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THE   OIFT  OF 


C6  535-0 


LIFE  OF  FRANCES  POWER  COBBE 


y 


1 


«     ► 


COHIJ,' 


I         •  • 


LIFE  OF 


Frances  Power  Cobbe 


AS  TOLD  BY  HERSELF 


WITH 

ADDITIONS    BY    THE    AUTHOR 

AND 

INTRODUCTION  BY  BLANCHE  ATKINSON 


WITH  SIX  ILLUSTRATIONS 


POSTHUMOUS    EDITION 


LONDON 

SWAN   SONNENSCHEIN  &  CO.,  LIM. 

PATERNOSTER   SQUARE 

1904 


INTEODUOTION. 


The  story  of  the  beautiful  life  which  came  to  an  end  on 

the  5th  of  April,  1904,  is  told  by  Miss  Cobbe  herself  in 

^         the  following  pages  up  to  the  close  of  1898.     Nothing  is 

(3  left  for  another  pen  but  to  sketch  in  the  events  of  the  few 

remaining  years. 

But  first  a  word  or  two  as  to  the  origin  of  the  book. 
One  spring  day  in  1891  or  '92,  when  Miss  Cobbe  was  walk- 
ing with  me  through  the  Ilengwrt  grounds  on  my  way  to 
the  station,  after  some  hours  spent  m  listening  to  her 
brilliant  stories  of  men  and  things,  I  asked  her  if  she 
would  not  some  day  write  her  autobiography.  She  stood 
still,  laughing,  and  shook  her  head.  Nothing  in  her  life, 
she  said,  was  of  sufficient  importance  to  record,  or  for 
other  people  to  read.  Naturally  I  urged  that  what  had 
interested  me  so  greatly  would  interest  others,  and  that 
her  life  told  by  herself  could  not  fail  to  make  a  delightful 
book.  She  still  laughed  at  the  idea ;  and  the  next  time  I 
saw  her  and  repeated  my  suggestion,  told  me  that  she  had 
not  time  for  such  an  undertaking,  and  also  that  she  did  not 
think  her  friend.  Miss  Lloyd,  would  like  it.  At  last,  how- 
ever, to  my  great  satisfaction,  I  heard  that  the  friends  had 
talked  the  matter  over,  and  were  busily  engaged  in 
*^  looking  at  old  letters  and  records  of  past  days^  and  both 
^.  becoming  interested  in  the  retrospection.     So  the  book 

^         grew  slowly  into  an  accomplished  fact,  and  Miss  Cobbe 
^         often  referred  to  it  laughingly  as  "your"  book,  to  which  I 
replied  that  then  I  had  not  lived  in  vain  !    It  is  possible 


139578 


% 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

that  the  idea  had  occurred  to  her  before ;  but  she  always 
gave  me  to  understand  that  my  persuasion  had  induced  her 
to  write  the  book.  She  came  to  enjoy  writing  it.  Once 
when  I  said : — "  I  want  you  to  tell  us  everything ;  all  your 
love-stories — and  everything /"  she  took  me  up  to  her 
study  and  read  me  the  passage  she  had  written  in  the 
I  St  Chapter  concerning  such  matters.  The  great  success  of 
the  book  was  a  real  pleasure  to  both  Miss  Cobbe  and  her 
friend.  She  told  me  that  it  brought  her  more  profit 
than  any  of  her  books.  Most  of  them  had  merely  a  succ& 
d^estitne.  Better  still,  it  brought  her  a  number  of  kindly 
letters  from  old  and  new  friends,  and  from  strangers  in 
far-off  lands;  and  these  proofs  of  the  place  she  held  in 
many  hearts  was  a  true  solace  to  a  woman  of  tender  affec- 
tions, who  had  to  bear  more  than  the  usual  share  of  the 
abuse  and  misrepresentation  which  always  fall  to  those  who 
engage  in  public  work  and  enter  into  public  controversies. 

The  sorrow  of  Miss  Lloyd's  death  changed  the  whole 
aspect  of  existence  for  Miss  Cobbe.  The  joy  of  life  had 
gone.  It  had  been  such  a  friendship  as  is  rarely  seen — 
perfect  in  love,  sympathy,  and  mutual  understanding.  No 
other  friend — though  Miss  Cobbe  was  rich  in  friends — 
could  fill  the  vacant  place,  and  henceforward  her  loneliness 
was  great  even  when  surrounded  by  those  she  loved  and 
valued.  To  the  very  last  she  could  never  mention  the 
name  of  "  my  dear  Mary,"  or  of  her  own  mother,  without 
a  break  in  her  voice.  I  remember  once  being  alone  with 
her  in  her  study  when  she  had  been  showing  me  boxes 
filled  with  Miss  Lloyd's  letters.  Suddenly  she  turned  from 
me  towards  her  bookshelves  as  though  to  look  for  some- 
thing, and  throwing  up  her  arms  cried,  with  a  little  sob, 
"  My  God  !  how  lonely  I  am  ! " 

It  was  always  her  custom,  while  health  lasted,  to  rise 
early,  and  she  often  went  to  Miss  Lloyd's  grave  in  the  fresh 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

OQorning  hours,  especially  when  she  was  in  any  trouble  or 
perplexity.  Up  to  within  a  few  days  of  her  death  she  had 
visited  this — to  her — most  dear  and  sacred  spot.  Doubtless 
she  seemed  to  find  a  closer  communion  possible  with  one 
who  had  been  her  counsellor  in  all  difficulties,  her  helper 
in  all  troubles,  at  the  graveside  than  elsewhere.  She 
planted  her  choicest  roses  there,  and  watched  over  them 
with  tender  care.     Now  she  rests  beside  her  friend. 

Yet  this  anguish  of  heart  was  bravely  borne.  There  was 
nothing  morbid  in  her  grief.  She  took  the  same  keen 
interest  as  before  in  the  daily  affairs  of  life — ^in  politics  and 
literature  and  social  matters.  There  never  was  a  nature 
more  made  for  the  enjoyment  of  social  intercourse.  She 
loved  to  have  visitors,  to  take  them  for  drives  about 
her  beautiful  home,  and  to  invite  her  neighbours  to  pleasant 
little  luncheons  and  dinners  to  meet  them.  Especially  she 
enjoyed  the  summer  glories  of  her  sweet  old  garden,  and 
liked  to  give  an  occasional  garden  party,  and  still  oftener 
to  take  tea  with  her  friends  under  the  shade  of  the  big 
cherry  tree  on  the  lawn.  How  charming  a  hostess  she 
was  no  one  who  has  ever  enjoyed  her  hospitality  can 
forget.  "A  good  talk"  never  lost  its  zest  for  her;  until 
quite  the  end  she  would  throw  off  langour  and  fatigue 
under  the  spell  of  congenial  companionship,  and  her  talk 
would  sparkle  with  its  old  brilliance — her  laugh  ring  with 
its  old  gaiety. 

Her  courtesy  to  guests  was  perfect.  When  they  hap- 
pened not  to  be  in  accord  with  her  in  their  views  upon 
Vivisection  (which  was  always  in  these  years  the  chief 
object  of  her  work  and  thought),  she  never  obtruded  the 
question,  and  it  was  her  rule  not  to  allow  it  to  be  discussed 
at  table.  It  was  too  painful  and  serious  a  subject  to  be  an 
accompaniment  of  what  she  thought  should  be  one  of  the 
minor  pleasures  of  life.    For  though  intensely  religious, 


viu  INTRODUOTION 

there  was  no  touch  of  the  ascetic  in  Miss  Cobbe's  nature. 
She  enjoyed  everything;  and  guests  might  come  and  go 
and  never  dream  that  the  genial,  charming  hostess,  who 
deferred  to  their  opinions  on  art  or  music  or  books,  who 
conversed  so  brilliantly  on  every  subject  which  came  up, 
was  all  the  time  engaged  in  a  hand-to-hand  struggle  against 
an  evil  which  she  believed  to  be  sapping  the  courage  and 
consciences  of  English  men  and  women. 

It  is  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  sunny  hours  spent 
among  the  roses  she  loved,  or  under  the  fine  old  trees  she 
never  ceased  to  admire ;  upon  the  gay  company  gathered 
round  the  tea- table  in  the  dark-panelled  hall  of  Hengwrt ; 
best  of  all,  on  quiet  twilight  talks  by  the  fireside  or  in 
the  great  window  of  her  drawing-room  watching  the  last 
gleams  of  sunset  fade  from  hill  and  valley,  and  the  stars 
come  out  above  the  trees.  But  it  is  sadly  true  that  the  last 
few  years  of  Miss  Cobbc's  life  were  not  as  peacefully  happy 
as  one  would  have  loved  to  paint  them  to  complete  the 
pleasant  picture  she  had  drawn  in  1894.  Even  her  cheery 
optimism  would  hardly  have  led  her  to  write  that  she  would 
'*  gladly  have  lived  over  again  "  this  last  decade. 

The  pain  of  separating  herself  from  the  old  Victoria 
Street  Society  was  all  the  harder  to  bear  because  it  came 
upon  her  when  the  loss  of  Miss  Lloyd  was  still  almost  fresh. 
Only  those  who  saw  much  of  her  during  that  anxious  spring 
of  1898  can  understand  how  bitter  was  this  pain.  Miss 
Cobbe  has  sometimes  been  blamed  for — ^as  it  is  said — 
causing  the  division.  But  in  truth,  no  other  course  was 
possible  to  one  of  her  character.  When  the  alternative  was 
to  give  up  a  principle  which  she  believed  vital  to  the  cause 
of  Anti- Vivisection,  or  to  withdraw  from  her  old  Society,  no 
one  who  knew  Miss  Cobbe  could  doubt  for  an  instant  which 
course  she  would  take.  It  was  deeply  pathetic  to  see  the  brave 
old  veteran  of  this  crusade  brace  up  her  failing  strength  to 


INTRODUOTION  « 

meet  the  trial,  resolved  that  she  would  never  lower  the  flag 
she  had  upi^eld  for  five-and-twenty  years.  It  was  a  lesson 
to  those  who  grow  discouraged  after  a  few  disappointments, 
and  faint-hearted  at  the  first  failure.  This,  it  seems  to  me, 
was  the  strongest  proof  Miss  Cobbe's  whole  life  affords  of 
her  wonderful  mental  energy.  Few  men,  well  past  70, 
when  the  work  they  have  begun  and  brought  to  maturity  is 
turned  into  what  they  feel  to  be  a  wrong  direction,  have 
courage  to  begin  again  and  lay  the  foundations  of  a  new 
enterprise.  Miss  Cobbe  has  herself  told  the  story  of  how 
she  founded  the  '' British  Union;"  and  I  dwell  upon  it  here 
only  because  it  shows  the  intensity  of  her  conviction  that 
Vivisection  was  an  evil  thing  which  she  must  oppose  to  the 
death,  and  with  which  no  compromise  was  possible.  She 
did  not  flinch  from  the  pain  and  labour  and  ceaseless 
anxiety  which  she  plainly  foresaw.  She  never  said — as 
most  of  us  would  have  held  her  justified  in  saying — "/ 
have  done  all  I  could.  I  have  spent  myself — time,  money, 
and  strength — in  this  fight.  Now  I  shall  rest."  She  took 
no  rest  until  death  brought  it  to  her.  Probably  few  realise 
the  immense  sacrifices  Miss  Cobbe  made  when  she  devoted 
herself  to  the  unpopular  cause  which  absorbed  the  last  30 
years  of  her  life.  It  was  not  only  money  and  strength 
which  were  given.  She  lost  many  friends,  and  much  social 
influence  and  esteeiti.  This  was  no  light  matter  to  a  woman 
who  valued  the  regard  of  her  fellows,  and  had  heartily 
enjoyed  the  position  she  had  won  for  herself  in  the  world 
of  letters.  She  often  spoke  sadly  of  this  loss,  though  I  am 
sure  that  she  never  for  an  instant  regretted  that  she  had 
come  forward  as  the  helper  of  the  helpless. 

From  1898  until  the  last  day  of  her  life  the  interests  of 
the  new  Society  occupied  her  brain  and  pen.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  I  became  more  closely  intimate  with  her  than 
before.    Her  help  and  encouragement  of  those  who  worked 


X  INTRODUOTION 

under  her  were  unfailing.  No  detail  was  too  trifling  to 
bring  to  her  consideration.  Her  immense  knowledge  of 
the  whole  subject,  her  great  experience  and  ready  judgment 
were  always  at  one's  service.  She  soon  had  the  care  of  all 
the  branches  of  the  Union  on  her  shoulders ;  she  kept  all 
the  threads  in  her  hand,  and  the  particulars  of  each  small 
organisation  clear  in  her  mind.  For  myself,  I  can  bear  this 
testimony.  Never  once  did  Miss  Cobbe  urge  upon  me  any 
step  or  course  of  action  which  I  seriously  disliked.  When,  on 
one  or  two  occasions,  I  ventured  to  object  to  her  view  of  what 
was  best,  she  instantly  withdrew  her  suggestion,  and  left  me 
a  free  hand.  If  there  were  times  when  one  felt  that  she 
expected  more  than  was  possible,  or  when  she  showed  a 
slight  impatience  of  one's  mistakes  or  failures,  these  were  as 
nothing  compared  with  her  generous  praise  for  the  little  one 
achieved,  her  warm  congratulation  for  any  small  success. 
It  was  indeed  easy  to  be  loyal  to  such  a  chief ! 

Much  of  Miss  Cobbe's  leisure  time  during  the  years  after 
Miss  Lloyd's  death  was  spent  in  reading  over  the  records  of 
their  old  life.  I  find  the  following  passage  in  a  letter  of 
December,  1900 : — 

^'  I  have  this  last  week  broken  open  the  lock  of  an 
old  notebook  of  my  dear  Mary's,  kept  about  1882-85. 
Among  many  things  of  deep  interest  to  me  are  letters 
to  and  from  various  people  and  myself  on  matters  of 
theology,  which  I  used  to  show  her,  and  she  took  the 
trouble  to  copy  into  this  book,  along  with  memoranda  of 
our  daily  life.  It  is  unspeakably  touching  to  me,  you 
may  well  believe,  to  find  our  old  life  thus  revived,  and 
such  tokens  of  her  interest  in  my  mental  problems.  I 
think  several  of  the  letters  would  be  rather  interesting  to 
others,  and  perhaps  useful." 

There  remain  in  my  possession  an  immense  number  of 
letters,  carefully  arranged  in  packets  and  docketed,  to  and 


INTRODUOTION  xi 

from  Miss  Lloyd,  Lord  Shaftesbury,  Theodore  Parker, 
Fanny  Kemble,  and  others.  These  have  all  been  read 
through  lately  by  Miss  Cobbe,  and  endorsed  to  that  effect 
Up  to  the  very  end  Miss  Cobbe's  large  correspondence  was 
kept  up  punctually.  She  always  found  time  to  answer  a 
letter,  even  on  quite  trivial  matters ;  and  among  the  mass 
which  fell  into  my  hands  on  her  death  were  recent  letters 
from  America,  India,  Australia,  South  Africa,  and  all  parts 
of  England,  asking  for  advice  on  many  subjects,  thanking 
for  various  kindnesses,  and  expressing  warm  affection  and 
admiration  for  the  pioneer  worker  in  so  many  good  causes. 
With  all  these  interests,  her  life  was  very  full.  Nothing 
that  took  place  in  the  world  of  politics,  history,  or  literature, 
was  indifferent  to  her.  She  never  lost  her  pleasure  in 
reading,  though  her  eyes  gave  her  some  trouble  of  late 
years.  At  night,  two  books — generally  Biography,  Egypt- 
ology, Biblical  Criticism,  or  Poetry — were  placed  by  her 
bedside  for  study  in  the  wakeful  hours  of  the  early  morning. 
In  spite  of  all  these  resources  within  herself,  she  sorely 
missed  the  companionship  of  kindred  spirits.  She  was,  as 
I  have  said,  eminently  fitted  for  the  enjoyment  of  social 
life,  and  had  missed  it  after  she  left  London  for  North 
Wales.  Up  to  the  last,  even  when  visitors  tired  her,  she 
was  mentally  cheered  and  refreshed  by  contact  with  those 
who  cared  for  the  things  she  cared  for. 

In  the  winter  of  190 1-2  she  was  occupied  in  bringing 
out  a  new  edition  of  her  first  book,  "The  Theory  of 
Intuitive  Morals."  She  wrote  thus  of  it  to  me  at  the 
time : — 

"  I  have  resolved  not  to  leave  the  magnum  opus  of  my 
small  literary  life  out  of  print,  so  I  am  arranging  to 
reprint '  Intuitive  Morals,'  with  my  essay  on  '  Darwinism 
in  Morals '  at  the  end  of  it,  and  a  new  Preface,  so  that 
when  I  go  out  of  the  world,  this,  my  Credo  for  moral 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

science  and  religion,  will  remain  after  me.  Nobody  but 
myself  could  correct  it  or  preface  it.  ...  As  I  look  back 
on  it  now^  I  feel  glad  to  be  able  to  re-circulate  it,  though 
very  few  will  read  anything  so  dry !  It  was  written  just 
50  years  ago,  and  I  am  able  to  say  with  truth  that  I  have 
not  seen  reason  to  abandon  the  position  I  then  took, 
although  the  '  cocksureness '  of  30  can  never  be 
maintained   to  80  !  " 

During  the  same  winter,  Miss  Cobbe  joined  the  Women's 
Liberal  Federation,  moved  to  take  this  decided  step  not 
only  by  her  strong  disapproval  of  the  war  in  South  Africa, 
but  by  her  belief  that  the  then  existing  government  was  in 
opposition  to  all  the  movements  which  she  longed  to  see 
carried  forward.  Her  accession  to  their  ranks  met  witli  a 
warm  welcome  from  the  President  and  Committee  of  the 
Women's  Liberal  Federation,  many  of  whom  were  already 
her  personal  friends.  To  the  end  she  kept  in  close  touch 
with  all  that  concerned  women  ;  and  only  a  few  days  before 
her  death,  was  asked  to  allow  her  name  to  be  given  to  the 
Council  as  an  Honorary  Vice-President  of  the  National 
Union  of  Women  Workers  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland. 

In  the  summer  of  1902  an  incident  occurred — small  in 
itself,  but  causing  such  intense  mortification  to  Miss  Cobbe 
that  it  cannot  be  passed  ow<t  in  any  true  account  of  the 
closing  years  of  her  life.  In  fact,  those  who  saw  most  of 
her  at  the  time,  and  knew  her  best,  believe  that  she  never 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  it.  A  charge  was  brought 
against  her  of  cruelly  overdriving  an  old  horse — a  horse 
which  had  been  a  special  pet.  The  absurdity  of  such  a 
charge  was  the  first  thing  that  struck  those  who  heard  of  it ; 
but  to  Miss  Cobbe  it  came  as  a  personal  insult  of  the 
cruellest  kind.  The  charge  was  pressed  on  with  what 
looked  like  malicious  vindictiveness,  and  though  it  failed, 
the  intention  to  give  her  pain  did  not  fail.     She  wrote  to 


INTBODUOTION  xiii 

me  at  the  time  that  she  was  "wounded  to  the  quick."  The 
insult  to  her  character,  the  attempt  to  throw  discredit  upon 
her  life's  work  for  the  protection  of  animals  from  suffering, 
the  unchivalrousness  of  such  an  attack  upon  an  old  and 
lonely  woman  —  all  this  embittered  the  very  springs  of 
her  life,  and  for  a  time  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  stay 
any  longer  in  a  neighbourhood  where  such  a  thing  had  been 
possible.  The  results  were  very  grievous  for  all  who  loved 
her,  as  well  as  for  herself.  It  had  been  one  of  her 
pleasantest  recreations  to  drive  by  the  lovely  road — which 
was  full  of  associations  to  her — between  Hengwrt  and 
Barmouth,  to  spend  two  or  three  hours  enjoying  the  sea 
air  and  sunshine,  and  the  society  of  the  old  friends  who 
were  delighted  to  meet  her  there.  To  Barmouth  also  she 
had  a  few  years  previously  bequeathed  her  library,  and  had 
taken  great  interest  and  pleasure  in  the  room  prepared  for 
the  reception  of  her  "dear  books."  Yet  it  was  in  Barmouth 
that  the  blow  was  struck,  and  she  never  visited  the  little 
town  again.  It  was  pitiful !  She  had  but  a  few  more 
months  to  live,  and.  this  was  what  a  little  group  of  her 
enemies  did  to  darken  and  embitter  those  few  months ! 
On  September  6th,  she  wrote  to  me : — 

"  This  week  I  have  had  to  keep  quite  to  myself.  I  am, 
of  course,  enduring  now  the  results  of  the  strain  of  the 
previous  weeks,  and  they  are  bad  enough.  The  recuper- 
ative powers  of  80  are — ni//  My  old  friends,  Percy 
Bunting  and  his  wife,  offered  themselves  for  a  few  days 
last  week,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  refuse  their  offer.  As 
it  proved,  his  fine  talk  on  all  things  to  me  most  interest- 
ing— modem  theological  changes,  Higher  Criticism,  etc. — 
*and  her  splendid  philanthropy  on  the  lines  I  once  humbly 
followed  (she  is  the  leading  woman  on  the  M.A.B.Y.S., 
which  I  had  practically  founded  in  Bristol  forty  years 
ago),  made  me  go  back  years  of  life,  and  seem  as  if  I 


i  INTRODUOTION 

were  once  more  living  in  the  blessed  Seventies.  .  .  . 
Altogether,  their  visit,  though  it  left  me  quite  exhausted, 
did  my  brains  and  my  heart  good.  O  !  what  friends  I 
once  had  !     How  rich  I  was  1     How  poor  I  am  now  ! " 

In  October  of  that  year  she  decided  to  leave  Hengvnt 
for  the  winter.  It  was  a  great  effort.  She  had  not  left  het 
home  for  eight  years,  and  dreaded  the  uprooting.  But  it 
was  a  wise  move.  One  is  glad  now  to  remember  how 
happy  Miss  Cobbe  was  during  that  winter  in  Clifton. 
She  lived  over  again  the  old  days  of  her  work  in  Bristol 
with  Mary  Carpenter ;  visited  the  old  scenes,  and  noted  the 
changes  that  had  taken  place.  Some  old  friends  were  left, 
and  greatly  she  enjoyed  their  company.  At  Clifton  she  had 
many  more  opportunities  of  seeing  people  engaged  in  the 
pursuits  which  interested  her  than  in  her  remote  Welsh 
home.  Her  letters  at  that  time  were  full  of  renewed 
cheeriness.     I  quote  a  few  sentences : 

"November  13th. 
'' .  .  .  I  hope  you  have  had  as  beautiful  bright  weather 
as  we  have  had  here,  and  been  able  to  get  some  walks  on 
the  mountain.  Now  I  can  no  longer  'take  a  walk,'  I 
know  how  much  such  exercise  helped  me  of  old,  mentally 
and  morally,  quite  as  much  as  physically.  I  see  a  good 
many  old  friends  here,  and  a  few  new  ones,  and  my  niece 
comes  to  tea  with  me  every  afternoon.  They  are  all  very 
kind,  and  make  more  of  me  than  I  am  worth ;  but  it  is  a 
City  of  the  Dead  to  me,  so  many  are  gone  who  were  my 
friends  long  ago ;  and  what  is  harder  to  bear  is  that  when 
I  was  here  last,  eight  or  ten  years  ago,  I  was  always  think- 
ing of  returning  home^  and  writing  daily  all  that  happened 
to  dear  Mary — ^and  now,  it  is  all  a  blank." 

"November  i6th. 
"...  It  is  so  nice  to  think  I  am  missed  and  wanted ! 
If  I  do  get  back  to  Hengwrt,  we  must  manage  to  see  more 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

of  each  other.  ...  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
for  such  little  time  as  may  remain  for  me,  I  will  not  shut 
myself  up  again,  and  if  I  am  at  all  able  for  it,  I  will  return 
home  very  early  in  the  spring.  I  see  a  good  many  nice, 
kind  people  here,  old  friends  and  new,  and  I  have  nice 
rooms ;  but  I  sadly  miss  my  own  home  and,  still  more, 
garden.  And  the  eternal  noise  of  a  town,  the  screaming 
children  and  detestable  hurdy-gurdies,  torment  my  ears 
after  their  long  enjoyment  of  peace — and  thrushes.  .  .  . 
I  am  shocked  to  find  that  people  here  read  nothing  but 
novels ;  but  they  flock  to  any  abstruse  lectures,  cg.^  those 
of  Estlin  Carpenter  on  Biblical  Criticism.  I  have  just 
had  an  amusing  experience — a  journalist  sent  up  to  gather 
my  views  as  to  changes  in  Bristol  in  the  last  forty  years. 
Goodness  knows  what  a  hash  he  will  make  of  them ! " 

During  this  autumn,  the  thought  occurred  to  me  that  as 
Miss  Cobbe's  8oth  birthday  was  at  hand,  a  congratulatory 
address  from  the  men  and  women  who  appreciated 
the  work  she  had  done  for  humanity  and  the  lofty, 
spiritual  influence  of  her  writings,  might  cheer  her, 
and  help  to  remove  some  of  the  soreness  of  heart  which 
the  recent  trouble  at  Barmouth  had  left  behind.  Through 
the  kind  help  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bunting  and  Mr.  Verschoyle 
in  England,  and  of  Miss  Schuyler  and  Mrs.  Wister  in 
America,  an  address  was  drawn  up,  and  a  notable  list  of 
signatures  quickly  and  most  cordially  affixed  to  it.  The 
address  was  as  follows : — 

'*To  FRANCES   POWER  COBBE 

''December  4th,  1902. 
"On  this  your  eightieth  birthday,  we,  who  recognize 
the  strenuous  philanthropic  activity  and  the  high  moral 
purpose  of  your  long  life,  wish  to  offer  you  this  con- 
gratulatory address  as  an  expression  of  sincere  regard. 


XVI  INTRODUCTION 

"  You  were  among  the  first  publicly  to  urge  the  right 
of  women  to  university  degrees,  and  your  powerful  pen 
has  done  much  to  advance  that  movement  towards 
equality  of  treatment  for  them,  in  educational  and  other 
matters,  which  is  one  of  the  distinguishing  marks  of  our 
time. 

*'  In  social  amelioration,  such  as  Ragged  Schools  and 
Workhouse  reform,  you  did  the  work  of  a  pioneer.  By 
your  lucid  and  thoughtful  works  on  religion  and  ethics, 
you  have  contributed  in  no  small  degree  to  that  broader 
and  more  humane  view,  which  has  so  greatly  influenced 
modern  theology  in  all  creeds  and  all  schools  of  thought. 

"  But  it  is  your  chief  distinction  that  you  were  practi- 
cally the  first  to  explore  the  dark  continent  of  our 
relations  to  our  dumb  fellow-creatures,  to  let  in  light 
on  their  wrongs,  and  to  base  on  the  firm  foundation 
of  the  moral  law  their  rights  and  our  duty  towards  them. 
They  cannot  thank  you,  but  we  can. 

"We  hope  that  this  expression  of  our  regard  and 
appreciation  may  bring  some  contribution  of  warmth 
and  light  to  the  evening  of  a  well  spent  life,  and  may 
strengthen  your  sense  of  a  fellowship  that  looks  beyond 
the  grave" 

The  Address  happily  gave  Miss  Cobbe  all  the  gratifica- 
tion we  had  hoped.  I  quote  from  her  letters  the  following 
[)assages : — 

"  Clifton,  December  5th. 
''I  learn  that  it  is  to  you  I  owe  what  has  certainly 
been  the  greatest  honour  I  have  ever  received  in  my 
long  life — the  address  from  English  and  American  friends 
on  my  8oth  birthday.  I  can  hardly  say  how  touched  I 
am  by  this  token  of  your  great  friendship,  and  the  cheer 
which  such  an  address  could  not  fail  to  give  me.  The 
handsome  album  containing  it  and  all  the  English  sig- 
natures (the  American  ones — ^autographs — are  on  their 


t 

4 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

way,  but  I  have  the  names  in  type-writing)  was  brought 
to  me  yesterday  by  Mrs.  Bunting  and  Mr.  Verschoyle. 
I  had  three  reporters  dodging  in  and  out  all  day  to  get 
news  of  it,  and  have  posted  to  you  the  Bristol  Mercury 
with  the  best  of  their  reports.  It  is  really  a  very  splendid 
set  of  signatures,  and  a  most  flattering  expression  of 
sympathy  and  approval  from  so  many  eminent  men  and 
women.  It  is  encouraging  to  think  that  they  would 
endorse  the  words  about  my  care  for  animals." 

"  December  8th. 
**  You  may  not  know  that  a  very  fair  account  of  the 
address  appeared  in  the  Times  of  Saturday,  and  also  in 
at  least  twenty  other  papers,  so  my  fame !  has  gone 
evidently  through  the  land.  I  also  had  addressea^rom 
the  Women's  Suffrage  people,  with  Lady  Frances  Balfour 
at  their  head,  and  from  the  A.V.  (German)  Society  at 
Dresden,  Ragged  School,  etc  ...  I  am  greatly  enjoying 
the  visits  of  many  literary  men  and  women,  old  friends 
and  new — people  interested  in  theology  and  ethics  and 
Eg3^t,  and  all  things  which  interest  me.  .  .  ." 

"  December  24th. 
"  Only  think  that  I  am  booked  to  make  an  address  on 
Women  Suffrage  to  a  ladies'  club,  five  doors  off,  on  the 
2nd.  .  .  .  The  trouble  you  must  have  taken  (about  the 
address)  really  overwhelms  me!  You  certainly  succeeded 
in  doing  me  a  really  great  honour,  and  in  cheering  me.  I 
confess  I  was  very  downhearted  when  I  came  here,  but  I 
am  better  now.  I  feel  like  the  man  who  'woke  one 
morning  and  found  himself  famous.' " 

**  January  4th. 

"  I  like  to  hear  of  your  fine  walk  on  the  mountain. 

How  good  such  walks  are  for  soul  and  body  !     I  miss 

them  dreadfully — for  my  temper  as  well  as  my  health  and 

strength.     Walking  in  the  streets  is  most  disagreeable  to 

b 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

me,  especially  now  that  I  go  slower  than  other  people,  so 
that  I  feel  myself  an  obstacle,  and  everybody  brushes  past 
me.  I  sigh  for  my  own  private  walks,  small  as  they  are, 
where  nobody  has  a  right  to  come  but  myself,  and  my 
thoughts  can  go  their  ways  uninterrupted.  But  oh,  for 
the  old  precipice  walk  and  Moel  Ispry  solitudes  !  You 
will  be  amused  to  hear  that  I  actually  gave  an  hour's 
address  to  about  loo  ladies  at  a  new  club,  five  doors 
from  me  in  this  crescent,  on  Friday.  ...  I  was  not 
sorry  to  say  a  word  more  on  that  subject,  and,  of  course, 
to  bring  in  how  I  trusted  the  votes  of  women  to  be 
against  all  sorts  of  cruelty,  including  Vivisection.  I 
found  I  had  my  voice  and  words  still  at  command.  .  .  . 
They  were  nice,  ladylike  women  in  the  club.  One  said 
she  would  have  seven  votes  if  she  were  a  man.  I  do 
believe  that  it  would  be  an  immense  gain  for  women 
themselves  to  have  the  larger  interest  which  politics 
would  bring  into  their  cramped  lives^  and  to  cease  to 
be  de-considered  as  children." 

Miss  Cobbe  was  too  human,  too  full  of  sympathy  with  her 
fellow-creatures,  to  know  anything  of  the  self-esteem  which 
makes  one  indifferent  to  the  affection  and  admiration  of 
others.  She  was  simply  and  openly  pleased  by  this  address, 
as  the  words  I  have  quoted  show ;  and  more  than  a  year 
later,  only  a  few  days  before  her  death,  she  wrote  to  an  old 
friend  on  h^r  8oth  birthday  : — 

^'  My  own  experience  of  an  8oth  birthday  was  so  much 
brightened  by  that  address  .  .  .  that  it  stands  out  as  a 
happy,  albeit  solemn,  day  in  my  memory." 

While  in  Clifton,  Miss  Cobbe  presided  at  the  committee 
meetings  of  the  Bristol  Branch  of  the  British  Union  ;  and 
she  even  considered  the  possibility  of  taking  up  the  work 
once  more  in  London.  But  a  brief  visit,  when  she 
occupied  rooms  in  Thurloe  Gardens,  proved  too  much  for 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

her  strength.  The  noise  at  night  prevented  her  from 
sleeping,  and  she  was  reluctantly — for  she  enjoyed  this 
opportunity  of  seeing  old  friends — obliged  to  return  to 
North  Wales.  One  Sunday  morning  when  in  London,  she 
told  me  that  she  walked  to  Hereford  Square  to  see  the 
little  house  in  which  she  and  Miss  Lloyd  had  spent  the 
happiest  years  of  their  lives.  But  the  changed  aspect  of 
the  rooms  in  which  they  had  received  most  of  the 
distinguished  men  and  women  of  that  time  distressed 
her,  and  she  regretted  her  visit.  On  February  21st,  she 
wrote  to  me  from  Hengwrt: — 

''  Dearest  Blanche, 

"As  you  see  I  have  got  home  all  right,  and  this  morn- 
ing meant  to  write  to  announce  my  arrival.  ...  I  have 
heaps  of  things  to  tell  you,  but  to-day  am  dazed  by 
fatigue  and  change  of  air.  It  was  quite  warm  in  London, 
and  the  cold  here  is  great  But  oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  be 
in  the  peace  of  Hengwrt  again — how  thankful  that  I  have 
such  a  refuge  in  my  old  age  !  You  will  be  glad,  I  know, 
that  I  can  tell  you  I  am  in  a  great  deal  better  health  than 
when  I  left." 

The  first  time  I  went  to  see  her  after  her  return,  I  found 
her  standing  in  front  of  an  immense  chart  which  was  spread 
out  on  a  table,  studying  the  successions  of  Egyptian 
dynasties.  The  address  she  had  given  in  Clifton  at  the 
ladies'  club  was  about  to  be  printed  in  the  Contemporary 
Review^  and  she  wanted  to  verify  a  statement  she  had  made 
in  it  about  an  Egyptian  queen.  She  told  me  that  this  elabo- 
rate chronological  and  genealogical  chart  had  been  made 
by  her^  when  a  girl  of  18,  on  her  own  plan.  "  How  happy 
I  was  doing  it,''  she  said,  "with  my  mother  on  her  sofa 
watching  me,  and  taking  such  interest  in  it!"  It  was 
very  delightful  to  find  the  old  woman  of  80  consulting  the 
work  of  the  girl  of  18. 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

Alas !  the  improvement  in  her  health  did  not  continue 
long.  From  that  time  till  the  end,  I  hardly  received  a 
letter  from  Miss  Cobbe  without  some  reference  to  the 
cheerless,  gloomy  weather.  She  was  very  sensitive  to  the 
influences  of  the  weather ;  and  as  one  of  her  greatest 
pleasures  had  always  been  to  pass  much  time  out  of  doors, 
it  became  a  serious  deprivation  to  her  when  rain  and  cold 
made  it  impossible  to  take  her  daily  drive,  or  to  walk  and 
sit  in  her  beloved  garden.  She  thought  that  some  real 
and  permanent  change  had  come  over  oiu:  climate,  and  the 
want  of  sunshine,  during  the  last  winter  especially,  terribly 
depressed  her  spirits  and  health.  I  spent  two  or  three 
happy  days  with  her  in  the  spring,  and  one  drive  on  an 
exquisite  morning  at  the  end  of  May  will  long  live  in  my 
memory.  No  one  ever  loved  trees  and  flowers,  mountain 
and  river,  more  than  she,  or  took  more  delight  in  the 
pleasure  they  gave  to  others. 

Gradually,  as  the  year  went  on,  serious  symptoms  showed 
themselves — and  she  knew  them  to  be  serious.  Attacks  of 
faintness  and  complete  exhaustion  often  prevented  her  from 
enjoying  the  society  of  even  her  dearest  friends,  though  in 
spite  of  increasing  weakness  she  struggled  on  with  all  the 
weight  of  private  correspondence  and  the  business  of  her 
new  society ;  and  sometimes,  when  strangers  went  to  see 
her,  they  would  And  her  so  bright  and  animated  that  they 
came  away  thinking  our  fears  for  her  unfounded. 

A  visit  from  two  American  friends  in  the  summer  gave 
her  much  pleasure;  but  all  last  year  her  anxieties  and 
disappointments  were  great,  and  wore  down  her  strength. 
The  Bayliss  v.  Coleridge  case  tried  her  grievously,  and  the 
adverse  verdict  was  a  severe  blow.  The  evident  animus  of 
the  public  made  her  almost  despair  of  ever  obtaining  that 
justice  for  animals  which  had  been  the  object  of  her  eflbrts 
for  so  many  years.     Hope  deferred,  and  the  growing  oppo- 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

sition  of  principalities  and  powers,  made  even  her  brave 
heart  quail  at  times.  One  result  of  the  trial,  however,  gave 
her  real  satisfaction.  The  Daily  News  opened  its  columns 
to  a  correspondence  on  the  subject  of  Vivisection,  and  the 
wide-spread  sympathy  expressed  with  those  who  oppose  it 
was,  Miss  Cobbe  said,  "the  greatest  cheer  she  had  known  in 
this  sad  cause  for  years."  The  two  young  Swedish  ladies  who 
had  been  the  principal  witnesses  at  the  trial,  visited  her  at 
Hengwrt  in  November,  and  I  met  them  there  one  afternoon 
at,  I  think,  the  last  of  her  pleasant  receptions.  I  have  never 
seen  her  more  interested,  more  graciously  hospitable,  than 
on  that  day.  She  listened  to  the  account  of  the  trial, 
sometimes  with  a  smile  of  approval,  sometimes  with  tears 
in  her  eyes ;  and  when  we  went  into  the  hall  for  tea,  where 
the  blazing  wood  fire  lighted  up  the  dark  panelling,  and 
gleamed  upon  pictures,  flowers,  and  curtains,  and  she 
moved  about  talking  to  one  and  another  with  her  sweet 
smile  and  kindly,  earnest  words,  some  one  present  said 
to  me,  "How  young  she  looks!"  I  think  it  was  the 
simplicity,  the  perfect  naturalness  of  her  manner  and  speech 
that  gave  an  aspect  of  almost  childlikeness  to  the  dear  old 
face  at  times.  Every  thought  found  expression  in  her 
countenance  and  voice.  The  eyes,  laughing  or  tearful,  the 
gestures  of  her  beautifully  shaped  hands,  were,  to  the  last, 
full  of  animation. 

There  was  indeed  a  perennial  flow  of  vitality  which 
seemed  to  overcome  all  physical  weakness  in  Miss  Cobbe. 
But  if  others  were  deceived  as  to  her  health,  she  was  not. 
As  the  dark,  dreary  winter  went  on,  she  grew  more  and 
more  depressed.  Four  days  before  the  end  came,  I 
received  the  following  sad  letter.  Illness  and  other  causes 
had  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  go  to  Hengwrt  for  some 
weeks.     The  day  after  her  death  I  was  to  have  gone. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

"  It  is  very  sad  how  the  weeks  go  by,  and  we,  living 
almost  within  sight  of  each  other,  fail  to  meet.  It  is 
most  horribly  cold  to-day,  and  I  would  not  have  had  you 
come  for  anything.  ...  I  think  our  best  plan  by  far  will 
be  to  settle  that  whenever  you  make  your  proposed  start 
abroad,  you  come  to  me  for  three  or  four  days  on  your 
way.  This  will  let  us  have  a  little  peaceful  confab.  I 
really  want  very  much  to  do  what  I  have  been  thinking 
of  so  long,  but  have  never  done  yet,  and  give  you  advice 
about  your  future  editorship  of  my  poor  books.  To  tell 
you  my  own  conviction,  even  if  I  should  be  living  when 
you  return,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  be  up  to  this  sort  of 
business.  I  am  getting  into  a  wretched  state  of  inability 
to  give  attention  to  things^  and  now  the  chances  are  all 
for  a  speedy  collapse.  This  winter  has  been  too  great  a 
trial  for  my  old  worn  brains,  and  now  the  cold  returning 
is  killing." 

Happily  for  her,  she  was  spared  the  pain  of  any  protracted 
period  of  mental  or  bodily  weakness.  On  Monday,  April 
4th,  she  drove  out  as  usual,  wrote  her  letters  (one  to  me, 
received  after  she  was  dead),  and  in  the  afternoon  enjoyed 
the  visit  of  a  neighbour,  who  took  tea  with  her.  It  was  a 
better  day  with  her  than  many  had  been  of  late,  and  she 
went  to  bed  cheerful  and  well.  In  the  morning,  having 
opened  her  shutters  to  let  in  the  blessed  daylight,  and  to 
look  her  last  upon  the  familiar  scene  of  mountain,  valley, 
river,  and  wood,  with  the  grey  headstone  visible  in  the 
churchyard  where  her  friend  rested,  she  passed  swiftly  away, 
and  was  found  dead,  with  a  smile  of  peace  upon  her  face. 
A  short  time  before,  she  had  written  to  me : — 

"  I  am  touched  by  your  affectionate  words,  dear 
Blanche,  but  nobody  must  be  sorry  when  that  time 
comes,  least  of  all  those  who  love  me." 

We  can  obey  her  request  not  to  sorrow  for  her ;  but  for  all 


those — and  they  are  more  than  she  ever  realised — ^who 
loved  her,  the  loss  is  beyond  words  to  tell. 

Miss  Cobbe's  personality  breathes  through  all  her  writings. 
Yet  there  was  a  charm  about  her  which  not  even  her 
autobiography  is  able  to  convey.  It  was  the  charm  of  an 
intensely  sympathetic  nature,  quickly  moved  to  laughter  or 
to  tears,  passionately  indignant  at  cruelty  and  cowardice, 
tender  to  suffering,  touched  to  a  generous  delight  at  any 
story  of  heroism.  As  an  instance  of  this,  I  may  recall  that 
in  the  spring  of  1899  Miss  Cobbe  started  a  memorial  to 
Mrs.  Rogers,  stewardess  of  the  .S/e/Zo,  by  the  gift  of  £2^. 
The  dosing  words  of  the  inscription  she  wrote  for  the 
beautiful  drinking  fountain  which  was  erected  to  that  brave 
woman's  memory  are  worth  recording  here  : 

"ACTIONS  SUCH  AS  THESE — 

SHOWING 

STEADFAST  PERFORMANCE   OF   DUTY  IN  THE  FACE  OF  DEATH, 

READY  SBLF-SACRIFICB  FOR  SAKE  OF  OTHERS, 

RELIANCE  ON   GOD — 

CONSTITUTE  THE  GLORIOUS  HERriAGB  OF  OUR  ENGLISH  RACE. 

THEY  DESERVE  PERPETUAL  COMMEMORATION  : 

BECAUSE 
AMONG  THE  TRIVIAL  PLBASURES  AND  SORDID  STRIFE  OF  THE  WORLD 

THEY  REVEAL  TO  US  FOR  EVER 
THE  NOBILITY  AND  LOVE-WORTHINESS  OF  HUMAN  NATURE." 

In  Miss  Cobbe's  nature  a  gift  of  humour  was  joined  to  strong 
practical  sense.  No  one  who  ever  lived  less  deserved  the 
term  "Faddist"  or  "Sentimentalist"  Miss  Cobbe  was  im- 
patient of  £ads.  She  liked  "  normal "  people  best — those  who 
ate  and  drank,  and  dressed  and  lived  according  to  ordinary 
conventions.  Though,  for  convenience  sake,  she  had  adopted 
a  style  of  dress  for  herself  to  which  she  kept,  letting  "  Fashions  " 
come  and  go  unheeded,  she  was  not  indiiSerent  to  dress  in 
other  women,  and  admired  colours  and  materials,  or  noted 
eccentricities  as  quickly  as  anyone.  She  once  referred 
laughingly  to  her  own  dress  as  "obvious."    For  many  years 


xxiv  INTRODUQTION 

dressmaker's  dresses  would  have  been  impossible  to  her ; 
but  she  had  no  sympathy  with  the  effort  some  women  make 
to  look  peculiar  at  all  costs.  She  could  thoroughly  enjoy  a 
good  story,  or  even  a  bit  of  amusing  gossip.  With  her  own 
strong  religious  convictions,  she  had  the  utmost  respect  for 
other  people's  opinions.  Her  chosen  friends  held  widely 
different  creeds,  and  I  do  not  think  that  she  ever  dreamt  of 
proselytising. 

No  literary  person,  surely,  ever  had  less  self-conceit. 
What  she  had  written  was  not  flourished  in  one's  face; 
other  people's  smallest  doings  were  not  ignored.  One  felt 
always  on  leaving  her  that  every  one  else  was  lacking  in 
something  indefinable — was  dull,  uninteresting  and  com- 
monplace. One  felt,  too,  that  the  whole  conception  of 
womanhood  was  raised.  This  was  what  a  woman  might  be. 
Whatever  her  faults,  they  were  the  faults  of  a  great-hearted, 
noble  nature — faults  which  all  generous  persons  would  be 
quick  to  forget.  Nothing  small  or  mean  could  be  tolerated 
by  her. 

Her  character,  as  I  read  it,  was  drawn  on  large  and 
simple  lines,  and  was  of  a  type  that  is  out  of  fashion  to-day. 
She  had  many  points  of  resemblance  to  Samuel  Johnson. 
With  a  strong  and  logical  brain,  she  scorned  all  sophistries 
evasions,  compromises,  and  half-measures,  and  was  im- 
patient of  the  wire-drawn  subtleties  in  which  modern 
moralists  revel.  With  intensely  warm  affections,  she  was, 
like  the  great  doctor,  "a  good  hater."  He  would  un- 
doubtedly have  classified  her  as  "  a  clubbable  woman  " ; 
and  his  famous  saying,  "  Clear  your  mind  of  cant,"  would 
have  come  as  appropriately  from  her  lips  as  from  his.  If  a 
sin  was  hateful  to  her,  she  could  not  feel  amiably  towards 
the  sinner ;  and  for  the  spiritual  sins  of  selfishness,  hypocrisy, 
avarice,  cruelty,  and  callousness,  she  had  no  mercy,  ranking 
them  as  far  more  fatal  to  character  than  the  sins  of  the  flesh. 


tNTRODUOTION  xxv 

Like  Johnson,  too,  she  valued  good  birth,  good  breeding, 
and  good  manners,  and  was  instinctively  conservative, 
though  liberal  in  her  religious  and  political  opinions. 

She  intensely  disliked  the  license  of  modern  life,  both  in 
manners  and  morals,  and  had  no  toleration  for  the  laxity  so 
often  pardoned  in  persons  of  social  or  intellectual  eminence. 
Her  mind  and  her  tastes  were  strictly  pure,  orderly,  and 
regular.  It  is  characteristic  of  this  type  of  mind  that  she 
most  admired  the  classical  in  architecture,  the  grand  style 
in  art,  the  polished  and  finished  verse  of  Pope  and  Tennyson 
in  poetry.  These  were  the  two  whose  words  she  most 
frequently  quoted,  though  she  tells  us  that  Shelley  was  her 
favourite  poet. 

Her  gift  of  order  was  exemplified  in  the  smallest  details 
and  the  kindred  power  of  organisation  was  equally  well 
marked.  It  was  the  combination  of  impulsiveness  and 
enthusiasm  with  practical  judgment  and  a  due  sense  of 
proportion  that  made  her  so  splendid  a  leader  in  any  cause 
she  championed. 

Miss  Cobbe  was  what  is  often  called  "generous  to  a 
fault."  It  was  a  lesson  in  liberality  to  go  with  her  into  the 
garden  when  she  cut  flowers  to  send  away.  She  did  not 
look  for  the  defective  blooms,  or  for  those  which  would  not 
be  missed.  It  was  always  the  best  and  the  finest  which  she 
gave.  How  often  I  have  held  the  basket  while  she  cut 
rose  after  rose>  or  great  sprays  of  rhododendron  or  azselea 
with  the  knife  she  wielded  so  vigorously.  "  Take  as  much 
as  you  like,"  she  would  say,  if  she  sent  you  to  help  yourself. 
She  gave  not  only  material  things,  but  affection,  interest 
sympathy,  bountifully. 

She  hated  a  lie  of  any  kind ;  her  first  instinct  was  always 
to  stamp  it  out  when  she  came  across  one.  Perhaps,  in 
her  stronger  days,  she  "drank  delight  of  battle  with  her 
peers,"  and  did  not  crave  over  much  for  peace.     But  she 


XX  vi  INTRODUCTION 

was  not  quarrelsome,  and  could  differ  without  wrangling, 
and  dispute  without  bitterness. 

A  woman  without  husband  or  child  is  fortunate  if,  in  her 
old  age,  she  has  one  or  two  friends  who  really  love  her. 
Miss  Cobbe  was  devotedly  loved  by  a  large  number  of  men 
and  women.  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  that  anyone  could 
come  close  to  her  and  not  love  her.  She  was  so  richly 
gifted,  and  gave  so  freely  of  herself. 

To  many  younger  women  she  had  become  the  inspiration 
of  and  guide  to  a  life  of  high  endeavour,  and  the  letters 
of  gratitude  and  devotion  which  were  addressed  to  her 
from  all  parts  of  the  world  bear  witness,  as  nothing  else 
can,  to  the  extent  of  her  splendid  influence  upon  the 
characters  of  others.  Only  a  day  or  two  before  her 
death  she  received  letters  from  strangers  who  had  lately 
read  her  autobiography  and  felt  impelled  to  write  and 
thank  her  for  this  story  of  a  brave  life.  It  is  in  the  hope 
that  through  it  her  influence  may  go  on  growing,  and  that 
her  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  of  service  to  humanity,  and  faith- 
fulness to  the  Divine  law  may  spread  until  the  causes  she 
fought  for  so  valiantly  are  victorious,  that  this  new  edition 
of  the  "  Life  of  Frances  Power  Cobbe  "  is  sent  out. 

Blanche  Atkinson. 


AUTHOE'S  PREFACE. 


My  life  has  been  an  interesting  one  to  live  and  I 
hope  that  this  record  of  it  may  not  prove  too  dull  to 
read.  The  days  are  past  when  biographers  thought 
it  necessary  to  apologize  for  the  paucity  of  the 
adventures  which  they  could  recall  and  the  obscurity 
of  the  achievements  which  their  heroes  might 
accomplish.  We  have  gone  far  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  are  wont  to  relate  in  extenso  details 
decidedly  trivial,  and  to  reproduce  in  imposing  type 
correspondence  which  was  scarcely  worth  the 
postage  of  the  original  manuscript.  Our  sense  of 
the  intrinsic  interest  of  Humanity,  as  depicted  either 
in  biography  or  fiction,— that  is,  of  the  character  of 
the  personages  of  the  drama  going  on  upon  our  little 
stage, — has  continually  risen,  while  that  of  the 
action  of  the  piece, — the  "incidents"  which  our 
fathers  chiefly  regarded, — ^has  fallen  into  the  second 
plane.  I  fear  I  have  been  guUty  in  this  book  of 
recording  many  trifling  memories  and  of  repro- 
ducing some  letters  of  little  importance ;  but  only 
through  small  touches  could  a  happy  childhood  and 
youth  be  possibly  depicted :  and  all  the  Letters  have, 
I  think,  a  certain  value  as  relics  and  tokens  of  friend- 
ship, if  not  as  expressions  (as  many  of  them  are)  of 
opinions  carrying  the  weiio^ht  of  honoured  names. 


XX  vu 


xxviii  PREFACE, 

As  regards  these  Letters  (exclusively,  of  course, 
those  of  friends  and  correspondents  now  dead),  I 
earnestly  beg  the  heirs  of  the  writers  to  pardon  me 
if  I  have  not  asked  their  permission  for  the  publica- 
tion of  them.  To  have  ascertained,  in  the  first 
place,  who  such  representatives  are  and  where  they 
might  be  addressed,  would,  in  many  cases,  have 
been  a  task  presenting  prohibitive  difficulties ;  and 
as  the  contents  of  the  Letters  are  wholly  honourable 
to  the  heads  and  hearts  of  their  authors,  I  may 
fairly  hope  that  surviving  relatives  will  be  pleased 
that  they  should  see  the  light,  and  will  not  grudge 
the  testimony  they  bear  to  kindly  sentiments 
entertained  towards  myself.* 

There  is  in  this  book  of  mine  a  good  deal  of 
'*  Old  WoTaaTCs  Oossip^^^  (I  hope  of  a  harmless  sort), 
concerning  many  interesting  men  and  women  with 
whom  it  was  my  high  privilege  to  associate  freely 
twenty,  thirty  and  forty  years  ago.  But  if  it 
correspond  at  all  to  my  design,  it  is  not  only,  or 
chiefly,  a  collection  of  social  sketches  and  friendly 
correspondence.  I  have  tried  to  make  it  the  true 
and  complete  history  of  a  woman's  existence  as  seen 
from  within ;  a  real  Lifb,  which  he  who  reads  may 
take  as  representing  fairly  the  joys,  sorrows  and 
interests,  the  powers  and  limitations,  of  one  of  my 
sex  and  class   in   the  era  which  is  now  drawing 

*  With  respect  to  the  Letters  and  Extracts  from  Letters  to  myself 
and  to  Miss  Elliot,  from  the  late  Master  of  Balliol, — (to  be  found 
VoL  L,  pp.  316,  317,  349,  350,  351,  352,  353,  and  354},— I  beg  to 
record  that  I  have  received  the  very  kind  permission  of  Mr.  Jowett's 
Executors  for  their  publication. 


PREFACE.  xxix 

• 

to  a  close.  The  world  when  I  entered  it  was  a 
very  diflferent  place  from  the  world  I  must  shortly 
quity  most  markedly  so  as  regards  the  position  in  it 
of  women  and  of  persons  like  myself  holding 
heterodox  opinions,  and  my  experience  practically 
bridges  the  gulf  which  divides  the  English  aTvden 
riffiTne  from  the  new. 

Whether  my  readers  will  think  at  the  end  of 
these  volumes  that  such  a  life  as  mine  was  worth 
recording  I  cannot  foretell ;  but  that  it  has  been  a 
"  Life  Worth  Livi/ng "  I  distinctly  affirm ;  so  well 
worth  it,  that,— though  I  entirely  beUeve  in  a  higher 
existence  hereafter,  both  for  myself  and  for  those 
whose  less  happy  lives  on  earth  entitle  them 
far  more  to  expect  it  from  eternal  love  and 
justice, — I  would  gladly  accept  the  permission  to  run 
my  earthly  race  once  more  from  beginning  to  end, 
taking  sunshine  and  shade  just  as  they  have  flickered 
over  the  long  vista  of  my  seventy  years.  Even  the 
retrospect  of  my  life  in  these  volumes  has  been  a 
pleasure;  a  chewing  of  the  cud  of  memories, — mostly 
sweet,  none  very  bitter, — while  I  lie  still  a  little 
while  in  the  sunshine,  ere  the  soon-closing  night. 

F.  P.  C. 


CONTENTS. 


<^ 


CHAP.  ,^. 

INTRODUCTION V 

PREFACB  "--•--..  xxvii 

I.  FAMILY  AND  HOME           ....                    .        i 

II.     CHILDHOOD 29 

IIL     SCHOOL  AND  AFTER 55 

IV.     REUGION 79 

V.     MY  FIRST  BOOK I07 

VL  IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.     THE  PEASANTRY        -   1 35 

VU.  IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.      THE  GENTRY     -          -   163 

VIII.     UPROOTED 201 

IX.  LONG  JOURNEY 21/ 

X.  BRISTOL.    REFORMATORIES  AND  RAGGED  SCHOOLS    273 
XL  BRISTOL.     THE  SICK  IN  THE  WORKHOUSE     -          -  301 

XIL  BRISTOL.     WORKHOUSE  GIRLS  -  -  325 

XIIL  BRISTOL  FRIENDS    -  .  -  -  .   341 

XIV.  ITALY.      1857-1879 365 

XV.  MY  LITERARY  LIFE  IN  LONDON      ....  399 

xxxi 


xxii  CONTENTS, 

CHAP.  PACK 

XVI.     MY  JOURNALIST  LIFE  IN  LONDON  -  -  429 

XVII.     MY    SOCIAL    LIFE    IN    LONDON    IN    THE    SIXTIES 

AND  SEVENTIES 443 

XVIII.     MY  SOCIAL  LIFE  IN  LONDON   IN  THE  SEVENTIES 

AND  EIGHTIES 519 

XIX.      THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMEN 583 

XX.      THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES 615 

XXI.      MY  HOME  IN  WALES 695 

INDEX  ...  -  -  -   713 


ERRATA 

For  Berwick  read  Bewick,  p.  179,  last  line. 

For  Goldsmiths  read  Goldschmidts,  p.  237,  8  lines  from  bottom* 

For  Goodwin  read  Godwin,  p.  257,  line  12. 

For  Macpelah  read  Machpelah,  p.  237,  line  12. 


QHAPTEB 
L 


FAMILY  AND  HOMB. 


VOL.    1.  ^ 


CHAPTER  I. 

FaMILT  AMD  HOICE. 

I  HAYB  enjoyed  through  life  the  advdntage  of  being,  in  the 
trne  sense  of  the  words,  ''well  bom."  My  parents  were 
good  and  wise;  hononrable  and  honoured;  sound  in  body 
and  in  mind.  From  them  I  have  inherited  a  physical  frame 
which,  however  defective  even  to  the  verge  of  grotesqueness 
from  the  aesthetic  point  of  view,  has  been,  as  regards  health 
and  energy,  a  source  of  endless  enjoyment  to  me.  From 
childhood  till  now  in  my  old  age — except  during  a  few  years 
interval  of  lameness  from  an  accident, — ^mere  natural  existence 
has  always  been  to  me  a  positive  pleasure.  Exercise  and 
rest,  food  and  warmth,  work,  play  and  sleep,  each  in  its 
turn  has  been  delightful ;  and  my  spirits,  though  of  course 
now  no  longer  as  gay  as  in  youth,  have  kept  a-  level  of 
cheerfulness  subject  to  no  alternatives  of  depression  save 
under  the  stress  of  actual  sorrow.  How  much  of  the 
optimism  which  I  am  aware  has  coloured  my  philosophy 
onght  to  be  laid  to  the  account  of  this  bodily  hien  itre,  it 
would  be  superfluous  to  enquire  too  nicely.  At  least  I  may 
fJEurly  maintain  that,  as  Health  is  the  normal  condition  of 
existence,  the  views  which  a  particularly  healthy  person  takes 
of  things  are  presumably  more  sound  than  those  adopted  by 
one  habitually  in  the  abnormal  condition  of  an  invalid. 

As  regards  the  inheritance  of  mental  faculties,  of  which 
so  much  has  been  talked  of  late  years,  I  cannot  trace  it  in 
my  own  experience  in  any  way.  My  fether  was  a  very  able, 
energetic  man;  but  his  abilities  all  lay  in  the  direction  of 
administration,  while  those  of  my  dear  mother  were  of  the 
order  which  made  the    charming   hostess    and    cultivated 


4  OHAPTBE  T. 

member  of  sodefy  with  the  now  fargotten  grace  of  the 
eighteenth  centniy.  Neither  paternal  nor  maternal  gifts  or 
graoea  have  descended  to  me;  and  snoh  fisuniltiee  as  have 
jbUen  to  my  lot  have  been  of  a  different  kind ;  a  kind  which, 
I  fear,  my  good  father  and  his  forbears  would  have  regarded 
as  incongmons  and  unseemly  for  a  daughter  of  their  house  to 
exhibit.  Sometimes  I  have  pictured  to  myself  the  shook 
which  ''The  old  Master'*  would  have  felt  could  he  have 
seen  mo— for  examplo— trudging  three  times  a  week  for 
seven  years  to  an  office  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Strand  to 
write  articles  for  a  halfpenny  newspaper.  Not  one  of  my 
ancestors,  so  &r  aa  I  have  heard,  ever  dabbled  in  printer's  ink. 
My  brothers  were  all  older  than  I ;  the  eldest  eleven,  the 
youngest  five  years  older ;  and  my  mother,  when  I  was  bom, 
was  in  her  forty-seventh  year;  a  circumstance  which 
perhaps  makes  it  remarkable  that  the  physical  energy  and 
high  animal  spirits  of  which  I  have  just  made  mention  came 
to  me  in  so  large  a  share.  My  old  friend  Harriet  St.  Leger, 
Fanny  Eemble's  "  dear  H.  S.,"  who  knew  us  all  well,  said 
to  me  one  day  laughing:  ''  You  know  you  are  your  Father's 
Son  I "  Had  I  been  a  man,  and  had  possessed  my  brother's 
&cilities  for  entering  Parliament  or  any  profession,*  I  have 

*  It  is  always  amusing  to  me  to  read  the  complacent  arguments 
of  despisers  of  women  when  they  think  to  prove  the  inevitable 
mental  inferiority  of  my  sex  by  specifying  the  smaller  droom- 
ference  of  onr  heads.  On  this  line  of  logio  an  elephant  should  be 
twice  as  wise  as  a  man.  But  in  my  case,  as  it  happens,  their 
argument  leans  the  wrong  way,  for  my  head  is  larger  than  those 
of  most  of  my  conntrymen, — Doctors  included.  As  measured 
carefully  with  proper  instruments  by  a  skilled  phrenologist  (the 
late  Major  Noel)  the  dimensions  are  as  follows :— Ciroumferenoe, 
twenty-three  and  a  quarter  inches ;  greatest  height  from  external 
orifice  of  ear  to  summit  of  crown,  6|  inches.  On  the  other  hand 
dear  Mrs.  Somerville's  little  head,  which  held  three  times  as  much 
as  mine  has  ever  done,  wae  below  the  average  of  that  of  women. 
So  much  for  that  aiganMnll 


FAMILY  AND  HOME.  ^ 

sometimetf  dreamed  I  eonld  have  made  my  mark  and  done 
some  maseoUae  service  to  my  fellow-ereatoreB.  Bat  the 
woman's  destiny  which  God  allotted  to  me  has  heen,  I  do 
not  question,  the  hest  and  happiest  for  me;  nor  have  I 
ever  seriously  wished  it  had  heen  otherwise,  alheit  I  have 
gone  through  life  without  that  interest  which  has  heen 
styled  "  woman's  whole  existence."  Perhaps  if  this  hook  he 
found  to  have  any  value  it  will  partly  consist  in  the  evidence 
it  must  afford  of  how  pleasant  and  interesting,  and  withal,  I 
hope,  not  altogether  useless  a  life  is  open  to  a  woman,  though 
no  man  has  ever  desired  to  share  it,  nor  has  she  seen 
the  man  she  would  have  wished  to  ask  her  to  do  so. 
The  days  which  many  maidens  my  contemporaries  and 
acquaintances, — 

**  Lost  in  wooing 
In  watching  and  pursuing," — 

(or  in  being  pursued,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing)  ;  were 
spent  by  me,  free  from  all  such  distractions,  in  study  and  in 
the  performance  of  happy  and  healthful  filial  and  housewifely 
duties.  Destiny,  too,  was  kind  to  me,  likewise,  by  relieving 
me  from  care  respecting  the  other  great  object  of  human 
anxiety, — ^to  wit,  Money.  The  prophet's  prayer,  ''  Give  me 
neither  poverty  nor  riches"  was  granted  to  me,  and  I 
have  probably  needed  to  spend  altogether  fewer  thoughts  on 
&  s.  d.  than  could  happen  to  anyone  who  has  either  to 
solve  the  problems  ''  How  to  keep  the  Wolf  from  the  door  " 
and  "How  to  make  both  ends  meet?"  or  ''How,  justly 
and  conscientiously,  to  expend  a  large  income  ?  "  Wealth 
has  only  come  to  me  in  my  old  age,  and  now  it  is  easy  to 
know  how  to  spend  it.  Thus  it  has  happened  that  in  early 
womanhood  and  middle  life  I  enjoyed  a  degree  of  real  leisure 
of  mind  possessed  by  few ;  and  to  it,  I  think,  must  be  chiefly 
attributed  anything  which  in  my  doings  may  have  worn  the 


6  CHAPTER  L 

semblanoe  of  exoeptional  ability.     I  had  good,  sound  working 

brains  to  start  with,  and  much  fewer  hindrances  than  the 

nuyority  of   women    in  improving    and    employing    them. 

VoUa  touL 

I  began  by  saying  that  I  was  well-born  in  the  tme  sense 

of  the  words,  being  the  child  of  parents  morally  good  and 

physically    sonnd.      I  reckon   it    also    to    have    been    an 

advantage, — ^thongh  immeasurably  a  minor  one, — ^to  have 

been  well-bom,  likewise,  in  the  conventional  sense.    My 

ancestors,  it  is  tme,  were  rather  like  those  of  Sir  Leicester 

Dedlock,  "  chiefly  remarkable  for  never  having  done  anything 

remarkable  for  so  many  generations."*      Bat  they  were 

honourable  specimens  of  coonty  squires ;  and  never,  during 

the  four  centuries  through  which  I  have  traced  them,  do  they 

'1  ■ 

*  The  aphorism  so  often  applied  to  little  girls,  that  "  it  is  better 
to  be  good  than  pretty,"  may,  with  greater  hope  of  snooess,  be 
applied  to  family  names ;  bat  I  fear  mine  is  neither  imposing  nor 
sonorooB.  I  may  say  of  it  (as  I  remarked  to  the  oharming  Teresa 
Dona  when  she  ridiculed  the  Swiss  for  their  meaqtdn  names,  all 
ending  in  "tn"),  **  Everybody  cannot  have  the  luck  to  be  able  to 
sign  themselves  Doria  nata  Dorazzo !  "  Nevertheless  *'  Gobbe  "  is 
a  very  old  name  (Iieurioaa  Cobbe  held  lands  in  Suffolk,  vide 
Domesday),  and  it  is  curiously  widespread  as  a  word  in  most 
Aryan  languages,  signifying  either  the  head  (literal  or  meta- 
phorical), or  a  head-shaped  object.  I  am  no  philologist,  and  I 
dare  say  my  examples  offend  against  some  "  law,"  and  therefore 
cannot  be  admitted ;  but  it  is  at  least  odd  that  we  should  find 
Latin,  **  Caput;"  Italian,  Capo;  Spanish,  Cabo;  Saxon,  Cop; 
Qerman,  Kopf,  Then  we  have,  as  derivates  from  the  physical 
head,  Cape,  Capstan^  Cap,  Cope,  Copse  or  Coppice,  Coping  Stone, 
Copped^  Cup,  Cupola,  Cub,  Cubicle,  Kobhold,  Oobho;  and  from 
the  metaphorical  Head  or  Chief,  Captain,  Capital,  Capitation 
Capitulate,  <fto.  And  again,  we  have  a  multitude  of  names  for 
objects  obviously  signifying  head-shaped,  e.g,.  Cob-hone,  Cob-nut, 
Coh-guU,  Cob-herring,  Cob-ewan,  Cob-coal,  Cob-iron,  Cob-waU;  a 
Cock  (of  hay),  according  to  Johnson,  properly  a  *'  Cop  "  of  hay ;  the 
Cobb  (or  Headland)  at  Lyme  Begis,  &o.,  &o. ;  the  Eobb6  fiord  in 
Norwav,  Ao^ 


FAMILY  AND   HOME.  7 

seem  to  hayo  been  guilty  of  any  action  of  which  I  need  to  be 
ashamed. 

My  mother's  father  was  Captain  Thomas  Conway,  of 
Morden  Park,  representative  of  a  branch  of  that  family.  Her 
only  brother  was  A^ntant-General  Conway,  whose  name 
Lord  Roberts  has  kindly  informed  me  is  still,  after  fifty  years, 
an  "  honoured  word  in  Madras."  My  father's  progenitors 
were,  from  the  fifteenth  century,  for  many  generations 
owners  of  Swarraton,  now  Lord  Ashburton's  beautiful 
"  Ghiinge  "  in  Hampshire ;  the  scene  of  poor  Mrs.  Carlyle's 
mortifications.  While  at  Swarraton  the  heads  of  the  family 
married,  in  their  later  generations,  the  daughters  ot 
Welbome  of  Allington ;  of  Sir  John  Owen ;  of  Sir  Bichard 
Norton  of  Botherfield  (whose  wife  was  the  daughter  of  Bishop 
Bilson,  one  of  the  translators  of  the  Bible) ;  and  of  James 
Chaloner,  Governor  of  the  Isle  of  Man,  one  of  the  Judges  oi 
Charles  I.  The  wife  of  this  last  remarkable  man  was  Ursula 
Fair&z,  niece  of  Lord  Fairfax.* 

On  one  occasion  only  do  the  Cobbes  of  Swarraton  seem 
to  have  transcended  the  ''Dedlock"  programme.  Bichard 
Cobbe  was  En^ht  of  the  Shire  for  Hants  in  Cromwell's 
short  Parliament  of  1666,  with  Bichard  Cromwell  for  a 
colleague.  What  he  did  therein  History  saith  not!  The 
grandson  of  this  Bichard  Cobbe,  a  younger  son  named 
Charles,  went  to  Ireland  in  1717  as  Chaplain  to  the  Duke  ot 
Bolton  with  whom  he  was  connected  through  the  Norton's ; 
and  a  few  years  later  he  was  appointed  Archbishop  of  Dublin, 
— a  post  which  he  held  with  great  honour  until  his  death  in 
1765.  On  every  occasion  when  penal  laws  against  Catholics 
were  proposed  in  the  Irish  House  of  Lords  Archbishop  Cobbe 

*  As  Buch  things  as  mythical  pedigrees  are  not  altogether  unknown 
in  the  world,  I  beg  to  say  that  I  have  myself  noted  the  above 
from  Harleian  MS.  in  British  Mnseom  1473  and  1139.  Also  in 
the  College  of  Arms,  0. 16,  p.  74,  and  C.  19,  p.  104. 


8  OHAPTEB  I. 

contended  vigorondy  against  them,  dividing  the  Hoase  again 
and  again  on  the  Bills ;  and  his  nmnerons  letters  and  papers 
in  the  Irish  State-Paper  office  (as  Mr.  Eroade  has  assured 
me  after  inspection)  hear  high  testimony  to  his  liherality  and 
integrity  in  that  age  of  corruption.  Two  traditions  con- 
cerning him  have  a  certain  degree  of  general  interest.  One, 
that  John  Wesley  called  npon  him  at  his  country  honse, — ^my 
old  home,  Newhridge ; — and  that  the  interview  was  perfectly 
friendly ;  Wesley  approving  himself  and  his  work  to  the 
Archhishop's  mind.  The  other  is ;  that  when  Handel  came 
to  Dnhlin,  bringing  with  him  the  MS.  of  the  Messiahf  of 
which  he  conld  not  succeed  in  obtaining  the  production  in 
London,  Archbishop  Cobbe,  then  Bishop  of  Eildare,  took 
lively  interest  in  the  work,  and  under  his  patronage,  as  well 
as  that  of  several  Irishmen  of  rank,  the  great  Oratorio  was 
produced  in  Dublin. 

Good  Archbishop  Cobbe  had  not  neglected  the  afiairs  of 
his  own  household.  He  bought  considerable  estates  in 
Louth,  Carlow,  and  Co.  Dublin,  and  on  the  latter,  about 
twelve  miles  north  of  Dublin  and  two  miles  from  the  pretty 
rocky  coast  of  Portrane,  he  built  his  country-house  of 
Newbridge,  which  has  ever  since  been  the  home  of  our 
&mily.  As  half  my  life  is  connected  with  this  dear  old 
place,  I  hope  the  reader  will  look  at  the  pictures  of  it  which 
must  be  inserted  in  this  book  and  think  of  it  as  it  was  in  my 
youth,  bright  and  smiling  and  yet  dignified ;  bosomed  among 
its  old  trees  and  with  the  green,  wide-spreading  park  opened 
out  before  the  noble  granite  perron  of  the  hall  door.  There 
is  another  country-house  on  the  a^oining  estate,  Turvey,  the 
property  of  Lord  Trimleston,  and  I  have  often  amused  myself 
by  comparing  the  two.  Turvey  is  really  a  wicked-looking 
house,  with  half-moon  windows  which  suggest  leering  eyes^ 
and  partition  walls  so  thick  that  secret  passages  run  through 
them;  and  bedrooms  with  tapestry  and  ruelles  and  hidden 


FAMILY  AHm  BOMB.  9 

doors  in  the  wainscot.  There  were  there,  abo,  when  I  was 
young,  eertain  very  objectionahle  pictures,  beside  several 
portraits  of  the  **  beauties  "  of  Charles  n.'s  court,  (to  the  last 
degree  decoUetSes)  who  had  been,  no  doubt,  friends  of  the 
first  master  of  the  house,  their  contemporary.  In  the 
garden  was  a  grotto  with  a  deep  cold  bath  in  it,  which,  in 
the  climate  of  Ireland,  suggested  suicide  rather  than  ablution. 
Altogether  the  place  had  the  same  suggestiveness  of  "  deeds 
of  darkness  "  which  I  remember  feeling  profoundly  when  I 
went  over  Holyrood  with  Dr.  John  Brown ;  and  it  was  quite 
natural  to  attach  to  Turvey  one  of  the  worst  of  the 
traditional  Irish  curses.  This  curse  was  pronounced  by  the 
Abbess  of  the  neighbouring  convent  (long  in  ruins)  of 
Grace-Dieu  when  Lord  Eingsland,  then  lord  of  Turvey,  had 
by  some  nefarious  means  induced  the  English  Government  of 
the  day  to  make  over  the  lands  of  the  convent  to  himself. 
On  announcing  this  intelligence  in  his  own  hall  to  the 
assembled  nuns,  the  poor  ladies  took  refuge  very  naturally  in 
malediction,  went  down  simultaneously  on  their  knees,  and 
repeated  after  their  Abbess  a  denunciation  of  Heaven's 
vengeance  on  the  traitor.  '<  There  should  never  want  an 
idiot  or  a  law-suit  in  the  &mily ;  and  the  rightful  heir  should 
never  see  the  smoke  of  the  chimney."  Needless  to  add, 
law-suits  and  idiots  have  been  plentiful  ever  since,  and,  after 
several  generations  of  absentees,  Turvey  stands  in  a  treeless 
desert,  and  has  descended  in  the  world  from  lordly  to  humble 
owners. 

How  different  was  Newbridge  I  Built  not  by  a  dissolute 
courtier  of  Charles  H.,  but  by  the  sensible  Whig,  and 
eminently  Protestant  Archbishop,  it  has  as  open  and  honest  a 
countenance  as  its  neighbour  has  the  reverse.  The  solid 
walls,  about  three  feet  and  a-half  thick  in  most  parts,  keep 
out  the  cold,  but  neither  darken  the  large,  lofty  rooms,  nor 
afford  space  for  devious  and  secret  passages.    The  ho^ap 


10  CHAPTER   I. 

stands  broadly-built  and  strong,  not  higb  or  fro\ming;  its 
Portland-stone  colonr  warm  against  the  green  of  Irish  woods 
and  grass.  Within  doors  every  room  is  airy  and  lightsome, 
and  more  than  one  is  beautifal.  There  is  a  fine  staircase  ont 
of  the  second  hall,  the  walls  of  which  are  covered  with  old 
£unily  pictures  which  the  Archbishop  had  obtained  from  his 
elder  brother,  CoL  Bichard  Chaloner  Cobbe,  who  had  some- 
how lost  Swarraton,  and  whose  line  ended  in  an  heiress,  wife 
of  the  11th  Earl  of  Huntingdon.  A  long  corridor  downstairs 
was,  I  have  heard,  formerly  hung  from  end  to  end  with  arms 
intended  for  defence  in  case  of  attack.  When  the  BebeUion 
of  1798  took  place  the  weapons  were  hidden  in  a  hole  into 
which  I  have  peered,  under  the  floor  of  a  room  off  the  great 
drawing-room,  but  what  became  of  them  afterwards  I  do 
not  know.  My  ffti^er  possessed  only  a  few  pairs  of  handsome 
pistols,  two  or  three  blunderbusses,  sundry  guns  of  various 
kinds,  and  his  own  regimental  sword  which  he  had  used  at 
Assaye.  All  these  hung  in  his  study.  The  drawing-room 
with  its  noble  proportions  and  its  fifby-three  pictures  by 
Vandyke,  Buysdael,  Guercino,  Yanderveldt  and  other  old 
masters,  was  the  glory  of  the  house.  In  it  the  happiest 
hours  of  my  life  were  passed. 

Of  this  house  and  of  the  various  estates  bought  and  leased 
by  the  Archbishop  his  only  surviving  son,  Thomas  Cobbe,  my 
great-grandfather,  came  into  possession  in  the  year  1766. 
Irreverently  known  to  his  posterity  as  ''  Old  Tommy  "  this 
gentleman  after  the  fashion  of  his  contemporaries  muddled 
away  in  keeping  open  house  a  good  deal  of  the  property,  and 
eventually  sold  one  estate  and  (what  was  worse)  his  father's 
fine  library.  Per  contra  he  made  the  remarkable  collection  of 
pictures  of  which  I  have  spoken  as  adorning  the  walls  of 
Newbridge.  Pilkington,  the  author  of  the  Dictionary  of 
PainterSf  was  incumbent  of  the  little  Vicarage  of  Donabate, 
and  naturally  somewhat  in  the  relation  of  chaplain  to  the 


WAMTLY  AND  HOME.  11 

squire  of  Newbridge,  who  had  the  good  sense  to  send  him  to 
Holland  and  Italy  to  bnj  the  above-mentioned  pictures,  many 
of  which  are  described  in  the  Dictionary.  Some  time 
previously,  when  Pilkington  had  come  out  as  an  Art-critic, 
the  Archbishop  had  remonstrated  with  him  on  his  unclerical 
pursuit;  but  the  poor  man  disarmed  episcopal  censure  by 
replying, ''  Your  Qrace,  I  have  preached  for  a  dozen  years  to 
an  old  woman  who  can't  hear,  and  to  a  young  woman  who 
wonH  hear ;  and  now  I  think  I  may  attend  to  other  things !  *' 
Thomas  Cobbe's  wife's  name  has  been  often  before  the 
public  in  connection  with  the  story,  told  by  Crabbe,  Walter 
Scott  and  many  others,  of  the  lady  who  wore  a  black 
ribbon  on  her  wrist  to  conceal  the  marks  of  a  ghost's 
fingers.  The  real  ghost-seer  in  question.  Lady  Beresford, 
was  confounded  by  many  with  her  granddaughter  Lady  Eliza 
Beresford,  or,  as  she  was  commonly  called  after  her  marriage, 
Lady  Betty  Cobbe.  How  the  confusion  came  about  I  do  not 
know,  but  Lady  Betty,  who  was  a  spirited  woman  much 
renowned  in  the  palmy  days  of  Bath,  was  very  indignant 
when  asked  any  questions  on  the  subject.  Once  she  received 
a  letter  from  one  of  Queen  Charlotte's  Ladies-in- Waiting 
begging  her  to  tell  the  Queen  the  true  story.  Lady  Betty  in 
reply  "  presented  her  compliments  but  was  sure  the  Queen  of 
England  would  not  pry  into  the  private  affiurs  of  her  subjects, 
and  had  no  intention  of  gratifying  the  impertinent  curiosity  of  a 
Lady 4?^  Waiting  I ' '  Considerable  labour  was  expended  some 
years  ago  by  the  late  Primate  (Marcus  Beresford)  of  Ireland, 
another  descendant  of  the  ghost-seer  in  identifying  the  real 
personages  and  dates  of  this  curious  tradition.  The  story 
which  came  to  me  directly  through  my  great-aunt,  Hon. 
Mrs.  Henry  Pelham,  Lady  Betty's  fietvourite  daughter,  was, 
that  the  ghost  was  John  Le  Poer,  Second  Earl  of  Tyrone ; 
and  the  ghost-seer  was  his  cousin,  Nichola  Hamilton,  daughter 
of  liord  Glerawl^,  wife  of  Sir  Tristram  Beresford.     The 


IS  OSAPTBE  i. 

eoturins  had  promised  each  other  to  appear, — ^whichever  of 
them  first  departed  this  life, — ^to  the  survivor.  Lady 
Beresford,  who  did  not  know  that  Lord  Tyrone  was  dead, 
awoke  one  night  and  found  him  sitting  hy  her  hedside.  He 
gave  her  (so  goes  the  story)  a  short,  hat,  nnder  the  circom- 
stances,  no  donht  impressive  lesson,  in  the  elements  of 
orthodox  theology ;  and  then  to  satisfy  her  of  the  reality  of 
his  presence,  which  she  persisted  in  donhting,  he  twisted 
the  curtains  of  her  hed  through  a  ring  in  the  ceiling,  placed 
his  hand  on  a  wardrohe  and  left  on  it  the  ominous  mark  of 
five  huming  fingers  (the  late  Hon.  and  Kev.  Edward  Taylor 
of  Ardgillan  Castle  told  me  he  had  seen  this  wardrohe  I )  and 
finally  touched  her  wrist,  which  shrunk  incontinently  and 
never  recovered  its  natural  hue.  Before  he  vanished  the 
Ghost  told  Lady  Beresford  that  her  son  should  marry  his 
brother's  daughter  and  heiress ;  and  that  she  herself  should 
die  at  the  birth  of  a  child  after  a  second  marriage,  in  her 
forty-second  year.  All  these  prophecies,  of  course,  came  to 
pass.  From  the  marriage  of  Sir  Marcus  Beresford  with  the 
ghost's  niece,  Catharine,  Baroness  Le  Poer  of  Curraghmore, 
has  descended  the  whole  dan  of  Irish  Beresfords.  He 
was  created  Earl  of  Tyrone;  his  eldest  son  was  the  first 
Marquis  of  Waterford ;  another  son  was  Archbishop  of  Tuam, 
created  Lord  Decies ;  and  his  fifth  daughter  was  the  Lady 
Betty  Cobbe,  my  great-grandmother,  concerning  whom  I  have 
told  this  old  story.  In  these  days  of  Psychological  Research 
I  could  not  take  on  myself  to  omit  it,  though  my  own  private 
impression  is,  that  Lady  Beresford  accidentally  gave  her 
wrist  a  severe  blow  against  her  bedstead  whUe  she  was 
asleep ;  and  that,  by  a  law  of  dreaming  which  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  trace  in  my  essay  on  the  subject,  her  mind 
instantly  created  the  myth  of  Lord  Tyrone's  apparition. 
Allowing  for  a  fiur  amount  of  subsequent  agglomeration  of 
incidents  and  wonders  in  the  tradition,  this  hypothesis,  I  thi|ik 


fAMILT  AND  HOME.  18 

qniie  meets  the  exigencies  of  the  ease ;  and  in  obedienoe  to 
the  law  of  Pttrsimony,  we  need  not  ran  to  a  pretematnral 
explanation  of  the  Black  Ribbon  on  the  Wrist,  no  donbt  the 
aetoal  nnolens  of  the  tale. 

I  do  not  ({tsbelieye  in  ghosts ;  bat  nnfortonately  I  have 
never  been  able  comfortably  to  believe  in  any  particolar 
ghost-story.  The  overwhelming  argament  against  the 
veracity  of  the  minority  of  such  narrations  is,  that  they  con- 
tradict the  great  trath  beaatifally  set  forth  by  Soathey— 

** They  sin  who  tell  vs  Ijove  can  die! — 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly 
All  others  are  hut  vanity — 
In  Heaven,  Amhition  cannot  dwell, 
Nor  Avarice  in  the  vanlts  d  helL 
Earthly  these  passions  as  of  earth, 
They  perlah  where  they  had  their  births— 
But  Love  is  indestructible.  ..." 

The  ghost  of  popalar  belief  almost  invariably  exhibits  the 
survival  of  Avarice,  Revenge,  or  some  other  thoroughly 
earthly  passion,  while  for  the  sake  of  the  purest,  noblest, 
tendereet  Love  scarcely  ever  has  a  single  Spirit  of  the 
departed  been  even  supposed  to  return  to  comfort  the  heart 
which  death  has  left  desolate.  The  fiemious  story  of  Miss  Lee 
18  one  exception  to  this  rule,  and  so  is  another  tale  which  I 
found  recorded  in  an  MS.  Memorandum  in  the  writing  of  my 
uncle  the  Rev.  Henry  Cobbe,  Rector  of  Templeton  {died  1828). 
''  Lady  Moira'*'  was  at  one  time  extremely  uneasy  about  her 
sister.  Lady  Selina  Hastings,  from  whom  she  had  not  heard 
for  a  considerable  time.  One  night  she  dreamed  that  her 
sister  came  to  her,  sat  down  by  her  bedside,  and  said  to  her, 
*  'Mj  dear  sister,  I  am  dying  of  £Bver.  They  will  not  tell  you 
of  it  because  of  your  situation '  (she  was  then  with  child), 

*  Wile  of  Thomas  Oobbe's  haU-brother. 


14  CHAPTER  I. 

*  bat  I  shall  die,  and  the  acconnt  will  be  bronght  to  yonr 
husband  by  letter  directed  like  a  foreign  one  in  a  foreign 
hand.*  She  told  her  dream  to  her  attendant,  Mrs.  Moth,  as 
soon  as  she  awoke,  was  extremely  unhappy  for  letters,  till 
at  length,  Hie  day  after,  there  arrived  one,  directed  as  she 
had  been  told,  which  contained  an  account  of  her  sister's 
death.  It  had  been  written  by  her  brother.  Lord  Huntingdon, 
and  in  a  feigned  hand,  lest  she  should  ask  to  know  the 
contents. 

'^  She  had  many  other  extraordinary  dreams,  and  it  is 
very  remarkable  that  after  i&e  death  of  her  attendant,  Moth, 
who  had  educated  her  and  her  children,  and  was  the  niece  of 
the  £Eunous  Bishop  Hough,  that  she  (Moth)  generally  took  a 
part  in  them,  particularly  if  they  related  to  any  loss  in  her 
fiEunily.  Indeed,  I  believe  she  never  dreamed  of  her  except 
when  she  was  to  undergo  a  loss.  Lady  Granard  told  me  an 
instance  of  this :  Her  second  son  Colonel  Bawdon  died  very 
suddenly.  He  had  not  been  on  good  terms  with  Lady 
Moira  for  some  time.  One  night  she  dreamed  that  Moth 
came  into  the  room,  and  upon  her  asking  her  what  she 
wanted  she  said,  '  My  lady,  I  am  come  to  bring  the  Colonel 
to  you.'  Then  he  entered,  came  near  her,  and  coming 
within  the  curtains,  sat  on  the  bed  and  said,  '  My  dearest 
mother,  I  am  going  a  very  long  journey,  and  I  cannot  bear 
to  go  without  the  assurance  of  your  forgiveness.'  Then  she 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  said,  '  Dear  Son,  can 
you  doubt  my  forgiving  you  ?  But  where  are  you  going  ? ' 
He  replied,  '  A  long  journey,  but  I  am  happy  now  that  I 
have  seen  you.'  The  next  day  she  received  an  account  of 
his  death. 

^' About  a  fortnight  before  her  death,  when  Lady  Granard 
and  Lady  Charlotte  Bawdon,  her  daughters,  were  sitting  up 
in  her  room,  she  awoke  suddenly,  very  ill  and  very  much 
agitated,  sajdng  that  she  had  dreamed  that  Mrs.  Moth  came 


FAMILY  AND   HOME.  15 

into  her  room.  When  she  saw  her  she  was  so  full  of  the  idea 
that  evils  always  attended  her  appearance  that  she  said,  '  Ah, 
Moth,  I  fear  you  are  come  for  my  Selina'  (Lady  G.). 
Moth  replied,  '  No,  my  Lady,  hut  I  am  come  for  Mr.  John.' 
They  gave  her  composing  drops  and  soothed  her ;  she  soon 
fell  asleep,  and  from  that  time  never  mentioned  her  son's 
name  nor  made  any  inquiry  about  him ;  but  he  died  on  the 
very  day  of  her  dream,  though  she  never  knew  it." 

Old  Thomas  Cobbe  and  after  him  his  only  son,  Charles 
Cobbe,  represented  the  (exceedingly-rotten)  Borough  of  Swords 
for  a  great  many  years  in  the  Lish  Parliamenti  which  was 
then  in  its  glory,  resonant  with  the  eloquence  of  Flood  (who 
had  married  Lady  Betty's  sister.  Lady  Jane)  and  of  Henry 
Qrattan.  On  searching  the  archives  of  Dublin,  however,  in 
the  hope  of  discovering  that  our  great-grandfather  had  done 
some  public  good  in  his  time,  my  brother  and  I  had  the 
mortification  to  find  that  on  the  only  occasion  when  reference 
was  made  to  his  name,  it  was  in  connection  with  charges  of 
bribery  and  corruption  I  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  recorded  to 
his  honour  that  he  was  almost  the  only  one  among  the  Members 
of  the  L*ish  Parliament  who  voted  for  the  Union,  and  yet 
refused  either  a  peerage  or  money  compensation  for  his  seat. 
Instead  of  these  he  obtained  for  Swords  some  educational 
endowments  by  which  I  believe  the  little  town  still  profits. 
In  the  record  of  corruption  sent  by  Lord  Bandolph  Churchill 
to  the  Timss  (May  29th,  1898),  in  which  appears  a  charge  of 
interested  motives  against  nearly  every  Member  of  the  Irish 
Parliament  of  1784,  "Mr.  Cobbe  "  stands  honourably  alone 
as  without  any  "  object "  whatever. 

Thomas  Cobbe's  two  daughters,  my  great-aunts  and 
immediate  predecessors  as  the  Misses  Cobbe,  of  Newbridgei 
(my  grandfather  having  only  sons)  differed  considerably  in  all 
respects  from  their  unworthy  niece.  They  occupied,  so 
said  tradition,   the  large  cheerful    room  which  afterwards 


16  CHAPTER   L 

beeame  my  irarBery.  A  beam  across  the  ceiling  still  bore, 
in  my  time,  a  large  iron  staple  firmly  fixed  in  the  centre  from 
whence  had  dangled  a  hand-swing.  On  this  swing  my  great- 
aunts  were  wont  to  hang  by  their  armsi  to  enable  their  maids 
to  lace  their  stays  to  greater  advantage.  One  of  them,  after- 
wards the  Hon.  Mrs.  Henry  Pelham,  Lady-in- Waiting  to 
Queen  Caroline,  likewise  wore  the  high-heeled  shoes  of  the 
period;  and  when  she  was  an  aged  woman  she  showed 
her  horribly  deformed  feet  to  one  of  my  brothers,  and 
remarked  to  him:  ^'See,  Tom,  what  comes  of  high- 
heeled  shoes  ! "  I  am  afraid  many  of  the  girls  now  wearing 
similarly  monstrous  foot-gear  will  learn  the  same  lesson  too 
late.  Mrs.  Pelham,  I  have  heard,  was  the  person  who  prac- 
tically brought  the  house  about  the  ears  of  the  unfortunate 
Queen  Caroline ;  being  the  first  to  throw  up  her  appointment 
at  Court  when  she  became  aware  of  the  Queen's  private 
on-goings.  Her  own  character  stood  high  ;  and  the  fact  that 
she  would  no  longer  serve  the  Queen  naturally  called  attention 
to  all  the  circumstances.  Bad  as  Queen  Caroline  was, 
George  the  Fourth  was  assuredly  worse  than  she.  In  his 
old  age  he  was  personally  very  disgusting.  My  mother  told 
me  that  when  she  received  his  kiss  on  presentation  at  his 
Drawing  Boom,  the  contact  with  his  face  was  sickening,  like 
that  with  a  corpse.  I  still  possess  the  dress  she  wore  on 
that  occasion. 

Mrs.  Pelham's  sister  married  Sir  Henry  Tuite,  of  Sonnagh, 
and  for  many  years  of  her  widowhood  lived  in  the  Circus, 
Bath,  and  perhaps  may  still  be  remembered  there  by  a  few 
as  driving  about  her  own  team  of  four  horses  in  her  curricle, 
in  days  when  such  doings  by  ladies  were  more  rare  than  they 
are  now. 

The  only  brother  of  these  two  Miss  Cobbes  of  the  past, 
Charles  Cobbe,  of  Newbridge,  M.P.,  married  Anne  Power 
Trenchi  of  Oarballyi  sister  of  the  first  Earl  of  Clancarty. 


FAMILY  AND   HOME.  17 

The  mnltitndinoaB  clans  of  Trenches  and  Moncks,  in  addition 
to  Lady  Betty's  Beresford  relations,  of  coarse  thenceforth 
adopted  the  habit  of  paying  visitations  at  Newbridge. 
Arriving  by  coachloads,  with  trains  of  servants,  they  remained 
for  months  at  a  time.  A  pack  of  hounds  was  kept,  and  the 
whole  troMi  de  vie  was  liberal  in  the  extreme.  Natnrally, 
after  a  certain  number  of  years  of  this  kind  of  thing,  embar- 
rassments beset  the  fiunily  finances ;  bnt  fortunately  at  the 
crisis  Lady  Betty  came  under  the  influence  of  her  husband's 
cousin,  the  Methodist  Countess  of  Huntingdon,  and  ere  long 
renounced  the  vanities  and  pleasures  of  the  world,  and  per- 
suaded her  husband  to  retire  with  her  and  live  quietly  at 
Bath,  where  they  died  and  were  buried  in  Weston  church- 
yard. Fifty  years  afterwards  I  found  in  the  library  at 
Newbridge  the  little  batch  of  books  which  had  belonged  to  my 
great-grandmother  in  this  phase  of  her  hie,  and  were  marked 
by  her  pencil :  Jacob  Boehmen  and  the  Life  of  Madame  Ghuyon 
being  tiiose  which  I  now  recall.  The  peculiar,  ecstatic 
pietism  which  these  books  breathe,  differing  toto  ccdo  from 
the  ''other  worldliness  "  of  the  divines  of  about  1810,  with 
whose  works  the  ''Good-book  Bows"  of  our  library  were 
replenished,  impressed  me  very  vividly.'*' 

I  have  often  tried  to  construct  in  my  mind  some  sort  of 
picture  of  the  society  which  existed  in  Ireland  a  hundred 
years  ago,  and  moved  in  those  old  rooms  wherein  the  first 
half  of  my  life  was  spent,  but  I  have  found  it  a  very  baffling 

*  Iiady  Huntingdon  was  doubly  connected  with  Thomas  Cobbe. 
She  was  his  first  ooasm,  daughter  of  his  maternal  aunt  Selina 
Cknintefls  of  Ferrers,  and  mother  of  his  sister-in-law,  Elizabeth 
Coxintess  of  Moira.  The  pictures  of  Dorothy  Levinge,  and  of  her 
father ;  of  Lady  Ferrers ;  and  of  Lord  Moira  and  his  wife,  all  of 
which  hang  in  the  halls  at  Newbridge,  made  me  as  a  child,  think 
of  them  as  familiar  people.  Unfortunately  the  portrait  of  chief 
interest,  that  of  Lady  Huntingdon,  is  missing  in  the  series. 

VOL.   I.  B 


18  CHAPTER  L 

undertaking.  Apparency  it  combined  a  considerable  amount 
of  {esthetic  taste  with  traits  of  genuine  barbarism ;  and  high 
religious  pretension  with  a  disregard  of  everyday  duties  and 
a  pencJiant  for  gambling  and  drinking  which  would  now 
place  the  most  avowedly  worldly  persons  under  a  cloud  of 
opprobrium.  Card-playing  was  carried  on  incessantly. 
Tradition  says  that  the  tables  were  laid  for  it  on  rainy  days 
at  10  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  Newbridge  drawing-room ; 
and  on  every  day  in  the  interminable  evenings  which 
followed  the  then  fashionable  four  o'clock  dinner.  My 
grandmother  was  so  excellent  a  whist-player  that  to  extreme 
old  age  in  Bath  she  habitually  made  a  small,  but  appreciable, 
addition  to  her  income  out  of  her  "  card  purse  "  ;  an  orna- 
mental appendage  of  the  toilet  then,  and  even  in  my  time,  in 
universal  use.  I  was  given  one  as  a  birthday  present  in  my 
tenth  year.  She  was  greatly  respected  by  all,  and  beloved 
by  her  five  sons ;  every  one  of  whom,  however,  she  had  sent 
f  out  to  be  nursed  at  a  cottage  in  the  park  till  they  were  three 

years  old.  Her  motherly  duties  were  supposed  to  be 
amply  fulfilled  by  occasionally  stopping  her  carriage  to  see 
how  the  children  were  getting  on. 

As  to  the  drinking  among  the  men,  (the  women  seem 
not  to  have  shared  the  vice)  it  must  have  prevailed  to  a 
disgusting  extent  upstairs  and  downstairs.  A  fuddled 
condition  after  dinner  was  accepted  aa  the  normal  one  of  a 
gentleman,  and  entailed  no  sort  of  disgrace.  On  the 
contrary,  my  father  has  told  me  that  in  his  youth  his  own 
extreme  sobriety  gave  constant  offence  to  his  grandfather,  and 
to  his  comrades  in  the  army ;  and  only  by  showing  the  latter 
that  he  would  sooner  fight  than  be  bullied  to  drink  to  excess 
could  he  obtain  peace.  Unhappily,  poor  man  I  whfle  his 
grandfather,  who  seldom  went  to  bed  quite  sober  for  forty 
years,  lived  to  the  fine  old  age  of  82,  ei^'oying  good  health 
to  the  last,  his  temperate  grandson  inherited  the  gout  and  in 


FAMILY  AND  HOMS.  U 

his  latter  years  was  a  martyr  thereto.  Among  the  exceed- 
ingly beantiM  old  Indian  and  old  Worcester  china  which 
belonged  to  Thomas  Oobbe  and  showed  his  good  taste  and  also 
the  splendid  scale  of  his  entertainments  (one  dessert-service 
for  86  persons  was  magnificent)  there  stands  a  large  goblet 
calculated  to  hold  ikree  botUes  of  wine.  This  glass  (tradition 
avers)  nsed  to  be  filled  with  claret,  seven  guineas  were  placed 
at  the  bottom,  and  he  who  drank  it  pocketed  the  coin. 

The  behaviour  of  these  Anglo-Irish  gentry  of  the  lost 
century  to  their  tenants  and  dependants  seems  to  have  pro- 
ceeded on  the  truly  Irish  principle  of  being  generous  before 
you  are  just.  The  poor  people  lived  in  miserable  hovels 
which  nobody  dreamed  of  [repairing ;  but  then  they  were 
welcome  to  come  and  eat  and  drink  at  the  great  house  on 
every  excuse  or  without  any  excuse  at  all.  This  state  of 
things  was  so  perfectly  in  harmony  with  Celtic  ideas  that 
the  dskjB  when  it  prevailed  ore  still  sighed  after  as  the  **  good 
old  times."  Of  course  there  was  a  great  deal  of  Lady 
Bountiful  business,  and  also  of  medical  charity- work  going 
forward.  Archbishop  Oobbe  was  fully  impressed  with  the 
merits  of  the  Tar- water  so  marvellously  set  forth  by  his 
suf&ugon.  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  I  have  seen  in  his  hand- 
writing in  a  book  of  his  wife's  cookery  receipts,  a  receipt 
£ar  making  it,  beginning  with  the  formidable  item  :  '^  Take 
six  gallons  of  the  best  French  brandy."  Lady  Betty  was 
a  famous  compounder  of  simples,  and  of  things  that  were 
not  simple,  and  a  *'  Ohilblain  Plaister  "  which  bore  her  name, 
was  not  many  years  ago  still  to  be  procured  in  the  chemists' 
shops  in  Bath.  I  fear  her  prescriptions  were  not  always  of 
so  unambitious  a  kind  as  this.  One  day  she  stopped  a  man 
on  the  road  and  asked  his  name — **  Ah,  then,  my  lady,"  was 
the  reply,  ''  don't  you  remember  me  ?  Why,  I  am  the 
husband  of  the  woman  your  ladyship  gave  the  medicine  to 
and  she  died  the  next  day,     Lang  Ufe  to  your  Ladyship  I  " 


20  OHAPTBB  I. 

As  I  have  said,  the  open-housekeeping  at  Newfaridge  at  last 
eame  to  an  end,  and  the  family  migrated  to  No.  9  and  No.  22, 
Marlborongh  Buildings,  Bath,  where  two  generations  spent 
their  latter  years,  died,  and  were  huried  in  Weston  ohnrch' 
yard,  where  I  have  lately  restored  their  tomb-stones. 

My  grandfather  died  long  before  his  &ther,  and  my  &tfaeri 
another  Charles  Cobbe,  found  himself  at  eighteen  pretty  well 
his  own  master,  the  eldest  of  five  brothers.  He  had  been 
edacated  at  Winchester,  where  his  ancestors  for  eleven 
generations  went  to  school  in  the  old  days  of  Swarraton ; 
and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  wont  to  recite  lines  of 
Anacreon  learned  therein.  But  his  tastes  were  active  rather 
than  studious,  and  disliking  the  idea  of  hanging  about  his 
mother's  house  till  his  grand&ther's  death  should  put  him  in 
possession  of  Newbridge,  he  listened  with  an  enchanted  ear 
to  a  glowing  account  which  somebody  gave  him  of  India, 
where  the  Mahratta  wars  were  just  beginning. 

Without  much  reflection  or  delay,  he  obtained  a  comet's 
commission  in  the  19th  light  Dragoons  and  sailed  for 
Madras.  Very  shortly  he  was  engaged  in  active  service 
under  Wellesley,  who  always  treated  him  with  special  kind- 
ness as  another  Anglo-Irish  gentleman.  He  fought  at  many 
minor  battles  and  sieges,  and  also  at  Assaye  and  Argaum ; 
receiving  his  medal  for  these  two,  just  fifty  years  afterwards. 
I  shall  write  of  this  again  a  little  further  on  in  this  book. 

At  last  he  fell  ill  of  the  fever  of  the  country,  which  in  those 
days  was  called  ''ague,"  and  was  left  in  a  remote  place 
absolutely  helpless.  He  was  lying  in  bed  one  day  in  his  tent 
when  a  Hindoo  came  in  and  addressed  him  very  courteously, 
asking  aflier  his  health.  My  father  incautiously  replied  that 
he  was  quite  prostrated  by  the  fever.  **  What !  Not  able  to 
move  at  all,  not  to  walk  a  step  ?  "  said  his  visitor.  ''  No  t  I 
cannot  stir,"  said  my  father.  ''  Oh,  in  that  case,  then,"  said 
the  man, — and  without  more  ado  he  seized  my  father's  desk, 


FAMILY  AND  HOMB.  81 

in  whioh  were  all  his  money  and  valoaUeB,  and  straightway 
made  off  with  it  before  my  father  oonld  sxmmion  his  servants. 
His  condition,  thus  left  alone  in  an  enemy's  conntry  wiihoat 
money,  was  bad  enough,  bnt  he  managed  to  send  a  tmsty 
messenger  to  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley,  who  promptly  lent  him 
all  he  required. 

Finding  that  there  was  no  chance  of  his  health  being 
sufficiently  restored  in  India  to  permit  of  farther  active 
service,  and  the  Mahratta  wars  being  practically  condaded, 
my  father  sold  his  commission  of  lientenant  and  returned  to 
England,  quietly  letting  himself  into  his  mother's  house  in 
Bath  on  his  return  by  the  latch-key,  which  he  had  carried 
with  him  through  all  his  joumejrs.  All  his  life  long  the 
impress  made  both  on  his  outward  bearing  and  character 
by  those  five  years  of  war  were  very  visible.  He 
was  a  fine  soldier-like  figure,  six  feet  high,  and  had 
ridden  eighteen  stone  in  his  full  equipment.  His  &ee 
was,  I  suppose,  ugly,  but  it  was  very  intelligent,  very 
strong  willed,  and  very  unmistakeably  that  of  a  gentle- 
man. He  was  under-jawed,  very  pale,  with  a  large  nose, 
and  small,  grey,  very  lively  eyes ;  but  he  had  a  beautiful 
white  forehead  firom  which  his  hair,  even  in  old  age,  grew 

handsomely,  and  his  head  was  very  well  set  on  his  broad 
shoulders.  The  photograph  in  the  next  volume  represents 
him  at  76.  He  rode  admirably,  and  a  better  figure  on 
horseback  could  not  be  seen.  At  all  times  there  was  an 
aspect  of  strength  axid  command  about  him,  which  his 
vigmrous  will  and  (truth  c(»npels  me  to  add)  his  not  seldom 
fiery  temper,  fully  sustained.  On  the  many  occasions  when 
we  had  dinner  parties  at  Newbridge,  he  was  a  charming, 
gay  and  courteous  host ;  and  I  remember  being  struck,  when 
he  onoe  wore  a  court  dress  axid  took  me  with  him  to  pay 
his  respects  to  a  T«ry  Lord  Lieutenant,  by  the  contrast 
whieh  his  figure  and  bearing  presented  to  that  of  nearly  all 


22  CHAPTER   I. 

the  other  men  in  similar  attire.  They  looked  as  if  they  were 
masqaerading,  and  he  as  if  the  lace-mffles  and  plum  coat  and 
sword  were  his  habitual  dress.  He  had  beautifol  hands,  of 
extraordinary  strength. 

One  day  he  was  walking  with  one  of  his  lady  cousins  on 
his  arm  in  the  street.  A  certain  fEunons  prize-fighting  bnllyy 
the  Sayers  or  Heenan  of  the  period,  came  up  hustling  and 
elbowing  every  passenger  off  the  pavement.  When  my 
father  saw  him  approach  he  made  his  cousin  take  his  left 
arm,  and  as  the  prize-fighter  prepared  to  shoulder  him,  he 
delivered  with  his  right  fist,  without  raising  it,  a  blow  which 
sent  the  ruffian  fainting  into  the  arms  of  his  companions. 
Having  deposited  his  cousin  in  a  shop,  my  father  went  back 
for  the  sequel  of  the  adventure,  and  was  told  that  the 
<<  Chicken  "  (or  whatever  he  was  called)  had  had  his  ribs 
broken. 

After  his  return  from  India,  my  fietther  soon  sought  a  wife. 
He  flirted  sadly,  I  fear,  with  his  beautiful  cousin,  Louisa 
Beresford,  the  daughter  of  his  great-unde,  the  Archbishop  oi 
Tuam ;  and  one  of  the  ways  in  which  he  endeavoured  to 
ingratiate  himself  was  to  carry  about  at  all  times  a 
provision  of  bon-bons  and  barley-sugar  with  which  to 
ply  the  venerable  and  sweet-toothed  prelate;  who  was 
generally  known  as  ''The  Beauty  of  Holiness."  How 
the  wooing  would  have  prospered  cannot  be  told,  but 
before  it  had  reached  a  crisis  a  far  richer  lover  appeared  on 
the  scene — ^Mr.  Hope.  *'  Anastasius  Hope,"  as  he  was  called 
from  the  work  of  which  he.  was  the  author,  was  immensely 
wealthy,  and  a  man  of  great  taste  in  art,  but  he  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  so  excessively  ugly  that  a  painter  whom  he 
offended  by  not  buying  his  picture,  depicted  him  and  Miss 
Beresford  as  ''Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  and  exhibited  his 
painting  at  the  Bath  Pump-room,  where  her  brother,  John 
Beresford  (afterwards  the  second  Lord  Decies)  cut  it  deliberately 


FAMILY  AND  HOME.  28 

to  pieced.  An  engagement  between  Mr.  Hope  and  Miss 
Beresford  was  annonnced  not  long  after  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Hope  in  Bath ;  and  my  mother,  then  Miss  Conway, 
going  to  pay  a  visit  of  congratulation  to  Miss  Beresford, 
found  her  reclining  on  a  bine  silk  sofiEk  appropriately 
perusing  The  Pleamres  of  Hope^  After  the  death  of 
Mr.  Hope  (by  whom  she  was  the  mother  of  Mr.  Beresford 
Hope,  Mr.  Adrian  and  Mr.  Henry  Hope),  Mrs.  Hope 
married  the  illegitimate  son  of  her  ande,  the  Marqnis  of 
Waterford — Field  Marshal  Lord  Beresford — a  fine  old 
veteran,  with  whom  she  long  lived  happily  in  the  comer 
house  in  Cavendish  Square,  where  my  father  and  brothers 
always  found  a  warm  welcome. 

At  length,  afber  some  delays,  my  &ther  had  the  great 
good  fortune  to  induce  my  dear  mother  to  become  his  wife, 
and  they  were  married  at  Bath,  March  18th,  1809.  Frances. 
Conway  was,  as  I  have  said,  daughter  of  Capt.  Thomas 
Conway,  of  Morden  Park.  Her  father  and  mother  both 
died  whilst  she  was  young  and  she  was  sent  to  the  fcunous 
Bchool  of  Mrs.  Devis,  in  Queen  Square,  Bloomsbury,  of 
which  I  shall  have  something  presently  to  say,  and  afterwards 
lived  with  her  grandmother,  who  at  her  death  bequeathed 
to  her  a  handsome  legacy,  at  Southampton.  When  her 
grandmother  died,  she  being  then  sixteen  years  of  age, 
received  an  invitation  from  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Champion  to 
live  with  them  and  become  their  adopted  daughter.  The 
history  of  this  invitation  is  rather  touching.  Mrs. 
Champion's  parents  had,  many  years  before,  suffered  great 
reverses,  and  my  mother's  grandfather  had  done  much  to 
help  them,  and,  in  particular,  had  furnished  means  for 
Bilrs.  Champion  to  go  out  to  India.  She  returned  after 
twenty  years  as  the  childless  wife  of  the  rich  and 
kindly  old  Colonel,  the  friend  of  Warren  Hastings, 
who    having    been    commander-in-chief  of  the    Forces   of 


24  CHAPTER   1. 

the  East  India  Company  had  had  a  good  "  shake  of  the 
Pagoda  tree."  She  repaid  to  the  grajidchild  the  kindness 
done  by  the  grandfeither ;  and  was  henceforth  really  a 
mother  to  my  mother,  who  dearly  loved  both  her  and 
Col.  Champion.  In  their  beautiful  house,  No.  29,  Boyal 
Crescent,  she  saw  all  the  society  of  Bath  in  its  palmiest 
days,  Mrs.  Champion's  Wednesday  evening  parties  being 
among  the  most  important  in  the  place.  My  mother's  part 
as  daughter  of  the  house  was  an  agreeable  one,  and  her 
social  talents  and  accomplishments  fitted  her  perfectly  for 
the  part.  The  gentle  gaiety,  the  sweet  dignity  and  ease  of 
her  manners  and  conversation  remain  to  me  as  the  memory  of 
something  exquisite,  fax  different  even  from  the  best  manner 
and  talk  of  my  own  or  the  present  generation ;  and  I  know 
that  the  same  impression  was  always  made  on  her  visitors  in 
her  old  age.  I  can  compare  it  to  nothing  but  the  delicate 
odour  of  the  dried  rose  leaves  with  which  her  china  vases 
were  filled  and  her  wardrobes  perfumed. 

I  hardly  know  whether  my  mother  were  really  beautiful, 
though  many  of  the  friends  who  remembered  her  in  early 
womanhood  spoke  of  her  as  being  so.  To  me  her  face  was 
always  the  loveliest  in  the  world;  indeed  it  was  the  one 
through  which  my  first  dawning  perception  of  beauty 
was  awakened.  I  can  remember  looking  at  her  as  I  lay 
beside  her  on  the  sofa,  where  many  of  her  suffering  hours 
were  spent,  and  suddenly  saying,  ''Mamma  you  are  so 
pretty  1 "  She  laughed  and  kissed  me,  saying,  ''  I  am  glad 
you  think  so  my  child ; "  but  that  moment  really  brought 
the  revelation  to  me  of  that  wonderful  thing  in  God's 
creation,  the  Beatitiful !  She  had  fine  features,  a  particu- 
larly delicate,  rather  thin-lipped  mouth ;  magnificent  chestnut 
hair,  which  remained  scarcely  changed  in  colour  or  quantity 
till  her  death  at  seventy  years  of  age ;  and  the  dear,  pale 
complexion  and  hazel  eyes  which  belong  to  such  hair.     She 


FAMILY  AND  HOME.  2ft 

always  dressed  very  well  and  carefally.  I  never  re- 
member seeing  her  downstairs  except  in  some  rich  dark 
silk,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  fine  lace  about  her  cap  and 
old-£uhioned  fichu.  Her  voice  and  low  laoghter  were 
singularly  sweet,  and  she  possessed  both  in  speaking  and 
writing  a  fuU  and  varied  diction  which  in  later  years  she 
carefully  endeavoured  to  make  me  share,  instead  of  satisfying 
myself,  in  school-girl  fashion,  with  making  one  word  serve  a 
dozen  purposes.  She  was  an  almost  omnivorous  reader; 
and,  according  to  the  standard  of  female  education  in  her 
generation,  highly  cultivated  in  every  way;  a  good  musician 
with  a  very  sweet  touch  of  the  piano,  and  speaking  French 
perfectly  well. 

Immediately  afber  their  marriage  my  parents  took  possession 
of  Newbridge,  and  my  father  began  earnestly  the  fulfilment 
of  all  the  duties  of  a  country  gentleman,  landlord  and 
magistrate.  My  mother,  indeed,  used  laughingly  to  aver 
that  he  ''  went  to  jail  on  their  wedding  day,"  for  he  stopped 
at  Bristol  on  the  road  and  visited  a  new  prison  with  a  view 
to  introducing  improvements  into  Irish  jails.  It  was  due 
principally  to  his  exertions  that  the  county  jail,  the  now 
celebrated  KilmaiTiham,  was  afterwards  erected. 

Newbridge  having  been  deserted  for  nearly  thirty  years,  the 
woods  had  been  sorely  injured  and  the  house  and  out-buildings 
dilapidated,  but  with  my  father's  energy  and  my  mother's 
money  things  were  put  straight ;  and  from  that  time  till  his 
death  in  1857  my  father  lived  and  worked  among  his  people. 

Though  often  hard  pressed  to  carry  out  with  a  very 
moderate  income  all  his  projects  of  improvements,  he  was 
never  in  debt.  One  by  one  he  rebuilt  or  re-roofed  almost 
every  cottage  on  his  estate,  making  what  had  been  Uttle 
better  than  pig-styes,  fit  for  human  habitation ;  and  when  he 
found  that  his  annual  rents  could  never  suffice  to  do  all  that 
was  required  in  this  way  for  his  tenants  in  his  mountain 


86  CHAPTER  I. 

property,  he  indaced  my  eldest  brother,  then  just  of  age,  to 
join  with  him  in  selling  two  of  the  pictures  which  were  the 
heirlooms  of  the  family  and  the  pride  of  the  house,  a  Gaspar 
Poussin  and  a  Hobbema,  which  last  now  adorns  the  walls 
of  Dorchester  House.  I  remember  as  a  child  seeing  the 
tears  in  his  eyes  as  this  beautiful  painting  was  taken  out  oi 
the  room  in  which  it  had  been  like  a  perpetual  ray  of 
sunshine.  But  the  sacrifice  was  completed,  and  80  good 
stone  and  slate  **  Hobbema  Cottages,"  as  we  called  them, 
soon  rose  all  over  Glenasmoil.  Be  it  noted  by  those  who 
deny  every  merit  in  an  Anglo-Irish  landlord,  that  not  a 
&rthing  was  added  to  the  rent  of  the  tenants  who  profited  by 
this  real  act  of  self-denial. 

All  this  however  refers  to  later  years.  I  have  now 
reached  to  the  period  when  I  may  introduce  myself  on  the 
scene.  Before  doing  so,  however,  I  am  tempted  to  print 
here  a  letter  which  my  much  valued  friend.  Miss  Felicia 
Skene,  of  Oxford,  has  written  to  me  on  learning  that  I  am 
preparing  this  autobiography.  She  is  one  of  the  very  few 
now  living  who  can  remember  my  mother,  and  I  gratefully 
quote  what  she  has  written  of  her  as,  corroborating  my  own 
memories,  else,  perhaps,  discounted  by  the  reader  as  coloured 
by  a  daughter's  partiality. 

April  4th,  1894. 
My  dearest  Frances, — 

I  know  well  that  in  recalling  the  days  of  your  bright 
youth  in  your  grand  old  home,  the  most  prominent  figure  . 
amongst  those  who  surroxmded  you  then,  must  be  that  of 
your  justly  idolised  mother,  and  I  cannot  help  wishing  to 
add  my  testimony,  as  of  one  unbiassed  by  family  ties, 
to  aU  that  you  possessed  in  her  while  she  remained  with 
you ;  and  all  that  you  so  sadly  lost  when  she  was  taken  from 
you.  To  remember  the  cKdtdaine  of  Newbridge  is  to  recall 
one  of  the  fairest  and  sweetest  memories  of  my  early  life. 
When  I  first  saw  that  lovely,  gracious  lady  with  her  almost 


FAMILY  AND  HOME.  27 

angelic  conntenanoe  and  her  perfect  dignity  of  manner,  I 
had  jnst  come  from  a  gay  Eastern  capital, — ^my  home  from 
childhood,  where  no  snch  vision  of  a  typical  English  gentle- 
woman had  ever  appeared  before  me ;  and  the  impression 
she  made  upon  me  was  therefore  almost  a  revelation  of 
what  a  refined,  high-bred  lady  conld  be  in  all  that  was  pure 
and  lovely  and  of  good  report,  and  yet  I  think  I  only  shared 
in  the  fascination  which  she  exercised  on  all  who  came 
within  the  sphere  of  her  influence.  To  me,  almost  a 
stranger,  whom  she  welcomed  as  your  friend  under  her  roof, 
her  exquisite  courtesy  would  alone  have  been  most 
charming,  but  for  your  sake  she  showed  me  all  the  tender- 
ness of  her  sweet  sympathetic  nature,  and  it  was  no  marvel 
to  me  that  she  was  the  idol  of  her  children  and  the  object 
of  deepest  respect  and  admiration  to  all  who  knew  her. 

Beautiful  Newbridge  with  its  splendid  hospitality  is  like 
a  dream  to  me  now,  of  what  a  gentleman's  estate  and 
country  home  could  be  in  those  days  when  ancient  race  and 
noble  family  traditions  were  still  of  some  account. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

F.  M.  F.  Skbxs. 

13,  New  Inn  Hall  Street,  Oxford. 


OHAFTKR 

n. 


CHILLH001> 


CHAPTER  It. 
Childhood. 

I  WAS  born  on  the  morning  of  ihe  4th  December,  1822 ; 
at  sunrise.  There  had  been  a  memorable  storm  during  the 
night,  and  Dublin,  where  my  father  had  taken  a  house  that 
my  mother  might  be  near  her  doctor,  was  strewn  with  the 
wrecks  of  trees  and  chimney  pots.  My  parents  had  already 
four  sons,  and  after  the  interval  of  five  years  since  the  birtli 
of  ihe  youngest,  a  girl  was  by  no  means  welcome.  I  have 
never  had  reason,  however,  to  complain  of  being  less  cared 
for  or  less  well  treated  in  every  way  than  my  brothers.  If  I 
have  become  in  mature  years  a  **  Woman's  Bights'  Woman  '* 
it  has  not  been  because  in  my  own  person  I  have  been  made 
to  feel  a  Woman's  Wrongs.  On  the  contrary,  my  brothers' 
kindness  and  tenderness  to  me  have  been  unfailing  from  my 
in£uicy.  I  was  their  ''  little  F&',"  their  pet  and  plaything 
when  they  came  home  for  their  holidays ;  and  rough  words 
not  to  speak  of  knocks, — ^never  reached  me  from  any  of 
them  or  from  my  many  masculine  cousins,  some  of  whom, 
as  my  fietther's  wards,  I  hardly  distinguished  in  childhood 
from  brothers. 

A  few  months  after  my  birth  my  parents  moved  to  a  house 
named  Bower  Hill  Lodge  in  Melksham,  which  my  father 
hired,  I  believe,  to  be  near  his  boys  at  school,  and  I  have 
8ome  dim  recoUeetions  of  the  verandah  of  the  house,  and  also 
of  certain  raisins  which  I  appropriated,  and  of  suffering 
direful  punishment  at  my  fietther's  hands  for  the  crime  1 
Before  I  was  four  years  old  we  returned  to  Newbridge,  and 
I  was  duly  installed  with  my  good  old  Irish  nurse,  Mary 


82  CHAPTER  IL 

Malone,  in  the  large  nursery  at  the  end  of  the  north  oorrldor 
— ^the  most  charming  room  for  a  child's  abode  I  have  ever  seen. 
It  was  so  distant  from  the  regions  inhabited  by  my  parents 
that  I  was  at  foil  liberty  to  make  any  amount  of  noise  I 
pleased ;  and  from  the  three  windows  I  possessed  a  commanding 
view  of  the  stable  yard,  wherein  there  was  always  visible  an 
enchanting  spectacle  of  dogs,  cats,  horses,  grooms,  gardeners, 
and  milkmaids.  A  grand  old  courtyard  it  is ;  a  quadrangle 
about  a  rood  in  size  surrounded  by  stables,  coach-houses, 
kennels,  a  laundry,  a  beautiful  dairy,  a  labourer's  room,  a  paint 
shop,  a  carpenter's  shop,  a  range  of  granaries  and  fruit- 
lofts  with  a  great  clock  in  the  pediment  in  the  centre ; 
and  a  well  in  the  midst  of  all.  Behind  the  stables  and  the 
kennels  appear  the  tops  of  walnut  and  chestnut  trees  and  over 
the  coach-houses  on  the  other  side  can  be  seen  the  beautiful  old 
kitchon  garden  of  six  acres  with  its  lichen-covered  red  brick 
walls,  backed  again  by  trees ;  and  its  formal  straight  terraces 
and  broad  grass  walks. 

In  this  healthful,  delightful  nursery,  and  in  walks  with  my 
nurse  about  the  lawns  and  shrubberies,  the  first  years  of  my 
happy  childhood  went  by ;  fed  in  body  with  the  freshest  milk 
and  eggs  and  fruit,  everything  best  for  a  child ;  and  in  mind 
supplied  only  with  the  simple,  sweet  lessons  of  my  gentle 
mother.  No  unwholesome  food,  physical  or  moral,  was  ever 
allowed  to  come  in  my  way  till  body  and  soul  had  almost 
grown  to  their  full  stature.  When  I  compare  such  a  lot  as 
this  (the  common  lot,  of  course,  of  English  girls  of  the 
richer  classes,  blessed  with  good  fiEithers  and  mothers)  with 
the  case  of  the  hapless  young  creatures  who  are  fed  from 
infancy  with  insufficient  and  unwholesome  food,  perhaps  dosed 
with  gin  and  opium  from  the  cradle,  and  who,  even  as  they 
acquire  language,  learn  foul  words,  curses  and  blasphemies, — 
when  I  compare,  I  say,  my  happy  lot  with  the  miserable  one  of 
tens  of  thousands  of  my  brother  men  and  sister  women,  I 


CHILDHOOD,  as 

feel  ai^MJled  to  reflect,  by  how  different  a  standard  must  they 
and  I  be  judged  by  eternal  Justice ! 

In  such  an  infancy  the  events  were  few,  but  I  can 
remember  with  amusement  the  great  exercise  of  my  little 
mind  concerning  a  certain  mythical  being  known  as  *'  Peter." 
The  story  affords  a  droll  example  of  the  way  in  which  fetishes 
are  created  among  child-minded  savages.  One  day,  (as  my 
mother  long  afterwards  explained  to  me),  I  had  been 
hungrily  eating  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  out  of  doors, 
when  one  of  the  greyhounds,  of  which  my  father  kept 
several  couples,  bounded  past  me  and  snatched  the  bread  and 
butter  from  my  little  hands.  The  outcry  which  I  was 
preparing  to  raise  on  my  loss  was  suddenly  stopped  by  the 
bystanders  judiciously  awakening  my  sympathy  in  Peter's 
enjoyment,  and  I  was  led  up  to  stroke  the  big  dog  and  make 
friends  with  him.  Seeing  how  successful  was  this  diversion, 
my  nurse  thenceforward  adopted  the  practice  of  seizing 
everything  in  the  way  of  food,  knives,  ^.,  which  it  was 
undesirable  I  should  handle,  and  also  of  shutting  objection- 
ably open  doors  and  windows,  exclaiming  ''  O !  Peter !  Peter 
has  got  it  1  Peter  has  shut  it ! " — as  the  case  might  be. 
Accustomed  to  succumb  to  this  unseen  Fate  under  the  name 
of  Peter,  and  soon  forgetting  the  dog,  I  came  to  think  there 
was  an  all-powerful,  invisible  Being  constantly  behind  the 
scenes,  and  had  so  far  pictured  him  as  distinct  from  the  real 
original  Peter  that  on  one  occasion  when  I  was  taken  to  vidt 
at  some  house  where  there  was  an  odd  looking  end  of  a  beam 
jutting  out  under  the  ceiling,  I  asked  in  awe-struck  tones : 
<<  Mama  1  is  that  Peter's  head  % " 

My  childhood,  though  a  singularly  happy,  was  an 
unnsuaUy  lonely  one.  My  dear  mother  very  soon  after  I 
was  bom  became  lame  from  a  trifling  accident  to  her  ankle 
(ill-treated,  unhappily,  by  the  doctors)  and  she  was  never 
onoe  able  in  all  her  life  to  take  a  walk  with  me.    Of  course 

VOL.  X.  0 


34  CHAPTER  11. 

I  was  brought  to  her  continually ;  first  to  be  nursed, — ^f  or  she 
fulfilled  that  sacred  duty  of  motherhood  to  all  her  children, 
believing  that  she  could  never  be  so  sure  of  the  healthf  ulness 
of  any  other  woman's  constitution  as  of  her  own.  Later,  I 
seem  to  my  own  memory  to  have  been  often  cuddled  up  close 
to  her  on  her  sofa,  or  learning  my  little  lessons,  mounted  on 
my  high  chair  beside  her,  or  repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer  at 
her  knee.  All  these  memories  are  infinitely  sweet  to  me. 
Her  low,  gentle  voice,  her  smile,  her  soft  breast  and  arms, 
the  atmosphere  of  dignity  which  always  surrounded  her, — 
the  very  odour  of  her  clothes  and  lace,  redolent  of  dried 
roses,  oome  back  to  me  after  three  score  years  with  nothing 
to  mar  their  sweetness.  She  never  once  spoke  angrily  or 
harshly  to  me  in  all  her  life,  much  less  struck  or  punished 
me ;  and  I — it  is  a  comfort  to  think  it — never,  so  far  as  I  can 
recall,  disobeyed  or  seriously  vexed  her.  She  had  regretted 
my  birth,  thinking  that  she  could  not  live  to  see  me  grow  to 
womanhood,  and  shrinking  from  a  renewal  of  the  cares  of 
motherhood  with  the  additional  anxiety  of  a  daughter's 
education.  But  I  believe  she  soon  reconciled  herself  to  my 
existence,  and  made  me,  first  her  pet,  and  then  her  companion 
and  even  her  counsellor.  She  told  me,  laughingly,  how, 
when  I  was  four  years  old,  my  father  happening  to  be  away 
from  home  she  made  me  dine  with  her,  and  as  I  sat  in  great 
state  beside  her  on  my  little  chair  I  solemnly  remarked : 
*'  Mama,  is  it  not  a  very  eomflin  thing  to  have  a  little  girl  ?  " 
an  observation  which  she  justly  thought  went  to  prove  that 
she  had  betrayed  sufficiently  to  my  infantine  perspicacity  that 
she  enjoyed  my  company  at  least  as  much  as  hers  was 
enjoyed  by  me. 

My  nurse  who  had  attended  all  my  brothers,  was  already 
an  elderly  woman  when  recalled  to  Newbridge  to  take 
charge  of  me;  and  though  a  dear,  kind  old  soul  and  an 
excellent  nurse,  she  was  naturally  not  much  of  a  playfellow 


CHILDHOOD,  36 

for  a  little  child,  and  it  was  very  rarely  indeed  that  I  had 
any  young  visitor  in  my  nursery  or  was  taken  to  see  any  of 
•my  small  neighbours.  Thus  I  was  from  infancy  much 
thrown  on  my  own  resources  for  play  and  amusement ;  and 
from  that  time  to  this  I  have  been  rather  a  solitary  mortal, 
enjoying  above  all  things  lonely  walks  and  studies;  and 
always  finding  my  spirits  rise  in  hours  and  days  of  isolation. 
I  think  I  may  say  I  have  never  felt  depressed  when  living 
alone.  As  a  child  I  have  been  told  I  was  a  very  merry  little 
chick,  with  around,  fair  face  and  abundance  of  golden  hair ; 
a  typical  sort  of  Saxon  child.  I  was  subject  then  and  for 
many  years  after,  to  furious  fits  of  anger,  and  on  such 
occasions  I  misbehaved  myself  exceedingly.  '*  Nanno ''  was 
then  wont  peremptorily  to  push  me  out  into  the  long 
corridor  and  bolt  the  nursery  door  in  my  face,  saying  in  her 
vernacular,  "Ah,  then!  you  hould  Puckhawn  (audacious 
child  of  Fuck)  !  Til  get  shut  of  you  ! "  I  think  I  feel  now 
the  hardness  of  that  door  against  my  little  toes,  as  I  kicked 
at  it  in  frenzy.  Sometimes,  when  things  were  very  bad 
indeed,  Nanno  conducted  me  to  the  end  of  the  corridor  at 
the  top  of  a  very  long  winding  stone  stair,  near  the  bottom 
of  which  my  father  occasionally  passed  on  his  way  to  the 
stables.  ''  Tes,  Sir !  Yes,  Sir  I  She'll  be  good  immadiently. 
Sir,  you  needn't  come  upstedrs.  Sir !  **  Then,  sotto  voce^  to 
me,  ''Don't  ye  hear  the  Masther?  Be  quiet  now,  my 
darHnt,  or  hell  come  up  the  stairs  1 "  Of  course,  ''  the 
Masther"  seldom  or  never  was  really  within  earshot  on 
these  occasions.  Had  he  been  so  Nanno  would  have  been 
the  last  person  seriously  to  invoke  his  dreaded  interference 
in  my  discipline.  But  the  alarm  usually  sufficed  to  reduce 
me  to  submission.  I  had  plenty  of  toddling  about  out  of 
doors  and  sitting  in  the  sweet  grass  making  daisy  and  dande- 
lion chains,  and  at  home  playing  with  the  remnants  of  my 
brother's  Noah's  Ark,  and  a  magnificent  old  baby-house 


36  CHAPTER  IL 

which  stood  in  one  of  the  bedrooms,  and  was  so  large  that  I 
can  dimly  remember  climbing  up  and  getting  infco  the  doll's 
drawing-room. 

My  fifth  birthday  was  the  first  milestone  on  Life's  road 
which  I  can  recall.  I  recollect  being  brought  in  the  morning 
into  my  mother's  darkened  bedroom  (she  was  already  then  a 
confirmed  invalid),  and  how  she  kissed  and  blessed  me,  and 
gave  me  childish  presents,  and  also  a  beautiful  emerald  ring 
which  I  still  possess,  and  pearl  bracelets  which  she  fastened 
on  my  little  arms.  No  doubt  she  wished  to  make  sure  that 
whenever  she  might  die  these  trinkets  should  be  known  to  be 
mine.  She  and  my  father  also  gave  me  a  Bible  and  Pmyer 
Book,  which  I  could  read  quite  well,  and  proudly  took  next 
Sunday  to  church  for  my  first  attendance,  when  the  solemn 
occasion  was  much  disturbed  by  a  little  girl  in  a  pew  below 
howling  for  envy  of  my  white  beaver  bonnet,  displayed  in 
the  fore-front  of  the  gallery  which  formed  our  family  seat. 
"Why  did  little  Miss  Bobinson  cry?"  I  was  deeply 
inquisitive  on  the  subject,  having  then  and  always  during  my 
childhood  regarded  '*  best  clothes  "  with  abhorrence. 

Two  years  later  my  grandmother,  having  bestowed  on  me, 
at  Bath,  a  sky-blue  silk  pelisse,  I  managed  nefariously  to 
tumble  down  on  purpose  into  a  gutter  full  of  melted  snow 
the  first  day  it  was  put  on,  so  as  to  be  permitted  to  resume 
my  little  cloth  coat. 

Now,  aged  five,  I  was  emancipated  from  the  nursery  and 
allowed  to  dine  thenceforward  at  my  parents^  late  dinner, 
while  my  good  nurse  was  settled  for  the  rest  of  her  days  in  a 
pretty  ivy-covered  cottage  with  large  garden,  at  the  end  of 
the  shrubbery.  She  lived  there  for  several  years  with  an  old 
woman  for  servant,  who  I  can  well  remember,  but  who  must 
have  been  of  great  age,  for  she  had  been  under-dairymaid  to 
my  great  great-grandfather,  the  Archbishop,  and  used  to  tell 
us  stories  of  '< old  times."    This  ''old  Ally's"  great  grand- 


CHILDHOOD,  ar 

children  were  still  living,  recently,  in  the  family  service  in  the 
same  cottage  which  poor  "  Nanno ''  occupied.  AUj  was  the 
last  wear^  of  the  real  old  Irish  scarlet  doak  in  our  part  of 
the  country ;  and  I  can  rememher  admiring  it  greatly  when 
I  used  to  run  by  her  side  and  help  her  to  carry  her  bundle  of 
sticks.  Since  those  days,  even  the  long  blue  frieze  cloak 
which  succeeded  universally  to  the  scarlet — a  most  comfort- 
able, decent,  and  withal  graceful  peasant  garment,  very  like 
the  blue  cotton  one  of  the  Arab  fellah-women — ^has  itself 
nearly  or  totally  disappeared  in  Fingal. 

On  the  retirement  of  my  nurse,  the  charge  of  my  little 
person  was  committed  to  my  mother's  maid  and  housekeeper, 
Martha  Jones.  She  came  to  my  mother  a  blooming  girl  of 
eighteen,  and  she  died  of  old  age  and  sorrow  when  I  left 
Newbridge  at  my  father^s  death  half-a-century  afterwards. 
She  was  a  fine,  fair,  broad-shouldered  woman,  with  a  certain 
refinement  above  her  class.  Her  father  had  been  an 
officer  in  the  army,  and  she  was  educated  (not  very 
extensively)  at  some  little  school  in  Dublin  where  her 
particular  friend  was  Moore's  (the  poet's)  sister.  She  used 
to  teil  us  how  Moore  as  a  lad  was  always  contriving  to  get 
into  the  school  and  romping  with  the  girls.  The  legend  has 
sufficient  verisimilitude  to  need  no  confirmation ! 

''  Joney  "  was  indulgence  itself,  and  under  her  mild  sway, 
and  with  my  mother  for  instructress  in  my  little  lessons  of 
spelling  and  geography,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Dr.  Watts  and  Jane 
Taylor,  I  was  as  happy  a  little  animal  as  well  might  be. 
One  day  being  allowed  as  usual  to  play  on  the  grass  before 
the  drawing-room  windows  I  took  it  into  my  head  that  I 
should  dearly  like  to  go  and  pay  a  visit  to  my  nurse  at  her 
cottage  at  the  end  of  the  shrubbery.  '^  Joney"  had  taken 
me  there  more  than  once,  but  still  the  mile-long  shrubbery, 
some  of  it  very  dark  with  fir  trees  and  great  laurels,  com- 
plicated with  crossing  walks,  and  containing  two  or  three 


as  CHAPTER  II. 

alarming  shelter-huts  and  Umndlea  (which  I  long  after 
regarded  with  awe),  was  a  tremendous  pilgrimage  to 
encounter  alone.  After  some  hesitation  I  set  off ;  ran  as 
long  as  I  could,  and  then  with  panting  chest  and  beating 
heart,  went  on,  daring  not  to  look  to  right  or  left,  till 
(after  ages  as  it  seemed  to  me)  I  reached  the  little  window 
of  my  nurse's  house  in  the  ivy  wall ;  and  set  up — loud 
enough  no  doubt — a  call  for  ''  Nanno  ! "  The  good  soul 
could  not  believe  her  eyes  when  she  found  me  alone  but, 
hugging  me  in  her  arms,  brought  me  back  as  fast  as  she 
could  to  my  distracted  mother  who  had,  of  course,  discovered 
my  evasion.  Two  years  later,  when  I  was  seven  years  old, 
I  was  naughty  enough  to  run  away  again,  this  time  in  the 
streets  of  Bath,  in  company  with  a  hoop,  and  the  Town 
Crier  was  engaged  to  ''cry"  me,  but  I  found  my  way 
home  at  last  alone.  How  curiously  vividly  silly  little 
incidents  like  these  stand  out  in  the  misty  memory  of  child- 
hood, like  objects  suddenly  perceived  close  to  us  in  a  fog !  I 
seem  now,  after  sixty  years,  to  see  my  nurse's  little  brown 
figure  and  white  kerchief,  as  she  rushed  out  and  caught  her 
stray  *'  darlint  ^  in  her  arms ;  and  also  I  see  a  dignified, 
gouty  gentleman  leaning  on  his  stick,  parading  the  broad 
pavement  of  Bath  Crescent,  up  whose  whole  person  my 
misguided  and  muddy  hoop  went  bounding  in  my  second 
escapade.  I  ought  to  apologise  perhaps  to  the  reader  for 
narrating  such  trivial  incidents,  but  they  have  left  a  charm 
in  my  memory. 

At  seven  I  was  provided  with  a  nursery  governess,  and  my 
dear  mother's  lessons  came  to  an  end.  So  gentle  and  sweet 
had  they  been  that  I  have  loved  ever  since  everything  she 
taught  me,  and  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  old  map  book 
from  whence  she  had  herself  learned  Geography,  and  of  Mrs. 
Trimmer's  Histories,  ^^ Sacred**  and  ^^Frofcme** ;  not  for- 
getting the  almost  incredibly  bad  accompanying  voli^mes  of 


CHILDHOOD.  39 

woodcuts  with  poor  Eli  a  complete  smudge  and  Sesostris 
driving  the  nine  kings  (with  their  crowns,  of  course) 
harnessed  to  his  chariot.  Who  would  have  dreamed  we 
should  now  possess  photos  of  the  mummy  of  the  real 
Sesostris  (Bameses  11.),  who  seemed  then  quite  as  mythical 
a  personage  as  Polyphemus?  To  remember  the  hideous 
aberrations  of  Art  which  then  illustrated  books  for  children, 
and  compare  them  to  the  exquisite  pictures  in  '*  Lit&e  FolkSf" 
is  to  realise  one  of  the  many  changes  the  world  has  seen 
since  my  childhood.  Mrs.  Trimmer's  books  cost,  I  remember 
being  told,  ten  shiUinga  a-piecel  My  governess  Miss 
Kinnear's  lessons,  though  not  very  severe  (our  old  doctor, 
bless  him  for  it !  solemnly  advised  that  I  should  never  be 
called  on  to  study  after  twelve  o'clock),  were  far  from  being 
as  attractive  as  those  of  my  mother,  and  as  soon  as  I  learned 
to  write,  I  drew  on  the  gravel  walk  this,  as  I  conceived, 
deeply  touching  and  impressive  sentence :  ''  Lessons  t  Thou 
iyramt  of  ike  mind  /  "  I  could  not  at  all  understand  my 
mother's  hilarity  over  this  inscription,  which  proved  so 
convincingly  my  need,  at  all  events  of  those  particular 
lessons  of  which  Lindley  Murray  was  the  author.  I  envied 
the  peacock  who  could  sit  all  day  in  the  sun,  and  who  ate 
bowls-full  of  the  griddlebread  of  which  I  was  so  fond ;  and 
never  was  expected  to  learn  anything  ?  Poor  bird,  he  came 
to  a  sad  end.  A  dog  terrified  him  one  day  and  he  took  a 
great  flight  and  was  observed  to  go  into  one  of  the  tall  limes 
near  the  house  but  was  never  seen  alive  again.  When  the 
leaves  fell  in  the  autumn  the  rain-washed  feathers  and 
skeleton  of  poor  Pe-ho  were  found  wedged  in  a  fork  of  the 
tree.    He  had  met  the  fate  of  '^  Lost  Sir  Massingberd." 

Some  years  later,  my  antipathy  to  lessons  having  not  at 
all  diminished,  I  read  a  book  which  had  just  appeared,  and 
of  which  all  the  elders  of  the  house  were  talking,  Keith's 
Signs  of  the  Times.    In  this  work,  as  I  remember,  it  was  set 


40  CHAPTER  IL 

forth  that  a  "  Vial  **  was  shortly  to  he  emptied  into  or  near 
the  Euphrates,  after  which  the  end  of  the  world  was  to 
follow  immediately.  The  writer  aocordingly  warned  his 
readers  that  they  would  soon  hear  startling  news  from  the 
Euphrates.  From  that  time  I  persistently  inquired  of 
anyhody  whom  I  saw  reading  the  newspaper  (a  small  sheet 
which  in  the  Thirties  only  came  three  times  a  week)  or  who 
seemed  well-informed  about  public  affairs,  "  What  news  was 
there  from  the  Euphrates  9  "  The  singular  question  at  last 
called  forth  the  inquiry,  '*  Why  I  wanted  to  know  1 "  and  I 
was  obliged  to  confess  that  I  was  hoping  for  the  emptying  of 
the  ''Vial"  which  would  put  an  end  to  my  sums  and 
spelling  lessons. 

My  seventh  year  was  spent  with  my  parents  at  -Bath, 
where  we  had  a  house  for  the  winter  in  James'  Square, 
where  brothers  and  cousins  came  for  the  holidays,  and  in 
London,  where  I  well  remember  going  with  my  mother  to  see 
the  Diorama  in  the  Colosseum  in  Begent's  Park,  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  a  Swiss  Cottage,  and  the  statues  of  Tam  o' 
Shanter  and  his  wife  (which  I  had  implored  her  to  be  allowed 
to  see,  having  imagined  them  to  be  living  ogres)  and  vainly 
entreating  to  be  taken  to  see  the  Siamese  Twins.  This  last 
longing,  however,  was  gratified  just  thirty  years  afterwards. 
We  travelled  back  to  Ireland,  posting  all  the  way  to 
Holyhead  by  the  then  new  high  road  through  Wales  and 
over  the  Menai  Bridge.  My  chief  recollection  of  the  long 
journey  is  humiliating.  A  box  of  Shrewsbury  cakes,  exactly 
like  those  now  sold  in  the  town,  was  bought  for  me  in  sitUy 
and  I  was  told  to  bring  it  over  to  Ireland  to  give  to  my  little 
cousin  Charley.  I  was  pleased  to  give  the  cakes  to  Charley, 
bat  then  Charley  was  at  the  moment  far  away,  and  the  cakes 
were  always  at  hand  in  the  carriage;  and  the  road  was 
tedious  and  the  cakes  delicious;  and  so  it  came  to  pass 
somehow  that  I  broke  off  first  a  little  bit,  and  then  another 


CHILDHOOD.  41 

day  a  larger  bit,  till  cake  after  cake  vanished,  and  with 
sorrow  and  shame  I  was  obliged  to  present  the  empty  box  to 
Charley  on  my  arrival.  Greediness  alas!  has  been  a 
besetting  sin  of  mine  all  my  life. 

This  Charley  was  a  dear  little  boy,  and  about  this  date 
was  occasionally  my  companion.  His  father,  my  uncla, 
was  Captain  William  Cobbe,  RN.,  who  had  fought  under 
Nelson,  and  at  the  end  of  the  war,  married  and  took 
a  house  near  Newbridge,  where  he  acted  as  my  father's 
agent.  He  was  a  fine,  brave  fellow,  and  much  beloved 
by  every  one.  One  day,  long  after  his  sudden,  untimely 
death,  we  heard  from  a  coastguardsman  who  had  been 
a  sailor  in  his  ship,  that  he  had  probably  caught  the 
disease  of  which  he  died  in  the  performance  of  a  gallant 
action,  of  which  he  had  never  told  any  one,  even  his  wife.  A 
man  had  fallen  overboard  from  his  ship  one  bitterly  cold 
night  in  the  northern  seas  near  Copenhagen.  My  uncle,  on 
hearing  what  had  happened,  jumped  from  his  warm  berth 
and  plunged  into  the  sea,  where  he  succeeded  in  rescuing  the 
sailor,  but  in  doing  so  caught  a  dull  which  eventually 
shortened  his  days.  He  had  five  children,  the  eldest  being 
Charley,  some  months  younger  than  I.  When  my  uncle 
came  over  to  see  his  brother  and  do  business,  Charley,  as  he 
grew  old  enough  to  take  the  walk,  was  often  allowed  to  come 
with  him ;  and  great  was  my  enjoyment  of  the  unwonted 
pleasure  of  a  young  companion.  Considerably  greater,  I 
believe,  than  that  of  my  mother  and  governess,  who  justly 
dreaded  the  escapades  which  our  fertile  little  brains  rarely 
failed  to  devise.  We  climbed  over  everything  dimbable  by 
aid  of  the  arrangement  that  Charley  always  mounted  on  my 
strong  shoulders  and  then  helped  me  up.  One  day  my 
father  said  to  us :  '^Children,  there  is  a  savage  bull  come, 
you  must  take  care  not  to  go  near  him."  Charley  and  I  looked 
at  each  other  and  mutually  understood,  The  neict  moment  wo 


42  CHAPTER  II. 

were  alone  we  whispered,  ''  We  must  get  some  hairs  of  his 
tail ! "  and  away  we  scampered  till  we  found  the  new  bull  in  a 
shed  in  the  cow-yard.  Valiantly  we  seized  the  tail,  and  as  the 
bull  fortunately  paid  no  attention  to  his  Lilliputian  foes,  we 
escaped  in  triumph  with  the  hair&  Another  time,  a  lovely 
April  evening,  I  remember  we  were  told  it  was  damp, 
and  that  we  must  not  go  out  of  the  house.  We  had  dis- 
covered, however,  a  door  leading  out  upon  the  roof, — and  we 
agreed  that  ^^on^*  the  house  could  not  properly  be  considered 
'*  ovi ''  of  the  house ;  and  very  soon  we  were  clambering  up 
the  slates,  and  walking  along  the  parapet  at  a  height  of 
fifty  or  sixty  feet  from  the  ground.  My  mother,  passing 
through  one  of  the  halls,  observed  a  group  of  servants  looking 
up  in  evident  alarm  and  making  signs  to  us  to  come  down. 
As  quickly  as  her  feebleness  permitted  she  climbed  to  our  door 
of  exit,  and  called  to  us  over  the  roofs.  Charley  and  I  felt 
like  Adam  and  Eve  on  the  fatal  evening  after  they  had  eaten 
the  apple !  After  dreadful  moments  of  hesitation  we  came 
down  and  received  the  solemn  rebuke  and  condemnation  we 
deserved.  It  was  not  a  veiy  severe  chastisement  allotted  to 
us,  though  we  considered  it  such.  We  were  told  that  the 
game  of  Pope  Joan,  promised  for  the  evening,  should  not  be 
played.  That  was  the  severest,  if  not  the  only  punishment, 
my  mother  ever  inflicted  on  me. 

On  rainy  days  when  Charley  and  I  were  driven  to  amuse 
ourselves  in  the  great  empty  rooms  and  corridors  upstairs, 
we  were  wont  to  discuss  profound  problems  of  theology.  I 
remember  one  conclusion  relating  thereto  at  which  we 
unanimously  arrived.  Both  of  us  bore  the  name  of  *'  Power" 
as  a  second  name,  in  honour  of  our  grandmother  Anne 
Trench's  mother,  Fanny  Power  of  Coreen.  On  this  circum- 
stance we  founded  the  certainty  that  we  should  both  go  to 
Heaven,  because  we  heard  it  said  in  church|  "  The  Heavens 
and  qll  the  Pow€T8  thereiiju 


CHILDHOOD.  43 

Alas  poor ''  Little  Charley  "  as  eyerybody  called  him,  after 
growing  to  be  a  fine  six-foot  fellow,  and  a  very  popular  oflScer, 
died  sadly  while  still  young,  at  the  Gape. 

In  those  early  days,  let  us  say  about  my  tenth  year,  and 
for  long  afterwards,  it  was  my  father's  habit  to  fill  his  house 
with  all  the  offshoots  of  the  family  at  Christmas,  and  with  a 
good  many  of  them  for  the  Midsummer  holidays,  when  my 
two  eldest  brothers  and  the  youngest  came  home  from 
Charterhouse  and  Oxford,  and  the  third  from  Sandhurst. 
These  brothers  of  mine  were  kind,  dear  lads,  always  gentle 
and  petting  to  their  little  sister,  who  was  a  mere  baby  when 
they  were  schoolboys,  and  of  course  never  really  a  companion 
to  them.  I  recollect  they  once  tried  to  teach  me  Cricket,  and 
straightway  knocked  me  over  with  a  ball ;  and  then  carried 
me,  all  four  in  tears  and  despair,  to  our  mother  thinking 
they  had  broken  my  ribs.  I  was  very  fond  of  them,  and 
thought  a  great  deal  about  their  holidays,  but  naturally  in 
early  years  saw  very  little  of  them. 

Beside  my  brothers,  and  generally  coming  to  Newbridge  at 
the  same  holiday  seasons,  there  was  a  regiment  of  young 
cousins,  male  and  female.  My  mother's  only  brother. 
Adjutant  General  Conway,  had  five  children,  all  of  whom 
were  practically  my  father's  wards  during  the  years  of  their 
education  at  Haileybury  and  in  a  ladies'  boarding-school  in 
London.  Then,  beside  my  father's  youngest  brother 
William's  family  of  five,  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken, 
his  next  eldest  brother,  George,  of  the  Horse  Artillery  (Lieut. 
Greneral  Cobbe  in  his  later  years),  had  five  more,  and 
finally  the  third  brother,  Thomas,  went  out  to  India  in  his 
youth  as  aide-de-camp  to  his  cousin,  the  Marquis  of  Hastings, 
held  several  good  appointments  (at  Moorshedabad  and 
elsewhere),  married  and  had  ten  children,  (all  of  whom 
pafised  into  my  father's  charge)  and  finally  died,  poor 
fellow!    on    his  voyage  home  from    India,  after   thirty 


44  CHAPTER  11. 

years'  abeenoe.  Thus  there  were,  in  fact,  inchiding  his  own 
children,  thirty  young  people  more  or  less  my  father's  wards, 
and  all  of  them  looking  to  Newbridge  as  the  place  where 
holidays  were  naturally  spent,  and  to  my  father's  not  very 
long  purse  as  the  resource  for  everybody  in  emergencies. 
One  of  them,  indeed,  carried  this  view  of  the  case  rather 
unfortunately  far.  A  gentleman  visiting  us,  happening  to 
mention  that  he  had  lately  been  to  Malta,  we  naturally  asked 
him  if  he  had  met  a  young  officer  of  our  name  quartered 
there  1  "  Oh  dear,  yes  !  a  delightful  fellow !  All  the  ladies 
adore  him.  He  gives  charming  picnics,  and  gets  nosegays 
for  them  all  from  Naples."  ''  I  am  afraid  he  can  scarcely 
afford  that  soH  of  thing,"  someone  timidly  observed.  ''  Oh, 
he  says,"  replied  the  visitor,  ''that  he  has  an  old  unde 
somewhere  who  Ckxxl  Lord!  I  am  afraid  I  have 

put  my  foot  in  it,"  abruptly  concluded  our  friend,  noticing 
the  looks  exchanged  round  the  circle. 

My  father's  brother  Henry,  my  god-father,  died  early  and 
unmarried.  He  was  Hector  of  Templeton,  and  was  very 
intimate  with  his  neighbours  there,  the  Edgeworths  and 
Granards.  The  greater  part  of  the  library  at  Newbridge,  as 
it  was  in  my  time,  had  been  collected  by  him,  and  included 
an  alarming  proportion  of  divinity.  The  story  of  his  life 
might  serve  for  such  a  novel  as  his  friend,  Miss  Edgeworth, 
would  have  written  and  entitled ''  FrocraatiruUion"  He  was 
much  attached  for  a  long  time  to  a  charming  Miss  Lindsay, 
who  was  quite  willing  to  accept  his  hand,  had  he  offered  it. 
My  poor  uncle,  however,  continued  to  flirt  and  dangle  and  to 
postpone  any  definite  declaration,  till  at  last  the  girl's  mother 
— ^who,  I  rather  believe,  was  a  Lady  Charlotte  Lindsay,  well 
known  in  her  generation — ^told  her  that  a  conclusion  must  be 
put  to  this  sort  of  thing.  She  would  invite  Mr.  Oobbe  to 
their  house  for  a  fortnight,  and  during  that  time  every 
opportunity  should  be  afforded  him  of  making  a  proposal  in 


CHILDHOOD.  46 

form,  if  he  should  be  so  mmded.  If,  however,  at  the  end  of 
this  probation,  he  had  said  nothing,  Miss  Lindsay  was  to 
give  him  up,  and  he  was  to  be  allowed  no  more  chances  of 
addressing  her.  The  visit  was  paid,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  agreeable  or  devoted  than  my  uncle ;  but  he  did  not 
propose  to  Miss  Lindsay  1  The  days  passed,  and  as  the  end 
of  the  allotted  time  drew  near,  the  lady  innocently  arranged 
a  few  walks  en  tHe-dt-tite,  and  talked  in  a  manner  which 
afforded  him  every  opportunity  of  saying  the  words  which 
seemed  always  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  At  last  the  final  day 
arrived.  "  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Charlotte  (if  such  was  the 
mother^s  name)  to  her  daughter,  "  I  shall  go  out  with  the 
rest  of  the  party  for  the  whole  day  and  leave  you  and  Mr. 
Gobbe  together.  When  I  return,  it  must  be  decided  one  way 
or  the  other." 

The  hours  fiew  in  pleasant  and  confidential  talk — still  no 
proposal !  Miss  Lindsay,  who  knew  that  the  final  minutes 
of  grace  were  passing  for  her  unconscious  lover,  once  more 
despairingly  tried,  being  really  attached  to  him,  to  make 
him  say  something  which  she  could  report  to  her  mother. 
As  he  afterwards  averred  he  was  on  the  very  brink  of  asking 
her  to  marry  him  when  he  caught  the  sound  of  her  mother's 
carriage  returning  to  the  door,  and  said  to  himself,  *^  I'll  wait 
for  another  opportunity." 

The  opportunity  was  never  granted  to  him.  Lady 
Oharlotte  gave  him  his  congi  very  peremptorily  next  morning. 
My  undo  was  furious,  and  in  despair ;  but  it  was  too  late  I 
like  other  disappointed  men  he  went  off  rashly,  and  almost 
immediately  engaged  himself  (with  no  delay  this  time)  to 
Miss  Flora  Long  of  Bood  Ashton,  Wiltshire,  a  lady  of 
considerable  fortune  and  attractions  and  of  excellent  con- 
nections, but  of  such  exceedingly  rigid  piety  of  the 
CaWinistic  type  of  the  period,  that  I  believe  my  uncle  was 
•OOQ  fairly  afraid  of  his  promised  brida    At  all  events  his 


46  CHAPTER  II. 

procrastinations  began  afresh.  He  remained  at  Templeton 
on  one  excuse  after  another,  till  Miss  Long  wrote  to  ask ; 
'*  Whether  he  wished  to  keep  their  engagement  % "  My  poor 
uncle  was  nearly  driven  now  to  the  wall,  but  his  health  was 
bad  and  might  prove  his  apology  for  fresh  delays.  Before 
replying  to  his  Flora,  he  went  to  Dublin  and  consulted  Sir 
Philip  Crampton.  After  detailing  his  ailments,  he  asked 
what  he  ought  to  do,  hoping  (I  am  afraid)  that  the  great 
surgeon  would  say, ''  O  you  must  keep  quiet ! ''  Instead  of 
this  verdict  Crampton  said,  **Go  and  get  married  by  all 
means!"  No  further  excuse  was  possible,  and  my  poor 
uncle  wrote  to  say  he  was  on  his  way  to  daim  his 
brida  Ere  he  reached  her,  however,  while  stopping  at 
his  mother^s  house  in  Bath,  he  was  found  dead  in  his 
bed  on  the  morning  on  which  he  should  have  gone 
to  Hood  Ashton.  He  must  have  expired  suddenly  whOe 
reading  a  good  little  book.  AU  this  happened  somewhere 
about  1823. 

To  return  to  our  old  life  at  Newbridge,  about  1833  and 
for  many  years  afterwards,  the  assembling  of  my  father's 
brothers,  and  brothers'  wives  and  children  at  Christmas  was 
the  great  event  of  the  year  in  my  almost  solitaiy  childhood. 
Often  a  party  of  twenty  or  more  sat  down  every  day  for 
three  or  four  weeks  together  in  the  dining-room,  and  we 
younger  ones  naturally  spent  the  short  days  and  long 
evenings  in  boyish  and  girlish  sports  and  play.  Certain 
very  noisy  and  romping  games — Blindman's  buff.  Prisoner's 
Bass,  Giant,  and  Puss  in  the  Corner  and  Hunt  the  Hare — 
as  we  played  them  through  the  halls  below  stairs,  and  the 
long  corridors  and  rooms  above,  still  appear  to  me  as  among 
the  most  delightful  things  in  a  world  which  was  then  all 
delight.  As  we  grew  a  little  older  and  my  dear,  clever 
brother  Tom  came  home  from  Oxford  and  Germany, 
charades  and  plays  and  masquerading  and  dancing  came  into 


J 


CHILDHOOD.  47 

fashion.  In  short  ours  was,  for  the  time,  like  other  large 
oountry-houses,  full  of  happy  young  people,  with  the  high 
spirits  common  in  those  old  days.  The  rest  of  the  year, 
except  during  the  summer  vacation,  when  brothers  and 
cousins  mustered  again,  the  place  was  singularly  quiet,  and 
my  life  strangely  solitary  for  a  child.  Very  early  I  made  a 
eonoordfU  with  each  of  my  four  successive  governesses,  that 
when  lessons  were  ended,  precisely  at  twelve,  I  was  free  to 
wander  where  I  pleased  about  the  park  and  woods,  to  row  the 
boat  on  the  pond  or  ride  my  pony  on  the  sands  of  the  sea- 
shore two  miles  from  the  house.  I  was  not  to  be  expected  to 
have  any  concern  with  my  instructress  outside  the  doors. 
The  arrangement  suited  them,  of  course,  perfectly ;  and  my 
childhood  was  thus  mainly  a  lonely  one.  I  was  so  uniformly 
happy  that  I  was  (what  I  suppose  few  children  are)  quite 
conscious  of  my  own  happiness.  I  remember  often  thinking 
whether  other  children  were  all  as  happy  as  I,  and  some- 
times, especially  on  a  spring  morning  of  the  18th  March, — ^my 
mother's  birthday,  when  I  had  a  holiday,  and  used  to  make 
coronets  of  primroses  and  violets  for  her, — ^I  can  recall 
walking  along  the  grass  walks  of  that  beautiful  old  garden 
and  feeling  as  if  everything  in  the  world  was  perfect,  and 
my  life  complete  bliss  for  which  I  could  never  thank  God 
enough. 

When  the  weather  was  too  bad  to  spend  my  leisure  hours 
out  of  doors  I  plunged  into  the  library  at  haphazard,  often 
making  "  discovery "  of  books  of  which  I  had  never  been 
told,  but  which,  thus  found  for  myself,  were  doubly 
precious.  Never  shall  I  forget  thus  falling  by  chance  on 
KMa  Khan  in  its  first  pamphlet-shape.  I  also  gloated  over 
Southey's  Cwtm  of  Kehamay  and  The  Cid  and  Scott's  earlier 
works.  My  mother  did  very  wisely,  I  think,  to  allow  me 
thus  to  rove  over  the  shelves  at  my  own  will.  By  degrees  a 
genuine  appetite  for  reading  awoke  in  me,  and  I  became  a 


48  CHAPTER  IL 

studious  gir],  as  I  shall  presently  describe.      Beside  the 
library,  however,  I  had  a  play-house  of  my  own  for  wet  days. 
There  were,  at  that  time,  two  garrets  only  in  the  house  (the 
bed-rooms  having  all  lofty  coved  ceilings),  and  these  two 
garrets,  over  the  lobbies,  were  altogether  disused.     I  took 
possession  of  them,  and  kept  the  keys  lest  anybody  should  pry 
into  them,  and  truly  they  must  have  been  a  remarkable  sight  I 
On  the  sloping  roofs  I  pinned  the  eyes  of  my  peacock's  feathers 
in  the  relative  positions  of  the  stars  of  the  chief  constellations ; 
one  of  my  hobbies  being  Astronomy.     On  another  wall  I 
fastened  a  rack  full  of  carpenter^s  tools,  which  I  could  use 
pretty  deftly  on  the  bench  beneath.     The  principal  wall  was 
an  armoury  of  old  court-swords,  and  home-made  pikes, 
decorated  with  green  and  white  flags  (I  was  an  Irish  patriot 
at  that  epoch),  sundry  javelins,  bows  and  arrows,  and  a 
magnificently  painted  shield  with  the  family  arms.     On  the 
floor  of  one  room  was  a  collection  of  shells  from  the  neigh- 
bouring shore,  and  lastly  there  was  a  table  with  pens,  ink 
and  paper ;  implements  wherewith  I  perpetrated,  inter  oMa, 
several  poems  of  which  I  can  just  recall  one.     The  motif  oi 
the  story  was  obviously  borrowed  from  a  stanza  in  Moore's 
Irish  Melodies.     Even  now  I  do  not  think  the  verses  very 
bad  for  12  or  13  years  old. 

THE  FISHERMAN  OP  LOUGH  NEAGH. 

The  autamn  wind  was  roarlDg  high 

And  the  tempest  laved  in  the  midnight  sky, 

When  the  fisherman's  father  sank  to  rest 

And  left  O'Nial  the  last  and  best 

Of  a  race  of  kings  who  once  held  sway 

From  fiir  Fingal  to  dark  Lough  Neagh.* 

The  morning  shone  and  the  fisherman's  bark 
Was  wafted  o'er  those  waters  dark. 


•  Pronounoad  «•  Lock  Nay." 


O&ILLHOOD.  49 

And  he  thought  as  he  sailed  of  his  father's  name 

Of  the  kings  of  Erin's  ancient  fame, 

Of  days  when  'neath  those  waters  green 

The  hanners  of  Kial  were  ever  seen, 

And  where  the  Knights  of  the  Blood-Bed-Trce 

Had  held  of  old  their  revelry ; 

And  where  O'NiaJ's  race  alone 

Had  sat  upon  the  regal  throne. 

"While  the  fisherman  thought  of  the  days  of  old 
The  son  had  left  the  western  sky 
And  the  moon  had  risen  a  lamp  of  gold, 
Ere  O'Nial  deemed  that  the  eve  was  nigh, 
He  turned  his  hoat  to  the  mountain  side 
And  it  darted  away  o'er  the  rippling  tide ; 
Like  arrow  from  an  Indian  bow 
Shot  o'er  the  waves  the  glancing  prow. 

The  fisherman  saw  not  the  point  beneath 

"Which  beckoned  him  on  to  instant  death. 

It  struck — ^yet  he  shrieked  not,  although  his  blood 

Ban  chill  at  the  thought  of  that  fatal  flood ; 

And  the  voice  of  O'Nial  was  silent  that  day 

As  he  sank  'neath  the  waters  of  dark  Lough  Neagh^ 

Like  when  Adam  rose  from  the  dust  of  earth 
And  felt  the  joy  of  his  glorious  birth. 
And  where'er  he  gazed,  and  where'er  he  trod, 
He  felt  the  presence  and  smile  of  God, — 
Like  the  breath  of  morning  to  him  who  long 
Has  ceased  to  hear  the  warblers'  song, 
And  who,  in  the  chamber  of  death  hath  lain 
With  a  sickening  heart  and  a  burning  brain ; 
So  rushed  the  joy  through  O'Nial's  mind 
When  the  waters  dark  above  him  joined, 
And  he  felt  that  Heaven  had  made  him  be 
A  spirit  of  light  and  eternity.  . 

He  gazed  around,  but  his  dazzled  sight 
Saw  not  the  spot  from  whence  he  fell, 
For  beside  him  rose  a  spire  so  bright 
No  mortal  tongue  could  its  splendours  tell 
Nor  human  eye  endure  its  light. 

yoL.  I.  <* 


60  CHAPTER   IL 

And  he  looked  and  saw  that  pillars  of  gold 

The  crystal  colnmn  did  proadly  hold ; 

And  he  turned  and  walked  in  the  light  blao  sea 

Upon  a  silver  balcony, 

Which  rolled  around  the  spire  of  light 

And  laid  on  the  golden  piUars  bright. 

Descending  from  the  pillars  high, 
He  passed  throngh  portals  of  ivory 
E'en  to  the  hall  of  living  gold 
The  palace  of  the  kings  of  old. 
The  harp  of  Erin  sounded  high 
And  the  crotal  joined  the  melody, 
And  the  voice  of  happy  spirits  round 
Prolonged  and  harmonized  the  sound* 

"  All  hail,  0*Nial !  "— 

and  so  on,  and  so  on  I  I  wrote  a  great  deal  of  this  sort  of 
thing  then  and  for  a  few  years  afterwards  ;  and  of  coarse, 
like  everyone  else  who  has  ever  been  given  to  waste  paper  and 
ink,  I  tried  my  hand  on  a  tragedy.  I  had  no  real  power  or 
originality,  only  a  little  Fancy  perhaps,  and  a  dangerous  facility 
for  flowing  versification.  After  a  time  my  early  ambition 
to  become  a  Poet  died  out  nnder  the  terrible  bard  mental 
strain  and  very  serious  study  through  which  I  passed  in 
seeking  religious  faith.  But  I  have  always  passionately  loved 
poetry  of  a  certain  kind,  specially  that  of  Shelley;  and 
perhaps  some  of  my  prose  writings  have  been  the  better  for  my 
early  efforts  to  cultivate  harmony  and  for  my  delight  in  good 
similes.  This  last  propensity  is  even  now  very  strong  in  me, 
and  whenever  I  write  con  anvore^  comparisons  and  metaphors 
come  tumbling  out  of  my  head,  till  my  difficulty  is  to  exclude 
juixed  ones  1 

My  education  at  this  time  was  of  a  simple  kind.  After 
Miss  Einnear  left  us  to  marry,  I  had  another  nursery 
governess,  a  good  creature  properly  entitled  "Miss  Daly, 
hut  called  by  my  profane  brothers,  "  the  Daily  Nuisance. 


fi 


/ 


OHTLDHOOD.  51 

After  her  came  a  real  governess,  the  daughter  of  a  bankrapt 
Liverpool  merchant  who  made  my  life  a  bnrden  with  her 
strict  discipline  and  her  " I-have-seen-better-days "  airs; 
and  who,  at  last,  I  detected  in  a  trick  which  to  me  appeared 
one  of  unparalleled  tnrpitadel  She  had  asked  me  to  let  her 
read  something  which  I  had  written  in  a  copy-book  and  I  had 
peremptorily  declined  to  obey  her  request,  and  had  looked  ap 
my  papers  in  my  beloved  little  writing-desk  which  my  dear 
brother  Tom  had  bought  for  me  out  of  his  school-boy's 
pocket  money.  The  keys  of  this  desk  I  kept  with  other 
things  in  one  of  the  old-fashioned  pockets  which  everybody 
then  wore,  and  which  formed  a  separate  article  of 
under  clothing.  This  pocket  my  maid  naturally  placed  at 
night  on  the  chair  beside  my  little  bed,  and  the  curtains 
of  the  bed  being  drawn.  Miss  W.  no  doubt  after  a  time 
concluded  I  was  asleep  and  cautiously  approached  the  chair 
on  tiptoe.  As  it  happened  I  was  wide  awake,  having 
at  that  time  the  habit  of  repeating  certain  hymns  and 
other  religious  things  to  myself  before  I  went  to  sleep ;  and 
when  I  perceived  through  the  white  curtain  the  shadow  of 
my  governess  close  outside,  and  then  heard  the  slight  jingle 
made  by  my  keys  as  she  abstracted  them  from  my  pocket,  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  witness  of  a  crime  t  Anything  so  base  I 
had  never  dreamed  as  existing  outside  story  books  of 
wicked  children.  Drawing  the  curtain  I  could  see  that 
Miss  W.  had  gone  with  her  candle  into  the  inner  room 
(one  of  the  old  <<  powdering  closets  "  attached  to  all  the 
rooms  in  Newbridge)  and  was  busy  with  the  desk  which 
lay  on  the  table  therein.  Very  shortly  I  heard  the  desk 
dose  again  with  an  angry  click, — and  no  wonder  I  Poor 
Miss  W.,  who  no  doubt  fancied  she  was  going  to  detect 
her  strange  pupil  in  some  particular  naughtiness,  found  the 
MS.  in  the  desk,  to  consist  of  solemn  religious ''  Reflections,'* 
in  the  style  of  Mrs.  Trimmer ;   and  of  a  poetical  descripffoc 


68  CHAPTER   IL 

(in  round  hand)  of  the  hast  Judgment!  My  governess 
replaced  the  bunch  of  keys  in  my  pocket  and  noiselessly 
withdrew,  but  it  was  long  before  I  could  sleep  for  sheer 
horror ;  and  next  day  I,  of  course,  confided  to  my  mother  the 
terrible  incident.  Nothing,  I  think,  was  said  to  Miss  W. 
about  it,  but  she  was  very  shortly  afterwards  allowed  to 
return  to  her  beloved  Liverpool,  where,  for  all  I  know,  she 
may  be  living  stiU. 

My  fourth  and  last  governess  was  a  remarkable  woman,  a 
Mdlle.  Montriou,  a  person  of  considerable  force  of  character, 
and  in  many  respects  an  admirable  teacher.  With  her  I  read 
a  good  deal  of  solid  history,  beginning  with  BoUin  and  going 
on  to  Plutarch  and  Gibbon ;  also  some  modem  historians. 
She  further  taught  me  systematically  a  scheme  of  chronology 
and  royal  successions,  till  I  had  an  amount  of  knowledge  of 
such  things  which  I  afterwards  found  was  not  shared  by  any 
of  my  schoolfellows.  She  had  the  excellent  sense  also  to 
allow  me  to  use  a  considerable  part  of  my  lesson  hours  with 
a  map-book  before  me,  asking  her  endless  questions  on  all 
things  connected  with  the  various  countries ;  and  as  she  was 
extremely  well  and  widely  informed,  this  was  almost  the  best 
part  of  my  instruction.  I  became  really  interested  in  these 
studies,  and  also  in  the  great  poets,  French  and  English,  to 
whom  she  introduced  me.  Of  course  my  governess  taught 
me  music,  including  what  was  then  called  Thorough  Bass,  and 
now  Harmony ;  but  very  little  of  the  practical  part  of  perform* 
ance  could  I  leam  then  or  at  any  time.  Independently  of  her, 
I  read  every  book  on  Astronomy  which  I  could  lay  hold  of, 
aad  I  well  remember  the  excitement  wherewith  I  waited  for 
years  for  the  appearance  of  the  Comet  of  1885,  which  one  of 
these  books  had  foretold.  At  last  a  report  reached  me  that 
the  village  tailor  had  seen  the  comet  the  previous  night.  Of 
course  I  scanned  the  -sky  with  renewed  ardour,  and  thought  I 
had  discovered  the  desired  objt^ci  iu  a  misty-looking  star  of 


I 
/ 


CHILDHOOD.  58 

which  my  planisphere  gave  no  notice.  My  father  however 
pooh-poohed  this  bold  h3rpothesis,  and  I  was  fain  to  wait  till 
the  next  night.  Then,  as  soon  as  it  was  dark,  I  ran  up  to  a 
window  whence  I  could  command  the  constellation  wherein 
the  comet  was  bomid  to  show  itself.  A  small  hazy  star — and  a 
Umg  train  of  light  from  it — greeted  my  enchanted  eyes !  My 
limbs  could  hardly  bear  me  as  I  tore  downstairs  into  the 
drawing-room,  nor  my  voice  publish  the  triumphant  intelli- 
gence, '<  It  is  the  comet  1  '*  ''  It  Aa«  a  tail ! "  Everybody  (in 
far  too  leisurely  a  way  as  I  considered)  wont  up  and  saw  it, 
and  confessed  that  the  comet  it  certainly  must  be,  with  that 
appendage  of  the  tail  1  Few  events  in  my  long  life  have 
caused  me  such  delightful  excitement.    This  was  in  1835. 


CHAPTBB 


ni. 


SCHOOL  AND  AFTBR 


CHAPTER  m. 
School  and  Afteb. 

Wren  my  father,  in  1886,  had  decided,  by  my  governess's 
advice,  to  send  me  to  school,  my  dear  mother,  though  ahready 
old  and  feeble,  made  the  jonmey,  long  as  it  was  in  those 
days,  from  Ireland  to  Brighton  to  see  for  herself  where  I 
was  to  be  placed,  and  to  invoke  the  kindness  of  my  school- 
mistresses for  me.  We  sailed  to  Bristol — a  80  honrs' 
passage  nsaally,  but  sometimes  longer, — and  then  travelled 
by  postchaises  to  Brighton,  taking,  I  think,  three  da3rs  on 
the  road  and  visiting  Stonehenge  by  the  way,  to  my  mother's 
great  delight.  My  eldest  brother,  then  at  Oxford,  attended 
her  and  acted  conrier.  When  we  came  in  sight  of  Brighton 
the  lamps  were  lighted  along  the  long  perspective  of  the 
shore.  Gas  was  still  sufficiently  a  novelty  to  cause  this 
sight  to  be  immensely  impressive  to  us  all. 

Next  day  my  mother  took  me  to  my  future  tyrants,  and 
fondly  bargained  (as  she  was  paying  enormously)  that  I 
should  have  sundry  indulgences,  and  principally  a  bedroom  to 
myself.  A  room  was  shown  to  her  with  only  one  small  bed 
in  it,  and  this  she  was  told  would  be  mine.  When  I  went  to 
it  next  night,  heart  broken  after  her  departure,  I  found  that 
another  bed  had  been  put  up,  and  a  schoolfellow  was  already 
asleep  in  it.  I  flung  myself  down  on  my  knees  by  my  own 
and  cried  my  heart  out,  and  was  accordingly  reprimanded 
next  morning  before  the  whole  school  for  having  been  seen 
to  cry  at  my  prayers.* 

*  Port  of  the  following  description -of  my  own  and  my  mother's 
■chool  appeared  some  years  ago  in  a  periodioal,  now,  I  believe, 
eoEtinot. 


58  CHAPTER   111. 

The  edaoaiion  of  women  was  probably  at  its  lowest  ebb 
about  half-a-oentmy  ago.  It  was  at  that  period  more  pre- 
tentions than  it  had  ever  been  before,  and  infinitely  more 
costly  than  it  is  now ;  and  it  was  likewise  more  shallow  and 
senseless  than  can  easily  be  believed.  To  inspire  young 
women  with  due  gratitude  for  their  present  privileges,  won 
for  them  by  my  contemporaries,  I  can  think  of  nothing  better 
than  to  acquaint  them  with  some  of  the  features  of  school- 
life  in  England  in  the  days  of  their  mothers  I  say  advisedly 
the  days  of  their  mothers,  for  in  those  of  their  grandmothers, 
things  were  by  no  means  equally  bad.  There  was  much  less 
pretence  and  more  genuine  instruction,  so  far  as  it  extended. 

For  a  moment  let  us,  however,  go  back  to  these  earlier 
grandmothers'  schools,  say  those  of  the  year  1790  or  there- 
abouts. From  the  reports  of  my  own  mother,  and  of  a 
friend  whose  mother  was  educated  in  the  same  place,  I  can 
accurately  describe  a  school  which  flourished  at  that  date  in 
the  fashionable  region  of  Queen  Square,  Bloomsbury.  The 
mistress  was  a  certain  Mrs.  Devis,  who  must  have  been  a 
woman  of  ability  for  she  published  a  very  good  little  English 
Grammar  for  the  express  use  of  her  pupils ;  aJso  a  Geography, 
and  a  capital  book  of  maps,  which  possessed  the  inestimable 
advantage  of  recording  only  those  towns,  cities,  rivers,  and 
mountsuns  which  were  mentioned  in  the  Geography,  and  not 
confusing  the  mind  (as  maps  are  too  apt  to  do)  with  extraneous 
and  superfluous  towns  and  hiUs.  I  speak  with  personal 
gratitude  of  those  venerable  books,  for  out  of  them  chiefly  I 
obtained  such  inklings  of  Geography  as  have  sufficed  generally 
for  my  wants  through  life ;  the  only  disadvantage  they  entailed 
being  a  firm  impression,  still  rooted  in  my  mind,  that  there  is  a 
<<  Kingdom  of  Poland  "  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  Europe. 

Beside  Grammar  and  Geography  and  a  very  fEur  share  of 
history  ('< Ancient"  derived  from  BoUin,  and  "Sacred*' 
from  Mrs.  Trimmer),  the  young  ladies  at  Mrs.  DeVis'  school 


SOHOOL   AND  AFTER.  69 

learned  to  speak  and  read  French  with  a  very  good  aecent, 
and  to  play  the  harpsichord  with  taste,  if  not  with  a  very 
learned  appreciation  of  '^  severe  "  mnsic.  The  ''  Battle  of 
Prague"  and  Hook's  Sonatas  were,  I  helieve,  their 
culminating  achievements.  But  it  was  not  considered  in 
those  times  that  packing  the  brains  of  girls  with  facts,  or 
even  teaching  their  fingers  to  run  over  the  ke3rs  of  instru- 
ments, or  to  handle  pen  and  pencil,  was  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  education.  William  of  Wykeham's  motto. 
« Manners  makyth  Manne,"  was  understood  to  hold  good 
emphatically  concerning  the  making  of  Woman.  The  abrupt 
speaking,  courtesy-neglecting,  slouching,  slangy  young 
damsel  who  may  now  perhaps  carry  off  the  glories  of  a 
University  degree,  would  have  seemed  to  Mrs.  Devis  still 
needing  to  be  taught  the  very  rudiments  of  feminine  know- 
ledge. '^ Decorum"  (delightful  word!  the  very  sound  of 
which  brings  back  the  smell  of  Mar^hale  powder)  was  the 
imperative  law  of  a  lady's  inner  life  as  well  as  of  her 
outward  habits ;  and  in  Queen  Square  nothing  that  was  not 
decorous  was  for  a  moment  admitted.  Every  movement  of 
the  body  in  entering  and  quitting  a  room,  in  taking  a  seat 
and  rising  from  it,  was  duly  criticised.  There  was  kept,  in 
the  back  premises,  a  carriage  taken  off  the  wheels,  and 
propped  up  en  permanence^  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  the 
young  ladies  to  practise  ascending  and  descending  with  calm- 
ness and  grace,  and  without  any  unnecessary  display  of  their 
ankles.  Every  girl  was  dressed  in  the  full  fashion  of  the 
day.  My  mother,  like  all  her  companions,  wore  hair-powder 
and  rouge  on  her  cheeks  when  she  entered  the  school  a 
blooming  girl  of  fifteen ;  that  excellent  rouge  at  five  guineas 
a  pot,  which  (as  she  explained  to  me  in  later  years)  did  not 
spoil  the  complexion  like  ordinary  compounds,  and  which  I 
ean  witness  really  left  a  beautiful,  clear  skin  when  disused 
thirty  years  afterwards. 


60  OB  AFTER   III. 

Beyond  these  matters  of  fashion,  however, — so  droll  now 
to  remember, — ^there  must  have  been  at  Mrs.  Devis' 
seminary  a  great  deal  of  careful  training  in  what  may  be 
called  the  great  Art  of  Society ;  the  art  of  properly  paying 
and  receiving  visits,  of  saluting  acquaintances  in  the  street 
and  drawing-room;  and  of  writing  letters  of  compliment. 
When  I  recall  the  type  of  perfect  womanly  gentleness  and 
high  breeding  which  then  and  there  was  formed,  it  seems  to 
me  as  if,  in  comparison,  modem  manners  are  all  rough  and 
brusque.  We  have  graceful  women  in  abundance  still,  but 
the  peculiar  old-fashioned  suavity,  the  tact  which  made 
everybody  in  a  company  happy  and  at  ease, — ^most  of  all  the 
humblest  individual  present, — and  which  at  the  same  time 
effectually  prevented  the  most  audacious  from  transgressing 
Us  biemiances  by  a  hair ;  of  that  suavity  and  tact  we  seem 
to  have  lost  the  tradition. 

The  great  Bloomsbury  school,  however,  passed  away  at 
length,  good  Mrs.  Devis  having  departed  to  the  land  where  I 
trust  the  Rivers  of  Paradise  formed  part  of  her  new  study  of 
Geography.  Nearly  half-a-century  later,  when  it  came  to 
my  turn  to  receive  education,  it  was  not  in  London  but  in 
Brighton  that  the  ladies'  schools  most  in  estimation  were  to  be 
found.  There  were  even  then  (about  1886)  not  less  than  a 
hundred  such  establishments  in  the  town,  but  that  at 
No.  82,  Brunswick  Terrace,  of  which  Miss  Bunciman  and 
Miss  Roberts  were  mistresses,  and  which  had  been  founded 
some  time  before  by  a  celebrated  Miss  Poggi,  was  supposed 
to  be  nee  plurUms  impar.  It  was,  at  all  events,  the  most 
outrageously  expensive,  the  nominal  tariff  of  £120  or  £180 
per  annum  representing  scarcely  a  fourth  of  the  charges  for 
*' extras  "  which  actually  appeared  in  the  bills  of  many  of 
the  pupils.  My  own,  I  know,  amounted  to  £1,000  for  two 
years'  schooling. 

I  shall  write  of  this  school  quite  frankly,  since  the  two 


SOitUOL   AND   AFTER.  61 

poor  ladieSy  well-meaning  bnt  very  nnwise,  to  whom  it 
belonged  have  been  dead  for  nearly  thirty  years,  and  it  can 
hurt  nobody  to  record  my  conviction  that  a  better  system 
than  theirs  could  scarcely  have  been  devised  had  it  been 
designed  to  attain  the  maximum  of  cost  and  labour  and  the 
minimnm  of  solid  results.  It  was  the  typical  Higher  Educa- 
tion of  the  period,  carried  out  to  the  extreme  of  expenditure 
and  high  pressure. 

Profane  persons  were  apt  to  describe  our  school  as  a 
Convent,  and  to  refer  to  the  back  door  of  our  garden,  whence 
we  issued  on  our  dismal  diurnal  walks,  as  the  *' postern." 
If  we  in  any  degree  resembled  nuns,  however,  it  was 
assuredly  not  those  of  either  a  Contemplative  or  Silent 
Order.  The  din  of  our  large  double  schoolrooms  was  some- 
thing frightful.  Sitting  in  either  of  them,  four  pianos  might 
be  heard  going  at  once  in  rooms  above  and  around  us,  while 
at  numerous  tables  scattered  about  the  rooms  there  were 
girls  reading  aloud  to  the  governesses  and  reciting  lessons  in 
English,  French,  German,  and  Italian.  This  hideous 
clatter  continued  the  entire  day  tiU  we  went  to  bed  at 
night,  there  being  no  time  whatever  allowed  for  recreation, 
unless  the  dreary  hour  of  walking  with  our  teachers 
(when  we  recited  our  verbs),  could  so  be  described 
by  a  fantastic  imagination.  In  the  midst  of  the  uproar 
we  were  obliged  to  write  our  exercises,  to  compose 
our  themes,  and  to  commit  to  memory  whole  pages 
of  prose.  On  Saturday  afternoons,  instead  of  play,  there 
was  a  terrible  ordeal  generally  known  as  the  *^  Judgment 
Day."  The  two  school-mistresses  sat  side  by  side,  solemn 
and  stem,  at  the  head  of  the  long  table.  Behind  them  sat 
all  the  governesses  as  Assessors.  On  the  table  were  the 
books  wherein  our  evil  deeds  of  the  week  were  recorded  ; 
and  round  the  room  against  the  wall,  seated  on  stools  of 
penitential  discomfort,  we  sat,  five-and-twenty  '*  damosels," 


62  CHAPTER   III. 

aii3rthmg  bat  ''  Blessed,"  expecting  our  sentences  according 
to  onr  ill-deserts.  It  must  be  explained  that  the  fiendish 
ingennity  of  some  teacher  had  invented  for  onr  torment  a 
system  of  imaginary  "  cards/'  which  we  were  supposed  to 
"  lose  "  (though  we  never  gained  any)  whenever  we  had  not 
finished  all  our  various  lessons  and  practisings  every  night 
before  bed-time,  or  whenever  we  had  been  given  the  mark 
for  ''stooping/'  or  had  been  impertinent,  or  had  been 
*'  turned "  in  our  lessons,  or  had  been  marked  "  P  "  by 
the  music  master,  or  had  been  convicted  of  "  disorder  " 
(«.^.,  having  our  long  shoe-strings  untied),  or,  lastly,  had 
told  lies  I  Any  one  crime  in  this  heterogeneous  list  entailed 
the  same  penalty*,  namely,  the  sentence,  "  You  have  lost  your 
card.  Miss  So-and-so,  for  such  and  such  a  thing ; "  and  when 
Saturday  came  round,  if  three  cards  had  been  lost  in  the 
week,  the  law  wreaked  its  justice  on  the  unhappy  sinner's 
head  t  Her  confession  having  been  wrung  from  her  at  the 
awful  judgment-seat  above  described,  and  the  books  having 
been  consulted,  she  was  solemnly  scolded  and  told  to  sit  in 
the  comer  for  the  rest  of  the  evening !  An3rthing  more 
ridiculous  than  the  scene  which  followed  can  hardly  be 
conceived.  I  have  seen  (after  a  week  in  which  a  sort  of 
feminine  barring-out  had  taken  place)  no  less  than  nine  young 
ladies  obliged  to  sit  for  hours  in  the  angles  of  the  three 
rooms,  like  naughty  babies,  with  their  faces  to  the  wall; 
half  of  them  being  quite  of  marriageable  age,  and  all  dressed, 
as  was  ds  rigueur  with  us  every  day,  in  fidl  evening  attire 
of  silk  or  muslin,  with  gloves  and  kid  slippers.  Naturally, 
Saturday  evenings,  instead  of  affording  some  relief  to  the 
incessant  overstrain  of  the  week,  were  looked  upon  with 
terror  as  the  worst  time  of  all.  Those  who  escaped  the  fell 
destiny  of  the  comer  were  allowed,  if  they  chose  to  write  to 
their  parents,  but  our  letters  were  perforce  committed  at 
night  to  the  schoolmistress  to  seal,  and  were  not  as  may  be 


80H00L   AND   AFTER.  68 

imagined,  exaetJy  the  natnral  outponring  of  our  sentimenta 
as  regarded  those  ladies  and  their  school. 

Our  household  was  a  large  one.  It  consisted  of  the  two 
schoolmistresses  and  joint  proprietors,  of  the  sister  of  one  of 
them  and  another  English  governess;  of  a  French,  an 
Italian,  and  a  German  lady  teacher ;  of  a  considerable  staff  of 
respectable  servants ;  and  finally  of  twenty-five  or  twenty-six 
pupils,  varying  in  age  from  nine  to  nineteen.  All  the  pupils 
were  daughters  of  men  of  some  standing,  mostly  country 
gentlemen,  members  of  Parliament,  and  offshoots  of  the 
peerage.  There  were  several  heiresses  amongst  us,  and  one 
girl  whom  we  all  liked  and  recognised  as  the  beauty  of  the 
school,  the  daughter  of  Horace  Smith,  author  of  Ejected 
Addresses.  On  the  whole,  looking  back  after  the  long  interval, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  young  creatures  there  assembled  were 
fall  of  capabilities  for  widely  extended  usefulness  and 
influence.  Many  were  decidedly  clever  and  nearly  all  were 
well  disposed.  There  was  very  little  malice  or  any  other 
vicious  ideas  or  feelings,  and  no  worldliness  at  all  amongst  us. 
I  make  this  last  remark  because  the  novel  of  Base,  Blanche 
and  Violet,  by  the  late  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes,  is  evidently 
intended  in  sundry  details  to  describe  this  particnlaor 
school,  and  yet  most  falsely  represents  the  girls  as 
ihinking  a  great  deal  of  each  other's  wealth  or  comparative 
poverty.  Nothing  was  farther  from  the  fact.  One  of 
Dur  heiresses,  I  well  remember,  and  another  damsel  of  high 
degree,  the  granddaughter  of  a  dake,  were  our  constant  butts 
for  their  ignorance  and  stupidity,  rather  than  the  objects  of 
any  preferential  flattery.  Of  vulgarity  of  feeling  of  the  kind 
imagined  by  Mr.  Lewes,  I  cannot  recall  a  trace. 

But  aU  this  fine  human  material  was  deplorably  wasted. 
Nobody  dreamed  that  any  one  of  us  could  in  later  life  be 
more  or  less  than  an  *'  Ornament  of  Society."  That  a  pupil 
%that  school  should  ever  boeome  an  artist,  or  authoress,  would 


64  CHAPTER   III. 

have  been  looked  upon  by  both  Miss  Ennciman  and  Miss 
BoVerts  as  a  deplorable  dereliction.  Not  that  yrhich  was 
good  in  itself  or  useM  to  the  commnnity,  or  even  that  which 
would  be  delightful  to  ourselves,  but  that  which  would  make 
us  admired  in  society,  was  the  raison  d^itre  of  each  acquire- 
ment. Everything  was  taught  us  in  the  inverse  ratio 
of  its  true  importance.  At  the  bottom  of  the  scale  were 
Morals  and  Religion,  and  at  the  top  were  Music  and  Dancing ; 
miserably  poor  music,  too,  of  the  Italian  school  then  in  vogue, 
and  generally  performed  in  a  showy  and  tasteless  manner  on 
harp  or  piano.  I  can  recall  an  amusing  instance  in  which 
the  order  of  precedence  above  described  was  naively  betrayed 
by  one  of  our  schoolmistresses  when  she  was  admonishing  one 
of  the  girls  who  had  been  detected  in  a  lie.  <'  Don't  you 
know,  you  naughty  girl,"  said  Miss  B.  impressively,  before 
the  whole  school :  '<  don't  you  know  we  had  almost  rather 

find  you  have  a  P "  (the  mark  of  Pretty  Well)  "  in  your 

music,  than  tell  such  falsehoods  ?  " 

It  mattered  nothing  whether  we  had  any  **  music  in  our 
souls  "  or  any  voices  in  our  throats,  equally  we  were  driven 
through  the  dreary  course  of  practising  daily  for  a  couple  of 
hours  under  a  German  teacher,  and  then  receiving  lessons 
twice  or  three  times  a  week  from  a  music  master  (Griesbach 
by  name)  and  a  singing  master.  Many  of  us,  myself  in 
particular,  in  addition  to  these  had  a  harp  master,  a  Frenchman 
named  Labarre,  who  gave  us  lessons  at  a  guinea  apiece,  while 
we  could  only  play  with  one  hand  at  a  time.  Lastly  there 
were  a  few  young  ladies  who  took  instructions  in  the  new 
instruments,  the  concertina  and  the  accordion  t 

The  waste  of  money  involved  in  all  this,  the  piles  of  useless 
music,  and  songs  never  to  be  sung,  for  which  our  parents  had 
to  pay,  and  the  loss  of  priceless  time  for  ourselves,  were 
truly  deplorable ;  and  the  result  of  course  in  many  cases  (as 
in  my  own)  complete  failure.     One  day  I  said  to  the  good 


SCHOOL   AND   AFTER.  65 

liiUe  (German  teacher,  who  nourished  a  hopeless  attaehment 
for  Schiller's  Marquis  Posa,  aad  was  altogether  a  sympaihetid 
person,  **  My  dear  Franlein,  I  mean  to  practise  this  piece  ol 
Beethoven's  till  I  conquer  it."  **  My  dear,"  responded  the 
honest  Fraulein,  '^  you  do  practice  that  piece  for  seex  hours  a 
day,  and  you  do  live  till  you  are  seexty,  at  the  end  you  will 
not  play  it  t "  Yet  so  hopeless  a  pupil  was  compelled  to  learn 
for  years,  not  only  the  piano,  but  the  harp  and  singing  I 

Next  to  music  in  importance  in  our  curriculum  came 
dancing.  The  famous  old  Madame  Michaud  and  her  husband 
both  attended  us  constantly,  and  we  danced  to  their  direction 
n  our  large  play-room  {lucus  a  non  lucendo),  till  we  had 
yarned  not  only  all  the  dances  in  use  in  England  in  that 
ante-polka  epoch,  but  almost  every  national  dance  in  Europe, 
file  Minuet,  the  Qavotte,  the  Cachucha,  the  Bolero,  the 
Mazurka,  and  the  Tarantella.  To  see  the  stout  old  lady  in  her 
heavy  green  velvet  dress,  with  furbelow  a  foot  deep  of  sable, 
going  through  the  latter  cheerM  performance  for  our  ensample, 
was  a  sight  not  to  be  forgotten.  Beside  the  dancing  we  had 
«  calisthenic  "  lessons  every  week  from  a  **  Capitaine  "  Some- 
body, who  put  us  through  manifold  exercises  with  poles  and 
dumbbeUs.  How  much  better  a  few  good  country  scrambles 
would  have  been  than  all  these  calisthenics  it  is  needless  to  say, 
but  our  dismal  walks  were  confined  to  parading  the  esplanade 
and  neighbouring  terraces.  Our  parties  never  exceeded  six,  a 
governess  being  one  of  the  number,  and  we  looked  down 
from  an  immeasurable  height  of  superiority  on  the  processions 
of  twenty  and  thirty  girls  belonging  to  other  schools.  The 
governess  who  accompanied  us  had  enough  to  do  with  heif 
small  party,  for  it  was  her  duty  to  utilise  these  brief  hours  of 
bodily  exercise  by  hearing  us  repeat  our  French,  Italian  or 
German  verbs,  according  to  her  own  nationality. 

Next  to  Music  and  Dancing  and  Deportment,  came  Drawii^, 
Vut  that  was  not  a  sufficiently  voyant  accomplishment,  and  no 

VOEi*    tm  fi 


66  CHAPTER   III. 

great  attention  was  paid  to  it ;  the  instruction  also  being  of  a 
second-rate  kind,  except  that  it  indnded  lessons  in  perspective 
which  have  been  nsefnl  to  me  ever  since.  Then  followed 
Modem  Languages.  No  Greek  or  Latin  were  heard  of  at 
the  school,  bat  French,  Italian  and  German  were  chattered 
all  day  long,  our  tongues  being  only  set  at  liberty  at  six 
o'clock  to  speak  English.  Such  French,  such  Italian,  and 
such  German  as  we  actually  spoke  may  be  more  easily 
imagined  than  described.  We  had  bad  '^  Marks  "  for  speaking 
wrong  languages,  e,g,y  French  when  we  bound  to  speak 
Italian  or  German,  and  a  dreadful  mark  for  bad  French, 
which  was  transferred  from  one  to  another  all  day  long,  and 
was  a  fertile  source  of  tears  and  quarrels,  involving  as  it  did 
a  heavy  lesson  out  of  Noel  et  Chapsal's  Grammar  on  the 
last  holder  at  night.  We  also  read  in  each  language  every 
day  to  the  French,  Italian  and  German  ladies,  recited  lessons 
to  them,  and  wrote  exercises  for  the  respective  masters  who 
attended  every  week.  One  of  these  foreign  masters,  by  the 
way,  was  the  patriot  Berchet ;  a  sad,  grim-looking  man  of 
whom  I  am  afraid  we  rather  made  fun ;  and  on  one  occasion, 
when  he  had  gone  back  to  Italy,  a  compatriot,  whom  we 
were  told  was  a  very  great  personage  indeed,  took  his  classes 
to  prevent  them  from  being  transferred  to  any  other  of  the 
Brighton  teachers  of  Italian.  If  my  memory  have  not  played 
me  a  trick,  this  illustrious  substitute  for  Berchet  was  Manzoni, 
the  author  of  the  Prometsi  SpoH;  a  distinguished-looking 
middle-aged  man,  who  won  aU  our  hearts  by  pronouncing 
everything  we  did  admirable,  even,  I  think,  on  the  occasion 
when  one  young  lady  freely  translated  Tasso,-— 

'*  Fama  e  terre  acquistasse," 
into  French  as  foUows  :— 

'<  U  acquit  la  femme  et  la  terre  "  I 


SCHOOL   AND  AFTER.  &! 

Naturally  after  (a  very  long  way  aft)er)  foreign  languages 
eame  the  study  of  English.  We  had  a  writing  and  arithmetic 
master  (whom  we  nnanimonsly  abhorred  and  despised,  though 
one  and  all  of  us  grievously  needed  his  instructions)  and  an 
**  English  master/'  who  taught  us  to  write  ''  themes/'  and  to 
whom  I,  for  one,  feel  that  I  owe,  perhaps,  more  than  to  any 
other  teacher  in  that  school,  few  as  were  the  hours  which  we 
were  permitted  to  waste  on  so  inrngnificant  an  art  as  com- 
position in  our  native  tongue  I 

Beyond  all  this,  our  English  studies  embraced  one  long, 
awful  lesson  each  week  to  be  repeated  to  the  schoolmistress 
herself  by  a  dass,  in  history  one  week,  in  geography  the  week 
following.  Our  first  class,  I  remember,  had  once  to  commit 
to  memory — ^Heaven  alone  knows  how — ^no  less  than  thirteen 
pages  of  Woodhouselee's  Universal  History! 

Lastly,  as  I  have  said,  in  point  of  importance,  came  our 
religious  instruction.  Our  well-meaning  schoolmistresses 
thought  it  was  obligatory  on  them  to  teach  us  something  of 
the  kind,  but,  being  very  obviously  altogether  worldly  women 
themselves,  they  were  puzzled  how  to  carry  out  their  inten- 
tions. They  marched  us  to  church  every  Sunday  when  it  did 
not  rain,  and  they  made  us  on  Sunday  mornings  repeat  the 
Collect  and  Catechism ;  but  beyond  these  exercises  of  body 
and  mind,  it  was  hard  for  them  to  see  what  to  do  for  our 
spiritual  welfare.  One  Ash  Wednesday,  I  remember,  they 
provided  us  with  a  dish  of  salt-fish,  and  when  this  was 
removed  to  make  room  for  the  roast  mutton,  they  addressed 
us  in  a  short  discourse,  setting  forth  the  merits  of  fasting, 
and  ending  by  the  remark  that  they  left  us  free  to  take  meat 
or  not  as  we  pleased,  but  that  they  hoped  we  should  £ast ; 
'*  it  would  be  good  for  our  souls  and  oub  nauBss  t  " 

Each  morning  we  were  bound  publicly  to  repeat  a  text  out 
of  certain  litUe  books,  called  Daily  Breads  left  in  our  bed- 
rocmis,  and  alwaj^i  scanned  in  frantic  haste  while  **  doiag-up  " 


68  OHAPTER  III. 

onr  hair  at  the  glass,  or  gabbled  aloud  by  one  damsel  so 
oooapied  while  her  room-fellow  (there  were  never  more  than 
two  in  eaeh  bed-chamber)  was  splashing  about  behind  the 
screen  in  her  bath.  Down,  when  the  prayer-bell  rang,  both 
were  obliged  to  hurry  and  breathlessly  to  await  the  chance  of 
being  called  on  first  to  repeat  the  text  of  the  day,  the  penalty 
for  oblivion  Seing  the  loss  of  a  '*  card."  Then  came  a 
chapter  of  the  Bible,  read  verse  by  verse  amongst  us,  and  then 
onr  books  were  shut  and  a  solemn  question  was  asked.  On 
one  occasion  I  remember  it  was :  '^  What  have  you  just 

been  reading.  Miss  S ?"    Miss  8  (now  a  lady  of 

high  rank  and  fitshion,  whose  small  wits  had  been  wool- 
gathering) peeped  surreptitiously  into  her  Bible  again,  and 
then  responded  with  just  confidence,  "  The  First  Epistle, 
Ma'am,  of  General  Peter.** 

It  is  almost  needless  to  add,  in  concluding  these  reminiscences, 
that  the  heterogeneous  studies  pursued  in  this  helter-skelter 
&8hion  were  of  the  smallest  possible  utility  in  later  life ; 
each  acquirement  being  of  the  shallowest  and  most  imperfect 
kind,  and  all  real  education  worthy  of  the  name  having  to  be 
begun  on  our  return  home,  after  we  had  been  pronounced 
"  finished."  Meanwhile  the  strain  on  our  mental  powers  of 
getting  through  daily,  for  six  months  at  a  time,  this  mass  of 
ill-arranged  and  miscellaneous  lessons,  was  extremely  great 
and  trying. 

