  the 
>vm  v\'ith  rounded  shoukler,^,  gave  the  landacape  the  right  touchy  of 
iinjin  discomfort.  The  fast  mare,  a  tall  dun-coloured  raw-boned 
a^t,  her  driver's  i^ride,  slashed  through  the  hail  with  many  disap- 
o^'ing  nods  and  head-shakings,  and  an  hour's  joumoy  brought  us 
>Tii  the  county  town  to  Snigg's  End,  the  Mecca  of  that  day's  miser- 
1g  pilgrimage.  It  was  easy  to  soe  how  one  little  gleam  of  sunshine 
)uki  have  beautified  the  undulating  fallows  and  bleak  orchards 
lich  lined  our  way;  but  it  was  not  easy  to  believe  that  Snigg's  End 
Tild  have  looked  anything  but  comfortless  even  in  the  heyday  of  a 
nntry  summer.  Whatever  graces  the  mind  associates  with  an  Eng- 
h  village,  Snigg*8  End  is  in  want  of,  or  might  be  supposed  to  bo  in 
int  of,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  it  is  in  itself  a  wilful  and 
ttntional  protest  against  them.  It  is  just  as  picturesque  as  a  bar- 
ck-Bquare.  All  its  houses  are  built  upon  one  pattern,  and  that  pat- 
rn  is  as  ngly  as  any  the  architect's  ingenuity  ever  yet  devised.  They 
■J  carefully  separated,  like  the  various  buildings  in  a  gunpowder 
inufactory.  Snigg's  End,  indeed,  held  explosives  once  upon  a  time, 
i.'l  its  moral  likeness  is  at  this  hour  an  extinct  volcano.  Not  one  man 
.  twenty  knows  anything  about  it ;  but  its  name  was  noised  abroad 
.  the  land  some  years  ago,  when  Feargus  O'Connor  canied  the 
ational  Land  Act,  and  old  Chartists  were  hot  for  it,  and  tho  squires 
rrle  their  eternal  proclamation  that  by  it  and  through  it  the  country 
ouki  go  to  tho  dogs.  It  seemed  strange  to  find  this  monument  to 
10  impetuous  Irish  member  still  extant  in  the  heart  of  quiet  Glouces- 
i-shire.  The  hifitory  of  the  foundation  of  the  colony  at  Snigg's  End 
f'.linost  forgotten  ;  uie  fiery  hcaits  that  flamed  over  it  are  cold  for 
ic  most  part ;  and  an  enterprise  passionately  conceived,  and  borne  to 
H  close  on  a  flood-tide  of  enthusiasm,  has  stayed  where  the  tide  loft 
.  Rtronded,  and  now  decays  there  slowly. 

The  rural  people. still  regard  the  settlement  with  some  suspicion,  aa 
eing  *  a  Communist  sort  of  place.'    Whilst  the  driver  arranged  for  the 
:mporary  bestowal  of  the  dun-coloured  mare,  I  made  inquiries'  in  tho 
_       -.. «. (549) 


650  TOTTiEHS  IN  MELD  AND  PACTOEY. 

• 
tavern  kitchen,  and  received  information  of  the  existence  of  a  patri- 
arch named  Bowyer,  who  had  been  amongst  the  first  to  join  the  settle- 
ment, and  who  was  the  only  one  of  the  original  batch  BtiU  living  ther\ 
Ten  minutes'  walking  took  me  to  his  gate.    His  cottage,  like  the  reht. 
stood  apart  in  its  own  plot  of  ground.     The  little  farm  had  a  well-cul- 
tivated look,  but  the  small  dilapidations  of  the  dwelling-house  wcr? 
unrepaired,  nnd  it  would  not  seem  from  the  aspect  of  things  that  Vi'i 
patriarchal  Bowyer  was  much  better  off  than  an  ordinary  labourer.   H  ■ 
wife  opened  the  door,  and  confronted  me  with  a  placid  and  bowed 
humility.    It  seems  almost  like  a  breach  of  confidence  to  set  her  pic- 
ture in  a  piibUo  gallery,  but  she  will  not  know  of  it.     There  is  often  v 
beauty,  bom  of  the  patient  bearing  of  small  cares,  intho  faces  of  En;j- 
liflh  peasant  women,  a  beauty  of  so  refined  and  dignified  a  type,  thti*  ^t 
claims  something  more  than  Uking  even  from  &  stranger.     The  ol  i 
lessons  about  the  respect  due  to  constituted  authorities  have  impre6-><'  i 
this  beauty  with  humility,  the  privations  of  life  have  purified  it  int  > 
the  dignity  of  asceticism,  and  the  tranquillity  of  old  age  has  lent  it  tl  • 
mildest  calm.   There  is  a  well-known  and  powerful  etching  of  Mr.  Hcr- 
komer's  which  might  almost  pass  for  this  old  woman's  portrait,  thoiu,'j 
it  has  not  all  the  subdued  and  patient  charm  I  have  tried  to  in;!!- 
cate.     She  was  very  deaf,  but  I  made  her  understand  that  I  desired  t  > 
see  her  husband.'    She  called  him,  and  Bural  Badicalism  came  out  cf 
the  kitchenand  receivedme,  and  bade  me  enter.     The  bed  on  whiclj  rl, 
old  couple  lay  had  been  taken  into  the  kitchen  for  warmth,  tliia  bittv.* 
weather.     The  old  woman  sat  on  the  foot  of  it,  and  the  old  man,  wL:  • 
kept  his  hat  on,  as  a  protestation  of  his  manhood  I  suppose,  sat  dovii 
on  a  chair  by  the  fireside  facing  me.    Every  wrinkle  in  his  face,  rm  i 
there  were  many,  was  a  sort  of  shorthand  sign  of  protest.     His  und.  r- 
lids  were  pendulous  and  swollen,  and  his  mouth  was  drawn  dov,ii- 
wards  at  the  comers,  until  the  wrinkles  set  his  lips  in  a  deep-cut  j  > 
renthesis.      This  old  warhorse — one  of  Feargus  O'Connor's  ori^^ic  1 
stud— rose  at  the  noise  of  the  trumpet,  and  curveted  around  me  vriili 
rusty  limbs.     He  was  very  proud,  poor  old  fellow,  to  bo  appealed  :\ 
and  glad  to  have  somebody  who  would  look  once  more  at  liis  tatter  i 
panoply  of  platitude.    *  What  we  wanted  to  do,'  ho  said,  *was  this.    "\V 
wanted  t'  establish  the  dignity  o'  man'ud.     One  man's  as  good  as  fJiotL'  r 
in  the  sight  o'  God  as  made  us  all.    We  couldn't  all  be  rich.     The  Lor  1 
had  settled  that  for  us.     The  possession  o'  riches  by  the  few  goes  agrn 
the  commonwealth.    We  couldn't  all  be  rich,  but  v/e  could  all  be  fn  < : 
an'  we  might  have  been  brothers,  all  on  us.    I  didn't  want  to  K«r. e 
nobody,  an'  I  didn't  particular  want  nobody  to  servo  mc.    I  s.:"-, 
*'  Let  every  tub  stand  on  his  own  bottom,"  an'  let  every  man  he  a  o^i . 
an*  fend  for  hisself.     The  ground  it  brings  farth  abundance,  every  s*  1 1 
after  his  kind;  the  world's  good  lo  us;  an*  it's  only  men  as  is  crool  t' 
each  other,  an*  forgets  the  dignity  o'  man'ud.*     *  Very  true,  indeetl,'  I 
answered:  but  would  he  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  ho  knew  ab'"':- 
the  foundation  and  working  of  the  settlement?    Of  course  I  put  th  •* 
gently.    Yes,  he  said;  he'd  do  that  glad  an'  wiliin'i     *  What  w©  wanteu 


TOILERS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTORY.  551 

• 
do  was  this.  "We  wanted  t'  establisli  the  dignity  o'  man'nd.'  A 
ntiful  object,  I  ventured  to  say;  and  how  did  they  propose  to  effect 
'  Well,'  he  answered,  after  a  Uttle  interval  of  thought,  from  which  I 
ured  favourable  things,  '  the  .possession  o'  riches  by  the  few  goes 
a  the  commonwealth.'  I  had  a  travelUng-flask  and  tobacco  with 
and  seeing  that  the  settlement  patriarch  was  likely  to  nia':o  a 
;thj  business  of  his  narrative  I  invited  him  to  smoke  and  to  drink 
■iss  of  whisky.  *  No,'  he  said;  *I  haven't  touched  ayther  of  'em  for 
tj  years.'  Was  the  settlement  conducted  on  the  total-abstinence 
cipi  J  ?  '  No,'  he  replied ;  *  but  there's,  very  little  drinkin*  done ;'  and 
I  he  went  back  to  his  dignity  of  manhood,  and  his  riches  in  the 
Is  of  the  few.  Seeing  that  patience  was  the  only  way  with  him,  I 
uehed  myself  behind  a  pipe,  and  allowed  myself  to  be  pelted  with 
icjil  principles.  When  he  had  satisfied  his  own  longings  in  that 
he  told  ma  how  he  had  been  one  of  those  who  went  with  O'Con- 
3  present  a  petition  to  Parliament  in  favor  of  the  National  Land 
nd  how  against  all  conceivable  objections  the  loader's  plan  was  at 
arried  into  effect.  His  narrative  was  neither  picturesque  n  or  clear, 
Jiough  he  had  spent  more  than  a  third  part  of  a  century  in  fight- 
er a  principle,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  had  any  but  a  veiy  blind  no- 
is  to  what  that  principle  was.  But  when  at  last  he  left  the  domain 
dorotic  history,  and  came  to  his  own  every-day  experiences,  he 
.  be  intelligible  enough.  To  his  mind  the  settlement  was  a  fail- 
nd  it  had  failed  for  two  reasons.  The  first  of  those  reasons  was 
nough  help  was  not  given  to  incoming  tenants  to  enable  them  to 
ver  the  first  year  or  two;  and  the  next  was  that  there  was  no  prin- 
of  cooperation  in  the  plan,  and  no  spirit  of  cooperation  in  the 
c.  I  gathered  incidentally  the  fact  that  the  patriarch  had  fallen 
from  nis  own  theory  of  *  the  dignity  of  manhood,'  and  had  taken 
employment  of  labour.  He  protested  that  he  had  paid  more  foi' 
iljour  than  the  harvest  produced  by  it  was  worth.  *  I, '  said  he,  *  was 
three  hundred  pound  when  I  came  'ere,  and  I  ain't  worth  noth- 
)w.  I've  throwed  away  my  substance  on  experiments,'  emphasis- 
.Q  personal  pronoun  with  true  rural  egotism.  The  advantages 
had  of  old  belonged  to  the  settlement  were  mostly  lost.  *  There's 
er  a-managin*  on  it  now,'  said  patriarchal  Bo wyer,  *an'  though  I 
•'ot  nothin'  agen  him,  things  ain't  what  they  was.'  The  dim 
jf  the  old  Radical  and  his  dim  heart  had  one  ray  of  light,  which 
good  to  see  gleam  out  in  his  eyes  and  speech.  It  v/as  the 
o  had  caught  from  his  lodestar  of  personal  liberty.  'I've  throwed 
117  Bubetance  on  this  experiment,  an'  it  ain't  succeeded  along  o' 
ill;  but  it  have  got  one  a'vantage,  an'  that  is,  sir,  as  it  leaves  a 
ee,  an*  don't  let  nobody  call  hisself  aman's  master.  Nobody  can 
n'  bullyrag  me,  an'  I  can't  go  an'  bullyrag  nobodv.'  He  had  two 
f  land,  and  paid  for  that  and  his  house  a  sum  of  6Z.  16s.  yearly. 
inary  agricultural  labourer's  annual  rent  was  about  4Z.  in  those 
)r  41.  10s.  t  and  for  this  he  would  get  no  land  and  an  inferior 
ig-house.     Fgly  as  the  tenements  at  Snigg's  End  tindoubtedly 


652  TOILERS  IN  FIELD  AND  FACTOET. 

are,  they  ate  better  to  live  in  than  the  picturesque  cotti^es  of  the 
county,  under  the  thatched  roofe  whereof  small  comfort  dwells.  *Make 
us  cooperative,  and  we  shall  do;  but  two  acres  o*  land  can't  fill  a  man's 
hands  all  the  year  round.  It  gives  him  more  than  he  can  do  at  ono 
timo,  and  notning  at  all  at  another.'  So  the  patriarchal  settler  spoiu\ 
and  in  those  sentences  revealed  the  whole  trouble.  'I've  thought  it 
out,'  ho  added,  passing  his  hand  down  his  face  with  a  melancholy  look 
and  gesture;  *I've  thought  it  out  hard,  when  I  could  think,  and  I've 
come  to  this  belief.  There's  no  chance  for  a  Commune.  Folk  is  too 
hard  like,  and  everybody  wants  to  get  on  hisself,  an'  they  don't  care 
about  the  dignity  o'  man'ud.' 

Other  settlers  than  he  had  solved  the  problem  in  a  more  satisfactory 
way.  Many,  perhaps  most  of  them,  are  glovers.  They  work  at  home, 
and  pretty  generally  take  their  own  time  about  their  work,  and  can  f^ 
fill  up  their  spare  hours  on  their  little  allotments,  setting  the  glovo- 
making  aside  for  harvesting  and  other  busy  seasons,  and  returning  to 
their  trade  at  times  when  agricultui'al  work  is  slack.  Perhaps  "two 
hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  land  have  been  secured  for  this  expcrimcRt, 
and  each  tenant  holds  an  average  of  about  two  acres.  The  legalisod 
conKtitution  of  the  settlement  secures  each  householder  in  the  colonv 
a  vote,  a  privilege  which  is  less  highly  valued  than  might  be  supposo-L 
But  a  holding  has  never  been  known  to  bo  long  vacant,  and  the  prin- 
leges  of  Snigg's  End  are  seized  eagerly  by  the  better  class  of  agricul- 
tural labourers,  and  especially  by  those  who  have  wives  and  daughters 
skilled  in  the  art  of  glove-making.  I  tried  to  get  some  idea  of  the 
general  political  leanings  of  the  place,  but  failed.  The  Tories  decLuvd 
it  Tory,  and  the  Iladicals  declared  it  Kadical;  but  this  at  least  w;ts 
made  clear:  that  the  old  half-Chartist  protest  it  was  originally  meant 
to  forward  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  that  Snigg's  End  and  its 
people,  like  many  other  people  and  places,  had  fallen  from  or  gro^ni 
beyond  their  original  intent.  Th^  colony  has  no  joint  political  aira  in 
these  days,  whatever  it  had  in  the  past.  An  extinct  volcano.  Its  bod  is 
peopled  by  a  quiet  and  industrious  peasantry,  a  little  more  favorably 
situated  than  their  neighbors,  a  little  more  comfortably  housed  ami 
fed.  It  is  perhaps  the  least  picturesque  of  all  £nglish  villages,  and 
perhai)S  also  the  most  prosperous. 

K  any  man  would  know  the  people  he  must  go  to  them.  Conjectur- 
ing that  New-Year's-eve  might  be  a  sort  of  pubho-honse  festival  i 
turned  into  a  beershop  in  Gloucester  on  my  return  that  night,  and  Fit- 
ting in  the  general  room  listened  to  the  talk,  and  by  and  by  ventured 
to  join  in  it.  There  were  ten  or  a  dozen  men  present,  and  amoni:-t 
them  were  two  travellers,  a  bargee  and  a  navigator.  Not  another  tht-re 
had  ever  seen  the  confines  of  the  county,  and  they  sat  and  stared  an-l 
lif'tened  whilst  the  bargee  ancl  the  navigator  talked  of  foreign  plac  s 
like  Birmingham  and  Truro.  The  mention  of  this  latter  place  ar- 
rested the  landlord,  who  came  in  with  a  mug  of  beer  at  the  order  of  a 
large-mouthed  youth,  who  was  remarkable  to  me  for  the  slenderr-*^ 
ohins  and  the  largest  boots  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  cox]juncti>>n 


TOILERS  IN  FTFJJ)  AND  FACTORY.  \  ^ "  56^ 


where.    *It  was  yon,'  said  the  landlord,  addressing  the  navigator 

0  was  not  a  seafaring  person,  but  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  rail- 
system),  — *it  was  you  as  drove  me  out  o'  Cornwall*    'Ah/  said 

navigator,  *  and  how  do  you  make  that  out,  mate  ? '  *  Well, '  said  the 
llord,  slowly  answering,  *I  ain't  the  only  one  as  you  drove  out. 
helped  to  make  a  railroad  down  there;  didn't  you?'  The  navvy 
led  his  head  ponderously,  as  though  it  had  been  as  heavy  as  an 
I.  *The  railroad  drove  a  many/  *0y,'  said  the  large-mouthed 
h,  *  am  allays  do.*  At  this  point  I  struck  in,  and  questioned, 
V?'  'It  don't  bo  hard,' said  the  navvy,  whose  speech  proclaimed 
of  tho  west,  *  to  tell  y'  'ow.  I  do  mind  right  enough,  when  the 
lid  a  be  comin*  doon  b*  Exeter,  leastways  'tween  thoer  an*  coast 
yon  ud  see  the  cawlifloor  a  blowin*  ahl  doon  line  as  big's  bee- 
,  an'  as  yaller's  guineas,  an*  as  heavy's  lead.  I  do  be  jiggered — 
[telleo— if  some  on  'em  dain't  be  as  heavy's  two  stone,  an*  no 
of  a  lie  about  it.  Two  stone  weight  they  wuhs,  and  you  could 
jm  for  twopence  apiece.  An*  soon'sever  the  line  did  be  finished 
lid  begin  for  to  rise  in  price  like,  an'  folk  didn't  be  able  for  ta 
m  hot  for  a  sheUin*.  'Em  ahl  wont  up  to  Common  Gyarden 
%  an'  th'  'igh  folk — Lard  bless  ee,  they  didn't  never  see  cawli- 
iko  them  afore — they  ud  give  annythin*  for  they  great  big  out- 
bv^ehives  o'  fruit  like.  An*  'twahs  the  same  wi  butter,  an'  all 
the  coast  'twas  the  same  o'  nsh.  Why,*  said  the  navvy,  warming 
lis  theme,  *  'taint  beyond  my  mind  to  remember  when  you  could 
,^ht  pilchard  at  three  jjound  a  penny,  an'  conger-eel  at  a  farthing 

1  J.  An' — Larl  bless  eo ! — mack'ril !  why,  you  could  a  got  it  for 
y  so  !  ^  I  tell  o%  v/hen  I  were  a  young  un,  I  do  ha'  run  beside  a 
f.nd  just  chr.cked  up  a  sixpence;  an'  the  man  as  did  drive  he  ud 
out  mack'rii  as  hard  as  he  did  know  how  to  chuck  *em  for  a 
r  of  a  mile;  an'  when  I  were  tired  o'  follerin'  of  un,  thcer'd  be 
p  0.  dozen  n3  I  udn't  think  it  wuth  my  while  to  get  out  o'  way 
Lou'see  thoy  was  allays  in  a  bit  of  a  hurry  like  to  got  inland, 

aa  the  /jrst  as  did  get  theer  he  did  get  the  trade  like,  bo  to 
An*  now,  sir — you  take  my  word  for  un — seven  shellin*  don't 
.t  one  shellin'  did  be  doon  theer,  when  I  did  be  a  lahd  !*  An4 
think,  X  asked,  that  that  kind  of  difference  was  generally  made 
construction  of  a  railway.  He  answered,  *The  di^er  for  coun- 
c  do  b'.^  allays  reg'lar  nighon  a'most  amizin'.*  Before  I  had  well 
my  qTi£«tion  I  had  understood  him,  but  for  a  moment  I  was 
I,  and,  begging  his  pardon  for  not  understanding  him,  asked 
rcpf  ai  himself.  This  query  of  mine  was  fortunate,  inasmuch 
odf.ced  the  one  gem  of  west-country  dialect  I  have,  as  yet,  in 
ccMcn.  The  boy,  with  the  mug  of  beer  before  him,  laughed 
10  corners  of  his  mouth  seemed  to  touch  the  lobes  of  his  ears. 
vv  the  thin  shins  and  the  big  boots  into  the  air  in  an  ecstasy  of 
'MH  enjoyment;  and  when  the  passion  of  his  joy  subsided,  he 
upon  the  navvy  and  said,  *Law  bless  ee,  mate,  it  doan't  be  no 
inQ  to  talk  to  the  gen'l'man  that  w'y.    Usses  oountry  upgrans  do 


^5i  .,^    TOILERS  IN  HELD  AND  FACTOEY. 

reddlo  tm  reglar.*  Then  in  a  paroxysm  of  comic  delight  he  described 
Tague  circles  with  the  thin  shins  and  tho  enormous  boots,  and  laughed 
"until  the  corpers  of  his  mouth  were  lost  at  the  back  of  his  head. 
*Usses  country  upgrans  reddles  un,'  he  repeated;  and  I  pondered  over 
him  until  at  last  light  came.  *Upgmns'  resolved  itself  into  'epi- 
grams,' and  *  reddles '  became  *  puzzles.'  The  old  verb  to  riddlo  in  tlie 
sense  to  puzzle  retained  its  quaint  liio  still,  but  how  the  large-mouthed 
boy  got  hold  of  *  epigrams '  I  am  nob  philologist  enough  to  say. 

The  house  in  which  we  sat  was  a  beershop  simply,  and  had  no  li- 
cense for  the  sale  of  spirituous  liquors.  The  navigator,  however,  sent 
out  for  gin,  and  drank  that  uninviting  beverage  hot,  in  extraordinmy 
quantiti<}3,  until  it  bogan  to  tell  upon  him,  when  he  told  me  that  it 
had  weighed  upon  his  mind  that  he  was  instrumental-like,  as  a  mroi 
might  say,  in  damaging  of  his  fellow-creatures  by  making  railrof/.U. 
The  landlord  and  the  bargee  coincided  in  this  belief,  and  1  kit  all 
three  declaring  against  the  .railroad  system  as  a  device  of  tho  ricb  to 
rob  the  poor.  The  labouring  man  is  not  a  logician,  and  ho  is  frequently 
a  very  unreasonable  creature;  but  he  can  feel  and  see.  Ho  finds  eau-t* 
for  feud  where  those  above  him  could  imagine  none,  and  sometimes 
real  cause.  The  strong  hand  of  tho  world  seems  always  against  him; 
and  even  Gcordie  Stephenson's  ghost  beckons  him  inexorably  from 
home. 

Even  the  labourer,  however,  has  his  final  participatton  in  the  tri- 
umphs of  science.  There  is  a  toiler  in  the  fields  in  the  immedinto 
neighborhood  of  Madstone,  whom  I  met  at  the  time  of  tho  exodus,  xmd 
who  has  a  complete  set  of  false  teeth  with  gold  attachments. 

"Wilts,  Dorset,  and  Somerset  are  reckoned  the  poorest  of  Engli^^h 
counties;  but  CTloucoster  deseiTes  at  least  to  rank  after  them.  The  dis- 
tress of  last  winter  was  not  confined  to  the  great  towns.  It  ma/io  itsou 
felt  in  the  rural  districts;  and  the  records  of  the  local  boards  of  guard- 
ians in  the  county  displayed  a  lirge  increase  in  the  numbers  of  shill- 
ing an  I  resident  paupers.  Private  charity  supplemented  the  rcl:?.f 
given  by  *the  Board* — often  niggardljr  and  insuflicient.  Lut  who- 
ever there  is  distress  one  man  at  least  will  be  found  ready  to  proclaim 
it  a  sham,  and  to  declare  that  the  country  generally  was  never  in  a 
more  prosperous  condition.  I  found  that  impenetrable  and  heartl.  s 
blockhead  in  South  Wales,  when  but  for  the  splendid  charity  of  tlit« 
vicar  of  Merthyr  Tydvil  hundreds  must  inevitably  have  starved  io 
death  during  tho  great  strike;  and  he  told  me  then  that  the  distrt>4 
was  simulated.  I  mot  him  in  Northern  Roumelia  in  the  year  1^77. 
when  every  second  village  v/as  a  smoking  wreck,  and  tho  long  hues  oi* 
houseless  refugees  toilod  Btarvip.g  southward  on  every  road  in  tl:..t 
wide  province;  and  ho  told  me  then  that  the  distress  was  really  verv 
much  exaggerated.  When  I  met  him  in  tho  shadow  of  Gloucester  s 
mean  cathedral  I  was  not  surprised.  *  There's  no  distress  yer,'  he  b,ui1, 
in  tho  dogmatic  manner  common  to  him.  *Why,  look  at  this:  Coun- 
cillor Byatt,  in  Gloucester  city  yer,  he  goes  and  buys  sixty  pound 
weight  of  first-class  scraps  an'  nigh  onto  a  hundredweight  of  fiist-clasa 


TOILEBS  m  FIELD  AND  rACTOBT.  555 

?s,  an'  ho  biles  'em  down  in  his  very  own  biler,  an*  he  offers  Bonp, 
is,  to  the  poor.  Well»  what's  the  consequence?  Thickens  the 
I  he  does  with  the  best  vegetables,  and  what's  the  consequence? 
,  he  offers  *em  soup,  reglar  first-class  soup,  with  three  inches  of  fat 
he  top  of  it;  and  two  women  comes  and  gets  their  share,  and 
ws  it  away,  because  it  ain't  good  enough  for  'em.  And  I'll  tell 
what,  nothin'  ain't  good  enough  for  'em.  They're  a  discontented, 
ing,  miserable,  thenkiess  lot.  In  the  fulness  of  my  heart  I  ex- 
3(1  an  opinion  that  this  gentleman  ought  to  be  a  guardian  of 
oor.  *  That's  what  I  am^*  he  answered;  *ond  when  they  are  in 
of  me  they  know  what  they  have  to  expect.'  Anxious  to  test  the 
on  of  this  optimist  in  commerce  and  pessimist  in  human  nature, 
ight  out  some  of  those  who  had  received  the  generous  council- 
gratuity.  In  Worcester-street  I  lighted  on  a  family  whose  home 
d  almost  as  bleak  as  the  wintry  fields  outside  the  city.  The 
h  was  fireless  in  that  terrible  weather,  and  the  house  was  bare.  I 
did  that  the  soup  was  worth  all  the  parish  relief  put  together. 
lo  get  it  hot,  sir,*  said  the  man;  *an'  there  do  a  be  a  bit  o'  com- 
1  summat  warm.'  Were  the  times  very  hard  ?  I  asked.  *  They  do 
leadly  bad,  sir,  that  a  be.*  He  was  a  carter,  and  had  only  within 
st  half-year  exchanged  farmwork  for  the  town.  But  the  weather 
topped  all  building  operations  for  weeks  and  weeks.  His  wife 
ccn  ill,  and  the  household  things  had  had  to  go.  When  I  asked 
lad  heard  of  anybody  throwing  soup  away  he  stared  in  wide-eyed 
mcnt.  'Us  doan't  get  it  s' often  as  us  do  find  anny  cahl  for  to 
it  away,  sir.'  In  the  next  house  I  called  at  I  witnessed  the  prepa- 
of  dinner.  Some  bread  had  been  begged  by  one  member  of  the 
7,  and  another  had  a  fragment  of  newspaper  with  perhaps  half  a 
I  of  dripping  in  it.  The  dripping  was  stirred  in  boiling  water, 
I  little  salt;  the  bread  was  then  broken  into  that  thin  mess,  and 
r  was  ready.  I  came  away  thinking  that  if  these  people  had  wan- 
wiisted  the  soup,  they  might  at  least  have  saved  the  guardian's 
(d  *  three  inches  of  fat  on  the  top  of  it.* 

distress  of  the  whole  county  had  accumulated  with  the  growth 
year.  Once  upon  a  time  a  good  harvest  might  mean  immediate 
'■  "and  contentment  for  the  rural  population.  That  is  not  bo  now 
vious  reasons  ;  and  the  harvest  of  1878  made  no  change  in  the 
ion  of  the  people.  Gloucestershire,  like  Kent,  has  its  hop-fields 
rchards  ;  but  neither  hopping  nor  fruit-gathering  supply  the 
>  of  the  former  county  with  any  festival  or  with  any  appreciable 
on  to  their  yearly  earnings.  When  the  fruit  was  ripening  last 
met  in  the  Gloucestershire  lanes  many  a  little  troop  of  men  and 
1  bound  on  foot  for  Kent  or  Sussex.  I  asked  the  question  which 
ily  presented  itself:  Why  travel  so  far  to  do  the  very  work 
would  want  doing  here  by  the  time  the  journey's  end  was 
d  ?  I  was  soon  enlightened.  A  man  could  scarce  fill  his  belly 
ster,  vehilst  he  could  live  well  and  save  three  or  four  pounds  by 
rvesting  in  the  south-eastern  counties.    In  the  rich  west  meo 


666  TOIIiEBS  IN  MELD  AND  FAOTOET. 

starve  and  stay — for  these  wanderers  were  of  the  floating  population  : 
from  the  south-eastern  counties,  sui'ely  little  richer,  flourishing  -svork'.  :s 
emigrate.  There  is  not  bo  groat  a  difference  in  the  markeUvaluo  cf 
the  produce  of  the  two  districts  as  in  the  wage  paid  to  the  labonrc  r. 
yet  the  farmers  of  Gloucestershire  complain  as  loudly  as  the  farmer-; 
of  Kent.  Therein  lies  a  problem  of  political  economy  as  yet  un- 
riddled. 

Hero,  as  elsewhere,  the  feuA  of  the  farmer  against  the  landlord  per- 
petually smoulders.    I  met  a  tenant-farmer  to  whom  I  decline  t^ 
give  a  local  habitation  and  a  name,  who  seemed  to  me  to  go  to  th" 
roots  of  two  or  three  growths  which  produce  very  unhappy  fniit  ar.  1 
flower.     'Wc,'  he  said,  meaning  the  tenant-farmers,  *do  compuhyuy 
injustice  to  the  labourers,  because  the  landlords  do  injustice  to  u-. 
Their  injustice  is  partly  the  outcome  of  a  survival.     Before  tho  d- y- 
of  high^  farming  it  was  necessary  for  the  landlord  to  insert  eort..:ii 
clauses  in  his  leafie  for  tho  preservation  of  his  land.     One  of  thv)  • 
clauses  is  to  the  effect  that  no  straw  shall  be  sold  off  the  land,  exo'i' 
by  the  will  of  the  landlord  ;  and  another  is  that  no  roots  shall  i-.' 
grown  except  for  the  use  of  the  farm  itself,  unless  by  permisnio'. 
Nothing  drains  land  of  its  productive  qualities  like  the  growtii  (tf 
rootti ;  and  the  other  provision  was  intended  to  preserve  the  btr./v, 
first  for  farm  use  and  then  for  manure.    Now  as  a  matter  of  fiic  t  I 
spend  more  in  artificial  manure  than  I  do  in  rent,  and  the  old  str,  \r 
manure  is  no  longer  necessary.    Yet  I  am  compelled  at  a  great  anm\  1 
loss  to  hold  it.    I  don't  want  it,  because  according  to  the  rul:s  i.'f 
modem  farming  it  isn't  efficient.    All  my  straw  goes  to  waste,  and  my 
landlord's  agent  won't  hear  of  my  selling  a  truss  of  it.     Now,  you  sc. . 
what  I  ask  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  free-trade  and  long  Ici 
The  landlord's  contention  is,  that  with  free-trade  I  may  exhaust  1 
land.    My  contention  is,  that  if  I  have  a  long  lease  I  should  be 
idiot  if  I  exhausted  the  land,  because  I  should  be  picking  my  t^ 
pocket.    But  there's  another  reason  why  ho  won't  give  me  a  long  lea-  , 
apart  from  that  nonsensical  theory.     The  possession  of  landed  cA :: : 
has  always  conferred  a  sort  of  dignity,  and  I  suppose  it  always  w':. 
For  years  and  years  past  the  numbers  of  the  newly  rich  have  been  v.  - 
creasing,  and  these  people  mjike  haste  to  own  land.     If  they  can't  o  •.  n 
it,  the  next  dignified  thing  is  to  rent  it,  and  live  on  it  in  good  st\]  , 
and  mix  with  the  county  people,  who  very  often  wouldn't  look  at  cm 
{  in  London.    Now  these  people  who  make  money  in  other  ways,  dent 
'  want  to  farm  at  a  profit.    They're  quite  willing  to  farm  at  a  loss,  aii  i 
as  often  as  not  they  don't  want  to  farm  at  alL    But  thov  wiU  have  l;i!.'l 
and  they  can  afford  to  pviy  for  it ;  and  so  land  gets  to  nave  a  fictitio:: 
value.    The  farmer  suffers  by  the  increase  of  rent,  and  the  b.b;).)r  r 
suffers  with  the  farmer.     To  come  back  to  what  I  wanted  to  s<iy  :  it'  |» 
landlord  is  asked  nowadays  to  grant  a  long  lease,  he  says  to  himst  !f. 
**  No.     Land's  increasing  in-value  every  year."    So  it  is  to  bim,  but  ii"t 
to  the  farmer,  nor  the  labourer,  nor  the  general  public.    Land  has  only 
one  value,  and  that  you  measure  by  the  standard  of  its  pioduciiii; 


1 . ,) 


Ml 


5?0rLEBS  IN  FIEIiD  AND  PACTOEY.  657 

poTreiB.'  Later  on  he  said,  *  Ideas  pretty  generally  descend  in  the 
Bocial  scale,  and  very  rarely  rise.  If  you  want  to  know  what  the 
labourers  will  think  of  the  farmers  in  six  years'  time,  discover  what 
the  landlords  think  now.  In  about  that  time  the  ideas  of  the  landr 
owners  will  have  filtered  down.  Just  now  the  fanners  are  talked  of  by 
the  labourers  as  they  used  to  bo  talked  of  by  the  landlords  half  a  dozen 
years  ago.  The  doctrine  was  with  the  higher  class,  as  it  is  now  with 
the  lower,  that  we  were  all  getting  too  educated  and  refined  and 
seethetic  and  all  that.  There  was  never  yet  under  the  sun  a  class  with- 
out its  grievances.  I  dare  bet  that  popes  and  emperors,  who  are 
scarcely  as  numerous  as  farmers  and  farm-labourers,  have  their  troubles 
if  they  only  saw  their  way  to  ventilate  'em.  The  class  that  talks  most 
is  most  listened  to.  The  aristocrats  have  had  their  say,  and  the  plebs 
have  had  theirs  ;  but  we  middlemen  have  talked  too  little.  If  Dick 
Carters  boy  is  to  Icam  to  write,  I  can't  see  for  the  life  of  me  why  m^ 
lad  shouldn't  learn  Greek.  He  won't  be  any  more  in  front  of  me  than 
Dick  Carter's  boy  will  bo  in  front  of  Dick  Carter.  There's  a  great  deal 
of  talk  about  the  farmer's  growing  refinements.  He  only  keeps  pace 
■with  the  squire  and  the  labourer.  We're  all  growing  refined  together, 
and  aU  getting  larger  ideas,  and  we're  all  suffering  for  our  growth.  I 
had  growing  pains  when  I  was  a  lad,  and  I  don't  know  that  I'm  any 
the  worse  for  'em  now.  The  country  at  large  is  suffering  from  growing 
pains.  Let  her  suffer,  and  let  her  grow — and  let  you  and  me  go  to  my 
place,  and  have  a  game  at  chess  and  as  good  a  glass  of  claret  as  you'll 
find  in  the  county.* 

When  a  man  sets  an  argument  of  that  kind  before  you,  it  is  not  easy 
to  disagree  with  him.  Time,  London. 


THROUGH  THE  AGES: 

A  Z^EGENI)  OF  A  STOKE  AXE. 

O'er  the  s-vramp  in  the  forest 

The  Bunset  is  red ; 
And  the  Bad  reedy  waters. 
In  black  miiTors  spread. 
Are  aflame  with  the  great  orimson  tree-tops  o*erhead* 

By  the  swamp  in  the  forest 
The  oak  brandies  groan, 

As  the  Savage  primeval. 
With  russet  hair  thrown 
0*er  his  huge  naked  limbs,  swings  his  hatchet  of  stone. 

By  the  swamp  in  the  forest 

'Sings  surilly  in  glee 
The  stark  forester^s  lass 
Plucking  most  in  a  tree— 
And  haiiy  and  brown  as  a  squirrel  is  she  I 


558  THBOUGH  THE  AGES, 

IVith  tlio  strokes  of  the  flint  axe 

The  blind  woodland  linc^, 
Auil  tbo  echoes  laogh  backaa 
The  sylran  girl  sings: — 
•  And  the  Sabre-tooth  growI»  in  Wa  lair  ere  he  springs  f 

Like  two  stars  of  frrcen  splendour, 

His  great  cveballs  burn 
As  he  crawlsWChilled  to  silence. 
The  girl  can  discern 
The  fierce  pantings  which  thrill  through  the  fronds  of  the  fenu 

And  the  brown  frolic  face  of 
The  girl  has  grown  white. 

As  the  largo  fronds  arc  swayed  in 
The  weird  crimson  light, 
And  she  sobs  with  the  strained  throbbing  dumbness  of  fright 

'  "With  his  blue  ejes  a^Ieam,  and 

His  wild  russet  hair 
Streaming  back,  the  Man  travails, 
Unwarned,  unaware 
Of  the  £the  shape  that  ci*ouobes,  the  green  eyes  that  glare. 

And  now,  hark!  as  he  drives  with 

A  last  mighty  SAving 
The  stone  blade  of  the  axe  through 
The  oak^s  central  ring, 
l^rom  the  blanched  lips  what  screams  of  wild  agony  sjving  !-• 

Tliere's  a  rush  thro*  the  fcmJronds — 
A  yell  of  aflfright —  ] 

And  the  Savage  and  SabrO'tooth 
Close  in  fierce  fight: — 
And  the  red  sunset  smoulders  and  slackens  to  night. 

On  the  swamp  in  the  forest 
One  clear  star  is  shown, 
And  the  reeds  fill  the  night  with 
A  long  troubled  moan — 
And  the  girl  sits  and  sobs  in  the  darkness,  alone  t 


The  groat  dim  centnries  of  long  ago 

Sweep  past  with  rain  and  fire,  with  wind  and  anaw. 

And  where  the  Savage  swung  his  axe  of  stone 

The  blue  clay  silts  on  Titan  trunks  o'erthrown, 

O'er  mammoth's  tusks,  in  river-horse's  lair ; 

And,  armed  with  deer  horn,  clad  in  gii*dled  hfdr, 

A  later  Savage  in  his  hollow  tree 

Hunts  the  strange  broods  of  a  primeval  sea. 

And  yet  the  great  dim  centuries  a/rain 

Sweep  past  with  snow  and  fire,  with  wind  and  rain« 

And  whero  that  warm  primeval  ocean  rolled 

A  second  forest  bnds, — blooms  broad, — grows  old; 

And  a  new  race  of  i>rehistorio  men 

Springs  from  the  mystic  soil,  and  once  again 

Padcs  like  a  wood  mist  thro'  the  woodlands  hoar. 


THB0X7GH  THE  AGES. 

For  lo !  the  great  dim  oenturics  onoo  more 

With  wind  and  fire,  with  rain  and  enow  sweep  bj; 

And  where  the  furest  stood,  an  empty 'aky 

Archce  with  lonely  blue  a  lonely  land. 

The  Kt'eat  white  Htilted  storks  in  silence  stand 

Far  from  each  other,  motion  less  as  stone, 

And  melnncholj  leagues  of  mai*sh-reeds  moan» 

And  dead  tarns  blacken  'neath  the  moomful  bind. 

The  ages  speed !    And  now  the  skin  canoe 

Darts  with  swift  paddle  t<irottgh  the  drear  moraM» 

liat  ere  the  painted  fisherman  can  pass, 

The  brazen  norns  ring  out ;  a  thunu'rons  throng'^ 

Broneed  faces,  braxen  helmets— sweeps  along, 

The  silver  Eagles  flash  and  disappear 

Across  the  J^omau  causeway ! 

Tear  by  year 
The  dim  time  lapses  till  that  vesper  hour 
Broods  o'er  the  summer  lake  with  peaceful  power, 
When  the  carved  galley  thi'ou^h  the  sunset  floats, 
The  rowers,  witli  chuius  of  gohl  about  their  throats, 
Hang  on  their  dripping  oars,  tuid  sweet  and  clear 
The  sound  of  singing  nteuls  across  the  mere, 
And  rising;  with  glnd  face  and  outstretched  hand* 
*Eow,  Knierhts,  n  Ihtlo  nearer  to  the  land 
And  let  us  near  the  monks  of  Ely  sing  j'^ 
Says  BlNUT,  the  King. 

In  the  dim  years  what  fateftil  hour  arrives, 
And  who  is*  this  rides  Fen  ward  from  St.  Ivesf 
A  man  of  massive  presence, — bluff  and  stem. 
JBeneath  their  crucrgy  brows  his  deep  eves  bum 
With  awful  thoughts  and  purposes  sublime. 
The  face  is  one  to  abash  the  front  of  time, — 
Hewn  of  red  rock,  so  vitnl  even  now 
One  sees  the  wart  above  that  shaggy  brow. 

At  Ely  there  in  these  idyllic  dnys 

His  sickles  roup,  his  sheep  and  oxen  graze, 

And  all  the  umbitiun  of  his  sober  life 

Is  but  to  please  his  children  and  his  wife, 

To  drain  tlie  Fens— and  mngnifV  the  Lord. 

So  in  liis  plain  cloth  suit,  with  close-tucked  swoid* 

OuvBK  Okomwkll.  tated  but  unknown, 

Bides  where  tho  ^Savage  swung  his  axe  of  stone. 


In  tho  class-room  blue-eyed  Phemie 
Sits,  half  listening,  hushed  and  dreamy, 
To  the  gray-haired  pinched  Professor  droning  to  his  class  of  girls, 

And  around  her  in  their  places 
liows  of  urch  and  sweet  young  faces 
^3em  to  fill  the  air  with  colour  sited  from  eyes  ami  lips  and  curls  t'^ 

Eyes  of  every  shade  of  splepdour, 
Brown  and  bashful,  blue  and  tender, 
Grty  and  fiiddy,  black  and  throbbing  with  a  deep  impossicned  light: 


mi  THROUGH  THE  AGES. 

Golden  ringletB,  raven  cluster«, 
Auburn  brnids  with  auniiT  lustres 
Palling  on  Trhite  necks,  plump  shoulders  clothed  in  green  and  blue  and  Trhita 

A  nd  the  snu  with  leafy  reflex 
Of  the  rustling  linden-tree  liecks 
All  the  glass  doors  of  the  coses  ranged  alohg  the  class-room  waB^ 

Flecks  with  shadow  and  gold  the  Teacher's 
Tlihi  gray  hair  and  worn  pinched  features. 
And' the  pupils'  heads,  and  sends  a  thrill  of  July  oyer  aU. 

And  the  leafy  golden  tremor 
Witches  so  the  hlne-eyed  di earner 
That  the  room  seems  tilling  straightway  with  a  forest  green  and  dd- 

A  nd  the  graj^  Professor's  speech  is 
Heard  like  wind  among  the  beeches 
Murmuring  weird  uud  wondrous  secrets  never  quite  distinctly  told; 

And  the  girls  around  seem  turning 
Into  trees— labnrnnms  buniing, 
Graceful  ashes,  siiyor  birches— but  thro'  all  the  glamour  and  change 

Phemie  is  conscious  that  those  cases 
Hold  roliqucs  of  vanished  races, 
The  preodamitic  fossils  of  a  dead  world  grim  and  strange. 

Labelled  shells  suggest  the  motion, 
Moan,  and  glimmer  of  thdt  ocean 
Where  belemnites  dropped  their  spindles  and  the  sand-stars  shei  their  rays ; 

Monstrous  birds  stnlk  stiltW  by  as 
Slie  jK'rceives  the  slab  ot  Trias 
Scrawled  with  hieroglyphic  claw-tracks  of  the  mesozoic  days; 

And  before  her  she  sc^es  dawn  a 
Pageant  of  an  awful  fauna 
While  across  Siluriau  ages  the  Professor's  lecture  blq^^ 

All  the  while  a  soft  and  pleasant 
Rustle  of  dresses,  an  incessant 
Buzz  of  smothered  frolic  rises  underneath  his  meagre  nose. 

And^fflio  pretty  plague  has  during 
AU  the  cliiss  been  caricaturing 
Her  short-sighted,  good  old  Master  with  a  world  of  wicked  zest, 

And  the  madcaps  blush  and  titter 
As  they  see  the  unconsciouH  sitter 
Sketched  as  AUophjIian  Savage— 8i)cctacled  but  much  undressed. 

But  the  old  man  turns  the  pages 
Of  the  weird  illumined  ages. 
Tracing  from  earth's  mystic  missal  the  antiquity  of  Man ; 

Kot  six  thousand  years— ^ut  eraSf 
Ages,  eons  disappear  as 
Groping  hack  toe  touch  the  system  where  the  ITumanJirst  hegtuu 


THBOUGH  THE  AGES.  561 

Centui'irs,  oi  wo  retrogress,  arc 
JJwarf&i  to  daya.  siys  tlio  Professor, 
And  our  llneaje  was  hoary  ere  JSve'n  apple-tree  r/rciv  greens 

For  tlic  bee,  whose  droioet/  humming 
}Va8 prophetic  of  Mail's  comi)ig. 
Lies  in  gem-ltke  tomb  of  amber ,  buried  in  Vie  Miocene. 

At  what  point  man  caine,  I  know  not 
Logic  proves  not,  foftKUji  ahow  not. 
But  his  dim  remote  existence  is  a  fact  beyond  dispute 

Look! — Anil  from  amonff  some  thirty 
AiTow  barbs  (if  quart;!  aiul  oliert  ho 
Takes  tho  flint  bead  of  u  hatulict, — aiul  thu  is'irid  gruv7  Unshod  and  mate. 

Old,  he  snys,  art  thou,  strange  stone!    yor 
Less  antique  thy  prim<U  oimicr ! 
"When  the  Fens  were  drained  this  axe  was  found  below  two  forests  sunk. 

Underneath  a  bed  of  sea-clay 
And  two  forests  this  relique  la^t 
Where  soTne  AUophylian  Savage  left  it  in  a  half-fiewn  tnmk 

Does  tho  ohl  Professor  notice 
Ijnr^o  oves,  bhio  as  niyosotis, 
liaised  to  him  in  sturtlod  wonder  as  thoso  fatal  words  are  said  f 

But  for  Phemie,  thro'  tho  trees  in 
Her  dream  forest,  fact  and  reason 
Ulend  witli  fancy,  and  her  vision  tjrows  comi)leto  and  clear  and  dread: 

By  tlio  swamp  in  tho  forest 

*The  svlvau  girl  sings 
Aa  liis  llint-headed  hatchet 
Tho  \\ill  AVoodraau  awinps, 
TmI  tho  hotchot  cleaves  fast  in  the  trunk  he  lias  riven — 
The  Man  stands  miarmed  us  tho  Sabro-tooth  springs ! 

^ew  Quarterly  Magazine, 


THE  FRENCH  REPUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 

It  has  never  been  a  secret  thafc  the  final  establishment  of  the  repub- 
lic in  France  would  be  immediately  followed  by  active  measures  in 
the  sphere  of  national  education.  Activity  in  this  direction  inevitably, 
in  England  as  in  France,  touches  the  passions  and  interests  of  the  old 
teaching  order.  If  a  system  of  education  is  to  be  national,  it  must  be 
organized;  and  if  it  is  to  be  organized,  it  must  cease  to  be  sectarian, 
for  the  resoxirces  of  the  greatest  sect  are  inadequate  to  tho  task,  while 
to  lend  even  to  the  greatest  sect  the  resources  of  the  State  is  inconsist- 
ent with  the  political  ideas  of  modem  times.  It  has  been  clearly  fore- 
seen, tharefore,  that  the  new  republic  would  open  its  history  by  what 
coqU  not  be  other  than  a  bitter  and  prolonged  struggle.  The  certainty 
of  this  was,  of  course,  one  of  the  causes  of  the  hostility  of  the  clergy 


.662  THE  FRENCH  REPUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOUO  CHURCa 

to  tho  republic,  thronghont  the  last  eight  years.  They  were  told  -with 
abundant  candour  what  they  had  to  expect.  "The  clergy,"  said  M. 
Clemenceau,  "  must  be  taught  that  it  is  neceaeary  to  render  to  Caeear 
the  things  that  are  Cassar's;  and  that  everything  is  Ccesdr's"  There  "was 
hardly  an  arrondissement  in  Paris  where  salvos  of  applause  did  not 
ereet  orators  who  said  that  they  would  not  tolerate  the  priest  in  tho 
family,  in  the  school,  or  in  any  public  function  outside  of  the  church. 
The  further  the  speaker  went  at  the  meetings  of  the  triumphant  party, 
tho  louder  the  thunders  of  approval.  In  not  a  few  places  in  Paris  tho 
spirit  of  Hoberb  or  Chaumette  re-appearod  in  full  force.  "What  I 
want,"  said  one  citizen,  "is  the  elimination  of  the  churches."  "Yes, 
yes,"  cried  the  audience,  "no  more  churches!  No  moiQ  j^suitieres ! 
Down  with  all  that  I" 

All  this  might  have  been  neglected  as  the  common  fonn  of  the 
Parisian  democracy.  It  was  impossible  to  neglect  the  utterances  of 
M.  Gambetta.  It  was  imposBible,  too,  to  misunderstand  them.  In  his 
famous  speech  at  Bordeaux  this  is  what  he  said: — "I  tell  you  that  the 
urgent  practical  task  of  your  representatives  ought  to  be  almost  singly 
that  of  the  organization  in  all  degrees,  from  the  point  of  view  of  tho 
Bchools,  from  the  point  of  view  of  programmes  of  instruction,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  means  of  study,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
finance— ought  to  be  to  assure  the  constitution  of  national  education; 
and  if  we  work  in  concert  to  begin  a  reform  of  this  kind,  there  is  no 
other  which  ought  to  draw  us  away,  because  the  others  can  wait."  At 
lille  he  went  more  directly  to  the  mark.  "The^  have  dared,  yes,  they 
have  dared,  under  the  name  of  liberty  of  superior  instruction  to  pass 
a  law,  the  label  on  which  is  calculated  to  cheat  simple  people.  Liberty 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  law  is  an  instrument  of  division.  . 
.  .  The  pupils  who  follow  the  new  instruction  will  be  brought  up  in 
the  hatred  of  modem  France,  and  the  hatred  of  those  principles  of 
justice  which  form  the  base  of  our  national  laws.  They  will  be 
brought  up  in  their  own  country  as  if  they  were  foreigners;  it  ^ 
Imigrts  and  foes  that  will  thus  be  lormed  in  the  midst  of  us;  you  win 
have  sown  a  germ  of  discord  and  division,  which,  added  to  all  the 
othei-B,  must  inevitably  lead  to  catastrophe  and  ruin."  At  Bordeanx, 
again,  he  branded  tho  law  that  thus  allows  of  the  establishment  of 
free  universities  in  tho  hands  of  the  clergy,  as  "a  law  of  division,  a 
law  of  retrogression,  a  law  of  hate,  a  law  of  disorganization,  a  law  of 
moral  anarchy  for  French  society." 

Both  parties  then  were  aware  what  would  follow  the  final  defeat  of 
the  conspiracy  of  the  sixteenth  of  May,  the  resignation  of  tho  Marshal, 
and  tho  accession  to  power  of  the  sincere  republicans.  The  great  edu- 
cational campaign,  of  which  our  generation  is  perhaps  not  likely^  to 
see  tho  end,  would  nt  once  open.  The  new  government  lost  no  tim^ 
in  introducing  their  measure.  If  that  measure  had  been  very  much 
more  moderate  than  it  is,  it  would  probably  have  served  equfdly  well 
as  a  signal  for  conflagration.  And  the  connagration  is  now  at  red  Iieat 
In  every  newspaper  the  battle  is  raging.    It  is  not  merely  the  qnestioa 


THE  FRENCH  BEPUBUO  AND  THE  CATHOIJO  CHDBCH.     563; 

cf  superior  instractlon  that  raises  the  dust  end  farv  of  conflict.  In  * 
every  comer  of  the  vast  field  where  clericals  and  liberals  meet,  the 
struggle  goes  on.  In  one  place  it  is  a  light  skirmish  between  two 
kndfuls  of  free  Lrnces;  in  another  it  is  the  heavy  shock  cf  great  bodies 
of  men,  with  masterly  organization  and  in  full  panoply.  Passionate 
declamation  and  trivial  anecdote,  venomous  satire  against  persons  and 
magniloanent  appeal  to  principles,  the  slang  of  the  street,  the  thun- 
ders of  the  pulpit,  the  heavy  drumming  of  philosophic  tcxt-boolis,  the 
shrill  whine  of  the  Black,  the  rasping  clamour  of  the  Red,  fill  the  air 
with  an  uproar  that  stuns  and  confuses.  Any  casual  sheaf  of  journals 
from  the  first  kiosk  on  any  day  you  please  shows  what  is  going  on 
every  day. 

Here  it  is  a  tale  of  some  great  lady  on  the  occasion  of  her  daughter's 
civil  marriage,  behaving  with  such  studied  levity  and  indifference 
towards  the  Mayor,  that  that  functionary  shut  up  his  books,  and  told 
the  astounded  party  to  come  again  that  day  week — a  lesson  which  the 
joamalist  would  like  to  see  taught  with  the  same  emphasis  to  all  who 
ilare  to  flout  the  authority  of  the  State,  when  its  exercise  happens 
to  be  disagreeable  to  the  Church.  Another  paper  narrates  how  the 
laughter  of  a  prominent  Badical  had  been  married  the  day  before. 
The  invitations  to  the  civil  ceremony  were  issued  in  the  name  of  the 
ather  and  mother  of  the  bride,  !.>ut  the  appended  invitation  to  the 
eiigious  ceremony  was  in  the  name  of  the  mother  only.  When  the 
jridal  party  came  out  from  tba  Mairie,  and  went  on  in  procession  to 
he  church,  the  father  ostf^Atatiously  quitted  them,  and  strolled 
mder  the  neighboring  arc^xles,  poisoning  the  joy  of  the  day,  desolat- 
ng  the  heart  of  his  ox/Ti  daughter,  exposing  his  wife  to  pity  and 
latire,  parading  with  the  Satanic  pride  of  the  infidel,  the  hateful  dis- 
;ord  of  a  family  divide'i  against  itself!  The  next  sheet  has  a  couple 
)f  columns  dealing  f>*j  large  with  the  insolence  of  the  clergy,  and  elab- 
>rating  the  malicir  as  hint  that  as  they  draw  their  stipends  from  the 
)tate,  they  wil'  do  well  to  govern  themselves  accordingly,  or  else  their 
)ay  TTill  be  sto^-^ped.  The  Repvblique  Fram^aise,  so  important  a  journal 
)ecause  a  fo-r  weeks  ago  it  belonged  to  so  important  a  man,  celebrates 
faster  by  '.«n  article  of  which  the  central  proposition  is  the  round 
ieclarp'aca  that  "  religion  is  every  day  falling  into  deeper  and  deeper 
User  edit."    To  this,  on  the  other  side,  the  OonstiJtuiionnd  cries  out  that 

0  insist  on  France  singing  the  Marseillaise,  and  yet  to  dcnoxm.ce 
verybody  who  says  a  Paternoster  or  a  Credo,  as  a  bad  citizen  and  an 
nemy  of  the  State,  is  odious,  grotesque,  brutally  inconceivable;  it 
onfounds  good  sense  and  passes  all  belief ;  it  makes  one  blush  for 
ur  age  of  liberty  and  progress;  it  renders  the  future  suspect,  it  sows 
atred  and  terror;  it  kindles    an  atrocious  and  hideous   civil  war 

1  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men.  If  we  turn  to  the  more  strictly  eccle- 
iastical  journals,  that  is  a  very  old  story.  The  Jesuits  use  very  much 
le  same  language  because  they  are  not  to  be  allowed  to  open  schools 
1  France,  as  the  Pope  used  the  other  day  because  he  is  not  allowed  to 
hut  schools  in  Borne.    They  borrow  £dl  the  phrases  about  liberty, 


564  THE  FRENCH  EEPUBUC  AND  THE  OATHOUO  CHUBCH. 

tolerance,  persecution,  martyrdom,  and  the  dependence  of  truth,  npon 
freedom,  as  if  every  form  of  intellectual  freedom  were  not  explicit  .7 
condemned  in  their  o^vn  Syllabus.     M.  Ferry  seldom  escapes  with  im 
easier  nauio  than  Nero  or  Diocletian,  and  he  is  most  often  Pontius 
HLite.    The  republic  is   an  orgy;  liberalism  is  a  hydra;  interfer- 
ence with  the  illegal  congregations  is  materialism,  naturalism,  ai'  1 
atheism,  and  the  revolution  has  been  from  the  very  beginning  tlu 
daughter  of  Satan;  poteslas  tenehnmim,  the  mysterious  and  accurs-  1 
power  of  darkness.    Tbo  Archbishop  of  Aix  turns  his  check  to  tL 
smiter  in  this  way: — '*  Who  are  theae  men,"  ho  cries,  '•  who  claim  thru. 
to  mould  your  children  in  their  image  and  likenesfj  ?    You  know,  my 
very  Christian  brethren,  the  grotesque  origin  which  they  attribute  to 
themselves  in  order  to  decline  the  honor  of  having  been  created,  lik- 
common  men,  in  the  likeness  and  image  of  God;  and  yet  perhaps  thL y 
flatter  themselves  too  highly  in  connecting  themselves  with  I  knov,- 
not  what  apish  ancestiy.    To  judge  by  their  designs  and  their  acts 
one  would  be  rather  tempted  to  take  them  for  the  descendants  of  tho-^- 
to  whom  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  said:  Ye  are  of  your  father  ike  devlly  a,A 
the  lusts  of  your  faiker  ye  wiU  do.    .    .    Noble  sons  of  Provence,  wi'l 
you  suffer  that  your  little  ones  shall  be  violently  taken  from  th'-'.- 
heavenly  genealogy,  to  confound  and  destroy  them  forever  in  the  in- 
fernal  genealogy  of  the  demon?"    Tlie   liberals  retaliate  with  an 
odious  hst  of  the  shameful  crimes  for  which  priests  and  congreganists 
have  been  convicted  within  the  last  six  months,  and  they  add  a  maji 
of  the  departments  of  France,  with  the  non-authorized  establishments 
marked  upon  it,  and  described  as  the  Clerical  Phylloxera,  the  deadly 
insect  that  devours  the  young  shoots  of  the  vine.    The  publisher  ol ;. 
radical  paper  was  sentenced  a  few  days  ago  to  a  fine  and  eight  month . 
of  imprisonment  for  writing  of  Jesus  Christ  as  the  **Kabagas  of  Gtjl- 
gotha." 

It  would,  no  doubt,  be  wrong  to  mistake  the  Parisian  jonmalist  f  t 
the  French  people.  But  all  this  can  hardly  be  a  mere  blaze  of  straw. 
Though  the  peasant  is  master  of  France,  the  feehng  of  Paris  coun: . 
for  an  immense  force;  and  that  feeling  is  anti-clerical  with  an  aggres- 
sive intensity  to  which  in  no  department  of  controversy  InEnj^^Ljii 
is  there  anything  at  all  approaching  to  a  parallel  It  is  the  domin:.ii:  . 
impulse,  the  decisive  test,  in  the  politics  of  the  capital.  ^Vhen  a  m  :. 
is  a  candidate  for  a  seat  in  the  city  cotmcil,  he  does  not  merely  k... 
that  he  will  keep  the  rates  down;  he  assures  the  electors  that  he  is 
strong  for  secular  education,  and  will  vote  for  such  improved  instruc- 
tion for  girls,  that  they  may  no  longer  from  ignorance  and  supen^ti- 
tion  be  the  counsellors  of  the  politics  of  religious  egoism  at  the  d<^ 
mestic  hearth.  This  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  is  forever  glaring  in  iZ 
colours  on  the  walls  of  Paris.  There  are  iive  protestant  members  r* 
the  ministry,  but  it  is  no  secret  that  it  is  not  they  who  encouraged  il:  • 
introduction  of  the  bill.  The  clergy  know  very  well  that  it  is  n  1 
protestant  enmity  with  which  they  have  to  deal  here,  but  the  old  res.> 
lute,  pertinacious,  inappeasable  hatred  of  Paris  and  the  great  towns. 


THE  FEENCH  REFDBLIO  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHUECH.     566 

If  it  is  no  straw  firo  on  the  one  eide,  Btill  less  ia  it  a  straw  fire  on 
the  other.  The  bishops  called  for  a  ffveat  manifofstation  of  tho  Chris- 
tiiiu  conscience  of  France,  and  their  call  is  responded  to  by  a  vast 
cloud  of  petitions  from  every  district  in  "the  country.  Tho  word  is 
passed  to  fulminate  against  the  bill  from  tho  pulpit,  and  fifty  thon- 
Fjmd  priests  fall  to  ns  one  man,  and  beat  the  drum  ecclesiastic.  Their 
hearers  h'&ve  heard  it  all  more  than  once  before  this,  tinder  monarchy 
and  empire  as  loudly  as  now,  and  they  know  that  in  spite  of  all,  so 
mnch  religion  as  they  need  for  the  ordering  of  their  lives  still  remains 
for  their  service  and  edification.  But  the  perturbation  ia  immense. 
It  breaks  that  tranquillity  which  tho  ordinary  Frenchman  cherishes 
more  than  he  cherishes  any  given  form  of  government.  Some  observ- 
ers are  incensed  against  the  bill  because,  they  say,  it  will  inevitably 
estrange  the  priests  in  Alsace-Lorraine  from  France,  and  it  is  the 
priests  who  keep  alive  in  the  breasts  of  the  conquered  population  the 
flame  of  love  for  their  old  brethren  and  hatred  for  their  new  masters. 
Others  more  practically  urge  \hat  the  Senate  will  throw  out  the  bill, 
the  effect  of  wnich  will  be  not  only  the  troublesome  ordeal  of  a  minis- 
terial crisis,  but  what  is  far  more  mischievous  than  that,  a  fatal  breach 
in  the  harmony  between  the  Senate  and  the  Chamber. 

The  weight  of  such  an  objection  as  the  last  cannot  be  overrated.  We 
can  only  suppose  that  tho  government  have  taken  it  into  account,  and 
for  reasons  that  are  not  at  present  intelli^ble,  have  thought  it  their 
duty  to  face  the  risks.  It  is  easily  conceivable  that  there  are  ends  of 
such  moment,  that  a  statesman  mi^ht  well  think  it  his  duty  to  pursue 
them  at  the  cost  even  of  the  furious  turmoil  that  now  prevails  in 
Franco.  "What  we  want  to  know  is  whether  the  particular  measure 
^hich  has  been  made  the  occasion  for  this  demonstration  of  mutual 
hatred  and  contempt  between  the  two  parties,  deserves  sympathy  in 
its  principle,  and  approval  for  its  present  expediency.  We  have  not 
now  to  discuss  the  question,  wide-reaching  and  important  as  it  is, 
whether  it  is  expedient  or  inexpedient  that  the  government  of  a 
country  should  meddle  with  education,  either  by  conferring  grants  of 
money  or  by  assuming  a  share  in  its  direction  and  control.  Nobody 
wishes  to  deprive  the  government  of  its  sovereign  right  of  testing  the 
competency  of  thos^  on  whom  it  confers  diplomas.  It  is  assumed, 
also,  in  France  that  the  State  may,  or  is  bound  to,  take  a  part  in  the 
regulation  of  instruction  in  all  its  degrees,  and  therefore  we  can  only 
Btudy  French  affairs  profitably  if  we  take  this  for  granted,  and  start 
from  the  same  point  at  which  a  French  critic  would  begin.  The  issue 
is  whether  the  State  is,  or  is  not  in  education  to  have  a  monopoly. 
And  it  is  important,  again,  to  realise  that  it  is  not  an  issue  between  a 
cast-iron  system  of  State  instruction,  and  a  hundred  rival  societies, 
experiments,  and  fruitful  developments  of  individual  ingenuity  and 
endeavour.  It  is  not  a  battle  between  system  and  individuality,  but 
between  two  cast-iron  systems,  in  each  of  which  there  is  exactly  as 
little  room  for  the  originality  of  individual  minds  as  in  the  other.  It 
is  an  obvious  mistake  to  carry  the  analogies  of  England  or  the  United 


666  THE  FBENCH  REPUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 

States  to  n  conntry  with  the  inoradicablo  centralization  of  France,  on 
the  one  Jiond,  and  the  centralization  of  the  Catholic  Church  on  tbi 
other.  It  may  be  true,  and  it  is  true,  that  one  of  the  main  objecU  of 
every  French  statesman,  aft*er  the  consolidation  of  tho  republic,  ought 
to  bo  to  v/eaken  this  traditional  eystom,  to  loosen  its  hold  upon  the 
dally  life  and  mental  habits  of  the  nation,  and  to  prepare  the  way  for 
tho  £nal  establishment  of  a  healthier  system.  But  it  would  be  lolly 
and  political  fatuity  to  act  as  if  this  process  had  already  been  accom- 
plished, and  under  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  France  there  [.re 
many  excellent  reasons  why  tho  process  should  not  be  hurried,  in 
England,  if  you  take  away  a  given  function  in  the  department  of 
national  education  from  the  Government,  you  do  not  laiow  to  wiioui 
it  may  fall  instead  of  the  Grovemment.  But  in  France  you  do  know. 
In  lYance,  whatever  is  taken  away  in  education  from  the  State  is  given 
to  the  Church. 

It  is  important  to  understand  exactly  what  it  is  that  tho  French 
Government,  at  this  moment,  propose  to  take  away  from  the  Churck 
or  rather  from  certain  members  and  classes  whom  the  heads  of  tLe 
Church  have  taken  under  their  cpecial  patronage.  The  Liberals  are 
very  anxious  to  assure  us  that  this  is  a  political  question.  TLe 
Government,  no  doubt,  sincerely  wish  and  intend  it  to  be  so.  But 
we  cannot  always  please  ourselves  as  to  when  a  question  shall  be 
political,  and  when  it  shall  be  something  else.  In  all  the  controvci- 
sies  of  national  education,  it  happens  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the 
clerical  party  both  in  i'rance  and  elsewhere,  to  insist  that  it- is  nci a 
political  question  but  a  religious  question.  This  is  what  makt.s  ti;e 
present  agitation  in  France  so  serious.  For  a  statesman  to  touch  u 
religious  question,  Thiers  said  in  1871,  is  simple  madness.  The  lill 
of  M.  Ferry,  however,  is  capable  of  being  regarded,  asit  wasfrraiid, 
not  as  an  anti-religious  measure,  but  as  really  in  the  domain  if 
secular  politics,  and  really  prompted  by  considerations  of  secrilj 
statesmanship.  We  ought  to  begin  then  by  understanding  exnctiy 
what  the  bill  proposes,  end  its  relations  to  historic  legislation  en  itJi 
own  subject. 

Under  the  first- Empire  tho  Government  university  had  a  compl  te 
monopoly  of  education  in  every  degree,  primary,  secondary,  gcI 
superior,  all  equally.  Tho  system  wtis  described  as  the  Governinciit 
applied  to  the  universal  control  of  public  instruction.  There  w:us  do 
education  possible  except  in  the  State  and  by  tho  State.  Evtn  tie 
seminaries  known  as  ecclesiastical  secondary  schools  were  governed  ly 
the  university;  they  were  organized  by  it,  regulated  under  its  author- 
ity, and  intitruction  was  given  exclusively  by  its  members.  The  Et^- 
toration  lightened  the  yoke  in  a  slight  degree;  still  the  Govcmmiin 
r.:;tained  a  strict  monopoly.  The  constitutional  ministry  of  1830  iu;uie 
the  firot  breacli  by  granting  liberty  of  instnjction  in  tho  pniiuiy 
Rchool^^.  In  spite  of  vehement  efforts  on  the  i^art  of  such  powt-ul 
champions  as  Montalcmbcrt  end  Lacordairo.  tho  movement  wont  U'J 


THE  nt^NCH  EEPUBLIO  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHUIICH:     567 

farther.  Secondary  and  superior  instraction  remained  the  monopoly 
of  the  Government.  Then  came  the  revolution  of  1848,  and  one  of  tho 
articles  of  the  constitution  of  that  memorable  year  declared  that 
"Instnidicm  is  free."  In  1850  the  important  Falloux  Law  was  passed. 
This  measnre  opened  the  right  of  teaching,  secondary  as  well  as  pri- 
mary, but  not  superior,  to  every  Frenchman,  subject  to  certain  condi- 
dons  as  to  age,  moral  character,  and  diploma.  There  was  only  one 
olass  of  restriction.  A  man  who  had  undergone  pxmishment  for  speci- 
lied  offences  against  the  law  could  not  become  a  teacher.  The  State 
still  retained  the  monopoly  of  superior  education.  It  was  not  until 
1875,  as  we  all  know,  that  the  law  permitted  any  body  of  French  cit- 
izens who  chose,  to  establish  faculties  for  the  purposes  of  university 
teaching.  As  the  law  now  stands,  therefore,  instruction  is  in  all  its 
thiee  degrees  free  to  all  French  citizens  under  the  conditions  already 
named  in  tli  i  Falloux  Law. 

The  law  now,  in  the  words  of  the  fourth  clause  of  M.  Ferry's  bill, 
"rccogniBes  two  kinds  of  schools  of  superior  instruction,  a.  Schools 
or  groups  of  schools  founded  or  maintained  by  the  communes  or  the 
State;  these  take  the  name  of  universities,  faculties,  or  public  schools. 
6.  Schools  founded  or  maintained  by  private  individuals  or  by  associa- 
tions. These  ^can  take  no  other  name  than  that  of  free  schools." 
There  is  a  sharp  sting,  however,  in  what  reads  like  a  plain  statement  of 
fact.  The  newly  established  faculties  are  no  longer  to  be  called  uni- 
versities. As  if,  say  the  bishops,  the  Church  which  first  invented  tho 
name,  and  once  covered  the  whole  of  Europe  with  universities,  had 
not  a  right  of  possession,  and  for  that  matter  the  law  of  1875  expressly 
recognised  this  right. 

The  important  clauses  of  M.  Ferry's  bill  are  the  first  and  the  seventh. 
The  first  is  as  follows: — "Les  examens  et  epreuves  pratiques  qui  dcter- 
ininent  la  collation  des  grades  ne  peuvent  etre  subis  que  devant  lea 
c'tablissements  d'enseignement  suptrieur  de  TEtat."  That  is  to  say,  tho 
free  universities  which  were  called  into  existence  by  the  legislation  of 
the  last  Assembly,  are  to  retain  their  teaching  power,  but  are  to  lose 
their  examining  power.  Tho  present  examination  for  degrees  in  tho 
case  of  the  private  students  is  that  of  the  Jurys  mixtes.  Tho  examiners 
nro  appointed  partly  from  the  public  university,  and  partly  from  the 
free  or  private  faculty.  Under  the  bill,  the  representatives  of  the  free 
loiiversity  are  to  examine  no  longer,  and  the  decision  of  the  compe- 
tency of  every  candidate  alike  is  to  rest  with  the  government  examm- 
oi-s.  The  opponents  of  the  system  that  has  been  in  operation  since 
1877  dislike  it  partly  on  political  ground,  and  partly  on  an  educational 
pound.  They  dislike  it  because  it  infringes  what  has  for  a  century 
been  an  organic  maxim  in  France,  that  inasmuch  as  the  possession  of  a 
degree  acts  and  is  taken  as  a  solemn  guarantee  of  competence  and  re- 
Bfjonsibility  by  the  national  government,  therefore  the  State  is  entitled 
or  bound  to  take  exclusively  into  its  own  hands  the  measures  by 
which  competence  and  responsibility  are  tested.  This  conception, 
whether  soun4  «r  unsound,  does  as  matter  of  fact  prevail  more  or  less 


668     THE  FRENCH  EEPUBLIO  AJ^D  THE  CATHOLIC  CHUECE 

in  all  European  countries,  and  it  is  not  seriously  contested  by  any- 
practical  group.  It  is  the  view  of  such  a  man  ds  M.  Eenan,  who  is 
known  to  approve  of  M.  Ferry's  first  clause,  though,  he  disapproves  of 
the  seventh.  In  the  second  place,  they  contend  that  as  a  matter  of 
open  and  notorious  fact,  not  only  in  France  hut  in  Belgium,  the  cer- 
tificates of  the  jurya  mkdes  mark  a  lower  standard  of  jDroficicncy  than 
those  of  the  government  university. 

On  the  other  hand  those  who  defend  the  present  system,  pronounce 
it  to  be  indispensable  to  the  existence  of  any  free  faculties  whatever. 
M.  de  Laveleye,  who  has  watched  the  mixed  system  in  operation  in 
Belgium,  his  own  country,  states  the  case  against  M.  Ferry's  first  sec- 
tion as  follows: — "K  the  pupils  are  compelled  to  present  themselves 
before  official  teachers,  if  no  representative  of  the  free  universities  is 
there  to  protect  them,  then  they  must  evidently  be  in  a  position  of 
great  inferiority  relatively  to  the  pupils  of  the  oS.cial  university,  vl:o 
will  be  examined  by  their  own  teachers.    It  is  clear  that  he  who  settl.  3 
the  examination,  settles  the  teaching.    Tlio  youth  of  the  country  will 
bo  forcibly  absorbed  by  the  official  university.    Those  who  follow  th/ 
lectures  of  professors  whoso  teaching  will  bo  the  object  of  suspicion, 
would  be  exposed  to  great  and  constant  risks  of  repulse.  ^     The  result 
of  this  clause  of  the  bill  will  bo  to  kill  the  free  universities.    Relying 
on  the  equity  of  the  legislature,  the  freo  universities  established  th' m- 
selves  and  won  the  confidence  of  a  groat  number  of  fomihcs.    Con- 
siderable interests  had  become  involved,  which  are  nil  overthrown 
and  annihilated  in  order  to  restore  a  monopoly.    This  monopoly  will 
reduce  all  consciences  and  all  minds  to  one  dead  level  through  all 
generations."    So  much  for  tho  two  opposed  opinions  on  the  first 
clause.    It  is  a  further  grievance  of  the  clerical  party  that  the  Minister 
so  changes  tho  constitution  of  tho  academio  council,  as  to  put  the  htal 
upon  the  sepulchre  in  which  he  intends  to  bury  free  instruction.    The 
council  was  formerly  composed  of  men  representing  a  groat  variety  cf 
institutions,   the  Cour  do  Cassation,  tho   Institute,   the   College  ot 
France,  the  Superior  Council  of  Agriculture,  and  so  forth.     Tho  niv; 
council,  on  the  contrary,  designed  as  it  is  to  protect  tho  restored  mon- 
opoly of  the  State,  is  clescribed  as  chosen  almost  without  excepticn 
from  the  professors  of  tho  university. 
The  seventh  clause  is  a  much  more  serious  matter: — 
**Nul  n'est  admis  aparticiper  <i  Venselgnement  pubUc  on  llhrc,  rJ,  u  d'rigc" 
un  itablissemerd  denselgnement  ds  quelqu'ordre  q-ie  C3  soil,  s^U  apparikut  -i 
une  congregation  rdlgieiise  non  auioriste"    It  is  said  that  thi:^  clar.s?  ii 
likely  to  be  made  even  more  widely  restrictive  when  tho  r:;poi't  of  tli: 
committee  on  the  bill  is  laid  before  the  Ohambcr;  but;  Wv3  m:iy  discn-i 

a  I  - 1  -  -      —     —  --  —   - — 

(1)  This  nrgrument  from  SO  competent  an  observer  is  worth  the  attention  oftK«><'' 
English  Liberals,  wlio  contend  that  Irish  Ciitiiolica  on.u,lit  to  bo  a'.njjly  eoii^i-ii-  ''. 
tho  impils  Irom  their  own  colle«;-e  aro  nllowod  to  earn  tlieir  degrees  fa-om  a  bcaiJ  ci 
examiners  apx^iutcd  by  the  Go%ernmcut. 


THE  FRENCH  EEPUBUO  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHUECH.     569 

it  as  it  fitood  in  the  original  draft.  1  Tho  principle  of  restriction  is 
definitely  stated,  and  it  is  on  tho  principle  of  restriction  that  the  dis- 
cussion turns.  The  reader  will  notice  that  though  the  bill  is  n,  bill  on 
superior  education,  and  in  the  other  clauses  only  ait'r^cts  superior  cdu- 
cfttion,  the  restriction  of  this  clause  covers  all  tne  three  orders  of  in- 
struction. 

Xow  it  is  a  point  of  capital  importance  that  the  congregations  from 
whom  it  is  now  proposed  to  take  the  power  of  teaching  in^  schools,  are 
not  authorised  by  the  law.    Most  English  criticism  of  the  bill  seems 
to  have  made  somewhat  too  light  of  this.    To  thrust  it  into  tho  back- 
ground, is  to  hide  one  of  the  keys  to  the  discussion.    Tho  legitimist 
monarchy  was  as  firm  and  as  definite  as  the  Kepublic  can  ever  be,  in 
denouncing  those  who  unite  to  live  under  statutes  that  have  never 
boon  communicated  to  the  government  and  have  never  b6en  approved 
in  the  form  for  such  cases  prescribed,  as  entering  into  such  unions  in 
contumacious  and  direct  contravention  of  tho  laws.    Not  only  was  the 
,  Society  of  Jesus  abolished  by  special  edicts  in  the  reigns  of  Louis  XV. 
and  Louis  XVI.,  but  at  throe  different^dates  subsequently  general  laws 
suppressed  all  religious  associations  of  men  in  Franco.     Later  laws 
male  provision  for  such  associations,  principally  for  purposes   of 
charity,  and  of  elementary  instruction  m  schools  for  the  poor.    In 
those  capacities  tliey  exist  within  the  legal  order,  and  go  about  their 
business  in  tending  the  sick,  and  teaching  the  children.    But  it  was 
only  permitted  to  them  to  form  their  societies  upon  terms,  and  with 
thetio  terms  it  is  impossible  for  the  Jesuits  to  comply.    That  famous 
body  exists  in  France,  but  it  exists  apart  from  the  law,  and  without 
the  assent  of  the  law.    It  cannot  now,  and  it  could  not  any  more 
under  tho  monarchy  of  the  Kestoration,  buy,  sell,  acquire,  possess,  or 
be  a  party  in  a  court  of  law.    It  was  not  a  republican,  but  Portalis,  tho 
minister  of  Charles  X.,  who  went  on  to  argue  that  buying,  selling, 
possessing,  and  being  a  party  in  a  law-suit,  were  far  less  conspicuous 
ways  of  calling  the  attention  of  the  government  to  a  violation  of  the 
lawLi,  than  publicly  to  direct  the  greatest  schools  in  tho  country.    The 
Siate,  he  said,  was  much  more  keenly  interested  in  knowing  and 
anthorising^those  who  presented  themselves  to  form  faithful  subjects 
and  good  citizens,  than  those  who  only  claimed  tho  rights  connected 
vrith  corporate  propert3\    Hence  the  clecree  of  1828,  while  Charles  X. 
"^as  in  full  power,  formally  interdicting  both  the  control  of  educa- 
tional institutions,  and  the  function  of  teaching  in  them,  to  any  and 
every  person  "belonging  to  a  religious  congregation  not  legally  estab- 
lished in  France."    In  1845  tho  same  law  was  re-discussed,  and  again 
deliberately  proclaimed. 

(1)  Acconliuf?  to  thn  nmonded  proposals,  no  mombcr  of  a  rcligioii3  couprogntion 
^U  hereafter  1x5  permiitetl  to  frive  iiistraciion,  cither  in  public  or  in  privuto.  unless 
tlie  congTCgati(in  of  wliich  lio  u  a  inomber  shall  have  been  specially  uuthorUjed  to 
I'^ach.  It  -will  not  be  sufficient  that  tlio  contrrefi-ation  to  which  he  belonfrs  is  one  of 
tho  legally  recognised  oougregations j  it  mu«>t  bo  further  Bpecially  authorised  to 
teach. 


570     THE  FEENCH  REPUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  GHUECa 

In  what  sense,  however,  does  a  French  Jestiit  contravene  the  law? 
Lawyers  of  the  clerical  party  boldljr  contend  that  thongh  there  are 
statutes  declaring  religious  communities  of  men  incapable  of  certain 
rights  that  belong  to  other  corporate  bodies,  yet  there  is  no  text  which 
makes  the  existence  of  a  religious  community  of  men  a  legal  offence, 
carrying  with  it  to  individuals  the  incapacitating  consequences  of  such 
offence.  If  it  were  otherwise,  they  say  pertinently  enough,  why  shouli 
M.  Ferry  need  a  new  lawV  They  go  on  to  say — and  very  edifying  it 
sounds  on  the  lips  of  the  party  of  the  Syllabus— thftt  to  establish 
affiliation  with  a  religious  community  as  a  legal  off§pce, .  would  be  to 
commit  an  unconstitutional  attack  on  that  liberty  of  conscience  which 
has  been  solemnly  stated  and  restated  in  every  constitution  since  17H9. 
We  may  listen  with  some  impatience  to  pleas  for  liberty  of  association 
from  the  party  which  is  on  all  possible  occasions  the  resolute  foe  of  every 
form  of  association  except  their  own.  And  it  is  difficult  to  see  why  a 
member  of  the  International  should  be  liable  to  prosecution,  while  a 
member  of  a  society  whose  chief  lives  at  Eome  or  Florence,  and  which 
has  affiliated  branches  in  all  jiarts  of  the  world, — the  Black  Interna- 
tional,— escapes  scot-free.  But  the  fact  that  the  law  against  the  Jesuits, 
Dominicans,  and  the  rest,  has  not  been  applied,  and  that  they  are  not 
turned  out  of  the  country  or  otherwise  punished,  gives  an  equivocal 
and  suspicious  air  of  injustice  to  a  project  which  strikes  tliem  with  a 
new  and  penal  restriction.  To  begin  at  this  time  of  day  to  re-inflict  a 
disqualification  which  had  been  abandoned,  is  certainly  on  the  face  of 
it  an  unwelcome  retrogression.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  absurd  to  cry 
out  against  the  renewal  of  a  disability  which  has  existed  for  the  bost 
part  of  the  last  hundred  years, — under  the  empire,  the  legitimist 
monarchy,  the  constitutional  monarchy, — as  if  it  were  some  novel  and 
tyrannical  invention  of  the  new  republic. 

There  is  another  point  on  which  English  opinion  moy  easily  bo  led 
into  a  mistaken  sympathy  with  the  French  clericals.  We  are  only  too 
familiar  in  our  own  strugglo  for  national  education  with  the  tinscmpu- 
lous  misrepresentations  of  the  sectarian  party,  and  it  is  not  surprising 
that  the  same  devices  should  be  used  in  the  fiercer  struggle  in  France. 
We  are  led  to  believe  that  the  bill  will  drive  religion  out  of  the  schools. 
With  characteristic  confusion  of  mind — to  give  them  the  benefit  of  a 
charitable  construction— the  clerical  party  are  protesting  shrilly  again  t 
the  separation  of  religion  from  education.  How?  Because  in  cert»*in 
cases  lay  teaching  is  being  substituted  for  congreganist  teaching.  This 
is  done  in  the  case  of  the  primary  schools  by  the  action  of  the  muni- 
cipal councils  through  the  prefets.  But  this  is  en  entirely  differtnt 
thing  from  separating  secular  and  religious  instruction,  for  the  siDipI  • 
reason  that  the  lay  teacher  is  as  much  bound  to  give  religious  ingtruc- 
tion  as  is  the  congreganist  teacher !  At  present  lay  end  congreganist 
teaching  are  on  the  same  footing.  If  the  Catholic  fathers  of  familit-^ 
are  in  a  majority  in  the  commune,  they  are  free  to  choose  congreganist'? 
for  teachers.  The  freedom  is  said  to  be  even  abused.  Prejudieo, 
habit,  the  influence  of  the  mother,  the  frequent  bait  of  a  largo  gratuity, 


THE  EBENCH  BBPUBUO  AND  THE  CATHOUO  CHUECH. .   571 

—all  these  agencies,  w?  are  tol  J,  decide  the  municipal  councils  only 
too  often  to  establish  the  congreganist  eystem.  But  this  is  not  from 
any  preference  for  religious  instruction.  That  is  equally  assured,  as 
tiio-luw  now  stands,  in  the  lay  schools.  That  a  section  of  the  liberals 
are  working, — as  English  liberals  will  again  work  when  interest  in  im- 
proving our  system  revives, — for  the  relegation  of  religious  teaching  to 
ruligious  ministers  in  their  own  sphere,  ia  quite  true.  But  that  does 
not  touch  the  present  controversy. 

It  always  assists  us  to  understand  the  scope  and  prospect  of  any 
measure,  if  wo  discover  that  there  are  mtn  of  consideration  who  will 
accept  its  general  object  and  go  a  certain  way  into  its  methods,  but 
Btop  short  of  complete  approval.     Such  men  are  by  no  means  always  in 
tlie  right;  on  the  contrary  they  are  very  often  in  the  wrong.    But  their 
view  is  instructive,  especially  in  the  case  of  another  country,  where  a 
foreign  observer  needs  aU  the  help  that  ho  can  get,  to  rcaliue  the  true 
force  and  bearing  of  things,  apart  from  the  slippery  illuoionw  of  phrases 
and  abstract  principles.      Now  it  is  agreed  by  many  of  those— includ- 
ing the  orthodox  Protestants — who  mcst  warmly  condemn  the  bill  of  M. 
FeiTy  as  unjust,  inexpedient,  and  inopx^ortuno,  in  excluding  a  class  of 
citizens  from  the  rights  of  citizens,  that  the  government  might  safely 
and  wisely  have  done  three  things,  all  of  them  tending  in  the  samo 
dirGction  towards  a  curtailment  of  clerical  usurpations.    First,  they  are 
right  in  resuming  for  the  government  not  only  the  exclusive  function 
of  prescribing  tho  conditions  of  examination  for  degrees,  but  the  ex- 
clusive-right of  appointing  tho  examiners.     Next,  they  say,  it  might 
properly  have  insisted  that  tho  government  should  take  upon  itself  the 
office  of  systematically  inspoctins^  the  establishments  belonging  to  the 
imauthorised  congregations.     It  is  difficult  to  understand  clearly  how 
inspection  of  this  kind  could  have  come  to  anything.    The  inspection 
could  never  be  close  and  fretjuent  enough  to  suppress  tho  dititiilations 
of  that  indirect  influence  which  is  what  tho  liberals  are  really  aiming 
at.    The  only  sanction,  again,  at  tho  disposal  of  a  government,  from 
whom  a  school  asks  nothing  save  tlie 'permission  to  exist,  would  bo  ter- 
mination of  its  existence,  and  it  would  be  less  trouble  to  close  all  such 
schools  in  gross  by  an  act  of  legislation,  than  to  close  them  in  detail  by 
f'cts  of  administration.    Even  if  the  report  were  designed  to  bo  a  mere 
naked  deliverance,'  to  which  neither  the  directors  of  a  school  nor  tho 
parents  of  the  boys  in  it  need  pay  more  attention  than  they  might  think 
tit,  is  it  not  certain  in  the  highly  exacerbated  state  of  feeling  which  is 
chronic  in  such  matters,  that  the  directors  of  tho  school  would  set  down 
a  hostile  report  to  republican  malice,  that  the  parents  would  believe 
them,  and  that  probably  in  some  cases  directors  and  parents  would  not 
be  very  far  wrong  in  BO  believing?     A  third  change,  which  it  is  said 
by  the  moderates  that  the  government  might  legitimately  liave  pressed, 
is  the  abolition  of  Letters  of  Obedience.    A  letter  of  obedience  is  a 
document  given  by  bishops  to  women,  and  entitles  tho  recipient  to 
dispense  with  a  further  passpoi-t,  to  travel  half-price  by  the  railway, 
uid  to  teach  in  tho  congreganist  schools.     This  instrument  is  said  to 


572     THE  FRENCH  REPUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHUEGHl 

be  grdBsly  abnsed,  as  perhaps  considering  the  nature  of  bishops  and 
of  women  we  might  expect  that  it  would  be  grossly  abused.  It  is  given 
to  women  so  ignorant  that  they  can  barely  read  or  write,  and  they  d:) 
not  even  teach  the  girls  in  the  schools  how  to  sew  or  knit.  Their  sctlu 
business  is  to  immerse  the  poor  littl«3  creatures  in  the  prayers  of  the 
church,  and  to  inculcate  upon  them  the  most  grovelling  articles  of 
belief.  No  person  whoso  sense  is  not  overcome  by  party-spirit  wouM 
deny  that  a  privilege  of  this  Itind  should  bo  withdrawn,  and  that  tbe 
same  certilicate  of  capacity  which  is  exacted  from  a  teacher  in  a  gov- 
ernment school  should  bo  exacted  from  all  other  teacheiu 

On  these  points,  then,  there  is  little  difterence  of  opinion  among  the 
kind  of  Liberals  who  answer  in  Franco,  say,  to  Mr.  Playfair  in  our  own 
country.  There  are  men,  and  men  of  eminence,  like  M.  Laboulaye, 
who  wish  the  Catholic  liberty  of  examining  for  degrees  to  remain  as  it 
is,  but  there  is  no  considerable  political  group  among  the  Left  who  clinur 
to  this  privilege.  If  these  changes  would  have  sufficed  to  conciliate 
moderate  opinion,  it  is  asked,  why  not  have  been  content  with  them  ? 

On  the  whole  there  is  no  serious  complaint  against  the  secular  teach- 
ing of  the  Jesuits.    The  partisans  of  each  side  no  doubt  endeavour  to 
disparage  thexittainments  of  the  other.   The  XIX  Slide  rakes  up  a  provin- 
cial paragraph  to  the  effect,  that  the  director  of  a  congreganist  school  ia 
the  south  knew  his  geography  no  better  than  to  answer  in  an  examinaliou 
that  Cette  is  a  port  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gironde.    The  Univcrs  prompt- 
ly retorts  by  reminding  its  enemy  that  one  writer  in  the  oi^n  of  com- 
pulsory and  secular  instruction  hfis  made  the  Volga  flow  into  tlic 
Baltic,  and  another  had  supposed  the  Bormida  to  be  in  Egypt  I    AvA 
so  forth.    But  this  is  merely  part  of  the  game.    The  mo&t  that  th«ir 
enemies  seem  to  be  able  to  say  is,  that  in  the  schools  of  the  religic*!--^ 
orders  too  much  attention  is  paid  to  comfort.    The  boys  are  b<  ttt  r 
tended,  better  fed,  better  trained  in  those  mtixims  and  habits  which  iu 
grown-up  men  wo  call  knowledge  of  the  world.    All  this  is  assumed  t) 
be  so  much  taken  from  solid  study.    But  the  evidence  is  slight,  mi'I 
the  conviction  does  not  strike  one  as  very  deep  even  in  those  who  rs' 
this  among  other  and  weightier  arguments.     The  Jesuits  have  n'> 
scruple,  and  this  is  to  their  credit,  in  resorting  to  teachers  who  arc  ii'  t 
Jesuits,  when  such  teachers  are  more  efficient  than  members  of  their 
own  body.    One  of  the  most  successful  schools  in  Paris,  which  pr>^ 
pares  admirable  pupils  for  Saint  Cyr  and  the  Polytechnic,  bcloncrs  to 
the  Jesuits;  but  they  have  always  sought  the  best  teacher  wher<'V(r 
they  could  find  him,  whether  Catholio  or  freethinker.    It  is  cbarRct'r- 
istic  of  what  one  must  call  the  blind  hatred  that  reigns  on  both  sicus 
in  France,  that  an  eminent  Radical  to  whom  an  English  visitor  mn- 
tioned  the  great  success  of  this  school,  promptly  exphiined  it  bv  t'l-^ 
treachery  of  the  authorities  of  Saint  Cyr  and'the  Polytechnic:  oh.  ii'." 
official  classes  were  favourable  to  the  clericals,  and  no  doubt  the  chi'  ?» 
of  the  French  Woolwich  and  Sandhurst  habitually  let  the  teacher*  of 
the  Eoolo  des  Postes  beforehand  into  the  secrets  of  the  exazniiiatiou 
papers  1 


THE  FRENCH  EEPUBUC  AND  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.     573 

It  is  not,  however,  generally  tme  that  parents  eend  their  Bono  to  the 
schools  of  the  TinauthoriBeci  associationB,  because  the  fiecnlar  instruo- 
tion  is  particularly  good.     There  seems  to  bo  two  reasona  for  the  com- 
parative popularity  of  these  schools.    First  of  all,  they  are  cheaper. 
The  celibacy  of  the  teacher  makes  his  requirements  fewer,  he  is  willing 
to  content  himself  with  something  less  than  would  be  necessary  to  a 
Lir.ii  with  ft  family.    Besides  this,  there  ar:3  legends  of  private  bounty 
on  an  immense  scale,  which  enable  the  schools  to  sell  their  instruction 
l)tlow  cost  price;  but  one  cannot  help  suspecting  that  there  may  be 
borne  exaggeration  in  estimating  the  effect  of  this  element.    Secondly, 
there  is  a  slight  social  advantage  on  the  side  of  the  Jesuit  schools.    The 
f mall  Legitimists  of  the  provinces  always  send  their  sons  to  them,  and 
^o  it  comes  that  the  upper  middle  clas.^,  who  hke  to  think  of  their 
children  sitting  on  the  bench  v/ith  the  sen  of  M.  lo  Comte  and  M.  lo 
jlarquis,  send  them  also  to  the  Jesuits.    The  English  reader,  who 
imovs  the  eagerness  of  the  new  rich  to  send  their  boyn  to  Eton,  not  for 
education,  but  for  social  tone  and  the  chance  of  scraping  acquaintance 
with  a  lord,  will  understand  all  this  readily  enough.    But  there  are 
other  considerations,  ofwhich  he  will  scarcely  hear  without  a  smile. 
The  Jesuits  not  only  keep  a  keen  eye  in  after  life  upon  ft  pupil,  whose 
promise  has  excited  their  Interest,  and  push  him  on  in  hiti  business  or 
profession;  they  are  also  an  agernce  de  manage^  skilful  and  Influential 
brokers  in  the  great  market  of  young  rac-n  and  young  women,  and 
thoir  favour  is  thought  an  excellent  way  to  a  good  match. 

What  is  the  real  objection  in  the  minds  of  some  of  the  strongest  and 
coolest  men  in  France  to  the  interference  of  the  religious  orders  in 
national  education?  What  at  bottom  is  the  consideration  that  com- 
mends the  new  law  to  responsible  statesmen?  For  we  ought  not  to 
foi^et  that  it  by  no  means  originated  with  a  pack  of  journalistic  fire- 
1  rands,  and  that  it  is  ardently  approved  by  more  than  one  powerful 
iiiiin,  who  is  neither  doctrinaire  nor  fanatical  Voltairean.  Tlie  sover- 
eign argument  of  the  political  chiefs  who  approach  the  matter  from 
the  purely  political  side  is  that  which  we  quoted  at  the  outset  of  this 
paper  from  the  speeches  of  'hi,  Gambetta.  Tc  allow  the  Orders  to 
teach,  and  the  bishops  to  direct  faculties  of  superior  education,  is  to 
invite  the  division  6i  the  nation  into  two.  That  half  of  the  nation 
ivhich  is  instructed  in  the  Government  schools  will  imbibe  ono  sot  of 
ideas,  and  the  half  which  is  instructed  in  the  ecclesiastical  schools 
ivill  imbibe  another  set  of  ideas,  the  contraries  of  the  jBrst.  The  two 
,Teat  groups  will  grow  up  to  speak  diffori3nt  languages,  will  be  ani^. 
uated  by  mutually  hostile  arjpirations,  will  not  love  the  same  country, 
Ihey  will  hate  ono  another  as  Oningemcn  and  Papists  hate  ono 
mother  in  Ireland.  Is  not  thin,  wo  are  askod,  exactly  what  has  hap- 
)Lncd  in  Belgium?  In  Belgium  superior  education  is  free,  and  the 
government  universities  and  the  ecclesiastical  universities  are  on  an 
qual  footing.  The  result  is  the  most  distracted  country  in  Europe. 
Belgium  is  in  a  permanent  state  of  civil  war,  which  would  inevitably 
)nd  in  the  violent  disruption  of  its  whole  political  system,  if  it  wer« 


574     THE  FRENCH  REPUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOUC  CHUBCfl: 

not  in  some  sorfc  held  together  by  the  safeguard  of  external  Powers. 
Wc^are  reminded  of  what  was  said  by  a  Belgian  statesman  to  a  wi'itrr 
in  these  pages  a  half-dozen  years  ago: — *  Wo  thought  that  to  found  lib- 
erty it  was  enough  to  prochum  it,  to  guarantee  it,  and  separate  Churcli 
from  State.  With  pain  I  see  that  we  were  mistaken.  The  Church, 
trusting  for  support  to  the  rural  districts,  is  bent  on  imposing  its 
power  absolutely.  The  largo  towTis,  which  have  been  won  over  to 
modem  ideas,  will  not  give  way  without  a  struggle.  We  are  driftin.,' 
to  civil  war,  as  in  France.  Wo  are  already  in  a  revolutionary  situation. 
The  future  before  my  eyes  is  big  with  storms." 

Why,  they  say,  should  the  courso  of  things  run  differently  in  Franco  ? 
There,  too,  the  influence  of  the  Catholic  priesthood  is  enormous,  tl^ 
anybody  may  see  for  himself,  who  does  no  more  thaft  count  up  tli-^. 
legacies  and  donations  conferred  on  ecclesiastical  establishments  and 
religious  congregations.  ^  If  the  men  who  opposed  Federalism  ninety 
years  since  were  right,  it  cannot  bo  wrong  to  opposo  with  might  anJ 
main  this  profounder  destruction  of  the  integrity  of  the  country  tbr.t 
is  going  on  before  our  eyes  in  our  own  day.  Federalism,  meant  no 
more  than  the  political  independence  of  various  sections  of  the  hmd; 
but  what  France  has  to  confront  nov/  is  a  peril  that  goes  inSnitely 
deeper  than  mere  political  separatism,  a  peril  that  means  fierce  moral 
dissension,  anarchic  hatred  of  citizen  for  citizen,  a  severance  of  a  great 
nation  of  brethren  into  two  cami)3  of  furious  and  irreconcilable  foes. 
It  is  the  dragon's  teeth  of  Cadmus  that  liberty  permits  the  church  to 
sow  throughout  France. 

Tho  forfce  of  such  considerations  as  these,  nobody  will  be  likely  to 
deny,  who  has  reflected  on  the  conditions  and  destinies  of  the  Catholic 
societies  of  Europe  and  South  America.  There  is  a  real  peril,  but  tbo 
question  between  us  and  tho  French  government  turns  on  the  way  in 
which  it  should  bo  met.  It  cannot  bo  met  in  all  Catholic  countries  in 
tho  same  way,  and  there  is  no  common  canon  of  political  criticism  tlijr 
will  rule  each  case.  Tho  Falk  Laws,  for  instance,  are  on  a  differcn: 
plane  from  M.  Ferry's  law,  because  Dr.  Falk  was  imi)osin3  rostrictioc'^ 


^L. 


(1)  These  tloiintions  and  logacios  nro  onlv  valid  on  condition  tint  tlie^  liaro  1"«t 
autiiorised  by  decree  of  the  President  of  iho  Kopublio  in  tho  Council  of  Stat«.  'I  i  ' 
olUcial  report  which  has  boon  pnbliflhn<l  jis  to  tlio  decrees  submitteil  to  the  Coqkc.I 
or  State  shoM's  tho  extent  cttho  gifts  and  bequests inadu dorln;^  the  Hve  jcursbetu lxm 
18?'-J  and  1677,  diatriuutod  tis  follows: — 

Contrr^pntions  reli«:icu8es lfi,.340,.'544  f. 

Taroisse-s     .     .     .  ". 2t»,y29.13^ 

Evdchcd 5,134.890 

Cures 3,190,05) 

B6nunaires 2,4.J6,327 

Ecoies  Beuoudaircs  ceclosiostUiucs    ...  1, 153,856 

Chapitroa 253,-^»9 

MalHouu  do  retraite 203,157 

Total 5,331,189f: 

That  is  to  say,  about  two  milliODS  and  a  (j[uai*tcr  BtcrUn^f  iu  all. 


THE  FBENCH  EEPUBUO  AND  THE  GATHOIjIO  CHUBCH.     575 

if  a  disciplinary  and  other  kinds  on  a  paid  and  privileged  Churoh  of 
liie  Btato,  and  I  for  one  have  never  been  able  to  see  that  a  paid  and 
privileged  Church  has  any  business  to  complain,  if  its  pay  end  priv- 
ileges are  granted  on  conditions.  M.  Ferry,  on  tho  other  hand,  im- 
poses a  restriction  on  a  class  who  neither  receive  nor  aak  anything 
from  the  State,  except  to  be  left  alone.  But  if  thj  two  Kctfj  oi  Liws 
were  more  alike  than  they  are,  wo  should  still  liavo  to  tako  into  con- 
sideration the  different  historitjs  of  the  French  and  Germans,  tae 
different  conditions  of  their  populations,  the  different  relations  that 
iiave  subsisted  between  the  government  and  the  clergy  in  tho  history 
of  tbo  two  countries;  and  it  might  appear  thnt  restrictions  were  right 
and  expedient  in  the  one  case,  which  would  be  neither  rig'at  nor  ex- 
pedient in  the  other.  Belgium,  again,  stands  distinctly  witnin  historic 
conditions  of  its  own,  and  there  are  some  observers  who  think  that 
the  Liberals  of  that  country  lost  their  last  chance  when  they  wore  cut 
#offfrom  Holland. 

But  France  is  not  ^Belgium.  In  spite  of  divisions  so  intense  that 
they  sometimes  might  almost  make  one  suspect  that  tho  moral  anarchy 
which  her  statesmen  dread  has  already  come  upon  her,  hor  peopU 
have  historic  traditions,  economic  interests,  an  incomparable  vivacity 
of  intelligence,  a  constant  accessibility  to  ideas,  which  might  b< 
trusted  to  protect  them  for  the  next  century,  as  they  have  done  in  th« 
last,  against  the  new  invasion  of  superstition  anl  bigotry.  If  the 
ecclesiastical. influence  grows,  it  is  at  least  due  to  voluntary  adhesion. 
If  parents  choose  to  send  their  sons  to  schools  under  ecclesiastical  di- 
rection, there  must  be  an  attraction  of  some  kind  in  such  schools,  anl 
what  the  Government  ought  to  do  is  not  to  drive  out  tho  teachers  and 
close  the  doors,  but  to  bestir  itself  to  provide  higher  attractions  of  its 
own.  That  the  Bepublican  Grovemmc**  is  active  in  spreading  its 
Bchools,  we  are  aware.  Tho  budget  for  primary  instruction  has  gone 
up  since  1870  from  eleven  millions  of  francs  to  thirty  millions.  The 
budget  for  superior  instruction  has  been  more  than  doubled  v/^ithin 
six  years.  Building  and  equipment  of  institutions  for  superior  in- 
Btmction  are  going  on  in  Paris  and  the  Departments,  to  the  amount 
of  two  millions  sterling.  Fine  laboratories  are  being  built.  New 
chairs  are  founded.  The  School  of  Medicine  is  being  reconstructed. 
The  School  of  Chemistry  is  nearly  linished.  The  old  Sorbonne  will 
noon  make  room  for  a  monument  worthy  of  its  imperishable  name. 
Why  not  remain  in  this  good  way?  Why  not  drive  out  the  congrega- 
tionists,  if  they  are  to  be  driven  out,  not  by  doubtful  repression,  but 
by  vigorous  competition  ? 

There  is  a  still  more  important  question  to  which  no  proper  nnswer 
is  to  be  had.  Is  the  sentiment  of  the  French  nation  in  favour  of  legis- 
lation of  this  kind,  or  against  ft  ?  If  the  common  sentiment  is  against 
it,  then  it  is  inconsistent  with  the  principles  of  sound  government, 
to  force  a  law  for  which  opinion  is  not  only  not  prepared,  but  against 
which  it  is  actively  hostile.  If  on  the  contrary,  the  common  sentiment 
is  in  favour  of  it,  then  the  law  is  superliuous;  it  cannot  bo  worth  while 


576  THE  FBENOH  BEPUBLIO  AND  THE  CATHOUC  CHURCH. 

to  introduce  legislation  of  the  most  violently  irritating  kind,  merely  to 
guard  the  nation  against  perils  from  which  its  own  firm  prepossetj. 
sions  would  guard  it  independently  of  legislation.  The  law  is  eitlier 
impotent,  or  it  is  unnecessary.  We  ask  what  it  is  that  the  Hadicvils 
dread  in  the  teaching  of  the  clericals,  and  yno  arc  told  that  what  th.-v 
dread  and  what  they  are  fighting  against  is  nob  the  theology^  but  the 
politics  of  the  clerical  teachers.  Wo  press  the  matter  with  im^jcr tri- 
nity, and  ask  what  it  is  that  they  are  afraid  of  in  tho  politics  of  the 
clericala  The  answer  is  that  they  will  bias  the  minds  of  their  pupils 
against  the  republic,  against  civil  marriage,  in  favour  of  the  old  aii.-- 
tocratic  system,  in  favour  of  the  old  system  of  landed  property.  This 
is  the  best  answer  that  is  given  by  the  most  intelligent  of  the  advo- 
cates of  the  bilL  But  what  can  bo  mora  incredible,  more  contrary  to 
notorious  cxperienco,  than  that  the  eon  of  the  French  peasant  shouli 
lend  an  ear  to  direct  maxims  or  privy  inuendoes  against  the  most  si-- 
cred,  inoradicablo,  violent,  fundamental  of  all  the  assumptions  of  the 
daily  life  of  his  homo !  The  peasant's  strongest  passion  is  his  passion 
for  liis  l::ncl,  and  his  most  inveterate  hate  is  liis  hate  against  the  mem- 
ories of  his  old  regime.  Words  are  powerful,  no  doubt;  but  wha* 
words  from  priest  or  congregationist  will  avail  against  the  overwhelm- 
ing motives  of  independence,  self-respect,  material  well-being,  and 
against  a  typo  of  living  which  has  been  finally  developed  by  a  century 
of  habit  and  possession  ?  AVhat  is  odd  is  that  the  very  people  who  thiis 
profess  to  dread  the  sinister  teaching  of  the  priest  and  his  allies,  are 
most  confident  in  assurances  to  their  English  friends  that  France  is 
Voltairean  to  the  core;  that  the  peasant  will  go  up  to  his  cur^',  ask  hiin 
for  what  cimdidate  he  intends  to  vote,  and  then  walk  away  to  vote  a^ 
matter  of  course  for  his  rival;  that  there  is  no  real  Catholicism  in 
France  except  among  the  old  families  and  the  upper  bourgeosie  who 
imitate  the  old  families,  as  in  England  our  enriched  dissenter  turns 
Churchman;  that  the  great  mass  of  the  people  of  France  are  willing  to 
respect  the  priest  so  long  as  he  confines  himself  to  his  functions  at 
baptisms  and  funerals,  on  Sundays  and  at  Easter,  but  that  no  creaturo 
in  the  world  is  bo  suspicious,  as  the  peasant,  so  jealous,  BO  umbrageouss 
if  the  priest  attempts  by  onehair's-breadth  to  cross  the  well-defined  line 
that  separates  his  business  from  that  of  other  people.  If  all  this  be  i^"> 
— and  nowhere  is  the  state  of  things  more  graphically  painted  than  hy 
the  clericals  themselves  when  it  suits  them  to  deplore  the  fearful  liiv- 
ages  of  the  Voltairean  wolf  in  the  field — then  where  is  the  penl,  the 
urgency,  the  crying  need  to  save  the  State  ? 

•  Even  if  the  peril  is  really  so  portentous,  and  if  restriction  be  the 
right  method,  then  M.  Ferry's  bill  is  inadequate.  The  conclusion  is 
too  narrow  for  the  premises.  It  is  assumed  that  civil  society  is  men- 
aced in  the  very  foundations  of  its  fabric,  that  the  current  of  ultra- 
montanism  has  burst  its  banks,  end  threatens  to  flood  modem  civili- 
zation in  a  sombre  deluge  of  superstition  and  absolutism.  Education 
is  only  a  pretext.  Eeligious  Of)inions  are  only  a  mask  for  politics,  and 
for  a  war  to  the  knife  against  civil  and  political  laws.    If  this  he  bo. 