One  droll  reminiscence  must  not  be  forgotten.  The  pupik 
at  Miss  Bunciman's  and  Miss  Boberts'  were  all  supposed  to 
have  obtained  the  fullest  instruction  in  Science  by  attending 
a  course  of  Nine  Lectures  delivered  by  a  gentleman  named 
Walker  in  a  public  room  in  Brighton.  The  course  comprised 
one  Lecture  on  Electricity,  another  on  Ckdvanism,  another 
on  Optics,  others  I  think,  on  Hydrostatics,  Mechanics,  and 
Pneumatics,  and  finally  three,  which  gave  me  infinite 
•atis&etion,  on  Astronomy. 


SCHOOL   AND  AFTER,  69 

If  ixae  edneation  be  the  instillmg  into  the  mind,  not  so 
mnch  Knowledge,  as  the  desire  for  Knowledge,  mine  at 
school  certainly  proved  a  notable  fiEulnre.  I  was  brought 
home  (no  girl  could  trayel  in  those  days  alone)  from 
Brighton  by  a  coach  called  the  Bed  Bover^  which  performed, 
as  a  species  of  miracle,  in  one  day  the  jonmey  to  Bristol, 
from  whence  I  embarked  for  Ireland.  My  convoy-brother 
natmrally  mouited  the  box,  and  left  me  to  enjoy  the  interior 
all  day  by  myself;  and  the  reflections  of  those  solitary  honrs 
of  first  emancipation  remain  with  me  as  lively  as  if  they  had 
taken  place  yesterday.  ''What  a  delightful  thing  it  is," 
so  ran  my  thoughts  "  to  have  done  with  study  I  Now  I  may 
really  e^joy  myself  I  I  know  as  much  as  any  girl  in  our 
school,  and  since  it  is  the  best  school  in  England,  I  must 
know  all  that  it  can  ever  be  necessary  for  a  lady  to  know. 
I  wiU  not  trouble  my  head  ever  again  with  learning  anything ; 
but  read  novels  and  amuse  myself  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

This  noble  resolve  lasted  I  fancy  a  few  months,  and 
then,  depth  below  depth  of  my  ignorance  revealed  itself 
very  unpleasantly !  I  tried  to  supply  first  one  deficiency  and 
then  another,  till  after  a  year  or  two,  I  began  to  educate 
myself  in  earnest.  The  reader  need  not  be  troubled  with  a 
long  story.  I  spent  four  years  in  the  study  of  History — 
constructing  while  I  did  so  some  Tables  of  Boyal  Successions 
on  a  plan  of  my  own  which  enabled  me  to  see  at  a  glance 
the  descent,  succession  and  date  of  each  reigning  sovereign 
of  every  country,  ancient  and  modern,  possessing  any  History 
of  which  I  could  find  a  trace.  These  Tables  I  still  have  by 
me,  and  they  certainly  testify  to  considerable  industry^ 
Then  the  parson  of  our  parish,  who  had  been  a  tutor  m 
Dublin  College,  came  up  three  times  a  week  for  several 
years,  and  taught  me  a  little  Ghreek  (enough  to  read  the 
Gospels  and  to  stumble  through  Plato's  Krito)f  and  rather 
more    geometry,    to    which   science   I  took    an   immense 


VO  CHAPTER  III. 

faaef,  and  in  which  he  carried  me  over  Euclid  and 
Oonio  Sections,  and  through  two  most  delightful  hooks 
of  Archimedes'  spherics.  I  tried  Algehra,  but  had  as 
much  disinclination  for  that  form  of  mental  labour  as  I  had 
enjoyment  in  the  reasoning  required  by  Geometry.  My  tutor 
told  me  he  was  able  to  teach  me  in  one  lesson  as  many 
propositions  as  he  habitually  taught  the  undergraduates  of 
Dublin  College  in  two.  I  have  ever  since  strongly  recom- 
mended this  study  to  women  as  specially  fitted  to  counteract 
our  habits  of  hasty  judgment  and  slovenly  statement,  and  to 
impress  upon  us  the  nature  of  real  demonstration. 

I  also  read  at  this  time,  by  myself,  as  many  of  the  great 
books  of  the  world  as  I  could  reach ;  making  it  a  rule  always 
(whether  bored  or  not)  to  go  on  to  the  end  of  each,  and  also 
following  generally  Gibbon's  advice,  viz.,  to  rehearse  in  one's 
mind  in  a  walk  before  beginning  a  great  book  all  that  one 
knows  of  the  sulirject,  and  then,  having  finished  it,  to  take 
another  walk,  and  register  how  much  has  been  added  to  our 
store  of  ideas.  In  these  ways  I  read  all  the  Faery  Queen, 
all  Milton's  poetry,  and  the  Divina  Commedia  and  Geruedlemme 
lAberata  in  the  originals.  Also  (in  translations)  I  read 
through  the  Iliad,  Odyssey,  ^fineid,  Pharsalia,  and  all 
or  nearly  all,  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  Euripides,  Ovid, 
Tacitus,  Xenophon,  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  &c.  There  was 
a  fairly  good  library  at  Newbridge,  and  I  could  also  go  when 
I  pleased,  and  read  in  Archbishop  Marsh's  old  library  in 
Dublin,  where  there  were  splendid  old  books,  though  none  I 
think  more  recent  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  my 
time.  My  mother  possessed  a  small  collection  of  classics — 
Dryden,  Pope,  Milton,  Horace,  &c.,  which  she  gave  me, 
and  I  bought  for  myself  such  other  books  as  I  needed  out  of 
my  liberal  pin-money.  Happily,  I  had  at  that  time  a  really 
good  memory  for  literature,  being  able  to  carry  away  almost 
the  words  of  passages  which  much  interested  me  in  prose  or 


SOffOOL   AND  AFTER.  71 

verse,  and  to  bring  them  into  use  when  required,  though  1 
had,  oddly  enongh,  at  the  same  period  so  imperfect  a  recol- 
lection of  persons  and  daily  events  that,  being  very  anxious 
to  do  justice  to  our  servants,  I  was  obliged  to  keep  a  book  of 
memoranda  of  the  characters  and  circumstances  of  all  who  lefb 
us,  that  I  might  give  accurate  and  truthful  recommendations. 

By  degrees  these  discursive  studies — ^I  took  up  various 
hobbies  from  time  to  time — Astronomy,  Architecture, 
Heraldry,  and  many  others— centred  more  and  more  on  the 
answers  which  have  heen  made  through  the  ages  by 
philosophers  and  prophets  to  the  great  questions  of  the 
human  soul.  I  read  such  translations  as  were  accessible  in 
those  pre-Miiller  days,  of  Eastern  Sacred  books ;  Anquetil  du 
Perron's  Zend  Avesta  (twice) ;  and  Sir  William  Jones's 
Institutes  of  Menu ;  and  all  I  could  leam  about  the  Greek  and 
Alexandrian  philosophers  from  Diogenes  Laertius  and  the  old 
translators  (Taylor,  of  Norwich,  and  others)  and  a  large 
Biographical  Dictionary  which  we  had  in  our  library.  Having 
always  a  passion  for  Sjniopses,  I  constructed,  somewhere 
about  1840,  a  Table,  big  enough  to  cover  a  sheet  of  double- 
elephant  paper,  wherein  the  principal  Ghreek  philosophers 
were  ranged, — ^their  lives,  ethics,  cosmogonies  and  special 
doctrines, — ^in  separate  columns.  After  this  I  made  a  similar 
Table  of  the  early  (hiostics  and  other  heresiarohs,  with  the 
aid  of  Mosheim,  Sozomen,  and  Eusebius. 

Does  the  reader  smile  to  find  these  studies  recorded  as  the 
principal  concern  of  the  life  of  a  young  lady  from  16  to  20, 
and  in  fact  to  86  years  of  age?  It  was  even  sol  They 
were  (beside  BeUgion,  of  which  I  shall  speak  elsewhere)  my 
supreme  interest.  As  I  have  said  in  the  beginning,  I  had 
neither  cares  of  love,  or  cares  of  money  to  occupy  my  mind 
or  my  heart.  My  parents  wished  me  to  go  a  little  into 
society  when  I  was  about  18,  and  I  was,  for  the  moment, 
pleased  and  mterested  in  the  few  balls  and  drawing-rooms  (io 


72  CHAPTER  UL 

Dablin)  to  which  my  father  and  afterwards  my  nnde,  Genersi 
George  Cobbe,  conducted  me.  Bnt  I  was  rather  bored 
than  amused  by  my  dancing  partners,  and  my  dear  mother, 
ahready  in  declining  years  and  completely  an  invalid,  could 
never  accompany  me,  and  I  pined  for  her  motherly  presence 
and  guidance,  the  loss  of  which  was  only  half  compen- 
sated for  by  her  comments  on  the  long  reports  of  all  I  had 
seen  and  said  and  done,  as  I  sat  on  her  bed,  on  my  return 
home.  By  degrees  also,  my  thoughts  came  to  be  so  gravely 
employed  by  efforts  to  find  my  way  to  religious  truth,  that 
the  whole  glamour  of  social  pleasures  disappeared  and  became 
a  weariness ;  and  by  the  time  I  was  19  I  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  at  home  and  only  to  receive  our  own  guests, 
and  attend  the  occasional  dinners  in  our  neighbourhood. 
With  some  regret  my  parents  yielded  the  point,  and  except 
for  a  visit  every  two  or  three  years  to  London  for  a  few 
weeks  of  sightseeing,  and  one  or  two  trips  in  Ireland  to 
houses  of  our  relations,  my  life,  for  a  long  time,  was 
perfectly  secluded.  I  have  found  some  verses  in  which  I 
described  it. 

'*  I  live !   I  live !   and  never  to  man 
More  joy  hi  life  was  given, 
Or  power  to  make,  as  I  can  make, 
Of  this  bright  world  a  heaven. 

•«  My  mind  is  free ;  my  limbs  are  clad 
With  strength  whioh  few  may  know, 
And  every  eye  smiles  lovingly ; 
On  earth  I  have  no  foe. 

**  With  pnre  and  peaoefnl  pleasures  blessed 
Speed  my  calm  and  studious  days, 
While  the  noblest  works  of  mightiest  minds 
Lie  open  to  my  gaze." 

In  one  of  our  summer  excursions  I  remember  my  father 
and  one  of  my  brothers  and  I  lionized  Winchester,  and  came 


SCHOOL   Am>  AFTER.  78 

upon  an  ezquiaite  chapel,  which  was  at  that  timei  and  perhaps 
still  is,  a  sort  of  sanctuary  of  books,  in  the  midst  of  a  lovely, 
silent  cloister.  To  describe  the  longing  I  felt  then,  and  long 
after,  to  spend  all  my  life  studying  there  in  peace  and 
ondistorbed,  '^hiving  learning  with  each  studious  year,"— - 
would  be  impossible ! 

I  think  there  is  a  great,  and  it  must  be  said  lamentable, 
difference  between  the  genuine  passion  for  study  such  as 
many  men  and  women  in  my  time  and  before  it  experienced, 
and  the  hurried  anxious  gobbling  up  of  knowledge  which  has 
been  introduced  by  competitive  examinations,  and  the  eternal 
necessity  for  getUng  807nething  else  beside  knowledge ;  something 
to  be  represented  by  M.A.  or  B.Sch.,  or,  perhaps,  by  £  s.  d.  I 
When  I  was  young  there  were  no  honours,  no  rewards  of 
any  kind  for  a  woman's  learning ;  and  as  there  were  no 
examinations,  there  was  no  hurry  or  anxiety.  There  was 
only  healthy  thirst  for  knowledge  of  one  kind  or  another,  and 
of  one  kind  after  another.  When  I  came  across  a  reference 
to  a  matter  which  I  did  not  understand,  it  was  not  then 
necessary,  as  it  seems  to  be  to  young  students  now,  to  hasten 
over  it,  leaving  the  unknown  name,  or  event,  or  doctrine, 
like  an  enemy's  fortress  on  the  road  of  an  advancing  army. 
I  stopped  and  sat  down  before  it,  perhaps  for  days  and 
weeks,  but  I  conquered  it  at  last,  and  then  went  on  my  way 
strengthened  by  the  victory.  Recently,  I  have  actually 
heard  of  students  at  a  college  for  ladies  being  advised 
by  their  ''  coach "  to  eldp  a  number  of  propositions  in 
Evdidy  as  it  was  certain  they  would  not  be  examined 
in  them  I  One  might  as  well  help  a  climber  by  taking 
rungs  out  of  his  ladder  1  I  can  make  no  sort  of  pretensions 
to  have  acquired,  even  in  my  best  days,  an3rthing  like 
the  instruction  which  the  young  students  of  Girton  and 
Newnham  and  Lady  Margaret  Hall  are  so  fortunate  as  to 
possess ;  and  much  I  envy  their  opportunities  for  obtaining 


74  ORAPtER   III. 

acenrate  scholarship.  Bat  I  know  not  Aether  the  method 
they  follow  can,  on  the  whole,  convey  as  mnch  of  the  pnre 
delight  in  learning  as  did  my  solitary  early  studies.  When 
the  smnmer  morning  snn  rose  over  the  trees  and  shone  as  it 
often  did  into  my  hedroom  finding  me  still  over  my  books 
from  the  evening  before,  and  when  I  then  samitered  out  to 
take  a  sleep  on  one  of  the  garden  seats  in  the  shrubbery,  the 
sense  of  having  learned  something,  or  cleared  up  some  hitherto 
doubted  point,  or  added  a  store  of  fresh  ideas  to  my  mental 
riches,  was  one  of  purest  satisfaction. 

As  to  writing  as  well  as  reading,  I  had  very  early  a  great  love 
of  the  art  and  frequently  wrote  small  essays  and  stories, 
working  my  way  towards  something  of  good  style.  Our 
English  master  at  school  on  seeing  my  first  exercise  (on 
Roman  History,  I  think  it  was),  had  asked  Miss  Bunciman 
whether  she  were  sure  I  had  written  it  unaided,  and 
observed  that  the  turn  of  the  sentences  was  not  girl-like, 
and  that  he  *' thought  I  should  grow  up  to  be  a  fine 
writer."  My  schoolmistress  laughed,  of  course,  at  the 
suggestion,  and  I  fiaiicy  she  thought  less  of  poor  Mr. 
Tumbull  for  his  absurd  judgment.  But  as  men  and  women 
who  are  to  be  good  musicians  love  their  pianos  and 
violins  as  children,  so  I  early  began  to  love  that  noble 
instrument,  the  English  Language,  and  in  my  small  way  to 
study  how  to  play  upon  it.  At  one  time  when  quite  young 
I  wrote  several  imitations  of  the  style  of  Gibbon  and  other 
authors,  just  as  an  exercise.  Eventually  without  of  course 
copying  anybody  in  particular,  I  fell  into  what  I  must  suppose 
to  be  a  style  of  my  own,  since  those  familiar  with  it  easily 
detect  passages  of  my  writing  wherever  they  come  across 
them.  I  was  at  a  later  time  much  interested  in  seeing  many 
of  my  articles  translated  into  French  (chiefly  in  the  French 
Protestant  periodicals)  and  to  note  how  little  it  is  possible  to 
render  the  real  feeling  of  such  words  as  those  with  which 


SCHOOL   ANP   AFTER.  76 

^ur  ioDgae  supplies  as  by  those  of  that  language.  At 
a  stOl  later  date,  when  I  edited  the  ZoopMUf  I  was  per- 
petually disappointed  by  the  fieultires  of  the  best  translators  I 
conld  engage,  to  render  my  meaning.  Among  the  things  for 
which  to  be  thankfdl  in  life,  I  think  we,  English,  ought  to 
assign  no  small  place  to  our  inheritance  of  that  grand  legacy 
of  onr  fore&thers,  the  English  Language. 

While  these  studies  were  going  on,  from  the  time  I  left 
school  in  1888  till  I  left  Newbridge  in  1867,  it  may  be  noted 
that  I  had  the  not  inconsiderable  charge  of  keeping  house  for 
my  father.  My  mother  at  once  put  the  whole  responsibility 
of  the  matter  in  my  hands,  refusing  even  to  be  told  before* 
hand  what  I  had  ordered  for  the  rather  formal  dinner  parties 
of  those  days,  and  I  accepted  the  task  with  pleasure,  both 
because  I  could  thus  reHeve  her,  and  also  because  then  and 
ever  since  I  have  really  liked  housekeeping.  I  love  a  well- 
ordered  house  and  table,  rooms  pleasantly  arranged  and 
lighted,  and  decorated  with  flowers,  hospitable  attentions  to 
guests,  and  all  the  other  pleasant  cares  of  the  mistress  of  a 
family.  In  the  midst  of  my  studies  I  always  went  every 
morning  regularly  to  my  housekeeper's  room  and  wrote  out 
a  careful  menu  for  the  upstairs  and  downstairs  meals.  I 
visited  the  larders  and  the  fine  old  kitchen  frequently,  and 
paid  the  servants'  wages  on  every  quarter  day  ;  and  once  a 
year  went  over  my  lists  of  everything  in  the  charge  of  either 
the  men  or  women  servants.  In  particular  I  took  very 
special  care  of  the  china,  which  happened  to  be  magnificent ; 
and  hereby  hangs  the  memory  of  a  droll  incident  with  which 
I  may  close  this  chapter. 

A  certain  dignified  old  lady,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  X.,  had  paid  a 
visit  to  Newbridge  with  her  daughters,  and  in  return  she 
invited  one  of  my  brothers  and  myself  to  spend  some  days  at 

her  ''  show  "  place  in •    While  stopping  there  I  talked 

with  the  enthusiasm  of  my  age  to  her  very  charming  young 


76  GBAPTER  HI. 

daoghieni  of  the  pleasures  of  study,  urging  them  Btrenaonsly 
to  learn  Greek  and  Mathematics.  Mrs.  X.,  overhearing  me, 
intervened  in  the  conversation^  and  said  somewhat  tartly, 
"  I  do  not  at  all  agree  with  yon,  Miss  Cobbe  1  I  think  the 
dnty  of  a  lady  is  to  attend  to  her  hoase,  and  to  her  husband 
and  children.  I  beg  yon  will  not  incite  my  girls  to  take  np 
your  studies." 

Of  course  I  bowed  to  the  decree,  and  soon  after  began 
admiring  some  of  the  china  about  the  room.  "  There  is,** 
said  Mrs.  X.,  ''  some  very  fine  old  china  belonging  to  this 
house.  There  is  one  dessert-service  which  is  said  to  have 
cost  £800  forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  Would  you  like  to  see 
it?" 

Having  gratefully  acc^ted  the  invitation,  I  followed  my 
hostess  to  the  basement  of  the  house,  and  there,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  Ufe,  I  recognised  that  condition  of  disorder  and 
slattemjjpess  which  I  had  heard  described  as  characteristic 
of  Irish  houses.  At  last  we  reached  an  under-ground  china 
closet,  and  after  some  delay  and  reluctance  on  the  part  of  the 
servant,  a  key  was  found  and  the  door  opened.  There,  on 
the  shelves  and  the  floor,  lay  piled,  higgledy-piggledy,  dishes 
and  plates  of  exquisite  china  mixed  up  with  the  commonest 
earthenware  jugs,  basins,  cups,  and  willow-pattern  kitchen 
dishes ;  and  the  great  dessert-service  among  the  rest — 
wUh  the  dessert  of  the  previous  summer  rotting  on  the  plates ! 
Yes  1  there  was  no  mistake.  Some  of  the  superb  plates 
handed  to  me  by  the  servant  for  examination  by  the  light 
of  the  window,  had  on  them  peach  and  plum-stones 
and  grape-stalks,  obviously  left  as  they  had  been 
taken  from  the  table  in  the  dining-room  many  months 
before  I  Poor  Mrs.  X.  muttered  some  expressions  of 
dismay  and  reproach  to  her  servants,  which  of  course 
I  did  not  seem  to  hear,  but  I  had  not  the  strength  of  mind 
to  resist  saying :  ''  Indeed  this  is  a  splendid  service ;  Style ds 


80M00L   AND   AFTER.  77 

r Empire  I  should  call  it.  We  have  nothing  like  it,  bat  when 
next  yon  do  ns  the  pleasure  to  come  to  Newbridge  I  shall  like 
to  show  you  our  Indian  and  Woroester  services.  Do  you 
know  I  always  take  up  all  the  plates  and  dishes  myself  when 
&ey  have  been  washed  the  day  after  a  party,  and  put  them 
on  their  proper  shelves  with  my  own  handS| — though  I  dc 
kncfw  a  Utih  Qruk  and  geometry ^  Mrs.  X.  1 " 


CHAPTER 
lY. 


RELIGION. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Bbliqion. 

I  DO  not  think  that  any  one  not  being  a  fanatic,  ean  regret 
having  been  brought  up  as  an  Evangelical  Christian.  I  do 
not  include  Calvinistic  Christianity  in  this  remark;  for  it 
must  surely  cloud  all  the  years  of  mortal  life  to  have  received 
the  first  impressions  of  Time  and  Eternity  through  that 
dreadful,  discoloured  glass  whereby  the  "  Sun  is  turned  into 
darkness  and  the  moon  into  blood."  I  speak  of  the  mild, 
devout,  philanthropic  Arminianism  of  the  Clapham  School, 
which  prevailed  amongst  pious  people  in  England  and  Ireland 
from  the  beginning  of  the  century  tiU  the  rise  of  the  Oxford 
movement,  and  of  which  William  WHberforce  and  Lord 
Shaftesbury  were  successively  representatives.  To  this 
school  my  parents  belonged.  The  conversion  of  my  father's 
grandmother  by  Lady  Huntingdon,  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
had,  no  doubt,  directed  his  attention  in  early  life  to  religion, 
but  he  was  himself  no  Methodist,  or  Quietist,  but  a  typical 
Churchman  as  Churchmen  were  in  the  first  half  of  the 
century.  All  our  relatives  far  and  near,  so  far  as  I  have  ever 
heard,  were  the  stune.  We  had  five  archbishops  and  a  bishop 
among  our  near  kindred, — Cobbe,  Beresfords,  and  Trenchs, 
great-grandfather,  uncle,  and  cousins, — ^and  (as  I  have 
narrated)  my  father's  ablest  brother,  my  god  -  father, 
was  a  clergyman.  I  was  the  first  heretic  ever  known 
amongst  us. 

My  earliest  recollections  mclude  the  lessons  of  both  my 
father  and  mother  in  religion.  I  can  almost  feel  myself  now 
kneeling  at  my  dear  mother's  knees  repeating  the  Lord's 
Prayer  after  her  clear  sweet  voice.     Then  came  learning  the 

VOL.   I.  F 


82  CHAPTER   IV. 

magnificent  CoUecis,  to  be  repeated  to  my  fiGkther  on  Snndaj 
mornings  In  his  study ;  and  later  the  chnrch  catechism  and 
a  great  many  hymns.  Sunday  was  kept  exceedingly  strictly 
at  Newbridge  in  those  days;  and  no  books  were  allowed 
except  religions  ones,  nor  any  amusement,  save  a  walk  after 
church.  Thus  there  was  abundant  time  for  reading  the 
Bible  and  looking  over  the  pictures  in  various  large  editionSi 
and  in  Calmet's  great  folio  Dictionary,  beside  listening  to  the 
sermon  in  church,  and  to  another  sermon  which  my  &ther 
read  in  the  evening  to  the  assembled  household.  Of  course, 
every  day  of  the  week  there  were  Morning  Prayers  in  the 
library, — ^and  a  "Short  Discourse"  from  good,  prosy  old 
Jay,  of  Bath's  "Exercises."  In  this  way,  altogether  I 
received  a  good  deal  of  direct  religious  instruction,  beside 
very  frequent  reference  to  Grod  and  Duty  and  Heaven,  in  the 
ordinary  talk  of  my  parents  with  their  children. 

What  was  the  result  of  this  training  ?  I  can  only  suppose 
that  my  nature  was  a  favourable  soil  for  such  seed,  for  it 
took  root  early  and  grew  apace.  I  cannot  recall  any  time 
when  I  could  not  have  been  described  by  any  one  who  knew 
my  little  heart  (I  was  very  shy  about  it,  and  few,  if  any,  did 
know  it) — as  a  very  religious  child.  Beligious  ideas  were 
from  the  first  intensely  interesting  and  exciting  to  me.  In 
great  measure  I  fancy  it  was  the  element  of  the  sublime  in 
them  which  moved  me  first,  just  as  I  was  moved  by  the 
thundeTi  and  the  storm  and  was  wont  to  go  out  alone 
into  the  woods  or  into  the  long,  solitary  corridors  to  enjoy 
them  more  fully.  I  recollect  being  stirred  to  rapture  by  a 
little  poem  which  I  can  repeat  to  this  day,  beginning : 

Where  is  Thy  dwelling  place  ? 

Is  it  in  the  realms  of  space, 

By  angels  and  just  spirits  only  trod? 

Or  is  it  in  the  bright 

And  ever-burning  light 

Of  the  san*8  flaming  disk  that  Thou  art  throned,  0  God  f 


BBLIGION.  §3 

One  of  the  stanzas  suggested  that  the  Divine  seat  might  be 
in  some  region  of  the  starry  nniTerse : 

•<  Far  in  the  unmeasiired,  onimagined  Heaven, 
80  distant  that  its  light 
Gonld  never  reaoh  omr  sight 
Though  with  the  speed  of  thought  for  endless  ages  driven." 

Ideas  like  these  nsed  to  make  my  cheek  torn  pale  and  lift  me 
as  if  on  wings ;  and  naturally  Religion  was  the  great  store- 
honse  of  them.  Bat  I  think,  even  in  childhoodi  there  was 
in  me  a  good  deal  beside  of  the  mordL^  if  not  yet  the  gpirihud 
element  of  real  Beligion.  Of  coarse  the  great  beaaty  and 
glory  of  Evangelical  Christianity,  its  thoroagh  amalgamation 
of  the  ideas  of  Daty  and  Devotion  (elsewhere  often  so 
lamentably  distinct),  was  very  prominent  in  my  parents' 
lessons.  God  was  always  to  me  the  All-seeing  Jadge.  His 
eye  looking  into  my  heart  and  beholding  all  its  naaghtiness 
and  little  duplicities  (which  of  coarse  I  was  taught  to  consider 
serious  sins)  was  so  familiar  a  conception  that  I  might  be 
said  to  live  and  move  in  the  sense  of  U.  Thus  my  life  in 
diildhood  morally,  was  much  the  same  as  it  is  physically  to 
live  in  a  room  full  of  sunlight.  Later  on,  the  evils  which 
belong  to  this  Evangelical  training,  the  excessive  self-intro- 
spection and  self-consciousness,  made  themselves  painfully 
felt,  but  in  early  years  there  was  nothing  that  was  not 
perfectly  wholesome  in  the  religion  which  I  had  so  readily 
assimilated. 

Further,  I  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  very  happy  child,  even 
conscious  of  my  own  happiness ;  and  gratitude  to  God  or 
man  has  always  come  to  me  as  a  sentiment  enhancing  my 
enjoyment  of  the  good  for  which  I  have  been  thankful. 
Thus  I  was, — ^not  conventionally  merely, — but  genuinely  and 
spontaneously  grateful  to  the  Giver  of  all  the  pleasures  which 
were  poured  on  my  head.  I  think  I  may  say,  that  I  hxved 
God^  when  I  was  quite  a  young  child.    I  can  even  remember 


84  CHAPTER   IV. 

beiiig  dimly  conscioiiB  that  my  good  father  and  mother 
performed  their  religioas  exercises  more  c»  a  duty^ — ^whereas 
to  me  such  things,  so  &r  as  I  could  understand  them,  were 
real  pleagures  ;  like  heing  taken  to  see  somebody  I  loved.  I 
have  since  recognised  that  both  my  parents  were,  in 
Evangelical  parlance,  *'  under  the  law ; "  while  in  my  childish 
heart  the  germ  of  the  mysterious  New  life  was  already 
planted.  I  think  my  mother  was  aware  of  something  of  the 
kind  and  looked  with  a  little  wonder,  blended  with  her 
tenderness  at  my  violent  outbursts  of  penitence,  and  at  my 
strange  fsmcy  for  reading  the  most  serious  books  in  my 
playhours.  My  brothers  had  not  exhibited  any  such 
symptoms,  but  then  they  were  healthy  schoolboys,  always 
engaged  eagerly  m  their  natural  sports  and  pursuits  ;  while 
I  was  a  lonely,  dreaming  girl. 

When  I  was  seven  years  old,  my  &ther  undertook  to  read 
the  FUgrwCs  Progress  to  my  brothers,  then  aged  from  12  to 
18,  and  I  was  allowed  to  sit  in  the  room  and  provided  with  a 
slate  and  sums.  The  sums,  it  appeared,  were  never  worked, 
while  my  eyes  were  fixed  in  absorbed  interest  on  the  reader, 
evening  after  evening.  Once  or  twice  when  the  delightful 
old  copy  of  Bun3ran  was  left  about  after  the  lesson,  my  slate 
was  covered  with  drawings  of  ApoUyon  and  Great  Heart 
which  were  pronounced  ''  wonderful  for  the  child.'*  By  the 
time  Christian  had  come  to  the  Dark  River,  all  pretence  of 
arithmetic  was  abandoned  and  I  was  permitted,  proud  and 
enchanted,  to  join  the  group  of  boys  and  listen  with  my 
whole  soul  to  the  marvellous  tale.  When  the  reading  was 
over  my  father  gave  the  volume  (which  had  belonged  to 
his  grandmother)  to  me,  for  my  ''very  own";  and  I 
read  it  over  and  over  continually  for  years,  till  the 
idea  it  is  meant  to  convey, — ^Life  a  progress  to  Heaven — 
was  engraved  indelibly  on  my  mind.  It  seems  to  me  that 
few  of  those  who  have  praised  Bunyan  most  loudly  have 


RELIGION.  85 

recognized  that  he  was  not  only  a  great  religions  genins,  bnt 
a  bom  poet,  a  Pimtan-Timker-SheUey ;  possessed  of  what  is 
almost  the  highest  gift  of  poetry,  the  sense  of  the  analogy 
between  outward  nature  and  the  hmnan  soul.  He  used 
all^ory  instead  of  metaphor,  a  clumsier  vehicle  by  far,  but 
it  carried  the  same  exquisite  thoughts.  I  have  the  dear  old 
book  still,  and  it  is  one  of  my  treasures  with  its  ineffiEibly 
quaint  old  woodcuts  and  its  delicious  marginal  notes ;  as,  for 
example,  when  ''  Giant  Despair "  is  said  to  be  unable  one 
day  to  maul  the  pilgrims  in  his  dungeon,  because  he  had  fits. 
"For  sometimes,"  says  Bunyan,  ''in  sunshiny  weather 
Giant  Despair  has  fits."  Could  any  one  believe  that  this  gem 
of  poetical  thought  and  deep  experience  is  noted  by  the  words 
in  the  margin,  ''  His  Fits! "  /  My  fiGkther  wrote  on  the  fly- 
leaf of  the  blessed  old  book  these  still  legible  words : — 

1880. 

"This  book,  which  belonged  to  my  grandmother,  was 

given  as  a  present  to  my  dear   daughter   Fanny  upon 

witnessing  her  delight  in  reading  it.    May  she  keep  the 

Celestial  City  steadfastly  in  view ;  may  she  surmount  the 

dangers  and  trials  she  must  meet  with  on  the  road ;  and, 

finally,  be  re-united  with  those  she  loved  on  earth  in  singing 

praises  for  ever  and  ever  to  Him  who  loved  them  and  gave 

himself  for  them,  is  the  fervent  prayer  of  her  affectionate 

father, 

"  Chablbs  Cobbe.'* 

The  notion  of  "  getting  to  Heaven  "  by  means  of  a  faithful 
pilgrimage  through  this  "  Yale  of  Tears  "  was  the  prominent 
feature  I  think,  always,  in  my  father's  religion,  and  naturally 
took  great  hold  on  me.  When  the  day  came  whereon  I 
began  to  doubt  whether  there  were  any  Heaven  to  be  reached, 
that  moral  earthquake,  as  was  inevitable,  shook  not  only  my 
religion  bnt  my  morality  to  their  foundations;  and  my 
experience  of  the  perils  of  those  years,  has  made  me  ever  since 


80  CHAPTER   IV. 

anzions  to  base  religion  in  every  yoong  mind,  on  ground 
liable  to  no  such  eatafltrophes.  The  danger  came  to  me  on 
this  wise. 

Up  to  my  eleventh  year,  my  little  life  inward  and  outward 
had  flown  in  a  bright  and  even  corrent.  Looking  back  at  it 
and  comparing  my  childhood  with  that  of  others  I  seem  to 
have  been — ^probably  from  the  effects  of  solitude — devouJt 
beyond  what  was  normal  at  my  age.  I  used  to  spend  a  great 
deal  of  time  secretly  reading  the  Bible  and  that  dullest  of  dull 
books  Ths  Whole  Duty  of  Man  (the  latter  a  curious  foretaste 
of  my  subsequent  life-long  interest  in  the  study  of  ethics) — 
not  exactly  enjoying  them  but  happy  in  the  feeling  that  I  was 
somehow  approaching  God.  I  used  to  keep  awake  at  night 
to  repeat  various  prayers  and  (wonderful  to  remember !)  the 
Creed  and  Commandments  1  I  made  all  sorts  of  severe  rules 
for  myself,  and  if  I  broke  them,  manfully  mulcted  myself 
of  any  little  pleasures  or  endured  some  small  self-imposed 
penance.  Of  none  of  these  things  had  any  one,  even  my 
dear  mother,  the  remotest  idea,  except  once  when  I  felt 
driven  like  a  veritable  Cain,  by  my  agonised  conscience  to  go 
and  confess  to  her  that  I  had  said  in  a  recent  rage  (to  myself) 
''  Curse  them  aU!  "  referring  to  my  family  in  general  and  to 
^7  governess  in  particular  I  The  tempest  of  my  tears  and 
sobs  on  this  occasion  evidently  astonished  her,  and  I  remember 
lying  exhausted  on  the  floor  in  a  recess  in  her  bedroom,  for  a 
long  time  before  I  was  able  to  move. 

But  the  hour  of  doubt  and  difficulty  was  approaching.  The 
first  question  which  ever  arose  in  my  mind  was  concerning 
the  miracle  of  the  Loaves  and  Fishes.  I  can  recall  the 
scene  vividly.  It  was  a  winter's  night,  my  father  was 
reading  the  Sunday  evening  Sermon  in  the  dining-room. 
The  servants,  whose  attendance  was  de  rigueWj  were 
seated  in  a  row  down  the  room.  My  fiEtther  faced  them, 
and  my  mother  and  I  and  my  governess  sat  rotmd  the 


RELIGION.  87 

£bre  near  him.  I  was  opposite  the  beautiful  classic  black 
marble  mantelpiece,  surmounted  with  an  antique  bead  of 
Jupiter  Serapis  (all  photographed  on  my  brain  even  now), 
and  listening  with  all  my  might,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  the 
sermon  which  described  the  miracle  of  the  Loaves  and  Fishes. 
"  How  did  it  happen  exactly  ?  "  I  began  cheerfully  to  think, 
quite  imagining  I  was  doing  the  right  thing  to  try  to  under* 
stand  it  all.  ''Well!  first  there  were  the  fishes  and  the 
loaves.  But  what  was  done  to  them  ?  Did  the  fish  grow 
and  grow  as  they  were  eaten  and  broken  ?  And  the  bread 
the  same  ?  No  I  that  is  nonsense.  And  then  the  twelve 
basketsful  taken  up  at  the  end,  when  there  was  not 
nearly  so  much  at  the  beginning.  It  is  not  possible  I  " 
"  O I  Heavens  I  (was  the  next  thought)  I  am  doubtmg  the 
Bible !    God  forgive  me  !    I  must  never  think  of  it  again." 

But  the  little  rifl  had  begun,  and  as  time  went  on  other 
difficulties  arose.  Nothing  very  seriously,  however,  dis- 
tracted my  faith  or  altered  the  intensity  of  my  religious 
feelings  for  the  next  two  years,  till  in  October,  1886, 1  was 
sent  to  school  as  I  have  narrated  in  the  last  chapter,  at 
Brighton  and  a  new  description  of  life  opened.  At  school  I 
came  under  influence  of  two  kinds.  One  was  the  preaching 
of  the  Evangelical  Mr.  Yaughan,  in  whose  church  (Christ 
Church)  were  our  seats;  and  I  recall  vividly  the  emotion 
with  which  one  winter's  night  I  listened  to  his  sermon  on 
the  great  theme,  "  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall 
be  white  as  wool."  The  sense  of ''  the  exceeding  sinfulness 
of  sin,"  the  rapturous  joy  of  purification  therefirom,  came 
home  to  me,  and  as  I  walked  back  to  school  with  the  waves 
thundering  up  the  Brighton  beach  beside  us  and  the  wind 
tossing  the  clouds  in  the  evening  sky  overhead,  the  whole 
tremendous  realities  of  the  moral  life  seemed  borne  in  on  my 
heart.  On  the  other  hand,  the  perpetual  overstrain  of  school- 
work,  and  uiguat  blame  and  penalty  for  fEulure  to  do  what  it 


88  CHAPTER   IV. 

was  impossible  to  accomplish  in  the  given  time,  drove  me  to 
all  sorts  of  &nlts  for  which  I  hated  and  despised  myself. 
When  I  knelt  by  my  bed  at  night,  after  the  schoolfellow  who 
shared  my  room  was,  as  I  fiancied,  asleep,  she  wonld  get  up 
and  pound  my  head  with  a  bolster,  laughing  and  crying  out, 
"  Get  up,  yon  horrid  hypocrite ;  get  up  1  I'll  go  on  beating 
yon  till  you  do  1  *'  It  was  not  strange  if,  under  such 
circumstances,  my  beautiful  childish  religion  feU  into 
abeyance  and  my  conscience  into  disquietude.  But,  as 
I  have  narrated,  I  came  home  at  sixteen,  and  then, 
once  more  able  to  e^joy  the  solitude  of  the  woods  and 
of  my  own  bedroom  and  its  inner  study  where  no  one 
intruded,  the  old  feelings,  tinged  with  deep  remorse  for  the 
failures  of  my  school-life  and  for  many  present  &ults  (amongst 
others  a  very  bitter  and  unforgiving  temper)  come  back  with 
fresh  vigour.  I  have  always  considered  that  in  that  summer 
in  my  seventeenth  year  I  went  through  what  Evangelical 
Christians  call  "  conversion."  Beligion  became  the  supreme 
interest  of  life;  and  the  sense  that  I  was  pardoned  itft 
greatest  joy.  I  was,  of  course,  a  Christian  of  the  usual 
Froteetant  type,  finding  infinite  pleasure  in  the  simple  old 
"  Communion  "  of  those  pre-ritualistic  days,  and  in  endless 
Bible  readings  to  myself.  Sometimes  I  rose  in  the  early 
summer  dawn  and  read  a  whole  Gospel  before  I  dressed.  I 
think  I  never  ran  up  into  my  room  in  the  daytime  for  any 
change  of  attire  without  glancing  into  the  book  and  carrying 
away  some  echo  of  what  I  believed  to  be  "  God's  Word." 
Nobody  knew  anything  about  all  this,  of  course;  but  as  time 
went  on  there  were  great  and  terrible  perturbations  in  my 
inner  life,  and  these  perhaps  I  did  not  always  succeed  in 
concealing  firom  the  watchful  eyes  of  my  dear  mother. 

So  fSsur  as  I  can  recall,  the  ideas  of  Christ  and  of  (rod  the 
Father,  were  for  all  practical  religious  purposes  identified  in 
my  young  mind.    It  was  as  God  upon  earth, — th«  Redeemer 


RELIGION.  89 

God,  that  I  worshipped  Jesus.  To  be  pardoned  through  hia 
''atonement"  and  at  death  to  enter  Heaven,  were  the 
religioas  objects  of  life.  Bnt  a  new  and  most  disturbing 
element  here  entered  my  thoughts.  How  did  anybody  know 
all  that  story  of  Gkdilee  to  be  true  ?  How  eould  we  believe 
the  miracles  ?  I  had  read  very  carefully  Gibbon's  XY.  and 
Xvi.  chapters,  and  other  books  enough  to  teach  me  that 
everything  in  historical  Christianity  had  been  questioned; 
and  my  own  awakening  critical,  and  reasoning,  and  above 
all,  ethical, — faculties  supplied  fresh  crops  of  doubts  of  the 
truth  of  the  story  and  of  the  morality  of  much  of  the  Old 
Testament  history,  and  of  the  scheme  of  Atonement  itself. 

Then  ensued  four  years  on  which  I  look  back  as  pitiful  in 
the  extreme.  In  complete  mental  solitude  and  great 
ignorance,  I  found  myself  fistcing  all  the  dread  problems  of 
human  existence.  For  a  long  time  my  intense  desire  to 
remain  a  Christian  predominated,  and  brought  me  back 
from  each  return  to  scepticism  in  a  passion  of  repentance 
and  prayer  to  Christ  to  take  my  Ufe  or  my  reason 
sooner  than  allow  me  to  stray  from  his  fold.  In 
those  days  no  such  thing  was  heard  of  as  ''  Broad "  inter- 
pretations of  Scripture  doctrines.  We  were  fifty  years  before 
Lux  Mundi  and  thirty  before  even  Essays  and  Betnews.  To 
be  a  "  Christian,"  then,  was  to  believe  implicitly  in  the 
verbal  inspiration  of  every  word  of  the  Bible,  and  to  adore 
Christ  as  "very  God  of  very  God."  With  such  implicit 
belief  it  was  permitted  to  hope  we  might,  by  a  good  life  and 
through  Christ's  Atonement,  attain  after  death  to  Heaven. 
Without  the  fiedth  or  the  good  life,  it  was  certain  we  should 
go  to  heU.  It  was  taught  us  all  that  to  be  good  only  from 
fear  of  Hell  was  not  the  highest  motive ;  the  highest  motive 
was  the  hope  of  Heaven  1  Had  anything  like  modem 
rationalising  theories  of  the  Atonement,  or  modem  expositions 
of  the  Bible  stories,  or  finally  modem  loftier  doctrines  of 


90  CHAPTER    IV. 

diflinteresied  morality  and  religion,  been  kno\ni  to  me  at  this 
crisis  of  my  life,  it  is  possible  that  the  whole  course  of  my 
spiritnal  history  would  have  been  different.  Bnt  of  all  snch 
**  raising  np  the  astral  spirits  of  dead  creeds,"  as  Oarlyle 
called  it,  or  as  Broad  chnrchmen  say, ''  Liberating  the  kernel 
of  Christianity  from  the  husk,"  I  knew,  and  could  know 
nothing*  Evangelical  Christianity  in  1840  presented  itself 
as  a  thing  to  be  taken  whole,  or  rejected  wholly ;  and  for 
years  the  alternations  went  on  in  my  poor  young  heart  and 
brain,  one  week  or  month  of  rational  and  moral  disbelief,  and 
the  next  oi  vehement,  remorseful  return  to  the  fiaith  which  I 
supposed  could  alone  give  me  the  joy  of  religion.  As  time 
went  on,  and  my  reading  supplied  me  with  a  little  more 
knowledge  and  my  doubts  deepened  and  accumulated,  the 
returns  to  Christian  &ith  grew  fewer  and  shorter,  and,  as  I 
had  no  idea  of  the  possibility  of  reaching  any  other  vital 
religion,  I  saw  all  that  had  made  to  me  the  supreme  joy  and 
glory  of  life  fade  out  of  it,  while  that  motive  which  had  been 
presented  to  me  as  the  mainspring  of  duty  and  curb  of 
passion,  namely,  the  Hope  of  Heaven,  vanished  as  a  dream. 
I  always  had,  as  I  have  described,  somewhat  of  that 
mal'd/iii'Cid  which  Lamartine  talks  of,  that  longing,  as  from 
the  very  depths  of  our  being  for  an  Eden  of  Divine  eternal 
love.  I  could  scarcely  in  those  days  read  even  such  poor 
stuff  as  the  song  of  the  Peri  in  Moore's  LaUa  EooJch  (not  to 
speak  of  Bunyan's  vision  of  the  Celestial  City)  without  tears 
rushing  to  my  eyes.  But  this,  I  saw,  must  all  go  with  the 
rest.  If,  as  Clough  was  saying,  all  unknown  to  me,  about 
that  same  timCi — 

*'  Christ  is  not  risen,  no  1 
He  lies  and  moulders  low." 

If  all  the  Christian  revelation  were  a  mass  of  mistakes  and 
errors,  no  firmer  ground  on  which  to  build  than  the  promises 


RELIGION,  91 

of  Mahomet,  or  of  Baddha,  or  of  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Monntaiiiy— of  course  there  was  (so  far  as  I  saw)  no  reason 
left  for  helievmg  in  any  Heaven  at  all,  or  any  life  after 
death.  Neither  had  the  Moral  Law,  which  had  come  to  me 
through  that  supposed  revelation  on  Sinai  and  the  Monnt  of 
Gtalilee,  any  claim  to  my  ohedienoe  other  than  might  he  made 
oat  hy  identifying  it  with  principles  common  to  heathen  and 
Christian  alike ;  an  identity  of  which,  at  that  epoch,  I  had  as 
yet  only  the  vaguest  ideas.  In  short  my  poor  young  soul 
was  in  a  fearful  dilemma.  On  the  one  hand  I  had  the  choice 
to  accept  a  whole  mass  of  dogmas  against  which  my  reason 
and  conscience  rebelled;  on  the  other,  to  abandon  those 
dogmas  and  strive  no  more  to  beUeve  the  incredible,  or  to 
revere  what  I  instinctively  condemned  ;  and  then,  as  a 
necessary  sequel,  to  cast  aside  the  laws  of  Duty  which  I  had 
hitherto  cherished ;  to  cease  to  pray  or  take  the  sacrament; 
and  to  relinquish  the  hope  of  a  life  beyond  the  grave. 

It  was  not  very  wonderful  if ,  as  I  tliink  I  can  recall,  my 
disposition  underwent  a  considerable  change  for  the  worse 
while  all  these  tremendous  questions  were  being  debated  in 
my  solitary  walks  in  the  woods  and  by  the  seashore,  and  in 
my  room  at  night  over  my  Gibbon  or  my  Bible.  I  know  I 
was  often  bitter  and  morose  and  selfish ;  and  then  came  the 
alternate  spell  of  paroxysms  of  self-reproach  and  fanciful 
self-tormentings. 

The  life  of  a  young  woman  in  such  a  home  as  mine  is  so 
guarded  round  on  every  side  and  the  instincts  of  a  girl  are 
so  healthy,  that  the  dangers  incurred  even  in  such  a  spiritual 
lan^shp  as  I  have  described  are  very  limited  compared  to 
what  they  must  inevitably  be  in  the  case  of  young  men  or  of 
women  less  happily  circumstanced.  It  has  been  my 
profound  sense  of  the  awful  perils  of  such  a  downfall  of  fidth 
as  I  experienced,  the  peril  of  moral  shipwreck  without 
compass  or  anchorage  amid  the  tempests  of  youth,  which 


92  CHAPTER   IV. 

has  spurred  me  ever  since  to  strive  to  forestall  for  others  the 
honr  of  danger. 

At  last  my  efforts  to  believe  in  orthodox  Christianity 
ceased  altogether.  In  the  summer  after  my  twentieth 
birthday  I  had  reached  the  end  of  the  long  struggle.  The 
complete  downfall  of  Evangelioalismy — ^which  seems  to  have 
been  e£fected  in  George  Eliot's  strong  brain  in  a  single 
fortnight  of  intercourse  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bray, — ^had  taken 
in  my  case  four  long  years  of  miserable  mental  conflict  and 
unspeakable  pain.  It  left  me  with  something  as  nearly  like 
a  Tabula  rasa  of  fiedth  as  can  well  be  imagined.  I  definitely 
disbelieved  in  human  immortality  and  in  a  supernatural 
revelation.  The  existence  of  God  I  neither  denied  nor 
affirmed.  I  felt  I  had  no  means  of  coming  to  any  knowledge 
of  Him.  I  was,  in  &ct  (long  before  the  word  was  invented), 
precisely — an  Agnostic. 

One  day,  while  thus  literally  creedless,  I  wandered  out 
alone  as  was  my  wont  into  a  part  of  our  park  a  little  more 
wild  than  the  rest,  where  deer  were  formerly  kept  and  sat 
down  among  the  rocks  and  the  gorse  which  was  then  in 
its  summer  glory  of  odorous  blossoms,  evet  since  rich  to 
me  with  memories  of  that  hour.  It  was  a  sunny  day  in  May, 
and  after  reading  a  little  of  my  favourite  Shelley,  I  fell,  as 
often  happened,  into  mournful  thought  I  was  profoundly 
miserable;  profoundly  conscious  of  the  deterioration  and 
sliding  down  of  all  my  feelings  and  conduct  from  the  high 
ambitions  of  righteousness  and  holiness  which  had  been  mine 
in  the  days  of  my  Christian  £uth  and  prayer ;  and  at  the 
same  time  I  knew  that  the  whole  sca£fblding  of  that  higher 
life  had  fallen  to  pieces  and  could  never  be  built  up  again. 
While  I  was  thus  musing  despairingly,  something  stirred 
within  me,  and  I  asked  myself,  '*  Can  I  not  rise  once  more, 
conquer  my  Hetults,  and  live  up  to  my  own  idea  of  what  is 
right  and  good  ?    Even  though  there  be  no  life  after  death,  I 


RELIGION.  98 

may  yet  deaerve  my  own  respect  here  and  now,  and,  if  there 
be  a  Gody  He  most  approve  me;" 

The  resolution  was  made  very  seriously.  I  came  home  to 
begin  a  new  course  and  to  cultivate  a  different  spirit.  Was 
it  strange  that  in  a  few  da3r8  I  began  instinctively^  and  almost 
without  reflection,  to  pray  again?  No  longer  did  I  make 
any  kind  of  effort  to  believe  this  thing  or  the  other  about 
God.  I  simply  addressed  Him  as  the  Lord  of  conscience, 
whom  I  implored  to  strengthen  my  good  resolutions,  to 
forgive  my  &nlt8,  *'  to  Hit  me  out  of  the  mire  and  clay  and 
set  my  feet  upon  a  rock  and  order  my  goings."  Of  course, 
there  was  Christian  sentiment  and  the  results  of  Christian 
training  in  all  I  felt  and  did.  I  could  no  more  have  cast 
them  off  than  I  could  have  leaped  oft  my  shadow.  But  of 
dogmatical  Christianity  there  was  never  any  more.  I  have 
never  from  that  time,  now  more  than  fifty  years  ago, 
attached,  or  wished  I  could  attach,  credence  to  any  part  of 
what  Dr.  Martineau  has  called  the  Apocalyptic  side  of 
Christianity,  nor  (I  may  add  with  thankfulness)  have  I  ever 
lost  faith  in  God. 

The  storms  of  my  youth  were  over.  Henceforth  through 
many  years  there  was  a  progressive  advance  to  Theism  as  I 
have  attempted  to  describe  it  in  my  books ;  and  there  were 
many,  many  hard  moral  fights  with  various  ApoUyons  all 
along  the  road ;  but  no  more  spiritual  revolutions. 

About  thirty  years  after  that  day,  to  me  so  memorable,  I 
read  in  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke's  Ltfe  of  Bobertson,  these  words 
which  seem  truly  to  tell  my  own  story  and  which  I  believe 
recorded  Robertson's  own  experience,  a  little  while  later : 

''  It  is  an  awful  moment  when  the  soul  begins  to  find  that 
the  props  on  which  it  blindly  rested  are  many  of  them  rotten 
.  •  .  .  I  know  but  one  way  in  which  a  man  can  come 
forth  from  this  agony  scatheless :  it  is  by  holding  fast  to 
those  things  which  are  certain  still.    In  the  darkest  houi 


94  CHAPTER   IV. 

through  which  a  homan  soul  can  pass,  whatever  else  is 
doabtfdl,  this  at  least  is  certain.  If  there  be  no  God  and  no 
future  state,  even  then  it  is  better  to  he  generous  than  sdfish^ 
better  to  be  true  than  fcUte^  better  to  be  brave  than  a  coward. 
Blessed  beyond  all  earthly  blessedness  is  the  man  who  in  the 
tempestuous  darkness  of  the  soul  has  dared  to  hold  fast  to 
these  landmarks.  I  appeal  to  the  recollection  of  any  man 
who  has  passed  through  that  agony  and  stood  upon  the  rock 
at  last,  with  a  faith  and  hope  and  trust  no  longer  traditional 
but  his  own." 

It  may  be  asked,  "  What  was  my  creed  for  those  first  years 
of  what  I  may  call  indigmom  religion  ?  Naturally,  with  no 
better  guide  than  the  induotiye  philosophy  of  Locke  and 
Bacon,  I  could  have  no  outlook  beyond  the  Deism  of  the  last 
century.  Miracles  and  miraculous  inspiration  being  formally 
given  up,  there  remained  only  (as  I  supposed)  as  testimony 
to  the  existence  and  character  of  God  such  inductions  as  were 
drawn  in  Foley's  Theology  and  the  Bridgwater  Treatises ;  with 
all  of  which  I  was  very  familiar.  Voltaire's  *'  Bieu  Tout- 
puissantf  Bemtmerateur  Vengeur,*'  the  Gk>d  whose  garb  (as 
Goethe  says,)  is  woven  in  *'  Nature's  roaring  loom  " ;  the 
Beneficent  Creator,  fi:om  whom  came  all  the  blessings  which 
filled  my  cup;  these  were  the  outlines  of  Deity  for  me 
for  the  time.  The  theoretical  connection  between  such  a  God 
and  my  own  duty  I  had  yet  to  work  out  through  much  hard 
study,  but  fortunately  moral  instinct  was  practically  sufficient 
to  identify  them;  nay,  it  was,  as  I  have  just  narrated, 
through  such  moral  instincts  that  I  was  led  back  straight  to 
religion,  and  began  to  pray  to  my  Maker  as  my  Moral  Lord, 
so  soon  as  ever  I  strove  in  earnest  to  obey  my  conscience. 

There  was  nothing  in  such  simple  Deism  to  warrant  a 
belief  in  a  future  life,  and  I  deliberately  trained  myself  to 
abandon  a  hope  which  was  always  very  dear  to  me.  As 
regards  Christ,  there  was  inevitably,  at  first,  some  reaction 


RELIGION.  96 

in  my  mind  from  the  worship  of  my  ChriBtian  days.  I  almoBo 
felt  I  had  been  led  into  idolatry,  and  I  bitterly  resented  then 
(and  ever  since)  the  paramomit  promineneo^  the  genuflexions 
at  the  creed,  and  the  especially  reverential  voice  and  language 
applied  constantly  by  Christians  to  the  Son,  rather  than  to  the 
Father.  Bnt  after  I  had  read  F.  W.  Kewman'sbook  of  the  iSW, 
I  recognised,  with  relief,  how  many  of  the  phenomena  of 
the  spiritual  life  which  Christians  are  wont  to  treat  as  exclu- 
sively bound  up  with  their  creed  are,  in  truth,  phases  of  the 
natural  history  of  all  devout  spirits ;  and  my  longing  has  ever 
since  been  rather  to  find  grounds  of  sympathy  with  believers 
in  Christ  and  for  union  with  them  on  the  broadest  bases  of 
common  gratitude,  penitence,  restoration  and  adoration, 
rather  than  to  accentuate  our  di£ferences.  The  view  which 
I  eventually  reached  of  Christ  as  an  historical  human 
character,  is  set  forth  at  large  in  my  Broken  Lights.  He 
was,  I  think,  the  man  whose  life  was  to  the  life  of  Humanity 
what  Regeneration  is  to  the  individual  soul. 

I  may  here  conclude  the  story  of  my  religious  life  extending 
through  the  years  after  the  above  described  momentous 
change.  After  a  time,  occupied  in  part  with  study  and  with 
efforts  to  be  useful  to  our  poor  neighbours  and  to  myparentSi 
my  Deism  was  lifted  to  a  higher  plane  by  one  of  those 
inflowings  of  truth  which  seem  the  simplest  things  in  the 
world,  but  are  as  rain  on  the  dry  groimd  in  summer  to  the 
mind  which  receives  them.  One  day  while  praying  quietly, 
the  thought  came  to  me  with  extraordinary  lucidity :  "  God's 
Goodness  is  what  I  mean  by  Goodness  1  It  is  not  a  mere  title, 
lOce  the  'Migesty'  of  a  King.  He  has  really  that 
character  which  we  call  '  Good.'  He  is  Just,  as  I  under- 
stand Justice,  only  more  perfectly  just.  He  is  Good  as  I 
understand  Goodness,  only  more  perfectly  good.  He  is  not 
good  in  time  and  tremendous  in  eternity ;  not  good  to  some 
of  His  creatures  and  cruel  to  others,  but  wholly,  eieraaUy, 


95  OHAPTER  IV. 

universally  good.  If  I  oonld  know  «nd  understand  all  His 
acts  from  eternity,  there  would  not  be  one  which  would  not 
deepen  my  reverence  and  call  forth  my  adoring  praise." 

To  some  readers  this  discovery  may  seem  a  mere  platitude 
And  truism :  the  assertion  of  a  thing  which  they  have  never 
fiuled  to  understand.  To  me  it  was  a  real  revelation  which 
transformed  my  religion  from  one  of  reverence  only  into  one 
of  vivid  love  for  that  Infinite  Goodness  which  I  then  beheld 
unclouded.  The  deep  shadow  left  for  years  on  my  soul  by 
the  doctrine  of  eternal  HeU  had  rolled  away  at  last.  Another 
truth  came  home  to  me  many  years  later,  and  not  till  after  I 
had  written  my  first  book.  It  was  one  night,  after  sitting  up 
late  in  my  room  reading  (for  once)  no  grave  work,  but  a  pretty 
little  story  by  Mrs.  GaskeU.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  found  the 
pleasures  of  knowledge  the  keenest  of  all,  and  gloried  in  the  old 
philosopher's  dictum^  **  Man  was  created  to  know  and  to  con- 
template." I  looked  on  the  pleasures  of  the  affections  as 
secondary  and  inferior  to  those  of  the  intellect,  and  I  strove  to 
perform  my  duties  to  those  around  me,  rather  in  a  spirit  of 
moral  rectitude  and  obedience  to  law  than  in  one  of  loving- 
kindness.  Suddenly  again  it  came  to  me  to  see  that  Love  is 
greater  than  Knowledge ;  that  it  is  more  beautiful  to  serve  our 
brothers  freely  and  tenderly,  than  to  ''  hive  up  leamiug  with 
each  studious  year,"  to  compassionate  the  failures  of  others  and 
ignore  them  when  possible,  rather  than  undertake  the  hard 
process  (I  always  found  it  so  t)  of  forgiveness  of  injuries ; 
to  say,  "  What  may  I  be  allowed  to  do  to  help  and  bless  this 
one — or  that  ?  "  rather  than  "  What  am  I  bound  by  duty  to 
do  for  him,  or  her ;  and  how  little  will  suffice  ?  "  As  these 
thoughts  swelled  iu  my  heart,  I  threw  myself  down  in  a 
passion  of  happy  tears,  and  passed  most  of  the  night  thinking 
how  I  should  work  out  what  I  had  learned.  I  had  scarcely 
fallen  asleep  towards  morning  when  I  was  wakened  by  the 
intelligence  that  one  of  the  servants,  a  young  laundress,  was 


RELIGION,  97 

dying.  I  hurried  to  the  poor  woman's  room  which  was  at  a 
great  distance  from  mine,  and  found  all  the  men  and  women 
servants  collected  round  her.  8he  wished  for  some  one  to 
pray  for  her,  and  there  was  no  one  to  do  it  but  myself,  and 
so,  while  the  innocent  girl's  soul  passed  away,  I  led,  for  the 
first  and  only  time,  the  prayers  of  my  father's  household. 

I  had  read  a  good  number  of  books  by  Deists  during  the 
preceding  years.  Gibbon's  Miscellaneous  Works  (which  I 
greatly  admired),  Hume,  Tindal,  Collins,  Voltaire,  beside  as 
many  of  the  old  heathen  moralists  and  philosophers  as  I 
could  reach  ;  Marcus  Aurelius,  Seneca,  Epictetus,  Plutarch's 
MoraUa^  Xenophon's  Memorabilia^  and  a  little  of  Plato.  But 
of  any  modem  book  touching  on  the  particular  questions 
which  had  tortured  me  I  knew  nothing  till,  by  the  merest 
good  fortune,  I  fell  in  with  Bkmoo  WhMs  Life,  How  much 
comfort  and  help  I  found  in  his  Meditations  the  reader  may 
guess.  Curiously  enough,  long  years  afterwards.  Bishop 
Colenso  told  me  that  the  same  book,  falling  into  his  hands  in 
Natal  by  the  singular  chance  of  a  colonist  possessing  the 
volumes,  had  determined  him  to  come  over  to  England  and 
bring  out  his  Pentatetich.  Thus  poor  Blanco  White,  after  all 
prophesied  rightly  when  he  said  that  he  was  ^*  one  of  those 
who,  falling  in  the  ditch,  help  other  men  to  pass  over  "  1 

Another  book  some  years  later  was  very  helpful  to  me — 
F.  W.  Newman's  Soul.  Dean  Stanley  told  me  that  he 
thought  in  the  far  future  that  single  book  would  be  held  to 
outweigh  in  value  all  that  the  author's  brother.  Cardinal 
Newman,  had  ever  written.  I  entered  not  long  after  into 
correspondence  with  Professor  Newman,  and  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  calling  him  my  friend  ever  since.  We  have 
interchanged  letters,  or  at  least  friendly  greetings,  at  short 
intervals  now  for  nearly  fifty  years. 

But  the  epoch-making  book  for  me  was  Theodore  Parker's 
Discourse  of  Religion.  Reading  a  notice  of  it  in  the  A  thenceum, 

VOL.  I.  G 


98  CHAPTER  IV. 

soon  after  its  publication  (somewhere  about  the  year  1845), 
I  sent  for  it,  and  words  fail  to  tell  the  satisfaction  and 
encouragement  it  gave  me.  One  must  have  been  isolated  and 
care-laden  as  I  to  estimate  the  value  of  such  a  book.  I  had 
come,  as  I  have  narrated  above,  to  the  main  conclusions  of 
Ftoker, — ^namely,  the  absolute  goodneas  of  God  and  the 
non-veradty  of  popular  Ohristianity, — ^three  years  before;  so 
that  it  has  been  a  mistake  into  which  some  of  my  friends 
have  fallen  when  they  have  described  me  as  converted  from 
orthodoxy  by  Parker.  But  his  book  threw  a  flood  of  light  on 
my  difficult  way.  It  was,  in  the  first  place,  infinitely  satis- 
factory to  find  the  ideas  which  I  had  hammered  out  painfully 
and  often  imperfectly,  at  last  welded  together,  set  forth  in  ludd 
order,  supported  by  apparently  adequate  erudition  and  heart- 
warmedbyferventpiety.  But,inthe8econdplace,tbe2>uo9ttrM 
helped  me  most  importantly  by  teaching  me  to  regard  Divine 
Inspiration  nolonger  as  a  miraculous  and  therefore  incredible 
thing ;  but  as  normal,  and  in  accordance  with  the  natural 
relations  of  the  infinite  and  finite  spirit;  a  Divine  inflowing 
of  mniUd  light  precisely  analogous  to  that  fnor<d  influence 
which  divines  call  Grace.  As  every  devout  and  obedient 
soul  may  expect  to  share  in  Divine  Grace,  so  the  devout  and 
obedient  souls  of  all  the  ages  have  shared  (as  Parker  taught) 
in  Divine  Inspiration.  And,  as  the  reception  of  Grace,  even 
in  large  measure,  does  not  render  us  tmjMcoo^,  so  neither 
does  the  reception  of  Inspiration  make  us  InfaUible,  It  is 
at  this  point  that  Deism  stops  and  Theism  begins ;  namely, 
when  our  faith  transcends  all  that  can  be  gleaned  from  the 
testimony  of  the  bodily  senses  and  accepts  as  supremely 
trustworthy  the  direct  Divine  teaching,  the  "  original  revela- 
tion "  of  God's  holiness  and  love  in  the  depths  of  the  soul. 
Theodore  Parker  adopted  the  alternative  synonym  to  mark 
the  vital  difference  in  the  philosophy  which  underlies  the 
two  creeds ;  a  theoretic  diflferenoe  leading  to  most  important 


RELIGION.  M 

practacal  eonfieqaenoeB  in  the  whole  temper  and  apirit  of 
Thaiflm  ae  distinct  from  Deism.  I  saw  all  this  clearly  ere 
longy  and  ranged  myself  thenceforth  as  a  Thkst  :  a  name 
now  familiar  to  everyhody,  but  which,  when  my  family  came 
to  know  I  took  it,  led  them  to  tell  me  with  some  contempt 
that  it  was  ^  a  word  in  a  Dictionary,  not  a  Religion." 

A  few  months  after  I  had  absorbed  Parker^s  Diaoowne^  the 
great  sorrow  of  my  life  befell  me.  My  mother,  whose  health 
had  been  feeble  ever  since  I  could  remember  her,  and  who 
was  now  seventy  years  of  age,  passed  away  from  a  world 
which  has  surely  held  few  spirits  so  pure  and  sweet.  She 
died  with  her  weeping  husband  and  sons  beside  her  bed  and 
with  her  head  resting  on  my  breast.  Almost  her  last  words 
were  to  tell  me  I  had  been  ^  the  pride  and  joy"  of  her  life. 
The  agony  I  suffered  when  I  realised  that  she  was  gone  1 
shall  not  try  to  tell.  She  was  the  one  being  in  the  world 
whom  I  truly  loved  through  all  the  passionate  years  of  youtli 
and  early  womanhood ;  the  only  one  who  really  loved  me. 
Never  one  word  of  anger  or  bitterness  had  passed  from  her 
lips  to  me,  nor  (thank  God !)  from  mine  to  her  in  the  twenty- 
four  years  in  which  she  blessed  my  life ;  and  for  the  latter 
part  of  that  time  her  physical  weakness  had  drawn  a  thousand 
tender  cares  of  mine  around  her.  No  relationship  in  all 
the  world,  I  think ,  can  ever  be  so  perfect  as  that  of  mother 
and  daughter  under  such  droumstances,  when  the  strength  of 
youtii  becomes  the  support  of  age,  and  the  sweet  dependanoe 
of  childhood  is  reversed. 

But  it  was  all  over — ^I  was  alone ;  no  more  motherly  love 
and  tenderness  were  ever  again  to  reach  my  thirsting  heart. 
But  this  was  not  as  I  recall  it,  the  worst  pang  in  that  dreadful 
agony.  I  had  (as  I  said  above)  ceased  to  believe  in  a  future 
life,  and  therefore  I  had  no  choioe  but  to  think  that  that  most 
beautiful  soul  which  was  worth  all  the  kingdoms  of  earth  had 
actually  eeatudia  be.     She  was  a  ''  Memory ; "  nothing  mors 


100  CHAPTER  IV. 

I  was  not  then  or  at  any  time  one  of  those  fortunate 
people  who  can  suddenly  cast  aside  the  conclusions  which 
they  have  reached  by  careful  intellectual  processes,  and  leap 
to  opposite  opinions  at  the  call  of  sentiment.  I  played  no 
tricks  with  my  convictions,  but  strove  as  best  I  could  to 
endure  the  awful  strain,  and  to  recognise  the  Divine  Justice 
and  Gkxxlness  through  the  darkness  of  death.  I  need  not 
and  cannot  say  more  on  the  subject. 

Happily  for  me,  there  were  many  duties  waiting  for  me, 
and  I  could  recognise  even  then  that^  though  pbaswre  seemed 
gone  for  ever,  yet  is  was  a  relief  to  feel  I  had  still  duMea, 
<<  Something  to  do  for  others  "  was  an  assuagement  of  misery. 
My  father  claimed  first  and  much  attention,  and  the  position 
I  now  held  of  the  female  head  of  the  family  and  household 
gave  me  a  good  deal  of  employment.  To  this  I  added 
teaching  in  my  village  school  a  mUe  from  our  house  two  or 
three  times  a  week,  and  looking  after  all  the  sick  and  hungry 
in  the  two  villages  of  Donabate  and  Balisk.  Those  were  the 
years  of  Famine  and  Fever  in  Ireland,  and  there  was 
abundant  call  for  all  our  energies  to  combat  them.  I  shall 
write  of  these  matters  in  the  next  chapter. 

I  had,  though  with  pain,  kept  my  heresies  secret  during 
my  mother^s  declining  years  and  till  my  father  had  somewhat 
recovered  from  his  sorrow.  I  had  continued  to  attend  family 
prayers  and  church  services,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Communion,  and  had  only  vaguely  allowed  it  to  be  under- 
stood that  I  was  not  in  harmony  with  them  all.  When  my 
poor  father  learned  the  f uU  extent  of  my ''  infidelity,''  it  was 
a  terrible  blow  to  him,  for  which  I  have,  in  later  years, 
sincerely  pitied  him.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  to 
me,  but  though  I  was  in  his  house,  he  wrote  to  tell  me  I 
had  better  go  away.  My  second  brother,  a  barrister,  had 
a  year  before  given  up  his  house  in  Queen  Anne  Street 
under  a  terrible  a£9iction,  and  had  gone,  broken-hearted, 


RELIGION.  101 

to  live  on  a  farm  which  he  hired  in  the  wilds  of  Donegal. 
There  I  went  as  my  father  desired  and  remained  for 
nearly  a  year;  not  knowing  whether  I  should  ever  he 
permitted  to  return  home  and  rather  expecting  to  be 
disinherited.  He  wrote  to  me  two  or  three  times  and  said 
that  if  my  doubts  only  extended  in  certain  directions  he  could 
bear  with  them, "  but  if  I  rejected  Christ  and  disbelieved  the 
Bible,  a  man  was  called  upon  to  keep  the  plague  of  such 
opinions  from  his  own  house."  Then  he  required  me  to 
answer  him  on  those  points  categorically.  Of  course  I  did 
so  plainly,  and  told  him  I  did  rwt  believe  that  Christ  was 
Qod ;  and  I  did  net  (in  his  sense)  believe  in  the  inspiration 
or  authority  of  the  Bible.  After  this  ensued  a  very  long 
silence,  in  which  I  remained  entirely  ignorant  of  my  destiny 
and  braced  myself  to  think  of  earning  my  future  livelihood. 
I  was  absolutely  lonely ;  my  brother,  though  always  very 
kind  to  me,  had  not  the  least  sympathy  with  my  heresies, 
and  thought  my  father's  conduct  (as  I  do)  quite  natural ; 
and  I  had  not  a  friend  or  relative  from  whom  I  could  look  for 
any  sort  of  comfort.  A  young  cousin  to  whom  I  had  spoken 
of  them  freely,  and  who  had,  in  a  way,  adopted  my  ideas, 
wrote  to  me  to  say  she  had  been  shown  the  error  of  them, 
and  was  shocked  to  think  she  had  been  so  misguided.  This 
was  the  last  straw.  After  I  received  this  letter  I  wandered 
out  in  the  dusk  as  usual  down  to  a  favourite  nook — a  natural 
seat  under  the  bank  in  a  bend  of  the  river  which  ran  through 
Bonny  Glen, — and  buried  my  face  in  the  grass.  As  I  did 
so  my  lips  touched  a  primrose  which  had  blossomed  in  that 
precise  spot  since  I  had  last  been  there,  and  the  soft,  sweet 
flower  which  I  had  in  childhood  chosen  for  my  mother's 
birthday  garland  seemed  actually  to  kiss  my  face.  No 
one  who  has  not  experienced  uUer  loneliness  can  perhaps 
quite  imagine  how  much  comfort  such  an  incident  can 
brinff. 


102  CHAPTER  IV. 

As  I  had  no  duties  in  Donegal,  and  seldom  saw  our  tew 
neighbours,  I  oocupied  myself,  often  for  seven  or  eight  or 
even  nine  hours  a  day,  in  writing  an  Eaaay  on  True  Edigian, 
I  possess  this  MS.  still,  and  have  been  lately  examining  it. 
Of  course,  as  a  first  literary  effort,  it  has  many  faults,  andmy 
limited  opportunities  for  reference  render  parts  of  it  very 
incomplete ;  but  it  is  not  a  bad  piece  of  work.  The  first  part 
is  employed  in  setting  forth  my  reasons  for  belief  in  God. 
The  second,  those  for  not  believing  in  (the  apocalyptic  part  of) 
Ohristianity.  The  chapter  on  Miracha  and  Prophecy  (written 
from  the  literal  and  matter-of-fact  standpoint  of  that  epoch) 
are  not  ill-done,  while  the  moral  failure  of  the  Bible  and  of 
the  orthodox  theology,  the  histories  of  Jacob,  Jael,  David,  dec., 
and  the  dogmas  of  Original  Sin,  the  Atonement,  a  Devil  and 
eternal  Hell,  are  criticised  pretty  successfully.  A  consider- 
able part  of  the  book  consists  in  a  comparison  in  parallel 
columns  of  moral  precepts  from  the  Old  and  New  Testaments 
on  one  side,  and  from  non-Christian  writers,  Euripides, 
Socrates  (Xenophon),  Plutarch,  Sextius,  Marcus  Aurelius, 
Epictetus,  Seneca,  the  Zend  Avesta  (AnquetU  du  Perron's), 
The  Institutes  of  Menu  (Sir  W.  Jones'),  the  Damma  Padan, 
the  Talmud,  dec.,  on  the  other.  For  3rears  I  had  seized  every 
opportunity  of  collecting  the  most  striking  ethical  dietay  and 
I  thus  marshalled  them  to  what  appeared  to  me  good 
purpose,  namely,  the  disproof  of  the  originality  or  exceptional 
loftiness  of  Ohristian  Morals.  I  did  not  apprehend  till  later 
years,  how  the  supreme  achievement  of  Christianity  was  not 
the  inculcation  of  a  Tiew,  still  less  of  a  sf/stenuUic  Morality ; 
bat  the  introduction  of  a  new  spirit  into  Morality ;  as  Christ 
himself  said,  a  leaven  into  the  lump. 

Beading  Parker's  Discouraej  as  I  did  very  naturally  in  my 
solitude  once  again,  it  occurred  to  me  to  write  to  him  and  ask 
him  to  tell  me  on  what  ground  he  based  the  faith  which  I 
perceived  he  held,  in  a  life  after  death  ?  It  had  seemed  to  nie 


RELIGION,  103 

that  the  guarantee  of  Revelation  having  proved  worthless, 
there  remained  no  suificient  reason  for  hope  to  counter-weigh 
the  obvious  difficulty  of  conceiving  of  a  survival  of  the  soul. 
Parker  answered  me  in  a  most  kind  letter,  accompanied  by 
his  Sermcn  of  the  Immortal  Ltfe.  Of  cousse  I  studied  this 
with  utmost  care  and  sympathy,  and  by  slow,  very  slow 
degrees,  as  I  came  more  to  take  in  the  full  scope  of  the 
Theistic,  as  distinguished  from  the  Deistio  view,  I  saw  my 
way  to  a  renewal  of  the  Hope  of  the  Human  Ro/^e  which, 
twenty  years  later,  I  set  forth  as  best  as  I  could  in  the  little 
book  of  that  name.  I  learned  to  trust  the  intuition  of 
Immortality  which  is  '*  written  in  the  heart  of  man  by  a 
Hand  which  writes  no  falsehoods.''  I  deemed  also  that  I 
could  see  (as  Parker  sa3r3)  the  evidence  of  *'a  summer  yet  to 
be  in  the  buds  which  lie  folded  through  our  northern  winter;'^ 
the  presence  in  human  nature  of  many  efflorescences — and 
they  the  fairest  of  all — quite  unacoountableand  unmeaning  on 
the  hypothesis  that  the  end  of  the  man  is  in  the  grave.  In 
later  years  I  think,  as  the  gloom  of  the  evil  and  cruelty  of 
the  world  has  shrouded  more  the  almost  cloudless  skies  of 
my  youth,  I  have  almost  fervently  held  by  the  doctrine  of 
Immortality  because  it  is,  to  me  the  indiapeneoNe  corollary  of 
that  of  the  Goodneee  of  God,  I  am  not  afraid  to  repeat  the 
words,  which  so  deeply  shocked,  when  they  were  first 
published,  my  old  friend,  F.  W.  Newman.  ^'  If  Mwa  be  not 
immortal,  God  is  not  JusL** 

Recovering  this  faith,  as  I  may  say,  rationally  and  not  by 
any  gust  of  emotion,  I  had  the  inexpressible  happiness  of 
thinking  henceforth  of  my  mother  as  still  existing  in  God's 
universe,  and  (as  well  as  I  knew)  loving  me  wherever  she 
might  be,  and  under  whatever  loftier  condition  of  being.  To 
meet  her  again  '*  spirit  to  spirit,  ghost  to  ghost,"  has  been 
to  me  for  forty  years,  the  sweetest  thought  connected  with 
death.    Ere  long,  now,  it  must  be  realised. 


104  CHAPTER  17. 

After  nine  or  ten  months  of  this,  by  no  means  harsh, 
exile,  my  father  sammoned  me  to  retom  home.  I  resumed 
my  place  as  his  daughter  in  doing  all  I  oould  for  his 
comfort,  and  as  the  head  of  his  house ;  merely  thenceforth 
abstaining  from  attendance  either  at  Church  or  at  family 
prayer.  I  had  several  favourite  nooks  and  huts  near  and 
far  in  the  woods,  which  I  made  into  little  Oratories  for 
myself,  and  to  one  or  other  of  them  I  resorted  almost  every 
evening  at  dusk ;  making  it  a  habit — not  broken  for  many 
years  afterwards,  to  repeat  a  certain  versified  Litany  of 
Thanksgiving  which  I  had  written  and  read  to  my  mother. 
On  Sundays,  when  the  rest  of  the  family  went  to  the  village 
church,  I  had  the  old  garden  for  a  beautiful  cathedral. 
Having  let  myself  in  with  my  own  key,  and  locked  the  doors, 
I  knew  I  had  the  lovely  six  acres  within  the  high  walls, 
free  for  hours  from  all  observation  or  intrusion.  How  much 
difference  it  makes  in  life  to  have  at  command  such  peace 
and  solitude  it  is  hard  to  estimate.  I  look  back  to  some 
of  the  summer  forenoons  spent  alone  in  that  garden  as  to 
the  flowering  time  of  my  seventy  years.  Qod  grant  that  the 
afterglow  of  such  hours  may  remain  with  me  to  the  last, 
and  that  '*  at  eventide  it  may  be  light ! " 

I  knew  that  there  were  Unitarian  chapels  in  Dublin  at 
this  time,  and  much  wished  to  attend  them  now  and 
then ;  but  I  would  not  cause  annoyance  to  my  father  by 
the  notice  which  my  journey  to  the  town  on  a  Sunday 
would  have  attracted.  Only  on  New  Tear's  Day  I 
thought  I  might  go  unobserved  and  interpolate  attendance 
at  the  service  among  my  usual  engagements.  I  went 
accordingly  to  Dublin  one  1st  of  January  and  drove  to  the 
chapel  of  which  I  had  heard  in  Eustace  Street.  It  was  a 
big,  dreary  place  with  scarcely  a  quarter  of  the  seats  occupied, 
and  a  middle-class  congregation  apparently  very  oool  and 
indifferent.    The  service  was  a  miserable,  hybrid  affair, 


RELIGION.  lOo 

neither  Christian  as  I  understood  Ghristianitj,  nor  yet 
Theistic ;  but  it  was  a  pleasure  to  me  merely  to  stand  and 
kneel  with  other  people  at  the  hymns  and  prayers.  At  last, 
the  sermon,  for  which  I  might  almost  say,  I  was  hungry, 
arrived.  The  old  Minister  in  his  black-gown  ascended  the 
pulpit,  having  taken  with  him — what  ? — could  I  believe  my 
eyes  ?  It  was  an  M  printed  book,  bound  in  the  blue  and 
drab  old  fuzzy  paper  of  the  year  1810  or  thereabouts,  and 
out  of  this  he  proceeded  to  read  an  erudite  discourse  by  some 
father  of  English  Sodnianism,  on  the  precise  value  of  the 
Greek  article  when  used  before  the  word  tfcosl  My 
disappointment  not  to  say  disgust  were  such  that, — as  it  was 
easy  from  my  seat  to  leave  the  place  without  disturbing  any 
one, — I  escaped  into  the  street,  never  (it  may  be  believed) 
to  repeat  my  experiment. 

It  was  an  anomalous  position  that  which  I  held  at 
Newbridge  from  the  time  of  my  return  from  Donegal,  till  my 
father's  death  eight  years  later.  I  took  my  place  as  head  of 
the  household  at  the  family  table  and  in  welcoming  our 
guests,  but  I  was  all  the  time  in  a  sort  of  moral  Coventry, 
under  a  vague  atmosphere  of  disapprobation  wherein 
all  I  said  was  listened  to  cautiously  as  likely  to  conceal 
some  poisonous  heresy.  Everything  of  this  kind,  however, 
wears  down  and  becomes  easier  and  softer  as  time  goes 
on,  and  most  so  when  people  are,  au  /ondy  just-minded 
and  good-hearted ;  and  the  years  during  which  I  remained 
at  home  till  my  father's  death,  though  mentally  very  lonely, 
were  far  from  unhappy.  In  particular,  the  perfect  clearness 
and  straightforwardness  of  my  position  was,  and  has  ever 
since  been,  a  source  of  strength  and  satisfaction  to  me,  for 
which  I  have  thanked  God  a  thousand  times.  My  inner  life 
was  made  happy  by  my  simple  faith  in  God's  infinite  and 
perfect  love ;  and  I  never  had  any  doubt  whether  I  had  erred 
in  abandoning  the  creed  of  my  youth.    On  the  contrary,  as 


106  CHAPTER  IV. 

the  whole  tendency  of  modem  science  and  critidam  showed 
itself  stronger  and  stronger  against  the  old  orthodoxy,  my 
hopes  were  undoly  raised  of  a  not  distant  New  Beformation 
which  I  might  even  live  to  see.  These  sanguine  hopes  have 
faded.  As  Dean  Stanley  seems  to  have  felt,  there  was,  some- 
where between  the  years  '74  and  78,  a  turn  in  the  tide  of 
men's  thoughts  (due,  I  think,  to  the  paramount  influence  and 
insolence  which  physical  science  then  assumed),  which  has 
postponed  any  decisive  *^  broad  "  movement  for  years  beyond 
my  possible  span  of  life.  But  though  nothing  appears  quite 
so  bright  to  my  old  eyes  as  all  things  did  to  me 
in  youth,  though  familiarity  with  human  wickedness  and 
misery,  and  still  more  with  the  horrors  of  scientific  cruelty 
to  animals,  have  strained  my  faith  in  God's  justice  sometimes 
even  to  agony, — ^I  know  that  no  form  of  religious  creed  could 
have  helped  me  any  more  than  my  own  or  as  much  as  it 
has  done  to  bear  the  brunt  of  such  trial ;  and  I  remain  to 
the  present  unshaken  both  in  respect  to  the  denials  and  the 
affirmations  of  Theism.  There  are  great  difficulties,  soul- 
torturing  difficulties  besetting  it;  but  the  same  or  worse, 
beset  every  other  form  of  faith  in  God ;  and  infinitely  more, 
and  to  my  mind  insurmountable  ones,  beset  Atheism. 

For  fifty  years  Theism  has  been  my  staff  of  life.  I  must 
soon  try  how  it  will  support  me  down  the  last  few  steps  of 
my  earthly  way.     I  believe  it  will  do  so  well. 


CHAPTER 
V. 

MY  FIRST  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Mt  First  Book. 

When  I  was  thirty  years  of  age  I  had  an  attack  of 
bronchitis  from  which  I  nearly  died.  When  very  ill  and 
not  expecting  to  recover,  I  reflected  that  while  my  own  life 
had  been  made  happy  and  strong  by  the  faith  which  had  been 
given  to  me,  I  had  done  nothing  to  help  any  other  human 
sonl  to  find  that  solution  of  the  dread  problem  which  had 
brought  such  peace  to  ma  I  felt,  as  Mrs.  Browning  says, 
that  a  Truth  was  "  like  bread  at  Sacrament "  to  be  passed 
on.  When,  unexpectedly  to  myself,  I  slowly  recovered  after 
a  sojourn  in  Devonshire,  I  resolved  to  set  about  writing 
something  which  should  convey  as  much  as  possible  of  my 
own  convictions  to  whosoever  should  read  it.  For  a  time  I 
thought  of  enlarging  and  completing  my  MS.  Esmxy  on  True 
Rdigicn^  written  for  my  own  instruction ;  but  the  more  I 
reflected  the  less  I  cared  to  labour  to  pull  down  hastily  the 
crumbling  walls  which  yet  sheltered  millions  of  souls,  and 
the  more  I  longed  to  build  up  anew  on  solid  base  a  strong- 
hold of  refuge  for  those  driven  like  myself  from  the  old 
ground  of  faith  in  God  and  Duty.  Especially  I  felt  that  as  the 
worst  dangers  of  such  transitions  lay  in  the  sudden  snapping 
of  the  supposed  bond  of  Morality,  and  collapse  of  the 
hopes  of  heaven  and  terrors  of  hell  which  had  been  used  as 
motives  of  virtue  and  deterrents  from  vice;  so  the  most 
urgent  need  lay  in  the  direction  of  a  system  of  ethics  which 
should  base  Duty  on  ground  absolutely  apart  from  that  of  the 
supposed  supernatural  revelation  and  supply  sanctions  and 
motives  unconnected  therewith.  As  it  happened  at  this  very 
time,  my  good  (orthodox)  friend,  Miss  Felicia  Skene,  had 


110  CHAPTER  V. 

reoommended  me  to  read  Ejuit's  Mekvphytio  of  Ethiea^  and  I 
had  procured  Semple's  translation  and  found  it  almost 
dazzlingly  enlightening  to  my  mind.  It  would  be  pre- 
sumptuous for  me  to  say  that  then,  or  at  any  time,  I  have 
thoroughly  mastered  either  this  book  or  the  iS^mun  Vemunft 
of  this  greatest  of  thinkers ;  but,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able 
to  do  so,  I  can  say  for  my  own  individual  mind  (as  his 
Qerman  disciples  were  wont  to  do  for  themselves), 
"Gk)d  said.  Let  there  be  light  t  and  there  was — 
the  Kantian  Philosophy."  It  has  been,  and  no  doubt 
will  be  still  further,  modified  by  succeeding  metaphysicians 
and  sometimes  it  may  appear  to  have  been  superseded,  but 
I  cannot  think  otherwise  than  that  Kant  was  and  will 
finally  be  recognised  to  have  been  the  Newton  of  the  laws  of 
Mind. 

I  shall  now  endeavour  to  explain  the  purpose  of  my  first 
book  (which  is  also  my  magnum  opus)  by  quoting  the 
Preface  at  some  length ;  and,  as  the  third  edition  has  long 
been  out  of  print  and  is  unattainable  in  Bngland  o;r  America, 
I  shall  permit  myself  to  embody  in  this  chapter  a  general 
account  of  the.  drift  of  it,  with  extracts  sufficient  to 
serve  as  samples  of  the  whole.  Looking  over  it  now,  after 
the  lapse  of  just  forty  years,  I  can  see  that  my  reading  at 
that  time  had  lain  so  much  among  old  books  that  the  style 
is  almost  that  of  a  didactic  Treatise  of  the  seventeenth 
century ;  and  the  ideas,  likewise,  are  necessarily  exclusively 
those  of  the  pre-Darwinian  Era.  Conceptions  so  familiar  to  us 
now  as  that  of  an  ''hereditary  set  of  the  brain,''  and  of  the 
''Capitalised  experience  of  the  tribe,''  were  then  utterly 
unthought  of.  I  have  been  well  aware  that  it  would,  conse- 
quently, have  been  necessary, — ^had  the  book  been  republished 
any  time  during  the  last  twenty  years, — ^to  rewrite  much  of 
it  and  define  the  standpoint  of  an  Intuitionist  as  regards 
the  theory  of  Evolution  in  its  bearing  on  the  foundation  of 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  Ill 

ethics.  For  this  task,  however,  I  have  always  lacked 
leisure:  and  my  article  on  ** Darwinism  in  Morcda" 
(reprinted  in  the  hook  of  that  name)  has  been  the  best 
effort  I  have  made  in  such  direction.  I  may  here,  perhaps, 
nevertheless  be  allowed  to  say  as  a  last  word  in  favour  of 
this  Essay,  namely,  that  such  as  it  is,  it  has  served  me, 
personally,  as  a  scaffolding  for  all  my  life-work,  a  key  to 
open  most  of  the  locks  which  might  have  barred  my  way. 
If  now  I  feel  (as  men  and  women  are  wont  to  do  at  three- 
score years  and  ten),  that  I  hold  all  philosophic  opinions 
with  less  tenacious  grasp,  less  "  cocksureness "  than  in 
earlier  days,  and  know  that  the  great  realities  to  which  they 
led,  will  remain  realities  for  me  still  should  those  opinions 
prove  here  and  there  unstable^ — it  is  not  that  I  am  disposed 
in  any  way  to  abandon  them,  still  less  that  I  have  found  any 
other  systems  of  ethics  or  theology  more,  or  equally,  sound 
and  self-consistent. 

I  wrote  the  **  Eaaay  on  the  Theory  of  In^Uive  Morals  " 
between  my  thirtieth  and  thirty-third  years.  I  had  a  great 
deal  else  to  do— to  amuse  and  help  my  father  (then  growing 
old) ;  to  direct  our  household,  entertain  our  guests,  carry 
on  the  feminine  correspondence  of  the  family,  teach  in  my 
village  school  twice  a  week  or  so,  and  to  attend  every 
case  of  illness  or  other  tribulation  in  Donabate  and  Balisk. 
My  leisure  for  writing  and  for  the  preliminary  reading 
for  writing,  was  principally  at  night  or  in  the  early 
morning ;  and  at  last  it  was  accomplished.  No  one  but  my 
dear  old  friend,  Harriet  St.  Leger,  had  seen  any  part  of  the 
MS.,  and,  as  I  have  said,  nobody  belonging  to  my  famOy  had 
ever  (so  far  as  I  know)  employed  a  printer  or  publisher 
before.  I  took  the  MS.  with  me  to  London,  where  my 
father  and  I  were  fortunately  going  for  a  holiday,  and  called 
with  it  in  Paternoster  Bow,  on  Mr.  William  Longman,  to 
whom  I  had  a  letter  of  business  introduction  from  my  Dublin 


112  CHAPTER  V. 

bookseller.     When  I  opened  my  affair  to  Mr.  Longman,  it 
was  truly  a  case  of  Byron's  address  to  Murray-^ 

^  To  thee  with  hope  and  tenor  damb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  aathoocs  oome ; 
Thou  printest  all,  and  Bellest  some, 

My  Murray  I  * 

Mr.  Longman  politely  veiled  a  smile,  and  adopted  the  voice 
of  friendly  dissuasion  from  my  enterprise,  looking  no  doubt 
on  a  young  lady  (as  I  still  was)  ,as  a  very  unpromising 
author  for  a  treatise  on  Kantian  ethics  t  My  spirit,  however, 
rose  with  the  challenge.  I  poured  out  for  some  minutes  much 
that  I  had  been  thinking  over  for  years,  and  as  I  paused  at 
last,  Mr.  Longman  said  briefly,  but  decidedly,  "  FU  piMiah 
yowr  hook.** 

After  this  fateful  interview,  I  remember  going  into 
St.  Paul's  and  sitting  there  a  long  while  alone. 

The  sheets  of  the  book  passed  rapidly  through  the  press, 
and  I  usually  took  them  to  the  British  Museum  to '  verify 
quotations  and  work  quietly  over  difficulties,  for  in  the  house 
which  we  occupied  in  Connaught  Square  I  had  no  study  to 
myself.  The  foot-notes  to  the  book  (collected  some  in  the 
Museum,  some  from  my  own  books  and  some  from  old 
works  in  Archbishop  Marsh's  Library)  were  themselves  a 
heavy  part  of  the  work.  Glancing  over  the  pages  as  I  write, 
I  see  extracts,  for  example,  from  the  following  : — Gudworth 
(I  had  got  at  some  inedited  MSS.  of  his  in  the  British 
Museum),  Montesquieu,  Philo,  Hooker,  Proclus,  Thomas 
Aquinas,  Aristotle,  Descartes,  Miiller,  Whewell,  Mozley, 
Leibnitz,  St.  Augustine,  PhiUipsohn,  Strabo,  St.  Ghrysostom, 
Morell,  Lewes,  Dugald  Stewart,  Mill,  Oersted,  the  Ad^e- 
Grunt'h  (sacred  book  of  the  Sikhs),  Herbert  Spencer,  Hume, 
Mazimus  Tyriensis,  Institutes  of  Menu,  Victor  Gousin, 
Sir  William  Hamilton,  Lucian,  Seneca,  Gory's  Fragments, 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  113 

St.  Gregory  the  Great,  Justin  Martyr,  Jeremy  Taylor, 
the  Yajur  Veda,  Shaftesbury,  Plato,  Marcus  Aurelius, 
Diogenes  Laertius,  Cioero,  Confucius,  and  many  more. 
There  are  also  in  the  Notes  sketches  of  the  history  of  the 
doctrines  of  Predestination,  and  of  Original  Sin,  which 
involved  very  considerable  research. 

At  last  the  proofs  were  corrected,  the  Notes  verified,  and 
the  time  had  come  when  the  Preface  must  be  written !  How 
was  I  to  find  a  quiet  hour  to  compose  it  %  like  most  women 
I  was  bound  hand  and  foot  by  a  fine  web  of  little  duties  and 
attentions,  which  men  never  feel  or  brush  aside  remorse- 
lessly, (it  was  only  Hooker,  who  rocked  a  cradle  with  his 
foot  while  he  wrote  the  Ecclesiastical  Polity !) ;  and  it  was  a 
serious  question  for  me  when  I  could  find  leisure  i^nd  solitude. 
Luckily,  just  on  the  critical  day,  my  father  was  seized  with 
a  fancy  to  go  to  the  play,  and,  equally  luckily,  I  had  so  bad 
a  cold  that  it  was  out  of  question  that  I  should,  as  usual, 
accompany  him.  Accordingly  I  had  an  evening  all  alone, 
and  wrote  fast  and  hard  the  pages  which  I  shall  presently 
quote,  finishing  the  last  sentence  of  my  Prefaos  as  I  heard 
my  father's  knock  at  the  haU-door. 

I  had  all  along  told  my  father  (though,  alas;  to  his 
displeasure),  that  I  was  going  to  publish  a  book ;  of  course, 
anonymously,  to  save  him  annoyance.  When  the  printing 
was  completed,  the  torn  and  defaced  sheets  of  the  MS.  lay 
together  in  a  heap  for  removal  by  the  housemaid.  Pointing 
to  this,  my  poor  father  said  solemnly  to  me :  "  Don't  leave 
those  about ;  you  donH  know  into  whose  harnds  they  mayfaUJ* 
It  was  needless  to  observe  to  him,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of 
pMisMng  the  '*  perilous  stuff  " ! 

The  book  was  brought  out  by  Longmans  that  year  (1855) 
and  afterwards  by  Crosby  and  Nichols  in  Boston,  and  again 
by  Triibner  in  London.  It  was  reviewed  rather  largely 
and,  on  the  whole,  very  kindly,  considering  it  was  by  an 

VOL.  I.  n 


114  CHAPTER  r. 

unknown  and  altogether  unfriended  author ;  but  sometimes 
also  in  a  manner  which  it  is  pleasant  to  know  has  gone  out 
of  fashion  in  these  latter  days.  It  was  amusing  to  see  that 
not  one  of  my  critics  had  a  suspicion  they  were  dealing  with 
a  woman's  work.  They  all  said,  ^^  He  reasons  clearly." 
^^  His  spirit  and  manner  are  particularly  well  suited  to 
ethical  discussion.''  ^* HU  treatment  of  morals*'  (said  the 
Gucurdiam)  ''is  often  both  true  and  beautiful."  ''It  is  a 
most  noble  performance/'  (said  the  Caledonum  Mermary\ 
"the  work  of  a  masculine  and  lofty  mind."  "It  is 
impossible,"  (said  the  Scaiaman\  "to  deny  the  ability  of 
the  writer,  or  not  to  admire  his  high  moral  tone, 
his  earnestness  and  the  fulness  of  his  knowledge."  But 
the  heresy  of  the  book  brought  down  heavy  denunciation 
from  the  "religious"  papers  on  the  audacious  writer  who, 
"  instead  of  walking  softly  and  humbly  on  the  firm  ground 
and  taking  the  Word  of  God  as  a  lamp,"  dec.,  had  indulged 
in  "insect  reasonings."  A  rumour  at  last  went  out  that 
a  woman  was  the  author  of  this  "  able  and  attractive  but 
deceptive  and  dangerous  work,"  and  then  the  critidsms  were 
•barbed  with  sharper  teeth.  "  The  writer  "  (says  the  Christian 
Observer),  "  we  are  told,  is  a  lady,  but  there  is  nothing  feeble 
or  even  feminine  in  the  tone  of  the  work.  ....  Our 
dislike  is  increased  when  we  are  told  it  is  a  female  (!)  who 
has  propounded  so  unfeminine  and  stoical  a  theory  .... 
and  has  contradicted  openly  the  true  sayings  of  the  living 
Godt "  The  Guardian  (November  21st,  1855)  finally  had 
this  delightful  paragraph :  "Theauthorprofessesgreatadmira- 
tion  for  Theodore  Parker  and  Frauds  Newman,  but  his  own 
pages  are  not  disfigured  by  the  arrogance  of  the  one  or  the 
shallow  levity  of  the  other"  (think  of  the  shalUotv  levity  of 
Newman's  book  of  the  Soul  J).  "He  writes  gravely,  not 
defiantly,  as  befits  a  man  giving  utterance  to  thoughts  which 
he  knows  will  he  generaUy  regarded  as  impious" 


MT  FIRST  BOOK.  115 

I  shall  now  offer  the  reader  a  few  extracts ;  and  first  from 
the  Preface : — 

''It  cannot  surely  be  qaestioned  bat  that  we  want  a 
System  of  Morals  better  than  any  of  those  which  are  onrrent 
amongst  ns.  We  want  a  system  which  shall  neither  be  too 
shallow  for  the  requirements  of  thinking  men,  nor  too 
abstruse  for  popular  acceptation ;  but  which  shall  be  based 
upon  the  ultimate  grounds  of  philosophy,  and  be  developed 
with  such  distinctness  as  to  be  understood  by  every  one 
capable  of  studying  the  subject.  We  want  a  System  of 
Morals  which  shall  not  entangle  itself  with  sectarian  creeds, 
nor  imperil  its  authority  with  that  of  tottering  Churches, 
but  which  shall  be  indissolubly  blended  with  a  Theology 
fulfilling  all  the  demands  of  the  Beligious  Sentiment — a 
Theology  forming  a  part,  and  the  one  living  part,  of  all  the 
theologies  which  ever  have  been  or  shall  be.  We  want  a 
system  which  shall  not  degrade  the  Law  of  the  Eternal 
Sight  by  snnouncing  it  as  a  mere  contrivance  for  the 
production  of  human  happiness,  or  by  tracing  our  knowledge 
of  it  to  the 'experience  of  the  senses,  or  by  cajoling  us  into 
obeying  it  as  a  matter  of  expediency ;  but  a  q^tem  which 
^  shall  ascribe  to  that  Law  its  own  sublime  office  in 
the  universe,  which  shall  recognise  in  man  the  faculties  by 
which  he  obtains  a  supersensible  knowledge  of  it,  and 
which  shall  inculcate  obedience  to  it  on  motives  so  pure 
and  holy,  that  the  mere  statement  of  them  shall  awaken  in 
every  breast  that  higher  and  better  self  which  can  never 
be  aroused  by  the  call  of  interest  or  expediency. 

^  It  would  be  in  itself  a  presumption  for  me  to  Hiwf^Uim 
the  ability  necessary  for  supplying  such  a  want  as  this.  In 
writing  this  book,  I  have  aimed  chiefly  at  two  objects. 
First.  I  have  sought  to  unite  into  one  homogeneous  and  self - 
consistent  whole  the  purest  and  most  enlarged  theories 
hitherto  propounded  on  ethical  science.  Especially  I  have 
endeavoured  to  popularise  those  of  Kant,  by  giving  the 
simplest  possible  presentation  to  his  doctrines  regarding 
the  Freedom  of  the  Will  and  the  suoersensible  source  of 


116  CHAPTER  V. 

our  knowledge  of  all  Neoessary  Truths,  including  those  of 
Morals.  I  do  not  claim  however,  even  so  &r  as  regards 
these  doctrines,  to  be  an  exact  exponent  of  Kant's 
opinions  ....  Secondly.  I  have  sought  (and  this 
has  been  my  chief  aim)  to  place  for  the  first  time,  at  the 
foundation  of  ethics,  the  great  but  neglected  truth  that 
the  End  of  Creation  is  not  the  Happiness,  but  the  Virtue, 
of  Bational  Souls.  I  believe  that  this  truth  wiU  be  found 
to  throw  most  valuable  light,  not  only  upon  the  Theory,  but 
upon  all  the  details  of  Practical  Morals.  Nay,  more,  I 
believe  that  we  must  look  to  it  for  such  a  solution  of  the 
*  Riddle  of  the  World'  as  shall  satisfy  the  demands  of  the 
Intellect  while  presenting  to  the  Religious  Sentiment  that 
same  €k>d  of  perfect  Justice  and  Gh)odne8s  whose  ideal  it 
intuitively  conceives  and  spontaneously  adores.  Only  with 
this  view  of  the  Designs  of  €k>d  can  we  understand  how 
His  Moral  Attributes  are  consistent  with  the  creation  of  a 
race  which  is  indeed  *  groaning  in  sin'  and  ^travailing  in 
sorrow '  ;  but  by  whose  freedom  to  sin  and  trial  of  sorrow 
shall  be  worked  out  at  last  the  most  blessed  End  which 
Infinite  Love  could  devise.  With  this  clew,  we  shall  also 
see  how  (as  the  Virtue  of  each  individual  must  be  produced 
by  himself,  and  is  the  share  committed  to  him  in  the  grand 
end  of  creation)  all  Duties  must  necessarily  range  them- 
selves accordingly — the  Personal  before  the  Social — ^in  a 
sequence  entirely  different  from  that  which  is  comformable 
with  the  hypothesis  that  Happiness  is  '  our  being's  end  and 
aim ' ;  but  which  is,  nevertheless,  precisely  the  sequence 
in  which  Intuition  has  always  peremptorily  demanded  that 
they  should  be  arranged.  We  shall  see  how  (as  the 
bestowal  of  Happiness  on  man  must  always  be  postponed 
by  God  to  the  stiU  more  blessed  aim  of  conducing  to  his 
Virtue)  the  greatest  outward  woes  and  trials,  so  far  from 
inspiring  us  with  doubts  of  His  Goodness,  must  be  taken 
as  evidences  of  the  glory  of  that  End  of  Virtue  to  which 
they  lead,  even  as  the  depths  of  the  foundations  of  a 
cathedral  may  show  how  high  the  towers  and  spires  will 
one  day  ascend." — Pref.^  pp.  V. — X. 


MY  FIRST  BOOK,  117 

In  the  first  chapter,  entitled  What  is  the  Moral  Law  ?  I 
take  for  motto  Antigone's  great  speech : — 

*^  aypcmra  ic^a-^aX^  0€Siv 
p6fuiia     .... 

ov  yap  ri  vvv  ye  k^x!^€Sj  oXX'  ace  irorc 
(j  ravTOy  KovSctr  olbev  c{  orov  ^<^i€an), 

So<^.  'AvTiy.  454." 

I  begin  by  defining  Moral  actions  and  sentiments  as  those 
of  national  Free  Agents,  to  which  alone  may  be  applied  the 
terms  of  Right  or  Wrong,  Good  or  Evil,  Virtuous  or 
Vicious.     I  then  proceed  to  say : — 

'^This  moral  character  of  good  or  evil  is  a  real,  nniversal 
and  eternal  distlaction,  existing  through  all  worlds  and  for 
ever,  wherever  there  are  rational  creatures  and  free  agents. 
As  one  kind  of  line  is  a  straight  line,  and  another  a  crooked 
line,  and  as  no  line  can  be  both  straight  and  crooked,  so 
one  kind  of  action  or  sentiment  is  right,  and  another  is 
wrong,  and  no  action  or  sentiment  can  be  both  right  or 
wrong.  And  as  the  same  line  which  is  straight  on  this 
planet  would  be  straight  in  Sirius  or  Alcyone,  and  what 
constitutes  straightness  in  the  nineteenth  century  will 
constitute  straightness  in  the  nineteenth  millennium,  so 
that  sentiment  or  action  which  is  right  in  our  world,  is 
right  in  all  worlds ;  and  that  which  constitutes  righteous- 
ness now  will  constitute  righteousness  through  all  eternity. 
And  as  the  character  of  straightness  belongs  to  the  line,  by 
whatsoever  hand  it  may  have  been  traced,  so  the  character 
of  righteousness  belongs  to  the  sentiment  or  action,  by  what 
rational  free  agent  soever  it  may  have  been  felt  or 
performed." 

"And  of  this  distinction  language  affords  a  reliable 
exponent.  When  we  have  designated  one  kind  of  figure  by 
the  word  Cirple,  and  another  by  the  word  Triangle,  those 
terms,  having  become  the  names  of  the  respective  figures, 
cannot  be  transposed  without  transgression  of  the  laws  of 
language.     Thus  it  would  be  absurd   to  argue  that   the 


118  CHAPTER   V. 

figare  we  call  a  oirde,  may  not  be  a  circle  ;  that  a  '  plane 
figure,  contaming  a  point  from  which  all  right  lines  drawn 
to  the  droomferenoe  shall  be  equal,'  may  not  4)e  a  circle, 
but  a  triangle.  In  like  manner,  when  we  have  designated 
one  kind  of  sentiment  or  action  as  Bight,  and  another  as 
Wrong,  it  becomes  an  absurdity  to  say  that  the  kind  of 
sentiments  or  actions  we  call  Bight  may,  perhaps,  be 
Wrong.  If  a  figure  be  not  a  circle,  according  to  our  sense 
of  the  word,  it  is  not  a  circle  at  all,  but  an  Ellipse,  a 
Triangle,  Trape2dum,  or  something  else.  If  a  sentiment  or 
action  be  not  Bight,  according  to  our  woae  at  the  word^  it 
is  not  Bight  at  all,  but,  according  to  the  laws  of  language, 
must  be  caUed  Wrong. 

''It  is  not  maintained  that  we  can  commit  no  error  in 
affixing  the  name  of  Circle  to  a  particular  figure,  or  of 
Bight  to  a  particular  sentiment  or  action.  We  may  at 
a  hasty  glance  pronounce  an  ellipse  to  be  a  circle ; 
but  when  we  have  proved  the  radii  to  be  unequal, 
needs  must  we  arrive  at  a  better  judgment.  Our 
error  was  caused  by  our  first  haste  and  misjudgment, 
not  by  our  inability  to  decide  whether  an  object  presented 
to  us  bears  or  does  not  bear  a  character  to  which  we  have 
agreed  to  affix  a  certain  name.  In  like  manner,  from  haste 
or  prejudice,  we  may  pronounce  a  faulty  sentiment  or  action 
to  be  Bight ;  but  when  we  have  examined  it  in  all  its 
bearings,  we  ourselves  are  the  first  to  call  it  Wrong." — 

Pp.  4-7. 

After  much  more  on  the  positive  nature  of  €k)od,  and  the 
negative  nature  of  Evil,  and  on  the  relation  of  the  Moral 
Law  to  God  as  imperaonated  in  His  Will,  and  not  the  result 
(as  Ockham  taught)  of  his  arbitrary  decree, — I  sum  up  the 
argument  of  this  first  chapter.  To  the  question,  What  is  the 
Moral  Law  ?  I  answer : — 

"The  Moral  Law  is  the  embodiment  of  the  eternal 
Necessary  obligation  of  all  Bational  Free  Agents  to  do  and  feel 
those  actions  and  sentiments  which  are  Bight.    The  identi- 


MY  FIRST  BOOK,  119 

flcation  of  this  law  with  His  will  ooxustitntes  the  Holiness  of 
the  infinite  Qod,  Voluntary  and  disinterested  obedience  to 
this  law  constitates  the  Virtue  of  all  finite  creatures.  Virtue 
is  capable  of  infinite  growth,  of  endless  approach  to  the 
Divine  nature,  and  to  perfect  conformity  with  the  law. 
Gk)d  has  made  all  rational  free  agents  for  yirtue,  and 
(doubtless)  all  worlds  for  rational  free  agents.  The  Moral 
Law,  therefore,  not  only  reigns  throughout  His  creation  (its 
behests  being  finally  enforced  therein  by  His  power),  but  is 
itself  the  reason  why  that  creation  exists.  The  material 
universe,  with  all  its  laws,  and  all  the  events  which  result 
therefrom,  has  one  great  purpose,  and  tends  to  one  great 
end.  It  is  that  end  which  infinite  Love  has  designed,  and 
which  infinite  Power  shall  surely  accomplish, — ^the  ever- 
lasting approximation  of  all  created  souls  to  Goodness  and 
to  God."— (Pp.  62,  63.) 

The  second  chapter  undertakes  to  answer  the  question, 
Where  ie  Ae  Moral  Law  Fou/ndf  and  begins  by  a  brief 
analysis  of  the  two  great  classes  of  human  knowledge  as  a 
preliminary  to  asoertaining  to  which  of  these  our  knowledge 
of  ethics  belongs. 

"All  sciences  are  either  Exact  or  Physical  (or  are 
applications  of  Exact  to  Ph3rBical  science). 

"Exact  sciences  are  deduced  from  axiomatic  Necessary 
truths  and  results  in  universal  propositions,  each  of  which 
is  a  Necessary  Truth. 

"  Physical  sciences  are  induced  from  Experimental  Con- 
tingent truths,  and  result  in  General  Propositions,  each  of 
which  is  a  contingent  truth. 

''We  obtain  our  knowledge  of  the  Experimental 
Contingent  Truths  from  which  Physical  science  is  induced, 
by  the  united  action  of  our  bodily  senses  and  of  our  minds 
themselves,  which  must  both  in  each  case  contribute  their 
proper  quota  to  make  knowledge  possible.  Every  perception 
necessitates  this  double  element  of  sensation  and  intuition, 
— ^the  objective  and  subjective  factor  in  combination. 


120  CHAPTER  V. 

''We  obtain  our  knowledge  of  the  aziomatio  NeceBsary 
Trutha  from  which  Exact  science  is  deduced,  by  the 
d  priori  operation  of  the  mind  alone,  and  {quoad  the  exact 
science  in  question)  without  the  aid  of  sensation  (Not, 
indeed,  by  d  priori  operation  of  a  mind  which  has  never 
worked  with  sensation,  for  such  a  mind  would  be  altogether 
barren;  but  of  one  which  has  reached  normal  development 
under  normal  conditions ;  which  conditions  involve  the 
continual  united  action  productive  of  perceptions  of 
contingent  truths). 

''In  this  distinction  between  the  sources  of  our  know- 
ledge lies  the  most  important  discovery  of  philosophy. 
Into  whatsoever  knowledge  the  element  of  Sensation 
necessarily  enters  as  a  constituent  part,  therein  there  can 
be  no  absolute  certainty  of  truth ;  the  fallibility  of 
Sensation  being  recognised  on  all  hands,  and  neutralising 
the  certainty  of  the  pure  mental  element.  But  when  we 
discover  an  order  of  sciences  which,  without  aid  from 
sensation,  are  deduced  by  the  mind's  own  operation  from 
those  Necessary  truths  which  we  hold  on  a  tenure  marking 
indelibly  their  distinction  from  all  contingent  truths  what- 
soever, then  we  obtain  footing  in  a  new  realm 

''In  the  ensuing  pages  I  shaU  endeavour  to  demonstrate 
that  the  science  of  Morals  belongs  to  the  class  of  Exact 
sciences,  and  that  it  has  consequently  a  right  to  that 
credence  wherewith  we  hold  the  truths  of  arithmetic  and 
geometry.    .    .    .    ." 

The  test  which  divides  the  two  classes  is  as  follows  :— 

"  What  truth  soever  is  Necessary  and  of  universal  extent 
is  derived  by  the  mind  from  its  own  operation,  and  does 
not  rest  on  observation  or  experience ;  as,  conversely, 
what  truth  or  perception  soever  is  present  to  the  mind 
with  a  consciousness,  not  of  its  Necessity,  but  of  its 
Contingency,  is  ascribable  not  to  the  original  agency  of 
the  mind  itself  but  derives  its  origin  from  observation  and 
experience.*' 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  121 

After  lengthened  discussion  on  this  head  and  on  the 
e^upposed  mistakes  of  moral  intuition,  I  go  on  to  say : 

"  The  consciousness  of  the  Contingency,  or  the 
consciousness  of  the  Necessity  (i.«.,  the  consoiousness 
that  the  truth  cannot  be  contingent,  but  must  hold  good  iu 
all  worlds  for  ever),  these  consciousnesses  are  to  be 
relied  on,  for  they  have  their  origin  in,  and  are 
the  marks  of,  the  different  elements  from  which  they 
have  been  derived.*  We  may  apply  them  to  the  funda- 
mental truths  of  any  science,  and  by  obaerring  whether  the 
reception  of  such  truths  into  our  minds  be  accompanied  by 
the  conisciousness  of  Necessity  or  of  Gontiogency,  we  may 
decide  whether  the  science  be  rightfully  Exact  or  Physical, 
deductive  or  inductive. 

<*For  example,  we  take  the  axioms  of  arithmetic  and 
geometry,  and  we  find  that  we  have  distinct  consciousness 
that  they  are  Necessary  truths.  We  cannot  conceive  them 
altered  any  where  or  at  any  time.  The  sciences  which  are 
deduced  from  these  and  from  similar  axioms  are  then. 
Exact  sciences. 

^  Again :  we  take  the  ultimate  facts  of  geology  and 
anatomy,  and  we  find  that  we  have  distinct  consciousness 
that  they  are  Contingent  truths.  We  can  readily  suppose 
them  other  than  we  find  them.  The  sciences,  then,  which 
are  induced  from  these  and  similar  facts  are  not  Exact 
sciences. 

"  If,  then,  morals  can  be  shown  to  bear  this  test  equally 
with  mathematics, — ^if  there  be  any  fundamental  truths  of 
morals  holding  in  our  minds  the  status  of  those  axioms  of 
geometry  and  arithmetic  of  whose  Necessity  we  are  oon- 

*  **It  is  a  fact  of  ConsciousnesB  to  which  all  experience  bears 
witness  and  which  it  is  the  duty  of  the  philosopher  to  admit  and 
acoonnt  for,  instead  of  disguising  or  mutilating  it  to  suit  the 
demands  of  a  system,  that  there  are  certain  truths  which  when 
once  acquired,  no  matter  how,  it  is  impossible  by  any  effort  of 
thought  to  conceive  as  reversed  or  reversible.** — ManseVs  Msta- 
physics,  p.  248. 


122  CHAPTER   V. 

scioufl,  then  Uieie  fundamental  trntha  of  morals  are  entitled 
to  be  .made  the  basis  of  an  Exact  sdenoe  the  sabseqnent 
theorems  of  which  mnst  all  be  deduced  from  them. — 
(P.  7a)    .    .    . 

*<Men  like  Hume  traverse  the  history  of  our  race,  to 
ooUeot  all  the  piteous  instances  of  aberrations  which  have 
resulted  from  neglect  or  imperfect  study  of  the  moral 
consciousness ;  and  then  they  cry, '  Behold  what  it  teaches  ! ' 
Yet  I  suppose  that  it  will  be  admitted  that  Man  is  an  animal 
capable  of  knowing  geometry ;  though,  if  we  were  to  go  up 
and  down  the  world,  asking  rich  and  poor.  Englishman  and 
Esquimaux,  what  are  the  ratios  of  solidity  and  superficies  of 
a  sphere,  a  right  cylinder  and  an  equilateral  cone  circum- 
scribed about  it,  there  are  sundry  chances  that  we  should 
hear  of  other  ratios  besides  the  sesquialterate. 

"He  who  should  argue  ihat>  because  people  ignorant  of 
geometry  did  not  know  the  sesquialterate  ratio  of  the 
sphere,  cylinder  and  cone,  therefore  no  man  could  know 
it|  or  that  because  they  disputed  it,  that  therefore  it  was 
uncertain,  would  argue  no  more  absurdly  than  he  who 
urges  the  divergencies  of  half  civilised  and  barbarian 
nations  as  a  reason  why  no  man  could  know,  or  know  with 
certainty,  the  higher  propositions  of  morals.'* 

After  analysing  the  Utilitarian  and  other  theories  which 
derive  Morality  from  Contingent  truths,  I  conclude  that  *'the 
truths  of  Morals  are  Necessary  Truths.  The  origin  of  our 
knowledge  of  them  is  Intuitive,  and  their  proper  treatment 
is  Deductive." 

The  third  Chapter  treats  of  the  proposition,  "  That  the 
Moral  Law  can  be  obeyed,"  and  discusses  the  doctrine  of 
Kant,  that  the  true  self  of  Man,  the  Homo  NoiMMfium^  \& 
free,  self  legislative  of  Law  fit  for  Law  Universal ;  while  as 
the  Homo  Phenomenon^  an  inhabitant  of  the  world  of  sense, 
he  is  a  mere  link  in  the  chain  of  causes  and  effects,  and  his 
actions  are  locked  up  in  mechanic  laws  which,  had  he  no 
other  rank,  would  ensue  exactly  according  to  the  physical 


MY  FIRST  BOOK,  123 

impukes  given  by  the  instincts  and  solicitations  in  the 
sensory.  But  as  an  inhabitant  (also)  of  the  supersensitiye 
world  his  position  is  among  the  causalities  which  taking  their 
rise  therein,  are  the  intimate  ground  of  phenomena.  The 
discussion  in  this  chapter  on  the  above  proposition  cannot  be 
condensed  into  any  space  admissible  here. 

The  fourth  Chapter  seeks  to  determine  Why  the  Moral 
Law  ahoM  be  Obeyed,     It  begins  thus : — 

"In  the  last  Chapter  (Chapter  HE.)  I  endeavoured  to 
demonstrate  that  the  pure  Will,  the  true  self  of  man,  is  by 
nature  righteous ;  self-legialative  of  the  only  Universal 
Law,  viz.,  the  Moral ;  and  that  by  this  spontaneous  autonomy 
would  aU  his  actions  be  squared,  were  it  not  for  his  lower 
nature,  which  is  by  its  constitution  unmoral,  neither 
righteous  nor  unrighteous,  but  capable  only  of  determiniug 
its  choice  by  its  instinctive  propensities  and  the  gratifica- 
tions offered  to  them.  Thus  these  two  are  contrary  one  to 
another,  *and  the  spirit  lusteth  against  the  flesh,  and  the 
flesh  against  the  spirit.'  In  the  valour  of  the  higher 
nature  acquired  by  its  victory  over  the  lower,  in  the  virtue 
of  the  tried  and  conquering  soul,  we  look  for  the  glorious 
end  of  creation,  the  sublime  result  contemplated  by 
Infinite  Benevolence  in  calling  man  into  existence  and 
fitting  him  with  the  complicated  nature  capable  of 
developing  that  Virtue  which  alone  can  be  the  crown  of 
finite  intelligences.  The  great  practical  problem  of  human 
life  is  this  :  *  How  is  the  Moral  Will  to  gain  the  victory 
over  the  unmoral  instincts,  the  Homo  Noumemm  over  the 
RoTM  Phenomenon,  Michael  over  the  Evil  One,  Mithras  over 
Hyle  ? ' " 

In  pursuing  this  enquiry  of  how  the  Moral  Will  is  to  be 
rendered  victorious,  I  am  led  back  to  the  question:  Is 
Happiness  **our  end  and  aim?'*  What  relation  does  it 
bear  to  Morality  as  a  motive  I 

^I  have  already  argued,  in  Chapter  I.,  that  Happiness, 
properly  speaking,  is  the  gratification  of  all  the  desires  of 


124  CHAPTER   V, 

our  compound  nature,  and  that  moral,  intellectual,  affiec- 
tional,  and  eensual  pleasures  are  all  to  be  considered  as 
integers,  whose  sum,  when  complete,  would  constitute 
perfect  Happiness.  From  this  multiform  nature  of  Happi- 
ness it  has  arisen,  that  those  systems  of  ethics  which  set 
it  forth  as  the  proper  motive  of  Virtue  have  differed 
immensely  from  one  another,  according  as  the  Happiness 
they  respectively  contemplated  was  thought  of  as  corndsting 
in  the  pleasures  of  our  Moral,  or  of  our  Intellectual,  Affec- 
tional,  and  Sensual  natures ;  whether  the  pleasures  were 
to  be  sought  by  the  virtuous  man  for  his  own  enjoyment|  or 
for  the  general  happiness  of  the  community. 

''The  pursuit  of  Virtue  for  the  sake  of  its  intrinsic,  i.«., 
Moral  pleasure^  is  designated  Euthumism. 

'*The  pursuit  of  Virtue  for  the  sake  of  the  extrinsic 
AfFectional,  Intellectual,  and  Sensual  pleasure  resulting 
from  it,  is  designated  Eudaimonism. 

**  Euthumism  is  of  one  kind  only,  for  the  individual  can 
only  seek  the  intrinsic  pleasure  of  Virtue  for  his  own  enjoy- 
ment thereol 

''Eudaimonism,  on  the  contrary,  is  of  two  most  distinct 
kinds.  That  which  I  have  called  Public  Eudaimonism  sets 
forth  the  intellectual,  affeotional,  and  sensual  pleasures  of 
aU  mankind  as  the  proper  object  of  the  Virtue  of  each 
individual.  Private  Eudaimonism  sets  forth  the  same 
pleasures  of  the  individual  hivMelf  as  the  proper  object  of 
his  Virtue. 

**  These  two  latter  systems  are  commonly  confounded 
under  the  name  of  '  Utilitabian  Ethics.'  Their  principles, 
as  I  have  stated  them,  will  be  seen  to  be  wide  asunder ; 
yet  there  are  few  of  the  advocates  of  either  who  have  not 
endeavoured  to  stand  on  the  grounds  of  both,  and  even  to 
borrow  elevation  from  those  of  the  Enthumist  Thus,  by 
appealing  alternately  to  philanthropy*  and  to  a  gross  and 
a  refined  Selfishness,  they  suit  the  purpose  of  the  moment, 
and  prevent  their  scheme  from  deviating  too  far  from  the 

*  We  should  now  say  AUrtAim. 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  126 

intuitive  consoienoe  of  mankind.  It  may  be  remarked, 
also,  that  the  Private  Endaimonists  insist  more  partionlarly 
on  the  pleasure  of  a  Future  Life ;  and  in  the  exposition  of 
them  necessarily  approach  nearer  to  the  Enthumists." 

I  here  proceeded  to  disctuss  the  three  systems  whioh  have 
arisen  from  the  above-defined  different  views  of  Happiness ; 
each  contemplating  it  as  the  proper  motive  of  Virtue : 
namely,  1st,  Euthumism;  2nd,  Public  Eudaimonism;  and 
3rd,  Private  Eudaimonism. 

"  Ist.  Euthumism.  This  system,  as  I  have  said,  sets  forth 
the  Moral  Flecuwre,  the  peace  and  cheerfulness  of  mind,  and 
applause  of  consdenoe  enjoyed  in  Virtue,  as  the  proper 
motive  for  its  practice.  Conversely,  it  sets  forth  as  the 
diasuadent  from  Vice,  the  pain  of  remorse,  the  inward 
uneasiness  and  self -contempt  which  belong  to  it. 

«  Democritus  appears  to  have  been  the  first  who  gave  dear 
utterance  to  this  doctrine,  maintaining  that  EvBvfjJa  was 
the  proper  End  of  human  actions,  and  sharply  distinguiBhing 
it  from  the  'Uboyij'  proposed  as  such  by  Aristippus.  The 
claims  of  a  '  mens  eonscia  recti '  to  be  the  '  Summnm 
Bonum,'  occupied,  as  is  well  known,  a  large  portion  of 
the  subsequent  disputes  of  the  Epicureans,  Cynics, 
Stoics  and  Academics,  and  were  eagerly  argued  by 
Cicero,  and  even  down  to  the  time  of  Boethius.  Many  of 
these  sects,  however,  and  in  particular  the  Stoics,  though 
maintaining  that  Virtue  alone  is  sufiident  for  Happiness 
(that  is,  that  the  inward  joy  of  Virtue  is  enough  to 
constitute  Happiness  in  the  midst  of  torments),  yet  by  no 
means  set  forth  that  Happiness  as  the  sole  motwe  of  Virtue. 
They  held,  on  the  contrary,  the  noblest  ideas  of  'living 
according  to  Nature,'  that  is,  as  Chrysippus  explained  it, 
according  to  the  *  Nature  of  the  universe,  the  common 
Law  of  all,  which  is  the  right  reason  spread  everywhere, 
the  same  by  which  Jupiter  governs  the  world ' ;  and  that 
both  Virtue  and  Happiness  consisted  in  so  regulating  our 
actions  that  they  should    produce   harmony   between    the 


128  CHAPTER  V. 

Spirit  in  each  of  us,  and  the  Will  of  Him  who  rales  the 
univene.  There  is  little  or  no  trace  of  Enthumism  in  the 
Jewish  or  Christian  Scriptures,  or  (to  my  knowledge)  in 
the  sacred  books  of  the  Brahmins,  Buddhists,  or  Parsees. 
The  ethical  problems  argued  by  the  mediseval  Schoolmen  do 
not,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  embrace  the  subject  in  question. 
The  doctrine  was  revived,  however,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  besides  blending  with  more  or  less  distinctness 
wiih  the  views  of  a  vast  number  of  lesser  moralists, 
it  reckons  among  its  professed  adherents  no  less  names  than 
Henry  More  and  Bishop  Cumberland.  Euthumism,  philo- 
sophically considered,  will  be  found  to  affix  itself  most 
properly  on  the  doctrine  of  the  '  Moral  Sense  *  laid  down 
by  Shaftesbury  as  the  origin  of  our  knowledge  of  moral 
distinctions,  which,  if  it  were,  it  would  naturally  follow  that 
it  must  afford  also  the  right  motive  of  Virtue.  Hutcheson, 
also,  still  more  distinctly  stated  that  this  Moral  Pleasure  in 
Virtue  (which  both  he  and  Shaftesbury  likened  to  the 
sBsthetic  Pleasure  in  Beauty)  was  the  true  ground  of  our 
choice.  To  this  Balguy  replied,  that  *  to  make  the  rectitude 
of  moral  actions  depend  upon  instinct,  and,  in  proportion 
to  the  warmth  and  strength  of  the  Moral  Sense,  rise  and 
fall  like  spirits  in  a  thermometer,  is  depreciating  the  most 
sacred  thing  in  the  world,  and  almost  exposing  it  to  ridicule.' 
And  Whewell  has  shown  that  the  doctrine  of  the  Moral 
Sense  as  the  foundation  of  Morals  must  always  fail, 
whether  understood  as  meaning  a  sense  like  that  of  Beauty 
(which  may  or  may  not  be  merely  a  modification  of  the 
Agreeable),  or  a  sense  like  those  of  Touch  or  Taste 
(which  no  one  can  fairly  maintain  that  any  of  our 
moral  perceptions  really  resemble). 

''  But  though  neither  the  trae  source  of  our  Knowledge  of 
Moral  Distinctions  nor  yet  the  right  Motive  why  we  are  to 
choose  the  Good,  this  Moral  Sense  of  Pleasure  in  Virtue, 
and  Pain  in  Vice,  is  a  psychological  fact  demanding  the 
investigation  of  the  Moralist.  Moreover,  the  error  of 
allowing  our  moral  choice  to  be  decided  by  a  regard  to  the 
pure  joy  of  Virtue  or  awful  pangs  of  self-condemnation,  is 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  127 

an  error  bo  venial  in  comparison  of  other  moral  heresies, 
and  so  easily  to  be  oonfonnded  with  a  tnier  prinoiple  of 
Morak,  that  it  is  particularly  necessary  to  ivam  generous 
natures  against  it.  *  It  ia  quite  beyond  the  grasp  of  human 
thought,'  says  Kant,  'to  explain  how  reason  can  be 
practical ;  how  the  mere  Morality  of  the  hiw,  independently 
of  every  object  man  can  be  interested  in,  can  itself  beget 
an  interest  which  is  purely  Ethical ;  how  a  naked  thought, 
containing  in  it  nothing  of  the  sensory,  can  bring  forth  an 
emotion  of  pleasure  or  pain/ 

*'  Unconsciously  this  Sense  of  Pleasure  in  a  Yirtuoua  Act, 
the  thought  of  the  peace  of  conscience  which  will  follow  it, 
or  the  dread  of  remorse  for  its  neglect,  muat  mingle  with 
our  motivea.  But  we  can  never  be  permitted,  consciously 
to  exhibit  them  to  ourselves  as  the  ground  of  our  resolution 
to  obey  the  Law.  That  Law  ia  not  valid  for  man  because 
it  interests  him,  but  it  interests  him  because  it  has  validity 
for  him — because  it  springs  from  his  true  being,  his  proper 
sell  The  interest  he  feels  is  an  EfEect,  not  a  Cause ;  a 
Contingency,  not  a  Necessity.  Were  he  to  obey  the  Law 
merely  from  this  Literest,  it  would  not  be  free  Self -legisla- 
tion (autonomy),  but  (heteronomy)  subservience  of  the  Pure 
Will  to  a  lower  faculty— a  Sense  of  Pleasure.  And,  practi- 
cally,  we  may  perceive  that  all  manner  of  mischiefs  and 
absurdities  must  arise  if  a  man  set  forth  Moral  Pleasure  as 
the  determinator  of  his  Will 

'*  Thus,  the  maxim  of  Euthumism,  '  Be  virtuovsfor  ike  sake 
of  the  Moral  Pleasure  of  Virtue*  may  be  pronounced  false. 

"  2nd.  Public  Eudaimonism  sets  forth,  both  as  the  ground 
of  our  knowledge  of  Virtue  and  the  motive  for  our  practice 
of  it,  ^The  Oreatest  Happiness  of  the  Cheatest  NwmberJ' 
This  Happiness,  as  Paley  understood  it,  is  composed  of 
Pleasures  to  be  estimated  only  by  their  Intensity  and 
Duration;  or,  as  Beniham  added,  by  their  Certainty, 
Propinquity,  Fecundity,  and  Purity  (or  freedom  from 
admixture  of  evil). 

*^  Let  it  be  granted  for  argument's  sake,  that  the  calculable 
Happiness    resulting    from    actions    can    determine   their 


123  CHAPTER   V. 

Yirtne  (although  all  ezperienoe  teaches  that  resulting 
Happiness  is  not  calculable,  and  that  the  Virtue  must  at 
least  be  one  of  the  items  determining  the  resulting 
Happiness).  On  the  Utilitarian's  own  assumption,  what  sort 
of  motive  for  Virtue  can  be  his  end  of  '  The  Crreatett 
Happitiesi  of  (he  Greatest  Number  t ' 

^'  No  sooner  had  Paley  laid  down  the  grand  principle  of  hie 
system,  ^Whcttever  w  Expedient  is  Right,^  than  he  proceeds 
(as  he  thinks)  to  guard  against  its  malapplication  by 
arguing  that  nothing  is  expedient  which  produces,  along 
with  particular  good  consequences,  general  bad  ones,  and 
that  this  is  done  by  the  viohition  of  any  general  rule.  '  Ton 
cannot/  says  he,  '  permit  one  action;  and  forbid  another 
without  showing  a  difference  between  them.  Oonseqnently 
the  same  sort  of  actions  must  be  generally  permitted  or 
generally  forbidden.  Where  therefore,  the  general  per- 
mission of  them  would  be  pernicious,  it  becomes  necessary 
to  lay  down  and  support  the  rule  which  generally  forbids 
them.' 

'*Now,  let  the  number  of  experienced  consequences  of 
actions  be  ever  so  great,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
Inductions  we  draw  therefrom  can,  at  the  utmost,  be  only 
provisional,  and  subject  to  revision  should  new  &cts  be 
brought  in  to  bear  in  an  opposite  scale.    .    .    . 

*<  Further,  the  rules  induced  by  experience  must  be  not 
only  provisional,  but  partial.  The  lax  term  'general' 
misleads  us.  A  Moral  Bule  must  be  either  univeral  and 
open  to  no  exception,  or,  properly  speaking,  no  nde  at  all. 
Each  case  of  Morals  stands  alone. 

''Thus,  the  Experimentalist's  oondusion,  for  example, 
that  'Lying  does  more  harm  than  good,'  may  be  quite 
remodelled  by  the  fortunate  discovery  of  so  prudent  a  kind 
of  falsification  as  shall  obviate  the  mischief  and  leave  the 
advantage.  No  doubt  can  remain  on  the  mind  of  any 
student  of  Paley,  that  this  would  have  been  his  own  line  of 
aigument :  '  If  we  can  only  prove  that  a  lie  be  expedient, 
then  it  becomes  a  duty  to  lie.'  As  he  says  himself  of  the 
rule  (which  if  any  rule  may  do  so  may  surely  claim  to  be 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  129 

general)  'Do  not  do  evil  that  good  may  come,'  that  it  is 

*  salutary,  for  the  most  part,  the  advantage  seldom  com- 
pensating for  the  violation  of  the  role.'  So  to  do  evil  is 
sometimes  salntary^  and  does  now  and  then  compensate  for 
disregarding  even  the  Endaimonist'a  last  resource — a 
General  Bule! 

"  2nd.  Private  Eudaimonism.  There  are  several  formulas, 
in  which  this  system,  (the  lowest,  but  the  most  logical,  of 
Moral  heresies)  is  embodied.     Rutherford   puts  it   thus: 

*  Every  illan's  Happiness  is  the  ultimate  end  which  Beason 
teaches  him  to  pursue,  and  the  constant  and  uniform 
practice  of  Virtue  towards  all  mankind  becomes  our  duty, 
when  Bevelation  has  informed  us  that  God  will  make  us 
finally  happy  in  a  life  after  this.'  Paley  (who  properly 
belongs  to  this  school,  but  endeavours  frequently  to  seat 
himself  on  the  comers  of  the  stools  of  Euthumism  and 
Public  Eudaimonism),  Paley,  the  standard  Moralist  of 
England,*  defines  Virtue  thus :  *  Virtue  is  the  doing  good  to 
mankind  in  obedience  to  the  will  of  God,  and  for  the  sake  of 
Ev^kuiing  Happiness,  According  to  which  definition,  the 
good  of  mankind  ia  the  subject ;  the  will  of  God  the  rule  ; 
and  Everlasting  Happiness  the  motive  of  Virtue.' 

<*Yet  it  seems  to  me,  that  if  there  be  any  one  truth 
which  intuition  does  teach  us  more  clearly  than  another, 
it  is  precisely  this  one — that  Virtue  to  be  Virtue  must  be 
disinterested.  The  moment  we  picture  any  species  of 
reward  becoming  the  bait  of  our  Morality,  that  moment  we 
see  the  holy  fiame  of  Virtue  annihilated  in  the  noxious  gas. 
A  man  is  not  Virtuous  at  all  who  is  honest  because  it  is 
'good  policy,'  beneficent  from  love  of  approbation,  pious 
for  the  sake  of  heaven.  All  this  is  prudence  not  virtue, 
selfishness  not  self-sacrifice.  If  he  be  honest  for  sake  of 
policy,  would  he  be  dishonest,  if  it  could  be  proved  that  it 
were  more  politic  ?  If  he  would  not,  then  he  is  not  really 
honest  from  policy  but  from  some  deeper  principle  thrust 

*  I  am  thankful  to  believe  that  he  would  be  no  longer  accorded 
such  a  rank  in  1890  as  in  1860 1 

VOL.  !•  I 


I 


130  CHAPTER   V. 

into  the  background  of  his  congciousnesB.  If  he  vxmld^ 
then  it  is  idlest  mockery  to  call  that  honesty  Virtaoas 
which  only  waits  a  bribe  to  become  dishonest 

"  But  tiiere  are  many  Eudaimonists  who  will  be  ready  to 
acknowledge  that  a  prudent  postponement  of  our  happiness 
in  Mia  world  cannot  constitute  virtue.  But  wherefore  do 
they  say  we  are  to  postpone  it  ?  Not  for  present  pleasure 
or  pain,  that  would  be  base ;  but  for  that  anticipation  of 
future  pleasure  or  pain  which  we  call  Hope  and  Fear.  And 
this,  not  for  the  Hope  and  Fear  of  this  world,  which  are 
still  admitted  to  be  base  motives ;  but  for  Hope  and  Fear 
extended  one  step  beyond  the  tomb — the  Hope  of  Heaven 
and  the  Fear  of  Hell.' 

After  a  general  glance  at  the  doctrine  of  Future  Howards 
and  Ponishmentfi  as  held  by  Christians  and  heathens,  I  go 
on  to  argue : 

^  But  in  truth  this  doctrine  of  the  Hope  of  Heaven  being 
the  true  Motive  of  Virtue  is  (at  least  in  theory)  just  as 
destructive  of  Virtue  as  that  which  makes  the  rewards  of 
this  life — ^health,  wealth,  or  reputation — the  motive  of  it. 
Well  says  brave  Kingsley  : 

*  Is  selfishness  for  time  a  sin, 
Stretched  out  into  eternity  celcsstial  prudence  f 

**  If  to  act  for  a  small  reward  cannot  be  virtuous,  to  act 
for  a  large  one  can  certainly  merit  no  more.  To  be  bribed 
by  a  guinea  is  surely  no  better  than  to  be  bribed  by  a 
penny.  To  be  deterred  from  ruin  by  fear  of  transportation 
for  life,  is  no  more  noble  than  to  be  deterred  by  fear  of 
twenty-four  hours  in  prison.  There  u  no  use  multiplying 
iUustrations.  He  who  can  think  that  Virtue  is  the  doing  right 
for  pay,  may  think  himself  very  judicious  to  leave  his  pay 
in  the  savings-bank  now  and  come  into  a  fortune  all  at 
once  by  and  by  ;  but  he  who  thinks  that  Virtue  is  the  doing 
right  for  Bight's  own  sake,  cannot  possibly  draw  a  distinction 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  131 

between  small  bribes  and  large  ones ;  a  reward  to  be  given 
to-day,  and  a  reward  to  be  given  in  eternity. 

'^  Nevertheless  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  belief  in 
immortal  progress  is  of  incalonlable  valne.  Snch  belief, 
and  that  in  an  ever-present  God,  may  be  called  the  two 
wings  of  human  Yirtne.  I  look  on  the  advantages  of  a  &ith 
in  immortality  to  be  two-fold.  First,  it  cuts  the  knot  of  the 
world,  and  gives  to  our  apprehension  a  God  whose  providence 
need  no  longer  perplex  us,  and  whose  immeasurable  and 
never-ending  goodness  shines  ever  brighter  before  our 
contemplating  souls.  Secondly,  it  gives  an  importance  to 
personal  progress  which  we  can  hardly  attribute  to  it  so 
long  as  we  deem  it  is  to  be  arrested  for  ever  by  death.  The 
man  who  does  not  believe  in  Immortality  may  be,  and  often 
actually  is,  more  virtuous  than  his  neighbour ;  and  it  is 
quite  certain  that  his  Yirtue  is  of  far  purer  character  than 
that  which  bargains  for  Heaven  as  its  pay.  But  his  task  is 
a  very  hard  one,  a  task  without  a  result ;  and  his  road  a 
dreary  one,  unenlightened  even  by  the  distant  dawn  of 

'That  great  world  of  light  which  lies 
Behind  all  hxmian  destinies.' 

We  can  scarcely  do  him  better  service  than  by  leading  him 
to  trust  that  intuition  of  Immortality  which  is  written  in 
the  heart  of  the  human  race  by  that  Hand  which  writes  no 
falsehoods. 

''But  if  the  attainment  of  Heaven  be  no  true  motive  for 
the  pursuit  of  Virtue,  surely  I  may  be  held  excused  from 
denouncing  that  practice  of  holding  out  the  fear  of  Hell 
wherewith  many  fill  up  the  measure  of  moral  degradation  ? 
Here  it  is  vain  to  suppose  that  the  fear  is  that  of  the 
immortality  of  sin  and  banishment  from  God ;  as  we  are 
sometimes  told  the  hope  of  Heaven  is  that  of  an  immor- 
tality of  Yirtue  and  union  with  Him.  The  mind  which 
sinks  to  the  debasement  of  any  Fear  is  already  below  the 
level  at  which  sin  and  estrangement  are  terrors.  It  is 
his  weakness  of  will  which  alone  hinders  the  Prodigal  from 
saying,  'I  wiU  arise  and  go  to  my  Father,'  and  unless  we 


132  CHAPTER   F. 

can  strengthen  that  Will  by  some  diiferent  motive,  it  is  idle 
to  threaten  him  with  its  own  persistence. 


<*Betaming  from  the  contemplation  of  the  lowness  of 
aim  common  to  all  the  forma  of  Eudaimonism,  how 
magnificent  seems  the  grand  and  holy  doctrine  of  true 
Intoitiye  Morality?  Do  Bight  fob  the  Right's  own 
SAKE  :  Love  God  and  Goodness  because  they  are  Good ! 
The  soul  seems  to  awake  from  death  at  sq<^  archangeFs 
caU  as  this,  and  mortal  man  puts  on  his  rightful  immortality. 
The  prodigal  grovels  no  longer,  seeking  for  Happiness  amid 
the  husks  of  pleasure  ;  but,  '  coming  to  himself,'  he  arises 
and  goes  to  his  Father,  heedless  if  it  be  but  as  the  lowest 
of  His  servants  he  may  yet  dwell  beneath  that  Father's 
smile.  Hope  and  fear  for  this  life  or  the  next,  mercenary 
bargainings,  and  labour  of  eye-service,  all  are  at  end.  He  is 
a  Free-man,  and  free  shall  be  the  oblation  of  his  soul  and 
body,  the  reasonable,  holy,  and  acceptable  sacrifice. 

"  O  Living  Soul !  wilt  thou  follow  that  mighty  hand, 
and  obey  that  summons  of  the  trumpet  ?  Perchance 
thou  hast  reached  life's  solenm  noon,  and  with  the 
bright  hues  of  thy  morning  have  faded  away  the 
beautiful  aspirations  of  thy  youth.  Doubtless  thou  hast 
often  struggled  for  the  Bight;  but,  weary  with  frequent 
overthrows,  thou  criest,  'This  also  is  vanity.'  But  think 
again,  O  Soul,  whose  sun  shall  never  set!  Have  no  poor 
and  selfish  ambitions  mingled  with  those  struggles  and  made 
them  vanity?  Have  no  theologic  dogmas  from  which  thy 
maturer  reason  revolts,  been  blended  with  thy  purer 
principle?  Hast  thou  nourished  no  extravagant  hope  of 
becoming  suddenly  sinless,  or  of  heaping  up  with  an  hour's 
labour  a  mountain  of  benefits  on  thy  race?  Surely  some 
mistake  like  these  lies  at  the  root  of  all  moral  discourage- 
ment.   But  mark : — 

''Pure  morals  forbid  all  base  and  selfish  motives — all 
happiness-seeking,  fame-seeking,  love-«eeking — ^in  this  world 
or  ti&e  next,  as  motives  of  Virtue.    Pore  Morals  rest  not  on 


MY  FIRST  BOOK.  133 

any  traditional  dogma,  not  on  history,  on  philology,  on 
critioiBin,  but  on  those  intuitions,  dear  as  the  axioms  of 
geometry,  which  thine  own  sonl  finds  in  its  depths,  and 
knows  to  be  necessary  tmths,  which,  short  of  madness,  it 
cannot  disbelieve. 

'*  Pure  Morals  ofEer  no  panacea  to  core  in  a  moment  all  the 
diseases  of  the  human  heart,  and  transform  the  sinner  into 
the  saint.  They  teach  that  the  passions,  which  are  the 
machinery  of  our  moral  life,  are  not  to  be  miraculously 
annihilated,  but  by  slow  and  unwearying  endeaTour  to  be 
brought  into  obedience  to  the  Holy  Will ;  while  to  faU  and 
rise  again  many  a  time  in  the  path  of  virtue  is  the  inevitable 
lot  of  every  pilgrim  therein.  .  •  .  Our  hearts  bum 
within  us  when  for  a  moment  the  vision  rises  before  our 
flight  of  what  we  might  make  our  life  even  here  upon  earth. 
Faintly  can  any  words  picture  that  vision  ! 

"  A  life  of  Benevolence,  in  which  every  word  of  our  lips, 
every  work  of  our  hands,  had  been  a  contribution  to  human 
virtue  or  human  happiness ;  a  life  in  which,  ever  wider  and 
warmer  through  its  three  score  years  and  ten  had  grown  our 
pure,  unwavering,  Godlike  Love,  till  we  had  spread  the 
same  philanthropy  through  a  thousand  hearts  ere  we  passed 
away  from  earth  to  love  yet  better  still  our  brethren  in 
the  sky. 

"  A  life  of  Personal  Virtue,  in  which  every  evil  disposition 
had  been  trampled  down,  every  noble  sentiment  called 
forth  and  strengthened ;  a  life  in  which,  leaving  day  by  day 
further  behind  us  the  pollutions  of  sin,  we  had  also  ascended 
daily  to  fresh  heights  of  purity,  till  self<sonquest,  un- 
ceasingly achieved,  became  continually  more  secure  and 
more  complete,  and  at  last — 

•  The  lordly  Will  o*er  its  subject  powers 
Like  a  tbronM  God  prevailed,* 

and  we  could  look  back  upon  the  great  task  of  earth,  and 
say, '  It  is  finished  ! ' 

"  A  life  of  Religion,  in  which  the  delight  in  God*s  presence, 
the  reverence  for  His  moral  attributes,  the  desire  to  obey 


134  CHAPTER  F. 

His  Will,  and  the  consoiousneBs  of  HIb  everlasting  love,  had 
grown  continually  clearer  and  stronger,  and  of  which 
Prayer,  deepest  and  intensest,  had  been  the  very  heart  and 
nucleus,  till  we  had  found  God  drawing  ever  nearer  to  as 
as  we  drew  near  to  him,  and  vouchsafing  to  us  a  com- 
munion the  bliss  of  which  no  human  speech  may  ever  tell ; 
the  dawning  of  that  day  of  adoration  which  shall  grow 
brighter  and  brighter  still  while  all  the  clusters  of  the  suns 
fade  out  and  die. 

''And  turning  from  our  own  destiny,  from  the  endless 
career  opened  to  our  Benevolence,  our  Personal  Virtue,  and 
our  Piety,  we  take  in  a  yet  broader  view,  and  behold  the 
whole  universe  of  God  mapped  out  in  one  stupendous  Plan 
of  Love.  In  the  abyss  of  the  past  eternity  we  see  the 
Greater  for  ever  designing  and  for  ever  accomplishing  the 
supremest  end  at  which  infinite  Justice  and  Goodneos  oould 
aim,  and  absolute  Wisdom  and  Power  bring  to  pass.  For 
this  end,  for  the  Virtue  of  all  finite  Intelligences,  we  behold 
Him  building  up  millions  of  starry  abodes  and  peopling 
them  with  immortal  spirits  clothed  in  the  garbs  of  fleah, 
and,  endowed  with  that  moral  freedom  whose  bestowal  was 
the  highest  boon  of  Omnipotence.  As  ages  of  millenniums 
roll  away,  we  see  a  double  progress  working  through  all 
the  realms  of  space  ;  a  progress  of  each  race  and  of  each 
individual.  Slowly  and  securely,  though  with  many  an 
apparent  retrogression,  does  each  world-family  become 
better,  wiser,  nobler,  happier.  Slowly  and  securely,  though 
with  many  a  grievous  backsliding,  each  living  soul  grows 
up  to  Virtue.  Nor  pauses  that  awful  march  for  a  moment, 
even  in  the  death  of  the  being  or  the  cataclysm  of  the 
world.  Over  all  Death  and  Change  reigns  that  Almighty 
changeless  will  which  has  decreed  the  holiness  and  happi- 
ness of  every  spirit  He  hath  made.  Through  the  gates  of 
the  grave,  and  on  the  ruins  of  worlds,  shall  those  spirits 
climb,  higher  and  yet  higher  through  the  infinite  ages, 
nearer  and  yet  nearer  to  Goodness  and  to  God*^ 


CHAFTiSB 
VI. 


IRELAND   IN   THE   F0BTIE3. 


THE  PEASANTRY. 


GHAFCBB  VL 
Ireland  in  the  Thirtibs  and  Forties* 

The  prominence  which  Irish  grievances  have  taken  of  late 
jears  in  English  politics  has  cansed  me  often  to  review  with 
fresh  eyes  the  state  of  the  country  as  it  existed  in  my 
childhood  and  yonth,  when,  of  coursoi  both  the  good  and  evil 
of  it  appeared  to  me  to  be  part  of  the  order  of  nature  itself. 

I  will  first  speak  of  the  condition  of  the  working  classeSi 
then  of  the  gentry  and  clergy. 

I  had  considerable  opportunities  for  many  years  of  hearing 
and  seeing  all  that  was  going  on  in  our  neighbourhood,  which 
was  in  the  district  known  as  '*  Fingal"  (the  White  Strangers' 
land),  having  been  once  the  territory  of  the  Danes.  Fingal 
eictends  along  the  sea-coast  between  Dublin  and  Drogheda, 
and  our  part  lay  exactly  between  Malahide  and  Rush.  My 
father,  and  at  a  later  time  my  eldest  brother,  were 
indefatigable  as  magistrates,  Poor-law  Gnardians  and  land- 
lords in  their  efforts  to  relieve  the  wants  and  improve  the 
condition  of  the  people ;  and  it  fell  on  me  naturally,  as  the 
only  active  woman  of  the  family,  to  play  the  part  of  Lady 
Bountiful  on  a  rather  large  scale.  There  was  my  father's 
own  small  village  of  Donabate  in  the  first  place,  claiming  my 
attention ;  and  beyond  it  a  larger  straggling  collection  of  mud 
cabins  named  "Balisk";  the  landlord  of  which.  Lord 
Tnmleston,  was  an  absentee,  and  the  village  a  centre  of 
fever  and  misery.  In  Donabate  there  was  never  any  real 
distress.  In  every  house  there  were  wage-earners  or 
pensioners  enough  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door.  Only 
when  sickness  came  was  there  need  for  extra  food,  wine,  and 


138  CHAPTER  VL 

so  on.  The  wages  of  a  field-labourer  were^  at  tliat  tune, 
about  8s.  a  week ;  of  course  without  keep.  His  diet  consisted 
of  oatmeal  porridge,  wheaten  griddle-bread,  potatoes  and 
abundance  of  buttermilk.  The  potatoes,  before  the  Famine, 
were  delicious  tubers.  Many  of  the  best  kinds  disappeared 
at  that  time  (notably  I  recall  the  **  Black  Bangers"),  and 
the  Irish  housewife  cooked  them  in  a  manner  which  no 
English  or  French  Cardan  Bleu  can  approach.  I  remember 
constantly  seeing  little  girls  bringing  the  mid-day  dinners 
to  their  fathers,  who  sat  in  summer  under  the  trees,  and  in 
winter  in  a  comfortable  room  in  our  stable-yard,  with  fire  and 
tables  and  chairs.  The  cloth  which  carried  the  dinner  being 
removed  there  appeared  a  plate  of  ^  smiling  "  potatoes  (ie., 
with  cracked  and  peeling  skins)  and  in  the  midst  a  wdl  of 
about  a  sixth  of  a  pound  of  butter.  Along  with  the  plate  of 
potatoes  was  a  big  jug  of  milk,  and  a  hunch  of  griddle-bread. 
On  this  food  the  men  worked  in  summer  from  six  (or  earlier, 
if  mowing  was  to  be  done)  till  breakfast,  and  from  thence 
till  one  o'clock.  After  an  hour^s  dinner  the  great  bell  tolled 
again,  and  work  went  on  till  6.  In  winter  there  was  no 
cessation  of  work  from  8  a.m.  till  5  p.m.,  when  it  ended. 
Of  course  these  long  hours  of  labour  in  the  fields,  without 
the  modem  interruptions,  were  immensely  valuable  on  the 
farm.  I  do  not  think  I  err  in  saying  that  my  father  had 
thirty  per  cent,  more  profitable  labour  from  his  men  for  8s. 
a  week,  than  is  now  to  be  had  from  labourers  at  16s. ;  at  all 
events  where  I  live  here,  in  Wales.  It  is  fair  to  note  that 
beside  their  wages  my  father's  men,  and  also  the  old  women 
whose  daughters  (eight  in  number)  worked  in  the  shrubberies 
and  other  light  work  all  the  year  round,  were  allowed  each 
the  grazing  of  a  cow  on  his  pastures,  and  were  able  to  get 
coal  from  the  ships  he  chartered  every  winter  from  White- 
haven for  1 1&  a  ton,  drawn  to  the  village  by  his  horses.  At 
Ohristmas  an  ox  was  divided  among  them,  and  generally 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    139 

also  a  good  quantity  of  frieze  for  the  coats  of  the  men,  and 
for  the  capes  of  the  eight  "  Amazons.'' 

I  cannot  say  what  amount  of  genuine  loyalty  really  existed 
among  our  people  at  that  time.  Outwardly,  it  appeared 
they  were  happy  and  contented,  though,  in  talking  to  the  old 
people,  one  never  failed  to  hear  lamentations  for  the  '^  good 
old  times  "  of  the  past  generations.  In  those  times,  as  we 
knew  very  well,  nothing  like  the  care  we  gave  to  the  wants 
of  the  working  classes  was  so  much  as  dreamed  of  by  our 
forefathers.  But  they  kept  open  house,  where  all  comers 
were  welcome  to  eat  and  drink  in  the  servants'  hall  when 
they  came  up  on  any  pretext ;  and  this  kind  of  hospitality 
has  ever  been  a  supreme  merit  in  Celtic  eyes.  Some  readers 
will  remember  that  the  famous  chieftainess,  Ghnma  Uaile, 
invading  Howth  in  one  of  her  piratical  expeditions  in  the 
"spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth,"  found  the  gates  of  the 
ancient  castle  of  the  St.  Lawrences,  closed,  though  it  toaa 
dinner-Hme  /  Indignant  at  this  breach  of  decency,  Grana 
Uaile  kidnapped  the  heir  of  the  lordly  house  and  carried 
him  to  her  robbers'  fortress  in  Oonnaught,  whence  she  only 
released  him  in  subsequent  years  on  the  solemn  engagement 
of  the  Lords  of  Howth  always  to  dine  with  the  doors  of 
Howth  Oastle  wide  open.  I  believe  it  is  not  more  than  50 
years,  if  so  much,  since  this  practice  was  abolished. 

I  think  the  only  act  of  ''tyranny"  with  which  I  was 
charged  when  I  kept  my  father's  house,  and  which  provoked 
violent  recalcitration,  was  when  I  gave  orders  that  men 
coming  from  our  mountains  to  Newbridge  on  business  with 
'<  the  Master  "  should  be  served  with  largest  platef uls  of  meat 
and  jugs  of  beer,  but  should  not  be  left  in  the  servants'  hall 
en  t^e-tt-tite  with  whole  rounds  and  sirloins  of  beef,  of  which 
no  account  could  afterwards  be  obtained ! 

Of  course,  the  poor  labourer  in  Ireland  at  that  time  after 
the  failure  of  the  potatoes,  who  had  no  allowances,  and  had 


140  CH AFTER  VL 

many  young  children  unable  to  earn  anything  for  themselveB, 
was  cruelly  tightly  placed.  I  shall  copy  here  a  calculation 
which  I  took  down  in  a  note-book,  still  in  my  possession, 
after  sifting  enquiries  concerning  prices  at  our  village  shops, 
in,  or  about,  the  year  1845 : — 

Wheatmeal  costs  2s.  3d.  per  stone  of  14  lbs. 
Oatmeal  „     28. 4d.  „  „ 

India  meal     „     1&  8d.  „  „ 

14  lbs.  of  wheatmeal  makes  18  lbs.  of  griddle  bread« 
1  lb.  of  oatmeal  makes  3  lbs.  of  stirabout. 

A  man  will  require  4  lbs.  food  per  day ...  28  lbs.  per  week. 
A  woman         „       3  lbs.  „  ...     21  lbs.      „ 

Each  child  at  least  2  lbs.  „  ...     14  Iba       ^ 

A  family  of  3  will  therefore  require  63  lbs.  of  food  per 
week — 6,g,j 

1  stone     wheat — 18  lbs.  bread            .••         ..•     2     3 
1  stone  oatmeal — 42  lbs.  stirabout      2    4 


60  lbs.  food;  cost         4     7 


A  family  of  5  will  require — 
Man 

TT  UV  ...  ••.  •«• 

S  children     


Say  30  lbs.  bread— 23  lbs.  wheatmeal 
61  lbs.  stirabout — 20  lbs.  oatmeal 


•9X  XOob  f**  f^m  ».•  •»•  •••       '       M 


28  lbs. 

21  lbs. 

42  lbs. 

91  lbs.  food. 

8. 

d. 

«.•      o 

10 

...    3 

4 

IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    141 

Thus,  when  a  man  had  five  children  to  support,  and  no 
potatoes,  his  weekly  wages  scarcely  covered  bare  food. 

Before  the  Famine  and  the  great  fever,  the  population  of 
our  part  of  Ireland  was  exceedingly  dense ;  more  than  200 
to  the  square  mile.  There  were  an  enonnous  number  of  mud 
cabins  consisting  of  one  room  only,  run  up  at  every  comer 
of  the  roadside  and  generally  allowed  to  sink  into  miserable 
squat,  8oUi8hr\o(Skmg  hovels  with  no  drainage  at  all  j  mud 
floor ;  broken  thatch,  two  or  three  rough  boards  for  a  door ; 
and  the  four  panes  of  the  sole  window  stuffed  with  rags  or 
an  old  hat.  Just  500,000  of  these  one-roomed  cabins,  the 
Eegistrar-General,  Mr.  WilliamDonellyjtold  me,  disappeared 
between  the  census  before,  and  the  census  after  the  Famine  ! 
Nothing  was  easier  than  to  run  them  up.  Thatch  was  cheap, 
and  mud  abundant,  everywhere ;  and  as  to  the  beams  (they 
called  them  "  (oTnes"),  I  remember  a  man  addressing  my 
father  coaxingly,  ^'  Ah  yer  Honour  will  ye  plaze  spake  to  the 
steward  to  give  me  a  '*  hcmd^fvi  of  sprigs  f"  ''A  handful  of 
sprigs  f  What  for  ? "  asked  my  father ;  "  Why  for  the  roof  of 
me  new  little  house,  yer  Honour,  that  Fm  building  fomenst 
the  onld  wan ! " 

I  never  saw  in  an  Irish  cottage  any  of  the  fine  old  oak 
settles,  dressers  and  armchairs  and  coffers  to  be  found  usually 
in  Welsh  ones.  A  good  unpainted  deal  dresser  and  table, 
a  wooden  bedstead,  a  couple  of  wooden  chairs,  and  two  or 
three  straw  "  bosses"  (stools)  made  like  beehives,  completed 
the  furniture  of  a  well-to-do  cabin,  with  a  range  of  white  or 
willow-pattern  plates  on  the  dresser,  and  two  or  three  fright- 
fully coloured  woodcuts  pasted  on  the  walls  for  adornment. 
Flowers  in  the  gardens  or  against  the  walls  were  never  to  be 
seen.  Enormous  chimney  comers,  with  wooden  stools  or 
straw  ^'  bosses  "  under  the  projecting  walls,  were  the  most 
noticeable  feature.  Nothing  seems  to  be  more  absurd  and 
unhistorical  than  the  common  idea  that  the  Celt  is  a  beauty- 


142  CHAPTER   VL 

loving  creature,  aesthetically  far  above  the  Saxon.  If  he  be 
so,  it  is  surprising  that  his  home,  his  furniture,  his  dress,  his 
garden  never  show  the  smallest  token  of  his  taste  I  When 
the  young  girls  from  the  villages,  even  from  very  respectable 
families,  were  introduced  into  our  houses,  it  was  a  severe 
tax  on  the  housekeepers'  supervision  to  prevent  them  from 
resorting  to  the  most  outrageous  shifts  andjmisuse  of  utensils 
of  all  sorts.  I  can  recall,  for  example,  one  beautiful  young 
creature  with  the  lovely  Trish  grey  eyes  and  long  lashes, 
and  with  features  so  fine  that  we  privately  called  her 
"Madonna."  For  about  two  years  she  acted  as  house- 
maid to  my  second  brother,  who,  as  I  have  mentioned, 
had  taken  a  place  in  Donegal,  and  whose  excellent  London 
cook,  carefully  trained  "  Madonna "  into  what  were  (out- 
wardly) ways  of  pleasantness  for  her  master.  At  last,  and 
when  apparently  perfectly  "domesticated" — as  English 
advertisers  describe  themselves, — Madonna  married  the 
cowman ;  and  my  brother  took  pleasure  in  setting  up  the 
young  couple  in  a  particularly  neat  and  rather  lonely  cottage 
with  new  deal  furniture.  After  six  months  they  emigrated  ; 
and  when  my  brother  visited  their  deserted  house  he  found  it 
in  a  state  of  which  it  will  suffice  to  record  one  item.  The 
pig  had  slept  all  the  time  under  the  bedstead ;  and  no  attempt 
had  been  made  to  remove  the  resulting  heap  of  manure  t 

My  father  had  as  strong  a  sense  as  any  modem  sanitary 
reformer  of  the  importance  of  good  and  healthy  cottages ; 
and  having  found  his  estate  covered  with  mud  and  thatched 
cabins,  he  (and  my  brother  after  him)  laboured  incessantly, 
year  by  year,  to  replace  them  by  mortared  stone  and  slated 
cottages,  among  which  were  five  schoolhouses  supported 
by  himself.  As  it  was  my  frequent  duty  to  draw  for  him  the 
plans  and  elevations  of  these  cottages,  farmhouses  and  village 
shops,  with  calculations  of  the  cost  of  each,  it  may  be  guessed 
how  truly  absurd  it  seems  to  me  to  read  exclusively,  as  I  do 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    143 

so  often  now,  of  ^'tenants'  improvements"  in  Ireland. 
It  is  true  that  my  father  occasionally  let,  on  long 
leases  and  without  fines,  large  farms  (of  the  finest  wheat-land 
in  Ireland,  within  ten  miles  of  Dublin  market),  at  the  price 
of  £2  per  Irish  acre,  with  the  express  stipulation  that  the 
tenant  should  undertake  the  re-building  of  the  house  or  farm- 
buildings  as  the  case  might  be.  But  these  were,  of  course, 
perfectly  just  bargains,  made  with  well-to-do  farmers,  who 
made  excellent  profits.  I  have  already  narrated  in  an  earlier 
chapter,  how  he  sold  the  best  pictures  among  his  heirlooms — 
one  by  Hobbema  now  in  Dorchester  House  and  one  by 
Gaspar  Poussin, — to  rebuild  some  eighty  cottages  on  his 
mountains.  These  cottages  had  each  a  small  farm  attached 
to  it,  which  was  generally  held  at  will,  but  often  continued 
to  the  tenants'  family  for  generations.  The  rent  was,  in 
some  cases  I  think,  as  low  as  thirty  or  forty  shillings  a 
year ;  and  the  tenants  contrived  to  make  a  fair  living  with 
sheep  and  potatoes;  cutting  their  own  turf  on  the  bog, 
and  very  often  earning  a  good  deal  by  storing  ice  in  the 
winter  from  the  river  Dodder,  and  selling  it  in  Dublin  in 
summer.  I  remember  one  of  them  who  had  been  allowed 
to  fall  into  arrears  of  rent  to  the  extent  of  ^3,  which  he 
loudly  protested  he  could  not  pay,  coming  to  my  father  to 
ask  his  help  as  a  magistrate  to  recover  forty  potmds^  which 
an  ill-conditioned  member  of  his  family  had  stolen  from  him 
out  of  the  usual  Irish  private  hiding-place  *' under  the 
thatch." 

But  outside  my  father's  property,  when  we  passed  into  the 
next  villages  on  either  side.  Swords  or  Bush  or  Balisk,  the 
state  of  things  was  bad  enough.  I  will  give  a  detailed 
description  of  the  latter  village,  some  of  which  was  written 
when  the  memory  of  the  scene  and  people  was  less  remote, 
than  now.  It  is  the  most  complete  picture  of  Irish  poverty, 
fifty  years  ago,  which  I  can  offer. 


144  CHAPTER  VL 

Balisk  was  certainly  noi  the  **  loveliest  village  of  the  plaio." 
Situated  partly  on  the  edge  of  an  old  common,  partly  on 
the  skirts  of  the  domain  of  a  nobleman  who  had  not  visited 
his  estate  for  thirty  yearSi  it  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  of 
freedom  from  restraint  upon  the  architectual  genius  of  its 
builders.    The  result  was  a  long  crooked,  straggling  street, 
with  mud  cabins  turned  to  it,  and  from  it,  in  every  possible 
angle  of  incidence :  some  face  to  face,  some  back  to  back, 
some  sideways,  some  a  little  retired  so  as  to  admit  of  a 
larger  than  ordinary  heap  of  manure  between  the  door  and 
the  road.     Such  is  the  ground-plan  of  BaUsk.     The  cabins 
were  aU  of  mud,  with  mud  floors  and  thatched  roofs ;  some 
containing  one  room  only,  others  two,  and,  perhaps,  half-a- 
dozen,  three  rooms :  all,  very  literally,  on  the  ground ;  that 
is  on  the  bare  earth.    Furniture,  of  course,  was  of  the 
usual  Irish  description:  a  bed  (sometimes  having  a  bed- 
stead, of tener  consisting  of  a  heap  of  straw  on  the  floor), 
a  table,   a  griddle,   a  kettle,  a  stool  or  two  and  a  boss 
of  straw,  with  occasionally  a  grand  adjunct  of  a  settle ;  a 
window  whose  normal  condition  was  being  stuffed  with 
an  old  hat ;  a  door,  over  and  under  and  around  which  all 
the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven  found  their  way;  a  population 
consisting  of  six  small  children,  a  bedridden  grandmother,  a 
husband  and  wife,  a  cock  and  three  hens,  a  pig,  a  dog,  and  a 
cat.     Lastly,  a  decoration  of  coloured  prints,  including  the 
Virgin  with  seven  swords  in  her  heart,  St.  Joseph,  the  story 
of  Dives  and  Lazarus,  and  a  caricature  of  a  man  tossed  by  a 
bull,  and  a  fat  woman  getting  over  a  stile. 

Of  course  as  Balisk  lies  in  the  lowest  ground  in  the 
neighbourhood  and  the  drains  were  originally  planned  to  run 
at  '*  their  own  sweet  will,"  the  town  (as  its  inhabitants  call 
it)  is  subject  to  the  inconvenience  of  being  about  two  feet 
under  water  whenever  there  are  any  considerable  floods  of 
rain.    I  have  known  a  case  of  such  a  flood  ent^^ring  the  door 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    146 

and  rising  into  the  bed  of  a  poor  woman  in  childbirth,  as  in 
]klr.  Macdonald's  charming  story  of  Aleo  Forbes.  The 
woman,  whom  I  knew,  however,  did  not  die,  but  gave 
to  the  world  that  night  a  very  fine  little  child,  whom  I 
subsequently  saw  scampering  along  the  roads  with  true  Irish 
hilarity.  At  other  times,  when  there  were  no  floods,  only 
the  usual  rains,  Balisk  presented  the  spectacle  of  a  filthy 
green  stream  slowly  oozing  down  the  central  street, 
now  and  then  druning  off  under  the  door  of  any  par- 
ticularly lowly-placed  cabin  to  form .  a  pool  in  the  floor, 
and  finally  terminating  in  a  lake  of  stagnant  abomination 
under  the  viaduct  of  a  railway.  Yes,  reader !  a  railway  ran 
through  Balisk,  even  while  the  description  I  have  given  of  it 
held  true  in  every  respect.  The  only  result  it  seemed  to 
have  effected  in  the  village  was  the  formation  of  the  Stygian 
pool  above-mentioned,  where,  heretofore,  the  stream  had 
escaped  into  a  ditch. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  people  who  dwelt  amid  aU  this 
squalor.  They  were  mostly  field-labourers,  working  for  the 
usual  wages  of  seven  or  eight  shillings  a  week.  Many  of 
them  held  their  cabins  as  freeholds,  having  built  or  inherited 
them  from  those  who  had  **  squatted "  unmolested  on  the 
common,  A  few  paid  rent  to  the  noble  landlord  before- 
mentioned.  Work  was  seldom  wanting,  coals  were  cheap, 
excellent  schools  were  open  for  the  children  at  a  penny  a 
week  a  head.  Families  which  had  not  more  than  three  or 
four  mouths  to  fill  besides  the  breadwinners',  were  not  in 
absolute  want,  save  when  disease,  or  a  heavy  snow,  or  a 
flood,  or  some  similar  calamity  arrived.  Then,  down  on  the 
groxmd,  poor  souls,  literally  and  metaphorically,  they  could 
fall  no  lower,  and  a  week  was  enough  to  bring  them  to  the 
verge  of  starvation. 

Let  me  try  to  recall  some  of  the  characters  of  the 
inhabitants  of  BaUsk  in  the  Forties. 

VOL.  I  K 


146  OHAPTBE   Vt. 

Here  in  the  first  cabin  is  a  comfortable  fiunily  where  there 
are  three  sons  at  work,  and  mother  and  three  danghters  at 
home.  Enter  at  aaj  hoar  there  is  a  hearty  welcome  and 
bright  jest  ready.  Here  is  the  schoolmaster's  honse,  a  little 
behind  the  others,  and  back  to  back  with  them.  It  has  an 
attempt  at  a  cortain  for  the  window,  a  knocker  for  the  door. 
The  man  is  a  cnrioos  deformed  creature,  of  whom  more  will 
be  said  hereafter.  The  wife  is  what  is  called  in  Ireland  a 
"  Yoteen ; "  a  person  given  to  religion,  who  spends  most  of 
her  time  in  the  chapel  or  repeating  prayers,  and  who  wears 
as  much  semblance  of  black  as  her  poor  means  may  allow. 
Balisk,  be  it  said,  is  altogether  Catholic  and  devout.  It  is 
honoured  by  the  possession  of  what  is  called  "  The  Holy 
Griddle."  Perhaps  my  readers  have  heard  of  the  Holy 
Grail,  the  original  sacramental  chalice  so  long  sought 
by  the  chivalry  of  the  middle  ages,  and  may  ask  if  the 
Holy  Griddle  be  akm  thereto?  I  cannot  trace  any 
likeness.  A  "  griddle,"  as  all  the  Irish  and  Scotch 
world  knows,  is  a  circular  iron  plate,  on  which  the  common 
unleavened  cakes  of  wheatmeal  and  oatmeal  are  baked. 
The  Holy  Griddle  of  Balisk  was  one  of  these  utensils,  which 
was  bequeathed  to  the  village  under  the  following  circum« 
stances.  Years  ago,  probably  in  the  last  century,  a  poor, 
"  lone  widow  "  lay  on  her  death-bed.  She  had  none  to  pray 
for  her  after  she  was  gone,  for  she  was  childless  and  altogether 
desolate ;  neither  had  she  any  money  to  give  to  the  priest  to 
pray  for  her  soul.  Yet  the  terrors  of  purgatory  were  near. 
How  should  she  escape  them  ?  She  possessed  but  one  object 
of  any  value — a  griddle,  whereon  she  was  wont  to  bake  the 
meal  of  the  wheat  she  gleaned  every  harvest  to  help  her 
through  the  winter.  So  the  widow  left  her  griddle  as  a  legacy 
to  the  village  for  ever,  on  one  condition.  It  was  to  pass 
from  hand  to  hand  as  each  might  want  it,  but  every  one  who 
used  her  griddle  was  to  say  a  prayer  for  her  soul.    Years  had 


IRELAND  m  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    147 

passed  away,  bat  the  griddle  was  still  in  my  time  in  constant 
use,  as  ''  the  best  griddle  in  the  town."  The  oakes  baked  on 
the  Holy  Qriddle  were  twice  as  good  as  any  others.  May 
the  poor  widow  who  so  simply  bequeathed  it  have  foond  long 
ago  '^  rest  for  her  soul "  better  than  any  prayers  have  asked 
for  her,  even  the  fiAvourite  Irish  prayer,  ''May  yon  sit  in 
heaven  on  a  golden  chair  1 " 

Here  is  another  house,  where  an  old  man  lives  with  his 
sister.  The  old  woman  is  the  Mrs.  Cramp  of  Balisk.  Patrick 
Russell  has  a  curious  story  attached  to  him.  Having 
laboured  long  and  well  on  my  other's  estate,  the  latter 
finding  him  grow  rheumatic  and  helpless,  pensioned  him  with 
his  wages  for  life,  and  Faddy  retired  to  the  ezgoyment  of 
such  privacy  as  Balisk  might  afford.  Growing  more  and 
more  helpless,  he  at  last  for  some  years  hobbled  about  feebly 
on  crutches,  a  confirmed  cripple.  One  day,  with  amaze- 
ment, I  saw  him  walking  without  his  crutches,  and  tolerably 
firmly,  up  to  Newbridge  House.  My  fiather  went  to  speak  to 
him,  and  soon  returned,  siEbying :  ''  Here  is  a  strange  thing. 
Paddy  Bussell  says  he  has  been  to  Father  Mathew,  and 
Father  Mathew  has  blessed  him,  and  he  is  cured !  He  came 
to  tell  me  he  wished  to  give  up  his  pension,  since  he  returns 
to  work  at  Smith's  farm  next  week."  Very  naturally,  and 
as  might  be  expected,  poor  Faddy,  three  weeks  later,  was 
again  helpless,  and  a  suppliant  for  the  restoration  of  his 
pension,  which  was  of  course  immediately  renewed.  But 
one  who  had  witnessed  only  the  scene  of  the  long-known 
cripple  walking  up  stoutly  to  decline  his  pension  (the  very 
best  possible  proof  of  his  sincere  belief  in  his  own  recovery) 
might  well  be  excused  for  narrating  the  story  as  a  miracle 
wrought  by  a  true  moral  reformer,  the  Irish  "  Apostle  of 
Temperance." 

Next  door  to  Paddy  Bussell's  cabin  stood  '<  The  Shop,"  a 
cabin  a  trifle  better  than  the  rest,  where  butter,  flour,  and 


148  CHAPTER   VL 

dip  candles,  Ingy-male  (Indian  meal),  and  possibly  a  smaU 
quantity  of  soap,  were  the  chief  objects  of  commerce. 
Further  on  came  a  miserable  hovel  with  the  roof  broken  in, 
and  a  pool  of  filth,  en  permanence^  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
Here  dwelt  a  miserable  good-for-nothing  old  man  and  equally 
good-for-nothing  daughter ;  hopeless  recipients  of  anybody's 
bounty.  Opposite  them,  in  a  tidy  little  cabin,  always  as 
dean  as  white-wash  and  sweeping  could  make  its  poor  mud 
walls  and  earthen  floor,  lived  an  old  woman  and  her  daughter. 
The  daughter  was  deformed,  the  mother  a  beautiful  old 
woman,  bedridden,  but  always  perfectly  clean,  and  provided 
by  her  daughter's  hard  labour  in  the  fields  and  cockle- 
gathering  on  the  sea-shore,  with  all  she  could  need.  After 
years  of  devotion,  when  Mary  was  no  longer  young,  the 
mother  died,  and  the  daughter,  left  quite  alone  in  the  world, 
was  absolutely  broken-hearted.  Nigb^  after  night  she  strayed 
about  the  chapel-yard  where  her  mother  lay  buried,  hoping, 
as  she  told  me,  to  see  her  ghost. 

« And  do  you  think,"  she  asked,  fixing  her  eyes  on  me, 
''  do  you  think  I  shall  ever  see  her  again  ?     I  asked  Father 

M would  I  see  her  in  heaven  ?  and  all  he  said  was,  '  I 

should  see  her  in  the  glory  of  God.'  What  does  that  mean  ? 
I  don't  undjTstand  what  it  means.  Will  I  see  her  herself — 
my  poor  old  mother  ?  " 

After  long  years,  I  found  this  faithful  heart  still  yearning 
to  be  re-united  to  the  '^  poor  old  mother,"  and  patiently 
labouring  on  in  solitude,  waiting  till  God  should  call  her 
home  out  of  that  little  white  cabin  to  one  of  the  **  many 
mansions,"  where  her  mother  is  waiting  for  her. 

Here  is  a  house  where  there  are  many  sons  and  daughters 
and  some  sort  of  prosperity.  Here,  again,  is  a  house  with 
three  rooms  and  several  inmates,  and  in  one  room  lives  a 
strange,  tall  old  man,  with  something  of  dignity  in  his  aspect. 
He  asked  me  once  to  come  into  his  room,  and  showed  me  the 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  F0R1IE8.    149 

book  over  which  all  his  spare  hours  seemed  spent ;  "  Thomas  k 
Eempis." 

''  Ah,  yes,  that  is  a  great  book ;  a  book  fuU  of  beautiful 
things." 

"  Do  you  know  it  ?  do  Protestants  read  it  ?  " 
"Yes,  to  be  sure ;  we  read  aU  sorts  of  books." 
''  I'm  glad  of  it.     It's  a  comfort  to  me  to  think  you  read 
this  book." 

Here  again  is  an  old  woman  with  hair  as  white  as  snow, 
who  deliberately  informs  me  she  is  ninety-eight  years  of  age, 
and  next  time  I  see  her,  corrects  herself,  and  "  believes  it  is 
eighty-nine,  but  it  is  all  the  same,  she  disremembers  numbers." 
This  poor  old  soul  in  some  way  hurt  her  foot,  and  after  much 
suffering  was  obliged  to  have  half  of  it  amputated.  Strange 
to  say,  she  recovered,  but  when  I  congratulated  her  on  the 
happy  event,  I  shall  never  forget  the  outbreak  of  true  feminine 
sentiment  which  followed.  Stretching  out  the  poor  mutilated 
and  blackened  limb,  and  looking  at  it  with  woeful  compassion, 
she  exclaimed,  '^  Ah,  ma'am,  but  it  will  never  be  a  putty  foot 
again  I  "  Age,  squalor,  poverty,  and  even  mutilation,  had 
not  sufficed  to  quench  that  little  spark  of  vanity  which 
''  sprmgs  eternal  in  the  (female)  breast." 

Here,  again,  are  half-a-dozen  cabins,  each  occupied  by 
widows  with  one  or  more  daughters ;  eight  of  whom  form 
my  other's  pet  corps  of  Amazons,  always  kept  working  about 
the  shrubberies  and  pleasure-grounds,  or  haymaking  or  any 
light  fieldwork ;  houses  which,  though  poorest  of  all,  are  by 
no  means  the  most  dirty  or  uncared  for.  Of  course  there  are 
dozens  of  others  literally  overflowing  with  children,  children  in 
the  cradle,  children  on  the  floor,  children  on  the  threshold, 
children  on  the  "midden"  outside ;  rosy,  bright,  merry  children, 
who  thrive  with  the  smallest  possible  share  of  buttermilk  and 
stirabout,  are  utterly  innocent  of  shoes  and  stockings,  and 
learn  at  school  all  that  is  taught  to  them  at  least  half  as  fast 


150  CHAPTER   ri. 

again  as  a  tribe  of  litUe  Saxons.  Several  of  ihem  in  Balisk 
are  the  adopted  children  of  the  people  who  provide  for  them. 
First  sent  down  by  their  parents  (generally  domestic  servants) 
to  be  nursed  in  that  salabrions  spot,  after  a  year  or  two  it 
generally  happened  that  the  pay  ceased,  the  parent  was  not 
heard  of,  and  the  foster-mother  and  father  would  no  more 
have  thought  of  sending  the  child  to  the  Poor-house  than  of 
sending  it  to  the  moon.  The  Poor-house,  indeed,  occupied  a 
very  small  space  in  the  imagination  of  the  people  of  Balisk. 
It  was  beyond  Purgatory,  and  hardly  more  real.  Not  that 
the  actual  institution  was  conducted  on  other  than  the  very 
mildest  principles,  but  there  was  a  fearful  Ordeal  by  Water — 
in  the  shape  of  a  warm  bath — ^to  be  undergone  on  entrance ; 
there  were  large  rooms  with  glaring  windows,  admitting  a 
most  uncomfortable  degree  of  light,  and  never  shaded  by  any 
broken  hats  or  petticoats ;  there  were  also  stated  hours  and 
rules  thoroughly  disgusting  to  the  Celtic  mind,  and,  lastly, 
for  the  women,  there  were  caps  without  borders ! 

Yes  1  cruelty  had  gone  so  far  (masculine  guardians,  however 
compassionate,  little  recking  the  woe  they  caused),  till  at 
length  a  wail  arose — a  clamour — ^almost  a  Bebellion  t 
<<  Would  they  make  them  wear  caps  without  borders  ?  "  The 
stem  heart  of  manhood  relented,  and  answered  ''  No  1 " 

But  I  must  return  to  Balisk.  Does  any  one  ask,  was 
nothing  done  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  that  wretched 
place  ?  Certainly ;  at  all  events  there  was  much  attempted. 
Mrs.  Evans,  of  Portrane,  of  whom  I  shall  say  more  by  and 
by,  built  and  endowed  capital  schools  for  both  boys  and  girls, 
and  pensioned  some  of  the  poorest  of  the  old  people.  My 
farther  having  a  wholesome  horror  of  pauperising,  tried  hard 
at  more  complete  reforms,  by  giving  regular  employment  to 
as  many  as  possible,  and  aiding  all  efforts  to  improve  the 
houses.  Not  being  the  landlord  of  Balisk,  however,  he  could 
do  nothing  effectuallyi  nor  enforce  any  kind  of  sanitary 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    161 

measores ;  so  that  while  his  own  villages  were  neat,  trim 
and  healthy,  poor  Balisk  went  on  year  after  year  deserving 
the  epithet  it  bore  among  ns,  of  the  Slongh  of  Despond. 
The  fiulmres  of  endeavours  to  mend  it  would  form  a 
chapter  of  themselves.  On  one  occasion  my  eldest 
brother  undertook  the  tme  task  for  a  Hercules ;  to  draini 
not  the  stables  of  Angeas,  but  the  town  of  Balisk.  The 
result  was  that  his  main  drain  was  fomid  soon  afterwards 
effectoally  stopped  np  by  the  dam  of  an  old  beaver  bomiet. 
Again,  he  attempted  to  whitewash  the  entire  village,  bnt  many 
inhabitants  olrjected  to  whitewash.  Of  course  when  any  flood, 
or  snow,  or  storm  came  (and  what  wintry  month  did  they 
not  come  in  Ireland  ?)  I  went  to  see  the  state  of  affiurs  at 
Balisk,  and  provide  what  could  be  provided.  And  of  course 
when  anybody  was  bom,  or  married,  or  ill,  or  dead,  or  goiag 
to  America,  in  or  from  Balisk,  embassies  were  sent  to 
Newbridge  seeking  assistance ;  money  for  burial  or  passage ; 
wine,  meE^,  coals,  clothes ;  and  (strange  to  say),  in  cases 
of  death — always  jam  I  The  comieotion  between  dying  and 
wanting  raspberry  jam  remained  to  the  last  a  mystery,  but 
whatever  was  its  nature,  it  was  invariable.  "  Mary  Eeogh," 
or  "  Peter  Beilly,"  as  the  case  might  bci ''  isn't  expected,  and 
would  be  very  thankful  for  some  jam ; "  was  the  regular 
message.  Be  it  remarked  that  Irish  delicacy  has  suggested 
the  euphuism  of  "  isn't  expected  "  to  signify  that  a  person  is 
likely  to  die.  What  it  is  that  he  or  she  "  is  not  expected  " 
to  do,  is  never  mentioned.  When  the  supplicant  was 
not  supposed  to  be  personally  known  at  Newbridge,  or 
a  little  extra  persuasion  was  thought  needful  to  cover  tof 
frequent  demands,  it  was  commonly  urged  that  the  petitioner 
was  a  "  poor  orphant,"  commonly  aged  thirty  or  forty,  or 
else  a  "  desolate  widow."  The  word  desolate,  however,  being 
always  pronounced  <<  dissolute,"  the  epithet  proved  less 
affeeting  than  it  was  intended  to  be.    But  absurd  as  their 


162  CHAPTER  VI. 

words  might  sometimes  be  (and  sometimeSi  on  the  contrary, 
they  were  full  of  touching  pathos  and  simplicity),  the  wants 
of  the  poor  souls  were  only  too  real,  as  we  very  well  knew, 
and  it  was  not  often  that  a  petitioner  from  Balisk  to 
Newbridge  went  empty  away. 

But  such  help  was  only  of  temporary  avail.  The  Famine 
came  and  things  grew  worse.  In  poor  fiamilies,  that  is, 
families  where  there  was  only  one  man  to  earn  and  five  or  six 
mouths  to  feed,  the  best  wages  given  in  the  coxmtry  proved 
insufficient  to  buy  the  barest  provision  of  food ;  wheat- 
meal  for  ''griddle"  bread,  oatmeal  for  stirabout,  turnips 
to  make  up  for  the  lost  potatoes.  Strong  men  fainted 
at  their  work  in  the  fields,  having  left  untasted  for 
their  little  children  the  food  they  needed  so  sorely. 
Beggars  from  the  more  distressed  districts  (for  Balisk 
was  in  one  of  those  which  suffered  least  in  Ireland) 
swarmed  through  the  country,  and  rarely,  at  the  poorest 
cabin,  asked  in  vain  for  bread.  Often  and  often  have  I  seen 
the  master  or  mistress  of  some  wretched  hovel  bring  out  the 
**  griddle  cake,"  and  give  half  of  it  to  some  wanderer,  who 
answered  simply  with  a  blessing  and  passed  on.  Once  I 
remember  passing  by  the  house  of  a  poor  widow,  who  had 
seven  children  of  her  own,  and  as  if  that  were  not  enough, 
had  adopted  an  orphan  left  by  her  sister.  At  her  cabin  door 
one  day,  I  saw,  propped  up  against  her  knees,  a  miserable 
"  traveller,"  a  wanderer  from  what  a  native  of  Balisk  would 
call  <'  other  nations ;  a  bowzy  villiain  from  other  nations," 
that  is  to  say,  a  village  eight  or  ten  miles  away.  The 
traveller  lay  senseless,  starved  to  the  bone  and  utterly  famine- 
stricken.  The  widow  tried  tenderly  to  make  him  swallow  a 
spoonful  of  bread  and  water,  but  he  seemed  unable  to  make 
the  exertion.  A  few  drops  of  whiskey  by  and  by  restored  him 
to  conscioTisness.  The  poor  ''  bowzy  "  leaned  his  head  on 
his  hands  and  muttered  feebly,  *'  Glory  be  to  God  "  !     The 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    163 

widow  looked  up,  rejoioing,  ''  Glory  be  to  God,  he's  saved 
anyhow."  Of  oonrse  all  the  neighbonring  gentry  joined  in 
extensive  soap-kitchens  and  the  like,  and  by  one  means  or 
other  the  hard  years  of  Cunine  were  passed  over. 

^en  came  the  Fever,  in  many  ways  a  worse  scourge  than 
the  &mine.  Of  course  it  feU  heavily  on  such  ill-drained 
places  as  Balisk.  After  a  little  time,  as  each  patient  remained 
ill  for  many  weeks,  it  often  happened  that  three  or  four  were 
in  the  fever  in  the  same  cabin,  or  even  all  the  feunily  at  once, 
hnddled  in  the  two  or  three  beds,  and  with  only  snch  attend- 
ance  as  the  kindly  neighbours,  themselves  overbmrdened, 
could  snpply.  Soon  it  became  universally  known  that 
recovery  was  to  be  effected  only  by  improved  food  and  wine ; 
not  by  drags.  Those  whose  condition  was  already  good,  and 
who  caaght  the  fever,  invariably  died ;  those  who  were  in  a 
depressed  state,  if  they  coold  be  raised,  were  saved.  It 
became  precisely  a  qaestion  of  life  and  death  how  to  sapply 
noarishment  to  aU  the  sick.  As  the  fever  lasted  on  and  on, 
and  re-appeared  time  after  time,  the  work  was  difficult,  seeing 
that  no  stores  of  any  sort  could  ever  be  safely  intrusted  to 
Irish  prudence  and  frugality. 

Then  came  Smith  O'Brien's  rebellion.  The  country  was 
excited.  In  every  village  (Balisk  nowise  behindhand)  certain 
clubs  were  formed,  popularly  called  <'  Cutthroat  Clubs,"  for 
the  express  purpose  of  purchasing  pikes  and  organising  the 
expected  insurrection  in  combination  with  leaders  in  Dublin. 
Head-Centre  of  the  club  of  Balisk  was  the  ex-schoohnaster, 
of  whom  we  have  already  spoken.  How  he  obtained  that 
honour  I  know  not ;  possibly  because  he  could  write,  which 
most  probably  was  beyond  the  achievements  of  any  other 
member  of  the  institution ;  possibly  also  because  he  claimed 
to  be  the  lawM  owner  of  the  adjoining  estate  of  Newbridge. 
How  the  schoolmaster's  claim  was  proved  to  the  satisfiMtion 
of  himself  and  his  friends  is  a  secret  which,  if  revealed,  would 


154  CEAFTBH   VI. 

probably  afford  a  olae  to  much  of  Irish  ambition.  Nearly 
every  parish  in  Ireland  has  thus  its  lord  d$  /oeto,  who  dwells 
in  a  handsome  hoose  in  the  midst  of  a  park,  and  another  lord 
who  dwells  in  amad-eabin  in  the  village  and  is  folly  persuaded 
he  is  the  lord  de  jure.  In  the  endless  changes  of  ownership  and 
confisoation  to  which  Irish  land  has  been  snljeoted,  there  is 
always  some  heir  of  one  or  other  of  the  dispossessed  fiunilies, 
who,  if  nothing  had  happened  that  did  happen,  and  nobody 
had  been  bom  of  a  score  or  two  of  persons  who  somehow, 
nnfortonately,  were  aotoally  bom,  then  he  or  she  might, 
could,  would,  or  should  have  inherited  the  estate.  In  the 
present  ease  my  ancestor  had  purchased  the  estate  some  150 
years  before  from  another  English  fiEunily  who  had  held  it  for 
some  generations.  When  and  where  the  poor  Celtic  school- 
master's fiorefiKthars  had  come  upon  the  field  none  pretended 
to  know.  Amdons,  however,  to  calm  the  minds  of  his 
neighbours,  my  &ther  thought  fit  to  address  them  in  a 
paternal  manifesto,  posted  abont  the  diffiarent  villages, 
entreating  them  to  forbear  from  entering  the  "Ontthroat 
Olnbs,"  and  pointing  the  moral  of  the  recent  death  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Paris  at  the  barricades.  The  resnlt  of  this 
step  was  that  the  newspaper,  then  pnblished  in  Dublin  under 
the  audacious  name  of  The  Fdon^  devoted  half  a  column  to 
exposing  my  fiither  by  name  to  the  hatred  of  good  Clubbists, 
and  pointing  him  out  as  <<  one  of  the  very  first  for  whoso 
benefit  the  pikes  were  procured."  Boxes  of  pikes  were 
accordingly  actually  sent  by  the  railway  before  mentioned, 
and  duly  delivered  to  the  Club ;  and  still  the  threat 
of  rebellion  rose  higher,  till  even  calm  people  like  ourselves 
began  to  wonder  whether  it  were  a  volcano  on  which  we 
were  treading,  or  the  fimiiliar  mud  of  Balisk. 

Newbridge,  as  described  in  the  first  chapter  of  this  book, 
bore  some  testimony  to  the  troubles  of  the  last  century  when 
it  was  erected.    There  was  a  long  corridor  which  had  once 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.    165 

been  all  hung  with  weapons,  and  there  was  a  certain  board 
in  the  floor  of  on  inner  closet  which  conld  be  taken  np  when 
desirable,  and  beneath  which  appeared  a  large  receptacle 
wherein  the  aforesaid  weapons  were  stored  in  times  of  danger. 
Stories  of  '98  were  flEuniliar  to  as  from  infiancy.  There  was 
the  story  of  Le  Hunts  of  Wexford,  when  the  danghter  of  the 
family  dreamed  three  times  that  the  gnns  in  her  father's  hall 
were  all  broken  and,  on  inducing  Colonel  Le  Hunt  to  examine 
them,  the  dream  was  found  to  be  true  and  his  own  butler  the 
traitor.  Horrible  stories  were  there,  also,  of  burnings  and 
cardings  («.«.,  tearing  the  back  with  the  iron  comb  used  in 
carding  wool) ;  and  nursery  threats  of  rebels  coming  up  back 
stairs  on  recalcitrant  ''puckhawns"  (naughty  children — 
children  of  Puck),  insomuch  that  to  '<  play  at  rebellion  "  had 
been  our  natural  resource  as  children.  Bom  and  bred  in  this 
atmosphere,  it  seemed  like  a  bad  dream  come  true  that  there 
were  actual  pikes  imported  into  well-known  cabins,  and  that 
there  were  in  the  world  men  stupid  and  wicked  enough  to 
wish  to  apply  them  to  those  who  laboured  constantly  for  their 
benefit.  Yet  the  papers  teemed  with  stories  of  murders  of 
good  and  just  landlords ;  yet  threats  each  day  more  loud, 
came  with  every  post  of  what  Smith  O'Brien  and  his  friends 
would  do  if  they  but  succeeded  in  raising  the  peasantry,  alas ! 
all  too  ready  to  be  raised.  Looking  over  the  miserable  fiasco 
of  that  "  cabbage  garden "  rebellion  now,  it  seems  all  too 
ridiculous  to  have  ever  excited  the  least  alarm.  But  at  that 
time,  while  none  could  doubt  the  final  triumph  of  England,  it 
was  very  possible  to  doubt  whether  aid  could  be  given  by  the 
English  Government  before  every  species  of  violence  might 
be  committed  by  the  besotted  peasantry  at  our  gates. 

I  have  been  told  on  good  authority  that  Smith  O'Brien 
made  his  escape  from  the  police  in  the  ''habit'*  of  an 
Anglican  Sisterhood,  of  which  his  sister,  Hon.  Mrs.  MonseU, 
was  Superior. 


156  CHAPTER  17. 

A  little  incidont  whieh  occurred  at  the  moment  rather 
confirmed  the  idea  that  Baliak  was  transformed  for  the  nonce 
into  a  little  Hecla;  not  nnder  snow,  bnt  mnd.  I  was 
visiting  the  fever  patients,  and  was  detained  late  of  a 
summer's  evening  in  the  village.  So  many  were  ill,  there 
seemed  no  end  of  sick  to  be  supplied  with  food,  wine  and 
other  things  needed.  In  particular,  three  together  were  ill 
in  a  honse  already  mentioned,  where  there  were  several 
grown-np  sons,  and  the  people  were  somewhat  better  off 
than  nsoal,  thoogh  by  no  means  sufficiently  so  to  be  able  to 
procure  meat  or  similar  luxuries.  Here  I  lingered,  questioning 
and  prescribing,  till  at  about  nine  o'clock  my  visit  ended ; 
and  I  left  money  to  procure  some  of  the  things  required. 
Next  morning  my  father  addressed  me : — 

''  So  you  were  at  Balisk  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  kept  there." 

"  Tou  stayed  in  Tyrell's  house  till  nine  o'clock  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  how  do  you  know  ?  " 

<<You  gave  six  and  sixpence  to  the  mother  to  get 
provisions  ?  " 

"Yes;  how  do  you  know ? "  • 

<<  Well,  very  simply.  The  police  were  watching  the  door 
and  saw  you  through  it.  As  soon  as  you  were  gone  the 
Club  assembled  there.  They  were  waiting  for  your 
departure ;  and  the  money  you  gave  was  subscribed  to  buy 
pikes ;  of  course  to  pike  me ! " 

A  week  later,  the  bubble  burst  in  the  memorable  Cabbage- 
garden.  The  rebel  chiefe  were  leniently  dealt  with  by  the 
Government,  and  their  would-be  rebel  followers  fell  back  into 
all  the  old  ways  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  What  became 
of  the  pikes  no  one  knew.  Possibly  they  exist  in  Balisk 
still,  waiting  for  a  Home  Rule  Government  to  be  brought  forth. 
At  the  end  of  a  few  months  the  poor  schoolmaster,  claimant 
of  Newbridge,  died ;  and  as  I  stood  by  his  bedside  and  gave 


IRELAND  IN  THE  1BIRTIE8  AND  FORTIES.    157 

him  the  little  succour  possible,  the  poor  fellow  lifted  his  eyes 
fall  of  meaniikg,  and  said, ''  To  think  you  should  come  to  help 
me  now!"  It  was  the  last  reference  made  to  the  once- 
dreaded  rebellion. 

Afber  endless  efforts  my  brother  carried  his  point  and 
drained  the  whole  village — ^beaver  bonnets  notwithstanding. 
Whitewash  became  popular.  "Middens  *'  (as  the  Scotch  call 
them,  the  Irish  have  a  simpler  phrase)  were  placed  more 
frequently  behind  houses  than  in  front  of  them.  Costume 
underwent  some  vicissitudes,  among  which  the  introduction 
of  shoes  and  stockings,  among  even  the  juvenile  population, 
was  the  most  remarkable  feature ;  a  great  change  truly, 
since  I  can  remember  an  old  woman,  to  whom  my  youngest 
brother  had  given  a  pair,  complaining  that  she  had  caught 
cold  in  consequence  of  wearing,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
those  superfluous  garments. 

Many  were  drawn  into  the  stream  of  the  Exodus,  and  have 
left  the  country.  How  helpless  they  are  in  their  migrations, 
poor  souls !  was  proved  by  one  sad  story.  A  steady,  good 
young  woman,  whose  sister  had  settled  comfortably  in  New 
York,  resolved  to  go  out  to  join  her,  and  for  the  purpose  took 
her  passage  at  an  Emigration  Agency  office  in  Dublin. 
Coming  to  make  her  farewell  respects  at  Newbridge,  the 
following  conversation  ensued  between  her  and  myself: 

"  So,  Bessie,  you  are  going  to  America  ?  *' 

"  Yes,  ma*am,  to  join  Biddy  at  New  York.  She  wrote  for 
me  to  come,  and  sent  the  passage-money." 

''  That  is  very  good  of  her.  Of  course  you  have  taken 
your  passage  direct  to  New  York  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  ma'am.  The  agent  said  there  was  no  ship 
going  to  New  York,  but  one  to  some  place  close  by.  New- 
something-else*'' 

*'  New-something-else,  near  New  York ;  I  can*t  think  where 
that  eould  be.' 


158  OBAPTBR  VL 

**Ye8,  ma^am,  New — ^New — ^I  disremember  what  it  wafl, 
but  he  told  me  I  could  get  from  it  to  New  York 
immadiently." 

''  Ohy  Bessie,  it  wasn't  New  Orleans  ?  ** 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  that  was  it  1  New  Orleans^-New  Orleans, 
dose  to  New  York,  he  said." 

«  And  yon  have  paid  your  passage-money  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  mast  go  there  anyhow,  now." 

^  Oh,  Bessie,  Bessie,  why  would  yon  never  come  to  school 
and  learn  geography  ?  Yon  are  going  to  a  terrible  place,  flEir 
away  from  your  sister.  That  wick^ed  agent  has  cheated  yon 
horribly." 

The  poor  girl  went  to  New  Orleans,  and  there  died  of 
fever.  The  birds  of  passage  and  fish  which  pass  from  sea 
to  sea  seem  more  capable  of  knowing  what  they  are  about 
than  the  greater  number  of  the  emigrants  driven  by  scarcely 
less  blind  an  instinct.  Out  of  the  three  millions  who  are  said 
to  have  gone  since  the  famine  from  Ireland  to  America,  how 
many  must  there  have  been  who  had  no  more  knowledge 
than  poor  Bessie  Mahon  of  the  land  to  which  they  went  1 

Before  I  conclude  these  reminiscences  of  Irish  peasant  life 
in  the  Forties,  I  must  mention  an  important  feature  of  it — 
the  Priests.  Most  of  those  whom  I  saw  in  our  villages  were 
disagreeable-looking  men  with  the  coarse  mouth  and  jaw  of 
the  Irish  peasant  undisguised  by  the  beards  and  whiskers 
worn  by  their  lay  brethren ;  and  often  the  purple  and  bloated 
appearance  of  their  cheeks  suggested  too  abundant  diet  of 
bacon  and  whisky-punch.  They  worried  me  dreadfully  by 
clearing  out  all  the  Catholic  children  from  my  school  every 
now  and  then  on  the  pretence  of  withdrawing  them  from 
heretical  instruction,  though  nothing  was  further  from  the 
thoughts  or  wishes  of  any  of  us  than  proselytizing ;  nor  was 
a  single  charge  ever  formulated  against  our  teachers  of  saying 
a  word  to  the  children  against  their  religion.     What  the 


IRELAND  IN  THE  TBTRTtMB  AND  FORTIBB.    150 

priests  reaHy  wanted  was  to  obstraet  edaeation  itself  anil  too 
dose  and  fiiendly  interoonrse  with  Protestants*  For  several 
winters  I  nsed  to  walk  down  to  the  school  on  certain  evenings 
in  the  week  and  give  the  older  lads  and  lassies  lessons  in 
Geography  (with  two  huge  maps  of  the  world  which  I  made 
mjTself,  11  ft.  by  9  ft.  I)  and  the  first  steps  in  Astronomy  and 
history.  Several  times,  when  the  class  had  been  well  got 
together  and  began  to  be  interested,  the  priest  announced 
that  he  would  give  them  lessons  on  the  same  night,  and 
they  were  to  come  to  him  instead  of  to  me.  Of  conrse 
I  told  them  to  do  so,  and  that  I  was  very  glad  he  would 
take  the  trouble.  A  fortnight  or  so  later  however  I  always 
learnt  that  the  priest's  lessons  had  dropped  and  all  was  to 
be  recommenced. 

The  poor  woman  I  mentioned  above  as  so  devoted  to  her 
mother  went  to  service  with  one  of  the  priests  in  the 
neighbourhood  in  the  hope  that  she  would  receive  religions 
consolation  from  him.  Meeting  her  some  time  after  I 
expressed  my  hope  that  she  had  foundit.  ''  Ah, no  Ua'aml" 
she  answered  sorrowfolly,  "  He  never  spakes  to  me  unless 
about  the  bacon  or  the  like  of  that.  PriesU  does  be  dark ! " 
I  thought  the  phrase  wonderfully  significant. 

My  fiEdlier,  though  a  Protestant  of  the  Protestants  as  the 
reader  has  learned,  thought  it  right  to  send  regularly  every 
year  a  cheque  to  the  priest  of  Donabate  as  an  aid  to  his 
slender  resources ;  and  there  never  was  opevdy^  anything  but 
civility  between  the  successive  curh  and  ourselves.  We 
bowed  most  respectfully  to  each  other  on  the  roads,  but  I 
never  interchanged  a  word  with  any  of  them  save  once  when 
I  was  bui^  attending  a  poor  woman  in  Balisk  in  the  cramps 
of  cholera ;  the  disease  being  at  the  time  raging  through  the 
country.  With  the  help  of  the  good  souls  who  in  Ireland  are 
always  ready  for  any  charitable  deed,  I  was  applying  mustard 
poultices,  when  Father  M entered  the  cabin  (a  revolting 


160  OHAPTER    VI. 

lookmgmanhewaB,  whosexuNM  hadsomehow  been  froei-bitten), 
andtamed  meoat.  I  implored  him  to  defer,  or  atleaethaatea 
his  mmktrations ;  and  stood  ontaide  the  door  in  great 
impaiienoe  for  half  an  hour  while  I  knew  the  hapless  patient 
was  in  agony  and  peril  of  death,  inside.  At  last  the  priest 
came  oat, — and  when  I  hurried  back  to  the  bedside  I  fomid 
he  had  been  gumming  some  ''  Prayers  to  the  Holy  Virgin  " 
on  the  walL  Happily  we  were  not  too  late  with  our  mustard 
and  "  sperrits,"  and  the  woman  was  saved ;  whether  by  Father 
M and  the  ^gin  or  by  me  I  cannot  pretend  to  say. 

I  have  spoken  of  our  village  school  and  mxist  add  that  the 
boys  and  girls  who  attended  it  were  exceedingly  dever  and 
bright.  They  canght  np  ideas,  were  moved  by  heroic  or 
pathetic  stories  and  nnderstood  jokes  to  a  degree  quite 
unmatched  by  English  children  of  the  same  humble  class,  as 
I  found  later  when  I  taught  in  Miss  Carpenter's  Bagged 
Schools  at  Bristol.  The  ingenuity  with  which,  when  they 
came  to  a  difficult  word  in  reading,  they  substituted  another 
was  very  diverting.  One  boy  read  that  St.  John  had  a 
leathern  griddle  about  his  loins ;  and  a  young  man  with  a 
deep  manly  voice,  once  startled  me  by  announcing,  ''He  castetb 
out  divils  through, — ^through,  through, — Blazes^  Ihe  chief  of 
the  Divils  1 " 

In  I>rumcar  school  a  child,  elaborately  instructed  by  dear, 
good  Lady  Elizabeth  M'Glintock  concerning  Pharisees,  and 
then  examined: — ''What  was  the  sin  of  the  Pharisees?" 
replied  promptly  :  "  AHng  camdSf  my  lady  I " 

Alas,  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  the  erudition  of  my  little 
scholars,  if  quickly  obtained,  was  fiu:  from  durable.  Paying 
a  visit  to  my  old  home  ten  years  later  I  asked  my  crack 
scholar,  promoted  to  be  second  gardener  at  Newbridge, 
"Well,  Andrew,  how  much  do  you  remember  of  all  my 
lessons?'* 

**  Ah,  Ma'am,  then,  never  a  word  ! " 


IRELAND  IN  THE  THIRTIES  AND  FORTIES.     161 

''  0,  Andrew,  Andrew  1  And  have  yon  forgotten  all  about 
the  snny  the  moon  and  stars,  the  day  and  night,  and  the 
Seasons?'* 

"  0,  no,  Ma'am  1  I  do  remember  now,  and  yon  set  them 
on  the  school-room  table,  and  Mars  was  a  red  gooseberry,  and 
laiehiml'* 


VOL.   I* 


CHAPTER 

Yn. 


IBELAND   IN   THE   FORTIES. 


THE  QENTRT. 


CHAPTER  YIL 

Irbland  in  thb  Forties* 
ContmuecU 

I  NOW  inm  to  deseribey  as  my  memory  mfty  server  the  life 
of  the  Irish  gentry  in  the  Forties.  There  never  has  been 
much  of  a  middle  class,  imhappily,  in  the  oonntry,  usfid  there- 
fore in  speaking  of  the  gentry  I  shall  have  in  view  mostly 
the  landowners  and  their  fiunilies.  These,  with  few  and 
alwi^  much  noted  exceptions,  were  Protestants,  of  English 
descent  and  almost  ezclnsively  of  Saxon  blood ;  the  Anglo- 
Irish  fiunilies  however  long  settled  in  Ireland,  natnrally 
intermanTing  chiefly  with  each  other.  So  great  was,  in  my 
time,  the  difference  in  oatward  looks  between  the  two  races, 
that  I  have  often  remarked  that  I  conld  walk  down  SackviUe 
Street  and  point  to  each  passenger  '^ Protestant,"  "Catholic," 
'^  Protestant,"  "  Catholic  "  ;  and  scarcely  be  liable  to  make 
a  mistake. 

As  I  have  said,  my  memory  bridges  over  the  gulf  between 
a  very  typical  ancien  regime  household  and  the  present 
order  of  things,  and  I  may  be  able  to  mark  some  changes, 
not  nnworthy  of  registration.  Bat  it  most  be  understood 
that  I  make  no  attempt  to  describe  what  would  be 
precisely  called  Irish  society^  for  into  this,  I  never  really 
entered  at  all.  I  wearied  of  the  little  I  had  seen  of  it 
after  a  few  balls  and  drawing-rooms  in  Dublin  by  the 
time  I  was  eighteen  and  thenceforward  only  shared  in  home 
entertaixmients  and  dinners  among  neighbours  in  our  own 
county,  with  a  few  visits  to  relatives  at  greater  distance.  I 
believe  the  origin  of  my  great  boredom  in  Dublin  balls  (for  I 


laS  OHAPTBR    riL 

was  Tary  fond  of  danoing)  was  tlie  extraordinary  inanity  of 
the  men  whom  I  met.  The  larger  number  ware  officers  of 
Horse  Artillery  ^then  onder  the  eommand  of  my  nnde,  and  I 
used  to  pity  the  poor  youths,  thinking  that  they  daneed  with 
me  as  in  dufy  bound,  while  their  really  marvellous  silliness 
and  dulness  made  conversation  wearisome  in  the  extreme. 
Many  of  these  same  empty-headed  young  coxcombs  afterwards 
fought  like  Trojans  through  the  Orimean  War  and  came 
back, — transformed  into  heroes  I  I  remember  my  dentist 
telling  me,  much  to  the  same  purpose,  that  half  the  officers  in 
the  garrison  had  come  to  him  to  have  their  teeth  looked  after 
before  they  went  to  the  Crimea  and  had  behaved  abominably 
in  his  chair  of  torture,  groaning  and  moaning  and  occasionaUy 
vituperating  him  and  kicking  his  shins.  But  it  was  another 
story  when  some  of  those  very  men  charged  at  Balaklava  I 
We  are  not,  I  think,  yet  advanced  £eu:  enough  to  dispense 
altogether  with  the  stem  teaching  of  war,  or  the  virtues 
which  spring  out  of  the  dreadful  dust  of  the  battlefield. 

Railways  were  only  beginning  to  be  opened  in  1840,  and 
were  much  dreaded  by  landed  proprietors  through  whose 
lands  they  ran.  When  surveyors  came  to  plan  the  Dublin 
and  Drogheda  Railway  my  £Bither  and  our  neighbour  Mrs. 
Evans,  were  up  in  arms  and  our  fiebrmers  ready  to  throttle 
the  trespassers.  I  suggested  we  should  erect  a  Notice-board 
in  Donabate  with  this  inscription : — 

**  Survey  the  world  from  China  to  Pern ; 
Survey  not  here, — ^we'll  shoot  you  if  yoa  do." 

The  voyage  to  England,  which  most  of  us  undertook  at  least 
once  or  twice  a  year,  was  a  wretched  transit  in  miserable, 
ill-smelling  vessels.  From  Dublin  to  Bristol  (our  most 
convenient  route)  took  at  least  thirty  hours.  From  Holyhead 
to  London  was  a  two  days'  journey  by  coach.  On  one  of 
these  journeys,  having  to  stop  at  Bristol  for  two  nights,  I 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  167 

enjoyed  an  opportoziity  (enchanting  at  sixteen)  of  being 
Bwnng  in  a  basket  backward  and  forward  across  the  Avon, 
where  the  Sospension  Bridge  now  stands.  Preparations  for 
these  joomeys  of  ours  to  England  were  not  qnite  so  serious 
as  those  which  were  necessarily  made  for  our  consins  when 
they  went  out  to  India  and  were  obliged  for  five  or  six 
months  wholly  to  dispense  with  the  services  of  a  laundress. 
Stilly  onr  hardships  were  considerable,  and  youngsters  who 
were  going  to  school  or  college  were  made  up  like  little 
Micawbers  "  expecting  dirty  weather."  Elderly  ladies,  I 
remember,  usually  travelled  in  mourning  and  sometimes 
kept  their  little  corkscrew  curls  in  paper  under  their  bonnet 
caps  for  the  whole  journey ;  a  less  distressing  proceeding, 
however,  than  that  of  Lady  Gahir  thirty  years  earlier,  who 
oad  her  hair  dressed,  (powdered  and  on  a  cushion)  by  a 
fJEtmous  hairdresser  in  Bath,  and  came  over  to  exhibit  it  at 
St.  Patrick's  ball  in  Dublin  Castle,  having  passed  five  nights 
at  sea,  desperately  iU,  but  heroically  refusing  to  lie  down  and 
disarrange  the  magnificent  structure  on  her  aching  head. 

This  lady  by  the  way — of  whom  it  was  said  that  "  Lady 
Cahir  cares  for  no  man  " — ^had  had  a  droll  adventure  in 
her  youth,  which  my  mother,  who  knew  her  well  and  I  think 
was  her  schoolfellow,  recounted  to  me.  Before  she  married 
she  lived  with  her  mother,  a  rather  extravagant  widow,  who 
plunged  heavily  into  debt.  One  day  the  long-expected  bailifis 
came  to  arrest  her  and  were  announced  as  at  the  hall  door. 
Quick  as  lightning  Lady  Gahir  (then,  I  think,  Miss  Townsend) 
made  her  mother  exchange  dress  and  cap  with  her,  to  which  she 
added  the  old  lady's  wig  and  spectacles  and  then  sat  in  her 
armchair  knitting  sedulously,  with  the  blinds  drawn  down 
and  her  back  to  the  window.  The  mother  having  vanished, 
the  bailiff  was  shown  up,  and,  exhibiting  his  credentials, 
requested  the  lady  to  accompany  him  to  the  sponging  house. 
Of  course  there  was  a  long  palaver ;  but  at  last  the  captive 


168  CHAPTER    VII. 

consented  to  obey  and  merely  said,  <<  Well  I  I  will  go  if  yoa 
likdy  bat  I  warn  yoa  that  yoa  are  committing  a  great  mistake 
in  apprehending  me." 

''0,  01  We  all  know  aboat  that,  Ma'am !  Please  come 
along !    I  have  a  hackney  carriage  at  the  door." 

The  damsel,  well  wrapped  in  cloaks  and  farbelows  and  a 
great  bonnet  of  the  period,  went  qoietly  to  her  destination ; 
bat  when  the  time  came  for  closing  the  door  on  her  as  a 
prisoner,  she  jumped  ap,  threw  off  wig,  spectacles  and  old 
woman's  cap,  and  disclosed  the  blue  eyes,  golden  hair,  and 
radiant  yoong  beauty  for  which  she  was  long  afterwards 
renowned.  Meanwhile,  of  course,  her  mother  had  had 
abundance  of  time  to  clear  out  of  the  way  of  her  importunate 
creditors. 

Many  details  of  comforts  and  habits  in  those  days  were 
very  much  in  arrear  of  ours,  perhaps  about  equally  in  Ireland 
and  in  England.  It  is  droll  to  remember,  for  example,  as  I 
do  vividly,  seeing  in  my  childhood  the  housemaids  striving 
with  infinite  pains  and  great  loss  of  time  to  obtain  a  light 
with  steel  and  flint  and  a  tinder-box,  when  by  some  untoward 
accident  all  the  fires  in  the  house  (habitually  burning  all 
night)  had  been  extinguished. 

The  first  matchbox  I  saw  was  a  long  upright  red  one 
containing  a  bottle  of  phosphorus  and  a  few  matches  which 
were  lighted  by  insertion  in  the  bottle.  After  this  we  had 
Lucifers  which  nearly  choked  us  with  gas  ;  but  in  which  we 
gloried  as  among  the  greatest  discoveries  of  all  time. 
Seriously  I  believe  few  of  the  vaunted  triumphs  of  science 
have  contributed  so  much  as  these  easy  illuminators  of  our 
long  dark  Northern  nights  to  the  comfort  and  health  of 
mankind. 

Again  our  grandmothers  had  used  exquisite  China  basins 
with  round  long-necked  jugs  for  all  their  ablutions  and  we 
had  advanced  to  the  use  of  large  basins  and  footpans,  slipper 


IRELAND  m  THS  FORTIES.  IW 

baths  and  shower  baths,  when,  as  nearly  as  possible  m  1840, 
the  first  sponge  bath  was  bron^^t  to  Ireland.  I  was  paying 
a  visit  to  my  father's  cousin,  Lady  Elizabeth  McOlintoek,  at 
Dnunear  in  Go.  Louth,  when  she  exhibited  with  pride  to  me 
and  her  other  guests  the  novel  piece  of  bedroom  furniture. 
When  I  returned  home  and  described  it  my  mother  ordered 
a  supply  for  our  house,  and  we  were  wont  for  a  long  time  to 
enquire  of  each  other,  "how  we  ei^oyed  our  tubs?"  as  people 
are  now  supposed  to  ask :  "  Have  you  used  Pears'  soap  ?  '* 
I  believe  it  was  from  India  these  excellent  inventions  came. 

Many  other  differences  might  be  noted  between  the  habits 
of  those  days  and  of  ours.  Dinen  Ruua  were,  of  course, 
not  thought  of.  We  dined  at  six,  or  six-thirty,  at  latest; 
and  after  the  soup  and  fish,  all  the  first  course  was  placed  at 
once  on  the  table.  For  a  party,  for  example,  of  16  or  18, 
there  would  be  eight  dishes ;  joints,  fowls  and  entries.  It 
was  a  triumph  of  good  cookery,  but  really  achieved,  to  serve 
them  all  hot  at  once.  Tea,  made  with  an  urn,  was  a  regular 
meal  taken  in  the  drawing-room  about  nine  o'clock ;  never 
before  dinner.  The  modem  five  o'clock  tea  was  altogether 
unknown  in  the  Forties,  and  when  I  ventured  sometimes  to 
introduce  it  in  the  Fifties,  I  was  so  severely  reprehended  that 
I  used  to  hold  a  secret  symposium  for  specially  favoured 
guests  in  my  own  room  after  our  return  from  drives  or 
walks.  All  old  gentlemen  pronounced  five  o'clock  tea  an 
atrocious  and  disgraceful  practice. 

Another  considerable  difference  in  our  Uvea  was  caused  by 
the  scarcity  of  newspapers  and  periodicals.  I  can  remember 
when  the  Dublin  Evening  Maily — then  a  single  sheet, 
appearing  three  times  a  week  and  received  at  Newbridge 
on  the  day  after  publication, — ^was  our  only  source  of 
news.  I  do  not  think  any  one  of  our  neighbours  took 
the  Times  or  any  English  paper.  Of  magazines  we  had 
Blackwood  and  the  Quarterly,  but  illustrated  ones    were 


170  CHAPTER    VIL 

unknown.  There  was  a  tolerable  circulating  library  in  Dublin, 
to  which  I  subscribed  and  from  whence  I  obtained  a  good 
many  French  books ;  bat  the  literary  appetites  of  the  Irish 
gentry  generally  were  frngal  in  the  extreme  I 

The  real  differences,  however,  between  Life  in  1840  and  Life 
in  1890  were  much  deeper  than  any  record  of  these  altered 
manners,  or  even  any  references  to  the  great  changes  caused 
by  steam  and  the  telegraph,  can  convey.  There  were  certain 
principles  which  in  those  days  were  almost  universally 
accepted  and  which  profoundly  influenced  all  our  works  and 
ways.  The  first  of  them  was  Parental  and  Marital  Authority. 
Perhaps  my  particular  circumstances  as  the  daughter  of  a 
man  of  immense  force  of  will,  caused  me  to  see  the  matter 
especially  clearly,  but  I  am  sure  that  in  the  Thirties  and 
Forties  (at  all  events  in  Lreland)  there  was  very  little 
declension  generally  from  the  old  Boman  Patria  Potestas. 
Fathers  believed  themselves  to  possess  almost  boundless 
rights  over  their  children  in  the  matter  of  pursuits,  professions, 
marriages  and  so  on;  and  the  children  usually  felt  that  if 
they  resisted  any  parental  command  it  was  on  their  peril  and 
an  act  of  extreme  audacity.  My  brothers  and  I  habitually 
spoke  of  our  father,  as  did  the  servants  and  tenants,  as 
'*  The  Master; "  andnever  was  title  more  thoroughly  deserved. 

Another  important  difference  was  in  the  position  of 
women.  Of  this  I  shall  have  more  to  say  hereafter ;  suffice 
it  to  note  that  it  was  the  universal  opinion,  that  no  gentle- 
woman could  possibly  earn  money  without  derogating 
altogether  from  her  rank  (unless,  indeed,  by  card-playing  as 
my  grandmother  did  regularly  1)  ;  and  that  housekeeping  and 
needlework  (of  the  most  inartistic  kinds)  were  her  only 
fitting  pursuits.  The  one  natural  ambition  of  her  life  was 
supposed  to  be  a  "  suitable  "  marriage ;  the  phrase  always 
referring  to  tetUements,  rather  than  sentimenU.  Study  of 
any  serious  sort  was  disapproved,  and  "  accomplishments  " 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  171 

only  were  cnltivaied.  My  father  prohibited  me  when  very 
young  from  learning  Latin  from  one  of  my  brothers  who 
kindly  offered  to  teadi  me ;  bnt,  as  I  have  recounted,  he  paid 
largely  and  generously  that  I  might  be  taught  Music,  for 
which  I  had  no  faculties  at  all.  Other  Irish  girls  my  con- 
temporaries, ware  much  worse  off  than  I,  for  my  dear  mother 
always  did  her  utmost  to  help  my  studies  and  my  liberal 
allowance  permitted  me  to  buy  books. 

The  laws  which  concerned  women  at  that  date  ware  so 
frightfrilly  ui\just  that  the  most  kindly  disposed  men 
inevitably  took  their  cue  from  them,  and  looked  on  their 
mothers,  wives,  and  sisters  as  beings  with  wholly  inferior 
rights;  with  no  rights,  indeed,  which  should  ever  stand 
against  theirs.  The  deconsideratwn  of  women  (as  dear 
Barbara  Bodichon  in  later  years  used  to  say)  was  at  once 
cause  and  result  of  our  legal  disabilities.  Let  the  happier 
women  of  these  times  reflect  on  the  state  of  things  which 
existed  when  a  married  woman's  inheritance  and  even  her 
own  earnings  (if  she  could  make  any),  were  legally  robbed 
from  her  by  her  husband,  and  given,  if  he  pleased,  to  his 
mistress  1  Let  them  remember  that  she  could  make  no  will, 
but  that  her  husband  might  make  one  which  should  bequeath 
the  control  of  her  children  to  a  man  she  abhorred  or  to  a 
woman  of  evil  life.  Let  them  remember  that  a  husband 
who  had  beaten  and  wronged  his  wife  in  every  possible 
way  could  yet  force  her  by  law  to  live  with  him  and 
become  the  mother  of  his  children.  Personally  and 
most  fortunately  (for  I  know  not  of  what  crime  I  might 
not  have  been  guilty  if  so  tried  I)  I  never  had  cause  of 
complaint  on  the  score  of  ix\justice  or  unkindness  from  any 
of  the  men  with  whom  I  had  to  do.  But  the  knowledge, 
when  it  came  to  me,  of  the  legalised  oppressions  under 
which  other  women  groaned,  lay  heavy  on  my  mind.  I  wa9 
not,  however,  in  those  early  days,  interested  in  politics  or 


11%  CHAPTER    TIL 

large  social  refonns ;  and  did  not  eovet  the  political  franchiM, 
finding  in  my  manifold  datiea  and  atadiea  orer-abundant 
outlets  for  my  energies. 

Another  difference  between  the  first  and  latter  half  of  the 
century  is,  I  think,  the  far  greater  simplicity  of  character  of 
the  older  generation.  No  doubt  there  were,  at  the  time  of  which 
I  write,  many  fine  and  subtle  minds  at  work  among  the  poets, 
philosophers  and  statesmen  of  the  day;  but  ordinary 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  even  dever  and  well-educated  ones, 
would,  I  think,  if  they  could  revive  now,  seem  to  us  rather 
like  our  boys  and  girls  than  our  grandparents.  Thousands 
of  allusions,  ideas,  shades  of  sentiment  and  reflection  which 
have  become  common-places  to  us,  were  novel  and  strange  to 
them.  What  Cowper's  poetry  is  to  Tennyson's,  what  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  is  to  Middlemarch^  so  were  their  trans- 
parent minds  to  ours.  I  remember  once  (for  a  trivial 
example  of  what  I  mean)  walking  with  my  father  in  his  later 
days  in  the  old  garden  one  exquisite  spring  day  when  the  apple 
trees  were  covered  with  blossoms  and  the  birds  were  singing 
all  round  us.  As  he  leaned  on  my  arm,  having  just  recovered 
firom  an  illness  which  had  threatened  to  be  fatal  and  was  in  a 
mood  unusually  tender,  I  was  tempted  to  say,  ''  Don't  you 
feel,  Father,  that  a  day  like  this  is  almost  too  beautifdl  and 
delicious,  that  it  softens  one's  feelings  to  the  verge  of  pain  ?  " 
In  these  times  assuredly  such  a  remark  would  have  seemed 
to  most  people  too  obvious  to  deserve  discussion,  but  it  only 
brought  from  my  father  the  reply :  "  God  bless  my  soul, 
what  nonsense  you  talk,  my  dear  1  I  never  heard  the  like. 
Of  course  a  fine  day  makes  everybody  cheerful  and  a  rainy 
day  makes  us  duU  and  dismal."  Everyone  I  knew  then,  was, 
more  or  less,  similarly  simple ;  and  in  some  of  the  ablest  whom 
I  met  in  later  years  of  the  same  generation,  {e,g,^  Mrs. 
Somerville)  I  found  the  same  single-mindedness,  the  same 
absence  of  all  experience  of  the  subtler  6motion8>    Conversa- 


IRELAND  IN  IHB  FORTIES.  173 

tioii;  as  ft  natural  oonsequenoe,  was  more  downright  and 
maiter  of  fftot,  and  rarely  if  ever  was  eoneemed  with  critical 
analyses  of  impressions.  In  short,  (as  I  have  said)  onr  £Bithers 
were  in  many  respects,  like  children  compared  to  ourselves. 

Another  and  a  sad  change  has  taken  place  in  the  amount 
of  animal  spirits  generally  shared  by  young  and  old  in  the 
Thirties  and  Forties  and  down,  I  think,  to  the  Orimean  War, 
which  brought  a  great  seriousness  into  all  our  lives.  It  was 
not  only  the  yomig  who  laughed  in  joyous  "  fits  "  in  those 
earlier  days ;  the  old  laughed  then  more  heartily  and  more 
often  than  I  fear  many  young  people  do  now ;  that  blessed 
laugh  of  hearty  amusement  which  causes  the  eyes  to  water 
and  the  sides  to  ache — a  laugh  one  hardly  ever  hears  now  in 
any  class  or  at  any  age.  An  evidence  of  the  high  level  of 
ordinary  spirits  may  be  found  in  the  readiness  with  which 
such  genuine  laughter  responded  to  the  smallest  provocation. 
It  did  not  need  the  delightful  farce  of  the  Eeeley's  acting 
(though  I  recall  the  helpless  state  into  which  Mr.  Eeeley's 
pride  in  his  red  waistcoat  reduced  half  the  house),  but  even 
an  old,  well-worn,  good  story,  or  fiEunily  catch-word  with 
some  ludicrous  association,  was  enough  to  provoke  jovial 
mirth.  It  was  part  of  a  young  lady's  and  young  gentle- 
man's home  training  to  learn  how  to  indulge  in  the  freest 
ei^oyment  of  fan  without  boisterousness  or  shrieks  or 
discordance  of  any  kind.  Young  people  were  for  ever 
devising  pranks  and  jests  among  themselves,  and  even  their 
seniors  oecnpied  themselves  in  concocting  jokes,  many 
of  which  we  should  now  think  ehildiflh ;  the  order  of  the 
**  April  Fool,*'  being  the  general  type.  Comic  verse  making ; 
forging  of  love  letters ;  disguising  and  begging  as  tramps ; 
sending  boxes  of  bogus  presents ;  making  <'  ghosts  "  with 
bolsters  and  burnt  cork  eyes  to  be  placed  in  dark  comers  of 
passages;  these  and  a  score  of  such  monkey-tricks  for 
which  nobody  now  has  patience,  were  conmion  diversions  in 


174  OBAPTMM    VlL 

every  household,  and  were  nearly  alwayi  taken  good- 
humonredly.  My  £ftiher  used  to  tell  of  one  ridienlons 
deception  in  which  the  chief  actreoB  and  inventor  was  that 
very  grands  dame  Elizabeth  Hastings,  Gonntess  of  Moira, 
daughter  of  the  Methodist  Gonntess  of  Huntingdon.  Lady 
Moira,  my  father  and  two  other  yoirng  men,  by  means  of 
advertising  and  letters,  induced  some  wretched  officer  to  walk 
up  and  down  a  certain  part  of  Sackville  Street  fer  an  hour 
with  a  red  geranium  in  his  buttonhole,  to  show  himself  off, 
as  he  thought,  to  a  young  lady  with  a  large  fortune  who 
proposed  to  marry  him.  The  conspirators  sat  in  a  vnndow 
across  the  street  watching  their  victim  and  exploding  with 
glee  at  his  peacock  behaviour.  The  sequel  was  better  than 
the  joke.  The  poor  man  wrote  a  letter  to  his  tormentress 
(whom  he  had  at  last  detected)  so  pitiful  that  her  kind  heart 
melted,  and  she  exerted  her  immense  influence  effectually  on 
his  behalf  and  provided  for  him  comfortably  for  life. 

Henry,  the  third  Marquis  of  Waterford,  husband  of  the 
gifted  and  beautiful  lady  whose  charming  biography  Mr. 
Hare  has  recently  written,  was  the  last  example  I  imagine  in 
Ireland  of  these  redundant  spirits.  It  was  told  of  him,  and 
I  remember  hearing  of  it  at  the  time,  that  a  somewhat  grave 
and  self-important  gentleman  had  ridden  up  to  Curraghmore 
on  business  and  left  his  bay  horse  at  the  door.  Lord 
Waterford,  seeing  the  animal,  caught  up  a  pot  of  whitewash 
in  use  by  some  labourer  and  rapidly  whitewashed  the  horse; 
after  which  exploit  he  went  indoora  to  interview  his  visitor, 
and  began  by  observing,  '*  That  is  a  handsome  grey  horse  of 
yours  at  the  door.*'     "  A  bay,  my  Lord." 

**  Not  at  all.     It  is  a  grey  horse.     I  saw  you  on  it.** 
Eventually  both  parties  w^oumed  to  the  front  of  the 
house  and  found  the  whitewashed  horse  walking  up  and 
down  with  a  groom.     **  You  see  it  is  grey,"  said  the  Marquis 
triumphantly. 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  176 

Certainly  no  one  in  those  days  dreamed  of  asking  the 
question,  "  Is  Life  worth  Living  ?  "  We  were  all,  young  and 
old,  qnite  sore  that  life  was  extremely  valuable ;  a  boon  for 
which  to  be  grateful  to  God.  I  recall  the  amazement  with 
which  I  first  read  of  the  Buddhist  and  Brahmin  Doctrine 
that  Existence  is  per  se  an  evil,  and  that  the  reward  of  the 
highest  virtue  will  be  Absorption,  or  Nirvana.  The 
pessimism  which  prevails  in  this  fin  de  nkU  was  as 
unknown  in  the  Forties  as  the  potato  disease  before  the 
great  blight. 

I  much  wish  that  some  strong  thinker  would  undertake  the 
useful  task  of  tracking  this  mental  and  moral  aruBmia  of  the 
present  generation  to  its  true  origin,  whether  that  origin  be 
the  ebb  of  religious  hope  and  faith  and  the  reaction  from  the 
extreme  and  too  hasty  optimism  which  culminated  in  1851, 
and  has  fallen  rapidly  since  1876,  or  whether,  in  truth,  our 
bodily  conditions,  though  tending  to  prolong  life  and  working 
power  to  an  amazing  degree,  are  yet  less  conducive  to  the 
development  of  the  sanguine  and  hilarious  temperament 
common  in  my  youth.  I  have  heard  as  a  defence  for  the 
revolution  which  has  taken  place  in  medical  treatment — from 
the  depletory  and  antiphlogistic  to  the  nourishing  and 
stimulating,  and  for  the  total  abandonment  of  the  practice  of 
bleeding — that  \t  is  not  the  doctors  who  have  altered  their 
minds,  but  the  patients,  whose  bodies  have  undergone  a 
profound  modification.  I  can  quite  recall  the  time  when  (as 
all  the  novels  of  the  period  testify),  if  anybody  had  a  fall  or  a 
fit,  or  ahnost  any  other  mishap,  it  was  the  first  business  of 
the  doctor  to  whip  out  his  lancet,  bare  the  sufferer's  arm,  and 
draw  a  large  quantity  of  blood,  when  everybody  and  the  afore- 
said novels  always  remarked ;  ''  It  was  providential  that  there 
was  a  doctor  at  hand  *'  to  do  it.  I  have  myself  seen  this 
operation  performed  on  one  of  my  brothers  in  our  drawing- 
room  about  1886,  and  I  heard  of  it  every  day  occurring 


176  CHAPTER    Vll. 

among  our  neighbours,  rich  a^  poor.  My  father*8  aunt, 
whom  I  well  remember,  Jane  Power  Trench  (sister  of 
the  fbrst  Lord  Clanearty),  who  lived  in  Marlborough 
Buildings  in  Bath,  was  habitually  bled  every  year  just 
before  Easter,  having  previously  spent  the  entire  winter 
in  her  bed-room  of  which  the  windows  were  pasted  down 
and  the  doors  doubled.  A  few  days  after  the  phlebotomy 
the  old  lady  invariably  bought  a  new  bonnet  and  walked 
in  it  up  to  the  top  of  Beacon  Hill.  She  continued  the 
annual  ritual  unbroken  till  she  died  at  79.  Surely  these 
people  were  made  of  stronger  p&tB  than  we  ?  In  corrobora- 
tion of  this  theory  I  may  record  how  much  more  hardy  were 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Forties  in  all  their  habits  than  are 
those  of  the  Nineties.  When  my  father  and  his  friends  went  on 
grouse-shooting  expeditions  to  our  mountain-lodge,  I  used  to 
provide  for  the  large  parties  only  abundance  of  plain  food  for 
dinners,  and  for  luncheons  merely  sandwiches,  bread  and 
cheese,  with  a  keg  of  ale,  and  a  basket  of  apples.  By  degrees  it 
became  necessary  (to  please  my  brother's  guests)  to  provide 
the  best  of  fish,  fowl  and  flesh,  champagne  and  peaches.  The 
whole  odious  system  of  hattuetf  rendering  sport  unmanly  as 
well  as  cruel,  with  all  its  attendant  waste  and  cost  and 
disgusting  butchery,  has  grown  up  within  my  recollection  by 
the  extension  of  luxury,  laziness  and  ostentation. 

To  turn  to  another  suljject.  There  was  very  little 
immorality  at  that  time  in  Ireland  either  in  high  or  low  life, 
and  what  there  was  received  no  quarter.  But  there  was, 
certainly,  together  with  the  absence  of  vice,  a  lack  of  some 
of  the  virtues  which  have  since  developed  amongst  us.  It  is 
not  easy  to  realise  that  in  my  life-time  men  were  hanged  for 
forgery  and  for  sheep-stealing ;  and  that  no  one  agitated  for 
the  repeal  of  such  Draconian  legislation,  but  everybody 
placidly  repeated  the  observation  (now-a-days  so  constantly 
applied  to  the  scientific  torture  of  animals),  that  it  was 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  177 

*' NXOBSSABT.'*  Grnelties,  wrongs  and  oppressions  of  all 
kinds  were  rife,  and  there  were  (in  Ireland  at  all  events)  none 
to  raise  an  oatcry  snch  as  would  echo  now  from  one  end  of 
England  to  the  other. 

The  Protestant  pulpit  was  oceapied  by  two  distinct  classes 
of  men.  There  were  the  yoonger  sons  of  the  gentry  and 
nobles,  who  took  the  large  livings  and  were  booked  for 
bishoprics ;  and  these  were  educated  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge, 
were  more  or  less  cultivated  men  and  associated  of  course 
on  equal  terms  with  the  best  in  the  land.  Not  seldom  they 
were  men  of  noble  lives,  and  extreme  piety ;  such  for  example, 
tB  the  last  Protestant  Archbishop  of  Tuam,  and  a  certain 
Archdeacon  Trench,  whom  I  remember  regarding  with  awe 
and  curiosity  since  I  had  heard  that  he  had  once  got  up  into 
his  own  pulpit,  and  (like  Maxwell  Gtray's  Dean  MaUland^ 
made  a  public  confession  of  all  his  life's  misdoings.  The 
second  class  of  Irish  clergymen  in  those  days  were  men  of 
a  rather  lower  social  grade,  educated  in  Trinity  GoUege,  often, 
no  doubt,  of  excellent  character  and  devotion  but  generally 
extremely  narrow  in  their  views,  conducting  all  controversies 
by  citations  of  isolated  Bible-texts  and  preaching  to  their 
sparse  country  congregations  with  Dublin  brogues  which, 
not  seldom,  reduced  the  sublimity  of  their  subjects  to 
bathos.  There  was  one,  for  example,  who  said,  as  the 
peroration  of  his  sermon  on  the  Fear  of  Death  : — 

"Me  brethren  the  doying  Christian  lepps  into  the 
arrums  of  Death  and  makes  his  hollow  jaws  ring  with 
eternal  halleligahsl " 

I  have  myself  heard  another  read  the  concluding  chapters 

of  the  gospels,  substituting  with  extraordinary  effect  the 

words  "  two  Meal-factors,"  for  the  '^  two  maleflActors,"  who 

were  crucified.    There  was  a  chapter  in  the  Acts  which  we 

dreaded  to  hear,  so  difficult  was  it  to  help  laughing  when  we 

told  of  ^^P^rthiam  and  Madst,  and  the  dwdlers  in 
▼OL.  u  M 


178  CHAPTER    VII. 

Mesopotemia  and  the  parts  of  Libya  abont  Cyraine,  Btreengers 
of  Bourn,  Jews  and  Proselytes,  Crates  and  Arabians."  It 
was  also  hard  to  listen  gravely  to  a  vivid  deseription  of 
Jonah's  catastrophe,  as  I  have  heard  it,  thus :  "  The  weves 
bate  against  the  ship,  and  the  ship  bate  against  the  weves ;" 
(and,  at  last)  **  The  Wheel  swallowed  Jonah ! " 

They  had  a  difficult  place  to  hold,  these  humbler  Irish 
clergymen,  properly  associating  with  no  class  of  their 
parishioners ;  but  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  they  were  nearly 
all  men  of  blameless  lives,  who  did  their  duty  as  they  under- 
stood it,  fairly  well.  The  disestablishment  of  the  Irish 
Ghnrch  which  I  had  regarded  beforehand  with  mnch 
prejudice,  did  (I  have  since  been  inclined  to  think),  very  little 
mischief,  and  certainly  awakened  in  the  minds  of  the  Irish 
squirearchy  who  had  to  settle  their  creed  afresh,  an  interest 
in  theology  which  was  never  exhibited  in  my  earlier  days.  I 
was  absolutely  astounded  on  paying  a  visit  to  my  old  home  a 
few  years  after  disestablishment  and  while  the  Convention 
(commonly  called  the  Contention!)  was  going  on,  to  hear  sundry 
recondite  mysteries  discussed  at  my  brother's  table  and  to  find 
some  of  my  old  dancing  partners  actually  greedily  listening 
to  what  I  could  tell  them  of  the  then  recent  discovery  of  Mr. 
Edmund  Ffoulkes, — ^that  the  doctrine  of  the  Double  Procession 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  had  been  invented  by  King  Beccared. 

As  regards  any  moral  obligation  or  duty  owed  by  men  and 
women  to  the  lower  animals,  such  ideas  were  as  yet  scarcely 
beginning  to  be  recognised.  It  was  in  1822,  the  year  in 
which  I  was  bom,  that  brave  old  Bichard  Martin  carried  in 
Parliament  the  first  Act  ever  passed  by  any  legislature  in  the 
world  on  behalf  of  the  brutes.  Tom  Moore  had  laughed  at 
this  early  Zoophilist. 

'*  Place  me  midst  O'Rourkes,  O'Tooles, 
The  ragged  royal  blood  of  Tara ! 
place  me  where  Dick  Martin  rules 
The  hooseless  wUds  of  Gonnemara 


iRELANb  tN  THJB  fORTlSS.  179 

But  in  the  history  of  human  civilisation,  *'  Martin's  Act " 
will  hereafter  assuredly  hold  a  distinct  place  of  honour  when 
many  a  more  pompons  political  piece  of  legislation  is  hnried 
in  ohlivion.  For  a  long  time  the  new  law,  and  the  Society 
for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  which  arose  to  work  it,  were 
olrjects  of  ohloquy  and  jest  even  from  such  a  man  as 
Sydney  Smith,  who  did  his  hest  in  the  Edinburgh  Emew 
to  sneer  them  down.  But  by  degrees  they  formed,  as 
Mr.  Lecky  says  every  system  of  legislation  must  do,  a  system 
of  moral  education.  A  sense  of  the  Bights  of  Animals  has 
slowly  been  awakened,  and  is  becoming,  by  not  imperceptible 
degrees,  a  new  principle  of  ethics.  In  my  youth  there  were 
plenty  of  good  people  who  were  fond  of  dogs,  cats  and  horses ; 
but  nothing  in  their  behaviour,  or  in  that  of  any  one  I  knew 
at  that  time,  testified  to  the  existence  of  any  latent  idea  that 
it  was  moraUy  torong  to  maltreat  animals  to  any  extent.  Pious 
sportsmen  were  wont  to  scourge  their  dogs  with  frightful 
dog-whips,  for  any  disobedience  or  mistake,  with  a  savage 
violence  which  I  shudder  to  remember ;  and  which  I  do  not 
think  the  most  brutal  men  would  now  exhibit  openly.  Miss 
Edgeworth's  then  recent  novel  of  Ennui  had  described  her 
hero  as  riding  five  horses  to  death  to  give  himself  a  sensation, 
without  (as  it  would  appear)  forfeiting  in  the  author's 
opinion  his  dlaims  to  the  sympathies  of  the  reader.  I  can 
myself  recall  only  laughing,  not  crying  as  I  should  be  more 
inclined  to  do  now,  at  the  spectacle  of  miserable  half-starved 
horses  made  to  gallop  in  Irish  cars  to  win  a  bribe  for  the 
driver,  who  flogged  them  over  ruts  and  stones,  shouting  (as 
I  have  heard  them)  "  Never  feae !  I'll  hatther  him  out  of 
thai  I  '*  The  picture  of  a  ''  Ronnant$f*'  from  Gervantes'  time 
till  a  dozen  or  two  years  ago,  instead  of  being  one  of  the 
most  pathetic  objects  in  the  world, — ^the  living  symbol  of 
human  cruelty, — ^was  always  considered  a  particularly 
laughable  caricature.      Only  tender-hearted  Berwick  in  his 


18d  CBAPTER    ttt 

woodont,  Watting  fcr  D&aihj  tried  to  move  the  hearts  of  hia 
generation  to  eompaaaion  for  the  starved  and  worn-out  servant 

i  of  nngratefnl  man. 

The  Irish  peasantry  do  not  habitoally  maltreat  animals, 
but  the  frightftd  mutilations  and  tortures  which  of  late  years 
they  have  practised  on  cattle  belonging  to  their  obnoxious 
neighbours,  is  one  of  the  worst  proofs  of  the  existence  in  the 

f  Celtic  character  of  that  undercurrent  of  ferocity  of  which  I 

j  have  spoken  elsewhere. 

Among  Irish  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  Forties  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  interest  of  course  in  our  domestic  pets, 

,  and  I  remember  a  beautiful  and  beloved  young  bride  coming 

f  to  pay  us  a  visit,  and  asking  in  a  tone  of  profound  conviction : 

<<What  would  life  be  without  dogs?"  Btill  there  was 
'  nothing  then  existing,  I  think,  in  the  world  like  the  sentiment 
which  inspired  Mathew  Arnold's  Oeiit  or  even  his  '^Kaiter 
Dead.^*  The  gulf  between  the  canine  race  and  ours  was 
thought  to  be  measureless.  Darwin  had  not  yet  written  the 
Descent  of  Man  or  made  us  imagine  that ''  God  had  made  of 
one  blood"  at  least  all  the  mammals  ''upon  earth."  No  one 
dreamed  of  trying  to  realise  what  must  be  the  consciousness  of 
suffering  animals ;  nor  did  anyone,  I  think,  live  under  the 
slightest  sense  of  responsibility  for  their  well-being.  Even  my 
dear  old  friend,  Harriet  St.  Leger,  though  she  was  renowned 
through  the  county  for  her  attachment  to  her  great  black 
Etetrievers,  said  to  me  one  day,  many  years  afler  I  had  left 
Ireland,  **  I  don't  understand  your  feelings  about  animals  at 
«11.  To  me  a  dog  is  a  dog.  To  you  it  seems  to  be  something 
else  I" 

Another  difference  was,  that  there  was  very  little  popularity- 
hunting  in  the  Forties.  The  ''  working  man  "  was  seen, 
but  not  yet  heard  of ;  and,  so  far  as  I  remember,  we  thought 
as  little  of  the  public  opinion  of  our  villages  respecting  us 
as  we  did  of  the  public  opinion  of  the  stables.     The  wretched 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  181 

religions  bigotry  which,  as  we  kneWi  made  the  Catholics 
look  on  us  as  infallibly  condemned  of  Qod  in  this  world  and 
the  next,  was  an  insuperable  banner  to  sympathy  from  them, 
and  we  never  expected  them  to  understand  either  onr  acts  or 
motives.  But  if  we  cared  little  or  nothing  what  they  thought 
of  us,  I  mast  in  justice  say  that  we  did  care  a  great  deal  for 
their  comfort,  and  were  genuinely  unhappy  in  their  afflictions 
and  active  to  relieve  their  miseries.  When  the  famine  came 
there  was  scarcely  one  Irish  lady  or  gentleman,  I  think, 
who  did  not  spend  time,  money  and  labour  like  water  to 
supply  food  to  the  needy.  I  remember  the  horror  with  which 
my  father  listened  to  a  visitor,  who  was  not  an  Irishwoman 
but  a  purse-proud  nouveau  riche  married  to  a  very  silly 
baronet  in  our  neighbourhood,  who  told  him  that  her 
husband's  Mayo  property  had  just  cost  them  £70.  *'  That 
will  go  some  way  in  supplying  Indian  meal  to  your  tenants/' 
said  my  father,  supposing  that  to  such  purpose  it  must  be 
devoted.  **  0  dear,  no !  We  are  not  sending  it  for  any  such 
use,"  said  Lady  — .  "  We  are  spending  it  on  evioticns ! " 
"Good  God  I"  shouted  my  father;  "how  shocking!  At 
such  a  time  as  this ! " 

It  has  been  people  like  these  who  have  ever  since  done  the 
hard  things  of  which  so  much  capital  has  been  made  by  those 
whose  interest  it  has  been  to  stir  up  strife  in  the  "  distressftd 
country." 

I  happen  to  be  able  to  recall  precisely  the  day,  almost  the 
hour,  when  the  blight  fell  on  the  potatoes  and  caused  the 
great  calamity.  A  party  of  us  were  driving  to  a  seven  o'clock 
dinner  at  the  house  of  our  neighbour,  Mrs.  Evans,  of  Portrane. 
As  we  passed  a  remarkably  fine  field  of  potatoes  in  blossom, 
the  scent  came  through  the  open  windows  of  the  carriage  and 
we  remarked  to  each  other  how  splendid  was  the  crop.  Three 
or  four  hours  later,  as  we  returned  home  in  the  dark,  a 
dreadful  smell  came  from  the  same  field,  and  we  exdaimedi 


182  OHAPTEU   VIL 

<' Something  has  happened  to  those  potatoes;  they  do  not 
smell  at  all  as  they  did  when  we  passed  them  on  onr  way 
out."  Next  morning  there  was  a  wail  from  one  end  of 
Ireland  to  the  other.  Every  field  was  hlack  and  every  root 
rendered  unfit  for  human  food.  And  there  were  nearly 
eight  millions  of  people  depending  principally  upon  these 
potatoes  for  existence ! 

The  splendid  generosity  of  the  English  public  to  us  at  that 
time  warmed  all  our  Anglo-Irish  hearts  and  cheered  us  to 
strain  every  nerve  to  feed  the  people.  But  the  agitators  were 
afraid  it  would  promote  too  much  good  feeling  between  the 
nations,  which  would  not  have  suited  their  game.  I  myself 
heard  0*Connell  in  Conciliation  Hall  (that  ill-named  place  1) 
endeavour  to  belittle  English  liberality.  He  spoke  (a  strange 
figure  in  the  red  robes  of  his  Mayoralty  and  with  a  little 
sandy  wig  on  his  head)  to  the  following  purpose : — 

**  They  have  sent  you  over  money  in  your  distress.  But 
do  you  think  they  do  it  for  love  of  you,  or  because  they  feel 
for  you,  and  are  sorry  for  your  trouble  ?  Devil  a  bit !  Th$y 
are  afraid  of  you  /— tiiat  is  it !  They  are  afraid  of  you.  You 
are  eight  millions  strong." 

It  was  as  wicked  a  speech  as  ever  man  made,  but  it  was 
never,  that  I  know  of,  reported  or  remarked  upon.  He 
spoke  continually  to  similar  purpose  no  doubt,  in  that  Hall, 
where  my  cousin — afterwards  the  wife  of  John  Locke,  M.P. 
for  Southwark — and  I  had  gone  to  hear  him  out  of  girlish 
curiosity. 

The  part  played  by  Anglo-Irish  ladies  when  the  great 
fever  which  followed  the  fJEonine  came  on  us,  was  the  same. 
It  became  perfectly  well  known  that  if  any  of  the  upper 
classes  caught  the  fever,  they  almost  uniformly  died.  The 
working  people  could  generally  be  cured  by  a  total  change  of 
diet  and  abundant  meat  and  wine,  but  to  the  others  no 
differenoe  eould  be  made  in  that  way,  and  numbers  of  ladies 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  188 

and  gentlemen  lost  their  lives  by  attending  their  poor  in  the 
disease.  It  was  very  infectious,  or  at  least  it  was  easily 
caught  in  each  locality  by  those  who  went  into  the  cabins. 


There  were  few  people  whom  I  met  in  Ireland  in  those 
early  days  whose  names  would  excite  any  interest  in  the 
reader's  mind.  One  was  poor  Elliot  Warburton,  the  author 
of  the  Crescent  and  the  Cross^  who  came  many  times  to  New- 
bridge as  an  acquaintance  of  my  brother.  He  was  very 
refined  and,  as  we  considered,  rather  effeminate ;  but  how 
grand,  even  sublime,  was  he  in  his  death !  On  the  burning 
Amazon  in  mid- Atlantic  he  refused  to  take  a  place  in  the 
crowded  boats,  and  was  last  seen  standing  alone  beside  the 
fiuthful  Captain  at  the  helm  as  the  doomed  vessel  was 
wrapped  in  flames.  I  have  never  forgotten  his  pale, 
intellectual  lace  and  somewhat  puny  frame,  and  pictured  him 
thus — a  true  hero. 

His  brother,  who  was  commonly  known  as  Hochdaga^ 
from  the  name  of  his  book  on  Canada,  was  a  hale  and  genial 
young  fellow,  generally  popular.  One  rainy  day  he  was 
prompted  by  a  silly  young  lady-guest  of  ours  to  sing  a  series 
of  comic  songs  in  our  drawing-room,  the  point  of  the  jokes 
turning  on  the  advances  of  women  to  men.  My  dear  mother, 
then  old  and  feeble,  after  listening  quietly  for  a  time,  slowly 
rose  from  her  sofa,  walked  painfully  across  the  room,  and 
leaning  over  the  piano  said  in  her  gentle  way  a  few  strong 
words  of  remonstrance.  She  could  not  bear,  she  said,  that 
men  should  ridicule  women.  Respect  and  chivalrous  feeling 
for  them,  even  when  they  were  foolish  and  ill-advised,  were 
the  part,  she  always  thought,  of  a  generous  man.  Sha 
would  beg  Mr.  Warburton  to  choose  some  other  songs  for  his 
fine  voice.      All  this  was  done  so  gently  and  with  her 


184  OHAPTER    VIL 

sweet,  kind  smile,  that  no  one  coold  take  offence.  Mr. 
Warbnrton  was  far  from  doing  so.  He  was,  I  could  see, 
touched  with  tender  reverence  for  his  aged  monitress,  and 
rising  hastily  from  the  piano,  made  the  frankest  apologies, 
which  of  course  were  instantly  accepted.  I  have  described 
this  trivial  incident  because  I  think  it  illustrates  the  kind  of 
influence  which  was  exercised  by  women  of  the  old  sohool  of 
"  dscorvm** 

Another  man  who  sometimes  came  to  our  house,  was  I>r% 
Longley,  then  Bishop  of  Eipon,  afterwards  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  He  was  a  very  charming  person,  without  the 
slightest  episcopal  morgu$  or  affectation,  and  with  the 
kindest  brown  eyes  in  the  world.  His  wife  was  niece, 
and,  I  believe,  eventually  heiress,  of  our  neighbour  Mrs. 
Evans;  and  he  and  his  fsunily  spent  some  summers 
at  Portrane  in  the  Fifties  when  we  had  many  pleasant 
parties  and  picnics.  I  shall  not  forget  how  the  Bishop 
laughed  when  the  young  Longleys  and  I  and  a  few 
guests  of  my  own,  inaugurated  some  charades,  and  our  party, 
all  in  disguise,  were  announced  on  our  arrival  at  Portrane, 
as  "Lady  Worldly,"  "Miss  Angelina  Worldly,"  "Sir 
Bumpkin  Blunderhead,"  and  the  "  Oardinal  Lord  Archbishop 
of  Bheims." 

Our  word  was  "  Novice."  I,  as  Lady  Worldly,  in  my 
great-grandmother's  petticoat  and  powdered  Umpee^  gave  my 
slaughter  Angelina  a  lecture  on  the  desirability  of  manying 
"  Sir  Bumpkin  Blunderhead "  who  was  rich,  and  of 
dismissing  Captain  Algernon  who  was  poor.  Sir  Bumpkin 
then  made  his  proposals,  to  which  Angelina  emphatically 
answered  "  No."  In  the  second  scene  I  met  Sir  Bumpkin 
at  the  gaming  table,  and  fleeced  him  utterly ;  the  end  of  his 
"  Vice  "  being  suicide  on  the  adjacent  sofa.  Angelina  then, 
in  horror  took  the  veil,  and  became  a  "JVo-vicd,"  duly 
admitted  to  her  Nuimery  by  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  185 

of  Bheims  (my  yoangest  brother  in  a  superb  scarlet  drearing 
gown)  who  pronounced  a  Sermon  on  the  pleasures  of  fitsting 
and  going  barefoot  Angelina  retired  to  her  cell,  but  was  soon 
disturbed  by  a  voice  outside  the  window  (Henry  Longley's)  ; 
and  exclaiming  "  Algernon,  beloved  Algernon  1  '*  a  speedy 
elopement  over  the  back  of  the  sofa  concluded  the  fate  of  the 
Noviee  and  the  charade. 

There  was  another  charade  in  which  we  held  a  debate  in 
Parliament  on  a  Motion  to  ''abolish  the  sun  and  moon,'* 
which  amused  the  bishop  to  the  last  degree,  especially  as  wo 
mada  fim  of  Joseph  Hume's  retrenchments ;  he  being  a 
particular  friend  and  frequent  guest  of  our  hostess.  The 
abolition  of  the  Sun  would,  we  feared,  affect  the  tax  on 
parasols. 

At  Eipon,  as  Dr.  Longley  told  me,  the  Palace  prepared  for 
him  (the  first  bishop  of  the  new  see)  had,  as  ornaments  of 
the  front  of  the  house,  two  foil-sized  stone  (or  plaster) 
Angels.  One  day  a  visitor  asked  him  :  <'  Pray,  my  Lord,  is 
it  supposed  by  Divines  that  Angels  wear  the  order  of  the 
Garter  ?  "  On  inspection  it  proved  that  the  Bipon  Angels 
had  formerly  done  service  as  statues  of  the  Queen  and  Prince 
Albert,  but  that  wings  had  been  added  to  fit  them  for  the 
episcopal  residence.  Sufficient  care,  however,  had  not  been 
taken  to  efface  the  insignia  of  the  Most  Illustrious  Order ; 
and  **  H<mi  salt  qui  nuU  ypense  "  might  be  dimly  deciphered 
on  the  leg  of  the  male  celestial  visitant. 

A  lady  nearly  related  to  Mrs.  Longley,  who  had  married  an 
English  nobleman,  adopted  the  views  of  the  Plymouth 
Brothers  (or  as  all  the  Mrs.  Malaprops  of  the  period  invariably 
styled  them,  the  ''  Yarmouth  Bloaters "),  which  had  burst 
into  sudden  notorieiy.  When  her  husband  died  leaving  her 
a  very  wealthy  woman,  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  carry  out 
the  ideas  of  her  sect  by  putting  down  such  superfluities  of 
her  establishment  as  horses  and  carriages,  and  a  well  appointed 


186  CHAPTER    VII. 

table.    She  aocordingly  wrote  to  her  father  and  begged  him 

to  dispose  of  all  her  plate  and  equipages.    Lord  C made 

no  remonstrance  and  offered  no  argoments ;  and  after  a  year 
or  two  he  received  a  letter  from  his  daughter  couched  in  a 
different  strain.  She  told  him  that  she  had  now  reached  the 
conviction  that  it  was  ''  the  wiU  of  God  that  a  peeress  should 
live  as  a  peeress/'  and  she  begged  him  to  buy  for  her  new 

carriages  and    fresh  plate.      Lord  G 's  answer  must 

have  been  a  little  mortifying.  **  I  knew,  my  dear,  that  you 
would  come  sooner  or  later  to  your  senses.  You  will  find 
your  carriages  at  your  coachmakers  and  your  plate  at  your 
bankers." 

Mrs.  Evans,  nie  Sophia  Pamell,  the  aunt  of  both  these 
ladies,  and  a  great-aunt  of  Charles  Stewart  Pamell,  was,  as  I 
have  said,  our  nearest  neighbour  and  in  the  later  years  of 
my  life  at  Newbridge  my  very  kind  old  friend.  For  a  long 
time  political  differences  between  my  fietther  and  her  husband, 
— George  Hampden  Evans,  M.P.,  who  had  managed  to  wrest 
the  county  from  the  Tories, — ^kept  the  fjEunilies  apart,  but  after 
his  death  we  were  pleasantly  intimate  for  many  years.  She 
often  spoke  to  me  of  the  Avondale  branch  of  her  family,  and 
more  than  once  said :  "  There  is  mischief  brewing  !  I  am 
troubled  at  what  is  going  on  at  Avondale.  My  nephew's  wife ' ' 
(the  American  lady,  Delia  Stewart)  *^  has  a  hatred  of  England, 
and  is  educating  my  nephew,  like  a  little  Hannibal,  to  hate  it 
too  ! "  How  true  was  her  foresight  there  is  no  need  now  to 
rehearse,  nor  how  near  that  '*  little  Hannibal"  came  to  our 
Bome!  Charles  Pamell  was  very  far  from  being  a  repre- 
sentative Irishman.  He  was  of  purely  English  extraction, 
and  even  in  the  female  line  had  no  drop  of  Lrish  blood.  His 
mother,  as  all  the  world  knows,  was  an  American;  his 
grandmother  was  one  of  the  Howards  of  the  family  of 
the  Earls  of  Wicklow,  his  great-grandmother  a  Brooke, 
of  a  branch  of  the  old  Cheshire  house ;  and,  beyond  this  lady 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  187 

again,  his  grand-dames  were  Wards  and  Whitsheds.  In  short, 
like  other  supposed  '*  illustrions  Irishmen" — ^Bnrke,  Gtrattan, 
Goldsmith,  and  Wellington — ^Mr.  Pamell  was  only  one 
example  more  of  the  supremacy  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  intellect 
in  every  land  of  its  adoption. 

Mrs.  Evans  had  known  Madame  de  Stael,  Condoreet  and 
many  other  interesting  French  people  in  her  youth,  and 
loved  the  Gondorcets  warmly.  She  described  to  me  a  stiff, 
old-fashioned  dinner  at  which  she  had  been  present  when 
Madame  de  Stael  was  a  guest.  After  dinner,  the  ladies,  having 
retired  to  the  drawing-room,  sat  apart  from  Madame  de  Stael 
m  terror,  and  she  looked  them  over  with  undisguised 
contempt.  After  a  while  she  rose  and,  without  asking  the 
consent  of  the  mistress  of  the  house,  rang  the  bell.  When 
the  footman  appeared,  she  delivered  the  startling  order : ''  Tell 
the  gentlemen  to  come  up!"  The  sensation  among  the 
formal  and  scandalized  ladies  upstairs,  and  the  gentlemen 
Just  settling  down  to  their  usual  long  potations  below,  may 
be  well  imagined. 

When  her  husband  died,  Mrs.  Evans  built  in  his  memory 
a  fine  Bound  Tower  on  the  plan  and  of  the  size  of  the  best  of 
the  old  Irish  towers.  It  stands  on  high  ground  on  what  was 
her  deer-park,  and  is  a  useful  landmark  to  sailors  all  along 
that  dangerous  coast,  where  the  dreadful  wreck  of  the  Tayleur 
took  place.  On  the  shore  below,  under  the  lofty  black  cliffs,  are 
several  very  imposing  caverns.  In  the  largest  of  these,  which 
is  lighted  from  above  by  a  shaft,  Mrs.  Evans,  on  one  occasion, 
gave  a  great  luncheon  party,  at  which  I  was  present.  The 
company  were  all  in  high  spirits  and  thoroughly  enjoying  the 
pigeon-pies  and  champagne,  when  some  one  observed  that  the 
tide  might  soon  be  rising.  Mrs.  Evans  replied  that  it  was 
all  right,  there  was  plenty  of  time,  and  the  festival  proceeded 
for  another  half-hour,  when  somebody  rose  and  stroUed  to 
the  mouth  of  the  cavern  and  soon  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm. 


les  CHAPTER    VTl. 

The  tide  had  risezii  and  was  already  boating  at  a  fomudabk 
depth  against  both  sidee  of  the  rocks  which  shnt  in  the  oave. 
Ckmstemation  of  course  reigned  among  the  party.  A  night 
spent  in  the  farther  recesses  of  that  damp  hole,  even  supposing 
the  tide  did  not  reach  the  end  (which  was  very  donbtfol), 
afforded  anything  bnt  a  cheerM  prospect.  Could  anybody 
get  up  through  the  shaft  to  the  upper  cliff  ?  Certainly,  if 
they  had  a  long  ladder.  But  there  were  no  ladders  lying 
about  the  cave;  and,  finally,  eveiybody  stood  mournfully 
watching  the  rising  waters  at  the  mouth  of  their  prison. 
Mrs.  Evans  all  this  time  appeared  singularly  calm,  and 
administered  a  little  encouragement  to  some  of  the  almost 
fainting  ladies.  When  the  panic  was  at  its  climax,  Mrs. 
Evans'  own  large  boat  was  seen  quietly  rounding  the 
projecting  rocks  and  was  soon  comfortably  pushed  up  to  the 
feet  of  the  imprisoned  party,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
embark  in  two  or  three  detachments  and  be  safely  landed  in 
the  bay  outside,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  sea.  The  whole 
incident,  it  is  to  be  suspected,  had  been  pre-arranged  by  the 
hostess  to  infuse  a  little  wholesome  excitement  among  her 
country  guests. 

Our  small  village  church  at  Donabate  was  not  often 
honoured  by  this  lady's  presence,  but  one  Sunday  she  saw 
fit  to  attend  service  with  some  visitors ;  and  a  big  dog 
unluckily  followed  her  into  the  pew  and  lay  extended  on  the 
floor,  which  he  proceeded  to  beat  with  his  tail  after  the 
manner  of  impatient  dogs  under  durance.  This  disturbance 
was  too  much  for  the  poor  parson,  who  did  not  love  Mrs. 
Evans.  As  he  proceeded  with  the  service  and  the  rappings 
were  repeated  again  and  again,  his  patience  gave  way,  and 
he  read  out  this  extraordinary  lesson  to  his  astonished  con- 
gregation:— "The  Pharisee  stood  and  prayed  thus  with 
himself.  Turn  out  that  dog,  if  you  please  t  It's  extremely 
wrong  to  bring  a  dog  into  church."    During  the  winter  Mrs. 


iSSLAND  IN  THE  FORtlSa.  IdO 

Evans  was  wont  to  live  maoh  alone  in  her  oountry  house, 
sarroimded  only  by  her  old  servants  and  multitudes  of 
old  books.  When  at  last,  in  old  age,  she  found  herself 
attacked  by  mortal  disease  she  went  to  Paris  to  profit  by  the 
skill  of  some  Frencfh  physician  in  whom  she  had  confidence, 
and  there,  with  unshaken  courage  she  passed  away.  Her 
remains,  enclosed  in  a  leaden  cofSn,  were  brought  back  to 
Portrane,  and  her  Irish  terrier  who  adored  her,  somehow 
recognised  the  dreadful  chest  and  exhibited  a  frenzy  of 
grief;  leapmg  upon  it  and  tearing  at  the  pall  with  piteous 
cries.  Next  morning,  strange  to  say,  the  poor  brute  was, 
with  six  others  about  the  place,  in  such  a  state  of  excitement 
as  to  be  supposed  to  be  rabid  and  it  was  thought  necessary 
to  shoot  them  all.  One  of  them  leaped  the  gate  of  the  yard 
and  escaping  bit  two  of  my  other's  cows,  which  became 
rabid,  and  were  shot  in  my  presence.  Mrs.  Evans  was  buried 
beside  her  beloved  husband  in  the  little  roofless  and  ruined 
church  of  Portrane,  close  by  the  shore.  On  another  grave 
in  the  same  church  belonging  to  the  same  fiunily,  a  dog  had 
some  years  previously  died  of  grief. 

A  brother  of  this  lady,  who  walked  over  often  to 
Newbridge  from  Portrane  to  bring  my  mother  some 
scented  broom  which  she  loved,  was  a  very  singnlar  and 
pathetic  character.  He  was  a  younger  brother  of  that 
sofficiently  astute  man  of  the  world,  Sir  Henry  Pamell, 
afterwards  Lord  Congleton,  but  was  his  antipodes  in 
disposition.  Thomas  Pamell,  "Old  Tom  Pamell,"  as  all 
Dublin  knew  him  for  forty  years,  had  a  huge  ungainly 
figure  like  Dr.  Johnson's,  and  one  of  the  sweetest,  softest 
faces  ever  worn  by  mortal  man.  He  had,  at  some  remote 
and  long  forgotten  period,  been  seized  with  a  fervent  and 
self-denying  religious  enthusiasm  of  the  ultia-Protestant 
type ;  and  this  had  somehow  given  birth  in  his  brain  to  a 
scheme  for  arranging  texts  of  the  Bible  in  a  mysterious  order 


190  cHaptjbr  M. 

which,  when  eompleied,  shoald  afford  infiEiUible  answers  to 
every  question  of  the  hnman  mind !  To  construct  the 
interminable  tables  required  for  this  wonderful  plan,  poor 
Tom  Pamell  devoted  his  life  and  fortune.  For  years  which 
must  have  amounted  to  many  decades,  he  laboured  at  the 
work  in  a  bare,  gloomy,  dusty  room  in  what  was  called  a 
''Protestant  Office"  in  Saokville  Street.  Money  went 
speedily  to  clerks  and  printers ;  and  no  doubt  the  good  man 
(who  himself  lived,  as  he  used  to  say  laughingly,  on 
''  a  second-hand  bone,")  gave  money  also  freely  in  alms. 
One  way  or  another  Mr.  Pamell  grew  poorer  and  more 
poor,  his  coat  looked  shabbier,  and  his  beautifiil  long  white  hair 
more  obviously  in  need  of  a  barber.  Once  or  twice  every 
summer  he  was  prevailed  on  by  his  sister  to  tear  himself 
from  his  work  and  pay  her  a  few  weeks'  visit  in  the  country 
at  Portrane;  and  to  her  and  all  her  visitors  he  preached 
incessantly  his  monotonous  appeal:  ''Repent;  and  cease 
to  eat  good  dinners,  and  devote  yourselves  to  compiling 
texts  I  "  When  his  sister — ^who  had  treated  him  as  a  mother 
would  treat  a  silly  boy — died,  she  left  him  a  small  annuity,  to 
be  paid  to  him  weekly  in  dribblets  by  trustees,  lest  he  should 
spend  it  at  once  and  starve  if  he  received  it  half-yearly. 
After  this  epoch  he  worked  on  with  fewer  interruptions  than 
ever  at  his  dreary  text-books  in  that  empty,  grimy  office. 
Summer's  sun  and  winter's  snow  were  alike  to  the  lonely  old 
man.  He  ploughed  on  at  his  hopeless  task.  There  was  no 
probability  that  he  should  live  to  fill  up  the  interminable 
columns,  and  no  apparent  reason  to  suppose  that  any  human 
being  would  use  the  books  if  he  ever  did  so  and  supposing 
them  to  be  printed.  But  still  he  laboured  on.  Old  friends 
— myself  among  them — ^who  had  known  him  in  their  chOd- 
hood,  looked  in  now  and  then  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and, 
noticing  how  pale  and  worn  and  aged  he  seemed,  tried  to 
induce  him  to  come  to  their  homes.     But  he  only  exhorted 


IRELAND  tN  THE  PORTIES.  1§1 

them  (like  Tolstoi,  whom  he  rather  resembled),  as  usaal,  to 
repent  and  give  np  good  dinners  and  help  him  with  his  texts, 
and  denounced  wildly  all  rich  people  who  lived  in  handsome 
parks  with  mnd  villages  at  their  gates,  as  he  said,  ''  like  a 
velvet  dress  with  a  draggled  skirt."  Then,  when  his  visitor 
had  departed,  Mr.  Pamell  returned  patiently  to  his  inter- 
minable texts.  At  last  one  day,  late  in  the  autmnn  twilight, 
the  porter,  whose  dnty  it  was  to  shut  np  the  office,  entered  the 
room  and  fomid  the  old  man  sitting  qnietly  in  the  chair 
where  he  hadlabonred  so  long — ^fallen  into  the  last  long  sleep. 


I  never  saw  mnch  of  Irish  society  out  of  our  own  county. 
Once,  when  I  was  eighteen,  my  father  and  I  went  a  tour  of 
visits  to  his  relations  in  Connaught,  travelling,  as  was 
necessary  in  those  days,  very  slowly  with  post-horses  to  our 
carriage,  my  maid  on  the  box,  and  obliged  to  stop  at  inns  on 
the  way.  Some  of  these  inns  were  wretched  places.  I 
remember  in  one  finding  a  packet  of  letters  addressed  to  some 
attorney,  under  my  bolster!  At  another,  this  dialogue 
took  place  between  me  and  the  waiter : — 

"  What  can  we  have  for  dinner  ?  " 

<<  Anything  you  please.  Ma'am.     Anything  yon  please.*' 

«  Well,  but  exactly  what  can  we  have  ?  " 

(Waiter,  triumphantly) :  "  You  can  have  a  pair  of  ducks." 

''  I  am  sorry  to  say  Mr.  Oobbe  cannot  eat  ducks.  What 
else?" 

''  They  are  very  fine  ducks.  Ma'am." 

<'  I  dare  say.    But  what  else  ?  " 

**  You  might  have  the  ducks  boiled,  Ma*am  I  " 

*'  No,  no.     Oan  we  have  mutton  ?  " 

'^  Well ;  not  mutton,  to-day,  Ma'am." 

"Some  beef?" 

"No,  Ma'am." 


ids  CHAPTER    VII. 

"  Some  veal  ?  " 

'*  Not  any  veal,  Fm  afraid/' 

'*  Wdl,  then,  a  fowl  ?  " 

"  We  haven't  got  a  fowl." 

'^  What  on  earth  have  yon  got,  then  ?** 

**  Well,  then,  Ma'am,  I'm  afeared  if  you  won't  have  the  fine 
pair  of  ducks,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  bacon  and  eggs  I " 

We  went  first  to  Drnmcar  and  next  (a  two  days'  drive)  to 
Moydrum  Castle  which  then  belonged  to  my  father's  cousin, 
old  Lady  Gastlemaine.  Another  old  cousin  in  the  house 
showed  me  where,  between  two  towers  covered  with  ivy,  she 
had  looked  one  dark  night  out  of  her  bedroom  window  on 
hearing  a  wailing  noise  below,  and  had  seen  some  white 
object  larger  than  any  bird,  floating  slowly  up  and  then 
sinking  down  into  the  shadow  below  again,  and  yet 
again.  Of  course  it  was  the  Banshee;  and  somebody 
had  died  afterwards  f  We  also  had  our  Banshee  at  New- 
bridge  about  that  time.  One  stormy  and  rainy  Sunday 
night  in  October  my  father  was  reading  a  sermon  as  usual 
to  the  assembled  household,  and  the  fiunily,  gathered  near 
the  fire  in  what  we  were  wont  to  call  on  these  evenings 
"  Sinner's  chair "  and  the  **  Seat  of  the  Scornful,"  were 
rather  somnolent,  when  the  most  piercing  and  unearthly 
shrieks  arose  apparently  just  outside  the  windows  in  the 
pleasure  ground,  and  startled  us  all  wide-awake.  At  the 
head  of  the  row  of  servants  sat  our  dear  old  housekeeper 
''  Joney  "  then  the  head-gardener's  wife,  who  had  adopted  a 
child  of  three  years  old,  and  this  evening  had  left  him  fast 
asleep  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  which  was  under  part  of 
the  drawing-room.  Naturally  she  and  all  of  us  supposed 
that ''  Johnny  "  had  wakened  and  was  screaming  on  finding 
himself  alone  ;  and  though  the  outcries  were  not  like  those 
of  a  child,  **  Joney  "  rose  and  hastily  passed  down  the  room 
and  went  to  look  after  her  charge.    To  reach  the  house- 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  193 

keeper's  room  she  necessarily  passed  the  servants'  hall  and 
out  of  it  rushed  the  coachman — a  big,  usually  red-faced 
Englishman,  whom  she  declared  was  on  that  occasion  as 
pale  as  death.  The  next  instant  one  of  the  housemaids,  who 
had  likewise  played  truant  from  prayers,  came  tottering 
down  from  a  bedroom  (so  remote  that  I  have  always 
wondered  how  any  noise  below  the  drawing-room  could 
have  reached  it),  and  sunk  fainting  on  a  chair.  The  little 
boy  meanwhile  was  sleeping  like  a  cherub  in  undisturbed 
repose  in  a  clothes  basket !  What  that  wild  noise  was, — 
heard  by  at  least  two  dozen  people, — ^we  never  learned  and 
somehow  did  not  care  much  to  investigate. 

After  our  visit  at  Moydrum  my  father  and  I  went  to  yet 
other  cousins  at  Garbally;  his  mother's  old  home.  At 
that  time — I  speak  of  more  than  half  a  century  ago, — ^the 
Olancarty  family  was  much  respected  in  Ireland ;  and  the 
household  at  Garbally  was  conducted  on  high  religious 
principles  and  in  a  very  dignified  manner.  It  was  in  the 
Forties  that  the  annual  Sheep  Fair  of  Ballinasloe  was  at  its 
best,  and  something  like  200,000  sheep  were  then  commonly 
herded  at  night  in  Garbally  Park.  The  scene  of  the  Fair 
was  described  as  curious,  but  (like  a  stupid  young  prig, 
as  I  must  have  been)  I  declined  the  place  offered  me  in  one 
of  the  carriages  and  stopped  in  the  house  on  the  plea  of  a 
cold,  but  really  to  enjoy  a  private  hunt  in  the  magnificent 
library  of  which  I  had  caught  a  glimpse.  When  the  various 
parties  came  back  late  in  the  day  there  was  much  talk  of  a 
droll  mishap.  The  Marquis  of  Do  wnshire  of  that  time,  who 
was  stopping  in  the  house,  was  a  man  of  colossal  strength, 
and  rumour  said  he  had  killed  two  men  by  accidental  blows 
intended  as  friendly.  However  this  may  be,  he  was  on  this 
occasion  overthrown  by  sheep/  He  was  standing  in  the 
gangway  between  the  hurdles  in  the  great  fair,  when  an 
immense  flock  of  terrified  animals  rushed  through,  overset 

TOIi.  L  H 


194  CHAPTER  VIL 

him  and  tarampled  him  ander  their  feet.  When  he  came 
home,  laughing  good  humouredly  at  his  disaster,  he  presented 
a  marvelloos  spectacle  with  his  rather  voycmit  light  costume 
of  the  morning  in  a  frightful  pickla  Another  agreeable  man 
in  the  house  was  the  Lord  Devon  of  that  day,  a  very  able 
and  cultivated  man  (whom  I  straightway  interrogated  con- 
cerning Gibbon's  chapter  on  theOourtenays !) ;  and  poor  Lord 
Leitrim,  a  kindly  and  good  Irish  landlord,  afterwards  most 
cruelly  murdered.  There  were  also  the  Ernes  and  Lord 
EnniakiUen  and  many  others  whom  I  have  forgotten,  and  a 
dear  aged  lady ;  the  Marchioness  of  Ormonde.  Hearing  I 
had  a  cold,  she  kindly  proposed  to  treat  me  medically  and 
said :  *'  I  should  advise  you  to  try  Brandy  and  Salt.  For 
my  own  part  I  take  Morrison's  pills  whenever  I  am  ill,  if  I 
cannot  get  hydropathic  baths;  butlhave  a  very  great  opinion 
of  Tar-water.  HoUoway's  ointment  and  pills,  too,  are  ex- 
cellent   My  son,  you  know,  joined  Mr. "  (I  have  for 

gotten  the  name)  *'  to  pay  ^15,000  to  St.  John  Long  for  his 
famous  recipe ;  but  it  turned  out  no  good  when  he  had  it. 
No  1  I  advise  you  decidedly  to  try  brandy  and  salt." 

From  Garbally  we  drove  to  Farsonstown,  where  Lady 
Bosse  was  good  enough  to  welcome  us  to  indulge  my  intense 
longing  to  see  the  great  telescope,  then  quite  recently  erected. 
Lord  Eosse  at  that  time  believed  that,  as  he  had  resolved 
into  separate  stars  many  of  the  nebuhe  which  were  irresolv- 
able by  Herschers  telescope,  there  was  a  presumption  that 
aU  were  resolvable;  and  consequently  that  the  nebular 
hypothesis  must  be  abandoned.  The  later  discovery  of 
gaseous  nebuls  by  the  spectroscope  re-established  the 
theory.  I  was  very  anxious  on  the  subject,  having  pinned 
my  faith  already  on  the  Veetigea  of  Creaiion  (then  a  new 
book),  in  sequence  to  Nichol's  ArehUedure  of  the  Htavmu : 
that  prose-poem  of  scienca  Lord  Bosse  was  infinitely 
indulgent  to  my  girlish  curiosity,  and  took  me  to  see  the 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  196 

prooees  of  polisluDg  the  specmlnm  of  his  second  telescope ; 
a  most  ingenious  piece  of  mechanism  invented  mainlj  by 
himself.  He  also  showed  me  models  which  he  has  made  in 
plaster  of  lunar  craters.  I  saw  the  great  telescope  by  day, 
but,  alas,  when  darkness  came  and  it  was  to  have  been 
ready  for  me  to  look  through  it  and  I  was  trembling  with 
anticipation^  the  butler  came  to  the  drawing-room  door  and 
announced :  ''  A  rainy  night,  my  lord '' !  It  was  a  life-long 
disappointment,  for  we  could  not  stay  another  day  though 
hospitably  pressed  to  do  so ;  and  I  never  had  another  chance. 

Lord  Bosse  had  guessed  already  that  Robert  Chambers  was 
the  author  of  the  Vestiges.  He  explained  to  me  the  reason 
for  the  enormous  mass  of  masonry  on  which  the  seven-foot 
telescope  rested,  by  the  curious  fact  that  even  where  it  stood 
within  his  park,  the  roll  of  a  cart  more  than  two  miles  away, 
outside,  was  enough  to  make  the  ground  tremble  and  to 
disturb  the  observation. 

There  wasa  romantic  story  then  current  in  Ireland  about 
Lord  and  Lady  Eosse.  It  was  said  that,  as  a  young  man,  he 
had  gone  incog,  and  worked  as  a  handicraftsman  in  some  large 
foundry  in  the  north  of  England  to  learn  the  secrets  of 
machine  making.  After  a  time  his  emplo3rer,  considering 
him  a  peculiarly  promising  young  artisan,  invited  him 
occasionally  to  a  Sunday  family  dinner  when  young  Lord 
Parsons,  as  he  then  was,  speedily  fell  in  love  with  his  host's 
daughter.  Observing  what  was  going  on,  the  father  put  a 
veto  on  what  he  thought  would  be  a  mieattianee  for  Miss 
Oieen,  and  the  supposed  artisan  left  lus  employment  and  the 
country ;  but  not  without  receiving  bom.  the  young  lady  an 
assurance  that  she  xetumed  his  attachment.  Shortly  after- 
wards, having  gone  home  and  obtained  his  father,  Lord 
Bosse's  consent,  be  re-appeared  and  now  made  his  proposals 
to  Mr.  Oreen,  ph^e^  in  all  due  form  as  the  heir  of  a  good 
estate  and  an  earldom.     He  was  not  rejected  this  time. 


196  CHAPTER  VII. 

I  tell  this  story  only  as  a  pretty  one  current  when  I  saw 
Lord  and  Lady  Bosse;  a  very  happy  and  united  couple 
with  little  children  who  have  since  grown  to  be  distinguished 
men.    Yeiy  possibly  it  may  be  only  a  myth  ! 

I  never  saw  Archbishop  Whately  except  when  he 
confirmed  me  in  the  church  of  Malahide.  He  was  no 
doubt  a  sincerely  pious  man,  but,  his  rough  and  irreverent 
manner  (intended,  I  believe,  as  a  protest  against  the 
Pecksniffian  tone  then  commonamongevangelioal  dignitaries) 
was  almost  repulsive  and  certainly  startling.  Outside  his 
palace  in  Stephen's  Green  there  was  at  that  time  a  row  of 
short  columns  connected  from  top  to  top  by  heavy  chains 
which  fell  in  festoons  and  guarded  the  gardens  of  the  square. 
Nothing  would  serve  his  Grace  (we  were  told  with  horror 
by  the  spectators)  than  to  go  of  a  morning  after  breakfast 
and  sit  on  these  chains  smoking  his  cigar  as  he  swung 
gently  back  and  forth,  kicking  the  ground  to  gain  impetus. 

On  the  occasion  of  my  confirmation  he  exhibited  one  of 
his  whims  most  unpleasantly  for  me.  This  was,  that  he 
must  actually  touch,  in  his  episcopal  benediction,  the  head^ 
not  merely  the  Aatr,  of  the  kneeling  catechumen.  Unhappily, 
my  maid  had  not  foreseen  this  contingency,  but  had  thought 
she  could  not  have  a  finer  opportunity  for  displaying  her 
skill  in  plaiting  my  redundant  locks;  and  had  built  up 
such  an  edifice  with  plaits  and  pins,  (on  the  part  of  my  head 
which  necessarily  came  under  the  Archbishop's  hand)  that 
he  had  much  ado  to  overthrow  the  samel  He  did  so, 
however,  effectually ;  and  I  finally  walked  back,  through  the 
church  to  my  pew  with  all  my  ek&odwre  hanging  down  in 
disorder,  far  from  '^  admired  "  by  me  or  anybody. 

Of  all  the  phases  of  orthodoxy  I  think  that  of  Whately, — 
well  called  the  Hard  Chwrthy — was  the  last  which  I  could 
have  adopted  at  any  period  of  my  life.  It  was  obviously  his 
view  that  a  chain  of  propositions  might  be  constructed  by 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  197 

iron  logic,  beginning  with  the  record  of  a  mirade  two 
thousand  years  ago  and  ending  with  unavoidable  conversion 
to  the  love  of  Gk>d  and  Man  I 

The  last  person  of  whom  I  shall  speak  as  known  to  me  first 
in  Ireland,  was  that  dear  and  noble  woman,  Fanny  Kemble. 
She  has  not  mentioned  in  her  delightful  Beeorda  how  our  ac- 
quaintance, destined  to  ripen  into  a  life-long  friendship,  began 
at  Newbridge^  but  it  was  in  a  droll  and  characteristic  way. 

Mrs.  Kemble's  friend  ''  H.B."— Harriet  tSt.  Leger— Uved 
at  ArdgiUan  Castle,  eight  Irish  miles  from  Newbridge.  Her 
sister,  the  wife  of  Hon.  and  Bev.  Edward  Taylor  and  mother 
of  the  late  Tory  Whip,  was  my  mother^s  best-liked  neighbour, 
and  at  an  early  age  I  was  taught  to  look  with  respect  on  the 
somewhat  singular  figure  of  Miss  St  Leger.  In  those  days 
any  departure  from  the  conventional  dress  of  the  time  was 
talked  of  as  if  it  were  altogether  the  most  important  fact 
connected  with  a  woman,  no  matter  what  might  be  the 
greatness  of  her  character  or  abilities.  like  her  contem- 
poraries and  fellow  countrywomen,  the  Ladies  of  Llangollen, 
(also  Irish),  Harriet  St.  Leger  early  adopted  a  costume 
consisting  of  a  riding  habit  (in  her  case  with  a  skirt  of 
sensible  length)andablack  beaver  hat.  AU  the  empty-headed 
men  and  women  in  the  county  prated  incessantly  about  these 
inoffensive  garments,  insomuch  that  I  arrived  early  at  the 
conviction  that,  rational  and  convenient  as  such  dress  would 
be,  the  game  was  not  worth  the  candle:  Things  are  altered 
so  far  now  that,  could  dear  Harriet  reappear,  I  believe  the 
universal  comment  on  her  dress  would  rather  be :  ''  How 
sensible  and  befitting  " !  rather  than  the  silly,  *<  How  odd  '' ! 
Anyway  I  imagine  she  must  have  afforded  a  somewhat 
singular  contrast  to  her  ever  magnificent,  not  to  say  gorgeous 
friend  Fanny  Kemble,  when  at  the  great  Exhibition  of  1851, 
they  were  the  observed  of  observers,  sitting  for  a  long  time 
side  by  side  dose  to  the  crystal  fountain. 


«• 


198  CHAPTER  VIL 

Ewy  reader  of  the  ohanning  Reoorda  of  a  CMkood 
and  BBOoUedwnB  of  LaUr  lAfk^  most  have  felt  acxme 
curiofiity  about  the  personality  of  the  iriend  to  whom 
those  letters  of  our  English  Sevign^  were  addressed.  I 
have  before  me  as  I  write  an  excellent  reproduction  in 
platinotjpe  from  a  daguerreotype  of  herself  which  dear 
Harriet  gave  me  some  twenty  years  ago.  The  pale,  kind, 
sad  face  is,  I  think  inezpressihly  touching ;  and  the  woman 
who  wore  it  deserved  all  the  affection  wluch  Eanny  Kemble 
gave  her.  She  was  a  deep  and  angularly  critical  thinker  and 
reader,  and  had  one  tA  the  warmest  hearts  which  ever  beat 
under  a  cold  and  shy  exterior.  The  iridescent  genius  of 
Eanny  Kemble  in  the  prime  of  her  splendid  womanhood,  and 
my  poor  young  soul,  over-burdened  with  thoughts  too  great 
and  difficult  for  me^  were  equaUy  drawn  to  seek  her 
sympathy. 

It  happened  once,  somewhere  in  the  early  Fifties,  that 
Mrs.  Kemble  was  paying  a  visit  to  Miss  St.  Lager  at 
ArdgiUan,  and  we  arranged  that  she  should  bring  her  over 
some  day  to  Newbridge  to  luncheon.  I  was,  of  course, 
prepared  to  receive  my  guest  very  cordially  but,  to  my 
astonishment,  when  Mrs.  Kemble  entered  she  made  me  the 
most  formal  salutation  conceivable  and,  after  being  seated, 
answered  all  my  small  politenesses  in  monosyllables  and  with 
obvious  annoyance  and  disinclination  to  converse  with  me  or 
with  any  of  my  friends  whom  I  presented  to  her.  Something 
was  evidently  frightfully  amiss,  and  Harriet  perceived  it ; 
but  what  could  it  be  ?  What  could  be  done  ?  Happily  the 
gong  sounded  for  luncheon,  and,  my  father  being  absent,  my 
eldest  brother  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Kemble  and  led  her, 
walking  with  more  than  her  usual  stateliness  across  the  two 
halls  to  the  dining-room,  where  he  placed  her,  of  course, 
beside  himself.  I  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  but  I 
heard  afterwards  all  that  occurred.     We  were  a  party  of 


IRELAND  IN  THE  FORTIES.  199 

eighteen,  and  naturaUy  the  long  table  had  a  good  many 
dishes  on  it  in  the  old  fashion.  My  brother  looked  over  it 
and  asked:  "What  will  you  take,  Mrs.  Kemble?  Roast 
fowl  ?  or  galantine  9  or  a  little  Mayonnaise,  or  what  else  1 " 
''Thank  yon,"  replied  Mrs.  Kemble,  ^^ If  there  be  a 
paMoe/*' 

Of  coarse  there  was  a  potatoe — nay,  several ;  but  a  terrible 
ghie  hung  over  us  all  till  Miss  Taylor  hurriedly  called  for 
her  carriage,  and  the  party  drove  off. 

The  moment  they  left  the  door  after  our  formal  farewells, 
Harriet  St.  Leger  (as  -she  afterwards  told  me)  fell  on  her 
friend :  "  Well,  Fanny,  never,  never  will  I  bring  you 
anywhere  again.  How  could  you  behave  so  to  Fanny 
Oobbel" 

''  I  cannot  permit  any  one/'  said  Mrs.  Kemble,  ''  to  invite 
a  number  of  people  to  meet  me  without  having  asked  my 
consent ;  I  do  not  choose  to  be  made  a  gazing-stock  to  the 
county.  Miss  Ck>bbe  had  got  up  a  regular  party  of  all  those 
people^  and  you  could  see  the  room  was  decorated  for  it." 

''  Good  Heavens,  what  are  you  talking  of  ? "  said  Harriet, 
**  those  ladies  and  gentlemen  are  all  her  relations,  stopping 
in  the  house.  She  could  not  turn  them  out  because  you 
were  coming,  and  her  room  is  always  full  of  flowers." 

"  Is  that  really  sof "  said  Mrs.  Kemble,  "  Then  you  shall 
tell  Fanny  Gobbe  that  I  ask  her  pardon  for  my  bad  behaviour, 
and  if  she  will  forgive  me  and  come  to  see  me  in  London, 
/  ioiU  never  behave  badly  to  her  again  9  " 

In  a  letter  of  hers  to  Harriet  St.  Leger  given  to  me  after 
her  death,  I  was  touched  to  read  the  following  reference  to 
this  droll  incident : — 

*<  Bilton  Hotel, 

"  Wed.  9th. 
«I  am  intermpted  by  a  perfect  bundle  of  fragrance  and 
fresh  colour  sent  by  Mias  Oobbe  with  a  note  in  which  I  am 


200  CHAPTER  VIL 

aoTTj  to  say  she  gives  me  very  little  hope  of  aeeing  her  at 
bU  while  I  am  in  Dublin.  This,  as  you  know,  is  a  real 
disappointment  to  me.  I  had  rather  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  and  wished  very  much  to  have  had  some  opportunity 
of  more  intercourse  with  her.  Her  face  when  I  came  to 
talk  to  her  seemed  to  me  keen  and  sweet — a  charming  com- 
bination— and  I  was  so  grateful  to  her  for  not  being  repelled 
by  my  ungracious  demeanour  at  her  house,  that  I  had 
quite  looked  forward  to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  again. 

*'F.  A.  K," 


I  did  go  to  see  her  in  London ;  and  she  kept  her  word,  and 
was  my  dear  and  affectionate  friend  and  bore  many  things 
from  me  with  perfect  good  humour,  for  forty  years ;  including 
(horrible  to  recall !)  my  falling  fast  ajsleep  while  she  was 
reading  Shakespeare  to  Mary  Lloyd  and  me  in  our  drawing- 
room  here  at  Hengwrt  I  Among  her  many  kindnesses  was 
the  gift  of  a  mass  of  her  Correspondence  from  the  beginning 
of  her  theatrical  career  in  1821  to  her  last  years.  She  also 
successively  gave  me  the  MSS.  of  all  her  Records^  but  in  each 
case  I  induced  her  to  take  them  back  and  publish  them  her- 
self. I  have  now,  as  a  priceless  legacy,  a  large  parcel  of  her 
own  letters,  and  five  thick  volumes  of  autograph  letters 
addressed  to  her  by  half  the  celebrated  men  and  women  of 
her  time.  They  testify  uniformly  to  the  admiration,  affection 
and  respect  wherewith, — her  little  foibles  notwithstanding, — 
she  was  regarded  by  three  generationa 


CHAPTEE 
VIII. 


UPROOTED, 


CHAPTER  Vltt 

Upbooted. 

I  DiULW  now  to  the  dofiing  yean  ci  my  life  at  Newbridge, 
after  I  had  published  my  first  book  and  before  my  father 
died.  They  were  happy  and  peaceful  years,  though  gradually 
overshadowed  by  the  sense  that  thelongtenureof  that  beloved 
home  must  soon  end.  It  is  one  of  the  many  perversities  of 
woman's  destiny  that  she  is,  not  only  by  hereditary  instinot 
a  home-making  animal,  but  is  encouraged  to  the  uttermost 
to  centre  all  her  interests  in  her  home;  eveiy  pursuit  which 
would  give  her  anchorage  elsewhere,  (always  excepting 
marriage)  being  more  or  less  under  general  disapproval.  Tet 
when  the  young  woman  takes  thoroughly  to  this  natural 
home-making,  when  she  has,  like  a  plants  sent  her  roots 
down  into  the  cellars  and  her  tendrils  up  into  the  garrets 
and  eveiy  room  bears  the  impress  of  her  personality,  when 
she  glories  in  every  good  picture  on  the  walls  or  bit  of  choice 
china  on  the  tables  and  blushes  for  eveiy  stain  on  the 
carpets,  when,  in  short,  her  home  is,  as  it  should  be, 
her  '^outer  garment,  her  nest,  her  shell,  fitted  to  her 
like  that  of  a  murex,  then,  almost  invariably  comes  to 
her  the  order  to  leave  it  all,  tear  herself  opt  of  it, — 
and  go  to  make  (if  she  can)  some  other  home  elsewhere. 
Supposing  her  to  have  married  early,  and  that  she  is  spared 
the  late  uprooting  from  her  father's  house  at  his  death,  she 
has  usually  to  bear  a  similar  transition  when  she  survives 
her  husband ;  and  in  this  case  often  with  the  failing  health 
and  spirits  of  old  age.  I  do  not  know  how  these  heart- 
breaks are  to  be  spared  to  women  of  the  daas  of  the  daughters 
an4  wives  of  country  gentlemen  or  clergymen  ;  but  they  ar^ 


204  CHAPTER  VIII. 

hard  to  bear.  Perhaps  the  most  fortunate  daughters  (harsh 
as  it  seems  to  say  so)  are  those  whose  fathers  die  while  they 
are  themselves  still  in  full  vigour  and  able  to  begin  a  new 
existence  with  spirit  and  make  new  friends;  as  was  my 
case.  Some  of  my  contemporaries,  whose  fathers  lived  till 
they  were  fifty,  or  even  older,  had  a  bitterer  trial  in  quitting 
their  homes  and  were  never  able  to  start  afresh. 

In  my  last  few  years  at  Newbridge  my  father  and  I  were 
both  cheered  by  the  frequent  presence  of  my  dear  little 
niece,  Helen,  on  whom  he  doted,  and  towards  whom  flowed 
out  the  tenderness  which  had  scarcely  been  allowed  its  free 
course  with  his  own  children.  L*Art  cTHre  Grandph^  is  surely 
the  most  beautiful  of  arts !  When  all  personal  pleasures 
have  pretty  well  died  away  then  begins  the  reflected 
pleasure  in  the  fresh,  innocent  delights  of  the  child ;  a  moon- 
light of  happiness  perhaps  more  sweet  and  tender  than  the 
garish  joys  of  the  noontide  of  life.  To  me,  who  had  never 
lived  in  a  house  with  little  children,  it  brought  a  whole  world 
of  revelations  to  have  this  babe  and  afterwards  her  little 
sister,  in  a  nursery  under  my  supervision  during  their 
mother's  long  illnesses.  I  understood  for  the  first  time  all 
that  a  child  may  be  in  a  woman's  life,  and  how  their  little 
hands  may  pull  our  heartstrings.  My  nieces  were  dear,  good, 
little  babes  then ;  they  are  dear  and  good  women  now ; 
the  comfort  of  my  age,  as  they  were  the  darlings  of  my 
middle  life. 

Having  received  sufficient  encouragement  from  the  succis 
cPeftkne  of  my  Theory  of  IntuUive  Morals^  I  proceeded  now 
to  write  the  first  of  the  three  books  on  Practical  Morah^  with 
which  I  designed  to  complete  the  work.  My  volume  of 
Rdigums  Dviy^  then  written,  has  proved,  however,  the  only 
one  of  the  series  ever  published.  At  a  later  time  I  wrote 
some  chapters  on  Personal  and  on  Social  Duty^  but  was 
dissatisfied  with  them,  and  destroyed  the  MSS. 


UPROOTED.  205 

As  Bdigioua  IhUy  (3rd  edition)  is  still  to  be  had 
(included  by  Mr.  Fisher  XJnwin  in  his  late  re-issue  of  my 
principal  works),  I  need  not  trouble  the  reader  by  any  such 
analysis  of  it  as  I  have  given  of  the  former  volume.  In 
writing  concerning  Rdigioua  Duty  at  the  time,  I  find  in  a 
letter  of  mine  to  Harriet  St.  Leger  (returned  to  me  when  she 
grew  blind),  that  I  spoke  of  it  thus : — 

«  Newbridge,  April  25th,  1857. 
"  Yon  see  I  have,  after  all,  inserted  a  little  preface.  I 
thought  it  necessary  to  explain  the  object  of  the  book, 
lest  it  might  seem  superflaous  where  it  coincides  with 
orthodox  teaching,  and  offensively  daring  where  it  diverges 
from  it.  Your  cousin*8  doubt  about  my  Christiamty  lasting 
till  she  reached  the  end  of  InimUve  Morals^  made  me 
resolve  to  forestall  in  this  case  any  such  danger  of  seemiog 
to  fight  without  showing  my  colours.  You  see  I  have  now 
naUed  them  mast-high.  But  though  I  have  done  this,  I 
cannot  say  that  it  has  been  in  any  way  to  mcJce  converts  to 
my  own  creed  that  I  have  written  this  book.  I  wanted  to 
show  those  who  are  already  Theists,  actually  or  approxi- 
mately, that  Theism  u  something  far  more  than  they  seem 
commonly  to  understand.  I  wanted,  too,  to  show  to  those 
who  have  had  their  historical  faith  shaken,  but  who  still 
cling  to  it  from  the  belief  that  without  it  no  real  religion  is 
possible,  that  they  may  find  all  which  their  hearts  can 
need  in  a  faith  purely  intuitive.  Perhaps  I  ought  rather  to 
say  that  these  objects  have  been  before  me  in  working  at 
my  book.  I  suppose  in  reality  the  impulse  to  such  an 
undertaking  comes  more  simply.  We  think  we  have  found 
some  truths^  and  we  long  to  develop  and  communicate  them. 
We  do  not  sit  down  and  say '  Such  and  such  sort  of  people 
want  such  and  such  a  book.    I  wiU  try  and  write  it.' " 

The  plan  of  this  book  is  simple.  After  discussing  in  the 
first  chapter  the  Canon  o/Rdigiaue  Duiy^  which  I  define  to 
be  '*  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  Ood  with  all  thine  heart 
and  soul  and  strength," — ^I  discuss^  in  the  next  chapter, 


206  CHAPTER  VIIL 

Reliffuma  Ofmees  against  that  Law, — BUfipkemy,  Hypocrisy, 
Perjury,  Ao.  The  third  chapter  deals  with  Religious  FavJUa 
(failures  of  duty)  such  as  Thanklessness,  Irreverence, 
Worldliness,  ^  The  fourth,  which  constitutes  the  main 
hulk  of  the  hook,  consists  of  what  are  practically  six  Sermons 
on  Thanksgiving,  Adoration,  Prayer,  Repentance,  Faith, 
and  Self-Oonseoration. 

The  book  has  been  very  much  liked  by  some  readers, 
especially  the  chapter  on  Thanksffiving^  which  I  reprinted 
later  in  a  tiny  voluma  It  is  strange  in  these  days  of 
pessimism  to  read  it  again.  I  am  glad  I  wrote  it  when  my 
heart  was  unchilled,  my  sight  undimmed,  by  the  frozen  fog 
which  has  been  hanging  over  us  for  the  last  two  decades. 
An  incident  connected  with  this  chapter  touched  me  deeply. 
My  father  in  his  last  illness  permitted  it  to  be  read  to  him. 
Having  never  before  listened  to  anything  I  had  written,  and 
having,  even  then,  no  idea  who  wrote  the  book,  he  expressed 
pleasure  and  sympathy  with  it,  especially  with  a  passage  in 
which  I  speak  of  the  hope  of  being,  in  the  future  life,  ^'  young 
again  in  all  that  makes  childhood  beautiful  and  holy."  It 
was  a  pledge  to  me  of  how  near  our  hearts  truly  were,  under 
apparently  the  world-wide  differences. 

My  father  was  now  sinking  slowly  beneath  the  weight  of 
years  and  of  frequent  returns  of  the  malarial  fever  of 
India, — ^in  those  days  called  *'  Ague," — ^which  he  had  caught 
half  a  century  before  in  the  Mahratta  wars.  I  have  said 
something  already  of  his  powerful  character,  his  upright, 
honourable,  fearless  nature;  his  strong  sense  of  Duty. 
Of  the  lower  sort  of  faults  and  vices  he  was  absolutely 
incapable.  No  <»ie  who  knew  him  could  imagine  him  as 
saying  a  false  or  prevaricating  word;  of  driving  a  hard 
bargain;  of  eating  or  drinking  beyond  the  stricfcest  rules  of 
temperanee ;  least  of  all,  of  faithlessness  in  thought  or  deed 
to  his  wife  or  her  memory.     His  mistakes  and  errors,  such 


UPROOTED.  207 

ftBthey  were,  arose  solely  from  a  fiery  temper  and  a  despotio 
will,  oouriflhed  rather  than  checked  by  his  ideas  oonoeniing 
the  rights  of  parents,  and  husbands,  masters  and  employers ; 
and  from  his  narrow  religioas  creed.  Sach  as  he  was,  evary 
one  honoured,  some  feared,  and  many  loved  him. 

Before  I  pass  on  to  detail  more  of  the  incidents  of  my  own 
life,  I  shall  here  naxrate  all  that  I  can  recall  of  his 
descriptions  of  the  most  important  occurrence  in  his  career — 
the  battle  of  Assaye. 

In  Mr.  Qeorge  Hooper^s  delightful  life  of  Wellington 
{Enfiiah  Men  of  Action  Senss)  there  is  a  spirited  account  of 
that  battle,  whereby  British  supremacy  in  India  was 
practically  secured.  Mr.  Hooper  speaks  enthusiastically  of 
the  behaviour,  in  that  memorable  fight,  of  the  19th  light 
Dragoons,  and  of  its  **  splendid  charge,"  which,  with  the 
** irresistible  sweep"  of  the  78th,  proved  the  ''decisive 
stroke"  of  the  great  day.    He  describes  this  charge  thus : — 

....  *'The  piquets,  or  leading  troops  on  the  right  wece 
by  mistake  led  off  towards  Assays,  uncovering  the  aeoond 
line,  and  falling  themsdvea  into  a  deadly  converging  fire. 
The  Seventy-Fourth  followed  the  piquets  into  the  cannonade, 
and  a  great  gap  was  thus  made  in  the  array.  The  enemy's 
hone  rode  up  to  ohaige,  and  so  serious  was  the  peril  on  the 
right  that  the  l^eteenth  Light  Dragoons  and  a  native 
cavalry  regiment  were  obliged  to  charge  at  once.  Eager 
for  tiM  fray,  they  galloped  up,  cheering  as  they  went,  and 
cheered  by  the  wounded ;  and|  riding  home,  even  to  the 
batteries,  saved  the  remnants  of  the  piquets  and  of  the 
Seventy-Fourth.**    (P.  76.) 

Uy  iiather,  then  a  comet  in  tha  regiment^  earned  the 
regiaental  flag  of  the  Nineteenth  through  that  charge^  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  day ;  the  nop-commissioned  officer  whose 
duty  it  was  to  bear  it  having  been  struck  dead  at  the  first 
onseti  and  my  father  saving  the  flag  from  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  Mahrattas. 


208  CHAPTER  VIIL 

« 
The  Nineteenth  light  Dragoons  of  that  epoch  wore  a  grey 

uniform,  and  heavy  steel  helmets  with  large  red  plumes,  which 

caused  the  Mahrattas  to  nickname  them  '^  The  Red  Headed 

Eascals."    On  their  shoulders  were  simple  epaulettes  made 

of  chains  of  some  common  white  metal,  one  of  which  I 

retrieved  from  a  heap  of  rubbish  fifty  years  after  Assaye,  and 

still  wear  as  a  bracelet.    The  men  could  scarcely  have 

deserved  the  name  of  Light  if  many  of  them  weighed,  as  did 

my  father  at  18,  no  less  than  18  stone,  inclusive  of  his  saddle 

and  accoutrements !    The  fashion  of  long  hair,  tied  in  '^  pig 

tails,''  still  prevailed ;  and  my  father  often  laughingly  boasted 

that  the  mass  of  his  fair  hair,duly  tied  with  black  ribbon,  had 

descended  far  enough  to  reach  his  saddle  and  to  form  an 

efficient  protection  from  sabre  cuts  on  his  back  and  shoulders. 

Mr.  Hooper  estimates  the  total  number  of  the  British  army  at 

Assaye  at  5,000;  my  father  used  to  speak  of  it  as  about  4,500; 

while  the  cavairy  alone,  of  the  enemy  were  some  30,000. 

The  infantry  were  seemingly  innumerable,  and  altogether 

covered  the  plain.    There  was  also  a  considerable  force  of 

artillery  on  Sdndias'  side,  and,  commanding  them,  was  a 

French  officer  whose  name  my  father  repeatedly  mentioned, 

but  which  I  have  unfortunately  forgotten.*    The  handful  of 

*  Mr.  Hntton,  whose  exceedingly  interesting  and  brilliant  L\fif 
qf  the  Mdrgueu  tf  WeUe$ley  (in  the  "Bulers  of  India**  aeiiqi) 
includes  an  acoonnt  of  the  whole  campaign,  has  been  so  kind  as 
to  endeavour  to  Identify  this  Frenchman  for  me,  and  tells  me 
that  in  a  note  to  Wellington's  De^atehes,  VoL  II.,  p.  328,  it  is 
given  as  Ihipont ;  Wellington  speaking  of  him  as  commanding  a 
'*  brigade  of  infantry."  My  father  certainly  spoke  of  him  or 
some  other  Frenchman  as  commanding  Sdndias'  artillery. 
Mr.  Hatton  has  also  been  good  enough  to  refer  me  to  Orant 
Dnffs  Hiitory  qf  the  Mahrattae,  Vol  UL,  p.  2i0,  with  regard  to 
the  number  of  British  troops  engaged  at  Assaye,  He  (Mr.  Orant 
Duff)  says  the  handful  of  British  troops  did  not  exceed  4,500  as 
my  father  also  estimated  them. 


UPROOTED.  209 

English  troops  had  done  a  full  day's  march  under  an  Indian 
sun  before  the  battle  began.  When  the  Nineteenth  received 
orders  to  charge  they  had  been  sitting  long  on  their 
horses  in  a  position  which  left  them  exposed  to  the  ricodhst 
of  the  shot  of  the  enemy,  and  the  strain  on  the  discipline  of 
the  men,  as  one  after  another  was  picked  ofF,  had  been 
enormous ;  not  to  prevent  them  from  rebreaJbing — ^they  had 
no  such  idea, — but  tostop  them  from  charging  without  orders. 
At  last  the  word  of  command  to  charge  came  from  Wellesley, 
and  the  whole  regiment  responded  with  a  roar  !  Then  came 
the  fire  of  death  and  men  and  officers  fell  all  around,  as  it 
seemed  almost  every  second  man.  Among  the  rest,  as  I 
have  said,  the  colour- sergeant  was  struck  down,  and  my 
father,  as  was  his  duty,  seized  the  flag  from  the  poor  f elloVs 
hands  as  he  fell  and  carried  it,  waving  in  front  of  the 
regiment  up  to  the  guns  of  the  enemy. 

In  one  or  other  of  the  repeated  charges  which  the 
Nineteenth  continued  to  make  even  after  their  commanding 
officer,  Colonel  Maxwell,  had  been  killed,  my  father  found 
himself  in  hand  to  hand  conflict  with  the  French  Qeneral 
who  was  in  command  of  the  Mahratta  artillery.  He  wore 
an  ordinary  uniform  and  my  father,  having  struck  him  with 
his  sabre  at  the  back  of  his  neck,  expected  to  see  terrible 
results  from  the  blow  of  a  hand  notorious  all  his  life 
for  its  extraordinary  strength.  But  fortunately  the 
General  had  prudently  included  a  coat  of  armour  under  his 
uniform ;  and  the  blow  only  resulted  in  a  considerable  dent 
in  the  blade  of  my  father's  sabre ;  a  dent  which  (in  Biblical 
language)  *'  may  be  seen  unto  this  day,"  where  the  weapon 
hangs  in  the  study  at  Newbridge. 

At  another  period  of  this  awful  battle  the  young  Comet 

dismounted  beside  a  stream  to  drink,  and  to  allow  his  horse 

to  do  the  same.    While  so  occupied,  Colonel  Wellesley  came 

up  to  follow  his  example,  and  they  conversed  for  a  few 

VOL.  I.  o 


210  CHAPTER  VIIL 

minutes  while  dipping  their  hands  and  faces  in  the  brook  (or 
river).  As  they  did  so,  there  slowly  oozed  down  upon  them, 
trickling  through  the  water,  a  streamlet  of  blood.  Of  course 
they  both  turned  away  in  horror  and  remounted  to  return 
to  the  battla 

At  last  the  tremendous  struggle  was  over.  An  army  of 
4,500  or  5,000  tired  English  troops,  had  routed  five  times  as 
many  horsemen  and  perhaps  twenty  times  as  many  infantry 
of  the  warlike  Mahrattas.  The  field  was  dear  and  the 
English  flag  waved  over  the  English  Marathon. 

After  this  the  poor,  wearied  soldiers  were  compelled  to 
ride  back  ten  miles  to  camp  for  the  night ;  and  when  they 
reached  their  ground  and  dismounted,  many  of  them — my 
father  among  the  rest — fell  on  the  earth  and  slept  whera 
they  lay.  Next  morning  they  marched  back  to  the  field  of 
Assaye  and  the  scene  which  met  their  eyes  was  one  which 
no  lapse  of  years  could  efface  from  memory.  The  pomp  and 
glory  and  joy  of  victory  were  past ;  the  horror  of  it  was 
before  them  in  mangled  corpses  of  men  and  horses,  over 
which  hung  clouds  of  flies  and  vultures.  Fourteen  ofllcers  of 
his  own  regiment,  whose  last  meal  on  earth  he  had  shared  in 
convivial  merriment,  my  father  saw  buried  together  in  one 
grave.  Then  the  band  of  the  regiment  played  "  J^  Rase 
Tree**  and  the  men  marched  away  with  set  faces.  Long 
years  afterwards  I  happened  to  play  that  old  air  on  the  piano, 
but  my  father  stopped  me,  "  Do  not  play  that  tune,  pray  1 
I  cannot  bear  the  memories  it  brings  to  me." 

After  Assaye  my  father  fought  at  Argaon  (or  Argaum),  a 
battle  which  Mr.  Turner  describes  as  "  even  more  decisive 
than  the  last**;  and  on  December  14th  he  joined  in  the 
terrific  storming  of  the  great  fortress  of  Qawiljarh,  with 
which  the  war  in  the  Deccan  terminated.  He  received 
medals  for  Assaye  and  Argaum,  just  fifty  years  after  those 
battles  were  fought ! 


UPROOTED.  211 

After  bis  return  from  India,  mj  father  remained  at  his 
tnother's  house  in  Bath  till  1809,  when  he  married  mj 
dear  mother,  then  living  with  her  guardians  close  bj,  at 
29,  Boyal  Orescent ;  and  brought  her  to  Newbridge,  where 
thej  both  lived,  as  I  have  described,  with  few  and  short 
interruptions  till  she  died  in  October,  1847,  and  he  in 
November,  1857.  For  all  that  half  century  he  acted 
nobly  the  part  to  which  he  was  called,  of  landlord, 
magistrate  and  head  of  a  family.  There  was  nothing  in 
him  of  the  ideal  Irish,  fox-hunting,  happy-go-lucky,  much 
indebted  Squire.  There  never  was  a  year  in  his  life  in 
which  every  one  of  his  bills  was  not  settled.  His  books, 
piled  on  his  study  table,  showed  the  regular  payment,  week 
by  week,  of  all  his  labourers  for  fifty  years.  No  quarter  day 
passed  without  every  servant  in  the  house  receiving  his,  or 
her  wages.  So  far  was  Newbridge  from  a  Oastle  Rackrent 
that  though  much  in  it  of  the  furniture  and  decorations 
belonged  to  the  previous  century,  everything  was  kept  in 
perfect  order  and  repair  in  the  house  and  in  the  stables,  coach- 
houses and  beautiful  old  garden.  Punctuality  reigned  under 
the  old  soldier's  r^me ;  clocks  and  bells  and  gongs  sounded 
regularly  for  prayers  and  meals;  and  dinner  was  served 
sharply  tothe  moment.  I  should  indeed  be  at  a  loss  to  say 
in  what  respect  my  father  betrayed  his  Anglo-Irish  raoOi  if  it 
were  not  his  high  spirit. 

At  last,  and  very  soon  after  the  photograph  which  I  am 
inserting  in  this  book  was  taken,  the  long,  good  life  drew  to 
its  end  in  peaca  I  have  found  a  letter  which  I  wrote  to 
Harriet  St.  Leger  a  day  or  two  after  his  u'eath,  and  I  will  her^ 
transcribe  part  of  it,  rather  than  narrate  the  event  afresh. 

«  Nov.  14tb,  1867. 
''  Dearest  Harriet, 

**My  poor  father's   BufEerings   are    over.     He   died   on 
Wednesday  evening,  without  the   least  pain   or  stmgglo, 


A 


212  CHAPTER  VIII. 

having  sank  gradually  into  an  unoonacioiu  state  dnoe 
Sunday  morning.  At  all  eFenta  it  proved  a  moat  merciful 
olofle  to  hia  long  sufferings,  for  he  never  seemed  even  aware 
of  the  terrible  state  into  which  the  poor  limbs  fell,  but 
became  weaker  and  weaker,  and  as  the  mortification 
advanced,  died  away  as  if  in  the  gentlest  sleep  he  had  known 
for  many  a  day.  It  is  all  very  merciful,  I  can  feel 
nothing  elsey  though  it  is  very  sad  to  have  had  no  parting 
words  of  blessing,  such  as  I  am  sure  he  would  have  given 
me.  All  those  he  loved  best  were  near  him.  He  had  Dotie 
till  the  last  day  of  his  consciousness,  and  the  little  thing 
continually  asked  afterwards  to  go  to  his  study,  and 
enquired,  'Grandpa  'seep?'  When  he  had  ceased  to 
speak  at  all  comprehensibly,  the  morning  before  he  died 
he  pointed  to  her  picture,  and  half  smiled  when  I  brought 
it  to  him.  Poor  old  father!  He  is  free  now  from  all  his 
miseries — gone  home  to  God  after  his  long,  long  life  of  good 
and  honour  !  Fifty  years  he  has  lived  as  master  here.  Who 
but  God  knows  all  the  kind  and  generous  actions  he  has 
done  in  that  half  century !  To  the  very  last  he  completed 
everything,  paying  his  labourers  and  settling  his  books  on 
Saturday ;  and  we  find  all  his  arrangements  made  in  the  most 
perfect  and  thoughtful  way  for  everybody.  There  was  a 
letter  left  for  me.  It  only  contained  a  £100  note  and  the 
words,  "  The  last  token  of  ^e  love  and  affection  of  a  father  to 
his  daughter.*  .  .  .  .  '  He  is  now  looking  so  noble  and  happy, 
I  might  say,  so  handsome ;  his  features  seem  so  glorified 
by  death,  that  it  does  one  good  to  go  and  sit  beside  him.  I 
never  saw  Death  look  so  little  terriblOi  Would  that  the 
poor  form  could  lie  there,  ever!  The  grief  will  be  far 
worse  after  to-day,  when  we  shall  see  it  for  the  last  time. 
Jessie  has  made  an  outline  of  the  face  as  it  is  now,  very 
like.  How  wonderful  and  blessed  is  this  glorifying  power 
of  death  ;  taking  away  the  lines  of  age  and  weak  distension 
of  muscles,  and  leaving  only,  as  it  would  seem,  the  true 
fiuse  of  the  man  as  he  was  beneath  all  surface  weaknesses ; 
the  '  garment  l^  the  soul  laid  by '  smoothed  out  and  folded ! 
My  cousins  and  Jessie  and  I  all  feel  very  much  how  blessedly 


UPROOTED.  213 

this  face  ipeakB  to  ub  ;  how  it  is  not  him^  bat  a  token 
of  what  he  ii  now.  I  grieve  that  I  was  not  more  to  him, 
that  I  did  not  better  win  his  love  and  do  more  to  deserve 
it;  bnt  even  this  sorrow  has  its  comfort  Perhaps  he 
knows  now  that  with  all  my  heart  I  did  feel  the  deepest 
tenderness  for  his  sufferings  and  respect  for  his  great 
virtues.  At  all  events  the  wall  of  creed  has  fallen  down 
from  between  oar  seals  for  ever,  and  I  believe  that  was  the 
one  great  obstacle  which  I  coald  never  overthrow  entirely. 
Forbearing  as  he  proved  himaelfy  it  was  never  forgotten. 

Now  aU  that  divided  as  is  over It  seems  all  very 

dream-like  jast  now,  long  as  we  have  thonght  of  it,  and  I 
know  the  waking  will  be  a  terrible  pang  when  all  is  over 
and  I  have  left  everything  round  which  my  heart  roots  have 
twined  in  five  and  thirty  years.  Bat  I  don*t  fear— how  can 
I,  when  my  ntmost  hopes  could  not  have  pointed  to  an  end 
so  happy  as  God  has  given  to  my  poor  old  father? 
Everything  is  i^iercifal  aboat  it — even  to  the  time  when  we 
were  all  together  here,  and  when  I  am  neither  yonng 
enoagh  to  need  protection,  or  old  enough  to  feel  diminished 
energies.    •    .    .    • ' 

I  carried  out  my  long  formed  resolutionf  of  course,  and 
started  on  my  pilgrimage  just  three  weeks  after  my  father's 
death.  Leaving  Newbridge  was  the  worst  wrench  of  my 
life.  The  home  of  my  childhood  and  youth,  of  which  I  had 
been  mistress  for  nineteen  years,  for  every  comer  of  which 
I  had  cared,  and  wherein  there  was  not  a  room  without  its 
tender  associations, — it  seemed  almost  impossible  to  drag 
myself  away.  To  strip  my  pretty  bedroom  of  its  pictures 
and  books  and  ornaments,  many  of  them  my  mother's  gifts, 
and  my  mother's  work ;  to  send  off  my  harp  to  be  sold ; 
and  make  over  to  my  brother  my  private  possessions  of 
ponies  and  carriage, — (luckily  my  dear  dog  was  dead,) — 
and  take  leave  of  all  the  dear  old  servants  and  village  people, 
formed  a  whole  series  of  pangs.    I  remember  feeling  a 


214  CHAPTER   VIIL 

distinct  i^egret  and  smiling  at  myself  for  doing  so,  when  T 
locked  for  the  last  time  the  hig,  old-fashioned  tea-chest  out 
of  which  I  had  made  the  famOy  breakfast  for  twenty  years. 
Then  came  the  last  morning  and  as  I  drove  out  of  the  gates 
of  Newbridge  I  felt  I  was  leaving  behind  me  all  and 
everything  in  the  world  which  I  had  loved  and  cherished. 

I  was  going  also,  it  most  be  said,  not  only  from  a  family 
drcle  to  entire  solitude,  but  also  from  comparative  wealth  to 
poverty.  Considering  the  interests  of  my  eldest  brother  as 
paramount,  and  the  seriousness  of  his  charge  of  keeping  up 
the  house  and  estate,  my  father  left  me  but  a  veiy  small 
patrimony;  amounting,  at  the  rate  of  interest  then  obtainable, 
to  a  trifle  over  X200  a  year.  For  a  woman  who  had  always 
had  every  possible  service  rendered  to  her  by  a  regiment  of 
well-trained  servants,  and  had  had  ^£1 30  a  year  pocket-money 
since  she  left  school,  it  must  be  confessed  that  this  was  a 
narrow  provision.  My  father  intended  me  to  continue  to  live 
at  Newbridge  with  my  brother  and  sister-in-law ;  but  such  a 
plan  was  entirely  contrary  to  my  view  of  what  my  life  should 
thenceforth  become,  and  I  accepted  my  poverty  cheerfully 
enough,  with  the  help  of  a  little  ready  money  wherewith  to 
start  on  my  travels.  I  cut  off  half  my  hair,  being  totally 
unable  to  grapple  with  the  whole  without  a  maid,  and  faced 
the  future  with  the  advantage  of  the  great  calm  which  follows 
any  immediate  concern  with  Death.  While  that  Shadow 
hangs  over  our  heads  we  perceive  but  dimly  the  thorns  and 
pebbles  on  our  road. 

A  week  after  leaving  Ireland  I  spent  one  night  with 
Harriet  St.  Leger  in  lodgings  which  she  and  her  friend.  Miss 
Dorothy  Wilson,  occupied  on  the  Marina  at  St.  Leonard's. 

When  I  had  gone  to  my  room  rather  late  that  evening,  I 
opened  my  window  and  looked  out  for  the  last  time  before 
my  exile,  on  an  English  scene.  There  was  the  line  of  friendly 
lampe  dose  by,  but  beyond  it  the  sea,  dark  as  pitch  on  that 


UPROOTED.  216 

December  night,  was  only  revealed  by  the  sound  of  the  slow 
waves  breaking  sullenly  on  the  beach  beneath.  It  was  like  a 
Uack  wall  before  me ;  the  sea  and  sky  undistinguishable. 
I  thought :  '*  To-morrow  I  shall  go  out  into  that  darkness  ! 
How  like  to  death  is  this ! '' 


CHAPTER 


IX. 


LONG  JOURNEY. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
Long  Joxtbnbt. 

Ths  joamqr  which  I  undertook  when  my  home  datieB 
ended  at  the  death  of  my  father,  would  be  considered  a  very 
moderate  excursion  in  these  latter  days,  but  in  1857  it  was 
still  accounted  somewhat  of  an  enterprise  for  a  "lone  woman." 
When  I  told  my  friends  that  I  was  going  to  Egypt  and 
Jerusalem,  they  said :  *'  Ah,  you  will  get  as  far  as  Home  and 
Naples,  and  that  will  be  very  interesting ;  but  you  will  find 
too  many  difficulties  in  the  way  of  going  any  further," 
"  When  I  say  "  (I  replied)  "  that  I  am  going  to  Egypt  and 
Jerusalem,  I  mean  that  to  Egypt  and  Jerusalem  I  shall  go." 
And  so,  as  it  proved,  a  wilful  woman  had  her  way ;  and  I 
came  back  after  a  year  with  the  ever-delightful  privilege  of 
observing :  "  I  told  you  so. " 

I  shall  not  dream  of  dragging  the  reader  again  over  the 
weU-wom  ground  at  the  slow  pace  of  a  writer  of  "  Impresrioru 
de  Voyage."  The  best  of  my  reminiscenoee  were  given  to 
the  world,  in  Frcuer'a  Magazine,  and  reprinted  in  my  CiHea  of 
the  Paetf  before  there  was  yet  a  prospect  of  a  railway  to 
Jerusalem  except  in  Martin's  picture  of  the  "  End  of  the 
World  " ;  or  of  a  '^  Service  iTomnibua"  over  the  wild  solitudes  of 
Lebanon,  where  I  struggled  'mid  snows  and  torrents  which 
nearly  whelmed  me  and  my  horse  in  destruction.  I  rejoice 
to  think  that  I  saw  those  holy  and  wonderful  lands  of 
Palestine  and  Egypt  while  Cook's  tourists  were  yet  unborn, 
and  Cairo  had  only  one  small  English  hotel  and  one  soUtary 
wheel  carriage;  and  the  solemn  gaze  of  the  Sphinx 
encountered  no  Golf-gamee  on  the  desert  sands. 


220  CHAPTER  IX, 

My  proceedings  were  very  much  like  those  of  certain  birds 
of  the  farmyard  (associated  particularly  with  Michaelmas), 
who  very  rarely  are  seen  to  rise  on  the  wing  but  when  they 
are  once  incited  to  do  so,  are  wont  to  take  a  very  wide  circle 
in  their  flight  before  they  come  back  to  the  bam  door  I 

Paris,  Marseilles,  Borne,  Naples,  Messina,  Malta,  Alexan- 
dria, Cairo,  Jaffa,  Jerusalem,  Bethlehem,  Hebron,  Dead  Sea, 
Jordan,  Beyrout,  Lebanon,  Baalbec,  Cyprus,  Bhodes,  Smyrna, 
Athens,  Constantinople,  Cape  Matapan,  Corfu,  Trieste, 
Adelsberg,  Venice,  Florence,  Milan,  Lucerne,  Geneva, 
Wiesbaden,  Antwerp,  London — such  was  my  **  swoop," 
accomplished  in  11  months  and  at  a  cost  of  only  X400.  To 
say  that  I  brought  home  a  crop  of  new  ideas  would  be  a 
small  way  of  indicating  the  whole  harvest  of  them  wherewith 
I  returned  laden.  There  were  (I  think  I  may  summarise), 
as  the  results  of  such  a  journey,  the  following  great  additions 
to  my  mental  stock. 

First.  A  totally  fresh  conception  of  the  glory  and  beauty 
of  Nature.  When  crossing  the  Channel  I  fell  into  talk  with 
^  charming  old  lady  and  told  her  how  I  was  looking  forward 
to  seeing  the  great  pictures  and  buildings  of  Italy.  *'  Ah,'' 
she  said,  "  but  there  is  Italian  N<Uure  to  be  seen  also.  Do 
not  miss  it,  looking  only  at  works  of  art.  /  go  to  Italy  to 
see  it  much  more  than  the  galleries  and  churches.''  I  was 
very  much  astonished  at  this  remark,  but  I  came  home  after 
some  months  spent  in  a  viUa  on  Bellosguardo  entirely 
converted  to  her  view.  Travellers  there  are  who  weary 
their  feet  and  strain  their  eyes  till  they  can  no  longer  see  or 
receive  impressions  from  the  miles  of  painted  canvas,  the 
regiments  of  statues,  and  the  streets  of  palaces  and  churches 
wherewith  Italy  abounds ;  yet  have  never  spent  a  day  riding 
over  the  desolate  Campagna  with  thefar  off  Apennines  closing 
the  horizon,  or  enjoyed  nights  of  paradise,  sitting  amid  the 
cypresses  and  the  garlanded  vines,  with  the  starsoverhead,  the 


LONG  JOURNEY.  1»1 

nightingales  singing,  andthefirefliesdartingaroundamongthe 
Eoae  de  Maggio,  Such  travellers  maj  come  back  to  England 
proud  of  having  verified  every  line  of  Murray  on  the  spot, 
yet  they  have  failed  to  '*  see  Italy  "  altogether.  Never  shall 
I  forget  the  revelation  of  loveliness  of  the  iBgean  and  Ionian 
seas,  of  the  lower  slopes  of  Lebanon,  and  of  the  Acropolis  of 
Athens,  seen,  as  I  saw  it  firsts  at  sunrise.  But  when  my 
heaviest  journeys  were  done  and  I  paused  and  rested  in 
Villa  Niocolini,  with  Florence  below  and  the  Yal  d'  Amo 
before  me,  I  felt  as  if  the  beauty  of  the  world,  as  I  then  and 
there  saw  it,  were  joy  enough  for  a  lifetime.  The  old  lines 
(I  know  not  whose  they  are)  kept  ringing  in  my  ears . — 

**  And  they  shall  summer  high  in  bliss 
Upon  the  hiUs  of  God." 

I  shall  quote  here  some  verses  which  I  wrote  at  that  time, 
as  they  described  the  scene  in  which  I  lived  and  revelled. 

THE  FE8TA  OF  THE  WORLD. 

A  Princess  came  to  a  southern  strand. 

Over  a  snmmer  sea ; 

And  the  sky  smiled  down  on  the  laughing  land. 

For  that  land  was  Italy. 

The  fruit  trees  bent  their  laden  boughs 
O'er  the  fields  with  harvest  gold. 
And  the  rich  vines  wreathed  from  tree  to  treCi 
Like  garlands  in  temples  old. 

And  over  all  fell  the  glad  sunlight, 
So  warm,  so  bright,  so  clear  I 
The  earth  shone  out  like  an  emerald  set 
In  the  diamond  atmosphere. 

Then  down  to  greet  that  lady  sweet 
Came  the  Duke  from  his  palace  hall : 
**  I  thank  thee,  gentle  Sire/'  she  cried« 
"  For  thy  princely  festival." 


222  CBAPTER  IX. 

**  For  honoured  gaests  have  towns  ere  now 
Been  decked  right  royally ; 
But  thy  whole  land  is  garlanded 
One  bower  of  bloom  for  me  1 " 

Then  smiled  the  Duke  at  the  lady's  thought) 
And  the  thanks  he  had  lightly  won ; 
For  Nature's  eternal  Festa-day 
She  deemed  for  her  alone  I 

A  Poet  stood  by  the  Princess's  side ; 
**  O  lady  laise  thine  eye, 
The  Qiver  of  this  great  Festival, 
He  dwelleth  in  yon  blue  sky. 

«  Thy  kinsman  Prince  hath  welcomed  thee, 
But  God  hath  His  world  arrayed 
Not  more  for  thee  than  yon  beggar  old 
Who  sleeps  'neath  the  ilex  shade. 

*^  His  sun  doth  shine  on  the  peasant's  fields, 
His  ndn  on  his  vineyard  pour, 
His  flowers  bloom  by  the  worn  wayside 
And  creep  o'er  the  cottage  door. 

**  For  each,  for  all  is  a  welcome  given 
And  spread  the  world's  great  feast ; 
And  the  King  of  Kings  is  the  loving  Host 
And  each  child  of  man  a  guest** 

The  beauty  of  Switzerland  has  at  no  time  touched  me  as 
that  of  Italy  has  always  done.  There  is  something  in  the 
sharp,  hard  atmosphere  of  Switzerland  (and  I  may  add  in  the 
sharp,  hard  characters  of  the  Swiss)  which  disenchants  me  in 
the  grandest  scenes. 

The  second  thing  one  learns  in  a  journey  like  mine  is,  of 
course,  the  wondrous  achievements  of  human  Art, — ^Temples 

*  The  mistake  recorded  in  these  little  verses  was  made  by  a 
daughter  of  Louis  Philippe  when  visiting  her  unde,  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Lucca.  The  incident  was  narrated  to  me  by  the 
sculpturess,  Mdlle.  FeUcie  Fauveau,  attendant  on  the  Duohesse  de 
Beni. 


LONG  JOURNEY.  223 

and  Ohnrchfls,  fountaiDS  and  obelisksy  pyramids  and  stataes 
and  piotares  withont  end.  But  on  this  head  I  need  say 
nothing.  Enough  has  heen  said  and  to  spaxe  by  those  far 
more  competent  than  I  to  write  of  it. 

lAstly,  there  \b  a  thing  which  I,  at  all  events,  learned  by 
knocking  about  the  world.  It  is  the  enormous  amount  of 
pure  human  good'tutkure  which  is  to  be  found  almost  every- 
where. I  should  weary  the  reader  to  tell  aU  the  little 
kindnesses  done  to  me  by  fellow-passengers  in  the  railways 
and  steamers,  and  by  the  Captains  of  the  vessels  in  which  I 
sailed ;  and  of  the  trouble  which  strangers  took  to  help  me 
out  of  my  small  difficulties.  Of  course  men  do  not  meet — 
because  they  do  not  want^ — sueh  services ;  and  women,  who 
travel  with  men,  or  even  two  or  three  together,  seldom  invite 
them.  But  for  viewing  human  nature  en  beau^  commend  me 
to  a  long  journey  by  a  woman  of  middle  age,  of  no  beauty, 
and  travelling  as  cheaply  as  possible,  alona 

I  believe  the  Fbychical  Society  has  started  a  theory  that 
when  places  where  crimes  have  been  committed  are  ever 
after  **  haunted  "  the  apparitions  are  not  exactly  good,  old- 
fashioned  real  ghosts,  if  I  may  use  such  an  expression,  but 
some  sort  of  atmospheric  photographs  (the  term  is  mj  own) 
left  by  the  parties  concerned,  or  sent  telepathicallj  from  their 
present  habUa4  (wherever  that  may  be)  to  the  scene  of  their 
earthly  suffering  or  wickedness.  The  hypothesis,  of  course, 
relieves  us  from  the  very  unpleasant  surmise  that  the  actual 
soul  of  the  victims  of  assassination  and  robbery  may  have 
nothing  better  to  do  in  a  future  life  than  to  stand  guard 
perpetually  at  the  dark  and  dank  comers,  ceUars,  and  bottoms 
of  stone  staircases,  where  they  were  cruelly  done  to  death 
fifty  or  a  hundred  years  before ;  or  to  loaf  like  detectives 
about  the  spots  where  their  jewelry  and  cash*bozes  (so  useful 
and  important  to  a  disembodied  spirit !)  lie  concealed.  But 
the  atmospheric  photograph  or  magic-lantern  theory,  what- 


224  CHAPTER  IX. 

ever  truth  it  may  hold,  exactly  answers  to  a  sense  which  I 
should  think  all  my  readers  must  have  experienced,  as  I  have 
done,  in  certain  houses  and  cities ;  a  sense  as  if  the  crimes 
which  had  been  committed  therein  have  left  an  indescribable 
miasma,  a  lurid,  impalpable  shadow,  like  that  of  the  ashes  of 
the  Polynesian  volcano  which  darkened  the  sun  for  a  year ; 
or  shall  we  say,  like  the  unrecognised  effluvium  which 
probably  caused  Mrs.  Sleeman,  in  her  tent,  to  dream  she  was 
surrounded  by  naked  murdered  men,  while  14  corpses  were 
actually  lying  beneath  her  bed  and  were  nextday  disinterred?* 
Walking  once  through  Holyrood  with  Dr.  John  Brown  (who 
had  not  visited  the  place  for  many  years),  I  was  quite 
overcome  by  this  sense  of  ancient  crime,  perpetuated  as  it 
seemed,  almost  like  a  physical  phenomenon  in  those  gloomy 
chambers;  and  on  describing  my  sensations,  Dr.  Brown 
avowed  that  he  experienced  a  very  similar  impression.  It 
would  almost  seem  as  if  moral  facts  of  a  certain  intensity, 
begin  to  throw  a  cloudy  shadow  of  Evil,  as  Bomist  saints 
were  said  to  exhale  an  odour  of  sanctity. 

If  there  be  a  dty  in  the  world  where  this  sense  is  most 
vivid,  I  think  it  is  Bome.  I  have  felt  it  also  in  Paris,  but 
Bome  is  worst.  The  air  (not  of  the  Campagna  with  all  its 
fevers,  but  of  the  dty  itself)  seems  foul  with  the  blood  and 
corruption  of  a  thousand  years.  On  the  finest  spring  day, 
in  the  grand  open  spaces  of  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  Saii 
Pietro,  and  the  Forum,  it  is  the  same  as  in  the  darkest  and 
narrowest  streets.  No  person  sensitive  to  this  impression 
can  be  genuinely  light-hearted  and  gay  in  Bome,  as  we  often 
are  even  in  our  own  gloomy  London.  Perhaps  this  is  sheer 
fancifulness  on  my  part,  but  I  have  been  many  times  in  Bome, 
twice  for  an  entire  winter,  and  the  same  impression  never 
failed  to  overcome  ma    On  my  last  visit  I  nearly  died  there 

*  Bee  General  Sleexnan's  Indim, 


LONG  JOURNEY.  225 

and  it  was  not  to  be  described  how  earnestly  I  longed  to 
emerge,  as  if  out  of  one  of  Dante's  Giri^  "anywhere, 
anywhere  out  of  "  this  Eome ! 

On  the  occasion  of  my  first  journey  at  Christmas,  1857, 1 
stopped  only  three  weeks  in  the  Eternal  City  and  then  went  on 
by  sea  to  Naples.  I  was  ill  from  the  fatigues  and  anxieties 
of  the  previous  weeks,  and  after  a  few  half -dazed  visits  to 
the  Colosseum,  the  Vatican,  and  Shelley's  grave,  I  found 
myself  unable  to  leave  my  solitary  fourth-floor  room  in  the 
Eurapa.  A  card  was  brought  to  me  one  day  while  thus 
imprisoned,  bearing  names  (unknown  to  me)  of  "  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Eobert  Apthorp,"  and  with  the  singular  message :  "  Was 
I  the  Miss  Cobbe  who  had  corresponded  with  Theodore 
Parker  in  America  ?  "  My  first  impression  was  one  of  alarm. 
"  What !  more  trouble  about  my  heresies  still  ?  "  It  was, 
however,  quite  a  different  matter.  My  visitors  were  a 
gentleman  (a  real  American  gentleman)  and  his  wife,  with 
two  ladies  who  were  all  among  Parker's  intimate  friends  in 
America,  and  to  whom  he  had  showed  my  letters.  They 
came  to  hold  out  to  me  the  right  hands  of  fellowship ;  and 
friends  indeed  we  became,  in  such  thorough  sort  that,  after 
seven-and-thirty  years  I  am  corresponding  with  dear 
Mrs.  Apthorp  still.  She  and  her  sister  nursed  me  through 
my  illness ;  and  thus  my  solitude  in  Rome  came  to  an  end. 

Naples  struck  me  on  my  first  visit,  as  it  has  done  again  and 
again,  as  presenting  the  proof  that  the  Beautiful  is  not  by 
itself,  a  root  out  of  which  the  Good  spontaneously  grows.  If 
we  want  to  cultivate  Purity,  Honesty,  Veracity,  Unselfishness 
or  any  other  virtue,  it  is  vain  to  think  we  shall  achieve  our 
end  by  giving  the  masses  pretty  pleasure-grounds  and 
"  Palaces  of  Delight,"  or  even  sesthetic  cottages  with  the  best 
reproductions  of  Botticelli  adorning  the  walls.  Do  what  we 
may  we  can  never  hope  to  surround  our  working  men  with 
such  beauty  as  that  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  nor  to  show  them 
VOL.  I.  P 


226  CHAPTER  IX. 

Art  to  equal  the  treasures  of  the  Museo  Borbonioo.  And 
what  has  come  of  all  this  familiar  revelling  in  Beauty  for 
centuries  and  millenniums  to  the  people  of  Naples  ?  Only  that 
they  resemble  more  closely  in  ignorance,  in  squalor  and  in 
degradation  the  most  wretched  Irish  who  dwell  in  mud 
cabins  amid  the  bogs,  than  any  other  people  in  Europe. 

I  had  intended  remaining  for  some  time  to  recuperate  at 
Naples  and  took  a  cheery  little  room  in  a  certain  Pension 
Schiassi  (now  abolished)  on  the  Chiajia.  In  this  Pension  I 
met  a  number  of  kindly  and  intei*esting  people  of  various 
nationaKties ;  the  most  pleasant  and  cultivated  of  all  being 
Einns  from  Helsiugf ors.  It  was  a  great  experience  to  me  to 
enter  into  some  sort  of  society  again,  far  removed  from  all 
my  antecedents ;  no  longer  the  mistress  of  a  large  house  and 
dispenser  of  its  hospitality,  but  a  wandering  tourist,  known 
to  nobody  and  dressed  as  plainly  as  might  be.  I  find  I 
wrote  to  my  old  friend,  Miss  St.  Leger,  on  the  subject 
under  date  January  21st,  1858,  as  follows :  ''  I  am  really 
cheerful  now.  Those  days  in  the  country  (at  Cumse  and  Capo 
di  Monte)  cheered  me  very  much,  and  I  am  beginning 
altogether  to  look  at  the  future  differently.  There  is 
one  thing  I  feel  really  happy  about.  I  see  now  my  actual 
X>osition  towards  people,  divested  of  the  social  advantages  I 
have  hitherto  held ;  and  I  find  it  a  very  pleasant  one.  I 
don't  think  I  deceive  myself  in  imagining  that  people  easily 
like  me,  and  get  interested  in  my  ideas,  while  I  find 
abundance  to  like  and  esteem  in  a  large  proportion  of  those 
I  meet.*'  (Optimism,  once  more  1  the  reader  will  say !) 

It  was  not,  however,  ^'  all  beer  and  skittles  "  for  me  at 
the  Schiassi  pension.  I  had,  as  I  have  mentioned,  taken  a 
pretty  little  room  looking  out  on  the  Villa  Reale  and  the 
Bay  and  Vesuvius,  and  had  put  up  the  photographs  and 
miniatures  I  carried  with  me  and  my  little  knick-knacks  on 
the  writing  table,  and  fondly  flattered  myself  I  should  sit 


LONG  JOURNEY.  S2? 

and  write  there  peacefully.  But  I  reckoned  without  my 
neighbours!  It  was  Sunday  when  I  arrived  and  settled 
myself  so  complacently.  On  Monday  morning,  soon  after 
day-break,  I  was  rudely  awakened  by  a  dreadful  four-handed 
strumming  on  a  piano,  apparently  in  my  very  room  !  On 
rousing  myself,  I  perceived  that  a  locked  door  close  to 
my  bed  obviously  opened  into  an  adjoining  chamber,  and 
being  (after  the  manner  of  Italian  doors)  at  least  two 
inches  short  of  the  uncarpeted  floor,  I  was  to  all 
acoustic  intents  and  purposes  actually  in  the  room 
with  this  atrocious  jangling  piano  and  the  two  thumping 
performers!  The  practising  went  on  for  two  hours,  and 
when  it  stopped  a  masculine  voice  arose  to  read  the  Bible 
aloud  in  family  devotions.  Then,  after  a  brief  interval  for 
breakfast,  burst  out  again  the  intolerable  strumming.  I  fled, 
and  remained  out  of  doors  for  hours,  but  when  I  came  back 
they  were  at  it  again  !    I  appealed  to  the  mistress  of  the 

house,  in  vain.   Sir  Andrew and  his  daughters  (I  will  call 

them  the  Misses  Shocking-strum,  their  real  name  concerns 
nobody  now)  had  been  there  before  me  and  would  no  doubt 
stop  long  after  me,  and  could  not  be  prevented  from  playing 
from  7  a.m.  to  10  p.m.  every  day  of  the  week.  I  took  a 
large  card  and  wrote  on  it  this  pathetic  appeal : — 

*^Fity  the  Borrows  of  a  poor  old  maid, 
Whose  hapless  lot  has  made  her  lodge  nexfc  door. 
Who  fain  would  wish  those  moming  airs  delayed ; 
O  practise  less !    And  she  will  bless  yon  more  1 " 

I  thrust  this  under  the  ill-fitting  door  well  into  the  music- 
room,  and  waited  anxiously  for  some  measure  of  mercy  to  be 
meted  to  me  in  consequence.  But  no !  the  hateful  thumping 
and  crashing  went  on  as  before.  Then  I  girded  up  my 
loins  and  went  down  to  the  packet  office  and  took  a  berth  in 
the  next  steamer  for  Alexandria. 


228  CHAPTER  IX. 

Aiter  landing  at  Messina  (lovely  region  !)  and  at  Malta,  I 
embarked  in  a  French  screw-steamer,  which  began  to  roll 
before  we  were  well  under  weigh,  and  which,  when  a  real 
Levanter  came  on  three  days  later,  played  pitch  and  toss 
with  us  passengers^  insomuch  that  we  often  needed  to 
lie  on  mattresses  on  the  floor  and  hold  something  to 
prevent  our  heads  from  being  knocked  to  pieces.  One 
day,  being  fortunately  a  very  good  sailor,  I  scrambled 
up  on  deck  and  beheld  a  glorious  scene.  Euroclydon 
was  playing  with  towering  waves  of  lapis-lazulse  all 
flecked  and  veined  like  a  horse's  neck  with  white  foam, 
and  the  African  sun  was  shining  down  doudless  over  the 
turmoil. 

There  were  some  French  Nuns  on  board  going  to  a 
convent  in  Cairo,  where  they  were  to  be  charitably  engaged 
taking  care  of  girls.  The  monastic  mind  is  always  an 
interesting  study.  It  brings  us  back  to  the  days  of  Bede, 
and  times  when  miracles  (if  it  be  not  a  bull  to  say  so) 
were  the  rule  and  the  ordinary  course  of  nature  the  excep- 
tion. People  are  then  constantly  seen  where  they  are 
not,  and  not  seen  where  they  are;  and  the  dead  are  as 
''  prominent  citizens  "  of  this  world  (as  an  American  would 
say)  as  the  living.  Meanwhile  the  actual  geography  and 
history  of  the  modem  world  and  all  that  is  going  on  in 
politics,  society,  art  and  literature,  is  as  dark  to  the  good 
Bister  or  Brother  as  if  she  or  he  had  really  (as  in  Hans 
Andersen's  story)  **  walked  back  into  the  eleventh  century." 
My  nice  French  nuns  were  very  kind  and  instructive  to  me. 
They  told  me  of  the  Virgin's  Tree  which  we  should  see  at 
Heliopolis  (though  they  knew  nothing  of  the  obelisk  there), 
and  they  informed  me  that  if  anyone  looked  out  on  Trinity 
Sunday  exactly  at  sunrise,  he  would  see  ^^UnUea  les  troia 
peraonnea  de  la  sainte  Trinite,'* 

I  could  not  help  asking :  '*  Madame  les  aura  vues  ?  " 


LONG  JOURNEY.  229 

''Pas  pr^cifi^menty  Madame.  Madame  sait  qa'&  cette 
saifion  le  soleil  se  ISve  bien  t6t." 

'*  Mais,  Madame,  pour  voir  hutea  les  trois  personnoB  ?  " 

It  was  no  use.  The  good  soul  persisted  in  believing  what 
she  liked  to  believe  and  took  care  never  to  get  up  and  look 
out  on  Trinity  Sunday  morning, — just  as  ten  thousand 
Englishmen  and  women,  who  think  themselves  much  wiser 
than  the  poor  Nun,  carefully  avoid  looking  straight  at  facts 
concerning  which  they  do  not  wish  to  be  set  right.  St. 
Thomas'  kind  of  faith  which  dares  to  look  and  see^  and,  if 
it  may  be  to  iomhy  is  a  much  more  real  faith  after  all  than 
that  which  will  not  venture  to  open  its  eyes. 

Landing  at  Alexandria  (after  being  blown  off  the  Egyptian 
coast  nearly  as  far  as  Crete)  was  an  epoch  in  my  life.  No 
book,  no  gallery  of  pictures,  can  ever  be  more  interesting  or 
instructive  than  the  first  drive  through  an  Eastern  city ;  even 
such  a  hybrid  one  as  Alexandria.  But  all  the  world  knows 
this  now,  and  I  need  not  dwell  on  so  familiar  a  topic.  The 
only  matter  I  care  to  record  here  is  a  visit  I  paid  to  a 
subterranean  church  which  had  just  been  opened,  and  of 
which  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  hear  at  the  moment.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  learn  anything  further  concerning  it  than 
appears  in  the  following  extract  from  one  of  my  note-books, 
and  I  fear  the  church  must  long  ago  have  been  destroyed,  and 
the  frescoes,  of  course^  effaced  : 

'*  In  certain  excavations  now  making  in  one  of  the  hills 
of  the  Old  City — within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the 
Mahmondi^  Canal — the  workmen  have  come  upon  a  small 
subterranean  church ;  for  whose  very  high  antiquity  many 
arguments  may  be  adduced.  The  frescoes  with  which  it  is 
adorned  are  still  in  tolerable  preservation,  and  appear  to 
belong  to  the  same  period  of  art  as  those  rescued  from 
Pompeii.  Though  altogether  inferior  to  the  better  specimens 
in  the  Mnseo  Borbonico,  there  is  yet  the  same  simplicity  of 
attitude   and   drapery;  the  same  breadth  of   outline  pnd 


230  CHAPTER  IX. 

effect  produoed  by  few  tonches.  It  is  impossible  to  oonf onnd 
them  for  a  moment  with  the  stiff  and  meretrioious  style  of 
Byzantine  painting. 

''  The  fonn  of  the  chnrch  is  very  peonliar,  and  I  conceive 
antiqne.  If  we  suppose  a  shaft  to  have  been  oat  into  the 
hill,  its  base  may  be  considered  to  form  the  centre  of  a 
cross.  To  the  west,  in  Uen  of  nave,  are  two  stair- 
cases ;  one  ascending,  the  other  descending  to  various 
parts  of  the  hillside.  To  the  east  is  a  small  chancel,  with 
depressed  elliptical  arch  and  recesses  at  the  bade  and  sides, 
of  the  same  form.  The  north  transept  is  a  mere  apse, 
supported  by  rather  elegant  Ionic  pilasters,  and  having  a 
fan-shaped  roof.  Opposite  this,  and  in  the  place  of  a 
south  transept,  is  the  largest  apartment  of  the  whole 
grotto :  a  chamber,  presenting  a  singular  transition  between 
a  modem  funeral-vault  and  an  ancient  columbarium.  The 
walls  are  pierced  on  all  sides  by  deep  holes,  of  the  size  and 
shape  of  coflSns  placed  endwise.  There  are  in  all  thirty- 
two  of  these  holes  ;  in  which,  however,  I  could  find  no 
evidence  that  they  had  ever  been  applied  to  the  purpose 
of  interment.  In  the  comer,  between  this  chamber  and 
the  chancel-arch,  there  is  a  deep  stone  cistern  sunk  in  the 
ground ;  I  presume  a  font.  The  frescoes  at  the  end  of  the 
chancel  are  small,  and  much  effaced.  In  the  eastern  apse 
there  is  a  group  representing  the  Miracle  of  the  Loaves  and 
Fishes.  In  the  front  walls  of  the  chancel-arch  are  two 
life-size  figures ;  one  representing  an  angel,  the  other 
having  the  name  of  Christ  inscribed  over  it  in  Greek 
letters.  This  last  struck  me  as  peculiarly  interesting ; 
from  the  circumstance  that  the  face  bears  no  resemblance 
whatever  to  the  one  conventionally  received  among  us,  in 
modem  times,  The  eyes,  in  the  Alexandrian  fresco,  are 
dark  and  widely  opened ;  the  eyebrows  straight  and 
strongly  marked ;  the  hair  nearly  black  and  gathered  in 
short,  thick  masses  over  the  ears.  I  was  the  more 
attracted  by  these  peculiarities,  as  my  attention  had 
shortly  before  been  arrested  very  forcibly  by  the  splendid 
bronze  bpst  tnm  ^erc^|aneum,  in  the  Musep  BorHjonico, 


LONG  JOURNEY.  231 

This    grand    and    beautiful    head,     which    Murray    calls 
^Spendppas'  and  the  custodi,  'Plato  in  the  character  of 
the  Indian   Bacchus,'  resembles  so  perfectly  the   common 
representations  of   Christ,  that  I  should  be  at    a  loss  to 
define   any  difference,   unless   it   be  that  it  has,  perhaps, 
more  intellectual  power  than  our  paintings  and  sculptures 
usually  convey,  and  a  more  massive  neck.    If  this  Alexan- 
drian fresco  reaUy  represent  the  tradition  of   the  3rd  dr 
4th  century,  it  becomes  a  question  of  some  curiosity  :  whenc$ 
do  we  derive  our  modem  idea  of  Christ's  face  ?  " 
Cairo  was  a  great  delight  to  me.     I  could  not  afford  to 
stop  at  Shepheard's  Hotel  but  took  up  my  abode  with  some 
kind  Americans  I  had  met  in  the  steamer,  in  a  sort  of 
Pension  kept  by  an  Italian  named  Ronch ;  in  old  Cairo, 
actually  on  the  bank  of  the  NUe;  so  literally  so,  that  I 
might  have  dropped  a  stone  from  our  balcony  into  the  river, 
just  opposite  the  Isle  of  Ehoda.     Prom  this  place  I  made 
two  excursions  to  the  Pyramids   and  had   a    somewhat 
appalling  experience  in  the  ''King's  Chamber"   in   the 
vault  of  Cheops.      I  had  gone  rather  recklessly  to  Ghiza 
without   either   friend   or   Dragoman;    and  allowed  the 
wretched  Scheik  at  the  door  to  send  five  Arabs  into  the 
pyramid  with  me  as  guides.    They  had  only  two  miserable 
dip  candles  altogether,  and  the  darkness,  dust,  heat   and 
noise  of  the  Arabs  chanting  "  Vera  goot  lady !  Backsheeh ! 
Backsheeh !  Vera  goot  lady,"  and  so  on  c2a  oapo^  all  in  the 
narrow,    steeply-slanting     passages,    together     with     the 
intolerable  sense  of  weight  as  of  a  mountain  of  stone  over 
me,  proved  tr3dng  to  my  nerves.     Then,  when  we  had 
reached  the  central  vault  and  I  had  glanced  at  the  empty 
sarcophagus,  which  is  all  it  contains,  the  five  men  suddenly 
stopjied  their  chanting,  placed  themselves  with  their  backs 
to  the  wall  in  rows,  with  crossed   arms  in  the  attitude 
of  the  Osiride  pilasters;  and  one  of  them  in  a  business- 
like tone,  demanded :  "  Backsheesh  "  I   I  instantly  perceived 


232  CHAPTER  IX. 

into  what  a  trap  I  had  fallen,  and  what  a  fool  I  had 
been  to  come  there  alone.  The  idea  that  they  might  march 
out  and  leave  me  alone  in  that  awful  place,  in  the  darknefis, 
very  nearly  made  me  qualL  But  I  knew  it  was  no  time  to 
betray  alarm,  so  I  replied  that  I  ''  Intended  to  pay  them 
outside,  but  if  they  wished  it  I  would  do  so  at  once."  I  took 
out  my  purse  and  gave  them  three  shillings  to  be  divided 
between  the  five.  They  took  the  money  and  then  returned 
to  their  posture  against  the  wall. 

**  We  want  Backsheesh  "  ! 

I  took  my  courage  d  deuix  mainSf  and  said,  '*  If  you  give 
me  any  more  trouble  the  English  Consul  shall  hear  of  it,  and 
you  will  get  the  stick." 

"  We  want  Backsheesh  1 " 

"  I'll  have  no  more  of  this,"  I  cried  in  a  very  sharp  voice, 
and,  turning  to  the  ringleader,  who  held  a  candle,  I  said, 
"  Here,  you  fellow !  Take  that  candle  on  in  front  and  let  nie 
out.  Go  ! "  He  vyevU  ! — and  I  blessed  my  stars,  and  all  the 
stars,  when  I  emerged  out  of  that  endless  passage  at  last, 
and  stood  safe  under  the  bright  Egyptian  sun. 

I  am  glad  to  remember  Ghiza  as  it  was  in  those  days  before 
hotels,  or  even  tents,  were  visible  near  it ;  when  the  solemn 
Sphinx, — so  strangely  and  affectingly  human  !  stood  gazing 
over  the  desert  sands,  and  beside  it  were  only  the  ancient 
temple,  the  rifled  tombs,  and  the  three  great  I^amids.  To 
me  in  those  days  it  seemed  the  most  impressive  I^eld  of 
Death  in  the  world. 

The  old  Arab  Mosques  in  Cairo  also  delighted  me  greatly 
both  for  their  beauty  and  as  studies  of  the  original  early 
English  architecture.  Needless  to  say  I  was  enchanted  with 
the  streets  and  bazaars,  and  all  the  dim,  strange,  lovely 
pictures  they  afforded,  and  the  Eastern  odours  which  per- 
vaded them  in  that  bright,  light  air,  wherein  my  chest  grew 
sound  and  strong  after  having  been  for  years  oppressed  with 


LONG  JOURNEY.  233 

bronchial  troablee.  One  day  in  my  plenitude  of  enjoyment 
qS.  health  and  vigour,  I  walked  alone  a  long  way  down  the 
splendid  Shoubra  avenue  of  Acacia  Lebbez  trees  with  the 
moving  crowd  of  Arab  men  and  women  in  aU  their  varied 
costumes,  and  trains  of  camels  and  asses  laden  with  green 
trefoil,  glittering  in  the  alternate  suntind  shade  with  never  a 
cart  or  carriage  to  disturb  the  even  currents  to  and  fro. 
At  last  I  came  in  sight  of  the  Nile,  and  in  the  extreme 
excitement  of  the  view,  hastily  concluded  that  the  yellow 
bank  which  sloped  down  beyond  the  grass  must  be  sand,  and 
that  I  could  actually  plunge  my  hands  in  the  River  of  Egypt. 
I  ran  down  the  slope  some  little  distance  from  the  avenue, 
and  took  a  few  steps  on  the  supposed  yellow  sand.  It 
proved  to  be  merely  mud,  like  the  banks  of  the  Avon  at  low 
tide  at  Clifton,  though  of  different  colour,  and  in  a  moment 
I  felt  myself  sinking  indefinitely.  Already  it  was  nearly 
up  to  my  kneesy  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  should  have  been 
(quietly  and  unperceived  by  anybody)  entombed  for  the 
investigation  of  Egyptologers  of  future  generations.  It  was 
a  ludicrous  position,  and  even  in  the  peril  of  it  I  believe  I 
laughed  outright.  Any  way  I  happily  remembered  that  I 
had  read  years  before  in  a  bad  French  novel,  how  people 
saved  themselves  in  quicksands  in  the  Landes  by  throwing 
themselves  down  and  so  dividing  their  weight  over  a  much 
larger  surface  than  the  soles  of  the  feet.  Instantly  I  turned 
back  towards  the  bank,  and  cast  myself  along  forward,  and 
then  by  dint  of  enormous  efforts  withdrew  my  feet  and 
struggled  back  to  terra  firma^  much,  I  should  think,  after 
the  mode  of  locomotion  of  an  Ichthyosaurus  or  other  "  dragon 
of  the  prime."  Arrived  at  a  place  of  safety  I  had  next 
to  reflect  how  I  was  to  walk  home  into  the  town  in  the 
pickle  to  which  I  had  reduced  myself !  Luckily  the  hot  sun 
of  Egypt  dried  the  mud  on  my  homely  clothes  and  enabled 
me  to  brush  it  off  as  dust  in  an  incredibly  quick  time. 


234  CHAPTER  IX. 

Before  it  had  done  so,  however,  a  frog  of  exceptional 
ugliness  mistook  me  for  part  of  the  bank  and  jumped  on 
my  lap.  He  looked  such  an  ill-made  creature  that  I 
constructed  at  once  the  (non-scientific)  hypothesis  that  he 
must  have  been  descended  from  some  of  the  frogs  which 
Pharaoh's  magicians  are  said  to  have  made  in  rivalry  to 
Moses;  forerunners  of  those  modem  pathologists  who  are 
just  clever  enough  to  give  ua  all  sorts  of  Plagues,  but  always 
stop  short  of  cvadrig  them. 

I  was  very  anxious,  of  course,  to  ascend  the  Nile  to 
Phike,  or  at  the  very  least  to  Thebes ;  but  I  was  too  poor 
by  far  to  hire  a  dahabieh  for  myself  alone,  and,  in  those 
days,  excursion  steamers  were  non-existent,  or  very  rare.  I 
did  hear  of  a  gentleman  who  wanted  to  make  up  a  party 
and  take  a  boat,  but  he  coolly  proposed  that  I  should 
pay  half  of  the  expenses  of  five  people,  and  I  did  not 
view  that  arrangement  in  a  favourable  light.  Eventually  I 
turned  sorrowfully  and  disappointed  back  to  Alexandria  with  a 
pleasant  party  of  English  and  American  ladiesand  gentlemen ; 
and  after  a  short  passage  to  Jaffa,  we  rode  up  all  together  in 
two  days  to  Jerusalem.  I  had  given  up  riding  many  years 
before  and  taken  to  driving  instead,  but  there  was  infinite 
exhilaration  on  finding  myself  again  on  horseback,  on  one  of 
the  active  little,  half  Arab,  Syrian  steeds.  That  wonderful 
ride  through  the  Jaffa  orange  groves  and  the  Plain  of  Sharon 
with  all  its  flowers,  to  Lydda  and  Bamleh,  and  then,  next  day, 
to  Jerusalem,  was  beyond  all  words  interesting.  I  think  no 
one  who  has  been  brought  up  as  we  English  are,  on  the 
double  literature  of  Palestine  and  England,  can  visit  the  Holy 
Land  with  other  than  almost  breathless  curiosity  mingled 
with  a  thousand  tender  associations.  What  England  is  to 
a  cultivated  American  traveller  of  Washington  Irving^s  or 
Lowell's  stamp,  that  is  Palestine  to  us  all.  As  for  me,  my 
reli^ous  views  made  it,  I  think,  rather  more  than  less 


LONG  JOURNEY.  235 

oongenial  and  interesting  to  me  than  to  many  others.    I  find 
I  wrote  of  it  to  my  friend  from  Jerusalem  (March  6th,  1858) : 

'*I  feel  very  happy  to  he  here.  The  land  seems  worthy 
to  he  that  in  which  from  earliest  history  fche  hnman  soul 
has  highest  and  oftenest  soared  np  to  €k)d.  One  wants  no 
miraculons  story  to  make  snch  a  oonntry  a  *  Holy  Land ; ' 
nor  can  snoh  story  make  it  less  holy  to  me,  as  it  does,  I 
think,  to  some  who  equally  disbelieve  it.  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  Christians  must  be,  and  in  fact  are,  overwhelmed  and 
confounded  to  find  themselves  in  the  scene  of  snch  events. 
To  me  it  is  all  pleasure.  I  believe  that  if  Christ  can  see  us 
now  like  other  departed  spirits,  it  is  those  who  revere  him 
as  I  do,  and  not  those  who  give  to  him  his  Father's  place, 
whom  he  can  regard  most  complacently.  If  I  did  not  feel 
this  it  would  pain  me  to  be  here." 

When  I  went  first  into  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
it  happened,  on  account  of  some  function  going  on  elsewhere, 
to  be  unusually  free  from  the  crowds  of  pilgrims.  It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  real  parable  in  stone.  All  the  different 
churches,  Greek,  Latin,  Armenian  Maronite,  opened  into 
the  central  Temple ;  as  if  to  show  that  every  creed  has  a  Door 
leading  to  the  true  Holy  Place. 

I  loved  also  the  little  narrow  marble  shrine  in  the  midst 
with  its  small,  low  door,  and  the  mere  plain  altar-tomb, 
with  room  to  kneel  beside  it  and  pray, — if  we  will, — ^to  him 
who  is  believed  to  have  rested  there  for  the  mystic  three 
days  after  his  crucifixion ;  or  if  we  will  (and  as  I  did),  to 
"  his  Father  and  our  Father  *' ;  in  a  spot  hallowed  by  the 
associations  of  a  hundred  worshipping  generations,  and  the 
memory  of  the  holiest  of  men. 

Another  day  I  was  able  to  walk  alone  nearly  all  round 
outside  the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  beginning  at  the  Jafla  gate 
and  passing  round  through  what  was  then  a  desert,  but  is 
Qow,  I  am  told,  a  populous  suburb,     I  came  successively  to 


^  i 


236  CHAPTER  IX. 

Siloam  and  to  the  Valley  of  Hinnom,  and  of  Jehoshaphat ; 
to  the  Tombs  of  the  Prophets,  and  at  last  to  C^thsemane. 
At  the  time  of  my  visit,  this  sacred  spot,  containing  the 
ruins  of  an  ''  oil  press  '*  (whence  its  supposed  identification), 
was  a  small  walled  garden  kept  by  monks  who  did  their  best 
to  spoil  its  associations.  Above  it  I  sat  for  a  long  time 
beside  the  path  up  to  St.  Stephen's  Ghite,  where  tradition 
places  the  scene  of  the  great  first  Christian  Martyrdom. 
The  ground  is  all  strewed  still,  with  large  stones  and 
boulders,  making  it  easy  to  conjure  up  the  terrific  picture  of 
the  kneeling  saint  and  savage  crowd,  and  of  Saul  standing 
by  watching  the  scene. 

Leaving  Jerusalem  after  a  week  with  the  same  pleasant 
English  and  American  companions,  and  with  a  due  provision 
of  guards  and  tents  and  baggage  mules,  I  rode  to  Bethlehem 
and  Hebron,  visiting  on  the  way  Abraham's  oak  at  Mamre, 
which  is  a  magnificent  old  terebinth,  and  the  vineyard  of 
Esh-kol,  then  in  a  very  poor  condition  of  culture.  We 
stopped  the  first  night  close  to  Solomon's  Pools,  and  I  was 
profane  enough  to  bring  my  sponges  at  earliest  dawn  into 
Jacob's  Well  at  the  head  of  the  waters,  and  enjoy  a 
delicious  bath.  Ere  we  turned  in  on  the  previous  evening, 
a  clergyman  of  our  party  read  to  us,  sitting  under  the 
walls  of  the  old  Saracenic  castle,  the  pages  in  Stanley's 
Palestine  which  describe,  with  all  his  vivid  truthfulness 
and  historic  sentiment,  the  scene  which  lay  before  us; 
the  three  great  ponds,  '^  built  by  Solomon,  repaired  by 
Pontius  Pilate,"  which  have  supplied  Jerusalem  with  water 
for  3,000  years. 

I  am  much  surprised  that  the  problem  offered  by  the 
contents  of  the  vault  beneath  the  Mosque  of  Hebron  has  not 
long  ago  excited  the  intensest  curiosity  among  both  Jews  and 
Christians.  Here,  within  small  and  definite  limits,  must  He 
evidence  of  incalculable  weight  in  favour  of  or  against  tb^ 


LONG  JOURNEY.  237 

veracity  of  the  Mosaic  record.  If  the  account  in  Gen.  L. 
he  correct,  the  hones  of  Jacoh  were  hrought  out  of  Egypt 
and  deposited  here  hy  Joseph;  embalmed  in  the  finest 
and  most  durable  manner.  We  are  expressly  told 
(G^.  L.,  2  and  3)  that  Joseph  ordered  the  physicians  to 
embalm  his  father,  that ''  forty  days  were  fulfilled  for  him, 
for  so  are  fulfilled  the  days  of  those  which  are  embalmed ; " 
and  that  Joseph  went  up  to  Canaan  with  "  all  the  servants 
of  Pharaoh  and  the  elders  of  his  house,  and  all  the  elders 
of  the  land  of  Egypt/'  (a  rather  amazing  exodus!)  and 
"  chariots  and  horsemen,  a  very  great  company."  They  finally 
buried  Jacob  (v.  13)  ''  in  the  Gave  of  the  field  of  Macpelah 
which  Abraham  bought.**  It  was  unquestionably,  then,  a 
first-class  Mummy,  covered  with  wrappers  and  inscriptions, 
and  enclosed,  of  course,  in  a  splendidly-painted  Mummy- 
cofGin,  which  was  deposited  in  that  unique  cave ;  and  the 
extraordinary  sanctity  which  has  attached  to  the  spot  as  far 
as  tradition  reaches  back,  affords  presumption  amounting 
almost  to  guarantee  that  Iherey  if  anywhere,  below  the  six 
cenotaphs  in  the  upper  chamber,  in  the  vault  under  the 
small  hole  in  the  floor  where  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  Dean 
Stanley  wereprivil^ed  to  look  down  into  the  darkness, — ^lie 
the  relics  which  would  terminate  more  controversies,  and 
throw  more  light  on  the  origin  of  Judaism  than  can  be  done 
by  all  the  Rabbis  and  Bishops  of  Europe  and  Asia  together ! 
Why  do  not  the  Rothschilds  and  Hirschs  and  Montefiores  and 
Goldsmiths  put  together  a  modest  little  subscription  of  a 
million  or  two  and  buy  up  Hebron,  and  so  settle  once  for  all 
whether  the  Jewish  Ulysses  were  a  myth  or  a  man ;  and 
whether  there  were  really  an  Israel  of  whom  they  are  the 
''  Children  ?  "  I  have  talked  to  Dean  Stanley  on  the  subject, 
who  (as  he  tells  us  in  his  delightful  Jewish  Churchy  I.,  500) 
shared  all  my  curiosity,  but  when  I  urged  the  query  :  '^  Did 
he  think  that  the  relics  of  the  Patriarchs  would  be  found,  if 


238  CHAPTER  IX. 

we  oould  examine  the  cavef  "  he  put  up  his  hands  in  a 
deprecating  attitude,  which  all  who  knew  and  loved  him 
will  remember,  and  said,  '^Ah!  that  is  the  question, 
indeed!" 

Is  it  possible  that  the  millionaire  Jews  of  Germany,  France 
and  England  are,  after  all,  like  my  poor  friends  the  Nuns, 
who  would  not  get  up  at  sunrise  on  Trinity  Sunday  to  see 
*'  tatUea  lea  Proia  peraonnea  da  la  aairUe  Triniie^ — and  that 
they  prefer  to  believe  that  the  bones  of  the  three  Patriarchs 
are  where  they  ought  to  be,  but  would  rather  not  put  that 
confidence  to  the  test  f 

One  of  the  sights  which  affected  me  most  in  the  course 
of  our  pilgrimage  through  Judiea  was  beheld  after  a  night 
spent  by  the  ladies  of  our  party  in  our  tent  pitched  among 
the  sands  (and  centipedes !)  of  the  desert  of  the  Mar  Saba. 
(Our  gentlemen-fiiends  were  privileged  to  sleep  in  the  vast 
old  monastery  whence  they  brought  us  next  morning  the  most 
excellent  raJd.)  As  we  rode  out  of  the  little  valley  of  our 
encampment  and  down  by  the  convent  of  Mar  Saba,  we 
obtained  a  complete  view  of  the  whole  hermit  burrow  ;  for 
sudi  it  may  properly  be  considered*  Mar  Saba  is  the  very 
ideal  of  a  desert.  It  lies  amid  the  wilderness  of  hills,  not 
grand  enough  to  be  sublime  but  only  monotonous  and 
hopelessly  barren.  So  white  are  these  hiUs  that  at  first 
they  appear  to  be  of  chalk,  but  further  inspection  shows 
them  to  be  of  whitish  rock,  with  hardly  a  trace  of  vegetation 
growing  anywhere  over  it.  On  the  hills  there  is  sometimes 
an  inch  of  soil  over  the  rock;  in  the  valleys  there  are 
torrents  of  stones  over  the  inch  of  soil  Between  our  mid- 
day halt  at  Derbinerbeit  (the  highest  land  in  Judoea),  and 
the  evening  rest  at  Mar  Saba,  our  whole  march  had 
been  in  utter  solitude;  not  a  village,  a  tent,  a  caravan, 
a  human  being  in  sight.  Not  a  tree  or  bush.  Of  living 
creatures  hardly  a  bird  to  break  the  dead  silence  of  the  world, 


LONG  JOURNEY.  239 

only  a  large  and  venomous  snake  crawling  beside  our  track. 
Thus,  far  from  human  haunts,  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness, 
lies  Mar  Saba.  Fit  approach  to  such  a  shrine !  Through  the 
arid,  burning  rocks  a  profound  and  sharply-cut  chasm 
suddenly  opens  and  winds,  forming  a  hideous  valley,  such  as 
may  exist  in  the  unpeopled  moon,  but  which  probably  has 
not  its  equal  in  our  world  for  rugged  and  blasted  desolation. 
There  is  no  brook  or  stream  in  the  depths  of  the  ravine.  If 
a  torrent  may  ever  rush  down  it  after  the  thunderstorms 
with  which  the  country  is  often  visited,  no  traces  of  water 
remain  even  in  early  spring.  Barren,  burning,  glaring 
rocks  alone  are  to  be  seen  on  every  side.  Far  up  on  the 
diff,  like  a  fortress,  stand  the  gloomy,  windowless  walls 
of  the  convent;  but  along  the  ravine  in  an  almost  inaccessible 
gorge  of  the  hills,  are  caves  and  holes  half-way  down  the 
precipice, — the  dwellings  of  the  hermits.  Here,  in  a  den  fit 
for  a  fox  or  a  hysena,  one  poor  soul  had  died  just  before 
my  visit,  after  five-and-forty  years  of  self -incarceration. 
Death  had  released  him,  but  many  more  remained ;  and  we 
could  see  some  of  them  from  the  distant  road  as  we 
passed,  sitting  at  the  mouth  of  their  caverns,  or  walking 
on  the  little  ledges  of  rock  which  they  had  smoothed 
for  terraces.  Their  food  (such  as  it  is)  is  sent  from  the 
convent  and  let  down  from  the  cliffs  at  needful  intervals. 
Otherwise  they  live  absolutely  alone,— alone  in  this  hideous 
desolation  of  nature,  with  the  lurid,  blasted  desert  for  their 
sole  share  in  God's  beautiful  universe.  We  are  all,  I  suppose, 
accustomed  to  think  of  a  hermit  as  our  poets  Ulave  painted 
him,  dwelling  serene  in 

**  A  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness. 
Some  boundless  continuity  of  shade," 

undisturbed  by  all  the  ugly  and  jarring  sights  and  sounds  of 
our  grinding  civilization ;  sleeping  calmly  on  his  bed  of  fern, 


240  CHAPTER  IX. 

feeding  on  his  pulse  and  cresses,  and  drinking  the  water  from 
the  brook. 

**  He  kneels  at  mom  at  noon  and  evo, 
lie  hath  a  cushion  plump, 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak  stomp." 

But  the  hermits  of  Mar  Saba,  how  different  are  they  from 
him  who  assoiled  the  Ancient  Mariner  ?  No  holy  cloisters 
of  the  woods,  and  sound  of  chanting  brooks,  and  hymns  of 
morning  birds;  only  this  silent,  burning  waste,  this 
"desolation  deified/'  It  seemed  as  if  some  frightful 
aberration  of  the  religious  sentiment  could  alone  lead  men  to 
choose  for  home,  temple,  prison,  tomb,  the  one  spot  of  earth 
where  no  flower  springs  to  tell  of  God's  tenderness,  no  soft 
dew  or  sweet  sound  ever  falls  to  preach  faith  and  love. 

There  are  many  such  hermits  still  in  the  Greek  Church. 
I  have  seen  their  eyries  perched  where  only  vultures  should 
have  their  nests,  on  the  cliffs  of  Caramania,  and  among  the 
caverns  of  the  Cydades.  Anthony  and  Stylites  have  indeed 
left  behind  them  a  track  of  evil  glory,  along  which  many  a 
poor  wretch  still  "  crawls  to  heaven  along  the  devil's  trail." 
Are  not  lives  wasted  like  these  to  be  put  into  the  account 
when  we  come  to  estimate  the  Gesta  Christi  9  Must  we  not, 
looking  on  these  and  on  the  ten  thousand,  thousand  hearts 
broken  in  monasteries  and  nunneries  all  over  Europe,  admit 
that  historical  Christianity  has  not  only  done  good  work  in 
the  world,  but  bad  work  also :  and  that,  diverging  widely 
from  the  Spirit  of  Christ,  it  has  been  far  from  uniformly 
beneficent  ? 

It  was  while  riding  some  hours  from  Mar  Saba  through 
the  low  hills  before  coming  out  on  the  blighted  flats  of  the 
Dead  Sea,  that  one  of  those  pictures  passed  before  me  which 
are  ever  after  hung  up  in  the  mind's  gallery  among  the 
choicest  of  the  spoils  of  Eastern  travel.    By  some  chance  I 


LONG  JOURNEY.  241 

was  alone,  riding  a  few  hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  caravan, 
when,  turning  the  comer  of  a  hill,  I  met  a  man  approaching 
me,  the  only  one  I  had  seen  for  several  hours  since  we  passed 
a  few  black  tents  eight  or  ten  miles  away.  He  was  a  noble- 
looking  young  shepherd,  dressed  in  the  camel's-hair  robe, 
and  with  the  lithesome,  powerful  limbs  and  elastic  step  ot 
the  children  of  the  desert.  But  the  interest  which  attached 
to  him  was  the  errand  on  which  he  had  manifestly  been 
engaged  on  those  Dead  Sea  plains  from  whence  he  was 
returning.  Bound  his  neck,  and  with  its  little  limbs  held 
gently  by  his  hand,  lay  a  lamb  he  had  rescued  and  was 
doubtless  carrying  home.  The  little  creature  lay  as  if 
perfectly  contented  and  happy,  and  the  man  looked  pleased 
as  he  strode  along  lightly  with  his  burden;  and  as  I 
saluted  him  with  the  usual  gesture  of  pointing  to  heart 
and  head  and  the  ''salaam  alikl",  (Peace  be  with 
you),  he  responded  with  a  smile  and  a  kindly  glance 
at  the  lamb,  to  which  he  saw  my  eyes  were  directed.  It  was 
actually  the  beautiful  parable  of  the  gospel  acted  out  before 
my  sight.  Every  particidar  was  true  to  the  story ;  the 
shepherd  had  doubtless  left'  his  '' ninety-andnoine  in  the 
wilderness,"  round  the  black  tents  we  had  seen  so  far  away, 
and  had  sought  for  the  lost  lamb  ^'  till  he  found  it,'*  where  it 
must  quickly  have  perished  without  his  help,  among  those 
blighted  plains.  Literally,  too,  ''  when  he  had  found  it,  he 
laid  it  on  his  shoulders,  rejoicing." 

After  this  beautiful  sight  which  I  have  longed  ever  since 
for  a  painter's  power  to  place  on  canvas  (a  better  subject  a 
thousand-fold  than  the  cruel ''  Scape-Goat "),  we  reached  the 
Dead  Sea,  and  I  managed  to  dip  into  it,  after  wading  out  a 
very  long  way  in  the  shallow,  bitter,  biting  water  which 
stung  my  lips  and  nostrils,  and  tasted  like  a  horrible  mixturi 
of  quinine  and  salt.  From  the  shore,  all  strewed  with  the 
white  skeletons  of  trees  washed  down  by  the  river,  we  made 
VOL.  I-  ex 


242  CHAPTER  IX. 

our  way  (mostly  galloping)  in  four  hours  to  the  Ford  of 
Jordan  \  and  there  I  had  the  privilege  of  another  dip,  or 
rather  of  seven  dips,  taken  in  commemoration  of  Naaman  and 
to  wash  off  the  Dead  Sea  brine !  It  is  the  spot  supposed 
to  have  witnessed  the  transit  of  Joshua  and  the  baptisms 
of  St.  John.  The  follovnbg  night  our  tents  were  pitched 
among  the  ruins  of  Jericho.  The  wonder  is,  not  that  the 
once  flourishing  dty  should  be  deserted  and  Herod's  great 
amphitheatre  there  a  ruinous  heap,  but  that  a  town  was  ever 
built  in  such  an  insanitary  place.  Closed  in  by  the  mountains 
on  every  side  from  whence  a  fresh  breese  could  blow  upon 
it,  and  open  only  to  the  unwholesome  flats  of  the  Dead  Sea, 
the  situation  is  pestilential. 

Next  day  we  rode  back  to  Jerusalem  through  the  desolate 
mountains  of  the  Quarantania,  where  tradition  places  the 
mystic  Fast  and  Temptation  of  Christ ;  a  dreary,  lonely, 
burning  desert.  Here,  also,  is  the  supposed  scene  of  the 
parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan,  and  the  ruins  of  a  great 
building,  which  may  have  been  a  Half-way  House  Inn  beside 
the  road,  bear  out  the  tradition.  I  have  often  reflected  that 
orthodox  divines  miss  half  the  point  of  that  beautiful  story 
when  they  omit  to  mark  the  fact  that  the  Samaritans  were,  in 
Christ's  time,  boycotted  by  the  Jews  as  heretics;  and  that  it 
was  precisely  one  of  these  herebica  who  was  made  by  Jesus 
the  type  for  all  time  of  genuine  philanthropy, — ^in  direct 
and  purposeful  contrast  to  the  representatives  of  Judaic 
orthodoxy,  the  Priest  and  Levite. 

The  sun  on  my  head  during  the  latter  hours  of  the  ride 
became  intolerable ;  not  like  English  heat,  however  excessive, 
but  roasting  my  very  brains  through  all  the  folds  of  linen  on 
my  hat  and  of  a  damp  handkerchief  within.  It  was  like 
sitting  before  a  kitchen  fire  with  one's  head  in  the  position 
proper  for  a  leg  of  mutton  ?  I  felt  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and 
death  to  escape,  and  galloped  on  by  myself  in  advance  for 


hOifG  JOVRNSY.  24ft 

many  milea  till  suddenly  I  came,  just  under  Beihany  at  the 
base  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  to  a  magnificent  ancient  fountain, 
with  the  cool  water  gushing  out,  amid  the  massive  old 
masonry.  In  a  moment  I  leaped  from  my  equally  eager 
horse,  threw  off  my  hat  and  bared  my  neck  and  put  my 
head  under  the  blessed  stream.  Of  course  it  was  a  perilous 
proceeding,  but  it  saved  me  from  a  sunstroke. 

That  evening  in  Jerusalem  I  wished  good-bye  to  my 
pleasant  fellow-travellers,  who  were  good  enough  to  pass  a 
vote  of  thanks  to  me  for  my  «  unvarying  pluck  and  hilarity 
during  the  fiitigues  and  dangers  of  the  way  I "  I  started 
next  day  for  the  two  da3rs'  ride  to  Jaffa,  accompanied  only 
by  a  good  Italian  named  Abengo,  and  a  muleteer.  There 
was  a  small  war  going  on  between  some  of  the  tribes 
on  the  way,  and  a  certain  chief  named  Aboo-Ch)osh  (beneath 
whose  robber's  castle  I  had  been  pelted  with  stones  on 
my  way  up  to  Jerusalem)  was  scouring  the  country.  We 
passed,  in  the  valley  of  i^alon,  some  wounded  men  borne  home 
from  a  battle,  but  otherwise  encountered  nothing  alarming, 
and  I  obtained  a  great  deal  of  curious  information  from 
Abengo,  who  knew  Palestine  intimately,  and  whose  wife  was 
a  Christian  woman  of  Nazareth.  There  is  no  use  in  repeating 
now  records  of  a  state  of  things  which  has  been  modified,  no 
doubt,  essentially  in  thirty  years. 

From  Jaffa  I  sailed  to  Beyront,  and  there,  with  kind  help 
and  advice  from  the  Consul,  I  obtained  the  services  of  an  old 
Turk  as  a  Dragoman,  and  he  and  I  and  a  muleteer  laden  with 
my  bed  and  baggage  started  to  cross  Lebanon  and  make  our 
way  to  Baalbec  and,  as  I  hoped,  also  to  Damascus.  The 
snows  were  still  thick  on  the  higher  slopes  of  Lebanon,  and 
after  the  excessive  heat  I  had  just  undergone  in  Syria,  the 
cold  was  trjring.  But  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  those  noble 
mountains,  fringed  below  with  fig  and  olive,  and  with  their 
snowy  summits  rising  height  beyond  height  above,  was  com- 


244  CHAPTER  IX. 

pensation  for  all  hardship.  By  a  cnrions  chance,  Lebanon 
was  ihe  first  mountain  range  worthy  of  the  name,  which  I 
had  ever  crossed.  It  was  an  introduction,  of  course,  to  a 
whole  world  of  impressions  and  experiences. 

I  had  a  good  many  escapes  in  the  course  of  my  ride ;  there 
being  nothing  to  be  called  a  road  over  much  of  the  way,  and 
»ach  path  as  there  was  being  covered  with  snow  or  melting 
torrents.  My  strong  little  Syrian  horse  walked  and  scrambled 
and  stumbled  up  beds  of  streams  running  down  in  cataracts 
over  the  rocks  and  boulders ;  and  on  one  occasion  he  had  to 
bear  me  down  a  very  steep  descent,  where  we  floundered 
forward,  sometimes  up  to  his  girths  in  the  snow,  in  dread  of 
descending  with  irresistible  impetus  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice 
which  yawned  at  the  bottom.  We  did  reach  the  verge  in 
rather  a  shaky  condition  ;  but  the  good  beast  struggled  hard 
to  save  himself,  and  turned  at  the  critical  moment  safe  along 
'  the  edge. 

A  sad  association  belongs  to  my  sojourn  among  the 
Maronites  at  Zachly ;  a  large  village  on  the  further  side  of 
Lebanon,  on  the  slopes  of  the  Haraun.  I  slept  there  on  my 
outward  way  in  my  tent  pitched  in  an  angle  of  grass  outside 
one  of  the  first  houses,  and  on  my  return  journey  I  obtained 
the  use  of  the  principal  room  of  the  same  house  fi*om  my 
kind  hosts,  as  the  cold  outside  was  too  considerable  for  tent 
life  in  comfort.  Zachly  was  a  very  humble,  simple  place. 
The  houses  were  all  of  mud,  with  flat  roofs  made  of  branches 
laid  across  and  covered  with  more  mud.  A  stem  of  a  living 
tree  usually  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  house  supporting  the 
whole  erection,  which  was  divided  into  two  or  three 
chambers.  A  recess  in  the  wall  held  piles  of  mats,  and  of 
the  hard  cushions  made  of  raw  cotton,  which  form  both  seats, 
beds,  and  pillows.  The  rough,  unplaned  door,  with  wooden 
lock,  the  window  half  stufled  up,  the  abundant  population  of 
cocks  and  hens,  cats  and  dogs  and  rosy  little  boys  and  girls. 


LONO  JOURNEY,  245 

strongly  reminded  me  of  Baliskt  I  was  welcomed  most 
kindly  after  a  brief  negotiation  with  Hassan ;  and  the  simple 
women  and  girls  clustered  roond  me  with  soft  words  and 
presents  of  carrots  and  daffodils.  One  old  woman  having 
kissed  my  hands  as  a  beginning,  proceeded  to  pat  her  arms 
roond  my  neck  and  embrace  me  in  a  most  motherly  way.  To 
amuse  the  party,  I  showed  them  my  travelling  bag,  luncheon 
and  writing  and  drawing  apparatus,  and  made  them  taste  my 
biscuits  and  smell  my  toilet  vinegar.  Screams  of  "Taib, 
Taib  I  Eatiyeh ! "  (good,  very  good)  rewarded  my  small 
efforts,  and  then  I  made  them  tell  me  all  their  names,  which 
I  wrote  in  my  note-book.  They  were  very  pretty :  Helena, 
Mareen,  Tasmeen,  Myrrhi,  Maroon,  Georgi,  Malachee,  Ynssef, 
and  several  others,  the  last  being  Salieh,  the  young  village 
priest,  a  tall,  grand-looking  young  man  with  high  cylindrical 
black  hat,  black  robe  and  flowing  brown  hair.  I  made  him 
a  respectful  salutation  at  which  he  seemed  pleased.  On  my 
second  visit  to  Zachly  I  attended  the  vesper  service  in  his 
little  chapel  as  the  sun  went  down  over  Lebanon.  It  was  a 
plain  quadrangle  of  mud  walls,  brown  without  and  white- 
washed within ;  a  flat  roof  of  branches  and  mortar ;  a  post 
for  support  in  the  centre ;  a  confessional  at  one  side ;  a  little 
lectern ;  an  altar  without  crucifix  and  only  decorated  by  two 
candlesticks ;  a  jar  of  fresh  daffodils ;  some  poor  prints ;  a 
blue  tea-cup  for  sacramental  plate,  and  a  little  cottage-window 
into  which  the  setting  sun  was  shining  softly; — such  was  the 
chapel  of  Zachly.  A  few  men  knelt  to  the  left,  a  few  women 
to  the  right ;  in  front  of  the  altar  was  a  group  of  children, 
also  kneeling,  and  waiting  to  take  their  part  in  the  service. 
At  the  lectern  stood  the  noble  figure  of  young  Papas  SaUeh, 
leaning  on  one  of  the  crutches  which  in  all  Eastern  churches 
are  provided  to  relieve  the  fatigue  of  the  attendants,  who, 
like  Abraham,  '' worship,  leaning  on  the  top  of  a  staff.'* 
Beside  the  Papas  stood  a  ragged  but  intelligent  little  acolyte. 


246  CHAPTER  IX. 

who  chanted  very  well,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  leotem 
an  aged  peasant,  who  also  took  his  part.  The  prayers 
were,  of  course,  unintelligible  to  me,  being  in  Arabic; 
but  I  recognised  in  the  Gospel  the  chapter  of  genealogies 
in  Luke,  over  whose  hard  names  the  priest  helped  his 
friend  quite  unaffectedly.  The  reading  over,  Papas  Salieh 
took  off  his  black  and  red  cap,  and,  kneeling  before  the 
altar,  commenced  another  chanted  prayer,  while  the 
women  beside  me  bowed  till  they  kissed  the  ground  in 
Eastern  prostration,  beating  their  breasts  with  resounding 
blows.  The  group  of  children  made  the  responses  at 
intervals;  and  then  the  priest  blessed  us,  and  the  simple 
service  was  over,  having  occupied  about  twenty  minutes. 
While  we  were  departing,  the  Papas  seated  himself  in  the 
confessional  and  a  man  went  immediately  into  the  penitents' 
place  beside  him.  There  was  something  very  affecting  to 
me  in  this  poor  little  church  of  clay,  with  its  humble  efforts 
at  cleanliness  and  flowers  and  music ;  all  built  and  adorned 
by  the  worshippers'  own  hands,  and  served  by  the  young 
peasant  priest,  doubtless  the  son  and  brother  of  some  of  his 
own  flock. 

As  I  have  said  there  are  sad  associations  connected  with 
this  visit  of  mine  to  Zachly.  A  very  short  time  afterwards 
the  Druses  came  down  with  irresistible  force, — ^massacred 
the  greater  number  of  the  unhappy  Maronites  and  burned 
the  village.  The  spot  where  I  had  been  so  kindly  received 
was  left  a  heap  of  blackened  ruins,  and  what  became  of 
sweet,  motherly  Helena  and  her  dear  little  children  and 
good  Papas  Salieh  and  the  rest,  I  have  never,  been  able  to 
learn. 

It  took  six  hours  of  hard  riding  in  a  bitter  wind  to  carry  me 
from  Zachly  to  Baalbec ;  but  anticipation  bore  me  on  wings, 
and  to  beguile  the  way  I  repeated  to  myself  as  my  good 
memory  permitted,  the  whole  of  Moore's  poem  of  FaradiM 


LONG  J0DRNE7.  247 

mnd  the  Perif  cnlminaiing  in  the  scene  which  the  Peri  heheld 
**  When  o'er  the  vale  of  Baalbec  winging. ' '  In  vain,  however,  I 
oross-qnestioned  Hassan  (we  talked  Italian  tcmt  hien  que  ftud) 
about  Peris.  He  had  never  heard  of  snoh  beings.  But  of 
I>jinnB  in  general  he  knew  only  too  much ;  and  notably  that 
tliey  had  bnilt  the  vast  ruins  of  Baalbec,  which  no  mortal  hands 
eouLd  have  raised ;  and  that  to  the  present  time  they  hannt 
them  so  constantly  and  in  such  terrific  shape,  that  it  is  very 
perilous  for  anybody  to  go  there  alone  and  quite  impossible 
to  do  so  after  nightfall.  I  had  reason  to  bless  this 
belief  in  the  Djinns  of  Baalbec  for  it  left  me  the  undisturbed 
solitary  enjoyment  of  the  mighty  enclosure  within  the 
Saracenic  walls  for  the  best  part  of  two  days,  unvexed  by 
the  inquisitive  presence  or  observation  of  the  population  of 
the  Arab  village  outside. 

To  pitch  my  tent  among  the  ruins,  however,  was  more 
than  I  could  bring  Hassan  to  do  by  any  cajoling,  and  I 
consented  finally  to  sleep  in  a  small  cabin  consisting  of  a 
single  chamber  of  which  I  could  lock  the  door  inside.  When 
I  prepared  for  sleep  on  the  hard  cotton  cushions  laid  over  a 
stone  bench,  and  with  the  two  unglazed  windows  admitting 
volumes  of  cold  air,  I  was  firightened  to  find  I  had  every 
symptom  of  approaching  fever.  Into  what  an  awful  position, 
— ^I  reflected, — ^had  I  put  myself,  with  no  one  but  that  old  Turk 
Hassan,  and  the  Arab  from  whom  I  had  hired  this  little 
house  for  the  night,  to  take  care  of  me  should  I  have  a 
real  bad  fever,  and  be  kept  there  between  life  and  death 
for  weeks  1  Beflecting  what  I  could  possibly  do  to  avert 
the  danger,  brought  on,  of  course,  by  cold  and  fatigue, 
I  took  from  my  bag  the  half-bottle  of  Baki  (a  very 
pure  spirit  made  from  rice)  which  my  travelling  friends 
had  brought  from  the  monastery  at  Mar  Saba  and  had 
kindly  shared  with  me ;  and  to  a  large  dose  of  this  I  was 
able  to  add  some  hot  water  from  a  sort  of  coffee-pot  left,  by 


248  CBAPTER  IX. 

good  lack,  in  ihe  yet  warm  brazier  of  charcoal  in  ihe  middle 
of  my  room.  I  drank  my  Baki-ioddy  to  the  last  drop,  and 
then  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just, — ^to  awaken  quite  weU  the 
next  morning !  And  if  any  of  my  teetotal  friends  think  I  did 
wrong  to  take  it,  I  beg  entirely  to  differ  from  them  on  the 
subject. 

The  days  which  I  spent  in  and  around  Baalbee  were  more 
than  repayment  for  the  fatigues  and  perils  of  the  passage  of 
"  Sainted  Lebanon ; "  whose  famous  Cedars,  by  the  way,  I 
was  unable  to  visit ;  the  region  where  they  stand  being  at 
that  season  too  deeply  covered  with  snow.  Here  is  a 
lescription  I  gave  of  Baalbee  to  Harriet  St.  Leger  just  after 
my  visit  :— 

"I  had  two  wonderful  days  indeed  in  Baalbeo.  The 
number  of  the  vast  solitary  ruins  ezoeeded  all  my  anticipa- 
tions, and  their  grandeur  impresses  one  as  no  remains  less 
completely  isolated  can  do.  Imagine  a  space  about  that  of 
Newbridge  garden  surrounded  by  enormous  Saracenic  walls 
with  a  sweet,  bright  brook  running  round  it,  and  then  left 
to  entire  solitude.  A  few  cattle  browse  on  the  short  grass, 
and  now  and  then,  I  suppose,  some  one  enters  by  one 
or  other  of  the  different  gaps  in  the  wall  to  look  after  tiiem ; 
but  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  shut  in  by  its  great  walls, 
to  which  the  displacement  of  a  single  stone  makes  now 
the  sole  entrance,  no  one  ever  enters.  The  fear  of  Djinns 
renders  the  place  even  doubly  alarming  I  Among  the  most 
awful  things  in  Baalbeo  are  stupendous  subterranean 
tunnels  running  in  various  directions  under  the  ruined  dty. 
I  groped  through  several  of  them,  they  opened  out  with 
great  doorways  into  others  which,  having  no  light,  I  would 
not  explore,  but  which  seemed  abysses  of  awet  The 
stones  of  all  these  works  are  enormous.  Those  5  or  6  feet 
and  12  or  15  feet  long  are  among  the  smallest.  In  the 
temple  were  some  which  I  could  not  span  with  five  exten- 
sions of  my  arms,  ».«.,  something  like  80  feet,  but  there  are 
stiU  larger  elsewhere  among  the  ruins.'* 


LONG  JOURNEY.  249 

The  shafts  of  the  oolnnms  of  the  two  Temples, — the  six 
left  standing  of  the  great  Temple  of  the  Sun  which 

*<  Stand  Bnblime 
Casting  their  shadows  from  on  high 
Like  Dials  which  the  wizard  Time 
Had  raised  to  coimt  his  ages  by  "— 

and  those  of  the  hypsdthral  temple  of  Zens  of  which  only  a 
few  have  &llen,  are  alike  miracles  of  size  and  perfection  of 
moulding.  The  fragments  of  palaces  reveal  magnificence 
unparalleled.  All  these  enormons  edifices  are  wrought  with 
such  lavish  luxuriance  of  imagination,  such  perfection  of 
detail  in  harmony  with  the  luscious  Corinthian  style  which 
pervades  the  whole,  that  the  idea  of  the  Arabs  that  they  are 
the  work  not  of  men  but  of  Genii,  seemed  quite  natural.  I 
recalled  what  Yitruvius  (who  wrote  about  the  time  in  which 
the  best  of  these  temples  was  erected),  says  of  the  methods 
by  which,  in  his  day,  the  largest  stones  were  moved  from 
quarries  and  lifted  to  their  places,  but  I  failed  to  comprehend 
how  the  colossal  work  was  achieved  here. 

Passing  out  of  the  great  ruined  gateway  I  came  to  vast 
square  and  hexagonal  courts  with  walls  forming  exedrse, 
loaded  with  profusion  of  ornaments ;  columns,  entablatures, 
niches  and  seats  overhung  with  carvings  of  garlands  of 
flowers  and  the  wings  of  fancifrd  creatures.  Streets,  gate- 
ways and  palaces,  hardly  distinguishable  in  their  ruin,  follow 
on  beyond  the  courts  and  portico,  I  climbed  up  a  shattered 
stair  to  the  summit  of  the  Saracenic  wall  and  felt  a  sort  of 
shock  to  behold  the  living  world  below  me ;  the  glittering 
brook,  the  almond  trees  in  blossom  and  Anti-Lebanon 
beyond.  Here  I  caught  sight  of  the  well-known  exquisite 
little  circular  temple  with  its  colonnade  of  six  Corinthian 
columns,  of  which  the  architraves  are  recurved  inwards  from 
column  to  column.      If  I  am  not  mistaken  a  reproduction 


250  CHAPTER  IX. 

of  this  lovely  little  bnilding  was  set  np  in  Eew  Gardens 
in  the  last  centnry. 

Last  of  all  I  retomed  to  the  Temple  of  Zens — or  of  Baal 
as  it  is  sometimes  called — ^to  spend  there  in  secure  solitude 
(except  for  Djinns!)  the  closing  hours  of  that  long,  rich 
day.  The  large  walls  are  almost  perfect ;  the  colonnades  oi 
enormous  pillars  are  mostly  still  standing.  From  the  inner 
portal  with  its  magnificent  lintel  half  fallen  from  its  place, 
the  view  is  probably  the  finest  of  any  fane  of  the  ancient 
world,  and  was  to  me  impressive  beyond  description.  Even 
the  spot  where  the  statue  of  the  god  has  stood  can  easily  be 
traced.  A  great  stone  lying  overturned  on  the  pavement 
was  doubtless  the  pedestal.  I  remained  for  hours  in  this 
temple;  sometimes  feebly  trying  to  sketch  what  I  saw, 
sometimes  lost  in  ponderings  on  the  faiths  and  worships  of 
the  past  and  present.  A  hawk,  which  probably  had  never 
before  found  a  human  visitor  at  even-tide  in  that  weird 
place,  came  swooping  over  me  ;  then  gave  a  wild  shriek  and 
flew  away.  A  little  later  the  moon  rose  over  the  walls.  The 
calm  and  silence  and  beauty  of  that  scene  can  never  be 
forgotten. 

I  was  unable  to  pursue  my  journey  to  Damascus  as  I  had 
designed.  The  muleteer,  with  all  my  baggage,  contrived  to 
miss  us  on  the  road  among  the  hills  in  Anti-Lebanon  ;  and, 
eventually,  after  another  visit  to  the  ruins  and  to  the  quarries 
from  whence  the  vast  stones  were  taken,  I  rode  back  to 
Zachly  and  thence  (a  two  days'  ride)  over  Lebanon  to 
Beyrout. 