THEEH^a^GHBEFUBXICAKBTHEGA'THOLIOGHnBGH.    577 

the  liberaiS  enr,  HKfold  it  not  be  to  show  otMelres  tho  dnpefl  of  mere 
vords  to  ies&am  ittaeliTe  and  disanned  befoxe  a  foe  whose  dexterity 
and  whoee  daring  are  e^^oally  nnbonnded?   Opinion,  lire  are  tolci, 
does  not  demand  pexseentiQZi,  bnt  what  it  innsta  upon  is  that  the  gov- 
cmment  shall  stand  firm  against  the  storm  that  has  been  let  loose  bj 
an  iirepressible  and  lawless  order.    Bnt  if  so  forniidable  a  tempest  is 
iinehamed,  are  not  those  ri^ht  Who  ask  whether  yon  are  likely  to  force 
the  swollen  torrent  back  to  its  bed  by  closing  eSghty-nine  ecclesiasti- 
cal colleges,  and  forbidding  some  seven  thousand  eongregatiomilists — 
eight  hundred  of  them  Jesmts— from  teaching?    7%e  heart  of  the 
derieal  peril  is  not  in  the  Jesnits  or  the  nnanthorised  congregations. 
It  is  the  authorised  oongrejgations  With  whom  yon  ought  to  d^ 
boldljr,  becatne  the  authorised  congregations  control  primary  in- 
stmction,  and  primary  instruction  is  everywhere  admitted  to  be 
within  the  exclnsite  functions  of  the  States    The  answer  is  that  this 
will  come  in  good  timsi    At  present  the  normal  schools  for  training 
government  teachers  are  whoUy  unequal  to  supply  the  required  num- 
Der.    Action  is  already  taken  towards  establishing  a  normal  school  in 
each  deporixdent,  but  the  process  is  still  incomplete.    It  is  well  known, 
too,  that  a  strong  and  comprehensive  measure  is  being  prepared  for 
making  attendanceat  school  compulsory.    If  you  will  only  weit^  say  the 
ministerialists,  you  will  See  that  we  are  not  so  impotent  as  to  suppose 
onr  task  to  be  nnished  with  the  indirect  suppression  of  the  free  facul- 
ties, and  the  direct  suppression  of  the  unauthorised  teachers.    But 
th^i  why  have  begun  this  immense  process  by  a  restriction  which 
divides  uberals,  and  incenses  clericals,  without  any  sort  of  ptopor- 
tionate  gain  ? 

Final^,  there  is  a  vital  objection  to  the  policy  of  the  bill,  and  it  is 
simply  this.  The  law  will  inevitably  be  without  effective  operation. 
This  is  an  objection  so  fatal,  and  so  undeniable,  that  we  are  perplexed 
to  understand  how  the  able  men  who  support  the  new  policy  can  per- 
sist. An  ardent  and  influential  advocate  of  the  bill  confessed  to  the 
present  writer,  in  the  midst  of  a  vigorous  and  unflinching  contention 
on  its  behalf  his  intimate  oonviction  that  its  provisions  would  be 
evaded.  Kobody  doubts  it.  At  the  Catholic  confess  in  Paris  a  few 
days  ago  a  lay  member,  a  lawyer,  drew  a  pathetic  picture  of  the  unfor- 
tunates whom  the  new  bill  would  strip  of  their  profession  and  their 
livehhood,  and  send  wandering  over  their  native  land,  proscripts  with- 
in the  bosom  of  their  own  country.  The  thought  of  such  a  spectacle 
filled  hini  with  sombre  thoughts  and  crushed  his  heart.  But  the  orator 
soon  took  comfort.  After  au,  the  laws  of  the  Church  allow  the  Pope  to 
relieve  ft  member  of  a  religious  order  from  his  vows.  Many  members, 
he  said,  wHl  no  doubt  be  so  relieved  ;  and  these  will  be  the  most 
devout,  the  most  strongly  attached  to  their  order,  in  general  the 
superiors  of  houses.  They  may  have  been  Jestdts,  Marists,  Domini- 
cans, Endists,  and  so  forth,  but  they  will  be  so  no  longer.  What  can 
your  new  law  say  to  them  ?  Yet  their  spirit,  methods,  aims,  all  that 
you  snppotfe  yon  are  going  to  annihilate,  will  remain  ezactiy  what 

L.  M.— L— 19. 


678     THE  FRENCH  EEFUBLIC  AND  THE  CATHOUO  CHUliCEL 


I 


they  were.  It  ban  been  said  indeed  that  the  govennent  tHII  meet  ihln 
.by  exacting  a  declaration  from,  eveiy  candidate  who  is  a  priest^  not 
only  that  he  is  not,  but  that  he  never  has  been,  a  member  of  one  of  the 
non-authorisecL  orders.  But  Btich  a  design  can  hardly  be  sexiourily 
maintained. 

Then  there  are  the  Jesnita  of  the  short  robe — the  laymen,  with  -wives 
and  children,  living  exactly  as  other  men  do.  Nobody  knows  that  they 
belong  to  the  order.  Is  some  inqnisitorial  process  to  be  set  up  for 
compellingthem  to  disclose  their  secret?  It  is  impossible.  Finally,  | 
the  same  ingenuity  which  enables  the  orders  to  evade  the  laws  about 
proper^  woxdd  infaUibly  serve  to  evade  the  proposed  laws  about  educa- 
tion. Jm  the  case  of  property,  prite-noms  hold  on  trust.  In  the  case  of 
education,  the  superior  of  an  establishment  might  cease,  under  the 
compulsion  of  the  law,  to  preside  over  it^  but  it  would  be  easy  to  pro- 
vide that  he  shoxdd  be  replaced  by  a  successor  who  would  obey  the 
same  inspirations  and  zealously  carry  out  the  same  system,  now  erected 
into  a  point  of  honour,  and  consecrated  by  persecution. . 

All  tiiese  considerations  are  so  obvious,  the  flaws  in  the  logic  of  the 
defenders  of  restriction  and  repression  are  so  plain  and  decisiye,  that 
calm  onlookers  may  well  suspect  that  the  bill  is  rather  of  the  nature  of 
a  weapon  of  retaliation,  than  a  well-considered  attempt  to  reoouBtituto 
national  education.  We  may  understnndthe  desire  of  a  French  liberal 
to  be  avenged  on  the  party  which  for  so  many  years  has  kept  his 
country  in  an  inextricable  network  of  fiery  perils!  But  this  is  a  mere 
infirmity  of  the  flesh.  Hatred  is  not  in  the  catalogue  of  a  statesman's 
virtues.  Party  revenge  is  no  fit  passion  for  a  man  who  loves  his 
country.  Let  the  clericals  steal  our  maxims,  but  neVer  let  ih.em  tempt 
us  into  borrowing  their  methods. 

Jowx  MoiccET,  m  The  Fbrtrnghtfy  Beview. 


COMMERCIAL  DEPEESSION  AND  RECIPROCITY. 

The  commercial  distress  continues.  The  suffering  it  creates  is 
scarcely  abated.  It  began,  it  may  be  said,  with  the  American  -finaTiffiftl 
crisis  m  1873;  it  then  spread,  more  or  less,  over  the  whole  world, 
especially  amongst  the  nations  most  distinguished  by  civilisation,  by 
industrial  energy,  and  by  commercial  abiUty.  It  has  visited  mankind 
with  a  depression  unequalled  for  width  of  range  and  inteoisity  of 
suffering  and  duration.  Great  populations  are  bowed  down  with 
markets  destitute  of  buyers,  with  profits  diminished  or  extinguished 
altogether,  with  wages  ever  sinking,  labourers  thrown  out  of  employ- 
ment, thdr  families  reduced  to  misery,  great  factories  and  mines 
ceasing  to  work,  merchants  and  shopkeepers  paralysed  with  losses,  the 
once  well-off  brought  to  poverty  by  failing  dividexids,  impoverishment 
working  its  way  into  well-nigh  every  household.    These  are  feaxfol 


COMMEBCIAL  DEPRESSION  AND  REdPEOCITY.         579 

erents:  Btiil  more  is  a  depression,  prevailing  for  so  many  years  in  an 
age  marked  by  unprecedented  industrial  and  cwmmercial  power,  a 
phenomenon  calculated  to  excite  wonder.  By  what  causes  con  such  a 
desolation  have  been  brought  about?  Civilisation  never  was  so  strong 
before,  with  powerful  machinery  for  the  production  of  wealth.  At  no 
preceding  time  has  euch  a  breadth  of  cultivated  land  been  applied  to 
the  support  of  human  life.  The  instruments  for  distributing  wealth — 
Bhips '  and  railroads — were  never  so  abundant.  The  nations  of  the 
world  have  been  w;elded  together  into  a  compact  whole,  and  distant 
lands  have  been  made  close  neighbours  to  each  other  by  inventions 
which  a  century  ago  would  have  filled  every  mind  with  astonishment. 
By  what  conceivable  force  has  it  come  to  pass,  amidst  resources  so 
many  and  so  mighty,  that  impoverishment,  destitution,  and  misery 
have  raised  their  heads  in  every  region  of  the  globe? 

An  eager  search  for  the  causes  which,  have  generated  so  terrible  a 
calamity  has  occupied  the  thoughts  of  Xiountles?  minds.  The  press  of 
every  country  has  abounded  with  suggested  explanations  of  tbo  disas- 
ter. Parliaments  and  Chambers  of  Commerce  have  eagerly  debated 
the  source  of  so  much  suffering.  All  classes  of  society,  tho  rich  and 
the  working  men,  have  ardently  discussed  the  dark  problem;  every 
kind  of  theory  has  been  brought  forward  for  rendering  such  distress 
^intelligible.  Men  of  the  highest  ability,  statesmen  and  traders,  great 
employers  and  leaders  of  unions,  have  poured  out  explanations,  and 
have  founded  on  them  the  proposal  of  remedies;  nevertheless,  it  can- 
not be  yet  said  that  a  clear  understanding  of  the  real  nature  of  the 
depression  and  of  its  originating  cause  has  been  reached  and  generally 
recognised,  A  further  investigation  seems  not  pnly  allowable  but 
needed. 

In  the  first  place,  "What  is  the  meaning  of  the  expression-— commer- 
cial depression?  Want  of  buyers,  deficiency  of  buying  power,  mar- 
kets unable  to  tate  off  the  goods  made  and  repay  their  cost  of  produc- 
tion. Makers  and  sellers  are  depressed;  they  cannot  find  the  indio- 
pensable  buyers.  But  why  are  buyers  few  and  weak  ?  Because  there 
IS  an  immense  diminution  of  the  means  of  purchasing.  In  what  does 
purchasing  power  consist?  In  goods  to  give  in  exchange;  these  are 
the  things  with  which  buying  is  made.  Money,  it  is  true,  whether  of 
coin  or  paper,  is  the  actual  instrument  of  buying  and  selling;  but 
money  is  only  a  tool  for  exchanging  purposes,  mid  must  itself  be  pro- 
cured by  the  buyer  by  a  previous  sale  or  his  own  goods.  Every  pur- 
chase with,  money  implies  a  previous  sale  of  goods  for  acquiring  the 
money;  bence  each  such  purchase  is  only  half  a  transaction.  The 
hatter  sells  his  hat  for  a  sovereign,  and  with  that  sovereign  buys  a  pair 
of  shoes;  the  hat  has  been  exchanged  for  shoes.  It  was  the  hat  which 
bought  tho  shoes;  and  the  great  truth  stands  out  clear  that  all  power 
of  buying  resides  ultimately  in  commodities. 

Hence  we  can  answer  the  question,  Why  is  there  commercial  de- 
pression? Because  there  are  few  commodities,  few  goods  to  buy  with. 
Thus  trade  becolnes  stagnant,  mills  and  factories  are  pexalysed  or  work 


580         GOMMEBGUL  D£a?£ESSION  AND  KEQPBOam. 


II 


on  a  smaller  scale,  money  markets  are  agitated,  banks  ai)4  great  ^im? 
break,  from  one  single  cause — ^^goods  to  buy  with  are  deficient.  Thosa 
who  formerly  had  produced  wealth,  and  with  it  procured  money  where- 
with to  purchaBo,  no  longer  possess  such  wealth;  they  have  no  good?, 
or  few,  and  the  markets  are  struck  with  palsy,  and  makers,  both  mas- 
ters and  labourers,  are  Tisited  with  serious  loss  or  ruin,  simply  through 
lack  of  buyers.  This  explanation  places  r.s  at  the  heart  of  the  com- 
mercial depression-  Manufacturers  and  sellers  cannot  dispose  of  the 
commodities  they  have  j^roduced,  because  the  usual  purohasets  have 
ffew  or  no  goods  wherewith  to  buy.  The  question  immediAtely  ariBee^ 
JHow  came  it  to  pass  that  the  buyers  and  consumers  lost  their  poverof 
purchasing,  have  fewer  goods  to  give  in  exchange?  fy  consequence 
of  a  general  fact  which  was  itself  i£g  result  of  many  possible  causes. 
There  has  been  over-consumption,  more  has  been  <K)iis;amed  and 
destroyed  than  was  made  to  replace  the  consumption.  Over-consump- 
tion did  the  mischief.  It  left  a  net  diminution  of  the  stock  of  com- 
modities to  exchange,  and  thereby  brought  consumers  and  would-bo 
buyers  to  poverty. 

jbut  what  is  over-consumption?  Are  not  all  things,  all  wealth,  con- 
sumed? They  are;  all  articles  made  are  consumed  and  deetioyed; 
some  very  swiftly,  such  as  food,  coals,  and  the  like;  others  very  slowty, 
such  as  engines,  buildings,  ships,  and  generally  all  fixed  capital  So 
far,  consumption  is  universal  and  over-consumption  is  a  phrase 
which  cannot  be  used.  But  here  a  distinction  comes  into  play,  which 
explains  the  nature  and  essence  of  over-consumption.  AU  consum- 
able ihings  divide  themselves  into  two  classes— first»  capital;  and  sec- 
ondly, luxuries  or  enjoyments.  The  test  which  discriminates  be- 
tween the  two  is  this^capital  is  consumed  and  destroyed,  bnt  is  re- 
stored in  ijbs  integrity,  if  business  is  sound,  in  the  wetdth  produced; 
luxuries  disappear,  and  leave  nothing  behind  them.  The  food  and 
clothing  of  the  labourers,  the  manures  bought  and  laid  out  on  the 
land,  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  ploughs,  are  all  reproduced  in  the 
wheat  grown.  The  consumption  of  the  hounds  and  huntsmen  gen- 
erates nothing  but  enjoyment.  Capital,  we  know,  is  the  sum  total  of 
all  the  things  whidi  are  necessary  for  the  production  of  wealth;  and  it 
is  clear  that  if  the  capital  thus  destroyed  is  restored  in  full  in.  the 
products  realized,  the  making  power  of  the  nation  will  remain  un- 
diminished, its  possession  of  wealth  will  continue  the  same,  its  buy- 
ing and  selHng  will  go  on  as  usual,  and  no  commercial  depression  wiH 
make  its  appearance.  The  nation  will  retain  its  prosperity; there  wiU 
be  the  same  quanti^  of  commodities  to  be  exchanged.  But  now  re- 
verse the  process.  Let  a  portion  of  the  capital  destroyed  be  not  re- 
placed by  the  products;  the  necessary  consequence  will  be  that  with 
lessened  producing  power  there  will  be  a  diminution  of  the  wealth 
made.  Tne  nation  will  now  be  poorer;  it  has  less  to  consume.  The 
cause  is  qI  onc^  visible— the  capital  has  been  destroyed  and  restored 
only  in  part:  this  is  true  over-consumption. 

Mere  trui^ns,  we  sh^  bo,  told — everybody  knows  them.    Perfectly 


DEFBESBIOK  Am>  BEGSPSOGIT?.        Q^ 


*i>/.i;.i:'{:(»ir.ifan:Kvf4'j^;:ui]:v.iv'iiK;4yftii*^;^i:c 


friu;  iMit  fandtans  aire  tlM  i^od^  ihtd  gMatest  fsnes  of  politieal  ooon- 
omj.  Mnoh  jnoxe»  fei  iroisix^  are  efv^zlAStum^y  fcMrgokea;  the^  are 
the  last  iifaanga  whi<^  ooenr  to  lihe  minds  of  eyen  able  and  mtelligent 
men  for  the  explaining  of  eooaomieal  pheiK>meiia.  Thef  are  not 
dever,  net  subtle  enon«t;  they  belong  too  mnoh  to  ererybodj;  bat» 
hj  being  paasad  ovek,  tkey  leaVis  faots  and  their  caaaea  nnexpla^ned. 

And  iaov  let  ub  cast  ont  eyea  aionnd  uc^  and  tnr  whetiber  we  can 
diaeover  OTer^eoauni»]ftion  enon^  io  flooonnt  for  the  magnitnde  and 
aererity  of  the  eom&eveial  depres^on.  Bnt  >>efoie  doing  this,  it  is 
dflaizabls  to  ma^  »  feyr  remorka  on  isome  ex2)lanationB  wtuolh  have 
been  lazgely  j^uabited  on  as  r^tealing  the  origin  of  t^e  suffering.  I^e 
most  popxLHKr  is  ovebprodnction:  toe  nkany  goods,  it  is  said,  bnye  been 
made.  The  4^Band»  the  natnml  demand,  of  the  markets  has  -been 
exceeded;  nnsaleablfneas  aad^loes  die  (4le  inevitEd)le  ocMiseqnences. 
It  is  tron  that  thece  has  becA  over-pf^np^n,  and  it  is  perhaps  still 
Blightiy  going  on;  but  it  wlM  the  second^  ncit  the  first  'stage  of  the 
muady.  Specnlatire  ovex^prodHction  is  a  vety  eonuaaon  oconiT^Aoe. 
Xhe  wealth  d  a  pazticttlar  market  is  oy^r-estimated;  adt^ntwSBrs  push 
foiwaad,  the  macket  faeoomes  glittted,  and  loss  ensues.  But  snoh 
oTer-pzodnction  does  not  last  long;  it  epeedi^  eorreets  itseii^  and 
^»eculstion  of  this  Jdnd  neyer  is  found  existing  in  all  maikets  at  the 
dame  iime.  Now  ihe  leading  feature  of  the  depression  is  its  imiyer>- 
salit^;  it  sho(ws  itself  in<dmoet  all  oountries  sunultaneously;  and  this 
is  detosive  against  overrptoduotion  being  i<»  origin.  Genexal  over- 
prodnjction  is  impossible  till  the  miHennium  errivee,  wh^i  every  man 
riiall  have  w»alth  and  enjoyment,. shall  be  rieh,  to  the  utmost  extent 
of  his  desireS)  and  no  ono  will  be  willing  to  woric  in  order  to  obtain 
more. 

A^tnj  of  the  forking  classes  have  laid  the  blame  of  the  stiffexing  on 
the  miBecmduct  of  manufadtureis  who  htsve  adtilteiated  their  ^oods 
and  dziyen  off  consumers  tsom  bn^^^ng  them.  But  this  expkmation  is 
a  oomplete  mistake.  The  unwoifthy,  the  insane  b^iaviour  of  sudi 
misdoers  cannot  be  too  severely  reprolMtied;  hut  it  would  not  cteate  a 
universal  depreeaiosfa.  English  ctwleoes,  unsaleable  m  CSiina,  could 
not  odceotestagnadon  of  t^ade  in  America,  in  Ftanoe,  and  in  Qexsoanys 
on  the  oontnsy,  It  would  tend  to  impart  inoreaaed  activiiy  to  rivi^ 
who  now  ooaid  oompete  wiUi  teJ>eQial  oredit  against  British  makexs  in 
foreign  landSb 

Anothev  ^Explanation  of  ^e  ixmimteeial  distvess  has  vaoently  come 
forward  in  soma  quarters;  and  much  stress  has  been  laid  upon  it  by 
Lord  fieaconafieldl  in  a  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords,  on  the  depres- 
sion of  agriculture.  "Gkud,"  it  is  alleged,  "is  every  day  appreciattng 
in  valuer  aadd  as  it  iajbpreoiates  in  vi2ue  the  lower  become  prices. 
The  mines  of  the  world  furnish  diminishing  suppUes  of  the  metal  in 
which  prices  are  estimated;  it  is  becoming  scarcer,  whilst  the  wants 
for  coin,  as  tvade  devMops  itself  in  new  countries,  aie  oontmuaU^  in- 
creasing. The  metal  is  scaroer  and  in  gx^tater  demand ;  its  valu^^ses, 
and  consequently  less  of  It^  as  price,  is  giVen  ^r  oommo<^tiea.  :Tmdk 
ets  encounter  lowering  pricosi  and  oro  plunged  into  losses. 


682        C0MM£IEOIAL  BEPBESSION  AHB  BEdEBOGITY. 

Sttch'  Is*  t1i6  t^edtt*  ^^*  «^«n^"  i^  *^  fi'c**'  *«^  'wiiich  it  ta  fbtmdMr 
were  es^bUshed  it  ^oxiSd  ftu^it^  no  teal  explafiationof  a  coiiftiiiemal 
depi^^ki^b  iltopiDf^rfecftect.  'GoId»  it  "SB  affinndd,  is  appreciated;  Imi 
wMtld'tKfe  »ptbof  of'tfie'trtlth'of  thiftassettion?  There  are  very  few 
faotx^  hardier  to  ^roVe  or  disprore  thaii  an  increase  or  decrease  of  the 
value  of  gold  oonipaTed  with  that  of  other  comkhodities.  The  process 
for  disefotetin^  the  iexlstenee  and  the' magnitude*  of  Ba«h  a  fiM^ismOst 
difficnlt.  To-  show' that  the  minefe  have  poured*  smaller  miaDtities  of 
the  metiil  liitd  the'i)rorld  by  itself  alone  is  no  proof  attdl  thait  its  value 
has  mounted  Up;  the  IkCtual  etisftence  of  that  rise  of  value  must  be 
demon^ifeted;  and  a  change  in  the  su^^plyaffords  no'cnch  ptaof.  The 
effeot  of  tiie  lessened  piV^dxieti^oif  mtist  l!e  distinctiv  shown';  and  how 
is  this  to  "be  done?  Gbld,  iii  tt  conntry  where  it  ia  the  standa^,  ineas- 
nres  evcttj" value  of  every  commodity,  loi  idl  have  iheir^  prices  given  in 
gold.  A  Sh^ge  ih  the  v41ue  of -goid  ftffeots  every  price;  and  that 
there'  hae  been  Bki(Ai  'a'generat  ehan^4  of  prices  hunt  be  shown  by 
evei^  |n4ce  being  e^ufifiy  altered.  '  But  a  iintal  diHELcoIty  besets  this 
eal^sUlatiott.-  The'  pneem  er&iy  article  ean  vairy  in  two  ways.  In  ex- 
ehangi'ftgit  foft  gold,  the  Value  of  the  ^old,  on  tne  one  side,  may  have 
changed,  taid  lesd  or  more  of  it^will  be  ^ven*for  the  commodity.  But 
at  the  v^^  same  time;  on  the  other 'side,  the  value  of  the  commodity 
also'  i§^ay 'ne(ve-fitltered,  ^m  causes  connected  v^th  its  production;  and 
so  ir^o' forces  may  be  telling  upon  it  at  the  same  moment,  and  they 
may  be'  ^aeting-in  opposite  directions.  The  changed  vidue  of  the 
metal' maj*  be' lowering  ^e  price,  whilst  the  new  circumstances  of  the 
article  sold  maybe  lidding  it  up.  Thus  the  investigator  enoounteis 
oonfliethig  ^henc^mena  leading  to  opposite  oonduisions,  whilst  the 
validity  of  his  proof,  that  there  has  been  appreciation  or  depreciation, 
depends  'absoiutdy  on  his  establishinifi^  that  all  prices  have  alike  been 
a^ected^  by  the  change  in  the  value  of  gold.  To  arrive  at  a  conclusion 
that  i&  trustworthy;  he  must  deal  with  the  contradictory  evidence 
given  'by  the  tti^icles  whose  prices  have  moved  in  what  he  oonsideis 
the  wrong  direction.  He  must  look  into  their  history,  and  point  out 
the  forces  which  te  each  case  have  beto  more  than  a  match  for  the 
altered  value  Of  gold.  £d  these  inTBi^oations;  such  articles  are  idwajs 
numdrous:>-and  vast,  complicated,  and  ofimoertain  jsene  ia  the  task 
to  attain  A  z^esult  whi<^  can  be  depended  u^n  as  true^  It  was  largely 
and  confidently  held  that  the  new  discoveries  of  Galifomian  and  Aus- 
tralian gbld  h&d' created  a  great  depreeiation'bf  gold.  I  am  compelled 
to  confbss  that  in  presence  of  eounter>movemente  of  price  in  so  many 
important  articles  of  general  consumption,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
feel  that  that  prppOiBition  had  been  made  good. 

The  variation,  theti,  in  the  supply  of  the  metal  is  in  nowioe  snffident 
evidence  of  a  corresponding  change  of  prices,  especially  in  a  case  like 
that  before'  us ;  when,  as  another  writer  has  pmnted  out  in  the  PcM 
MaU  thuiOt^  April  %  1879,  "  the  average  annuf^  production  of  gold  in 
all  quarters  has  been  very  little  less  tlutn  it  was  twenty  years  ago.  For 
the  seven  years,  1872-1^8,  there  was  a  diminution  of  8  percent. ;  not 


DEPBES8I(»T  AND  HEOIFBOCITY.        583 

a  decreoBe  likely  to  pTodnce  snch  a  fall  of  50  to  80  per  cent,  in  general 
piioes  as  we  see  around  tifi."  -^Then  there  arises  the  critical  question — 
&ye  no  forces  come  into  play  to  ooxmteract  the  tendency  of  a  dimin- 
ifllied  supply  to  cause  appreciation  ?  *'  Pifty-nine  millions  of  gold  were 
added  to  the  banking  reseryes,  which  are  specifically  a  support  and 
stimulus  to  credit  and  trade.*'  Other  machinerv  also  has  been  brought 
to  combat  tiie  hypothetical  increased  value  of  the  gold ;  other  pontriy- 
azices  to  perform  the  same  work,  so  as  to  render  nugatory  the  reduced 
Bupply.  "In  the  United  Kingdom  there  are  seyeral  more  bank  offloes 
now  tnan  in<  1872.  In  the  leading  Continental  countries  this  increase 
of  such'fadlities  has  been  fax  neater ;  and  the  same  is  true  of  all  North, 
and  of  a  large  part  of  South  America."  A  Parlimentary. Committee, 
even  under  the  authority  of  the  Prime  Minister,  would  hove  but  scanty 
materiafls  for  establishing  the  fact  of  an  appreciation  of  gold. 

Bui  a  far  stronger  reason  can  be  ^ven  lor  disoonneGtmfl  a  variation 
in  the  value  of  gold  from  the  creati(m  of  Ihe  commerciar  depression 
which  has  so  long  prevailed.  Granted,  let  us  say,  thotthere  Is  apprecia- 
tion—that gold  is  worth  more  of  all  other  commodities — that  all  prices 
kaye  dropped,  because  a  smaller  quantity  of  gold  has  the  same  power  in 
exchanging  that  the  larger  previously  possessed.  What  possible  effect 
can  Budh  an  event  produce  in  engendering  a  long-continued  oommei^ 
dal  depression?  The  appreciation  attacks  all  prices  alike;  all  articles 
of  every  kind  now  sell  for  leas,  save  where  circumstances  incident  to 
the  artide  itself  battle  against  the  fall  of  nominal  value.  All  pdmmodi-' 
ties,  everything  for  sale,  stand  in,  identically  the  same  position  towards 
each  other.  Tne  seller  of  tea,  with  less  money  received,  can  buy  as 
much  bread  or  clothing  as  before,  for  they  too  stand  at  a  lower  price. 
A  universal  reduction  of  all  prices  has  no  importance.  A  sovereign 
does  its  work  with  precisely  the  same  efficiency,  whether  it  is  worth 
ten  shillings  or  thirty.  The'  change  of  prices  creates  no  poverty ;  there 
is  the  same  quantity  of  wealth  in  the  country  as  before,  save  only  in  re- 
spect bf  the  use  of  gold  in  the  arts.  Gold  ornaments  become  dearer  in 
the  future;  that  is  all.  Commercial  depression,  we  have  seen,  means 
diminished  power  of  buying;  who  can  buy  one  particle  thd  less,  be- 
cause all  pnces  have  gone  up  or  down  ?  If  a  man  sells  at  a  smaller 
figure,  he  also  buys  at  the  same  reduction.  •  Trade  can  be,  will  be,  so 
far,  as  brisk  as  ever,  the  artistic  employment  of  gold  excepted.  Coin 
is  only  a  tooL  It  brings  no  riches  to  a  nation ;  no  buying  power.  The 
great  service  it  renders  to  men  is  to  get  over  tiie  difficulties  of  real  bar- 
ter. If  appreciation  or  depreciation  of  gold  drove  society  to  barter,  then 
the  evil  would  be  enormous;  but  a  cnange  of  value  acts  only  on  the 
manner  of  ueing  the  tool  of  exchange.  A  greater  or  less  weight  of 
metal  has  to  be  employed,  and  there  ends  the  matter.  What  conceive 
ble  depressicm  of  trade  is  found  in  altering  the  weight^  of  a  tool,  however 
universal  it  be  ? 

Nevertheless,  a  change  in  the  value  of  the  currency,  especially  if  it 
is  sudden  and  large,  always  produces  very  grievous  havoc,  but  not 
commercial  depression.    It  creates  thorough  disturbance  in  the  rela- 


®i     oommmML  immamosi  and  ^mcwmocmri, 

tions  w)lie|i  d^btwp  «9d  cied^is  t>ea?  t^  oo(^  <^or.  ^  toiefits  ono. 
clas8»  i^nd  equally  iigures  %h&  other.  The  debtor  who  is  pledged  to 
paf  a  certain  numl^r  of  80vereigns»  if  there  l^ag  bedzi  ^ppfodatioQ*  is 
ocnpipeUed  to  pnrohaso  those  Bovereigns  with  ^  larjger  quantity  of  his 
wealth:  ho  loses.  Oa  the  other  hand  his  oreditor  is  uow  able  to  pnr- 
chcisa  more  gooda  with  the  same  coin:  what  th«  debtor  loses  he  wins. 
Thus  great  disorder  ariseSt  much  suffering  and  mie^^poc^d  g^n«  Tho 
National  Debt  then  (xxnes  forward  with  grea|  power.  The  taxpayers^ 
who  have  to  snppiy  twenty-eight  milliona  pf  ^OYQreigns,  or  their  worth, 
every  year,  are  opmpelled  to  giye  mo^ e  of  their  wealth  to  proepre  the 
means  of  paying  their  taxes;  and  their  unmbers  repder  iSxQ  accroing 
mischief  very  serioiis.  StiU;  the  point  to  be  ia^sted  on  here  is  that  no 
pormanent  commercial  depression  can  spring  from  this  sonroe.  There 
18  no  dimiantion  of  the  national  wealth,  no  weakened  power  of  bnving 
in  the  agg^egatek,  The  means  of  one  ^et  of  persons  are  rednced;  {hose 
(^another  are  piox>ortionally  enlarged.  No  explanaetion  of  a  long  oom- 
morcial  depression  o^  be  dcriyed  from  an  ^tered  yplue  in  the  cnr- 
rency. 

Ijet  1^1  now  endftavotiT  to  trace  out  that  QTeiMsonsTUnpUon  which  is 
tho  true  parent  of  th^  sufferings  of  the  world.  First  of  all,  great  famines 
have  fallen  on  important  nations.  China  ^d  India  have  been  plunged 
into  misery  too  fearful  almost  to  relate,  England  too  hoa  been  visitod 
with  calamities  of  the  sfvme  order.  81^  bad  harvests  in  ten  years 
count  for  much  indeed  of  the  $ickno^l|3dged  depr^^ion  pf  the  agricul- 
tural bu^esSb  And  what  generates  ov.er-consumption  comparably 
with^  famine?  The  expenses  of  cultivation  have  been  inoumd;]ar 
boufcrs  D^Te  b^en  fed  and  clothed;  thoir  fE^miUes  have  been  suppoxied; 
horses  have  consumed  hay  and  com;  ploughs^  car|s>  cpd  oth^r  maohin* 
ery  have  be^a  bought,  and  their  wear  and  tear  incurred;  mfmures^ 
coals,  and  otlier  materials  have  been»nsed  up;  iik^  oonsmaption  baa 
been  vast^  But  when  harvest-time  came,  if  an  ordinary  season  had 
met  the  rejoicing  farmers,  tho  gathered  crops  would  have  restored 
everything  which  had  been  consumed  as  capital,  besidpfl  bestowing 
profits  on  the  occupiers  of  the  Ixmd.  Tho  stopk  wherewith  to  continue 
tho  production  of  wealth  would  havo  been  restored  undiminished,  and 
s^snirplus^  for  cnjoymont;  or  ilbr  saving,  would  have  gladdened  the  sons 
of  labour.  But  what  occurred  in  actual  fact  ?  The  weather  interfered, 
and  no  crop  was  won.  The  consumption  of  the  tillage  had  been  in- 
curred, but  it  was  nnreplaced  by  fi'esh  prodncts,  Capital  was  de- 
stroyed £md  lost;  and  if  ruin  did  not  overtake  the  cultivators^  a  second 
couBumption  of  capital  was  necossary  for  one  cr^.  Csoi  it  be  a  matter 
fo^  wonder  if  suoh  countries  became  poor — if  tlieir  powers  of  bnyin^ 
of  exchanging,  were  shattered  ?  India  and  China  are  grand  cnstomers 
of  ]^ngland,  and  the  throb  of  agony  proiia^t^d  itself  fMnsosa  the  ocean 
to  this  little  island.  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire  felt  th^  wei^t  of  the 
blow:  their  people  had  to  learn  the  fearful  lesson*  that  iheiy  lived  by 
rocei^ng  in  return  for  giving,  and  that  whoVQ  thc^d  WOA  nothing  oi* 
/-i>r&4  t^^re  ponld  he  ftPtibil^  BQld. 


5  .-'•   *!K 


mnsBMidii  Am  sioiMoofn^     m 


ch>p9  fUied  fi  f«ir  ydafg  a^,  aiid  thd  tBiraff6i»  of  ibe  phylloxem  d»- 
fitro2f6d  tiie  oapikil  wbioll  had  beeli  expended  oil  ihe  otUliTatioB  of  her 
vines.  The  value  of  ih4  Iretdih  which  thxis  penif^eA  hak  h^eai  esii* 
i&ated  ail  tcMkf  ftitlMotUI  of  pattSkSiti  MMfling-- ft  lafge  ootitiiXmliotk  io  the 
tfeation  Of  depfesdoii. 

Wftr.  too-i  luf*  tfiefdsed  ita  pemfliat  Am^tfon  witii  ftrtet  Tigotor  in  the 
oatiaauOQ  cicasmkatdsl  ^stfeM  and  i4a  adleiidit&t  oSsezy  among  gteat 
poptilatidntf.  Waf,  eoo^tiii^ttttVy  la  fixife  waste;  it  does  nothing  but 
destioy.  li  Mik  Away  taet  llioffiea  Of^meh  from  pfOdnetive  hib<m«$  it 
fdedfl,  «10th«fl,  ttnd  nlabitaliia  ih<3in,  whilst  the^  piodQoe  ilothin^to 
nsto«a  the  ooMoflitMion;  it  nfles  tip  immense  aappHeitf  of  weiOth  in 
loShttaey  atOMt  wka^  are  Hkpidly  destvof  ed;  it  diattufba  and  atteats  in- 
dustfV  Wh^eitaittuJeapM^  atopfringtbettaffioof  ndhravaandioadB 
and  eCh^  neaesaltfy  tnambnenta  4a  industrial  eneivy^  Who  eiin  meaa^ 
ufethelfaateiB^ietedaii  Fxaneabytiia  l^iuux^C^vaaoit  wav  «f  1870, 
or  ^16  eonanniptionof  Gennan  wei^lth?  Huge  armamenta  now  i^xMad 
orei^  many  eotuitziea  k^p  np  tho  inational  and  destructive  woBte,  haiw 
assing  people  with;  a^eva  taxaUoa,  whi^h  ia  paid  with  the  Wealth  they 
prodnee  and  ia  eonstfiaed  lapon  economieal  idleia  who  ini&e  Ao  tetitm 
hr  what  they  devour.  Can  any  one  feel  aospiised  if  trade  langniahes^ 
and  anffeting  Weigfha  d^r«m  j^feat  indtUBtiiea,  when  aoMieiB  aM  eatin^ 
gttishlDf;  the  weaMh  whet^wi£b  to  buy  ? 

America^  too,  Writes  a  p^e4n  the  melan<^ly  history;  and.it  kl  dne 
which  ia  Siba^aiorly  fhS  of  mstifnction.  America  opened  thc^  deoenniol 
pehod  Which  oecnpies  this  disoosaion  With  a  hix^  of  ovev-eoofemnp- 
tion  whi€3i  not  only  annihilatKd  the  wealth  on  which  it  fcll,  biit  far^ 
th^  engendered  aoitveea  df  additional  disti^csa  which  swept  in  evem 
widening  nndtihitiona  over  the  meet  distottt  Iand&  She  aecd^  a  tooet 
ieckleas  and  nnjnst^able  exoesa  of  fixed  capital,  wiUiorit  giving  tiio 
slightest  thooeht  to  the  nature  of  th^  process  she  waa  practishi^  to  its 
conditions  and  its  oonsecitiences.  8he  bnilt  innumerable  raUways,-  for 
the  mOat  part  In  wild  regions  where  no  tode  or  popnlation  as  yet  ex- 
isted which  called  fot  aneh  outlay  az&d  could  reatoM  tba  deattoyed 
wealth  by  developuteni  of  coiamercc. 

It  fs  OT  the  highest  Importance  to  understand  the  eonditiona  on 
which'  fixed  capital  is  created.  Unlike  fominea,  it  ia  an  act  of  the  hu- 
man will:  man  acts  Up  fixed  capital  at  his  own  pleasure;  he  ia  responpi- 
ble  i6r  its  effects.  Ot  all  the  causes  which  have  generated  theHoin-* 
mercial  distress,  which  ia  so  wide  and  so  enduring^  fixed  capital 
probably,  in  its  various  stages,  and  they  are  many,  has  exercis^  the 
strongest  influence,  fixed  capital  consists  of  instroments  required 
for  {Mn>ducti(m  which  do  not  replace  all  their  cost  at  once,  but  only  a 
porti(m  of  it  each  succeeding  year.  Thus  a  merchant^hip  is  fixed  capi« 
taL  It  is  supposed  to  gensmte  a  profit  every  'voyage,  a  snuill  jpNoct  of 
Which  iA  assi^ed  to  the  repayment  of  the  outlay  spent  on  bnildmg  the 
veeseL  It  wifi  require  annual  repairs  for  wear  and  tear;  these  are 
debited  te  the  oosi  ol  working  the  Ship.    In  the  eoiase  dT  a  certain 


686        COMMEBOIAL  DEFRESBION  AND  BECIPBOCITT. 

psnodof  time  all  Uie  original  cost  is  repaid,  the  ship  is  worn  <mU  taid 
a  new  one  is  built.  There  will  be  a  surplus  advantage  if  after  repay- 
ment of  tUe  cost  of  construction  the  ship  is  still  efficient^  and  go«s0ii 
working.    It  is  now  a  tool  that  costs  nothing. 

It  ia  de^  from  this  analysis  that  there  is  oyer-oonstimption  in  the 
construction  of  all  fixed  capital.  For  a  tiine,  more  or  lees  long,  moie 
weialth-  has  been  consumed  than  is  la^de;  the  difference  is  a  £minu- 
tion  of  means..  The  machine  mad^  no  dioubt,  restores  that  diminn^ 
tlon,  but  only  gradually.  The  maintenance  of  the  workers  who  builfe 
the  ship,  is  gone:  except  the  portions  successively  restored,  this  is 
clearly  a  loss  of  wealth.  Bread  and  meat  have  been  eaten,  and  there 
is  nothing  wherewith  to  buy  more.  But  there  are  two  yery  di^inct 
kinds  of  over-consumption:  one  impoverishes,  the  other  does  not. 
Both  use  up  wealth,  and  it  disappears;  but  one  kind  destroys  weaUh 
which  eaOL  be  s^ed;  the  other  lessens  the  BUick  of  prodactive  eapitaL 
Over-consumption,  which  lessens  capital,  generates  poverty;  that 
which  uses  up  savings  does,  no  harm.  The  employer  and  the  work- 
man may  dispose  of  their  profits  and  Vages  in  any  wjiy  they  choose; 
without  injury  to  the  pubno  wealth*  The  capital  is  festered  by  the 
results  of  the  ousiness-^e  share  of  the  things  m&de  aocroing  to  c»ch 
man  lies,  economically,  at  his  absolute  disposal  He  can  devote  them 
to  necessaries  or  to.  luxu^es^  or  he  may  throw  them  into  the  sea;  no 
harm  to  wealth  thence  arises.  He  repc^ains  wl^ere  he  was;  not  xicher, 
but  not  poorer.  Or  he  may  save  a  port  of  his  share  of  products  which 
belongs  to  him;  that  is,  he  may  convert  them  into  capital  by  applying 
them  as  instruments  for  increasing  industry.  No  impovenmimant  en- 
sues; for  they  were  his  to  fiing  away,  if  he  chose.  On  t£eoantraryy  he 
enriches  himself  and  his  country.  He  has  made  the  meftns  of  twoduc- 
inc  wealth  larger;  he  has  increased  future  wages  and  profits  for  nimself 
and  others;  and  he  has  done  this  with  income  which  trade  had  given 
him  to  consume  in  anjr  way  whateter. 

"We  are  now  in  a  position  to  perceive  the  magnitude  of  the  Mnnder 
of  which  the  Amencan  people  were  guilty  in  constructing  this  most 
mischievous  quantity  of  fixed  capital  in  uie  form  of  zailwaysL  They 
acted  precisely  like  a  landowner  who  had  an  estate  of  £10,000  a  jeat, 
and  «pen<l^.i620,000  on  drainage.  .  It  could  not  be  made  out^c€  savings, 
for  they  did  not  exist;  and  at  the  end  of  the  very  first  year  he  must 
sell  a  portion  of  the  estate  to  pay  for  the  cost  of  his  draining.  In 
ether  wprds»his  capital,  his  estate,  his  means  of  making  income 
whereon  to  live,  was  reduced.  The  drainage  was  an^  excellent  opera- 
ticm,  but  for  him  it  was  ruinous.  So  was  it  with  America.  Few  things, 
in  the  long  run*  enrich  a  nation  like  railways;  but  bo  gigantio  an  over- 
coiisumption«  not  out  of  savings  but  out  of  capital,  brou^t  her  poverty, 
commercial  depression,  and  much  misery.  The  new  railways  have 
been  reckoned  at  some  80,000  miles,  at  an  estimated  cost  of  £10,000  a 
mile;  they  destroyed  300  millions  of  pounds*  worth,  not  of  money,  but 
of  com,  clothing,  coals,  iron,  and  other  substances.  The  connection 
between  such  over-consumption  and  commercial  depression  is  only 
too  visibly  here  that  of  father  and  sen. 


DEFEESSIOK  A^O)  BEdFBOGirr.        587 

But  thd  disastrous  consequences  were  far  from  ending  here.  The 
OTer-fxxQsiimptioh  did  not  content  itself  with  destroyinff  the  wealth 
used  up  in  making  the  railways  fend  the  tatitexialiS  of  wJhi«i' they  were 
composed.  It  serS  othe^  waves  of  destmctioh  rolling  over  the  land4 
The  demand  for  coal,  iron,  engines,  and  materials  kindled  p9x>digioti8 
excitement  in  the  factories  ahd  the  feliops;  labourers  were  called' for  on 
every  sidej  ^ages  rose  m)!dly;  'J?rofit'd  shnredthd  trpwiiM 'moyement; 
Imuripus  ^pending  pvetflowcd;  prices  fedTBnoed  all  rotmd;  the  reok- 
Iessiie$8  of  a  ^rospetods  time  bnoblad  over,  Mid  this  ifnbiridiary/>re»- 
consui^ption  imjneni^ely  ehlar^ed  thd  wa^ex>f  the  national  oapitai  set 
in  motion  by  the  expenditure  oh  th^  ihtilwaya  ttoemfeehfea.  Ohward 
Btill  pressed  tfce  gale;  foreigii'nation^'%-ere  ca»ied  away  by  itfe  foorcef' 
XJiey  pourod  their  goods  into  AtoMca^so  overpowering  wairth«  irt^ 
tractiori  of  high  pfices. '  They  supplied  mttt«rial9  for  t&e  radWays,  /and 
lururics  for  their  constructors.  Hifeir  otm*  jtticeff  robe  in  'tutn,  their 
buBinesa  burst  into  unwonted  activity," 'ptofitfl'akia;  wagsts  were  en- 
larged, and  the  Vicious  ty<ilh  t^'peated  itself  'in  ^uiany  comubries  of 
Europ^. .  dyd^HDonf^hfaiptibh  advanced  yith  greater  Btrid.^;'th0  tide  of 
prosperity  ibse'j^ter  higher;  ^d  th^  deBtrmeuon'bf'wvallh  Ibarthed.  at 
greater  speed.^        '  '        ^   '/       "  •.•... 

England  tooVa  pro%i!iient^shAr^  iii  th^  «icited-  game.  infM>  dyigiit 
degree  is  she. answerable  for  tb6  AmeHeah  tush  into  railway  oonstarao- 
tion.  , It  was  carried  out  by  irffehns  of  bonds,  and  Engljiid  bofUght 
largely  of  thOsb  b6nds>  It  ha^heen  asserted  that  she  purcbaBed ''iheae 
bondjs  to.'the  iixcrediolb  extent  fof*  150  million^  •tcrliagi.y  B«*t  ^ith 
what,  di^  she  pay  thbin  ?  '  With'  iroft'  rails,  locomotiJres,  and  Wher?  pro- 
ducts o^  her  indnstiy. '  And  ^hat  did  she  get  is  cttom'?  P4«oa9  of 
papejv  debts.  Her  wealth  was  Aimini^h^  iind  bho^Kfl/flftTiaddiliion, 
the  s^me  penalty  ae^  the  ^'Amei^cdns; '  ^er  'xixaiHtifbefriirQZS .  'Wfit^  stimu- 
lated t)y  this  mificiol  Activity  hi  trade  to^  esaggeratad  prodaoticm. 
Higher  wages  and  profits  ,^cre  distributed  over  tho  not&m^  aAd  ab  im- 
mense impulse  wa^  given  to  itixulilious  andneedleBdeovstimptloxi .  The 
approach  of  the  avienging  depression  ^l^aa  acdelezafecdv' itirmight  seem, 
anuost  intentionally.  •'    .  •  •  f  •  .       .  ■  ^        ^  .-       

But  these  American  operation^  did  not  Satisfy  EagHeh  fttdonr*  The 
passion  for  lending  raged  with  ^eat  Vehetnence.  England'  ahowered 
her  loans  oyer  many  regions  of  th^  globe;  loans,  be  ii  roptoted,  alwsjrs 
made  in  goods,  in  commoditi^  produced  at  great  cost,' and  lost  to 
^England  in  eixchaiigd  for  acknowiedgni^nts'  of  debt.  £nglaiid  lent 
iionclads  to  Turkey,  militacry  reeonxces  t6  Bolnua,  articles  for  wasteful 
consumption  to  Egypt,  innunierable  gratifications  io  AmcifiChJi  T^epub- 
lics.  Her  colonies  carried  6ff  rails  and  locomotiye  stores  and  clothing 
for  their  adyancing  populations— and  no  better  application  of  wealth 
oonld  have  been  made.  Future  'customers  for  English  trade  wero  thus 
provided,  men  who  would  enlarge  English  industry  with  evej^-expand- 
ing  demands  for  its  products,  demands  expressed  in  com  "and  wool 
Bent  across  the  ocean  to  pay  with.  Nevertheless,  the  fact  jremained 
always  the  samo^I^gland  stripped  herself  of  her  wealtk  in  e-xchange 


588        O^msSBClAIj  IXEPKESSIG^  AJm  l£&Cq7^J$0CCT7. 

for  nothing.    And  i(  modo  no  differenoe  fox  the  time  whether  the  loan  * 
vras  granted  to  a  solvent  or  to  an  insolyent  borrower,  whatever  mi^t 
be  the  result  later;  whether  interest  was  ever  remitted  or  not»  in  all 
oases  alike  England  was  emptied,  and  ps^er  docoments  Bubstitated 
into  the.vacunm,  whatever  might  be  subsequently  their  value.. 

Germany  was  caught  by  the  same  whirl  of  over-consumption*  Sol- 
diering and  wax  did  their  wasteful  work:  nor  has  the  former  stopped 
its  devastations*  A  more  severe  depression  fell  on  Germany  than  on 
any  other  oonnti^,  Qxeept  perhaps  America.  A  harassed  Minister  is 
proposing  to  obtain  resources  for  the  support  of  countless  legions  of 
armed  soldiexs  by  increasing  the  over<oon8umption^of '  wealth  by  aug- 
mented duties  at  double  cost--the  cost  of  the  articles  consumed,  and 
the  extra  cost  of  compelling  them  to  be  provided  at  home.  Then  a 
Very  nnlooked«lbr  suri»rise  added  largely  to  her  woes.  The  gold  of  the 
French  tademnity,  which  was  expected  to  beher  salvation,  proved,  to 
the  astcAishmentl  of  the  Gt^rmans,  ta  be  a  epreat  ag^vation  of  their 
sufferings.  "What  could  th^t  gold  do  for  Germany,*  so  long  as  it  re- 
mained in  tho  country,  ex&ept  plaqe  German  property  in  different 
hands?  There  was  already  gold  enough  in  Germany  to  perform  that 
service.  '.Germany  obtained  thereby  no  increase  of  useful  wealth. 
Howevet;  Tit  did  exeouteits  liinction  of  transferring  ptoperty  to  new 
possessors^  and  with  painfully  mischievous  enexgjf.  JFirst  of  all,  by 
Its  help,  the  Government  betook  themselves  to  ouilding  fortresses, 
purchasing  military  stores,  and  bringing  up  the  army  to  the  highest 
standard  of  efficiency.  Did  thQ  fortresses  and  the  guns  restore  the 
food  anid  knaterials  consumed  in  their  construction?  Guns  and 
fortresses  were  excellent  machines  fo?  making  the  national  wealth 
disappear^  they  could  do  n^dfthing  to  repair  th&  terrible  waste  of  the 
war.  Fuller,  much  of  the  idle  gold  was  lent  to  speculative  traders 
who  reckoned  on  an  active  deiqannd  from  now  prosperous  Germany. 
They  enlarged  their  fitetori^  and  increased  the  stock  of  goods.  Mudi 
gold  had  been  paid  to  individuals  in  payment  of  Government  debts; 
these  men  catn^  fogmsnA  as  buyers;  and  the  eternal  tale  was  repeated- 
raised  prices,  increased  'w^ages,  abundant  profits,  active  consumption 
of  every 'kind  of  weiilth.  Then  followed  tne  natural  consequence,  so 
toucfamgly  described  by  the  Neue  StMner  Z^iwng,.  as  <^pted  in  the 
TKmea:  "Five  lionff  years  oi  unexampled  depression  are  the  bitter 
penalty  we  have  had  to  pajy  for  one  intoxicating  year  of  joy,** 

Over-concnimption  Wiorked  itsVill  on  unhappy  France:  but  tlje blun- 
der was  ilolr^oommereiaL  Armaments,  and  war  impover^ed  France 
as  they  did  Germany,  but  with  the  severe  additional  aggravation  that 
the  war  was  carried  on  within  her  territory.  German  industry  lay 
undisturbed,  if  excited;  Fren(^  trade,  besides  what  the  war  itself  cob^ 
was  harassed  with  intermx>tion  and  lose  at  every  x>oin^.  Labourers 
were  hurried  away  from  their  fields,  manufactuxU^  towns  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy,  and  their  works  impeded;  railways  were  filled 
with  carriages  ccmveying  soldiers,  osid  trucks  containing  military 
stores;  oommeroial  lines  of  opiomunicatipii.vore  broken;  ]mnch  har- 


DEERESSIOH  AM)  BECIPBOOrnr.  \^   689 

bonis  blocked  againai  French  ships;  with  jxx&dj  other  liko  disasters. 
The  ovar-oonanming  forod  wae  immense;  but  it  encountered  a  resist- 
ance that  was  heroic  After  the  deeds  of  yiolence  ceased  and  a  gigan- 
tic indenmitv  had  been  paid*  the  French  people,  with  instinctive 
genius^  applied,  with  most  painful  effort,  the  one  remedy  which  po- 
litical econonity  jplointedput  for  the  CTireu  Without  knowing  political 
eopnomy  thej  practised  yrhat  it  prescribed.  ,  They  could  oo  this,  be- 
cause politicid  economy  ip  common  sense,  l^ro^ce  saved^  'Shounder- 
ooiistuQedfor  enjoyment;  the  surplus  she  gave  away  to  the  augmented 
taxation;  which  then  cost  her  nothing.  Thus  France  has  come  forth 
from  the  commercial  depression  with  a  freshness  and  strength  which 
have  called  forth  the  astonishment  and  the  admiration  of  the  world. 

Such  was  the -over-consumption  which  prevailed  over  the  greater 
past  of  the  hmnon  race.  It  destroyed  more  than  it  re-made;  iti  dimin- 
ifJied  wealth  rapidly,  but  it  was  accompanied  by  increased  activity  of 
trade,  by  great  commercial  prosp^ity.  The  co-existence  of  these 
two  fact^  apparently  so  contiudictory,  was  rendered  possible  by  the 
prooeo^  of  attacking  the  wealth  which  still  survived,  and  filling  up  the 
gapsb  caused  by  the  consumption,  by  fresh  extra  cdnsiimption.  Had 
mankind  been  resolved  to  carry  out  the  process  to  its  last  end,  the 
whole  wealth  of  the  world  would  have  been  destroyed  in  some  three 
veais  amidst  nniversal  enjoyment;  and  the  great  populations  would 
nave  died'  out  like  loQUsts.    AU  would  have  been  devoured. 

l^hia  overrcpnsumption,  which  was  the  first  stage,  with  its  accom- 
panying copimercial  inflation,  generated  the  second  sta^e  in  the  his- 
tory of  tibe  great  depression— over-production.  The  excited  demand 
for  goods  toconsume^-paidfor  by -fresh  sacrifices  of  the"  still  existing 
capital — raised  prices,  wages  and  profits  to  an  unprecedented  heig^ht: 
it  seemed  to  be  unlimited.  Thus  additionifd  machinerv-  for  production 
stKuled  up  upon  every  side;  new  mines  were  opened,  new  factories 
built^  now.  steaih  engines  set  to  work,  new  railways  opened,  multitudes 
of  new  labourers  called  away  from  the  fields  to  man  new  mills.  "Since 
1871-71J,"  justly  remarks  the  Pefl  MaU  Gazette,  "we  have  passed  through 
a  oomplefe  revolution  in  our  iron  and  coal  industries.  The  number 
of  bla^furnaces  for  the  production  of  pig-iron  increased  in  1873-74 
from  876  to  959.**  Then  mark  the  extent  of  the  over-production  as 
shown  by  the  stoppage  of  work  when  the  excited  buying  had  disap- 
peared, and  trade  had  to  deal  only  "with  ordinary  demands.  "There 
were  in  1878  only  454,  or  about  half;  at  work.  ^  Between  1871  and  1873 
the  number  of  collieries  at  work  in  the  United  Kingdom  advanced 
from  3100  to  36157,  and  at  the  end  of  1875  had  still  fuiiher  advanced  to 
4501.  In  the  three  years,  1875,  1876, 1877,  no  fewer  than  270  of  these 
coUierios  failed;  and  in  1877-1878  the  collapse  w^  still  more  rapid. 
In  the  four  years,  1871  to  1875,  the  number  of  persons  engaged  in  coal- 
mines rose  from  351,000  to  537,000— an  extension  of  employment 
rapid  and  -violent,  almost  beyond  example;  and  since  1875,  and  at 
present,  we  are  struggling  to  restore  the  wholesome  equilibrium  which 
wo  lost  eight  years  ago."    That  struggle  has  been  vehemently  riffsisted 


^  590   '     COMMEBGIAL  DEPRJySSTOK  A2q>  HEdPSOCOTI. 

"by  the  "working  classes.  They  refTised  to  oc^owledge  the  fact  thr%t 
the  machinery  for  producing  was  vastly  in  excess  of  the  power  of  buy- 
ing, and  that  the  sale  of  the  products  could  no  longer  yield  the  same 
romunertition  to  labour.  They  betook  themselves  to  war.  Mr.  Bcvan 
in  the  Times  tells  us  that  there  were  last  yei-r  no  fewer  than  277  strikes 
in  Great  Britain  against  181  in  1877;  but  how  many  of  these  distress- 
ing battles  were  Victorious  ?  Pour  only.  In  17  tixe  operativefl  ob- 
tained a  conipromise;  in'  256  the  strikers  werd  defeated.  "  "What  can 
show  more  <ilearly  how  Idle  it  is  to  fight  "^th  words  and  arblttary 
ideas  against  the  stem  realities  of  the  nature  and  facts  of  trade? 

And  now  what  are  the  remailies  by  whose  help  we  may  hope  to  lef«- 
en  and  ultimately  to  put  an  6nd  to  the  painful  sufferings  iimictcd  bv 
this  unprecedented  commercial  depression?  One  in  particular  is  au- 
vocated  with  great  warmth  by  the  leaders  of  the  working  classes,  "Work 
short  time,  they  cry ;  produce  less.  The  fact  they  take  their  stand  on 
is  true.  Even  up  to  tnis  very  day  there  is  more  produced  than  cnn  bo 
sold,  except  at  such  a  loss  as  Would  lead  to  the  clbsing  of  tlie  wx)rk^hops. 
The  advooates  of  short  time  acknowledge  tliis  fact.  They  admit  that 
the  business  can  no  longer  yield  them  the  same'  weekly  wage.  They 
conseilt  to  a  reduction  of  wages  j  but  they  demand  that  it  shall  take 
the  form  of  their  working  fbr  five  days  a  week  only  instead  of  six,  and 
of  their  receiving  less  monoy  at  the  week's  end,  but  at  th6  6ame  rate  of 
wage  per  day  as  they  had  been  earning  heretofore.  They  will  thus  fight 
the  evil^  they  say,  from  which  the  depression  in  trade  has  come — over- 
production. Buyers  will'  bo  found  for  the  smaller  quantity  of  goods 
produced :  they  will  receive  lower  waged,  but  thoy  wul  have  ^ven  less 
work :  they  will  maintain  the  stai;idard  of  tie  daily  wage  unchanged, 
and  when  better  times  come  they  will'recover  their  old  position.  iBut 
this  lan^age  does  not  state,  in  rail  completeness,  the  problem  calling 
for  consideration,  and  it  tacitly  makes  an  assumption  which  is  positively 
untrue.  It  is  assumed  that'the  cost  of  the  production  of  the  goods  now 
made  in  five  days  will  be  the  same  as  when  the  mill  worked  six.  The 
idea  is  that  the  working,  the  wage,  the  goods,  their  price,  of  one  day  a 
week  shall  be  given  up  :  what  happened  in  the  five  days  will  go  on  un- 
changed as  before.  This  is  a  complete  and,  very  grave  mieta[ke.  The 
goods  now  made  in  five  days  will  cost  niore  to  mtuie,  will  be  dearer  to 
the  employer  than  when  they  were  produced  in  a  mill  working  one  day 
m^ro.  An  employer  has  man'y  more  charges  to  encounter  than  wages 
and  co'jt  of  materials :  interest  on  his  own  and  borrowed  capital,  rent 
of  buildings,  expenses  of  superintendence  and  office-work;  the  pump- 
ing out  of  the  water  in  the  mine  by  an  engine  that  never  stops,  and 
other  items  of  the  same  kind.  These  eonpenses  now  fall  on  tbe  goods 
of  five  days  only  instead  of  six  :  they  swell  the  cost  of  their  production, 
and  then  what  is  the  necessary  consequence?  Their  price  must  be 
raised,  or  the  loss  on  the  business,  already  unendurable,  wiUbeoome 
still  heavier.  The  selling  price  must  necessarily  be  raised  if  tbe  busi- 
ness is  to  continue:  and  what  will  be  the  effect  of  such  a  demand? 
The  number  of  buycx-s  will  assuredly  be  lessened:  some  more  will 


COMMEECAL  DEI>EESSION  A2n)  IffiCrPBOCITT.        691 

drop  ttway  from  the  market :  ftgiuB.  OTex^prodnction  Teappe&is:  a  further 
Bhoitenmg  of  time  to  four  days  forces  it«self  on  discnsfiioa ;  and  the 
same  circle  of  baffled  pzoposing  is  repeated.  And  is  the  foreign  rival  to 
be  fo^otten?  He  will  be  delighted  with  these  raised  prices  ;  he  will 
not  merely  threaten,  as  he  does  now — ^he  will  smite.  In  these  latter- 
days  he  has-  in  many  places  been  advancing  with  long  strides.  W^ 
have  been  told  of  many  large  contracts  which  have  been  sent  to  foreign 
Goimtries  for  exeoation  becanse  English  workmen  have  distinctlv  ro» 
jeded  a  moderate  redaction  of  wages,  which  would  have  brought  tnem 
work  and  wages  and  repelled  forei^  competition.  Let  short  time  send 
up  prices  all  round,  and  the  invasion  of  England  by  foreign  goods  will 
be  at  hand.  There  is  no  cure  here;  but  there  is  something  of  a  yery 
different  kind.  There  is  punishment  for  those  who  should  practise 
'such  folly.  If  the  principle  is  sound,  it  applies  to  all  trades ;  and  if 
fill  which  are  distressed  take  to  this  kind  of  short  time,  then  those  who 
buy  of  them — and  none  axe  so  numerous  as  the  worMng  classes — ^wiU 
"find  that  prices  are  higher  in  the  shops,  and  that  they  must  pay  more 
for  what  tnej  consume.  They  will  lose  immensely  more  than  a  day's 
wages  in  tho  week.  Well  was  it  said  of  their  counsellors — thi^  they 
were  advising  the  workmen  to  commit  suicide. 

In  truth,  this  policy  betrays  a  profound  ignorance  of  the  fact  that 
oommerciad  depression  means  d^ciency  of  buyers,  and  this  in  turn 
means  less  to  buy  with,  fewer  goods  to  exchange.  To  make  that  little 
still  less  would  be  simply  ruinous.  The  true  course  to  pursue  to  bring 
this  Buffering  to  an  end  is  to  produce  more,  to  divide,  amongst  all,  as 
man^  products  of  industry  as  is  possible.  Of  course  industry  cannot 
continue  at  a  permanent  loss :  more  ^oods  will  not  be  made  than  can 
be  sold;  but  to  make  as  many  as  possible  that  can  be  sold,  that  will  be 
exchanged,  is  the  only  way  to  enrich  masters,  workmen,  and  the  whole 
people  together.  To  accomplish  this  g^reat  result  in  the  presence  of 
disturbing  forces  all  must  make  sacrifices.  Employers  must  be  content 
with  diminished  profits  and  workmen  with  reduced  wages;  then,  start- 
ing &om  that  point,  wealth  will  increase  gradually,  as  capital  is  in- 
creased by  saving,  ftnd  more  commodities  come  up  for  division.  The 
Bonshine  will  then  not  be  far  oft 

The  proposal  of  a  second  remedy— one  stranger  yet,  more  hopelessly 
indefensible  than  that  we  have  just  discussed — is  now  surging  up  in 
many  qmoters  in  England.  Let  there  be  Beciprocity — ^Reciprocity  will 
heal  England's  woes.  It  is  impossible  to  escape  feeling  a  blush  of 
shame  that  in  the  England  we  now  live  in,  with  her  trade  of  to-day 
compared  with  that  of  thirty  years  ago,  such  a  cry  should  come  from 
the  fipa  of  eminent  and  able  men.  What  is  become  of  their  common 
sense?  How  have  they  become  infatuated  ?  Not  one  single  argument 
has  been  brought  forward  in  support  of  Reciprocity  which  deserves  an 
answer  on  its  merits,  which  is  anything  but  a  mere  shadow.  Even  its 
advocates  virtually  confess  that  it  is  indefensible — ^for,  from  very  shame, 
they  disdain  all  idea  of  supporting  Protection  when  they  insist  on 
Beciprocity.    Yet  what  is  Kociprocity  ?    Simply  and  nakedly— a  de- 


£92        OOMMEBGIAIi  JOEPKyfiSTQH  Am  m(3S:UoQST% 

mand  for  Protection.  Foreign  n«tioi|s  pioteot  tlieir  iimnii£i€iiixei^  Sofh 
land  mtutt  protect  h«e&  Foreign  countries  decree  that  "Rngligh  goods 
dball  appear  in  their  markets  on  dearer  and  inferior  iexms  than  ilie 
natiT^;  let  foreign  goods  be  so  liandicapped  that  they  phaU  be  0al<l 
.  BcantUy  and  with  diffioalty  in  England;  or,  better  imli  not  st  aU. 
•These  oommercial  dootois  repel  the  rex>ntsKtlon  of  being  oalled  Frpteo- 
tionistSy  for  they  know  that  protection  is  irrati<mal^  and  refuse  to  Wve 
such  a  word  associated  with  iheir  namea  So  they  haye  iny^ited  wa- 
oUier.  It  has  a  different  sound;  yet  Beciprocity  is  pxilty  FroteeftkNOi 
with  an  apology.  Expel  the  Proteic^ye  element  fnnn  their  a4yioe^  aoil 
they  wonld  instantly  commit  it  to  the  waste-basket, 

Ijet  BB  then  proceed  to  the  root  of  the  matter— FKotectton,  HThat  i» 
Protectiosi  f  Oh  1  at  once  exclaim  the  Becs^roci^  men.  dont  ask  thai 
question  of  eeonoxoists;  they  are  not  practical.  What  know  they  of* 
bnsinesa^  its  ways  and  its  laws?  the  indnstrial  loss  of  great  naftJofPH  is 
not  to  be  put  under  the  feet  of  theorists  and  their  jbo^qo,  foeak  i9 
the  great  maanfSacturer,  tho  mighty  mercSbant^  the  ommpoteKit  banker 
— they  know.  Be  it  so^  let  it  bo  replied,  Z^et  the  ^peal  bo  msda  k> 
common  sense^  the  eommon  sense  of  l^e  man  nrho  neyer  Io(^  Into  m 
book,  to  the  sagacity  of  an  A.  T.  Stewart,  the  intQiti<»  of  an  A;rkwxighL 
Let  common  sens^  decide^  and  ocHomon  sense  wXgoj^i  let  both  aidea  be 
sternly  forbidden  to  bring  in  theoiyand  doctrine;  the  pr^ctioal  aaaa 
will  sorely  need  snch  a  prohibitioin»  Am^  be  it  also  xemeeibered  that 
common  sense  is  the  essence,  the  yery  core  and.  sabstence  aC  pio£tical 
Economy,  the  sole  aathority  for  what  it  utt^ia^the  <ma  bu^Iq  laatra* 
ment  by  which  it  reaches  the  knowledge  which  ^deatho  aondnet  of 
evexy  sensible  tipader  and  mannfibctnrer.  Pofitical  Koonomy  is  not 
afraid  of  common  sense;  it  would  be  nothing  not  worth  ootiofl^  with- 
out such  a  foundation  for  its  teaching. 

It  is  natural  that  in  a  season  of  great  oommercial  sK^ezing  the  man 
who  finds  that  tiie  goods  which  he  has  produced  at'grsfit  cost  eannot 
be  sold  because  a  foreign  competitor  has  better  and  cheaper  goods  of 
the  same  kind  in  the  market^  ^ould  cry  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart 
— What  right  has  such  a  stranger  to  be  here  ?  Is  h^  to  be  pesmitted  to 
take  the  br^d  out  of  the  mouths  of  Englishmen  of  the  htgheat  merit, 
much  risking,  hard  workings  employers  and  labourers?  ]£ora  natural 
yet  if  the  Grovemment  of  that  foreigner  shuts  tl^e  dpors  of  the  markets 
of  his  nation  to  Englidl  goods;  is  not  that  an  act  of  war,  to  be.met  wiUi 
retaliation  ?  Quite  natuml  again  that  a  Bismarck,^  hard  up  lor  money 
wherewith  to  pay  his  soldiers,  and  to  proyide  them  with  ^una  and 
powder;  should  think  heavy  duties  laid  on  forei^i  merchandize  a  cap- 
ital contrivance  for  filling  the  German  Escheq^er.  Why  shoold  ne 
trouble  himself  with  the  thought  that  he  thereby  infficts  on  eiveiy  Ger-- 
man  the  loss  of  more  money  than  if  he  had  proceeded  by  direct  taxa- 
tion? Direct  taxation  is  a  method  hard  to  practise^  yerf  apt  to  eieato 
unpleasantness,  yery  yisible  to  the  payer,  and  yor^  quick  at  stirring 
his  heart  Pooh,  pooh,  for  Political  Economy;  lot  it.tSCUi  to  the  winds^ 
tlicy  &rj  its  £.!i  audionce. 


DUPEESSSIOK  ASD  BBCQDPBOCTEY.        6d3 

AXti6l0  is  rm  naJtmnl;  but  is  it  the  la&gna^  «£  tammctauBOM? 
That  is  tbe  question.  Froteotiaii  finds  thai  cartam  goods  whick  alone 
are  botight,  or  in  pTedominating  qnantitiesr  in  the  English  mazkets  ase 
(^  foreign  maka  It  finds  furtS^iar  that  wa  Bnglish  mctories  most  be 
lednesd  or  gi^ven  up  altogether.  It  then  dadafies  that  this  is  wrong, 
that  it  cannot  be  sofiBrcrd  that  English  industries  should  be  annihiiat^ra. 
by  foreign  competitois,  and  then  it  imposes  a  taac  ou  the  foreign  artislett 
oa  &eir  ^ilrance  into  En^dand,  wherebj  theT  aaa  made  dearer  than 
the  English,  and  bo  the  KngliRh  ones  ara  bonght  hj  the  English 
people.  The  onicial  qtupstion  at  once  arises:  Why  ahonld  the  question 
eyer  arise  in  buying  and  selling — where  were  the  goods  made?  This 
question  mast  be  difeetlyand  categorioaily  answer^;  the  answer  mt^ 
be  distinctly  given  without  evasion.  Common  sense  abeblntd^  de- 
clares that  it  can  find  no  reason  for  each  a  question.  Common  sense 
affirms  that  to  make  the  place  of  their  production,  their  nationality,  a 
consideration  affecting  their  sale  in  the  market  is  a  theory — nothinc^ 
less,  a  doctrine  brought  from  without,  a  principle  utterly  uneonneoted' 
with  trade.  Borne  authority,  derived  from  common  sense,  Proteotioa 
must  assign  for  this  regard  fox  liie  nationality  of  the  articles  bou^^t, 
or  it  18  out  of  court.  As  a  naked  assertion  it  merits  no  notice  &om  any 
ona 

jbid  wllat  is  the  cotinter  view  of  Free  Trade  ?  It  soys  that  every 
buyer,  from  the  very  nature  itself  of  trade,  of  exchanging,  possesses  a 

gerfect  liberty,  is  entirely  free  to  buy  any  goods  he  chooses  in  the  mar- 
et|  and  ixpan  any  t^rms  he  diooses;  if  the  liberty  is  ii^rfl^ed  with  it 
asserts  that  tbis  intefterenGe  cannot  and  does  not  come  fieom  the  nature 
of  trade^  but  from  oonsidemtionfl  derived  from  a  thoB>Q^ldy  distinct 
source.  It  affirms  that  a  buyer  has  nothing  else  to  consider  in  pujp- 
eharing  but  tihe  quality  and  the  price  of  tue  goods  before  Mm,  and  is 
free  to  make  his  choice  without  external  restraiiit.  Trade  it  dedazes 
to  be  nothing  else  whatever  but  an  exchange  of  goods  of  eqpL[kk  value; 
that  is  its  only  function.  It  may  be  that  considerations  derived  from 
morals^  politics,  as  in  war,  or  otiiier  independent  source,  may  call  upon 
the  Btote  to  interfere  with  its  course;  and  trade  cannoirsay  Ko  to  such 
ecntzoL  But  it  does  call  for  such  a  reason:  and  so,  again,  it  asks  of 
Protection,  What  rig^  have  you  on  grounds  of  trade--and  that  is  the 
only  one  you  profesi^  to  stand  upoiv— to  interfere  with  my  taading  lib- 
erty ou.t  of  regard  to  the  place  where  the  goods,  are  made?  You  must 
answer  that  in  terms.    But  this  is  what  Protection  has  never  done. 

But  it  might  appeal  to  Humanity.  Would  ITree  Trade  wish  to  see  so 
many  worthy  fbllow-countrymen  brought  to  starvation  ?  On  this  point 
the  answer  is  twofold.  There  is  first  the  case  when  the  industry  has 
never  betenyet  set  up.  Upontlxat  fVee  Trade  speaks  clearly  and  di> 
cidedly.  The  rule  of  conduct  is  that  on  which  households  have  bcon 
worked  sLnee  the  worid  began — the  women  to  do  the  needle>wosk,  the 
men  to  liit  the  weights.  Ky  that  method  there  is  more  good  service 
done  and  mora  weights  carried  than  by  any  other:  greater  results  in 
return  for  the  food  and  wages.  So  it  is  witn  notions.  'Ijot  each  pro- 
duce tlios^^  gOodB  for  whj&  itiiaa  tb&  greatest  apUtadfi;  tha  goods 


594        COMMEBCOAL  DEPESS3I0K  AND  IIECSQ?BOOIT% 

• 

made  will  be  more  and  better,  and— wluoH  lies  in  the  essence  of  nT 
trading — there  will  be  the  Bame  employment  for  the  popnlations  wit^ 
greater  results.  If  silks  can  be  more  oheapl/  produced  in  France,  eve^ 
with  only  equal  quality,  England  would  be  as  great  a  fool  to  manufac- 
ture silks  as  to  make  ohorets.  Let  France  make  the  silks,  and  that  P&rt  of 
the  English  people  which  would  have  made  silks  will  nowmanumcture 
those  English  goods  with  which  the  silks  will  be  bought.  Thus  more 
edllcs  and  mora  ootton  eloth  wiU  be  made  in  the  two  oountiies  taken 
together,  and  equal  employment,  and  subsequently  more,  provided  for 
each  ooxmtry.  If  the  Erenohmen  sell  silk  to  |{|^gland,  they  must  buy 
an  equal  amount  of  cotton  or  other  goods:  for  England  cannot  buy 
nnless  she  sells  to  an  eqoal  yalae.  I  may  be  allowed  to  quote  a  paasage 
written  elsewhere:^— 

"  The  tmth  stands  out  In  dear  sanahino.  Free  Tmdo  eannot  and  doea  not  it^jore 
domestic  iiijlastrj.  Under  Free  Trade  foreign  coautriea  give  in  erery-  case  as  much 
emt>loymcnt  to  ISngliBli  TTprkmen  and  capitalists  as  if  nothing  had  been  bought 
abroad.  English  goods  of  the  same  value  must  be  parohoscd  by  the  for^gocr,  or  tho 
trade  comes  to  an  end.  Tiiere  must  be  an  equal  amoniit  of  English  goocis  made  and 
sent  away,  or  England  will  novier  obtain  the  foreign  commodities.  Free  Trade  uorer 
does  harm  to  the  country  which  practises  it,  and  that  mighty  fict  alone  kills  Protec- 
tion. Let  those  who  are  backeluding  into  Protection  be  asked  for  a  categorical  nu* 
swer  to  this  question  :~-Can  and  will  the  fi>reigner  give  away  his  goods  without  in- 
sisting on  receiving  baok,'diroctiy  or  indirectly,  bh  equal  quantity  of  that  eaantzr^j 
goods!  Let  the  question  Ufi  pushed  home  --and  all  tnik  about  injury  to  domostio  indiL; . 
try  must  ommq.''^— Chapters  on,  PracUcal  PoliUeal  Economy » p.  307. 

But  many  deny  that  trade  is  always  an  exchange  of  gpods  of  equal 
value,  and  they  appeal,  as  proving  the  truth  of  their  denial,  to  the  im- 
mense excess  often  exhibited  of  imports  into  England  over  her  exports. 
Want  of  space  forbids  a  detailed  examination  of  this  assertion  here;  but 
a  few  remarks  will  suffice  to  show  its  inaccuracy.    Those  who  take 
their  stand  on  the  wide  discrepancy  between  imports  and  exports,  as 
being  a  phenomenon  of  pure  trade,  must  hold  that  the  difference  in 
value  is  made  tip  by  a  remittance  of  money;  thoy  c:innot  suppose  that 
foreign  countries  make  a  present  to  England  of  the  excess  of  oommodi- 
ties  imx>ortad  into  her  harbours.    But  they  fail  to  perceive  that  this 
remittance  of  money  c6n<ftasively  proves  the  truth  they  attack,    it  es- 
^.tablishes  equilibrium:  large  imports  are  balanced  by  small  exports  plus 
money.     Cmly  that  England  should  send  ik-perpetual  stream  of  money 
away^  ever  flowing,  never  ceasing,  ia  an  inconceiyable.  absurdity;  and 
where  oould  she  get  that  money  .from,  that  gold,  but  from  foreigners 
buying  her  goods?    The  excess  of  imports  into  England  is  very  easily 
explained  upon  a  different  principle.   Those  imports  in  excess  are  not 
traideatall;  they  arepaymentsof  debts,  nothing  else.  Immense  sums  are 
annually  due  to  England  for  interest  on  loans  lent  to  foreign  nations  and 
colonies,  and  for  profits  accruing  on  huge  investments  abroad,  whether 
in  foreign'  securities  or  agriculture  or  commerce.    These  are  not  ex- 
changes of  goods  for  goodis,  of  bu3rin^  and  selling,  but  goods  sent  to 
pay  debts  due.  to  En^and.    Beciprocity  can  derive  no  help  from  this 
inequality  between  imports  and  exports  to  support  its  cause. 
,^   Here  common  sense  now  puts  tne  critical  inquiry— Who  pays  the 


COmSEBGIAJj  0EP2JSS3IO:T  and  KBClPBOCrn:.        595* 

Protecticm  duty  imposed  oil  the  foteign  goods,  or  elfte  iho  increasod 
price  for  the  English-mauie  arfci<rf4s  realised  by  the  nfd  of  the  duty  f  The 
English  buyers— Protection  is  compelled  to  answer — the'Exkghsh  con- 
BTimers.  So  then,  continued  common  sense,  the  action  of  Protection  is 
simply  to  inipose  a  tax  On  the  p^6ple  of  England  for  the  snpport  of  a 
certain  number  of  persons  who  otherwise  conld  not  oHaina  iitelihood 
fiom  the  hosinesa  tney  are  cartying  on.  This  is  a  Poor  Bote,  pure  and 
dmple.  :       .  . 

There  remains  th^  second  cas^ — ^when  an  indnstry  has  been  devel- 
oped under  Proteoti(>n,  and  would  cobtfe  to  an  land  under  Piee  Trada 
Thia  is  a  practical  ]^t(>blem  to  be  left  to  the  statesimm.  Thoit'  'bnsineBs 
ought  not  to  be  maintained  by  Proleetion:  it  hos  no  right  to  tax  the 
country  permanently  fox  its.  support  The  transition  period  will  be 
painful — ^it  is  fox  the  statesman  .to  deal  with  it  ;  Only  one  remark 
may  be  added*  Kot  a  few  trades  Ibave.becn  expected  ,tp  be  eleared 
away  when  the  prop  of  Protection  has  Been  remove^,  andyet  Jiave  sus- 
tained themse^T^es  fnanfullyin  the  free  air  of  heav^  Tne  sUk  trade 
ofEngland  is  an  instance  of  this  jdnd^ 

Afew  woi^s  wlU  suffice  on^Beciprocity,  ibx  it  is  a  distinct  proposal 
to  impose  Protection.  But  this  jpropoeal  hps  an  absurdity  whicb  is  pe- 
culiany  its  own.  Beciprocity  is  demanded  /Ba  a  counterblow  to  Pro- 
tection practised  against  England  bv  foreign  countries^  France^  it  is 
said,  adopts  Protection  against  England^  let  Englan,d  retort  by  enact- 
ing Protection  against.France.  ^  Bpt,  ludicrously  enough.  Protection  is 
not  said  by  thp  advocates  of  Beciprocity  to  be  a  ipse  policy:  on  the 
contrary,. it  is  virtually  adi}[iitteii .that  it  is  not  capable  of^defence. 
Thus*  nnd^r  the  pleasant  sound  of  a  pretijT  word,  the  cry  l?ecbmes — 
Let  na  do  ourselves  harm,  because  it  will  narm  the  henchmen  alsa 
Let  a  tax  be  lai4  upon  the  people'cxf  England,  becauseit  will  do  harm 
to  French  tr^e;  f^d  this  imposition  of  a  tax  on  the  English  people^ 
this  diminution  of  English  trade  with  France,  are  gravely  proposed  as 
correctives  for  a  commercial  depression,  for  a  distressing  stagnation  of 
trade.  'Wonderful,  indeed,  is  such  on  idea.  To  demand  Ptrotection on 
the  ground  that  it  is  a  |K)licy  good  in  itselj^  and  capable  of  being  de- 
fended, is  a  reasonable  issue,  meriting  discussion:  but  to  recommend 
that  a  bad  thiug  should  be  done,  because  it  would  be  bad  also  for  our 
competitors,  is  a  policy  hard  indeed  to  characterise.  To  do  ourselves 
good  is  not  pretended:  harm  for  harm,  blow  for  blow,  to  out  own  ad- 
ditional hiirt,  is  all  that  is  thought  of. 

But,  in  truth,  there  is  a  capital  blunder  involved  in  thocry  for  Re* 
ciprocity,  of  which  those  who  utter  it  do  not  seem  to  be  conscious. 
They  confound  into  one  two  acts  which  have  no  coniiection  whatever 
with  each  other.  England  repealed  the  prv'>tective  duty  on  French 
bilks;  she  therebv  relieved  herself  of  a  tax,  and  created  more 'Wealth 
and  a  larger  trade.  France  protects  her  cotton  factories  against  the 
English,  thereby  bringinjtwo  losses  on  hGTself— a  diminution  of  trade, 
and  the  still  soverer  one  of  supporting  a  portion  of  her  population  at 
tho  expense  of  the  whole  Frencn  people.  Therefore,  Reciprocity  ex- 
claims— Since  France  refuses  to  buy  our  cottons  we  will  not  buy  her 


5fiG        COmSEBCiAL  BEPBES^Oli'  AJbiD  EEOIFBOGEF?. 

BilkB.  But  what  eonaeetion  Ioavq  oottons  with  silks?  Kozto.  The 
question  who  shoald  inak«  silks  for  Bngland  was  settled  by  Englaiid 
-on  its  own  merits.  It  was  clearly  the  true  iwlicy  for  England  to  buy 
dxeapand  not  deatitilks,  So  ends  that  luatter;  England  puisued  the 
rational  course.  What  France  does  in  the  matter  of  eottons  does  not 
touch  tha  English  decision  about  silks  in  any  way.  England  suffers  a 
diminution  of  trade  by  the  locfk  of  intelligenc  e  of  the  French  on  silks,  and 
that  is  all.  Why  should  she  injure  herself  hj  silks  because  the  French 
ii^ure  her  by  cottons?  Beci^x)6ity  has  for  its  sc^^  intelligible  princi- 
ple: Let  ns  ao  some  harm  to  the  French.  Perhaps  » less  costly  method 
of  kurting  her  might  be  found  than  by  altering  our  excellent  regula- 
tions about  the  supply  of  silks  fat  our  wants. 

A  few  words  in  condusion.    What  nreaim  mtist  beaddpted  for  Tmnc- 
i!ng  the  commercial  d^ression  to  an  end'?  .Berecbe  the  pRMstice  whidi 
caused  it.    6verHX>nsume  nt>  longer,  but  increasts*  the'  prodn^on  of 
wealth  by  erery  posidble  efibrt.    You  will  not,  of  course,  produce 
goods'  ^ho'ser  cost  of  production  no  buyers*  can  "be  fotmd  to  wpay ;  bnt 
attract  buyers  by  making  that,  cost  as  small  as  you  can.    If  thia  prac- 
tice is  carried  out  along  the  whole  line  of  manu&eturing;  th^-mBans  of 
bu3>ing  wiU  be  enlarged;  and  more  buying  and  a  return  of  prosperity 
will  be  accomplished.'  Let  capitaBsts  and. labourers'ldinni a: hearty 
determination  to  make  every' clxertion  to  produce  largely  and?  cheaply. 
And  let  them  Bare.    Lot  luxurious  consumption,  escessiyo  drinking, 
and  all  other  waste  be  put  aside;  an d'letcapital'b©  tigorously  aceiimu- 
lated.    An  d  let  not  the  dangers  of  foreign  <jompetition  be  forgeHten  by 
a  nation  whose  greatness— nay,  the  eidstence-ofTa  large  pEtrt^f  hot  pop- 
ulation—depem  on  her  being  able  to  sell  her  prodnotd'  ov^er  the 
breadth  bf  the  Whole  earth,    finally,  leti^e  mfmui^ureTS  and  work- 
men listen  to  the  questions  put  to  them  by  Mir.  C.  O,  Bhepord,  United 
States  Consul  at  Bradford,  m  his  admirable  Bepoxt  to  tiie  Assistant 
Secretary  of  State  at  Wbshihgtdn:— 

"  1.  Can  and"u<ill  England'?  artMans  Uvo  as  cheaply  as  their  competiton  f  S.  VTIR 
they.  Accept  the  same  wages  ?  3..  will  they  civo  more  Itibonr  fW  the  Traces  ?  4.  Will 
all  olatjges  live  uithih  their  tneansf  S.  Will  yomi^  {feople  be-content  to  ooiiuiien€« 
life  where  their  fathera  becan  Ihstead  of  where  they  aeft  off  f  6.  Will  JSni^ish  loano- 
faotnxeiB  k«ep  paoo  with  the  wants  and  advanoeittent  of  the  a^  ?  7.  Will  they  eo- 
ooutafire  and  adopt  new  solentifio  and  labonr-sarinff  improTcments  ?  8.  WiUther 
BtJinnlate,  foster  and  disseminate  both  general  and  teonnioal  edncatiouf** 

More  solemn,  more  all-important  words  were  never  addressed  to 
-any  people;  *' Should  a  negative  answer  be  returned  to  these  qne- 
rie%  the  three  consequences  which  must  quickly  and  inevitably 
follow,"  are  told  by  Mr.  Shepard.  **  Further  dejection  in  business,  bb 
compared  with  which  the  pres^it  will  seem  but  moderate  depression. 
Greatly  increased  suffering  and  destitution.  An  emigration  such,  per- 
haps, as  has  never  been  kaown."* 

BoNAMY  PsEGB,  in  Ocmtemporary  Heviw. 

*  Some  valnable  su^^^estions  of  remedies  in  detail  will  be  fonnd  in  the  able  Paper  on 
the  Depression  of  Trade,  read  by  David  Ohadwick,  Esq.,  M.P.,  at  tii0  Social  Svieac« 
Oongcess  at  Oheltonbam,  Oc«»b«r,  1811. 


ALOOHOL;  TUB  ACHOK  AND  USES.* 

The  nmnb^Ts  of  the  OordempcrtxtyBeviea)  to  which  I  have  refened  at 
the  head  of  thiis  article,  oontain,  as  is  well  known  to  moet  Teaden  of 
periodioal  literature,  a  series  of  papers  by  physicians  of  eminence  on 
the  action  and  uses  of  alcohol  The  subject  is  one  of  snoh  great  pres* 
ent  interest^  ^hat  they  appear  to  have  attracted'  a  considerable  amomii 
of  attention,  but  it  may  oe  donbted  whether  ^e  general  reader  has 
gained  anything  yety^  definite  from  thei^  perasaL  Not  only  do  they 
diffeir  greatly  in  intrinsie  merit,  bnt  they  detA  with  stich  diflforent 
aspects  ot  a  yery  wide  question,  and  manifM  snch  divergence  of 
opinion  on  points  of  deuuL  that  it  may  not  be  eaay  to  disoetn  the 
snbfitantial  agreement  Which  exists  between  them.  Indeed,  if  they 
suggest  anvtmng  on  first  reading,  it  is  rather  to  conifirm  the  popnliyr 
notion  of  the  disagreements  of  doctors,  thAxi  to  suggest  any  prG^cal 
rales  for  iiien%  guidance. 

I  shall  endeavour,  in  the  following  pages,  to  collect^  Hot  merely 
from  these  pap6rs  but  trctm  the  very  abundant  medical  literature  on 
the  snbjoot,  wnat  is  certain  and  established  as  to  the  action  of  alcohol, 
and  the  practioai  results  of  our  knowledge  of  the  subject. 

And  here  I  am  met  at  the  onset  with  a  laficai  objection.  One  of 
the  ablest  of  these  eBsayists-^Mr.'  Brudenell  Carter— 'has  expressed  a 
very  common  feeling  when  he  says  that  "the  daims  of  cheimietry  and 
physiology^  in  the  actual  state  of  those  branches  of  inquiry,  to  i^egu- 
IsXe  our  niabits  in  conformity  with  their  fleeting  hypotheses,  are  as 
ludicrous  as  anything  that  Bwift  imagined  in  the  umvetsity  of  La- 
puta."  i 

Now  I  could  conceive  that  this  objection  might  Come  ftom  one  who 
had  not  kept  pace  with  the  progress  of  these  sciences;  but  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  understand  how  it  capi  oe  raised  by  such  an  accomplished 
member  of'  our  profession — one  who  in  this  very  article  has  shown 
that  he  is  well  aware  of  the  substantial  advance  they  have  made  6t 
late  years.  No  doubt,  unfounded  theories  are  every  day  put  forward 
by  the  numerous  students  of  physiology  and  chemistry,  as  will  always 
be  the  case  with  any  science  which  attracts  many^  ardent  workers. 
But  through  the. whole,  there  has  been  a  steady  progress  and  deepen- 
ing of  one  knowledge  of  the  laws  which  regulate  Hving  beings;  one 
hyxx>theBis  has  succeeded  another— t?ere  prqfedus.  non  mtdoHo — because 
eacli  has  in  turn  been  supplanted  by  one  capable  of  explaining  tiie 
increasing  accumulation  of  facts.  At  any  rate,  in  thisparticular  case, 
there  seems  to  be  no  need  for  Mr.  Carters  caution.    Tne  latest  teachr 

ings  of  science  as  to  the  action  of  alcohol  are  in  perfect  harmony  with 

■  ■       •        -    ■  ■    -  ■  -   — ■ ■ 

*The  QnOemporary  IfsviMtf  for  Koyembcr.aadDeiMnnber,  1878,  and  JanoaTy,  18714 

•   -  (597) 


698  ALCOHOL:  ITS  ACITON  AND  USES. 

what  has  long  been  recognised  by  experience,  and  they  are  of  great 
value  in  clcanng  away  the  mistaken  theories  of  a  former  generation, 
"which  have  been  in  their  day  most  powerfal  for  eriL 

The  first  effect  of  alcohol^  and  the  only  one  which  can  in  any  proper 
sense  be  called  stimUlanf,  iff  t6  irritate  nife  'nerves  of  the  stomach:  this 
epccitement  being  conveyed  to  the  nerve-centres,  and  resulting  in. dila- 
tation of  the  blood*vesBcls  in- the  brain,  through  which  the  blood  flows 
more  rapidly  and  more  a^buncjlftntly  than  usual.'  Hh^  activity  of  the 
brain  is  thus  increased— its  waate;  pftdbenal  being  more  qtiicMy  re- 
moved, and  ff  esh  food  more  freely  supplied— and  this  gives  rise  to  a 
fei^sling:  of  increased  vigour  and  animation:  Any  tolerably  strong 
alcoholic  drink  will  produce  Jbhis  e^e<?t,  wh|oh'  djjQfe^s  in  no  way  fixnn 
tliat  caused  by  snch  warzp  .dnnks^s  eoup  or  ^x>ffde,  by  gingerj  cap- 
^cum,  ai^d  otnor  irritiuai^:  thopo  being  sometimea  app^ed  (as  in  the 
008^  of  fi^uff)  to  other  i|^ryos  connected  with  the  Drain,  but  in  all 
tlies^  causes  ^li^  action  is,  only  a  tompora^  onje,  the  vessels  'that  were 
dilated  for  a  moment  return  to  thj^r  ordinary  siae,  and  the  circulation 
to  its  haTi)iti;t*l  ija^idity ;  yliile^the  stiinulaixt  action  of  Alcohol  is  speed- 
ily followed  by  its  important  and  characteristic  effects,  .of  which  I 

havaft«\Y'te  spoi^k.-^     ;  .    ■  «     .    '     '     J;  u 

These  ^e-^'duo  to  its.  action  upon  tho^ner^^ous  tissues,  of  which  it 
arrests  and  paralyses  aJl  ibo  functions:  in  technical  language  it  is  an 
anaesthetic  or  narcptic»  and  by ,  no  .:inQan$  a  stixnulan^  At' first  sight 
such  a>8tatement'miiy  ^ppeai^  absurdly,  paxadoidcal,  'so  that  men  of 
science  maF  ^ell  be;xxpu^ed  for,(havi]ig  been  so  slow  to  find  a  due 
which  was  tax  from, obyiousi-  •         *  -'    '-  .    *; 

It  is  indeed  cleaythab  the  gjbupor  and  insensibilitv  of  aJSt  of  drunk- 
enness prove  that, alcohol)  hs^  a,p6Mre;|p  to.apfe^t^the  fanetlons  of  the 
brain,  whjch  may  even  jgp  po  far  as  to  kill;  and  it  ia  then  as  plainly  a 
narcotic  as  chloroform  or  opium,  'feiit  surely  all  the  less  grave  symp- 
toms ovei^  of  in^xi^ation  fioen^  jto  point  the-other  way.  r  The  flushed 
eheek  and  ilaishing  eye, ''the  rapiaiiy  of  moveinent*  and  of  speeoh;  nay, 
the  flow  of  eloquence  and  thoug^ht,  tte  JQyful  hearlj  and  freedom  from 
anxiety  .and  care,  what  do  t^ey  liaplff  l>ut  increased  vigour  and  stim- 
ulation rather  than, Ibss  of  power  ?^ 

The  solution  of  this  difdculty,  important  enough  in  itself,  has  a  far- 
ther interest,  as  a  good  example  of  the  vaxiouB  and  apparently  opposite 
results  which  may  be  produced  by  the  same  cause  acting  upon  such  a 
complex  machine  as  the  nervoua/system. 

,  Alcohol,  then,  as.  soon  as  it  enters  the  blood,  comes  into  contact  with 
the  nerve-tissue  which  surrounds  the  smaller  arteries  and  veins  and 
regulates  their  size. .  When  this  is  numbed  by  the  presence  of  alcohol 
it  allows  the  muscular  walls  of  the  blood-vessels  to  relax,  and  the  blood 
flows  more  quickly  and  abundantly  through  them.  This  is  but  a  prc>- 
longation  in  another  way  of  the  stimulant  action  of  alcohol  which  I 
have  already  described,  and,  like  it,  jproduces'a  sense  of  vigour  and  an 
increased  rapidity  of  imagination.  But  this  effect  is  not  confined  to 
the  head,  it  extends  to  all  the  vessels  of  the  body  eavo  those  of  tha 


ALOOHOL:  ITS  AdnOlf  AKB  USES.  599 

iAtenol  oiga&fis  which  ate  govcmod  by  a  nerrons  infinenc^  peenliar  io 
themselTeB.  The  surface  becomes  flnshed  and  the  tempetatnre  rises  a 
degree,  or  even  more.  Presently  the  benumbing  influence  spreads  to 
the  nerve-centres  in  the  brain,  which  are  the  more  easily  influenced 
becatise  in  a  state  of  momentarily  heightened  a^iyity  ftx)m  increased 
supply  of  blood.  The  first  points  to  be  attacked  are  those  highest  in 
the  BcsJa  of  complexity,  and  therefore  most  easily  thrown  out  Of  gear, 
which  gOTcm  all  the  inferior  ^arts  of  the  nervous  system  and  guide 
them  to  their  ends  by  combining  their  varioud  actions  and  arresting 
such  as  would  be  injurious  or  useless.  The  controlling  influences  of 
fear,  shame,  and  the  like  are  among  the  first  to  be  lost,  and  to  this  more 
than  to  the  increased  activity  of  the  brain  the  brilliancy,  wit,  and  hap- 
piness of  an  alte^4inner  speech  are  due.  At  the  same  time  the  burden 
of  care,  which  weighs  down  all  the  children  of  men,  is  for  the  moment 
lightened,  for  it  is  less  keenly  felt — and  this  is  the  most  highly  prized 
of  all  the  boons  Of  aloohoL  That  the  seeming  vigour  of  the  mind  is  in 
this  stage  apparent  and  not  real,  is  proved  b^  the  inaptitude  to  attend 
to  any  subject  requiring  earnest  thou^t  which  co-exists  with  all  this 
readiness  and  liveliness  of  speech.  The  higher  nerve-centres  which 
serve  imaginalioa  and  memory  are  incapable  of  combined  and  harmo- 
nious action,  and  their  oontrolling  influence  being  lessened  the  lower 
ones  run  on  unchecked,  just  as  when  the  controlhng  influence  of  the 
brain  over  the  heart  is  removed  it  exhausts  itself  in  tumultuous  and 
violent  notion. 

The  finer  muscular  actions  of  speaking,  pla3ring  musical  instruments, 
writing,  Ac,  are  affected — not  that  the  movements  are  yet  impossible, 
but  that  the  perfect  combination  of  many  motions  required  for  such 
purposes  has  been  broken.  The  lips  and  tongue  no  longer  move  har- 
moniously togethw  in  si>eech,  the  touch  is  less  perfect  on  the  violin  or 
piano^  the  gait  becomes  tottering  and 'unsteady.  I  may  be  spared 
dwelling  on  the  farther  progress  of  intoxication  when  the  poison  spreads 
to  the  rest  of  the  brain,  and  the  victim  lies  in  a  stupnor  which  is' hardly 
to  be  distinguished  firom  the  gravest  results  of  injury  or  disease. 
These  are  unhappily  but  too  weU  known  to  us  all,  and  every  one  will 
admit  that  itui^  at  least  are  the  results  of  a  narcotic  and  not  of  a  stimu- 
lant 

Meanwhile,  another  considerable  effect  of  alcohol  is  being  worked 
out.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  surface  of  the  body  became 
warmer  in  the  early  stage  of  itd  action  from  the  dilatation  of  the  vessels, 
and  more  abundant  supply  of  blood  to  them.  Now,  the  animal  heat  is 
maintained  by  a  balance  struck  between  two  opposite  tendencies,  tlie 
heat  developed  in  the  internal  organs,  and  the  cooling  which  the  blood 
undergoes  on  the  surface  bj^  its  contact  With  the  external  air  and  by 
sweating.  When  the  blood  is  collected  in  the  internal  organs  (as  under 
the  influence  of  oold^,  the  temperature  rises,  or  is  maintained  in  spite 
of  exposure;  while  if  the  '*  cooling  area  *'  be  more  abundantly  supphed, 
the  temperature  falls.  And  this  is  what  is  found  b^r  observation  to 
ec^mr  after  alcohol  has  been  token.    The  momentary  rise  of  tempeR> 


000  ASJOOBOL:  ITS  ACTION  A2n>  USES. 

iure  (wMcli  even  then  o&ly  ajOfpHea  to  ihd  dtufeiee  et  the  bod^)  m  snc- 
oeeded  by  a  fall,  irbieh  lasts  fof  some  hoiu^r  and  ia  often  greater  than 
that  observed  in  almost  eyeiy  other  ease  of  poisomng  ox  diwcan^ — the 
late  Dr.  Woodman  haying  often  found  the  tnermom^ev  i&ore  ihon  8^ 
below  nozmai  daring  alooholio  ooma»  even  in  persons  who  afterwards 
leooter.  The  power  of  resisting  cold  is  proportionate^  deeteaaed*  and 
man3p  a  poor  wretch  has  died  from  exposure  when  under  the  iu&MGBce 
of  drink  whose  life  wonld  otherwise  lukve  been  isaved. 

There  is  yet  another  way  in  whioh  alcohol  tends  to  lower  the  amnml 
heat>  and  that  is,  by  the  chemical  ehanges  it  iiiidergoed  in  tha  Ipody. 
This  branch  of  my  subject  has  be^n  less  folly  cleared  up^  but  the  fol- 
lowing general  statements  \|^11  be  sufficient  for  the  ordinary  veikder. 
There  is  evidence  to  prove  that  under  excepttonid  ciremnstanees  of  dLs- 
ease  or  detHivation  of  food,  alcohol  is  copabk  of  aupjplyix^f  all  the  Aeeds 
of  tiie  body,  and  is  then  a  true  food.  Mt  ordinanly^  this  is  not  the 
ease:  the  greater  part  of  the  spirit  taken  into  the  body  pasaes  out  nn> 
changed,  and  the  remainder  does  not  seem  to  be  capable  of  sudii  per- 
fect osddation  as  would  assist  in  maintaining  the  temperature^  and  aup- 
porting  life*  Tet  it  is  ^edy  for'6xygen,  and  contrives  to  divert  a 
part  of  that  which  is  being  continually  supped  throu^  the  blood, 
forming  with  it  probably  fddehyde  atid  otuf^  compounds^  whi^  arc 
iUten  got  rid  of.  This  has  the  effect  of*  diminishing  th^  rate  at  which 
combustion  is  generally  carried  On;  the  amount  of  eafboni^  acid  and 
urea  produced  are  diminished,  and  in  their  place,  fat  and  urio  acid 
tend  to  aeeumulate:  as  a  result  of  less^ed  tidaue^hanfips  the  tesipera- 
turefialls. 

l^e  more  remote  eonsequenees  of  hal^tual  and  excessive  iftdulgence 
in  alcohol  are  due,  partly  to  thda  disturbance  of  nutrition,  partly  to 
the  continued  ^Sect  upon  the  nervous  system;  but  there  is  no  Moed 
that  I  should  go  farther  into  these. 

I  shaU  venture  to  sum  up  shortly  the  principal  retfuks  upon  which 

1  have  been  dwelling,  before  remarking  upon  the  practical  conse- 
quences of  the  teaching  of  physiolo^.  It  cannot  be  too  olten  re- 
peated, or  too  widety  known^  that  (With  the  sUght  exceptioa  I  havo 
mentioned  above)  aJcc^ol  is  liot  a  stimulant,  but  a  narcotic  and  s 
sedative.  It  does  not  increase  the  healthy  activity  of  any  organ  of  the 
body,  althov^h  it  ufay  alfow  of  disoMerljr  action;  but  it  depteeses  and 
lowei^Srthe  normal  rat&of  life,  To  sajr  this,  ianot  to  condemii  its  use 
in  health,  still  less  in  disease;  but  it  isio  supply  aa  ex^lanoiion  of  ite 
reasonable  empltrnuent.  It  Was  nattuibl,  perhaps  inevitable,  that  the 
physicians  of  a  former  time  should  have  looked  upon  it  atf  ftatimulant; 
but  the  error  has  had  nK>st  pernicious  eonsequencea  The  authoritj 
of  medicine  has  not  onli^  been  invoked  as  a  cloak  for  indulpenee;  but, 
itnost  lamentably,  phybicians  were  led  to  prescribe  alcohol  for  delicate 
children  afid  women,  and  so  to  lay  the  loundation  of  dxnakeAnGaB 
with  all  its  infinite  misery. 

When  we  have  said  that  aloohol  is  a  nareotic,  we  have  found  th«  true 
key  to  its  extensive  use.    If  a-  drUg  eouU  bo  ^sooveved  wJ^ek  Bhould 


ALCOHOL:  US  JXTTfiOK  AKD  USE&  '601 

he  A  fdftl  stimulant  to  the  biain,  it  would  be  a  ^it^ov  ^<£9^a«oK  stieh  as 
liato  &bled,  makiBg  men  realise  more  vtvidlj  their  mifleiies,  and  none 
would  ^llingly  taste  it  a  second  time.  Like  opium  (and  in  a  loea 
degree,  tobacco)  alcohol  helps  to  give  a  momenta^  respite  from  care, 
and  iUi  wide-spread  nse  is  a  significant  comment  on  the  "vanity  of 
hnman  life:  when  we  add  to  this  its  eTanescent  stimnlant  effect,  and 
the  frequently  pleasant  taste  of  its  compounds,  wo  shall  need  no  far- 
ther explanation  of  its  value  to  men. 

From  what  I  haye  said  of  its  action  it  will  be  seen  that  alcohol  may 
be  of  service  in  three  different  ways — as  a  narcotic  it  may  be  powerful 
to  check  the  restless  activity  of  an  over-worked  or  over-worried  brain: 
and  fat  this  reason  it  will  be  alwimi  in  requisition  where  the  struggle 
for  ezistenee  is  keen.    And  this  (I  may  note  in  passing)  seems  to  me 
the  eiplanation  of  a  point  raised  by  1^  J.  Paget,  whidbi  has  be^i 
thought  a  atrong  objecuon  to  total  abslinenoe.    He  remarks  that  the 
Eastealnf^  and  those  races  which  use  alcohol  sparingly  or  not  at  all,  are 
far  iee0  vigorous  mentally  and  bodily  than  those  who  take  it  mord 
freely;  ana  the  statement  iff  no  doubt  true  of  the  present  day,  although 
in  past  history  it  is  subject  to  so  many  exceptions  that  it  loses  mu<^  of 
its  valtie*    I  should  rather  be  disposed  to  say  that  although  the  craving 
for  spirit  is  great  among  savages,  it  also  distinctly  follows,  and  does 
not  precede,  that  high  pressure  and  rapid  pace  which  mcreaso  as 
civilisation  advances: — ^num  drink  because  they  are  civilised,  and  are 
not  civilised  because  they  drink.    There  is  one  very  serious  drawback 
to  this  action  of  alcohol.    Its  narcotio  effect  cannot  be  obtained  with- 
out some  lesseniBg  of  the  cleamees  and  activity  of  thought:  and  thi^ 
is  certainly  affected  by  a  very  moderate  quantity  of  dnnk.    I  have 
questioned  many  pexsons  who,  having  been  always  temperate,  have 
become  total  abstainers,  and  h^ve  almost  always  been  assured  that  they 
were  conaeioaB  of  an  increased  mental  vigour  and  aptitude  for  worl^ 
and  my  own  personal  experience  has-been  the  same*    Too  little  stress 
has  been  load  upon  this  advantage,  which  those  who  have  to  use  their 
brains,  and  can  live  without  alcohol,  would  be  loth  to  forego. 

Secondly,  alcohol  ma^  be  of  servico  by  lessening  tissu&^hange:  and 
this  may  be  a  very  considerable  gain  when,  from  any  cause,  the  waste 
of  the  body  is  excessive,  or  when  sufficient  food  to  maintain  its  repair 
cannot  be  purdxased  or  digested.  Total  abstainers  are  often  laige 
eaters,  and,  when  they  foil,  perhaps  most  frequently  do  so  from  being 
anable  to  digest  the  amount  of  food  they  seem  to  require.  Here  again 
the  evil  eflfects  of  drink  lie  close  to  its  benefits,  the  varied  mischiefs  of 
7ont,  bepatic  and  renal  disease,  being  due  to  the  same  canse  which  in 
noderfition  may  be  so  useful.  I 

Finalbr*  alcohol  is  sometimes  needed  for  its  power  of  dilating  the 
miailer  olood-vessels.  The  most  important  examples  of  this  kind  of 
iction  a^e  to  be  found  in  some  forms  of  disease  wnere  the  circulation 
s  impeded,  and  where  the  sluices. (so  to  speak)  may  be  opened  by  alco* 
lol,  ai^  relief  given  to  the  over-tsaed  heart  This  is  not  the  phvce  to 
Iwell  npossi  these;  but  m  hoslth  the  samQ  cffeot  is  fGoniliar  to  all  in  the 


602  ALCOHOL:  ITSACTION  AND  USES. 

power  of  spirit  to  cotmteract  the  results  of  oold,  'whidi  (as  I  said 
abdve)  contracts  the  vessels' of  the  Borfieice,  and  accamniates  the  l^ood 
in  the'  internal  organs.  It  may  therefore  often  be  suitably  tak^  q^er 
espostire  to  cold,  to  restore  the  balance  of  the  drcnkition:  bat  in  the 
face  of  the  overwhelming  evidence  we  possess  that  it  lowers  anima] 
heat,  it  shonld  be  avoided  before  or  during  such  exposure. 

The  chief  practical  rules  which  physicians  have  drawn  fieoin  theif 
experience  agree  thoroughly  with  these  toadungs  of  physiology. 
There  Seemd  to  be  a  general  consent,  that  any  healthy  aduit»  who  can 
oat  and  digest  sufficient  food,  and  sleeps  well,  con^usually  became  a 
tbtal  abstainer.  He  will  probably  find  himself  more  capable  of  hard 
work,  ahd  of  enjoying  life  in  the  highest  sense,  for  abstaining.  When 
he  lEdls,  it  will  be  most  likely  either  because  he  cannot  asmmilate  food 
enough,  or  because  his  occupation  is  one  causing  much  worry  or  an- 
noyance, which  will  therefore  be  relieved  by  a  maoatic  When  taken 
in  such  a  case,  the  quantity  should  not  ezeeed  two  or  three 
glasses^of  sherry  a  day,  or  an  equivalent  amount  of  other  liquora,  and 
all,  or  nearly  aU»  should  be  taken  at  one  mdal,  so  as  to  give  time  for 
the  system  to  be  rid  6f  alcohol  for  some  ]part  of  the  twen^-four  honis. 

As  to  age,  the  old  Greek  rule  would  suli  be  generally  endorsed:  fcr* 
mented  drinks  should  not  be  taken  before  eighteen,  VBzy  sparingly 
between  eighteen  and  thirty,  and  more  really  as  age  advances. 
Sickly  and  delicate  children,  especia&y,  are  the  worse  for  it,  since  it 
checks  their  appetite  for  food,  and  interferes  with  nutritioDu  Por 
women  th^re  is  more  need  for  cautioQ  in  its  use  than  for  men,  m  it 
aggravates  the  very  a/taxai^d  inMmfCv  itUvw  re  km  a^po(rifor«ip>  whi^  causes 
it  to  be  more  eagerly  desired. 

There  are  many  persons  in  whom  a  vety  small  amount  of  alcohol 
produces  flushing,  giddiness,  beadadie,  and  other  symptoms  of  uer- 
vous  disturbanee.  These  shotdd  be  warned  to  i^diun  it;  and  still  mora 
earnestly  should  those  be  cautioned,  who  have  ak  unnatural  ciaTing 
for  its  narcotic  effects,  or  who  have  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  it  in 
excess,  that  their  only  safety  is  in  total  abstinence.  And  I  may  here 
remark,  the  old  opinion  which  still  lingers  in  the  publio  mind,  tnat  an 
excessive  quantity  6f  alcohol  should  not  be  stopped  at  once,  but  "ta- 
pered off,**  is  a  pernicious  error  to  which  medicine  now  gives  no  coun- 
tenance. The  experiment  is  being  daily  tried  on  the  Icffgest  scale 
in  our  gaols,  where  habitual  drunkards  are  suddenly  transformed  into 
total  abstainerfi,  and  never  I  believe  with  any  bad  results. 

It  will,  I  fear,  be  felt  with'  some  disappointment  by  the  partisans  or 
opponents  of  total  abstinence  that  ^if  I  nave  said  aU  tnat  scienoe  has  to 
teach  on  the  subject,  I  have  supplied  neither  side  with  emj  deciaiTe 
arguments.  But  this  would  be  beyond  the  physician's  province  ^nitij 
as  much  as  to  decide  whether  ana  what  penalties  should  be  inflicted 
lor  drunkenness.  It  is  for  him  only  to  ^ve  an  account  of  that  side  of 
this  great  question  which  Hes  within  his  ken,  and  to  thial  havo  en- 
deavoured to  confine  myseH 

Tet  it  will'  bo  soon  th^i  any  discussion  of  this  sulgect  must  stoxt 


ALOOfiOL:  ITS  MfnOS  Am>  VBES.  603 

.  *  • 

from .  t^^^o,  nointa.  whkh  I  ha^va  already  ^^ci^ixtly.  dwe^i:  nppzi,  .bn| 
whic^  ^e  of  fincli  importai^ce  tW  I  yentuxe  to  repeat  tKem.    , 

ThB  &c^  is,.t]i^t  alcohol  whetliexfor  ^ood  or  fp^  n^mn  c^oes  not. exalt 
but  aepre83e£vIiQaltAy.actioi;,  is  aisedative  aiid  n^ta  Btimulajit^. 

The  second  is  that  pvery  healtl^y  person  may  with  perfect  safety  at 
least  make  a  trial  of  total  abstinence.  If  then  such  an  pne,  feeling  fhat 
the  demoA.  of  dnnl^  whidi  polisesses  ^hia  land  is  onl^'to  be  cast  out  by 
fasting  a^^oll  aspr^yej^'-ynH  not  dtink  wine  in  which  his  brother  ia 
scandalised,  medicine  haa  this  encouragement  to  offar  ^im  in  his  liigE 
zqsoIyq.  .,,,'.. 

J.  B.  QABqfnsi,  in  JhMn  Hemew*    ■ 


\ 
I 


<  I  ,  •  f 


Most  persons  have  heard  of  ^igtation,  but  the  generalitj^  of  those 
who  are  acoofitomed  to  use  the  word  liave  an  exceedingly  vagUd  uid 
loose  idea  of  its  full  meaning,  its  extentu  or  ltd  object. 

ETery  one  ^ows  that  certaiti  bitdsi  for  example,  are  migratory,  hut 
it  is  not  eyery  one  w)io  a^ks  himself  wh^  they  are  migra^ry,  whence 
they  come,  whither  they  go,  or  the  conditions  wliich  determine  their 
presence' among  ns. 

Islanders  as  we  are,  we  have  none  other  l>ut  feathered  migrants,  bu^ 
on  continents  the  mammals,  the  insects,  and  the  crustaceama  share  the 
migratory  instincts  with  the  hirds.  :' 

There  affe  two  theories  which  are  given  for  migration,'  natnely,  want 
of  food  and  continuation  of  the  species.  I  believe,  however,  that  the 
two  tieoriea  may  be  reduced  to  one,  and  that  the  primary  object  of 
migration  is  food.  In  order  to  make  this  suggestion  clear,  I  will  take 
a  few  examptes  of  migrators  which  are  not  birds. 

First,  let  us  ^o  to  Southern  Africa  and  place  ourselves  in  imagination 
on  the  vast  plains  or  "  karroos  "  of  that  country.  There  we  ^U  see 
the  migration  oi  the  beautiful  antelope,  c^ed  springbok 'on  account  of 
its  wonderful  powers  of  leaping.  Being  gregarious  in  tteir  habits,' 
and  associating  in  herds  so  enormous  that  no  one  has  been  bold 
enough  to  offer  the  least  estimate  of  their  numbers,  the  springboks 
soon  devotir  aH  eatable  herbage  in  their  neighbouthood,  and  are  K>rced 
to  moTe  on  or  starve.  Kothing  can  resist  their  progress.  They  move 
steadily  forward  in  solid  columns  about  half  a  mile  in  width  and  many 
miles  in  length.  They  cannot  exert  their  usual  activity,  so  closely  are 
they  x>acked  together,  out  proceed  onwards  at  a  walking  pace,  which  is 
regaUited  by  the  supply  of  food. 

It  might  oe  thought  that  those]  in  the  van  would  get  all  the  food, 
while  those  in  the  rear  would  be  starved,  but  In  practice  it  is  found 
that^  nil  obtain  their  needful  share  of  the  tbod  for  which  they  are  jour- 

Merhage  is  so  luxuilant  that  those  animals  whicli  occupy  the  front 


K)4  THEm  APPQmT!ED  SEAfiONa 

zank  are  fioon  is&tdated,  szid  nxubble  to  keep  tip  urSth  {he  pace  dP  those 
who  are  puBhing  on  hun&prily  behind  them.  Conseq-aently,  tiiey  {q31 
out  of  the  line  and  rest  wnile  the  colnmn  passes,  when  they  take  their 
places  in  the  rear,  and  so  work  their  way  on  again  to  the  front. 

Beasts  of  prey  hang  on  the  skirts  of  these  eolnmns,  and  it  has  some- 
times happened  that  a  lion  has  incantionsiy  allowed  himself  to  be 
enveloped  by  the  advancing  host^  and  has  oeen  carried  off  in  their 
midst,  forced  to  march  with  the  antelopes  and  nnable  to  make  hi? 
escape.  A  tiock  of  ^eep  has  been  swept  away  hi  like  manner.  Hero, 
then,  it  is  evident  that  nnnger  i«f  the  principal,  though  it  may  not  bo 
the  only  canse  of  migration. 

Change  our  locality  from  the  karroos  of  Sonth  Africa  to  the  prairie? 
of  the  Korth-west  of  America,  and  there  we  shall  find  the  bison  carry- 
ing on  a  similar  system  of  migration,  bnt  on  a  larger  scale.  Tho 
springbok  is  a  small  and  hana^iess  antolope,  wHib  me  bison  is  a  large 
and  formidable  species  of  the  ox  tribe. 

These  animals  live  In  herds,  as  do  the  springboks,  and,  like  them, 
they  migrate  in  search  of  food.  Only  the  leaders  can  see  where  they 
are -going,  and  the  whole  herd  rashes  on  blindly  after  them.  To  meet 
one  of  Uicse  herds  "on  the  ran'*  is  certain  death.  The  el^hant 
itself  could  not  resist  them,  cmd  its  enormous  body  would  be  traiapled 
into  unrecognisable  fragments  by  thei  time  tiiat  the  herd  had  passed. 

Now  pass  to  Europe,  and  we  shall  se^  mammalian  migrante,  conaller 
in  size,  l)ut  equal  in  numbers  and  destractiv^ness,  to  the  springbok  of 
Africa  and  the  bison  of  America.  These  are  tiie  lemmings  littlo 
rodent  animals  belonging  to  the  mouse  tribo^  and  mbabitiing^^Sorway 
and  Sweden. 

They  are  only  six!  inches  in  length,  but  a  herd  of  springbok  or  bison 
does  not  w  rk  nearly  so  much  harm  as  a  horde  of  lemmings.  The 
former  sweep  over  uncultivated  plains,  the  produce  of  which  has  no 
huioan  owner;  while  the  latter  devastate. fields  and  gardens,  and  do 
not  spare  even  the  gathered  crops. 

Urged  by  instinct*  they  proceed  straight  forward,  and  nothing 
serves  to  turn  their  course  but  a  wall  or  a  house.  A  oom-«tack  is  no 
obstacle  to  the  lemmings,  for  they  only  eat  it  and  then  push  forward. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  statement  be  true,  but  it  is  said  thai  if  a 
lemming  should  pass  over  grass,  no  cattle  will  feed  on  the  contami- 
nated herbage.  X  am  inclined,  however,  to  doubt  the  statement,  as  it 
is  not  likely  that  the  lenmiings  would  leave  uneaten  any  gcasa  which 
might  come  in  their  way. 

These  migrations  are  not  annual,  nor  indeed  at  all  regular,  £rom 
Seven  to  twelve  or  fifteen  years  generally  separating  them. 

It  is  also  said,  and  perhaps  truly,  that  many  of  the  lemmixig  hof^ts 
survive  and  work  their  way  back  again,  but  the  bulk  of  them  find  tho 
end  of  their  journey  in  the  sea.  They  mostly  follow  ono  of  two 
routes,  {.  6.,  from  Kordland  to  Friedland  in  the  Western  Ooean,  or 
throng  Swedish  Lapland  into  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia.  It  is  worthy  of 
mention,  by  the  way,  that  man  has  in  Norway  unconsciously  imiUted 


I 


THEm  APPOINX&D  SEASONa  606 

the  lenumxin,  snd  beeome  a  migxBtor  in  saardh  of  fbbd,  thongh  not 
for  himself,  bni  for  hia  o&itle. 

Tiiis  Bemi-migratiozi  is  called  the  8aeter  sTstem,  tuid  by  it  the  Nor- 
wegiau  famees  are  enabled  to  feed  their  herds.  In  the  high  motintain 
valleys  are  found  the  rich  pasturee  which  are  in  fall  verdore  dn^ng  the 
snmiiLex  time.  To  them  are  driven  the  cattle  when  the  warm  weather 
has  fairly  set  in»  and  among  them  the  herds  remain  nntil  the  cold 
weather  warns'  their  keepess  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  farm. 

Amoxig  insects  the  lael:  of  food  is  the  primary  catise  of  migration,  afl 
is  seezL  in  the  locusts,  Beyend  species  of  which  insects  are  notable  for 
the  enormons^flocks  in  which  they  assenibie,  the  distances  which  they 
traTeise»  and  the  damaae  which  they  do. 

1  need  hardly  remind  any  reader  of  the  Sdkdat  MAOAZUne  of  the  fre- 
quency with  which  the  locust  is  mentioned  both  in  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments,  but  I  may  say  that  if  an  entomologist  of  the  present  day 
were  to  describe  the  habits  of  the  locust,  he  conld  not  be  more  accttrate 
in  the  minntest  detail  than  was  Hoses,  who  lived  so  many  ages  before 
man  ever  thought  insects  to  be  worthy  objects  for  a  human  intellect  to 
exert  itself  upon. 

Want  of  food  nzgos  the  locusts  in  their  destmctive  course,  and,  lik0 
the  lemmings,  they  consome  every  green  thing  whioh  they  meet. 

I  well  remember,  some  years  ago,  being  present  In  a  room  to  which 
electric  wires  were  laid  from  all  parts  of  the  world  with  which  we  can 
hold  telegraphic  commnnioation.  Among  the  many  messages  which 
successively  arrived  wals  one  from  Kuxrachee,  conveying  a  kindly 
greeting. 

We  requested  the  operator  to  ask  his  Knrra(sh<ie  correspondent  to  tell 
him  the  cnrrent  news,  and  presently  received  the  nnerpected  answer 
that  a  Tast  doad  of  locusts  was  pasSng^  over  the  city.  I  never  had  the 
chance  of  seeing  a  locust  army,  but  I  did  thoroughly  appreciate  the 
wonderful  fact  that  I  could  see  one  end  of  a  wire  ih  a  room  in  London, 
and  that  at  that  Very  time  a  cdoud  of  k>cU8t8  was  flyiiig  over  the  other 
end,  near  the  mouths  of  the  Indus. 

There  are  one  or  two  curious  points  of  resembltmoe  in  the  migrations 
of  the  locusts  and  lemmings.  Both  perish  in  the  sea  at  the  end  of 
their  pilgrimage,  both  are  preyed  upon  during  their  migrations,  and 
both,  fidthough  they  destroy  the  crops  taised  by  man,  afford  some  com- 
pensation by  being  eaten  by  him.  We,  in  this  favoured  land,  know 
nothing  of  such  visitations.  Now  and  then  a  paragraph  in  some  eouh- 
try  newi^paper  announces  the  arrival  of  locusts  in  England,  the  state- 
ment is  copied  into  other  journals,  and  the  public  is  greatly  alarmed. 
Entomologists  know  that  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  the 
Bo-oalled  locust  is  nothing  but  the  large  green  grasshopper,  an  insect 
common  enough  and  large  enough  to  be  familiar  to  every  one,  but  very 
little  imown. 

All  these  creatures  are  evidently  impelled  by  hunger  when  they  mi- 
grate. But,  if  we  go  to  the  West  Indies,  we  Ethall  find  that  extensive 
migration  occxaa  annually  amongst  creatures  which  travel,  not  for  the 


606  THEIR  APP0117TED  SEASOKa 

salco  of  tihemselnres,  biit  .of  t)ieiir.  fituaoeEH^rs.  These  are  biad  crabR.  pn 
called  because,  instead  of  inhabiting  the  sea  as  is  tisnally  the  caso  wit.i 
crabs,  they  live  far  inland,  being  orteti  geyeral  miles  irom  the  sea. 

They  choose  their  inland  locality  because  they  find  their  food  ther- 
As  for  respiration,  most  crabs  can  live  for  a  long  time  out  of  the  Bea  :i 
only  they  be  plunged  in  water  o<^ea8ioQall3r)  so  as  to  keep  the  gills  w*-. 
The  land  pxabs»  however,  burro'w  deeply  into  th&  ground,  and  what 
with  the  nightly  dews  and  the  moist  habitations  in  which  they  spend 
the.^reaterpartof  their  time,  they  can.  moisten  their  gills  without  lo- 
quiring  to  eoek  the  sea  for  the  purpose  of  jrespixatioja. 

Once  in^ihe  year,  however,  they  are  forced  to  repair  to  the  Ben^-shor  \ 
or  the  race  would  die  out  for  want  of  new  memb^ns.  The  egg»  of  tli  ■ 
land  crab  require- lo  be  hatched  in  the  sea^  The  strange  and  weird- 
like  forms  which  the  young  ones  assume  before  they  become  perfect 
craibs  are  esaeutially  marine,.,  and  thej  not  only  breathe  through  tli  • 
sea  water  like  marine  fishes,  but  subsist  on  marine  productions.  S>> 
food  IB,  even  in  thia  case,  the  chief  object  of  mi^psation^  only  it  is  11.  * 
food  of  the  o£fi&pri|ig,  and  not  of  the  parents.  With  warmth  and  moi  - 
ture  the  eggs  might  be  hatched  out  of  the  sea,  but  the  newly-born 
young  could  find  no  food  except  in  the  ocean,  and  unless  they  wer .• 
placed  in  it  from  birth  they  must  die  from  starvation. 

Let  us  pass  from  the  land  to  the  water. 

.Even  among  fishes  migration  is  a  regular  occurrenoef  the  fishermon 
knowing  the  seasons  when  they  may  expect  the  shoals,  and  havin<^ 
everything  in  readiness  fox  theix  reception.  They  do  not  trouhl' 
themselves  about  the  causes  of  these  periodical  visitations,  but  tbty 
are  practically  familiar  "^ith  the  facts. 

Food,  whether  of  the  parent  fish  or  the  young  fry,  is  now  ascer- 
tained to  be  the  primary  cause  of  migration,  and  even  in  regard  t«^ 
such  fishes  as  the  salmon,  which  pass  their  lives  alternately  in  salt 
and  i^esh  waters.  .Generally,  however,  the  range  of  migration  in  s*  a 
fishes  is  but  small,  consisting  of  changes  from  deep  to  shallow  wat^r. 
as  the  case  may  require. 

Now  we  will  pass  to  our  own  little  island,  and  note  the  proceedicir^ 
of  our  feathei^d  migrants.  I  do  not  intend  to  give  any  record  of  tb  * 
rarer  birds,  but  simply  take  a  few  of  those  which  are  most  familiar  to  u^. 

Putting  aside  for  the  present  those  which  cross  the  seas,  we  must  n- 
member  that  a  partial  migration,  analogous  to  that  of  the  fishes,  takc-s 
place  with  many  of  our  birds  which  never  leave  th6  country. 

The  late  Charles  Waterton  kept  careful  records  of  the  birds  which 
visited  his  part  of  Yorkshire,  and  as  there  could  not  have  been  a  mow 
favourable  spot  for  observation,  or  a  more  zeedous  and  competent  o?- 
server,  his  notes  on  this  subject  are  peculiarly  valuable.  The^  are  Uo 
numerous  for  citation,  but  can  be  found  scattered  through  his  essays 
now  collected  into  a  single  volume  by  Dr.  Moore,  together  with  a  nna- 
ber  of  his  miscellaneous  letters. 

Suffice  it  to  mention,  that  whether  the  birds  were  summer  or  winter 
visitants,  whether  terrestrial  or  aquatic,  food  was  their  object  in  visii- 


THKIK  APPOINTED  SEASOHa  607 

ing  Walton  Hall.  In  £eiGt,  he  used  to  say  that  he  ooold  induoo  almost 
mj  English  bird  to  take  np  its  residence,  either  temporary  or  perma- 
nent, at  Waltbn  Hall,  by  providing  shelter,  quiet,  and  suitable  food. 

As  thisj)artial  migiation  will  be  treated  in  a  future  paper,  I  will  now 
pass  to  the  migrants  which  cross  the  sea  at  definite  periods  of  the 
jear. 

One  of  the  earliest  of  these  feathered  visitois  is  the  well-known 
wryneck,  sometimes  called  the  cuckoo's  knave  or  cuckoo's  servant, 
because  its  harsh  grating  cry  is  heard  some  little  time  before  the  so- 
cilled  song  of  the  cuckoo,  though  never  before  the  warmth  of  sj^ing- 
tide  has  asserted  itself. 

Why  does  it  not  stay  with  us  throughout  the  veor?  and  why  is  it 
not  a  winter  visitant  f  An  anatomist  would  be  able  to  answer  these 
questions  if  he  only  saw  the  head  of  a  wryneck.  The  bird  lives  on  in- 
Bects,  as  is  shown  by  the  structure  of  its  long  and  slender  tongue, 
which  can  be  projected  to  a  considerable  distance  from  the  mouth.  In 
fact,  the  chief  part  of  its  diet  consists  of  ants,  Which,  as  every  one 
knows,  pass  their  winter  underground,  and  do  not  pome  out  i^itil  they 
are  potu^  filom  hibernation  by  a  change  of  temperature. 

Before  the  wiyneck  has  been  here  very  long  it  has  prepared  a 
resting-place  aha  laid  its  eg^.  When  these,  ore  hatched,  the  young 
require  the  same  food  as  their  parent,  and  bo  we  see  that  the  motive 
for  migration  is  really  that  the  parent  and  young  should  be  supplied 
with  the  food  without  which  every  wryneck  woxud  didappea^  from  the 
face  of  the  earth. 

Take  the  whole  of  the  swallow  tribe,  including  the  swifts  and  the 
martins.  The  regularity  of  their  comins  is  proverbial,  but  depends 
somewhat  on  the  weather.  It  may  be  delayed  by  cold,  or  hastened  by 
heat.  Why  ?  Because  the  swallows  feed  exclusively  on  living  insects, 
which  they  take  on  the  wing,  and  these  insects  do  not  make  their  ap- 
pearance until  warm  weather  has  fairly  set  in.^ 

It  is  worthy  of  notice  that  even  while  the  birds  remain  in  this  coun- 
try they  observe  a  partial  and  restricted  migration.  Every  one  knows 
that  the  height  at  which  swallows  fly  is  a  tolerable  indication  of  the 
state  of  the  barometer.  Sometimes  they  skim  along  close  to  the  ground, 
and  then  we  say  that  rain  is  impending;  or  they  are  seen  soaring 
at  heights  ^o  great  that  they  can  haMly  be  distinguished,  and  then  we 
make  sure  of  a  flne  day.  Li  both  coses  we  shall  be  almost  invariably 
right. 

The  flight  of  the  swallows  is  in  fact  regulated  by  that  of  the  insects 
on  which  they  feed,  and  which  ore  not  so  strong-winged  as  them- 
selves. 

When  the  atmosphere  is  rarefied,  the  same  conditions  which  cause 
the  merctiry  to  sink  in  the  barometer  and  the  moisture  to  fall  from  the^ 
skies  prevent  the  insects  from  sustaining  themselves  on  high,  and  they 
.'ire  consequently  obliged  to  seek  a  lower  and  denser  stratum  of  air^ 
But  when  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere  is  sufiacierit  to  uphold  the 
meicaxy  above  the  normal  thirty  inches  it  is  likewise  able  to  sustolii 


e06  'THSm  APPOINTED  SEASONS. 

the  insects  whick  float  in  tho  car,  zother  than  fly;  and  the  ewsHoiw,  on 
whose  powers  of  wing  the  state  of  the  atmosphere  has  but  trifling 
effect^  can  follow  them,  whether  they  fly  hi^h  or  low. 

That  long-winged  and  strong-pinioned  birds  snch  as  the  swallows 
should  cross  the  seas  is  perhaps  no  matter  of  wonder,  as  on  everr  day 
of  their  liyes  they  make  much  longer  aerial  voyages  than  would  be  re- 
quired in  the  i>a8sage  from  this  island  to  the  Continent,  But  tl^re  arj 
other  birds,  notably  the  quail,  which  are  short-winged,  fly  laboriously, 
and  pass  almost  the  whole  of  their  time  on  the  ground*  never  taking 
to  wing  except  when  forced,  and  then  alighting  again  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. 

Substituting  trees  for  the  ground,  we  may  say  much  the  same  of  the 
king  of  migrants,  the  nightingale.  It  is  essentifdly  a  bird  of  the  branch, 
and  not  of  the  air,  and  never  flies  but  a  short  distance  when  disturbed. 
Twenty  or  thirty  yards  from  branch  to  branch  is  the  average  flight  of 
the  nightingale,  and  yet  it  can  fly  nearly  as  many  miles  over  tne  sea 
when  the  time  of  migration  arrives.  I  nave  Ions  thought  thai  aomo 
special  powers  of  endurance  must  accompany  the  instinct  of  migration, 
and  be  dev^oped  at  the  proper  season.  No  proof  can  be  given  of  such 
a  theory,  whicn  I  only  oner  as  a  suggestion  of  my  own« 

There  are  many  familiar  birds  wmch  hate  warmth  as  much  as  our 
summer  visitors  hate  cold.  Consequently,  scarcely  has  the  last  of  the 
summer  migrators  left  our  shores  than  the  winter  visitors  be^in  to 
arrive,  attracted  by  the  same  temperature  which  drives  away  their  pre- 
decessors. Taking  the  average,  tnev  begin  to  arrive  between  Septem- 
ber and  November,  andremain  with  us  until  the  warmth  of  spring 
drives  them  away  to  more  northern  countries. 

A  few  of  them,  however,  remain  until  they  have  laid  their  eggs  and 
reared  their  young. 

So  many  of  our  water-birds  come  under  this  category  that  to  enu- 
merate them  all  would  be  useless.  All  sportsmen  who  do  not  object  to 
face  the  cold  are  aware  that  if  they  wish  to  shoot  wild  ducks,  geese, 
and  swans,  they  must  choose  the  coldest  days  if  they  expect  to  be  suc- 
cessful On  such  a  day  the  numbers  of  these  birds  that  are  to  be  found 
on  sea-marshes,  or  on  the  shores  of  tidal  rivers,  is  almost  incredible. 

In  fact,  as  many  of  my  readers  may  know,  there  are  boats  constrocted 
especially  for  the  purpose  of  approaching  the  wary  birds  without  de- 
tection. Each  boat  is  fitted  with  a  huge  "  deck-gun,*'  which  is  fired 
from  a  pivot  and  not  from  the  shoulder,  and  c;»rrying  a  pound  or  so 
of  shot. 

What  directs  the  course  of  the  migratory  birds?  We  do  not  know, 
and  are  obliged  to  fall  back  upon  the  convenient  term,  instinct,  though 
what  instinct  may  be  is  absolutely  unknown.  It  is  not  mental;  it  has 
nothing  to  do  wita  reason,  for  it  is  dulled  b^  reason,  and  when  the  lat- 
ter becomes  predominant  is  totally  extinguished.  For  example,  wild 
cattle  are  never  killed  by  eating  poisonous  herbs,  which  their  instinct 
tells  them  to  avoid.  Yet  when  cattle  are  domesticated,  and  are  not  de- 
pendent on  their  instinct  for  the  s^ection  of  wholesome  food,  they  lose 


THEIK  APPOINTED  I^IASOKB.  60e 

that  iDstinet,  aad  will  kill  themselves  by  eating  yew  or  other  poisonous 
food. 

Whatever  it  may  be,  the  instinct  of  migration  directs  the  course 
which,  the  bircls  shall  take,  and  impels  them  with  resistless  force  to 
follow  it;  and  that  instinct  ought  to  be  respected.  Let  no  one  im- 
prison a  migratory  bird,  no  matter  how  sweet  its  song  may  be,  or  how 
beautiful  its  plumage.  Its  Maker  has  implanted  in  it  the  desire  to 
seek  its  appointed  season,  and  we  have  no  right  to  hinder  it. 

J.  G.  Wood,  m  Sunday  MagaaAne. 


ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUBAL  HISTOEY. 

Natural  History,  as  commonly  understood,  refers  to  the  study  of  ani« 
m&ls  and  plants.  A  profound  truth  is  contained  in  this  popular  ac- 
ceptation of  tke  term.  For  in  order  that  either  animals  or  plants  may 
be  thozoughly  understood,  both  require  to  be  studied;  while  the  two 
together  constitute  a  group  of  natural  objects  which  may  be  considered 
apart  from  the  non-living  world.  Animals  and  plants  taken  together, 
then,  form  the  subnet-matter  of  a  distinct  science,  Biology — ^the 
science  of  living  bodies. 

The  study  of  the  Natural  History  of  living  creatures  has  of  late  as- 
sumed a  greater  importance  than  it  was  ever  before  thought  to  possess. 
Becent  advances  in  science  seem  also  to  indicate  that  this  nistory 
needs  re-writing  from  the  standpoint  which  our  most  expert  and  zeal- 
ous biological  explorers  have  succeeded  in  attaining.  No  soientifio 
questions  have  perhaps  excitod  greater  interest  than  those  which  con- 
cern the  problems  of  animal  or  vegetable  life,  the  origin  of  such  life, 
and  the  origin  of  its  multitudiuous  forms. 

Apart»  however,  from  such  interest  in  it  as  ma^  be  due  to  contiOYer- 
sios  of  the  day,  the  love  of  this  study  is  one  wmch  must  grow  upon 
men  as  they  advance  in  the  knowledge  of  their  own  organisaUon,  owing 
to  the  very  conditions  of  their  existence.  For  man  is  so  related  to 
other  living  creatures,  that  fully  to  understand  himself^  he  must,  more 
or  less  thoroughly,  understand  them  also. 

Every  increase  in  the  knowledge  of  the  organic  world  has  its  effect 
upon  the  study  of  man,  and  helps  him  not  only  towards  a  better  knowl- 
edge of  his  own  organisation,  but  also  helps  in  the  pursuit  of  his  own 
happiness  and  in  the  ful&lmont  of  his  duty. 

To  man  alone  is  at  the  same  time  apportioned  the  physical  enjoy- 
ment, the  intellectual  apprehension,  and  the  essthetic  appreciation  of 
that  marvellous  material  creation  which  on  all  sides  surrounds  him, 
which  impresses  him  by  its  many  active  x>owers,  and  of  which  he  alone 
forms  the  self-conscious  and  reflective  portion. 

His  connection  with  it  is,  indeed,  most  intimate,  partaking  as  he 
does  all  the  orders  of  existence  revealed  to  him  by  his  senses — inorganic 
or  organic,  vegetative  Or  animal.    The  mineral  matters  of  the  earth's 

L.  M.— I.— 23. 


610  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUKAL  HIBTOEX 

solid  crofit,  the  chemical  constituents  of  oeeans  and  riveia,  eyen  the  lAt 

timate  mafcezials  of  remote  sidereal  clusters,  contribute  to  form  the  sub- 
stance  of  hid  bodjr.  The  Tarious  activities  of  the  vegetable  world  have 
their  counterpart  in  the  actions  of  that  bod  j.  When  we  study  the  laws 
of  growth,  as  in  a  creeping  lichen  or  gigantic  eucalyptus,  or  the  ac- 
tions of  roots  or  leaves,  when  we  follow  the  course  of  the  spore  dropped 
from  a  fern  frond,  or  when  we  investigate  the  meaning  and  action  of 
flowers  of  whatever  Idnd,  we  come  upon  processes  which  tne  human  body 
is  also  destined  to  perform.  But  the  animal  world  especially  concera^ 
man,  since,  being  an  animal  himself,  he  shares  the  pleasures,  paiii-% 
appetites,  desires,  and  emotions  of  the  sentient  myriads  which  people 
earth,  air,  and  water.  His  frame,  like  theirs,  thrills  responsivelytothe 
ceaseless  throbbingsof  that  plexus  of  ever-active  agencies,  lifeless  &£ 
well  as  living,  which  we  call  the  Cosmos.  Thus  man  plainly  shares  in 
the  most  diverse  powers  and  faculties  of  his  material  fellow-creatures, 
and  he  sees  also  reflected  by  such  creatures,  in  varying  degrees,  those 
different  kinds  of  existence  which  unite  in  him.  Man  sees  this  reflec- 
tion, and  in  so  seeing  recognises  as  existing  in  himself  a  faculty  much 
above  every  power  possessed  by  any  other  organism.  Unlike  even  the 
highest  of  the  brutes,  he  not  only  feels  the  Cosmos,  but  he  thinks  it. 
He  is  not  only  involved  with  it  in  an  infinity  of  relations,  but  he  re- 
cognises and  reflects  upon  muny  of  such  relations,  their  nature  and 
their  reciprocal  bearings.  *  *  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  f  but 
to  follow  out  that  study  completely  we  must  have  a  certain  knowledge 
of  the  various  orders  of  creatures  m  the  natures  of  which  man,  in  d li- 
ferent degrees,  participates.  Man's  intellect  is  indeed  supreme,  never- 
theless it  cannot  be  called  into  activity  unless  first  evoked  by  sense 
impressions  which  he  shares  with  lowly  animals;  nor  can  his  intellect^ 
even  after  it  has  been  aroused  into  activity,  continue  to  act  save  by 
the  constant  renewal  of  sense  impressions — ^real  or  imagined.  Such 
impressions  give  rise,  in  him,  to  imaginations,  reminiscences,  anticipa- 
tions, and  emotions,  which  serve  as  materials  for  the  exercise  of  intel- 
lect and  will;  and  as  these  imaginations,  reminiscences,  anticipation^ 
and  emotions  are  possessed  also  by  brutes,  it  is  to  the  study  of  such 
creatures  that  we  must  have  recourse  to  obtain  one  of  the  keys  needed 
to  unlock  the  mystery  of  man's  existence. 

In  addition  to  the  above  considerations,  the  organic  world  is  of 
course  useful  to  us  in  a  variety  of  ways.  Man,  as  lord  over  all  oth-r 
organisms  which  people  the  globe,  rightfully  disposes  of  them  for  his 
profit  or  pleasure,  finding  in  the  investigation  of  their  various  naturea 
an  inexhaustible  field  for  his  intellectual  activity,  and  in  their  forms 
and  relations  a  stimulus  for  his  deep-seated  apprehension  of  beauty. 
Thus,  many  considerations  and  influences  concur  to  impel  us  to  tl* 
study  of  Nature,  and  especially  the  Natural  History  of  the  many  living 
creatures  which  are  so  variously  related  to  us. 

But  a  Natural  History  which  shall  include  both  animals  and  planN 
must  be  a  history  of  creatures  of  kinds  so  various  that  their  numbt-r 
bafiles  the  power  of  the  imagination,  as  a  little  reflection  will  suffice  to 


i>> 


ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUBAL  HISTOEY.  611 

Bhow.  Beasts  alone  are  ntunerotiB,  btit  very  much  more  bo  is  the  gronp 
of  reptiles.  Serpents  end  lizards,  indeed,  so  swarm  in  the  hottest  re- 
gions of  the  globe  that,  in  spite  of  the  mnltitndo  of  forms  already  de- 
scribed, it  is  not  impossible  that  nearly  as  many  more  remain  to  bo 
discoYered.  More  than  ten  thonsand  diflPerent  kinds  of  birds  have 
been  now  made  known  to  ns,  and  fishes  are  probably  not  less  numer- 
ous than  all  the  other  above-mentioned  animals  taken  together.* 

Beasts,  birds,  reptiles  and  fishes,  however,  considered  as  forming  one 
group,  constitute  but  a  comparatively  small  section  of  the  world  of 
animals.  Creatures  allied  to  the  snail  and  oyster,  but  all  of  different 
kinds,  exist  in  multitudes  which  are  known  to  us,  but  doubtless  also 
in  multitudes  as  yet  unknown.  Worms  form  a  division  so  varied  in 
nature  and  so  prodigious  in  number,  that  the  correct  appreciation  of 
their  relations  one  to  another  and  to  other  animals — theirclassification 
— ^forms  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  zoological  problems.  Coral-form- 
ing animals  and  cognate  forms,  together  nvith  star-fishes  and  their 
aUies,  come  before  as  two  other  hosts;  and  there  are  yet  other  hosts 
of  other  kinds  to  which  it  ift  needless  hero  to  refer.  Yet  the  whole 
mafis  of  animals  to  which  reference  has  yet  been  made  is  exceeded  (as 
to  tho  number  of  distinct  kinds)  by  the  single  group  of  insects. 
Every  laifd-plant  has  more  than  one  species  of  insect  which  lives  upon 
it,  and  the  same  may  probably  be  said  of  at  least  every  higher  animal 
— and  this  in  addition  to  other  parasites  which  are  not  insects.  Tho 
lowest  animals  have  not  yet  been  referred  to,  but  the  number  of  their 
undiscovered  kinds  which  may  exist  in  the  ocean,  and  in  tropical  lakes 
and  rivers,  may  be  suspected  from  tho  variety  we  may  obtain  here,  in 
a  single  drop  of  stagnant  water.  Recent  researches,  moreover,  have 
shown  us  that  the  depths  of  the  ocean,  instead  of  being  (as  was  sup- 
posed) lifeless  oa  well  as  still  and  dark  abysses,  really  teem  with  ani- 
mal life.  From  those  profound  recesses  also  creatures  have  been 
dragged  to  light,  forms  which  were  supposed  to  have  long  passed  away 
and  become  extinct.  And  this  leads  us  to  yet  another  consideration. 
It  is  impossible  to  have  a  complete  knowledge  of  existing  animals 
without  being  acquainted  with  so  much  of  the  nature  of  their  now  cx- 
t-nct  predecessors  as  can  be  gathered  from  the  relics  they  have  left  be- 
hind. Such  relics  may  be  bones  or  shells  imbedded  in  muddy 
deposits  of  ages  bygone,  and  which  deposits  have  now  turned  to  rock, 
or  muy  consist  of  but  the  impress  of  their  bodies,  or  only  a  few  foot- 
prints. Bich  as  is  tho  animal  population  of  the  world  to-day,  it  repre- 
sents only  a  remnant  of  the  life  that  has  been;  and  small  m  our  kno\Tl- 
edgo  may  ever  be  of  that  ancient  life  (from  imperfections  in  the  rooliy 
record"^,  yet  every  year  that  knowledge  is  increased.  Whr.t  incrcoEO 
may  wo  not  also  expect  hereafter,  when  all  remote  and  tropical  ro^jioni 

*Tho  number  of  kintla  of  fishes  described  by  lohthyolopists  only  about  cqnalj  tlio 
nnraber  of  biitls.  But  then  oniitliolojrists  reckon  buoU  smuU  differences  ixa  lUMkinir  a 
(liBtinctiou  of  kind,  thntif  ichthyolojrists  pursued  a  similar  oonrso  tho  number  of  lishca 
reokon^  as  distinct  would  be  much  in  excess,  liesidea,  there  aro  probably  many 
xaoro  sew  kinds  of  tislies  to  discover  tban  there  ore  of  birds. 


612  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUEAIi  HISTOEY. 

have  beon  explored  witli  the  care  and  patience  already  bectowed  on  the 
deposits  which  lie  in  tho  vicinity  of  civilised  populations? 

!But,  besides  tho  forms  of  animal  lifo  which  are  thu.^  multitadinons, 
acquaintance  must  also  bo  made  with  myriads  of  vegetable  forms  in 
order  to  understand  tho  Natural  History  of  animol'i  and  plants.  Nu- 
merous as  are  the  different  kinds  of  trees,  shrubs,  creepers,  other  flow- 
ering plants,  ferns,  and  mosses  peculiar  to  each  great  region  of  tho 
earth's  surfaco,  the  total  number  of  tho  lowest  flowerless  forms  is  yet 
greater.  Known  sea-weeds  of  large  or  moderate  size  aro  numerous;, 
but  some  naturalists  think  there  are  stiU  more  yet  unknown.  But, 
however  that  may  be,  their  number  is  small  compared  with  tho  swarmn 
of  minute  algae  and  fungi  which  are  to  be  found  in  situations  tho  most 
various.  For  not  only  do  fungi  live  upon  the  surface  of  other  plant«, 
but  they  penetrate  within  them,  and,  as  "mould,"  deprive  tho  stoutest 
timber  of  its  substance  and  resisting  power;  they  devastate  fields  oi 
promising  grain,  destroy  the  hope  of  the  vine-gi'ower,  and  ruin  our 
nomely  garden  produce.  And  as  certain  animals  are  destined  to  nour- 
ish themselves  on  certain  plants,  so  do  different  kinds  of  these  lowly 
plants  nourish  themselves  on  different  animals.  UlcerB  and  sores  may 
support  their  appropriate  vegetation,  the  growth  of  which  has  cause  I 
havoc  in  many  an  hospital  ward,  with  an  atmosphere  teemiHg  (as  it 
often  teems)  with  their  minute  reproductive  particles.  Analogous  pnr- 
ticles  of  other  plants  oven  form  no  insignificant  part  of  our  coal-field- 
as  tho  produce  of  coral  animals  ha5  built  up  large  tracts  of  land  in  th-j 
State  of  Florida  and  elsewhere,  and  as  a  vast  deposit  is  accamnlatinc 
on  the  floor  of  tho  Atlantic  from  the  ceaseless  rain  of  dead  micxosco^ii^ 
shells  which  have  lived  in  its  surface  waters. 

Again,  to  know  living  animals  thoroughly  it  is  necessary  also  to  be 
acquainted  with  extinct  animals,  so  wo  cannot  have  an  adequate  con 
ception  of  the  world  of  plants  without  an  acquaintance  with  its  fossil 
forms — forms  some  of  which  afford  evidence  of  startling  climatic 
changes,  as  do  the  fossil  vines  and  magnolias  of  the  Arctio  region. 

But  it  may  be  asked,  if  tho  multitude  of  living  forms  is  so  great,  wb^ 
should  tho  Natural  History  of  pUints  and  animals  be  treated  simnlt..- 
^eously  ?  Has  not  the  progress  of  science  been  accompanied  by  an  in 
creasing  division  of  labour,  and  is  it  not  wise  of  naturalists  t3  devot 
their  whole  lives  to  some  special  group?  To  this  it  may  bo  replit-.l. 
that  modem  scienco  tends  both  to  unite  and  to  separate  tho  6"^* 
eral  departments  of  inquiry.  The  area  to  be  explored  is  so  vast,  :ji(I 
containa  such  rich  variety,  that  no  human  mind  can  hope  to  m.istir 
the  wholo  study  of  either  animals  or  plants.  On  thifj  account  hom  ■ 
naturalists  are  no  longer  con!;ent  with  being  exclur>ivoly  omitholo:^i-  ■; 
or  entomologists,  or  with  devoting  themselves  to  single  primary  grL»n:.j 
of  birds  or  insects,  but  spend  their  whole  time — and  w^isely  t:o-  urrn 
some  still  more  subordinate  section  of  zoology.  Nevertheless,  such  t^r  r. 
dents  should  also  give  time  to  wider  study,  without  which  they  carin<"it 
really  understand  the  special  groups  to  which  they  are  devoted*  Suili 
subdivision  moreover  has,  as  Goetne  remarked,  a  nanoving  t^Ad^ncj. 


as  THE  STUDY  OF  NATURAL  HIBTOBY.  C13 

Indeed,  the  neoessity  for  each  etadent  to  trndeiBtand  Tarions  bianclies 
of  Bcience  is  constantly  increasing.  A  certain  knowledge  of  astronomy 
and  chemistry  has  become  necessary  to  the  geologist,  and  of  geology 
and  chemistry  to  the  biologist.  Again,  the  progiv^ns  of  knowledge  has 
more  and  more  revealed  the  intimate  connection  which  exists  between 
the  two  great  ^nps  of  living  creatures— animals  and  plants.  So  inti- 
mate, indeed,  is  this  connection  now  seen  to  be  that,  in  spite  of  the 
manifest  differences  between  most  animals  and  plants,  the  position, 
or  even  the  existence,  of  the  line  which  is  to  divide  the  organisms  is  a 
matter  of  dispute.  It  has  thus  become  manifestly  impossible  to  un- 
derstand adequately  the  creatures  belonging  to  one  of  these  groups 
without  a  certain  acquaintance  with  those  belonging  to  the  other 
group.  The  powers  which  animals  possess  cannot  be  satisfactorily  un- 
derstood without  a  knowledge  of  the  corresponding  powers  of  plants. 
Our  knowledge,  for  example,  of  animal  nutrition  and  reproduction 
would  be  very  incomplete  unless  we  had  a  conception  of  these  pro- 
cesses generally,  and  therefore  of  the  modes  in  wliich  they  take  place 
in  plants  also.  On  these  accounts  it  is  desirable  that  both  the  great 
groups  of  living  creatures  should  be  considered  conjointly,  and  the 
study  of  living  organisms  treated  as  one  great  whole. 

An  objection  of  an  opposite  nature  may,  however,  be  made  to  the 
plan  here  advocated.  It  may  be  objected  that  plants  and  animals 
should  not  be  considered  separately  from  minerals,  but  that  all  terres- 
trial productions  should  be  treated  of  as  one  whole,  and  their  substan- 
tial composition  and  powers  exhibited  as  diverging  manifestations  of 
one  grent  unity.  In  support  of  this  objection  may  be  urged  that  very 
increasing  inter-relation  and  cross-dependency  between  the  sciences 
which  have  been  just  referred  to.  It  may  be  contended  that,  though 
animals  and  plants  do  indeed  require  to  be  treated  as  one  whole,  yet 
they  do  not  form  a  really  isolated  group  for  the  following  reasons.  The 
laws  of  mineral  aggregation  in  crystals  are  imitated  in  the  growth  of 
certain  animals.  The  ultimate  constituents  of  the  organic  and  inor- 
ganic worlds  are  the  same.  The  physical  forces — light,  heat,  and  elec- 
tricity— are  both  needed  by  and  are  given  off  from  living  organisms, 
as  manifestly  by  fire-flies,  warm-blooded  animals,  and  the  electric  eeL 
The  diverse  manifestations  of  life  are  thus,  it  may  be  said,  merely  due 
to  the  play  of  physical  forces  upon  very  complex  materisil  conditions. 

To  this  it  may  be  replied  that,  at  leant  practically,  the  living  world 
does  constitute  a  domain  apart,  and  the  Natural  History  of  animals  and 
plants  (or  Biology)  a  -very  distinct  science,  for  all  that  it  reposes  upon 
and  is  intimately  connected  with  the  sciences  of  non-living  matter.  It 
may  also  be  contended  that  there  really  is  a-  fundamental  distinction 
between  the  activities  of  even  the  lowest  living  creature  and  all  merely 
physical  forces.  ,  For  even  if  the  several  separate  actions  of  organisms 
can  be  performed  by  inorganic  bodies,  yet  no  inorganic  body  displays 
that  comhincUion  of  forces  which  characterises  any  living  bemg.  The 
very  composition,  again,  of  the  organic  world  diners  stnkingly  in  its 
compleadty  from  that  of  the  inorganic. 


614*  OK  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUEAL  HISTORY. 

I 

Assnming  thien,  provisionally,  that  animals  and  plants  may  together 
be  reasonably  separated  off  from  the  non-living  world  and  treated  as 
one  whole,  we  find  that  whole  to  present  remarkable  characters  of  both 
change  and  permanence.  Individual  organisms,  at  longer  or  shorter 
intervals,  disappear  and  are  replaced  by  others  liko  them,  and  such 
Bnccession  has  m  some  cases  endnred  for  very  prolonged  periods.  In 
most  cases,  however,  kinds  as  well  as  individuals  have  arisen,  had  their 
day  and  died,  and  have  been  succeeded  by  kinds  more  or  less  diver- 
gent; and  this  process  of  replacement  has  occurred  again  and  again. 
Has  the  whole  series  of  successions  also  had  its  beginning,  or  has  vege- 
table life  eternally  flourished  on  our  planet  and  eternally  nourished 
race  after  i^co  <if  diverse  animal  tribes  ?  The  answer  to  this  question 
(as  far  as  it  can  be  answered  by  Physical  Sciec  Je)  is,  of  course,  to  b  j 
sought  in  the  Natural  History,  not  or  organic  beings,  but  of  the  earth 
and  other  planets  of  our  system.  But  let  it  be  granted  that  the  dun.- 
tion  of  terrestrial  life  is  only,  when  estimated  by  Ridereal  epochs,  r  > 
the  ui)-growth  of  a  day;  yet  measured  by  any  more  familiar  standard  it-' 
antiquity  is  such  as  the  imagination  refuses  to  picture.  More  than  thi^ : 
even  the  various  kinds  of  animals  and  plants  have  had,  and  have,  at 
least  a  relative  constancy  and  permanence.  Nature,  as  we  see  it,  do(  ^; 
not  present  a  scene  of  confused  and  evanescent  forms  in  a  state  of  Pix- 
tean  change.  Were  such  the  case  our  existing  classifications  could  not 
have  been  devised.  Our  minds  perceive  that  the  living  world  possesses 
certain  permanent  characters,  and  it  suggests  conceptions  not  only  of 
"order,"  "causation,"  "utility,"  "purpose,"  but  also  of  •*typep,"an'l 
"  creative  ideas,"  to  attempt  to  estimate  the  value  of  which  would  be  to 
enter  upon  philosophy;  for  the  value  to  bo  assigned  to  srch  concep- 
tions depends  upon  the  system  of  philosophy  which  any  cme  may  deem 
the  more  reasonable.  The  advocacy  of  any  system  of  philosophy  would 
be  quite  out  of  place  in  this  Kssay.  Here  a  single  observation  mu.si 
suffice.  Those  who  believe  that  the  First  Cause  of  all  creatures  which 
live  or  have  lived  is  a  Divine  Intelligence  having  a  certain  relation  of 
analogy  with  the  intelligence  of  man,  must  also  believe  that  all.  crea- 
tures respond  to  the  ideas  of  such  creative  Intelligence.  They  must  al"^  > 
further  believe  that  in  so  far  as  the  ideas  we  derive  from  the  study  of 
crCvitures  are  true  ideas— that  is,  truly  correspond  with  their  objects— 
such  ideas  must  respond,  however  imperfectly,  to  the  eternal  ideas  of 
such  a  Divine  Intelligence,  since  things  which  agree  with  the  cama 
thing  must  in  so  far  agree  with  one  another. 

liemote  as  such  questions  may  appear  to  be  from  the  study  of 
Natural  History,  they  have  during  the  present  century  much  occupi^^.l 
the  attention  of  distinguished  naturalists.  They  have  also  been  tb- 
occasion  of  investigations  which,  as  wa  shall  shortly  see,  have  borne 
fruit  the  value  of  which  all  scientific  men  now  admit.  These  investi- 
gations have  called  forth  a  new  conception  as  to  the  whole  mass  of 
living  creatures,  and  of  their  relations  one  to  another — a  conception 
which  renders  inadequate  all  previous  pictures  of  the  world  of  organio 
life. 


ON  THE  STUDY  OP  NATUEAL  HISTORY/  615 

^Ftom  onr  present  standpoint,  that  world,  and  indeed  tho  entire  iini- 
veise,  may  be  not  inaptly  symbolized  by  a  watoifftU,  such  cs  that  of 
Temi,  with  its  look  of  changelessnes^i  due  to  unceasing  changes,  them- 
selves thd  result  of  a  permanence  nob  at  first  apparent.  The  well- 
known  rainbowa  above  the  great  clouds  of  sun-lit  spray  look  like  fixed 
and  almost  solid  structures.  Though  the  spectator  knows  that  the 
samo  falling  water  cannot  bo  seen  for  many  seconds,  cud  that  tho  per- 
sistence of  tho  elements  of  colour  must  bo  oven  Irrs,  yet  an  impression 
01  persistence  and  stability  remains  which,  though  m  some  resj)ccco 
an  illusion,  is  not  altogether  false.  Though  tho  physical  elements  are 
fleeting,  yet  both  tho  cascade  and  its  iridescent  arcs  arc  persistont — • 
ideaUy  in  the  mind  which  apprehends  thorn,  and  recdly  in  those  natural 
laws  and  that  definite  arrangement  of  conditions  which  continually 
roproduco  the  ceaseless  flux  accompanying  their  persistence. 

Similarly  the  ocean,  with  its  obvious  changes  of  tides  and  currents, 
storms  and  calms,  has  been  a  type  of  changefulness;  and  yet  viewed  in 
comparison  with  tho  upheavals  and  depressions  of  the  earth's  solid 
curfaco  there  is  a  relative,  though  by  no  means  absolute,  truth  in  tho 
words: 

*•  Time  writes  i;o  Avrinklo  on  thy  nzi^ro  brow : 
Such  us  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollcst  now !' 

Bat  science  reveals  (\  succession  of  changes  far  from  obvious  which 
have  taken  place  sinco  the  first  fluid  film  condensed  from  tho  hot 
vapour  of  the  earth's  primeval  atmosphere.  Such  are,  changes  in 
its  composition,  its  temperature  and  its  living  inhabitants,  from  the 
time  when  it  swarmed  with  extinct  predecessors  of  our  present  craba, 
cuttle-fishes,  and  star-fishes;  and  afterwards,  when  huge  reptiles 
dominated  in  it,  till  they  yielded  place  to  tho  whales  and  dolphins  of  a 
later  epoch,  and  till  at  last,  after  untold  agcn,  tho  canoes  of  the  earliest 
races  of  mankind  began  at  last  to  ripple  its  waters. 

With  the  advent  of  man  began  a  succession  of  ideal  changes.  For 
tho  growth  of  knowledge  causes  our  ideas  of  each  ■part  of  tho  universe 
to  alter  end  grow  more  exact,  just  as  the  aspects  of  objects  change  as 
they  may  be  viewed  through  a  succession  of  less  rcsfracting  and  more 
transparent  media.  How  diflerent  v*^as  tho  ancient  conception  of  tho 
ocean  ai  a  fluid  boundary  encircling  the  flat  piano  of  the  earfch,  from  that 
obtained  by  Columbus  when,  having  traversed  an  unknown  ocean  and 
reached  anew  world,  he  exclaimed  **M  mondo  e  pocoT  To-day  deep- 
sea  explorations  are  giving  ns  new  conceptions,  and  its  Natural  History 
needs  re-writing  from  a  fresh  standpoint. 

Tho  v/hole  universe  of  fixed-stars  and  nobulaD  may  also  be  conceived 
03  a  vast  fountain  of  light  and  motion.  For  though  (save  for  tho  occa- 
sional temporarj?'  brightness  of  some  world  in  conflagration,  and  savo 
for  tho  apparent  diurnal  revolution  of  the  heavens)  it  is  apparently 
changeless;  yet  reason  exhibits  it  to  urj  as  an  area  of  ^ceaseless  change. 
Indeed,  as  races  of  living  beings  succeed  each  other,  so  we  may  fancy 
that  tho  falling  together  of  worlds  and  systems  may  generate  now  suns 
and  worlds,  like  the  fresh  flowera  of  a  new  spring. 


eie  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUEAL  HISTOBY. 

But  if  the  image  of  the  ocean  as  reflected  in  the  mind  of  man  has 
repeatedly  changed  in  the  course  of  ages,  this  is  still  more  the  case  as 
regaj-dg  the  fitarry  vault.  A  collection  of  visible  divinities;  a  hiero- 
glyphic to  b3  pnzzled  over  by  the  soothsayer;  a  concentric  Beriee  of 
star-studded  crystal  spheres;  and  finally,  the  more  and  more  consistent 
minrl-picturcs  bf  CopciTiicus  and  Galii?o,  Kepler  and  Newton !  If  it 
is  diflicult  now  to  realize  the  change  of  viovr  introduced  by  the  dis- 
covery of  Columbus,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  do  eo  with  respect  to 
that  which  was  occasioned  by  the  acceptance  of  heliocentric  ofitronomy, 
and  which  of  course  rendered  a  new  description  of  the  heavens  in- 
evitable. 

These  considerations  may  serve  to  prepare  us  for  analogous  changes 
with  respect  to  our  present  subject — organic  nature.  This  likewise  has 
not  only  its  real  elements  of  permanence  and  change,  but  also  its  ideal 
changes,  duo  to  the  ditf(  rent  modes  in  whicli  it  has  presented  itself  to 
men's  minds  at  different  otages  of  discovery.  Such  changes  render 
necessary  fresh  descriptions  at  successive  epochs,  and  one  such  epoch 
is  that  in  v^'hich  wo  live. 

Animals  and  plants  must  always,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  have  oc- 
cupied the  attention  of  mankind.  It  is  probable  that  a  certain  amount 
of  pleasure  was  felt  even  in  primeval  times  in  observing  living  beings. 
The  child  of  to-day  delights  in  the  companionship  and  observation  of 
animals,  and  in  the  childhood  of  the  human  race  animals  were  re- 
garded as  objects  of  interest  and  curiosity  as  well  as  of  utiUty  in  fur- 
nishing food  and  clothing.  That  such  was  the  case  seems  evident  from 
the  portraits  which  have  come  down  to  us  of  the  reindeer  and  tl2  3 
mammoth  (the  extinct  woolly  elephant),  traced  on  jbones  by  the  flint- 
workers,  their  contemporaries. 

*  Indeed,  the  earliest  of  our  race  could  not  avoid  a  certain  study  of 
animals,  the  capture  of  which  they  needed  for  their  food  and  clothing. 
But  in  addition  to  attention  due  to  such  needs,  many  i>henomena  of 
aniDial  life  are  well  fitted  to  strike  a  savage  mind,  and  this  the  more 
from  that  sharpne.BS  of  the  senses  which  the  ruder  races  of  men  pos- 
sess. The  earliest  hunters  must  have  observed  the  habits  of  their 
prey,  and  have  incidentally  noticed  in  their  pursuit  peculiarities  of 
other  creatures,  which  were  not  those  they  pursued,  but  were  related 
to  them  as  enemies  or  dependents. 

In  temperate  regions  certain  phenomena  of  animal  and  plant  lifv? 
must  very  early  ]iave  forced  upon  man's  attention  their  regular  recur- 
rence, coincidently  with  that  of  the  seasons.  For  with  the  annual 
reappearance  of  certain  constellations  men  must  have  noticed  such 
orderly  recurrence  of  flowers  and  fruits,  and  the  return  of  migratinc; 
birds.  The  obtrusive  note  of  the  cuckoo,  and  the  quick  gliding  flight 
of  the  swallow,  must  have  early  been  welcomed  as  the  harbingers  of 
approaching  summer. 

In  this  way  a  series  of  recurring  changes — a  cycle  of  phenomena — 
must  have  come  to  be  observed.  In  other  words,  both  permanence 
and  change  must  have  been  noted  as  existing  simaltaneonsly  in  the 

-cranio  world. 


ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUEAi  HKTOET.  .  617 

Snoh  conceptions  must,  of  conisd,  have  been  of  the  most  incomplete 
and  rudimentary  character,  since  the  mind  can  only  bring  back  from 
tlie  observation  of  the  external  world  that  "Vvhich  it  has  gained  the 
power  of  apprehending.  The  traveller  who  is  ignorant  of  history  and 
natural  science  comes  back  hxtm  imperial  Borne  or  sacred  Athens,  from 
the  impressive  solitude  of  Camac  or  the  busy  quays  of  Trieste,  but 
little  the  richer  intellectually  for  the  many  instructive  objects  which 
have  met  his  nnapprcciating  gaze.  Thus,  with  the  cultivation  or  de- 
basement of  men's  n;inds,  the  mental  images  and  intellectual  concep- 
tions they  form  of  Nature  necessarily  undergo  corresponding  changes, 
and  the  surrounding  conditions  of  scene  and  climate  must  also  largely 
influence  their  interest  in,  and  their  conceptions  of,  natural  objects. 

The  ancient  Egyptians,  enclosed  in  their  narrow  limestone  valley, 
bounded  by  desert  sands  and  the  hot  and  riverless  Ked  Sea,  do  not 
seem  to  have  been  favourably  circumstanced  for  the  development  of  a 
great  lovo  of  Nature.  Yet  their  frescoes  show  that  apes,  antelopes, 
leopards,  giraffes,  and  other  strange  beasts  were  objects  of  careful  at- 
tention; and  Solomon's  taste  for  natural  knowledge  may  have  found  its 
parallel  amongst  Egyptian  priests  long  anterior  to  the  scientific  glory 
of  Alexandria. 

The  G-reeks,  more  happily  situate  in  their  beautiful  land,  botanically 
80  wealthy,  and  which  is  split  up  into  so  many  islands,  and  has  a  coast 
Mne  so  irregular  through  many  estuaries,  can  hardly  have  failed  to  ap- 
preciate organic  natxire,  seeing  that  they  loved  not  only  human  beauty, 
but  that  of  earth,  sea,  and  sky  also,  fiut,  however  that  may  be,  it  is 
certain  that  it  was  there  that  Natural  History  first  attained  a  consider- 
able development  under  an  august  master.  ^  It  was  congruous  that  the 
people  who  so  early  attained  a  social  culmination  in  art,  the  drama, 
history,  rhetoric,  and  poetry,  constituting  them  the  models  and  teachers 
of  mankind  for  thousands  of  years  to  come,  should  have  also  led  the 
way  in  Biological  Science. 

Aristotle,  the  fiir&t-known  true  man  of  science,  must  be  considered 
(from  his  knowledge  of  recondite  points  of  anatomy,  and  from  his 
sketch  of  animal  classification)  to  have  been  6ne  who  bore  within  him 
in  germ  the  biology  of  later  a^es.  Such  a  man  could  not  have  arisen 
among  a  people  to  whom  the  investigation  of  Nature  was  new  or  un- 
welcome. 

The  legal  Boman  sjpirit  seems  to  have  had  little  inclination  for  the 
study  of  Nature,  yetm  Plinjrwe  meet  with  the  proto-martyr  of  science. 
The  great  song  of  Lucretius  is  full  of  sympathy  with  organic  life  in  all 
its  forms;  and  poetry  like  that  of  the  Georgics  must  have  been  in- 
tended for  minds  alive  to  rustic  beauty  and  the  harmonies  of  rural  life. 

Whether  such  incipient  scientific  culture  as  existed  in  classical  times 
would  or  would  not,  if  left  to  itself^  have  soon  ripened  into  that  of  the 
modem  world,  cannot  be  proved.  The  fall  of  the  lioman  Empire,  how- 
ever, made  retrogression  inevitable.  It  may  bo  that  such  retrogression 
has  had  its  scientific  compensation.  Eor,  judging  of  the  sourco  by  the 
outcome,  the  tnbes  which  issued  from  the  glades  of  the  great  Hyrcan^ 


618  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATURAL  HISTOBY. 

ian  forest  miist  have  brought  with  them  a  deep,  innate  love  of  nattiral 
beauty.  As  the  Hoods  of  tumiiltuoiis  invasion  subsided,  and  were  snc- 
coeded  by  disturbances  compaiatively  local,  Teutonic  homesteads  be- 
gan to  appear  en  sites  which  seem  to  have  been  in  part  chosen  from  a 
love  for  the  picturesque.  Soon,  one  by  one,  also  arose  the  monastic 
cradles  of  mediceval  civilisation,  sometimes  nestling  in  leafy  dells  by 
streams  or  lakes,  sometimes  x)erched  on  mountain  crags  "with  difficulty 
accet:sible. 

AYith  the  advent  of  the  thirteenth  century  came  the  first  palo  dsL-wn 
of  that  rcitaissance  which,  rapidly  maturinrf,  burst  on  the  \7orid  in  its 
full  blazo  three  centuries  later. 

It  v/as  then  that  the  naturalistic  spirit  began  to  assume  that  predom- 
inance which  it  his  ever  since  retained.  Discovery  on  discovery  in 
every  department  of  science  opened  out  fresh  vistas  on  all  sides  to'the 
gaze  of  eager  students,  an  1  the  immensity  of  the  task  before  inquirers 
became  moro  manifest  to  them  at  each  stop  made  in  advance. 

The  past  also  began  to  acquire  a  new  significance,  for  the  study  of  it 
(as  made  knovrn  in  teiTostri.al  deposits)  suggested  the  modem  view  of 
the  mutability  of  the  earth's  surface.  No  doubt  in  very  early  times  the 
occasional  discovery  of  fossil  shells  and  bones — disclosed  by  some  land- 
slip— may  have  led  to  vague  suimises,  as  the  finding  of  elephants' 
bones  (many  of  which  so  much  resemble  human  bones)  may  have 
given  rise  to  tales  of  giants.  With  the  advance  from  primeval  to  classi- 
cal times  clearer  notions  arose,  and  Pythagoras  (according  to  Ovid) 
promulgated  the  most  rational  view  as  to  the  excavating  action  of  rivers, 
the  upheaval  and  submergence  of  land  and  similar  pheifiomena. 

But  in  the  Middlo  Ages  these  views  seem  to  have  faded  from  view, 
BO  that  when  in  the  sixteenth  century  fossil  remains  began  to  be  col- 
lected in  Italy  and  their  significanco  correctly  appreciated,  an  import- 
ant revolution  in  men's  minds  commenced. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  gradually  clearer  apprehension  of  the  fact 
that  many  living  forms  had  become  extinct,  the  belief  in  the  fixity  of 
the  different  kinds  of  animals  and  plants  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course.  There  were,  however,  exceptions  to  this  behef  as  to  fixity  which 
continued  to  be  made,  as  they  had  been  made  during  the  Middle  Ages. 
During  these  ages  creatures,  such  as  worms  and  flies,  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  spontaneously  generated  by  the  action  of  the  sun  on  mud 
and  in  other  ways,  and  creatures  which  were  erronoorasly  supposed  to 
be  hybrids  had  also  been  supposed  to  have  been  occasionally  generated. 
With  these  exceptions,  however,  all  animals  were  supposed  to  have  ex- 
isted unchanged  and  without  fresh  creations  since  their  first  formation 
after  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

The  interest  felt  in  all  the  natural  sciences  continued  to  increaqo 
through  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  and  therewith 
went  on  a  rapid  augmentation  in  the  number  of  known  species  of  ani- 
mals and  plants. 

Much  gmtitude  is  due  from  us  to  the  great  compilers  of  those  oen- 
turies  whose  ponderous  works  were  treasure-houses  of  the  natural  his- 


OK  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUBAL  HIBTOBY.  619 

tory  of  their  day.  ConspionotiB  aboye  all  vas  Aldroyandas,  whose 
thirteen  folios  began  to  appear  in  1640,  to  be  followed  in  the  next  cen- 
ttirv  by  the  richly  illustrated  folios  of  Seba. 

Thus  the  way  was  gradually  prepared  for  a  decisive  step  in  advance, 
marking  the  first  great  epoch  m  the  modem  natural  history  of  living 
beingB.    Such  a  step  was  the  introduction  of  a  good  classification. 

It  is,  of  course,  difficult  to  acquire,  and  impossible  to  retain  and 
propagate,  a  thorough  knowledge  of  any  very  numerous  set  of  objects, 
nnless  they  are  systematically  grouped  according  to  some  definite 
plan  of  classification.  On  this  account  the  study  of  living  creatures 
(to  the  vast  number  of  which  attention  has  been  directed)  stood  in 
especial  need  of  some  convenient  arrangement,  if  only  for  the  purpose 
of  serving  as  a  memoria  technica. 

Attempts  at  a  classification-  of  living  beings  had  been  made  by 
many  naturalists  from  Aristotle  downwards,  and  amongst  the  more  re- 
cent, that  of  John  Hay'  (1628 — 1705)  may  be  honourably  distin- 
guished. But  it  was  not  till  1735  that  a  classification  was  put  forward 
which  marked  that  epoch  in  the  study  of  natural  history  above  ad- 
verted to.  It  was  promulgated  by  the  publication  of  the  Systema  Non 
iurce  of  LinnsBus.  His  genius  also  did  away  with  that  obstacle  to 
natural  Bcience,  a  cumbrous  nomenclature,  by  devising  an  admirable 
plan  of  naming,  t  He  divided  all  living  creatures  into  two  great  series 
of  successively  subordinate  groups  (one  series'  of  animals,  the  other  of 
plants),  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms.  He  defined  his  various 
groups  of  either  kingdoms  by  certain  resemblances  and  differences  in 
form  and  structure,  and  though  his  arrangement  of  plants  has  been 
mainly  discarded,  and  his  arrangement  of  animals  much  changed, 
and  further  subdivided,  yet  the  principles  he  introduced  and  many 
parts  of  his  actual  classification  have  been  and  will  be  maintained. 
For  his  reform  in  nomenclature  above  referred  to  we  owe  him  hearty 
thanks.  TiU  then,  the  mode  of  naming  animals  and  plants  was  aJb 
once  cumbrous  and  little  instructive,  a  descriptive  phrase]:  being 
often  employed  to  designate  a  particular  kind. 

The  system  of  naming  which  Linnseus  devised  was  a  binomial  sys- 
tem which  is  now  universally  adopted.  By  it  every  kind  of  living 
creature  bears  a  name  made  up  of  two  words.  These  (like  the  family 
and  Christian  names  of  a  man)§  indicate  two  things.  The  word  which 
comes  first  indicates  to  which  smaller  group  or  "genus"  the  desig- 
nated animal  belongs.  The  second  word  indicates  which  kind  or 
"species  "  (out  of  the  few  or  many  kinds  of  which  such  smallest  group 

*See  his  Methodus  plantarum  tiova,  1C82,  and  his  AnimaUum  quadrupedum  et 
serpetitiyii  generis,  1693. 

f  Promnlgated  by  him  in  the  tenth  edition  of  his  Systema  NcUurce,  published  at 
Stockholm  111  1758. 

iThus,  for  example,  one  kind  of  bat  \rns  called  hj  Seba,  '^canis  volans  tematanui 
onentaliif,^'  and  a  kiiifrfisluT  is  termed  "  todu^  viridia  pectore  rtibro  rostra  recto.'* 

§  It  is  not  improbable  that  Linnseiis  was  inflaenceain  this  reform  by  the  then  re*, 
cent  introduction  of  family  name8  into  Sweden.    His  father  was  the  first  of  his  raoe 
to  take  one.  and  ho  choee  the  name  Linnens  as  his  suruame. 


620  ON  THE  STUDY  Oi*  NATUBAL  mSTORT. 

or  "genus"  maybe  composed)  of  the  genns  the  d^gnafced  animal 
may  be.  Thus,  for  example,  the  name  bomo  by  the  sheep  is  0ms  (mes 
— ^that  is  to  say,  it  is  the  kind  aries  of  the  group,  or  genus,  avis.  The 
word  pointing  out  the  group  to  -which  the  animal  is  referred  is  termed 
the  "generic"  name;  the  word  pointing  out  the  kind  is  called  the 
"specific"  name — Ouis  being  the  name  of  the  genus  an^  aries  being 
peculiar  to  the  species.  This  great  reform  has  been  of  yery  great  ben- 
efit to  the  study  of  natural  history. 

As  has  been  already  remarked,  Linnnus's  classification  of  animals 
and  his  classification  of  plants  have  not  shared  the  same  fate.  The 
former  has  been  modified  and  enlarged,  the  latter  has  been  discarded. 
For  this  there  has  been  a  valid  reason.  Classifications  may  be  of 
many  sorts.  We  may  ctossify  any  one  given  set  of  objects  in  a  variety 
of  ways  according  to  the  way  we  choose  to  consider  them. 

But  there  are  two  fundamental  differences  with  respect  to  olassificar 
tion.  An  arrangement  may  be  intended  merely  for  convenient  refer- 
ence, or  it  me^  be  intended  to  group  the  creatures  classified  according 
to  their  real  affinities.  A  classification  intended  merely  for  conven- 
ient reference  may  be  made  to  depend  upon  characters  arbitrarily 
chosen  and  easily  seen,  and  which  may  stand  alone  and  not  coincide 
with  a  number  of  other  distinctions.  For  example,  when  beasts  were 
arranged  in  a  group  of  "quadrupeds"  (having  for  their  conunon  char- 
acter the  possession  of  four  limbs),  such  an  arrangement  excluded 
froTp.  the  group  whales  and  porpoises  (which  are  reually  most  closely 
related  to  other  beasts),  while  it  included  lizards  and  frogs,  which  are 
of  natures  very  distinct  both  from  beasts  and  £rom  one  another.  But 
a  classification  maybe  made  to  rest  on  distinctive  characters,  which 
coincide  with  a  great  number  of  other  distinctions,  and  so  lead  to  the 
association  of  creatures  which  are  recdly  alike,  and  which  will  be 
found  to  present  a  greater  and  greater  number  of  common  characters 
the  more  thoroughly  they  are  examined.  A  system  of  classification  of 
this  latter  kind  is  called  a  "natural  system,"  because  it  represents  and 
leads  us  directly  to  understand  the  inter-relations  of  different  creatureB 
as  they  really  exist  in  Nature. 

A  natural  system  has  also  other  advantages;  it  not  only  serves  8S  a 
Tnemoria  techvica  as  well  as  a  mere  artificial  system  may  do,  but  it  also 
serves  (since  it  must  become  modified  in  detedls  as  our  knowledge  in- 
creases) as  a  register  of  the  knowledge  existing  at  the  time  of  its  pro- 
>  mulgation,  and  also  as  a  help  to  discovery ;  for  since  by  such  a  system 
fchese  animals  are  grouped  together  by/  a  great  number  of  common 
characters,  it  leads  us  (when  any  new  animal  or  plant  comes  under  our 
notice)  to  seek  for  certain  phenomena  when  once  we  have  observed 
others  with  which  such  expected  phenomena  are,  according  to  our  snp- 
posed  classification,  associated.  Thus  a  natural  system  serves  to  guide 
us  in  the  path  of  investigation.  Now  LinnsBUs's  classification  of  ani- 
.  mals  was,  to  a  coneidarable  extent,  natural,  and  therefore  has,  to  a  con- 
siderable extent,  persisted.  But  his  classification  of  plants  reposed 
upon  variations  in  the  more  internal  (reproductive)  p«u:ts  of  ^wezB 


ON  TBE  STUDY  OF  NATUEAL  HISTOEY.  621 

(sfamens  and  pistil)  as  other  anterior  and  leas  celebrated  systems  had 
reposed  on  the  form  of  the  coloured  parts  of  flowers,*  or  on  suoh  parts 
together  "with  their  green  envelope  f  (or  calyx\  or  only  upon  the  form 
of  the  frnitf  The  genios  of  Linnsens  was  not»  however,  blind  to  the 
imperfection  of  his  own  classitioation,  for  he  himself  proclaimed  6 
that  a  natural  system  "was  the  one  gieat  desideratum  of  botaniwl 
8(aence. 

The  desideratum  was  supplied  at  a  memorable  era.  In  1789  Antony 
Jussieujf  inaugurated  this  botanical  revolution  by  publishing  his 
Genera  Pktnkman,  and  therein  that  natural  system  of  classification 
of  plants  which  has  since  (with  but  small  modification)  been  generally 
adopted. 

The  great  French  naturalist,  Buffon,  did  not  live  to  witness  the  pub- 
lication of  the  last-mentioned  work.  Had  he  lived  to  stud^  it»  he 
might  have  gained  a  truer  insight  into  the  importance  of  biological 
classification,  and  have  endeavoured  to  improve  on  Linnteus's  system 
instead  of  contenting  himself  with  criticising  and  despising  it.  In 
spite  of  his  defective  appreciation  of  the  importance  of  a  good  arrange- 
ment and  nomenclature,  Buffon  greatly  aided  the  progress  of  Natural 
History,  not  only  by  his  eloquent  descriptions  of  the  animal  world  and 
his  zeal  for  the  oisooyeiy  of  new  forms,  but  still  more  by  his  suggest- 
iye  speculations.  Amongst  these  latter  may  be  mentioned  his  theories 
of  the  earth,  of  the  process  of  generatioh,  his  view  as  to  the  relations 
between  the  animals  of  the  old  world  and  of  the  new,  and,  most  strik- 
ing of  all,  his  enunciation  of  the  probabilily  that  species  had  been 
trmsformed  and  modified.  In  spite  of  much  that  was  erroneous  in 
his  ideas  his  suggestions  havo  borne  good  fruit. 

Almost  simultaneously  with  the  promulgation  of  a  natural  system  of 
plants,  George  Cuvier  was  labouring  to  complete  a  zoological  task 
similar  to  the  botanical  one  effected  by  Jussieu.  Cuvier,  availing  him- 
self of  the  work  of  Linnaeus,  elaborated  his  R^gm  Ammod,^  and  carried 
zoology  by  his  untiring  researches  and  encydopaedic  knowledge  to  the 
highest  perfection  possible  in  his.  day.  He  did  this  not  only  as  re- 
gards living  kinds,  but  also  with  respect  to  extinct  species,**  which 
he,  for  the  first  time,  restored  in  imagination,  giving  figures  of  what 
ere  their  probable  external  forms.  As  then,  LinnsBUS,  by  his 
nomenclature  and  system  of  zoological  classification,  made  one  im- 
portant step  in  the  jyrogress  of  modem  biology,  so  a  second  step  was 

*  "Rivinos,  1690.  t  M^piol,  1 720.  J  Kamel,  1 693.  §  Phil.  Bot.  T7. 

|]  Tho  botanical  expert  will  of  coarse  understand  that  vrhat  is  dne  to  Antony  Jus- 
^eu's  uncle  Bernard  is  not  here  forgotten ;  but  however  groat  was  his  meiit  and  pre- 
IKniderant  his  share  in  producinff  the  grand  result,  it  was  none  the  less  by  the  nepnew 
that  these  results  were  embodied  and  published  in  the  work  above  referred  to. 

^  The  first  edition  of  tho  lUgne  Animal  did  not  appear  till  1817,  but  a  preliminarv 
Tr(H*kin  one  volume,  entitled  "Tableau  E16mentaire  de  THistoire  Naturelie  des  Am< 
maux,"  appeared  in  Paris  in  1798. 

*  *  His  lirst  treatise  on  fossils  was  his  Memoir  on  Megalonyx,  published  in  1796.  Frofti 
that  time  bo  continued  to  publish  memoirs  on  fossil  forms,  till  in  1811  his  classical 
work,  the  *'  Ossemens  Fossiies/'  made  its  appearance. 


622  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUBAL  HIOTOET.  ^ 

effected  by  the  airangement  of  all  known  ftnimBla  and  plants*  in  a 
truly  natural  system,  by  Jussieu  and  Cuviex. 

A  further  advance  was  at  the  same  time  rapidly  approaching,  for 
simultaneously  with  the  perfecting  of  the  knowledge  of  structural 
anatomy  as  so  many  matters  of  fact,  a  moyement  of  deep  significaiice 
was  stirring  the  minds  of  men  in  Germany — a  movement  which  re- 
sulted in  the  birth  of  what  has  been  called  "philosophical  anatomy." 
With  this,  the  names  of  Oken,  Goethe,  Geoffrey  Sb.  HUairo,  and  Owen 
are,  with  others,  indissolubly  associated.  According  to  this  "philo- 
sophical anatomy,"  it  is  possible  for  men,  from  a  judicious  stuJy  of 
living  creatures,  to  gather  a  conception  of  certain  formative  "ideas" 
which  have  governed  the  production  of  all  animals  and  vegetables. 
These  ideas  were  conceived  as  either  ideas  in  God  or  as  ideas  existing 
somehow  in  a  Pantheistic  universe.  The  "  ideas "  were  supposed  to 
be  nowhere  actually  realized  in  the  world  around  us,  but  to  be  ap- 
proximated to  in  various  degrees  and  ways  by  the  forms  of  living  crea- 
tures. The  naturalists  of  this  school  triumphantly  refuted  l£e  old 
notion  that  all  the  structures  of  living  beings  were  su£S.ciently  ex* 
plained  by  their  wants.  Thus  they  pointed  out  the  absurdity  of  sup- 
posing that  the  bones  of  the  embryo's  skull  originate  in  a  much  sub- 
divided condition,  in  order  to  facihtate  parturition,  when  the  skulls  of 
youn^  birds,  which  are  hatched  from  eggs,  also  arise  in  a  similarly 
subdivided  condition.  Many  other  simil^  popular  instances  of  final 
causation  in  animal  structure  they  similarly  explained  away.  Some  of 
the  views  put  forth  by  leaders  of  the  movement — as,  for  example,  by 
Oken — were  extremely  fantastic^*  and  were  connected  with  the  philo- 
sophic dreams  of  Hegel  and  of  Schelling.  Other  of  their  views,  however, 
were  both  significant  and  fruitful,  for  they  directed  special  attention 
to  such  facts  as  the  presence  in  some  animals  of  rudimentary  struc- 
tures. Budimentary  structures  are  minute  structures  which  some 
animals  have  (e.  g.,  the  wing  bones  of  ihe  New  Zealand  Apteryx),  and 
which  are  miniature  representatives  of  parts  which  are  of  large  size  and 
of  great  use  in  other  animals.  Other  such  significant  facts  are  those 
of  animal  development,  as  when  Goethe  discovered  in  the  skull  of  the 
human  foetus  a  separate  bone  of  the  jaw,  which  is  no  longer  separate 
even  at  birth,  and  which,  before  his  time,  was  supposed  only  to  exist 
in  lower  animals. 

Thus  fresh  interest  was  lent  to  a  most  important  study,  which  may 
be  said  to  have  been  initiated  by  Caspar  Fnedrich  Wolff, f  which  was 
further  developed  by  Pander|  and  Dollinger,  and  carried  to  great  per- 
fection by  Van  Baer§  and  Bathke.  The  study  in  question  was  that  of 
animal  development— that  is,  a  study  of  the  phases  which  different 
animals  go  through  in  advancing  from  the  egg  to  their  adult  condition. 

*  Thus  he  represented  the  teeth  as  bein^the  fingers  and  toes  of  the  head, 
f  In  1859  in  a  dissertation  as  Doctor,  at  Halle,  he  put  forward  Ma  Thtoria  OtnerO' 
tionia,  embodying  very  many  new  and  accurate  investigations. 
}  "HistoHa  Metamorphoseos,"  1817. 
§  ••Entwiokelnngs-G^schiohte  der  Thiere,"  1827—1837. 


OK  THE  STUDY  01?  NATURAL  HISTORY.  '   623 

It  had  of  courso  been  long  known  to  all  that  such  nnimals  os  the  frog 
and  the  butterfly  undergo  great  changes  coring  tlis  procees,  but  the 
Btndy  of  development  revealed  to  \vi  the  strange  fact  that  animals 
generally,  before  birth,  also  undergo  creat  changen,  durmg^  which  each 
such  creature  transitorily  resembles  tub  parmanent  condition  of  other 
creatures  of  an  inferior  gra-Ao  of  organisation. 

Philosophical  anatomy  and  the  study  of  development  were  both 
highly  provocative  of  research,  tending  as  they  did  to  destroy  concep- 
tions on  which  men's  minds  had  previously  reposed,  without  at  the 
same  time  subfltituting  any  other  satisfactory  and  enduring  mental 
resting-place.  They  thus  prepared  the  way  for  that  great  modem  ad- 
vance—the  conception  of  organic  evolution,  or  the  development  from 
time  to  time  of  new  kinds  of  animals  and  plants  by  ordinary  natural 
processes — a  conception  the  promulgation  and  general  acceptance  of 
which  constitutes  another  great  epoch  in  the  cultivation  ot  Natural 
History. 

But  Gs  the  Linnasan  movement  was  despised  by  Buffon,  so  was  philo- 
sophical anatomy  despised  by  Ouvier.  Each  of  these  great  naturalists 
eeems  to  have  been  so  attracted  by  the  brilliance  of  such  faces  of  the 
many  faceted  form  of  truth  as  they  clearly  saw,  that  they  became  more 
or  less  blinded  to  other  of  its  faces,  in  themselves  no  less  brilliant  and 
captivating. 

But  if  philosophical  anatomy  and  thfe  theory  of  Wolff  had  to  encoun- 
ter strenuous  opposition,  still  greater  was  the  opposition  which  met 
the  efforts  of  those  who  first  asserted  organic  and  specific  evolution. 

Before  the  theory  of  evolution  was  distinctly  enunciated  it  had  had 
its  prophetio  precursors,  even  as  far  back  as  the  days  of  Aristotle.  In 
modem  times,  Buffon,  as  has  been  already  said,  threw  out  suggestions 
concerning  the  trmsformation  of  species,  and  Groethe,  Geomey  St. 
Hiloire,  and  Dr.  Era^^mus  Darwin  also  entertained  similar  views.  But 
it  was  not  till  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  that  the  doc- 
trine of  evolution  wai  (in  modem  times)  unequivocally  put  forth.  It 
was  BO  put  forth  by  Lamarck*  in  the  year  1802.  Ho  declared  that  all 
existing  animals  had  been  derived  from  antecedent  forms  according  to 
an  innate  law  of  progression,  the  action  of  which  had  been  modified  by 
habit,  by  cross-breeding,  and  by  the  influence  of  climatic  and  other 
Bunxmnding  conditions.  His  views  were  accepted  by  few,  and  en- 
countered mtioh  ridicule;  but  the  gradual  modifications  of  opinion 
which  were  being  brought  about  by  philosophical  anatomy  and  the 
study  of  development  prepared  the  way  for  his  more  happy  successors. 
After  a  considerable  interval  he  was  followed  by  Alfred  Wallacef  and 
Charlca  Darwin, t  who  attributed  the  origin  of  now  species  to  the  oc- 

'■=Iu  bis  "  Ecscnrclios  on  the  Organization  of  the  Living  Bodies''  (1802);  in  his 
"  Philosophle  Zoologiquo"  (1801)) ;  and  ol^iu  in  the  introduotioa  to  bia  *'  Hist.  "N&t,  des  ^ 
Aniinaux  sans  Vert-ebres  "  (1815J. 

t  Journal  of  Unnean  Society,  vol  ilL,  July  1st)  1858;  and  "  Natural  Selection." 
Maomillan.    1871. 

I  Journal  of  Linnean  Society,  vol.  ill.,  July  Ist,  1858 ;  and  "  The  Origin  of  Spedeg 
by  Means  of  Natural  Selection."    John  Murray.    1850. 


624  .  ON  THE  STUDY  OF  NATUBAL  HISTORY. 

CTirrencG  and  parental  transmission  to  offepring  of  indefinite  minTite 
variations — no  two  indiTidiials  being  ever  absolutely  alike.  Such 
variations  they  conceived  ri#taking  place  in  all  directions,  but  as  being 
reduced  to  certain  lines  by  the  destructive  agencies  of  Nature  actinj^j 
upon  creatures  placed  in  circumstances  of  severe  competition,  owiur^ 
to  the  tendency  of  every  kind  of  orgfinism  to  increase  in  a  geometric.ii 
ratio.  This  destructive  action  together  with  its  result  was  termed  by 
these  authors  '/Natural  Selection,"  but  the  whole  process  haB  been  moie 
aptly  designated  by  the  phrase,  "  the  surviv.Tl  of  the  fittest." 

Tiio  doctrine  of  evolution,  however,  has  been  ticcepted  and  advocated 
by  other  writers,  who  deny  that  "Katural  Selection"  can  be  the  cause 
of  the  origin  of  species.  They  say  that  such  origin  must  be  due  to 
whatever  produces  incli\-idual  variation,  and  ultimately  to  inherent 
capacities  m  the  organisms  themselves.  Thus  Owen*  baa  declared  that 
**  derivation  holds  that  everv  specids  changes  in  time,  by  virtue  of  in- 
hei-ent  tendencies  thereto;  and  Theophiius  Parsons, f  of  Harvard 
University,  in  1860,  put  forth  a  Bimiiar  view.  In  this  country  tiie 
same  theory  was  independently  put  forward  and  advocated  at  much 
length  in  1870]:  by  the  author  of  the  present  paper.  Li  the  work 
referred  to,  the  objections  to  ** Natural  Selection"  were  fully  gone 
into,§  and  the  theory  maintained  that  external  stimuli  so  act  on  in- 
ternal predisposing  tendencies  as  to  determine  by  direct  seminal 
modification  the  evolution  of  new  specific  forms. 

We  may  then  conceive  the  evolution  of  new  specifie  forms  to  have 

been  brought  about  in  one  or  other  of  the  six  following  ways.    The 

change  may  have  been  due: — 

(1.)  Entirely  to  the  action  of  surrounding  agencies  upon  organisms 

which  have  merely  a  passive  capacity  for  bein^  indefinitely 

varied  in  all  directions,  but  which  have  no  positive  inherent 

tendencies  to  vary,  whether  definitely  or  indefinitely. 

(2.)  Entirely  to  innate  tendencies  in  each  organism  to  vary  in  certain 

definite  directions. 
(3.)  Partly  to  innate  tendencies  to  vary  indefinitely  in  all  directions, 
and  partly  to  limiting  tendencies  of  surrounding  conditions, 
which  check  variations,  save  in  directions  which  happen  acci- 
dentally to  be  favourable  to  the  organisms  which  vary. 
(4.)  Partly  to  innate  tendencies  to  vary  indefinitely  in  all  directions, 
and  partly  to  external  influences  which  not  only  limit  but 
actively  stimulate  and  promote  variation. 
(5.)  Partljjr  to  tendencies  inherent  in  organisms,  to  vary  definitely  in 
certain  directions,  and  partly  to  external  inflneuces  acting  only 
by  restriction  and  limitation  on  variation. 
(6.)  Partly  to  innate  tendencies  to  vary  definitely  in  certain  direc- 
tions, and  partly  to  external  influences  which,  in  some  respects, 

•  '•  Anatomy  of  Vertebrates,"  vol.  iii.    Longmans.    1868, 
t  Amerioan  Journal  of  Science  and  Art,  Jufy,  imSO, 
±  "  Genesis  of  Species."    Macmillan.    1870. 
f  See  also  "  IieasonB  from  Nature,"   J.  Hurray. 


ON  TEE  STUDY  OF  NATUKAL  HISTOEY.  625 

act  restiictiTely,  and  in  other  resx>ects  act  as  a  stimnltis  to  varia- 
tion. 

It  is  this  last  hypothesis  which  appears  to  have  the  balance  of  evi- 
dence in  it3  favour. 

But  whatever  view  may  be  accepted  as  to  the  fnode  of  evolution,  a 
belief  in  the/ad  of  evolution  has  given  an  imj)ulso  to  natural  Bcienco 
the  eifect  of  which  can  hardly  bo  over-estimatod.  By  this  belief  the 
Bciencea  which  relate  to  life  have  boon  all  more  or  loss  modified,  for 
light  has  been  thrown  by  it  on  many  curious  fp.cts  concerning  the  geo- 
grai>hical  and  geological  distribution  of  animals  and  plants.  The  pres- 
ence of  apparently  •useless  stnictures — such  as  the  wing  of  the  Apteryx 
(before  referred  to)  or  the  foetal  teeth  of  whales  which  never  cut  the 
gnm — become  expHcable  as  the  diminished  representatives  of  large  and 
liseful  structures  present  in  their  more  or  less  remote  ancestors. 

The. curious  likenesses  which  underlie  superficial  differences  between 
animals  become  also  exi^li cable  through  "evolution." 

That  the  skeleton  of  the  arm  of  man,  the  wing  of  the  bat,  the  paddle 
of  the  whrJ.0,  and  the  for^-leg  of  the  horse  should  each  be  formed  on 
the  Bamo  type  is  thus  easily  to  be  undorptood.  The  butterfly  and  the 
shrimp,  different  as  they  are  in  appearance  and  mode  of  life,  are  jet 
constructed  on  one  common  plan,  of  which  they  constitute  diverging 
manifestations.  Ko  d  priori  reason  is  conceivable  why  such  similari- 
ties should  be  necessary,  but  they  are  easily  explicable  if  the  animals 
in  question  are  the  modified  descendants  of  some  ancient  common  an- 
cestor. We  here,  then,  see  an  explanation — possibly  complete— of  the 
theories  of  philosophical  anatomy.  That  curious  series  of  metamor- 
phoses which  constitutes  each  animaFs  development,  as  recently  ex- 
plained, also  receives  a  new  explanation  if  we  may  regard  such  changes 
as  an  abbreviated  record  or  history  of  the  actual  transformation  each 
finimars  ancestors  may  have  undergone.  Finally,  by  evolution  we  can 
understand  the  singularly  complex  resemblances  borne  by  every  adult 
animal  and  plant  to  a  certain  number  of  other  animals  and  plants.  It 
is  through  these  resemblances  alone  that  the  received  systems  of  classi- 
fication of  plants  and  animals  have  been  possible;  and  such  classifica- 
tions viewed  in  the  light  of  evolution  assume  the  form  of  genealogical 
trees  of  animal  and  vegetable  descent.  We  have  thus  a  number  of  facts 
and  laws  of  the  most  varied  kind  upon  which  evolution  throws  a  new 
li^ht,  and  serves  to  more  or  less  clearly  explain.  Evidently,  then, 
with  the  acceptance  of  the  theory  of  evolution,  the  natural  history  of 
animalfi  and  plants  needs  to  be  rewritten  from  the  standpoint  thus 
gained.  And  though  there  is  no  finality  in  science,  yet  there  is  much 
reason  to  suppose  that  a  long  period  will  elapse  before  any  new  modi- 
fication of  biological  science  occurs  bs  great  oB  that  Which  has  been 
and  is  being  effected  through  the  theory  in  question. 

St.  Gbokos  Mt^abt,  in  Cmtemporary  SevieiD, 


THE  CHANCES  OE  ENGLISH  OPERA. 

Mel  Bosa's  Bucceesfal  season  at  Her  Megesty's  Theatre  lias  bronglit 
the  (question  of  the  permanent  establishment  of  English  opera  in  Lon- 
don into  the  foreground  once  again.  Thoughtful  musicians  and  ama- 
teurs ask  themselves,  "  Why  should  not  wo  have  an  opera  in  our  own 
tongue,  Bung  more  or  less  by  our  own  people,  and  produced  at  least  in 
reasonable  proportion  by  our  own  poets  and  composers;  such  as  the 
Freuch  andGexinans,  and  even  the  Hungarians  and  Danes  have  had  for 
years?"  The  late  operatic  season  has  proved  two  things: — First,  thnt 
singers  Enplish-bom,  and  partly  at  least  English-trained,  are  quito 
able  to  do  justice  to  some  of  the  most  difficult  worbs  of  the  interna- 
tional repertoire;  and,  second,  that  under  an  intelligent  and  enterprising 
management  English  opera  need  by  no  means  spell  "Euin."  By  these 
two  facts  the  chance  of  future  and  of  permanent  success  may  be  con- 
sidered safely  established;  but  intelligence  and  enterprise  are  not  alone 
sufficient  to  account  for  a  success  which  is  in  strong  contrast  with  the 
anything  but  brilliant  results  of  previous  seasons  at  the  Lyceum  and 
the  Adelphi.  The  causes  of  this  change  must  bo  looked  for  elsewhere, 
and  it  is  of  these  causes,  considered  from  a  broadly  historic  point  of 
view,  that  the  present  article  is  intended  to  treat. 

The  most  Bui)erlicial  observer  of  social  and  artistic  matters  in 
London  cannot  but  have  noticed  the  change  which  has  of  late  years 
come  over  the  Bi)irit  in  which  music  is  listened  to  and  practised 
by  English  amateurs.  Not  only  does  the  interest  taken  m  it  ex- 
ceed that  granted  to  all  the  other  arts  in  conjunction,  but  the  chrj- 
acter  of  this  interest  itself  is  becoming  more  and  more  divested  of 
the  attributes  of  a  fashionable  pastime.  A  glance  at  the  crowds  which 
assemble  to  listen  to  Beethoven's  quartets  at  St.  James's  Hall,  and  to 
his  symphonies  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  would  be  alone  sufficient  to  es- 
tabhsh  the  point.  And  in  equal  measure  as  the  taste  of  our  audiences 
has  become  more  serious  and  refined,  it  has  also  broadened  in  scope. 
The  exclusive  admiration  of  Handel  and  Mendelssohn,  on  the  one 
hand,  and^  of  the  school  "of  the  future,"  on  the  other,  is  gradually 
being  merged  in  an  intelligent  appreciation  of  all  good  music  to  what- 
ever school  or  country  it  may  belong.  But  there  are  other  signs  of  the 
times,  if  possible,  still  more  important.  A  glance  at  the  rise  which  the 
national  develoi^ment  of  music  has  of  late  token  in  such  remote  coun 
tries  as  Russia  and  Nonvay,  and  the  applause  which  the  works  of 
Tschaikofifeki,  of  Grieg,  and  Svendsen,  have  met  with  all  over  Europe, 
naturally  awaken  the  desire  that  England  also  should  occupy  her 
proper  place  amongst  musical  nations,  and  it  has  been  justly  recognised 
that,  for  that  purpose,  it  is  necessary  not  only  to  give  due  enoonrage- 
ment  to  the  native  talent  already  in  existence,  but  alao  to  prepare  a 
healthy  and  congenial  atmosphere)  for  that  yet  to  come.  I&  uiis  sesae 
(626) 


THE  CHANCES  OF  ENGLISH  OPERA.  627 

Oie  agitation  for  a  greafc  central  school  of  music  after  tbo  pattern  of 
the  Paris  Conservatoire  is  one  of  the  most  hopeful  signs  of  the  musical 
reawakening  in  England. 

It  is  at  such  times  of  national  art-reviyal  that  the  demand  for  a  na- 
tional opera,  in  the  sense  above  specified,  becomes  irresistible.  The 
opera,  tm  wo  at  present  understand  the  word,  occupies  n  peculiar  posi- 
tion in  the  history  of  music  and  of  art,  generally.  A  combination  of 
tbe  drama  nnd  of  music,  it  is^  as  different,  on  the  one  hand,  from 
spoken  tragedy  or  comedy,  as  it  is,  on  the  other,  from  music  pure 
and  Rimple.  The  last  named  arts  have  been  derived  from  distinctly 
national  nources,  the  drama  from  the  old  Mysteries  and  miracle  plays; 
the  cymphony  and  tho  artistic  song  from  simple  dance  forma  and  pop- 
ular ditties.  But  no  such  natural  growth  is  observable  in  tho  opera. 
Tho  Florentine  d'deltanii,  Vincenzo  Galilei  (tho  father  of  the  astrono- 
mer^, Jacopo  Peri,  and  Emilio  del  Oavalieri,  who,  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury cultivated  musica  in  siUo  rappreserdativo,  and  became  the  founders 
of  the  modem  opera,  did  so  in  connection  with  tho  great  Bcnaissance 
movement  of  their  time.  They  were  intent  upon  reviving  tho  classi- 
cal drama  v/ith  its  rhythmical  recitation  and  its  choral  interludes;  and 
their  efforts  were,  therefore,  in  the  first  instance,  addressed  to  scholars 
and  the  upper  classes  generally.  So  great,  however,  was  tho  love  of 
music  in  Italy,  and  so  abundant  her  production  of  musical  genius, 
that  the  narrow  limits  of  the  original  dramma  per  musica  were  soon  ex- 
panded by  a -succession  of  men  of  genius,  beginning  with  Claudio 
Monteverde,  and  extending  to  Bossini,  Bellini,  and  Verdi.  But  the 
aristocratic  nnd  unpopular,  or,  at  least  non-popular,  character  has  in 
Komo  measure  remained  attached  to  Italian  opera.  Especially  is  this 
the  case  in  foreign  coui^ries  where  tho  high  prico  of  tho  Italian  impor- 
tation practically  excludes  the  multitude  from  its  enjoyment. 

Whatever  their  taste  and  their  critical  bias  may  be,  musicians  ought 
never  to  forget  tho  enormous  debt  which  tho  progress  of  tho  art  owes 
to  Italy.  She  not  only  produced  great  musicians  herself,  but  also  gavo 
a  Rtimulus  to  what  latent  genius  there  might  be  in  other  countries. 
Pelham  Humphreys,  the  master  of  Henry  Purcell,  was  himself  tho 
pupil  of  Luily,  on  Italian  by  birth  although  a  Frenchman  by  adop- 
tion. But  the  most  casual  glanco  at  tho  music  of  Hfimphreys,  Purcell, 
and  other  writers  of  the  English  school  will  shov/  the  important  influ- 
ence exercised  on  them  by  Carrissimi.  Of  the  great  Boman  master's 
paramount  reputation  in  this  country,  the  following  extracts  from 
Pepys's  Diary,  published  for  the  first  timo  in  Mr.  Maynors  Bright's 
recent  edition,  may  serve  as  evidence: — 

"22nrf  JtiZtA  1664.— Met  (at  his  hoase),  ns  I  expected,  Mr.  Hill  (ray  friend  tho  raer- 
chain)  and  Andrews,  and  one  slovenly  and  u>?ly  fcllotr,  Si^nor  Pedro,  -who  sinps  Ital- 
ian songs  to  the  theorbo  most  neatly,  and  they  spent  the  whole  evening  in  Ringinij:  the 
best  piece. of  musiqno  connted  of  oil  hands  in  tho  Avorld,  made  by  Signer  Charissiini, 
the  fuoions  master  in  Korao.  Fine  it  was  indeed,  nnd  too  fine  for  me  to  judge  of.  They 
hare  spoke  to  Pedro,  to  meet  ns  every  weeKo,  and  I  fear  it  will  grow  u  trouble  to  mo 
if  we  once  como  to  bid  Judges  to  meet  us,  especially  idle  masters  which  do  a  little  dis^ 
rlease  one  to  consider.'" 


628  THE  CHANCES  OF  ENGLISH  OPEEA. 

The  same  inexliaustiblo  soared  of  amtising  gossip  and  valuable  m< 
formation  testifies  to  the  fascination  exercised  by  Italian  opera  on  the 
amateurs  of  England,  and  at  the  eamo  time  throws  an  interesting  light 
on  the  natural  antagonism  existing  between  the  foreign  and  the  na- 
tional elements  of  music  in  this,  as  in  other  countries.  No  excuse  is 
needed  for  the  quotation  of  the  interesting  extract  which  moreover 
bears  upon  the  subject  in  point: — 

*•  Feb.  12, 1667.— With  my  Lord  Broancker  hy  coach  to  his  hoaso.  there  to  henr 
Bome  Italian  inusiquo ;  ami  liero  vro  met  Tom  Killigrew,  Sir  Robert  Murray,  and  tht 
Italian  Sig-nor  liaptiSta,  i  \rho  liath  proposed  n  play  i:i  Italian  for  tho  opera,  nrhich  T. 
Kil^rew  do  intend  to  liaTO  up;  and  hero  ho  did  slnj^  one  of  the  acts.     Ho  himself  i^ 
the  poet  OS  well  us  the  mnsician,  which  is  Acry  muchi  and  did  sing  tho  whole  from  the 
words  Vithout  any  musi(iuo  prickt,  and  played  all  nlon^  upon  a  harpsicon  most  admir- 
ably, and  tho  composition  most  excellent.     The  words  I  did  not  understand,  and  so 
know  not  how  tliey  ai'c  fitted,  but  belie\'e  very  well,  and  all  in  the  recitativo  very  Ihx*. 
But  I  j>erceivo  there  is  a  proper  accent  in  every  country's  discourse,  and  that  do'reach 
in  their  setting  of  notes  to  words,  which,  therefore,  cailnot  be  natural  to  any  hotly  els*' 
but  them ;  so  that  I  am  not  ,so  much  smitten  with  it  as  it  may  be  I  should  1x3  if  I  wer*< 
acquainted  with  their  accent.    But  the  Avholo  compositionis  certainly  most  excellent; 
and  tho  j-toetry,  T.  Kilhgrew  and  Sir  R.  Murray  who  understood  tho  words,  did  saj 
most  excellent.    .    .    .    lin  (Tom  Kidigrew)  tells  me  that  ho  hath  gone  several  tinioi 
(eight  or  ton  times,  he  tells  me)  henco'to  Komo,  to  hear  good  musiquc;  so  niuch  li<" 
"loves  it,  tiiough  he  neyer  did  shig  or  play  a  note.    That  lie  liatli  ever  cndeavonreJ  i;> 
tho  late  King's  tirao  and  in  this  to  introduce  good  musiquc,  but  ho  never  could  do  it, 
there  never  having  been  any  musique  lierc  better  than  ballads.    And  says  *  Hermitt 
pooro'and  *Chinv  Chase'  (sic!  'Chevy  Chase'  is  evidently  meant)  was  nil  tho  mu- 
sique we  had ;  and  yet  no  ordinary  fiddlers  get  so  much  money  as  ours  do  hoi-e,  which 
speaks  our  rudeness  still.    That  he  hath  gathered  our  Italians  from  several  Courts  in. 
Christendome,  to  come  to  make  a  concert  for  the  King,  which  ho  do  give  21(1.  a-year 
a-piece  to;  but  badly  paid,  and  do  come  in  the  I'oom  of  keeping  four  ridiculous  Gun- 
diiows,  ho  having  got  tho  King  to  put  them  away,  and  lay  out  money  this  way.    Atitl 
indeed  I  do  commend  him  for  it ;  for  I  think  it  is  a  very  n^blc  undertaking.    He  do  in- 
tend to  have  some  times  of  tho  year  these  operas  to  bo  performed  at  the  two  prescut 
ttoatres."  \ 

But  the  influence  of  Italian  music,  and  of  Italian  opera  especially, 
was  not  limited  to  this  country  alone.  Bach  himself  subm  tted  to  it, 
and  the  reputation  of  Handel,  when  he  came  to  Engl€m.d  was,  as  every 
one  knows,  chiefly  founded  on  the  setting  of  Italian  words  to  more  or 
less  Italian  music.  ^  And  the  same  state  of  things  continued  in  Ger- 
many for  more  than  half  a  century  after  his  death.  Hasse  and  Graim 
and  Mozart,  and  even  Gluck,  wrote  opere  serie  and  buffe  to  order,  and 
by  the  dozen,  in  spite  of  their  nationality  and  their  individual  genius. 
In  the  meantime,  however,  national  music,  to  a  great  extent  owing  ic 
tho  efforts  of  the  masters  above  named,  had  gone  its  own  way  to  a  de- 
gree of  perfection  infinitely  superior  to  that  over  attained  by  the 
foreign  product;  and  it  may  be  said  that,  for  tho  last  century,  Italian 
opera  in  Germany  and  Franco  and  other  musical  countries  has  had  on 

1  Giovanni  Bantista  Draghi,  the  younger  brother  of  the  more  famoQS  Antonio 
Draghi,  born  at  Ferrara,-  he  accompanied  the  PHucess  d'Esto,  wife  of  Jadies  II .  to 
England,  where  he  wrote  several  operas ;  one,  Fxyche,  in  conjunction  with  Motthcw 
Lock  (1672).  The  date  of  his  death  is  unknown,  but  one  of  bis  operas  was  produced 
as  late  as  1706. 


THE  CHA170ES  OF  KNOLISH  OFEBA.  629 

eepentially  artificial  existence  fostered  by  fashion  and  apart  from  the 
real  musical  life  of  the  nation.      The  first  country  to  throw  off  the 
foreign  yoke,  and  to  establish  a  thoroughly  national  stylo  of  operatic 
m:isic,  was  France,  and  the  history  of  this  re-action  io  worth  studying 
in  more  than  one  respect    Curiously  enough  the  founder  of  French 
operatic  music  was  himself  on  Italian  by  birth,  and,  to  some  extent,  by 
training.    For  although  LuUy  was,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  brought  to 
France,  and  trained  by  French  masters,  his  style,  like  that  of  his 
pnpil,  Pelbam  Humphreys,   distinctly  shows  the  influence  of  Caris- 
simi.    Lully*8  early  attempts  at  dramatic  writing  were  limited  to  pieces 
of  incidental  music  to  various  ballets  and  plays,   Moliere's  L Amour 
Medecin  and  Le  Bourgeois  Omtilfwmme  amongst  the  number,  in  which 
the  composer  also  appeared  as  an  actor  and  dancer.     Various  lucrative 
Court  charges,  and  tne  exclusive  privilege  of  performing  opera  at  the 
Academic  lloytdo  de  Musique  of  Paris  were  the  reward  of  LuUy's  suc- 
cessful efforts  at  amusing  the  Great  Monarch.       In  the  meantime, 
French  opera  itself  was  as  yet  in  an  embryonic  condition.     In  France, 
as  elsewhere,  opera  was  at  first  synonymous  with  Italian  opera,  having 
been  introduced  as  early  as  1645  by  Mazarin,  under  whoso  auspices 
Strozzi's  La  festa  teatrak  della  finta  pazza,  was  performed  by  an  Italian 
tioupe.    It  was  not  till  sixteen  years  later  that  the  Abbe  Perrin  proved 
that  the  French  language  was  at  all  available  for  musical  purposes  by 
breaking  through  the  absolute  rule  of  the  Alexandrine,  and  writing 
what  in  the  preface  to  his  poems  he  aptly  styles,  paroles  de  musiqm  o\i 
de  vers  u  charUer.  •  His  musical  collaborator  was  Robert  Cambert^  and 
the  joint  production  of  these  two  men,  named  La  Pastorale^  and  per- 
formed for  the  first  time  at  a  private  theatre  in  1659,  may  be  called  the 
first  French  opera  proper.    To  Perrin's  untiring  energy  the  foundation 
of  the  Academic  de  Musique,  or,  as  wo  should  say,  *'  Grand  Opera,"  is 
due.     LuUy  at  first  was  antagonistic  to  the  new  enterprise,  and  used 
all  his  natural  aptitude  for  intrigue,  and  his  .Court  favour,  to  injure  his 
French  rivals.    It  was  not  till  after  Perrin  had  quarrelled  with  his  os- 
Bociates  that  LuUy  changed  his  tactics,  purchased  the  privilege  of  per- 
forming operas  from  Perrin,  and  became  the  champion  of  the  French 
musio-drama— the  possibility  of  which  he  had  previously  denied'    It 
proves  the  potent  spell  of  national  French  art,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
Lully'fl  pliable  genius,  on  the  other,  that  he,  the  Italian,  became  the 
founder  of  the  national  music-drama  in  France.     That  name,  rather 
than  opera,  is  applicable  to  such  works  as  Pers^e,  Armide,  and  Acisand 
Galatea.     They  are,  in  a  manner,  the  musical  complement  of  the  French 
classical  tragedy  as  represented  by  Comeille;  in  the  place  of  Italian 
fioriture  and  cantilena  the  declamatory  principle  is  here,  for  the  first 
time,  relied  upon,  and  it  is  by  this  historic  fact,  rather  than  by  their 
intrinsic  beauty,   that  LuUy's  works  claim  the  attention  of  modem 
musicians.      How  that  principle,  and  French  opera  generally,  were 
further  developed  by  Rameau,  this  is  not  the  place  to  show.     Of  the 
twenty-two  large  works,  which  ho  composed  and  ]produced  after  he 
completed  his  fiftieth  year,  not  a  single  one  now  remains  on  the  boards; 


630  *       THE  CHANCES  OP  ENGLISH  OPERA.  . 