I  remained  a  few  days  at  the  hotel  which  then  existed  a 
mile  from  the  town,  while  I  waited  for  the  steamer  to  take 
me  to  Athens,  and  much  eigoyed  the  lovely  scene  of  rich 
mulberry  and  almond  gardens  beside  the  shell-strewn  strand, 
with  snowy  Lebanon  behind,  towering  over  the  fir-woods 
into  the  deep  blue  sky.    The  Syrian  peasant  women  are 


LONO  JOURNEY.  261 

sweet,  eonrteonB  creatures.  One  day  as  I  sat  nnder  a  oactos- 
hedge  reading  Shelley,  a  pretty  young  mother  came  by,  and 
after  interchanging  a  ''Peace  be  with  yon,"  proceeded 
unhesitatingly,  and  without  a  word  of  explanation,  to  deposit 
her  baby, — ^Mustapha  by  name, — ^in  my  lap.  I  was  very 
willing  to  nurse  Mustapha,  and  we  made  friends  at  once  as 
easily  as  his  mother  had  done ;  and  my  heart  was  the  better 
for  the  encounter  I 

After  I  had  paid  off  Hassan  and  settled  my  account  at  the 
hotel,  I  found  my  financial  condition  exceedingly  bad  I  I 
had  just  enough  cash  remaining  to  carry  me  (omitting  a  few 
meals)  by  second-class  passage  to  Athens :  which  was  the 
nearest  place  where  I  had  opened  a  credit  from  my  bankers, 
or  where  I  had  any  introductions.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  take  a  second-class  place  on  board  the  Austrian 
Lloyd's  steamer  UlmpSratriee ;  though  it  was  not  a  pleasant 
arrangement,  seeing  that  there  was  no  other  woman 
passenger  and  no  stewardess  on  the  ship  at  all.  Neverthe- 
less this  was  just  one  of  the  cases  in  which  knocking  about 
the  world  brought  me  favourable  experience  of  human  nature. 
The  Captain  of  the  Imperatrice,  an  Italian  gentleman,  did  his 
utmost,  with  extreme  delicacy  and  good  taste,  to  make  my 
position  comfortable.  He  ordered  his  own  dinner  to  be 
served  in  the  second  cabin  that  he  might  preside  at  the 
table  instead  of  one  of  his  subordinates  ;  and  during  the  day 
he  came  often  to  see  that  I  was  well  placed  and  shaded  on 
deck,  and  to  interchange  a  httle  pleasant  talk,  without 
intrusion. 

It  is  truly  one  of  the  silliest  of  the  many  silly  things 
in  the  education  of  women  that  we  are  taught  little  or 
nothing  about  the  simplest  matters  of  banking  and  stock-and- 
share  buying  and  selling.  I,  who  had  always  had  money  in 
abundance  given  me  straight  into  my  hand,  knew  absolutely 
nothing,  when  my  fiEither's  death  left  me  to  arrange  my  affairs, 


262  CHAPTER  IX. 

how  such  basineBB  is  done,  how  Bhares  are  bought  and  sold, 
how  eredits  are  open  at  corresponding  bankers ;  how,  even, 
to  draw  a  cheque!  It  all  seemed  to  me  a  most  perilous 
matter,  and  I  feared  that  I  might,  in  those  remote  regions,  come 
to  grief  any  day  by  the  refusal  of  some  local  banker  to  honour 
my  cheques  or  by  the  neglect  of  my  London  bankers  to 
bespeak  credit  for  me.  My  means  were  so  narrow,  and  I 
had  so  little  experience  of  the  expenses  of  living  and  travelling, 
that  I  was  greatly  exercised  as  to  my  small  concerns.  I 
brought  with  me  (generally  tied  by  a  string  round  my  neck 
and  concealed)  a  very  valuable  diamond  ring  to  sell  in  case  I 
came  to  real  disaster ;  but  it  had  been  constantly  worn  by 
my  mother ;  and  I  felt  at  Beyrout  that,  sooner  than  sell  it, 
I  would  live  on  short  commons  for  much  more  than  a  week  1 
One  day  of  our  voyage  I  spent  at  Cyprus  where  I  admired 
the  ancient  church  of  San  Lazzaro,  half  mosque,  half  church, 
and  said  to  be  the  final  grave  of  Lazarus.  I  had  visited  his, 
supposed,  temporary  one  in  Bethany.  Another  day  I  landed 
at  Rhodes  and  was  able  to  see  the  ruined  street  which  bears 
over  each  house  the  arms  of  the  Knight  to  whom  it  belonged. 
At  the  upper  end  of  the  way  are  still  visible  the  arch  and 
shattered  relics  of  their  church.  Writing  to  Miss  St.  Leger 
March  28th,  I  described  my  environment  thus : 

"  Dearest  Harriet, 

"  Behold  me  seated  ^  la  Turque  close  to  a  party  of  Moslem 
gentlemen  who  alternately  smoke  and  say  their  prayers  all 
day  long.  We  are  steaming  up  through  the  lovely  "  Isles 
of  Greece,"  having  left  Rhodes  this  morning  and  Cos  an 
hour  ago.  As  we  pass  each  wild  cape  and  green  shore  I 
take  up  a  certain  opera  glass  with  *H.  S.'  on  the  top  of  the 
box,  and  wish  very  much  I  could  see  through  it  the  dear, 
kind  eyes  that  used  it  once.  They  would  be  pleasanter  to 
see  than  all  these  scenes,  glorious  as  they  are.  The  sun  is 
going  down  into  the  calm  blue  sea  and  throwing,  purplei 


LONG  JOU&NJBt.  258 

lights  already  on  the  conutlesB  islands  through  which  the 
yessel  winds  its  way.  White  sea-galls  follow  us  and 
beantifol  little  quaint-sailed  boats  apx>ear  every  now  and 
then  round  the  islands.  The  peculiar  beauty  of  this  famous 
passage  is  derived,  however,  from  the  bold  and  varied  out- 
line of  the  islands  and  adjoining  coast  of  Asia  Minor.  From 
little  rocks  not  larger  than  the  ship  itself,  up  to  large 
provinces  with  extensive  towns  like  Cos,  there  is  an  endless 
variety  and  boldness  of  form.  Ireland's  Eye  magnified  to 
twice  the  height,  is,  I  should  say,  the  commonest  type.  In 
some  almost  inaccessible  cliffs  one  sees  hermiUbges;  in 
others  convents.    I  shall  post  this  at  Smyrna.*' 

As  the  Impiratrice  stopped  two  or  three  days  in  the 
magnificent  harbour  of  Smyrna,  I  had  good  opportunity  to 
land  and  make  my  way  to  the  scene  of  Polycarp's  Martyrdom 
amid  the  colossal  cypresses  which  outdo  all  those  of  Italy 
except  the  quincentenarians  in  the  Giusti  garden  in  Verona. 
It  was  Easter,  and  a  ridiculous  incident  occurred  on  the 
Saturday.  I  was  busy  writing  in  the  cabin  of  the  Impera- 
trice  at  mid-day,  when,  subito !  there  were  explosions  in  our 
vessel  and  in  a  hundred  other  vessels  in  the  harbour,  again 
and  again  and  again,  as  if  a  battle  of  TraflaJgar  were  going 
on  all  round  1  I  rushed  on  deck  and  found  the  steward 
standing  calm  and  cheerful  amid  the  terrific  noise  and 
smoke,  <<For  God's  sake  what  has  happened?"  I  cried 
breathless.  <'  Nothing,  Signora,  nothing  f  It  is  the  Boyal 
Salute  all  the  ships  are  firing,  of  21  guns." 

"  In  honour  of  whom  ?  "  I  asked,  somewhat  less  alarmed. 

''  Iddio,  Signora  I  GeBii  Cristo,  sicuro  f  ^  il  momento 
dolla  Besurrezione,  si  b&." 

**  0,  no  1 "  I  said,  '<  Not  on  Saturday.  It  was  on 
Sunday,  you  know  I " 

"  Che,  che  f  Dicono  forse  cosi  i  Protestanti  I  Sappiamo 
noi  altri,  che  era  il  Sabato." 


254  ditApTER  ta. 

I  never  got  to  the  bottom  of  this  mystery,  bnt  can  testify 
that  at  Smyrna  in  1858  there  were  many  scores  of  these 
Royal  Salutes  (!)  on  Holy  Saturday  at  noon  in  honour  of 
the  Besurrection. 

It  was  one  of  the  brightest  hours  of  my  happy  life,  that 
on  which  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  our  ship  at  sunrise  and 
passed  under  '^Sunium's  marble  steep*'  and  knew  that  I 
was  approaching  Athens.  As  we  steamed  up  the  gulf,  the 
red  clouds  flamed  over  Fames  and  Hymettus  and  lighted  up 
the  hills  of  Peloponnesus.  The  bright  blue  waves  were 
dancing  under  our  prow,  and  I  could  see  over  them  far  away 
the  "  rocky  brow  which  looks  o'er  sea-bom  Salamis,"  where 
Xerxes  sat  on  his  silver-footed  throne  on  such  a  mom  as 
this.  Above,  to  our  right,  over  the  olive  woods  with  the 
rising  sun  behind  it,  like  a  crowned  hill  was  the  Acropolis 
of  Athens  and  the  Parthenon  upon  it. 

Very  soon  I  had  landed  at  the  Piraaus  and  had  engaged  a 
carriage  (there  was  no  railway  then)  to  take  me  to  Athens* 
The  drive  was  enchanting,  between  olive  groves  and  vine- 
yards, and  with  the  Temple  of  Theseus  and  the  buildings  on 
the  Acropolis  coming  into  view  as  I  approached  Athens,  till 
I  was  beside  myself  with  delight  and  excitement.  The  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  drive  to  the  private  house  of  the  banker  to 
whom  I  was  recommended,  to  arouse  the  poor  old  gentleman 
(nothing  loath  apparently  to  do  business  even  at  seven 
o'clock)  to  draw  fifty  sovereigns,  and  then  to  go  to  the  French 
Hotel,  choose  a  room  with  a  fine  view  of  the  Parthenon,  and 
to  say  to  the  master :  '^  Send  me  the  very  best  dejeuner  you 
can  provide  and  a  bottle  of  Samian  wine,  and  let  this  letter 
be  taken  to  Mr.  Finlay."  That  breakfiaAt,  with  that  view, 
was  a  feast  of  the  gods  after  my  many  abstinencies,  though 
I  nearly  *'  dashed  down  the  cup  of  Samian  wine,"  not  in 
patriotic  despair  for  Ghreece,  but  because  it  was  so  abominably 


LONG  JOURNEY.  255 

bad  that  no  poetry  could  have  been  made  out  of  it  by  Anaereon 
himself.  Hardly  had  I  finished  my  meal,  when  Mr.  Finlay 
appeared  at  my  door,  having  hurried  with  infinite  kindness  to 
welcome  me,  and  do  honour  to  the  introduction  of  his  coosin, 
my  dear  sister-in-law.  ''  I  put  myself,"  said  he,  '^  at  your 
orders  for  the  day.    We  will  go  wherever  you  please." 

It  would  be  un£Eur  to  inflict  on  the  reader  a  detailed  account 
of  all  I  saw  at  Athens  under  the  admirable  guidance  of  Mr. 
Finlay  dtiring  a  week  of  intensest  enjoyment.  Mr.  Finlay  (it 
con  scarcely  yet  be  forgotten)  went  out  to  Chreece  a  few  weeks 
or  months  before  Byron  and  fought  with  him  and  after  him, 
through  the  War  of  Independence.  After  this,  having 
married  a  beautiful  Armenian  lady,  he  bought  much  land  in 
Euboea,  built  himself  a  handsome  house  in  Athens  and 
lived  there  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  writing  his  great  History 
(in  five  volumes)  of  Greece  UTider  Foreign  Domination; 
making  a  magnificent  collection  of  coins;  and  acting  for 
many  years  as  the  Times  correspondent  at  Athens.  He  was 
not  only  a  highly  erudite  archsBologist,  but  an  enthusiast  for 
the  land  of  his  adoption  and  all  its  triumphs  of  art ;  in  short, 
the  best  of  all  possible  ciceroni.  I  was  fortunately  not 
wholly  unprepared  to  profit  by  his  learned  expositions  and 
delicate  observation  on  the  architecture  of  the  glorious  ruins, 
for  I  had  made  copies  of  prints  of  all  at  Athens  and 
elsewhere  in  Greece  with  ground-plans  and  restorations  and 
notes  of  everything  I  could  learn  about  them,  many  years 
before  when  I  was  wont  to  amuse  myself  with  drawing,  while 
my  mother  read  to  me.  I  found  that  I  knew  beforehand 
dearly  exactly  what  remained  of  the  Parthenon  and  the 
Erechtheum  and  the  Temple  of  Victory,  the  PropylaBum  on 
the  Acropolis  and  the  Theseium  below;  and  it  was  of  intensest 
interest  to  me  to  leam,  under  Mr.  Finlay's  guidance,  precisely 
where  the  Elgin  Marbles  had  stood,  and  to  note  the  extra- 
ordinary fact,  on  which  he  insisted  much, — that  there  is  not 


ft56  CHAPTER  IX. 

a  single  straight  line  in  the  whole  Parthenon.  Everything^ 
down  to  single  stones  in  the  entablatures  and  friezes,  is 
curved,  in  some  cases,  he  felt  assured,  after  they  had  been 
placed  in  situ.  The  extreme  entasis  of  the  columns  and  the 
great  pyramidal  inclination  of  the  whole  building,  were  most 
noticeable  when  attention  was  once  drawn  to  them.  As  we 
approached  the  mcgestic  ruins  of  Adrian's  Temple  of  Jupiter 
on  the  plains  below,  (that  enormous  temple  which  had  double 
rows  of  columns  surrounding  it  and  quadruple  rows  in  front 
and  back,  of  ten  columns  each)  I  exclaimed  "  Why  I  there  ought 
to  be  three  columns  standing  at  that  far  angle  I "  ''  Quite  true," 
said  Mr.  Finlay,  ''  one  of  them  fell  just  six  weeks  ago." 

Since  this  visit  of  mine  to  Athens  a  vast  deal  has  been 
done  to  dear  away  the  remains  of  the  Turkish  tower  and 
other  barbaric  buildings  which  obstructed  and  desecrated 
the  summit  of  the  Acropolis  ;  and  the  fortunate  visitor  may 
now  see  the  whole  Propykeum  and  all  the  spaces  open  and 
free,  beside  examining  the  very  numerous  statues  and 
has  reliefs  some  quaintly  archaic,  some  of  the  best  age  and 
splendidly  beautiful,  which  have  been  dug  out  in  recent  years 
in  Greece. 

I  envy  every  visitor  to  Athens  now,  but  console  myself 
by  procuring  photographs  of  all  the  finds  from  those 
excellent  artists,  Thomaldes,  Brothers. 

Mr.  Finlay  spoke  much  of  Byron  in  answer  to  my 
questions,  and  described  him  as  a  most  singular  combination 
of  romance  and  astuteness.  The  Greeks  imagined  that  a 
man  capable  of  such  enthusiasm  as  to  go  to  war  for  their 
enfranchisement  must  have  a  rather  soft  head  as  well  as 
warm  heart ;  but  they  were  much  mistaken  when  they  tried  in 
their  simplicity  to  exploiter  him  in  matters  of  finance.  There 
were  self-devoted  and  disinterested  patriots,  but  there  were  also 
(as  was  inevitable),  among  the  insurgents  many  others  who 
bad  a  sharp  eye  to  their  own  financial  and  political  schemes 


LONG  JOURNEY.  257 

Byron  saw  through  these  men  (Mr.  Finlay  said),  with 
astounding  quickness,  and  never  allowed  them  to  guide  or 
get  the  hotter  of  him  in  any  negotiation.  Ahout  money 
matters  he  considered  he  was  inclined  to  he  ''dose- 
fisted.''  This  was  an  opinion  strongly  confirmed  to  me 
some  months  later  hy  Walter  Savage  Landor,  who 
repeatedly  remarked  that  Byron's  hehaviour  in  several 
occurrences,  while  in  Italy,  was  far  from  liheral  and 
that,  luxuriously  as  he  chose  to  live,  he  was  hy  no  means 
ready  to  pay  freely  for  his  luxury.  Shelley  on  the  contrary, 
though  he  lived  most  simply  and  was  always  hard  pressed 
for  money  by  William  Goodwin  (who  Fanny  Kemhle  delight- 
fully described  to  me  apropos  of  Dowden's  Memoir s^  as  ''  one 
of  those  greatly  gifted  and  greatly  horrouoing  people ! "),  was 
punctilious  to  the  last  degree  in  paying  his  debts  and  even 
those  of  his  friends.  There  was  a  story  of  a  boat  purchased 
by  both  Byron  and  Shelley  which  I  cannot  trust  my  memory 
to  recall  accurately  as  Mr.  Landor  told  it  to  me,  and  which  I 
do  not  exactly  recognise  in  the  Memoirs,  but  which  certainly 
amounted  to  this, — that  Byron  left  Shelley  to  pay  for  their 
joint  purchase,  and  that  Shelley  did  so,  though  at  the  time  he 
was  in  extreme  straits  for  money.  All  the  impressions,  I 
may  here  remark,  which  I  gathered  at  that  time  in  Greece 
and  Italy  (1858),  where  there  were  yet  a  few  alive  who 
personally  knew  both  these  great  poets,  was  in  favour  of 
Shelley  and  against  Byron.  Talking  over  them  many  years 
afterwards  with  Mazzini  I  was  startled  by  the  vehemence 
with  which  he  pronounced  his  preference  for  B3rron,  as  the 
one  who  had  tried  to  put  his  sympathy  with  a  struggling 
nation  into  practice,  and  had  died  in  the  noble  attempt.  This 
was  natural  enough  on  the  part  of  the  Italian  patriot  ;«but  I 
think  the  vanity  and  tendency  to  ''  pose,"  which  formed  so 
large  a  part  of  Byron's  character  had  probably  more  to  do 
with  this  last  aeted  Canto  of  ChUde  HarMs  FUgriinagey 

VOL.  L  B 


258  CHAPTER  IX. 

than  Mazzini,  (who  had  no  such  foibles)  was  likely  to 
understand.  The  following  curious  glimpse  of  Byron  at 
Venice  before  he  went  to  Greece,  occurs  in  an  autograph 
letter  in  my  possession,  by  Mrs.  Hemans  to  the  late  Miss 
Margaret  Lloyd.     It  seems  worth  quoting  here. 

«  Bronwyl&,  8th  April,  1819. 

*'  Your  affection  of  Lord  Byron  will  not  be  much  increased 
by  the  description  I  am  going  to  transcribe  for  you  of  his 
appearance  and  manners  abroad.  My  Isister,  who  is  now  at 
Venice,  has  sent  me  the  following  sketch  of  the  Giaour : — 
*  We  were  presented  at  the  Governor's,  after  which  we  went 
to  a  ccnversazdone  at  Madlle.  Benzoni's,  where  we  saw 
Lord  Byron  ;  and  now  my  curiosity  is  gratified,  I  have  no 
wish  ever  to  see  him  again.  A  more  wretched,  depraved- 
looking  countenance  it  is  impossible  to  imagine !  His  hair 
streaming  almost  down  to  his  shoulders  and  his  whole 
appearance  slovenly  and  even  dirty.  Still  there  is  a  some- 
thing which  impels  you  to  look  at  his  face,  although  it 
inspires  you  with  aversion,  a  something  entirely  different 
from  any  expression  on  any  countenance  I  ever  beheld 
before.-  His  character,  I  hear,  is  worse  than  ever ; 
dreadful  it  must  be,  since  everyone  says  he  is  the 
most  dissipated  person  in  Italy,  exceeding  even  the 
Italians  themselves/" 

Shortly  before  my  visit  to  Athens  an  article,  or  book,  by 
Mr.  Trelawney  had  been  published  in  England,  in  which  that 
writer  asserted  that  Byron's  lame  leg  was  a  most  portentous 
deformity,  like  the  fleshless  leg  of  a  Satyr.  I  mentioned  this 
to  Mr.  Finlay,  who  laughed,  and  said:  "That  reminds  me  of 
what  Byron  said  of  Trelawney;  'If  we  could  but  make 
Trelawney  wash  his  hands  and  speak  the  truth,  we  might 
make  a  gentleman  of  him  1 '  Of  course,''  continued  Mr. 
Mr.  Einlay,  '*  I  saw  Byron's  legs  scores  of  times,  for  we  bathed 


LONG  JOURNEY.  269 

together  daily  whenever  we  were  near  the  sea  or  a  river,  and 
there  was  nothing  wrong  with  the  leg^  only  an  ordinary 
and  not  very  bad,  club-/oo<." 

Among  the  interesting  facts  which  Mr.  Einlay  gave  me  as 
the  results  of  his  historical  researches  in  Greece  was  that  a 
school  of  philosophy  continued  to  be  held  in  the  Groves  of 
the  Academd  (through  which*  we  were  walking  at  the 
moment),  for  900  years  from  the  time  of  Plato.  A  fine 
collection  of  gold  and  silver  coins  which  he  had  made, 
afforded,  under  his  guidance,  a  sort  of  running  commentary 
on  the  history  of  the  Byzantine  Empire.  There  were  series 
of  three  and  four  reigns  during  which  the  coins  became 
visibly  worse  and  worse,  till  at  last  there  was  no  sUver  in 
them  at  all,  only  base  metal  of  some  sort ;  and  then,  things 
having  come  to  the  worst,  there  was  a  revolution,  a  new 
dynasty,  and  a  brand  new  and  pure  coinage. 

The  kindness  of  this  very  able  man  and  of  his  charming 
wife  was  not  limited  to  playing  cicerone  to  me.  Nothing 
could  exceed  their  hospitality.  The  first  day  I  dined  at 
their  house  a  party  of  agreeable  and  particularly  fashionably 
dressed  Greek  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  assembled.  As  we 
waited  for  dinner  the  door  opened  and  a  magnificent  figure 
appeared,  whom  I  naturally  took  for,  at  least,  an  Albanian 
Chief,  and  prepared  myself  for  an  interesting  presentation. 
He  wore  a  short  green  velvet  jacket  covered  with  gold 
embroidery,  a  crimson  sash,  an  enormous  white  muslin  MU 
(I  afterwards  learned  it  contained  60  yards  of  muslin,  and 
that  the  washing  thereof  is  a  function  of  the  highest 
responsibility),  and  leggings  of  green  and  gold  to  match  the 
jacket.  One  moment  this  splendid  vision  stood  six  feet  high 
in  the  doorway;  the  next  he  bowed  profoundly  and  pro- 
nounced the  consecrated  formula : — 

^'  Madcnne  est  servie  I " 
and  we  went  to  dinner,  where  he  waited  admirably. 


260  CHAPTER  IX, 

Some  year  or  two  later,  after  I  had  published  some 
records  of  my  travels,  and  sent  them  to  Mr.  Finlay,  I  received 
from  him  the  following  letter  :•— 

^  Athens,  26th  May. 

''  My  dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

*' Baron  von  Schmidthals  sent  me  yonr  letter  of  the 
18th  April  with  the  Citiea  of  ike  Past  yesterday  ;  his  baggage 
having  been  detained  at  Syria.  This  post  brought  me 
Fraser  with  a  '  Day  at  Aihens '  with  due  regularity,  and  now 
accept  my  sincere  thanks  for  both.  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
neglect  in  not  thanking  you  sooner  for  Fraser,  but  I  did  not 
know  your  address.  I  felt  grateful  for  it,  having  been  very, 
very  often  tired  of  *  Days  at  Athens ! '  It  was  a  treat  to 
meet  so  pleasant  a  ^day,'  and  have  another  pleasant  day 
recalled.  Others  to  whom  I  lent  Fraser ^  told  me  the  ^  Day,' 
was  delightful.  I  had  heard  of  your  misfortune  but  I  hoped 
you  had  entirely  recovered,  and  I  regret  to  hear  that  you 
use  crutches  stilL  I,  too,  am  weak  and  can  walk  little,  but 
my  complaint  is  old  age.  The  Saturday  Review  has  told  me 
that  you  have  poured  some  valuable  thoughts  into  the  river 
that  flows  through  ages. 

'  B6  degli  altri ;  saperbo,  altero  flame  I ' 

Solomon  tried  to  couch  its  cataracts  in  vain.  If  you  lived 
at  Athens  you  would  hardly  believe  that  man  can  grow 
wiser  by  being  made  to  think.  It  only  makes  him  more 
wicked  here  in  G-reece.  But  the  river  of  thought  must  be 
intended  to  fertilize  the  future. 

*^  I  wish  I  could  send  you  some  news  that  would  interest 
or  amuse  you,  but  you  may  recollect  that  I  live  like  a 
hermit  and  come  into  contact  with  society  chiefly  in  the 
matter  of  poHtics  which  I  cannot  expect  to  render  inter- 
esting to  you  and  which  is  anything  but  an  amusing  subject 
to  me ;  I  being  one  of  the  G-reek  landlords  on  whose  head 
Kings  and  National  Assemblies  practise  the  art  of  shaving. 
Our  revolution  has  done  some  good  by  clearing  away  old 


LONG  JOURNEY.  261 

abuses,  bat  the  podtiTe  gain  has  been  smalL  England 
sent  ns  a  boy-king,  and  Denmark  with  him  a  Connt 
Bponneck,  whom  the  Greeks,  not  inaoonrately,  call  his 
*aUer  nemo.'  Still,  though  we  are  all  very  much  dis- 
satisfied, I  fancy  sometimes  that  fate  has  served  Gh'eece 
better  than  England,  Denmark,  or  the  National  Assembly. 
The  evils  of  this  country  were  augumented  by  the  devotion 
of  the  people  to  power  and  pelf,  but  devotion  to  nullity  or 
its  alter  ego  is  a  weak  sentiment,  and  an  empty  treasury 
turns  the  devotion  to  pelf  into  useful  channels. 

''  I  was  rather  amused  yesterday  by  learning  that  loyalty  to 
King  George  has  extended  the  commercial  relations  of  the 
Greeks  with  the  Turks.  Greece  has  imported  some  boat- 
loads of  myrtle  branches  to  make  triumphal  arches  at  Syra 
where  the  King  was  expected  yesterday.  Queen  Amalia 
disciplined  King  Otho*s  subjects  to  welcome  him  in  this 
way.  The  idea  of  Greeks  being  'green'  in  anything, 
though  it  was  only  loyalty,  amused  her  in  those  days.  I 
suppose  she  knows  now  that  they  were  not  so  '  green '  as 
their  myrtles  made  them  look !  It  is  odd,  however,  to  find 
that  their  outrageous  loyalty  succeeded  in  exterminating 
myrtle  plants  in  the  islands  of  the  ^gean,  and  that  they 
must  now  import  their  emblems  of  loyalty  from  the  Sultan's 
dominions.  If  a  new  Venus  rise  out  of  the  Grecian  sea  she 
will  have  to  swim  over  to  the  Turkish  coast  to  hide  herself 
in  myrtles.  There  is  a  new  fact  for  Lord  Strangford's 
oriental  Ohaos ! 

*^  Vij  wife  de.sire8  to  be  most  kindly  remembered  to  you. 
"  Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

**  Yours  sincerely, 
**  George  Finlay." 

I  left  Athens  and  my  kind  friends  with  great  regret  and 
embarked  at  the  Pirseus  for  Constantinople,  but  not  before  I 
had  managed  to  secure  a  luxurious  swim  in  one  of  the 
exquisite  rocky  coves  along  the  coast  near  the  Tomb  pf 
Tbemjstocles, 


382  CHAPTER  IX. 

Stamboul  was  rather  a  disappointinent  to  me.  The 
weather  was  cold  and  cloudy  and  unfit  to  display  the  heauty 
of  the  Qolden  Horn ;  and  I  went  about  with  a  valei  de  place 
in  rather  a  disheartened  way  to  see  the  Dolma  Batchi  Palace 
and  a  few  other  things  accessible  to  me.  The  Scutari 
Hospital  across  the  Bosphorus  where  Miss  Nightingale  had 
worked  only  four  years  before,  of  course,  greatly  attracted 
my  interest.  How  much  do  all  women  owe  to  that  brave 
heart  who  led  them  on  so  far  on  the  road  to  their  public 
duties,  and  who  has  paid  for  her  marvellous  achievements  by 
just  forty  years  of  invalidism !  Those  pages  of  Kinglake's 
History  in  which  he  pays  tribute  to  her  power,  and  compares 
her  great  administrative  triumph  in  bringing  order  out  of 
chaos  with  the  miserable  failures  of  the  male  officials  who  had 
brought  about  the  disastrous  muddle,  ought  to  be  quoted 
again  and  again  by  all  the  friends  of  women,  and  never 
suffered  to  drop  into  oblivion. 

Of  course  the  reader  will  assume  that  I  saw  St.  Sophia. 
But  I  did  not  do  so,  and  to  the  last,  I  fear  I  shall  owe  a  little 
grudge  to  the  people  whose  extraordinary  behaviour  made 
me  lose  my  sole  opportunity  of  enjoying  that  most  interesting 
sight.  I  told  my  valet  de  place  to  learn  what  parties  of 
foreigners  were  going  to  obtain  the  needful  firmaun  for 
visiting  the  Mosque  and  to  arrange  for  me  in  the  usual  way 
to  join  one  of  them,  paying  my  share  of  the  expense,  which 
at  that  time  amounted  to  £5.  Some  days  were  lost,  and 
then  I  learned  that  there  was  only  one  party,  consisting  of 
American  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  were  then  intending  to 
visit  the  place,  and  that  for  some  reason  their  courier  would 
not  consent  to  my  joining  them.  I  thought  it  was 
some  stupid  imbroglio  of  servants  wanting  fees,  and 
having  the  utmost  confidence  in  American  kindness 
and  good  manners,  I  called  on  the  family  in  question 
at   their    hotel   and    begged    they   would    do    me    the 


LONG  JOURNEY.  263 

favour  to  allow  me  to  pay  part  of  the  ^5,  and  to 
enter  the  doors  of  St.  Sophia  with  them  accordingly ;  at  such 
time  as  might  suit  them.  To  my  amazement  the  gentleman 
and  ladies  looked  at  each  other ;  and  then  the  gentleman 
spoke,  ''  O !  I  leave  <M  that  to  my  courier ! "  **  In  that 
case,  I  said,  I  wish  you  good  morning."  It  was  a  great 
bore  for  me,  with  my  great  love  for  architecture,  to 
fail  to  see  so  unique  a  building,  but  I  could  not  think 
of  spending  £b  on  a  £rmaun  myself,  and  had  no  choice 
but  to  relinquish  the  hope  of  entering,  and  merely  walk  round 
the  Mosque  and  peep  in  where  it  was  possible  to  do  so. 
I  was  well  cursed  in  doing  this  by  the  old  Turks  for  my 
presumption ! 

Nemesis  overtook  these  unmannerly  people  ere  long,  for 
they  reached  Florence  a  month  after  me  and  found  I  had 
naturally  told  my  tale  of  disappointment  to  the  Brownings, 
(whom  they  particularly  desired  to  cultivate),  the  Somervilles, 
TroUopes  and  others  who  had  become  my  friends;  and  I 
beHeve  they  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  matter.  Mrs.  Browning, 
I  know,  frankly  expressed  her  astonishment  at  their  be- 
haviour ;  and  Mrs.  Somerville  would  have  nothing  to  say  to 
them.  They  sent  me  several  messages  of  conciliation  and 
apology,  which  of  course  I  ignored.  They  had  done  a  rude 
and  unkind  thing  to  an  unknown  and  friendless  woman. 
They  were  ready  to  make  advances  to  one  who  had  plenty 
of  friends.  It  was  the  only  case,  in  all  my  experience  of 
Americans,  in  which  I  have  found  them  wanting  in  either 
courtesy  or  kindness. 

I  had  intended  to  go  from  Constantinople  viA  the  Black 
Sea  and  the  Danube  to  Vienna  and  thence  by  the  railway  to 
Adelsberg  and  Trieste,  but  a  cold,  stormy  March  morning 
rendered  that  excursion  far  less  tempting  than  a  return  to 
the  sunny  waters  of  Greece ;  and,  as  I  had  nobody  to  consult, 
I  simply  embarked  on  a  different  steamer  from  the  one  I  had 


264  CHAPTER  IX. 

designed  to  take.  At  Syra  (I  think)  I  changed  to  the  most 
luxurious  and  delightful  vessel  on  which  I  have  ever  sailed — 
the  Austrian  Lloyd's  Neptune^  Captain  Braun.  It  was 
splendidly  equipped,  even  to  a  camera  oscura  on  deck  ;  and 
every  arrangement  for  luxurious  haths  and  good  food  was 
perfect,  and  the  old  Captain's  attention  and  kindness  to  every- 
one extreme.  I  have  still  the  picture  of  the  NepiwM^  which 
he  drew  in  my  little  sketch  book  for  me.  There  were 
several  very  pleasant  passengers  on  board,  among  others  the 
Marquis  of  Headfort  (nephew  of  our  old  neighbour  at 
Newbridge,  Mr.  Taylor  of  Ardgillan)  and  Lady  Headfort, 
who  had  gone  through  awful  experiences  in  India,  when 
married  to  her  first  husband.  Sir  William  Macnaghten.  It 
was  said  that  when  Sir  William  was  cut  to  pieces,  she 
offered  large  rewards  for  the  poor  relics  and  received  them 
all,  exo&pt  his  head.  Months  afterwards  when  she  had 
returned  to  Calcutta  and  was  expecting  some  ordinary 
box  of  clothes,  or  the  like,  she  opened  a  parcel  hastily, 
and  was  suddenly  confronted  with  a  frightful  spectacle 
of  her  husband's  half -preserved  head ! 

Whether  this  story  be  true  I  cannot  say,  but  Lady 
Headfort  made  herself  a  most  agreeable  fellow  passenger, 
and  we  sat  up  every  night  till  the  small  hours  telling  ghost 
stories.  At  Corfu  I  paid  a  visit  to  my  father's  cousin.  Lady 
Emily  Kozzaris  (nee  Trench)  whom  I  had  known  at  Newbridge 
and  who  welcomed  me  as  a  bit  of  Ireland,  fallen  on  her 

**  Isle  andcr  Ionian  skies 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  paradise." 

I  seemed  to  be  en  pays  de  connaissance  once  more.  After 
two  days  in  Trieste  I  went  up  by  rail  to  Adehberg  through 
the  extraordinary  district  (geologically  speaking)  of  Oamiolay 
where  the  whole  superficial  area  of  the  ground  is  perfectly 
barren  but  honey-combed  with  circular  holes  of  varying 


LONG  JOURNEY.  266 

depths  and  size  and  of  the  shape  of  inverted  truncated  cones ; 
the  hottoms  of  each  being  highly  fertile  and  cultivated  like 
gardens. 

The  cavern  of  Adelsberg  was  to  me  one  of  the  most 
fearsome  places  in  the  world.  I  cannot  give  any  accurate 
description  of  it  for  the  sense  of  awe  which  always  seizes 
me  in  the  darkness  and  foul  air  of  caverns  and  tunnels  and 
pyramids,  renders  me  incapable  of  listening  to  details  of 
heights  and  lengths.  I  wrote  my  recollections  not  long 
afterwards. 

**  There  were  long,  long  galleries,  and  chambers^  and 
domes  succeeding  one  another,  as  it  seemed,  for  ever. 
Sometimes  narrow  and  low,  compelling  the  visitor  to  bend 
and  climb ;  sometimes  so  wide  and  lofty  that  the  eye 
vainly  sought  to  pierce  the  expanse.  And  through  all  the 
endless  labyrinth  appeared  vaguely  in  the  gloom  the  forms 
taken  by  the  stalactites,  now  white  as  salt,  now  yellow  and 
stained  as  if  with  age, — representing  to  the  fancy  all 
conceivable  objects  of  earth  and  sea,  piled  up  in  this  cave 
as  if  in  some  vast  lumberhouse  of  creation.  It  was  Chaos, 
when  yet  all  things  slept  in  darkness  waiting  the  fiat  of 
ozistence.  It  was  the  final  Ruin  when  aU  things  shall 
return  to  everlasting  night,  and  man  and  all  his  works 
grow  into  stone  and  lie  buried  beside  the  mammoth  and 
the  ichthyosaur.  Here  were  temples  and  tombs,  and 
vast  dim  faces,  and  giant  forms  lying  prone  and  headless, 
and  huge  lions  sleeping  in  dark  dens,  and  white  ghosts  with 
phantom  raiment  flickering  in  the  gloom.  And  through 
the  caverns,  amid  all  the  forms  of  awe  and  wonder,  rolled 
a  river  black  as  midnight ;  a  deep  and  rapid  river  which 
broke  here  and  there  over  the  rooks  as  in  mockery  of  the 
sunny  waterfalls  of  the  woods,  and  gleamed  for  a  moment, 
white  and  ghastiy,  then  plunged  lower  under  the  black 
arch  into 

'  OaveniB  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sanless  sea.' 


266  CHAPTER  IX. 

**  It  is  in  this  deadly  river,  which  never  reflects  the  light  of 
day,  that  live  those  strange  fleshy  lizards  without  eyes,  and 
seemingly  without  natural  skin,  hideous  reptiles  which 
have  dwelt  in  darkness  from  unknown  ages,  till  the  organs 
of  sight  are  effaced."^ 

'^Over  this  dismal  Styx  the  traveller  passes  on  further 
and  further  into   the   cavern,    through   seemingly   endless 
corridors    and    vast    cathedral    aisles    and   halls   without 
number.    One  of  these  large  spaces  is  so  enormous  that 
it   seemed   as   if    St    Peter's    whole    church    and    dome 
could   He    beneath   it.      The    men    who    were     with    us 
scaled    the     walls     threw     coloured    lights     around    and 
rockets  up  to  the  roof  and  dimly  revealed  the  stupendous 
expanse  ;   an   underground   hall,  where    Eblis  and  all  his 
peers  might  hold  the  councils  of  hell    Further,  on  yet, 
through   more   corridors,  more   chambers   and   aisles   and 
domes,  with   the  couchant  lions  and  the  altar-tombs  and 
the  ghosts  and  the  great  white  fitces  all  around ;  and  then 
into  a  cavern,  more  lately  found  than  the  rest,  where  the 
white  and  yellow  marble  took  forms  of  screens  and  organ 
pipes  and  richest  Gothic  tracery  of  windows, — the  region 
where  the  Genius  of  the  Cavern  had  made  his  royal  Oratory. 
It  was  all  a  great,  dim,  uneasy  dream.    Things  were,  and 
were  not.    As  in  dreams  we  picture  places  and  identify 
them  with  those  of  waking  life  in  some   strange   unreal 
identity,    while   in    every   particular   they  vary  from  the 
actual  place ;   and   as  also  in  dreams  we  think  we  have 
beheld  the  same  objects  over  and  over  again,  while  we  only 
dream  we  see  them,  and   go   on   wandering   further   and 
further,  seeking  for  some  unknown  thing,  and  finding,  not 
that  which  we  seek,  but  every  other  thing  in  existence,  and 
pass  through  all  manner  of  narrow  doors  and  impenetrable 
screens,  and  men  speak  to  us  and  we  cannot  hear  them,  and 
show  us  open  graves  holding  dead  corpses  whose  features 
we  cannot  discern,  and  all  the  world  is  dim  and  dark  and 
full  of  doubt  and  dread — even  so  is  the  Cavern  of  Adelsberg." 


*  The  Proteiis  Anguinus. 


LONG  J0UENE7.  267 

Betuming  to  Trieste  I  passed  on  to  Yenioe,  the  beauty  of 
which  I  learned  (rather  slowly  perhaps),  to  feel  by  degrees 
as  I  rowed  in  my  gondola  from  church  to  church  and  from 
gallery  to  palace.  The  Austrians  were  then  masters  of  the 
city,  and  it  was  no  doubt  German  music  which  I  heard  for  the 
first  time  at  the  church  of  the  Scalzi,  very  finely  performed. 
It  was  not  seldom  in  the  usual  English  style  of  sacred  music ; 
(I  dare  say  it  was  not  strictly  sctcred  music  at  all,  perhaps 
quite  a  profane  opera  !)  but,  in  the  mood  I  was  in,  it  seemed 
to  me  to  have  a  great  sanctity  of  its  own ;  to  be  a  Week-day 
Song  of  Heaven,  This  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions  in  my 
life  in  which  music  has  reached  the  deeper  springs  in  me, 
and  it  affected  me  very  much.  I  suppose  as  the  daffodils  did 
Wordsworth. 

Naturally  being  again  in  a  town  and  at  a  good  hotel,  I 
resumed  better  clothes  than  I  had  worn  in  my  rough  rides, 
and  they  were,  of  course  that  year,  deep  mourning  with 
much  crape  on  them.  I  imagine  it  must  have  been  this 
English  mourning  apparel  which  provoked  among  the  colour- 
loving  Venetians  a  strange  display  of  Heteropathyy — ^that 
deep-seated  animal  instinct  of  hatred  and  anger  against 
^rief  and  suffering,  the  exact  reverse  of  sympathy^ 
which  causes  brutes  and  birds  to  gore  and  peck  and 
slay  their  diseased  and  dying  companions  and  brutal 
men  to  trample  on  their  weeping,  starving  wives.  I  was 
walking  alone  rather  sadly,  bent  down  over  the  shells  on 
the  beach  of  the  Iddo,  comparing  them  in  my  mind  to  the  old 
venuses  and  pectens  and  beautiful  pholases  which  I  used  to 
collect  on  my  father's  long  stretch  of  sandy  shore  in  Ireland, — 
when  suddenly  I  found  myself  assailed  with  a  shower  of 
stones.  Looking  up,  I  saw  a  little  crowd  of  women  and  boys 
jeering  at  me  and  pelting  me  with  whatever  they  could  pick 
up.  Of  course  they  could  not  really  hurt  me,  but  after  an 
effort  or  two  at  remonstrance,  I  was  fain  to  give  up  my  walk 


268  CHAPTER  IX. 

and  return  to  my  gondola  and  to  Yenioe.  Yean  afterwardB, 
speaking  of  this  incident  to  Gibson,  he  told  me  he  had  seen 
at  Yenioe  a  much  worse  scene,  for  the  victim  was  a  poor 
helpless  dog  which  had  somehow  got  into  a  position  from 
whence  it  could  not  escape,  and  the  miserable,  hooting,  laughing 
crowd  deliberately  stoned  it  to  death.  The  dog  looked  from 
one  to  another  of  its  persecutors  as  if  appeaiing  for  mercy 
and  sayiog,  '*  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  ? "  But  there 
was  no  mercy  in  those  hard  hearts. 

Ever  since  I  sat  on  the  spot  where  St.  Stephen  was  stoned, 
I  have  felt  that  that  particular  form  of  death  must  have  been 
one  of  the  most  morally  trying  and  dreadful  to  the  sufferer, 
and  the  most  utterly  destructive  of  the  finer  instincts  in  those 
who  inflicted  it.  If  Jews  be,  as  alleged,  more  prone  to 
cruelty  than  other  nations,  the  fact  seems  to  me  almost 
explained  by  the  ''  set  of  the  brains  "  of  a  race  accustomed 
to  account  it  a  duty  to  join  in  stoning  an  offender  to  death 
and  watching  pitilessly  his  agonies  when  mangled,  blinded, 
deafened  and  bleeding  he  lies  crushed  on  the  ground. 

From  Yenice  I  travelled  very  pleasantly  in  a  returning 
vettura  which  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  engage,  by  Padua 
and  Ferrara  over  the  Apennines  to  Florence.  One  day  I 
walked  a  long  way  in  front  during  my  vetturino's  dinner- 
hour,  and  made  friends  with  some  poor  peasants  who 
welcomed  me  to  their  house  and  to  a  share  of  their  meal  of 
Polenta  and  wine.  The  Polenta  was  much  inferior  to  Irish 
oatmeal  stirabout  or  Scotch  porridge ;  and  the  black  wine 
was  like  the  coarsest  vinegar.  I  tried  in  vain,  out  of  good 
manners  to  drink  it.  The  lives  of  these  poor  ooHtctdini  are 
obviously  in  all  ways  cruelly  hard. 

Spending  one  night  in  a  desolate  "  ramshackle "  inn  on 
the  road  high  up  on  the  Apennines,  I  sat  up  late  writing 
a  description  of  the  place  (as  "  creepy ''  as  I  could  make 
it !)  to  amuse  my  mother's  dear  old  servant  **  Joney,"  who 


LONG  JOURNEY.  269 

possessed  a  volume  of  Washington  Irving's  stories  wherein  > 
that  of  the  ^^ Irvn  ai  Terracina^*  had  served  constantly 
to  excite  delightful  awe  in  her  breast  and  in  my  own  as 
a  child.  I  took  my  letter  next  day  with  me  to  post  in 
Florence,  but  alas  1  found  there  waiting  for  me  one  from  my 
brother  announcing  that  our  dear  old  servant  was  dead.  She 
had  never  held  up  her  head  after  I  had  left  Newbridge,  and 
had  cease  to  drop  into  her  cottage  for  tea. 

At  Florence  I  remained  many  months  (or  rather  on  the  hill 
of  Bellosguardo  above  the  city)  and  made  some  of  the  most 
precious  friendships  of  my  life ;  Mrs.  Somerville's  first  of  all, 
I  also  had  the  privilege  to  know  at  that  time  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Browning,  Adolphus  Trollope,  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
Isa  Blagden,  Miss  White  (now  Madame  Villari),  and  many 
other  very  interesting  men  and  women.  I  shall,  however, 
write  a  separate  chapter  combining  this  and  my  subsequent 
visits  to  Italy. 

Late  in  the  summer  I  travelled  with  a  party  through  Milan 
over  St.  Gothard  to  Lucerne,  and  thence  to  the  Pays  de 
Yaud,  where  I  joined  a  very  pleasant  couple, — Rev.  W.  and 
Mrs.  Biedermann, — ^in  taking  the  Chdteau  da  Gramd  CU>s^  in 
the  YaUey  of  the  Bhone;  a  curious  miniature  French 
country-house,  built  some  years  before  by  the  man  who  called 
himself  Louis  XYII.,  or  Due  de  Normandie ;  and  who  had 
collected  (as  we  found)  a  considerable  library  of  books,  all 
relating  to  the  French  Bevolution. 

From  Switzerland  I  travelled  back  to  England  wA  the 
Rhin0  with  my  dear  American  friends,  the  Apthorps,  who  had 
joined  me  at  Montreux.  The  perils  and  fatigues  of  my 
eleven  months  of  solitary  wanderings  were  over.  I  was 
stronger  and  more  active  in  body  than  I  had  ever  been,  and 
so  enriched  in  mind  and  heart  by  the  things  I  had  seen  and 
the  people  I  had  known,  that  I  could  afford  to  smile  at  the 
depression  and  loneliness  of  my  departure. 


270  CHAPTER  IX. 

As  we  approached  the  Black  Forest  I  had  a  fancy  to  quit 
my  kind  companions  for  a  few  days ;  and  leaving  them  to 
explore  Strasburg,  and  some  other  places,  I  went  on  to 
Heidelberg  and  thence  made  my  way  into  the  beautiful 
woods.  The  following  lines  were  written  there,  September 
23rd,  1858  :— 


ALONE  IN  THE  6CHWABZWALD. 


Lord  of  the  Forest  Sanctnaiy  I    Thoa 
By  the  grey  others  of  the  world  in  these 
Thine  own  self -fashioned  shrines  dimly  adored, 
"All-Father  Odin,"  "  Mover"  of  the  spheres ; 
Zeos  I  Brahm  1  Ormasd  1  Lord  of  Light  Divine  I 
God,  blessed  God !  the  Good  One !  Best  of  names, 
By  noblest  Saxon  race  found  Thee  at  last, — 
O  Father  t  when  the  slow  revolving  years 
Bring  forth  the  day  when  men  shall  see  Thy  f aoe 
Unveiled  from  superstition's  web  of  errors  old. 
Shall  they  not  seek  Thee  here  amid  the  woods. 
Bather  than  in  the  pillared  aisle,  or  dome 
By  loftiest  genius  reared  f 

Six  months  have  rolled 
Sinoe  I  stood  solitary  in  the  fane 
Of  desolate  Baalbec.    The  huge  walls  oloeed 
Bound  me  sublime  as  when  millenniums  past 
Lost  nations  worshipped  there.    I  sate  beside 
The  altar  stone  o'erthrown.    For  hours  I  sate 
Until  the  homeward-winging  hawk  at  even 
Shrieked  when  he  saw  me  there,  a  human  form 
Where  human  feet  tread  onoe  perchance  a  year. 
Then  the  moon  slowly  rose  above  the  walls 
And  then  I  knelt.    It  was  a  glorious  tajxe 
All,  all  my  own. 


LONG  JOURNEY,  27J 

But  not  that  grand  Baalbeo, 
Nor  Parthenon,  nor  Rome's  stapendons  pile. 
Nor  lovelier  Milan,  nor  the  Sepulchre 
So  dark  and  solemn  where  the  Christ  was  laid. 
Nor  even  yet  that  dreadfal  field  of  death 
At  Ghizeh  where  the  eternal  Pyramids 
Have,  from  a  world  of  graves,  pointed  to  Heav'n 
For  fifty  ages  past, — not  all  these  shrines 
Are  holy  to  my  soul  as  are  the  woods. 
Lo  I  how  God  Himself  has  planned  this  place 
So  that  all  sweet  and  calm  and  solemn  thoughts 
Should  have  their  nests  amid  the  shadowy  trees  1 
How  the  rude  work-day  world  is  all  closed  out 
By  the  thick  curtained  foliage,  and  the  sky 
Alone  revealed,  a  deep  zenith  heaven, 
Fitly  beheld  through  clsteped  and  upraised  arms 
Of  prayer-like  trees.    There  is  no  sound  more  loud 
Than  the  low  insect  hum,  the  chirp  of  birds. 
The  rustling  murmur  of  embracing  boughs, 
The  gentle  dropping  of  the  autumn  leaves. 
The  wood's  sweet  breath  is  incense.    From  the  pinep 
And  larch  and  chestnut  come  rich  odours  pure ; 
All  things  are  pure  and  sweet  and  holy  here. 

I  lie  down  underneath  the  firs.    The  moss 
Makes  richest  cushion  for  my  weary  limbs  i 
Long  I  gaze  upward  while  the  dark  green  boughs 
Moveless  project  against  the  azure  sky, 
Fringed  with  their  russet  cones.    My  satiate  eyes 
Sink  down  at  length.    I  turn  my  cheek  to  earth. 
What  may  this  be,  this  sense  of  youth  restored. 
My  happy  childhood  with  its  sunbright  hours. 
Returning  once  again  as  in  a  dream  ? 
'Tis  but  the  odour  of  the  mossy  ground, 
The  *'  field-smells  known  in  infancy,"  when  yet, 
Our  childish  sports  were  near  to  mother  Earth, 
Our  child-like  hearts  near  to  the  GK)d  in  Heavoc. 


CHAPTEE 


BBISTOL. 


KEFOBMATORIES  AND  RAQGED  SCHOOLS 


VOL.  I. 


CHAPTER  X. 

J^BFOBMATOBIES  AND   BaOGSD   SoHOOLS  AT   BuiSTOL. 

Aftsb  I  had  spent  two  or  three  weeks  once  again  at  my 
old  home  after  my  long  journey  to  visit  my  eldest  brother 
and  his  wife,  and  also  had  seen  my  two  other  dear  brothers, 
then  married  and  settled  in  England  with  their  children; 
the  time  came  for  me  to  begin  my  independent  life  as  I  had 
long  planned  it.  I  had  taken  my  year's  pilgrimage  as  a  sort 
of  eondnsion  to  my  self-education,  and  also  because,  at  the 
beginning  of  it,  I  was  inno  state  of  health  or  spirits  to  throw 
myself  into  new  work  of  any  kind.  Now  I  was  well  and  strong, 
and  full  of  hope  of  being  of  some  little  use  in  the  world.  I 
was  at  a  very  good  age  for  making  a  fresh  start;  just  86  ; 
and  I  had  my  little  independence  of  £200  a  year  which, 
though  small,  was  enough  to  allow  me  to  work  how  and 
where  I  pleased  without  need  to  earn  anything.  I  may  boast 
that  I  never  got  into  debt  in  my  life ;  never  borrowed  money 
from  anybody ;  never  even  asked  my  brother  for  the  advance 
of  a  week  on  the  interest  on  my  patrimony. 

It  had  been  somewhat  of  a  difficulty  to  me  after  my  home 
duties  ended  at  my  father's  death,  to  decide  where,  with  my 
heretical  opinions,  I  could  find  a  field  for  any  kind  of 
usefulness  to  my  fellow  creatures,  but  I  fortunately  heard 
through  Harriet  St.  Leger  and  Lady  Byron,  that  Miss 
Carpenter,  of  Bristol,  was  seeking  for  some  lady  to  help  in 
her  Beformatory  and  Bagged  School  work.  Miss  Bathurst, 
who  had  joined  her  for  the  purpose,  had  died  the  previous 
year.  The  arrangement  was,  that  we  paid  Miss  Carpenter  a 
moderate  sum  (SOs.)  a  week  for  board  and  lodging  in  her 
house  acyoining  Bed  Lodge,  and  she  provided  us  all  day  long 


^6  OHAPTER  X. 

with  abnndant  OGcapation.  I  had  by  mere  chance  read  her 
*'  JtwewUe  Ddinqumti"  and  had  admired  the  spirit  of  the 
book ;  bnt  my  special  attraction  to  Miss  Carpenter  was  the 
belief  that  I  should  find  in  her  at  once  a  very  religious 
woman,  and  one  so  completely  outside  the  pale  of  orthodoxy 
that  I  should  be  sure  to  meet  from  her  the  sympathy  I  had 
never  yet  been  privileged  to  enjoy ;  and  at  all  events  be  able 
to  assist  her  labours  with  freedom  of  conscience. 

My  first  interview  with  Miss  Carpenter  (in  November,  1858) 
was  in  the  doorway  of  my  bedroom  after  my  arrival  at  Bed 
Lodge  House;  a  small  house  in  the  same  street  as  Bed  Lodge. 
She  had  been  absent  from  home  on  business,  and  hastened 
upstairs  to  welcome  me.  It  was  rather  a  critical  moment, 
for  I  had  been  asking  myself  anxiously — ^*  What  manner  of 
woman  shall  I  behold  ?  "  I  knew  I  should  see  an  able  and 
an  excellent  person;  but  it  is  quite  possible  for  able  and 
excellent  women  to  be  far  from  agreeable  companions  for  a 
tiU'd-UU  of  years;  and  nothing  short  of  this  had  I  in 
contemplation.  The  first  glimpse  in  that  doorway  set  my 
fears  at  rest!  The  plain  and  careworn  face,  the  figure 
which.  Dr.  Martineau  says,  had  been  "  columnar  "  in  youth, 
but  which  at  fifby-two  was  angular  and  stooping,  were  yet 
all  alive  with  feeling  and  power.  Her  large,  light  blue 
eyes,  with  their  peculiar  trick  of  showing  the  white 
beneath  the  iriSj  had  an  extraordinary  faculty  of 
taking  possession  of  the  person  on  whom  they  were 
fixed,  like  those  of  an  amiable  Ancient  Mariner 
who  only  wanted  to  talk  philanthropy,  and  not  to  tell  stories 
of  weird  voyages  and  murdered  albatrosses.  There  was 
humour,  also,  in  every  line  of  her  face,  and  a  readiness  to 
catch  the  first  gleam  of  a  joke.  But  the  prevailing 
characteristic  of  Mary  Carpenter,  as  I  came  subeequently 
more  perfectly  to  recognise,  was  a  high  and  strong  Besolution, 
which  made  her  whole  path  much  like  that  of  a  plough  in  a 


REFORM ATORTES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL.       277 

weQ-drawn  farrow,  which  goes  straight  on  end  its  own 
beneficent  way,  and  gently  pushes  aside  into  little  ridges  all 
intervening  people  and  things. 

Long  after  this  first  interview,  Miss  Elliot  showed  Miss 
Carpenter's  photograph  to  the  Master  of  Balliol,  without 
telling  him  whom  it  represented.  After  looking  at  it 
carefully,  he  remarked,  "  This  is  the  portrait  of  a  person 
who  lives  vinder  high  moral  exeitemerU.**  There  could  not 
be  a  truer  summary  of  her  habitual  state. 

Our  days  were  very  much  alike,  and  "  Sunday  shone  no 
Sabbath-day  "  for  us.  Our  little  household  consisted  of  one 
honest  girl  (a  certain  excellent  Marianne,  who  I  often  see 
now  in  her  respectable  widowhood  and  who  well  deserves 
commemoration)  and  two  little  convicted  -  thieves  firom  the 
Bed  Lodge.  We  assembled  for  prayers  very  early  in  the 
morning ;  and  breakfast,  during  the  winter  months,  was  got  over 
before  daylight;  Miss  Carpenter  always  remarking  brightly  as 
she  sat  down,  <'  How  cheerful ! "  was  the  gas.  After  this  there 
were  classes  a^  the  different  schools,  endless  arrangements 
and  organisations,  the  looking-up  of  little  truants  from  the 
Bagged  Schools,  and  a  good  deal  of  business  in  the  way  of 
writing  reports  and  so  on.  Altogether,  nearly  every  hour  of 
the  day  and  week  was  pretty  well  mapped  out,  leaving  only 
space  for  the  brief  dinner  and  tea;  and  at  nine  or  ten  o'clock 
at  night,  when  we  met  at  last,  Miss  Carpenter  was  often  so 
exhausted  that  I  have  seen  her  fall  asleep  with  the  spoon 
half-way  between  her  mouth  and  the  cup  of  gruel  which  she 
ate  for  supper.  Her  habits  were  all  of  the  simplest  and 
most  self-denying  kind.  Both  by  temperament  and  on  prin- 
ciple she  was  essentially  a  Stoic.  She  had  no  sympathy  at  all 
with  Asceticism  (which  is  a  very  different  thing,  and  implies  a 
vivid  sense  of  the  attractiveness  of  luxury),  and  she  strongly 
condemned  fiasting,  and  all  such  practices  on  the  Zoroastrian 
principle,  that  they  involve  a  culpable  weakening  of  powers 


278  OHAPTSB  X. 

which  are  intnisted  to  ob  for  good  use.  Bat  she  was  aa 
ingrained  Stoic,  to  whom  all  the  minor  eomforta  of  life  are 
simply  indifferent,  and  who  can  scarcely  even  recognise  the 
fact  that  other  people  take  heed  of  them.  She  once,  with 
great  simplicity,  made  to  me  the  grave  observation  that  at  a 
country  house  where  she  had  just  passed  two  or  three  days, 
''  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  all  came  down  dressed  for  dinner, 
and  evidently  thought  the  meal  rather  a  pleasant  part  of  the 
day  i "  For  herself  (as  I  often  told  her)  she  had  no  idea  of 
any  Feast  except  that  of  the  Passover,  and  always  ate  with 
her  loins  girded  and  her  umbrella  at  hand,  ready  to  rush  off 
to  the  Bed  Lodge,  if  not  to  the  Bed  Sea.  In  vain  I  remon- 
strated on  the  unwholesomeness  of  the  practice,  and  entreated 
on  my  own  behalf  to  be  allowed  time  to  swallow  my  food, 
and  also  some  food  (in  the  shape  of  vegetables)  to  swallow, 
aa  well  as  the  perpetual,  too  easily  ordered,  salt  beef  and 
ham.  Next  day  after  an  appeal  of  this  kind  (made  serious  on 
my  part  by  threats  of  gout),  good  Miss  Oarpenter  greeted 
me  with  a  complacent  smile  on  my  entry  into  our  little 
dining-room.  <'  You  see  I  have  not  forgotten  your  wish  for 
a  dish  of  vegetables  I "  There,  surely  enough,  on  a  cheese- 
plate,  stood  six  little  round  radishes  I  Her  special  chair  was 
a  horsehair  one  with  wooden  arms,  and  on  the  seat  she  had 
placed  a  small  square  cushion,  as  hard  as  a  board,  likewise 
covered  with  horsehair.  I  took  this  up  one  day,  and  taunted 
her  with  the  Sybaritism,  it  betrayed ;  but  she  replied,  with 
infinite  simplicity,  "  Yes,  indeed  1  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
since  my  illness  I  have  been  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  these 
indulgencies  (I).  I  used  to  try,  like  St.  Paul,  to  '  endure 
hardness.' " 

Her  standard  of  conscientious  rigour  was  even,  it  would 
appear,  applicable  to  animals.  I  never  saw  a  more  ludicrous 
little  scene  than  when  she  one  day  found  my  poor  dog 
Hiljjin,  a  splendid  grey  Pomeranian,  lying  on  the  broad  of 


BEF0RMAT0R1E8,  ETC.,  Al  BRISIOL.       279 

her  vory  broad  back,  laznriating  on  the  mg  before  a  good 
fire.  After  gravely  inspeeting  her  for  some  moments^  Mis9 
Carpenter  turned  solemnly  away,  observing,  in  a  tone  ol 
deep  moral  disapprobation,  '<  Self-indulgent  dog  1 " 

Much  of  onr  work  lay  in  a  certain  Bagged  School  in  a 
filthy  lane  named  St.  James*  Back,  now  happily  swept  from 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  long  line  of  Lewin's  Mead  beyond 
the  chapel  was  bad  enough,  especially  at  nine  or  ten  o'clock 
of  a  winter's  night,  when  half  the  gas  lamps  were  extinguished, 
and  groups  of  drunken  men  and  miserable  women  were  to  h% 
found  shouting,  screaming  and  fighting  before  the  dens  of  drink 
and  infamy  of  which  the  street  consisted.  Miss  Carpenter 
told  me  that  a  short  time  previously  some  Bow  Street 
constables  had  been  sent  down  to  this  place  to  ferret  out  a 
crime  which  had  been  committed  there,  and  that  they  reported 
there  was  not  in  all  London  such  a  nest  of  wickedness  as  they 
had  explored.  The  ordinary  Bristol  policemen  were  never  to 
be  seen  at  night  in  Lewin's  Mead,  and  it  was  said  they  were 
afraid  to  show  themselves  in  the  place.  But  St.  James'  Back 
was  a  shade,  I  think,  lower  than  Lewin's  Mead ;  at  all  events 
it  was  further  from  the  upper  air  of  decent  life  ;  and  in  these 
horrid  slums  that  dauntless  woman  had  bought  some  tumble- 
down old  buildings  and  turned  them  into  schools — day-schools 
for  girls  and  night-schools  for  boys,  all  the  very  sweepings  of 
those  wretched  streets. 

It  was  a  wonderful  spectacle  to  see  Mary  Carpenter  sitting 
patiently  before  the  large  school-gallery  in  this  place, 
teaching,  singing,  and  praying  with  the  wild  street-boys,  in 
spite  of  endless  interruptions  caused  by  such  proceedings  as 
shooting  marbles  into  hats  on  the  table  behind  her,  whistling, 
stamping,  fighting,  shrieking  out  '<  Amen  "  in  the  middle  of 
the  prayer,  and  sometimes  rising  en  masse  and  tearing,  like 
a  troop  of  bisons  in  hob-nailed  shoes,  down  from  the  gallery, 
round  the  great  schoolroom  and  down  the  stairs,  out  into  the 


280  CHAPTER  X. 

street.  These  irrepressible  outbreaks  she  bore  with  iiifinite 
good  hmnonr  and,  what  seemed  to  me  more  marvellons  stDl, 
she  heeded,  apparently,  not  at  all  the  indescribable  abomination 
of  the  odours  of  a  tripe-and-trotter  shop  next  door,  wherein 
operations  were  frequently  carried  on  which,  together  with 
the  bouquet  du  peuvle  of  the  poor  little  unkempt  scholars, 
rendered  the  school  of  a  hot  summer's  evening  little  better 
than  the  ill-smelling  giro  of '  Dante's  '<  Inferno."  These 
trifles,  however,  scarcely  even  attracted  Mary  Carpenter's 
attention,  fixed  as  it  was  on  the  possibility  of  **  taking  hold  " 
(as  she  used  to  say)  of  one  little  urchin  or  another,  on  whom, 
for  the  moment  her  hopes  were  fixed. 

The  droll  things  which  daily  occurred  in  these  schools,  and 
the  wonderful  replies  received  from  the  scholars  to  questions 
testing  their  information,  amused  her  intensely,  and  the  more 
unruly  were  the  young  scamps,  the  more,  I  think,  in  her 
secret  heart,  she  liked  them,  and  gloried  in  taming  them. 
She  used  to  say,  **  Only  to  get  them  to  use  the  school  comb  is 
something ! "  There  was  the  boy  who  defined  Conscience  to 
me  as  ^'  a  thing  a  gen'elman  hasn't  got,  who,  when  a  boy 
finds  his  purse  and  gives  it  back  to  him,  doesn't  give  the  boy 
sixpence."  There  was  the  boy  who,  sharing  in  my  Sunday 
evening  lecture  on  ''  Thankfulness," — ^wherein  I  had  pointed 
out  the  grass  and  blossoming  trees  on  the  Downs  as  subjects 
for  praise, — ^was  inten^gated  as  to  which  pleasure  he  ei\joyed 
most  in  the  course  of  the  year  ?  replied  candidly,  "  Gock-fightin', 
ma'am.  There's  a  pit  up  by  the  '  Black  Boy '  as  is  worth 
anythink  in  Brissel  I  " 

The  clergy  troubled  us  little.  One  day  an  impressive 
young  curate  entered  and  sat  silent,  sternly  critical  to  note 
what  heresies  were  being  instilled  into  the  minds  of  his 
flock.  "  I  am  giving  a  lesson  on  Palestine,"  I  said ;  **  I 
have  just  been  at  Jerusalem."  "  In  what  sense  f  "  said  the 
awful  young  man,   darkly  discerning  some  mysticism  (of 


REFORMATORIES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL.       281 

the  Swedenborgian  kind,  perhaps)  beneath  the  simple 
statement.  The  boys  who  were  dismissed  from  the  school 
for  obstreperons  behaviour  were  a  great  difficulty  to  us, 
usually  employing  themselves  in  shouting  and  hammering 
at  the  door.  One  winter's  night  when  it  was  raining 
heavily,  as  I  was  passing  through  Lewin's  Mead,  I  was 
greeted  by  a  chorus  of  voices,  "  Cob-web,  Cob-web  I " 
emanating  from  the  depths  of  a  black  archway.  Standing 
still  under  my  umbrella,  and  looking  down  the  cavern,  I 
remarked,  <<  Don't  you  think  I  must  be  a  little  tougher  than 
a  cobweb  to  come  out  such  a  night  as  this  to  teach  such  little 
scamps  as  you  ?  " 

<'  Indeed  you  is,  Mum ;  that's  true  I     And  stouter  too  1 " 

<<  Well,  don't  you  think  you  would  be  more  comfortable 
in  that  nice  warm  schoolroom  than  in  this  dark,  cold 
place?" 

"  Yes,  *m,  we  would." 

'<  You'll  have  to  promise  to  be  tremendously  good,  I  can 
tell  you,  if  I  bring  you  in  again.     Will  you  promise  ?  " 

Vows  of  everlasting  order  and  obedience  were  tendered ; 
and,  to  Miss  Carpenter's  intense  amusement,  I  came  into 
St.  James'  Back,  followed  by  a  whole  troop  of  little  outlaws 
reduced  to  temporary  subjection.  At  all  events  they  never 
shouted  "  Cob- web  "  again.  Indeed,  at  all  times  the  events 
of  the  day's  work,  if  they  bordered  on  the  ludicrous  (as  was 
often  the  case),  provoked  her  laughter  till  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks.  One  night  she  sat  grieving  over  a  piece  of 
ingratitude  on  the  part  of  one  of  her  teachers,  and  told  me  she 
had  given  him  some  invitation  for  the  purpose  of  conciliating 
him  and  '^  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  his  head."  ''  It  will  take 
another  scuttle,  my  dear  friend,"  I  remarked ;  and  thereupon 
her  tears  stopped,  and  she  burst  into  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter. 
Next  evening  she  said  to  me  dolorously,  ''  I  tried  that  other 
scuttle,  but  it  was  no  go  I " 


282  CHAPTER  X. 

Of  conrso,  like  every  mortal,  Mary  Carpenter  had  Us  difautk 
de  8S8  qualitSs.  Her  absorption  in  her  work  always  blinded 
her  to  the  flEtct  that  other  people  might  possibly  be  bored  by 
hearing  of  it  incessantly. 

In  India,  I  haye  been  told  that  a  Governor  of  Madras 
observed,  after  her  visit,  **  It  is  very  astonishing ;  I  listened 
to  all  Miss  Carpenter  had  to  teU  mo,  but  when  I  began  to  tell 
her  what  I  knew  of  this  country,  she  dropped  asleep." 
Indeed,  the  poor  wearied  and  overworked  brain,  when  it  had 
made  its  effort,  generally  collapsed,  and  in  two  or  three 
minutes,  after  **  holding  you  with  her  eye  *'  through  a  long 
philanthropic  history,  Miss  Carpenter  might  be  seen  to  be, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  asleep. 

On  one  occasion,  that  most  loveable  old  man,  Samuel  J.  May, 
of  Syracuse,  came  to  pass  two  or  three  days  at  Bed  Lodge 
House,  and  Miss  Carpenter  was  naturally  delighted  to  take 
him  about  and  show  him  her  schools  and  explain  everything 
to  him.  Mr.  May  listened  with  great  interest  for  a  time,  but 
at  last  his  attention  flagged  and  two  or  three  times  he 
turned  to  me ;  ''  When  can  we  have  our  talk,  which  Theodore 
Parker  promised  me  9  "  <'  Oh,  by-and-by,"  Miss  Carpenter 
always  interposed ;  till  one  day,  after  we  had  visited  St.  James' 
Back,  we  arrived  all  three  at  the  foot  of  the  tremendous 
stairs,  almost  like  those  of  the  Triniti^,  which  then  existed 
in  Bristol,  and  were  called  the  Christmas  Steps.  *^Now^ 
Mr.  May  and  Miss  Cobbe  *'  (said  Mary  Carpenter,  cheerfully), 
''  you  can  have  your  talk."  And  so  we  had — ^till  we  got  to 
the  top,  when  she  resumed  the  guidance  of  the  conversation. 
Good  jokes  were  often  made  of  this  littie  weakness,  but  it 
had  its  pathetic  side.  Never  was  there  a  word  of  real 
egotism  in  her  eager  talk,  or  the  evidence  of  the  slightest 
wish  to  magnify  her  own  doings,  or  to  impress  her  hearers 
with  her  immense  share  in  the  public  benefits  she  described. 
It  was  her  deep  conviction  that  to  turn  one  of  these  poor 


REFORMATORIES,  ETO^  AT  BRISTOL.       288 

sinners  from  the  errors  of  its  ways,  to  reach  to  the  roots  oi 
the  misery  and  eormption  of  the  ''  perishing  and  dangerous 
classes/'  was  the  most  important  work  which  could  possihly 
be  nndertaken ;  and  she,  very  natorally,  in  consequence  made  it 
the  most  prominent,  indeed,  almost  the  sole,  subject  of 
discourse.  I  was  once  in  her  company  at  Aubrey  House  in 
London,  when  there  happened  to  be  present  half-a-dozen 
people,  each  one  devoted  to  some  special  political,  religious  or 
moral  agitation.  Miss  Carpenter  remarked  in  a  pause  in 
the  conversation;  "  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  everybody  will 
not  join  and  give  the  whole  of  their  minds  to  the  great  cause 
of  the  age,  because,  if  they  would,  we  should  carry  it 
undoubtedly."  ''  What  is  the  great  cause  of  the  age  ?  *'  we 
simultaneously  exclaimed.  ''Parliamentary  Beform?"  said 
our  host,  Mr.  Peter  Taylor;  ''the  Abolition  of  Slavery?" 
said  Miss  Bemond,  a  Negress,  Mrs.  Taylor's  companion; 
"Teetotalism?"  said  another;  "Woman's  Suffirage?"  said 
another ;  "The  conversion  of  the  world  to  Theism ?"  said  I. 
In  the  midst  of  the  clamour.  Miss  Carpenter  looked  serenely 
round,  "Whyl  the  Industrial  Schools  Bill  of  c<narse!** 
Nobody  ei^oyed  the  joke,  when  we  all  began  to  laugh,  more 
than  the  reformer  herself. 

It  was,  above  all,  in  the  Bed  Lodge  Beformatory  that 
Mary  Carpenter's  work  was  at  its  highest.  The  spiritual 
interest  she  took  in  the  poor  little  girls  was,  beyond  words, 
admirable.  When  one  of  them  whom  she  had  hoped  was 
really  reformed  fell  back  into  thievish  or  other  evil  ways,  her 
grief  was  a  real  vicariom  repentance  for  the  little  sinner ;  a 
Christ-like  sentiment  infinitely  sacred.  Nor  was  she  at  all 
blind  to  the  children's  defects,  or  easily  deceived  by  the  usual 
sham  reformations  of  such  institutions.  In  one  of  her  letters 
to  me  she  wrote  these  wise  words  (July  9th,  1869) : — 

"  I  have  pointed  out  in  one  of  my  reports  why  I  have  more 
trouble  than  others  (d.^.,  especially,  Catholics).    A  system  of 


284  CHAPTER  X. 

steady  repression  and  order  would  make  them  sooner  good 
scholars ;  but  then  I  should  not  have  the  least  confidenee  in 
the  real  change  of  their  characters.  Even  with  my  free 
sjTstem  in  the  Lodge,  remember  how  little  we  knew  of  HiU's 
and  Hawkins'  real  characters,  nntil  they  were  in  the  house  ? 
(Her  own  private  house).  I  do  not  object  to  nature  being 
kept  under  curbs  of  rule  and  order  for  a  time,  until  some  prin- 
ciples are  sufficiently  rooted  to  be  appealed  to.  But  then  it 
must  have  play,  or  we  cannot  possibly  teU  what  amount  of 
reformation  has  taken  place.  The  Catholics  have  an  enormous 
artificial  help  in  their  religion  and  priests ;  but  I  place  no 
confidence  in  the  slavish  obedience  they  produce  and  the 
hypocrisy  which  I  have  generally  found  inseparable  from 
Catholic  influence.  I  would  far  rather  have  M.  A.  M'Intyre 
coolly  say,  '  I  know  it  was  wrong ' "  (a  barring  and  bolting 
out)  ''  and  Anne  Crooks  in  the  cell  for  outrageous 
conduct,  acknowledge  the  same — 'I  know  it  was  wrong, 
but  I  am  not  sorry,'  than  any  hypocritical  and  heartless 
acknowledgments." 

Indeed  nobody  had  a  keener  eye  to  detect  cant  of  any  kind, 
or  a  greater  hatred  of  it.  She  told  me  one  day  of  her  visit  to  a 
celebrated  institution,  said  to  be  supported  semi-miraculously 
by  answers  to  prayer  in  the  specific  shape  of  cheques.  Miss 
Carpenter  said  that  she  asked  the  matron  (or  some  other 
official)  whether  it  was  supported  by  voluntary  subscriptions? 
'<  Oh,  dear  no  I  madam,"  the  woman  replied ;  ''  Do  you  not 
know  it  is  entirely  supported  by  Prayer  ?  "  '<  Oh,  indeed," 
replied  Miss  Carpenter.  **  I  dare  say,  however,  when  friends 
have  once  been  moved  to  seud  you  money,  they  continue  to 
do  so  regularly  ?  "  "  Yes,  certainly  they  do."  **  And  they 
mostly  send  it  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  ?  "  ''  Yes,  yes, 
very  regularly."  *'  Ah,  weU,  said  Miss  Carpenter,  "  when 
people  send  me  money  for  Bed  Lodge  under  those  circum- 
stances, I  outer  them  in  my  Beports  as  AnmuU  SubseribenI** 


BEFOBMATORIES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL.       285 

When  our  poor  chfldren  at  last  left  the  Reformatory,  Mary 
Carpenter  always  watched  their  snhseqaent  career  with  deep 
interest,  gloried  in  receiving  intelligence  that  they  were 
behaving  honestly  and  steadily,  or  deplored  their  backslidings 
in  the  contrary  event.  In  short,  her  interest  was  truly  in  the 
children  themsdveSy  in  their  very  souls ;  and  not  (as  such 
philanthropy  too  often  becomes)  an  interest  inJierlnstUiUion. 
Those  who  know  most  of  such  work  will  best  understand 
how  wide  is  the  distinction. 

But  Mary  Carpenter  was  not  only  the  guardian  and 
teacher  of  the  poor  young  waifs  and  strays  of  Bristol  when 
she  had  caught  them  in  her  charity-traps.  She  was  also 
their  unwearied  advocate  with  one  Government  after  another, 
and  with  every  public  man  and  magistrate  whom  she  could 
reasonably  or  unreasonably  attack  on  their  behalf.  Never 
was  there  such  a  case  of  the  Widow  and  the  Unjust  Judge ; 
till  at  last  most  English  statesmen  came  to  recognise  her 
wisdom,  and  to  yield  readily  to  her  pressure,  and  she  was  a 
''power  in  the  State."  As  she  wrote  to  me  about  her 
Industrial  School,  so  was  it  in  everything  else  : — 

''The  magistrates  have  been  lapsing  into  their 
usual  apathy ;  so  I  have  got  a  piece  of  artillery  to  help  me 
in  the  shape  of  Mr.  M.  D.  Hill.  ....  They  have 
found  by  painful  experience  that  I  cannot  be  made  to 
rest  while  justice  is  not  done  to  these  poor  children." 
(July  6th,  1859.) 

And  again,  some  years  later,  when  I  had  told  her  I  had 
sat  at  dinner  beside  a  gentleman  who  had  opposed  many  of 
her  good  projects  : — 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  did  not  see  through  Mr. ,  and 

annihilate  him  1  Of  course,  I  shall  never  rest  in  this  world 
till  the  children  have  their  birthrights  in  this  so-called 
Christian  country ;  but  my  next  mode  of  attack  I  have  not 
decided  on  yet  I  *'    (February  18th,  1867.) 


286  CHAPTER  X. 

At  last  my  residence  under  Mary  Carpenter's  roof  came 
to  a  close.  My  health  had  broken  down  two  or  three  times 
in  succession  under  a  riffime  for  which  neither  habit  nor 
constitution  had  fitted  me,  and  my  kind  friend,  Dr.  Symonds', 
peremptory  orders  necessitated  arrangements  of  meals  which 
Miss  Carpenter  thought  would  occasion  too  much  irregularity 
in  her  little  household,  which  (it  must  be  remembered)  was 
also  a  branch  of  the  Beformatory  work.  I  also  sadly 
perceived  that  I  could  be  of  no  real  comfort  or  service  as  an 
inmate  of  her  house,  though  I  could  stOl  help  her,  and 
perhaps  more  effectually,  by  attending  her  schools  while 
living  alone  in  the  neighbourhood.  Her  overwrought  and 
nervous  temperament  could  ill  bear  the  strain  of  a  perpetual 
companionship,  or  even  the  idea  that  any  one  in  her  house 
might  expect  companionship  from  her ;  and  if,  while  I  was 
yet  a  stranger,  she  had  found  some  fresh  interest  in  my 
society,  it  doubtless  ceased  when  I  had  been  a  twelvemonth 
under  her  roof,  and  knew  everything  which  she  could  tell 
me  about  her  work  and  plans.  As  I  ofben  told  her  (more 
in  earnest  than  she  supposed),  I  knew  she  would  have  been 
more  interested  in  me  had  I  been  either  more  of  a  sinner  or 
more  of  a  saint  I 

And  80,  a  few  weeks  later,  the  separation  was  made  in  all 

friendliness,  and  I  went  to  live  alone  at  Belgrave  House, 

Durdham  Down,  where  I  took  lodgings,  still  working  pretty 

regularly  at  the  Bed  Lodge  and  Bagged  Schools,  but  gradually 

engaging  more  in    Workhouse   visiting  and  looking  after 

friendless  girls,  so  that  my  intercourse  with  Miss  Carpenter 

became  less  and  less  frequent,  though   always  cordial  and 
pleasant. 

Years  afterwards  when  I  had  ceased  to  reside  in  the 

neighbourhood  of  Bristol,  I  enjoyed  several  times  the  pleasure 

of  receiving  visits  from  Miss  Carpenter  at  my  home  in 

London,  and  hearing  her  accounts  of  her  Indian  travels  and 


REFORMATORIES,  ETO.,  AT  BRISTOL.       287 

other  interests.  In  1877,  I  went  to  Clifton  to  attend  an 
Anti- vivisection  meeting,  and  also  one  for  Woman  Suffirage ; 
and  at  the  latter  of  these  I  found  myself  with  great 
pleasure  on  the  same  platform  with  Mary  Carpenter. 
(She  was  also  an  Anti-vivisectionist  and  always  signed  our 
Memorials.)  Her  biographer  and  nephew,  Professor  Estlin 
Carpenter,  while  fully  stating  her  recognition  of  the 
rightfulness  of  the  demand  for  votes  for  women  and 
also  doing  us  the  great  service  of  printing  Mr.  Mill's  most 
admirable  letter  to  her  on  the  subject  {Life^  p.  498) ;  seems 
unaware  that  she  ever  publicly  advocated  the  cause  of 
political  rights  for  women.  But  on  this  occasion,  as  I  have 
said,  she  took  her  place  on  the  platform  of  the  West  of 
England  Branch  of  the  Association,  at  its  meeting  in  the 
Victoria  Booms;  and,  in  my  hearing,  either  proposed  or 
seconded  one  of  the  resolutions  demanding  the  franchise, 
adding  a  few  words  of  cordial  approval. 

Before  I  returned  to  London  on  this  occasion  I  called  on 
Miss  Carpenter,  bringing  with  me  a  young  niece.  I  found 
her  at  Bed  Lodge  ;  and  she  insisted  on  my  going  with  her  over 
all  our  old  haunts,  and  noting  what  changes  and  improve- 
ments she  had  made.  I  was  tenderly  touched  by  her  great 
kindness  to  my  young  companion  and  to  m3rself ;  and  by  the 
added  softness  and  gentleness  which  years  had  brought  to 
her.  She  expressed  herself  as  very  happy  in  every  way ;  and, 
in  truth,  she  seemed  to  me  like  one  who  had  reached  the 
Land  of  Beulah,  and  for  whom  there  would  be  henceforth 
only  peace  within  and  around. 

A  few  weeks  later  I  was  told  that  her  servant  had  gone 
into  her  bedroom  one  morning  and  found  her  weeping  for  her 
brother,  Philip  Carpenter,  of  whose  death  she  had  just  heard. 
The  next  monung  the  woman  entered  again  at  the  same  hour, 
but  Mary  Carpenter  was  lying  quite  stiU,  in  the  posture  in 
which  she  had  lain  in  sleep.    Her  ''  six  days'  work "  wax 


288  CHAPTER  X. 

done.     She  had  ''gone  home,"  and  I  doubt  not  '<  ta'en  her 
wages."    Here  is  the  last  letter  she  wrote  to  me : — 

"Bed  Lodge  House,  Bristol, 

"  March  27th,  1877. 
**  Dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

"  There  are  some  things  of  which  the  most  clear  and 
unanswerable  reasoning  could  not  convince  me!  One  of 
these  is,  that  a  wise,  i^  powerful  and  loving  Father  can 
create  an  immortal  spirit  for  eternal  misery.  Perhaps  you 
are  wiser  than  I  and  more  accessible  to  arguments  (though  I 
doubt  this),  and  I  send  you  the  enclosed,  which  /  do  not 
want  back,  G6gurth*s  answer  to  such  people  is  the  best  I 
ever  heard — 'If  you  are  child  of  Devil — ^ood;  but  /  am 
child  of  God  ?  * 

*'  I  was  very  glad  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you ;  I  do  not  trouble 
you  with  my  doings,  knowing  that  you  have  enough  of  your 
own.    You  may  like  to  see  an  abstract  of  my  experience. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"  M.  0." 

And  here  is  a  Poem  which  she  gave  me  in  MS.  the  day  she 
wrote  it.    I  do  not  tliink  it  has  seen  the  light. 

CHRISTMAS    DAY    PRAYER. 
Dec.  25th,  1858. 

Onward  and  upward,  Heavenly  Father,  bear  mo, 
Onward  and  upward  bear  me  to  my  home ; — 

Onward  and  upward,  be  Thou  ever  near  me, 
While  my  beloved  Father  beckons  me  to  come. 

With  Thy  Holy  Spirit,  O  do  thou  renew  me ! 

Cleanse  me  from  all  that  tometh  me  from  Thee ! 
Guide  me  and  guard  me,  lead  me  and  subdue  me 

Till  I  love  not  aught  that  centres  not  in  Thee ! 

Thou  hast  filled  my  soul  with  brightness  and  with  beauty 
Thou  hast  made  me  feel  the  sweetness  of  Thy  love. 

Purify  my  heart,  devote  me  all  to  duty, 
Sanctify  ma  whoUy  for  Thy  realms  above. 


REFORMATORIES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL.        289 

Holy,  heavenly  Parent  of  this  earthbom  spirit, 

Onward  and  upward  bear  it  to  its  borne, 
With  Thy  Firstborn  Son  eternal  joys  to  inherit, 

Where  my  blessed  Father  beckons  me  to  come. — 

December  25th,  1858.  M.  C. 

The  teaching  work  in  the  Bed  Lodge  and  the  Ragged 
Schools,  which  I  continued  for  a  long  time  after  leaving  Miss 
Carpenter's  house,  was  not,  I  have  thought  on  cahn  reflection 
in  after  years,  very  well  done  hy  me.  I  have  always  lacked 
imagination  enough  to  realize  what  are  the  mental  limitations 
of  children  of  the  poorer  classes ;  and  in  my  eagerness  to 
interest  them  and  convey  my  thoughts,  I  know  I  often  spoke 
over  their  heads,  with  too  rapid  utterance  and  using  too 
many  words  not  included  in  their  small  vocabularies.  I  think 
my  lessons  amused  and  even  sometimes  delighted  them ;  I 
was  always  told  they  loved  them ;  but  they  enjoyed  them 
ratherif ear  like  fireworks  than  instruction !  In  the  Bed  Lodge 
there  were  fifty  poor  little  girls  from  10  to  15  years  of  age 
who  constituted  our  jE?rw(m0r«.  They  were  regularly  committed 
to  the  Lodge  as  to  jail,  and  when  Miss  Carpenter  was  absent  I 
had  to  keep  the  great  door  key.  They  used  to  sit  on  their 
benches  in  rows  opposite  to  me  in  the  beautiful  black  oak- 
panelled  room  of  the  Lodge,  and  reftd  their  dreary  books, 
and  rejoice  (I  have  no  doubt)  when  I  broke  in  with 
explanations  and  illustrations.  Their  poor  faces,  often  scarred 
by  disease,  and  ill-shaped  heads,  were  then  lifted  up  with 
cheerful  looks  tome,  and  I  ploughedaway  as  best  I  could,  trying 
to  get  any  ideas  into  their  minds ;  in  accordance  with  Mary 
Carpenter's  often  repeated  assurance  that  anything  wJuxtev&r 
which  could  pass  from  my  thoughts  to  theirs  would  be  a 
benefit,  as  supplyingother  po^u^t^m  than  their  past  familiarity 
with  all  things  evil.  When  we  had  got  through  one  school 
reading  book  in  this  way  I  begged  Miss  Carpenter  to  find  me 
another  to  afford  a  few  fresh  themes  for  observations^  but  no ; 
VOL.  I.  T 


290  CHAPTER  X. 

she  preferred  that  I  should  go  over  the  same  again.  Some  of 
the  children  had  singular  histories.  There  was  one  little 
creature  named  Kitty,  towards  whom  I  confess  my  heart 
warmed  especially,  for  her  leonine  disposition !  Whenever 
there  was  some  mischief  discovered  and  the  question  asked 
Who  was  in  fault  ?  invariably  Kitty's  hand  went  up :  ^'  I  did 
it,  ma'am;"  and  the  penalty,  even  of  incarceration  in  a 
certain  dreaded  '^  cell,"  was  heroically  endured.  Kitty  had 
been  duly  convicted  at  Sessions  at  the  mature  age  of  ten.  Of 
what  high  crime  and  misdemeanour  does  the  reader  suppose  ? 
Pilfering,  perhaps,  a  pocket  handkerchief,  or  a  penny  ?  Not 
at  all !  Of  nothing  less  than  Horee-atealing  /  She  and  her 
brother,  a  mite  two  years  younger  than  herself,  were 
dispatched  by  their  vagabond  parents  to  journey  by  one 
road,  while  they  themselves  travelled  by  another,  and  on 
the  way  the  children,  who  were,  of  course,  directed  to  pick 
and  steal  all  they  could  lay  hands  on,  observed  an  old  grey 
mare  feeding  in  a  field  near  the  road  and  reflecting  that  a 
ride  on  horseback  would  be  preferable  to  their  pilgrimage 
on  foot,  they  scrambled  on  the  mare's  back  and  by  some  means 
guided  her  down  the  road  and  went  off  in  triumph.  The 
aggrieved  farmer  to  whom  the  mare  belonged,  brought  the 
delinquents  to  justice,  and  after  being  tried  with  all  the 
solemn  forms  of  British  law  (their  heads  scarcely  visible 
over  the  dock),  the  children  were  sent  respectively  to  a  Boy's 
Reformatory,  and  to  Bed  Lodge.  We  kept  Kitty,  of  course, 
till  her  full  term  expired  when  she  was  15,  and  I  am  afraid 
Miss  Carpenter  strained  the  law  a  little  in  detaining  her  still 
longer  to  allow  her  to  gain  more  discretion  before  returning 
to  those  dreadful  tramps,  her  parents.  She  herself,  indeed, 
felt  the  danger  as  she  grew  older,  and  attached  herself  much 
to  us  both.  A  teacher  whom  I  had  imported  from  Ireland 
(one  of  my  own  village  pupils  from  Donabate)  told  me  that 
Kitty  spoke  of  us  with  tears,  and  that  she  had  seen  her  one 


"^--i  \ 


met'jMMatoeies.  etc^  at  br:st:i^     *•: 


Ins  for 
2  G  ::jr%,  Xht  ciafsK  of 
an  ber  olfcer  fprfrrgs^      Kissj  kfc  «^  to  rejcni 

^»e  bsr:  and  a  ■ccitk  or  tvo 


later  tiw  pior  cciti  «&d  cf  few.  c&:;z^t  m  tbe  vrvccb^ 
haimte  of  lier  famfl j. 

In  M.  "wiBt  wiikb  I  Ka^tie  to  Bal  Ixd^  two  teak  a£fx 
I  was  afernck  by  tiie  iciprov^  pAjseai  aspect  of  the  poor 
gills  in  the  cLazige  of  cnr  socxeBBOKS.  Tbe  depreased.  alzif  :«< 
flattened  Iotm  of  bead  v^icn  tike  aperieoeed  e%9  of  Sbr 
Waher  CWofton  kad  rM.i^  (as  I  &^  as  atetritle  ^Xcce^ 
of  Letufilaiy  ii'— ^  «aa  no  kc^cr  Ti^c-Le;  ror  waft  Urn 
mkeraUe  Ikar-e^vd,  scrofcloas  appeacaoce  of  the  fiieeE  of 
manj  of  m j  o^  p^^p^  -o  be  seen  anr  iDoreL  TLirtj  Tears 
have,  I  bope  and  believe,  raked  even  the  verj  k>«egt 
etratnm  of  tbe  popalatkiD  of  Frglaiad 

Mis  Cafpenter's  work  in  fatn^iii^  tk«  fint  Eelbnnaiorj 
for  girl-eiiminals  vitb  tbe  monifcecii  aid  of  that  gesMBPOGS 
wdbmh  I^df  J^tod,  ba»  bejond  qaesdon,  eontriboted  in 
no  mean  degree  to  tK^Ti^ng  tbe  lanks  of  female  crime 
during  the  kat  quarter  of  a  eentory.  lasoing  from  tbe  Bed 
Lodge  at  tbe  end  of  their  f cnr  or  five  jeers'  term  of 
confinement  and  in^trtictka,  the  girSs  rarehr  retaraed, 
like  poor  Kitty,  to  their  parents,  but  passed  first  throc^b 
a  prnhntiop  as  Mim  Ckrpenter^s  ovn  aernrnts  in  ber 
private  boofle^  under  good  MarianEeand  ber  soeeesgony  and 
then  into  that  humbler  sort  of  domestic  serriee  vbicb  is  best 
for  girls  of  tiieir  daas  ;  I  mean  that  wherein  the  mistreas 
works  and  takes  ber  meals  with  the  servant.  TbejHideand 
joy  of  these  giris  whan  th^  settled  into  stead  J  osefiibieaB  was 
often  a  pleasare  to  witnwM.     Misi  Carpenter  need  to  saj. 


REFORMATORIES,  ETC,  AT  BRISTOL,       291 

day,  when  given  a  stocking  of  mine  whereupon  to  practise 
darning,  furtively  kissing  it  when  she  thought  no  one  was 
observing  her.  She  once  said,  ^'  Grod  bless  Exeter  jail !  I 
should  never  have  been  here  but  for  that.'*  But  at  last, 
like  George  Eliot's  Gipst/y  the  claims  of  race  over-mastered 
all  her  other  feelings.  Kitty  left  us  to  rejoin  her  mother, 
who  had  perpetually  called  to  see  her ;  and  a  month  or  two 
later  the  poor  child  died  of  fever,  caught  in  the  wretched 
haunts  of  her  family. 

In  a  visit  which  I  made  to  Bed  Lodge  two  years  ago, 
I  was  struck  by  the  improved  physical  aspect  of  the  poor 
girls  in  the  charge  of  our  successors.  The  depressed,  almost 
flattened  form  of  head  which  the  experienced  eye  of  Sir 
Walter  Crof  ton  had  caught  (as  I  did),  as  a  terrible  '^  Note  " 
of  hereditary  crime,  was  no  longer  visible ;  nor  was  the 
miserable  blear-eyed,  scrofulous  appearance  of  the  faces  of 
many  of  my  old  pupils  to  be  seen  any  more.  Thirty  years 
have,  I  hope  and  believe,  raised  even  the  very  lowest 
stratum  of  the  population  of  England. 

Miss  Carpenter's  work  in  founding  the  first  Eeformatory 
for  girl-criminals  with  the  munificent  aid  of  that  generous 
woman  Lady  Byron,  has  beyond  question,  contributed  in 
no  mean  degree  to  thinning  the  ranks  of  female  crime 
during  the  last  quarter  of  a  century.  Issuing  from  the  Bed 
Lodge  at  the  end  of  their  four  or  five  years'  term  of 
confinemetit  and  instruction,  the  girls  rarely  returned, 
like  poor  Kitty,  to  their  parents,  but  passed  first  through 
a  probation  as  Miss  Carpenter's  own  servants  in  her 
private  house,  under  good  Marianne  and  her  successors,  and 
then  into  that  humbler  sort  of  domestic  service  which  is  best 
for  girls  of  their  class ;  I  mean  that  wherein  the  mistress 
works  and  takes  her  meals  with  the  servant.  The  pride  and 
joy  of  these  girls  when  they  settled  into  steady  usefulness  was 
often  a  pleasure  to  witness.     Miss  Carpenter  used  to  say, 


292  CHAPTER  X, 

"  When  I  hear  one  of  them  talk  of  '  My  Batchen/  I  know  it 
is  all  right ! "  Of  course  many  of  them  eventually  married 
respectably.  On  the  whole  I  do  not  think  that  more  than 
five,  or  at  the  outside  ten  per  cent,  fell  into  either  crime  or 
vice  after  leaving  Hed  Lodge,  and  if  we  suppose  that  there 
have  been  something  like  500  girls  in  the  Reformatory  since 
Lady  Byron  bought  the  Bed  Lodge  and  dedicated  it  to  that 
benevolent  use,  we  may  fairly  estimate,  that  Mary  Carpenter 
deflected  towards  goodness  the  lives  of  at  least  four  himdred 
and  fifty  women,  who,  if  she  had  not  stirred  in  their  interest, 
would  almost  inevitably  have  spent  their  days  in  crime  or 
vice,  and  ended  them  either  in  jail  or  in  the  "  Black  Ward  " 
of  the  workhouse. 

There  is  an  epitaph  on  a  good  clergyman  in  one  of  the  old 
churches  of  Bristol  which  I  have  always  thought  remarkably 
fine     It  runs  thus  as  far  as  I  remember : — 

**  Marble  may  monlder,  monuments  decay. 
Time  sweeps  memorials  from  the  earth  away; 
But  lasting  records  are  to  Brydges  g^ven, 
The  date  Eternity,  the  archives  Heaven ; 
There  living  tablets  with  his  worth  engraved 
Stand  forth  for  ever  in  the  seals  he  saved.** 

We  do  not,  in.  our  day  (unless  we  happen  to  belong  to  the 
Salvation  Army)  talk  much  about ''  saving  souls''  in  the  old 
Evangelical  sense ;  and  I,  at  least,  hold  very  strongly,  and 
have  even  preached  to  the  purpose,  that  every  human  soul 
is  "  Doomed  to  he  ewoed^^  destined  by  irrevocable  Divine  love 
and  mercy  to  be  sooner  or  later,  in  this  world  or  far  o£P 
worlds  to  come,  brought  like  the  Prodigal  to  the  Father's 
feet.  But  there  is  a  very  real  sense  in  which  a  true 
philanthropist ''  saves  "  his  fellow  men  from  moral  evil — the 
sense  in  which  FlutarAi  uses  the  word,  and  which  every 
theology  must  accept,  and  in  this  sense  I  unhestatingly 
affirm,  that  Mary  Carpenter  SAVBDfour  hundred  human  souls. 


REFORMATORIES,  EXa,  AT  BRISTOL.       293 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  also  that  it  was  not  only  in  her 
own  special  Beformatory  that  her  work  was  carried  on.  By 
advocating  in  her  books  and  by  her  active  public  pleading 
the  modification .  of  the  laws  touching  juvenile  crime,  she 
practically  originated — ^in  concert  with  Becorder  Hill — the 
immense  improvement  which  has  taken  place  in  the  whole 
treatment  of  young  criminals  who,  before  her  time,  were 
simply  sent  to  jail,  and  there  too  often  stamped  with  the  hall- 
mark of  crime  for  life. 

As  regards  the  other  part  of  Miss  Carpenter's  work  which 
she  permitted  me  to  share, — the  Bagged  Schools  and  Street- 
boys'  Sunday  School  in  St.  James's  Back, — I  laboured,  of 
course,  under  the  same  disadvantage  as  in  the  Bed  Lodge  of 
never  clearly  foreseeing  how  much  would  be  understood  of 
my  words  or  ideas;  and  what  would  be  most  decidedly 
''caviar  to  the  general"  A  ludicrous  example  of  this 
occurred  on  one  occasion.  I  always  anxiously  desired  to 
instil  into  the  minds  of  the  children  admiration  for  brave  and 
noble  deeds,  and  therefore  told  them  stories  of  heroism 
whenever  my  subject  a£Porded  an  opening  for  one.  Having 
to  give  a  lesson  on  France,  and  some  boy  asking  a 
question  about  the  Guillotine,  I  narrated,  as  vivaciously 
and  di^matically  as  I  knew  how,  the  beautiful  tale  of  the 
Nuns  who  chanted  the  Te  Dewm  on  the  scaffold,  till  one 
voice  after  another  was  silenced  for  ever,  and  the  brave 
Abbess  still  continued  to  sing  the  grand  old  hymn  of 
Ambrose,  till  her  turn  came  for  death.  I  fondly  hoped 
that  some  of  my  own  feelings  in  describing  the  scene 
were  communicated  to  my  audience.  But  such  hopes  were 
dashed  when,  a  day  or  two  later,  Miss  Carpenter  came  home 
from  her  lesson  at  the  school,  and  said  :  ''  My  dear  friend, 
what  in  the  name  of  heaven  can  you  have  been  teaching  those 
boys?  They  were  all  excited  about  some  lesson  you  had 
given  them.     They  said  you  described  cutting  off  a  lot  of 


294  CHAPTER  X, 

heads ;  and  it  was  '  chop !  and  a  head  fell  into  the  basket ; 
and  chop !  another  head  in  the  basket !  They  said  it  was 
such  a  nice  lesson  ! '  But  whose  heads  were  cut  off,  or  why, 
none  of  them  remembered, — only  chop  !  and  a  head  fell  in 
the  basket ! " 

I  consoled  myself,  however,  for  this  and  many  another 
defeat  by  the  belief  that  if  my  lessons  did  not  much  instruct 
their  wild  pates,  their  hearts  were  benefitted  in  some  small 
measure  by  being  brought  under  my  friendly  influence.  Miss 
Carpenter  always  made  the  schoolmaster  of  the  Day  School 
attend  at  our  Sunday  Night- School,  fearing  some  wild 
outbreak  of  the  100  and  odd  boys  and  hobbledehoys  who 
formed  our  congregation.  The  first  Sunday,  however,  on 
which  the  school  was  given  into  my  charge,  I  told  the 
schoolmaster  he  might  leave  me  and  go  home ;  and  I  then 
stopped  alone  (we  had  no  assistants)  with  the  little  herd. 
My  lessons,  I  am  quite  sure,  were  all  the  more  impressive ; 
and  though  Miss  Carpenter  was  quite  alarmed  when  she 
heard  what  I  had  done,  she  consented  to  my  following  my 
own  system  of  confidence,  and  I  never  had  reason  to  repent 
the  adoption  of  it. 

In  my  humble  judgment  (and  I  know  it  was  also  that  of 
one  much  better  able  to  judge.  Lord  Shaftesbury)  these  elastic 
and  irregular  Bagged  Schools  were  far  better  institutions  for 
the  class  for  whom  they  were  designed  than  the  cast-iron  Board 
Schools  of  our  time.  They  were  specially  designed  to  civilize 
the  children :  to  Uvme  them  enough  to  induce  them,  for 
example,  to  sit  reasonably  still  on  a  bench  for  half -an-hour  at 
a  time ;  to  wash  their  hands  and  faces ;  to  comb  their 
hair ;  to  forbear  from  shouting,  singing,  ''  turning  wheels," 
throwing  marbles,  making  faces,  or  similiarly  disporting 
themselves,  while  in  school ;  after  which  preliminaries  they 
began  to  acquire  the  art  of  learning  lessons.  It  was  not 
exactlv  Education  in  the  literary  sense,  but  it  was  a  Training, 


REFORMATORIES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL,       295 

without  which  as  a  suhstructure  the  '*  Three  R's  "  are  of  little 
avail, — if  we  may  believe  in  William  of  Wykeham's  axiom 
that  *'  Manners  makyth  Manne." 

Another,  and,  as  I  think,  great  merit  of  the  Ragged  School 
system  was,  that  decent  and  self-respecting  parents  who 
strove  to  keep  their  children  from  the  contamination  of  the 
gutter  and  were  wUling  to  pay  their  penny  a  week  to  send 
them  to  school,  were  not  obliged,  as  now,  to  suffer  their 
boys  and  girls  to  associate  in  the  Board  Schools  with  the  very 
lowest  and  roughest  of  children  fresh  from  the  streets. 
Nothing  has  made  me  more  indignant  than  a  report  I  read 
some  time  ago  in  one  of  the  newspapers  of  a  poor  widow  who 
had  *'seen  better  days,"  being  summoned  and  fined  for 
engaging  a  non-certified  poor  governess  to  teach  her  little 
girl,  rather  than  allow  the  child  to  attend  the  Board  School 
and  associate  with  the  girls  she  would  meet  there.  As  if  all 
the  learning  of  a  Porson,  if  he  could  pour  it  into  a  chid's 
brain,  would  counterbalance  in  a  young  girl's  mind  the  foul 
words  and  ideas  familiar  to  the  hapless  children  of  the 
'*  perishing  and  dangerous  classes !  " 

People  talk  seriously  of  the  physical  infection  which  may 
be  conveyed  where  many  young  children  are  gathered  in 
close  contiguity.  They  would,  if  they  knew  more,  much 
more  anxiously  deprecate  the  moral  contagion  which  may  be 
introduced  into  a  school  by  a  single  girl  who  has  been 
initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  a  vicious  home.  On  two 
separate  occasions  Miss  Carpenter  and  I  were  startled  by 
what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  portentous  wave  of  evil  which 
passed  over  the  entire  community  of  50  girls  in  the  Bed 
Lodge.  In  each  case  it  was  undeniably  traceable  to  the 
arrival  of  new  comers  who  had  been  sent  by  mistake  of 
magistrates  to  our  Reformatory  when  they  ought  to  have 
gone  to  a  Penitentiary.  It  was  impossible  for  us  to  guess 
how,  with  all  the  watchful  guardianship  of  the  teachers,  these 


296  CHAPTER  X 

unhappy  girls  had  any  opportunity  for  corrupting  their 
oompanionB,  but  that  they  did  so  (temporarily  only,  as  they 
were  immediately  disoovered  and  banished)  I  saw  with  my 
own  eyes  beyond  possibility  of  mistake. 

It  came  to  me  as  part  of  my  work  with  Miss  Carpenter  to 
visit  the  homes  of  all  the  children  who  attended  our  Bagged 
Schools — either  Day  Schools  or  Night  Schools ;  nominally 
to  see  whether  they  belonged  to  the  class  which  should 
properly  benefit  by  gratuitous  education,  but  also  to  find  out 
whether  I  could  do  anything  to  amend  their  condition. 
Many  were  the  lessons  I  learned  respecting  the  ^'  short ''  but 
by  no  means  ''  simple "  annals  of  the  poor,  when  I  made 
those  visits  all  over  the  slums  of  BristoL 

The  shoemakers  were  a  very  numerous  and  a  very 
miserable  class  among  the  parents  of  our  pupils.  When  any- 
thing interfered  with  trade  they  were  at  once  thrown  into 
complete  idleness  and  destitution.  Over  and  over  again  I 
tried  to  get  the  poor  feUows,  when  they  sat  listless  and 
lamenting,  to  turn  to  any  other  kind  of  labour  in  their  own 
line ;  to  endeavour,  e.g,j  to  make  slippers  for  me,  no  matter 
how  roughly,  or  to  mend  my  boots ;  promifdng  similar  orders 
from  friends.  Not  one  would,  or  could,  do  anything  but  sew 
upper  or  under  leathers,  as  the  case  might  be !  The  men 
sat  all  day  long  when  there  was  work,  sewing  in  their  stuffy 
rooms  with  their  wives  busy  washing  or  attending  to  the 
children,  and  the  whole  place  in  a  muddle ;  but  they  would 
converse  eagerly  and  intelligently  with  me  about  politics  or 
about  other  towns  and  countries,  whereas  the  poor  over- 
worked women  would  never  join  in  our  talk.  W  hen  I  addressed 
them  they  at  once  called  my  attention  to  Jenny's  torn  frock 
and  Tom's  want  of  a  new  cap.  One  of  these  shoemakers,  in 
whom  I  felt  rather  special  interest,  turned  to  me  one  day, 
looked  me  straight  in  the  face,  and  said :  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question.    Why  does  a  lady  like  you  come  and  sit  and 


REFORMATORIES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL.       297 

talk  to  me  ?  "  I  thonght  it  a  true  token  of  confidence,  and 
was  glad  I  could  answer  honestly  that  I  had  come  first  to 
see  about  his  children,  but  now  came  because  I  liked  him. 

Other  cases  which  came  to  my  knowledge  in  these  rounds 
were  dreadfully  sad.  In  one  poor  room  I  found  a  woman 
who  had  been  confined  only  a  few  days,  sitting  up  in  bed 
doing  shopwork,  her  three  or  four  UtUe  children  all  endea- 
vouring to  work  likewise  for  the  miserable  pay.  Her 
husband  was  out  looking  vainly  for  work.  She  showed  me 
a  sheaf  of  pawntickets  for  a  large  quantity  of  table  and  house 
linen  and  plated  goods.  Her  husband  and  she  had  formerly 
kept  a  flourishing  inn,  but  the  railway  had  ruined  it,  and 
they  had  been  obliged  to  give  it  up  and  come  to  live  in 
Bristol,  and  get  such  work  as  they  could  do — ^at  starvation 
wages.  She  was  a  gentle,  delicate,  fair  woman,  who  had 
been  lady's  maid  in  a  wealthy  family  known  to  me  by  name. 
I  asked  her  did  she  not  go  out  and  bring  the  children  to  the 
Downs  on  a  Sunday  ?  "  Ah  !  we  tried  it  once  or  tvnce," 
she  said,  "  but  it  was  too  terrible  coming  back  to  this  room ; 
we  never  go  now." 

Another  case  of  extreme  poverty  was  less  tragic. 
There  was  a  woman  with  three  children  whose  husband 
was  a  soldier  in  India,  to  whom  she  longingly  hoped  to 
be  eventually  sent  out  by  the  military  authorities.  Mean- 
while she  was  in  extreme  poverty  in  Bristol,  and  so  was 
her  friend,  a  fine  young  Irish  woman.  Their  sole  resource 
was  a  neighbour  who  possessed  a  pair  of  good  sheets,  and 
was  willing  to  lend  them  to  them  by  day,  provided  they  were 
restored  for  her  own  use  every  night !  This  did  not  appear 
a  very  promising  source  of  income,  but  the  two  friends 
contrived  to  make  it  one.  They  took  the  sheets  of  a  morning 
to  a  pawnbroker  who  allowed  them, — I  think  it  was  two 
shillings,  upon  them.  With  this  they  stocked  a  basket  with 
oranges,  apples,  gooseberries,  pins  and  needles,  match  boxes. 


298  CHAPTER  X 

lace, — anything  which  could  be  had  for  such  a  price, 
according  to  the  season.  Then  one  or  other  of  the  friends 
arrayed  herself  in  the  solitary  bonnet  and  shawl  which  they 
possessed  between  them,  and  sallied  out  for  the  day  to  dispose 
of  her  wares,  while  the  other  remained  in  their  single  room 
to  take  care  of  the  children.  The  evening  meal  was  bought 
and  brought  home  by  the  outgoing  friend  with  the  proceeds 
of  her  day's  sales,  and  then  the  sheets  were  redeemed  from 
pawn  at  the  price  of  a  halfpenny  each  day  and  gratefully 
restored  to  the  proprietor.  This  ingenious  mode  of  filling 
five  mouths  went  on,  with  a  little  help,  when  I  came  to  know 
of  it,  in  the  way  of  a  fresh-filled  basket — for  a  whole  winter. 
I  thought  it  so  curious  that  I  described  it  to  dear  Harriet  St. 
Leger  one  day  when  she  was  passing  through  Bristol  and 
spent  some  hours  with  me.  She  was  affected  almost  to  tears 
and  pushed  into  my  hand,  at  the  last  moment  at  the  Station, 
all  the  silver  in  her  purse,  to  give  to  the  friends.  The  money 
amounted  to  7s.  6d.,  and  when  Harriet  was  gone  I  hastened 
to  give  it  to  the  poor  souls.  It  proved  to  be  one  of  the 
numerous  occasions  in  life  in  which  I  have  experienced  a  sort 
of  fatality,  as  if  the  chance  of  doing  a  bit  of  good  to  somebody 
were  offered  to  us  by  Providence  to  take  or  leave  and,  if  we 
postpone  taking  it,  the  chance  is  lost.  I  was  tired,  and  the 
room  inhabited  by  the  poor  women  was,  as  it  happened,  at 
the  other  end  of  Bristol,  and  I  could  not  indulge  myself  with 
a  fly,  but  I  reflected  that  the  money  now  really  belonged  to 
them,  and  I  was  bound  to  take  it  to  them  without  delay. 
When  I  reached  their  room  I  found  I  was  in  the  very  nick  of 
time.  An  order  had  come  for  the  soldier's  wife  to  present 
herself  at  some  military  office  next  day  with  her  children, 
and  with  a  certain  "  kit "  of  clothes  and  utensils  for  the 
voyage,  and  if  all  were  right  she  would  be  sent  to  join  her 
husband's  regiment  in  India  by  a  vessel  to  sail  immediately. 
Without  the  proper  outfit  she  would  not  have  been  taken ; 


REFORMATORIES,  ETC.,  AT  BRISTOL.       2^ 

and  of  course  the  poor  soul  bad  no  kit  and  was  in  an  agony 
of  anxiety.  Harriet's  gift,  with  some  trifling  addition, 
happily  supplied  all  that  was  wanted. 

I  did  not  see  so  much  of  drunkenness  in  Bristol  as  the 
prominence  given  to  the  subject  by  many  philanthropists  led 
me  to  expect.  Of  course  I  came  across  terrible  cases  of  it 
now  and  then,  as  for  example  a  little  boy  of  ten  at  our  Bagged 
School  who  begged  Miss  Carpenter  to  let  him  go  home  at 
mid-day,  and  on  enquiry,  it  proved  that  he  wanted  to  rdectae 
his  mother,  whom  he  had  locked  in,  dead-drunk,  at  nine  in 
the  morning.  I  also  had  a  frightful  experience  of  the  case 
of  the  drunken  wife  of  a  poor  man  dying  of  agonizing  cancer. 
The  doctor  who  attended  him  told  me  that  a  little  brandy  was 
the  only  thing  to  help  him,  and  I  brought  small  quantities  to 
him  frequently,  till,  when  I  was  leaving  home  for  three  weeks, 
I  thought  it  best  to  give  a  whole  bottle  to  his  wife  imder 
injunctions  to  administer  it  by  proper  degrees.  Happening 
to  pass  by  the  door  of  the  wretched  couple  a  day  later,  before 
I  started,  I  saw  a  small  crowd,  and  asked  what  had  happened? 
*'  Mrs.  Whale  had  been  drinking  and  had  fallen  down  stairs 
and  broken  her  neck  and  was  dead."  Horror-struck  I 
mounted  the  almost  perpendicular  stair  and  found  it  was  so ; 
the  poor  hapless  husband  was  still  aUvc^  and  my  empty  brandy 
bottle  was  on  the  table. 

The  other  great  form  of  vice  however  was  thrust  much 
more  often  on  my  notice— the  ghastly  ruin  of  the  wretched 
girls  who  fell  into  it  and  the  nameless  damnation  of  the  hags 
and  Jews  who  traded  on  their  souls  and  bodies.  The  cruelty 
of  the  fate  of  some  of  the  young  women  was  often  piteous. 
Thankful  I  am  that  the  law  for  assaults  has  been  made  since 
those  days  far  more  stringent  and  is  oftener  put  in  force. 
There  were  stories  which  came  to  my  personal  knowledge 
which  would  draw  tears  from  many  eyes  were  I  to  tell  them, 
but  the  vpLOTQ  cruel  the  wrong  done^  the  more  difficult  it 


300  CHAPTER  X. 

generally  proved  to  indnoe  anybody  to  undertake  to  receive 
the  victims  into  their  houses  on  any  terms. 

A  gentleman  whom  I  met  in  Italy,  who  knew  Bristol  well, 
told  me  he  had  watched  a  poor  young  sailor's  destruction 
under  the  influence  of  some  of  the  eighteen  hundred  miserable 
women  then  infesting  the  city.  He  had  just  been  paid  off 
and  had  received  X73  for  a  long  service  at  sea.  Mr.  Empson 
first  saw  him  in  the  fangs  of  two  of  the  wretched  creatures, 
and  next,  six  weeks  later,  he  found  him  dying  in  the 
Infirmary,  having  spent  every  shilling  of  his  money  in  drink 
and  debauchery.  He  told  Mr.  Empson  that,  after  the  first 
week,  he  had  never  taken  any  food  at  all,  but  lived  only  on 
stimulants. 


CHAPTER 


XI. 


BRISTOL. 


THE  SICK  IN  WORKHOUSES. 


CHAPTER  XT. 
Bristol. — ^The  Sick  in  Workhouses. 

Mt  new  life  on  Durdham  Down,  though  solitary,  was  a 
very  happy  one.  I  had  two  nice  rooms  in  Belgrave  House 
(then  the  last  house  on  the  road  opening  on  the  beautiful 
Downs  from  the  Bedland  side),  wherein  a  bright,  exoellent, 
pretty  widow,  Mrs.  Stone,  kept  several  suites  of  lodgings. 
It  is  not  often,  alas !  that  the  relations  of  lodger  and  landlady 
are  altogether  pleasant,  but  in  my  case  they  were  eminently 
so,  and  resulted  in  cordial  and  permanent  mutual  regard. 
My  little  bedroom  opened  by  a  French  window  on  a  balcony 
leading  to  a  small  garden,  and  beyond  it  I  had  an  immense 
view  of  Bristol  and  the  surrounding  country,  over  the  smoke 
of  which  the  rising  sun  often  made  Turneresque  pictures. 
My  sitting  room  had  a  front  and  a  comer  view  of  the 
delightful  Downs  as  far  as  '*  Cook's  Folly"  and  the  Nightingale 
Valley ;  and  often,  over  the  "  Sea  Wall,"  the  setting  sun  went 
down  in  great  glory.  I  walked  down  every  week-day  into 
Bristol  (of  course  I  needed  more  than  ever  to  economise,  and 
even  the  omnibus  fare  had  to  be  considered),  and  went 
about  my  various  avocations  in  the  schools  and  work-, 
house  till  I  could  do  no  more,  when  I  made  my  way 
home  as  cheaply  as  I  could  contrive,  to  dinner.  I  had 
my  dear  dog  Haj jin,  a  lovely  mouse-coloured  Pomeranian,  for 
companion  at  all  times,  and  on  Sundays  we  generally  treated 
ourselves  to  a  good  ramble  over  the  Downs  and  beyond 
them,  perhaps  as  far  as  Kings'-Weston.  The  whole  district 
is  dear  to  me  still. 

The  return  to  fresh  air  and  to  something  like  country  life 
was  delightful.     It  had  been,  I  must  avow,  an  immense 


304  CHAPTER  XL 

strain  on  my  resolution  to  live  in  Bristol  among  all  the 
sordid  surroundings  of  Miss  Carpenter's  house ;  and  when 
onoe  in  a  way  in  those  days  I  left  them  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  country,  the  effoH  to  force  myself  back  was  a  hard 
one.  One  soft  spring  day,  I  remember,  I  had  gone  across 
the  Downs  and  sat  for  half  an  hour  under  a  certain  horse- 
chestnut  tree,  which  was  that  day  in  all  the  exquisite  beauty 
of  its  young  green  leaves.  I  felt  this  was  all  I  wanted  to  be 
happy — merely  to  live  in  the  beauty  and  peace  of  Nature,  as 
of  o]d  at  Newbridge  ;  and  I  reflected  that,  of  course,  I  oovld 
do  it,  at  once,  by  breaking  off  with  Miss  Carpenter 
and  giving  up  my  work  in  hideous  Bristol.  But,  per 
contra^  I  had  concluded  that  this  work  was  wanted  to 
be  done  and  that  I  could  do  it ;  and  had  seriously 
given  myself  to  it,  believing  that  so  I  could  best  do 
Qod's  wilL  Thus  there  went  on  in  my  mind  for  a  little 
while  a  very  stiff  fight,  one  of  those  which  leave  us 
either  stronger  or  weaker  ever  after.  Now  at  last,  without 
any  effort  on  my  part,  the  bond  which  held  me  to  live  in  Bed 
Lodge  House,  was  loosened,  and  I  was  able  both  to  go  on 
with  my  work  in  Bristol  and  also  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  in 
the  morning  and  to  see  the  sun  rise  and  set,  and  often  to 
enjoya  healthful  run  over  those  beautiful  Downs.  By  degrees, 
also,  I  made  several  friendships  in  the  neighbourhood,  some 
most  dear  and  faithful  ones  which  have  lasted  ever  since;  and 
many  people  were  very  kind  to  me  and  helped  me  in  various 
ways  in  my  work.  I  shall  speak  of  these  friends  in  another 
chapter. 

One  of  my  superstitions  has  long  been  that  if  any  particular 
task  seems  to  us  at  the  first  outlook  specially  against  the 
grain,  it  will  continually  happen  that  in  the  order  of  things 
it  comes  knocking  at  our  door  and  practically  saying  to  our 
consciences :  "  Are  you  going  to  get  up  and  do  what  is 
wanted,  or  sit  still  and  please  yourself  with  something  else  **  f 


BRtSTOL.—THE  SICK  IN  W0RKU0V8E8.      805 

In  this  gnise  of  disagreeability,  workhoase  visitiiig  first 
presented  itself  to  me.  "Hiss  Carpenter  freqnently  men- 
tioned the  workhonse  as  a  place  which  ought  to  be 
looked  after;  and  which  she  belieyed  sadly  wanted 
voluntary  inspection;  bnt  the  very  name  conveyed  to  me 
such  an  impression  of  dreary  hopelessness  that  I  shrank  from 
the  thought.  When  St.  Paul  coupled  Hope  with  Faith  and 
Charity  he  might  have  said  ''these  three  are  one/'  for 
without  the  Hope  of  achieving  some  good  (or  at  least  of 
stopping  some  evil)  it  is  hard  to  gird  ourselves  to  any 
practical  exertion  for  our  fellow  creatures.  To  lift  up  the 
criminal  and  perishing  classes  of  the  community  and  cut  off 
the  root  of  crime  and  vice  by  training  children  in  morality  and 
religion,  this  waS  a  soul-inspiring  idea.  But  to  bring  a  small 
modicum  of  cheer  to  the  aged  and  miserable  paupers,  who 
may  be  supposed  generally  to  be  undergoing  the  inevitable 
penalties  of  idle  or  drunken  lives,  was  far  from  equally  up- 
lifting I  However,  my  first  chance-visit  to  St.  Peter's  in 
Bristol  with  Miss  Elliot,  showed  me  so  much  to  be  done,  so 
many  claims  to  S3rmpathy  and  pity,  and  the  sore  lack  of  some- 
body, unconnected  officially  with  the  place,  to  meet  them, 
that  I  at  once  felt  that  here  I  must  put  in  my  oar. 

The  condition  of  the  English  workhouses  generally  at  that 
period  (1859)  was  very  different  from  what  it  is  now.  I 
visited  many  of  them  in  the  following  year  or  two  in  London 
and  the  provincial  towns,  and  this  is  what  I  saw.  The 
sick  lay  on  wretched  beds,  fit  only  for  able-bodied  tramps,  and 
were  nursed  mostly  by  old  pauper  women  of  the  very  lowest 
class.  The  infirm  wards  were  very  frequently  placed  in  the 
worst  possible  positions.  I  remember  one  (in  London)  which 
resounded  all  day  long  with  din  from  an  iron-foundry  just 
beneath,  so  that  one  could  not  hear  oneself  speak ;  and 
another,  of  which  the  windows  could  not  be  opened  in  the 

hottest  weather,  because  carpets  were  taken  to  be  beaten  in 
VOL.  I  ^ 


806  CHAPTER   XL 

the  court  below.  The  treatment  of  the  pauper  children  was 
no  less  deplorable.  They  wer%  joyless,  spiritless  little 
creatures,  without  "  mothering  "  (as  blessed  Mrs.  Senior  said 
a  few  years  later),  without  toys,  without  the  chance  of  learning 
anything  practical  for  use  in  after  life,  even  to  the  lighting  of 
a  fire  or  cooking  a  potato.  Their  poor  faces  were  often 
scarred  by  disease  and  half  blinded  by  ophthalmia.  The  girls 
wore  the  hideous  workhouse  cotton  frocks,  not  half  warm 
enough  to  keep  them  healthy  in  those  bare,  draughty 
wards,  and  heavy  bob-nailed  shoes  which  acted  like  gaUey- 
slaves'  bullets  on  their  feet  when  they  were  turned  to  ''  play  " 
b  a  high- walled,  sunless  yard,  which  was  sometimes,  as  I  have 
seen,  six  inches  deep  in  coarse  gravel.  As  to  the  infants,  if 
they  happened  to  have  a  good  motherly  matron  it  was  so  far 
well,  though  even  she  (mostly  busy  elsewhere)  could  do  but 
little  to  make  the  crabbed  old  pauper  nurses  kind  and  patient. 
But  how  often,  we  might  ask,  were  the  workhouse  matrons 
of  those  days  really  kind-hearted  and  motherly  ?  Of  course 
they  were  selected  by  the  gentlemen  guardians  (there  were 
no  ladies  then  on  the  Boards)  for  quite  other  merits ;  and 
as  Miss  Carpenter  once  remarked  to  mo  from  the  depth  of 
her  experience : — 

"  There  never  yet  was  man  so  clever  hut  the  Matron  of  an 
Institution  could  bamboozle  him  about  every  department  of 
her  business!" 

I  have  sat  in  the  Infants'  ward  when  an  entire  Board  of 
about  two  dozen  gentlemen  tramped  through  it,  for  what  they 
considered  to  be  <'  inspection  "  ;  and  anything  more  helpless 
and  absurd  than  those  masculine  **  authorities  "  appeared  as 
they  glanced  at  the  little  cots  (never  daring  to  open  one  of 
them)  while  the  awakened  babies  screamed  at  them  in  chorus, 
it  has  seldom  been  my  lot  to  witness. 

On  xme  occasion  I  visited  an  enormous  workhouse  in  a 
provincial  town  where  there  were  nearly  500  sick  and  infirm 


BR18T0L.'---THE  8I0K  IN   WORKHOUSES.      807 

patients.  The  Matron  told  me  she  had  bnt  lately  been 
appointed  to  her  post.  I  said,  "It  is  a  tremendonsly  heavy 
charge  for  yon,  especially  with  only  these  panper  nurses.  No 
donbt  you  have  gone  through  a  course  of  Hospital  training, 
and  know  how  to  direct  ever3rthing  ?  " 

"  0,  dear  No  1  Madam  1 "  replied  the  lady  with  a  toss  of 
her  cap-strings;  ''I  never  nursed  anybody  I  can  assure 
you,  except  my  'usband,  before  I  came  here.  It  was 
misfortune  brought  me  to  this  t  " 

How  many  other  Masters  and  Matrons  throughout  the 
country  received  their  appointments  with  as  little  fitness  for 
them  and  simply  as  favours  from  influential  or  easy-going 
guardians,  who  may  guess  ? 

I  had  at  this  time  become  acquainted  with  the  friend  whose 
comradeship — cemented  in  the  dreary  wards  of  Bristol  Work- 
house more  than  80  years  ago — ^has  been  ever  since  one  of  the 
great  pleasures  of  my  life.  All  those  who  know  Miss  Elliot, 
daughter  of  the  late  Dean  of  Bristol,  will  admit  that  it  would 
be  very  superfluous,  not  to  say  impertinent,  to  enlarge  on  the 
privileges  of  friendship  with  her.  Miss  Elliot  was  at  that 
time  living  at  the  old  Deanery  close  to  Bristol  Cathedral,  and 
taking  part  in  every  good  work  which  was  going  on  in  the 
city  and  neighbourhood.  Among  other  things  she  had  been 
teaching  regularly  for  years  in  Miss  Carpenter's  Beformatory, 
regardless  of  the  prejudice  against  her  unitariaoism  ;  and  one 
day  she  called  at  Miss  Carpenter's  house  to  ask  her  what  was 
to  be  done  with  Kitty,  who  had  been  very  naughty.  Miss 
Carpenter  asked  her  to  see  the  lady  who  had  come  to  work 
with  her ;  and  we  met  for  the  first  time.  Miss  Elliot  begged 
me  to  return  her  visit,  and  though  nothing  was  further  from 
my  mind  at  that  time  than  to  enter  into  an3rthing  like 
society,  I  was  tempted  by  the  great  attractions  of  my  brilliant 
young  friend  and  her  sister  and  of  the  witty  and  wide- 
minded  Dean,  and  before  long  (especially  after  I  went  to 


308  OHAPTUR   XL 

live  alone)  1  enjoyed  mnoh  intercourse  with  the  delightfu] 
honsehold. 

Miss  Elliot  had  been  in  the  habit  of  visitiog  a  poor  old 
woman  named  Mrs.  Buckley,  who  had  formerly  lived  dose 
to  the  Deanery  and  had  been  removed  to  the  workhouse; 
and  one  day  she  asked  me  to  accompany  her  on  her  errand. 
This  being  over,  I  wandered  off  to  the  various  wards  where 
other  poor  women,  and  also  the  old  and  invalid  men,  spent 
their  dreary  days,  and  soon  perceived  how  large  a  field  was 
open  for  usefulness  in  the  place. 

The  first  matter  which  occupied  us  was  the  condition  of 
the  sick  and  infirm  paupers ;  first  of  the  women  only ;  later  of 
both  men  and  women.  The  good  Master  and  Matron 
admitted  us  quite  freely  to  the  wards,  and  we  saw  and  knew 
everything  which  was  going  on.  St.  Peter's  was  an 
exceptional  workhouse  in  many  respects.  The  house  was 
evidently  at  one  time  (about  a.d.  1600,  like  Bed  Lodge)  the 
mansion  of  some  merchant  prince  of  Bristol,  erected  in  the 
midst  of  the  city.  The  outer  walls  are  still  splendid 
specimens  of  old  English  wood  and  stonework ;  and,  within, 
the  Board-room  exhibits  still  a  magnificent  chimney-piece. 
The  larger  part  of  the  buildiug,  however,  has  been  puUed 
about  and  fashioned  into  large  wards,  with  oak-beamed 
rafters  on  the  upper  floor,  and  intricate  stairs  and  passages 
in  all  directions.  Able-bodied  paupers  and  casuals  were 
lodged  elsewhere  (at  Stapleton  Workhouse)  and  were  not 
admitted  here.  There  were  only  the  sick,  the  aged,  the 
infirm,  the  insane  and  epileptic  patients  and  lying-in  women. 

Here  are  some  notes  of  the  inmates  of  this  place  by  Miss 
ElHot  :— 

'*  1.  An  old  woman  of  nearly  80,  and  as  I  thought  beyond 
power  of  understanding  me.  Onoe  however  when  I  was 
saying  *  good-bye  *  before  an  absence  of  some  months,  I  was 
attracted  by  her  feeble  efforts  to  catch  my  attention.    She 


BBISTOL.-^THE  SICK  IN  WORKHOUSES.      809 

took  my  hand  and  gasped  ont '  Gkxl  bless  yon ;  yon  wont 
find  me  when  yon  oome  back.  Thank  yon  for  ooming.* 
[  said  most  trnly  that  I  had  neyer  been  any  good  to  her, 
and  how  sorry  I  was  I  had  never  spoken  to  her.  '  Oh,  bnt 
I  see  yonr  face ;  it  is  always  a  great  pleasnxe  and  seems 
bright.  I  was  praying  for  yon  last  night.  I  don*ii  sleep 
much  of  a  night.  I  thank  yon  for  coming.*  ....  2.  A 
woman  between  fifty  and  sixty  dying  of  liver  disease.  She 
had  been  early  left  a  widow,  had  stmggled  bravely,  and 
reared  her  son  so  well  that  he  became  foreman  at  one  of  the 
first  printing  establishments  in  the  city.  His  master  gave 
as  an  exoellent  character  of  him.  The  poor  mother 
unhappily  had  some  illness  which  long  confined  her  in 
another  hospital,  and  when  she  left  it  her  son  was  dead ; 
dead  without  her  care  in  his  last  honrs.  The  wom-ont  and 
broken-down  mother,  too  weak  and  hopeless  to  work  any 
longer,  came  to  her  last  place  of  refuge  in  the  workhouse. 
There,  day  by  day,  we  found  her  sitting  on  the  side  of  her 
bed,  reading  and  trying  to  talk  cheerfully,  but  always 
breaking  down  utterly  when  she  came  to  speak  of  her  son. 
8.  Opposite  to  her  an  old  woman  of  ninety  lies,  too  weak 
to  sit  up.  One  day,  not  thinking  her  asleep,  I  went  to  her 
bedside.  I  shall  never  forget  the  start  of  joy,  the  eager 
hand,  *  Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  you  are  come  1  Is  it  you  at  last  ? ' 
'Ah,  poor  dear,'  said  the  women  round  her,  *she  most 
always  dreams  of  Mary.  'Tis  her  daughter,  ladies,  in 
London ;  she  has  written  to  her  often,  but  don't  get  any 
answer.'  The  poor  old  woman  made  profpse  apologies  for 
her  mistake,  and  laid  her  head  wearily  on  the  pillow  where 
she  had  rested  and  dreamed,  literally'  for  years,  of  Mary. 

"  4.  Further  on  is  a  girl  of  sixteen,  paralyzed  hopelessly 
for  life.  She  had  been  maid-of-all-work  in  a  family  of 
twelve,  and  under  her  fearful  drudgery  had  broken  down 
thus  early.  '  Oh,  ma'am,'  she  said  with  bursts  of  agony, 
*  I  did  work ;  I  was  always  willing  to  work,  if  God  would 
let  me ;  I  did  work  while  I  could,  but  I  shall  never  get 
well ;  Never  1 '  Alas,  she  may  live  as  long  as  the  poor 
oripple  who  died  here  last  summer,  after  lying  forty-six 


BIO  CHAPTER    XL 

years  in  the  same  bed,  gazing  on  the  same  blank,  white 
wall.  5.  The  meet  oheerfol  woman  in  the  ward  is  one 
who  can  never  rise  from  her  bed;  bnt  she  is  a  good 
needlewoman,  and  is  constantly  employed  in  making  $hroudi. 
It  would  seem  as  if  the  dismal  work  gave  her  an  interest 
in  something  ontside  the  ward,  and  she  is  quite  eager 
when  the  demand  for  her  manufaotore  is  especially  great  I 

"  In  the  Surgical  Ward  are  some  eight  or  ten  patients ; 
all  in  painful  diseases.  One  is  a  young  girl  dying  of  con- 
sumption, complicated  with  the  most  awful  wounds  on  her 
poor  limbs.  *  But  they  don't  hiirt  so  bad,'  she  says, '  as 
any  one  would  think  who  looked  at  them ;  and  it  will  soon 
be  all  over.  I  was  just  thinking  it  was  four  years  to-day 
since  I  was  brought  into  the  Penitentiary,  (it  was  after  an 
attempt  to  drown  herself  after  a  sad  life  at  Aldershot);  'and 
now  I  have  been  here  three  years.  God  has  been  very  good 
to  me,  and  brought  me  safe  when  I  didn't  deserve  it.'  Over 
her  head  stands  a  print  of  the  Lost  Sheep,  and  she  likes  to 
have  that  parable  read  to  her.  Very  soon  that  sweet,  fair 
young  face,  as  innocent  as  I  have  |ever  seen  in  the  world, 
will  bear  no  more  marks  of  pain.  Life's  whole  tragedy 
will  have  been  ended,  and  she  is  only  just  nineteen  I  *' 

[A  few  weeks  later,  on  Easter  Sunday  morning  when  the 
rising  sun  was  shining  into  the  curtainless  ward,  the  few 
patients  who  were  awake  saw  this  poor  girl,  who  had  not 
been  able  to  raise  herself  or  sit  upright  for  many  weeks, 
suddenly  start  forward,  sitting  straight  up  in  bed  with  her 
arms  lifted  and  an  expression  of  ecstacy  on  her  face,  and 
something  like  a  cry  of  joy  on  her  lips.  Then  she  fell  back, 
and  all  was  over.  The  incident,  which  was  in  every  way 
striking  and  affecting,  helped  me  to  recall  the  conviction 
(set  forth  in  my  Peak  in  Darim),  that  the  dying  do,  some- 
times, catch  a  glimpse  of  blessed  friends  waiting  for  them 
on  the  threshold.] 

"  A  little  way  off  lies  a  woman  dying  in  severest  sufferings 
which  have  lasted  long,  and  may  yet  last  for  weeks.  Such 
part  of  her  poor  face  as  may  be  seen  expresses  almost 
angelic  patience  and  submission,  and  thp  little  she  can  say 


BRI8T0L.^THE  SICE  IN  WORKHOUSHS.      811 

is  all  of  gratitade  to  God  and  man.  On  the  box  beside  hei 
bed  there  stands  nsoally  a  cap  with  a  few  flowers,  or  even 
leayes  or  weeds — something  to  which,  in  the  midst  of 
that  sickening  disease,  she  can  look  for  beanty.  When  we 
bring  her  flowers  her  pleasure  is  almost  too  affecting  to 
witness.  She  says  she  remembers  when  she  used  to  climb 
the  hedge  rows  to  gather  them  in  the  *■  beantifal  country.*  " 

Among  the  few  ways  open  to  us  of  relieving  the  miserieg 
of  these  sick  wards  and  of  the  parallel  ones  on  the  other  side 
occupied  by  male  sufferers,  were  the  following : — The  intro 
duction  of  a  few  easy  chairs  with  cushions  for  those  who 
could  sit  by  the  Are  in  winter,  and  whose  thinly-dothed 
frames  could  not  bear  the  benches.  Also  bed-rests, — ^long 
knitted  ones,  fastened  to  the  lower  posts  of  the  bed  and  passed 
behind  the  patient's  back,  so  as  to  form  a  kind  of  sitting 
hammock, — ^very  great  comforts  where  there  is  only  one  small 
bolster  or  pillow  and  the  patient  wants  to  sit  up  in  bed. 
Occasionally  we  gave  little  packets  of  good  tea ;  workhouse 
tea  at  that  time  being  almost  too  nauseous  to  drink 
We  also  brought  pictures  to  hang  on  the  walls.  These  we 
bought  coloured  and  cheaply  framed  or  varnished.  Theb 
effect  upon  the  old  women,  especially  pictures  of  children, 
was  startling.  One  poor  soul  who  had  been  lying  opposite 
the  same  blank  wall  for  twenty  years,  when  I  laid  one  of  tbi! 
coloured  engravings  on  her  bed  preparatory  to  hanging  it 
before  her,  actually  kissed  the  face  of  the  little  child  in  the 
picture,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Further,  we  brought  a  canary  in  a  cage  to  hang  in  the  window. 
This  seems  an  odd  gift,  but  it  was  so  successful  that  I  believe 
the  good  visitors  who  came  after  us  have  maintained  a  series 
of  canaries  ever  since  our  time.  The  common  interest  excited 
by  the  bird  brought  friendliness  and  cheerfulness  among  the 
poor  old  souls,  some  of  whom  had  kept  up  *'  a  coolness  "  for 
years  while  Hving  next  to  one  another  on  their  beds  1  The 
sleepless  ones  gloried  in  the  summer-moming-song  of  Dicky, 


812  CHAPTER   XL 

and  every  poor  visitor,  daughter  or  grand-danghter,  was  sure  to 
bring  a  handfdl  of  groundsel  to  the  general  rejoicing  of  Dicky's 
friends.  Of  course,  we  also  brought  flowers  whenever  we 
could  contrive  it;  or  a  little  summer  fruit  or  winter  apples. 

Lastly,  Books,  magazines,  and  simple  papers  of  various 
kinds ;  such  as  Household  Words,  Chambers*  Magazine^  &c. 
These  were  eagerly  borrowed  and  exchanged,  especially  among 
the  men.  Nothing  could  be  more  dreary  than  the  lives  of 
those  who  were  not  actually  su£fering  from  any  acute 
malady  but  were  paralysed  or  otherwise  disabled  from 
work.  I  remember  a  ship-steward  who  had  been  struck 
with  hemiplegia,  and  had  spent  the  savings  of  his  life 
time — no  less  than  £800, — in  fritile  efforts  at  cure.  Another 
was  a  once-smart  groom  whom  my  friend  exhorted  to  patience 
and  thankfulness.  *^  Yes,  Ma'am,"  he  replied  promptly,  ^*  I 
will  be  very  thankful, — when  I  get  out! " 

As  an  example  of  the  kind  of  way  in  which  every  sort  of 
wretchedness  drains  into  a  workhouse  and  of  what  need 
there  is  for  someone  to  watch  for  it  there,  I  may  record  how 
we  one  day  perceived  at  the  far  end  of  a  very  large  ward  a 
figure  not  at  all  of  the  normal  workhouse  stamp, — an 
unmistakeable  gentleman, — sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bed. 
With  some  diffidence  we  offered  him  the  most  recent  and 
least  childish  of  our  literature.  He  accepted  the  papers 
graciously,  and  we  learnt  from  the  Master  that  the  poor  man 
had  been  found  on  the  Downs  a  few  days  before  with  his 
throat  cut;  happily  not  irreparably.  He  had  come  from 
Australia  to  Europe  to  dispute  some  considerable  property, 
and  had  lost  both  his  lawsuit  and  the  friendship  of  all  his 
English  relatives,  and  was  starving,  and  totally  unable  to  pay 
his  passage  back  to  his  wife  and  children  at  the  Antipodes. 
We  got  up  a  little  subscription,  and  the  good  Freemasons, 
finding  him  to  be  a  Brother,  did  the  rest,  and  sent  him  home 
across  the  seas,  rejoicing,  and  with  his  throat  mended ! 


BRISTOL.— THE  SICK  IN  WORKHOUSES.      813 

But  the  cases  of  the  iiuiurable  poor  weighed  heavily  on  ns, 
and  as  we  studied  it  more,  we  came  to  see  how  exceedingly 
piteous  is  their  destiny.  We  found  that  it  is  not  an 
accidental  misfortune,  hut  a  regular  descent  down  the  well- 
worn  channels  of  Poverty,  Disease  and  Death,  for  men  and 
women  to  go  to  one  or  other  of  the  270  hospitals  for  cwrabU 
patients  which  then  existed  in  England  (there  must  he  many 
more  now),  and  after  a  longer  or  shorter  sojourn,  to  he 
pronounced  '^  incurahle,*'  destined  perhaps  to  linger  for  a 
year  or  several  years,  hut  to  die  inevitahly  from 
Consumption,  Cancer  or  some  other  of  the  dreadful  maladies 
which  afflict  human  nature.  What  then  becomes  of  them  ? 
Their  homes,  if  they  had  any  before  going  into  the  hospital, 
are  almost  sure  to  be  too  crowded  to  receive  them  back,  or 
too  poor  to  supply  them  with  both  support  and  nursing  for 
months  of  helplessness.  There  is  no  resource  for  them  but 
the  workhouse,  and  there  they  sink  down,  hopeless  and 
miserable ;  the  hospital  comforts  of  good  beds  and  furniture 
and  carefully  prepared  food  and  skilled  nurses  all  lost,  and 
only  the  hard  workhouse  bed  to  lie,  and  die  upon.  The 
burst  of  agony  with  which  many  a  poor  creature  has  told 
me :  ''  I  am  sent  here  because  I  am  incurable,"  remains  one 
of  the  saddest  of  my  memories. 

Miss  Elliot's  keen  and  practical  mind  turned  over  the 
problem  of  how  this  misery  could  be  in  some  degree 
alleviated.  There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  get  sufficient 
Hospitals  for  Incurables  opened  to  meet  the  want.  There 
were  only  two  at  that  time  in  England,  and  they  received 
(as  they  do  now)  a  rather  different  class  from  those  with 
whom  we  are  concerned;  namely,  the  deformed  and 
permanently  diseased.  At  the  lowest  rate  of  £80  a  year  it 
would  have  needed  £900,000  a  year  to  house  the  80,000 
patients  whom  we  should  have  wished  to  take  from  the 
workhouses.     The  only  possible  plan  was  to  improve  their 


814  CHAPTER   XI. 

eondiiion  in  the  workhouses ;  and  this  we  fondly  hoped  might 
be  done  (without  burdening  the  ratepayers)  by  our  plan, 
which  was  as  follows : — 

That  the  incurables  in  workhouses  should  be  avowedly 
distinguished  from  other  paupers,  and  separate  wards  be 
allowed  to  them.  That  into  those  wards  private  charity  be 
freely  admitted  and  permitted  to  introduce,  with  the  sanction 
of  the  medical  officer,  such  comforts  as  would  alleviate  the 
Bu£ferings  of  the  inmates,  e.g.,  good  spring  beds,  or  air  beds ; 
easy-chairs,  air-cushions,  small  refreshments  such  as  good 
tea  and  lemons  and  oranges  (often  an  immense  boon  to  the 
sick) ;  also  snuff,  cough  lozenges,  spectacles,  flowers  in  the 
window,  books  and  papers  ;  and,  above  all,  kindly  visitors. 

The  plan  was  approved  by  a  great  many  experienced  men 
and  women ;  and,  as  it  would  not  have  added  a  shilling  any- 
where to  the  rates,  we  were  very  hopeful  that  it  might  be 
generally  adopted.  Several  pamphlets  which  we  wrote,  "  The 
Workhouse  as  a  Hospital,**  DesHtiOe  Incurables,  and  the 
"iStc/p  in  Workhouses,*'  and  "  Eemarks  on  Incurahles,**  were 
widely  circulated.  The  newspapers  were  very  kind,  and 
leaders  or  letters  giving  us  a  helping  hand  were  inserted  in 
nearly  all,  except  the  Saturday  Review,  which  refused  even 
one  of  its  own  regular  contributors'  requests  to  introduce  the 
subject.  I  wrote  an  article  called  Workhouse  Sketches  for 
Macmillan's  Magazine,  dealing  with  the  whole  subject,  and 
begged  that  it  might  be  inserted  gratuitously.  To  my  delight 
the  editor,  Mr.  Masson,  wrote  to  me  the  following  kind  letter 
which  I  have  kept  among  my  pleasant  souvenirs  :— < 

**  23,  Henrietta  Street, 
**  Covent  (harden, 

"  February  18th,  1861. 
**  Dear  Madam, 

"  As  soon  as  possible  in  this  part  of  the  month,  when 
there  is  much  to  do  with  the  forthcoming  number,  I  have 


BBISTOL.—THE  8I0K  IN  WORKHOUSES.      815 

read  your  paper.  Having  an  almost  countless  nmnbor  of 
MSS.  in  hand,  I  greatly  feared  I  might,  though  very 
reluctantly,  he  compelled  to  return  it,  hut  the  reading  of 
it  has  so  convinced  me  of  the  great  importance  of  arousing 
interest  in  the  subject,  and  the  paper  itself  is  so  touching, 
that  I  think  I  ought,  with  whatever  difficulty,  to  find  a  place 
for  it 

"  In  any  case  accept  my  best  thanks  for  the  opportunity 
of  reading  so  admirable  and  powerful  an  experience ;  and 
allow  me  to  express  my  regret  that  I  had  not  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  you  at  Mrs.  Beid's. 

"  I  am,  dear  Madam, 

"  Tours  very  truly, 

•(David  Masson. 

**  Miss  Frances  Power  Cobbe. 

'*  Should  yon  object  to  your  name  appearing  in  connexion 
with  this  paper  ?    It  is  our  usual  practice." 

The  paper  appeared  ajid  soon  after,  to  my  equal  astonish- 
ment and  delight,  came  a  cheque  for  £14.  It  was  the  first 
money  I  had  ever  earned  and  when  I  had  cashed  the  cheque 
I  held  the  sovereigns  in  my  hand  and  tossed  them  with  a 
sense  of  pride  and  satisfEu^tion  which  the  gold  of  the  Indies, 
if  gained  by  inheritance,  would  not  have  given  me !  Naturally 
I  went  down  straight  to  St.  Peter's  and  gave  the  poor  old 
souls  such  a  tea  as  had  not  been  known  before  in  the  memory 
of  the  <' oldest  inhabitant." 

We  also  printed,  and  ourselves  directed  and  posted  circulars 
to  the  666  Unions  which  then  existed  in  England.  We 
received  a  great  many  friendly  letters  in  reply,  and  promises 
of  help  from  Guardians  in  carrying  out  our  plan.  A  certain 
nxmiber  of  Unions,  I  think  15,  actually  adopted  it  and  set  it 
going.  We  also  induced  the  Social  Science  people,  then  very 
active  and  influential,  to  take  it  up,  and  papers  on  it  were 
read  at  the  Congresses  in  Glasgow  and  Dublin ;  the  latter 


81rt  CHAPTER  XL 

by  myself.    The  Hon.  Sec.  (then  the  yonng  poetess  Isa 
Craig)  wrote  to  me  as  follows : 

"  National  Association 
**  For  the  Promotion  of  Social  Science, 

"  8,  Waterloo  Place,  Pall  Mall, 
«  28th  December,  1860. 
"  Dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

**  The  case  of  the  poor  *  incnrables '  is  troly  heartrending. 
I  cried  over  the  proof  of  yonr  paper — a  qneer  proceeding  on 
the  part  of  the  Snb-editor  of  the  Social  Science  Transactions, 
but  I  hope  an  earnest  of  the  sympathy  your  noble  appeal 
shall  meet  with  whereyer  onr  yolnme  goes,  setting  in  action 
the  ronsed  sense  of  humanity  and  jtMttM  to  remedy  such 
bitter  wrong  and  misery. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

«*  ISA  Obaio.*' 

A  weightier  testimony  was  that  of  the  late  Master  oi 
Balliol.  The  following  letters  from  him  on  the  subject  are, 
I  think,  very  characteristic  and  charming : — 

**  Coll.  de  Ball.,  Oxon. 

**  Hawhead,  near  Selkirk, 

<*  Sept.  24th. 
'*  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

**I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  sending  me  the 
extract  from  the  newspaper  which  contams  the  plan  for 
Destitute  Incurables.  I  entirely  agree  in  the  object  and 
greatly  like  the  touching  and  simple  manner  in  which  you 
have  described  it. 

**  The  only  thing  that  occurs  to  me  in  passing  is  whether 
the  system  of  outdoor  relief  to  incurables  should  not  also  be 
extended  ?  Many  would  still  require  to  be  received  into  the 
house  (I  do  not  wish  in  any  degree  to  take  away  from  the 
poor  the  obligation  to  support  their  Incurables  outdoors, 
and  it  is,  perhaps,  better  to  trust  to  the  natural  human 
pity  of  a  cottage  than  to  the  better  attendance*  warmth,  fto.. 


ARlSTOL-^tHB  BtOK  Ilf  W0RKB0U8]S8.     811 

of  a  workhonse).    Bat  I  daresay  you  are  right  in  stiddng 
to  a  simple  point. 

"All  the  world  seems  to  he  divided  into  Political 
Eoonomists,  Poor  Law  Commissioners,  Guardians,  Police- 
men, smd  Philanthropists,  Enthusiasts,  and  Christian 
Socialists.  Is  there  not  a  large  intermediate  ground  which 
anyone  who  can  write  might  occupy,  and  who  could  comhine 
a  real  knowledge  of  the  prohlems  to  he  solved  with  the 
enthusiasm  which  impels  a  person  to  devote  their  life  to 
solving  them  ? 

"  The  way  would  he  to  hide  the  philanthropy  altogether 
as  a  weakness  of  the  flesh ;  and  sensible  people  would  then 
be  willing  to  listen. 

*'  I  entirely  like  the  plan  and  wish  it  success 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  likely  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  making  the  scheme  known.  But  if  you  have  any  other 
objects  in  which  I  can  help  you  I  shall  think  it  a  great 
pleasure  to  do  so. 

"Bemember  me  most  kindly  to  the  Dean  and  his 
daughters.  I  thought  they  were  not  going  to  banish 
themselves  to  Cannes.  Wherever  they  are  I  cannot  easily 
forget  them. 

*'  I  hope  you  enjoy  Garibaldi's  success.  It  is  one  of  the 
very  few  public  events  that  seem  to  make  life  happier. 

'*  Believe  me,  with  sincere  respect, 

"  Yours  truly, 

•'B.  JOWETT." 

"  Coll.  de  Ball.,  Oxon. 
**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

*'  I  write  a  line  to  thank  you  for  the  little  pamphlet  you 
have  sent  me  which  I  read  and  like  very  much. 

*'  There  is  no  end  of  good  that  you  may  do  by  writing  in 
that  simple  and  touching  style  upon  social  questions. 

"But  don't  go  tor  war  with  PoliticcJ  Economy.  1st. 
Because  the  P.  E.'s  are  a  powerful  and  dangerous  class. 


nin  CHAPTER   XL 

2iid.  Becaase  it  is  impossible  for  ladios  and  gentlemen  lio 
fill  np  the  inberstioes  of  legislation  if  they  run  counter  to  the 
oonmion  motives  of  self-interest.  3rd.  (You  won't  agroe  to 
this)  Because  the  P.  E.'s  have  really  done  more  for  the 
labouring  classes  by  their  advocacy  of  free  trade,  &c.,  than 
all  the  Philanthropists  put  together. 

**  I  wish  that  it  were  possible  as  a  matter  of  taste  to  get 
rid  of  all  philanthropic  expressions, '  missions,  &c.,'  which 
are  distasteful  to  the  educated.  But  I  suppose  they  are 
necessary  for  the  Collection  of  Money.  And  no  doubt  as  a 
matter  of  taste  there  is  a  good  deal  that  might  be  corrected 
in  the  Political  Economists. 

'*  The  light  of  the  feelings  never  teaches  the  best  way  of 
dealing  with  the  world  en  masse  and  the  dry  light  never 
finds  its  way  to  the  heart  either  of  man  or  beast. 

**You  see  I  want  all  the  humanities  combined  with 
Political  Economy.  Perhaps,  it  may  be  replied  that  such 
a  combination  is  not  possible  in  human  nature. 

"  Excuse  my  speculations  and  believe  me  in  haste, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

B.  JOWETT." 

About  the  same  time  that  we  began  to  visit  the  Bristol  work 
house,  Miss  Louisa  Twining  bravely  undertook  a  systematic 
reform  of  the  whole  system  throughout  the  country.  It  was 
an  enormous  task,  but  she  had  great  energy,  and  a  fund  of 
good  sense;  and  with  the  support  of  Lord  Mount-Temple 
(then  Hon.  William  Gowper-Temple),  Mrs.  Tait,  and  several 
other  excellent  and  influential  persons,  she  carried  out  a 
grand  reformation  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
Her  Workhouse  Visiting  Society,  and  the  monthly  Journal 
she  edited  as  its  organ,  brought  by  degrees  good  sense  and 
good  feeling  quietly  and  unostentatiously  to  bear  on  the 
Boards  of  Guardians  and  their  officials  all  over  the  country, 
and  one  abuse  after  another  was  disclosed,  discussed, 
condemned,  and  finally,  in  most  cases  abolished.     I  went  up 


BRISTOL.-^THE  8I0K  IN   WORKHOUSES.      819 

for  a  short  visit  to  London  at  one  time  on  purpose  to  learn 
all  I  conld  from  General  Twining  (as  I  used  to  call  her),  and 
^hen  returned  to  Bristol.  I  have  been  gratified  to  read  in 
her  charming  RecoUecHons  published  last  year  (1898),  that 
in  her  well-qaalified  judgment  Miss  Elliot's  work  and  mine 
was  really  the  beginning  of  much  that  has  subsequently  been 
done  for  the  sick  and  for  workhouse  girls.     She  says : 

*'In  1861*  began  the  consideration  of  'Destitute  Incura- 
bles,' which  was  in  its  results  to  bring  forth  such  a  complete 
reform  in  the  care  of  the  sick  in  Workhouses,  or  at  least 
I  am  smrely  justified  in  considering  it  one  of  the  good  seeds 
sown,  which  bought  forth  fruit  in  due  season.  One  of  the 
first  to  press  the  claims  of  these  helpless  ones  on  the 
notice  of  the  public,  who  were,  almost  universally,  utterly 
ignorant  of  their  existence  and  their  needs,  was  Frances 
Power  Cobbe,  who  was  then  introduced  to  me ;  she  lived 
near  Bristol,  and  with  her  friend  Miss  EUiot,  also  of  that 
place,  had  long  visited  the  workhouse,  and  become 
acquainted  with  the  inmates,  helping  more  especially  the 
school  children,  and  befriending  the  girls  after  they  went 
to  service.  This  may  be  said  to  be  one  of  the  first  begin- 
nings of  all  those  efforts  now  so  largely  developed  by  more 
than  one  society  expressly  for  this  object. 

"  I  accompanied  Miss  Cobbe  to  the  St.  Giles's  Schools 
and  to  the  Strand,  West  London,  and  Holbom  Unions, 
and  to  the  Hospital  for  Incurables  at  Putney,  in  aid  of 
her  plans." — Recollections,  p.  170. 

While  our  plan  for  the  Incurables  was  still  in  progress,  I 
was  obliged  to  spend  a  winter  in  Italy  for  my  health,  and  on 
my  way  I  went  over  the  Hotel  Dieu  and  the  SalpStridre  in  Paris, 
and  several  hospitals  in  Italy,  to  learn  how  best  to  treat  this 
class  of  sufferers.  I  did  not  gain  much.  There  were  no 
arrangements  that  I  noticed  as  better  or  more  humane  than 


•  Miss  Elliot  and  I  had  began  it  a  year  sooner,  as  stated  above. 


620  CHAPTER  XL 

oar  own,  and  in  many  cases  they  seemed  to  be  worse.  In 
particular  the  proximity  of  infections  with  other  cases  in  the 
Hotel  Dien  was  a  great  evil.  I  was  examining  the  bed  of  a 
poor  victim  of  rheumatism  when,  on  looking  a  few  feet  across 
the  floor,  I  beheld  the  most  awful  case  of  smalI«pox  which 
conld  be  conceived.  Both  in  Paris,  Florence  and  the  great 
San-Spirito  Hospital  in  Rome,  the  nurses,  who  in  those  days 
all  were  Sisters  of  Charily,  seemed  to  me  very  heartless ;  proud 
of  their  tidy  cupboards  fuU  of  Unt  and  bandages,  but  very 
indifferent  to  their  patients.  Walking  a  little  in  advance  of 
one  of  them  in  Florence,  I  came  into  a  ward  where  a  poor 
woman  was  lying  in  a  bed  behind  the  door,  in  the  last 
''  agony."  A  label  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  bore  the  inscrip- 
tion ^'  Olio  Santo f^*  showing  that  her  condition  had  been 
observed — yet  there  was  no  friendly  breast  on  which 
the  poor  creature's  head  could  rest,  no  hand  to  wipe 
the  deathsweats  from  her  face.  I  called  hastily  to 
the  Nun  for  help,  but  she  replied  with  great  coolness, 
'^  Ci  vuole  del  cotone "  /  and  seemed  astonished  when 
I  used  my  own  handkerchief.  In  San-Spirito  the 
doctor  who  conducted  me,  and  who  was  personally  known 
to  me,  told  me  he  would  rather  have  our  English  pauper 
nurses  than  the  Sisters.  This,  however,  may  have  been  a 
choice  grounded  on  other  reasons  beside  humanity  to  the 
patients.  At  the  terrible  hospital  "  degli  Incurabili," 
in  the  via  de*  Greci,  Rome,  I  saw  fearful  cases  of  disease 
(cancer,  &c.),  receiving  so  little  comfort  in  the  way  of  diet 
that  the  wretched  creatures  rose  all  down  the  wards,  literally 
screaming  to  me  for  money  to  buy  food,  coffee,  and  so  on. 
I  asked  the  Sister,  "  Had  they  no  lady  visitors  ?  *'  "0  yes ; 
there  was  the  Princess  So  and  so,  and  the  Countess  So  and  so, 
saintly  ladies,  who  came  once  a  week  or  once  a  month." 
^'Then  do  they  not  provide  the  things  those  poor  souls 
want?"     "No,  Signora,  they  don't  do  that."     "Then,  in 


BRISTOL.^THE  SICK  IN  WORKHOUSES.      321 

Heaven's  name,  what  do  they  come  to  do  for  them?  "  It 
was  some  moments  before  I  could  be  made  to  understand, 
"Per  peUinarkf  Signoraf" — ^To  comb  their  hair!  The 
task  was  so  disgusting  that  the  great  ladies  came  on  purpose 
to  perform  it  as  a  work  of  merit;  for  the  good  of  their 
oum  souls! 

The  saddest  sight  which  I  ever  beheld,  however,  I  think 
was  not  in  these  Italian  hospitals  but  in  the  Salp^tri^re 
in  Paris.  As  I  was  going  round  the  wards  with  a  Sister,  I 
noticed  on  a  bed  opposite  us  a  very  handsome  woman  lying 
with  her  head  a  little  raised  and  her  marble  neck  somewhat 
exposed,  while  her  arms  lay  rigidly  on  each  side  out  of  the 
bed'clothes.  '*  Whatis  the  matter  with  that  patient?"  I  asked. 
Before  the  Nun  could  tell  me  that,  (except  in  her  head,)  she 
was  completely  paralyzed,  there  came  in  response  to  me  an 
unearthly,  inarticulate  cry  like  that  of  an  animal  in  agony ; 
and  I  understood  that  the  hapless  creature  was  trying  to  call 
me.  I  went  and  stood  over  her  and  her  eyes  burnt  into 
mine  with  the  hungry  eagerness  of  a  woman  famishing  for 
sympathy  and  comfort  in  her  awful  affliction.  She  was  a 
living  statue  ;  unable  even  to  speak,  much  less  to  move  hand 
or  foot ;  yet  still  young ;  not  over  thirty  I  should  think,  and 
likely  to  live  for  years  on  that  bed !  The  horror  of  her  fate 
and  the  piteousness  of  the  appeal  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
inarticulate  moans  and  cries,  completely  broke  me  down. 
I  poured  out  all  I  could  think  of  to  say  to  comfort  her,  of 
prayer  and  patience  and  eternal  hope ;  and  at  last  was 
releasing  her  hand  which  I  had  been  holding,  and  on  which 
my  tears  had  been  falling  fast, — when  I  felt  a  thrill  run 
down  her  poor  stiffened  arm.  It  was  the  uttermost  efforts 
she  could  make,  striving  with  all  her  might  to  return  my 
pressure. 

In  recent  years  I  have  heard  of  "  scientific  experiments  " 
conducted  by  the  late  Dr.  Charcot  and  a  coterie  of  medical 
VOL.  I.  z 


322  CHAPTER  XL 

men,  upon  the  patients  of  the  Salp6tri^re.  When  I  have 
read  of  these,  I  have  thought  of  that  paralyzed  woman  with 
dread  lest  she  might  he  yet  alive  to  suffer ;  and  with  indigna- 
tion against  the  Science  which  counts  cases  like  these 
of  uttermost  human  affliction,  ''interesting"  suhjects  for 
investigation  t 

Some  years  after  this  time,  hearing  of  the  great  ABylum 
designed  hy  Mr.  HoUoway,  I  made  an  effort  to  hring 
influence  from  many  quarters  to  hear  on  him  to  induce  him 
to  change  its  destination  at  that  early  stage,  and  make  it  the 
much-needed  Home  for  Incurahles.  Many  ladies  and 
gentlemen  whose  names  I  hoped  would  carry  weight  with 
him,  were  kindly  willing  to  write  to  him  on  the  suhject. 
Among  them  was  the  Hon.  Mi*s.  Monsell,  then  Lady 
Superior  of  Olewer.  Her  letter  to  me  on  the  suhject  was  so 
wise  that  I  have  preserved  it.  Mr.  HoUoway,  however,  was 
inezorahle.  Would  to  Heaven  that  some  other  millionaire, 
instead  of  spending  tens  of  thousands  on  Palaces  of  Delight 
and  places  of  puhlic  amusement,  would  take  to  heart  the  case 
of  those  most  wretched  of  human  heings,  the  Destitute 
Incurables,  who  are  still  sent  every  year  by  thousands  to  die 
in  the  workhouses  of  England  and  Ireland  with  scarcely  one 
of  the  comforts  which  their  miserable  condition  demands. 

«  House  of  Mercy, 

"  Clewer, 
*'  Windsor. 
*'  Madam, 

"  I  have  read  your  letter  with  much  interest,  and  have  at 
once  forwarded  it  to  Mra  Wellesley,  asking  her  to  show  it 
to  Princess  Christian,  and  also  to  speak  to  Mib.  Qladstone. 
''I  have  no  doubt  that  a  large  sum  of  money  would  be 
better  expended  on  an  Incurable  than  on  a  Convalescent 
Hospital.  It  would  be  wiser  not  to  congregate  so  many 
Convalescents.     For    Incurables^   under   good   management 


BRISTOL.— THE  SICK  IN  WORKHOUSES,      323 

and  liberal  ChriBtian  teaching,  it  would  not  signify  how 
many  were  gathered  together,  provided  the  space  were  large 
enough  for  the  work. 

*^  By  '  liberal  Christian  teaching '  I  mean,  that,  while  I 
presume  Mr.  HoUoway  would  make  it  a  Church  of 
Ijngland  Institution,  Roman  Catholics  ought  to  have  the 
comfort  of  free  access  from  their  own  teachers. 

*<An  Incurable  Hospital  without  the  religious  element 
fairly  represented,  and  the  blessing  which  Religion  brings  to 
each  individually,  would  be  a  miserable  desolation.  But 
there  should  be  the  most  entire  freedom  of  conscience 
allowed  to  each,  in  what,  if  that  great  sum  were  expended, 
must  become  a  National  Institution. 

**  I  earnestly  hope  Mr.  HoUoway  will  take  the  subject  of 
the  needs  of  Incurables  into  consideration.  In  our  own 
Hoepital,  at  St.  Andrew's,  and  St.  Raphael's,  Torquay,  we 
shrink  from  turning  out  our  dying  cases,  and  yet  it  does 
not  do  to  let  them  die  in  the  wards  with  convalescent 
patients.  Few  can  estimate  the  misery  of  the  incurable 
cases ;  and  the  expense  connected  with  the  nursing  is  so 
great,  it  is  not  easy  for  private  benevolence  to  provide 
Incurable  Hospitals  on  a  small  scale.  Besidei^  they  need 
room  for  dassification.  The  truth  is,  an  Incurable  Hospital 
is  a  far  more  difficult  machine  to  work  than  a  Convalescent ; 
and  so  the  work,  if  well  done,  would  be  far  nobler. 

''Believe  me^  Madam, 

<<  Yours  faithfully, 

"  H.  MONSELL. 

"  June  23rd,  1874." 

In  concluding  these  observations  generally  on  the  Sick  in 
Workkou968  I  should  like  to  offer  to  humane  visitors  one 
definite  result  of  my  own  experience.  ''  Do  not  imagine  that 
what  will  best  cheer  the  poor  souls  will  be  y^yuar  conversation, 
however  well  designed  to  entertain  or  instruct  them.  That 
which  will  really  brighten  their  dreaiy  lives  is,  to  be  made  to 


324  CHAPTER  XI. 

talk  themselveaf  and  to  enjoy  the  privilege  of  a  good  listener. 
Draw  them  oat  about  their  old  homes  in  Hhe  beautifnl 
country/  as  they  always  call  it;  or  in  whatever  town 
sheltered  them  in  childhood.  Ask  about  their  fathers  and 
mothers,  brothers  and  sisters,  everything  connected  with 
their  early  lives,  and  tell  them  if  possible  any  late  news 
about  the  place  and  people  connected  therewith  by  ever  so 
slight  a  thread.  But  before  all  things  make  thkm  talk; 
and  show  yourself  interested  in  what  they  say.** 


CHAPTER 


XII. 


BRISTOL. 


WORKBOUSB  OrRLS. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
WoBKHouBB  Girls,  Bbistol^ 

Besidb  the  poor  sick  and  aged  people  in  the  Workhouse, 
the  attention  of  Miss  Elliot  and  myself  was  much  drawn  to 
the  girls  who  were  sent  out  from  thenoe  to  service  on 
attaining  (about)  their  sixteenth  year.  On  all  hands,  and 
notably  from  Miss  Twining  and  from  some  excellent  Irish 
philanthropists,  we  heard  the  most  deplorable  reports  of  the 
incompetence  of  the  poor  children  to  perform  the  simplest 
duties  of  domestic  life,  and  their  consequent  dismissal  from 
one  place  after  another  till  they  ended  in  ruin.  It  was  stated 
at  the  time  (1862),  on  good  authority,  that,  on  tracing  the 
subsequent  history  of  80  girls  who  had  been  brought  up  in 
a  single  London  Workhouse,  tnery  one  was  found  to  be  on  the 
streets !  In  short  these  hapless  "  children  of  the  State,*'  as 
my  friend  Miss  Florence  Davenport  Hill  most  properly  named 
them,  seemed  at  that  time  as  if  they  were  being  trained  on 
purpose  to  fall  into  a  life  of  sin ;  having  nothing  to  keep 
them  out  of  it, — no  friends,  no  affections,  no  homes,  no 
training  for  any  kind  of  useful  labour,  no  habits  of  self- 
control  or  self-guidance. 

It  was  never  realized  by  the  men  (who,  in  those  days, 
alone  managed  our  pauper  system)  that  girls  cannot  be 
trained  en  Tnaaee  to  be  general  servants,  nurses,  cooks, 
or  anything  else.  The  strict  routine,  the  vast  half- 
furnished  wards,  the  huge  utensils  and  furnaces  of  a 
large  workhouse,  have  too  little  in  common  with  the  ways 
of  family  life  and  the  furniture  of  a  common  kitchen, 
to  furnish  any  sort  of  practising  ground  for  house- 
bold  service.     The  Beport  of  the  Boyal  Commission  on 


328  CHAPTER  XII. 

Education,  issued  about  that  time,  concluded  that  Workhouse 
Schools  leave  the  pauper  taint  on  the  children,  hut  '*  that 
District  and  separate  schools  give  an  education  to  the 
children  contained  in  them  which  effectually  tends  to 
emancipate  them  from  pauperism."  Accordinglyi  the  vast 
District  schools,  containing  each  the  children  from  many 
Unions,  was  then  in  full  blast,  and  the  girls  were  taught 
extremely  weU  to  read,  write  and  cipher ;  but  were  neither 
taught  to  cook  for  any  ordinary  household,  or  to  scour,  or 
sweep,  or  nurse,  or  serve  the  humblest  table.  What  was  far 
more  deplorable,  they  were  not,  and  could  not  be,  taught  to 
love  or  trust  any  human  being,  since  no  one  loved  or  cared  for 
them ;  or  to  exercise  even  so  much  self-control  as  should  help 
them  to  forbear  from  stealing  lumps  of  sugar  out  of  the  first 
bowl  left  in  their  way.  "But,"  we  may  be  told,  "they 
received  excellent  religious  instruction  ?  "  Let  any  one  try 
to  realize  the  idea  of  Ood  which  any  child  can  possibly  reach 
v)hx>  has  never  been  loved  ;  and  he  will  then  perhaps  rightly 
estimate  the  value  of  such  "religious  instruction"  in  a 
dreary  pauper  school.  I  have  never  quite  seen  the  force  of 
the  argument  "  If  a  man  love  not  his  neighbour  whom  he 
hath  seen,  how  shall  he  love  Qod  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?  " 
But  the  converse  is  very  clear.  "  If  a  man  hath  not  been 
beloved  by  his  neighbour  or  his  parents,  how  shall  he  believe 
in  the  Love  of  the  invisible  God  9"  Keligion  is  a  plant 
which  grows  and  flourishes  in  an  atmosphere  of  a  certain 
degree  of  warmth  and  softness,  but  not  in  the  Frozen  Zone 
of  lovelessness,  wherein  is  no  sweetness,  no  beauty,  no 
tenderness. 

How  to  prevent  the  girls  who  left  Bristol  workhouse  from 
falling  into  the  same  gulf  as  the  unhappy  ones  in  London, 
occupied  very  much  the  thoughts  of  Miss  Elliot  and  her 
sister  (afterwards  Mrs.  Montague  Blackett)  and  myself,  in 
1851  and  1860-61.  Our  friend.  Miss  Sarah  Stephen  (daughter 


WORKHOUSE  OIRLS,  BRISTOL.  329 

of  Sergeant  Stephen,  niece  of  Sir  James),  then  residing  in 
Clifton,  had  for  some  time  been  working  suooessfuliy  a 
Preventive  Mission  for  the  poorer  class  of  girls  in  Bristol ; 
with  a  good  motherly  old  woman  as  her  agent  to  look  after 
them.  This  naturally  helped  us  to  an  idea  which  developed 
itself  into  the  following  plan — 

Miss  Elliot  and  her  sister,  as  I  have  said,  resided  at  that 
time  with  their  father  at  the  old  Bristol  Deanery,  close  to 
the  Cathedral  in  College  Qreen.  This  house  was  known 
to  every  one  in  the  city,  which  was  a  great  advantage 
at  starting.  A  Sunday  afternoon  Sdiool  for  workhouse  girls 
only,  was  opened  by  the  two  kind  and  wise  sisters ;  and  soon 
frequented  by  a  happy  Uttle  dasa  The  first  step  in  each 
case  (which  eventually  fell  chiefly  to  my  share  of  the  business) 
was  to  receive  notice  from  the  Workhouse  of  the  address  of 
every  girl  when  sent  out  to  her  first  service,  and  thereupon 
to  go  at  once  and  call  on  her  new  mistress,  and  ask  her 
permission  for  the  little  servant's  attendance  at  the  Deanery 
Class.  As  Miss  Eliott  wrote  most  truly,  in  speaking  of  the 
need  of  haste  in  this  preliminary  visit — 

''There  are  few  times  in  a  girrs  life  when  kindneas  is 
more  valaed  by  her,  or  more  necessary  to  her,  than  when 
she  is  taken  from  the  shelter  and  routine  of  school  life  and 
plunged  suddenly  and  alone  into  a  new  struggling  world 
full  of  temptations  and  trials.  That  this  is  the  turning 
point  in  the  life  of  many  I  feel  confident^  and  I  think  delay 
in  beginning  friendly  intercourse  most  dangerous  ;  they,  like 
other  human  beings,  Will  seek  friends  of  some  kind.  We 
found  them  very  ready  to  take  good  ones  if  the  chance 
were  offered,  and,  as  it  seemed,  grateful  for  such  chance. 
But  good  friends  ^tiling  them,  they  will  most  assuredly 
find  bad  ones."— (TTorib^ouM  Girla.    NoUs  by  M.  Ellioty  p.  7.) 

As  a  rule  the  mistresses,  who  were  all  of  the  humbler  sort 
and  of  course  persons  of  good  reputation,  seemed  to  welcome 


330  CHAPTER  XIL 

my  rather  intrusive  visit  and  questions,  which  were,  of 
course,  made  with  every  possible  courtesy.  A  little  by-play 
about  the  insufficient  outfit  given  by  the  Workhouse,  and  an 
offer  of  small  additional  adornments  for  Sundays,  was 
generally  well  received ;  and  the  happy  fact  of  having  such 
an  ostensibly  and  unmistakeably  respectable  address  for  the 
Sunday  school,  secured  many  assents  which  might  otherwise 
have  been  denied.  The  mistresses  were  generally  in  a  state  of 
chronic  vexation  at  their  little  servants'  stupidity  and  incom- 
petence ;  and  on  this  head  I  could  produce  great  effect  by 
inveighing  against  the  useless  Workhouse  education.  There 
was  often  difficulty  in  getting  leave  of  absence  for  the  girls 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  but  with  the  patience  and  good  humour 
of  the  teachers  (who  gave  their  lessons  to  as  many  or  as  few 
as  came  to  them),  there  was  always  something  of  a  class,  and 
the  poor  girls  themselves  were  most  eager  to  lose  no  chance 
of  attending. 

A  little  reading  of  Pilgrim*a  Progress  and  other  good 
books:  more  explanations  and  talk;  much  hymn  singing 
and  repeating  of  hymns  learned  during  the  week;  and 
a  penny  banking  account, — such  were  some  of  the 
devices  of  the  kind  teachers  to  reach  the  hearts  of 
their  little  pupils.  And  very  effectually  they  did  so,  as 
the  30  letters  which  they  wrote  between  them  to  Miss  Elliot 
when  she,  or  they,  left  Bristol,  amply  testified.  Here  is  one 
of  these  epistles ;  surely  a  model  of  prudence  and  candour  on 
the  occasion  of  the  approaching  marriage  of  the  writer !  The 
back-handed  compliment  to  the  looks  of  her  betrothed  is 
specially  delightful. 

^'Ton  pointed  out  one  thing  in  your  kind  letter,  that  to 
be  sure  that  the  young  man  was  steady.  I  have  been  with 
him  now  two  years,  and  I  hope  I  know  his  failings ;  and  I 
can  say  I  have  never  known  any  one  so  steady  and  trast- 
worthy  as  he  is.    I  might  have  bettered  myself  as  regards 


WORKHOUSE  GIRLS,  BRISTOL.  331 

the  ontside  looks ;  but,  dear  Madam,  I  think  of  the  future, 
aud  what  my  home  would  be  theu  ;  and  perhaps  if  I  married 
a  gay  man,  I  should  always  be  unhappy.  But  John  has  a 
kind  heart,  and  all  he  thinks  of  is  to  make  others  happy ; 
and  I  hope  I  shall  never  have  a  cause  to  regret  my  choioe, 
and  I  will  try  and  do  my  best  to  do  my  duty,  so  that  one 
day  you  may  see  me  comfortable.  Dear  Madam,  I  cannot 
thank  you  enough  for  your  kindness  to  me.*' 

The  whole  experiment  was  marvellously  successful.  Nearly 
all  the  poor  children  seemed  to  have  been  improved  in  various 
ways  as  well  as  certainly  made  happier  by  their  Sundays  at 
the  Deanery,  and  not  one  of  them,  I  believe,  turned  out  ill 
afterwards  or  fell  into  any  serious  trouble.  Many  of  them 
married  respectably.  In  short  it  proved  to  be  a  good  plan, 
which  we  have  had  no  hesitation  in  recommending  ever  since. 
Eventually  it  was  taken  up  by  humane  ladies  in  London,  and 
there  it  slowly  developed  into  the  now  imposing  society  with 
the  long  name  (commonly  abbreviated  into  M.A.B.Y.S.)  the 
MebropcliUm  Association  for  Befriending  Young  Servants, 
Two  or  three  years  ago  when  I  attended  and  spoke  at  the 
annual  meeting  of  this  lai*ge  body,  with  the  Lord  Mayor  of 
London  in  the  chair  and  a  Bishop  to  address  us,  it  seemed 
very  astonishing  and  delightful  to  Miss  Elliot  and  me  that 
our  small  beginnings  of  thirty  years  before  should  have 
swelled  to  such  an  assembly  I 

My  experience  of  the  wrongs  and  perils  of  young  servant 
girls,  acquired  during  my  work  <u  Whipper-in  to  the 
Deanery  class,  remains  a  painful  memory,  and  supplies  strong 
arguments  in  favour  of  extending  some  such  protection  to 
such  girls  generally.  Some  cases  of  oppression  and 
injustice  on  the  part  of  mistresses  (themselves,  no 
doubt^  poor  and  over-strained,  and  not  unnaturally 
exasperated  by  their  poor "  little  slave's  incompetence) 
were  very  crueL     I  heard  of  ope  case  which  had  occurred 


332  CHAPTER  XIL 

just  before  we  began  our  work,  wherein  the  girl  had  been 
left  in  charge  of  a  small  shop.  A  man  came  in  out  of  the 
street,  and  seeing  only  this  helpless  child  of  fifteen  behind  the 
counter,  laid  hands  on  something  (worth  sixpence  as  it 
proved)  and  walked  off  with  it  without  payment.  When  the 
mistress  returned  the  girl  told  her  what  had  happened, 
whereupon  she  and  her  husband  stormed  and  scolded ;  and 
eventually  twmed  the  girl  oiU  of  the  house  /  This  was  at 
nine  o'clock  at  night,  in  one  of  the  lowest  parts  of  Bristol, 
and  the  unhappy  girl  had  not  a  shilling  in  her  possession. 
A  murder  would  scarcely  have  been  more  wicked. 

Sometimes  the  mistresses  sent  their  servants  away  without 
paying  them  any  wages  at  all,  making  up  their  accounts  in 
a  style  like  this :  **  I  owe  you  five  and  sixpence ;  but  you 
broke  my  teapot,  which  was  worth  three  shillings ;  and  you 
burnt  a  tablecover  worth  two,  and  broke  two  plates  and  a 
saucer,  and  lost  a  spoon,  and  I  gave  you  an  old  pair  of  boots, 
worth  at  least  eighteen-pence,  so  you  owe  me  half-a-crown ; 
and  if  you  don't  go  away  quietly  I'll  call  the  police  and  give 
you  in  charge!"  The  mere  name  of  the  police  would 
inevitably  terrify  the  poor  little  drudge  into  submission  to 
her  oppressor.  That  the  law  could  ever  defend  and  not 
punish  her  would  be  quite  outside  her  comprehension. 

The  wretched  holes  under  stairs,  or  in  cellars,  or  garrets, 
where  these  girls  were  made  to  sleeps  were  often  most 
unhealthy ;  and  their  exposure  to  cold,  with  only  the  thin 
workhouse  cotton  frock,  leaving  arms  and  neck  bare,  was 
cruel  in  winter.  One  day  I  had  an  example  of  this,  not 
easily  to  be  forgotten.  I  had  just  received  notice  that  a  girl 
of  sixteen  had  been  sent  from  the  workhouse  (Bristol  or 
Clifton,  I  forget  which)  to  a  place  in  St.  Philip's,  at  the  far 
end  of  Bristol.  It  was  a  snowy  day  but  I  walked  to  the 
place  with  the  same  odd  conviction  over  me  of  which  I  have 
spoken,  that  I  was  bound  to  ^o  at  once.    When  I  ireache4 


WORKHOUSE  GIRLS,  BRISTOL,  3S3 

the  house,  I  found  it  was  one  a  little  above  the  usual  class 
for  workhouse-girl  servants  and  had  an  area.  The  snow 
was  falling  fast,  and  as  I  knocked  I  looked  down  into  the 
area  and  saw  a  girl  in  her  cotton  dress  standing  out  at  a 
wash-tub; — head,  neck  and  arms  all  bare,  and  the  snow 
falling  on  them  with  the  bitter  wind  eddying  through 
the  area.  Presently  the  door  was  opened  and  there 
stood  the  girl,  in  such  a  condition  of  bronchitis  as  I 
hardly  ever  saw  in  my  life.  When  the  mistress  appeared 
I  told  her  civilly  that  I  was  very  sorry,  but  that 
the  girl  was  in  mortal  danger  of  inflammation  of  the 
lungs  and  mtist  be  put  to  bed  immediately.  ''O,  that 
was  entirely  out  of  the  question.''  "But  it  rrvast  be 
done,*'  I  said.  Eventually  after  much  angry  altercation,  the 
woman  consented  to  my  fetching  a  fly,  putting  the  girl  into 
it,  driving  with  her  to  the  Infirmary  (for  which  I  had  always 
tickets)  and  leaving  her  there  in  charge  of  a  friendly  doctor. 
Next  day  when  I  called  to  enquire,  he  told  me  she  could 
scarcely  have  lived  after  another  hour  of  exposure,  and  that 
she  could  recover  only  by  the  most  stringent  and  immediate 
treatment.  It  was  another  instance  of  the  vei'ification  of 
my  superstition. 

Of  course  we  tried  to  draw  attention  generally  to  the  need 
for  some  supervision  of  the  poor  Workhouse  girls  throughout 
the  country.  I  wrote  and  read  at  a  Social  Science  Congress 
a  paper  on  '' FrimdUsa  Oirla and  How  to Hdp  them" giving 
a  full  account  of  Miss  Stephen's  admirable  Preventive  Mie- 
eion;  and  this  I  had  reason  to  hope,  aroused  some  interest. 
Several  years  later  Miss  Elliot  wrote  a  charming  little  book 
with  full  details  about  her  girls  and  their  letters ;  "  Work- 
houae  GirU ;  Notes  of  am,  attempt  to  help  them^  published 
by  Nisbet.  Also  we  managed  to  get  numerous  articles 
and  letters  into  newspapers  touching  on  Workhouse 
abuses  and  needs  generally.      Miss  Elliot  having  many 


334  CHAPTER  XTT. 

influential  friends  was  able  to  do  a  gi*eat  deal  in  the 
way  of  getting  our  ideas  put  before  the  public.  I  used  to 
write  my  papers  after  coming  home  in  the  evening  and  often 
late  into  the  night.  Sometimes,  when  I  was  very  anxious 
that  something  should  go  off  by  the  early  morning  mail, 
I  got  out  of  the  side  window  of  my  sitting-room  at  two  or 
three  o'clock  and  walked  the  half-mile  to  the  solitaiy  post- 
office  near  the  Black  Boy  (Pillar  poets  were  undreamed  of 
in  those  days),  and  then  climbed  in  at  the  window  again, 
to  sleep  soundly ! 

Some  years  afterwards  I  wrote  in  Fraaar's  Magazine  and 
later  again  republished  in  my  Studies :  Ethical  and  Social,  a 
somewhat  elaborate  article  on  the  Philoeophy  of  the  Poor  Laws 
as  I  had  come  to  understand  it  after  my  experience  at  Bristol. 
This  paper  was  so  fortunate  as  to  fall  in  the  way  of  an 
Australian  philanthropic  gentleman,  President  of  a  Koyal 
Commission  to  enquire  into  the  question  of  Pauper  legislation 
in  New  South  Wales.  He,  (Mr.  Windeyer,)  approved  of 
several  of  my  suggestions  and  recommended  them  in  the 
Report  of  his  Commission,  and  eventually  procured  their 
embodiment  in  the  laws  of  the  Colony. 

The  following  is  one  of  several  letters  which  I  recdved 
from  him  on  the  subject. 

<<  Ohambers, 
**  Sydney, 

<' June  6th,  1874. 
"  My  Dear  Madam, 

"  Though  personally  unknown  to  you  I  take  the  Uberiy  as 
a  warm  admirer  of  your  writings,  to  which  I  owe  so  much 
both  of  intellectual  entertainment  and  profoundest  spiritual 
comfort,  to  send  you  herewith  a  copy  of  a  Report  upon  the 
Public  Charities  of  New  South  Wales,  brought  up  by  a 
Royal  Commission  of  which  I  was  the  President.  I  may 
add  that  the  document  was  written  l^  me ;  and  that  my 


brother  CommiBsioners  did  me  the  honour  of  adopting  it 
without  any  alteration.  As  the  views  to  which  I  have 
endeavoured  to  give  expression  have  been  so  eloquently 
advocated  by  you,  I  have  ventured  to  hope  that  my  attempt 
to  give  practical  expression  to  them  in  this  Colony  may  not 
be  without  interest  to  you,  as  the  first  effort  made  in  this 
young  country  to  promulgate  sounder  and  more  philosophic 
views  as  to  the  training  of  pauper  children. 

'*  In  your  large  heart  the  feeling  Homo  mm  will,  I  think, 
make  room  for  some  kindly  sympathy  with  those  who,  far 
off,  in  a  small  provincial  way,  try  to  rouse  the  attention 
and  direct  the  energies  of  men  for  the  benefit  of  their  kind, 
and  if  any  good  comes  of  this  bit  of  work,  I  should  like 
you  to  know  how  much  I  have  been  sustained  amidst  much 
of  the  opposition  which  all  new  ideas  encounter,  by  the 
convictions  which  you  have  so  materially  aided  in  building 
up  and  confirming.  If  you  care  to  look  further  into  our 
inquiry  I  shall  be  sending  a  copy  of  the  evidence  to  the 
Misses  Hill,  whose  acquaintance  I  had  the  great  pleasure 
of  making  on  their  visit  to  this  country,  and  they  doubt- 
less would  show  it  to  you  if  caring  to  see  it,  but  I  have  not 
presumed  to  bore  you  with  anything  further  than  the 
Report, 

^'  Believe  me,  your  faithful  servant, 

**  Will.  0.  Windbybb.*' 

I  have  since  learned  with  great  pleasure  from  an  official 
Beport  sent  from  Australia  to  a  Congress  held  during  the 
World's  Fair  of  1893  at  Chicago,  that  the  arrangement  has 
been  found  perfectly  successful,  and  has  been  permanently 
adopted  in  the  Colony. 

While  earnestly  advocating  some  such  friendly  care  and 
guardianship  of  these  Workhouse  Girls  as  I  have  described,  I 
would  nevertheless  enter  here  my  serious  protest  against  the 
excessive  lengths  to  which  one  Society  in  particular — devoted 
to  the  welfare  of  the  humbler  class  of  girls  generally — has 


336  CHAPTER  XIL 

gone  of  late  years  in  the  matter  of  incessant  pleasure-parties 
for  them.     I  do  not  think  that  encouragement  to  (what  is  to 
them)  dissipation,  conduces  to  their  real  welfare  or  happiness. 
It  is  always  only  too  easy  for  all  of  us  to  remove  the  centre 
of  our  interest  from  the  Btmnesa  of  life  to  its  Pleasures,    The 
moment  this  is  done,  whether  in  the  case  of  poor  persons  or 
rich,  Duty  becomes  a  weariness.    Success  in  our  proper  work 
is  no  longer  an  object  of  ambition,  and  the  hours  necessarily 
occupied  by  it  are  grudged  and  curtailed.    Amusement  usurps 
the  foreground,  instead  of  being  kept  in  the  background,  of 
thought.     This  is  the  kind  of  moral  dialoccUion  which  is  even 
now  destroying,  in  the  higher  ranks,  much  of  the  duty  •loving 
character  bequeathed  to  our  Anglo-Saxon  race  by  our  Puritan 
fathers.  Ladiesand  gentlemen  do  not  indeed  now  ''live  to  eat " 
like  the  old  epicures,  but  they  live  to  shoot,  to  hunt,  to 
play  tennis  or  golf ;  to  give  and  attend  parties  of  one  sort  or 
another ;  and  the  result,  I  think,  is  to  a  great  degree  trace- 
able in  the  prevailing  Pessimism.     But  bad  as  excessive 
Pleasure-seeking  and  Duty-neglecting  is  for  those  who  are 
not  compelled  to  earn  their  bread,  it  is  absolutely  fatal  to 
those  who  must  needs  do  so.     The  temptations  which  lie  in 
the  way  of  a  young  servant  who  has  acquired  a  distaste  for 
honest  work  and  a  passion  for  pleasure,  require  no  words  of 
mine  to  set  forth  in  their  terrible  colours.     Even  too  much 
and  too  exciting  reading,  and  endless  letter-writing  may 
render  wholesome  toil  obnoxious.      A  good  maid  I  once 
possessed  simply  observed  to  me  (on  hearing  that  a  friend's 
servant  had  read  twenty  volumes  in  a  fortnight  and  neglected 
meanwhile  to  mend  her  mistress's  clothes),  *'  I  never  knew 
anyone  who  was  so  fond  of  books  who  did  not  hate  her 
work  /  "    It  is  surely  no  kindness  to  train  people  to  hate  the 
means  by  which  they  can  honourably  support  themselves, 
and  which  might,  in  itself,  be  interesting  and  pleasant  to 
them.     But  incessant  tea-parties  and  concerts  and  excursions 


wr  \yjLtfjj>.jj.\^  \jKj.t^     \ji  Mj.t,juiKj^ 


'M.V^W/  ■*■  \^J^m  «#v  ■ 


ar^  much  more  calculated  to  distract  and  dissipate  the  minds 
of  girls  than  even  the  most  exciting  story  books,  and  the 
good  folks  who  would  be  shocked  to  supply  them  with 
an  unintermittent  series  of  novels,  do  not  see  the  mischief  of 
encouraging  the  perpetual  entertainments  now  in  vogue  all 
over  the  country.  Let  us  make  the  girls,  first  safe  ;  then  as 
hctppy  as  we  can.  But  it  is  an  error  to  imagine  that  over- 
indulgence in  dissipation, — even  in  the  shape  of  the  most 
respectable  tea-parties  and  excursions, — is  the  way  to  make 
them  either  safe  or  happy. 

The  following  is  an  account  which  Miss  Florence  D.  Hill 
has  kindly  written  for  me,  of  the  details  of  her  own  work  on 
behalf  of  pauper  children  which  dovetailed  with  ours  for 
Workhouse  girls : — 

«  March  27th,  1894. 

"I  well  remember  the  deep  interest  with  which  I  learnt 
from  your  own  lips  the  simple  but  effective  plan  by  which 
you  and  Miss  Elliot  and  her  sister  befriended  the  elder 
girls  from  Bristol  Workhouse,  and  heard  you  read  your 
paper,  ^FHevidless  Girls,  and  How  to  Help  Them*  at  the 
meeting  of  the  British  Association  in  Dublin  in  1861. 
Gradually  another  benevolent  scheme  was  coming  into 
effect,  which  not  only  bestows  friends  but  a  home  and 
&mily  affections  on  the  forlorn  pauper  child,  taking  it  in 
hand  from  infancy.  The  reference  in  your  ^Philosophy  of 
the  Poor  Laws*  to  Mr.  Greig's  Beport  on  Boarding-out  as 
pursued  for  many  years  at  Edinburgh,  caused  my  cousin, 
Miss  Clark,  to  make  the  experiment  in  South  Australia, 
which  has  developed  into  a  noble  system  for  dealing  under 
natural  conditions  with  all  destitute  and  erring  children 
in  the  great  Ck)lonieB  of  the  South  Seas.  Meanwhile,  at 
home  the  evidence  of  success  attained  by  Mrs.  Archer  in 
Wiltshire  and  her  disciples  elsewhere,  and  by  other 
independent  workers,  in  placing  orphan  and  deserted 
children  in  the  care  of   foster  parents,  enabled   the   late 

VOL.   I.  Y 


/ 


/  338  CHAPTER  Xtl 

Dr.  Goodeve,  ex-^fficio  Guardian  for  Clifton,  to  obtain  the 
adoption  of  the  plan  by  his  Board  ;  his  wife  becoming 
President  of  one  of  the  very  first  Committees  formed  to 
find  suitable  homes  and  supervise  the  children. 


After  my  efforts  above  detailed  on  behalf  of  the  little 
Giri-tbieveSy  the  Kagged  street  boys,  the  Incurables  and 
other  Sick  in  Workhouses,  and  finally  for  Befriending  young 
Servants,  there  was  another  undertaking  in  which  both 
Miss  Elliot  and  I  took  great  interest  for  some  years  after  we 
had  ceased  to  live  at  Bristol.  This  was  the  Housing  of  the 
poor  in  large  Cities. 

Among  the  many  excellent  citizens  who  then  and  always 
have  done  honour  to  Bristol,  there  was  a  Town  Councillor, 
Mr.  T.  Territ  Taylor,  a  jeweller,  carrying  on  his  business  in 
College  Green.  At  a  time  when  a  bad  fever  seemed  to  have 
become  endemic  in  the  district  of  St.  Jude's,  this  gentleman 
told  us  that  in  his  opinion  it  would  never  be  banished  till 
some  fresh  legislation  were  obtained  for  the  ixmipvlsory 
destruction  of  insanitary  dwellings,  such  as  abounded  in 
that  quarter.  We  wondered  whether  it  would  be  possible 
to  interest  some  influential  M.P.'s  among  our  acquaintances 
in  Mr.  Taylor's  views,  and  after  many  delays  and  much 
consultation  with  them,  I  wrote  an  article  in  Fraser's 
Magazine  for  February,  1866,  in  which  I  was  able  to  print 
a  full  sketch  by  Mr.  Taylor  of  his  matured  project,  and  to 
give  the  reasons  which  appeared  to  us  to  make  such 
legislation  as  he  advocated  exceedingly  desirable.    I  said : — 

"The  supply  of  lodgings  for  the  indigent  classes  in  the 
great  towns  has  long  failed  to  eqnal  the  demand.  Each 
year  the  case  becomes  worse,  as  population  increases,  and 
no  tendency  arises  for  capital  to  be  invested  in  meeting  the 
want.    .    .    •    • 


WORKHOUSE  GIRLS,  BRISTOL.  339 

*^  But,  it  is  asked,  why  does  not  capital  oome  in  here,  as 
everywhere  else,  and  supply  a  want  as  soon  as  it  exists? 
The  reason  is  simple.  Property  in  onr  poor  lodgings  is  very 
undesirable  for  large  capitalists.  It  can  be  made  to  pay  a 
high  interest  only  on  three  conditions : — 1st,  That  the 
laboar  of  collecting  the  rents  (which  is  always  excessive) 
shall  not  be  dedacted  from  the  returns  by  agents;  2nd, 
That  very  little  mercy  shall  be  shown  to  tenants  in 
distress ;  3rd,  That  small  expense  be  incurred  in  attempting 
to  keep  in  repair,  paint,  or  otherwise  refresh  the  houses, 
which,  being  inhabited  by  the  roughest  of  the  conununity, 
require  double  outlay  to  preserve  in  anything  better  than  a 
squalid  and  rack-rent  condition. 

**  Convinced  long  ago  of  this  fact,  philanthropists  have 
for  years  attempted  to  mitigate  the  evil  by  building,  in 
London  and  other  great  towns,  model  lodging-houses  for 
the  Working  Classes,  and  after  loug  remaining  a  doubtful 
experiment,  a  success  has  been  achieved  in  the  case  of 
Mr.  Peabody's,  Alderman  Waterlow's,  and  perhaps  some 
others.  But  as  regards  the  two  great  objects  we  are  con- 
sidering,— the  elevation  of  the  Indigent,  and  the  prevention 
of  pestilence, — these  schemes  only  point  the  way  to  an 
enterprise  too  large  for  any  private  funds.  All  the  existing 
model  lodging-houses  not  only  fix  their  rents  above  the 
means  of  the  Indigent  class,  but  actually  make  it  a  rule 
not  to  admit  the  persons  of  whom  the  class  chiefly  consists 
— namely,  those  who  get  their  living  upon  the  streets.  Thus, 
for  the  elevation  of  the  Indigent  and  the  purifying  of 
those  cesspools  of  wretchedness^  wherein  cholera  and  fever 
have  their  source,  these  model  lodging-houses  are  even 
professedly  unavailing." — Beprinted  in  Hours  of  Work  atid 
Play^  pp.  46,  47. 

Mr.  Thomas  Hare  had,  shortly  before,  set  forth  in  the 
Times  a  startlingly  magnificent  scheme  whereby  a  great 
Board  should  raise  money,  partly  from  the  Bates,  to  build 
splendid  rows  of  workmen's  lodging-houses,  of  which  the 


340  CHAPTER  XIL 

workmen  would  eventually,  in  this  ingenious  plan  become 
freeholders.  Mr.  Taylor's  plan  was  much  more  modest,  and 
involved  in  fact  only  one  principal  point,  the  grant  of 
compulsory  powers  to  purchase,  indispensable  where  the 
refusal  of  one  landlord  might  invalidate,  for  sanitary 
purposes,  the  purification  of  a  district  j  and  the  greed  of  the 
class  would  inevitably  render  the  proposed  renovation 
preposterously  costly.  Mr.  Taylor's  Scheme,  as  drawn  up 
by  himself  and  placed  in  our  hands,  was  briefly  as  follows: — 

''An  Act  of  Parliament  must  be  obtained  to  enable  Town 
Oonncils  and  Local  Boards  of  Health  (or  other  Boards,  as 
may  hereafter  be  thought  best)  to  purchase,  under  com- 
pulsory powers,  the  property  in  overcrowded  and  pestilential 
districts  within  their  jurisdiction,  and  build  thereon  suitable 
dwellings  for  the  labouring  classea 

<<The  usual  powers  must  be  given  to  borrow  money  o( 
the  Government  at  a  low  rate  of  interest,  on  condition  of 
repayment  within  a  specifled  time,  say  from  15  to  20  years, 
as  in  the  ease  of  the  County  Lunatic  Asylums." 

Miss  EUiot  and  I  having  shown  this  sketch  to  our  friends, 
a  Bill  was  drawn  up  embodying  it  with  some  additions; 
^^  For  the  improvemerU  of  the  Dwellings  of  the  Working 
Clcbssea"  and  was  presented  to  Parliament  by  Mr.  McCullagh 
Torrens  and  my  cousin  John  Locke,  in  1867.  But  though 
both  the  Governments  of  Lord  Derby  and  of  Lord  Russell 
the  latter  of  whom  Miss  Elliot  had  interested  personally  in 
the  matter)  were  favourable  to  the  Bill,  it  was  not  passed 
till  the  following  Session  ;  when  it  became  law  (with 
(considerable  modifications);  as  31,  32  Vict.,  Cap.  cxxx., 
^  An  Act  to  provide  better  dweUings  for  Artisans  arid 
Labourers,"  31st  July,  1868, 


CHAPTER 


XIII. 


BRISTOL. 