-v- 


bnt  their  historic  interest  is,  nevertheless,  unimpaired.     In  the  mean- 
time, Italian  opera  was  by  no  means  extinct  in  Prance,  and  it  reqxiired 
an  acute  and  prolonged  struggle  before  the  claims  of  Prench  music,  and 
of  the  French  language  as  a  medium  for  musical  expression,  were  ad- 
mitted by  the  majority  of  Prenohmen.     Curiously  enough  the  leading 
literary  men  of  the  day  took  the  side  of  the  foreign  movement.    Froncb 
opera  and  its  representatives  were  from  the  first  in  little  favour  with 
the  poets  and  journalists  of  the  capital.     Boileau  hated  Lully,  antl 
calls  him  "un  buffon  odieux,  un  coeur  bas,  un  coquin  tcncbreux,"  and 
Diderot,  in  his  fictitious  dialogue  with  the  nephew  of  Rameau,  Bhowp 
little  sympathy  with  that  celebrated  composer  and  bumptious  and  over- 
bearing man.    But  the  most  dangerous  and  the  most  uncompromibing 
antagonist  of  Prench  music  was  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.    The  lyii.f 
sur  la  Musiqae  Frangaise,   and  the  shorter  and  more  amusing  Le'-trc  d".. 
Symphomste,  foreshadowing  the  manner  of  Berlioz,  are  nothing  but  tbv 
most  violent  diatribes  against  Prench,  and  in  favour  of  Italian,  music, 
in  which  instances  of  keen  insight  into  the  principles  of  dmmatic  com- 
position are  mixed  up  with  the  most  grotesquely  absurd  application  cf 
those  principles  to  cases  in  point.     There  is  much  that  is  j  -»6t  in  his 
objection  to  the  irrelevant  airs  and  inaipides  chansonettes  with  which 
the  French  interspersed  their  dialogue,  and  the  detailed  analysis  of 
Armide's  scerva{E/ifin  U  est  en  ina  puissance),  inLuUy's  opera  of  that  name, 
is,  in  its  way,  a  masterpiece  of  unrelenting  criticism;  but  when,  on  the 
other  hand,  we  read  the  rapturous  praise  of  everything  Italian,  and 
consider  what  the  Serva  Padrorui,  and  Italian  opera  generally  in  tLo 
eighteenth  century,  really  were,  the  unfairness  of  Rousseau's  special 
pleading  is  but  too  apparent.    The  amusing  wind-up  of  the  artich\ 
which  concentrates'  in  a  few  sentences  the  venom  of  the  preceding 
pages,  must  bo  quoted  in  the  vigorous  language  of  the.  original  : 

"  Je  crois  avoir  fuit  voir  qu'il  n'y  a  ni  raesure  ni  melodic  dans  la  Mtisique  Fronyoiae, 
parco  que  la  laiigao  ii'eii  est  pus  susceptible ;  quo  lo  chant  l^'raii9oi8  ji'eat  qii'uii  alH>Tt»- 
mcnt  contlnuc'l,  iiisuppoitabfo  h  touto  oreillo  iion  provcuuc;  (|Ui?  riiannouio  en  c>t 


jamais  ils  on  out  iinc,  cc  sera  tunt  pis  pour  cux." 

It  ought  to  be  remembered  that  the  author  of  these  remarks  was 
himself  the  composer  of  an  operetta  in  Prench,  and  that  he  who  com- 
pared ?e  chard  Frangais  to  the  barking  of  dogs,  wrote  and  compo8c<l 
two  of  the  sweetest  of  the  innumerable  sweet  chansons  transmitted  ti 
us  from  the  eighteenth  century,  Le  rosier  and  Que  le  temps  me  dure.  But 
in  the  heat  of  argument,  and  in  his  eager  desire  to  spite  Ramean, 
Rousseau  forgets  even  the  productions  of  his  own  mind,  of  which  ho 
was  more  proud  than  of  EmUe  or  La  Nov/veUe  Hehise.  Another  point 
ought  to  bo  considered.  Rousseau's  criticism,  although  too  sweepinr?, 
is  by  no  means  wholly  unjust.  Lully's  recitation  is  dry  and  pompous 
andRameau's  counterpoint  pedantic.  There  is,  indeed,  no  doubf  that  the 
Prench  school  would  have  succumbed  in  the  struggle,  if  rescue  hod  not 


-THE  CHANCES  OP  ENGLISH  OPEEA.  631 

come  from  a  difTerent  quarter.    The  arrival  of  Gluck  in  Paris,  his  diffi- 
culty at  first  in  having  his  operas  performed,  his  final  criumph,  and  the 
great  artistio  commotion'  generally  known  as  the  strugglo  betv/oen 
Ghickists  and  PiccinistB,  are  too  familiar  to  musical  ana  unmusical 
readers  to  require  detailed  mention,    Jb^ench  music  now,  at  last,  had 
found  a  champion  capable  of  holding  his  o\vn  against  the  best  Ital- 
ians.   He  was  a  foreigner,  but  his  inspirations,  and  liia  artistic  prin- 
ciples, were  thoroughly  French.    If  he  hiid  never  come  to^  Pj.iris, 
French  opera  would  never  have  become  what  it  wr-s,  and  is;  but 
neither  would  Gluck  have  been  the  Gluck  we  know,  the  author  of  the 
I'Yench  Maeste  and  of  Iphl^(^nle  en  Tauride.    The  phenomenon  has  been 
repeated  in  the  cases  of  Meyerbeer,  and,  if  such  juxtajiosition  may  be 
tolerated,  of  OlTenbach;  it  proves  the  immense  fascination  of  the 
French  type  of  art  for  good  and  for  eviL    In  Gluck's  case  the  classio 
spirit,  as  revived  by  Comeille  and  Kacine,  and  transferred  to  the  lyrio 
etage  by  LuUy  and  Rameau,  was  the  leading  motive.    The  result  is 
well  known,  and  concerns  us  here  only  as  far  as  it  has  reference  to  the 
national  development  of  French  opci-a.    This  national  side  of  the 
question  was  fully  acknowledged  by  the  controversialists  of  the  day. 
Clumsy  adversaries  occasionally   taunted    Gluck  with   his  foreign 
origin,  but  judicious  writers  at  once  perceived  that  position  to  be  un- 
tenable.   Tuey  therefore  contended,  as  one  of  Rousseau's  cleverest 
ond  most  hostile  critics  has  put  it,  "  qu'^  I'cxception  de  deux  on  trois 
airs  qui  Bont  clans  la  forme  italienno,  et  quelques  recitatifs  d'un  car- 
actere  absolument  barbare,  sa  muuique  est  de  la  musique  franoaise, 
aubbi  fran9aise  qu'il  s'en  soit  jamais  fait,  mais  d'un  chant  moins  na- 
turel  que  LuUi  ct  moins  pur  (jue  Rameau.**    Rumours  were  started  at 
the  time,  and  have  found/ their  way  even  into  modem  histories,  that 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette  warmly  adopted  the  cause  of  her  countryman 
and  old  singing  master,  and  that  the  gentlemen  of  her  Court  used, 
from  the  "Coin  de  laReine,**  to  applaud  Gluck  and  to  hiss  Piccini. 
But  Baron  Grimm,  an  unimpeachable  authority  on  Court  gossip,  on 
the  contrary,  informs  us  that  it  was  the  special  desire  of  Marie  An- 
toinette to  retain  Piccini  in  France.    Very  curious,  and  never  before 
Biifficiently  noticed,  is  the  attitude  which  Rousseau  observed  towards 
Gluck.    He  was,  as  wo  have  seen,  in  every  way  committed  to  the 
Italian  side;  but  ho  was  too  keen,  and,  it  is  pleasant  to  add,  too  honest 
a  critic  to  deny  the  genius  of  Gluck.    The  relation  of  the  two  gi-eat 
men  seems  from  the  first  to  have  been  friendly.    When  Gluck  came 
to  Paris  he  submitted  to  the  philosopher  the  score  of  his  Italian. 
Alceste,  asking  him  for  such  observations  as  might  suggest  themselves. 
Kousseau  reluctantly  undertook  the  task  of  studying  the  score,  and 
proposed  one  or  two  alterations,  which,  it  appears,  were  adopted  in 
the  French  version.    But  before  ho  had  finished  his  task,  Gluck  with- 
drew his  work,   *S without,**  as  Rousseau  somewhat  peevishly  adds, 
'♦asking  me  for  my  remarks,  which  had  only  been  just  be^n.      Such 
fragments  as  he  had  put  down,  he  afterwards  .embodied  in  a  letter  to 
Br.  Bumey,  and  they  are  still  worth  reading  as  a  specimen  of  minnte 


632  THE  CHA:NCES  OF  ENGLISH  OPERA. 

find  intelligent  criticism.  The  objection  on  imnciple  against  Frencli 
opera  has  of  cotii'so  been  dropped,  and,  along  with  it  has  disappeared 
the  unbounded  admiration  for  its  Italian  rival.  Bousseau  is  now  will- 
ing to  acknowledge  that  **Lg  recitatif  ennuye  sur  les  theatres  dTtalie. 
non-seulement  parce  qu'il  est  trop  long,  mais  pare©  qu'il  est  nial 
chante  et  plus  mal  place." 

The  results  of  the  foregoing  remarks  which  concern  us  here,  are 
briefly:  that  the  national  music-drama  in  France  was  founded  in  anta;_-- 
onism  to  the  Italian  opera,  although  by  an  Italian;  and  that  it  y>':;3 
placed  on  a  permanent  basis  by  another  foreigner  at  the  time  of  a 
national  revival  in  matters  musical.  That  such  a  revival  was  t*ikin<j: 
place  at  the  time  is  sufficiently  proved  by  the  interest  which  not  only 
men  of  literary  eminence,  such  as  Diderot,  Rousseau,  and  La  Hax}:-J, 
but  also  the  highest  social  circles,  took  in  the  artistic  discussion-, 
above  referred  to.  Even  the  events  of  the  Eevoiution  were  unable  to 
extinguish  this  interest,  and  it  was  during  the  darkest  da^s  of  the  Tc  r- 
ror  that  the  unrivalled  school  of  national  music,  the  Psris  Consarra- 
toire,  was  originated. 

To  follow  the  rise  of  national  opera  in  other  countries  would  far  ex- 
ceed the  limits  of  this  essay.  Germany  was  early  in  the  race,  bui  her 
first  efforts  were  feeble.  Nothing  of  Iteinhard  Keiser's  (bom  167o'^ 
numerous  operas  written  for  Hamburg  now  remains;  and  the  Electoi 
Charles  Theodore's  vast  scheme  of  founding  a  German  opera  at  Mann^ 
heim  proved  abortive.^  Here  also,  by  the  way,  an  "Alccstis"  played 
an  important  part;  Wieland  had  supplied  the  libretto,  but  the  cons- 
poser  Schweitzer  was  not  equal  to  his  task,  and  the  opera,  although 
Drought  out  with  great  ^^^i^.  and  trumpeted  all  over  Germany  as  a- 

great  national  event,  soon,  sank  into  deserved  oblivion.  It  need 
ardly  be  said  that  the  real  founder  of  German  opera  was  Mozart, 
although  his  chief  works  were  written  to  Italian  words.  But  xh'^ 
struggle  between  the  national  and  the  foreign  element  did  not  take 
an  acute  form  till  after  the  War  of  Liberation,  which  roused  the  foil- 
ing of  German  unity  to  a  pitch  previously  unknown.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting, but  it  would  also  require  a  large  amount  of  space,  to  rekte 
the  valiant  fight  sustained  by  Weber  against  so  unworthy  a  rival  a 
Morlacchi,  at  Dresden.  The  personal  humiliation  suffered  by  tli" 
great  master  at  the  hands  of  an  obtuse  Court  and  aristocracy  may  l3 
read  in  the  biography  written  by  his  son.  Sir  JuUus  Benedict  ali  j 
remembers  many  a  sad  tale  to  the  same  effect.  Bat  although  the  mas- 
ter died  young,  and  among  strangers,  his  work  survived  and  Ik.iv 
fruit.  Without  Gluck  there  would  have  been  no  Mehul,  and,  pT- 
haps,  no  Auber;  without  Weber  the  supreme  power  of  Wagner  mij^'iit 
have  taken  a  different,  at  any  rate  a  more  circuitous  routa. 

In  the  minor  and  less  cultivated  countries  the  same  process  a^j  that 
hitherto  described  may  be  observed  with  more  or  lesi^  important  varia- 
tions.  ^  In  Mr.  Gosse's  recent  volume  on  Nortlwii  iMerokwe^  there  is  tlic 
following  succinct  account  of  the  genesis  of  Danish  opera : — 

•*  The  theatre  in  Kongens  Kytorv  took  a  new  lease  of  vitality  (towards  the  dose  of 


y     THE  CHANCES  OF  ENGLISH  OPERA.  683 

the  last  century),  and,  after  expellinff  tho  French  plays,  set  !tsc»lf  to  tnm  ortt  a  trorse 
cnckoo-fledplinp  thnt  had  made  itself  a  nest  there— the  Itollan  opeivi.  This  institu- 
tion, irith  nil  its  disagreeable  old  traditions  "with  its  pjinpr  of  ctiHtrrti  and  all  its 
j.tr«ndftiit  nlioDS,  pressed  liard  upon  the  comfort  and  -ueirMro  of  native  art,  nml  it  yr<\8 
iletcrnjined  to  have  done  with  it.  The  Ittilians  ucro  siuUloiiIy  Bmt  nbotit  thoir  bnsl- 
T.p>.s,  aiid  Tvith  shrill  scr.'ains  broiurht  news  of  thoir  discomfiture  to  J*rc8ilon  and 
CJogne.  Then  forthe  first  time  tiid'Koyal  Thc:itre  found  spnco  to  bro;dli«,  uiid  since 
tl.en  no  piece  has  been  performed  witiiiii  its  vjills  in  any  ot  licr  lnn;iuufre  th  in  Da»iidh. 
When  the  present  •writer  lienixl  Gluck's  opera  of  Jf/hifjcnia  in  Taurii  sung  there 
some  yeai-s  ap-o  uith  intinite  delicacy  and  finiah,  it  did*ii»>'t  seom  to  him  thnt  auy  charm 
■SVU3  It »st  through  the  fact  that  the  libretto  ivas  in  a  latigntif^o  intellii?ible  to  nil  he:ir«'rs. 
To  supply  the  place  of  tlio  banjtV.u'd  opera,  tiic  Dam^s  set  aboiit  producing  lyrical 
(^ramuaor  theirown.  In  tho  old  llartmann,  grandfatlior  of  the  now  living  compt)ser 
of  that  name,  a  musician  woa  found  whose  scttiug-s  of  Euald  have  had  a  truly 
national  importance.  Tiie  airs  from  these  operas  of  a  hnudrcd  veai-s  ntro  live  still  in 
tlio  menaory  of  every  boy  "who  whistles.  From  this  moment  tlie  lioyul  Theatre  jiassod 
oat  of  its  boyhood  into  a  c(mfident  manhood,  or  ut  least  into  on  adolescence  Avhioh 
labtcd  without  fiu'ther  crisis  till  ItfOo." 

Making  allowanco  for  locnl  differences,  this  account  may  be  accepted 
as  typical.  Thus  Alexej  Verstovskij  and  Glinka  became  the  fathers  of 
Eobsian  opera,  the  former  with  his  AsslcoUTs  Tomb,  at  Moscow,  in  1835; 
tho  l£,tter,  in  the  following  year,  at  St.  Petersburg,  with  his  Li/e  for  the 
Car,  Amongst  their  numerous  successors  are  Kubinstcin  and  Aloxan- 
der  Serov,  the  author  and  composer  of  Judlih,  and  other  successful 
operas.  The  Eussian  school,  although,  like  all  other  contemporary 
Bchools  of  dramatic  music,  under  the  influence  of  Wagner,  yet  pre- 
serves sufficient  originality  of  style  to  be  distinguishable  from  those 
of  other  countries.  In  Bohemia  the  process  was  somewhat  differ- 
ent. At  Prague  it  was,  in  the  first  instance,  German  opera  which 
Buperseded  the  decrepit  Italian  institution,  to  be  in  its  turn  followed 
by,  or  at  least  associated  with,  a  national  opera,  of  which  Smetana, 
himself  a  successful  composer,  is  the  artistic  leader.  In  Hungary 
matters  have  not  progressed  equally  well.  Ferencz  Erkel's  Barilc  Ban 
(his  best  work),  and  JIunyady  idsdo,  over  which  patriots  at  Pesth  go 
into  raptures,  are,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  Italian  operas,  with 
Hungarian  or  pseudo-Hungarian  airs  skilfully  interpolated.  Mcsonyi 
jiihaly,  another  Magyar  composer,  has  not  yet  had  a  fair  trial;  his  best 
work,  Almos,  having  never  been  performed.  Baron  Bodog  Orczy  also 
has  treated  a  Hungarian  subject,  and  used  Hungarian  rhythms  in  his 
opera  The  BenegaO.e,  the  overture  and  ballot  music  from  which  have 
been  recently  performed  in  London.  But  it  is  said  that  the  general 
type  of  his  music  is  too  e^^sontially  German  to  please  his  compatriots. 
'  And  how  about  England?  Where  are  her  national  singers  and  com- 
posers; and  where  tlie  enthusiastic  audiences  who  watch  over  tho 
development  of  native  talent  with  care  and  j  ealous  zeal  ?  The  question 
is,  or  at  least  was  till  quite  lately,  difficult  to  reply  to,  unless  we  accept 
Tlie  Finafore  as  the  ultimate  acme  of  English  art,  and  the  Opera 
Comique,  in  the  Strand,  as  its  temple.  Many  and  various  causes  might 
be  alleged  for  this  national  deficiency.  Sir  George  Bowyer,  and  other 
persons  apt  to  ruoh  in  where  students  and  impartial  critics  fear  to 
tread,  might  complain  of  the  national  inaptitude  of  Englishmen  for 


634  THE  CHANCES  OF  ENGLISH  OPERA. 

mnsic,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  from  tlio  timo  of  Queen  EHzabeth 
to  that  of  James  11.  England  ranked  among  leading  musical  nationB, 
both  as  regards  production,  r,nd  intelligent  reproduction  and  love  of 
the  art.    To  the  student  of  English  musical  history,  the  failure  of 
English  opera  appears  to  have  its  origin  in  two  events  and  in  a  nr.ni'^. 
The  first  event  was  the  premature  death  of  Purcnll.     That  FiircoU.  Ii .  i 
ha  lived,  would  have  established  a  national  school  of  muGic>  i-nd  th  t 
that  school"  yrouLi  have  been  prG-emincntly  a  dramalic  ono,  no  or- 
acquainted  with  his  work  can  deny.     Unfortunately  he  died  too  fov  n 
to  fuily  derclop  his  own  power,  or  to  give  stability  to  such  rcsu!i<^  us 
he  had.  achieved  already;  and  when,  fifteen  years  after  his  death,  Ilnii- 
del  came  to  England,  the  interest  of  ail  lovers  of  niunioimmo^lia;-  '.;- 
centred  in  him,  and  the  English  school  was  too  v/cak  to  rcp>iKt  tb 
general,  and,  under  the  circumstances,  perfectly  natural  tcndcn'T. 
Still  the  case  was  by  no  means  hopeless:  Handel,  as  a  dramatic  coi:.- 
j)oser,  had  hitherto  foUov/cd  Italian  models,  but,  like  Gluclc,  he  "was  bv 
no  means  impermeable  to  the  influences  of  the  country  which  he  ma-.  * 
hisovv'n.     Germans  themselves  acknowledge  that  the  p'eat  impul^ 
which  produced  the  oratorios  is  essentially  English  in  charact  r,  aiil 
it  may  bo  assumed  that  if  Handel  had  adhered  to  dramatic  compc-'- 
tion,  similar  causes  would  have  produced  Bi]niln,r  effecLS.  and  Hio?.  I  I 
might  have  become  the  English  Giuck.    But,  thanks  to  tlie  intri--:.-  ^ 
of  Italian  rivals,  v.crklng  hand  in  hand  with  the  religious  h'ms  of  i'ui 
country,  this  second  chance  of  English  opera  also  was  to  I  o  fo^IoiL 
The  failure  of  Xerxes,  in  1738,-may  stand  for  the  second  evr-nt,  ai  o.- 
referred  to.     Of  the  numerous  attempts  at  establishing  English  op* ;: 
on  a  permanent  basis,  which  were  made  during  the  last  and  pr^  s.  l: 
centui'ies,  and  amongfiit  which  the  joint  enterprise  of  3Iisa  Lo;i:^ . 
PVne  and  Mr.  W.  Harrison  was  the  mopjt  important,  this  is  not  t:: 
place  to  speak;  neither  is  it  the  present  writer's  desire  to. i'ldg.^  in  *; 
summary  wrjinor  of  the  numerous  works  by  well-known  English  o:-.- 
posers  called  into  life  on  such  occasions,     feome  of  these  have  kept  tl: 
stage  to  the  pre  cnt  day,  but  none  of  them  has  become  the  legitimat 
model  of  what,  without  extreme  stretch  of  courtesy,  could  be  called  a 
representative  school  of  English  opeia. 

This  leads  us  baek  to  the  third  detrimental  element — the  narn^ 
English  opera  has,  in  the  course  of  time,  become  idenfcilied  with  a  laii  1 
of  mongrel  type  of  entei*tainmcnt;  consisting  of  detached  piecco  ci 
music,  mterspoi'sod  with  spoken  dialogue,  which,  in  its  turn,  sc  tj- 
introduced  only  to  explain  the  reason  for  another  eon^j.  To  call  '. iii^ 
cla-is  of  work  English  par  excellence  is  as  absurd  as  it  is  unhistoric  Tb" 
same  inferior  typo  of  dramatic  muiic  has  existed,  an  1  to  a  great  estict 
still  exists,  in  mo.'jt  countries.  The  Germans,  for  example,  havot^-ir 
Singspkl.  But  no  person  in  his  senses  would,  for  that  reason,  call  J'-> 
tersdorf 'li  Z^octor  unci  Apotheker,  or  Lortzing's  Czar  und  Zimm^rmanJK  0  t- 
man  opems  proper.  The  existence  of  the  spoken  dialogue  in  Fuch  a 
work  as  Beethoven's  Fiddio  can  be  compared  only  to  ono  of  those  forii.;'.- 
tions  in  the  human  body  which,  according  to  Darwin,  wero  of  grci 


THE  CHANCES  OF  ENGLISH  OPEEA.  636 

use  to  OTir  treo-climbing  forefathers,  but  whichi  now  only  Beire  the 
osseologist  as  the  memento  of  a  previous  inferior  type.  TLnis  inferior 
type  of  the  semi-musical  drama  has  been  fully  recognised  in  France, 
where  the  lino  between  Opera  Comique  and  Grand  Opera  is  actually 
drawn  by  the  law.  It  was  at  the  same  time,  in  Fitinco,  where,  under 
peculiarly  favourable  circumstances,  the  first-named  geiire  reached  its 
highest,  and  indeed  a  very  high,  state  of  development.  On  the  French 
Etage  every  singer  knows  how  to  declaim,  and  the  transition  from  the 
word  to  the  song  is  divested  of  that  abruptness  so  jarring  to  the  feel- 
ing and  the  ear  in  English  theatres.  At  the  same  time  the  fact  remains 
that  in  France,  as  elsewhere,  the  spoken  dialogue  is  absolutely  unavail- 
able for  the  purposes  of  the  higher  music-drama.  Masaniello  spout- 
ing Alexandrines,  or  Tannhiiuser  lapsing  into  prose,  would  be  voted 
unquahfied  nuisances  all  the  world  over.  It  is  one  of  the  groat  merits 
of  the  Italian  opera  SQria  to  have  demonstrated  this  fact  beyond  dis- 
pute. The  fiasco  of  The  Oolden  Gross  last  year,  and  of  Ptccdino  three 
months  ago,  taught  Mr.  Kosa  a  wholesome  lesson  as  to  the  merits  of 
spoken  dialogue  at  a  large  theatre. 

To  return  to  early  English  writers:  so  far  from  shunning  the  recita- 
tive, they  were,  on  the  contrarjr,  most  eager  and  most  competent  to 
treat  it.  Purcell*s  fii-st  dramatic  attempt,  Dido  and  u^neas,  although 
written  by  a  boy,  and  performed  by  boys,  is  full  of  the  most  striking 
instances  of  accurate  and  forcible  declamation;  vide,  for  instance,  th* 
short  dialogue  between  Dido  and  Anna,  and  Dido's  accompanied  reci- 
tative, '*  Whence  could  so  much  virtue  spring,"  with  one  of  those  curi- 
ous attempts  at  tone-painting  to  the  word  •* storms"  of  which  Purcell 
was  so  fond.    And  Purcell  ia  not  alone  in  this  respect:  Henry  Lawes — 


*t 


Who  with  smooth  air  could  humour  best  our  tongue," 


attends  to  every  nuance  of  enunciation  with  as  much  care  as  Liszt  or 
Robert  Franz  could  do:  and  even  so  humble  a  worshipper  as  Mr. 
Pepys  was  not  remiss  in  this  respect.  When,  a  short  time  ago,  the 
present  v/riter  unearthed  from  among  the  treasures  of  the  Pepysian  li- 
brary at  Magd^ene  CoUege,  Cambridge,  the  song  "Beauty  retire," 
with  the  merits  and  genesis  of  which  students  of  the  Diary  are  so  well 
ajcqnaintod,  he  was  surprised  at  the  skilful  and  truly  dramatic  way  in 
which  the  pompous  love-plaint  of  the  tyrant  is  musically  rendered.  It 
is  true  that  the  spoken  dialogue  is,  with  a  few  exceptions,  found  in  the 
early  specimens  of  English  opera,  but  this,  as  we  have  seen  before,  was 
the  case  in  most  other  countries,  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that  the  English  school,  had  it  lived,  would  have  been  among  the  first 
to  rid  itself  of  the  intruder. 

From  Purcell  and  Iiawes,  to  Mr.  Eosa's  season,  at  Her  Majesty's  The- 
atre, it  is  a  long  step;  but  there  is  little  to  detain  one  by  the  way.  Of 
the  aims  and  cnances  of  this  last  enterprise  a  great  deal  has  been  said 
and  written  of  late,  and,  instead  of  trying  to  find  new  phrases  for  old 
thoughts,  it  will  be  as  well  to  quote  the  words  of  a  daily  contemporary 
to  this  effect: — 


63G  THE  CHAlsGE   O:^  ENGLISH  OPESA. 

••  It  mny  bo  allogod  that  an  opera  season  conducted  by  a  German.  Mr.  Hosa,  nnd  an 
Italian,  Signor  Randegger,  and  tlie  novelties  of  •which  are  a  German  and  two  t  ren.'li 
■woTkB  {Ricnzi,  Carmen  and  PtccoKno,)  shows  but  little  of  the  national  iinglish  ele- 
ment, liutit  ou^ht  to  bu  remembered  that  in  France  also,  it  \\asLully,  an  It.ih.i.!, 
who  formed  the  nationul  Hchool,  and  Gluck  a  Gennan,  who  saved  it  from  the  en- 
croachmeulsoitho  foreign  clement.  Moreover.  Mr.  Kosa  has.  byword  antld.'cd, 
shown  himself  desirous  to  produce  works  by  English  composers,  if  it  can  bo  done  v  it'i 
a  rcnsonnblc  chance  (  f  success.  The  most  important  thing  for  tho  present  is  to  cstub- 
lish  ^English  opera — that  is,  dramntio  music  ot  all  schools  sung  in  tho  English  Vm\' 
guage— on  a  permanent  basis  in  London.  If  this  lias  once  bfcu  done,  tirst-claK*  Tnu- 
lish  singei*s,  and,  indue  course,  English  composers  will  be  attracted  by  the  ch.'uic's ».: 
fame  and  gain  thus  offered  to  them,  and  tho  nucleus  of  a  truly  national  theatio  will  L> 
formed," 

AncT  in  its  Bummary  of  the  results  of  \^q  English  season  tlie  same 
journal  remarks : — 

"  It  is  easy  to  point  tho  moral  to  be  derived  from  this  record  of  success  {Hienzi  nr.-l 
Carmen)  and  of  failure  (i^«;oiino).  If  English  opera  is  to  become  aperraunent,  orat 
least  an  annual,  institution,  at  a  largo  London  theatre,  it  must  not  rely  npon  works  uf 
the  Piccolino  type,  no  more  than  on  constant  repetitious  of  Favorita,  Sonnaiiilwh'. 
and  other  stock  pieces  of  tho  Italian  stage.  What  is  wanted  is  on  impartial  ami  iiita- 
ligent  select  ion  rrojn  tho  important  operas  of  tho  internati«)nal  repertoire  witho.i 
undue  predilection  for  any  particular  epoch,  scliool,  or  coimlry,  tlio  only  nrc«'i's.,:.' 
condition  being  the  elevated  typo  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  work  chosen.  Ca.-un  , 
— to  return  to  tho  case  in  point — is  as  difterent  from  IHenzi  as  cm  well  be  i:i ..-" 
ined,  yet  both  have  succeeded  because  both  contain  in  a  more  or  less  develojKHl  bt .'  • 
tho  germs  of  genuine  human  interest,  as  regards  dramatic  impulse  audits  niii>i..; 
eml^limen'-.  A  selection  madoon  these  principles  and  executed  in  aaarti6tio';r;.; 
generally  efficient  manner,  would  at  once  place  English  oi)era  on  a  par  with  the  ua- 
uonai  institutions  of  other  countries." 

And  in  that  case,  what,  it  may  finally  bo  asked,  is  to  become  of 
Italian  opera  in  England  ?  Is  the  London  season  to  bo  no  longer  mn  1 3 
musical  by  Italian  melody  and  Italian  vocalisation?  Such  an  issr.i 
ought  to  bo  devoutly  deprecated  in  the  interests  of  both  art  and  faslii(!i:. 
Neither  need  it  be  in  the  least  apprehended.  Italy  will  alwajrs  remain 
the  land  of  song  and  the  school  of  singing;  and  that  school  all  other  mi> 
sical  nations  will  have  to  attend.  It  is  by  their  neglect  of  this  duty 
that  German  singers  have  lost  that  art  of  producing  the  voice  withov.t 
which  the  best  natural  gifts  are  of  little  avaiL  "We.  in  this  countrv, 
are  moro  fortunately  situated:  the  wealth  of  the  nation  and  tho  laud- 
able enterprise  of  our  operatic  managers  attr?-ct  the  most  eminent  for- 
eign singers  to  our  shores,  and  the  Italian  oi)cra  may  in  the  course ' :' 
time  become  a  most  valuable  complement  to  a  nationr.1  cons£rvatoir . 
Unfortunately  the  purity  of  Italian  singing  itself  has  been  much  im- 
paired of  late  years.  Natives  of  all  countries  have  invaded  tho  Itali.  ;i 
stage,  and  the  undoubted,  and,  in  some  cases,  supreme  valuo  of  Tron'- 
and  English  and  Swedish  acquisitions  is  somewhat  counterbaLmccn";  1  r 
the  heterogeneous  style  of  singing  and  of  pronouficing  the  words  ictr*^ 
duced  by  less  accomplished  natives  of  those  and  other  countries.  H 
some  of  the  English-speaking  talent,  thus  absorbed,  were  diverted  to 
its  natural  channel,  perhaps  Italijxn  opera,  as  well  as  English  ope^^ 
would  profit  by  the  division  of  labour. 

"Fmi^cm  HuEFFEB  in  MacmUMa  MaQooM, 


MANZONTS  HYMN  FOR  WHITSUIJTDAY. 

Of  all  the  Sacred  Hymns  of  Manzoni  this  is  the  one  which  breathes  the 
most  comprehensive  spirit.  The  firRt  part  runs  on  the  more  mystical 
emblems  of  the  Chnrch.  Bnt  the  latter  port,  which  alone  is  capable 
of  general  nse,  enters  into  the^very  heart  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
spiritual  nature  of  Christianity,  and  contains  a  meaning  beyond  the 
original  force  of  the  words,  which  was  intended  to  be  confined  to  the 
limits  of  the  Boman  Chnrch.  It  is  in  this  wider  sense  that  the  follow- 
ing paraphrase  has  been  attempted. 

I. 

Spirit  unseen,  our  epirit's  homo 

Avhercsoe'r  o'er  earth  wo  roam. 

Lost  in  depths  of  trackless  wood, 

Tost  Oil  ocean'B  dosei-t  titK)d, 

By  tho  Old  World's  sacred  htiunts, 

Or  tho  New  Win-ld's  souring  wants. 

Peopled  isle  or  coral  shoal, 

Wii  through  Thee  arc  one  in  soul. 

II. 

Spirit  of  forgivintr  Love, 
Coino  and  shelter  from  above 
Those  who  claim  Thee  rk  their  own, 
Or  who  fallow  'J'heo  unknown ; 
Couio  and  iill  with  second  life 
Minds  distranu-ht  with  donbt  and  strife; 
Conqneiiii^  with  Thy  bloodless  sword 
Be  tho  conquer'd's  great  reward. 

III. 

Corac,  and  thron>;h  tho  lanj^nid  thocght 
Of  the  burden'd  soul  o'erwroaght, 
Send,  as  on  a  galo  of  halm, 
"Whisperings  sweet  of  {gentlest  calm ; 
Corac,  as  with  ii  whirlwind's  might, 
"When  our  pride  i*  nt  its  height, 
Lay  its  surging  billows  low. 
That  tho  world  lier  God  may  know. 

IV. 

Love  Divine  nil  love  excelling, 
Quell  the  ])assions'  angry  Hweliing; 
lAmd  us  thonghts  which* shall  abide 
That  last  dsjy  when  nil  in  iHinl ; 
Ifourish  with  the  gi^co  t  f  Heuren 
All  good  gifts  lo  mortals  given. 
As  tho  sunshine  seeks  to  feed 
Brightest  flower  iu  dullest  seed. 

(637) 


638  MANZONI'S  HYMN  FOR  WHTTSUNDAX 

V. 

Tea — tho  flowrer  would  fade  and  perish 
"Were  there  no  kind  trarinth  to  cherish* 
2*J  over  wouUl  its  petals  rise 
Cloched  with  their  refulgent  dyes, 
Ha^l  no  genial  liy:ht  been  near. 
Turninj^  fi-otn  its  loftier  sphere. 
With  nnwonriod  care  to  nnrao 
Highest  good  'mul  darkest  cursct. 

YI. 

Led  by  Thee  tho  poor  man's  eye 
Looks  towards  his  home  on  high, 
As  he  thinks  with  joy  of  One 
Deemed  like  him  u  poor  man's  sou  : 
Touched  by  Thee  the  ricli  man's  store 
Pi'om  his  open  hand  shall  pour, 
Lightened  hy  the  loviu^i^  look 
And  the  silout  self  rebuke. 

YII. 

Broatho  the  speaking  speecliless  grace 
f  Of  the  infant's  smiling  face ; 

P.-iss  with  swift,  unbidden  rush 
Throu^rh  the  mnideu's  crimson  bluish) 
Bless  the  solitary  iieart 
Bwellinjj:  with  its  God  apart; 
Consecrate  to  things  above 
Happy  homo  and  wedde«l  love. 

vni. 

"When  tho  pidse  of  youth  boats  high. 
Be  Thy  still,  siunll  warning  nigh  ; 
When  ibr  gi*eat  resolves  wo  yearn. 
T'nvai-ds  the  Cross  our  m  inhood  turn  \ 
When  our  locks  gi-ovv  scant  and  hoary. 
Light  thiMu  AV'irh  Thy  crown  of  glory  : 
Wh(Mi  at  l;»st  wo  come  to  die. 
Sparkle  in  \.   3  vacant  eye, 
iuipc  ol'  Immortality. 

A.  P.  Stanley,  in  MTicn^iSMa  Magadm. 


THE  PHILOLOGICAL  SOCIETY'S  ENGLISH  BICTIONAET.     . 

The  prepar?it:on  of  a  fall  ncientilBc  English  dictionary  on  an  his- 
torical basis  was  first  suggested  by  a  paper  read  before  the  Philological 
Society  in  1857  by  Archbishop  Trench  on  ♦*Somo  Deficiencies  in  our 
English  Dictionaries."  Two  years  after,  a  formal  appeal  to  the  public 
"waB  issued  by  the  society,  nnd  some  hundred  volunteers  at  once  be- 
gan to  collect  the  necessary  quotations.  On  the  death  of  the  proposed 
editor,  Mr.  Herbert  Coleridge,  his  place  was  taken  by  ilr.  T.  XTur- 
iiiv.ill,  secretary  to  the  society,  the  well-knovv^n  founder  of  the  Early 
English  Text,  Chaucer,  Ballad,  and  New  Shakspero  Societies.  All  of 
these  societies  were,  more  or  loss  directly,  the  result  of  the  impetus 
giycn  to  the  historical  study  of  English  by  the  undertaking  of  the  Dic- 
tionary, for  it  soon  became  evident  that  an  historical  English  diction- 
ary was  an  impossibility  as  long  as  the  great  majority  of  our  early 
texts  remained  either  unpublished  oi  clce  only  accessible  in  rare  and 
costly  editions.  The  inevitable  resulb  was,  however,  to  divert  the  en- 
ergies of  scholars  from  the  Dictionary  work  to  that  of  text-editing;  c-nd 
as  there  SGQmed  little  prospect  of  surmounting  the  financial  difiicul- 
ticfj  involved  in  cairying  out  the  work  on  the  vast  scale  necessar}'-,  the 
interest  of  readers  began  to  fail  off,  although  a  fai::hful  few  have  never 
ceased  reading  and  working  up  to  the  present  time.  But  during  the 
kst  throe  years  the  society  hai  been  earnestly  trying  to  utilise  'ihc  enor- 
mous maes  of  material  already  collected,  by  negotiating  with  various 
publishing  firms,  and  has  finally  succeeded  in  making  arrangements 
ATith  the  Clarendon  Press,  Oxford,  for  the  preparation  and  publication 
of  a  dictionary  from  those  materials  which,  although  less  full  than  was 
contemplated,  will  satisfy  the  requirements  of  English  scholarship, 
and  also  pave  the  way  for  a  more  complete  Thesaurus  in  the  _futuro. 
As  it  is,  the  Dictionary  will  bo  one  and  a-ha'.:  times  the  size  of  Jjittre.'s, 
or  more  than  four  times  that  of  Webster.  It  is  intended  to  include  all 
English  words  nince  1100,  omitting  only  those  which  became  extinct 
before  that  date,  illustrating  each  word,  sense,  and  century,  with  a 
short  quotation.  The  Dictionary  will  be  completed,  if  possible,  in  ten 
years,  and  the  first  part  will  bo  issued  in  1882.  The  editor  is  Dr.  J.  A. 
H.  Murray,  now  president  of  the  society,  and  author  of  the  Dialect  of 
the  SoutJiern  OoutUies  of  Scotland,  who,  of  the  various  members  of  the  so- 
ciety who  have  been  suggested  from  time  to  time,  unquestionably  pos- 
sesses in  the  highest  degree  that  combination  of  learning,  method, 
energy  and  power  of  organisation  which  his  arduous  task  demands. 
He  will  be  aided  by  a  suitable  staff  of  assistants. 

But  to  ensure  the  progress  of  the  Dictionary  and  to  make  it  a  lasting 
monument  of  our  language,  the  already  vast  mass  of  material  requires 
to  be  considerably  supplemented.    The  Dictionary  Committee  of  the 

(639) 


640   THE  PHILOLOGICAL  SOCIETTS  ENGLISH  DIGTIGNAEY. 

Philological  Society  has  accordingly  issued  an  "Appeal  to  theEnglisli- 
speaking  and  English-reading  public  to  read  books  and  make  extracts 
for  the  Philological  S'^'^iety'snew  English  Dictionary,"  in  which  it  asks 
•help  from  readers  in  »^.  reat  Britain,  America,  and  the  Colonies,  by  read- 
ing and  extracting  tho  books  still  unexamined.  The  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, especially,  has  hardly  been  read  at  all,  except  Burke,  even  Swiit'-^. 
works  being  still  untouched.  Br.  Murray  has  prepared  a  list  of  the 
chief  books  which  ought  to  be  taken  up  at  once.  Readers  can  also  b? 
supplied  with  printed  slips  wdth  tho  titles,  &c.,  of  tho  books,  bo  as  to 
savd  mechanical  labour.  The  names  of  readers  will  be  recorded  in  the 
Ileferenco  List  of  Books  at  the  end  of  tho  Dictionary.  Those  who  can- 
not road  themselves,  but  can  give  or  lend  early  copies  of  seventeenth 
or  eighteenth-century  books,  will  do  great  service.  Sub-editore  are 
also  much  wanted  to  arrange,  classify,  and  complete  tho  materials  for 
some  lettere.  All  oifers  of  help  to  be  addressed  to  Br.  Murray,  Mill 
Hill,  Middlesex,  K.  W. 

This  is  work  in  which  any  one  can  join.  Even  tho  most  indolen* 
novel-r3a,der  will  find  it  little  trouble  to  put  a  pencil-mark  against  pjit 
word  or  phr.iso  that  strikes  him,  and  ho  can  afterwards  copy  out  the 
context  at  his  leisure.  In  this  way  many  words  and  references  can  V? 
registered  that  may  prove  of  tho  highest  value.  Schoolmasters,  agaic, 
will  have  little  difficulty  in  enlisting  volunteers  among  their  own 
puiuls;  thus  Br.  Murray's  have  supplied  him  with  5,0C3  quotations 
during  the  past  month. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  matter  of  congratulation  that  tho  twenty  years'  toil  d 
tho  Philological  Society  at  last  promises  to  bear  fruit,  and  our  od>v 
regret  is  that  such  men  as  Herbert  Coleridge  and  Prof.  Goldstuckfi, 
who  bore  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,  have  not  lived  to  see  tbe^: 
hopes  realised.  It  would  bo  an  injustice  to  conclude  without  an  allu- 
sion to  two  of  the  original  promoters  of  the  dictionary  who  arc  still 
among  us:  Mr.  Wedgwood,  whose  Etymological  Bictionary — itself  an 
outcome  of  the  work  at  the  larger  dictionary— hau  done  so  much  to 
arouse  popular  interest  in  the  study  of  English;  and  Mr.  Fumiva'!. 
Of  Mr.  FumivalVs  services  it  would  bo  impossible  to  si^eak  too  highiv; 
hia  zeal  for  tho  Bictionary  has  never  flagged  for  a  moment,  and  it  u 
mainly  to  his  jDcraonal  influence  that  the  successful  issue  of  a  pn> 
tracted  and  difdcult  series  of  negotiations  is  due. — The  Acadeiay, 


THE 


LIBRARY  MAGAZIISrE 


JUNE,    1879. 


THE  mSTOSIOAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMEEICAN  CHUECHES.» 

As  elsewhere  I  hare  spoken  of  the  historical  aspect  of  the  United 
IStates^  so  here  I  propose,  in  the  same  manner  and  with  the  same  reser- 
Tations,  to  speak  of  the  historical  aspect  of  the  American  Churches; 
and  as  then  I  ventured  at  times  to  point  the  moral  to  the  peculiar  au-: 
dience  of  Birmingham,  so  here  I  may  be  allowed  to  make  analogous  ap- 
plications to  my  cleric^  audience  in  Sion  College. 

I.  Before  I  enter  on  any  details  let  me  offer  some  general  remarks. 

(1.)  It  will  be  observed  that  I  speak,  not  of  "the  American  Church," 
hut  of  "the  American  Churches."  It  is  the  custom  with  many  English 
Churchmen  to  speak  of  "the  American  Church"  as  if  there  were  but 
one,  and  that  a  branch  of  our  own  form,  established  in  America.  A 
moment's  reflection  will  show  the  erroneousness  of  this  nomenclature. 
It  is  not  only  that  other  Churches  in  America  are  of  far  larger  dimen< 
sions,  but  that  from  the  nature  of  the  case  it  would  be  as  absurd  to 
epeak  of  the  "Churdi  of  America"  as  it  would  be  to  speak  of  the 
'-Church  of  Europe." 

Each  separate  state  is  as  it  were  a  separate  kingdom,  and  although 
the  religious  communities  are  not  precisely  conterminous  with  the  dif- 
ferent ^tes,  yet  one  or  other  predominates  in  these  different  common- 
wealths, and  although  a  like  complexion  runs  through  almost  all  of 
them,  the  distinctions  between  what  may  be  called  the  National 
Churches  of  the  several  States  will  perhaps  never  be  altogether  effaced. 

During  the  War  of  Independence  the  Churches  were  sot  in  hostile 
array  by  their  politics.  The  Con^regationalists  were  all  Whigs ;  the 
Episcopalians,  most  of  them,  Tories.  "  The  Quakers,"^  says  Frank- 
- 

^  An  addross  delivered  in  Sion  College,  Maroli-17, 1879.  The  authorities  on  which 
tliij  sketch  is  founded  ai'e  the  u»aal  woi'ks  connected  with  American  Hlstoiy.  Per* 
haps  lehould  specify  more  particularly  Palfi-ey's  History  of  New  England,  fieards* 
ley'n  History  o/the  Church  in  ComiecUctU,  Bishop  White's  Memoirs 0/ tfie  Protestant 
Eyiseopal  Okureh^  Anderson's  History  of  the  Coloniai  Ohureh,  StoTons's  History  of 
Mtthodism.  The  rest  speak  for  themselves ;  and  I  have  derived  much  from  the  kind- 
ness of  American  friends  in  oral  commaoioation. 

•Sargent's  Andr4, 122. 


642     mSTORICAIi  ASPECT  OP  THE  A^JDERICAN  CHXIEtOHES. 

lin,  "gave  to  the  Bevolution  every  opposition  which  their  vast  abilities 
and  influence  could  suggest."  During  the  great  Civil  War  the  Churches 
in  the  North  and  South  were  completely  torn  asunder  by  the  distinc- 
tion of  politicvil  principle,  and  since  the  war  it  is  with  aifficulty  thnc 
any  of  them  have  been  again  re-u^iited.  The  Southern  Bishops  aslied 
for  re-admission  to  the  Ei^iscopal  Convention,  but  on  the  express  con- 
dition that  no  censure  was  to  be  passed  on  their  departed  colleague, 
Bishop  Polk.  The  Northern  Bishops  consented  to  re-admit  them,  but 
after  much  hesitation.  The  Methodists  and  Presbyterians  of  th-^ 
North  and  South  have  not  yet  entirely  coalesced.  The  Pope,  in  tlio 
plenitude  of  his  infallibility,  shrank  from  pronouncing  a  judgment  on 
the  question  of  slaveiy  such  as  might  alienate  from  his  Church  cither 
the  North  or  the  South. 

It  is  this  variation  of  ecclesiastical  organization  in  the  different; 
States  which  explains  the  i)rinciple  that  has  often  misled  European 
bystanders,  namely,  that  which  excludes  from  the  consideration  of 
Congress  all  concerns  of  religion.  This,  by  whatever  other  influence 
it  may  have  been  accomplished,  is  the  natural  result  of  the  almost 
necessary  exclusion  of  the  central  government  from  the  domestic 
arrangements  of  the  particular  States.  Long  before  and  long  after  the 
Congress  had  been  established,  the  governments  of  individual  States 
still  exercised  an  undoubted  control  over  the  ecclesiofitical  affidrs  of 
their  particular  communities. 

The  whole  system  is  or  was  till  recently  more  or  lens  what  we  should 
call  concurrent  establishment  or  concurrent  endowment. '  The  princi- 
ple of  Establishment  in  America  existed  till  our  own  time  in  a  galling 
and  odious  form,  such  as  never  existed  in  England,  that  of  a  direct  tax- 
ation in  each  State  for  whatever  was  the  ijredominant  form  of  religion. 
This  has  now  disappeared,  *  but  the  principle  of  endowment  still  con- 
tinues ;  and  if  the  endowments  of  Harvard  College  in  Massachusetts,  or 
Trinity  Church  in  New  York,  were  attacked,  the  programme  of  the 
Liberation  Society  would  in  this  respect  meet  with  a  resistance  in  tha 
United  States  as  sturdy  aa  it  awakens  in  England. 

(2.)  Again,  as  with  the  United  States  at  large,  so  also  in  regard  to 
their  religious  development,  the  truth  holds  that  they  exhibit  the 
marks  of  a  young,  unformed,  and,  so  to  speak,  raw  society.  The  Amer- 
ican Churches  from  the  first  retained  and  still  retain  traces  of  a  Btate  of 
feeling  which  from  the  Churches  of  the  older  continent  have  almost 
passed  away.  The  intolerance  which  is  the  mark  of  the  crudity  of  newiv- 
formed  communities  was  found  in  the  United  States  long  after  it  had 
ceased  in  the  mother  country.  Baptists  and  Quakers,  for  their  religious 
opinions,  were  cruelly  scourged  in  the  State  of  Massachusetta  after  any 
such  barbarous  punishment,  on  any  purely  theological  grounds,  had 
vanished  from  England.    A  venerable  Baptist  has  recorded^  his  suf- 

>  See  an  excellent  article  on  the  Anglo-American  Clinrcbes,  In  the  London  ijvar 
terly,  vol.  xlvii  p.  414. 

'  Grant's  Hiatory  of  the  Baptists,  p.  447. 


mSTOEICAIi  ASPECT  OF  THE  A^JEKICAIT  CHUKCHES.     643 

{erings  whilst  exposed  to  the  las!!  of  his  persecutois,  in  language 
vorthy  of  an  early  Gluistlan  mariyr,  and  tlie  sulTeringa  of  tlie  Quakers 
have  been  made  the  sabjoct  of  a  tragedy  by  Longfcllov.'.  Even  as  late 
as  1750  an  old  man  is  snid  to  have  been  publicljr  scourged  in  Boston 
for  non-attendance  at  the  Congregiitionalict  worship.  ^ 

On  the  question  of  sUvcry,  which  in  tho  Aniericim  Churches  reached, 
both  in  North  and  South,  the  dignity  of  a  religious  dogma,  there  were 
instances^  even  within  our  own  timo,  of  the  missionaries  of  abolition 
being  burnt  alive  at  the  stake  long  after  any  such  punishment  was 
indicted  even  in  Scotland  even  on  witches.^ 

The  exclusiveness  of  })ublic  opinion  against  some  of  the  prevailing 
forms  of  religious  belief  in  America  till  within  twenty  or  thirty  years 
ago,  was  at  least  equal  to  anything  found  amongst  ourselves.  A  well- 
Imown  English  traveller  passing  through  the  states  where  Unitarian 
opinions  were  not  in  vogue,  tells  us  that  she  was  warned  in  significant 
terms  that  she  had  better  conceal  them  if  she  wished  to  find  social  re* 
ception.  ^  The  passion  for  pilgrimages,  relics,  and  anniverstxries  is,  with 
some  obvions  modifications,  as  ardent  as  in  the  European  Churches  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  the  preternatural  multiplication  of  the  wood  of 
the  Mayflower  is  said  to  be  almost  as  extraordinary  as  the  preternatural 
multipucation  of  the  wood  of  the  True  Cross.  ^ 

(3.)  Again,  the  social  estimation  of  the  different  Churches  bears  a 
Btnking  resemblance  to  those  distinctions  which  in  other  forms  might 
have  been  found  in  the  Churches  of  Europe  centuries  ago.  These  re- 
lations ara  in  detail  often  the  reverse  of  what  wo  find  in  Europe,  but 
this  does  not  make  less  significant  the  general  fact  of  the  combination 
of  certain  leligious  convictions  with  certain  strata  of  society. 

Let  me  briefly  give  a  sketch  of  these  social  conditions  as  they  now 
appear,  inherited  no  doubt  in  large  proportion  from  the  historical  ori- 
gin of  the  different  craods.  At  the  top  of  the  scale  must  be  placed,  va« 
rying  according  to  tho  different  states  in  which  they  are  found,  the 
Unitarian  Church,  chiefly  in  Massachusetts;  the  Episcopal  Church 
chiefly  in  Connecticut  and  the  Southern  States.  Next»  the  Quaker^},  or 
Eriends,  in  Philadelphia,  limited  in  numbers,  but  powerful  in  influ- 
ence and  respectability,  who  constituted  the  mainstay  of  Pennsylva^ 
nian  loyalty  during  the  War  of  Independence.^  Next,  the  Presbyterian 
Church,  and  close  upon  its  borders  and  often  on  a  level  with  it,  the 
Congregationalists.  Then,  after  a  long  interval,  the  Methodists;  and 
following  upon  them,  also  after  an  interval,  the  Baptists;  and  agnin, 
with  peSiaps  a  short  interval,  the  Universalis ts,  springing  from  ihe 

1  AVilberforco,  History  of  the  American  Church,  116 

2  Miss  Martineau's  Western  Travels  Hi.  81,  ]74  ;  ii.  i;08.  Society  in  Atneri^,a,  i.7  ^8, 
■;.')<3.  Garriaoji  at  Uustoa  uurrowly  escaped  death,  yVestcm  Travel,  iii.  7(j;  iSocieti  in 
j.t/ierica,  i.  Ho. 

•  :Mifls  Martincau's  If.  T.  180,  21 1 ;  S.  A.  ii.  15, 29, 227 

*  Lycll's  Second  Visit,  i.  ICO 

■  SaxgonVa  Andrf,  UD 


644     mSTOBICAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  OHUECHEa 

lower  ranks  of  Congregatlozialists.  Then,  after  a  deep  gnlf»  the  BoTnan 
Catholic  Chnrch,  which,  except  in  Maryland  and  the  French  popula- 
tion of  Canada  and  of  Old  Louisiana,  is  confined  almost  entirely  to  the 
Irish.  Their  political  influence  is  no  doubt  powerful;  but  this  axises 
from  the  homogeneousness  of  their  vote.  There  are  also  a  few  distin- 
guished examples  of  Boman  Catholics  in  the  highest  ranks  of  the  legal 
profession. 

Below  and  besides  all  these  are  the  various  unions  of  eccentric  char- 
acters, Shakers  and  the  like,  who  occupy  in  the  retired- fastnesses  of 
North  America  something  of  the  same  position  which  was  occupied  by 
the  like  eccentric  monastic  orders  of  medissval  Europe. 

In  what  respects  these  various  religioug  communities  have  contrib- 
uted to  American  society  results  superior  or  inferior  to  those  of  the 
National  Churches  of  Europe,  is  well  discussed  by  Mr.  Thomas  Haghes 
in  his  chapter  on  this  subject*  in  The  Old  Church  and  what  to  do  loUh  it, 
which  (with  two  trifling  exceptions)  I  adopt  as  so  completely  coincid- 
ing with  my  own  impressions,  as  to  render  any  further  discussion  of 
the  matter  useless  in  tois  place. 

n.  We  will  now  leave  these  general  remarks,  and  take  the  different 
Churches  in  the  order  of  their  chronological  formation,  dwelling  chiefly 
oh  those  which  have  the  largest  significance. 

(1.)  Passing  over  for  the  moment  the  two  great  outlying  Soman 
Catholic  settlements  in  the  Southern  States  and  Canada^  which,  as  not 
being  of  British  origin,  cannot  be  fairly  brought  within  the  scope  of 
these  remarks,  the  first  solid  foundation  of  any  religious  cpnunxinity  in 
the  United  States  was  that  of  the  New  England  Churches,  These, 
being  derived  from  the  Puritans  who  escaped  from  the  detested  yoke 
of  the  legislation  of  the  Stuart  Kings,  gave  a  colour  to  the  whole  relig- 
ion of  the  first  civilisation  of  North  America. 

There  are  considerable  varieties  in  detaiL  The  Puritans^  of  Salem, 
who  regarded  themselves  as  non-conforming  members  of  the  Church 
of  England,  looked  with  aversion  on  the  separatist  principles  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers  who  landed  in  the  Mayflower  at  Plymouth.  It  was 
long  before  this  breach  was  healed,  and  the  distinction,  jealously 
guarded  in  the  retrospect  even  at  the  present  day,  is  not  unimportant, 
as  bringing  before  our  minds  the  true  historical  position  of  the  Puri- 
tans in  the  mother  country.  The  pathetic  expressions  of  aSTection  for 
the  Church  of  England — "England,"  as  they  said,  "and  not  Babylon  " 
— the  passionate  desire  not  to  leave  it,  but  to  reform  it — this  was  the 
well-spring  of  the  religious  life  of  America  as  it  was  the  well-spring  of 
the  religious  life  of  those  distinguished  English  pastors  whom  the  Act 
of  Uniformity  compelled  reluctantly  to  abandon  their  posts  in  the 
National  Church  at  home. 

Another  variation  amongst  the  Puritan  settlers  was  that  which 
divided  the  Presbyterians  from  the  Congregationelists.     The  Congre- 

^  See  tbe  Oration  of  the  Hon.  W.  C.  Endioott,  p.  170,  on  the  Commemotatbni  of  tb^ 
Laadlug  of  John  Endicott  at  Salem. 


HESTOHICAIi  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHUBOHES.      615 

^ationaliBts,  as  they  have  insisted  upon  terming  themselves,^  instead 
of  taking  the  name  of  "Independents,"  which  their  co-religionists  have 
it  lopted  in  England,  carried  on  the  line  of  ecclesiastical  policy  which 
would  probably  have  prevailed  in  England  had  Bi chard  Cromwell 
remained  seated  on  his  father's  throne,  and  transmitted  his  sceptre  t<i 
another  and  yet  another  Oliver,  with  whatever  modifications  the  na- 
tional circumstances  might  have  prodncoi.  The  names  of  the  street? 
of  Boston  still  bear  witness,  or  did  till  within  a  few  years  aj?o,  of  thj^ 
farce  with  which  the  recollection  of  those  days  clun^to  the  New  Eng*. 
Imd  colonists.  Kewbury  Street,  from  the  battle  of  Newbury  ;  Com- 
monwealth Streei;  from  the  English  Commonwealth  ;  Cromwell  Street, 
from  the  great  Protector ;  and  amongst  the  Christian  names,  which  are 
remarkable  iniHcations  in  every  country  of  the  prevailing  affections  of 
the  period,  are  a  host  of  Bibucal  appellations  which  in  the  mother 
country,  even  amongst  Nonconformists,  have  almost  become  extinct : 
Kind,  Light,  Lively,  Vigilance,  Free-grace,  Search-the-Scriptures,  Ac- 
cepted, Elected,  Hate-evil,  Faint-not,  Best-come,  Pardon,  Above-hope, 
Free-gift,  Beformation,  Oceanus  (bom  on  the  Mayflower),  Peregrine 
(first  child  bom  after  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims),  Betum,  Freeborn, 
Freedom,  Pilgrim,  Donation,  Bansom,  Mercy,  Dependence,  Hardy, 
Beliance,  Deliverance,  Experience,  Clonsider,  Prudence,  Patience 
("Patia"),  Standfast,  Sweet,  Hope,  Hopnstill,  Urbane,  Bejoice,  Wel- 
come, Desire,  Amitjr,  Bemember,  Hasty,  Prosper,  Wealthy,  Mindwell, 
Duty,  Zealous,  Opportunity,  Submit,  Fearing,  Unite,  Model,  Comfort, 
Fidelity,  Silence,  Amen,  Beason,  Bight,  Bescue,  Humble. 

There  are  three  romantic  stories  which  have  come  down  to  us  from 
those  early  times.  One  is  the  only  legend  which  Walter  Scott  has  in- 
corporated into  his  romances  from  the  history  of  America,  the  appari- 
tion of  the  regicide  Goffe  in  a  battle  with  the  Bed  Indians  at  Hadley; 
the  second,  the  anecdote  of  the  firmness  of  Judge  Davenport  at  New 
Haven  on  the  supposed  arrival  of  the  Day  of  Judgment  during  an  ex- 
traordinary darkness;  thirdly,  the  self-imposed  penance  of  Judge  Sew- 
ell  at  Salem  for  his  persecution  of  the  witches. 

Two  great  institutions  owe  their  origin  to  the  first  Con^egationalist 
settlers— Harvard  College,  of  the  American  Cambridge  in  Massachu- 
setts, Yale  CoUej^e,  in  the  city  of  Elms  [it  Now  Haven— each  with  its 
splendid  hall  and  chapel — each  with  ita  group  of  smaller  edifices,  des- 
tined doubtless  to  grow  up  into  a  constellation  of  colleges. 

Two  characters  of  ai^o^^tolic  zoal  apjpearedin  coimection  with  the  mis- 
sion to  the  liidians.  One  was  David  Brainerd,  the  heroic  youth  (for  he 
Wiis  but  twenty-nine  wli en  he  died)  who  devoted  to  the  service  of  the 
Indians  a  life  as  saintly  as  ever  was  nurtured  by  European  Missions. 
**Not  from: necessity  but  by  choice,  for  it  appeared  to  me  that  God's 
dealings  towards  mo  had  fitted  me  for  a  life  of  solitariness  and 
hardship,  and  that  I  had  nothing  to  lose  by  a  total  renunciation  of  it. 
It  appeared  to  me  just  and  right  that  I  should  be  destitute  of  home  and 

^  XUo  namo  was  given  by  Coaant.  • 


646     HISTORICAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHURCHES,    v 


many  comforts  of  life  which  I  rejoice  to  see  other  of  God's  people  en- 
joy. And  at  the  same  time  I  saw  so  much  of  the  excellency  of  Christ's 
Jdngdom,  and  the  infinite  desirableness  of  ita  advancement  in  the  world, 
that  it  Bwallowed  all  my  other  thoughts,  and  made  me  willing,  yea, 
even  rnjoico,  to  be  made  a  pilgrim  or  hermit  in  the  vnldemess,  and  to 
my  dying  moment,  if  I  might  truly  promote  the  blessed  interests  of 
the  groat  Redeemer,  and  if  ever  my  soul  presented  itself  to  Grod  for 
His  service  without  any  reserve  of  any  kind  it  did  so  now.  The  lan- 
guage of  thought  and  disposition  now  was,  *  Here  am  I — Lord,  send 
me;*  send  me  to  the  jungle,  the  savage  pagans  of  the  wilderness — send 
me  from  all  these  so-called  comforts  on  eaith,  or  earthly  oomfort — send 
me  even  to  death  itself  if  it  be  but  in  Thy  Name  and  to  promote  Thy 
kingdom."^ 

The  other  was  "the  Apostle  of  the  Indians,"  John  Eliot,  whose  trans- 
lation of  the  Bible  into  their  language  remains  as  the  monument  both 
of  his  own  gigantic  effort  and  the  sole  record  of  their  tongue,  and  also 
of  the  friendly  relations  which  the  Church  of  England  then  maintained 
with  its  separated  children.  It  was  supported  by  the  Society  for  the 
Propagation  of  the  Gospel — "the  Venerable  Society,"  as  the  Americans 
call  it— and  by  Sion  College.  *  He  lies  in  the  churchyard  on  the  rocky 
hill  of  Roxbury,  in  the  suburbs  of  Boston. 

2,  The  Presbyterians,  who  in  Great  Britain  furnished  so  large  an  ele- 
ment to  the  contending  Churches  at  the  time  of  our  civil  wars,  but 
who,  with  us,  have  almost  entirely  receded  or  been  conJ&ned  to  the 
^eat  Presbyterian  communion  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tweed,  in  Amer- 
ica have  kept  up  alike  their  inborn  vigour  and  their  numerical  force. 
Amongst  them  rose  the  one  theological  name  of  the  early  period  of 
American  ecclesiastical  history  which  still  possesses  a  European  fame. 
In  the  secluded  village  of  Stockbridge,  amongst  the  Berkshire  hills,  a 
wooden  cottage  is  shown  which  for  many  years  was  the  residence  of 
Jonathan  Edwards.  It  was  there  that  he  composed  his  book  on  the  Free- 
dom of  the  WiUf  which  is  said  to  be  the  most  powerful  exposition  of  the 
doctrines  of  necessity  dear  alike  to  the  Calvinistio  theologian  and  to 
the  modem  scientific  investigator."^ 

It  may  be  of  interest  for  a  moment  to  recall  his  outward  manner  of 
life  as  the  tradition  of  it  is  there  preserved,  because  it  shows  that  the 
apparent  incongruities  of  ecclesiastical  preferment  and  individual 
character  ara  not  confined  to  the  anomalies  of  European  Churches. 
He  was  sent  out  there  as  a  missionary  to  the  Indians  and  pastor  to  the 
colonists,  but  it  is  saiil  of  him  with  a  simplicity  that  provokes  a  smile, 
that  thirteen  out  of  the  twenty-four  hours  were  devoted  to  study  in 
his  house;  that  his  time  out  of  doors  was  chieay  devoted  to  cutting 

i  Anderson's  History  of  th«  Colonial  Church,  iiL  4G0. 

'AiKlerson,  ii.  38G,  387,  398. 

3  It  is  difflcwlt  precisely  to  cbisaify  Etlwanls*  eooIeRingtionl  position.    He  bej^an  nnd 
ended  as  a  ProBbyteriau,  bat  was  much  coimocted  iu  tbo  iutervul  with  Coo^rcgatiim* 
^ts. 


,    HISTOKIOAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHURCHES.     647 

wood  and  riding  through  the  forest;  that  he  never  visited  his  people 
except  tbey  were  sick,  and  did  not  know  his  own  cattle.  He  is  laid  in 
the  cemetry  of  Princetown,  cbe  chief  Prenbytsrian  university  of  which 
in  hia  latter  ycai's  he  was  pi-cBidcnt;  and  hard  by  lays  his  grandson,  the 
Satan  of  Amcricrji  history,  Airon  Burr. 

One  other  name  of  later  days  belongs  olike  to  the  theology  of  Europe 
and  America,  connected  in  like  m.mDcr  with  the  Presbyterians  or  Con- 
gregationalifits.  It  is  that  of  Dr.  Kobinson,  the  author  of  Biblical  Be- 
searches  in  Palestine,  A  simple  solid  granite  pillar  marks  the  site  of  his 
grave  in  the  most  beautiful  of  American  cemeteries,  that  of  Greenwood, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  New  York,  He  was  the  first  explorer  of  Pal- 
estine who  saw  it  with  the  eyes  of  a  mind  fully  prepared  for  what  he 
was  to  discover,  and  capable  of  seeing  what  he  had  to  describe.  His 
works  may  be  superseded  by  later  investigators  and  more  attractive 
writers,  but  he  will  always  be  regarded  as  the  founder  of  modem  sa- 
cred geography.  « 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  Presbyterian  body  in  America  should  be 
increased  and  fortified  by  an  influx  of  those  holding  the  same  creed 
or  form  of  Chprch  government  from  Scotland  and  Ulster.  It  is  ii^ 
Canada  chiefly  that  these  have  found  their  home.  There  alone  amongst 
the  Colonial  settlements  of  Great  Britain  the  rancour  of  Orangemen 
against  Papists  still  continues  in  unbroken  force.  The  streets  of  Mon- 
treal have  been  the  scene  of  riots  as  furious  as  those  which  have  dis- 
turbed the  thoroughfares  of  Belfast.  There  alRO  the  distinction  b& 
tween  the  Established  and  the  Free  Church  of  ScotLind  has  been  carr 
ried  beyond  the  Atlantic,  and  although  in  the  almost  necessary  abnence 
of  fuel  to  keep  alive  the  division,  the  two  sections  have  within  the  last 
few  years  been  brought  to  an  outward  coalition,  yet  it  was  only  three 
years  ago  that  a  dispute  on  the  question  of  the  duration  of  future  pun- 
ibhment  almost  again  rent  them  asunder;  the  members  of  the  old 
National  Church  of  Sootianl  maintaining  without  exception  the  more 
merciful  and  (v/e  trust)  Biblical  view  of  this  question,  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Free  Church  equally  adhering,  according  to  their  character- 
istic usage,  to  the  more  narrow  and  tnidition.il  opinion. 

A  vrord  should  be  givr-n  to  the  Datcth  Eefon:iicd  Church,  which  exists 
amonset  the  American  forms  of  PreHbvterianiBm.  It  has  a  kind  of  Eu- 
ropean  reputation  in  the  pai:^cs  of  V/iislurij^ton  Irving  and  of  Mrs. 
Grant's  MeiViOirs  of  an  Ameiican  ljcid*j. '  Doiijiit^er,  when  at;kod  what 
theologifms  the  Americans  had  producacl,  iinaweroi  ''Only  two~Chan- 
ning"  (of  whom  we  shall  speak  prebently)  ''and  the  Dutch  Reformed 
pastor,  Nevin,"  the  autlior  of  The  Spirit  of  /Se^^,  and  father  of  the  present 
Rccomplij^ed  chaplain  to  tbe  Episcopal  American  Church  at  Rome. 

(3.)  The  next  infiTsion  into  the  ecclesiastical  elements  of  America 
were  the  two  groat  Communions  which  I  have  already  mentioned,  the 
Bantista  and  the  Methodists. 

Of  the  Baptists  it  is  only  necessary  here  to  say  that  in  numbers  they 

"         '  i  II.fc2.    1.38, 267. 


eiS     mSTQRIOAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERieAN  CHUBGHES. 

Burpass  all  other  American  churches,  except  the  Methodists,  includiiig, 
as  they  do,  not  merely  many  of  the  humbler  classes  in  the  Northern 
Sikates,  but  also  a  large  proportion  of  the  negroes  in  the  South.  One 
interesting  feature  in  their  history  deserves  to  be  recorded.  Many  are 
accustomed  in  these  latter  days  in  England  to  speak  as  if  the  chief 
mode  by  which  religion  is  propagated  must  bo  the  importance  attached 
to  sacramental  forms.  It  is  worth  while  for  us  to  contemplate  this  YDst 
American  Church  which,  more  than  the  corresponding  community  in 
England,  lays  stress  on  its  retention  of  what  is  undoubtedly  the  primi- 
tive, apostolical,  and  was  till  the  thirteenth  century,  the  nniTersaf  mode 
of  baptism  in  Christendom,  which  is  still  retained  throughout  the  east- 
ern Churches,  and  which  is  still  in  our  own  Church  as  positively  en- 
joined in  theory  as  it  is  universally  neglected  in  practice,  namel;^,  the 
oriental^  strange,  inconvenient,  and,  to  us,  almost  barbarous  practice  of 
immersion.  The  Baptist  Churches,  although  they  have  used  our  own 
Authorised  Version,  and  will,  we  trust,  accept  our  new  revision,  yet  in 
their  own  translation  of  the  Bible  have  substituted  "immersion"  for 
the  more  ambiguous  term,  **  baptism."  The  attraction  which  this  cere- 
mony of  total  ablution,  in  the  burning  heats  of  the  Southern  States, 
offers  to  uneducated  minds,  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  powerful  mo- 
tives which  have  induced  the  negroes  to  adopt  the  Baptist  communion. 
A  measure  of  the  want  of  edtication  amongst  these  primitive  converts 
may  be  given  in  the  story  told  of  the  triumphant  tones  in  which  a  negro 
teacher  of  the  Baptist  Cfhurch  addressed  a  member  of  the  chief  rival 
communion.  "You  professto  go  to  the  Bible,  and  yet  in  the  Bible  you 
find  constant  mention  of  *John  the  Baptist,'  John  the  immezser. 
Where  do  you  ever  find  any  mention  of  *John  the  Methodist?* " 

(4.)  This  leads  us  to  that  other  communion  whose  progress  through 
the  United  States  alone  exceeds  that  of  the  Baptists.  John  Wesley  and 
George  Whitefield  alone,  or  almost  alone,  of  eminent  English  teacheis 
were  drawn  beyond  the  limits  of  their  own  country  to  propagate  the 
Gospel,  or  their  own  view  of  it,  in  the  Transatlantic  regions.  John  Wes- 
ley's career  in  Georgia,  although  not  the  most  attractive  of  his  fields  of 
labour,  is  yet  deeply  interesting  from  his  close  connection  with  one  of 
the  noblest  of  all  the  religious  founders  of  the  American  States,  Gen- 
eral Oglethorpe,  the  founder  of  Georgia.  "In  the  heart  of  the  ever- 
green forest,  in  the  deep  solitude  of  St.  Simon's  Island,  is  the  great  oak 
with  its  hanging  moss,  which  they  still  call  'Wesley's  Oak, 'underneath 
which  he  preached  to  the  colony  in  the  wilderness.**  GeoMfe  White- 
field  produced  by  his  preaching  the  same  extraordinary  efibct  which 
he  had  produced  in  England,  of  which  the  crowning  exampld  is  the 
impression  he  left  on  the  hard,  homely,  philosophic  mind  of  Benjamin 
Franklin ;  and,  thorough  Enghshman  as  he  was,  he  terminated  his 
marvelous  career,  not  in  England,  but  in  America,  and  his  bones  still 
remain  to  be  visited  like  the  roUcs  of  a  medisBval  saint  in  the  church  of 
Newburyport  in  Massachusetts. 

It  would  seem  as  if  three  elements  induced  to  the  remarkable  posi- 
tion of  the  American  Methodists.    First,  for  the  more  educated  classea 


.    HISTORrCAL  ASFECn?  OF  THE  AMEEICAN  CHUECHEa     649 

ihe  ATminiomBin  of  Wesley,  to  vhich  in  their  Tmcultured  way  the 
Trans^tlantio  Methodists  still  adhered,  famished  some  kind  of  escape 
from  the  stem  Calvinism  of  the  PresbyterianB  and  Congregationalists 
of  New  England  ;  and  it  may  be  that  out  of  this  tendency  sprang  that 
remafkable  off-set  ftom  Congregationalism  of  "which  I  have  already 
spoken,  the  XJniversalists. 

Secondly,  the  Episcopal  organization  of  this  commnnity,  "which,  al- 
though differing  from  the  more  regular  forms  under  whicn  it  is  pre- 
served in  tlieEoman,  English,  and  Lutheran  Churches,  has  yet  justified 
Wesley's  adoption  of  it  by  the  coherence  which  it  has  given  to  a  system 
otherwise  so  diffusive.  ^ 

Coke,  the  first  Methodist,  the  first  Protcstp-nt  Bishop'  of  America, 
has  a  life  and  death  not  unworthy  of  the  vast  Church  of  which  he  was 
the  virtual  founder.  He  was  the  right  hand  of  "Wesley — ^inferior,  no 
doubt,  but  still  his  chief  supporter.  "I  want,"  he  said,  on  his  last 
visit  to  America,  "the  wings  of  an  eagl9  and  the  voice  of  a  prophet, 
to  proclaim  the  Gospel  east  and  wcs^  and  north  and  south."  He  was 
consecrated  Bishop  oy  Wesley  with  the  full  approval  of  the  most 
saintly  and  one  of  the  most  churchmanlike  of  Wesley's  followers, 
Fletcher  of  Madeley.  He  crossed  the  Atlantic  eighteen  tlm^js.  He 
traversed  for  forty  years  the  British  Isles,  the  United  States,  ard  the 
West  Indies.  He  found  his  grave  in  the  Indian  Ocean  on  his  way  to 
the  wide  sphere  of  Missionary  labour  in  the  E-ist  Indies. 

Thirdly,  the  hymns,  originating  in  the  first  instance  from  the  pers  of 
John  Wesley  and  his  brother  Charles,  and  multiplied  by  the  fertility  of 
American  fEnicy,  have  an  attraction  for  the  coloured  population  corre- 
sponding to  that  ceremonial  charm  which  I  have  already  described  as 
famished  to  them  by  the  Baptists  through  the  rite  of  immersion. 

(5.)  Wo  now  come  to  the  latest,  but  not  the  least  important  develop- 
ments of  American  Christianity.  Out  of  the  Calvinism  of  the  New 
England  Churches,  much  in  the  same  way  as  out  of  the  Calvinism  of 
G^ieva  itself^  under  the  influence  of  the  general  wave  of  critical  and 
philosophical  inquiry  which  swept  over  the  whole  of  Europe  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  there  arose  in  the  famous  city,  which  bv  its  rare 
cidture  and  soci^  charms  may  claim  to  be  the  Geneva  of  America, 
that  form  of  Congregationalism,  which,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  has 
been  called  partly  by  its  enemies  and  partly  by  its  friends,  Unitarian- 

^  For  the  fntile  attempts  of  Coke  to  procure  Episcopal  ordination  for  the  M<^hodJst 
dergy  from  the  Church  of  Englnnd  and  tho  Episcopal  American  Church,  see  Stevens' 
Mif^ry  of  Ilethodinm,  iiL  IC'9, 130.  Colic  •wn)to  to  Lord  Liverpool  ond  also  to  "Wil- 
liam w  ilberforce  to  offer  himself  as  tiio  first  Bishop  of  India,  (i&td.  ill.  329.  Tyer* 
man's  Life  and  Times  of  Wesley^  ill.  434). 

»  The  name  of  Bishop,  as  applied  to  nn  Episcopal  office  created  hy  a  Presbyter, 
nay,  in  the  ordinnry  parlnnce  of  modem  Europe,  be  regardeil  as  a  solt* cisin.  But  in 
the  mdo  org-nnizatiim  of  primitive  times,  such  a  use  of  the  word  ■was  a  necessity.  All 
the  Bishops  of  the  st^cona  century  must  have  been  created  by  Presbyters  of  the  first 
century,  and  this  ii.sii;ro  continued  in  Alexandria  down  to  the  fourth  century. — See 
BiHbopLi^htfoot's  exhaustive  treatise  on  the' Christian  Ministry  in  his  worlL  on  the 
Epistle  to  L Ue  Philippians,  p.  226,  i:..*9. 


650     HISTORICAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AiVrRKTCAN  GHUECHES. 


\ 


ism.  Not  great  in  numbers,^  except  in  Boston  and  its  neiglibonrliood,' 
but  incluiing  witliin  itsolf  almost  all  tlio  cultivated  authorship  of 
Americ-x  in  tha  beginning  of  this  century,  the  Unitarian  Church,  atthat 
periol  was  unquestionably  at  the  Gummib  of  the  civilised  Christianity 
of  the  Western  continent.  Ifcs  chief  ropreseni^tive  was  one  of  £he  f  e^y 
names  which,  like  Jonathan  Eilwar  Js,  has  acquired  not  only  an  Amer- 
ican but  a  Earopean  splendour,  Dr.  Channing.  The  stiff  and  stately 
style  of  his  works  will  hardly  maintain  its  ground  under  the  altered 
taates  of  our  generation.  But  it  is  believed  that  his  sermons  may  still 
from  time  to  time  be  heard  from  English  pulpits  where  wo  should 
least  expect  to  find  them.  And  both  in  England  and  America  there 
still  remains  the  strong  personal  imi)ression  which  ho  left  on  those 
who  knew  him. 

Those  who  can  remember  him.  describe  the  digniHed  courtesy  and 
gracious  humilitjr  which  gave  even  to  his  outward  appearance  the 
likeness  of  an  ancient  English  dignitary  ;  and  with  this  was  combined, 
in  the  later  period  of  his  life,  a  courageous  zeal  rarely  united  with  a 
cautious  and  shrinking  temperament  like  his,  in  behalf  of  the  c.mse 
of  Abolition,  then,  in  his  native  State  trnd  amongst  his  own  pecuhrj: 
circles,  branded  with  unpopularity  amounting  almost  to  odium. 
"When  ha  real  a  prayer,  it  left  upon  those  who  listened  the  impre-- 
sion  that  it  .was  the  best  prayer  that  they  had  ever  heiird,  or  when  ho 
gave  out  a  hymn,  that  it  was  the  bost  hymn  they  had  ever  read."  To 
some  one  who  was  complaining  of  the  strenuous  denunciations  in  the 
Gospel  Discourses,  he  opened  the  New  Testament  and  read  the  pas- 
sages aloud.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished,  his  hearer  said,  **  Oh,  if  that 
was  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken,  it  alters  the  case. "^  When 
he  came  to  this  country  he  visited  the  poet  Wordsworth,  and  years 
afterwards  the  poet  would  point  to  the  chair  in  which  he  had  sat,  and 
say,  "There  sat  Dr.  Channing."  Coleridge,  after  his  interview,  said  of 
him,  "Dr.  Channing  is  a  philosopher:  in  both  possible  senses  of  tb-3 
word.  He  has  the  love  of  wisdom  and  the  wisdom  of  love."^  When 
he  died  ho  was  borne  to  his  grave  in  the  cemetery  at  Mount  Auburn 
amidst  the  mourning  of  all  Boston;  and  the  bells  of  the  Homtan  Cath- 
olic chapel  joinel  with  those  of  Protestant  church  and  chapel  and 
meeting-house  in  muffled  peals  for  the  loss  of  one  who,  as  his  grave- 
stone records,  was  "honoured,"  not  only  "by  the  Christian  society  of 
which  for  nearly  forty  years  he  was  pastor,"  but  "  throughout  Christen- 
dom."^ 

The  neighbourhood  of  Newport  was  the  scene  of  his  early  life.  5 
"No  spot  on  earth,"  he  said,  "  helped  to  form  me  like  that  beach."  ilo 
was  a  complete  Bostonian,  yet  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  the.  social  supc- 


*  One-fifth  of  the  population  in  Boston.    Lyell'a  Socond  Visit,  1. 172. 

a  Life,  ii.  286 ;  hi.  449. 
*TI.  219.    Compare  Wordaworth's  account,  ii.  218.  *L136.  •lioa 


,  HISTOEICAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMEEIOAIJ  CHDECHEa     65:| 

tiority  of  the  Yirginians.  i  He  was  a  thorough  American,  but  in  the 
Napoleonic  war  Sis  love  of  England  was  as  strong  as  if  he  had  been 
bom  in  Britain,  a 

One  or  two  charactoristio  anecdotes  may  be  given  of  his  general  cul- 
ture. 

Spealdng  of  Cervantes,  whom  ho  could  not  forgive  for  his  satire  on 
Don  Quixote,  he  said — "Hove  the  Don  too  much  to  enjoy  his  history." 
The  following  passage  in  substance  singularly  coincides  with  the  colo- 
brated  but  long  subsequent  passage  of  Cardinal  Newman  on  the  relig- 
ious aspect  of  music.  "I  am  conscious  of  a  power  in  mu^io  which  I 
want  words  to  describe.  Nothing  in  my  experience  is  more  inexplica- 
ble. An  instinct  has  always  led  me  to  transfer  the  religious  sentiment 
to  music;  and  I  suspect  that  the  Christian  world  under  its  power  has 
often  attained  to  a  singular  consciousness  of  immortality.  Facts  of  this 
naturo  make  us  feel  what  an  infinite  mystery  our  nature  is,  and  how 
Uttle  our  books  of  science  reveal  it  to  us." 

We  may  add  various  passages,  which  give  a  just  estimate  of  the 
catholicity  of  his  theological  sentiments.  *  *  Bead  to  me, "  he  said  to  his 
friends  in  his  last  hours,  "the  Sermon  on  the  Mount."  And  when 
they  closed  the  Lord's  Prayer,  "I  take  comfort,"  he  said,  "and  the  pro- 
foundcst  comfort,  from  these  words.  They  are  full  of  the  divinest 
cpirit  of  our  religion."  "I  value  Unitarianism,"  he  remarked,  "not  as 
a  perfect  system,  but  as  freed  from  many  errors  of  the  older  systems, 
as  encouraging  freedom  of  thought,  as  raising  us  above  the  despotism 
of  the  Church,  and  as  breathing  a  mild  and  tolerant  spirit  into  the 
members  of  the  Christian  body.  I  am  Uttle  of  a  Unitarian ;  I  have  little 
sympathy  with  Priestley  or  Belsham,  and  stand  aloof  &om  all  but 
those  who  strive  and  pray  for  clearer  light,  who  look  for  a  purer  and 
more  efPoctual manifestation  of  Christian  faith."* 

"I  do  not  speak  as  a  Unitarian,  but  as  an  independent  Christian.  I 
have  little  or  no  interest  in  Unitarians  as  a  sect." 

"  Until  a  new  thirst  for  truth,  such,  I  fear,  as  is  not  now  felt,  takes 
possession  of  some  gifted  minds,  we  shall  make  little  progress." 

"The  true  Eeformation,  I  apprehend,  is  yet  to  come." 

"  What  I  feel  is  that  Christianity,  as  expounded  by  all  our  sects,  is 
accomplishing  its  divine  purpose  very  imperfectly,  and  that  we  want 
a  Heformation  worthy  of  the  name ;  that,  instead  of  enslaving  ourselves 
to  any  existing  sect,  we  should  seek,  by  a  new  cleansing  of  our  hearts, 
and  more  earnestness  of  pmyer,  brighter,  purer,  more  quickening  views 
of  Christianity." 

"  We  have  reason  to  suppose,  from  what  has  been  experienced,  that 
great  changes  will  take  place  in  the  present  state  of  Christianity  ;  and 
the  time  is,  perhaps,  coming  when  all  our  present  sects  will  hve  only 
in  history." 

■     ■  ■         I  I  ^^^^—  M^— ^^^^.^M^t^H^a^i^^^l^a^^^M^l—        ■    ■■■II    M.^— ^^  ■      —       !!■  ^B^^—       ■■!■     ■■■■»■  ■  ■■  ^11  !■■■■  ll^ 

1  Life.  i.  8X  «  I.  3S2. 

s  See  his  candid  estimate  of  English  Thoologr,  it  148—151,  and  of  all  Chnzcties, 
1352.    SooalaotSli,  387,  406iiL38,4U0.^ 


652     HKTOEICAIj  AjSPECT  OP  THE  AMERICAN  CHUE0HE8. 

^ 

"  God  is  a  spirit,  ond  His  spiritual  of^pring  carry  the  primary  reve- 
lation of  Him  in  their  own  nature.  The  God-like  within  us  is  the 
primary  revelation  of  God.  The  moral  nature  is  man's  great  tie  to 
divinity.  There  is  but  one  mode  of  approach  to  God.  It  is  by  faith- 
fulness to  the  inward,  everlasting  law.  The  pure  in  heart  see  God. 
Here  is  the  true  way  to  God." 

'•  Could  I  see  before  I  die  but  a  small  gathering  of  men  penetrated 
with  reverence  for  humanity,  with  the  spirit  of  freodom,  and  with  faith 
in  a  more  Christian  constitution  of  society,  I  should  be  content," 

•*  Strive  to  seize  the  true  idea  of  Christ's  character  *,  to  trace  in  His 
history  the  working  of  His  soul ;  to  comprehend  tiie  divinity  of  His 
spirit.  Strive  to  rise  above  what  was  local,  temporary,  partial  in  Christ's 
teaching,  to  His  universal,  all-comprehending  truth." 

It  is  said  that  there  was  in  the  warmth^  of  Unitarian  preachers  at 
that  time  something  ^uite  unlike  the  coldness  frequently  ascribed  to 
it.  One  fervent  spirit  at  least,  though  divided  ttoia  it  in  later  days, 
sprang  from  the  Unitarian  Church,  Theodore  Parker.  He  also,  though 
not  80  extensively,  was  one  of  the  few  American  theologians  known 
beyond  his  own  country ;  and  with  all  the  objections  which  may  be 
made  against  his  rough  and  untimely  modes  of  tnought  and  expression, 
he  must  be  regarded  as  the  first  pioneer,  on  the  'fransatlaxitic  conti- 
nent, of  those  larger  views  of  critical  inquiry  and  religious  philosophy 
which  have  so  deeply  influenced  all  the  Churches  of  the  old  world. 

(6.)  We  now  come  to  what  is  in  one  sense  the  earliest^  in  another, 
the  latest  bom  of  the  American  Churches.  Before  the  arrival  of  the 
Mayflower  in  the  Bay  of  Plymouth  there  had  already  entered  into  the 
James  River  that  adventurous  colony,  headed  by  the  most  marvellous 
of  all  the  explorers  of  the  Western  world  in  those  d&jB,  the  representa- 
tive of  Baleigh,  Captain  John  Smith.  In  him  and  in  his  settlement 
were  the  first  parents  of  the  Church  of  England  in  America.  The  first 
clergyman  was  Robert  Hunt,  vicar  of  Eeculver  in  Kent,  who  was  the 
chaplain  of  the  unruly  crew,  and  who  celebrated  in  Virginia  the  first 
English  Communion  of  the  Kew  World  on  Sunday,  the  21st  of  June, 
1607.  We  hear  little  of  the  early  pastors ;  but  any  church  might  be 
proud  tolmce  back  its  foundation  to  so  noble  a  character  as  the  devout 
sailor-hero  John  Smith.  "In  all  his  proceedings  he  made  justice  his 
first  guide  and  experience  his  second,  combating  baseness,  sfoth,  pride, 
and  indignity  more  than  any  dangers.  He  never  allowed  more  for 
himself  than  for  his  soldiers  with  him — into  no  danger  would  he  send 
them  where  he  could  not  lead  them  himself.  He  never  would  see  us 
want  what  he  either  had  or  could  by  any  means  get  us.  He  would 
rather  want  than  borrow,  or  starve  than  not  pay.  He  loved  action 
more  than  words,  and  feared  covetousness  more  than  death.    His  ad- 


Ljell,  Second  Visit,  i  176. 


HISTOBtOAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHURCHES.     653 

venttires  were  our  lives,  and  his  loss  onr  own  deaths."^  An  accom- 
plislied  scholar  of  onr  own  timo  has  said,  "  Machiavelli's  Art  of  War 
and  the  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurditis^  were  the  two  books  which 
Captain  John  Smith  used  when  he  was  a  young  man.  Smith  is  almost 
unknown  and  forgotten  in  England  his  native  country,  but  not  in 
America,  where  he  saved  the  young  colony  in  Virginia.  Ho  was  great 
in  his  heroic  character  and  his  deeds  of  arms,  but  greater  still  in  the 
nobleness  of  his  character." 

But  the  Church  of  England  in  Virginia  did  not  reach  at  any  tim^ 
that  hig|h  state  of  religious  and  moral  development  which  belonged  to 
the  Puritan  shapes  of  English  Christianity  in  x^ew  England.  No  doubt 
the  influence  of  the  founders  of  Maryland  and  Georgia  must  have  con- 
duced to  its  spread  in  those  southern  regions;  but  in  the  Northern 
States  it  was  usually  regarded  as  a  mere  concomitant  of  those  English 
Governors  who  resided  in  their  capital  cities. 

The  Anglican  clergy  were  more  or  less  treated  as  Dissenters.  In  the 
State  Archives  at  Hartford  there  is  still  to  be  seen  a  petition  from  the 
Episcopal  clergy  of  Connecticut  urging  the  Governor  of  the  State  to 
use  his  influence  in  inducing  the  Congregationalist  clergy  to  allow 
them  access  to  the  Eucharist.  There  is  something  highly  instructive 
in  a  record  which  represents  the  clergy  of  the  Church  of  Archbishop  Laud 
and  Bishop  Ken  acknowledging  the  spiritual  validity  and  value  of  sac- 
raments administered  by  Congregationalists,  and  half  imploring  the 
civil  power  to  force  this  rival  Church  to  allow  them  to  participate  in  its 
communion. 

Although  from  time  to  time  the  intention  arose  of  sending  a  Bishop 
from  England  to  administer  and  consolidate  the  English  Church  in 
those  parts,  the  project  was  never  seriously  entertained,  and  it  was  in 
the  absence  of  such  an  element  that  John  Wesley  felt  constrained  to 
authorise  the  irregular  episcopate  of  the  Methodists. 

One  splendid  name — ^tho  greatest  of  Beans — was  suggested  for  this 
position — Jonathan  Swift.  Happily — or  unhappily — for  America  the 
project  came  to  naught.  But  it  is  impossible  not  to  reflect  on  the 
different  fate  of  the  English  Church  in  America  had  its  first  Bishop 
been  that  most  wonde^ul  genius,  that  most  unhappy  man,  of  his 
age.^  The  American  clergy  also  narrowly  escaped  the  misfortune  of  a 
succession  of  nonjuring  bishops.^ 

The  wranglings  of  the  Virginian  and  Maryland  clergy  with  their  ves- 
tries never  mount  to  the  dignity  of  histor^r,  till  on  that  fatal  day  when 
the  dispute  with  the  "  parsons  "  on  the  tithe  and  tobacco  duty  sud- 


>  Narrative  of  Pots,  in  Smithes  History  cf  Virginia,  p.  93,  quoted  in  Anderson's 
History  of  the  Colonial  Church,  vol.  1.  p.  iJ5:;4.  See  also  the  address  on  *•  The  Histori- 
cal  Aspect  of  the  United  States,"  MacmUlan,  January,  lb79. 

s  George  Long  in  the  Preface  to  the  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius^  p.  27. 

3  Anderson,  iii  232,  287. 
*  Wilberforce,  161. 


654     HISTOBIGAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMEBICAN  CHUBCJHEa 

denly  called  forth  the  most  eloquent  orator  of  the  Bovolutioii — ^the 

rustic  Patrick  Henry— 

"Tho  forest-bom  Demosthenes — 
AVhoso  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  the  Soa^  j" 

whoso  speech  on  that  day  passed  into  a  proverb  for  a  snccessfal  ora- 
torical effort— **  He  is  almost  equal  to  Patrick  Henry  when  he  pleaded 
against  the  parsons,  "i 

There  were,  however,  from  time  to  time  flashes  of  interest  shown  by 
tho  English  Church  for  its  American  children.  Two  are  so  remarkable 
as  to  deserve  special  notice.  When  Nicholas  Perrar,  the  monastic  re- 
cluse of  Gidding,  sent  a  friend  to  minister  to  the  dying  pastor  of 
Bemerton,  George  Herbert  jxresented  to  Ferrar  tho  manuscript  of  his 
poems.  When  Ferrar  undertook  to  procure  from  the  Vice-Chancellor 
of  Cambridge  the  necessary  license  for  printing  them  it  was  found  that 
two  lines  were  not  allowed  to  pass  without  remonstrance.  They  were 
these— 

"Rcliffion  stands  on  tiptoe  in  onr  land, 
Keuuy  to  puss  to  tho  Aiutiiicuu  struiid." 

It  is  believed  that  they  were  suggested  to  Herbert  by  his  intimacy 
with  Ferrar,  who,  himself  a  member  of  tho  struggling  Virginian  com- 
pany, had  at  one  time  thought  of  devoting  his  life  to  the  New  World. 
Ferrar  accordinglv  strove  hard  for  their  retention.  The  Vice-Chancel- 
lor  at  last  permitted  their  appearance,  adding  his  hope,  however,  that 
the  world  would  not  take  Herbert  for  an  inspired  prophet.  ^  They  re- 
main to  show  if  not  the  prophetic  at  laast  the  poetic  and  religious  in- 
terest which  tho  small  germ  of  the  Church  of  England  in  America  hui 
for  the  Keble  of  that  age. 

Another  still  more  memorable  exami)lo  occurs  in  the  next  century. 
Tho  romantic  scheme  of  Berkeley  for  the  civilisation  of  Bermuda  and 
the  evangelisation  of  tho  Indians,  lod  him  to  settle  for  two  years  at 
Newport  in  Bhode  Island.  He  was  the  first  Dean  ^  (for  ho  was  not  yet 
Bishop)  who  ever  set  foot  on  tho  American  shores.  His  wooden  house 
("Whitehall")  still  remains.  The  churches  of  Rhode  Island  still  re- 
tain the  various  parts  of  his  organ.  The  cave  in  the  rock  overhanging 
tho  beach— the  same  beach  that  "formed  the  mind  "of  Channing— is 
pointed  out  where  he  composed  The,  Minute  Philosopher.  Yala  CoUegeis 
proud  to  exhibit  his  portrait  and  his  bequest  of  books.  His  chair  ia  the 
chair  of  state  in  the  college  of  Hartford.  And  the  University  of  Cah- 
fomia,  in  grateful  memory  of  the  most  illustrious  Churchman  whoever 
visited  tho  New  World,  has  adopted  his  name,  and  has  inscribed  over 
its  portal  those  famous  lines  in  which  he  expressed,  with  even  larger 
scope  than  Herbert,  his  confidence  in  the  progress  of  America— 

1  Anderson,  iii.  23G-241. 
«  Anderson,  i.  3C2. 
•  A  great  dignitary  of  the  English  Church,  called  "  Dean."— Anderson}  ilL  483;  ^ 


HISTOKKTAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHURCHES.     C55 

*"  WestxraTcl  the  conrso  of  empire  holds  its  xray ; 
The  first  four  acts  already  past, 
A  tilth  shall  close  the  druma  with  the  day — 
Time's  noblest  oifsprliiif  is  the  last" 

This  blessing  has  been  often  applied  to  the  American  States — some  por- 
tion of  it  may  perhaps  descend  to  the  American  Churches,  especially 
that  in  which  Berkeley  himself  took  most  interest. 

But  these  brilliant  incidents  are  exceptions.  The  vestiges  of  theEng< 
lish  Church  in  America  previous  to  the  separation  have  chiefly  now  for 
us  but  an  anti(][uarian  charm.  In  the  cities  which  fringe  the  eastern 
coasts  there  exist  churches  few  and  far  between,  built  at  this  period. 
Some  of  them  were  built  of  bricks  brought  out  from  England.  They 
are  most  of  them  copied  from  the  model  of  our  St.  Martin's  in  the 
Fields.  Thoy  retain  the  internal  arrangements— the  high  reading- 
desk,  the  towering  pulpit,  the  high  pews,  the  Creed  and  Ten  Com- 
mandments, which  now,  alas!  have  almost  disappeared  from  every 
church  in  London.  In  the  next  century,  if  America  is  wise  enough  to 
preserve  these  venerable  antiquities,  they  will  be  visited  by  English 
archsBologists  as  the  rare  survivals  of  a  form  of  architecture  and  of  ec- 
clesiological  arrangement  which  in  England  will  have  become  entirely 
extinct.  The  solid  communion  plato,  the  huge  folio  Prayer-books  pre- 
sented by  Queen  Anno  and  George  L,  still  adorn  their  altars  ;  and  the 
prayers  for  the  Royal  Family  may  be  identified  by  peering  through  the 
leaves  which  were  pasted  together  at  the  time  when  the  Revolution 
rendered  it  impossible  for  the  words  any  more  to  be  used. 

Naturally  when  the  war  broke  out  between  the  colonies  and  the 
mother  country  these  scattered  congregations  of  English  churchmen 
with  their  pastors,  in  many  instances  adhered  to  the  cause  of  the  mon- 
archy, and  when  the  separation  was  at  last  accomplished  many  of  them 
fled  from  their  posts  and  took  refuge  in  the  nearest  English  port,  at 
Halifax.  But  then  arose  the  question  by  what  means  the  "  episcopal 
government"  could  be  preserved  when  the  connection  with  the  Eng^. 
hsh  Crown  and  Church  had  been  so  completely  severed. 

From  two  separate  centres  arose  the  determination,  if  possible,  to  re- 
unite the  severed  link.  At  the  time  when  Presbyterianism  and  Con- 
gregationalism in  Boston  were  gradually  developing  into  ITnitarianism 
a  movement  originating  partly  from  the  same  sentiment  of  reaction 
against  the  Calvinistic  teachers  of  New  Haven  manifested  i^fielf  in  Con- 
necticut. 

The  two  teachers  in  the  College  of  Yale,  its  '*  Rector  "  and  its  "  Tutor," 
Cutler  and  Johnson  by  name,  being  convinced  of  the  superiority  of 
tbo  Anglican  system  to  that  in  which  they  had  been  nurtured,  with  a 
resolute  firmness  which  overcame  all  difficulties,  crossed  the  ocean  and 
sought  ordination  at  the  hands  of  the  Bishops  of  the  English  Church. 
They  were  welcomed  by  Dean  Stanhope  in  the  Deanery  of  Canterbury, 
and  they  were  ordained  by  Bishop  Robinson  in  St.  Martin's  Churcn. 
They  were  perhaps  the  first  native  colonists  who  had  received  ordina- 
tion in  England,  and  it  may  be  that  this  connection  with  St.  M^^rfcin's 


656     HISTOMCAL  ASPECT  OP  THE  AMERICAN  CHCEOHES. 

led  to  that  reproduction  of  it  an  the  ideal  of  church  architecture,  wMeh 
I  have  already  noticed.  Johnson  at  Yale  College  had  been  held  in  high 
estimation,  and  had  been  the  first  to  introduce  the  Copemican  in  the 
place  of  the  Ptolemaic  system  of  astronomy  which  had  been  taught 
there  till  1717.  He  became  the  friend  of  Berkeley,  and  ultimately  the 
first  president  of  King's  College,  now  Columbia  College,  at  New  York, 
the  nirst  Episcopal  College  in  America.  This  movement,  which  took 
place  long  before  the  Bevolution,  formed  a  soil  on  which  Anglican 
tendencies  might  naturally  fructify.  Accordingly  it  was  ficom  Con- 
necticut, when  the  crisis  of  the  Eevolution  was  accomplished,  that  a' 
bold  spirit  first  conceived  the  notion  of  obtaining  for  himself,  and' 
througn  himself  for  his  country,  episcopal  consecration.  It  was 
Samuel  Seabury.  He  came  over  to  England  with  the  resolve  of  seek- 
ing this  consecration,  if  possible,  from  the  English  bishops — and  if, 
owing  to  obvious  difficulties  they  were  unable  to  grant  it,  to  seek  it 
from  the  Episcopal  Communion  in  Scotland.  This  last  alternative  was 
the  one  which  he  adopted.  It  has  often  been  said  that  when  repulsed 
by  the  English  bishops,  he  was  on  his  way  to  receive  the  Episcopal  suc- 
cession from  Denmark,  ^  but  was  diverted  from  his  intenti<»i  by  the 
counsel  of  Dr.  Kouth  of  Oxford,  then  a  young  man,  who  advised  him 
to  claim  it  from  Scothmd.  Whatever  Dr.  Bouth  may  have  said,  it  is  an 
error  to  suppose  that  this  was  what  influenced  Seabury's  determina- 
tion. A  letter^  still  extant  shows  beyond  question  that  it  was  part  of 
his  original  instructions  when  he  crossed  the  Atlantic.  If  any  English 
clergympji  confirmed  him  in  his  resolution  to  cross  the  Tweed  it  was 
the  eccentric  though  amiable  George  Berkeley,  the  Bishop's  son. 

From  the  Scottish  bishops  accordingly  in  a  small  chamber  of  the 
humble  dwelling  of  the  Scottish  "Primus  "  in  Aberdeen,  Seabury  re- 
ceived his  consecration.  A  fac-simile  of  the  agreement  which  those 
bishops  made  with  him  is  kept  in  the  Episcopal  College  of  Hartford  in 
Connecticut.  The  original  is  in  the  possession  of  Dr.  Seabury  of  New 
York.  It  contains  amongst  other  provisions,  three  conditions,  choiao 
teristio  of  the  narrow  local  views  of  that  small,  insignificant,  stdSeiing 
body.  The  first  was,  that  Seabury  should  use  his  utmost  endeavours 
to  prevent  the  American  clergy  or  bishops  from  showing  any  counten- 
ance to  those  clergy  in  Scotland  who  had  received  or£lnation  at  the 
hands  of  their  dreaded  rivals,  the  English  bishops.  It  was  in  fiekct  an 
anticipation  of  the  modem  protest  against  Bishop  Beccles.  The  sec- 
ond was  that  he  should  endeavour  as  far  as  possible  to  retain  in  Amer- 
ica that  one  shred  of  the  old  English  liturgy  to  which,  through  good 
and  evil  fortune,  and  amidst  ail  other  accommodations  to  Presbyte- 
rian usages,  the  Scottish  Episcopal  Church  still  adhered,  namely  the 

*  The  questioa  of  going  to  Denmark  "vraa  afterwardg  suggested  in  reference  to  the 
consccratiou  of  Bishop  Wliite,  but  never  followed  up. — "vVhite,  20,  27. 

«  This  letter  of  Mr.  Fogg  is  published  in  Church  DocumenU,  vol.  ii.  212,  213.  Since 
this  address  was  delivered  much  useful  information,  of  which  1  hare  availed  myaelC 
has  been  given  me  by  the  £ev.  Samuel  Hart,  of  Hartford,  Coiuiecticut. 


HISTOIlICAIi  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHUECHES.     657 

arrangement  of  the  Commtinion  office  in  the  First  Book  of  King  Ed- 
ward, retained  in  the  Laudion  liturgy.  ^  The  third  wur,  that  the  civil 
authoritieB  should  only  bo  mentioned  in  general  terms,  a  proposal 
evidently  intended  to  cover  the  Scottish  omission  (from  Jacobite  scru- 
ples)  of  the  names  of  the  Royal  Family  in  Groat  Britain.  Another 
point  that  he  endeavoured  to  carry  out,  at  the  solicitntion  of  the  Scot- 
tish Jacobites,  was  the  exclusion  of  laymen-  from  ecclesiastical  assem- 
blies; bat  in  iJiis  he  failed,  though  gaining  the  point  that  Bishops 
should  not  be  tried  by  the  laity. 

Under  these  conditions,  and  with  the  high  ecclesiastical  spirit  nat- 
ural to  himself,  and  fortified  by  his  connection  with  these  nonjuring 
divines,  Seabuxy  returned.  Long  afterwards  he  maintained  a  dignity 
which  must  be  redded  as  altogether  exceptional,  not  only  by  Amer- 
icans, but  by  Englishmen.  There  remains  in  the  college  at  Hartford  a 
huge  black  mitre,  the  only  genuine  Protestant  mitre  on  which  the  eyes 
of  any  English  Churchman  have  ever  rested.  It  was  borne  by  Bishop 
Seabury,  not  merely  as  an  heraldic  badge  or  in  state  ceremonial,  but  in 
the  high  solemnities  of  his  own  church  in  Connecticut.  To  his  influ- 
ence afeo  must  be  attributed  that  singular  office  in  the  American  Prayer- 
book,  happily  not  obligatory,  the  one. exception  to  its  general  tone,  on 
which  we  shall  presently  enlarge — the  Office  of  Institution  of  the 
Clergy,  containing  every  phrase  relating  to  ministerial  functions,  which 
both  from  the  English  and  American  Prayer-books,  had  been  carefully 
excluded — "altar,  "sacerdotal,"  "apostolic  succession."  This  Office, 
although  now  hardly  ever  used  in  the  American  Episcopal  Church,  yet 
remains,  we  will  not  say  as  a  "  dead  fly  causing  the  ointment  to  stink,'* 
but  at  any  rate  as  a  mark  of  the  influence  which  Seabury's  spirit  con- 
tinued to  exercise  after  his  death.  ^ 

But  it  was  felt  then,  as  it  has  been  felt  since,  that  any  American 
Church  conducted  upon  these  principles,  was  certain  to  fail,  ^  and  hap- 
pily for  the  continuance  of  anything  like  Anglican  principles  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  others  were  found  at  that  trying  time  of  a 
totally  different  stamp,  who  were  able  to  secure  and  transmit  a  nobler 
and  larger  view  of  the  system  of  the  Church  of  England. 

Amongst  the  clergy  of  Philadelphia,  there  was  one  who  had  sided 
■with  the  colonists  in  their  struggle  against  the  English  Crown.  Wil- 
liam White,  the  Rector  of  Christ  Church,  was  the  bosom  friend  of 
Washington,  and  Washington  who  was  one  of  the  old  Virginia  gentry 
himself,  was  an  adherent,  if  not  (which  is  much  disputed)  a  commu- 
nicant, of  the  old  Church  of  England.    White  was  the  chaplain  of  the 

1  There  are  differences  In  detail  between  the  First  PraTcr-book  of  Ed-wnrd  VI.,  the 
Laudian  Liturgy  aud  the  Scottish  Office.    But  thoso  uro  beside  our  picscut  puipoae. 

sWhite's  Memoirs,  pp.  oQO,  2!>0. 

3  The  OflBce  was  published  in  1 8^4.  Seohnry's  death  (see  a  striking  account  of  it  in 
Beardslcj^'s  History  of  the  Church  in  Connicti'  ut,  i.  p.  435)  wasiJi  i79G. 

*  Even  Cishop  Wilberforcc  felt  thia.— History  of  Uie  American  Churchy  261. 


658     HISTORICAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHURCHES. 


\ 


first  conpfressheld  in  Philadelpliia;  and  when  the  Bepazation-wasfinfilly 
accomplished,  he  and  others  like-minded  with  him,  nndertook  to  frame 
a  scheme  for  the  reconstitution  of  the  English  Church  in  America. 