FBIBNSa. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

Fbiends   in   Bristou 

What  ia  Chcmce  ?  How  often  does  that  question  recur  in 
the  course  of  every  history,  small  or  great  ?  My  whole  course 
of  life  was  deflected  by  the  mishap  of  stepping  a  little  awry 
out  of  a  train  at  Bath,  and  miscalculating  the  height  of  the 
platform,  which  is  there  unusually  low.  I  had  gone  to  spend 
a  day  with  a  friend,  and  on  my  way  back  to  Bristol  I  thus 
sprained  my  ankle.  I  was  at  that  time  forty  years  of  age  (a 
date  I  now  alas !  regard  as  quite  the  prime  of  life  1),  and  in 
splendid  health  and  spirits,  fully  intending  to  continue  for  the 
rest  of  my  days  labouring  on  the  same  lines  as  prospects  of 
usefulness  might  open.  I  remember  feeling  the  delight  of 
walking  over  the  springy  sward  of  the  Downs  and  laughing 
as  I  said  to  myself  "  I  do  believe  I  could  walk  down  anybody 
and  perhaps  talk  down  anybody  too  1 "  The  next  week  I 
was  a  poor  cripple  on  crutches,  never  to  take  a  step  without 
them  for  four  long  years,  during  which  period  I  grew  prac- 
tically into  an  old  woman,  and  (unhappily  for  me)  into  a  very 
large  and  heavy  one  for  want  of  the  exercise  to  which  I  had 
been  accustomed.  The  morning  after  my  mishap,  finding  my 
ankle  much  swollen  and  being  in  a  great  hurry  to  go  on  with 
my  work,  I  sent  for  one  of  the  principal  surgeons  in  Bristol, 
who  bound  the  limb  so  tightly  that  the  circulation  (always 
rather  feeble)  was  impeded,  and  every  sort  of  distressful  con- 
dition supervened.  Of  course  the  surgeon  threw  the  blame 
on  me  for  attempting  to  use  the  leg ;  but  it  was  very  little  I 
cotdd  do  in  this  way  even  if  I  had  tried,  without  excessive 
pain ;  and,  after  a  few  weeks,  I  went  to  London  in  the  full 
confidence  that  I  had  only  to  bespeak  **  the  best  advice  "  to 


344  CHAPTER  XIIL 

be  speedily  cured.  I  did  get  what  all  the  world  would  still 
consider  the  "  best  advice ; "  but  bad  was  that  best.  Guineas 
I  could  ill  spare  ran  away  like  water  while  the  great  surgeon 
came  and  went,  doing  me  no  good  at  all ;  the  evil  condi- 
tions growing  worse  daily.  I  returned  back  from  London 
and  spent  some  wretched  months  at  Clifton.  An  artery,  I 
believe,  was  stopped,  and  there  was  danger  of  inflammation 
of  the  joint.  At  last  with  infinite  regret  I  gave  up  the  hope 
of  ever  recovering  such  activity  as  would  permit  me  to  carry 
on  my  work  either  in  the  schools  or  workhouse.  No  one  who 
has  not  known  the  miseries  of  lameness,  the  perpetual  con- 
tention with  ignoble  difficulties  which  it  involves,  can  judge 
how  hard  a  trial  it  is  to  an  active  mind  to  become  a  cripple. 
Still  believing  in  my  simplicity  that  great  surgeons  might 
remedy  every  evil,  I  went  again  to  London  to  consult  the 
most  eminent,  and  by  the  mistake  of  a  friend,  it  chanced  that 
I  summoned  two  very  great  personages  on  the  same  day, 
though,  fortunately,  at  different  hours.  The  case  was,  of 
course,  of  the  simplest;  but  the  two  gentlemen  gave  me 
precisely  opposite  advice.  One  sent  me  abroad  to  certain 
baths,  which  proved  to  be  the  wrong  ones  for  my  trouble, 
and  gave  me  a  letter  to  his  friend  there,  a  certain  Baron. 
The  moment  the  Baron-Doctor  saw  my  foot  he  exclaimed 
that  it  ought  never  to  have  been  allowed  to  get  into  the  state 
of  swollen  Veins  and  arrested  circulation  in  which  he  found 
it ;  astringents  and  all  sorts  of  measures  ought  to  have  been 
applied.  In  truth  I  was  in  a  most  miserable  condition,  for  I 
could  not  drop  the  limb  for  two  minutes  without  the  blood 
running  into  it  till  it  became  like  an  ink-bottle,  when,  if  I 
held  it  up,  it  became  as  white  as  if  dead.  And  all  this  had  been 
getting  worse  and  worse  while  I  was  consulting  ten  doctors 
in  succession,  and  chiefly  the  most  eminent  in  England !  The 
Baron-Doctor  first  told  me  that  the  waters  waidd  bring  out 
the  gout,  and  then,  when  I  objected,  assured  me  they  should 


FRIENDS  IN  BRISTOL.  346 

not  bring  it  out ;  after  which  I  relinquished  the  privilege  of 
his  visits  and  he  charged  me  for  an  entire  course  of 
treatment. 

The  eecoTul  great  London  surgeon  told  me  not  to  go 
abroad,  but  to  have  a  gutta-percha  boot  made  for  my  leg  to 
keep  it  stiff.  I  had  the  boot  made,  (with  much  distresBand 
expense),  took  it  abroad  in  my  trunk,  and  asked  the 
suooessorof  the  Baron-Doctor  (who  could  make  the  watersgive 
the  gout  or  not  as  he  pleaded),  ''  Whether  he  advised  me  to 
wear  the  wonderful  machine?"  The  good  old  Frenchman, 
who  was  also  Mayor  of  his  town,  and  who  did  me  more  good 
than  anybody  else,  replied  cautiously, "  If  you  wish,  Madame, 
to  be  lame  for  life  you  will  wear  that  boot.  A  great  many 
English  come  to  us  here  to  be  unstiffened  after  having  had 
their  joints  stiffened  by  English  surgeons'  devices  of  this  sort, 
but  we  can  do  nothing  for  them.  A  joint  once  thoroughly  stiff 
can  never  be  restored."  It  may  be  guessed  that  the  expensive 
boot  was  quietly  deposited  on  the  nearest  heap  of  rubbish. 

After  that  experience!  tried  the  baths  in  Savoy  and  othersin 
Italy.  But  my  lameness  seemed  permanent.  A  great  Italian 
Doctor  could  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  put  a  few  walnut- 
leaves  on  my  ankle — a  process  which  might  perhaps  have 
effected  something  in  fifty  years  t  Only  the  good  and  great 
N^laton,  whom  I  consulted  in  Paris,  told  me  he  believed  I 
should  reoover  some  time ;  but  he  ootdd  not  tell  me  anything 
to  do  to  hasten  the  event.  Returned  to  London  I  sent  for 
Sir  William  Fergusson,  and  that  honest  man  on  hearing  my 
story  said  simply :  '*  And  if  you  had  gone  to  nobody  and  not 
bandaged  your  ankle,  but  merely  bathed  it,  you  would  have 
been  well  in  three  weeks."  Thus  I  learned  from  the  best 
authority,  that  I  had  paid  for  the  folly  of  consulting  an 
eminent  surgeon  for  a  common  sprain,  by  four  years  of 
miserable  helplessness  and  by  the  breaking  up  of  my  whole 
plan  of  life. 


I  must  conclude  this  dismal  record  by  one  lost  trait  of 
medical  character.  I  had  determined,  after  seeing  Ferguaflon, 
to  consult  no  other  doctor ;  indeed  I  could  ill  afford  to  do  so. 
But  a  friend  conveyed  to  me  a  message  from  a  London 
BUi^eon  of  repute  (since  dead)  that  he  vould  like  to  be  allowed 
to  treat  me  gratuitously ;  having  felt  much  interest  in  my 
books.  I  was  simple  enough  to  fall  into  the  trap  and  to  feel 
grateful  for  his  offer  :  and  I  paid  him  several  visits,  during 
which  he  chatted  pleasantly,  and  once  did  some  trifling  thing 
to  relieve  my  foot.  One  day  I  wrote  and  asked  him  kindly  to 
advise  me  by  letter  about  some  directions  he  had  given  me ; 
whereupon  he  answered  tartly  that  be  "  could  not  correspond ; 
and  that  I  must  always  attend  at  his  house."  The  suspicion 
dawned  on  me,  and  soon  reached  conviction,  that  what  be 
wanted  was  not  so  much  to  cure  nu,  as  to  swell  the  scanty 
show  of  patients  in  his  waiting-room  I  Of  course  after  this, 
I  speedily  retreated  ;  offering  many  thanks  and  some  smalt, 
and  as  I  hoped,  acceptable  souvenir  with  inscription  tolieon 
bis  table.     But  when  I  thought  this  had  concluded   my 

relations  with  Mr. ,  I  found  I  had  reckoned  without  my 

— doctor  I  One  after  another  he  wrote  to  me  three  or  four 
peremptory  notes  requesting  me  to  send  him  introductions 
for  himself  or  his  family,  to  influental  friends  of  mine  rather 


FRIENDS  IN  BRISTOL.  347 

friends  (mostly  llDitarians)  were  very  kind  to  me,  and  that 
though  I  did  not  go  out  to  any  sort  of  entertainment  while 
I  lived  with  her,  it  was  not  for  lack  of  hospitable  invitations. 
The  family  next  to  that  of  the  Dean  with  which  I  became 
closely  acquainted  and  to  which  I  owed  most,  was  tbat  of 
Matthew  Davenport  Hill,  the  Beoorder  of  Birmingham, 
whose  labours  (summed  up  in  his  own  Repression  of  Crime  and 
in  his  Biography  by  his  daughters)  did  more,  I  believe,  than 
those  of  any  other  philanthropist  beside  Mary  Carpenter,  to 
improve  the  treatment  of  both  adult  and  juvenile  crime  in 
England.  I  am  not  competent  to  offer  judgment  on  the  many 
questions  of  jurisprudence  with  which  he  dealt,  but  I  can 
well  testify  to  the  exceeding  goodness  of  his  large  heart,  the 
massivenees  of  his  grasp  of  his  subjects,  and  (never-to-be- 
forgotten)  his  most  delightful  humour.  He  was  a  man  who 
from  unlucky  chances  never  attained  a  position  commensurate 
with  his  abilities  and  his  worth,  but  who  was  beloved  and 
admired  in  no  ordinary  degree  by  all  who  came  near  him. 
His  family  of  sons  and  daughters  formed  a  centre  of  usefulness 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bristol  as  they  have  since  done  in 
London,  where  Miss  Hill  is,  I  believe,  now  the  senior  member 
of  the  School  Board,  while  her  sister,  Miss  Florence  Daven- 
port Hill,  has  been  equally  active  as  a  Poor  Law  Guardian, 
and  most  especially  as  the  promoter  of  the  great  and  far- 
reachingreforminthe  management  of  pauper  orphans,  known 
as  the  system  of  Boarding  Out,  of  which  I  have  spoken  in  the 
last  chapter.  I  must  not  indulge  myself  by  writing  at  too 
great  length  of  such  friends,  but  will  insert  here  a  few  notes  I 
made  of  Beoorder  HilFs  wonderfully  interesting  conversation 
during  a  Christmas  visit  I  paid  to  him  at  Heath  House. 

'*Dec.  26th.  I  spent  yesterday  and  last  night  with  my 
kind  friends  the  Hills  at  Heath  House.  In  the  evening  I 
drew  out  the  Recorder  to  speak  of  questions  of  evidence, 
and   he   told  me  many  remarkable  anecdotes  in  his  own 


348  CHAPTER  XIIL 

practice  at  the  Bar,  of  doubtful  identity,  &c.  On  one 
occasion  a  case  was  tried  three  times;  and  he  observed 
how  the  certainty  of  the  witnesses,  the  eleamess  of 
details,  and  unhesitating  asseveration  of  facts  which 
at  first  had  been  doubtfully  stated,  grew  in  each  trial 
He  said  '  the  most  dangerous  of  all  witnesses  are 
those  who  konesUy  give  false  witness — a  most  namerons 
class.' 

"To-day  he  invited  me  to  walk  with  him  on  his  terrace 
and  up  and  down  the  approach.  The  snow  lay  thick  on 
the  grass,  but  the  sun  shone  bright,  and  I  walked  for  more 
than  an  hour  and  a-half  beside  the  dear  old  man.  Se  told 
me  how  he  had  by  degrees  learned  to  distrust  aU  ideas  of 
Retribution,  and  to  believe  in  the  '  aggressive  power  of  love 
and  kindness,'  (a  phrase  Lady  Byron  had  liked)  ;  and  how  at 
last  it  struck  him  that  all  this  was  in  the  new  Testament ; 
and  that  few,  except  religious  Christians,  ever  aided  the 
great  causes  of  philanthropy.  I  said,  it  was  quite  true, 
Christ  had  revealed  that  religion  of  love;  and  that  there 
were  unhappily  very  few  who,  having  inteUeotually  doubted 
the  Christian  creed,  pressed  on  further  to  any  clear  or 
fervent  religion  beyond ;  but  that  without  religion,  «.«.,  love 
of  God,  I  hardly  believed  it  possible  to  work  for  man.  He 
said  he  had  known  nearly  all  the  eminent  men  of  his  time 
in  every  line,  and  had  somehow  got  close  to  them,  and  had 
never  found  one  of  them  really  believe  Christianity.  I  said, 
*  No  ;  no  strong  intellect  of  our  day  could  do  so,  altogether ; 
but  that  I  thought  it  was  faithless  in  us  to  doubt  that  if  we 
pushed  bravely  on  to  whatever  seemed  truth  we  should 
there  find  all  the  more  reason  to  love  Qod  and  man,  and 
never  lose  any  real  good  of  Christianity.'  He  agreed,  but 
said,  'You  are  a  watchmaker,  I  am  a  weaver;  this  is  your 
work,  I  have  a  different  one, — and  I  cannot  afford  to  part 
with  the  Evangelicals,  who  are  my  best  helpers.  Thus 
though  I  wholly  disagree  with  them  about  Sunday  I  never 
publish  my  difference.'  I  said  I  felt  the  great  danger  of 
pushing  uneducated  people  beyond  the  bounds  of  an 
authoritative  creed,  and  for  my  own  part  would  think  it 


FRIENDS  W  BRISTOL.  349 

safest  that  Jowett*8  views  should  prevail  for  a  generation, 
preparatory  to  Theism. 

**Then  we  spoke  of  Immortality,  and  he  expressed 
himself  nobly  on  the  thought  that  all  oar  differences  of  rich 
and  poor,  wise  or  ignorant,  are  lost  in  comparison  of  that 
one  fact  of  onr  common  Immortality.  As  he  said,  he  felt 
that  waiting  a  moment  jostled  in  a  crowd  at  a  railway 
station,  was  a  larger  point  in  comparison  of  his  whole  life 
than  this  life  is,  to  the  future.  We  joined  in  condemning 
Emerson  and  George  Eliot's  ideas  of  the  'little  value' 
of  ordinary  souls.  Hia  burst  of  indignation  at  her  phrase 
'  QuaTio  races  of  men '  was  very  fine.  He  said,  talking  of 
Reformatories,  'A  century  hence, — in  1960, — some  people 
will  walk  this  terrace  and  talk  of  the  great  improvement 
of  the  new  asylums  where  hopeless  criminals  and  vicious 
persons  will  be  permanently  consigned.  They  will  not  be 
formally  condemned  for  life,  but  we  shall  all  know  that 
they  will  never  fulfil  the  conditions  of  their  release.  They 
will  not  be  made  unhappy,  but  forced  to  work  and  kept 
under  strong  control ;  the  happiest  state  for  them.' " 

Here  is  a  very  flattering  letter  from  Mr.  Hill  written  a  few 
years  later,  on  receipt  of  a  copy  of  my  Italics : — 

**  The  Hawthorns, 

<*Edgbaston,  Birmingham, 

«  25th  Oct.,  1864. 
^My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

**  Although  I  am  kept  out  of  court  to-day  at  the  instance 
of  my  physician,  who  threatens  me  with  bronchitis  if  I  do 
not  keep  house,  yet  it  has  been  a  day  not  devoid  of  much 
enjoyment.  Tour  charming  book  which,  alas^  I  have  nearly 
finished,  is  carrying  me  through  it  only  too  rapidly.  What  a 
harvest  of  observation,  thought,  reading,  and  discourse  have 
you  brought  home  from  Italy  I  But  I  am  too  much  over- 
whelmed with  it  to  talk  much  about  it,  especially  in  the 
obfuscated  state  of  my  intellect  to  which  I  am  just  now 
reduced.    But  I  must  jnat  tell  you  how  I  am  amused  in 


350  CHAPTER  XltL 

midst  of  my  admiration,  with  your  hnmility  as  regards 
your  sex ;  said  humility  being  a  cloak  which,  opening  a 
little  at  one  page,  discloses  a  rich  garment  of  pride  under- 
neath (wde  page  438  towards  the  bottom).  I  say  no  more, 
only  as  I  don^t  mean  to  give  up  the  follies  of  youth  for  the 
next  eight  years,  that  is  until  I  am  eighty,  I  don't  choose 
to  be  called  'venerable.'  One  might  as  well  consent  to 
become  an  Archdeacon  at  once ! 

^Tour  portraits  are  delightful,  some  of  the  originals  I 
know,  and  the  likeness  is  good,  but  alas,  idealized  I 

'*  To  call  your  book  a  '  trifling  *  work  is  just  as  absurd  a« 
to  call  me  *  venerable.'  It  deals  nobly,  fearlessly,  and  I 
will  add  in  many  parts  profoundly^  with  the  greatest 
questions  that  can  employ  human  intellect  or  touch  the 
human  heart,  and  although  I  do  not  always  agree  with  you,  I 
always  respect  your  opinions  and  learn  from  the  arguments 
by  which  they  are  supported.  But  certainly  in  the  vast 
majority  of  instances  I  do  agree  with  you,  and  more  than 
agree,  which  is  a  cold,  unimpressive  term. 

**  Most  truly  yours, 

"M.  D.  Hill." 

**'  Heath  House,  Stapleton,  Bristol, 

"17th  August,  1871. 
*'  My  dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

**  That  is  to  say  falsest  of  woman-kind  !  Ton  have  cruelly 
jilted  me.  Florry  wrote  to  say  you  were  coming  here  #8 
you  ought  to  have  done  long  ago.  Well,  as  your  country- 
man,  Ossian,  or  his  double,  Macpherson,  says,  '  Age  is  dork 
and  unlovely,'  and  therefore  the  rival  of  the  American 
Giantess  turns  a  broad  back  upon  me.  I  must  submit 
to  my  fall    .    .    . 

'*  Though  I  take  in  the  Ecko^  I  have  not  lately  seen  any 
article  which  I  could  confidently  attribute  to  your  pen. 

"I  have,  however,  been  much  gratified  with  your  article 
on  The  Devil,  the  only  writing  I  ever  read  on  the  origin  of 
evil  which  did  not  appear  to  me  absolutely  contemptible. 
Talking  of  these  matters,  Coleridge  said  to  Thelwall  (ex 


PEItJNDS  W  BRISTOL,  361 

relatione  Thelwall),  'God  has  all  the  power  that  m,  but  there 
IB  no  power  over  a  contradiction  expressed  or  implied/ 
Your  suggestion  that  the  existence  of  evil  is  due  to 
contradiction,  is,  I  have  no  doubt,  very  just,  but  my  stupid 
head  is  this  morning  quite  unable  to  put  on  paper  what  is 
foggily  floating  in  my  mind,  and  so  I  leave  it. 

"  I  spent  a  good  part  of  yesterday  morning  in  reading  the 
Westminster  Review  of  Walt  Whitman^s  works,  which  quite 
laid  hold  of  me. 

**  Most  tmly  yours 

"M.  D.  Hill.'* 

Another  interesting  person  whom  I  first  came  to  know  at 
Bristol,  (where  he  visited  at  the  Deanery  and  at  Dr.  Symonds' 
house,)  was  the  late  Master  of  Balliol.  I  have  already  cited 
some  kind  letters  from  him  referring  to  our  plans  for 
Incurables  and  Workhouse  Girls.  I  will  be  vain  enough  to 
quote  here,  with  the  permission  of  the  friend  to  whom  they 
were  addressed,  some  of  his  remarks  about  my  IrUuitive 
Morula  and  Broken  Lights;  and  abo  his  opinion  of 
Theodore  Parker,  which  will  interest  many  readers : — 

*'  From  Rev.  Benjamin  Jowett. 

"  January  22nd,  1861. 

''I  heard  of  your  friend  Miss  Gobbe  the  other  day  at 

Fulham Pray  urge  her  to  go  on  with  her  books 

and  try  to  make  them  more  interesting.  (This  can  only  be 
done  by  throwing  more  feeling  into  them  and  adapting 
them  more  to  what  other  people  are  thinking  and  feeling 
about).  I  am  not  speaking  of  changing  her  ideas,  but  the 
mode  of  expressiug  them.  The  great  labour  of  writing  is 
adapting  what  you  say  to  others.  She  has  great  ability, 
and  there  is  something  really  fine  and  striking  in  her  views 
of  things,  so  that  it  is  worth  while  she  should  consider  the 
form  of  her  writings."    .... 

«  April  16th,  1861. 

*'  Let  me  pass  to  a  more  interesting  subject— Miss  Cobbe. 
Since  I  wrote  to  you  last  X  have  read  the  greater  part  of 


in  thinking  fall  of  interest.  It  Bhows  great  power  and 
knowledge  of  the  nibjeot,  jet  I  ahoold  fear  it  would  be 
httrdlj  intelligible  to  uiyooe  who  hftd  not  been  nonriihed 
at  some  time  of  their  lives  on  the  pbilosophj  of  Eant ; 
and  also  the  Beems  to  me  to  be  too  exolDU*e  and  antagonistio 
towards  other  ajBtemg — t.g.,  tti«  Utilitarian.  AU  Bjitems 
of  Philosophj  have  their  place  and  use,  and  lay  hold  on 
some  minds,  and  therefore  Uioagh  they  are  not  all  eqaally 
tme,  it  ia  no  tue  to  rail  at  Bentham  and  the  Utilitarian* 
after  the  manner  of  BlaclcwoocPa  Magaxine,  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, Min  Gobbe  wonld  retort  on  me  that  her  attacks  on 
the  Utilitarians  have  their  place  and  tiieii  nse  too  ;  only 
thoy  were  not  meant  for  people  who  'revel  in  Scepticiim' 
like  me  (the  Saturday  Revieie  eays,  ia  it  not  very  Irish  of 
them  to  say  bo  ?)  Fray  exhort  het  to  write  (for  it  is  really 
worth  while)  and  not  to  spend  her  money  and  time  wholly 
in  schemes  of  philanthropy.  For  a  woman  of  her  ability, 
writing  offers  a  great  field,  better  in  many  reqiects  than 
practical  life." 

"  October  10th,  1861. 
"A  day  or  two  ago  I  was  at  Clifton  and  saw  Hiss 
Cobbe,  who  might  be  truly  described  as  very  ■'jolly.' 
I  went  to  a  five  o'clock  tea  with  her  and  met  various 
people-— an  aged  pbyucian  named  Dr.  Bnbant  who 
about  thirty  yeara  ago  gave  up  bis  praotiee  to  stndy 
Hebrew  and  became  the  friend  of  German  Theologians ; 
Miss  Blagden,  whom  yon  probably  know,  an  amiable  lady 
who  has  written  a  novel  and  is  the  owner  of  a  little  white 
puppj  wearing  a  scarlet  ooat ;  Dr.  Qoodeve,  an  Indian 
Medical  OfScer ;  and  various  others."    .    .    . 

"  February  2nd,  1663. 
"Bemember  me  to  Mia  Oobbe.    I  hope  she  gains  from 
yon  sonnd  notions  on  Political  Economy.     I  shall  always 
maintain  that  Philanthropy  is  intolerable  when  not  based 
in  soond  Ideas  of  Political  Economy." 


"  The  articles  in  the  Daily  Netin  I  did  not  eae.  Were  th^ 
Min  Cobbe'B?  I  read  her  paper  in  Fnser  in  which  the 
■tory  of  the  OomiTnl  was  eitremelf  well  told."     .    .     . 

"  March  15th,  1863. 

"I  mite  to  thook  jon  for  Miss  Cobbe'a  pamphlet,  which 
I  h&ve  read  with  great  pleasnre.  I  think  her  writing  is 
alwajB  good  and  able.  I  have  never  seen  Theodore  Parker's 
works :  be  was,  I  imagine,  a  aort  of  hero  and  prophet ;  bat 
I  think  I  would  rather  have  the  Church  of  England  large 
enough  for  US  all  with  old  memories  and  feelings,  notwith- 
standing many  difficultiea  and  some  iniquities,  than  new 
systems  of  Theism."    .    .    , 

"  March  10th,  1864. 

"Uiss  Oobbe  has  also  kindly  sent  me  a  little  book 
called  Broken  LighU,  which  appears  to  me  to  be 
extremely  good.  (I  think  the  title  is  rather  a  mistake.)  I 
dare  say  that  yon  hare  read  the  book.  The  style  is 
excellent,  and  the  moderation  and  calmneaB  with  which  the 
difFereut  parties  are  treated  is  beyond  praise.  The  only 
adverse  criticism  that  I  should  Teatura  to  make  is  that  the 
latter  part  is  too  mnch  narrowed  to  Theodore  Porker's 
point  of  view,  who  was  a  great  man,  bat  too  confident,  I 
think,  that  the  world  conld  be  held  together  by  spiritual 
instincta." 

And  here  are  three  cbarming  letters  from  Mr.  Jowett  to 
me,  one  of  them  io  reply  to  a  letteir  from  me  from  Rome,  the 
others  of  a  later  date. 
"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

*'  I  write  to  thank  yon  for  the  Fraaer  which  I  received  this 
morning  and  have  read  with  great  amnsement  and  interest 
I  think  tliat  I  should  really  feel  happier  living  to  see  the 
end  of  the  Pope,  at  least  in  his  present  mode  of  existence. 

"  I  did  indeed  receive  a  most  capital  letter  from  yon  with 
a  kind  note  from  Miss  Elliot    And  '  I  do  remember  me  of 
VOL.  L  « 


Plato  (do  yon  know  the  intolerable  burden  of  writmg  a  :fot 
book  in  two  toIb.  ?)  I  pat  oQ  answering  the  letten  until  I 
was  not  qnite  certain  whether  the  kind  writers  of  them  were 
still  at  Borne.  I  thought  the  Plato  would  have  been  out  by 
this  time,  bnt  this  was  only  one  of  the  nnmerons  delaBions 
in  which  authors  indulge.  The  notes,  however,  ore  leally 
flniabed,  and  the  Essays  will  be  done  in  a  few  months.  I 
snspect  yon  can  read  Greek,  and  shall  therefore  hope  to  send 
yon  a  copy. 

"  I  was  always  inclined  to  think  well  of  the  Bomana '  from 
their  defence  of  Borne  in  184S,  and  their  greatness  and 
strength  really  does  seem  to  show  that  they  mean  to  be  the 
centre  of  a  great  nation. 

"Will  yon  give  my  very  kind  regards  to  the  Elliots?  I 
should  write  to  them  if  I  knew  exactly  where  :  I  hear  that 
the  Dean  is  transformed  into  a  worshipper  of  the  Virgin 
and  of  otber  pictures  of  the  Saints.* 

"  Believe  me,  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

**  Tonra  very  truly, 

"B.  JOWBTT, 

"  Bal.  Coll.,  May  19th. 

*'ColI.  deBal.,  Oxon. 
**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"I  shall  certainly  read  yonr  paper  on  Political  Economy. 
Political  Economy  seems  to  me  in  this  imperfect  world 
to  be  Hnmanity  on  •  large  scale  (tiiongh  not  the  whole  of 
humanity).  And  I  am  always  afraid  of  it  being  partially 
sopplauted  by  hmnani^  on  the  small  scale,  which  relieves 
one-mxth  of  the  poor  whom  we  see,  and  pauperizes  the 
mind  of  flve-sixthi  whom  we  don't  see. 

"  I  won't  tronble  yon  with  any  more  reflections  on  snch  an 
old  snhject.  Bemember  me  most  kindly  to  the  Dean  and  his 
danghters.  I  was  going  to  send  him  a  copy  of  the  Articles 
against  Dr.  Williams.    Bnt  upon  second  thonghts,  I  don't. 

*  tSi.  Jowett  referred  to  Dean  Blliot's  pnicbases   of  some  flue 
oldpiotniei. 


FRIENDS  IN  BRISTOL.  355 

It  is  such  an  nngraciouB,  nnsavoniy  matter.  I  hope  that 
he  won't  give  np  the  Prolocntorship,  or  that,  if  he  does, 
he  will  state  boldly  his  reasons  for  doing  so.  It  is  tme 
that  neither  he  nor  anyone  can  do  much  good  there.  Bnt 
the  mere  fact  of  a  great  position  in  the  Ghnrch  of  England 
being  held  by  a  liberal  clergyman  is  of  great  importance. 

"  I  should  have  much  liked  to  go  to  Rome  this 
winter.  Bnt  I  am  so  entangled,  first,  with  Plato, 
and,  second,  with  the  necessity  of  getting  rid  of 
Plato  and  writing  something  on  Theology,  that  I  do  not 
feel  justified  in  leaving  my  work.  The  vote  of  last  Tuesday 
deferring  indefinitely  the  endowment  of  my  Professorship 
makes  me  feel  that  life  is  becoming  a  serious  business  to 
me.  Not  that  I  complain ;  the  amount  of  sympathy  and 
support  which  I  have  received  has  been  enough  to  sustain 
anyone,  if  they  needed  it,  (you  should  have  seen  an 
excellent  squib  written  by  a  young  undergraduate).  But 
my  friends  are  sangpiine  in  imagining  they  wiU  succeed 
hereafter.  Next  year  it  is  true  that  they  probably  will  get 
a  small  majority  in  Congregation.  This,  however,  is  of  no 
use,  as  the  other  party  will  always  bring  up  the  country 
clergy  in  Convocation.  I  have,  therefore,  requested  Dr. 
Stanley  to  take  no  further  steps  in  the  Council  on  the 
subject ;  it  seems  to  me  undignified  to  keep  the  University 
squabbling  about  my  income. 

''Excuse  this  long  story  which  is  partly  suggested  by 
your  kind  letter.  I  hope  you  wiU  enjoy  Rome.  With 
sincere  regard, 

"  Believe  me,  yours  truly, 

"  B.  JOWETT." 

^^  Bev.  Benjamin  Jowett  to  Miss  Cobbe. 

«  Ooa  de  BaU.,  Oxon, 

"  February  24tb,  1866. 
*'  My  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

*'  I  write  to  thank  you  for  your  very  kind  note.  I  am 
much  more  pleased  at  the  rejoicings  of  my  friends  than  at 
the  result  which  has  been  so  long  delayed  as  to  be  almost 


356  CHAPTER  XIIL 

indifferent  to  me.  I  used  to  be  annoyed  at  feeling  that  I 
was  such  a  bad  example  to  young  men,  because  they  saw, 
as  they  were  intended  to  see,  that  unless  they  concealed 
their  opinions  they  would  suffer.  I  hope  they  will  have 
more  cheerful  prospects  now. 

"I  trust  that  some  day  I  shall  be  able  to  write  some- 
thing more  on  Theology.  But  the  Plato  has  proved  an 
enormous  work^  having  expanded  into  a  sort  of  translation 
of  the  whole  of  the  DiaJogues.  I  believe  this  will  be 
finished  and  printed  about  Christmas,  but  not  before. 

^I  have  been  sorry  to  hear  of  your  continued  illness. 
When  I  come  to  London  I  shall  hope  to  look  in  upon  you  in 
Hereford  Sqnar& 

''  In  haste,  believe  me, 

"  Tours  very  truly, 

"  B.  JOWETT." 

<'I  read  a  book  of  Theodore  Parker's  the  other  day — 
*  Discourses  on  Beligion.'  He  was  a  friend  of  yours,  I 
believe  ?  I  admire  his  character — a  sort  of  religious  Titan. 
But  I  thought  his  philosophy  seemed  to  rest  too  much  on 
instincts." 

How  much  Mr.  Jowett  had  to  bear  from  the  animosity  of 
his  orthodox  contemporaries  in  the  Sixties  at  Oxford  was 
illustrated  by  the  following  incident.  I  was,  one  day  about 
this  time,  showing  his  photograph  to  a  lady,  when  her  son,  late 
from  Oxford,  came  into  the  room  with  a  dog  at  his  heels. 
Seeing  the  photograph,  he  remarked,  *'  Ah,  yes !  very  like. 
This  dog  pinned  him  in  quod  one  day,  and  was  made  so  much 

of  afterwards !  The  Dean  of especially  invited  him  "  (the 

dog)  "  to  lunch.  Jowett  complained  of  me,  and  I  had  to  send 
all  my  dogs  out  of  Oxford  !  " 

The  following  is  a  Note  which  I  made  of  two  of  his  visits 
to  me  on  Durdham  Down : 

"  Two  visits  from  Mr.  Jowett,  who  each  time  drank  tea 
with  me.    He  said  he  felt  writing  to  be  a  great  labour  ;  but 


FRIENDS  IN  BRISTOL.  357 

regularly  wrote  one  page  every  day.  The  liberal, 
benevolent  way  he  spoke  of  all  creeds  was  deUghtfnl.  In 
particular  he  spoke  of  the  temptation  to  Pantheism  and 
praised  Hegel,  whom,  he  said,  he  had  studied  deeply. 
Advising  me  kindly  to  go  on  writing  books,  he  maintained 
against  me  the  vast  power  of  books  in  the  world." 


Mr.  Jowett  was,  of  course,  at  all  times  a  most  interesting 
personality,  and  one  whose  intercourse  was  delightful  and 
highly  exciting  to  the  intellect.  But  his  excessive  shyness, 
combined  with  his  faculty  for  sa3dng  exceedingly  sharp 
things,  must  have  precluded,  I  should  think,  much  ease  of 
conversation  between  him  and  the  majority  of  his  friends. 
As  usually  happens  in  the  case  of  shy  people,  he  exhibited 
rather  less  of  the  characteristic  with  an  acquaintance  like 
myself  who  was  never  shy  (my  mother^s  training  saved  me 
from  that  affliction !)  and  who  was  not  at  all  afraid  of  him. 

In  later  years  Mr.  Jowett  obtained  for  me  (in  1876)  the 
signatures  of  the  Heads  of  every  College  in  Oxford  to  a 
Petition  which  I  had  myself  written,  to  the  House  of  Lords 
in  favour  of  Lord  Carnarvon's  original  BUI  for  the  restriction 
of  Vivisection.  At  a  later  date  the  Master  of  Balliol  declined 
tosupport  me  further  in  the  agitation  for  the  prohibition  of  the 
practice ;  referring  me  to  the  assurances  of  a  certain  eminent 
Boanerges  of  Science  as  guarantee  for  the  necessity  of  the 
practice  and  the  humanity  of  vivisectors.  It  is  very  surprising 
to  me  how  good  and  strong  men,  who  would  disdain  to  accept 
a  religious  principle  or  dogma  from  pope  or  Council,  will  take 
a  moral  one  without  hesitation  from  any  doctor  or  professor 
of  science  who  may  lay  down  the  law  for  them,  and  present 
the  facts  so  as  to  make  the  scale  turn  his  way.  Where  would 
Protestant  divines  be,  if  they  squared  their  theologies  with 
all  the  historical  statements  and  legends  of  Romanism  ?  If 
wo  construct  our  ethical  judgments  upon  the  statements  and 


358  CHAPTER  XIIL 

representations  of  persons  interested  in  maintaining  a  practice, 
what  chance  is  there  that  they  should  be  sound  ? 

I  find,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  (dated  May,  1868)  thefoUowing 
souvenir  of  a  sermon  by  Mr.  Jowett,  delivered  in  a  church 
near  Soho : — 

"  We  went  to  that  sermon  on  Sunday.  It  was  really  very 
fine  and  very  bold  ;  much  better  than  the  report  in  the 

Pall  Mali  Gazette  made  it.    Mr.  Albert  D was  there, 

but  few  else  who  looked  as  if  they  could  understand  him. 
He  has  a  good  voice  and  delivery,  and  the  "cherubic" 
countenance  and  appealing  eyes  suit  the  pulpit ;  but  he  looks 
at  one  as  I  never  knew  any  preacher  do.  We  sat  close  to 
him,  and  it  was  as  if  we  were  in  a  drawing-room.  M.  says 
that  all  the  first  part  was  taken  from  my  Broken  Lights ; 
that  is, — ^it  was  a  sketch  of  existing  opinions  on  the  same 
plan.    It  was  good  when  he  said  : 

"  The  High  church  watchword  is  :  The  Church ;  always  and 
ever  the  same. 

"  The  Low  church  watchword  is :  The  Bible  only  the  Beligion 
of  Protestants. 

"  The  party  of  Knowledge  has  for  its  principle :  *  The 
Truth  ever  and  always^  and  wherever  it  he  found* 

"He  gave  each  their  share  of  praise  and  blame,  saying: 
'  the  fault  of  the  last  party '  (his  own,  of  course)  was — that 
'sometimes  in  the  pursuit  of  Knowledge  they  forgot 
Goodness.^ " 

I  heard  him  preach  more  than  onoe  afterwards  in  the 
same  gloomy  old  church.  His  aspect  in  his  surplice  was 
exceedingly  quaint.  His  face,  even  in  old  age,  was  like  that 
of  an  innocent,  round-faced  child;  and  his  shorty  slender 
figure,  wrapped  in  the  long  white  garment,  irresistibly 
suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  "  an  elderly  cherub  prepared  for 
bed  "  1  Altogether,  taking  into  account  his  entire  career,  the 
Master  of  Balliol  was  an  unique  figure  in  English  life,  whom 
J  much  rejoice  to  have  known ;  a  modem  Melchisedek, 


FRIENDS  IN  BRISTOL.  369 

Here  is  another  memorandum  about  the  same  date, 
respecting  another  eminent  man,  interesting  in  another 
way: — 

''Sept.  25th,  1860.  A  pleasant  evening  at  Canon 
Guthrie's.  Introduced  to  old  Lord  Lansdowne ;  a  gentle, 
courteous  old  man  with  deep-set,  &ded  grey  eyes,  and  heavy 
eyebrows  ;  a  blue  coat  and  brass  buUons  I  In  the  course  of 
the  evening  I  was  carrying  on  war  in  a  comer  of  the  room 

against  the  Dean  of  Bristol,  Mr.  0 and  Margaret  Elliot, 

about  Toryism.  I  argued  that  if  Justice  to  aU  were  the 
chief  end  of  Government,  the  power  should  be  lodged  in 
the  hands  of  the  class  who  best  understood  Justice  ;  and  that 
the  consequence  of  the  opposite  course  was  manifest  in 
America,  where  the  freest  government  which  had  ever 
existed,  supported  also  the  most  gigantic  of  all  wrongs — 
Slavery.  On  this  Countess  Rothkirch  who  sat  by,  clapped 
her  hands  with  joy  ;  and  the  Dean  came  down  on  me  saying, 
*That  if  power  should  only  be  given  to  those  who  would 
use  it  justly,  then  the  Tories  should  never  have  any  power 
at  all ;  for  they  never  used  it  justly.'  Hearing  the  laughter 
at  my  discomfiture.  Lord  Lansdowne  toddled  across  the 
room  and  sat  down  beside  me  saying  : '  What  is  it  all  about  ? ' 
I  cried :  *  Oh  Lord  Lansdowne  1  you  are  the  very  person  in 
the  whole  world  to  help  me — lam  defending  Tory  principles*  ! 
He  laughed  heartily,  and  said  '  I  am  afraid  I  can  hardly  do 
that.*  'Oh,  yes,*  I  said,  'you  may  be  converted  at  the 
eleventh  hour  I  *  '  Don't  you  know,'  he  said,  '  what  a 
child  asked  her  mother :  "  Are  Tories  bom  wicked,  mother, 
or  do  they  only  become  so  ?  " '  Margaret  said  this  was  really 
asked  by  a  cousin  of  her  own,  one  of  the  Adam  family.  It 
ended  in  much  laughter  and  talking  about  '  Transformation,* 
and  the  ^Semi-attached  Couple* — which  Lord  Lansdowne 
said  he  was  just  reading.  'I  like  novels  very  much,'  he 
said,  'only  I  take  a  little  time  between  each  of  them.' 
When  I  got  up  to  go  away  the  kind  old  man  rose  in  the  most 
courtly  way  to  shake  hands,  and  paid  me  a  little  old-world 
compliment." 


xuis  was  me  eioqnent  etawemau  ana  patron  ot  iiMrature, 
Henry,  third  MarquiB  of  Lansdowne,  in  whose  time  his  house, 
(Bowood,)  was  the  reeort  of  the  finest  intellectual  aociety  of 
Bngland.  I  have  a  droll  letter  in  my  poaeesssion  referring 
to  this  Bowood  society,  by  Sydney  Smith,  written  to  Mrs. 
Eemble,  then  Mrs.  Butler,  It  has  come  to  me  with  all  her 
othw  papers  and  with  seveD  letters  from  I^ord  Lansdowne 
preBsing  her  to  pay  him  vi^ts.  Sydney  Smith  wiitee  on  his 
iavitation  to  her  to  come  to  Combe  Fleury ;  after  minute 
directions  about  the  route : — 

"  The  interval  between  breakfast  and  dinner  brings  you 
to  Combe  Fleuiy.  We  are  the  next  stage  (to  Bowood). 
Lord  Lansdowne's  guests  commonly  oome  here  dilated  atid 
dUordtTtd  with  high  living." 

In  another  letter  conveying  a  similar  invitation  he  says, 
with  his  usual  hittemess  and  injustice  as  regards  America  : 

''  Be  brave  my  dear  lady.  Hoiit  the  American  flag. 
Barbarise  your  manners.  IHgfyntax  your  language.  Fling 
a  thick  mantle  over  your  lively  spirits,  and  become  the 
fast  of  American  women.  You  will  always  remain  a  bright 
vision  in  my  recollection.  Do  Dot  forget  me.  Call  me 
Butler's  Hudibras.  Any  appellation  provided  I  am  not 
forgotten." 

Amongtheresideatsin  Clifton  and  at  Stoke  Bishopover  the 
Downs  I  had  many  kind  friends,  some  of  whom  helped  me 
essentially  in  my  work  by  placing  tickets  for  hospitals  and 
motley  in  my  hands  for  the  poor.  Oneof  thesewhom  I  specially 
recall  with  gratitude  was  that  ever  xealoas  moral  reformer, 
Mrs.  Woolcott  Browne,  who  is  still  working  bravely  with  her 
daughter  for  many  good  canses  in  London.  I  must  not 
write  here  without  permission  of  the  many  others  whose 
names  have  not  come  before  the  public,  but  whose  affectionate 
consideration  made  my  life  vecv  pleasant,  and  whom  I  ever 


FRIENDS  IN  BRISTOL.  361 

remember  with  tender  regard.  Of  one  excellent  couple  I  may 
venture  to  speak, — Dr.  and  Mrs.  Gk)odeve  of  Cook's  FoUy. 
Mrs.  Goodeve  herself  told  me  their  singular  and  beautiful 
story,  and  since  she  and  her  husband  are  now  both  dead,  I 
think  I  may  allow  myself  to  repeat  it. 

Dr.  Goodeve  was  a  young  medical  man  who  had  just 
married,  and  was  going  out  to  seek  his  fortune  in  India, 
having  no  prospects  in  England.  As  part  of  their  honeymoon 
holiday  the  young  couple  went  to  visit  Cook's  Folly;  then  a 
small,  half -ruinous,  castellated  building,  standing  in  a  spot  of 
extraordinary  beauty  over  the  Avon,  looking  down  the  Bristol 
Channel.  As  they  were  descending  the  turret-stair  and 
taking,  as  they  thought,  a  last  look  on  the  loveliness  of 
England,  the  young  wife  perceived  that  her  husband's  head 
was  bent  down  in  deep  depression.  She  laid  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  whispered  ''Never  mind,  Harry  ?  You  shall 
make  a  fortune  in  India  and  we  will  come  back  and  buy 
Cook's  Folly." 

They  went  to  Calcutta  and  were  there  most  kindly  received 
by  a  gentleman  named  Hurry,  who  edited  a  newspaper  and 
whose  own  history  had  been  strange  and  tragic.  Started  in 
his  profession  by  his  interest.  Dr.  Goodeve  soon  fell  into 
good  practice,  and  by  degrees  became  a  very  successful 
physician,  the  founder  (I  believe)  of  the  existing  Medical 
College  of  Calcutta.  Groing  on  a  shooting  party,  his  face  was 
most  terribly  shattered  by  a  chance  shot  which  threatened 
to  prove  mortal,  but  Mrs.  Goodeve,  without  help  or 
appliances,  alone  with  him  in  a  tent  in  a  wild  district,  pulled 
him  back  to  life.  At  last  they  returned  to  England,  wealthy 
and  respected  by  all,  and  bringing  a  splendid  collection 
of  Indian  furniture  and  cwrios.  The  very  week  they 
landed.  Cook's  Folly  was  advertised  to  be  sold!  They 
remembered  it  well, — went  to  see  it, — bought  it — and 
rebuilded  it;  making  it  a  most  charming  and  beautiful 


nooBO.  A  peeolian^  of  its  etrnetnre  as  runodelled 
by  them  was,  that  there  was  an  entire  suite  of  rooioB, — 
a  large  libnuy  overlooking  the  river  Avon,  bedroom,  bath- 
room and  servant's  room, — all  capable  of  being  shut  off  from 
the  rest  of  the  hoose,  by  double  doors,  so  that  the  oc«npani 
might  ba  qoite  nndiBtorbed.  When  everythmg  was  finished, 
and  splendidly  famished,  tiie  Goodeves  wrote  to  Ur.  Hurry  : 
"  It  is  time  for  you  to  give  ap  yoor  paper  and  come  home. 
Ton  acted  a  father's  part  to  ns  'when  we  went  ont  first  to  India. 
Now  come  to  ns,  and  live  as  with  your  son  and  daughter." 

Mr.  Hurry  accepted  the  invitation  and  foond  waiting  for 
him  and  his  Indian  servant  the  beantifal  soite  of  rooms  built 
for  him,  and  the  tenderest  welcome.  I  saw  him  often  seated 
by  their  fire-side  just  as  a  father  might  have  been.  When 
the  time  came  for  him  to  die,  Mrs.  Ooodere  nursed  him 
with  such  devoted  care,  and  strmned  herself  so  much  in 
liiling  and  helping  him,  that  her  own  health  was  irretrievably 
injured,  and  she  died  not  long  aflerwards. 


I  could  write  more  of  Bristol  and  Clifton  friends,  high  and 
low,  but  mnst  draw  this  chapter  of  my  life  to  a  close.  I 
went  to  Bristol  an  ntter  stranger,  knowing  no  human  bemg 
there.  I  left  it  after  a  few  years  all  peopled,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  with  kind  aonla  ;  and  without  one  single  remembrance  of 
anything  else  but  kindness  received  there  either  from  genUe 
or  simple. 


CHAPTER 


XIV. 


ITALY.    1857—1879. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
Italy.    1867—1879. 

I  vuuTSD  Italy  six  times  between  the  above  dates.  The 
reader  need  not  be  wearied  by  reminiscences  of  snch  familiar 
joumeyings,  which,  in  my  case,  were  always  made  quickly 
through  France,  (a  country  which  I  intensely  dislike)  and 
extended  pretty  evenly  over  the  most  beautiful  cities  of 
Italy.  I  spent  several  seasons  in  Home  and  Florence,  and  a 
winter  in  Pisa ;  and  I  visited  once,  twice  or  three  times,  Venice, 
Bologna,  Naples,  Perugia,  Assist,  Verona,  Padua,  Genoa, 
Milan  and  Turin.  The  only  interest  which  these  wanderings 
can  daim  belongs  to  the  people  with  whom  they  brought  me 
into  contact,  and  these  include  a  somewhat  remarkable  list : 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning,  Mrs.  Somerville,  Theodore  Parker, 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  Massimo  d*  Azeglio,  John  Gibson, 
Charlotte  Cushmaa,  Count  Guide  Usedom,  Adolphus 
TroUope  and  his  first  wife,  Mr.  W.  W.  Story,  and  Mrs. 
Beecher  Stowe.  Of  many  of  these  I  gave  slight  sketches  in 
my  book.  Italics ;  and  must  refer  to  them  very  briefly  here. 
That  book,  I  may  mention,  was  written  principally  at  Villa 
(hiecco,  a  beautiful  villa  at  Nervi  on  the  Riviera  di  Levante, 
then  rented  by  my  kind  friend  Count  Usedom,  the  Plrussian 
Ambassador  and  his  English  wife.  Count  Guido  Usedom, — 
now  alas  I  gone  over  to  the  majority, — ^was  an  extremely 
cultivated  man,  who  had  been  at  one  time  Secretary  to 
Bunsen's  Embassy  in  Rome.  He  was  so  good  as  to  under- 
take what  I  may  call  my  (Italian)  Political  Education; 
instructing  me  not  only  of  the  facts  o  recent  history,  but  of 
the  dessotu  des  cartes  of  each  event  as  they  were  known  to  the 
initiated.    He  placed  all  his  despatches  for  many  years  in 


and  even  taught  me  Uie  oryptognqihB  then  in  diplomatic  nee. 
His  own  lett«rs  to  hia  King,  the  late  Emperor  Wilhelm  I-, 
were  lively  and  delightful  sketches  of  Italian  affitira ;  for,  as 
he  said,  he  bad  discovered  that  to  indnce  the  King  to  read 
them  they  must  be  both  amusing  and  beanljfnlly  tranBcribed. 
From  him  and  the  Prefects  and  other  inflnential  men  who 
came  to  visit  him  at  Villa  Gnecoo,  I  gained  some  views  of 
politioB  not  perhaps  nnworthy  of  record. 

One  day  I  asked  him,  "  Whether  it  were  exactiy  tme  that 
Cavoor  had  told  a  distinct  falsehood  in  the  Chambara  about 
Garibaldi's  isvasion  of  Naples  ?  "  Coont  TJsedom  rephed, 
"'Ho  did;  and  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  statesman  in  Europe 
who  wonld  not  have  done  the  same  when  a  kingdom  was  in 
question."  He  obvioasly  tlion^t,  (scmpnlonaly  couscientione 
as  ho  was  himself)  that,  to  diplomatists  in  general  and  their 
sovereigns,  the  laws  of  moraUty  and  honour  were  like  ladiee' 
braeeletfi,  highly  ornamental  and  to  be  worn  habitoally,  bat 
to  be  slipped  off  when  any  serious  work  was  to  be  done  which 
required  free  hands.  He  said  :  "  People  (especially  women) 
often  asked  me  is  such  a  King  a  good  man  ?  Is  Napoleon  IH. 
a  good  vutnf  This  is  nonsense.  They  are  all  good  men, 
in  HO  far  that  they  will  not  do  a  crnel,  or  treacherons,  or 
unjust  thing  Kithoui  strong  reOMotu  for  it.  That  would  be  not 
only  a  crime  but  a  blunder.  But  when  great  dynastic 
interests  are  concerned,  Eings  and  Emperors  and  their 
ministers  are  neither  guided  by  moral  considerations  or 
deterred  from  following  their  interests  because  a  life,  or 
many  Uves,  stand  in  the  way."  He  addaced  Napoleon  III.'b 
Coup  d'itat  as  an  example.  Napoleon  was  not  a  man  to 
indulge  in  any  cruel  or  vindictive  sentiment ;  but  neither  was 
he  one  to  forego  a  step  needed  for  his  policy. 

The  year  following  these  stndies  undw  Count  TJsedom  I 
was  living  in  London,  and  met  Mazzini  one  evening  by  special 


irdLT.    1857—1879.  367 

invitation  alone  at  the  house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Stansfeld 
(I  speak  of  Mr.  Stansfeld's  first  wife,  sister  of  Madame 
Yentnri).  After  dinner  onr  hosts  left  ns  alone,  and  Mazzini, 
whom  I  had  often  met  before  and  who  was  always  very  good 
to  me,  asked  me  if  I  wonld  listen  to  his  version  of  the  recent 
history  of  Italy,  since  he  thonght  I  had  been  much  misin- 
formed on  the  snlject  ?  Of  course  I  conld  only  express  my 
sense  of  the  honour  he  did  me  by  the  proposal ;  and  then, 
somewhat  to  my  amazement  and  amusement,  Mazzini 
descended  from  his  armchair,  seated  himself  opposite  me 
cross-legged  on  the  magnificent  white  rug  before  Mrs. 
Stansfeld's  blazing  fire,  and  proceeded  to  pour  out, — I  believe 
for  quite  two  hours, — the  entire  story  of  all  that  went  before 
and  after  the  siege  of  Bome,  his  Triumvirate,  and  the  subse- 
quent risings,  plots  and  battles.  If  any  one  could  have  taken 
down  that  wonderful  story  in  shorthand  it  would  possess 
immense  value,  and  I  regret  profoundly  that  I  did  not  at 
least  attempt,  when  I  went  home,  to  write  my  recollections 
of  it.  But  I  was  merely  ^bewildered.  Each  event  which 
Mazzini  named, — sittmg  so  coolly  there  on  the  rug  at  my 
feet: — ''I  sent  an  army  here,  I  ordered  a  rising  there," 
appeared  under  an  aspect  so  entirely  different  from  that 
which  it  bad  bome  as  represented  to  me  by  my  political 
friends  in  Italy,  that  I  was  continually  mystified,  and 
asked :  **•  But  Signor  Mazzini,  are  you  talking  of  such  and 
such  an  event  ?  " — "  Ma  «i,  Signora  " — and  off  he  would  go 
again  with  vivid  and  eloquent  explanations  and  descriptions, 
which  fairly  took  my  breath  away.  At  last  (I  believe 
it  was  near  midnight),  Mrs.  Stansfeld,  who  had,  of  course, 
arranged  this  effort  for  my  conversion  to  Italian  Bepublicanism, 
returned  to  the  drawing-room;  and  I  fear  that  the  truly 
noble-hearted  man  who  had  done  me  so  high  a  favour,  rose 
disappointed  from  his  lowly  rug  I  He  said  to  me  at  another 
time :  ''You  English,  who  are  blessed  with  loyal  sovereigns, 


licaoe  is,  that  we  cannot  trust  onr  Eioge  and  Grand  Dukes 
an  inch.  They  are  each  one  of  them  a  iJi  TroJitort  / "  One 
coold  quite  eoneede  Uiat  a  ocoiBtitntional  goTsmment  onder  a 
traitor-piiooe  vonld  not  bold  out  any  prospect  of  success ; 
bnt  at  all  events  Victor  Emannel  and  Umberto  have  completely 
exonerated  themselves  from  such  Baspidons. 

To  retom  to  Italy  and  the  men  I  know  there.  Connt 
Usedom's  reference  to  Napoloon'a  Coup  d'itat  reminds 
me  of  the  clever  saying  which  I  have  quoted  else- 
where, of  a  greater  diplomatist  than  he ;  Cavaliere  Massimo 
d'  Azeglio.  Talking  with  him,  as  I  had  the  privilege  of  doing 
every  day  for  many  months  at  the  table  d'hflte  in  the 
hotd  where  we  both  spent  a  winter  in  Pisa,  I  made 
some  remark  aboat  the  mistake  of  foonding  Religion  on 
histories  of  Miracles.  "  Ah,  lea  miracles  I "  exclaimed 
D'Azeglio;  "je  n'en  orois  rient  Ca  tont  des  coups  d'itat 
dlttta  I "  Cotdd  the  strongest  argument  against  them  have 
been  more  neatly  packed  in  one  aimile  ?  A  coup  d'itat  is  a 
praetioal  confession  that  the  regnlar  and  orderly  methods  of 
Government  have  faUed  in  the  hands  of  the  Governor,  and 
that  he  is  driven  to  have  reconrse  to  irregular  and  lawless 
methods  to  compass  bis  ends  and  vindicate  his  sovereignty. 
A  etmp  d'itat  is  like  the  act  of  an  impatient  chess  plsyer  who, 
finding  himself  losing  the  game  while  playing  fairly,  sweeps 
some  pieces  from  the  board  to  recover  his  advantage.  Is 
this  to  he  believed  of  Divine  rule  of  the  universe  ? 

D'  Az^Uo  was  one  of  those  men,  of  whom  I  have  met 
about  a  dozen  in  life,  who  impressed  me  as  having  in  their 
characters  elements  of  real  greatntit ;  not  being  merely  clever 
or  gifted,  but  large-Bouled.  When  I  knew  bim  he  was  a 
fallen  Statesman,  an  almost  forgotten  Author,  a  General  on 
the  shelf,  a  Prime  Minister  leduced  to  living  in  a  single 
room  at  an  hotel,  withont  a  secretary  or  even  a  valet ;  yet  he 


ITALY.    1857—1879.  309 

was  the  cheeriest  Italian  I  ever  knew.  His  spirits  never 
seemed  to  fisJter.  He  was  the  life  of  onr  table  every  day, 
and  I  nsed  to  hear  him  singing  continually  over  his  water- 
colour  drawing  in  his  room  adjoining  mine  at  the  GhrarC 
Bretagnaf  on  the»  dnU  Lnng-Amo  of  Pisa.  The  fate  of  Italy, 
which  still  hmig  in  suspense,  was,  however,  ever  near  his 
heart.  One  day  it  was  talked  over  at  the  table  d*hdte,  and 
D'  Azeglio  looked  grave,  and  said :  "  We  speak  of  this  man  and 
the  other ;  but  it  is  God  who  is  making  Italy !  "  It  was  so 
unusual  a  sentiment  for  an  Italian  gentleman  to  utter,  that 
it  impressed  the  listeners  almost  with  awe.  Another  day, 
talking  of  Thackeray  and  the  ugliness  of  his  school  of 
novelists,  he  observed:  "It  is  all  right  to  seek  to  express 
Truth.  But  why  do  these  people  always  seem  to  think  qu*il 
n*y  a  rien  de  vrai  excepti  le  laid?**  The  reason, — ^I  might 
have  replied, — ^is,  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  depict  Beauty, 
and  extremely  easy  to  create  UgUness!  Beauty  means 
Proportion,  Refinement,  Elevation,  Simplicity.  How  much 
harder  it  is  to  convey  these  truly,  than  Disproportion, 
Coarseness,  Baseness,  Duplicity  ?  Since  D'  Azeglio  spoke 
we  have  gone  on  creating  Ugliness  and  calling  it  Truth,  till 
M.  Zola  has  originated  a  literature  in  honour  of  Le  Laid, 
and  given  us  books  like  UAssommoir  in  which  it  s  perfected, 
almost  as  Beauty  was  of  old  in  a  statue  of  Praxiteles  or  in 
the  Dresden  Madonna. 

One  day  that  M.  d'  Azeglio  was  doing  me  the  honour  of 
guying  me  a  visit  in  my  room,  he  narrated  to  me  the  following 
singular  little  bit  of  history.  It  seems  that  when  he  was 
Premier  of  Sardinia  and  Lord  John  Bussell  of  England, 
the  latter  sent  him  through  Lord  Minto  a  distinct  message, 
— ''  that  he  might  safely  undertake  a  certain  line  of  ^oHcy, 
since,  if  a  given  contingency  arose,  England  would  afford  him 
armed  support."  The  contingency  did  occur;  but  Lord 
Bussell  was  unable  to  give  the  armed  support  which  he  had 

2  A 


He  resigned  office,  and,!  think,  then  retired  from  public  life; 
bat  some  years  lat«r,  being  in  England,  he  was  Invited  to 
Windsor.  Therehehappenedtobeludnpwitbacold.andljord 
BnsBoll  and  Lord  Minto.who  vere  alao  gneats  at  the  castle, 
paid  him  a  visit  in  his  apartments.  "Then,"  said  D'Azeglio, 
"I  tnmed  on  them  boUi,  and  challengod  them  to  Bay  whether 
Lord  iSmia  had  not  conv^ed  that  message  to  me  from  Lord 
BoBSell,  and  wheUier  he  had  not  &iled  to  keep  his  engage- 
ment? They  did  not  attempt  to  deny  that  it  was  so." 
D'  Az^lio  (I  nnderstbod  him  to  say)  had  himself  sent  the 
Sardinian  contingent  to  fi^t  with  onr  troops  and  the  French 
in  the  Crimea,  for  the  express  and  sole  purpose  of  making 
Europe  recognise  that  there  was  a  Qwition  d'ltalU;  (or 
possibly  be  spoke  of  t^  being  the  motive  of  the  Minister 
who  did  so).  Another  remark  which  this  charming  old  man 
made  has  remained  very  clearly  on  my  memory  for  a  reason 
to  be  presently  ezpltuned.  He  observed,  laughing :  "  People 
seem  to  think  tbat  Ministers  have  indefinite  Ume  at  their 
disposal,  bnt  they  have  only  21  hours  like  other  men,  and 
they  must  eat  and  sleep  and  rest  like  the  remainder  of  the 
human  ntce.  When  I  was  Premier  I  calculated  that  dividii^ 
the  sniijecta  wfaich  demanded  attention  and  the  time  I  had  to 
beetow  on  them,  tbere  were  just  ihrtt  minvia  and  a-haifon  an 
average  for  ordinary  sntjeots,  and  eight  minutes  for  important 
ones  I  And  if  that  be  so  in  a  little  State  like  Piedmont,  what 
mnst  it  be  in  the  case  of  a  Prime  Minister  of  England?  I 
cannot  think  how  mortal  man  can  bear  the  office !  " 

Many  years  afterwards  I  told  this  to  an  English  Statesman, 
uid  he  replied — with  rather  startling  i^Mtj  dtamtr,  consider- 
ing the  responsibilities  for  Irish  mnrders  then  resting  on  his 
shoulders : — "  Quite  tme,  it  is  all  a  sonffie  and  a  scramble 
botn  morning  to  n^ht.  If  you  had  seen  me  two  hours  ^o 
yon  would  have  found  me  listening  to  a  very  important 


ITALY.    1857— 1879,  371 

dispatch  read  to  me  by  one  of  my  secretaries  while  I  was 
dictating  another,  equally  important;  to  another.  All  a  scuffle 
and  a  scramble  from  morning  to  night !  *'  Count  Usedom  told 
me  that  at  one  time  he  had  been  Minister  of  War  in  Prussia, 
and  that  he  knew  a  great  battle  was  imminent  next  day,  the 
Prussian  army  having  just  come  up  with  the  enemy.  He 
lay  awake  all  night  reflecting  on  the  horrors  of  the  ensuing 
fight ;  remembering  that  he  had  the  power  to  telegraph  to 
the  General  in  command  to  stop  it,  and  longing  with  all  his 
soul  to  do  so,  but  knowing  that  the  act  would  be  treachery  to 
his  country.  Of  this  sort  of  anxiety  I  strongly  suspect  some 
statesmen  have  never  felt  a  twinge. 

It  was  at  Florence  in  1860  that  I  met  Theodore  Parker  for 
the  first  time.  After  the  letters  of  deep  sympathy  and  agree- 
ment on  religious  matters  which  had  passed  between  us,  it 
was  a  strange  turn  of  fate  which  brought  him  to  die  in 
Florence,  and  me  to  stand  beside  his  death-bed  and  his  grave. 
The  world  has,  as  is  natural,  passed  on  over  the  road  which 
he  did  much  to  open,  and  his  name  is  scarcely  known  to  the 
younger  generation ;  but  looking  back  at  his  work  and  at  his 
books  again  after  thirty  years,  and  when  early  enthusiasm 
has  given  place  to  the  cahn  judgment  of  age,  I  still  feel  that 
Theodore  Parker  was  a  very  great  religious  teacher  and 
Confessor, — ^as  Albert  Beville  wrote  of  him  :  ''  Cet  Twmme 
fiU  un  PropMte,'*  That  is,  he  received  the  truths  of  what 
he  called  ''  Absolute  Religion  "  at  first  hand  in  his  own  faithful 
soul,  and  spoke  them  out,  fearless  of  consequences,  with 
unequalled  straightforwardness.  He  was  not  subtle-minded. 
He  did  not  at  all  see  obliquely  round  comers,  as  men  like 
Cardinal  Newman  always  seem  to  have  done ;  nor  estimate 
the  limitations  which  his  broad  statements  sometimes  required. 
It  would  have  been  scarcely  possible  to  have  been  both  the 
man  he  was,  and  also  a  fine  critic  and  metaphysician.  But 
his  was  a  clear,  trumpet  voice,  to  which  many  a  freed  and 


372  CHAPTER  XIV. 

rejoicing  spirit  responded ;  and  if  he  founded  no  sect  or  school, 
he  did  better.  He  infused  into  the  religious  life  of  England 
and  America  an  element«  hardly  present  before,  of  natural 
confidence  in  the  absolute  goodness  of  God  independent  of 
theologies.  No  man  did  more  than  he  to  awaken  the  Protestant 
nations  from  the  hideous  nightmare  of  an  Eternal  Hell,  which 
within  my  own  recollection,  hovered  over  the  piety  of 
England.  As  he  was  wont  himself  to  say,  laughingly,  he  had 
«  knocked  the  bottom  out  of  hell  t " 

I  will  copy  here  some  Notes  of  my  oifly  interviews  with 
this  honoured  friend  and  teacher,  to  whom  I  owed  so  much  : 


"  28th  April.  Saw  Mr.  Parker  for  the  first  time.  He  was 
lying  in  bed  with  his  back  to  the  light.  Mrs.  Parker 
brought  me  into  the  room.  He  took  my  hand  tenderly  and 
said  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  holding  it :  *  After  all  our 
wishes  to  meet,  Miss  Gobbe,  how  strange  it  is  we  should 
meet  thus.*  I  pressed  his  hand  and  he  turned  his  eyes, 
which  were  trembling  painfully  and  evidently  seeing 
nothing,  towards  me  and  said,  '  You  must  not  think  you 
have  seen  me.  This  is  not  m^,  only  the  wreck  of  the  man  I 
was.'  Then,  after  a  pause  he  added :  *  Those  who  love  me 
most  can  only  wish  me  a  quick  passage  to  the  other  world. 
Of  course  I  am  not  afraid  to  die  (he  smiled  as  he  spoke)  but 
there  was  so  much  to  be  done  I  *  I  said :  '  You  have  given 
your  life  to  God  and  His  truth  as  truly  as  any  martyr 
of  old.*  He  replied : '  I  do  not  know ;  I  had  great  powers 
committed  to  me,  I  have  but  half  used  them.'  I  gave  him 
a  nosegay  of  roses  and  lily-of-the-vaUey.  He  smiled  and 
touched  tiie  lily-of-the-vaUey,  saying  it  was  the  sweetest  of 
all  flowers.  I  begged  him,  if  his  lodgings  were  not  all  he 
desired,  to  come  to  villa  Brichieri  '*  [a  villa  on  Bellosguardo, 
which  I  then  shared  with  Miss  Blagden]  ,**  but  he  said  he  was 
most  comfortable  where  he  was.  Then  his  mind  wandered 
a  little  about  a  bad  dream  which  haunted  him,  and  I  left 
him." 


ITALY.    1857—1879.  373 

**  April  29th.  I  was  told  on  arriving  that  Mr.  Parker  had 
spoken  very  tenderly  of  my  visit  of  the  day  before,  but  had 
said, '  I  most  not  see  her  often.  It  makes  my  heart  swell 
too  high.  Bat  yon  (to  his  wife)  must  see  her  every  day. 
Bemember  there  is  bat  one  Miss  Cobbe  in  the  world. 
Afterwards  he  told  Dr.  Appleton  that  he  wanted  him  to  get 
an  inkstand  for  me  as  a  last  gift.  [This  inkstand  I  have 
nsed  ever  since.]  He  received  me  very  kindly,  bat  almost 
at  once  his  mind  wandered,  and  he  spoke  of  '  going  home 
immediately.'  He  asked  what  day  of  the  week  it  was  ?  I 
said :  *  This  is  the  blessed  day ;  it  is  Snnday.*  '  Ah  yes  1 ' 
he  said,  <  It  is  a  blessed  day  when  one  has  got  over  the 
snperstition  of  it.  I  will  try  to  go  to  yon  to-morrow.'  (Of 
coarse  this  was  atterly  oat  of  the  question.)  Then  he 
looked  at  the  lily  of  Florence  which  I  had  brought,  and 
told  him  how  I  had  got  it  down  from  one  of  the  old  walls 
for  him,  and  he  smiled  the  same  sweet  smile  as  yesterday, 
and  touched  the  beautiful  blue  Iris,  and  soon  seemed  to 
sleep.*' 

I  called  after  this  every  day,  generally  twice  a  day,  at  the 
Pension  Molini  whore  he  lay ;  but  rarely  could  interchange  a 
word.  Parker's  friend,  Dr.  Appleton  of  Boston,  who  was 
faithfully  attending  him,  sent  for  another  friend.  Prof.  Desor, 
and  they  and  the  three  ladies  of  the  party  nursed  him,  of 
course,  devotedly.  On  the  10th  May  I  saw  him  lying 
breathing  quietly,  while  life  ebbed  gently.  I  returned  to 
Bellosgnardo  and  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  Prof.  Desor 
and  Dr.  Appleton  cane  up  to  tell  me  he  had  passed  peacefully 
away. 

Parker  had,  long  before  his  death,  desired  that  the  first 
eleven  verses  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  should  be  read  at 
his  funeral.  Whethe^r  he  intended  that  they  should  form  the 
only  service  was  not  known ;  but  Desor  and  Appleton  arranged 
that  so  it  should  be,  and  that  they  should  be  read  by  Bev. 
W.  Cunningham,  an  American  Unitarian  clergyman  who  was 


374  CHAPTER  XIV. 

fortunately  at  the  time  living  near  us  on  Bellosgoardo,  and  who 
was  a  man  of  much  feeling  and  dignity  of  aspect.  The  fimeral 
took  place  on  Snnday,  the  18th  May,  at  the  heaatifol  old 
Campo  Santo  Inglese,  ontside  the  walls  of  Florence,  which 
contains  the  dnst  of  Mrs.  Browning,  of  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough,  and  many  others  dear  to  English  memories.  It 
was  the  first  funeral  I  had  ever  attended.  The  coffin 
when  I  arrived,  was  already  lying  in  the  mortuary  chapel. 
My  companions  placed  a  wreath  of  laurels  on  it,  and  I  added 
a  large  hunch  of  the  lily-of-the- valley  which  he  had  loved. 
Then  eight  Italian  paJl-hearers  took  up  the  coffin  and  carried 
it  on  a  side-walk  to  the  grave.  When  it  had  heen  lowered 
with  some  difficulty  to  the  last  resting-place,  my  notes 
say: — 

"  Dr.  Appleton  then  handed  a  Bihle  to  Mr.  Cunningham. 
I  was  standing  close  to  him  and  heard  his  voice  falter.  He 
read  like  a  man  who  felt  all  the  holy  words  he  said,  and 
those  sacred  Blessings  came  with  unspeakable  rest  to  my 
heart.  Then  Desor,  who  had  been  pale  as  death,  threw  in 
one  handful  of  day.  .  .  .  The  burial  ground  is  exquisitely 
lovely,  a  very  wilderueas  of  flowers  and  perfume.  Only  a 
few  cypresses  give  it  grandeur,  not  gloom.  All  Florence 
was  decorated  with  flags  in  honour  of  the  anniversary  of 
Piedmontese  Constitution.  We  said  to  one  another :  *  It  is 
a  festival  for  us  also — the  solemn  feast  of  an  Ascension,* " 

Of  course  I  visited  this  grave  when  I  returned  to  Florence 
several  years  afterwards.  The  cjrpresses  had  grown  large 
and  dark  and  somewhat  shadowed  it.  I  had  the  violets,  &c., 
renewed  upon  it  more  than  once,  but  I  heard  later  that  it  had 
become  somewhat  dilapidated,  and  I  was  glad  to  join  a  sub- 
scription got  up  by  an  American  gentleman  to  erect  a  new 
tombstone.  I  hope  it  has  been  done,  as  he  would  have  desired, 
with  simplicity.     I  shall  never  see  that  grave  again. 

Two  or  three  years  later  I  edited  all  the  twelve  vols,  of 
Parker's  Works  for  Messrs.  Triibner,  and  wrote  a  somewhat 


ITALY,    1857—1879. 

lengthy  Preface  for  them ;  afterwards  reprinted  ai 
pamphlet  entitled  the  Beligiotu  Demands  of  th$ ; 
Biographies  of  Parker  have  appeared ;  the  shortei 
in  England  hy  Bev.  Peter  Dean,  heing  in  my  opifl 
The  letters  which  I  received  from  Parker  in  the ; 
I  saw  him  are  all  printed  by  my  permission  in 
Life,  and  therefore  will  not  be  reproduced  here. 

That  venerable  old  man,  Bev.  John  J.  Tayler,  w 
a  few  years  later,  summed  np  Parker's  character 
justly  as  did  Mr.  Jowett  in  calling  him  a  ''  religion 

'*  I  read  lately  with  much  pleasure  your  Pre: 
forthcoming  edition  of  Theodore  Parker's  worl 
cordially  with  your  estimate  of  his  character, 
were  of  the  highest  type  of  the  hero  and  the  mi 
faults,  sudh  as  they  were,  were  suoh  as  are 
every  ardent  and  earnest  soul  fighting  against  ' 
and  hypocrisy;  faults  which   colder  and   mo 
natures  easily  avoid,  faults  which  he  shared  wi 
the  best  and  noblest  of  our  race — a  Milton,  a  Lu^ 
Paul.     When  freedom  and  justice  have  achii 
oonqnests  yet  to  come,  his  memory  will  be  cher 
deeper  reverence  and  affection  than  it  is,  except 
number,  now. 

"  I  remain,  dear  Miss  Cobbe,  very  truly  youi 

At  the  time  of  Parker's  death  I  was  sharing  the 
of  my  clever  and  charming  friend,  Isa  Blagde 
Brichieri  on  Bellosguardo.  It  was  a  delighl 
with  a  small  podere  off  the  road,  and 
broad  balcony  (accommodating  any  number 
opening  from  the  airy  drawing-room,  and  cc 
a  splendid  view  of  Florence  backed  by  F: 
the    Apennines.     On    the    balcony,   and  in  our 


occssioDS,  an  tnteresting  and  varied  company.  We  vere 
botb  of  nfl  poor,  but  m  those  days  poverty  in  Florence 
permitted  ne  to  rent  14  well -furnished  rooms  in  a  charming 
villa,  and  to  keep  a  maid  and  a  man-servant.  The  latter 
bought  onr  meala  every  morning  in  Florence,  cooked  and 
served  them ;  being  always  clean  and  respectably  dressed. 
He  swept  oar  floors  and  he  opened  onr  doors  and  announced 
our  company  and  served  our  ices  and  tea  with  nnilbrm 
qnietnras  and  success.  A  treasure,  indeed,  woe  good  old 
Ansano  1  Also  we  were  able  to  engage  an  open  carriage  with 
a  pair  of  horses  to  do  our  shopping  and  pay  our  visits  in 
Florence  as  often  as  we  needed.  And  what  does  the  reader 
think  it  cost  as  to  live  like  this,  fire  and  candles  and  food  for 
four  inclnded  ?  In  those  halcyon  days  under  the  old  rigime, 
it  was  precisely  £20  a  month  I  We  divided  everything 
exactly  and  it  never  exceeded  £10  a-piece. 
Among  onr   most  frequent  visitors  was  Hr.  Browning. 


ITALY.    1867--1879.  377 

off  at  the  end  1  When  we  drove  oat  in  partiefl  he  would 
disooss  every  tree  and  weed,  and  get  excited  abont  the  differ- 
ence between  eglantine  and  eglatere  (if  there  be  any),  and 
between  either  of  them  and  honeysnckle.  He  and  Isa  were 
always  wrangling  in  an  affectionate  way  over  some  book  or 
music ;  (he  was  a  fine  performer  himself  on  the  piano),  and  one 
night  when  I  had  left  Villa  Brichieri  and  was  living  at  Villa 
Niccolini  at  least  half-a-mile  off,  the  air,  being  in  some  singular 
condition  of  sonority,  carried  their  voices  between  the  walls  of 
the  two  viUas  so  clearly  across  to  me  that  I  actually  heard 
some  of  the  words  of  their  quarrel,  and  closed  my  window 
lest  I  should  be  an  eavesdropper.  I  believe  it  was  about 
Spirit-rapping  they  were  fighting,  for  which,  and  the  pro- 
fessors of  the  art.  Browning  had  a  horror.  I  have  seen  him 
stamping  on  the  floor  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  at  the  way  some 
believers  and  mediums  were  deceiving  Mrs.  Browning. 

Thirty  years  afterwards,  the  last  time  I  ever  had  the  privi- 
lege of  talking  with  Bobert  Browning  (it  was  in  Surrey  House 
in  London),  I  referred  to  these  old  days  and  to  our  friend, 
long  laid  in  that  Campo  Santo  at  Florence.  His  voice  feU 
and  softened,  and  he  said  :  ''  Ah,  poor,  dear  Isa  1 "  with 
deep  feeling. 

At  that  time  I  do  not  think  that  any  one,  certainly  no  one 
of  the  society  which  surrounded  him,  thought  of  Mr.  Browning 
as  a  great  poet,  or  as  an  equal  one  to  his  wife,  whose  Aurora 
Leigh  was  then  a  new  book.  The  utter  unselfishness  and 
generosity  wherewith  he  gloried  in  his  wife's  fame, — ^bringing 
us  up  constantly  good  reviews  of  her  poems  and  eagerly 
recounting  how  many  editions  had  been  called  for, — perhaps 
helped  to  blind  us,  stupid  that  we  were  1  to  his  own  claims. 
Never,  certainly  did  the  proverb  about  the  *\irrUabile  genus  " 
of  Poets  prove  less  true.  All  through  his  life,  even  when  the 
world  had  found  him  out,  and  societies  existed  for  what  Mr. 
Frederic  Harrison  might  justly  have  called  a  "  culte "  of 


Browning,  if  not  a  "  latria,  he  remiuiied  the  same  absomtely 
nndfected,  tmasstuning,  genial  English  gentleman. 

Of  Mrs.  Browning  I  never  saw  mnch.  Bnndry  TiBita  wa 
paid  to  each  other  missed,  and  when  I  did  find  her  at  home 
in  Casa  Gnidi  we  did  not  fall  on  congenial  themes.  I  waa 
babbling  over  with  enthnsiaem  for  her  poetry,  bat  had  not 
the  andacity  to  express  my  admiration,  (which,  in  tmth,  had 
been  my  special  leaaon  for  visiting  Florence ; )  and  aha 
entangled  me  in  erudite  discnssiona  abont  Tuscan  and 
Bolognese  schools  of  punting,  concerning  which  I  knew 
Uttle  and,  perhaps,  cared  less.  Bat  I  am  glad  Z  looked  into 
the  splendid  eyes  which  lived  like  coals,  in  her  pain-worn 
face,  and  revealed  the  sonl  which  Bobert  Browning  trasted 
to  meet  again  on  the  threshold  of  eternity.*  Was  there  ever 
each  a  testimony  as  their  perfect  marriage, — living  on  as  it  did 
in  the  sarvivor's  heart  for  a  quarter  of  a  century, — to  the 
possibility  of  the  eternal  onion  of  Oenins  and  Love  ? 

I  received  in  later  years  from  Ur.  Browning  several 
letters  which  I  may  as  well  insert  in  tliia  place. 

"19,  Warwick  Crescent,  W., 

"  December  28th,  1874. 
"  Dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

"I  return  the  Petition,  for  the  one  good  leasoo,  that  I 
have  just  signed  its  fellow  forwarded  to  me  by  Mr.  Jjeslie 
Stephen.  Yon  have  heard  '  I  take  an  equal  interest  with 
yonrself  in  the  effort  to  snppresa  Vivisection.'  I  dare  not 
BO  honour  my  mere  wishes  and  prayers  as  to  pat  them  tor  a 
moment  beside  yoor  noble  acts,  but  this  I  know,  I  would 
rather  submit  to  the  worst  of  deaths,  so  far  as  pain  goes, 
than  have  a  single  dog  or  oat  tortured  on  the  pretence  of 
sparing  me  a  twinge  or  two.    I  return  the  paper,  becanae  I 


ITALY.    1857—1879.  379 

shall  be  probably  ahat  ap  here  for  the  next  week  or  two, 
and  prevented  from  seeing  my  friends,  whoever  wonld 
refuse  to  sign  wonld  certainly  not  be  of  the  nmnber." 

••Ever  trnly  and  gratefully  yours, 

<«BOBSBT  BBOWMINa." 

*'  19,  Warwick  Crescent,  W., 

"July  8rd,  1881. 
'*  Dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

"I  wish  I  were  not  irretrievably  engaged  on  Monday 
afternoon,  twice  over,  as  it  prevents  me  from  accepting 
your  invitation.  By  all  I  hear,  Mr.  Bishop's  performance 
must  be  instructive  to  those  who  need  it,  and  amusing  to 
everybody.* 

**  Thank  you  very  much, 

"  Ever  truly  yours, 

**BOBEET  BbOWNING.*' 

*  This  refers  to  an  afternoon  party  we  gave  to  witness  poor  Mr. 
Bishop's  interesting  thought-reading  performances.  He  was 
wonderfully  snccessful  throughout,  and  the  company,  which 
consisted  of  about  80  clever  men  and  women,  were  unanimous  in 
applauding  his  art,  of  whatever  nature  it  may  have  been.  I  may 
add  that  after  my  guests  were  departed,  when  I  took  out 
my  cheque-book  and  begged  to  know  his  fee,  Mr.  Bishop 
positively  refused  to  accept  any  remuneration  whatever  for  the 
charming  entertainment  he  had  given  us.  The  tragic  droumstances 
of  the  death  of  this  unhappy  young  man  will  be  remembered.  He 
either  died,  or  fell  into  a  deathlike  trance,  at  a  supper  party  in 
New  York,  in  1889 ;  and  within  fmar  hawr$  of  his  real  (or  apparent) 
decease,  three  medical  men  who  had  been  supping  with  him,  dis- 
sected lus  braui.  One  doctor  who  conducted  this  autopsy  alleged 
that  Bishop  had  been  extremely  anxious  that  his  brain  should  be 
examined  po$t  mortem^  but  his  mother  asserted  on  the  contrary, 
that  he  had  a  peculiar  horror  of  dissection,  and  had  left  directions 
that  no  po9t  mortem  should  be  held  on  his  remains.  It  was  also 
stated  that  he  had  a  card  in  his  pocket  warning  those  who  might  find 
him  at  any  time  in  a  trance,  to  beware  of  burying  him  before  signs 
of  dissolution  should  be  visible.  In  a  leading  artide  on  the  subject 
in  the  Livtrfool  Daily  Po§t,  May  91st,  1889,  it  is  stated  that  by  the 


880  OHAPTER   XIV. 

••19,  Warwick  Crescent,  W., 

••October  22nd,  1889. 
'*  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

••  It  is  about  a  week  ago  since  I  had  to  write  to  the  new 
Editor  of  the  *  Fortnightly,*  Mr.  Escott — and  assure  him 
that  I  was  so  tied  and  bound  by  old  promises  •  to  give  some- 
thing to  this  and  that  Magazine  if  I  gave  at  all  * — that  it 
became  impossible  I  oonld  oblige  anybody  in  even  so  trifling 
a  matter.  It  comes  of  making  rash  resolations — ^bnt,  once 
made,  there  is  no  escape  from  the  consequence — though  I 
rarely  have  felt  this  so  much  of  a  hardship  as  now  when  I 
am  forced  to  leave  a  request  of  yours  uncomplied  with. 
For  the  rest,  I  shall  indeed  rejoice  if  that  abominable  and 
stupid  cruelty  of  pigeon-shooting  is  put  a  stop  to  The 
other  detestable  practice,  Vivisection,  strikes  deeper  root, 
I  fear ;  but  God  bless  whoever  tugs  at  it  I 

••Ever  yours  most  truly, 

••Robert  BBowKiKa.** 

UwB  of  the  United  States  "  it  is  distinotly  enacted  that  no  disseo- 
tion  shall  take  place  without  the  fiat  of  the  coroner,  or  at  the 
request  of  the  relatives  of  the  deceased ;  bo  that  some  explanation 
of  the  anxiety  which  induced  so  manifest  a  breach  of  both  laws  and 
custom  is  emhiently  desirable.  A  second  examination  of  the  body 
at  the  instance  of  the  coroner,  has  revealed  the  fact  that  all  the 
organs  were  in  a  healthy  state,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  ascribe 
death  to  any  specific  cause  or  to  say  whether  Mr.  Bishop  were 
alive  or  dead  at  the  tune  of  the  first  autopsy.'*  Both  wife  and 
mother  believed  he  was  **  murdered ; "  and  ordered  that  word  to  be 
engraved  on  his  coffin.  His  mother  had  herself  experienced  a 
cataleptic  trance  of  six  days'  duration,  during  the  whole  of  which 
she  was  fully  conscious.  The  three  doctors  were  proceeded  against 
by  her  and  the  widow,  and  were  put  under  bonds  of  £500  each ; 
but,  as  the  experts  alleged  that  it  was  impossiblis  to  decide  the  cause 
of  death,  the  case  eventually  dropped.  Whether  it  were  one  of 
**  Human  ViviseeHon "  or  not,  can  never  now  be  known.  If  the 
three  physicians  who  performed  the  autopsy  on  Mr.  Bishop  did 
not  commit  a  murder  of  appalling  barbarity  on  the  helpless  com- 
panion  of  their  supper-table,  they  certainly  rUked  incurring  thai 
guilt  with  unparalleled  levity  and  callousness. 


ITALY.    1857-^1879.  S81 

Another  of  our  most  frequent  visitors  at  Villa  Brichieri 
was  Mr.  T.  Adolphns  TroUope,  author  of  the  Oirlhood  of 
Catherine  de*  Medici,  **  A  Decade  of  Italian  Women'*  and  other 
books.  Though  not  so  successful  an  author  as  his  brilliant 
brother  Anthony,  he  was  an  interesting  man,  whom  we  much 
liked.  One  day  he  came  up  and  pressed  us  to  go  back  with 
him  and  pay  a  visit  to  a  guest  at  his  Yillino  Trollope  in  the 
Piazza  Maria  Antonia, — a  lovely  house  he  had  built,  with  a 
broad  verandah  behind  it,  opening  on  a  garden  of  cypresses 
and  oranges  backed  by  the  old  crenelated  and  Iris-decked 
walls  of  Florence.  He  had,  he  told  us,  a  most  interesting 
person  staying  with  him  and  Mrs.  Trollope ; — ^Mrs.  Lewes — 
who  had  written  Adam  Beds,  and  was  then  writing  Eomola. 
Miss  Blagden  alone  went  with  him,  and  was  enchanted, 
like  all  the  world,  with  George  Eliot 

Mr.  Trollope  told  me  many  curious  facts  concerning  Italian 
society  which,  from  his  long  residence,  he  knew  more 
intimately  than  almost  any  other  foreigner.  He  described 
the  marriage  settiement  of  a  nobleman  which  had  actually 
passed  through  his  hands,  wherein  the  intending  husband, 
with  wondrous  foresight  and  precaution,  deliberately  named 
three  or  four  gentlemen,  amongst  whom  his  future  wife  might 
choose  her  cavaliere  servente ! 

We  had  several  other  Juxbitues  at  our  villas  ;  Ball'  Ongaro, 
a  poet  and  ex-priest;  Bomanelli,  the  sculptor;  and  Miss  Linda 
White,  now  Madame  Yillari,  the  charming  authoress  and 
hostess  of  a  brilliant  salon,  wife  of  the  eminent  historian 
who  was  recently  Minister  of  Education. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  our  visitors,  after  Mr. 
Browning,  was  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe.  She  impressed  me 
much,  and  the  criticisms  I  have  read  of  her  **  Sunny  Memories  " 
and  other  books  have  failed  to  diminish  my  admiration  for 
her.  She  was  one  of  the  few  women,  I  suppose,  who  have 
actually  felt  Fame,  as   heroes  do    who    receive    national 


iTrampns ;  ana  sae  eeemea  m  do  as  simpie  ana  impreiennotis, 
as  little  elated  as  it  was  poBsibla  to  be.  She  hod  ereo  a  trick 
of  looking  down  as  if  sfae  had  been  stared  oat  of  coontenance ; 
bat  this  was  perhaps  a  part  of  that  singnlar  habit  which 
most  Evangelicals  of  her  claes  exhibited  thirty  years  ago,  of 
shyneas  in  society  and  inability  to  converse  except  with  the 
person  seated  next  them  in  company.  It  was  the  verifioatian 
after  eighteen  centnriea  of  the  old  heathen  taont  against  the 
Christians,  recorded  in  the  dialogues  of  Minucins  Felix,  "7n 
publieam  muta,  in  angvlii  garrula!"  I  have  recorded 
elsewhere  Mrs.  Stowe's  remark  when  I  spoke  with 
grief  of  the  end  of  Theodore  Parker's  work.  "Do  yoa 
think,"  she  said,  suddenly  looking  up  at  me  with 
fashing  eyes,  "  that  Theodore  Parker  has  no  work  to 
do  for  Qod  now  ?"  I  mnst  not  repeat  agun  her 
interesting  conversation  as  we  sat  on  onr  balcony  watching 
the  son  go  down  over  the  Val  d'  Amo.  After  mach  serioos 
talk  as  to  the  nearness  of  the  next  life,  Mrs.  Btowe  narrated  a 
saying  of  her  boy  on  which,  (as  I  told  her),  a  good  heterodox 
sermon  tn  my  lente  might  be  preached.  She  taoght  the  child 
that  Anger  was  sinfnl,  whereupon  he  asked :  "  Then  why, 
Mama,  does  the  Bible  say  so  often  that  QoA  was  angry?" 
She  replied  motherlike :  "  Yon  will  nnderstand  it  when  you 
are  older."  The  boy  pondered  serioosly  for  awhile  and  then 
burst  out :  "  0  Mama,  I  have  found  it  ont  I  Ood  is  angry, 
becauat  Ood  Unota  Christian ! " 

Another  of  our  haintuea  on  my  first  vint  to  Florence  was 
Walter  Savage  Landor.  At  that  time  he  was,  with  his  dear 
Pomeranian  dog,  Qiallo,  living  alone  in  very  ordinary  lodgings 
in  Florence,  having  qnarrelled  with  his  family  and  left  his  villa 
in  their  possession.  He  had  a  grand,  leonine  head  with  long 
white  heir  and  beard,  and  to  bear  him  denotmcing  his  children 
was  to  witness  a  performance  of  Lear  never  matehed  on  any 
stage  I    He  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  we  often  walked  about 


ITALY.    1867—1879.  383 

odd  nooks  of  Florence  together,  while  he  poured  out  reminis- 
cences of  Byron  and  Shelley,  some  of  which  I  have  recorded 
(Chap.  IX.,  p.  257),  and  of  others  of  the  older  generation  whom 
he  had  known,  so  that  I  seemed  in  touch  with  them  all.  He 
was  then  ahout  88  years  of  age,  and  perhaps  his  great  and 
cultivated  intellect  was  ahready  failing.  Much  that  he  said  in 
wrath  and  even  fury  seemed  like  raving,  hut  he  was  gentle  as 
a  child  to  us  women,  and  to  his  dog  whom  he  passionately 
loved.  When  I  wrote  the  first  Memorial  against  Prof.  Schiff 
which  started  the  anti- vivisection  crusade,  Mr.  Lander's  name 
was  one  of  the  first  appended  to  it.  He  added  some  words 
to  his  signature  so  fierce  and  contemptuous  that  I  never 
dared  to  publish  them  t 

We  also  saw  much  of  Dr.  Grisanowski,  a  very  clever  Pole, 
who  afterwards  became  a  prominent  advocate  of  the  science- 
tortured  brutes.  When  I  discussed  the  matter  with  him  he 
was  entirely  on  the  side  of  Science.  After  some  years  he  sent 
me  his  deeply  thought-out  pamphlet,  with  the  endorsement 
"  For  Miss  Cobbe, — ^who  was  right  when  I  was  wrong ; "  a 
very  generous  retractation.  We  also  received  Mr.  Frederick 
Tennyson,  (Lord  Tennyson's  brother),  Madame  Yenturi, 
Madame  Alberto  Mario,  the  late  Lord  Justice  Bowen,  (then  a 
brilliant  young  man  from  Oxford,)  and  many  more. 

By  far  the  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends  in  Florence 
however,  was  one  who  never  came  up  our  hill,  and  who  was 
ahready  then  an  aged  woman — ^Mrs.  Somerville^  I  had 
brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  her,  being  anxious  to  see 
one  who  had  been  such  an  honour  to  womanhood ;  but  I 
expected  to  find  her  an  incarnation  of  Science,  having  very 
little  affinity  with  such  a  person  as  I.  Instead  of  this,  I 
found  in  her  the  dearest  old  lady  in  all  the  world,  who  took 
me  to  her  heart  as  if  I  had  been  a  newly-found  daughter,  and 
for  whom  I  soon  felt  such  tender  affection  that  sitting  beside 
her  on  her  sofa,  (as  I  mostly  did  on  account  of  her  deafiness) 


i  «jmu  uiuuij  n.^p  uijHui  uum  uiuvwuiu   utMT.      ill  »  iBLier 

to  Harriet  St.  Leger  I  wrote  of  her:  "  She  is  the  very  ideal 
of  an  old  lady,  bd  gentle,  cordial  and  dignified,  like  my  mother ; 
and  as  freab,  eager  and  intelligent  n«w,  as  she  can  ever  have 
been."  Her  religioaa  ideas  proved  to  be  exactly  like  my 
own ;  and  being  no  donbt  somewhat  a-thirst  for  sympathy  on 
a  snliject  on  which  she  felt  profouidly,  (her  daaght«rB 
difierii^  from  her),  she  opened  her  heart  to  me  entirely. 
Here  are  a  few  notes  I  made  after  talks  with  her  : — 

"Mrs.  Somerrille  thinks  no  one  can  be  eloquent  who  has 
Dot  studied  the  Bible.  Wo  discnssed  the  character  of  Christ. 
She  agreed  to  all  I  said,  adding  she  thought  it  clear 
the  Apostlea  never  thought  he  was  God,  only  the  image  of 
the  perfection  of  God.  She  kissed  me  tenderly  when  I  rose 
to  go  and  bade  me  come  back  at  any  honr — at  three  in  the 
morning  if  I  liked  I — May  I8th.  A&s.  Bomerville  gave  me 
her  photograph.  She  says  she  alwajrs  feels  a  regret  thinking 
of  the  next  life  that  we  shall  see  no  more  the  flowers  of  this 
world.  I  said  we  should  no  donbt  see  others  etill  fairer. 
"Ahl  yes,"  she  Bud,  " but  our  own  roses  and  mignonett«l 
I  shall  miss  them.  The  dear  animals  I  believe  we  iliall  meet. 
They  suffer  so  often  here,  they  mnst  live  agam." — Jnne  Srd. 
Wished  fiireweQ  to  Mrs.  SomerviUe.  She  said  kissing  me 
with  many  tears,  "  We  shall  meet  in  Hoaven  I  I  shall  dium 
you  there." 

I  saw  Mrs.  Bomerville  again  on  my  other  visits  to  Italy, 
at  Genoa,  Spezzia  and  Naples  ;  of  eourse  making  it  a  great 
object  of  my  plans  to  be  for  some  weeks  near  her.  In  my 
last  journey,  in  1879, 1  saw  at  Niqiles  the  noble  monument 
erected  over  her  grave  by  her  daughter.  It  repreeente  her 
(heroio  size)  reclining  on  a  classic  chair, — in  somewhat  the 
attitude  of  the  statue  of  Agrippina  in  the  Vatican. 

Mrs.  SomerviUe  ought  to  have  been  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey.    When  I  saw  her  death  announced  on  the  posters  of 


ITALY.    1867—1879.  385 

the  newspapers  in  the  streets  in  London,  I  burned  as  soon  as 
I  conld  recover  myself,  to  ask  Dean  Stanley  to  arrange  for 
her  interment  in  the  Abbey.  The  Dean  consented  freely  and 
with  hearty  approval  to  my  proposition,  and  Mrs.  Somerville's 
nephew,  Sir  William  Fairfax,  promised  at  once  to  defray  all 
expenses.  There  was  only  one  thing  further  needed,  and  that 
was  the  nsnal  formal  request  from  some  public  body  or  official 
persons  to  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Westminster.  Dean 
Stanley  had  immediately  written  to  the  Astronomer  Royal  U 
suggest  that  he  and  the  President  of  the  Royal  Society,  as 
the  representatives  of  the  sciences  with  which  Mrs.  Somer- 
ville's  fame  was  connected,  should  address  to  him  the  demand 
which  would  authorize  his  proceeding  with  the  matter.  But 
that  gentleman  refused  to  do  it — on  the  ground  that  he  had 
never  read  Mrs.  Somerville's  books  I  Whether  he  had  read 
one  in  which  she  took  the  opposite  side  from  his  in  the  sharp 
and  angry  Adams-Le  Terrier  controversy,  it  is  not  for  me  tc 
say.  Any  way,  jealousy,  either  scientific  or  masculine,  declined 
to  admit  Mary  Somerville's  claims  to  a  place  in  the  national 
YaUialla,  wherein  so  many  men  neither  intellectually  nor 
morally  her  equals  have  been  welcomed. 

From  the  time  of  our  first  meeting  till  her  death  in  1872, 
Mrs.  SomerviUe  maintained  a  close  correspondence  with  me. 
I  have  had  aU  her  beautifully- written  letters  bound  together, 
and  they  form  a  considerable  volume.  Of  course  it  was  a 
delight  to  me  to  send  her  everything  which  might  interest 
her,  and  among  other  things  I  sent  her  a  volume  of  Theodore 
Parker's  Prayers ;  edited  by  myself.  In  October,  1868, 1  spent 
a  long  time  at  Spezzia  to  eijoy  the  immense  pleasure  of  her 
society.  I  was  then  a  cripple  and  onable  to  walk  to  her 
house,  and  wrote  of  her  visits  as  follows  to*  Miss  Elliot : 

*'  Mrs.  SomerviUe  comes  to  me  every  day     She  is  looking 
younger  than  three  years  ago  and  she  talked  to  me  for  three 

2  B 


386  OH  AFTER  XIV. 

hoars  yesterday,  pouring  out  such  stores  of  recent  science 
as  I  never  heard  before.  Then  we  talked  a  little  heresy, 
and  she  thanked  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes  for  Parker's 
Prayers^  saying  she  had  foond  them  the  greatest  comfort 
and  the  most  perfect  expression  of  religions  feeling  of  any 
prayers  she  has  known/' 

Another  time  I  sent  her  my  Hopes  of  ths  Human  Bacc. 
She  wrote,  three  weeks  before  her  death,  ''  God  bless  yon 
dearest  friend  for  yonr  irresistible  argument  for  our 
Immortality  I  Not  that  I  ever  doubted  of  it,  but  as  I 
shall  soon  enter  my  ninety-third  year,  your  words  are  an 
inexpressible  comfort." 

Mary  Somerville  was  the  living  refutation  of  all  the  idle, 
fooUsh  things  which  have  been  said  of  intellectual  women. 
There  never  existed  a  more  womanly  woman.  Her  Lifef  edited 
by  her  eldest  daughter  Martha  Somerville  (her  son  by  her  first 
marriage,  Mr.  Woronzow  Greig,  died  long  before  her),  has 
been  much  read  and  liked.  I  reviewed  it  in  the  Quarterly 
(January,  1874),  and  am  tempted  to  enclose  a  letter  which 
Martha  Somerville  (then  and  always  my  good  friend)  wrote 
about  it : 

<*  From  Miss  Somerville  to  F.  P.  C. 

**22nd  January,  Naples. 

"My  dear  Frances, 

"  I  have  this  morning  reoeived  the  Quarterly  Review  and 
some  slips  from  newspapers.  What  can  I  say  to  express 
my  gratitude  to  you  for  the  article, — so  admirably  written ; 
and  giving  so  touching  a  picture  of  my  Mother, — ^as  you, 
her  best  friend  (notwithstanding  the  great  difference  of  age) 
knew  her?  Also  I  reoeived  lately  the  Academy  which 
pleased  me  much,  too.  The  Memoir  has  been  received  far 
more  favourably  than  I  ventured  to  expect." 

A  long  time  after  this,  I  paid  a  visit  to  friends  at  St. 
Andrews  and  stopped  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  on  my  way. 


ITALY.    1857—1879. 

at  Biimtisland.    Writing  from  thence  to  Miss  Elliot 
own  oountry,  and  ooontrymen,  I  said : — 

"  I  came  here  to  look  up  the  soene  of  Mrs.  Soi  ! 

childhood,  and  I  have  found  everything  just  as  she  <  i 

it; — ^the  Links;  the  pretty  hills  and  woods  foil  i 

flowers ;  the  rooky  hit  of  shore  with  bonlders  f  ol  i 

shells  which  excited  her  childish  wonder  when  she  ^  > 
ahont,  a  heantiful  little  girl,  as  she  must  have  ' 
ever  there  were  a  case  of — 

"  *  NotiriBhiiig  a  yoath  sablima, 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  soienoe  and  the  long  results  of 

it  was  surely  her's.    Very  naturally  I  was  thinkin 
all  day  and  wondering  whether  she  is  now  stud   i 
flora  of  Heaven,  of  which  she  used  to  speak,  and     i 
Astronomy  among  the  stars ;  or  whether  it  can  be    : 
these  things  pass  away  for  ever !    I  wanted  very 
make  out  where  Sir  William  Fairfax'  house  had  b  i 
finally  was  directed  to  the  schoolmaster  who,  it  ^  : 
knew  all  about  it.    I  found  the  good  man  in  a  larg< 
house  where  he  has  600  pupils ;  and  as  soon  as  he  I 
my  name  he  seized  my  hand  and  made  great  dei 
tions ;  and  straightway  proceeded  to  constitute  hin  i 
guide  to  the  localities  in  question.    The  joke  howc  i 
this.   Hardly  were  we  out  of  the  house  before  he  st  i 
send  yon  a  pamphlet  of  mine — not  about  Science, '. 
care  for  Science,  I  care  for  Morals ; — and  I've  f o  i 
there  is  only  a  very  little  thing  to  he  done,  to 
pauperism  and  aU  orime!    You  are  just  the  person  t( 
stand   me  I '     The    idea   of   this  poor   schoolma  i 
Burntisland  compressing  that  modest  progranune 
< pamphlet'    seems   to   me   deliciously   characterii 
Scotland." 

A  college  for  Ladies  was  opened  some  years  ago  at 
and  named  after  Mrs.  Somerville.  I  greatly  rejoiced  at  t 
at  this  very  fitting  tribute  to  her  memory  ;  and  indai 


brotner  to  send  tuB  aaagbter,  my  dear  nieee,  J^  rancee  uonvray 
Cobbe,  to  tlie  Hall.  I  oeaaed  to  rejoice,  however,  when  I 
found  that  a  lad;  bearing  a  name  identified  Titb  '^^visecti<ni 
in  England  was  nominated  for  election  as  a  member  of  tbe 
Council  of  the  College.  I  entered,  (aa  a  Sabscriber,)  the  moat 
vigorona  proteat  I  conld  make  againat  the  propoaed  choice, 
bat,  alas  I  in  vtdn. 

One  of  our  visitors  at  Tilla  Brichieri  was  a  very  pious 
French  lady,  who  came  up  to  na  one  day  to  dinner  straight 
from  her  devotiona  in  the  Dnomo,  where  a  Tridno  was 
going  on  against  Renan ;  and,  as  it  chanced,  she  began  to  praise 
somewhat  excessively  a  lady  of  rank  whoso  reputation  had 
suffered  more  than  one  serious  injury.  My  English  friend 
remarked,  smiling,  in  mitigation  of  the  eulogy : — 

"  EUe  a  euo  ses  petits  d^assemente  I  " 
the  answer  was  deliciously  XYm.  Century — ■ 

"  C'est  CO  qpi  m'occnpe  le  moins.  Fourvn  que  ccla  soit 
fait  aveo  du  Ixm  godt  I  D'ailleors  on  ne  parle  seriensement 
que  de  deux  on  trois.  Le  Prince  deS.,  par  exemple.  Encore 
est  il  mort  celui-l&  I " 

It  was  during  one  of  my  visits  to  Florence  that  I  saw 
IQng  Yictor  Emanuel's  public  entry  into  tlie  city,  which  had 
jnst  elected  him  King.  This  is  how  I  described  the  scene  to 
Harriet  Bt.  Leger : — 

"  Happily  we  had  a  fine  day  for  the  king's  entry  on 
Uooday  last.  It  vras  a  glorious  sight  I  The  beantifid  old 
city  blossomed  out  in  flowers,  fi^s,  garlands,  hangings  and 
gonfalons  beyond  all  English  imagination.  In  every  street 
there  was  a  triumphal  arob,  while  bottlevard*  of  artificial 
trees  loaded  with  oamelias,  ran  from  the  railway  to  tbe 
gate  and  down  Hm  via  Oalsaioli.  Even  tbe  mean  little 
sdmociDlo  de'  Pitti  was  made  into  one  long  arbour  by  twenty 
green  arches  fmstaining  hanging  baakets  of  fiowere.  The 
Pitti  itself  bad  its  ragged  old  face  decked  with  wreaths.    I 


ITALY.    1857—1879. 

had  (he  good  fortune  to  stand  on  a  balcony  oon 
view  of  the  whole  procession.    Victor  Emanuel 
charger  of  Solf erino,  looked — coarse  and  fat  as  h< 
and  a  soldier,  and  more  sympathetic  than  Kings 
Cavour    has  a  Lnther-like  face,  which  wore 
natural  pleasure  at  his  reception.    The  people      i 
mad  with  joy.    They  did  not  cheer  as  we  do,  bu    : 
sort  of  deep  roar  of  ecstacy,  flinging  clouds  of  flo    ; 
the  King's  horse's  feet,  and  seeming  as  if  they  ^ 
themselves   also  from  their  balconies.    Our   1 
Italian  lady,  went  directly  into  hysterics,  and  all 
men  and  women  cried  and  kissed  and  laughed  in  \ 
way.     At   night   there   was    a  marvellous    ill   i 
extending  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  in  eve   ' 
and  cottage  down  the  Val  d*  Amo  and  up  the  sk  • 
Apennines,  where  bonfires  blazed  on  all  the  heigl  i 

In  Florence  my  friends  had  been  principally  HI  i 
and  women.    In  Borne  they  were  chiefly  artists 
Hosmer,  to  whom  I  had  letters,  was  the  first  I  ki  ; 
was  in  those  days  the  most  bewitching  sprite  the  "^  i 
saw.    Never  have  I  laughed  so  helplessly  as  at  tl  i 
fun  of  this  bright  Yankee  girl.     Even  in  later  year 
perforce  grew  a  little  graver,  she  needed  only  to  be  | 
her  descriptive  stories  to  make  us  all  young  again 
not  seen  her  now  for  many  years  since  she  has  re 
America,  nor  yet  any  one  in  the  least  like  her ;  and 
to  hope  to  convey  to  any  reader  the  contagion  of  1: 
ment.     0!  what  a  gift, — beyond  rubies,  are  sue! 
And  what  fools,  what  cruel  fools,  are  those  who  dt 
down  in  children  possessed  of  them  I 

Of  Miss  Hosmer's  sculpture  I  hoped,  and  every  o 
great  things.  Her  Zenobia,  her  Puck,  her  Sleep 
were  beautiful  creations  in  a  very  pure  style  of  art. 
was  lured  away  from  sculpture  by  some  inventic 
own  of  a  mechanical  kind  over  which  many  years  c 


have  beea  lost.  Now  1  believe  She  h&s  achieved  a  fine  statoe 
of  Isabella  of  Spain,  which  has  been  erected  is  Sim  FranciBCo. 
Jealous  rivals  in  Borne  spread  abroad  atone  time  a  slanderous 
etory  that  Harriet  Hosmer  did  not  make  her  own  Btatnes.  I 
have  in  lay  possession  an  antograph  by  her  master,  Qibson, 
which  he  wrote  at  the  time  to  rebnt  this  falsehood,  and  which 
bears  all  the  marks  of  his  quaint  style  of  English  composition. 

"  Finding  that  my  pnpil  Miss  Hosmer's  progress  in  her 
art  begins  to  agitate  some  rivals  of  the  mole  sex,  as  proved 
bythetollowingmalicionswoTdspriiitedin  the  Art  journal; — 

"  *  Zenobia — said  to  be  by  Miss  Hosmet,  bat  really  executed 
by  an  Italian  workman  at  Home  ' ; — 

"  I  feel  it  is  bnt  justice  on  my  part  to  state  that  Miss 
Hosmer  became  my  pnpil  on  her  arrival  at  Borne  from 
America.  I  Boon  found  that  she  had  uncommon  talent 
She  studied  under  my  own  eyes  for  seven  years,  modelling 
from  the  antique  and  ber  own  original  works  from  the  living 
modeb. 

"The  first  report  of  her  Zenobia  was  that  it  was  the  work 
of  Mr.  OibsoD.  Afterwards  that  it  bby  a  Roman  workman. 
So  far  it  is  trae  that  it  was  bnilt  up  by  my  man  from  her 
own  original  small  model,  according  to  the  practice  of  onr 
profession ;  the  long  study  and  finishing  is  by  herself,  like 
every  other  sculptor. 

"If  Miss  Hosmer's  works  were  the  productions  of  other 
artists  and  not  ber  own  there  would  be  in  my  studio  two 
impostors — Miss  Honmer  and  Myself. 

"JOBK    OlBSON,    B.A. 

■'  Rome,  Nov.,  1868." 
Oibson  was  himself  a  most  interesting  person ;  an  old 
Greek  soul,  bom  by  hap-hazurd  in  a  Welsh  village.  He 
had  wondei-folly  little  (for  a  Welshman)  of  anything  like 
what  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  caUa  Hebraism  in  his  composition. 
There  was  a  story  current  among  ns  of  some  one  telling  him 
of  a  bet  which  had  been  made  that  another  member  of  our 


ITALY.    1867—1879.  391 

Boeiety  could  not  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer ;  and  it  was  added 
that  the  party  defied  to  repeat  it  had  begun  (instead  of  it)  with 
a  doggerel  American  prayer  for  children : — 

*'  Before  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 

'^  Ah  I  you  see,"  said  Gibson,  ''  He  did  know  the  Lord's 
Prayer  after  all  I" 

Once  he  sat  by  me  on  the  Pincian  and  said  :  "You  know  I 
don't  often  read  the  Bible,  I  have  my  sculpture  to  attend  to. 
But  I  have  had  to  look  into  it  for  my  bas-relief  of  the  Children 
coming  to  Christ,  and,  do  you  know,  I  find  that  Jesus  Christ 
really  said  a  good  thing  ?  " 

I  smothered  my  laughter,  and  said  :  ^'0  certainly,  Mr. 
Gibson,  a  great  many  excellent  things."  '< Yes! "  he  said  in 
his  slow  way.  ''Yes,  he  did.  There  were  some  people 
called  Pharisees  who  came  and  asked  him  troublesome 
questions.  And  he  said, — he  said, — well,  I  forget  exactly 
what  he  said,  but  'Deeds  not  words,'  was  what  he  meant 
to  say." 

The  exquisite  grace  of  Gibson's  statues  was  all  a  part  of 
the  purity  and  delicacy  of  his  mind.  He  was  in  many  respects 
an  unique  character;  a  simple-hearted  and  single-minded 
worshipper  of  Beauty ;  and  if  my  good  friend  Lady  Eastlake 
had  not  thought  fit  to  prune  his  extraordinarily  quaint  and 
original  Autobiography,  (which  I  have  read  in  the  MS.)  to 
ordinary  book  form  and  modernised  style,  I  believe  it  would 
have  been  deemed  one  of  the  gems  of  original  literature,  like 
Benvenuto  Cellini's,  and  the  renown  of  Gibson  as  a  great 
artist  would  have  been  kept  aUve  thereby. 

A  merry  party,  of  whom  Mr.  Gibson  was  usually  one,  used 
to  meet  frequently  that  winter  at  the  hospitable  table  oi 
Charlotte  Cushman,  the  actress.  She  had,  then,  long  retired 
from  the  stage,  and  had  a  handsome  house  in  the  via 
Gregoriana,  in  which  also  lived  her  friend  Miss  Stebbins  and 


Misg  Hoatner.  Onr  dinserB  of  American  oyst«r8  and  wild 
boar  with  agro-doloe-Bance,  and  d^jeuitere  including  an  awfiil 
refection  menacing  snddan  death,  called  "Woffles,"  eaten 
with  molasses  (of  which  woffles  I  have  seen  five  plates  divided 
between  fonr  American  ladies  I)  were  extremely  hilarions. 
There  was  a  brightness,  freedom  and  joyonsneas  among  these 
gifl»d  Americane,  which  was  qtute  delightful  to  me.  Miss 
Cashman  in  particular  I  greatly  admired  and  respected.  She 
had,  of  coarse,  like  all  actors,  the  acquired  habit  of  giving 
vivid  outward  expression  to  every  emotion,  just  as  we  quiet 
English  ladies  are  taught  &om  our  cradles  to  repress  such 
eigne,  and  to  cultivate  a  calm  demeanour  under  all  emergencies. 
But  this  vivacity  rendered  her  all  the  more  interesting.  She 
often  read  to  us  VLn.  Browning's  or  Lowell's  poetry  in  a  very 
fine  way  indeed.  Some  years  after  this  happyjwinter  a  certun 
celebrate  London  surgeon  pronounced  her  to  be  dying  of  a 
terrible  disease.  She  wished  us  farewell  oour^eonsly,  and 
went  back  to  New  England,  as  we  all  sadly  thought  to  die 
th^e.  The  next  thing  we  heard  of  Charlotte  Cushman  was, 
that  she  bad  returned  to  the  stage  and  was  acting  Meg 
Merrilies  to  immense  and  del^hted  audiences  I  Next  we 
heard  Uiat  she  had  thus  earned  £6,000,  and  that  she  was 
building  a  bouse  with  her  earnings.  Finally  we  learned  that 
the  bouse  was  finished,  and  that  she  was  hving  in  itl  She 
did  so,  and  enjoyed  it  for  some  years  before  the  end  came 
from  other  caused  than  the  one  threatened  by  the  great 
London  surgeon. 

One  day  when  I  bad  been  lunching  at  her  house,  Miss 
Cushman   asked  whether   I   wotdd  drive  with  her  in    hear 


ITALY.    1867—1879.  393 

oyer  a  model  of  her  Arab  horse,  and,  on  hearing  that  I  was 
anxious  to  ride,  she  kindly  offered  to  mount  me  if  I  would  join 
her  in  her  rides  on  the  Campagna.  Then  began  an 
acquaintance,  which  was  further  improved  two  years  later 
when  Miss  Lloyd  came  to  meet  and  help  me  when  I  was  a 
cripple,  at  Aix-les-Bains ;  and  from  that  time,  now  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  she  and  I  have  lived  together.  Of  a  friend- 
ship like  this,  which  has  been  to  my  later  life  what  my 
mother's  affection  was  to  my  youth,  I  shall  not  be  expected 
to  say  more. 

On  my  way  home  through  France  to  Bristol  from  one  of 
my  earlier  journeys  and  before  I  became  crippled,  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  making  for  the  first  time  the  acquaintance  of 
Mdlle.  Rosa  Bonheur.  Miss  Lloyd,  who  knew  her  very 
intimately  and  had  worked  in  her  studio,  gave  me  an 
introduction  to  her  and  I  reported  my  visit  in  a  letter  to  Miss 
Lloyd  in  Borne. 

"  Mdlle  Bonheur  received  me  most  cordially  when  I  sent 
up  your  note.  She  was  working  in  that  most  picturesque 
studio  (at  By,  near  Tbom^ry).  I  had  fancied  from  her 
picture  that  she  was  so  much  taller  and  larger  that  I  hardly 
supposed  that  it  was  she  who  greeted  me,  but  her  face  is 
charming ;  such  fine,  clear  eyes  looking  straight  into  one's 
own,  and  frank  bearing;  an  Englishwoman's  honesty  with 
a  Frenchwoman's  courtesy.  She  spoke  of  you  with  great 
warmth  of  regard ;  remembered  everything  you  had  said, 
and  wanted  to  know  all  about  your  sculpture  studies  in 
Rome.  I  said  it  had  encouraged  me  to  intrude  on  her  to 
hope  I  might  persuade  her  to  fulfil  her  promise  of  stopping 
with  you  next  winter,  and  added  how  very  much  you  wished 
it,  and  described  the  association  she  would  have  with  you, 
sketching  excursions,  hovi^  and  Thalaba"  (Miss  Lloyd's  Arab 
horse).  "  She  said  over  and  over  she  would  not  go  to  Italy 
without  going  to  see  you;  and  that  she  hoped  to  go  soon, 
possibly  next  winter Somehow,  from  talking  of 


thinks  has  a  deeper  poetry  than  the  South,  and  then  to 
Ireland,  where  sbe  wishes  to  go  next  Bommer  ll  hope  stopping 
at  mjr  hrother's  enpa**ant)  and  of  which  conntrj  she  said  such 
beantifal,  dreamy  things  that  even  I  grew  poetic  aboat  oar 
'  Brumes,' — to  which  she  qnickly  applied  the  epithet 
'  grandiose,' — and  our  sea,  looking,  I  said,  like  an  angel's  eye 
with  a  tear  in  it.  At  this  simile  she  was  bo  pleased  that 
we  grew  quite  friends,  and  I  caa  only  hope  she  will  not  see 
that  Bca  on  a  grey  day  and  think  me  an  impostor !  Nothing 
I  liked  abont  her,  so  mnch,  however,  as  her  interest  in 
Hattie  Hosmer,  and  her  delight  in  hearing  abont  her 
Zenobia*  {triumphant)  in  the  Exhibition ;  at  which  report  of 
mine  she  exclaimed :  ■  That  is  the  thing  above  all  others  I 
shall  wish  to  see  in  London  I  Tou  know  I  have  seen  Mian 
Hosmer,  bat  I  have  never  Been  any  of  her  works,  and  I  do 
very  mncb  desire  to  do  so '  .  .  Her  one-eyed  friend  sat 
by  painting  all  the  time.  She  is  not  enticing  to  look  at, 
bnt  I  dare  say,  not  bad.  I  said  I  always  envied  friends 
whom  I  caught  working  together  and  that  I  lived  alone ;  to 
which  she  replied  'Je  vout  plaint  alonl'  in  a  tone  of 
conviction,  showing  that,  in  her  case  at  all  events,  friendship 
was  a  very  pleasant  thing.  Mdlle.  Bonhear  showed  me  three 
or  tonr  fine  pictmes  she  is  painting,  and  some  prints,  but  of 
conrse  I  was  as  stupid  as  nsnal  in  Btndios  and  only  remarked 
(as  a  bofFalo  might  have  done,)  that  Boman  (otrt  were  more 
majestic  and  like  Homeric  Junes  than  those  wiry  Uttle 
Scotch  Bhort-bons  her  seal  delighteth  to  houooc.  Bat  0 1 
she  has  done  a  Dog,  tuek  a  dog  I  Like  Bnsh  in  outward  dog, 
bat  the  inner  sonl  of  him  more  prof  onndly,  unutterably  vrise 
than  tongne  may  tell  I  a  Dog  to  be  set  up  and  worshipped 
as  Annbis.  Certainly  Mdlle.  Bonheur  is  a  finer  artist  than 
Landseer  in  this,  bis  own  line.  I  wish  she  woald  leave  the 
cattle  and  '  go  to  the  dogs.' " 


*  A  BtatneofMlBsHoBmer exhibited  in  London,  porchased  by  ai 
Atuerican  gentleman  for  £1,000. 


ITALY.    1867— 1879,  896 

My  last  journey  bat  one  to  Italy  was  taken  wheu  I  was 
lame ;  and,  after  my  sojourn  at  Aiz-les-Bains,  I  spent  the 
antmnn  in  Florence  and  the  winter  in  Pisa ;  where  I  met 
Cav.  d'  Azeglio  as  above  recorded.  Miss  Lloyd  rejoined  mc 
at  Genoa  in  the  spring  to  help  me  to  return  to  England, 
as  I  was  still  (after  four  years ! )  miserably  helpless.  We 
returned  over  Mont  Cenis  which  had  no  tunnel  through 
it  in  those  days;  and,  on  the  very  summit,  our  carriage 
broke  down.  We  were  in  a  sad  dilemma,  for  I  was 
quite  unable  to  walk  a  hundred  yards ;  but  a  train  ot 
carts  happily  coming  up  and  lending  us  ropes  enough  to 
hold  our  trap  together  for  my  use  alone,  Miss  Lloyd  ran 
down  the  mountain,  and  at  last  we  found  ourselves  safe  at 
the  bottom. 

After  another  very  pleasant  visit  together  to  her  firiend 
Mdlle.  Bosa  Bonheur,  and  many  promises  on  her  part  to 
come  to  us  in  England  (which,  alas  I  she  never  fulfilled)  we 
made  our  way  to  London ;  and,  within  a  few  weeks.  Miss 
Lloyd— one  morning  before  breakfast, — found,  and,  in  an 
incredibly  short  time,  bought  the  dear  little  house  in  South 
Kensington  which  became  our  home  with  few  interruptions 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century ;  No.  26,  Hereford  Square.  It 
was  at  that  time  almost  at  the  end  of  London.  All  up  the 
Gloucester  Road  betweeii  it  and  the  Park  were  market-gardens ; 
and  behind  it  and  alongside  of  it,  where  Bosary  Gkurdens  and 
Wetherby  Place  now  stand,  there  were  large  fields  of  grass 
with  abundance  of  fine  old  lime  trees  and  elms,  and  one 
magnificent  walnut  tree  which  ought  never  to  have  been 
cut  down.  Behind  us  we  had  a  large  piece  of  ground, 
which  we  rented  temporarily  and  called  the  ''  Bound- 
less PrairiSf^'  (1)  where  we  gave  afternoon  tea  to  our  friends 
under  the  limes,  when  they  were  in  bloom.  On  a  part 
of  our  garden  Miss  Lloyd  erected  a  sculptor's  Studio. 
The  House  itself,  though  smaU,  was  very  pretty  and  ury  ; 


m 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


every  room  in  it  lightsome  and  pleasant,  and  somehow 
capable  of  containing  a  good  many  people.  We  often 
had  in  it  as  many  as  50  or  60  guests.  In  short,  I  had 
once  more  a  home,  and  a  most  happy  one ;  and  my  lonely 
wanderings  were  ovar* 


CHAPTER 
XV. 

LONDON  IN   THE   SIXTIES   AND 

SEVENTIES. 

LITERARY    LIFE, 


CHAPTER  XV. 
London  in  the  Sixties  and    Seventibs. — ^Literab7  Iofb. 

For  some  tiine  before  I  took  up  my  abode  in  London  I 
had  been  writing  busily  for  the  press.  When  my  active 
work  at  Bristol  came  to  an  end  and  I  became  for  four  years 
a  cripple,  I  naturally  turned  to  use  my  pen,  and,  finding  from 
my  happy  experience  of  Workhouse  Sketches  in  Macmillan^e 
MagaxvM  that  I  could  make  money  without  much  difficulty, 
I  soon  obtained  almost  as  many  openings  as  I  could  profit 
by  to  add  to  my  income.  I  wrote  a  series  of  articles  for 
Fraser's  Magaxine,  then  edited  by  Mr.  Froude,  who  had 
been  my  brother's  friend  at  Oxford,  and  who  from  that  time 
I  had  the  high  privilege  to  count  as  mine  also.  These  first 
papers  were  sketches  of  Rome,  Cairo,  Athens,  Jerusalem, 
etc. ;  and  they  were  eventually  reprinted  in  a  rather  successfrQ 
Httle  volume  called  Cities  of  the  Past,  now  long  out  of  print. 
I  also  wrote  many  papers  connected  with  women's  affairs 
and  claims,  in  both  MaemUlan  and  Eraser ;  and  these  like- 
wise were  reprinted  in  a  volume ;  Pursmts  of  Women. 
Beside  writing  these  longer  articles,  I  acted  as  ''  Own  Corres- 
pondent" to  the  Daily  News  in  Rome  one  year,  and  in 
Florence  another,  and  sent  a  great  many  articles  to  the 
Spectator f  Economist^  Reader,  &e.  In  short  I  turned  out  (as 
a  painter  would  say)  a  great  many  Pot-BoHers,  These, 
with  my  small  patrimony,  enabled  me  to  bear  the  expense 
of  travelling  and  of  keeping  a  maid ;  a  luxury  which  had 
become  indispensable. 

I  also  at  this  time  edited,  as  I  have  mentioned,  for  Messrs. 
Triibner,  the  12  vols,  of  Parker's  Works,  with  a  Preface. 
The  arraogement  of  the  great  mass  of  miscellaneous  papers 


400  CHAPTER  XV. 

was  very  laborions  and  perplexing,  bat  I  think  I  marBhalled 
the  volumes  fairly  well.  I  did  not  perform  as  folly  as  I 
ought  to  have  done  my  editorial  daty  of  correcting  for  the 
press ;  indeed  I  did  not  understand  that  it  fell  to  my  share, 
or  I  must  have  declined  to  undertake  the  task.  Mr.  Triibner 
paid  me  £50  for  this  editing,  which  I  had  proposed  to  do 
gratuitously. 

I  had  much  at  heart, — from  the  time  I  gave  up  my  practical 
work  among  the  poor  folk  at  Bristol, — ^to  write  again  on 
religious  matters,  and  to  help  so  &r  as  might  be  possible  for 
me  to  clear  a  way  through  the  maze  of  new  controversies 
which,  in  those  days  of  Essays  and  Reviews,  Golenso's 
Pentateuch  and  Benan's  Vie  de  JSsus,  were  remarkably  lively 
and  wide-spread  through  all  classes  of  society.  With  this 
hope,  and  while  spending  a  summer  in  my  crippled  condition 
at  Aix-les-Bains,  and  on  the  DiablerSts,  I  wrote  to  Harriet 
St.  Leger: — 

"  I  am  now  striving  to  write  a  book  about  present  con- 
troversies and  the  future  basis  of  religious  faith.  I  want  to 
do  justice  to  existing  parties,  High,  Low  and  Broad,  yet  to 
show  (as  of  course  I  believe)  that  none  of  them  can  really 
solve  the  problem ;  and  that  the  faith  of  the  future  must 
be  one  not  bated  on  a  special  History,  though  corroborated 
by  all  history.*' 

The  plan  of  this  book — ^named  Broken  Lights — is  as  follows : 
I  discriminate  the  dififerent  sections  of  thinkers  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  answers  they  would  respectively  give  to 
the  supreme  question,  ''  What  are  the  ultimate  grounds  of  our 
faith  in  God,  in  Duty  and  in  LnmortaUty  ?  "  First,  I  dis- 
tinguish between  those  who  hold  those  grounds  to  rest  on 
the  TradUional  Revelation ;  and  those  who  hold  them  to  be 
the  Original  Revelation  of  the  Divine  Spirit  in  each  £edthfnl 
soul.     The  former  are  divided  again,  naturally,  into  those 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    401 

who  take  their  aathoritative  tradition  from  a  Living  Prophet^ 
a  Church,  or  a  Book.  Bat  in  Christian  times  we  have  only 
had  a  few  obscure  prophets  (Montanns,  Joseph  Smith, 
Swedenborg,  Brother  Prince,  Mr.  Harris,  &c.),  and  the  choice 
practically  lies  between  resting  faith  on  a  Church,  or  resting 
it  on  a  Book. 

I  classify  both  the  parties  in  the  English  Church  who  rest 
respectively  on  a  Church  and  on  a  Book,  as  Palaologians , 
the  one,  the  High  Church,  whose  ground  of  religious  faith  is : 
^^The  Bible  autfienticated  and  interpreted  by  the  Church;*' 
and  the  other  the  Low  Church,  whose  theory  is  still  the 
formula  of  Chillingworth ;  *^The  Bible,  and  ^le  Bible  only, 
is  the  religion  of  Protestants.*^ 

But  it  has  come  to  pass  that  all  the  distinctive  doctrines 
of  Christianity  (over  and  above  Theism)  which  the  Tradi- 
tionalists maintain,  are,  in  these  days,  more  or  less  opposed  to 
modem  sentiment,  criticism  and  science ;  and  among  those 
who  adhere  to  them,  one  or  other  attitude  as  regards  this 
opposition  must  be  taken  up.  The  Palseologian  party  in  both 
wings  insists  on  the  old  doctrines  more  or  less  crudely  and 
strictly,  and  would  fain  bend  modem  ideas  to  harmonize  with 
them.  Another  party,  which  is  generally  called  the  Neologian, 
endeavours  to  modify  or  explain  the  old  doctrines,  so  as 
to  harmonize  them  with  the  ethics  and  criticism  of  our 
generation. 

After  a  somewhat  careful  study  of  the  positions,  merits  and 
failures  of  the  two  Palseologian  parties,  I  proceed  to  define 
among  the  Neologians,  the  First  Broad  Church  (of  Maurice 
and  Eingsley),  whose  programme  was  :  <'  To  harmonize  the 
doctrines  of  Church  and  Bible  with  modem  thought."  This 
end  it  attempted  to  reach  by  new  readings  and  interpre- 
tations, consonant  with  the  highest  modem  sentiment ;  but 
it  remained  of  course  obvious,  that  the  supposed  Divinely- 
inspired  Authorities  had  failed  to  convey  the  sense  of  these 

a  c 


had  conveyed  the  reverse.  The  old  received  doctrine  of  an 
eternal  Hell,  for  example,  was  the  at>Boliite  contradiction  of 
the  doctrines  of  Divine  nniversal  love  and  everlasting  Mercj, 
which  the  new  teachers  professed  to  derive  from  the  same 
traditional  aathority.  This  school  emphatically  "pat  the  new 
wine  into  old  bottles  ; "  and  the  scccesa  of  the  experiment 
conld  only  be  temporary,  einca  it  roets  on  the  assumption 
that  Ood  has  miraonlotifily  tanght  men  in  language  which  they 
have,  for  fifty  generations,  uniformly  misinterpreted. 

The  other  branch  of  the  Neologian  party  I  call  the  Second 
Broad  Church  (the  party  of  Stanley  and  Jowett).  It  may 
be  considered  as  forming  the  Extreme  Left  of  the  Bevela- 
tionists ;  the  farthest  from  mere  Anthority  ood  the  nearest  to 
Bationaligm ;  jnst  as  the  High  Church  party  forma  the 
Extreme  lUght ;  the  nearest  to  Anthority  and  forthcBt  &om 
Bationalism.  I  endeavour  to  define  the  difTerence  between  the 
Pint  and  Second  Broad  Churek  parties  as  follows  ;— 

*'  The  First  Broad  Church,  as  we  have  seen,  maintains 
dat  the  doctrinea  of  the  Bible  and  the  Chnrch  can  be 
perfectly  harmonized  with  the  resnlts  of  modern  thooght, 
ty  a  new,  but  Ugitimate  eseegetu  of  tk«  Bible  and  interpre- 
tation of  Ohurek  formtilm.  The  Second  Broad  Chtirch 
aeema  prepared  to  admit  that,  in  many  oases,  they  can  only 
be  harmonized  bg  the  taorifiee  of  Bibieal  ia/allibility.  The 
First  Broad  Chnrch  has  recourse  (to  harmonize  them)  to 
varions  logical  processes,  bnt  prindpaUy  to  that  of 
diverting  the  student,  at  all  difficnlE  points,  from  criticism 
to  edification.  The  Second  Broad  Chnrch  uses  no 
ambignity,  bnt  frankly  avows  that  when  tlio  Bible 
contradicts  Science,  the  Bible  mnst  be  in  error.  The  First 
Broad  Chnrch  maintains  that  the  Inspiration  of  the  Bible 
differs  in  iind  as  well  as  in  degree,  from  that  of  other  hooks. 
The  Second  Broad  Chnrob  appears  to  hold  tliat  it  differa  in 
degree,  bnt  not  in  kind." 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    403 

After  a  considerable  discussion  on  the  varions  doctrines  of 
the  nature  and  limitations  of  Inspiration,  I  ask,  p.  110,  111 : — 

"  Admit  the  Inspiration  of  Prophets  and  Apostles  to  have 
been  substantially  the  same  with  that  always  granted  to 
faithful  souls ; — admit,  therefore,  the  existence  of  a  human 
element  in  Bevelation,  can  we  still  look  to  that  Revelation 
as  the  safe  foundation  for  our  Religion  ?  " 

"  To  this  question  the  leaders  of  the  Second  Broad  Church 
answer  unhesitatingly:  'Yes.  It  has  been  an  egregious 
error  of  modem  times  to  confound  the  Record  of  the 
Revelation  with  the  Revelation  itself,  and  to  assxune  that 
God's  lessons  lose  their  value  because  they  have  been  trans- 
mitted to  OS  through  the  natural  channels  of  human  reason 
and  conscience.  Returning  to  the  true  view,  we  shall  only 
get  rid  of  uncounted  difficulties  and  objections  which  prevent 
the  reception  of  Christianity  by  the  most  honest  minds 
here  in  England  and  in  heathen  countries.*  '* 

But  in  conclusion  I  ask — 

'"What  influence  can  the  Second  Broad  Church 
exercise  on  the  future  religion  of  the  world?  What 
answer  will  it  supply  to  the  doubts  of  the  age,  and  whereon 
would  it  rest  our  faith  in  God  and  Immortality  ? '  The 
reply  seems  to  be  brief.  The  Second  Broad  Church  would, 
like  all  the  other  parties  in  the  Church,  call  on  us  to  rest 
our  faith  on  History;  but  in  their  case,  it  is  History 
corroborated  by  consciousness,  not  opposed  thereto.  In 
the  next  Chapter  it  will  be  my  effort  to  show  that  under 
no  conditions  is  it  probable  that  History  can  afford  us  out 
ultimate  grounds  of  faith.  Meanwhile,  it  must  apx>ear  that 
if  any  form  of  Historical  faith  may  escape  such  a  conclusion 
and  approve  itself  to  mankind  in  time  to  come,  it  is  that 
which  is  proposed  by  the  Second  Broad  Church,  and  which 
it  worthily  presents, — to  the  intellect  by  its  learning,  and 
to  the  religious  sentiment  by  its  profound  and  tender 
piety." — Broken  Lights,  p.  120. 

These  four  parties,  two  PalsBologian  and  two  Noologian, 
thus  examined,  included  between  them  all  the  members  of 


the  Church  of  Esgland,  and  all  the  Orthodox  Dissentera. 
There  remained  the  Sewe,  Roman  Catholice,  Quakers  and 
TTuitarians,  and  of  each  of  these  the  book  contains  a  sketch 
md  criticism  ;  finally  concluding  with  an  exposition  (so  fiur 
OS  I  could  give  it)  of  Theoretic  and  of  Practical  T/ieism. 

The  book  contains  further  two  Appendieeg.  The  first 
treats  of  Bishop  Colenso's  onslaught  on  the  Feotateucb; 
then  greatly  distorbii^  English  orthodoxy.  The  second 
Appendix  deals  with  the  other  most  notable  book  of  that 
period;  Benan's  Vie  de  Jisia.  AAer  mamtaining  that 
Benan  has  failed  in  delineating  his  principal  figure, 
while  he  has  vastly  illuminated  his  environment,  I  give 
with  difiidence  my  own  view  of  Christ,  lest  Traditionalists 
should,  without  contradiction,  assume  that  Renan  has 
given  the  general  Theistic  idea  of  his  character.  After 
referring  to  the  measureless  importance  of  the  palingmeaia  of 
which  Christ  spoke  to  Nicodemus,  I  draw  a  comparison 
between  the  New  Birth  in  the  individual  soul,  and  the 
historically- traceable  results  of  Christ's  life  on  the  human 
race.     (P.  167.) 

"  Taking  the  whole  ancient  world  in  comparison  with  the 
modem,  of  Heathendom  with  Christendom,  the  genertiJ 
character  of  the  two  is  absolntely  analogoos  to  that  which 
in  individuals  we  call  Unregenecate  and  Begeuerate.  Of 
course  there  were  thoasands  of  regenerated  souls,  Hebrew, 
Greek,  Indian,  of  all  nations  and  languages,  before  Christ, 
and  of  course  there  are  luillionB  nnregenerate  now.  But 
nevertheless,  from  this  time  onward  we  traoe  through 
history  a  neic  tpirit  in  the  world ;  a  leaven  working  tbrongh 
the  whole  mass  of  souls.''     .     .     • 

The  language  of  the  old  world  was  one  ot  self-iatisfactum, 
as  its  Art  was  of  completeness.     On  the  other  band  : 

"  The  language  of  the  new  world,  coming  to  us  through 
the  thousand  tongues  of  our  multiform  civilization,  is  one 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SE  VENTIES.  405 

long  cry  of  longing  aapixation :  *  Would  that  I  conld  create 
the  ineffable  Beauty  I  Wonld  that  I  conld  discover  the 
eternal  and  absM>late  Truth  I  Would  I  O,  would  it  were 
possible  to  live  out  the  good,  the  noble,  and  the 
holyl'"    .    .    . 

'*  This  great  phenomenon  of  history  surely  points  to 
some  corresponding  great  event  whereby  the  revolution 
was  accomplished.  There  must  have  been  a  moment  when 
the  old  order  stopped  and  the  new  began.  Some  action 
must  have  taken  place  upon  the  souls  of  men  which  thence* 
forth  started  them  in  a  different  career,  and  opened  the  age 
of  progressive  life.  When  did  this  moment  arrive  ?  What 
was  the  primal  act  of  the  endless  progress  ?  By  whom  was 
that  age  opened  ?  *' 

"  Here  we  have  really  ground  to  go  upon.  There  is  no  need 
to  establish  the  authenticity  or  veracity  of  special  books  or 
harmonize  discordant  narratives  to  obtain  an  answer  to  our 
question.  The  whole  voice  of  human  history  unconsciously 
and  without  premeditation  bears  its  unmistakeable 
testimony.  The  turning  point  between  the  old  world  and 
the  new  was  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  movement. 
The  action  upon  human  nature  which  started  it  on  its  new 
course  was  the  teaching  and  example  of  Christ.  Christ 
was  he  who  opened  the  age  of  endless  progress." 

"  The  view,  therefore,  which  seems  to  be  the  best  fitting 
one  for  our  estimate  of  the  character  of  Christ,  is  that 
which  regards  him  as  the  great  Regenerator  of  Humanity. 
His  coming  woi  to  the  life  of  humanity  what  Regeneration  is  to 
the  life  of  the  individual.  This  is  not  a  conclusion  doubtfully 
deduced  from  questionable  biographies ;  but  a  broad,  plain 
inference  from  the  universal  history  of  our  race.  We  may 
dispute  all  details ;  but  the  grand  result  is  beyond  criticism. 
The  world  has  changed,  and  that  change  is  historically 
traceable  to  Christ.  The  honour,  then,  which  Christ 
demands  of  us  must  be  in  proportion  of  our  estimate  of 
the  value  of  such  Regeneration.  He  is  not  merely  a  Moral 
Reformer  inculcating  pure  ethics ;  not  merely  a  Religious 
Reformer  clearing  away  old  theologio  errors  and  teaching 


406  CHAPTER    XV. 

higher  ideas  of  Ood.  These  things  he  was ;  but  he  might, 
for  all  we  can  tell,  Lave  been  them  both  as  fuUy,  and  yet  have 
failed  to  be  what  he  has  actually  been  to  our  race.  He 
might  have  tanght  the  world  better  ethics  and  better 
theology,  and  yet  have  failed  to  infuse  into  it  that  new  Life 
which  has  ever  since  coursed  through  its  arteries  and 
penetrated  its  minutest  veins." 


Broken  Lights  proved  to  be  (with  the  exception  of  my 
Duties  of  Women)  the  most  successful  of  my  books.  It 
went  through  three  English  editions,  and  I  believe  quite  as 
many  in  America;  but  of  these  last  all  I  knew  was  the 
occasional  present  of  a  single  specimen  copy.  It  was  Ycry 
favourably  reviewed,  but  some  of  my  fellow  Theists  rather 
disapproved  of  the  tribute  I  had  paid  to  Christ  (as  quoted 
above) ;  and  my  good  friend,  Prof.  F.  W.  Newman,  actually 
wrote  a  severe  pamphlet  against  me,  entitled  *'  Hero-Making 
Religion"  It  did  not  alter  my  view.  I  do  not  believe  that 
our  Religion  (the  relation  of  our  souls  to  God)  can  ever 
properly  rest  upon  History.  Nay  I  cannot  understand  how  any 
one  who  knows  the  intricacies  and  obscurities  attendant  on  the 
verification  of  any  ancient  History,  should  for  a  moment  be 
content  to  suppose  that  God  has  required  of  all  men  to  rest 
their  faith  in  Him  on  such  grounds,  or  on  what  others  report 
to  them  of  such  grounds.  In  the  case  of  Christianity,  where 
scholars  like  Benan  and  Martineau — profoundly  learned  in 
ancient  and  obsolete  tongues,  and  equipped  with  the  whole 
arsenal  of  criticism  of  modem  Germany,  France  and  England, 
— can  differ  about  the  age  and  authority  of  the  principal  piSee 
de  conviction  (the  Gospel  of  St.  John),  it  is  truly  preposterous 
to  suggest  that  ordinary  men  and  women  should  form  any 
judgment  at  all  on  the  matter.  The  Ideal  Christ  needs  only 
a  good  heart  to  find  and  love  him.  The  Historical  Christ 
needs  the  best  critic  in  Europe,  a  Lightfoot,  a  Eoenen,  a 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEV.     , 

Mariineau,  to  trace  his  footsteps  on  the  sands  < 
they  differ  as  regards  nearly  every  one  of  theml 
Bat  though  History  cannot  rightly  he  Beligic 
of  Beligion,  there  is,  and  must  he,  a  History  oj    \ 
there  is  a  history  of  geometry  and  astronomy     i 
History  of  the  whole  world's  Religion  the  sup    : 
centres  in  the  record  of 

'*  The  sinless  years 
That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue 

7et,  as  regards  my  own  personal  feeling,  I  mi  : 
the  halo  which  has  gathered  round  Jesus  Christ    I 
to  my  eyes.    I  see  that  he  is  much  more  real  to  i 
friends,  both  Orthodox  and  Unitarian,  than  he  c  : 
me.    There  is  nothing,  no,  not  one  single  sentei  ! 
attributed  to  him  of  which  (if  we  open  our  mindf  I 
we  can  feel  sufficiently  certain  to  base  on  it    i 
conclusion,   and    this   to  me   envelopes  him  i  i 
Each  Christian  age  has  indeed,  (as  I  remark  in 
LighiB)^  seen  a  Christ  of  its  own ;  so  that  we  c 
students  in  the  future  arguing  that  there  mu8 
«  several  Christs,"  as  old  scholars  held  there  i 
Zoroasters  and  several  Buddhas.     Just  as  Mich 
Christ  was  the  production  of  that  dark  and  ston 
first  his  awful  form  loomed  out  of  the  shadows  oi 
in  no  less  a  degree  do  the  portraits  of  Ecce  He 
Vie  de  Jesus  belong  to  our  era  of  sentiment  and  p 
We  have  no  sun-made  photograph  of  his  features 
wavering  image  of  them  as  may  have  rested  on  1 
Galilee,  rippling  in  the  breeze.     I  must  not  how* 
prolong  these  reflections  on  a  subject  discussed  U 
my  poor  ability  in  my  more  serious  books. 

After  Bboken  Liohts,  I  wrote  the  sequel :  Dat 
just  quoted  above.     In  the  first  I  had  endeavour^ 


4U8  CHAPTER  XV. 

the  Conditions  and  Prospects  of  religious  belief.  In  the  second 
I  speculated  on  the  Results  of  the  changes  which  were  taking 
place  in  various  articles  of  that  belief.  The  chapters  deal 
consecutively  with  Changes  in  the  Method  of  Theology, — in 
the  Idea  of  Qod ;  in  the  Idea  of  Christ;  in  the  Doctrine  of  Sin, 
theoretical  and  practical ;  in  the  idea  of  the  Relation  of  this 
life  to  the  next ;  in  the  idea  of  the  Perfect  Life ;  in  the  Idea  of 
Happiness ;  in  the  Doctrine  of  Prayer ;  in  the  Idea  of  Death ; 
and  in  the  Doctrine  of  the  eternity  of  Punishment. 

This  book  also  was  fairly  successful,  and  went  into  a 
second  edition. 

Somewhere  about  this  time  (I  have  no  exact  record)  I 
edited  a  littie  book  called  Alone  to  the  AUme^  consisting  of 
private  prayers  for  Theists.  It  contains  contributions  from 
fifteen  men  and  women,  of  Prayers,  mostiy  written  for 
personal  use,  before  the  idea  of  the  book  had  been  suggested, 
under  the  influence  of  those  occasional  deeper  insights  and 
more  fervent  feelings  which  all  religious  persons  desire  to 
perpetuate.  They  are  all  anonymous.  In  the  Preface  I  say 
that  the  result  of  such  a  compilation, 

'*  *  Is  necessarily  altogether  imperfect  and  fragmentary, 
but  in  the  great  solitude  where  most  of  us  pass  our  lives  as 
regards  our  deeper  emotions,  it  may  be  more  helpful  to 
know  that  other  human  hearts  are  feeling  as  we  feel,  and 
thinking  as  we  think,  rather  than  to  read  far  nobler  words 
which  come  to  us  only  as  echoes  of  the  Past.'  The  book 
is  *  designed  for  the  use  of  those  who  desire  to  cultivate  the 
feelings  which  culminate  in  Prayer,  but  who  find  the  rich 
and  beautiful  collections  of  the  Churches  of  Christendom  no 
longer  available,  either  because  of  the  doctrines  whose 
acceptance  they  imply  or  of  the  nature  of  the  requests  to 
which  they  give  utterance.  Adequately  to  replace  in  a 
generation,  or  in  several  generations,  such  books,  through 
which  the  piety  of  ages  has  been  poured,  is  wholly  beyond 
hope ;  and  the  ambition  to  do  so  would  betray  ignorance  of 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.   409 

the  way  in  which  these  precious  drops  are  distilled  slowly 
year  after  year,  from  the  great  Incense-tree  of  humanity.'  *' 

The  remainder  of  the  Preface,  which  is  somewhat  lengthy, 
discusses  the  validity  of  Prayer  for  the  attainment  of 
spiritual  (not  physical)  benefits.  It  concludes  thus — 
p.  xzxvi. 

"  And,  lastly,  if  Religion  is  still  to  be  to  mankind  in  the 
future  what  it  has  been  in  the  past,  it  must  still  be  a 
religion  of  Prayer.  Nothing  is  changed  in  human  nature 
because  it  has  outgrown  some  of  the  errors  of  the  past. 
The  spiritual  experience  of  the  saintly  souls  of  old  was 
true  and  real  experience,  even  when  their  intellectual 
creeds  were  full  of  mistakes.  By  the  gate  through  which 
they  entered  the  paradise  of  love  and  peace,  even  by  that 
same  narrow  portal  of  Prayer  must  we  pass  into  it.  No 
present  or  future  discoveries  in  science  will  ever  transmute 
the  moral  dross  in  human  nature  into  the  pure  gold  of 
virtue.  No  spectrum  analysis  of  the  light  of  the  nebula} 
will  enable  us  to  find  God.  If  we  are  to  be  made  holy,  wo 
must  ask  the  Holy  One  to  sanctify  us.  If  we  are  to  know 
the  infinite  joy  of  Divine  Love,  we  must  seek  it  in  Divine 


communion." 


This  book  was  first  published  in  1871 ;  one  of  the  years  of 
the  rising  tide  of  liberal-religious  hope.  A  third  edition  was 
called  for  in  1881,  when  the  ebb  had  set  in.  In  a  short 
Preface  to  this  third  edition  I  notice  this  fact,  and  say  that 
those  hopes  were  doubtless  all  too  hasty  for  the  slow  order 
of  Divine  things. 

"Nay,  it  would  seem  that,  far  from  the  inmiediate 
aurora  of  such  a  morning,  the  world  is  destined  first  to 
endure  a  great '  horror  of  darkness,*  and  to  pass  through 
the  dreary  and  disaster-laden  experience  of  a  night  of 
materialism  and  agnosticism.  Perhaps  it  will  only  be  when 
men  have  seen  with  their  eyes  bow  the  universe  appears 


41U  CHAPTER   XV. 

without  a  tbonght  of  God  to  illomino  its  dark  places,  and 
ganged  for  themselves  where  human  life  will  sink  without 
hope  of  immortality  to  elevate  it,  that  they  will  reoognise 
aright  the  unutterable  predousness  of  religion.  Faith, 
when  restored  after  such  an  eclipse,  will  be  prized  as  it  has 
never  been  prized  heretofore.    •    .    . 

'*  And  Faith  mtut  return  to  mankind  sooner  or  later.  So 
sure  as  God  m,  so  sure  must  it  be  that  he  will  not  finally 
leave  his  creatures,  whom  he  has  led  upward  for  thousands 
of  years,  to  lose  sight  of  him  altogether,  or  to  be  drowned 
for  ever  in  the  slough  of  atheism  and  oarnalism.  lie  will 
doubtless  reveal  himself  afresh  to  the  souls  of  men  in  his 
own  time  and  in  his  own  way, — whether,  as  of  old,  through 
prophet-souls  filled  with  inspiration,  or  by  other  methods 
yet  unknown.  God  is  over  us,  and  Heaven  is  waiting  for 
us  all  the  same,  even  though  all  the  men  of  science  in 
Europe  unite  to  tell  us  there  is  only  Matter  in  the  universe, 
and  only  corruption  in  the  grave.  Atheism  may  prevail  for 
a  night,  but  faith  cometh  in  the  morning.  Theism  is 
*  bound  to  win  *  at  last ;  not  necessarily  that  special  type 
of  Theism  which  our  poor  thoughts  in  this  generation  have 
striven  to  define ;  but  that  great  fundamental  faith, — ^the 
needful  substructure  of  every  other  possible  religious  faith 
— the  faith  in  a  Righteous  and  loving  God,  and  in  a  life  for 
man  beyond  the  tomb." 

The  book  contains  72  Prayers ;  half  of  which  refer  to 
the  outer  and  half  to  the  inner  life.  Among  the  former,  are 
Noon  and  Sunset  prayers;  thanksgivings  for  the  love  of 
firiends,  and  for  the  beauty  of  the  world;  also  a  Prayer 
respecting  the  sufferings  of  animals  from  human  cruelty.  In 
the  second  part  some  of  the  Prayers  are  named,  *'  In  the 
Wilderness";  "On  the  Right  Way";  "God  afar  off"; 
"Doubt  and  Faith";  ''Fiat  Lux**;  ''Fiat  Pax**; 
"Thanksgiving  for  ReligiouB  Truth";  "For  Pardon  of  a 
Caxeless  Life  "  ;  "  For  a  Devoted  Life  " ;  "  Joy  in  God  "  : 
"  Here  and  Hereafter," 


LONDON  IN  THS  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES,    4U 

I  never  expected  that  more  than  a  very  few  friends  wonld 
have  cared  for  this  hook,  and  in  &ot  printed  it  with  the 
intention  of  abnost  private  circnlation ;  hnt  it  has  heen  con- 
tinaonsly,  though  slowly,  called  for  during  the  28  years  which 
have  elapsed  since  it  was  compiled. 

I  wrote  the  essays  included  in  the  volume  ''  Hopes  of  the 
Human  Bade/'  in  1878-1874.  This  has  run  through  several 
editions.  The  long  Introduction  to  this  hook  was  written 
immediately  after  the  publication  of  Mr.  Mill's  Essay  on 
Religion ;  a  most  important  work  of  which  Miss  Taylor  had 
kindly  put  the  proof  sheets  in  my  hands,  and  to  which  I  was 
eagerly  anxious  to  offer  such  rejoinder  from  the  side  of  faith 
as  might  be  in  my  power.  Whether  I  succeeded  in  making 
an  adequate  reply  in  the  fifty  pages  I  devoted  to  the  subject,  I 
cannot  presume  to  say.  The  Pessimist  side,  taken  by  Mr. 
Mill  has  been  gaining  ground  ever  since,  but  there  are 
symptoms  that  a  reaction  is  taking  place,  beginning  (of  aU 
countries  I)  in  France.  I  conclude  this  Preface  thus — 
p.  58. 

*<  But  I  quit  the  ungracious,  and,  in  my  case,  most 
ungrateful,  task  of  offering  my  feeble  protest  against  the 
last  words  given  to  ns  by  a  man  so  good  and  great,  that 
even  his  mistakes  and  deficiencies  (as  I  needs  must  deem 
them)  are  more  instructive  to  us  than  a  million  platitudes 
and  truisms  of  teachers  whom  his  transcendent  intellectual 
honesty  should  put  to  the  blush,  and  whose  souls  never 
kindled  with  a  spark  of  the  generous  ardour  for  the  welfare 
of  his  race  which  flamed  in  his  noble  heart  and  animated 
his  entire  career." 

The  book  contains  two  long  Essays  on  the  Life  after 
Death  contributed  originally  to  the  Theological  Review,  In 
the  first  of  these,  after  stating  at  length  the  reasons  for 
vupposing  that  human  existence  ends  at  death,  I  ask: 
^  What  have  we  to  place  against  them  in  the  scale  of 


Hope  ?  >a<i  1  begiD  bjr  observing  that  all  Uie  nsau 
argnmects  for  immortality  involve  at  Uie  crucial  point  the 
assumption  that  we  possess  some  guarantee  that  mankind 
will  not  be  deceived,  that  Justice  will  eventually  trinmph 
and  that  hnman  affairs  are  the  concern  of  a  Power  whose 
purposes  oaimot  foil.  Were  the  faith  which  supplies  snah 
warrant  to  ftul,  the  whole  stroctore  raised  npon  it  moat  fall 
to  ths  groond.  Belief  in  Immortality  is,  pre-eminently 
a  matter  of  Faith ;  a  corollary  from  faith  in  God.  To 
imagine  that  wa  can  reach  it  by  any  other  road  is  vain. 
Heaven  will  always  be  (as  Dr.  Klartineau  has  siud)  "  a  part 
of  oar  Religion,  not  a  Branch  of  onr  Qeograpby."  Bat  in 
addressing  men  and  women  who  believe  In  God's  Jnstice 
and  Love,  I  hope  to  show  that,  not  by  one  only  bat  by 
many  convergent  lines,  Faith  nniformly  points  to  a  Life 
after  Death ;  and  that  if  we  follow  her  guidance  in  any 
one  direction  implicitly,  we  are  invariably  conducted  to  the 
same  conclusion.  Nay  more  ;  we  cannot  stop  short  of  this 
conelnsion  and  retain  entire  faith  in  any  thing  beyond  the 
experience  of  the  senses.  Every  idea  of  Justice,  of  Love 
and  of  Duty  is  tmncated  if  we  deny  to  it  the  extension 
of  eternity ;  and  as  for  onr  conception  of  God  himself,  I  see 
not  how  any  one  who  has  realised  the  dread  darkness  of  "  the 
riddle  of  the  piunfnl  earth,"  can  call  him  "  Good  "  unless  he 
can  look  forward  to  the  solution  of  that  problem  hereafter. 
The  following  are  channels  throngh  which  Faith  inevitably 
flows  towards  Lnmortolity : 

1st.  The  human  race  longs  for  Justice.  Even  "  if  the 
Heavens  fall,"  we  feel  Justice  ought  to  be  done.  All  litera- 
ture, from  ^schyluH  and  Job  to  onr  own  time,  has  for  its 
highest  theme  the  trinmph  of  Justice,  or  the  tragedy  of  tiie 
disappointment  of  human  hope  thereof.  But  where  did 
we  obtain  this  idea  ?  The  world  has  never  seen  a  Beign  of 
Injustice  and  Cruelty  prevail  lar^y,  even  now  in 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AtrD  SEVEl 

the  world  ;  and  as  we  go  back  up  the  stream  of  I 
ages  where  Might  was  more  completely  dominant 
the  case  was  worse  and  worse.     Where  then,  did 
his  idea  that  the  Power  ruling  the  world, — Zens, 
or    Ormusd, — was    Just?     Not  only    could   n 
experience  have  caused  the  "  set  of  our  brains  "  1 
expectation  of  Justice,  but  experience,  under  maxr 
of  society,  pointed  quite  the  other  way.     It  is  s 
an3rthing    can    be    so    reckoned)  the  Divine  spii 
which  causes  him  to  love  Justice,  and  to  beliei 
Maker  is  just,  for  it  is  inconceivable  how  he  « 
arrived  at  such  fiuth  otherwise.     But  if  death 
of  human  existence  this  expectation  of  justice  ha 
a  miserable  delusion.     God  has  created  us,  poor  * 
the  dust,  to  love  and  hope  for  Justice,  but  He  } 
disregarded  it,  on  the  scale  of  a  disappointed  wo 
referring  to  the  thousands  of  cases  where  the  bac 
successful  and  peacefully,  and  the  good,—  like  Gh: 
perished  in  misery  and  agony,  I  say  ''  boldly  an< 
the  more  reverently :  Either  Man  is  Immortal 
not  JusL*^ 

2nd.  The  second  line  of  thought  leading  us  t 
Immortality  is, — that  if  there  be  no  future  life, 
millions  of  human  beings  whose  existence  has  ai 
purpose  which  we  can  rationaUy  attribute  t<i  a 
merciful  God.  He  is  a  baffled  God,  if  His  c: 
extinguished  before  reaching  some  end  which 
possibly  have  designed. 

8rd.  The  incompleteness  of  the  noblest  part  of. 
so  strange  a  contrast  to  the  perfection  of  the  oth 
creation  that  we  are  drawn  to  conclude  that  the  h 
is  only  a  bud  to  blossom  out  into  full  flower  here 
man  has  ever  in  his  life  reached  the  plentitude 
strength  aTid  beauty  of  which  his  nature  gives  pi 


414  CHAPTER  XV. 

garden  wherein  all  the  bnds  should  perish  before  blooming, 
would  be  more  hideous  than  a  desert,  and  such  a  garden  is 
God's  world  if  man  dies  for  ever  when  we  see  him  no  more 
4ih.  Human  love  urges  an  appeal  io  Faith  which  has  been 
to  millions  of  hearts  the  most  conclusive  of  all. 

"  To  think  of  the  one  whose  innermost  self  is  to  us  the 
world's  chief  treasure,  the  most  beautiful  and  blessed  thing 
Gk>d  ever  made,  aud  believe  that  at  any  moment  that  mind 
and  heart  may  cease  to  be,  and  become  only  a  memory, 
every  noble  gift  and  grace  extinct,  and  all  the  fond  love  for 
ourselves  forgotten  for  ever, — this  is  such  agony,  that  having 
once  known  it  we  should  never  dare  again  to  open  our 
hearts  to  affection,  unless  some  ray  of  hope  should  dawn  for 
us  beyond  the  grave.  Love  would  be  the  curse  of  mortality 
were  it  to  bring  always  with  it  such  unutterable  pain  of 
anxiety,  and  the  knowledge  that  every  hour  which  knitted  our 
heart  more  closely  to  our  friend  also  brought  us  nearer  to  an 
eternal  separation.  Better  never  to  have  ascended  to  that 
high  Vita  Nuova  where  self-love  is  lost  in  another's  weali 
better  to  have  lived  like  the  cattle  which  browse  and  sleep 
while  they  wait  the  butcher's  knife,  than  to  endure  such 
despair. 

**  But  is  there  nothing  in  us  which  refuses  to  believe  all 
this  nightmare  of  the  final  sundering  of  loving  hearts? 
Love  itself  seems  to  announce  itself  as  an  eternal  thing.  It 
has  such  an  element  of  infinity  in  its  tenderness,  that  it 
never  fails  to  seek  for  itself  an  expression  beyond  the  limits 
of  time,  and  we  talk,  even  when  we  know  not  what  we  mean, 
of  "  undying  affection,*'  "  immortal  love."  It  is  the  only 
passion  which  in  the  nature  of  things  we  can  carry  <vith  us 
into  another  world,  and  it  is  fit  to  be  prolonged,  intensified, 
glorified  for  ever.  It  is  not  so  much  a  joy  we  may  take  with 
us,  as  the  only  joy  which  can  make  any  world  a  heaven 
when  the  affections  of  earth  shall  be  perfected  in  the 
supreme  love  of  God.  It  is  the  sentiment  which  we  share 
with  God,  and  by  which  we  live  in  Him  and  He  in  us.  All 
its  beautiful  tenderness,  its  noble  self -forgetfulness,  its  pure 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEN! 

and  ineffable  delight,  are  the  rays  of  God's  Sm 
reflected  in  our  souk. 

"Is  all  this  to  end  in  two  poor  heaps  of  si 
decaying  slowly  in  their  coffins  side  by  side  in  t 
If  so,  let  ns  have  done  with  prating  of  any  Faith  i 
or  Earth.    We  are  mocked  by  a  fiend.*' — (Hopes ,  ] 

5th.  A  remarkable  argument  is  to  be  fonnd  in  Pr 
Newman's  Theism  (p.  75).  It  insists  on  the  fact  t 
men  have  certainly  loved  God  and  that  God  must  L 
in  retnm  (else  Man  wore  better  than  God) ;  and 
reasonably  infer  that  those  whom  God  loves  are  deatl 
wonld  the  Divine  Blessedness  be  imperfect,  nay,  ''  a 
gulf  of  ever-increasing  sorrow." 

6th.  The  extreme  variability  of  the  common  hum 
that  the  "  soul  of  man  never  dies  "  makes  it  difficult  t 
its  proper  evidential  value,  stiU  it  seems  to  have  the 
a  genuine  instinct^     It  begins  early,  though  (probabl 
the  earliest  stage  of  human  development.     It  at 
maximum  among  the  highest  races  of  mankind  (tl 
Aryan,  early  Persian  and  Egyptian).     It  projects  sue 
and  even  contrasted  ideals  of  the  other  life  (e.g.,  Yall 
Nirvana)  that  it  cannot  well  have  been  borrowed  by  < 
from  another  but  must  have  sprung  up  in  each  indig 
Finally  the  instinct  begins  to    falter  in  ages  of 
sciousness  and  criticism. 

7th,  lastly.  The  most  perfect  and  direct  faith  in  Lnn 
belongs  to  saintly  souls  who  personally  feel  that  tb 
entered  into  relations  with  the  Divine  Spirit  wh 
never  end.  ''  Faith  in  Ood  and  in  our  eternal  Uni 
Him"  said  one  such  devout  man  to  me,  *^are  not  two 
bul  one. *'  "  Thou  wilt  not  leave  my  soul  in  Hades .  Tl 
guide  me  by  thy  counsel  and  afterwards  receive  me  to  < 

"  Such,  for  a  few  blessed  souls,  seems  to  be  the 
evidence  of   things  not  seen.'    But  can  their  fui 


snpply  onr  lack  ?  Caa  we  see  with  theii  e jes  and  belJera 
on  theit  report  ?  It  is  only  possible  in  a  very  inferioi 
measare.  Yet  if  one  own  spiritual  lite  have  receivecl  even 
some  faint  gleams  of  the  'ligbt  which  never  came  from 
snn  or  star,'  then,  once  more,  wilt  oar  faith  point  the  way 
to  Immortality;  for  we  shall  know  in  what  manner  sncli 
truths  come  to  the  sonl,  and  be  able  to  tmat  that  what  ia 
dawn  to  ns  may  be  snnrise  to  those  who  have  journeyed 
nearer  to  the  East  than  we ;  who  have  snrmonnted  Duty 
more  perfectly,  or  passed  throagh  rivera  of  afBiction  into 
which  onr  feet  have  never  dipped.  God  cannot  liavo 
deluded  them  in  their  sacred  hope  of  His  eternal  Love.  If 
tbcir  experienoe  be  a  dream  all  prayer  and  cemmnuion  may 
be  dreams  likewise." 

In  conclusion,  whUe  eommendrng  to  the  reader's 
consideration  what  appears  to  me  the  true  method  of  solvmg 
the  problem  of  a  Life  afW  Death,  I  point  to  the  fact  that  on 
the  answer  to  that  question  mast  hang  the  alternative,  not 
only  of  the  hope  or  despair  of  the  Hnman  Baoe,  but  of  the 
^ory  or  Uie  failure  of  the  whole  EosmoB,  so  far  as  onr  utter- 
most vision  can  extend. 

"  Lions  and  ei^les,  oaks  and  roees,  may  he  good  after 
their  kind ;  bnt  it  the  summit  and  crown  of  the  whole  work, 
the  being  in  whose  consoiontoess  it  is  all  mirrored,  be 
worse  than  incomplete  and  imperfect,  an  nndeveloped 
embryo,  an  acorn  mouldered  in  its  shell,  a  bad  blighted  by 
the  frost,  then  must  the  entire  world  be  deemed  a  failure 
also.  Now,  Man  can  only  be  reckoned  on  any  ground  as  a 
provuionally  successful  work  ;  successfnl,  that  is,  provided 
we  regard  him  as  in  tramitu,  on  his  way  to  another  and  far 
more  perfect  etoi^e  of  dovolopmoot.  We  are  content  that 
the  egg,  the  larva,  the  bud,  the  half-painted  canvas,  the 
rough  scaffolding,  nhoald  only  faintly  indicate  what  will  be 
the  future  bird  and  butterfly  and  flower  and  picture  and 
temple.  And  thus  to  look  on  man  (as  by  some  deep  insight 
be  baa  almost  nniversally  Fc<;arded  himself)  as  a  '  sojourner 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.   417 

npon  earth,'  npon  his  way  to  'another  country,  even  a 
heavenly,*  destined  to  complete  his  pilgrimage  and  mako 
up  for  all  his  shortcomings  elsewhere,  is  to  leave  a 
margin  for  believing  him  to  be  even  now  a  Divine  work 
in  its  embryonic  stage.  But  if  we  close  out  this  view 
of  the  future,  and  assure  ourselves  that  nothing  more  is 
ever  to  be  expected  of  him  than  what  we  knew  him  to  be 
during  the  last  days  of  his  mortal  life;  if  we  are  to  believe 
we  have  seen  the  best  development  which  his  intellect  and 
heart,  his  powers  of  knowing,  feeling,  enjoying,  loving, 
blessing  and  being  blessed,  will  ever  obtain  whilo  the 
heavens  endure, — ^then,  indeed,  is  the  conclusion  inevitable 
and  final.  Man  is  a  Failure,  the  consummate  faUure  of 
creation.  Everything  else, — star,  ocean,  mountain,  forest, 
bird,  beast  and  insect — has  a  sort  of  completeness  and 
perfection.  It  is  fitting  in  its  own  place,  and  it  gives  no  hint 
that  it  ought  to  be  other  than  it  is.  <  Every  Lion,*  as 
Parker  has  said,  *  is  a  type  of  all  lionhood ;  but  there  is  no 
Man  who  is  a  type  of  all  Manhood.'  Even  the  best  and 
greatest  of  men  have  only  been  imperfect  types  of  a  single 
phase  of  manhood — of  the  saint,  the  hero,  the  sage,  the 
philanthropist,  the  poet,  the  friend, — ^never  of  the  full- 
orbed  man  who  should  be  all  these  together.  If  each  perish 
at  death,  then, — ^as  the  seeds  of  all  these  varied  forms  of  good 
are  in  each, — every  one  is  cut  off  prematurely,  blighted, 
spoiled.  Nor  is  this  criterion  of  success  or  failure 
solely  applicable  to  our  small  planet ;  a  mere  spark  thrown 
off  the  wheel  whereon  a  million  suns  are  turned  into  space. 
It  is  easy  to  believe  that  much  loftier  beings,  possessed  of 
far  greater  mental  and  moral  powers  than  our  own,  inhabit 
other  realms  of  immensity.  But  Thought  and  Love  are, 
after  all,  the  grandest  things  which  any  world  can  show ; 
and  if  a  whole  race  endowed  with  them  should  prove  such 
a  failure  as  death-extinguished  Mankind  would  undoubtedly 
be,  there  remains  no  reason  why  all  the  spheres  of  the 
universe  should  not  be  similar  scenes  of  disappointment 
and  frustration,  and  creation  itself  one  huge  blunder  and 
mishap.    In  vain  may  the  President  of  the  British  Gongress 

3  D 


the  mateci&l  tmivcTBe  unrolling  iteell  '  from  ont  of  the 
pnmal  nebaU's  fiei;  clond.'  Siidb  and  planets  swarming 
throngh  tha  abysses  of  space  are  bat  whirling  sepalchrea 
after  all,  if,  while  no  grain  of  dost  is  shaken  from  off 
their  rolling  aides,  the  oonsciona  aonla  of  whom  they 
have  been  the  palaces  are  all  for  ever  losta  Spreading 
continents  and  flowing  sobs,  soaring  Alps  and  fertile 
plains  are  worse  than  failures,  if  we,  evea  we,  poor 
feeble,  nnfnl,  dim-eyed  oreatnres  that  we  ore,  shall  evet: 
'vanish  like  the  streak  of  morning  clond  in  the  infinite 
azure  of  the  past.'  " 

The  second  part  of  this  esaay  diecnsseB  the  possible 
condition*  of  the  Iilfe  after  Deatli.  I  cannot  summarize  it 
here. 

The  rest  of  the  volume  consists  ol  a  sermon  vhiob  I 
read  at  Clerkenwell  Unitarian  Chapel,  in  1878,  entitled 
"Doomed  to  bt  Saved."  I  desoribe  the  disastrouB  moral 
conse^nenees  to  a  man  in  old  times  who  believed  himself 
to  have  sold  his  aool  to  the  Evil  One,  and  to  have  cast 
himself  off  &om  God's  Goodness  for  ever ;  and  I  contrast 
this  with  what  we  onght  to  feel  when  we  recognize  that 
we  are  Doomed  to  be  Suc^ff— destdiied<  irretrievably  to  be 
broDght  back,  in  this  life  or  in  far  fatnre  lives,  from 
all  our  wanderings  in  remorse  and  penitence  to  Uio  feet 
of  God. 

The  book  concludes  with  an  Essay  on  the  Evolution  of  the 
Soeuii  SaUiment,  in  which  I  maiatain  that  the  primary  human 
feeling  in  tho  savage  which  still  lingers  in  Hie  Aryan  child, 
is  not  Sjrmpathy  wiUi  sofferii^,  bnt  quite  an  opposite,  angry 
and  even  omel  sen^ent,  which  I  have  named  Heteropathij  ; 
which  inspires  brutes  and  birds  to  kill  their  wounded  or 
diseased  companions.  Halfway  aflier  tbis,  comes  Aversion; 
and  last  of  all.  Sympathy, — slowly  extending  from  the 
mother's  "  pity  for  the  son  of  her  womb,"  to  the  Family, 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    419 

the  Tribe,  the  Nation,  and  the  Human  Race ;  and,  at  last  to 
the  Brates.     I  oondnde  thus : 

"  Snoh  is,  I  believe,  the  great  Hope  of  the  human  raoe. 
It  does  not  lie  in  the  progress  of  the  intellect,  or  in  the 
conquest  of  fresh  powers  over  the  realms  of  nature ;  not 
in  the  improvement  of  laws,  or  the  more  harmonious 
Adjustment  of  the  relations  of  classes  and  states;  not  in 
the  glories  of  Art,  or  the  triumphs  of  Science.  All  these 
things  may,  and  doubtless  will,  adorn  the  better  and 
happier  ages  of  the  future.  But  that  which  will  truly 
constitute  the  blessedness  of  Man  will  be  the  gradual  dying 
out  of  his  tiger  passions,  his  cruelty  and  his  selfishness,  and 
the  growth  within  him  of  the  god-hke  faculty  of  love  and 
self-sacrifice;  the  development  of  that  holiest  Sympathy 
wherein  all  souls  shall  blend  at  last,  like  the  tints  of  the 
rainbow  which  the  Seer  beheld  aronnd  the  great  White 
Throne  on  high.*' 

Beside  these  theological  works  I  published  more  recently 
two  slight  volumes  on  cognate  subjects  :  A  Faithless  Worlds 
and  Health  and  Holiness,  I  wrote  "A  Faithless  World'* 
(first  published  in  the  Contemporary  Beview)  in  reply  to 
Sir  Fit2James  Stephen's  remark  in  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
No.  88,  that  "We  get  on  very  well  without  religion" 
.  .  •  •  "Love,  Friendship,  Ambition,  Science,  literature, 
art,  politics,  commerce,  and  a  thousand  other  matters  will  go 
equally  well  as  far  as  I  can  see,  whether  there  is  or  is  not 
a  God  and  a  future  state."  I  examine  this  view  in  detail 
and  conclude  that  instead  of  life  remaining  (in  the  event  of 
the  fall  of  religion)  to  most  people  much  what  it  is  at  present, 
there  would,  on  the  contrary,  be  actually  nothing  which 
would  be  left  unchanged  by  such  a  catastrophe. 

I  sent  a  copy  of  this  article  when  first  published,  (as  I  was 
bound  in  courtesy  to  do),  to  Sir  James,  whom  I  had  often 
met,  and  whose  brother  and  sister  were  my  kind  friends. 


t«mpt«d  to  give  his  letter. 

"  82,  De  Tere  Oardena,  W. 
*■  My  deM  Mies  Cohbe, 

"  I  am  mnoh  obliged  by  yont  note  »tid  by  the  article  in 
tbe  Contemporary,  which  is  perfectly  fair  in  itself  and  full  of 
kind  things  about  myself  perBonoUy. 

"  The  tmbjeot  ia  too  large  to  vrite  abont,  and  I  am  only 
too  glad  to  take  both  the  letter  and  tbe  article  in  the  spirit 
in  which  they  were  written  and  ask  no  further  discuBsian. 

"  It  seems  to  me  very  posaible  that  there  may  be  a  good 
deal  of  truth  in  what  yon  suggest  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
difference  between  the  points  of  view  from  which  we  look  at 
these  things,  bat  it  is  not  unnatural  that  1  should  think  you 
rather  exaggerate  the  amount  of  snfieriog  aod  sorrow  whicli 
is  to  be  found  in  the  world.    I  may  do  tlie  opposite. 

"  However  that  may  be,  thank  you  heartily  for  both  yoOT 
letter  and  your  article. 

"  I  am  sore  you  will  have  been  grieved  to  hear  of  poor 
Heary  Dicey' s  death.  His  life  had  been  practically 
desi>aired  of  tot  a  considerable  time. 

"  I  am,  ever  sincerely  yours, 

"J.  F.  Stephlh." 

Several  of  these  books  of  mine,  dealing  with  religioua 
subjects,  were  translated  into  French  and  pubBshed  by  my 
French  and  Swiss  fallow -religionists,  and  also  in  Danish  by 
friends  at  Copenhagen.  Le  Monde  Sana  Religion ;  Coup  d'ceil 
«w  U  Monde  d  Vemr ;  L'Hvmaniti  deitinSe  au  Salut;  La 
Matfon  tur  It  Bivage ;  Sevl  aeec  Dieu  (Geneva  Cberboliez, 
1881),  En  Verden  vdai  Tro,  ftc,  &a. 

But  all  the  time  during  the  intervals  of  writing  these 
theological  books,  I  employed  myeeli  in  studying  and  writing 
on  various  other  sal^ects  of  temporary  or  durable  interesU 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    491 

£  eontribnted  a  large  number  of  artiolee  to  the  following 
periodicals : — 

The  Quarterly  Beview  (then  edited  by  Sir  William  Smith). 

The  Contemporary  Review  (edited  by  Mr.  Bunting). 

Fraser^s  Mctgazine  (edited  by  Mr.  Fronde). 

ComhiU  Magtvsme  (edited  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen!. 

Th^  Fortnightly  Beview  (edited  by  Mr.  Morley). 

MacmiUan*s  Magweine  (edited  by  Mr.  Masson). 

The  Theological  Beview  (Unitarian  Organ,  edited  by 
Rev.  0.  Beard). 

The  Modem  Beview  (UmtBTiBn,  edited  by  Bev.  B.  Armstrong). 

Hie  New  Quarterly  Magazine  (edited  by  W.  Oswald 
Crawford). 

One  collection  of  these  articles  was  published  by  Triibner 
in  1665,  entitled  Studies  New  and  Old  on  Ethical  and  Social 
Stibjeete ;  (1  vol.,  crown  8vo.,  pp.  466).  Thin  volume  begins 
with  an  elaborate  study  of  *'  Christian  Ethics  and  the  Ethics  of 
Christ  *'  {Theological  Bevieto,  September,  1869),  which  I  have 
often  wished  to  reprint  in  a  separate  form.  Also  a  very 
long  and  careful  study  of  the  Sacred  Books  of  the  Zoroastrians, 
which  brought  me  the  visits  and  friendships  of  a  very 
interesting  Parsee  gentleman,  NowrosjeeFurdooi^jee,  President 
of  the  Bombay  Parsee  Society,  and  of  another  Parsee 
gentleman  resident  in  London.  Both  expressed  their  entire 
approval  of  my  representation  of  their  religion. 

These  Studies  also  contain  a  long  paper  on  the  Philosophy 
of  the  Poor  Laws,  which,  as  I  have  narrated  in  a  previous 
chapter,  fell  into  fertile  soil  on  the  mind  of  an  Australian 
gentleman  and  caused  the  introduction  of  some  of  tho 
reforms  I  advocated  into  the  Poor  Law  system  of  New  South 
Wales. 

There  were  also  in  this  volume  articles  on  *' Hades**: 
on  the  "  Morals  of  Literature  " ;  and  on  the  "  Hierarchy 
of  Art**  which  perhaps   have  some  value;   but  |   have 


not  ot  late  years  eared  to  press  the  book,  uid  hiiv« 
not  icdnded  it  in  Mr.  Fisher  TJnwin'a  Be-ifisoe  of  1898 
on  aoeoimt  of  the  pf^ter  it  eontains  on  "Thi  Sight*  of 
Han  and  the  Claitiu  of  Bmta."  This  article,  whieh 
appeared  first  in  Fraur'f  Magainne,  Nov.,  1868,  was  my 
earliest  efibrt  (so  Ear  as  I  know,  the  first  effort  of  anybody) 
to  work  out  the  very  obsonre  and  difficolt  ethical  problem  to 
which  it  refers,  in  answer  to  the  demands  of  Viviseetors. 
I  am  not  satisfied  wiUi  the  position  I  took  ap  in  this  p^ner. 
In  the  Uiir^  years  which  have  el^ised  since  I  wrote  it,  my 
thoughts  have  been  greatly  exercised  on  the  snltjeot,  and  I 
think  I  see  the  "Clums  of  Brates"  more  clearly,  and  find 
them  higher  than  I  did.  But,  though  I  behove  that  I  ezpresaed 
the  most  advanced  opinion  of  Aat  time  on  the  dnty  of  Han  to 
the  lower  animals,  and  of  the  offeuee  of  ernelty  towards  them, 
I  here  enter  my  eavtat  against  the  quotation  of  this  artiole 
(as  was  lately  done  by  a  zealous  Zoophilist)  ae  if  it  still 
repreeented  exactly  what  I  think  on  ttie  enbjeet  after 
pondtting  upon  it  for  thirty  years,  and  taking  part  in  the 
Anti-vivisection  crusade  for  two  entire  decades. 

I  have  mentioned  this  matter  especially,  because  it  is  of 
some  importance  to  me,  and  also  because  I  do  not  find  that 
there  is  any  other  opinion  which  I  have  ever  published 
in  any  book  w  article,  on  morals  or  religion,  whieh  I  now 
desire  to  withdraw,  or  even  of  whidi  I  care  to  modify  the 
expreasion.  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  me  at  the  end  of  a 
long  and  bnsy  literary  lifb,  to  feel  that  I  have  never  written 
anything  of  which  I  repent,  or  which  Z  wish  to  onsay. 

A  eoUeetion  of  minor  articles,  with  several  fresh  pap^v 
of  a  lighter  sort,— an  AUtgory,  The  Spectral  Bout,  £c. — was 
also  pnblisbed  by  Trabn«r  in  1867,  under  the  name  ot  Houn 
tf  Work  and  Play. 

In  1872  Messrs.  Williams  A  Norgate  publisfaod  a  rather 
\argo  eolleotion  of  my  Essays,  under  the  name  of  Darmnum 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    423 

in  Morals  and  other  Essays,  The  first'  is  a  review  of  the 
theory  of  ethics  expounded  in  Darwin's  Descent  of  Man.  I 
argae  that  the  moral  history  of  mankind  (so  far  aa  it  is 
known  to  us)  gives  no  support  whatever  to  Mr.  Darwin's 
hypothesis  that  Conscience  is  the  result  of  certain  contingencies 
in  our  development,  and  that  it  might,  at  an  earlier  stage, 
have  been  moulded  into  quite  another  form,  causing  Good  to 
appear  to  us  Evil,  and  Evil  Good. 

**  I  think  we  have  a  right  to  say  that  the  suggestionB 
offered  hy  the  highest  scientific  intellects  of  our  time  to 
account  for  its  existence  on  principles  which  shall  leave  it 
on  the  level  of  other  instincts,  have  failed  to  approve 
themselves  as  true  to  the  facts  of  the  case.  And  I  think, 
therefore,  that  we  are  called  on  to  believe  still  in  the  validity 
of  our  own  moral  consciousness,  even  as  we  believe  in  the 
valdity  of  our  other  faculties;  and  to  rest  in  the  faith 
(well-nigh  universal)  of  the  human  race,  in  a  fixed  and 
supreme  Law,  of  which  the  will  of  Qod  is  the  embodiment 
and  Conscience  the  Divine  transcript.*'  —  Darwinism  in 
Mcralsy  p.  82. 

In  this  same  volume  (included  in  the  re-issue)  are  essays 
on  Hereditary  Piety  (a  review  of  Mr.  Galton's  Hereditary 
Ge)dus);  one  on  The  Religion  of  Childhood,  on  Robertson's  Life  ; 
on  ''A  French  Theist"  (M.  P6caut) ;  and  a  series  of  studies 
on  Eastern  Beligions ;  including  reviews  of  Mr.  Ferguson's 
Trie  and  Serpent  Worship  (with  which  Mr.  F.  was  so  pleased 
thst  he  made  me  a  present,  of  his  magnificent  book) ; 
limsen's  God  in  History,  Max  MuUer's  Chips  from  a  Oerman 
Workshop,  and  Mrs.  Manning's  Ancient  and  Mediaval  India, 
Each  of  these  is  a  careful  essay  on  one  or  other  of  the 
oriental  faiths  referring  to  many  other  books  on  each  subject. 
B-side  these  there  are  in  the  same  volume  two  articles  on 
Unconscious  Cerebration  and  Breams^  which  excited  some 
iLterest  in  their  day  ;  and  seem  to  me  (if  I  be  not  misled  by 


of  late  years  abont  Uio  "  subliminal "  or  "  enbjective " 
conseiouBaeBB. 

In  1876,  HOBBTS.  Ward,  Lock  &  Tylar,  for  whose  New 
Quarterly  Magaeine  I  bad  written  two  long  articles  on 
AnimaU  in  FahU  and  Art  and  the  Fauna  of  Fancy,  ukod 
my  consent  to  Te-pablisbing  them  in  their  Cotmtry  Hotiu 
lAbrary.  To  this  I  gladl;  agreed,  adding  my  article  in  the 
Quarterly  Beeieus  on  the  Coiudtmmeat  of  Dogt ;  and  that  in 
the  ComhiU  :  "  Dogi  whom  I  have  m^t."  The  volume  was 
prettSy  got  np,  and  pablished  under  the  name  of  "FaJte 
Beaatt  and  Trtu." 

From  the  close  of  1874,  when  I  ondertook  the  Anti- 
viTiseetioii  cmsade,  my  hterary  activity  dwindled  down 
rapidly  to  small  proportions.  In  the  conrse  of  eight  years  I 
wrote  enongh  magazine  articles  to  fill  one  Tolnma,  published 
in  1882,  and  containing  essays  on  Magnaninunu  Alhasm; 
Peisimwn  and  Om  of  ite  Profewon,  and  a  few  other  paoers, 
of  which  the  moat  important, — the  Ptak  tn  Darien, — gives 
its  name  to  the  book.  It  is  an  argument,  (with  many  facts 
cited  in  its  support,)  for  believing  that  the  dying,  as  they  are 
passing  the  threshold,  not  seldom  become  aware  of  the 
presence  of  beloved  ones  waiting  for  them  in  the  new  state  of 
existence  which  they  are  actually  entering. 

After  this  book  I  wrote  little  for  some  years,  but  in  18^  I 
was  asked  to  contribnte  an  article  to  the  Vniversal  lieview 
on  the  Scientific  Spirit  of  the  Age.  I  gladly  acceded,  but  fte 
Editor  desired  to  cut  down  my  MS.,  so  I  published  it  a£  a 
book  with  a  few  other  older  papers;  notably  one  on  tde 
2Wi«  Mouee  and  the  Country  Mouie;  a  half-humorons  atuJy 
of  the  pros  and  com  of  Life  in  London,  and  Life  in  a 
Connlry-honBe. 

After  this,  again,  1  published  two  editions  of  a  little 
compilation,  the  "  Friend  of  Man  and  Hie  Friend*  the  Poete ;  '* 


a  couecHDo  ywna  roimmg  commeauuy;  oi  rotasm 
and  coimtrieB  reUtiog  to  Dogs,  which  were 
thought,  to  ud  tay  poor,  fonr-footed  friends' 
sympathy  and  reepoot. 

Of  my  temumng  books,  the  DutUi  of  Women 
Modem  Back  I  shall  speak  in  the  chapters  which  ri 
r   wnric    (or    Wntnan.    and   the     Atitj-' 


CHAPTER 


xvn. 


MY  LIFE    IN  LONDON 
IN   THE   SIXTIES   AND   SEVENTIES 

SOCIAL. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 
London  in  thb  Sixtiss  and  Seventies. — Social  Life. 

When  we  had  settled  down,  as  we  did  rapidly,  into  out 
pretty  little  honse  in  South  Kensington,  we  began  soon  to 
enjoy  many  social  pleasures  of  a  quiet  kind.  Into  Society 
(with  a  big  8!),  we  had  no  pretensions  to  enter,  but  we  had 
many  firiends,  very  genuine  and  delightful  ones,  ere  long ;  and 
a  great  many  interesting  acquaintances.  Happily  death  has 
spared  not  a  few  of  these  until  now,  and,  of  course,  of  them  I 
shall  not  write  here ;  but  of  some  of  those  who  have  **  gone  over 
to  the  majority  "  I  shall  venture  to  record  my  recollections, 
interspersed  in  some  cases  with  their  letters.  I  may  premise 
that  we  were  much  given  to  dining  out,  but  not  to  attending 
late  evening  parties;  and  that  in  our  small  way  we  gave 
little  dinners  now  and  then,  and  occasionally  afternoon  and 
evening  parties, — the  former  held  sometimes  in  summer 
under  the  lime  trees  behind  our  house.  I  attribute  my 
long  retention  of  good  health  to  my  persistence  in  going 
to  bed  before  eleven  o'clock,  and  never  accepting  late 
invitations. 

I  hope  I  shall  be  acquitted  of  the  presumption  of  pre- 
tending to  offer  in  the  scrappy  souvenirs  I  shall  now  put 
together  any  important  contribution  to  the  memoirs  of  the 
future.  At  best,  a  woman's  knowledge  of  the  eminent  men 
whom  she  only  meets  at  dinner-parties,  and  perhaps  in 
occasional  quiet  afternoon  visits,  is  not  to  be  compared  to 
that  of  their  associates  in  their  clubs,  in  Parliament  and  in 
all  the  work  of  the  world.  Nevertheless  as  all  of  us,  human 
beings,  resemble  diamonds  in  having  several  distinct  facets 
to  our  characters,  and  as  we  always  turn  one  of  those  to  one 


444  CHAPTER  XVll. 

person  and  another  to  another,  there  is  generally  some  fresh 
side  to  be  seen  in  a  particularly  brilliant  gem.  The  relation 
too,  which  a  good  and  kindly  man  (and  such  I  am  happy  to 
say  were  most  of  my  acquaintances)  bears  to  a  woman  who 
is  neither  his  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife  or  potential  wife, 
but  merely  a  reasonably  intelligent  listener  and  companion 
of  restful  hours,  is  so  different  from  that  which  he  holds 
to  his  masculine  fellow  workers, — ^rivals,  allies  or  enemies 
as  they  may  be, — that  it  can  rarely  happen  but  thai 
she  sees  him  in  quite  a  different  light  from  theirs. 
Englishmen  are  not  eaten  up  with  InvidMy  like 
Italians  and  Frenchmen,  such  as  made  D'Azeglio  say  to 
me  that  it  was  a  positive  danger  to  a  statesman  to  win  a 
battle,  or  gain  a  diplomatic  triumph,  so  much  envy  did  it 
excite  among  his  own  party.  In  our  country,  men,  and  still 
more  emphatically,  women,  glory  enthusiastically  in  the 
successes  of  their  friends,  if  not  of  others.  But  the  masculine 
mind,  so  &r  as  I  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  it,  (as  George 
Eliot  says,  "  it  is  always  so  superior — what  there  is  of  it  I "), 
is  not  so  quick  in  gathering  impressions  of  character  as 
ours  of  the  softer  (and  therefore,  I  suppose,  more  wax- 
like) sex ;  and  when  fifty  men  have  said  their  say  on  a  great 
man  I  should  always  wish  to  hear  dleo  what  the  women  who 
knew  him  socially  had  to  add  to  their  testimony.  In  short, 
dear  Fanny  Eemble's  ''  Old  WamamCe  Gossip  "  seems  to  me 
admissible  on  the  subject  of  the  character  and  **  little  ways  " 
of  everybody  worthy  of  record. 

It  was  certainly  an  advantage  to  us  in  London  to  be,  aa 
we  were,  without  any  kind  of  ulterior  aim  or  object  in 
meeting  our  friends  and  acquaintances,  beyond  the  pleasure 
of  the  hour.  We  never  had  anything  in  view  in  the  way  of 
social  ambition ;  not  even  daughters  to  bring  out  f  It  was  not 
**  de  VArt  pour  VArt"  but  la  Societk  pour  la  Soeiit^,  and 
nothing  beyond  the  amusement  of  the  particular  day  and 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.  445 

the  iniereat  of  the  aeqnaintaiieeships  we  had  the  good  fortune 
to  make.  We  had  no  rank  or  dignity  of  any  kind  to  keep 
up.  I  think  hardly  any  of  our  friends  and  habituf^  even 
knew  who  we  were,  from  Burke's  point  of  view !  I  was 
really  pleased  once,  after  I  had  heen  living  for  years  in 
London,  to  find  at  a  large  dinner-party,  where  at  least  half 
the  company  were  my  acquaintances,  that  not  one  present 
suspected  that  I  had  any  connection  with  Ireland  at  all. 
Our  host  (a  very  prominent  M.P.  at  the  time)  having  by 
chance  elicited  from  me  some  information  on  Irish  a£fairs, 
asked  me,  "  What  do  you  know  about  Ireland  ?  "  "  Simply 
that  the  first  86  years  of  my  life  were  spent  there,"  was  my 
reply ;  which  drew  forth  a  general  expression  of  surprise. 
The  few  who  had  troubled  themselves  to  think  who  I  was, 
had  taken  it  for  granted  that  I  belonged  to  a  family  of 
the  same  name,  mtmcs  the  final  letter,  in  Oxfordshire.  In 
a  country  neighbourhood  the  one  prominent  fact  about  me, 
known  and  repeated  to  everyone,  would  have  been  that 
I  was  the  daughter  of  Charles  Cobbe  of  Newbridge. 
I  was  proud  to  be  accepted  and,  I  hope,  liked,  on  the 
strength  of  my  own  talk  and  books,  not  on  that  of  my 
father's  acres. 

We  did  not  (of  course)  live  in  London  all  the  year  round, 
but  came  every  summer  to  Wales  to  enable  my  friend  to  look 
after  her  estate ;  and  I  went  every  two  or  three  years  to 
Ireland,  and  more  frequently  to  the  houses  of  my  two  brothers 
in  £ngland,^Mau}den  Bectory,  in  Bedfordshire,  and  Easton 
Lyss,  near  Petersfield, — where  they  respectively  lived,  and 
where  both  they  and  their  wives  were  always  ready  to  welcome 
me  affectionately.  I  also  paid  occasional  visits  at  two  or 
three  country  houses,  notably  Broadlands  and  Aston 
Clinton,  where  I  was  most  kindly  invited  by  the  beloved 
owners ;  and  twice  or  three  times  we  let  our  house  for  a 
term,  and  went  to  live  on  one  occasion  in  Oheyne  Walk,  and 


446  CHAPTER   XVII . 

another  time  at  Byfleet.  We  always  fell  back,  however,  on 
our  dear  little  house  in  Hereford  Square,  tiU  we  let  it  finally 
to  our  old  firiend  Mrs.  Eemble,  and  left  London  for  good  in 
the  spring  of  1884. 

I  think  the  first  real  acquaintances  wo  made  in  London 
(whether  through  Mrs.  Somerville  or  otherwise  I  cannot 
recall)  were  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Lyell,  and  their  brother 
and  sister,  Col.  and  Mrs.  Lyell.  The  house,  No.  78,  Harley 
Street — in  after  years  noticeable  by  its  bright  blue  door,  (so 
painted  to  catch  Sir  Charles'  fietding  eyesight  on  his  return 
firom  his  daily  walks),  became  very  dear  to  us,  and  I  confess 
to  a  pang  when  it  was  taken  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gladstone  after 
the  death  of  our  dear  old  Mends.  Like  Lord  Shaftesbury's 
house  in  Grosvenor  Square,  pulled  down  aftier  his  death  and 
replaced  by  a  brand  new  mansion  in  the  latest  Londonesque 
architecture,  there  was  a  "bad-dreaminess"  about  both 
transformation  scenes.  The  Lyells  regularly  attended  Mr. 
Martineau's  chapel  in  Little  Portland  Street,  as  we  did ;  and 
ere  long  it  became  a  habit  for  us  to  adjourn  after  the  service 
to  Harley  Street  and  spend  some  of  the  aftiemoon  with  our 
friends,  discussing  the  large  supply  of  mental  food  which  our 
pastor  never  failed  to  lay  before  us.  Those  were  never-to- 
be-forgotten  Sundays. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell  realised  to  my  mind  the  Man  of  Science 
a£i  he  was  of  old ;  devout,  and  yet  entirely  free-thinking  in 
the  true  sense ;  filled  with  admiring,  almost  adoring  love  for 
Nature,  and  also  (all  the  more  for  that  enthusiasm),  simple 
and  fresh-hearted  as  a  child.  When  a  good  story  had  tickled 
him  he  would  come  and  tell  it  to  us  with  infinite  relish.  I 
recollect  especially  his  delight  in  an  American  boy  (I  think 
somehow  connected  with  our  friend  Mr.  Herman  Merivale), 
who,  being  directed  to  say  his  prayers  night  and  morning, 
replied  that  he  had  no  objection  to  do  so  at  nighty  but 
thought  that ''  a  boy  who  is  worth  anything  can  take  care  of 


J 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    447 

himself  hy  day.'**  Another  time  we  had  been  disoiusing 
Evolution,  and  some  of  as  had  betrayed  the  impression  that 
the  doctrine,  (which  he  had  then  recently  adopted),  involved 
always  the  snrvival  of  the  best^  as  well  as  of  the  "  fittest.*' 
Sir  Charles  left  the  room  and  went  downstairs,  but  suddenly 
rushed  back  into  the  drawing-room,  and  said  to  me  all  in  a 
breath,  standing  on  the  rug :  <'  1*11  explain  it  to  you  in  one 
minute!  Suppose  you  had  been  living  in  Spain  three 
hundred  years  ago,  and  had  had  a  sister  who  was  a  perfectly 
common-place  person,  and  believed  everything  she  was  told. 
Well !  your  sister  would  have  been  happily  married  and  had 
a  numerous  progeny,  and  that  would  have  been  the  survival 
of  the  fittest ;  but  you  would  have  been  burnt  at  an  atUo- 
da-fif  and  there  would  have  been  an  end  of  you.  You 
would  have  been  unsuited  to  your  environment.  There! 
that's  Evolution !  Good-bye !  "  On  went  his  hat,  and  we 
heard  the  hall  door  close  after  him  before  we  had  done 
laughing. 

Sir  Charles'  interest  in  his  own  particular  science  was 
eager  as  that  of  a  boy.  One  day  I  had  a  long  conversation 
with  him  at  his  brother.  Colonel  Lyell's  hospitable  house,  on 
the  subject  of  the  Glacial  period.  He  told  me  that  he  was 
employing  regular  calculators  at  Greenwich  to  make  out  the 
results  of  the  ice-cap  and  how  it  would  affect  land  and  sea ; 
whether  it  would  cause  double  tides,  &c.  He  said  he  had 
pointed  out  (what  no  one  else  had  noticed)  that  the  water  to 
form  this  Ice-cap  did  not  come  firom  another  planet,  but 
must  have  been  deducted  from  the  rest  of  the  water  on 


*  Not  quite  so  good  a  story  as  that  of  another  American  child 
who,  having  been  naughty  and  pxmished,  was  sent  np  to  her  room 
by  her  mother  and  told  to  ask  for  forgiveness.  On  retoming 
downstairs  the  mother  asked  her  whether  she  had  done  as  she 
had  directed  ?  **  Oh  yes !  Mama,"  answered  the  child,  "  And  God 
iaid  to  me,  Pray  don*t  mention  it.  Mist  Perkins  t  " 


448  OR  AFTER   XVIL 

the  globe.  Another  day  I  met  him  at  a  very  imposing 
private  concert  in  Regent's  Park.  The  following  is  my 
description  of  our  conversation  in  a  letter  to  my  friend, 
Miss  Elliot : — 

"  Sir  Charles  sat  beside  me  yesterday  at  a  great  mndeal 
party  at  the  D.*s,  and  I  asked  him, '  Did  he  like  mnsic  ?  * 
He  said,  '  Tes !  for  it  allowed  him  to  goon  thinking  his  own 
thoughts,*  And  so  he  evidently  did,  while  they  were  singing 
Mendelssohn  and  Handel  I  At  every  interval  he  tnmed  to 
me  *Agassiz  has  made  a  discovery.  I  can't  sleep  for 
thinking  of  it.  He  finds  traces  of  the  Glaciers  in  tropical 
America.'  (Here  intervened  a  sacred  song.)  *Well,  as 
I  was  saying,  you  know  280,000  years  ago  the  eccentricity 
of  the  earth's  orbit  was  at  one  of  its  maximum  periods ; 
and  we  were  11,000,000  miles  farther  from  the  sxm  in 
winter,  and  the  cold  of  those  winters  most  have  been 
intense ;  becaase  heat  varies,  not  according  to  direct  ratio, 
but  the  squares  of  the  distances.*  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  but 
then  the  sunmiers  were  as  much  hotter  ? '  (Sacred  song.) 
'  No,  the  summers  wem't  t  They  could  not  have  conquered 
the  cold.'  '  Then  you  think  that  the  astronomical 
230,000  years  corresponded  with  the  glacial  period?  Is 
that  time  enough  for  all  the  strata  since  ? '  (Handel.)  *  I 
don't  know.  Perhaps  we  must  go  back  to  the  still  greater 
period  of  the  eccentricity  of  the  orbit  three  million  years 
ago.  Then  we  were  14  millions  of  miles  out  of  the  circular 
path.  (Mendelssohn.)  *  Good-bye,  dear  Sir  Charles — I 
must  be  off.' 

**  Another  day  last  week,  he  came  and  sat  with  me  for 
two  hours.  I  would  not  light  candles,  and  we  got  very 
deep  into  talk.  I  was  greatly  comforted  and  instructed  by 
all  he  said.  I  asked  him  how  the  modem  attacks  on  tho 
argument  from  Design  in  Nature,  and  Darwin's  views, 
touched  him  religiously?  He  replied,  *Not  at  all.'  Ho 
thought  the  proofs  in  Nature  of  the  Divine  Goodness  quite 
triumphant;  and  that  he  watched  with  secret  pleasure 
even  sceptical  men  of  science  whenever  they  forget  their 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEN 

theories,  instinctiyely  using  phrases,  all  im^lym 
wisdom.** 

I  remember  on  another  occasion  Sir  Charles 
with  mnch  glee  of  two  eminent  Agnostic  friends  o 
had  been  discussing  some  question  for  a  long  i 
one  said  to  the  other,  ''  Yon  are  getting  very  teU 
To  which  the  friend  responded,  ^'  I  can't  help  it  I  * 

At  another  of  his  much  prized  visits  to  me  (j 
1866)  he  spoke  earnestly  of  the  fritore  life,  and 
memorable  remark  of  which  I  took  a  note :  ''  The 
advance  in  science,  the  less  the  mere  physical  dif 
believing  in  immortality  disturb  me.  I  have  leam< 
nothing  too  amazing  to  be  within  the  order  of  Nati 

The  great  inequalities  in  the  conditions  of  me 
sufferings  of  many  seemed  to  be  his  strongest  r 
believing  in  another  life.  He  added  :  ''  Aristotle 
every  creature  has  its  instincts  given  by  its  Creator 
instinct  leads  to  its  good.  Now  the  belief  in  imn 
an  instinct  tending  to  good." 