The  same  liberal  tendency  which  pervaded  the  Church  of  England 
itself  at  that  period  was  not  unknown  to  these,  its  American  children. 
According  to  the  slang  of  the  time,  White  and  his  coUe^^es  were  de- 
nounced by  the  extreme  Churchmen  of  the  day  as  "  Sodniansf*^  and  il 
we  regard  the  partisan  usage,  which  included  under  that  name  Tillot- 
son  and  Burnet,  and  all  the  advocates  of  toleration  and  enlightened 
learning,  they  had  no  reason  to  repudiate  a  title  so  given.  They  per- 
ceived that  if  an  independent  diurch,  deriving  its  existence  from  the 
Church  of  England,  was  to  arise  in  America^  it  must  adapt  itself  not 
only  to  the  changed  political  circumstances,  but  also  to  the  newer  and 
better  modes  of  feeling  which  had  sprung  np  since  the  last  revision  of 
the  Prayer-book  at  the  restoration  of  Charles  IL  They  took  for  a  model 
the  main  alterations  (so  far  as  they  knew  them)  proposed  in  the  time* 
of  William  HL,  by  the  latitudinarian  divines  of  that  period,  which  in 
England  were  unfortunately  baffled  by  the  opposition  of  the  High  Church 
and  Jacobite  clergy  in  theLower  House  of  the  Southern  Convocation. 

These  modifications  were  almost  all  in  the  same  good  direction.  A 
few  verbal  alterations  were  occasion^^d  by  the  fastidiousness  which  be- 
longed partly  to  th3  phraseology  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  partly 
to  the  false  delicacy  said  to  be  one  of  the  t^haracteristics  of  Amer- 
ican society.  But  the  larger  changes  were  almost  entirely  inspired 
by  the  liberal  thought  of  that  age.  White  and  his  colleagues  felt 
the  incongruity  of  still  continuing  in  the  services  for  Ordination  and 
Visitation,  words  of  ambiguous  meaning,  derived  from  the  darkest 

Seriod  of  the  Middle  Ages,  unknown  to  the  ancient  or  Eastern 
hurch,  which  our  English  divines  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  had  either  not  the  knowledge  or  the  courage  to  reject.  In 
the  Ordination  Service  an  alternative  expression  to  ttie  objectionable 
formula  was  offered,  to  which  Seabury  appears  to  have  reluctantly  con- 
sented. In  the  Visitation  Service  it  was  omitted  altogether.  They 
brought  out  in  the  Catechism  the  spiritual  character  of  the  Eacharist. 
They  modified  the  questionable  passages  of  the  Marriage  and  the  Burial 
services.  They  swept  away  from  the  Commination  Service  all  the  pref  v 
toryportion,  containingthe  incongruous  wish  for  the  restoration  of  prim* 
itive  discipline  and  the  curses  on  impenitent  sinners,  leaving  only  tbo 
few  collects  at  the  end.  ^  They  allowed  an  alternative  in  the  selection 
of  the  Psalms  which  avoids  the  more  vindictive  and  exclusively  Judnic 
elements  of  the  Psalter.  They  permitted  the  explanation  of  the  Ten 
Commandments  in  the  spirit  of  the  Two  Great  Commandments  of  tba 
Gospel.  They  introduced  the  libertjr  of  abridging  the  services,  and 
thiTS  of  avoiding  the  constant  repetitions  which  still  to  many  minds 
form  a  stumbling-block  in  the  English  Liturgy.  They  relaxed  the  oblig.> 

1  Wilberforco,  216. 

*  Theso  alterations  -wcro  at  that  tirao  knotrn  either  throupti  traditjkm  or  the  reoonls 
©f  Collier  and  Buniet.    Tlie  exact  details  v»'ero  uot  printed  in  £nqUuid  tiil  1854. 


mSTOBICAIi  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHURCHEa     659 

tion  of  ImmeiBion  and  of  the  sign  oi  the  Cross  in  Baptism.  They  gave 
permission  either  to  omit  altogether  any  special  Eucharistio  formnla  on 
Trinity  Bxinday,  or  to  use  a  Biblical  alternative  for  the  excessive  scho- 
lasticisni  of  that  in  the  En^liBh  Prayer-book.  They  anticipated,  though 
not  in  the  same  form,  buf  still  with  the  same  intention,  tho  improve- 
ments in  the  Calender  of  Lessons  which  have  been  adopted  by  the  Eng- 
ligh  Ohnrch  within  thejpresent  year.  Thoy  foresaw  the  difficulty  of 
maintaining  in  the  publio  services  the  nne  of  phraseology  so  doubtful 
and  -witlidimcnltiesso  obvious,  to  large  classes  of  their  comitrymcn,  as 
some  of  the  expressions  contained  within  the  old  confessions.  In  the 
so-called  Apostles*  Creed  thoy  proposed  to  omit  the  clause  containing 
the  belief  of  the  Descent  into  Holl  which  once  constituted  the  chief 
element  in  the  primitive  conception  of  redemption.  The  so-called  Kicene 
Creed,  possibjy  from  the  conviction  that  a  document  in  parts  so 
strangefy  mistransLitod  and  interpolated  as  that  in  the  English  Prayer- 
book,  had  no  special  claim  to  their  regard,  they  proposed  to  omit  al- 
together, as  also  the  so-called  Athanasian  Creed.  When  they  began 
their  negotiations  with  the  EngUsh  Primates  on  the  conditions  of  con- 
secration, one  at  least  of  the  EngUsh  bishops  hesitated  to  give  a 
sanction  to  these  sweeping  changes.  The  American  clergy  consented 
so  forte  replace  the  Kicene  Creed,  as  to  allow  it  to  be  used  as  an  alter- 
native to  the  Apostles'  Creed,  but  even  then,  without  any  compulsory 
obligation  to  use  it.  The  disputed  clause  in  the  Apostles*  Creed  they 
restored,  but  with  the  permission  to  omit  it  or  to  use  an  alternative  ex- 
pression. ^  The  Athanasian  Creed,  with  the  feeling  whichno  doubt  fedth- 
fuUy  represented  all  the  more  enlightened  and  Christian  thought  at 
that  time,  they^positively  refused  to  re-admit  under  any  terms  what- 
soever. Accordingly,  with  the  full  acquiescence  of  the  English  hier- 
archy, tbat  document  has  vanished  never  to  return,  not  only  from  the 
Prayer-book,  but  even  from  the  Articles  of  the  American  Episcopal 
Church.  The  forms  of  subscription  which  in  England  had  operated 
so  fatally  in  the  exclusion  of  some  of  the  best  and  wisest  clergy  of  the 
Church  at  the  time  of  the  Restoration;  which  weighed  so  heavily  on 
the  consciences  of  many  of  the  English  clergy  in  the  eighteenth  century; 
and  "which  fifteen  years  ago  were  at  last  happily  altered  in  England, 
owing  to  the  pressure  of  liberal  statesmen,  who  had  not  at  that  time 
abandoned  the  wholesome  task  of  reforming  the  Church  of  England, 
never  existed  in  the  American  Episcopal  Church,  which  thus  remained 
an  instructive  example  of  a  church  enabled  to  maintain  itself  by  con- 
formity* to  its  book  of  devotions,  without  the  stumbling-blocks  which, 
OS  Bishop  Burnet  foresaw  long  ago,  are  inherent  in  almost  any  form  of 
subscription  to  elaborate  formularies  of  faith.  ^ 

*  •*  Anf%  any  Churches  may  omit  the  words  He  descended  into  hell,  or  m<iy, 
instead  of  them,  use  the  words,  Hb  went  into  the  tlacb  op  depabtbd  srmiTS, 
which  are  considered  as  words  of  the  same  meaning  in  Has  Creed. 

»  White,  320,  3ii2. 

»  The  form  of  subscription  is  as  follows :— '•  I  do  believe  the  Holy  Scriptnres  of  the 
Old  and  l«rew  Tostameiit  to  be  the  -word  of  God,  and  to  contain  all  things  necessary 
to  salvation,  and  I  do  solemnly  erMage  to  conform  to  the  doctrirtes  and  worship  of  tlis 
rrotesta/nt  JBpiseopal  Church  in  the  United  states," 


6G0     HISTOiaCAI.  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMEEICAK  CHURCHES. 

Such  are  tlie  conditions  under  whicli  the  American  Episcopate  was 
©"btained  from  tlie  English  prelates  under  an  Act  of  Parliament  framed 
for  that  express  purpose,  which  whilst  allowing  full  freedom  to  prop- 
agate English  Episcopacy  in  the  separated  Colonies,  carefully  guarded 
the  English  Constitution  in  Church  and  State  in  a  spirit,  the  vigour  of 
which  had  at  that  time  not  been  enfeebled.  Such  were  the  character- 
istic elejiients  of  the  English  latitudinarianism  of  the  eighteenth,  cen- 
tury, which  a  Church  regarded  by  some  High  Churchmen  as  the  model 
of  ecclesiastical  perfection  did  not  hesitate  to  adopt.  Such  were  the 
improvements  in  which  it  had  the  honour  of  forestalling,  not  indeed 
the  nobler  aspirations  of  British  theology,  but  the  tardy  and  reluctant 
steps  of  recent  British  Anglicanism  and  of  recent  British  Noncon- 
formity. Such  are  the  proofs  of  the  long  advance  which  the  American 
Episcopal  Church,  as  well  as  the  English  authorities  in  sanctioning 
its  foundation  on  these  conditidns,  had  made  in  spiritual  discernment 
and  ecclesiastical  learning  beyond  the  prevailing  prejudice  which  in 
our  own  day  has  hitherto  retarded  most  of  these  obvious  improvements. 

The  incorporation  of  Bishop  Seabury,  with  his  Scottish  antecedents, 
was  not  accomplished  without  a  struggle.  Although  he  and  Bishop 
White  acted  on  the  whole  cordially  together,  there  were  those  amongst 
the  founders  of  the  American  Church  who  felt  the  danger  of  associat- 
ing themselves  with  a  communion  so  one-sided  as  the  small  nonjuxing 
sect  in  Scotland.  ^  But  this  was  overruled.  One  permanent  trace  only 
of  the  Scottish  consecration  was  left,  the  Scottish  Communion  Office. 
This  last,  however,  although  by  ignorance  and  passion  it  has  been 
often  regarded  as  an  approach  to  the  mediasval  views  of  the  Euchaxist, 
in  point  of  fact  is  more  Protestant,  because  more  spiritual,  *  than  that 
which  the  Church  of  England  has  itself  retained.  With  these  liberal 
sentiments,  the  American  Episcopal  Church  started  upon  its  arduous 
career.  Discredited  by  its  connection  with  England  at  a  time  when 
the  very  name  of  England  was  hateful — small  in  numbers  against  the 
overwhelming  proportions  in  which  the  other  Churches  of  America 
had  propagated  themselves,  it  maintained  with  some  difficulty  its  hold 
even  on  the  Eastern  States  of  the  Bepublic.  Gradually,  however,  as 
the  Bontimcnt  against  England,  under  the  genial  influence  of  Wash- 
ington Irving  and  the  American  poets,  faded  urom  view,  the  attractions 
of  the  revised  English  Liturgy  won  their  way.    From  seven  bishop- 

r-    ■  111! 

^  Granville  Sharpo  iuEnjfland  protested  against  the  Scottish  consecration  (White, 
312),  and  in  America  the  Convention  of  1786  refused  to  acknowledge  tite  vauditj  of 
his  ordinations  (Anderson,  iiL  400). 

2  The  prominence  given  to  the  spiritnal  sacrifice  of  "themselves,  their  souls  and 
bodies,"  oiiered  by  the  laity,  and  whicli  in  the  present  English  Prayer-book  is  rele- 
^^aied  to  a  subordinate  place  in  the  Communion  office,  is,  in  the  Litur^  of  the  Scot- 
tish Church,  nsin  the  first  Prayer-book  of  King  Edward,  InoorporatedT  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Consecration  Prayer,  and  tims  tfives  a  deathblow  to  the  superficial  me- 
chanical, and  material  ideas  of  sacrifice  wliich  belongto  the  ancientor  meduBVid  notions 
of  the  Eucharist.  The  importance  ascribed  to  the  Invocation  of  the  Holy  Spirit  as 
borrowed  from  the  Eastern  Church,  is  less  liable  to  superstitions  abuse  than  the  yolne 
which  botli  the  Boman  and  English  Cliurcho9  attribute  to  the  rcpetitioiL  of  the 
formula  of  Institution. 


^ 


BISTOEIdAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMEEICAN  CHURCHES.     661 


rics  it  has  now  increased  to  sixty,  and  it  has  attained  a  place  amongst 
the  CTiltivated  portions  of  American  society,  at  least  equal,  and  in  many 
places  superior,  to  that  which  was  formerly  in  the  exclusive  posses- 
sion of  the  Unitariaa  Congregational! sts. 

What  may  be  the  future  fortunes  of  the  American  Episcopal  Cliurch 
it  would  be  rash  to  predict.  "When  we  consider  the  vast  numerical 
superiority  of  the  Presbyterians  and  Congrogationalists,  and  still  more 
of  the  Methodists  and  Baptists,  it  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  it  can  ever 
reach  such  a  position  as  to  entitle  it  to  be  regarded  as  the  representa- 
tive Church  of  the  United  States.  But  a  sojourn  in  America  somewhat 
disinclines  a  spectator  to  attach  too  much  importance  to  vast  number? 
whether  in  the  statistics  of  population,  or  money,  or  distaCnco.  "Size," 
said  Professor  Huxley,  in  addressing  an  intelhgent  and  sympathetic 
audience  at  Baltimore,  "is  not  grandeur. "  "We  are  rather  led  to  hope 
that  there,  as  in  the  older  countries  of  Europe,  the  future  will  be  ulti- 
mately in  the  hands,  not  of  the  least  educated,  but  of  the  most  edu- 
cated portions  of  the  community,  and  in  that  portion  the  Episcopal 
Chuxcn  of  America  will  have  a  considerable  part  to  play  if  it  only  re- 
mains faithful  to  the  liberal  principles  on  which  it  first  started. 

Berkeley,  even  in  his  day,  observed  of  the  English  Church  in  Amer- 
ica that  all  the  other  Churches  considered  it  the  secoi-\d  best;  and  when, 
in  order  to  relieve  themselves  of  the  duty  of  paying  their  contribution 
to  the  dominant  Church  of  each  State,  American  citizens  had  to  certify 
that  they  belonged  to  some  other  communion,  the  common  expression 
was,  "  We  have  left  the  Christian  Church  and  joined  the  Episcopals." 
That  residuary,  secular,  comprehensive  aspect  which  is  so  excellent  a 
characteristic  of  the  National  Church  of  England,  is  more  or  less  true 
of  itsofSi^hoot  in  the  New  World.  It  is  still  the  Themistocles  of  the 
American  Churches. 

Again,  although  perhaps  its  divines  and  pastors  have  not  yet  acquired 
a  European  fame,  it  has  sent  forth  missionaries,  bishops,  and  clergy, 
who  have  endeavoured  perhaps  more  than  the  ministers  of  any  other 
communion  to  keep  pace  with  the  rapidly  increasing  westward  emigra- 
tion, and  have  on  the  frontiers  of  barbarism  maintained  something 
like  a  standard  of  civilisation. 

And  yet  further,  there  is  a  powerful  section  of  its  clergy  who  rule  its 
ecclesiastical  congresses  and  till  its  pulpits  with  a  true  zeal  for  the  cause 
of  enlightenment,  inquiry,  and  charity,  dear  to  all  liberal  Churchmen. 

These  circumstances  may  well  lead  us  to  regard  the  Episcopal 
Church  of  the  United  States,  if  amongst  the  smallest  of  the  American 
communions,  yet  not  the  least  important.  No  doubt  the  spirit  of 
Bishop  Seabury  has  at  times  prevailed  over  the  spirit  of  Bishop  White; 
and  it  has  been  remarked  of  it  by  a  kindly  Nonconformist,  that  its  tone 
of  exclusiveness  towards  other  Churches  is  sometimes  not  less  arrogant 
and  intolerant  than  the  utmost  J)reten8ions  known  in  England.  ^     Still 

^London  Quarterly,  xlvii.  445.  The  candid  roco«rnition  (in  this  Nonconformist  Es- 
say) of  tho  general  exceUenco  of  the  Ei)iscopal  Church  of  America  {uid  of  its  probablo 
future  is  very  significant. 


n 


6G2     mSTOEICAL  ASPECT  OF  THE  AMERICAN  CHDBCHEa    . 

in  practic9  it  contains  a  body  of  enlightened  men  willing  to  live  ot 
oquiil  ftnd  friendly  terms  with  their  Congregational  and  Presbyterian 
brethren,  and  to  welcome  from  tliis  country  eveiything  which  tells  of 
free  thought,  lar^e  sympat'iy,  and  hop 3  for  the  futiiro  of  humanity. 

(7.)  One  word,  in  conclusion,  which  touches  all  the  American 
Churches  equally.  The  changes  which  have  already  taken  place  in 
their  historicfd  retrospect  are  such  as  to  oi)en  a  long  vista  in  their  hia- 
torical  prospect.  The  old  dogma  of  the  colonists  of  New  England  has 
faded  away,  that  all  "vicars,  rectors,  deans,  priests,  and  bishops  were 
of  the  devil;"  nor  could  there  be  now  any  shadow  of  pretext  for  ascrib- 
ing to  the  Congregationalist  Churches  the  belief  that  every  tenth  chUd 
was  snatched  away  from  its  mother's  side  by  demons  in  the  shape  of 
bishops.^  The  technical  representations  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Trin- 
itjr  which  Channing  refused  to  admit  are  gradually  giving  way  to  the 
Bibhcal  representations  of  it  which  Channing  would  gladly  have  ac- 
cepted. The  rigid  Calvinism  of  Jonathan  Ed\«'ard8  has  almost  ceased 
to  exist. 2  "The  pale  Unitarianism  of  Boston,''^  which  Emerson  con- 
demned, is  becoming  suffused  with  the  ger.:"a,l  atmosphere  which  Em- 
erson has  done  so  much  to  promote,  end  which  is  shared  by  the  higher 
minds  of  all  the  Churches  equally.  In  proportion  as  the  larger  culture 
and  deeper  spirit  of  the  European  continent  penetrates  the  American 
mind,  there  is  a  hope  that  the  more  flexible  foims  of  tho  American  na- 
tion will  open  the  way  to  the  invisible  influences  of  the  invisible 
Church  of  the  future;  and  that  in  that  proportion  all  the  American 
Churches  may  rise  out  of  the  prOT'incial  and  colonial  condition  of 
thought  whicn  has  hitherto  starved  their  mental  life.  We  trust  that 
they  will  bear  in  mind  the  prospects  held  out  to  them  by  the  an- 
cient pastor  who  in  his  farewell  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  from  the 
shores  of  Europe  uttered  those  memorable  words:  "I  am  persuaded 
that  the  Lord  hath  more  truth  yet  to  come  for  us — yet  to  brei&  forth 
out  of  His  Holy  Word.  Neither  Luther  nor  Calvin,"  he  said,  and  we 
may  add  neither  Edwards  nor  Channing,  neither  Seabury  nor  White, 
"has  penetrated  into  the  whole  counsel  of  God."  They  must  receive, 
as  an  article  of  the  covenant  both  of  American  and  European  Chiis- 
tianity,  that,  in  tho  words  of  their  own  latest  intellectual  oracle,* 

"  Ever  tho  fiery  PeiitecoBt 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  cuoutless  host.*' 

They  will  know  that  — 

"  Tlie  word  unto  the  Prophet  spoken 
"Was  writ  on  tubles  yet  uubi-okon." 

They  will  know  that — 

•'One  Accent  of  tho  Holy  Ghost 
Tho  heedless  world  hath  never  lost." 

A.  P.  Stanlisy,  in  MacnuUarCs  Mjgcuxne. 

*  Sargent's  Life  of'AndH,  59. 
•  There  is  in  Hartford  a  small  community  called  "the  Old  Lights.''  who  still  insist 
on  conformity  to  the  doctrines  of  extreme  Calvinism;  and  similur  isolated  iutftouocs 
may  exist  elsewhere.    But  these  are  evidently  exceptions. 
»  Wilbcrforoo's  Ainerican  Church,  p.  Ui.    *thi  i^nMem,  by  Bolph  Waldo 


'  GEEECE  AND  THE  TREATY  OF  BERLIN. 

Tho  Eastern  qnestion  has  as  many  heads  as  the  hydra.  There  if=«, 
however,  one  oi  them  which,  thou^n.  all  are  endowed  with  an  equcl 
tenacity  of  life,  does  not  now  inspire,  even  where  morbid  feeling  is 
most  rife  among  ns,  the  same  sentiments  of  terror  and  misgiving  as 
the  rest.  This  one  is  the  Hellenio  element  in  the  vast  and  complicated 
subject ;  which,  and  which  alone,  has  at  last  been  happily  detached 
from  considerations  fatal  to  mental  equilibrium,  and  which  has  been 
placed  npon  a  basis  sufficiently  simple  by  the  Twenty-fourth  Article  of 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin,  together  with  the  Thirteenth  Protocol  of  the 
Congress. 

The  treaty  states,  in  its  Twenty-fourth  Article,  that  if  Turkey  and 
Greece  should  fail  to  agree  on  the  rectification  of  frontier  indicated  in 
the  Thirteenth  Protocol,  the  six  cosignatary  Powers  reserve  it  to  them- 
selves to  ofter  their  mediation  to  the  two  parties,  in  order  to  facilitate 
the  negotiations.  In  the  Thirteenth  Protocol,  the  Congress  had  invited 
the  Porte  to  arraiige  (s'eniendre)  with  Greece  on  a  rectification  of  frontier 
in  Thessaly  and  Epirus ;  and  had  delivered  its  judgment  that  this 
rectification  might  follow  the  valley  of  the  Salambnaa  (the  ancient 
Peneus)  from  the  eastward  side,  and  that  of  the  Kalamas  from  the  west- 
ward. The  Salambrias  issues  into  the  Gulf  of  Salonica  near  its  mouth, 
the  Kalamas  has  its  sortie  opposite  Corfu.  The  head  waters  of  both 
descend  from  tracts  lying  considerably  northward  of  the  point  at  which 
they  join  the  respective  seas:  and  it  maj  be  said  that  a  line  fairly 
traced  between  them  would  make  an  addition  of  between  one-fourth 
and  one-third  to  the  superficial  area  of  the  Hellenic  kingdom. 

A  few  words  may  be  added  to  show  how  strictly  the  territory  em- 
braced by  this  decision  of  the  Congress  ou^ht  to  be  regarded  as  (what 
was  called  at  Constantinople  in  1877)  an  iiTeducible  minimum.  It 
does  not  cover,  or  nearly  cover,  the  whole  of  the  territory  inhabited  by 
a  people  properly  Hellenic :  for  the  ground  where  the  Slav  begins  to 
mix  with  the  Hellene  lies  far  beyond  it.  Setting  apart,  then,  the  ques- 
tion whether  Turkey  might  justly  have  stipulated  for  a  money  payment, 
in  respect  to  her  cession,  we  may  safely  say  that  the  limit  of  the  districi; 
thus  marked  out  is  far  more  confined  than  the  principle  on  which  it  is 
founded.  Secondly,  it  is  greatly  more  restricted  than  the  ]proposal 
actually  made  by  j&gland  in  18G2.  On  the  cession  of  the  Ionian  Pro- 
tectorate, and  the  .annexation  of  the  Islands  to  Greece,  the  Cabinet  of 
Lord  Palmerston,  on  his  proposal  and  that  of  Lord  Bussell,  tmani- 
mously  determined  on  advising  Turkejy  to  make  over  to  Greece  the 
whole  of  Thessaly  and  of  Epirus. '     Thirdly,  it  was  a  great  abatement 

^  This  statement,  which  I  have  made,  la  Parliament  and  elsewhere,  on  former 
occasions,  is  confirmed  by  a  letter  of  Mr.  Evelyn  Ashley  in  the  DaUy  Neios  of  May  20, 
eyidently  from  documentary  evidence  in  his  possession ;  which,  however,  does  not 
inolnde  the  fact  that  the  overture  to  Turkey  was  made  with  the  full  authority  of  the 
Cabinet  of  that  day. 

(663) 


664  GREECE  AND  THE  TREATY  OF  BERLIN. 

of  what  France  had  endeavoured  irfthe  paarparlers,  or  bye-meetings,  of 
the  Congress  to  obtain  for  Greece,  and  what  she  had  only  consented  to 
forego  in  consequence  of  a  prudent  desire  to  neutralise  the  reiiistaoce 
of  England. 

Such  was  the  proposal  in  itself.  It  was  one  eminently  favoured  by 
circumstances.  In  all  the  territorial  questions,  which  had  arisen  re- 
specting the  Slav  territories,  the  British  Plenipotentiaries  at  Berlin 
took  and  held,  with  impunity,  the  side  adverse  to  freedom. ;  because 
the  respective  populations  were  suspected,  with  more  or  less  justice, 
of  being  tainted  with  Russian  sympathies.  But  the  Hellenic  part  of 
the  subjects  of  the  Porte  were  at  length  understood  to  be  in  a  different 
position.  There  had  slowly  dawned  upon  the  mind  of  England  a  per- 
ception of  the  palpable  fact  that  the  relative  attitudes  of  Greece  and 
Russia  had  undergone  a  fundamental  change  since  the  time  when 
there  first  began  to  be  a  Turkish  question. 

In  the  war,  which  ended  with  the  great  Treaty  of  Kainardji,  the 
Greeks  had,  naturally  enough,  been,  fascinated  with  the  very  first 
tokens  ever  given  by  a  Christian  Power  of  an  interest  in  their  fate; 
and  they  committed  themselves  freely  on  the  Russian  side.  Aban- 
doned by  that  Power  in  the  final  arrangement,  they  then  received  their 
first  lesson  on  the  dangers  which  attend  upon  hasty  partnerships  be- 
tween the  feeble  and  the  strong  in  the  vicissitudes  of  war.  At  the  com- 
mencement of  the  diplomatic  i^roceedings  which  led  to  the  establish- 
ment of  free  Greece,  Russia  proposed,  under  the  name  of  a  plan  of 
emancipation,  a  scheme  based  upon  the  same  ideas  as  the  contempo- 
rary organization  of  the  Danubian  Principalities ;  which  would  have 
broken  up  the  race  among  a  number  of  Hospodariates,  and  would  thus 
have  thrown  all  hope  of  a  true  Greek  nationality  into  an  indefinitely 
distant  future.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  by  her 
military  operations,  which  brought  about  the  Treaty  of  Adrianople,  she 
obtained  at  the  last  stage  a  principal  share  of  the  honour  belonging  to 
a  real,  though  unfortunately  a  very  limited,  emancipation.  There  was 
accordingly,  when  the  Crimean  war  broke  out,  some,  though  not  a 
very  vivid,  residue  of  Russian  feeling  among  the  population  of  the 
Kingdom. 

But  new  combinations  of  commanding  interest  for  Russia  had  now 
risen  upon  the  political  horizon.  The  germs  of  new-bom  life  among 
the  subject  races  of  the  Turkish  Empire  were  no  longer  confined  in 
their  manifestations  to  the  Hellenic  portions  of  the  Empire  together 
with  the  Danubian  Principahties.  The  autonomy  of  Servia  had  been 
established  with  Russian  aid;  and  the  Government  of  the  Czar  found 
larger  prospects  opening  before  it,  as  it  was  enabled  to  embrace  the 
Slav  populations  generally  within  its  sympathies  or  its  projects.  A 
further  development  arrived,  which  again,  and  yet  more  seriously, 
altered  the  relations  between  Russia  and  the  Christians  of  European 
Turkey.  This  was  the  struggle  of  tlio  Bulgai'ion  Church  to  emancipate 
itself,  not  from  the  religion,  but  from  the  ecclesiastical  control  of  the 
Patriarch  of  Constantinople.    For  about  a  century,  or  since  1777|  the 


GltBiiCE  AND  THE  TEEATY  OF  BEllUN.  C65 

appointment  of  the  Bulgarian  Bishops  had  rested  vith  that  See,  and 
the  eonseqncnce  was  that  their  Church  was  ruled  mainly  by  prelates 
of  Greek  nationality,  whose  reputation  as  pastors  did  not  stand  high, 
who  were  not  always  to  be  found  in  their  dioceKcn,  and  in  whoso  per- 
sons was  first  palpably  exhibited  a  latent  antagonism  between  Hellene 
and  Slav,  as  dbmpetitors  for  the  succession  to  the  Ottoman  rule  in  East- 
em  Europe.  In  the  meantime,  a  sense  of  national  life  had  been 
awakened  in  Bulgaria^  and  it  has  been  powerfully  aided  by  the  success- 
ful struggle  for  ecclesiastical  independence.  Russia,  which  appears  at 
first  to  have  acted  with  the  Greeks,  finally  went  to  the  Bulgarian  side; 
and  has  not  only  not  supported  the  Patriarch  in  his  sentence  of  excom- 
munication, but  has,  according  to  the  allegation  made  in  Greek  quarters, 
sequestrated  or  laid  an  embargo  upon  the  produce  of  estates  in  Bus- 
sian  territory,  with  which  the  Eastern  Church  was  partially  endowed. 
These  few  sentences  do  not  aim  at  giving  so  much  as  a  sketch  of  a  long 
and  complicated  story,  but  are  intended  simply  to  draw  attention  to 
the  fact  that  a  sharp,  and  almost  an  exasperated,  opposition  has  now 
been  established  between  Slavonian  and  Hellenic  influences;  thatKus- 
sian  policy  is  fundamentally  estranged  from  the  leading  interests  of 
the  Greeks;  that  the  See  of  Constantinople  and  its  followers,  little  to 
their  credit,  ostensibly  took  the  side  of  the  Turks  during  the  late  war; 
and  that,  though  the  Patriarch  may  have  acted  under  compulsion,  yet 
it  has  been  clearly  shown  that  a  dread  of  Slav  preponderance,  and  of 
Russian  interest  or  intrigue  in  connection  with  it,  has  become  a  pow- 
erful and  even  a  ruling  motive  with  most  of  the  rival  race. 

This  division  is  to  be  deplored  in  the  interest  of  liberty  at  large. 
But  for  England,  which  has  been  rent  by  sharp  dissension  for  the  last 
three  years  with  regard  to  all  that  concerned  the  Slavonic  races,  it  has 
had  some  very  great  advantages.  It  has  completely  extricated  one  large 
portion  nt  least  of  the  Eastern  Question  from  the  cloud  of  prejudice,  the 
eddies  of  passion,  and  the  labyrinth  of  political  intrigue.  The  pro- 
motion OT  Hellenic  interests  is  now  at  any  rate  effectually  dissociated 
in  the  English  mind,  from  the  advancement  of  Russian  designs,  and  is 
rather,  indeed,  connected  with  the  desire  of  baffling  them.  Neither 
has  any  *  British  interest  *  stalked  across  the  stage  to  disturb  our  com- 
posure. We  have  not  bef^n  taught  that  tlie  Greeks  are  likely  to  block 
the  Suez  Canal,  or  to  establish  cc/.lateml  positions  which  might  men- 
ace the  valley  of  the  Euphrates:  and,  although  it  is  not  obvious  why 
such  Tisions  should  bo  more  irrational  niul  unreal  than  certain  others 
that  have  done  good  service  in  an  evil  cause,  we  may  thankfully  accept 
and  record  the  fact  that  we  have  been  spared  such  an  infliction,  and 
that  the  entire  nation  is  free  to  regard,  and  does  regard,  the  Hellenic 
factor  in  the  Eastern  Question  altogether  apart  from  the  idea  that  it 
can  either  derange  the  •  balance  of  power,'  or  menace  the  Empire  of 
the  Queen.  Nay  more;  we  see  pretty  clearly  that  this  Hellenic  element 
forma  in  itself  a  natural  counterpoise  to  the  weight  of  the  Slav  races  in 
the  Balkan  Peninsula:  and  even  those  who  think  that  under  the  influ- 
ence of  ,some  inexplicable  Paixslavonic  fanaticism,  Montenegrins  and 


666      GKEECE  AND  THE  TREATY  OF  BEKLIN. 

Servians  and  Bulgarians  will  surrender  their  dear-bought  liberties  into 
the  arms  of  Russian  despotism,  have  not  propounded  or  cherished  the 
idea  that  the  same  thing  could  bo  done  by  the  Greeks,  in  whose  mind 
the  doRiro  to  keep  down  Slavonic  influences  even  Ties  with  the  craving 
to  be  free  from  the  yoko  of  Islam. 

This  state  of  facts  has  been  generally  recognized  by  the  people  an-i 
by  the  press  of  the  country.  When,  a  few  weeks  ago,  Mr.  Cartwrigit 
made  a  motion  in  the  House  of  Commons,  which  was  intended  to  }: re- 
mote the  settlement  of  the  Greek  frontier  in  the  sense  intcn^lcd  by^tiij 
Treaty  of  Berhn,  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  struck  by  the  aspect  oi 
that  assembly.  One  current  of  feeling,  and  one  only,  appeared  actively 
to  prevail.  It  was  partly  acknowledged,  partly  countervaiied  by  oiii- 
cial  pleas;  but  these  pleas  met  with  no  more  than  a  passive  acquiescence 
on  the  part  of  the  independent  supporters  of  the  Gtovemment.  The 
scene  was  one  in  marked  contrast  with  every  manifentrition  that  baa 
been  exhibited  in  the  House  when  the  Slavonic  branches  of  the  ques- 
tion have  been  debated.  On  those  occasions,  bursts  of  ready  cheering 
have  supported  the  official  speakers  in  their  replies  to  the  arguments  of 
the  Liberal  party;  and  those  cheers  have  commonly  boon  more  and 
more  vigorous  in  proxjortion  as  the  language  hold  on  the  Treasury 
bench  was  more  lively  and  decided.  But  on  the  Greek  question  the 
positive  impulsion,  what  is  termed  the  feeling  of  the  Houso,  was  all  the 
other  way;  the  dilatory  pleas  of  the  Government  wore  allowed,  but  not 
stimulated,  nor  rewarded  bv  applause;  and  it  was  felt  with  resistless 
force  that  the  credit  of  the  Treaty  of  Berlin  was  at  stake  along  witli  the 
cause  of  justice,  and  that  Mr.  Ctitvmght,  Lord  Edmond  Fitzmaurice, 
and  Sir  Charles  Dilko  were  its  intelligent  and  determined  upholders. 

This  condition  of  feeling  and  opinion  Nvithin  the  walls  of  Parliament 
has  been  accurately  reflected  beyond  them.  Since  Easter,  an  Associa- 
tion has  been  formed,  with  the  sanction  of  many  men  of  station,  influ- 
ence, and  ability,  to  find  vent,  as  it  were,  for  tho  partly  expressed  and 
partly  unspoken  conviction  that  the  Government  has  lagged,  and  thftt 
the  nation  must  not  lag,  behind  tho  demands  of  its  duty  on.  tliis  im- 
portant question.  On  tho  17th  of  May,  a  mooting  was  held  at  'NVilhs's 
Rooms,  to  give  a  formal  notico  of  the  existence  of  tho  body,  nnd  acoin- 
mencoment  to  its  proceedings,  and  to  press  upon  the  Mini'^try  the 
necessity  of  energetic  action.-  Many  of  tne  reports  in  tho  public  jour- 
nals are  such  as  would  convey  no  adequate  idea  of  the  unanimity  and 
zeal  of  this  meeting,  of  the  crov/ds  who  filled  the  room,  or  of  t_'.> 
crowds  who  were  disappointed  in  the  attempt  to  find  admission.  Ir  is 
pretty  clear  that  this  was  no  casual,  and  no  merely  passing  manifett  i- 
tion.  In  all  likelihood  it  will  be  follo\sod  by  the  other  stiiges  cf 
an  advancing  movement;  and^  unless  it  shall  happily  be  found  thr.t 
the  Government  is  acting  in  accordance  with  tho  fixed  opinion  and  t^ie 
growing  desire  of  the  country,  the  SesBion  may  not  end  without  a  new 
and  determined  attempt  to  test  the  sense  of  Parliament  on  the  subject. 

It  is  an  important,  though  not  a  pleasant,  portion  of  my  present  duty 
to  show  that  in  this  matter  we  have  not  only  to  turn  the  present  and 


GEEECE  AND  THE  TBEATY  OF  BEKLIN.   ^   667 

tho  near  fature  to  acconnt,  but  also  to  improve  upon,  and  bo  to  Tedeem, 
tho  past.  For  this  purpose,  let  us  revert  to  the  eve  of  the  discussiona 
at  Berlin.  As  the  opening  of  the  *  High  Assembly  *  drew  near,  the 
forces,  which  were  to  act  upon  its  deliberations,  began  to  array  and 
adjust  themselves  for  tho  copflict.  The  Powers,  which  gathered  there 
with  so  much  of  mutual  --juspicion,  and  with  too  many  selush  or 
secondary  aims,  were  not  the  only  jjowers  which,  through  the  virtual 
publicity  of  tho  proceedings,  were  competent  to  act  upon  the  discus- 
sions, and  contribute  to  tho  results.  The  Ohristian  subjects  of  Turkey 
supplied  the  chief  of  these  latent  forces.  They,  as  we  all  know,  did 
their  best,  whenever  their  condition  gave  them  the  hope  of  a  loc\is  standi, 
to  make  a  formal  and  bodily  appearance;  while  the  population  of  Bnl* 
garia,  who  had  not  the  organisation  or  the  title  to  appoint  ro^ular 
deputies,  were  effectively  represented  by  the  Plenipotentiaries  of  the 
Czar.  Tho  great  aim  of  the  British  Plenipotentiaries  at  the  Congress 
was,  as  all  ^ow,  to  reduce  this  Slavonic,  and  especially  this  Bulgarian, 
inflaence  to  its  minimum;  bO  as  to  divide  Bulgaria;  to  give  back 
Southern  Bulgaria  to  the  Porte;  to  establish  a  Turkish  force  along  its 
frontier,  which  followed  the  line  of  the  Balkans;  to  efface  its  recollec- 
tions, wile  away  its  hopes,  and  commute  its  identity,  by  re-baptising  it 
as  Eastern  Koumelia.  In  order  to  insure  this  great  triumph  of  British 
policy,  the  thing  most  needful  was  to  divide  into  separate  camps  the 
force  and  influence  of  the  races  subject  to  Turkey^.  It  waa  now 
notorious  that  there  was  a  border-land  in  Macedonia  and  Bulgaria, 
which  was  likely,  in  the  ultimate  division  of  the  Turkish  inheritance, 
to  be  sharply  contested  between  the  two  races.  The  anticipation  of 
this  contest  already  produced  a  tendency  to  marked  estrangement. 
Tho  Slavs  had  a  stock  of  strength  in  the  protection  of  Russia,  which 
offered  to  the  demands  of  the  Hellenic  races,  certainly,  no  opposition, 
but  gave  them  only  a  oool  semblance  of  support.  •  Could  the  Greeks 
but  have  another  Power  for  the  special  protector  of  their  intereots,  all 
idea  of  their  making  common  cause  with  the  Slavs  would  be  at  an  end. 
The  weight  of  the  whole  Hellenic  element  would  be  virtually  added  to 
that  of  Turkey,  Austria,  and  England  already  in  the  field;  Russia 
would  be  completely  isolated,  and  the  object  effectually  gained  of  re- 
ducing the  Slavomo  force  before  the  Congress  to  its  minimum. 
Accordingly  some  skilful  strategist  seems  to  have  suggested  that  the 
British  Plenipotentiaries  bad  better  constitute  themselves,  at  tho  out- 
set, the  champions  of  the  Hellenic  cause.  How  long  this  championship 
was  to  continue  is  another  matter.  Its  too  early  demise  is  recorded  in 
the  history  of  the  Congress;  lot  us  hope  that  this  was  no  part  of  the 

..iS  -r        i'ij.1        jf i._   T r /I :__i T  _ix_     -J.1      -- 


designs  that  the  Greek  and  the  Bulgarian  forces  should  be  severed,  tho 
British  Plenipotentiaries  assumed,  to  the  great  and  general  satisfaction 
of  this  country,  the  charge  of  the  Hellenic  cause. 
This  was  done,  Urst,  by  a  declaxatioa  relating  to  the  tenitorial 


668  GREECE  AND  THE  TEEATY  OF  BERLIN. 

claims  of  Greece;  and,  secondly,  by  the  advocacy  of  her  claims  to 
representation  in  or  before  the  Congress.  At  its  very  first  meeting,  on 
the  13th  of  June,  we  have  in  the  First  Protocol*  the  following  record: 

^*  The  Marquis  of  Salisbury  announces  that  he  proposes  on  Monday 
to  submit  to  his  colleagues  the  question  as  to  whether  Greece  should 
be  admitted  to  the  Congress.' 

More  important  still  was  the  sanction,  unequivocal  though  limited, 
which  was  given  to  the  territorial  claims  of  Greece.  In  the  despatch 
of  Lord  Salisbury,  dated  June  8,  1878,  which  maps  out  the  whole  pro- 
jected outline  of  the  British  policy  in  the  '  High  Assembly/  we  find 
this  weighty  passage,  which  must  tell  with  more  and  more  force  in  the 
discussions  on  the  question  of  the  Greek  frontier,  the  longer  they  are 
continued,  and  the  more  pronounced  they  may  unhappily  become. 
*The  claims  which  will  undoubtedly  be  advanced  by  the  Government 
of  Greece  in  reference  to  some  of  these  provinces  (the  provinces  of 
European  Turkey)  will  receive  the  careful  consideration  of  Her 
Majesty's  Plenipotentiaries,  and,  I  doubt  not,  of  the  representatives  of 
the  other  Powers.*  ^ 

These  claims  were  large.  They  must  have  been  known  to  tho  Gov- 
ernment when  this  despatch  was  written;  for,  without  that  knowledge, 
the  promise,  which  diplomatic  language  conveys  under  an  engagement  to 
*  careful  consideration/  could  not  have  been  ^iven.  They  are  cxj)lained 
in  tho  Memorandum,  which  was  handed  in  by  IL  Delyannis,  tho 
Foreign  Minister  of  Greece,  on  the  29th  of  June.  They  include,  as  a 
demand  reduced  below  the  standard  of  justice  by  the  consideration  of 
existing  difficulties,  the  provinces  of  Thessaly  and  Epirus,  and  the 
Island  of  Crete.  *  The  despatch  of  the  8th  of  June  did  not  bind  the 
British  Plenipotentiaries  to  be  parties  to  the  concc::;aion  of  the  whole 
of  this  demand;  but  it  impUed  beyond  all  doubt  the  intention  to  con- 
cede a  part,  and  moreover  to  become  the  advocates  in  the  Congress  of 
such  a  concession. 

The  other  engagement,  namely,  to  recommend  that  the  Greeks 
should  be  heard  in  Congress,  while  it  presented  a  promising  appear- 
ance, meant  nothing,  or  rather  the  exact  equivalent  of  nothing.  Tlii-s 
we  may  see  by  the  result.  On  the  29th  of  »June  M.  Delyannis,  with  Li*; 
colleague,  M.  Eangabe,  wore  admitted,  or  bowed  in,  to  the  ninth  sit- 
ting of  the  Congress.  M.  Delyannis  read  his  Memorandum,  cfT.r.  1 
some  * Bupi:)lementary  considerations,'  and  then,  a^ain  with  Li^  fi'.-i*  1 
M.  Eangabe,  was  duly  bowed  out,  a  promise  being  addcl  t_  J,  h' . 
communication  would  bo  studied  ;  and  that  he  would  cga:n  b;^  tall,  i 
in,  not  to  assist  in  the  dcUbemtions  of  the  Congress,  but  to  Iieur  ili^ 
result.  ^ 

On  this  merely  formal  matter,  the  British  Plenipotentiaries  ba;tov.'ol 
a  world  of  ostentatious  pains.     Lord  Salisbury  proposed,'^  on  tho  I'Jth 

8  Turkey,  No,  30,  Ifi78.  p.  ! «.  a  Ibid.  p.  3. 

*  Turkey.  No.  39, 1878,  p.  133, 
'»  Ibid.  p.  135. 
•  Ibid.  pp.  ^  33, 


GREECE  AND  THE  TEEATY  OF  BERLIN.      669 

of  June,  that  a  Greek  representative  should  attend  the  Congress,  when 
*  questions  in  connection  with  the  interests  of  the  Greek  rac  j  shall  be 
discussed.'  The  French  Plenipotentiaries  proposed  that  it  should  run 
'  when  the  future  of  the  provinces  bordering  on  the  Kingdom '  of  Greece 
lEibould  be  discussed  ;  and  also,  whenever  the  Plenipotentiaries  should 
think  fit  to  summon  him.  Hereupon  arose  in  the  '  High  Assembly  *  a 
kind  of  battle  of  the  gods.  The  chivalrous  defenders  of  Greek  in- 
terests were  not  satisfied  with  the  imponderable  abatement,  which  the 
French  thus  threatened  to  effect  in  their  scheme  for  Hellenic  repre- 
sentation ;  and — it  was  as  yet  but  the  second  meeting,  and  the  great 
Bulgarian  question  was  still  untouched — on  this  differe^ice, 

'Twixt  tweedledum  and  tweedledee, 

they  divided  the  Congress ;  and  were  beaten.  Still,  they  certainly  had 
done  their  utmost ;  and,  as  they  had  contended  thus  gallantly,  not  to 
say  factiously  or  even  pedantically,  for  a  matter  of  the  smallest  possible 
consequence,  it  could  not  be  doubted  that  they  would  display  a  fully 
proportionate  resolution,  when  the  great  and  real  question,  the  ques- 
tion of  territory,  should  come  up. 

But  this  question  did  not  take  its  place  upon  the  Protocols  until  the 
thirteenth  sitting,  held  on  the  5th  of  July.  By  that  time,  as  it  appears 
from  the  Papers  laid  before  Parliament,  the  whole  attitude  of  the 
British  Plenipotentiaries  was  entirely  changed.  With  the  change  of 
attitude  came  a  shift  in  the  cast  of  parts.  Lord  Salisbury,  the  bold  de- 
fender of  Greek  rights,  and  the  official  promiser  of  careful  considera- 
tion, which  he  had  no  doubt  others  would  also  give,  for  the  territorial 
claims  of  Greece,  remains  mute,  and  retires  behind  the  scenes.  Lord 
Beaconsfield  now  takes  his  turn.  France  and  Italy,  having  given  their 
'careful  consideration'  to  the  matter,  propose  an  extension  of  frontier 
for  Greece.  Every  other  Power  except  Turkey,  and  Austria  in  express 
and  liberal  terms,  assents  to  the  proposal.  Lord  Beaconsfield,  in  the 
name  of  England,  gives  his  judgment  that,  *  unanimity  bein^  above  all 
things  desirable,  his  Excellency  would  withdraw  aU  objection,  in 
presence  of  an  unanimous  vote  of  the  other  Powers.' ' 

In  contrasting  the  engagement  given  on  the  8th  of  June  with  the 
manifest  contempt  of  that  engagement  exhibited  on  the  5th  of  July,  it 
is  impossible  to  exclude  from  .view  what  had  taken  place  in  tho  interim. 
So  long  as  the  cardinal  question  of  Bulgaria  remained  open,  we  were 
the  friends  of  Greece.  By  sustaining  this  character,  we  kept  her  from 
going  into  the  bad  company  of  Russia  and  the  Slavf3.  But  this  great 
afiGedr  had  now  been  completely  disposed  of  at  the  intermediate  sittings.^ 
The  burning  question  of  Eastern  iloumelia,  *  and  the  militaiy  occupa- 
tion of  the  Balkan  line,  which  furnished  the  great  triumph  of  the 
British  diplomatists,  and  the  basis  of  the  demonstration  on  *  peace  with 
honour,'  was  in  the  main  determined  on  the  22nd  of  June.    The  detailcr 

'  Turkey,  :N"o.  39,  1878,  p.  198. 
•  Fapern,  p.  46. 


670  GPiEECS  AND  THE  TFJiATY  07  BERLIN. 

were  dealt  with  at  BUCcesRivo  meotingf5 ;  and  vnth.  tho  expiration  of  tb<5 
month  tho  Bulgarian  population,  and  their  interests,  may  be  con- 
siderv'-d  to  disappear  from  tholUco  of  tho  proceeding.  And  it  U  on  the 
Gth  of  July,  wiien  Hellenic  and  Siivonicin  iniiuencefi  no  longer  li.ivo 
any  motive  to  co-operato,  that  tho  British  Plenipotentiaries  abanvl»'^n 
tho  Causo  of  Greece,  and  only  accept,  becauso  of  the  paramount  im- 
portance of  unanimity,  that  limited  proposal  of  franco  and  Italy,  wiih 
which  every  other  State  was  already  agreed. 

And  whi/  was  the  proposal  of  France  and  Italy  eo  limited  ?  This  is  a 
question  to  which  the  Parliamentary  papers  furnish  no  reply,  as  th^y 
do  not  give  us  the  records  of  those  private  and  informal  meetings  of  a 
Congress,  at  which  the  whole  raw  material,  so  to  call  it^  of  debate  is  re- 
duced, by  a  kind  of  moral  and  intellectual  puddling,  to  amanufacture<l 
article.  All  agreements  are  ascertained ;  and  all  differences  are  brought 
within  limits  in  which  they  can  be  stated  to  the  outer  world.  It  is  de- 
termined v/hose  argument  shall  bo  victorious,  and  how  defeat  shall  b^ 
gildod  with  the  honours  of  generous,  voluntary  sacrifice.  We  owe  to 
Sir  Charles  Dilke's  courage  and  information  an  addition  to  the  public 
knowledge  on  this  subject,  which  he  vigorously  opened  up  in  the  de- 
bate of  tho  29th  of  July,  1873,  on  the  motion  of  Lord  Hartington.  Hiy 
statement  v^^a3  repeated,  and  even  enlarged  as  tho  discussion  advanced. 
In  substance  the  whole  remains  to  this  hour  without  contradiction.  It 
is  now  placed  beyond  serious  question  that,  at  one  of  the  meetings  to 
which  reference  has  been  made,  the  French  Plenipotentiary  made  a 
proposal  on  behalf  of  Greece,  considerably  exceeding  that  which  on  a 
later  day  he  formally  submitted  to  tho  Congress.  It  is  also  known  thai; 
this  larger  proposal  was  then  overthrown  by  the  resistance  of  the  Eng- 
lish Plenipotentiaries.  The  more  contracted  plan  waa  substituted  in 
order  to  meet  their  views,  and  after  all  this,  it  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
only  accepted  by  them  as  a  lesser  evil  than  that  of  retreating  into  isola- 
tion with  defeat.  Even  now  it  will  be  well  i^  at  this  late  hour,  some 
authoritative  statement  can  be  made  to  destroy  the  force,  and  to  efface 
the  memory,  of  imputations  so  dishonouring  to  England  :  nay,  even  if 
only  their  range  can  be  limited,  for  the  weightiest  of  the  facts  are,  im- 
happily,  placed  already  beyond  dispute  by  tho  olScial  evidenco  in  thj 
possession  of  Parliament  and  the  world. 

With  regard  to  subsequent,  as  well  as  prior,  proceedings,  our  inform- 
ation is  for  the  most  part  less  definite  than  that  aifordod  by  the  recor.l  ? 
of  the  Congress.  It  is,  however,  indubitable  that  the  Greeks  migLt 
have  added  largely  to  the  force  in  arms  against  the  Porte  in  1877,  and 
to  the  disturbances  within  her  borders.  There  is  no  doubt  that  th'  • 
were  dissuaded  from  this  tempting  course  of  action  byrepresentation  v^ 
in  which  England  had  a  large  share ;  and  that  they  were  given,  to  undrr- 
Btand  they  should  not  faro  the  worse  for  their  forbearance.  They  a^)- 
pear,  however,  to  have  lost  no  time  in  acting  after  the  conclusion  of 
the  Congress  ;  since  they  asked  on  tho  16th  of  July,  1878,  for  the  ap- 
pointment of  Commissioners  to  put  tho  Treaty  in  action.  In  tho  month 
of  August  Turkey  doUverod  her  x^rotost  againet  tao  Europonn  phu; 


GKEECJE  AND  THE  TREATY  OF  BERLIN.  G71 

which  ought  axirely  to  have  been  giyen  in  before  the  Congress  itself. 
Germany,  it  appears,  at  this  time  proposed  collective  action  ;  but  Eng- 
land refused  it.  In  September,  the  Porte  offered  to  concede,  by  way 
of  settling  the  question,  a  petty  fraction  of  what  the  Powera  had  indi- 
cated. In  October,  as  ]iL  Waddington's  despatch  of  April  22,  1879,  in- 
forms us,  France  proposed  a  collective  intervention  at  Confjtp.ntinoplo, 
which  mnsfc  at  once  have  settled  the  whole  matter.  Skilled  in  dilatory 
arts  and  in  Pix)tean  transformations,  the  Turks  ijarried  the  blow  by  en- 
gaging to  appoint  Commissioners  who  should  meet  the  Greeks,  and 
trace  the  line.  Then  began  a  new  course  of  delays  and  subterfuges, 
and  only  at  the  end  of  the  year  Commissioners  were  named  by  Turkey. 
When  appointed,  they  contrived  to  postpone  action  till  the  19th  of 
March,  and  proposed  at  that  date  a  line,  which  is  estimated  as  giving 
about  one-fourth  of  the  territory  designated  for  cession  by  the  Con- 
gress. The  oommunications,  as  might  be  supposed,  were  broken  off 
upon  the  presentation  of  this  illusory  proposal ;  and  Greece,  having 
definitively  failed  to  arrange  with  Turkey,  or  even  to  effoct  any  tolera- 
ble approximation,  very  properly  invoked  for  the  second  time  the  me- 
diation of  the  Powers  under  the  Twenty-fourth  Article- of  the  treaty. 
In  this  state  of  facts,  the  French  Government  haa  taken  its  lino.  In 
the  language  of  M.  Waddington  :  ^  •  The  Congress  had  cxpreEscd  ita 
confidence  that  the  two  parties  would  succeed  in  agreeing.  Events 
have  not  answered  to  that  hope.  The  part  of  Europe,  therefore,  ap- 
pears already  marked  out.  ...  It  is,  therefore,  expedient,  in  our  opin- 
ion, to  respond  to  the  appeal  of  the  Cabinet  of  Athens,  and  to  take  in 
hand  without  loss  cf  time  the  problems  to  which  it  gives  rise.' 

And  concerted  action  at  Constantinople  is  the  conclusion  recom- 
mended by  France  to  the  Powers.  We  have  read  her  language.  What 
was  ours?  While  she  was  acting  the  dignified  and  enlightened  part, 
which  our  traditions  and  feelings  conspicuously  marked  out  for  our  as- 
sumption, or  at  the  leaat  our  cordial  support,  the  leader  of  the  House 
of  Commons  was  singing  the  praises  of  a  direct  arrangement  between 
Turkey  and  Greece,  which  France,  turning  plain  facts  into  ^dain  words, 
had  declared  to  be  an  exhausted  method.  In  what  way  v.a  know  not, 
but  in  some  way,  the  Frencii  plan  of  compliance  with  the  Twenty- 
fourth  Article  of  the  treaty  has  been  obstructed,  and  there  is  apparently 
no  obstructor  but  one.  The  latest  light  thrown  uj)on  the  subject  has 
been  an  outburst  of  displeasure  against  England  in  some  French  news- 
papers, such  as  the  Btpublique  l^Yan<;aise  and  tlio  Journal  des  Dtbats, 
which  had  theretofore  given,  in  Paris,  to  the  British  Administration  a 
support  nearl;^  as  thoroughgoing  as  that  of  the  Di'dy  Telegraph  in  Lon- 
don. Egypt  is  one  cause  of  complaint,  which  I  do  not  touch.  It  is 
unconnected  with  the  Treaty  of  Berlin:  and  my  argument  is  for  the 
fidfifinent  of  the  Twenty-fourth  Article  of  that  treaty.  The  other  ground 
of  offenoo  alleged  is  the  question  of  the  Greek  frontier :  and  we  appear 

,  "Afliil  21, 1879.    In  Daily  ^'ews,  May  17.  . 


C72  GREECE  AND  THE  TREATY  OF  BMltllf. 

to  be  adequately,  though  not  officially,  informed  v/hat  is  the  substan- 
tial matter  in  dispute. 

A  glauco  at  Kieppert*f?  larger  Map  will  show,  tliat  the  town  and  dis- 
tric*;  of  Janina  fall  within  tbo  line  marked  out  by  the  Congrefss  for  the 
new  Greek  frontier.  It  is  understood  that  Franco  accordingly  presses 
for  the  cefision  of  Janina  to  Greece.  It  is  difficult  to  believe,  yet  there 
seems  to  be  no  great  reason  to  doubt,  that  England,  and  that  England 
alone  among  the  Powers,  resists  it.  Is  it  possible  that  such  resistance, 
if  it  is  really  offered,  can  receive  the  support  of  the  nation?  Is  it  even 
clear  that  it  will  have  the  approval  of  the  nsoal  majority  in  the  House 
of  Commons? 

As  Crete,  according  to  one  of  the  old  legends,  was  the  cradle  of  Zens, 
so  Janina  was  the  historic  cradle  of  the  Greek  nation.  In  its  immedi- 
ate neighbourhood  have  been  discovered  the  ruins  of  the  ancient 
Dodona,  round  which  dwelt,  at  jbhe  very  earliest  recorded  date,  those 
Helloi,  or  Selloi,  ^  °  from  whose  name  the  appellation  of  Hellene,  now 
once  more  employed  to  denote  the  race,  is  a  derivative.  This  was  the 
sept  or  tribe  which  took  a  paramount  position,  and  exercised  a  decisive 
influence  upon  character,  manners,  and  institutions,  throughout  the 
Peninsula  to  the  south. 

At  the  same  time,  these  interesting  recollections  must  not  be  allowed 
to  rule  the  controversy,  if  it  can  be  shown  that  the  inhabitants  of  the 
district  are  not  Christian  and  Hellenic,  but  alien  and  Mohammedan. 
Now  there  are  two  tests  which  can  be  applied  with  conclusive  effect  to 
solve  the  problem  ;  that  of  religion,  and  that  of  language.  The  Porte 
has  set  up  an  assertion  that  the  people  of  Janina  are  not  Greeks  but 
Albanians.  The  fact  is  that  the  Albanians  are  ethnically,  beyond  all 
doubt,  a  kindred  race :  but  what  appears  to  be  also  true  is  that  the  few 
Albanians  of  Janina  include  a  small  dominant  class  of  MohammedimH. 
If  so,  we  may  readily  conceive  that  they  or  some  of  them  may  be  ob- 
jectors to  a  change  in  political  relations,  which  would  reduce  them  from 
ascendancy,  and  from  ascendancy,  as  understood  in  Turkey,  to  equality 
with  the  rest  of  their  fellow-subjects.  But  how  many  are  they?  What 
are  the  numbers  attached  to  the  two  religions?  And  in  what  propor- 
tions do  the  people  speak  the  two  tongues? 

The  Ei)irot3  resident  in  Constantinople  have  obtained  the  insertion 
in  the  journal  La  Turquie^^  of  their  remonstrance  on  this  subject 
They  (juote,  as  being  official,  certain  statistics  of  the  male  population 
of  Epirus,  including  the  important  district  of  Philiates,  anci  some  oth- 
ers, which  do  not  appear  to  fjiU  within  the  line.  The  return  for  the 
entire  country  gives  the  following  results : — Greeks,  89,653  ;  MurbuI- 
mans,  15,218.  Bat,  great  as  is  this  disproportion,  it  does  not  exhibit 
the  whole  strength  of  the  case  ;  for,  in  Philiates  for  example,  'where  tho 
Christians  are  near  13,000,  the  Mussulmans  are  over  9,000.  And  when 
we  take  the  district  of  Janina  alone  wo  find  the  Greeks  to  be  stated  as 
38,758,  while  the  Mussulmans  count  only  as  2,018..  These  appear  to  bo 
only  the  Mussulmans  of  the  town  itself,  which  has  about  S.wO  (male) 
inhabitants  of  all  religions. 

»»  n,  XTi.  234.  ^  "  Of  AprU  36.  1879. 


6BEECE  Al^  THE  TBKATY  OF  BEBIilN.     ;    ^  673 

Tk  is  Inotm  that  the  liabilitj  to  serve  in  the  army,  and  the  heavy  tax 
on  OlmQtians  for  exemption,  have  created  a  disposition  to  avoid  appear- 
ing in  the  lists  of  population.  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that 
another  estimate,  which  proceeds  from  an  educated  Christian  of  Janina, 
assigns  to  the  country  a  much  larger  nuj^ber  of  males.  It  seems  also 
prolxibly  to  contain  some  outlying  districts.  But  the  proportions  of 
(3iizisiian  and  non-Christian  inhabitants  are  not  greatly  varied.  The 
Ghrisidans  given  for^pirus  are  260,000 ;  the  Mussulmans  54,000 ;  with 
less  than  4^000  Jews.  Bat  again,  while  Janina  and  its  neighbourhood 
are  said  to  supply  92,000  0£n6tian£^  they  only  reckon  6,5)0  Moham- 
medans, with  ^000  Jews. 

The  evidence  as  to  language  is  not  less  remarkable.  In  the  entire 
district  of  Epirus,  indeed  (which  is  not  in  question),  193,000  axe  said 
to  8x>eak  Greek,  against  57,0 JO  divided  between  Albanian  and  Vlach. 
Bat  in  Janina  and  its  neighbourhood  the  Greek-speaking  population 
is  set  down  at  94,000,  with  onl^  5,500  of  other  tongues.  It  may,  in- 
deed, be  stud  that  figures  of  tms  kind  con  hardly  rest  upon  careful 
ennmeration,  and  may  owe  something  to  partiality.  Let  us  look,  then, 
for  otlier  evidence.  The  highest  accessible  authority  upon  the  subject 
is  that  of  persons  who  have  travelled,  I5r,  bevond  all  others,  who  hiave 
long  resided  in,  and  studied,  Epirus  with  tne  rest  of  Albimia^  before 
these  sabjects  passed  into  the  region  of  controvert  at  aU.  Sudi  are 
Ijeake  (1836),  Ami  Boue  (1840%  Tozer  (1869),  and  Hobhouse  (1809).  Of 
these  J  will  only  quote  the  last  ^'  *  The  Christiaas  of  Janina,  tiiough 
inhabiting  a  part  of  Albania^  and  governed  by  Albanian  masters,  call 
theniselves  Greeks.  .  .  .  They  neither  wear  the  Albanian  d^ess, 
nor  8X>eak  the  Albanian  language ;  and  they  partake  also  in  every  par- 
ticolar  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Greek  of  the  Morea^  Boume- 
lia»  axid  other  Christian  parts  of  Turkey.' 

A  yet  higher  authority,  and  indeed  the  highest  of  all,  is  Br.  Hahn, 
who  resided  for  very  many  years  at  Janina  as  Austrian  Consul,  and 
whose  Albonesische  mtdten  (Jena^  1858)  are  etiU,  I  believe,  the  standard 
work  on  that  little  known  country.  The  difficulty  is  to  select  from  his 
pages  without  running  to  great  length.  He  states  that  the  people  along 
the  coast  ^peak  both  languages  (Albanian  and  Greek),  but  in  Janina, 
Axtsk,  and  freveza  'even  the  Mohammedan  part  of  the  population  speak 
the  Oreek  as  mother  tongue'  (p.  14).  And  he  had  cause  to  know  it ; 
for  a  portion  of  his  work  was  to  produce  an  Albanian  Grammar  and 
r>i<^anary;  and  he  records  the  obstaclethat  he  found  in  'the  difficulty 
of  finding  occasion  to  practical  exercise  in  a  town  so  pvtrdy  Qreek  as 
JaninaJ  But  we  can  quite  understand  how  some  semblance  of  an  anti- 
Hellenic  feeling  could  be  procured  from  this  place,  when  we  learn  from 
him  <p.  36)  that  'the  family  language  of  the  foremost  aristocratic 
Mohaanmedan  houses  of  Janina  is  the  Albanian,  but  they  do  not  num- 
ber more  than  about  a  dozen.* 

X  Jawraey  Vvnmgk  AJbamia,  p.  70.  London :  IS  13.  This  is  no  question  of  Albania 
at  alL  Divided  among  themselves,  without  any  sign  of  bisturiciil  unity,  the  Albani- 
ans are  a  T9oe  distinct  from  Hellenes,  altlioagh^  as  lias  been  shown  in  the  Kingdom, 
quite  capable  of  assimilating  Avith  them.  It  is  a  Greek  population  with  which  we  are 
culliad  ap<m  to  deal :  and  uii  amount  of  buUying  or  whoedli^ig  by  the  TurldiUi  oatboritiei 
oa  the  fltf>o*  can  make  it  otherwise.  _      '     ,^o« 


'  BY4    '  '  GREECE  AND  THE  TREATY  OF  BEEllN. 

Sach  then  Ckppears  to  be  the  case  of  Janina;  where,  a  couple  of  years 
ago,  when  there  was  a  fear  of  Slavonic  intrigues,  the  official  Ottomtm 
Journal  (Feb.  2,.  1877)  declared  that  *Epiru8  never  forgets  that  she  i^ 
the  primitive  Greece,  the  first  station  of  Hellenism,  where  the  Greek 
religion  and  the  Greek  letters  *  (of  this  last  we  were  not  quite  aware) 
'had  their  birth.' 

Unless  all  this  case  can  be  effectually  overset,  the  Porte  cannot  reasonrr- 
bly  hope  to  succeed  in  keeping  Janina  under  her  rule.  She  wonld  net 
wisely  to  isndeavour  to  part  with  it  on  the  best  terms  she  can  make ;  an  i 
the  only  termd  she  can  make  with  show  of  rieason  or  hope  of  success  ar.- 
probabiy  terms  of  money,  which  have  soothed  her  susceptibilities  in 
the  case  of  Bulgaria,  and  which  may  yet  be  found  to  operate  ^-iih  a 
gentle  reconciling  force  in  other  portions  of  the  great  Eastern  probb  n. 
'  But  the  question,  for  us  and  for  the  moment,  st^ds  thus.  .  If  there  is  t<  • 
bd  a  serious  diplomatic  controversy  about  Janina  and  its  district,  wliick 
iside  are  we  to  take?    It  is  good  to  know  that  Greece  has  found  a  ch:iii> 

gion,  although  it  is  mortifying  to  be  also  made  painfully  aware  that  we 
ave  thus  far  allowed  the  championship  to  slip  away  ftom  onr  own 
hands.     The  conduct  of  France  at  the  period  of  the  Greek  Emancip..- 
tion  did  indeed  entitle  her  to  contest  it  with  us  in  a  friencllv  and  hon- 
ourable rivalry.    But  her  partial  recession  from  questions  of  Europej.n 
interest  since  the  German  war  made  it  peculiarly  our  duty,  at  Constan- 
tinople and  elsewhere,  to  assume  the  office.    Nor  can  the  &ct  be  C(>n- 
cealed  that  we  had  every  possible  facility  for  the  performance  of  th--^ 
duty.    No  country  can  vie  with  us,  unless  it  be  our  own  fault,  iu  win- 
ning the  confidence  and  affection  of  the  Greeks:  for  there  is  no  oth'  r 
State  in  regard  to  which  there  does  not  exist  some  bar  to  a  compU  i*. 
harmony.    Russia  agrees  with  the  Greeks  as  members  of  the  orthod<  x 
Church,  but  excites  their  jealousy  by  her  Slavonic  sympathies,  within 
the  circle  of  which  even  religion  has  now  been  drawn.     Rrance  has  no 
special  Slavonic  sympathies;  but  her  rehgton,  on  account  of  its  agpr— 
Bive  operations,  is  everywhere  in  conflict  with  the  religion  of  Gn.-. 
and  gliding,  as  it  is  so  apt  to  glide,  into  Eastern  policy,  introduces :  n 
element  of  misgiving  which  checks  the  thorough  consolidation  of  go  d- 
wilL    England  alone  is  absolutely  detached  from  any  influence  whkli 
can  mar  the  completeness  of  her  concord  with  the  Hellenic  rac-  x 
She  shared  with  France  and  Russia  the  good  work  of  liberation:  ar.  i 
the  unhappy  affiiir  of  Pacific©  was  surely  well  redeemed  by  the  cess-.l  j 
of  the  Ionian  Islands.    She  is  naturally  marked  out,  not  for  an  exclu- 
sive, but  for  a  special  friendliness  with  Greece.    But  there  is  no  •!- 
mand  in  this  case  for  a  special  friendliness,  in  order  to  supply  the  mcr:  v*. 
of  right  action.    The  ungracious  assent,  which  we  so  unhappily  Biilisti- 
tuted  at  the  Congress  for  our  zealous  advocacy,  at  any  rate  stanjli?  r-- 
corded  against  ns.     That  wo  should  lend  to  Greece  a  free  and  res..'::' 
concurrence,  at  least  at  this  final  stage,  in  obtaining  for  her  the  I  <  <  :^ 
destined  for  her  by  European  compact,  is  what  justice,  policy,  olu 
even  decency,  alike  require. 
I    m,j  2^  1879.  W.  E.  GiiADSTONiS,  in  Nineteanih  OaUury, 


FROISSAKTS  LOVE  StOEY. 

Come  vnth.  me  to  a  certain  qniet  corner  that  I  know  in  a  great  libm- 
\  jr;  a  coiner  where  we  shall  find  no  one,  except  a  few  specialists,  who 
\/ill  glare  at  ns.  It  is  the  pretty  way  of  specialists  to  glare  npon  in- 
tiTLders.  One  of  these  is  proving  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  there 
never  were  any  Courts  of  Love  at  all,  which  is  asmnch  as  to  prt)ve  that 
thare  never  were  any  Olympian  games  at  alL  Another,  a  German  this, 
Ib  collecting  Old  French  ballads,  which  he  will  publish  with  variorum 
rv-adings  like  a  Greek  chorus.  Then  he  will  go  about  declaring  vnth 
pride  that  the  Germans  alone  understand  early  French  literature, 
3U8t  as  the  Germans  alone  understand  Shakespeare.  A  third,  a 
sprightly  young  Frenchman,  is  collecting  anecdotes,  which  he  will 
make  into  a  volume,  and  call  it  a  'Research.*  Let  us  sit  down  among 
tliem,  <juietly,  without  disturbing  any  one,  and  read  the  story  of  Frois- 
sart's  single  love  passage,  told  by  himself,  in  the  poetry  of  which  ho 
was  so  proud. 

I  admit  that  Froissart  is  better  known  as  a  chronicler,  but  some  def- 
erence should  surely  bo  paid  to  a  man's  own  opinions,  especially 
about  himself.  And  on  the  occasions  when  Froissart  had  to  be  entered 
in  account-books  as  a  recipient  of  princely  gifts,  he  called  himself  a 
poet — €Uttor.  As  for  the  tight  to  the  title,  in  the  first  place  any  one 
may  call  himself  a  poet;  and  in  the  second,  Froissart  wrote  an  enor- 
mous qt^antity  of  verse,  just  as  good  as  that  of  any  rival  dittar.  It  is  not 
his  faiilt,  nor  was  it  his  expectation,  that  the  world  should  refuse  to  ' 
read  him  any  more.  Some  day,  the  world  may  even  find  itself  too  busy 
to  read  the  *Ein^  and  the  Book.* 

Froissart,  in  his  own  estimation,  then,  was,  before  all,  a  great  poet, 
who  sometimes  wrote  chronicles.  His  verses  mostly  remain  in  manu- 
Fcript.  From  the  selection  which  has  been  pubhshod  in  Budion's 
edition,  I  have  gathered  the  history  which  follows. 

I  have  always  thought  that  the  singers  who  piped  during  this  period 
of  poetic  decadence  have  been  harshly' treated.  Critica  display  an  acer- 
bity towards  them,  which  seems  to  betray  temper.  Yet  these  gentle 
poets  are  an  unoffending  folk;  they  do  not  pretend.  They  are  content 
to  follow  in  the  old  grooves,  and  to  sing,  to  the  old  tunes,  songs  which 
are  as  like  onto  each  other  as  the  individual  members  in  a  flock  of 
Chinamen. 

Great  poet/y,  indeed,  can  only  be  expected  in  times  of  great  ^  strife, 
peril,  and  upheaval,  as  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth,  and  end  of 
the  eighteenth  centuries.  It  does  not  always  come  even  then.  "But  in 
t]i8  fourteenth  century,  though  things  mediaeval  were  passing  swiftly 
to  universal  change,  every  institution  seemed  fixed  iand  unalterable  as 
the  CGUTB63  of  tha  planets.  As  was  the  daily  life,  sowasthe-son^.  Listen: 
you  hear  the  bweot  and  simple  tune,  and  you  are  presently  tired  of  it. 
Listen  a  little  longer:  you  become  accustomed  to  the  monotony,  and 

(675) 


676  FBOiaSABTS  LOVE  ST0B7. 

yon  find  yonrself»  like  yonr  anceetors,  expecting  the  same  tone,  and 
anxious  only  to  find  oat  what  variation*  if  any,  will  be  put  in  words 
and  tlioaghts. 

And  there  is  another  thing;  it  is  pleasant  to  discover  in  these  old 
poets  the  same  canons  of  nonour,  truth,  and  loyalty,  which  are  the 
code  of  the  modem  gentleman.  These  trouvtres,  knights  or  clerks, 
have  nothins  at  all  to  learn  from  ns.  They  show  themselves,  in  their 
rippling  and  monotonous  verse,  as  jealous  for  what  we  call  in  our 
priggish  modem  cant  the  "  Higher  Culture,**  as  any  writer  or  preacher 
or  poet  among  ourselves.  There  is  nowhere  a  more  perfect  gentleman, 
ns  disclosed  in  his  own  unaffected  verse,  than  Charles  of  Orleans,  or 
Eustache  Deschamps,  or  Froissart  himself 

They  are  trying  to  revive  once  more  the  old  forms  of  verse.  The 
ballad,  Uie  triolet,  the  virelay,  the  rondeau,  and  the  rest  have  appeared 
again.  Just  now,  though  already  there  are  signs  that  the  first  fresh- 
ness of  surprise  is  gone,  the  movement  possesses  the  charm  of  novelty. 
The  revival  is  quaint;  in  the  hands  of  Swinburne,  and  of  Mr.  John 
Payne,  the  translator  of  Villon,  the  old-fashioned  rhymes  become  de- 
llghtfol ;  in  all  other  hands,  so  far  as  I  have  seen,  they  are  laboured, 
self-conscious,  and  constrained.  It  can  hardly  be  expected  that  they 
will  take  a  permanent  place  among  the  naturalised  forms  of  English 
verse.  Even  when  Bwinbume  uses  them^  it  is  the  dexterity  of  the 
poet  which  pleases  us,  not  the  beauty  of  the  verse.  The  paucity  of 
our  rhymes  and  our  own  rules  of  rhyme  render  it  very  unhkely  that 
the  ballad  or  the  viUanelle  will  ever  become  more  than  a  plavthing, 
cr  a  vehicle  for  vers  de  sod^U,  One  can  hardly  understand  Shelley 
pouring  out  his  thoughts  in  londeaux,  or  Wordsworth  preferring  a 
Ocdade  to  a  sonnet. 

Eroissart  tells  the  story  of  his  love  in  the  7\vttie  da  VEsptnetfe  Amnur- 
euse,  a  composition  of  some  four  thousand  lines,  interspersed  with 
hakuJeSt  virelam  and  rondeaux.  The  tale  is  told  after  the  mauncr  of 
the  time,  with  prolix  preambles,  reflections,  introduction^  and  di- 
gressions: we  must  not,  however,  interrupt  the  narrator,  and  if  we  only 
give  him  full  scope,  we  shall  presently  reap  our  reward  in  finding 
what  manner  of  youth  was  Froissart  in  the  days  when  he  had  as  yet 
no  thoughts  of  going  a-chronicling. 

He  begins  with  a  few  reflections  on  love.  Young  men,  he  says, 
earnestly  yeam  for  the  time  to  arrive  when  they  too  shaU  be  able  to 
pay  their  tribute  to  Love,  although  thev  know  nothing  of  the  troubles 
and  perils  which  surround  the  Court  of  that  sovereign.  "Such  was  I 
when  I  was  young.  At  twelve  years  of  age  my  chief  pleasure  was  in 
seeing  dances  and  carols,  in  listening  to  minstrels  and  the  words  which 
bring  delight.  At  school  I  followed  the  little  maidens  about,  just  to 
give  them  an  apple,  or  a  pear,  or  a  ring;  great  prowess  it  seemed  to 
win  their  favour.  And  I  said  to  myself  that  when  the  time  shoold 
come  for  me  to  love,  lilce  all  the  rest,  par  anuyurs,  no  one  ought  to 
blame  me.  For,  indeed,  in  many  places  it  is  writt<.n  tliat  with  love 
and  arms  come  all  joy  and  all  honour. 


FBOISSAErS  LOVE  STORY.  fTf 

"And  know,  that  never  did  1  loan 
1o  loves  diflgnuseftil,  base,  and  mean ; 
But  ever  strove  to  render  well 
All  service  due  to  daoioiselle : 
And  other  guerdon  bodied  for  none, 
Than  favour  soatrht  and  favour  won. 
Still  doth  the  recollection  raise 
The  wearied  soul  from  earthy  ways; 
Still,  lilie  a  painting  richly  dii^ht. 
That  memorj  lingera  in  my  sight. 
Still  feeds  the  heart  and  keeps  alive 
The  thoughts iu  which  true  pleasures  thrive.'* 

He  goes  on  to  explain  that  a  man,  considering  bow  short  a  space  he 
lias  to  live,  should  employ  his  time  in  the  most  profitable  manner 
poesible,  viz.  the  cultivation  of  love.  Then  he  begins  with  the  begin- 
nings and  describes  his  education,  his  childhood,  and  the  games  he 
played. 

I  wish  he  had  been  as  explicit  in  the  description  of  his  school-life 
as  he  is  in  that  of  his  games;  Here,  indeed,  he  is  almost  as  detailed 
as  "Rabelais  himself,  who  gives  a  list  of  two  hundred.  Fxoissart*s  list 
contains  about  sixty. 

"Ah I  happy  time,*'  he  cries,  when — 

"  Whether  to  speak  or  hold  my  peace 
Alike  was  jo^  without  surcease; 
Whou  on  a  simple  i)OHy  neot, 
Fit  olfuring  for  a  damsel  sweet, 
More  store  I  placed  thuu  ai  this  day 
I  set  by  tale  or  virclay 
Woith  twenty  marks  of  silver  white : 
So  full  my  heart  was  of  delight.'* 

Amid  these  simple  joys  he  grew  up,  went  to  school  and  was  flogged, 
fought  other  boys,  and  went  home  with  his  clothes  torn,  for  which  he 
was  mis  ^  ration — ^but  this  was  labour  lost,  "because  I  never  did  it  the 
less  for  that " — conceived  a  great  fondness  for  reading  romances  and 
treatisee  of  love;  and  began  to  try  his  hand  at  writing  verses. 

One  regrets  that  he  was  not  impelled  to  set  down  more  details  of  this 
time,  and  to  give  the  world  a  picture  of  that  mediaeval  bourgeois  life  at 
Valenciennes  to  which  he  belonged  by  birth.  But  that  was  not  in  the 
way  of  a  courtly  poet.  Writers  offc^liaux,  it  is  true,  might  condescend 
to  smch  details. 

Arrived  at  adolescence — in  another  poem  we  have  the  further  particu- 
lars of  his  passage  from  school  to  the  profession  of  poet — he  has  a  vision. 
The  season,  according  to  fourteenth-century  requirements,  was  May ; 
the  time,  early  morning ;  the  place,  a  garden.  The  birds  were  singing 
as  if  in  emulation,  "Never  before  saw  I  so  fair  a  mom."  The  firma- 
ment was  yet  glittering  with  stars,  though  Lucifer  was  already  driving 
them  away.  All  this  is  quite  in  accordance  with  polite  usage;  what 
follows,  although  not  absolutely  new,  is  yet  unexpected.  The  youth 
sitting  tinder  a  flowering  thorn  looked  up  into  a  sky  clearer  and  more 
pitfo  ih&a  silver  or  azure.    He  was  seized  with  a  rapture  of  spirit,  and 


ei^'i  FBOISSAETTS  LOVE  STOET. 

while  he  gazed  there  came  floating  before  his  astonished  eyes  three  faij 
women  and  a  youth. 

"  A  jonth  is  be  of  ancient  fame : 
T«)  men.  Dan  Mercury  his  name ; 
Great  is  liis  wit  and  great  his  tikill, 
He  teaches  children,  at  his  will, 
Each  art  and  several  ni vstery. 
And  speech  ol  craft  una  subtlety." 

Mercuiy  introduces  himself  in  a  neat,  off-hand  manner,  qnite  in  keep- 
ing with  his  character  as  god  of  the  light-handed  gentry,  and  then  pro- 
ceeds to  inform  the  poet  that  he  sees  before  him  no  other  than  Jcmo^ 
Pallas,  and  Venus.  At  present,  he  explains  with  a  charming  frankness^ 
as  if  the  goddesses  were  not  within  hearing,  their  relations  with  each 
other  are  by  no  means  cordial,  on  account  of  the  recent  judgment  of 
Paris  ;  the  two  disappointed  ladies  agreeing  in  one  point,  that  the  de- 
cision was  entirely  due  to  the  shepherd's  pitiable  ignoiEZkce  and  rusti- 
city. He  then  goes  on  to  point  out  all  the  miseries  which  followed  this 
important  verdict.  All  this  time,  while  Mercupy  is  volubly  explaining 
the  situation,  the  three  goddesses  make  no  remark  of  any  kind  either 
to  each  other  or  to  Mercury.  The  reader  has  to  ima^ne  them  standing 
in  cold  and  unapproachable  majesty,  two  of  them  with  clouded  brows, 
deigning  to  take  no  notice  whatever  of  the  young  clerk  before  them. 

Then  Mercury  asks  for  Froissart's  own  opinion.  What  opinion  could 
be  expected  of  such  a  youth  ? 

"  '  T  think  that  Paris,  when  his  rolci 
Named  Lndv  Vcnna  for  his  choic«\ 
Betirin^  to  fate  and  fortunc'H  meed 
And  future  h)ss  no  reck  or  lieed, 
Kut  placed  the  apple  in  her  hand, 
Ki{rhtly  the  case  <tid  undoretand. 
Because  that  Helen  fnir  thereby 
Became  his  queen  and  mistress  high 
So  that  my  judj^ir^nt  steadfast  lies : 
Ftrr  Helen's  sake  ne  pave  the  priise. 
This  WM  fit  gaerdon  for  all  pun, 
So  will  1  every  wli ere  maintain.' 
Quoth  Mercmy,  ' I  knew  it  well  j 
This  is  the  tale  all  lovers  tell.'  " 

This  said,  Juno  and  Pallas  retired  as  they  came,  silent  and  scomfaL 
Did  the  poet,  one  asks,  really  mean  to  convey,  by  this  silence,  the  im- 
pression of  divine  grandeur  ?  They  are  introduced  in  a  single  line :  we 
feel  their  presence :  we  can  mark  the  anger  burning  in  the  cheek  of 
the  Ox-eyed,  and  firing  the  cold  eye  of  Pallas ;  they  stand  looking  afar 
off;  they  vanish,  as  they  came,  with  Mercury. 

•'  Et  a  CO  qn'il  s'ovnniii. 
Juno  sa  more  le  siovi, 
Et  Palliis  :  jo  ne  les  vis  pins." 

That  is,  however,  a  modem  way  of  looking  at  ii    May  it  not  be  thai 


'    SlfcOIBfiABT'S  LOVE  STORY.  67» 

Froiasftii  desired  to  represent  nothing  more  tlian  a  condition  of  gnimx>- 
iness^  for  which  I  beliere  there  was  no  adequate  word  in  his  tongue? 
Venus  remained  behind,  Venus  gracious,  grateful,  generous,  and  she 
stayed  to  promise  him  a  reward.  What  could  she  give— what  had  Venus 
to  give— ^but  beauty?  Ho  shall  love  and  revorenco  a  lady,  fair,  young, 
and  genie.  From  Valenciennes  to  Constantinople  no  king  or  emperor 
but  would  hold  himself  well  paid  by  such  a  gift. 

"Then  I  who  was  surprised  but  yet  rejoiced  of  heart,  with  simpli- 
city and  great  doubtfulness  cast  down  my  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
Young  as  I  was  I  had  not  yet  learned  to  hear  things  of  such  great  price, 
or  to  receive  such  payments." 

The  promise  of  Venus  was  soon  fulfilled.  Very  shortly  afterwards  he 
finds  a  young  lady  whom  he  knows  by  name,  at  least,  reading  in  the 
garden.  He  advances  timidly  and  adcuesses  her  douoeinent,  **  Fair  lady 
and  sweet,  wj^t  is  the  name  of  your  romance  ?" 

She  replied^  "It  is  called  Cleomades;  well  and  amorously  is  it 
written.  You  shall  hear  it,  and  then  you  will  tell  me  how  it  pleases 
you. 

This  projKMsal  pleased  him  very  much.  But  he  thought  little  of  the 
romance,  so  much  occupied  was  he  vnth  the  reader.  "Then  I  gazed 
upon  her  sweet  face,  her  fresh  colour  and  her  hazel  eyes— better  could 
not  be  wished — ^her  long  hair  fairer  than  flax,  and  htmds  so  beautiful 
that  the  daintiest  lady  in  the  land  would  have  been  contented  with 
less." 

She  began  to  read  a  piece  which  made  her  laugh.  "  Now  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  sweet  was  the  movement  of  her  lips  when  she  laughed, 
not  too  long,  but  softly  and  gently,  as  the  most  nobly  bom  and  the 
most  well-bred  lady  in  the  world." 

Then  she  asked  him  to  read  in  his  turn.  Ho  read  two  or  throe  pages. 
*'  Then  we  left  off  reading  and  began  talking,  simple  sort  of  talk,  such 
as  young  folks  delight  in." 

When  it  was  time  to  go  away  la  hdle  invited  him,  mouU  amoureusement, 
that  is,  with  the  courtesy  and  kindness  which  befit  ladiesiworthy  of 
love  from  lord  or  poet,  to  come  again.  **  He  mi !  what  joy  those  words 
gave  me  T 

He  did  not  fail  to  accept  this  gracious  invitation.  She  asked  him  to 
lend  her  another  romance.  He  had  at  home  the  *Bailli  d' Amour,' 
which  he  promised  to  send  her,  and  then,  craftily  taking  advantage  of 
this  opportunity,  hi&  wrote  a  ballad  and  put  it  in  the  volume.  The 
ballad  is  a  complaint  of  love  to  "  la  belle  que  tant  prison."  Great  was 
his  disappointment  ^hen  the  romance  was  returned  and  with  it  the 
verses.  The  lady  had  not  accepted  his  offering.  Had  she  read  it? 
He  thinks  not.  We,  on  the  other  hand,  may  be  allowed  to  believe  that 
she  did.  Surely  feminine  curiosity  would  have  impelled  her  to  open 
the  paper,  at  least,  and  when  it  was  once  open  the  "next  step  was  short 
indeed. 

After  this  rebuff  he  entered  upon  a  short  course  of  severe  but  ex- 
tremely enjoyable  martyrdom,  being  as  happy  as  Don  Quixote,  whetu 


680  FBOISSABrS  LOVE  STORY, 

for  loye  of  DulciiLea,  he  banged  his  head  against  the  rocks  and  cut 
capers  in  his  shirt  Happiness  returned  when,  on  his  offenng  a  rose 
to  nis  mistress,  she  accepted  it.  Joy,  sorrow,  and  love  must  aU  -alike 
be  expressed  in  yerse,  and  so  he  went  back  to  the  garden  where,  under 
the  very  rose-bush  from  which  he  had  plucked  the  happ^  zose^  ^e  com- 
j>0B6d  me  following  vireUy : 

**  The  heart  which  still  in  mirthfiil  fmise 
Receives  whatever  the  years  bestow: 
Of  wealth  nnd  pleasance  or  fair  show 
I  ween  la  i»  its  seasim  wise; 
This  will  I  hold  where'er  J.  go. 

In  this  estate  of  love  so  sweet, 

Manj  there  are  in  dulu  and  moon 
(As  those  devoured  by  fbrer  heat). 

And  know  not  whercfom  tlie^^  must  gntau 
Yet  still  the  heart,  full  conscious  tries 

The  secret  way  of  health  to  xhow. 

Ah  me !  if  only  I  conld  know, 
Where  hope  to  seek  with  anxious  eyes, 

Bly  the  woidd  I  sing  farewell  to  woe. 
The  heart,  &o. 

X  think,  more  pleasant  nnd  more  sweet 

Than  my  dear  lady  U  tht're  none ; 
Hy  soul  lies  oaptivo  at  her  feet. 

And  yet  the  lover's  tears  flow  on. 
For  when  from  dreams  of  nifrlit  I  rise, 
And  think  I  dare  not  tell  her  so, 
Or  that  my  lady  doth  n<»t  know  : 
Or  that  she  scorns  these  plaints  and  righs*' 
•Tis  bootless  thus  to  sinp,  I  trow : 
The  lienrt  which  still  in  mirthful  guise 
Receives  whato'er  the  yeais  b»»stwv 
Of  weidth  and  {iJousance  or  fair  show, 
I  ween  is  in  its  season  wise : 
This  wm  I  hold  where'er  I  go." 

The  viretay  finished,  the  lover  had  to  live  upon  hope  until  he  mek 
the  lady  again  in  a  compeuiy  of  five  or  six,  when  "  in  solace  and  high 
revel"  they  sat  and  ate  ripe  fruit.  He  did  not  daro  to  speak  what  wns 
in  his  mind,  but  spent  the  time  in  remonstrating  with  himself  lik<? 
lazy  Lawrence  inviting  lazy  Lawrence  to  get  up.  '*  Glome,**  he  says,  "if 
you  dare  not  tell  her  what  is  in  your  heart,  what  can  I  think  of  yonr 
wisdom?  Living  like  this  is  not  life  at  all,"  and  so  on.  Quite  use- 
lessly, however. 

Another  time  they  met  at  a  dance,  and  Frolssart  stood  up  to  danc? 
with  her.  "He  mi!  com  lors  estoie  lies! — how  joyful,  how  happy  I 
was  !*'  So  much  was  he  encouraged,  that  when  they  sat  down,  the 
dance  finished,  he  informed  la  beUe  that  his  joy  was  wnoUy  due  to  her 
grace  and  beauty,  and  that  if  they  were  alone  he  would  tell  her  more. 
"  Would  you?"  she  replied  coldly.  **NoW|  is  there  any  sense  in  your 
loving  me?    Let  us  dance  again. 


^EOISSAIirS  LOVE  STOHY.  681 

Any  sense?  There  was,  tmly»  a  tlitowing  of  wet  blankets.  Froxn 
one  point  of  view  there  was  no  sense  at  all.  The  lady  was  of  gentle 
birth.  The  young  clerk  -was  not  only  a  bourgeois,  but  also  in  the  lesser 
orders  of  the  Ghnrch.  Perhaps  she  was  not  yet  Old  enough  to  under- 
stand  the  charm  of  love  in  dumb  show  and  make-believe,  which  had 
no  end  in  view  but  the  gratification  of  a  poet's  fenoy  and  the  foUowine 
of  an  alle^rical  fashion.  Bhe  had.  yet  to  leam^in  the  sequel  it  will 
appear  as  if  she  never  did  learn— all  that  can  be  got  from  tha;t  sacred 
and  chivalrous  devotion  which  Froiflsart  was  ready  to  offer  her. 

Time  went  on,  but  it  brou^t  little  comfort  to.  the  hapless  swain. 
Sometimes  he  saw  his  mistress,  and  observed,  with  gnashing  of  teeth, 
that  she  was  just  as  gracious  to  others  as  to  himself.  Now  it  chanced 
that  there  waS  a  lady  at  Valenciennes  known  to  Froissart,  who  was 
greatly  in  the  confidence  of  la  belk.  To  her  the  young  clerk  repaired, 
and  with  honeyed  words  and  offers  of  service  persuaded  her  to  hear 
his  tale  and  to  stand  his  friend.  The  lady,  who  had  been  already  for 
a  whole  vear,  we  are  told,  experienced  in  the  proper  methods  of  love, 
advised  him  to  go  away  and  write  a  ballad,  which  she  undertook  to 
place,  as  if  it  was  the  work  of  same  one  else,  in  his  mistress's  hands. 
"When  she  speaks  of  it,  I  will  let  her  know  the  author  of  the  lines, 
and  that  you  wroto  them  all  for  love  of  her."  This  was  a  very  pretty, 
if  not  quite  original,  plot.  The  young  poot  went  away  and  wroto  the 
verses.    Here  they  are  : 

**  Lady  of  worth  and  boanty  fair. 

In  whom  dwell  uU  sweet  gifts  of  lO^ce, 
Hj  heart,  mj  love,  my  thought,  my  oare. 

Are  slaves  l)efure  thy  fentle  face  ; 

Therefore,  O  Lady  of  laud  and  iiraJse, 
I  pray  (or  oni^i^^on  fsreat  to  mc, 
The  gift  of  kindly  thought  from  thee. 

From  day  to  day  I  make  no  prayer. 

At  night  no  other  h(»pe  finds  plaoe, 
But  ever  more  and  evciywhere, 

To  serve  thee  in  tl»y  Morks  and  Tvayi  j 

And  though  I  plead  in  lowly  case, 
Tet  dare  I  ask.  Oh  !  grant  to  me. 
The  gift  of  kindly  thought  from  thee. 

By  words,  by  songs,- by  works,  by  prayer, 

A  lover's  faith  and  truth  yon  truoe, 
Go  ask  and  search  ont  every wiioro. 

All  that  I  say,  my  deeds,  my  wavs.  ■ 

Shuulil  these  unworthy  seem,  ana  base. 
Forgive  mc.  nor  withhold  fn»m  me. 
The  girt  of  kindly  thought  from  thee." 

Mark,  however,  the  sequel.  When  these  insidious  lines  were  crafkiW 
given,  according  to  the  plot,  to  the  lady  for  whom  they  were  intondeo, 
an  unforeseen  accident  occurred.  She  knew  the  handwriting  and  laughed, 
Baying  mystoriously  "  9^  ^ "  What  comfort  is  to  be  got  but  of  a  oolouri 
less  intexjection  ?    It  may  mean  anything;  presumably  ''9a"  meant 


esa  '    FitoissAErs  love  story.  * 

Boine  eorfc  of  disooura^enient.  To  be  enre^sho  added  presently  th'e 
words,  "What  he  asks  is  no  small  thing";  yet  there  is  not  much  in  the 
way  of  hope  to  be  gathered  from  this  sentence.  It  most  be  owned  that 
the  yonng  lady  appears  throughout  singnlarly  cold  as  regards  her  pro- 
posed suitor.  This  lack  of  enoontagement  reminds  ns  that  we  are  in 
a  period  of  deoadrnce>  when  the  pretty  make-believes  of  the  olden 
time  are  fast  losing,  if  they  hare  not  already  lost,  their  significance 
and  their  influence.  Had  it  been  a  great  lady,  such  as  Queen  Philip^ 
or  Yolande  of  Bar,  the  poet  might  have  had  a  better  chance.  To  ims 
little  country  demoiselle  courtly  fashions  and  chivalrous  customs  would 
probably  have  small  attractions.  So  Froissart  went  melancholy  again 
and  smiled  sadly  in  pleasing  anticipation  of  dying  for  lova  and  of  a 
broken  heart,  "just,  he  says,  "like  Leander,  who  died  for  love  of 
Hero,  daughter  of  Jupiter,  or  Achilles,  who  died  for  Polixena^  or 
the  gentle  youth  Actason."  Think  of  representing  poor  Actieon's  hap- 
less end  as  due  to  love.     ButLempriere  had  :not  yet  been*bom. 

This  uncertainty  turned  into  despair  when  he  heard  that  they  werepre- 
paringforthe  young  lady's  marriage.  As  nothing  morels  said  aboutthat 
event,  it  is  presumed  that  it  either  never  came  o^  or  else  that  it  proved 
to  make  no  difference  in  the  course  of  Froissart's  courtly  love.  An  op- 
portune  illness  which  occurred  at  this  time,  doubtless  due  to  the  ah- 
sence  of  drains  in  Valenciennes,  was  naturally  ascribed  to  love-despair, 
and  at  its  commencement  he  prepared  for  death  with  a  balo/der  the  re* 
frain  of  which  was: 

'*  J«  finirai  ensi  qne  fist  Tristans, 
Car  jo  morrui  pi>ur  amer  par  amors." 

It  seems  part  of  the  general  unreality  of  the  story,  that  he  inserts 
here  a  long  *  Omplaint  *  in  a  thousand  lines,  which  we  are  to  suppose 
was  written  during  the  fever.  Of  course  it  is  unreal,  because  it  is  con- 
ventionaL  But  about  the  illness  there  need  be  no  doubt:  that  fever 
may  be  considered  a  historical  fact.  As  it  happened  opportunely,  it 
became  a  convenient,  peg  and  a  favorable  occasion  for  the  assertion  of 
despair. 

After  worrying  through  this  fever  and  his  'Complaint,*  and  getting 
well  of  both,  ho  found  himself  constrained,  by  want  of  money,  to  leave 
his  native  town.  He  had  long  enough  dawdled  jabout  the  lesser 
courts,  getting  a  ballad  "placed  *  here  and  a  rondel  introduced  there; 
it  was  now  necessary  that  he  should  seek  his  fortuna  '^The  main  chance 
prevailed  over  love;  he  sailed  for  England  comforted  by  the  possession 
of  a  mirror  which  his  mistress  had  used  for  three  whole  years.  The 
confidante  stole  it  for  him.  He  met  with  a  most  fEivDurabfe  reception 
at  the  English  Court,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  read  the  gratitude  with 
which  he  speaks  of  it. 

"  None  came  to  this  country  Who  was  not  made  welcome,  for  it  is  a 
land  of  ^eat  delight,  and  the  people  of  it  were  so  well-disposed  that 
they  desire  ever  to  be  in  joy.  At  the  time  when  I  \vo&  among  them,  the 
country  ploasod  mo  greatly,  because  with  great  lords,  with  ladies  and 


V:- 


^ROISSARrS  LOVE  STOBY.  &3 


damoisdkst  I  very  willinglr  amused  myself.  Yet  know,  that  I  never 
ce€kB6  to  think  of  mj  lady. 

And  then  tbera  "Wafl  the  mirror.  He  laid  the  mirror  every  night  be- 
neath his  pillow  in  order  to  dream  of  his  mistreBs.  And  once  he  had 
a  vmon. 

He  dreamed  that  hd  was  in  a  chamber  hung  with  tapestry.  In  the 
cliamber  was  the  mirror.  And  as  he  gazed  into  it  according  to  his  wont 
BTiddenly  the  face  of  his  lady— no  other— appeared.*  In  her  hand  she 
lield  a  comb,  and  with  it  she  was  parting  her  lair  long  tresses.  "  Might- 
ily astonished  was  I»  but  yet  I  conld  not  have  wished  to  be  in  any 
other  place."  Then  Bh6  spoke  to  him,  or  seemed  to  speak,  from  the 
mirror,  ••  Where  art  thou,  fond  heart  and  sweet?  Forgive  me  that  I 
think  of  thee."  '  Forgive,  indeed !  He  turned  to  utter  his  forgiveness, 
convinced  that  she  was  looking  over  his  shoulder  into  the  glass;  but 
there  was  no  one.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  mirror,  when  he  saw  her 
again.  Once  more,  bewildered  and  frightenod,  he  searched  the  cham- 
ber and  the  stairs  which  led  to  it,  but  oould  find  no  trace  of  his  mistress. 
Then  he  remembered  the  story  of  'Papirus  and  Ydoree,'  which  he  nar- 
rates in  full,  *'ju0t  as  Ovid  tells  it."  i  do  not,  myself,  remember  that 
legend  in  Ovid.    It  is  a  magical  experience  of  the  same  kind. 

He  returns  to  his  mirror,  and  his  ladv's  face  is  still  visible.  And 
then,  to  his  infiudte  joy,  la  hdle  speaks  to  nim  a^ain,  or  mther  sings  to 
him,  in  verses  tf  his  oam  composinq^  *  La  Gonfort  de  la  Bame. '  The  com- 
fort, it  must  be  owned,  was  administered-  in  a  large  and  libeml  spirit; 
for  it  takes  nine  pages,  or  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  lines.  But 
what  are  a  few  hundred  lines,  more  or  less,  to  a  fourteenth-century 
poet? 

Hex  voicd  is  silent,  her  face  vanishes  from  the  mirror,  and  the  dream- 
ing man  awakes,  whispering  to  himself,-  "Here  be  marvels  and  phan- 
toms," a  remark  fully  justified  by  the  circumstances  of  the  case.  The 
natural  consequence  of  such  a  dream  was  that  he  began  to  pine  for  the 
sight  of  his  mistress  in  the  flesh,  and  that  he  wrote  a  love-sick  virelay 
which  he  gave  to  Queen  Philippa.  "She  read  aright  that  my  heart 
was  drawn  elsewhere,  and  after  a  little  examination  easily  iaficertained 
that  I  was  in  love.  Then  said  she,  'You  shall  go,  so  may  you  have  be- 
fore long  good  news  of  your  lady.  Therefore  I  give  you  leave  from 
this  day,  only  I  will  and  require  that  you  return  to  me  again.'  Then  I, 
kneeling,  replied,  *  Madame,  wherever  I  may  be  your  commandments 
shall  be  obeyed.*" 

Laden  with  gifts  he  returned  to  his  own  country,  **en  bon  estat  et 
en  bon  point.**  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  seek  out  the  confidante, 
to  tell  ner  the  surprising  vision  of  the  mirror,  and  to  give  her  the 
virelay  which  he  had  wriUen  on  the  occasion.  He  he^d  that  his  name 
had  been  mentioned  by  the  lady  on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  was 
thafikful,  as  all  true  lovers  should  be,  for  small  mercies. 

He  did  not  see  her  for  twenty  days  after  his  return:  then  he  heard 
that  ^e  was  to  be  present  at  a  great  dance  to  which  Froissarfc  was  not 
izLvited,    KoTertheks^,  ho  went  to  the  hotel  in  the  evonifig,  and,  stand- 


€84  _^     FEOISSABT'S  LOVE  STOBJ. 


ing  vrithoui,  for  lie  was  afraid  of  entering  without  an  inyita£i(m,lBLa 
peered  throngh  a  "pertuis/*  an  opening  of  some  3dnd — one  trusts. it 
was  not  the  keyhole — and  60  saw"  his  ladv  daHtcing. 

When  he  actually  did  meet  her  it  was  by  accident  at  the  house  of  the 
confidante,  who,  liKe  all  kind  ladies  when  they  are  taken  into  the  bo- 
cretr  was  good  enough  to  introduce  the  subject,  saying,  *<Parfoi,  yoa 
are  both  ^  a  size:  you  would  make  a  sweet  pair.  GodgrBnt  that  love 
may  join  you/'  •  But  the  poet  was  shy,  and  in  spite  ofthe  expostula- 
tions of  his  heart — *'  You  see  her  before  you  fOid  nave  not  the  couzage 
to  avow  vour  sentiments !" — could  not  speak.  The  damotseUe  it  was 
who  broke  the  awkward  silence  by  asking  him,  movU  douaeiment,  how 
he  had  fared  on  his  travels.  "Madame,"  he  replied,  "for  you  have  I 
had  many  a  thought/*  "Forme?  Trul^!  ho-vij  came  that?"  "From 
this,  lady;  so  much  I  love  you  that  there  is  no  hour  of  the  evening  or 
morning  when  I  do  not  think  of  you  continually;  but  I  am  not  bold 
enough  to  tell  you,  dear  lady,  by  what  art  or  in  what  manner  I  first 
experienced  the  beginning  of  this  passion/'  The  ladylookedathim 
and  laughed  a  little;  then  she  turned  to  the  fHend  and  remarked  that 
the  young  man  was  none  the  worse  for  the  journey  that  he  had  made — a 
safe  thing  to  say.  In  fact,  it  seems  as  if  ^  &ejfe,  not  at  all  in  love  with 
her  admirer,  was  yet  anxious  not  to  appear  unkind,  nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  commit  herself.  Unfortunately,  Froiesart  tells  us  nothing 
about  her,  of  what  family  she  was,  whether  or  no  she  was  beset  with 
lovers  who  could  give  her  more  than  the  poetic  passion  of  the  penniless 
young  clerk. 

There  followed  another  period  of  melancholy  and  hope  deferred, 
alternating  with  times  of  refreshment,  during  which  the  lover  had 
many  interviews  with  his  mistress,  always  in  company  with  the  fiaith- 
ful  confidante,  in  a  room  beautifully  furnished  with  carpets,  cushions, 
and  pillows,  whither  he  used  to  bring  flowers  and  strew  them  over  the 
floor.  Here  he  would  sit  and  tell  the  two  girls  of  the  great  joy  which  their 
society  afforded  him,  at  which  they  would  laugh,  not  displeased.  Jt 
was  a  delightful  season,  but  it  was  interrupted  by  a  great  and  irreme- 
diable sorrow.  The  confidante  fell  ill  and  diedj  and  they  lost  their 
friend  and  their  favourite  place  of  meeting. 

But  another  opportunity  occurred.  They  met  in  a  garden,  where, 
among  the  flowers,  he  spoke  again.  The  lady  gathered  five  violets  and 
gave  him  three,  a  favour  from  which  he  augured  the  best.  Then  they 
sat  beneath  the  shade  of  a  nut-tree,  side  by  side,  his  heart  a-flame,  and 
vet  not  darine  to  tell  the  grief  and  martyrdom  which  he  was  enduring. 
Two  little  ^rls  were  with  them  in  the  g^arden.  They  ran  about  and 
gathered  ciUy-flowers,  which  they  threw  into  the  laps  of  the  lovers,  and 
while  the  lady  collected  them  into  posies,  the  lover  sang  a  ballad.  After 
this  he  begged  for  a  little  cx>mfort,  which  the  lady  halfpromised. 

The  garden  became  the  scene  of  many  such  interviews,  in  which 
they  taUced  all  sorts  of  things  full  of  joy,  such  as  of  do^  birds, 
meadows,  leaves^  flowers,  and  amourettes.  Then  they  had  a  sort  of 
picnic    It  was  a  b€ftutiful  morning  in  spring;  Froissart  found  out 


FEOISSABTS  LOVE  STOBY.  685 

beforeliand  wliere  the  damaiseme  was  going,  and  who  would  acooxnpany 
her;  he  got  np  early  and,  proyided  with  pastries,  hams,  wine,  and  ¥en- 
isoBy  repaiied  to  the  spot,  chose  a  place  beneath  a  iSowering  thorn,  and 
spread  a  breakfast  to  delight  his  sovereign  qaeea.    She  was  so  greatly 

E leased  with  this  act  of  devotion,  that  she  oona^ited  to  let  hun  call 
IxQself  her  servant. 
''Ijady,**  he  prayed,  "  in  the  name  of  love,  alleviate  these  heavy  pains, 
and  accept  me  as  your  servant,  sworn  to  do  your  best.'* 
"Would  yon  hke  it»"  she  repUed,  "to  be  sor 

!     "Then  I  should  like  it,  too." 

Could  gracious  lady  more  sweetly  accept  ft  lovez^s  devotion  ? 

The  happiness  unalloyed  which  followed  lasted  but  a  very  little 
while.  In  the  place  lived  one  Kalebouche— Evil  Mouth — he  lives  every- 
^where.  This  malign  er  and  envious  person,  observing  what  a  good  time 
the  young  poet  was  having,  set  himself  to  defame  and  speak  ill  of  him. 
He  succeeded  so  far  that  the  lady's  firiends  remcmstrated  with  her,  and 
she  begged  her  lover  to  desist  from  seeing  her  till  the  storm,  whatever 
it  was,  snould  blow  over. 

He  obeyed.  Such  obedience,  however  hard,  was  a  part  of  his  devo- 
tion. He  not  only  abstained  from  seeking  her  out,  but  if  he  passed 
her  hotel  he  drew  his  bonnet  over  his  eyes  so  as  to  avoid  seeing  her. 
He  obeyed  the  verv  spirit  of  this  injunction ;  he  obeyed  with  ostenta- 
tious zeal ;  he  made  a  fuss  with  his  obedience.  But  one  evening  he 
yielded  to  temptation  and  disobeyed. 

It  was  in  the  twilight ;  he  had  been  lurking  about  outside  the  house, 
when  he  saw  the  lady  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  presently  waJked 
down  the  street  to  where  he  stood. 

"Come  here  to  me,  sweet  friend,"  he  whispered  as  she  passed. 

To  his  astonishment  she  replied  in  angry  tones,  "There  is  no  sweet 
friend  for  you  here."  Then  she  went  on  her  way,  while  he  remained, 
amazed  and  disconcerted,  in  his  hiding-place.  But  she  turned  back 
and  came  towards  him.  Was  she  going  to  relent,  then?  Ohl  heavy 
change!  It  was  not  to  relent  at'all,  it  was  to  seize  him  by  the  hair,  to 
tear  out  a  handful,  and  to  leave  him  in  consternation  and  despair. 
Here  was  a  melancholy  end  to  so  poetical  a  wooing.  Alter  all  his  suf- 
ferings, after  his  piles  of  ballads,  this  was  all  he  got — dismissal,  not 
with  a  gentle  sigh  and  regretful  farewell,  not  even  with  a  box  on  the 
ears,  but  with  rude  and  discourteous  tearing  out  of  hair  by  handfuls. 
And  no  record,  anywhere,  in  romances  or  in  Ovid,  of  lover  so  dis- 
missed.   No  comfort  from  poetical  paralleL 

He  went  homo,  this  unfortunate  lover,  and  sought  consolation  in  the 
manner  customary  among  poets — a  ballad. 