After  the  death  of  his  beloved  wife — the  truest "  1  i 
ever  man  possessed — ^he  became  even  more  absorl  i 
problem  of  a  friture  existence,  and  very  frequently  i 
talked  with  me  on  the  subject.  The  last  time  I  1 1 
conversation  with  him  was  not  long  before  his  de  i 
we  met  one  sweet  autumn  day  by  chance  in  Bege : 
not  far  from  the  Zoological  Gardens.  We  sat  dow ; 
tree  and  had  a  long  discussion  of  the  validity  ol 
faith.     I  think  his  argument  culminated  in  this  posi  I 

**The  presumption  is  enormous  that  all  our 
though  liable  to  err,  are  true  in  the  main,  and  poi 
objects.  The  religious  faculty  in  man  is  one  of  the 
of  all.  It  existed  in  the  earliest  ages,  and  ii 
wearing  out  before  advancing  civilization,  it  grow! 
and  stronger;  and  is,  to-day,  more  developed  a; 


nignen  ibimb  idslh  ever  n  was  oeiore.    i  tnmK  we  maj 
safely  trast  that  it  pomta  to  a  great  tmtb." 

Here  is  another  glimpse  of  him  from  a  letter : — 

**  Aftei  Berrice  I  went  to  Hatley  Street,  Sir  Charles,  I 
thonght,  looking  better  than  for  a  long  time.  He  thinkB  ths 
caves  of  Anrignao  oan  never  be  need  aa  evidence ;  the 
witnesses  were  all  tampered  with  from  the  firrt.  He  saw  a 
skeleton  foond  at  Mentone  IS  feet  deep,  which  be  thinks  of 
the  same  ^o  as  the  Gibraltar  caves.  Ibe  legs  were 
distinctly  platyonemio,  and  there  was  also  a  cnrioos  prooeas 
on  the  front  of  the  sbonlder — like  the  breast  of  a  chicken. 
The  skull  was  hdl-eizcd  and  good.  I  asked  bim  bow  he 
accounted  tor  the  fact  that  with  the  best  will  in  the  world 
we  could  not  find  the  Uatt  differenoe  between  the  most 
an<aent  skolls  and  onr  own  ?  He  said  the  theory  bad  been 
snf^ested  that  all  the  first  growth  went  to  brain,  so  Usai 
very  early  men  acqnired  large  brains,  as  was  neoessary. 
This  is  not  very  Darwinian,  is  it  ?  " 

It  is  the  destiny  of  all  books  of  Science  to  be  soon 
snpersoded  and  saperannoated,  while  those  of  Literatare  may 
live  for  aU  time.  I  suppose  Sir  Charles  Lyell's  PTincipUi 
of  Geology  has  undergone,  or  will  undergo,  this  fate  ere 
lotut ',  but  the  magnanimity  and  candour  which  made  bim,  in 
issuing  the  10th  edition  of  that  book,  abjure  all  his  previons 
arguments  against  Evolution  and  candidly  own  himself 
Darwin's  convert,  was  an  evidence  of  genuine  loyalty  to  truth 
which  I  trust  can  never  be  quite  forgotten.  He  was,  as 
Prof.  Huxley  called  him,  the  "  greatest  Geologist  of  his  day," 
— the  man  "  who  found  Geology  an  infant  science  feebly 
contending  for  a  few  scattered  truths,  and  left  it  a  giant, 
grasping  ell  the  ages  of  the  past."  But  to  my  memory 
he  will  always  bo  something  more  than  an  eminent  man  of 
Science.  Ha  waa  the  type  of  what  tuch  men  ought  to  be : 
with  the  simplicity,  hnmility  and  gentleness  which  should  be 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SB  VI 

characteristic  of  the  true  student  of  Nature.     ( 
like  arrogance  of  some  representatives  of  the  mo 
spirit  he  had  not  a  taint.     In  one  of  his  last 
he  said  : 

"  I  am  told  that  the  same  philosophy  whi 
to  a  belief  in  a  future  state  undertakes  to  proi 
one  of  our  acts  and  thoughts  are  the  neoes 
antecedent  eyents,  and  conditions  and  that  th 
such  thing  as  Free-will  in  man.  I  am  quite 
both  doctrines  should  stand  on  the  same  fou 
as  I  cannot  help  being  convinced  that  I  have 
exerting  Free-wiU,  however  great  a  mystery  tl 
of  this  may  be,  so  the  continuance  of  a  spirit 
be  true,  however  inexplicable  or  incapable  of  ] 

"I  am  told  by  some  that  if  any  of   our 
beliefs  make  us  happier  and  lead  us  to  estimt 
more  highly,  we  ought  to  be  careful  not  to  i 
establish  any  scientific  truths  which  would  less 
our  estimate  of  Man's  place  in  Nature ;  in  shoi  i 
do  nothing  to  disturb  any  man's  faith,  if  it  b  i 
which  increases  his  happiness. 

"But  I  hope  and  believe  that  the  die ; 
propagation  of  every  truth,  and  the  dispelli  i 
error  tends  to  improve  and  better  the  oondit  i 
though  the  act  of  reforming  old  opinions  caui  i 
pain  and  misery.** 

It  will  give  me  pleasure  if  these  few  reminisce ! 
honoured  friend  send  fresh  readers  to  his  excellent  i 
biography  by  his  sister-in-law  Mrs.  Lyell,  Li. 
sister,  who  was  also  his  brother,  Colonel  Lyell'ii 
mother  of  Sir  Leonard  Lyell,  M.P. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Dr.  Colenso  during  th 
spent  in  England ;  I  think  about  1864-5.  He  li^i 
in  a  small  house  in  Sussex  Place,  Glo'ster  Road  (i 
Place,  Onslow  Square),  where  his  large  family  o 


i92  CHAPTER    XVIL 

daaghiers  practised  the  piano  below  stairs  and  produced 
detonations  with  chemicals  above,  while  visitors  called 
incessantly,  interrupting  his  arduous  and  anxious  studies ! 
He  was  in  all  senses  an  iron-grey  man.  Iron-grey  hair, 
pale,  strong  face,  fine  but  somewhat  rigid  figure,  a  powerful, 
strong-willed,  resolute  man,  if  ever  there  were  one,  and  an 
honest  one  also,  if  such  there  have  been  on  earth.  His 
friend,  Sir  G«orge  W.  Cox,  who  I  may  venture  to  call  mine 
also,  has,  in  his  admirable  biography,  printed  the  three  most 
important  letters  which  the  Bishop  of  Natal  wrote  to  me,  and 
I  can  add  nothing  to  Sir  George's  just  estimate  of  the 
character  of  this  modem  Confessor.  I  will  give  here,  how- 
ever, another  letter  I  received  from  him  at  the  very  beginning 
of  our  intercourse,  when  I  had  only  met  him  once  (at  Dr. 
Carpenter's  table) ;  and  also  a  record  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  of 
a  UU-a-Ute  conversation  with  him,  frurther  on.  I  have 
always  thought  that  he  made  a  mistake  in  returning  to 
Natal,  and  that  his  true  place  would  have  been  at  the  head 
of  a  Christian-Theistic  Church  in  London  : — 

'*  28,  Sussex  Place,  Eensingtou, 

"  Feb.  6th,  1868. 
"  My  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  letter,  and  for  the  volume 
which  you  have  sent  me.  I  have  read  the  preface  with  the 
deepest  interest — ^and  heartily  respond  to  every  word  which 
you  have  written  in  it.  A  friend  at  the  Cape  had  lent  me 
a  German  edition  of  De  Wette,  which  I  had  consulted 
carefully.  But,  about  a  fortnight  ago,  a  lady,  till  then  a 
stranger  to  me,  sent  me  a  copy  of  Parker's  Edition.  I  value 
it  most  highly  for  the  sake  both  of  the  Author's  and  Editor's 
share  in  it.  But  the  criticism  of  the  present  day  goes,  if  I 
am  not  mistaken,  considerably  beyond  even  De  Wette's,  in 
clearing  up  the  question  of  the  Age  and  Authorship  of  the 
different  parts  of  the  Pentateuch.  I  shall  carefully  consider 
the  Tables  of  ElohiHtic  and  Jehoviatio  portions,  as  given  in 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEV 

De  Wette ;  but,  ia  many  important  respects, 
will  be  fonnd  to  differ  from  his,  and,  as  I  thil 
grounds.    De  W.  leant  too  much  to  the  jadgm 

*'  The  above,  however,  ia  the  only  one  o^ 
works,  which  has  yet  come  into  my  hands,  i 
of  yoor  book  this  morning.    When  I  repeat  t 
of  your  Preface  went  to  my  very  heart — and 
them  drew  the  tears  from  my  eyes  and  the  p 
heart  that  GK>d  would  grant  me  grace  to  be  ii 
follower  of  the  noble  brother  whose  life  yon  li 
and  whose  feet  have  already  trodden  the  pai 
lies  open  before  me — you  will  believe  that  I  a 
long  the  rest  of  the  volume  unread.    But,  wh 
find  there,  your  Preface  will  give  comfort  ai 
thousands,  if  only  they  can  be  brought  to  ref 
it  not  be  possible  to  have  it  printed  separat 
Traet  /   It  would  have  the  effect  of  recommen 
itself,  and  Parker's  works,  generally,  to  mu 
might  otherwise  not  have  them  brought  undei 
effectively?    I  think  if  largely  circulated  it 
materially  the  progress  of  the  great  work,  in 
now  engaged. 

**Tou  will  allow  me,  I  hope,  to  have  the 
renewing  my  acquaintance  with  you,  by  makin 
you  before  long — and  may  I  bring  wi^  me  I 
who  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you  ? 

"  Very  truly  y< 


**  Please  accept  a  copy  of  my  '  Romans,'  whi* 
will  send  you.  The  spirit  of  it  will  rem 
abiding,  though  much  of  the  letter  must  now 

Writing  of  Dr.  Golenso  to  a  friend  in  Febru 
•aid: — 

*'  I  never  felt  for  him  so  much  as  last  nigh 
to  talk  on  what  we  felt  at  standing  so  much  a 


saia  tbax,  wncn  tne  extent  oi  nis  aiBCorenes  onret  oo  nun 
he  felt  as  il  he  had  received  a  paralysiDg  electric  shock.  A 
IiOndoQ  clergyman  wrote  to  him  the  other  day  to  giva 
him  Boletnn  warning  that  he  had  led  one  of  hia  pariKhioners 
to  destraction  and  dmnkennesB.  Colenao  answered  him, 
that '  it  was  not  kt  who  led  men  to  donbt  of  God  and  duty, 
bat  those  teachers  who  made  them  rest  their  faith  on  Ood 
and  Dnty  on  a  foundation  of  falsehood  which  every  new 
wave  of  thought  was  sweeping  away.'  The  clergyman 
seems  to  have  been  immensely  dombfoonded  by  this 
reply." 

AnoUier  most  interesting  man  whom  I  met  at  Dr. 
Carpenter's  table  was  Charles  Eingsley. 

One  day,  while  I  was  still  a  miserable  cripple,  I  went  to 
dine  in  Regent's  Fark  and  came  rather  late  into  a  drawing 
room  foil  of  company,  supported  hy  what  my  maid  called 
my  "  beit  emfajhes  I "  The  servant  did  not  know  me,  and 
imnonnced  "  Miss  Cobble."  I  corrected  her  Iond]y  enongb 
for  the  gnests  to  hear,  in  that  moment  of  pause :  "No  I 
Miss  Hobble  I "  There  was  of  coarse  a  laogh,  and  from  the 
little  crowd  mshed  forward  to  greet  me  with  both  hands 
extended,  a  tall,  slender,  stooping  figure  with  that  well- 
known  face  HO  full  of  feeling  and  tenderness— <7harl6S 
Etngsley.  "At  last.  Miss  Cobbe,  at  lost  we  meet,"  be  said, 
and  a  moment  later  gave  me  his  arm  to  dinner.  This 
greetii^  touched  me,  for  we  had  exchanged,  as  theological 
opponents,  some  tolerably  sharp  blows  for  years  before,  but 
his  large,  noble  nature  harbonred  no  spark  of  resoitment. 
We  talked  all  dinner  time  and  a  good  deal  in  the  eraning, 
and  tben  be  offered  to  escort  me  home  to  SonUi  Kensington 
— a  proposal  which  I  greedily  accepted,  bnt,  somehow,  wtuo 
he  fonnd  that  I  bad  a  brougham,  and  was  not  going  in 
miscellaneons  vehicles  (in  my  beet  evening  toggery  I)  from 
one  end  of  London  to  the  other  at  night,  he  retracted,  and 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.     455 

eonld  not  be  induced  to  eome  with  me.  We  met,  however, 
not  nnfreqaently  afterwards,  and  I  always  felt  much  attracted 
to  him;  as  did,  I  may  mention,  my  friend's  little  fox 
terrier,  who,  travelling  one  day  with  her  mistress  in  the 
Underground,  spied  Kingsley  entering  the  carriage,  and 
incontinently  leaving  her  usual  safe  retreat  under  the  seat 
made  straight  to  him,  and  without  invitation,  leaped  on  his 
knee  and  began  gently  kissing  his  face !  The  dog  never  did  the 
same  or  anything  like  it  to  any  one  else  in  her  life  before  or 
afterwards.  Of  course,  my  friend  apologised  to  Mr.  Kingsley, 
but  he  only  said  in  his  deep  voice,  **  Dogs  always  do  that  to 
me," — and  coaxed  the  little  beast  kindly,  till  they  left  the 
train. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Canon  Kingsley  was  one  day  late 
in  the  autumn  some  months  before  he  died.  Somebody 
who,  I  thought,  he  would  like  to  meet  was  coming  to 
dine  with  me  at  short  notice,  and  I  went  to  Westminster 
in  the  hope  of  catching  him  and  persuading  him  to  come 
without  losing  time  by  sending  notes.  The  evening  was 
closing,  and  it  was  growing  very  dark  in  the  cloisters^ 
where  I  was  seeking  his  door,  when  I  saw  a  tall  man, 
strangely  bent,  coming  towards  me,  evidently  seeing 
neither  me  nor  anything  else,  and  absorbed  in  some 
most  painful  thought.  His  whole  attitude  and  countenance 
expressed  grief  amounting  to  despair.  So  terrible  was  it 
that  I  felt  it  an  intrusion  on  a  sacred  privacy  to  have 
seen  it;  and  would  fain  have  hidden  myself,  but  this  was 
impossible  where  we  were  standing  at  the  moment.  When 
he  saw  me  he  woke  out  of  his  reverie  with  a  start,  pulled 
himself  together,  shook  hands,  and  begged  me  to  come  into 
his  house;  which  of  course  I  did  not  do.  He  had  an 
engagement  which  prevented  him  from  meeting  my  guest  (I 
think  it  must  have  been  Keshub  Chunder  Sen),  and  I  took 
myself  off  as  quickly  as  possible.     I  have  often  wondered 


wum  un-Hujiu  uiuu^jui,  wnn  uvoupjimg  iiw  mum  wiHUi  i  oaugni 

sight  of    him  that  day  in   the    gloomy    old    cloifltws    of 
WeatminBter  in  the  aatomn  twilight. 

The  quotation  made  a  few  pages  back  of  Sir  Charles  Lyell's 
observations  on  belief  in  Immartalify  reminds  me  that  I 
repeated  them  soon  after  he  had  made  them,  to  another  great 
man  whom  it  was  my  privilege  to  know — John  Stuart  Mill. 
We  were  spending  aa  afternoon  with  him  and  Miss  Helen 
Taylor  at  Blackheath ;  and  a  quiet  conversation  between  Mr. 
Mill  and  myself  having  reached  this  snhject,  I  told  him  of 
what  Sir  0.  Lyell  had  said.  In  a  moment  Hie  quick  blood 
suffused  his  cheeks  and  something  very  like  tears  were  in  his 
eyes.  The  question,  it  was  plain,  touched  his  very  heart. 
This  wonderful  sensitivenesB  of  a  man  generally  supposed  to 
|>e  "dry"  and  devoted  t«  the  driest  studies,  stmok  me,  I 
think,  more  than  anything  about  him.  His  special  charac- 
teristic was  extreme  delicacy  of  feeling ;  and  this  showed 
itself,  singularly  enough,  for  a  man  advanced  in  life,  in 
transparency  of  skin,  and  changes  of  colour  and  expression 
as  rapid  as  those  in  a  mountain  lake  when  the  clouds  shift 
over  it.  When  Watts  painted  his  fine  portrait  of  him,  be 
foiled  to  notice  this  peculiarity  of  his  thin  and  delicate  skin, 
and  gave  bim  the  common  thick,  muddy  complexion  of 
elderly  Englishmen.  The  result  is  that  the  ithot  of  the  face 
is  missing— just  asinthecaseof  the  portrait  of  Dr.  Martinean 
he  is  represented  with  weak,  sloping  shoulders  and  narrow 
chest.  The  look  of  power  which  essentially  belongs  to  him 
is  not  to  be  seen.  I  remarked  when  I  saw  this  picture  first 
exhibited :  "  I  should  never  have  '  sat  under '  that  Dr. 
Martineau  I "  Mill  and  I,  of  course,  met  in  deep  sympathy 
on  the  Woman  question ;  and  he  did  me  Uie  honour  to  present 
me  with  a  copy  of  bia  "  Subjection  of  Women  "  on  its  pnbli- 
eation.  He  tried  to  make  me  write  and  speak  more  on  the 
subject  of  Women's  Claims,  and  used  jestingly  to  say  that 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    457 

my  laagh  was  worth — I  forget  how  mnch  I — to  the  eaase. 
I  insert  a  letter  from  him  showing  the  minate  care  he  took 
about  matters  hardly  worthy  of  his  attention. 

*•  Avignon,  Feb.  28rd,  1869. 
"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  have  lately  received  conmmnication  from  the 
American  publisher  Putnam,  requesting  me  to  write  for 
their  Magazine,  and  I  understand  that  they  would  be  very 
glad  if  you  would  write  anything  for  ihem,  more  especially 
on  the  Women  question,  on  which  the  Magazine  (a  new 
one)  has  shown  liberal  tendencies  from  the  first.  The 
communications  I  have  received  have  been  through  Mrs. 
Hooker,  sister  of  Mrs.  Stowe  and  Dr.  Ward  Beecher,  and 
herself  the  author  of  two  excellent  articles  in  the  Magazine 
on  the  suffrage  questiou,  by  which  we  had  been  much  struck 
before  we  knew  the  authorship.  I  enclose  Mrs.  Hooker's 
last  letter  to  me,  and  I  send  by  post  copies  of  Mrs.  Hooker's 
articles  and  some  old  numbers  of  the  Magazine,  the  only 
ones  we  have  here ;  and  I  shall  be  very  happy  if  I  should 
be  the  medium  of  inducing  you  to  write  on  this  question 
for  the  American  public. 

"My    daughter    desires    to   be    kindly    remembered, 

and  I  am, 

**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

•*  Very  truly  yours, 

"J.  S.  Mill. 

"  P.S. — May  I  ask  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  forward  Mrs. 
Hooker's  letter  to  Mrs.  P.  A.  Taylor,  as  she  will  see  by  it 
that  Mrs.  Hooker  has  no  objection  to  put  her  name  to  a 
reprint  of  her  articles." 

There  never  was  a  more  unassuming  philosopher  than  Mr. 
Mill,  just  as  there  never  was  a  more  unassuming  poet  than 
Mr.  Browning.  All  the  world  knows  how  Mr.  Mill  strove  to 
give  to  his  wife  the  chief  credit  of  his  works ;  and,  after  her 
death,  his  attitude  towards  her  daughter,  who  was  indeed  a 


ezemplifieation  of  his  own  tlieories  of  the  rightful  position 
of  women.  He  was,  however,  equally  impreteDtions  as 
regarded  men.  Talking  one  day  about  the  diffioolty  of  doing 
mental  work  when  disturbed  by  sbeet  muaio,  and  of  poor 
Mr.  Babbage's  frenzy  on  the  entgect,  Mr.  MiU  said  it  did 
not  much  iuterfbre  with  him.  I  told  him  how  intensely 
Mr.  Spencer  objected  to  distnrbance.  "  Ah  yes ;  of  course  1 
writing  Spencer's  works  one  must  want  qniet  1 "  As  if 
nothii^  of  the  kind  w^e  needed  for  such  trivial  books 
as  his  own  SytUm  of  Logic,  or  Political  Economy!  He 
really  was  quite  nnconscions  of  the  irony  of  his  remark.  I 
have  been  told  that  he  would  allow  hia  cat  to  interfere  sadly 
with  his  literary  occupation  when  she  preferred  to  lie  on  his 
table,  or  sometimeB  on  his  neck, — a  trait  like  that  of  Newton 
and  his  "Diamond."  This  extreme  gentleness  is  ever,  sorely 
a  note  of  the  highest  order  of  men. 

Here  ore  extracts  from  letters  concerning  Mr.  Mill,  which 
I  wrote  to  Miss  Elliot  in  Angust,  1869.  I  believe  I  had 
been  to  Brighton  and  met  Mr.  Mill  there. 

"  We  talked  of  many  grave  things,  and  in  everything  his 
love  of  right  and  his  immense  onderlying  faith  impressed  me 
more  than  I  can  describe.  I  asked  him  what  he  thought  of 
coming  ahongee,  and  he  entirely  agreed  with  me  about  their 
danger,  bnt  thought  that  the  misohief  they  will  entail  most 
be  but  temporary.  He  thonght  the  loss  of  Beverence 
nnspeakably  deplorable,  bnt  on  inevitable  feature  of  an  age 
of  such  rapid  transition  that  the  son  does  actually  outran 
the  father.  He  added  that  he  thonght  even  the  moat 
sceptical  of  men  generally  had  an  ijmer  altar  to  tkt  Unieen 
Perftetion  while  waiting  for  the  true  one  to  be  revealed  to 
them.  In  a  word  the  *  dry  old  phUosopher '  showed 
himself  to  me  as  an  enthuaiaat  in  faith  and  love.  The  way 
in  which  he  seemed  to  have  thought  oat  every  great  question 
and  to  express  hia  own  so  modestly  and  simply,  and  yet  in 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    459 

such  clear-cat  oatlines,  was  most  impressive.  I  felt  (what 
one  BO  seldom  does  I)  the  delightfol  sense  of  being  in 
commnnication  with  a  mind  deeper  than  one  would  reach  the 
end  of,  even  after  a  lifetime  of  intorconrse.  I  never  felt  the 
same,  so  strongly,  except  towards  Mr.  Martineau;  and 
though  the  forms  of  hi$  creed  and  philosophy  are,  I  think, 
infinitely  truer  than  those  of  Mill  (not  to  Rpeak  of  the  feelings 
one  has  for  the  man  whose  prayers  one  follows),  I  think  it 
is  more  in  form  than  in  spirit  that  the  two  men  are 
distinguished.  The  one  has  only  an  *  inner,'  the  other  has 
an  outward  *  altar ; '  but  both  hmd  at  them." 

A  month  or  two  earlier  in  the  same  year  I  wrote  to  the 
same  friend : — 

'*  Last  night  I  sat  beside  Mt.  Mill  at  dinner  and  enjoyed 
myself  exceedingly.  He  is  looking  old  and  worn,  and  the 
nervous  twitchings  of  his  face  are  painful  to  see,  but  he  is 
so  thoroughly  genial  and  gentlemanly,  and  laughs  so 
heartily  at  one*B  little  jokes,  and  keeps  up  an  argument 
with  so  much  play  and  good  humour,  that  I  never  enjoyed  my 
dinner-neighbourhood  more.  Mr.  Fawcett  was  objurgating 
some  M.P.  for  taking  office,  and  said :  '  When  I  see  Tori$» 
rejoice,  I  know  it  must  be  an  injury  to  the  Liberal  Cause.' 
'  Do  you  never,  then,  feel  a  qualm,*  I  said,  *  all  you  Liberal 
gentlemen,  when  you  see  the  priesti  rejoice  at  what  you 
have  Just  done  in  Ireland  ?  Do  you  reflect  whether  that  is 
likely  to  be  an  injury  to  the  Liberal  Cause  ? '  The  observa- 
tion somehow  fell  like  a  bomb ;  (the  entire  company,  as  I 
remember,  were  Radicals,  our  host  being  Mr.  P.  A.  Taylor) . 
For  two  minutes  there  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Taylor 
said :  *  Ah,  Miss  Cobbe  is  a  bitter  Conservative  I  *  '  Not  a 
bitter  one,'  said  Mr.  Mill.  '  Miss  Cobbe  is  a  Conservative. 
I  am  sorry  for  it ;  but  Miss  Cobbe  is  never  bitter.' " 

It  has  been  a  constant  subject  of  regret  to  me  that 
Mr.  Mill's  intention  (communicated  to  me  by  Miss  Taylor)  of 
spending  the  ensuing  summer  holiday  in  Wales,  on  purpose 


mach  pleasnre  and  inBtmotion  I  ahoold  have  derived  from  his 
near  neighbourhood  there  is  no  need  to  eay. 

A  friend  of  Mr.  Will  for  whom  I  had  great  regard  waa 
Prof.  Caimea.  He  onderwent  treatment  at  Aiz-les-Baina  at 
the  same  time  as  I ;  and  we  naed  to  while  away  our  long 
hours  by  interminable  diecnsBions,  principally  oonoemiiig 
ethics,  a  subject  on  which  Mr.  Caimes  took  the  Utihtariaa 
aide,  and  I,  of  oonree,  that  of  the  school  of  Independent 
Morality  {i.e,,  of  MoraUty  based  on  other  groimdB  than 
Utility).  He  was  an  ardent  disciple  of  Mill,  but  his  extreme 
candour  oaosed  him  to  admit  frankly  that  the  "m3rBtic 
extension  "  of  the  idea  of  Usffulnen  into  Right,  was  nnacconnt- 
able,  or  at  least  onacconnted  for ;  and  that  when  we  had 
proved  an  act  to  be  pre-eminently  nsefiil  and  likely  to  promote 
"  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  nnmber,"  there  yet 
remained  the  question  for  each  of  ns,  "  Why  should  I  perform 
that  useful  action,  if  it  coat  tw  a  moment's  pain?"  To  find 
the  answer  (he  admitted)  we  must  &U  hack  on  an  inward 
"  Oategorio  imperative,"  "ovght;"  and  having  done  so,  (I 
argued,)  we  moat  Itienceforth  admit  that  the  basis  of  Morality 
rests  on  something  beside  Utility.  All  these  controversies 
are  rather  by-gone  now,  since  we  have  been  confronted  with 
"  hereditary  sets  of  the  brain."  I  think  it  was  in  these 
diaenssions  with  Prof.  Caimes  that  I  stmok  out  what  several 
friends  (among  others  Lord  Arthur  Bussell)  considered  an 
"  unanswerable  "  argument  against  the  Utilitarian  philosophy ; 
it  nm  thus : 

"  Mr.  Mill  baa  nobly  said,  that, — if  on  Almighty  Tyrant 
were  to  order  him  to  worship  hini  and  threaten  to  send  hi™ 
to  hell  if  he  refused,  then,  sooner  than  worship  that  nnjnst 
Ood,  '  to  HtU  would  I  go!'  Mr.  Mill,  of  course,  desired 
every  man  to  do  what  he  himself  thought  right;  therefore 
it  is  couoeivabte  that,  in  the  (tiven  contingency,  we  might 


LONDON  m  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    461 

behold  the  apostle  of  the  Utilitarian  philoisophy  wmdueUn\ 
the  whole  humtm  retee  to  eternal  perdition,  for  the  sake  of ,— 
shall  we  say  the  *  Oreateet  Happiness  of  the  Greatest  number  / ' " 

Prof.  Caimes  did  great  public  service  both  to  England 
and  America  at  the  time  of  the  war  of  Secession  by  his 
wise  and  able  writing  on  the  subject.  In  a  small  way  I 
tried  to  help  the  same  canse  by  joining  Mrs.  P.  A.  Taylor's 
Committee  formed  to  promote  and  express  English  sympathy 
with  the  North ;  and  wrote  several  little  pamphlets,  "  Thi 
Bed  Flag  in  JohnBvWs  Eyes";  "  BesjoindertoMrs.  Stowe^"  &c. 
This  common  interest  increased,  of  oonrse,  my  regard  for 
Mr.  Caimes,  and  it  was  with  real  sorrow  I  saw  him  slowly 
sink  under  the  terrible  disease,  (a  sort  of  general  ossification 
of  the  joints)  of  which  he  died.  I  have  said  he  sanJc  under 
it,  but  assuredly  it  was  only  his  piteously  stiffened  body 
which  did  so,  for  I  never  saw  a  grander  triumph  of  mind 
over  matter  than  was  shown  by  the  courage  and  cheerfulness 
wherewith  he  bore  as  dreadful  a  &te  as  that  of  any  old 
martyr.  I  shall  never  forget  the  impression  of  the  nobility  of 
the  human  Sotd  rising  over  its  tenement  of  clay,  which  ho 
made  upon  me,  on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  to  him  at 
Blackheath. 

Another  man,  much  of  the  character  and  calibre  of 
Prof.  Caimes,  whom  I  likewise  had  the  privilege  to  know 
well,  was  Prof.  Sheldon  Amos.  He  also,  alas  !  ctied  in  the 
prime  of  life ;  to  the  loss  and  grief  of  the  friends  of  every 
generous  movement. 

The  following  is  a  memorandum  of  the  first  occasion  on 
which  I  met  Mr.  John  Bright : — 

"  February  28th,  1866.  Dmed  at  Mr.  S.'s,  M.P.  Sat 
between  Bright  and  Mr.  Buxton.  Bright  so  exquisitely 
elean  and  with  such  a  sweet  voice  1  His  hands  alone  are 
coarse.  Great  discussion,  in  which  Mr.  B.  completely  took 
the  lead ;  the  other  gentlemen  preoent  seeminff  to  hang  on 


another.  Talldiif;  of  Iceland  he  aaid  he  would,  if  he  erer 
bad  the  power,  force  all  the  English  Companies  and  great 
English  landlords  to  sell  their  estates  there ;  the  land  to  be 
cnt  np  into  small  farms.  I  asked,  did  he  bclieTe  in  stnall 
farming  in  1866,  and  in  Celtic  capitalists  ready  to  purchase 
farms  ?  He  then  told  ua  hov  he  picked  np  mncji  information 
travelling  throagh  Ireland  on  ean,  from  the  drivers,  (as  if 
every  Irish  car-driver  did  not  recognise  him  in  a  moment 
from  Ponch's  caricatures  I)  and  how,  especially,  he  visited 
the  only  small  farm  he  had  beard  of  where  the  ooenpier  woa 
a  freeholder ;  and  how  it  wan  exceediogly  prosperous.  I 
asked  where  this  was  ?  He  said  '  in  a  place  called  the 
Barany  of  Forth.'  0(  course  I  explained  that  Forth  and 
Bargy  in  Wexford  have  been  for  four  hundred  years  isolated 
English,  (or  rather  Welsh)  colonies,  and  afFord  no  sort  of 
sample  of  Iriih  farming.  Bright's  way  of  speaking  was 
dermatic,  bnt  fnll  of  genial  fun  and  quiet  little  bits  of  wit. 
He  spoke  with  great  feeling  of  the  wrongs  and  miseries  of 
die  poor,  bnt  seemed  to  enjoy  in  fnll  the  delnaiou  that  it 
only  depeudod  on  rich  people  being  ready  to  sacrifice 
themselves,  to  remove  them  all  to-morrow. 

"  I  ventured  to  oek  him  why  be  laboured  bo  hard  to  get 
votes  for  working  carpenters  and  bricklayere,  and  never 
stirred  a  finger  to  ask  them  for  women,  who  posHessed 
already  the  property  qualification  ?  He  said :  '  Mnc^  was 
to  be  said  for  women,*  but  then  went  on  maundering  about 
our  proper  sphere,  and  '  would  they  go  into  Parliament  ? '  " 

Again  another  time  I  sat  beside  him  (I  know  not  at 
whose  hospitable  table),  and  he  told  me  a  most  afieoting 
story  of  a  poor  crippled  woman  in  a  miserable  cottage  near 
lilaududno,  where  he  nsuoUy  spent  his  holidays.  He  bad 
got  into  the  habit  of  visiting  this  poor  creatnre,  who  could 
not  stir  from  her  bed,  bnt  lay  there  all  day  long  alone,  her 
husband  being  out  at  work  as  a  labourer.  Sometimes  a 
neighbour  would  look  in  and  give  her  food,  bat  unless  one 


lONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.       463 

did  so,  she  was  entirely  helpless.  Her  only  comforter  was 
her  dog,  a  fine  collie,  who  lay  beside  her  on  the  floor,  ran  in 
and  oat,  licked  her  poor  useless  hands,  and  showed  his 
affection  in  a  hundred  ways.  Bright  grew  fond  of  the  dog, 
and  the  dog  always  welcomed  him  each  year  with  gambols 
and  joy.  One  summer  he  came  to  the  cottage,  and  the 
hapless  cripple  lay  on  her  pallet  still,  but  the  dog  did  not 
come  out  to  him  as  usual,  and  his  first  question  to  the 
woman  was :  "  Where  is  your  collie  ? "  The  answer  was 
that  her  husband  had  drotcned  the  dog  to  save  the  expense  of 
feeding  it. 

Bright's  voice  broke  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  this  story, 
and  we  said  very  little  more  to  each  other  during  that 
dinner. 

Another  day  I  was  speaking  to  Mr.  Bright  of  the 
extraordinary  canard  which  had  appeared  in  the  Times  the 
day  before  announcing  (quite  falsely)  that  Lord  Eussell,  then 
Premier,  had  resigned.  '^  What  on  earth,"  I  asked,  ''  can 
have  induced  the  Times  to  publish  such  intelligence  ?  "  (As 
it  happened,  it  inconvenienced  Lord  Bussell  very  much.)  ''  I 
wiU  teU  you,"  said  Bright ; ''  I  am  sure  it  is  because  Delane 
is  angry  that  Lady  Bussell  has  not  asked  him  to  dinner. 
He  expected  to  go  to  the  Bussells'  as  he  did  to  the 
Palmerstons',  and  get  his  news  at  first  hand  !  "  A  day  or 
two  later  I  met  Lord  Bussell,  and  told  him  what  Mr.  Bright 
had  said  was  the  reason  of  the  mischievous  trick  Mr.  Delane 
had  played  him.  Lord  Bussell  chuckled  a  great  deal  and 
said,  rubbing  his  hands  in  his  characteristic  way :  '^  I  believe 
it  is  I  I  do  believe  it  is  ! " 

My  beautiful  cousin,  Laura,  one  of  my  father's  wards,  had 
married  (from  Newbridge  in  old  days)  Mr.  John  Locke,  Q.C., 
who  was  for  a  long  time  M.P.  for  Southwark.  Their  house, 
63,  Eaton  Place,  was  always  most  cordially  opened  to  me, 
and  beside  Mr.  Locke,  who  was  generally  brimful  of  political 


464  CHAPTER  XVIL 

news,  I  met  at  their  table  many  elever  barristers  and  M.P.'s. 
Among  the  latter  was  Mr.  Ayrton,  against  whom  a  virulent 
set  was  made  by  the  scientific  clique^  in  consequence  of  his 
endeavours,  on  behalf  of  the  public,  to  open  Eew  Gardens 
earlier  in  the  day.  He  was  rather  saturnine,  but  an 
incorruptible,'  unbending  sort  of  man,  for  whom  I  felt  respect 
Another  habitnie  was  Mr.  Warren,  author  of  Ten  Thomand  a 
Year.  He  was  a  little  ugly  fellow,  but  full  of  fire  and  fun, 
retorting  right  and  left  against  the  Liberals  present 
Sergeant  Gazelee,  a  worn-looking  man,  with  keen  eyes,  one 
day  answered  him  fiurly.  There  was  an  amusing  discussion 
whether  the  Tories  could  match  in  ability  the  men  of  the 
opposite  party?  Warren  brought  up  an  array  of  clever 
Conservatives,  but  then  pretended  to  throw  up  the  sponge, 
exclaiming  in  a  dolorous  voice,  '^  but  then  you  Liberals  have 
goir-Whalley  I " 

Beside  my  cousin  Mrs.  Locke  and  her  good  and  able 
husband,  I  had  the  pleasure  for  many  years  of  constantly 
seeing  in  London  her  two  younger  sisters,  Sophia  and  Eliza 
Cobbe,  who  were  my  father's  favourite  wards  and  have 
been  from  their  childhood,  when  they  were  always  under  my 
charge  in  their  holidays,  till  now  in  our  old  age,  almost  like 
younger  sisters  to  me.  They  were  of  course  rarely  absent 
from  the  Eaton  Place  festivities. 

There  was  a  considerable  difference  between  dinner  parties 
in  the  Sixties  and  those  of  thirty  years  later.  They  lasted 
longer  at  the  earlier  date ;  a  greater  number  of  dishes  were 
served  at  each  course,  and  much  more  wine  was  tak^.  I 
cannot  but  think  that  there  must  be  a  certain  declension  in 
the  general  vitality  of  our  race  of  late  years  for,  I  think,  few 
of  us,  young  or  old,  would  be  inclined  to  share  equally  now 
in  those  banquets  of  long  ago  which  always  lasted  two  hours 
and  sometimes  three.  There  were  scarcely  any  teetotalers, 
men  or  women,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  in  the  circles  to  which 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  8EVA 

■ 

I  belonged;  and  the  butlers,  who  went  rott 
with  half-a-dozen  kinds  of  wine,  and  (after  dS 
were  not,  as  now,  continually  interrupted  in  tl 
"  No  wine,  thank  you  I     Have  you  Appolinarii 
I  never  saw  anyone  the  worse  for  the  sherry 
punch  and  the  hock  or  chablis,  and  champa^ 
but  certainly  there  was  generally  a  little  moi 
well-bred  sort  towards  the  end  of  the  long  meab 
kept  a  particularly  good  cook  and  good  celL 
guests — especially  some  who  hailed  from  the  0 
enjoyed  at  their  table  other  ''  feasts ''  beside  tho 
And  so  I  must  confess  did  /,  in  those  days  of  ( 
after  a  long  day's  literary  work ;  and  I  sincere! 
Stanley,  who  had  no  sense  of  taste,  and  scare 
flavour  of  anything  which  he  put  in  his  mouth 
company  was  not  quite  up  to  his  mark,  the  t< 
dinners  which  he  attended  must  have  been  drei 
whereas,  in  my  case,  I  could  always, — ^provided  t 
good, — entertain  myself  satisfactorily  with  my  pi 
and  fork.    The  same  great  surgeon  who  had 
sprained  ankle  so    unsuccessfully,   told    me  v 
warning  when  we  were  taking  our  house  in  Here 
that,  if  I  lived  in  South  Kensington  and  wen 
parties,  I  should  be  a  regular  victim  to  gout.     As 
I  lived  in  South  Kensington  for  just  twenty 
went  out,  I  should  think  to  some  two  thousi 
great  and  small,  and  I  never  had  the  gout  at  all, 
contrary,  by  my  own  guidance,  got  rid  of  t! 
before  I  left  London.     There  has  certainly  been  ; 
diminution  in  the  animal  spirits  of  men  and  v 
last  thirty  years,  if  not  of  their  vital  powers, 
there  was  always,  among  well-bred  people  a  oei 
of  spirits  in  society,  neither  boisterous  nor  yei 
and  the  better  the  company  the  softer  the  genera 


466  CHAPTER   XVII. 

of  ihe  oonversation.  I  could  have  recognized  blindfold  certain 
drawing-rooms  wherein  a  mixed  congregation  assembled,  by 
the  strident,  high  note  which  pervaded  the  crowded  room. 
Bat  the  ripple  of  gentle  laughter  in  good  company  has 
decidedly  fallen  some  notes  since  the  Sixties. 

I  am  led  to  these  reflections  by  remembering  among  my 
cousin's  gnests  that  admirable  man — ^Mr.  Fawcett.  He 
was  always,  not  merely  fairly  cheerfdl,  bat  more  gay  and 
apparently  light-hearted  than  those  aronnd  him  who  were 
possessed  of  their  eyesight.  The  last  time  I  met  him  was 
at  the  honse  of  Madame  Bodichon  in  Blandford  Square, 
and  we  three  were  all  the  company.  One  would  have 
thought  a  blind  statesman  alone  with  two  elderly  women, 
would  not  have  been  much  exhilarated;  but  he  seemed 
actually  bursting  with  boyish  spirits;  pouring  out  fun^ 
and  laughing  with  all  his  heart.  GertaiDly  his  devoted 
wife  (in  my  humble  opinion  the  ablest  woman  of 
this  day),  succeeded  in  cheering  his  darkened  lot  quite 
perfectly. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fawcett  were  the  third  couple  who  in  this 
century  have  afforded  a  study  for  Mr.  Francis  Galton  of 
"  Hereditary  Genius."  The  first  were  Shelley  and  his  Mary 
(who  again  was  the  daughter  of  Godwin  and  Mary  WoUston- 
craft).  Their  son,  the  late  Sir  Percy  Shelley,  was  a  very 
kindly  and  pleasant  gentleman,  with  good  taste  for  private 
theatricals,  but  not  a  genius.  The  second  were  Robert  and 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  They  also  have  left  a  son,  of 
whose  gifts  as  a  painter  I  do  not  presume  to  judge.  The 
third  were  Mr.  Fawcett  and  Millicent  Garrett,  who,  though 
not  dainung  the  brilliant  genius  of  the  others,  were  each,  as 
all  the  world  knows,  very  highly  endowed  persons.  Their 
daughter.  Miss  Philippa  Garrett  Fawcett, — the  Senior 
Wrangler,  de  jure, — ^has  at  all  events  vindicated  Mr.  Galton's 
theories. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEN 

Many  of  ns,  in  those  days  of  the  Sixties^ 
interested  in  the  efforts  of  women  to  enter  the 
fession  in  spite  of  the  bitter  opposition  which  the) 
Miss  Elizabeth  Garrett,  Mrs.  Fawcett's  sistei 
particnlarly  prominent  place  in  our  eyes,  sucoa 
did  in  obtaining  her  medical  degree  in  Paris,  and 
seat  on  the  London  School  Board,  which  last  wai 
kind  of  elevation   for  women.     While  still  o< 
foreground  of   oar  ambition    for   onr   sex,    1 
resolved  to  make  (what  has  proved,  I  believe,  to 
and  well  assorted  marriage,  which  put  an  end,  nc 
her  farther  projects  of  pablic  work.     I  sent  h 
eordial  good  wishes,  the  following  verses : — 

The  Woman's  canae  wm  rising  iasi 
When  to  the  Surgeons'  Oollege  past 
A  maid  who  bore  in  fingers  nioe 
A  banner  with  the  new  device 

Ezoelsioi 

**  Try  not  to  pass  *'  I  the  Dons  exdaim, 
^  M.D.  shall  grace  no  woman's  name  " — 
"  Bosh  1 "  cried  the  maid,  in  accents  free, 
**  To  France  I'll  go  for  my  degree." 

Exoelsiox 

The  School-Board  seat  came  next  in  sigbf 
*'  Beware  the  foes  of  woman's  right  I " 
«<  Beware  the  awful  hnsting's  fight  1 " 
Such  was  the  moan  of  many  a  soul—- 
A  voice  replied  from  top  of  poll — 

Exoelsi(» 

« 

In  patients'  homes  she  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  beam  warm  and  bright 
Ijectures  on  Bones  grew  wondrous  dry, 
But  still  she  murmured  with  a  sigh 

Excelsioi 


*68  CHAPTER  XVlL 

•  Oh,  stay !  "—a  lover  cried,—"  Oh.  reei 
Thy  mnoh-leamed  head  npon  this  hreasft ; 
Give  up  ambition  1    Be  my  bride  I " 
— ^Alas  1  no  olarion  voice  leplied 

Ezoelaior 

At  end  of  day,  when  all  ia  done, 
And  woman's  battle  fought  and  won, 
Honour  will  aye  be  paid  to  one 
Who  erst  called  foremost  in  the  van 

EzoeUdor  1 

But  not  for  her  that  crown  so  bright. 
Which  her's  had  been,  of  sorest  right, 
Had  she  still  cried, — serene  and  blest — 
«  The  Virgin  throned  by  the  West,"* 

Excelsior ! 

Some  years  after  this  I  brought  from  Rome  as  a  present  for 
my  much-valued  friend  and  lady-Doctor,  Mrs.  Hoggan,  M.D. 
(widow  of  Dr.  George  Hoggan),  a  large  photograph  of  the 
statue  in  the  Vatican  of  Minerva  Medica.  Under  it  I  wrote 
these  lines : — 

**  Minerva  Mediea  I    Shocking  profanity  t 

How  oonld  these  heathens  their  doctors  vex. 
Patting  the  core  of  the  ills  of  humanity 

Into  the  hands  of  the  *  weaker  sex  ? ' 
O  Pallas  sublime !  Would  you  come  back  revealing 

Your  glory  inounortal,  our  doctors  should  see, — 
Instead  of  proclaiming  you  Goddess  of  Healing, 

They'd  prohibit  your  practice,  refuse  your  degree  I  *' 


The  first  dinner-party  I  ever  attended  in  London,  before  I 
went  to  live  in  town,  was  at  Mr.  Bagehot's  house.     I  sat  beside 

;*  Bee  Spenser — The  "West"  District  of  London  was  the  ooe 
wliich  elected  Miss  Garrett  for  the  School  Board. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.        469 

Mr.  Richard  Hntion,  who  has  been  ever  since  my  good  friend, 
and  opposite  as  there  sat  a  gentleman  who  at  once  attracted 
my  attention.  He  had  a  strong  dark  face,  a  low  forehead 
and  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  the  large  loose  month  of  an 
orator  and  a  manner  quite  nniqne ;  as  if  he  were  gently 
looking  down  on  the  follies  of  mortality  from  the  superior 
altitudes  of  Olympos,  or  perhaps  of  Parnassus.  ''Do  you 
know  who  that  is  sitting  opposite  to  us  ?  "  said  Mr.  Button. 
I  looked  at  him  again,  and  replied:  ''I  never  saw  him  before, 
and  I  have  never  seen  his  picture,  but  I  feel  in  my  inner 
consciousness  that  it  can  only  be  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold ; " 
and  Mr.  Arnold,  of  course,  it  was, — ^with  an  air  which  made 
me  think  him  (what  he  was  not)  an  intellectual  coxcomb, 
He  wrote,  about  that  time  or  soon  afterwards,  some  dreadfully 
derisive  things  of  my  Theism ;  not  on  account,  apparently, 
of  its  intrinsic  demerits,  but  because  of  what  he  conceived  to 
be  its  upstart  character.  We  are  all  familiar  with  a  certain 
tone  of  lofty  superiority  common  to  Roman  Catholics  and 
Anglicans  in  dealing  with  Dissenters  of  all  classes ;  the  tone, 
no  doubt,  in  which  the  priests  of  On  talked  of  Moses  when 
he  led  the  Israelitish  schism  in  the  wilderness.  It  comes 
naturally  to  everybody  who  stands  serenely  on  ''the  old 
paths,"  and  watches  those  who  walk  below,  or  strive  to  fray 
new  ways  through  the  jungle  of  poor  human  thoughts.  But 
when  Mr.  Arnold  had  himself  slipped  off  the  old  road  so  far 
as  to  have  liquefied  the  Articles  of  the  Apostles'  Greed  into 
a  "  Stream  of  Tendency ; "  and  compared  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity  to  a  story  of  "  Three  Lord  Shafteshvrys ; "  and  reduced 
the  Object  of  Worship  to  the  lowest  possible  denommation 
as  "a  Power  not  ourselves  which  makes  for  ri^fUeousness;'* 
he  must,  I  think,  have  come  to  feel  that  it  was  scarcely 
his  affair  to  treat  other  people's  heresies  as  new-fangled, 
and  lacking  in  the  sanctities  of  tradition.  As  one 
afber  another  of  his  brilliaDt  essays  appeared,  and  it  became 


470  CHAPTER    XV I L 

manifest  that  his  own  creed  grew  continually  thinner,  more 
exignoasy  and  less  and  less  substantial,  I  was  reminded  of  an 
old  sporting  story  which  my  father  told  of  a  town-bred 
gentleman,  the  '*  Mr.  Briggs  "  of  those  days,  who  for  the  first 
time  shot  a  cock-pheasant,  and  after  greatly  admiring  it 
laid  it  down  on  the  grass.  A  keeper  took  up  the  bird  and 
stroked  it,  pretending  to  wonder  at  its  size,  and  presently 
shifted  it  aside  and  substituted  a  partridge,  which  he  likewise 
stroked  and  admired,  till  he  had  an  opportunity  of  again 
changing  it  for  a  snipe.  At  this  crisis  '^  Mr.  Briggs  "  broke 
in  furiously,  bidding  the  keeper  to  stop  stroking  his  bird : 
"  Be  hanged  to  you  !  If  you  go  on  like  that,  you'll  rub  it 
down  to  a  wren  ! "  The  creed  of  many  persons  in  these  days 
seems  to  be  undergoing  the  process  of  being  patted  and 
praised,  while  all  the  time  it  is  being  rubbed  down  to  a  wren  t 
But  whatever  hard  things  Mr.  Arnold  ^aid  of  me,  I  liked 
and  admired  him,  and  he  was  always  personally  most  kind  to 
me.  He  had  of  all  men  I  have  ever  known  the  truest  insight, 
— the  true  PoeVs  insight, — into  the  feelings  and  characters  d 
animals,  especially  of  dogs.  His  poem,  Geisfs  Qrave^  is  to 
me  the  most  affecting  description  of  the  death  of  an  animal  in 
the  range  of  literature.  Indeed,  the  subject  of  Death  itself 
whether  of  beasts  or  of  men,  viewed  from  the  same  standpoint 
of  hopelessness,  has  never,  I  think,  been  more  tenderly 
touched.  How  deeply  true  to  every  heart  is  the  thought 
expressed  in  the  stanzas,  which  remind  us  that  in  all  the 
vastness  of  the  universe  and  of  endless  time  there  is  not,  and 
never  will  be,  another  being  like  the  one  who  is  dead  I  That 
being  (some  of  us  believe)  may  revive  and  live  for  ever,  but 
another  who  wiT  "  restore  its  little  self"  will  never  be. 

**....  Not  the  course 

Of  all  the  centuries  to  come« 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  coontleBS  sum 


LONDOIi  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVB. 

^  Of  figures,  with  her  fidness  vast 
Of  new  creation  eyermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past. 
Or  jnst  thy  little  self  restore. 

*'  Stem  law  of  every  mortal  lot ! 

Whioh  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  ti 
And  builds  himself,  I  know  not  what 
Of  second  life,  I  know  not  where." 

We  knew  dear  Geist,  I  am  glad  to  say.    Wl 
and  I  came  to  live  at  Byfleet  Mr.  Arnold 
charming  wife, — then  living  three  miles  ofif 
kindly  permitted  ns  to  see  a  good  deal  of  then 
deeply  interested  in  poor  Geist's  last  illness.    I 
dachshund,  not  a  handsome  dog,  bat  possessei 
which  in  certain  dogs  and  (those  dogs  only)  » 
canine  analogue  of  a  hmnan  sonl.    As  to  Mr. . 
on  his  other  dog,  Kaiser^  who  is  there  that  enj< 
hnmour  and  dog-love  can  fail  to  be  enchante 
perfect  pictnre  of  a  dog, — ^not  a  dog  of  the  seni 
but  one — 

<«  Teeming  with  plans,  alert  and  glad 
In  work  or  play, 
Like  sunshine  went  and  came,  and  I 
Live  out  the  day  1 " 

Does  not  every  one  feel  how  true  is  the  likeni 
loving  dog  to  sunshine  in  a  house  ? 

I  met  Mr.  Arnold  one  day  in  William  and  N( 
shop,  and  he  inquired  after  my  dog,  and  when  ! 
poor  beast  had  ''  gone  where  the  good  dogs 
with  real  feeling,  **  And  you  have  not  replace 
of  course  you  could  not."  I  asked  his  leave  1 
of  ''Geist's  Grave"  for  a  collection  of  poen: 
made  for  the  purpose  of  humane  propaganda,  t 
vQTj  cordially.     I  was,  however,  deeply  disaj 


472  CHAPTER    XVIL 

he  returned  the  following  reply  to  my  application  for  hia 
signatore  to  our  first  Memorial  inviting  the  B.S.P.C.A.  to 
midertake  legislation  for  the  restriction  of  vivisection.  I  do 
not  clearly  understand  what  he  meant  hy  disliking  "  the 
EngUsh  way  of  employing  for  public  ends  private  Societies 
and  Memorials  to  them."  The  B.S.P.CA.  is  scarcely  a 
'^ private  society;"  and,  if  it  were  so,  I  see  no  harm  in 
«  employing  it  for  public  ends,"  instead  of  leaving  every- 
thing to  Qovemment  to  do ;  or  to  leave  undone, 

•«  Cobham,  Surrey, 

**  January  8th,  1875. 
*«  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  Your  letter  was  directed  to  Oxford,  a  place  with  which 

I  have  now  no  connection,  and  it  reaches  me  too  late  for 

signuig  your  Memorial,  but  I  should  in  any  case  have 

declined  signing  it,  strongly  as  your  cause  speaks  to  my 

feelings ;  because,  first,  I  greatly  dislike  the  English  way  of 

employing,  for  public  ends,  private  societies  and  Memorials 

to  them ;  secondly,  the  signatures  you  will  profit  by,  in  this 

case,  are  not  those  of  literary  people,  who  will  at  once  be 

disposed  of  as  a  set  of  unpractical  sentimentalists.    To 

yourself  this  objection  does  not  apply,  because  you  are 

distinguished  not  in  letters  only,  but  also  as  a  lover  and 

student  of  animals.    I  hope  if  you  read  my  paper  in  the 

Contemporary f  you  observe  how  I  apologise  for  calling  them 

the  lower  animals,  and  how  thoroughly  I  admit  that  they 

think  and  love, 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  Matthew  Arnold.'* 

In  my  first  journey  to  Italy  on  my  way  to  Palestine  I 
made  acquaintance  with  B.  W.  Mackay,  the  author  of  that 
enormously  learned,  but,  perhaps,  not  very  well  digested 
book,  the  Progress  of  the  InteUect,  I  afterwards  renewed 
acquaintance  with  him  and  his  nice  wife  in  their  house  in 
Hamilton  Terrace.  Mr.  Mackay  was  somewhat  of  an  invaUd 
and  a  nervous  man,  much  absorbed  in  his  studies.     I  have 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.       473 

heard  it  said  that  he  was  the  original  of  George  Elliot's 
Mr.  Casat/bon,  At  all  events  Mrs.  Lewes  had  met  him,  and 
taken  a  strong  prejudice  against  him.  That  prejudice  I 
think  was  oiy'ast.  He  was  a  very  honest  and  real  student, 
and  a  modest  one,  not  a  pretender  like  Mr.  Oasauhon.  His 
books  contain  an  amazing  mass  of  knowledge,  (presented, 
perhaps,  in  rather  a  crude  state)  respecting  all  the  great 
r&ligious  doctrines  of  the  world.  I  had  once  felt  that  both 
liis  books  and  talk  were  hard  and  steel-cold,  and  that  his 
religion,  though  dogmatically  the  same  as  mine,  was  aU 
lodged  in  his  intellect.  One  day,  however,  when  he  called 
on  me  and  we  took  a  drive  and  walk  in  the  Park  together, 
I  learned  to  my  surprise  that  he  entirely  felt  with  me  that 
the  one  direct  way  of  reaching  truth  about  religion  was  Prayer, 
and  all  the  rest  mere  corroboration  of  what  may  so  be  learned. 
To  have  came  round  to  this  seemed  to  me  a  great  evidence  of 
intellectual  sincerity. 

I  forget  now  what  particular  point  we  had  been  discussing 
when  he  wrote  me  the  following  curious  bit  of  erudition : — 

*'  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

'*  Dixit  Rabbi  Simeon  Ben  Lakis, — Nomina  angelorum  et 
mensium  ascendemnt  in  domum  Israelis  ex  Babylone." 

**  This  occurs  in  the  treatise  Bosh  Htuchanah^  which  is 
part  of  the  Mischna. 

**  The  Misohna  (the  earliest  part  of  the  Tcdmud)  is  said 
to  have  been  completed  in  the  8rd  century,  under  the 
auspices  of  Rabbi  Judah  the  Holy,  and  his  disciples. 

**  I  send  the  above  as  promised,  The  professed  aversion 
of  the  Jews  for  foreign  customs  seems  strangely  at  variance 
with  their  practice,  as  seeu,  €.g.^  in  their  names  for  the 
divisions  of  the  heavenly  hosts;  the  words  'Legion  and 
Sistra  (oastra)  are  evidently  taken  from  the  Roman  army. 
Four  Chief  Spirits  or  Archangels  are  occasionally 
mentionedf  as  in  Pirhe  Eliezer  and  Henoch,  cf .  48, 1.  Others 
make  their  number  seven,  as  Tobit  12,  5;  Revel.  2,  4 — 
8, 1—4,  5.    The  angelic  doings  are  partly  copied  from  the 


osagBH  Di  tue  juwiiui  xempie,  utiDce  uie  iiaraBaiem  XArgoin 
renders  Exod.  14,  24,  '  It  happened  in  the  mDming  watch, 
the  hoDT  when  the  heavenly  host  Bing  praises  before  Ood ' 
^■oomp.:  Liiko2, 18, — and  the  SEime  reason  is  applied  by  the 
Targninist  for  the  sudden  exit  of  the  aogel  in  Oenes.  82, 
26.  One  may  perhaps,  however,  be  iadaced  to  ask  whether 
(as  in  the  case  of  Enthyphran  in  the  Platonic  di&logne)  a 
better  canse  for  departore  might  not  be  foond  in  the 
inconvenience  of  remaining  I 

"Thongb  I  have  Hang's  Tersitm  of  the  Oatbas,  I  am 
tar  from  able  to  decipher  the  gronnds  of  differenoe 
between  him  and  Spinel.  Non  noitmm  M  UutUu  oomponer* 
UUi,  a  volnme  entitled  Er&n  by  Dr.  Spiegel  oontains, 
among  other  Essayst  one  entitled  Avetta  and  Veda,  or  the 
relation  of  Iran  and  India,  and  another  Avetta  and  QentiU, 
or  the  relation  of  Iran  to  the  Semites.  Weber's  MoriKhe 
SkUxen  also  contains  interesting  matter  on  similar  snbicctB. 
We  were  speaking  abont  the  magical  significance  of  names. 
See  as  to  this  Origen  against  Oelsne,  1-24 ;  Diod.  Sicnl,  1-22,' 
lamblicns  de  Myst,  2,  4,  6. 

"  Socrates  himself  appears  snpeifrtitionsly  apprehentdve 
abont  the  use  of  divine  names  in  the  Fhilebns  1,  2  and  the 
Gratylns  400b.  The  suppression  of  it  among  the  Jews, 
(for  instance  in  the  Septnagint,  where  KifH^siBsubBtitnted 
for  Jehovah,  and  Sirach,  Gh.  28, 9)  express  the  same  feeling. 

"  We  were  talking  of  the  original  religion  of  Feraia. 
Yon,  of  conrse,  recollect  the  passage  on  this  Bobject  in  the 
first  book  of  Herodotos,  Ch.  181,  and  Strabo  1£,  see  18, 
p.  782  Casaob.  The  practice  ol  ptohibitiug  selfish  prayer 
mentioned  in  the  next  following  chapter  in  Herodotns,  is 
remarkable. 

"  I  hope  that  in  the  above  rigmarole  a  griun  of  aseful 
matter  may  be  found.  Mrs.  Mackay  is,  I  am  glad  to  uy, 
liettez  to-day. 

"  I  remain,  sincerely  yonra, 

"  R.  W.  Macs*». 

"20th  February,  1865. 
"  41,  Hamilton  Terrace,  N.W." 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.       475 

Another  early  acqaaintance  of  mine  in  London  was  Lady 
B3rron,  the  widow  of  the  poet.  I  called  on  her  one  day, 
having  received  from  her  a  kind  note  hegging  me  to  do  so  as 
she  was  unable  to  leave  her  house  to  come  to  me.  She  had 
been  exceedingly  kind  in  procuring  for  me  valuable  letters  of 
introduction  from  Sir  Moses  Montefiore  and  others,  which 
had  been  very  aseful  to  me  in  my  long  wanderings. 

Lady  Byron  was  short  in  stature  and,  when  I  saw  her, 
deadly  pale ;  but  with  a  dignity  which  some  of  our  friends 
called  "royal,"  albeit  without  the  smallest  affectation  or 
assumption.  She  talked  to  me  eagerly  about  all  manner  of 
good  works  wherein  she  was  interested ;  notably  concerning 
Miss  Carpenter's  Beformatory,  to  which  she  had  practically 
subscribed  £1,000  by  buying  Bed  Lodge  and  making  it  over 
for  such  use.  During  the  larger  part  of  the  time  of  my 
visit  she  stood  on  the  rug  with  her  back  to  the  fire  and  the 
power  and  will  revealed  in  her  attitude  and  conversation  were 
very  impressive.  I  bore  in  mind  all  the  odious  things  Byron 
had  said  of  her  : 

"  There  was  Miss  Mill-pond,  smooth  as  sninmer  sea 
That  usnal  paragon,  an  only  daughter, 
Who  seemed  the  cream  of  equanimity 
Till  skimmed,  and  then  there  was  some  milk  and  water." 

Also  the  sneers  at  her  (very  genuine)  humour : 

"  Her  wit,  for  she  had  wit,  was  Attic  all 
Her  favourite  science  was  the  mathematical  '*  d'c,  &o, 

I  thought  that  for  a  man  to  hold  up  such  a  woman  as 
thisy  and  that  woman  his  wife,  on  the  prongs  of  ridicule  for 
public  laughter  was  enough  to  make  him  detestable. 

A  lady  whom  I  met  long  afterwards  told  me,  (I  made  a  note 
of  it  Nov.  18th,  1869)  that  she  had  been  stopping,  at  the  time 
of  Lady  Byron's  separation,  at  a  very  small  seaside  place  in 
Norfolk.     Lady  B3rron  came  there  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Frarxis 


Mallory.  She  hEid  then  baea  separated  &boDt  six  weeks  or 
two  months.  She  waa  (Mrs.  B.  said)  singolarl;  pleasing  and 
healthM  looking,  rather  than  pretfy.  She  was  grave  and 
reticent  raUier  thau  depressed  in  spirite ;  and  gave  her  friends 
to  nndarstand  that  tliere  was  something  she  could  notexplun 
to  them  about  her  separation.  Sirs.  B.  hMrd  her  my  that 
Lord  Byron  always  slept  with  pistols  under  his  pillow,  and 
on  one  occasion  had  threatened  to  shoot  her  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  There  was  mnch  singing  of  dnets  going  on  in  the 
two  famiUes,  hat  Lady  Byron  refused  to  take  any  part  in  it. 
Miss  Carpenter,  who  was  entirely  captivated  by  her,  received 
from  her  some  charge  amounting  to  literary  exccatorship ; 
bnt  after  one  or  two  furtive  delvings  into  the  trunks  fall  of 
papers  (since,  I  believe,  stored  in  Hoare's  bank),  she  gave  np 
in  despur.  She  told  me  that  the  papers  were  in  the  most 
extraordinary  confusion ;  letters  both  of  the  most  trivial  and 
ofthe  most  serioos  and  compromising  kind,  household  Bcconnts, 
poems,  and  tradesmen's  bills,  were  all  mixed  tt^ethOT  in 
hopeless  disorder  and  dust.  As  is  well  known,  Byron's 
famons  verses : 

"  Face  thee  well  1  and  if  for  ever  I " 
were  written  on  the  back  of  a  butcher's  bill — vnpaid  like  most 
of  the  rest.    Miss  Carpenter  vouched  for  this  fact. 

Lady  Byr<m  was  at  one  time  greatly  attracted  by  Fanny 
Eemble.     Among  Mrs.  Eemble's  papers  in  my  possession  are 
seven  tetters  from  Xddy  Byron  to  her.    Here  is  one  of  them 
worth  presenting  : 
"Dear  Hrs.  Eemble, 

"  The  note  you  vrote  to  me  before  yon  left  Brighton 
made  me  revert  to  a  train  of  thought  which  had  been  for 
some  time  in  my  mind.  I  alloded  once  to  "  yonr  Fntmw." 
I  BDbmit  to  be  conaidercd  a  Visionary,  yet  some  of  my 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.      All 

decided  visionB  have  oome  io  pass  in  the  course  of  years 
let  me  tell  yoa  my  Vision  about  you — That  yon  are  to  be 
something  to  the  People ;  that  yonr  strong  sympathy  with 
them  (thoQgh  yon  will  not  let  them  touch  the  hem  of  your 
garment)  will  bring  your  talents  to  bear  upon  their  welfare; 
that  the  way  is  open  to  you,  after  your  personal  objects  are 
fulfilled.  My  mind  is  so  full  of  this,  that  though  the  time 
has  not  arrived  for  putting  it  in  practice,  I  cannot  help 
telling  you  of  it.  I  am  neither  Democratic  nor  Aristocratic 
I  do  not  see  those  distinctions  in  looking  at  Humanity,  but 
I  feel  most  strongly  that  for  every  advantage  we  have 
received  we  are  bound  to  offer  something  to  those  who  do 
not  possess  it.  Happy  they  who  have  gifts  to  place  at  the 
feet  of  their  less  favoured  fellow-Christians  I 

«( I  cannot  believe  that  a  relation  so  truthful  as  yours  an^ 
mine  will  be  merely  casual.  Time  will  show.  I  might  not 
have  an  opportunity  of  saying  this  in  a  visit. 

**  Tours  most  truly, 

''  March  19th.  A.  Noel  Btbon." 

It  is  an  unsolved  mystery  to  me  why  such  a  woman  did 
not  definitely  adopt  one  of  either  of  two  courses.  The  first 
(and  far  the  best)  would^  of  course,  have  been  to  bury  her 
husband's  misdeeds  in  absolute  silence  and  oblivion,  carefully 
destroying  all  papers  relating  to  the  tragedy  of  their  joint 
lives.  Or,  if  she  had  not  strength  for  this,  to  write  exactly 
what  she  thought  ought  to  be  known  by  posterity  concerning 
him,  and  put  her  account  in  safe  hands  with  all  the  needful 
piScee  jusHficativee  before  she  died.  That  she  did  not  adopt 
either  one  course  or  the  other  must  be  a  source  of  permanent 
regret  to  all  who  recognized  her  great  merits  and  honoured 
them  as  they  deserved. 


Among  our  neighbours  in  South  Kensington,  whom  we 
were  privileged  to  know  were  many  delightful  people,  who 


are  atm,  i  am  nappy  w  say,  uvmg  and  uEmg  aciive  part  in 
the  world.  Among  them  were  Mr.  Fronde,  Iilr.  and  Mis. 
W.  E.  H.  Led?,  Mr.  LesUs  Btophen,  Mrs.  Brookfield, 
Mrs.  Simpson,  and  Mrs.  Richmond  Ritehie.  But  of  aeveral 
others,  alas  1  "  the  place  that  knew  them  knows  them  no 
more."  Of  these  last  were  Mi.  and  Mra.  Herman  Merivale, 
Sir  H^iry  Maine,  Nia.  Dicey,  Lady  Mont^agle  (who  bad 
written  aome  of  WoTdaworth'a  poems  to  his  dictation  as  hts 
amanaensiB),  and  my  dear  old  friend  Mrs.  de  Morgan. 

Sir  Henry  Maine's  interest  in  the  claims  of  women  and 
his  strong  atatemente  on  the  anl^ect,  made  me  regard  him 
with  much  gratitude.  I  asked  him  once  &  question  abont 
St.  Panl'a  citizenship,  to  which  he  was  good  enough  to  write 
sofdlaod  interesting  a  reply  that  I  qnot«  it  herein  ««ten«o: — 

••  Athensmn  Club.  PaU  Mall,  8.W., 
•■  April  6th,  1874. 
"  My  deuJf  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  There  is  no  qnestion  that  for  a  considerable  tame  before 
the  concession  of  the  Roman  citizenship  to  the  whole 
empire,  quite  at  all  events,  B.C.  89  or  90, — it  could  be 
obtained  in  varions  ways  by  individuals  who  possessed  a 
lower  fr&nohise  in  virtue  of  their  place  of  birth  or  who  were 
even  foreignera.  The  legal  writer,  Ulpian,  mentions  several 
of  these  modes  of  acquiring  it ;  and  Pliny,  more  than  once 
HoIioitB  the  citizenship  for  prot^g^s  of  bis  own.  There  is 
no  authority  for  anpposing  Utat  it  could  be  directly  pnr- 
dbased  (at  least  tegaUy),  but  it  could  be  obtained  by  various 
processes  which  came  to  the  same  thing  as  paying  directly, 
«.^.,  bnildingashipof  a  certain  burden  to  carry  com  to  Rome. 

"  I  soBpeot  that  St.  Paul's  ancestor  obtained  the  citizen- 
ebip  by  serving  io  some  petty  ma)^Btracy.  The  coins  of 
Tarsns  are  said  to  show  that  its  citizens  in  the  reign  of 
AugnstuB,  enjoyed  one  or  oUier  <A  the  lower  Roman 
franchises ;  and  this  wonld  facilitate  the  acquisition  by 
individoals  of  the  full  Roman  citiseuship. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.      479 

''The  Roman  oitizenship  was  necessarily  hereditary. 
The  children  of  the  person  who  became  a  Boman  citizen 
came  at  once  under  his  Patria  Potestas,  and  each  of  them 
acquired  the  capacity  for  becoming  some  day  a  Boman 
PaterfanUliaa. 

*'  St.  Paul,  as  a  Boman  citizen,  lived  under  the  Boman 
Law  of  Pertom,  bnt  he  remained  under  the  local  Law  of 
Property.  His  allusions  to  the  Patria  PotestM  and  to  the 
Boman  Law  of  Wills  and  guardianship  (which  was  like 
the  Patria  Potestcu)^  are  quite  umnistakeable,  and  more 
numerous  than  is  commonly  supposed.  In  the  obscure 
passage,  for  example,  about  women  having  power  over  the 
head,  "  Power  "  and  "  Head  "  are  technical  terms  from  the 
Boman  Law* 

"Believe  me,  very  sincerely  yours, 

"  H.  S.  Maine.*' 

George  Borrow  who,  if  he  were  not  a  gipsy  by  blood  aught 
to  have  been  one,  was,  for  some  years,  our  near  neighbour  in 
Hereford  Square.  My  friend  was  amused  by  his  quaint 
stories  and  his  (real  or  sham)  enthusiasm  for  Wales,  and 
cultivated  his  acquaintance.  I  never  liked  him,  thinking  him 
more  or  less  of  a  hypocrite.  EEis  missions,  recorded  in  the 
**  Bible  in  Spain"  and  his  translations  of  the  scriptures  into 
the  out-of-the-way  tongues,  for  which  he  had  a  gift,  were  by  no 
means  consonant  with  his  real  opinions  concerning  the  veracity 
of  the  said  Bible.  Dr.  Martineau  once  told  me  that  he  and 
Borrow  had  been  schoolfellows  at  Norwich  some  sixty  years 
before.  Borrow  had  persuaded  several  of  his  other  com- 
panions to  rob  their  fathers'  tills,  and  then  the  party  set  forth 
to  join  some  smugglers  on  the  coast.  By  degrees  the  truants 
all  fell  out  of  line  and  were  picked  up,  tired  and  hungry  along 
the  road,  and  brought  back  to  Norwich  school  where  condign 
chastisement  awaited  them.  George  Borrow  it  seems  received 
his  large  share  horsed  on  James  Martineau's  back  I  The  early 
connection  between  the  two  old  men  as  I  knew  them,  was 


480  CHAPTER  IVIl. 

irresistibly  comic  to  my  mind.  Somehow  when  I  asked  Mr* 
Borrow  once  to  come  and  meet  some  friends  at  onr  honse  he 
accepted  onr  invitation  as  osnal,  bat,  on  finding  that  Dr. 
Martinean  was  to  be  of  the  party,  hastily  withdrew  his 
acceptance  on  a  transparent  excuse ;  nor  did  he  ever  after 
attend  onr  little  assemblies  without  first  ascertaining  that 
Dr.  Martinean  would  not  be  present ! 

I  take  the  following  from  some  old  letters  to  my  friend 
referring  to  him : 

*'  Mr.  Borrow  says  his  wife  is  very  ill  and  anxious  to  keep 
the  peace  with  C.  (a  litigious  neighbour).  Poor  old  B.  was 
very  sad  at  first,  but  I  cheered  him  and  sent  him  oft  quite 
brisk  last  night.  He  talked  all  about  the  Fathers  again, 
arguing  that  their  quotations  went  to  prove  that  it  was  not 
our  gospels  they  had  in  their  hands.  I  knew  most  of  it 
before,  but  it  was  admirably  done.  I  talked  a  little  theology 
to  him  in  a  serious  way  (finding  him  talk  of  his  *  horrors*) 
and  he  abounded  in  my  sense  of  the  non-existence  of  Hell, 
and  of  the  presence  and  action  on  the  soul  of  a  Spirit, 
rewarding  and  punishing.  He  would  not  say  *  God ; '  but 
repeated  over  and  over  that  he  spoke  not  from  books 
but  from  his  own  personal  experience." 

Some  time  later — after  his  wife's  death  : 

"  Poor  old  Borrow  is  in  a  sad  state.  I  hope  he  is  starting  in 
a  day  or  two  for  Scotland.  I  sent  C.  with  a  note  begging  him 
to  come  and  eat  the  Welsh  mutton  you  sent  me  to-day,  and  he 
sent  back  word, '  Yes.*  Then,  an  hour  afterwards,  he  arrived, 
and  in  a  most  agitated  manner  said  he  had  come  to  say  '  he 
would  rather  not.  He  would  not  trouble  anyone  with  his 
sorrows.*  I  made  him  sit  down,  and  talked  as  gently  to  him 
as  possible,  saying :  *  It  won*t  be  a  trouble  Mr.  Borrow,  it 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  me*.  But  it  was  all  of  no  use.  He  was 
so  cross,  so  rudet  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  talking  to 
him.  I  asked  about  his  servant,  and  he  said  I  could  not  help 
him.  I  asked  him  about  Bowring,  and  he  said :  *  Don't  speak 
of  it.'     [It  was  some  dispute  with  Sir  John  Bowring,  who 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.       481 

was  an  acqnaintance  of  mine,  and  with  whom  I  offered  to 
mediate.]  '  I  aaked  him  would  he  look  at  the  photos  of  the 
Siamese,'  and  he  said :  *  Don*t  show  them  to  me  I '  So,  in 
despair,  as  he  sat  silent,  I  told  him  I  had  heen  at  a  pleasant 

dinner-party  the  night  before,  and  had  met  Mr.  L ,  who 

told  me  of  certain  cnrioos  books  of  medisBval  history.    *  Did 

he  know  them '  ?     *  No,  and  he  dare  said  Mr.  L did 

not,    either  I  Who   was   Mr.  L ?  '    I  described    that 

obicuTe  individual,  [one  of  the  foremost  writers  of 
the  day],  and  added  that  he  was  immensely  Uked  by 
everybody.  Whereupon  Borrow  repeated  at  least  12  times, 
*  Inmiensely  liked  I  As  if  a  man  could  be  immensely  liked  I ' 
quite  insultingly.  To  make  a  diversion  (I  was  very  patient 
with  him  as  he  was  in  trouble)  *  I  said  I  had  just  come  home 
from  the  Lyell*s  and  had  heard — .'  .  .  .  But  there 
was  no  time  to  say  what  I  had  heard  I  Mr.  Borrow  asked : 
'  Is  that  old  Lyle  I  met  here  once,  the  man  who  stands  at 
the  door  (of  some  den  or  other)  and  bets  f '  I  explained  who 
Sir  Charles  was,  (of  course  he  knew  very  well),  but  he  went 
on  and  on,  till  I  said  gravely :  '  I  don't  think  you  will  meet 
those  sort  of  people  here,  Mr.  Borrow.  We  don't  associate 
with  blacklegs,  exactly.*' 

Here  is  an  extract  from  another  letter : 

''Borrow  also  came,  and  I  said  something  about  the 
imperfect  education  of  women,  and  he  said  it  was  right  they 
should  be  ignorant,  and  that  no  man  could  endure  a  clever 
wife.  I  laughed  at  him  openly,  and  told  him  some  men 
knew  better.  What  did  he  think  of  the  Brownings  ?  '  Oh, 
he  had  heard  the  name ;  he  did  not  know  anything  of 
them.  Since  Scott,  he  read  no  modem  writer ;  Scott  toat 
greater  than  Homer  !  What  he  liked  were  curious,  old,  erudite 
books  about  medissval  and  northern  things.*  I  said  I  knew 
little  of  such  literature,  and  preferred  the  writers  of  our  own 
age,  but  indeed  I  was  no  great  student  at  all.  Thereupon  he 
evidently  wanted  to  astonish  me  ;  and,  talking  of  Ireland, 
said,  *Ah,  yes;  a  most  curious,  mixed  race.    First  there 

2  H 


.  .  .  '  Don't  yoa  think,  Mt.  Borrow,'  I  asked,  '  it  was 
the  Tnatha-de-Danaan  nho  did  that  7  Keatinge  expressly 
says  that  they  conqnered  the  Firbolgs  by  that  means.' 
(Mi.  B.,  Bomewbat  out  of  coonteoaace),  'Ohl  Aye  1 
Keatinge  is  ths  aathotity;  a  most  extraordinary  writer.' 
'Well,  I  shonld  call  him  the  Geoffrey  of  Momnonth  of 
Ireland.'  (Mr.  B.,  chauging  the  venae),  'I  delight  in 
Norse-fltories ;  they  are  far  grander  than  the  Greek.  There 
is  the  story  of  Olaf  &te  Saint  of  Norway.  Can  anything  be 
grander?  What  a  noble  character ['  'Bat,'  I  said, 
'what  do  yoa  think  of  his  putting  all  those  poor  Dmids  on 
the  Skerry  of  Shrieks  and  leaving  them  to  be  drowned  by 
the  tide? '  (Therenpon  Mr.  B.  looked  at  me  askant  ont  of 
his  gipsy  eyes,  as  if  he  thought  me  an  example  of  the  evils 
of  female  edncationl)  'Weill  well  I  I  forgot  abont  t)ia 
Skerry  of  Shrieks.  Then  there  b  the  story  of  Beownlt  the 
Saxon  going  ont  to  sea  in  bis  bnrning  ship  to  die.'  '  Oh, 
Mr.  Borrow  I  that  isn't  a  Saxon  story  at  all.  It  is  in  the 
Heimskringla  I  It  is  told  of  Hakon  of  Norway.'  Tben,Iasked 
him  ahont  the  gipsies  and  their  langnage,  and  if  they  were 
certainly  Aryans  7  He  didn't  know  (or  pretended  not  to  know) 
what  Aryans  were ;  and  altogether  displayed  a  miraonloas 
mixtore  of  odd  knowledge  and  more  odd  ignorance. 
Whether  the  latter  were  real  or  assnmed,  I  know  not  I  " 

With  the  leading  men  of  Science  in  the  Sixties  we  had  the 
honoor  of  a  good  deal  of  interconrse.  Through  Dr.  W.  B. 
Carpenter  (who,  as  Miss  Carpenter's  brother,  I  had  met  oRen) 
and  the  two  ever  hospitable  families  of  Lyell,  we  came  to 
know  many  of  them.  Sir  William  Grove  was  also  a 
partictilar  friend  of  my  friend  Mrs.  Grey.  He  and  Lady 
Grove  and  their  danghter,  Mrs.  Hall,  (Imogen),  were  all 
charming  people,  and  we  had  many  pleasant  dinners  with 
them.  Professor  Tyndall  was,  of  course,  one  of  the  principal 
members  of  that  scientific  coterie,  and  in  those  dayi 
wa    saw    a  good  deal  of   him.      He    was  very  friendly 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEl 

as  were  also  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francis  Galton. 
speonlations    seemed   always   to   me    exceed! 
and  interesting,  and  I  delighted  in  reviewinf 
beginning  of  the  Anti-yivisection  controversyi 
an  end  to  all  these  relations,  so  that  since 
seen  few  of  the  circle.    It  is  cnrions  to  recall 
we  joined  hands  on  some  theological  question 
gnlf  of  a  great  ethical  difTerence  opened  befoi 
readers  may  recall  a  cnrions  controversy  rail 
Tyndall  on  the  subject  of  the  efficacy  of  prayei 
benefits.    Having  read  what  he  wrote  on  it,  I  sent 
little  book,  Dawning  Lights,  which  vindicates  tl 
prayer,  for  spiritual  benefits  only.     The  follow 
reply,  to  which  I  will  append  another  kindly  n 
to  a  request  I  had  proffered  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  8i 

••  Professor  Tyndall  to  F.  P.  C. 

"Boyal  Institution  of  Great  Bi 

"7th  J 
"  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  Our  minds — ^that  is  yours  and  mine — souii 
note  as  regards  the  economy  of  nature.  Wit 
and  precision  you  have  stated  the  question.  Ii 
known  that  you  had  written  upon  the  subject  I 
copied  your  words  and  put  my  name  to  them. 

'*I  intend  to  keep  your  book,  but  I  have 
publisher  to  send  you  a  book  of  mine  in  excha 
fair,  is  it  not? 

"  Tour  book  so  far  as  I  have  read  it  is  full 

Of  course  I  could  not  have  written  it  all.    1 

are  too  concrete  and  your  personification  of  the 

mysteries  too  intense  for  me.    But  as  long 

tolerant  of  others — which  you  are — ^the  shape 

you  mould  the  power  of  your  soul  must  be  del 

yourself  alone. 

••  Beheve  me,  yours  most  tru] 

••John  [ 


484  CHAPTER   XVII. 

**  Royal  lustitnidon  of  Great  Britain, 

*'2l8t  June. 
*«  My  dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

**  I  would  do  anything  I  could  for  your  sake  and  irre- 
spectively of  the  interest  of  your  subject. 

'*  Had  I  Faraday's  own  letter,  I  could  decipher  at  once 
what  he  meant,  for  I  was  intimately  acquainted  with  his 
course  of  thought  during  the  later  years  of  his  life.  It  would 
however  be  running  a  great  risk  to  attempt  to  supply  th& 
hiatus  without  seeing  his  letter. 

«I  should  think  it  refers  to  the  influence  of  Hms  on 
magnetic  action.  About  the  date  referred  to  he  was  specu- 
lating and  trying  to  prove  experimentally  whether  magnetism 
required  time  to  pa.ss  through  space. 

"  Always  yours  faithfully, 

"  John  Tyndall." 

In  a  letter  of  mine  to  a  friend  written  after  meeting  Prof. 
Tyndall  at  dinner  at  Edgbaston  during  the  Congress  of  the 
British  Association  in  Birmingham,  after  mentioning  M. 
Vamb^ry  and  some  others,  I  said ;  ''  The  one  I  liked  best  was 
Prof.  Tyndall,  with  whom  I  had  quite  an  '  awful '  talk  alone 
about  the  bearing  of  Science  on  Religion.  He  said  in  words 
like  a  fine  poem,  that  Knowledge  seemed  to  him  '  Like  an 
instrument  on  which  we  went  up,  note  after  note,  and  octave 
after  octave ;  but  at  last  there  came  a  note  which  our  ears 
could  not  hear,  and  which  was  silent  for  us.  And  at  the 
other  end  of  the  scale  there  was  another  silent  note. ' " 

Many  years  after  this,  there  appeared  an  article  in  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette  which  I  felt  sure  was  by  Prof.  Tyndall,  in 
which  it  was  calmly  stated  that  the  scientiflc  intelleot  had 
settled  the  controversy  between  Pantheism  and  Theism,  and 
that  the  said  Scientific  Intellect ''  permitted  us  to  believe  in 
an  order  of  Development,*'  and  would  **  allow  the  religious 
instincts  and  the  language  of  Religion  to  gather  round  that 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEK    i 

idea ; "  bat  that  the  notion  of  a  '^  Great  Dir(    < 
no  means  be  snfTered  by  the  same  Scientific  Int    i 

I  wrote  a  reply,  begging  to  be  informed  wJien  i 
controversy  between  Pantheism  and  Theism  hac  i 
as  the  statement,  dropped  so  coolly  in  a  sing! 
was,  to  say  the  least,  startling ;  and  I  conclud 
"  We  may  be  driven  into  the  howling  wilderness  i 
world  by  the  fiery  swords  of  these  new  Cherul  i 
ledge;  bnt  at  least  we  will  not  shrink  away  : 
their  innuendoes  1 " 

I  have  also  lost  in  quitting  this  circle,  the  priv  i 
meeting  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer ;  though  he  has 
honour  be  it  remembered  I)  pronounced  a  word   : 
painfid  experiments  on  animals. 

With  the  great  naturalist  who  has  revolution  ! 
science  I  had  rather  frequent  intercourse  till  t  < 
barrier  of  a  great  difference  of  moral  opinion  ai  : 
us.     Mr.  Charles  Darwin's  brother-in-law,  M  . 
Wedgwood,  was,  for  a  time  tenant  here  at  Hengwi  ; 
wards  took  a  house  named  Oaer-Deon  in  this  nei ; 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Darwin  and  their  bo*^  i 
part  of  the  summer.    As  it  chanced,  we  also  took  a  i 
summer  close  by  Caer-deon  and  naturally  saw  oui 
daily.     I  had  known  Mr.  Darwin  previously,  in  ] 
had  also  met  his  most  amiable  brother,  Mr.  Erasr 
at  the  house  of  my  kind  old  fiiend  Mrs.  Beid,  the 
Bedford  Square  College.    The  first  thing  we  hearc 
the  illustrious  arrivals  was  the  report,  that  one 
had  had  "a  faU  off  a  Philosopher;**  a  word  sul 
the  ingenious  Welsh  mind  for  "velocipede"  (as  hi 
then  called)  under  on  easily  understood  confusi 
the  rider  and  the  machine  he  rode  t 

Next, — ^the    Welsh   parson   of    the    little    ch 
by,    having   fondly    calculated    that    Mr.    Dar 


him  a  Bermon  which  shonld  Blay  this  soieatifie  Goliath 
and  Spread  diamaf  through  the  lanka  of  the  sceptical 
host.  He  told  bis  congregation  that  there  were  in  theee 
days  perBous,  poffed  up  by  soienoe,  falsely-BO-called,  and 
deluded  by  the  pride  of  reaaon,  who  had  aotaally  been  so 
audacious  aa  to  questioii  the  story  of  the  six  days  Oreation 
as  detuled  in  Sacred  Scriptore.  But  let  them  note  how 
idle  wem  tiiese  sceptical  qaoatiomngs  t  Did  they  not  see 
that  the  events  recorded  happened  before  there  was  any  man 
existii^  to  record  them,  and  that,  therefore,  Moaes  matt  have 
learned  them  from  Qod  himself,  since  there  was  no  one  else 
to  tellbim?" 

Alas  I  Qie  philosopher,  I  fear,  never  veait  to  be  converted 
(b8  he  sorely  most  have  been)  by  thia  ingenious  Welsh 
parson,  and  we  weT«  for  a  long  time  merry  over  bis  It^io. 
Ur.  Darwin  was  never  In  good  health,  I  believe,  after  his 
Beagle  experienoe  of  eea  sickness,  and  he  was  glad  to  nee  a 
pcacefol  and  beautiftil  old  pony  of  my  friend's,  yclept 
Geraint,  which  she  placed  at  his  disposal.  His  gentleness 
to  this  beaat  and  incessant  efibrta  to  keep  off  the  flies  from 
his  head,  and  his  fondness  for  his  dog  Polly  (oonoeming 
whose  cleverness  and  breeding  he  indulged  in  ddosions 
which  Matthew  Arnold's  better  dog-lore  would  have  swiftly 
dissipated),  were  very  pleasing  truts  in  his  character. 

In  writing  at  this  time  to  a  friend  I  said : — 

"I  am  glad  yon  like  Mill's  book.  Mr.  Charles  Darwin, 
with  whom  I  am  enchanted,  is  greatly  excited  abont  it,  bnt 
says  that  Mill  oonld  leam  some  thinga  from  physical 
science ;  and  that  it  is  in  the  struggls  tor  existence  and 
(especially)  for  the  possession  of  women  that  men  acquire 
their  vigour  and  courage.  Also  he  intensely  agrees  with 
what  I  say  in  my  review  of  Mill  about  mhtrited  qualities 
being  more  important  than  tdueatum,  on  which  alone  MfU 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEl 

insists.  All  this  the  philosopher  told  i 
standing  on  a  path  60  feet  above  me  and  c 
animated  dialogue  from  onr  respective  standi 

Mr.  Darwin  was  walking  on  the  footpatl 
Oaer-Deon  among  the  purple  heather  whidt 
mountains  so  royally;  and  impenetrable  bramU 
him  above  and  me  on  the  road  below ;  so  we  ( 
remarks  at  the  top  of  our  voices,  being  too  ea^ 
the  absurdity  of  the  situation,  till  my  friend  con 
road  heard  with  amazement  words  flying  in  1 
assuredly  those  '^valleys  and  rocks  never  h< 
or  since!  When  we  drive  past  that  spot,  as 
now,  we  sigh  as  we  look  at  the  ^'  Philosopher 
wish  (0,  how  one  wishes  !)  that  he  could  com^  1 
us  what  he  has  learned  since ! 

At  this  time  Mr.  Darwin  was  writing  his  D« 
and  he  told  me  that  he  was  going  to  introdui 
view  of  the  nature  of  the  Moral  Sense.  I  said 
you  have  studied  Kant's  GrundUgtung  der  Sii 
he  had  not  read  Eant,  and  did  not  care  to  do  so. 
to  urge  him  to  study  him,  and  observed  thi 
hardly  see  one's  way  in  ethical  speculation  'v 
understanding  of  his  philosophy.  My  own  knc 
was  too  imperfect  to  talk  of  it  to  him,  but  I  co 
a  very  good  translation.  He  declined  my 
nevertheless  packed  it  up  with  the  next  parcel  I 

On  returning  the  volume  he  wrote  to  me  : — 

'*  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  send  me  noleru 
together  with  the  other  book.  I  have  been  ea 
to  look  through  the  former.  It  has  interested 
see  how  differently  two  men  may  look  at  the 
Though  I  fully  feel  how  presumptuous  it  s< 
myself  even  for  a  moment  in  the  same  bracke 
— the  one  man  a  great  philosopher  looking  exi 


the  ontnde  through  apea  and  UTagea  at  ibe  moral  eonse  of 

manMnd." 

There  was  irony,  and  perhaps  not  a  little  pride  in  bis 
reference  to  himself  aa  a  "  degraded  wretdi  looking  throngh 
apes  and  savages  at  the  moral  sense  of  mankind  "  I  Between 
the  two  groat  Schools  of  thinkers, — tliose  who  stad3r  from  the 
Inside  (of  homan  consciousness),  and  those  who  study  from 
the  Outside, — there  has  always  existed  mntoal  acimosily  and 
contempt.  For  my  own  part,  while  fully  admitting  that  the 
former  needed  to  have  their  conclnsions  enlarged  and  tested 
by  outside  experience,  I  must  always  hold  that  th^  were  on 
a  truer  line  than  the  (exclusively)  physico- scientific  philo- 
sophers. Man's  consciousness  is  not  only  a  &ct  in  the 
world  but  the  greatest  of  facts ;  and  to  overlook  it  and  take 
our  lessons  from  beasts  and  insects  is  to  repeat  the  old  jest 
of  Hamlet  with  Hamlet  omitted.  A  philosophy  founded 
solely  on  the  conscionsness  of  man,  may:  and,  very  likely, 
will,  be  imperfect ;  and  certainly  it  will  be  incomplete.  But 
a  philosophy  which  begins  with  inorganic  matter  and  the 
lower  animals,  and  only  includes  the  outward  &ct6  of 
anthropology,  regardless  of  htunon  consciouBnras, — miut  be 
worse  than  imperfect  and  incomplete.  It  resembles  a  troatue 
on  the  Solar  System  which  should  omit  to  notice  the  Son. 

I  mentioned  to  him  in  a  letter,  that  we  had  found  some 
seeds  of  Tropeeolum,  very  carefully  gathered  from  brilliant 
and  multicoloured  varieties,  all  revert  in  a  single  year  to 
plain  scarlet.  He  replied  : — "  Yon  and  Miss  Lloyd  need  not 
have  your  faith  in  inheritance  shaken  with  respect  to 
Tropfeolum  until  you  have  prevented  for  six  or  seven  genera- 
tions any  crossing  between  the  varieties  in  the  same  garden. 
I  have  lately  found  the  very  shade  of  colour  is  transmitted  of 
a  most  fluctuating  garden  variety  if  the  flowers  ate  carefnUy 
self-fertilized  during  six  or  seven  generations." 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVEH 

The  DesceTU  of  Man  of  which  Mr.  Darwin  wai 
to  give  me  a  copy  before  publication,  inspired 
deadliest  alarm.    His  new  theory  therein  set  fox 
the  natnre  and  origin  of  conscience,  seemed  to 
still  seems  to  me,  of  absolutely  fatal  import, 
strongest  answer  to  it  in  my  power  at  once,  s 
in  the   Theological  Review,  April,  1871    (repx 
Darwinism  in  Morals ,  1872).     Of  conrse  I  sen 
to  Down  House.      Here  is  a  generous  mese 
received  in  reply : — 

"  Mr.  Darwin  is  reading  the  Review  with  the  grc 
and  attention  and  feels  so  much  the  kind  way 
him  and  the  praise  yon  give  him,  that  it  will  mi 
your  severity,  when  he  reaches  that  part  of  th« 

Referring  to  an  article  of  mine  in  the  Qua\ 
(Oct.,  1872)  on  the  Consciousness  of  Dogs,  Mr.  D 
to  me,  Nov.  28th,  1872  :— 

"I  have  been  greatly  interested  by  your  f 
Quarterly,  It  seems  to  me  the  best  analysis  of 
an  animal  which  I  have  ever  read,  and  I  agree 
most  points.  I  have  been  particularly  glad  t 
you  say  about  the  reasoning  power  of  dogs,  an< 
rather  vague  matter,  their  self-consciousness, 
however  that  you  would  prefer  criticisim  to  adi 

"  I  regret  that  you  quote  J.  so  often :  I  ma< 
about  one  case  (which  quite  broke  down)  from 
certainly  ought  to  know  Mr.  J.  well ;  and  I  wi 
that  he  had  not  written  in  a  scientific  spirit.  ] 
that  you  quote  old  writers.  It  may  be  very  illibe] 
statements  go  for  nothing  with  me  and  I  suspec 
others.  It  passes  my  powers  of  belief  that  dogs 
suicide.  Assuming  the  statements  to  be  true,  I 
it  more  probable  that  they  were  distraught,  and  < 
what  they  were  doing ;  nor  am  I  able  to  credit  al 


to  me  to  be  about  the  moral  sense.  Since  pnbliBbiiig  tbe 
Detoent  of  Max  I  have  got  to  believe  rather  mote  than  I 
did  in  dogs  baving  irtiat  ma;  be  called  a  conacieace.  When 
anhononraUe  dog  has  oommitted  an  nndiacovered  offence 
he  certainly  seems  aihanud  (ajid  this  is  the  term  natuially 
and  often  QBed)  rather  than  afraid  to  meet  his  master. 
My  doKi  ttte  beloved  and  beantifol  Polly,  is  at  Hnch 
times  extremely  affectionate  towards  me ;  and  thin  leads 
me  to  mention  a  little  anecdote.  When  I  was  a  very 
little  boy,  I  bad  oommitted  some  offence,  so  that  my 
conscience  troubled  me,  and  when  I  met  my  father,  I 
lavished  so  mach  affection  od  him,  that  be  at  once  asked 
me  what  I  had  done,  and  told  me  to  confess.  I  was  so 
utterly  oonfonnded  at  his  snspecting  anything,  that  I 
remember  the  scene  clearly  to  the  present  day,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  Polly's  frame  of  mind  on  snch  occasions  is 
mnoh  the  same  as  was  mine,  for  I  was  not  then  at  all 
afraid  of  my  father." 

In  a  letter  to  a  iriend  (Nov.,  1869)  I  say:— 
"  We  lunched  with  Mr.  Obarles  Darwin  at  Mr.  Erasmus 

D 's  house  on  Sunday.    He  told  ns  that  a  German  man 

of  scienoe,  (I  think  Carl  Vogtl.theotber  day  gave  a  lecture. 
Id  which  be  treated  the  Mass  as  the  last  relic  of  that 
Cannibdliini  which  gradually  took  to  eating  only  the  heart, 
or  eyes  of  a  man  to  acquire  his  courage.  Whereupon  tfie 
whole  audience  rose  and  cheered  the  lecturer  euthuuas- 
ticatly  I  Mr.  Darwin  remarked  how  much  more  dfteney 
there  was  in  speaking  on  such  subjeotein  England.'' 

This  pleasant  intercourse  with  an  illnstrioas  man  was, 
like  many  other  pleasant  things,  brought  to  a  close  for  me  in 
1875  by  the  beginning  of  the  Anti-vivisection  crusade.  Mr. 
Darwin  eventually  became  the  centre  of  an  adormg  diqve  of 
vivisectors  who  (as  his  Biography  shows)  plied  hi™ 
incessantly  with  encouragement  to  uphold  their  practice,  till 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  8EVE. 

the  deplorable  spectacle  was  exhibited  of  a  m 
not  allow  a  fly  to  bite  a  pony's  neck,  standin 
all  Europe  (in  his  celebrated  letter  to  Prof. 
Sweden)  as  the  advocate  of  Vivisection. 


We  had  many  interesting  foreign  visitori 
Square.  I  have  mentioned  the  two  Parsee  ^ 
came  to  thank  me  for  having  made  (as  they  coi 
estimate  of  their  religion  in  my  article  *'  The 
of  the  Zoroastrians.**  The  elder  of  them,  ]& 
Furdoonjee,  was  President  of  the  Parsee  Societ 
but  resided  much  in  England,  and  had  an  asto 
ledge  of  English  and  American  theological  ai 
literature.  He  asked  me  one  day  to  recommeni 
modem  books  on  ethics.  My  small  library  coi 
many,  but  he  not  only  knew  every  one  I  ] 
ahnost  all  others  which  I  named  as  worthy  of 
We  talked  very  freely  on  religious  matters  and 
deal  of  sympathy.  I  pressed  him  one  day  with 
"  Do  you  really  believe  in  Ahriman  ?  "  "  Of  c 
"  What !  In  a  real  personal  Evil  Being,  who 
person  as  Ormusd  ?  "  ''  0  no  !  I  did  not  n 
believe  in  EvO  existing  in  the  world ;  " — ^and 
nothing  more  f 

My  chief  Eastern  visitors,  however  (and  i 
numerous  that  my  artist-minded  friend  was  woi 
my  "  Bronzes  "),  were  the  Brahmos  of  Bengal,  a 
of  the  same  faith  from  Bombay.  There  were  ve 
young  men  at  that  date,  members  of  the  "  Chui 
Qod ; "  nearly  all  of  them  having  risen  fr< 
idolatry  in  which  they  had  been  educated 
Theistic  faith,  not  without  encountering  c6nsi( 
mi  social  persecution.     Their  leader^  Kesbub 


with  anch  prophets  aa  Nonok  (the  founder  of  the  SiUi 
religion)  and  Gaatama ;  or  with  the  medieval  Sunte  like  St. 
AogoBtine  and  St.  Patrick,  who  converted  nations.  He  was, 
I  think,  the  most  devout  man  with  whose  mind  I  ever  came 
in  contact.  When  he  left  my  drawing-room  after  long  con- 
versations on  the  highest  themes, — sometimes  held  alone 
together,  sometimes  with  the  company  of  my  dear  Mend 
William  Henry  Channing — the  impression  left  on  me  was 
one  never  to  be  forgotten.  I  wrote  of  one  snch  interview  at 
the  time  to  my  friend  as  follows  (April  28, 1670): 

"  Koshnb  came  and  sat  viith  luo  the  other  evening,  and 
I  wiLR  profoundly  impteased,  not  by  his  intellect  bat  by 
hia  goodnesB.  He  seems  re&lly  to  Hvt  in  God,  and  the 
KiDgle-mindednesB  of  the  man  seemed  to  me  ntterly  on- 
English;  much  more  like  Christ  I  He  said  some  very 
profonnd  things,  and  seemed  to  feel  that  tlie  joy  of  prayer 
was  qnite  the  greatest  thing  in  lite.  He  said,  'I  don't 
know  anything  abont  the  future,  bni  I  only  know  that 
when  I  pray  I  feel  that  my  union  with  God  is  eternal.  In 
onr  faith  the  belief  in  Qod  and  in  Immortality  are  not  two 
doctrines  but  one.  He  also  said  that  we  mast  believe  in 
intercessory  prayer,  else  th«  more  tut  lived  in  Prjyer  the  more 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  8EVE 

Mozoomdar  and  several  others  of  his  party 
quite  perfectly ;  making  long  addresses  i 
extempore  sermons  in  our  language  without 
kind,  or  a  single  betrayal  of  foreign  accen 
particular,  was  decidedly  eloquent  in  Englis 
many  influential  men  to  meet  him  and  they ' 
by  him  as  much  as  I  was. 

The  career  of  this  very  remarkable  man  w 
few  years  after  his  return  from  England  by  a 
I  believe  he  had  taken  to  ascetic  practice: 
watching ;  against  which  I  had  most  urgent]; 
seeing  his  tendency  towards  them.  I  had  arg 
that,  not  only  were  they  totally  foreign  to 
simple  Theism,  but  dangerous  to  a  man  who,  li 
in  the  highest  realms  of  human  emotion,  needc 
for  that  reason  that  the  physical  basis  of  his 
absolutely  sound  and  strong,  and  not  subject 
bihties  and  possible  hallucinations  attendant  on  a 
friendly  counsels  were  of  no  avail.  Keshub  bee 
somewhat  too  near  a  "  Yogi "  (if  I  rightly  m 
word)  and  was  almost  worshipped  by  his  c< 
Brahmos.  The  marriage  of  his  daughter — ^^ 
visited  England — to  the  Maharajah  of  Coosh  B 
very  painful  discussions  about  the  legal  age  of 
the  ceremonies  of  a  Hindoo  marriage,  which  w< 
by  the  bridegroom's  mother ;  and  the  last  ji 
E^shub's  Ufe  were,  I  fear,  darkened  by  the  s< 
his  church  which  followed  an  event  otherwise  g 

Oddly  enough  this  Indian  Saint  was  the  o: 
has  ever  been  my  chance  to  meet  who  could 
thoroughly,  like  one  of  ourselves.  He  cai 
Hereford  Square  one  day  bursting  with 
laughter  at  his  own  adventures.  '  Lord  La\ 
Governor-General  of  India,  had  been  particula 


arrivs  in  England.  Eeshnb'a  friends  had  foimd  a  lodging  ibr 
him  in  Begent's  Park,  and  having  resolved  to  go  and  puy  hia 
respects  to  Lord  Lawrence  at  once,  he  sent  for  a  four- wheeled 
c^,  and  simpl}'  told  the  cabman  to  drive  to  that  nobleman's 
house ;  fondly  imagining  that  all  London  mnat  know 
it,  as  Calcntta  knew  Gk>v^mment  Honse.  The  cabman  set 
off  withont  the  remotest  idea  whore  to  go  ;  and  after  driving 
hither  and  thither  aboat  town  for  tJiree  boors,  set  his  fare 
down  again  at  the  door  of  his  lodgings ;  told  him  he  could  not 
find  Lord  Lawrence ;  and  charged  him  fourteen  Bbillings  I 
Poor  Eeshnb  piud  the  scandalous  charge,  and  then  referred 
to  an  old  letter  to  find  Lord  Lawrence's  address,  "  Qwen's 
Gate."  Oh,  that  was  quit«  right  I  No  doubt  the  late 
Governor-General  naturally  lived  close  to  the  Queen  I 
"Drive  to  Qoeen's  Gate."  The  new  cabman  drove  straight 
enoDgh  to  "  Qaeen's  Gate  " ;  but  about  186  houses  appeared 
in  a  row,  and  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  which  of  them 
belonged  to  Lord  Lawrence;  not  even  a  solitary  sentinel 
walking  before  the  door  !  After  knocking  at  many  doors  in 
vain,  the  cabman  bad  an  inspiration  I  "  We  will  try  if  the 
nearest  butcher  knows  which  house  it  is ;  "  and  so  they  turned 
into  Gloucester  Boad,  and  the  excellent  butcher  there  did 
know  which  number  in  Queen's  Gate  belonged  to  Lord 
Lawrence,  and  Keshnb  was  received  and  warmly  welcomed. 
Bvt  that  he  should  have  to  seek  out  a  huteh^'a  ihop  (in  his 
Eastern  eyes  the  most  degraded  of  shops)  to  learn  where  he 
could  find  a  man  whom  he  had  last  seen  as  Viceroy  of  Lidia, 
was,  to  his  thinking,  exquisitely  ridiculous. 

Ez-Govemors- General  and  their  wives  must  certainly 
find  some  difficulty  in  descending  all  at  once  so  many  steps 
from  the  altitude  of  the  viceregal  thrones  of  our  great 
dependencies  to  the  level  of  private  citizens,  scarcely  to  be 
noticed  more  than  others  in  society,  and  dwelling  in  ordinary 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVh 

London  houses  unmarked  by  the  ''guard  \ 
even  a  single  policeman  f 


At  a  later  date  I  had  other  Oriental  visiton 
man  who  had  made  a  translation  of  the  Bhi 
who  brought  his  wife  and  children  lo  Englaa 
tea-table.     The  wife  wore  a  lovely,  delicate  lilai 
about  her  in  the  most  graceful  folds,  but  the  ei 
what  marred  by  the  vulgar  English  side-sprin 
short  in  the  leg),  which  the  poor  soul  had  fov 
use  in  London  f     The  children  sat  opposite  me  a( 
silently  devouring  my  cakes  and  bon-bons; 
with  their  large  black  eyes,  veritable  wdls  of 
hatred,  such  as  only  Eastern  eyes  can  speak 
men  and  women  very  well,  but  when  the  littli 
question,  I  must  confess  that  a  child  is  scare 
me  unless  it  be  a  little  Saxon,  with  golden  hi 
innocent  blue  eyes  which  make  one  think  of  f( 
in  a  brook.     Where  is  the  heart  which  can 
soft  at  sight  of  one  of  these  little  creatures  to< 
spring  grass  picking  daisies  and  cowsHps,  or  1 
sheer  ecstasy  in  the  joy  of  existence  ?    A  dark 
ten  times  as  handsome,  but  it  has  no  pretei 
mind,  to  pull  one's  heart-strings  in  the  same  we 
babykins. 

A  Hindoo  lady,  Ramabai,  for  whom  I  have 
came  to  me  before  I  left  London  and  impres 
favourably.  She,  and  a  few  other  Hindoo  wc 
striving  to  secure  education  and  freedom  for 
will  be  honoured  hereafter  more  than  John  H( 
strove  only  to  mitigate  the  too  severe  punishmec 
and  delinquents;  ikey  are  labouring  to  relie- 
equally  dreadful  lot  of    millions  of   vwnocent 


me  that  tboasancU  of  these  nnfaappy  beings  ntver  put  their 
feet  to  the  earth  or  go  a  step  from  the  house  of  their  husbands 
(to  which  Uiey  are  carried  from  their  iatLer'a  Zonana  at 
9  or  10  years  old)  toll  they  were  borne  away  as  corpses ! 
All  life  for  them  has  been  one  long  imprisoiunetit ;  its  side 
interest  and  concern  the  passions  of  the  baser  sort  of  love 
and  jealousy  I  While  writing  these  pages  I  have  come 
across  the  following  frightful  testimony  by  the  great 
traveller  Mrs.  Bishop  (n^  Isabella  Bird)  to  the  tratb  of  the 
above  observation  concerning  the  dreadftd  condition  of  the 
women  of  India  : — 

"  I  have  lived  in  Zenanaa  and  harems,  and  have  seen  the 
daily  life  at  the  aeoladed  women,  and  I  can  speak  from 
bitter  experience  of  what  their  lives  are;  the  intellect 
dwarfed,  so  that  the  woman  of  twenty  or  thirty  years  of 
age  is  more  like  a  child  of  eight  intelloctnally,  while  all  tte 
worst  passions  of  human  nature  are  stimolated  and 
developed  in  a  fearful  degree ;  jcalooEy,  envy,  murderous 
bate,  intrigue,  running  to  each  an  extent  that  in  some 
oonntriea  I  have  hardly  ever  been  in  a  woman's  house  or 
near  a  woman's  tent  witbont  being  asked  for  drags  with 
which  to  disfigure  the  favourite  wife,  to  take  away  her  life, 
or  to  take  away  the  life  of  the  favourite  wife's  infant  son. 
This  request  has  been  made  of  me  nearly  two  hnndred 

{Qvated  by  Lady  Henry  Somerset  in  the  Woman't  Signal, 
April  12th,  1894). 

I  had  the  pleasure  also  of  visits  from  several  French  and 
Belgiui  gentlemen  who  were  good  enough  to  call  on  me. 
Several  were  Protestant  pastors  of  the  Ecole  Modeme; 
M.  Fontan6s,  M.  Th.  Boat,  and  M.  Leblois  being  among 
them.  I  had  long  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  M.  Felix 
BScant,  author  of  a  beautiful  book  "  Lt  Christ  et  la  Con- 
leience,"  of  whom  Dean  Stanley  told  me  that  he  (who  knew 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.       497 

him  well)  believed  him  to  be  ''  the  most  pious  of  living  men.*' 
I  never  had  the  happiness  to  meet  him,  bat  seeing,  some 
twenty  years  later,  in  a  Beport  by  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  on 
Frdnch  Training  Schools,  enthusiastic  praise  of  M.  P6caat's 
school  for  female  teachers,  at  Fontenaye*aiix-Boses,  near 
Paris,  I  sent  it  to  my  old  Mend,  and  we  exchanged  a  mental 
handshake  across  time  and  space. 

An  illnstrions  neighboor  of  ours,  in  Sonth  Kensington 
sometimes  came  to  see  me.  Here  is  a  lively  complimentary 
letter  from  him : — 

"  From  M.  le  S^natenr  Victor  Schoelcher  to  Miss  Cobbe. 

"Paris,  12,  1883. 
"  Dear,  honoured  Miss  Power  Cobbe, 

'*  Je  ne  vons  ai  pas  oubli^e,  on  ne  vons  onblie  pas  qnand 
on  a  en  Phonnenr  et  le  plaisir  de  vous  connaltre.  Moi  je  suis 
accabl^  d'onvrage  et  je  ne  fais  pas  la  moiti^  de  ce  que  je 
vondraisfaire.  Je  ne  manqne  pas  tontefois  de  lire  votre 
Zoophile  Fran9ais  qm  aidera  puissamment  notre  Ligne  k 
combattre  lea  abas  de  la  Vivisection.  Tons  ceox  qui  out 
qnelqne  sentiment  d'humanit^  ^contoront  votre  voix  en 
faveor  des  panvres  animaax  et  vons  aidoront  de  tontes  leur 
forces  k  les  prot^ger  contre  un  genre  d'^tade  veritablement 
barbare.  Qaand  k  moi,  Tactiviti^,  la  perseverance  et  le 
talent  que  vous  montrez  dans  votre  oeuvre  de  charity 
m'inspirent  le  plus  vif  ot  le  plus  respectueux  int^rSt. 

"  Ne  croyez  pas  ceux  qui  tentent  de  vous  d^courager  en 
pr^tendant  que  votre  journal  est  une  substance  trop  aride 
pour  attacher  le  lecteur  Fran^ais.  Je  le  sais ;  il  est  convenu 
en  Angleterre  que  les  Fran^ais  sont  un  peuple  l^ger.  Main 
c'est  \k  un  vieux  pr^jug^  que  ne  gardeut  pas  les  Anglais 
instruits.  Soyez  bien  assur6  que  vos  efforts  ne  seront  pas 
plus  peine  perdue  dans  mon  noble  pays  que  dans  le  votre. 
Notre  Society  Protectrice  des  Animaux  a  quarante  ans 
d*exisience. 

**A  mon  prochain  voyage  k  Londres  je  m'empresserai 

d*aller  vous  faire  visite  pour  retrouver  le  plaisir  que  j'ai 

2  1 


gmitS  (Uns  votre  oonveiBation  et  poni  Tona  repdtet,  Deu 
Hiss  Power  Cobbe,  that  I  am  yoni's  most  leBpectfally  and 
(aithfolly, 

"  V.  SCHCBLCHBR. 

"  Permettez  moi  de  voos  prier  do  me  rappeler  ad  sooTenir 
de  Madame  la  Doctoreese,  et  de  M.  le  Dr.  Hoggan." 

It  was  M.  Schoelcher  who  effected  in  1846  the  aboUtioii  of 
Negro  Slavery  in  the  fVcnch  Colooies.  He  was  a  charming 
companion  and  a  most  excellent  man.  I  interceded  wice 
witb  him  to  make  interest  with  the  proper  anttiorilies  in 
fVanee  for  the  relaxation  of  the  extremely  severe  penalties 
which  Louise  Michel  had  incorred  by  one  of  her  extravagances. 
To  my  surprise,  I  learned  from  him  that  I  bad  gone  to  head- 
{[iiarters,  since  the  matter  woold  mainly  rest  in  his  bands.  Ha 
was  Yice-Preaident, — practically  President— of  the  Department 
of  Prisons  in  France.  He  repeated  witb  indulgence,  "Mais, 
Sfadame,  elle  est  foUel  elle  est  partaifement  folle,  ette^a  dan- 
gerense."  I  quite  agreed,  bat  still  thongbt  she  was  well 
meaning,  and  that  her  sentence  was  excessive.  He  promised  that 
whentbefirstyear  of  her  imprisonment  was  over  (with  which, he 
laid,  they  made  it  a  mle  never  to  interfere  ho  as  not  to  insnlt  the 
jidges,)  be  wonld  see  what  could  be  done  to  let  her  off  by 
ilegrees.  He  observed,  with  more  eameBtneBa  than  I  should 
have  expected  from  one  of  bis  political  school,  how  wrong, 
dangerous  and  meked  it  woe  to  go  about  with  a  black  flag  at 
the  head  of  a  mob.  Still  he  agreed  with  my  view  that  the 
length  of  Lonise  Michel's  sentence  was  u^ostly  great. 
Eventually  the  penalty  was  actually  commuted ;  I  conclude 
through  the  intervention  of  M.  Schoelcher. 

M,  Scbcelober  was  the  most  attractive  Frenchman  I  ever 
met.  At  the  time  I  knew  him,  he  was  old  and  feeble  and  bad 
a  miserable  cough;  buthewasmostemphatieallyagentleman, 
a  tender,  even  soft-hearted  man ;  and  a  brilliantly  agreeable 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.      4^ 

talker.  He  had  made  a  magnifioent  collection  of  9,000 
engravings,  and  told  me  he  was  going  to  present  it  to  the 
Beaux  Arts  in  Paris.  While  sitting  talking  in  my  drawing- 
room  his  eye  constantly  tnrned  to  a  particularly  fine  cast 
which  I  possess  of  the  Psyche  of  Praxiteles,  made  expressly 
for  Harriet  Hosmer  and  given  by  her  to  me  in  Rome.  When 
he  rose  to  leave  me,  he  stood  under  the  lovely  creature  and 
worshipped  her  as  she  deserves  1 

We  had  also  many  delightful  American  visitors,  whose 
visits  gave  me  so  much  pleasure  and  profit  that  I  easily 
forgave  one  or  two  others  who  provoked  Fanny  Eemble's 
remark  that ''  if  the  engineers  would  lay  on  Miss  P.  or  Mr.  H. 
the  Alps  would  be  bored  through  without  any  trouble  I " 
Most  of  my  American  firiendly  visitors  are,  I  rejoice  to  say, 
still  living,  so  I  will  only  name  them  with  an  expression  of 
my  great  esteem  for  all  and  affection  for  several  of  them. 
Among  them  were  Col.  Higginson,  Mr.  George  Curtis,  Mrs. 
Howe,  Mrs.  Livermore,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loring-Brace,  Bev.  J. 
Freeman  Clarke,  Rev.  W.  Alger,  Dr.  0.  W.  Holmes,  Mr. 
Peabody,  Miss  Harriet  Hosmer,  Mr.  Hazard,  Mrs.  Lockwood, 
and  my  dearly  beloved  friends,  W.  H.  Channing,  Mrs.  Apthorp, 
Mrs.  Wister,  Miss  Schuyler  and  Miss  Georgina  Schuyler.  Some- 
times American  ladies  would  come  to  me  as  perfect  strangers 
with  a  letter  from  some  mutual  friend,  and  would  take  me  by 
storm  and  afker  a  couple  of  hours'  conversation  we  parted  as 
if  we  had  known  and  loved  each  other  for  years.  There  is 
something  to  my  mind  unique  in  the  attractiveness  of 
American  women,  when  they  are,  as  usual,  attractive ;  but 
they  are  like  the  famous  little  girl  with  the  "curl  in  the 
middle  of  her  forehead," — 

**  When  she  was  good,  she  was  very,  very  good ; 
When  she  was  bad,  she  was  horrid  " ! 

The  wholesome  horror  felt  by  us,  Londoners,  of  outstaying 
our  wdcome  when  visiting  acquaintances,  and  of  trespassing 


Euo  luitg  at  any  ooor,  seems  iio  da  an  uumown  senumeni  m 
some  AmerioBSB,  and  alao  to  some  AnetraliaD  ladies  ;  and  for 
my  ovn  part  I  fear  that  being  bored  is  a  kind  of  martyrdom 
which  I  can  never  endure  in  a  Ghristdan  spirit,  or  withoat 
beginning  to  regard  the  man  or  woman  who  bores  me  with 
most  oncharitable  sentiments.  My  yonng  Hindoo  visitors 
drove  me  distracted  till  1  discovered  that  they  imagined  a 
visit  to  me  to  be  an  audience,  and  that  it  was  for  me  to 
dismiia  them  t 

I  met  Longfellow  daring  his  last  visit  to  England  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Wynne-Finch.  His  large,  leonine  head, 
enrmoimt^d  at  that  date  by  a  nmtbvi  of  white  hair,  was  very 
striking  bdeed.  I  saw  him  standing  a  few  moments  alone, 
and  ventured  to  mtrodoce  myself  as  a  Mend  of  his  friends, 
the  Apthorpa,  of  Boston,  and  when  I  gave  my  name  he  took 
both  my  hands  and  pressed  them  with  deligbtfnl  cordiality. 
We  t^ed  for  a  good  whOe,  bnt  I  cannot  recall  any  particular 
remark  he  may  have  made. 

Mr.  Wynne-Finch  waa  stepfather  of  Alice  L'Eetrange, 
who,  before  her  mairi^e  with  Laurence  Oliphant  waa  for  a 
long  tome  onr  most  assiduous  and  affectionate  visitor,  having 
tt^en  a  yonng  girl's  engowment  for  us  two  elderly  women. 
Never  was  there  a  more  bewitching  yonng  creature,  so 
sweetly  affectionate,  so  clever  and  brilliant  in  every  way.  It 
was  quite  dazzling  to  see  such  youth  and  br^htness  flitting 
abont  us.  An  old  letter  of  hera  to  my  friend  which  I  chance 
to  have  fallen  on  Ja  alive  still  with  her  playfulness  and  tender- 
ness.   It  begins  thus : — 

"4,  Upper  Brook  Street, 
"  London,  Oct.  Srd,  1871. 
*'  0  yes  I  I  know  I  It  isn't  so  very  long  since  I  heard  last, 
and  I  am  ill  London,  which  I  am  enjoying,  and  am  bnsy  in 
a  thousand  little  messy  things  which  amuae  me,  and  I  waa 
with  Miss  Cobbe  on  Tueaday  which  was  bliss  absolute,  and 
above  all  I  heurd  abont  you  from  hei  (beside  all  the  talk  on 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIEb  AnV  SEi 

that  forbidden  subject, — ^it  is  io  disagreeab 
I  felt  that  ingratitude  for  mercies  receivi 
terises  our  race  so  strong  in  me  that  I 
your  writing,  as  that  is  all  I  can  get  just  d 

Alice  was  of  an  extremely  sceptical  turn 
made  her  subsequent  fanaticism  the  more  i) 
for  months  before  she  fell  in  with  Mr.  Oil] 
had  been  labouring  with  all  my  strength  to 
to  believe  in  Ood.     She  did  not  see  her  way 
all,  though  she  was  docile  enough  to  read 
I  gave  her,  and  to  come  with  us  and  her  stt 
Dr.  Martineau's  sermons.  She  incessantly  disc 
questions,  but  always  from  the  point  of  vie 
creation,  and,   as  she  used  to  say  patheti 
insufferableness  of  the  suffering  of  others, 
that  the  misery  of  the  world  was  so  great  tha 
He  could  not  reheve  it,  ought  to  hurl  it  to  c 
vain  I  argued  that  there  is  a  higher  end  c 
Happiness,  to  be  wrought  out  through  trial  : 
would  never  admit  the  loftier  conception  of 
as  they  appeared  to  me,  and  was  to  all  inten 
an  Atheist  when  she  said  good-bye  to  me,  bei 
to  Paris.     She  came  back  in  a  month  or 
merely  a  believer  in  the  ordinary  orthodox  en 
with  the  zeal  of  an  energmnene  for  the  doctri 
over   and  above  orthodoxy,  of  Mr.  Harris] 
caressing,  modest  young  friend   was  entire] 
She   stood  upright  and  walked  up  and  do\ 
talking   with  vehemence  about  Mr.  Harris* 
the  necessity  for  adopting  his  views,  obeyin 
and    going    immediately  to  live  on   the   si 
Erie  I     The   transfiguration  was,  I  suppose 
of  the  many  miracles  of  the  little  god  wit 
arrows    and   Mr.  Oliphant  was  certainly  n< 


502  CHAPTER  XVII. 

therein.    ButstiU  there  was  no  adequate  explanation  of  this 
change,  or  of  the  boasting  (difficnlt  to  hear  with  patience  from 
a  clever  and  sceptical  woman)  of  the  famous  "  method  "  of 
obtaining  fresh  suppUes  of  Di^'ine  spirit,  by  the  process  of 
holding  one's  breath  for  some  minutes— according  to  Mr. 
Harris'  pneumatology  1     The  whole    thing  was  mfimtdy 
distressing,  even  revolting  to  us;  and  we  sympathised  much 
with  her  step-father  (my  friend's  old  friend)  who  had  loved 
her  like  a  father,  and  was  driven  wUd  by  the  insolent  preten- 
tions of  Mr.  Harris  to  stop  the  marriage,  of  which  all  London 
had  heard,  unless  his  monstrous  demands  were  previously 
obeyed  1    At  last  Alice  walked  by  herself  one  morning  to  her 
Bank,  and  ordered  her  whole  fortune  to  be  transferred  to 
Mr.  Harris ;  and  this  without  the  simplest  settlement  or 
security  for  her  futui-.^  support  I    After  this  heroic  proceeding, 
the  Prophet  of  Lake  Eri*.  graciously  consented,  (m  a  way,)  to 
her  marriage ;  and  England  ^aw  her  and  Mr.  OUphant  no  more 
for  many  years.    What  that  v&rj  helpless  and  self-mdulgent 
young  creature  must  have  gone    through  in  her  solitary 
cottage  on  Lake  Erie,  and  subseqtf^tly  in  her  poor  UtUe 
school  in  California,  can  scarcely  hi.  guessed.    When  she 
returned    to  England  she  wrote  to  Vs  from  Hunstanton 
Hall,  (her  brother's  house),  oflfering  to>me  and  see  us, 
but  we  felt  that  it  would  cause  us  more  ^pam  than  pleasure 
to  meet  her  again,  and,  in  a  kindly  way^we  declined  the 
proposal.    Since  her  sad  death,  and  that  4  ^'  OUphant, 
an  American  friend  of  mine,  Dr.  LeffingweU.  txavellmg  m 
Syria,  \»'rote  me  a  letter  from  her  house  at  HaJ&-    ^e  found 
her  books  still  on  the  shelves  where  she  had  k-^  *l^em ;  and 
the  first  he  took  down  was  Parker's  Biscout^ef  Bdigum^ 
inscribed  "  From  Frances  Power  CJobbe  to  Alice  L'Estrange." 

A  less  tragic  tmmmir  of  poor  Alice  occurs'  to  me  as 
write.    It  is  so  good  an  illustration  of  the  difference  between 
English  and  French  politeness  that  I  must  reco  ™  '*• 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.       fi03 

Alice  was  going  over  to  Paris  alone,  and  as  I  happened  to 
know  that  a  distinguished  and  very  agreeable  old  French 
gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  was  crossing  by  the  sama 
train,  I  wrote  and  begged  him  to  look  after  her  on  the  way. 
He  replied  in  the  kindest  and  most  graceful  manner  as 
follows : — 

**  Ch^re  Mademoiselle, 

"Vraiment  vous  me  comblez  de  toutes  les  manidreSp 
Aprds  I'aimable  accaeil  que  vous  avez  bien  voulu  me  faire, 
vous  Bongez  encore  k  mes  ennuis  de  voyage  seul,  et  voug 
voulez  bien  me  procurer  la  soci^t^  la  plus  agr^able.  Agr^ea 
en  tons  mes  remerctments,  quoique  je  ne  poisse  m'empechey 
de  Bonger  que  s'il  avaitmoinsneig^snrlamontagne  (comme 
disent  les  Orientaux)  vous  seriez  moins  confiante.  Je  serai 
trop  heureux  de  me  mettre  au  service  de  votre  amie. 

"  Agreez,  ch^re  Mademoiselle,  les  hommages  respeotueux 
de  votre, 

••  D^vou^  serviteur, 

••  1  D^c,  1871.  Baron  db  T." 

They  met  at  Charing  Cross,  and  no  man  could  be  more 
charming  than  M.  le  Baron  de  T.  made  himself  in  the  train 
and  on  the  boat.  But  on  arrival  at  Boulogne  it  appeared  that 
Alice's  luggage  had  either  gone  astray  or  been  stopped  by  the 
custom-house  people ;  and  she  was  in  a  difficulty,  the  train 
for  Paris  being  ready  to  start,  and  the  French  officials 
paying  no  attention  to  her  entreaty  that  her  trunks  should 
be  delivered  and  put  into  the  van  to  take  with  her.  Of 
course  the  appearance  by  her  side  of  a  French  gentleman  with 
the  Legion  d'Honneur  in  his  buttonhole  would  have  probably 
decided  the  case  in  her  favour  at  once.  But  M.  de  T.  had 
not  the  least  idea  of  losing  his  train  and  getting  into  an 
imbroglio  for  sake  of  a  damsel  in  distress, — so,  with  many 
assurances  that  he  was  quite  desoU  to  lose  the  enchanting 
pleasure  of   her    society  up  to    Paris,   ho    got    into    his 


504  CHAPTER  XVIL 

carriage  and  was  quickly  carried  out  of  sight.  Meanwhile 
a  rather  ordinary-looking  Englishman  who  had  noted 
Miss  L'Estrange's  awkward  situation,  went  up  to  her 
and  asked  in  a  gruif  fashion;  what  was  the  matter? 
When  he  was  informed,  he  let  his  train  go  off  and  ran  hither 
and  thither  ahout  the  station,  till  at  last  the  luggage  was 
found  and  restored  to  its  owner.  Then,  when  Alice  strove 
naturally,  to  thank  him,  he  simply  raised  his  hat, — said,  it 
was  of  '*  no  consequence,"  and  disappeared  to  trouble  her 
no  more. 

"  Which,  therefore,  was  neighbour  to  him  that  fell  among 
thieves?" 


POSTSCRIPT,   1898. 

:o: 


So  many  recollections  of  Mr.  Gladstone  have  been 
published  since  his  death  that  it  seems  hardly  worth  while 
to  record  mine.  I  saw  him  only  at  intervals  and  never  had 
the  honour  of  any  intimate  acquaintance  with  him ;  but  one 
or  two  glimpses  of  him  may  perhaps  amuse  my  readers  as 
exhibiting  his  astonishing  versatility. 

I  first  met  him,  some  time  in  the  Sixties,  in  North  Wales 
wjien  he  came  from  Hawarden  to  visit  at  a  house  where  I 
was  spending  a  few  days,  and  joined  me  in  walking  to  the 
summit  of  Penmaen-bach.  He  talked,  I  need  not  say, 
delightfully  all  the  way  as  we  sauntered  up,  but  I  remember 
only  his  sympathetic  rejoinder  to  my  dislike  of  mules  for 
such  mountain  expeditions, — that  he  had  felt  quite  remorseful 
on  concluding  some  tour  (I  think  in  the  Pyrenees),  for  hating 
so  much  a  beast  to  which  he  had  often  owed  his  life  I 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVl 

Some  years  after  this  pleasant  climb,  I  was  i    i 
of  course,  much  flattered  to  receive  from  him     i 
note.     I  know  not  who  was  the  friend  who 
pamphlet.     It  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  do  sc 

•*  4,  Carlton  Ga    ■ 
"Mar 
*^  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

'*I  do  not  know  whom  I  have  to  than 
me  your"  (word  illegible)  "article  on  Vivise* 
obligation  is  great,  for  I  seldom  read  a  pa    i 
with  such  a  spirit  of  nobleness  from  first  to  1 

^  It  is  long  since  we  met  on  the  slopes  of  I  i 
Do  you  ever  go  out  to  breakfast,  and  could  we  • 
to  be  so  kind  as  to  come  to  us  on  Thursd  i 
at  ten? 

"  Believe  me,  faithfully  t 
«W.  E.  G   ' 

The  breakfast  in  Carlton  Gkirdens  was  a  ver 

• 

one.     Before  it  began  Mr.   Gladstone   took   :  i 
Hbraiy,  and  we  talked  for  a  considerable  time  oi 
of  Vivisection.     At  the  close  of  our  conversation 
apparently  agreeing  very  cordially  with  me,  I    i 
would  not  join  the  Victoria  Street  Society  whicl 
recently  founded  ?     He  replied  that  he  would  ri 
80 ;  but  that  if  ever  he  returned  to  ofiice,  he  wc 
to  the  best  of  his  power.     This  promise,  I  may  1: 
given  very  seriously  after  making  the  observation 
no  longer  (at  that  time)  in  the  position  of  influ< 
occupied  in  previous  years ;  but  he  obviously  ani 
return  to  power, — which  actually  followed  not  long 
He  repeated  this  promise  of  help  to  me  four  thai 
sation  and  once  on  one  of  his  famous  post-cards , 
in  writing  to  Lord  Shaftesbury  in  reply  to  a  Mem 
the  latter  presented  to  him,  signed  by  100  of  tj 
names,  as  regarded  intellect  and  character,  ii 


606  CHAPTER  XVII. 

Always  Mr.  Gladstone  repeated  the  same  assurance :  "  All 
his  sympathies  were "  with  us.  Here  is  the  letter  on  the 
card,  dated  April  Ist^  1877,  in  reply  to  my  request  that  he 
would  write  a  few  words  to  he  read  hy  Lord  Shafteshury 
at  one  of  our  Meetings.     It  ran  as  follows  : — 

"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"You  are  already  aware  that  my  sympathies  and 
prepORsessions  are  greatly  with  you,  nor  do  I  wish  this  to  be 
a  secret,  but  I  am  overwhelmed  with  occupations,  and  I 
cannot  overtake  my  arrears,  and  my  letters  have  been  so 
constantly  put  before  the  world  (often,  of  course,  without 
warrant)  that  I  cannot,  I  am  afraid,  appear  in  the  form  of 
an  epistle  ad  hoCy  more  than  I  can  in  person. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"W.  E.  Gladstone. 
"April  1,1877." 

(Half  the  words  in  his  apology  for  not  writing  would 
of  course  have  more  than  sufficed  for  the  letter  desired.) 

Naturally,  after  all  this,  I  looked  to  Mr.  Gladstone  as  a 
most  powerful  friend  of  the  Anti-vivisection  cause;  and  though 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  his  religious  views,  and  thought 
his  policy  very  dangerous,  I  counted  on  him  as  a  man  who, 
since  his  suffrage  had  been  obtained  in  a  great  moral  question, 
was  sure  to  give  it  his  support  in  fitting  time  and  place.  The 
sequel  showed  how  delusive  was  my  trust. 

To  return  to  the  breakfast  in  Carlton  Gardens.  There  sat 
down  vTith  us,  to  my  amusement,  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  had 
already  made  acquaintance,  an  ex-priest  of  some  distinction, 
Kev.  Rudolph  Suffield,  who  had  recently  quitted  the  Church 
of  Home  but  retained  enough  of  priestly  looks  and  manners 
to  be  rather  antipathetic  to  me.  Mr.  Gladstone  ingeniously 
picked  Mr.  Suffield's  brains  for  half-an-hour,  eliciting  all 
manner  of  information  on  Bomish  doctrines  and  practice,  till 
the  conversation  drifted  to  Pascal's  Provindales.    I  expressed 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.     607 

my  admiration  for  the  book,  and  recalled  Gibbon's  droll 
confession  that  he,  whom  Byron  styled  "  The  Lord  of  irony, 
that  master  spell,"  had  learned  the  sanglcmt  sarcasm  of  his 
XV.  and  XVI.  chapters  from  the  pious  author  of  the  Fensees. 
Mr.  Gladstone  eagerly  interposed  with  some  fine  criticisms, 
and  ended  with  the  amazing  remark  :  "I  have  read  all  the 
Jesuit  answei^s  to  Pascal  ( I  )  to  ascertain  whether  he  had 
misquoted  Suarez  and  Escobar  and  the  rest,  and  I  found 
that  he  had  not  done  so.     You  may  take  my  word  for  it." 

From  this  theological  discussion  there  was  a  diversion 
when  a  gentleman  on  the  other  side  of  the  breakfast  table 
handed  across  to  Mr.  Gladstone  certain  drawings  of  the  legs  of 
horses.  They  proved  to  be  sketches  of  several  pairs  in  the 
Panathenaic  frieze  and  were  produced  to  settle  the  highly 
interesting  question  (to  Mr.  Gladstone)  whether  Greek  horses 
ever  trotted,  or  only  walked,  cantered,  and  ambled.  I  forget 
how  the  drawings  were  supposed  finally  to  settle  the  con- 
troversy, but  I  made  him  laugh  by  telling  him  that  a  party 
of  the  servants  of  one  of  my  Irish  friends  having  paid  a 
visit  to  the  Elgin  Gallery,  the  lady's  maid  told  her  mistress 
next  morning  that  they  had  been  puzzled  to  understand  why 
all  those  men  without  legs  or  arms  had  been  stuck  up  on  the 
wall?  At  last  the  butler  had  suggested  that  they  were 
"intended  to  commemorate  the  railway  accidents." 

From  that  time  I  met  Mr.  Gladstone  occasionally  at  the 
houses  of  friends,  and  was,  of  course,  like  all  the  world, 
charmed  with  his  winning  manners  and  brilliant  talk,  though 
never,  that  I  can  recall,  struck  by  any  thought  expressed  by 
him  which  could  be  called  a  "  great "  one,  or  which  lifted  up 
one's  spirit.  It  seemed  more  as  if  half  a  dozen  splendidly 
cultivated  and  brilliant  intellects — but  all  of  medium  height 
— had  been  incarnated  in  one  vivacious  body,  than  a  single 
Mind  of  colossal  altitude.  The  religious  element  in  him  was  in 
almost  feverish  activity,  but  it  always  appeared  to  me  that  it 


508  CHAPTER  XVII. 

was  not  on  the  greatest  things  of  Religion  that  his  attention 
fastened.     It  was  on  its  fringe,  rather  than  on  its  robe. 

That  Mr.  Gladstone  was  a  sincerely  pious  man  I  do  not 
question.  But  his  piety  was  of  the  Sacerdotal  rather 
than  of  the  Puritan  type.  The  "  single  eye"  was  never  his. 
If  it  had  been,  he  would  not  have  employed  the  tortuous  and 
ambiguous  oratory  which  so  often  left  his  friends  and  foes  to 
interpret  his  utterances  in  opposite  senses.  Neither  did  he 
appear — at  all  events  to  his  more  distant  observers — to  feel 
adequately  the  tremendous  responsibility  to  God  and  man 
which  rested  on  the  well-nigh  omnipotent  Prime  Minister  of 
England,  during  the  years  when  it  was  rare  to  open  a  news- 
paper without  reading  of  some  military  disaster  like  the 
death  of  Gordon,  or  of  some  Agrarian  murder  like  the 
assassination  of  Lord  Frederick  Cavendish  and  of  a  score  of 
hapless  Irish  landlords — calamities  which  his  policy  had 
failed  to  prevent  if  it  had  not  directly  occasioned.  The  gaiety 
of  spirits  and  the  animation  of  interest  respecting  a  hundred 
trivial  topics  which  Mr.  Gladstone  exhibited  unfailingly 
through  that  fearfully  anxious  period,  approached  perhaps 
sometimes  too  nearly  to  levity  to  accord  with  our  older  ideal 
of  a  devout  mind  loaded  with  the  weight  "  almost  not  to  be 
borne  "  of  world-wide  cares. 

The  differences  between  Church  and  dissent  occupied  Mr. 
Gladstone,  I  fancy,  very  much  at  all  times.  One  day  he 
remarked  to  me — as  if  it  were  a  valuable  new  light  on  the 
.  subject — that  an  eminent  Nonconformist  had  just  told  him 
that  the  Dissenters  generally  "  did  not  object  either  to  the 
Docbwe  or  the  Discipline  of  the  Church  of  England,  but  that 
they  found  no  warrant  in  Scripture  for  the  existence  of  a 
State  Church.''  Mr.  Gladstone  looked  as  if  he  were  seeking 
an  answer  to  this  objection  to  conformity.  I  replied  that  I 
wondered  they  did  not  see  that  the  whole  Old  Testament 
might  be  taken  as  the  history  of  a  Divinely  appointed  State 


LONDON  IN  THE  Si:iTIES  AND  SEVE 

Church.    Mr.  Gladstone  lifted  his  marvellous,  e 
with  a  quick  glance  which  might  be  held  to  si^ 
an  idea ! "     When  the  little  incident  was  told 
Dean  Stanley  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  lau| 
"  This  may  put  off  disestablishment  yet  awhile 

As  a  member  cf  society  Mr.  Gladstone,  as  ever 
was  inexhaustibly  interesting.     I  once  heard 
small  dinner  party  criticise  and  describe  witli 
vividness  and  minuteness  the  sei*mons  of  at 
popular  preachers.     At  last  I  ventured  to  io 
some   impatience  and    say :    "  But,   Mr.   Glf 
have  not  mentioned  the  greatest  of  them  all 
Dr.  Martinean  9  "     He  paused,  and  then  said, 
words,  carefully :   "  Dr.  Martineau  is  unques 
greatest  of  living  thinkers." 

Speaking  of  the  Jews,  he  once  afforded  the  o 
dinner  table  a  lively  and  interesting  sketch  of  th> 
the  race  all  over  the  globe,  except  in  ScotUmd. 
he  said,  knew  as  well  as  they  the  value  of  bawb 
was  a  general  laugh,  and  some  one  remarked :  ' 
are  there  so  few  in  Ireland  ?  "     Mr.  Gladstone  ai 
he  supposed  the  Iiish  were  too  poor  to  affor 
pasture.     I  said :  "  Perhaps  se,  now,  but  whc 
Gladstone,  have  given  the  Irish  farmers  fixity  c 
that  they  can  give  security  for  loans,  we  shall  & 
flocking  over  to  Ireland."     This  observation  m 
1879 ;  and  in  the  intervening  twenty  years  I  a  i 
that  the  Jews  have  settled  down  in  Ireland  like 
the  land  after  a  storm.     The  old  '^  Gombeen  ma 
ousted  all  over  the  country,  and  a  whole  J< 
(near  the  Circular  Boad)  and  a  new  synagogue 
have  verified  my  prophecy. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  sympathy 
Mr.  Gladstone  had  so  often  assured  Lord  Shaft 


510  CHAPTER  XVII 

myselfy  was  to  be  put  to  the  simplest  test.  Mr.  Keid  (now 
Sir  Eobert  Reid)  was  to  introduce  our  Bill  for  the  Prohibition 
of  Vivisection  into  Parliament  (April  4  th,  1883).  I  wrote 
to  Mr.  Gladstone  a  short  note  imploring  him  to  lift  his 
hand  to  help  us ;  and  if  it  were  impossible  for  him  to  speak 
in  the  House  in  our  favour,  at  least  to  let  his  friends  know 
that  he  wished  well  to  our  £iU.  I  do  not  remember  the 
words  of  that  note.  I  know  that  it  was  a  cry  from  my  very 
heart  to  the  man  who  held  it  in  his  power  to  save  the  poor 
brutes  from  their  tortures  for  ever;  to  do  what  I  was 
spending  my  life's  last  years  in  vainly  trying  to  accomplish. 
He  received  the  note ;  I  had  a  formal  acknowledgment  of 
it  But  Mr.  Qladstone  did  noMng.  He  left  us  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  Sir  William  Harcourt,  whose  audacious  (and 
mendacious)  contradiction  of  Mr.  C^rge  Russell,  our 
seconder,  I  have  detailed  elsewhere.*  From  that  day  I 
never  met,  nor  ever  desired  to  meet,  Mr.  Gladstone  again. 


A  friend  whom  I  greatly  admired  and  valued,  and  whose 
intercourse  I  enjoyed  during  all  my  residence  in  London, 
from  first  to  last,  was  Mr.  Froude.     He  died  just  after  the 

*  Sir  W.  Harcoort  interrupted  Mr.  Russell  when  speaking  of 
Vivisections  before  students,  by  the  assertion — 

"Under  the  Act  demonstrations  were  forbidden." — Timex^ 
April  5th,  1883.) 

In  the  Act  in  question — 39  &  40  Vict.,  c.  77,  Clause  3,  Sect.  1 — 
arc  these  words,  **  Kzperiments  may  he  performed  ....  by 
a  person  giving  illustrations  of  lectures,**  &c.,  &c.  By  the  Returns 
issued  from  Sir  W.  Harcourt's  own  (Home)  Office  in  the  previous 
year,  sixteen  persons  had  been  registered  as  holding  certificates 
permitting  experiments  in  illustration  of  lectures.  It  seems  to  me 
a  shocking  feature  of  modem  politics  that  an  outrageous  falsehood 
— or  must  we  call  it  mistake  1— of  this  kind  is  allowed  to  serve  its 
purpose  at  the  moment  but  the  author  never  apologizes  for  It 
afterwards. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.    611 

first  edition  of  this  book  (of  which  I  had  of  course  sent  him 
a  copy)  was  published ;  and  I  was  told  it  supplied  welcome 
amusement  to  him  in  his  last  days. 

The  world,  I  think,  has  never  done  quite  justice  to  Mr. 
Froude ;  albeit,  when  he  was  gone  the  newspapers  spoke  of 
him  as  **  the  last  of  the  giants."  He  always  seemed  to  me 
to  belong  to  the  loftier  race,  of  whom  there  were  then  not  a 
few  living  ;  and  though  his  unhappy  Nemesis  of  Faith  (for 
which  I  make  no  defence  whatever)  and  his  Ca/dyle  drew  on 
him  endless  blame,  and  his  splendid  History  equally  endless 
cavil  and  criticism,  his  greatness  was  to  my  apprehension 
something  apart  from  his  books.  His  Essays, — especially  the 
magnificent  one  on  Job — ^give,  I  think,  a  better  idea  of  the 
man  than  was  derivable  from  any  other  source,  except 
personal  intimacy.  '^  He  touched  nothing  which  he  did  not  '^ 
enlarge,  if  not  "adorn.''  Subjects  expanded  when  talked 
of  easily,  and  even  lightly,  with  him.  There  was  a 
background  of  space  always  above  and  behind  him. 
Though  he  had  no  little  cause  for  it,  he  was  not  bitter.  I 
never  saw  him  angiy  or  heard  him  express  resentment, 
except  once  when  his  benevolent  efforts  had  failed  to  obtain 
from  Mr.  Gladstone's  Government  a  pension  for  a  poverty- 
stricken,  meritorious  woman  of  letters,  while  far  less  deserving 
persons  received  the  bounty.  But  when  he  let  the  Marah 
waters  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  private  reflexions  loose  on  the  world 
their  bitterness  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  all  the 
readers  of  the  book.  Even  the  silver  pen  of  Mrs.  Oliphant 
for  once  was  dipped  in  gall ;  and  it  was  she,  if  I  mistake 
not)  who  in  her  wrath  devised  the  ferocious  adjective 
^^ Frcvdacious**  to  convey  her  rage  and  soom.  As  for 
myself,  when  that  book  appeared  I  frankly  told  Mr.  Froude 
that  I  rejoiced,  because  I  had  always  deprecated  Mr. 
Carlyle's  influence,  and  I  thought  this  revelation  of  him 
would  do  much  to  destroy  it.     Mr.  Froude  laughed  good- 


Slit  CHAPTER  XVIL 

humouredly,  but  naturally  showed  a  little  oonsternation. 
His  sentiment  about  the  Saturday  Reviewers,  who  at 
that  time  buzzed  round  his  writings  and  stung  him 
every  week,  was  much  that  of  a  St .  Bernard  or  a  Newfoundland 
towards  a  pack  of  snarling  terriers.  One  day  a  clergyman 
very  well  known  in  London,  wrote  to  me  after  one  of  our 
little  parties  to  beg  that  I  would  do  him  the  favour,  when  next 
Mr.  Froude  was  coming  to  me,  to  invite  him  also,  and  permit 
him  to  bring  his  particular  friend  Mr.  X,  who  greatly  desired 
to  meet  his  brother  historian.  I  was  very  willing  to  oblige 
the  clergyman  in  questien,  and  before  long  we  had  a 
gathering  at  our  house  of  forty  or  fifty  people,  among  whom 
were  Mr.  Froude  and  Mr.  X.  I  knew  that  the  moment  for 
the  introduction  had  arrived,  but  of  course  I  was  not  going 
to  take  the  liberty  of  presenting  any  stranger  to  Mr.  Froude 
without  asking  his  consent.  That  consent  was  not  so 
readily  granted  as  I  had  anticipated.  "  Who  ?  Mr.  X  ? 
Let  me  look  at  him  first."  ''  There  he  is,''  I  said,  pointing 
to  a  small  figure  half  hidden  in  a  group  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  "  That  is  he,  is  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Froude.  "  Oh, 
No  !  No  !  Don't  introduce  him  to  me.  He  has  the  Saturday 
Review  written  all  over  his  face  !  "  There  was  nothing  to  do 
but  to  laugh,  and  presently,  when  my  clerical  friend  came  up 
and  urged  me  to  fulfil  my  promise  and  make  the  introduction, 
to  hurry  down  on  some  excuse  into  the  tea  room  and  never 
re-appear  till  the  disappointed  Mr.  X  had  departed. 

I  have  kept  34  letters  received  from  Mr.  Froude  during 
the  years  in  which  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  contribute 
to  Frase^s  Magazine  when  he  was  the  Editor,  and  later, 
when,  as  friends  and  neighbours  in  South  Kensington,  we  had 
the  usual  little  interchange  of  message  and  invitations. 
Among  these,  to  me  precious,  letters  there  are  some  passages 
which  I  shall  venture  to  copy,  assured  that  his  representatives 
cannot  possibly  object  to  my  doing  so.     I  may  first  as  an 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVENTIES.     513 

introduction  of  myself,  quote  one  in  a  letter  to  my  eldest 
brother,  who  had  invited  him  to  stay  at  Newbridge  during 
one  of  his  visits  to  Ireland.     Mr.  Eroude  wrote  to  him  : — 

"I  knew  your  brother  Henry  intimately  30  years  ago, 
and  your  sister  is  one  of  the  most  valued  friends  of  my  later 
life." 

His  affection  for  Carlyle  spoke  in  this  eager  refutation  of 
some  idle  story  in  the  newspapers : 

"February  16th. 
"  There  is  hardly  a  single  word  in  it  which  is  not  untrue. 
Buskin  is  as  much  attached  to  Mr.  Carlyle  as  ever.  There 
is  not  one  of  his  friends  to  whom  he  is  not  growing  dearer 
as  he  approaches  the  end  of  his  time,  nor  has  the 
wonderful  beauty  and  noble  tenderness  of  his  character 
been  ever  more  conspicuous.  The  only  difference  visible  in 
him  from  what  he  was  in  past  years  is  that  his  wife's 
death  has  broken  his  heart.  He  is  gentler  and  more 
forbearing  to  human  weakness.  He  feels  that  his  own 
work  is  finished,  and  he  is  waiting  hopefully  till  it  please 
God  to  take  him  away." 

Here  is  evidence  of  his  deep  enjoyment  of  Nature.     He 
writes,  October  31st,  from  Dereen,  Kenmare : — 

''I  return  to  London  most  reluctantly  at  the  end  of  the 
week.  The  summer  refuses  to  leave  us,  and  while  yon  are 
shivering  in  the  North  wind  we  retain  here  the  still  blue 
dondlessness  of  August.  This  morning  b  the  loveliest  I  ever 
saw  here.  The  woods  swarm  with  blackbirds  and  thrushes, 
the  *  autumn  note  not  all  unlike  to  that  of  spring.*  I  am  so 
bewitched  with  the  place  that  (having  finished  my  History)  I 
mean  to  spend  the  winter  here  and  try  to  throw  the  story  of 
the  last  Desmond  into  a  novel." 

In  reply  to  a  request  that  he  would  attend  an  Anti-vivi- 
section meeting  at  Lord  Shaftesbury's  house,  he  wrote : — 

"Vivisection  ia  a  hateful  illustration  of  the  consequences 
of  the  BUent   superseasion   of   Morality  by  Utilitarianism. 

2K 


514  CHAPTER  XVII. 

Until  men  can  be  brought  back  to  the  old  lines,  neither  this 
nor  any  other  evil  tendency  can  be  really  stemmed.  Till 
the  world  learns  again  to  hate  what  is  in  itself  evily  in  spite  of 
alleged  advantages  to  he  derived  from  ity  it  will  never  consent 
to  violent  legal  restrictions." 

His  last  letter  from  Oxford  is  pleasant  to  recaU : — 

''I  am  strangely  placed  here.  The  Dons  were  shy  of 
me  when  I  first  came,  but  aU  is  well  now,  and  the  under- 
graduates seem  really  interested  in  what  I  have  to  tell 
them.  I  am  quite  free,  and  tell  them  precisely  what  I 
think." 

I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Eroude  was  otherwise  than  a  happy 
man.  He  was  particularly  so  as  regarded  his  feminine 
surroundings,  and  a  most  genial  and  indulgent  husband  and 
father.  He  had  also  intense  enjoyment  both  of  Nature 
and  of  the  great  field  of  Literature  into  which  he  delved  so 
zealously.  He  once  told  me  that  he  had  visited  every  spot, 
exc^t  the  Tower  of  London  (  /  )  where  the  great  scenes  of 
his  History  took  place,  and  had  ransacked  every  library  in 
Europe  likely  to  contain  materials  for  his  work ;  not 
omitting  the  record  chambers  of  the  Inquisition  at  Simancas, 
where  he  spent  many  shuddering  days  which  he  vividly 
described  to  me.  He  also  greatly  enjoyed  his  long  voyages 
and  visits  to  the  West  Indies  and  to  New  Zealand ;  and 
especially  the  one  he  made  to  America.  He  admired  almost 
everything,  I  think,  in  America ;  and  more  than  once 
remarked  to  me  (in  reference  particularly  to  the  subject  of 
mixed  education  in  which  I  was  interested) :  "  The  young 
men  are  so  nice !  What  might  be  difficult  here,  is  easy 
there.  You  have  no  idea  what  nice  fellows  they  are."  There 
was,  however,  certainly  something  in  Mr.  Troude's  handsome 
and  noble  physiognomy  which  conveyed  the  idea  of  moum- 
fulness.  His  eyes  were  wells  of  darkness  on  which,  by 
some  singulacity,  the  light  never  seemed  to  fall  either  in  life 


LONDON  IN  THE  SIXTIES  AND  SEVE 

or  when  represented  in  a  photograph  ;  and  his 
was  not  infrequent,  was  mirthless.     I  never  b 
which  it  was  so  hard  to  echo,  so  little  contagioi 
The  last  time  I  ever  saw  Mr.  Froude  was  at 
our  common  friend,  Miss  Elliot,  where  he  was  : 
found  at  his  best.     Her  other  visitors  had  dep 
three  old  friends  sat  on  in  the  late  and  quiet  Sund 
talking  of  serious  things,  and  at  last  of  our  hope 
respecting  a  future  life.    Mr.  Froude  startled  us 
saying  he  did  not  wish  to  live  again.  He  felt  ths 
been  enough,  and  would  be  well  content  not  to 
it  was  over.     "  But,''  said  he,  in  conclusion, 
vigour,  *'  I  believe  there  w  another  life,  you  ki 
quite  sure  there  is."    The  clearness  and  emp] 
conviction  were  parallel  to  those  he  had  used  be 
talking  of  the  probable  extension  of  Atheisn 
years.      "But,   as  there  18  a  God,"  said    1 
''  Beligion  can  never  die." 


OHAPTEB 

xvm. 

MY   LIFE   IN    LONDON 
IN    THE   SEVENTIES   AND   EIC 


SOCIAL 


CHAPTEE  XYEL 
Social  Lifb  m  London  in  the  Seventies  a» 

I  MUST  not  write  here  any  personal  sketch  h( 
of  my  revered  friend  Dr.  Martinean,  since  he  i 
be  thanked  for  it ! — living,  and  writing  as  pr 
vigorously  as  ever,  in  his  venerable  age  of  8 
weekly  sermons  which  I  had  the  privilege  of  '. 
his  Hps  for  many  years,  dovm  to  1872,  beside  se 
of  his  Lectures  on  the  Gospels  and  on  Ethical  Phil< 
I  attended,  formed  so  very  important,  I  might 
part  of  my  "  Life"  in  London,  that  I  cannot  omit  i 
of  them  in  my  story. 

Little  Portland  Street  Ohapel  is  a  building  of  v 
dimensions,  with  no  pretensions  whatever  to 
finery ;  whether  of  architecture,  or  upholstery,  < 
kind^    But  it  was,  I  always  thought,  a  fitting,  sis 
serious  people  to  meet  to  think  in ;  not  to  gaze  i 
in  curiosity  or  admiration,  or  to  be  intoxicated  ^^ ' 
lights,  incense  and  music ;  as  would  seem  to  be   I 
of  the  administrators  of  a  neighbouring  fane  I     ( 
I  suppose,  would  have  been  pronounced  cold,  b( : 
by  an  haHntfiU  of  a  Bitualistic  or  Romanist  chui 
my  own  part  I  should  prefer  even  to  be ''  cold,"  (wl  i 
not)  rather  than  allow  my  religious  feelings  tc 
through  the  gratification  of  my  aesthetic  sense. 

On  this  matter,  however,  each  one  must  speak 
for  himself.     For  me  I  was  perfectly  satisfied  w 
in  the  gallery  in  that  simple  chapel,  where  I  coul 
the  noblest  sermons  and  see  the  preacher  of 
always  seemed  a  part ;  his  "  Word  "  in  the  old 


620  CHAPTER   XV III. 

(like  many  other  men's  sermons)  things  qnite  apart  from  it. 
speaker,  as  we  know  him  in  his  home  and  in  the  street.  01 
all  the  men  with  whom  I  have  ever  been  acquainted  the  one 
who  most  impressed  me  ^ith  the  sense, — shall  I  call  it  of 
congniity?  or  homogeneity? — of  being,  in  short,  the  same  ail 
through^  was  he  to  whom  I  listened  on  those  happy  Sundays. 

They  were  very  varied  Sermons  which  Dr.  Martinean 
preached.  The  general  effect,  I  nsed  to  think,  was 
not  that  of  receiving  Lessons  from  a  Teacher,  but  of  being 
invited  to  accompany  a  Guide  on  a  momitain-walk. 
From  the  npper  regions  of  thought  where  he  led  us, 
we  were  able, — ^nay,  compelled, — ^to  look  down  on  our  daily 
cares  and  duties  from  a  loftier  point  of  view;  and 
thence  to  return  to  them  with  fresh  feelings  and  resolutions. 
Sometimes  these  ascents  were  very  steep  and  difficult ;  and 
I  have  ventured  to  tell  him  that  the  richness  of  his  metaphors 
and  similes,  beautifol  and  original  as  they  always  were,  made 
it  harder  to  climb  after  him,  and  that  we  sometimes  wanted 
him  to  hold  out  to  us  a  shepherd's  crook,  rather  than  a 
jewelled  crosder !  But  the  exercise,  if  laborious,  was  to  the 
last  degree  mentally  healthful,  and  morally  strengthening. 
There  was  a  great  variety  also,  in  these  wonderfcd  sermons. 
To  hear  one  of  them  only,  a  listener  would  come  away 
deeming  the  preacher  par  hninenee  a  profound  and  most 
discriminating  Critic.  To  hear  another,  he  would  consider 
him  a  Philosopher,  occupied  entirely  with  the  vastest  problems 
of  Science  and  Theology.  Again  another  wocdd  leave  the 
impression  of  a  Poet,  as  great  in  his  prose  as  the  author  of 
In  Memoriam  in  verse.  And  lastly  and  above  all,  there  was 
always  the  man  filled  with  devout  feeling,  who,  by  his  very 
presence  and  voice  communicated  reverence  and  the  sense  of 
the  nearness  of  an  all-seeing  God. 

I  could  write  many  pages  concerning  these  Sunday 
experiences ;    but  I  shall  do  better,  I  think,  if  I  give  my 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     521 

readers,  who  have  never  heard  them,  some  small  samples  of 
what  I  carried  away  from  time  to  time  ^of  them,  as  noted 
down  in  letters  to  my  friend.    Here  are  a  few  of  them : 

"  Mr.  Martineau  preached  of  aiming  at  perfection.  At 
the  end  he  drew  a  picture  of  a  soul  which  has  made  such 
struggles  hut  has  failed.  Then  he  supposed  what  must  he 
the  feeling  of  such  a  soul  entering  on  the  future  life,  its 
regrets;  and  then  inquired  what  influence  heing  lifted 
above  the  things  of  sense,  the  nearness  to  God  and  holiness 
would  have  on  it?  Would  it  then  arise?  Teit  and  the 
Father  would  ay, '  This  my  son  was  dead  and  is  alive  again ; 
he  was  lost  and  is  found  for  evermore.'  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  beautiful  it  was,  how  true  in  the  sense  of  those  deepest 
intuitions  which  I  hold  to  be  certainly  true  heeame  they 
bear  with  them  the  sense  of  being  absolutely  higheit^  the 
echo  of  a  higher  harmony  than  belongs  to  our  poor  minds. 
He  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to  be  talking  in  the  old  conven- 
tional way  about  repentance  when  too  laU;  and  then  burst 
out  in  faith  and  hope,  so  far  transcending  all  such  ideas 
that  one  felt  it  came  from  another  source." 

'*  Mr.  Martineau  gave  us  a  magnificent  sermon  on  Sunday. 
I  was  in  great  luck  not  to  miss  it.  One  point  was  this. 
Our  moral  judgments  are  always  founded  on  what  we 
suppose  to  be  the  inward  motive  of  the  actor,  not  on  the 
mere  external  act  itself,  which  may  be  mischievous  or 
beneficent  in  the  highest  degree,  without,  properly-speaking, 
affecting  our  purely  cthioal  judgment — tf.^.,  an  unintentional 
homicide.  Now,  if,  (as  our  opponents  affirm)  our  Moral 
Sense  came  to  us  a5  extra^  merely  as  the  current  opinion 
which  society  has  attached  to  injurious  or  beneficial 
actions,  then  we  should  not  thus  decide  our  judgment  by 
the  internal^  but  by  the  external  and  visible  part  of  the  act, 
by  which  alone  society  is  hurt  or  benefitted.  The  fact 
that  our  moral  judgment  regards  internal  things  exclusively, 
is  evidence  that  it  springs  from  an  internal  source ;  and  that 
we  judge  another,  because  we  are  compelled  to  judge  our- 
«Alves  in  the  same  way." 


622  CHAPTER  XV 111. 

Here  is  a  Note  I  took  after  hearing  another  Sermon : — 

**  Sunday,  Jane  23rd. 


•I 


*If  we  confess  oor  sins,  He  is  faithful  and  just  to 
forgive  as  oor  sins  and  to  cleanse  as  from  all  an- 
righteoasness.' 

*'  There  are  two  ways  of  looking  at  Sin  common  in  oar 
time.  One  is  to  proclaim  it  so  infinitely  hlack  that  €k>d 
cannot  forgive  it  except  hy  a  method  of  Atonement  itseU 
the  height  of  injustice.  The  other  is  to  treat  it  as  so  venial 
that  God  may  he  counted  on  as  certain  to  pass  it  over  at 
the  first  moment  of  regret;  and  all  the  threats  of  conscience 
may  he  looked  on  as  those  of  a  nurse  to  a  refractory  child , 
threats  which  are  never  to  he  executed.  The  first  of  these 
views  seems  to  honour  €k>d  most,  hut  really  dishonoors 
Him,  hy  representing  Him  as  governing  the  world  on  a 
principle  abhorrent  to  reason  and  justice.  The  second  can 
never  commend  itself  save  to  the  most  shallow  minds  who 
make  religion  a  thing  of  words,  and  treat  sin  and  repentance 
ais  trivial  things,  instead  of  the  most  awful.  How  shall  we 
solye  the  mystery  ?  It  is  equally  unjust  for  God  to  treat 
the  guilty  as  if  they  were  innocent,  and  the  penitent  as  if 
they  were  impenitent.  Each  fact  has  to  be  taken  into 
account,  and  the  most  important  practical  consequences 
follow  from  the  view  we  take  of  the  matter.  First  we  must 
never  lose  hold  of  the  truth,  that,  as  Cause  and  Effect  are 
never  severed  in  the  natural  world,  and  the  whole  order 
of  nature  would  fall  to  ruin  were  God  ever  to  interfere  with 
them,  so  likewise  Guilt  and  Pain  are,  in  His  Providence, 
indissolubly  linked;  and  the  order  of  the  moral  world 
would  be  destroyed  were  they  to  be  divided.  But  beside 
the  realm  of  Law,  in  which  the  Divine  penalties  are 
unalterable,  there  is  the  free  world  of  Spirit  wherein  our 
repentance  avails.  When  we  can  say  to  God,  *  Put  me  to 
grief — ^I  have  deserved  it.  Only  restore  me  Thy  love,'  the 
great  woe  is  gone.  We  shall  be  the  weaker  evermore  for 
our  fall,  but  we  shall  be  restored." 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.    523 

The  following  remarks  were  in  a  letter  to  Miss  EUiot : — 

**  January,  1867. 

**  I  wish  I  conld  write  a  rSstmU  of  a  Sermon  whioh  Mr. 
Martineaa  preached  last  Sunday.  Just  think  how  many 
sermons  some  people  would  make  of  this  one  sentence  of 
his  text  (speaking  of  the  longing  for  Rest) : — *  If  Duty 
become  laborious,  do  it  more  fervently.  If  Love  become  a 
source  of  care  and  pajn,  love  more  nobly  and  more  tenderly 
If  Doubts  disturb  and  torture,  face  them  with  more  earnest 
thought  and  deeper  study  I ' 

"  This  was  not  a  peroration,  but  just  one  phrase  of  a 
discourse  full  of  other  such  things. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  the  spontaneous  response  of  our 
inner  souls  to  such  ideas  is  just  the  same  proof  of  their 
truth  as  the  shock  we  feel  in  our  nerves  when  a  lecturer  has 
delivered  a  current  of  electricity  proves  his  lesson  to  be  true." 

"January,  1867. 

"  While  you  were  enjoying  your  Cathedral,  I  was  enjoying 
Little  Portland  Street  Chapel,  having  bravely  tramped 
through  miles  of  snow  on  tiie  way,  and  been  rewarded. 
Mr.  Martineau  said  we  were  always  taunted  with  only 
having  a  negative  creed,  and  were  often  foolish  enough  to 
deny  it.  But  all  Reformation  is  a  negation  of  error  and 
return  to  the  three  pure  articles  of  faith — (3k)d,  Duty, 
Immortality.  .  .  .  The  distinction  was  admirably  drawn 
between  extent  qf  creed  and  intenei^  of  faith,** 

On  February  5th,  1871|  Mr.  Martineau  preached : — 

"  Philosophers  might  and  do  say  that  all  Religion  is  only 
a  projection  of  Man  himself  on  Nature,  lending  to  Nature 
his  own  feelings,  brightened  by  a  supreme  Love  or 
shadowed  by  infinite  displeasure.  Does  this  disprove 
Religion?  Is  there  no  reUanoe  to  be  placed  on  the 
faculties  which  connect  na  with  the  Infinite?  We  have 
two  sets  of  faculties:  our  Senses,  which  reveal  the  outer 
world;  and  a  deeper  series,  giving  us  Poetry,  Love, 
Religion.  Should  we  say  that  these  last  are  more  false 
than  the  others  ?    They  are  true  aU  round.    In  fact,  these 


624  CHAPTER   XVITL 

are  tmest.  Tmaginatioii  is  trae.  Affection  is  true.  Do 
men  say  that  Affection  is  blind  ?  No  I  It  is  the  only  thing 
which  truly  sees.  Love  alone  really  perceives.  The  03rnio 
draws  over  the  world  a  roof  of  dark  and  narrow  thonghts 
and  suspicions,  and  then  complains  of  the  close,  unhealthy 
air.  Memory  again  is  more  than  mere  Recollection.  It 
has  the  true  artist-power  of  seizing  the  points  which 
determine  the  character  and  reconstructing  the  image 
without  details.  Suppose  there  be  a  Ood.  By  what 
faculties  could  we  know  Him  save  by  those  which  now  tell 
us  of  Him.    And  why  should  they  deceive  us  ?  *' 

Alas  !  the  exercise  of  preacnmg  every  Sunday  became  too 
great  for  Dr.  Martineau  to  encounter  after  1872,  and,  by  his 
physician's  orders,  those  noble  sermons  came  to  an  end. 

Beside  Dr.  Martineau,  I  had  the  privilege  of  friendship 
with  three  eminent  Unitarian  Ministers,  now  alas  I  all 
departed — Bev.  Charles  Beard,  of  Liverpool,  for  a  long  time 
editor  of  the  Theological  Beview ;  the  venerable  and  beloved 
John  James  Tayler ;  and  Bev.  William  Henry  Ghanning,  to 
whom  I  was  gratefully  attached,  both  on  account  of  religious 
sympathies,  and  of  his  ardent  adoption  of  our  Anti-vivisection 
cause,  which  he  told  me  he  had  at  first  regarded  as  somewhat 
of  a  ''fiEd"  of  mine,  but  came  to  recognise  as  amoral  crusade 
of  deep  significance.  Among  living  friends  of  the  same  body, 
I  am  happy  to  number  Bev.  Philip  Wicksteed,  the  successor 
of  Dr.  Martineau  in  Portland  Street  and  the  exceedingly  able 
President  of  University  Hall,  Gordon  Square, — ^an  institution, 
in  the  foundation  of  which  I  gladly  took  part  on  the  invitation 
of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 

A  man  in  whose  books  I  had  felt  great  interest  in  my  old 
studies  at  Newbridge,  and  whose  intercourse  was  a  real 
pleasure  to  me  in  London,  was  Mr.  W.  B.  Greg.  I  intensely 
respected  the  courage  which  moved  him,  in  those  early  days 
of  the  Fifties,    to  publish  such   a  book   as  the  Creed  cf 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  E 

Christendom.    He  was  then  a  young  man,  en 
with  the  natural  ambitions  which  his  great  i 
and  the  avowal  of  such  exorbitant  heresies  (i 
pore  Theism)  as  the  book  contained,  was 
date  to  spoil  any  man's  career.    He  was  a  h 
man  of  the  world,  "  Que  Biable  aUaU  U  fi 
theology  at  all?**    That  book  remains  to 
valuable  manual  of  argnments   and   evidei 
Creed  of  Christendom;  set   forth  in   a   gra^ 
spirit  and  in  a  dear  and  manly  style.     His  . 
had,  I  believe,  a  larger  literary  snccess. 
moved  mnch  nearer  to  his  standpoint;  an 
concern  the  most   interesting   subjects,     y^ 
friendly  controversy  over  one  passage  in  the  e 
Mr.  Greg  had  laid  it  down  that,  hereafter,  Lo 
from  the  discovery  of  the  sinfrdness  of  the  be) 
both  saint  and  sinner  will  accept  as  inevitt 
separation  {Enigmas^  1st  Edit.,  p.  268).     To 
strenuously  in  my  Hopes  of  the  Human  Baci 
said,  ^'  The  poor  self-condemned  soul  whom  ISd 
as  turning  away  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  ho 
the  virtuous  friend  he  loved  on  earth,  and  1 
immeasurable  distance, — such  a  soul  is  not  oi 
of  love,  divine  or  human.      Nay,  is  he  not,— 
his  guilt  to  be  black  as  night,— only  in  a  simi 
the  purest  of  created  souls,  which  that  purei 
the  All-holy  One  above  ?    If  God  can  love  m 
acme  of  moral  presumption  to  think  of  a  hu: 
too  pure  to  love  any  sinner,  so  long  as  in  him 
any  vestige  of  affection  ?      The  whole  problen 
impossible.    In  the  first  place,  there  is  a  p 
equality  between    all    souls  capable    of   eqi 
the  one  can  never  reach  a  height  whence  it  may 
the  other.     And,  in  the  second  place,  the  high< 


526  CHAPTER    XFIIL 

soul  may  have  risen  in  the  spiritnal  world,  the  mate  it  must 
have  acqnired  the  god-like  Insight  which  beholds  the  good 
under  the  evil,  and  not  less  the  god-Uke  Love  which  embraces 
the  repentant  Prodigal. 

In  the  next  edition  of  his  Enignuu  (the  7th),  after  the 
issue  of  my  book,  Mr.  Qreg  wrote  a  most  generous  recanta- 
tion of  his  former  view.    He  said : — 

**  The  force  of  these  objections  to  my  delineation  cannot 
be  gainsaid,  and  ought  not  to  have  been  overlooked.  No 
doubt  a  soul  that  can  so  love  and  so  feel  ite  separation 
from  the  objects  of  its  love,  cannot  be  wholly  lost.  It  must 
still  retain  elements  of  recovery  and  redemption,  and 
qualities  to  win  and  to  merit  answering  affection.  The 
lovingness  of  a  nature — ^its  capacity  for  strong  and  deep 
attachment — ^must  constitute,  there  as  here,  the  most 
hopeful  characteristic  out  of  which  to  elicit  and  foster  all 
other  good.  No  doubt,  again,  if  the  sinful  continue  to  love 
in  spite  of  their  sinfulness,  the  blessed  will  not  cease  to 
love  in  consequence  of  their  blessedness." 

Later  on  he  asks  : — 

"How  can  the  blessed  enjoy  anything  to  be  called 
Happiness  if  the  bad  are  writhing  in  hopeless  anguish  ?  " 
"  Obviously  only  in  one  way. '  By  cecuing  to  love,  that  is,  by 
renouncing  the  best  and  purest  part  of  their  nature.  .  .  . 
Or,  to  put  it  in  still  bolder  language,  '  Haw, — ^ven  a  heU,  of 
torment  and  despair  for  miUions  of  hi$  friends  and  fellotc  men — 
can  the  good  enjoy  Heaven  except  by  becoming  bad,  and  without 
being  miraculously  changed  for  the  worse  ?  *  " 

The  following  flattering  letters  are  unluckily  all  which  I 
have  kept  of  Mr.  Greg's  writing : — 

**  Park  Lodge,  Wimbledon  Common,  S.W., 

"  February  19th. 
"  My  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

**  I  have  been  solacing  myself  this  morning,  after  a  month 

of  harrowing  toil,  with  your  paper  in  the  last  Theological^ 

and  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  it  baa  gratified  me. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     527 

"I  don't  mean  your  appreoiative  oozdiality  towards 
myself,  nor  your  criticisms  on  a  portion  of  my  speculations, 
which,  howeyer  (though  I  fancy  yon  have  rather  misread 
me),  I  will  refer  to  again  and  try  to  proj&t  by.*  I  daresay 
you  are  mainly  right,  the  more  so  as  I  see  Mr.  Thom  in  the 
same  number  remonstrates  in  an  identical  tone. 

"That  your  paper  is,  I  think,  not  only  beautiful  in 
thought  and  much  of  it  original,  but  singularly  full  of  rich 
suggestions,  and  one  of  the  most  real  contributions  to  a 
further  conception  of  a  possible  future  that  I  have  met  with 
for  long.  It  is  real  thought — not  like  most  of  mine,  mere 
sentiment  and  imagination. 

"  I  don't  know  if  you  are  still  in  town,  or  have  began  the 
villegiatnra  you  spoke  of  when  I  last  saw  you,  but  I  daresay 
this  note  will  be  forwarded. 

**  When  did  No.  I  appear  ? 

"  I  particularly  like  your  remark  about  wM-reprohationt 
p.  456,  and  from  463  onward.  By  the  way,  do  you  know 
Isaac  Taylor's  *  Phynoal  Theory  of  Another  Life  f '  It  is 
very  curious  and  interesting. 

•«  Yours  faithfully, 

"  W.  R.  Gbbq. 

"  I  have  just  finished  an  Introduction  (about  100  pp.)  to  a 
new  edition  of  *'  The  Greed  of  Christendom,"  which  will  be 
published  in  the  autumn,  and  it  contains  some  thoughts 
very  analogous  to  yours." 

"  Park  Lodge,  Wimbledon  ComTnou,  S.W., 

"August  6th. 
'*  My  dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

"  I  have  read  your  Town  and  Country  Mouse  with  much 
pleasure.  I  should  have  enjoyed  your  Paper  still  more  if 
I  had  not  felt  that  it  was  suggested  by  your  intention  to  cut 
London,  and  the  desire  to  put  as  good  a  face  upon  that 
regrettable  design  as  you  could.  However  you  have  stated 
the  case  with  remarkable  fairness,  I,  who  am  a  passionate 
lover  of  nature,  who  have  never  lived  in  Town,  and  should 


628  CHAPTER   XVllL 

pine  away  if  I  attempted  it,  still  feel  in  the  decline  of  years 
the  increasing  necessity  of  creeping  towardi  i  the  world 
rather  than  retiring  from  it.  I  feel,  as  one  grows  old,  the 
want  of  external  stimalns  to  stave  off  stagnation.  The 
yividness  of  yonthfnl  thought  is  needed,  I  think,  to  snppoii 
solitude. 

'*  I  retired  to  Westmoreland  for  15  years  in  the  middle  of 
life  when  I  was  much  worn,  and  it  did  me  good :  bnt  I  was 
glad  to  come  back  to  active  life,  and  I  think  my  present 
location — ^Wimbledon  Conmion  for  a  cottage,  within  5  miles 
of  London,  and  coming  in  five  days  a  week — ^is  perfection. 

"  I  daresay  yon  may  be  right;  bnt  all  your  friends  will 
miss  you  much — I  not  the  least. 

**  Yours  faithfully, 

"W.  R.  Greg.'* 

Mr.  Greg's  allusion  to  my  Town  and  Country  Mouse 
reminds  me  of  a  letter  which  was  sent  me  by  some  unknown 
reader  on  the  publication  of  that  article.  It  repeats  a  famous 
story  worth  recording  as  told  thus  by  an  ear-witness  who, 
though  anonymous  is  obviously  worthy  of  credit. 

**  Athenaeum  Club, 

"  Pall  Mall,  S.W. 

**  Will  Miss  Cobbe  kindly  pardon  the  liberty  taken  by  a 
reader  of  her  delightful  '  Town  and  Country  Mouse '  in 
venturing  to  substitute  the  true  version  of  Sir  George 
Lewis'  too  famous  dictmn  ? 

**  In  the  hearing  of  the  writer  he  was  asked  (by  one  of  his 
subordinates  in  the  Government)  as  they  were  getting 
into  the  train,  returning  to  town, 

<*  *  Well !    How  do  you  like  life  in  Herefordshire  ? ' 

**  *  Ah  t  It  would  be  very  tolerable,  if  it  were  not  for  ths 
Amusements ' — ^was  his  reply. 

"  Miss  Cobbe  has  high  Authority  for  the  mis-quotation : 
for  the  Times  invariably  commits  it ;  and  the  present  writer 
has  again  and  again  intended  to  correct  it,  and  failed  to 
execute  the  intention. 


LONDON  IN  THE  8E  VENT1E8  AND  El 

''If  ihey  are  pleasares,  they  axe  pleai 
paradox  is  absurd,  instead  of  amusing ;  but 
stupidity  of  many  of  the  '  Amusements  *  (to 
*  Influence  of  Autiiority,'  &c. !)  may  well  call 
the  sort  of  amiable  cynicism,  which  was  i 
own  charsbcter. 

'*  On  arriving  late  and  unexpectedly  at  h 
night's  Eestf  he  found  his  own  study  occupie 
ladies  (sisters)  as  a  Bedroom — ^it  being  the 
Theresa's  Ball !  With  his  exquisite  good  na 
set  about  finding  some  other  roost ;  and  all 
he  ever  made  was  that ,  which  has  become  ] 
famous  t " 


At  the  time  of  the  Franco-Prussian  wa 
remembered  by  everyone  living  at  the  time  i 
cleavage  between  the  sympathisers  with  the  t  i 
countries  was  almost  as  sharp  as  it  had  pi  i 
during  the  American  War  between  the  partizac 
and  of  the  South.     Dean  Stanley  was  one  <  I 
who  took  warmly  the  side  of  the  Germaus,  ai  : 
sent  him  a  letter  I  had  received  from  a  Frer  ; 
we  both  respected,  remonstrating  rather  bittei 
attitude  of  England.     The  Dean,  in  returning  [ 
wrote  as  follows*  : — 

"  Deanery,  March 
*'  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

**  Although  you  kindly  excuse  me  from  doin ; 
but  express,  and  almost,  wish  that  you  coc  I 
M.  P.  the  melancholy  interest  with  which  we  I 

*  Most  of  the  following  letters  were  lent  by  me  t« 
when  he  was  preparing  the  biography  of  Dean  6 
retaraiDg  them  he  said  that  he  had  kept  copies 
meant  to  indade  them  in  his  book.  The  presei 
having  used  them,  I  feel  myself  at  liberty  to  print  tl 


whether  to  yon — it  is  deeply  sad  to  aee  a  man  like  M.  P.  so 
thoroughly  blind  to  the  tme  rataation  of  his  conntry.  Not 
a  word  of  repentance  for  the  aggressive  and  nnjaat  warl 
not  a  word  of  acknowledgment  that,  had  the  French,  m  they 
wished,  invadod  Oennany,  they  wonld  haye  entered  Berlin 
and  seized  the  Khenish  provinces  without  remome  or  com- 
pouction  I — not  a  spark  of  appreciation  of  the  moral  supe- 
riority by  which  the  Oermana  achieved  their  sncoessee  I  I 
do  not  donbt  that  excesses  may  have  been  committed  by 
tlie  German  troops ;  bnt  I  feel  snre  that  they  have  boon 
exceeded  by  those  of  the  French,  and  would  have  been  yet 
more  had  the  French  entered  Germany. 

"  And  bow  very  snperflnons  to  attadc  as  for  having  done 
jnst  the  same  as  in  1846 1  Oar  sad  crime  was  not  to  have 
prevented  the  war  by  remonstrating  with  the  French 
Emperor  and  people  in  July,  1670,  and  of  that  poor  P.  takes 
no  aooonnt  I    Alas  I  tor  France  1 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  A.  P.  SlAKLET." 

The  following  is  a  rather  important  nolo  as  recordlitg  the 
Dean's  sentiments  as  regarded  Cardinal  Newman.  I  cannot 
Tecall  what  was  the  paper  which  I  had  sent  hiu  to  which  ho 
allndes.  I  think  I  had  spoken  to  him  of  my  friendship 
with  Francis  Newman,  and  of  the  Information  given  me  by 
the  latter  that  he  could  never  remember  bis  brother  patting 
his  hand  to  a  single  cause  of  benevolence  or  moral  reform. 
I  had  asked  him  to  solicit  his  support  with  that  of  Cardinal 
Uanning  (already  obtained)  to  the  cause  for  which  I  was 
then  be^mung  to  work, — on  behalf  of  animals. 

"Jan.  15th,  1876. 
"  Uy  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"I  return  this  with  many  thanks.  I  think  yon  muHt 
have  sent  it  to  me,  partly  as  a  rebuke  for  having  so  nearly 


LONDON  IN  THE  SE  VENTIE8  AND  EIGHTIES.     531 

sailed  in  the  same  boat  of  ignorance  and  inhnmanity  with 
Dr.  Newman. 

**  I  have  just  finished,  with  a  mixtnre  of  weariness  and 
nansea,  his  letter  to  the  Dnke  of  Norfolk.  Even  the  fierce 
innuendoes  and  deadly  thrusts  at  Manning  cannot  reconcile 
me  to  such  a  mass  of  cobwebs  and  evasionBc  When  the 
sun  of  the  theological  teaching  of  the  two  brothers  is 
weighed,  will  not '  the  Soul '  of  Francis  be  found  to  counter- 
balance, as  a  contribution  to  true,  solid,  catholic  (even  in 
any  sense  of  the  word)  Christianity,  all  the  writings  of 
John  Henry  ? 

*'  I  haye  sent  my  paper  on  Vestments  to  the  Contemporary, 

"  Tours  sincerely, 

**A.  P.  Stanley. 

"  Bead  it  in  the  light  of  his  old  letter  to  B.  Ullathome, 
published  in  (illegible)." 

The  papers  on  ''Vestments,"  to  which  Dean  Stanley 
alludes,  had  interested  and  amused  me  much  when  he  read  it 
at  Sion  College,  and  I  had  urged  him  to  send  it  to  one  of  the 
Beviews.  Here  is  a  report  of  that  evening's  proceedings 
which  I  sent  next  day  to  my  firiend  Miss  Elliot. 

"  January  14th,  1875. 
"  I  do  so  much  wish  you  had  been  with  us  last  night  at 
Sion  College.  Dean  Stanley  was  more  delightful  than  ever. 
He  read  a  splendid  paper,  full  of  learning,  wit,  and  sense  on 
Ecdenaiiical  Vettments.  In  the  course  of  it,  he  said,  referring 
to  the  position  of  the  altar,  ftc,  that  on  this  subject  he  had 
nothing  to  add  to  the  remarks  of  his  friend,  the  Dean  of 
Bristol,  'whose  authority  on  all  matters  connected  with 
English  ecclesiastical  history  was  universally  admitted  to 
be  the  best.*    After  the  reading  of  his  paper,  which  lasted 

an  hour  and  a  quarter,  that  odious  Dr.  L got  up,  and  in 

his  mincing  brogue  attacked  Dean  Stanley  very  rudely. 
Then  they  called  on  Martineau,  and  he  made  a  charming 
speech,  beginning  by  saying  hs  had  nothing  to  do  with 
vestments,  having  received  no  ordination,  and  might  for  his 


on  to  Wf  that  if  Hie  Ghnich  were  ever  to  regain  the  Non- 

oonfonniets,  it  would  oertaiiily  not  be  by  proceeding  in  the 

wcei^otal  diieotion.      He  was  maoh  cbeered.    Rev.  H. 

White  m&de,  I  thonght,  one  of  the  beet  ^eeohea  of  the 

arening.    Altogether,  it  ma  exoeedingly  amntdng." 

On  the  ooeasion  of  the  interment  of  Sir  Charles  Lyell  in 

WeBtminster  Abbey,  I  sent  the  Dean,  by  his  request,  Bome 

hinte  respeoting    Sir  Charles'  views  and   character,    md 

received  the  following  reply : 

"  Fabroary  25th,  1675. 
"  My  deal  Hiss  Cobbe, 

"  Yoiii  letter  is  invaloable  to  me.  Long  aa  was  my 
acquaintanoe  with  Sir  Oharlea  Lyell,  and  kind  as  he  was 
to  me,  I  never  knew  him  intimately,  and  therefore  most 
of  what  yon  tall  me  was  new.  The  last  time  he  spoke  to 
me  waa  tn  urging  me  with  the  greatest  eamefltneas  to  ask 
Colenso  to  preach.  Can  yon  tell  me  one  small  point? 
Had  he  a  turn  for  music  7  I  must  refer  back  to  the  last 
funeral  (when  I  oonld  not  preach)  of  Sir  Stemdale  Bennett, 
and  it  would  be  a  convenience  for  me  to  know  this,  Y«i 
at  No. 

"You  will  oome  (if  you  come  to  the  sermon)  and  any 
friends,— (Aro'  the  Deantrji  at  2.4G  on  Smtday. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  A.  P.  STiMLET." 

Some  time  after  this  I  sent  him  one  of  my  theological 
arUoUfl  OD  the  Life  after  Death.  He  acknowledged  it  tttos 
kindly: — 

"  Deanery,  November  2&d. 
"  Dear  Mias  Cobbe, 

"  Many  thanks.  Your  writing  on  this  subject  is  to  me 
more  nearly  to  the  tmth — at  least  more  nearly  to  my  hopes 
and  desires — than  almost  any  others  which  are  now  floating 
around  no, 

*'  Yonrs  sincerely, 

"  A.  P.  Stajoit." 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  E 

This  next  letter  again  referred  to  one  of 

to  Cardinal  Newman : — 

"  Octo 
"  M  J  dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  book.    Ton  will 
last  night  that  I  had  already  made  good  pi 
borrowed  from  the  Library.    I  shall  mnch 

Do  not  tronble  yonrself  abont  Newnuu 
mnch  more  anxions  that  the  pnblio  shonld  i 
I  shonld.  I  am  amazed  at  the  impressioi 
by  the  "  Oharacteristios  "  of  Newman.  M 
tions  I  had  read  before ;  bnt  the  net  resnlt 
of  fanciful,  disingennons  nonenties ;  all  exc 
reminiscences* 

"  Yonrs  t 

"A. 

One  day  I  had  been  calling  on  him  at  th< 
said  to  him,  after  describing  my  office  in  Vict 
our  frequent  Committee  meetings  there :  '^  ^ 
do  you  think  it  right  and  as  it  ought  to  be,  tt 
at  that  table  as  Hon.  Sec.  with  Lord  Shafi 
right,  and  Cardinal  Manning  on  my  left, — and  1 1 
not  sit  opposite  to  complete  the  '^  BeunUm  of  i 
He  laughed  heartily,  agreed  he  certainly  ou£  : 
and  promised  to     come.     But  time  failed,    i 
honoured  name  graced  our  lists. 

The  following  is  the  last  letter  I  have  pres ! 
Stanley's  writing.  It  is  needless  to  say  how  i 
it  gave  me : — 

••Octobej 
"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"I  have  just  finished  re-reading  with  rei 
and  consolation  your  "  Hopes  of  the  Human  Bac\ 
these  questions :  1.  Is  it  in,  or  coming  into,  a  s<! 
If  the  latter,  is  it  too  much  to  suggest  thii 


534  CHAPTER   XV III. 

p.  8  could,  if  not  omitted,  be  modified  ?  I  appreciate  the 
motive  for  its  insertion,  but  it  makes  the  lending  and 
recommending  of  the  book  difflcnlt.  2.  Who  is  '  one  of  the 
greatest  men  of  Science  * — ^p.  20  ?  8.  Where  is  there  an 
authentic  appearance  of  the  Pope's  reply  to  Odo  Russell — 
p.  107? 

M  Youis  sincerely, 

"  A.  P.  Stanley." 

I  afterwards  learned  from  Dean  Stanleyy  one  day  when  I 
was  visiting  him  at  the  Deanery  after  his  wife's  death,  that 
he  had  read  these  Essays  to  Lady  Augusta  in  the  last  weeks  of 
her  life,  finding  them,  as  he  told  me,  the  most  satisfiictory 
treatment  of  the  subject  he  had  met ;  and  that  after  her  death 
he  read  them  over  again.  He  gave  me  with  much  feeling 
a  sad  photograph  of  her  as  a  dying  woman,  after  telling 
me  this.  Mr.  Motley  the  historian  of  the  Netherlands, 
having  also  lost  his  wife  not  long  afterwards,  spoke  to  Dean 
Stanley  of  his  desire  for  some  book  on  the  subject  which 
would  meet  his  doubts,  and  Dean  Stanley  gave  him  this 
one  of  mine. 

Dean  Stanley,  it  is  needless  to  say,  was  the  most  welcome 
of  guests  in  every  house  which  he  entered.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  Mgh^mmdediwMf  I  can  use  no  other  term,  his  sense 
of  the  glory  of  England,  his  love  of  his  church  (on  extremely 
Erastian  principles  I )  as  the  National  BeUgion,  his  unfailing 
courtesy,  his  unaffected  enjoyment  of  drollery  and  gossip,  and 
his  almost  youthful  excitement  about  each  important  sulject 
which  cropped  up,  which  made  him  delightful  to  everyone 
in  turn.  There  was  no  man  in  London  I  think  whom 
it  gave  me  such  pleasure  to  meet  ''  in  the  sixties  and 
seventies "  as  the  "  Great  Dean " ;  and  he  was  uniformly 
most  kind  to  me.  The  last  occasion,  I  think,  on  which  I  saw 
him  in  full  spirits  was  at  a  house  where  the  pleasantest 
people  wore  constantly  to  be  found, — that  of  Mr*  and  Mrs. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.    635 

Simpson,  in  Cornwall  Gkrdens.  Benan  and  his  wife  were 
there,  and  I  was  so  favoured  as  to  be  seated  next  to  Benan; 
Dean  Stanley  being  on  the  other  side  of  onr  tactful  hostess. 
The  Dean  had  been  showing  Benan  over  the  Abbey  in  thi 
morning,  and  they  were  both  in  the  gayest  mood,  but  1 
remember  Dean  Stanley  speaking  to  Benan  with  indescrib- 
able and  concentrated  indignation  of  the  avowal  Mr.  Gladstone 
had  recently  made  that  the  Clerkenwell  explosion  had  caused 
him  to  determine  on  the  disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church. 
I  have  found  an  old  letter  to  my  friend  describing  this 
dinner: — 

*'  I  had  a  most  amusing  evening  yesterday.  Kind  Mrs. 
Simpson  made  me  sit  beside  Benan ;  and  Dean  Stanley  was 
across  the  comer,  so  we  made,  with  nice  Mrs.  W.  B.  G.  and 
Mr.  M.,  a  very  jolly  little  party  at  onr  end  of  the  table 
The  Dean  began  with  grace,  rather  Mtto  voce,  with  a  blink 
at  Benan,  who  kept  on  never  minding.  His  (Benan's)  looks 
are  even  worse  than  his  picture  leads  one  to  expect.  Hii 
face  is  exactly  like  a  hogt  so  stupendously  broad  across  tha 
ears  and  jowl  1  But  he  is  very  gentlemanly  in  manner,  very 
winning  and  full  of  fun  BJid  Jine$se,  We  had  to  talk  French 
with  him,  but  the  Dean's  French  was  so  much  worse  than 
mine  that  I  felt  quite  at  ease,  and  rattled  away  about  the 
Triduot  at  Florence  (to  appease  the  wrath  6f  Heaven  on 
account  of  his  Vie  de  Jisus),  and  had  some  private  jokes 
with  him  about  his  malice  in  colling  the  Publicans  of  the 
Gospels  '  douanlers,'  and  the  ass  a  '  baudet ! '  He  said 
he  did  it  on  purpose ;  and  that  when  he  was  last  in  Italy 
numbers  of  poor  people  came  to  him,  and  asked  him  for  the 
lucky  number  for  the  lotteries,  because  they  thought  he  was 
to  near  the  Devil  he  must  know  1  I  gave  him  your  message 
about  the  Hengwrt  MSS.,  and  he  apologised  for  having 
written  about  the  '  mesquines '  considerations  which  had 
caused  them  to  be  locked  up,  [to  wit,  that  several  leaves  of  the 
Red  Book  of  Hergest  hod  boon  stolen  by  too  enthusiastic 
Welsh  scholars  I]  and  solemnly  vowed  to  alter  the  passage 


abtaining  leave  for  him  to  see  them. 

"t  also  talked  to  M.  Seuan  of  his  Essay  on  the  Poitie  dt 
la  Baet  Odtiqat,  and  made  him  laagh  at  his  own  assertion 
that  Irishmen  bad  such  a  longing  for  '  the  Infinite'  that 
when  they  oonld  not  attain  to  it  otherwise  thev  songbt  it 
through  a  strong  liquor  '  qui  t'appMe  U  JPTiuke}/.' " 

Sir  Monntstoart  Orant-Dnff's  delightful  Tolome  on  Benan 
bas  opened  to  u;  mind  many  fresh  ressoiiB  for  admiring  the 
great  French  sobolar,  whose  works  I  hod  &lsely  imagined  I 
had  known  pretty  well  before  reading  it.  Bnt  when 
all  is  said,  the  impression  he  baa  left  on  ma  (and  I  should 
think  on  most  other  people)  is  one  of  disappointment  and 
short- falling. 

M.  Beuan  has  written  of  himself  the  well-known  and  often 
laughed-at  boast :  "  8itd  dans  mon  tiicUj'aipueomprmdrt 
Jittu  Chriat  «t  St.  Frangoii  d'Aetue ! "  I  do  not  know  abont 
bis  comprehension  of  St.  Francis,  though  I  shonld  think  it  a 
very  great  tour  de  force  for  the  brilliant  French  academician 
and  critic  to  throw  himself  into  that  typical  medieval  mind  I 
But  as  regarded  the  former  Person  I  should  say  that  of  all 
the  tens  p{  thonsands  who  have  studied  and  written  about 
him  during  these  last  nineteen  centuries,  Renon  was  in  some 
respects  the  least  able  to  "  comprehend "  him.  The  man 
who  eonld  describe  the  story  of  the  Prodigal  as  a  "  tUlKmae 
parabole,"  is  as  far  ont  of  Christ's  latitude  as  the  pole 
from  the  equator.  One  abhors  raethetics  when  things 
too  sacred  to  be  measured  by  their  standard  are  commended 
in  their  name.  Benan  seems  to  me  to  have  been  for 
practical  purposes  a  Pantheist  without  a  glimmer  of  that 
sense  of  moral  and  personal  relation  to  Qod  which  was  tho 
supreme  characteristic  of  Christ.  When  he  translates 
Christ's  pity  for  the  Miftgdalenes  as  jealousy  "pour  la  gloire 
de  eon  Pirt  dan*  ca  bellet  criatui-n;"  and  in tro  daces  the 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     537 

term  ^^femmes  d*vne  vie  Sqtdvoque^*  as  a  rendering  for 
«  sinners,"  he  strikes  a  note  so  false  that  no  praise  lavished 
afterwards  can  restore  harmony. 

The  late  Lord  Honghton  was  one  of  the  men  of  note  who 
I  met  occasionally  at  the  houses  of  friends.  I  had  known  him 
in  Italy  and  he  was  always  kind  to  me  and  invited  me  to  his 
Christmas  parties  at  Frystone,  which  were  said  to  he  delightful, 
hut  to  which  I  did  not  go.  For  a  poet  he  had  an  extraordi- 
narily rough  exterior  and  hlunt  manner.  One  day  we  had  a 
regular  set-to  argument  lasting  a  long  time.  He  attacked  the 
order  of  things  with  the  usual  pessimist  ohservations  on  aU 
the  evil  in  the  world,  and  implied  that  I  had  no  reasonahle 
right  to  my  faith.  I  answered  as  hest  I  could,  with  some 
earnestness,  and  he  finally  concluded  the  discussion  hy 
remarking  with  concentrated  contempt :  ' '  You  might  almost  as 
well  he  a  Christian  1"  Next  day  I  went  to  Westminster 
Abhey  and  was  sitting  in  the  Dean's  pew,  when,  to  my 
amusement  Lord  Houghton  came  in  just  below,  with  a  party 
of  ladies  and  took  a  seat  exactly  opposite  me.  He  behaved 
of  course  with  edifying  propriety,  but  I  could  not  help 
reflecting  with  a  smile  on  our  argument  of  the  night 
before,  and  wondering  how  many  members  of  that  and  similar 
congregations  who  were  naturally  counted  by  outsiders  as 
faithful  supporters  of  the  orthodox  creed,  were  as  little  so, 
au  fond,  as  either  Lord  Houghton  or  I. 

With  Carlyle,  though  I  saw  him  very  frequently,  I  never 
interchanged  more  than  a  few  bamil  words  of  civility.  When 
his  biography  appeared,  I  was,  (as  I  frankly  told  the  illustrious 
biographer)  exceedingly  glad  that  I  had  never  given  him  the 
chance  of  attaching  one  of  his  pungent  epigrams  to  my  poor 
person.  I  had  been  introduced  to  him  by  a  lady  at  whose 
house  he  happened  to  call  one  afternoon  when  I  was  sitting 
with  her,  and  where  he  showed  himself  (as  it  seems  to  me 
the  roughest  men  invariably  do  in  the  society  of  amiable 


him  oat  walking  vnih  one  or  other  of  his  great  historian 
friends,  who  were  also  mine,  bat  I  avoided  trespaBsing  on  their 
good  nature ;  or  addressing  him  when  he  walked  up  and  down 
alone  dailj  before  our  door  is  Choyne  Walk, — till  one  day 
when  he  had  been  very  ill,  I  ventured  fa)  espress  my  eatisfac- 
tion  in  soeiog  him  out  of  doora  again.  He  then  answered 
me  kindly.  I  never  shared  the  admiration  felt  for  him  by  sa 
many  able  mea  who  knew  him  personally,  and  therefore  bad 
means  which  I  didnotpoBsees,  of  estimating  him  ar^bt.  To 
me  his  books  and  himself  represented  an  anomalous  sort  o 
hnman  Fmit.  The  original  stock  was  a  bard  and  tbtony 
Beotch  peasant-character,  with  a  splendid  intollect  superadded. 
The  graft  was  not  wholly  successfnl.  A  flavour  of  the  old 
acrid  sloe  was  always  perceptible  in  the  plum. 

The  following  letter  was  received  by  Dr.  Hoggan  in  reply 
to  a  letter  to  Mr.  Corlyle  oonceming  Vivisection: 

"  Ecston  Lodge,  Beckenham, 

"  2eth  August,  18TG. 
"DewrSir, 

"  Mr.  Carlyte  has  received  yonr  letter,  and  has  read  it 
catefnlly.  He  bids  me  say,  that  ever  sinoe  be  was  a  boy 
when  he  read  the  acoount  of  Uajendie's  atrocities,  he  has 
never  thonght  of  the  practice  of  vivisecting  animals  but 
witb  horror.  I  may  mention  that  I  have  heard  him  speak 
of  it  in  the  strongest  terms  ot  disgust  long  before  there  was 
any  speech  abont  public  agitation  on  the  sabjoct.  He 
believes  that  the  reports  about  the  good  cesnlta  said  to  ba 
obtained  from  the  practice  of  vivisection  to  be  iimnensely 
exaggerated ;  with  the  exception  of  certain  experiments 
by  Harvey  and  certain  others  by  Sir  Charles  Bell,  he  is  not 
aware  of  any  conspicnons  good  that  has  resulted  from  it. 
But  even  supposing  the  good  results  to  be  mnch  greater 
than  Mr.  Carlyle  believes  they  are,  and  apart  too  from  the 
shocking  pain  inflicted  on  the  helpless  unimnln  operated 
upon,  he  would  still  think  the  praotioe  so  bratalising  to  the 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     539 

operators  that  he  would  earnestly  wish  the  law  on  the 
sabject  to  be  altered,  so  as  to  make  Yivisection  even  in 
Institutions  likb  that  with  which  yon  are  oonnected  a  most 
rare  occurrence,  and  when  practised  by  private  individuals 
an  indictable  offence. 