This  is  the  end  of  his  amourette,  innocent  enough  in  its  pro^ss  and 
mehvnchQly  in  its  ending.    Yet  what  has  he  to  say  that  is  not  in  praise 

of  lOYQ? 

••  I^ever  could  I  in  vereerecfte 
Wliat  griovous  jmuus,  yet  threat  deUght^ 


686  FEOISSAErS  LOVE  STOBY. 

Befell  mo  in  tlio  causo  of  love  i 

Yet  Btill  I  liolil  aiid  stiil  nppi-ove 

That,  but  for  love,  of  little  wortli 

Would  any  man  bo  on  this  eai^ih r 

liove  is  to  youth  advancement  high* 

Commencement  lit  of  chivalry ; 

I'roni  love  youth  learns  aviso  rules  and  wayi, 

And  how  to  serve  and  how  to  praise, 

And  into  virtues  turns  his  faults; 

And  so  I  hold  'gainst  all  assaults, 

.That  tbns,  in  lo\  o's  olieiUence  blessed* 

Should  bo  commenced  high,  honour's  quest. 

"And  for  you,  O  ray  sovereign  lady,  for  whose  sake  I  have  cndnrcd  so  many  pains, 
.  ,  .  my  heart  still  trlows  Avith  the  ar<lent  spark  of  love,  which  will  not  leave  mo. 
.  .  .  Never  have  I  loved  any  other,  nor  shall  love,  wiiutovi-r  ma  V  befall.  ITiereia 
nohourinwhlchldonotl'cmember  vou.  You  were  the  liiist,  and  you  shall  be  tho 
last."  ^ 

Not  one  word  of  repioach.    Loyal  to  the  end. 

This  Btory,  extracted  from  its  setting  of  allegory,  reflections,  and  di- 
gressions, shows  us  Froissart  as  he  was  in  his  early  years,  long  before 
he  used  to  jog  along  the  bridle-path  beside  a  knignt  fresh  from  the 
wars,  asking  questions  and  getting  information.    He  was  young,  ar- 
dent, full  of  hope,  open  to  the  gracious  influence  of  sweetness,  spring, 
and  love.    He  had  read  the  romances  of  the  trouvireSf  and  he  beheved 
in  them.    He  too  would. live  the  life  they  inculcated,  the  noblest,  he 
thought,  the  highest  and  purest  life  attainable  by  man.    To  enter  upon 
that  life  there  was  wanting  one  thing — love.    Needs  must  that  he  find 
a  mistress.     His  cleverness,  his  courtly  manner,  his  skill  and  mastery 
in  words,  raised  him  above  his  social  rank  and  placed  him  as  a  fit  com- 
panion to  ladies  and  noble  dainoiseUes.    To  one  of  these  he  dares  to  lift 
his  eyes — not  with  an  earthly  passion,  but  in  that  spirit  of  chivalrous 
love  which  he  has  learned  from  his  romances ;  what  le  petit  Jchan  de 
Saintre  was  to  his  lady  in  the  early  days  of  that  amour ;  what  Thibault 
of  Champagne  was  to  the  stately  Blanche  ;  what  Petrarch  was  to  liaura, 
or  Guillaume  d©  Machault  to  Agnes — that  would  he  become,  if  it  might 
be  so,  to  his  dame  souverraine.    To  gladden  heart  and  eyes  by  the  con- 
templation of  loveliness,  to  enrich  the  soul  by  meditation  on  tho  graces 
and  virtues  which  dwell,  or  should  dwell,  in  so  feir  a  mansion,  to  cul- 
tivate the  thoughts  which  make  a  man  worthy  of  sweet  lady's  love—' 
these  things  seemed  to  the  simple  young  poet  the  most  precious  duties, 
inasmuch  as  they  bring  the  most  precious  rewards,  of  life.    They  were, 
he  had  learned  from  his  reading,  an  education  for  the  young,  a  con- 
.tinual  festival  for  the  old.    Not  in  vain,  not  for  nothing,  does  ingenu- 
ous youth  tremble  beneath  the  eyes  of  maidenhood.     They  are,  or 
should  be»  to  him  an  admonition  and  an  exhortation.    They  preach  a 
sermon  which  only  the  gentle  heai't  can  hear  and  understand.    The 
eyQBo£damoisellQSiiokeiioihe.trouvere  of  enjoyments  which  the^  com- 
mon herd  can  never  dream  of,  so  that  even  now  there  are  but  few  to 
comprehend  how  loyal  suit  and  service  could  be  rewarded  and  satisfied 
by  gracious  words  and  kindly  thoughts,    rroissart's  love  was,  indeed. 


FROISSAErS  LOVE  STORY.    *.     '        /      087 


^- 


cm  elly  broken  off  and  cut  short  in  its  very  beginninfy  ;  but  that  of 
otli«rs»  more  forfcnnate,  continued  nnbroken  and  tin  diminished  till 
de&th.  The  story  of  Thibault  and  Blanche  ia  a  model  of  what  snch 
lov©  may  be,  that  of  Petit  Jehan  de  Saintr^  shows  how  snch  love  may 
fall  off  and  degeneratei  by  the  nnworthiness  of  one,  into  contempt  and 
hatred. 

It  is,  of  oonrse,  aeted  allegory.  By  such  love,  in  those  days,  lords 
SEkd  poets  taught  themselves  and  their  children  that  noble  knights  and 
gentla  damoisSles  could  elevate  themselves.  Such  love  required  sim- 
ple faith  in  honour  and  virtue,  and  simple  shame  that  before  the  sacred 
Bbxine  of  love  anything  should  be  brought  but  strong  purpose  and  pure 
heart    What  a  foolish  old  story  1    What  sentimental  unreality ! 

It  was  to  the  majority  of  mankind  unreal  and  foolish  even  whilo  the 
poets  sang  it  and  the  knights  practised  it.  Side  by  side  with  the  trow* 
'veres  were  the  conteurs  and  the  poets  of  the  fat^lvaux^  who  pointed  the 
fi  tiger  of  mockery  ait  things  which  the  others  held  sacred;  tore  down  the 
decent  veil  from  what  should  be  hidden;  laughed  at  all  for  the  frailties 
of  somo;  derided  and  scomel  the  poet's  eidolon  of  perfect  womanhood. 
This  is  what  always  happens.  Gomes  Setebos  and  troubles  evei^hing. 
in  all  ages,  then  as  now,  the  young  man  sees  two  pE^hs  open  before 
iiim.  One  of  these,  in  the  time  of  Froissart,  led  upwards  with  toil  and 
peril  over  rocks  and  among  brambles,  but  the  light  of  loyal  lave  and 
gracious  favour  guided  the  traveller;  the  other  began  with  a  gentle  de- 
cline, down  which  the  young  man  could  run,  dancing  tdth  the  garces, 
Ringing  with  the  jongrtewra,  and  drinking  with  his  fellows.  Clouds  hung 
over  tho  end  of  that  path,  and  where  it  terminated — ^but  bore  accounts 
differ. 

An  old,  old  fable  indeed,  that  man  fend  woman  should  live  for  each 
other,  believe  in  each  other,  and  by  such  belief  elevate  each  other.  It 
strikes  in  this  age  of  doubt  on  unheeding  ears.  Perfect  mjlnhood  ! 
perfect  womanhood !  Dreams  and  drivel !  Let  us  clofee  the  book. 
No  doubt,  outside  the  libraty  wq  shall  find  a  purer  and  a  higher  wor- 
ship. Wajlteb  Besaiit,  in  TempkBar. 


THE  MUSICAL  CULTUS  O^  THE  DAY. 

The  ehai^e  against  the  S^nglish  c^  being  an  unmusical  nation  i»  one 
of  very  old  standii^,  to  which  the  reply  (almost  equalW  old)  has 
always  been  that  if  we  have  never  been  great  producer  oi  music,  we 
have,  at  all  events,  shown  a  great  appreciation  of  those  who  were.  "We 
made  an  Englishman  of  Handel,  showed  a  most  liberal  hospitality  to 
Haydn,  took  an  early  and  (for  the  time)  tolerably  enlightened  interest 
in  Beethoven,  and  welcomed  Mendelssohn  with  open  arms.  These 
stereotyped  claims  to  the  respect  of  the  musical  world  would,  how- 
ever, eccm  yery  incomplete  itfxd  o^t  of  dat^  if  regarded  from  the  point' 


688  THE  MUSIGAL  CULTUS  OP  TETE  DAY.  ^ 

of  Tiew  of  musical  England  at  the  present  moment :  or  perhaps,  to  b6 
strictly  correct,  we  should  rather  say  of  musical  Xionuon.  for  the 
great  gnlf  fixed  between  the  critical  st^d-point  of  cultiYated  society  in 
London  and  in  the  provinces,  which  in  respect  to  some  subjects  of  in- 
tellectual  interest  may  be  said  to  have  been  partially  bridged  oyer  of 
late  years,  seems  in  regard  to  music  to  be  rather  widened  than  other- 
wise. In  most  proTinciai  concert-rooms  it  is  probable  that  the^inale  of 
Beetiioven's  Kinth  Symphony  is  still  endured  (when  at.  all)  with  a  cot- 
tain  bewilderment  not  nnmixed  with  antagonism,  and  that  Jus  latest 
pianoforte  sonatas  are  regarded  as  unintelligible  and  too  long.  In 
cathedral  towns  the  Xteder  okne  Worle  are  still  played  in  the  drawing- 
rooms,  and  a  placid  belief  in  Mendelssohn  as  the  greatest  composer  of 
modem  time,  if  not  of  any  time,  still  thriyes  in  the  oon£[enial  soil  of  a 
clerioa^ed  society,  impatient  of  new  growths  in  art  as  in  everything 
else.  Wit  in  modem  musical  London  "H  Katv6rT*  is  the  pasB-word. 
Not  only  is  there  an  appetite  for  musical  performances  apparently 
almost  insatiable  even  by  the  ample  supply  horded  to  it^  hvt  there  is 
an  absolute  demand  for  progress,  a  determination  to  keep  np  with  the 
times,  to  hear  the  last  new  composer,  to  catch  the  tone  of  the  last  de- 
velopments of  *'the  higher  criticism"  in  r^^ird  to  modem  music,  its 
desires,  its  achievements,  its  ^possibilities.  £ai  place  of  being  mnsiaaJly 
a  rather  backward  society,  as  we  once  were,  a  society  sparing  in  its  a^ 
tendance  at  concerts  and  lagging  far  behind  Germany  in  our  interest 
in  new  forms  of  composition,  we  are  now  spending  a  great  aggregate  of 
time  in  concert-rooms,  music  is  a  constant  topic  of  conversation  eveiy- 
where,  and  the  foreign  critic  who  were  to  charge  us  afresh  with  being 
an  unmusical  nation,  might  now  be  met  by  the  retort  that  at  least  there 
is  probably  no  ca]^ital  where  people  hear  so  much^  music,  and  talk  so 
much  about  it,  as  in  our  own. 

It  is  always  a  matter  of  some  interest  to  attempt  to  analyse  a  move- 
ment of  this  kind,  and  endeavour  to  form  a  just  eonclusionaB  to  its 
real  intellectual  value,  and  the  motives  or  impulses  which  give  rise  to 
it.  Is  the  passion  for  music  in  modem  English  society,  then,  the  off- 
spring of  a  genuine  and  heartfelt  interest  in  and  an  intellectual  com- 
prehension of  the  art;  or  is  it,  like  so  many  other  growths  of  social  pre- 
dilection, more  or  less  a  forced  product  of  conventional  life?  Is  it  a 
passion,  or  onlv  a  fashion? 

Looking  at  the  subject  in  tlte  broadest  manner,  as  an  element  in  the 
sum  total  of  modem  feeling,  an  increased  passion  for  musio  would 
seem  to  be  only  one  of  the  results  of  the  general  tendency  towards  a 
fuller  emotional  expression  in  art  and  literature,  which  is  uie  legacy  to 
us  of  the  Revolution  period;  at  least  which  is  often  so  regarded.  Bat 
without  troubling  ourselves  about  the  origin  of  a  wave  of  human  feel- 
ing too  vast  and  vague  for  analysis,  we  at  aJl  events  all  know  and  feel 
t'le  distinction  between  George  Eliot  and  Jane  Austen,  between  Tur- 
ner and  Gainsborough,  between  Watt»  and  Beynold'3.  The  tendency 
of  modem  life  has  been—  why  we  know  not — ^towards  a  quickening  of 
the  emotional  side  of  htunoa  nature,  a  reaction  0x>m  the  purely  isibel- 


'   THE  MUSICAL  CULTU8  OF  THE  DAY.  689 

leotnal  and  analytical  bent  of  the  mind  of  the  last  oentcucy,  aa 
Indefinable  passionate  longing  which  has  been  said  to  be  summed 
up  in.  the  German  word  Seknsacht,  more  than  in  any  expression  in  oui 
own  language.  And  of  this  feeling  music,  in  its  modem  forrn^  more 
partioularly,  is  the  most  complete  and  intense  means  of  expression.  It 
is  essentially  an  emotional  form  of  art— not  indeed  exclusively  so,  by 
any  means — ^but  more  so  than  any  other;  it  cannot  express  facts  or  con- 
victions, but  it  gives  voice  to  those  vague  and  deep-seated  desires  and 
sympathies,  that  abstract  sense  of  harmony  and  proportion  in  things, 
which  aro  indescribable  in  language,  which  painting  oan  only  reflect 
from  the  outside,  but  of  which  modem  music  seems  to  embody  (if  one 
may  use  the  word  of  what  is  so  completely  an  "unbodied  joy  ")  the 
inner  and  indefinable  meaning.  The  relation  in  which  music  stands 
to  many  minds  in  tha  present  day  is  that  expressed  in  the  woi  derfol 
line  in  Bossetti's  sonnet,  T^eMonochord, — 

**  Oh  I  what  is  this  that  known  the  road  I  oame  f  ** 

an  expression  intelligible  to  all  who  have  been  able  to  meet  thi'  inner 
meaning  of  Beethoven  in  such  far-reaching  passages  as  that  episode  in 
D  in  the  Scherzo  of  the  Seventh  Symphony;  and  perhaps  to  them  only. 
At  all  events,  to  suppose  that  sucn  an  interest  in  music  of  a  high  cla^ 
exists  atnong  all,  or  among  the  majority  of  those  who  discuss  it  and 
assist  at  its  revelation,  would  be  contrary  to  all  experience  as  to  the 
proportion  of  really  intellectual  sympathy  with  imaginative  creations  of 
a  high  class,  to  be  found  in.  general  society.  There  is  then  an  d  priori 
probability  that  a  considerable  proportion  of  the  professedly  serious 
culture  of  music  is  much  more  superficial  in  its  origin  than  its  votaries 
would  have  us  suppose,  or  than  perhaps  they  are  aware  of  themselves; 
for,  after  all,  but  a  very  small  proportion  of  those  who  profess  an  enthu- 
siasm for  the  highest  productions  of  art  are  consciously  pretenders. 
But  a  consideration  of  some  of  the  circumstances  which  have  attended 
the  development  of  this  professedly  serious  musical  culbis  in  English 
BOjziety  of  late  years  at  once  tends  to  confirm  the  supposition  that  there 
is  a  great  deal  m  it  which  is  unreal  and  conventionaL  4 

Among  these  circumstances  none  are  more  significant  than  the 
remarkably  rapid  and  consentaneous  changes  of  taste  or  of  musical  creed 
which  have  followed  each  other  since  we  began  to  profess  to  be  a  musi- 
cal public  This  peculiar  phase  of  shifting  enthusiasm  commenced  in 
its  modem  form  with  the  furore  excited  by  Mendelssohn  about  five- 
and-thirty  years  ago,  and  which  continued  on  the  increase  till  some 
time  after  his  death.  A  Beethoven/nrore  there  never  has  been  in  this 
country;  partly,  perhaps,  because  he  came  before  the  time  when  the 
temper  dTsooiety  gave  any  material  for  one,  partly  because  his  genius 
stands  on  too  lofty  a  pedestal  for  such  comparatively  idle  worship;  one 
might  as  well  expect  to  see  the  works  of  Michel  Angelo  become  the 
object  of  a  popular  mania.  Eossini  was  the  centre  of  a  cloud  of  incense 
for  a  time,  but  in  that  ritual  there  was  hardly  a  pretence  of  a  serious 
aim;  we  had  not  then  discovered  the  sssthetic  platform.  But  the 
appearance  of  Mendelssohn  coincided  with  the  time  when  the  idea  t^ 


690  THE  MUSICAL  CUZTU8  OP  THE  DAT. 

music  miglit  be  more  serions  matter  than  mere  pastime  had  da^vned  upon 
the  English  mind;  and  the  comparative  novelty  of  his  style,  a  certain 
charm  of  sentiment^  beautiful,  and  at  the  same  time  easy  of  appre- 
ciation, combined  probably  with  the  personal  attraction  felt  towards  a 
miEin  peculiarly  fitted  to  be  a  favourite  in  society,  operated  together  to 
produce  a  paroxysm  of  musical  enthusiasm,  such  as  the  English  world 
had  hardly  known  before.    Mendelssohn  was  everythingthatwaa  great 
in  music;  he  united  the  highest  qualities  of  Bach  and  iBeethoven;  to 
question  the  supremacy  of  his  genius  was  to  write  yourself  down  an 
ass.    No  moral  reprobation  was  too  strong  for  those  unprincipled  per- 
sons who,  having  by  course  of  events  come  into  the  charge  of  the  com- 
poser's manuscripts  after  his  decease,  persisted  in  withholding  from  the 
world  works  which  the  too  modest  composer  had  left  unpublished  as 
unsatisfactory,  but  6f  which  all  the  intellectual  world  had  a  right  to 
demand  the  hearing.    And  when  at  last  one  of  these  works  was  pro- 
duced at  the  Crystal  Palace,  it  was  an  event  in  the  musical  world;  no 
extravagance  of  laudation  was  too  great  to  be  applied  by  the  higher 
criticism  of  the  day  towards  a  composition,  ^  the  weakness  of  which  in 
comparison  with  his  other  works  fully  explained  the  judgment  of  the 
composer,  a  much  better  critic  of  his  own  music  than  most  of  his  pub- 
lic.   By  those  who  possessed  a  stand-point  for  a  calmer  judgment, 
this  overacted  enthusiasm  must  have  seemed — did  seem — absurd  at 
the  time ;  but  what  are  we  to  think  of  it  in  comparison  with  the  tone  now 
commonly  adopted  in  regard  to  "Mendelssohn  in  professedly  musical 
and  eesthctio  society?    What  are  we  to  think  of  the  claims  to  musical 
insighj;  of  a  society  which  at  the  distance  of  those  few  years  has  con- 
temptuously reversed  its  decision  and  overturned  the  pedestal  of  it<} 
idol?    And  the  conclusion  to  which  this  bit  of  the  history  of  English 
musical  enthusiasm  must  lead,  is  certainly  not  weakened  by  the  obser- 
vation of  the  rapid  succession  of  idolatries  which  has  taken  place  in  the 
interim. 

Schumann  was  the  popular  successor  to  Mendelssohn ;  a  oomposei 
resisted  with  persistent  repugnance  for  years  by  English  concert  audi- 
ences, till  suddenly,  no  one  knew  how,  he  became  the  fashion,  had  his 
day,  and  is  now  making  way  for  Wagner.  The  history  of  the  recep- 
tion of  Wagner  by  the  English  mind  presents  the  same  curious  ph& 
nomenon  of  absolute  and  almost  angry  refusal  of  a  hearing  for  yeaxs, 
followed  by  an  outbreak  of  popular  admiration  and  almost  equally 
angry  partisanship,  so  that  to  question  the  reality  of  Wagne'r's  success, 
and  the  true  philosophy  of  his  method,  is  in  essthetic  society  to  estab- 
lish  yourself  as  a  weak-headed  and  blindly  prejudiced  person.  The 
question  pro  and  con  in  regard  to  this  composer's  claim  to  the  throne 
on  which  he  has  been  exalted  cannot  be  discussed  here ;  it  involves 
very  large  considerations  as  to  the  objects  and  conditions  of  musirjil 
art ;  the  argument  is  still  complicated  by  too  much  of  prejudice  on  the 
one  hand,  and  extravagant  enthusiasm  on  the  other,  for  any  X*^8er  i 
chance  of  a  judicial  settlement, 

■ — — — r* — • I      u       .  l'  » 

{1)  The  Mqformation  Sjmphoaj, 


THE  MUSICAL  CULTUS  OP  THE  DAY.  GDI 

"An<l  that  ol«l  common  arbitrator,  Time, 
■Will  oue  day  eud  it" 

It  may  suffice  to  record-  here  the  conviction  that  those  who  imacjine 
this  last  idol  to  be  flim  on  his  pedestal,  will  probably  bo  in  courso  of 
time  \erv  decidedly  undeceived.  But  we  may  notice  hero  nnotiierrmd 
zemarkable  instance  of  the  fiucttiation  of  musioil  tasto  and  opinion  in 
this  conntry,  in  the  unexpected  and  almost  ardont  worship  of  a  groat 
composer  who  had  hitherto  been  merely  a  name  (and  hardly  that)  to 
lingiisb  people.  It  is  only  a  few  years  since  London  discovered  Bach. 
No  mnsidan  would  have  a  word  to  say  against  the  discovery  in  one 
sense,  for  there  can  hardly  be  a  question  that  Bach  is  the  loftiest 
teacher  in  the  whole  range  of  the  art,  and  that  no  intellect  that  has 
been  applied  to  music  ever  evinced  such  a  giant  grasp  of  what  may  be 
called  tonal  construction.  And  if  the  queditiee  which  make  his  great- 
ness were  really  apprehended  of  the  people,  we  should  have  got  much 
farther  in  general  musical  culture  than  there  is  in  fact  much  chance  of 
for  some  time  to  come.  That  they  are  not  so  apprehended  is  apparent, 
partly  from  4he  ingenuous  admission  of  worshippers  at  the  shrine,  who 
not  infrequently  confess  that  they  find  Bach  most  difficult  to  under- 
stand ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  added,  one  often  hears  him 
lauded  for  the  very  qualities  which  he  has  not.  The  position,  however, 
of  reverential  acceptance  of  a  ^reat  artist  in  spite  of  inability  to  under- 
stand him  is  in  itself  an  admimble  and  a  healthy  one.  But  it  seems 
the  fate  of  English  musical  taste  to  run  to  extremes.  For  genemtions 
Handel  has  been  the  recognised  object  of  musical  reverence  in  Eng- 
hiJkd,  his  name  having  been  often  coupled,  certainly,  with  that  of  his 
great  contemporary  by  persons  who  professed  a  solid  taste  for  "Handel 
and  Bach"  (a  collocation  of  names  which,  considering  the  essential 
qualities  of  the  two  composers,  is  really  about  as  rational  as  "llossini 
and  Scbximann"),  but  tne  preference  for  his  oratorios,  as  representing 
the  highest  class  of  music,  having  been  for  generations  the  palladium 
of  British  musical  taste.  There  was  much  that  was  utterly  uncritical 
in  the  British  worship  of  Handel— a  kind  of  John  Bull  spirit  in  music ; 
but  even  more  -uncritical  and  foolish  is  the  now  obvious  feeling  that, 
Bach  haying  been  discovered,  Handel  is  nowhere ;  that  behof  in  him 
is  an  antiquated  prejudice,  pardonable  in  our  days  of  ignorance,  but 
utterly  inexcusable  in  this  more  enhghtcned  generation.  Now  there 
ore  most  important  qualities  in  which  Bach  deserves  to  be  called  a 
greater  musician  than  Handel,  though  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
many  of  the  people  who  run  after  Bach  know  what  they  ai*e.  At  all 
events,  they  obviously  do  not  know  that  Handel  had  most  important 
qualities  wnich  Bach  had  not ;  that  through  the  antiquated  mannerisms 
and  thin  harmonic  clothing  of  many  even  of  his  secondaiy  composi- 
tions there  breathes  a  power  of  dramatic  expression  and  pathos  of 
which  no  trace  is  to  be  found  in  the  mighty  but  somewhat  ponderous 
tone-architecture  of  the  Cantor  of  Leipzig  ;  that  ho  had  a  mastery  of 
the  method  of  writing  for  the  voice  such  as  no  purely  German  com- 
poser ever  possessed ;  that  his  choruses  exhibit  a  vigour,  energy,  an^^ 


692  THE  MUSIOAIi  CULTU8  OP  THE  DAY. 

clearness  of  form  which  it  needs  all  the  constractive  power  and  deep 
eaqieetness  of  Bach  to  surpass  in  effect,  as  he  has  done.  All  this  is 
ignored,  Handel  is  out  of  fashion,  and  Bach  has  beeai  put  on  his  pedes- 
tal in  obedience  to  the  last  impulse  of«b  musical  public,  whose  judg- 
ment apparently,  like  WcHrdsworth's  celebrated  clomd,  ''moveth  idl 
together,  if  it  move  at  all." 

It  is  probable  that  the  very  facilities  for  hearing  music  of  every  style 
and  class,  which  are  now  within  the  reach  of  the  London  public,  have 
something  to  do  with  the  priHnotion  of  this  superficial .  fonoation  and 
fluctuation  of  musical  tasteu  All  who  wish  to  hear  musio  can  now  hear 
anything^  or  almost  anything,  that  they  wish ;  classical  musie  is  now 
brought  to  every  one's  door ;  and  the  constant  attendance  upon  musi- 
cal performances  gives  to  every  one  a  certain  knowledge  of  what  is 
going  on  in  the  world  of  musical  production,  a  certain  opportunity  of 
acquiring  the  materials  for  an  apparently  critical  view  of  the  art,  so 
that  even  those  who  by  natural  temperament  and  taste  might  have 
remained  quite  indifferent  on  the  subject,  acquire  so  much  acqfuaint- 
ance  with  it  as  enables  them  to  discuss  it  with  an  apparent  familiarity 
and  knowledge,  such  as  would  formerly  have  been  only  ei^pected  from 
those  who  had  the  musical  faculty  specially  developed.  In  short,  mudc 
has  become  the  fashion,  and  it  is  not  permitted  to  be  ignorant  of  it,  or 
to  have  no  opinion  about  it»  on  pain  of  being  regarded  as  below  the 
general  level  of  culture ;  and  those  who  have  no  musical  feeling  or 
preference  feel  bound  to  "sham  a  little."  This  is  not  a  healthy  state 
of  things,  but  it  is  perhaps  a  more  or  less  inevitable  condition  of  a 
transition  stage  from  a  state  of  ignorance  or  uncritical  superflcialitjr  to 
the  state  of  more  cultured  and  critical  knowledge,  which  the  rising 
generation  will,  at  all  events,  have  had  considerable  opportunities  of 
acquiring.  For  it  cannot  be  questioned  that  there  is  nn  advance  in  the 
intelligent  appreciation  of  musio  of  the  highest  class  in  this  country, 
difficult  as  it  is  to  separate  what  is  due  to  real  s^pathy  and  thought- 
ful culture  firom  what  is  due  to  mere  social  habit  and  tradition.  l£isi- 
cal  instruction  has  in  some  <]^uarters  become  a  very  different  thin^  from 
the  perfunctory  business  which  it  formerly  was ;  and  for  the  initiation 
of  a  change  for  the  better,  in  this  respect,  we  are  probably  much  in- 
debted to  some  of  the  German  professors  of  the  art  so  specially  con- 
nected with  their  country,  who  nave  taken  tip  their  abode  among  us 
and  have  inaugurated  a  system  of  instruction,  which  will  gradually,  if 
taken  up  more  widely,  have  its  results  in  transforming  me  study  of 
music  in  general  society  from  a  mere  show  accomplishment  (as  it  almost 
nniversally  was  till  recently  ^  to  the  intelligent  pursuit  of  a  source  of 

(1)  A  reform  in  nia8i.cal  odiioation  seems  eqnally  necessary  in  re^rd  to  the  nppi^r 
and  the  lower  classes  in  England.  Few  of  those,  ladies  especiallj,  who  play  or  tdn^ 
well  as  amateurs,  have  much  knowled}fe  of  the  scientitic  basis  of  music,  or  much  critu 
cuL  perception  iu  regard  to  style  and  musical  form ;  uud  in  retrard  to  primary  cdocflr 
tion  ill  lower  class  schools,  the  absolute  stupidity  of  the  sjst'cm  by  \\  hich  ehildreu  cro 
tauglit  to  sing  inere'.v  "  by  ear,"  that  is  to  say  by  having  a  tune  hammered  into  ihera 
by  repetition,  in8tca<l  of  being  taught  t'.)  rend  the  lanj^iiago  of  musio.  cannot  buuw 
itrongly  ooJid«maod,  oud  for  any  educatiouul  pui'pos*  is  worse  thiui  useLesi. 


.    THE  MUSICAL  CUZTUS  OF  TEE  DAY.  Cfl3 

inielloctiial  re&esbing  and  a  pcnireifiil  medinin  of  emotional  cxpres- 
Bion.. 

The  existence  of  a  better  class  of  mtisical  criticism,  and  mtmical 
literatnre  generally;  than  we  at  present  find  in  this  country,  is  much 
to  be  desired)  and  woiild  no  doubt  haye  its  effect  in  promoting  a  more 
broad  and  comprehensive  judgment  in  regard  to  musical  art  than  at 
present  exists  in  EnjgUsh  society.  As  it  is,  our  musical  literature  is 
Tery  defective.  Musicians  are  seldom  good  writers ;  and  what  is  in- 
cluded under  the  head  of  musical  criticism  in  this  country  must  for 
the  most  part  be  dasscd  under  one  of  three  heads :  mere  newspaper 
notices^  in  which  the  prejudices  of  the  writer  for  or  i^inst  certain 
artists  give  the  only  point  to  his  writing  (and  this  kind  of  thing  un- 
happily subserves  the  needs  of  other  journals  than  mere  daily  papers^; 
exiteavagant  effusions  of  the  sot  of  scribes  who6e  business  it  is  to  recom- 
mend Wagner  and  the  "new  school;"  and  occasionally  painstaking 
and  honest  judgments  expressed  in  technical  or  conventional  phrase- 
ology, and  regarded  (not  unjustly)  by  the  ordinary  reader  as  simply 
dull.  The  system  lately  adopted  of  appending  an  analysis  of  the  music 
to  the  ]>rogrammos  of  classical  concerts  has  been  the  occasion  of  the 
production  of  some  very  good  critical  writing,  accompanied  often  by 
too  much  effasion  (the  besetting  sin  of  musical  writers),  but  it  may  be 
questioned  whether  these  have  influenced  general  culture  much. 
Those  who  go  to  concerts  with  a  head  and  heart  capable  of  following 
and  appreciating  the  composer's  aim,  do  not  need  literary  finger-posts, 
and  those  who  are  less  enlightened  are  usually  also  less  in  earnest  in 
their  pursuit  of  the  art,  and  do  not  care  to  take  the  trouble  to  read  a 
book  about  the  music  at  the  time,  or  to  file  and  study  their  analytical 
programmes  afterwards. 

A  publication  which  would  do  something  to  spread,  in  a  manner  at 
once  trustworthy  and  popular,  the  degree  of  knowledge  of  the  details 
of  the  art  which  would  enable  hearers  to  do  their  own  analytics,  would 
be  more  to  the  purpose  than  the  fugitive  literature  of  programmes. 
The  want  of  a  book  of  this  kind  seems  in  process  of  being  edmirably 
supplied  by  the  new  Dlctumary  cf  Mu$io  and  Musicians  >  now  appearing 
under  the  editorship  of  Mr.  George  Grove,  who  combines  with  a  genuine 
enthusiasm  for  his  subject  a  fetculty  of  accurate  and  laborious  investi- 
gation and  clear  literary  expression  which  peculiarly  fit  him  to  super- 
intend such  a  publication,  and  render  his  own  contributions  to  it  of 
special  interest  and  value.  His  article  on  Beethoven,  though  neces- 
sarily comparatively  restricted,  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  and,  within 
its  limits,  complete  and  well-balanced  specimens  of  musical  biography 
that  has  been  offered  to  English  readers;  biography  combined  with  just 
so  much  of  critical  analysis  as  may  assist  the  reader  in  forming  a  right 
estimate  of  the  composer's  place  m  the  art,  without  transgressing  the 
proper  objects  of  a  dictioncury  article.    The  amount  and  variety  of 


(1)  The  Dictionary  of  Music  and  Mtm43ian$.    Edited  by  GteorgQ  Grove,  D  C.L. 
ToL  L    J.  to  Improm^tu^    Mocmilluu  &  Co.    21«, 


694  THE  MUSICAL  CULTU8  OF  THE  DAY. 

trustworfchy  information  upon  eyei^r  snbjeot  connected  with  nmsio 
which  this  work  promises  to  render  aocessiblo  to  the  public*  when 
complete,   is  very  remarkable,  and  such  as  no  work  of  the  kind 
hitherto  published  in  England  can  compare  with.    The  appearance  of  a 
book  of  this  kind  on  such  a  scale,  and  the  fact  that  there  is  such  a 
public  for  it  as  to  render  it  worth  undertaking,  speak  a  good  deal  for 
the  increased  interest  in  music  in  the  present  day.    Th«o  is  only  one 
feature  in  this  excellent  work  that  calls  for  a  doubtful  GritLcism:  the 
presence  in  it  of  the  element  of  musical  partisanship,  and  of  tiie  specinl 
partialities  and  animosities  of  the  groap  who  represent  the  music  inil> 
tont  of  the  modern  school    This  element  is  not  so  far  very  prominent', 
it  is  chiefly  apparent  in  the  contributions  of  one  musician  who,  being 
a  splendid  and  powerful  pianoforte  player,  and  a  writer  of  extaravagaiit 
critical  effusions  in  very  indifferent  English,  seems  to  suffer  under  an 
inverted  reputation,  his  pianoforte  playing  being  heard  far  too  little 
and  his  writing  seen  a  great  deal  too  often.    The  short  article  on  Hum- 
mel by  this  contributor,  is  simply  a  piece  of  temper  directed  against 
a  composer  whom  he  does  not  like,  and  even  if  a  correct  estimate  of 
its  subject  (which  may  be  questioned^,  that  kind  of  tone  is  totally  oat 
of  place  in  a  dictionary.     What  kind  of  English  the  critics  of  this  mili- 
tant school  are  capable  of  one  may  realise  in  other  {irticles  by  the  some 
hand;  how  Chopin  *' appears  to  possess  the  secret  to  transmute  gnd 
transfigure  whatever  he  touches  into  some  weird  crystal,  convincing 
in  its  conformation,  transparent  in  its  eccentricity"  (which  is  certainly 
more  than  can  be  said  of  Mr.  Dannreuther's  own  style).     Berlioz, 
again,  is  **a  colossus  with  few  friends,"   "a  mckrked  indiTiduality. 
original,  puissant,  bizarre,  indolently  one-sided,"  &c.     This  sort  of 
thing  really  ought  not  to  bo  allowed  in  a  dictionary;  and  one  is  thank- 
ful to  find  the  editor  going  at  all  events  so  far  as  to  refrain  from  quot- 
ing some  passages  from  this  critic's  essay  on  Beethoven  in  a  leading 
magazine,  because  it  is  *•  not  suited  to  the  bald  rigidity  of  a  dictionary 
article,"  a  somewhat  mild  way  of  characterizing  what  wafi  in  the  main 
a  piece  of  turgid  extravagance.  ^    The  point  is  prominently  mention^  1 
here  because  the  articles  on  Liszt  and  Wagner  have  not  yet  appeared, 
and  if  (as  there  is  too  much  reason  to  fear)  they  have  been  confided  to 
critics  of  this  school,  they  may  prove  a  permanent  blot  on  the  diction- 
ary by  committing  it  to  ill-regulated  enthusiasms  which  can  only  bo  of 
temporary  acceptance.    Of  course  to  such  an  objection  the  stereotypy"'! 
retort  wiU  be  ready,  that  Beethoven  was  considered  rude  and  inartistic  in 

(1)  It  was,  if  we  I'emembor  ri^ht,  in  this  article  (Mcmniilan's  Magasine,  July.  l?7t* 
th'it  a  set  of  miotatioiis  from  Beethoven's  Sonatas  were  irivcn  in  oFder  to  prove  t'l  it 
Beethoven  haa  nnticipated  and  employed  a  certain  rao<lern  trick  of  eompositjon,  e.iljd 
•*  metamorphosis  of  themes,"  whcrcby  a  single  melodic  idea  is  made  to  do  dnty  ftir  i 
whole  symphony  or  concerto,  sqneesscd  into  different  shapnes  or  cut  Tip  into  sect i<  •!:"<. 
It  would  be  worth  while  for  any  one  interested  in  vapnries  of  musical  cnticism  to  rr'.tr 
to  these  quotations,  as  an  example  of  the  kind  of  assertion  that  the  apostles  i»ti!.'! 
Liszt- Waprner  school  ore  capable  of,  In  their  efforts  to  force  Beethovt'n  into  the  stmt- 
Jnckot  of  tiielr  owii  theories,  and  persuade  tlio  world  that  they  arc  hia  legitimate  i>uo 
cctiuors.  *  *    - 


THE  MUSIGMj   CULTUS  OF  THE  DAT.  e9t 

hi9  awn,  day,  and  his  now  aooepted  works  were  met  with  hostile  cHtioismt 
all  of  which  merely  mean.'}  that  because  a  largo  numbor  of  persons  can- 
not separate  their  critical  view  from  the  prejudices  of  their  day,  there- 
fore no  one  can:  which  is  a  non  sequiiur.  It  is  quite  possible  for  people 
who  have  enough  of  "dry  light,"  and  ore  not  so  muddle-headed  as  to  con- 
found the  conditions  of  art  with  those  of  science,  and  imagine  that  prog- 
ress is  a  necessary  condition  of  the  former  as  of  the  latter,  not  only  to 
distinguish  the  radical  varianoo  between  Wagner's  art  and  Beethoven's, 
but  to  recognise  clearly  enough  the  point  at  which  Beethoven  as  on 
artist  passed  his  zenith  and  lost  some  of  his  balance  and  completeness  of 
style;  more  than  anywhere,  perhaps,  in  that  choral  finale  of  the  Ninth 
Symphony  which  has  been  foolishly  set  forth  as  the  culmination  of  his 
genius,  and  the  point  to  which  it  had  always  been  tending,  whereas  in 
fiict  it  is  a  grand  but  unequal  and  only  partially  satisfactory  experi- 
ment, to  which  the  next  Symphony,  if  ho  had  lived  to  write  it,  would 
probably  have  borne  no  relation  whatever.  A  great  deal  of  mischief 
has  been  don«  by  the  importation  of  special  pleading  of  this  kind  into 
recent  musical  criticism,  the  real  object  of  which,  as  of  all  criticism, 
ought  to  be  to  obtain  a  clear  and  balanced  view  of  the  whole  subject, 
and  of  which  the  rule  (especially  in  a  dictionary)  should  bo  emphati- 
cally, Suriout,  point  de  ztle. 

A  difficulty,  perhaps,  in  tho  way  of  inflnencing  opinion  by  musical 
criticism  lies  in  the  fact  that  music  is  such  a  difficult  thing  to  writo 
about  intolligibly  to  those  who  do  not  already  know  a  good  deal. 
This  is  the  real  answer  to  the  question  addressed  to  the  present 
writer. th^  other  day,  "Why  are  musical  criticisms  always  so  'Un- 
interesting?*' It  is  certain  that  they  are  seldom  written  in  good  lit- , 
erary  style,  and  yet  so  absorbing  anl  entrancing  an  art  is  music, 
that  to  the  lovers  of  it  almost  any  piece  of  criticism  is  more  or  less 
interesting,  which  gives  them  any  new  fact  or  suggests  any  new  idea, 
in  however  jejune  a  form.  On  the  other  hand,  those  wno  have  no 
practical  acquaintance  with  the  art  are  repelled  and  annoyed  by  what 
seems  to  them  an  unmeaning  and  Ciibalistic  phraseology,  a  phrase- 
ology which  has  grown  up  insensibly  ai'ound  the  art,  and  cannot  now 
be  dispensed  with  or  altered,  any  more  than  the  accepted  form  of 
notation,  also  a  ^owth  of  time  and  circumstance.  If  we  say  of  a 
particular  composition  that  "  in  the  Allegretto  a  beautiful  and  myste- 
rious effect  is  produced  by  the  entry  in  the  major  key  of  the  second 
Gubject  of  the  movement — ^a  broad  and  simple  melody  played  by  the 
cHrionets  and  bossoons  in  octaves,  and  supported  by  an  undulating 
arpeggio  accompaniment  in  triplets  by  the  violins,  while  at  the  same 
time  the  characteristic  rhythm  of  the  first  subject  is  restlessly  , 
kept  up  by  the  heavy  pulsation  of  the  pizzicato  of  the  violoncelu 
and  basses," — ^we  should  be  saying  what  to  the  unmusical  reader 
would  probably  be  mere  jargon.  But  the  sentence,  as  a  general  de- 
scription of  the  character  and  effect  of  the  passage,  would  be  cfiite 
intelligible  to  any  one  who  knew  musical  phraseology,  and  any  one 
well  acquainted  -svith  Beethpven's  symphonies  will  know  at  once  what 


196  '     THE  MUSIOAIi  CULTUS  OP  THE  DAY. 

passage  k  described.  ^  It  is  a  pity  that  there  is  so  much  that  most  be 
called  jargon  connected  with  the  art,  but  it  must  be  accepted  as  an  ex- 
isting fac^  and  if  musical  and  nnmnsical  people  wish  to  nndezstand 
each  6ther,  the  latter  must  study  the  language  of  the  former.  One 
particular  usefalness  of  the  Dictionary  we  have  been  mentioning  may 
be  in  furnishing  everyone  with  a  compendious  and  full  illustration  of 
the  meaning  of  musical  terms,  as  well  as  with  concentrated  and  intel- 
ligible essays  upon  important  points  in  the  forms  and  the  science 
of  musical  composition.  It  may  safely  be  said  that  more  will  be  done 
to  promote  an  intelligent  comprehension  of  music  by  this  kind  of 
practical  information,  than  by  big  reflections  upon  the  moral  lessons 
of  Beethoven's  works,  and  how  ho  delivers  messages  of  ethical  teaching 
and  of  religious  love  and  resignation,  <&c.,  &c.  All  this,  as  far  as  there 
is  any  ground  for  such  reflections,  we  can  best  feel  in  silence  for  our- 
selves, while  from  their  categorical  declaration  in  print  we  are  disposed 
to  shrink,  responding  in  the  spirit  of  Jacques's  criticism  of  the  Duke's 
sentimentalities — "We  think  of  as  many  matters  as  he;  but  we  give 
God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  them.*' 

H.  HBA.THOOXB  Statham,  in  Forlnigh&y  Becmo, 


THE  CEITIC  ON  THE  HEABTH. 

It  has  often  struck  me  that  the  relation  of  two  important  members 
of  the  social  bddy  to  one  another  has  never  been  su&ciently  consid- 
ered, or  treated  of,  so  far  as  I  know,  either  by  the  philosopher  or  the  poet 
I  allude  to  that  which  exists  between  the  omnibus  driver  and  his  con- 
ductor. Cultivating  literature  as  I  do  upon  a  little  oatmeal,  and  driv- 
ing, when  in  a  position  to  be  driven  at  all,  in  that  humble  vehicle,  the 
*bus,  I  have  had,  perhaps,  exceptional  opportunities  for  observing  their 
mutual  position  and  behaviour;  and  it  is  very  peculiar.  When  the 
*bus  is  empty,  they  are  sympathetic  and  friendW  to  one  another,  al- 
most to  tenderness;  but  when  there  is  much  trafac,  a  tone  of  severity 
is  observable  upon  the  side  of  the  conductor.  '  What  are  yer  a-driving 
on  for?  Will  nothing  suit  but  to  break  a  party's  neck?*  'Wake  up, 
will  yer,  or  do  yer  want  the  Bayswater  to  pass  us?'  are  inquiries  he  will 
make  in  the  most  peremptory  manner.  Or  he  will  concentrate  con- 
tempt in  the  laconic  but  withering  observation:  'Now  then,  stoopid  V 

TVlien  we  consider  that  the  driver  is  after  all  the  driver — ^that  the 

(1)  One  of  the  most  interesting  and  piquant  pieces  of  contemporary  nmsical  criti- 
cism Is  embodied  in  Mr.  Browning's  admirable  oit  of  gnrtesque,  '*  Master  HupntM  of 
Saxe-Gotha,"  though  many  people  have  probably  read  it  without  the  least  Jdea  that 
they  \Are  going  thrangh  a  dissertation  as  to  the  real  value  and  meaning  of  the  fagne 
form  ns  elaborated  by  Bach  anil  his  school.  The  i-eadcr  who  knows  the  meaning  will 
like  it  none  the  less ;  indeed  it  may  be  doubted  whether  auy  uoii>JOUBical  rc&Uiv  would 
make  out  what  tha  poet  waa  diiviug  at* 


.     THE  GBTTIG  ON  THE  HEABTH.  697 

t 

*bTi8  is  under  bis  gnidance  and  management,  and  may  he  said  mo  tern. 
to  be  liifl  own— indeed,  in  case  of  collision  or  other  serious  exfeemity, 
he  calls  it  so:  '  What  the  infernal  regions  are  ver  ban^n^  into  my 
'bus  for?'  &c.t  (fee., — ^I  say,  this  being  his  exalted  position,  the  in- 
jurious language  of  the  man  on  the  step  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  dis- 
respectful 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  the  conductor  who  fills  the  'bus,  and  even 
entices  into  it,  by  lures  and  wiles,  persons  who  are. not  voluntarily 
going  his  way  at  nlL  It  is  he  who  advertises  its  presence  to  the  passers- 
by,  and  spares  neither  lung  nor  limb  in  attracting  passengers.  If  the 
driver  is  lord  and  king,  yet  the  conductor  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
the  administration:  just  as  the  Mikado  of  Japan,  who  sits  above  the 
thunder  and  is  almost  divine,  is  understood  to  be  assisted  and  even 
'conducted'  by  the  Tycoon.  The  connection  between  those  potentates 
is  perhaps  the  most  exact  reproduction  of  that  between  the  'bus  driver 
and  his  cad;  but  even  in  England  there  is  a  pretty  close  par^lel  to  it 
in  the  mutual  relation  of  the  author  and  the  professional  critic. 

While  the  former  is  in  his  spring-time,  the  analogy  is  indeed  almost 
complete.  For  example,  however  much  he  may  have  plagiarised,  the 
book  does  belong  to^the  author;  he  calls  it,  with  pcuidonable  ^ride 
(and  especially  if  any  one  runs  it  down>,  *my  book.'  He  has  written 
it,  and  probably  paid  pretty  handsomely  for  getting  it  published. 
Even  the  right  of  translation,  if  you  will  look  at  the  bottom  of  the 
title-page,  is  somewhat  superfluously  reserved  to  him.  Yet  nothing 
can  exceed  the  patronage  which  he  suffers  at  the  hands  of  the  critic, 
and  is  compelled  to  submit  to  in  sullen  silence.  When  the  book-trade 
is  slack — ^that  is,  in  the  summer  season — the  pair  get  on  together  pretty 
amicably.  'This  book,'  says  the  critic,  'may  be  taken  down  to  the 
seaside,  and  lounged  over  not  unprofitably;  or,  'Eeaders  may  do 
worse  than  peruse  this  unpretending  little  volume  of  fugitive  verse;' 
or  even,  'We  hail  this  new  aspirant.for  the  laurels  of  Apollo.'  But  in 
the  thick  of  the  publishing  season,  aad  when  books  pour  into  the  re- 
viewer by  the  cartful,  nothing  can  exceed  the  violence,  and  indeed 
sometimes  the  virulence,  of  his  language.  That  'Now  then,  stoopidl' 
of  the  'bus  conductor  pedes  beside  the  hghtnings  of  his  scorn. 

'Among  the  lovers  of  sensation,  it  is  possible  that  some  persons  may 
be  found  with  tastes  so  utterly  vitiated  as  to  derive  pleasuxe  from  this 
monstrous  production.'    I  cuU  these  flowers  of  speech  from  a  wreath 

f  laced  by  a  critic  of  the  Slasher  on  my  own  early  brow.  Ye  gods,  how 
hated  him!  How  I  pursued  him  with  more  than  Gorsican  vengeance; 
traduced  him  in  pubbc  and  private;  and  only  when  I  had  thrust  my 
knife  (metaphorically)  into  his  detested  carcase,  discovered  I  had  been 
attacking  the  wrong  man.  It  is  a  lesson  I  have  never  forgotten;  and  I 
pray  you,  my  younger  brothers  of  the  pen,  to  lay  it  to  heart.  Believe 
rather  that  your  unfriendly  critic,  like  the  bee  who  is  fabled  to  sting 
and  die,  has  perished  after  his  attempt  on  your  reputation;  an<Plet  the 
tomb  be  his  asylum.  For  even  supposing  you  get  the  right  sow  by  the 
ear— oz  rather,  the  wild  boor  with  tae  '  raging  tooth  '-^what  can  it  proflt 


698      ,^  THE  CBITIG  ON  THE  OTSABTH.  ^< 

yon?  It  is  not  like  that  difference  of  opinion  between  yourself  and 
twelve  of  your  fellow-countrymen  whicji  may  have  such  fatal  results. 
You  are  not  an  Adonis  (except  in  outward  form,  perhaps),  that  you  can 
be  ripped  up  with  his  tusk.  His  hard  words  do  not  break  your  bones. 
If  they  are  \inoalled  for,  their  cruelty,  believe  me,  can  hurt  only  your 
vanity.  While  it  is  just  possible — though  indeed  in  your  case  in  the 
very  highest  degree  improbable — that  the  gentleman  may  have  beon 
right. 

In  the  good  old  times  we  are  told  that  a  buffet  from  the  himd  of  an 
Edinburgh  or  Quarterly  Reviewer  would  lay  a  young  author  dead  at 
his  feet.  If  it  was  so,  he  must  have  been  naturally  very  deficient  in 
vitality.  It  certainly  did  not  kill  Byrpn,  though  it  was  a  knock-down 
blow;  he  rose  from  that  combat  with  earth,  like  Antseus,  all  the 
stronger  for  it.  The  story  of  its  having  killed  Keats,  though  embalmed 
m  verse,  is  apocryphal;  and  if  such  blows  were  not  fatal  in  those  times, 
still  less  so  are  they  nowadays.  On  the  other  hand,  if  authors  are  diffi- 
cult to  slay,  it  is  infinitely  harder  work  to  give  them  life  by  what  the 
doctors  term  *  artificial  respiration '^ — puffing.  The  amount  of  breath 
expended  in  the  days  of  '  the  Quartenies '  in  this  hopeless  task  would 
have  moved  windmills.  Not  a  single  favourite  of  those  critics— 
selected,  that  is,  from  favouritism,  and  ai>art  from  merit — ^now  sur- 
vives. They  failed  even  to  obtain  immortality  for  the  writers  in  whom 
there  was  really  something  of  genius,  but  whom  they  extolled  beyond 
their  deserts.  •  Their  pet  idol,  for  example,  was  Samuel  Kogers.  And 
who  reads  Rogers's  poems,  now?  We  remember  something  about 
them,  and  that  is  all;  they  are  very  literally  *  Pleasures  of  Memory.' 

And  if  these  things  are  true  of  the  past,  how  much  more  so  are  they 
of  the  present  I  I  venture  to  think,  in  spite  of  some  voices  to  ttie  con- 
trary, that  criticism  is  much  more  honest  than  it  used  to  be:  certainly 
less  influenced  by  political  feeling,  and  by  the  interests  of  publishing 
houses;  more  temperate,  if  not  more  judicious,  and— in  the  higher  ht- 
erary  organs,  at  least — unswayed  by  personal  prejudice.  But  the  re- 
sult of  even  the  most  favourable  notices  upon  a  book  is  now  but  small 
I  can  remember  when  a  review  in  the  IHrms  was  calculated  by  the 
*Ilow  *  to  sell  an  entire  edition.  Those  halcyon  days — ^if  haloyon  days 
they  were— are  over. '  People  read  bookafor  themselves  now;  judge  for 
themselves;  and  buy  only  when  they  ore  absolutely  compelled,  and 
cannot  get  them  from  the  libraries.  In  the  case  of  an  author  who  has 
already  secured  a  public,  it  is  indeed  extraordinary  what  little  effect 
reviews,  either  good  or  bad,  have  upon  his  circulation.  Those  who 
like  his  works  continue  to  read  them,  no  matter  what  evil  is  written  of 
them;  and  those  who  don't  like  them  are  not  to  be  persuaded  (alas!)  to 
change  their  minds,  though  his  latest  effort  should  be  described  as 
thoughit  had  di'opped  from  the  heavens.  I  could  givo  some  statistics  up- 
on this  point  not  a  little  surprising,  but  statistic3  involve  comparisons 
— which  are  odious.  As  for  fiction,  its  success  depends  more  upon 
what  Mrs.  Brown  says  to  Mrs.  Jones  as  to  the  necessity  of  getting  that 
charming  book  from  the  library  while  the^  is  yet  time,  than  on  all  the 
reviews  in  Christendom. 


THE  CEITid  ON  THE  HEABTH.  e&^ 

O  Fame !  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 

'Twaa  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-8oan(lin{j  phrases 
Than  to  see  tho  brififht  oyci.s  of  tho«o,  deur  ones  discover. 
They  thoug'ht  that  I  was  not  unworthy — 

of  a  special  meeseiiger  to  Mr.  Mndie's. 

Heavea  ble@s  them  I  for,  whan  we  get  old  and  stupid,  they  still 
stick  by  one,  and  are  not  to  be  seduced  from  their  allegiance  by  any 
blaring  of  trumpets,  or  clashing  of  cymbals,  that  heralds  a  new  arrival 
among  the  story-tellers. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  respeets  his  first  venture,  the  author  is  very 
dependent  upon  what  the  critics  say  of  him.  It  is  the  conductor,  yoa 
know  (I  wouldn't  call  him  a  *  cad,'  even  in  fun,  for  ten  thousand 
pounds),  on  whom,  to  return  to  our  metaphor,  the  driver  is  de- 
pendent for  the  patronage  of  his  vehicle,  and  even  for  the  announce- 
ment of  its  existence.  A  good  review  is  still  the  very  best  of  adver- 
tisements to  a  new  author;  and  even  a  bad  one  is  better  than  no 
review  at  all.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  it  whispered  that  a  review  which 
speaks  unfavorably  of  a  work  of  fiction,  upon  moral  grounds,  is  of  very 
great  use  to  it.  This,  however,  the  same  gossips  say,  is  mainly  confined 
to  works  of  fiction  written  by  female  authors  for  readers  of  their  own 
sex — ^by  ladies/or  ladies,'  as  a  feminine  FaU  Modi  Qazette  might  describe 
itself. 

Nor  would  I  be  understood  to  say  that  even  a  well-established  au- 
thor is  not  affected  by  what  the  critics  may  say  of  him ;  I  only  state  that  Jiis 
circulation  is  not — albeit  they  may  make  his  very  blood  curdle.  I  have 
a  popular  writer  in  my  mind,  who  never  looks  at  a  newspaper  unless 
it  comes  to  him  by  a  hand  he  can  trust,  for  fear  his  eyes  should  light 
upon  an  unpleasant  review.  His  argument  is  this:  '  I  have  been  at 
this  work  for  the  last  twelve  months,  thinking  of  little  else  and  put- 
ting my  best  intelligence  (which  is  considerable)  at  its  service.  Is  it 
humanly  probable  that  a  reviewer  who  has  given  his  mind  to  it,  for  a 
less  number  of  hours,  can  suggest  anything  in  the  way  of  improve- 
ment worthy  of  my  consideration  ?  I  am  supposing  him  to  be  en- 
dowed with  ability  and  actuated  by  good  faith;  that  he  has  not  failed 
m  my  own  profession  and  is  not  jeSous  of  my  popularity;  yet  even 
thus,  how  is  it  possible  that  his  opinion  can  be  of  material  advantage 
to  me?  If  favourable,  it  gives  me  pleasure  because  it  flatters  my  amour 
propre,  and  I  am  even  not  quite  sure  that  it  does  not  afford  a  stimulat- 
ing encouragement;  but  if  unfavourable*  I  own  it  gives  me  considerable 
annoyance.  [This  is  his  euphemistic  phrase  to  express  the  feeling  of 
being  in  a  hornets'  nest  without  his  clothes  on.]  On  the  other  hand, 
if  the  critic  is  a  mere  hireling,  or  a  young  gentleman  from  the  univer- 
sity who  is  trying  his  'prentice  hand  at  a  lowish  rate  of  remuneration 
upon  a  yetoran  like  myself,  how  still  more  idle  would  it  be  to  regard 
his  views ! ' 

And  it  appears  to  me  that  there  is  really  something  in  these  argu- 
ments. As  regards  the  latter  part  of  them,  by  the  bye,  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  my  own  last  immortal  etoxy  spoken  of  in  on  American  mag{v> 


700       THE  GHrnc  ON  th£  heabtel 

zlao— the  AUaniic  Monthly — as  the  work  of  a  *  bright  and  prosperous 
young  anthor.'  The  critio  (Heaven  bless  his  young  heart,  and 
give  him  a  happy  Whitsuntide)  evidently  imagined  it  to  be  my 
first  production.  In  another  Transatlanfeio  organ»  a  critic,  speak- 
ing of  the  last  work  of  that  literary  veteran,  the  late  Mr.  Le  Fanu, 
observes:  'If  this  young  writer  would  only  model  himself  upon  the 
works  of  Mr.  William  Block  in  his  best  days,  we  foresee  a  great  future 
before  him.' 

There  is  one  thing  that  I  think  should  be  set  down  to  the  credit  of 
the  literary  profession — that  for  the  most  part  they  take  their  *  slatings  * 
(which  is  the  professional  term  for  then)  with  at  least  outward  equa- 
nimity. I  have  read  things  of  late,  written  of  an  old  and  popular 
writer,  ten  times  more  virulent  than  anything  Mr.  Buskin  wrote  of  Mr. 
Whistler;  yet  neither  he  nor  any  other  man  of  letters  thinks  of  flying 
to  his  mother's  apron-string,  or  of  setting  in  motion  old  Father  Antic, 
the  Law.  Perhaps  it  is  that  we  have  no  money,  or  periiape,  like 
the  judicious  author  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  we  abstain  from  reoding 
unpleasant  things.    I  wish  to  goodness  we  could  abstain  from  hearing 

of  them;  but  the  * d d  good-natured  friend'  is  an  eternal  creation. 

Ho  has  altered,  however,  since  Bheridan's  time  in  his  method  of  pro- 
ceeding.   He  does  not  say,  *  There  is  a  very  unpleasant  notice  of  yon 


/ScorpioTi,  he  says,  *  which  will  amuse  you.  It  is  very 
and  evidently  the  offspring  of  personal  spite,  but  it  is  very  clever.' 
Then  you  go  down  to  ^our  club,  and  take  the  thing  U|>  with  the  tongs, 
when  nobody  is  looking,  and  make  yourself  very  miserable;  or  vou 
buy  it,  going  home  in  the  cab,  and,  having  spoilt  your  appetite  for  din« 
ner  with  it,  tear  it  up  very  small,  and  thiow  it  out  of  window:  and  of 
course  you  swear  you  have  never  seen  it 

One  forgives  the  critic— perhaps — ^but  never  the  good-natured  fHend. 
It  is  always  possible — to  the  wise  man — to  refrain  from  reading  the 
lucubration  of  the  former,  but  he  cannot  avoid  the  latter:  which  brings 
me  to  the  main  subject  of  this  paper — ^the  Critio  on  the  Hearth.  One 
can  be  deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  public  hireling,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
shut  one's  ears  to  the  private  communications  of  one's  friends  and 
family — dll  meant  for  our  good,  no  doubt,  but  which  are  nevertheless 
insufferable. 

In  Miss  Martineau'srecentlv  published  Autobiography  there  is  a  pas- 
sage expressing  her  surprise  tnat,  whereas  in  all  other  cases  there  is  a  cer- 
tain modest  reticence  in  respect  to  other  people's  business  when  it  is  of  a 
special  kind,  the  profession  of  literature  is  mode  an  exception.  As 
there  is  no  one  but  imagines  that  he  can  poke  a  fire  and  drive  a  gig,  so 
every  one  beUeves  ho  can  write  a  book,  or  at  all  events  (like  that  bUs- 
phemous  person  in  connection  with  the  Creation)  that  he  can  give  a 
wrinkle  or  two  to  the  author. 

I  wonder  what  a  person  would  say,  if  a  man  who  never  goes  to 
church  save  when  his  babies  ore  christened,  or  by  accident  to  get  out 


THE  OKITIO  ON  THE  HEARTH.  701 

of  ft  shower,  sbonid  Yohmteer  his  adyioe  abonjlv  sermon-making?  or  an 
artist,  to  whom  the  man  without  arms,  who  is  wheeled  about  in  t  .le 
streets  for  coppers,  should  recommend  a  greater  delicacy  of  touch  ?  In- 
deed, metaphor  foils  me,  and  I  gasp  for  mere  breath  when  I  think 
of  Hxe  astounding  impudence  of  son^e  people.  If  I  possessed  a  tithe 
of  it,  I  should  surely  have  made  i^y  fortune  by  this  time,  and  be  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  greatest  prosperity.  It  must  be  remembered, 
too,  that  the  opinion  of^he  Critics  on  the  Hearth  is  always  volunteered 
(indeed,  one  would  as  soon  think  of  asking  for  it  as  for  a  loan  from  the 
Sultan  of  TturkeyX  and  in  nine  oases  out  of  ten  it  is  unfavourable. 
One  has  no  objection  to  their  praise,  nor  to  any  amount  of  it;  what  is 
60  abhorrent  is  their  advice,  and  still  more  their  disapproval.  It  is  like 
throwing  'half  a  brick'  at  you,  which,  utterly  valueless  in  itseU',  still 
hurts  yon  when  it  hits  you.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that,  apart  from 
their  rubbishy  opinions,  one  likes  these  people;  thev  arc  one  s  friends 
and  rela^ves,  and  to  cut  one's  moorings  from  them  altogether  would  be 
to  soil  over  the  sea  of  life  without  a  port  to  touch  at. 

The  early  life  of  the  author  is  especially  embittered  by  the  utterances 
of  these  ^ood  folks.  As  a  prophet  is  of  no  honour  in  his  own  country, 
Bo  it  is  with  the  young  aspirant  for  literary  fame  with  his  folks  at  home. 
They  not  only  disbelieve  m  him,  but— generally,  however,  with  one  or 
two  exceptions,  who  are  invaluable  to  him  in  the  way  of  encourage- 
ment— 'make  hay*  of  him  and  his  pretensions  in  the  most  heartless 
style.  If  he  produces  a  poem,  it  achieves  immortality  in  the  sense  of 
his  'never  hearing  the  last  of  it;'  it  is  the  jest  oi  the  family  till  they 
have  all  grown  up.  But  this  ho  can  bear,  because  his  noble  mind 
recognises  its  own  greatness;  he  regards  his  jeering  brethren  iA  the 
some  light  as  the  philosophic  writer  beholds  'the  vapid  and  irreflective 
reader.'  When  they  tell  him  they  '  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  his  blessed 
poetry,*  he  comforts  himself  with  the  reflection  of  the  great  German 
(which  he  Ims  read  in  a  translation)  that  the  clearest  handwriting  can- 
not be  read  by  twilight.  It  is  when  his  literary  talents  have  received 
more  or  less  recognition  from  the  public  at  lai^e,  that  home  criticism 
becomes  so  painful  to  him.  His  brethren  are  then  boys  no  longer,  but 
parsons,  lawyers,  and  doctors;  and  though  the^r  don't  venture  to  inter- 
fere with  one  another  as  regards  their  individual  professions,  they 
make  no  sort  of  scruple  about  interfering  with  him.  They  write  to 
him  their  unsolicited  advice  and  strictures.  This  is  the  parson's 
letter: — 

My  dear  Dick— I  like  your  last  book  much  better  than  the  rest  of  them ;  but  I  don't 
]i';e  your  heroine.    She  BtrikeH  both  Julia  and   myseir  [Jnlia  is  his  wife,  Avho  is  no- 

5  minted  with  no  literatare  but  the  cookery  book]  h»  rather  namby-pamby.    The 
e^Kiriptiontt,  howercr,  are  charming ;  we  both  reoognisinl  dear  old  liamsirato  at  onco. 
IThoori«:inall>cality  in  the  noTol  being  Di<{ppe.]     Jlie  plot  is  also  excdlont,  though 


702  THE  CRmC  ON  THE  HEABTH. 

Jack  the  lawyer  writes:  •  - 

Dear  Dick, — You  aro  really  becoming  [ho  thinks  that  becoraingl  qnite  a  great  man : 
vre  could  hardly  j;'et  your  last  book  from  Mudie'a,  though  1  Bup|>ose  ho  tukes  very  sicall 
quiuitiiiea  of  copicH,* except  from  really  popular  authors.  Marion  -was  charmed  witk 
your  herouje  [Diok  ruther  likes  Mariou;  and  doesit't  think  Jack  treats  heririthtlie 
considerotiou  Khe  do8(?rvcs|,  and  I  have  nu  dqiibt  women  in  general  will  admire  ber, 
but  your  liert) — ^you  know  I  always  speak  my  mind—  is  rather  a  duffer.  You  should  go 
into  the  world  more,  and  sketch  from  life.  The  Vice-Chancellorgare  me  great  i)leas- 
urn  by  sneHkiiig  of  your  early  pooms  verv  highly  the  other  day,  and  I  assure  you  it  was 
quitc'a  drop  dtnvn  for  me.  to  tindthat  ho  was  rottjrringto  some  other  writer  of  the 
SMme  name.  Of  courKe  I  did  not  undeceive  him.  I  wish,  my  dear  fellow,  you  would  write 
stories  iu  one  toiume  instead  of  three.  You  write  a  short  stoiy  capitally. — ^Yours  ever. 

Jack. 

Tom  tlie  surgeon  belongs  to  that  very  objectionable  class  of  Imniani- 
ty,  called  by  ancient  writers  wags: — 

My  dcnr  Dick, — 1  cannot  help  writing  to  thank  yon  for  the  relief  afforded  to  me  by  the 
perusal  of  your  last  volume.  1  liad  beon  sutforing  from  neuralgia,  uiul  every  preserip- 
tiou  in  the  phannacopteia  for  i)roducing  sleep  had  failed  until  I  tried  that  Dear 
Mafrgie  (an  odi«)us  woman,  who  calls  novels  light  literature,  ami  affects  to  be  hinej 
road  it  to  mo  hersolf,  so  it  was  pivcn  every  chance :  but  I  think  you  mutit  acknowledi;e 
that  it  was  a  little  spuji  out.  Maggie  assures  me — I  have  not  read  them  mysr'lf,  for 
yon  know  what  little  time  I  have  for  such  things — that  the  first  two  volumes,  with  tlio 
exception  of  the  charuetei's  of  the  hero  and  the  heroine,  which  she  pronounces  to  be 
rather  fcoble,  are  first-rate.  Why  don't  you  write  two-volume  novels  ?  Thei-e  is  al- 
wrtvM  something  in  analogy:  retlect  how  seldom  uatui*e  heiself  produces  three  at  a 
birth :  when  she  d<»os,  it  is  o'nly  two,  at  most,  which  survive.  We  shall  look  forward  to 
your  next  elfort  with  much  interest,  but  wo  hope  you  will  tive  more  time  and  pains 
to  it.  Kemomber  what  Horace  savs  upon  this  subject.  [He  has  no  more  knowledge 
of  Horace  than  he  has  of  Sanscrit,  but  lie  has  read  the  quotation  in  that  vile  review  ia 
tho  i!icoiirge.\  Mafrgio  thinks  you  live  too  luxuriously  :  if  vour  ex[)cn8es  were  leas  you 
wou'd  Jiot  be  compeliod  to  write  so  much,  and  you  would  do  it  better.  Excuse  this 
Wcll-meaut  advice  from  nu  elder  brother. — Youi's  oiwuys, 

TOM.  - 

*  One's  sisters,  ani  one's  cousins,  and  one's  annts '  also  write  in  more 
or  less  the  same  style,  though,  to  do  their  sex  justice,  less  offensively. 

*  If  you  were  to  go  abroad,  njy  dear  Dick,*  says  one,  *it  would  expand 
your  mind.  There  is  nothing  to  blame  in  your  last  production,  which 
strikes  me  (what  I  could  understand  of  it  at  least,  ibr  some  of  it  is  a 
little  Bohemian)  as  very  pleasing,  but  the  fact  is  that  English  subjects 
are  quite  used  up.'  Others  discover  for  themselves  the  onginals  of 
DicVs  characters  in  persons  he  bas  never  dreamt  of  describing,  and 
otherwise  exhibit  a  most  marvelous  familiarity   with  his  mat^^aals. 

*  Hennie,  who  has  just  been  here,  is  immensely  delighted  with  your 
satirical  sketch  of  her  husband.  He,  however,  as  you  may  suppose,  ia 
wUd,  and  says  ycfu  had  bettor  withdraw  your  name  from  the  candidates' 
book  at  his  club.  I  don't  know  how  many  black  balls  exclude,  but  he 
has  a  ^ood  many  friends  there.'  Another  writes:  *0f  course  we  all 
recognised  Uncle  John  in  your  Mr.  Flibbertigibbet:  but  we  try  not  to 
laugh  J  indeed  our  sense  of  loss  is  too  recent.  Seriously,  I  think  you 
might  have  waited  till  the  poor  old  maa— whp  was  always  kind  to  you, 
Dick—was  cold  in  his  grave,* 


THE  came  OK  THE  HEAE'tH,  703 

Some  (Jf  tboso  dear  good  creatures  send  incidents  of  real  life  which 
they  are  sure  will  bo  useful  to  dotir  •Dick 'for  his  next  book — nar-- 
ratives  of  accidents  in  a  hansom  cab,  of  missing  the  train  by  the  Un- 
derground, and  of  Mr.  Jones  being  late  for  his  own  wedding,  *  which, 
though  nothing  in  themselve8,actually  did  hapi)en,  yon  know,  and  which, 
properly  dressed  up,  as  you  so  well  know  how  to  do,'  will,  they  are  sure, 
obtain  for  him  a  marked  success.  *  There  is  nothing  like  reality,'  they 
•ay,  he  may  depend  upOn  it,*  for  coming  homo  to  people.* 

After  all,  one  need  not  read  these  abominable  letters.  One's  relatives 
(thank  Heaven  1 )  usually  live  in  the  country.  The  real  Critics  on 
the  Hearth  are  one*s  personal  acquaintances  in  town,  whom  one  can- 
not escape. 

*My  dear  friend^*  said  one  to  me  the  other  day — a  most  cordial 
and  excellent  fellow,  by  the  bye  (only  too  frank) — '  I  like  you,  as  you 
know,  beyond  everything,  personally,  but  I  cannot  read  your  books.* 

*  My  dear  Jones,  replied  I,  •  I  regret  that  exceedingly;  for  it  is  you, 
and  men  like  you,  whose  suffrages  I  am  most  anxious  to  win.  Of 
the  approbation  of  all  intelligent  and  educated  persons  I  am  cer- 
tain; but  if  I  could  only  obtain  that  of  the  million,  I  should  be  a  happy 
man/ 

But  even  when  I- have  thus  demolished  Jones,  I  still  feel  that  I  owe 
him  a  grudge.  'What  the  infernal  regions,'  as  our  'bus  driver  would 
say,  *is  it  to  me  whether  Jones  likes  my  books  or  not?  and  why  does 
lie  tell  mo  ho  doesn't  like  them  ? ' 

Of  the  surpassing  ignorance  of  these  good  people,  I  have  just  heard 
an  admirable  anecdote.  A  friend  df  a  justly  popular  author  meets  him 
in  the  club  and  congratulates  him  upon  his  last  story  in  the  Slasher  [in 
which  he  has  never  written  a  line].  It  is  so  full  of  farce  and  fun  [the 
author  is  a  grave  writer].  *  Only  I  don't  see  why  it  is  not  advertised 
Tinder  the  same  title  in  the  other  newspapers.'  The  fact  being  that  the 
story  iti  jfche  Slasher  is  a  parody —  and  not  a  very  good-natured  one — 
upon  the  author's  last  work,  and  resembles  it  only  as  a  picture  in 
Vambj  Fair  resembles  its  original. 

Some  Critics  on  the  Hearth  are  not  only  good-natured,  but  have 
rather  too  high,  or,  if  that  is  impossible,  let  us  say  too  pronounced,  an 
opinion  of  the  abilities  of  their  literary  friends.  They  wOnder  why 
they  do  not  employ  their  gigantic  talents  in  some  enduring  monu- 
ment, such  as  a  life  of  *  Alexander  the  Great 'or  a  popular  histoiy  of  the 
Visigoths.  To  them  lit(3rature  is  literature,  and  they  do  not  concern 
themselves  with  little  niceties  of  style  or  diflfbrences  of  subject.  Others 
again,  though  extremely  civil,  are  apt  to  aflFect  more  enthusiasm  than 
they  feel.  They  admire  one's  works  without  exception-^ 'they  are  all 
absolutely  charming ' — but  they  would  be  placed  in  a  position  of  great 
embarrassiuent  if  they  were  asked  to  name  their  favourite:  for  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  they  are  ignorant  of  the  very  names  of  them.  A  novelist  of 
'  my  acquaintance  lent  his  last  work  to  n  lady -cousin  because  she^*  really 
could  not  wait  till  she  got  it  from  the  library; '  besides,  *  she  5vas  ill, 
Q2id  Wanted  some  amusing  literature.*    After  a  month  or  so  he  got  his 


704  -THE  CaiTIC  ON  THE  HEARTH. 

three  Toltimes  back,  with  a  most  gushing  letter.  It '  had  been  the  com- 
fort of  many  a  weary  hour  of  sleeplessness/  &c.  The  thought  of  having 
*  smoothed  the  pillow  and  soothed  the  pain '  would,  she  felt  sure,  bo 
gratifying  to  him.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been,  only  she  had  omitted 
to  cut  the  pages  even  of  the  first  volume. 

But,  as  a  general  rule,  these  volunteer  censors  plume  themselves  on 
discovering  defects  and  not  beauties.  When  any  author  is  particularly 
popular,  and  has  been  lon^  before  the  public,  they  have  two  methods 
of  discoursing  upon  him  m  relation  to  their  literary  friend.  In  the 
first,  they  represent  him  as  a  model  of  excellence,  and  recommend 
their  friend  to  study  him,  though  without  holding  out  much  hope  of 
his  ever  becoming  his  rival;  in  the  second,  they  describe  him.  as 
'worked  out,'  and  darkly  hint  that  sooner  or  later  [they  mean  sooner] 
their  friend  will  be  in  the  same  unhappy  condition.  These,  I  need  not 
say,  are  among  the  most  detestable  specimens  of  their  class,  and  only 
to  be  equalled  by  those  excellent  literary  judges  who  are  always  appeal- 
ing  to  posterity,  which,  even  if  a  little  temporary  success  has  crowned 
you  to-4ay,  will  relegate  you  to  your  proper  position  to-morrow.  K 
one  were  weak  enough  to  argue  with  these  gentry,  it  would  be  easy  to 
show  that  popular  authors  are  not  *  worked  out,'  but  only  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  being  BO  from  their  taking  their  work  too  easily.  Those 
whose  caHing  it  is  to  depict  human  nature  in  fiction  are  especially  sub- 
ject to  this  weakness;  they  do  not  give  themselves  the  trouble  to  study 
new  characters,  or  at  first  hand,  as  of  old;  they  sit  at  home  and  receive 

•  the  congratulations  of  Society  without  x)aying  due  attention  to  that 
somewhat  changeful  lady,  and  they  draw  upon  their  memory,  or  their 
imagination,  instead  of  studying  from  the  life.  Otherwise,  when  they  do 
not  give  way  to  that  temptation  of  indolence  which  arises  from  com- 
petence and  success,  there  is  no  reason  why  their  reputation  should 
suffer,  since,  though  they  may  lack  the  vigour  or  high  spirits  of  those 
who  would  push  them  from  their  stools,  their  experience  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  are  always  on  the  increase. 

As  to  the  argument  with  regard  to  posterity  which  is  so  popular  with 
the  Critic  on  tne  Hearth,  I  am  afraid  he  has  no  greater  respect  for  the 
opinion  of  posterity  himself  than  for  that  of  his  possible  great-great- 
granddaughter.  Indeed,  he  only  uses  it  as  being  a  weapon  the  blow  of 
which  it  is  impossible  to  parry,  and  with  the  object  of  being  personally 
offensive.  It  is,  moreover,  noteworthy  that  his  position,  which  is  some- 
times taken  .up  by  persons  of  far  greater  intelligence,  is  inconsistent 
with  it  ^elf.  The  praisers  of  posterity  are  also  always  the  praisers  of  the 
past ;  it  is  only  tne  pnesent  which  is  in  their  eyes  contemptible.    Yet 

"  to  the  next  generation  this  present  will  be  ihdr  past,  and,  however 
valueless  may  be  the  verdict  of  to-day,  how  much  more  so,  by  the  most 
obvious  analogy,  will  be  that  of  to-morrow.  It  is  probable,  indeed, 
though  it  is  difficult  to  believe  it,  that  the  Critics  on  the  Hearth  of  the 
prnnemtion  to  come  will  make  themselves  even  more  ridiculous  than 
their  predecessors. 

•  ,.*.,.     ^        James  Pazn,  in  MndemSh  Century, 


CALCULATING  BOTSL 

In  one  of  ttie  eeaa^  of  my  *Sci^Loe  Byways'  I  eoncdd«red,  in  « 
paper  *0n  some  Strange  Mental  Feats,*  tlie  m^ellons  achievements 
of  Zeiah  Golbuin,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  so-called  'calcu- 
lating boys.'  ladyanced  a  theory  in  explanation  of  his  feats  which 
was  in  some  degree  basedon  experience  of  mj  own.  I  have  since  found 
reason  to  believe  that  the  theory,  if  correct  m  his  case,  is  certainly  not 
generally  applicable  to  cases  oi  rapid  mental  calculation.  I  now  pro- 
pose to  consider;  in  relation  to  that  theory  and  also  iudependeotly, 
the  remarkable  feats  of  calculation  achieved  by  the  late  Mr.  George 
Hdder  in  his  bojliood.  It  may  be  remembered  that^  in  my  former 
paper,  I  had  specially  in  view  the  possibility  of  ascertaining  from  the 
discussion  of  such  achievements  the  laws  of  cerebral  action,  and  espe- 
cially of  cerebral  capabilities.  It  is  with  reference  to  this  possibihty 
that  I  wish  now  to  examine  some  of  the  evidence  afforded  by  the  feats 
of  Colbum,  Bidder,  and  other  *  calculating  boys.* 

And  first;  let  me  show  reason  for  etiU  retaining  faith  in  the  theory 
which  I  advanced  in  1875  respecting  Oolbum's  calculating  powers.  In 
80  .doing,  a  difference  between  his  feats  and  Bidder's  will  be  indicated 
which,  appears  to  me  important. 

So  far  as  the  long  and  elaborate  processes  of  computation  are  con- 
cerned, which  Colbum  achieved  so  rapidly  and  correctly,  there  may  be 
no  spedal  reason  for  adopting  any  other  explanation  in  his  case  than 
we  are  forced,  as  will  presently  appear,  to  adopt  in  Bidder's  case. 
Thus,  Colbum  multiplied  8  into  itself  fifteen  times,  and  the  result, 
cxinsisting  of  fifteen  digits,  was  right  in  every  figure.  But  Bidder 
could  mmtipl^  a  number  of  fifteen  digits  into  another  nximber  of  fif- 
teen digits  with  perfect  correctness  and  amazing  rapidity,  and  we 
know  ha  employed  a  process  familiar  to  arithmeticians.  Again,  Col- 
bum extracted  the  c^be  root  of  268,336, 125  before  the  number  could 
be  written  down;  and  this  feat  was  one  which  had  seemed  to  me  be- 
yond the  power  of  any  computer  employing  the  ordinary  methods,  or 
any  modification  of  those  methods.  Yet  I  am  inclined  now  to  believe 
that  Bidder  would  have  obtained  the  result  as  quickly,  simply  through 
the  marvellous  rapidity  with  which  he  applied  ordinary  processes. 

Where,  however,  we  seem  compelled  in  Colbum's  case  to  recognise 
the  employment  of  a  method  entirely  different  from  those  given  in 
the  books,  is  in  cases  resembling  the  following: — He  was  asked  to 
name  two  numbers  which,  multipHed  together,  would  give  the  num- 
ber 247,483,  and  he  immediately  named  941  and  263,  which  are  the 
only  two  numbers  satisfying  the  condition.  The  same  problem  being 
set  with  respect  to  the  number  171,395,  henamed  the  following  paicsof 
numbers:  5  and  34^279,  7  and  24,485,  59  and  2,905,  83  and  2,065,  35  and 
4^897,  235  and  581,  and  lastly,  413  and  415.    Still  more  marvellous  was 

L.  M.-I.-23.  (705) 


706  CALCULATING    BOY& 

the  next  feat.  He  was  asked  to  name  a  number  wbich  will  diTide 
34,083  without  remainder,  and  he  immediately  replied  that  there  is  no 
such  nxmiber;  *in  other  words,  he  reoognised  this  nnmber  as  what  is 
called  a  prme^  oranmuberonly  divisible  by  itself  and  unity,  as  readily 
and  quickly  as  most  people  would  recognise  17,  19,  or  28, 8S  such  a  num^ 
ber,  and  a  gr^  deal  more  quickly  than  probably  nine  persons  out  often 
would  recognise  53  or  59  as  suoh.  The  last  feat  of  this  special  kind  was 
the  most  remarkable  of  aU,  but  the  length  of  time  required  for  its  acoom- 
plishment,  even  by  this  wonderfol  calculating  boy,  was  such  that  the 
eyidence  does  not  apx>ear  altogether  so  striking  as  that  afforded  by  the 
last  case,  which  I  must  confess  seems  to  me  utterly  inexplicable,  save 
on  the  theory  presently  to  be  re-enunciated.  Fermat  had  been  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  number  4,^94,967,^7,  which  exceeds  by  unity 
the  number  2  multiplied  fifteen  times  into  itself,  has  no  diYisora. 
But  the  celebrated  mathematician  Euler,  after  much  labour,  succeeded 
in  showing  that  the  number  is  divisible  by  641..  The  number  was 
submitted  to  Zerah  Colbum,  who  was,  of  course,  not  told  of  the  result 
of  Euler^s  researches  into  the  problem,  and  after  the  lapse  of  some 
weeks  the  boy  discovered  the  one  divisor  whidi  Euler  had  only  found 
with  much  greater  labour. 

My  theory  respecting  achievements  of  this  special  kind — ^that  is; 
cases  in  which  a  calculator  rapidly  finds  the  exact  divisors  of  large 
numbers,  if  such  divisors  exist,  or  ascertains  the  non-existence  of  any 
exact  divisor  of  such  numbers — was  based  on  the  known  fiict  that  aU 
good  calculators  have  the  ^ower  of  picturing  numbers  not  as  repre- 
sented by  such  and  such  digits,  but  as  composed  of  so  many  'things.' 
Having  once  this  power  in  no  inconsiderable  degree  myself  and  know- 
ing that,  when  I  had  it,  I  frequently  used  it  in  the  special  manner  in 
question,  I  Was  led  to  believe  that  Colbum  and  other  calculating  boys 
would  employ  it  in  that  manner,  only  with  much  greater  rapidi^, 
dexterity,  and  correctnesa  Let  us  suppose  that  the  number  37  is 
thought  of^  taking  it  for  conTenience  of  illustration  aa  a  representative 
of  some  much  hunger  number,  whose  real  nature  (as  to  divisibili^  by 
other  numbers)  is  not  known.  Beq^uiring  to  know  whether  37  is  a 
prime  number  or  not,  I  would  not,  (m  the  time  to  which  I  now  cany 
back  my  thoughts)  divide  the  niunber  successively  by  2,  3,  &o.,  but 
would  see  the  number  passing  through  the  forms  here  indicated. 


1» 


CALOUIATING    BOia  707 


*•      *  *   *  aadS. 


These  TariooB  arrajB  wonld  all  be  fonaed  troat  iha  foUowiiig  mfioiial 
ptieeeniatiozL  of  the  number  37 : 


which,  it  will  be  observed,  is  deiiyed  directly  ftom  the  number  &s  x^ie- 
sented  in  the  oominon  notation.  Thns  37  means  three  tens  and  seven 
units,  and  the  grouping  above  (numbered  ^  but  really  the  first  pic- 
tured grouping)  shows  three  rows  of  ten  dots  and  one  row  of  seven. 
It  is  easily  seen  that  groupings  2  and  3  are  inamoment  formed  Arom  6. 
Grouping  2  is  formed  from  6  by  imagining  the  lowest  row  oi  seven 
dots  set  into  the  form 


•  *  • 


and  mn  over  to  the  right  of  the  three  rows  of  ten  dots.  €krouping  3 
is  formed  from  C,  by  imagining  the  little  square  of  nine  dots  on  t^ 
right  Let  into  the  form  u 


708  CALCULATING    BOIS. 


ft    * 


wMcli  is  dono  at  onco  by  Bupposmg  tne  yeitical  row  of  three  dots  on 
tho  nght  of  6,  placed  as  a  horizontal  row  in  the  comer  under  the  two 
neigh  Doming  verticaJ  rows  of  three  each;  that  is,  by  changing  the  three 
i^ght  hand  rows  from 

*  ♦  •  ft  •  • 

*  *  * 
e  b  a 

The  diai^es  from  2  on  the  one  hand  to  If  and  &om  3  on  the  other  to 
4  and  5,  are  similarly  effected.  If  the  reader  will  make  the  aetnal  cal- 
culation (using*  the  word  calcutaiion  in  its  real  sense  as  meaning  jp^ 
hlvng\  taking  37  pebbles,  dice,  or  other  objects,  and  maishalling  them 
first  as  in  6,  and  then  as  in  2  and  1,  back  again  to  6,  and  then  as  S^  4, 
and  5,  he  will  see  how  easy  the  transformations  are.  Butif  they  are  easy 
when  actual  objects  are  shifted  abou^  they  are  much  easier,  at  least 
to  any  one  who  can  picture  groups  of  pojects  (dots,  or  the  like)  at  will» 
when  the  nxind  makes  all  the  transformations.  After  a  little  practice 
the  changes  above  figpired  for  such  a  number  aa  37  would  be  made  in  a 
moment,  and  the  changes  for  a  number  of  several  hundreds  in  half  a 
minnto  or  so— this  in  the  ease  of  a  mind  not  possessing  exceptional 
power  in  this  way.  But  as  a  Morphy  or  a  Blackbuzne  can  play  twenty 
games  Of  ehcss  blindfold,  recognising  in  each,  with  amazing  rapidity, 
a  number  of  lines  of  play  on  both  sides  for  nine  or  ten  moves  in  ad- 
vance— which  seems  even  to  an  ordinary  blindfold  flayer  scarcely 
explicable,  and  to  an  ordinary  chess-player  almost  mizacolonB— so  a 
Coxbum  or  a  Bidder  would  bo  able  to  apply  the  maishalling  system 
above  illustnited  as  rapidly  to  a  number  of  many  millions  or  billions, 
as  I,  when  a  boy,  could  apply  it  to  a  number  of  several  hundreds.  Ac- 
cordingly I  was  led  to  recognise  in  this  marshalling  method  the  expla- 
nation of  Coibum's  wonderful  achievements  in  finding  diYisors  for 
numbers,  or  recognising  quickly  when  a  number  has  no  divisors. 

For  it  will  bo  socn  that  the  groupings  1,  2,  3,  4,  and  5,  above,  at  once 
show  that  37  has  no  divisors  but  itself  and  unity.  ^Of  course  we 
know  in  this  caso  that  37  cannot  be  divided;  and  even  in  the  case  of 
much  larger  numbers  we  may  know,  without  the 'trouble  of  trying  the 
division,  or  marshalling  the  pictured  nxunber,  that  such  xrambeES  as  2» 


CALODLATINQ    BOYR  709 


4,  5,  6,  8,  10, 12,  14, 15,  and  others,  will  not  divide  a  nnmber— for 
instance,  if  it  id  an  odd  number  no  even  number  will  divide  it,  and  if 
it  does  not  end  with  a  5  or  a  0  no  number  ending  in  5  will  divide  it. 
But,  as  already  e^plaSned,  the  number  37  is  to  be  regarded  only  as 
selected  for  the  purpose  of  conveniently  illustrating  the  jnarshamng 
method.  A  larger  number  would  have  i;equired  several  pages  of 
unsightly  groups  of  dots.)  From  grouping  twe  sec  that  division  by 
the  number  2  will  leave  one  as  a  remainder,  for  a  dot  remains  alone  on 
the  right.  From  £  rouping  2  we  see  in  like  manner  that  one  will  be 
left  as  a  remainder  after  division  by  3,  for  the  group  shows  twelve  col- 
umns of  three  each  and  one  over,  ho  grouping  3  shows  nine  columns 
of  four  dots,  and  one  over;  grouping  4  shows  seven  coluihns  of  five 
each,  and  two  over;  and  lastly,  grouping  5  shows  six  columns  of  six 
each,  and  one  over.  We  neea  not  goon,  because  it  is  manifest  from 
grouping  5  that  if  we  took  columns  of  an  v  greater  number  than  six 
each  we  shohld  have  fewer  than  six  rows  of  tnem,  and  we  have  already 
learned  that  no  number  less  than  six  is  an  exact  divisor.  The  mar- 
sballing  of  our  number,  then,  has  shown  that  it  is  a  prime. 

In  like  manner,  if  a  number  has  divisors,  this  method  at  once 
shows  what  they  are.  Thus,  suppose  the  number  had  been  36,  then 
we  should  have  obtaiiied  groupings  1,  2,  3,  and  5,  without  the  odd 
man  over,  while  the  grouping  4  would  have  shown  only  one  over 
instead  of  two.  Thus  we  should  have  learned  that  36  is  divisible  by 
2,  3,  4,  and  6  without  remainder,  and  by  5  with  remainder  one. 

So  this  method  shows  at  once  whether  a  number  is  an  exact  square^ 
and  if  so  what  its  square  root  is.  Thus,  if  the  number  had  been  36^ 
the  marshalling  method  would  give  (after  perhaps  groupings  3  and  4 
had  been  tried)  the  grouping  5,  without  the  odd  man  over,  and  we  see 
that  this  grouping  is  a  perfect  square  with  six  dots  on  each  side.  ThuB 
we  leom  that  36  is  a  square  number,  its  square  root  being  6. 

For  determining  whether  a  number  is  a  perfect  cube,  the  plan 
which  would  probably  be  used  by  one  possessinjg  in  a  marked  degree 
the  marshalling  power  would  be  that  of  grouping  his  dote  into  sets 
having  not  only  length  and  breadth,  as  in  the  groupings  above,  but 
height  or  thickness  also.  But  one  less  skilful  in  picturing  groupings 
would  simply  marshal  the  number  into  sets  of  equal  squares,  until 
either  he  found  one  set  in  which  there  were  as  many  squares  as  there 
were  dots  in  the  side  of  each  set,  or  else  perceived  that  no  such 
arrangement  was  possible.  Thus  if  the  number  were'  27  he  would 
ooue,  by  the  marsnaUing  method;  on  this  arrangement-^ 


three  squares,  each  three  in  the  side,  showing  that  the  number  is  thzioe 
three  tunes  three,  or  i»  the  cube  of  three.    If  the  number  had  been  28,^ 
pay,  60  Uiat  it  had  come  to  be  grouped  mentally,  thus, 


710  GALCULATING    BOXa 


it  wonld  be  seen  at  once  that  the  nnmbet  is  not  a  petfeot  cube ;  foi 
clearly  if  we  tiy  squares  fewer  in  the  aide  we  shall  have  too  many,  and 
if  we  try  squares  more  in  the  side  we  shall  have  too  few.  We  ooxQd 
haye  a  row  of  seven  squares  of  four  each  (two  in  the  side)  with  none 
over;  but  that  is  not  wnat  we  want.  And  with  larger  numbers  the  re- 
sult would  be  equally  declsiye;  so  soon  as  we  had  a  set  of  squares 
nearly  equal  in  number  to  the  number  of  dots  in  the  side  of  each,  with 
or  without  any  over,  we  should  be  certain  the  number  was  not  a  per- 
fect cube ;  for  of  squares  one  more  in  the  side  there  would  be  too 
many,  and  of  squares  one  lesd  in  the  side  too  few.  Thus  take  the 
number  421,  We  should  presently  get,  on  marshalling,  eight  squares, 
each  seven  in  the  side,^  and  29  over,  which  would  not  make  such  a 
B<|uaro ;  but  wa  should  only  have  six  complete  squares  of  eight  in  the 
side,  and  we  should  have  eleven  complete  squares  of  six  in  tne  6id& 

I  do  not  know  which  oi  the  two  plans  described  in  the  preceding 
paragraph  a  skilful  mental-marshallist  would  adopt.  In  my  own 
mental  marshalling  I  never  had  occasion  to  seek  for  the  cube  roots  of 
number^.  I  should  say,  however,  that  most  probably  the  second  would 
be  the  method  adopted.  For  wl^le  as  yet  tne  computer  had  had  little 
practice  this  would  be  the  only  available  method;  and  after  he  had  once 
fallen  into  the  way  of  it  he  would  not  be  likely,  I  should  say,  to  take 
up  the  other. 

So  much  respecting  the  theory  I  adopted  in  explanation  of  Colbum's 
remarkable  readiness  in  finding  divisors,  detecting  prim-es,  and  so 
forth.  It  still  seems  to  me  probable  that  he  largely  made  use  of^this 
method  of  marshalling,  the  power  of  which  few  would  conceive  who 
had  not  tried  it — though,  of  course,  it  only  has  value  for  those  who 
possess  the  power  of  picturing  arrays  of  objects  in  great  number,  and 
of  readily  marshalling  such  arrays  in  fresh  order.  Yet  it  is  certain  that 
many  calculators  proceed  on  an  entirely  diflferent  plan.  For  instance, 
in  1875 1  had  the  pleasure  of  a  long  conversation  with  Professor  &tfford 
(of  Boston,  Mass.),  whose  skill,  when  young,  in  mental  calculation  had 
been  remasrkable.  He  told  me,  with  regard  to  the  determination  of  the 
divisors  of  large  numbers,  that  he  seemed  to  possess  the  powerof  recog- 
nising in  a  few  moments  what  numbers  were  likely  to  divide  any  given 
large  number,  and  then  of  testing  the  matter  in  the  usual  way,  by  actnal 
division,  but  with' great  rapidity.  He  said  that  to  this  day  he  foimd 
pleasure  in  taking  large  niunbers  to  pieces,  os  it  were,  by  dividing  them 
into  factors ;  or  e&e,  where  no  such  division  was  possible,  in  satisfying 
himself  on  that  point.  He  had  al^o  come  to  know  the  properties  of 
many  large  numbers  in  this  way,  remembering  always  the  divisors  of 
any  number  he  had  examined,  or  its  character  as  a  |»inie  if  it  had 
proved,  to  be  00. 


OALCULATTNG    BOYS.  711 

What  we  Imow  about  the  late  Mr.  Bidder,  who  was  in  some  respectf^ 
tlie  most  remarkable  of  all  the  Calculating  boys,  leaves  no  room  to 
doubt  that  his  processes  of  mental  arithmetic  were  commonly  only 
moditftoations  of  the  usual  processes, — not  altogether  unlike  them,  as 
the  theory  I  formerly  advanced  would  have  implied. 

The  facts  now  to  be  related  came  out  in  a  very  interesting  correspond- 
ence which  recently  appeared  in  the  pages  of  the  *  Spectator.  *  The  cor- 
respondence was  suggested  by  certain  remarks  respecting  the  late  Mr. 
G.  P.  Bidder  in  a  well-written  article  on  Calculating  Boys,  whicli 
seemed  to  imply  that  Bidder  in  after-life  shewed  no  marked  abilities. 
•He  had  the  good  sense,'  says  the  writer  in  the  'Spectator,'  'after  de- 
lighting the  "groundlings'*  by  performing  marvellous  arithmetical 
feats,  to  study  carefully  a  profession.  He  became  a  civil  engineer  of 
some  eminence,  enjoyed  tae  confidence  and  esteem  of  Robert  Stephen- 
s<m,  was  once  President  of  the  Institute  of  Civil  Engineers,  and  drew 
up  some  tables  which  are  of  use  to  his  professional  brethren.'  The 
writer  in  the  'Spectator'  went  on  to  discuss  the  powers  shown  by  Col- 
bxtni.  Bidder,  and  others,  referred  to  Colbum  as  admittedly  a  medioc- 
rity, and  then  said,  'The  only  exception  to  the  rule  that  juvenili 
calculators  prove  mediocrities  which  occurs  to  us  is  Whately,  who  hal 
undoubtedly  for  a  short  time  an  extraordinary  aptitude  for  figuron, 
akin  to  that  of  Bidder  and  Colbum,  and  who,  if  he  had  boon  unfortu- 
nate enough  to  have  had  a  father  as  vain  and  silly  as  Colbum's  was, 
might  have  been  exhibited  to  admiring  crowds.  *  Major-General  ilobert- 
son  sent  extracts  from  letters  by  Professor  Elliot  and  Mr.  G.  Bidder, 
eldest  son  of  the  late  Mr.  G.  P.  Bidder,  in  which  it  was  clearly  shown 
that  Mr.  Bidder  the  elder  showed  marked  abilities  through  &fe,  and 
possessed  a  remarkable  capacity  for  taking  broad  and  accurate  views  of 
all  questions  in  which  he' was  engaged.  On  this  point  (which  lies 
somewhat  outside  my  subject)  I  need  not  say  more  than  that  the 
writer  in  the  'Spectator,'  with  a  frankness  which  more  than  atoned 
for  his  error,  admitted  that  he  had  been  mistaken.  What  now  con- 
cerns US,  is  the  evidence  adduced  respecting  Bidder's  calculating 
powers. 

Ill  the  first  pleu;e,  it  had  been  noticed  in  the  original  article,  quite 
correctly,  that  there  was  a  distinction  between  Bidder's  powers  aad 
Colbum's.  It  is  important  to  notice  this.  It  confirms  my  view  that 
they  adopted  different  methods.  'Bidder,  as  Colbum  admits,*  says  the 
'Spectator,' after  describing  some  of  Colbum's  feats,  'was  even  more 
remarkable  in  some  ways;  he  could  not  extract  roote  or  find  factors ' 
(the  special  class  of  feats  which  suggested  my  theory)  'with  so  much 
ease  and  rapidity  as  Colbum,  but  ne  was  more  at  home  in  abstruse 
calcuUtions. 

Kext  let  us  consider  the  way  in  which  Bidder's  calculating  powers 
were  developed  from  his  childhood,  one  may  almost  say  his  babyhood, 
onwards  to  a  certain  point  when  the  study  of  other  matters  prevented 
their  further  development  and  caused  them  gradually  to  diminish. 

We  read  that  at  three  years  of  age,  'Bidder  answered  wonder 


712  CSALCULATING    BOYS. 

qnesUons  about  the  noik  in  a  horee^s  four  fihoes;  *  bnt  the  earliest  feel 
of  which  I  have  been  able  to  find  «zact  evidence  bMongs  to  his  ninth 
year.  When  only  eight  years  old,  and  entirely  ignorant  of  t  j.e  theory 
of  ciphering,  he  answered  almost  instantly  and  quite  correctly,  when 
asked  how  many  farthings  there  are  in  868, 421, 121/. 

A  correspondent  X.  in  the  'Spectator,'  referring  to  a  somewhat  earlier 
part  of  Bidder's  career  as  a  youthful  calculator,  says,  *  In  the  autximn 
of  the  year  1814, 1  was  reading  with  a  private  tutor,  the  Curate  of  Wel- 
lington, Somersetshire,  when  a  Mr.  Bidder  called  upon  him  to  exhibit 
the  calculating  i)Ower  of  his  little  boy,  then  about  eight  years  old,  who 
could  neither  read  nor  write.  On  this  occasion,  he  displayed  great 
facility  in  the  mental  handling  of  numbers,  multiplying  readily  and 
oorrectly  two  figures  by  two,  but  failing  in  attempting  numbers  of 
three  figures.  My  tutor,  a  Cambridge  man*  Fellow  of  his  College, 
strongly  recommended  the  father  not  to  carry  his  son  about  the  coun- 
try, but  to  have  him  properly  trained  at  school.  This  advice  was  not 
taken,  for  about  two  years  after  he  was  brought  by  his  father  to  Cam- 
bridge, and  his  faculty,  of  mental  calculation  tested  by  several  able 
matitiematicnl  men.  I  was  present  at  the  examination,  and  began  it 
with  a  sum  in  simple  addition,  two  iows»  with  twelve  figures  in  each 
row.  The  boy  gave  the  correct  answer  immediately,  various  ques- 
tions then,  of  considerable  diificulty,  involving  large  numbers,  were 
proposed  to  him,  all  of  which  he  answered  promptly  and  accurately. 
These  must  have  occupied  more  than  an  hour.  There  was  then  a  pause. 
To  test  his  memory,  I  then  said  to  him,  "Do  you  remember  the  sum 
in  addition  I  gave  you  7"  To  my  great  surprise,  he  repeated  the  twenty- 
four  figures  with  only  one  or  two  mistakes.'  ^  It  is  evident,  therefore, 
that  in  the  course  of  two  years  his  powers  of  memory  and  calculation 
must  have  been  graduallir  developed. 

Bidder  was  unable  at  tnis  time  to  explain  the  process  by  which  he 
worked  out  long  and  intricate  sums.  He  did  not  appear  burdened  by 
liis  mental  calculations.  '  As  soon  as  a  question  was  answered,'  says  X, 
'he  amused  himself  with  whipping  a  top  round  the  room,  and  when 
the  examination  was  over,  he  said  to  us,  "You  have  been  trying  to 
puzzle  me,  I  will  try  to  puzzle  you.  A  man  found  thirteen  cats  in  his 
garden.  He  got  out  his  gun,  fired  at  them,  and  killed  seven.  How 
many  were  left  ?"  *•  Six,  was  the  answer.  "  Wrong,"  he  said,  "  none 
were  left.  The  rest  ran  away."  I  mention  this  to  show  that  he  was  a 
dicexful  and  playful  boy  when  he  was  about  ton  years  old,  and  that  his 


*  This  feat  is  remarkable,  because  the  power  of  picturing  nnmbcn  distinctlj  bofi»re 
the  meutal  eye,  and  dealing  with  thein  as  readily  as  though  pen  and  paper  were  n^etl. 
U  not  necessui^y  accompanied  by  I  he  power  of  retaining  sach  namber^  after  t&ey  are 
done  with ;  on  the  contrary,  it  mast  be  an  advantage  to  t-ie  mental,  oalculiitur  to  be 
nble  to  forget  all  merely  aocidentul  groups  of  numiicrs,  tiioogh  of  conrse  it  is  equally 
ou  advantage  to  him  to  bo  able  to  retain  all  numbers  which  he  may  have  to  use  again. 
Jy  have  very  little  doubt  myself  that  the  power  of  selecting  things  to  be  forgotten  and 
things  to  be  remembered  is  a  roost  nseful  mental  faculty  ;  and  that  those  minds  work 
brst  in  the  lou^  run  whicJi  cau  completely  throw  oli'  all  leouUeotiou  of  useless  luaitvn. 


CALCUIATINa    BOm  713 

brain  was  not  overiozdd.*  It  would  bo  carlons  to  inqxure  whetlier  Bid- 
der waa  really  the  inventor  of  the  now  time-honoured  joke  with  which 
he  puzzled  his  exacmineis.  If  it  had  been  as  well  known  in  1816  as 
now,  he  would  hardlr  have  iwked  a  roomful  of  peraonsi  even  though 
they  were  college  f$llow0,  a  question  whioh  some  one  or  other  of  them 
"would  have  been  sure  to  have  heard  before.  If  he  really  invented  the 
puzzle,  it  was  clever  in  so  young  a  lad. 

The  next  evidence  is  more  precise.    It  is  given  in  a  letter  from  Mr. 
O.  B.  Osmond,  and  is  derived  from  an  old  pamphlet  of  thirty-four 
pages,  published  about  the  year  1820.    From  this  we  learn  that  when 
bidder  was  ten  years  old,  he  answered  in  two  minutes  the  following 
question :  What  is.  the  interest  of  4,4442.  for  4,444  days  at  4.^  per  cent. 
per  annum?    The>ianswor  is,  2,434 i.  16^9.  6\d.    A  few  months  later, 
when  he  was  not  yot  eleven  years  old,  he  was  asked,  How  long  would 
a  cistern  1  mile  cube  be  filling  if  receiving  from  a  river  120gaUons  per 
minute  without  intermissionr    In  two  minutes  he  gave  the  correct 
answer :  14,300  years,  285  days,  12  hours,  46  minutes.    A  year  later,  he 
divided  correctlv,  in  less  than  a  minute,  468,592,413,563  bv  9,076.    I 
have  tried  how  long  this  takes  me  with  pen  and  paper;  and,  after  get- 
ting an  incorrect  result  in  one  and  a  quarter  minute,  went  through  the 
sum  a^ain,  with  correct  result,  (51,629,838  and  5875  over)  in  about  the 
same  time. 
^  At  twelve  years  of  age  ho  answered  in  less  than  a  minute  the  ques- 
tion, If  a  distance  of  9|  inches  is  passed  over  in  a  second  of  time, 
ho ;/  many  inches  will  be  passed  over  in  365  days,  5  hours,  48  minutes, 
55  seconds  ?    Much  more  surprising,  however,  was  his  success  when 
thirteen  years  oil,  in  dealing  with  the  question.  What  is  the  cube 
root  of  897,339,273,974,002,153?    He  obtained  the  answer  in  2^  min- 
utes, viz.  964,537.    I  do  not  believe  one  arithmetician  in  a  thousand 
wouH  get  out  this  answer  correctly,  at  a  first  trial,  in  less  than  a  quar- 
ter of  on  hour.     But  I  confess  that  I  have  not  tried  the  experiment, 
feeling,  indeed,  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  should  not  get  the  answer  cor- 
rectly in  half  a  dozen  trials. 

Ko  date  is  given  to  the  following  case: — *The  question  was  put  by 
Sir  \7illiam  Herschel,  at  Slough,  near  Windsor,  to  Master  Bidder,  and 
answered  in  one  minute:  Light  travels  from  the  sun  to  the  earth  in  8 
minutes,  and  the  sun  being  98,000,000  of  miles  oS  *  (of  course  this 
is  quite  wrong,  but  si:&ty  years  ago  it  was  near  enough  to  the  accepted 
v{ilue\  'if  Bght  wouli  take  six  years  and  four  months  travelling  at  the 
same  rate  frouTthe  nearest  fixed  star,  how  far  is  that  star  from  the 
earth,  reckoning  365  days  and  6  hours  to  each  year,  and  23  days^  to 
each  month? '  The  correct  answer  was  quickly  given  to  this  pleasing 
question,  viz.,  40,633,740,000,000  miles. 

On  one  occasion,  we  learn,  the  proposer  of  a  question  was  not  satis* 
fiei  witU  Bidder's  answer.  The  boy  said  the  answer  was  correct,  and 
requested  the  proposer  to  work  his  sum  over  again.  During  the  oper- 
ation ^Bidder  said  he  felt  certain  he  was  right,  for  he  had  worked 
the  question  in  another  way;  and  before  the  proposer  found  that  he 


WAS  wrong  and  Bidder  right,  the  boy  told  the  company  that  he  had 
calculated  the  question  by  a  third  method. 

The  pamphlet  gives  the  following  e:(tract  from  a  London  papei; 
which,  if  really  based  on  facts,  proves  conclusively  that  Bidder  was  a 
more  skilful  computer  than  Zorah  Colbum: — *  Afew  days  since,  a  meet- 
ing took  place  between  the  Devonshire  youth,  George  Bidder,  and  the 
American  youth,  Zerah  Colburne'  {8io\  'before  a  party  of  gentlemen, 
to  ascertain  their  calculating  comprehensions.  The  Devonshire  boy 
having  answered  a  variety  of  questions  in  a  satisfactory  way,  a  gentle- 
man proposed  one  to  Zerah  Colburne,  viz..  If  the  globe  is  24,912  miles 
in  circumference,  and  a  balloon  travels  3,878  feet  in  a  minute,  how 
long  would  it  be  in  travelling  round  the  world?  After  "nine  minutes'" 
consideration,  he  felt  himself  incompetent  to  give  the  answer.  The 
same  question  being  given  to  the  Devonshire  boy,  the  answer  he  re- 
turned in  two  minutes — ^viz.  23  days,  13  hours,  18  minutes— was  re- 
ceived with  marks  of  great  applause.  Many  other  questions  were  pro- 
posed to  the  American  boy,  all  of  which  he  refused  answering,  while 
young  Bidder  replied  readily  to  alL  A  handsome  subscription  was 
collected  for  the  Devonshire  youth.'  This  accoxm.t  seems  to  me  to  ac- 
cord very  ill  with  what  is  known  about  Colbum's  skill  in  mental  com- 
putation. That  Bidder  could  deal  more  readily  with  very  large  num- 
bers was  admitted  by  Colbum.  But  the  problem  which  Colbum  is 
said  to  have  failed  in  solving  during  nine  minutes  is  far  easier  than 
some  which  he  is  known  to  have  solved  in  a  much  shorter  time.  It 
should  be  noted  that  Colbum  was  nearly  two  years  older  than  Bidder. 