"  You  are  not  sure  that  the  operators  on  living  animals 
'  can  be  counted  on  your  fingers.'  Mr.  Oarlyle  with  an  equal 
share  of  certainty  believes  Vivisection  and  other  kindred 
experiments  on  living  animals  to  be  much  more  largely 
practised,  and  that  they  are  by  no  means  uncommonly 
undertaken  by  doctors'  apprentices  and  '  other  miserable 
persons.' 

"  You  are  mistaken  if  yon  look  u^  nn  the  Times  as  a  nurror 
of  virtue  ;  on  this  very  subject  when  it  at  first  began  to  be 
publicly  discussed  last  winter,  it  printed  a  letter  from 
.  .  .  .  which  your  letter  itself  would  prove  to  be  alto- 
gether composed  of  falsehoods. 

"  With  Mr.  Carlyle's  compliments  and  good  wishea, 
*'  I  remain,  dear  Sir, 
••  Yours  truly, 

*'Mabt  Carltlb  Aitken.*' 

Mr.  Carlyle  supported  our  Anti-vivisection  Society  from 
the  outset,  for  which  I  was  very  grateful  to  him ;  but  having 
promised  to  join  our  first  important  deputation  to  the  Home 
Office,  to  urge  the  Government  to  bring  in  a  Bill  in  accordance 
with  the  recommendations  of  the  Boyal  Commission,  he 
failed  at  the  last  moment  to  put  in  an  appearance,  having 
learned  that  Cardinal  Manning  was  to  be  also  present.  I  was 
told  that  he  said  he  would  not  appear  in  public  with  the 
Cardinal,  who  was,  he  thought,  'Hhe  chief  emissary  of 
Beelzebub  in  England ! "  When  this  was  repeated  to  me,  my 
remark  was  : — ''  Infidels  is  riz!  Time  was,  when  Cardinals 
would  not  appear  in  public  with  infidels  I  " 

Nothing  has  surprised  me  more  in  reading  the  memoirs 
and  letters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  than  the  small  interest 


640  CHAPTER  XVIIL 

either  of  them  seeniB  to  have  felt  in  the  great  Bnbjeots  which 
formed  the  lifework  of  their  many  iUustrions  visitors.  While 
humbler  folk  who  touched  the  same  circles  were  vehemently 
attracted,  or  else  repelled,  by  the  political,  philosophical  and 
theological  theories  and  labours  of  such  men  as  Mazzini, 
Mill,  Colenso,  Jowett,  Martineau  and  Darwin,  and  every 
conversation  and  almost  every  letter  contained  new  fiicts,  or 
animated  discussions  regarding  them,  the  Garlyles  received  visits 
from  these  great  men  continually,  with  (it  would  seem)  Uttle 
or  no  interest  in  their  aims  or  views  one  way  or  the  other, 
in  approval  or  disapproval ;  and  wrote  and  talked  much  more 
seriously  about  the  delinquencies  of  their  own  maidservants, 
and  the  great  and  never -to-be-sufficiently-appealed-against 
cock  and  hen  nuisance. 

I  had  known  Cardinal  Manning  in  Rome  about  1861  or 
1868  when  he  was  ''Monsignor  Manning,"  and  went  a  little 
into  English  society,  resplendent  in  a  beautiful  violet  robe. 
He  was  very  busy  in  those  days  making  converts  among 
English  young  ladies,  and  one  with  whom  we  were  acquainted, 
the  daughter  of  a  celebrated  authoress,  fell  into  his  net.  He 
had,  at  all  times,  a  gentle  way  of  ridiculing  English  doings 
and  prejudices  which  was  no  doubt  telling.  One  of  the 
stories  he  told  me  was  of  an  Italian  sacristan  asking  him 
<'  what  was  the  Bed  Prayer  Book  which  all  the  English  tourists 
carried  about  and  read  so  devoutly  in  the  churches?"  (of 
course  Murray's  Hand-hooks),* 

*  We  had  many  good  stories  floating  about  in  Borne  at  that 
time  and  he  was  always  ready  to  enjoy  them,  bat  one,  I  think,  told 
me  by  the  painter  Penry  Williams,  would  not  have  tickled  him  as 
it  did  us  heretics.  The  Pope,  it  seems,  offered  one  of  his  Cardinals 
(whose  reputation  was  far  from  immaculate)  a  pinch  of  snuff. 
The  Cardinal  replied  more  facetiously  than  respectfully  "  If  on  ho 
qiUito  vizio,  Santo  Padre,**  Pius  IX.  observed  qnietly,  snapping  hia 
snnffbox,  **  8e  visiofotu^  VnvrttU  "  (If  it  had  been  a  vice  yon  would 
have  had  it)  I 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.    641 

A  few  years  afterwards  when  he  had  retnmed  to  England 
as  Archbishop  of  Westminster,  I  met  him  pretty  frequently 
at  Miss  Stanley's  hoase  in  Grosvenor  Orescent.  He  there 
attacked  me  cheerfully  one  eyening:  ''Miss  Cobbe'J  haye 
found  out  something  against  you.  I  haye  disooyered  that 
Voltaire  was  part-owner  of  a  Slaye-ship  1  '* 

"I  beg  you  to  belieye,"  said  I, ''  that  I  haye  no  responsibility 
whateyer  respecting  Voltaire  1  But  I  would  ask  your  Grace, 
whether  it  be  not  true  that  Las  Casas,  the  saintly  Dominican, 
fovmded  Negro  Slayery  in  America  ?  "  A  Church  of  England 
friend  coming  up  and  laughing,  I  discharged  a  second  barrel : 
"And  was  not  the  Protestant  Saint,  Newton  of  Olney, — 
much  worse  than  all, — the  Captain  of  a  Slaye-ship  ?  "* 

One  eyening  at  this  pleasant  house  I  was  standing  on  the 
rug  in  one  of  the  rooms  talking  to  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  and 
two  or  three  other  acquaintances  of  the  same  set.  The 
Archbishop,  on  entering  shook  hands  with  each  of  us,  and 
we  were  all  talking  in  the  usual  easy,  sub-humorous,  London 
way  when  a  tall  military-looking  man,  a  Major  G.,  came  in, 
and  seeing  Maiming,  walked  straight  up  to  him,  went  down 
on  one  knee  and  kissed  his  ring !  A  bomb  falling  amongst  us 
would  scarcely  haye  been  more  startling;  and  Manning, 
Englishman  as  he  was  to  the  backbone  under  his  fine  Roman 
feathers,  was  obyiously  disconcerted,  though  dignified  as  eyer. 

In  a  letter  to  a  friend  dated  Feb.  19th,  1867, 1  find  I  said  : 

**  I  had  an  amusing  conyersation  with  Archbishop  Manning 
the  other  night  at  Miss  Stanley's.  He  was  most  good- 
humoured,  coming  up  to  me  as  I  was  talking  to  Sir  0. 
Treyelyan,  about  Borne,  and  saying  *  I  am  glad  you  think  of 
going  to  Bome  next  winter,  Miss  Oobbe.  It  proyes  you  expect 
the  Pope  to  be  firmly  established  there  still.'  We  had  rather  a 

*  OorionBly  enough  I  have  had  ocoaBion  to  repeat  this  remark 
this  Spring  (1894)  in  a  oontroyersy  in  the  coIoiddb  of  the 
CaiMUc  Timet. 


642  CHAPTER  XVII L 

long  talk  about  Passaglia  who  he  says  has  recanted, —  [a  fact  I 
heard  strongly  contradicted  later.]  Mr.  J.  (now  Sir  H.  J.) 
came  behind  him  in  the  midst  of  our  talk  and  almost  pitched 
the  Archbishop  on  me,  with  snch  a  posh  as  I  never  saw 
given  in  a  drawing-room  I  The  Dean  and  Lady  Augasta 
came  in  later,  and  she  asked  eagerly :  *  Where  was  Manning  ?' 
having  never  seen  him.  He  had  gone  away,  so  I  told  her 
of  the  enthusiastic  meeting  which  had  afforded  a  spectacle 
to  ns  all  an  hour  before,  between  him  and  Archdeacon 
Denison.  It  was  quite  a  scene  of  ecclesiastical  reconcilia- 
tion ;  a  *Be-union  of  Christendom  t '  (They  had  been  told 
each  that  the  other  was  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  Arch- 
deacon Denison  literally  rushed  with  both  hands  outspread 
to  meet  the  Cardinal,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  his 
conversion.)  '* 

In  later  years,  I  received  at  least  half-a-dozen  notes  from 
time  to  time  from  his  Eminence  asking  for  details  of  our 
Anti- vivisection  work,  and  exhibiting  his  anxiety  to  master 
the.  facts  on  which  he  proposed  to  speak  at  our  Meetings. 
Here  are  some  of  these  notes : — 

*'  Archbishop's  House,  Westminster,  S.W., 

•<June  12th,  1882. 
"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"I  should  be  much  obliged  if  you  would  send  me  some 
recent  facts  or  utterances  of  the  Mantegazza  kind,  for 
the  meeting  at  Lord  Shaftesbury's.  I  have  for  a  long  time 
lost  all  reckoning  from  overwork,  and  need  to  be  posted  up. 

«( Believe  me,  always  faithfully  yours, 

"  Henbt  E.,  Card.  Archbp."* 

**  Cardinal  Manning  to  Miss  F.  P.  C. 

*'  Eastern  Bead,  Brighton. 
'*  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  my  slowness  in  answering  youz 
letter  has  not  arisen  from  any  diminution  of  care  on  Yivi- 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.   543 

section.  I  was  never  better  able  to  nnderstand  it,  for  I 
have  been  for  nearly  three  weeks  in  pain  day  and  night 
from  nenralgia  in  the  right  arm,  which  makes  writing 
difficult. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Holt's  Bill,  and  I  do  not  know  what 
it  aims  at. 

'*  Before  I  can  say  anything,  I  wish  to  be  fully  informed. 
The  Bill  of  last  year  does  not  content  me. 

'*  But  we  must  take  care  not  to  weaken  what  we  have 
gained.  I  hope  to  stay  here  over  Sunday,  and  should  be 
much  obliged  if  you  could  desire  someone  to  send  me  a 
copy  of  Mr.  Holt's  Bill. 

"Has  sufficient  organised  effort  been  made  to  enforce 
Mr.  Cross's  Act  ? 

"  Believe  me,  always  yours  very  truly, 

«*  Henbt  E.,  Card.  Arohbp." 

**  Archbishop's  House,  Westminster,  S.W., 

'*  June  22nd,  1884. 
<*  Dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

"  I  will  attend  the  meeting  of  the  26th  unless  hindered 
by  some  unforeseen  necessity,  but  I  must  ask  you  to  send 
me  a  brief.  I  am  so  driven  by  work  that  for  some  time  I 
have  fallen  bcliind  your  proceedings.  Send  me  one  or  two 
points  marked  and  I  will  read  them  up. 

"  My  mind  is  more  than  ever  fixed  on  this  subject. 

'*  Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 

"  Henby  E.,  Card.  Archbp," 

"  Archbishop's  House,  Westminster,  S.W., 

"  January  27th,  1887. 
**  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  For  the  last  three  weeks  I  have  been  kept  to  the  house 
by  one  of  my  yearly  colds ;  but  if  possible  I  will  be  present 
at  the  Meeting  of  the  Society.  If  I  should  be  unable  to  be 
there  I  will  write  a  letter. 


544  OHAPTBR  XVI II. 

"1  clearly  see  that  the  proposed  Fhymological  and 
Pathologioal  Institate  would  be  centre  and  sanction  of  ever 
adyancmg  YiYuection. 

"  I  hope  yon  are  reooyering  health  and  strength  by  yonx 
rest  in  the  country  ? 

"  Believe  me,  always  faitbfolly  yonrs, 

'*  Henst  E.,  Card.  Archbp.' 

•<  Archbishop's  Honse«  Westminster,  S.W., 

••  Jnly  81st,  1889. 
**  My  dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

'*  My  last  days  have  been  so  full  that  I  have  not  been  able 
to  write.  I  thank  yon  for  yonr  letter,  and  for  the  contents 
of  it.  The  highest  counsel  is  always  the  safest  and  best, 
oost  us  what  it  may.  We  may  take  the  cost  as  the  test  of 
its  rectitude. 

"  I  hope  you  will  go  on  writing  against  this  inflation  of 
vain  glory  calling  itself  Science. 

**  Believe  me,  always,  very  truly  yours, 

«<  Henbt  E.,  Card.  Archbishop." 

At  no  less  than  seven  of  our  annual  Meetings  (at  one  of 
which  he  presided)  did  Cardinal  Manning  make  speeches. 
All  these  I  have  myself  reprinted  in  an  ornamental  pamphlet 
to  be  obtained  at  20,  Victoria  Street.  The  reasons  for  his 
adoption  of  our  Anti-vivisection  cause,  were,  I  am  sure, 
mainly  moral  and  humane ;  but  I  think  an  incident  which 
occurred  in  Rome  not  long  before  our  campaign  began  may 
have  impressed  on  his  mind  a  regret  that  the  Catholic  Church 
had  hitherto  done  nothing  on  behalf  of  the  lower  animals, 
and  a  desire  to  take  part  himself  in  a  humane  crusade  and  so 
rectify  its  position  before  the  Protestant  world. 

Pope  Pio  IX.  had  been  addressed  by  the  English  in  Rome 
through  Lord  Ampthill,  (then  Mr.  Odo  Bussell,  our  representa- 
tive there) — with  a  request  for  permission  to  found  a  Society 
for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  in  Rome;  where,  (as  all 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     ^^ 

the  world  knows)  it  was  almost  as  deplorably  needed 
as  at  Naples.  After  a  considerable  delay,  the  formal  reply 
through  the  proper  Office,  was  sent  to  Mr.  Bnssell  refusing  the 
(indispensable)  permission.  The  document  conveying  this 
refusal  expressly  stated  that  ''  a  Society  for  such  a  purpose 
could  not  be  sanctioned  in  Rome.  Man  owed  duties  to  hia 
fellow  men ;  but  he  owed  no  duties  to  the  lower  animalB 
therefore,  though  such  societies  might  exist  in  Pt'otestani 
countries  they  could  not  be  allowed  to  be  established 
in  Borne.*' 

The  late  Lord  Arthur  Kussell,  coming  back  from  Italy 
to  England  just  after  this  event,  told  me  of  it  with  great 
detail,  and  assured  me  that  he  had  seen  the  Papal  document 
in  his  brother's  possession ;  and  that  if  I  chose  to  publish 
the  matter  in  England,  he  would  guarantee  the  truth  of  the 
story  at  any  time.  I  did,  y&tr^  much  choose  to  publish  it, 
thinViTig  it  was  a  thing  which  ought  to  be  proclaimed  on  tha 
housetops ;  and  I  repeated  it  in  seven  or  eight  different 
publications,  ranging  from  the  Quarterly  Review  to  the 
Echo,  Soon  after  this,  if  I  remember  rightly,  began  the 
Anti-vivisection  movement,  and  almost  immediately  when 
the  Society  for  Protection  of  Animals  from  Vivisection 
(afterwards  called  the  Victoria  Street  Society)  was  founded, 
by  Dr.  Hoggan  and  myself.  Cardinal  Manning  gave  us  his 
name  and  active  support.  He  took  part  in  our  first 
Deputation  to  the  Home  Office,  and  spoke  at  our  first 
meeting,  which  was  held  on  the  10th  June,  1876,  at  the 
Westminster  Palace  Hotel.  On  that  occasion,  when  it  came 
to  the  Cardinal's  turn  to  speak,  he  began  at  once  to  say  that 
''Much  misapprehension  existed  as  to  the  attitude  of  his 
Church  on  the  subject  of  duty  to  animals."  [As  he  said 
this,  with  his  usual  clear,  calm,  deliberate  enunciation,  he 
looked  me  straight  in  the  face  and  I  looked  at  him !]  He 
proceeded  to  say:   ''It  was  true  that  man  owed  no  duty 

2  M 


W«  CHAPTER   XVIIL 

directly  to  the  brutes,  bnt  he  owed  it  to  God,  whose  ereatures 
they  are,  to  treat  them  mercifnlly." 

This  was,  I  oonsidered  a  very  good  way  of  reconciling 
adhesion  to  the  Pope's  doctrine,  with  humane  principles; 
and  I  greatly  rejoiced  that  such  a  mezzo-termine  could  be  put 
forward  on  authority.  Of  course  in  my  private  opinion  the 
Cardinal's  ethics  were  theoretically  untenable,  seeing  that  if 
it  were  possible  to  conceive  of  such  a  thing  as  a  creature  made 
by  a  man,  (as  people  in  the  thirteenth  century  believed  that 
Arnaldus  deVilla-Nova  had  made  a  living  man),  or  even  such 
A  thing  as  a  creature  made  by  the  Devil, — that  most  wretched 
being  would  still  have  a  right  to  be  spared  pain  if  he  were 
sensitive  to  pain ;  and  would  assuredly  be  a  proper  object  of 
measureleBS  compassion.  That  a  dog  or  horse  is  a  creature 
of  God;  that  its  love  and  service  to  us  come  of  God's 
gracious  provisions  for  us  ;  that  the  animal  is  unoffending  to 
its  Creator,  while  we  are  suppliants  for  forgiveness  for  our 
offences ;  all  these  are  true  and  tender  reasons  for  additional 
kindness  and  care  for  tliese  our  dumb  fellow-creatures. 
But  they  are  not  (as  the  Cardinal's  argument  would 
seem  to  imply)  the  ordy  reasons  for  showing  mercy  towards 
them. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  great  step, — ^I  may  say  an  historical 
event, — that  a  principle  practically  including  universal 
humanity  to  the  lower  animals,  should  have  been  enunciated 
publicly  and  formally  by  a  "Prince  of  the  Church  "  of  Rome. 
That  Cardinal  Manning  was  not  only  the  first  great  Roman 
prelate  to  lay  down  any  such  principle,  but  that  he  far 
outran  many  of  his  contemporaries  and  co-religionists  in  so 
doing,  has  become  painfuUy  manifest  this  year  (1894)  from 
the  numerous  letters  from  priests  which  have  appeared  in 
the  Tablet  and  Catholic  times,  bearing  a  very  different 
complexion.  Cardinal  Manning  repeated  almost  verbatim  the 
same  explanation  of  his  own  standpoint  in  his  speech  on 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     547 

March  9ih,  1887,  when  he  occupied  the  chair  at  our  Annna] 
Meeting.    He  said : 

"It  is  perfectly  trae  that  obligations  and  duties  are 
between  moral  persons,  and  therefore  the  lower  animals  are 
not  susceptible  of  those  moral  obligations  which  we  owe  to 
one  another;  but  we  owe  a  seven -fold  obligation  to  the 
Creator  of  those  animals.  Our  obligation  and  moral  duty 
is  to  Him  who  made  them,  and,  if  we  wish  to  know  the  limit 
and  the  broad  outline  of  our  obligation,  I  say  at  onoe  it  is 
His  Nature  and  His  perfections ;  and,  among  those  perfec- 
tions, one  is  most  profoundly  that  of  eternal  mercy.  (Hear, 
hear.)  And,  therefore,  although  a  poor  mule  or  a  poor 
horse  is  not  indeed  a  moral  person,  yet  the  Lord  and  Maker 
of  that  mule  and  that  horse  is  the  highest  law-giver,  and 
His  Nature  is  a  law  to  Himself.  And,  in  giving  a  dominion 
over  His  creatures  to  man.  He  gave  them  subject  to  the 
condition  that  they  should  be  used  in  conformity  to  His  own 
perfections,  which  is  His  own  law,  and,  therefore,  our  law.*' 

On  the  first  occasion  a  generous  Boman  Catholic  nobleman 
present  gave  me  £20  to  have  the  Cardinal's  speech  translated 
into  Italian  and  widely  circulated  in  Italy. 

I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  when  Cardinal  Manning 
went  to  Borne  after  the  election  of  Leo  XTTT.  he  spoke 
earnestly  to  his  Holiness  on  the  subject  of  cruelty  to  animals 
generally  in  Italy,  and  especially  concerning  Vivisection,  and 
that  he  understood  the  Pope  to  agree  with  him  and  sanction 
his  attitude.  I  learned  this  from  a  private  source,  but  his 
Eminence  referred  to  it  quite  unmistakably  in  his  speech  at 
Lord  Shaftesbury's  house  on  the  2lBt  June,  1882,  as 
follows : — 

**  I  am  somewhat  conoemed  to  say  it,  but  I  know  that  an 
impression  has  been  made  that  those  whom  I  represent 
look,  if  not  with  approbation,  at  least  with  great  indulgence, 
at  the  practice  of  Vivisection.  I  grieve  to  say  that  abroad 
there  are  a  great  many  (whom  I  beg  to  say  I  do  not 


548  CHAPTER  XVIII. 

represent)  who  do  favour  the  practice ;  bnt  this  I  do  protest, 

that  there  is  not  a  religions  instinct  in  nature,  nor  a  religion 

of  nature,  nor  is  there  a  word  in  revelation,  either  in  the 

Old  Testament  or  the  New  Testament,  nor  is  there  to  be 

found  in  the  great  theology  which  I  do  represent,  no,  nor 

in  any  Act  of  the  Church  of  which  I  am  a  member  ;  no* 

nor  in  the  lives  and  utterances  of  any  one  of  those  great 

servants  of  that  Church  who  stand  as  examples,  nor  is  there 

an  authoritative  utterance  anywhere  to  be  found  in  favour 

of  Vivisection.    There  may  be  the  chatter,  the  prating,  and 

the  talk  of  those  who  know  nothing  about  it.    And  I  know 

what  I  have  stated  to  be  the  fact,  for  some  years  ago  I  took 

a  step  known  to  our  excellent  secretary,  and  brought  the 

subject  under  the  notice  and  authority  where  alone  I  could  ' 

bring  it.    And  those  before  whom  it  was  laid  soon  proved 

to  have  been  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  outlines  of  the 

alphabet  even  of  Vivisection.    They  believed  entirely  that 

the  practice  of  surgery  and  the  science  of  anatomy  owed 

everything  to  the  discoveries  of  vivisectors.    They  were  I 

filled  to  the  full  with  every  false  impression,  but  when  the 

facts   were   made  known  to  them,  they    experienced   a  i 

revulsion  of  feeling."  ! 

Cardinal  Manning  also,  (as  I  happen  likewise  to  know) 
made  a  great  effort  about  1878  or  1879,  to  induce  the  then 
General  of  the  Franciscans,  to  support  the  Anti-vivisection 
movement  for  love  of  St.  Francis^  and  his  tenderness  to 
animals.  In  this  attempt,  however,  Cardinal  Manning  most 
have  been  entirely  unsuccessful,  as  no  modem  Franciscan 
that  ever  I  have  heard  of,  has  stirred  a  finger  on  behalf  of 
animals  anywhere,  or  given  his  name  to  any  Society  for 
protecting  them,  either  from  vulgar  or  from  scientific  cruelty. 
Knowing  this,  I  confess  to  fetsling  some  impatience  when  the 
name  of  St.  Francis  and  his  amiable  fondness  for  birds  and 
beasts  is  perpetually  flaunted  whenever  the  lack  of  common 
humanity  to  animals  visible  in  Catholic  countries  happens  to 
be  mentioned.     It  is  a  vary  small  matter  that  a  Saint,  six 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIEa  AND  EIGHTIES.     649 

hundred  years  ago,  sang  with  nightingales  and  fed  wolves, 
if  the  monks  of  his  own  Order  and  the  priests  of  the  Church 
which  has  canonised  him,  never  warn  their  flocks  that  to 
torment  God's  creatures  is  even  a  venial  sin,  and  when 
forced  to  notice  barbarous  cruelties  to  a  brute,  invariably 
reply,  **Non  ^  Cristiaiio"  as  if  all  claims  to  compassion 
were  dismissed  by  that  consideration  I 

The  answer  of  the  General  of  the  Franciscans  to  Cardinal 
Manning's  touching  appeal  was, — ''  that  he  had  consulted  his 
doctor  and  that  his  doctor  assured  him  that  no  such  thing 
as  Vivisection  was  ever  practised  in  Italy !  " 

I  was  kindly  permitted  to  call  at  Archbishop's  House  and 
see  Cardinal  Manning  several  times  ;  and  I  find  the  following 
little  record  of  one  of  my  first  visits  in  a  letter  to  my  friend, 
written  the  same,  or  next  day : — 

"  I  had  a  very  interesting  interview  with  the  Cardinal.  I 
was  shown  into  a  vast,  dreary  dining-room  quite  monastio 
in  its  whitey-brown  walls,  poverty-stricken  furniture, 
crucifix,  and  pictures  of  half-a-dozen  Bishops  who  did 
not  exhibit  the  '  Beauty  of  Holiness.'  The  Cardinal 
received  me  most  kindly,  and  said  he  was  so  glad  to 
see  me,  and  that  he  was  much  better  in  health  after  a 
long  illness.  Ho  is  not  much  changed.  It  was  droll  to  ait 
talking  tete-h-tete  with  a  man  with  a  pink  octagon  on  his 
venerable  head,  and  various  little  scraps  of  scarlet 
showing  here  and  there  to  remind  one  that  '  Orattez '  the 
English  gentleman  and  you  will  find  the  Roman  Cardinal  I 
He  told  me,  really  with  effusion,  that  his  heart  was 
in    our  work;    and  he  promised  to   go   to  the  Meeting 

to-morrow I  told  him  we  all  wished  him  to  take 

the  chair.  He  said  it  would  be  much  better  for  a  layman 
like  Lord  Coleridge  to  do  so.  I  said,  *  I  don't  think  yon 
know  the  place  you  hold  in  English,  (I  paused  and 
added  aveo  intention^)  Protestant  estimation  * !  He  laughed 
very  good  humouredly  and  said:  *I  think  I  do,  very 
weU/  " 


SOe  CHAPTER   XVIII. 

At  the  Meeting  on  the  following  day  when  he  did  take  the 
chair,  I  had  opportxmities  as  Hon.  Sec.,  of  which  I  did 
not  fail  to  avail  myself,  of  a  little  quiet  conversation  with 
his  Eminence  before  the  proceedings. 

I  spoke  of  the  moral  results  of  Darwinism  on  the 
character  and  remarked  how  paralyzing  was  the  idea  that 
Conscience  was  merely  an  hereditary  instinct  fixed  in  tho 
brain  by  the  interests  of  the  tribe,  and  in  no  sense 
the  voice  of  God  in  the  heart  or  His  law  graven 
on  the  **  fleshly  tablets."  He  abounded  in  my  sense, 
and  augured  immeasurable  evils  from  the  general  adoption 
of  such  a  philosophy.  I  asked  him  what  was  the  Catholic 
doctrine  of  the  origin  of  Souls?  He  answered,  promptly^ 
and  emphatically :  '^  0,  that  each  one  is  a  distinct  creation 
of  God." 

The  last  day  on  which  His  Eminence  attended  a  Com- 
mittee Meeting  in  Victoria  Street  I  had  a  little  conversation 
with  him  as  usual,  after  business  was  over ;  and  reminded 
Viim  that  on  every  occasion  when  he  had  previously  attended, 
we  had  had  our  beloved  President,  Lord  Shaftesbury  present. 
"  ShaUI  tell  your  Eminence,"  I  asked,  "  what  Mrs.  P."  (now 
Lady  B.)  '^  told  me  Lord  Shaftesbury  said  to  her  shortly 
before  he  died,  about  our  Committees  here  9  He  said  that 
*  if  our  Society  had  done  nothing  else  but  bring  you  and  him 
together,  and  make  you  sit  and  work  at  the  same  table  for 
the  same  object,  it  would  have  been  well  worth  while  to  have 
founded  it  I  "*  ''Did  Lord  Shaftesbury  say  that  ?  "  said  tho 
Cardinal,  with  a  moisture  in  his  eyes,  ''  Did  he  say  that  ? 
I  loved  Lord  Shaftesbury  I  *' 

And  these,  I  reflected,  were  the  men  whom  narrow  bigots 
of  both  creeds,  looked  on  as  the  very  chiefs  of  opposing 
camps  and  bitter  enemies  I  The  one  rejoiced  at  an  excuse  for 
meeting  the  other  in  friendly  co-operation  1  The  other  said 
as  I4s  last  word :  **  I  loved  bim  I  *' 


LONDON  IN  THE  8E  VENT1E8  AND 

1  was  greatly  touched  by  this  little 
straight  from  it  to  the  house  of  the  friend 
of  Lord  Shaftesbury's  remark,  I  naturally 
and  to  Mr.  Lowell,  who  was  taking  tea  wii 
Lady  B.  said, — **  I  remember  it  well,  and  1 
the  very  tree  in  the  park  where  we  were  a 
Shaftesbury  made  that  remark.     But "  (si 
did  you  not  tell  the  Cardinal  that  he  inclu 
Lord  Shaftesbury  said  was,  that  'the  Qot 
the  Cardinal  and  you  and  himself  to  work 
Lowell  was  interested  in  all  this,  and  the  e^ 
of  the  width  of  mind  of  the  great  philanthrop 
posed  to  be  '^  a  narrow  Evangelical.*' 

Alas  I  he  also  has  "  gone  over  to  the  m 
him  often  and  liked  him   (as  every  one 
Though  in  so  many  ways  different,  he  h 
Gladstone's  peculiar  power  of  making  evt 
wherein  he  took  part  interesting ;  of  turning 
into  pleasant  paths.     He  had  not  in  the  smi 
tiresome  habit  of  giving  information  inste 
imp-essionsy  which  makes  some  worthy  peoph 
fatiguing  as  companions.    I  had  once  the  pr 
between  him  and  Lord  Tennyson  when  the 
animated  conversation,  and  I  could  see  how 
Poet  was  delighted  with  the  lesser  one ;  i 
large-hearted  Statesman;  a  silver  link  bel 
nations. 

I  shall  account  it  one  of  the  chief  hon 
fallen  to  my  lot  that  Tennyson  asked  leave,  t 
to  pay  me  a  visit.  Needless  to  say  I  at 
with  gratitude  and,  fortunately,  I  was  at  b 
house  in  Cheyne  Walk,  when  he  called  on 
a  long  time  over  my  fire,  and  talked  of  poet 
melodious  words  ought  to  have  in  it ;  of  tl 


652  CHAPTER  XVIII. 

scientific  cmelty,  against  which  be  was  going  to  wi*lto  again ; 
and  of  the  new  and  dangerous  phases  of  thought  then 
apparent.  Much  that  he  said  on  the  latter  subject  was,  I 
think,  crystallised  in  his  Lockdey  Hall  Sixty  Years  Later. 
After  he  had  risen  to  go  and  I  had  followed  him  to  the  stairs, 
I  returned  to  my  room  and  said  from  my  heart,  '<  Thank  God! " 
The  great  poem  which  had  been  so  much  to  me  for  half  a 
lifetime,  was  not  spoiled ;  the  Man  and  the  Poet  were  one. 
Nothing  that  I  had  now  seen  and  heard  of  him  in  the  flesh 
jarred  with  what  I  had  known  of  him  in  the  spirit. 

After  this  first  visit  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Lord 
Tennyson  several  times  and  of  making  Lady  Tennyson's 
charming  acquaintance ;  the  present  Lord  Tennyson  being 
exceedingly  kind  and  friendly  to  me  in  welcoming 
me  to  their  house.  On  one  occasion  when  I  met  Lord 
Tennyson  at  the  house  of  a  mutual  friend,  he  told 
me,  (with  an  innocent  surprise  which  I  could  not  but 
find  diverting,)  that  a  certain  great  Professor  had  been 
positively  angry  and  rude  to  him  about  his  lines  in  the 
Children's  Hospital  concerning  those  who  '^  carve  the  living 
hound"  I  I  tried  to  explain  to  him  the  fury  of  the  whole 
clique  at  the  discovery  that  the  consciences  of  the  rest  of 
mankind  has  considerably  outstepped  theirs  in  the  matter  of 
humanity  and  that  while  they  fancied  themselves,  (in  his 
words,)  ^'  the  heirs  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of 
Time,"  it  was  really  in  the  Dark  Ages,  as  regarded  humane 
sentiment, — or  at  least  one  or  two  centuries  past, — in  which 
they  lingered ;  practising  the  Art  of  Torture  on  beasts,  as 
men  did  on  men  in  the  sixteenth  century.  I  also  tried  to 
explain  to  him  that  his  ideal  of  a  Yivisector  with  red  face  and 
coarse  hands  was  quite  wrong,  and  as  false  as  the 
representation  of  Lady  Macbeth  as  a  tall  and  masculine 
woman.  Lady  Macbeth  must  have  been  smaU,  thin  and  concen- 
trated, not  a  big,  bony,  conscientious  Scotch  woman ;  and 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND . 

Vivisectors   (some  of  them  at  all  events) 
handsome  gentlemen,   with  peculiarly  del 
drawing  oat  nerves,  &c.,  as  Cyon  describes] 

Lord  Tennyson  from  the  very  first  b 
Anti-vivisection  movement,  in  1874,  to  the  1 
never  once  failed  to  append  his  name  to 
Memorial  and  Petition, — and  they  were  man; 
my  successors,  sent  to  him ;  and  he  accept 
Hon.  Membership  and  afterwards  the  Yice-I 
Society  from  first  to  last. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Lord  Tennyson  was  o] 
afber  I  had  taken  luncheon  at  his  house, 
leave  the  table,  and  ho  shook  hands  with  n 
we  were  parting,  as  we  supposed,  for  that 
to  me :  "  Good-Bye,  Miss  Cobbe — ^Fight  t 
€ro  on  !  Fight  the  good  Fight."  I  saw  him 
shall  do  his  bidding,  please  God,  to  the  end. 

I  shall  insert  here  two  letters  which  I  rece 
Tennyson  which,  though  trifling  in  themsel 
testimonies  of  his  sympathy  and  goodwill.  I 
able  to  add  to  them  two  papers  of  some  res 
contemporary  estimate  of  Tennyson's  first 
friends,  the  Kembles  ;  and  the  announcement 
Arthur  Hallam  by  his  friend  John  Mitchell  K 
Kemble.  They  have  come  into  my  possessi 
mass  of  family  and  other  papers  given  me  1 
several  years  ago,  and  belong  to  a  series  ( 
vellously  long  and  closely  written,  by  John 
and  after  his  romantic  expedition  to  Spain 
future  Archbishop  Ihrench  and  the  other  yc 
of  1880.  The  way  in  which  John  Mitchell 
of  his  friend  Alfred  Tennyson's  Poems  is  i 
much  more  so  is  the  beautiful  testimony  h 
character  of  Hallam.     It  is  touching,  and  i 


to  the  satgect  of  "  In  Mmwriam,"  by  his  yotmg  companion. 

"  Fariiogrord,  Fiealiwater, 

"  Isle  of  Wight, 

"JmiB  4th,  1680. 
"  Dear  Misa  Cobbe, 

"  I  have  aabscribed  my  namo,  and  I  hope  thftt  it  may  be 
of  some  UFie  to  yonr  canae. 
"  Uy  wife  ia  gratefn)  to  yon  for  remembianoe  ot  her,  and 

"  A.  Tennyson." 

"  Aldwortb,  Haslemoie, 

"  Snney,  Jannaiy  Oth,  1882. 
*'  My  deat  Uisa  Cobbe, 

"  I  thank  yoa  for  your  eseay,  which  I  fonnd  Tery 
inteieBting,  ttioogh  perhaps  somewhat  too  Tehemeat  to 
setve  yont  pnrpose.  Have  yon  seen  that  terrible  book  by 
a  Swiss  (reyiewed  in  the  Speetator)  Ayez  Pitiif  Pray 
pardon  my  not  answerinf;  yoa  before.  I  am  eo  harried 
with  letters  and  posma  ftom  all  parts  of  the  world,  that 
my  friend''  often  have  to  wait  for  an  onewor. 

"A.  Tehmvbon." 

**  FarriDgford,  Freshwater, 

'■  Isle  of  Wight,  June  12th,  1882. 
"  Dear  Bfln  Cobbe, 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  aball  not  be  in  London 
the  21at,  BO  that  I  cannot  be  present  at  yonr  meeting. 
Many  thanks  for  asking  me.  My  father  has  been  soCering 
from  a  bed  attack  of  goat,  and  does  not  feci  inclined  to 
write  more  abont  Vivisection.  Yon  have,  as  yoa  know, 
his  warmest  good  wishes  in  all  yonr  great  struggle.    When 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  El 

are  wo  to  see  you  again  ?    Can  yon  not  p 
Haslemere  this  smnmer  ? 

**  With  onr  kindest  regards, 

*'  Yours  very  sinoea 

**  Hatj.am 

Extract  from  letter  from  John  M.  Kemhle  to  ] 
No  date.    In  packet  of  1880-1888  :— 

**  I  am  very  glad  that  you  like  Tennyson's 
had  any  poetry  in  you,  you  could  not  he 
general  system  of  criticism,  and  the  notion  tl 
be  appreciated  by  everybody,  if  he  be  a  pc 
fallacies.    It  was  only  the  High  Priest  who 
to  enter  the  Holy  of  Holies ;  and  so  it  is  w 
Holy  of  Holies,  no  less  sacred  and  replete  v 
great  poet's  mind :  therein  no  vulgar  foot  m 
meet  this  objection,  it  is  often  said  that  all  m 
&c.,  Ac.,  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  &c.    To  th 
a  direct  denial.    Not  one  man  in  a  hundred  i 
three  straws  for  Milton ;  and  though  from  be 
Poet  Shakespeare  must  be  better  understoo 
may  say  that  not  one  in  a  hundred  thousand  f 
to  be  felt  in  him.    There  is  no  man  who  has  < 
as  Tennyson  to  express  poetical  feeling  by 
has  done  as  much  with  colours.    Indeed,  I  Ix 
to  have  lived  since  Milton,  so  perfect  in  his 
Gothe.    In  this  matter,  Shelley  and  Keats  an 
Wordsworth,  have  been  found  wanting.    Coler 
the  greatest  admiration  for  Oharles  Tennyi 
we  have  sent  him  Alfred's  pOAms,  which,  I 
delight  him." 

Extract  from  letter  from  John  Mitchell  Eei 
Eemble : — 

'*'  It  is  with  feelings  of  inexproBsible  pain  tb 
(ip  you  the  death  of  poor  Arthur  Hallam, 


ISth  of  last  mouth.  Though  this  was  alwaja  feaied  by  ns 
as  likelj  to  occur,  the  shock  has  been  a  bittei  one  to  bear  : 
and  most  of  all  so  to  the  Tennysons,  whose  sister  Emilj  be 
was  to  have  majried.  I  have  not  yet  had  the  courage  to 
write  to  Alfred.  This  is  a  loss  which  will  most  aseoredly 
be  felt  by  this  age,  for  if  ever  man  was  bom  for  great 
things  ho  was.  Never  was  a  more  powerful  intellect,  joined 
to  a  purer  and  holier  heart;  and  the  whole  illominated 
with  the  richest  imagination,  the  most  sparkling  yet  the 
kindest  wit.  One  cannot  lament  for  him  that  he  is  gone  to 
a  far  better  life,  bat  we  weep  over  his  coffin  and  wonder 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  E. 

published  need  be  blotted  oat  by  any  record 
widely  different  as  they  were,  their  high  di 
same.  The  one  tells  ns  that  ''good"  wil 
goal  of  ill "  ;  the  other  that — 

'<  God's  in  His  Heaven ! 
All's  right  with  the  world ! " 

I  have  had  also  the  good  fortone  to  fini 

poets  ready  to  sympathise  with  me  on  the  8 

section.    Sir  Henry  Taylor  wrote  many  letten 

and  called  my  attention  to  his  own  lines  wl 

into  the  philosophy  of  the  question,  and  whioi 

quoted  so  often ; 

*'  Fain  in  Man 
Bears  the  high  mission  of  the  flail  and  i 
In  brutes  'tis  purely  piteous." 

Hero  is  one  of  his  notes  to  me  : — 

*'  The  Boost,  Bournen 

"  Novembe 
'*  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  return  your  papers  that  they  may  not 
wish  you  all  the  success  you  deserve,  which 
desire.    But  I  can  do  nothing.    My  hands  an 
my  pockets  are  empty. 

"  Two  months  ago  I  succeeded  in  forming 
for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  in  this  place. 

'*  We  have  ordered  prosecutions  every  w< 
have  obtamed  convictions  in  every  case.  A 
operations  are  all  that  I  can  undertake  or  asi 

'*  Believe  me,  yours  sine 

"Hbn 

He  was  also  actively  interested  in  an  effort  \ 
method  of  slaughtering  cattle  by  using  a  mas 
hole  in  the  centre,  through  which  a  long  nail 


658  CHAPTER  XVltL 

driven,  fltraight  through  the  exact  sntnre  of  the  sknll  to  the 
hrain,  caasmg  instant  death.  Sir  Henry  specially  approved 
the  masks  for  this  purpose,  made,  I  helieve,  under  his 
own  direction  at  Bournemouth,  hy  Mr.  Mendon,  a  saddler 
at  Lansdowne. 

Mr.  Lewis  Morris  has  also  written  some  heautiful  and 
striking  poems  touching  on  the  suhject  of  scientific  cruelty, 
and  I  have  reason  to  hope  that  a  younger  man,  who  many 
of  us  look  upon  aa  the  poet  of  the  future  in  England, 
Mr.  William  Watson,  is  entirely  on  the  same  side.  In  short, 
if  the  Priests  of  Science  are  against  us,  the  PropJiets  of 
Humanity,  the  Poets,  are  with  us  in  this  controversy,  almost 
to  a  man. 

It  will  he  seen  that  we  had  Politicians,  Historians,  and 
thinkers  of  various  parties  among  our  friends  in  London; 
but  there  were  no  Novelists  except  that  very  agreeable 
woman  Miss  Jewsbury  and  the  two  Misses  Betham 
Edwards.  Mr.  Anthony  Trollope  I  knew  but  slightly.  I  had 
also  some  acquaintance  with  a  very  popular  noveUst,  then  a 
young  man,  who  was  introduced  in  the  full  flush  of  his 
success  to  Mr.  Carlyle,  whereon  the  "Sage  of   Chelsea" 

greeted  him  with  the  encouraging  question,  "Well,  Mr. 

when  do  you  intend  to  begin  to  do  something  sairious  ?  " 

With  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  I  exchanged  several  friendly 
letters  concerning  some  information  he  wanted  for  one  of 
his  books.  The  following  letter  from  him  exhibits  the 
"  Sairius  "  spirit,  at  all  events  (as  Mr.  Carlyle  might  admit), 
in  which  he  set  about  spinning  the  elaborate  web  of  his 
exciting  tales. 

*'  90,  Gloucester  Plaoe,  Portman  Square,  W., 

"  23rd  June,  1882. 
'*  Dear  Madam, 

"  I  most  sincerely  thank  you  for  your  kind  letter  and  fox 
the  pamphlets  whioh  preceded  it.    The  '  Address '  seeau 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.    650 

to  me  to  possess  the  very  rare  merit  of  forcible  statement 
combined  with  a  moderation  of  judgment  which  sets  a 
valuable  example,  not  only  to  our  enemies,  but  to  some  of 
our  friends.  As  to  the  *  Portrait,*  I  feel  such  a  strong 
universal  interest  in  it  that  I  must  not  venture  on  criticism. 
You  have  given  me  exactly  what  I  most  wanted  for  the 
purpose  that  I  have  in  view — and  you  have  spared  me  time 
and  trouble  in  the  best  and  kindest  of  ways.  If  I  require 
further  help,  you  shall  see  that  I  am  gratefully  sensible  of 
the  help  that  has  been  already  given. 

'*  I  am  writing  to  a  very  large  public  both  at  home  and 
abroad ;  and  it  is  quite  needless  (when  I  am  writing  to  you) 
to  dweU  on  the  importance  of  producing  the  right  impression 
by  means  which  keep  clear  of  terrifying  and  revolting  the 
ordinary  reader.  I  shall  leave  the  detestable  cruelties  of 
the  laboratory  to  be  merely  inferred,  and,  in  tracing  the 
moral  influence  of  those  cruelties  on  the  nature  of  the  man 
who  practices  them,  and  the  result  as  to  his  social  relations 
with  the  persons  about  him,  I  shall  be  careful  to  present 
him  to  the  reader  as  a  man  not  infinitely  wicked  and  cruel, 
and  to  show  the  efforts  made  by  his  better  instincts  to  resist 
the  inevitable  hardening  of  the  hecurt,  the  fatal  stupefying 
of  all  the  finer  sensibilities,  produced  by  the  deliberately 
merciless  occupations  of  his  life.  If  I  can  succeed  in  making 
him,  in  some  degree,  an  object  of  compassion  as  well  as  of 
horror,  my  experience  of  readers  of  fiction  tells  me  that  the 
right  effect  will  bo  produced  by  the  right  means. 

"  Believe  me,  very  truly  yoiurs, 

••  WiLKiE  Collins." 

Of  another  order  of  acquaintances  was  that  excellent  man 
Mr.  James  Spedding ;  also  Mr.  Babbage,  (in  whose  horror 
of  street  music  I  devoutly  sympathised);  and  Mr.  James 
FerguBSon  the  architect,  in  whose  books  and  ideas  generally  I 
found  great  interest.  He  avowed  to  me  his  opinion  that  the 
ancient  Jews  were  never  builders  of  stone  edifices,  and  that 
all  the  relics  of  stone  buildings  in  Palestine  were  the  work 


660  CHAPTER   XVI IT. 

either  of  TyriBns  or  of  the  Idmnean  Herod,  or  of  other  non- 
Jewish    mlerg.      His    conversation     was     always     most 
instmctive  to  me,  and  I  rejoiced  when  I  had  the  opportonity 
of  writing  a  long  review  (for  Fraser  I  think)  of  his  Tree  and 
Serpent  Worship ;  with  which  he  was  so  well  pleased  that  h« 
made  me  a  present  of  the  magnificent  volnme,  of  which  1 
believe  only  a  hundred  copies  were  printed.     Mr.  Fergnsson 
tanght  me  to  see  that  the  whole  civilization  of  a  comitry  has 
depended  historically  on  the  stones  with  which  it  happens 
natnrally  to  be  furnished.     If  these  stones  be  large  and  hard 
and  durable  like  those  of  Eg3rpt,  we  find  grand,  everlasting 
monuments  and  statues  made  of  them.     If  they  be  delicate 
and  beautiful  like  Pentelic  marble,  we  have  the  Parthenon. 
If  they  be  plain  limestone  or  freestone  as  in  our  northern 
climes,  richness  of  form  and  detail  take  the  place  of  greater 
simplicity,  and  we  have  the  great  cathedrals  of  England, 
France  and  Germany.     Where  there  is  no  good  stone,  onl^ 
brick,  we  may  have  fine  mansions,  but  not  great  temples, 
and  where  there  is  neither  clay  for  bricks,  nor  good  stone 
for  building,  the  natives  can  erect  no  durable  edifices,  and 
consequently  have  no  places  to  be  adorned  with  statues  and 
paintings  and  all  the  arts  which  go  with  them.     I  do  not 
know  whether  I  do  justice  to  Mr.  Fergusson  in  giving  this 
restmiS  of  his  lesson,  but  it  is  my  recollection  of  it,  and  to 
my  thinking  worth  recording. 

One  of  the  friends  of  whom  we  saw  most  in  London  was 
Sir  William  Bozall,  whose  exquisite  artistic  taste  was 
specially  congenial  to  my  friend,  and  his  varied  conversation 
and  love  of  his  poor,  dear,  old  dog  "Garry,"  to  me. 
After  Lord  Coleridge's  charming  obituary  of  him  nothing 
need  be  added  in  the  way  of  tribute  to  his  character  and 
gifts,  or  to  the  refined  feeling  which  inspired  him  always.  1 
may  add,  however  (what  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  naturally 
would  not  say  on  his  own  account),  namely,  that  Boxall,  in 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.    561 

his  latter  years  of  weakness  and  aknost  constant  confinement 
to  the  house,  frequently  told  us  when  we  went  to  visit  him 
how  Lord  Coleridge  had  found  time  from  all  his  lahours  to 
come  frequently  to  sit  with  him  and  cheer  him ;  and  after  a 
whole  day  spent  in  the  hot  Law  Courts  would  dine  on  his 
old  friend's  chops,  and  spend  the  evening  in  his  dingy  rooms 
in  Welbeck  Street.  Here  is  a  letter  from  Sir  William  which 
I  happen  to  have  preserved.  It  refers  to  an  article  I  had 
written  in  the  Echo  on  the  death  of  Landseer  : — 

**  My  dear  Miss  Cobhe, 

"Toox  sympathetic  notice  of  my  old  friend  Landseer 
and  his  friends  has  delighted  me — a  grain  of  such  feeling 
is  worth  a  newspaper  load  of  worn-out  criticism.  I  thank 
yon  very  sincerely  for  it. 

*'  I  should  have  called  upon  you,  but  I  have  been  shut  up 
with  the  cold  which  threatened  me  when  I  last  saw  yon. 

••  Yours  very  sincerely, 

«♦  October  6th,  1879.  "  W.  Boxall. 

**  There  is  no  hope  of  my  getting  to  Dolgelly.  It  will  be 
a  great  escape  for  Miss  Lloyd,  for  I  am  utterly  worn  out.*' 

I  find  that  the  most  common  opinion  about  Lord 
Shaftesbury  is,  that  he  was  an  excellent  and  most  dis- 
interested man,  who  did  a  vast  amount  of  good  in  his  time 
among  the  poor,  and  in  the-  factories  and  on  behalf  of  the 
climbing-boy  sweeps,  but  that  he  was  somewhat  narrow- 
minded  ;  and  dry,  if  not  stem  in  character.  Perhaps  some 
would  add  that  his  extreme  Evangelicalism  had  in  it  a  tinge 
of  Calvinistic  bigotry.  I  shared  very  much  such  ideas  about 
him  till  one  day  in  1875,  when  I  had  gone  to  Stanhope 
Street  to  consult  Lord  and  Lady  Mount-Temple,  my  unfaih'ng 
helpers  and  advisers,  about  some  matter  connected  with  Lord 
Henniker's  Bill  then  before  Parliament, — ^for  the  restriction 

2  N 


562  CHAPTER   XV HI. 

of  Yivisection.  After  explaining  my  difficulty,  Lady  Mount- 
Temple  said,  ''We  must  consult  Lord  Shaftesbury  about 
this  matter.  Gome  with  me  now  to  his  house."  I 
yielded  to  my  kind  friend,  but  not  without  hesitation, 
fearing  that  Lord  Shaftesbury  would,  in  the  first  place, 
be  too  much  absorbed  in  his  great  philanthropic  under- 
takings to  spare  attention  to  the  wrongs  of  the  brutes ; 
and,  in  the  second,  that  his  religious  views  were  too 
strict  to  allow  him  to  co-operate  with  such  a  heretic 
as  I,  even  if  (as  I  was  assured)  he  would  tolerate  my 
intrusion.  How  widely  astray  from  the  truth  I  was  as 
regarded  his  sentiments  in  both  ways,  the  sequel  proved. 
He  had  already,  it  appeared,  taken  great  interest  in  the  Anti- 
vivisection  controversy  then  beginning,  and  entered  into  it 
with  all  the  warmth  of  his  heart ;  not  as  something  taking  him 
off  from  service  to  mankind,  but  as  apart  of  his  phUantkropy. 
He  always  emphatically  endorsed  my  view ;  that,  if  we  could 
save  Yivisectors  from  persisting  in  the  sin  of  Cruelty,  we 
should  be  doing  them  a  moral  service  greater  than  to  save 
them  from  becoming  pickpockets  or  drunkards.  He  also  felt 
what  I  may  call  passionate  pity  for  the  tortured  brutes.  He 
loved  dogs,  and  always  had  a  large  beautiful  Collie  lying  under 
his  writing-table  ;  and  was  full  of  tenderness  to  his  daughters* 
Siamese  cat,  and  spoke  of  all  animals  with  intimate  knowledge 
and  sympathy.  As  to  my  heresies,  though  he  knew  of  them 
from  the  first,  they  never  interfered  with  his  kindness  and 
consideration  for  me,  which  vrere  such  as  I  can  never 
remember  without  emotion. 

I  shall  speak  in  its  place  in  another  chapter  of  the  share  he 
took  as  leader  and  champion  of  our  party  in  all  the  subse- 
quent events  connected  with  the  Anti-vivisection  agitation.  I 
wish  here  only  to  give,  (if  it  may  be  possible  for  me),  some 
small  idea  to  the  reader  of  what  that  good  man  really  was, 
and  to  remove  some  of  the  absurd  misconceptions  current 


LOJSDON  i^V  Tim  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES,     663 

concerning  him.  For  example.  He  was  no  bigot  as  to 
Sabbatarian  observances.  I  told  him  once  that  I  belonged  to 
the  Society  for  opening  Musenms  on  Sundays.  He  said :  ''  I 
think  yon  are  mistaken — ^the  working  men  do  not  wish  it. 
See  I  I  have  here  the  result  of  a  large  enquiry  among  their 
Trades  Unions  and  dubs.  Nearly  all  of  them  deprecate  the 
change.  But  I  am  on  this  point  not  at  aU  of  the  same 
opinion  as  most  of  my  friends.  I  have  told  them  (and  they 
have  often  been  a  little  shocked  at  it),  that  I  think  if  a  lawyer  has 
a  brief  for  a  case  on  Monday  and  has  had  no  time  to  study  it 
on  Saturday,  he  is  quite  justified  in  reading  it  up  on  Sunday 
after  church." 

Neither  did  he  share  the  very  common  bigotry  of  teetotalism. 
He  said  to  me,  ''The  teetotallers  have  added  an  Eleventh 
Commandment,  and  think  more  of  it  than  of  all  the  rest." 
Again,  when  (as  is  well  known)  Lord  Palmerston  left 
the  choice  of  Bishops  for  many  years  practically  in  hie 
hands  (I  believe  that  seven  owed  their  sees  to  him), 
and  he,  of  course,  selected  Evangelical  clergymen  whc 
would  uphold  what  he  considered  to  be  vital  religious 
truth,  he  was  yet  able  to  concur  heartily  in  the  appointment 
of  Arthur  Stanley  to  the  Deanery  of  Westminster.  He  told 
me  that  Lord  Palmerston  had  written  to  him  before  inviting 
Dr.  Stanley,  and  said  that  he  would  not  do  it  if  he,  (Lord 
Shaftesbury)  disapproved  ;  and  that  he  had  answered  that  he 
was  well  aware  that  Dr.  Stanley's  theological  views  differed 
widely  from  his  own,  but  that  he  was  an  admirable  man  and 
a  gentleman,  with  special  suitability  for  this  post  and  a  claim 
to  some  such  high  office  ;  and  that  he  cordially  approved  Lord 
Palmerston's  choice.  I  do  not  suppose  that  Dean  Stanley 
9ver  knew  of  this  possible  veto  in  Lord-  Shaftesbury's  hands, 
but  he  entertained  the  profoundest  respect  for  him,  and 
3zpressed  it  in  the  little  poem  which  he  wrote  about  him  (of 
which  Lord  Shaftesbury  gave  me  an    MS.   copy),  which 


564  OH  AFTER   XV 111. 

appears  in  Dean  Stanley's  biography.  He  compares  tho 
aged  philanthropist  to  "  a  great  rock's  shadow  in  a  weary 
land." 

It  was  a  charge  agamst  Howard  and  some  other  great 
philanthropists    that,   while   exhibiting  the   enthusiasm    of 
humanity  on  the  largest  scale  they  failed  to  show  it  on  a 
small  one,  aad  were  scantily  kind  to  those   immediately 
around    them.      Nothing    oonld   be    less    true    of    Lord 
Shaftesbury.      While    the    direction  of  a  score  of    great 
charitable    undertakings    rested    on   him,   and    his    study 
was    flooded    with   reports,    Bills   before   Parliament    and 
letters  by  the  hundred, — he  would  remember  to  perform  all 
sorts  of  little  kindnesses  to  individuals  having  no  special  claim 
on  him ;  and  never  by  any  chance  did  he  omit  an  act  of 
courtesy.      No    more    perfectly  high-bred    gentleman  ever 
graced  the  old  school ;  and  no  young  man,  I  may  add,  ever 
had  a  fresher  or  warmer  heart.    Indeed,  I  know  not  where 
I  should  look  among  old  or  young  for  such  ready  and  full 
response  of  feeling  to  each  call  for  pity,  for  sympathy,  for 
indignation,  and,  I  may  add,  for  the  ei\jo3rment  of  humour, 
the  least  gleam  of  which  caught  his  eye  a  moment.     He  was 
always  particularly  tickled  with  the  absurdities  involved  in 
the  doctrine  of  Apostolic  Succession,  and  whenever  a  clergy- 
man or  a  bishop  did  anything  he  much  disapproved,  he  was 
sure  to  stigmatize  it  from  that  point  of  view.     One  day  he 
was  giving  me  a  rather  long  account  of  some  Deputation 
which  had  waited  on  him  and  endeavoured  to  bully  him.     As 
he  described  the  scene :  "  There  they  stood  in  a  crowd  in  the 
room,    and    I    said  to  them ;  Gentlemen  1  I'U  see   you." 
.     .     .     •     (Good    Heavens  I    I  thought :    Where    did  he 
say  he  would  see   them?) — ''I'll  see  you    at    the   bottom 
of  the  Bed  Sea  before  I'll  do   it  1  "      The  revulsion  was 
BO    ludicrous    and    the     allusion     to     the     ''  Bed     Sea " 
instead  of  ''another  place,"  so  characteristic,  that  I  broke 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  1 

into  a  peal  of  laughter  which,  when 
him  also  langh  heartily.  Another  day  I  re: 
amusement  at  a  story  not  reported,  I  heliei 
but  told  me  by  an  M.P.  who  was  present  in 
Sir  P.  0.  had  outdone  Sir  Boyle  Boche.  H( 
ingratitude  of  the  Irish  to  Mr.  Gladstone  wh. 
the  bridges  which  divided  them  from  England 

A  lady  whose  reputation  was  less  unblem 
have  been  wished,  and  of  whom  I  fought  ve 
quence,  went  to  call  on  him  about  some  bui 
saw  him  next  he  told  me  of  her  visit,  and  s 
left  my  study,  I  said  to  myself; '  there  goes  a  das 
One  needed  to  go  back  a  century  to  reca 
phrase.     More  than  once  he  repeated,  chuckl 
ment,  the  speech  of  an  old  beggar  woman  t 
refiised  alms,  and  who  called  after  him, 
specimen  of  bygone  philanthropy  I  "     On  a 
when  he  was  in  the  Chair  at  a  small  mee 
speakers  persisted  in  expressing  over  and 
conviction  that  the  venerable  Chairman  could 
to  live  long.     Lord  Shaftesbury  turned  aside 
sotto  voce^  *'  I  declare  he's  telling  me  I'm  goi 
diately  t "   ' '  There  he  is  saying  it  again  I    Was 
a  man  ?  "    Nobody  was  more  awake  than  he  t 
of  interested  people  trying  to  make  capital  oui 
party.     A  most  ridiculous  instance  of  this  1 
me  with  great  glee.    At  the  time  of  the  excite 
forgotten)  about  the  Madiai  fEuuily,  Bamum 
upon  him  (Lord  Shaftesbury)  and  entreated  1 
the  Madiai  being  taken  over  to  be  exhibited 
'*  It  would  be  such  an  affecting  sight,"  said  Bi 
real  Cluristian  Martyrs  I  " 

As  an  instance  of  his  thoughtfalness,  I  ma 
having  one  day  just  received  a  ticket  for  the  ] 


606  CHAPTER   XVIIL 

the  Academy,  he  ofifered  it  to  me  and  I  accepted  it  gladly, 
observing  that  smce  the  recent  death  of  Boxall  I  feared  we 
should  not  have  one  given  to  us,  and  that  my  friend  would 
be  pleased  to  use  it.  <'  0,  I  am  so  glad  I "  said  Lord 
Shaftesbury ;  and  from  that  day  every  year  till  he  died  he 
never  once  failed  to  send  her,  addressed  by  himself,  his 
tickets  for  each  of  the  two  annual  exhibitions.  When  one 
thinks  of  how  men  who  do  not  do  in  a  year  as  much  as  he 
did  in  a  week,  would  have  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  taking  such 
trouble,  one  may  estimate  the  good-nature  which  prompted 
this  over-worked  man  to  remember  such  a  trifle,  unfailingly. 

The  most  touching  interview  I  ever  had  with  him,  was 
one  of  the  last,  in  his  study  in  Grosvenor  Square,  not  long 
before  his  death.  Our  conversation  had  fallen  on  the  woes 
and  wrongs  of  seduced  girls,  and  ruined  women ;  and  he  told 
me  many  facts  which  he  had  learned  by  personal  investigation 
and  visits  to  dreadfrd  haunts  in  London.  He  described  all 
he  saw  and  heard  with  a  compassion  for  the  victims  and 
yet  a  horror  of  vice  and  impurity,  which  somehow  made  me 
think  of  Christ  and  the  Woman  taken  in  adultery.  After 
a  few  moments'  silence,  during  which  we  were  both  rather 
overcome,  he  said,  <*  When  I  feel  age  creeping  on  me,  and 
know  I  must  soon  die,  I  hope  it  is  not  wrong  to  say  it,  but 
I  cannot  hear  to  leave  the  world  with  all  the  misery  in  it." 
No  words  can  describe  how  this  simple  expression  revealed 
to  me  the  man,  in  his  inmost  spirit.  He  had  long  passed  the 
stage  of  moral  effort  which  does  good  as  a  duty,  and  had 
ascended  to  that  wherein  even  the  enjoyment  of  Heaven 
itself,  (which  of  course,  his  creed  taught  him  to  expect 
immediately  after  death)  had  less  attractions  for  him  than 
the  labour  of  mitigating  the  sorrows  of  earth. 

I  possess  280  letters  and  notes  from  Lord  Shaftesbury 
written  to  me  during  the  ten  years  which  elapsed  from  1875, 
when  I  first  saw  him,  till  his  last  iUness  in  1885.    Many  of 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  L 

them  are  merely  brief  notes,  giving  me  infoi 
about  my  work  as  Hon.  Sec.  of  the  Victor; 
of  which  he  was  President.  Bat  man  i 
interesting  letters.  The  editor  of  his  exc  i 
probably  did  not  know  I  possessed  these  ! 
know  he  was  preparing  Lord  Shaftesbury's  i 
have  placed  them  at  his  disposal.  I  can  o  , 
few  as  characteristic,  or  otherwise  specially  i] 

•*  Castle  Wemyss,  Wemyss  Bay, 

"  Septen    i 
**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  Your  letter  is  very  cheering.    We  wer    i 
the  experiment.    We  were  right  to  test  tl 
law:   Cross,    and   his   administration   of 
failed  us,  and  we  are  bound  in  duty,  I  thii    : 
all  limitations,  and  go  in  for  the  total  abolit 
and  cruel  form  of  Idolatry ;  for  idolatry  it     i 
idolatry,  brutal,  degrading,  and  deceptive. 

**May  God    prosi>er  us  I   These   ill-used 
animals  are  as  much  His  Creatures  as  we  t 
the  truth,  I  had,  in  some  instances,  rather   : 
tortured  than  the  man  who  tortured  it.    I 
myself  to  have  higher  hopes,  and  a  happier  i 

"  Yours  ti 

"Si 

••Jul^ 
**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  have  sent  your  letter  to  Judas  of  X— 
fault  in  it,  but  that  of  too  much  courtesy  to  < 
every  consideration  of  feeliog  and  truth, 

"  Did  you  know  him,  as  I  know  him,  you 
difficult  to  restrain  your  pen  and  your  tongue. 

♦  3|e  «  ^ 

•«  Some  good  will  come  out  of  the  diaoussioi 


588  OH  AFTER   XVIIL 

'*  X  have  nnmistakable  evidenco  that  many  were  deeply 
impresBed,  but  adheBion  to  political  leaders  va  a  higher 
law  with  most  Politicians  than  obedience  to  the  law  of 
trath. 

**  What  do  yon  think  now  of  the  Doctrine  of  '  Apostolic 
Saccession '  ? 

*'  Would  St.  Peter,  St.  Paul,  and  St.  John  have  made  snch 
a  speech  as  that  of  my  Lord  of  P ? 

"  Yonrs  truly, 

"  Shaftesbubt." 

"  Castle  Wemyss,  Wemyss  Bay,  N.B., 

"  September  16th,  1879. 

*'  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

'*  You  do  that  Bishop  too  much  honour.  Ho  is  not  worth 
notice. 

*'  It  is  frightful  to  see  that  the  open  champions  of  Vivi- 
section are  not  Bradlaugh  and  Mrs.  B.  but  Bishops, 
*  Fathers  in  Ood,*  and  '  Pastors '  of  the  People! 

« We  shall  soon  have  Bradlaugh  and  his  company 
claiming  the  Apostolical  Succession ;  and  if  that  succession 
be  founded  on  truth,  mercy,  and  love,  with  as  good  a  right 
as  Dr.  G.,  Dr.  M.  or  D.D.  anything  else. 

"Your  letter  has  crushed  (if  such  a  hard  substance 
can  be  crushed)  his  Lordship  of  G 

"Yours  truly, 

"  Shaftesbury." 

The  next  letter  is  in  acknowledgment  of  the  following  verses 
which  I  had  sent  to  him  on  his  Eightieth  Birthday.  They 
were  repeated  by  the  late  Chamberlain  of  the  City  of  London, 
Bir  Beigamin  Scott,  in  his  oration  on  the  presentation  of 
the  Freedom  of  the  City  to  Lord  Shaftesbury.  I  print  the 
letter,  (though  ail  too  kind  in  its  expression  about  my  poor 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  S. 

verses,)  on  account  of  the  deeply  intorestii 
own  life  which  it  contains  : — 

A  BIRTHDAY  ADDRESS 
To  AiTTHONT  Ashley  Goopeb,  7th  Eabl  of  Shai 

Apbil  28th,  1881. 

For  eighty  years  I  Many  will  coont  them 
But  none  save  He  who  knoweth  all  may 

What  those  long  years  have  held  of  high  ei 
Of  world-wide  hlessing  and  of  hlessednee 

For  eighty  yesurs  the  champion  of  the  right 
Of  hapless  child  neglected  and  forlorn ; 

Of  maniac  dungeon'd  in  his  doable  night ; 
Of  woman  overtasked  and  labonr-wom ; 

Of  homeless  boy  in  streets  with  peril  rife ; 

Of  workman  sickening  in  his  airless  den 
Of  Indian  parching  for  the  streams  of  life, 

Of  Negro  slave  in  bonds  of  cruel  men ; 

O !  Friend  of  all  the  friendless  'neath  the  si 
Whose  hand  hath  wiped  away  a  thousanc 

Whose  fervent  lips  and  clear  strong  brain  h 
God's  holy  service,  lo  1  these  eighty  years 

How  meet  it  seems  thy  grand  and  vigorous 
Should  find  beyond  man's  race  fresh  pan| 

And  for  the  wrong'd  and  tortured  brutes  en 
In  yet  fresh  labours  and  ungrudging  care 

O  tarry  long  amongst  us  1  Live,  we  pray, 
Hasten  not  yet  to  hear  thy  Lord's  "  Well 

Let  this  world  still  seem  better  while  it  ma; 
CJontain  one  soul  like  thine  amid  its  throi 

Whilst  thou  art  here  our  inmost  hearts  conj 
Truth  spake  the  kingly  Seer  of  old  who  a 

■<  Found  in  the  way  of  God  and  righteousne 
A  crown  of  glory  is  the  hoary  head." 


"  24,  Qroavenor  Srjnare,  W., 

"  April  80tb,ieS^. 
"  Deu  MiBs  Gobbe, 

"Had  I  not  known  jonr  haudwriting,  I  should  nsTer 
have  gaeesod,  either  that  yoa  were  the  writer  of  the  rersea, 
or  that  I  was  the  eabject  of  them. 

"  Had  I  judged  them  simply  by  their  ability  and  force, 
I  might  hare  ascribed  them  to  the  true  Author;  bat  it 
TOqaired  the  envelope,  and  the  ominous  word  'eighty,'  to 
justify  me  in  applying  them  to  myself. 

"  They  both  toncbed  and  gratified  me.  but  I  will  tell  yon 
the  origin  of  my  public  career,  which  yon  have  been  so  kind 
as  to  oommend.  It  arose  while  I  was  a  boy  at  Harrow 
School,  abont,  I  should  think,  fourteen  years  of  age — an 
event  occurred  (the  details  of  which  I  may  give  yoa  aomo 
other  day],  whioh  brought  painfully  before  me  the  acorn 
and  neglect  manifested  towards  the  Poor  and  helpless.  I 
-was  deeply  affected ;  but,  for  many  years  afterwards,  I 
acted  only  on  feeling  and  sentiment.  As  I  advanced  in  life, 
all  thia  grew  np  to  a  sense  of  duty;  and  I  was  convinced 
that  God  bad  called  me  to  devote  whatever  advantages  He 
might  have  bestowed  npon  me,  to  the  cause  of  the  weak, 
the  helpless,  both  man  and  beast,  and  those  who  had  none 
to  help  them. 

"I  entered  Parliament  in  1826,  and  I  commenoed 
operations  in  1828,  with  an  effort  to  ameUorate  the 
conditions  of  Innatice,  and  then  I  passed  on  in  a  snccession 
of  attempts  to  grapple  with  other  evils,  and  snch  has  been 
my  trade  for  more  than  half  a  centnry. 

>'  Do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  I  claim  any  merit.  If 
there  be  any  doctrine  that  I  dislike  and  fear  more  than 
another,  it  is  the  '  Doctrine  of  Works.'  Whatever  I  have 
done  has  been  given  to  me;  what  I  have  done  I  was 
enabled  to  do;  and  all  happy  resnlts  (if  any  there  be) 
mnst  foe  credited,  not  to  the  servant,  but  to  the  great 
Master,  who  led  and  sustained  him. 


LONDON  IN  THE  8E  VENTIE8  AND  E 

"  My  conrse,  however,  has  raised  up  for  m 

and  very  few  friends,  hut  among  those  ixii 

yon  may  he  nnmbered. 

"  Yours  truly, 

«S 

I  sent  him  another  little  iouvenir  two  yeari 

TO  LORD  SHAFTESBURY  ON  HIS  82HD 

With  a  China  Tablet, 

The  Lord  of  Bome,  historians  say, 
Lamented  he  had  "  lost  a  day," 
When  no  good  deed  was  done. 
Scarce  one  sndh  day,  methinks,  appe 
Li  the  long  record  of  the  years 
Of  England's  worthier  son. 

If  on  this  tablet's  surface  light 

His  hourly  toils  should  Shaftesbury  ' 

All  may  be  soon  effaced : 

But  in  our  grateful  memories  graven 

And  in  the  registers  of  Heaven 

They  will  not  be  erased. 

London,  A} ; 

The  next  letter  refers  to  my  Lectures  on 
Women  which  I  had  just  delivered. 

**24,  Grosvenor  Squan 

"Maj 
**  Dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

'*•  .  .  I  admire  your  Lectures.  Butd<: 
make,  *  the  sex '  a  little  too  pugnacious  ?  An 
give  '  truth '  to  the  men,  and  deny  it  to  the 

"  If  yon  mean  by '  truth '  abstinence  from  fil 
the  females  are  as  good  as  the  males.  Bci 
steadiness   of   friendship,  adherence  to   pii 


572  CHAPTER    XVI1L 

scientioosly  not  Buperfiicially  entertained,  and  sincerity  in  a 
good  cause,  why,  the  women  are  far  superior. 

•*  Tours  truly, 

"  Shaftesbubt." 

"  24,  Grosvenor  Square,  W., 

"  May  2lBt,  1880. 
••  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

" .  .  .  .  Your  lecture  on  Yivisection  was  admirable — 
we  must  be  *  mealy  mouthed  *  no  longer. 

"  Shall  you  and  I  have  a  conversation  on  your  lecfcures 
and  the  '  Duties  of  Women  '  ?  We  shall  not,  I  believe,  have 
much  difference  of  opinion ;  perhaps  none.  I  approve  them 
heartily,  but  there  are  one  or  two  expressions  which, 
though  intelligible  to  myself,  would  be  greatly  misconstrued 
by  a  certain  portion  of  Englishmen. 

'*I  could  give  you  instances  by  the  hundred  of  the 
wonderful  success  that,  by  a  merciful  Providence,  has 
followed  with  our  Bagged  children,  male  and  female.*  In 
fact,  though  after  long  intervals  we  have  lost  sight  of  a 
good  many,  we  have  very  few  cases,  indeed,  of  the  failure 
of  our  hopes  and  efforts. 

"In  thirty  years  we  took  off  the  streets  of  London,  and 
sent  to  service,  or  provided  with  means  of  honest  livelihood 
more  than  two  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  '  waifs  and 
strays.'  "  Yours  truly, 

"  Shaftbsburt.*' 

"  July  28rd,  1880. 
**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

<*  I  have  had  a  very  friendly  letter  from  Gladstone ;  but 
on  reference  to  him  for  permission  to  publish  it,  he  seems 
unwilling  to  assent. 

**  Our  testimony,  thank  God,  is 'cumulative  for  good.  Wc 
may  hope,  and  we  must  pray,  for  better  things. 

*  I  had  talked  to  him  of  onr  Ragged  Sohool  at  Bristol. 


LONDON  TN  THE  3EVENTIE3  AND  B. 

"  I  send  yon  Gladstone's  letter.    Fra; 
and  take  care  that  it  does  not  appear  ia  pii 

"  I  am  glad  that  yon  liked  the  '  Diuner.' 
a  BuccBEti  in  ehowing  oi¥iIity  to  foreign  friei 
"  Yoara  truly, 


Lord  Shaflesbury  made  the  folloving  rem 
Futnre  State  of  Animals,  in  a  very  sympadi 
letter  I  had  written  to  him  in  which  I  mentia 
my  dog  hod  died : — 

"Septemh 
"  I  have  ever  believed  in  a  happy  fatote 
cannot  say  or  oonjectnre  how  or  where;  btri 
the  love,  so  manifested,  by  dogs  especially,  i 
from  the  Divine  essenoe,  and,  as  such,  it  oe 
uM  never  be  extinguished,  "t 

"24,  Orosvenor  Sqnart 
•'Ma 
"  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  You  must  not  snppose  that  because  I 
your  letter,  at  the  moment,  T  am  indifferent 
correspondence. 


oonfiued  to  the  hotise,  t  bftre  mach  to  write,  and  to  get 
thioDgh  mj  work,  I  must  frequently  be  relieved  by  » 
reonmbent  poatnie. 

" NevertbelesB,  by  God's  mercy,  I  am  certainly  better; 
and  I  think  that  were  we  bleesed  with  some  warm,  genial, 
weather,  I  Bhoold  recover  more  rapidly. 

"  Bryan*  is  a  good  man,  he  is  able,  diligent,  zealoas 
aad  has  an  excellent  jndgment.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
attend  his  Committee,  but  his  reports  to  me  show 
attention  and  good  sense. 

"I  have  left,  as  perhaps  yon  have  seen,  tho  Lunacy 
Commission.  It  was  at  the  close  of  SO  years  of  service 
that  I  did  so.  I  dare  say  that  yon  have  hod  time  to  read 
my  letter  of  reaignation  in  the  Tinitt  of  the  Bth. 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  Miss  Lloyd  is  determined  to  print  those 
lines.  They  are  very  beautiful ;  and  yon  mnst  be  snie  to  send 
a  copy  to  Miss  Marsh.  She  admires  them  as  much  as  I  do. 
' '  The  thonght  of  Calvary  f  is  the  strength  that  has  gaverued 
all  the  sentiments  and  actions  of  my  manhood  and  later  life ; 
and  yon  can  well  believe  that  I  greatly  rejoice  to  find  that 
one,  whom  I  prize  so  highly,  has  kindred  sympathies.  .  .  . 
"  May  God  prosper  yon. 

"Yours  truly,  Shaftbsbust." 

•  The  General  Secretary,  (hen,  and,  I  am  happy  to  say,  stUI, — 
of  the  Victoria  Street  Society. 

t  The  lines  to  which  Ijord  Shaftesbury  refers — "Beet  in  the 
Lord  "  (since  inclndsd  in  many  ooUeotlons)  begin  with  the  words : 
"  Qod  draws  a  dond  over  each  gleaming  moru. 
Wonldat  thoia  ask.  why  ? 
It  is  becanse  all  noblest  things  are  bom 
In  agony. 

Only  upon  some  Cross  of  pain  or  woe 

God's  Sou  may  lie. 

Bach  soul  redeemed  from  self  and  sin  must  know 

Its  Calvary." 
Lord  Shattesbnryentirelynnderstood  the  point  of  viewfrom  whioh 
I  regarded  that  sacred  apot. 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EL 

The    most    remarkable    woman    I    have 
excepting  Mrs.  Somerville  (described  in  my  ch. 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  and  Mrs.  Beecha 
beyond  any  doubt  or  question,  my  dear  friend, 
I  have  told  of  the  droll  circumstances  of  our 
Newbridge  in  the  early  Fifties.     From  thai 
death  in  1892,  her  brilliant,  iridescent  geniu 
spirit,  her  tenderness,  the  immense  '^  go  "  and 
her  whole  nature,  were  sources  of  endless  pi 
When  I  was  lame,  I  used  to  feel  that  for  da^ 
with  her  I  could  almost  dispense  with  my  cm 
did  she,  literally,  lift  me  up  1 

Mrs.  Eemble  paid  us  several  visits  here  in  "V 
perhaps  even  more  delightful  in  our  quiet  co 
than  in  London.     She  would  sit  out  for  ma 
time  in  our  beautiful  old  garden,  which  she  s 
''  «n  idyll ; "  and  talk  of  all  things  in  heav 
touching  in  turn  every  note  in  the  gamut  of  i 
sorrowful  to  joyous.      One  summer  she  cam< 
and  thus  sat  daily  under  a  great  cherry  tree  "  in  t] 
garden,"  which  was  at  the  time  a  mass  of 
snowy  blossoms.     Alas  I  the  blossoms  have  ret  i 
blooming  as  I  write ; — ^but  the  friend  sleeps  un<  i 
Eensal  Green. 

Mr.  Henry  James'  obituary  article  and  1 1 
generous-hearted  letter  concerning  her  in  the  Tin  i 
of  the  mean  and  grudging  notice  of  her  which  tl  i 
published, — seem  to  mo  to  have  been  by  i\ 
truthful  sketches  which  appeared  of  the  ' 
lioness ; "  as  Thackeray  called  her.  Ever 
admire,  and  most  people  a  little  feared  her  ;  bui. 
come  very  close  to  her  and  brush  past  her  form] 
of  irony  and  sarcasm,  to  know  and  love  her, 
truly  deserved  to  be  loved. 


^«  CHAPTER  XVI 11. 

There  is  always  something  startling  and  perhaps  the  reverse 
of  attractive  to  those  of  us  who  have  heen  brought  np  in  the 
usual  English  way  to  repress  onr  emotions,  in  women  who  have 
been  trained  reversely  by  histrionic  life,  to  give  aU  possible 
oatwardness  and  vividness  of  expression  to  those  same  emotions. 
It  is  only  when  we  get  below  both  the  extreme  demonstra- 
tiveness  on  one  hand,  and  the  conventional  reserve  and  self- 
restraint  on  the  other,  and  meet  on  common  gromid  of  deep 
S3rmpathies,  that  real  friendship  is  established ;  a  friendship 
which  in  my  case  was  at  once  an  honour  and  a  delight. 

Mrs.  Eemble  in  her  generous  affection  made  a  present  to 
me  of  the  MSB.  of  her  Memoirs,  which  subsequently  I 
induced  her  to  take  back,  and  publish  herself,  as  her  ^*  (Htl 
Woman* s  Gossip ,**  her  Records  of  a  Girlhood  and  Records  of 
Later  lAfe.  Beside  these,  which,  as  I  have  said,  I  returned 
to  hor  one  after  another,  she  gave  me,  and  I  still  possess,  an 
immense  packet  of  her  own  old  letters  to  her  beloved  H.  S. 
(Harriet  St.  Leger)  and  others ;  and  the  materials  of  fiva 
large  and  thick  volumes  of  autograph  letters  addressed  to  her, 
extending  over  more  than  50  years.  They  include  whole 
correspondences  with  W.  Donne,  Edward  Fitzgerald,  Henry 
Greville,  Mrs.  Jameson,  John  Mitchell  Eemble,  George 
Combe,  and  several  others ;  and  besides  these  there  are  either 
one  or  half-a-dozen  letters  from  almost  every  man  and 
woman  of  eminence  in  England  in  her  time.  Mr.  Benfley 
has  very  liberally  purchased  from  me  for  publication  about 
100  letters  from  Edward  Fitzgerald  to  Mrs.  Eemble.  The 
rest  of  the  Mrs.  Kemble's  correspondence  I  have,  as  I  have 
mentioned,  bound  together  in  five  volumes,  and  I  do  not 
intend  to  publish  them.  Had  any  of  Mrs.  Eemble's ' '  Records  '* 
remained  inedited  at  the  time  of  her  death  I  should  have 
undertaken,  (as  she  no  doubt  intended  me  to  do)  the  task  of 
writing  her  biography.  The  work  was,  however,  so  fully 
done  by  herself  in  her  long  series  of  volumes  that  there  was 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND  EIGHTIES.     677 

neither  need  nor  room  for  more.  I  am  happy  to  add,  in 
conclosion,  that  in  the  arrangements  I  have  made  regarding 
my  dear  old  friend's  literary  remains,  I  have  the  consent 
and  approval  of  her  daughters. 

I  knew  Mrs.  GaskeU  a  little,  hat  not  enongh  to  harmonize 
in  my  mind  the  woman  I  saw  in  the  flesh  with  the  books  I 
liked  so  weU  as  Mary  Barton  and  LiJbhie  Marsh's  Three  Eras, 
Of  Mrs.  Stowe's  delightful  conversation  on  the  terrace  of  onr 
villa  on  Bellosgaardo,  I  have  written  my  recollections,  and 
recorded  the  glimpses  I  had  of  Mrs.  Browning.  I  have  also 
described  Harriet  Hosmer  and  Bosa  Bonheor ;  our  sculptor 
and  painter  friends,  from  the  latter  of  whom  I  have  just 
(1898)  received  the  kindest  letters  and  her  impressive  photo- 
graph ;  and  Mary  Carpenter,  my  leader  and  fellow- worker  at 
Bristol.  I  must  not  speak  here  of  the  aJQfection  and  admiration 
I  entertain  for  my  dear,  living  friend  Anna  Swanwick,  the 
translator  of  ^schylus  and  Faust;  and  for  Louisa  Lee 
Schuyler,  one  of  the  leaders  in  the  organization  of  relief  in 
the  great  Civil  War  of  America  and  who  founded  and  carried 
to  its  present  marvellous  extent  of  power  and  usefulness  the 
State  Charities  Aid  Association  of  New  York.  Again,  I  have 
known  in  England  Mdme.  Bodichon  (who  furnished  Girton 
^vith  its  first  thousand  pounds) ;  Mrs.  Josephine  Butler ; 
Mrs.  Webster  the  classic  poetess ;  and  Mrs.  Emily  Pfeiffer, 
another  poetess  and  very  beautiful  woman  at  whose  house  I 
once  witnessed  an  interesting  scene, — a  large  party  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  dressed  in  the  attire  of  Athenians  of  the  Peri- 
clean  age.  Miss  Swanwick  and  I,  who  were  alone  permitted 
to  attend  in  English  costume,  were  immensely  impressed  by 
the  ennobling  effect  of  the  classic  dress,  not  only  on  young 
and  graceful  people,  but  on  those  who  were  quite  the  reverse. 

I  never  saw  Harriet  Martinean ;  but  was  so  desirous  of 
doing  it  that  I  intended  to  make  a  journey  to  Ambleside  for 

20 


th«  late  iSiB.  Hensleigh  Wedgwood,  to  ask  leave  to  introdnoe 
me  to  her.  It  was  an  tmfortimate  moment,  and  I  only 
leceived  the  following  kind  message : — 

"  I  need  not  a&7  bow  happy  I  shonld  have  been  to  became 
acquainted  with  Miss  Cobbe  ;  but  the  time  is  post  and  I  am 
only  fit  for  old  friends  who  can  excuse  my  shortcomings. 
I  baTe  lost  gtonnd  so  much  of  late  thai  the  case  is  cleu.  I 
tooBt  give  np  all  hopes  of  so  great  a  pleasure.  Will  yon  say 
this  to  ber  and  ask  ber  to  receive  my  kind  and  thankful 
legards,  I  ventoie  to  send  on  the  grounds  of  oui  common 
friendships  ?  " 

Of  my  hving,  beloved  and  honoured  friends,  Mrs.  William 
Arey,  Lady  Mount-Temple,  Miss  Shirreff,  Mrs.  Fawcett, 
Miss  Caroline  Stephen,  Miss  Julia  Wedgwood,  Lady  Battersea, 
and  Miss  Florence  Davenport  Hill,  I  mnst  not  here  speak. 
I  have  had  the  pleasure  also  of  meetmg  that  very  fine 
woman-worker  Miss  Ootavia  Hill. 

George  £Uiot  I  did  not  know,  nor,  as  I  have  just  said,  did 
[  ever  meet  Harriet  Martjnean.  But  with  those  two  great 
exceptions  I  think  I  may  boast  of  having  come  into  contact 
with  nearly  all  the  more  gifted  Englishwomen  of  the  Victorian 
era;  and  thus  when  I  speak,  as  I  shall  do  in  the  next 
chapter,  of  my  efforts  to  put  the 'claims  of  my  sex  fairly 
before  the  world,  I  may  boast  of  writing  with  practical 
personal  knowledge  of  what  women  are  and  can  be,  both 
as  to  character  and  ability. 

The  decade  which  began  in  1660  brought  me  many  sorrows. 
The  first  was  the  death  of  my  second  brother,  Thomas  Cobbe, 
of  Easton  Lyss.  I  loved  bim  much  for  his  own  sweet  and 
affectionate  nature ;  and  much,  too,  for  the  love  of  onr  mother 
which  he  shared  especially  with  me.  I  was  also  warmly 
attached  to  his  beautiful  and  good  Scotch  wife,  who  sorvived 


LONDON  IN  THE  SEVENTIES  AND 

him  only  a  few  years;  and  to  his  dear  child 
pets  in  infancy  and  have  ][>een  almost  like  i 
ever  since.    My  brother  ooght  to  have  beei 
and  brilliant  barrister,  bat  his  life  was  bro 
of  others,  and  when  in  advanced  years 
immense  patience  and  research,  a  really  va 
the  Norman  Kings  (thought  to  be  so  by 
judges  as  Mr.  William  Longman,  and  the  1 
of  Normandy,  which  asked  leave  to  transl. 
was  practically  killed  by  a  cruel  and  mo 
which  attributed  to  him  mistakes  which  hi 
and  refused  to  publish  his  refutation  of 
this  review  were  written  (as  we  could  s 
by  an  eminent  historian,  now  dead,  whos< 
brother   had,   very  unwisely,   ignored,  I  c 
was  a  malicious  and  spiteful  deed.    My  br< 
was   not  strong  enough  to  carry  him  o^ 
appointment,  and  he  never  attempted  to 
the  press,  but  spent  his  later  years  in  the  £ 
his  fJEtvourite  old  chronicles  and  his  Shakes 
later  my  eldest  brother  also  died,  leaving  i 
must  be  thankful  at  my  age  that  the  younges 
Maulden,  though  five  years  older  than  I,  t 
health  and  vigour,  rejoicing  in  his  happy  hom 
affectionate  daughters.    I  trust  yet  to  welcom 
brotherhood    of   the  pen  when  his  great  i 
Luton  Chubgh,  Histobical  and  Dbsobiptivb 
this  year. 

I  lost  also  in  this  same  decade,  my  earliest  firi 
Leger  ;  and  a  younger,  very  dear  one,  Emily 
Shaen  and  her  admirable  husband  had  been  z 
me  by  religious  sympathies ;  and  I  regarded 
heartfelt  respect,  I  might  say  reverence,   tha 
express.      She    endured    twenty   years   of 


680 


CHAPTER   XVIIL 


saffering,  with  the  spirit  at  once  of  a  saint  and  of  % 
philosopher.  Had  her  health  enahled  her  to  take  her 
natural  place  in  the  world,  I  have  always  felt  assured  she  wonld 
have  been  recognised  as  one  of  the  ablest  as  well  as  one  of 
the  best  women  of  the  day,  and  more  than  the  equal  of  her 
two  gifted  sisters ;  Catharine  and  Susanna  Winkworth. 
The  friendship  between  us  was  of  the  closest  kind.  I  often 
said  that  I  went  to  church  to  her  sick-room.  In  her  last 
days,  when  utterly  crushed  by  incessant  suffering  and 
by  the  death  of  her  beloved  husband  and  her  favourite  son, 
she  bore  in  whispers,  to  me,  (she  could  scarcely  speak  for 
mortal  weakness,)  this  testimony  to  our  common  faith : 
'^  I  sent  for  you,— to  tell  yoa,— J  am  more  mart  than  ever  that 
God  is  Goodr 


All  these  deaths  and  the  heart-wearing  Anti-vivisection 
work  combined  with  my  own  increasing  years  to  make  my 
life  in  London  less  and  less  a  source  of  eigoyment  and  more 
of  strain  than  I  could  bear.  In  1884  HiGss  Lloyd,  with 
my  entire  concurrence,  let  our  dear  little  house  in  Hereford 
Square  to  our  friend,  Mrs.  Eemble,  and  we  left  Londoo 
altogether  and  came  to  live  in  Wales. 


OHAPTBB. 


CLAIMS   OF   WOMEN. 


CHAPTER  XIX, 

Thb  Claims  of  Women. 

It  was  not  till  I  was  actively  engaged  in  the  work  of 
Mary  Carpenter  at  Bristol,  and  had  begun  to  desire  earnestly 
various  changes  of  law  relating  to  yonng    criminals  and 

paupers,  that  I  became  an  advocate  of  ^'  Women's  Rights."  It 
was  good  old  Rev.  Samuel  J,  May,  of  Syracuse,  New  York, 
who,  when  paying  us  a  visit,  pressed  on  my  attention  the 
question :  "  Why  should  you  not  have  a  votsf  Why  should 
not  women  be  enaoied  to  influence  the  Tnalrmg  of  the  laws  in 
which  they  have  as  great  an  interest  as  men  ?  '* 

My  experience  probably  explains  largely  the  indifference 
of  thousands  of  women,  not  deficient  in  intelligence,  in 
England  and  America  to  the  possession  of  political  rights. 
They  have  much  anxiety  to  falfil  their  home  duties,  and  the 
notion  of  undertaking  others,  reqcdring  (as  they  fully 
understand)  conscientious  enquiry  and  reflection,  rather 
alarms  than  attracts  them.  But  the  time  comes  to 
every  woman  worth  her  salt  to  take  ardent  interest  in 
some  question  which  touches  legislation.  Then  sh€ 
begins  to  ask  herself,  as  Mr.  May  asked  me ;  ^^  Why 
should  the  £Eict  of  being  a  woman,  close  to  me  the  use  of 
the  plain,  direct  means,  of  helping  to  achieve  some  large 
public  good  or  stopping  some  evil?"  The  timid,  the 
indolent,  the  conventional  will  here  retreat,  and  try  to  believe 
that  it  concerns  men  only  to  right  the  wrongs  of  the  world 
in  some  more  effectual  way  than  by  single-handed  personal 
efforts  in  special  cases.  Others  again, — and  of  their  number 
wa5  I  — become  deeply  impressed  with  the  need  of  woman's 


the  "Woman's  Oaose "  more  or  less  earnestly.  For  my 
own  part  I  confeSB  I  have  been  chiefljr  moved  by  reflection  on 
the  BnfFermga  and  wrongs  borne  by  women,  in  great  measure 
owing  to  the  deeontideratum  they  endure  consequent  on  their 
political  and  civil  disabilities.  Whilst  I  and  other  bappQy 
circumstanced  women,  have  had  no  immediate  wrongs  of 
onr  own  to  gall  ns,  we  should  still  have  bean  very  poor 
creatnres  had  we  not  felt  bitterly  those  of  onr  lees  fortunate 
sisters,  the  robbed  and  trampled  wives,  the  mothers  whose 
children  were  torn  from  them  at  the  bidding  of  a  dead  or 
living  father,  tbe  daaghtera  kept  in  ignorance  and  pover^ 
while  their  brothers  were  educated  in  costly  schools  and  fitted 
for  bonoorable  professions.  Snob  wrongs  as  these  have 
inspired  me  with  the  persistent  resolution  to  do  everything 
in  my  power  to  protect  the  property,  the  persons  and  the 
parental  rights  of  women. 

I  do  not  think  that  this  resolve  has  any  neeessary 
connection  with  theories  concerning  the  equality  of  the  sexes ; 
and  I  am  snre  Qiat  a  great  deal  of  our  force  has  been  wasted 
on  fruitless  discnssions  such  as :  "  Why  has  there  never  been 
a  female  Shakespeare  ?  "  A  Celt  cluming  equal  representation 
with  a  Saxon,  or  any  represeittalwn  at  ail,  might  jnst  as  &irly 
be  challenged  to  explain  why  there  has  never  been  a  Celtic 
Shakespeare,  or  a  Celtic  Tennyson  ?  My  own  opinion  is,  that 
women  en  nuuse  are  by  no  means  the  intellectual  equals  of  men 
«n  matae  ,'— and  whether  this  inequality  arise  &om  irremedi- 
able causes  or  from  alterable  circumstances  of  education  and 
heredity,  is  not  worth  debating.  If  the  nation  had  established 
an  intellectual  test  for  political  cqoality,  and  admission  to  the 
tranohise  were  confined  to  persons  parsing  a  given  Standard  ; 
well  and  good.  Then,  no  doubt,  there  would  be  (as  things 
now  stand)  fifty  per  cent,  of  men  who  woold  win  votes,  and 
perhaps  only  thirty  per  cent,  of  women.     So  much  may  be 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMEN.  686 

fredy  admitted.  Bat  then  that  thirty  per  cent,  of  fiBmales 
uxmld  obtain  political  rights ;  and  those  who  failed,  wonld  be 
debarred  by  a  natural  and  real,  not  an  arbitrary  inferiority. 
Snch  a  state  of  things  wonld  not  present  such  Indiorous 
injustice  as  that  which  obtains, — for  example, — ^in  a  parish 
not  a  hundred  miles  from  my  present  abode.  There  is  in 
the  village  in  question  a  man  universally  known  therein  as 
''The  Idiot;"  a  poor  slouching,  squinting  fellow,  who  yet 
rents  a  house  and  can  do  rough  field  work,  though  he  can 
scarcely  speak  intelligibly.  He  has  a  vote,  of  course.  The 
owner  of  his  house  and  of  half  the  parish,  who  holds  also 
the  advowson  of  the  living,  is  a  lady  who  has  travelled 
widely,  understands  three  or  four  languages,  and  studies  the 
political  news  of  Europe  daily  in  the  columns  of  the  TtTnes. 
That  lady,  equally  of  course,  has  no  vote,  no  power  whatever 
to  keep  the  representation  of  her  county  out  of  the  hands  oi 
the  demagogues  naturally  admired  by  the  Idiot  and  his 
compeers.  Under  the  regulations  which  create  inequalities 
of  this  kind  is  it  not  rather  absurd  to  insist  perpetually, 
(as  is  the  practise  of  our  opponents,)  on  the  intellectual 
inferiority  of  women, — as  if  it  were  really  in  question  ? 

I  hold,  however,  that  whatever  be  our  real  mental  rank, — to 
oe  tested  thoroughly  only  in  future  generations,  under  changed 
conditions  of  training  and  heredity, — ^we  women  are  the  equiva- 
lentSf  though  not  the  equah^  of  men.  And  to  refuse  a  share 
in  the  law-making  of  a  nation  to  the  most  law-abiding  half 
of  it ;  to  exclude  on  all  largest  questions  the  votes  of  tho 
most  conscientious,  temperate,  religious  and  (above  all,^ 
most  merciful  and  tender-hearted  moiety,  is  a  mistake  which 
cannot  £eu1,  and  has  not  foiled,  to  entaO  great  evil  and  loss. 

I  wrote,  as  I  have  mentioned  in  Ch^ter  XV.,  a  great 
many  articles,  (chiefly  in  Fraser  and  MacmiUan^)  on 
women's  concerns  about  the  years  1861-2-8  :  ''  What  shall 
%ce  do  mth  our  Old  Maids  /  *' ;  *'  Female  Charity ,  Lay  and 


Motuutic;  "  Women  m  Italy  in  1862  ;  "  "  TJu  Edveati4m 
of  Women ;  "  "  Social  Science  Conffre»g  and  Women'*  Part  m 
them ; "  and,  later,  "  The  Fimeta  of  Women  for  the  Uimtn/ 
of  Bdigion."  Theee  made  me  known  to  many  women  who 
were  fighting  in  the  woman's  canee ;  Mies  Bessie  Farkes  (now 
Madame  Belloo),  Madame  Bodiohon,  Mrs.  Grey,  Miss  Shiirefi', 
Sbs.  Peter  Taylor,  Miss  Becker,  and  othera ;  and  when  Com- 
mitteea  were  formed  for  promoting  Woman  SoSrage,  I  waa 
invited  to  join  them.  I  did  bo  ;  and  frequently  attended  the 
meetings,  though  not  regularly.  We  had  several  Uembera  of 
Parliament  and  other  gentlemen  (notably  ISi.  EVederick  Hill, 
brother  of  my  old  &iend  Beoorder  Hill  and  of  Sir  Rowland), 
who  generally  helped  our  deliberations ;  and  many  able  women, 
among  others  Uj^.  Angnsta  Webster,  the  poetess;  and  Lady 
Anna  Gore  Langton,  an  exceedingly  sensible  woman,  who 
also  held  Drawing-Boom  Sn^age-Meetings  (at  which  I 
spoke)  in  her  bonse.  We  bad  for  secretary  Miss  Lydia 
Becker ;  a  woman  of  singnlar  politioal  abibty,  for  whom  I 
had  a  sincere  respeot.  Her  premature  death  has  been  an 
incalculable  loss  to  the  women  of  England.  She  gave  me 
the  impression  of  one  of  those  ill-fated  people  whose  outward 
persons  do  not  represent  their  inward  selves.  I  am  sure  she 
bad  a  large  element  of  softness  and  sensiUvenesB  in  her 
nature,  mtauspected  by  most  of  those  with  whom  she 
laboured.  She  was  a  most  conrageons  and  str^htforward 
woman,  with  a  single  eye  to  the  great  political  work  which 
she  had  midertoken,  and  whiob  I  think  no  one  has  under- 
stood 80  well  as  she. 

After  Miss  Becker's  lamented  death  the  great  schism  between 
Unionists  and  Home  Balers  extended  &r  enough  to  split  even 
our  Oommittee,  (which  was  avowedly  of  no  party,)  into  two 
bodies.  I  naturally  followed  my  fellow-TJnionist,  Mrs.  Fawcett 
when  she  re-organized  the  moiety  of  the  Society  and  established 
an  office  for  it  in  College  Street,  Westminster.   Believing  her  to 


THE  OLAIMS  OF  WOMEN.  587 

be  quite  the  ablest  woman-economist  and  politician  in 
England,  I  entertain  the  hope  that  she  may  at  last  carry  a 
Woman  Soffirage  Bill  and  live  to  see  qualified  single  women 
recording  their  votes  at  Parliamentary  elections.  When  that 
times  arrives  every  one  will  scoff  at  the  objections  which 
have  so  long  closed  the  ''right  of  way,"  to  as  of  the 
«  weaker  sex." 

Beside  the  Committee  of  the  Society  for  Woman  Suffrage^  I 
also  joined  for  a  time  the  Committee  which, — ^long  afterwards, — 
effected  the  splendid  achievement  of  procuring  the  passage  of 
the  Married  Women's  Property  Act ;  the  greatest  step  gained 
np  to  the  present  time  for  women  in  England.  I  can  claim 
no  part  of  that  real  honour,  which  is  due  in  greatest  measure 
to  Mrs.  Jacob  Bright. 

The  question  of  granting  University  Degrees  to  women,  was 
opened  as  isx  back  as  1862.  In  that  year  I  read,  in  the  Guildhal 
in  London  at  the  Social  Science  Congress,  a  paper,  pleading  foi 
the  privilege.  Dean  Milman,  who  occupied  the  Chair,  was  very 
kind  in  praising  my  crude  address,  and  enjoyed  the  little  jokes 
wherewith  it  was  sprinkled ;  but  next  morning  every  daily 
paper  in  London  laughed  at  my  demand,  and  for  a  week  or 
two  I  was  the  butt  of  universal  ridicule.  Nevertheless,  just 
17  years  afterwards,  I  was  invited  to  join  a  Deputation 
headed  by  Lady  Stanley  of  Alderley,  to  thank  Lord  Granville 
for  having  (as  President  of  London  University)  conceded  those 
degrees  to  women,  precisely  as  I  had  demanded  t  I  took 
occasion  at  the  close  of  the  pleasant  interview,  to  present 
him  with  one  of  the  very  few  remaining  copies  of  my  original 
and  much  ridiculed  appeal. 

From  this  time  I  wrote  and  spoke  not  unfrequently  on 
behalf  of  women's  political  and  civil  claims.  One  article  of 
mine  in  Eraser,  1868,  was  reprinted  more  than  once.  It 
was  headed  "  Criminals,  Idiots,  Women  and  Minors ; "  and 
enquired   ''Whether  the  classification  should   be   counted 


Moniutie 
Mr..  Pete.  s.,-il<  ''„  -^  I-.'":;,  ^^M«^'°' 

iHvitodlo.  .,«»■»  '^l»t»'  ^-.-i^^v-'- 

Parliament  ,*,^»«  *  •*     ->^  '".-*  *^=**  ^--'^' ' 

brother  of  •'^^'%ai=-*  V,^:  '*^->*^!^^^-^* 

wbogenera  .vU***  _^  b*^  "  ^  i^'   .  s*^'^^'^  •  '^ 

amongoth*  l^rf  "^T  ..,5»'*^ -..a^'!   ''^   ^*^i^\ 

Anna  Oore 

also    held 

spoke)  in 

Becker;  a 

had  a  aincei 

incaloolable 

the  impressi 

persons  do  i 

had  a  larg* 

□atnre,     xaxt 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOME^. 


*  elections.    To  tiioK  idw  boU  tiiacS 


intended  to  be  leiinKsried  by  Aft  C«Bci^^ 
ii  *  we  have  shown  thai  we  fosK-ii  wvi  i«:««-it     7i  iiuv*» 
^•<  who  say  thst  Tax-paijii..^  ici  fctrr^.nr^-a^i.  ,n^.niit  j^ 
.  ;•  together,  we  have  pcuxi<d  to  ifi*  tifcX-st'-i«s»r»   ;«)pn. 
which,  a]as!  fie  on  osr  iiiJi^lAJaw  Wirili  ir»»n«v-.^  ^ 
ihe  tonching  fact  tfast  ««  beiaur  v,  tiut'-yruvwr-^  n-r 
^    Where  Intelligeaoe,  BJiscfctir'^  ari  i««^vft  t^^ 

considered  enoo^  to  oocfcr  r:;ir*«t  -^  -rixyi.*,  i^   «^  «,vt 

,     remarked  thai  we  »e  q^ilte  k*^  v,  •xii.'.i^a^.  j-^'wr*  * 

.  .  TOch  partieulaa  with  tiiow  E^imss^i  l*jr  »:iiinp^  «.«fiflit 

^  of  poUtical  ftmctiona  oar  S«ate  Im  ium  wu*^.  ewnmiiir.' 

3Me.    Knally.  to  the  eT«r  ttemxi,^  *ittry,  Vjac  »*.  taa^^ 

..fight,  and  theieiotie  oo^  vfA  to  «sie^  w«:  'i»««  r^.:^  ^jj^ 

Jie  logic  of  the  ezdasioo  win  be  saufi!^ 
•  •  .00  weak,  too  Aoit.  or  too  oli  for  tbe  E 

ikewise  disfcandiiaed,  aid  wben  ti*  actwi  ^y,i.»  ^  ^ 
'     any  are  aooorded  tibe  waStoi^ 

"Bot  ft  is  Scntiineiit,  aot  Logfe,  aew^^ 
'B*rngg|e;andweshaflbtttdc)so,It#:,xx.c/r^^>,:^^ 
.    /^^«»Ht«^andn»keM 

«dy  worfang.  shoolder  to  .L..«ld«  so  as  to  ^i.^^^  J 
ther  vm  it  over  to  our  aide." 

1876   1%  18th.  I  «4,  .  ,,a«r  fc^  ^  ^^^ 
.     *on the  .^  of  women',  ««bg*  i,  .  ..^ i„ 

lrf»i«i«4r*,<irther.    I  endod  by 


^"T-**?^  ■•  ***  "•*«»l  and  »*IM 
•  PW«*0B  fcr  *h«  ,<,arti  ^  ^ 


688  CHAPTER  XIX. 

sound  ?  "  I  hope  that  the  disonssion  it  involved  on  the  lawB 
relating  to  the  property  of  married  women  was  of  some 
service  in  helping  on  the  great  measure  of  justice  afterwards 
granted. 

Another  paper  of  mine,  circulated  by  the  London  National 
Society  for  Women^s  Suffrage^  for  whom  I  wrote  it,  was 
entitled  ^'  Our  Policy.*^  It  was,  in  effect,  an  address  to 
women  concerning  the  best  way  to  secure  the  suffirage.  I 
began  this  pamphlet  by  the  following  remarks  : — 

"  There  is  an  instructive  story,  told  by  Herodotus,  of  an 
African  nation  which  went  to  war  with  the  South  Wind. 
The  wind  had  greatly  annoyed  these  Psyllians  by  drying 
up  their  dstems,  so  they  organised  a  campaign  and  set  off 
to  attack  the  enemy  at  head-quarters — somewhere,  I 
presume,  about  the  Sahara.  The  army  was  admirably 
equipped  with  all  the  military  engines  of  those  days; 
swords  and  spears,  darts  and  javelins,  battering  rams  and 
catapults.  It  happened  that  the  South  Wind  did  not, 
however,  suffer  much  from  these  weapons,  but  got  up  one 
fine  morning  and  blew  I — The  sands  of  the  desert  have  lain 
for  a  great  many  ages  over  those  unfortunate  Psyllians ; 
and,  as  Herodotus  placidly  concludes  the  story,  *  The 
Nasamones  possess  the  territory  of  those  who  thus 
perished.' 

'*  It  seems  to  me  that  we,  women,  who  have  been  fighting 
for  the  Suffrage  with  logical  arguments — syllogisms, 
analogies,  demonstrations,  and  reductions-to-the-absurd 
of  our  antagonists*  position,  in  short,  all  the  weapons  of 
ratiocinative  warfare — ^have  been  behaving  very  much  like 
those  poor  PsyUians,  who  imagined  that  darts,  and  swords, 
and  catapults  would  avail  against  the  Simoom.  The  obvious 
fact  is,  that  it  is  Sentiment  we  have  to  contend  against, 
not  Reason;  Feeling  and  Prepossession,  not  iutelloctual 
Conviction.  Had  Logic  been  the  only  obstacle  in  our  way, 
we  should  long  ago  have  been  polling  our  votes  for 
Farliamentarv  as  well  ab  for  Municipal  and  School  Board 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMtil!^. 

elections.    To  those  who  hold  that  Prope: 
intended  to  be  represented  by  the  Ck)nstitnti 
we  have  shown  that  we  possess  snch  prop< 
who  say  that  Tax-paying  and  Beprosenti 
together,  we  have  pointed  to  the  tax-gat 
which,  alas  t  lie  on  onr  hall-tables  wholly 
ilie  tonching  fact  that  we  belong  to  the  * 
Where  Intelligence,  Edncation,  and  freedom 
considered  enough  to  confer  rights  of  citizc 
remarked  that  we  are  quite  ready  to  chall 
snch  particulars  with  those  Illiterates  for 
of  political  functions  our  Senate  has  taken  £ 
care.    Finally,  to  the  ever-recurring  charge 
fight,  and  therefore  ought  not  to  vote,  we  ha 
the  logic  of  the  exclusion  will  be  manifest  wl 
too  weak,  too  short,  or  too  old  for  the  milita 
likewise  disfranchised,  and  when  the  actual 
army  are  accorded  the  suffrage. 

"  But  it  is  Sentiment,  not  Logic,  against 
to  struggle ;  and  we  shall  best  do  so,  I  think,  b; 
to  understand  and  make  full  allowance  for  i1 
steady  working,  shoulder  to  shoulder  so  as 
rather  win  it  over  to  our  side.'* 

In  1876,  May  Idth,  I  made  a  rather  long 
speech  on  the  subject  of  women's  suffrage  in 
St.  George's  Hall,  at  which  Mr.  Russell 
Recorder  of  London,  took  the  chair.  Job 
spoken  against  our  Bill  in  the  House,  and  tho 
intended  to  speak  at  our  meeting,  I  wac 
indignation  to  reply  to  him.  In  this  address  ] 
of  the  wrongs  of  mothers  whose  children  ai 
them  at  the  will  of  a  living  or  dead  fsither. 
saying : — 

*'  I  advocate  Woman  Suffrage  as  the  natun 
eonstitutional  means  of  protection  for  the 


for  women.  Bat  I  do  it  also,  and  none  Uie  lees  confidently, 
M  a  citizen,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  whole  conunnuity, 
becanse  it  ia  my  conviction  that  such  a  measure  is  no  less 
expedient  tor  men  than  just  foi  women ;  and  that  it  will 
redound  in  coming  yeaiB  ever  more  and  more  to  the 
happiness,  the  Tirtae  and  the  honour  of  our  coontry." 

Several  years  after  this,  I  wrote  a  letter  which  was  printed 
in  the  (American)  Woman's  Tribune,  Hay  1st,  1884.  It 
expresses  so  exactly  what  I  feel  still  on  the  saliject  that  I 
Bhall  redeem  it  if  possible  from  oblivion.  The  following  are 
the  passagee  for  which  I  should  like  to  ask  the  reader's 
attention  : 

"  If  I  may  presume  to  offer  an  old  woman's  counsel  to 
the  yonnKet  workers  in  onr  cause,  it  would  be  that  they 
should  adopt  the  point  of  view — that  it  ia  before  all  things 
onr  Baty  to  obtain  the  Eranohise.  If  we  nndertake  the  work 
in  this  spirit,  and  with  the  object  of  nsing  the  power  it 
confers,  wheneTer  we  gain  it,  for  the  promotion  of  jnstice 
and  mercy  and  the  kingdom  of  God  npon  earth,  we  shall 
carry  on  all  onr  agitation  in  a  corresponding  manner,  firmly 
and  bravely,  and  also  calmly  and  with  geueroas  good 
temper.  And  when  onr  opponents  come  to  understand  that 
this  ia  the  motive  underlying  our  efforta,  they,  on  their  jtart, 
will  cease  to  feel  bitterly  and  scomfnlly  toward  ns,  even 
when  they  think  we  are  altogether  mistaken. 

"That  people  kat  consoientiouBly  consid^  that  we  are 
mistaken  in  asking  for  woman  suffrage,  is  another  point 
which  it  surely  behoves  ns  to  cany  in  mind. 

"  We  naturally  think  almost  exolnaiTely  of  many  advan- 
tages which  would  follow  to  our  sex  and  to  both  sexes  from 
the  entrance  of  woman  into  political  life.  But  that  there 
ore  some  'lions  in  the  way,'  and  rather  formidable  lions, 
too,  ought  not  to  be  forgotten. 

"For  myself,  I  would  far  rather  that  women  should 
remain  without  politioal  rights  to  the  end  of  time  than  that 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMEN.  591 

they  shonld  lose  those  qualities  whioh  we  comprise  in  the 
word  *  womanliness ;  *  and  I  think  nearly  every  one  of  the 
leaders  of  onr  party  in  America  and  in  England  agrees  with 
me  in  this  feeling. 

"The  idea  that  the  possession  of  political  rights  will 
destroy  '  womanliness,'  absurd  as  it  may  seem  to  us,  is  very 
deeply  rooted  in  the  minds  of  men;  and  when  they  oppose 
our  demands,  it  is  only  just  to  give  them  credit  for  doing  so 
on  grounds  which  we  should  recognize  as  valid,  if  their 
premises  uere  true.  It  is  not  so  much  that  our  opponents 
(at  least  the  better  part  of  them)  despise  women,  as  that 
they  really  prize  what  women  now  are  in  the  home  and  in 
society  so  highly  that  they  cannot  bear  to  risk  losing  it  by 
any  serious  change  in  their  condition.  These  fears  are 
futile  and  faithless,  but  there  is  nothing  in  them  to  afiEront 
us.  To  remove  them,  we  must  not  use  violent  words,  for 
every  such  violent  word  confirms  their  fears ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  show  the  world  that  while  the  revolutions 
wrought  by  men  have  been  full  of  bitterness  and  rancour, 
and  stormy  passions,  if  not  of  bloodshed,  we  women  will 
at  least  strive  to  accomplish  our  great  emancipation  calmly 
and  by  persuasion  and  reason." 

I  was  honoured  about  this  time  by  several  friendly 
advances  from  American  ladies  and  gentlemen  interested  like 
myself  in  woman's  advancement.  The  astronomer,  Prof. 
Maria  Mitchell,  wrote  me  a  charming  letter,  which  I  exceed- 
ingly regret  should  have  been  lost,  as  I  felt  particular 
interest  in  her  great  achievements.  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe  in  Hereford  Square,  and 
also  Mrs.  Livermore,  whose  speech  at  one  of  our  Suffrage 
Meetings  realised  my  highest  ideal  of  a  woman's  public 
address.  Her  noble  flEuse  and  figure  like  that  of  a  Roman 
Matron,  her  sweet  manners  and  pla3rful  humour  without  a 
scintilla  of  bitterness  in  it, — ^as  if  she  were  a  mother  remon- 
strating with  a  foolish,  school-boy  son, — ^were  all  delightful 
to  me. 


502  CHAPTER   XIX. 

Col.  J.  W.  Higginson,  who  has  been  so  good  a  friend  and 
adviser  io  women,  also  came  to  see  me,  and  gave  me  some 
bright  boors  of  conversation  on  his  wonderful  experiences  in 
the  war,  during  which  be  commanded  a  coloured  regimenti 
which  fonght  valiantly  under  his  leadership.  Finally  I  had 
the  privilege  of  being  elected  a  member  of  the  famous  Soram 
Club  of  New  York,  and  of  receiving  the  following  very  pleasant 
letter  conveying  the  gift  of  a  pretty  gold  and  enamel  brooch, 
the  badge  of  the  Sisterhood. 

"  Dear  Madam, 

**The  ladies  of  Soroiit^The  Woman's  Club  of  Ne^ 
York — ^beg  your  acceptance  of  the  accompanying  Pin,  tho 
insignia  of  their  organization,  which  they  send  by  the  hand 
of  their  foreign  correspondent,  Mrs.  Laura  Curtis  Ballard. 

"  Trifling  as  is  this  testimonial  in  itself,  they  feel  that  if 
yon  knew  the  genuine  appreciation  of  you  and  your  work 
that  goes  with  it — ^the  gratitude  with  which  each  one 
regards  you  as  a  faithful  worker  for  women — ^you  would  not 
consider  it  unworthy  your  acceptance.  With  best  wishes 
for  your  continued  health,  which  in  your  case  means 
continued  usefulness, 

**  I  am,  dear  Madam, 

*^  With  great  respect  and  esteem, 

•<  Your  obedient  Servant, 

*'  Cblia  Bubleioh, 

**  Cor.  Sec.  Sorosis. 

**  87,  Huntingdon  Street,  Brooklyn,  New  York, 
"  June  21st,  1869." 

The  part  of  my  work  for  women,  however,  to  which  I 
look  back  with  most  satisfaction  was  that  in  which  I 
laboured  to  obtain  protection  for  unhappy  wives,  beaten, 
mangled,  mutilated  or  trampled  on  by  brutal  husbands.  One 
day  in  1878  I  was  by  chance  reading  a  newspaper  in  which 
a  whole  series  of  frightful  cases  of  this  kind  were  recorded, 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMEN.  693 

here  and  there,  among  the  ordinary  news  of  the  tune.  I  got 
np  oat  of  my  armchair,  half  dazed,  and  said  to  myself:  ''  I 
will  never  rest  tiU  I  have  tried  what  I  can  do  to  stop  this." 

I  thought  anxiously  what  was  the  sort  of  remedy  I  ought 
to  endeavour  to  put  forward.  A  Parliamentary  Blue  Book 
had  heen  printed  in  1875  entitled :  '<  Beports  on  the  State 
of  the  law  relating  to  Brutal  Assatdts,'*  and  the  following  is  a 
summary  of  the  results.  There  was  a  large  consensus  of 
opinion  that  the  law  as  it  now  stands  is  insufficient  for  its 
purpose.  Lord  Chief  Justice  Cockhurn,  Mr.  Justice  Lush, 
Mr.  Justice  Mellor,  Chief  Baron  Eelly,  Barons  Bramwell, 
Pigott  and  Pollock,  all  expressed  the  same  judgment 
(pp.  7-19).  The  following  gave  their  opinion  in  favour  of 
flogging  offenders  in  cases  of  brutal  assaults.  Lord  Chief 
Justice  Cockbum,  Mr.  Justices  Blackburn,  Mellor,  Lush,  Quain, 
Archibald,  Brett,  Chrove,  Chief  Baron  Kelly,  Barons  Bramwell, 
Pigott,  Pollock,  Charles,  and  Amphlett.  Only  Lord 
Coleridge  and  Lord  Denman  hesitated,  and  Mr.  Justice 
Keating  opposed  flogging.  Of  Chairmen  of  Quarter 
Sessions  64  (out  of  68,  whose  answers  were  sent  to  the  Home 
Office,)  and  the  Recorders  of  41  towns,  were  in  favour  of 
flogging.  After  all  this  testimony  of  the  opinions  of  experts 
(collected  of  course  at  the  public  expense),  three  years 
elapsed  during  which  absolutely  nothing  was  done  to  make 
any  practical  use  of  it!  During  the  interval,  scores  of 
BiUs,  interesting  to  the  represented  sex,  passed  through  Par- 
liament; but  this  question  on  which  the  lives  of  women 
literally  hung,  was  never  mooted!  Something  like  5,000 
women,  judging  by  the  published  judicial  statistics,  were  in 
those  years  ''  brutally  assaulted ;"  t.«.,  not  merely  struck, 
but  maimed,  blinded,  burned,  trampled  on  by  strong  men  in 
heavy  shoes,  and,  in  many  cases,  murdered  outright;  and 
thousands  of  children  were  brought  up  to  witness  scenes 
which  (as  Colonel  Leigh  said)  ''  infemalise  a  whole  genera- 

2  P 


loent,  or  even  with  Parliament,  font  with  the  simple 
&ct  that,  nodoi  our  preaest  conBtitnlioD,  Women,  having  no 
votes,  can  onl;  ezceptionall;  and  throngh  favour,  bring 
preBBnre  to  bear  to  force  attention  even  to  the  most 
crjring  of  injustices  nnder  which  they  suffer.  The  Home  Office 
muKt  attend  first  to  the  claims  of  those  who  can  hring  pressure 
to  bear  on  it ;  and  Members  of  Parliament  miat  bring  in  the 
mcasares  pressed  by  their  constitnents ;  and  thns  the 
unrepresented  mvst  go  to  the  wall. 

The  cases  of  cruelty  of  which  I  obtained  statistics,  furnished 
to  me  mainly  by  the  kindness  of  Miss  A.  Shore,  almost  sor- 
passed  belief.  It  appeared  that  about  1 ,600  cases  of  aggravated 
(over  and  above  ordinary)  assaults  on  wives  took  place  every 
year  in  England  ;  on  an  average  about  four  a  day.  Many 
of  them  were  of  truly  incredible  savagery ;  and  the  victims 
were,  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  not  drunken  viragos  (who 
usually  escape  violence  or  give  as  good  as  they  receive),  bat 
poor,  pale,  shrinking  creatures,  who  strove  to  earn  bread  for 
their  children  and  to  keep  together  their  miserable  homes  ; 
and  whoso  very  tears  and  pallor  were  reproaches  which 
provoked  the  heteropathy  and  cruelty  of  their  tyrants. 

After  much  reflection  I  came  to  the  conclasion  Uiat  in  spite 
of  aU  the  authority  in  favour  of  flogging  the  delinqnents,  it 
was  not  expedient  on  the  women's  behalf  that  they  should  be 
BO  punished,  since  after  they  had  undergone  such  chastisement, 
however  well  merited,  the  ruffians  would  inevitably  return 
more  bmtalised  and  infmiated  than  ever ;  and  ^ain  have 
their  wives  at  their  mercy.  The  only  thing  really  effective,  I 
lonsiderod,  was  to  give  the  wife  the  power  of  separating 
herself  and  her  children  from  her  tyrant.  Of  course  in  the 
upper  ranks,  where  people  could  afford  to  pay  for  a  suit  in 
the  Divorce  Court,  the  law  had  for  some  years  opened  to  the 
assaulted  wife  this  door  of  escape.    But  among  the  working 


to  take  charge  of  it,  so  I  oonld  not  bat  thank  him  gratefully. 
At  that  moment  of  onr  intorview,  hia  charming  wife  entered 
the  room  leading  a  little  boy;  I  believe  his  nephew. 
NatnraDy  I  apologized  to  Utb.  Gumey  for  my  presence  at 
that  unholy  hour  of  the  morning  ;  and  said,  "  I  came  to  Mr. 
Gumey  in  my  anxiety,  as  the  Friend  of  Women."  Mr. 
Gumey,  hearing  me,  pat  his  hands  on  the  little  lad's 
shoulder  and  said  to  him,  "  Do  yon  hear  that,  my  boy  ?  I 
hope  that  when  you  are  an  old  man,  as  I  am,  some  lady  like 
Misa  Gobbe  may  call  yon  the  Friend  of  Women!  " 

At  last,  the  Bill  embodying  preeisely  the  purport  of  that 
drawn  up  for  me  by  Mr.  Hill,  and  sabaeqnently  published 
in  the  Coniemporary  Beview,  was  read  a  first  time,  the  names 
of  Mr.  Herschell  (now  Lord  Herschell)  and  Sir  Henry 
Holland  (afterwards  Lord  Enutsford)  being  on  the  back  of  iL 
Every  arrangement  was  made  for  the  second  Beading ;  and 
for  avoiding  the  opposition  which  we  expected  to  meet  from  a 
party  which  seems  always  to  think  that  by  caUtJig  certain 
unions  "  Holy "  a  Ohureh  can  sanctify  that  which  has 
become  a  bond  of  sav^e  cruelty  on  one  side,  and  seal- 
degrading  slavery  on  the  other.  Jnat  at  this  crisis,  Lord 
Penzance,  who  was  bringing  a  Bill  into  the  House  of  Lords  to 
•remedy  some  defects  concerning  the  costs  of  the  intervention 
of  the  Queen's  Proctor  in  Matrimonial  causes,  introduced 
into  it  a  clause  dealing  with  the  case  of  the  assaulted  wives, 
and  giving  them  precisely  the  benefit  conUimplated  in  oar 
Bill  and  in  my  article ;  namely,  that  of  Separation  Orders 
to  be  granted  by  the  same  magiBtrat«s  who  have  convicted 
the  husband  of  aggravated  assanlts  upon  them.  That  Lord 
Penzance  had  seen  onr  Bill,  then  before  the  Lower  House, 
(it  was  ordered  to  be  printed  February  I4th)  and  had  had 
bis  attention  called  tothe  subject,  either  byit,  or  by  my  article 
in  the  Contemporary  Beview,  I  have  token  as  probable,  bat 
have  no  exact  knowledge.    I  went  at  once  to  call  on  him 


698  OHAPTER  XIX. 

an! oroeable  and  enforced  against  the  husband  in  th6 
same  manner  as  the  payment  of  money  is  enforced 
under  an  order  of  affiliation ;  and  the  Court  or  magis- 
trate by  whom  any  such  order  for  payment  of  money 
shall  be  made  shall  have  power  from  time  to  time  to 
vary  the  same  on  the  application  of  either  the 
husband  or  the  wife,  upon  proof  that  the  means  of 
the  husband  or  wife  have  been  altered  in  amount 
since  the  original  order  or  any  subsequent  order 
varying  it  shall  have  been  made. 
2.  That  the  legal  custody  of  any  children  of  the  marriage 
under  the  age  of  ten  years  shall,  in  the  discretion  of 
the  Court  or  magistrate,  be  given  to  the  wife. 

At  first  the  magistrates  were  very  chary  of  granting  the 
Separation  Orders.  One  London  Pohce  Magistrate  had  said 
that  the  House  of  Commons  would  never  put  such  power  in 
the  hands  of  one  of  the  body,  and  he  was,  I  suppose, 
proportionately  startled  when  just  six  weeks  later,  it  actually 
lay  in  his  own.  By  degrees,  however,  the  practice  of 
granting  the  Orders  on  proper  occasions  became  common, 
and  appears  now  to  be  almost  a  matter  of  course.  I  hope 
that  at  least  a  hundred  poor  souls  each  year  thus  obtain 
release  from  their  tormentors,  and  probably  the  deterrent 
effect  of  witnessing  such  manumission  of  ill-treated  slaves 
may  have  still  more  largely  served  to  protect  women  from 
the  violence  of  brutal  husbands. 

Six  years  after  the  Act  had  passed  in  1884,  I  received  a 
letter  from  a  very  energetic  and  prominent  woman-worker 
with  whom  I  had  a  sfight  acquaintance,  in  which  the  following 
passages  occur.  I  quote  them  here  (though  with  some  hesi- 
tation on  the  score  of  vanity)  for  they  have  comforted  me 
much  and  deeply,  and  will  do  so  to  my  life's  end. 

'*  On  Wednesday  last  I  was  two  hours  with  a  widow, — of 

O ,  near  W ;  one  of  those  persons  who  make  a 

country  so  good,  brave,  loving  and  hardworking  I    For  8H 


to  God  and  man,  ererythmg  possible  to  avoid  filing  into  (his 
wretched  condition,  with  the  Belf-indnlgenoe  and  neglect  of 
home  and  social  duties  leading  to  it  or  consequent  on  it.  I 
did  not  then  know  as  mnch  as  I  sabseqnently  learned  of  the 
inner  history  of  a  great  deal  of  this  misery,  or  I  might  hav« 
added  to  my  warning  some  remarkable  denonciations  by 
honourable  doctors  of  the  practices  of  their  coUeagnes.* 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMEN.  601 

having  much  sympathy  witii  my  varioos  interests.  Sh€ 
appeared  to  be  a  confirmed  invalid,  crawling  with  great 
diffictdty  oat  of  her  carriage  into  our  dining  room,  and  lying 
on  a  sofa  during  her  visits.  One  day  I  was  told  she  had 
come,  and  I  was  hastening  to  receive  her  downstairs,  when  a 
tall,  elegant  woman,  whom  I  scarcely  recognized,  walked 
firmly  and  lightly,  into  my  drawing-room,  and  greeted  me 
cordially  with  laughter  in  her  eyes  at  my  astonishment. 

''So  glad  to  see  yon  so  well!"  I  exclaimed,  ''but  what 
has  happened  to  you?" 

"It  is  you  who  have  effected  the  cure!'*  she  answered. 

"  Gk>od  gracious  !     How  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  read  your  lAttle  Health  of  Ladies^  and  I  resolved 
to  set  my  doctor  at  naught  and  go  about  like  other  people. 
And  you  see  how  well  I  am  f  There  was  really  nothing  the 
matter  with  me  but  waut  of  exercise!" 

I  saw  her  several  times  afterwards  in  good  health ;  and 
»nce  she  brought  me  a  beautiful  gold  bracelet  with  clasp  of 
iiamonds  set  in  black  enamel,  which  she  had  had  made  for 
me,  and  which  she  forced  me  to  accept  as  a  token  of  her 
gratitude.    I  am  fond  of  wearing  it  still. 

Another  incident  strongly  confirmed  my  belief  in  the 
source  of  much  of  the  evil  and  misery  arising  from  the  LUtU 
Health  of  Ladies,  Travelling  one  day  from  Brighton  I  fell 
into  conversation  with  a  nice-looking,  well-bred  woman  the 
only  other  occupant  of  the  railway  carriage.  Speaking  of 
the  salubrity  of  Brighton,  she  said,  "I  am  sure  I  have  reason 
enough  to  bless  it.  I  was  for  fourteen  years  a  miserable 
invalid  on  my  sofa  in  London ;  my  doctor  telling  me  I  must 
never  go  out  or  move.  At  last  I  said  to  my  husband,  '  It  is 
better  to  die  than  to  go  on  thus ; '  and,  in  defiance  of  our 
Doctor,  he  brought  me  away  to  Brighton,  and  there  I  soon 
grew,  as  you  see,  quite  strong ;  and — and, — ^I  must  tell  you, 
I  have  a  litUe  haby^  and  my  husband  is  so  happy  !  " 


002  aSAPTER  XIX. 

That  olerer  Qyuecologiet  lost,  I  dareaay,  k  hnndred,  or 
perhaps  two  hundred,  it  yoai  by  the  escape  of  his  patient 
from  his  asudnons  visitations;  but  the  i&Ay  gamed  health 
and  happiness  ;  hei  bosband  his  wife's  companionship  ;  and 
both  of  them  a  child  I  How  much  of  the  miaeries  and 
ill-health,  and,  in  many  oases,  death  of  women  (of  the  poorer 
elasaes  especially)  Ues  at  the  door  of  medical  practitioners 
and  operators,  too  fond  by  half  of  the  knife,  is  known  to 
those  who  have  read  the  recent  articles  and  ccoreapondenee 
respecting  the  Women's  HoBpitala  and  "  Human  Vivi- 
section" therein  in  the  Daily  CIiTonicle  (May,  1894)  and  in 
the  HomtBopathic  World  for  June. 

Qnite  apart  firom  the  doctors,  however,  a  great  deal  of  the 
sickliness  of  women  is  nndonbtedly  due  to  wretched  fashions 
of  tight-lacing,  and  wearbg  long  and  heavy  skirts,  and 
tight,  thin  boots,  which  render  free  exercise  of  their  limbs 
impossible.  Nothing  makos  me  really  despair  of  my  sax, 
except  looking  at  fashion-plates  ;  or  seeing  (what  is  much 
worse  still,  being  wicked,  as  well  as  foolish)  the  adorn- 
ments so  many  women  use  of  dead  birds,  stuck  on  their 
empty  heads  and  heartless  breasts.  Those  things  are  a 
disgrace  to  women  for  which  I  have  often  felt  they  deaerve  to 
be  despised  and  swept  aside  by  men  as  sonlless  creatures 
nsworthy  of  freedom.  Bat  alas  I  it  is  precisely  the  women 
who  adopt  these  idiotic  fashions  in  dress,  and  wear 
(abominable  cruelty  I)  Egrets  as  ornaments,  who  are  not 
despised  but  admired  by  men,  who  reserve  their  indifference 
and  contempt  for  their  homely  and  sensible  sisters.  Men 
in  these  respects  are  as  silly  as  the  fish  in  the  river 
caught  by  a  gaudy  artificial  fiy  on  a  hook,  or  enticed  into 
a  net  by  a  scrap  of  scarlet  cloth,  and  a  gUttering  morsel 
of  brass.  I  often  wonder  whether  women  are  generally, 
aa  little  capable  of  forming  a  discriminating  jodgment 
of  men? 


THE  0LA1M8  OF  WOMEN.  603 

Lastly,  there  is  a  caose  of  female  ill-health  which  always 
impresses  me  with  profonndest  pity,  and  which  has  never,  I 
think,  heen  fairly  hronght  to  the  front  as  the  origin  of  a 
large  part  of  feminine  feebleness.  I  mean  the  common 
want,  among  women  who  earn  their  livelihood,  of  sufficiently 
brain-nonrishing  and  stimulating  food.  Let  any  man,  the 
strongest  in  the  land  in  body  and  mind,  subsist  for  one 
week  on  tea  without  milk,  and  bread  and  butter,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  time,  he  will,  I  venture  to  predict,  have  lost  hall 
his  superiority.  His  nervous  excitability  and  cheerfulness 
may  remaia,  or  even  be  enhanced,  but  the  faculty  of  largely 
grasping  and  strongly  dealing  with  the  subjects  presented  to 
him,  and  of  doing  thorough  and  complete  work,  nay  even 
the  desire  of  such  perfection  and  finish,  will  have  abated ; 
and  the  fatal  doverdinese  of  women's  work  will  probably 
have  begun  to  show  itself.  The  physical  conditions  under 
which  the  human  spirit  can  alone  (in  this  life)  carry  out  its 
purpose  and  attain  its  maximum  of  vigour,  are  more  or  less 
lacking  to  half  the  women  even  in  our  country ;  and  almost 
completely  wanting  to  the  poor  prisoners  of  the  Zenanas  of 
Lidia  and  the  cripples  of  China.  Exercise  in  the  open  air, 
wholesome  and  sufficient  food,  plenty  of  sleep  at  night, — 
every  one  of  these  sine  qua  non  elements  of  real  Health  of 
Mind,  as  well  as  of  Body,  are  out  of  reach  of  one  woman  out 
of  every  two  ;  yet  we  remark,  curiously,  on  the  inferiority  of 
their  work  I  It  is  a  vicious  circle  in  which  they  are  caught. 
They  take  lower  wages  because  they  can  live  more  cheaply 
than  men ;  and  they  necessarily  live  on  those  low  wages  too 
poorly  to  do  anything  but  poor  work; — and  again  their 
wages  are  paltry  because  their  work  is  so  poor  f 

I  confess,  however,  that — on  the  other  hand — the  spectacle  of 
feminine  feebleness  and  futility  when  (as  continually  happens) 
it  is  exhibited  without  the  smallest  excuse  from  inadequate 
iood  supply,  is  indescribably  irritating,  n^,  to  me,  humiliating 


"  feminine  fdtiUty  ")  a  iroman  asked  to  open  a  juBt-arrired 
box,  or  B.  bottle  of  champagne  or  of  soda-water.  She  has  been 
given  a  cold-chisel  for  openii^  the  box,  and  a  hammer  ;  bnt 
they  are  invariably  "  aekay  "  when  required,  or  she  does  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  fetch  them  &om  np  or  downstairs,  ao 
she  kneels  down  before  the  box  and  begins  by  fumbling 
with  her  fingers  at  the  knots  in  the  cord.  Ailer  five  minntee' 
efforts  and  broken  nails,  she  gives  this  np  in  despair,  and 
'■  thinks  she  most  cat  it."  Bnthow?  Bhe  never  by  any  chance 
has  a  knife  in  her  pocket;  so  she  first  tries  her  scissors, 
which  she  doe»  keep  there,  but  which,  being  always  quite 
blunt,  fail  to  sever  the  rope ;  and  then  she  fetches  a  dinner- 
knife,  and  gives  one  cut, — when  the  feminine  passion  for 
economy  suggests  to  her  that  she  can  save  the  rest  of  the 
cord  by  pushing  it  (with  immense  effort)  an  inch  or  two  along 
the  box,  first  at  one  side  and  then  at  the  other.  Then  she 
hopes  by  breaking  open  the  top  of  the  box  at  one  end  only, 
to  get  out  the  contents  without  dealing  further  with  the 
recalcitrant  rope  ;  and  she  endeavours  to  pull  it  open  where 
the  nails  seem  least  firm.  Alas  I  those  nails  will  never  yield 
to  her  weak  hands ;  so  her  scissors  are  in  requisition  again, 
and  being  inserted  and  used  as  a  wedge,  immediately  break  off 
at  the  points,  and  are  hastily  withdrawn  with  an  exclamation 
of  agonising  regret  for  the  blunt,  but  precious,  instnunent. 
Something  most  be  thrust  in,  however,  to  prize  open  the  box. 
The  cold-chiael  and  hammer  having  been  at  last  sought,  bnt 
sought  in  vain,  the  kitchen  cleaver,  covered  with  the  &t  of 
the  last  joint  it  has  cut,  is  brought  into  play ;  or,  happy 
thongbtl  she  knows  where  her  master  keeps  a  fine  sharp 
chisel,  and  this  is  pushed  in, — of  course  against  a  nail  which 
breaks  the  edge  and  makes  it  useless  for  ever.  The  poker 
serves  snlBciently  weU  as  a  hammer  to  knock  in  the  chisel, 
or  the  cleaver,  and  to  bong  up  the  protmding  lid  of  the  box ; 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  WOMEN.  COS 

and  at  last  one  plank  of  the  top  is  loosened,  and  she  tears  it 
off  triumphantly,  with  a  cry  of  rejoicing :  ''  There  !  Now, 
we  shall  get  at  ever3rthing  in  the  hox ! "  The  goods,  how- 
ever, stnbhomly  refdse  to  be  extricated  through  the  hole  on 
any  terms;  and  eventually  all  the  planks  have  to  be 
successively  broken  up,  and  the  long-cared-for  cord  (for  the 
preservation  of  which  so  much  trouble  has  been  undergone) 
is  cut  into  little  pieces  of  a  foot  or  two  in  length,  each 
attached  to  a  hopelessly  entangled  knot,  while  the  box  itself 
is  entirely  wrecked. 

The  case  of  the  soda-water,  or  champagne  bottle  is 
worse  agaiQ ;  so  much  so  that  experience  warns  the 
wise  to  forbear  from  calling  for  effervescent  drinks  where 
parlour-maids  prevail.  The  preliminary  ineffectual  attempt 
to  loosen  the  wires  with  the  fingers  (the  proper  pliers 
being,  of  course,  missing) ;  the  resort  to  a  steel  carving- 
fork  to  open  them,  and,  in  defftult  of  the  steel  fork,  to 
a  silver  one,  which  is,  of  course,  bent  immediately; 
the  endeavour  to  cut  the  hempen  cord  with  the  bread 
knife  with  the  result  of  blunting  that  tool  against  the 
wire ;  the  struggle  to  cause  the  cork  to  fly  by  wobbling  it 
with  the  right  hand,  while  clasping  the  neck  of  the  bottle 
till  it  and  the  contents  are  hot  in  the  left ;  then  (on  the 
fiEulure  of  this  bold  attempt)  the  cutting  off  the  head  of  the 
cork  with  a  carving  knife,  and  at  the  same  time  a  small  slice 
of  the  operator's  hand,  which,  of  course,  bleeds  profosely ; 
the  consequent  hasty  transference  of  the  bottle  and  the  job  to 
a  second  attendant ;  the  hurried  search  of  the  same  in  the 
side-table  drawer  for  the  corkscrew ;  her  rush  to  the  kitchen 
to  fdtch  that  instrument  where  it  has  been  nefiEuriously 
borrowed  and  where  the  point  of  the  screw  has  been  broken 
off ;  the  difficult  (and  crooked)  insertion  of  the  broken  screw 
into  the  cork ;  the  repeated  frantic  tugs  at  the  bottle,  held 
tight  between  the  knees,  finally  the  climax,  when  the  cork 


Dursu  oni  ana  ute  cnampagne  woDg  wiui  n,  np  m  uw 
reddening  face  and  over  tiie  white  muBlin  apron  of  the  poor 
tuudoiis  woman,  who  hmries  nervonsly  to  wipe  it  off, 
and  then  potira  the  small  quantity  of  liquor  which 
remains  babbling  over  the  glasses,  till  the  table-cloth  is 
Bwamped  ; — mch  in  brief  is  Feminine  Futility,  as  exhibited 
in  the  drawing  of  corks  t  Luckily  it  is  pc^sible  to  find 
partoar-maids  who  know  how  to  nae,  and  will  keep  at  hand, 
both  cold-chisels  and  corkscrews.  Bat  they  are  esceptioua. 
The  normal  woman,  in  the  presence  of  a  nailed-down  box  or  a 
champagne  bottle,  behaves  as  I  have  depicted  from  carefhl 
stndy  ;  and  tbe  irritation  she  prodaoes  in  me  is  past  words, 
especially  if  a  man  be  wuting  for  his  beverage  and  observing 
the  spectacle  of  the  helplessness  of  my  sex.  If  "  TAaa  "  be  "  a 
tool-making  animal,"  I  am  a&aid  that  "  Woman "  Js  » 
"  tool-breaking  "  one.  I  think  every  girl,  aa  well  as  every 
boy,  ought  to  be  given  a  month's  training  in  a  carpenter's 
shop  to  teach  her  how  to  strike  a  nail  straight ;  what  is  the 
difference  between  the  proper  insertion  and  extraction  of  nails 
and  of  screws;  why  chisels  should  not  be  employed  as 
screw-drivers;  bow  tax  preferable  for  making  holes  are 
gimlets  to  hairpins  or  tbe  points  of  acissora  ;  and,  finally,  the 
general  saperiority  of  glue  over  paste  or  gnm  for  sticking 
wooden  ftimitnre  when  broken  by  her  boaom  of  destraetion  t 
My  doar  friend  Emily  Shaen  wrote  an  excellent  tract  which 
I  shonld  like  to  see  republished,  urging  that  it  is  absurd  to  go 
on  talking  of  the  House  beii^  the  proper  sphere  of  a  woman, 
while  we  neglect  to  teach  her  the  very  mdiments  of  a  Haut- 
frau's  dnties,  and  leave  her  to  find  them  all  oat,  at  her 
husband's  expense,  when  she  marries.  The  nature  of  gas 
and  of  gasometers,  and  how  not  to  cause  explosions  nor  be 
cheated  in  the  bill;  the  arrangementa  of  water-works  in 
honsea,  pipes,  drains,  cisterns,  ball-cooks  and  all  the  reat,  for 
Iiot  and  cold  water ;   the  choice  of  properly  morticed,  not 


THE  CLAIMS  OP  WOM 

merely  glued,  furniture;   what  constitufc 
range,  and  how  coal  should  be  eoonomi 
choose  fresh  meat,  &c.,  such  should  be  hai 
might  be  usefully  added  an  inkling  of  tl 
masters  and  servants,  debts,  bills,   &c*j 
elementary  arrangements  of  banking  and 
It  was  once  discovered  at  my  school  that  a 
lady,  who  could  speak  four  languages  anc 
ments  well,  could  not  read  the  clock !    I  thi 
grown  up  women,  well-educated  accordio) 
standard  of  their  class,  whose  ignoranei 
simplest  matters  of  household  duty  is  not  a 

In  1881 — ^I  prepared  Imd  delivered  to  an 
150  ladies,  in  the  Westminster  Palace  Hot( 
Lectures  on  the  Duties  of  Women,  My 
Anna  Swanwick  took  the  chair  for  me  oi 
and  performed  her  part  with  such  tact  a 
give  me  every  advantage.  My  auditors  wc 
and  sympathetic,  and  altogether  the  task 
pleasant  to  me.  I  repeated  the  course  agi 
same  year,  Mrs.  Beddoe,  the  wife  of  Dr.  < 
anthropologist  who  was  then  living  at  1 
obligingly  lending  me  her  large  drawing-roc 

These  Lectures  when  printed,  went  thror 
in  England  and,  I  think,  eight  in  Americ 
brought  out  by  Miss  WiUard,  who  adopted 
the  first  of  a  series  on  women's  concerns, 
vast  and  wonderful  organisation,  the  W.G.I 

My  object  in  giving  these  Lectures  was  1 
as  strongly  as  might  be  in  my  power,  wit) 
importance  of  adding  to  our  claims  for  . 
kmds,  the  adoption  of  the  highest  standard 
strict  preservation  amongst  us  of  all  woma 
adding  to  them  those  others  to  the  grov 


and  Coorage.  I  desired  also  to  diecnss  the  new  views  cnireiit 
amongst  ub  respecting  filial  aai  conjugal  "obodienoe;"  the 
proper  attitude  to  be  held  towards  (unrepentant}  vice,  and 
many  other  topics.  Finally  I  wished  to  place  Uie  efforts  to 
obtain  political  freedom  on  what  I  deem  to  be  their  proper 
ground.    I  ask : 

"  What  ought  we  to  do  at  present,  as  concerns  all  pnblio 
work  wherein  it  is  possible  for  as  to  obtain  a  share  ? 

"  The  question  seems  to  answer  itself  in  its  mere  state- 
ment. We  are  bound  to  do  all  we  can  to  promote  the 
virtne  and  happiness  of  our  fellow-men  and  women,  and 
tker^ore  we  must  accept  and  seize  every  instrameut  of 
power,  every  vote,  every  inflnence  which  we  can  obtain,  to 
enable  ns  to  promote  virtue  and  faappinoas. 

"  .  .  .  .  Why  are  we  not  to  wish  and  strive  to  be 
allowed  to  place  onr  hands  on  that  vast  machinery  whereby, 
in  a  constitutional  realm,  the  great  work  of  the  world  ia 
carried  on,  and  which  achieves  by  its  enormona  pavtex, 
ten-fold  either  the  good  or  the  barm  which  any  individual 
caa  roach  ;  which  may  be  tnrned  to  good  or  taraod  to  harm 
according  to  the  hands  which  touch  it  ?  In  almost  every 
case  it  is  only  by  legislation  that  tlie  roots  of  great  evils 
can  be  reached  at  all,  and  that  the  social  diseases  of 
pauperism,  vice  and  orime  can  be  brought  within  hope 
of  cure. 

"  Yoa  will  judge  from  these  remarks  the  groond  on 
which,  as  a  matter  of  duty,  I  place  the  demand  for  woman's 
political  emancipation.  I  think  we  are  bound  to  seek  it,  in 
thu  first  place,  as  a  means, — a  very  great  means,— of  falfiUing 
our  Social  Doty,  of  contributing  to  the  virtue  and  happiness 
of  mankind,  and  advancing  the  Kingdom  of  God.  There 
are  many  other  reasons,  viewed  from  the  point  of 
Expediency ;  but  this  is  the  view  from  that  of  Duty.  We 
know  too  well  that  men  who  possess  political  rights  do  not 
always,  oi  often,  r^ard  them  in  this  fashion ;  but  this  is 
w  reason  why  we  should  not  do  bo.    We  also  know  that  the 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  WOMEN.  609 

individaal  power  of  one  vote  at  any  election  seems  rarely 
to  effect  any  appreciable  difference ;  but  this  also  need  not 
tronble  as,  for,  little  or  great,  if  we  can  obtain  any  influence 
at  all,  we  ought  to  seek  for  it,  and  the  multiplication  of  the 
votes  of  women  bent  on  securing  conscientioas  candidates, 
would  soon  make  it  not  only  appreciable,  but  weighty. 
Nay,  further,  the  direct  influence  of  a  vote  is  but 
a  small  part  of  the  power  which  the  possession 
of  the  political  franchise  confers.  Its  indirect  influence 
is  &r  more  important.  In  a  govemment  like  ours, 
where  the  basis  of  representation  is  so  immensely  extensive 
the  whole  business  of  legislation  is  carried  on  by  pressure — 
the  pressure  of  each  represented  class  and  party  to  get  its 
grievances  redressed,  to  make  its  interests  prevaU  .  .  .  . 
It  is  one  of  the  sore  grievances  of  women  that,  not  possessing 
representation,  the  measures  which  concern  them  are  for 
ever  postponed  to  the  bills  promoted  by  the  represented 
classes  {e.g,y  the  Married  Woman's  Property  Bill,  was,  if  I 
mistake  not,  six  times  set  down  for  reading  in  one  Session 
in  vain,  the  House  being  counted  out  on  every  occasion). 

**  Thus,  in  asking  for  the  Parliamentary  Franchise,  we  are 
asking,  as  I  understand  it,  for  the  power  to  influence  legis- 
lation generally;  and  in  every  other  kind  of  franchise, 
municipal,  parochial,  or  otherwise,  for  similar  power  to 
bring  our  sense  of  justice  and  righteousness  to  bear  on 
public  affairs 

"  What  is  this,  after  aU,  my  friends,  but  PMio  Spirit ;  in 
one  shape  called  Patriotism,  in  another  Philanthropy ;  the 
extension  of  our  sympathies  beyond  the  narrow  bounds  of 
our  homes,  and  disinterested  enthusiasm  for  every  good 
and  sacred  cause?  As  I  said  at  first,  all  the  world  has 
recognised  from  the  earliest  times  how  good  and  noble  and 
wholesome  a  thing  it  is  for  men  to  have  their  breasts  filled 
with  such  public  spirit ;  and  we  look  upon  them  when  they 
exhibit  it  as  glorified  thereby.  Do  you  think  it  is  not 
equally  an  ennobling  thing  for  a  woman's  soul  to  be  like- 
wise filled  with  these  large  and  generous  and  unselfish 
emotions?"  2 


610  CHAPTER   XIX. 

I  draw  the  Lectures  to  a  conclusion  thus : — 

'*  None  of  as,  I  am  snre,  realise  how  blessed  a  thing  we 
might  make  of  our  lives  if  we  would  bnt  give  ourselves, 
heart  and  sonl,  to  fulfil  oil  the  obligations,  personal,  social 
and  religious  whidh  rest  upon  us ;  to  gain  the  strength — 

<  To  think,  to  feel,  to  do,  only  the  holy  Bight, 

To  yield  no  step  in  the  awfnl  race,  no  blow  in  the  fearful  fight,' 

to  live,  in  purity  and  truth  and  courage,  a  life  of  love  to 
Gk)d  and  to  man ;  striving  to  make  every  spot  where  we 
dwelli  every  region  to  which  our  influence  can  extend 
GoD*s  Kingdom,  where  His  Will  shall  be  done  on  earth  as  it 
is  done  in  heaven.*' 

Some  time  afler  the  delivery  of  these  addresses  when  the 
primrose  League  was  in  full  activity  I  wrote  at  the  request 
of  the  Committee  of  the  Women's  Suffirage  Association  a 
eircular-letter  to  the  "  Dames  "  (of  whom  I  am  one)  begging 
them  to  endeavour  to  make  the  granting  of  votes  to  women 
a  "  plank "  in  their  platform.  I  received  many  firiendly 
letters  in  reply — ^but  the  men  who  influenced  the  League, 
apparently  finding  that  they  could  make  the  Dames  do  their 
political  work  for  them  without  votes,  discouraged  all  move- 
ment in  the  desired  direction,  and  I  do  not  suppose  that 
anything  was  gained  by  my  attempt. 

My  last  effort  on  behalf  of  women  was  to  read  a  paper  on 
Women^s  Duty  to  Women  at  the  Conference  of  Women 
workers  held  at  Birpiingham  in  Nov.,  1890.  This  address 
was  received  with  such  exceeding  kindness  and  sympathy  by 
my  audience  that  the  little  event  has  lefb  very  tend^ 
recollections  which  I  am  glad  to  carry  with  me. 

I  will  record  here  two  paragraphs  which  I  should  like  to 
leave  as  my  last  appeal  on  behalf  of  my  sex. 

**It  may  be  an  open  question  whether  any  individual 
woman  suffers  more  severely  in  body  or  mind  than  any 


THE  OLAIAfS  OF  WOMBK.  «!l 

indiTidoal  man.  There  are  some  who  say  thai  all  onr 
passions  matched  with  theirs 

*  Are  as  moonlight  is  to  sonlight*  and  as  water  is  to  wine.* 

A  sentiment,  which  I  am  happy  to  tell  yon,  Lord  Tennyson 
has  angrily  disclaimed  as  his  own,  declaring  that  he  only 
'  put  it  into  the  month  of  an  impatient  fool.'  Bat  that  onr 
whole  sex  together  suffers  more  physical  pain,  more  want, 
more  grief,  than  the  other,  is  not,  I  think,  open  to  doubt. 
Even  if  we  pat  aside  the  poor  Chinese  women  maimed  from 
infancy,  the  Hindoo  women  against  whose  crnel  wrongs 
their  noble  coantryman,  Malabari,  has  just  been  pleading 
so  eloquently  in  London, — ^if  we  put  these  and  all  the  other 
prisoners  of  Eastern  Harems,  and  miserable  wives  of  African 
and  Australian  sayages  oat  of  question,  and  think  only  of 
the  oomparatiTely  free  and  happy  women  of  Christendom, 
how  much  more  UdbUe  to  mtLffltringt  if  not  always  actually 
condemned  to  suffer,  is  the  life  of  women  1  *  To  be  weak  is 
to  be  miserable,*  and  we  are  weak ;  always  comparatively  to 
onr  companions,  and  weak  often,  absolutely,  and  in  reference 
to  the  wants  we  must  supply,  the  duties  we  must  perform. 
Now,  it  seems  to  me  that  just  hi  proportion  as  any  one  is 
possessed  of  strength  of  mlud  or  of  body,  or  of  wealth  or 
influence,  so  far  it  behoves  him,  or  her,  to  turn  with 
sympathy  and  tender  helpfulness  to  the  weakest  and  most 
forlorn  of  God's  creatures,  whether  it  be  man  or  woman  or 
child,  or  even  Lrnte.  The  weight  of  the  claim  is  in  exact 
ratio  of  the  feebleness  and  helplessness  and  misery  of  the 

claimant. 

«  *  *  «  t 

'*  Thus,  then,  I  would  sum  up  the  counsels  which  I  am 
presuming  to  offer  to  you.  Yoa  will  all  remember  the 
famous  line  of  Terence,  at  which  the  old  Boman  audience 
rose  in  a  tumult  of  applause:  'I  am  a  Af an— nothing  human 
is  alien  to  me.*  I  would  have  each  of  yon  add  to  this  in  an 
emphatic  way.  '  MuUer  turn.  Nihil  muliebre  a  me  alienum 
pmto,*  '  I  am  a  woman.  Nothing  conoeming  the  interests 
of  women  is  alien  to  me.'   Take  the  sorrows,  the  wants,  the 


612  CHAPTER  XIX. 

dangers  (above  all  the  dangers)  of  our  Bisters  closely  to 
heart,  and,  without  ceasing  to  interest  yoorself  in  ohazitiea 
having  men  and  boys  for  their  objects,  recognise  that  youx 
ecurlier  care  should  be  for  the  weakest,  the  poorest,  thosa 
whose  dangers  are  worst  of  all — for,  (after  all)  rain  can  onlj 
drive  a  Man  to  the  workhouse;  it  may  drive  a  woman  tg 
perdition !  Think  of  all  the  weak,  the  helpless,  the  wronged 
women  and  little  children,  and  the  harmless  brates ;  and 
save  and  shield  them  as  best  yon  can ;  even  as  the  mother- 
bird  will  shelter  and  fight  for  her  little  helpless  fledgelings. 
This  is  the  natural  field  of  feminine  courage.  Then,  when 
you  have  found  yoxur  work,  whatever  it  be,  give  your- 
self to  it  with  all  your  heart,  and  make  the  resolution 
in  God*8  sight  never  to  go  to  your  rest  leaving  a 
stone  unturned  which  may  help  your  aims.  Half-and-half 
charity  does  very  little  good  to  the  objects;  and  is  a 
miserable,  slovenly  affair  for  the  workers.  And  when  the 
end  comes  and  the  night  closes  in,  the  long,  last  night  of 
earth,  when  no  man  can  work  any  more  in  this  world,  your 
milk-Gmd-water,  half-hearted  oharities  will  bring  no 
memories  qf  comfort  to  y«m.  They  are  not  so  many  '  good 
works'  which  you  can  place  on  the  credit  side  of  your 
account,  in  the  mean,  commercial  spirit  taught  by  some  of 
the  churches.  Nay,  rather  they  are  only  solemn  evidenoes 
that  you  knew  your  duty,  knew  you  might  do  good,  and  did  it 
not,  or  did  it  half-heartedly  I  What  a  thought  for  those 
last  days  when  we  know  ourselves  to  be  going  home  to  Qod, 
God — ^whom  at  bottom  after  all,  we  have  loved  and  shall 
love  for  ever ; — ^that  we  might  have  served  Him  here,  might 
have  blessed  his  creatures,  might  have  done  His  will  on 
earth  as  it  is  done  in  Heaven,  but  we  have  let  the  glorioxis 
chance  slip  by  us  for  ever.'* 


CHAPTER 


XX 


CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
Tm  Claims   of   Bbuteb. 

Readers  who  have  reached  this  twentietl 
Life  will  smile  (as  I  have  often  done  of  li 
ascription  to  me  in  sundry  not  very  friendly 
exclusive  sympathy  for  animals  and  total 
hnman  interests.  I  have  seen  myself  fre( 
as  a  woman  "who  would  sacrifice  any  : 
women  and  children,  sooner  than  that  a  fe 
be  inconvenienced."  Many  good  people  ap] 
me  to  represent  a  personal  survival  of  Totem 
and  to  worship  Dogs  and  Cats,  wliile  read; 
human  race  generally  to  destructioii. 

The  foregoing  pages,  describing  my  iile 
Ireland  and  the  years  which  1  spent  afkerw: 
the  slums  in  Bristol,  ought,  I  think,  to  su^ 
this  fancy  picture.    As  a  matter  of  &ct,  it  h  i 
late  years  and  since  their  wrongs  have  appe  i 
feelings  of  pity  and  to  my  moral  sense,  that  I  hav  i 
anv  peculiar  attention  on  animals  ;  or  have  I 
with  them  more  than  is  common  with  tli 
country  squires    to    whom  dogs,   horses    n 
familiar  subjects  of  interest  from  childhood, 
always  felt  much  affection  for  dogs :  that  is  i: 
who  exhibit  the  true  Dog-character, — ^whiti 
being  the  case  of  every  canine  creature  t    1 
their    joyousness,    their     transparent    little 
caressing  and  devoted  affection,  are  to  me  mori 
I  may  say,  more  really  and  intensely  human  { 
vhich  a  child  is  huni4n)<  than  the  artifioiali  c 


616  CHAPTER   XX. 

onaraetera  one  meets  too  often  in  the  goiBe  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen. It  is  not  the  fonr  legs,  nor  the  silky  or  shaggy  ooal 
of  the  dog  which  should  prevent  us  from  discerning  his  inner 
nature  of  Thought  and  Love ;  limited  Thought,  it  is  true ; 
hut  quite  nnlimited  Love.  That  he  is  dumh,  is,  to  me,  only 
another  claim  (as  it  would  he  in  a  human  child)  on  my  eon* 
sideration.  But  hecause  I  love  good  d(^,  and,  in  their 
measure  also,  good  horses  and  oats  and  hirds,  (I  had  onoe 
a  dear  and  lovely  white  pea-hen),  I  am  not  therefore  a 
morhid  Zoophilist,  I  should  he  very  sorry  indeed  to  say 
or  think  like  Byron  when  my  dog  dies,  that  I  ''had  hut 
one  true  friend,  and  here  he  lies  1 "  I  have, — ^thank  God ! — 
known  many  men  and  women,  who  have  all  a  dog's 
merits  of  honesty  and  sihgle-hearted  devotion  pltu  the 
virtues  which  can  only  flourish  on  the  high  level  of 
humanity ;  and  to  them  I  give  a  friendship  which  the  hest 
of  dogs  cannot  share. 

That  there  are  some  l^ons  in  the  world  whose  hearts, 
embittered  by  human  ingratitude,  have  turned  with  relief  to 
the  iaithful  love  of  a  dog,  I  am  very  well  aware.  Surely  the 
fact  makes  one  appeal  the  more  on  behalf  of  the  creatures 
who  thus  by  their  humble  devotion  heal  the  wounds  of 
disappointed  or  betrayed  affection ;  and  who  come  to  cheer 
the  lonely,  the  unloved,  the  dull-witted,  the  blind,  the 
poverty-stricken  whom  the  world  forsakes  ?  I  think 
Lamartine  was  right  to  treat  this  love  of  the  Dog  for  Man  as 
a  special  provision  of  Divine  mercy,  and  to  marvel, — 

**  Par  quelle  piti6  poor  nos  oobotb  11  vona  donn^ 
Pour  aimer  celtii  que  n'aune  pins  personnel " 

Not  a  few  deep  thanksgivings,  I  believe,  have  gone  up  to  the 
Maker  of  man  and  brute  for  the  silent  sympathy,-— expressed 
perhaps  in  no  nobler  way  than  by  the  gentle  licking  of  a 
passive  hand, — which  has  yet  saved  a  human  heart  from  the 
sense  of  utter  abandonment. 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  617 

But  I  have  no  snoh  sorrowfhl  or  embitterizig  experience  of 
hnman  affection.  I  do  not  say,  "  The  more  I  know  of  men 
the  more  I  love  dogs  " ;  but,  *'  The  more  I  know  of  dogs  the 
more  I  love  ihem^^^  without  any  invidious  comparisons  with 
men,  women,  or  children.  As  regards  the  children,  indeed, 
I  have  been  always  fond  of  those  which  came  in  my  way ;  and 
if  the  Tenth  Commandment  had  gone  on  to  forbid  coveting 
one's  neighbour's  " child"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  not 
have  had  to  plead  guilty  to  breaking  it  many  times. 

In  my  old  home  I  possessed  a  dear  Pomeranian  dog  of 
whom  I  was  very  fond,  who,  being  lame,  used  constantly  to 
ensconce  herself  (though  forbidden  by  my  father)  in  my 
mother's  carriage  under  the  seat,  and  never  showed  her  little 
pointed  nose  till  the  britzska  had  got  so  far  from  home  that 
she  knew  no  one  would  put  her  down  on  the  road.  Then 
she  would  peer  out  and  lie  against  my  mother's  dress  and  be 
fondled.  Later  on  I  had  the  companionship  of  another 
beautiful,  mouse-coloured  Pomeranian,  brought  as  a  puppy 
from  Switzerland.  In  my  hardworking  life  in  Bristol  in  the 
schools  and  workhouse  she  followed  me  and  ingratiated 
herself  everywhere,  and  my  solitary  evenings  were  much 
the  happier  for  dear  Hajjin's  company.  Many  years 
afterwards  she  was  laid  under  the  sod  of  onr  garden  in 
Hereford  S<][uare.  Another  dog  of  the  same  breed  whom  I 
sent  away  at  one  year  old  to  live  in  the  country,  was 
returned  to  me  eigJu  years  afterwards,  old  and  diseased. 
The  poor  beast  recognized  me  after  a  few  moments'  eager 
examuiation,  and  uttered  an  actual  scream  of  joy  when  I 
called  her  by  name ;  exhibiting  every  token  of  tender  affec- 
tion for  me  ever  afterwards.  When  one  reflects  what  eighr 
years  signify  in  the  life  of  a  dog, — almost  equivalent  to  the 
d-'stance  between  sixteen  and  sixty  in  a  human  being, — some 
measure  is  afforded  by  this  incident  of  the  durability  of  a 
dog's  attachment.     Happily,  kind  Dr.  Hoggan  cured  poor 


618  CHAPTER    XX. 

Dee  of  her  malady,  and  abe  and  I  eqoyed  five  happy  yeare 
of  oompanionahip  are  sfae  died  here  in  Hengwrt.  I  have 
dedicated  my  Frimd  of  Man  to  her  memory. 

Among  my  emaller  literary  tasks  in  London  I  wrote  an 
article  for  which  TSi.  Leslie  Stephen  (then  editing  the 
(hmluU  Magazine  in  which  it  appeared)  was  kind  enough  to 
^iress  particular  liking.  It  was  called  "  Dogi  tnhom  I  have 
nut;"  and  gave  an  acooont  of  many  canine  individnalities  of 
my  acquaintance.  I  also  wrote  an  artiale  in  the  Quarterly 
Revitm  on  the  Cotuewnuneat  of  Dogi  of  which  I  have  given 
above  (p.  127)  Mr.  Darwin's  favonrable  opinion,  Botii  of 
these  papers  are  reprinted  in  my  Falte  Beattt  and  True. 
Such  has  been  the  sum  total,  I  may  say,  of  my  personal 
concern  with  "I'mula  b^ore  and  apart  from  my  endeavonrs 
to  deliver  them  from  their  scientific  tormentors. 

It  was,  as  I  have  stated,  the  abominable  wrongs  endured 
by  animals  which  first  aroused,  and  has  permanently 
maintained,  my  special  interest  in  them.  My  great 
grandfather  hod  an  office  in  the  yard  at  Newbridge 
for  his  magisterial  work,  and  over  his  own  seat  he 
caused  to  be  inscribed  the  text :  "  Deliver  hint  that  it 
opprested  from  tht  hand  of  the  adversary."  I  know  not 
whether  it  were  a  juvenile  impression,  bnt  I  have  felt  all 
my  life  an  irresistible  impulse  to  rush  in  wherever  anyone  is 
"  oppreesed  "  and  try  to  "  deliver  "  him,  her,  or  tt,  aa  the 
ease  may  be,  from  the  "  adversary  I "  In  the  case  of  beasts, 
their  helplessness  and  speechlessness  appeal,  I  think,  to  every 
spark  of  gen^oslty  in  one's  heart ;  and  the  command,  "  Open 
Uiy  mouth  for  the  dumb,"  seems  the  very  echo  of  our 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BRUTES 

things,  and  learned  with  delight  from  my  fettlu 
ponds  on  my  own  acoomit.    Somehow  it  eai 
when,  at  sixteen,  my  mind  went  throogh  that 
which  Evangelicals  call  ''Oonvendon,"    an 
things  which  my  freshly-awakened  moral  sei 
was, — that  I  most  give  np  fishing  t    I  refleetc 
fishes  were  happy  in  their  way  in  their  propei 
we  did  not  in  the  least  need,  or  indeed  often 
food ;  and  that  I  must  no  longer  take  pleasure 
to  any  creature  of  God.    It  was  a  little  ei 
relinquish  this  amusement  in  my  very  quiet,  i 
hut,  as  the  good  Quaker's  say,  it  was  "  home  i 
I  had  to  do  it,  and  from  that  time  I  have  neve 
line  (though  I  have  heen  out  in  hoats  where  ] 
of  fish  were  caught  on  the  Atlantic  coast),  and  ! 
that  angling  scarcely  comes  under  the  head  oi 
and  is  perfectly  right  and  justifiable  when  the  i  \ 
for  food  and  are  killed  quickly.     I  used  to  sti  i 
after  I  had  ceased  to  fish,  over  one  of  the  | 
park  and  watch  the  bright  creatures  dart  hithe 
and  say  in  my  heart  a  little  thanksgiving  o  i 
instead  of  tr3ring  to  catch  them. 

Fifty  years  after  this  incident,  I  read  in  Jol  i 
(the  Quaker  Saint's,)  Journal^  Ohap.  XI.,  this  i 

*'I  believe,  where  the  love  of  Ood  is  verily 
the  true  spirit  of  government  watchfully  attei  i 
ness  towards  all  creatures  made  subject  u 
experienced,  and  a  care  felt  in  us  that  we  do  x 
sweetness  of  life  in  the  animal  creation  wl 
Creator  intends  for  them  under  our  govemmc: 

To  me  as  I  have  said  it  was  almost  the  fin{ 
advanced^  much  less  ''  perfected,"  religious  in: 
^  me  to  begin  to  recognise  the  claims  of  the  Jl 
pn  our  compassion.    Of  course,  I  disliked  then 


620  OHAPTEH    XX. 

himiingi  coursing  and  shooting ;  but  as  a  woman  I  was  not 
expected  to  join  in  snob  porsoits,  and  I  did  not  take  on 
myself  to  blame  those  who  followed  them.  I  do  not  now 
aUow  of  any  comparison  between  the  cruelty  of  such  FiM 
Sports  and  the  deliberate  Chamber-Sport  of  Vivisection. 

I  shall  now  relate  as  succinctly  as  possible  the  history  of 
the  Anti- vivisection  Movement,  so  far  as  I  have  had  to  do 
with  it.  Of  course  an  immense  amount  of  work  for  the 
same  end  has  been  carried  on  all  these  twenty  years  by  other 
Zoophilists  with  whom  I  have  had  no  immediate  connection, 
or  perhaps  cognizance  of  their  labours,  but  without  whose 
assistance  the  Society  which  I  helped  to  found  certainly  could 
not  have  made  as  much  way  as  it  has  done.  I  only  presume 
here  to  tell  the  story  of  the  Victoria  Street  Society,  and  the 
occurrences  which  led  to  its  formation. 


In  the  year  1868,  there  appeared  in  several  English  news- 
papers complaints  of  the  cruelties  practised  in  the  Veterinary 
Schools  at  Alfort  near  Paris.  The  students  were  taught 
there,  as  in  most  other  continental  veterinary  schools,  to 
perform  operations  on  Itinng  animals,  and  so  to  acquire,  (at 
the  cost,  of  course,  of  untold  suffering  to  the  victims,)  the 
same  manipulative  skill  which  English  students  gain  equally 
well  by  practising  on  dead  carcases.  Living  horses  were 
supplied  to  the  Alfort  students  on  which,  at  the  time  I  speak 
4>f,  they  performed  sixty  operations  apiece,  including  every 
one  in  common  use,  and  many  which  were  purely  academic, 
being  never  employed  in  actual  practice  because  the  horse, 
afber  enduring  them,  becomes  necessarily  useless.  These 
operations  lasted  eight  hours,  and  the  aspect  of  the  mangled 
creatures,  hoofless,  eyeless,  burned,  gashed,  eviscerated, 
skinned,  mutilated  in  every  conceivable  way,  appalled  the 


THE  0LA1M8  OF  BRUTES.  621 

viflitorsi  who  reported  the  facts,  while  it  afforded,  they  said, 
a  subject  of  merriment  to  the  horde  of  stndents.  The 
English  Society  for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animdls  laudably 
exerted  itself  to  stop  these  atrocities,  and  appealed  to  the 
Emperor  to  interfere ;  not,  perhaps,  very  hopefnlly,  since,  as 
I  have  heard.  Napoleon  m.  was  in  the  habit  of  attending 
these  hideons  spectacles  in  his  own  imperial  person  on  the 
Thursdays  on  which  they  took  place.  This  circumstance, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  Empress'  patronage  of  Bull- 
Fights,  has  made  Sedan  seem  to  me  an  event  on  which  the 
animal  world,  at  all  events,  has  to  be  congratulated. 

Some  years  later  Mr.  James  Oowie  took  over  to  France  an 
Appeal,  signed  by  600  English  Veterinarians  intreating  their 
French  colleagues  to  adopt  the  English  practice  of  using 
only  dead  carcases  for  the  exercises  of  students.  Through 
this  and  other  good  offices  it  is  understood  that  the  number 
and  severity  of  the  operations  performed  at  Alfort,  and  else- 
where in  France,  were  then  greatly  reduced.  Unhappily  the 
humane  regulations  made  in  1878  are  now  evaded,  and  th« 
dreadful  cruelties  above  described  have  been  actually  witnessed 
by  Mr.  Peabody  and  Dr.  Baudry,  in  1895. 

On  reading  of  these  cruelties  I  wrote  an  article.  The 
EightB  of  Man  and  the  Claims  of  Brutes,  which  I  hoped  might 
help  to  direct  public  attention  to  them.  In  this  paper  I 
endeavoured  to  work  out  as  best  I  could  the  ethical  problem 
(which  I  at  once  perceived  to  be  beset  with  difficulties)  of  a 
defiboition  of  the  limits  of  human  rights  over  animals. 
My  article  was  published  by  Mr.  Froude  in  Fraser*s 
Magazine  for  Nov.,  1868,  and  was  subsequently  reprinted 
in  my  Stfudies  Ethical  and  Social.  It  was,  so  £Eur  as  I  know 
the  first  effort  made  to  deal  with  the  moral  questions  involved 
in  the  torture  of  ^nimftlfi  either  for  sake  of  scientific  and 
therapeutic  research,  or  for  the  aoqoirement  of  manipulative 
skill.    In  the  80  years  which  have  elapsed  since  I  wrote  it  I 


622  CHAPTER  XX. 

have  seen  reason  to  raise  considerably  the  **  claims  "  which 
I  then  urged  on  behalf  of  the  bmtes,  bat  I  observe  that  new 
recrnits  to  our  Anti-vivisection  party  usually  begin  exactly 
where  I  stood  at  that  time,  and  annonnce  their  ideas  to  me 
as  their  mature  conclusions. 

The  same  month  of  November,  1868,  in  which  my  article, 
(written  some  weeks  before,  while  I  was  ill  and  lame  at 
Aix-les-Bains),  appeared  in  Frasery  I  was  living  near 
Florence,  and  was  startled  by  hearing  of  similar  cruelties 
practised  at  the  Specola,  where  Prof.  Schiff  had  his  laboratoiy. 
My  friend  Miss  Blagden  and  I  were  holding  our  usual  weekly 
reception  in  YiUa  Brichieri  on  Bellosguardo,  and  we  learned 
that  many  of  our  guests  had  been  shocked  by  the  rumours  which 
had  reached  them.  In  particular  the  American  physician  who 
had  accompanied  Theodore  Parker  to  Florence  and  attended 
him  in  his  last  days, — ^Dr.  Appleton,  of  Harvard  University, — 
told  us  that  he  himself  had  gone  over  Prof.  SchifiTs 
laboratory,  and  had  seen  dogs,  pigeons  and  other  animals  in 
a  frightfully  mangled  and  suffering  state.  A  Tuscan  officer 
had  seen  a  cat  so  tortured  that  he  forced  Schiff  to  kiU  it. 
Some  50  or  60  letters  had  been  (or  were  afterwards)  lodged 
at  the  Maine  from  neighbours  complaining  of  the  disturbance 
caused  by  the  cries  and  moans  of  the  victims  in  the  Specola, 
After  much  conversation  I  asked,  What  could  be  done  to 
check  these  systematic  cruelties,  which  no  Tuscan  law  could 
then  touch  in  any  way  ?  It  was  suggested  that  a  Memorial 
should  be  addressed  to  Prof.  Schiff  himself,  urging  him  to 
spare  his  victims  as  much  as  possible.  This  Memorial  I 
drafted  at  once,  and  it  was  translated  into  Italian  and  sent 
round  Florence  for  signatures.  Mrs.  Somerville  placed  her 
name  at  the  head  of  it ;  and  through  her  earnest  exertions  and 
those  of  her  daughters  and  of  several  other  friends,  the  Hst  of 
supporters  soon  became  very  weighty.  Among  the  FiUgliah 
signatures  was  those  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  (who  added 


THU  CLAIMS  OF  BRUT 

gome  words  so  violent  that  I  was  obliged  i( 
and  among  the  Italians  almost  the  whole  h 
of  old  Florence, — Corsi's  and  Corsini's,  t 
and  Strozzi'Sy  and  a  hundred  more,  the  : 
names  recalled  Medicean  times.    In  all,  thei 
tories.   Very  few  of  them  were  of  the  mezzo-t 
belonged  to  the  (Bed)  Bepublican  party.     E 
a  "  Bed,"  and,  as  such,  he  might,  apparen 
cmelty  he  thought  fit,  inasmuch    as    he 
vivisectors  (we  were  told  by  a  lady  promineo 
were  seeking  "  the  religion  of  the  future" — . 
entrails  of  the  tortured  beasts  I   The  same  lad; 
her  wish  that  "  every  animal  in  creation  shot 
if  only  to  discover  a  single  fact  of  science."     j 
woman  (also  married  to  a  foreigner)  wrote  tc 
to  praise  Schiff  for  ''  actively  pursuing  Yivis^ 

The  Memorial,  as  often  happens,  did  i 
Plrofessor  Schiff  tossing  it  aside,  and  pol 
the  signatories,  (in  the  Nazione  newspaper,) 
Marqtds.**  But  it  certainly  caused  the  subj 
discussed,  and  doubtless  prepared  the  way  foi 
and  lawsuits  concerning  the  '< nuisances" 
dogs,  which  eventually  made  Florence  an  m 
for  Professor  Schiff.  He  retreated  thence 
1877.  The  Florentine  Societh  ProUectrice  dsi 
founded  by  Countess  Baldelli  in  1873,  a] 
agitation  there  against  Vivisection  ever  since. 

Meanwhile  on  the  presentation  of  the  Mem 
Schiff  wrote  a  letter  in  the  Nazione  (the  chii 
Florence)  denying  the  facts  mentioned  in  tl 
official  Correspondent  of  the  Daily  News,  and 
said  correspondent  to  come  forward  and 
statement.  I  instantly  wrote  a  letter  saying 
Daily    News*  Correspondent  ib  Florence; 


624  CHAPTER    XX. 

oomplained  of  was  mine ;  and  that  for  verification  of  my 
assertions  therein  I  appended  a  ftdl  and  signed  statement  by 
Dr.  Appleton  of  what  he  had  himself  witnessed  in  the  Speoola, 

It  was  rather  difficult  for  me  then  to  believe  that  this 
letter  of  mine  (in  Italian  of  course)  duly  signed  and 
authenticated  with  name,  date  and  place,  was  refused 
publication  in  the  paper  wherein  I  had  been  challenged  to 
come  forward !  On  learning  this  amazing  fact,  I  requested 
Dr.  Appleton  to  go  down  again  to  Florence  and  ask  the 
editor  of  the  Ncudone  to  publish  my  letter  if  in  no  other 
way,  at  least  as  a  paid  advertisement.  The  answer  made 
by  the  editor  to  Dr.  Appleton  was,  that  it  might  be  inserted, 
but  only  among  the  advertisements  in  certain  columns  of 
the  paper  where  no  decent  reader  would  look  for  it.  N.B. — 
the  Naaians  replenished  its  exchequer  by  the  help  of  thai 
class  of  notices  which  are  declined  by  every  reputable  English 
newspaper.  After  this  Dr.  Appleton  went  in  despair  to 
Professor  Schifif  himself,  aud  told  him  he  was  bound  in 
honour,  (seeing  he  had  made  the  challenge  to  us,)  to  compel 
the  editor  to  print  our  answer.  The  learned  and  scientific 
gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  in  the  ficuse  of 
the  American  who  could  imagine  him  to  be  so  simple  1 

I  left  Florence  soon  afber  this  first  brush  with  the  demon 
of  Vivisection,  but  retained  (as  will  easily  be  understood)  very 
strong  feelings  on  the  subject. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  British  Association  in  Liverpool  in 
1870  a  Committee  was  appointed  to  consider  the  subject  of 
"Physiological  Experimentation,"  and  their  Bepoit  was 
published  in  the  Medical  Times  and  Gazette^  Feb.  25th, 
1871 ;  and  in  British  Assoc.  Eeports,  1871,  p.  144.  It 
consists  of  the  following  four  Rules  or  Recommendations  on 
the  subject  of  Vivisection : — 

'*  (I.)  No  experiment  which  can  be  performed  under  the 
influence  of  an  auflBsthetio  ought  to  be  done  without  it. 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRtJTl 

(n.)    No  painful  experiment  is  jnstifial 
purpose  of  illustrating  a  law  or  fact  alreai 
in  other  words,  experimentation  without 
of  an»sthetics  is  not  a  fitting   exhibitl 
purposes.    (TTT.)  Wheneyer,  for  the  inv€ 
truth,  it  is  necessary  to  make  a  painful  a 
effort  should  be  made  to  ensure  success,  ) 
Bufferings  inflicted  may  not  be  wasted, 
no  painful   experiment   ought   to  be   p< 
unskilled    person,    with    insufficient     ii 
assistants,  or  in  places  not  suitable  to  the 
to  say,  anywhere  except  in  physiological  \ 
laboratories,    under    proper    regulations, 
scientific  preparation  for  yeterinary   prac 
ought  not  to  be  performed  upon  liying  \ 
mere  purpose  of  obtaining  greater  operatiyt 

These  four  Bules  were  eountersigned  by 
G,  M.  Htrniphry  (now  Sir  George  Humphry) 
Arthur  Gamgee,  William  Flower,  J".  Burdon 
George  BoUeston,  Of  course  we,  who  attende( 
Liverpool  Meeting  of  the  British  Association 
the  President  laud  Dr.  Brown-S^uard  < 
greatly  rejoiced  at  this  humane  Ukase  of  auto 

But  as  time  passed  we  were  surprised  to  fi 
was  done  to  enforce  these  rules  in  any  way  o; 
and  that  the  particular  practice  which  they 
condemn,  namely,  the  use  of  vivisections  as 
recognised  facts, — was  flourishing  more  tha 
let  or  hindrance.     The  prospectuses  of  Unive 
1874-5,  of  Guy*8  Hospital  Medical  School 
Thomas's  Hospital,  of  Westminster  Hospital  j 
etc.,  all  mentioned  among  their  attractions; 
tions  on  living    animals;*'    '^Gentlemen    y 
perform  the  experiments ;"  &c.,   and  quite 
whatever  had  been  said  against  them. 


626  CHAPTER   XX. 

Bat  worse  remained.  One  of  the  signatories  of  the  above 
Rules  (or  as  perhaps  we  may  more  properly  call  them,  these 
**  Pious  Opinions  "  /), — ^the  most  eminent  of  English  physiolo- 
gists. Prof.  Bnrdon-Sanderson  himself,  edited  and  brought 
out  in  1878,  the  Handbook  of  the  Physiological  Laboraiory^ 
to  which  he.  Dr.  Lander-Brunton,  Dr.  Elein,  and  Dr.  Foster 
were  joint  contributors.  This  celebrated  work  is  a  Manual 
of  Exercises  in  Vivisection,  intended  (as  the  Preface  says) 
"  for  beginners  in  Physiological  work."  The  following  are 
observations  on  this  book  furnished  to  the  Boyal  Commission 
by  Mr«  Colam,  and  printed  in  Appendix  iv.,  p.  879,  of  their 
lUport  and  Mvnutes  of  Evidence : — 

"  That  the  object  of  the  editor  and  his  coadjutors  was  to 
induce  young  persons  to  perform  experiments  on  their  own 
account  and  without  adequate  surveillance  is  manifest 
throughout  the  work,  by  the  supply  of  elementary  knowledge 
and  elaborate  data.  Not  only  are  the  names  and  quantities 
of  necessary  chemicals  given,  but  the  most  careful  descrip- 
tion is  provided  in  letter-press  and  plates  of  implements  for 
holding  animals  daring  their  struggles,  so  that  a  novice  may 
learn  at  home  without  a  teacher.  Besides,  the  editor*8 
preface  states,  that  the  book  is  '  intended  for  beginners,* 
and  that  'difficult  and  complicated'  experiments  conse- 
quently have  been  omitted ;  and  that  of  Dr.  Foster  allures 
the  student  by  assurances  of  ine^Mpensive  as  well  as  easy 
manipulation.  .  .  .  Very  seldom  indeed  is  the  student 
told  to  ansBsthetise,  and  then  only  during  an  operation.  It 
cannot  be  allegecl  that  <  beginners  *  know  when  to  narcotise, 
and  when  not ;  but  if  they  do  then  the  few  directions  to  use 
chloral,  &c.,  are  unnecessary.  No  doubt  should  have  been 
left  on  this  point  in  a  Handbook  designed  *  for  beginners.* 
Besides,  where  will  students  find  cautions  against  the 
infliction  of  unnecessary  pain,  and  wanton  experimentation  ? 
On  the  contrary,  the  student  is  encouraged  to  repeat 
the  torture  'any  number  of  times.*  These  facts  are 
significant.*' 


tH^  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  627 

In  the  MinutM  of  Evidence  of  the  Boyal  Commission  we 
find  that  the  late  Prof.  Bolleston,  of  Oxford,  heing  under 
examination,  was  asked  hy  Mr.  Button :  ''Then  I  understand 
that  your  opinion  about  the  Handbook  is,  that  it  is  a  dangerous 
book  to  society,  and  that  it  has  warranted  to  some  extent  the 
feeling  of  anxiety  in  the  public  which  its  publication  has 
created  ?  "  Prof.  Bolleston :  ^^  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  that 
I  do  think  it  is  so**  (1851).  In  his  own  examination  Prof. 
Burdon-Sanderson  admitted  that  the  use  of  ansBsthetics 
whenever  possible  **  ought  to  have  been  stated  much  more 
distinctly  at  the  beginning  of  his  book  "  (2266),  and  agreed 
to  Lord  Gardwell's  suggestion,  "  Then  I  may  assume  that  in 
any  future  communication  with  '  beginners '  greater  pains  wiU 
he  taken  to  make  them  distmcUy  understand  how  animals  may  be 
saved  from  suffering  than  has  been  taken  in  this  book?  "  "  Yes," 
said  Dr.  B.-S.,  "I  am  quite  willing  to  say  that "  (2266). 

Esoteric  Vivisection  it  will  be  observed,  as  revealed  in 
Handbooks  for  "  Beginners,"  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
Exoteric  Vivisection,  described  for  the  benefit  of  the  outside 
public  as  if  regulated  by  the  Four  Rules  above  quoted  1 

The  following  year,  1874,  certain  experiments  were  per- 
formed before  a  Medical  Oongress  at  Norwich.  They  consisted 
in  the  injection  of  alcohol  and  of  absinthe  into  the  veins  of 
dogs ;  and  were  done  by  M.-  Magnan,  an  eminent  French 
physiologist,  who  has  in  recent  years  described  sympathy  for 
animals  as  a  special  form  of  insanity.  Mr.  Colam,  on  behalf 
of  the  B.S.P.C.A.,  very  properly  instituted  a  prosecution 
against  M.  Magnan,  under  the  Act  12  and  18  Yict.,  c.  92; 
and  brought  Sir  William  Fergnsson,  and  Dr.  Tufiiell  (the 
President  of  the  Irish  College  of  Surgeons)  to  swear  that  his 
experiments  were  useless.  M.  Magnan  withdrew  speedily  to 
his  own  country  or  a  conviction  would  certainly  have  been 
obtained  against  him.  But  it  was  not  merely  on  proof  of  the 
infliction  of  torture  that  Mr.  Colam's  Society  relied  to  obtair 


628  CHAPTER   XX. 

BQch  conviction,  bat  on  the  high  scientific  authority  which 
they  were  able  to  bring  to  prove  that  the  torture  was 
scientifically  useless.  Failing  such  testimony^  which  wonld 
generally  be  nnattainable,  it  was  recognised  that  the  application 
of  the  Act  in  question  (Martin's  Act  amended)  to  scienU/ic 
omelties,  which  it  had  not  been  framed  to  meet,  wonld  always 
be  beset  with  difficulties.  It  became  thenceforth  apparent  to 
the  friends  of  animals  that  some  new  legislation,  calculated 
to  reach  offenders  pleading  scientific  purpose  for  barbarous 
experiments  was  urgently  needed ;  and  the  existence  of  the 
Handbook,  with  minute  directions  for  performing  hundreds 
of  operations, — many  of  them  of  extreme  severity, — ^proved 
that  the  danger  was  not  remote  or  theoretical ;  but  already 
present  and  at  our  doors. 

A  few  weeks  after  this  trial  at  Norwich  had  taken 
place,  and  had  justly  gained  great  applause  for  Mr.  Golam 
and  the  B.S.P.C.A.,  Mrs.  Luther  Holden,  wife  of  the 
eminent  surgeon,  then  Senior  Surgeon  of  St.  Bartholomew's 
Hospital,  called  on  me  in  Hereford  Square  to  talk  over 
the  matter  and  take  counsel  as  to  what  could  be  done 
to  strengthen  the  law  in  the  desired  direction.  The 
great  and  wealthy  B.S.P.G.A.  was  obviously  the  body 
with  which  it  properly  lay  to  promote  the  needed  legislation ; 
and  it  only  seemed  necessary  to  give  the  Committee  of  that 
Society  proof  that  public  opinion  would  strongly  support 
them  in  calling  for  it,  to  induce  them  to  bring  a  suitable  Bill, 
into  Parliament  backed  by  their  abundant  influence.  I 
agreed  to  draft  a  Memorial  to  the  Committee  of  the 
B.S.P.C.A.  praying  it  to  undertake  this  task ;  after  learning 
from  Mr.  Colam  that  such  an  appeal  would  be  altogether 
welcome  ;  and  I  may  add  that  I  received  cordial  assistance 
from  him  in  arranging  for  its  presentation. 

It  was  a  difficult  task  for  me  to  draw  up  that  Memorial, 
but,  such  as  it  was,  it  acted  as  a  spark  to  tinder,  showing 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES,  029 

how  mnoh  latent  feeliiig  existed  on  the  sabjeot.  Many 
ladies  and  gentlemen :  notably  the  Gonntess  of  Gamperdown, 
the  Countess  of  Portsmonth  (now  the  Dowager  Gonntess), 
General  Golin  Mackenzie,  Gol.  Wood  (now  Sir  Evelyn)  and 
others,  exerted  themselves  most  earnestly  to  obtain  influen- 
tial signatures  in  their  circles,  and  distributed  in  all  directions 
copies  of  the  Memorial  and  of  two  pamphlets  I  wrote  to 
accompany  it — ** Reasons  for  Interference''  and  **Need 
of  a  Bill.'*  With  their  help  in  the  course  of  about 
six  weeks,  (without  advertisements  or  paid  agency 
of  any  kind),  we  obtained  600  signatures;  every 
one  of  which  represented  a  man  or  woman  of  some 
social  importance.  The  first  to  sign  it  was  my  neighbour 
and  friend,  Bev.  Gerald  Blunt,  rector  of  Ghelsea.  After  him 
came  Mr.  Garlyle,  Tennyson,  Browning,  Mr.  Lecky,  Sir 
Arthur  Helps,  Sir  W.  Fergusson,  John  Bright,  Mr.  Jowett, 
the  Archbishop  of  York  (Dr.  Thomson),  Sir  Edwin  Arnold, 
the  Primate  of  Ireland  (Marcus  Beresford),  Cardinal  Manning 
(then  Archbishop  of  Westminster),  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Northumberland,  John  Buskin,  James  Martineau,  the  Duke 
of  Butland,  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Lord  Coleridge,  Lord 
Selbome,  Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly,  the  Bishops  of  Winchester, 
Exeter,  Salisbury,  Manchester,  Bath  and  Wells,  Hereford, 
St.  Asaph,  and  Derry,  Lord  Bussell,  and  many  other  peers 
and  M.P.'s,  and  no  less  than  78  medical  men,  several  of 
whom  were  eminent  in  the  profession. 

I  shall  insert  here  a  few  of  the  replies,  favourable  and 
otherwise,  which  I  received  to  my  invitations  to  sign  the 
Memorial. 

**  Bishopthorpe,  York, 

"  Dec.  28th,  1874. 

'*  The  Archbishop  of  York  presents  his  compliments  to 
Miss  Cobbe  and  begs  to  enclose  the  Memorial  signed  by 
him* 


630  CHAPTER   XX. 

***  Exception  to  goggestion  8rd/  on  the  prohibition  of 
publishing,  whioh  he  thinks  unworkable,  and  therefore 
(illegible)  to  the  Memorial.  If  howeyer  it  is  too  late  to 
alter  it,  he  will  not  stand  ont  eyen  on  that  point. 

"  He  thinks  the  praotices  in  question  detestable.  The 
Norwich  oase  was  a  disgrace  to  the  country. 

"  The  Archbishop  thanks  Miss  Cobbe  for  myiting  him  to 
sign.** 

••  A.  B.  Beresford-Hope  to  Miss  F.  P.  O. 
**  Bedgebury  Park,  Granbrook, 

^  Jan.  26th,  1875. 
'*  Dear  Madam, 

"  Lady  Mildred  and  myself  trust  that  it  is  not  too  late 
to  enclose  to  you  the  accompanying  signatures  to  the 
Memorial  against  Yiviseotion,  although  the  day  fixed  for  its 
return  has  unfortunately  been  allowed  to  elapse.  We  can 
assure  you  of  our  very  hearty  sympathy  in  the  cause ;  the 
delay  has  wholly  come  of  oyersight. 

•*  In  regard  to  the  details  of  the  suggestions,  I  must  be 
allowed  to  express  my  doubt  as  to  the  feasibility  of  the 
8rd  suggestion.  Its  stringency  would  I  fear  defeat  its  own 
object.  I  sympathise  too  much  with  the  question  in  itself 
to  decline  signing  on  account  of  this  proposal,  but  I  must 
request  to  be  considered  as  a  dissentient  on  that  head* 

**  Believe  me,  dear  Madamj  yours  yery  faithlolly, 

**A.  B.  Bbbbstobd-Hopk.** 

••  B.  Jowett  to  Miss  F.  P.  C. 

"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  have  much  pleasure  in  signiog  the  paper  which  you 
kindly  sent  me. 

**  Yours  yery  sinoerelyi 

"  Jan.  15th,  Oxford.**  '•  B.  Jowitt. 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTH 

'*  6,  Gordon  Street,  Lon 

"Jan 
"  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  ahoald  have  been  very  sorry  not  to  jc 
against  this  hideous  offence,  and  am  tml; 
for  famishing  me  with  the  opportmiity.  1 
loss,  from  the  Morals  of  onr  *  advanced '  i 
all  reverent  sentiment  towards  beings  « 
towards  beings  heloxvt  is  a  cnrions  and  in 
menon,  highly  significant  of  the  process  wh 
is  undergoing  at  both  ends. 

"  With  truest  wishes  for  many  a  happy  and 

"Everfaithfn 
"  James 

**  Manchester, 

••  Deceml 

'*  The  Bishop  of  Manchester  "  [Dr.  Frasei 

compliments  to  Miss  Cobbe,  and  thanks  her 

the  opportunity  of  appending  his  name  to 

which  has  his  most  hearty  concurrence.*' 

"Palace,  Salisbi 

"  11th  J 

"  The  Bishop  of  Salisbury's  compliments 

He  cannot  withhold  his  signature  to  her  Pap 

the  *  reasons  which  she  has  kindly  sent  him. 

"AdJington  Park,  Gro 

"  Janus 
'*  Madam, 

"I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  8 

subject  of  the  Memorial  to  the  Society 

of  Cruelty  to  Animals  with  regard  to  Yivise 

"I  hardly  think  I  should   be    right,    c 

imperfect  acquaintance  with  the  subject, 

name  thereto  at  present. 

"  Believe  me  to  be,  yours  faithful] 

"  A.  C.  C 

(Arcl 


«32  CHAPTER   XX. 

«<  Deanery,  Carlisle, 

"  Janaary  20ih,  1875. 
••  Dear  Madam, 

**  If  I  had  a  hnndred  signatures  yon  should  have  ihem  all! 

"  My  heart  has  long  hnmed  with  indignation  against 
these  murderers  and  torturers  of  innocent  animals. 

'*  Was  it  for  this  that  the  great  God  made  man  the  Lord 
of  the  creation? 

"  It  is  incredible  hypocrisy  and  folly  to  pretend  that  sn<di 
wholesale  torture  is  necessary  to  enlighten  these  stupid 
doctors  I 

"It  seems  to  me  peculiarly  ungrateful  in  man,  to  break 
forth  in  this  wholesale  Animal  Inquisition  when  Providence 
has  so  recently  revealed  to  us  several  new  natural  powers 
whereby  human  suffering  is  so  much  diminished. 

"  But  I  must  restrain  my  feelings,  and  you  must  pardon 
me.    I  did  not  know  that  this  good  work  was  begun. 

'*  Only  get  some  thoroughgoing  and  able  friend  of  the 
animal  world  to  tell  the  tale  to  a  British  House  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  these  philosophic  torturers  will  be  stayed  in  their 

detestable  course. 

"Yours, 

"F.  Closb.'* 

(Dean  of  Oarlisle.) 

'^  HI,  Cornwall  Gardens,  S.W., 

"  December  80th,  1874. 
*'  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  have  an  impression  that  the  subject  of  Vivisection  ia 
to  be  brought  before  the  Senate  of  the  University  of  London, 
which  consists  mainly  of  great  physicians  and  surgeons, 
but  of  which  I  am  a  member.  Hence  I  think  I  hardly 
ought  to  sign  the  paper  you  have  sent  me. 

**  This,  you  see  is  an  official  answer,  but  I  am  glad  to  be 
able  to  make  it,  for  the  truth  is  I  have  neither  thought  nor 
enquired  sufficiently  about  Vivisection  td  be  ready  with  a 
clear  opinion. 

"  Even  if  the  utmost  be  proved  against  the  vivisectors, 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  they  ought  to  be  dealt  with  as 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BRUT. 

gnilty  of  a  nevo  offence,  and  not  of  an  ol^ 
all  like  the  notion  of  bringing  old  laws  siK 
against  omelty  to  animals,  to  bear  on  a  d 
contemplated  at  the  time  of  their  ena« 
certain  resemblance  to  enforcing  the  old  ] 
againRt  persons  who  discnss  Christianii 
philosophical  spirit.    Perhaps  I  am  the  t 
this  point  since  a  friend  elaborately  del 
that  I  was  liable  to  prosecution  for  what 
very  innocent  passage  in  a  book  of  mine  I 

••  Belieye  me,  very  truly  yom 

"H.  S. 
(Sir  Henry  Si 

'*  16,  George  Street,  Hanov 
*<  19th  December, 
**  Dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

"  I  have  affixed  my  name  with  much  sa 
Memorial,  and  I  presume  that  you  intend  i 
be  in  largest  number  on  the  list. 

••  Yours  faith 

(Sir  William  Fergusson,  F 
Serjeant- Surgeon  i 


This  Memorial  having  a  certain  important 
of  our  movement,  I  quote  the  principal  parag 

*'  The  practice  of  Vivisection  has  receiver 
enormous  extension.  Instead  of  an  occasit 
made  by  a  man  of  high  scientific  attainme 
some  important  problem  of  physiology, 
feasibility  of  a  new  surgical  operation,  it  1 
the  every-day  exercise  of  hundreds  of  p] 
young   students    of   physiology  throughoi 


634  OHAPTER    XX, 

America.  In  the  latter  conntry,  lecturers  in  most  of  tb« 
schools  employ  living  animals  instead  of  dead  for  ordinary 
illustrations,  and  in  Italy  one  physiologist  alone  has  for  some 
years  past  experimented  on  more  than  800  dogs  annually. 
A  recent  correspondence  in  the  Spectator  sho^s  that 
many  English  physiologists  contemplate  the  indefinite 
multiplication  of  such  vivisections;  some  (as  Dr.  Pye- 
Smith)  defending  them  as  illustrations  of  lectures,  and 
some  (as  Mr.  Ray-Lankester)  frankly  avowing  that 
one  experiment  must  lead  to  another  ad  infinitunk. 
Every  real  or  supposed  discovery  of  one  physiologist 
unmediately  causes  the  repetition  of  his  experiments 
by  scores  of  students.  The  most  numerous  and  important 
of  these  researches  being  connected  with  the  nervous 
system,  the  use  of  complete  ansBsthetics  is  practically 
prohibited.  Even  when  employed  during  an  operation,  the 
effect  of  the  ansesthetic  of  course  shortly  ceases,  and,  for 
the  completion  of  the  experiment,  the  animal  is  left  to  suffer 
the  pain  of  the  laceration  to  which  it  has  been  subjected. 
Another  class  of  experiments  consists  in  superinducing  some 
special  disease ;  such  as  alcoholism  (tried  by  M.  Magnan  on 
dogs  at  Norwich),  and  the  peculiar  malady  arising  from 
eating  diseased  pork  (Trichiniasis),  superinduced  on  a 
number  of  rabbits  in  (Germany  by  Dr.  Virchow.  How  far 
public  opinion  is  becoming  deadened  to  these  practices  is 
proved  by  the  frequent  recurrence  in  the  newspapers  of 
paragraphs  simply  alluding  to  them  as  matters  of  scientific 
interest  involving  no  moral  question  whatever.  One  such 
recently  appeared  in  a  highly  respectable  Beview,  detailing 
a  French  physiologist's  efforts,  first  to  drench  the  veins  of 
dogs  with  alcohol,  and  then  to  produce  spontaneous  com- 
bustion. Such  experiments  as  these,  it  is  needless  to  remark, 
cannot  be  justified  as  endeavours  to  mitigate  the  sufferings 
of  humanity,  and  are  rather  to  be  characterised  as  gratifica- 
tions of  the  '  dilettantism  of  discovery.' 

"The  recent  trial  at  Norwich  has  established  the  fact 
that,  in  a  public  Medical  Congress,  and  sanctioned  by  a 
majority  of  the  members,  an  experiment  was  tried  which 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  635 

iias  sinoe  been  formally  pronoimoed  by  two  of  the  most 
eminent  Burgeons  in  the  kingdom  to  haye  been  '  cruel  and 
unnecessary.*  We  have,  therefore,  too  much  reason  to  fear 
that  in  laboratories  less  exposed  to  public  view,  and  among 
inconsiderate  young  students,  very  much  greater  abuses 
take  place  which  call  for  repression. 