And  now  let  us  consider  what  we  know  respecting  Bidder's  method 
of  computation.  On  this  point,  fortunately,  the  evidence  is  far  clearer 
than  in  Colbum's  case.  Colbum,  when  asked  how  he  obtained  his  re- 
sults, would  give  very  unsatisfactory  answers— in  one  case  blurting 
out  the  rude  remark,  <  God  put  these  things  into  my  head;  I  cannot 
put  them  into  yours.'  Bidder,  on  the  other  hand,  was  ready  and  able 
to  explain  how  he  worked  out  his  results. 

The  first  point  we  learn  respecting  his  method  seems  to  accord  with 
the  theoiy  advanced  by  myself  in  1875,  but  it  wiU  presently  be  seen 
that  in  Bidder's  case  that  theory  cannot  possibly  be  maintained. 
'From  his  earliest  years,'  wo  are  told  by  his  eldest  son,  'ho  appears  to 
have  trained  himself  to  deal  with  actual  objects,  instead  of  figures,  at 
first  by  using,  pebbles  or  nuts  to  work  out  his  sums.  In  my  opinion,' 
proceeds  Mr.  G.  Bidder,  '  he  had  an  immense  power  of  realising  the 
adviol  number.'  However,  in  multiplying  he  made  use  6i  the  ordinary 
arithmetical  process  called  cross-multiph cation,  by  which  the  product 
of  two  numbers  is  obtained,  figure  by  figure,  in  a  single  line.  'He 
was  aided,  I  think,'  says  his  son,  'by  two  things:  first,  a  powerful 
memory  of  a  peculiar  cast,  in  which  figures  seemed  to  stereotype  them- 
selves without  an  effort;  and  secondly,  by  on  almost  inconceivable 
rapidity  of  operation.  I  speak  with  some  confidence  as  to  the  former 
of  these  faculties,  as  I  possess  it  to  a  considerable  extent  myself  (tf  ou^ 
not  to  compaxe  with  my  fothox).    Professor  Elliot  says  he,'  meaning 


•CALCULATING    BOTO.  716 

Mr.  G,  P.  Bidder,  'saw  mental  picturos  of  figureg  and  geometrical 
diagrams.  I  always  do.   If  I  perform  a  som  mentally,  it  always  proceeds 
in  a  visible  foim  in  my  mind;  indeed,  I  can  conceive  no  other  way  pos- 
sible of  doing  mental  arithmetic'    This,  by  the  way,  is  a  rather  Btrange 
remark  from  one  possessing  bo  remarkable  a  power  of  conception  as 
the   younjger  Bidder.    Assuredly  another  way  of  wor^ng  sums  in 
mental  arithmetic  is  common  enough;  and  even  if  it  had  not  been,  it 
might  easily  have  been  conceived.    Many,  probably  most  persons,  in 
working  sums  mentally,  retain  in  their  memory  the  sound  of  each 
number  involved,  not  an  image  of  the  number  in  a  visible  form.  Thus, 
suppose  the  two  numbers  47  and  23  are  to  be  multiplied  in  the  mind. 
The  process  will  run,  with  most  ordinary  calculators,  in  a  verbal  man- 
ner: thus,  three  times  seven,  twenty-one,  three"  times  four,  twelve  and 
two  fourteen — one  four  one.    (These  digits  being  repeated  mentally  as 
if  emphasised,  and  the  mental  record  of  the  sound  retained  to  be 
presently  used  when  the  next  line  is  obtained.)    Again:  twice  seven, 
fourteen,  twice  four,  eight  and  one  nine — nine  four.    Then  the  addition 
mentally  thus,  one,  four  and  four  eight,  nine  and  one  ten — one,  nought, 
eight,  one,  the  digits  of  the  required  product.    I  happen  to  know  that 
this  is  the  way  in  which  most  persons  would  work  a  sum  of  this  Idnd 
mentally,  retaining  each  necessary  digit  "by  emphasising,  so  to  speak, 
the  mental  utterance  of  the  digit's  name.    Of  course  the  process  is 
altogether  inferior  to  the  visual  process,  so  to  call  that  in  which  mental 
pictures  are  formed  of  the  digits  representing  a  number.    But  not  one 
parson  in  ten  has  the  power  of  forming  such  pictures.  ^ 

Of  course,  one  who,  like  Biddei^  Could  picture  at  will  any  number, 
or  set  of  numbers,  and  carry  on  arithmetical  processes  with  such  ntun- 
bers  as  freely  as  though  writing  en  paper,  would  have  a  great  advan- 
tage over  a  computer  using  ink  and  j^aper.  He  would  be  saved,  to  begin 
with,  all  inconvenience  from  the  quality  of  writing  materials,  necessity 
of  taking  fresh  ink,  and  bo  forth.  The  figures  would  start  into  exist- 
ence at  once  as  obtained,  instead  of  requiring  a  certain  time,  though 
short,  for  writing  down.  They  would  also  always  arrange  themselves 
correctly.  But  this  would  be  ftxr  from  being  all.  Indeed,  these  ad- 
vantages are  the  least  of  those  which  mental  atithmeticians  using  the 
visual  method  possess  over  the  calculator  with  pen  and  paper.  The 
same  power  of  picturing  numbers  which  enables  the  mental  worker  to 
proceed  in  the  confident  assurance  that  every  line  of  a  long  process  of 
calculation  will  remain  clearly  in  his  mental  vision  to  the  end  of  that 
process,  enables  him  to  retain  a  number  of  results  by  which  all  ordi- 
nary processes  of  calculation  can  be  greatly  shortened.  He  may  forget 
in  a  day  or  two  t!ie  details  of  any  given  process  of  calculation,  because 
ho  not  only  makes  no  effort  to  retain  such  details,  bub  purposely  has- 
tens to  forget  them.  He  would,  however,  be  careful  to  remember  any 
res  alts  which  might  be  of  use  to  him  in  other  calculations.  The  mul- 
tiplication table,  for  instance,  which  with  most  persons  ranges  only 
to  the  product  12  times  12,  and  even  then  is  not  retained  pictorially  in 
the  mind,  with  Bidder  ranged  probably  to  XOOO  times  a  XOOO,  or  eve« 


Tie  .  CALCULATING   BOYa- 

taatheir.  This  tnfty  eeem  utterly  incredible  to  ihtme  nnfSomiliar  with 
the  wondert'ul  tenacity  and  range  of  memory  possessed  by  such  men 
as  Bidder  thearithmetician,  Morphy  the  ohess-player,  Hacaulay  the  his- 
torian, and  others,  each  in  their  own  special  line.  There  is  a  case  in 
print  showing  that  a  much  less  expert  arithmetician  than  Bidder  pos- 
sessed a  much  more  complete  array  of  remembered  numbers  than  ho 
did — ^the  case,  namely,  of  Alexander  Gwin,  a  native  of  Derry,  one  of  the 
boys  employed  for  ejaculation  in  the  Ordnance  Survey  o'f  Ireland,  who 
at  the  age  of  eight  years  knew  the  logarithms  of  all  numbers  from  1 
to  1000.  He  could  repeat  them  either  in  regular  order  or  otherwise. 
Now,  everyone  of  these  logarithms  (supposing  Gwin  learned  them 
from  tables  of  the  usual  form)  contains  seven  digits,  and  there  is  no 
coimection  between  these  sets  of  digits  by  which  the  memory  can  be  in 
any  way  aided.  If  young  Gwin  at  eight  jeaxs  old  could  remember  all 
these  numbers,  we  may  well  believe  that  Bidder,  who  probably  possessed 
an  even  more  powerful  memory,  retained  a  far  larger  array  of  such 
numbers. 

Thus  we  can  partly  understand  the  marvellous  rapidity  with  which 
Bidder  effected  his  computations.  Professor  Elliot  says  on  this  point 
that  the  extent  to  which  Bidder's  arithmetical  power  was  carried  was 
to  him  *  incomprehensible,  as  difficult  to  believe  as  a  miracle.  Yoa 
might  read  over  to  him  fifteen  figures,  and  another  line  of  the  same 
number,  and  without  seeing  or  writing  down  a  single  figure  he  would 
multiply  the  one  by  the  other,  and  give  the  result  correctly,  The  rapid- 
ity of  his  calculations  was  e(jually  wonderful.  Giving  his  evidence 
before  a  parliamentaxy  committee^  rather  quickly  and  decidedly  with 
regard  to  a  point  of  some  intricacyrthe  counsel  on  the  other  sideinteiv 
rupted  him  rather  testily  by  saying,  "You  misht  as  well  profess  to  tell 
us  how  many  gallons  oi  water  flow  through  Westminster  Bridge  in  an 
hour."  "I  can  tell  you  that  too,"  was  wie  reply,  giving  the  number 
instantaneously.*  This,  however,  be  it  remembered,  proved  rather 
how  retentive  Bidder's  memory  was  than  how  rapidly  he  could  compute. 
For  either  he  knew  or  did  not  know  the  precise  breadth,  depth,  and 
rapidity  of  the  Thames  at  Westminster  Bridge.  If  he  did  not  know, 
he  could  not  have  made  the  computation.  If  he  did  know,  it  could 
only  have  been  because  he  had  had  special  occasion  to  in<^nire,  and  we 
cannot  readily  imagine  that  any  occasion  can  have  existed  which 
would  have  required  the  very  calculation  which  Professor  Elliot  sup- 
poses Bidder  to  have  made  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

Professor  Elliot  proceeds  to  remark  on  the  power  of  Bidder  in  retain- 
ing vivid  impressions  of  numbers,  diagrams,  &c.  'If  he  saw  or  heard 
n  number,  it  seemed  to  remain  permanently  photographed  on  his 
brain.  In  like  manner,  he  could  study  a  complicated  diagram  without 
Beeing  it  when  walking  and  apparently  listening  to  a  friend  talking  to 
him  on  some  other  subject.'  Every  geometrician,  I  imagine,  can  do 
this.  At  least,  I  know  that  I  have  often  found  myself  better  able  to 
Folve  geometrical  problems  of  di£&culty  when  wallking  wiiJi  a  firiend, 
uid  really  (not  appsr^tly  only)  listening  to  his  conyersa^on,  thjan 


CALCULATING    BOYS.  717 

when  aloiid  in  my  stndy  with  pen  and  paper  to  delineate  diagrams  and 
note  down  numericsal  or  other  results.  The  diagram  so  thought  of 
stands  out  before  me,  as  Professor  Elliot  says  that  Bidder's  mind-dia- 
grams stood,  'with  all  its  lines  and  letters.'  The  faculty  is  not,  I  be- 
lieve, at  all  exceptional,  though  of  course  the  degree  in  which  it  was 
developed  in  Bidder's  case  was  altogether  so. 

The  process  .of  multiplying  a  number  of  fifteen  digits  by  another 
such  number  is  one  whicli,  bo  far  as  the  ordinary  method  is  concerned, 
everyone  can  appreciate.  This  method  is  doubUess  the  best  for  most 
arithmeticians,  simply  because  it  is  one  which  requires  least  mental 
effort  in  retaining  numbers,  and  also  because  the  operation  is  one 
which  can  be  readily  corrected.  All  the  fifteen  rows  of  products  are 
present  for  checking  after  the  process  has  once  been  completed  on 
paper.  It  would  be  a  more  difficult  process  to  the  mental  arithmeti- 
cian. In  fact^  I  can  hardly  believe  that  even  Bidder  could  have  re- 
tained a  clear  mental  picture  of  the  set  of  nearly  three  hundred  digits 
which,  form  the  complete  *8um.'  At  any  rate,  we  know  that  the 
method  he  adopted  was  one  which  most  persons  would  find  far  more 
difficult,  even  using  pen  and  paper,  but  which  requires  a  much  smaller 
effort  of  .memoir  on  the  part  of  the  mental  arithmetician.  The  process 
eaUed  cross-multiplication  is  not  usually  taught  in  books  on  arithme- 
tic. This  would  not  be  the  place  to  describe  it  fully.  But  I  may  be 
permitted  to  give  an  illustration  of  the  process  as  applied  to  two  num- 
bers, each  of  three  digits  only.  Take  for  these  numbers  356  and  428. 
The  arithmetician  seta  these  down  in  the  usual  way,  and  then  writes 
down  the  product  in  one  line,  figure  by  figure^  beginning  with  the 
unita'  jdacQ,  so  that  the  sum  appears  thus: 

85G 

428 


152368 


He  appears  to  those  unacquainted  with  the  method  he  nses  to  be  mul* 
tiplying  at  once  by  428,  just  as  one  multiplies  at  once  by  11  or  12. 
In  reality,  however,  the  work  runs  thus  in  his  mind:  Eight  times  six, 
forty-eight,  (Set  down  eight  and  carry  four.)  Five  times  eight,  forty; 
twice  six,  twelve,  making  fifty-two;  and  with  the  carried  four,  fifty-six. 
(Set  down  six  and  carry  five.)  Thrice  eight,  twenty-four;  twice  five, 
ten,  making  thirty-four;  four  times  Bix,  twenty-four,  making  fifty-eight; 
and  with  the  earned  five,  sixty-three.  (Set  down  three  and  carry  six.) 
Twice  three,  six;  and  four  times  five,  twenty,  making  twenty-six;  and 
with  the  carried  six,  thirty-two.  (Set  down  two  and  carry  three.) 
XiBstly,  four  times  three,  twelve;  making  with  the  carried  three,  fifteen 
— ^which  being  set  down  completes  the  product 

To  make  a  comparison  between  this  method  and  the  ordinary 
method  I  have  set  them  side  by  side,  as  actually  worked  out;  for  of  i 
oourse  there  is  no  essential  reason  why  the  cross-method  should  be  i 
carried  out  without  keeping  record  of  the  various  products  employed/ 


718  OALCUIATINa    BOYS, 

Besides,  by  tlrns  presenting  the  cross-piooess  we  are  able  to  seebeitev 
what  a  task  Bidder  had  to  acoomplish  when  he  miiltij^ed  togdiher 
mentally  two  numbers,  each  containing  fifteen,  digits.  The  piocesses 
then  stand  thus: 

356  856 

428  428 


2848  48 

712  -jQ- 

1424  S 

152368  ■             -"21" 

The  common  process  of  04 

mnltiplicaUon.  

20 


12 


152368 


Gross-multiplication. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  in  the  case  of  large  numbers  we  do  not  gefr 
more  troublesome  products  in  the  course  of  the  work  when  crosB-mnl- 
ti  plying  than  in  the  case  of  small  numbers,  like  those  above  dei^  with. 
We  get  more  such  products,  that  is  all.  Thus  in  the  middle  of  the 
above  case  of  cross-multiplicaiion  wo  have  three  products  of  two  digits 
each.  In  the  middle  of  a  case  of  cross-multiplicatioa  wit^  two  num^ 
bars  of  fifteen  digits  we  should  have  fifteen  such  products — at  least, 
products  not  containing  more  than  two  digits.  We  should  also  have,  if 
working  mentcdly,  a  large  number  carried  over  Ax>m  the  next  preceding 
process.  Thisweshouldhaveevenif  wewereworldng  out  the  result  on 
paper,  but  not  writing  down  the  various  products  used  in  gettingthe  re- 
sult To  most  persons  this  would  prove  an  effectual  bar  to  the  employ- 
ment of  the  cross-method,  especially  as  there  would  bo  no  wa^  of  detedi- 
ing  an  error  without  going  through  the  whole  work  again.  It  is  true  this 
has  to  be  done  when  the  common  method  is  employed.  But  in  this 
method  if  an  error  exists  we  can  recognise  it  where  it  is.  Intheother, 
unless  we  recollect  what  our  former  steps  were,  we  have  no  means  of 
knowing  where  an  error  arose.  ^  And  quite  commonly  it  would  happen 
that  two  different  errors,  one  in  the  original  process,  and  another  in 
the  work  of  checking,  would  give  the  same  erroneous  result,  so  that 
we  should  mistakenly  infer  that  result  to  be  correct.  ^  But  to  the  men- 

*  This  happens  frequently  in  mercantile  oorapututions.  Thas  a  clerk  may  add  a 
£M>lnmn  of  fibres  inct»rrpctly,  tJien  check  his  work  by  adding  the  stirae  colnmn  iu 
piinther  way  (say  iu  one  case  from  the  top.  in  the  other  from  the  foot) :  yet  both  iwilt9 
tvill  not  uncommonly  ai^reo,  thou^U  tUu  xucurrccl  result  is  obtained  iu  tlie  two  several 
poses  by  diOcreut  mistakes. 


CALCULATING    BOYS.  719 

tal  arithmeiiciaXL,  especially  when  long-contmned  practice  has  enabled 
him  to  work  accnratelj  as  well  as  qniokly,  the  cross-method  is  far  the 
most  conyenient.  We  kaowthat  this  was  the  method  applied  by  Bid- 
der. And  to  explain  his  marvellous  rapiditj  we  have  only  to  take  into 
account  the  influence  of  long  practice  combined  with  altogether  excep- 
tional aptitude  for  dealing  with  numbers. 

Of  the  effect  of  practice  in  some  arithmetical  processes  curious  evi- 
dence was  i^orded  by  the  feats  of  a  Ohineise  who  visited  America  in 
1875.  He  was  simply  a  trained  computer,  asserting  that  hundreds  in 
China  were  trained  to  egual  readiness  in  arithmetical  processes,  and 
that  among  those  thus  trained  those  of  exceptional  abilities  far  sur- 
passed himself  in  dexteritjr.  Among  the  various  tests  applied  during 
a  platform  exhibition  of  his  powers  was  one  of  the  following  nature. 
About  thirty  numbers  of  four  digits  each  were  named  to  him,  as  fast  as 
a  quick  writer  could  take  them  down.  When  all  had  been  g^ven  he  was 
told  to  add  them,  mentally,  while  a  practised  arithmetician  was  to  add 
them  on  paper.  '  It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  add  them, '  he  said,  '  I  have 
done  that  as  you  gave  them  to  me ;  the  total  is — so-ond-so.'  It  presently 
appeared  that  the  total  thus  given  was  quite  correct. 

At  first  sight  such  a  feat  seems  astounding.  Yet  in  reality  it  is  but 
a  slight  modification  of  what  many  bankers'  clerks  can  readily  ac- 
complish. They  will  take  an  array  of  numbers,  each  of  four  or  five 
figures,  and  cast  them  up  in  one  operation.  Grant  them  only  the  power 
of  as  readily  adding  a  number  named  as  a  number  seen  to  a  total  a&eady 
obtained,  and  their  feat  would  be  precisely  that  of  the  Chinese  arith- 
metician. There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  with  a  very  little  practice, 
nine-tenths,  if  not  all,  of  the  clerks  who  can  achieve  one  feat  would  be 
able  to  achieve  the  other  feat  also. 

.  I  do  not  know  how  clerks  who  add  at  once  a  column  of  four-figured 
numbers  together  accomplish  the  task.  That  is  to  say,  I  do  not  know 
the  mental  process  they  go  through  in  obtaining  their  final  result.  It 
may  be  that  they  keep  the  units,  tens,  hundreds,  and  thousands  apart 
in  their  mind,  counting  them  properly  at  the  end  of  the  summation ; 
or,  ^  on  the  other  hand,  they  may  treat  each  successive  number  -as  a 
whole,  and  "kee-p  the  gradually  growing  total  as  a  whole.  Or  some  may 
follow  one  plan,  and.  some  the  other.  When  I  heard  of  the  Chinese 
arithmetician's  feats,  my  explanation  was  that  he  adopted  the  former 
plan.  I  should  myself,  if  I  wanted  to  acquire  readiness  in  such  pro- 
cesses, adopt  that  plan,  applying  it  after  a  fiishion  suggested  by  my 
method  of  computing  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  should  picture  the  units, 
tens,  hundreds,  and  thousands  as  objects  of  different  sorts.  Say  the 
Quits  as  dots,  the  tens  as  lines,  the  hundreds  as  discs,  the  thousands  as 
squares.  When  a  number  of  four  digits  was  named  to  me,  I  should 
BOG  Fo  many  squares,  discs,  lines,  and  dots.  When  the  next  number 
of  four  digits  was  named,  I  should  see  my  sets  of  squares,  discs,  lines, 
and  dots  correspondingly  increased.  When  a  now  number  was  named 
these  sets  would  bo  again  correspondingly  increased.  And  so  on,  until 
there  were  several  hundreds  of  squares,  of  discs,  of  lines,  and  of  dots. 


720  CAIiCUIATING    BOYS. 

These  (when  the  last  nnmber  had  been  named)  conld  he  ai  once  traos- 
muted  into  a  nnmDer,  which  would  be  the  total  required. 

Take  for  instance  the  numbers,  7234,  9815,  9127,  4183.  Wh^  the 
first  was  named  the  mind's  eye  would  picture  7  squares,  2  discsy  3  lines, 
and  4  dots.  When  the  second  (d815>  was  named  there  would  be  seen 
10  squares,  10  discs,  4  lines,  and  9  dots.  After  the  third  (9127),  there 
would  be  25  squares,  11  discs,  6  lines,  and  16  dots;  afi;ert^e  fouith 
(4183),  there  would  be  29  squares,  12  discss,  14  lines,  and  19dota  This 
being  all,  the  total  is  at  once  run  off  from  the  units'  place;  the  19  dots 
give  9  for  the  units,  one  10  to  add  to  the  14  lines  (each  representing 
ten),  moJdng  15,  so  that  5  is  the  digit  in  the  tens'  places  while  100  is 
added  to  the  12  discs  or  hundreds,  giving  13  or  3  in  the  hundred^ 
place,  and  1,000  to  add  to  the  29  squares  or  thousands,  malriiig  30,  ox 
for  the  total  30,359.  The  process  has  taken  many  words  in  describing 
but  each  part  of  it  is  pmecily  simple^  the  mental  picturing  ci  the 
constantly  increasing  nmnbers  of  squares,  discs,  lines^  and  dots  being 
almost  instantaneous  (in  the  case;  of  course,  of  those  only  who  possess 
the  power  of  forming  these  mental  pictures).  The  final  process  is 
equally  simple,  and  would  be  so  even  if  the  number  of  squares;  disce^ 
lines,  and  dots  weze  great.  Thus,  suppose  there  were  324  squares;  411 
discs,  391  Hnes,  and  &3  dots.  We  take  3  for  umis,  carrying  43  lines  or 
434  in  all,,  whence  4  for  the  tens,  carrying  43  disca  or  444  in  all,  wh^ico 
4  for  the  hundreds,  carrying  44  squares  or  46&  in  all,  whence  finally 
468,443  is  the  total  required. 

We  can  understand  ^en  how  easy  to  Bidder  must  have  been  the 
sunmiation  of  the  fifteen  products  of  eross-muhipBcatioKi  to  ihe  carried 
remainder — they  would  be  added  consecutively  in  far  leas  time  than 
the  quickest  penman  could'  write  them  down.  Probably  they  would 
be  obtained  as  well  as  added  in  less  time  than  they  could  be  written 
down.  Thus  digit  after  digit  of  the  result  of  what  appears  a  tremen- 
dous sum  in  niultiplication  would  be  obtained  with  that  2apidi^  which 
to  many  seemed  almost  miraculous.  We  must  farther  take  mto  ac- 
count a  circumstance  pointed  out  by  Mr.  G.  Bidder.  'The  faculty  of 
rapid  operation,'  he  says,  speaking  of  his  £ekther's  wonderful  feats  in 
this  respect,  *  was  no  doubt  congenital,  but  it  was  developed  by  inces- 
sant p^ctice  and  by  the  confidence  thereby  acquired.  I  am  certain,* 
he  proceeds,  *  that  imhesitating  confidence  is  half  the  battle.  In  men- 
tal arithmetic,  it  is  most  true  that  **  he  who  hesitates  is  lost."  When  I 
speak  of  incessant  practice,  I  do  not  mean  deliberate  drilling  of  set 
purpose;  but  with  my  father,  as  with  myself,  ^  the  mental  handling  of 

1  Mr.  G.  Bidder's  powers  as  &  mental  aiithmetioian  woaUl  bo  eonaidered  astoiiishr 
ing  if  the  achievements  of  bis  father  and  others  were  not  known.  '  1  mysel^^  he  says, 
*  can  perform  pretty  ext«nsiYe  arithmetical  operations  mentally,  but  I  euunot  pret«a(l 
to  tipproach  even  distantly  to  the  rd.i>idity  and  accuracy  with  wbidb  my  fatiier  worked. 
X  luive  ocoosionalir  multiplied  15  ngores  by  15  in  my  head,  but  it  takes  mo  a  k»^ 
time,  and  I  am  liable  to  occasional  errors.  lAxst  week,  .aftor  »peakiiig  to  Prof.  JSllkit^ 
1  tried  the  following  sum  to  see  if  I  could  still  do  it : 

378,2ni,9«9,5^3,825 
199/'31,057,-iC5,4l3 

and  I  got,  in  my  head,  the  onswer,  75,576,299,427.512,145,197,597,834,725:  in  which,  I 


CALCULATING    BOYS.  721 

nTunben^  of  j^Uying  with  figures  aflfordcd  a  positive  pleasure  and  con- 
Btant  occupation  of  leisure  moments.  Even  up  to  the  last  year  of  his 
life  (his  age  was  seventy-two)  my  father,  took  delight  in  working  out 
long  and  diiiicult  ariUnnetical  problems. 

We  mdst  always  remember,  in  considering  such  feats  as  Bidder  and 
otber  'calculating  boys  *  accomplished,  that  the  power  of  mentally  pic- 
taxing  numbers  is  in  their  case  far  ^eater  than  we  are  apt  to  imagine 
Buch  a  power  can  possibly  be.  Precisely  as  the  feats  of  a  Morphy  seem 
beyond  belief  till  actually  witnessed,  and  even  then  (especially  to  those 
-who  know  what  his  chess-play  meant)  almost  miraculous^  so  the  mnem" 
onic  powers  of  some  arithmeticians  would  seem  incredible  if  they  had 
not  been  tested,  and  even  as  witnessed  seem  altogether  marvelous. 
Golburn  tells  us  that  a  notorious  free-thinker  who  had  seen  his  arith" 
,  xnetical  achievements  at  the  age  of  six,  '  went  home  much  disturbed, 
passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  ever  afterwards  renounceid  infidel  opin- 
ions. '  'And  this, '  says  the  writer  in  the '  Spectator, '  from  whom  I  have 
already  ^quoted,  'was  only  one  illustrntion  of  the  vague  feeling  of  awe 
and  open-mouthed  wonder,  which  his  performances  excited.  People 
came  to  consult  him  about  stolen  spoons ;  and  he  himself  evidently 
thought  that  there  was  something  decidedly  uncanny,  something 
supernatural,  about  his  gift.' 

But  so  far  as  actual  mnemonic  arithmetical  power  is  concerned,  the 
feats  of  Colbum,  and  even  of  Bidder,  have  been  surpassed.  Ck)nsider, 
for  iuBtance,  the  following  instances  of  the  strong  power  of  abstraction 
possossod  by  Dr.  Wallis: — 'December  22,  1669. — ^In  a  dark  night  in 
bed,'  he  says  in  a  letter  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Bmith,  B.D.,  Fellow 
of  Magdalen  College,  'without  pen,  ink  or  paper,  or  anything  equiva- 
lent, I  did  by  memory  extract  the  square  root  of  30000,00000,00000,- 
00000,00000,00000,00000,00000,  which  Ifound to  be  1,77205,08075,68077,- 
29353, /e/*0,  and  did  the  next  day  commit  it  to  writing.' 

And  again:  'February  18,  1070. — Johannes  Georgius  Pelshower 
(Regiomontanus  Borussus)  giving  me  a  visit,  and  desiring  an  example 
of  the  like,  I  did  that  night  propose  to  myself  in  the  dark,  without 
help  to  my  memory,  a  number  in  63  places:  24681357910121411131516- 
182017192122242628302325272931,  of  which  I  extracted  the  square  root 
in "27  places:  157103016871482805817152171  proojijnt;  which  numbers  I 
did  not  commit  to  paper  till  he  gave  me  another  visit,  March  follow- 
ing, when  I  did  from  memory  dictate  them  to  him.'  Mr.  E.  W.  Craigie, 
commenting  on  these  feats,  says  that  they  '  are  not  perhaps  as  difficult 
as  multiplying  15  figures  by  15,  for  while  of  course  it  is  easy  to  remem- 
ber such  a  number  as  three  thousand  billion  trillions,  being  nothing 
but  noughts,  so  also  it  may  be  noticed  that  there  is  a  certain  order  in 
the  row  of  63  figures;  the  numbers  follow  each  other  in  little  sets  of 
arithmetical  progression  (2,  4,  6,  8\  (1,  3,  5,  7,  9\  (10,  12,  14),  (11,  13, 
15),  (16, 18,  20),  and  so  on;  not  regularly,  but  still  enough  to  render  it 

think,  if  yoa  wiH  take  the  trouble  to  work  it  out,  you  will  find  4  figtires  out  of  the  23 
are  K'^roiig.'  I  have  only  run  through  the  cross-multiplication  far  enough  to  detect  the 
firsi  error,  which  is  in  ta«  digit  representing  thooaands  of  millions.  This  should  be  i 
not  7^  ^ 


722  CALCULATma    BOYS. 

an  immonse  asBistance  to  a  mfixi  engaged  in  a  mental  caloolation.  A 
row  of  53  figures  set  down  at  hazard  would  have  been  much  more  diffi- 
cult to  Temembor>  like  Foots's  famous  sentence  with  which  he  puzzled 
the  quack  mnemonician;  but  still  wc  must  give  the  doctor  the  credit 
for  remembering  the  answer.'  Mr.  Craigie  seems  to  overlook  the  cir- 
cumstance that  remembering  the  original  number,  and  remembering 
the  answer,  in  oases  of  this  kind,  are  utterly  unimportant  feats  com- 
pared with  the  work  of  obtaining  the  answer.  If  any  one  will  be  at 
the  pains  to  work  out  the  problem  of  extracting  the  square  root  of  any 
number  in  53  places,  he  wiU  see  that  it  would  be  a  verv  small  help  in- 
deed to  have  the  original  number  written  down  before  him,  if  the 
solution  was  to  be  worked  out  mnemonioally.  Probably  in  both  cases, 
Wallis  took  easily  remembered  numbers,  not  to  help  him  at  the  time, 
but  BO  that  if  occasion  required  he  mi^ht  be  able  to  recall  the  problem 
months  or  years  after  he  nad  solved  it.  Anyone  who  conld  work  out 
in  his  mind  such  a  problem  as  the  second  of  those  giyen  above,  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  remembering  an  army  of  two  or  three  kundred 
figures  set  down  entirely  at  random. 

I  have  left  small  space  in  which  to  consider  the  singular  evidence 
given  by  Prof.  £lliot  and  Mr.  G.  Bidder  Respecting  the  transmission  in 
the  Bidder  family  of  that  special  mental  quality  on  which  the  elder 
Bidder's  arithmetical  power  was  based.  Hereafter  I  may  take  occasion 
to  discuss  this  evidence  more  at  length,  and  with  particular  reference 
to  its  bearing  on  the  question  of  hereditary  genius.  Let  it  suffice  to 
mention  here  that^  although  Mr.  G.  Bidder  and  other  members  of  the 
family  have  possessed  in  large  degree  the  power  of  dealing  mentally 
with  large  numbers,  yet  in  other  cases,  though  the  same  epeciai  mental 
quality  involved  has  been  present,  the  way  in  which  that  quality  has 
snown  itself  has  been  altogether  different.  Thus  Mr.  G.  Bidder  states 
that  his  father's  eldest  brother,  *who  was  a  Unitarian  minister,  was 
not  remarkable  as  an  arithmetician;  but  he  had  an  extraordinary 
memory  for  iiiblical  texts,  and  could  quote  almost  any  text  in  the 
Bible,  and  give  chapter  and  verse.'  A  granddaughter  of  G.  P.  Bidder's 
once  said  to  Prof.  Elliot,  *  Isn't  it  strange :;  when  I  hear  anything  re- 
markable said  or  read  to  me,  I  think  I  see  it  in  print?'  Mr.  G.  Bidder 
*can  play  two  games  of  chess  simultaneously,' Prof.  Elliot  mentions, 
f 'without  seeing  the  board.'  *  Several  of  Mr.  G.  P.  Bidder's  nephews 
and  grandchildren,'  he  adds,  'possess  also  very  remarkable  jjoweis. 
One  of  his  nephews  at  an  early  age  showed  a  degree  of  mechanical  in- 
genuity beyond  anything  I  had  ever  seen  in  a  boy.  .  The  summer  be- 
£)re  last,  to  test  the  calculating  powers  of  some  of  his  grandchildren 
(daughters  of  Mr.  G.  Bidder,  the  barrister),  I  gave  them  a  question 
which  I  scarcely  expected  any  of  them  to  answer.  I  asked  them,  "At 
what  point  in  the  scale  do  Fahrenheit's  thermometer  and  the  Centi- 
grade show  the  same  number  at  the  same  temperature  ?"  The  nature 
of  the  two  scales  had  to  be  explained,  but  after  that  they  were  left  to 
their  own  resources.  The  next  morning  one  of  the  yoxmger  ones  (about 
ten  years  old)  came  to  tell  me  it  was  at  40  degrees  below  zero.  This 
was  the  correct  answer.;  she  had  worked  it  out  in  bed.' 

£(CHA£D  A.  Pbootob,  in  Betgravia, 


FREKCH  NOyELa 

There  can  be  no  qnestion  that  the  French  have  ft  talent  for  novel- 
writing.  With  much  m  him  that  is  eminently  pzactic^,  when  it  comes 
to  matters  of  hard,  prosaic  business,  the  Frenchman  is  theoretically  and 
Buperficially  romantic.  In  spirit  and  temperament  he  is  emotional^  and 
his  feelings  are  lightly  stirred  to  ebnllition.  He  may  profess  himself 
a  freethinKer  and  esprit  fort,  yet  m  revanche  he  carries  a  religion  of  his 
own  into  the  domestic  relations.  He  may  be  an  indifferent  son  or 
worse,  yet  he  is  elo5[Tient  of  ecstatic  adoration  of  his  mother ;  and  in 
talking  of  "that  saint,"  especially  if  he  have  buried  her,  his  eyes  will 
overflow  at  a  moment's  notice.  So  comprehensive  is  the  sympathy  be- 
tween mother  and  child,  that  he  will  reckon  on  it  with  pleasant  con- 
fidence in  those  xinconsecrated  affiiirs  of  the  heart,  as  to  which  an  Eng- 
liBhTnan  is  discreetly  reserved.  He  may  be  close  in  his  everyday 
money  dealing^  and  in  the  habit  of  practising  somewhat  shabby 
economies;  jet  if  he  canj^se  as  the  victim  of  a  grand  passion,  he  wiU 
take  a  positive  pleasure  in  launching  into  folues.  He  may  have  a 
superfluity  of  vcuatile  sentimentality,  out  he  has  no  false  shame ;  and 
his  everyday  manners  are  ostentatiously  symptomatic  of  th^  While 
an  Englishman  nods  a  cool  good-bye  to  a  friend,  or  parts  with  a  quiet 
grasp  of  the  hand,  Alphonse  throws  himself  into  the  anus  of  Adolphe, 
presses  him  to  his  embroidered  shirt-front,  and,  finally,  embraces  him 
on  either  cheek.  So  it  is  in  public  business  or  in  politics,  where  his 
first  thought  is  geneiaUv  for  effect,  and  he  is  perpetualljr  translating 
romance  into  action.  Like  Jules'  Favre  at  Fem^res,  weeping  over  the 
misfortxmes  and  humiliations  of  his  country ;  uttering  the  noble  senti- 
ments of  a  Demosthenes  or  a  Cato ;  practising  the  tones  and  gestures 
he  had  patriotically  studied  beforehand ;  and  even,  according  to  the 
German  gossip,  artificially  blanching  his  features  like  early  asparagus, 
or  some  actor  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  with  the  notion  of  touching  the 
iron  Chancellor.  In  short,  the  Frenchman  has  instinctive  aptitudes 
for  the  dramatic,  and  an  uncontrollable  bent  towards  high-flown 
pathos.  He  is  ready  to  strike  an  attitude  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  to 
figpre  with  dignified  self-respect  and  aplowb  in  scenes  that  might 
strike  us  as  ludicrously  compromising.  But  though  that  mobility  of 
character  has  its  ridiculous  side  in  the  ey^s  of  people  who  are  naturally 
colder  and  more  phlegmatic,  undoubtedly  it  serves  him  well  when  he 
betakes  himself  to  the  hterature  of  the  fancy.  The  imaginative  facul- 
ties, which  are  perpetually  in  play,  need  regulation  and  control  rather 
than  stimulating.  The  quick  conception  conjures  up  the  effects  which 
must  bo  laboriouslv  v,-rought  out  by  duller  imaginations ;  and  he  see*? 
and  avoids  those  difficulties  in  the  plot  which  inferior  ingenuity  mi^ht 
find  insurmountable,  lie  can  threw  himself  with  slight  preparation 
into  roks  that  seem  foreign  to  his  own;  and  though  in  feminine  parts 

(723) 


12i  iWENCB    NOVELS. 

Le  may  be  somewhat  artifLoial,  yet  he  can  ^ive  the  impression  all  the 
same  of  being  fairly  at  home  in  them.  While  the  prosaic  element  that 
underlies  his  versatility  is  powerful  enough  to  contrast^ith  his  poetry 
and  correct  it.  He  has  practical  ambitions  of  one  kind  or  another, 
which  he  follows  with  all  the  candour  of  self-inte^rest  or  selfishness,  so 
that  we  are  likely  to  find  in  his  literary  labours  a  judicious  blending 
of  the  real  with  the  IdeaL 

In  the  drama  the  superiority  of  the  French  is  of  course  incontest- 
able; and  our  English  play-wrights  have  recognised  it  by  adapting  or 
appropriating  wholesale.  In  fiction,  notwithstanding  our  remarks  as 
to  the  Frenchman's  natural  aptitudes,  we  must  admit  that  there  is 
more  room  for  differences  of  opinion.  Indeed  the  two  schools  are  so 
broadly  opposed  that  it  is  difficult  to  institute  satisfactory  comparisons 
between  tnem;  and  though  individual  English  writers  may  be  largely 
indebted  to  the  French  for  the  refinements  that  make  the  chief  charm 
of  their  works,  yet  for  obvious  reasons  our  duller  novelists  dare  hardly 
copy  closely.  In  the  infancy  of  the  art  there  can  be  little  doubt  th^ 
English  authors  had  it  all  their  own  way;  and  though  we  may  possibly 
be  blinded  b^r  national  x>rejudice,  we  believe  we  may  claim  the  greatest 
names  in  fiction.  Nothing  could  be  more  tedious  or  more  mlse  to 
nature  than  the  French  romantic  pastorals  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  except  those  interminable  romances  by  Scudery  and 
others,  which  had  so  great  a  vogue  in  the  literary  circles  of  their  time; 
or  the  insijdid  licentiousness  of  the  younger  Grebillon.  Voltaire  had 
to  thank  his  residence  in  England,  and  the  influence  of  English  com- 
panionships, with  his  studies  in  English  literature,  for  the  most  tell- 
mg  of  those  inimitable  romances,  whose  brevity  is  at  once  their  beauty 
and  their  blemish.  While  '  Gil  Bias'  will  be  read  to  all  eternity,  be- 
cause Le  Sage,  like  Fielding,  painted  human  nature  precisely  as  it 
was,  and  always  must  be.  Our  most  illustrious  novelists  areiUiLstrious 
indeed.  We  confess  we  have  never  appreciated  Bichardson;  every- 
body must  agree  with  Johnson,  that  if  you  read  him  simpl  v  for  the 
story  yon  would  hang  yourself;  and  we  have  always  far  preferred  to 
his  'Pamela' Fielding  s  admirable  satire  on  it  in  *  Josepn  Andrews' 
But  Fielding  and  Smollett;  Scott,  Thackeray,  and  Dickens;  Lord  Lyt- 
ton  and  George  Eliot,  with  others  we  might  possibly  add  to  the  list, 
are  wcllnigh  unapproachable  in  their  different  lines.  Yet  with  ns  the 
art  of  the  novel-wnter  has  been  on  the  whole  declinii^,  though  there 
are  living  writers  who  keep  alive  the  best  traditions  of  the  craft.  In 
fact  the  race  of  novel-scribblers  has  been  multiplying  so  rapidly  that 
almost  necessarily  the  average  of  the  execution  has  been  lowered,  sinee 
the  general  scramble  and  rush  have  tended  inevitably  to  cmde  con- 
ceptions and  hasty  workmanship.  With  the  French,  it  has  been  rather 
the  reverse;  and  while  the  races  of  their  dramatists,  historians,  and 
poets  have  been  dying  out,  their  romance-writing,  in  spite  of  its  affences 
against  morals,  has  rather  advanced  than  declined. 

That  is  partly,  perhaps,  though  it  may  sound  paradoxical,  because 
novel-reading  is  &r  less  universal  among  the  French  than  with  ua. 


FEENCH    NOVELS.  725 

The  Sta^e  in  France  has  exceptional  enconragement.  The  leading 
metropolitan  houses  are  subsidised  by  the  State  with  the  general  assent 
or  approval  of  the  nation.  Each  little  town  has  its  little  theatre;  at  all 
events  it  is  visited  by  some  strolling  company,  and  all  the  world  flocks 
to  the  performances.  Most  Frenchmen  have  something  of  the  makings 
of  an  actor  in  thorn;  and  each  Frenchman  and  Frenchwoman  is  a 
fairly  capable  critic.  A  successful  play  makes  its  author's  reputation 
at  once,  to  say  nothing  of  filling  his  pockets;  .and  as  the  people  insist 
upon  novelties  in  some  shape,  there  must  be  a  constant  supply  of 
some  kind  of  pieces.  But  the  French  are  not  a  reading  people. 
There  is  no  place  among  them  for  the  circulating  library  svstem,  and 
poverty-stricken  novels  by  anonymous  writers  would  fall  still-bom 
nrom  tne  press,  if  they  found  a  j  nblisher.  A  certain  number  of  better- 
educated  people  buT -those  paper-stitched  books  at  three  francs  and 
a  hal^  which  quickly,  when  they  have  any  success,  run  through 
many  successive  editions.  But  in  times  of  trouble  and  political  agita- 
tion, the  novel-market  may  be  absolutely  stagnant — a  thing  which 
is  altogether  inconceivable  in  England.  Not  that  the  French  can 
dispense  with  amusement,  even  in  the  depths  of  national  sorrow  and 
humiliation;  only  they  prefer  to  seek  the  indisj)enBable  distraction 
in  entertainments  which  are  at  once  more  exciting  and  congeniaL 
Thus  there  was  literally  nothing  new  to  be  bought  in  the  way  of  a 
novel  during  the  davs  of  the  German  invasion  and  the  Commune,  or 
for  the  year  or  two  that  succeeded.  Yet  we  remember  on  the  occasion 
of  a  visit  to  Paris,  arriving  the  day  after  the  German  evacuation,  when 
we  asked  if  any  places  of  amusement  were  open,  several  of  the 
lighter  theatres  nad  recommenced  the  usual  performances,  and  we  ajp- 
phed  for  a  fauteuU  at  the  Bouffes  Parisiennes.  The  pretty  little  comic 
tl^eatre  was  so  crowded  that  we  had  to  make  interest  for  a  chair  at 
one  of  the  side-doors;  the  audience  were  shrieking  over  the  humours 
of  Desire,  and  no  one  was  more  jovially  interested  than  the  officers 
in  uniform  in  the  gallery.  The  trait  seems  to  us  to  be  strikingly 
characteristic.  The  nation,  amid  its  calamities  and  pecuniary  straits, 
was  so  indifferent  even  to  the  lightest  novel-reading,  that  it  ceased  to 
spend  money  in  books,  although  rushing  in  crowds  to  fill  the  theatres. 
3ut  in  calmer  times  there  is  a  select  and  comparatively  discriminating 
circle  of  readers.  When  minds  are  easy  and  money  tolerably  plentiful 
there  are  many  people  who  make  a  point  of  buying  the  latest  publica^ 
tion  that  is  vouched  for  by  the  name  of  some  writer  of  repute;  recom- 
mended by  their  favorite  loumaJs  or  the  *ItevuedesDeuxMondes,' 
and  displayed  in  the  book-shops  and  on  the  stalls  at  the  railway  stations. 
Every  writer  must  make  a  beginning,  or  an  author  sometimes,  though 
rarely,  may  write  anonymously;  but  it  may  generally  be  taken  for 
granted  that  he  has  shown  some  signs  of  talent.  Before  he  has  been 
encouraged  to  publish  in  form,  he  has  probably  tried  his  powers  in 
some  femUeton^  in  a  provincial  newspaper,  or  attained  a  certain  credit 
for  cleverness  in  the  society  of  some  cafe'CGterie.  At  all  events  the  ordeal, 
with  the  odds  against  succeeding  in  it,  exclude  many  yrho  wi* 


726  FBENCH  NOVELS. 

wonld  bnrry  into  type;  and  the  Frenchmen,  we  believe,  aie  proctiesl 
enough  never  to  pay  for  the.  privilege  of  publishing.  While  in  France 
the  rougher  sex  has  pretty  much  kept  the  field  to  itself.  There  has 
been  only  one  George  Sand,  though  "we  do  not  forget  Mrs.  Craven.  In- 
deed, setting  the  restraints  of  dehcacy  aside,  the  ladies  would  be  more 
at  a  disadvantage  there  than  with  us.  •  The  stanrs  of  the  demiHiwnde  sel- 
dom shine,  even  In  penmanship  and  orthography;  while  ladies  of  more 
decent  life  and  reputation  dare  scarcely  pretend  to  the  indispensable 
intimacy  with  the  details  ^cabreux  of  the  vie  de  gargon ;  with  the  inte- 
riors of  cabinets  in  restaurants  in  tho  boulevards;  with  parties  of  hao- 
carat  in  the  Cerclea  or  the  Chausste  d'Antin;  with  the  iSirtafcions  in  the 
side-scenes,  doubles  cntendres  of  the  slips,  and  the  humours  of  the  Casi- 
nos and  the  Bals  de  I'Opera. 

This  selection  of  what  in  a  certain  sense  is  the  fittest,  has  helped  to 
maintain  the  average  workmanship  of  the  French  novel;  but  if  it  is  be- 
come far  more  agreeable  reading  in  tho  last  generation  or  two,  there  are 
very  evident  reasons  for  that.  The  novels  by  the  old  masters  were  alto- 
gDther  artificial.  Not  only  were  they  prolix  and  intolerably  monoto- 
nous, but  they  transported  one  into  worlds  as  surprising  and  unfamiliar 
as  those  in  which  Julea  Verne  has  sought  his  sem^ations;  or  at  all  events, 
they  idealised  our  actual  world  beyond  possibility  of  recognition.  To 
do  them  justice,  with  such  notorious  exceptions  as  CrebiUon  and  Le 
Clos,  Prevot  and  Louvet,  they  are  for  the  most  part  'moml  enough. 
They  are  in  the  habit,  indeed,  of  exaggerating  the  virtues  of  their 
heroes  beyond  all  tho  limits  of  the  credible;  although  their  authors 
might  have  been  dancing  attendance  in  tae  imte-chambers  of  Versailles, 
when  the  king  attended  the  lever  of  his  mistress  in  state,  and  when  ro- 
troats  like  the  Parc-aux^Gerfs  were  among  tho  cherished  institutions  of 
tho  monarchy.  Even  when  professing  to  study  Arcadian  simplicity, 
they  still  exaggerated  sentiment,  and  refined  on  the  refinements  of 
nature.  It  is  the  accomplished  Bernardin  do  Saint  Pierre  who  may  be 
paid  to  have  inaugurated  tho  period  of  transition;  and  he  had 
tho  courage  to  break  away  from  the  confirmed  traditions.  He  had 
tho  soul  of  a  poet  and  the  inspirations  of  pn  artist,  and  was 
an  adept  in  the  art  that  Bucceeds  in  concealing  art.  As  you 
breathe  the  balmy  languor  of  the  tropics,  you  abandon  your- 
self to  the  seductions  of  his  glowing  sty  la  and  the  impassioned 
graces  of  his  luxuriant  fancy.  Should  you  giva  yourself  over  unre- 
flectingly to  the  spirit  of  the  story,  there  is  no  arriire^ensee  of  discord- 
ant impressions;  and  the  proof  is,  that  when  tho  book  has  delighted 
you  in  boyhood,  you  never  lose  your  feelings  of  affectionate  regard  for 
it.  Yet  we  suspect  that  were  you  first  to  mal^e  acquaintance  with  it 
in  later  life,  when  experience  has  made  a  man  colder  and  more  critica], 
tho  sense  of  the  ascendancy  of  the  theatrical  element  would  repress  the 
reader's  warm  enthusiasm  and  work  ag:iinst  the  spells  of  the  writer. 
"Wo  may  believe  in  the  luxuriance  of  that  tropical  scenery,  glancing  in 
all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  under  the  most  brilliant  sunshine;  but  tlie 
story,  with  ita  sentiment,  would  seem  an  idyl  of  tho  imagination  which 


i  FKENCH  NOVELS.  727 

I 

eonld  neTerhaTe  had  its  counterpart  in  actual  life.  It  might  strike  ns, 
we  fancy,  like  a  picti^re  hy  a  clever  Frenol\  artist,  which  we  remember 
admiring  in  the  ScUonf  and  at  the  Vienna  Exhibition.  As  a  picture, 
nothing  could  be  more  prettily^  conceived;  the  drowned  Virginia  was 
peacefully  reposing  on  the  shingle,' between  the  wavelets  ttiat  were 
gently  lappingagainst  the  beach,  and  the  picturesque  precipice  in  the 
background.  jBut  though  the  body  must  have  been  tossed  upon  the 
surge  through  the  storm,  the  clinging  draperies  were  decently  dis- 
posed; there  was  neither  bruise  nor  sciatch  on  the  angelic  features; 
and  hair  and  neck  ornaments  were  artistically  arranged  in  the  studied 
negligence  of  a  careless  slumber. 

Sat  the  modem  French  novel,  since  the  time  of  Saint  Pierre,  has 
been  becoming  more  and  more  characterised  by  an  intensity  of  realism. 
We  do  not  say  that  there  is  not  often  to  the  full  as  much  fisdse  senti- 
ment as  ever;  and  we  have  mad  and  sjpasmodic  fantasies  of  the  pas- 
sions, played  out  with  eccentric  variations  on  the  whole  gamut 
of  the  sensibilities.  But  even  the  writers  who  most  freely  in- 
dulge in  those  liberties  have  generally  taken  their  stand  on  some 
basis  of  the  positive.  What  we  have  rather  to  complain  of  is, 
that  the  most  popular  authors  show  a  morbid  inclination  for  what  is 
harrowing  or  repulsive;  or  they  seek  novel  sensations  in  those  perver- 
sions of  depravityover  which  consideration  for  humanity  would  desire 
to  draw  aveiL  The  sins  and  the  sorrows  of  feeble  nature  must  al- 
ways pla^  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  highest  fiction,  where  the  author 
is  searching  out  the  deptns  of  the  heart;  but  grace  should  be  the  hand- 
maid of  artistio  genius;  and  the  bom  artist  will  show  the  delicacy  of  his 
Sower  by  idealizing  operations  in  moral  chirurgery.  Following  the 
ownward  career  of  some  unfortunate  victim  may  lead  a  man  incident- 
ally to  the  Ifor^ue;  but  we  cannot  understand  making  the  Mcrgm  his 
haunt  of  predilection,  or  voluptuously  breathing  the  atmosphere  of 
that  chamber  of  the  dead,  when  all  the -world  lies  open  before  you, 
with  its  scenes  of  peace  and  beauty  and  innocence. 

8ome  of  the  most  realistic  of  these  writers,  notably  M.  Zokt,  have 
afifected  to  defend  themselves  on  high  moral  ^^unds.  Next  to  the 
duty,  conscientiously  discharged,  of  depicting  life  as  they  find  it,  it  is 
their  purpose  to  deter  from  the  practice  of  vice,  by  painting  its  horrors 
and  its  baleful  consequences.  That  argument  ma^  be  good  to  a  certain 
extent;  but  it  cannot  be  stretched  to  cover  the  point  in  question.  We 
can  understand  the  Spartan  fathers  making  a  show  of  the  drunken 
Helot;  we  can  understand  the  rather  disgusting  series  of  drawings 
of  "The  Bottle,*'  which  George  Cruikshank  etched,  as  the  advocate  of 
total  abstinence.  Drunkenness,  or  excess  in  strong  liquors,  is  acknowl- 
edged one  of  the  crying  evils  of  the  age,  and  all  weapons  are  good  hj 
which  such  social  perils  may  be  combated.  But  nothing  but  unmiti- 
gated mischief  can  be  done  by  even  faintly  indicating  to  innocence 
and  inexperience  the  corruptions  which  are  happily  altogether  excep- 
tionaL  The  real  aim  of  these  self-styled  morabsts  is  to  excite  sensa- 
tiens  of  the  most  immoral  kind;  or  to  show  their  perverted  ingenui^^ 


723  FRENCH  NOVELS. 

in  interesting  the  jaded  volnptnary;  and  nothing  pioved  that  more 
than  some  of  the  novels  which  were  the  first  to  appear  after  the  fall  of 
the  Empire.  As  we  remarked,  there  was  an  interval  during  the  wai, 
and  afterwards,  when  novels  were  at  a  discount,  since  nobody  cared  to 
buy.  Then  came  the  revival,  and  such  a  revival!  The  fashion  of. the 
day  had  taken  a  turn  towards  the  asceticism  of  republican  manners, 
and  France,  purified  by  prolonged  suffering,  was  to  enter  on  the  grand 
task  of  regeneration.  Certain  clever  novel-writers,  who  had  been  con- 
demned to  forced  inactivity,  saw  their  opportunity,  and  hastened  to 
avail  themselves  of  it.  ^  Nothing  could  be  more  transparent  than  the 
hypocrisy  of  their  brief  prefaces,  which  were  the  only  reallv  moral 
portion  of  their  books.  Eecognising  their  grave  responsibilities  as 
censors,  and  protesting  the  single-minded  purity  of  their  intentions, 
they  proceeded  to  reproduce  the  society  of  Imperial  Paris  for  the  pur- 
pose of  denouncing  and  satirising  it.  That  society,  no  doubt,  was 
sufficiently  frivolous,  sensual,  and  dissipated.  But  those  writers  were 
not  content  with  reviving  it  as  it  had  appeared  to  the  people  who 
casually  mixed  in  it:  they  were  not  even  satisfied  with  painting  sin  as 
they  saw  it  on  the  surface,  and  deeding  with  the  sinners  in  vague  gen- 
eraUties.  They  gave  their  imaginations  loose  rein,  letting  them  revel  in 
exceptional  horrors  and  absur(uties;  and  presenting  social  and  politicsl 
notorieties  under  the.  flimsiest  disguises,  they  misrepresented  their 
sufficiently  discreditable  biographies  with  circumstantial  and  pointed 
malignity.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  fouler  prostitution  of  talent  than 
the  invention  of  atrocities  that  are  to  be  scatned  with  your  satire.  We 
entirely  agree  with  the  dictum  of  a  shrewd  contemporary  French 
critic — "that  the  aim  of  the  romance-writer  ought  to  be  to  present  the 
agreeable  or  existing  spectacle  of  the  passions  or  humours  of  the  world 
at  large;  but  that  he  should  take  care  at  the  same  time  that  the  picture 
of  passion  is  never  more  corrupting  than  the  passion  itself."  And  cho 
remark  was  elicited  by  the  reluctant  confession,  that  that  rale  is  more 
honoured  among  his  countrymen  in  the  breach  than  in  the  observ- 
ance. 

For  there  is  no  denying,  we  fear,  that  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over 
most  of  the  recent  French  novels  of  any  mark.  Occasionally,  indeed,  it 
shows  itself  but  faintly;  and  then,  nevertheless,  it  may  make  an  excep- 
tionally disagreeable  impression,  because  it  seems  almost  gratuitously 
out  of  place.  It  would  appear  that  the  writers  who  are  most  habitually 
pure  feel  bound  by  self-respect  to  show,  on  occasion,  that  they  do  not 
v/rite  purely  from  lack  of  knowledge,  and  that  they  are  a^  much  men 
of  this  wicked  world  as  their  more  audacious  neighbours.  Nor  is  crown- 
ing by  the  Academy  a  guarantee  of  virtue,  though  it  is  a  recosTiition  of 
tfJent  that  the  author  may  be  proud  of,  and  assures  his  book  a  lucra- 
tive circulation.  All  it  absolutely  implies,  from  the  moral  point  of  view, 
if}  that  the  novel  is  not  flagrantly  scandalous;  and  so  far  as  that  goes, 
t^e  name  of  any  author  of  noto-is  generally  a  sufficient  indication  of 
t!io  tone  of  his  stories.  Now  and  then  a  TTieophile  Gautier  may  for- 
got himself  in  such  a  brilliant  jeu  des  sens  as  his  '  Mademoiselle  de 


FKENCH  NOVELS.  729 

3iiaTipiii;'  but  the  French  novelist,  as  a  rule,  takes  a  line  and  sticks  to 
it,  qarefuUy  developing  by  practice  and  thought  what  he  believes  to  be 
his  peculiar  talent.  And  whatever  may  be  the  moral  blemishes  of  tlio 
French  novel — though  they  may  be  often  false  to  art  by  being  false  to 
nature,  notwithstanding  the  illusion  of  their  superficial  realism,  tliero 
can  be  no  question  of  their  average  superiority  to  our  own  in  care  of 
construction  and  delicacy  of  finish.  The  modem  French  novelist,  as  a 
rule,  does  not  stretch  his  story  on  a  Procrustean  bed,  racking  it  out 
to  twice  its  natural  length,  and  thereby  enfeebling  it  proportionately. 
He  publishes  in  a  single  manageable  volume,  which  may  be  in  type 
that  is  large  or  small  a  discretion.  Kot  onlj  is  he  not  obliged  to  hustle 
in  characters,  for  the  mere  sake  of  filling  his  canvas,  but  he  is  naturally 
inclined  to  limit  their  number.  In  place  of  digressing  into  superfluous 
episodes  and  side  scenes  for  the  sake  ef  spinning  out  the  volumes  to  regu- 
l^ion  length,  he  is  almost  bound  over  to  condense  and  concentrate.  Thus 
there  is  no  temptation  to  distract  attention  from  the  hero,  who  presents 
himself  naturally  in  the  opening  chapter,  and  falls  as  naturally  into 
the  central  place;  while  the  other  people  group  themselves  modestly 
behind  him.  Consequently  the  plot  is  simple  where  there  is  a  plot; 
and  where  there  is  no  plot,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  we  have  a 
consistent  study  of  a  selected  type.  Each  separate  chapter  shows  evi- 
dences of  care  and  patience.  The  writer  seems  to  have  more  or  loss 
identified  himself  with  the  individuality  he  has  imagined;  and  no 
doubt  that  has  been  the  case.  Nineteen  novels  out  of  twenty  in  Eng- 
land are  the  careless  distractions  of  leicure  time  by  men  or  women 
who  are  working  up  waste  materials.  In  France  it  would  appear  to  be  just 
the  opposite.  Thoughtful  students  of  the  art  take  to  novel-writing  as  a 
business.  They  practice  the  business  on  acknowledged  principles,  and 
according  to  certain  recognised  traditions,  though  they  may  lay  them- 
selves out  to  hit  the  fashions  of  the  times,  like  the  fashionable  jewel- 
lers and  dressmakers.  So  that  the  story,  as  it  slowly  takes  form  in 
their  mind.^^  is  wrought  in  harmony  throughout  with  its  ori^nal  con- 
ception. There  may  occasionally  be  distinguished  exceptions,  but 
they  only  prove  the  general  rule.  Thus  Zola  is  said  to  give  his  morn- 
ings to  ms  novels,  while  he  devotes  the  afternoons  to  journalism;  and 
Claretie,  who  is  as  much  of  a  press  man  as  a  novelist*  mars  excellent 
work  that  might  bo  better  still,  by  the  inconsistencies,  oversights,  and 
pieces  of  slovenliness  that  may  be  attributed  to  the  distracting  variety 
of  his  occupations. 

Then,  as  the  French  novelists  are  Parisian,  almost  to  a  man,  their 
noyels  are  monotonously  Parisian  in  their  tone,  as  they  are  thoroughly 
French  in  their  spirit.  The  system  of  centralisation  that  has  been  grow- 
ing and  strengthening  has  been  attracting  the  intellect  and  ambition 
of  the  country  to  its  heart.  It  is  in  the  Paris  of  the  present  republic  as 
in  theParis  of  the  monarchies  and  the  Empire,  that  fame,  honours,  and 
places  are  to  be  won;  and  where  the  only  life  is  to  be  lived  that  a 
Frenchman  thinks  worth  the  living.  The  ornaments  of  the  literary  as 
of  the  political  coteries  aro  either  Parisians  bom  or  bred;  or  they  are 


730  FEENCa  NOVELS. 

young  provincials,  "who  have  found  their  way  to  the  capital  wben  £hd 
mind  and  senses  are  most  impressionable.    Many  of  these   clever 
youths  have  seen  nothing  of  "Gociety "  till  they  have  taken  their  line 
and  made  their  name.  Too  many  of  them  decline  to  be  bored  by  either 
respectability  or  an  observance  of  conventionalities;  even  if  they  had 
admission  to  th«  drawing-rooms  they  would  rarely  avail  themselves  of 
it,  except  for  the  sake  of  the  social  flattery  implied ;  and  they  take  t^eir 
only  notions  of  women  from  the  ladies  of  a  certain  class.    If  they  are 
"devouring"  a  modest  patrimony  or  making  an  income  by  their  reakly 
pens,  they  spend  it  in  the  dissipation  of  Vk  vie  orageuse.    So  we  have 
fancies  inspired  by  the  champagne  of  noisy  suppers  towards  the  small 
hours;  and  moral  reflections  suggested  by  absinthe,  in  the  gloomy  re- 
action following  on  debauch.    In  the  scenes  from  the  life  oi  Bom.ope'M 
crev^  or  lorette,  you  have  the  Boulevards  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne;  tlio 
supper  at  the  Maison  Borco,  the  breakfast  at  the  Cafe  Jbliche;  the 
frensied  pool  at  UmsquenM  or  baccarat;  the  flirtaiions  at  the  nincy  balU 
of  the  opera ;  the  humours  of  the  foyers,  the  joumAl  officeg^  and  the 
cctfis, — described  with  a  liveliness  that  leaves  little  to  desire^  if  tie 
accomplished  author  have  the  necessary  verve.    But  those  views  <rf  life 
are  all  upon  the  surface,  and  thoy  are  as  absolutely  wanting  in  breadth 
as  in  variety.    The  writer  takes  his  colours  from  the  people  he  asso- 
ciates with ;  and  these  are  either  too  busy  to  think,  or  else  they  are 
morbidly  disillusioned.    They  tiilk  a  jargon  of  their  world,  and  try  to 
act  in  conformity ;  the  philost^phy  they  profecs  to  practise  is  shallow 
hypocrisy  and  transparent  self-deception;  if  there  is  anything  of  whicli 
they  are  heartily  ashamed,  it  is  the  betrayal  of  some  sign  of  genoino 
feeUng.    The  writer  who  nurses  his  brain  on  absinthe  and  cognac^ 
knows  little  of  the  finer  emotions  of  our  nature;  and  yet,  to  do  justice 
to  his  philosophical  omniscience,  he  may  feel  bound  to  imagine  and 
analyse  these.    Then  imagination  must  take  the  place  of  repxoductioa, 
and  the  realistic  shades  harshly  into  the  ideoL    We  have  banters 
where  we  are  in  the  full  rattle  of  coupes,  the  jingling  of  glasses  and  the 
clink  of  napoleons;  and  we  have  others  alternating  with  them,  vhere 
some  Bt£^e-Btruck  hero  is  meditating  his  amorous  misadventures  or 
bonnes  fortunes ;  contemplating  sxiicide  in  a  melodramatio  paroxvsm  of 
despair,  or  in  luring  in  raptures  of  serene  self-gmtulation.  And  these 
stories,  though  extravagant  in  their  representations  of  the  feelings, 
may  be  real  to  an  extreme  in  their  action  and  in  their  framework;  yet, 
as  we  said  before,  in  construction  and  execution  they  may  oommand 
the  approval  of  the  most  fastidious  of  critics.    Whiles,  as  we  need 
hardly  add,  there  are  authors  Iwrs  de  ligne,  whose  genius  and  profound 
acquaintance  with  mankind  are  not  circumscribed  by  the  octroi  of 
Paris. 

Where  painstaking  writers  of  something  more  than  respectable  medi- 
ocrity often  show  themselves  at  their  best,  is  in  the  special  knowl- 
edge they  are  apt  to  be  ashamed  of.  The  provincial  who  has  gone 
to  school  in  the  caf^s  of  the  capital,  was  bom  and  brought  up  in  very 
different  circumstances.    He  remembers  the  form-et^iding  in  Noiw. 


IBENCH  N07EE8.  731 

'xnandy  or  La  Beance,  lie  remem'bers  tlie  stem  solitudes  of  the  Landee 
or  the  Breton  heaths,  the  snows  and  the  pine  forests  of  the  Pyrenees  or 
the  Jura,  the  grey  olive  groves  of  Provence,  and  the  sunny  vineyards  of 
the  Gironde.  He  recalfi  the  dull  provincial  town  where  he  went  to 
college;  where  the  maire  was  a  personage  and  the  sous-prefH  a  demi- 
god, and  where  a  Sunday  on  the  promenade  or  a  cfiasse  in  the  environs 
seemed  the  summit  of  human  felicity.  Probably  he  had  been  in  love 
in  good  earnest  in  these  days;  and  the  remembrance  of  that  first  fresh- 
ness of  passion  comes  keenly  back  to  him,  like  the  breath  of  the 
spring.  It  is  somewhat  humiliating,  no  doubt,  the  having  to  revive 
tnose  rustic  memories,  the  more  so  that  the  world  and  your  jealous 
friends  are  likely  to  identify  you  with  the  incidents  of  your  romance. 
But,  after  all,  necessity  exacts  originality,  and  a  vein  of  veracity  means 
money  and  gratif^ng  consideration;  and  then  there  is  honourable 
precedent  for  his  condescension.  Did  not  Balzac  include  the  vie  depro- 
t;inoeinthe  innxmierable  volumes  of  the  'Comedie  Humaine?*  With 
some  simple  study  of  a  quiet  human  life,  we  have  charming  sketches 
of  picturesque  nature,  that  might  haver  come  from  the  brush  of  a 
Corot  or  a  Jules  Breton.  More  generally,  however,  the  nature  in  the 
French  novel  reminds  one  rather  of  the  stage-painter  than  the  lover  of 
the  country;  and  there  they  fall  far  short  ofthe  average  of  second-class 
English  work.  Many  of  our  indifferent  English  novels  have  been 
written  in  quiet  parsonages  and  country-houses,  and  the  most  pleasing 
parts  of  them  are  those  in  which  the  author  describes  the  fields  that  he 
wanders  in  or  the  garden  he  loves.  Besides,  every  Englishman  in 
easy  circumstances  makes  a  point  of  taking  his  annual  holiday,  and 
passes  it  in  the  Alps,  by  the  sea,  or  in  the  Highlands.  While  the 
Frenchman,  or  the  Parisian  at  least,  is  content,  like  Paul  de  Kock,  to 
adore  the  eolemix  of  the  Seine  or  the  woods  of  the  hardieue.  Exceed- 
ingly pretty  in  their  way,  no  doubt;  but  where  the  turf  is  strewed  with 
orange-peel  and  the  fragments  of  brioches^  where  you  gallop  on  donkeys 
as  on  Hampstead  Heath;  andwhere  the  notes  ofthe  singing-birds  are 
lost  in  the  shrieks  of  some  boisterous  French  counterpart  of  kiss-in-the- 
ring.  The  Cockney  artists  have  their  colony  at  Fontainebleau;  and 
it  would  be  well  if  their  brothers  the  novelists  had  some  suburban 
school  of  the  kind.  But  not  to  mention  George  Sand  for  the  present, 
who  sunned  herself  in  the  beauties  of  nature  with  the  genuine  trans- 
ports of  sympathetic  appreciation,  there  are  always  a  few  delightful 
exceptions;  for  the  French  artist,  when  he  cares  for  the  country  at  all, 
can  paint  it  with  a  rare  refinement  of  grace.  There  is  Gabriel  Ferry, 
who  is  the  traveller  of  romance;  there  is  Edmund  About,  who  showed 
his  cosmopolitan  versatility  in  making  Hymettus  and  the  Bomian 
Campagna  as  real  to  his  countrymen  as  tneir  Mont  Valerian  or  the 
Plain  of  St.  Denis;  there  was  Dumas,  whose  lively  'Impressions  de 
Voyage '  are  as  likely  to  live  as  anything  he  has  written,  but  who,  un- 
fortunately, with  his  vivid  power  of  imagination,  is  never  absolutely 
to  be  trusted.  They  say  that,  having  described  his  scenes  in  the 
>*  Pen  insula  of  Sinai  at  second  hand  nom  the  notes  of  a  friend,  ^^^ 


732  FRENCH    NOVELS. 

wast  so  captiTated  by  fixe  Bednotions  of  his  fanciful  sketches,  as  to  de- 
cide at  once  on  a  visit  to  the  convent.  There  are  MM.  Eickmatm- 
Chatrian,  in  such  a  book  especially  as  their  'Maison  Forestiere;*  thoro 
i  SandeatL,  to  whom  we  have  already  made  allosion;  and  last,  though 
not  least,  there  is  Andre  Theuriet.  M  Thenrietj  although  much  ad- 
mired in  France— and  that  says  something  for  the  good  taste  and  dis- 
crimination of  his  countrymen — is,  we  fancy,  but  little  read  in  Eng- 
land. Yet,  putting  the  exquisite  fii^sh  of  his  simple  subjects  out  of 
the  question,  no  one  is  a  more  fascinating  guide  and  companion  to 
the  nooks  and  sequestered  valleys  in  the  iVench  woodlands.  We 
know  nothing  more  pleasing  than  the  bits  in  his  '  Baymonde,'  begin- 
ning with  the  episode  of  the  mushroom-hunter  among  his  mush- 
rooms; and  there  are  things  that  are  scarcely  infeiiox  in  Mb  latest 
story. 

France  was  the  natural  birthplace  of  the  sensaticfnal  novel,  and  thd 
sensational  novel  as  naturally  associates  itself  with  the  names  and  famo 
of  Sue  and  Dumas.  Whatever  their  faults,  these  writers  exercised  an 
extraordinary  fascination^  abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  and  their  works  * 
lost  little  or  nothing  in  the  translation.  We  should  be  unigratefdl  if 
we  did  not  acknowledge  the  debt  we  owed  them,  for  awakening  in  us 
the  keenest  interest  and  sentiment  in  days  when  the  mind  is  most  im- 
pressionable. We  did  not  read  Sue  for  his  poKtical  and  social  theo- 
ries, nor  Balzac  for  his  psychological  analysis.  We  saw  no  glaring  im- 
probabilities in  the  achievements  of  Dumas'  'Three  Musqueteers;' 
though  we  did  resent  the  table  of  proportion  which  made  a  mus- 
queteer  equal  to  two  of  the  Cardinars  guards,  and  a  Cardinal's  guards- 
man to  two  Englishmen.  We  preferred  such  a  soul-stirring  story  as 
the  'History  of  the  Thirteen,'  to  Balthasar  Claes  *  or  the  'Peau  de 
Chagrin;*  but  we  devoured  very  indiscriminately  all  the  great  French 
romance's  of  the  day;  and  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  our 
youthful  countrymen  paid  a  similarly  practical  tribute  to  the 
powers  of  the  Frenchmen  who  undoubtedly  for  a  time  filled  the 
foremost  places  in  the  ranks  of  the  novelist's  guild  in  Europe. 
Eugene  Sue  had  seen  something  of  the  world  before  he  settkd 
to  literature  and  took  up  his  residence  in  Paris.  He  began 
life  as  an  army  surgeon,  and  subsequently  he  served  in  the 
navy.  He  broke  ground  with  the  sea  pieces,  which  gave  good  promise 
of  his  future  career;  but  he  made  a  positive  furor  by  his  publication  of 
the  *  Mysteries  of  Paris,*  which  had  been  honoured  with  an  introduc- 
tion through  the  columns  of  the  *Debats* — ^to  bo  followed  by  the 
*  Wandering  Jew '  and  *  Martin  tho  Foundling.*  Sue  possessed,  in  ex- 
aggeration and  excess,  the  most  conspicuous  quaUtiea  we  have 
attributed  to  the  French  novelists.  His  imagination  was  rather  inflamed 
than  merely  warm.  In  the  resolution  with  which  he  laid  his  hands 
upon  social  sores  he  anticipated  the  harsh  realism  of  Zola.  £Qs  con- 
struction was  a  triumph  of  intricate  ingenuity;  and  he  never  contented 
himself  with  a  mere  handful  of  characters,  who  might  be  managed 
and  manoeuvxed  with  comparative  ease.    On  tho  contrary,  he  worked 


FRENCH    NOVELS.  733 

his  involved  maohinery  by  a  complication — by  wheels  within  wheels; 
and.  his  characters  were  multiplied  bejrond  all  precedent.    The  action 
of  liis  novels  is  as  violent  as  it  is  sustained;  yet  the  interest  is  seldom 
BTxffered  to  flag.    He  is  always  extravagant,  and  often  absurdly  so; 
and  yet — thanks  to  the  pace  at  which  he  hurries  his  readers  along 
— lie  has  the  knack  of  imprinting  a  certain  XTraisemblance  on  everything. 
Not  nnfrequently,  as  with  Victor  Hugo,  the  grandiose  with  Sue  is 
confounded  with  the  ludicrous, — as  where,  in  that  wonderful  prologue 
to  the  'Wandering  Jew,'  the  male  and  female  pilgrims  of  misery  part 
on  tho  confines  of  the  opposite  continents,  and,  nodding  their.lcave- 
'  taking  across  the  frozen  straits,  turn  on  their  heels  respectively,  and 
stride  away  over  the  snow-fields.     It  is  easy  enough  to  put  that 
liyper-dramatic  incident  in  a  ridiculous  light;  and  yet  it  is  more  than 
an  effort  to  laugh  when  you  are  reading  it.    And  so  it  is  in  some 
degree  with  the  adventures  of  Budolph  and  his  faithful  Murphy  in 
the  'Mysteries  of  Paris.'    For  a  man  who  knows  anything  practically 
of  the  science  of  the  ring,  and  of  the  indispensable  handicapping  oi 
light  weights  and  heavy  weights,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  his 
Bhghtly-made  Serene  Highness  could  knock  the  formidable  Maitre 
d'Ecole  out  of  time  with  a  couple  of  well-planted  blows.    Nor  do  we 
believe  it;  and  yet  somehow  we  follow  the  adventures  of  Rudolph  with 
the  lively  curiosity  that  comes  of  a  faith  in  him,  though  improba- 
bilities are  heightened  by  his  habit  of  intoxicating  himself  on  the 
vitriolised  alcohol  of  the  most  poverty-stricken  cabarets.    Sue  under- 
stood the  practice  of  contrast,  though  he  exaggerated  in  that  as  in 
everything  else.    As  Budolph  would  leave  his  princely  residence  in 
disguise  to  hazard  himself  in  the  modem  Oours  des  Miracles^  so  we  are 
hurried  from  the  dens  of  burglars  and  the  homes  of  the  deserving  poor 
to  petUes  maisons  and  halls  of  dazzling  light,  hung  with  the  rarest  paint- 
ings and  richest  tapestries,  and  deadened  to  the  footfall  by  the  softest 
carpets.    Dramatic  suggestions  naturally  arose  out  of  such  violently 
impressive  situations.     Vice  could  work  its  criminal  will,  while  inno- 
cence and  virtue  were  bribed  or  coerced.    Then  these  social  inequali- 
ties lent  themselves  naturally  to  the  socialistic  teachings  of  his  later 
years;  and  the  fortunate  proprietor  of  a  magnificent  chateau  expatiated, 
with  the  eloquence  of  honest  indignation,  on  the  atrocious  disparities 
of  class  and  caste.    Sue  had  his  reward  in  his  lifetime  in  the  shape  of 
money  and  fame;  and  though  his  novels  have  almost  ceased  to  be  read, 
his  influence  survives,  and,  as  we  fear,  is  likely  to  live. 

Pumas  was  a  more  remarkable  man  than  Sue, — with  his  inexhaustible 
and  insatiable  capactity  for  work,  and  an  imagination  that  was  unflag- 
^g  within  certain  limits.  He  was  happy  in  the  combination,  so  rare 
m  a  Frenchman,  of  an  iron  frame  and  excellent  health,  with  as  strong 
literary  inspiration  and  an  equally  robust  fancy.  If  he  was  vain  to 
Bimplicity,  and  provoked  ridicule  and  rebuffs,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  had  some  reason  for  vanity;  and  it  was  on  the  principle  of 
Taudace,  et  toujours  de  Vavdace^  that  he  made  hosts  of  friends  in  high 
places,  and  a  really  remarkable  position.    As  his  witty  son  undutifofiy 


734  FEENCH    NOVELS. 

obseyed  of  him,  he  was  capable  of  getting  tip  behind  his  own  caarriage, 
that  he  might  make  society  believe  that  he  kept  a  black  footman.  ^He 
was  the  typical  Frenchman  in  many  respects,  and  above  all,  the  typical 
French  romance-writer.    He  had  actually  a  vast  store  of  misccllaneons 
and  desultory  reading  of  the  lighter  kind;  he  mingled  freely  in  society 
with  all  manner  of  men  and  women;  he  had  a  good  though  singularly 
unreliable  memory,  which  he  professed  to  trust  on  all  occasions.  Noth- 
ing is  more  naively  characteristic  of  the  man  than  a  confession  he 
makes,  involuntarily,  in  the  amusing  little  volume  he  entitles   'Mes 
Betes.'    He  is  explaining  and  justifying  his  marvellous  facility  of  pro- 
duction.   He  attributes  it  to  the  fact  that  he  never  forgets  anything 
and  need  waste  none  of  his  precious  time  in  hunting  through  his 
book-shelves.    And  by  way  of  illustration,  in  the  next  two  or  three 
pages  he  makes   several  most  flagrant   historical   blunders.     That 
gives  one  the  measure  of  his  accuracy  in  the  series  of  historical 
romances  from  which  so   many   people    have  taken  all  they  know 
of   French    history  in  the  days    of  the   League   and   the    Fronde. 
Yet   if  the   narrative   is   a   wonderful     travesty   of  actual    events 
— if  the  portraits  of  Valois  and  Guises  are  as  false  to  the  originals 
as  the  Louis    XI.  of  Scott  and  Victor  Hugo  is  faithful— ^the  scenes 
are  none  the  less  vividly  dramatic;  while  the  conversation  or  the  gossip 
amuses  us  just  as  mucn  as  if  they  did  not  abound  in  errors  and  anach- 
ronisms.   His  *  Monte  Christo '  had  all  the  gorgeous  extravagance  of 
an  Eastern  tale,  though  the  scenes  passed  in  the  latitude  of  Paris  and 
the  Mediterranean;  and  we  may  see  how  the  ideas  grew  in  the  concep- 
tion, although,  characteristically,  the  author  never  had  patience  to  go 
back  lo  correct  his  discrepancies  in  proportion.    The  treasure  of  the 
Homan  cardinals  that  was  concealed  m  the  cavern,  though  enough  to 
tempt  the  cupidity  of  a  mediasval  pope,  would  never  have  sufficed  to 
the  magnificent  adventurer  througn  more  than  some  half-dozen  years. 
Yet,  after  lavishing  gold  and  priceless  gems  by  the  handful,  when. we 
take  leave  of  Monte  Christo  at  last,  he  is  still  many  times  a  French 
millionaire;  and  the  probabilities  otherwise  have  been  so  well  pre- 
served, that,  as  in  ttie  case  of  Eugene  Sue,  we  have  never  thought  of 
criticising. 

But  one  of  Dumas*  most  original  ideas  took  an  eminently  practical 
direction.  His  unprecedented  energy  and  power  of  work  made  him 
absolutely  insatiable  in  producing.  So  he  showed  speculative  inven- 
tion as  well  as  rare  originality  in  constituting  himself  the  director 
of  a  literary  workshop  on  a  very  extensive  scale.  Other  authors,  like 
MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian,  have  gone  into  literaiy  partnership,  and 
a  curious  puzzle  it  is  as  to  how  they  distribute  their  responsibihty^ 
But  it  was  reserved  for  Dumas  to  engage  a  staff  of  capable  yet  retiring 
coUdborateurs,  as  other  men  employ  clerks  and  amanuenses.  Hi«  vanity, 
sensitive  as  it  was,  stooped  to  nis  standing  sponsor  to  the  inferior 
workmanship  of  M.  Auguste  Macquet  et  Cio.  The  books  might  be  of 
unequal  merit— some  of  them  were  drawn  out  to  unmistakable  dul- 
ness — ^yet  none  were  so  poor  as  to  be  positively  discreditable;    And 


KBENCn    NOVELa-  735 

the  i3irange  thing  was,  that  they  took  their  colour  from  the  mind  of 
the  master,'  as  they  closely  indicated  his  characteristic  style.  While 
to  this  day,  notwithstanding  the  disclosures  of  the  lawsuits  that 
gratified  the  jealousy  of  his  enemies  and  rivals,  we  are  left  in  very 
considerable  doubt  as  to  the  parts  undertaken  by  the  different  per- 
formers. 

It  was  ^  notion  that  could  never  have  occurred  to  Victor  Hugo.  Ko 
French  author  lends  himself  sa  easily  to  parody;  and  a  i>age  or  two  of 
high-flown  phrases,  where  the  sense  is  altogether  lost  in  the  sound, 
liay  provoke  a  smile  as  a  clever  imitation.  But  though  Hugo  is  always 
reminding  us  of  the  line,  that  ''Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near 
allied,"  he  really  is  a  great  wit,  a  profound  thinker,  a  magnificent 
writer,  and,  above  all,  an  extraordinary  dramatic  genius.  Although, 
latterly,  there  is  almost  as  much  that  is  absurd  in  what  he  has  written 
as  in  what  he  has  said,  there  is  nothing  about  him  that  is  mean  or  Uttle. 
He  has  the  conscience  and  enthusiasm  of  his  art  as  of  his  political  con- 
victions. And  we  could  ^  soon  conceive  some  grand  sculptor  leaving 
the  noble  figure  his  genius  has  blocked  out  to  be  finished  by  the 
clumsy  hands  of  his  apprentices,  as  Hugo  handing  over  his  ideas  to 
the  manipulation  of  his  most  sympathetic  disciples.  He  at  least,  among 
contemporary  Frenchmen,  rises  to  the  ideal  Of  the  loftiest  concep- 
tions, and  yet  his  noblest  characters  are  strictly  conceivable.  Take, 
for  example,  the  trio  in  the  tale  of  the  *Quatre-vingi>4;reizo*— 
Lantenac,  Gauvain,  and  the  stem  republican  Cimourdain,  wlio  sits 
calmly  discoursing,  on  the  eve  of  the  execution,  with  the  beloved  pupil 
he  has  condemned  to  the  guillotine.  In  romance  as  in  the  drama, 
Hugo  sways  the  feelings  with  the  strength  and  confidence  of  a  giant, 
exulting  in  his  intellectual  superiority.  It  is  true  that  he  not  unfre- 
quently  overtasks  himself — sometimes  his  scenes  are  too  thrillingly 
terrible — sometimes  they  border  on  the  repulsive,  and  very  frequently 
on  the  grotesque.  Yet  even  the  grotesque,  in  the  hands  of  Hugo,  may 
be  made,  as  we  have  seen,  extremely  pathetic;  and  the  pathos  is  artist- 
ically heightened  by  some  striking  effect  of  contrast.  The  Quasimodo 
in  his  *Kotre  Damo*  is-a  soulless  and  deformed  monster,  who  resents 
the  outrages  of  a  brutal  age  by  regarding  all  men,  save  one,  with  in- 
tense malignity.  His  distorted  features  and  deformed  body  provoke 
laughter,  and  conscqtiently  insult,  so  naturally,  that,  by  merely  sliow- 
ing  his  hideous  face  in  a  window-frame,  he  wins  the  honours  of  the 
Pape  avxfous.  Yet  what  can  be  more  moving  than  when,  bound  hs^d 
and  foot  in  the  pillory,  the  helpless  mute  rolls  his  solitary  eye  in 
search  of  some  sympathy  among  the  jeering  mob?  or  the  chsmge 
that  works  itself  m  his  dull  feelings  when  the  graceful  Esmeralda 
comes  to  quench  his  thirst  with  the  water  she  raises  to  his  blackened 
lips?  Hugo  is  essentially  French  in  his  follies  as  well  as  his  powers; 
his  political  dreams  aro  as  wild  as  they  might  be  dangerous:  yet  he  is 
an  honour  to  his  country,  not  only  by  his  genius,  but  by  the  habitual 
consecration  of  his  wonderful  gius  to  what  he  honestly  believes  to  be 
the  noblest  purposes. 


736  FRENCH    NOVELS. 

Keither  Balzao  nor  Saad  will  be  booh  replaced.  For  the  former,  it 
is  seldom  in  the  history  of  literature  that  we  can  look  for  so  keen  and 
subtle  an  analyst  of  tne  passions,  frailties,  and  foUies  of  humanity. 
In  the  everyday  business  of  life  he  showed  a  strange  lack  of  common- 
sense;  but  fortunately  for  his  contemporaries  and  posterity,  he  had 
the  intelligence  to  recognise  his  vocation.  What  a  range  of  varied 
and  absorbing  interest— of  searching  and  suggestive  philosophical 
speculation — of  shrewd  incisive  satirical  observation — would  have  been 
lost  to  the  world  if  the  eccentric  author  of  the  *Comedie  Humaine*  had 
been  forced  to  take  his  place  among  the  notaries  he  found  reason  so 
heartily  to  detest !  The  originality  of  his  manner  of  regarding  men 
was  as  great  as  the  spasmodic  ^lan  of  his  energy  was  tremendous,  when 
his  necessities  felt  the  spur,  and  his  fancies  fell  in  with  his  necessities. 
Balzac  dashed  off  his  books  by  inspiration,  if  ever  novelist  did.  What 
varied  profundity  of  original  thought,  what  delicate  refinements  of 
mental  analysis,  often  go  to  a  single  chapter !  The  arrangement  of 
ideas  is  as  lucid  as  the  language  is  precise  and  vigorous.  Yet  we  know 
that  when  Balzac  locked  his  door  for  more  than  a  round  of  the  clock, 
filliping  the  nerves  and  flagging  brain  with  immoderate  doses  of  the 
strongest  coffee,  the  pen  must  have  been  flying  over  the  paper.  His 
vast  reserves  of  reflection  and  observation  placed  themselves  at  his 
disposal  almost  without  an  effort;  and  the  characters  were  sketched  in 
faithful  detail  by  the  penetrating  instinct  whose  perceptions  were  eg 
infallible. 

George  Sand  has  been  more  missed  than  Balzac,  because  she  could 
vary  her  subjects  and  manner  to  suit  almost  every  taste.  Univer- 
sally read,  she  was  universally  admired;  and  she  pleased  the  fastid- 
ious as  she  entertained  the  many.  An  accomplished  mistress  of  tho 
graces  of  stylo,  her  language  was  wonderfully  nervous  and  flexible. 
In  her  way  she  was  almost  as  much  of  the  poet  as  Hugo,  though  her 
poetry  was  lyric  and  idyllic  in  place  of  epic.  She  could  never  have 
written  so  well  and  so  long  had  she  not  had  an  individuality  of  extra- 
ordinary versatility.  In  a  romance  of  the  passions  like  her  'Indiana' 
or  her  'Jacques,*  she  is  as  thoroughly  at  home  as  Balzao  himself;  while 
she  throws  nerself  into  the  feminine  parts  with  all  the  sympathetic 
ardour  of  a  nature  semi-tropical  like  Indiana's.  While  in  such  a 
story  as  the  'Flammarande,'  which  was  her  latest  work,  and  in  which 
she  showed  not  the  faintest  symptom  of  decline,  she  confines  herself 
severely  to  the  character  of  the  half-educated  steward,  rejecting  all 
temptations  to  indulge  herself  in  the  vein  of  her  personality.  For 
once,  though  the  scenes  are  laid  in  most  romantic  landscapes,  we  have 
none  of  the  inimitable  descriptions  in  which  she  delights.  She  merely 
indicates  the  picturesque  surroundings  of  the  solitary  castle  in  the 
rocky  wilderness,  leaving  it  to  our  imagination  to  fill  in  the  rest. 
What  she  could  do  in  the  wav  of  painting,  when  sitting  down  to  a 
favourite  study  she  gave  herself  over  to  her  bent,  we  see  in  the  'Petite 
Fadette,*  'La  Mare  d'  Auteuil,'  'Nanette,'  and  a  score  of  similar  stories. 
The  simplest  materials  served  for  the  tale,  which  owed  half  its  charm 


FRENCH    NOVELS.  ^    737 

to  "her  affection  for  the  country.    The  woman  who  had  wandered  about 
tlie  streets  of  Paris  in  mascoline  cttire,  who  had  a  strong  da^  of  the 
city  Bohemian  in  her  nature,  who  loved  in  after-life  to  £ll  her  scHons 
'Vfrlth  all  who  were  most  feimous  in  literature  and  che  arts,  was  never  so 
luappy  as  when  living  in  tMegalatura  among  the  fields  and  the  wood- 
laaids  she  had  loved  from  cnildhood.    The  old  mill  with  its  lichen- 
grown  gables  and  venerable  wheel;  the  pool  among  flags  and  sedges. 
Bleeping  under  the  shadows  of  the  alders;  the  brook  tumbling  down 
izi  uny  cascades  and  .breaking  over  the  moss-covered  boulders;  nay, 
tlie  tame  stretch  of  low-lying  meadowland,  with  its  sluices  and  clumps 
of  formal  poplars, — all  stand  out  in  her  pages,  like  liuidscapes  by 
X&ujsdael  or  Hobbema    And  wo  believe  that  these  simple  though  ez- 
qmsitely  finished  pictures  will  survive,  with  a  peasant  or  two  and  a 
village  maiden  for  the  figures  in  their  foregrounds,  when  more  preten* 
idous  works,  that  nevertheless  deserved  their  success,  have  been  forgot* 
ten  with  the  books  that  have  been  honoured  by  the  Academy. 

Among  the  most  prolific  of  the  novelists  who  have  died  no  long  time 
ago, — 'hardly  excepting  Dumas,  Balzac,  or  Sand, — and  who  have  been 
largely  read  by  our  middloaged  contemporaries,  is  our  old  acquaint* 
anee  Paul  de  Kock.    Paul  de  Kock  had  a  bad  name  for  his  immorality, 
and  doubtless  in  a  measure  he  deserved  it.    It  is  certain  that  if  an  ex- 
purgated edition  of  his  voluminous  works  were  collected  for  Englisdi 
family  reading,  it  would  shrink  into  comparatively  modest  proportions. 
But  Paul,  with  all  his  faults  and  freedoms,  did  very  little  harm,  and 
certainly^  he  afforded  a  great  deal  of  amusement.  He  was  guilty  of  none 
of  those  insidious  attaches  on  morality  which  have  be^n  the  spStMUi  of 
some  of  his  most  notorious  successors.    He  never  tasked  the  resources 
of  a  depraved  imagination  in  refining  on  those  sins  which  scandalise 
even  sinners.    He  never  wrapped  up  in  fervid  and  graceful  language 
those  s  ubtle  and  foul  suggestions  that  work  in  the  system  like  slow  poison. 
He  was  really  the  honest  bourgeois  which  M.  Zola  gives  himself  out 
to  be.    He  boldly  advertised  his  wares  for  what  they  were,  and  manu- 
factured and  multiplied  them  according  to  sample.    He  sold  a  some- 
what coarse  and  strong-flavored  article,  but  at  least  he  guaranteed  it 
from  unsuspected  adulteration.    He  painted  the  old  Paris  of  the  bour^ 
geoisie  and  the  students  just  as  it  was.    If  there  was  anything  in  the 
pictures  to  scandalise  one,  so  much  the  worse  for  Paris,  and  honi  soU 
^ui  mai  y  voiJt.    The  young  and  sprightly  wives  of  elderly  husbands 
immersed  in  their  commerce,  the  suscepuble  daughters  of  officers  and 
renJtiers  in  retreat,  were  not  so  particular  in  their  conduct  as  they  might 
be.    The  students  and  gay  young  men  about  town  were  decidedly 
loose  in  their  walk  and  conversation;  and  the  grisettes  keeping  house 
in  their  garrets,  away  from  the  maternal  eye,  behaved  according  to 
their  tastes  and  kind.    Paul  never  stopped  to  pick  his  own  phrases, 
and  he  frankly  called  a  spade  a  spade.     In  short,  he  took  his  society 
as  he  saw  it  under  his  eye;  dwelt lor  choice  on  the  lighter  and  sunnier 
'  side,  and  laughed  and  joked  through  the  life  he  enjoyed  so  hearfcilv. 
In  all  his  works  you  see  the  signs  of  his  jovial  temper  and  admiiable 

J    /  L.  M.— I.— 24. 


788  FEENCH    NOVELS. 

digestion.    He  tells  a  capital  story  himself  of  his  breakfasting  on.  one 
occasion  with  Dumas  the-  youi;iger;  when  the  rising  author  of  the 
'Dame  atix  Camellias*  gave  himself  the  condescending  airs  of  the  fash- 
ionable pdit  maitre.    Dumas  was  pretending  then  to  live  on  air,  an.l 
trifled  delicately  with  one  or  two  of  the  lighter  dishes.     Da  Kock,  on 
the  contrary,  who  saw  through  his  man,  devoured  everything,  even 
Burpaflsing   the  performances   of  the  paternal   Dumas;  and  fin^llv 
scandalised  his  young  acquaintance  by  calling  for  a  second  portion  ci 
plum  pudding  au  rhum.    And  all  his  favourite  heroes  have  the  samo 
powerful  digestion  and  the  same  capacity  for  hearty  enjoyment.  There 
IS  a  superabundance  of  vitality  and  vivacity  in  his  writings.   When  he 
takes  his  gi'iseties  and  their  lovers  out  for  a  noliday,  he  enters  into  their 
pleasures  heart  and  soul.    Yet  Paul  de  Kock,  though  somewhat  coaise 
in  the  fibre,  with  literary  tastes  that  were  far  from"  refined,  was  evi- 
dently capable  of  higher  things;  and  the  most  boisterous  of  his  boohs 
are  often  redeemed  from  triviality  by  interludes  of  real  beauty  and 
pathos.    He  was  the  countryman  turned  Parisian,  and  ho  held  to  the 
one  existence  and  the  other.    He  frequented  the  Boulevards,  but  he 
lived  at  Romainville.    As  the  Cockney  artist,  transferring  tho  natural 
beauties  of  the  environs  of  a  great  city  to  his  pages,  peopling  the  sub- 
urban woods  with  troops  of  merrymakers  in  the  manner  of  a  bourgwls 
Watteau,  he  has  never  been  excelled.^    Yet  now  and  again  he  will 
give  us  a  powerful  "bit"  of  slumbering  beauties  in  the  actual  country 
with  the  freshness  and  fidelity  of  a  George  Sand.  Nothing  can  bo  more 
delicate  than  the  touches  in  which  he  depicts  the  repentance  and 
expiation  of  some  woman  who  has  "stooped  to  folly;"  rnd  there  are 
stories  in  which  he  describes  a  promising  career  ruined  by  thoughtless 
extravagance  and  dissipation,  which  are  the  more  valuable  as  practical 
sermons  that  they  may  have  been  road  by  those  who  might  possibly 
profit  by  them. 

It  is  seldom  that  a  novelist  who  has  made  a  great  name  decider,  to  retire 
upon  his  reputation  in  the  full  vigour  of  his  powers;  and  it  is  seldom 
that  a  journalist  who  has  come  to  the  front  in  fiction  falls  back  again  upon 
journalism  while  still  in  the  full  flush  of  success.  Yet  that  has  been  the 
case  with  Edmund  About,  and  very  surprising  it  scorns.  ^  It  15  true  that  he 
has  the  special  talents  of  thoj  oumalist— a  lucid  and  incisive  styl  3— ak^en 
vein  of  satire— a  logical  method  of  marshalling  and  condensing  argu- 
ments, and  the  faculty  in  apparent  conviction  of  making  the  worse 
seem  the  better  reason.  As  a  political  pamphleteer  he  stool  nnri vailed 
among  his  contemporaries;  and  the  oi3ening  sentence  of  his  *  Question 
Bomaine  *  might  in  itself  have  floated  whole  chapters  of  dulnoss.  Had 
he  hoped  to  make  journalism  the  stepping-stone  to  high  political  placo 
or  influence,  wo  could  have  understood  him  better.  But  ho  is  lacking 
in  the  qualities  that  make  a  successful  politician,  and  we  flincy  he 
knows  that  as  well  as  anybody.  The  very  versatility  that  might  have 
multiplied  his  delightful  novels,  portended  hisfailuro  as  a  public  man. 
While  personally  it  must  surely  yield  more  lively  pleasure  to  let  the 
fancy  range  through  the  fiolds  of  imagination,  or  to  curb  it  with  the 


FRENCH    NOVELS.  739  . 

canddotisness  of  power  in  obedience  to  criticr.1  instincts.    We  can  con- 
ceive no  more  satisfying  earthly  enjoyment  to  a  man  of  esprit  tlian  ex- 
excising  an  originality  bo  inexhaustible  as  that  of  About,  with  the  sense 
of  a  very  extraordinary  facility  in  arresting  fugitive  impressions  for  tho 
delight  of  your  readers.  His  fancy  appears  to  bo  never  at  fault  in  evok- 
ing combinations  as  novel  as  effective;  and  ho  had  tho  art  of  mingling 
tlie  grave  with  the  gay  with  a  pointed  sarcasm  that  was  irresistibly  pi- 
quant.    *Tolla*  was  a  social  satire  on  the  habits  of  the  long-descended 
liomaji  nobility,  as  the  '  Question  Bomaine'  was  a  satire  on  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  popes.  But  the  satire  was  softened  by  an  engaging  picture 
of  the  simple  heroine,  and  by  admirable  sketches  of  tho  domestic  life 
in  the  gloomy  interior  of  one  of  the  poverty-stricken  Koman  palaces. 
It  was  relieved  by  brilliant  photograpns  of  the  Campagna  and  Sabine 
nills,  with  shepherds  in  their  sheepskins,   shaggy  buffaloes,  Eavage 
ihounds,  ruined  aqueducts,  huts  of  reeds,  vineyards,   oliveyarde,  gar- 
dens of  wild-flovirers,  fountains  overgrown  with  mosses  and  maiden- 
"hair,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.     *  Le  Roi  des  Montagnes '  presented  in  a 
livelier  form  the  solid  information  of  *  La  Grece  Contemporaine:'  you 
Bmell  the  beds  of  the  wild  thyme  on  the  slopes  of  Hymettus;  you  hear 
the  hum  of  the  bees  as  they  swarm  round  the  hives  of  the  worthy  peas- 
ant-priest who  takes  his  tithes  where  he  finds  them,  even  when  they 
are  paid  by  the  brigands  in  his  flocks.    The  satire  of  tho  story  maybe 
overcharged;  yet  if  it  bo  caricature,  the  caricature  is  by  no  means  ex- 
travagant, .when  wo  remember  that  tho  leaders  of  Oppositions  in  the 
Greek  Assembly  have  been  implicated  in  intrigues  with  the  assassins 
of  the  highroads.    About  is  always  treading  on  the  extreme  of  tho 
original,  yet  he  has  seldom  gone  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  admissible; 
and  his  most  pathetic  or  tragic  plots  are  lightened  by  something  that 
is  laughable.    As  in  his  *  Germaine '.  where  the  murderer  engaged  by 
Germaine's  rival  goes  to  work  and  fails,  because  the  consumptive 
beauty,  under   medical  advice,  has  been  accustoming  herself  to  tho 
deadly  poison  he  administers.     The  same  idea  appears  in  'Monto 
Ghristo,'    .where    Noirtier   prepares     his    granddaughter    Valentino 
against  the  machinations  of  her  stepmother,  tho  modem  Brinvilliers. 
But  in  the  scene  by  Dumas,  everything  is  sombre;  whereas  About 
EO  ludicrously  depicts  the  disappointment  and  surprise  of  tho  poic- 
oner,  that  we  smile  even  in  the  midst  of  our  excitement  and  anx- 
iety. "While  his  humour,  with  its  fine  irony  and  mockery,  has  one  of  tho 
choicest  qualities  of  wit  by  astonishing  us  with  tho  most  unexpected 
turns;  landing  the  characters  easily  in  tho  most  unlikely  situations, 
in  defiance  of  their  principles,  prejudices,  and  convictions.    As  in 
*  Trente  et  Quarante'  where  the  swearing  and  grumbling  veteran  who 
detests  play  as  he  detests  a  pekln,  finds  himself  tho  centre  of  an  ex- 
cited circle  of  gamblers,  behind  an  accumulating  pile  of  gold  and  bank- 
notes, and  in  the  vein  of  luck  that  is  breaking  the  tables. 

About  writes  like  a  man  of  the  world,  and  though  he  is  by  no  means 
strait-laced  in  his  treatment  of  the  passions,  his  tone  is  thoroughly 
Bound.ond  manly; — ^in  stxijd&gcoatffi^t  to  the  sickly  and  unwholesome 


740  FRENCH    NOVELS. 

Bentimentalit;^  of  Ernest  Feydeau,  whose  'Fanny*  mado  so  great  a 
sensation  on  its  appearance.  "Astudy/'tho  author  was  pleased  to 
call  it,  and  a  profitable  study  it  was.  With  an  ingenuity  of  special 
pleading  that  might  have  been  employed  to  better  purpose,  he  in- 
voked our  sympathies  for  the  unfortunate  lover  who  saw  the  lady's 
husband  preferred  to  himself.  Apparently  unconsciously  on  tho  part 
of  tho  author,  tho  hero  represents  lumself  as  contemptible  a  being  as 
can  well  bo  conceived.  Morality  apart,  the  rawest  of  English  novel- 
writers  must  have  felt  bo  maudlin  and  eflfeminate  a  character  would 
never  go  down  with  his  readers;  and  had  the  admirer  of  *  Fanny* 
been  put  upon  tho  stage  at  any  ono  of  our  theatres  in  Whitechapel  or 
the  New  Cut,  he  would  have  been  hooted  off  by  tho  roughs  of  tho  gal- 
lery. It  is  by  no  means  to  the  credit  of  tho  French  tlmt,  in  spito  of 
tho  xmflattering  portraiture  of  ono  of  the  national  types,  tho  book  ob- 
tained so  striking  a  success.  But  there  is  no  denying  the  prostituted 
art  by  which  the  author  instinctively  addresses  himself  to  the  worst 
predilections  of  his  countrymen;  nor  the  audacity  which  hazarded 
one  scene  in  particular,  pronounced  by  his  admirers  to  be  the  most 
effective  of  all,  which,  to  our  insular  minds,  is  simply  disgusting. 

Flaubert's  great  masterpiece  excited  even  more  sensation  than  Fey- 
deau's;  and  it  deserved  to  do  so.  Flaubert  is  likewise  one  of  tho  apos- 
tles of  the  impure,  but  he  is  at  the  same  time  among  the  first  of  social 
realists.  He  addresses  himself  almost  avowedly  to  tho  senses  and  not 
to  the  feelings.  '  He  treats  of  love  in  its  physiological  aspects,  and  in- 
dulges in  the  minutest  analysis  of  the  grosser  corporeal  eensationa. 
In  intelligence  and  accomplishments,  as  well  as  literary  skill,  ho  was 
no  ordinary  man.  He  had  read  much  and  even  studied  profoundly; 
he  had  travelled  far,  keeping  his  eyes  open,  and  had  mado  some  repu- 
tation in  certain  branches  of  science.  He  wrote  his  'Madame  Bovaiy' 
deliberately  in  his  maturity;  and  tho  notoriety  which  carried  him  with 
i':  into  the  law-courts,  mado  him  a  martyr  in  a  society  that  was  by  no 
means  fastidious.  In  gratitudo  for  forensic  services  rendered,  ho  ded- 
icated a  new  edition  of -it  to  M.  Marie-Antoine  Senard,  who  had  once 
been  president  of  the  National  Assembly,  and  who  died  bliormier  of  the 
Parisian  bar.  The  venerable  advocate  and  politician  seepis  to  have  a(S 
cepted  tho  compliment  as  it  was  intended.  And  seldom  before,  per- 
haps, has  an  author  concentrated  such  care  and  thought  on  a  sin- 
gle work.  Each  separate  character  is  wrought  out  with  an  exact- 
ness of  elaboration  to  which  the  painting  of  tho  Dutch  school 
is  sketchy  and  superiicial.  Those  who  fill  the  humblest  parta, 
or  who  aro  merely  introduced  to  be  dismissed,  are  made  ao  much 
living  realities  to  us  as  Madame  Bovary  herself  or  her  husband 
Charles.  Flaubert  goes  beyond  Balzac  in  the  accumulation  of  de- 
tails, which  often  become  tedious,  as  they  i^pear  irrelevant.  Yet 
it  is  clear  in  the  retrospect  that  the  effects  have  been  foreseen,  and  we 
acknowledge  some  compensation  in  the  end  in  the  vivid  impressions 
tho  author  has  made  on  us.  His  descriptions  of  inanimate  objects  aro 
equally  minute,  from  the  ornaments  and  fumiture  in  the  rooms  to  the 


FBENCH    NOVEIia  741 

* 
stones  in  the  villago  house  fronts,  and  the  very  bushes  in  the  garden. 
He  looks  at  nature  like  a  land-surveyor,  as  ho  inspects  men  and  women 
like  a  surgeonj  without  a  touch  of  imagination,  not  to  speak  of  poetry. 
Iji  fact,  he  proposes  to  set  the  truth  before  everything,  and  wo  presume 
ho  does  so  to  the  best  of  his  conviction.  Yet  what  is  the  result  of  his 
varied  experience  and  very  close  observation?  Wo  have  always  believed 
that  in  the  world  at  large  thero  is  some  preponderance  of  people,  who,  on 
the  whole,  seem  agreeable,  and  that  the  worst  of  our  fellow-creatures  have 
their  redeeming  qualities.  According  to  M.  Flaubert,  not  a  bit  of  it.  He 
treats  mankind  harshly,  os  Swift  did,  without  the  excuses  of  a  savage 
temper  fretted  by  baffled  ambitions.  M.  Flaubert  goes  to  his  work  os 
cruelly  and  imperturbably  as  the  Scotch  surgeon  in  the  pirate  ship,  who 
is  said  to  have  claimed  a  negro  as  his  share  of  the  prey,  that  he  might 
practice  on  the  wretch  in  a  series  of  operations.  He  makes  everybody 
either  repulsive  or  ridiculous.  Wo  say  nothing  of  his  heroino,  who  is  a 
mere  creature  of  the  senses,  loving  neither  husband,  nor  lovers,  nor 
child;  although  such  monstrosities  as  Emma  must  be  rare,  and  wo  may 
doubt  if  they  have  ever  existed.  An  ordinary  writer,  or  we  may  add,  a  gen- 
nine  artist,  would  have  at  least  sought  to  contrast  Madame  Bovary  with 
softer  and  more  kindly  specimens  of  her  species.  Nor  had  M.  Flau- 
bert to  seek  far  to  do  that.  Madam  o  Bovary*s  husj)and  was  ready  to 
his  hand.  Charles  is  dull,  and  his  habits  are  ridiculous;  but  ho  nad 
sterling  qualities,  and  an  attachment  for  his  wife,  which  might  havo 
made  him  an  object  of  sympathy  or  even  of  affection.  M.  Flaubert 
characteristically  takes  care  that  he  shall  bo  neither;  he  consistently 
pursues  the  samo  sjrstem  throughout;  so  we  say  advisedly  that  that 
realistic  work  of  his  is  actually  gross  caricature  and  misrepresentation. 
A  man  who  undertakes  to  reproduce  human  naturo  in  a  comprehensive 
panorama,  might  as  well  choose  the  wholo  of  his  subjects  in  Madame 
Tussaud's  Chamber  of  Horrors.  And  if  we  must  give  Flaubert  credit 
for  extreme  care  in  his  work,  wo  have  equal  cause  to  congratulato  him 
on  the  raro  harmony  of  his  execution.  For  he  invariably  expatiates 
by  choice  on  what  is  cither  absurd  or  revolting,  whether  it  is  the  un- 
tempting  M.  Bovary  awaking  of  a  morning  with  his  ruffled  hair  falling 
over  his  sodden  features  from  under  his  cotton  nightcap;  or  Madame 
ending  her  life  in  the  agonies  of  poisoning,  with  blackened  tongue 
and  distorted  limbs,  and  other  details  into  which  we  prefer  not  to  fol- 
low him. 