*'  It  isearnestly  urged  by  your  Memorialists  that  the  great 
and  influential  Royal  Society  for  the  Prerention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals  may  see  fit  to  undertake  the  task  (which  appears 
strictly  to  fall  within  its  province)  of  placing  suitable  restric- 
tions on  this  rapidly  increasing  evil.  The  vast  benefit  to 
the  cause  of  humanity  which  the  Society  has  in  the  past 
half-century  effected,  would,  in  our  humble  estimation, 
remain  altogether  one-sided  and  incomplete ;  if,  while  brutal 
carters  and  ignorant  costermongers  are  brought  to  punish- 
ment for  maltreating  the  animals  under  their  charge, 
learned  and  refined  gentlemen  should  be  left  unquestioned 
to  inflict  far  more  exquisite  pain  upon  still  more  sensitive 
creatures ;  as  if  the  mere  allegation  of  a  scientific  purpose 
removed  them  above  all  legal  or  moral  responsibility. 

**  We  therefore  beg  respectfully  to  urge  on  the  Committee 
the  iu^m'^diate  adoption  of  such  measures  as  may  approve 
themselves  to  their  judgment  as  most  suitable  to  promote 
the  end  in  view,  namely,  the  Bestriction  of  Vivisection; 
and  we  trust  that  it  may  not  be  left  to  others,  who  possess 
neither  the  wealth  or  organization  of  the  Royal  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  to  make  such  efforts 
in  the  same  direction  as  might  prove  to  be  in  their  power." 

It  was  arranged  that  the  Memorial  should  be  presented  in 
Jermyn  Street  in  a  formal  manner  on  the  25th  January,  1875, 
by  a  deputation  introduced  by  my  cousin's  husband,  Mr.  John 
Locke,  M.P.,  Q.0.|  and  consisting  of  Sir  Frederick  Elliot, 
Lord  Jocelyn  Percy,  General  G.  Lawrence,  Mr.  B.  H.  Hutton, 
Mr.  Leslie  Stephen,  Dr.  Walker,  Col.  Wood  (now  Sir  Evelyn) 
and  several  ladies. 

Prince  Lucian  Bonaparte,  who  always  warmly  befriended 
the  cause,  took  the  chair  at  first,  and  was  succeeded  by  Lord 


696  OHAPTER   XX. 

Harrowby,  President  of  the  B.S.P.C.A.,  supported  by  Lady 
Bnrdett  Coutts,  Lord  Mount-Temple  (then  Mr.  Cowper 
Temple)  and  others. 

After  some  friendly  discussion  it  wad  agreed  that  the 
Committee  of  the  B.S.P.O.A.  would  give  the  subject  their 
most  zealous  attention ;  and  a  sub-Committee  to  deal  with 
the  matter  was  accordingly  appointed  immediately  afterwards. 

When  I  drove  home  to  Hereford  Square  from  Jermyn  Street 
that  day,  I  rejoiced  to  think  that  I  had  accomplished  a  step 
towards  obtaining  the  protection  of  the  law  for  the  victims 
of  science ;  and  I  fdUy  believed  that  I  was  free  to  return  to 
my  own  literary  pursuits  and  to  the  journalism  which  then 
occupied  most  of  my  time.  A  few  days  later  I  was  requested 
to  attend  (for  the  occasion  only)  the  first  Meeting  of  the  sub- 
Committee  for  Vivisection  of  the  B.S.P.C.A.  On  entering 
the  room  my  spirits  sank,  for  I  saw  round  the  table  a  number 
of  worthy  gentlemen,  mostly  elderly,  but  not  one  of  the  more 
distinguished  members  of  their  Committee  or,  (I  think),  a 
single  Peer  or  Member  of  Parliament.  In  short,  they  were 
not  the  men  to  take  the  lead  in  such  a  movement  and  make 
a  bold  stand  against  the  claims  of  science.  After  a  few 
minutes  the  Chairman  himself  asked  me :  "  Whether  I  could 
not  undertake  to  get  a  Bill  into  Parliament  for  the  object  we 
desired  ?  "  As  if  all  my  labour  with  the  Memorial  had  not 
been  spent  to  make  them  do  this  very  thing !  It  was 
obviously  felt  by  others  present  that  this  suggestion  was  out 
of  place,  and  I  soon  retired,  leaving  the  sub-Committee  to  send 
Mr.  Colam  round  to  make  enquiries  among  the  physiologists 
— a  mission  which  might,  perhaps,  be  represented  as  a 
friendly  request  to  be  told  frankly  "  whether  they  were  really 
cruel  ?  "  I  understood,  later,  that  he  was  shown  a  painless 
vivisection  on  a  cat  and  offered  a  glass  of  sherry ;  and  there 
(so  £fir  as  I  know  or  ever  heard)  the  labours  of  that  sub- 
Committee  ended.     Mr.   Colam  afterwards  took  immemw 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  ^ 

pains  to  collect  evidence  from  the  published  works  of  Vivi- 
sectors  of  the  extent  and  severity  of  their  operations ;  and 
this  very  valuable  mass  of  materials  was  presented  by  him 
some  months  later  to  the  Boyal  Commission,  and  is  published 
in  the  Blue  Book  as  an  Appendix  to  their  Minutes. 

I  was,  of  course,  miserably  disappointed  at  this  stage  of 
affairs,  but  on  the  2nd  February,  1876,  there  appeared  in  the 
Morning  Post  the  celebrated  letter  from  Dr.  George  Hoggan, 
in  which  (without  naming  Claude  Bernard)  he  described  what 
he  had  himself  witnessed  in  his  laboratory  when  recently 
working  there  for  several  months.  This  letter  was  absolutely 
invaluable  to  our  cause,  giving,  as  it  did,  reality  and  firsthand 
testimony  to  all  we  had  asserted  from  books  and  reports.  In 
the  course  of  it  Dr.  Hoggan  said  : — 

**I  venture  to  record  a  little  of  my  own  experience  in  the 
matter,  part  of  which  was  gained  as  an  assistant  in  the 
laboratory  of  one  of  the  greatest  living  experimental 
physiologists.  In  that  laboratory  we  sacrificed  daily  from 
one  to  three  dogs,  besides  rabbits  and  other  animals,  and 
after  four  months*  experience  I  am  of  opinion  that  not  one 
of  those  experiments  on  animals  was  justified  or  necessary. 
The  idea  of  the  good  of  humanity  was  simply  out  of  the 
question,  and  would  be  laughed  at,  the  great  aim  being  to 
keep  up  with,  or  get  ahead  of,  one's  contemporaries  in 
science,  even  at  the  price  of  an  incalculable  amount  of 
torture  needlessly  and  iniqoitously  inflicted  on  the  poor 
animals.  During  three  campaigns  I  have  witnessed  many 
harsh  sights,  but  I  think  the  saddest  sight  I  ever  witnessed 
was  when  the  dogs  were  brought  up  from  the  cellar  to  the 
laboratory  for  sacrifice.  Instead  of  appearing  pleased  with 
the  change  from  darkness  to  light,  they  seemed  seized  with 
horror  as  soon  as  they  smelt  the  air  of  the  place,  divining, 
apparently,  their  approaching  fate.  They  would  make 
friendly  advances  to  each  of  the  three  or  four  persona 
present,  and  as  far  as  eyes,  ears,  and  tail  could  make  a 
mute  appeal  for  mercy  eloquent,  they  tried  it  in  vain. 


ens  OBAPTER   XX. 

**  Were  the  feelings  of  the  experimental  phyedologifltB  not 
blunted,  they  could  not  long  continue  the  practice  of  ym- 
section.  They  are  always  ready  to  repudiate  any  implied 
want  of  tender  feeling,  but  I  must  say  that  they  seldom 
show  much  pity ;  on  the  contrary,  in  practice  they  frequently 
show  the  reverse.  Hundreds  of  times  I  have  seen,  when 
an  animal  writhed  with  pain  and  thereby  deranged  the 
tissues,  during  a  delicate  dissection,  instead  of  being  soothed, 
it  would  receive  a  slap  and  an  angry  order  to  be  quiet  and 
behave  itself.  At  other  times,  when  an  animal  had  endured 
great  pain  for  hours  without  struggling  or  giving  more  than 
an  occasional  low  whine,  instead  of  letting  the  poor  mangled 
wretch  loose  to  crawl  painfully  about  the  place  in  reserve 
for  another  day's  torture,  it  would  receive  pity  so  far  that 
it  would  be  said  to  have  behaved  well  enough  to  merit 
death;  and,  as  a  reward,  would  be  lolled  at  once  by 
breaking  up  the  medulla  with  a  needle,  or  *  pithing,*  as  this 
operation  is  called.  I  have  often  heard  the  professor  say 
when  one  side  of  an  animal  had  been  so  mangled  and  the 
tissues  so  obscured  by  clotted  blood  that  it  was  difficult  to 
find  the  part  searched  for,  *  Why  don*t  you  begin  on  the 
other  side  ?  *  or  *  Why  don't  you  take  another  dog  ?  What  is 
the  use  of  being  so  economical? '  One  of  the  most  revolting 
features  in  the  laboratory  was  the  custom  of  giving  an 
animal,  on  which  the  professor  had  completed  his  experi- 
ment, and  which  had  still  some  life  left,  to  the  assistants  to 
practice  the  fijoiding  of  arteries,  nerves,  &c.,  in  the  living 
animal,  or  for  performing  what  are  called  fundamental 
experiments  upon  it — in  other  words,  repeating  those  which 
are  recommended  in  the  laboratory  hand-books.  I  am 
inclined  to  look  upon  ansesthetics  as  the  greatest  curse  to 
vivisectible  animals.  They  alter  too  much  the  normal  con- 
ditions of  life  to  give  accurate  results,  and  they  are  therefore 
little  depended  upon.  They,  indeed,  prove  far  more 
efficacious  in  lulling  public  feeling  towards  the  vivisectora 
than  pain  in  the  vivisected." 

I  had  met  Dr.  Hoggan  one  day  just  before  this  oeoorrence 
at  Mdme.  Bodichon's  houses  but  I  had  no  idea  that  he  would, 


THE  CLAIMS  OV  BRUTES.  63d 

or  eonld,  bear  such  valuable  testimony ;  and  I  have  never 
ceased  to  feel  that  m  thus  nobly  coming  forward  to  offer  it 
spontaneously,  he  struck  the  greatest  blow  on  our  side  in  the 
whole  battle.  Of  course  I  expressed  to  him  all  the  gratitude 
I  felt,  and  we  thenceforth  took  counsel  frequently  as  to  the 
policy  to  be  pursued  in  opposing  vivisection. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  if  a  Bill  were  to  be  presented 
to  Parliament  that  session  it  must  be  promoted  by  some 
parties  other  than  the  Committee  of  the  B.S.P.C.A.  Indeed 
in  the  following  December  The  Animal  World,  in  a  leading 
article,  avowed  that ''  the  Royal  Society  (P.C.A.)  is  not  so 
entirely  unanimous  as  to  desire  the  passing  of  any  special 
legislative  enactment  on  this  sulject "  (vivisection).  Feeling 
convinced  that  some  such  obstacle  was  in  the  way  I  turned 
to  my  friends  to  see  if  it  might  be  possible  to  push  on  a  Bill 
independently,  and  with  the  most  kind  help  of  Sir  William 
Hart  Dyke  (the  Conservative  whip),  it  was  arranged  that  a 
Bill  for  ''  Begulating  the  Practice  of  Vivisection  "  should  be 
introduced  with  the  sanction  of  Government  into  the  House 
of  Lords  by  Lord  Henniker  (Lord  Hartismere).  It  is 
impossible  to  describe  all  the  anxiety  I  endured  during  the 
interval  up  to  the  4th  May,  when  this  Bill  was  actually 
presented.  Lord  Henniker  was  exceedingly  good  about  it 
and  took  much  pains  with  the  draft  prepared  at  first  by  Sir 
Frederick  EUiot,  and  afterwards  completed  for  Lord  Henniker 
by  Mr.  Fitzgerald.  Lord  Coleridge  also  took  great  interest 
in  it,  and  gave  most  valuable  advice,  and  Mr.  Lowe  (who 
afterwards  bitterly  opposed  the  almost  identical  measure  cf 
Lord  Cross  in  the  Commons),  was  willing  to  give  this  earlier 
Bill  much  consideration.  I  met  him  one  day  at  luncheon  at 
Airlie  Lodge,  where  were  also  Lord  Henniker,  Lady 
Minto,  Lord  Airlie  and  others  interested,  and  the  Bill  waf 
gone  over  clause  by  clause  till  acljusted  to  Mr.  Lowe's 
counsels. 


640  CHAPTER    XX. 

Lord  Henniker  introduced  the  Bill  thus  drafted  *'  for 
Beffulating  the  Practice  of  Vivisection"  into  the  House  of 
Lordjs  on  the  4th  May,  1875 ;  but  on  the  12th  May,  to  our 
great  surprise  another  Bill  to  prevent  Abuse  in  Experiments 
on  Animals  was  introduced  into  the  House  of  Commons  by 
Dr.  (now  Lord)  Play&ir.  On  the  appearance  of  this  latter 
Billy  which  was  understood  to  be  promoted  by  the 
physiologists  themselves — ^notably  by  Dr.  Burdon-Sandersony 
and  by  Mr.  Charles  Darwin — the  Gbvemment,  which  had 
sanctioned  Lord  Henniker's  Bill,  thought  it  necessary  to 
issue  a  Boyal  Commission  of  Enquiry  into  the  subject  before 
any  legislation  should  be  proceeded  with.  This  was  done 
accordingly  on  the  22nd  June,  and  both  Bills  were  then 
withdrawn. 

The  student  of  this  old  chapter  of  the  history  of  the  Anti- 
vivisection  Crusade  will  find  both  of  the  above-named  Bills 
(and  also  the  ineffective  sketch  of  what  might  have  been  the 
Bill  of  the  B.S.P.C.A.)  in  the  Appendix  to  the  Report  of  tke 
Royal  Commission^  pp.  886-8.  Mr.  Charles  Darwin,  in  a 
letter  to  the  Times^  April  18th,  1881,  said  that  he  ''  took  an 
active  part  in  trying  to  get  a  Bill  passed  such  as  would  have 
removed  aU  just  cause  of  complaint,  and  at  the  same  time 
have  left  the  physiologists  free  to  pursue  their  researches, — 
a  ''  BUI  very  different  from  that  which  has  since  been  passed.^* 
As  Mr.  Darwin's  biographer,  whHe  reprintmg  this  letter,  has 
not  quoted  my  challenge  to  him  in  the  Times  of  the  2drd  to 
point  out  "  in  what  respect  the  former  BUI  is  very  different 
from  the  Act  of  1876"  I  think  it  well  to  cite  here  the  lucid 
definition  of  that  difference  as  delineated  in  the  Spectator  of 
May  15th,  doubtless  by  the  editor,  Mr.  Hutton. 

••  The  Viviseotiom-Restbiotion  Bills. 

**  On  Wednesday  afternoon  last,  Dr.  Lyon  Plajrfair  laid 
on  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons  a  Bill  for  the 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUT. 

Restriotion  of  Viyisection,  -whioh  has  b 
physiologists,  no  doubt  in  part,  in  the  inten 
science,  but  also  in  part,  no  donbt  in  the  inf 
The  contents  of  this  Bill  are  the  best  ai 
possible  to  give  to  the  ignorant  attack 
contemporary  on  Tuesday  on  Lord  Hea 
dnoed  into  the  House  of  Lords  last  weel 
differ  in  principle  only  on  one  importan 
them  dearly  have  been  maturely  oonsi 
science  as  well  as  by  humanitarians.    Bot 
the  great  and  Increasing  character  of  the 
be  dealt  with.    Both  of  them  approach 
same   manner,  by   insisting  that   sclent 
which  are  painful  to  animals  shall  be  i 
avowed  responsibility  of  men  of  the  hi 
whose  right  to  try  them  may  be  witl 
abused.    Both  of  them  aim  at  compelling 
who  are  permitted  to  try  such  experima 
aniBsthetics  throughout  the  experiment,  wl 
ansBsthetics  is  not  fatal  to  the  investigatioi 
The  Bills  differ,  however,  on  a  mostimpori 
certain  that  all  the  contempt  showered  on 
Bill  by  the  ignorant  assailants  of  the  hui 
might  equally  have  been  showered  on  Dr. 
But  Lord  Henniker^s  Bill  contemplates  mali 
and  pathological  experiments  on  living  ani 
complete  ansasthesia,  illegal,  except  under  i 
sibility  and  on  the  same  conditions  as  th 
which  are  not,  and  cannot  be,  conducted 
ansBsthesia, — ^while  Dr.  Lyon  Playf air  leave 
conducted  under  ansesthetics, — and  will  pri 
not  theoretically,  leave,  we  fear,  those  wh 
to  be  so  conducted  (a  very  different  tb 
without  restriction  as  they  now  are.    Ind 
no  sort  of  limitation  upon  them.    If  a  wl 
guinea-pigs,  or  even  dogs,  were  known  to  I: 
their  carcases  exported  daily  from  the  pri'v 
vian  who  declared  that  he  dlwaifs  used 


642  CHAPTER    XX. 

Plajrfair'B  Bill  provides,  we  believe,  no  sort  off  machinery 
by   wfaioh   the   tmih   of    his   assertion  ooold   be   even 

tested It  is,  however,  no  small  matter  to  have 

obtained  this  dear  admission  on  scientific  authority  that  the 
victimisation  of  animals  in  the  interest  of  science  is  an  evil 
of  a  growing  and  serions  kind  which  needs  legislative 
interference,  and  calls  for  at  least  the  threat  of  serions 
penalties.    •    .    . 


I* 


In  short,  the  Bill  promoted  by  the  physiologists  and 
Mr.  Darwin,  was,  like  the  Besolntions  of  the  Liverpool 
British  Association,  a  ''  Pious  Opinion  "  or  Brutum  fidmen. 
Nothing  more. 

The  Boyal  Commission  on  Yivisection  was  issued,  as  I 
have  said,  on  the  22nd  June,  1875,  and  the  Report  was 
dated  January  8th,  1876.  The  intervening  months  were 
filled  VTith  anxiety.  I  heard  constantly  aU  that  went  on  at 
the  Commission,  and  my  hopes  and  fears  rose  and  fell  week 
by  week.  Of  the  constitution  of  the  Commission  mnch 
might  be  said.  Writing  of  it  in  the  BritMh  Friend^  May, 
1876,  the  late  Mr.  J.  B.  Firth,  M.P.,  Q.O.,  remarked  :— 

"  If  it  were  possible  for  a  Boyal  Commission  to  be 
appointed  to  inquire  into  the  practice  of  Thuggee,  I  should 
have  very  little  confidence  in  their  report  if  one-third  of  the 
Commissioners  were  prominent  practisers  of  the  art.  On 
the  same  principle  the  constitution  of  this  Commission  is 
open  to  the  observation  that  it  included  two  notorious 
advocates  of  vivisection.  Dr.  Erichsen  and  Professor  Huxley, 
both  of  whom  had  to  '  explain'  their  writings  and  practices 
in  connection  with  it,  in  the  course  of  the  inquiry." 

Certain  it  is,  as  I  heard  at  the  time,  and  as  anyone  may 
verify  by  looking  over  the  Minutes  of  Evidence,  these  two 
able  gentlemen  acted,  not  as  Judges  on  the  Bench  examining 
evidence  dispassionately,  but  as  exceedingly  vigorous  and 
keen-eyed  Counsel  for  the  Physiologists.    On  thehumanitariao 


tHE  0LA1M6  OF  BRUt 

side  there  was  bat  a  single  pronoonoed 
section, — ^Mr.  R.  H.  Hntton, — ^who  nobly  j 
for  half  a  year  to  doing  all  that  was  in  the 
Member  of  the  Commission,  and  he  a  la) 
tmth  eoneeming  the  alleged  omeliy  of  the 
end,  after  receiving  a  mass  of  evidence  in 
qnestions  from  58  witziesseBy  the  Com 
distinctly  m  favour  of  legislative  mterferenei 

**  Even  if  the  weight  of  authority  on  the 
interference  had  been  less  considerable, 
thonght  onrselveB  called  upon  to  recon 
reason  of  the  thing.  It  is  manifest  tha 
from  its  very  natore,  liable  to  great  abuse, 
is  impossible  for  society  to  entertain  the  ic 
end  to  it,  it  ought  to  be  subjected  to  du 

control It  is  not  to  be  doubted 

may  be  found  in  persons  of  very  high  positioi 
•  .  •  .  Beside  the  cases  in  which  inhm 
are  satisfied  that  there  are  others  in  w1 
and  indifference  prevail  to  an  extent  suf 
ground  for  legislative  interference.*' 

Yet  in  the  fsuae  of  these  and  other  wei^; 
the  same  purpose,  it  has  been  persistently  !i 
Boyal  Commission  exonerated  English  physi 
charge  of  cruelty  I  In  Mr.  Darwin's  eel- 
Professor  Holmgren,  of  Upsala,  publishe: 
April,  1881,  he  said :  "  The  investigation  oj 
Royal  Commission  proved  that  the  accusati : 
our  English  physiologists  werefalse.^*  Con 
letter  the  Spectator^  April  2drd,  1881  (doub 
himself)  observed : 

**  The  Royal  Commission  did  not  report  i 
to  no  such  conclusion,  and  though  that  ma  i 
own  inference  from  what  they  did  say,  it  is  < : 


644  OHAPTER    XX. 

not  theirs.  In  onr  opinion  it  was  proved  that  very  great 
omelty  had  been  practised,  with  hardly  any  appreciable 
resolts,  by  more  than  one  British  physiologist." 

Nor  most  it  be  left  oat  of  sight  in  estimating  the 
disingennousness  of  the  advocates  of  vivisection,  that  the 
above  qnoted  sentences  from  the  Report  of  the  Commission 
were  countersigned  by  those  representatives  of  Science, 
Prof.  Hnzley  and  Mr.  Eriehsen ;  as  were,  of  course,  also  the 
subsequent  paragraphs,  formally  recommending  a  measnre 
almost  identical  with  Lord  Carnarvon's  Bill.  In  spite  of 
this  the  Vivisecting  clique  has  not  ceased  to  assert  that 
English  physiologists  were  exculpated,  and  to  protest  against 
the  measnre  which  we  introduced  in  strict  accordance  with  that 
recommendation ;  a  measure  which  was  even  still  farther 
mitigated,  (as  regarded  freedom  to  the  vivisectors,)  under  the 
pressure  of  their  Deputation  to  the  Home  Office,  till  it 
became  the  present  qtiasi  ineffectual  Act. 

While  the  Boyal  Commission  was  still  sitting  in  the  antumn, 
and  when  it  had  become  obvious  that  much  would  remain  to 
be  done  before  any  effectual  chock  could  be  placed  on 
Vivisection,  Dr.  Hoggan  suggested  to  me  that  we  should  form 
a  Society  to  carry  on  the  work.  I  abhorred  Societies,  and 
knew  only  too  well  the  huge  additional  labour  of  working  the 
machinery  of  one,  over  and  above  any  direct  help  to  the 
object  in  view.  I  had  hitherto  worked  independently  and 
freely,  taking  always  the  advice  of  the  eminent  men  who 
were  so  good  as  to  counsel  me  at  every  step.  But  I  felt  that 
Uiis  plan  could  not  suffice  much  longer,  and  that  the 
authority  of  a  formally  constituted  Society  was  needed  to 
make  headway  against  an  evil  which  daily  revealed  itself  as 
more  formidable.  Accordingly  I  agreed  with  Dr.  Ho^an 
that  we  should  do  well  to  form  such  a  Society,  he  and  I 
being  the  Honorary  Secretaries,  provided  we  could  obtain  the 
countenance   of  some  men  of  eminence  to  form  the  nnclent. 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BRUTES.  645 

<'  I  will  write,"  I  said,  "  to  Lord  Shaftesbiiry  and  to  the 
Archbishop  of  York.  If  they  will  give  me  their  names,  we 
can  coigure  with  them.  If  not^  I  will  not  undertake  to  form 
a  Society.'* 

I  wrote  that  night  to  those  two  eminent  persons.  I 
received  next  day  from  Lord  Shaftesbury  a  telegram  (which 
he  must  have  dispatched  VMtantLy  on  receiving  my  letter, 
which  answered  "  Yes."  Next  day  the  post  brought  from 
him  the  letter  which  I  shall  here  print.  The  next  post 
brought  also  the  letter  from  Archbishop  Thomson.  Thus 
the  Society  consisted  for  two  days  of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  the 
Archbishop,  Dr.  Hoggan  and  myself! 

**  Lord  Shaftesbury  to  Miss  F.  P.  G. 

*'  St.  Giles's  House,  Oranboume,  Salisbury, 

"  November  17th,  1876. 
"  Dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

"  It  is  needful  I  am  sure,  to  found  a  Society,  in  order  to 
have  unity  and  persistency  of  action. 

"  I  judge,  by  the  terms  of  the  circular,  that  the  object  of 
the  Society  will  be  restriction  and  not  prohibition. 

*' Possibly,  this  end  is  as  much  as  you  will  be  able  to 
attain.  Prohibition,  I  doubt  not,  would  be  evaded;  but 
restriction  will,  I  am  certain,  be  exceeded. 

"  Not  but  that  a  little  is  better  than  nothing. 

'*  But  you  will  find  many  who  will  think  with  much 
show  of  reason,  that,  by  surrendering  the  principle,  you 
have  surrendered  the  great  argument. 

"  Faithfully  yours,  Shaftbsbubt." 

"  Bishopthorpe,  York, 

**  November  16th,  1875. 
"  Dear  Miss  Cobbe« 

*'  I  am  quite  ready  to  join  the  Society  for  restricting 

Vivisection.    I  agree  with  you ;  total  prohibition  would  be 

Impossible.  '*  I  am,  yours  very  truly, 

"  W,  Ebob." 


640  CHAPTER   XX. 

With  these  names  to  *'  coigare  with,"  as  I  haye  said,  we 
found  it  easy  to  enrol  a  goodly  company  in  the  ranks  of  onr 
new  Society.     Cardinal  Manning  was  one  of  fhe  first  to  join 
OS.     On  the  2nd  Dec.,  1875,  the  first  Committee  meeting 
was  held  in  the  house  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Hoggan,  13,  (Granville 
Place,  Portman  Square,  Mr.   Stansfeld  taking  the  chair. 
Mrs.  Wedgwood,   wife  of  Mr.   Hensleigh  Wedgwood  and 
mother  of  my  friend  Miss  Julia  Wedgwood,  was  present  at 
that  first  meeting,  and  (so  long  as  her  health  permitted,)  at 
those  which  followed, — a  worthy  example  of  "  heredity," 
since  her  father  and  mother,  Sir  James  and  Lady  Mackintosh, 
had  heen  among  the  principal  supporters  of  Bichard  Martin, 
and  founders  of  the  B.S.P.C.A.     At  the  third  meeting  of  the 
Committee,  on  Feb.  18th,  1876,  Lord  Shaftesbury  took  the 
Chair,  for  the  first  time,  and  again  he  took  it  on  the  occasion 
of  a  memorable  meeting  on  the  1st  of  March,  but  vacated  it 
on  the  arrival  of  Archbishop  Thomson,  who  proved  to  be 
an  admirably  efficient  Chairman.     We  had  a  serious  job, 
that  day ;  that  of  discussing  the  ''  Statement "  of  our  position 
and  objects.     I  had  drafted  this  Statement  in  preparation, 
as  well  as  compiled  from  the  MimUes  of  Evidence^  a  series  of 
Extracts  exhibiting  the  extension  and  abuses  of  Vivisection ; 
and  also  evidence  regarding  AnsBsthetics  and  regarding  foreign 
physiologists.    These  appendices  were  all  accepted  and  appear 
in  the  pamphlet;   but  my   Statement  was  most  minutely 
debated,  clause  for  clause,  and  at  last  adopted,  not  without 
several  modifications.     After  summarising  the  Beport  of  the 
Royal  Commission  which  *'  has  been  in  some  respects  seriously 
misconstrued"  (I  might  add,  persistently  misconstrued  ever 
since)  and  also  Mr.  Button's  independent  Beport^  in  which 
he  desired  that  the ''  Household  Animals  "  should  be  exempted 
from  Vivisection,    the    Committee    carefully    criticise  this 
Report  and  express  their  confident  hope  that  ''a  Bill  may 
be  introduced  immediateljr  by  Government  to  carry  out  the 


IHB  OLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  647 

recommendations  of  the  Commission.'*  They  observe,  in 
oonclnsion,  that  they  find  ''a  just  summary  of  their  senti- 
ments in  Mr.  Hntton*s  expression  of  his  view : — 

*' '  The  measoze  will  not  at  all  satisfy  my  own  conceptions 
of  the  needs  of  the  case,  unless  it  result  in  putting  an  end  to 
all  experiments  involving  not  merely  torture  hut  anything  cLt 
all  approackwg  thereto.  " 

Such  was  our  attitude  at  that  memorable  date  when  we 
commenced  the  regular  steady  work  which  has  now  gone  on 
for  just  18  years.  On  the  2nd  or  8rd  of  March  I  took 
possession  of  the  offices  where  so  large  a  part  of  my  life  was 
henceforth  to  be  spent.  When  my  kind  colleagues  had  left 
me  and  I  locked  the  outer  door  of  the  offices  and  knew 
myself  to  be  alone,  I  resolved  very  seriously  to  devote  myself, 
so  long  as  might  be  needful,  to  this  work  of  tr3ring  to  save 
God's  poor  creatures  from  their  intolerable  doom;  and  I 
resolved  "  never  to  go  to  bed  at  night  leaving  a  stone  unturned 
which  might  help  to  stop  Vivisection."  I  believe  I  have  kept 
that  resolution.    I  commend  it  to  other  workers* 

It  may  interest  the  reader  to  know  who  were  the  persons 
then  actually  aiding  and  supporting  our  movement. 

There  was, — ^first  and  most  important, — ^my  colleague  and 
friend  Dr.  George  Hoggan,  who  laboured  incessantly  (and 
wholly  gratuitously)  for  the  cause.  His  wife.  Dr.  Frances 
Hoggau,  who  I  am  thankful  to  say,  still  survives,  was  also 
a  mo^t  useful  member  of  the  Gonmiittee. 

The  other  Members  of  the  Executive  were :  Sir  FredericlL 
£lliot,  E.C.M.G.  who  had  long  been  Permanent  Secretary  at 
the  Colonial  Office ;  M%jor-General  Colin  Mackenzie,  a  noble  old 
hero  of  the  Afghan  wars  and  the  Mutiny;  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen ; 
Mrs.  Hensleigh  Wedgwood ;  Dr.  Yaughan  (the  late  Master 
of  the  Temple);  the  Countess  of  Portsmouth;  the  Countess 
of  Camperdown ;  my  friend  Miss  Lloyd ;  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Locke,    M.P.y    Q.C. ;    Mr.    William    Shaan ;    Col.    (now 


648  CHAPTER  XX. 

Sir  Evelyn)  Wood ;  and  Mr.  Edward  de  Fonblanqaa.  The 
latter  genUemaii  was  one  of  the  most  asefbl  memhers  of 
the  Committee,  whose  retirement  three  years  later  after  oar 
adoption  of  a  more  advanced  policy,  I  have  never  oeased 
to  regret. 

Beside  these  Members  of  the  Committee  we  had  then  as 
Vice-Presidents,  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  Marquis  of 
Bute,  Cardinal  Manning,  Lord  Portsmouth,  Mr.  Cowper- 
Temple  (afterwards  Lord  Monnt-Temple),  Bight  Hon.  James 
Stansfeld,  Lord  Shaftesbury,  the  Bishop  of  Gloucester  and 
Bristol  (Dr.  Ellicott),  the  Bishop  of  Manchester  (Dr.  Eraser), 
Lord  Chief  Justice  Coleridge,  and  the  Lord  Chief  Baron, 
Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly. 

Dr.  Hoggan  had  invited  Mr.  Spnrgeon  to  join  our  Society, 
but  received  from  him  the  following  reply : — 

**  Bev.  C.  H.  Spnrgeon  to  Dr.  Hoggan. 

*'  Nightingale  Lane,  Clapham, 

•*Dec.24th« 
"  Dear  Sir, 

**  I  do  not  like  to  become  an  officer  of  a  Society  for  I  have 
no  time  to  attend  to  the  duties  of  such  an  office,  and  it 
strikes  me  as  a  false  system  which  is  now  so  general,  which 
allows  names  to  appear  on  Committees  and  requires  no 
service  from  the  individuals. 

'*  In  all  efforts  to  spare  animals  from  needless  pain  I  wish 
you  the  utmost  success.  There  are  oases  in  which  they 
must  suffer,  as  we  also  must,  but  not  one  pang  ought  to  be 
endured  by  them  from  whioh  we  can  screen  them. 

"  Tours  heartily, 

"  C  H.  SpuBOROir. 
"  I  shall  aid  your  effort  in  my  own  way.*' 

Mr.  Spurgeon  wrote  on  one  occasion  a  letter  to  Lord 
Shaftesbury  to  be  read  from  the  Chair  at  a  Meeting ;  but,  much 
as  we  wished  to  use  it,  the  extreme  strength  of  the  6aqA«tii9e$ 
wai  considered  to  transgress  the  borders  of  expediency  I 


THE  OLAIMS  OF  BRUTE 

We  invited  Prof.  Bolleston  to  give  ns  h 
following  was  his  reply : — 

"  Oxford,  K 
"  Dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

"  I  would  have  answered  your  letter  h 
able  to  make  op  my  mind  to  do  as  yon  a8k« 
I  think  I  should  not,  in  the  interests  of  the  \ 
which  I  advocate,  do  well  to  do.  I  beli< 
greater  weight  from  keeping  an  indep< 
And  as  I  have  a  great  desire  to  throw  a 
advantages  which  that  position  gives  me, 
decline  your  invitation.  Allow  me  to  say 
gratified  by  your  writing  to  ask  me  to  do  n 
do  oat  of  considerations  of  expediency. 

**  It  is  also  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  th 
said  at  Bristol  has  met  with  yonr  approbati 
of  parts  at  the  end  or  towards  the  end  of  tl 
the  future  of  Vivisection  was,  I  hope,  tolen 

"  I  am, 

*•  Yours  very  i 
"  Gbobgi 

The  newly-formed  Socieiy  had  been  olm: 
Dr.  Hoggan:  ''The  Socieiy  for  Protection  of  A 
Vivisectiony*'  and  its  aim  was  :  "  to  obtain  tfu 
protection  for  animals  liable  to  vivisection,*'  I 
yield  to  my  coUeagne  as  regarded  this  awkii 
exactly  defined  the  position  he  desired  to  take  ii 
constant  source  of  worry  and  loss  to  us.  As  i\ 
however,  after  we  had  taken  our  offices  iii  "V 
called  our. Society,  unofficially  and  for  popti 
«  The  Victoria  Street  Society." 

These  offices  are  large  and  handsome,  and 
situated  that  the  Socieiy  has  retained  them  evi 
are  on  the  first  floor  of  a  house — ^formerly  i 
now  numbered  "20," — in  Victoria  Street, 


660  CHAPTER  XX 

doors  up  the  street  from  the  Broad  Sanctaary  and  the 
Westminster  Palace  Hotel;  and  with  Westminster  Abbey  and 
the  Towers  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  in  view  from  the 
street  door.     The  offices  contain  an  ante-room  (now  pOed 
with  our  papers),  a  large  airy  room  with  two  windows  for 
the  clerks,  a  Secretary's  private  room,  and  a  spaeioos  and 
lightsome  Committee-room  with  three  windows.     Oat  of  this 
last  another  room  was  accessible,  which  at  one  time  was 
taken  for  my  especial  nse.     I  put  ap  bookshdvee,  pictures, 
curtains,  and  various  little  feminine  relaxations,  and  thus 
covered,  as  far  as  might  be,  the  frightful  character  of  our  work, 
so  that  friends  should  find  our  office  no  painfrd  place  to 
visit. 

We  did  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  our  feet  after  we  had 
settled  down  in  these  offices.  On  the  20th  March  there  went 
out  from  them  to  the  neighboxuring  Home  Office  a  Deputation 
to  Mr.  (now  Lord)  Oross  to  urge  the  Government  to  bring 
in  a  Bill  in  accordance  with  the  recommendations  of  the 
Boyal  Oommission.  The  Deputation  was  headed  by  Lord 
Shaftesbury,  and  included  the  Earl  of  Minto,  Cardinal 
Manning,  Mr.  Froude,  Mr.  Mundella,  Sir  Frederick  Elliot, 
Col.  Eveljoi  Wood,  and  Mr.  Cowper  Temple.  Mr.  Carlyle 
wafl  to  have  joined  the  Deputation,  but  held  back  sooner  than 
accompany  the  Cardinal. 

Chief  Baron  Eelly  wrote  us  the  following  cordial  expres- 
sions of  regret  for  non-attendance : — 

'*  Western  Circuit,  Winohester, 

«•  4th  March,  1876. 

**  The  Lord  Chief  Baron  presents  his  oompliments  to  Miss 
Cobbe,  and  very  greatly  regrets  that,  being  engaged  at  the 
assize  on  the  Western  Circuit  until  nearly  the  middle  of 
April,  be  will  be  unable  to  accompany  the  deputation  to 
Mr.  Cross  on  the  subject  of  Vivisection,  to  which,  however, 
be  earnestly  wishes  suooess." 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BROTHS.  «51 

We  had  invited  Canon  liddon,  who  was  a  snbsoriber  to 
onr  fbnds  from  the  first,  to  join  this  Deputation,  bat  reoeived 
from  him  the  following  reply : 

*«  Amen  Court,  6th  March,  IHVb. 
''  My  dear  Miaa  Oobbe, 

'*  I  shonld  be  sincerely  glad  to  be  able  to  obey  year  kind 
wishes  in  the  matter  of  the  proposed  Deputation,  if  I  could. 
But  I  am  unable  to  be  in  London  again  between  to-morrow 
and  April  1st,  and  this,  I  fear  will  make  it  impossible. 

"  I  shall  be  sincerely  glad  to  hear  that  the  Deputation 
succeeds  in  persuading  the  Home  Seoretary  to  make  legisla- 
tion on  the  Beport  of  the  Yiyisection  Commission  a  Govern- 
ment question.  Mr.  Button  appeared  to  me  to  resist  the 
criticisms  of  the  Times  on  the  Beport  very  admirably  t 

**  Thanking  you  for  your  note, 

*'  I  am,  my  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

••  H.  P.   LiDDOH." 

A  few  weeks  afterwards  when  I  invited  him  to  attend  a 
meeting  he  wrote  again  a  letter,  to  the  last  sentence  of  which 
I  desire  to  call  attention  as  embodying  the  opinion  of  this 
eminent  man  on  the  human  moral  interest  involved  in  our 
crusade. 

**  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 

*'  May  22nd,  1676. 
^  My  dear  Miss  Oobbe^ 

*'  I  sincerely  wish  that  I  could  obey  your  summons.  But, 
as  a  professor  here,  I  have  public  duties  on  Thursday,  the 
Ist  of  June,  which  I  cannot  decline  or  transfer  to  other  hands. 

•<  I  think  I  told  you  I  was  a  useless  person  for  these  good 
purposes ;  and  so,  you  see,  it  is. 

"  Still  yon  are  very  well  off  in  the  way  of  speakers,  and 
will  not  miss  such  a  person  as  I.  Heartily  do  I  hope  that 
the  meeting  may  reward  the  trouble  you  have  taken  about 
It  by  strengthening  Lord  Carnarvon's  hands.    The  cause 


•62  CHAPTER  XX. 

yoa  have  at  heart  is  of  even  grecOer  impartaino$  to 
eharacUT  than  to  the  pkyncal  eomfort  of  ihoa  of  our  *feUom 
ereature$ '  viho  aire  mo$t  immediatdy  eoneemed, 

**  I  am,  my  dear  Mias  Cohbe, 

**  Yoora  very  truly, 

"  H.  P.  LiDDON.'* 

The  Depatation  of  March  20th  to  the  Home  Office  was  most 
favourably  received,  and  our  Society  was  invited  to  submit 
to  Government  suggestions  respecting  the  provisions  of  the 
intended  Bill.  These  suggestions  were  framed  at  a  Committee 
held  at  our  office  on  the  80th  March,  and  they  were  adopted 
by  Government  after  being  approved  by  its  official  advisers, 
and  presented  by  Lord  Carnarvon  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
The  second  reading  took  place  on  the  22nd  May.  On  that 
occasion  Lord  Coleridge  made  a  most  judicious  speech  in 
defence  of  the  Bill,  and  Lord  Shaftesbury  the  long  aad 
beautiful  one  reprinted  in  our  pamphlet,  '*  In  Memoriam,** 
The  next  morning  all  the  newspapers  oame  oat  with  leading 
articles  in  praise  of  the  Bill.  It  is  hard  now  to  realise 
that,  previous  to  undergoing  the  medical  pressure  which 
has  twisted  the  minds — (or  at  least  the  pens) — of  three- 
fourths  of  the  press,  even  the  great  paper  which  has  been 
our  relentless  opponent  for  17  years  was  then  our  cordial 
supporter.  Everything  at  that  time  looked  £Eur  for  us.  Tht 
Bill,  as  we  had  drafted  it,  did,  practically,  fulfil  Mr.  Hutton'a 
aspiration.  No  experiment  whatever  under  any  circumstancei 
was  permitted  on  a  dog,  cat,  horse,  ass,  or  mule ;  nor  any  on  any 
other  animal  except  under  conditions  of  complete  aasBsthesiy 
from  beginning  to  end.  The  Bill  included  Licenses,  but  no 
Certificates  dispensing  with  the  above  provisions.  Our  hopes 
of  carryiDg  this  biU  seemed  amply  justified  by  the  reception 
it  received  firom  the  House  of  Lords  and  the  Press ;  and 
firom  a  great  Conference  of  the  B.S.P.C.A.  and  its  branches, 
h^ld  on  the  28rd  May.    We  held  our  first  General  Meeting 


THE  OLAlMti  OF  BRUTES.  603 

at  WestmiiiBter  Palace  Hotel  on  the  1st  June  and  resolutions 
in  support  of  the  Bill  were  passed  enthusiastically ;  Lord 
Shaftesbury  presiding,  and  the  Marquis  of  Bute,  Lord 
Glasgow,  Cardinal  Manning  and  others  speaking  with  great 
spirit.  It  only  needed,  to  all  appearance,  that  the  Bill 
should  be  pushed  through  its  final  stage  in  the  Lords  and 
sent  down  to  the  House  of  Commons,  to  secure  its  passage 
intact  that  same  Session. 

At  this  most  critical  moment,  and  through  the  whole  month 
of  June,  Lord  Carnarvon,  in  whose  hands  the  Bill  lay,  was 
drawn  away  from  London  and  occupied  by  the  illness  and 
death  of  Lady  Carnarvon.  No  words  can  tell  the  anxiety 
and  alarm  this  occasioned  us,  when  we  learned  that  a  large 
section  of  the  medical  profession,  which  had  so  far  seemed 
quiescent  if  not  approving,  had  been  roused  by  their  chief 
wire-puller  into  a  state  of  exasperation  at  the  supposed 
^*  insult "  of  proposing  to  submit  them  to  legal  control  in 
experimenting  on  living  aninuUs,  (as  they  were  already 
subjected  to  it,  by  the  Anatomy  Act,  in  dissecting  dead  bodies). 
These  doctors,  to  the  number  of  8,000,  signed  a  Memorial  to 
the  Home  Secretary,  calling  on  him  to  modify  the  Bill  so  as 
practically  to  reverse  its  character,  and  make  it  a  measure,  no 
longer  protecting  vivisected  animals  from  torture,  but 
vivisectors  from  prosecution  under  Martin's  Act.  This 
Memorial  was  presented  on  the  10th  July  by  a  Deputation, 
variously  estimated  at  800  and  at  800  doctors,  who,  in  either 
case,  were  sufSciently  numerous  to  overflow  the  purlieus  of 
the  Home  Office  and  to  overawe  Mr.  Cross.  On  the  10th  of 
iLugust  the  Bill — essentially  altered  in  submission  to  the 
medical  memorialists — ^was  brought  by  Mr.  Cross  into  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  was  read  a  second  time.  On  the 
15th  August,  1876,  it  received  the  Boyal  Assent  and  became 
the  Act  89-40  Yict.,  e.  77|  commonly  called  the  "  YivisectioD 
Aujt." 


654  OBAPTBR   Xi. 

The  world  has  never  seemed  to  me  quite  the  same  since 
that  dreadfnl  time.  My  hopes  had  heen  raised  so  high  to  be 
dashed  so  low  as  even  to  make  me  fear  that  I  had  done  harm 
instead  of  good,  and  brought  fresh  danger  to  the  hapless 
brutes  for  whose  sake,  as  I  realised  more  and  more  their 
agonies,  I  would  have  gladly  died.  I  was  baffled  in  an  aim 
nearer  to  my  heart  than  any  other  had  ever  been,  and  for 
which  I  had  strained  every  nerve  for  many  months ;  and  of 
all  the  hundreds  of  people  who  had  seemed  to  sympathise 
and  had  signed  our  Memorials  and  petitions,  there  were  none 
to  say :  ''  ThU  shall  not  be** !  Justice  and  Meroy  seemed  to 
have  gone  from  the  earth. 

We  left  London, — ^the  Session  and  the  summer  being  over, 
and  came  as  usual  to  Wales ;  but  our  enjoyment  of  the 
beauty  of  this  lovely  land  had  in  great  measure  vanished. 
Even  after  twenty  years  my  friend  and  I  look  back  to  our 
joyous  summers  before  that  miserable  one,  and  say,  ^*  Ah  ! 
that  was  when  we  knew  very  little  of  Vivisection." 

In  my  despair  I  wrote  several  letters  of  bitter  reproach  to 
the  friends  in  Parliament  who  had  allowed  our  Bill  to  be  so 
mutilated  as  that  the  British  Medical  Journal  crowed  over 
it,  as  affording  frill  liberty  to  "  science  " ;  and  I  also  wrote  to 
several  newspapers  saying  that  after  this  failure  to  obtain  a 
reasonable  restrictive  Bill,  I,  for  one,  should  labour  hence- 
forth to  obtain  total  prohibition.  In  reply  to  my  letter 
(I  fear  a  very  petulant  one)  Lord  Shaftesbury  wrote  me  this 
full  and  important  explanation  which  I  commend  to  the 
careful  reading  of  such  of  our  friends  as  desire  now  to  rescind 
the  Act  of  1876. 

"  Castle  Wemyss,  Wemyss  Bay,  N.B., 

"  Aug.  16th,  1876. 
M  Dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

**  Until  we  shall  have  seen  the  Act  in  print  we  cannot 
€ofm  a  just  estimate  of  the  force  a£  the  amendments.  Some 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BRUTES.  655 

few,  80 1  see  by  the  papers,  were  introdnced  ia  Committee, 
after  my  last  interview  with  Mr.  Cross;  bat  of  their 
character  I  know  nothing.  I  am  disposed,  however,  to 
believe  that  he  would  not  have  admitted  anything  of  real 
importance. 

"  Mr.  Cross's  difflcolties  were  very  great  at  all  times ; 
bnt  they  increased  mnch  as  the  Session  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  The  want  of  time,  the  extreme  pressure  of  business, 
the  active  malignity  of  the  Scientific  men,  and  the 
indifference  of  his  Colleagues,  left  the  Secretary  of  State  in 
a  very  weak  and  embarrassing  position. 

"  Your  letter,  which  I  have  just  received,  asks  whether 
*  the  Bill  cannot  be  turned  out  in  the  House  of  Lords  ? ' 
The  reply  is  that,  whether  advisable  or  unadvisable,  it 
cannot  now  be  done,  for  the  Parliament  is  prorogued. 

'*  In  the  Bill  as  submitted  to  me,  just  before  the  second 
reading  at  a  final  interview  with  Mr.  Cross,  Mr.  Holt  and 
Lord  Cardwell  being  present,  some  changes  were  made 
which  I  by  no  means  approved.  But  the  question,  then, 
was  simply,  *  The  Bill  as  propounded,  or  no  Bill,'  for  Mr. 
Cross  stoutly  maintained  that,  without  the  alterations 
suggested,  he  had  no  hope  of  carrying  anything  at  all.  I 
reverted,  therefore,  to  my  first  opinion,  stated  at  the  very 
commencement  of  my  co-operation  with  your  Committee, 
that  it  was  of  great  importance,  nay  indispensable,  to  obtain 
a  Bill,  however,  imperfect,  which  should  condemn  the 
practice,  put  a  limit  on  the  exercise  of  it,  and  give  us  a 
foundation  on  which  to  build  amendments  hereafter  as 
evidence  and  opportunity  shall  be  offered  to  us. 

'*  The  Bill  is  of  that  character.  I  apprehended  that  if 
there  were  no  Bill  then,  there  would  be  none  at  any  time. 
No  private  Member,  I  believe,  and  I  still  believe,  could 
undertake  such  a  measure  with  even  a  shadow  of  hope- 
and  there  was  more  than  doubt,  whether  a  Secretary  of 
State  would,  again,  entangle  himself  with  so  bitter 
and  so  wearisome  a  question  in  the  face  of  all  Science, 
and  the  antipathies  of  most  of  his  Colleagues.  Public 
sympathy  would  have  declined,  and  would  not  have,  easily 


656  OHAPTER  XX. 

becm  aronsed  a  second  time.  The  public  sympathy 
at  its  best,  was  only  noisy,  and  not  effective ;  and  thii 
assertion  is  proved  by  the  few  signatures  to  petitionsi 
compared  with  the  professed  feeling ;  and  by  the  extrems 
dif&cnlty  to  raise  any  fonds  in  proportion  to  the  exigency 
of  the  case. 

"The  evidence,  too,  given  to  the  Commission,  which 
was,  after  all,  our  main  reliance,  would  have  grown  stale ; 
and,  the  Physiologists  would  have  taken  good  care  that, 
for  some  time  at  least,  nothing  should  transpire  to  take  iii 
place. 

"  We  have  gained  an  enactment  that  Experiments  shall 
be  performed  by  none  but  Licensed  Persons,  thereby 
excluding,  should  the  Act  be  well  enforced,  the  host  d 
young  students  and  their  bed-chamber  practices. 

"We  have  gained  an  enactment  that  all  experiments 
shall  be  performed  under  the  influence  of  Ansosthetics;* 
and,  thirdly,  the  greatest  enactment  of  all,  that  the 
Secretary  of  State  is  responsible  for  the  due  execution  of 
all  these  provisions  in  Parliament,  and  in  his  Office,  instead 
of  the  College  of  Physicians,  or  some  such  unreachable,  and 
intangible  Body,  as  many  Secretaries  of  State,  except 
Mr.  Cross,  would  have  evasively,  appointed. 

"This  provision  under  the  Statutes,  so  unexpeotod, 
and  valuable,  could  have  been  suggested  to  Parliament 
by  a  Secretary  of  State  only,  and  I  feel  sure  that  no 
Secretary  of  State  in  any  *  Liberal  *  Administration  would 
listen  to  the  proposal;  and  I  very  much  doubt  whether 
Mr.  Cross  himself,  had  his  present  Bill  been  rejected,  would 
have,  in  the  case  of  a  new  Bill,  repeated  his  offer  of  making 
it  a  measure  for  which  the  Cabinet  has  to  answer. 

"  I  have  seen  your  letter  to  the  Echo  and  the  DaHy  Nrntt. 
Ton  are  quite  justified  in  your  determination  to  agitate  the 
country  on  the  subject  of  vivisection,  and  obtain,  if  it  be 


*  The  oertifioate  (A)  dispensing  with  Annathotios  was  doobt- 
lees  inserted  after  Lord  Shaftesbury  saw  the  Bill. 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTl 

possible,  the  total  abolition  of  it.  Snch 
within  reach,  and  it  is  only  by  experience  \ 
tain  how  far  snch  a  blessed  consnmmatii 
Yon  will  have  a  good  deal  of  sympathy 
and  from  no  one  more  than  from  myself. 

••  Yonrs  tmly, 


When  wo  all  retomed  to  town  in  Octoba 
placed  on  the  MinrUe9  a  letter  from  me,  sayi 
only  retain  the  office  of  Honorary  Secretar 
should  adopt  the  principle  of  total  prohibit 
was  sent  out  calling  for  votes  on  the  poi 
22nd  November,  1876,  the  Resolution  was  ca 
Society  would  watch  the  existing  Act  witl 
enforcement  of  its  restrictions  and  its  exten 
prohibition  of  painful  experiments  on  animals 

In  February,  1877,  the  Committee,  to  ; 
unanimously  agreed  to  support  Mr.  Holt'f 
prohibition ;  and  in  aid  thereof  exhibited  on 
London  1,700  handbills  and  800  posters,  whi< 
reproductions  of  the  illustrations  of  vivis< 
Physiological  Hand-books.  These  posters 
more  effective  than  as  many  thousands  c 
pamphlets ;  and  the  indignation  of  the 
sufficiently  proved  that  such  was  the  case.  C 
we  held  our  second  annual  meeting  in  suppoi 
Bill,  and  had  for  speakers  Lord  Shaftesbury, 
of  Winchester  Dr.  Harold-Browne,  (now,  aJ 
Mount-Temple,  Prof.  Sheldon  Amos,  Gardini 
Prince  Lacien  Bonaparte.  The  last  rema 
erudite  scholar  (who  most  closely  resemb] 
person,  if  we  could  imagine  Napoleon  L  c( 
«rmies  of  books  /),  was,  from  first  to  last,  a 


658  CHAPTER  XX. 

onr  canse.    After  this  meeting  we  elected  him  Yioe-President 
and  here  is  his  letter  of  acknowledgment : — 

**  Prince  Lncien  Bonaparte  to  Miss  F.  P.  OL 

"  6,  Norfolk  Terrace,  Bayswater, 

"  4th  May,  1877. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

'*  I  feel  highly  honoured  at  being  nominated  one  of  the 
Vice-Presidents  of  the  Society  for  Protection  of  Animala 
Uable  to  viTisection,  and  ask  yon  to  retorn  the  Committee 
my  best  thanks. 

« I  am  a  great  admirer  of  a  Society  which,  like  yonrs, 
opposes  so  strongly  the  abominable  practice  of  Yivisection, 
because  for  my  own  part,  I  consider  it,  OTen  in  its  mildest 
form,  as  a  shame  to  Science,  a  dishononr  to  modem 
civilisation,  and  (what  I  think  more  important)  a  great 
offence  against  the  law  of  God. 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

••  Tears  very  sincerely, 

"L.  BONAPABTB.** 

Here  are  some  fui'ther  letters  concerned  with  that  meeting 
or  written  to  me  soon  afterwards : — 

"  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 

"  March  26th,  1877. 
"  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  beg  to  thank  yon  sincerely  for  your  kind  letter. 

**  So  far  as  I  can  see  there  is,  I  fear,  little  chance  of  my 
being  at  liberty  to  take  part  in  the  proceedings  en  the 
27th  of  April. 

"However,  with  the  names  which  yon  annonnoe,  yon 
will  be  more  than  able  to  dispense  with  any  assistanoe 
that  I  conld  lend  to  the  common  object.  Yon  will,  I  tmst, 
be  able  to  strengthen  Mr.  Holt's  hands.  If  what  I  have 
heard  of  his  measure  is  at  all  accurate,  it  seems  to  bo  at 
once  moderate  and  efficient« 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BRUTES.  6^9 

**  I  was  much  struok  by  an  observation  which  yon  were, 
I  think,  said  to  have  made  the  other  day  at  Bristol,  to  the 
effect  that  as  matters  now  stand  everything  depends  upon 
the  discretion,  or  rather,  upon  the  moral  sympathies  of  the 
Home  Secretary.  Mr.  Gross,  I  believe,  wonld  always  do 
weU  in  all  such  matters.  Bnt  it  does  not  do  to  reckon 
with  the  Boman  Empire  as  if  it  were  always  to  be  governed 
by  a  Marons  Anrelios. 

*'  I  am,  my  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  H.   P.  LiDDON." 

*'  House  of  Commons, 

"  26th  March. 
**  Dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

*'  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  undertake  to  speak  at  your  meeting 
on  the  27th  April.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  be  in  London 
on  that  day,  but  request  you  to  send  me  any  notice  of  the 
meeting. 

'*  My  time  and  strength  are  somewhat  overtaxed  owing 

to  an  inability,  and  I  may  add  indisposition,  to  say  No  when 

I  think  I  may  be  useful.    I  am,  however,  I  can  assure  you, 

in  sympathy  with  you  in  your  attempt  to  put  down  torture 

in  every  form. 

'*  I  am,  yours  very  sincerely, 

"  S.  MOBLBT." 

(Samuel  Morley,  M.P.) 

**  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

"  I  will  come  in  at  some  stage  of  your  proceedings.  I  am 
bound  first  to  Convocation — and  am  engaged  at  Kingston 
before  5. 

"  What  I  should  like  would  be  to  thank  Lord  Shaftes* 
bury ;  but  this  must  depend  on  the  time  that  I  come,  and 
tiuU  must  depeud  on  the  exigencies  of  Convocation. 

"Yours  truly, 

'•A.  P.  Stavlbt. 
(The  Dean  of  Westminster.) 
••April  25th,  1877." 


660  CHAPTER   XX. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Oobbe, 

« I  am  very  sorry  that  through  absence  from  home  my 
answer  to  your  note  haa  been  delayed.  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  take  part  in  your  meeting  on  the  27th,  for  I  am  not  in  a 
state  of  health  to  take  part  in  any  public  meeting ;  bnt  if  I 
am  at  ail  able  I  shonld  like  much  to  attend  it  and  hear  for 
myself  the  views  of  the  speakers.  I  have  not  expressed 
publicly  any  opinion  on  the  question  of  Vivisection,  being 
anxious  at  first  to  await  the  determination  of  the 
Commission,  and  then  to  see  how  the  restrictions  were 
likely  to  work. 

"  I  confess  that  my  own  mind  is  leaning  very  strongly  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  is  no  safe,  right  course  other  than 
entire  prohibition.  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  I 
dread  the  brutality  which  in  spite  of  the  influence  of  the 
best  men  will  inevitably  be  developed  in  our  young 
Experimenters,  in  these  days  of  almost  fanatical  devotion 
to  scientific  research.  It  seems  to  me  to  more  than 
counterbalance  the  physical  advantages  to  our  sick  what 
may  grow  out  of  the  practice  of  vivisection. 

**  And  I  am  very  sceptical  about  those  physical  advan- 
tages. I  doubt  whether  the  secrets  of  nature  can 
be  successfully  discovered  by  torture,  any  more  than  the 
secrets  of  hearts.  We  have  abandoned  the  one  endeavour, 
finding  the  results  to  be  by  no  means  worth  the  cost.  I  am 
persuaded  that  we  shall  soon,  for  the  same  reason,  have  to 
abandon  the  other. 

**  I  am  not  able,  as  I  say,  to  take  part  in  a  meeting,  bnt 
as  soon  as  I  am  able  I  intend  to  preach  on  the  subject,  and 
if  you  can  forward  to  me  any  information  which  will  be 
useful  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you.    Believe  me 

**  Ever  my  dear  Miss  Gobbe, 

"  Tours  very  faithfully, 

'*  J.  Baldwin  Bbowm." 
(Hev.  J.  B.  Brown.) 

By  this  time    there    were    two    other    Anti-vivisection 
Societies  in  London,  beside  Mr.  Jesse's  Society  at  Maodea- 


THE  0LA1M8  OF  BRUTES.  Ml 

field,  all  working  for  total  prohibition ;  and  though  of  course 
we  had  varionB  small  difficnlties  and  rivalries  in  the  course 
of  time,  yet  practically  we  all  helped  each  other  and  the  cause. 
Eventually  the  International  Society^  of  which  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Adlam  were  the  spirited  leaders,  coalesced  with  ours  and 
added  to  our  Committee  several  of  its  most  valuable  members 
including  our  present  much  respected  Chairman,  Mr.  Ernest 
Bell.  The  London  Anti-vivisection  Society,  though  I  expended 
all  my  blandishments  on  it,  has  never  consented  to  amalgama- 
tion, but  has  done  a  great  work  of  its  own  for  which  we 
have  all  reason  to  hold  it  in  honour. 

The  revolt  against  the  cruelties  of  science  spread  also  about 
this  time  to  the  continent.  Baron  Weber  read  his  Torture 
Clumber  of  Science  in  Dresden,  and  created  thereby  a  great 
sensation,  followed  by  the  formation  of  the  German  League, 
of  which  he  is  President,  and  the  foundation  of  its  organ,  the 
ThieT-und'Menschen-Freynd,  edited  by  Dr.  Paul  Forster,  now 
a  member  of  the  Reichstag.  Other  Anti- vivisection  Societies 
were  founded  then  or  in  subsequent  years  in  ELanover, 
in  Berlin,  and  in  Stockholm.  In  Copenhagen  those  devoted 
oriends  of  animals,  M.  and  Mdme.  Lembck6,  had  long  con- 
tended vigorously  against  the  local  vivisector,  Panum.  In 
Italy  the  Florence  Societa  ProtteUrice,  of  which  our  Queen  is 
Patroness  and  Countess  Baldelli  the  indefatigable  Hon.  Sec., 
has  steadily  worked  against  vivisection  from  its  foundation ; 
and  so  has  the  Torinese  Society  of  which  Dr.  Riboli  is  Presi- 
dent and  Countess  Biandrate  Morelli  the  leading  member. 
In  Riga  there  has  also  been  a  persevering  movement  against 
Vivisection  by  the  excellent  Society  of  which  the  Anwalt  der 
Tkiere  is  the  (first-class)  organ,  and  Madame  Y.  Schilling  the 
presiding  spirit. 

In  short,  by  the  end  of  the  decade,  though  we  had  been  so 
cruelly  defeated,  we  were  conscious  that  our  movement  had 
extended  and  had  become  to  all  appearance  one  of  those 


662  CHAPTER    XX. 

permaiMDt  a^^itations,  which,  once  began,  go  on  till  the  aboBoi 
which  aronsed  them  are  abolished.  In  America  the  movement 
only  took  definite  shape  m  Febroaryi  1888,  when,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  indefatigable  Mrs.  White,  the  Atneriean  And- 
vivitsction  Society  was  founded  at  Philadelphia;  to  be 
followed  np  by  its  most  flourishing  lUinoiB  Branch,  carried 
on  with  immense  spirit  by  Mrs.  Fairchild  Allen.  Mr.  Peabody 
and  Mr.  Greene  have  since  established  at  Boston  the  ^010 
Englofid  Anti-vivisection  Society^  which  has  already  become 
one  of  our  most  powerful  allies. 

On  the  2nd  May,  Mr.  Holt's  Bill  for  total  prohibition 
was  debated  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  on  a  division 
there  were  88  votes  in  its  favour  and  222  against  it. 

At  last  the  Committee  of  the  Victoria  Street  Society 
formally  adopted  the  thorough-going  policy ;  and  at  a  Meeiang, 
August  7th,  1878,  resolved  **  to  appeal  henceforth  to  public 
opinion  in  favour  of  the  total  prohibition  of  Yivisection." 
We  then  changed  our  title  to  that  of  the  Society  for  Protection 
of  Animals  from  Vivisection.  Dr.  Hoggan  and  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Hoggan,  M.D.,  and  also  Mr.  de  Fonblanque  retired  firom  the 
Committee  with  cordial  goodwill  on  both  sides,  and  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Tork  withdrew  from  the  Vice-Presidency.  But, 
beside  these  losses,  I  do  not  believe  that  we  had  any  others, 
and  there  was  soon  a  large  batch  of  fresh  recruits  of  new 
Members  who  had  long  resented  our  previous  half-hearted 
policy, — as  they  considered  it  to  have  been. 

For  my  own  part  I  had  accepted  from  the  outset  ^ 
assurance  I  received  on  all  hands  that  a  Bill  for  the  total 
prohibition  of  Vivisection  had  not  the  remotest  chance  of 
passing  through  Parliament  in  the  present  state  of  public 
opinion ;  but  that  a  BHl  might  be  framed,  which,  proceeding 
only  on  the  grounds  of  Restriction,  might  effectually  and 
thoroughly  exclude  **not  only  tortur§  bttt  anything  at  aU 
approachinif  thereto"  ;  and  that  such  a  Bill  bad  every  chance 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRO 

3f  becoming  law.  To  promote  snch  a 
single  aim  and  hope,  and  when  it  had 
presented  and  received  so  favourably,  i 
if  we  were  on  the  right  and  reascnable 
hated  any  concession  whatever  to  th 
vivisectors. 

Bat  when  we  fonnd  that  the  compron 
posed  had  failed,  and  that  onr  Bill  provi 
of  protection  for  animals  at  all  acceptah 
was  twisted  into  a  Bill  protecting  their  tc 
driven  to  raise  onr  demands  to  the  total 
practice,  and  to  determine  to  work  npos 
nmnber  of  year«  till  public  opinion  be  rip 

This  was  one  aspect  of  our  positioi 
another.  We  had  in  truth  gone  into  this 
our  forefathers  had  set  off  for  the  Holy  I 
any  knowledge  of  the  Power  which  v 
We  knew  that  dreadful  cruelties  had  b< 
fondly  imagined  they  were  abuses  which  v 
ihe  practice  of  experimenting  on  living  anin 
blindly  the  representation  of  Vivisection  b 
a  rare  resource  of  baffled  surgeons  and 
on  some  discovery  for  the  immediate  hem 
the  solution  of  some  pressing  and  impoi 
problem ;  and  we  thought  that  with  due  ai 
restrictions  and  safeguards  on  these  occas 
we  might  effectually  shut  out  cruelty.  £ 
degrees,  we  learned  that  nothing  was  mucl 
truth  than  these  faucy  pictures  of  ideal  Yi 
real  Vivisection  is  not  the  occasional  and  : 
resource  of  a  few,  but  the  daily  employmen 
it  his  **  daily  bread  ")  of  hundreds  of  men  an 
to  it  as  completely  and  professionally  as  bu 
carcases.     Finally  we  found  that  'to  extend 


664  OHAPTBR   AX. 

oonoeivable  Act  of  Parliament  to  animals  onca  delivered  to  the 
physiologists  in  their  laboratories,  was  chimerical.  Yivisee- 
tion,  we  recognized  at  last  to  be  a  Method  of  Besearck  which 
may  be  either  sanctioned  or  prohibited  as  a  Method,  but  which 
cannot  be  restricted  efficiently  by  rules  founded  on  humane 
considerations  wholly  irrelevant  to  the  scientific  enquiry. 

On  the  moral  side  also,  we  became  profoundly  impressed 
with  the  truth  of  the  principle  to  which  Canon  liddon  refers 
in  the  letter  I  have  quoted,  viz.,  that  the  Anti- Vivisection  cause 
is  '^  of  even  greater  importance  to  human  character  than  to 
the  physical  comfort  of  our  fellow  creatures  who  are  most 
immediately  concerned."  As  I  wrote  of  it,  about  this  time 
in  Bernard* s  Martyrs : — 

'*  We  stand  face  to  face  with  a  New  Vioe,  new,  at  least  in 
its  vast  modern  development  and  the  passion  wherewith  it 
is  pursued — the  Yice  of  Scientific  Crucdty.  It  is  not  the  old 
vice  of  Cruelty  for  Cruelty* s  sake.  It  is  not  the  careless 
brutal  cruelty  of  the  half -savage  drunken  drover,  the  low 
rufi&an  who  skins  living  cats  for  gain,  or  of  the  olasaio 
Roman  or  modem  Spaniard,  watching  the  sports  of  the 
arena  with  fierce  delight  in  the  sight  of  blood  and  death. 

The  new  vice  is  nothing  of  this  kind It  is  not 

like  most  other  human  vices,  hot  and  thoughtless.  The 
man  possessed  by  it  is  calm,  cool,  deliberate;  p^ectly 
cognisant  of  what  he  is  doing ;  understanding,  as  indeed  no 
other  man  understands,  the  full  meaning  and  extent  of  the 
waves  and  spasms  of  agony  he  deliberately  creates.  It  does 
not  seize  the  ignorant  or  hunger-driven  or  brutalized 
classes ;  but  the  cultivated,  the  weU-fed,  the  well-dressed, 
the  civilized,  and  (it  is  said)  the  otherwise  kindly -disposed 
and  genial  men  of  science,  forming  part  of  the  most 
intellectual  circles  in  Europe.  Sometimes  it  would  appear 
as  we  read  of  these  horrors, — ^the  baking  alive  of  dogs,  the 
slow  dissecting  out  of  quivering  nerves,  and  so  on, — ^tiiat  it 
would  be  a  relief  to  picture  the  doer  of  such  deeds  as  some 
unhappy,  half-witted  wretch,  hideous  and  filthy  in  mien  or 


THE  OLA  IMS  OF  BRUTES.  665 

Btnpified  by  drink,  so  that  the  foil  responsibility  of  a 
rational  and  educated  homan  being  should  not  belong  to 
him,  and  that  we  might  say  of  him,  '  He  scarody  under- 
stands what  he  does.'  Bat,  alas!  this  New  Vice  has  no 
such  palliations;  and  is  exhibited  not  by  sach  unhappy 
outcasts,  but  by  some  of  the  very  foremost  men  of  our 
time ;  men  who  would  think  scornfully  of  being  asked  to 
share  the  butcher's  honest  trade:  men  addicted  to  high 
speculation  on  all  the  mysteries  of  the  univcirse ;  men  who 
hope  to  found  the  Beligion  of  the  Future,  and  to  leave  the 
impress  of  their  minds  upon  their  age,  and  upon  generations 
yet  to  be  bom.*' 

Regarding  the  matter  from  this  point  of  view, — as  our 
leaders,  the  most  eminent  philanthropists  of  their  generation, 
Lord  Shaftesbury,  Lord  Mount-Temple,  Samuel  Morley,  and 
Cardinal  Manning,  emphatically  did, — the  reasons  for  calling 
for  the  total  Prohibition  of  Vivisection  rather  than  for  its 
Restriction  became  actually  clearer  in  our  eyes  on  the  side  of 
the  human  moral  interests  than  on  that  of  the  physical  interests 
of  the  poor  brutes.  We  felt  that  so  long  as  the  practice 
should  be  sanctioned  at  all,  so  long  the  Vice  of  Scientific 
Cruelty  would  spring  up  in  the  fresh  minds  of  students,  and 
be  kept  alive  everywhere.  It  was  therefore  absolutely  needful 
to  reach  the  germ  of  the  disease,  and  not  merely  to  endeavour 
to  allay  the  worst  symptoms  and  outbreaks.  It  is  the 
passion  itself  which  needs  to  be  sternly  suppressed ;  and  this 
can  only  be  done  by  stopping  altogether  the  practice  which 
is  its  outcome,  and  on  which  it  feeds  and  grows. 

But  (say  our  opponents),  *' Are  you  prepared  to  relinquish 
all  the  benefits  which  this  practice  brings  to  humanity  at 
large?" 

Our  answer  to  them,  of  course,  is,  that  we  question  the 
reality  of  those  benefits  altogether,  bat  that,  placing  them  at 
their  highest  estimation,  they  are  of  no  appreciable  weight 
compared  to  the  certain  moral  injury  done  to  the  community 


666  CHAPTER   XX. 

by  the  sanction  of  cruelty.  The  diBCOvery  of  the  Elixii 
Vita  itself  would  be  too  dearly  pnrchaaed  if  the  hearts  of 
men  were  to  be  rendered  one  degree  more  callous  and  selfish 
than  they  are  now.  And  that  the  practice  of  vivisection  by 
a  body  of  men  at  the  intellectual  summit  of  our  social  system, 
whose  influence  must  dribble  down  through  every  stratum  of 
society,  would  infallibly  tend  to  increase  such  callousness, 
there  can  exist  no  reasonable  doubt.  For  my  own  part, 
though  believing  that  little  or  nothing  worth  mentioning 
has  been  discovered  for  the  Healing  Art  through  Vivisection, 
and  that  Dr.  Leffingwell  is  right  in  saying  that  **  if  agony 
could  be  measured  in  money,  no  Mining  Company  in  the 
world  would  sanction  prospecting  in  such  barren  regions," 
I  yet  deprecate  the  emphasis  which  many  of  our  friends  have 
laid  on  this  argument  against  vivisection.  We  have  gone  off 
our  rightful  ground  of  the  simple  moral  issues  of  the  question 
and  have  seemed  to  admit  (what  very  few  of  us  would 
deliberately  do)  that  if  some  important  discovery  had  been 
made  by  Vivisection,  our  case  against  it  would  be  lost  or 
weakened.  I  have  been  so  anxious  to  warn  our  friends 
against  this,  as  I  think,  very  grave  mistake  in  tactics,  that  I 
circulated  some  time  ago  a  little  Parable  which  I  may  ait 
well  summarize  here : — 

"A  party  of  Filibusters  once  proposed  to  ravage  8 
neighbouring  island,  inhabited  by  poor  and  humble  people 
who  had  always  been  faithful  servants  and  friends  of  our 
country,  and  had  in  no  way  deserved  ill-treatment.  Some 
friends  of  justice  protested  that  the  Filibusters  ought  to  be 
prohibited  from  carrying  on  their  expedition,  but  unluckily 
they  did  not  simply  arraign  the  moral  lawfulness  of  the 
project,  but  went  on  to  discuss  the  inexpediencjf  of  the 
invasion,  arguing  that  the  island  was  very  poor  and  barren, 
and  would  not  repay  the  cost  of  conquest.  Here  the 
Filibusters  saw  their  advantage  and  broke  in :  'No  such 
thing  I  We'  are  the  only  people  who  know  auythiug  about 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRU1E8.  667 

the  islaiid,  and  we  assure  yon  it  is  full  of  mines  of  gold  and 
silver.'  '  Bosh  I '  replied  the  just  men ;  <  we  defy  yoa  to 
show  us  a  single  nugget.'  On  this  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  shuffling  of  feet  among  the  Filibusters,  and  they 
'  exhibited  some  glittering  fragments  as  gold,  but  being  tested 
these  proved  to  be  worthless,  and  again  other  fragments 
which  they  produced  were  traced  to  quite  another  part  of  the 
district,  far  away  from  the  island.  Still  it  became  evident 
that  the  Filibusters  would  go  on  interminably  bringing  up 
specimens,  and  some  day  might  possibly  produce  one  the 
value  of  which  could  not  be  well  disputed.  Moreover  the 
Filibusters  (who,  like  other  pirates,  were  addicted  to  telling 
fearful  yams)  had  the  great  advantage  of  talking  all  along 
of  things  they  had  studied  and  seen,  whereas  the  men  of 
the  party  of  justice  were  imperfectly  informed  about  the 
resources  of  the  island,  having  never  gone  thither,  and  thus 
they  were  easily  placed  at  a  disadvantage  and  made  to 
appear  foolish.  It  is  true  that  the  Filibusters  had  set  them 
on  the  wrong  track  by  clamouring  for  the  invasion  on  the 
avowed  ground  of  the  spoil  they  should  gather  for  the 
nation,  and  they  had  only  tried  to  nullify  the  effect  of  such 
appeals  to  general  selfiidmess  by  showing  that  there  was 
really  no  spoil  to  be  had ;  and  that  the  invasion  was  a 
blunder  as  well  as  a  crime.  But  in  bandying  such  appeals 
to  expediency  they  had  put  themselves  in  the  wrong  box ; 
because  to  di$ouu  the  value  of  the  spoil  toaSf  by  implication 
to  admit  thatf  if  it  only  were  rich^  it  might  pouibly  be  juetijiable 
to  go  and  seize  it  I" 

I  have  made  this  long  explanation  of  our  policy,  because 
I  am  painfully  aware  that  among  practical  people  and  men  of 
the  world,  accustomed  to  compromise  on  public  questions,  our 
adoption  of  the  demand  for  total  prohibition  has  placed  us  at 
a  great  disadvantage  as  ''  irreconcilables ; "  and  our  movement 
has  appeared  as  the  <'fad'*  of  enthusiasts  and  fanatics.  For 
the  reasons  I  have  given  above  I  think  it  will  appear  that 
while  compromise  offered  any  hope  of  protecting  our  poor 


668  CHAPTER    XX. 

clients  from  the  very  worst  cruelties,  we  tried  it  frankly  and 
in  earnest ;  first  in  Lord  Henniker's  and  secondly  in  Lord 
Carnarvon's  Bill.  When  this  last  effort  failed  we  were  left 
no  choice  bat  either  to  abandon  onr  dumb  friends  to  their 
fate,  or  demand  for  them  the  removal  of  the  source  of  their 
danger. 

It  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  recount  further  with  as 
much  detail  the  history  of  the  Victoria  Street  Society,  of 
which  I  continued  to  act  as  Hon.  Secretary  till  I  finally  left 
London  in  1884.  Abundance  of  other  friends  of  animals, 
active  and  energetic,  were  in  the  field,  and  our  movement,  in 
spite  of  a  score  of  checks  and  defeats,  continued  to  spread 
and  deepen.  Campbell's  familiar  line  often  occurred  to  me 
(with  a  variation) — 

"  The  cause  of  Mercy  once  begun. 
Though  often  lost  is  always  won  t  '* 

On  July  16th,  1879,  Lord  Truro  brought  into  the  House  of 
Lords  a  Bill  for  the  Prohibition  of  Vivisection.  It  was  not 
promoted  by  us,  and  was  in  many  respects  unfortunately 
managed,  but  our  Society,  of  course,  supported  it,  Lord 
Shaftesbury  made  in  defence  of  it  one  of  his  longest  speeches. 
I  was  in  the  House  of  Lords  at  the  time,  and  thought  that 
there  could  never  be  a  much  more  affecting  sight  than  that  of 
the  noble  old  man,  who  had  pleaded  so  often  in  that  "  gilded 
chamber  "  for  men,  women  and  children,  standing  there  at 
last  in  his  venerable  age,  urging  with  all  his  simple  eloquence 
the  claims  of  dumb  animals  to  mercy.  Against  him  rose  and 
spoke  Lord  Aberdare,  actually  (as  he  took  pains  to  explain) 
as  Fresident  of  the  Society  for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals  I  The  Bishop  of  Peterborough,  Dr.  Magee,  after- 
wards Archbishop  of  York,  also  made  then  his  unhappy 
speech  about  the  rabbits  and  the  surgical  operation ;  (witb 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  869 

which  the  iiiTentor  of  that  operation,  Dr.  Clay,  said  they 
had  "no  more  to  do  than  the  Pope  of  Borne").  Only 
16  Peers  voted  for  the  Bill,  97  against  it. 

On  the  16th  March,  1880,  Mr.  Holt's  BiU  for  total 
prohibition  was  down  for  second  reading  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  but  was  stopped  by  notice  of  dissolntion.  From 
that  time  our  friend,  Sir  Eardley  Wilmot,  took  charge  of  a 
similar  Bill  promoted  by  our  Society.  Notice  of  it  was  given 
by  Mr.  Firth  on  the  Brd  February,  1881.  The  second 
reading  was  postponed,  first  to  July  18th,  next  to  July  27th, 
and  then  that  day  was  taken  by  government.  In  October  of 
that  year  (1881)  Mr.  B.  T.  Beid  took  charge  of  our  Bill,  on 
the  resignation  of  Sir  Eardley  Wilmot.  The  second  reading 
was  postponed  on  June  28th,  1882,  and  not  till  the  4th  of 
April,  1888,  after  aU  these  heartbreaking  postponements  and 
failures,  there  was  at  last  a  Debate.  Mr.  Beid  and  Mr. 
George  Bussell  spoke  admirably  in  favour  of  the  Bill,  but 
they  were  talked  out  without  a  division  by  a  whole  series  of 
advocates  of  vivisection,  of  wliom  Sir  William  Harcourt,  Mr. 
Cartwright,  and  Lord  Playfair,  were  most  eminent.  This 
was  the  last  occasion  on  which  we  have  been  able  to  obtain 
a  debate  in  either  House.  Mr.  Beid  brought  in  his  Bill  again 
in  1884,  but  could  obtain  no  day  for  a  second  reading. 

One  touching  incident  of  these  earlier  years  I  must  not 
omit.  Our  Hon.  Correspondent  at  the  Hague,  Madame  van 
Manen-Thesingh ;  had  written  me  several  letters  exhibiting 
remarkable  good  sense  as  well  as  ardent  feeling.  One  day  I 
received  a  short  note  from  her  telling  me  that  she  was  dying; 
and  begging  me  to  send  over  some  trustworthy  agent  at  once 
to  the  Hague,  if,  (as  she  feared)  I  could  not  go  to  her  myself. 
1  telegraphed  that  I  would  be  with  her  next  day,  and 
accordingly  sailed  that  night  to  Flushing.  When  I  reached 
her  house  M.  van  Manen  received  me  very  kindly ;  but  as  a 
man  half  bewildered  with  grief.     His  wife's  disease  was 


670  CHAPTER   XX. 

cancer  of  the  tongue,  and  she  conld  no  longer  speak.  She 
was  waiting  for  me  in  her  drawing-room.  It  may  be 
imagined  how  affecting  was  our  half-speechless  interview. 
After  a  time  M.  van  Manen  at  a  sign  from  his  wife,  unlocked 
a  bureau  and  took  out  a  large  packet  of  papers.  These  he 
placed  before  her  on  the  table  and  then  left  the  room.  Of 
course  I  understood  this  proceeding  was  intended  to  satisfy 
me  that  it  was  with  her  husband's  entire  consent  that 
Madame  van  Manen  gave  these  papers  to  me.  There  were  a 
great  many  of  them,  Dutch,  Russian,  and  American 
securities  of  one  sort  or  another,  and  she  marked  them  ofi 
one  by  one  on  a  list  which  she  had  prepared.  Then  die 
wrote  down  that  she  gave  me  all  these,  and  also  some  laces 
and  jewellery,  to  further  the  Anti-vivisection  cause  in  what- 
ever way  I  thought  best;  reserving  a  donation  for  the 
London  AnU^vtsection  Society,  A  few  efforts  to  convey 
my  gratitude  and  sympathy  were  all  I  could  make.  The 
dear,  noble  woman  stood  calm  and  brave  in  the  immediate 
prospect  of  death  in  its  most  painful  form,  and  all  her 
anxiety  seemed  to  be  that  the  poor  brutes  should  be 
effectually  aided  by  her  gifts.  I  left  her  sorrowfully,  and 
carried  her  parcel  in  my  travelling  bag,  first  to  Amsterdam 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  to  London,  where  having 
summoned  our  Finance  Committee,  I  placed  it  in  their  hands. 
The  contents  (duly  estimated  and  sold  through  the  Army  and 
Navy  Society)  realised  (over  and  above  the  legacy  to  the 
London  Society)  about  £1,850.  With  this  sum  we  started 
the  Zoophilist, 

The  Zoophilist  thus  founded  (May  2nd,  1881),  under  the 
editorship  of  Mr.  Adams,  then  our  Secretary,  has  of  course 
been  of  enormous  value  to  our  cause.  A  new  series  began 
on  the  1st  January,  1888,  which  I  edited  till  my  resignation 
of  the  Hon.  Secretaryship  June,  1884.  I  also  started  and 
edited  a  French  journal  of  the  same  size  and  character, 


THE  OLAIMS  OF  BRU 

L»  Zoophile,  from  Novembor  1st,  1888,  tt 
the  nudortaking  was  abandoDsd,  Fren 
obrionsly  found  the  papra  too  dry  for  tb 
tbem  also  remonstrated  with  me  agait 
referenoeB  in  it  to  reUgiooB  conBideraUoDB, 
oonnselled  by  a  very  mflnential  French 
dltogetktr  to  mention  God, — a  piece  of  advic 
declined  to  take  I  The  lata  celebrated  Md 
me  a  beaatifiil  article  for  L«  Zoophile, 
have  gladly  availed  myself  if  ebe  wonld  ht 
editorial  privilege  of  dropping  about  hal 
rive  atheism  ;  bat  this,  after  a  pretty  shi 
she  refused  peremptorily  to  do.  Altogetb 
oat  of  touch  both  with  my  French  staff  ani 

Beside  these  two  periodicals  our  Socii 
issned  an  almost  incredible  moltitade  c 
leaflets.  I  sbonld  be  afraid  to  make  any 
number  of  them  and  of  the  tbonsands  ol 
nroolation.  My  own  share  mnst  ha' 
hundred.  Beside  these  and  those  ol 
Secretaries  (some  extremely  able)  we 
pamphlets,  Sermons  and  Speeches  by  I 
Cardinal  Manning,  the  Lord  Chief  Just 
Llimdaff,  Professor  Bnskin,  Bishop  Barry 
Hon.  B.  Coleridge,  Lady  Paget,  Canon 
Hark  ThomhiU,  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen,  the  1 
(Dr.  Maokamess),  Rev.  F.  0.  Morris,  Br. 
Macdonald,  Mr.  Emost  Boll,  Baron  Webo: 
for  scientific  importunce)  IHr.  Lawson  Tait, 
Dr.  Berdoe,  and  Dr.  Clarke. 

Some  of  my  own  Anti-viviaactioQ  pampbli 
a  few  years  ago  and  pabUshed  by  Messrs.  S 
tolnme  (crown  8vo.,  pp.  272)  entitled  thi 


672  CHAPTER    XX. 

Beoretary,  Mr.  Bryan,  and  published  by  the  Society ;  notably 
the  Vivisectors*  Direetoryj  the  English  Vivisectors*  Direetory^ 
and  AnH-vivisecHon  Evidmce$.  Of  the  Nine  Cirdes,  com- 
piled for  me  and  printed  (first  edition)  at  my  expense,  I  shall 
speak  presently. 

I  mast  here  be  allowed  to  say  that  the  spirited  letters, 
pamphlets  and  articles  by  our  medical  allies,  Dr.  Berdoe,  I>r. 
Clarke,  Dr.  Bowie  and  Dr.  Arnold, — above  all  Dr.  Berdoe's 
contributions  to  our  scientific  literature,  have  been  an  immea- 
surable value  to  our  cause.  The  day  of  Dr.  Berdoe's 
accession  to  our  party  at  one  of  our  annual  meetings  must 
ever  be  remembered  by  me  with  gratitude.  £Us  ability, 
courage  and  disinterestedness  have  been  far  beyond  any 
praise  I  can  give  them.  Mr.  Mark  Thomhill  also  (a  distin- 
guished Indian  Civil  Servant,  author  of  The  Indian  Mutiny^ 
etc.),  has  done  us  invaluable  service  by  his  calm,  lucid  and 
most  convincing  writings,  notably  ''  The  Case  against  Vivi' 
section"  and  "  Experiments  on  Hospital  Patients"  Mr. 
Pirkis,  R.N.,  has  been  for  many  years  not  only  by  his  steady 
attendance  at  the  Committee  but  by  his  unwearied  exertions 
in  preparing  and  disseminating  anti-Pasteur  literature,  one  of 
the  chief  benefactors  of  the  Society. 

Among  our  undertakings  on  behalf  of  the  victims  of 
science  was  the  prosecution  of  Prof.  Ferrier  at  Bow  Street 
on  the  17th  November,  1881,  on  the  strength  of  certain 
reports  in  the  two  leading  Medical  Journals.  We  had 
ascertained  that  he  had  no  license  for  Vivisection  and  yet 
we  read  as  follows  in  a  report  of  the  proceedings  at  the 
International  Medical  Congress  of  1881 : — 

<<  The  members  were  shown  two  of  the  monkeys,  a  portion 
of  whose  cortex  had  been  removed  by  Professor  Ferrer." — 
British  Medical  Journal^  20th  August,  1881. 

''The  interest  attaching  to  the  discussion  was  greatly 
cmhanced  bv  the  fact  that  Professor  Ferrier  was  willing  to 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BBU% 

exhibit  two  monkeys  which  he   had  op< 
months  previously."  .... 

"  In  startling  contrast  to  the  dog  wi 
exhibited  by  Professor  Ferrier.  One  oi 
operated  upon  in  the  middle  of  January,  tl 
haying  been  destroyed." — Lancet^  October 

When  the  reporters  who  had  sent  in  their 
journals  were  produced  the  following  Indio 
took  place  in  conrt : — 

Dr.  Charles  Smart  Boy  (the  Reportei 
Meduxd  Journal)  was  asked — 

**Q.  Did  Professor  Ferrier  offer  to  ezl 
monkeys  npon  which  he  had  so  operated  f 

**  A.  At  the  Congress,  no. 

"  Q.  Did  he  sabseqnently  ? 

'*A  No;  he  showed  certain  of  the  i 
Conf^ress  two  monkeys  at  King's  College. 

*'  Q.  What  two  monkeys  ? 

**A.  Two  monkeys  npon  which  an  ope 
performed. 

"  Q.  By  whom  ? 

"  A.  By  Professoe  Yeo  "  (I  I) 

•'The  Editor  of  the  Lancet,  Dr.  Wal 
examined: — 

**  Dr.  Wakeley,  stcom,  examined  by  Mr,  f 

"  Q.  Axe  yon  the  Editor  of  the  Lancet  f 

••  A.  I  am. 

*'  Q,  Can  yon  tell  me  who  it  was  fumisb 

**A,1  have  the  permission  of  the  genth 
name,  Professor  Gamgee,  of  Owen's  Colleg 

''  Mr.  Waddy :  WhatI  should  ask  is  thai 
an  opportunity  of  calling  Professor  G^amge 

**Mr.  Gully  (Counsel  for  the  defend 
oommunicated  with  Professor  Gamgee,  c 
wt)il  ne  will  say  predsely  what  was  said  b; 

— Report  of  Trials  Noyen 


674  CHAPTER    XX. 

The  posiiion  of  the  Anti-viviseotionistB  on  the  ocoaaion 
was,  it  mnst  he  confessed,  like  that  of  the  simple  ooontry- 
man  in  the  fair.  <'Yoa  lay  yonr  money  that  Professor 
Ferrier  is  under  that  onp  ? "  ^<  Tes,  certainly  I  I  saw 
hoth  Professor  Boy  and  Professor  Gamgee  put  him  there 
ahout  five  minutes  ago."  ''  Here  then,  see  t  Hay  Presto  t 
Hocus-pocus  t  There  is  only  Professor  Yeo  t  " 

The  group  of  Yivisectors  and  their  allies.  Dr.  Michael 
Foster,  Dr.  Burdon-Sanderson,  Dr.  Ernest  Hart,  Prof. 
Ferrier,  Dr.  Boy  and  many  more  who  filled  the  court,  all 
evinced  the  utmost  hilarity  at  the  success  of  the  device 
wherehy  (as  a  matter  of  necessity)  the  Anti-vivisection  case 
collapsed. 

At  last,  in  the  PkUosophical  Transactions  of  the  Boyal 
Society  for  1884,  the  truth  came  to  light.  In  the  Prefatory 
Note  to  a  record  of  Experiments  by  David  Ferrier  and  Gerald 
F.  Teo,  M.D.,  occurs  the  statement  :^> 

'*  The  facts  recorded  in  this  paper  are  partly  the  results 
of  a  research  made  conjointly  by  Drs.  Ferrier  and  Teo, 
aided  by  a  grant  from  the  British  Medical  Association,  and 
partly  of  a  research  made  by  Dr.  Ferrier  alone,  aided  by 
a  grant  from  the  Boyal  Society.'* 

The  conjoint  experiences  are  distinguished  by  an  asterisk ; 
and  among  them  we  find  those  of  the  two  monkeys  which 
formed  the  subject  of  the  trial.  Thus  it  stands  confessed, — 
actually  in  the  Transactions  of  the  Boyal  Society, — ^that  Pro- 
fessor Ferrier  had  the  leading  share  (his  name  always  appears 
first)  in  the  experiments ;  and  that,  conjointly  with  Professor 
Yeo,  he  received  a  grant  firom  the  British  Medical  Association 
for  performing  the  same  1 

If  after  this  experience  we  have  ceased  to  hope  much  firom 
proceedings  in  Courts  of  Justice  against  our  antagonists,  it  will 
not  be  thought  surprising.    The  Society  has  been  firequently 


THE  OLAIMH  OF  BRUl 

t'/dtted  with  the  failure  of  this  prosecnt 
onr  opponents  say,  we  "had  not  a  til 
Elaborate  reports  in  the  two  leading  M 
not,  it  appears,  afford  even  "  a  tittle  of  evi 

Among  other  modes  in  which  we  end 
forward  our  cause,  have  been  special  ap]     I 
particnlar  chnrches  or  other  bodies  to  ado 
Enormous  numbers  of  circulars  have  beei 
manner  by  our   Society  to   the   Clergy  o     t 
England,  and  it  is  believed  that  at  least 
side  in  the  controversy ;  more  than  2,0(K     i 
Memorial  several  years  ago. 

Another  appeal  was  addressed  by  me  i 
Society  of  Friends  through  the  Clerks  of  i 
Quarterly  Meetings  in  England  and  Ireland. 

It  has  proved  eminently  successful,  and  I 
formation  of  a  powerful ''  Friends^  Anfi-v%%  \ 
which  lately  issued  an  appeal  to  other  memfc 
signed  by  2,000  friends,  many  of  them  being  . 
eminent  in  England.  This  has  again  formec  I 
fresh  appeal  on  an  immense  scale  in  Pennsyl  i 
recent  appeal  to  the  Congregationalists  has, '.  I 
well  received.  On  one  occasion  a  special  I 
House  of  Lords  was  signed  by  every  XJnita  i 
London.     It  was  presented  by  the  Archbish  | 

*  Mr.  Cartwright,  speaking  in  the  Honse  of  Ck>z 
1883,  hi  reply  to  Mr.  B.  T.  Beid,  said :  *'  The  hon 
have  said  somethmg  about  the  pxoflecation  of  Dr. }  ( 
evaded  the  Act.    He  does  not  do  that.    He  has  ' 
go-by  to  it,  for  that  prosecution  lamentably  failed 
down.     The  charge  brought  against  Dr.  Ferri: 
operated  without  a  llcenoe  and  mfringed  the  la^ 
things  to  which  the  hon.  and  learned  member  Ti  \ 
oAarge  was  not  supported  by  one  tittle  of  eviden<M. 


676  OH  AFTER   XX. 

also  presented  a  Memorial  (for  Restriction)  in  1876  signed  by 
all  the  heads  of  Colleges  in  Oxford. 

Another  appeal  which  I  ventured  to  make  (printed  as  a  large 
pamphlet)  to  *'  £^  Humane  Jews  of  England^**  entreating  them 
to  remonstrate  with  the  40  Gterman  Jews  who  are  the  worst 
vivisectors  in  Europe,  was,  nnfortonatelyy  a  deplorahle 
fjEulnre.  Four  of  my  own  private  friends,  Jewesses,  all 
expressed  their  sympathy  warmly,  and  sent  handsome  con- 
trihutions  to  oar  funds ;  but  not  one  other  Jew  or  Jewess,  high 
or  low,  rallied  to  us,  albeit  I  presented  pamphlets  to  nearly 
200  recommended  to  me  as  specially  well  disposed.  I  shall 
never  be  tempted  to  address  the  "  Humane**  Jews  of  England 
again  I 

One  other  circular  I  niay  mention  as  more  sueoeesful. 
I  sent  to  seven  hundred  Head  Schoolmasters  the  following 
Letter,  with  which  were  enclosed  the  pamphlets  mentioned 
therein : — 

M  Hengwxt,  Dolgelly, 

**  September,  1886. 
**  Dear  Sir, 

••Permit  me  respectfully  to  ask  yonr  perusal  ol  the 
accompanying  little  paper  on  '  Fbysiology  as  a  Branch  of 
Education.'  I  have  written  it  under  a  strong  sense  ol  the 
xiecessity  which  at  present  exists  for  some  similar  caution. 

"  The  leaflet  describing  a  *  Specimen  of  Modem  Physia- 
logioal  Instruction,'  refers  to  a  scene  in  Paris  which  could 
not  be  precisely  paralleled  in  an  English  school,  so  far  as 
concerns  the  actual  torture  of  the  animalB  used  for 
exhibition,  since  the  Vivisection  Act  of  1876  provided  that 
ansBsthetics  must  be  used  in  all  cases  of  Vivisection  for 
Illustration  of  Lectures. 

"  It  is,  however,  to  be  seriously  questioned  whether  even 
painless,  (and  therefore  not  thoehmg),  operations  on  living 
animals,  performed  before  boys  aad  girls,  by  the  enthuaiaatio 
TCfiglifth  admirers  of  Olaude  Bernard  and  Paul  Bert,  mmf 
not  excite  in  the  minds  of  the  voung  witnesses  a 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BEWj  ! 

vmningled  with  pity»  sndi  as  may  sq  ! 

them  to  become  the  most  merciless  ez]  ; 

least,  advocates  and  apologists  of  scienti  i 

"  Trasting,  Sir,  that  yon  will  pardon  t  . 

letter, 

*'  I  am,  sincerely    ( 

"Frances  '. 

Twelve  of  these  Head  Masters,  including 
eminent,  e.^.,  Mr.  Welldon,  of  Harrow ; 
Gharterhonse ;  and  the  lamented  Mr.  Thrii  ; 
wrote  me  most  interesting  letters  m  reply  e  : 
of  my  views.     I  shall  here  insert  that  of  ! 
many  respects  noteworthy. 

"  Rev.  Edward  Thring  to  Miss  1 . 

"  Pitlochry,  Pei : 
**  Sept<  I 
"  My  dear  Madam, 

"  I  received  your  little  pamphlet  on  ; 
hardly  know  what  yon  expect  me  to  do. 
Education  sofficiently  show  how  strong: 
subject  of  a  Literary  Education ;  or  rath  i 
I  am  in  the  judgment  that  there  can  be  nc 
which  is  not  based  on  the  study  of  the  hi ! 
the  highest  men,  in  the  best  shape. 

**As  for  Science  (most  of  it  falsely  s<i 
leading  minds  are  excepted,  it  simply 
average  dull  worker,  to  no  more  than  a  kii 
work,  weighing  out,  and  labelling,  and  leai' 
formulflB ;  a  superior  Grocery-assistant's  w 
a  single  element  of  higher  mental  train:: 
mention  that  it  leaves  out  all  knowledge 
and  therefore  is  eminently  fitted  to  train 
its  struggles  t  Physiology,  in  its  worser  f! 
a  brutaUsing  of  the  average  practitioner,  ox 
combination  of  intellect- worship  and  crueli 
of  feeling  and  character.    For  my  part,  if 


«78  OHAPTBR   XX. 

viTiflection  had  wonderfally  relieved  bodily  disease  for  me^. 
if  it  were  at  the  cost  of  lost  spizitB,  then  I  should  say.  Let 
the  body  perish  1  Andit  it  at  the  oost  of  loet  spirits  I  I  dt 
not  say  that  under  no  oirciimstances  should  an  ezperimeni 
take  place,  bnt  I  do  say  that  under  no  oircumstanoe  should 
an  experiment  take  place  for  teaching  purposes.  Yon  ynXi 
see  how  decided  my  judgment  is  on  this  matter.  I  send 
you  three  Addresses  on  Education,  which  in  smaller  spaoe 
than  my  books,  will  iUustrate  the  positive  side  of  my 
experience  and  beliefs. 

•«  Yours  faithfully, 

••  Edwabd  Thrwo.'' 

Our  Committee  was,  in  all  the  years  in  which  I  had  to  dc 
with  it,  the  most  harmonious  and  friendly  of  which  I  have 
ever  heard.  Lord  Shaftesbury,  who  presided  49  times,  and 
never  once  failed  us  when  he  was  expected,  was,  of  oourse, 
as  all  the  world  knows,  a  first-rate  Chairman,  getting 
through  an  immense  amount  of  business,  while  allowing  eveiy 
member  his,  or  her,  legitimate  rights  of  speech  and  voting.  He 
never  showed  himself,  (I  have  been  told,)  anywhere  more 
genial  and  zealous  than  with  us.  Lord  Mount-Temple 
attended  very  frequently,  and  Lady  Mount-Temple  from  first 
to  last  has  been  one  of  our  warmest  and  wisest  firiends. 
General  Colin  Mackenzie,  a  devout  and  noble  old  soldier, 
spoke  little,  but  what  he  did  say  was  always  straight  to  the 
mark,  and  the  affectionate  respect  we  all  felt  for  him  made 
his  presence  delightful.  Lady  Portsmouth  (now  the 
Dowager  Countess)  attended  in  those  days  very  regularly 
and  Lady  Camperdown  has  given  us  her  unwearied  help  fix>m 
that  time  to  this.  I  have  spoken  of  the  very  valnabis 
services  of  Mr.  E.  de  Fonblanque.  In  later  years  my  friend 
Bev.  Wnniam  Henry  Channing  was  a  great  support  to  ma 
The  Cardinal  was,  perhaps,  a  little  reserved,  but  alwayi 
oarefuUy  kind  and  courteous,  and  whatever  he  said  bore  ^rsat 


TBE  OLAiMB  OF  BRU    \ 

wmght.     Lord  Bate's  advice  was  very  \ 
good  scoise.     Mr.  Shaen's  legal  knowledg 
In  brief,  each  member  was  nsefnl.     The    ! 
parties  or  cabals  in  the  Committee.     It  "vt    ; 
Bon.    Sec.    (especially  after  my  collea]   i 
retired)  to  lay  proposals  for  action  befo   i 
Tbdy  were  sometimes  rejected  and  often  c<   i 
but  we  all  felt  that  the  one  thing  we  desi  ! 
find  the  best  way  of  forwarding  our  C£  \ 
thaikfdl  for  the  guidance  of  the  wise  an 
who  were  our  leaders.     In  short,  the  feeli  ; 
us  nund  that  long  oak  office-table  were : 
worl ;  and  now  that  so  many  of  those  wb 
me  ii  the  earlier  years  have  passed  from  e  i 
pondering  whether  they  have  met ''  EUew]  \ 
long  I  may  join  them.     They  must  form  i 
in  aiv  world.     May  my  place  be  with  :  i 
rathe*  than  with  the  votaries  of  Science 
to  be" 

In  later  years  the  personnel  of  the  ! 
cours  been  largely  renewed.  Lady  Moi  i 
Oamprdown  and  Mrs.  Frank  Morrison  al  i 
from  the  earlier  body.  Miss  Marston  aL  i 
founced  the  London  AnH-vivtsecUon  Society ,  1 
yeare  one  of  the  firmest  and  wisest  fries  i 
Streit  Society  also.  I  have  spoken  above  < 
to  Ckpt.  Pirkis'  unfailing  help  at  the  Comi  i 
resicing  far  out  of  town  ;  and  of  the  zeal  ^ ' 
his  gifted  wife  founded  the  first  of  our  Bii 
labaired  in  circulating  oxur  literature.  Miss  j  I 
Mies  Bryant,  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Arnold  hs, 
through  many  years  in  patiently  and  vigoi 
work.  Of  our  excellent  chairman,  Mr.  Emi 
to  the  Anti- vivisection  cause  it  is  needless  : 


680  CHAPTER  XX. 

as  they  must  be  reeogmsed  gratefally  by  the  whole  party 
thronghont  England. 

We  have  had  several  successive  Secretaries  who  sometime? 
took  the  work  much  off  my  hands,  sometimes  left  it  to  fill 
very  heavily  on  me  and  Miss  Uoyd.  On  one  occasion,  'we 
two,  having  also  lost  the  clerk,  did  the  entire  work  of  tie 
office  for  many  weeks,  inclusive  of  writing,  editing,  foldiig, 
addressing,  and  actually  potting  an  issue  of  the  Zoophiliti 
But  my  toils  and  many  of  my  anxieties  ended  when  I  vas 
fortunate  enough  to  obtain  the  services,  as  Secretary,  of  iir. 
Benjamin  Bryan,  who  had  long  shown  his  genuine  intere^  in 
the  cause  as  editor  of  a  Northern  newspaper ;  and,  after  a  rear 
or  two  of  work  in  concert  with  him,  I  felt  free  to  leave  the 
whole  burden  on  his  shoulders  and  tendered  my  resignadon. 
The  constant  presence  on  the  Committee  of  my  long-aied 
and  most  valued  allies  Mr.  Ernest  Bell,  Oapt.  Pirkis  and 
Miss  Marston  left  me  entirely  at  rest  respecting  the  oouse  of 
our  future  policy  in  the  straight  direction  of  Prohibition 

The  last  event  which  I  need  record  is  a  disagreeable  inddent 
which  occurred  in  the  autumn  of  1892.  I  had  been  seriiusly 
ill  with  acute  sciatica,  and  had  been  only  partially  reUevec  by  a 
large  subcutaneous  dose  of  morphia  given  me  by  my  comtry 
doctor.  In  this  state,  with  my  head  still  swimming  and  scarcely 
able  to  sit  at  a  table,  I  found  myself  involved  in  the  noet 
acrimonious  newspaper  controversy  which  I  ever  remenbw 
to  have  seen  in  any  respectable  joumaL  It  wiU  be  bestthat 
another  pen  than  mine  should  tell  the  story,  so  I  will  qiote 
the  calm  and  lucid  statement  of  the  author  of  the  excelent 
pamphlet,  **  Viviseetion  at  ihs  Folkestone  Church  Congrse  " 
(page  6). 

After  a  risumS  of  the  notorious  debate  at  Folkestone  Uie 
writer  says : — 

"  The  main  point  of  attack  in  Mr.  Victor  Horaley's  pafer 
was  a  book  caUed  the  Nine  (7tro2M  which  had  been  publiahxl 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  681 

fome  months  before,  and  contained  reports  of  different 
classes  of  orael  experiments  on  animals,  both  in  England 
and  on  the  Continent.  To  this  book  Miss  Cobbe  had  given 
the  sanction  of  her  name,  bat  she  was  not  personally 
responsible  for  any  of  the  qnotations,  haying  entrusted  the 
compilation  of  the  book  to  friends  living  in  London,  and 
who  had  aooess  to  the  jonmals  and  papers  in  which  the 
experiments  were  recorded.  Mr.  Horsley's  indignation 
was  roused  because  in  a  certain  number  of  cases — ^22  out  of 
the  170  narratives  of  different  classes  of  experiments,  many 
of  them  involving  a  «mM,  and  the  use  of  large  numbers 
of  anim  als  in  each — the  mention  of  the  use  of  morphia  or 
chloroform  was  omitted.  Miss  Oobbe,  in  a  letter  to  the 
Tifiiet  of  October  11th,  while  acknowledging  that  the  com- 
pilers were  bound  to  quote  the  fact  if  stated,  expressed 
her  conviction  that  such  statements  are  misleading,  because 
insensibility  is  not  and  cannot  be  complete  during  the 
whole  period  of  the  experiment.  Dr.  Berdoe  also  wrote  in 
several  papers  defending  Miss  Cobbe  against  Mr.  Horsley's 
imputations  of  fraud  and  intent  to  deceive,  Ac.,  and 
explaining  that  the  compilers  of  the  book  were  alone  res- 
ponsible for  the  omisBiOBifl.  He  added,  however,  a  farther 
explanation  that,  as  it  was  often  the  painful  results,  and 
not  the  operations  which  caused  them,  that  it  was  desired 
to  illustrate,  and  as  these  results  lasted  sometimes  for 
many  days  or  weeks  or  months  and  to  maintain  insensi- 
bility daring  that  period  was  impossible,  the  omissions 
were  not  so  important  after  all.*'    .... 

"  .  .  .  .  The  assailant,  however,  returned  to  the  charge 
and  in  a  more  violent  style  than  before.  His  letter  tt  the 
Times  of  October  17th,  was  a  tirade  against  Miss  Cobbe, 
worthy,  as  the  SpeeUOar  remarked,  only  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  in  which  the  words  *  false '  and  '  lie '  were  freely 
used.  It  was  a  letter  of  so  libellous  a  character  that  it  is 
a  matter  for  wonder  that  it  obtained  publication.  Miss 
Cobbe  very  naturally  and  properly  at  once  retired  from  a 
controversy  conducted,  as  she  expressed  it  in  a  letter  to  th6 
7%iMf.  'outside  of  all  my  experienoe  of  dvilined  journalism.* 


682  CHAPTER  XX. 

She  ooncluded  with  these  words:  '  I  need  scaroelj  say  that 
I  maintain  the  yeraoity  of  every  word  of  the  letter  which 
yon  did  me  the  honour  to  pnhliah  of  the  15th  inat.,  as  weU 
as  the  bona  Jide$  of  all  I  have  spoken  or  written  on  this 
or  other  sahjects  during  my  three-score  years  and  ten.'  *' 

After  a  week  or  two  I  went  to  Bath  to  recmit  my  health 
after  the  attack  of  sciatica ;  and  the  first  newspaper  I  took 
up  at  the  York  Hotel,  contained  a  still  more  violent  attack 
on  me  than  those  which  had  preceded  it.  On  reading  it  I 
walked  into  the  telegraph  office  next  door,  wired  for  rooms 
at  my  favourite  Sonth  Kensington  Hotel  and  went  np  to 
town  with  my  maid,  presenting  myself  at  once  to  onr  Com- 
mittee, which  happened  to  be  sitting  and  arranging  for  the 
impending  meeting  in  St.  James's  Hall.  "  Shall  I  attend,'* 
said  I,  *'  and  speak,  or  not  ?  I  will  do  exactly  what  yoa 
wish."  The  Committee  were  nnanimoosly  of  opinion  tiiat 
I  should  go  to  the  meeting  and  take  part  in  the  proceedings, 
and  I  have  ever  since  rejoiced  that  I  did  so.  It  was  on  the 
evening  of  October  27th.  My  ever  kind  Mend,  Canon  Basil 
Wilberforce  took  the  chair.  Col.  Lockwood,  Bishop  Barry, 
Dr.  Berdoe,  Mr.  Bell,  and  Captain  Firkis  were  on  the 
platform  supporting  me,  bat  above  all  Mr.  George  W.  £. 
Bnssell  (then  Under  Secretary  of  State  for  India)  made  a 
speech  on  my  behalf  for  which  I  shall  feel  grateful  to  him  so 
long  as  I  Hve.  We  had  but  slight  acquaintance  previously, 
and  I  shall  always  feel  that  it  was  a  most  generous  and 
chivalrous  action  on  his  part  to  stand  forth  in  so  public  a 
manner  as  my  champion  on  such  an  occasion.  The  audience 
was  more  than  sympathetic.  There  was  a  storm  of  genuine 
feeling  when  I  rose  to  make  my  explanation,  and  I  found 
it,  for  once,  hard  to  command  my  voice.  This  is  what  I 
bald,  as  reported  in  the  Zoophilist^  November  1st,  1892  : 

"  Now  to  come  to  the  story  of  the  Nine  Oirdes^  which  I 
will    tell  as  quickly  as  possible*    When  I  gave  up  the 


THE  0LAIM8  OP  BRVT     I 

I  Honomry  Seoretaryship  of  the  Victoria      i 

^  years  ago,  I  retired  to  live  among  the  mt     i 

'  and  the  chief  thing  which  remained  for     i 

L  pahlish  as  many  pamphlets  and  papers  a    i 

help  the  cause.    I  have  just  got  here  i 
the  papers  which  I  have  printed  in  those     i 
i  made  up  the  totals,  and  I  find  that  the  t    : 

I  years  of  hooks,  pamphlets,  and  leaflets  h 

is  ahont  one  a  week — and  that  271,850  oo    i 
printed ;  178  papers  having  been  written  by    : 
Some  of  these  were  adopted  by  the  Soci    i 
by  coioing  ont  under  its  auspices ;  and  otl    i 
independently.    Amongst  those  which  I  i 
hook,*  I  am  happy  to  say,  was  this  boo!   ' 
Oireiea,    Therefore  our  dear  and  honours   I 
responsible  for  that  book.    I  am  alone  re  ; 
printed  at  my  expense,  and  Messrs.  Sonne:  i 
it  for  me.    Therefore,  I  am  the  only  perso 
it,  and  the  Society  has  nothing  to  do  with  i  . 
to  hear  that  the  revised  edition  will  con  i 
auspices  of  the  Society.    My  only  privilei  i 
for  it,  and  that  I  shall  most  thankfully  do 
out  the  wrong  I  have  done  as  concerns  th 
When  the  present  book  was  got  up,  I  sket  [ 
and  asked  a  lady  often  employed  by  us  ' 
in   London,    and  is   a   good   German   s(  t 
extracts  for  me.    She  knows  a  great  deal  a  » 
she  also  knows  German  (which  I  do  not  d  : 
the  purpose),  and  she  was  living  in  Londoi 
miles  away.    Therefore  I  asked  her  to  m  i 
of  which  this  book  is  compiled,  and  it 
revised, — as  Dr.  Berdoe  has  told  us, — ^by  : 
came  out ;  and  it  appears  now  that  there  ai  i 
in  it.    My  assistant  had    left  out  certaii 
ought  to  have  been  stated.    I  took  it  for  j 
quite  wrong  to  do  so, — ^that  all  my  dire: 
carried  out,  and  I  made  myself  responsib]. 
Therefore,  whatever  error  there  is  in  th^ 


6S4  CHAPTER    XX. 

and  I  beg  that  that  will  be  quite  nndergtood.  (Cheers.) 
But  what  is  all  this  tremendoos  stozm  which  has  been 
raised,  and  this  polling  of  the  house  down  about  these 
mistakes?  Do  they  wish  as  to  understand  that  there 
are  no  such  things  as  painful  experiments  in  England? 
Apparently  that  is  what  they  are  trying  to  make  us  think — 
that  there  never  has  been  an3rthing  of  the  kind ;  that  they 
are  perfectly  incapable  of  putting  any  animal  to  pain.  Do 
they  really  mean  that?  Is  that  what  they  wish  us  to 
understand  ?  If  they  do  not  mean  that,  I  do  not  know  what 
it  is  they  mean.  It  seems  to  me  that  they  are  raising  this 
tremendous  storm  very  much  as  if  the  old  slave-holders  were 
to  have  danced  a  war-dance  round  Mrs.  Stowe  and  scalped 
her  for  haying  said  that  Legree  had  flogged  Uncle  Tom  with 
a  thousand  lashes,  when  really  there  were  only  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine.  (Laughter.)  That  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
case  in  a  nutshell.*' — Zoophilist^  November  1st,  1892. 

I  had  the  gratification  to  receive  soon  after  the  following 
most  kind  Address  and  expression  of  confidence  firom  the 
leading  Members  of  the  Victoria  Street  Society : — 

ADDRESS. 

To  Misi  Frances  Power  Oobbe, 

We,  the  undersigned,  being  supporters  of  the  Victoria 
Street  Society,  and  others  interested  in  the  movement 
against  Vivisection,  wish  to  express  the  strong  feeling  of 
indignation  with  which  we  have  seen  your  integrity  called 
in  question  by  men  who  seem  unable  to  conceive  of  the 
pure  unselfish  devotion  of  high  intellectual  gifts  to  the 
service  of  Gk)d*s  humbler  creatures. 

It  is  impossible  for  those  who  know  anything  of  the 
early  history  of  this  movement  to  forget  the  great  personal 
sacrifice  at  which  you  undertook  to  make  it  tiiie  chief  work 
of  your  life. 

It  is  equally  impossible  for  us  who  have  watched  its 
process,    to    say   how    highly   we   have   esteemed    the 


THE  0LAIM8  OF  BRUTE 8. 


685 


indomitable  ootirage  and  forcible  eloqaence  with  whioh  yon 
have  exposed  the  erilB  inseparable  from  experiments  on 
living  animals. 

Further,  we  wish  to  record  onr  firm  conviction  that 
yon  have,  throughout,  recognised  the  wisdom  and  the  duty 
of  founding  your  attack  on  Vivisection  upon  the  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  far  as  you  have  been  able 
to  arrive  at  it. 

We  wish,  in  conclusion,  to  assure  you  not  only  of  oui 
special  sympathy  with  you  at  a  time  when  you  have  been 
subjected  to  a  personal  attack  of  an  unusually  coarse  and 
violent  character,  but  also  of  our  determination  to  give  still 
more  earnest  support  to  the  Cause  to  which  yon  have,  al 
so  great  a  cost,  devoted  yourself : 


Strafford  {Earl  of  Strafford) 
Coleridge 

(Lord  Chief  Justice) 
Worcester 

{Marquis  of  Worcester) 
Haddington 

(Earl  of  Haddington) 
Arthur,  Bath  and  Wells 

(Bishop     of    Bath     and 
Wdls) 
J.,  Manchester 

(Bishop  of  Manchester) 
W.  Walsham,  Wakefield 

(Bishop  of  Wakefield) 
H.  B.,  Coventry 

(Bishop  of  Ooveniry) 
John  Mitchinson  (Bishop) 
F.  Cramer-Roberts  (Bishop) 
Edward  G.  Bagshawe 

(Bn  0,  Bishop  of  Notting- 
ham) 
Sidmouth 

(Fiscouni  Sidmouth) 


Pollington 

(Viscount  PoUington) 
Colville  of  Culross 

(Lord  OolviOeofOulross) 
Oardross  (Lord  Oardross) 
H.  Abinger  (Lady  Abinger) 
Bobartes  (Lord  Bobartes) 
Leigh  (Lord  JJeigh) 
C.    Buchan    (Dots,    OomUess 

of  Buchan) 
Harriet  de  Clifford 

(Dow.  Lady  de  OUfford) 
F.     Camperdown     (Oountess 

of  Camperdovm) 
Einnaird  (Lord  Kinnaird) 
Alma  Kinnaird 

(Lady  Kinnaird) 
Clementine    Mitford    (Lady 

Clementine  Mitford) 
Eveline  Portsmouth 

(Dowager     OounUt$      of 
Portsmouth) 
Georgina  Mount-Temple 

(Lady  Mount-TempU) 


686 


CHAPTER  XX. 


H.  Eemball  (Lady  KsmbaUi 
J.  Brotherton 

{Lady  BrotherUm) 
Evelyn  Ashley 

(Han,  EvAyn  Aihley) 
Bernard  Coleridge  {Han.  B, 

OoUridffe,  M.P.) 
Geraldine  Coleridge  {Hon. 

Mra.  8.  OoUridgs) 
Stephen   Coleridge    (Han. 

8Uphm  OoUridye) 
George       Dnoketl       (Sir 

Qsorgs  DueiktU,  Bt.) 
Henry     A.     Hoare     (Sit 

Henry  Hoare^  Bt.) 
Geo.  F.  Shaw,  LL.D. 
Samuel  Smith,  M.P. 
Theodore  Fry,  M.P. 
George  W.  £.  RoBsell,  M.P. 
Jaooh  Bright,  M.P. 
Th.  Burt,  ILP. 
Jolins  Barraa  (Colonel) 
Richard  H.  Hutton 
B.  Payne  Smith       [LL.D. 
H.    Wilson  White,   D.D., 
Edward  Whately 

(Arohdsaeon  Whatdy) 
George  W.  Cox 

(Bevd.    Sir   Oeorgs   Oox^ 
Bart.) 
B.M.  Grier 

(Prebendary  Qrier) 
Eleanor  Yere  C.  Boyle 

(Hon.  Mn.  R.  O.  Boyle) 
E.  G.  Deane  Morgan 

(Hon.  Mrt.  Deane  Morgan) 
Charles  Bell  Taylor,  M J>. 
Edward  Berdoe,  M.R.C.S. 


Alex.  Bowie,  M.D.,  CM. 

John  H.  Clarke,  M.D. 

Henry  Downes,  M.D. 

Henry  M.  Dnncalfe 

William  Adamson,  l>.Ty. 

William  Adlam 

Amelia  E.  Arnold 

Ernest  Bell 

Rhoda  Brooghton 

Olive  S.  Bryant 

W.  E.  Borford 

A.  Gallenga  and  Mrs.  Gallenge 

Maria  G.  Grey 

Emily  A.  E.  Shirreff 

Frances  Holden 

Eleanor  Mary  James 

Francis  Grriffith  Jones 

E.  J.  Kennedy 

Edith  Leyoester 

W.  S.  LiUy 

Mary  Charlotte  Lloyd 

Ann  Marston 

Mary  J.  Martin 

S«  S.  Monro 

Frank  Morrison 

Harriet  Morrison 

Josiah  Oldfield 

Rose  Pender 

Fred.  Pennington 

Herbert  Philips 

Fred.    E.    Pirkis   and    Mtc 

Pirkis 
R.  LI.  Price 
Evelyn  Price 
R.  M.  Price 
Lester  Reed 
Ellen  Eloom  Bees 
J.  Herbert  Satchell 
Mark  Thomhill,  J.P. 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  687 

Looking  back  on  this  long  struggle  of  twenty  years,  in 
which  so  mnch  of  my  happiness  and  the  happiness  of  others 
dearer  than  myself^  has  been  engnlfed,  I  can  see  that, 
starting  from  the  apparently  small  and  subordinate  question 
of  Scientific  Cruelty^  the  controversy  has  been  growing  and 
widening  till  the  whole  department  of  ethics  dealing  with 
man's  relation  to  the  lower  animals  has  gradually  been 
included  in  it.  That  this  department  is  an  obscure  one,  and 
that  neither  the  Christian  Churches  nor  yet  philosophic 
moralists  have  hitherto  paid  it  sufficient  attention,  is  now 
admitted.  That  it  is  time  that  it  should  be  carefully  studied 
and  worked  out,  is  also  clear. 

Sometimes  I  have  thought  (as  by  a  law  of  our  being  we 
seem  driven  to  do  whenever  our  hearts  are  deeply  concerned) 
that  a  Divine  guidance  may  have  presided  over  all  the  heart- 
breaking delays  and  disappointments  of  this  weary  movement; 
and  that  it  has  not  been  allowed  to  terminate,  as  it  would- 
certainly  have  done,  had  we  carried  our  Bill  of  1876  in  its 
original  form  through  Parliament.  Then  our  Society  would 
have  dissolved  at  once ;  and,  after  a  time,  perhaps,  the  Act, 
however  well  designed,  would  have  become  more  or  less  a 
dead  letter ;  and  the  hydra-heads  of  Vivisection  would  have 
reared  themselves  once  more.  But,  as  it  has  actually 
happened,  the  delay  and  failure  of  our  earlier  e£forts  and  our 
consequent  persistence  in  them,  have  fixed  attention  on  this 
culminating  sin  against  the  lower  animals,  and  through  it 
on  all  other  sins  against  them.  A  great  revision  of  opinion 
on  the  subject  is  undoubtedly  taking  place ;  and  while  some 
(especially  Boman  Catholic)  Zoophilists  have  diligently 
sought  in  decrees  and  manuals  and  treatises  of  casuistry 
for  some  authority  defining  Cruelty  to  animals  to  be  a  Sin, 
the  poverty  of  the  results  of  all  such  investigations,  and 
of  the  anxious  ooUation  of  Biblical  texts  by  Protestants, 
is  gradually  revealing  the  fact  that,  in  this  whole  depart- 


ess  OH  AFTER  XX. 

ment  of  human  duty,  we  must  look  to  the  God-onlighiened 
eonsoiences  of  Uving  men  rather  than  to  the  dicta  of 
departed  saints,  or  casuists,  whose  attention  was  directed  ex- 
clusively to  the  relations  of  human  beings  with  each  other  and 
with  God,  and  who  obviously  never  contemplated  those  which 
we  hold  to  the  brutes  with  adequate  seriousness, — ^if  at  all. 
Of  course  we  are  here  met,  just  as  the  first  anti-Slavery 
apostles  were  met,  and  as  the  advocates  of  every  fresh 
development  of  morality  will  be  met  for  many  a  day  to  come, 
by  the  fundamental  fallacy  of  the  Christian  Churches  (in  thai 
respect  resembling  Islam)  that  there  is  a  finality  in  Divine 
teaching,  and  that  they  have  been  for  two  thousand  years  in 
possession  of  the  last  word  of  God  to  man.  Protestants  are 
certainly  not  bound  in  any  way  to  occupy  such  a  position,  or 
to  assume  that  a  final  revise  has  ever  been  issued,  or  ever  will 
be  issued  by  Divine  authority,  of  a  WkoU  Duty  of  Man. 
Bather  are  they  called  on  piously  and  gratefully  to  look  for  freah 
light  to  come  down,  age  after  age,  from  the  Father  of  lights : 
or  (if  they  please  rather  so  to  consider  it)  further  develop- 
ment of  the  Christian  Spirit  to  be  manifested  as  men  leam 
better  to  incarnate  it  in  their  minds  and  lives.  As  for  Theists 
like  myself,  it  is  natural  for  us  and  in  accordance  with  all 
our  opinions,  to  believe  that  such  a  movement  as  is  now 
taking  place  over  the  civilised  world  on  behalf  of  dumb  animals, 
is  a  fresh  Divine  impulse  of  Mercy,  stirring  in  thousands 
of  human  hearts,  and  deserving  of  reverent  cherishing  and 
thankful  acceptance. 

It  is  my  supreme  hope  that  when,  with  God*s  help,  our  Anti- 
vivisection  controversy  ends  in  years  to  come,  long  after  I 
have  passed  away,  mankind  wiU  have  attained  though  it 
a  recognition  of  our  duties  towards  the  lower  animals  £ar 
in  advance  of  that  which  we  now  commonly  hold.  If  the 
beautiful  dream  of  the  later  Isaiah  can  never  be  perfectly 
realised  on  this  planet  and  none  may  ever  find  that  thrice  **  Holy 


THE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  689 

Mountain  "  whereon  they  ''  shall  not  hnrt  nor  destroy  '^ — 
yet  at  least  the  time  will  come  when  no  man  worthy  of  the 
name  will  take  pUaturt  in  killing ;  and  he  who  wonld  tortnre 
an  animal  will  he  looked  upon  as  (in  the  truest  sense) 
"  inhuman  "  ;  unworthy  of  the  friendship  of  man  or  love  of 
woman.  The  long-oppressed  and  suffering  hrutes  will  then 
be  spared  many  a  pang  and  their  innocent  lives  made  far 
happier ;  while  the  hearts  of  men  will  grow  more  tender  to 
their  own  kind  by  cultivating  pity  and  tenderness  to  the 
beasts  and  birds.  The  earth  will  at  last  cease  to  be  "  full  of 
violence  and  cruel  habitations." 

September,  1898. 

The  too  confident  expectations  which  I  entertained  of  my 
permanent  connection  tiU  death  with  the  Society  which  I 
had  founded  and  which  I  designed  to  make  my  heir,  have 
alas  1  been  disappointed.  It  was  perhaps  natural  that  in 
my  long  exile  from  London  and  consequent  absence  from  the 
Committee,  my  continual  letters  of  enquiry,  advice,  and  (as 
I  fondly  and  foolishly  imagined)  assistance  in  the  work  were 
felt  to  be  obtrusive, — especially  by  the  newer  members.  One 
change  after  another  in  the  Constitution  and  in  the  Name  of  the 
Society,  left  me  more  or  less  in  opposition  to  the  ruling  spirits; 
and  before  long  a  much  more  serious  difference  arose.  The 
very  able  and  energetic  Hon.  Sec,  Hon.  Stephen  Coleridge, 
(who  had  entered  on  his  office  in  April,  1897),  after  making 
the  changes  to  which  I  have  referred,  proposed  that  we 
should  introduce  a  Bill  into  Parliament,  no  longer  on  the  old 
lines,  asking  for  the  Total  Prohibition  of  Vivisection,  but 
on  quite  a  different  basis;  demanding  certain  "  Lesser 
Measures,"  not  yet  distinctly  formulated,  but  intended  to 
supply  checks  to  the  practical  lawlessness  of  licensed 
Yivisectors.  Mr.  Coleridge  and  his  brother  (now  Lord 
Coleridge),  had,  twelve  or  fourteen  years  before,  urged  me 

2  X 


690  CHAPTER  XX. 

to  abandon  the  demand  for  Total  Prohibition,  and  to  adopt 
the  policy  of  Bestriction  and  bring  in  a  bill  accordingly. 
Bnt  to  this  proposal  I  had  made  the  most  strenaoos  resistance, 
writing  a  long  pamphlet  on  the  Fallacy  of  Restrietion  for  the 
purpose ;  and  it  had  been  (as  I  thought),  altogether  given  np 
and  forgotten.  It  would  appear,  however,  that  the  idea 
remained  in  Mr.  Coleridge*s  mind, — with  the  modification 
that  he  now  regarded  **  Lesser  Measures "  not  as  final 
Restriction,  bat  as  steps  to  Prohibition ;  and  for  this  policy 
he  obtained  the  sofirage  of  the  migority  of  the  Gonnci!, 
though  not  of  the  oldest  members. 

The  reader  who  will  kindly  glance  back  over  the  preceding 
pages  (800-806),  will  see  the  exceeding  importance  I  attach 
to  the  maintenance  of  the  strict  principle  of  Abolition, — 
whereby    our    party  renounces  all  compromise  with  the 
"  abominable  sin,"  and  refuses  to  be  again  cheated  by  the 
hocus-pocus  of  Yivisectors  and  their  deceptive  aniestheticB. 
But  an  over-estimate  (as  it  seems  to  me)  of  the  importance  of 
Parliamentary  action,  and  certainly  an  under-estimate  of  that 
of  the  great  popular  propaganda  whereon  our  hopes  must  ulti- 
mately rest, — a  propaganda  which  would  be  paralyzed  by  the 
advocacy  of  half  measures, — caused  Mr.  Coleridge  and  his 
friends  to  take  an  opposite  view.    After  a  long  and,  to  me, 
heart-breaking  struggle,  I  was  finally  defeated  by  a  vote  of 
29  to  28,  at  a  Council  Meeting  on  the  9th  February,  1898. 
The  policy  of  Lesser  Measures  was  adopted  by  the  newly- 
christened  National  Society  ;  and  I  and  all  the  oldest  members 
and  founders  of  the   Victoria   Street  Society  sorrowfully 
withdrew  firom  what  we  had  proudly,  but  very  mistakenly, 
called  '<  our  "  Society.    Amongst  us  were  Mr.  Mark  Thomhill, 
Miss  Marston,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adlam,  Lady  Mount-Temple, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Morrison,  Lady  Paget,  Madame  Van 
Eys,  and  Countess  Baldelli.     To  all  workers  in  the  cause 
these  names  will  stand  as  representing  the  very  nucleus  of 


J 


fHE  CLAIMS  OF  BRUTES.  ggj 

the  whole  party  sinoe  it  began  its  life  28  years  ago.  The 
oldest  and  most  faithful  worker  of  all,  Lady  Camperdown, 
who  had  aided  me  with  the  first  memorial  in  1874,  and 
who  had  attended  the  Committee  from  first  to  last,  had  risen 
from  her  death-bed  to  write  a  letter  imploring  the  Chairman 
not  to  support  the  demand  for  Lesser  Measures.  She  died 
before  the  decision  was  reached,  and  her  touching  letter,  in 
spite  of  my  entreaties,  was  not  read  to  the  Congress. 

After  leaving  the  old  Society  with  unspeakable  pain  and 
mortification  I  felt  it  incumbent  on  me,  while  I  yet  had  a 
little  strength  left  for  work  and  was  not  wholly  ''played 
out "  (as  I  believe  I  was  supposed  to  be  by  the  new  spirits 
at  the  office)  to  establish  some  centre  where  the  only  principle 
on  which  the  cause  can,  in  my  opinion,  be  safely  maintained 
should  be  permanently  established,  and  to  which  I  could 
transfer  the  legacy  of  £10,000  which  then  stood  in  my  Will 
bequeathed  unconditionally  to  the  Committee  of  the  National 
Society.  My  first  efibrt  was  to  request  the  Committee  of 
the  L<mdon  AnH-Vivisection  Society  to  give  me  such  pledge  as 
it  was  competent  to  afford  that  it  would  not  promote  any 
measure  in  Parliament  short  of  Abolition.  This  pledge  being 
formally  refused,  there  remained  for  me  no  resource  but  to 
attempt  once  more  in  my  old  age  to  create  a  new  Anti-Vivi- 
section Society ;  and  I  resolved  to  call  it  Thb  Bbitish  Union 
FOB  THE  Abolition  of  Yiviseotion,  and  to  make  it  a  Federa- 
tion of  Branch  Societies,  having  its  centre  in  Bristol  where  my 
staunch  old  fellow-workers  had  had  their  office  for  many  years 
established  and  in  first-rate  order.  I  invited  as  many  friends 
as  seemed  desirous  of  joining  in  my  undertaking,  to  a 
private  Conference  here  at  Hengwrt ;  and  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  and  entertaining  them  for  three  days  while  we 
quietly  arranged  the  constitution  of  the  new  Union  with  the 
invaluable  help  of  our  Chairman,  Mr.  Norris,  E.C.,  late  one 
of  the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  Calcutta. 


6fi2  OHAPTER  XX. 

The  BritUh  Union  was,  in  the  following  month,  (Jnne, 
1898),  formally  consiitnted  at  a  public  conference  in  Bristol ; 
and  it  is  at  present  working  vigoronsly  in  Bristol  and  in  its 
various  Branches  in  Wales,  Liverpool,  York,  Macclesfield, 
Sheffield,  Yarmouth  and  London.  All  information  concerning 
it  aud  its  special  constitution  (whereby  the  Branches  will 
all  profit  by  bequests  to  the  Union)  may  be  obtained  by 
enquiry  from  either  our  admirable  Hon.  Sec.,  Mrs.  Boscoe 
(Crete  Hill,  Westbury-on-Trym,  Bristol)  ;  our  zealous 
Secretary,  Miss  Baker,  20,  Triangle,  Bristol ;  or  our  Hon. 
Treasurer,  John  Norris,  Esq.,  E.G.,  Devonshire  Club, 
London. 

To  those  of  my  readers  who  may  desire  to  contribute  to  the 
Anti-Vivisection  Cause,  and  who  have  shared  my  views  on  it 
as  set  forth  in  my  numberless  pamphlets  and  letters,  and  to 
those  specially  who,  like  myself,  intend  to  bequeath  money 
to  carry  on  the  war  against  Scientific  Cruelty,  I  now 
earnestly  say  as  my  final  Counsel :  SUPPOET  THE 
BRITISH  UNION  I 


CHAPTER 


XXL 


Afr   HOME   IN    WALES. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
My  Home  in  Wales. 

In  Aprily  1884,  my  friend  and  I  quitt 
penuanently  let  onr  house  in  South  E 
Eemble.  The  strain  of  London  life  had  b 
me,  and  advancing  years  and  narrower 
counselled  retreat  in  good  time.  I  contin 
since,  of  course,  to  work  for  the  Anti-vivi 
I  resigned  my  Honorary  Secretaryship, 
and  left  the  entire  charge  of  the  office 
Zoophilist  to  Mr.  Bryan.* 

A  few  months  later  I  was  disturbed  to  1 
Stephen  Coleridge  (Lord  Coleridge's  secc 
always  been  particularly  kind  and  consid 
had  started  a  fund  to  form  a  farewell  testL 
my  fellow-workers.  Mr.  Coleridge  addr^ 
members  and  friends  in  the  following  lettei 

**  12,  Oyington  Garden  i 

**  Six  or  Madam, 

**Ai  the  general  meeting  of  the  Vi 
International  Societies  for  the  Total  Aboli 
on  the  26th  June,  Miss  Frances  Power 
set  forth  in  the  annual  report,  gave  in  '. 

*  Many  persons  haye  supposed  that  I  am  i 
the  management  of  that  journal;  but,  exce: 
oontributor,  such  is  not  the  case.  The  credit  <  i 
the  last  ten  years  (which  I  consider  to  be  greaf  | 
Mr.  Bryan. 


696  CHAPTER  XXL 

the  post  of  Honorary  Secretary,  and  it  was  aocepted  with 
deep  relnctanoe. 

**  The  executiye  committee,  meeting  shortly  afterwards 
nnanimously  passed  a  resolution  to  the  effect  that  the 
occasion  onght  not  to  be  passed  ovet  by  the  Society 
nnreoognised,  and  a  list  of  Bubscribers  to  a  testimonial  for 
Miss  Oobbe  has  been  opened.  The  object  of  this  letter  is 
to  acquaint  you  of  these  facts  and  to  afford  you  the  oppor- 
tunity of  adding  your  name  to  the  list  should  you  desire  to 
do  so. 

*'  Year  after  year  from  the  foundation  of  the  Societies 
and  before,  Miss  Cobbe  has  fought  against  the  practice  of 
the  torture  of  animals  with  constant  earnestness,  con- 
spicuous power,  and  enthusiasm  bom  of  a  noble  cause. 

**  That  testimonials  are  too  plentiful  it  may  perhaps  be 
urged  with  truth;  but  many  of  us  who  deprecate  the 
practice  of  Vivisection  feel  that  such  a  life  as  this,  of 
honour  and  devotion,  were  it  to  stand  unrecognised  and 
unacknowledged,  would  mark  us  as  entirely  ungratefoL 

**  I  remain, 

**  Your  faithful  servant, 

«•  Stephen  Coleridob." 
(Honorary  Secretary  and  Treasurer  to  the  fund.) 

In  a  short  space  of  time,  I  was  told,  a  thousand  pomids 
was  collected ;  and  it  was  kindly  and  thoughtfully  expended  in 
buying  me  an  annuity  of  £100  a  year.  The  amount  of  labour 
and  trouble  which  all  these  arrangements  must  have  cost  Mr. 
Stephen  Coleridge  must  have  been  very  great  indeed,  and 
only  most  genuine  kindness  of  heart  and  regard  for  me  could 
have  induced  him  to  undertake  them.  I  was  very  much 
startled  when  I  heard  of  this  gift  and  very  unwilling  to  accept 
it,  as  ii!  9ome  degree  taking  away  the  pleasurable  sense  I 
had  had  of  working  all  along  gratuitously  for  the  poor 
beasts,  and  of  having  sacrificed  for  some  years  nearly  all  my 
iterary  earnings  to  devote  myself  to    their   cause.      My 


MY  HOME  m  WALES 

objections  were  over-niled  by  friendly  ins 
Shaftesbury  presented  the  Testimonial  to  n 

letter : — 

*'24,  Grosvenor  Square,  ¥ 

"  Febru 
^  My  dear  Miss  Cobbe, 

*'The  Committee  of  the  Anti- vivisect 
other  contributors,  have  assigned  to  me  tl 
of  requesting  you  to  do  them  the  kindnesi 
to  accept  the  accompanying  Testimonial. 

'*It  expresses,  I  can  assure  you,  the 
sense  of  the  vast  services  you  have  rendei 
by  the  devotion  of  your  time,  your  talents 
zeal,  to  the  assertion  of  principles  which, 
brought  into  action  for  the  benefit  and  ] 
inferior  orders  of  the  Oreation,  are  of  parax 
to  the  honour  and  security  of  the  whole  B 

''We  heartily  pray  that  you  may  enjo 
happiness  in  your  retirement,  which,  we  t 
temporary.  We  shall  frequently  ask  t 
counsels  and  live  in  hope  of  your  speedj 
exertion,  in  the  career  in  which  you  h 
vigorously,  and  which  you  so  sincerely  lev 

**  Believe  me  to  be, 

"  Very  truly  you 

I  acknowledged  Lord  Shaftesbury's  letter 

**  Hengwrt,  Dolgelly, 

**  Dear  Lord  Shaftesbury, 

"  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  express  to  i 
with  which  I  have  just  read  your  letter,  a 
noble  gift  which  accompanied  it.  You  a 
friends  and  fellow- workers  who  have  thus  ( 
and  kindness  will  have  added  much  to  the  i 


698  CHAPTER  XXL 

oud  enjoyment  of  such  years  as  may  remain  to  me;  bnt 
yon  have  done  still  more  for  me,  by  filling  my  heart  with 
the  happy  sense  of  being  oared  for. 

"  That  yon  should  estimate  snoh  work  as  I  have  been 
able  to  do  so  highly  as  yonr  letter  expresses,  while  it  far 
surpasses  anything  I  oan  myself  think  I  have  acoompUahed, 
yet  makes  me  very  proud  and  very  thankful  to  Qod. 

**  Whatever  has  been  done  by  me  in  the  way  of  raising 
up  opposition  to  scientific  cruedty  has  been  attained  only 
because  I  had  the  inestimable  advantage  Of  being  supported 
and  guided  by  yon  from  first  to  last,  and  aided  step  by  step 
by  the  unwearied  sympathy  and  co-operation  of  my  dear 
and  generous  feUow-labourers. 

''*  These  words  are  very  inadequate  to  convey  my  thanks 
to  you  for  this  gift  and  iJl  your  past  goodness  towards  me, 
and  those  which  I  would  fain  offer  through  you  to  the 
Committee  and  all  the  Subscribers  to  this  splendid 
Testimonial;  especially  to  the  Hon.  Secretary,  who  has 
undertaken  the  great  trouble  which  the  collection  of  it 
must  have  involved.  I  can  but  repeat,  I  thank  yon  and 
them  with  my  whole  heart. 

•«  Most  sincerely,  dear  Lord  Shaftesbury,  and 

*'  Gratefully  yours, 

^*Fbaitoxs  Fowbb  Cobbb." 

This  addition  to  my  little  income  made  up  for  certain 
losses  which  I  had  incurred,  and  raised  it  to  about  its  original 
moderate  level,  enabling  me  to  share  the  expenses  of  onr 
Welsh  cottage.  I  was,  however,  of  course,  a  poor  woman, 
and  not  in  a  position  to  help  my  friend  to  live  (as  W9  both 
earnestly  desired  to  do)  in  her  larger  house  in  Hengwrt.  We 
made  an  effort  to  arrange  it  so,  loving  the  place  and 
enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  woods  and  gardens  exceedingly. 
But  we  knew  it  could  not  be  our  permanent  home ;  and  a 
suitable  tenant  having  come  on  the  field,  offering  to  take  it 
for  a  term  of  years  which  would  naturally  reach  beyond  our 


near.  I  was  vety  aorrowful  for  m;  own  sake,  and  still 
more  for  that  of  my  friend,  who  had  alwaya  bad  peculiar 
attachment  to  the  place.  I  reflected  painfully  that  if  I  had 
been  only  a  little  better  off,  she  might  not  have  been  obliged 
to  relinquish  ber  proper  home. 

All  this  was  occupying  me  much.  It  was  a  Thursday 
morning,  and  the  gentleman  who  proposed  to  become  the 
teoant  of  Hengwrt  was  to  oome  on  Monday  to  make  a 
definite  offer  which, — once  accepted, — ^would  have  been  held 
to  bind  my  friend. 

I  went  downstsire  into  the  old  oak  ball  in  the  morning 
and  opened  the  post-bag.  Among  the  large  packet  of  letters 
which  usually  awaits  me  there  was  one  from  a  eoliator  in 
Liverpool.  I  knew  that  my  kind  old  friend  Mrs.  Yates  had 
died  the  week  before,  and  I  had  been  informed  that  she  had 
left  me  ber  residuary  legatee ;  but  I  imagined  her  to  be  in 
narrow  drcumstances,  and  that  a  few  hundreds  would  be 
the  uttermost  of  my  posmbte  inheritance ;  not  sufficient,  at  all 
events,  to  affect  appreciaUy  my  available  income.  I  opened 
the  Solicitor's  letter  very  oool^  and  foond  myself  to  be, — ao 
far  as  all  my  wants  and  wishes  extend, — a  rich  woman. 

The  story  of  this  legacy  is  a  very  touching  one.     I  never 
saw  or  heard  of  Mrs.  Yatos  tUl  a  few  years  before  her  death, 
and    when    she   was   already  very  aged.      She    began   by 
sending  large  and  generous  donations  of  X60,  and  X80,  at  p 
time  to  our  Society,     Later,  she  came  up  from  Liverpool  t 
London  when  I  was  managing  affairs  without  a  Secretai 
and,  finding  me  at  the  office,  she  gave  me  a  still  lat 
donation,  actually  in  bank-notes.     She  was  an  TJnitaria 
rather  a  Theist,  like  myself ;  and  having  taken  very  - 
interest  in  my  books,  she  seemed  to  be  drawn  to  m 
doable  empathy,  both  on  account  of  religious  sym' 


700  CHAPTER  XXL 

course  I  explained  to  her  the  details  of  my  work,  and  she 
took  the  warmest  interest  in  it.     After  I  resigned  my  office 
of  Honorary  Secretary,  she  seemed  to  prefer  to  give  her 
principal   contributions   personally  to   me   to  expend    for 
the  cause  according  to  my  judgment,  and  twice  she  sent  me 
large  sums,  with  strictest  injunction  to  keep  her  name,  and 
even  the  locality  of  the  donor,  secret.     I  called  these  gifts  my 
Trust  Ftmdy  and  made  grants  from  it  to  working  allies  all 
over  the  world.  I  also  spent  a  great  deal  of  it  in  printing  large 
quantities  of  papers.     Of  course  I  began  by  sending  her  a 
balance  sheet  of  my  expenditure ;  but  this  she  forbade  me  to 
repeat,  so  I  could  only  from  time  to  time  write  her  long 
letters  (copied  for  me  by  my  friend  as  my  writing  taxed  her 
sight),  telling  her  all  we  were  doing.     At  last  she  came  to  see 
us  here  in  answer  to  our  repeated  invitations,  but  could  not 
be  persuaded  to  stop  more  than  one  night.     Talkiug  to  me 
out  walking,  she  asked  me :  "  Would  I  take  charge  of  some 
money  she  wished  to  leave  for  protection   of   animals  in 
Liverpool  f    I  answered  that  I  could  not  engage  to  do  this, 
and  begged  her  to  entrust  it  (as  she  eventually  did)  to  some 
friend  resident  in  the  place.     Then  she  said  shyly :  ''  Well, 
you  do  not  object  to  my  leaving  you  something  for  yourself — 
to  my  making  you  my  residuary  legatee  ?  "  adding  to  the 
question  some  words  of  affection.     Of  course  I  could  only 
press  her  hand  and  say  I  was  grateful  for  her  kind  thought. 
She  did  it  all  so  simply,  that,  being  prepossessed  with  the 
idea  that  she  was  lq  rather  narrow  circumstances,  and  that 
she  had  already  given  me  the  savings  of  her  lifetime  in  the 
Trust  Fund,  it  never  even  occurred  to  me  that  this  residuary 
legateeship  could  be  an  important  matter,  after  she   had 
provided  (as  she  was  sure  to  do)  for  all  legitimate  claims  upon 
her.    Nothing  could  exceed  my  astonishment  when  I  found 
how  large  was  the  sum  bequeathed  in  this  unpretending  way. 
My  friend  thought  I  must   be   ill   from   the   difficulty  I 


MY  HOME  IN  WAL 

seem  to  have  found  in  commanding  my 
strange  news  when  she  came  into  the  hi 
hour  after  I  had  read  that  epoch-makic 
Certainly  never  was  a  great  gift  mad 
delicacy.  Mrs.  Yates  had  taken  care  th 
reason,  so  long  as  she  lived,  to  suppose 
'  personal  obligation  to  her.     Since  then 

'  that  my  heart  has  never  ceased  to  cherie 

tender  gratitude,  and  to  associate  the  tl 
'  all  the  comforts  of  the  home  which  her 

'  for  ma 

^  Mrs.  Yates,  at  the  time  I  knew  her,  1 

^  or  forty  years  the  widow  of  Mr.  Bichard 

'  Liverpool  Merchant.     The  following  obii 

<  appeared  in  the  Zoophilist,  November  ! 

-  add  that  beside  her  personal  legacy  to  o 

I  her  will  to  "her  friend  Miss    France 

(  without  comment  of  any  kind)  Mrs.  Ya 

the  Victoria   Street   Sodety,  as  well   i 
i  Liverpool  Society  for  Prevention  of  Cr 

(  both  bequests  being  over  and  above  legaci 

i  relatives  and  dependents  :— 


> 


'*  OBITUARY. 
"The  Late  Mrs.  Yatej 


^The  Yietona  Street  Society  and  tl  ! 
vivisection  have  lost  their  most  generous 
Bichard  Yates,  of  Liverpool ;  a  good  an  : 
ever  there  were  one.     Born  in  humble  : 
was  one  of  the  truest  gentlewomen  whc 
'  wide    cultivation    of    mind,    broadly   li 

I  religious    spirit    and    sound,    dear     jul 

I  conspicuous  even  in  extreme  old  age.    Tl 

whom  she  aided  in  their  toil  for  the  pi 


702  CHAPTER  XXL 

generosity  only  equalled  by  the  delicacy  of  its  manifestA- 
tions,  will  ever  keep  her  memory  in  tender  and  grateful 
respect." 

A  warmly-feeling  article  in  the  Inquirer j  October  10th, 
1891,  known  to  be  by  her  friend  and  pastor,  Bev.  Valentine 
Davies,  gave  the  following  sketch  of  her  life.  It  is  dae  to 
her  whose  generosity  has  so  brightened  my  later  years,  that 
my  autobiography  should  contain  some  such  record  of  her 
goodness  and  usefulness. 

''Mbs.  Richard  Yauohan  Taxes. 

'*0n  Thursday  evening,  October  Ist,  there  passed  peace- 
f  nUy  away  one  who  was  the  last  of  her  generation ;  bearing  a 
name  honoured  in  Liverpool  since  the  Bev.  John  Yates,  in 
the  latter  part  of  last  century  and  the  early  years  of  this, 
ministered  in  Paradise  Street  Chapel,  and  his  sons  took 
their  places  in  the  first  rank  of  the  merchants  and 
philanthropic  citizens  of  the  town.  Anne  Simpson  was 
bom  November  10th,  1805,  and  to  the  last  retained  happy 
recollections  of  her  childhood's  home,  a  simple  cottage  in 
the  pleasant  Cheshire  country.  She  married,  in  the  mid- 
summer of  1832,  Mr.  Richard  Yaughan  Tates,  having  first 
spent  a  year  (for  purposes  of  education)  in  the  household 
of  Dr.  Lant  Carpenter,  at  Bristol,  of  whom  she  always 
spoke  with  great  veneration.  Richly  endowed  with 
natural  grace  and  delicacy  of  feeling,  true  nobility  of  hearty 
and  great  simplicity,  sustained  by  earnest  religious  feeling 
and  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  there  was  never  happier  ohoioe 
than  this,  which  gave  to  Mrs.  Yates  the  larger  opportunities 
of  wealth  and  freedom  in  society.  She  shared  her 
husband's  interest  in  many  philanthropic  laboursi  his  care 
for  the  Harrington  Schools,  founded  by  his  father,  and  for 
the  Liverpool  Institute,  his  pleasure  and  his  anxieties  in 
the  TOftlring  of  the  Prince's  Park,  opened  in  1849,  as  his  gift 
to  the  town.  She  shared  also  to  the  full  his  delight  in 
works  of  art  and  in  foreign  travel.  The  late  Rev.  Charles 
Wicksteed  published  some  charming  reminiscences  of  one 


MY  HOME  m  WALES.  703 

of  their  Italian  jonxneys ;  and  still  more  notable  was  that 
journey  throngh  Egypt,  Sinai,  and  Palestine,  recorded  by 
Miss  Harriet  Martineaa  in  her  Eoitem  Travd. 

**  Since  her  husband's  death,  in  1856,  Mrd.  Yates  has 
stood  bravely  alone,  living  very  q]iiietly,  bat  keenly 
alive  to  all  the  interests  of  the  world,  with  ardent 
sympathy  for  every  righteoas  cause,  and  generous  help 
ever  ready  for  public  needs  as  for  private  charity.  No  one 
will  ever  know  the  full  measure  of  her  acts  of  kiadness, 
her  care  for  the  least  defended,  her  many  quiet  ways  of 
doing  good.  She  was  a  great  lover  of  dumb  creatures,  and 
felt  a  passionate  indignation  at  every  kind  of  cruelty. 
Four-footed  waifi9  and  strays  often  found  a  pleasant  refuge 
in  her  house,  and  for  many  years  she  was  an  active  worker 
for  the  local  branch  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Oruelty  to  Animals.  The  cabmen  and  donkey-boys  of 
Liverpool  at  their  annual  suppers  have  long  been  familiar 
with  her  kindly  face  and  gracious  word,  and  many  a  time 
has  her  intrepid  protest  checked  an  act  of  oruelty  in  the 
public  streets.  The  friend  of  Frances  Power  Gobbe,  she 
took  a  deep  and  painful  interest  in  the  work  of  the 
Victoria  Street  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vivisection, 
and  sustained  its  work  through  many  years  by  generous 
gifts.  Herself  a  solitary  woman  in  theise  later  years,  it  was 
to  the  solitary  and  defenceless  that  her  sympathies  most 
quickly  went.  She  desired  for  women  larger  powers  to 
defend  their  own  helplessness,  to  share  in  government  for 
the  amelioration  of  society,  and  to  share  also  in  the  world's 
work.  She  had  a  surprising  energy  and  persistence  of  will 
in  attending  to  her  own  affairs  and  doing  the  unselfish  work 
she  had  most  at  heart.  With  a  plain  tenacity  to  the  duty 
that  was  dear,  she  went  out  to  the  last,  whenever  it  was 
possible,  to  vote  at  every  election  where  she  had  a  vote  to 
give,  and  to  attend  meetings  of  a  political  and  useful  social 
character.  Hers  was  a  life  of  great  unselfishness  and  true 
humility.  Suffering  most  of  all  through  sympathy  with 
others,  she  longed  for  more  light  to  dissipate  the  darker 
shadows  of  the  world.    And  she  herself,  wherever  it  was 


I 


704  OBAPTEB  XXL 

possible  to  her  patient  faithfulness  and  generous  kindness* 
droTe  away  the  darkness,  praying  thus  the  best  of  prayers^ 
and  making  light  and  gladness  in  innumerable  hearts. 

*'  After  only  a  few  days  of  illness  she  fell  asleep.  A 
memorial  service  was  held  on  Sunday  last  in  the  Ancient 
Chapel  of  Toxtoth,  where  for  many  years  she  regolarly 
worshipped.  The  Ber.  V.  D.  Davis  preached  the  sermon, 
and  also  on  the  following  day,  at  the  Birkenhead  Flaybcick 
Hill  Cemetery,  spoke  the  words  of  faith  at  her  grave." — 
Inqtdrer,  October  10th. 

I  have  erected  over  her  last  resting-place  (as  I  learned 
that  she  disliked  heavy  horizontal  tombstones),  a  large 
upright  slab  of  polished  red  Aberdeen  granite.  After  her 
name  and  the  dates  of  her  birth  and  death,  Bhakespeare'a 
singularly  appropriate  line  is  inscribed  on  the  stone  : — 

**  SwEfiT  MsBOT  IS  Nobility's  Tbub  Badob." 


On  receiving  that  eventful  Thursday  morning  the  news  of 
the  unlooked-for  riches  which  had  fieJIen  to  my  lot,  our  first 
act  was  naturally  to  telegraph  to  the  would-be  tenant  that 
« another  offer "  (to  wit  mine !)  "  had  been  accepted  for 
Hengwrt."  The  miseries  of  house-letting  and  home-leaving 
were  over  for  us,  we  trust,  so  long  as  our  lives  may  last. 

There  is  not  much  more  to  be  told  in  this  last  chapter  of 
my  story.  The  expansion  of  life  in  many  directions 
which  wealth  brings  with  it,  is  as  easy  and  pleasant  as  the 
contraction  of  it  by  poverty  is  the  reverse.  Yet  I  have  not 
altered  the  opinion  I  formed  long  ago  when  I  became  poor 
after  my  father's  death,  that  the  importance  we  commonly 
attach  to  pecuniary  conditions  is  somewhat  exaggerated,  (so 
long  as  a  competence  is  left)  and  that  other  things, — for 


UY  B03IS  m  WAL. 

«XBmpIe,  lite  pcwBeesion  of  good  walking 
eyesight  or  of  good  hetring,  not  to  apt 
preoiooB  thioga  of  ttie  affeotioiu  and 
elentento,  by  &r,  in  human  faappinesa  thi 
«ontribates  thweto.  Of  oonrse  I  have  b< 
nnlooked-for  wealth  in  my  old  age.  I 
before  all  QiingB  elae,  the  immense  aatisi 
to  help  the  Anti-TiTisection  cause  in  aH 
while  I  live,  and  to  provide  for  some  fii 
saeh  help  after  I  die.  And  next  to  this  '. 
the  comfort  and  repose  of  oar  1: 
is  aecored  to  my  friend  and  myself. 


The  friendly  reader  who  has  travelk 
the  journey  of  my  three-score  years 
BJngnlarly  happy  childhood  in  my  old  ho 
this  far  bonme  on  ttie  road,  will  nov 
with  kindly  wishes  tor  a  peacefbl  ever 
distant  onrfew  bell ;  in  this  dear  old  I 
beloved  tneni  for  companion. 

The  photograph  of  Hengwrt,  which 
these  last  pages,  gives  a  good  idea  of  the 
convey  none  of  the  besnty  of  the 
moontains  all  roond.  No  spot  in  the  k 
even  in  the  lovely  Lake  eonntry,  ntiitee  ■ 
beanty  as  this  part  of  Wales.  The  mov 
loily,— even  glorions  Cader  where  tii 
says  the  legend)  sat  in  the  rocky  " 
the  snnimit  and  studied  the  stars, — is  ' 
Alpine  height,  and  a  molehill  to  Andes  i 
is  its  form,  and  that  of  aU  these  Cambria; 
and  their  tiit  so  ereat,  that  no  one  c 


706  OHAPTBR  XXI. 

merely  hilb,  or  liken  them  to  Lrieh  monntainB  which  reeemble 
banks  of  rainoloads  on  the  horizon.  The  deep,  true,  pnrple 
heather  and  the  emerald-green  fern  robe  these  Webb 
mouitains  in  summer  in  regal  splendour  of  edoaring ;  and 
in  antnmn  wrap  them  in  rich  msset  brown  cloaks.  Down 
between  every  chain  and  ridge  rash  brooks,  always  bright 
and  clear,  and  in  many  places  leaping  into  lovely  waterfells. 
The  **  broad  and  brawling  Mawddach  "  rans  through  all  the 
vaUey  from  heights  far  ont  of  sight,  till,  jnst  below  Hengwrt, 
it  meets  the  almost  equally  beuitifal  stream  of  the  Wnion, 
and  the  two  together  wind  their  way  through  the  tidal 
estuary  out  into  the  sea  at "  Aber-mawddach"  or  *' Abermaw," 
— ^in  English  **  Barmouth,"  eight  miles  to  the  west.  On 
both  north  and  south  of  the  valley  and  on  the  sides  of  the 
mountains,  are  woods,  endless  woods,  of  oak  and  larch 
and  Scotch  fir,  interspersed  with  sycamore,  wild  cherry, 
horse-chestnut,  elm,  holly,  and  an  occasional  beech.  Never 
was  there  a  country  in  which  were  to  be  found  growing 
freely  and  almost  wild,  so  many  different  kinds  of 
trees,  creating  of  course  the  loveliest  wood-scenery  and 
variety  of  colouring.  The  oaks  and  elms  and  sycamores 
which  grow  in  Hengwrt  itself,  are  the  oldest  and  some  of 
the  finest  in  this  part  of  Wales  ;  and  here  also  flourish  the 
largest  laurels  and  rhododendrons  I  have  ever  seen  anywhere. 
The  luxuriance  of  their  growth,  towering  high  on  each  side 
of  the  avenue  and  in  the  shrubberies  is  a  constant  subject  of 
astonishment  to  our  visitors.  The  blossoms  of  the  rhodoa 
are  sometimes  twenty  or  twenty-five  feet  from  the  ground ; 
and  the  laurels  almost  resemble  forest  trees.  It  has  be^ti 
one  of  my  chief  pleasures  here  to  prune  and  clip  and  clear  the 
way  for  these  beautiful  shrubs.  Through  the  midst  of  them 
all,  from  one  end  of  the  place  to  the  other,  rushes  the  dearest 
little  brook  in  the  world,  singing  away  constantly  in  so  human 
a  tone  that  over  and  over  again  I  have  paused  in  my  labours 


MY  HOME  m  WALES.  707 

of  saw  and  dippers,  and  said  to  myself :  '<  There  mu$t  be 
some  one  talking  in  that  walk  1  It  is  a  lady's  voiee,  too  1  It 
canH  be  only  the  brook  this  time !  *'  But  the  brook  it  has 
always  proved  to  be  on  farther  investigation. 

Of  the  interior  of  this  dear  old  home  I  shall  not  write  now. 
It  is  interesting  from  its  age, — one  of  the  oak-panelled 
rooms  contains  a  bed  placed  there  at  the  dissolution  of  the 
neighbouring  monastery  of  Ojrmmer  Abbey, — but  it  is  not  in 
the  least  a  gloomy  honse;  altogether  the  reverse.  The 
drawing-room  commands  a  view  to  right  and  left  of  almost 
the  whole  valley  of  the  Mawddach  for  nine  or  ten  miles; 
and  just  opposite  lies  the  pretty  village  of  Llanelltyd,  at  the 
foot  of  the  wooded  hills  which  rise  np  behind  it  to  the 
heights  of  Moel  Ispry  and  Cefii  Cam.  It  is  a  panorama 
of  splendid  scenery,  not  darkening  the  room,  bat  making 
one  side  of  it  into  a  great  picture  fall  of  exqaisite 
details  of  old  stone  bridge  and  rained  abbey,  rivers,  woods, 
and  rocks. 


Among  the  otjects  in  that  wide  view,  and  also  in  the  still 
more  extensive  one  from  my  bed-room  above,  is  the  little 
ivy-covered  church  of  Llanelltyd;  and  below  it  a  bit  of 
ground  sloping  to  &e  westering  sun,  dotted  over  with  grey 
and  white  stones  where  ''  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet 
sleep,"  together  with  a  few  others  who  have  been  our 
friends  and  neighbours.  There,  in  that  quiet  enclosure, 
will,  in  all  probability,  be  the  bourne  of  my  long  journey 
of  life,  with  a  grey  headstone  for  the  <'  Finit "  of  the  last 
chapter  of  the  Book  which  I  have  first  lived,  and  now 
have  written. 

I  hope  that  the  reader,  who  perhaps  may  drive  some 
day  along  the  road  below,  in  the  enjoyment  of  an  autumn 


708  CHAPTER  XXL 

holiday  in  this  lovely  land,  will  cast  a  glance  upon  that 
churchyard,  and  give  a  kindly  thoogfat  to  me  when  I  hava 
gone  to  rest. 


September,  1898. 

The  grey  granite  stone  is  standing  abready  ih  UaneUtyd 
borying  ground,  though  my  place  beneath  it  still  waits  dot 
me.  The  friend  who  made  my  life  so  happy  when  I  wrote 
the  last  pages  of  this  book,  and  who  had  then  done  so  for 
thirty-four  blessed  years, — lies  there,  under  the  rose  trees 
and  the  mignonette ;  alone,  tiU  I  may  be  laid  beside  her. 

It  would  be  some  poor  comfort  to  me  in  my  loneliness  to 
write  here  some  little  account  of  Mary  Charlotte  Lloyd,  and 
to  describe  her  keen,  highly-cultiTated  intellect,  her  quick 
sense  of  humour,  her  gifts  as  sculptor  and  painter  (the  pupil 
and  friend  of  John  Gibson  and  of  Bosa  Bonheur) ;  her  practical 
ability  and  strict  justice  in  the  administration  of  her  estate ; 
above  all  to  speak  of  her  character,  *'  cast " — as  one  who 
knew  her  from  childhood  said, — *<  in  an  heroic  mould,"  of 
fortitude  and  loftiness ;  her  absolute  unselfishness  in  all  things 
large  and  small.  But  the  reticence  which  belonged  to  the 
greatness  of  her  nature  made  her  always  refiise  to  aUow 
me  to  lead  her  into  the  more  public  life  whereto  my  work 
necessarily  brought  me,  and  in  her  last  sacred  directions  she 
forbids  me  to  commemorate  her  by  any  written  record.  Only, 
then,  in  the  hearts  of  the  few  who  really  knew  her  must  her 
noble  memory  live. 

I  wrote  the  following  lines  to  her  some  twenty-five  years 
ago  when  spending  a  few  days  away  from  her  and  our  home 
in  London.    I  found  them  again  after  her  death  among  her 


MY  HOME  IN  WALl 

papers.    They  have  a  doubled  meaning  for 
time  has  come  for  me  to  need  her  most  of 


TO  MARY  0.  LLOYD 

WriUmi  In  HarOey  Combe,  Li$$,  al 

Friend  of  my  life !    Whene'er  n: 
Best  with  sadden,  glad  sorprise 
On  Nature's  scenes  of  earth  and 
Snblimely  grand,  or  sweetly  fair 

I  wa 

When  men  and  women,  gifted,  f: 
Speak  their  fresh  thoughts  nngr 
And  springing  forth,  each  kindli 
Streams  like  a  meteor  in  the  wii 

I  ws 

When  soft  the  rammer  evenings 
And  crimson  in  the  sunset  rose, 
Our  Oader  glows,  majestic,  gran 
The  crown  of  all  your  lovely  Ian 

I  wa 

And  when  the  winter  ni^ts  con 
To  our  *'  ain  fireside,"  dheerly  \k 
With  our  dear  Bembrandt  Girl, 
Smiling  serenely  on  us  down, 

I  ws 

Now^ — ^while  the  vigorous  pulses 
Still  strong  within  my  spirit's  di 
Now,  while  my  yet  unwearied  bi 
Weaves  its  thick  web  of  thought 

I  W8 

Hereafter,  when  slow  ebbs  the  tii 
And  age  drains  out  my  strength 
And  dim-grown  eyes  and  trembl 
No  longer  list  my  soul's  oommai 


710  CHAPTER  XXI. 

In  joy  and  grief,  in  good  and  ill« 
Friend  of  my  heart  I  I  need  yon  itlll ; 
My  Playmate,  Friend,  Companion,  Lots, 
To  dwell  with  here,  to  olasp  above, 

I  want  yon— Mary. 

For  01  if  pait  the  gates  of  Death 
To  me  the  Unseen  openeth 
Immortal  joys  to  angels  given. 
Upon  the  holy  heights  of  Heaven 

111  want  yoQ— Hary  1 


God  has  given  me  two  prioelesfl  benediotionB  in  life ; — ^in 
my  youth  a  perfect  Mother ;  in  my  later  years,  a  perfect 
Friend.  No  other  gifts,  had  I  possessed  them,  Qenins,  or 
beauty,  or  flEune,  or  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  would  have  been 
worthy  to  compare  with  the  joy  of  those  affections.  To  live 
in  companionship,  almost  unbroken  by  separation  and  never 
marred  by  a  doubt  or  a  rough  word,  with  a  mind  in  whose 
workings  my  own  found  inexhaustible  interest,  and  my  heart 
its  rest ;  a  friend  who  knew  me  better  than  any  one  beside 
could  ever  know  me,  and  yet, — strange  to  think  I-— could  love 
me  better  than  any  other, — ^this  was  happiness  for  which,  even 
now  that  it  is  over,  I  thank  God  from  the  depths  of  my  souL 
I  thank  Him  that  I  have  had  such  a  Friend.  And  I  thank 
Him  that  she  died  without  prolonged  suffering  or  distress, 
with  her  head  resting  on  my  breast  and  her  hand  pressing 
mine ;  calm  and  courageous  to  the  last.  Her  old  physician 
said  when  all  was  over:  *'  I  have  seen  many,  a  great  many, 
men  and  women  die ;  but  I  never  saw  one  die  so  bravely." 


It  has  been  possible  for  me  through  the  kindness  of  my 
friend's  sister,  to  whom  Hengwrt  now  belongs,  to  obtain  for  my 


MY  HOME  nr  WAl  I 

remainmg  montha  or  fears  a  leue  of  thi 
besntifiil  groonds;  and  my  winters  ol 
stmunerB,  when  a  few  friesda  and  lelatic  i 
glide  rapidly  away.  I  am  etill  atrnggling  <  i 
ma  (literally  with  her  dying  breath),  n 
irfthe  Bcienee-tortnred  brates,  and  I  hai 
in  pnblio,  and  written  many  pamphleta 
press.  I  hope,  as  Tennyson  told  me  : 
good  fight"  qnite  to  the  end.  Battl 
every  aged  heart  perforce  must  pay  foi 
of  one  sonl- satisfying  afTeetion.  When  '  I 
it  moat  be  evermore  lonely. 


INDEX 


Abengo,  343 

Adams,  Mr.,  670 

Adelsbarg,  Cave  of,  265 

Adiam,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  661 

Airlie,  Lord,  639 

Aitken,  Mary  Carlyle,  539 

Ajalon,  Valley  of,  243 

Aldobrandini,  623 

Alexandria,  229 

Alfort,  620 

Alger,  Rev.  W.,  499 

Allbut,  Dr.  Clifford,  600 

Allen,  Mrs.  Fairchild,  662 

"Alone,  to  the  Alone,"  408 

American  Visitors,  499 

Amos,  Sheldon,  461,  657 

Amphlett,  Mr.  Justice,  593 

Amsterdam,  670 

Ansano,  376 

Apennines,  268,  375 

Appleton,  Dr.,  373,  624 

Apthorp,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  225,  269, 

499 
Archer,  Mrs.  337 

Archibald,  Mr.  Justice,  593 

Ardgillan,  12,  197 

Argaum,  20,  2x0 

Armstrong,  Rev.  R.,  421 

Arnold,   Mr.    Arthur,    430,    436, 

Mrs.,  679 
Arnold,  Sir  Edwin,  629 
Arnold,  Matthew,  x8o,  390,  469, 

486,  497 
Arnold,  Dr.,  672 
Asbburton,  Lord,  7 
Assaye,  20,  210 
Assisi,  365 


Athens,  254,  256 
Ayrton,  Mr.,  464 
d'Azeglio,  Massimo,  365,  369,  395, 

444 


Baalbec,  243,  246,  248 

Babbage,  Mr.,  458,  559 

Bacon,  94 

Basehot,  Mr.,  468 

Baldelli,  Countess  of,  66  x 

Balfour,  T.  H.,  625 

Ballard,  Mrs.  Laura  Curtis,  592 

Balisk,  137,  144,  147,  156 

Barbauld,  Mrs.,  37 

Barmouth,  706 

Bamum,  565 

Barry,  Bishop,  671 

Baths  (IntrcHduction  of  into  Eng- 
land), 169 

Bath,  16,  20,  24,  40,  682 

Bath  and  Wells,  Bishop  of,  629 

Bathurst,  Miss,  275 

Beard,  Rev.  C.,  421,  524 

Becker,  Miss,  586 

Beddoe,  Mrs.,  607 

Beddoe,  Dr.  John,  607 

Bell,  Sir  C,  538 

Bell,  Mr.  E.,  661,  677 

Belloc,  Madame,  586 

Bellosguardo,  269,  375 

Bennett,  Sir  Stemdale,  532 

Bentley,  Mr.,  575*576 

Berchet,  66 

Berdoe,  Dr.,  671,  672,  681 

Beresford,  Marcus,  Primate  of 
Ireland,  11,  629 

Beresford,  Lady,  11 


7^3 


714 


INDEX 


Beresford,  Sir  Tristram,  il 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  19 

Berlin,  661 

Bernard,  Claude,  637,  676 

Bert,  Paul,  676 

Bethany,  243 

Bethlehem,  236 

Bewick,  179 

Beyrout,  243,  250 

Bhacvat-Gita,  495 

Biedermann,  Rev.  W.  and  Mrs., 

269 
Bilson,  Bishop,  7 
Bishop,  Mr.,  379 
Bishop,  Mrs.,  496 
Blackoum,  Justice,  593 
Black  Forest,  (Poem  composed  in), 

270 
Blagden,  Miss,  269,  352,  375,  376, 

622 
Blunt,  Rev.  Gerard,  629 
Bodichon,  Madame,  171,  466,  577, 

638 
Boehman,  Jacob,  17 
Bologna,  365 

Bombay  Parsee  Society,  421 
Bonheur,  Rosa,  393,  seq,,  708 
Bonaparte,  Prince  Lucien,  635,  657 
Borrow,  Georf^^e,  479,  seq. 
Boston,  1x3 

Bost,  M.  Theodore,  496 
Botticelli,  225 
Bowie,  Dr.,  672 
Bo  wen,  Lord  justice,  383 
Bowring,  Sir  f  ohn,  480 
Boxall,  Sir  W.,  560,  seq, 
Brabant,  Dr.,  352 
Brahmos  of  Bengal,  491 
Bramwell,  Baron,  593 
Bray,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  92 
Bright,  John,  461,  589,  629 
Bright,  Mrs.  Jacob,  587 
Brighton,  57 

Bristol,  57,  chapter  x.  617 
British  Union,  691 
"  Broken  Lights,"  400 
Brooke,  Stopford,  93 
Brookfield,  Mrs,,  478 
Brown,  Baldwin,  660 
Brown,  Dr.  J.,  9,  224 


Browne,  Mrs.  Woolcott,  j6o 
Browning,  Robert  and  Mrs.,  263, 

269,  365.  374f   378,   J^..    457. 

466.  556,  575,  577,  629 
Brunton,  Dr.  Lauder,  626 
Bryan,  Mr.,  672,  680,  695 
Bryant,  Miss,  679 
Buckley,  Mrs.,  308 
Burleigh,  Celia,  592 
Bunsen,  365 
Bunting,  Mr.,  421,  595 
Bumti^and,  387 
Bute,  Marquis  of,  653,  679 
Butler,  Mrs.  J.,  577 
Buxton,  Mr.,  461 
Byfleet,  471,  446 
Byron,  257,  358,  383,  475.  616 
Byron,  Lady,  275,  291,  475»  J*?- 


Cader,  Idris,  346,  705 

Cahir,  Lady,  167 

Cairo,  231 

Caimes,  Professor,  461 

Calmet  (Dictionary),  82 

Campbell,  668 

Camperdown,   Countess    of,    629, 

647,  679 
Canary,  311 

Cardwell,  Lord,  627,  655 
Carlow,  8 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  538,   seq.,    558, 

629,  650 
Carnarvon,  Lord,  653,  668 
Caramania,  240 
Carpenter,  Mary,   275,   j«y.,  475 1 

577.  583 
Carpenter,  Professor  Estlin,  287 

Carpenter,  Philip,  287 

Carpenter,  Dr.,  452,  454,  482 

Cartwright,  Mr.,  669,  675 

Oistlemaine,  Lady,  192 

Cavour,  366,  389 

Cellini,  391 

Cervantes,  179 

Chtftobers,  Robert,  195 

Champion,  Colonel  and  Mrs.,  23, 

24 


INDEX 


715 


Channing  Rev.  W.  H.,  492,499, 
524,  678 

Charles,  Justice,  593 

Charley,  40,  seq, 

Chaloner,  James,  7 

Charcot,  Dr.,  321 

Churchill,  Lord  R.,  15 

**  Cities  of  the  Past,"  399 

Clarke,  Rev.  T.  Freeman,  499 

Clarke,  Dr.,  071,  672 

Clay,  Dr.,  669 

Clewer,  322 

Clerk,  Miss,  337 

Clifton,  338,  352.  360 

Close,  Dean  of  Carlisle,  632 

Clough,  Arthur,  90,  374 

CobM,  Frances  Power,  Birth,  31 ; 
School,  57 ;  Mother's  death,  99 ; 
First  book,  no;  Leaves  New- 
bridge, 213 ;  in  Bristol,  275 ; 
Settles  in  London,  395 ;  Leaves 
London,  580 

Cobbe,  Lady  Betty,  11 

Cobbe,  Frances  Conway,  388 

Cobbe,  Rev.  Henry,  13,  44 

Cobbe,  George,  43 

Cobbe,  William,  41,  43 

Cobbe,  Thomas,  10,  43,  578 

Cobbe,    Charles,    20,    seq,^    100^ 
sea,,  206,  seq.y  212 

Cobbe,  Sophia  and  Eliza,  464 

Cobbe,  Helen,  204,  212 

Cockbum,  Lord,  Chief  Justice,  593 

Colam,  Mr.,  626,  seq.^  636 

Colenso,  Bishop,  97,  400, 404, 451, 

540 
Colenso,  Mrs.,  453 
Coleridge,  Hon.  Bernard,  671 
Coleridge,   Lord,    549,    560,   561, 

593i  029,  648,  695 
Coleridge,  Hon.  Stephen,  689, 690, 

695,696 
Collins,  Wilkie,  558 
Combe,  George,  576 
Comet  (of  18^5),  52 
Condoroet,  187 
Constantinople,  261 
Conversion,  88 
Conway,  Captain  T.,  7 
Conway,  Adjutant  General,  43 


Copenhagen,  661 

Corsi,  623 

Corsini,  623 

Corfu,  264 

Coutts,  Lady  Burdett,  636 

Cowie,  Mr.  James,  621 

Cowper-Temple,  Hon.  W.  318 

Cox,  Sir  G.  W.,  452 

Crabbe,  11 

Craig,  Isa,  316 

Crampton,  Sir  Philip,  46 

Crawford,  Mr.  Oswald,  421 

Crimean  War,  173 

Crofton,  Sir  Walter,  291 

Crosby  &  Nichols,  113 

Cross,  Lord,  639 

Cross,  Mr.,  653,  seq, 

Cunningham,  Rev.  W.,  373,  374 

Curtis,  Mr.  George,  499 

Curraghmore,  12 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  365,  391,  392 

Cyon,  553 

Cyclades,  240 

Cyprus,  252 


Dall,  Mr.,  496 
Daly,  Miss,  50 
Damascus,  243 
Darwin,  Charles,    z8o,  423,  485, 

seq,^  540,  618,  640,  643 
Darwin,  Erasmus,  485,  490 
Davies,  Rev.  V.,  702 
•*  Dawning  Lights,"  483 
Dead  Sea,  240 
Dean,  Rev.  Peter,  375 
Dedes,  Lord,  22 
Denison,  Archdeacon,  542 
Denman,  Mr.  Justice,  593 
Deraismes,  Mademoiselle,  671 
Devis,  Mrs.,  23,  58 
Devon,  Lord,  194 
De  Wette,  452 
Dicey,  Mrs. ,  478 
Djinns,  247 
Donabate,  100,  137 
Donegal,  lOJ 
Donne,  W.,  576 


716 


INDEX 


Donnelly,  Mr.  William,  141 
Dorchester  House,  26,  Z43 
Downshire,  Marquis  of,  193 
Drumcar,  169,  192 
Dublin,  8,  104 
Durdham  Down,  303 
"  Duties  of  Women,"^*  570,  601 
Dyke,  Sir  W.  Hart,  639 


E 


Eastlake,  Lady,  391 

Easton  Lyss,  445,  578 

Edgeworlh,  Miss,  44,  179 

Edwards,  The  Misses  Betham,  558 

Edwards,  Passmore,  436 

Egypt,  219 

Eliot,  George,  92,  444,  578 

Elliot,  Dean,  359 

Elliot,  Miss,  277,  307,  seq,,  333, 

359,  385,  387,  448,  458 
Elliot,    Sir    Frederick,   635,  639, 

647,  650 
Ellicott,  Bishop,  648 
Emigration,  157 
Empson,  Mr.,  300 
Enniskillen,  Ix>rd,  194 
Erichsen,  Dr.,  642,  644 
Escott,  Mr.,  380 
Essays  and  Reviews,  89 
Euphrates,  40 
Evans,  Mrs.,  186  seq. 
Evans,  George  H.,  186 
Exeter,  Bishop  of,  629 


P 


Fairfax,  Ursula,  7 
Fairfax,  Sir  William,  385,  387 
Fauveau,  Mademoiselle  F.  222 
Fawcett,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  459,  466, 

467,  578.  586 
Ferguson,  Mr.,  423 
Ferguson,  Mr.  J.,  559,  560 
Fergusson,  Sir  W.,  345,  627,  629, 

633 
Ferrier,  Professor,  672,  seq, 
Ferrars,  Selina,  Countess  of,  17 


Ffoulkes,  Edmund,  178 

Fi6sol6,  375 

Finiay,  Mr.,  254,  seq. 

Firth,  Mr.  J.  B.,  642 

Fisherman  of  Loch  Neagh,  48 

Fitzgerald,  Edward,  576 

Fitzgerald,  Mr.,  639 

Flood,  15 

Florence,  221,  268,  320,  365,  375, 

388,  389,  622,  j^.,  661 
Flower,  William,  625 
Fonblanque,  Mr.  E.  de,  648*  6d2 
Fontan^s,  M.,  496 
Forster,  Dr.  Paul,  661 
Foster,  Dr.  Michael,  626,  674 
Francis,  Saint,  536 
Froudc,  J.  A.,  8,  421,  478,  510^ 

seq,^  621,  650 
Furdoonjee,  Nowrosjee,  421,  491 


Q 


Galton,  423,  466,  483 

Gamgee,  Professor  A.,  625^  673 

Garbally,  16,  193 

Garibaldi,  366 

Garrett,  Miss  K,  467 

Gaskell,  Mrs.,  577 

Geist,  470,  471 

Genoa,  365,  384 

Germany,  46 

George  IV.,  16 

Ghiza,  232 

Ghosts,  13 

Greene,  Mr.,  662 

Gibbon,  52,  74,  89,  97 

Gibson,  John,  268,  365,  390,  708 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  446,  504,  m^., 

5SI 
Glasgow,  Lord,  653 

Godwin,  William,  257,  466 

Goethe,  555 

Goldsdimidts,  237 

Goodeve,  Dr.,  338,  361 

Gothard,  269 

Gxana  Uaile,  139 

Granard,  Lady,  14,  44 

Grant,  Isabel,  435 

Grant,  Baron  436 


( 


INDEX 


717 


Gnnt-Duff,  Sir  M.,  536 

Granville,  Lord,  587 

Grattan,  15 

Green,  Miss,  195 

Greg,  Mr.  W.  R.,  524,  seg. 

Grey,  Mrs.  William,  578,  586 

Greville,  Henry,  576 

Grisanowski,  Dr.,  383 

Grove,  Sir  W.,  482 

Guillotine  (Nuns  chanting  at),  293 

Gully,  Mr.,  673 

Gume^Tf  Mr.  Russell,  589,  595 

Guthne,  Canon,  359 

Guyon,  Madame,  17 


Hague,  The,  669 
Hanin,  278,  617 
Hall,  Mrs.,  482 
Hallam,  Arthur,  553,  555 
Hamilton,  Nicola,  iz 
Handel,  8 
Hanover,  661 
Hareourt,  Sir  W.,  669 
"  Hard  Church,"  196 
Harris,  Mr.,  401,  501  seq, 
Harrison,  Frederic,  377 
Harrowby,  Lord,  636 
Hart,  Dr.  Ernest,  674 
Harvey,  538 

.  Hastings,  Lady  Selina,  13 
Hastings,  Lord,  43 
Haweis,  Mr.,  430 
Hazard,  Mr.,  499 
Headfort,  Marquis  of,  264 
Hebron,  236 
Heidelburg,  270 
Helps,  Sir  A.,  629 
Hemans,  Mrs.,  258 
HengwTt,  392,  485,  699,  704,  7o6» 

710 
Henniker,  Lord,  639,  seq.  668 
Hereford,  Bishop  of,  629 
Herodotus,  588 
Herschel,  Mr.,  596 
Higginson,  Colonel,  499,  592 
Hill,  Alfred,  595,  seq. 
Hill,  Frederick,  586 


Hill,  Sir  Rowland,  586 

Hill,  Matthevif  D.,  285,  347,  586 

Hill,  F.  D.,  327,  337,  347,  578, 

586 
Hill,  Miss,  347 
Hill,  Miss  Octavia,  578 
Hobbema,  26,  143 
Hc^gan,  Dr.  and  Mrs.,  468,  538, 

545t  617,  637,  seq.,  647.  seq. 
Holden,  Mrs.  Luther,  628 
Holland,  Sir  H.,  596 
HoUoway,  Mr.,  322 
Holmes,  Dr.  O.  W. ,  499 
Holmgren,  Professor,  491,  643 
Holt,  Mr.,  655,  657,  662,  669 
Holyhead,  40 
Holyrood,  9 

"  Holy  Griddle,"  The,  147 
Hooker,  113 
Hooker,  Mrs.,  457 
Hooper,  Mr.  G.,  207,  208 
Hopwood,  Mr.,  595 
Hope,  Mr.  ("  Anastasius"),  22 
Horsley,  Mr.  Victor,  680 
Hosmer,  Harriet,   289,  392,  499, 

577 
Houghton,  Lord,  537 

Hough,  Bishop,  14 

Howe,  Mrs.,  499,  591 

Howard,  John,  495,  564 

Howth,  139 

Hume,  97 

Humphry,  Sir  G.,  625 

Huntmgdon,  Earl  of,  10 

Huntingdon,  Lady,  81 

Hutton,  Richard,  469,   627,   635, 

643i  647.  652 
Huxley,  Professor,  642,  644 


Isle  of  Man,  7 
Italy,  222 


Jaffa,  254,  243 
James,  Mr.  H.,  575 


718 


INDEX 


ameson,  Mrs.,  576 

ericho,  242 
,  erusalem,  220,  234 

esse,  Mr.,  660 

ewsbury,  Miss,  558 

ones,  Martha,  37,  268 

ordan,  242 
'owett,  Benjamin,  316,  318,  349, 
351,  402,  540,  629 


Kant,  115,  122,  487 

Keats,  555 

Keating,  J  ustice,  593 

Keeley,  Mr.,  173 

Kelly,  Chief  Baron,  593 

Kelly,  Sir  Fitzroy,  629,  648,  650 

Kemble,  Fanny,  4,  i97>^^*,257f 

360,  439.  446,  553.  555.  575. 

580,  695 
Kemble,  John,  553,  555 
Kempis,  Thomas  4,  149 
Keshub  Chunder  Sen,  455,  491, 

seq, 
Kilmainham,  25 

Kingsley,  Charles,  401,  454,  seq, 
Kingsland,  Lord,  9 
Kinnear,  Miss,  39,  50 
Kitty,  290 

Klein,  Professor,  626 
Kozzaris,  Lady  Emily,  264 
Kubla  Khan,  47 


Lamartine,  90 
Landsdown,  Lord,  359 
Landor,  W.  S.,  257,  269,  382,  622 
Landseer,  Sir  £.,  394,  561 
Lam^ton,  Anna  Gore,  586 
Lankester,  Mr.  Ray,  634 
Lawrence,  Lord,  493,  seq, 
Lawrence,  General,  635 
Lawson,  M.  A.,  625 
Lebanon,  243,  250 
Leblois,  Mons.,  496 
Lecky,  Mr.,  179,  478,  629 


Lee,  Miss,  13 

Lefiingwell,  Dr.,  502,  666 

Le  Hunt,  Colonel,  155 

Leigh,  Colonel,  593 

Leitrim,  Lord,  194 

Lembck^,  M.  and  Mdme.,  66  z 

Le  Poer,  John,  i  x 

L'Estrange,  Alice,  500,  seq. 

Levinge,  Dorothy,  17 

Lewes,  George  H.,  63 

Lewis,  Sir  George,  528 

Liddon,  Canon,  651,  x^.,  659^  664 

Lindsay,  Lady  Charlotte,  44 

Livermore,  Mrs. ,  591 

Liverpool,  51,  52,  624,  625,  701 

Llanaafi',  Dean  of,  671 

Llanelltyd,  707,  708 

Llangollen  (Ladies  of),  197 

Lloyd,  Miss,  200,  392,  395.  471^ 

438,  574.  647.  680,  708,  seq. 
Locke,  94 

Locke,  John,  M.P.,  463 
Lock  wood,  Mrs.,  499 
London,  40,  chapters  zvi.,   zTiL» 

XVIU. 

Longfellow,  500 

Longley,  Bishop,  184 

Longman,  Mr.  W.,  iii,  579 

Loring- Brace,  Mr.  and  Mrs.^  499 

Louth,  8 

Louis  Philippe,  222 

Lowell,  J.  R.,  234,  392,  551 

Lush,  Justice,  593 

Lux  Mundi,  89 

Lydda,  234 

Lyell,  Sir  Charles  and  Lady,  446, 

sef,^  481 
Lyell,  Colonel  and  Mrs.,  446,  447 


M 

Macdonald,  George,  145,  671 
MachpeUh,  237 
Macintosh,  Sir  James,  646 
Mackenzie,    General    ColiiVi    629, 

647,  678 
Mackamess,  Bishop,  671 
Mackay,  R.  W.,  472,  seq, 
Madiai  (Family  of),  565 


INDEX 


Madras,  7,  20,  282 

Magee,  Bishop,  668 

Magnan,  M.,  627,  634 

Maine,  Sir  il.,  478,  633 

Majendie,  ^38 

Maiabari,  61 1 

Malone,  Mary,  32 

Malta,  228 

Mamre,  236 

Manchester,  Bishop  of,  629,  631, 

648 
Manen,  Madame  von,  669 
Manning,  Mrs.,  423 
Manning,   Archbishop,    540,  f^., 

629,  657 
Manzoni,  66 

Mario,  Madame  Alberto,  383 
Marsh,  Archbishop,  112 
Marston,  Miss,  690 
Martin,  Richard,  178,  646 
Martineau,  Dr.,  93,  412,  446,  519, 

i^.,  629 
Martineau,  Harriet,  577 
Mar  Saba,  238,  247 
Masson,  David,  314,  421 
Matthew,  Father,  147 
Afaulden  Rectory,  445 
Maurice,  F.  D.,  40X 
Mawddach,  706 
Maxwell,  Colonel,  209 
May,  Rev.  Samuel  J.,  282,  583 
Mandni,  257,  366,  367 
M'Clintock,  Lad^  £.,  z6o,  169 
Mellor,  Mr.  Justice,  J93 
Merivade,  Mr.  liermon,  446,  478 
Messina,  228 
Michaudr  Madame,  65 
Michel,  Louise,  498 
MUl,  J.  S.,  41  If  457,  486,  540 
Milan,  269,  365 
Minto,  Lord  369,  650 
Minto,  Lady,  639 
Mischna,  The,  473 
Mitchell,  Professor  Maria,  591 
Moira,  Lady,  14,  174 
Moncks,  17 

Monsell,  Hon.  Mrs.,  155,  322 
Monro,  Miss,  679 
Monteagle,  Lady,  478 
Montefiores,  237 ;  Sir  Moses,  475 


Montriou,  & 
Montreux,  7 
Moore,  37,  ^ 
MorelU,  C01 
Morgan,  Mi 
Morley,  Joh 
Morley,  Sao 
Morris,  Rev 
Morris^  Lew 
Morrison,  M 
Moth,  Mrs., 
Mount  of  01 
Mount  -  Ten 

318.  561,  i 
679.  690 
Moydrum  Q 
Mozoomdar, 
Miiller,  Max 
Mundella,  ^ 
Murray,  112 


Naples,  226, 
Napoleon,  3< 
Newbridge,  1 
169,  203, : 
Newman,  Ca 
Newman,  Fr 

415.  530 
Newspapers, 
New  York,  i 
Nightingale, 
Nile,  234 
Noel,  Major, 
Norris,  Mr.  1 
Norton,  Sir  i 
NorthumberL 
Norwich,  627 


O'Brien,  Smi 
O'Connell,  U 
Oliphant,  Lai 
Ormonde,  Mi 
Owen,  Sir  Jo! 


720 


INDEX 


Padua,  268 

Paley,  94 

Palestine,  234 

Palmer,  Susannah,  432 

Palmerston,  Lord,  563 

Paris,  224,  320 

Parkes,  Miss  Bessie,  586 

Parker,  Theodore,   97,    103,   225, 

351,  353.  371,  S02,  62a 
Pamell,  Sophia,  186 
Pamell,  C.  S.,  186 
Parnell,  Sir  Henry,  189 
Pamell,  Thomas,  189 
Parsonstown,  1 94 
Parthenon,  255 
Pays  de  Vaud,  269 
Peabody,  Mr.,  499,  662 
P^caut,  M.  Felix,   496 
Pelham,  Mrs.  H.,  11,  16 
Pennington,  Frederick,  595 
Penzance,  Lord,  596 
Percy,  Lord  Jocelyn,  635 
Perugia,  365 
Pfeiffcr,  Mrs.,  577 
Philcje,  234 
Pigot,  Baron,  593 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  84 
Pirkis,  Mr.,  672,  679 
Pisa,  365,  369 
Play  fair,  Lord,  640,  669 
Plutarch,  52 
Poggi,  Miss,  60 
Pollock,  Baron,  593 
Portrane,  8,  189 
Portsmouth,  Countess  of,  629,  647, 

678 
Poussin,  Gaspar,  26,  143 
Powers,  42 

Primrose,  (in  Bonny  Glen),  loi 
Probyn,  Miss  Letitia,  435 
Putnam,  Messrs.,  457 
Pye-Smith,  Dr.,  634 
Pyramids,  231 

Q 

Quain,  Mr.  Justice,  593 
Quarantania,  Mountains  of,  242 


Ragged  Schools,  286 

Ramabai,  495 

Ramleh,  234 

Rawdon,  Colonel,  14 

Red  Lodge,  275,  seq, 

Redmond,  Miss,  283 

Renan,  Ernest,  400,  404,  535 

Reville,  Albert,  371 

Reid,  Mrs.,  485  . 

Reid,  Mr.  R.  T.,  669,  671,  675 

Rees,  Miss,  679 

Rhine,  269 

Rhodes,  252 

Rhone,  269 

Riboli,  Dr.,  661 

Riga,  661 

Ritchie,  Mrs.  Richmond,  478 

Roberts,  Lord,  7 

Roberts,  Miss,  60 

Robertson,  Fiederick,  93,  423 

RoUeston,  George,  625,  627,  649 

Rollin,  52 

Rome,  224,  365 

Roscoe,  Mrs.,  692 

Rosse,  Lord  and  Lady,  194 

Rothkirch,  Countess,  359 

Roy,  Dr.  C.  S.,  673 

Runciman,  Miss,  60,  74 

Ruskin,  John,  629,  671 

Russell,  Mr.  Patrick,  147 

Russell,  Lord  Arthur,  460,  545 

Russell,  Lord  John,  369 

Russell,  Lord  Odo,  534,  544 

Russell,  Mr.  George,  669 

Rutland,  Duke  of,  629 


S 


Salisbury,  Bishop  of,  629 
Sanderson,  Burdon,  Dr.,  625,  626, 

640,  674 
Schoelcher,  M.  le  S^ateur  V.,  497 
SchifT,  Professor,  383,  622,  seq. 
Schilling,  Madame  V.,  661 
Schuyler,  Misses,  499,  577 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  il,  47 
Scutari,  262 


II 


INDEX 


Sedan,  621 

Selborne,  Lord,  629 

Sesostris,  39 

Shaftsboiy,  Lord,  81, 294,  561,  le^., 

645,  sea,,  657,  671,  697 
Shaen,  Mr.  W.,  647,  679 
Shaen,  Emily,  579,  606 
Shelley,  50,  92.  225, 383,  466,  555 
Shelley,  Sir  Percy,  466 
Shirreff,  Miss,  578,  586 
Shore,  Augusta,  594 
Simpson,  Mrs.,  478,  535 
Skene,  Miss  Felicia,  26,  37,  109 
Sleeman,  Mrs.,  224 
Smith,  Horace,  63 
Smith,  Sydney,  179 
Smith,  Joseph,  401 
Smith,  Sir  W.  421 
Smyrna,  253 
Somerville,  Mrs.,  172, 263, 269, 365, 

^  383.  446.  575.  623 

Somerset,  Lady  Henry,  496 

Sonnenschein,  Messrs.  Swan,  671 

Southey,  13,  47 

Spedding,  James,  559 

Spencer,  Herbert,  485 

Spezzia,  384 

Spurgeon,  Rev.  C  H.,  648 

Stael,  Madame  de,  187 

Stanley,  Dean,  97,  237,  385,  402, 

^  465,  496,  529.  seq.,  563,  659 

Stanley,  Lady  Augusta,  534 

Stanley,  Miss,  541 

Stanl^,  Lady,  of  Alderley,  587 

Stansiield,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  3^,  646, 
648 

Stebbins,  Miss,  391 

Stephen,  Miss  Sarah,  328,  333 

Stephen,  Leslie,  421,  478, 618,  635, 
071 

Stephen,  Miss  Caroline,  578 

Stephens,  Sir  Fitnames,  419 

Stewart,  Delia,  186 

Stockholm,  66  z 

Story,  W.  W.,  365 

Stowc,  Mrs.,  365,  382,  457,  575, 

577. 
Strozzi,  623 

St.  Asaph,  Bishop  of,  629 

St.  Sopnia,  262 


St.  Leger,  Han  1 
205,  211,  2n 

576,  579 
St.  Paul's,  112 
Sunday,  (at  N<  i 
Swanwick,  An  i 
Swarraton,  7,  ; 
Swedenbore;,  4 
Switzerland,  2  i 
Symonds,  Dr.,  ; 
Syra,  264 
Syracuse,  282 


Tait,  Archbisli 
Tait,  Mrs.,  31 
Tait,  Lawson,  i 
Tayler,  Rev.  1 
Taylor,  Rev.  J  1 
Taylor,  Jane,    ; 
Taylor,  Mr.  s  1 

457,  459»  4< 
Taylor,  Sir  H  i 

Taylor,  Miss, 

Taylor,  Dr.  B  I 

Templelon,  i^ 

Tennyson,  Al  1 

629 
Tennyson,  En 
Tenn3rson,  Fr<  : 
Tennyson,  Ha  I 
Thebes,  234 
Theism,  93 
Themistocles,  I 
Thompson,  A  < 

662,  675 
Thomhill,  Ma 
Thring,  Mr.,  i ; 
Trelawney,  M 
Trench,  Anne  '. 
Trench,  Jane  1 ' 
Trench,  Archc 
Trench,  Archti 
Trevelyan,  Sir 
Trieste,  264,  21 
Trimleston,  L<i 
Trimmer,  Mrs 
TroUope,  Adoi. 

381 


722 


INDEX 


Trollope^  Anthony,  558 

TrUbner,  Ii3»  400, 421 

Tniro,  Lord,  668 

Tofoell,  Dr.,  627 

Tuam,  Archbishop  o^  12,  23,  177 

Turin,  36J 

Turner,  Mr.,  210 

Turvey,  8,  9 

Twining,  Louisa,  318,  327 

Tyndall,  Professor,  482,  seq. 

Tyrone,  Lord,  12 


Umberto,  368 

Unwin,  Fisher,  Messrs.,  205,  422 
Upsala,  64J 

Usedom,  Count  Guido,  365,  368, 
371 


Vamb^ry,  Mons. ,  484 

Vaughan,  Rev.  Mr.,  87 

Vaughan,  Rev.  Dr.  647 

Venice,  258,  267,  365 

Verona,  365 

Vestiges  of  Creation,  194 

Vesuvius,  226 

Victor  Emmanuel,  368,  j88 

Villari,  Madame,  269,  381 

Virchow,  Dr.,  634 

Vivisection    (Movement    against), 

chapter  zx. 
Vogt,  Carl,  490,  663 
Voltaire,  94, 97 


W 

Waddy,  Mr.,  673 

Wakeley,  Dr.,  673 

Walker,  Dr.,  635 

Warburton,  Elliot,  183 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  524 

Warren,  Mr.  464 

Waterford,  Marquis  of,  12,  23,  174 


Watson,  WUliam,  558 

WatU,  Dr.,  37 

Watts,  G.  F.,  456 

Weber,  Baron,  661,  671 

Webster,  Mis.,  577,  586 

Wedgwood,  Mr.  H.,  646 

Wedgwood,  Miss  Julia,  578.  646 

Weiss,  Mr.,  375 

Wellbome,  7 

Weildon,  Mr.;  677 

Wellesley,  20,  209 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  629 

Weston,  20 

Whately,  Archbishop,  196 

White,  Blanco,  97 

White,  Rev.  H.,  532 

White,  Mrs.  662 

Wicksteed,  Rev.  P.,  524 

Wilberforce,  Canon,  671 

Wilhelm,  Emperor,  366 

Willard,  Miss,  607 

Williams  &  No^^e,  Messrs.,  432, 

Wilmot,  Sir  Eardley,  669 
Windeyer,  W.  C,  334 
Winchester,  Bishop  of,  629 
Winkworth,  Misses,  580 
Wilson,  Miss  Dorothy,  214 
Wister,  Mrs.,  490 
Wollstoncraft,  Maiv,  466 
Wood,  Colonel  Sir  Evelyn,  629, 

635,  648,  650 
Woolman,  John,  6x9 
Workhouses,  286,  chapter  zi. 
Wynne-Finch,  Mr.,  500 


Yates,  Mrs.  Richard  Vaughan,  699, 
Yeo,  Professor,  674 


Zachly,  244 

Zola,  369 

ZoophUist,  670,  68p,f  682 


\ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  MICHIGAN 


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