Adolphe  Belot's  *  Femme  de  Feu  *  is  a  romance  of  sensual  passion 
like  *  Madame  Bovary,'  though  it  has  littlo  of  Gustavo  Flaubert's  con- 
Bummato  precision  of  detail.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  far  moro 
fire  and  enJtrain,  and  if  the  scenery  shows  less  of  the  photograph  it 
is  infinitely  more  picturesque.  Sprightly  cleverness  is  the  character- 
istic of  the  book — ^though  there,  too,  we  have  a  poisoning  and  horrors 
enough.  The  very  title  is  a  neat  double  entendre.  Tho  femme  de  feit 
takes  her  pe^i^  nom  from  a  scene  where  she  is  seen  bathing  by  starlight 
in  a  thunderstorm,  when  the  crests  of  the  surge  are  illumined  by  the 
electricity,  and  the  billows  are  sparkling  as  they  break  around  her. 


742  \  PEENCH    NOYELS. 

Tho  light-hearted  married  gentleman  who  cnristened  her  so  poetic- 
ally, protests  against  intending  any  impeachment  on  her  morak.  As 
it  turns  out  he  might  have  called  her  so  for  any  other  reason  without 
libelling  her  in  the  slightest  degree.  The  whole  book  is  consistently 
immoral;  and  debasing,  besides,  in  its  tone  and  tendency.  It  is  com- 
monplace so  far,  that  thia/ernme  defea  captivates  our  old  acquaintance, 
the  grave  and  severe  member  of  the  French  magistracy  who  goes 
swathed  in  parchments,  and  ostentatiously  holds  aloof  from  all  sym- 
pathy with  the  frailties  of  his  fellow-mortals.  Wo  must  grant,  we  sup- 
pose, thatLucien  d'Aubier  ceases  to  be  responsible  for  hif3  actions  when, 
falling  under  the  spells  of  tho  femme  chfeu,  ho  is  swept  off  his  legs  in  a 
tornado  of  emotions.  But  though  a  gentleman  may  bo  hurried  by  pas- 
sion into  crime,  ho  must  alwaytj  as  to  certain  social  conventionalities  be 
controlled  in  some  degree  by  his  honourable  instincts.  It  is  difficult 
for  an  Englishman  to  conceive  the  ^garement  which  would  tempt  a  high- 
bred man  of  good  company  to  make  deliberate  preparations  for  imi- 
tating Peeping  Tom  of  Coventry;  and  if  the  author  forced  him  into  so 
false  a  position,  it  would  bo  dono  at  all  cve'htfi  with  a  protest  and  an 
explanation.  It  is  highly  characteristic  of  M.  Bclot  iind  his  school, 
that  he  thinks  neither  protest  nor  explanation  necessaiy.  The  magis- 
trate bores  a  trou-Judas  in  the  partition  of  a  bathing  cabinet;  and  walks 
out  holding  himself  as  erect  as  before.  And  his  Gtoojnng  to  that  is 
merely  a  preparation  for  still  more  disgraceful  compromises  with  his 
consciencj  in  the  course  of  hia  married  existence  with  the/emme  do  feu. 
Had  the  scene  been  acted  at  a  watering-placo  on  this  side  of  the  Chan- 
nel, wo  should  have  pronounced  the  story  as  incredible  as  it  is  im- 
moral. Being  laid  in  the  latitudes  of  the  bathing  establisljments  on  the 
Breton  coast,  we  can  only  say  that  it  is  thoroughly  French;  and  that 
M.  Belot  and  his  countrymen  seem  ontiroly  to  understand  each  other. 
It  is  refreshing  to  turn  from  Flaubert  and  Belot  to  such  n,  writer  as 
Jules  Sandeau.  'Madeline'  is  as  innocently  charming  an  Madame 
Bovary  is  the  reverse.  It  is  the  difference  between  the  atmosphere 
of  the  dissecting-room  and  of  primrose  banks  in  the  spring;  and  the 
French  Academy,  by  the  way,  did  itself  honour  by  crowning  the 
modest  graces  of  Sandeau's  book.  M.  Sandeau  f;how3  no  luck  of  knowl- 
edge of  the  world;  but  he  passes  lightly  by  the  shadows  on  its  shady 
Bide,  resting  by  preference  on  simplicity  and  virtue.  Young  Maurice 
do  Valtravers,  to  use  a  vulgar  but  expressive  phrase,  is  hurrying  post- 
haste to  the  devil.  Wearied  of  the  dulness  of  the  paternal  chateau, 
ho  has  longed  to  wing  a  wider  flight.  Ho  soon  f.;ucceeds  in  singeing  his 
pinions,  and  has  come  crippled  to  the  ground.  There  Bcems  no  hope 
for  him:  ho  is  the  victim  of  remorse,  with  neither  courage  nor  energy 
left  to  redeem  the  past  in  the  future;  and  he  han  found  at  last  a  miser- 
able consolation  in  th«  deliberate  resolution  to  commit  suicide.  Whtn 
his  cousin  Madeline,  who  has  loved  him  in  girlhood,  comes  to  his  sal- 
vation as  a  sister  and  an  angel  of  mercy,  with  the  rare  sensibility  of 
a  loving  woman,  she  understands  the  appeals  that  are  most  likely  to 
servo  her.    She  comes  as  a  suppliant,  and  prevails  on  him  at  leaiit  to 


FRENCH    NOVELS,    v  .  ^43 

to"^t  off  self-destruction  till  her  fntnro  is  nssiired.  It  prores  in  the  end 
that,  by  a  pious  fraud,  she  has  presented  herself  as  a  beggar  when  she 
was  really  rich.  That  she  resigns  herself  to  a  life  of  privation,  sup- 
porting herpelf  hy  the  labour  of  her  hands,  is  the  least  part  of  her 
sacrifice.  She  ha?  Btoopod  to  api^ear  selfish,  in  the  excess  of  her 
generosity.  Maurico  swears,  grumbles,  and  victimises  himself.  But 
the  weeds  that  have  been  nourishing  in  the  vitiated  soil,  die  down  one 
by  one  in  that  heavenljr  atmosj/hcre.  Idadolme's  sacrifices  have  their 
reward  in  this  world  as  in  the  other:  and  she  wins  the  hand  of  the 
cousin,  whom  she  has  loved  in  her  innermost  heart,  as  the  prize  of  her 
prayers  and  her  matchless  devotion.  Onco  only,  n.3  it  appears  to  us, 
M.  Sandeau  shows  the  cloven  foot  unconsciously  and  inconsistently. 
Maurice,  in  his  evil  self-communings,  reproaches  himself  with  living 
ofla  brother  and  a  saint  in*  the  society  of  so  young  and  charming  a 
woman.  And  to  do  him  justice,  ho  needs  a  supreme  effort  of  courage 
when  he  decides  to  aj^proach  his  cousin  with  dishonourable  proposals. 
Madeline  receives  him  in  such  a  manner,  that,  without  hor  uttering  a 
word  of  reproach,  the  offender  never  offends  again.  But  our  nature 
is  not  so  forgiving  as  hers:  and  we  think  tlio  unpleasant  scene  is  a 
blemish  on  a  work  that  otherwise  comes  very  near  to  perfection.  For 
it  is  not  on  the  story  alone  that  •  Tiladeline '  repays  perusal;  and  every 
here  and  there  we  come  upon  a  passage  that  is  as  pregnant  witn 
practical  philosophy  as  anything  in  Montaigne  or  La  Rochefoucauld. 

Charles  de  Bomardlaid  himself  out  like  Flaubert  to  seek  his  subjects 
and  characters  in  exceptional  types.  But,  unlike  FlauJ^ert,  in  place  of 
painting. m  noiVy  Bernard  loved  to  look  on  the  comic  side  of  everything; 
andhe  laughs  so  joyonclyovertheeccentricitics  of  his  kind,  thatitis  dif- 
ficult not  to  chime  into  the  chorus;  while  Prosper  Merrimee,  with  as  pro- 
lific a  fancy  as  any  one,  indulged  the  singularity  he  seemed  so  proud  of, 
by  curbing  its  clans  ostentatiously.  He  studied  austere  and  extreme  sim- 
plicity; his  style  was  as  pure  as  it  was  cold  and  self-restrained;  and  his 
mirth  has  always  the  suspicion  of  the  sneer  in  it.  He  never  displayed 
such  serene  seli-complacenc^  as  when  he  had  played  a  successful  practi- 
cal joke  in  one  of  his  inimitable  mystifications.  Like  Merimee,  with 
whom  otherwise  he  has  hardly  a  point  in  common,  Jules  Claretie,  as  we 
have  said,  has  merely  taken  to  novel-writing  among  many  kindred  pur- 
suits. He  interests  himself  in  politics,  and  writes  daily  leaders  indo- 
fatigably;  he  is  a  critic  of  all  t.astes,  who  visits  in  turn  the  theatres,  the 
art-galleries,  and  the  parlour.^  of  the  publishers.  Consequently  he 
places  himself  at  a  disadvantage  with  those  of  his  competitors  who 
concentrate  their  minds  on  the  fiction  of  the  moment,  and  live 
sleeping  and  waking  with  the  creations  of  their  brain,  till  these  be- 
come most  vivid  personalities  to  them.  Clarotie'a  works  are  ex- 
tremely clever, — in  parts  and  in  particub-r  scenes  they  are  oven  pow- 
erful; but  the  inciclents  are  wanting  in  continuity  as  the  chiirac- 
ters  ai'o  vague  in  their  outlines.  They  give  one  the  idea,  and  it  is 
probably  not  an  unjust  one,  of  a  man  who  mikes  a  dash  at  his 
brushes  when  he  finds  some  imoccupied  hours;  who  plunges  ahead  ir 


1U\  FRENCH    NOVEIA 

a  flow  of  ready  improylBatioii,  till  the  fancy  flags  for  the  time,  or  he 
is  brought  ap  hy  some  more  urgent  engagement.  When  he  retnms'to 
the  work  on  the  next  occasion,  naturally  he  has  to  re-knot  the  threads  of 
his  ideas.  What  goes  far  towards  conflrming  our  theory,  is  the  excep- 
tional freedom  from  such  faults  in  *  Le  Kenegat,*  which,  we  believe, 
was  his  lost  work  but  one.  In  '  The  Benegadc,'  Claretie  placed  himself 
on  a  terrain  where  he  knew  every  yard  of  the  ground — that  is  to  say,  he 
was  in  the  very  centre  of  those  hot  polemics  which  preceded  the  de- 
cline and  fall  of  the  Empire.  We  do  not  say  that  Michael  Berthier  was 
intended  for  a  portrait  or  for  ^a  libel.  But  such  a  type  of  the  time- 
server,  who  YifiS  tempted  to  his  fall  by  the  talents  on  which  ho  had 
hoped  to  trade,  was  by  no  means  uncommon;  and  the  siren  who 
■  seduced  him,  the  veteran  courtier  who  tickled  him,  the  purse-proud 
nouijeauxMches,  and  the  Bepublicans  made  fanatical  by  prosecutions 
and  condemnations,  were  all  figures  with  whom  the  author  had  feunil- 
iarised  himseK,  by  hearsay  if  not  by  actual  intercourse.  His  very 
scenes  may  have  been  repeatedly  acted,  with*  no  great  differences, 
under  his  eyes;  although  his  talent  must  have  remoulded  and  recast 
them  in  novel  and  more  piquant  shapes.  We  say  nothing  of  Michel 
Berthicr's  leave-taking  of  his  mistress  Lia,  and  of  the  tragic  episode 
when  the  miserable  young  woman  drags  herself  back  to  die  of  the  poi- 
son under  the  roof  of  the  man  she  had  adored.  That  scene,  although 
not  unaffocting,  savours  too  strongly  of  the  melodramatic;  and  at  best  it 
is  hanoU,  to  borrow  a  French  phrase.  But  there  is  great  power  in  the 
situation  whei^  the  saintly  Pauline,  who  will  retire  into  a  convent  to 
the  despair  of  her  father,  silences  the  pleadings  of  the  broken-hearted 
man  by  quoting  those  seductive  pictures  of  the  cloister-life  which  had 
been  written  by  his  own  too  eloquent  pen.  Yet»  though  the  situation 
is  striking,  it  has  its  weak  point;  and  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  so 
careful  a  writer  as  Flaubert  or  Daudet,  permitting  a  girl,  peifectas 
Pauline,  to  be  guilty  of  so  cold-blooded  a  piece  of  cruelty  as  the  aban^ 
donmcnt  of  a  parent  by  his  only  child  to  mourn  her  memory  while  she 
is  still  alive  to  lum. 

It  is  nearly  six  years  since  the  death  of  Emile  Gaboriau,  and  no  one 
has  succeeded  as  yet  in  imitating  him  even  tolerably,  though  ho  had 
struck  into  a  line  that  was  as  profitable  as  it  was  popular.  We  are  not 
inclined  to  ovcrmte  Gaboriau's  genius,  for  genius  ne  had  of  a  certain 
sort.  Wo  have  said  in  another  article  that  his  system  was  less  difficult 
than  it  seems,  since  he  must  have  worked  his  puzzles  out  en  revers^-^ 
putting  them  together  with  an  eye  to  pulling  tnem  to  pieces.  But  his 
origin&ty  in  his  own  genre  is  unquestionable,  though  in  the  main  con- 
ception of  his  romances  he  took  Edgar  Poo  for  his  modeL  But  Grabo- 
riau  embellished  and  improved  on  the  workmanship  of  the  morbid 
American.  The  murders  of  the  Bue  Morgue  and  the  other  stories  of  the 
sort  are  hard  and  dry  procjs-verbals,  where  the  crime  is  everything,  and 
the  people  go  for  little,  except  in  so  far  as  their  antecedents  enlighten 
*3ie  detection.  With  Gaboriau,  on  the  other  hand,  we  have  iudividu- 
,;:>.^  in  each  character,  and  animation  as  well  as  coarser  excitement  in 


FRENCH    NOVELS.  ^  745 

tlid  story.    The  dialo^e  is  livel^r,  and  always  iUustiatiye.    "PeTb&pa 
Gaboriau  has  had  but  indifferent  justice  done  to  him,  because  he  be- 
took himself  to  a  style  of  romance  which  was  supposed  to  be  the  spe- 
ciality of  police-reporters  and  penny-a-liners.  His  readers  were  inclined 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  his  criminals  were  mere  stage  villains,  and 
that  his  police  agents,  apart  from  their  infallible^lair,  were  such  puppets 
&a  one  sets  in  motion  in  a  melodrama.     The  fact   being  that  they 
are  nothing  of  the  kind.    Extreme  pains  have  been  bestowed  on 
the   more    subtle   traits  of  the  personages  by  which,  while  being 
tracked,  examined  or  tried,  they  are  compromised,  condemned  or 
acquitted.    Bead  Graboriau  carefully  as  you  will,  it  is  rarely  indeed  that 
you  find  a  flaw  in  the  meshes  of  the  intricate  nets  he  has  been  weaving. 
Or,  to  change  the  metaphor,  the  springs  of  the  complicated  action, 
packed  away  as  they  are,  the  one  within  the  other,  are  always  working 
in  marvellous  harmony  towards  the  appointed  end.    The  ingenuity 
of  some  of  his  combinations  and  suggestions  is  extraordinary;  and 
wo  believe  his'Vorks  misht  be  very  profitable  reading,  to  publio 
prosecutors  as  well  as  intelligent  detectives.    His  Maitre  Lecoq  and 
his  Pere  Tabouret  have  ideas  which  would  certainly  not  necessarily 
occur  to  the  most  ruai  practitioner  of  the  Rue  Jerusalem;  and  they 
do  not  prove  their  astuteness  by  a  single  happy  thought.    On  the  con- 
trary, the  stuff  of  their  nature  is  that  of  the  heaven-bom  detective,  who 
is  an  observer  from  temperament  rather  than  from  habit,  and  who 
draws  his  mathematical  deductions  from  a  comparison  of  the  most 
trivial  signs.    The  proof  that  Graboriau's  books  are  something  more 
than  the  vul^ar/euiZfefon  of  the  'Police  News,'  is  that  most  of  them 
wiUbcar  reading  again,  though  the  sensations  of  the  cUnouement  have 
been  anticipated.    In  roadinc  for  the  second  time,  we  read  with  a  differ- 
ent but  a  higher  interest.  ^  Thus  in  the  *  L'affaire  Lerouge,  *  for  example, 
there  is  an  admirable  mystification.  The  respectable  and  admirably  con- 
ducted Noel  Gerdy,  who  has  coolly  committed  a  brutal  murder,  plays 
the  hypocrite  systematically  to  such  perfection  that  we  can  understand 
the  famous  amateur  detective  being  his  familiar  intimate  without 
entertaining  a  suspicion  as  to  his  nature  and  habits.    The  disclosure 
having  been  made,  and  Noel  fatally  compromised,  the  circumstances 
strike  you  as  carrying  improbability  on  the  face  of  them;  so  you  read 
again  and  are  severely  critical  in  the  expectation  of  catching  M.  Gabo- 
riau  tripping.    And  we  believe,  by  the  way,  that  in  that  very  novel  we 
have  come  upon  the  only  oversight  with  which  we  can  reproach  him, 
although  it  is  not  in  the  history  of  Noel's  intimacy  with  Pere  Tabouret. 
It  is  a  missing  fragment  of  a  foil,  which  is  one  of  the  most  deadly 
pieces  de  conviaion  against  the  innocent  Viscount  de  Gommarin;  and 
the  fragment,  so  far  as  we  can  remember,  is  never  either  traced  or 
accounted  for.    But  exceptions  of  this  kind  only  prove  the  rule;  and 
when  we  think  how  the  author  has  varied  and  multiplied  the  startling 
details  in  his  criminal  plots,  we  must  admit  that  his  fertility  of  inven- 
tion is  marvellous.    The  story  of  the  'Petit  Vieux  des  BatignoUes,'  the 
last  work  he  wrote,  though  short  and  slight,  was  by  no  means  the  least 


Wv  FBENCH    NOVELS. 


s 


clever.  One  nnfortxuiate  habit  he  had,  which  may  perhaps  be  attrib- 
"uted  to  considerations  of  money.  He  almost  invariably  lengthened 
and  weakened  hia  noveh  by  some  long-winded  digresBion,  which  was 
at  least  aa  much  episodical  as  explanatory.  Yv^hen  the  interest  was 
being  driven  along  at  high-pressure  pace,  he  would  blow  off  the  steam 
all  of  a  sudden,  and  shunt  his  criminals  and  detectives  on  to  a  siding, 
while,  going  back  among  his  personages  for  perhaps  a  generation,  he 
Iclis  us  how  all  the  clroumstvinces  had  come  about. 

No  IcGs  remarkable  in  hia  way  is  Jalca  Verne;  and  the  way  of  Verne 
is  vv'onderful  indeijd.  lie  has  recast  the  modem  novel  in  the  shape  of 
*The  Tairy  Tales'  of  science,  and  combined  Bcientilic  edification  with 
the  nipvddofit  eccentricity  of  escitomcnt.  His,  it  mufjt  be  allowed,  is  a 
V  ry  peculiar  talent.  It  is  difficult  to  picture  a  man  of  most  quick  and 
lively  imagination  resigning  himself  to  elaborate  scientific  and  as- 
tronomical calculations;  cramming  up  his  facts  and  figures  from  a  li- 
brary of  abstruse  literature,  and  pausing  in  the  bursts  of  a  flowing  pen 
to  consult  the  columns  of  statistics  under  his  elbow.  Thus  these 
books  of  Verne  are  the  strangest  mixture,  upsetting  all  the  precon- 
ceived notions  of  the  novel-reader,  and  diverting  him  in  spite  of  tdmseH 
from  his  confirmed  habits.  V/e  read  novels,  as  a  rule,  to  be  amused,  and 
nothing  else.  But  Verne  not  only  undertakes  to  amuse  us,  but  to  carry 
us  up  an  ascending  scale  of  astounding  sensations.  It  hi  on  condition, 
however,  that  we  consent  to  let  ourselves  be  educated  en  subjects  we 
have  neglected  with  the  indifference  of  ignorance.  If  wo  skip  the  sci- 
entilic  disserfcitions  when  we  come  to  them,  we  break  the  continuity 
that  gives  interest  to  the  story,  and  the  ground  goes  eliding  from  be- 
neath our  feet  as  much  as  if  the  author  had  launched  us  on  one  of  his 
flights  among  the  star?.  Novv  wo  are  exjilorlng  the  rogions  of  sj^r-co 
at  a  rate  somewhere  between  that  of. sound  and  electricity;  now  we 
are  diving  into  the  caverns  of  ocean,  among  submarine  forests  and 
sea  monsters.  And,  again,  vro  are  at  a  sthndstiU  in  mazes  of  figures, 
or  j)icldng  our  steps  among  primeval  geological  formations;  and  yet, 
though  we  have  been,  as  it  were,  brought  back  to  the  lecture-room  or 
the  laboratory,  we  are  still  in  a  world  of  surprises  and  emotions,  though 
the  surprises  are  of  a  very  different  kind.  Verne,  of  course,  with  all 
his  skill,  must  abandon  the  novelist's  chief  means  of  influence.  His 
books  are  bo  far  the  reverse  of  real  as  to  be  the  very  quintessence  of 
impossible  extravagance.  We  may  bring  ourselves  to  believe,  for  a 
moment,  in  the  marvels  of  an  Aladdin's  cave;  for  wo  can  hardly  recog- 
nise a  physical  objection  to  precious  stones  bein^  magnified  to  an  in- 
definite s]zo.  Even  the  credibility  of  a  loadstone  island,  that  draws  the 
bolts  out  of  the  ship's  timbers,  may  seem  a  more  quesf.on  of  force 
and  mass.  But  the  judgment,  even  under  a  trance,  refuses  to  expand 
to  the  possibility  of  a  piece  of  ordnance,  of  nine  hundred  Fr<mch 
feet  in  length,  that  is  to  shoot  to  the  moon  a  projectile  suppoi'id  to 
deUvera  party  of  travellers.  As  a  consequence,  the  writer  sacrifices  the 
interest  of  character,  and  the  analysis  of  conceivable  passions  ani 
emotions.   A  Barbicane— an  Ardan—the  expfosive  J.  T.  Itoton  — are  in 


FEENCH    NOVELS.  747 

a  category  of  creations  far  more  fanciful  than  a  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  or  a 
Captain  JJemuel  Gulliver.  They  are  of  the  nature  of  the  giants  and 
ogres  in  the  pantomime,  who  figure  on  the  stage  with  the  columbine 
in  petticoats;  and  these  are  very  evidently  of  a  different  order  of  beings 
from  the  girt  who  performs  for  a  weekly  salary.  Verne  was  wise  in  his 
generation,  in  stiiking  out  a  line  which  has  assured  him  both  notoriety 
and  a  handsome  fortune.  It  says  much  for  his  original  talent  that  he 
has  had  a  remarkable  success;  and  though  we  fancy  he  might  have 
made  a  more  lasting  name  in  fiction,  of  a  higher  order  and  more 
enduring,  yet,  probably,  he  has  never  regretted  his  choice.  Per- 
haps the  most  popular  of  all  his  stories  is  the  *  Tour  of  the  World,' 
which  was  rational  by  comparison  to  most  of  the  others.  We  hap- 
pened to  read  it  lately  in  a  twenty-fourth  edition;  and  we  are  afraid  to 
say  for  how  many  successive  nights  the  piece  had  its  run  at  the  Porte 
St.  Martin.  But  the  idea  of  making  the  round  of  the  globe  in  eighty 
days  was  conceivably  feasible,  if  it  was  rash  to  bet  on  it.  The  in- 
cidents that  delayed  the  adventurous  traveller  might  have  happened — 
allowances  made— to  any  man;  and  each  of  the  separate  combinations 
by  which  he  surmounted  them,  goes  hardly  beyond  the  bounds  of 
belief.  The  real  weakness  of  the  story  is  in  what  seems  at  first  one  of 
its  chief  attractions.  The  self-contained  Mr.  Phileas  Fogg  is  actually 
more  improbable  than  Ardan  or  Barbicane.  The  man  who  could  keep 
his  temper  unrufiled,-  his  sleep  unbroken,  and  his  digestion  unim- 
paired, under  the  most  agitating  disappointments  and  a  perpetual 
strain,  has  nothing  of  human  nature  as  we  know  it,  and  must  have 
boasted  a  brain  and  nerves  that  were  independent  of  physical  laws. 
And  yet,  even  in  this  inhuman  conception,  Verne  shows  what  he  might 
have  been  capable  of  had  he  consented  to  work  under  more  common- 
place conditions.  For  by  his  disinterested  and  generous  Quixotry  in 
action,  Mr.  Fogg  gradually  gains  iipon  us,  till  we  think  that  Mrs.  Aouda 
was  jto  be  sincerely  congratulated  in  being  united  to  that  imperson- 
ation of  the  phlegme  Sritannique. 

Among  the  novelists  who  have  set  themselves  emulously  to  work  to 
scathe  and  satirise  the  society  of  the  Empire,  Daudet  and  Zola  take 
the  foremost  places.  Of  the  former,  we  have  nothing  to  say  here,  ex- 
cept incidentally  in  referring  to  Zola,  since  we  lately  noticed  his  novels 
at  length.  But  thcro  is  this  obvious  difference  between  the  men,  that 
Daudet  has  the  more  refined  perceptions  of  his  art.  He  does  not  afficher 
like  Zola,  amandat  imp^raft/*  from  his  conscience  to  go  about  with  the 
hook  and  the  basket  of  the  chiffonnier ;  to  turn  over  the  refuse  of  the 
slums  without  any  respect  for  our  senses ;  and  to  rn-ke  as  a  labour  of 
love  in  the  sediment  of  the  Parisian  sewerage.  Daudet's  social  pictures 
are  often  cynical  enough ;  but  he  knows  when  to  gazer;  and  he  shows 
self-restraint  in  paRsing  certain  subjects  over  in  silence.  While  Zola, 
recognising  a  mission  that  has  assuredly  never  been  inspired  from 
above^  makes  himself  the  surveyor  and  reforming  apostle  of  all  that  is 
mofit  unclean.  We  have  spoken  of  M.  Zola's  conscience,  because  he 
makes  his  conscience  his  standing  apology.    When  the  critics  mall- 


748  FRENCH   NOVELS. 

eionsly  ciust  their  mud  at  the  spotless  purity  of  his  intentions,  he  throve 
up  his  hands  in  meek  protest.  The  propnets  haye  been  stoned  in  all 
the  ages,  and  virtue  and  duty  will  always  have  their  martyrs.  His 
critics  will  insist  on  confounding  him  with  the  shameless  rou4  whose 
depravity  takes  delight  in  the  scenes  he  describes.  How  little  they 
know  the  honest  citizen,  who  is  as  regular  in  his  habits  as  in  his  hours 
of  labour !  To  our  mind,  by  no  avowal  could  he  have  condemned  him- 
self more  surely  than  by  that  apology.  We  are  half  inclined  to  forgive 
a  book  like  *Faublas,'  or  '  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,*  flung  off  with  the 
fire  of  an  ardent  temperament,  full  of  the  spirits  of  hot-blooded  youth, 
and  with  some  delicacy  of  tone  in  the  worst  of  its  indecencies.  We 
have  neither  sympathjir  nor  toleration  for  the  cold-blooded  philosopher 
who  shuts  himself  up  in  the  quiet  privacy  of  his  chamber  to  invent  the 
monstrosities  he  subsequently  dilates  upon.  He  harps  upon  the  con- 
science which  wo  do  not  believe  in.  According  to  the  most  far-fetched 
view  of  that  mission  of  his,  he  might  be  well  content  to  paint  what  he 
has  seen.  Heaven  knows  he  would  find  no  lack  of  congenial  subjects  in 
the  quarters  where  he  has  pushed  his  favourite  researches.  But  such  a 
scene  aa  he  has  selected  zor  the  climax  of  the  *  Guree '  is jieither  per- 
missible by  art  nor  admissible  in  decency.  What  we  may  say  for  it  is, 
that  it  adds  an  appropriate  finishing  touch  to  the  singularly  revolt- 
ing romance  of  the  foulest  corruption,  that  he  has  worked  out  so  indus- 
triously and  with  such  tender  care.  But  his  genius — for  he  has  genius 
— ^is  essentially  grovelling.  The  Caliban  of  contemporary  fiction  never 
puts  out  his  power  so  earnestly  as  when  he  is  inhaling  some  atmosphere 
that  would  bo  blighting  to  refinement.  His  'Assommoir,' from  the 
first  page  to  the  last,  is  repulsive  and  shocking  beyond  description; 
and  yet  there  is  a  sustained  force  in  the  book  that  makes  it  difficult  to 
fling  it  away.  But  even  the  elasticity  of  Zola's  principles  and  conscience 
can  luurdly  cover  the  pruriency  of  the  dramatic  incident  in  the  pubhc 
washing-place. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  Zola  has  in  large  measure  two  of  the  most 
indispensable  qualities  of  the  successful  novelist.  He  has  supreme 
self-confidence  and  indefatigable  industry.  We  have  understood,  as 
we  have  said  before,  that  he  devotes  the  mornings  to  his  novels,  aad 
can  count  invariably  upon  "coming  to  time!"  That  we  can  easily 
understand.  He  gives  us  the  idea  of  a  thoroughly  mechanical  mind; 
and  though  his  scenes  may  be  profoundly  or  disgustingly  sensational, 
his  style  is  sober,  not  to  say  tame.  He  lays  himself  out  to  make  his  im- 
pressions by  reproducing,  in  sharp  clear  touches,  the  pictures  that 
have  taken  perfect  shape  in  his  brain.  We  cannot  imagine  his  chang- 
ing his  preconceived  plan  in  obedience  to  a  happy  impulse;  and  he 
seldom  or  never  indulges  in  those  brilliant  flights  that  are  suggested  to 
the  fancy  in  moments  of  inspiration.  Indeed,  if  he  were  to  take  to 
lengthening  his  route*-if  he  wasted  time  by  wandering  aside  into 
footpaths,  he  would  never  arrive  at  his  journey's  end.  For  he  has  far 
to  go  if  he  is  to  reach  his  destination  before  ^time  and  powers  b^^  to 
faiL    He  shows  his  self-oonfidence  in  the  complacent  assurance  that 


FRENCH    NOVELS.  749 

tho  pti'bli5s  will  see  him  throngh  his  Btapendous  task,  and  continue  to 
buy  tho  promised  volumes  of  the  interminable  memoirs  of  the  Rougon- 
2ilacqaart  family.  Writers  like  Mr.  Anthony  TroUope  have  kept  ns  in 
the  company  of  former  acquaintances  through  several  successive  nov- 
els. There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  the  idea,  and  Mr.  Trollope  has 
been  justified  by  its  success.  You  have  been  gradually  familiarised 
with  the  creations  you  meet  with  a^ain  and  again;  and  writers  and 
readers  are  relieved  from  the  necessity  of  following  the  progress  of 
each  study  of  life  from  the  incipient  conception  to  the  finish.  But  M. 
Zola  has  improved,  or  at  least  advanced  on  that  idea  It  is  not  the 
same  people  ne  presents  to  you  again  and  again,  but  their  children, 
grandchildren,  and  descendants  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation;  so 
much  so,  that  to  his  *  Pago  d' Amour '  he  has  prefixed  the  pedigree  of 
the  Bougon-Macquarts:  and  it  was  high  time  that  he  did  something  of 
the  kind  if  we  were  not  to  get  muddled  in  his  family  complications. 
Apropos  to  that>  he  announces  that  twelve  volumes  are  to  appear  in 
addition  to  tho  eight  that  have  already  been  published.  Twenty  vol- 
umes consecrated  to  those  Rougon-Macquarts  f  Should  literary  indus- 
try go  on  multiplying  at  this  rate,  we  may  have  some  future  English 
author  "borrowing  from  the  French,"  ana  giving  himself  caHe-dtancfte 
for  inexhaustible  occupation  in  a  prospectus  of  *Tho  Fortunes  of  the 
Family  of  the  Smiths.'  The  Smiths  would  serve  for  the  exhaustive 
illustration  of  our  English  life,  as  those  Rougon-Macquarts  for  the 
ephemeral  society  of  the  Empire. 

In  one  respect  M.  Zola's  political  portraiture  seems  to  us  to  be  fairer 
than  that  of  Daudet'.  Daudet  in  his  *Nabab'  invidiously  misrepresents. 
There  is  no  possibility  of  mistaking  the  intended  identity  of  some  of 
his  leading  personages,  even  by  those  who  have  been  merely  in  front 
of  the  scenes.  Yet  he  introduces  scandalous  or  criminal  incidents  in 
their  lives  which  wo  have  every  reason  to  believe  are  purely  apocryphal. 
De  Momy  never  died  under  the  circumstances  described;  and  the  rela- 
tions and  friends  of  a  famous  English  doctor  have  still  moro  reason  for 
protesting  against  a  shameful  libel.  Zola  makes  no  masked  approaches; 
nor  do  we  suppose  that  he  panders  to  personal  enmities.  But  he  at- 
tacks the  representatives  of  the  system  he  detests  with  a  frankness  that 
is  brutal  in  the  French  senso  of  the  word.  Son  Excellence,  Eugene 
Rougon,  is  to  be  painted  en  noir  by  a  public  prosecutor.  M.  Zola's 
readers  understand  from  the  commencement  that  he  is  to  be  presented 
in  tho  most  unfavorable  light.  Ho  is  one  of  the  creatures  of  the  order 
of  tho  autocratic  revolution,  which  takes  its  instruments  where  it  finds 
them,  and  only  sees  to  their  being  serviceable.  Failtiro  is  the  one 
fault  that  cannot  bo  forgiven,  as  all  means  of  succeeding  seem  fair  to 
the  parvenu.  The  peasant-bom  adventurer  who  climbs  the  political 
ladder  is  tho  complement  of  the  autocrat  who  lends  him  a  help- 
ing hand.  His  Excellency  has  neither  delicacy,  scruples,  nor 
honour.  But  his  conscience,  like  M.  Zola's,  is  as  robust  as  his 
physigue^  and  ho  carries  the  craft  of  his  country  breeding  into, 
politics,   being  sta  much  as  ever  notre  paysan,  as   Sardou  has  put 


750  FRENCH    NOVELS. 

the  peasant  on  the  ctage.  When  ho  shows  Idndly  feeling,  or  do^  a 
liberal  act,  it  is  sure  to  have  been  prompted  by  personal  vanity;  he  is 
sensitive  to  the  reputation  he  has  made  in  his  province;  he  loves  to 
play  the  role  of  the  parvenu  patron;  and  his  passions  are  stirred  into 
seething  ferocity  when  it  is  H  question  of  being  balked  or  baffled  by  a 
rival.  Then  there  comes  in  the  by-play.  As  a  private  individual,  ns  a 
notary,  or  a  farmer  in  the  country,  Rougon  might  have  been  one  of  the 
heroes  of  Flaubert  or  Belot.  His  nature  is  brutally  sensual ;  his 
capacity  for  enjoyment  is  as  robust  as  his  constitution;  there  is  nothing 
ho  would  more  enjoy  than  playing  the  Don  Juan,  were  not  his  passions 
held  in  check  by  his  interest  and  ambition.  So  there  is  nothing  that 
does  him  any  great  injustice  in  the  incident  where  ho  shows  Clorindo 
his  favorite  horse.  Wo  do  not  suppose  that  it  is  in  any  degree  founded 
upon  fact ;  indeed,  from  internal  evidence  it  must  bo  imaginary ;  and 
yet,  if  his  Excellency  were  half  as  black  as  he  is  painted  elsewhere, 
that  touch  of  embellishment  goes  absolutely  for  nothing.  But  if  we 
ask  how  far  such  painting  is  legitimate,  we  are  brought  back  again  to 
the  point  we  started  from. 

The  •  Asaommoir,'  though  it  is  a  section  of  the  same  comprehensive 
work,  is  a  book  of  an  altogether  different  genre.  Reviewing  it  in  tho 
ordinary  way  is  altogether  out  of  tho  question;  and  there  is  much  in  it 
which  eludes  even  criticism  by  allusion.  This  at  least  one  may  say  of 
it,  that  it  is  a  remarkable  book  of  its  kind.  Tho  author  seems  not  only 
to  have-  caught  tho  secret  phraseology  of  tho  slang  of  the  lowest  order 
of  Parisians,  but  he  has  lowered  himself  to  their  corruption  of 
thought,  to  say  nothing  of  their  depraved  perversity  of  conduct.  Tho 
colouring  of  the  story  is  perfect  in  its  harmony.  Never  in  any  case 
does  the  novelist  rise  above  tho  vulgar,  even  when  tho  batter  feelings 
of  some  fallen  nature  are  stirred;  and  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  the 
depths  to  which  he  sinks  when  ho  is  groping,  as  wo  have  said,  in  the 
darkness  of  the  sewers.  He  interests  us  in  Gervaise,  that  ho  may 
steadily  disenchant  us.  In  place  of  trying  to  idealise  by  way  of  con- 
trast and  relief  the  lingering  traces, of  the  freshness  sho  brought  to 
Paris  from  tho  country,  he  demonstrates  her  descent  step^by  step, 
with  all  those  contaminations  to  which  she  is  exix)sed.  We  doubt 
not  that  the  talk  of  public  washerwomen  may  often  bo  gross  enough; 
but  how  can  we  attribute  any  of  the  finer  feelingo  to  a  woman  who  lis- 
tens to  it  indifferently,  if  she  does  not  join  it  ?  Gervaise  goes  from 
bad  to  worse  as  she  loses  hope  and  heart;  and  idle  habits  grow  upon 
her.  Finally,  she  resigns  herself  to  the  last  resource  of  a  reckless 
woman  in  desperate  extremity;  and  Zola  has  not  tho  discretion  to  drop 
a  veil  over  the  last  horrible  incidents  of  her  miserable  career.  Faith- 
ful to  his  system  in  completing  the  picture,  he  does  not  spare  us  a  single 
revolting  detail.  No  doubt  you  cannot  complain  of  being  surprised, 
for  ho  has  been  industriously  working  on  to  thig  terrible  climax.  He 
has  missed  no  opportunity  of  exciting  disgust,  he  has  neglected  no 
occasion  of  turning  everything  to  grossness;  and  you  cannot  say  you 
have  not  had  ample  warning  if  the  end  seems  somewhat  strong  to  you 


FKENCH    NOVELS.  751 

after  all.  Wo  do  not  know  what  surprises  M.  Zola  may  have  in  store  for 
us;  w&  cannot  pretend  to  gango  the  range  of  his  andaolons  invention; 
but  we  do  know  that  he  ia  one  of  the  most  popular  and  snccessful  of 
French  novelists,  and  it  is  not  want  of  sympathetio  encouragement 
that  will  cripple  him. 

BlacktJDood^s  EAwiburgh  Magazine, 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MTJSIO. 

Many  readers  who  have  neither  leisure  nor  inclination  to  master 
Schopenhauer's  scheme  of  metaphysics,  nor  German  enough  to  read 
his  non-philoRophical  works  with  case,  may  yet  like  to  know  what  the 
great  pessimist  thought  on  men  considered  as  social  and  intellectual 
beings,  on  books  and  authors,  lastly  on  music  and  art  generally;  topics 
on  wlxich  he  mused  perpetually  r.nd  had  much  to  say.  The  metaphy- 
sician was  ever  the  keen  observer  to  whom  nothing  human  was  alien. 
He  could  fibt  be  said  to-  live  in  the  world,  but  he  knew  it  as  few  prac- 
tical men  have  done,  an  1  not  only  its  outer  but  its  inner  life,  its  sBstnetio 
as  well  as  its  material  side. 

luoig^t  led  him  farther  thnn  experience  leads  the  majority,  and, 
theoretic  pessimist  pjr  exceUenjce  though  he  was,  as  a  moral  teacher  he 
has  nevertheless  eomo  valuable  lessons  to  give  us,  and  cheerful  lessons 
too.  What  indeed,  will  many  readers  ank  with  pardonable  incredulity, 
can  this  cynic  of  cynics,  this  uncompromising  misanthrope  and  unpar- 
alleled misogynist,  teach  the  rest  of  mankind?  A  little  patience,  good 
reader,  and  the  question  shall  bo  satisfactorily  answered.  It  must  first 
be  borne  in  mind  that .  Schopenhauer  does  not  profess  to  instruct  the 
great,  unthinking,  unlettered  multitude,  the  'common  horrl,*  for  whom 
he  cannot  conceal  his  contempt.  He  says,  somewhere,  *  Nature  is  in- 
tensely aristocratic  with  regard  to  the  distribution  of  intellect.  ^Tae 
demarcations  she  has  laid  down  are  far  greater  than  those  of  birth, 
rank,  wealth;  or  caste  in  any  country,  and  ia  Nature's  aristocracy,  as  in 
any  other,  we  find  a  thousand  plebeians  to  one  noble,  manymilHona  to 
one  prince,  the  far  greater  proportion  consisting  of  mere  Fobdy  caTiaiUe, 
mob.'  For  the  latter  cla.ss — from  his  point  of  view,  the  preponderating 
bulk  of  mankind— it  may  be,  excellent  citizens  and  heads  of  families, 
but  without  pretence  either  to  originality,  thought,  or  learning,  and 
dominated  by  the  commonplace,  he  entertains  a  positive  aversion.  It 
was  less  the  incapacity  of  ordinary  mortals  that  irritated  him  than  their 
love  of  talking  about  what  they  do  not  understand,  and  that  worst  of 
all  conceits,  the  conceit  of  knowledge  without  the  reality.  Stupidity 
was  Schopenhauer's  bugbear ;  mental  obtuseness,  in  his  eyes,  the  car- 
dinal sin,  the  curse  of  Adam,  the  plague  spot  in  the  intellectual  world: 
and  whenever  opportunity  arose  he  fell  to  the  attack  with  Quixotic 
fury  and  impatience.     *  Conversation  between  a  man  of  genius  and  a 


1 


752  SCHOPi:NHAXIER  ON  lilEN,  BOOKS,  AOT)  MUSIC. 

nonentity/  he  Bays  somewhere,  'is  like  the  casual  meeting  cf  two  tra« 
vellexB  going  the  same  way,  the  first  monnted  on  a  spirited  steed,  the 
other  on  foot.    Both  will  Bobn  get  heartily  tired  of  each  other,  and  be 
glad  to  part  company.' 
EqoaUy  good  is  the  following  psychological  reflection: 

* 

The  seal  of  commonTiess,  the  stamp  of  Ttilj^arity  -vrrittcnnpon  the  gn^eater  nmnber  of 
ph\  siopnoinies  >ve  meet  with,  U  chiefly  acconnteu  for  in  the  lact  of  the  entire  subjection 
of  tljo  intellect  to  the  will;  consequeutly  the  iiiipussibility  of  jr rasping  thinpa  except  in 
their  rolation  to  the  individuttl  self.  It  w  quite  the  coiitraiy  with  the  expression  of 
men  of  peniua  or  richly  endowed  notnrcs,  and  herein  consist's  tho  family  Hkeness  i»f 
tlie  Intler  thronirhout  tliO  world.  Wo  tfee  wiitien  on  their  faces  tlie  emancipation  of 
tho  intellect  from  the  will,  the  supremacy  of  mind  oyer  volition;  henco  tin*  lofty  bwnr, 
the  clear  contemplati%'C  glance,  the  occasional  h)ok  of  supernatural  joyousness  we 
liud  there  i»i  perfect  keeping  with  the  ]>cn8iTenc8S  of  the  other  features,  notably  tho 
inouth.  This  relation  is  linety  indicuteil  ia  tho  sayiM<r  of  Giordano  Bmuj*  */n  trU- 
Htid,  hilarin',  in  hiUtntcUey  tristU.' 

Here  he  brings  his  sledge-hammer  npon  the  dunderheads  withont 
mercy: 

Brainless  pates  are  the  rule,  fairly-furnished  ones  the  exception,  the  brilliantly-en- 
dowed very  rare,  gtMiius  n  portenttim:  How  otherwise  conid  wo  nect>ant  for  tho  fact 
that  iMitofupwards  of  hO»  milUons  of  existing  human  beings,  and  fttt**r  tlio  chronicled 
experioMces  of  »<ix  tiiousand  yam's,  so  much  "should  still  remain  to  discover,  to  think 
ouD  aud  to  be  said  J 

True  enough,  it  required  a  Pascal  to  invent  a  wheelbarrow,  and 
doubtless  we  must  wait  for  another  before  discovering  the  cure  for  a 
smoking  chimney  and  other  everyday  nuisances.  But  Schopenhauer 
does  not  content  himself  with  scotirging  stupidity;  he  goes  to  the  bot< 
torn  of  the  matter,  and  at  the  risk  of  touching  metaphysical  ground, 
wo  extract  the  following  elucidation  of  an  everyday  mystery.  Who 
has  not  gazed  with  pu^edom  on  the  initial  letters,  names,  and  even 
mottoes  cut  upon  ancient  public  monuments  in  all  countries,  &om  tho 
pyramids  of  Egypt  to  the  monoliths  of  Camac;  from  the  crumbling 
walls  of  the  Dionysiac  theatre  at  Athens  to  the  tombs  in  the  Cam^ 
pagna?  Nothing  is  too  solemn  or  too  sacred  for  these  incorrigible 
scratchers  or  scribblers,  who  seem  indeed  to  have  made  the  jonmey  to 
the  uttermost  ends  of  the  world  for  the  sake  of  carving  John  Smith  oi 
Tom  Brown  on  some  conspicuoiis  relic  of  former  ages.  As  far  asw6 
know,  Schopenhauer  is  the  first  to  explain  this  mischieyons  and 
absurd  habit  of  the  tourists  whose  name  is  Legion: 

By  far  tho  greater  part  of  hnmanity  (he  says)  are  wholly  inaceesdble  to  purely  inteOeo* 
tnal  enjoyments.  They  are  quite  incapable  of  the  delight  that  enstsin  itlens  as  «ieh ; 
everything  standing  in  a  certain  relation  to  their  own  individual  will— in  other  words,  to 
themselves  and  their  own  alfairs — in  order  to  interest  them,  it  is  necessary  that  their 
wills  sliould  be  acted  upon,  no  matter  in  how  remote  a  degree.  A  naivo  illuBtrution 
of  this  can  be  seen  in  everyday  trifles ;  witness  the  habit  of  carving  names  iu  cele- 
brated places.  This  is  done  iu  order  that  tho  individual  may  in  the  faintest  possible 
manner  iuflocnoe  or  act  upon  the  place,  since  he  is  by  it  not  iofluenoed  oraeted  npoa 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MUSIC.         75* 

To  nnderstand  Schopenhauer's  classification  of  mankind,  vre  should 
master  his  metaphysical  scheme;  bat  for  our  present  purpose,  the  fol- 
lowing ezplination  will  suffice :— The  world  of  dunderheads— the 
stupid,  the  ignorant,  and  the  self-sufficient— ore,  according  to  his 
theory,  to  be  distinguished  from  the  intellectual,  the  gifted,  the  high- 
Bouled,  and  the  noble-minded,  in  the  subjectivity  of  their  intellect — in 
other  words,  the  subjection  of  intellect  to  will ;  whilst  with  the  choice 
spirits,  the  flower  and  ^lite  of  mankind,  the  reverse  is  the  case;  and  this 
dbjectixkty,  or  emancipation  from  the  will,  enables  them  to  live  outside 
the  restricted  little  world  of  self;  and  instead  of  being  interested  in 
things  only^  they  immediately  affect  their  own  wills,  i.  e.  interests, 
feelings,  and  passions,  they  are  interested  in  the  larger,  wider  life  of 
thought  and  humanity.  *  Every  man  of  genius,*  he  says  somewhere, 
'regards  the  world  with  purely  objective  interest,  indeed  as  a  foreign 
country:*  and  in  another  passage,  following  out  the  same  line  of  thought, 
he  gives  an  apt  simile  by  way  of  illustrating  his  theories  : 

Tho  OToraire  individnal  [Normal  Mensch)  is  engrossed  in  the  vortex  nnd  turmoil  of 
existence,  to  which  he  is  bound  liuiul  and  foot  by  liis  irill.  Tlio  objects  and  circum- 
HtnnceH  of  daily  lite  are  over  pi'eseiit  to  him,  \»\t  of  such  tnKen  objectively  ho  has  not 
the  faintest  conception.  Hois  like  the  merchniits  on  tiie  Bourse  at  Amsterdam,  who 
take  i:i  every  word  of  whnt  their  interlocutor  says,  but  are  wholly  inseusibio  to  the 
surging  uoiso  of  the  multitude  ui-ound  them. 

Cy];iical  although  this  may  sound,  no  one  can  write  more  genially 
than  Schopenhauer  when  on  his  favorite  theme  of  genius.  K  he  casti- 
gates his  arch-enemy — the  Normcd  Mensch^  nonentity,  dunderhead,  fool, 
as  the  case  may  be— he  glows  with  poetic  ardour  and  descants  with 
appropriate  warmth  on  the  Oerdakr^  which  word  we  may  take  to  mean 
the  man  of  genius  as  well  as  the  gifted,  the  intellectually  genial,  the 
uncommon  as  compared  with  the  commonplace  in  humanity.  It  was 
not  only  that  Schopenhauer  realised  the  worth  and  value  of  genius  and 
rare  mental  endowments  to  the  world  at  large,  but  he  comprehended 
what  those  precious  gifts  are  to  the  individual  himself.  He  understood 
that  inscrutable  felicity,  that  happiness  past  finding  out,  neither  to  be 
bestowed  nor  acquired,  which  is  based  on  intellectual  supremacy,  a 
high  spirit,  a  noble,  unworldly  nature.  Characters  of  the  loftiest  type 
had  inexhaustible  fascinations  for  him;  it  was  the  wine  with  which  he 
loved  to  intoxicate  himself;  the  ambrosia  on  which  he  fed  like  an  epi- 
cure. He  never  wearies  of  descanting  upon  the  nature  of  that  true  joy 
which,  to  use  the  words  of  Seneca,  is  a  serious  thing:  *  The  joy  bom  of 
thought  and  intellectual  beauty.*  Would  that  spacepermitted  a  trans- 
lation of  his  entire  chapter  entitled  *  Von  Dem,  wasEiner  ist,'  Parerga, 
vol.  i.;  for  this,  if  nothing  else,  would  put  Schopenhauer  before  us  in 
the  light  of  a  moral  teacher,  inculcating  the  superiority  of  spiritual, 
moraC  and  intellectual  truth,  over  material  good  and  worldly  well- 
being.  '  Happiness  depends  on  what  we  are — on  our  individuality. 
For  only  that  which  a  man  has  in  himself,  which  ho  carries  with  him 
into  sohtude,  which  none  ccm  give  or  tokQ  away,  is  intriasically  hi?  ' 
and  elsewhere  he  says: 


75*        SCHOPENHAUER  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MUSIC. 

As  an  animal  remains  perforce  shut  np  in  the  nan*ow  circle  to  whioli  Xaf  nre  has 
condemned  it,  o'lr  endeavours  to  make  our  domestic  pets  happy  being:  limited  by^their 
capacities,  so  is  it  AA-ith  human  being^s.  The  cliaructer  or  Individuality  of  each  is  the 
measure  of  his  possible  happiness,  meted  out  to  him  beforenand.  natural  capacities 
having  for  once  and  for  all  set  bounds  to  his  iiitellectual  eiij«»yracnt8 :  are  these  capa- 
cities narrow,  then  no  oudeavours  or  influences  from  without,  nothmg'  that  men  or 
joys  can  d  )  for  him,  suttice  to  lead  an  iudividuul  beyond  the  measure  of  the  tommon- 
pr«co,  and  he  is  tiii"oun  back  upon  mere  material  enjoyments,  domestic  life,  sad  or 
cheerful  as  the  case  may  be.  meun  companionship  and  vulgar  pastime,  culture  being 
able  to  do  little  in  widening  the  circle.  Tor  the  highest,  tlio  most  varied,  the  most 
lasting  enjoy  menti*  are  those  of  the  intellect,  no  matter  how  greatly  in  youth  we  may 
deceive  ourselves  as  to  the  fact.  Hence  it  becomes  clear  now  much  our  happinc-^a 
depends  on  what  wo  are,  wliile  for  the  most  part  fate  orchauco  briug  into  competitioa 
ouly  what  we  have,  or  what  we  appear  to  be. 

Not  in  this  passage  only,  but  in  a  dozen  others,  Schopenhauer  has 
contrasted  the  existence  of  the  worldling,  the  devotee  of  business  or 
pleasure,  the  materialist,  or  the  empty-pated,  living,  intellectually 
speaking,  from  hand  to  mouth,  with  that  of  the  thinker,  the  student 
the  man  of  wide  culture  and  many-sided  knowledge  and  aspiration. 
'  Tliere  is  no  felicity  on  earth  like  that  which  a  beautiful  and  fruitful 
mind" finds  at  its  happiest  moments  in  itself^'  he  writes;  and  this  con- 
sideration leads  him  to  some  rather  uncharitable  remarks  upon  society, 
BO  called,  and  its  unsatisfactoriness  in  so  far  as  the  GenioUcr,  intellec- 
tual or  genial-minded,  arc  concerned  : 

The  moi-c  a  man  hns  in  himself,  the  less  he  needs  of  others,  and  the  less  ther  can 
teach  hitu.  This  supremacy  or  intelligeuoe  leads  to  unsocitibleuess.  Ay;  coa£d  the 
qunlity  of  society'  be  compensated  by  quantity,  it  might  bo  worth  while  to  Uve  in  the 
wurkl  t  Unfortunately,  we  find,  on  thu  contrary,  :i  hundred  fools  in  the  crowd  to  one 
m.'iu  of  understanding!  The  brainles-*.  on  the  other  hHiul.  will  seek  companionship 
and  pMStimo  at  any  price.  For  in  solitude,  when  all  of  us  are  thrown  ujkju  our  own 
resources,  what  he  has  in  himself  will  be  made  manifest.  Tlicn  sighs  the  empty-pated, 
in  his  purple  and  lino  liuea.  uuder  the  burden  of  his  wretched  Kgo,  whilst  the  man 
rich  in  mcutMl  endowments  fills  and  animates  the  dreariest  solitude  with  hia  own 
thoughts.  Accordingly  we  find  that  everyone  is  sociable  and  craves  society  in  pro 
portion  as  he  is  intellectually  poor  and  ordinary.  If  or  we  have  hardly  a  choice  in  the 
social  woiid  between  solitude  and  commouplaceuess. 

So  much  for  Schopenhauer's  classification  of  mankind,  since  in  sub- 
stance it  amounts  to  this.  Wise  men  and  fools,  thinkers  and  empty- 
pates,  illuminating  spirits  and  bores  —he  is  never  tired  of  drawing  the 
distinction  between  them,  und  ringing  the  changes  on  their  respective 
merits  and  demerits.  Bitter,  cynical,  sarcastic  as  ho  is,  his  strictures 
are  for  the  most  part  true,  and  if  boredom  or  stupidity,  like  other 
human  infirmities,  admit  of  alleviation,  Schopenhauer  shows  the  way. 
All  that  he  has  to. say  on  education,  the  cultivation  of  good  habits  m 
youth,  the  proper  subjection  of  the  passions  to  reason,  is  admirable. 
He,  as  usual,  goes  to  the  root  of  the  matter,  and  begins  with  trying  to 
hammer  into  the  understandings  of  his  countrypeople  those  elemen- 
tary notions  of  hygiene  and  physical  txaiuing  we  find  so  wanting 
among  them : 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MUSIC.         755' 

As  we  ought  above  nil  things  to  cultivate  the  habit  of  cheorfnlnoss,  nnd  ns  nothing^ 
ress  affects  it  than  AvetUth.  and  nothing  more  so  than  bodily  )iealih.  wc  shoald  8trive 
afterjthe  highest  iK>ssible  degreo  of  health,  by  means  of  temperance  and  minleration, 
phy'sibkras  well  ns  mental ;  two  hours'  brisk  movement  in  the  open  air  duily  [Heavens  I 
what  do  German  professors  say  to  ^/lat/  and  the  next  ))resi-nption  also  must  alarm 
them  still  more],  and  the  IVce  use  of  cold  water,  also  dietary  rules. 

All  who  are  familiar  with  German  domestic  life  know  how,  even  in 
the  best  educated  classes,  snch  things  are  still  neglected,  to  the  great 
detriment  of  health,  sedentary  habits  especially  being  carried  to  a 
pitch  wluch  appears  to  ourselves  incredible.  When  Schopenhauer 
reprimands  his  countrymen  severely  upon  their  want  of  common  sense 
in  these  matters,  we  feel  the  strictures  to  be  deserved,  nnd  must  re- 
member that  he  wrote  thirty  years  ago;  his  voice  being  among  the  first, 
if  not  the  very  first,  raised  in  Germauy  on  behalf  of  soap  and  water, 
and  es^ercise.  In  a  sentence  he  happily  enunciates  the  primary  princi- 
ples of  education,  not  considered  as  tnerely  a  system  of  instruction, 
but  in  the  comprehensive  sense  of  t^e  word : 

Above  all  tWngs,  children  should  learn  to  know  life  in  its  various  relations,  from 
tho  origintU,  not  a  copy.  Instead  of  makinf^  haste  to  put  books  in  their  hands,  we 
Bhouid  tea-eh  them  by  degrees  the  nature  of  things  and  the  relation  in  wliich  human 
beings  stand  to  each  other. 

From  education  we  pass  to  the  subject  of  culture,  so  called;  in  other 
words,  that  self-education  which  men  and  women  pursue  for  them- 
selves throughout  the  various  stages  of  their  existence.  We  find  such 
a  process  going  on  in  all  classes.  Some  people  have  one  way  of  in- 
structing themselves,  some  another,  but  we  may  fairly  take  it  for 
granted  that  books  are  or  profess  to  be  the  principal  instructors  of 
adnlt  humanity.  Seeing  the  enormous  numbers  of  worthless  books 
published,  and  the  vast  amount  of  time  squandered  upon  their  peru- 
sal, wo  cannot  honestly  deny  the  following  assertions: 

It.  is  the  case  with  literature  ns  with  life:  wherever  we  turn  we  come  upon  the 
incorrigible  mob  of  humankind,  whose  name  is  Legion,  swarming  everywhere,  dama- 
ging everything,  as  flies  in  summer.  Hence  the  multiplicity  of  bad  books,  thcnse  exu- 
berant weeds  of  literature  which  choke  the  true  corn.  Such  books  rob  tlie  public  of 
time,  money,  and  attention,  which  ought  properly  to  belong  to  good  literature  and 
noble  tims,  and  they  are  written  with  a  view  merely  to  make  money  or  oecupation. 
They  are  therefore  not  merely  useless,  but  injurious.  Nine-tenths  ot  our  cnrrent  lit- 
erature has  no  other  end  but  to  inveigle  a  thaler  or  two  out  of  the  public  pocket,  for 
which  purpose  author,  publisher,  und  printer  are  leagued  together.  A  more  per- 
nicious, subtler,  and  boltfer  piece  of  trickery  is  that  by  which  ponny-a-lihcis  (Brod* 
Bchreiber ,  and  scribblers  succeed  in  destroying  goo(l  taste  and  reul  culture.  .  .  . 
Hoiice,  the  paramount  importance  of  acquiring  the  art  not  to  read  ;  ii.  other  words, 
of  not  reading  snch  books  as  occipv  the  public  mini,  or  even  those  which  make  a 
noise  in  the  world,  nnd  reach  several  editions  in  tht-tr  first  nnd  last  years  of  existence. 
AVc  should  recollect  that  he  who  writes  for  fools  finds  an  enormous  audience,  and  we 
shoidd  devote  the  tver  scant  leisure  of  our  circumscribid  existence  to  the  master 
bpirits  of  aH  ages  and  i.atioiis,  th«>s»-  who  tower  over  humanity,  and  whom  the  voice 
or  Fame  proclaims :  only  such  writers  cultivate  and  Inst  met  ns.  Of  bad  books  we  can 
)icvei  read  too  little :  oi  tlio  good,  never  too  much.  The  bad  are  intellectual  poi.son 
«nd  undermine  the  understanding.  Because  people  insist  on  reading  not  the  beat 
books  written  for  all  time,  but  the  newest  contemporary  literature,  writers  of  the  di»- 


756         SCHOPENHAUER  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MUSIC. 

>  Teraain  in  the  narrow  circle  of  the  samo  perpetoallj  reyolying  ideas,  and  the  age  c^o- 
tiuues  to  WrJlow  in  its  own  mire. 

This  is  severe,  but  who,  in  these'  days  of  book-makiiig  and  inordi- 
nate reading  of  the  emptiest  kind,  wiU  affirm  that  the  philosopher's 
strictures  are  unmerited  ?  Schopenhauer  knew  what  literature  is,  and 
had  nurtured  his  intellect  on  the  choicest,  not  only  of  his  own  country 
but  of  others;  and  he  could  not  brook  the  craving  for  bad  books  and 
the  indifference  to  works  of  genius  that  he  saw  around  him.  It  was 
not,  however,  the  smatterer,  but  the  bookworm  and  the  pedant  he  had 
in  his  mind  when  penning  the  sentence  : 

Mere  acquired  knowledjjD  belongs  to  us  only  like  n  wooden  leg  and  a  wax  nose. 
Knowledge  attained  by  means  of  thinking  resembles  our  natoral  limbs,  and  is  the 
only  kind  that  really  belongs  to  us.  Ucncu  the  difference  between  the  linker  snd 
tlio  pedant.  The  intellectual  possession  uf  the  independent  thinker  is  like  a  l)cautifiil 
picture  which  stands  before  us,  a  livinjr  thing  with  litting  light  and  shadow,  Bnstained 
tones,  perfect  liai*raony  of  colour.  That  of  the  merely  learned  man  may  bo  compared 
to  a  palette  covered  with  bnjB:bt  coloura,  perhaps  even  arranged  with  some  system, 
but  wanting  in  harmouy,  coherence  and  meaning. 

Feelingly  and  beautifully  he  writes  elsewhere  about  books  : 

"We  find  in  the  greater  number  of  works,  leaving  out  the  very  bad,  that  their  authfMrs 
have  thought,  not  seen —written  fi*om  reflection,  not  intuition.  And  this  is  why  books 
are  so  uniformly  mediocre  and  wearisome.  For  what  an  anthor  has  thought,  the 
reader  can  think  for  himself;  but  when  his  thought  is  based  oninttution.  it  is  as  if  ho 
takes  us  into  a  laud  wo  have  not  ourselves  visited.  All  is  fresh  and  new.  .  .  . 
"We  discover  the  quality  of  a  writer's  thinking  powers  after  reading  a  few  pages. 
Before  learning  Avhnt  he  thinks,  we  see  how  lie  thinks— namely,  the  textnro  of  hia 
thoughts  ;  and  this  remains  the  same,  no  matter  the  subject  in  hand.  The  stylo  is  the 
stamp  of  individual  intellect,  as  langmige  is  the  stamp  of  race.  We  throw  away  a 
book  when  we  find  ourselves  in  a  darker  mentnl  region  than  the  one  we  have  jtist 
quitted.  OiUy  those  writers  profit  us  whoso  understanding  is  quicker,  more  lucid  than 
our  own,  by  whoso  brain  we  indeed  think  for  a  time,  who  quicken  oar  thonghta,  and 
lead.us  whither  alone  wo  could  not  find  our  way. 

In  the  same  strain  is  the  following  extract  from  his  great  work.  Die 
WeUals  WiUe  und  Vorsteliung: 

It  is  dan^rous  to  read  of  a  subject  before  first  thinking  about  it.  Thereby  arises 
the  wont  ot  originality  in  so  many  reading  people ;  for  they  only  dwell  on  a  topic  so 
long  as  tho  book  treating  of  it  remains  in  their  hands — in  other  words,  thny  think  br 
means  of  other  people's  brains  instead  of  their  own.  Tho  book  laid  aside,  they  take 
up  any  other  mjitters  with  just  the  same  lively  interest,  such  as  personal  affairs, 
cards,  gos^sip,  the  play,  &c.  To  those  who  read  for  tho  attainment  of  knowledge, 
books  and  study  are  mere  steps  of  a  ladder  leading  ta  the  summit  of  knowledge-— oa 
soon  OS  they  have  lifted  their  leot  from  ono  stop,  they  quit  it,  monnting  higher.  The 
masses,  on  the  contrary,  who  read  or  study  in  order  to  occupy  their  time  and  thonghtsi, 
do  not  use  tho  ladder  to  get  up  by,  but  burden  themselves  with  jt^  rc^oioing  over  the 
weight  of  the  load.    They  carry  what  should  carry  them. 

Upon  books  in  the  abstract  Schopenhauer  has  much  that  is  8ug|^est- 
ive  to  tell  us,  and  here  also  we  must  perforce  content  ourselves  with  a 
few  golden  grains  from  the  garnered  stores  before  us. 

He  was  a  stupendous  reader ;  and  ho  read  not  only  thd  m&BterpieceB 


SCHOPENHAOTIR  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MUSIC.         757 

of  his  own  age  and  country,  but  of  most  others.  Oriental  literature, 
the  classics  of  Greece  and  Borne,  the  great  English,  Spanish,  Italian, 
and  French  authors,  were  equally  familiar  to  him.  We  cannot  recall  a 
literary  masterpiece  he  had  not  studied;  and  the  more  he  read,  the 
more  eclectic  he  became.  As  a  critic,  he  Ib  as  original  as  he  is  suggest- 
ive, whether  one  can  always  agree  or  not.     Take  the  following: 

To  raj  thinking,  there  is  not  a  single  noble  character  to  bo  fonnd  thronghont 
Somer,  though  many  worthy  and  estimable.  In  Shakcspcuru  is  to  be  fonnd  one  pair 
of  noble  characters— yet  not  so  in  a  suprenie  degree — Cordelia  ninl  C(»riolaima,  liardiv 
any  more  ;  the  rest  are  made  of  the  same  stuff  us  Homer's  folk.  Put  all  Goethe's 
Works  together,  iind  you  cannot  find  a  single  iustance  of  the  magnanimity  portrayed 
in.  Schiller's  Marquis  Posa. 

And  these  remarks  on  history: 

He  who  has  roaxl  Herodotus  will  have  road  quite  enough  history  for  all  practical 
pnri)08e8.  Everything  i.-*  here  of  which  the  world's  after-history  is  composed— the 
BtriTing,  doing,  sutfering.  and  fate  of  humanity,  as  brought  about  by  the  attributes 
and  physical  conditions  Herodotus  describes. 

But  he  would  not  discourage  the  student  of  history: 

"What  underatanding  is  to  the  individual,  history  is  to  tho  human  race.  Eveir  gap 
in  history  is  like  a  gap  in  the  memory  of  n  human  being.  In  this  sense,  it  is  to  l>o  re* 
garded  as  tho  understanding  and  conscious  reason  oi  mankind,  and  represents  the 
uircct  Belf-con8ciousness  of  the  whole  human  race.  Only  thus  can  humanity  bo  taken 
as  a  whole,  and  herein  consists  the  true  work  of  this  study  and  its  general  overpower- 
ing interest.    It  is  a  personal  matter  of  all  mankind. 

His  running  commentaries  on  some  of  the  literaij  chefs'd^oefavre  of 
various  epochs  are  acute  and  ardently  sympathetic  pieces  of  criticism. 
He  was,  as  is  well  known,  a  great,  if  somewhat  theoretical,  admirer  of 
England  and  anything  Engfish,  and  had  a  positive  passion  for  some 
of  our  writers — ^Byron,  for  one.  The  reader  may  find  abundant  criti- 
cism, with  frequent  citations  from  many  authOTS,  in  Die  Wdt  als  WiUe 
und  Vorstdlungt  and  these  may  be  enjoyed  without  plunging  ourselyes 
into  the  guK  of  metaphysics. 

"We  must  add  that  he  writes  always  in  a  lucid  manner.  Schopen- 
hauer was  indeed  a  German  who  knew  what  style  meant,  and  this 
might  have  formed  his  epitaph  had  he  permitted  any:  'I  will  have 
nothing  written  on  my  tomb,'  he  said,  '  except  the  name  of  Arthur 
Schopenhauer.  The  world  will  soon  find  out  who  he  was ' — a  prediction 
which  indeed  came  true.  Doubtless  the  limpid,  clear-flowing  style  of 
his  prose  has  no  little  contributed  to  the  popularisation  of  his  works. 
However  weighed  down  with  metaphysics,  his  writings  are  generally 
so  transparent  in  expression,  and  so  clear  in  conception,  as  to  form  de- 
lightful reading — the  maliciousness  adding  piquancy  here  and  there. 

But  it  is  on  the  subject  of  nature  and  art  generally,  above  all,  his 
darling  theme  of  music,  that  we  find  him  at  his  best  and  happiest. 

The  sneer  has  now  vanished  from  his  lips,  and  instead  of  gall  and 
wormwood  we  have  honeyed  utterances  only.  Whilst  none  could 
more  pungently  satirise  the  things  he  hated,  none  could  more  poetic- 
ally extol  the  things  he  loved — witness  his  chapters,  on  music,  art, 


758    '    SCHOPENHAUEE  ON  MEN,  BOOKS.  AND  LTCSIC. 

ftnd  nature.  Of  course,  only  scientific  musicians,  and  perhaps  also 
musicians  wedded  to  the  music  of  the  futuro,  can  fully  appreciate  his 
theories;  but  all  who  care  for  music  at  all,  and  understand  what  it 
means  in  the  faintest  degree,  will  read  with  delight  each  passages  as 
these: 

ITow  sip-nificant  nnd  fnll  of  raeaninpf  is  tlio  lanpnnpo  of  mnsic !  TalxO  the  Da  Cnpo, 
for  instance,  Avhieh  would  bo  intolorablu  in  literary  nnd  other  compositiuns,  yet  hero 
is  judicious  nnd  welcome,  since  in  order  to  prjisp  tlic  melody  wo  must  lieiir  it  twjco. 

Tho  unspeakable  fervour  or  inwardness  (innige)  of  all  mnsio  by  virtue  of  which  it 
brings  beloro  us  so  near  and  yet  bo  remote  a  piiru<lisc,  arises  from  the  quickcuiugof 
our  innermost  nature  that  it  produces,  always  without  its  reality  or  tumiut. 

Music,  indeed,  is  bound  up  with  Schopenhauer's  metaphysical  theo- 
ries; and  rather  than  miss  one  of  the  most  exquisite  passages  on  this 
subject  in  his  opus  magnum^  wo  for  onco  graze  lightly  on  metaphysical 
ground.     Tho  following  requires  to  be  Gj,rafully  thought  over: 

TI»o  nature  of  man  is  so  constituted  that  his  M'ill  is  perpettially  strivinff  and  per- 
petually beinp:  patistied — striving?  anew,  and  so  on,  ad  inf.,  his  only.  happin<'&s  con- 
8i8tin{:^*in  the  transition  from  wish  to  lultilment  ami  from  fidfilmont  to  wish:  all  else  is 
miTo  ennui. 

Correspondinfr  to  this  is  tho  nature  of  melody,  which  i?  a  constant  swerving' and 
wandering  from  tho  key-uoto,  not  only  by  inoans  of  i»erlpct  harmonies,  such  as  tho 
tliinl  and  dominant,  but  in  a  thousand  wayy  and  hy  every  possible  coinbiuHtii>n,  nlnnys 
ptM'foieo  returnintr  to  the  key-not.^  nt  list.  Herein,  melody  expresses  the  mnltifonu 
strivinti:  of  the  will,  its  fulfilment  by  vnrious  hnrmonies.  an>l  finally,  iti  ]»prfecc»atLs- 
faetioji"  in  the  key-note.  Tho  invention  of  melody— in  t»ther  words,  the  nnveiliutf 
thereby  <»f  tho  deepest  secrets  ot  hiiinun  will  and  emotion— is  tho  pchi 'vemont  of 
jzrenius' farthest  removed  from  all  reflective  and  conscious  deKia;n.  I  will  cany  my 
an  ilof^y  further.  As  tlie  rapid  transition  of  wjfsh  to  fulfilment  ahd  fnmi  luHilmcitt  to 
wish  U  hHppinoss  nnd  contentmenr.  so  quick  melodies  with<mt  f?reat  deviations 
from  thi  key-note  arej)rous,  whilst  hIow  meiolies,  only  roaclang- th'j  key-note  after 
pi  liuiul  dissonances  and  tVcc^uent  chang^es  of  time,  arv3  sad.  Tho  rapid.  Uerhtly- 
^r.isi)f?tl  piirases  of  dance-music  seem  to  sp^ak  of  ensdy  reached,  everyday  h:'i>pi- 
ri'iss  :  the  aiUjro  jnaeHoifo.  iv\  the  contrary,  with  ilsslow  periods,  long  movem'onti  m-.d 
wide  deviiitions.  besj[)eak8  a  noble,  mairnanim<m:i  ttrivinj?  after  a  far-off  poal.  iho 
fuliilmeut  of  which  is  eternal.  The  rtda/jr to  proelfiims  the  Miiferint^f  of  lofty  endeavours, 
holdini^  p3tty  or  common  joys  in  contempt.  How  wonderful  is  the  effect  of  iijimxr  and 
major!  how  astoundiui,''  thit  thi  alteration  of  a  soinitono  and  tho  exehm-xo  fr.wn  u 
major  to  a  mintu*  third  sliould  immediately  and  invariably  awaken  a  pensive,  wistful 
mo.  id  from  wliioh  tho  major  at  once  releases  us  !  Tho  adagio  iu  u. minor  key  expresses 
the  deepest  sadness,  losing  itaclf  in  a  pathetic  lament. 

Sach  brief  citations  nuffice  to  show  us  m  what  light  Schopen!i3ner 
regarded  music,  but  all  who  wish  to  master  his  theories  on  tbo  ruI> 
ject  must  turn  to  his  works  themselves,  wherein  they  will  find,  en  our 
S'rench  neighbors  say,  d.  quoi  boire  et  ct  quoi  manger :  in  other  words,  in- 
tellectual sustenance,  equally  light,  palatable,  and  nourishing,  to  be 
returned  to  again  and  again  with  unflagging  appetite.  The  world  of 
art,  like  tho  world  of  thought  and  philosophy,  was  more  real  nnd  vital 
to  him  than  that  of  daily  life  and  common  circumstances;  and  how  ho 
regarded  a  musical  composition,  a  picture,  a  book,  or  any  true  work  of 
art,  the  following  happy  similes  will  testify: 

The  creations  of  poets,  sculptors,  and  artists  generally  contain  treasures  of  deepest 
recognisable  wisdom,  siuoo  in  these  is  proclaimed  the  innermost  nature  of   things. 


SCHOEEaiHAUEB  ON  MEN,  BOOKS,  AND  MUSIC.        769 

whose  inteipreterB  and  illustrators  they  are.  ETcrv  ouo  wbo  reads  a  poem  oi*  looks  at 
a  work  of  art  must  seek  fur  such  wisdom,  und  each  uaturally  grasps  it  in  proportion 
to  his  intelligence  and  culture,  as  a  skipper  drops  his  plummet  lilic  Just  ivd  far  uh  the 
leii^h  of  his  rope  allows.  We  should  stand  before  a  i>ioture  as  before  a  sovereign, 
waitii^g  to  see  if  it  has  something  to  tell  us  and  what  it  may  be,  and  uo  more  speak 
to  the  one  than  to  the  other — else  we  only  express  ourselves. 

This  last  sentence  shows  Schopenhauer's  intensity  of  artistic?  feeling, 
nor  mufit  it  be  for  a  moment  supposed  that  ho  was  insensible  to  nature. 
In  his  last  lonely  years  at  Frankl'urt,  and  indeed  throughout  his  life, 
long  country  rambles  were  his  daily  recreations,  the  wholesome  rule  of 
*  two  hours'  brisk  movement  in  the  open  air,'  which  he  laid  down  for 
his  country  people,  not  being  neglected  by  himself.  Many  of  us  know 
Franklurt  pretty  well,  and  can  picture  to  oureelves  exactly  the  kind  of 
suburban  spot  which  might  have  suggested  this  thought  to  the  grea4; 
pessimist: 

How  PBsthetic.is  Nature !  Every  corner  of  the  world,  no  matter  how  insignificant, 
adorns  itself  in  the  tastefullest  manner  wlien  left  alone,  proclaiming  by  natural  grace 
and  harmonioQs  grouping  <»f  leaves,  flowers  and  garlanas.that  Nature,  and  not  the 
great  egotist  man,  has  here  had  her  way.  Neglected  spots  straightway  become 
beuutifid. 

And  then  he  goes  on  to  compare  the  English  and  French  garden, 
with  a  compMment  to  the  former,  which  unfortunately  it  has  ceased  to 
deserve.  The  straggling  old-fashioned  English  garden  Schopenhauer 
admired  so  much  is  now  a  rarity — the  formal  parterres,  geometrical 
flower  beds,  and  close-cropped  alleys  he  equally  detested,  having  super- 
seded the  easy  natural  graces  of  former  days.  Ho  adored  animals  no  less 
than  nature,  and  amid  the  intricate  problems  of  his  great  work  and  the 
weighty  (questions  therein  evolved  concerning  the  nature  and  destiny  of 
human  wiU  an.d  intellect,  ho  makes  occasion  to  put  in  a  plea  for  the  dumb 
things  so  dear  to  him.  His  pet  dog,  Atma,  meaning,  in  Sanscrit,  the 
Soul  of  the  Universe,  was  th3  constant  companion  of  his  walks,  and 
when  he  died,  his  master  was  inconsolable.  The  cynic,  the  misan- 
thrope, the  woman-hater,  was  all  tenderness  here. 

Was  Schopenhauer  happy  or  not  ?  Who  can  answer  that  question 
for  another?  He  was  alone  in  the  world,  having  never  made  for  him- 
self a  home  or  domestic  ties;  he  hated  society — except,  as  we  have  seen, 
that  infinitesimal  portion  of  it  suited  to  his  intellectual  aspirations, 
his  favourite  recreations  being  long  country  walks  and  the  drama. 
It  also  amused  him  to  dine  at  a  table  dhnte,  which  ho  did  constantly  in 
the  latter  part  of  his  lifetime.  But  that  he  understood  what  inner 
happiness  was  we  have  seen,  and  the  secret  of  it  he  had  discovered 
also.  If  joy  of  the  intenser  kind  is  bom  of  thought  and  spiritual  or 
intellectual  beauty,  no  less  true  it  is,  that  everyday  enjoyment  depends 
on  cheerfulness,  and  with  the  following  golden  maxims,  suited  alike 
for  the  N(yi*rmi  Mensch  and  the  Oenidler,  commonplace  humanity  and  the 
choicer  intellects  among  whom  Schopenhauer  found  his  kindred,  may 
aptly  close  this  little  paper: 

What  most  directly  and  nbove  everything  else  makes  us  happy,  is  cheerfulness  of 
mind,  for  this  excellent  gift  is  its  own  reward.  He  who  is  naturally  joyous,  has 
every  reason  to  be  so,  lor  the  simple  reason  that  he  is  as  he  is.    Nothing  can  compea» 


760  SCHOPiamAUEB  OK  MEN,  BOOES^  AND  MUS3;C. 


■»  ^ 


Bate  like  cheerfnlncss  for  the  lack  of  other  possessiODB,  'whilst  in  itself  it  makes 
up  for  (ill  others.  A  mun  mtiy  bo  youn?,  well  fjironretl,  rich,  honoured,  happy,  but 
if  we  would  ascertain  whether  or  iiohe  l)0hu])i>y,  we  must  li  rat  put  the  question — is 
he  cheerful  ?  It  he  is  cheerful,  Iheii  it  jnatters  not  whether  ho  be  young  or  old, 
straiuriit  or  crooked*  rich  or  poor :  ho  is  happy.  Let  ua  tiiruw  opou  wide  the  doors 
to  Cheerfulness  whenever  stie  makes  her  ti  ppoarance,  lor  it  can  never  be  unprofi- 
tious  :  instead  of  which,  wo  too  often  bar  her  wuy,  asking:  oarsclvcs— Have  we  indeed, 
or  havo  wo  not,  gwnl  reasons  lor  being  content  i  Checrfulneg'*  ia  Uio  current  coin  of 
happiness,  and  not  like  other  poBsession,  merely  its  letter  of  ciedit. 

We  will  close  this  paper  with  a  few  quotationa  culled  hero  and  there 
from  tho  four  volumes  before  us.  It  is  alternately  tho  sage,  the  artist^ 
the  satirist  who  is  speaking  to  us. 

Poverty  is  tho  scourge  of  the  i  eop'.e,  ennui  of  the  better  ranks,  Tho  boredom  of 
Subbaf  a  nanism  Is  to  the  middle  cIushcs  what  weekday  penury  is  to  tho  licedy . 

Thinkers,  and  especially  men  of  trtte  genius,  without  p'it  c  icception,  find  noise 
insupportable.  This  is  no  (lues'tion  of  habit.  Tho  triilj  fctoical  indifference  of  ordinary 
minds  to  noise  is  extraordinaiy  :  it  creates  no  disturbance  in  their  thoughts,  either 
when  occupied  In  reading  or  Mriting,  whereas, on  the  contrary,  the  iuteliectunlly  en. 
dowo<l  are  thereby  rendered  incapa\  lo  i  f  dohig  anything.  I  have  ever  been  <jf  opinion 
thnt  the  amount  of  noise  a  man  can  snppoi  t  with  equanimity  is  in  inverse  proportioa 
to  his  mental  powers,  and  may  be  taken  therefore  as  >i  measure  of  intellect  generallr. 
If  I  hear  a  dog  barking  for  hours  on  the  threshold  of  n  house,  I  know  well  enoogk 
what  kind  of  brains  I  may  expect  from  its  inhabitants.  He  who  habitually  shuns  the 
door  instead  of  closing  it  is  not  only  an  ill-bi'cd,  but  a  ooai'se-gruined,  feebly  •endowed 
creature. 

it  is  truly  incredible  liow  negative  and  insignificant,  seen  from  without,  and  how 
dull  and  met  ningless,  i*egarded  from  within,  is  the  life  of  by  far  the  greater  balk  of 
human  bein^'-s ! 

The  life  of  every  hulividual,  when  regarded  in  detail,  wears  a  comic,  when  re- 
garded as  a  whole,  a  trngio  aspect.  Por  the  misadventures  of  tho  hour,  the  toiling 
and  moiling  of  the  day,  the  fretting  of  the  week,  are  turned  by  freak  of  destiny  into 
comedy.  But  the  never-fulfilled  desires,  the  vain  strivinjrs,  taie  hopes  so  pitilessly 
shattered,  the  unspeakable  blunders  of  life  as  a  whole,  with  its  finul  suffering  and 
death,  ever  make  up  a  tragetiy. 

Mere  clever  men  always  appear  exactly  at  the  right  time:  they  are  called  forth  by 
the  spirit  of  their  age,  to  full' I  its  needs,  being  capable  of  nothing  else.  They  m- 
fluenee  the  progressive  culture  of  their  fello-\\  s  and  demands  of  special  enlightenmeut : 
thereby  their  praise  and  its  rewnnl.  Genius  flushes  like  n  comet  amid  tho  orbits  u 
the  age,  its  erratic  courae  being  a  mystery  to  the  8teadfa8tl}[  moving  planet:!  aromid. 

Genius  produces  no  works  of  practical  valu«^  Music  is  compoeed,  p'»etry  ^>n- 
oeived,  pictures  painted — but  a  work  of  genius  is  never  a  tldng  to  nse.  Uselessuew 
indeed  is  its  title  of  honour  ^11  other  human  ncluevements  contnbute  towards  the 
support  or  alleviation  of  our  existence;  works  of  genius  alone  exist  for  their  own 
sake,  or  may  be  considered  ns  the  very  flower  and  bloom  of  destiny.  This  is  why  tho 
eiijoyment  of  art  so  uplifts  our  hearts.  In  the  natural  world  also  wo  rarely  see  beauty 
alne'd  to  uaefnlness.  Lofty  trees  of  macnificent  aspect  benr  no  fruity  nTO.inetive  trees 
for  the  most  part  being  uply  little  crij)j)lea.  So  also,  tho  most  benntiml  boildir.gs  are 
not  useful.  A  temple  is  neVer  adwelling-plaee.  A  man  of  rare  mental  endowments, 
compelled  by  circumstances  to  follow  a  humdrum  career  fitted  for  the  most  common- 

?lace,  is  like  a  costly  vase,  covered  with  ex<iui8ite  designs,  nsc^  as  a  cooking  utei.Bil 
'o  compare  nseful  people  with  geniuses  is  to  compare  building  stones  with  diamonds. 
Could  we  prevent  all  villains  from  becoming  fatliei"s  of  f»imiiies.  shut  up  tho  dunde  - 
heads  in  monasteries,  pennit  a  harem  to  tiic  nobly  gilte<l,  and  pi"ovide  every  gid 
of  spirit  and  intellect  with  a  husband  worthy  of  her,  we  might  look  for  on  ago  surp^iss- 
ing  thnt  of  Pericles. 

virtue,  no  more  than  genius.  Is  to  be  tanght.  VTe  might  jnst  as  well  c— -ftoui 
systems  of  morals  and  ethics  generally  to  pitnluce  virtuous,  noble-minded  uuw  suintl] 
iudiyiduals,  as  cesthetics  to  oreato  poets,  sculptoi-s,  and  musicians. 

M.  B.-E.,  in  Fraaei^s  Magasnne, 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  NEW  ZEALAND  GEYSEES. 

The  QejBer  district  of  New  Zealand  is,  ot  sotne  fatnre  da^,  to  be  the 
creat  sanatoritim  of  the  Southern  world;  meanwhile,  it  is  bo  little 
known  that  some  account  o£  a  visit  lately  made  to  it  may  not  be  unin- 
teresting. 

While  *  globe-trotting*  with  a  friend,  we  found  ourselves  in  April 
last  year  at  Auckland,  New  Zealand,  and  were  kindly  invited  by  the 
Governor  to  join  him  in  a  visit  he  was  going  to  make  with  the  Cbm- 
modore  and  a  large  party,  to  the  geysers. 

The  party  assembled  at  Tauranga,  a  port  about  140  miles  south-east 
of  Auckland,  and  the  most  convenient  starting-point  for  Ohinemutu, 
the  head-quarters  of  the  hot  lake  country.  The  little  town  was  ^ay 
veith  flags  and  triumphal  arches,  and  crowded  with  Maories  looking 
forward  to  a  big  drink  in  return  for  the  dance  with  which  they  received 
the  Governor.  I  was  disappointed  to  find  the  natives  were  broad- 
nosed,  thick-lipped,  tattooed  savages,  or  at  least  so  they  appeared 
at  first  sight.  The  men  are  decidedly  superior  in  appearance  to  the 
women,  and  among  the  young  people  tattooing  is  becoming  unfiEuh- 
ionable; 

From  Tauranga  to  Ohinemutu  is  about  forty  miles  over  a  good  road, 
except  through  what  is  called  the  *  eighteen-mile  bush,'  where  the 
road  possesses  all  the  ills  to  which  a  buffh  road  is  heir.  About  three 
miles  from  Tauranga  the  road  passes  through  the  celebrated  Gate  Pah, 
where  English  soldiers  in  a  panic  ran  away  from  the  Maories,  and 
left  their  officers  to  be  killed.  The  pah  is  well  placed  on  the  top  of  a 
ridge  looking  out  over  Tauranga  and  the  sea.  Almost  all  traces  of  the 
earthworks  have  now  disappeared,  and  the  cluster  of  gravestoned  in 
the  neglected  little  cemetery  at  Tauranga  will  soon  be  the  only  remedn- 
ing  evidence  of  that  disastrous  day.  About  eight  miles  beyond  the  Pah 
we  had  our  first  experience  of  a  New  Zealand  bush.  It  was  magnifi- 
cent. I  cannot  say  the  same  of  the  road.  A  great  part  of  it  is  what  is 
called  *  corduroy  road,'  that  is,  trunks  of  trees,  about  8  or  9  inches 
in  diameter,  were  laid  close  together  across  the  track,  forming  a  kind 
of  loose  bridge  over  the  soft  places.  Some  of  the  trees,  especially  the 
rimu,  a  species  of  yew,  here  called  a  pine,  were  of  immense  size  and 
age,  in  places  tangled  masses  of  red  flowering  creepers  completely  hid 
the  trees.  The  tree  ferns  were  the  perfection  of  lightness  and  beauty, 
the  dark-leaved  shrubs  setting  them  off  to  great  advantage. 

At  Ohinemutu  we  found  two  small  hotels;  the  charges  are  very 
moderate,  and  the  attention  paid  to  visitors  is  all  that  can  be  desired. 
The  land  hero  still  belongs  to  the  Maories,  who  refuse  either  to  sell  it 
or  let  it;  and  the  hotel-keepers,  who  are  only  tenants-at-will,  are  natu- 
rally unwilling  to  spend  much  money  in  building  with  such  ah  ins' 

(761) 


762  A  VISIT  TO  THE  NEW  ZEALAND  GEYSEES. 

euro  tcnuro.  Ona  creek  of  Lake  Eotonia,  on  the  bfinks  of  which 
Ohinemtitu  stands,  is  filled  yrith  boiling  springs,  which  heat  the  waters 
of  the  lake  for  a  consider.ible  distanc3.  This  creek  is  a  favourite 
bathing-place,  but,  as  it  is  dangerous  in  the  dark,  my  friend  and  I 
tried  a  natural  bath,  which  has  been  inclosed  by  the  hotel-keepers  to 
keep  out  the  natives.  It  was  as  hot  as  we  could  bear  it,  very  soft, 
buoyant,  and  bubblinp;,  and  after  our  long,  bumpy  drive,  perfectly 
delicious.  When  we  had  got  thoroughly  warmed  through,  I  thought 
lying  in  the  soft  bubbling  water  the  most  perfect  sensuous  pleasure 
I  ever  experienced. 

The  next  morning  we  visited  the  many  boiling  water  and  mud 
springs  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  village.  On  a  email 
peninsula,  between  our  hotel  and  the  lake,  there  are  a  great  many  na- 
tive dwellings,  called  whares  (pronounced  warries).  A  whole  tribe 
formerly  Uved  there,  but  one  night  the  end  of  the  peninsula  suddenly 
collapsed  and  disar)pcarcd  in  the  lake,  .destroying,  of  course,  all  its  in- 
habitants. There  IS,  in  the  midst  of  the  village,  a  large  native  build- 
ing called  the  *C.irved  House;'  its  sides  are  covered,  inside  and  out, 
with  intricate  carving,  chiedy  of  grotesque  human  figures.  By  Maori 
law,  the  carved  figures  may  only  have  thrive  fingers  on  each  hand,  lest 
any  evil-disposed  pei-sons  E>"'iould  mistake  them  for  caricatures  of  their 
ancestors.  This  native  settlement  owes  its  eiiistonce  to  the  many  hot 
-springs  with  which  the  peninsula  abounds,  the  boiling  water  st^mdinj^ 
to  the  natives  in  the  place  of  fire,  and  saving  them  an  infinity  of 
trouble  with  their  cooking  and  washing  arrangements.  One  desirabl  ^ 
result  of  the  abundance  of  warm  baths  is  the  iindoubted  cleanliness  of 
the  people. 

About  a  mile  farther  along  the  banks  of  the  lake,  we  came  to  what  h 
called  the  Sulphur  Point.  It  certainly  deserved  its  name.  The  sur- 
face of  the  ground  is  literally  honeycombed  with  pools  of  boibn^j 
water  and  mud  holes,  impregnated  w'ith  sulx^hur  or  alum.  The  smell 
was  perfectly  fearful.  One  mud  bath  that  we  ventured  into  certainly 
did  not  look  tempting;  great  waves  of  thick  brown  mud  bubbled  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  pool,  and  rolled  lazily  towards  the  sides.  It  wrjj 
just  a  pleasarit  temperature,  very  smooth  and  oily,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing its  appearance,  decidedly  a  success.  We  next  tried  a  pool  of  thin- 
ner mud,  and  ended  v^th  a  swim  in  the  cold  waters  of  the  lake, 
feeling  all  the  bettor  for  our  strange  experience.  All  the  pools  have 
been  given  stupid  English  names  by  the  hotel-keeper;  the  one  wefirat 
bathed  in  is  known  as  'Painkiller,'  and  enjoys  a  high  reputation  for 
curing  rheumatism.  It  was  here  that  a  young  Englishman  L.tf  It 
nearly  lost  his  life.  A  largo  bubble  burst  near  his  face,  tlie  poisonoiii 
gases  from  which  remlcrel  him  insensible;  and  had  it  not  been  for  a 
Maori,  who  happened  to  bo  standing  near,  he  must  infallibly  havj 
been  drowned.  The  whole  neighbourhood  is  a  dangerous  one;  the 
crust  of  the  earth  is  in  ruany  places  so  thin  that  one  may  at  any  mo- 
ment find  one's-self  standing  in  boiling  water.  The  guides  take  fo 
much  pleasure  in  recounting  all  the  accidents  that  have  happened, 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  NEW  ZEALAND  GEYSERS.  763 

tliat  I  felt  I  should  be  conferring  a  personal  favour  on  tliem  if  I  fell  in, 
and  was  boiled  suCiciently  to  bo  worth  talking  about  in  the  future. 
The  surface  of  the  ground  io  in  places  covered  with  masses  of  pure 
sulphur.  We  lighted  it  in  places,  and  it  began  to  bum  freely,  and 
may  be  burning  still  for  all  I  know  to  the  contraiy. 

In  the  afternoon  we  saw,  for  the  first  time,  a  body  of  water  thrown 
any  considerable  height  into  the  air.  It  was  at  a  place  called  Whaka- 
rewa-rewa,  about  two  miles  from  the  hotel,  amidst  the  finest  hot 
springs  of  the  Rotorua  district.  The  geyser  had  boon  dormant  since 
1869  until  this  particular  week,  and  each  day  it  seemed  to  gather 
strength  and  volume.  The  mighty  fountain  has  formed  for  itself  a 
line  circular  base  about  thirty  feet  high,  of  silica,  roughly  resembling 
white  marble.  After  being  (^^uiesceut  for  a  few  minutes,  the  water 
began  to  leap  up  through  the  circular  cavity  at  the  top  of  the  cone,  and 
rising  higher  and  higher  at  each  leap  at  last  cuhninated  in  splendid 
volumes  of  clear  bright  boiling  water,  thrown  fully  forty  feet  into  the 
air.  Dense  masses  of  stea:n  floated  from  the  water  in  mid-air,  but 
the  column  of  water  itself  fell  so  nearly  i)crpendicularly  that  we  were 
able  to  stand  as  near  to  it  as  the  intense  heat  would  permit.  After 
playing  for  about  five  minutes,  the  fountain  gradually  subsided  to  take 
a  rest,  lasting  about  eleven  minutes,  before  its  next  display.  The 
geysers  are  curiously  intermittent  in  character,  and  according  to  all 
accounts  are,  on  the  whole,  less  active  than  formerly. 

Two  of  the  baths  hero  deserve  mention.  One  called  the  oil  bath  has 
water  so  oily  as  hardly  to  adhere  to  the  skin  enough  to  make  a  towel 
necessary  on  coming  out ;  the  other  is  a  very  warm  creek  opening  out 
into  a  fast-flowing  river  of  cold  water,  and  affording  the  most  delight- 
ful gradations  of  temperature  between  the  two.  All  the  pools  have 
their  distinctive  character  ;  some  are  very  active,  others  sullen;  some 
pretty  bubbling  shallow  basins,  others  dark  deep  blue  of  endless  depth; 
some  bright  and  clear  as  crystal,  others  milky,  or  of  mud  of  various 
consistency;  some  blowing  off  steam  like  fifty  steam  engines,  and 
many,  alas !  very  many,  smelling  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  de- 
scribe. It  is  curious  how  quickly  one  gets  accustomed  to  the  ceaseless 
sound  of  boiling  water,  or  the  dull  soughing  sound  of  boiling  mud 
that  one  hears  on 'all  sides,  often  without  being  able  to  see  the  hole 
whence  it  comes. 

Next  morning  wo  rode  over  to  Major  Kemp's  village  of  "Wairoa  with 
the  Commodore,  !Mr.  F.  (the  member  of  the  Ministry  in  attendance  on 
the  Govemor\  and  Captain  Mair,  the  resident  magistrate,  who  from 
his  knowledge  of  the  country  and  language  proved  himself  an  invalu- 
able cicerone.  On  our  way  v\'o  passed  through  a  lovely  piece  of  bush, 
in  which  we  found  U  specimen  of  the  curious  natural  phenomenon 
*the  vegetable  caterinllar. '  It  appears  that  the  caterpillar,  when  it 
buries  itself  in  the  ground  preparatory  to  changing  into  a  chrysalis,  is 
attacked  by  a  fungus,  which^  kills  it,  and  sends  out  one  or  two  shoots, 
something  like  the  seed-bearing  fronds  of  some  ferns,  several  inches 
in  length,  from  the  head  of  the  unfortunate  caterpillar.    Farther  south 


766  A  VISIT  TO  THi:  liEW  IIDALAIxD  GEYSEES. 

Some  of  tho  small  mud  geysers  bohind  tlio  white  teiroce  were  cu- 
rious; they  were  growHng,  and  throwiugmud  of  every  variety  of  colortj 
about.  One  of  pale  grey  mud  v/as  said  to  bo  eaten  by  the  ilaorics  a ; 
medicine;  it  had  a  decidedly  acid  taste.  Ono  big  hola  wjs  blowing  on" 
immense  Tolumes  of  steam  with  tho  noise  of  a  dozen  steam  engineR 
shrieking  in  friendly  rivalry.  A  little  farther  on  was  a  pool  of  cold 
vivid  green  water — ^eener  far  than  the  leaves  of  the  shrubs  near  it, 
and  strongly  charged  with  sulphuric  acid  and  iron.  The  wonders  of 
Botomahana  really  seemed  cndlosH,  but,  alas  I  it  wao  Saturday  after- 
iioon,  and  we  had  to  get  back  to  Ohincmutu  that  night,  and  however 
unwillingly,  we  v/era  obliged  to  bid  tho  i>lace  farewell. 
.  Strolling  about  after  our  evening  bath  on  Sunday,  wo  came  acrosr.  a 
pool  in  which  there  were  two  Maori  young  women  bvathing.  When  we 
found  they  had  their  pipes  with  them  we  sent  to  the  hotel  for  some 
beer,  and  sat  dov/n  to  have  a  chat  with  them,  ml  found  one  of  them 
under^jtood  a  littl  j  English.  They  said  they  ha.l  been  in  the  water  an 
hour  before  wo  camo.  I  wonder  they  wero  not  boiled,  the  water  was 
very  hot  and  nasty,  and  wo  kopt  them  in  at  loast  anothcir  hour.  This 
was,  I  think,  the  pool  which  Mr.  Troilopo  spoaks  of  having  found 
himself  bathing  in  with  three  young  women;  if  so,  it  has  now  deterior- 
ated very  much,  and  nothing  would  have  tempted  us  to  venture  into  ita 
dirty  waters. 

On  Monday  we  rowed  over  Lake  Rotorua  to  an  island  called  Mokoia. 
Sir  George  Grey  told  me  that  at  ono  time  ho  lived  on  the  island;  it  is, 
in  consequence,  still  rich  in  fruit  ticcs  and  cultivated  ground.  A 
legend  of  this  island  remind.i  ono  of  tho  storj  c  f  Hero  rja  I  Leander. 
Ilinnemoa,  a  maiden  living  on  the  mainland,  cno  day,  on  hearing  tho 
liute  of  her  lover,  Tutanekai,  the  chief  of  the  iclanl  tribe,  jumped 
boldly  into  the  lake  and  twam  acrois  the  intor/ening  live  mil;j3  in 
safety.  Tutanokai  scarcely  desorvovl  his  good  fortuno,  he  having  a  few 
days  before  made  an  attack  en  t-io  mainlandori  an  1  destroyed  f.Il  their 
boats.  On  the  highest  peak  of  the  island  I  found  myself  in  a  small 
native  burying-ground;  it  was  surrounded  by  a  deep  ditch  and  bank. 
Thero  v/ero  some  forty  or  fif!:y  graves,  each  marked  by  a  Binall  head- 
stone, bat  I  had  not  much  time  to  examine  them  closely,  having  a 
proper  fear  of  tho  unknown  penalties  incurred  by  tho  violation  of  any- 
thing '  tapu '  or  nacrod.  On  our  way  home,  Captain  Mair  showed  u>s 
his  beautiful  collection  of  native  weapons,  carved  boxes,  and  w^onder- 
ful  cloaliij  made  of  native  flax,  and  feathers,  most  cf  them  presents  from 
grateful  natives,  or,  as  v/o  enviously  suggeste J,  briben. 

My  fr'-cni  in  1 1,  alter  saying  p;ood-bye  to  tho  others],  started  tho  next 
morning  v/ith  t  le  guido  FraGor  tJ  visit  the  more  southern  limits  of  the 
hot  spring  country.  A  ride  of  about  thirty-five  miles  brought  us  to 
the  Waikato,  a  largo  swift-U owing  river,  tho  scene  cf  much  bloodshed 
during  the  war.  The  canoo  that  wo  had  expected  to  cross  in  was  not 
forthcoming,  so  that  wo  had  to  cimp  where  wo  were;  luckily  the  night 
was  fine,  and  we  had  plenty  of  provisions.  Wo  had  a  fine  lunar  diapLay : 
round  tho  moon,  for  a  breadth  of  about  twice  its  own  apparent 


A  YI&T  TO  TIIE  in:V7  ZEALAND  GSTSEBS.  767 

diameter,  there  was  a  ring  of  bright  -white  li^ht;  then  came  a  ring  of 
light  bro\vn,  deepening  outwards  to  purple;  then  came  blue  growing 
into  green,  that  melting  iu  to  yellow,  that  deepening  through  orange 
into  R  beautiful  red.  The  series  of  rings  was  very  perfect,  about  six- 
teen times  the  width  of  the  moon,  and  lasted  apparently  without  any 
change  for  several  hours. 

After  crossing  the  river  at  daybreak  wo  Doon  came  to  a  nriive  settle- 
ment of  Oral^ol-liorako,  and  there  got  a  native  to  guide  us  to  the  alum 
cave,  for  which  the  place  is  famoiis.  The  entrance  to  the  cave  is  com- 
pletely hidden  by  creepers  and  magnificent  tree  ferns  with  heavily  sil- 
vered fronds  fully  twelve  feet  in  length.  Descending  the  cave  some 
eighty  or  ninety  feet  by  almost  regularly  formed  steep  steps,  we  found 
a  beautiful  pool  of  clear  blue  water  at  the  bottom.  Of  course  we 
bathed  in  the  pool;  it  was  warm,  strongly  impregnated  with  alum,  and 
when  we  wore  swimming  with  out  backs  to  the  entrance  it  had,  curi- 
ously enough,  exactly  the  appearance  of  getting  its  light  from  below. 
The  Maori  name  for  it  is  *the  looking-glass,*  so  called,  probably,  from 
its  power  of  reflecting  light.  The  floor  and  walls  of  the  cave  were 
thickly  covered  with  deposits  of  pure  alum,  and  the  roof  was  coloured 
in  parts  with  pretty  variegated  patches  resembling  marble  frescoes. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  cave  my  hor^o  broke  down,  and  it  w^is  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  that  I  got  him  to  the  high  road  before  he  suc- 
cumbed entirely.  "While  waiting  to  see  if  he  would  recover  I  saw 
three  people  riding  towards  me;  one  was  a  smart-looking  native  in  the 
uniform  of  the  armed  constabulai'j,  the  second  was  a  lady,  and  to  my 
surprise  she  too  was  a  native.  She  wore  a  tall  black  hat  and  dark 
veil,  a  dark  blue  well-fitting  riding  habit,  a  dairty  pink  and  white 
necktie;  I  afterwards  saw  she  wore  a  pair  of  Fronch-lookin^  boots,  and 
black  and  white  stockings.  She  was,  in  fact,  a  *rcal  dark  swell.*  She 
talked  a  little  English,  and,  after  hearing  of  my  plight,  she  made  the 
third  rider,  an  ordin;iry-looking  native,  dismount,  and  give  me  his 
horse,  he  remaining  to  do  what  ho  could  for  mine. ,  We  rode  on  to  a 
native  village,  and  there  had  some  boiled  potatoes  and  dried  peaches 
for  lunch.  My  fair  riding  companion  roon  afterwards  appeared  with- 
out the  riding  habit,  but  with  a  dirty  clay  pipe  in  her  mouth.  I  fear 
her  civilisation,  like  her  dross,  was  only  a  new  habit,  whose  greatest 
charm  was  the  ease  with  which  it  could  be  discarded.  I  had  eventually 
to  walk  to  Taupo,  a  township  on  the  biggest  lake  in  the  country,  where 
we  intended  staying  a  few  days. 

l^Iajor  ^Roberts,  the  head  of  the  constabulary,  who  had  been  asked  to 
help^  us,  kindly  provided  us  with  horses,  and  an  orderly  as  a  guide. 

tract  ed 
precipitc 

rushes  along,  one  mass  of  waves  and  foam,  for  a  distance  of  about  200 
yards;  it  thi^n  makes  a  mad  leap  of  about  forty  feet,  and  dashes  tumb- 
ling over  rapids  with  frantic  fury  for  some  distance,  and  then  suddenly 
resumes  the  quiet  dignity  of  a  great  river.    It  is  said  that  a  party  o"' 


748  A  VISIT  TO  THE  NEW  ZEALAND  GEYSEES. 

six  staranger  natives  were  once  taunted  b^  the  residents  into  trying  to 
sh6ot  the  falls  in  a  canoe,  and  were,  as  might  have  been  expected,  all 
drowned.  The  hot  springs  were  much  like  those  we  had  before  seen; 
the  only  remarkable  one  is  called  the  Crow's  Nest.  The  water  has 
formed  a  perfect  hollow  cone  of.  silica  about  ten  feet  high.  On  look^ 
ing  into  the  cone  from  above  it  appears  to  be  built  of  regular  layers  of 
la^e  sticks  bound  togtether  by  incrustations  of  silica.  These  sticks 
give  the  cone  its  name  of  the  Crow's  Nest,  but  how  the  nest  came  to  be 
so  maie  is  a  mystenr. 

In  the  afternoon  I  took  advantage  of  a  doubt  as  to  whether  the  game 
laws  apply  to  game  on  Maori  land  to  shoot  some  cock  pheasants, 
although  the  shooting  season  does  not  begin  till  May.  It  is  very  hard 
on  the  natives  if  they  are  affected  by  the  game  laws,  for  they  would 
have  no  means  of  killing  the  pheasants,  which  are  increasing  so 
rapidly  as  to  threaten  to  become  a  perfect  plague  to  them  and  their 
small  com  cultivation. 

In  Taupo  lake,  besides  carp,  there  is  a  most  excellent  little  fish  re- 
sembling whitebait.  They,  like  everything  else  in  this  country,  have 
their  legend.  Some  500  years  ago  a  chief  with  a  long  name  came  to 
Taupo,  and  grieved  to  find  none  of  his  faypurite  fish  in  the  lake. 
After  failing  to  introduce  them  by  natur-al  means,  he  was  driven  to 
have  recourse  to  that  most  enviable  power  of  obtaining  whatever  ho 
wished  that  chiefs  seemed  to  have  had  then,  and  have  so  completely 
lost  now.  He  aceordingly  took  his  cloak,  tore  it  up  into,small  pieces, 
and  cast  them  into  the  lake,  commanding  them  to  become  little  fishes, 
and  little  fishes  they  became,  and  there  they  are  in  myriads  to  this 
day.  Fastidious  people  think  they  still  have  a  slightly  woolly  taste, 
and  I  know  of  no  better  evidence  to  support  the  legend. 

Our  visit  to  the  hot-lake  district  came  to  an  end  at  Taupo.  Wo 
drove  thence  some  seventy  or  eighty  miles  to  Napier.  We  were  sorry 
to  leave  our  friends  the  Maories  witn  the  conviction  fall  in  our  minds 
that  their  days  will  not  be  long  in  their  land.  I  devoutly  hope  that  it 
may  never  again  be  necessary  to  change  our  present  'sugar  and  flour ' 
policy  for  one  of  *  blood  and  iron.* 

Ci^MENT  BuNBDSY,  tn  JBrtta&i's  Magcaxnt, 

i 

i 


^